Chapter Text
Warm sunlight peers through the cracks in the blinds, washing over every object, smoothing every corner, awakening every dusty surface, as if it's sprinkled pixie dust on everything it touches. The brightness startled him enough to peel his eyes open, though his consciousness hadn’t reached him yet. He blinked his eyes closed as he felt the heat slowly creep over him, limb by limb.
Noah almost felt himself floating away as the light covered him like a blanket, a mere moment of bliss that was soon intercepted by a dull ache deep in his skull, dragging him back down by his ankles. Suddenly, he felt himself falling.
He awakens with the sensation that his head has been gently split and left ajar, light leaking in where it doesn’t belong. There’s a pounding in his chest, in his head, his arm–his limbs heavy and brittle, like he had been soaked and left out to dry. There’s a feeling in his gut that he can’t quite discern. A gnawing churn of hunger and sickness, threaded with a shame that aches oddly like something he knows too well.
He shifts his body’s weight to his side, propping himself up on his elbow and forearm. The room in front of him tilts, last night’s leftovers twisting in his stomach and squeezing in his chest—flashes of the night before flicker in his mind, distant but persistent, in the same way his bathroom light flickers around the corner. He realizes he forgot to turn it off last night.
He watches the flicker, following the patterns as it casts light and then shadow onto the hallway leading into it, softly fluttering somewhere outside the view. Something that feels like a warning settles between his ribs.
He focuses on the flicker, trying to match his breaths to its rhythm, his pulse following its pace. He can hear it hissing around him–electricity, pulsing through the bulb as his synapses fire. He gently presses his thumb and index finger against the bridge of his nose before sucking in a deep breath, hoping it’ll suffice.
He tries not to focus on the sour taste in his mouth or the sting flaring deep in the middle of his chest. He visualizes every feeling he wishes to dismiss lined up single-file before pushing out a sharp exhale, convincing himself they’ll escape with it.
The clock blinks at him from the desk. A sudden sense of alertness begins to boil upwards from his belly, stopping at his throat. He wishes he could expel that, too. He sits up straight, hands coming down heavy onto the mattress on either side of him, desperate fingers curling into the linen. He stamps one foot at a time on the floor beneath him and pushes himself up on the ball of his palms.
There isn’t much time for sulking today. He carefully shifts down the hallway and into the bathroom, the unease lingering just beneath the surface of his skin as he brushes his teeth. His reflection catches him as he reaches to open the medicine cabinet. He blinks at the image, bulb flickering above him. Faint rings mark a crescent below his eyes against his pale skin. His lips chapped and slightly parted, like they’re leaving room for each breath to escape. A glare that’s distant yet focused enough to be jarring.
His reflection stares back at him, and for a brief moment, he recognizes something in its eyes. Something that feels like a burden, one he knows he doesn’t have the stamina to carry today.
He huffs out a sigh and pulls the cabinet open, replacing the stainless steel knob under his grip with the vial of extra-strength Tylenol.
A glint of gratitude slips through the fog at the back of his mind as he takes in how meticulously the cast trailers have been set. He’s not sure how he’d manage without the PAs anticipating every need, arranging everything just within reach before anyone even thinks to ask. He files the thought away, a promise to thank them the moment the day properly begins.
He pops two caplets onto his tongue and swallows them dry. He returns the vial to the slim glass shelf and clicks the cabinet shut. The searing gaze comes back into view, and this time he averts his gaze from the image awaiting him in the mirror. He turns on the balls of his feet and takes a step, hitting the light switch with his knuckle on his way out.
The sun is remorseless. He squints beneath it, shielding his eyes from the daylight and dodging the small droplet of sweat that runs down his hairline. The air breathes steady, cool, and crisp, but he feels the heat seeping into his pores anyway, blending with everything that’s already coursing beneath.
A distant, stubborn melody hums in the back of his mind like it’s been trapped there since last night–maybe even longer.
The first time he heard it was about a month ago. It was a few days after Christmas, he remembers the day. He had just arrived back on campus after the holidays. The train ride had been as draining as the months before it. He hates trains and train stations just as much as he hates airports. The width of his seat made him feel restricted. The late December chill spilt in from outside as his arm pressed against the cabin’s interior, making him stifle shivers the entire ride. It was almost as invasive as the glances from the other passengers around him. He never got used to that.
The clouded windows didn’t help–they only made him feel more isolated and confronted. Like he was swimming in a fishbowl. The discernment was unsettling. An awareness that, at most, he was being studied. And at the very least, observed. Always noticed. He couldn’t escape it or distract himself by inflicting the same critical gaze on the passersby beyond the glass. The limited space he had to himself only served to compress him further, amplifying every trace of discomfort that already existed within him.
