[link toVarietyarticle]
HowlsMovingSpaceship:When “sources” talk about “tensions” on set, it feels like code for “in any other workplace HR and/or law enforcement would get involved” or “somebody’s been sexually harassing somebody else”
DeathStarJacuzzi:nah, it can literally mean “someone was annoyed that craft services ran out of vegan options and made a cranky face about it”
SimonDevereauxsCheekbones:I don’t know, it kind of makes me sad to think that actors on Out There hate one another?
SpacePope:That article was written in fifteen minutes by someone making twenty cents a word, maximum, and so they recycled two piecesof old news. That Charlie Blake bar fight story? Is six years old. In the last five years, he has no negative press unless you count people complaining about a badly tailored suit he wore to the Golden Globes last year.
DeathStarJacuzzi:that suit was worse than any bar fight
SpacePope:anyway, I wouldn’t put too much credence in anything in that article
SimonDevereauxsCheekbones:I’m choosing to believe that if Simon stormed off set, it was to rescue a kitten, and that if Charlie got in a bar fight, whoever he punched just needed punching
GalactoseIntolerance:Can we talk about what on earth Simon Devereaux is even doing on Out There? Why is he on a show with a budget of like five cents instead of playing a sociopathic billionaire on HBO or a sociopathic vampire on AMC or a sociopathic line chef on Hulu? Everything he’s done other than Out There is... fancy?
SpacePope:Lian Zhong, Out There’s showrunner, was one of the writers on Tree of the Gods. My read is that she basically swept him away from that hellscape in a bridal carry and now he’s loyal.
DeathStarJacuzzi:Fun fact, Lian Zhong is BFFs with Charlie Blake’s agent, which also explains... a lot.
SimonDevereauxsCheekbones:BRB as soon as I update my red tape conspiracy wall
Chapter Four
After half an hour at the wrap party, Simon might bare his teeth at the next person who tries to hug him. His skin feels prickly with unwanted contact. The smell of perfume has lodged in that place behind his eyes where headaches start. The restaurant the production company booked is one of those places with too-high ceilings and terrible acoustics, where conversation dissolves into a buzz and there always seems to be a draft coming from somewhere.
Jamie gets him a glass of ice water with a lime wedge, which looks enough like a mixed drink that nobody ever asks him why he isn’t drinking. Which, he does, but not when he’s in an environment composed entirely of migraine triggers.
Wrap parties always have a little last-day-of-school energy, probably because of the combination of work finally being done and the knowledge that not everyone will be coming back. But this time it feels intense enough that Simon starts to wonder if other people know he’s planning to leave, if all this hugging and earnest, teary-eyed, shoulder-grabbing I-love-you stuff is because they recognize it’s the end of something. It’s probably just the open bar making everyone act that way, but it makes Simon even more uncomfortable than hugging ordinarily does.
“Every party my parents went to,” Jamie says, “my dad wouldfind the kitchen and start doing dishes. He never had to make conversation with anybody.”
“Oh?” It’s rare enough for Jamie to talk about his family that Simon’s concerned they’re about to have a heart-to-heart in public.
“I’m just saying you could do with a kitchen. Look, you don’t need to do anything. You can’t go to a party incorrectly. Just stand there and look pretty. Anyone who gets a chance to talk to you won’t be paying attention to what you say.”
Most people might not be reassured to hear that they’re about to be objectified, but that’s truly the kindest thing Jamie could have said. Simon squeezes Jamie’s upper arm.
Something in the room alters, like the center of gravity shifted, and Simon doesn’t even need to look to know that Charlie’s arrived. Simon looks anyway. Charlie’s wearing what he probably thinks of as nice jeans and a shirt with buttons. For Charlie Blake, this is basically a tuxedo.
Simon has on a dark suit, no tie, everything noticeably expensive and immaculately tailored—boring, except for the suit’s deep plum color, dark enough to pass as black in pictures. Black but with a secret. And his shirt is lilac silk, unbuttoned just enough to be slightly louche. He’s wearing barely tinted aviators to shield his eyes from the worst of the overhead lighting.
“You look like an old timey drug dealer,” Jamie had said when they were leaving the house. “But in a sexy, upmarket, financially solvent kind of way.”
“Thank you,” Simon had said, touched.
“Wow,” Jamie murmurs now. “I always forget what he looks like when he isn’t wearing space clothes.” Jamie means the vaguely military-inspired outfits Charlie wears onOut There.
Tonight, Charlie looks freshly scrubbed, like someone who could jump-start your car or chop firewood. If only he wore sweaters, he’d look like a plausibly rugged L.L.Bean model.
It’s for the best—at least for Simon’s peace of mind—that he doesn’t wear sweaters.
“Don’t worry,” Jamie says, “you’re still the prettiest princess.”
As Simon watches, Charlie hugs someone, then someone else, holding them close while he speaks into their ear. He makes it look so easy, like he wants to be here, like he’s genuinely happy to see all these people. Simon should look away—he should walk away—but he doesn’t, and when Charlie catches his eye, his smile falters just a bit before it’s back in place.
Simon winds up in a mind-numbing conversation with one of the producers. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Jamie starting to fidget. Another five minutes of hearing about the producer’s son’s lacrosse team and Jamie will pull the nearest fire alarm.
