Chapter Text
Salt crusted the sides of the lemon wedge. Michelle had cut dainty little quarters, and served it on a ceramic saucer. One that Arthur had brought into the studio years ago, with a matching teacup. The cup had since broken, and the saucer was chipped. Matthew thumbed the crack running across the plate, not hiding his dissatisfaction. He took the lemon wedge, thanked Michelle in a tone that also dismissed her, and took a bite. Alfred grimaced when his brother did not. He imagined the acerbic taste dripping onto his tongue, poisoning his words.
Sure enough, Matthew said, “You’re totally bungling this.”
Alfred rolled his eyes towards Arthur. They were in Arthur’s office, him in his wheely chair, Alfred leaning against a wall, Matthew, sitting with his arms across the back of the couch, kingly, the plate balanced precariously on the cushions. Alfred resented, slightly, Arthur’s suggestion that they have a ‘quick chat’ about the casting situation. One couldn’t have productive conversations with Matthew.
“Are you seriously eating a raw lemon?”
“Are you seriously unable to see that you’re screwing this up?” Matthew glanced at Arthur. “Do you think this is smart? If Chris is on board, let him do it. Why is Alfred rejecting the screen test? Don’t you think it’s important to have two big names attached to this movie? God knows everyone else you’ve cast is B-list at best.”
“I trust Alfred’s judgment.”
“Right.” It was Matthew’s turn to roll his eyes. “All that 'supportive husband' stuff.”
“I haven’t found the right actor to play your love interest. It’s really that simple.”
“No, it’s not. What are you looking for? You’ve rejected every screen test I’ve done. I don’t have unlimited time to do screen tests for you, Alfred.”
Alfred swallowed what he actually wanted to say. Mercifully, Arthur jumped in. “Laura’s going to send a new list of names. In fact, we’ve already reached out to a few of them.”
“Great.” Matthew nibbled on the lemon wedge. “I know what that means. Look, I’m going to be honest, I’m not going to do another dozen screen tests for you.”
“You’ll do as many screen tests as I need,” Alfred said, keeping his voice as calm as he could.
Matthew raised an eyebrow. He got up off the sofa and dumped the lemon wedge into the wastepaper basket behind him without even looking to see where it was. “Arthur, I love your script. Al, I love you.” He paused, smiling serenely. “Francis will be calling you.”
And then he strode out of the office without saying bye. Or even shutting the door. It gave Alfred the opportunity to slam it behind him and whip his head towards Arthur.
“I’m going to—I fucking—”
Arthur approached, grabbing Alfred’s hands before he started ranting. “Breathe out, love. Just relax.”
“He does it just to get a rise out of me,” Alfred concluded. This time, at least, he held his composure. Barely. Shaking his head to shake it off, he said, “Let’s just go. I’m sure the others are waiting.”
“Right.” Arthur squeezed his arms, smiled reassuringly, and reminded him to take his jacket. In the parking lot, the rest of the team had gathered. Lovino was drinking straight from a bottle of wine. Tolys and Feliks were sharing a joke. Ravais was busy booking Ubers. Matthew was nowhere to be seen. Because of course, why would he spend any time with the rest of them?
“I’m never gonna find him.” Alfred tossed back a whiskey and sank into the pleather couch, almost in one motion. The flashing lights and thumping club music were giving him a headache. He had to shout to make himself heard, which was just scratching his throat raw. This wasn’t the place for a conversation like this, but it was Tolys’ birthday. Alfred, unlike Matthew, didn’t decline the invitation to go out. He couldn’t, anyway. He was the boss.
Beside him in the booth, Arthur let out a fond chuckle, which was swallowed by a particularly loud baseline. Alfred could almost imagine the laugh, though, having heard it many times before. They’d met in film school, and had been inseparable ever since. Arthur had been a grouchy, sleep-deprived, screenwriting genius, and Alfred had been the wide-eyed junior, desperate to make his mark in the glitz and sparkle of the Hollywood world he had always known from the backseat. He missed the simplicity and innocence of those days. Those days were about big ideas. Now, at thirty-one, Alfred’s life was all about the bitter work. To make those big ideas real.
