[MOVIE STAR AU]

[homosexuals]

MODERN CINEMA AU

hollywood is a place where they'll pay you a thousand dollars for a kiss and fifty cents for your soul...

Comments

[hymen]

[ this is good. he doesn't actually want to know hawk the way the girls on set contort themselves to their best angles every time he passes by — luckily, embry has only good angles — but he wants to know the minute details, the tiny little secrets that make up the myth of the man. the more he uncovers, the better chance he has of stumbling upon something he can use to his benefit. it's only a matter of time before hawk fucks him over just like every other suit in this goddamn industry, and embry wants to be ready. vivienne moore would like to think she instilled such a ruthless sense of self-preservation into her only son, but it hadn't been her, but morgan, to teach him the art of being a coldblooded asshole — although his dear stepsister still does it better, only because she knows what it's like to have it just as bad. ]

There's still time to find religion and make your parents proud. I knew a guy —

[ he stops himself, abruptly appalled that he would bring up ash so casually, a sore spot from his past. it's all easily googleable, his brief but intense dalliance with the nobody actor he'd publicly outed along with himself, though he'd been less concerned about his rampant promiscuity than ash's sudden shove into the spotlight. they'd crumbled after that, because embry wouldn't leave a job that was making him miserable. vivienne moore had buried his grief-induced antics after that, which involved enough drugs and alcohol to kill a horse, and morgan asleep at his bedside at the lake house after he had his stomach pumped.

he tucks his ankle beneath his knee, folding the handkerchief into a messy square and shoving it into his front pocket, blood and all. ]

He kept a Bible by his bed. [ he shrugs, flashing another brief smile. ] It saw everything.

[ fuck. he doesn't need hawk walking him to his trailer like he's a dog on a leash, but to protest would look suspicious. he pretends to think about his mother, his gaze flitting around while he actually wracks his brain for a plan to get his drugs out. ]

Trying to woo my manager now? [ he swings between vivienne moore being his manager or his mother depending on the situation, and right now she's a blend of both — especially if hawk is interested. ] She likes Tiffany plates. And knowing her son has safety and privacy, but not as much as Tiffany plates. I got her a mirror from Paris once and she really liked that. Liked it so much I think it's in storage. It might go nice in your office. I got her a tennis bracelet — I can just go run and grab it. I'll be back before the medic gets here. I mean, it's pretty valuable.

[homosexuals]

[are there things embry could us to his advantage? probably. his health, for starters - though tracking his hidden doctor's appointments doesn't seem particularly advantageous - neither does ratcheting up his stress levels until his blood pressure rockets and takes him out or worst knocks him unconscious. hawk's hidden it well enough that smith doesn't even know, and frankly his mantra thus far has been what doesn't kill him just makes him stronger. dealing with the bullshit in this industry? has made him incredibly strong. there's no sordid history, no tales of affairs or casting couches or being a tyrant on set. hawk is demanding, sure, but within reason - and always for the good of everyone's livelihood. at the end of the day it is a business, which is unfortunately the priority - only because he's not so naive to believe that something as disney-delivered as making magic on the big screen is going to keep a roof over everyone's head, even if it's part of the passion for it.

but hawk also has a knack for seeing those same cracks in everyone else - for finding their weaknesses sometimes before they know it in themselves. it's part of his job, but that's not why he learned how to do it so long ago - it was for his own protection. now it's for everyone else's. so colour him surprised when embry mentions a guy - wondering if it's the same guy (what was his name again? a one hit wonder - ) that blast him as one of the first bisexuals in hollywood in a time when it wasn't exactly transparent. now he's got his pick of men and women, and plenty of fire where there's smoke from the tabloids - though hawk knows plenty of those stories are planted for good pr anyway. embry's? probably not always.

his brows raise in overdone surprise, shaking his head slightly before stubbing out the remnants of his cigarette in the ash tray that's hidden in an open draw on the other side of his desk.]

Everything? Seems kind of risky, depending on what kind of life he lived. Take Tim for example - my PA? He'd probably be fine - about as straight edge as they come, goes to Church every week, the whole nine yards. Good kid.

[kid he says, like it's not just a mere ten years or so between all their ages.]

Me - I don't think my father would ever be proud, even if I had an exorcism.

[not that he sounds upset by the fact, shrugging and tipping up to read his expression. there's still something he can't put his finger on about this whole interaction, this event - he'd expected a tantrum, a threat of quitting, christ, maybe even a call from his mother (manager) by now. he shakes his head though - both at the idea of a mirror in here and embry going on his own.]

I want to see the damage for myself. And - I don't want you walking in there alone. We've had enough surprises for one day, yeah?

[it really is for his safety, and because maybe hawk doesn't fully trust the cops or anyone else to suss out anything awry before he does. he kicks his feet back down, putting both hands on the arm rest and rising while smoothing out his double-breasted jacket and buttoning it in one smooth motion.]

Come on. We'll make it fast before the medic gets here.

[hymen]

Oh, come on. [ embry flashes his best smile, the winning one that makes him look boyish and sincere. he knows he's a good actor, because people actually believe he's made up of more than dissolute lies. embry cycles through men and women in a meaningless merry-go-round, but ash had cut through to the heart of him, which is why he'd wrecked him so badly. he won't make that mistake again. ] You're handsome and successful. You run this whole lot. What's not to be proud of?

[ he slides off the desk, accidentally knocking a pen to the floor, which he swoops down to recover, making sure hawk gets a view of his ass in his fitted costume. maybe not so accidental, but no one has to know that. ]

Well, there's the minor security breach. That's not your finest moment. [ he can't allow hawk to think he's going too easy on him. he leans over the desk to replace the pen where it won't roll away, then goes to the door, walking with hawk back to his trailer. he tries to look natural, but being escorted across the lot by hawkins fuller after an incident is anything but fucking natural, and everyone they pass knows it.

he lets hawk reach the door first, coming up smoothly behind him, his easy expression replaced by a line of worry between his brows, his wide blue eyes clouded with something distant. his mouth tightens. ]

It's bad. [ he catches a whiff of hawk's cologne, the same scent that clings to the bloody cloth stuffed into his pocket, as he balances on the narrow step. ] I panicked.

