Riona (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
rionaleonhart) wrote2026-02-24 10:17 am
rionaleonhart) wrote2026-02-24 10:17 am
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Fanfiction: Finding the Way (The Goes Wrong Show)
According to a short in-character promotional video from a while ago, Robert and Chris once got stranded in the Amazon rainforest for several days, and I do love it when characters are stranded together!
Title: Finding the Way
Fandom: The Goes Wrong Show
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: slight Robert/Chris
Wordcount: 3,000
Summary: Chris and Robert are stranded in the Amazon rainforest together. It's not a great experience.
“You know, you hear all this stuff about deforestation,” Robert comments, picking his way through the undergrowth, “but in my opinion it’s not happening fast enough.”
“You don’t mean that,” Chris says. “The Amazon rainforest is a unique and beautiful environment, and—”
“And you’re honestly going to tell me you don’t wish there were less of it?” Robert asks.
Chris sighs, scratching his latest mosquito bite. “And, on this occasion, I probably wouldn’t mind if there were less of it.”
The walk out here was bad enough. The walk back, one day in, is already substantially worse. Chris had assumed there would be a box office at the end of their four-day hike into the rainforest, some form of civilisation, some means to get home. But no; apparently the tickets were on Amazon, not on the Amazon, and all that awaited them at the end of their journey was another four-day journey back.
In retrospect, he does feel a little silly.
The rainforest does, as the name suggests, have a plentiful supply of rain; it makes for uncomfortable travel, but it does at least mean they’re unlikely to die of thirst. Food is more of a concern. They have a little left from their original supply, but they came out here prepared for four days of walking, not eight.
Chris vaguely remembers that it’s possible to survive for at least a few days without food. Longer than without water, certainly. He doesn’t especially expect to die of starvation. But this is uncharted territory for their relationship, and Robert does tend to act in his own self-interest; the possibility of being killed and eaten feels substantially more imminent.
They haven’t talked much about the supply problem. It feels best not to give Robert ideas.
“Hold on. Hold on. Hold on! Hold on, Chris. Hold on.”
Chris turns to see Robert crouching, scrutinising the forest floor, pushing aside greenery with his hands. “What on Earth are you doing?”
“The compass, Chris,” Robert says, impatiently, as if Chris should somehow already know this. “It leapt out of my hand.”
Chris stares at him. “You – you lost the compass?”
“It leapt out of my hand,” Robert insists. “It made a break for freedom and, as a consequence, may have become lost.”
Oh, God. They’re going to die in the rainforest, aren’t they?
“Right,” Chris says. “Okay. We mustn’t panic.”
“What makes you think I’m panicking, Chris?” Robert demands, slightly higher-pitched than usual.
“We just have to... we just have to hunt through this area systematically.” Chris makes his way over to Robert. “It must be around here somewhere. So this is where you dropp—?”
Something crunches audibly under his shoe.
There is a very long silence.
“Ah,” Chris says.
-
They’re not entirely rudderless without the compass, Chris supposes. They can see where the sun rises; they can see where it sets. Unfortunately, they lost the compass in the middle of the day, so they have to lose precious daylight time waiting until they’re certain of the sun’s direction.
Even when they start moving again, it feels agonisingly imprecise. With the compass, they knew exactly what bearing they were on. Navigating by the sun... well, they know they’re moving more or less in the right direction, but that ‘or less’ is crucial when you’re trying to find a small village in the Amazon rainforest.
Everything is so dense and wet and green, so hard to navigate. They take breaks when they need to, but it always feels like they’re exhausted again within minutes.
All they can do is keep walking.
-
It’s deeply, intensely dark here at night. Chris stares up at the stars visible through the unfortunate hole in the top of their tent, listening to the chirping of insects, trying and failing not to think too hard about the situation they’re in.
“We should hold each other, I suppose,” Robert says, in the darkness. “To conserve heat.”
“To conserve heat?” Chris asks. “It must be nearly thirty degrees.”
“Yes, well. To be on the safe side. In case it gets colder in the night.”
What a bizarre suggestion. “It never got chilly on the way out. I doubt it’ll suddenly be a concern now. It’s going to be hard enough to sleep without the two of us sweating all over each other.”
