Chapter Text
The colosseum waits with bated breath.
It knows the stakes of the fight that it’s about to witness.
Its stone tiers rise in a broken circle around the arena, colored only by the tattered banners of Westhelm. Smoke drifts low across the sand, carrying the stink of ash and iron– a reminder of the battle still blazing at Infernus. The absence of Westhelm’s army makes the city feel desolate, and nowhere is said desolation felt as deeply as in the colosseum. Where the stands are usually full and rowdy, they now hold only a single line of soldiers.
And in its center, the once-fugitive.
The veil that usually covers his face has burnt, revealing the hard-set features of his marred, pale visage. The white feathers around his ears are blackened by soot. His armor is cracked and dirtied, one pauldron hanging loose. Blood, either his or someone else’s, has seeped into the fractures of the diamond and dried into dark seams that form a beautiful, intricate pattern stretching across the chestplate.
Above him, looming down from atop the colosseum walls, is the Conspiracist.
He too carries marks from the battle. His armor is scorched, and his skin is etched with web-like burns from the molten lava from which he emerged like a drowned phoenix. Firelight catches the edge of his smile and warps his entire face into something maniacal.
“Wow,” it is the Fugitive who eventually breaks the silence, his voice carrying effortlessly through the ruin. “You actually showed up.”
He tightens the grip on his sword. The blade trembles, not in fear, but in fury. Or maybe just exhaustion.
“Can’t say no to a friend,” the Conspiracist sounds flippant as always, tilting his head, grin widening. “Can I?”
The Fugitive takes a step forward. Sand crunches beneath his boots, loud in the stillness.
“Look,” he says. He sweeps his sword outward, not toward the stands of the colosseum but out toward the world. Toward the carnage. Toward the cost.
“All these people,” he says, voice raw, scraping itself out of his chest. “Dead. Because of you.”
For the first time, the Conspiracist’s smile falters just a fraction. He looks at the Fugitive with open assessment now, no pretense of warmth left.
“You know…” he says, voice low.
The pause stretches.
He opens his mouth.
Closes it again.
Then, he bursts out laughing.
He laughs so hard he folds into two, slapping his armored thighs.
“Seriously?” Saparata calls out from the floor of the colosseum. “Flux, come on.”
“I can’t,” Flux gasps, wiping at his eyes. “Fuck, man, you just look so ridiculous–”
“Cut!”
Ish’s booming voice descends like a God’s, and the spell breaks instantly.
The smoke machines hiss off. The roaring wind dies mid-gust. A collective sigh passes over the set and Turntapp watches in amazement as every extra that line the colosseum stands all produce a fan from somewhere on their person. It might be freezing outside– the studio lot buried under a fresh layer of snow this morning– but inside it’s sweltering. Doubly so beneath layers of thermoplastic armor. Both him and Cynikka have been allowed to strip down to just their uniforms, and they’re still sweating buckets. He lets out a grateful sigh as she pulls out a fan of her own and angles it between them.
“Alright,” Ish calls out across the set. “Take five, then we go again. Flux, please, try to keep it together.”
Chatter breaks out instantly, as the previous quiet shatters into noise, laughter, and complaints as people stretch, peel themselves out of seats, and start rehearsing lines. Turntapp exhales and rubs at his face.
As much as he loves his job– and he truly does– he hates the days when everyone is required on set. Just like in the Civilization series itself, it seems that whenever more than ten people occupy the same space, the entire operation immediately regresses into something resembling a group of unsupervised children. They’ve only been filming for a few days, and they’re already wildly behind schedule.
Not that everyone is equally at fault– it’s hardly a coincidence that the scenes running the longest are the ones set in Westhelm.
Speaking of which, Schpood has somehow nagged Ish into giving him one of those folding chairs with his name printed on the back, which has not helped his tendency to backseat-direct.
“You heard him, box-dye! Get your act together” he bellows into a megaphone, which must have been swiped directly out of Ish’s hands. ”We don’t have all day, and some of us have a wife and children waiting for us at home!”
The gentle-mannered woman (Josephine? Jophien?) that is sitting somewhere behind Turntapp leans over his shoulder. As she speaks, she shields her mouth with a slender hand– as if anyone would be able to overhear her with the commotion currently going on at the set.
