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When it comes to Tom Ryder and Colt Seavers, things have an awful habit of blowing up. Sometimes it’s a literal thing. A car or a building, or—one time—a life sized model of a horse, whose decapitated head had gotten too close to Colt for comfort. Sometimes it’s more metaphorical, like a relationship, or a career, but it’s rare that a month goes by without one of those things.
Of course, a few months ago, that thing very nearly had been Tom, and this month it’s Colt’s relationship, which—he’s not getting into that. The bridge there isn’t totally burned so much as singed and in major need of repairs, and Colt doesn’t want to push his luck by putting weight on it before he’s sure it’ll hold, which is a really roundabout way of saying that he’s moving out before he gets kicked out. It’s not convenient, but it’s probably the right thing to do. Probably, even if he has to try Dan’s patience by sleeping on his couch for a week and a half.
It’s not that he’s even a bad roommate. He looks after the space, doesn’t eat all of Dan’s food, and even offers to give him something approximating rent, which Dan adamantly refuses because he’s such a good friend (his words, not Colt’s, though he won’t argue with them). It does make Colt feel bad though—just a little. He’s never been the biggest fan of imposing on people’s kindness—yet another reason he’d fucked off and ditched everyone and everything after he broke his back—but Dan insists. It’s not imposing, he says, he likes the company.
Even with all that aforementioned kindness, Colt is suspicious when Dan says that Tom’s been asking for him. He’s done this song and dance before, and he’s not the biggest fan of starring in the sequel of big fat idiot gets thrown into a wall 15 times for no good reason, even if Dan swears he’s telling the truth. Tom really did ask for him, no funny business, no ulterior motives, at least as far as Dan knows.
“I’m still not doing it,” Colt tells Dan the second time he brings it up.
Dan rolls his eyes. “Just think it over.”
“What’s he need a stunt double for anyway? Last I checked, he was working on an introspective drama.” Not that Colt’s looked into it that hard—he’s really been trying not to, if he’s being honest. The more he ignores Tom, the better. It’s all too easy to fall back into feelings that he thought he’d purged years ago. He’d learned that the hard way when Tom had gone missing, and he doesn’t feel like taking a second lesson in that.
“I never said anything about working,” Dan tells him. “He just wants to see you.” He shrugs. “That’s all. Don’t shoot the messenger,” he adds when Colt pulls an awkward expression.
“Somehow that’s worse,” he replies. “I’m not doing it.”
***
The Man at the Top of the Hill is halfway through principle photography by the time Colt pulls up to the shoot area, half a mile from its rural beachfront setting, in an Ubered Kia Soul. He steps out of the car and pays the driver before stretching out some of the pressure that the car ride had put on his back. Not like it’s bad, not like it really hurts that much, but the relief is still enough to make him sigh dramatically. Apparently breaking your back causes lingering issues—who could’ve known?
He turns away from the road then, and hikes until he starts seeing cars and tents and enough PAs to give anyone stage fright. It’s a good time, based on the looks of things, he’s caught them in the middle of lunch, so it’s not exactly like he’s interrupting a big scene, or a little scene, or any kind of scene. Hands in his pockets, he peers around until his eyes come to rest on a very familiar face, sitting at a wooden, campground style table. His hair’s grown out so it’s more it’s natural brownish than the bleached blond it had been the last time Colt had seen him, but it’s definitely Tom.
He looks pissed off as he picks at what Colt assumes is a burrito bowl. Upon closer inspection, as Colt walks closer, he realizes it’s less of a burrito bowl and more of an unfortunate collection of chunks of chicken.
“You should really consider a carb every now and then,” Colt says. It’s sort of an asshole thing to say and he knows it, but it comes out anyway. Tom raises his head at the statement, then his eyebrows after he has a second to get a look at Colt.
“What are you doing here?” He asks.
“You asked for me?” Colt replies. “Dan said that you said that—he better not be messing with me.” He raises his hands before Tom can bother opening his mouth. “You know what? I’ll just go—”
“Wait,” Tom interrupts. “I did,” he says. “I did want to see you.” He fidgets with his fork. Colt watches the plastic tines bend when Tom presses them against the paper bowl. “I just didn’t think you’d come.”
