Chapter Text
Week One:
Getting cast in a fresh-faced director's remake of horror slasher classic A Nightmare on Elm Street should make Alex feel on top of the world. Ideally, any critically acclaimed classic draws in an audience that will feed off the nostalgia and appreciate a new perspective: a more diverse cast, better production value, homage to the concepts, but with a modern twist on the script.
Rafael Luna is an incredible up-and-coming director. With every film he directs, the man adds more notches to his belt: a Daytime Emmy nomination for an HBO limited series he co-wrote the script for, several Golden Globe awards, and even a controversial Oscar nomination for Best Director for his film, Treachery, where critics couldn’t comprehend how a first-time filmmaker could obtain such a prestigious nomination without even campaigning for it.
The Academy adores him. The critics adore Rafael Luna. Alex adores Rafael Luna. Being asked to partake in even the most pedestrian of his films would have been his pleasure.
And yet, Alex Claremont-Diaz frowns as his thumb happens upon the page where his character meets his demise.
Mark does a double-take. The knife is sticking out of his best friend’s stomach, and blood is everywhere, pooling at Mark’s shoes. With great anguish, Mark rips the knife out of Samuel’s stomach—
Alex lets out a groan. He usually avoids prematurely judging the characters' actions in the films he participates in, but this is too far. He knows how this would go; police would find Mark’s fingerprints on the knife, the shoeprints in the blood, the convenience of his presence at the crime scene. Alas, a self-inflicted frame job at the hands of the main character.
Admittedly, the script is more campy than Alex initially thought it would be. It’s a provocative remake, something done once before but not quite successfully. If anyone can pull off this script, Rafael Luna is the director to do it.
Maybe it’s the bitterness of losing the part of ‘Mark’ and receiving ‘Samuel’ instead that is causing him to scrutinize the script so much.
Maybe this role truly isn’t for him; after all, only a white person in a horror movie could be so dumb as to pull knives out of corpses.
If Mark, the lead, is written to be such a bozo, Alex supposes it’s fine that he lost the role to the person whom he may dislike the most amongst his acting peers: British actor, Henry Fox.
Henry Fox. Alex hasn’t quite recovered from the sting of losing Vogue Magazine’s “Breakout Star of the Year” to Henry Fox last year. It haunts him; when Zahra, his agent, informed Alex that he was considered for the prestigious spread and feature in the magazine, only to lose it to, well, someone more famous than him.
At least that’s what his sister, June, told him in an attempt to soften the blow. She hinted at him needing it more than Alex, but how can that possibly be true when the guy is stealing the lead role from him?
Alex clutches his script, chewing on the end of a highlighter as Margie, his makeup artist, dabs at his under eyes with a makeup sponge a bit too aggressively. Lack of sleep over losing movie-star-making roles probably caused the deep bags underneath his eyes. That, or long nights preparing for a role he never asked for.
“You need to be getting more sleep, or you will be in this chair forever,” Margie frowns at him as she applies more concealer. Her eyebrows peek out from underneath her microbangs as she fixates on covering his dark circles.
“I’d be getting more sleep if I didn’t receive a callback one week before production starts,” Alex shrugs.
“You’re lucky they even called,” Margie shakes her head, looking through Alex as she moves to touch up his eyebrows. “Everyone wanted to be in this movie; I mean, Rafael Luna is directing it! Every film of his seems to win awards or annihilate at the box office. Shit, I’d play a tree if it meant I got to be named in the credits.”
“You’ll get a makeup credit mention.”
“And playing a tree would probably pay my bills for a year, darling. Be grateful you got something.”
Alex frowns. He knows she’s right; he should be grateful for even getting a callback. It’s just that he’s tired of always playing the supportive roles that uplift the lead character, which often get forgotten about in the critics’ reviews.
For once, Alex thought he could be that guy. The guy everyone talks about, the one they reel over and shout his name over and over until he subsequently comes over for the most meaningless interview of his life.
But it isn’t meant to be. Apparently, his destiny right now is to play second fiddle to Henry Fox.
