[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]

[ 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.