“Been out of work,” Colt says. He watches as Tom pulls a guilty expression—it actually looks genuine, to his surprise. “Not like I had much going on.”
“Sorry, I’m—sit?” Tom asks. He pats the tabletop, and Colt figures it can’t hurt, so he sits across from Tom, props his elbows on the table. “I owe you an apology,” he says after Colt is settled.
“You could’ve just called,” Colt tells him.
“Seemed… impersonal.”
Seems like a big word for you, Colt doesn’t say. “I don’t care,” he tells Tom, and it’s earnest enough. He really doesn’t, for the most part. Yeah, Tom betraying him had sucked majorly, but so had a lot of things. Forgive and forget—or at least forgive. “About any of it. Things happen.”
Tom eyes him with an expression that says he doesn’t quite believe Colt. “I broke your back.”
“It was gravity,” Colt replies as flippantly as he’s able. It’s been two years, give or take a little, since then, and he’d lost himself in that mess for long enough before Metalstorm. It’s not the kind of thing he wants to do again. Not for his own sake, not for Tom’s. Not for anyone’s for that matter. He’d spent most of his time being either sad or an asshole then, and—based off Tom’s expression—that’s not what Tom needs right now.
“It was—” Tom saves himself the trouble, and shakes the statement off. “It’s been a while,” he says instead.
“You haven’t missed much.”
Tom shrugs. “Neither have you.” For everything that happened those couple days, the world seems to have moved on seamlessly. Two days of media coverage and some fancy-dancy digital alterations to a body double are, more or less, the only remnants of some of the worst days of Colt’s life. Probably for the best; the last thing he wants is for that mess to hang over his head all day every day for the rest of time.
“Missed this wonderful business decision,” Colt offers, and tips his head in the direction of the set. And I missed you, though he hasn’t let himself think it until now. Maybe it’s Stockholm Syndrome from so many years of sharing space and clothes and roles, but Colt can’t really deny that, no matter how long it’s been, there is and has been a weird, Tom-shaped hole in his heart.
“Wonderful,” Tom says around a laugh. “Is not the word that I would use.”
“A paid beach vacation doesn’t sound too bad to me,” Colt offers.
“We ran 16 hours yesterday.”
“Ah,” Colt says. “That’s…” Still not as bad as the time Raven the Destroyer ran to 20, and both of them got sick because they spent the entirety of a New York November night stuck in outfits that could make He-Man feel underdressed.
Tom nods along. “Thought it might be better with a little company.”
“And you picked me?”
Tom shifts awkwardly where he’s sat. “You’re my best friend.”
Colt would say that’s a little sad, but there’s something nice about hearing that from Tom. Anyway, he’d be lying if he said Tom wasn’t his best friend too. Even though it’s been a while since he’s seen Tom, the loyalty that comes from years and years of breaking your back—sometimes literally—for another person doesn’t just go away overnight.
“Can you do me a favor?” Tom asks. It sounds like it pains him a little to ask.
“You want me to jump off a cliff for you?”
“I want you to stay the night. Just one.”
Despite his best intentions, Colt pulls a bit of a face. More confused than anything else, but a face nonetheless.
“I have plenty of room,” Tom adds hurriedly. “Please. Watch the shoot tomorrow. Hang out on the set today, and stay the night.” He raises his hands to stop Colt from standing or saying anything. “One night. That’s all I’m asking. It’ll be nice to have someone around.”
Sounds like you’re lonely. Not exactly what Colt would call uncommon. Tom’s always been kind of like that, a little high pressure, pretty bad at keeping people around him—and that clearly hasn’t changed since Metalstorm. Not if the way the tabloids had covered his breakup is anything to go by.
Colt knocks his hand against the table a couple times as he runs Tom’s words over in his head. “Fine,” he finally relents. His flight back doesn’t leave for another few days anyway, and he doesn’t have a hotel either, on account of everything being such short notice. It can’t hurt to have a free bed for the night—it’s not like Colt’s a stranger to crashing on people’s couches anyway, especially not recently.
As soon as he hears Colt’s answer, Tom lights up like a Christmas tree. Admittedly, an underwatered one that probably needs a couple of its bulbs replaced, but he lights up nonetheless. With a look like that on Tom’s face, Colt almost feels bad for even thinking it, but right now all he has are regrets.