[ a tidbit of honesty sprinkled into his act. embry might be the wealthy son of a starlet, but his bad decisions began early at school, where he learned how to fight, and only got better as he got older. he's not great by any means — most boys are bigger and more muscled than him — but what he lacks in heft he makes up for in sheer recklessness.

when hawk opens the door they both survey a goddamn mess — a chair broken, the table overturned, a cascade of papers on the floor. his coffee cup is in pieces, brown liquid staining a script. a stack of books lies scattered. his throat tightens at the state of the bed — the sheets tangled and trailing across the floor, a clear start of where the fight began. he'd left that part out, and doesn't want to talk about it now.

he strides inside, opening the tiny closet and reaching up to the top shelf for a little gift box, which he deposits into hawk's hands. ]

It's got diamonds and pearls. Protect it with your life. [ he smiles again, then turns back to the closet, pulling out a navy sweater and pair of worn jeans that just happened to cost nine-hundred dollars once upon a time. ] Hey, if we're not filming today, I'm gonna get out of these clothes.

[ he's already unbuckling his trousers, letting them hang low on his lean hips, but then halfway through trying to peel himself out of the vest atop his shirt, he realizes they have it pinned to him from the inside. sheepishly, he returns to hawk. ]

Can you help me?

[homosexuals]

[it takes a hell of an actor to dupe hawkins fuller. or maybe subconsciously he's no better than any of the other directors out there - wanting to give the benefit of the doubt to pretty baby blues and an all-American star that's fallen from grace. so maybe he likes embry, or at least what he knows of him so far, and that's clouding his judgment. but is it really clouded if he's giving him an opportunity to prove himself rather than shoving him in the neat boxes vivienne moore wants presented to the world or the picture paparazzi have spent years tearing apart. so maybe there's a slight warmth at embry's smile, the good-natured incline of his head whether in mild agreement or self-deprecation to be determined. but it makes him think for once maybe everyone was wrong about this kid after all, and that it might not be a cakewalk, but it's not going to be the nightmare everyone's been holding their breath over.

maybe it's a good thing hawk is utterly distracted by another ping on his phone from tim the exact moment embry decides to bend over, brows knitting together as he tells him to push back from their oh-so friendly, nosy visitor from tmz who's kept the office phone ringing off the hook. when he glances back up embry has set the pen back on his desk, which means he's not a klepto and earns a brusque nod of thanks as he closes the door behind them with a note to his secretary that he'll be back in ten. the lot is quiet with the kind of tension that only comes from a proverbial bomb being dropped and no one wanting to pull its final trigger, so he's spared the greetings and sycophants chiming in as he walks past like a goddamn character from a disney movie on their daily jaunt through town.

it's a longer walk than it should have been to begin with, maybe, and suddenly he's starting to feel a whole lot more responsible as he steps inside and surveys the absolute shitshow in front of him. christ, this is bad. hawk steps aside to let embry in, closing the door behind them from any looky-loos and to preserve some of embry's privacy more than it's already been shredded to pieces today. the signs of struggle, the broken glass - and yeah, the bed that's completely decimated. embry must have been asleep, or laying there at the very least, and it makes his stomach flip with even more guilt at how jarring and utterly invasive that must have felt to wake up to a stranger in or standing over his bed. his jaw flickers, shoulders tense as he kneels down and notes wet bootprints that are clear and concise on the way towards the bed, slid and smeared from the hasty escape back towards the door.

hawk stands back up, hands on his hips for a moment before he reaches up to pinch the bridge of his nose and try to stave off a wave of dizziness that he feels creeping on him from the sudden shift in balance.]

Look - this never should have happened. Someone's head is going on the chopping block, I can promise you that. Are you...did they say anything to you? Did they do anything to you?

[he turns back, eyes steeled with determination to piece this all together even as he gently takes the tiny box that probably costs more than the marketing budget for a single production. embry's fingers are warm, brushing against his for a moment as he cradles it like precious cargo. which it basically is. he cracks the box slightly to look at the contents, brows raising in confirmation that yes, it's diamonds and pearls. not his taste - and frankly, he's wondering if it's vivienne moore's too - but keeps his expression neutral and mildly impressed.

but it sinks in when embry starts undressing immediately that this might have backfired and been a terrible fucking idea. maybe all his good faith was wrong and this has been a trap to get him in close quarters and point fingers - a he said, he said, sort of situation, as it were.]

Hands are a little full now.

[he lifts the box with a sheepish little shrug, keeping his face fixed solely on embry's face and not the cut v of his hips and slim waist. but it seems rude to leave him hanging and wait for someone else, so hawk carefully sets down the box and steps behind him to make quick work of the pins, hands staying exactly there without any other contact. he picks up the box again with a nod, stepping towards the door again.]

I'll wait outside with this. You need your privacy.

[hymen]

Besides this? [ embry gestures to the bruising along his cheekbone, and raises his brow in lieu of responding to the rest of hawk's inquiry, ignoring it the best he can. ] I'm okay.

[ trying to get a read on hawkins fuller is like trying to read his fortune in the goddamn clouds. embry has made his living on deconstructing motivation, emotion, character, but if he put hawk in a script, he'd be fucked. or — he just needs more time. more time watching him, talking to him, observing all his ticks and movements, like the brief flash of unsteadiness he spies that embry chalks up to the grisly state of his trailer, or the way he transforms into all business the second embry asks for help undressing.

he wants to know more, and he tells himself it's not because of any other reason but to stay on top. because hawk can't fuck him if embry fucks him first. ]

Sure. I'll just be a minute.

[ and with the image of hawk's perfectly shaped ass disappearing behind a closed door, his victory is secured. embry leans over, peering through a crack in the blinds to see hawk descending the steps, his fingers swiping across his phone while his other hand carefully cradles the box. the timing couldn't be better.

he dives back into his closet, opening up the vanity drawer affixed to the wall and goes through his collection of watches, opening up boxes until he finds the one that morgan gifted him exactly seven birthdays ago, the one with the broken face that he keeps out of sheer sentiment. stashed beneath the velvety flap is a baggie of ketamine, which he takes a generous snort of before wiping off the vanity, hurriedly changing his clothes, and then stuffing the bag into the pocket of his jeans. the high hits him within minutes, his tension chased away by airy lightness, his muscles relaxing, the tightness in his brows easing.

he leaves his dirtied costume on the rumpled bed, but pauses to retrieve hawk's handkerchief, briefly lifting it to his nose for a deep inhale, blood and all. the metallic scent mingles with hawk's cologne, and he's suddenly annoyed that he'd gotten his way, because in another scenario hawk would have undressed him and something else might have happened.

maybe that's just the ket talking. embry opens the door, grabbing a pair of sunglasses to drop over his eyes as he descends the steps, bouncing up beside hawk and waving his phone. ]

Vivienne wants me checked out by her doctors. [ he shrugs, reaching out to slip the box from hawk's hand to his, though he handles it much less carefully than hawk had been. ] She Facetimed me inside and saw my face. I told her it's not a big deal but she's not happy. I'll see you later, okay? Car's waiting for me.

