igrab
in
grabi_hands
California Rain [Pinto, R]
Title: California Rain
Author: igrab
Pairing: Zach/Chris
Written For: trek_rpf_kink, for this prompt: I have a terrible need for a fic involving RAIN. Not sissy sprinkling rain, either, we're talking TORRENTIAL DOWNPOUR. Prefer Pinto; getting stuck in the rain accidentally, but you get bonus points if it's voluntary.
Rating: R
Word Count: 2,880
Notes: based on the song 'California Rain' by The Rescues
Disclaimer: This didn't happen, duh.
There's a reason they never talk about their first meeting. Oh, everything they say is true, to some extent, but none of it's the true story, because the reality is breathless and intimate and too perfect to put into words. They both know better than that, so they make things up, a new story every time, and they meet each other's eyes and smile because the truth is a moment that only they will know.
[ + ]
She left him on the side of the road.
He fucking hates life, right now. He hates Hollywood, too, hates the cheapness and the gold-plated filth and the bright whine of neon lights. He shouldn't hate it - it's what he's grown up with, but right now, he can't bring himself to like anything.
He's... god, where is he? He remembers being downtown, he remembers the boys and girls and the dancing and he's pretty sure he's had a little too much to drink because he can't remember what happened next. He clung to his friend's side, because he didn't know anyone but her, and she introduced him to a friend and fuck, he couldn't even remember her name.
Pasadena, that's where they were. And she said she had a flat in Eagle Rock - a 'flat', how quaint, he remembers thinking that and wondering if she was British and the car ride was a blur, but not because of his brain functions failing. He always gets weepy in cars, when he's had a little too much to drink. It's so bizarre. He'd get in the car and he'd just start crying, totally not his fault, and when the car stopped he'd be fine again. He'd tried to explain himself; it had all made sense then.
He must've said something wrong.
Girls are like that, god. One wrong word and it's like a switch flipped, they go all hysterical and slam on the brakes and kick you out of their cars without a goddamn second thought. Left him slumped on the curb, trying to press his forehead to cooling concrete as the sky darkened past twilight, trying to put himself back together. Trying to remember what was so important, about anything.
Now, either God hated him or empathized, and wanted to show his appreciation for this pathetic sidewalk leech's disconnected sob story. Chris thinks it's a good combination of both, and he has so much hate in his heart now that it breaks out the other side and he started laughing.
It rained.
Not just any rain. Not just the pussy little California rain, three drops and everyone squeals and runs into their arid homes, high heels clicking in the smoky tiles. This was like something from a nightmare, the kind where thunder cracks before the clouds even gather and the skies open up to unleash their fury. This was like upending the ocean. It poured.
And, Chris thinks as his forehead grinds into the harsh grain of the concrete, it's so fitting. Just so goddamn fitting, that here, now, it would start raining like there's no fucking tomorrow because for him, there might as well not be. He can barely remember his own goddamn name, he has no idea where he is and he's so fucking soaked, so fucking wet right now that he might as well drown.
Chris Pine, 22 years old, death by drowning in Los Angeles, California.
Oh, it was hilarious.
He thinks about everything, thinks about how the fucking Princess Diaries movie is coming out in four months and he's probably going to have fangirls, only they'll be fifteen and awful and maybe they'll cry, because he'll be dead. That's such a damn funny thought.
He sees the lights shift in the road; wonders if this is the first car that's passed him. He doesn't even know. He has no clue where they are, but it's still LA, right? There had to have been more people.
The car stops. The lights are way too bright and fuck, it's a cop or something, and he'll have to explain that his one-night-stand dumped him out in the road because of something he couldn't remember saying.
It isn't. The lights go off, and he can hear the window rolling down. What kind of fucked up senses are these; he can't hear the engine, or maybe it resonates with the buzz in the back of his head. He's having difficulty telling the difference.
"Hey."
That, that he could pay attention to. It didn't sound like a fifteen-year-old girl, and it didn't sound like a cop, but he had to make sure.
"Are you a fifteen-year-old girl?" He twists his head, forehead still plastered to the concrete, so he can look up and see who's leaning on the edge of their window, blocking the rain with their body. And, well, that's just a-okay with him.
Indie, is the first word he thinks. He's wearing a worn brown jacket, with bits of bright green poking out from under the cuffs, and his big stupid glasses are just laughable. It's not as funny as Chris being dead, though, so he doesn't laugh, just sort of stares with big blue eyes, his soaked arms keeping the rain from running into them and blinding him. He's glad; he likes this view.