No relief came once he finally arrived at his apartment. An ache of loneliness ghosted within its walls, charging the atmosphere. It greeted him with an eerily quiet yet soothing hum. A fraction of him knew there was no such thing as settling back into routine. Not when his life consisted of meticulously planned chaos, curated and scheduled in advance. A cloud of anticipation followed him, hovering above his head like a crown. He overlooked it and tried to settle in anyway.
The contents of his suitcase littered his bedroom. He’s always hated unpacking–he knew then that it would only be a matter of weeks until he’d have to reduce existence to the confines of two suitcases once again. He had embraced the mess. Stationery piled on his desk, just behind the tower of devices–work, personal, academic. Three different lives, divided and spread out across iPhones, iPads, and laptops, all stacked carelessly on top of each other like toys.
It was around midnight when the text came in. He had been fishing for his toiletry necessaire within the growing mountain of belongings scattered over his bed, frustration rising higher within him the deeper he dug. He felt the day’s disarray clinging to him. He desperately wanted nothing more than to step under a hot shower. He wanted to feel the sting as the water washed it all away. He practically bolted to the bathroom as soon as his fingers curled around the necessaire and pulled it from beneath the rubble of textiles.
He turned on the shower. His phone sat face-up on the counter as he brushed his teeth, waiting for the steam to fill the room. He almost didn’t hear the chime as he spat. The lit-up screen caught his attention and his breath.
Finn.
For a moment, he froze. And then a faint but terrifying urgency kicked in. He had wanted to reach for his phone, but stopped himself. The steam had begun to envelope the room. It stood between him and the screen, obstructing it like a divine warning. He decided he would wait until he was settled into bed.
The message sat unread on his phone like a ticking time bomb while he marinated. Something inside him had felt conflicted. When he sank beneath his covers, finally, he gave in.
→ Hey. This is a rough demo of what I’m working on. It’s not finished yet, but play it when you get a chance and let me know what you think. Still trying to figure out the title
→ Also, you haven’t answered in the group chat. Dude. Tell me you’ve read the script. And if you haven’t, skip to episode four!!!
He’d always loved Finn’s music. Finn’s voice. When they were younger, he’d sing his praises at every opportunity. He had memorized every lyric to every Calpurnia song. He could never pick a favourite–not until Finn’s next project. Not until he listened to Brother. He played it on a near-constant loop, the track embedding into the rhythm of his days. A few years down the line, it shifted. It transformed into an ache–one he couldn’t escape. He hasn't listened to it since.
Noah never answered Finn’s text that day. He couldn’t. Not after he hit play on the demo.
He loved it. Something about that–something about it–scared him. It settled into his days like a cocktail-half familiar warmth, half sharp thrill he couldn't name. It reached into a place in him that pulsed like a risk, too raw and unknowable for him to decipher. He never tried. He realizes now that he hadn’t listened to it in a few days, until yesterday.
The soft crunch of the gravel against his soles offers a comforting soundtrack as he walks across the lot. He leans into it, letting it quiet the buzzing melody looping in his mind.
It’s a light filming day for the most part. The next few days aren’t much different–only a couple shots slotted into almost inexistent spare hours. Rehearsals for Sorcerer sequences begin today, stretching over into the next few days before the rest of the cast arrives. He uses the last few seconds of silence to mentally run through the day’s itinerary as he nears the entrance.
Check in. Wardrobe fitting with stunt and body doubles. Squeeze in some close-up shots and promo while in costume. Meet with stunt coordinators. Pre-vis review. Walkthrough. Observe the first stunt run-through. Break. Squeeze in some night close-ups. Rehearse sequence, directors’ notes, repeat.
A breeze hits him, almost as sharp as the realization he’ll likely be held past eleven. He licks his lips, letting the cool air splinter between the cracks.
“Morning, sunshine!” A chipper voice cuts in from his peripheral. Noah turns his head, following the sound.
“Morning, Tracy.” He smiles back, fondly.
“Oh,” She winces, transferring a clump of stapled pages into his hands as they shuffle inside. “Sorry, kid–but you kind of look like you got hit by a train on your way here. Late flight?”
He takes no offence. Tracy’s his favourite. Her presence alone fills him with a warm sense of comfort.
“Is it that bad?” He asks.
She shakes her head, exaggerated and endearing at once, coaxing an earnest giggle out of him.
“Thanks, by the way. Don’t know if I would’ve made it out of bed today if not for the Tylenol.”
“Any time,” she says, flashing him a sweet smile before clapping her hands together. “Okay. So, Wardrobe first.” She walks with him.
Noah sinks into the lounge chair as soon as they reach the waiting area. He begins mindlessly scrolling his phone as Tracy taps twice on the door, a soft, silent signal to the wardrobe team that they're ready and waiting.
