Room for Two

The Producers’ Meeting 

Ryan sat motionless at one end of the long, black conference table, his spine a rod of resistance, his arms folded tightly across his chest. A single droplet of condensation rolled down the untouched pitcher of water in front of him, slow and voyeuristic, as if the room itself were waiting for its occupants to break a sweat. 

Luis, by contrast, had begun to wilt. He slouched next to Ryan, loose limbed and leaking energy, one knee bouncing nervously beneath the table like a trapped animal in fight-or-flight paralysis. Unlike Ryan, a sheen of sweat glistened at Luis’ temples. He didn’t touch it. 

Across from them, the producers smiled in orchestrated unison. Three heads, three pairs of dead eyes, three uncannily perfect Hollywood smiles. Three liars warming up for their next big performance. 

Ben, the creator and head writer, wore a branded hoodie stretched taut across a soft torso, the United Media Group logo like a corporate birthmark over his heart. Chaz, the executive producer, had reading glasses perched on his head, a purely decorative, post-Lasik affectation. Nolan, the UMG+ programming director, sat between them, looking expensive and synthetic, all bone-white teeth and focus-grouped empathy. 

“First of all,” Ben began. He mentally counted to three before continuing. “We want to say how proud we are of the work you’ve both done this season.” 

Luis gave a half nod, a noncommittal gesture meant to buy time. Ryan didn’t move. 

Chaz jumped in, as though afraid of dead air. “It’s been a joy watching the two of you build these characters. The chemistry, the timing. It’s electric.” 

“Intimate,” Nolan added, leaning forward slightly. Ryan silently wondered whether that was the word Nolan had meant to say. The way it came out—gentle, almost lubricated—made it an uncharacteristic choice for the stuffed-shirt, corporate glad-hander. 

“Which is why we wanted to speak with you directly. To let you in on the show’s next phase.” 

Ryan’s gaze narrowed. “Next… phase.” 

“You probably saw the metrics for Episode 205,” Chaz said, smiling too widely. 

“The Mr. Zaddy episode,” Luis said, the nickname catching on his tongue like a pill swallowed dry. 

Nolan beamed. “Exactly. Viewership surged 68 percent in 72 hours. The reaction was… ecstatic. Zaddy’s tracking through the roof, particularly with our most high-value audience segments: young, gay, high-disposable-income urban males.” 

“High value,” Ryan repeated softly, tasting the phrase like ash. “That’s fantastic. So, what’s the pivot?” 

Ben leaned forward, as if offering a gift. “We’re making Mr. Zaddy a main character.” 

A long silence followed, like the room suddenly lost its pulse. 

“You’re… serious?” Ryan asked, though he already knew the answer. 

Chaz’s laugh was feather light. “Of course. People loved Zaddy. The episode broke the ceiling. This is our future. Merchandising, guest appearances, possibly even spinoff potential.” 

“But… we’re not pivoting the whole concept, right?” Luis kept his tone smooth and professional, like a diplomat losing control of a press conference. “It’s still going to be Room for Two. Shawn and Teddy, two best friends against the world. Intelligent comedy and topical issues. That’s the soul of the show.” 

“Absolutely,” Nolan said, spreading his palms on the table as if drawing a schematic. “That’s the heart. Nothing changes that.” 

“Except for the eccentric gay uncle who has magical powers and speaks in rhymes,” Ryan said, voice dry as a bone. “Who wasn’t even in the script at the table read. You guys rewrote the entire script at the last minute. The first time we met the guy was on shoot night.” 

Ryan’s reaction emboldened Luis, who chimed in. “Zaddy wasn’t even ‘real.’ The character only appeared in a dream sequence. How is he going to become a main character?” 

Ben chuckled indulgently. “Sometimes magic just… happens.” 

“I’m gonna be honest, guys,” Ryan said. “I don’t want him on the show. Aside from the character being completely contradictory to the ethos of Room for Two… frankly, the actor gives me the creeps. He never even breaks character. He came up to me at the crafty table, stared at me for five seconds, and just said, ‘Zaddy don’t drive—Zaddy floats.’ What does that even mean?” 

“He’s committed,” Chaz cooed. “Audiences respond to commitment.” 

Luis shifted uncomfortably, sensing the temperature drop beneath the surface warmth. He tried to shrug off Chaz’s passive-aggressive dig, but it stung. “It’s just a big change. I think I speak for Ryan when I say we want the show to thrive. Just not at the cost of its integrity.” 