And that's when he realizes that his white knight is laughing. He's got one hand clapped over his mouth and he's shaking a little, and Chris wonders what's so funny, but then he remembers what he said and it comes to him in a flash and damn, he's just on a roll tonight, and he laughs too.
"Come on," the handsome stranger says between chuckles, rolling his eyes. "Get in the damn car."
"I'm fucking soaked," Chris says, but he gets up anyway.
"I don't care."
He realizes something then, which he should've realized before, but he's not all as on top of himself as he should be.
"Have you been riding around with your windows down this whole time?"
The guy in glasses flashes him a quicksilver grin. "Maybe."
Chris thinks he may just be in love.
The front seat is squishy with rainwater when he falls into it, but he doesn't notice, because his pants can't possibly soak up anything more at this rate and he's just making everything worse. Or maybe better, he can't tell. "Won't it ruin your car?"
"Probably." He flicks on the radio, though, and heads along the street with the windows down and his elbow poking out into the downpour. It's so wet. He's probably still going to drown.
The thought makes him laugh and cry at the same time; laugh because he might die in a lameass way but he'll be somewhere better than the side of the road, and cry because he's still more than a little drunk and there's something about the car ride that's just so sad. Oh man.
"You okay?" From anyone else the question would've been a badly-disguised probe for sympathy, concern, all sorts of other stupid squishy things that Chris hated almost as much as he hated Hollywood. But goddamn, if this skinnyass stranger didn't just make it sound as if he couldn't give a fuck about the answer, and yet, he knew that meant he really did care. But maybe he understood, knew what it was like to be drunk on superficiality and that's why he was here, driving out in the goddamn rain because he wanted to feel just as much as Chris did.
Or maybe he was just drunker than he thought he was. He laughs, a sob choking through the sounds without him being able to help it. God, his nose is running too, his whole damn body is putting up its resignation. "What's your name, anyway?" he asks, a smile lighting his face and blue eyes standing out too-big in his face; or maybe, that's what he might've seen, if he could see himself. Maybe he just looks retarded, like a b-grade bum too unhinged to tell where this conversation was going.
"I'm Zach," he says, and his voice sounds like French chocolate, the kind you get in tins.
"Chris," he replies, without being asked, because he feels sort of lame about all this and he wonders if Zach's going to take him home and fuck him into the mattress. It's not a bad thought, but he also really wants to go to sleep. He might drown, though.
"Chris," Zach says, and he savors it in his mouth like a sip of wine, rolling it between his teeth. "Short for Christopher?"
Of course it's short for Christopher, he thinks, dazed, but it's totally unimportant because Zach said Christopher and each syllable sounded like a precious gem, held between two perfect, bow-curved lips. "Uh, yeah," he says, and he's startled to realize he isn't crying. He's nowhere near as drunk as he thought he was. "What about you, short for Zachary?" Because two can play at this game.
A smile curves the driver's lips, his eyes stay fixed on the road but it doesn't take a genius to know that he knows Chris knows the game they're playing. And fuck if it doesn't get him a little hot and bothered in the pants region, seeing that smile on that face. He's never seen anything like it in his whole life.
"Zacharias," and he's just dicking with him now, they both know it. Chris steps up the game.
"Well, my middle name is Fabio. We're a perfect match."
Zach laughs like water, like a stream bouncing and dancing over the rocks in its way. Chris is still kind of staring at his lips because no one should ever look that good in a lumpy gray fedora, the kind that doesn't match anything in existence out of sheer stubbornness.
He smiles despite himself, and he's looking forward to where this verbal banter is going, because maybe it'll crawl into the engine and get them to a place where they can fuck. Chris is all over that now. Maybe it'll be far enough away that he'll never have to come back here and face the music, never have to be pristine and British and formulated to push at preteen expectations, never have to be Christoper fucking Pine, he'll just be Christopher and no one will ever know.
But then, the car shudders to a halt.
Zach looks like he could kill something, and for a moment the entire thing could be over, sinking into a cold depression and the drama would stretch on for days, but Chris laughs. Because really, this whole night is so fucking surreal that nothing surprises him anymore.