He made a grab for someone’s abandoned alcohol on the table. Everyone was out on the floor, dancing, anyway. They wouldn’t miss it. Arthur stopped his hand. “Slow down. It’s not like you can hold your booze.”
“I’m never going to find Archibald!” Alfred muttered. “So let me have this.” He picked up the frou frou cocktail—probably Felicia’s—and took a big sip. Tequila and lime and something fruity. Watermelon? He couldn’t tell.
“What’s wrong with the actors Laura suggested? They’ve all got excellent credentials. Most of them are stars in their own right.”
“Laura is a very good casting director,” Alfred agreed. “And I respect her decisions a lot. But I don’t want one more sexy twink, okay?”
“What?” Arthur cupped his ear, leaning in to hear him better. “You don’t want one more sippy drink?”
Alfred groaned. “Let’s talk outside.”
After some pushing and shoving, they broke out into the city air. A long queue had formed outside the club: faces Alfred vaguely recognised, either actors in toothpaste commercials, or moderately famous chefs. Everyone was dripping in jewels and strappy clothes. Everyone looked gorgeous.
A blonde bouncer glanced their way as Alfred led Arthur down the side of the building. Arthur lit a cigarette. He offered one to Alfred, who declined, saying, “I won’t kiss you if you taste like tobacco. That stuff’s gonna kill you.”
“You’ll kiss me when you’re horny enough. If I don’t have my cigarettes and whiskey, they’ll throw me out of the WGA.”
Alfred snorted, half-amused. “Sure. Okay. Anyway, I was saying, I don’t want one more sexy twink. Matthew has that look down to an art. And none of the screen tests have worked for me so far because you can’t tell Matthew apart from one more skinny blonde guy. Don’t tell him I said that, though,” Alfred added. He shuddered at the very thought of the diva meltdown a comment like that would cause.
“Maybe you should just fire Matthew.”
Alfred laughed for real. “You want me to fire my brother?”
“It’s not about what I want,” Arthur said coolly, green eyes ever-watchful. “It’s about what you secretly want.”
“I don’t want to fire him!” Alfred protested. He'd cooled off now. They fought, yeah, but he didn’t want to be the one firing Matthew Williams. He didn’t want to hire Matthew in the first place, but that wasn’t up to him. The producers and the studio execs loved Matthew, and they thought a joint Jones-Williams production would be an exciting sell. “Matthew is my star talent,” Alfred went on. “He’s going to bring in the audience. But the movies he’s done recently are like…heterosexual romcoms.”
“He did that war movie. Two years ago. Remember? Where he tragically died in the third act?”
“Yeah,” Alfred agreed, bitterness rising in his voice. “He won a Golden Globe for that, I remember. Trust me, I know. We can’t do without Matthew. Besides, he’s already signed on and I can’t fire him for no reason. I do not want to get into that legal nightmare. Anyway, he’s not the problem. I’m excited to work with him. I am!” he insisted, when Arthur raised his eyebrow. “He’s difficult, I know…But he’s earned the right to be difficult. The problem is, he’s already got the whole Beautiful Boy thing down perfectly, and I want his co-star to look different.”
“Like a different body type?”
“Whatever different means,” Alfred shrugged. “I can’t explain what I want, but I’ll know it when I see it.”
Arthur opened his mouth to respond, but something caught his eye because he turned, lowering his cigarette. A young man, a tourist, judging from his backpack, was standing on the sidewalk with his phone out. He was filming them.
“Can I help you?” Arthur asked coldly, peeling himself off the wall.
“You’re Alfred Jones, right?” the man called out. “You’re that director! You nearly won an Oscar last year.”