“Integrity,” Nolan echoed with a tight grin, “is expensive. Spectacle pays big dividends and doesn’t cost a penny.” 

“Ben and his writers will be revising the rest of this season’s scripts to include the Zaddy character,” Chaz said. “We’ll have them couriered to you ASAP.” 

Ryan opened his mouth, then closed it, defeated. The whole meeting had been a sham, a simple courtesy to inform them of a decision that was already taken. The actors’ input was neither required nor requested. 

“Look,” Ben said, sensing Ryan’s rising discontent, “we’re not replacing anyone. We’re just making room.” 

Luis’ fingers had gone rigid in his lap. “Promise?” 

Ryan scoffed. “Come on, Lu. The show is literally called Room for Two, and they’re adding a third character. And then a fourth, and before you know it, we’re back doing under fives and yogurt commercials.” 

“I can promise you that you won’t be written off the show,” Chaz said, adjusting his glasses. “You’re both under contract, after all.” 

“United Media Group cares about its talent,” Nolan chimed in. 

For a long moment, Ryan stared at Luis, searching his eyes for rebellion, or at least panic. But Luis looked back with resignation. A silent, familiar message passed between them: Don’t fight this. Not here. Not yet. 

So Ryan gave a single nod, heavy and slow. 

Zaddyfication 

The changes began with the revised script for the very next episode, dropped unceremoniously on Ryan’s doorstep well after dark. The title page was matte pink, slick to the touch, like skin oiled under harsh lights. The title was embossed in glittering violet: EPISODE 206: Zaddy’s Séance. 

Ryan stared at it for too long before opening it. The glitter felt rough beneath his fingers like tactile static. The plot was absurd. Mr. Zaddy hosted a séance in the living room, wearing a mesh singlet and mourning the loss of a vintage jockstrap, “blessed and cursed by a lover’s final thrust,” as the stage direction put it. “Teddy,” Ryan’s character, had only four lines in the entire episode. “Shawn,” Luis’ character, spoke only twice. 

The next morning, Ryan wound his way through the studio offices, Luis struggling to keep pace behind him, until they arrived at the Room for Two writers’ room. Ryan flipped through page after page, his fingers cold. “Please tell me this is another dream sequence.” 

A junior writer whom Ryan had never met before—early twenties, glossy eyed and barely real—smiled like a doll. “Nope! We’re leaning into absurdism this season. Very genre fluid.” He didn’t blink. None of the writers did. 

Wardrobe fittings followed. Ryan stood in front of a full-length mirror while a stylist with lacquered nails and vacant eyes tugged a sequined crop top over his head. The fabric bit into his skin, cold and slick, then warm as it molded to him. It clung with disturbing intent, like it had no intention of ever being removed. 

Shiny shorts with four-inch inseams. Pom-pom socks. A harness constructed entirely of faux pearls, weighty and tight around his chest. “We’re exploring playful masculinity,” the costume designer said, his voice dripping with sugar. “Gender as performance, performance as truth.” 

Ryan looked at his reflection. “Teddy” now wore eyeliner and carried a purse that meowed when it opened. He thought about the script for Episode 206. 

TEDDY: But I’m not gay. 

MR. ZADDY: You’re not not gay. 

Zaddy TWIRLS and SNAPS.  Teddy JOINS HIM.  A disco ball DESCENDS out of nowhere. 

None of the revised scripts ever explained where Zaddy’s powers came from. They simply were. Stage directions became increasingly managerial, dictating postures, gestures, and even cuing “laughter” and “applause” each time Zaddy spoke. 

The set changed next. The apartment, once a typical three-walled sitcom home, was reborn in shades of cotton candy and bruised lavender. The fridge shimmered with rhinestones. The couch was replaced by an enormous clamshell that opened and closed with slow, suggestive pulses. Matching go-go cages were installed where the television used to be. The whole place smelled faintly of lube and roses. 

“We’re elevating the aesthetic,” the stage manager told them, gesturing with a tablet. “An ironic nod to queer cultural legacy. Ecstasy meets sitcom.” 

During the filming of Episode 207, “St. Zaddy’s Day,” Ryan walked off the set for the first time, more of a flight than a protest. He returned the next morning, bleary eyed and jaw tight, only to find his trailer was gone. In its place stood a massive, inflatable Z, undulating gently in the breeze. 

Ryan stormed into Luis’ dressing room without knocking. “Did you see what they did?” he blurted. As Ryan explained, Luis didn’t look up. He was too busy applying bronzer with a small sponge. The smell of coconut shimmer cream hung in the air. 