And Zach joins him, and they slump over the dashboard and crack up, a different kind of tears running over their soaked faces. "I don't fucking believe this," Zach gasps, and Chris leans over and pulls his glasses off his face - they'd been knocked askew by the steering wheel, and he tells himself he's doing the guy a favor.
"I do," he says simply, and the smile is bright and his eyes are brighter.
They look at each other for a long, drawn-out moment. Without his glasses, Chris can see Zach's eyes, and if his voice was French chocolate, his eyes are pure, unprocessed cacao. He licks his lips. It's a bad habit, probably, if only because he tends to do it an inappropriate times. He can't help it.
One of Zach's eyebrows arches slowly. "Have you ever fucked in the rain?"
"No," Chris whispers, and excitement floods his veins as he receives confirmation for all his half-drunk leaps of logic. He doesn't know this guy but he needs this, needs to forget everything that doesn't matter and remember what it is to be himself.
He knows, as he watches Zach slide out of the car with a grace that should've been illegal, that this guy can understand that.
He ends up bent over the hood of the car, and this should've been cheap and dirty and overrated like everything he's been through in the last year, but instead it feels like heaven. Outside again, and he can barely tell the difference between the long tongues of cold October rains and the slide of hot fingers on his shuddering, slick body. His hands grasp at chafing, waterlogged fabric, squeezing out rivulets of wet, but it all blends together when Zach leans between his spread legs and their lips lock and slip and he tastes like California rain.
One leg presses up against Chris's crotch and he gasps, because there's so much pressure and his boxers are slicked to his cock, how the fuck are they going to do this, he laughs out loud because he feels so fucking free. This is amazing. He never wants it to end.
Clothes get pushed aside, and when skin hits skin, the water feels like boiling. Zach's making these sounds with that sinful voice of him, all breathy gasps and little back-throat whimpers and maybe, maybe Chris can do something about that. He curls a hand around his cock, squeezes but doesn't slide, pushes his shirt and coat up so the water beats down on his back as they rock together and - yes, Zach moans, the vibrations skittering down Chris's spine, fuck yes, that.
The rain makes everything more intense. Every time their mouth opens, water runs in, they cough and spit and suck on each other until they're writhing, fucking sinful on the hood of his fucked-up car. Too much rainwater, maybe. He licks a path up to Zach's ear and latches on tight - not enough.
"Harder," he whispers, and Zach's hand obeys like it was born to. He arches up into the welcome heat, licks his lips (subconsciously), this is hot and wet and cold all at the same time and he's feeling everything at once and his heart's too fucking full of bullshit for this, he's been hyped on adrenaline for what feels like hours and and when he comes, breathless and sputtering and jerking Zach over with him, he wonders how the fuck was this exactly what he needed?
Breathless laughter. He looks down and if he's fucking happy, Zach's ecstatic. "My god, this was the best idea I've had in years," he gasps, and Chris can't help smiling.
"Got any more of them?" he murmurs, his hands winding in tight to Zach's dripping hair.
"Call AAA and get home?" Zach's mouthing at his collarbone again, in a kind of lazy, affectionate way. It's ridiculously endearing and not at all what Chris was expecting, ever. Though he's pretty sure he stopped expecting when he realized that he was in the car with a fucking beautiful crazy person who drives in the rain with the windows down.
"Yeah," he breathes, leaning his head back until he's lying flat on the hood, drowning in the rain.
He doesn't ask who's home they're going to, because he knows that Zach knows that he knows that it doesn't matter. In the metaphorical definition, they're both already there.
[ + ]
"Hey," he says, and slides into the seat next to him, shit-eating grin firmly in place.
Zach gives him a Look. "Are you trying out for Kirk?"
"Duh." He whacks his leg with the rolled-up script, putting on a nonchalant face.
"You tanked your audition."
"I thought I'd give myself another chance."
He'd been watching the original series lately; not to pick on Shatner's acting, that was the first way to tank again. But he wanted to see why everyone said what they did about Kirk and Spock, and suddenly, it had clicked into place with a terrifying sense of rightness. It wasn't about his ability to be this character, this iconic representation that wasn't about the crowd but was all about him. It was about Kirk and Spock, and their interactions, and he remembered the day they'd met - the words they'd said hadn't meant anything, because there was something inevitable about the way they revolved.
He gets it, now. And he's going to have another chance to prove himself, because this audition, he'll be reading against Zachary Quinto.
He licks his lips and it's a bad habit. Zach watches him, and raises an eyebrow. He smiles.
