Nine's posture was the embodiment of calm, his head slightly tilted in curiosity rather than concern. Around them, the cameras whirred to life, lenses focusing with mechanical precision as crew members scuttled around like worker bees.

Jorah's chest rose and fell in an erratic rhythm, each exhale a deliberate attempt to purge the nerves that climbed like ivy through his ribcage. He watched Nine turn toward him, the man's features betraying none of the turmoil Jorah felt inside. Nine's ease was almost offensive in its tranquility, a stark contrast to the storm brewing behind Jorah's eyes.

How could Nine stand there, so composed when the script called for them to cross a boundary Jorah had never dared approach?

Wait.

His mind stuttered, gasping for rationale against the rising tide of uncertainty. Was Nine's ease a testament to his professionalism, or something more personal? A comfort born from experience perhaps?

"Action!" The word cut through the heavy air again, and Jorah's heart lurched.

Fuck.

"Remember why you're here," he coached himself silently.

"Cut!" The director's voice rang out shortly after, a lifeline thrown into the chaotic sea of Jorah's thoughts.

For a moment, Jorah could breathe, pretending his pulse wasn't racing from more than just performance anxiety. He couldn't ignore the unsettling ease of Nine's presence and the intangible thread pulling at his composure.

"Again, from the top!" The next command came swiftly.

Jorah exhaled slowly, trying to anchor himself in the script, in the character, in anything other than the reality that Nine seemed utterly unfazed by the prospect of their imminent intimacy. His past encounters had been with women; their curves and softness a landscape he knew how to traverse. But Nine? Even with that slightly delicate face, he was still a man. He didn't do men.

The cameras rolled once more, and Nine advanced with the same assured grace that had underpinned his every move since Jorah first laid eyes on him. Jorah's gaze locked onto Nine's, searching for a flicker of doubt, a hint of hesitation, anything to indicate that Nine shared even an ounce of his trepidation. But there was nothing—only the calm certainty of a man who knew exactly what he was doing.

"Cut!" The director boomed. Jorah gritted his teeth in frustration.

"Let's reset for one more take," the director instructed, insistent on completing his mission.

Jorah swallowed hard, feeling a tinge of embarrassment.

"Ready?" Nine whispered, a reassuring smile on his lips.

"Ready," Jorah found himself responding, like a snake charmed by this man.

What a lie.

"Think back," whispered an inner voice, coaxing forth Tanner's advice. "Remember what he said about John Travolta."

"Method acting," Jorah muttered to himself, the words barely audible. The key was immersion, becoming the character so fully that their truth overshadowed his own.

"Be Tony Manero, be Danny Zuko. Be Edna Fucking Turnblad." Tanner's voice echoed in Jorah's mind. He could hear Tanner adding just for this situation, "They didn't worry about who they were kissing—they just did it."

"Right." Jorah's breath steadied. He wasn't Jorah right now; he was the character, a man whose heart thrummed for another man. Nine wasn't just some guy—he was now his love interest.

"Action!" called the director, snapping Jorah back to the present.

Jorah inhaled deeply, letting the persona of his character seep into his pores, filling the spaces between his bones until there was no room left for doubt. As he exhaled, his gaze found Nine's and, in that moment, he allowed himself to believe in the fiction they were creating.

Nine moved towards him. The air felt dense, and Jorah could taste the tang of anticipation on his tongue, acrid and sharp.

Nine pivoted, his motion fluid like poured mercury, his gaze locking onto Jorah's with a precision that felt almost invasive.Jorah's own heart pounded. His gaze fixated involuntarily on the minute glint of metal that adorned Nine's face —a stud piercing that sat rebelliously in the left of his perfectly arched right brow..

He loathed the idea of being bested by this situation, yet here he was, cornered by his own profession. How ironic. Wasn't acting about transformation? About embracing the uncomfortable for the sake of art? Yet, as he stood there, he felt none of the noble martyrdom he'd often associated with his craft. Only the cold feet of a man out of his depth.