“You might have a point,” Robert says, after a moment’s silence. “Well, good night.”
It’s an extremely puzzling exchange. But at least puzzling over it offers Chris a little distraction from their plight.
-
“While we’re here,” Robert says, ducking under a branch, “I thought we could discuss the casting for Cinderella.”
Chris turns an incredulous stare on him. “Is this really the time?”
“Well, why not? What else are we doing?”
Chris doesn’t really have an answer to that, he supposes. Even if he did, it seems unlikely that it would prevent this conversation. Robert has always loved a captive audience.
Robert, perhaps inevitably, takes his silence as acquiescence. “I know you’ve already vetoed me for the titular role, which, by the way, I still think is a mistake of the highest order—”
“Robert, you are not playing Cinderella—”
“—but I would also make an excellent Prince Charming. I know you have some strange aversion to casting me as romantic leads, but I’m trained in ballroom dancing, and I have full confidence in my ability to gaze wistfully at a shoe.”
This is ridiculous. Robert is completely unsuited to the role of Prince Charming; he has neither the look nor the manner. Besides, the last time Robert had a role that required kissing, he and Annie fought so hard for the upper hand in the kiss that they both ended up severely injured.
Still. Perhaps that’s not the most important thing right now.
“If I give you Prince Charming,” Chris says, “will you promise not to eat me for sustenance?”
“If you give me Prince Charming,” Robert says, “I will carry you on my back out of the rainforest if I have to. The deal’s no good if the director starves to death before the show.”
Chris nods. “The role’s yours.”
Hopefully he’ll have the opportunity to regret that.
-
There’s a violent thud as the evening is coming on, and Chris turns sharply, his heart jolting out of place. It looks like Robert’s tripped on a tangle of roots, gone sprawling.
“Are you hurt?” Chris asks, hurrying over to help him up.
“This is all your fault, you know.” Robert pushes his hand away, struggles to his feet alone. Brushes himself down, irritably. “The Amazon? Ridiculous.”
It’s a fist to the gut. Chris has to close his eyes for a moment.
“I know,” he says, opening them again. “I know. If we don’t make it out of here, it’s my fault.” The words catch in his throat as he says them. “I’m sorry. You shouldn’t be here.”
He’s expecting Robert to keep lambasting him; he probably deserves it. But Robert just gives him an odd little frowning glance and doesn’t say another word.
-
It’s been a long, long day. Chris is not a man built for this much walking in hostile terrain, and he doubts Robert is faring much better.
When they eventually settle down for the night, Chris’s muscles are aching; his stomach feels agonisingly empty. It doesn’t seem like there’s much chance he’ll get any sleep. It’s an opportunity to take a break, at least, but even that doesn’t feel great; every second they don’t spend walking is another second longer in the rainforest.
“You’re sure we shouldn’t be sharing our body heat?” Robert asks, into the warm still air of their tent.
“Robert,” Chris says, wearily, “it’s boiling.”
“Mm. Fine.” A moment’s silence. “My wrist does get cold in the night, sometimes. I’d appreciate if you could hold on to it.”
What? “Your wrist? Which one?”
“Doesn’t really matter.”
What on Earth is he talking about?
Chris reaches out in the darkness. Finds Robert’s fingers, follows his hand down to clasp his damp wrist.
His wrist gets cold in the night? Absolute nonsense.
Chris lies there for a while, feeling that living warmth under his palm. That assurance that, even if he’s stranded in the middle of nowhere, wet and tired and increasingly hungry, there’s someone else out here with him.
“Robert,” he says at last, keeping his voice low, “did you just think this would be comforting?”
“My wrist gets cold in the night,” Robert says. “I don’t know what you’re getting out of this.”
-
“I feel like we should have reached the village by now,” Chris says, quietly.
“Well, then, it’s probably just a bit further.”
“Or it’s behind us.” Chris wipes the wet back of his hand across his wet forehead, entirely failing to make any part of himself any less wet. “Maybe we’ve missed it. Maybe we’re heading deeper into the rainforest, and we’ll never be seen again.”
