Fic: whatever a moon - pinto
Title: whatever a moon
Author: pirateyes
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Chris/Zach
Words: 3640
Disclaimer: Not a word of truth to any of it. Well maybe a word, but I couldn't tell you which one.
Summary: Eight conversations about one thing. In which they discuss movies instead of books (blasphemy!) and skate around each other for far too long.
Notes: Title and quotes within are from ee cummings. Infinite thanks go to my lovely beta, listensostill . Everything good in this is hers, I'll take responsibility for the rest. This also kind of fills a prompt from therumjournals way back when, which asked for Pinto and Zach hating cilantro.
whatever a moon
It’s a three minute airport cell phone conversation, a half dozen texts back and forth, and a beat too long hug, then they’re walking through Central Park like no time’s passed at all.
Chris rips into a still warm New York Pretzel, emitting happiness at just smelling all the yeast and salt. Zach fiddles with his scarf, impractical as it is when the day has settled in at 70 degrees.
“This alright?” he asks, as they come up on a patch of grass in a fairly quiet, shaded section of park. The sun is hanging low in the sky, not yet bleeding into blue but ducking behind the larger buildings, as if to hasten the day.
“Mmm.” Chris nods around a mouthful of soft dough.
They sit down, Zach crosslegged and Chris reclined back onto his elbows. Zach has to go through emails on his phone so Chris gets out his paper and water and gets comfortable. They settle into the sort of silence that only good friends can decide on.
Zach’s email is full of invites to plays, stupid YouTube links, pics of Noah that Joe sends in a passive aggressive guilt trip for leaving. Corey has forwarded an invite to some Thai restaurant for the next day.
“I hate cilantro,” he says, scanning through the pdf menu online.
Chris hmm’s lightly. “They give you extra guac if you ask, though. It’s pretty decent.”
Zach stares at him. “I meant, like, the food stuff. Although, the restaurant, yeah, not so bad for mass produced fast food fare.”
“So, you hate the green herb form?” Chris is looking over his sunglasses at Zach now, curious. “Why? That’s like hating, I don’t know, basil or something.”
“It tastes like soap to me. It’s seriously an olfactory condition or something. I read about it once in Gourmet.”
Chris snorts. “Don’t pretend you read Gourmet.”
Zach protests, “don't pretend you know everything about me,” but Chris is already back to reading the paper. “It doesn’t mean it isn’t true.”
“Whatever you say.”
They sit for a few minutes, reading and soaking up the New York heat, seeming to rise from the ground in equal measure to the sunshine.
“We should head back soon if we want to be ready in time," Zach says, brushing blades of grass off his jeans as he unfolds his legs.
“Ready for what?”
“That pre-Tribeca party. I told you about it.”
Chris makes a face, shoves an extra large bite of pretzel in his mouth and chews. “Any chance we can skip it? I’m trashed from the flight.”
“It was five hours. And you can do whatever you want. I’m going.”
“Fine.” He swallows and grins. “I’ll go. But no cock-blocking.”
“How romantic,” Zach replies, dryly.
Chris’ response is a bat of eyelashes on a Mona Lisa smile.
-
“You realize you match, right?” Olivia says, within minutes of them entering.
They look down simultaneously and Chris laughs. Zach frowns a little, gauging. Neutrals match everything, really. Chris slings an arm around Zach’s shoulders.
“We looking fucking fabulous, if that’s what you mean.”
Zach turns his head to look at Chris. “Did you just say fabulous?”
“Yeah, so?”
“And they say I’m the gay one.” He extracts himself from Chris’ arm while Olivia reaches up to give Chris a peck on the cheek.
“It’s nice to see you,” she says.
They make chit chat for a few minutes, while Zach wanders over to the bar to grab a drink. The beer is easier to carry but they actually have decent wine for once, that Oregon Pinot he knows Chris likes, so he gets two glasses and makes his way back.
He hands one to Chris just as Olivia departs with an impish smile.
“She’s looking good,” Zach says, watching her part the crowd, four inch stilettos barely a punctuation mark at the end of her whip-thin legs.
Chris is smirking slightly, takes a sip of wine and hmms his approval. Whether it's of the wine or the remark isn’t clear. “It’s never gonna happen, but a man can dream.”
He doesn’t say why and Zach doesn’t ask.
They wander a bit; this is always the hardest part of the night, when no one’s really sure the vibe of the crowd yet, but haven’t drank quite enough to mutually fake one.
They hang out together, talk to some mutual friends, refill their wine a few times until the conversations thread seamlessly one into the next. At some point they find themselves in a corner arguing about the merits of Avatar.
“All I’m saying is that if you’re going to go the trouble of creating this supposedly innovative, immersive world, you should at least use a less formulaic plot. Otherwise, what’s the point?” Zach is probably drunk, gesturing a bit too wildly with his right hand, as the wine sloshes dangerously in his left.
