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Peter arrives in Artemis with an Argoflex Twin Lens Reflex camera, a briefcase full of film and mild rocket sickness. He shuffles into the luggage hall bathroom, splashing his face with water. He’s never had motion sickness before but he supposes that travelling through space would be the thing to trigger it. He pats his face dry with paper towels.
As he leaves the bathroom, stepping into the polished atrium of the luggage hall, Peter becomes aware that he’s no longer on Earth. The air tastes different, more metallic somehow. The coppery aftertaste of an artificial atmosphere. Artemis is a silver city, everything platinum and gilt. Various shades of blue trickle their way in, black and white bleeding through the edges but silver is the colour of the hour. The only time the Moon is ever colourful is when the red carpet is rolled out and film industry gets dressed up in their finest.
Artemis, the capital city of the Moon, where movies are born and stars are made. The crown jewel of American cinema and simultaneously Hollywood’s biggest rival. The money may be dollars, it may be counted as the 51st state but the studios run this city, making cinema and waging war. No real bloodshed but equally cutthroat in its own way. Peter has devoured article after article about the industry, from in-depth journalism to gossip rags, desperate for every detail, every scandal, every glorious moon moment.
He’s not sure when he started looking up instead of down. Perhaps when he saw his first motion picture, Children of Ruin, (director Deucalion Blackwood, Property of Alpha Corp), when he was young. He remembers the strong smell of popcorn and faded velvet, the whirr and click of the projector, a welcome sound in the comforting blanket of the dark. He distinctly remembers staring up at the screen, speechless with awe, captivated by the moving images and later learning they were made on the moon he saw from his bedroom window every night. The moon became a shimmering orb of possibility, an escape from his overcrowded household, teaming with brothers and sisters who screamed and played rough and didn’t understand the science nor the art of cinematography.
Peter is contracted to work for Lumiére Limited, his first job out of college, as a first assistant camera operator. He’s incredibly lucky; anyone who wants to be anyone in the movies wants to work for Lumiére, although Peter would have equally have taken Alpha Corp if they’d been hiring. Lumiére owns the south of the city, Alpha Corp stretching east, Selene Studio to the North and the West split amongst the independent factions, all of them scrambling for real estate. Artemis is a city that runs on loyalty, it’s usually all you have to sell even when you do have the skills. A city of sign-here on the dotted line and everything you make belongs to us, young man and don't you forget it.
Peter buys himself a soda, amused by the gaudy packaging. An arrow of Artemis exploding a soda can, spraying the flavour everywhere. Peter picked Moonberry, eager to try something not of Earth. Of course, moonberries aren’t really like berries. They’re more of a root vegetable, growing deep in the moon’s soil, black as the void above them and sweeter than golden syrup. Peter takes a sip as he hails a cab, pleasantly surprised by the aromatic tang left on his tongue.
********
Peter sees him while he’s adjusting the focus for that day’s shooting, staring down the lens as he comes into view. Stiles Stilinski, the moon’s new golden boy, that is to say the moon’s new silver starlet. Pale as Selene herself and twice as gorgeous. He’s tall and lithe, the cape of swan feathers draped over his shoulders only accentuating the muscles. Bright amber eyes outlined in coal sparkle under the lighting, his whole face illuminated like a renaissance painting in a museum. He’s gorgeous and Peter has to spend all day making sure he stays in focus.
The studio is making some sort of swan maiden flick, all classical music and dignified dancing. Definitely not a talkie, no dialogue here, simply movement and interpretation. Stiles might be a rising star but this number is all about his leading lady, the irresistible Lydia Martin. She strides onto set, stubbing a cigarette out in an ashtray provided by a sanguine assistant.
“Let’s get this show on the road,” she barks, pointing an elegantly manicured finger at Stiles, “I don’t know if you’re much of a dancer but if you drop me I’ll make sure the only job you can get from here on out will be shining shoes at Artemis Airport for nickels and dimes.”
Stiles, to Peter’s surprise, throws back his head and laughs. It’s an all over body laugh, a stand up comedy sellout laugh and Peter finds himself oddly enamoured.
“Consider me warned Miss Martin,” Stiles replies. Peter didn’t expect that voice. He thought Stiles would have more of leading man voice, bold as brass and mind the accent now. Instead there’s a hint of California in the vowels, a wisp of Poland in the consonants.
