Chapter Text
Even as he smiles for the cameras, Jayce isn’t certain he belongs here. For one, he’s trying to make an escape, Mel on his arm subtly nudging him towards the friendlier of the press here on the carpet. She’s good at that; helping him make concessions that make him look good and still get what he wants, i.e. out of here. For two, he feels too gangly, too tall, too exposed. He’s been told all night how good he looks, how excited he should be. And he is! Or, was. He was really excited, right up until they called someone else’s name instead of his.
Mel smiles at one journalist wearing sneakers to deal with standing around all night waiting for a soundbite who wants to know how Jayce feels about losing both ‘Best Picture’ and ‘Best Director’ after such an aggressive For Your Consideration campaign, though of course she doesn’t phrase it like that.
“What an incredible run of nominations for your first feature! Congratulations on your team’s win for ‘Costume Design’, but I’m sure you’re feeling a little disappointed to lose out on your other categories.”
Jayce smiles, magnanimous, like he’s been trained to do for years, and says, “Honestly it’s an honour just to be nominated.”
The Dolby Theater looks grand in person tonight, all decked out for the awards, and the valet brings his SUV around in seconds. Jayce remembers growing up watching these things on TV, treating it like the Superbowl. He’s glad it lived up to the image. Not much in Hollywood does.
March in SoCal means it’s still balmy at midnight, but Jayce just flicks on the AC in the car as Mel makes sure not to catch her dress in the door; he doesn’t really want to be seen right now, and the tinted windows help with that. His cheeks are tired from smiling.
As he pulls out, Mel points out the dwindling traffic through the windscreen. “Oh, just go via Highland, it shouldn’t be too much of a nightmare now.” She means relatively, obviously. Traffic’s always some kind of hell in LA, especially around industry affairs like the Oscars. Then again, Jayce has never minded getting stuck in traffic, taking any excuse to zone out in between shoots and meetings. He wasn’t always like that; he used to hate wasting time.
It’s definitely soothing him now, weaving between lanes, muscle memory tracing familiar roads back to Mel’s place. He mouths ‘Franklin Avenue’ along with his GPS system (it’s got a British accent for some reason, and he’s never bothered to change it). He’s counting the paint lines on the road. His eyes feel too open, the lights too bright for how late it is. It’s never truly dark in LA.
By this point in the drive, Mel’s usually on her work-phone, answering emails and skimming scripts, juggling a bevy of clients’ fragile egos. She’s exceptional at her job. Tonight, though, Jayce is her prize eggshell, so her phone’s on silent in her jewelled clutch. He breathes, in and out. It’s good to have her company, but he doesn’t need babysitting. He’s in his forties, for god’s sakes... He’s fine, really. It’s not a big deal.
You were never gonna win anyway.
He glances at Mel when he notices how much she’s looking at him, which is when he realises he’s doing a lot of the breathing in and not enough of the breathing out. She looks gorgeous tonight; braids threaded with gold charms, Valentino silk clinging to her skin like liquid light. She’s a vision. She deserved to ascend that stage and win. They both deserved it.
“Sorry,” he says, voice catching on himself. He has to calm down. His fingers flex around the steering wheel. “For wasting so much of your time.”
“Nothing with you is a waste,” Mel insists, elegance softened by sympathy. “After all, my hours are billable.” She smiles at him, knowing and playful, and his chest opens a valve, releasing pressure. “You can pay me back by letting me rummage through your nominee grab-bag.”
He smirks, gestures to the package in the backseat as he merges onto the 101. “Go for it.”
Mel is delicate picking through the Academy’s gifted spoils: enough skincare to grow an entirely new epidermic layer, memberships to exclusive clubs and experiences (including a Sri Lankan resort getaway for two, which Mel pockets immediately), and–
Oh. Pre-rolls. When Mel unearths them she freezes, not looking at Jayce and instead staring at the palm tree sunset insignia on the packet. He can kinda smell it through the shiny plastic.
Jayce waves it off. “I’m good, give ‘em to Elora. God knows she’s earned a, uh, chill sesh.” He tries to give her a well-meaning smile, but Mel’s already getting her phone back out. So much for silent mode; now she’s on the warpath.
“Whoever thought it was a good idea to put these in your basket could probably stand to ‘chill’ far less.”
“Mel–”
She scoffs, tossing her head so hard her earrings tinkle. They’re diamonds. They sound like stars against her skin. “You’d think after four years someone would’ve noted it down.”
“I’m fine, really.” That doesn’t stop her fingers flying across her screen, tearing some poor intern a new one for not checking whether it was appropriate to give someone in recovery free drugs. They’re off the freeway fast after that. He stops at a red light and leans his chin forward onto the steering wheel, holding it steady at the bottom.