“Is Schpood married?” she asks, brows knit in genuine confusion.
“No,” Turntapp replies, forehead in hand.
”But he has children?” she asks.
”Absolutely not.”
Jophie(?) murmurs a ‘huh’, then settles back in her seat to watch the spectacle unfold.
Like the rest of the cast, she’s long since become desensitized to whatever nonsense is happening on set (and, admittedly, off it). No one so much as flinches when Flux swivels on the spot and starts shouting expletives back at Schpood for what has to be the third time this hour. Soon enough, Thomas is abandoning his post in the stands to yet again put himself between the two of them before Fluixon can make good on his increasingly creative threats of violence.
Turntapp, meanwhile, finds his gaze drawn toward the figure on the arena floor.
It isn’t exactly intentional– there’s just something about Saparata that pulls at attention regardless of whatever is happening around him. It's like the sheer mass of his fame bends light and wields it into a spotlight angled onto him. In these early days of filming it's still easy to forget that Saparata doesn’t exist only as a name but as the person currently standing on set– awkward and slightly off to the side, a prop-weapon hanging loosely from his grip as he waits for his co-star to calm down. He looks a little lost, all that dramatic armor doing very little to hide the fact that he doesn’t quite know where to put himself when he’s not actively acting.
Then he catches Turntapp’s eye.
Saparata lifts an armored arm and gives a small, tentative wave.
Turntapp tries to be discreet as he glances around, just to be sure.
Surely that can’t have been meant for him.
Saparata is friendly, sure– famously so– and they’ve done plenty of table reads together in preparation for the season. But they haven’t spoken much outside of what’s been strictly necessary. And then there’s also the small matter of Saparata being Saparata: a level of stardom that most of the crew can’t even begin to conceptualize. The man probably made more money during Flux’s and Schpood’s current screaming match than Turntapp earned across the entirety of the previous season.
Still.
The young star has apparently taken a liking to him, for whatever reason. Zynn told him as much, at least.
Turntapp remains skeptical, but lifts a hand in a polite, if not slightly awkward, wave all the same.
To his surprise, Saparata’s face lights up immediately. Even at a distance, he can see a bright, unguarded smile break across his features.
Huh.
Maybe Zynn wasn’t lying.
“Did you hear he practically proposed to Jo the other day?” Cass, who has been absorbed in some kind of brightly colored animal game for the better part of the past hour of filming, doesn’t bother looking up from her handheld console as she asks the question.
“Saparata?” Turntapp asks, tearing his gaze away from said actor.
“What?" Cass snorts. "No. Schpood. He even wrote her a poem.”
Cynikka’s reaction is immediate, as she shrieks her delight for everyone in the room to hear. Turntapp, meanwhile, buries his face in his hands.
Thrilling news. Especially considering he had spent nearly his entire free weekend trying to talk Schpood out of doing exactly that. And Spyder out of writing the poem for him. In hindsight, this was deeply optimistic of him. He should know by now that attempting to dissuade Schpood from anything only ever has the opposite effect. And that trying to stop Spyder from doing something Schpood has asked him to do is always a lost cause.
Still, the knowledge that he could have accepted Zynn’s generous offer of getting blackout drunk at some bar instead of rainchecking in favor of playing emotional support for the most senseless man alive stings more than a little.
“No,” he mumbles. “I did not hear that.”
“It was… flattering,” the blonde woman behind him says. Jophiel, he remembers belatedly. She laughs, though it sounds more sheepish than truly flattered. “Besides, I think that was just part of the method acting thing he’s doing.”
“Oh yeah!” Cass adds. “I heard he learned Latin just for this role. Apparently he gave Artie a note after their first scene together, and when Artie translated it, it turned out to be a death threat.”
She laughs like this is the funniest thing she’s heard all day.
The three women dissolve into shared giggles. Turntapp purses his lips and says nothing.
He should probably inform them that he has known Schpood long enough to be absolutely certain that he certainly isn't method acting, and that Arcturus should, in fact, take any threats against his life very seriously.
But before he can open his mouth, Ish’s voice booms across the set.
“Alright! Quiet down, everyone. Back to your places.”
Saved by the bell.
Exhaling in relief, Turntapp leans back in his seat and prepares for the show to continue.