“Just so we understand each other,” Lydia says, batting away a makeup artist attempting to powder Lydia’s nose.
Peter returns his attention to the lens in his hands, deliberately drowning out the rest of the actors conversation. He puts professionalism first, stowing the simmering desire deep, deep down, where it can’t make his hands shake or ruin his concentration.
********
Peter doesn’t speak to Stiles until they’re three weeks into filming. During lunch, Peter has taken to wandering offset to a little coffee shop around the corner from the studio, having found the provided spread to always be lacking when he’s allowed to serve himself. They serve coffee blacker than an eclipse and rich like satin, plus the sandwiches aren’t half bad. On the day Peter speaks to Stiles for the first time, he buys a black coffee and a turkey club.
When he returns to the studio, he finds Stiles smoking between prop pieces, leaning against an artificial tree as if he’d been taking a stroll through Luna Park. Cigarettes on the moon come wrapped in azure paper and smell of Turkish delight. The white smoke curls around Stiles like clawed hands, dissipating when he turns his head. Those clever eyes give Peter a once over, from his shiny black shoes to his grey v-neck sweater.
“You’re part of the crew right?” Stiles asks.
“I’m the one making sure your pretty face stays in focus,” Peter replies. Stiles grins, cheshire cat delighted.
“I think you’re meant to be making sure Lydia’s face is in focus.”
Peter dips his head, giving Stiles a once over of his own. Stiles has pulled a mauve sweater over his swan costume, kept the white tights though.
“I’m very good at my job,” Peter says, “trust me, the right things are in focus. Front and centre.”
Stiles takes another drag on the cigarette. He handles it with an overcomplicated delicacy, as if the cigarette is spun glass and candyfloss. One wrong move and the whole thing will crumble. Stiles has nice hands. Capable hands. Neatly trimmed nails, a deeper shade of slate than everyone else’s that Peter has seen. This strange side effect of living on the moon, your nails turning moon rock grey against your will. Peter’s have started to go pewter at the edges, the hint of what’s to come.
“What’s your name?” Stiles asks.
“Peter Hale.”
“Piotr,” Stiles mumbles under his breath, “Piotr, Peter, Peter.” He claps a hand on Peter’s shoulder. “Peter Hale, nice to meet you. I’m Stiles.”
“Stiles,” Peter says, voice pitched low and inviting, “Stiles, Stiles, Stiles.”
Stiles ducks his head as he removes his hand, a hint of blush making its way through the makeup. “I remember names better if I repeat them, usually the Polish pronunciation sticks better. Not a surprise given that it was my first language.”
Stiles first name is not actually Stiles. It’s something of a closely guarded secret and every gossip rag from here to Mars have tried their hand at guessing. Jennifer Blake, undeniable queen of slander and scandal, has made several attempts at catching Stiles off guard, printing all sorts of suggestions in her Argent Chronicle column. Peter has always assumed that it was Polish, given that Stiles spent most of his childhood there, only travelling to California after his mother died. Unlike other starlets, Stiles avoids the paparazzi; every modicum of information about his life has been teased out, or mentioned in passing.
“I’ve only ever been proficient in English,” Peter replies, “although there’s a smattering of French, leftover Latin and Greek from school.”
Stiles flicks cigarette ash on the floor. “I’m sure the French will be useful if Mars decides to muscle in on our motion pictures.”
“It’ll certainly ensure I’m employed should Mars come calling.”
Stiles gives Peter a wry smile before dropping his cigarette, grinding the stub under his heel.
“Well,” Stiles says, swinging his arms, “I better see if there’s anything left of the lunch buffet. Lydia will bust my chops if I drop her due to hunger pains. I’ll see you around.”
Stiles slinks off through the set pieces, taking the aroma of Turkish delight with him.
********
Peter is usually one of the first people on set. He has to ensure that all the lens are ready for the day’s shoot, has got the process down to a fine art. The cinematographer, a humorous Korean man called Ken, named the camera after a beautiful woman he once loved, Noshiko. Peter knows Noshiko inside and out, has tenderly assembled and disassembled her for each shoot and made sure no dust or bits of fluff interfere with the delicate film inside.
His process has been mildly disrupted by the presence of Stiles. Peter is sure that Stiles is arriving far before his call time, coming in to bother Peter with his chatter. Stiles is a talker, something the hearsay never mentioned. He talks about everything and yet nothing at all, his leaps of logic requiring a quick mind to follow. Sometimes Peter wonders if Stiles just wants to fill the silence.