[homosexuals]

[hawk knows deflection when he sees it. which could mean nothing, or it could mean everything - like embry not wanting to make a stink and keep his good impression, not wanting to open up because he doesn't trust this lot and doesn't trust hawk - both of which mean something did happen. to what extent, he's not sure. the costume itself seems fine besides the few spatters of blood, most of which he thinks might not even be embry's. once the cops get here he'll personally see to it that it gets bagged up as evidence, even if he's probably broken a rule by letting embry get out of it. or - it could mean nothing at all, that embry is telling the truth, but even hawk isn't stupid enough to think it's that simple.

at least he lets him leave without a fuss, and spares them both the embarrassment of trying anything. would it be embarrassment, though? it's not that unreasonable that someone as attractive as embry who is, by the very definition, a sex symbol in his day and age - would be comfortable enough with his body to drop to his skivvies on a regular basis and think nothing of it. maybe hawk shouldn't flatter himself and assume anything untoward would have happened. and if it did - professionalism aside, would he be that bothered by the idea of it? god knows he has a type, and embry fits it to a t. but this is all business, and hawk never mixes it with pleasure. the medic is waiting in the lobby of his office, and hawk lets tim know they'll just be a few more minutes until they're back.

there's a sudden motion from the corner of his eye that catches his attention - the blinds moving, and before he realizes what it is, hawk steps in closer and glances up through the gap that's fallen askew from where they'd been partly bent in the earlier scuffle. for a minute he's not sure his eyes are seeing this correctly: embry, fully dressed again, holding something small to his nose and inhaling. or blowing his nose, maybe? jesus fucking christ, what is he supposed to make of that?

drugs are the last thing on his mind. frankly, so is the tiffany box as he turns his back and pulls out a pair of aviators himself to keep the beating la sun out of his eyes until the trailer door bangs open and embry practically catapults down the stairs with an odd enthusiasm. this doesn't seem like a man who just got assaulted - if anything he seems downright chipper, banged up, bloodied and all. embry can't see the way hawk's eyes narrow behind his glasses in consideration, nor can they see the way they drop for a minute to the way those jeans hug his thighs so nicely - which is better for them both.

because now he has caught him in a lie. two, if he's good - and hawk is never anything else. there's a flat smile that drags across his lips: the kind reserved for corporate assholes and the bankers that come by shaking their ledgers at smith when pictures don't exceed their production costs to the right percentage.

why is he trying to get out of something this simple?]

Doesn't matter how nice they truss them up inside - those walls are pretty thin. Awfully fast and quiet for a conversation with Mommy dearest, isn't it?

[yes, mom - not vivienne, not his manager. hawk takes a step closer, nudging down his glasses enough to look at embry over the rim of his glasses with something stern - a warning not to fuck with him and protocol right now.]

And speaking of fast, traffic around here is a goddamn nightmare. So unless you called your car telepathically while you were sitting in my office...

[hawk shrugs, not making an outright accusation.]

Give them ten minutes to look you over and patch you up, Embry.

I'm asking nicely - for both our sakes.

[for peace of mind, for safety, for guilt. do it for me, he almost wants to tack on after what he thinks he's seen in there, but instead he pushes up his glasses again and gestures back towards the direction of his office.]

[hymen]

[ hawk's eyes are an ocean right now, sparkling bright in the wash of the late afternoon sun. if everything he was saying wasn't so goddamn irritating, embry would be asking him along for the ride to some overpriced cafe that serves all day mimosas so he can decompress from the day's bullshit. ]

No. [ he ignores the blatant accusation that he's lying about talking to his mother. he is. but vivienne taught him how to lie, and one text or even a single word over the phone would be enough to get her on board with his story. ] No, I'm not seeing your medic, because I don't trust whoever you have waiting in your office, just like I don't trust your security, just like I don't trust anyone on your goddamn lot. I don't want to be poked around at anymore than I already have been today, and I don't want to answer anymore fucking questions.

[ there, it's out. the ketamine thins his filter, but he thinks he has a pretty good leg to stand on here after what he just went through, and he's not going to roll over just because hawk has sparkly ocean eyes and hands that look like they could press bruises into his skin — artfully, of course. ]

You can look me over. [ he pushes his sunglasses into his hair, tilting his bruised cheekbone into the yellow sunlight. ] He hit me right here, with his knuckles. It hurt, and I'm gonna have a black eye tomorrow.

[ the sticky taste of repulsion catches in his throat as he lifts the hem of his sweater, revealing several inches of his lean, muscled abs, his body built with all the elegance of a greek statue. ]

He was touching me here — [ he runs the back of his fingers along his ribs. ] When I woke up. He had all his clothes on, but I didn't.

[ he could say more. how it'd terrified him, how he wanted to quit the movie then and there just so he could tear out of the lot and never look back. he doesn't want that now — he wants this role and this movie more than anything, more than even his goddamn self-respect which was lost exactly today when someone broke into his trailer and now he's standing here high again, but there's an argument to be made that it was lost way before now. maybe he never had any to begin with.

he looks at hawk, trying to gauge his reaction. after a moment — ]

Am I off the movie if I don't see your medic? [ he asks this more calmly, his anger burning away with the waning sunlight. he's just tired now, and belatedly realizing he's stepped over a line without a way to backpedal. a spark of resentment flares up in his gaze before he lowers his glasses down again. ] If it's that or firing me, I'll just close my eyes and do it.

