Summary:
Asa personifies young genius, but he’s learning that every film has a breaking point, a point that makes him want to turn back from his commitment. Each new project brings a new challenge and an even greater breaking point. He hasn’t backed down yet, but when he’s asked to play a difficult role, all the professionalism in the world won’t help him fake the part.
Warning: Rated R, slash oriented
Disclaimer:
I do not know anything about the real Asa Butterfield and have no connection with him. I made it all up and hope he’s okay with it. This piece is still a rough draft, not finalized. I’m testing the waters. The social/political issues in this story are only used as props to tell a story, not to raise awareness or stir up any trouble. This scene wanted out, so I let it. I’m lifting Asa up, in the slashiest way I can and still show respect.
Asa thinks Marshal is looking at him, but Marshal isn’t. Marshal is looking at the sun, all orange and glowing on the inside of the plane. It turns the cabin’s beige paneling into brilliant morning illumination. It turns all the passengers’ skin into memories of shinny golden things he used to hold up to the sun as a child, Frisbees, Mickey Mouse sippy straws, broken colored glass. The sun makes everything beautiful, even dirt. Humans are hard-wired to light up when the sun hits their pupils. No point in letting Asa take credit for it.
That’s why he stares at Asa, who’s currently hogging up all the sun in his white T-shirt. His undershirt. Asa’s shirt is the brightest thing in their cabin, which is cramped with eight people. So bright, Marshall has to squint, but he can’t stop staring at the cotton threads of light-play. The shirt looks clean and soft.
“What the hell are you staring at?”
Asa, apparently, wasn’t really asleep.
“Does it bother you?”
“Well, yeah.”
“Then control your own staring. There’s no way for you to know I’m staring unless you’re just as guilty of the same thing.”
Eyes rolled, accompanied by a thin smile. “Asshole.”
Score. He wasn’t going to give Asa credit for the sun’s work. Anyone could look like that in the sun. Asa is just a kid in a maturing body. Besides, he has no idea what he’s got. Marshal didn’t want to scare him. It’s just that he’s perfect for the script but he’s not ready for it. No point in not speaking. No point in acting like nothing happened at Olive’s little New Year’s party last night. One thing he liked about working with this director, she believes in her script. She believes in her actors. Presently, she slept under a blanket beside him. Their seats faced away from the sunrays the other passengers were enjoying. She’d given Asa all the time he needed to get around his problem, short of offering therapy. Marshal was impressed with that.
They shot around Asa’s problem scene, against studio wishes. When it came time again, and he still couldn’t do it, it was Olive’s idea to fly her little camp of actors to her Montana home. Heather Keasley, the female lead, slept beside Asa. Olives twelve modest acres of mountain views could inspire anyone to open up and talk. That was her therapy. And it fucking worked.
Olive is not a spontaneous woman, so you could tell she’d put some thought into what she would do if she came up against Asa’s little problem again. She’d make him comfortable, get him to trust her, put together a presentation of other actors who overcame similar challenges, feed everyone, and discuss the historical ramifications of a star like Asa having the guts to do what she’s asking him to do.
At one point, after gaming in her den, we sat on the floor and she took his hand, “I would be willing to start a campaign against homophobia. Anyone can dump ice water over themselves, but it takes real balls for a straight leading man with a rock-solid image to uphold, to kiss another man, on camera. Sure, it’s been done, but not without the fear that surrounds the threat to one’s image. People are still afraid to be gay, for god’s sake. I’d like to see straight people all across the world, sacrificing their reputations, to free the world of its homophobia. Can you imagine, viral videos of your favorite straight, same-sex actors kissing?”
We only turned the TV on to watch the ball drop and wish each other a happy new year, in sync with the rest of the Mountain Time Zone. Like all of us, Asa listened to Olive politely and watched her put away two bottles of wine, without yawning. The rest of us, our bodies on global time zones, drank fruit smoothies out of martini glasses. The script was her baby. Olive, short for Olivia Ofrahasa, is a small, delicately framed woman of Armenian descent. She made independent films with her twin brother until his death in 2002. She only tells us that it was a hate crime that took his life and she has vowed to use her work to remove all hatred from the association of being gay.