Still, Alex is going to give it his all. This isn't the first time he’s been burned and let down. He’s put his heart and soul into every role he's ever gotten, whether he’s playing second chair or leading the band. The fans who supported his career at least deserved a performance worthy of a $12 movie ticket. It’s the least he can do.
—
Rehearsals are starting, and Henry-fucking-Fox still hasn’t shown up. Alex is sitting at a long table, his knee bouncing anxiously. He feels ridiculous waiting there when his scene partner couldn’t bother to show up on time. Alex can't stand working with other actors who think the world revolves around their schedule.
Admittedly, he knows relatively nothing about Henry Fox—just that he’s apparently a heartthrob and every director wants him in their movies. And that he stole the lead role from Alex, including the Vogue Magazine spread.
Other than that, Alex doesn’t even know or care for the guy. Really.
Rafael Luna, their director, seemed unbothered by Henry’s tardiness. He's tucked into a corner of the room, glasses at the tip of his nose, reading from a binder, and is clearly more invested in its contents than in Alex’s impatience and Henry’s lateness.
After five more minutes, the door opens.
Alex’s knee immediately stills. He turns to throw an aggravated sigh, but is met with the sight of the most beautiful man he’s ever seen.
Henry Fox is tall and broad-shouldered, with perfectly styled golden blonde hair, the shade only Prince Charming would have. Henry somehow has wind-swept hair in a room with no windows, a jaw that looks as though it was chiseled out of stone, the eyes of a leading rom-com man, and lips that could only be described as stained with red wine. His only flaws seemed to be not being on time and the hint of rosacea in his cheeks that a makeup artist hasn’t yet covered.
The pictures he’s seen don’t do Henry justice—the Vogue feature hardly captured his essence. Maybe it was for the best that Alex didn’t get chosen for the feature. The photographer clearly doesn’t know their angles.
Alex wants to look disgusted, but he's sure a stupid, dopey look is plastered across his face instead.
“Hello,” Henry says quietly, in his stupid, posh British accent. He fiddles with a gold ring on his pinkie finger. “I apologize for being late. It won’t happen again.”
Alex rolls his eyes at Henry’s absurdly proper accent. Alex is understanding more and more as to how he may have lost the lead role to Henry. In front of him stands a movie star, posh and shy. Every girl within a hundred-mile radius would fall to their knees for this guy.
Henry moves to sit next to Alex, empty-handed. Alex always brings his script with him to rehearsals and wonders if Henry expects to be given a copy. Handsome, late, and entitled?
Alex would have said something sarcastic on any other occasion, but instead, he acknowledges Henry’s arrival with a curt nod and offers a welcoming smile as the blonde sits next to him.
The thing is, Henry Fox doesn’t seem to notice him. At all. He grips the arms of his chair and turns his body away from Alex and toward Rafael Luna.
“For the next five weeks, we are filming a movie on the budget of a shoestring,” Director Luna says suddenly, unprompted. “I picked you two as my co-leads because of what I saw in our audition process. I appreciate the work you’ve both done in the past. But, I want you to treat this project as if you’re starting out fresh, with nothing to lose. Don’t hold back on me, not for one second.” He walks around the table and stands behind Henry and Alex, placing a hand on each of their shoulders. “If anything ever feels too intense, just call it, and we will go back to the drawing board.”
Alex has read the screenplay already. He knows the beginning, the middle, and the end. The fate of his character, the friendship between his and Henry’s characters. It’s a good script; the characters are a little underwritten and the dialogue is over the top at times, but still—the story is good.
Next to him, Henry juts out his chin, looking determinedly at Director Luna as if he were avoiding making eye contact with Alex. He straightens out his ridiculously broad shoulders and listens as Luna rambles on about the first scene they’re going to rehearse.
When Luna leaves the room to grab the costume coordinator for their fittings, Alex decides to introduce himself properly. They are co-stars, after all. He can't just jump into the scene without getting to know the guy.
“Hi, I’m Alex Claremont-Diaz,” Alex holds his hand out to Henry. “How’s it going?”