[homosexuals]

[there's a flip of a switch, in a way - watching embry go from cheery and ready to waltz off the lot like he's an elementary school teacher getting an unexpected snow day to walls up and digging his heels in about this. it seems like a simple enough request - get the black eye checked out, make sure he doesn't have a concussion or worse, and take some time away from the invasive trauma of having his sacred albeit temporary space invaded. but then embry keeps talking, and hawk starts feeling more and more the severity and guilt of what's transpired here today. he's right, and he's got no reason to trust any of them at this point - regardless of how decent an experience hawk has been trying to make this for him. anyone would be fucking scared and violated by waking up to someone in their trailer and getting socked in the face. which is all embry's copped to, up until he spills the rest of it.

jesus. yeah, it's a lot worse than he thought as he whips off and pockets his own sunglasses, folding his arms across his chest to give embry his full attention. not that it didn't sound like an offer dripping in mild sarcasm - but the it's the least he can do, and he needs to know how bad this really got from his earlier hesitations. his eyes take in the cheekbone, visibly mottled skin peeking through the concealer and heavy foundation that's been dabbed on for the shoot. that's already a goddamn travesty - not that anyone deserves to get suckerpunched, but especially not one with immaculate bone structure that looks carved by the hands of god and relies on it for a moneymaker.

but it's the next part hawk swallows hard at, reluctantly letting his gaze dip down to the even more breathtaking view of sculpted abdomen and lithe figure in front of him. it's not like he hasn't seen it in passing - knowing it's not movie magic when embry's on screen in his past films looking quite that enticing. but seeing it up close and in this context makes his gaze shoot back up, filled with genuine concern and doing his best to keep pity out of it, thinking that might irritate him further. there's no other lines he needs to read between or guess at - though frankly, he wonders if embry would have told him had anything worse happened, god forbid.

against his better judgment, hawk reaches to pull the hem of his sweater back down with a nod of understanding.]

You've got every reason not to trust any of us right now. I get that. Nothing's gonna fix the feeling of waking up like that - so I'll spare you another apology.

But you have my word: I'm going to make this right, Embry. I'm going to get to the bottom of it, and I'm going to make sure whoever did this gets their ass tossed where the sun doesn't shine.

I'm going to try and earn your trust, if you'll let me.

[he tips his head down, expression softening mildly as he watches all the fight seemingly deflate out of his lead. yeah, he's got to be exhausted.]

You're not off the movie. I'm not firing my star.

[i need you, almost slips out from his lips - but he can't bring himself to say it somehow, wondering if it would even mean anything. but his voice lowers again, something that's meant to reassure.]

I'm not making you do anything you don't want to do around here. Take the day - get some rest. I'll call you when we're back on track, okay?

[before he can think better of it, he puts a hand on embry's shoulder, squeezing briefly in passing. and then he straightens up, stepping away and back to business as he puts his sunglasses on again with another easy flick of his wrist. and while he's here, might as well - he fishes out another cigarette, cupping a hand to light it before exhaling off to the side.]

Were you lying about the car? You can borrow my driver for the afternoon if you want to get out of here sooner. He's not very talkative, and I'm pretty sure he's a black belt in something.

[it's a light tease, and hawk lifts his brows with an easy shrug. but the offer's sincere.]

[hymen]

[ it's bad when hawk drags off his sunglasses, because then embry can see the ocean's depth of his eyes again, and it's the fucking drugs making them look so goddamn appealing, he knows it, but he can't stop staring. he feels raw and needy after what happened, and hawk is, ironically, the only person he maybe halfway trusts around here despite his every protest — only because it would be best to stay on his good side. hawk is the most powerful man here, and power is everything. power is protection.

all of his words seem meaningless, empty promises he's heard before as long as embry remains useful, until i'm not firing my star. that makes something stir deep within the brittle confines of his heart. his fingers tremble where they still clutch the edges of his sweater, and he shoves them into his pockets before hawk notices. ]

I want to go back to filming. [ it's an earnest request, the empty hours of the evening looming before him like a cavernous black hole. he could do anything. he could — and will — burn through the entire baggie in his pocket, and wash it down with some trashy bar's top shelf gin. the sooner hawk calls him, the better. ] The movie's important to me.

[ it's all he has right now. a shot at redemption, at resuscitating his career even if his reputation as a man might be tarnished for good. he can't blow this. ]

It's okay. But thanks. [ the offer sends him back to reality. hawk sending his driver with him would just be a way to keep tabs on him, to report his every move and where he spends his time. embry should just go home, but the thought of facing his empty condo feels like a death sentence. ] Just make sure you call me.

[homosexuals]

[there's a certain linger of desperation that embry does well at pushing down - but it haunts hawk later that night in bed as he stares at his ceiling with a cigarette between his fingers, replaying the events of the day. the cops have been called, szep has been sicced on whatever meager evidence they have from security footage and firsthand guard accounts, and tmz has been sated with the knowledge that a minor altercation occurred on set from an unwanted visitor - with production set to resume in one day's time. hawk can't help finding himself wondering in between supervising the trailer relocation and spruce up what embry is getting up to in his day off - if he's actually enjoying it when he'd been so insistent on getting a call and getting back to work. did he give his mother the bracelet? probably not with a black eye.

so hawk calls, and the show must go on.

and it does, for the most part, without much more than minor incident like disagreements over set dressing and costume alterations, a few rewrites and rescheduling the shoot order while embry's black eye heals. the pr machine starts back up again - burgeoning with excitement and actually managing to start driving up significant interest in their little project that could. it's going well - maybe even too well, and hawk's not superstitious, but that usually means the calm before a fucking storm, which he curses himself for thinking about the second it enters his brain. but that's the way it works, and inevitably something is sure to elevate his blood pressure and have him locking the office door to quell the erratic beat of his overworked heart.

it comes eventually in the form of a pretty blonde head, one greer galloway waiting prim in his lobby with a signed contract that has vivienne moore's swooping curl of a signature and has signed away the rest of embry's free time around the city of angels and beyond. she's a polite thing, greer - honestly if she wasn't already signed to one of the best agencies in the country and contracted to warner brother's, he'd figure out a way to snag her himself. frankly she's the perfect sort of rehabilitation for embry's struggling image - a good girl, elegant, well-liked, on the rise. and she needs the edge of a bad boy for her upcoming femme fatale role, so it's practically a match made in heaven. hawk knows there's no business like show business - that hollywood is littered with sham marriages and showmances a dime a dozen.