Jorah's mind spun with tactics, desperate to maintain some semblance of control.It was time for more sabotage. He'd leave them with a performance so jarringly out of sync that they'd have no choice but to discard it.

Even as he resolved this in his heart, the man before him seemed like an unscalable wall. There was an undeniable intensity about Nine that hadn't been there moments before.He tried to focus on his plan, the self-sabotage he'd promised himself, but found his thoughts ensnared by Nine's presence.

The sudden heat in Nine's gaze was palpable, a tangible force that seared through the space separating them. It was a look that spoke volumes.

Jorah's pulse hammered in his throat, an erratic drumbeat spurred on by the unforeseen effect of those smoldering eyes. His breath hitched in his windpipe as if snared by an invisible hook. He had anticipated discomfort, awkwardness, even embarrassment—but not this involuntary response to Nine's proximity and piercing stare.

The cameras, the lights, the expectant gazes of the other people– all faded into the periphery. For a fleeting moment, it was just Jorah and Nine, actor and character merging until the lines of reality blurred.

As Nine drew closer, all he could do was stand his ground as the heat of his gaze threatened to scorch through Jorah's resolve.Panic fluttered in Jorah's gut, a moth desperate to escape the dark.

"Shit." The curse was a silent litany in his head, a mantra of unpreparedness that galloped with his racing pulse. He wasn't ready. The script had been just words on paper until now, not this living, breathing challenge embodied by the man before him.

He swallowed hard, his throat arid despite the sweat that began to bead at his temples. In this moment, the word 'action' had never felt so foreign, and the role had never felt so real.

Nine's advance was a deliberate encroachment into Jorah's personal space. His voice was a sweet melody, resonating with conviction. "You can't tell me you don't feel the same thing I feel."

Jorah's emotions were a tangled mess, refusing to unknot. The script had seemed straightforward enough when he'd rehearsed alone, but in the face of Nine's unwavering gaze, words were elusive creatures, darting just out of reach.

"I–I–I.." The stammer was real, unfeigned—the authenticity of his faltering made him cringe. He could see the moment coming, the line approaching like a lifeline thrown across tumultuous waters. Jorah latched onto it, his voice breaking through the tension, firmer than he felt. "I don't!" It was perfect, every inflection as the script demanded, yet it carried the weight of his own inner turmoil—a truth wrapped in the guise of fiction.

He cursed silently, frustrated by the serendipity of the moment. How had they managed to pen the very words that echoed in his chest? Was it irony or providence that made him speak his denial with such convincing despair? Jorah couldn't decide which irked him more—the writers for their unwitting intrusion into his psyche or himself for the visceral response he couldn't quell.

Nine's fingers, with an artist's precision, traced an invisible line up Jorah's nape to the crown of his head. A moment lingered, charged like the air before a storm, as Nine found the pin anchoring Jorah's hair. He drew it out with a slow, deliberate motion that felt far too intimate for a mere script direction.

"What the fucK?" The thought blared in Jorah's mind like an alarm, loud against the silence of the set. This wasn't right; this wasn't in the script. His internal dissent was a roaring cascade, but his muscles betrayed him, rooted in place as if Nine's touch had rendered them stone.

The sharp metallic click of the pin hitting the floor punctuated the silence, a solitary sound in the hush that had befallen the room. Liberated, Jorah's hair tumbled like rivulets of dark ink across his forehead, spilling onto his cheeks and veiling his eyes with shadow and light. The strands, usually so tightly bound, now gave him an air of wildness, an unintended allure that seemed to deepen the already palpable tension.

In the briefest of moments, the room's atmosphere shifted, thickened with something unspoken, intangible yet undeniably present. It was as if the collective breath of every person behind the cameras had been caught in their chests, held captive by the simple act of that pin being pulled from Jorah's hair.

Jorah's bottom lip pulled inward, the soft caress of his locks against his skin sending an unfamiliar shiver down his spine. Each strand seemed to brush against him with purpose, framing his face in a way that felt both foreign and revealing.

"So pretty." A sliver of a smile was on Nine's lips.

Jorah's insides burned. He still could not move.