Despite his protests, Peter enjoys the company. Stiles’ attention is all-encompassing, it’s hard to not want to bask in it.
********
“HALE! PHONE CALL!”
Peter groans, stumbling out of bed. The boarding house he’s staying in has a particularly shrill landlord, a man who takes great delight in screeching up the stairs instead of coming to your door. Peter staggers down the stairs, wondering who could be calling this early in the morning, on his day off no less.
There are no phones on the moon, more headpieces attached to radios with specialised frequencies set up to allow communication across town and across the solar system. Peter passes his lemon-bitter landlord, ignoring the loud tutting presumably at his unkempt appearance.
“Hello,” Peter says, slumping in the rickety chair provided for those who wish to make a call.
“What’s buzzin’ cousin?”
“Stiles, it’s eight-thirty. In the morning. On my day off.”
“Your point?”
Peter rolls his eyes. Stiles never seems tired, always has a strange exuberant energy about him that can be infectious if you let it. While Peter is all professionalism at work, can be up early and on time and ready to go, on his days off he much prefers to lounge, ever sloth-like in his desire to relax and unwind.
“How did you even get this number?”
“I have my ways. Are you doing anything today? Only there’s a new ice cream place that’s opened up on Losna Avenue and I heard they have real Earth-milk, none of that powder bullshit. Lydia won’t go with me, says dairy doesn’t agree with her.”
“So I’m your second choice.”
“No, I would have invited you regardless of Lydia’s lactose intolerance. Plus I can guarantee that you have seen the bare minimum of Artemis and I’m offering to be your comely tour guide.”
“Comely is one word for you.”
“I’m the goddamn cat’s meow and don’t you forget it. Now, ice cream?”
Peter sighs. “Are you going to take no for an answer?”
“Probably not.”
“I need to get dressed, not exactly presentable for company, unless the company wants to crawl into bed.”
“Easy tiger, buy me dinner first. Or ice cream in this case.”
“You earn more than me, shouldn’t this be your treat?”
“Stop yapping and go get dressed, I’ll meet you at the corner of Chandra and Losna in an hour.”
Peter hangs up. He rubs his chin, wondering if he has time to shave.
********
The ice cream parlour is the quaintest thing Peter has ever seen. Named Phoebe’s Fabulous Freezery (‘Because why would anything on this rock not be Moon-related’ Stiles had scoffed), the sign above the door is made of electric blue neon. Inside, the walls are striped cornflower and white, decorated with gilt framed pictures of silver screen starlets who’ve come to visit. The tables have gingham tablecloths draped over them and the backs of the metal chairs have been carefully folded into hearts. Along the back wall are the big display cases of ice cream, the air is thick with the scent of fresh cream.
The blackboards behind the counter detail all the fancy flavours, combinations and toppings available. In bold eggshell cursive in the middle is the clear statement - ‘We Only Use The Finest Earth-Milk to Create Our Delectable Desserts’. Peter peruses what’s on offer, pleased at being offered such a wide selection. Chocolate, moonberry, green-tea, mocha, almond latte, vanilla, pistachio, yuzu, Ube, Martian Blood Orange, lemonade, Moonbeam Marmalade, blackberry and brandy, Strawberry Sunrise, Belgian waffle, cinnamon, Celestial Sunflower, blueberry pie, Artemis’s Arrow.
The shop assistant, dressed in a crisp white apron over a powder blue dress, smiles warmly, picking up the platinum ice cream scoop.
“I’ll have a scoop of Moonbeam marmalade,” Stiles says, tapping his finger on the glass, “and a scoop of green-tea, with candied orange peel as a topping. Peter?”
“A Martian Blood Orange Sunday, please.”
They sit at a table between the counter and the wide windows. The ice cream is served in clear glass bowls, delicately etched with tiny cows prancing through fields of clovers. Stiles moans happily at his first bite, diving in for the second before Peter has even dipped his spoon in.
“Ugh, you can’t beat Earth-milk,” Stiles says, sucking every last drop off the spoon.
Martian blood oranges are not really blood oranges, more of a spiky pink grapefruit-type fruit that leaks red liquid when cracked open. It makes an excellent ice cream flavour.