“It’s a formula for a reason. There’s a world of difference between being unoriginal and respecting the timeless nature of classic archetypes. There’s only really seven stories in the world, and all that.”
And, damn, sometimes Zach forgets just how insightful Chris can be. It makes arguing with him a game of one-upmanship that neither of them ever seems to win.
“Are you seriously trying to justify Hollywood’s relentless plot recycling as honouring historical narrative? You really want to sell me on that argument?”
Chris sighs, swirls his glass, almost impatiently. He'd probably rather be debating those historical narratives, and frankly so would Zach, but they made their bed.
“I’m just saying, no one ever accuses Star Wars of ripping off Kurosawa," Chris reasons. "Even though it was based completely on The Hidden Fortress. They just knew an innovative movie when they saw one. A good story is a good story.”
Which is just like Chris. Wanting everything to be so easy, so cut and dry. Zach barely stops from glaring at him. “And a wildly simplistic morality play is insulting. At least Star Wars was relevant to its time period and knew better than to pander to its audience’s intellect.”
“Why does everything have to be some intellectual circle jerk with you?” He says it light-hearted enough, but it pisses Zach off anyway.
“Excuse me for wanting some accountability. Instead of an ending that reeks of Deux Ex Machina.” Maybe he's getting a bit dramatic but he's a little sick of Chris' assumptions, his inconsistencies.
Chris is pretty much rolling his eyes, though. “Oh, lord. Even if it was, it’s the kind we should be grateful for. There’s nothing wrong with a happy ending, Zach.”
“There is if it’s manufactured and overly optimistic.”
“Their entire civilization was pretty much destroyed, I’d hardly call that optimistic.”
“Oh, you’re right, it’s such a breviloquent account of the noble savage. Wouldn’t it be so great if we could all just combat the big bad military with the force of our magical tree fairies? Not to mention convenient genetic anomalies.”
Zach almost laughs then at the absurd truth to this argument. Chris doesn't get it. He's never going to get it. Zach just has to get used to that. He can't even blame him.
“This is where I know you’re full of it. You wouldn’t pull out breviloquent if you didn’t know how full of it you are.”
“Whatever. Give it five years and get back to me when you realize what a sad, delusional phase this was.”
Zach looks away from Chris at that, downs the last of his wine, tries to pretend his words are shallow puddles that Chris will never sink into.
“You don’t know who you’re talking to,” Chris is saying, his voice light. “I still stand by liking American Pie.”
Zach looks back at him in horror.
“Oh my God, how do I even know you?”
But he's grateful. It makes things easy again.
-
“So, you’re off soon?”
Fist-bump in an idling cab.
“Yeah. Don’t be a stranger, right?”
-
I figured it out - Your hatred for Avatar is some sort of repressed Catholic guilt trip, isn't it?
funny.
Unlike that witty comeback.
my wit is too complex to transcend the limitations of modern communication devices. just ask my twitter followers.
No thanks. I’d rather not deal with that world of crazies.
:*(
Did you just try to emoticon retort me, you philistine?
sorry, william blake. i forgot i associate with such a technophobe.
Because you’re a regular Bill Gates, Mr. Can’t Find The Shift Key.
just adds to the mystery.
How’s that working out for you? Guys tweeting you ee cummings puns?
alas no.
C’mon. You’re Spock and Sylar. That’s got to fulfill all sorts of wet dreams.
not as many as sasan and smudge.
Why do all your characters start with ‘S’, anyway?
because i’m special?
More like smug.
sublime?
Sanctimonious.
scintillating?
Supercilious.
sexy?
Before he can respond Chris is pulled into a meeting and then lunch with his agent and by the time he gets out it feels too late to reply, so he just leaves it at that. He’d been stuck on ‘salacious’ anyway and he’s kind of glad he didn't get to use it.
-
He runs through Silverlake, down past Zach’s house and if his pace slows as he passes it isn’t because he’s hoping to run into him one day, he’s just resting between sprints and Zach’s always been an easy place to breathe.
His route takes him to Griffith Park, where dusk carves canyons of light out of the horizon as blue fades to orange, fades to pink, and back to blue. He picks up the pace, to get home before darkness completely overtakes him, as much as it can in the spot lit kaleidoscope of LA.
He runs for fitness most of the time, but days like this it’s also a way out of his head, a vacation from life that doesn’t require him to make travel plans and excuses.
His phone buzzes when he’s just over a mile from home and he thinks about ignoring it, he only brings it in case he sprains an ankle or something, but something makes him slow his stride and pull the phone from his pocket, where its been colliding with his thigh for the last hour.
“Did you just run past my house?”
Chris’ heart almost stops. He laughs and slows to a walk, instinctively wanting to turn back. He huffs, out of breath. “Yeah, you’re on my route.”
“Convenient,” Zach says, cryptically. “Well, can your legs handle a walk? I was just about to take Noah out when I saw you.”
