Work Text:
Sun, on my face. Hard plastic table beneath me and my crooked legs, feet flat on the surface and toes just curling over the edge.
James’ hair is tickling my arm a tiny little bit where it’s haloed out around him, head cradled on his folded arms and propped up on the part of the table I haven’t taken up.
Jeremy is on the ground. He’s spread out like a cat, taking up more room than you’d think possible, even for him, and I get the feeling that any moment he’ll kick off his blue shoes and fall asleep properly – but I can tell that he’s just lying there. Like we all are. Despite the too-long night before, none of us can fall asleep. Just some time out to regroup slightly before having to bounce back into the bubbly personas we’re usually known for.
Yellow scripts litter the floor and Jeremy, loose pages threatening to make off in the wind and bring chaos to the track, where a Honda Civic is being stigged.
I tune the sounds out instinctively, a habit born of years filming beside tracks and having to listen to people squawk at me through earpieces, and then having to be able to make sensible replies and still talk to camera. It’s composure and patience and layers of senses.
Part of me hears footsteps approaching over the grass. I flick my eyes open and try not to be blinded by the full view of the sky above me, that if gravity ran off I’d be flung off into. It’s pretty. I’m the alarm clock. I prod at James’ hands with my bare feet, then drop the last script left on the table onto Jeremy’s face.
We stir, then move. It’s back to the hectic life we manage to lead with what sanity we have left.