Chapter Text
The Australian sun was beating down on the set of Metalstorm, the new epic starring A-list movie star and world renowned playboy Tom Ryder and doing its absolute best to melt the asphalt.
Ryland Grace, currently on summer break from his middle school science classroom, adjusted his glasses and tried to blend into the background. It was pretty easy as everywhere he looked, people with headsets were sprinting, cameras the size of compact cars were rolling, and explosions were being prepped. It was a staggering logistical dance and right in the centre of it was his twin brother, Colt Seavers.
Ryland had been reluctant to make the long journey from San Fransisco to Australia but Colt had been insistent, worried that his brother would shut himself in his apartment for the twelve weeks until school started again. Ryland should have been insulted at the implication that he had no life but to be fair Colt wasn't far wrong. Aside from meeting with Miranda once a week and possibly a couple of colleagues from work he didn't have much planned.
He knew his brother was constantly worried about him. It was coming up to five years since the UNESCO conference where the scientific community laughed him out of the room. Four years of his career in a junior high classroom, teaching eighth graders the difference between mitosis and meiosis while pretending that his was where he had planned to be all along. Don't get him wrong, he loved teaching but he can't deny that all these years later, the complete implosion of his academic career burned a humiliating hole in his chest. And this five year anniversary felt significant somehow. It seemed to have ignited a self reflection that Ryland wasn't quite prepared for. So when Colt's insistent offer came through he decided that it would do him some good to get away from the monotony of his life temporarily; he was seduced by the promise of quiet evenings exploring new beaches and Colt's production provided, luxury accommodation. So here he was baking in the sun and trying not be overwhelmed by the sheet amount of noise and people that appeared to be everywhere.
From his seat in a corner out of the way, Ryland watched, a mix of terror and awe washing over him, as Colt willingly strapped himself into a harness ready to be lifted into the air. They might share the same face, but while Ryland’s idea of a high-adrenaline rush was a particularly volatile baking soda volcano, Colt would cheerfully throw himself off a building or set himself on fire. Despite sharing the exact same DNA, Colt looked like the upgraded, action-hero version of Ryland: Slightly longer hair, slightly bulkier with sun-bronzed skin and possessing a fearless, easygoing charm that Ryland had never quite managed to replicate. Colt gave him a quick, two-finger salute and a reassuring grin before dropping backward off the platform for a rehearsal stunt.
Desperately needing to channel his nervous energy into something productive, Ryland wandered over to the craft services table. He poured himself a scorching hot cup of black coffee, his mind drifting into plans for next year lessons to distract himself from whatever Colt was about to do. Coming here was a mistake.
He turned around, coffee in hand entirely lost in thought, and walked directly into a solid human wall of expensive linen and well built chest.
There was a moment when the universe appeared to stand still.
The coffee didn't just spill; it launched itself with perfect, tragic trajectory right across the pristine, cream-colored linen shirt of the man now standing in front of him. He looked up, expecting a furious extra or a disgruntled crew member. Instead, he found himself staring at a remarkably handsome man with flawlessly styled hair, a deeply golden tan, and a look of profound, existential shock on his face as he stared down at the massive brown stain spreading across his chest. The man was wearing oversized designer sunglasses, possessed a jawline that looked like it had been chiselled by a Renaissance master, and was radiating an aura of supreme self-confidence.
"Oh, fudge, I am so sorry!" Ryland gasped, immediately grabbing a handful of cheap paper napkins and lunging forward to dab at the chest of the stranger. "My fault entirely, I was just ... well, it doesn't matter what I was doing, I'm so sorry. Here, let me..."
"Whoa, whoa, easy there, hands off the merchandise, buddy," a smooth voice drawled.
Ryland blinked, looking up from the rapidly expanding brown stain.
"I am incredibly sorry," Ryland repeated, offering an earnest, sheepish smile. I can pay for the dry cleaning? Or, honestly, if you have some club soda and baking soda, we can neutralise the tannins before it sets."
The man stared at Ryland’s outstretched hand that was still hovering ready to mop up the mess, then down at his ruined shirt, and then back up to Ryland’s face. He pulled his sunglasses down the bridge of his nose, expecting the usual reaction: the gasps, the stuttering, the fawning.
Instead, the blonde charmingly scruffy man just looked at him with polite, wide-eyed earnestness, completely failing to recognise Tom Ryder, one of the world's biggest stars. Was that a T-shirt with a science pun? Who was this guy? Ryder completely took his glasses off and looked at the slightly shorter man more carefully.
“You look exactly like Colt Seavers: most annoying man alive. But seeing as he's over there...” He pointed to where Colt was currently hanging upside down looking completely comfortable, “Then you must be the mysterious twin brother.” He looked far to smug at his deduction. The resemblance between the two was unmistakable, yet Ryland lacked any of Colt's stuntman swagger. He was just a rumpled, anxious, strangely endearing guy who didn't seem to quite know what to do with his hands.
“Ryland, nice to meet you, although I'm still so very sorry about the shirt. It looks like a nice shirt.”
Tom looked down at the massive stain again.
“It was.”
Tom knew he should be angry. He'd sent people permanently off set for less but as he looked at Ryland, who was looking back at him with concern with a pleasing blush on the handsome face, the anger didn't come. There was no sycophantic fawning from the guy. Tom realised with a jolt of amusement, the man had absolutely no idea who he was talking to. Tom slowly pushed his sunglasses back up, a slow, charming smirk spreading across his face.
"You don't have a clue who I am, do you, Ryland?" Tom asked, amused.
"Should I?" Ryland tilted his head, genuinely trying to place the face. “Are you one of Colt's friends?”
Tom let out a sharp, delighted laugh, throwing his head back. "Oh, you are refreshing. Yep, me and Colt are great friends. Come on, Sweetheart, Forget the baking soda. You're going to walk with me to my trailer while I change, and you can tell me exactly what had you so distracted that you didn't see me coming.
He could see Colt in the near distance staring at them in horror. Still rigged into the harness. Smirking, Tom gave him a little three fingered wave and put an arm around Ryland's shoulder leading him to his trailer.