One night. Not the end of the world. And probably a far cry from the worst night he’s had when it comes to Tom. Colt’s got the feeling that nothing will ever top the debacle that was Metalstorm, for multiple reasons. (All that for a C grade CinemaScore and a 33 on Rotten Tomatoes? Not that Colt pays attention to those things, not usually, but he’d figured he might as well know how people liked the movie he literally risked his neck—more than usual—to save.) Compared to all that, The Man at the Top of the Hill is small potatoes. Maybe someone will even like it. Art film people can be gullible like that.
Colt glances around the wide-open space. At least 50 people populate it, maybe more than that depending on how many people are eating antisocially. Colt raises his eyebrows, asks the question without bothering to actually ask it. Why call me up when you’ve got all of them?
“I don’t know any of them,” Tom says, as if he’s incapable of talking to new people. With the look on his face, Colt would almost believe it.
“You know everyone,” Colt replies. And if Tom doesn’t know someone, they know him. About him at least. Everyone and their mother—and maybe especially their mother—would fall over themself for a chance to talk to Tom Ryder. At least last Colt checked.
Tom shakes his head. “Most of the department heads are Clarrise’s people, and I don’t talk to any of the below the line workers.”
“What about the other actors?”
Tom glances around like a prisoner about to suggest a break, and then leans in and whispers: “I’m the only one.”
“You’re the only—what?”
“I’m the only actor,” Tom says. “I’m the only character in the entire movie. Almost.”
“Like All Is Lost?” Colt asks. Granted, a beach house at the top of the hill is hardly a boat, and Tom is hardly a stranded Robert Redford, but still.
“Yes!” He leans in even closer. “But nothing actually happens. I don’t even get on a boat.”
“How can nothing happen, it’s a movie—”
“The script is 27 pages long,” Tom interrupts. “We’ve shot five hours of footage.”
“Oh.”
Tom nods. He despondently stabs at his salad and forks a piece of sad kale into his mouth.
“That’s—”
“Exactly.” he chews his kale. “This is a social experiment. To see how long it takes to drive me mad.”
“Maybe they're trying to make you go method.”
“I might,” Tom admits. “If I don’t get out of here.” He sets down his fork and finally swallows his kale. Takes a deep breath, spreads his hands against the wooden table, and sighs like he’s trying to put all his frustration into the pine underneath him.
“You’ve only got—what?” Colt prompts.
“Two more weeks,” Tom says.
Colt winces. “Forget I asked.”
From across the wide open space a serious looking woman—probably the assistant director if the concerningly large thermos of what Colt assumes is coffee is anything to go by—loudly informs everyone that they have five minutes left in their lunch break.
Tom glances over to the house that they’re filming in, and then looks back to Colt with a look akin to torture in his eyes. Just another day in paradise.
Well, at least here Colt doesn’t have to crash any cars.
***
After they wrap for the day, when Colt asks him about the movie, all Tom does at first is shake his head, and after how the second half of the shoot day had gone, Colt can’t exactly blame him for that reaction. They’re put up where Tom’s living for the rest of the shoot, a cushy, cozy little house with furniture soft enough to dampen Tom’s laugh. It’s a loose sound, made more so by the drink he’d poured himself maybe all of a minute after he’d walked Colt through the front door. He laughs, and he says that this might be the worst one yet. He’s been in a lot of shit, but this—
“—it’s an art film,” he says, and then sits back in the corner of the couch he’s sequestered himself in like it explains everything just perfectly. It might as well, because Colt feels compelled to nod along. He’s never been all that much for art films either, it’s part of why he does what he does. Part of why Tom does what he does.
“So why’d you take it?”
Tom looks at his drink. He swirls it around for a second. “I needed a change of pace.”
“And you picked this?”
“It was what came up,” Tom says. “You don’t like it?” He almost sounds offended, which is funny considering the fact that Colt is almost certain that Tom doesn’t like it either.
Colt shifts on the couch, leans into the arm he’s claimed, opposite Tom. He props his chin on his hand and thinks for a second.
“You don’t.”
“I don’t know what it’s about,” Colt finally says. He’d spent half the plane ride over reading articles about the movie (and the other half trying to connect to the in-flight wifi), and still isn’t sure if it’s about anything really. The director’s not exactly been forthcoming in any of her interviews.