which is why it's surprising that he feels a twist in his gut watching it all unravel, wondering if embry even got a fucking say in the matter. who is he kidding - they'll probably wind up married or at least actually falling into bed given the spark of interest in embry's eyes and the chemistry he sees immediately heat between them, not an ounce of awkward hellos or polite how-do-you-dos right in front of his fucking eyes. it's probably better for him to settle down and have something to focus on the side that isn't drugs and partying and the temptations that come with the cesspool of this industry hidden among bright lights and unfairly attractive faces.

so that should be good, right?

that's what he keeps telling himself as he scrolls past headline after photoshoot after splash page - people, ok!, just jared, us weekly, deuxmoi - an obscene shopping spree on rodeo drive with embry carrying bag after bag from david yurman, chanel, burberry, hermès, prada, miu miu, jimmy choo and a giggling greer, a night at the la opera in full formal splendor, a weekend getaway to the private beaches in malibu, conveniently taken by drone. it's a fucking whirlwind romance for the ages - the modern day bogart and bacall. people are obsessed, and the phone is ringing off the hook for comments and set exclusives. if it's working half as well as it is for embry as it is for greer - then they've got this whole thing in the bag.

it also means a lot less of embry in his office, which may as well be his home away from home over his trailer these days. hawk is not one to let anyone in without an appointment, but it's hard to say no to his boyishly handsome face and it's not like the conversation is bad while he's poring over budgets and paperwork. he's like a stray cat in the way he takes it like confirmation he can come back and keep doing it - which is why it's a noticeable absence the moment it starts petering out in favor of this circus.

there's gold bleeding into rich orange and pink streaming through his open window - like a paintbrush dragged across the sky as he nudges his office door open with a shoulder and hauls in his briefcase and the takeout he'd picked up to go over a few scripts due later in the week. what he's not expecting is to see feet kicked up on his desk, someone already occupying his chair.

he can't help the amusement that seeps into his voice, the twinkle in his eyes sparkling from the dim light of a breathtaking la sunset.]

Don't tell me your driver got lost on the way to Beverly Hills.

[he tosses his keys onto the desk unceremoniously, setting down a bag from chi spacca in the middle and his leather briefcase in one of the chairs opposite that embry should be warming with his extremely nice ass. or really - shouldn't.]

Aren't you supposed to be opening the door to a Ferrari and escorting Greer into Mr. Chow's right about now?

[hymen]

[ the thing about greer is — she's nice. no, she's great. she's beautiful and smart, she's funny in a raunchy way behind closed doors, and she's the perfect partner to run lines with. she plays the game with devastating accuracy, something embry used to know how to do before the game got the best of him. and he feels, maybe, that their showmance has a spark of something real, something that helps ease the sting of his own loneliness, and when he seeks out her lips when no cameras are there to catch the show, she's kind in telling him that she cares for him as a friend, but it's all pretend — and embry smiles and reminds himself that everything in this industry is fake, including his life and everything he's doing. to greer. to hawk. to himself.

like clockwork, his phone starts buzzing again. right at the start of his contract with greer, he'd paid off his stalker and hadn't thought anything more of it, because he'd been too busy high out of his mind to string together a coherent thought. money isn't hard for him. if his movies aren't earning out — which they haven't been — he has a cushy fund from vivienne moore to rely on. but for the past couple of days, he's been getting texts again, this time asking about the lot, and specifically, the lot's golden boy. smith's name might be on the company, but hawkins fuller runs the place — everyone knows that. even the asshole that owns embry's sex tape.

his publicity with greer is going well, so he cancels on her last minute, which is sure to put a bad taste in her mouth, and returns to hawk's office after a long absence. ever since his trailer has been moved across the lot, he's had easy access to the man himself and has learned quite a lot about his habits. like how he prefers scotch. how he has multiple handkerchiefs, not just the one that embry has yet to return. how he never, ever stops working, and that the couch in his office is so comfortable because hawk probably naps there during his endlessly long days. embry has napped there too, because despite being assured again and again of the security of his trailer, sometimes he just can't sleep knowing the door could be shimmied open with just the right amount of force.

speaking of shimmying — he's already tried most of the drawers on hawk's desk, and fuck him for being so goddamn thorough. they're all locked, except for one that has nothing but neat containers of organized snacks, a large amount of which happens to be embry's favorites. he's always half-starved while he's filming, keeping to a strict diet to maintain his lean figure, but he's already polished off a bag of sugar cookies, licking crumbs from his fingers as hawk comes in. the room immediately feels warmer, the fading sun clinging to hawk like a photograph. ]

You know Greer has a boyfriend? [ he has one of hawk's liquor bottles open on the desk, his glass with barely a splash remaining in it. snooping has been fruitless today, so he tries a more honest tack. ] He wants to have a baby with her. Now they can spend the whole night trying. Not really though, since she has a movie to film, but at least they can fuck without interruption.

[homosexuals]

I'd say make yourself at home, but I'm a little late on that front.

[how long have you been in here, he thinks to himself, followed by were you waiting for me? but neither of them are what he actually asks, instead deciding he can probably piece this together. maybe embry did fall for her, and now he's found out she's got her own secrets too, though he can't imagine the downright angelic face of greer's to be tarnished and cruel in turning anyone down. or maybe it's just the way of hollywood wearing on him the way it sometimes bores down heavy on hawk's shoulders. he might be the lot's golden boy, but it took blood sweat, and even some tears to get here. not all of them were his own, and there's a few things he hasn't been proud of - but hawk likes to think he has a decent moral code and mostly errs on the right side of the way things ought to be. there's a difference between casting couches and negotiating better and undercutting the competition - for instance.

speaking of couches: it hasn't passed his notice that the one over in the corner is looking a lot more used these days - and hawk's been too goddamn busy to be the one leaving extra indents and taking a few minutes to himself, so that just leaves one other person with an open door extended. it was the least he could do after something that traumatizing happened, and it was the whole reason for moving his trailer out this way in the first place. it makes hawk feel a little bit more reassured that embry does - or at least did, until greer came along - consider this something like a safe space. his mind doesn't immediately jump to the contracts he's got stuffed neatly in his desk, or the stacks of top secret scripts and notes and rewrites and finance reports behind lock and key. the snacks though - that had been on purpose. seemed rude not to have some kind of refreshment to offer to his number one guest, and since booze was off the table during working hours...

but it isn't now, and he doesn't find himself particularly cross at embry helping himself to either of the empty items sitting on his desk. hawk steps around to the bar cart, picking up another tumbler and snagging the already open bottle and pouring his own glass before tipping it into embry's and giving him a refill. seems awfully rude not to let him sit pretty and indulge in his chosen spot, so hawk steps back around the antique cherrywood and lets himself spill unceremoniously into one of the other seats with a hum, not used to the view from here.]