“What about it?” Luis finally said, not unkindly. “This was always the plan.” 

Ryan began to hear that phrase everywhere, from everyone. This was always the plan. Articles about the show described Room for Two as “a subversive queer meta-sitcom,” and always had been. Critics retroactively agreed. Episodes from season one were quietly re-edited, Mr. Zaddy being digitally inserted where he had never been: a knowing wink from the corner of one scene, a gloved hand brushing across the frame of another. 

Ryan rewatched a clip from the pilot, and there he was: Mr. Zaddy, barely visible in the window reflection, mouthing the words, “Zaddy sees all.” 

It wasn’t possible. Ryan had been on Room for Two since day one. He remembered. He knew. 

But the video played, and the clips went viral. The producers called it “an Easter egg for superfans.” Everyone told Ryan, “You knew about this.” He started to believe it. 

Scripts arrived with fewer lines for “Teddy” and “Shawn.” Their roles shrank, softening like melted candlewax, until they were nothing more than comic relief. Bumbling, flailing, empty-headed supporting characters, punchlines for Zaddy’s inane jokes. 

Ryan’s trailer was never replaced. Within a few weeks, Luis’ had been quietly removed, too. The producers encouraged both men to eat, shower, and sleep on set, in their characters’ beds, “for continuity.” The costume department stopped offering options. Each day, a different bit of obscene latex and a garish harness were presented for them to wear. They complied. 

One morning, a PA handed Ryan his coffee—wrong order, too sweet, too syrupy—and said unprompted with eerie calm, “You’ve always worn those latex shorts.” 

Ryan didn’t argue. He wasn’t sure anymore if it was a lie. 

Then came Episode 209. The script consisted of a single page: 

INT. LIVING ROOM – NIGHT 

Teddy and Shawn ENTER the go-go cages. 

They DANCE.  They do not SPEAK. 

Zaddy SAVES THE WORLD. 

Ryan stared at the page, numb. He didn’t speak. Neither did Luis. They just got dressed. 

Fictional Universe 

“I’m Shawn.” 

Luis’ lips parted. His eyes unfocused. He felt the silence brush across his skin like silk. 

“I’m sorry?” the reporter asked, microphone hovering two inches from Luis’ mouth. 

Luis tilted his head, his eyes glassy. “My name,” he repeated. “It’s Shawn.” 

The smile trembled on his face, not because what he said was false, but because he wasn’t sure anymore what “true” even meant. 

The interview was never published. Later, the reporter would say it felt like talking to a department store mannequin, perfectly lifelike but disturbingly hollow, as though the heat of the stage lights had melted something vital inside of him. 

On set, Ryan had stopped changing out of his costumes. At first, it was out of convenience. With early call times and endless rewrites, it was easier just to stay ready at all times. But eventually, he found other garments unwearable. Jeans scraped like sandpaper. Cotton clung wrong. Sneakers felt like shackles. Only the latex felt right. He needed its tight gloss against his skin. He slept in it, woke in it, and sweated into it. It remembered his shape better than he did. When a makeup artist passed him a mirror backstage, he stared into it blankly. The face staring back was smooth, shiny, and artificial. “Teddy” smiled back from behind Ryan’s own eyes, goofy and vacant, and for a moment, Ryan wasn’t sure who had smiled first. 

By Episode 213, they only answered to their character names, Ryan and Luis vanishing beneath the oppressive veneers of “Teddy” and “Shawn.” Hearing anything else felt wrong, like a teasing nickname, or worse, a foreign language to be tuned out altogether. 

In the kitchen set, Shawn made instant coffee each morning and hummed the Room for Two theme song softly under his breath. The coffee tasted like sweetened chemicals. He drank it anyway, sighing through parted lips. 

After shooting wrapped each day, Teddy spent his nights rearranging props. He smoothed the pastel throw blanket on the clamshell couch with careful, reverent fingers. He aligned the cereal boxes in the cabinets in rainbow order. He adjusted a vase only to put it back the way it was, over and over again. These rituals calmed the buzzing under his skin, the heat in his groin, and the itch he could never quite scratch. 

The stage lights never dimmed. There was no “action.” No “cut.” Yet the performance continued. Teddy smiled. Shawn giggled. Their hips swayed in rhythm even when no one was watching. Their bodies moved like trained animals in their neon pink harnesses, graceful, practiced, and erotic. 

