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They say sometimes actors fall in love on set because of their characters’ storylines, because they can’t tell which feelings are real and which are fiction.
This isn’t true.
No, the reality is altogether different. Actors don’t fall in love on set because of their characters. Actors fall in love on set because of the long hours of waiting between takes, for the crew to move things around, to get ready for the next scene. Actors don’t fall in love quoting made-up lines at each other, but they do around lukewarm coffee while a makeup artist applies some more concealer around their eyes. They laugh and they tease and they share stories, and feelings appear along the way.
Clarke always found the urban legend stupid to begin with. She isn’t a method actress, thank you very much, and so doesn’t lose herself in the character. She comes, does her job, and goes back home – plain and simple. So, really, she scoffs at so-called journalists who write bad articles about on-set romance, because she knows her job, and so knows that her job doesn’t entail fucked-up emotions and misplaced affections.
Well, it used to be, at least.
She looks at him across the sea of red carpet and paparazzi, the way his smug grin flashes in front of the cameras as he’s being interviewed. He does it so flawlessly, this game of theirs, this bad boy persona he’s been carrying for years. (He used to be the asshole diva, still is sometimes, but Clarke has learnt to read between the lines, to understand this is his mask where ‘ice queen bitch’ is hers, only one more character to play.)
Their eyes meet for the briefest of times, a barely there glance as his smile grows fonder for only a moment. This isn’t weird, she thinks, this isn’t suspect, we’re co-workers, we’re supposed to get along.
Don’t freak out.
But freaking out she does, because the last thing Clarke wants is for them to become an item that makes the first page of JustJared, for their relationship to be examined to closely, their every move questioned. She doesn’t want the buzz, the sensational.
Fuck, she just wants him. And peace.
Which is too much to ask, when Hollywood is your home.
He meets her in the building, away from the prying eyes of journalists, and rests his hand on her lower back without a second thought. “You look lovely,” he whispers to her eye. She knows she does – a Eli Saad dress does that to you, after all – but still blushes at his praise, at the hunger in his eyes when they rack her body.
Someone shows them to their table, where they’ll spend the night with the rest of their cast and the writers of their show, and Bellamy is enough of a moron to pull out her chair for her. She rolls her eyes even as she sits, but doesn’t comment – especially when Raven barges in seconds later, speaking way too quickly for her own good.
That’s how Clarke knows her friend is nervous about tonight (they all are, okay, Breaking Bad is no longer there to steal all the awards so it’s the first year their show really has a chance to win something), because Raven usually is the quiet type but she won’t shut up when her feelings overcome her. It makes for hilarious interviews and not so great award ceremonies, if Clarke is quite honest.
But her own heart is fluttering too as she lists the categories in her head – best drama, best actor for Bellamy and best actress for her. ‘Nervous’ barely begins to encompass how she’s feeling, and Bellamy’s hand resting on her tight does little to sooth her.
In front of the camera she is great. Everything else? Not so much.
Of course, it only gets worst as the ceremony unfolds.
The hosts are funny enough, mind you, but her heart just misses a beat every so often – the cameras linger on them a little too much to her liking, and she’s that close to biting her nails even if she knows fully well Raven will slap her hand if she even dares. But she just feels like dying every time a new category is announced and, well, there are more pleasant feelings.
She barely registers the speech introducing the Best Actor in a Drama Series, mostly because Bellamy is too busy crushing her fingers between his under the table. He’s staring in front of him, the same state of mind he finds himself into when he gets ready for a particularly difficult scene – the Earth could stop spinning right now and he wouldn’t even notice.
“And the Golden Globe goes to…”
Raven’s hysterical yells swallow Bellamy’s name over the speakers.
Clarke stares at him.
He stares back, eyes widen and mouth open, and she wants to laugh at how dumbfound he is, she wants to hug him, she wants to –
His lips crash against her before she finishes that thought, the kiss as hurried as it is unexpected, and she hears the gasps and laughs in the background but her brain just stops and…
“Fuck,” she hears him mutter.
She laughs.
“Go,” she says as she pushes him, because his awards is awaiting and they don’t need to make even more of a scene than they already did and she can already see her phone lightening up with a text from her agent and – gosh he just won, for fuck’s sake.
He makes his way to the stage and receives his award, never getting rid of his I-have-no-chill-when-things-matter face as he stares at the mic in front of him for a very long while before clearing his throat.
“Thank you so much.” He squares his shoulder with a sigh, and the moment is gone – his face a neutral emotion, his eyes burning with that never-ending fire of his. “I want to dedicate this award to my sister Octavia, who believed from the very first day and who supported me in the hardest moment. This one’s for you, O, you can use it as a paperweight if you want.” The audience laughs, and Clarke knows Octavia may be tearing up in front of her tv even if she’ll pretend otherwise. “When we moved to Los Angeles, we were nothing but two poor orphans who didn’t know what they wanted to do with their lives. Acting wasn’t the easy choice, but it’s the choice I made, and I will forever be grateful for my sister who believed in me when no one else would. It wasn’t the best way to pay the bills, but that is how I found my passion, so I wouldn’t have it any other way. I love you, O.”
(Yep, definitely tearing.)
“I want to thank Thelonius Jaha, who saw that grumpy freckled guy and thought he would make a great lead. Abby Griffin, for her wonderful scripts and all the beautiful words she puts in my mouth. The entire cast and crew for putting up with me at five in the morning when the coffee machine is broken and we all feel like dying. You guys are wonderful. You make me a better actor and a better man with each passing day.” Raven bursts into some kind of sob-laugh next to her, and Clarke only then notices she has tears in her eyes, too. She loves him, gosh she loves him so much, that stupidly eloquent man. “And, well, special thanks to Clarke. Guess the cat is out of the bag now, princess. You’re the most fantastic actress in this city and I am so blessed to work by your side every day. I’m nothing without you.”
And yes, definitely crying now, as she presses a handkerchief to her wet cheeks and hopes against hope they’re not doing a close-up on her face right now. (They obviously are.) Her heart is swelling and melting and, gosh, she loves him – so, so much it’s not even funny at this point.
She makes sure to sneak out of the room during the commercial break, grabbing him between two interviews to kiss the living hell out of him. He grins like the idiot he is, and she realises she doesn’t mind the impromptu outing, not with him by her side.
(She doesn’t win but, well, she loses to Tatiana Maslany, so fair enough, really.)