Schpood and Sitz are throwing hands on the sidelines before Ish even has the chance to call action.
The set is reset. Spyder successfully shepherds Schpood off to go rehearse lines somewhere far away from the filming, and at last Fluixon and Saparata are left alone in the arena. Ish calls for action and this time the scene unfolds without a hitch.
They’re incredible, both of them.
Turntapp has seen the two stars joking together between takes, familiar in a way that suggests years of shared history. Seeing that friendship flip into something hostile as soon as Ish calls for action makes the transformation all the more striking. Once the cameras roll, the two of them don’t perform as much as they inhabit, shedding their own skin in favor of donning their characters’.
They circle each other slowly in the colosseum, boots scuffing against the sand. Neither of them tear their eyes off each other. The air between them feels taut, stretched thin under the weight of their emotions and words left unsaid. Even when the choreography takes over and they step into a tango of blows and dodges, there’s something aching in the way they move. Like neither of them can quite decide whether they want the dance to end or if they want to keep circling each other forever.
Without even realizing it, Turntapp leans forward.
The dance continues, even as their steps grow heavy and sluggish. Boots scuff the sand with increasing frequency and kicks up a cloud of particles around them, mixing with the dust and ash to create a thick mist that sticks uncomfortably to sweaty, bloody skin. It's cleaved, again and again, by the swings of sword against axe, axe against sword. The Conspiracist’s attacks, once sharp and confident, begin to lose their edge. His parries lag a fraction, his strikes telegraph themselves just enough. Turntapp wonders if he knows the inevitably of his death just as well as the audience does.
It’s hard to tell from where he is seated, but Turntapp can swear there are tears streaking Saparata’s face as he lifts his sword above his head. The killing blow is swift, almost merciful.
Fluixon goes down hard.
The Conspiracist lies motionless on the arena floor.
The Fugitive stands over him, chest heaving, sword held uselessly at his side. He wipes at his face with the back of his hand, smearing fake blood and real tears together into a grimey mess across his pale skin. His ragged breathing carries through the colosseum, a grating noise in the silence that blankets the set. Each inhale shudders through him, his shoulders rising and falling like he’s barely holding himself together.
He stares down at his best friend.
His expression is blank, yet somehow manages to hold everything at once. Relief. Exhaustion. Joy. Grief. The terrible hollowness that follows the greatest of victories.
His throat works. His lips tremble.
His legs shake, like they’re gonna give out beneath him at any second.
“Cut!”
Ish voice pulls Turntapp out of the haze that had overtaken him.
“That’s the one!” he shouts. “Amazing. Fantastic, both of you. Let’s get the extras down there and move right on to the celebratory shot. Saps, please make sure to not touch your face–”
“I can see why the entire internet ships them,” Cass says, leaning in close to Turntapp’s side.
He barely registers the words. He’s still a little dazed– as if he had sat in the colosseum and witnessed Saparata’s victory himself. He understands now why everyone seems so certain the man is going to sweep every one of the many awards he’s been nominated for.
On the arena floor, Saparata snaps out of character in an instant. The haunted look vanishes, replaced by bright, breathless laughter as Flux sticks out his tongue in mimicked death.
“They’ve got great chemistry, yes,” Cynikka chips in from Turntapp’s other side. “But just wait until this season drops. Then everyone with eyes will see that The ship is Saps’ and Taps’ characters.”
The girls keep giggling as Ish calls for action again. The extras that had been lining the colosseum stands erupt into cheers, pouring down into the arena to congratulate their victor.
For a moment, Saparata nearly disappears beneath the press of bodies as armor, hands, voices all blur together. But his pale, shaken face still stands out starkly against the dark tide around him.
Another cut, and just like that his expression flips back into his usual easy smile.
It’s entrancing.
“What about you, Turntapp?” Cass giggles, elbowing him lightly in the side.
At the sound of his name, he blinks. Turntapp realizes the conversation must have continued without him noticing.
“Uh. What did you say?” he asks.
“Who do you ship?” Cynikka asks.
“Ship?”
“Yeah,” Cass says. “Like, what characters do you ship?”
Turntapp frowns. “I don’t know what that means.”
Both women stare at him like he’s just confessed to murder. Even Jophiel is giggling now, presumably at his expense.