An embodied sense of discomfort flares within Noah. He feels the irritability winning despite his attempts at countering its rise with breathing exercises. It rests heavily on his temples, pressing inwards. The pressure begins to build, and for a second, he isn’t sure he’d manage to contain it all day. He feels its presence, sitting at the tip of his tongue, blunt and on edge.
A few minutes pass before he hears the door open, the sound pulling him out of the brief haze and up onto his feet with a subtle huff. His head hangs over his body as he takes a step toward the door, a determined gaze locked on the ground beneath him.
The fitting area hums with its own quiet. Noah moves through the row of costumes, sleeves and fabric brushing against his skin, each hanger and seam a small probe of expectation. Pins and needles prick at the edge of his focus, continuity marks and tags pressing him into a careful, measured posture. He forces his calm like a muscle, but with every brush of fabric, every scratch of a pin, the effort to hold himself together begins to fray. The sensory weight stacks quietly, and he feels it building beyond his eyes, the pressure threatening to spill over. Once the fitting winds to a close, his feet move before he can register it, hurrying out of the room so fast he nearly collides with someone as he rounds the corner.
“Oh–sorry.” He stumbles back. When he looks up, his eyes meet Finn’s–standing before him with an iced coffee and a pastry bag in hand.
“You’re alive,” Finn says, the smile in his voice unmistakably teasing.
Noah lets out a breathy huff that might pass for a laugh. He smiles back, though it doesn’t quite reach his tired eyes. “Yeah. Barely.”
“I figured.” Finn extends his hands toward Noah, offering the coffee and the pastry bag. “They were out of Nutella today, so I grabbed butter. And I couldn’t find any matcha around here–dark roast probably works better for a hangover anyway.”
The fresh scent settles low in his chest like a small, grounding comfort he hadn’t realized he was craving–buttery, warm, and strangely mundane. Noah tries to brush off the faint stirring beneath his ribs. His eyes flick to the plastic cup and pastry bag, now in his hands.
“Thanks, Finn.”
Noah’s gaze wanders over Finn, tracing every movement. He catches the way Finn’s gaze dips toward the floor, his smile turning a little sheepish as each syllable settles over him. His eyes travel down, pausing at the flush blooming on his cheeks before being pulled to the subtle rise and fall of his chest. Finn’s eyes flick back up, landing on Noah’s lips for an instant before dipping again.
“It’s kind of my fault you feel like shit,” he says, shrug rolling off his shoulders.
Noah frowns at him. “What?”
“I was a bad influence,” Finn says, running a hand through his hair.
His sudden offhand tone cools through Noah, just enough to ground him. “I shouldn’t have even agreed to that double shot.”
Finn laughs, something unreadable yet inviting in his eyes. His lips part as if he were to say something–but before he can, another voice cuts in.
“Pre-vis in five!” Tracy calls from a few feet away. Noah and Finn offer her a nod as she begins walking, her attention falling back to the tablet in her hands.
They walk side by side, following a few steps behind Tracy as she leads them to the screening room. Noah feels something unresolved weighing quietly on his chest as he tries to match Tracy’s pace. The walk is short and silent. A sense of focus and urgency stands in the space between them. A faint scent of tobacco fills the atmosphere, charging it with an intensity and seriousness that lodges in the inches between them, growing with every stride.
Noah focuses on the smell of smoke, entrusting it to drown the sting of hunger beginning to stir within him as they round the corner and shift into the screening room.
His eyes quickly scan the room, flicking over the rows of leather seats, low and deep, each angled toward the large screen at the front. Quiet voices blend together in a soft hum, and a faint scent of coffee hangs in the air, marrying with the lingering smell of cigarettes. The soft, dim glow wraps around him, easing some of the tension in his chest.
He offers a round of silent and casual greetings as he squeezes past the crew before sliding into the very back row. His eager fingers uncurl around the pastry bag, croissant quickly disappearing as a gentle warmth spreads through his belly, easing the earlier sting. He doesn’t mind pre-vis, not today. It asks little, only that he sit and watch, and for once, that’s exactly what he wants.
The dim light surrenders, ebbing slowly until only the screen glows, the rest of the room deepening into a shadow as it flickers to life. He sinks further back into the seat as the chatter softens, letting the quiet tug at his fatigue until the cushion beside him dips, interrupting the stillness.
He turns his head to find Finn sliding into the seat beside him, just inches away. Their eyes meet for a heartbeat as Finn flicks a quick, casual eyebrow at him before letting his gaze drift back to the screen. The first few frames fill the room with motion, light flickering across the leather seats. Noah feels the sting blooming deep within him again, tugging at his core as the glow dances over the contours of the room.