Chris hesitates, eyeing the sinking sun like it means something, then turns. “Sure, I’ll head back.”
He’s only a couple blocks away and he meets Zach under the Elm tree that stretches out from the street to graze Zach’s house. Noah jumps up to greet him, while Zach smiles comfortably and holds him back. Chris scratches behind Noah’s ears, reveling in the warm, musty dog smell of him. He actually missed seeing the mutt while Zach was gone.
“Hey,” Zach says, when Chris looks back up, and hands him a water bottle. “Thought you might need this.”
“Thanks.” He pops open the lid and gulps back half the bottle as they start walking.
“You know you really should carry water when you run. No wonder you’re so dehydrated all the time.”
“This from the guy who drinks coffee after every yoga class.”
“Have you been stalking me on Just Jared again?”
Chris snorts. “I don’t have to, every picture’s the same.”
“Pot. Kettle. Black.”
They walk in silence, letting Noah lead the way for awhile, and the slow, full body ache Chris feels could be easily blamed on his run but it isn’t that.
“I forgot how nice LA is this time of year," Zach says. Chris can see a slight sheen of sweat on his collarbone and can't help wondering if it's even possible to miss something like that.
“You miss New York?” he asks, in lieu.
“Yeah," Zach says, then hesitates. "I don’t know. It’s easier there.”
“That’s good.” Chris keeps his tone light.
“I don’t suppose it’s your kind of town," Zach says, with an air of aloofness that Chris can't read.
“Why would you say that?”
“You’re pretty California.” It doesn't sound like an insult, but it stings like one.
“I don’t really amalgamate location and personality.”
“Well good for you.” It’s that mixture of annoyance and complacency that Zach pulls off so well.
Chris sighs, changes gears. “So, how’s the script coming?”
“Good." Zach actually turns and gives him a small smile, relieved maybe. "We should do some run-throughs before next week.”
“Yeah, sure.”
They stop for a moment, held up by Noah sniffing around in a bush, as Zach tugs at his leash a little. Noah comes out with a stick in his mouth and promptly deposits the slobbery, dirty thing at Chris’ foot. Chris looks down at the stick and then back up at Zach, who’s smiling now with that effortless James Stewart charm he gets in rare unguarded moments.
“I think he missed you,” Zach says, as Noah rubs his head at Chris’ leg in impatience.
“Yeah,” Chris agrees and his smile feels like a postcard, stamped and posted, then delivered the day after he’s already back. “I missed him too.”
These moments with Zach always seem to exist in the space between breaths. Chris wishes he was still running, could keep running forever, until his breath would grow rapid and the spaces would get closer and closer together like they were never apart to begin with.
-
On set JJ conducts microphone concertos in between lens flares, Zoe captivates them all with every unfairly humble action, Anton is older, John continues to defy age, and Karl makes Chris wish he was a better actor, with every scene and knowing look sent his way. Everything falls back into old patterns, familiar arrangements, and so it’s only fitting that something finally has to give.
Shooting is pretty much done for the day and the cast is waiting to hear from the AD about the call times for the next day. It’s a scene right from any film school reality check, when everyone realizes just how much time on set is spent doing absolutely nothing.
Everyone is goofing off, sharing stories about old flames, same old scene, until Chris sidles up behind Zach and runs his hands up his sides, along the seams of blue costume fabric and hard ribs.
“Jesus, Chris!” Zach pulls away forcefully, his hands coming up to pull at his sleeves. “Could you stop touching me for, like, one fucking minute?”
“Fine. You don’t have to be such a Princess.” The word is an italicized bitch slap, harsher than Chris intends, but impossible to take back.
Zach’s eyes darken and he steps back. “Fuck you,” he says, spite hard in his eyes as he walks away.
-
“Not cool, Chris.”
“What? He started it.”
Zoe rolls her eyes.
“Sorry, I didn’t know I was supposed to worship the ground that Zachary Quinto walks on.”
“What the hell are you talking about? He’s your friend, Chris. Apologize.”
“Why should I? He’s determined to be right about everything.”
Zoe looks at Chris like he’s the stupidest, most petty person on the planet.
“For one, you have to work together. Two, it’s not like you don’t.”
“Don’t what?”
“Worship his ground.”
“Shut up. I do not.”
“Chris, please. Do us all a favour and find an end to whatever this game is you two are playing. It’s getting painful to watch and I think JJ’s about to crack.”
“It’s not a-” Chris stops at Zoe’s arched brow. He sighs, rubs his neck, pleads. “I don’t know what to say to him.”
Zoe’s face softens. “He’s Zach. You’re probably going to need some grand gestures. And a pretty convincing apology.”
-
Zach doesn’t acknowledge Chris when he enters the trailer, staring at a worn copy of Catch-22 balanced on his knees. He’s already out of make-up, changed into jeans, a tank top and those oversized glasses he lives in during filming. Chris stares at the smooth line of his brow bone where the hair's been stripped away.
