I AGREE RE: ALL THINGS RE: BUFF COLIN AND CONTRIBUTE ‘BRADLEY ACCIDENTALLY DAYDREAMS ABOUT BUFF COLIN AND FREAKS OUT’ FIC
HOW EXCITING :DDDD
Fourth shoot of the day, in between breaks for backlight measuring and a pooping horse, Bradley starts up again about Colin’s workout. First it’s a hey, Hey did you try those upperbody ones I was talking about?, then it’s a pretend impressed pout as he pokes at Colin’s belly, Colin taking the poke like a sword to the gut and making a show of crumpling to the ground with a hand to the wound—a grimace over a grin. Then it’s a joke about Oh sorry, yeah sorry I forgot about the harvested powers of the thunder I have in this finger, and then it’s a But seriously, and seriously, and show me—seriously. Colin makes a face, bunches up a bicep, there’s mention of whether everyone actually has their tickets for the gunshow as Bradley laughs and feels the muscle, pretend impressed then real impressed, then surprised, mostly at himself. Think you could take me?, he asks, a sideway comment, and as the call for the next shoot spreads through the crew Colin answers with a self-assured shrug, a grin, jogging half backward to face Bradley. Bradley follows, juts his chin as if to say, Really though?
The lighting is adjusted, the poop is cleaned, and they film ten seconds of dialogue and a funny frown over the course of two hours. The muscles of Colin’s arm jump in his sleeves, his shirt flattens over his chest with every gust of wind and Bradley idly wonders every other pause between takes. He hears himself say it, think you could take me?, his own voice louder in memory and the sentence lodged in there for some reason—suddenly he wonders who else heard that, and if the joke transferred, and clears his throat with a quick shake to his shoulders to clear off a wave of embarrassment.
By the horse, Colin’s amused by something quiet. His dimple deepens. He has a hand on the horse’s neck, fingers moving absently, a leather strap across his shirt and he glances up at Bradley in time for take nineteen. There’s a flash of loose association, an end-of-the-day imagination, and at the unprecedented thought of Colin winning a bout of roughhousing, holding him down by his wrists, Bradley has to move wildly and immediately—trying to physically dislodge the hot spot at the base of his neck. The clammy sweat down his throat. He jumps up and down, squinting up at thin clouds with a puffy little laugh of incredulity.
Take nineteen will not be the winner of the day. They wrap at twenty-five. Colin’s shoulder is chafing because of the strap but he assures all who show concern that it’s fine. He reaches under the collar to rub at it when they’re walking back, and a sharp sideway wind full of chill and drizzle pulls the fabric taut, makes for goosebumps and does nothing, absolutely nothing for the warm and uneasy confusion bubbling low and long-coming at the pit of Bradley’s stomach. He lets out a loud breath and looks away.
You’ve gotta be joking, he thinks, thinks it loud to drown out the reply his mind quickly provides—the shirtless, sweaty reply that’s insistent and making his throat feel thick—la la dresses sheep tables Czech Portugal um shoes shoes—
“Oi.” Colin touches a back of a hand to his arm. Bradley snaps back with raised brows and a quick HMM? Colin smiles a little, gestures toward the arch where most of the knights are mulling around. It a question.
“Uh,” Bradley says, worries, then nods. They walk slowly, Bradley’s heart is beating oddly, and he worries. Suddenly, he worries.
NOW SOMEONE WRITE THE BIT WHERE THEY ACTUALLY ROUGHHOUSE IN THE CHANGING ROOMS AND GET AWKWARDED OUT BY THEIR INEVITABLE BONERS :3
The costume trailer seemed smaller than usual after striking that day. Despite the crew’s best efforts, everyone ended up a little bit soggy after the rain and the costume department was grumpy.