His eyes wander through the dark, settling on Finn. Noah lifts his iced coffee, taking the straw between his teeth as he studies Finn’s side profile, caught in quiet focus on the screen. The twitch of Finn’s jaw, the faint exhale through his nose, the subtle pulse on his neck–all drawing Noah in. His gaze drifts down, lingering on Finn’s lips, catching the slight parting as his tongue brushes over them. Noah’s own tongue traces a lap around the straw, and something stirs in his chest as his eyes linger on the glinting curve of Finn’s mouth under the flickering light.
A sudden burst of gunfire on the screen pulls his attention back, his stomach lurching as the hunger sting grows louder. His eyes betray him, drifting back to Finn despite every intention to stay focused. Lips pressed to the straw, he lets his gaze linger over Finn’s clenched jaw–until something inside him twists in warning, and he drags his eyes back to the screen. He sips his iced coffee, willing its coolness to steady whatever heat has begun to take shape within him.
He forces himself into the scene, watching quietly, trying to shut down the hum in the back of his mind. By the second beat of the oner, the pre-vis begins to hold his attention. He feels Finn shifting closer. He doesn’t look. Heat coils in him as Finn inches nearer–the brush of his shoulder, the shift of his weight, the small exhale that carries a warmth only Noah seems to notice. Suddenly, he can feel the searing of Finn’s voice brushing over his skin.
“I can already tell this is going to take fucking forever,” Finn whispers into his ear.
Noah’s breath catches. The heat of his voice against Noah’s ear and neck sets off a chain reaction within him, one he knows he won’t be able to ignore, not completely. He keeps his eyes on the screen, leaning only his body towards Finn to whisper back.
“Yeah. You’re fucked.”
Finn’s eyebrows knit together. A pout forms on his lips, quickly morphs into a smile he tries to hide, a laugh escaping through his nose in a soft exhale. He lays his head back as he squeezes his eyes shut, before letting it roll down–closer to the nape of Noah’s neck now.
“Shut up,” Finn breathes, sending shivers down Noah’s spine. His lips instinctively twist into an open-mouthed smile, a stifled laugh slipping through as the straw sits between his teeth. Noah shifts to face Finn. As he turns, a faint waft of cigarettes hits him.
“I thought you quit,” he says.
Finn leans closer again, making Noah twist.
“Desperate times,” he whispers.
“That’s definitely not gonna help your situation,” Noah says.
“Probably not,” Finn whispers, leaning back as his gaze falls on Noah. “But it keeps me in check.”
Noah huffs out a breathy laugh and rolls his eyes, turning back to the screen.
He feels the tension in his core tighten as he senses Finn’s eyes lingering on him before turning back to the screen. He closes his eyes, releasing a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. For a moment, he wonders if Finn can feel the heat radiating from him. Noah takes a careful sip and narrows his gaze straight ahead, letting his body sink into the seat, hoping it swallows him.
The rest of the pre-vis passes in a quiet blur. They spill out of the screening room and into the studio’s corridor, movement and chaos erupting around them. Before Noah has a chance to readjust to the abrupt shift in the day’s pace, Tracy catches up to him, heels clipped and purposeful, already mid-sentence about a window they can steal during break.
“They want to squeeze in some promo,” she says, her tone apologetic, as she can see beyond what his face is willing to show. Noah looks over at Finn, who’s already being whisked away by a PA. He turns to face Tracy again and nods, but there’s a tightness at the corner of his mouth that doesn’t quite go away. Tracy smiles past it, giving his arm a gentle squeeze as they begin walking toward the set.
The afternoon collapses in on itself. What’s meant to be a handful of solo shots stretches longer than promised, the minutes bending around resets and lighting tweaks until Tracy reappears with a tight smile and news of a delay on the main set. Promo fills the gap–one setup bleeding into the next, energy borrowed and spent in pieces. By the time Noah’s finally peeled out of filming and shepherded into the walkthrough, he feels wrung out and worn thin.
Tracy speeds ahead, already rounding the corner as he makes his way to the caddy pickup area, the weight of every limb growing heavier with each stride. He finally rounds the corner and finds Finn waiting at the pickup, exhaustion mirrored between them. They stand side by side in wordless understanding as they wait. When the caddy pulls up, Tracy slides inside, and they follow suit, settling into the back bench together.
They sit close enough that their shoulders graze one another with each small shift, knees nearly touching, every subtle movement carrying the weight of proximity. They begin to drive. The silence stretches between them, comfortable and earned. Noah finds himself leaning into it, letting the weight of the day sink out of his shoulders, slipping far enough away. Minutes pass, quiet but not empty. A soft, distant voice threads its way through Noah’s mind as he feels the caddy coming to a stop.
His eyes flutter open, heavy-lidded and slow, and he realizes he’d dozed off, his head resting lightly against Finn’s shoulder. A faint scent of sandalwood and smoke drift up, warm and familiar. His body slowly catches up. He lifts his head slowly, Finn’s easy, knowing smile is already waiting.
“Hey, you.”