“Can I help you?”
“I’ve been sent here to apologize. Zoe’s orders. So here I am, apologizing.”
Zach laughs, sarcastically. “Thanks.”
“This thing is,” Chris continues. “I am sorry. I’m sorry that I said something immature and I’m really sorry that you don’t understand why I did it.”
The look of disbelief on Zach’s face is almost comical. “You really suck at apologies, man.”
“Yeah, well,” Chris looks away, at the bent seam of the book at the curve of Zach's knees. “I’m really kind of pissed off still, so.”
“Then why are you even here? I don’t have time for your endless,” he waves his hand through the air, “vacillations.”
“You left.” He doesn’t mean today, either. “You’re the one that ran away.”
Zach is staring at his book, but he closes it now and stands, reaching past Chris to place it on the small bookshelf by the door. Then he straightens up and looks Chris dead in the eye.
“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Whatever, Zach. Stop acting like you have everything all figured out and I’m just this clueless idiot.”
He seems exasperated. “I never said-”
“You didn’t have to. It’s written all over your condescending face.”
“Well, excuse me for having some fucking self-preservation.”
“What exactly do you think you’re preserving against?”
Zach picks at the worn pocket of his jeans. “We’re not talking about this.”
“Why not? We’ve been talking around it for months. Years, maybe.”
Chris steps closer.
“Don’t.” Zach is stone-faced but unmoving.
Chris doesn’t listen. He’s only inches away now. He stops.
Zach moves to turn away, one half on the land, half off the cliff. Chris grabs his arm roughly, pulling until his chest is pressed to Zach’s side. Zach is breathing in harsh, staccato breaths.
“What are you so afraid of?” Chris asks, heavy into the crease of Zach’s neck.
“Oh, fuck you.” He pulls away, but Chris grabs him again, holds firm against the returning stare. Zach’s fists are clenched, but his eyes are a pocket of silver linings for Chris to slip into.
“I will hit you.”
“No,” Chris says against Zach’s ear, “you won’t.”
Chris mouths at the rough stubble of Zach’s cheek, all chapped lips and warm air. Zach’s arm tenses in his grasp but he can feel the shiver that passes through him. Chris lets his tongue lightly scrap against the line of stubble on the jaw line and then Zach’s head is turning and their lips collide on the next breath.
The kiss is toothache sweet and headache raw, lips brushing against each other in desperate, hand-clenching passion one moment and dizzying soft flicks of tongue the next. Chris has a hand against Zach’s head, the heel of his palm brushing stubble, the other flittering uselessly at Zach’s waistband, not quite finding skin. Zach pushes into the kiss, grasping at the base of Chris’ neck to get deeper and then grabs Chris’ wrist roughly, presses the hand right up against his crotch, the whole curved length of him.
Chris pulls back out of the kiss, all his attention focused on his unmoving fingers, his palm numbing from the rough grip. Zach is staring at him in blatant challenge, self-satisfied as ever. It’s more than that, though, and Chris gets it. He really does.
He gently extracts his wrist from Zach’s grip, knuckles brushing jeans. He opens his mouth to say something but Zach is there, gentle lips barely a whisper against his before they’re gone and he’s stepped back, hands in pockets, like nothing happened.
“See you on Monday, Chris,” he says, voice a hard stop.
Chris leaves.
-
The next morning is typical LA June, typical heat cloying at the typically early dawn. Zach opens the door with bedhead, white t-shirt, black yoga pants and crooked glasses.
“Grande soy latte. Extra foam, cinnamon on top.”
Zach takes it from Chris’ outstretched hand, his freshly rubbed eyes swollen and red. Guarded.
“What are you doing here?”
He sounds tired. Chris doesn’t care.
“We’re going to try this again, okay?” Chris takes a breath, releases it. Waits for the next. “Hi. My name’s Chris Pine.” He smiles a fraction and lets himself just breathe. “and here is the deepest secret nobody knows.”
Something flickers across Zach’s face, a note of fear, perhaps, and maybe recognition.
“here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud, and the sky of the sky of a tree called life; which grows higher than the soul can hope or mind can hide.”
Zach isn’t looking at him anymore, but down at the black marker streaks of Chris’ name on the cup in his slightly shaking hand.
“and this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart,” Chris reaches forward and brushes a thumb against Zach’s jaw, lightly, until Zach looks at him with those unyielding eyes that make Chris question why he ever thought he should do this, but moreso why he waited this long. The sky is turning hazy pink behind Chris, inside Zach’s hallway is dim and gray.
He releases Zach’s chin, lets his hand fall to his chest. “i carry your heart. i carry it in my heart.”
The silence is like a sudden exhale. Zach opens his mouth but nothing comes out. His face is inscrutable, so Chris just stands there, refusing to look away.
Then Zach smiles, soft and slow, and happiness wells in Chris’ stomach, building a resting place under his ribs.
“Nice to meet you,” Zach says, and pushes the door aside to let Chris in.