“I want people to care when someone looks down their nose at gays. Not laugh and shrug it off just because they themselves are not like that. I want people to see that it starts with the attitudes of straight people. And this is why you are my prize, Asa. Studios want to protect their investment as they escort you to leading roles that inflate public perception. New generations are noticing you, both older and young. You have the power to persuade honesty and compassion from your fans.”
Asa shrugged, shaking his head. “That’s way too much pressure. I just want to act and be myself.”
High pitched giggles spilled from Heather Keasley. “That’s a contradiction. Sorry, go on.”
Asa’s head tilted. “I know it is, but I want to do this film. I just don’t like this scene. And that’s a contradiction too. But so what, you can’t expect me to be perfect. None of you are. I think if we don’t make such a big deal out of it, I’ll get through it fine.”
Heather stretched her green stockinged legs and pointed to Asa with her smoothie, “We tried not to make a big deal out of it. We filmed around it. Now it’s time to look at it for what it is, a big-ass deal. Which is exactly why I want to do this film. It addresses that. Your difficulty addresses that.” She wiggled her toes, which looked oddly muscular in her hosiery.
Marshal felt sorry for the kid, but he wasn’t going to save him. You can’t save someone from the stress that will eventually teach him. What he needs to know about his career choice is exactly what gets him up and headed for the kitchen. Asa makes an excuse about getting water. Olive’s made it clear we’re to help ourselves.
Both ladies look at me expectantly. “Go check on him.” Like Marshal’s the one who ran him out.
“He’s not a baby. He can handle it.”
They grimace. Now he’s the bad guy.
Marshal gives Asa a couple of minutes before going to check on him. When he enters the kitchen, Asa doesn’t look up. He stands at Olive’s stainless steel cooking range, which is an ugly bricked island in the middle of the kitchen, and waits for Marshal to walk by. Marshal heads for the sink. He dumps his smoothie in favor of water. As he fills his glass, he prays that Asa will get it off his chest. When he turns around, Asa is standing right in front of him. “Okay. Do it.”
Marshal doesn’t even have room between them to lift his glass. Asa is practically shaking, fingers twitching. He’s so tall and out of sync with his skinny, angular frame that it makes him look even younger and more awkward. Marshal is certain that when he catches up to maturity, he’s going to make someone very happy. But he loves it, and decides to have fun with him.
“What exactly do you want me to do?”
“You know, man. The scene. Just do it before I back down. Get me past it.”
“Um, what are you saying?”
“Those fucking bitches! I am not homophobic. Just because I don’t want to kiss a guy doesn’t mean I’m that way. It just means that I am naturally not inclined to kissing guys. I’m no more homophobic than gay guys are heterophobic, if that’s a word.”
A white line of tension formed above his mouth. Marshal pressed his glass against Asa’s shirt, coaxing him to take a step back.
“I hear ya, calm down.”
“This is not cool, bringing me here to guilt me into doing what I already agreed to do. I’m sorry if it’s not going as well as I wanted. I don’t know what else I can say.”
“Chill. Calm the fuck down. You don’t have to say anything. Olive doesn’t mean any harm. She thinks she’s helping you.”
“God, this is stupid. It’s not a big deal, it’s really not and I need you to prove that with me.”
“You don’t have to prove anything. If you don’t want to do the scene, just have the balls to tell her.”
He shook his head. “No, that would prove I’m homophobic, wouldn’t it?”
“Well, yeah. But if that’s who you are…”
“Bullshit! You’re wrong.”
“Look, answer me this, are you my friend?”
“Of course we’re friends.”
“You can’t call me wrong and say you’re my friend at the same time.”
“Yes, I can. You’re wrong and I like you anyway.”
“Then why are you shaking at the idea of kissing me? You’re so uncomfortable at the idea. It’s that instinct to back away, that this script is fighting. If you don’t want to be in this fight, you shouldn’t do this movie. This is not a joke, this is my life and deep down you loathe what it means to be gay. I need you to admit that.”