He hasn't hated Hollywood for a long time now.
Author: igrab
Pairing: Zach/Chris
Written For: trek_rpf_kink, for this prompt: I have a terrible need for a fic involving RAIN. Not sissy sprinkling rain, either, we're talking TORRENTIAL DOWNPOUR. Prefer Pinto; getting stuck in the rain accidentally, but you get bonus points if it's voluntary.
Rating: R
Word Count: 2,880
Notes: based on the song 'California Rain' by The Rescues
Disclaimer: This didn't happen, duh.
There's a reason they never talk about their first meeting. Oh, everything they say is true, to some extent, but none of it's the true story, because the reality is breathless and intimate and too perfect to put into words. They both know better than that, so they make things up, a new story every time, and they meet each other's eyes and smile because the truth is a moment that only they will know.
[ + ]
She left him on the side of the road.
He fucking hates life, right now. He hates Hollywood, too, hates the cheapness and the gold-plated filth and the bright whine of neon lights. He shouldn't hate it - it's what he's grown up with, but right now, he can't bring himself to like anything.
He's... god, where is he? He remembers being downtown, he remembers the boys and girls and the dancing and he's pretty sure he's had a little too much to drink because he can't remember what happened next. He clung to his friend's side, because he didn't know anyone but her, and she introduced him to a friend and fuck, he couldn't even remember her name.
Pasadena, that's where they were. And she said she had a flat in Eagle Rock - a 'flat', how quaint, he remembers thinking that and wondering if she was British and the car ride was a blur, but not because of his brain functions failing. He always gets weepy in cars, when he's had a little too much to drink. It's so bizarre. He'd get in the car and he'd just start crying, totally not his fault, and when the car stopped he'd be fine again. He'd tried to explain himself; it had all made sense then.
He must've said something wrong.
Girls are like that, god. One wrong word and it's like a switch flipped, they go all hysterical and slam on the brakes and kick you out of their cars without a goddamn second thought. Left him slumped on the curb, trying to press his forehead to cooling concrete as the sky darkened past twilight, trying to put himself back together. Trying to remember what was so important, about anything.
Now, either God hated him or empathized, and wanted to show his appreciation for this pathetic sidewalk leech's disconnected sob story. Chris thinks it's a good combination of both, and he has so much hate in his heart now that it breaks out the other side and he started laughing.
It rained.
Not just any rain. Not just the pussy little California rain, three drops and everyone squeals and runs into their arid homes, high heels clicking in the smoky tiles. This was like something from a nightmare, the kind where thunder cracks before the clouds even gather and the skies open up to unleash their fury. This was like upending the ocean. It poured.
And, Chris thinks as his forehead grinds into the harsh grain of the concrete, it's so fitting. Just so goddamn fitting, that here, now, it would start raining like there's no fucking tomorrow because for him, there might as well not be. He can barely remember his own goddamn name, he has no idea where he is and he's so fucking soaked, so fucking wet right now that he might as well drown.
Chris Pine, 22 years old, death by drowning in Los Angeles, California.
Oh, it was hilarious.
He thinks about everything, thinks about how the fucking Princess Diaries movie is coming out in four months and he's probably going to have fangirls, only they'll be fifteen and awful and maybe they'll cry, because he'll be dead. That's such a damn funny thought.
He sees the lights shift in the road; wonders if this is the first car that's passed him. He doesn't even know. He has no clue where they are, but it's still LA, right? There had to have been more people.
The car stops. The lights are way too bright and fuck, it's a cop or something, and he'll have to explain that his one-night-stand dumped him out in the road because of something he couldn't remember saying.
It isn't. The lights go off, and he can hear the window rolling down. What kind of fucked up senses are these; he can't hear the engine, or maybe it resonates with the buzz in the back of his head. He's having difficulty telling the difference.
"Hey."
That, that he could pay attention to. It didn't sound like a fifteen-year-old girl, and it didn't sound like a cop, but he had to make sure.
"Are you a fifteen-year-old girl?" He twists his head, forehead still plastered to the concrete, so he can look up and see who's leaning on the edge of their window, blocking the rain with their body. And, well, that's just a-okay with him.
Indie, is the first word he thinks. He's wearing a worn brown jacket, with bits of bright green poking out from under the cuffs, and his big stupid glasses are just laughable. It's not as funny as Chris being dead, though, so he doesn't laugh, just sort of stares with big blue eyes, his soaked arms keeping the rain from running into them and blinding him. He's glad; he likes this view.