The shop assistant asks shyly for a photograph, pointing to the nearest photo frame behind Peter’s head. The famous director, Deucalion Blackwood, enjoying a huge, ornate sundae with all the trimmings. Stiles’ smile is brighter than the camera’s flashbulb. He lets the assistant gush about his movies, promising to sign her poster of Sunrise On Ganymede the next time he stops by.
“So,” Stiles says, setting down his spoon, “how does a boy like you end up in a place like this?”
“We swapping origin stories?”
“If you like.”
Peter pauses, scraping the left side of his sundae to get the last of bright orange juice hiding in the corners.
“Got lucky. Lumière bigwigs were trawling all the liberal arts colleges looking for fresh talent. They liked my final project, thought I had real potential. Snatched me up before Alpha and Selene could find me.”
“Hmm that sounds like the final cut to me. All the edits have been made and music played.”
“You want the gory details?” Peter asks. He dabs at the corner of his mouth with his napkin. “The days and nights spent in the darkroom, slicing my project together until that’s all I knew how to do.”
Stiles waves a hand, a hold on gesture. “Tell me about why you came to the moon. Why you wanted this Tinseltown instead of the Earth version? Tell me about Peter Hale, aspiring cinematographer.”
“Let’s walk this ice cream off and I’ll tell you my sob story,” Peter suggests. Stiles nods, slaps a few dollars on the table, and winks at the shop assistant on their way out. She blushes like a salmon, waving a timid goodbye.
The morning has tap-danced its way to warm and bright. Someone has given the artificial air a spritz of orange zest today, it hangs around in the breeze freely handing out its peel. They take a wander down to Luna Park. It’s still early enough that the park is mostly empty. They meander towards the baseball field, enjoying the aimlessness of their roaming, the lack of clear destination.
“I’m from a big family,” Peter says, retrieving his sunglasses from the top pocket of his button-up shirt, “the kind of family where the number of generations living within the wall exceeds two. Siblings and cousins and aunts and uncles and grandparents, all spilling over, there’s always someone home, someone visiting, someone in your space. The only time I ever got any peace and quiet was at the movies. You have to be quiet there, no talking allowed. Just you and the screen and the safety of the dark.”
They pass the fountains, the earliest camera carved out of polished stone, spurting water into a shallow pool full of wishing coins. Stiles hops up on the rim, arms outstretched to keep his balance.
“So it was your happy place?”
“It was my earliest form of sanctuary until I discovered the dark room at my middle school.”
Stiles flips a dime into the water. It hits the surface with a soft plink, floating down to join its brethren at the bottom.
“What did you wish for?” Peter asks. Stiles raises a finger to his lips.
“If I tell you then it won’t come true.”
Stiles leaps from the fountain rim, landing with a flourish. Peter rolls his eyes.
“Peter in the dark room,” Stiles says, sticking his hands in the pockets of his trousers. “What did you take pictures of?”
“Whatever I thought was beautiful. Boys. Girls. Architecture. The way my battered copy of the Odyssey looked on my windowsill, the late autumn light behind it. The lightbulb sign of the local movie theatre.”
“If we had met back then,” Stiles says, spinning on his heel so he can walk backwards and look at Peter, “would you have photographed me?”
Peter laughs. “Do you want me to call you beautiful? You can read the Argent Chronicle if you want someone to fawn over you.”
“I’m not fishing for compliments. I’m just curious about whether I would have made your special collection of beautiful things.”
“Yes,” Peter says, surprised by his firm and honest tone. “Yes I think you would’ve”
“That’s what I like to hear.” Stiles’ smugness is charming, Peter is charmed against his wishes.
“I take it back, this has clearly gone to your head.”
“Can’t take anything back on the Moon,” Stiles croons, throwing an arm over Peter’s shoulder. “Once it’s here, it’s here forever.”
Someone has left a pile of pearlescent baseballs emblazoned with silver crescent moons next to first base, presumably leftover from a Selene Studios company game. Playing baseball on the moon is a fight against gravity. People walk around just fine, everyone’s shoes fitted with a little extra weight to stop people leaping up and away but throwing a ball is challenging. If it’s not weighted right some say you can fling it all the way to Mars, provided you know how to pitch.
Stiles picks up a baseball, tosses it between his hands. “You know how to play?”
“I was always more of a basketball kid. Now that’s a real sport.”
Stiles makes a disgusted face. “It’s America’s favourite past-time, you dishonour us all with your basketball allegiance.”
“You’re Polish.”