“I know who you are,” Henry says, the mole at the corner of his mouth twitching as he purses his lips hesitantly. Then, he takes Alex’s hand and shakes it, squeezing it softly. “I’m Henry. Henry Fox.”
“You know me,” Alex repeats. They’re still holding hands; he definitely doesn’t notice how soft his hand is.
“I meant that I’ve seen your work. I try to research my scene partner’s work beforehand. Just to see what I am, er, working with. Who I’m working with,” Henry corrects himself and cringes. He still hasn’t let go of Alex’s hand.
Alex’s eyes narrow. He knows exactly what Henry meant; Henry Fox is scoping out the talent of the actors he would be working with. As in, trying to determine Alex’s level of skill as an actor. Presumptuous. If he cared enough, Alex might’ve done the same.
Alex pulls his hand back, slowly. Their fingers brush together as their hands separate, the tension thick in the air between them.
“Like what you see, then?” Alex goads; he isn't above fishing compliments out of someone who was apparently a much more sought-after actor than he was.
Henry raises a perfect, blonde eyebrow. “I can’t say I’ve seen enough to make any concrete observations.”
Alex sucks in a laugh. This guy is too proper, even when he is being a douchebag. Alex can’t decide if he is obsessed with the curt British accent, the politeness dripping off his tongue, even when he’s clearly insulting Alex.
“Well, I haven’t seen anything you’re in. I hope you won’t disappoint me,” Alex smiles sweetly.
“Likewise. I expect nothing but a high-quality performance from you, Alex.”
The door opens, and the costume design team fills the space between them. It’s a tense, indecipherable conversation Alex is relieved to be done with before he ends up pulling out his Letterboxd stats and making comparisons.
As a pushy seamstress takes measurements of his shoulders, Alex catches Henry’s eyes raking over his body. Alex makes sure to flex his back muscles and arms, giving him the best look of the body he has taken so much care to maintain. He wants Henry to see the actor Alex has molded himself to be—even if it’s just flexing the physical tools he has worked so hard to get.
It’s a weird costume session of stolen looks and flexing. At one point, Alex swears Henry’s face is permanently frozen in the most modelesque of features. Alex gets it; if he looked that good, he might suck in his cheeks and make bedroom eyes at everyone for the rest of his life.
Still, nothing could have prepared him for what he would encounter in the first week of rehearsals.
—
The next day, the special effects team sits Alex and Henry down to give them patch tests for the fake blood that will be used during filming. After two makeup artists thoroughly clean spots on their legs, arms, and faces, small patches containing the liquid are placed against their skin.
“Do either of you have any skin allergies?” one of the artists asks.
Simultaneously, Alex says “yes” as Henry says “no.” Of course, Mr. Perfect has nothing wrong with him. Add that to the list of insufferable perfections Henry Fox has above him.
“I’m allergic to scented laundry detergent,” Alex explains.
“Oh, there should be no problems then; the blood we use is odorless,” she says with a sweet smile. “If any reaction were to happen, we are trained to identify it and get you to the hospital. Plus, we have EpiPens and Benadryl. Either way, I’ve got you covered.”
Alex raises a brow. A makeup artist is flirting with him, and not the gorgeous man in the room with them. He decided to have a little fun with it.
“Thank you, darlin’,” Alex says, then winks.
She blushes and nods, eliciting an eyeroll from Henry. When both artists leave the room, Alex kicks his feet up on the vanity’s desk. Henry is quiet, a little too deep in thought for Alex’s liking. He decides to try to make small talk.
“So… what role did you audition for?”
Henry raises a brow. “I auditioned for the role that I was cast in. Mark.”
Alex waits for Henry to ask him the same thing, but Henry stares into the distance disinterestedly. Can this guy be any more arrogant? Does Henry really have no desire to engage with Alex, his co-worker, for the next month?
He decides to try again. Alex isn't one to give up on people so easily, even the dickheads. There has to be something they can talk about, even casually.
"What projects have you recently-"
"You don't have to talk to me, alright?" Henry groans, as if speaking to Alex is the equivalent of watching paint dry. Alex is a little flabbergasted at Henry's bluntness; usually, there's this unspoken rule of tolerating one another until the shoot is over. At least, that's how Alex chooses to approach hostile work environments.