“Uh, yeah?” Alfred said, plastering on a smile. He didn’t like being on camera. It was a weird thing…he could be confident and cheerful but as soon as the cameras came on, he wanted to leave. He loved directing because he loved movies. He loved the art of making them. He didn’t want to be in one.
“I love your films, man.”
“Thanks…could you not record us? We’re having a private conversation.”
“Sorry, buddy,” he grinned. “My phone, my rules. I’m making a YouTube video of all the celebs I spotted on my trip.”
Did Alfred count as a celeb? Interesting. He didn’t see himself that way, but he supposed he had a reputation in this town, and he was quite well-off. In his mind, celebrities were people like his younger brother. Matthew was the most natural celebrity there could ever be.
“Seriously, stop filming us,” Arthur snapped. He threw his cigarette down and crushed it underfoot.
“I’m not filming you. I'm filming Alfred Jo—”
A man strode into view. The blonde bouncer. Jesus, he was tall. And broad. The neon lights of the club’s sign made his skin glow red. He snatched the phone out of the man’s hand in one effortless swipe, and he slammed it down on the concrete, so hard that the screen shattered and went black. It happened so quickly that Alfred could barely react.
“Hey!” the man cried. “What the fuck? You can’t do that.”
“They asked you nicely.” The bouncer’s voice was pleasant, too pleasant given the coldness in his eyes. “Now I’m telling you. Get out.”
“You broke my fucking phone!”
“Get. Out.” And he squared his shoulders. He was a tower. He was a mountain sculpted by old gods. Alfred saw it then. Saw Archibald. Saw his vision come to life as the bouncer leaned over the man and said, in a low hiss, “Now.”
There wasn’t much protest after that. The man grabbed the remains of his phone and scampered across the street, muttering obscenities. The bouncer turned to the pair of them, the hardness of his demeanour transforming into concern. His eyes were wide, babylike, and his fleshy cheeks led into soft, pink lips. Alfred had never, ever seen a person be this terrifying and this innocent at once. It was the most startling metamorphosis. He was just transfixed.
“Are you two all right?” the bouncer asked.
“Yes,” Arthur said. “Thank you…”
“Ivan.”
“Thank you, Ivan.”
Ivan turned to Alfred. “Sir? Are you okay?”
“What?” Alfred blinked. “Uh, yeah. Arthur, um,” he squeezed Arthur’s elbow. “Arthur, that’s him.”
Arthur frowned. “That’s who?”
Alfred swallowed, trying to command himself. His hands were shaking a little. He wasn’t scared or upset. But Ivan was perfect. “Hey, Ivan, how’d you like to become a movie star?”
Unlike others in this town, Ivan did not come to Hollywood with a dream. He arrived with debt. Throughout the last decade, his mother’s Alzheimer’s had been getting worse. The medical bills kept stacking up. Katya had to quit nursing school to look after her full-time. Natalya, fresh out of her law degree, threw herself into the first job she could find. Ivan, who, like their late father, was a tailor, began to take on more complex, demanding assignments.
It was those assignments that got him noticed. He made a lot of costumes and elaborate dresses for quinceaneras, gymnastic competitions, and weddings. He was skilled with beadwork, and had gentle hands with delicate fabric. He loved the hours of quiet labour. It helped him focus, helped clear his mind. And while he couldn’t get too many high-paying commissions in his town, there were far-flung places that were hungry for his kind of talent.
Two job offers came. One from New York, to work in the costume department on Broadway. And one from LA, to work on a film set. He was going to choose the New York one, because it sounded more stable. But his sisters got excited about the prospect of Hollywood. Films, Natalya had said, over and over. Who goes to watch stupid plays? You could be working on FILMS. Katya tacitly pointed out that the LA offer paid better. And so the decision was made for him.
Ivan would go to Hollywood.
It turned out to be a mistake. Though he didn’t know it at the time, the film was struggling for funding, and after three months on the job, production suddenly stopped. All the workers in the costume department were let go en masse. Ivan found himself penniless and alone in a city he did not know, and did not like.