Stiles shrugs. “Only half, and anyway, you ever see the Brooklyn Dodgers play. Now that’s a real sport.”
Stiles tosses Peter the ball. He catches it in his left hand, throws it in the air a few times before chucking it back. Stiles has to take a step back in order to snag it out of the air, hurling it back almost immediately with a teasing smirk uplifting the corners of his lips. They throw the ball around for another hour, deliberately trying to make the other tumble and dart about. Stiles has a strong arm, he makes Peter work hard in order not to miss.
A group of kids want to use the field so they take their leave. Stiles tosses the ball to the self appointed leader, a gap toothed girl with hair white as chalk, who catches it with one hand. Her hair indicates she wasn’t born on Earth, the locals round here all have hair like this little girl.
“Isn’t it strange to think, one day there will be kids born on the outer reaches who’ll never see Earth?” Stiles comments.
“I heard the USSR is making a run for Pluto.”
Stiles wrinkles his face, lemon sour mouth downturned. “Urgh, who wants to live at the back end of space? They’ll go mad without sunlight, they won’t be able to get anything to grow.”
“Perhaps they’re drawn to the poetic idea of an endless night.”
Stiles shoves at Peter’s shoulder, all kitten playful. “They don’t want America to get there first more likely.”
“Presumably.”
“You never finished your story.”
“Hmm?”
“How you got to the moon? We left off with you in your middle school darkroom, a secret photographer of all things aesthetically pleasing.”
They’re walking down a path lined with symmetrical silver birch trees. Wind ripples through the leaves. Peter considers his next words with great care as if this is the only time he’ll have to get it right. The perfect shot while the light’s still good.
“Every culture has myths about the moon. About beginnings and endings and how to unravel the whole tangled mess of it all. Humans have always been storytellers, we can’t help ourselves. We tell stories all the time, about what we did today, what we saw, that funny thing that happened that one time, we tell our children fairy tales to get them to go to sleep at night. And sure, movies made on Earth are pretty good. Some are spectacular. But up here, on this rock that no one gave a damn about until America stuck a flag in it, there are no myths. No legends, no stories. Coming here, making art here, means we get to make our own, entirely new stories. Entirely new myths. And so I guess I wanted to come to the Moon because of that. Because I wanted to be part of the new generation of mythmakers. The new Gods.”
They’ve stopped walking. Stiles is watching Peter with his mouth slightly parted. The soft awe in that gaze only serves to heighten Stiles’ beauty. The pink lips, the cinnamon eyes framed by long lashes.
“Come home with me,” Stiles says.
“Right now.”
“Yeah, right now.”
Without all the makeup Peter can see how many moles are dotted across Stiles’ pale skin. He could trace constellations between them, make Stiles’ skin into a galaxy.
“Okay,” Peter says, “okay.”
********
Stiles apartment is the antithesis of the silver-blue world outside. The walls are ochre, the furniture made of light brown wood. Plants in copper pots cover nearly every surface. Some hang from the ceiling, Peter feels the touch of their leaves in his hair as he walks by. A velvet blanket the colour of saffron has been draped over the end of the bed, serving to make the cream sheets seem more yellow in tone.
Stiles has made a sunshine haven in the middle of this ashen landscape and when he pulls Peter into a heated kiss it’s like he’s pouring some of that light into Peter’s soul. Peter grabs at Stiles, wants to feel skin beneath his fingertips. He’s spent so long only touching the delicate insides of cameras, hard and cold and distant. Here, now, all he can think about is how warm Stiles’ skin is, how smooth it is and how Stiles smells faintly of coconut soap.
They end up on the bed, Stiles sprawled on the cotton sheets with Peter leaning over him. Peter unbuttons his shirt, dropping it on the floor beside him. Stiles raises a hand, fingers tracing over the curves of Peter’s shoulder muscles. The hand settles on Peter’s throat, thumb gently rubbing over the skin. Peter rucks up Stiles’ shirt, surprise at the thick dark hair Stiles has around his navel.
“What do you want to happen here?” Peter asks. Stiles’ hand moves from Peter’s throat to cup Peter’s face.
“I want you to fuck me,” Stiles replies, “eventually. It’s a destination that I’m happy to take the scenic route to.”