When Mel massages his nape, he sighs, melting into the touch. Her acrylics give a lovely occasional scrape to the bristles already coming through. Jayce has been thinking of growing out his hair again. He’d liked the director’s scruff he got working on ‘Winter’s Rune’, it made him feel like a real adult rather than a plucked goose for the first time since they wrapped the final season of ‘Hex Hunters’. His stylist had snipped it back into something more refined (and recognisable) for the red carpet, though. It wouldn’t’ve read as well on camera, he’d insisted to Jayce in the mirror. It would make people think ‘Winter’s Rune’ is some sort of ‘Revenant’ rip-off without the bear, like it’s about outdoor survival or something. Jayce had sat in the chair and said nothing, especially not that ‘Winter’s Rune’ was, in essence, absolutely about survival. He’d watched his curls fall to his shoulders and smiled at Salo in the mirror, tipped him 30% and pulled at the shorn hair behind his ears the whole way home.
They pass Echo Park and Mel tracks Jayce driving past the turn before looking at him sympathetically.
“I can stay tonight.”
Jayce huffs a laugh. “You’re getting an eye twitch and you hate my mattresses.”
“Why are they so firm? Who likes firm mattresses?” She lets the question pout her lips, short on letting out a laugh. She hides her worry well, but Jayce knows her better.
“I promise I’ll call if I feel… worse.” He gestures for someone to cross the road, then keeps going, pulling up to her apartment complex. It’s tall for LA, gleaming, just like her, though the adrenaline of the night has even her boundless energy flagging. “Honestly, I’m totally exhausted, you must be beyond.”
She checks her phone again for the time and sighs. “It’s barely one in the morning and we’re turning in early…” He puts the car into park and she drops her forehead to his shoulder with a small whine. “Oh no. Jayce. We’re getting old.”
He drops a kiss to Mel’s temple. Her vanilla Guerlain has faded into her skin over the course of the night, just another divine detail of hers. “I’m getting old, you’re eternal, sweetheart.”
“Ugh, tell that to my mother, she sent me another passive-aggressive set of anti-ageing creams and a trip to a– a collagen retreat? Whatever that is.” She shows her ticket to Sri Lanka off with a twinkle in her eye, gold accents glinting on her eyeline. “Sure you don’t want to join?”
“I think your boyfriend would have words with me about that,” Jayce muses, though Rick’s a big softie under all that hard muscle, and Mel wouldn’t have picked him if he was insecure about their past relationship. Jayce Talis is a dealbreaker; either he stays or you go. It’s the kind of loyalty that winds him sometimes; the world would be a better place with more people like Mel Medarda in it. He thumbs at the freckles he knows are there despite being covered in foundation. “Enjoy it for me anyway. Enjoy the break in general, you deserve it more than anyone.”
She falters a bit at that. “I suppose it’s the least I could do.” Finally she takes his hand and squeezes it. “Do not internalise this as a loss. Please?”
“No promises,” he shrugs, too tired to lie. Mel sighs, kisses the back of his knuckles, leaving a smear of plum lipstick there, and gets out of the car.
“Love you,” he tells her. He won’t leave until she reaches the doorman.
“You too, darling,” Mel says back. “Congratulations,” she adds more pointedly.
Jayce chuckles. She hears the muffled greeting to Jared at the door and finally turns the engine back on. He’s only a few blocks over from his place. Instead he heads south to the 110, mind crashing with thoughts of the ocean.
The roads aren’t dead just yet, so he hears people blasting reggaeton when he rolls down his windows, bass at a blood-pumping volume. His fingers tighten on the stick shift while his lungs attempt to unfurl. Mel’s face pops up more than once, her disappointment when they announced ‘Beyond Time’ for Best Picture. Jayce had seen it (unlike most of the Academy’s voters, he’d watched every nominated film) and while it was yet another technical marvel from Albus Ferros, it hadn’t done anything new or innovative, and the story was lacklustre, characters bare, performances embarrassingly weak, relying on name recognition over talent. In other words, a standard Best Picture winner, as his ex-writing partner would say. God, sometimes Jayce missed being half a peanut gallery.
But Mel had told him not to express any of his real opinions during the press tour, so he’d gone along with it, played nice because that was the game. On the carpet he’d praised what he could and breezed past what he couldn’t. He knew ‘Winter’s Rune’ winning ‘Best Picture’ was a long shot, what with the tragedy of his protagonists freezing to death, as well as the way certain critics had commented on how ‘bold yet familiar’ his editing techniques were. It didn’t change the way he felt when his name wasn’t called up onto that stage.