It was too hot. The traffic was terrible. The rent was exorbitant. But the obsession with money, power, status, and beauty, left him feeling constantly anxious and put out. He was a quiet person. He liked his quiet life. He didn’t follow celebrities. He didn’t care about the glitz and the glamour that people here draped themselves with. Getting a job here wasn’t easy, either. Ivan didn’t have a fancy costume design degree from a flashy university. Everything he knew, he knew from his father. From Youtube videos. From finger-numbing practice. But he couldn’t return to his hometown, broke and jobless. His family depended on him.
After four more increasingly desperate months of job-hunting, meal-skipping, and sleeping on the streets, Ivan finally got hired to be a bouncer at a popular club. The owner said he had the right Look. He was big, frightening. He looked like a Russian hitman. It’s the kind of thing people are scared of, he’d said.
That made Ivan feel horrible about himself. He knew he wasn’t greatly attractive. He’d always hated the proportions of his body. He felt like an elephant trampling through the sidewalk. He hated the way people parted for him. He hated the way people looked up when they had to see him. He hated how nothing fit right. He just wanted to be normal.
But he took the job. He had no other choice.
He was good at it, too. Seven months in LA had made him bitter and angry, and taking it out on drunk, unruly customers was a strange kind of reprieve. He didn’t hit anyone, of course. But he used his height to his advantage, bullying them away. Many did not put up a fight. They were too afraid of him. The job paid well enough for Ivan to get a small, shared apartment. He was able to send money home again. He didn’t have to lie to his sisters about his financial situation anymore. He was more stable.
He was miserable, angry, tired all the time, and lost, but at least he was stable.
And then that film director asked him to audition.
“Is this a joke?” Ivan had asked. His partner, the man with the green eyes, was gaping at him.
“No. No, you’re perfect. You’re perfect.” His eyes were practically glowing with happiness. He had the kind of face that revealed every emotion. It startled Ivan a little. And then it reminded him of Katya. Of home. Ivan could see that he was being sincere.
He said, “I’m Alfred Jones. I make movies. I’m not some creep, I swear. You can Google me.”
“Oh, I know your name,” Ivan had said, a little stunned. “You directed that movie last year, the one that nearly got Best Picture? Butterfly of Belgium.” It was a Europe-spanning murder mystery that was less about the crime and more about the flawed, lonely people who were entangled in the web of it. Ivan snuck into a movie theatre on one of his homeless nights, just desperate for a place to sit, to eat, to sleep. He remembered watching it in its entirety, and crying in the end. Perhaps he’d been crying because he was so sad for himself. Perhaps he’d been crying because the protagonist reminded him of his mother. Perhaps Alfred Jones was just good at his job.
Alfred was pulling out his business card. “It’s a great script. A queer period romance. Come to the studio next week for an audition, yeah? Please.”
“I’m not an actor!” Ivan had said. “I don’t know how!” It was all happening too fast. He was so confused. Was this some strange dream?
“That’s okay,” Alfred said. “It’s a real film, all right? My husband, Arthur here, he’s the screenwriter!” he added, clearly reading the apprehension on Ivan’s face. “And it’s a starring role. The audition is for the part of the love interest, Archibald. Call the number there,” he tapped the card. “Tolys will explain everything.”
Movies were what got him into this mess in the first place. No way was Ivan going to even entertain the thought of starring in one. He hated being the centre of attention. How could Alfred, or anyone in this town, think of him as perfect for anything? He wasn’t attractive. He was an ugly beast. He wasn’t love interest material.
Then Alfred said, “The pay’s like…two million dollars or something?”
And Ivan’s eyes popped out of his head.
The business card in his palm was trembling in his unsteady fingers. “I’ll call the number.” His voice was choked.
Because two million dollars was more money than he could even imagine. Because two million dollars could put their mother in a good nursing home, and Katya back into nursing school. Two million dollars could clear the second mortgage on their house.
Two million dollars could save his family.