Peter ducks down to press his lips to Stiles. Stiles responds eagerly, licking between Peter’s lips to deepen the kiss. When Peter agreed to get ice cream he didn’t think that this is where he’d end up but he’s not complaining. He slows the kiss down, makes it languid but no less passionate. He feels Stiles relax beneath him. Stiles’ hand sneaks up into Peter’s hair, gripping it tight to tug Peter back. Peter goes.
Peter thinks he would go anyway Stiles directed him to and isn’t that funny. Peter’s previous flings have always been matchstick quick, he’s never stuck around to fan the flames.
Stiles shimmies out of his shirt, chucking it over Peter’s shoulder. They go back to kissing. It’s gentle. Exploratory. Both of them learning what the other likes, how hard to press, whether teeth are welcomed or discouraged. Peter discovers that Stiles will shiver his whole body if you bite down at the taut skin of his neck. Stiles finds out that Peter will growl, deep and low in his chest, if you roll your hips against his just so.
Soon they’re both naked. Peter has seen Stiles in various states of dress, the costumes for this swan maiden endeavour have been varied but a fully nude Stiles is new territory. He lets himself take it all in. The slope of Stiles’ back, the various moles usually hidden from view. Stiles is quite toned, he is a dancer after all, but it’s another thing to see it. To touch it.
Stiles is hard. He’s leaking over himself, the tip of his dick shiny and wet. Peter puts his mouth to it, suckling the head. Stiles whines, thighs gripping Peter’s head, a hand tugging Peter’s hair. Peter takes more of Stiles into his mouth, swirling his tongue and hollowing out his cheeks. Stiles makes a raw, desperate noise.
“God, Peter,” Stiles whines, his hips stuttering forward. Peter takes it all in his stride, his own hips rutting against the bed. He pulls off for a moment, presses a few biting kisses to Stiles’ thighs.
“Is this what you thought about?” Peter asks, voice husky. “When you watched me every morning? When you saw me take apart the camera, did you imagine me doing this to you? Taking you apart with me hands and putting you back together?”
“Fuck, you can’t just say those things.”
“Can’t I?” Peter doesn’t bother to hide his amusement. He slinks he way up Stiles’ body, presses his mouth close to Stiles’ ear. “Did you think about me fucking you? Behind one of the set pieces maybe? Pressing you against a wall, a hand over your mouth to keep you quiet, and just filling you up?”
“You’re a bastard,” Stiles pants, rolling them both over so that he can straddle Peter. He reaches over to grab some lotion from a nearby drawer. He slicks up his hand, looking obscene as he does so. Stiles’ hair is disheveled, his skin flushed. He takes both of them in hand, stroking them to completion. It’s fast and furious, Peter’s nerves singing.
It is the first orgasm of many, but because it was the first, it was somehow the sweetest.
********
Sometime after the third orgasm, Stiles gets hungry so they stop to order Chinese food. They eat it at the dining table in open shirts and underwear. Stiles attempts to steal one of Peter’s dumplings and gets smacked on the hand with chopsticks. Stiles pouts but Peter refuses to give in.
“So you heard my story,” Peter says, raising an eyebrow when Stiles makes another valiant attempt to steal another dumpling. “Are you going to share yours?”
Stiles takes a sip of wine, swirling the remaining liquid around the glass.
“My mother was a, I guess lounge singer is the American term. Spent most of my childhood in and out of dressing rooms, hiding under vanities, snacking on complimentary peanuts while dancers slipped into their costumes. Everytime I smell Chanel no 5, it’s like I’m back there, holding up tubes of lipstick so mom can pick the best one for tonight. This one time, I wanted to know what lipstick felt like so I smeared a tube of mulberry red over my lips. Mom caught me, laughed so hard she cried. Then the dancers descended, all glitter and feathers and we made me up properly. Little six year old me, ready to sashay with the best of them. And I guess I wanted to be a dancer then, wanted to dress up and move my body. Not a singer, didn’t inherit my mom’s ability to hold a tune, but I can always keep on the beat.”
The late afternoon light illuminates Stiles’ cheekbones. Stiles’ jawline is more distinct in this light, a sharp angle. He has four distinct moles on this side of his face, it could almost be the big dipper. Peter reaches for the bottle, refilling both their glasses.
He can imagine the type of club Stiles is describing. The stage along the back wall, elegant jazz band upon it, with Stiles’ mother centre stage. The air perfumed and smokey. The soft clink of glasses between raucous laughter and loud applause. The pop of a champagne cork, golden liquid sparkling and splashing into the crystal flutes. Catching the eye of someone gorgeous across the room, the singer crooning into the microphone as you invite them onto the polished wood dance floor.