“All because I don’t want to kiss you?”
“Trust me, I don’t want to kiss you either, but you did something tonight that pissed me off. You’ve bashed Heather as a total bitch since we started filming. The ball drops, her date is no where to be found, and when she begs you to play nice and kiss her for a New Year’s selfie, you do ’cause you’re a nice guy. Well, let me ask you, if a guy wanted that same kindness, could you do him the favor? Could you not let it be a big deal and just dive right in? I refuse to believe that it is the mere fact of how tissue is formed between her legs, that makes it possible for you to put your lips to hers, even though you loathe her. But you like me, yet the thought of putting your lips to mine, because of how tissue is shaped between my legs, is so repulsive you can’t get through one scene.
“Is a flap of skin really that powerful? Is it a biblical hypocrisy, or just what family, friends, and fans will think when you no longer live to please them?”
Marshal waited for a reply that Asa couldn’t provide. He took the opportunity further. “I don’t have a problem kissing girls because I don’t despise the idea of it. It’s not my favorite, but I can do it. The only reason you can’t kiss a man is because you secretly despise the idea. It’s a very shameful thing to you. And as long as you hate the idea, you hate me. And that’s what I see every time you look at me.”
Marshal saw that he was no longer in Asa’s focus. The kid stared at his own inner movie, eyes grazing in a path from Marshal to rustic, stained counters with brick and mortar walls behind them, to all the stylish silver appliances and surfaces. It had to be the ugliest kitchen Marshal had ever seen. Tension still held Asa’s shoulders rigid, but his back lost whatever weight it was carrying as he took another step back and let the island counter support him.
He shrugged. “There’s always a difficult part in every film. It makes you consider turning back. I just don’t want to turn back. I’ve never turned back from anything that I knew I truly wanted.”
“So what is it you want from this film?”
“I want it to not be a big deal. Olive asked me to do it. When I read the script, I told myself it wasn’t a problem. Now it’s something that’s making me feel afraid. And if I run from it, if I avoid it, that bothers me even more. It doesn’t make any sense.”
“It makes sense. You’re afraid of what people will think, it’s part of the tribe mentality. Survival is tied to it. Believe what the tribe believes or face rejection, or worse. God forbid you like it, then you’ve got a problem on your hands.”
“Holy shit, don’t talk like that.”
“We all need the tribe. But the tribe can’t help us solve our individual problems.”
“Enough. Are we doing this or what?”
Marshal folded his arms and shook his head. “You have to let me know that this is what you want. I shouldn’t have to assume anything or coax it out of you. So say it.”
“Oh god, this is too weird.”
Marshal leaned towards him. “If you can’t do it when we’re alone, you can’t do it when the camera’s rolling.”
“Just do it already.”
Marshal stepped closer. “How many times are you going to turn your head before we have to re-cast?” While he kept his tone light and conversational, his arm reached for Asa’s waste, speaking more advanced than his words. Asa pushed at his arm, prompting Marshal to immediately release him. Marshal held up his hands, “No crimes happening here.”
“Okay, this is just nerves. You’re going too fast.”
“Any slower, and we’ll still be here tomorrow. I’m going as slow as I can.”
“Well don’t hold me like that. You’re all up on me.”
“When I kiss a guy, I put my whole body into it. We’re not filming you kiss your grandmother.”
Asa squirmed. “Oh my god, I’m going to fight you, you gotta give me that. Just please do it and get it over with.”
“I’m trying.”
This time, when Marshal’s arms encircled him, Asa forced himself to hold still. Too still. Marshal felt like he was holding a six foot plank of wood. Resistance trembled to the surface of Asa’s skin, communicating fear and excitement. At least he felt warm and good in Marshal’s hold. Light perspiration added a nice touch, revealing what Asa would never admit about being excited.
“Now, don’t put all the responsibility on me. Do something to show me that in spite of your anxiety, which curiously takes the form of resistance, you really do want me to kiss you.”
“Oh my god, just do it.”
“Give me something first, Asa.”