Author: pirateyes
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Chris/Zach
Words: 3640
Disclaimer: Not a word of truth to any of it. Well maybe a word, but I couldn't tell you which one.
Summary: Eight conversations about one thing. In which they discuss movies instead of books (blasphemy!) and skate around each other for far too long.
Notes: Title and quotes within are from ee cummings. Infinite thanks go to my lovely beta, listensostill . Everything good in this is hers, I'll take responsibility for the rest. This also kind of fills a prompt from therumjournals way back when, which asked for Pinto and Zach hating cilantro.
whatever a moon
It’s a three minute airport cell phone conversation, a half dozen texts back and forth, and a beat too long hug, then they’re walking through Central Park like no time’s passed at all.
Chris rips into a still warm New York Pretzel, emitting happiness at just smelling all the yeast and salt. Zach fiddles with his scarf, impractical as it is when the day has settled in at 70 degrees.
“This alright?” he asks, as they come up on a patch of grass in a fairly quiet, shaded section of park. The sun is hanging low in the sky, not yet bleeding into blue but ducking behind the larger buildings, as if to hasten the day.
“Mmm.” Chris nods around a mouthful of soft dough.
They sit down, Zach crosslegged and Chris reclined back onto his elbows. Zach has to go through emails on his phone so Chris gets out his paper and water and gets comfortable. They settle into the sort of silence that only good friends can decide on.
Zach’s email is full of invites to plays, stupid YouTube links, pics of Noah that Joe sends in a passive aggressive guilt trip for leaving. Corey has forwarded an invite to some Thai restaurant for the next day.
“I hate cilantro,” he says, scanning through the pdf menu online.
Chris hmm’s lightly. “They give you extra guac if you ask, though. It’s pretty decent.”
Zach stares at him. “I meant, like, the food stuff. Although, the restaurant, yeah, not so bad for mass produced fast food fare.”
“So, you hate the green herb form?” Chris is looking over his sunglasses at Zach now, curious. “Why? That’s like hating, I don’t know, basil or something.”
“It tastes like soap to me. It’s seriously an olfactory condition or something. I read about it once in Gourmet.”
Chris snorts. “Don’t pretend you read Gourmet.”
Zach protests, “don't pretend you know everything about me,” but Chris is already back to reading the paper. “It doesn’t mean it isn’t true.”
“Whatever you say.”
They sit for a few minutes, reading and soaking up the New York heat, seeming to rise from the ground in equal measure to the sunshine.
“We should head back soon if we want to be ready in time," Zach says, brushing blades of grass off his jeans as he unfolds his legs.
“Ready for what?”
“That pre-Tribeca party. I told you about it.”
Chris makes a face, shoves an extra large bite of pretzel in his mouth and chews. “Any chance we can skip it? I’m trashed from the flight.”
“It was five hours. And you can do whatever you want. I’m going.”
“Fine.” He swallows and grins. “I’ll go. But no cock-blocking.”
“How romantic,” Zach replies, dryly.
Chris’ response is a bat of eyelashes on a Mona Lisa smile.
-
“You realize you match, right?” Olivia says, within minutes of them entering.
They look down simultaneously and Chris laughs. Zach frowns a little, gauging. Neutrals match everything, really. Chris slings an arm around Zach’s shoulders.
“We looking fucking fabulous, if that’s what you mean.”
Zach turns his head to look at Chris. “Did you just say fabulous?”
“Yeah, so?”
“And they say I’m the gay one.” He extracts himself from Chris’ arm while Olivia reaches up to give Chris a peck on the cheek.
“It’s nice to see you,” she says.
They make chit chat for a few minutes, while Zach wanders over to the bar to grab a drink. The beer is easier to carry but they actually have decent wine for once, that Oregon Pinot he knows Chris likes, so he gets two glasses and makes his way back.
He hands one to Chris just as Olivia departs with an impish smile.
“She’s looking good,” Zach says, watching her part the crowd, four inch stilettos barely a punctuation mark at the end of her whip-thin legs.
Chris is smirking slightly, takes a sip of wine and hmms his approval. Whether it's of the wine or the remark isn’t clear. “It’s never gonna happen, but a man can dream.”
He doesn’t say why and Zach doesn’t ask.
They wander a bit; this is always the hardest part of the night, when no one’s really sure the vibe of the crowd yet, but haven’t drank quite enough to mutually fake one.
They hang out together, talk to some mutual friends, refill their wine a few times until the conversations thread seamlessly one into the next. At some point they find themselves in a corner arguing about the merits of Avatar.
“All I’m saying is that if you’re going to go the trouble of creating this supposedly innovative, immersive world, you should at least use a less formulaic plot. Otherwise, what’s the point?” Zach is probably drunk, gesturing a bit too wildly with his right hand, as the wine sloshes dangerously in his left.