“It’s…” Tom laughs a bit. His cheeks are a little pink. “I think it’s an adaptation of an Edgar Allan Poe story?” He takes a sip of his drink. “Like the Tell-tale Heart, with less death.”
Colt frowns. He can feel his eyebrows crinkle together. “Isn’t the Tell-tale Heart about death?”
“Maybe it’s different in Switzerland,” Tom says.
“I don’t think so.”
“I’m watched by a sea captain,” Tom explains after another sip of his drink. “I’m an old seaman, and it’s–no.” He shakes his head. “I’m an author.”
“Big difference there,” Colt offers.
“I know, I know,” Tom waves him off. “I’m an author, and I’m writing a book about an old seaman who used to live in the house. And I play both of them.”
“But?”
“But what?”
“There’s always a ‘but,’” Colt smiles. It’s a small thing, amused, but he can’t help it. He’s always liked hearing Tom try to explain the plot of a story. He might be in the running for worst to ever do it. “It’s the first rule of stories.”
Tom sighs. “But the house is haunted. I think. That’s why it’s tell-tale-y.”
Colt raises his eyebrows.
“It’s a metaphor,” Tom says, then rolls his eyes–not at Colt–at his own words. “For–fuckit, I can’t remember, but the seaman is the ghost.”
“I thought he was the character in the book?”
“He is.”
“He’s doing too much,” Colt says.
“You’re tellin’ me,” Tom gripes. “All the shit I’ve had to do for that character–”
“Yeah?”
“Lots of standing in the hallway,”
“Just standing?”
“And staring. There was a whole day where all we did was goddamn hallway shots.” Tom runs a hand through his hair. “And then there’s the painting—I think it’s a painting anyway—of the sea captain. And it’s making me crazy. That’s pretty close.”
“Uh-huh.” Colt tips his head. “I think it is making you crazy.”
“Me in the—my character. The author. Not the…” Tom sighs dramatically—another oscar-worthy performance. “Not the other guy.”
“I’m messing with you,” Colt says, and gets an ever so slightly confused look in return. “You really need more carbs in your life, they’d help you think.”
Tom scoffs. “That’s how they get you.”
“Sure,” Colt says. “Sure it is.”
“I know what I’m talking about.”
“Sure.”
“You’re not listening.”
“I’m jet-lagged,” Colt says. It’s actually not a lie, though he’s used the exact same line more than once with absolutely zero truth behind it. Most people think he just doesn’t travel well, and he’s happy to let them believe it as long as they’re willing.
Tom pouts. Colt’s not even sure if he realizes he’s doing it. “You need to go to bed?”
Maybe he really did miss me. Colt almost shakes his head to himself, but stops because he’s got the feeling it would make him look like a crazy person. Don’t get an ego.
“Might be nice,” he says.
“Bedrooms are upstairs,” Tom tells him. “I can show you—”
“No trouble,” Colt interrupts. “I’ve been down a hall before.”
“Take the one on the…” Tom trails off and looks at his hands for a second. “Left?” He squints, holds his hands out in front of him to double check the direction. “The one on the left.”
“Got it.”
Colt hauls himself out of his seat and stretches his back, rocks back on his heels like that’ll help. It doesn’t—but his spine does pop with a rather satisfactory sound, even if it doesn’t make him feel better. He flashes Tom a thumbs up as he heads for the stairs, and marches himself up them pretty quickly after that. His bag’s still downstairs, but he guesses he can get it tomorrow. Not like he minds sleeping in jeans. With the amount of Tom’s costumes he’s been in over the years, he’s caught naps in much more uncomfortable duds.
He yawns as he walks down the hall, turns to the left at the first doorway he finds and walks—
Right into Tom’s room. Oh, come on. Tom never has been able to tell his left from his right.
The room itself is pretty neatly kept, save for the plethora of sticky notes that have made their way onto most available surfaces. Colt’s never figured out if there’s a rhyme or reason to the color of the notes, if Tom has some kind of method to his madness, or if he just writes down anything that comes through his brain on the off chance it might be important later on. The lights in the room are off, but yellow brightness filters in from the hallway, and Colt squints to read Tom’s chicken-scratch writing out of pure curiosity.