“No, I–” I don't even want to talk to you, asshole.
Alex folds his hands in his lap, his lips pressing into a thin line. He can already tell this fucking dude is going to drive him crazy. “I was just making small talk.”
“You don’t have to.” Jesus Christ. It’s already bad enough that Alex resents Henry for taking his lead role; now he has to deal with his standoffish personality.
Alex starts scrolling through his phone to pass the time during the patch test, but he can see Henry’s eyes on him from his peripheral vision. He lets it go for a minute or two, but then decides to stare back at Henry and shrug theatrically.
“What?” Alex snaps. "I thought we weren't talking. So, why are you staring at me as if you want to talk?"
“Do you always make it a habit of flirting with the crew on every film set you step on?” Henry asks with icy eyes, the corner of his perfect lips turning down. Even when he scowls like this, Henry Fox still looks good. It disgusts Alex even more so than the presumptuous line of questioning.
“Are you always a prick to your co-stars on every film set you step on?” Alex retorts.
Henry seems to actually think about it. Then, “I’d like to think I am not.”
“There’s your answer, then.”
The interaction is too weird for Alex’s liking; why are things so tense between them? It’s like Henry can sense Alex’s insecurities and push the exact buttons to set him off. If this project didn’t pay so well, and he wasn’t contractually bound to finish his role, Alex would’ve bowed out of this film yesterday.
But Henry can’t seem to help himself. He stands, stretching his arms and legs. Alex tries not to stare at the defined muscle in his thighs peaking out from underneath Henry’s shorts. “I don’t care if you get involved with anyone on set; just don’t do it in front of me. I don’t want to get distracted.”
Is he fucking kidding? Alex narrows his eyes, opening his mouth to reply, but Henry turns to leave, and Alex isn’t fucking going to let this guy have the last word. He takes his feet off the table and rushes to stand, but loses his balance, tumbling forward and falling into Henry. As they collide and tumble into the cart holding large squishy bags, Alex can hardly react (ironically) in horror. The bags fall onto the floor, the cart falls on top of them, and copious amounts of fake blood spurts across the room onto Alex and Henry.
It’s—well, a blood bath. Everything is suddenly soaked in a red, thin, dark liquid, hampering Alex’s eyesight so much that all he can see is red. As Alex rubs his eyes, he can see Henry sitting up, his blonde hair doused with red, strands of it looking almost pink. He expects Henry to scream at him, to punch him, or even threaten to get him fired.
Except, as their eyes meet, all Henry mutters is, “Oh my fucking Christ. Look what you’ve bloody done.”
Alex is lost for words. He might actually get fired—he’s covered in prosthetic bodily fluid and hasn’t even filmed one scene yet. He didn’t expect it to end like this, not so soon. Fuck, Alex really wanted to make a name for himself with this project…
The door swings open, and Director Luna is standing there with two shocked special effects makeup artists. Here it comes; Alex is done for.
Rafael Luna takes two steps into the room, his shoes making imprints in the sticky liquid. He looks around, assesses the damage, and then nods. Alex is sure he can see more gray hairs developing in Rafael’s already salt-and-pepper hair as he assesses the damage.
Next to him, Henry looks just as terrified as Alex feels—like he’s about to lose the most crucial job in the world. And something more that Alex can’t quite identify.
“Looks like you two are getting into the spirit of the thing. I love it, I do. Can we just leave the bloodbaths for when the camera is actually rolling? This shit is expensive,” Rafael says, gesturing to the blood-soaked individuals in front of him. "Clean it up, you two."
Before either man can explain, Rafael Luna turns on his heel and walks away, leaving Alex and Henry in a sea of crimson.
The makeup artist Alex flirted with earlier clicks her tongue and kneels in front of them, peeling the patches off their skin. She huffs and exchanges an exhausted look between the two of them. Henry somehow manages to keep his composure despite the grossness and stickiness of the situation.
“I guess we will know in 24 hours if you guys have a bad reaction to this stuff.”