“What?” he asks, glancing between them. “What does ship mean in this context? I’ve never heard it used like that.”
Cass is creasing with laughter, while Cynikka just shoots him a bewildered look.
“Good gods,” she gawks. “Do you even know what the internet is? How old are you?
Turntapp isn’t entirely sure how that’s relevant, considering he’s not that much older than the lot of them.
“I’m 36,” he says, a little defensively.
Cynikka pauses. “Oh. Huh. That’s… not too bad. I honestly thought you were older.”
“Thanks,” he replies dryly. “It’s the moustache.”
The next day is more Westhelm.
Which, in practice, means more standing around and waiting.
Turntapp doesn’t really mind, he’s getting paid by the hour after all, but just thinking of what this must be costing the studio makes him wince. Having Saparata in the lead role must be bleeding them dry.
Maybe that’s why the young actor manages to be so cheerful at the damn time.
Either way, it’s hard to argue it isn’t worth every penny. While Schpood has Ish running through the same scene for the fourth time (because ‘why settle for good when I’m capable of perfection’), Turntapp and Saparata end up off to the side, running lines back and forth. Not because they really need to, but because it gives them something to do that isn’t watching Schpood getting to live out his Emperor-fantasies on a million-dollar playground.
It doesn’t take long for him to understand exactly why Saparata’s blown up the way he has. He’s precise without being stilted, passionate without being overzealous, and confident while still appearing humble. He knows his character inside and out, and carries every microexpression into his performance. Watching him work up close is something else.
There is no denying that Turntapp is a little starstruck by Saparata.
What’s stranger is the nagging sense that Saparata might be a little starstruck by Turntapp, too.
Even after they finish the read-through of their upcoming scene, Saparata doesn’t drift away as one would expect. He lingers instead, hovering at Turntapp’s side and occasionally glancing over like he wants to say something and then thinking better of it– almost like a fan debating whether it’s acceptable to approach and ask for a picture out in public.
The thought is ridiculous.
It would be flattering, sure, if Saparata weren’t a world-renowned heartthrob playing the series’ main character, and Turntapp weren’t, at best, a C-lister who’d lucked into a role that had suddenly gained narrative importance in season two. That someone of Saparata’s fame might feel nervous around him seems absurd.
And yet... seeing him standing on the sidelines in his lonesome makes Turntapp think. He knows intimately how hierarchical the industry can be, and with him being older and more experienced, he figures Saparata might simply be a little unsure of how to approach.
The most unfortunate part of this, Turntapp realizes, is that it thus falls on him to make the first move
So, defying every part of his very introverted persona, Turntapp clears his throat and turns towards the other.
“Hey,” he says, “Can I ask you something?”
Saparata startles.
“Me?” he asks, glancing around as if they weren’t the only two people sidelined at the moment. “Uh- yeah. Yeah, of course. Shoot.”
He says it eagerly, practically tripping over the words. It’s a little charming, how he seems so keen on proving himself even as his pale face has been plastered across practically every magazine cover the past year or so.
“What does it mean to… ship characters?” Turntapp asks.
Saparata blinks.
“...Ship them? Together, you mean?”
“I don’t know,” Turntapp admits, awkwardly. “Cynikka asked me the other day, then told me I was old for not knowing.”
Recognition dawns on the other's face instantly, followed by something close to relief.
“She really said that? You’re not that old.”
“The moustache ages me,” Turntapp says gravely.
That gets a real laugh out of the other.
“Well,” Saparata says, settling now, shoulders loosening. “It just means you think two characters work well together. Like they have an interesting dynamic. Sometimes people want them to end up together romantically.”
“Huh,” Turntapp mulls it over. “She said she felt that way about our characters.”
Saparata’s expression changes immediately. His posture straightens, almost alert, as if this is something he’s already spent time thinking about.
“Oh,” he says. “Yeah. I mean, I can see it.”
“You can?”
“Definitely,” Saparata nods. “The Covenant leader’s whole thing this season is his surprising allegiance to the fugitive, right? Like, absolute belief. He gives up his own safety, his nation, his reputation, everything, just to stand at this fugitive’s side. And you could read that as curiosity and respect, sure, but don’t you think there had to be something more to it?”
