None of My Business

Don't worry it's just a draft

(Based on this tweet^^)

Tony Slattery was doing just fine (I know it's a preposterous claim but allow me, I'm a fanfic writer). He was feeling better than he did in weeks, thanks to his lovely goblins managing his social media images, liberating him from the frightening world of twitter and the likes. At this indicated moment, he was sitting in a wicker chair, outside a nice cafe in west London, on an unusually sunny day, enjoying a delicious espresso.

The breeze tousled his graying hair. A few decades ago he would have been swarmed by fans or the paparazzi if he were displaying himself as openly as he did now, but the years had not been kind -- the creases that lined his square face, the tired eyes, and the ashen facial hair gave him the look of a mall Santa drinking stiffly after a long shift. He was unrecognizable from the handsome photographs of youth; the young rake of the exclusive Footlights was long gone.

But the rare London sunlight shone ever so warmly on his brow, and in that warmth all his troubles and Bipolarity left him alone for the day. He sipped at the coffee; the steam tickled his lips and the smell of roasted beans melted his stiffness.

His ears, specifically the left one, relaxed though it was, picked up a familiar sigh. It wasn't much to base it on, but he'd recognize his on-stage best pal's voice anywhere -- on the one day Mr. Tony Slattery was happy, life threw the physical embodiment of trouble his way.

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Mr Michael McShane, of 25, Lowman Road, would have liked to say that he was doing perfectly fine, thank you very much. Unfortunately, he was sporting an extremely regrettable hangover and a rather unattractive bowler hat upon his head, where memories of the previous night floated blurrily in bits, pieces, and ragged edges that sent sharp pangs through his brain.

His walrus-shaped moustache twitched. The thick stack of legal papers sat tauntingly still in front of his furious face, and remained half blank despite his attempts at telekinesis. The pen spun in his hand. A few years he had reigned as the cheerful uncle that came around for barbeques and always had stories to tell, but on this unfortunate day, he was the grumpy grampa that sat grumbling in cafes, shaking his fist at each little sound and every nearby movement.

The maligned London sunlight shone irritatingly on his forehead and he swore at it through his bristled mustache. The day was still early, but so very little progress had occurred that it seemed to Mike as though the end of eternity had already passed, and as his punishment after the rapture he must finish the unfinishable forms; with that in mind, his pen touched the paper again. The scribbling handwriting continued.

It was interrupted by the shadow of a man setting himself down in the opposite chair with a creaky chorus of joints. Mike looked up, unpleasantly surprised.

"Mr McShane --"

"Oh not now," he grunted. "Leave me alo--"

The rest of the sentence drifted off into the void. The light in his eyes were gone, and the handsome face was now lined with age; the jet black hair had greyed and thinned, but his man was his best friend once upon a time: he'd recognize Mr Tony Slattery anywhere.

"Tony!" Mike was unconsciously running his hands all over Mr Slattery's face like a blind man trying to recognize his friend, and like petting a cat he hadn't seen in a long time -- touching his eyelids, ruffling his hair, tracing his brows, cupping his cheeks -- then he realized how very gay it looked and stopped. His mouth was still agape.

"How are you, Mike?"

Mike repositioned his mouth into a more reasonable shape. "How am I? How am I? How am I? Tony, we haven't seen each other in ages and you decide to become a drunken, unshaved Michael Gambon?"