He hadn’t said it out loud. He hadn’t let himself admit how much he’d wanted that recognition. A seal of approval, something that meant all this time, all these years committing to the work and earning the money to make something he cared about–
He’d wanted all of that sacrifice to be worth it. The nomination should’ve been enough, but he knew all along that it wasn’t, and admitting that made him feel even more ashamed. Even Mel had warned him that the Oscars were another league; he could’ve sent it to Sundance and gotten an easy win there, hell, Cannes even, but he hadn’t grown up watching those awards every year. He’d wanted that statue – that proof – so badly, only to lose because it wasn’t good enough to the people that chose who was the best. There was no room for plausible deniability either, not when the billboards with his name on them were still up on Sunset.
When he gets to Santa Monica, the lights are out and Sunday night has folded into Monday morning. The sky’s still inky blue with light pollution, and Jayce can’t see the stars. He pulls into the parking lot down the way and turns off the engine. The sound of the water just beyond sounds unreal. It sounds like he’s hearing it in an editing booth, like someone’s just dropped it onto the track of this scene.
EXT. SANTA MONICA PIER PARKING LOT - NIGHT
A lone SUV faces the ocean. Waves CRASH onto the beach. The lights of the pier are dark.
JAYCE TALIS (41, Mexican-American) stares out through his windscreen. Hot enough for TV, once upon a time. Cleaned up nice in a good haircut and an expensive tux.
He doesn’t get out of the car. He only keeps the windows down to breathe in the salty air, finally alone.
Jayce scrubs his jaw with the heel of his hand. At least Ahri won her award for Costume; he feels latent pride bloom in his chest recalling the look on her face as she got up, looking gorgeous in her own sequinned design, to accept her award tonight, blinking tears that smeared the glitter on her eyes. He wishes he could’ve given that feeling to the entire crew, that’s all. He wishes he could’ve had them all rush the stage, raw and disruptive excitement. Mel’s first from her independent production company. Daring the whole industry to wake up and recognise new blood.
But that’s not how the story went. The tide swells and leaves the sand grey. Jayce turns the engine back on and the sound drowns out the water.
Mel’s already been cornered and grilled at length about what her best client is ‘planning on doing next’, and she keeps it vague but enticing, like there are big things lined up beyond Jayce retreating to lick his wounds. ‘Winter’s Rune’ was supposed to change things, to place a hand on the wheel before it turned too fast. Now it’s just crushing him under the weight, because the night is already over and his hands are empty.
‘Underrated’. ‘A future cult classic’. In other words, it was ’good, but not good enough’.
Jayce takes the long way around and by the time he gets back his whole body feels like a bruise, his leg aching something fierce after a long drive and too long sitting in tension. He’d bought into the novelty of owning three floors back when the money felt exciting, back before PT became a necessity, back when he thought he might get married soon.
The man that bought this house doesn’t live here anymore. Instead there’s just Jayce, letting himself in and collapsing onto the guest bed rather than trekking upstairs to sleep on the couch.
He stares up at the ceiling fan that stays motionless, knowing if he turns it on it’ll spread dust over him like snow. It’s easier to just open his shirt and sheds it with his jacket until he’s down to his under-shirt, an old one from a charity run he did back in Brooklyn in 2008. He scratches over the faded text on his chest absentmindedly.
Despite being at his literal house, Jayce feels distinctly and powerfully homesick. Not for Jersey, per se, just… the feeling of being home.
He wakes up to the sound of the mailman shoving too many things through his front door only five feet away. It sounds like a struggle, so he gets up, woozy and itchy where his designer belt dug into the softness of his belly, and opens the door.
“Hey, Len,” he says, trying to smooth out the sleep from his voice.
“Heya, Jayce!” Len the mailman hands off a bunch of letters, including scuffed screeners that clearly didn’t get to him in time. “Fun night last night?”
Jayce squints at the early morning sun. “Kind of a late one, for sure.”
Len chuckles, already heading back down the steps. “Haha, alright, have a good one!”
There’s a good handful of bills and ads and other things he should sort through, probably with some coffee to help, so Jayce grabs his stick from the umbrella stand and shoves them under his arm, getting himself upstairs to the living area. He likes it up here, it’s the least sterile part of the house and it has both the view of the lake and his projector where he can just splay out on his couch and watch movies until he can’t keep his eyes open.
He tosses everything on the kitchen counter and sorts through them. Typical fare, some delayed congratulations for the nomination from his extended family, a pop-up card from Cait assured of his win– He should call her, it’s been too long regardless of the time difference.
Then he sees it. A battered little indigo envelope. His address is hand-written, and at first his heart stops. The last time he got a hand-written letter was from a ‘Hex Hunters’ fan/stalker who’d tracked him down during season three, and that had been a massive headache, not to mention significant paranoia fuel for a few years.