“It’s a formula for a reason. There’s a world of difference between being unoriginal and respecting the timeless nature of classic archetypes. There’s only really seven stories in the world, and all that.”
And, damn, sometimes Zach forgets just how insightful Chris can be. It makes arguing with him a game of one-upmanship that neither of them ever seems to win.
“Are you seriously trying to justify Hollywood’s relentless plot recycling as honouring historical narrative? You really want to sell me on that argument?”
Chris sighs, swirls his glass, almost impatiently. He'd probably rather be debating those historical narratives, and frankly so would Zach, but they made their bed.
“I’m just saying, no one ever accuses Star Wars of ripping off Kurosawa," Chris reasons. "Even though it was based completely on The Hidden Fortress. They just knew an innovative movie when they saw one. A good story is a good story.”
Which is just like Chris. Wanting everything to be so easy, so cut and dry. Zach barely stops from glaring at him. “And a wildly simplistic morality play is insulting. At least Star Wars was relevant to its time period and knew better than to pander to its audience’s intellect.”
“Why does everything have to be some intellectual circle jerk with you?” He says it light-hearted enough, but it pisses Zach off anyway.
“Excuse me for wanting some accountability. Instead of an ending that reeks of Deux Ex Machina.” Maybe he's getting a bit dramatic but he's a little sick of Chris' assumptions, his inconsistencies.
Chris is pretty much rolling his eyes, though. “Oh, lord. Even if it was, it’s the kind we should be grateful for. There’s nothing wrong with a happy ending, Zach.”
“There is if it’s manufactured and overly optimistic.”
“Their entire civilization was pretty much destroyed, I’d hardly call that optimistic.”
“Oh, you’re right, it’s such a breviloquent account of the noble savage. Wouldn’t it be so great if we could all just combat the big bad military with the force of our magical tree fairies? Not to mention convenient genetic anomalies.”
Zach almost laughs then at the absurd truth to this argument. Chris doesn't get it. He's never going to get it. Zach just has to get used to that. He can't even blame him.
“This is where I know you’re full of it. You wouldn’t pull out breviloquent if you didn’t know how full of it you are.”
“Whatever. Give it five years and get back to me when you realize what a sad, delusional phase this was.”
Zach looks away from Chris at that, downs the last of his wine, tries to pretend his words are shallow puddles that Chris will never sink into.
“You don’t know who you’re talking to,” Chris is saying, his voice light. “I still stand by liking American Pie.”
Zach looks back at him in horror.
“Oh my God, how do I even know you?”
But he's grateful. It makes things easy again.
-
“So, you’re off soon?”
Fist-bump in an idling cab.
“Yeah. Don’t be a stranger, right?”
-
I figured it out - Your hatred for Avatar is some sort of repressed Catholic guilt trip, isn't it?
funny.
Unlike that witty comeback.
my wit is too complex to transcend the limitations of modern communication devices. just ask my twitter followers.
No thanks. I’d rather not deal with that world of crazies.
:*(
Did you just try to emoticon retort me, you philistine?
sorry, william blake. i forgot i associate with such a technophobe.
Because you’re a regular Bill Gates, Mr. Can’t Find The Shift Key.
just adds to the mystery.
How’s that working out for you? Guys tweeting you ee cummings puns?
alas no.
C’mon. You’re Spock and Sylar. That’s got to fulfill all sorts of wet dreams.
not as many as sasan and smudge.
Why do all your characters start with ‘S’, anyway?
because i’m special?
More like smug.
sublime?
Sanctimonious.
scintillating?
Supercilious.
sexy?
Before he can respond Chris is pulled into a meeting and then lunch with his agent and by the time he gets out it feels too late to reply, so he just leaves it at that. He’d been stuck on ‘salacious’ anyway and he’s kind of glad he didn't get to use it.
-
He runs through Silverlake, down past Zach’s house and if his pace slows as he passes it isn’t because he’s hoping to run into him one day, he’s just resting between sprints and Zach’s always been an easy place to breathe.
His route takes him to Griffith Park, where dusk carves canyons of light out of the horizon as blue fades to orange, fades to pink, and back to blue. He picks up the pace, to get home before darkness completely overtakes him, as much as it can in the spot lit kaleidoscope of LA.
He runs for fitness most of the time, but days like this it’s also a way out of his head, a vacation from life that doesn’t require him to make travel plans and excuses.
His phone buzzes when he’s just over a mile from home and he thinks about ignoring it, he only brings it in case he sprains an ankle or something, but something makes him slow his stride and pull the phone from his pocket, where its been colliding with his thigh for the last hour.
“Did you just run past my house?”
Chris’ heart almost stops. He laughs and slows to a walk, instinctively wanting to turn back. He huffs, out of breath. “Yeah, you’re on my route.”
“Convenient,” Zach says, cryptically. “Well, can your legs handle a walk? I was just about to take Noah out when I saw you.”
Chris hesitates, eyeing the sinking sun like it means something, then turns. “Sure, I’ll head back.”