Water bittle bottle stands out in black lettering on a pink note. Apparently Tom still hasn’t learned how to spell. It brings a smile to Colt’s face despite his best efforts. As much as Tom has pissed him off and fucked him over since they’ve known each other—and it’s been a lot—he’s endearing. There’s something to him the same way there’s something to a dog who just can’t stop chasing his own tail.
Scene 12 is in yellow, a couple inches away from the first note.
Pick tile. Spanish? This one’s on the wall. What Tom is picking tile for, Colt has no idea. He halfway thinks that Tom might not either.
Colt lets his eyes roam over the rest of the room, similarly spackled with little patches of bright paper. While none of these notes seem particularly personal—there’s nothing too private about learn blackjack in orange, and its followup note are there any other jacks?—he still feels a little bad for reading some of them. He should really just turn around and head off to his own room that Tom’s been so nice to offer up. He’s about to do just that too, almost turns right around and pitches himself into the bed that, if it’s anything like the one in Tom’s room looks, is pretty cushy, but that’s when he sees it.
CALL HIM, written out in big block letters on a blue sticky note. Colt tries not to have a big ego, but he can’t help but think, wonder—maybe hope—the note is about him. It’s followed up with apologize (sincere), and Colt’s just about to lift that note, because he can see a stack of others under it, when he hears footsteps that can’t belong to anyone but Tom making their way right down the hall.
Colt turns around just in time to see Tom turn into the doorway. He startles at the sight of Colt, freezes up for a good two seconds.
“I’m sorry,” Colt says before Tom can get his words under control. “You—I think you sent me in the wrong direction.”
“No,” Tom says indignantly. He holds up his hands again, like they have some kind of authority. “ I told you—” He cuts himself off. “I think I—”
“You got it backwards,” Colt finishes for him. “It’s fine,” he continues. He sticks a hand on Tom’s shoulder as he walks around Tom, reverses where they’re standing so he’s the one in the doorway looking in on Tom. “I’ll get going.” He lets his hand slip from Tom’s shoulder and steps back into the hallway. He lifts up one of his hands and waves once. “G’night.” If he had a hat, he’d tip it.
For a long second, Tom doesn’t respond. He looks at Colt almost long enough for it to feel awkward, and Colt watches his throat work around words before he finally spits them out.
“I’m sorry,” he tells Colt.
“Sincerely?”
Tom winces to himself. “Did you read those?”
“A couple,” Colt admits. “Maybe.” In his defense, they were sitting right there. Of course, Tom probably hadn’t expected him to waltz right into his room and start perusing the walls.
Tom blanches. “You can leave,” he tells Colt.
“What?” Colt takes a half step closer to Tom, who takes a full step back. “Are you trying to get rid of me?” Talk about mixed signals.
“No, I—If you want to leave, I get it.” He clenches his hands into fists and shifts nervously from foot to foot. “You probably should—fuck!” With that eloquent statement, Tom turns and goes to shut the door.
Colt barely catches it with his foot.
“What are you talking about?” He leans over to the small gap where the door is still open. Tom’s face is caught in the hall’s light, and he looks—a lot of things, including disheveled and a little drunk—but mostly he looks horrified, and maybe a little humiliated. He shoves the door, but Colt’s shoe holds it open.
“You can—”
“Tom,” Colt interrupts.
Tom stares at him like a deer caught in the headlights. He ducks his head; his curls flop sadly.
“Did I do something?”
“Did you—” Tom cuts himself off and looks over at his wall. “What did you read?”
Colt narrows his eyes at Tom. “What do you think I read?”
Tom straightens. “Nothing.” He tries to kick Colt’s foot out of the doorway and fails. Tom tries again, but socks don’t really have anything on Colt’s steel-toed boots. Colt huffs out something that might be a bit of a laugh, but an exasperated one.
“C’mon,” Colt urges.
“What?”
“There’s something you’re not telling me.”
“No.”
Colt frowns and leans against the doorway with his forearm. “You know,” he says. “For an actor, you’re not very good at lying.” He shoves the door open a couple of extra inches.
“I’m great at it—”
“So you are lying?”
Tom pulls a pissed-off expression. “Doesn’t matter.”