Turntapp listens, quiet. Saparata just continues, clearly passionate about the topic.
“Think about it,” he says. “His nation is falling apart, yet he seems almost obsessed with the well-being of this one person. I can see how that could be read as… well, a little bit like devotion, maybe?”
There’s a brief pause. Turntapp hums. He hadn’t really thought about it that deeply, but it makes sense, what Saparata says.
“I suppose I could see it being that way, too,” he agrees.
Afterwards, Turntapp wonders if it was weird that he brought that up. That he put that thought in Saparata’s head.
At the time, he had barely given it any thought. He’d simply been grasping for an opener and had happened to stumble upon something that Saparata was eager to talk about. He was satisfied with it, and promptly moved on.
But now they’re filming their first one-on-one scene, Turntapp can’t help but notice that something is different.
Saparata seems…
Off?
Off.
The General strides across the barren shore; the dry, scorched earth shifting beneath the weight of his heavy boots. Dead shrubs line his walk towards the jagged cliffs that make up the shores of Yggdrasil, where he can hear the boiling water hiss against the black stone. Rising steam dissorts his view as he scans the open waters ahead, but does little to hide the lone approaching vessel.
“Ah. There he is,” the Covenant leader perches himself atop a column of basalt, looking down on the figure steering the small boat. “Hey, buddy.”
The fugitive startles, but looks up.
A veil covers the top part of his face, but doesn’t hide the tentative smile the other forces onto his lips.
“You scared me,” he admits as he pulls his boat to a stop by the cliffs.
The General gets down on one knee and reaches out an arm to help up. He pulls the Fugitive up with ease– but the other stumbles forward, colliding into his armored chest.
Stunned, the Fugitive looks up at him from through white-lashed eyes.
The General looks back down at him, silently appraising.
The Fugitive must notice, because suddenly he can't find his words. Maybe his mouth is dry, after such a long time spent on sea.
Still, the General waits, knowing the next line isn’t his.
The next line doesn’t come.
Instead, Turntapp watches Saparata’s feathered ears go red. Then his cheeks. Then the flush spreads down his face, his neck, and finally down beneath the diamond armor.
“Sorry,” he blurts out, stepping back. “Can we– can we try that again?”
“It’s fine,” Ish calls out. “Reset, please.”
They go again.
They make it past the introductions. They start walking across the barren landscape towards the looming gates of the Covenant.
“How was the trip?” the General asks. He isn’t one for small talk, but curiosity gets the better of him. All he’s heard are rumors, and he needs to know the degree of truth they hold.
The Fugitive trails a step behind him. He should be sweeping his gaze over the landscape– the water, the cliffs, the city beyond– but instead, he’s staring at the ground between their feet.
“Uh. I ran–” he starts. The word cracks in his throat, and breaks off into a thin, pitchy squeal.
Saparata squeezes his eyes shut, mortified, color flooding his face all over again.
“Fuck,” he mumbles under his breath. “Sorry. I’m so sorry. One more time.”
They do it one more time.
And then they do it again, and again, and again.
Saparata, who has been effortless the whole week, is suddenly all nerves and second-guessing. He misses his mark once, then twice. His responses come half a beat early, then a beat too late. His gaze flickers when it shouldn't, lingers when it shouldn’t, and every time their characters lock eyes it’s like Saparata’s tongue ties a knot around itself.
By the sixth try, Turntapp catches Ish and the cameraman exchange baffled looks– neither quite believing what they’re seeing.
Neither, if he’s honest, can Turntapp.
“If you need a break–” Ish starts, uncertainty creeping into his voice. It's clear he isn't sure how to handle this– that this has never happened before.
Saparata shakes his head immediately. The feathered construction decorating his ears flutters with the movement.
“No, I’m good. Sorry. I’m–” He exhales, steadying himself. “I’m just a little bit nervous.”
”Nervous?” Ish repeats.
Even Turntapp has to admit he’s at a loss. Saparata had powered through the most demanding fight choreographed in the season without issues, yet gets nervous doing his hi’s and hello’s?
“It can be difficult getting into the right headspace,” Turntapp hears himself say, “with the chronology of filming being what it is.”