“My mom died when I was ten. Aneurysm, right there on stage. Belted out the last note and then just dropped. Her family had disowned her when she got pregnant, so I was packed off to California, in the hopes the father would take some responsibility for what he had wrought. Dad didn’t know I even existed until I turned up on his doorstep, a tiny Polish kid who spoke the bare minimum of English, much better French and the only proof of his claim being a photo of his mom, some, I would later learn, very indecent love letters and a scrap of paper with an address on it.”
Stiles pushes his bowl away, brings his glass closer. Peter takes Stiles’ left hand, rubbing his thumb across Stiles’ skin. Stiles smiles, a little sad, a lot beautiful.
“Turns out, I was not built for a small town. God the quiet, it presses against your ears at night. If I was ever home alone, and that was a lot, my dad was a Sheriff’s deputy then the Sheriff, I would play records or recite poetry or read aloud, just to escape the quiet. That being said, the local church ran dance classes. Leave room for Jesus but dance classes all the same. So I went dancing and I got pretty good at it, and I took part in community theatre; did you know I could probably build you a half-decent set with the least amount of tools?”
“I don’t doubt it.”
Peter imagines a sixteen old Stiles, shirt sleeves rolled up, with iron nails in his mouth as he hammers a wooden stage. Paint flecked skin, hair falling in his eyes, sweat on his brow. Peter thinks about himself at that age, all slick-backed hair and fingers stained with photography ink. Two charming misfits, perhaps they might have crossed paths, might have even been friends. Stiles bathed in the crimson red of the dark room, whining with pleasure as Peter blows him against one of the tables.
“Anyway, all I want for my eighteenth birthday is to go to Hollywood. I just want to see it, just witness it. Being a town Sheriff has its perks but riches is not one of them but still my Dad saved and saved and saved to afford me a halfway decent hotel and a few days down there. On my own, had no real friends who I wanted to share it with and Pops was busy working. So I head down there, only a few hours drive from my town and when I arrive, I see this sign. Open Auditions, Lumiére is looking for dancers. On a whim, I audition and well, that’s how I ended up here. They liked the cut of my jib, so to speak.”
“You left the planet on a whim?”
Stiles tilts his head, expression unreadable. The wine bottle is empty, the last dregs cling to the bottom of Stiles’ glass.
“Every time I dance, it’s like I’m back in that dressing room. It’s like I can hear my mom’s voice. When I dance, I feel… free.”
Peter knows that hearing Stiles speak passionately about his past is a privilege. He’s been invited into Stiles’ space, been given access to a little piece of Stiles’ soul. He hoards this information deep within him, hoards Stiles’ trust like the precious jewel it is.
Stiles gets up suddenly. He crosses the room to where an ornate record player is perched on an oak side table. He flicks through a box of records next to it before pulling one out. He places it on the turntable, gently bringing the needle across and setting it down. Swing music begins to play, filling the room with it’s sonorous notes. It’s something new, something Peter hasn’t heard before.
Stiles extends a hand, beckoning Peter to join him. Peter grins, getting to his feet. He lets Stiles’ lead, expecting that Stiles will do so anyway. Stiles spins Peter about the apartment, the hand on Peter’s waist occasionally sneaking lower to grope Peter’s ass. Peter gives as good as he gets, dipping Stiles at one point and kissing him hungrily.
They eventually gravitate back to the bed, the record lazily spinning into silence, replaced with the sound of Stiles’ moans.
********
At the wrap party, Stiles wears a maroon three piece suit with a crisp white shirt and burgundy tie decorated with magnolia blossoms. Later, Peter will use that tie to secure Stiles’ wrists to the headboard but right now, Stiles keeps fiddling with it, trying to loosen it. Peter slaps Stiles hands away, adjusting the knot of Stiles’ tie himself. He can feel Stiles’ exhaling breath on his cheek.
“One would think you’d never worn a tie before.”
“I feel like I’m choking,” Stiles mutters.
“Darling if you want me to make you feel like you breathless, you only need ask.”
Stiles snorts.
A waiter offers them champagne. Stiles holds the glass with a loose wrist, ever nonchalant in the way he holds himself.
