It’s been a long day, with lots of green screen work and not a whole lot of breaks. They had to do nearly fifty takes of one scene because the wires they were using to hang Zoe kept getting tangled and Matthew nearly had a nervous breakdown. So it had been a relief when Michael asked James back to his trailer for drinks, grinning tiredly as they peeled off their costumes back in makeup. Michael’s martini making prowess has become legendary rather quickly, and James’ mouth has been watering all day for some alcohol.
So he’s sitting here on Michael’s couch, head reeling as he watches the other man brandishing the martini shaker like it’s done him a personal injury, a half-smoked cigarette dangling from his lips. He’d stripped down to a pair of worn, well-loved sweatpants and a vest, complaining about the broken air conditioning loudly after his third drink. James feels strangely over-dressed in his t-shirt and jeans, but his trailer is all the way over on the other side of the lot and he’s damned if he’s going to leave and change now. Not with Michael looking the way he does, all loose limbs and sharp-toothed smiles.
Michael drops down beside him on the sofa and manages to unscrew the lid of the shaker on his third try, fingers slippery with sweat and intoxication. He takes a swig and hands it to James, their glasses forgotten on the coffee table.
“It’s just as good straight from the bottle as it is with all the fancy bits.” His accent is stronger, his voice husky with intoxication and fatigue, and James’ stomach quivers at the lilt of his words. “Though I can get you an olive, ‘f you’d like.”
James shakes his head. “No, it’s okay, stay here.” His arm is around Michael’s shoulder, and when did that happen? He turns his head to puzzle at their new position and-