He’s only a couple blocks away and he meets Zach under the Elm tree that stretches out from the street to graze Zach’s house. Noah jumps up to greet him, while Zach smiles comfortably and holds him back. Chris scratches behind Noah’s ears, reveling in the warm, musty dog smell of him. He actually missed seeing the mutt while Zach was gone.
“Hey,” Zach says, when Chris looks back up, and hands him a water bottle. “Thought you might need this.”
“Thanks.” He pops open the lid and gulps back half the bottle as they start walking.
“You know you really should carry water when you run. No wonder you’re so dehydrated all the time.”
“This from the guy who drinks coffee after every yoga class.”
“Have you been stalking me on Just Jared again?”
Chris snorts. “I don’t have to, every picture’s the same.”
“Pot. Kettle. Black.”
They walk in silence, letting Noah lead the way for awhile, and the slow, full body ache Chris feels could be easily blamed on his run but it isn’t that.
“I forgot how nice LA is this time of year," Zach says. Chris can see a slight sheen of sweat on his collarbone and can't help wondering if it's even possible to miss something like that.
“You miss New York?” he asks, in lieu.
“Yeah," Zach says, then hesitates. "I don’t know. It’s easier there.”
“That’s good.” Chris keeps his tone light.
“I don’t suppose it’s your kind of town," Zach says, with an air of aloofness that Chris can't read.
“Why would you say that?”
“You’re pretty California.” It doesn't sound like an insult, but it stings like one.
“I don’t really amalgamate location and personality.”
“Well good for you.” It’s that mixture of annoyance and complacency that Zach pulls off so well.
Chris sighs, changes gears. “So, how’s the script coming?”
“Good." Zach actually turns and gives him a small smile, relieved maybe. "We should do some run-throughs before next week.”
“Yeah, sure.”
They stop for a moment, held up by Noah sniffing around in a bush, as Zach tugs at his leash a little. Noah comes out with a stick in his mouth and promptly deposits the slobbery, dirty thing at Chris’ foot. Chris looks down at the stick and then back up at Zach, who’s smiling now with that effortless James Stewart charm he gets in rare unguarded moments.
“I think he missed you,” Zach says, as Noah rubs his head at Chris’ leg in impatience.
“Yeah,” Chris agrees and his smile feels like a postcard, stamped and posted, then delivered the day after he’s already back. “I missed him too.”
These moments with Zach always seem to exist in the space between breaths. Chris wishes he was still running, could keep running forever, until his breath would grow rapid and the spaces would get closer and closer together like they were never apart to begin with.
-
On set JJ conducts microphone concertos in between lens flares, Zoe captivates them all with every unfairly humble action, Anton is older, John continues to defy age, and Karl makes Chris wish he was a better actor, with every scene and knowing look sent his way. Everything falls back into old patterns, familiar arrangements, and so it’s only fitting that something finally has to give.
Shooting is pretty much done for the day and the cast is waiting to hear from the AD about the call times for the next day. It’s a scene right from any film school reality check, when everyone realizes just how much time on set is spent doing absolutely nothing.
Everyone is goofing off, sharing stories about old flames, same old scene, until Chris sidles up behind Zach and runs his hands up his sides, along the seams of blue costume fabric and hard ribs.
“Jesus, Chris!” Zach pulls away forcefully, his hands coming up to pull at his sleeves. “Could you stop touching me for, like, one fucking minute?”
“Fine. You don’t have to be such a Princess.” The word is an italicized bitch slap, harsher than Chris intends, but impossible to take back.
Zach’s eyes darken and he steps back. “Fuck you,” he says, spite hard in his eyes as he walks away.
-
“Not cool, Chris.”
“What? He started it.”
Zoe rolls her eyes.
“Sorry, I didn’t know I was supposed to worship the ground that Zachary Quinto walks on.”
“What the hell are you talking about? He’s your friend, Chris. Apologize.”
“Why should I? He’s determined to be right about everything.”
Zoe looks at Chris like he’s the stupidest, most petty person on the planet.
“For one, you have to work together. Two, it’s not like you don’t.”
“Don’t what?”
“Worship his ground.”
“Shut up. I do not.”
“Chris, please. Do us all a favour and find an end to whatever this game is you two are playing. It’s getting painful to watch and I think JJ’s about to crack.”
“It’s not a-” Chris stops at Zoe’s arched brow. He sighs, rubs his neck, pleads. “I don’t know what to say to him.”
Zoe’s face softens. “He’s Zach. You’re probably going to need some grand gestures. And a pretty convincing apology.”
-
Zach doesn’t acknowledge Chris when he enters the trailer, staring at a worn copy of Catch-22 balanced on his knees. He’s already out of make-up, changed into jeans, a tank top and those oversized glasses he lives in during filming. Chris stares at the smooth line of his brow bone where the hair's been stripped away.
“Can I help you?”