One night, Teddy slept deeply enough to dream. He was Ryan again, in some alternate universe where he never moved to Hollywood to pursue his dream of being on television. It felt so real, so normal. Then he woke, shirtless and oiled, lying on the clamshell couch. His latex-wrapped thighs shone under the studio lights. His reflection grinned in a mirrored wall. Shawn was still in his go-go cage, arms raised and groin thrusting, lost in a rhythm only he could hear. 

The script for the season finale was another one pager: 

Episode 222: Two Gay Idiots in Space 


Teddy and Shawn ORBIT each other. 

Zaddy DELIVERS WISDOM from the Pleasure Nebula. 

No lines.  No cues.  Just bodies MOVING. 

They didn’t rehearse. They didn’t need to. Zaddy descended into frame like a star god, chrome boots gleaming, cape drifting like vapor behind him. His body was carved, glistening, and impossibly smooth. He radiated pleasure. 

“Boys, boys, boys,” he purred, voice thick with honey and sin, “haven’t we learned by now? The universe doesn’t revolve around you…” 

He paused, one perfectly arched brow raised. 

“…it revolves around me.” 

Applause erupted, not from a studio audience, but from a machine calibrated to respond to the frequency of Zaddy’s voice. It screamed approval. It moaned delight. The sound filled the room like a lover’s breath hot against the neck. 

The loop continued. Zaddy spoke. The machine laughed. The network approved. 

Teddy and Shawn danced, their limbs moving on cue, their mouths fixed in vacant, unthinking joy. They pressed against each other like synchronized dolls, chests brushing, fingers grazing, grins stretched wide. 

Memory Holed 

There was no announcement in the trades. No series finale. No fanfare. Room for Two was simply, unceremoniously canceled. One week, the “New Episode” banner was there. The next, it was gone, replaced by “You May Also Like…” suggestions: police procedurals, stand-up specials, and a dog grooming competition show. 

Interns at UMG+ headquarters wiped the subreddit clean. The fan wiki fell into neglect and was finally deactivated after six months of inactivity. Cached clips disappeared from public searches. Torrents vanished. Slowly, the digital world folded inward, as if Room for Two had never existed at all. 

But on the soundstage, still sealed, temperature controlled, and humming with an ambient purr that never ceased, Teddy and Shawn remained. They performed another season. 

And another. 

Their latex costumes bonded permanently to their skins, pulling across narrow hips and steroid-swollen thighs, creaking softly with every motion. Sweat pooled in the smalls of their backs. No one reapplied makeup. No one adjusted the fit. Teddy’s harness had begun to dig into the skin beneath his nipples. He moaned when it tightened. Shawn’s shorts squeaked with every thrust of his hips. The sound excited him. It reminded him that he still had a body. 

When they were bored, which was often, they kissed. No cues, no dialogue, just mouths parting instinctively, tongues wet and eager, locked in laughter and need. They seldom spoke, but they constantly touched. Late at night—if the soundstage could be said to have nights—Shawn would crawl into Teddy’s lap on the clamshell couch. They’d wrap around each other, moaning, rocking, and giggling for hours, the smell of sweat and lube and desperation staining the air. Sometimes, they came, hard and loud, without breaking character. 

Mr. Zaddy was long gone. His solo spinoff, Zaddy’s Universe, had consumed the streaming charts. All chrome thighs, aphorisms, and multidimensional stripteases, Zaddy’s Universe was hailed by critics as “post-post-queer mysticism” and “spiritual arousal for the media-soaked soul.” 

Zaddy, constantly breaking the fourth wall, called his show “the Bible, but slinkier.” He never mentioned the characters he left behind. 

Somewhere, in a half-lit apartment with spotty Wi-Fi, a man in his twenties scrolled through the “Queer Comedy” tab on the UMG+ streaming app. He stopped on a thumbnail of two men in tight tops and latex shorts, frozen mid-high five. 

The show was called Two Gay Idiots. 

He clicked. The episode opened on Teddy and Shawn crouched behind a glittery couch, whispering about a haunted jockstrap that had stolen their rent money, and their plan to dance for businessmen to earn it back. 

After four minutes, the man blinked, confused. “What the hell is this?” he muttered. He turned it off, clicked “Don’t recommend this again,” and went back to scrolling, never to watch another second. 

The algorithm noted the drop. 

Engagement: Zero 

The feed adjusted. 

In the forgotten studio, behind walls that no longer bore names, the cameras never stopped. The lights stayed hot and harsh. The costumes gleamed. Teddy and Shawn danced. And fucked. And laughed. And kissed. Performance was pleasure. Memory was rewritable. No one told them to stop, so they kept going forever. 

Because that’s what idiots do. 

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