Robert shrugs. “I’m seeing you right now.”
What? “I don’t – I don’t mean seen by each other; that obviously doesn’t count.”
“Well, why not?” Robert asks.
There’s probably an obvious answer to that. Right now, hungry and exhausted and soaked through, panic fluttering with increasing urgency in his chest, Chris can’t really bring it to mind.
Someone can still see him. In some insane way, it almost helps to settle him down, even if all it really means is that Robert’s just as doomed as he is.
-
“Chris? Chris. Chris, for God’s sake, you’re embarrassing us both.”
Chris opens his eyes. Were his eyes closed?
Robert is peering into his face, disconcertingly close. It feels like, if Chris had the energy, he’d be startled by that.
“Well, thank God for that,” Robert says, sitting back on his heels. Removing his hand from Chris’s hair; Chris hadn’t registered it was there. “You can’t just fall asleep in the middle of the day, you know. We’ve got places to be.”
“Did I...?” Chris seems to run out of voice two words in, has to try again. “Did I pass out?”
He’s really in trouble, isn’t he?
“Honestly,” Robert says. “You’re lucky I’m here. Come on, eat this.” He shoves something into Chris’s hand.
Chris stares at it; it takes his eyes a moment to focus. It’s a small fragment of granola bar. Is he imagining things?
“I thought we were out of food,” he says.
Robert clears his throat. “Yes, well.”
“Robert,” Chris says, suspicion slowly edging out his bewilderment, “have you been hiding food?”
“Shut up and eat something, Chris.”
He does. They can argue about this if they make it out.
-
They’re still walking.
There’s a void in Chris’s stomach that has nothing to do with hunger. They’re still walking. They can’t still be walking. The sun will be setting before long; they must be past the village by now.
Not that it makes much of a difference. Chris has slowed to a shuffling, stumbling crawl; he’s not going to reach anywhere like this. Robert’s doing a little better, but he obviously can’t move at any sort of speed without leaving Chris behind, and that’s – that’s a scenario Chris would really prefer not to contemplate.
It takes a moment’s effort for Chris to find his voice. “Are we idiots?”
“We?” Robert asks, clearly affronted.
“I’ve just been thinking about... how much we go through,” Chris says. “For the drama society. We pour so much money into our productions. We’ve ended up in hospital so many times. And now we’re here.” He shakes his head. “And, I mean, for what? When’s the last time we even kept an audience to the end of the play?”
“We’re artists, Chris,” Robert says. “There will always be people who don’t understand the value of art. That doesn’t mean it’s foolish to pursue it. Other people aren’t leaving their mark on the world in the way we are.”
“Other people aren’t lost in the Amazon, either,” Chris points out.
“We’re not lost,” Robert says. “We’re just... reorienting ourselves.”
Chris takes a deep, unsteady breath. Lets it out, slowly. “Do you think we’ll die here?”
“For God’s sake, Chris, of course not.”
They walk for a while in silence, Robert purposefully leading the way. He turns back to help whenever Chris struggles to get past an obstacle. Chris is very, very aware that Robert’s chances would be better without him.
He can’t bring himself to say it aloud.
“If we do die here,” Robert says, eventually, “we’ll have died in the noble pursuit of theatre.”
“We won’t, though, will we?” Chris asks. “We weren’t supposed to be in the Amazon at all. I brought us here on a stupid misunderstanding, and now I’ve killed us both for no reason.”
“Right.” Robert wheels to face him. “We’re putting on a play.”
Chris blinks. “What?”
“A play,” Robert says. “A play, right here.”
“Now? Have you entirely lost your mind?”
“If we perform,” Robert says, “we’ll have created art, and we’ll be here for a reason. Therefore, our deaths will be noble.”
Is that how it works? It seems like performing a play will do nothing but use up what little energy they still have, without getting them any closer to civilisation.
Still. Walking seems increasingly, unbearably pointless; they’re probably just slowly wandering further into the wilderness. At least a play would be something else. “Fine. Fine, I suppose.”
“Perfect,” Robert says. It is not a word Chris would apply to anything about this situation. “Lord of the Flies seems suited to the surroundings.”
