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The metallic windbreaker rustles like crinkling tin foil every time Carter shifts his weight, the stiff, silver fabric trapping heat against his skin until he feels thoroughly baked. Neon green fog belches from the nozzle of a heavy industrial machine at the edge of Soundstage 4, rolling across the concrete floor in thick, low-lying banks that smells faintly of heated glycerin and synthetic apples. Behind a massive, spray-painted plastic space-dumpster, Carter Jenkins sits huddled with his knees pulled tightly to his chest. At twenty-four, playing a panicked fifteen-year-old whose hyperdrive had just short-circuited requires a serious suspension of disbelief, but the ridiculousness of the wardrobe helps.
Beside him, Austin Butler rests on his haul, breathing heavily to simulate a desperate escape. Austin wears a matching lime-green track jacket, his chin dotted with patches of flesh-toned acne wax to sell the illusion of a fourteen-year-old cousin.
"We’re cornered, Tom," Austin says, his voice dropping into that rich, gravelly timbre he defaults to whenever he locks into a scene. He reaches out, grabbing Carter’s shoulders to deliver the script-mandated cousinly shake. "If the Zirkonian guards find us, we’re dead. Look at me."
Carter tilts his head up, opening his mouth to deliver his line about the malfunctioning laser rifles. But the shift in Austin's demeanor isn't in the script. Austin’s thumb doesn't just grip Carter's shoulder—it slides up the side of Carter’s neck, brushing the shell of his ear before settling softly along his jawline. It's pure, unconscious muscle memory. It's the exact, quiet gesture Austin uses in private whenever Carter has an anxiety spike off-camera. Austin leans in until their foreheads almost touch, his blue eyes softening with an instinctual, quiet warmth that has zero business existing between two fictional teenage relatives escaping space pirates in a sequel nobody asked for.
"Cut! Cut, cut, cut!" The sharp, amplified blare of Director Marty Vance’s megaphone shatters the air, echoing off the high rafters of the soundstage.
Austin snaps back instantly, his hand dropping away as if Carter’s skin had turned white-hot. He pulls back a fraction of an inch too quickly, blinking against the harsh studio overheads.
"Austin, buddy," Marty calls out, striding over the tangle of black camera cables with a thick leather clipboard tucked under his arm. He rubs his temples with a sigh. "I love the commitment. I love the emotion. But you look like you’re about to ask him to slow-dance at the galaxy prom. He’s your cousin. You’re supposed to be motivating him to shoot a laser cannon, not tenderly reassuring your soulmate."
A few crew members near the boom mic chuckle, the sound rippling through the quiet set. Carter immediately pulls the oversized collar of his windbreaker all the way up to his nose, his ears burning a bright, furious red as he fixes his gaze entirely on the scuffed studio floor.
"Right," Austin clears his throat, adjusting the hem of his track jacket with a rigid flick of his wrists. He shifts his stance, instantly trying to smooth over the slip. "My bad, Marty. Just... exploring the protective instinct."
"Less Romeo, more awkward teen," Marty says, waving a hand dismissively as he turns back toward the monitors. "Reset! Five minutes, people!"
Twenty minutes later, the heavy outer door of Trailer 3 clicks shut, sealing out the hum of the set generators and the distant chatter of the crew.
Austin is already stripped down to a faded gray t-shirt and dark sweatpants. He sits on the edge of the small faux-leather couch, his head heavy in his hands, long fingers tangled tightly in his messy, blonde-tipped hair. The fake acne wax is wiped away, leaving his skin clear, but the rigid tension in his shoulders remains locked tight.
His mind strays, spiraling backward into familiar, unpleasant territory. He imagines how his last relationship ended—the sharp, bitter arguments, the memory of bloodied knuckles against plaster in a dark hallway after a breaking point was reached. It always felt like they were forced into playing the villains in their own story. Bill Skarsgård plays an excellent villain on screen, but off-camera, that typecast bled into reality in ways neither of them could control.
When they were together, Bill's fan base split right down the middle; half of them treated Austin like a target, actively wishing Bill would sacrifice him for the sake of some dark aesthetic, while the other half treated Austin like a helpless victim needing rescue. The constant public scrutiny was exhausting, a slow drain that eventually broke them. When it finally fell apart, Bill told him straight up to find someone else—and why shouldn't he? Bill had already moved on, dating Dane DeHaan now, another millennial actor locked into the exact same dark, edgy villain typecasting. The industry had a way of boxing people in, and the walls always felt like they were closing in.
The door latch turns, and Carter walks in, kicking off his heavy plastic space boots with a quiet, exhausted sigh. He sets two steaming paper cups of herbal tea on the low laminate table, then slides down onto the couch beside him, intentionally nudging his knee against Austin’s leg.
"You're overthinking it," Carter says softly, his tone completely free of the teasing from earlier.
Austin doesn't look up immediately, his voice muffled by his palms. "I almost blew it, Cart. On a set with fifty people watching. If Marty looks back at the playback..."
"Marty thinks you're a dramatic weirdo who over-analyzes method acting," Carter gently interrupts. He reaches out, taking Austin’s wrists and pulling his hands away from his face so they have to look at each other. "He literally thinks you were trying to give a deep, Oscar-worthy performance to a scene involving a plastic green dumpster. Nobody suspects a thing."
Austin finally raises his eyes, looking thoroughly drained. The weight of the press junkets, the grueling filming schedule in Auckland, and the constant, silent stress of keeping their three-year relationship entirely hidden is visibly catching up to him.
"I just... when I saw you sitting there looking stressed under those lights, my brain didn't register the stupid silver jacket or the script," Austin admits, his voice dropping low. "I just wanted to make sure you were okay."
Carter’s expression softens entirely. He smiles, a small, genuine thing, and reaches up. His thumb brushes the exact same spot on Austin’s jawline—only this time, there are no rolling cameras, no crew members adjustments, and no director shouting through a megaphone. Just the quiet hum of the trailer's air conditioner.
"I'm fine," Carter murmurs, leaning in to rest his head lightly against Austin's shoulder. "We're fine. But tomorrow, during the space-worm attack, if you try to hold my hand, I will let the worm eat you."
Austin lets out a quiet, genuine laugh, the knot of tension finally melting out of his back. He wraps an arm around Carter's waist, pulling him in close against his side in the quiet, undisturbed safety of the trailer. "Deal."