Greer's not on my payroll.

[not that he doesn't know things beyond contracts and box office numbers - but that's neither here nor there. he didn't know about the boyfriend, but it's hard not to wonder if it came up during an attempted pass. he pulls the bag of his dinner over, sifting through to grab a for and the container with his new york strip, potatoes, and green beans.]

That's real generous of you. But you know, kids are goddamn expensive. The stuff on screen isn't always what brings in the masses - it's the headlines. Of which you two are generating quite a lot.

[there's nothing judgmental about it in his tone, just observational. he shrugs before reaching for his cutlery and taking a bite of his meal.]

She's a nice girl. Are you disappointed about this turn of events, or to what do I owe the pleasure?

[hymen]

[ embry has always been a little pathetic about homes, in that he makes them around people instead of places. his condo is as impersonal as it can possibly be for having an actual person living in it, and vivienne moore's lake house is just that — vivienne moore's. it's not embry's, even though he'll probably inherit at least part of it alongside morgan. he can find peace there when his mother isn't around, even if he's still woefully attached to her, but when it comes to where he considers truly home — there isn't anywhere. morgan's place, sometimes, when she isn't being a reptilian bitch. there was ash for a while, and an achingly sweet dream of a countryside cabin. now, he's substituted hawk's office for the empty space in his life, returning to it after a brief bout of insanity where he thought greer might've been the place for him instead.

headlines. yeah. embry reads the news about himself despite his best efforts not to, but it's a bad habit once he's reached his fifth glass of gin. ]

Just performing for my two demanding bosses. Mother dearest, and you. [ he doesn't like the sudden look that hawk is giving him, like he's reading him like the pages of a flimsy book — a trashy beach read that he'll discard before he reaches the end. ] Hope the show's kept you entertained.

[ he expected such a contract from his mother, but it'd stung when hawk cosigned it the same day it'd crossed his desk, delivered by greer herself so hawk could have a good look at her. it's just business is what he keeps reminding himself, especially each time he goes rooting through hawk's belongings or lingers overlong just to catch a glimpse of the moment hawk slides the sheaf of papers from his briefcase to get to work. he has a few unreleased script names, but doesn't know if they'll be enough, and keeps dragging his feet on sending anything concrete to his asshole of a stalker.

with his glass refilled, he lowers his feet from hawk's desk and stands, snagging his glass to come around to the familiar couch. it's closer to the armchair hawk currently occupies, and embry drops down onto the soft leather cushions, settling on his stomach and making a show of stretching his spine. ]

Do I need a reason to come see you now? You never asked before. [ he props his forearms on the armrest, leaning over slightly to watch hawk eat. his eyes fall onto the steak, then back up. ] Are you gonna tell Vivienne that I ditched Greer for a night? She doesn't like when I have free time. She doesn't trust my idle hands.

[homosexuals]

[well, they have something in common. hawk doesn't like the insinuation he's been demanding - that he's cut from the same cloth as a shark like vivienne moore. don't get him wrong - he's got nothing but respect for the woman, but it's lessened by the fact that she's probably a fucking nightmare of a momager, and she'd thrust both her kids into the spotlight at a young age. there's a reason people turn to drugs and booze and fast cars and warming the beds of one after the other - and it isn't usually because of a stable upbringing or real happiness at their lot in life. he'd fucking hated having to sign that contract. vivienne didn't deliver it in person, of course, but her neat swirl of cursive was there as sharp as if the ink had barely dried, and frankly - hawk didn't have a good enough excuse looking at greer and her track record to veto it.

does embry resent him for that?]

I'm not the kind of person to push for showmances. They're a tool like any other, but that's all they should be when they're organized by someone worth their salt for a star who agrees to it.

[there shouldn't be a power imbalance, they shouldn't be shoved unceremoniously on someone that doesn't want to do it - no matter how good it might uplift an image or paint a desired picture. it feels like one step above escorting.]

So if you don't agree, you should tell me these things.

[hawk doesn't look at him when he says it, not wanting to make him feel like he's being treated like a child that can't make his own decisions or like he's fucked up. it's just - a peace offering, he supposes. reassurance that embry is always gonna be his top priority, for better or for worse.

but finally he watches him retreat from the desk, shifting over to the couch and sprawling out like he owns the damn thing, catlike in the way he arches his back. when hawk swallows his next bite, it's not just the steak he feels like he's got to wash down his throat - there's a sudden dryness at how exceedingly enticing that looks. sometimes he wonders if embry is unaware of the effect he has on regular mortals in the world - if he remembers his stunning good looks can leave the less practiced speechless. hawk catches the line of his sight, spearing another bite of steak onto his fork and tipping his head to the side before extending his hand and offering it to embry, wondering if he's still hungry or if he's on some stupid vegan diet until the next shirtless scene gets filmed.]

You don't. But this isn't exactly regular hours.

[nothing in his voice seems bothered or complaining about this fact, however. but he balks a little at the last bit, face scrunching into incredulity as his shoulders twist and he turns to give embry an appraising look.]

Do I look like the kind of man to call Vivienne Moore for a Friday night chat about her son's social life? I'm not a tattle-tale.

Relax - take a load off. You've been a busy man, and I haven't seen any reason to worry about idle hands from you.

[little does he know.]

[hymen]

There's no agreeing when it comes to Vivienne Moore. There's just doing. [ he scoffs, tossing back a lazy swallow before dangling his glass in the empty space between the couch and hawk's chair. ] But if I can have a career as long as hers, then I'm mostly okay with just doing.

[ he knows, intimately, how easy it is to fall out of favor with the masses, to be forgotten for the next pretty face. it's not as easy as just running to hawk and telling him he doesn't want to, but he likes the thought that it could be. that hawk could shield him from all the bad coming his way. sometimes he lies awake and wonders what might happen if he just told hawk what was happening, what was hanging over his head, but then the sun slowly creeps into the sky and he comes to his senses. he'd be let go so fast he wouldn't even have time to process it. no one wants that kind of scandal tainting their movie. it's not just a sex tape, after all.

it's a lot easier to perk up and stretch out for the offering of steak on the tip of hawk's fork. he forgets he's supposed to make everything a seduction, a sound of pure contentment rumbling from his throat as he licks his lips and swallows. ]

You don't have to tell. [ a rueful smile, then he's off the couch to go refill his glass. ] She keeps tabs on me. On everything. She's sort of like you. This is probably the only place on your lot that she can't see. But don't worry, she only cares about your business as long as it benefits me.