Chris takes a moment to catch his breath. “It’s not suited to us. Lord of the Flies has considerably more than two roles, they’re all children, and I don’t know the script. Wasn’t that one of your youth theatre projects?”
“Not a problem; we can improvise.” Robert claps his hands together. “Right. Let’s look for a place with slightly less dense vegetation, and we can set our scene.”
It’s probably going to get them even further off-track. But it feels good, in a way, to be looking for something they might actually find.
-
There are performance issues, naturally. Chris is unstable on his feet; he has to deliver most of his lines sitting down, which limits his acting options. Robert, playing Jack and Piggy simultaneously, hurls himself violently into an ancient-looking tree and somehow knocks the entire thing down. The tree uproots another tree as it falls, and that hits another, and Chris and Robert watch in frozen awe as an entire domino run of trees tumbles before them.
“Are you all right?” Chris asks, helping Robert to his feet; he has to brace himself against a tree trunk to stay upright in the process. He intends it to be Ralph asking Piggy, but, if he’s honest, there’s probably a little bit of Chris asking Robert mixed in there.
“Chris.” Robert grabs Chris’s arm, suddenly.
“Ralph,” Chris corrects him. It still sends a spark of annoyance through him when Robert breaks character, apparently, even when they’re performing to no one at all.
“Chris.” Robert points at the swath of destruction cut by the fallen trees. “Look.”
“What are you—”
Chris cuts himself off.
In the distance, the suddenly much more visible distance, he can see what looks a lot like a handful of rooftops.
-
“How are you feeling?” Robert asks, striding into Chris’s hospital room.
“Better than I was, certainly,” Chris says. He’s sitting up in the bed right now, without feeling particularly like he’s about to collapse; that’s certainly an improvement. “Thank you.”
“Well enough to fly home?”
Chris shakes his head. “Not yet. Getting there, I think.”
Robert blows air out sharply between his teeth. “Very unimpressive, Chris. We need to work on your resilience.”
“I think we’ve worked on my resilience enough,” Chris says. “I think I’d be very happy never to have my resilience tested quite so intensely again. And I’m fairly certain you’re under instruction to rest as well.”
“Fair enough.” Robert drums his fingers on the bedframe. “You really must improve promptly, though. I’m eager to start rehearsals.”
Of course he is. There’s something oddly reassuring in the fact that, after all that, Robert still has the same priorities as ever.
“Anyway,” Robert says, “I suppose I’ll leave you to convalesce.” He pats Chris on the shoulder and turns to go.
Chris grabs his hand. There’s no thought to the motion; he startles himself with it. “Don’t leave.”
Robert opens his mouth. Nothing comes out, which is certainly a first. It gives Chris the opportunity to say the words that have been running through his head ever since they were rescued.
“I’m sorry I dragged you into the Amazon. I’m sorry I almost got us both killed.” He tightens his grip on Robert’s hand. “But I’m – I’m glad I wasn’t alone. Thank you.”
Robert looks down, at Chris’s hand in his. “This is very unmanly, Chris.”
“Sorry.” Chris gives him a small smile. “My hand is just cold.”
“Well, in that case,” Robert says, grudgingly. He brings his other hand up to clasp Chris’s as well.
Robert feels so relentlessly alive and real, always. There’s something strangely grounding about being around him. A few times, since finding their way back to safety, Chris has woken in a panic, convinced he’s still in the jungle, convinced he’s dying. With Robert around, though, he always knows exactly where he is: he’s inescapably in the company of Robert Grove, for better or worse.
“I’m not letting you renege on Prince Charming, by the way,” Robert adds.
That is absolutely going to be a disaster. But, if Chris is honest, he’s just glad they’ll have the opportunity to share the stage again.
Title: Finding the Way
Fandom: The Goes Wrong Show
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: slight Robert/Chris
Wordcount: 3,000
Summary: Chris and Robert are stranded in the Amazon rainforest together. It's not a great experience.
“You know, you hear all this stuff about deforestation,” Robert comments, picking his way through the undergrowth, “but in my opinion it’s not happening fast enough.”
