Chapter Text
It was the usual day on set - busy coordinators booming instructions over shrieking megaphones, golf carts kicking up sand and dirt, the occasional pyrotechnics fizzling in the background roaring loud enough to rumble the ground under his feet.
Tom exited the makeup tent with a huff, threading his fingers through mussed hair and dragging a warm palm over his aching neck; he’d been on set for about 12 hours now, shooting countless retakes and line practices and ugh, everything. After getting his makeup removed and shucking off whatever costume they’d had him in for this millionth action movie of his career, Tom was just ready to fuck off to the closest bar and celebrate all that prized effort he’d put in today - hit up Doone, get so high off his ass he forgets what city he’s in again.
Maybe he’d find Gail, bother her about doing some retakes tomorrow just to see that stifled grimace cross Colt’s face as they hooked him up to the rig for one more stunt.
Speaking of -
Ahead of him, back facing towards Tom, stood a familiar figure donned in that Miami Vice jacket he never fucking lets go, observing the stunt team wrapping up the last of the props. It’d been a long day today for stunts, some wire work and roof-top falls equipped with barrel explosives in the background and complicated choreography that Tom had to admit looked sick as shit, which meant he hadn’t seen much of Colt other than brief pass-bys or when Jody would get all distracted and lose track of her directing when he was near.
Tom smiled, brief and provoking, speeding up to approach the man.
“Nice work today, fall guy!”
As he passed, Tom leant down and smacked the guy's ass hard enough to make him stumble, grinning to himself at his own endless skill to get on Colt’s nerves. He ducked around Colt and made to keep on walking, expecting the typical grumble and snarky comment from behind him.
Except there wasn’t a grumble, though - instead, Colt Seavers fucking squeaked. A high and sudden noise more suitable for a field mouse than a big guy like Colt, a startled sound he’d never heard or ever thought would come from the other. There was a scuffle from behind him, feet stumbling on the sand beneath them.
When Tom whipped back around, expecting to see Colt’s furious face at being caught out so embarrassingly, he was instead met with something much more curious.
It was Colt. But - nerdier? Dirtier blonde hair sweeping messily over a kinder face, light scruff instead of a darker beard that followed the curve of a smooth jawline. Glasses knocked askew over startled blue eyes.
“What - what the heck?” When the lookalike spoke he even sounded like Colt, if not with a lighter and more nervous tone. He sounded affronted at what Tom had done, like he hadn’t expected Tom to come up behind and ass slap him; Colt had always sounded resigned, after so long getting used to it.
Tom squinted, spinning on his heel to face the guy and leaning in for a better look. “Colt?” He questioned, scanning the familiar Miami Vice jacket draped over relaxed jeans and a dorky shirt with the periodic table strewn across its front. Colt would never be caught dead in that fucking shirt, no way. “You’re not Colt.”
“No, no -” The other stuttered and waved his hands about frantically, stepping back a bit from Tom’s keen study and wilting when Tom only stepped closer again. “I’m, uh, Ryland.” Ryland stuck his hand out in a stiff handshake before immediately drawing it away again to brush over his jacket apprehensively. “Ryland Grace, ‘m Colt’s twin. Sorry for the mixup.”
“Since when did Seavers have a twin, huh?”
“Since we were born.” Ryland snorted, dry mockery thick in his voice. His own snarky humour seemed to startle him, as quickly his eyes widened in shock. “That was rude. Uhm, yeah, we’ve always been twins - sorry, why did you, uh,” Ryland struggled with his words for a moment, cheeks burning red, “smack my rear like that?”
“How’d I never know Colt had an identical twin?” Tom smiled wide, clapping a hand over the back of Ryland’s neck. “God, look at you! You’re like if Colt stayed in high school long enough to get bullied!” He slipped a thumb under the other's chin and shifted Ryland’s head left and right, marveling at the resulting squeak and the heat blooming under his hand. Jesus, they looked so alike; same nose, same face, same everything.
“What? Colt didn’t drop out of high school.” Ryland sounded almost affronted on his twins behalf, like a chihuahua yapping uselessly for its owner.
“Yeah, yeah.” Tom waved his hand about uncaringly. Ryland shifted like he was about to move out of Tom’s grip, but Tom only heavied his hand and drew him in a little closer. “Ryland Grace, that’s a real sweet name. Bet Colt changed his last name to sound like the tough guy he thinks he is, huh? Can’t exactly be a big fearless stunt guy with a cute surname like Grace.”
Tom patted Ryland’s cheek, noted the blush creeping over his face. “Suits you way more, honestly.”
“So how come I’ve never seen you before on set, huh? Colt’s hidden you away for six years?”
“Oh, I live in San Francisco. I’m a middle school teacher so I’m like - always busy, y’know? Never really had time before now, with all the grading and meetings and lesson planning, but my schedule finally cleared up, and-” This was new. Colt had never rambled before. He let Ryland Grace talk a bit more, listened to that shrill hitch in his words as Tom ran a curious finger over the slope of his jaw, mapping out the shape of his face and puzzling at how similar it is to his stuntmans.
“Sorry, sorry - you’re Tom Ryder, right? The, uh, movie guy?” Ryland shrank back a little, voice high and flustered as he followed Tom’s hand with his eyes.
“Why, you a fan? Watch my movies?”
Ryland’s face twisted into something humoured. “No, I watch Colt’s stunts.”
Usually Tom would sour at this, curl his lip and scoff whenever someone brought up how he didn’t do his own stunts. God, he hated whenever someone recognised Colt as his stunt guy - all the guy did was backflip of some fucking building, he didn’t do any of the real acting, did he?
There was something though, about the satisfied quirk on Ryland’s smile. The way his shoulders squared to match Tom’s own. He almost wanted to see more.
“Oh yeah?” Tom grinned, dragging his hand down the line of Ryland’s arm, feeling the rustle of the jacket under his skin.
“Hey!” From the distance came a familiar shout. “Hands off!”
Tom stared at Ryland for another beat, memorising pretty blue eyes, before quirking his head to look at where the actual Colt Seavers was currently storming over. When Colt made it to where they both stood, he immediately grabbed Tom’s hand and pushed him away from his close position to Ryland, an irritated furrow to his brow.
“Fuck off, Ryder, what’re you doing lurking round here?”
Oof, protective. Fun.
Tom raised his hands placidly, watching with a widening grin as Colt glared daggers at him before spinning around to look over his twin. “What were you two talking ‘bout, huh?”
Peering around Colt’s big fat fucking head, Tom made eye contact with Ryland and smirked teasingly. He raised a hand to his ear and made a phone motion, mouthed call me to where the other was being scolded by Colt, watched with fascination as that blush only deepened before spinning around and making his quick exit.
From behind Tom, he heard the last remnants of their conversation.
“He smacked my butt.”
“What the fuck?”