Chapter Text
For the first time in years, Ryland visited Colt on set.
Not for lack of trying—
Well. Honestly, Ryland really hadn't had much interest. First he was busy with his undergraduate, then his doctorate, then all of his research... Then the UNESCO conference happened and Ryland was too angry to be around people for any length of time. Not people Colt needed to work with on a daily basis, anyway, despite his sudden influx of free time. But then he had found teaching, and his first few years were riddled with stress from the transition, and...
Listen. He loved his brother very much.
But he hated action and sci-fi movies more—especially when they got simple science wrong. Heck, he had tried to support his brother by watching the first film he had done stunt work for, but Colt had outright banned him from watching the movies he was in after Ryland had ranted for a solid three hours about how an amoeba from Tau Ceti could do better basic calculations than whatever was in that flaming dumpster fire of a movie.
Now, though? Ryland had finally gotten into the swing of teaching and it was summer break and Colt's new movie was in the middle of filming. So down to Hollywood Ryland went with a full suitcase and an Amtrak ticket and a text to Colt with his ETA. His twin couldn't make the drive to go get Ryland from San Francisco, but he was willing to pay for his ticket, since Ryland didn't drive.
Small sacrifices, he had snarked when he had picked Ryland up, who was still bleary and drugged from dramamine and stumbling into Colt's car after nearly fourteen hours on the train.
And after sleeping it off for a full day in Colt's bed, Ryland was grumpily chewing on a Twizzler as he watched the “scientists” write down the wrong equations for the third time. They had had to restart the scene when they got confused and fumbled the numbers.
“They are using the wrong equation—”
“Ryland, I swear to God—” Colt hissed.
“It's simple physics!”
Colt threw his hands into the air. “They're not scientists!”
“My eighth graders are smarter than them!”
“Cut!” rang out from the other side of the room. The man with the bullhorn glared in their direction.
Wisely, Colt pulled Ryland out of the set.
“We have an issue.”
Ryland squawked as he was dragged by his wrist towards some room with a bunch of monitors by some British lady. Colt flailed next to him and Jody trailed behind. A very grumpy man followed behind Jody. Probably the lady's assistant. He looked like an assistant. Oddly enough, he almost looked like he could be his and Colt's brother. Weird, Ryland thought as the lady nearly tossed them further into the room. Jody shut the door behind the grumbling man. It wasn't a large room, and they had just enough room to not be stepping on each others' toes.
Before they could ask and, more importantly, before Ryland could gripe about her almost making him lose his bag of Twizzlers, the lady shoved her phone towards them. “Yesterday, one of the crew members took this photo and posted it. Don't worry, they've already been fired,” she said, as if Ryland cared.
The photo looked innocent enough. It was some twitter post with the caption, “Tom Ryder's stunt double has a stunt double!!!” There were approximately fifty thousand emojis. It was just a picture of him and Colt arguing after they'd been removed from the set, but nothing that Ryland thought seemed dire enough to be manhandled like he had been. Ryland had a Twizzler hanging from his mouth as he gesticulated wildly. Colt looked exasperated. Ryland frowned at the screen, shoving his glasses closer to his eyes as if that would make the image any clearer. Neither of them were wearing anything scandalous—there hadn't been any stunts for that day so they were both just wearing a regular t-shirt and jeans. Colt's was black, proclaiming him as part of the crew, and Ryland's was his periodic table shirt. Heck, Ryland wasn't even wearing a skirt so it couldn't have been that. There were thousands of comments and likes and retweets, but he couldn't see what people were saying.
He frowned at her. “Did people not like my science shirt, or...?”
The lady groaned dramatically. “It's not about your clothing!” she snapped. Her nails tapped at the caption. “Tom Ryder does his own stunts! That's his brand. We can't have the public finding out he has a stunt double. People are already speculating!”
“Okay? And why is this my problem?” Why was he, specifically, being roped into this? Because he was in the picture? That was stupid, and he opened his mouth to say so when his brother elbowed him hard enough to make him stumble.
“Association,” the lady grumbled. She poked a finger into his chest. He flinched back and covered his chest with a hand to prevent another attack. Why were her nails so fudging sharp? “We need a reason why you and your brother would be on set. They already know he's a stunt double, but we need a plausible reason why he's here without him being Tom's stunt double.” She turned to Colt then and gave him an insincere smile. “Congratulations, Colt Seavers. You've been promoted to stunt coordinator. For the media, at least.”
“Oh, gee, thanks,” Colt said sarcastically.
“Then why—”
“And to explain you,” she said with venom in her voice and eyes narrowed dangerously. “You're dating Tom.”
“... Excuse me?” Ryland squeaked.
Beside him, Colt was already cackling, bent over at the waist and everything with his obnoxious guffaws. Ryland wanted to smack him, but... What was going on? Behind the lady, Jody was looking utterly flummoxed and the man was... doing something weird with his face. Ryland couldn't really tell what was happening back there.
But the lady was still going on. “Granted, we'll lose a few macho men with the queer angle—” Ah, Ryland didn't love how she said that, and it didn't look like the man was happy about it either, “but women do love queer actors, nowadays,” she mused. She waved a hand dismissively as the man moved to speak. “Tom's already okay'd it and has been wanting to come out as bisexual anyway, so this is a perfect opportunity! Just in time for Pride Month, too!”
Ew. Like Rainbow Capitalism. He must have made a face because Colt elbowed him again, sending him stumbling into a chair. Jody was laughing and the man was snickering and the lady looked all around done with their shenanigans. Fudging rude, all of them. He wanted to point out that Pride was half over already, but the lady was still talking.
“We would need at least three public dates and a post or two on social media,” she said decisively. “Make it public enough to garner attention and then you can break it off. Summer fling, if you will,” she added dismissively. “You'll be paid five thousand dollars per date.”
“What? No,” Colt said immediately. “We're not prostituting my brother out!”
“This would make him an escort, not a prostitute,” the lady sneered. “Sex isn't a requirement.”
Oh. Ew. Sex. Ryland failed to hide his disgust. “Do people have to find out my name?”
“Ryland!” Colt hissed. “You can't seriously be considering this!”
The lady spoke over him. “We can use an alias if we must, but fans will eventually find out.”
If the fling was over before school was back in session, it probably wouldn't cause any issues with his employment. His most concerning issue was keeping his students safe. But, then again, fifteen thousand dollars was a lot of money. And if he went on more than three dates... And it didn't really sound like he could say no, anyway.
Ryland debated with himself for all of seven seconds on the ethics of fake dating a celebrity in exchange for a stupid amount of money.
On the one hand, was he willing to sacrifice his integrity to help a celebrity unmuck his name from his own lack of foresight?
On the other hand, that was a lot of ribeye and sour skittles he could buy…
Ryland planted his hands on his hips and stared the lady down. “Just one more question,” he said, pushing his slipping glasses up his face. “Who the heck is Tom Ryder?”
He did not expect the wide array of reactions to his question. Colt threw his head back with a cackle. Jody fought a laugh behind bitten lips. The lady in front of him pinched the inner corner of her eyes and muttered something about murder being easier to cover up than whatever this malarky was. The man standing petulantly behind her stared at him in a weird mixture of shock, outrage, and disbelief.
“… What?”