But the handwriting… he recognises it. It’s impossible. It should be impossible.
It can’t be him.
Jayce is grown, he’s a homeowner, he’s a multi-hyphenate talent, he’s been on Conan twice– and he is scared to open this goddamn letter. He’s scared it’ll say something cruel, even though Viktor never actually said anything cruel to him. Not to his face, anyway.
One night after the season five wrap party, Jayce came home to an empty apartment and a wordless cap on a partnership spanning over a decade, discarding all of it in three words scribbled on one of their old scripts: ‘good luck, Jayce’. No other note, no explanation, no further contact for the next seven years.
And hey, these seven years apart have been pretty good to both of them. Jayce continued getting critical acclaim for his acting (mostly via back-handed compliments to ‘Hex Hunters’), and Viktor… Viktor had struck gold back in the New York theater scene. His play ‘Great Pursuits’ got staged off-Broadway and became a critical success across the board, earning him amongst other things a Donaldson and a NY Drama Critics Circle win for Best New Play. Though the man himself kept out of the news, his work spoke for itself. To this day, Jayce still has alerts on his phone for Viktor’s name. Last year ‘Great Pursuits’ was added to several high school curricula in the tri-state area, and Viktor had given a rare interview on his thoughts, mostly about public arts funding and why it was so important. Jayce read that article so much he could quote parts of it still. Viktor was just… so eloquent, so careful and specific in the way he conducted himself. Jayce had always admired that about him, even after they stopped speaking. There was a time he’d’ve given anything to talk to him again.
Without thinking, Jayce pries the envelope seal free and opens up the letter. It’s a single, type-written page. The typeface and paper are thin, the letters sloping and spindly, mimicking the grace of the hands that typed them. Nostalgia hits him like a freight train. He can practically hear the click-clack-zip of the old typewriter Viktor used to keep in their dorm, can almost smell the stale ink.
Jayce,
I am aware of how impromptu this may seem after such an elapsed communication, but I have a bold proposal for you. I have been working on a stageplay for some time, and I believe it would benefit from a fresh set of eyes – ideally yours – as well as your particular expertise and interest in realising abstract concepts into reality without losing their dramaturgical essence.
I need your alchemy, Jayce. You remain unmatched as a creative partner.
On the practical side of things, I have secured a period of time with a theater off-Broadway to stage this production. The project requires a significant amount of elbow grease, and will likely not garner you much in the way of press outside of a few niche publications here in New York. I’m hoping that will not be a deterrent.
Additionally, I would like you to direct it. I cannot think of anyone I trust more. Let me know if you are interested in pursuing this collaboration.
Sincerely,
Viktor
[contact: +1 (718) 827-3045]
Jayce reads and re-reads the letter a few more times, and doesn’t realise he’s gripping himself by the throat until he starts to choke a little. He hears a dog bark outside as someone walks it down the path along the lake. The house feels too large, like it might swallow him if he doesn’t move around like he’s still alive.
There’s a return address on the envelope. Jayce presses it into his phone and finds himself booking the next available flight to JFK. He should call first, but he doesn’t want the first thing he says to Viktor to be over the phone.
He doesn’t pack much, he doesn’t need much. He’s not sure how long he’ll be gone, so he takes his walking aids, a few books from school on staging, plus a couple more notebooks, his laptop, chargers, underwear, comfortable clothes. He leaves his razor on the bathroom counter. He takes his most expensive cologne, then leaves it in the kitchen. His four-year chip, bright blue and cheap, goes into his zipped breast pocket right over his heart, where he rubs it unconsciously as he leaves the house.
The car arrives ten minutes early to him already waiting outside. The Monday sun beats down too harsh for spring. He finalises his hotel booking, something nice for two weeks or so on Lexington Ave, as LAX comes into view. He feels awake, really awake, like his eyes are finally open.
Right as he’s about to board, his brain kicks him into some level of responsibility and he shoots a text off to Mel.
me [09:13]
Might need to move some stuff in the calendar around.
I’m heading to New York for a while. Please don’t panic!
Then Jayce turns his phone off, slips it into his pocket, and grips his duffel’s strap tightly. He has no idea what to expect when he touches down, no idea what New York will feel like after so long. What Viktor’s going to say when he sees him. He tries to picture Viktor in his mind’s eye, but all that comes up is–
Amber eyes. Beauty marks. Sharp teeth in a soft smile.
Whatever. He can’t think about that right now, he can’t anticipate things he can’t control. All he knows for certain is that this is going to be something different, something that feels real again. It has to be.