The wrap party thrums with life, the cast and crew dressed in their finest to celebrate the completion of this swan maiden epic. Peter is wearing a tweed suit, complete with wine red waistcoat. His pocket square matches the burgundy of Stiles’ tie but only the eagle-eyed would be able to tell.
Lydia, across the room holding court, is wearing an arsenic green gown; it cinches at the waist, the fabric spilling out from her hips like a fountain. Her strawberry blonde hair is piled high on her head, emeralds the size of asteroids hang from her ears, attracting dapper young men to her with their sheen.
“So what’s next for you?” Peter asks. Champagne sizzles on his palette, the artificial atmosphere makes anything alcoholic simply sing on the taste buds.
“Bobby Finstock wants me to do his next film.”
“The cartoonist?”
Stiles nods. “He wants to break into live action. Wants to film on Venus of all places.”
Venus is beautiful, allegedly. Notoriously tricky to get travel visas for, usually directors recreate the marshy surface with specialist sets. Not to mention the opaque layer of clouds above, preventing any natural sunlight from peeking below.
“He’s going to need experienced lighting technicians,” Peter comments, placing his empty glass on a waiter’s offered tray.
“A good cinematographer too,” Stiles replies. He gives Peter a wry and mischievous smile. “Know anyone?”
Peter raises an eyebrow. “Are you suggesting that you’ll put in a good word for me?”
“I’m suggesting you’re as good as hired.”
“Stiles, if I were to get this job, I would want it to be on my own merit…”
Stiles interrupts before Peter can finish. “Of course it’s on your merit, do you think Finstock does anything anyone asks of him? And don’t you want to see Venus, who knows when the Chinese Government will open it up to tourists?”
Peter nods, considering Stiles’ convincing arguments. “How did Finstock even judge my merit?”
“I showed him your portfolio, the one that got you hired for this Lumiére flick in the first place.” Stiles puts an arm around Peter’s shoulder. “You got talent kid.”
Peter shakes his head, somewhat amused. “Well, seems we’re both gainfully employed. We should do something to celebrate.”
Stiles grins, the cat who has got the canary, the cream, the Sunday roast and the chocolate truffles you were saving for a special occasion. “I think that’s an excellent idea.”
********
Venus is a permanent cherry sunset. An entirely pearlescent world, candy striped and coral. It is a land of little sun, near constant rain and fuschia seas. Everyone travels by boat, delicately carved sampans in the marble cities, ferrying passengers between the floating structures, whilst out in the deep, giant cargo-carrying Junks rule the waves, their delicate red sails navigating the changing winds with ease.
Peter takes a deep breath, filling his lungs with another planet’s air. He’s under the awning of their hotel, in the small city of Xainhai in the North hemisphere of Venus, watching the salmon pink rain slapping the marble steps in front of him. Stiles is at the breakfast buffet in the dining room behind him, stacking his plate with pork bao buns and dim sum. Finstock, white cup of green tea in one hand, saunters over. He’s wearing a green flat cap, black diamond sweater-vest, white shirt, black trousers and obnoxiously neon green wellington boots.
“You know kid,” Finstock booms, bringing a hand down on Peter’s shoulder. Peter’s knees nearly buckle from the impact. “At first I thought you had too much of a fresh off the rocket look about you. A little wild, litter squirrely you know. But I’ll say, you got the eye kid.”
“The eye?”
Finstock nods. “The eye.”
He wanders away, not bothering to clarify what he means. This seems to be a habit of his, one Peter is slowly getting used to. He had heard claims that Finstock was eccentric but those reports failed to capture how intense he really is.
Stiles appears at Peter’s shoulder, mouth full of dim sum. He swallows before speaking. “This endeavor is either going to be amazing, or Finstock is going to drive us all insane and we bury him in the mud flats of Venus like some kind of Irish bog body.”
“Charming.” Peter snags a pork bun from Stiles’ plate.
“I’m just saying, my dad is a Sheriff, I think I could get away with murder.”
“I’m sure you could.” The pork bun is sweet and fragrant. Peter finds himself finishing it in a matter of seconds.
Stiles looks out at a passing sampan, waving to the occupants. A small Chinese girl waves back shyly.
“This is going to be amazing,” Stiles decides, tone leaving no room for argument. He turns to look at Peter, his gaze full of an emotion Peter can’t quite determine. “I’m glad I’m sharing this with you.”
“So am I.”
They watch the rain fall on Venus, the beginnings of love blooming deep in their chests.
********