“You don’t mean that,” Chris says. “The Amazon rainforest is a unique and beautiful environment, and—”
“And you’re honestly going to tell me you don’t wish there were less of it?” Robert asks.
Chris sighs, scratching his latest mosquito bite. “And, on this occasion, I probably wouldn’t mind if there were less of it.”
The walk out here was bad enough. The walk back, one day in, is already substantially worse. Chris had assumed there would be a box office at the end of their four-day hike into the rainforest, some form of civilisation, some means to get home. But no; apparently the tickets were on Amazon, not on the Amazon, and all that awaited them at the end of their journey was another four-day journey back.
In retrospect, he does feel a little silly.
The rainforest does, as the name suggests, have a plentiful supply of rain; it makes for uncomfortable travel, but it does at least mean they’re unlikely to die of thirst. Food is more of a concern. They have a little left from their original supply, but they came out here prepared for four days of walking, not eight.
Chris vaguely remembers that it’s possible to survive for at least a few days without food. Longer than without water, certainly. He doesn’t especially expect to die of starvation. But this is uncharted territory for their relationship, and Robert does tend to act in his own self-interest; the possibility of being killed and eaten feels substantially more imminent.
They haven’t talked much about the supply problem. It feels best not to give Robert ideas.
“Hold on. Hold on. Hold on! Hold on, Chris. Hold on.”
Chris turns to see Robert crouching, scrutinising the forest floor, pushing aside greenery with his hands. “What on Earth are you doing?”
“The compass, Chris,” Robert says, impatiently, as if Chris should somehow already know this. “It leapt out of my hand.”
Chris stares at him. “You – you lost the compass?”
“It leapt out of my hand,” Robert insists. “It made a break for freedom and, as a consequence, may have become lost.”
Oh, God. They’re going to die in the rainforest, aren’t they?
“Right,” Chris says. “Okay. We mustn’t panic.”
“What makes you think I’m panicking, Chris?” Robert demands, slightly higher-pitched than usual.
“We just have to... we just have to hunt through this area systematically.” Chris makes his way over to Robert. “It must be around here somewhere. So this is where you dropp—?”
Something crunches audibly under his shoe.
There is a very long silence.
“Ah,” Chris says.
They’re not entirely rudderless without the compass, Chris supposes. They can see where the sun rises; they can see where it sets. Unfortunately, they lost the compass in the middle of the day, so they have to lose precious daylight time waiting until they’re certain of the sun’s direction.
Even when they start moving again, it feels agonisingly imprecise. With the compass, they knew exactly what bearing they were on. Navigating by the sun... well, they know they’re moving more or less in the right direction, but that ‘or less’ is crucial when you’re trying to find a small village in the Amazon rainforest.
Everything is so dense and wet and green, so hard to navigate. They take breaks when they need to, but it always feels like they’re exhausted again within minutes.
All they can do is keep walking.
It’s deeply, intensely dark here at night. Chris stares up at the stars visible through the unfortunate hole in the top of their tent, listening to the chirping of insects, trying and failing not to think too hard about the situation they’re in.
“We should hold each other, I suppose,” Robert says, in the darkness. “To conserve heat.”
“To conserve heat?” Chris asks. “It must be nearly thirty degrees.”
“Yes, well. To be on the safe side. In case it gets colder in the night.”
What a bizarre suggestion. “It never got chilly on the way out. I doubt it’ll suddenly be a concern now. It’s going to be hard enough to sleep without the two of us sweating all over each other.”
“You might have a point,” Robert says, after a moment’s silence. “Well, good night.”
It’s an extremely puzzling exchange. But at least puzzling over it offers Chris a little distraction from their plight.
“While we’re here,” Robert says, ducking under a branch, “I thought we could discuss the casting for Cinderella.”
Chris turns an incredulous stare on him. “Is this really the time?”
“Well, why not? What else are we doing?”
Chris doesn’t really have an answer to that, he supposes. Even if he did, it seems unlikely that it would prevent this conversation. Robert has always loved a captive audience.