Nine's gaze was unwavering and intense. His touch was gentle, almost reverent, as he brushed the errant strands of hair that veiled Jorah's features aside. The room remained ensnared in silence. With an artist's precision, he cradled the side of Jorah's neck, his hand a firm presence that somehow steadied the swirl of chaos threatening to upend Jorah's composure.

Jorah's throat bobbed with a gulp that felt like swallowing boulders, his breath stilled. It was a struggle to maintain the facade of indifference when every nerve ending sparked to life under Nine's touch. The brush of Nine's thumb against his chin was a stroke of fire, tracing a path upward with a tenderness that jarred against Jorah's expectations.

In that moment, the world contracted to the space they shared, to the heat of Nine's breath mingling with his own.

Jorah's mind whirled, every rehearsed word slipping through his grasp like water through clenched fingers. His chest constricted, a vice of silent panic that tightened with each passing second. Nine loomed before him, an enigma wrapped in calm assurance, and Jorah felt the precarious balance of his role teeter away.

He tried to claw back the script, the lines he'd committed to memory, but they were elusive phantoms now, darting out of reach each time he thought he'd grasped them. A bead of sweat trailed down his temple.

"Lines," he mentally hissed, the plea ricocheting in the hollows of his mind. Yet it was as if Nine's proximity had erected an invisible barrier between Jorah and his ability to perform.

He seemed to have forgotten how to breathe, as though the very essence of oxygen had been siphoned from the room. Jorah's pulse hammered a frantic rhythm, echoing the quickening tempo of his thoughts—each one screaming for him to regain control, to deliver what was asked of him.

But there he stood, mute and immobilized, drowning in a silence that roared louder than any spoken line could. The weight of Nine's gaze was a tangible force, and Jorah grappled with the irrational fear that it might just unravel him, thread by delicate thread, right there in that room.

The room's ambient noise faded into a distant hum, leaving only the sound of their shared breaths in the charged space between them.A smirk played on Nine's lips drawing Jorah in—a silent siren song that threatened to capsize his composure.

The whisper came then, a soft caress against the frantic pace of Jorah's pulse. "You lied."

"That was a part of the script right?" Jorah tried to remember the lines. The lines. What came next?

Nine's eyes flitted from his lips and then to his eyes as if he was seeking permission or rather telling him what would happen next.

Jorah's body was suspended as Nine inched closer, bending dangerously close, blocking out the light.

Those brown eyes were bewitching. Pulling him in. He could only stand there as they came closer and closer, growing larger and larger.

He held his breath. Without thought, he closed his eyes.

Nothing happened.

Jorah's eyes flicked open and locked that pair of brown ones.He blinked a few times before he realized what was happening. Panic immediately set in.

As though his spirit had returned to his body, he jerked away putting some distance between himself and Nine.

He cleared his throat. His head suddenly felt hot and his throat felt dry.

"What the shit?" he cursed internally "What the fucK was that?" his cheeks were burning. He was actually glad now that his hair was out of its ponytail so it could hide them.

Jorah looked at Nine who didn't look the least bit botherered that mere seconds ago their faces were just inches away from each other.

He cursed Tanner a million more times in his head.

After a few minutes the man at the end of the table spoke.

"Thank you."

That was it.

Nine and Jorah both nodded before Jorah spun on his heels to make a hasty retreat without so much as a backward glance. His heart was thumping wildly and he went as fast as his legs could carry him while still looking cool and composed–not like a scared little girl running for her life.

Once he was back in the main room, he made a beeline for the door.

There! He did it!

He groaned as the image of Nine flashed into his head. The way he'd looked at him before bending closer.

FucK!

Jorah turned his ire to himself.

"If he didn't stop, were you going to actually let him kiss you?" he scolded himself as he walked to the parking lot.

Tweh tweh tweh. He feigned spitting and wiping his lips.

There was no way he was going to let a guy kiss him.

With a big shudder, he entered his car and peeled away.

"Ok Jorah." his self-talk began "Calm down.It's over. You did the audition and that's that. You won't have to see that bastard's face again."

The nightmare was over and he could move on with his life now.