And that's when he realizes that his white knight is laughing. He's got one hand clapped over his mouth and he's shaking a little, and Chris wonders what's so funny, but then he remembers what he said and it comes to him in a flash and damn, he's just on a roll tonight, and he laughs too.
"Come on," the handsome stranger says between chuckles, rolling his eyes. "Get in the damn car."
"I'm fucking soaked," Chris says, but he gets up anyway.
"I don't care."
He realizes something then, which he should've realized before, but he's not all as on top of himself as he should be.
"Have you been riding around with your windows down this whole time?"
The guy in glasses flashes him a quicksilver grin. "Maybe."
Chris thinks he may just be in love.
The front seat is squishy with rainwater when he falls into it, but he doesn't notice, because his pants can't possibly soak up anything more at this rate and he's just making everything worse. Or maybe better, he can't tell. "Won't it ruin your car?"
"Probably." He flicks on the radio, though, and heads along the street with the windows down and his elbow poking out into the downpour. It's so wet. He's probably still going to drown.
The thought makes him laugh and cry at the same time; laugh because he might die in a lameass way but he'll be somewhere better than the side of the road, and cry because he's still more than a little drunk and there's something about the car ride that's just so sad. Oh man.
"You okay?" From anyone else the question would've been a badly-disguised probe for sympathy, concern, all sorts of other stupid squishy things that Chris hated almost as much as he hated Hollywood. But goddamn, if this skinnyass stranger didn't just make it sound as if he couldn't give a fuck about the answer, and yet, he knew that meant he really did care. But maybe he understood, knew what it was like to be drunk on superficiality and that's why he was here, driving out in the goddamn rain because he wanted to feel just as much as Chris did.
Or maybe he was just drunker than he thought he was. He laughs, a sob choking through the sounds without him being able to help it. God, his nose is running too, his whole damn body is putting up its resignation. "What's your name, anyway?" he asks, a smile lighting his face and blue eyes standing out too-big in his face; or maybe, that's what he might've seen, if he could see himself. Maybe he just looks retarded, like a b-grade bum too unhinged to tell where this conversation was going.
"I'm Zach," he says, and his voice sounds like French chocolate, the kind you get in tins.
"Chris," he replies, without being asked, because he feels sort of lame about all this and he wonders if Zach's going to take him home and fuck him into the mattress. It's not a bad thought, but he also really wants to go to sleep. He might drown, though.
"Chris," Zach says, and he savors it in his mouth like a sip of wine, rolling it between his teeth. "Short for Christopher?"
Of course it's short for Christopher, he thinks, dazed, but it's totally unimportant because Zach said Christopher and each syllable sounded like a precious gem, held between two perfect, bow-curved lips. "Uh, yeah," he says, and he's startled to realize he isn't crying. He's nowhere near as drunk as he thought he was. "What about you, short for Zachary?" Because two can play at this game.
A smile curves the driver's lips, his eyes stay fixed on the road but it doesn't take a genius to know that he knows Chris knows the game they're playing. And fuck if it doesn't get him a little hot and bothered in the pants region, seeing that smile on that face. He's never seen anything like it in his whole life.
"Zacharias," and he's just dicking with him now, they both know it. Chris steps up the game.
"Well, my middle name is Fabio. We're a perfect match."
Zach laughs like water, like a stream bouncing and dancing over the rocks in its way. Chris is still kind of staring at his lips because no one should ever look that good in a lumpy gray fedora, the kind that doesn't match anything in existence out of sheer stubbornness.
He smiles despite himself, and he's looking forward to where this verbal banter is going, because maybe it'll crawl into the engine and get them to a place where they can fuck. Chris is all over that now. Maybe it'll be far enough away that he'll never have to come back here and face the music, never have to be pristine and British and formulated to push at preteen expectations, never have to be Christoper fucking Pine, he'll just be Christopher and no one will ever know.
But then, the car shudders to a halt.
Zach looks like he could kill something, and for a moment the entire thing could be over, sinking into a cold depression and the drama would stretch on for days, but Chris laughs. Because really, this whole night is so fucking surreal that nothing surprises him anymore.
And Zach joins him, and they slump over the dashboard and crack up, a different kind of tears running over their soaked faces. "I don't fucking believe this," Zach gasps, and Chris leans over and pulls his glasses off his face - they'd been knocked askew by the steering wheel, and he tells himself he's doing the guy a favor.
