Cold Fronts & Cold Opens: A Falsettos x 30 Rock AU. (I don't know guys it's modern, it's got like SNL and WNBC. I was tired when I came up with it.)
Chapter One: Meet-Cute Adjacent
Marvin Gardens woke at 5:30 a.m., as dictated by both muscle memory and dread. Three things happened, in order: he silenced the alarm, stared at the ceiling, and thought about whether Jason had left his math homework in the living room again.
Coffee was already waiting. A cold brew he prepped nightly, out of both efficiency and the knowledge that if he had to interact with a French press before sunrise, he’d commit a crime.
By 6:45, he was spooning artificial dye-loaded cereal into Jason’s bowl, skimming weather alerts from his phone, and asking questions like “Did you brush your teeth?” and answering ones like “Do Pokémon eat breakfast?”
At 7:58, Marvin kissed his son’s head, dropped him at school, and walked into 30 Rockefeller Plaza wearing a slate blue suit and an expression just north of “please don’t talk to me.”
The weather segment at 8:30 went fine. It always did. He was dryly funny in a way that got him Twitter “clout” from moms who couldn’t tell he was gay, or maybe they did and didn’t care, and meteorology students.
“Temperatures climbing faster than my therapist’s hourly rate,” he joked, and got a chuckle from the anchor.
Afterward, he met with Charlotte at One Medical. The oddly located office of his best friend on the second floor of 30 Rockefeller Plaza. She told him to lower his sodium and consider “letting people in.” He told her he’d try, which was a lie.
Then it was back to his desk, where he quietly ate a banana with a fork. Not because he was quirky. Because he didn’t want to get his tie dirty.
Whizzer Brown arrived at Thirty Rockefeller Plaza like he always did: immaculate, barely on time, and pretending he hadn’t spent the night with a new writer whose name he never asked.
He wore a vintage SNL crewneck from the Dana Carvey era and carried a cup of ice and what could be estimated to be around six shots of espresso. His hair looked like it had been done by angels. He smelled like Le Labo and very expensive denial.
“Morning, sunshine.” Cordelia, his sickeningly optimistic best friend, said from behind the cafeteria counter.
Whizzer grinned. “How’s the food today?”
“Perfect.” He winked. She handed him a breakfast sandwich that was more Styrofoam than egg.
Whizzer was beloved at SNL by fans, the new star with a smirk that could disarm critics and a sense of timing that made him look effortless. He wasn’t.
He read every note. Memorized every script. Rewrote jokes in his head that he’d never get the chance to pitch. He slept with people who didn’t matter and avoided calls from the ones who might.
Cordelia once told him he lived like a man five minutes ahead of a nervous breakdown. He told her that was generous.
He loitered in the halls today, killing time. He didn’t like being in the writers’ room too long. Too many people he’d kissed. Too many ideas he didn’t write but would have to sell anyway.
Marvin left Charlotte’s office, one hand holding a disposable coffee cup filled with oatmeal, the other holding a folder of both weather briefings and doctor’s pamphlets in hand: “Coping with Stress for Dummies”
He rounded the corner with a grimace. Whizzer turned into the same hallway, humming something jazz-adjacent under his breath.
They collided, not dramatically, but awkwardly enough. Marvin’s oatmeal dropped. Whizzer’s espresso hit the floor.
“Damn it,” Whizzer muttered, stepping back just as Marvin crouched down.
They looked up at the same time.
“Oh,” Whizzer said, offering a practiced smile. “You’re the weatherman.”
“Meteorologist,” Marvin corrected flatly.
Whizzer picked up the folder. “Whizzer Brown. SNL.” He extended the papers. “I do impressions of celebrities and I’m currently wearing your breakfast.”
Marvin blinked as he wiped espresso off himself. “It’s fine. I didn’t like that tie anyway.”
He said as if he hadn’t been forking a banana that morning to keep it safe.
“You’ve got one of those faces that looks like it proofreads emails for fun,” Whizzer said, re-adjusting himself.
Marvin cleared his throat. “Thanks. I think.”
“Never mind,” Whizzer grinned, already stepping back, folder handed off. “You’re too serious. I like it.”
Marvin watched him disappear down the hallway, his crewneck tugged slightly to the left, just enough to show the faint outline of a bruise someone else had left tthere.
Whizzer didn’t look back. Marvin didn’t either.
Forecast: strange weather ahead.
2087
tangentwithtanner
kianamaiart
pixelskylines
prguitarman
origamiaround
turnnoffyourmind
janainaart
snowghoul