“Does matter.” Colt shoves the door a little farther open. And maybe he’s being a bit of a jerk here, but that evens things out between him and Tom. Well, more or less. He hasn’t broken any of Tom’s bones, and if he’s being perfectly honest, he doesn’t want to. Despite his best efforts, he likes Tom too much for that. He’s charming when he wants to be. Now doesn’t seem to be one of those moments, but it doesn’t stop Colt from liking him. “Let me in.”
And maybe Tom’s a little worried about what will happen if he doesn’t, maybe he just feels bad, but he steps back. The door swings open half a second later, and Colt lets himself into the room. Tom stands sheepishly a couple of steps to his left—his actual left.
“I don’t know what you think I saw,” Colt says. “But whatever you’re worried about, it wasn’t that.” He takes the two short steps to the wall where the sticky notes sit, and tugs them off the wall to show Tom.
CALL HIM.
Apologize (sincerely).
And, hidden under those two notes—
Tell him you love him.
(DON’T PANIC).
“Huh,” Colt says to himself. He glances back to Tom. “Are you panicking?” Forget that—Colt is pretty sure he’s about to panic. He can feel his heart pounding nervous and hard in his chest, feel a heat on his cheeks. “I think I—uh—” He coughs into his free hand. The sticky notes in his other one end up on the ground. “I might be.” He scrubs his sweaty palms against his jeans. “Panicking,” he clarifies. “Just a little.”
“Shit,” Tom replies. “Shit, I–-you should’ve left. “
“Is this what you were worried about?” Colt asks. He points at the newly unearthed notes. Tom is pale when he nods, and uncharacteristically quiet.
“Okay,” Colt says, mostly to himself and a little to Tom. “Cool.” He nods. “Super cool.”
“I’m gonna be sick,” Tom says, and goes to brush past Colt, making a beeline for the bathroom just in case he actually is about to hurl everywhere. Maybe it’s stupid, but Colt reaches out and catches Tom by his forearm before he can make it the whole way there.
“Just—stop. Hang on.”
“Really, I—”
“Stop. Shut up,” Colt tells him, and then winces. “Sorry, sorry.”
For once though, Tom listens. He stills entirely and just looks at Colt, so earnest and guilty that it almost makes Colt feel like he’s gonna be sick. He steels himself with a deep breath before finally speaking. When he does, the words come out in a hurried rush.
“You don’t follow someone around for more than half a decade, get stabbed, shot at, set on fire, and fall off buildings for them if you don’t like them,” Colt says. It feels like a weight off his chest. “Not at least a little bit.” He rubs his knuckles nervously back and forth against the leg of his pants. “And I think we’re past a little.” He finally lets go of Tom’s arm. “I am, at least.”
Tom nods. He looks like he wants to crawl out of his skin.
“I am him, right?” Colt asks after a few too many seconds of oppressive silence. “I don’t want to—I just assumed—”
“You’re him,” Tom interrupts. He sounds terrified. “You’ve been him for a while.”
“Awesome,” might just be the opposite of the cool thing to say, but it’s what comes out of his mouth anyway. Embarrassing. He knows he’s said worse things in front of Tom though. Tom’s definitely said worse things in front of him. It’s part of his charm.
What follows isn’t some perfect movie kiss. It’s awkward and fumbling, and it’s—it’s honestly been a minute for Colt—he’s out of practice, but it’s a kiss, and that’s great. Awesome, even. And then Colt has to go and ruin it all by laughing hysterically. It bubbles up out of him without preamble and scares Tom away by maybe two feet.
Then he does actually run past Colt and retch into the toilet.
“I don’t think I’m that bad of a kisser,” Colt calls to him. He’s not exactly taking it personally, Tom does have a habit of vomiting when he’s stressed. Sometimes on Colt. Quick & Deadly’s production had been a disaster because of that.
Tom groans loudly in response.
“You alright?” Colt asks. He offers Tom a thumbs up.
Tom flashes one in return. “We should try that again.”
“Brush your teeth first.”
“Yeah,” Tom says. “I can do that.”
Take two goes a whole lot better than their first try did, and the third one—
Perfect. Cut and print.
(And maybe draw the curtains. Colt doesn’t exactly feel like being on display for what they’re about to do next.)