“I’ve been sent here to apologize. Zoe’s orders. So here I am, apologizing.”
Zach laughs, sarcastically. “Thanks.”
“This thing is,” Chris continues. “I am sorry. I’m sorry that I said something immature and I’m really sorry that you don’t understand why I did it.”
The look of disbelief on Zach’s face is almost comical. “You really suck at apologies, man.”
“Yeah, well,” Chris looks away, at the bent seam of the book at the curve of Zach's knees. “I’m really kind of pissed off still, so.”
“Then why are you even here? I don’t have time for your endless,” he waves his hand through the air, “vacillations.”
“You left.” He doesn’t mean today, either. “You’re the one that ran away.”
Zach is staring at his book, but he closes it now and stands, reaching past Chris to place it on the small bookshelf by the door. Then he straightens up and looks Chris dead in the eye.
“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Whatever, Zach. Stop acting like you have everything all figured out and I’m just this clueless idiot.”
He seems exasperated. “I never said-”
“You didn’t have to. It’s written all over your condescending face.”
“Well, excuse me for having some fucking self-preservation.”
“What exactly do you think you’re preserving against?”
Zach picks at the worn pocket of his jeans. “We’re not talking about this.”
“Why not? We’ve been talking around it for months. Years, maybe.”
Chris steps closer.
“Don’t.” Zach is stone-faced but unmoving.
Chris doesn’t listen. He’s only inches away now. He stops.
Zach moves to turn away, one half on the land, half off the cliff. Chris grabs his arm roughly, pulling until his chest is pressed to Zach’s side. Zach is breathing in harsh, staccato breaths.
“What are you so afraid of?” Chris asks, heavy into the crease of Zach’s neck.
“Oh, fuck you.” He pulls away, but Chris grabs him again, holds firm against the returning stare. Zach’s fists are clenched, but his eyes are a pocket of silver linings for Chris to slip into.
“I will hit you.”
“No,” Chris says against Zach’s ear, “you won’t.”
Chris mouths at the rough stubble of Zach’s cheek, all chapped lips and warm air. Zach’s arm tenses in his grasp but he can feel the shiver that passes through him. Chris lets his tongue lightly scrap against the line of stubble on the jaw line and then Zach’s head is turning and their lips collide on the next breath.
The kiss is toothache sweet and headache raw, lips brushing against each other in desperate, hand-clenching passion one moment and dizzying soft flicks of tongue the next. Chris has a hand against Zach’s head, the heel of his palm brushing stubble, the other flittering uselessly at Zach’s waistband, not quite finding skin. Zach pushes into the kiss, grasping at the base of Chris’ neck to get deeper and then grabs Chris’ wrist roughly, presses the hand right up against his crotch, the whole curved length of him.
Chris pulls back out of the kiss, all his attention focused on his unmoving fingers, his palm numbing from the rough grip. Zach is staring at him in blatant challenge, self-satisfied as ever. It’s more than that, though, and Chris gets it. He really does.
He gently extracts his wrist from Zach’s grip, knuckles brushing jeans. He opens his mouth to say something but Zach is there, gentle lips barely a whisper against his before they’re gone and he’s stepped back, hands in pockets, like nothing happened.
“See you on Monday, Chris,” he says, voice a hard stop.
Chris leaves.
-
The next morning is typical LA June, typical heat cloying at the typically early dawn. Zach opens the door with bedhead, white t-shirt, black yoga pants and crooked glasses.
“Grande soy latte. Extra foam, cinnamon on top.”
Zach takes it from Chris’ outstretched hand, his freshly rubbed eyes swollen and red. Guarded.
“What are you doing here?”
He sounds tired. Chris doesn’t care.
“We’re going to try this again, okay?” Chris takes a breath, releases it. Waits for the next. “Hi. My name’s Chris Pine.” He smiles a fraction and lets himself just breathe. “and here is the deepest secret nobody knows.”
Something flickers across Zach’s face, a note of fear, perhaps, and maybe recognition.
“here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud, and the sky of the sky of a tree called life; which grows higher than the soul can hope or mind can hide.”
Zach isn’t looking at him anymore, but down at the black marker streaks of Chris’ name on the cup in his slightly shaking hand.
“and this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart,” Chris reaches forward and brushes a thumb against Zach’s jaw, lightly, until Zach looks at him with those unyielding eyes that make Chris question why he ever thought he should do this, but moreso why he waited this long. The sky is turning hazy pink behind Chris, inside Zach’s hallway is dim and gray.
He releases Zach’s chin, lets his hand fall to his chest. “i carry your heart. i carry it in my heart.”
The silence is like a sudden exhale. Zach opens his mouth but nothing comes out. His face is inscrutable, so Chris just stands there, refusing to look away.
Then Zach smiles, soft and slow, and happiness wells in Chris’ stomach, building a resting place under his ribs.
“Nice to meet you,” Zach says, and pushes the door aside to let Chris in.