He has Callum standing against a chain-link fence on the back lot of the set. "Just act natural," he'd instructed, but that seems impossible. Click, click. With each exposure, it feels like his skin is tightening uncomfortably around his bones. Not a lot he can do about that, so he's just leaning and smoking his cigarette and trying to project an air of "this is the real me" when he hears a distinctive voice off to the left.
Paul. That theater-voice, clear as a bell even over the bustle of the set, is several yards away and coming closer. He's talking some producer-thing, as usual, but Callum can't concentrate to decipher it over the sudden, deafening noise of his own voice chanting in his head: Don't look, don't look, don't look!
He's seen the dailies, he knows that the camera occasionally picks up on his stares. I mean, can you blame him? The guy's married, but that wedding ring didn't come with a paper bag over his head, and Paul's got a face that would make a nun think twice about those vows. Still, he's determined that this photographer's not going to get a snapshot of him mooning like a horny teenager over his matinee-idol costar, no way. Don't look!
The voice comes a lot closer; Paul is maybe a few feet away, still out of his line of sight. Then he goes quiet, but Callum is absolutely convinced he's standing and watching. The whole left side of his neck is twitching, like someone touched a fingertip to the tendon there. He desperately wants to shake his jitters out, but of course, he's supposed to be posing, staying still for the camera, so he compromises. He sticks the cigarette between his lips, grasps the fence with both hands and leans forward, stretching as much as he can.
At first it's better, and then it really isn't. It feels as if he's chained there, all of a sudden, pinned by the gaze he isn't even sure is really on him. And the camera's clicks are like a zoetrope, each flick of the shutter showing him a newly shocking image: he's chained, no, click, he's held in place by blunt-fingered hands, and then, click, soft hair brushes his cheek as his neck is grasped gently by sharp teeth and then, click, there's a knee between his legs, nudging at him roughly, and then..."That's great, Callum. That's very good! Hold that!"
Startled back in to reality, he grips the fence harder and concentrates fiercely on keeping his expression neutral, while his heart beats triple-time, and his whole body aches with tension.
Finally, it's done and he sags against the fence, looking immediately over to where, sure enough, Paul is standing and watching. He expects the goofy grin and cheerful greeting he always gets from the guy, but instead, Paul's eyes are solemn, clouded with something that looks almost like recognition. Callum looks away.
~fin