"I do," he says simply, and the smile is bright and his eyes are brighter.
They look at each other for a long, drawn-out moment. Without his glasses, Chris can see Zach's eyes, and if his voice was French chocolate, his eyes are pure, unprocessed cacao. He licks his lips. It's a bad habit, probably, if only because he tends to do it an inappropriate times. He can't help it.
One of Zach's eyebrows arches slowly. "Have you ever fucked in the rain?"
"No," Chris whispers, and excitement floods his veins as he receives confirmation for all his half-drunk leaps of logic. He doesn't know this guy but he needs this, needs to forget everything that doesn't matter and remember what it is to be himself.
He knows, as he watches Zach slide out of the car with a grace that should've been illegal, that this guy can understand that.
He ends up bent over the hood of the car, and this should've been cheap and dirty and overrated like everything he's been through in the last year, but instead it feels like heaven. Outside again, and he can barely tell the difference between the long tongues of cold October rains and the slide of hot fingers on his shuddering, slick body. His hands grasp at chafing, waterlogged fabric, squeezing out rivulets of wet, but it all blends together when Zach leans between his spread legs and their lips lock and slip and he tastes like California rain.
One leg presses up against Chris's crotch and he gasps, because there's so much pressure and his boxers are slicked to his cock, how the fuck are they going to do this, he laughs out loud because he feels so fucking free. This is amazing. He never wants it to end.
Clothes get pushed aside, and when skin hits skin, the water feels like boiling. Zach's making these sounds with that sinful voice of him, all breathy gasps and little back-throat whimpers and maybe, maybe Chris can do something about that. He curls a hand around his cock, squeezes but doesn't slide, pushes his shirt and coat up so the water beats down on his back as they rock together and - yes, Zach moans, the vibrations skittering down Chris's spine, fuck yes, that.
The rain makes everything more intense. Every time their mouth opens, water runs in, they cough and spit and suck on each other until they're writhing, fucking sinful on the hood of his fucked-up car. Too much rainwater, maybe. He licks a path up to Zach's ear and latches on tight - not enough.
"Harder," he whispers, and Zach's hand obeys like it was born to. He arches up into the welcome heat, licks his lips (subconsciously), this is hot and wet and cold all at the same time and he's feeling everything at once and his heart's too fucking full of bullshit for this, he's been hyped on adrenaline for what feels like hours and and when he comes, breathless and sputtering and jerking Zach over with him, he wonders how the fuck was this exactly what he needed?
Breathless laughter. He looks down and if he's fucking happy, Zach's ecstatic. "My god, this was the best idea I've had in years," he gasps, and Chris can't help smiling.
"Got any more of them?" he murmurs, his hands winding in tight to Zach's dripping hair.
"Call AAA and get home?" Zach's mouthing at his collarbone again, in a kind of lazy, affectionate way. It's ridiculously endearing and not at all what Chris was expecting, ever. Though he's pretty sure he stopped expecting when he realized that he was in the car with a fucking beautiful crazy person who drives in the rain with the windows down.
"Yeah," he breathes, leaning his head back until he's lying flat on the hood, drowning in the rain.
He doesn't ask who's home they're going to, because he knows that Zach knows that he knows that it doesn't matter. In the metaphorical definition, they're both already there.
[ + ]
"Hey," he says, and slides into the seat next to him, shit-eating grin firmly in place.
Zach gives him a Look. "Are you trying out for Kirk?"
"Duh." He whacks his leg with the rolled-up script, putting on a nonchalant face.
"You tanked your audition."
"I thought I'd give myself another chance."
He'd been watching the original series lately; not to pick on Shatner's acting, that was the first way to tank again. But he wanted to see why everyone said what they did about Kirk and Spock, and suddenly, it had clicked into place with a terrifying sense of rightness. It wasn't about his ability to be this character, this iconic representation that wasn't about the crowd but was all about him. It was about Kirk and Spock, and their interactions, and he remembered the day they'd met - the words they'd said hadn't meant anything, because there was something inevitable about the way they revolved.
He gets it, now. And he's going to have another chance to prove himself, because this audition, he'll be reading against Zachary Quinto.
He licks his lips and it's a bad habit. Zach watches him, and raises an eyebrow. He smiles.
He hasn't hated Hollywood for a long time now.
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