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Ryland was beginning to suspect that ‘Just five minutes, Ry, honest’ meant something completely different in Hollywood. Colt had disappeared nearly an hour earlier with a shouted promise that he would ‘be right back’, immediately following after a blonde camera operator into the organised chaos spilling out and over the edges of the set.
At least, Ryland assumed it was organised. Everyone else seemed to know where they were going, moving around him like he was just another part of the set. Which, considering he'd been sitting in the same chair for nearly forty minutes, was probably fair.
It wasn’t so bad. Not at first, anyway. He had a folding chair, half a paper cup of coffee that somehow tasted both over-brewed and excellent, and a little beanbag he’d won from a crew member after an aggressively competitive game of cornhole.
Seriously. Aggressively competitive. There had been cheering. Money had exchanged hands. The makeup artist had been warned that she wouldn’t be allowed to play again if she didn’t take ten to cool off.
Ryland felt a little bit bad about that. Not bad enough to return the beanbag, but still.
Considering how often Colt complained about the stress of his job, Ryland was beginning to suspect filmmaking consisted primarily of standing around waiting for things to happen. To be fair, that also described most scientific research.
The public image was very different, of course. Scientists in movies were always making dramatic breakthroughs while staring intensely at computer screens. Real science was closer to spending six months waiting for funding approval and then discovering somebody had labelled the samples wrong.
Maybe filmmaking worked the same way. Nobody ever made a blockbuster about waiting for filming permits. Not that Ryland minded. Watching how Colt’s world worked was fascinating. Confusing, but fascinating.
Across the set, Tom Ryder launched himself off the roof of a truck for what Ryland thought was the fifth time since he started his coffee. The stunt looked identical to the four previous attempts. Apparently, there was a difference. Three separate people had opinions about it – including a rather insistent woman with a 30oz Diet Coke clutched in one hand, her phone raised in the other. Something about more face? Ryland wasn’t entirely sure what that meant. To be fair, he had only been half listening. It was really good coffee.
It was strange to see Tom doing his own stunts. Surely that was what stunt doubles were for. Then again, maybe there was some complicated contractual reason for it. Or maybe Tom just enjoyed being launched off of things like Colt did. Honestly, they seemed equally plausible.
It also seemed like something the studio should be paying someone else to do, considering any injury Tom sustained could bring filming to a halt.
Huh.
There was probably a reason for that. Colt would know. Assuming ‘five minutes’ didn’t mean tomorrow.
Ryland took another sip of his cold coffee. He could probably get a refill. Colt had implied the refreshments were for everyone, which Ryland was fairly sure included him, too. One more cup couldn’t hurt. Unlike the stunt Tom seemed to be attempting for a sixth time. All of them looked identical, which suggested either extreme precision or a complete lack of it.
Everyone seemed to know exactly where they were supposed to be and what they were supposed to be doing.
Cameras rolled. Actors drifted in and out of costume trailers looking impossibly attractive. Which seemed unfair, really. There should have been more variance in appearance across professionals.
Crew hurried past carrying equipment that cost more than he made in six months – possibly a year, depending on if Ryland picked up any extra work over the summer.
Ryland was beginning to suspect Colt might have accidentally forgotten he had brought his little brother to work that day. Well, ‘little brother’, as in twelve whole minutes – something Colt continued to insist was an important factor to consider. One of Colt’s many attempts to seem more worldly. Not that he needed to. Ryland would be the first to admit Colt had more experience with just about everything. Travel. Work. Dating. The only areas where Ryland was the clear winner was in making career changes.
That probably wasn’t something to be proud of.
A voice cut in sharply from behind him.
“Colt, what the hell? Where have you been? I had to step in and do your job–”
A finger jabbing Ryland firmly in the chest. Ryland froze.
That was not Colt.
The man attached to the finger – Tom Ryder, apparently – was mid-scowl, posture tight in the specific way of someone who had been waiting on Colt for some time and had run out of patience for it. His wrist was held protectively against his chest.
The glare held for half a beat. Then it faltered. “…Since when do you wear glasses?”
“Six. Since I was six.” Hands moved automatically to push his glasses up even as he resisted the urge to sigh. “I’m not actually Colt. He’s around here somewhere. I think. It’s been a while…”
“You’re the brother?” Tom asked. His eyebrows rose. He took a step back, finger falling away from Ryland’s chest. His tone changed halfway through the sentence, shifting from irritation into something more uncertain. Assessing, apparently. Ryland shifted in his seat, becoming very aware of their proximity. “I thought you were some kind of hotshot doctor?”
“I am a doctor–” Ryland began to explain. Tom’s expression brightened.
“Great!” He took another step forward, this time, thrusting his entire wrist forward. The movement seemed decisive. Confident. Practised, even.
Ryland stared down at it blankly.
“I think it might be twisted. I landed kinda hard on that last take.” Tom paused for a beat. “You probably didn’t notice. Most people don’t catch it. I do a lot of my own stunts, you know.”
Ryland did not know.
He looked at the wrist. Then at Tom. Then at his wrist again. It was looking a little puffy. Or was that just normal for someone like Tom? He hadn’t exactly been paying attention.
