Work Text:
"Cut."
The atmosphere pops like a bubble. Someone dabs at Lawrence's perspiring forehead—they're filming through June and he's wearing enough layers to make pastry dough, scarfed and sweatered in the hot sound stage lights.
Kramer glares at him from behind the camera. Lawrence doesn't need to be told his lines are coming out stiff; he can hear it, indifference sticking to the back of his teeth like the gritty coffee he downed in his trailer before shooting. There are only so many ways one can invite a person to the town-wide Christmas baking competition/toy drive/Christmas tree lighting ceremony without sounding completely ridiculous.
Jill is an angel of a scene partner, but the chemistry is off and everyone knows it. She takes an elegant sip of water through a straw, frosted lipgloss sparkling, and Lawrence trawls the floor of memory for whatever Julliard lesson taught him about making romance look believable. He resurfaces with a headache.
Kramer says something to a PA. Lawrence doesn't recognize him: short, dark haired, a bit skinny as far as Lawrence can tell from his baggy jeans and hoodie. His nose curves handsomely from the side.
Flash of blue as the PA's eyes land on Lawrence and Christ, there's a candy cane he must have pilfered from set hanging from his pursed lips. The image hits Lawrence's brain and falls distinctly lower.
They reset the scene. Lawrence says the ridiculous line and lets his gaze flick down in a measured move to his costar's lips, now thinking of the kid with the bad clothes and the goddamn candy cane whose eyes he can still feel on the side of his face.
"Cut."
Lawrence braces himself for a note, but when he looks back, the director is grinning.
"That's the take," Kramer says proudly.