—
“How's it going?” Nora’s voice asks him through the tinny sound on his phone.
“Spectacular,” Alex replies with a tight-lipped and toothless smile.
“Don't lie.”
His face crumbles underneath Nora's adamant stare through their FaceTime call. They've known each other for years, having both worked server jobs to pay their way through disastrous screenplays performed in front of audiences of no more than twelve. They’re each other's ride or die, thick and thin, through the peaks and valleys of either's career.
He debates whether or not to tell her about the blood incident. Usually, Alex can laugh off a disaster, but this time is different. Right now, his career might be on the cusp of change, and sharing stories about causing a horrendous mess on his first day on set seems detrimental to the image he wants to convey of himself as an actor.
While Alex probably should’ve been fired, his only consequences were a death glare from Henry, an evening of mopping, and a pink tinge to his complexion that won't go away even after several washes. Margie is having a field day color correcting his face in the morning, nearly beating it in with a sponge until the pink is covered.
“It's horrible. I can’t do this anymore, Nora. I think I’d rather be paddleboarded to death than continue one more day of this,” he whines.
They are only one week into rehearsals, and there has already been a bloodbath, literally. Alex has nearly lost his mind since the incident in the dress rehearsal room; somehow, the event has amplified every bad quality that Henry Fox possesses.
He can handle the nitpickiness of Henry wanting to stay true to the script—that, he could at least admire. But what Alex couldn’t handle was the stale delivery of lines, the way Henry huffed under his breath and rolled his eyes when Alex stuttered, or the fact that he demanded he be brought a cup of tea by his assistant at regular intervals that disrupted their rehearsals. If Alex had ever met and worked with a nightmare, it would be Henry Fox.
Alex has worked with divas before, just not the narcissistic and self-unaware ones.
“It's just the first week; you've gotta give the guy a chance. You know, he's been through a lot lately—
Alex blows breath out of his mouth and shakes his head. “Uh-uh. I don't want to hear the guy's sob story. That’s his business, not mine. In this industry, the least we could do for each other is pretend we don't know what the press uses to torture us. Besides, whatever Henry's woes are aren't to blame for his shitty behavior.”
Nora taps her chin. “Fine. By the way, has anything interesting happened recently? You look pink and guilty.”
“Bad foundation match,” he lies. Behind her, Alex can see she’s at the airport. “Going somewhere?”
“Secret role,” Nora quickly says. Then, “Don’t try to distract me. You’re so full of shit. Something happened, didn’t it? You mess up your lines?”
Worse. We destroyed a dress rehearsal room and made fools of ourselves in front of the director.
“If anyone were to mess up their lines, it certainly wouldn’t be me.” It’d be Henry, who can’t even bother to show up on time or bring a script to set.
“Come on, Alex. Play nice,” she attempts.
“I'm trying—he's just so insufferable! Not even Meryl Streep could pretend to like Henry.”
“You know, you’re not exactly a walk in the park yourself either,” Henry's voice comes from behind him.
Alex stands up fast, nearly knocking over his chair in the process. He hits the end call button and clutches his phone to his chest in an attempt to hide the evidence of who he was lambasting Henry to. “Were you just listening to my entire conversation?”
Alex took in Henry’s appearance. Despite their bath in the red substance yesterday, Henry’s pale complexion held little to no sign of staining. The redness on his cheeks is there, yes, but otherwise, Henry looks impeccable. He’s wearing a striped sweater and faded jeans, and the only evidence of the fake blood was the sun beaming down on his hair, revealing the slight strawberry blonde tint that made Henry look even more striking. Alex didn’t notice it during rehearsals—well, he didn’t really notice how good he looked.
Henry rolls his eyes and says, “You're standing outside of my trailer, you arsehole. Anything you think I've eavesdropped was fed to me through my open window at your own free will.”
Fuck. Alex sought privacy behind the one trailer he forgot to check. He assumed Henry's trailer would be larger, grander than the others. After all, he is the lead–the movie star that Alex so badly wants to be. But it’s just as humble an abode as any other trailer on set. Perhaps the budget didn't adjust for higher-profile actors.