“I’m… really not qualified–” Ryland began, only for Tom to cut him off.
“Call me Tom. I thought you said you were a doctor?”
“Not that kind of doctor,” Ryland said quietly. For what felt like the thousandth time. This was why he didn’t lead with his doctorate – no matter how many times Colt said he should be proud of his achievements. People tended to produce injuries before clarification. Sometimes very quickly. He had seen more rashes than could be reasonably expected for anyone with a degree in molecular biology. He really did not need more unexpected medical concerns from unfamiliar individuals.
Tom blinked, wrist still extended. Ryland pushed his glasses up the length of his nose, as if that might help.
“So you’re not going to take a look at it?” Tom asked, brow furrowing. Ryland shook his head.
“I’m a molecular biologist. Well, I was one. Before…”
Tom waited. Eyebrows crept up as Ryland remained silent. “Before…?” he prompted.
“Before.”
Silence fell between them for a beat. Then a wide grin ticked at the edge of Tom’s mouth. “You know, you’re not what I expected. Like, at all.”
“I’m sorry?”
“What the hell are you apologising for?”
“You were expecting more of a Colt. With the muscles, and the charming smile, and the… being good at talking to people. Not…” A self deprecating smile ticked at Ryland’s lips as he gestured to all of himself: from the oversized cardigan to the little bean bag clutched between his hands and the bright yellow raincoat peeking out of the edge of his bag leaning against his chair.
It was a scenario he had seen play out more times than he could count. When someone knew Colt first, they tended to build up a picture of Ryland in their minds: confident. Outgoing. Athletic.
It was the same when someone knew him first, assuming Colt would be: awkward. Intelligent – accurate, at least. Self-deprecating. It never failed to draw that same incredulous look Tom wore just moments earlier. One as if to say: are you serious? You’re related to him?
Tom shook his head immediately, lips pressing into a firm line. “Nope.”
Ryland blinked. “No?”
The finger returned, tapping him – gently, this time – in the centre of his chest. He looked down at it, perplexed.
“Don’t do that,” Tom said firmly. “No talking about yourself like that.”
Ryland ran back through his words, trying to find which Tom had taken issue with. Unable to locate them, he tried again, “I’m so–“
Tom tapped again, and Ryland stopped mid-word.
“And no more apologising!”
“Sorry.”
An eyebrow quirked. Tom stared back at him, unimpressed.
No more apologising. The command sat strangely beneath his skin. People other than Colt rarely picked up on his habit of over-apologising. Sometimes, it was just easier that way. People tended to be more tolerant of his occasional missteps if he was quick to acknowledge them.
“It’s just – I’m not very good at all of this.”
Something flashed behind Tom’s eyes. His smile brightened, taking on an almost teasing edge. “Talking to a world famous celebrity? I have that effect on people.”
“Talking to anyone.”
Tom’s arm moved slightly. A small tightening of the forearm. Involuntary? Possibly from discomfort. Ryland’s eyes followed the motion. Muscle contraction patterns weren’t his field, but that could indicate compensation for pain in the wrist joint. Or overuse.
Tom was still holding it out. Right. Still the wrist. Probably related. Maybe from the fall he’d mentioned. Ryland hadn’t seen it happen. He should probably ascertain more about the injury before doing anything else. He had done enough lab safety training courses to know that was usually step one – no, two, after putting out any fires.
Tom continued watching him, the confident edge in his expression shifting. As the seconds ticked past, his cocky grin softened into something smaller, slowly putting the pieces together. It was almost like he was taking Tom's complaints seriously. Assessing him, like it was a legitimate consultation.
That was unexpected.
Most people took the opportunity for what it was: A change to touch him, have a laugh and, if Tom had thirty minutes between takes, a quick trip back to his trailer. Ryland looked like he was about to ask if Tom could straighten his fingers.
“Hey,” Tom said, tone teasing. “I’m sure that’s not true.”
Ryland blinked, then let out a small laugh. “Believe me, it is. Colt’s always been the popular one. The one who’s good with people, who knows how to make an impression. Who’s athletic and who knows how to get the girl or…“
He paused. Eyes darting up to meet Toms then away again, he added,“...or guy.”
“We all have to get started somewhere. Getting the guy isn’t always easy,” Tom said smoothly. “And I bet you’ve always been known as the smart one.”
“That’s me. Not smart enough to know when to keep my mouth shut or what to say at the right time.”
“Timing is hard,” Tom said easily. “It’s the same for a lot of people, you know? No, really!”
Ryland sincerely doubted that Tom had any such problem. It was his job to know when to say the right thing at the right time. And, considering his apparent stardom, Ryland could surmise that he must be good at it.
“I find it hard to believe that’s ever been a problem for someone like you.”
“Someone like me?” Tom asked, curiosity clear in his voice.
Ryland nodded. “You know, all…”
“All?” Tom probed. Ryland held back a sigh.
“You know how handsome you are. I’m sure you’ve got magazines writing about it.”