Ish’s eyebrows lift, mirroring Turntapp’s own surprise. He rarely speaks once he’s settled into a role; everyone on set knows that by now. He himself can’t quite account for what prompted him to break that silence. Still, he sees the look of gratitude that Saparata sends him before he turns back to Ish.
“Yeah,” he says, a little too quickly. “Exactly. That’s it. And this is one of the first scenes of the season, right? I feel like it needs to be good.”
Ish studies him for a moment longer, then clears his throat.
“Alright,” he says. “Maybe we… talk it through? Where your characters are at, mentally. How they’re feeling about themselves– and about each other.”
Saparata nods. He draws in a slow breath, scrubs a hand over his face like he’s trying to wipe the nerves away, then steps closer. The three of them end up in a loose circle, and Ish nods at the younger actor to begin.
“Well… the fugitive is of course paranoid,” he says. “Exhausted, as well. He’s been running for so long that he doesn’t really know how to stop anymore. But–” His voice steadies as he goes on. “But he’s hopeful. For the first time in a very long while, because he’s found someone who seems willing to actually listen to him.”
He gestures vaguely toward Turntapp.
“And out of everyone who could choose to help him, it’s the least expected person possible to do it. So he doesn’t really know what to make of it all. And while he is telling himself to remain cautious, I think he more than anything just wants this all to work out. He wants to trust the general, so badly. And he wants the General to trust him too ”
Ish nods slowly, following along.
“And you?” he asks, turning to Turntapp.
Turntapp blinks, having been a little too immersed in Saparata’s passionate monologue.
“Uh,” he says, then clears his throat. “Well. I think he’s captivated.”
“Captivated?” Ish prompts.
“Yeah,” Turntapp says, thinking it through as he speaks. “By the fugitive, I mean. By how he keeps going. The resilience in refusing to break even when everything’s stacked against him. I think that’s something that would catch the General’s interest.”
Silence settles for a moment.
When Turntapp looks up, Saparata is staring at him. Something bright and intent glimmers behind his eyes, like a switch being flipped.
“Okay,” Saparata says, voice steady and sure. “I’ve got it.”
“You sure?” Ish asks.
Saparata is barely listening. He squares his shoulders, rolls his neck once, and takes his mark– as if the spirit of the Fugitive has possessed him.
“Yeah,” he says. “I’m ready.”
After that, it’s smooth sailing. The scene comes together easily, and by the time Turntapp changes into his gym clothes and pulls on his coat, ready to head out into the snow, he feels quite pleased with himself.
That feeling lasts all the way to the hallway outside his dressing room– where he nearly collides with a figure wrapped in an impressively poofy jacket and an even fluffier scarf. Only a narrow window of pale face is visible, but it’s more than enough to recognize Saparata.
Much like his character, Saparata seems fond of covering up his face in various ways– a strange habit, Turntapp thinks, for someone who is (objectively) really attractive.
“Hey, man,” the other says, tugging the scarf down just enough to free his mouth. “Are you done for today?”
“Yeah,” Turntapp replies. “Heading to the gym.”
“Oh. Cool. I just–” Saparata hesitates, shifting his weight. “Could I maybe steal a minute? I can walk you to your car, if you’re driving.”
It’s phrased like a question, even though Turntapp knows someone like Saparata doesn’t really have to ask. Schedules bend for him. Doors open. Out of the hundreds or perhaps even thousands of people working on this production, he is one of the few who are truly irreplaceable.
Yet, he looks at Turntapp like he’s waiting for permission.
“Sure,” Turntapp says, gesturing for the other to follow.
Saparata does– falling in just a half-step behind him.
They walk through the studio together, past half-dismantled props and rolling equipment carts, the aftermath of the day’s shoot still lingering. Apart from the beautifully composed sets, the studio building is bleak– especially now that the floors are streaked with wet sludge tracked in from the outside. Somewhere overhead, heaters groan and grunt as they fight against the winter pressing in from outside. The corridors smell faintly of dust, sweat, and cooling plastic.
Saparata continues trailing a step behind, fingers worrying at the hem of his scarf.
“So,” he starts, hesitant. “I just… wanted to apologize for today. I don’t know what came over me. I’ve never had that happen before.”
“Nothing to apologize for,” Turntapp says, taking another sip of his disgusting protein drink. “Ish got what he needed. That’s all that matters.”