Robert, perhaps inevitably, takes his silence as acquiescence. “I know you’ve already vetoed me for the titular role, which, by the way, I still think is a mistake of the highest order—”
“Robert, you are not playing Cinderella—”
“—but I would also make an excellent Prince Charming. I know you have some strange aversion to casting me as romantic leads, but I’m trained in ballroom dancing, and I have full confidence in my ability to gaze wistfully at a shoe.”
This is ridiculous. Robert is completely unsuited to the role of Prince Charming; he has neither the look nor the manner. Besides, the last time Robert had a role that required kissing, he and Annie fought so hard for the upper hand in the kiss that they both ended up severely injured.
Still. Perhaps that’s not the most important thing right now.
“If I give you Prince Charming,” Chris says, “will you promise not to eat me for sustenance?”
“If you give me Prince Charming,” Robert says, “I will carry you on my back out of the rainforest if I have to. The deal’s no good if the director starves to death before the show.”
Chris nods. “The role’s yours.”
Hopefully he’ll have the opportunity to regret that.
There’s a violent thud as the evening is coming on, and Chris turns sharply, his heart jolting out of place. It looks like Robert’s tripped on a tangle of roots, gone sprawling.
“Are you hurt?” Chris asks, hurrying over to help him up.
“This is all your fault, you know.” Robert pushes his hand away, struggles to his feet alone. Brushes himself down, irritably. “The Amazon? Ridiculous.”
It’s a fist to the gut. Chris has to close his eyes for a moment.
“I know,” he says, opening them again. “I know. If we don’t make it out of here, it’s my fault.” The words catch in his throat as he says them. “I’m sorry. You shouldn’t be here.”
He’s expecting Robert to keep lambasting him; he probably deserves it. But Robert just gives him an odd little frowning glance and doesn’t say another word.
It’s been a long, long day. Chris is not a man built for this much walking in hostile terrain, and he doubts Robert is faring much better.
When they eventually settle down for the night, Chris’s muscles are aching; his stomach feels agonisingly empty. It doesn’t seem like there’s much chance he’ll get any sleep. It’s an opportunity to take a break, at least, but even that doesn’t feel great; every second they don’t spend walking is another second longer in the rainforest.
“You’re sure we shouldn’t be sharing our body heat?” Robert asks, into the warm still air of their tent.
“Robert,” Chris says, wearily, “it’s boiling.”
“Mm. Fine.” A moment’s silence. “My wrist does get cold in the night, sometimes. I’d appreciate if you could hold on to it.”
What? “Your wrist? Which one?”
“Doesn’t really matter.”
What on Earth is he talking about?
Chris reaches out in the darkness. Finds Robert’s fingers, follows his hand down to clasp his damp wrist.
His wrist gets cold in the night? Absolute nonsense.
Chris lies there for a while, feeling that living warmth under his palm. That assurance that, even if he’s stranded in the middle of nowhere, wet and tired and increasingly hungry, there’s someone else out here with him.
“Robert,” he says at last, keeping his voice low, “did you just think this would be comforting?”
“My wrist gets cold in the night,” Robert says. “I don’t know what you’re getting out of this.”
“I feel like we should have reached the village by now,” Chris says, quietly.
“Well, then, it’s probably just a bit further.”
“Or it’s behind us.” Chris wipes the wet back of his hand across his wet forehead, entirely failing to make any part of himself any less wet. “Maybe we’ve missed it. Maybe we’re heading deeper into the rainforest, and we’ll never be seen again.”
Robert shrugs. “I’m seeing you right now.”
What? “I don’t – I don’t mean seen by each other; that obviously doesn’t count.”
“Well, why not?” Robert asks.
There’s probably an obvious answer to that. Right now, hungry and exhausted and soaked through, panic fluttering with increasing urgency in his chest, Chris can’t really bring it to mind.
Someone can still see him. In some insane way, it almost helps to settle him down, even if all it really means is that Robert’s just as doomed as he is.
“Chris? Chris. Chris, for God’s sake, you’re embarrassing us both.”
Chris opens his eyes. Were his eyes closed?
Robert is peering into his face, disconcertingly close. It feels like, if Chris had the energy, he’d be startled by that.
“Well, thank God for that,” Robert says, sitting back on his heels. Removing his hand from Chris’s hair; Chris hadn’t registered it was there. “You can’t just fall asleep in the middle of the day, you know. We’ve got places to be.”