Tom let out a huffed laugh. “I do. Most handsome man three years in a row. It would have been four, it it wasn’t for that asshole–”
Ryland cut across him before he could finish. “In the world? That seems like a statistical improbability. Taking into account the number of men, adjusting for personal tastes, and–“
“Are you saying you don’t think I’m handsome?” Tom asked slowly, as though he couldn’t quite believe his ears.
Or perhaps he had misheard him? Ryland was happy to clarify. “No? It’s just, that scientifically speaking–”
Tom laughed. The sound carried across the set, loud enough for several nearby crew members to glance their way. A fact that Ryland became acutely aware of after the sound had already drawn more attention than he was strictly comfortable with. He ducked his head. Probably missing something. What?
“See what I mean?” he muttered, hands clenching around his empty cup. There weren’t even enough dregs for one final mouthful. “I’m terrible with people. Unless it’s middle schoolers.”
“That’s… oddly specific.”
Ryland shrugged. “Any older and they’re effectively mini-adults. Or believe they do. Harder to engage. Middle schoolers are more direct. Less filtering, more curiosity. More efficient communication, too.”
He stopped. That was probably too much information. Ryland forced a lopsided smile onto his lips. He reached up to scrub a hand through his hair. “I’m doing it again, aren’t I? I’m sorry.“
Tom didn’t answer immediately. Instead, deft fingers plucked Ryland’s empty coffee cup from his lax grasp. Ryland watched it go. Not an entirely unprecedented outcome, but not one that he had predicted, either.
Ryland followed the movement with mild confusion. There were identical, unused cups on the table already. He watched, perplexed, as Tom turned towards the refreshment table. Ryland blinked. Tom selected two new cups.
He hadn’t even specified his preferences. Milk was an important variable. Ryland preferred his coffee black. And with enough sugar to straddle the boundaries between drink and confectionery.
Tom returned moments later, two cups in hand – his injured wrist no longer visibly impaired. Tom held one out towards Ryland.
Cradling it between his hands, Ryland took a cautious sip. It was… good. A statistical improbability. “Do you… do this often?”
Tom smiled faintly. “Only sometimes.”
A companionable quiet settled between them.
“You know, if you keep up the whole apologising thing, you’re gonna have to make it up to me,” Tom said lightly, sipping his own milky-white coffee. Ryland wrinkled his nose at it, only half registering the other man’s words.
“You mean, like… taking you out for coffee?”
Tom blinked. He paused. Somehow, it wasn’t awkward. Ryland took another sip, watching the man curiously. He wasn’t what Ryland had expected at all from Colt’s complaints about him over the years.
“Did I say something wrong again?” Ryland asked.
“No, no.” Tom said slowly, as though trying to work through the best way to say what needed to be said. “It’s just… most people don’t get there that fast.”
“Oh.” Ryland paused to process. “So there are usually more steps?”
“That’s one way of putting it.” Tom’s expression shifted. It felt less like a performance and closer to honesty. A frown settled on his brow. “It’s more like… people skip this step entirely. Not many people actually ask. They just make assumptions.”
A crooked smile ticked up at one corner of Tom’s lips, his eyes distant. “Fame does that. Makes you feel like public property.”
“I’m-“
“If you say sorry,” Tom said lightly, “it will ruin the moment.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it.” A comfortable silence settled between them. “So when would work for you?”
“You’re serious?” Tom asked, lowering his coffee.
Ryland paused. Had he not been clear enough? “Absolutely.”
Tom exhaled, letting out an unsteady, incredulous laugh beneath his breath, like the very idea had caught him off guard, and he wasn’t entirely displeased about it.
“We’re probably filming late tonight,” he said slowly, glancing behind him towards the set as if only just remembering what he was supposed to be doing. “How about Thursday?”
Tom reached into his pocket for his phone, tapping on the screen one-handed. He missed as Ryland shook his head.
“That doesn’t work for me,” Ryland said. Tom’s head shot up. “I’ve actually got a faculty meeting until seven.“
“You’re turning me down?” Tom asked, incredulous. “For a meeting?”
“I could do after eight,” Ryland said, like he was negotiating something far more complex than a calendar. “Or… basically any time this weekend. Not Sunday though. Sunday’s for...” he hesitated, as if searching for the correct scientific term for 'panic about Monday,' “...preparation. Early night. Very responsible. Allegedly.”
Tom blinked. A smile – smaller, this time, less performative - settled on his lips. The corners of his eyes crinkled. “Friday. I’ll move things around.”
“Friday works,” Ryland said, as if confirming a scheduling adjustment.
Tom studied him for a second longer than necessary. As if afraid the moment might get away from him, he repeated. “It’s a date.”
A shout came from somewhere off to the side; something about resetting for another take in five.
Neither of them moved.
Ryland glanced down at his watch. Five minutes. Still five minutes. Colt had been gone for approximately… a long time. Ryland looked back toward the chaos of set lights and moving crew, then down at the empty space where his second coffee had been, then at Tom.
It had, statistically speaking, been an extremely productive five minutes. Possibly the best one available in that environment. He wondered, amused, how long ‘just five minutes’ lasted in Hollywood timekeeping.
Apparently, ‘five minutes’ was not a fixed unit of time. But, Ryland thought, as Tom handed over his phone for Ryland to add his number, it might just be worth the wait.