Saparata shakes his head. “It’s not all that matters. I didn’t come here to be mediocre– that wouldn’t be fair to any of you.” In the corner of his eye, Turntapp watches the other glance over, then away again. “I... I just don’t want that to be the first impression I leave on you. I don’t want you to think that’s my– my level.”
”You’re overstating it,” he says, as a more roundabout way of telling the other to chill out. He has gotten the impression that Saparata runs himself hard– harder than most– and probably needs a softer touch than he is used to wielding. Thus, he’s trying to be mindful of how he phrases things. “Besides, I saw you do the final colosseum battle yesterday. There’s no doubt you’re extremely talented.”
That, at least, seems to be the right thing to say. Saparata’s shoulders loosen and the strip of pale skin above his scarf warms into color.
“Thank you. You are too, of course. I’ve been really looking forward to our scenes together this season, which is why I’d hate to mess them up. You have no idea how excited I was when Ish told me he greenlit the Covenant plotline.”
Turntapp wonders how the hell Saparata would have known that, given how late the script was finalized– until he is suddenly struck with remembrance.
“Right. Schpood mentioned you’ve been getting involved with the writing,” he says. He can’t fathom how either of them finds the time, but it’s undeniably impressive.
“Yeah,” Saparata says, eyes bright. “I love telling stories– that’s why I got into acting in the first place. And, well… this role means a lot to me, so I have a lot of opinions on characterization.”
“And Ish and the team actually listen to you?”
Turntapp holds the door for the other as they step out into the snow-blanketed parking lot. The cold makes Saparata curl into himself, while Turntapp relishes the relief after having been sweltering in his heatstroke-inducing uniform all day.
“They’re super open to it,” Saparata says, rubbing his hands together as if they weren’t covered by thick wool mittens. “A lot of the Covenant plotline was actually my idea.”
Turntapp raises an eyebrow. That is, admittedly, a very major contribution.
“Really?” he asks. Saparata nods, eagerly.
“Hm,” Turntapp says. “I guess it’s you I should thank for my continued employment then.”
He means it genuinely, but he’s heard it said (by Zynn, multiple times) that his inflection sometimes comes across as dry sarcasm. Saparata must have taken it that way, because he laughs as if Turntapp had made a joke.
“Don’t sound too happy about it,” he teases.
“I’m very grateful for the role,” Turntapp clarifies. “just not too thrilled about having to keep the moustache”.
(That, he does intend to be a joke. Except it isn’t, really. He honestly does not care much for the moustache.)
“What?” Saparata gapes. “You don’t like it?”
They’re by his truck now. Saparata doesn’t even seem to notice as Turntapp slows them down to a stop beside it.
“It does age me. And it’s a bit… cartoonish, don’t you think?”
“No! Not at all. I think it’s sexy.”
Turntapp raises an eyebrow, but doesn’t get to reply before Saparata is sputtering out another flurry of words.
“I mean, like, in the pornstar moustache way, you know? I’ve seen a lot of people online say that. Like, it’s trendy now.”
Turntapp is skeptical, but figures that Saparata is the kind of guy who would know.
“I’ll take your word for it,” he says. “As we’ve established, I don’t go online that much.”
Saparata laughs at that, and Turntapp can’t help but smile a little himself. The conversation drifts into a comfortable silence, and Turntapp is just preparing to drop his usual polite ‘see you tomorrow’ (because they will see each other tomorrow, and the day after that, and the day after that, because their characters are practically glued together the entire season–), when Saparata interrupts him.
“Could I– Can I maybe get your number?” he asks, practically tripping over his own words.
Turntapp blinks, surprised. He is fairly certain that Ish has made sure the cast all have each other's numbers readily available somehow, but admits that it feels pleasantly old-fashioned to be asked for it.
“Sure,” he says, and reads out his number while Saparata fumbles with a mitten, pulling it off with his teeth to input it into his contacts.
After exchanging their usual ‘see you tomorrow’s, Turntapp drives off.
When he gets back home from the gym, he sees that Saparata has texted him an article about the rise of pornstaches.
Turntapp laughs, gives the message a ‘haha’ reaction, and adds Saparata to his contacts.
It feels only a little surreal.