“Did I...?” Chris seems to run out of voice two words in, has to try again. “Did I pass out?”
He’s really in trouble, isn’t he?
“Honestly,” Robert says. “You’re lucky I’m here. Come on, eat this.” He shoves something into Chris’s hand.
Chris stares at it; it takes his eyes a moment to focus. It’s a small fragment of granola bar. Is he imagining things?
“I thought we were out of food,” he says.
Robert clears his throat. “Yes, well.”
“Robert,” Chris says, suspicion slowly edging out his bewilderment, “have you been hiding food?”
“Shut up and eat something, Chris.”
He does. They can argue about this if they make it out.
They’re still walking.
There’s a void in Chris’s stomach that has nothing to do with hunger. They’re still walking. They can’t still be walking. The sun will be setting before long; they must be past the village by now.
Not that it makes much of a difference. Chris has slowed to a shuffling, stumbling crawl; he’s not going to reach anywhere like this. Robert’s doing a little better, but he obviously can’t move at any sort of speed without leaving Chris behind, and that’s – that’s a scenario Chris would really prefer not to contemplate.
It takes a moment’s effort for Chris to find his voice. “Are we idiots?”
“We?” Robert asks, clearly affronted.
“I’ve just been thinking about... how much we go through,” Chris says. “For the drama society. We pour so much money into our productions. We’ve ended up in hospital so many times. And now we’re here.” He shakes his head. “And, I mean, for what? When’s the last time we even kept an audience to the end of the play?”
“We’re artists, Chris,” Robert says. “There will always be people who don’t understand the value of art. That doesn’t mean it’s foolish to pursue it. Other people aren’t leaving their mark on the world in the way we are.”
“Other people aren’t lost in the Amazon, either,” Chris points out.
“We’re not lost,” Robert says. “We’re just... reorienting ourselves.”
Chris takes a deep, unsteady breath. Lets it out, slowly. “Do you think we’ll die here?”
“For God’s sake, Chris, of course not.”
They walk for a while in silence, Robert purposefully leading the way. He turns back to help whenever Chris struggles to get past an obstacle. Chris is very, very aware that Robert’s chances would be better without him.
He can’t bring himself to say it aloud.
“If we do die here,” Robert says, eventually, “we’ll have died in the noble pursuit of theatre.”
“We won’t, though, will we?” Chris asks. “We weren’t supposed to be in the Amazon at all. I brought us here on a stupid misunderstanding, and now I’ve killed us both for no reason.”
“Right.” Robert wheels to face him. “We’re putting on a play.”
Chris blinks. “What?”
“A play,” Robert says. “A play, right here.”
“Now? Have you entirely lost your mind?”
“If we perform,” Robert says, “we’ll have created art, and we’ll be here for a reason. Therefore, our deaths will be noble.”
Is that how it works? It seems like performing a play will do nothing but use up what little energy they still have, without getting them any closer to civilisation.
Still. Walking seems increasingly, unbearably pointless; they’re probably just slowly wandering further into the wilderness. At least a play would be something else. “Fine. Fine, I suppose.”
“Perfect,” Robert says. It is not a word Chris would apply to anything about this situation. “Lord of the Flies seems suited to the surroundings.”
Chris takes a moment to catch his breath. “It’s not suited to us. Lord of the Flies has considerably more than two roles, they’re all children, and I don’t know the script. Wasn’t that one of your youth theatre projects?”
“Not a problem; we can improvise.” Robert claps his hands together. “Right. Let’s look for a place with slightly less dense vegetation, and we can set our scene.”
It’s probably going to get them even further off-track. But it feels good, in a way, to be looking for something they might actually find.
There are performance issues, naturally. Chris is unstable on his feet; he has to deliver most of his lines sitting down, which limits his acting options. Robert, playing Jack and Piggy simultaneously, hurls himself violently into an ancient-looking tree and somehow knocks the entire thing down. The tree uproots another tree as it falls, and that hits another, and Chris and Robert watch in frozen awe as an entire domino run of trees tumbles before them.