[ he returns with a replenished drink, but this time approaches the chair, lingering for a moment before sinking down to his knees on the expensive rug as if it's the most natural thing in the world to sit at hawk's feet. he leans his shoulder into the chair, resting his cheek lightly against hawk's knee. ]

I like hanging out with Greer. Mostly. [ when there aren't cameras in his face, when they aren't performing like dancing monkeys at restaurants and clubs and luxury shops. ] But I like being in here with you more. It's a break from the noise. You're calm. Like nothing ever touches you. Feels like nothing can touch me in here, either.

[homosexuals]

A long, prosperous career like hers is certainly something to strive for. "Mostly okay" leaves an awful lot of wiggle room.

[he shouldn't even bother opening the door to this, it's not like he should care that much, but part of hawk wouldn't mind knowing what fills up the rest of that space. "mostly okay" isn't a ringing endorsement. sometimes he wonders - for all the scandals, the dog and pony show, the circus of fans and the fair-weather faltering of mass appeal...do actors even enjoy it the longer it goes on? he can't blame the men and women that have ultimately faded from the spotlight into lives of mediocrity, even rarer still to work their way behind the camera instead. embry's got the kind of good looks and charm that could launch a thousand franchises, but is that really how he wants to spend the rest of his life?]

So what gets you all the way to "thrilled"? Gotta be more to life - and showbusiness - than "mostly okay". Not to sound like a philosophical prick, but humor me.

[it's not easy for hawk to watch the way embry's mouth falls open briefly, lips wrapping around the steak like it could be something else. humming pleased around it, poised between catlike and utterly tempting even as he doesn't think he's doing anything part of the usual routine. it'd work on hawk - if it was aimed that way. if embry wasn't his employee, just some nameless pretty face in a bar well outside hollywood where people hated the spotlight and wouldn't have a fucking clue who hawkins fuller is. his gaze tears away and back to his food as he cuts off another piece and gets back to focusing on his meal, not bothering to watch as he helps himself to more scotch. he's not really thinking anything on it - about to assure embry that he's not at all in cahoots with his mother and that this can be his own personal hideout -

when everything goes still, hawk tensing immediately at the implication of embry sitting by his feet, leaning against his knee in a way that makes him want to reach down and feed him some more with his fingers or brush fingers through the effortless waves of thick, shiny chestnut hair. it's the second time some compromising position has manifested itself while he's utterly alone with embry, and it should sound the alarms for him to abruptly get up and extricate himself before this becomes a real problem. is it a set-up? or - is he just really that genuine about appreciating hawk's presence?

christ.

there's no answer right away, but hawk opts to do none of the above, instead keeping very still even as he takes another sip of his drink and bite of his food to act as if nothing at all is amiss. like there's not a flood of warmth that's decidedly not related to the alcohol down his throat when embry says he likes being here more than he does having the perfect girlfriend at his side, real boyfriend aside.]

Yeah?

[it should worry him on some level - to read between the lines and consider maybe there's more to things that can't touch embry besides the realities of fickle fans and tabloids and how much money he can pull in to prove his worth. maybe it's not just about the usual pressures.]

Well, you're welcome in here any time. You make better company than most - and I don't say that lightly.

[there's a few bites of his meal left, but he finds himself no longer hungry and uncertain if he should offer them now. instead - he produces a cigarette from the box tucked in his breast pocket, slipping it between his lips and lighting it with practiced ease.]

But you should know - I do what I can to take care of my people. That means you. I made you promises to get you here, and I intend to keep them.

[keep you, is just on the tip of his tongue, carelessly.]

[hymen]

[ when was the last time he even felt that way? thrilled? when did he last feel that sense of purpose, the fulfillment he craves from digging deep into a job and emerging with a shine of pride? that shitty war movie, maybe, which is a joke because it'd been a box office bomb — but embry had gotten a tiny buzz of critical acclaim for the honesty of his portrayal despite the poor reception. he'd liked his character and felt drawn to the story. the problem was that no one else had watched or cared.

but hawk had. his mother told him that it was that movie in particular that made him approach her about him.

he's quiet, unsure how to answer the question when the truth suddenly feels so depressing. so goddamn pathetic. why does he jump through these hoops? it's all he knows now, and a part of him loves it. a part of him craves the spotlight, the attention, the head rush of baring himself more intimately than stripping naked, and then the agony of waiting to see where the chips fall — if he's good enough, or if he's just another pretty face made up of broken, jagged parts on the inside. maybe he just likes to hurt. if he didn't, he would've left with ash and fallen into a safe, comfortable life with a man who would make sure he'd never hurt again.

guilt flickers in his chest as it pulls uncomfortably tight, his eyes turning up to find hawk's gaze in the low, yellowed lights. i do what i can to take care of my people. that means you. hawk has been nearly always good to him, and embry is lying through his teeth, even if what he feels right now is genuine quiet, peace, safety. he isn't lying when he says he likes being in this room with him.

he shuffles away the brooding look that threatens to overtake his features, instead rising up onto his knees as the warm smell of smoke curls into the air. ]

Can I have one of those?

[ he doesn't wait for an answer. the cigarettes are easy to pluck from hawk's shirt pocket, sliding one out and clamping it between his lips. then he plants his hands on hawk's thighs, stretching up, his dark lashes halfway lowered as he lifts his chin so the tip of his unlit cigarette can touch the burning end of hawk's.

he's frozen there as he waits for the flame to take, his fingers moving just slightly where they rest. through the fabric of hawk's trousers, he can feel his muscled thigh, can imagine the lean, corded look of him if he were to be lucky enough to get his clothes off. smoke curls above their joined cigarettes, and embry takes a slow drag, watching his flare to life as warmth fills his mouth.

he moves back only an inch, smoke escaping his lips as they curve into a half smile. ]

Being loved. [ worshiped, admired, adored. all better words he should have chosen. ] When my name rolls across the credits, I want people to want to know me. To want to love me. That's what gets me thrilled.