Steel determination in Asa’s brow proved sexier and funnier than his tremulous effort to lean into Marshal. A twitching brush against his cheek confirmed that Asa had just attempted some sort of consenting invitation.
Marshal knew that laughing would ruin everything and leave him holding a cold draft instead of this warm, nervous body. He inhaled Asa. He didn’t have the will to play it nice for much longer. He would never again have the opportunity presented to him right now. That sweet cherry mouth had to be tested by the world, had to fight for its adulthood, its rightful place. It would be abused by girlfriends, aged by experience, and dulled by age. Why not taste this tender young man while Asa was still inexperienced enough for it to matter to him? Life puts you through so much, you can lose the ability to get excited over the little things. Things stop being new and unpredictable. Thrills solidify into normal and mundane. We reach for safety, then wonder why we’re so bored.
Marshal didn’t realize he had a problem with taking Asa’s beautiful mouth for himself, until he was. Maybe the kid’s fears were justified somehow by the lust any man would feel, gay or straight, with another sexual body against theirs.
Marshal held Asa’s arms to his sides, bending to kiss him. It was more struggle than technique, as Asa’s body attempted to adapt and learn. Marshal was smart, holding the kiss first, closed mouth and chaste, before drawing back. He gave Asa a second to adjust to his own shock before pulling him into a short succession of smaller kisses. This, before finally convincing Asa to open his mouth and let him in.
Slow, slow, careful, he wants to pull away. Can’t have him thinking it’s over, thinking when will it end. Show him that it goes somewhere, if he’s willing to follow.
Marshal broke it off to observe Asa. If the kid wanted to run, now was to the time to do so. But Asa looked uncertain. “Wow, am I doing it right?”
Hell yeah you are. Marshal said nothing of Asa’s rigid stance, his delayed reaction, or the timidity of his tongue. His steadfast ability surprised Marshal. He may not have experience with men, but he brought to Marshal, a sincere desire to know what kissing a man was all about. Was it worth all the fuss? Marshal wanted to make sure it was for him.
At first, Asa moved like he was counting to the mechanical challenge of give and take, to and fro, with all the enticements that a wet and germy kiss with a stranger can hold. But as warmth shifted between them, facts fell away and muscles tensed for a different reason. Marshal felt that ancient pressure and prayed to god that Asa felt it too. Pressure wound down so tight, that it solidified into a new incentive.
Asa’s novice stature let Marshal do all the work. Marshal enjoyed the work. Asa reminded him of a child happy to be taking steps, not concerned with how well they were being taken. He loved it when he could get Asa to squirm. But the goal quickly became to hear what he caused the guy to feel. A movement of sound deep from Asa’s throat, just a little, sent a thrill up Marshal’s spine like no other. There were many layers to that voice, many changes, and they all echoed off the walls of Marshal’s desire. There were underground cathedras in the bottomless tones elicited. It was new masculinity strong and tender in a unique combination. And no, it could not be gotten from a woman. Not quite the same way. It was strong. And no matter how hard he held Asa, the kid returned his strength. He urged Asa for more of his tactile voice, more groan, more whimper, any sound he could push from him.
When it ended, it ended abruptly and well. So well that Asa kept repeating, ‘Oh, god,’ like he was in trouble. He couldn’t look at Marshal for two seconds at a time. And so well that Marshal kept quiet, not daring to reveal that he knew anything more than what Asa wanted him to know.
That’s what he was thinking when the plane took off the next morning. Olive wanted to film details of Asa that no camera could ever record. Where a chosen boy meets a mythical mystery, and all that unfolds. She’d get her awkward kiss, but she’ll never get what she’s trying to film. That private war of Asa’s will and his body’s rights, all fought on the battleground of his mind. The fear of feeling pleasure at the hands of something you hate. Or the loss of control that goes with it.
Asa thinks Marshal is looking at him, but Marshal isn’t. Marshal is looking at the sun, all orange and glowing on the inside of the plane. The sun makes everything beautiful, even dirt. No point in letting Asa take credit for it.
All works by Bridgette Hayden found at sonnypreyer.com