“Are you all right?” Chris asks, helping Robert to his feet; he has to brace himself against a tree trunk to stay upright in the process. He intends it to be Ralph asking Piggy, but, if he’s honest, there’s probably a little bit of Chris asking Robert mixed in there.
“Chris.” Robert grabs Chris’s arm, suddenly.
“Ralph,” Chris corrects him. It still sends a spark of annoyance through him when Robert breaks character, apparently, even when they’re performing to no one at all.
“Chris.” Robert points at the swath of destruction cut by the fallen trees. “Look.”
“What are you—”
Chris cuts himself off.
In the distance, the suddenly much more visible distance, he can see what looks a lot like a handful of rooftops.
“How are you feeling?” Robert asks, striding into Chris’s hospital room.
“Better than I was, certainly,” Chris says. He’s sitting up in the bed right now, without feeling particularly like he’s about to collapse; that’s certainly an improvement. “Thank you.”
“Well enough to fly home?”
Chris shakes his head. “Not yet. Getting there, I think.”
Robert blows air out sharply between his teeth. “Very unimpressive, Chris. We need to work on your resilience.”
“I think we’ve worked on my resilience enough,” Chris says. “I think I’d be very happy never to have my resilience tested quite so intensely again. And I’m fairly certain you’re under instruction to rest as well.”
“Fair enough.” Robert drums his fingers on the bedframe. “You really must improve promptly, though. I’m eager to start rehearsals.”
Of course he is. There’s something oddly reassuring in the fact that, after all that, Robert still has the same priorities as ever.
“Anyway,” Robert says, “I suppose I’ll leave you to convalesce.” He pats Chris on the shoulder and turns to go.
Chris grabs his hand. There’s no thought to the motion; he startles himself with it. “Don’t leave.”
Robert opens his mouth. Nothing comes out, which is certainly a first. It gives Chris the opportunity to say the words that have been running through his head ever since they were rescued.
“I’m sorry I dragged you into the Amazon. I’m sorry I almost got us both killed.” He tightens his grip on Robert’s hand. “But I’m – I’m glad I wasn’t alone. Thank you.”
Robert looks down, at Chris’s hand in his. “This is very unmanly, Chris.”
“Sorry.” Chris gives him a small smile. “My hand is just cold.”
“Well, in that case,” Robert says, grudgingly. He brings his other hand up to clasp Chris’s as well.
Robert feels so relentlessly alive and real, always. There’s something strangely grounding about being around him. A few times, since finding their way back to safety, Chris has woken in a panic, convinced he’s still in the jungle, convinced he’s dying. With Robert around, though, he always knows exactly where he is: he’s inescapably in the company of Robert Grove, for better or worse.
“I’m not letting you renege on Prince Charming, by the way,” Robert adds.
That is absolutely going to be a disaster. But, if Chris is honest, he’s just glad they’ll have the opportunity to share the stage again.
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Oh, very Robert!
Oh perfect! (Robert can only be part of the disaster, it takes him and Chris together to fully make things work out wrong.)
Somehow this is too subtle for Chris.
Oh, that would have been an incredible performance!
He wanted an argument, Chris! You're scaring him!
Do not challenge Robert's ability to maintain deniability!
I love Robert in this!
Oh, incredible!
Chris, good luck getting Robert to accept soft feelings.
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I love this way of putting it! You're exactly right.
Somehow this is too subtle for Chris.
Robert Grove, master of subtlety.
Oh, that would have been an incredible performance!
It would be! It's a real shame that Chris doesn't have the vision to bring it to life.
He wanted an argument, Chris! You're scaring him!
I'm glad this came across! This isn't how you're supposed to respond, Chris; what is Robert supposed to do with that?
Thank you so much! I smiled all the way through this.
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THEY KISS ROLL CREDITS
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Dennis is a sweetheart; he puts so much effort in, and he just wants friends! From his bio in the programme for Christmas Carol Goes Wrong: Outside of the society Dennis is keen to meet like minded people to make friends with. He would also be happy to meet not like minded people who would be prepared to give him a go. He is not picky and will take what he can get. If you would like to try a friendship with Dennis please call [number].