Usually, Alex would view this as an equality in the workplace, but now he’s face-to-face with the co-star he’s currently badmouthing.
“I didn't know this was your trailer,” Alex defends.
“My name's on a piece of paper next to the door. Did you not read it?”
There is that snark, the rudeness Alex couldn’t stand.
“Not everyone is obsessed with your whereabouts.”
Henry smiles, frustratingly shaking his head. “Why don't you like me?”
It comes out too blunt, too direct–enough for Alex to look away, embarrassed. Usually, people who don’t like working together avoid each other until the shoot is over. Typically, things get worse when they don’t. And why make things worse when they’re stuck working together for several months?
“I–,” Alex stutters. “I don't. Hate you, I mean.” He rakes through his mind for a good explanation of what to say. You're a dick in front of our Director, and it pisses me off? I’m holding a grudge against you regarding a magazine feature? A casting director chose you over me for the part I wanted? “I just think that you're–”
“Insufferable?” Henry supplies, twisting the gold ring on his pinkie finger yet again.
“You weren't meant to hear that.”
“But I did.”
Fuck. This stubborn asshole is trying to make friends with Alex and come off as the better man. Well, he may as well be.
“I'm just gonna go back to my trailer. It's been a long day, and I needed to vent.” Alex spots his trailer just next to Henry's. Just his fucking luck. As if it isn’t bad enough that he got caught talking shit, now he has to sleep within 25 feet of the guy for five weeks.
Alex attempts to move past Henry, but is stopped by a gentle hand on his forearm. He stops dead in his tracks, as if he were nailed to the ground by this touch.
“You know you're not the easiest to work with either,” Henry says bitterly. He still has a hold of his arm.
“I know.” Alex could lie. It wouldn't be the truth, though; many people have described him as “hard to get to know” or “not the easiest to get along with.” One of the worst characteristics an actor can get dubbed with, especially earlier on in their career.
He wants to walk away—to make a show of not giving a fuck about what Henry thinks of him. But his mouth says otherwise. “You have more name recognition than I do. You have more visibility, more fans, all of it. People will always look at everything I do under a microscope; they’ll misinterpret it, and the best I can do is try to prove them wrong,” Alex shakes his head with defeat. “There’s less grace in this industry for people who look like me; you couldn’t possibly understand that.”
He waits for Henry to brush him off or to roll his eyes, but he doesn’t. Instead, he seems to listen intently with an empathetic edge in the corner of his eyes. “I understand,” is all Henry replies with. Alex is relieved not to have to argue for the validation of his feelings, for once. Henry Fox at least gives him that.
Alex turns to leave, but Henry's voice comes out soft and apologetic, but also forgiving. “I know I've been difficult to work with this week. And for that, I apologize. Yesterday was unprofessional of us both. Today, more so me. But can you please have a tad bit of faith in me? I know you said you've heard nothing of what the press has said about me, but–” He takes his full, lower lip between his teeth and then lets out a tired laugh. “I really do understand you, Alex. And I will do better.”
The promise is genuine and sincere; momentarily, Alex knows that next week will be better. There's no premonition nor guarantee, but hearing these words in Henry's deep and smooth accent makes them feel genuine and matter-of-fact.
Alex stares at him for a beat too long before they both come back to earth, and Henry lets go of his arm. It seems like Henry is waiting for his response, so Alex shakes his shoulders and lightly punches Henry's bicep. He definitely doesn't notice the way his fist recoils back from the firm muscle of Henry's arm.
“No worries, man. Next week will be different.”
“Alex?“ Henry stops him.
“Hm?”
Is he going to—
“Baking soda and water—it will get the staining out.”
Alex is suffering serious whiplash from Henry's tendencies to switch between being an asshole and being a semi-normal person.
He nods and walks back to his trailer, his footsteps hesitant. Surely there’s something left unsaid? Alex's heart flips around weirdly in his chest. When he enters the trailer, he swears he can hear Henry mumbling to himself through the open crack in his window.
Despite their first turbulent week together, Alex can't wait to see what the second week has in store for him and Henry Fox.