[ it's the superficial kind of love, the kind of obsession where you never really know anyone. maybe that's part of the appeal. he knows what real love can do, and he doesn't want to be destroyed again.

his thumb moves casually enough that he can classify it as an honest mistake, a single stroke down the inside of hawk's thigh. ]

That's what I want you to do for me, Mr. Fuller. Make the world love me.

[homosexuals]

[there's something decidedly tortured about the way embry digests the question - maybe it's just the angle of him sitting at hawk's feet, but something about the slant of his brow, the slight pull at plush lips makes him think that it isn't an easy question for him. he supposes it wasn't really meant to be, because even if hawk came here with an appreciation for the lurid world he now knows hollywood out to be - he's been lucky and smart enough to avoid the things that could crush a weaker man or woman's spirit out the gate. some of them don't even get the chance to be knocked out in a one-two punch, instead slowly suffering the agonizing squeeze of something dirty chipping away their soul one movie, an interview or a facade at a time. no wonder so many of them turn to drugs and sex and die young - a fate he maybe selfishly thinks he's helping embry to avoid by turning a new leaf. he'd caught a glimpse of it in the box office bomb, and it's the whole reason he's sitting here at all.

he should really stop embry when he feels fingers so close to his heart, fishing around for a cigarette before his palms fall warm against his thighs with a possessiveness he wonders if he might be imagining. hawk should stop it, create some distance and nudge him back with the wave of his lighter and open flame to dissuade him from tipping up with his lips curled around one of his smokes that tantalizingly and pressing them tip to tip. instead, he dips his head down, gaze heavy on embry as he sucks hard and watches the tip ignite in a bright orange that could compete with the raze of warmth bleeding through his windows. he puffs out through his nose, sucking it once more until it takes before hawk is pulling back.

it's not exactly a deterrent as one hand lifts to his own cigarette, back connecting with the chair and just about splaying him out more comfortably - an unspoken acceptance of this current arrangement, hedged with a warning in the exhale he blows directly at embry. you're welcome. you can stay, just don't try anything else.]

Thought this sort of thing offended delicate LA sensibilities and all that health mumbo jumbo. Tim would have these confiscated on the spot if he knew. Your trainer might actually put me in a chokehold.

[casual. easy. avoiding the fact that this is a highly inappropriate position for them to both be in right now - moreso hawk.

but he listens to embry, surprised at the first thing that comes out of his mouth. love wasn't on his mental bingo card - assuming it might instead be something along the lines of pleasing his mother or making money, which aren't invalid by any means. but it's impossible to think about anyone not being able to fall for embry after watching him on screen or from afar, wishing they might know someone quite so striking in both appearance and personality. even hawk found himself wanting to get to the center of what makes him tick after one performance and the look in his eyes splashed across tabloids even at his worse - and god, it makes him sound like some fucking desperate fixer when he'd like to pride himself it's anything but.

there's no response right away, hawk sucking in another breath of smoke and exhaling it straight upwards towards the ceiling in contemplation as he feels one of embry's fingers slide closer to the inseam of his trousers, so fucking tempting and yet just the thing to seal his own demise. instead he reaches down to grip at his wrist, lifting it up and away from his leg without judgment or derision. the same hand instead reaches for embry's jaw, featherlight as his own thumb runs across the strong line of it with a soft smile.]

I intend to, but the truth is - you really don't need me to make that happen.

[a pause, hand shifting again to brush through the swathe of unruly curls briefly before settling back in his own lap.]

They're already hungry for that - to know you.

This?

[his brows bounce suggestively.]

Is going to make them desperate to have you. And then I think my job will be about keeping you on a pedestal, away from prying hands and being picked apart by the ones who don't deserve you.

[hymen]

[ something more than just the cigarette ignites — something warm and languid uncurls in his belly, desire like a flame, as heady as the smoke that wafts from the bow of hawk's lips, as pointed as a kiss. it might as well be, for how tangibly he feels it brush his skin. ]

My trainer has me on a strict routine. [ besides, one cigarette's not any worse than what he snorted on the way here. ] She keeps my body right. And tight.

[ there's a private little smile there even as hawk stays diplomatically switzerland about this whole thing, assessing him with an almost neutral glint in his eye. it's like fucking cocaine to embry, like daring him to take it a step further, to push a little more, to see how far hawkins fuller will let him go before he's ordered out of his office for misbehaving. even when hawk takes his wrist away and embry thinks for a moment that the scene is over, his hopes fizzle back to life with the graze of hawk's thumb along his jaw, an electric spark traveling in its wake. ]

That's not true. I do need you. [ embry's lashes flutter at the drag of his hair, leaning into the fleeting touch like a hungry cat. it's over far too quickly, hawk's hand out of reach again, and embry wants to dip into his lap and slide his head beneath his empty fingers again. ] Everything's looking up because of you. Because you gave me a chance in your movie.

[ it's genuine when he says it. even vivienne moore's influence had stretched to its limits at embry's undesirable antics — the drugs, the duis, the trashy clubs and his permanent place in the tabloids. he'd skipped out on his therapist so many times that he doesn't even remember her name. it was a vicious cycle — he drank all day and fucked all night because he blew all his auditions and couldn't land a job. he blew all his auditions and couldn't land a job because he drank all day and fucked all night. go fucking figure.

then hawk found him. embry's expression opens in sudden surprise, something raw and real and decidedly not camera-ready bleeding onto his face. it sounds like hawk would — protect him, which is absurd in this industry, because exploitation is the only way to make the wheels keep turning and the money roll in, but there's some desperately lovestruck part of him that wants to believe that if anyone could do that, hawk could.

maybe he should tell him. for a moment, he wants to. he wants to confess that his phone's burning a hole in his pocket, that he's being backed into a corner, that he's already leaked three of hawk's scripts and he'll find out two days from now that those projects are dead in the water before they can even start. maybe hawk can find his tape and destroy it. but he'd have to tell hawk it exists first.

he smiles, turning around to settle back on the rug, nestling right between hawk's legs. the back of his head pillows against hawk's thigh as he blows smoke rings toward the ceiling, one knee lazily drawn up while he kicks the other out. ]

Are you married, Mr. Fuller? [ his eyes glimmer up at him, the curve of his throat on display as he pulls the cigarette from his lips, stretching to reach the ashtray. ] I think your wife would be a lucky woman.