Chemistry Reads
Paul Mescal x Reader
notes: reader is also Irish, ethnicity not specified, mentions of suicide, themes of depression and homesickness
Fame is something completely new to you. Finally done with acting college, you had been auditioning for every job your agent breathed about in between grueling hours at Greasy George’s Diner. You were all too excited to hear that, finally, something you’d done had stuck, and you were moving into callbacks. You dressed just as you were told: blue jeans and a white, mid-fitting t-shirt. Directors always want a ‘blank slate’ for auditing. Like usual, you kept your makeup to that ‘no makeup’ level where you only apply just enough concealer to even out your skin tone and just enough mascara to establish your eyelashes.
The state of your car's floor is depressing. Covered in fast food wrappers and worn clothes, but what was more was that your Volvo S70 was about six years past its expiration date and not the type of old to be chic and vintage. Just drab and somewhere between brown and gray. The rain had been pattering lightly for the last twenty minutes, and you listened to the rhythmic squeaking sound of your windshield wipers.
You turn up the radio's volume, then regret it immediately, hearing whatever Muzak slop it's churning out. You settle to listen to the dull hum of the weather broadcast. Just something to distract you from what you were walking into. Casting directors' offices were always hidden in the most ridiculous corners of the earth. This one is stuffed in what used to be a Chuck E Cheese tucked above a nail salon. You have to be buzzed in, then signed in, and sit in the waiting room.
The girls around you all look vaguely like you. Except they’re definitely prettier, you asses. It's always disconcerting to see a bunch of copies of yourself. You wait an hour feeling anxiety pull at your stomach before your name is called. You enter through a door with a wobbly handle and take in the mostly empty room. Two windows have the black shades drawn but the overhead lights are oppressive and white. A water fountain is behind the faux wood table. There are many intimidating characters in front of you. Your usual hipster-looking mid-30s guy who calls himself a visionary. A woman with a short, styled afro and a big smile leans against her elbows, passing a mint to the older man to her left. He's in a tweed jacket and a wrinkled brown shirt. He introduces himself as Jason and says that they are just waiting for the co-star to return from the bathroom, as he had been waiting for two hours. You agree and make small talk with the crew. They ask you again for your work experience, looking at your resume.
"I see you've worked commercial?" Jason asks
"Yes, in high school, I did a few tire commercials, and I was in every production put on."
"Which was your favorite role? of those schools shows." The hipster guy clarifies while rolling his wrist in that cocky explanatory manner.
"Ehm," fuck, you were trying to keep your accent a little lighter. "I did Our Town in my junior year, and I really loved the metatheatrics and the exploration of the old American identity. And Emily Webb is just one of those fascinating, nuanced characters. I've loved seeing other actresses' interpretations of her as well." Before you can ramble yourself out of a job, the second door opens.
Outsteps a brunette man with a lovely beard. He's broad and tall, and his beautiful blue eyes sparkle in the fluorescents.
"Right 'scuse me. Sorry to take so long." Finally, he takes a glance away from the table and at you. "Uh, hi, I'm Paul." fuck he's so Dublinish he shakes your hand, and you feel your body light up. "Hi," you squeak out.
"You're reading for Clara?"
"I am"
"Alright, you two, we'll be starting from 'where were you last night', do you need a script?"
"Uh, no, I memorized the bit," you say sheepishly. What is happening? You've learned to keep a level head and present yourself confidently.
"Alright, when you're ready," Jason says. It appears like everything, the white man was in charge. You shake your wrists and trill your lips in preparation. With one final head shake, you get in the zone.
"Where were you last night?" Paul begins
"I went walking." You make your voice timid
"No, you said you had affairs to attend to. Did you get them done or were just wondering about aimlessly again. Must I believe that you are losing all of the progress we have made? That I have spent time pouring hours into you? Is that all just wasted?"
"I wasn't wandering aimlessly."
"Clara-" he cuts you off
"I wasn't! I went to the bank to put money in my nephew's account. Then I met with Helen for dinner. We went to a bistro afterwards for a cup of coffee, and when she had to get home to her husband, I didn’t feel like return to bed and it was exceptionally clear out. So I went for a walk."
"When you came to me, you were complaining of suicidal ideations and fantasizing about pixies. " He shakes his hands around and uses a patronizing tone
"Damn you, I just wanted to see some stars! I don't know if you've glanced about, I know you keep yourself couped up in your office like a madman all day, but those of us who actually want to pursue our own happiness like to go outside when the night is clear and see the stars! If you have any hopes of curing me, doctor, it might help you to go on a walk every now and again." Your voice was cracking with exertion, and you had taken a few steps closer to Paul in your falsified anger.
You take a step back and compose yourself. "Ehm, that was all that was supplied. Would you like anything else?" you address the board.
"No, thank you, that was all we needed," Jason says. "Keep an eye on your inbox, we'll be in touch soon."
"Thank you," you smile, finally feeling a little relieved. "And thank you," you turn to Paul, who seems to be beaming. You shake his hand again, "You were just lovely, have a lovely weekend." You reach for your bag, "All of you," and leave the audition room. You pay no mind to the other actresses, just roll back to your Volvo and decide you finally have enough motivation and time to clean it out. Today could be nothing, but today you aced an audition, and that's something.
After remembering it's midday and you've had nothing but a black coffee (you ran out of creamer), which was half spilled down your other pair of jeans. Los Angeles is completely unknown to you, but there’s a Ralph’s in the plaza so you lock your car doors and find a market. Inside is the same as every other American supermarket. blinding fluorescents, outdated pop blasting over the loudspeakers, and loads of crisp flavors. None of them prawn. Bummer.
You stock up on produce and pick up some trash bags and bleach wipes. There's a robot roaming around for anti-theft, but you place your basket on the self-checkout and begin scanning. You try to drown out the overwhelming music while you produce the last of your cash. Some trust fund baby with a lip ring posing as a grocer helps you bring your groceries to your car. The trunk is an embarrassment, so you send him away before you can open it up.
You grab a trash bag and do your best to pick up all the wrappers and crumbs, then retrieve your loose clothes. You would need to do laundry when you got back to the depressing and overpriced excuse for an apartment. But your hunger was overwhelming, and you leaned against the edge of the car in your newly cleaned trunk. It was a rare sight, and you ought to embrace it.
You sat cross-legged with an apple and an old knife. Don't ask about the car-knife's origin, just accept that she lives in the center console. You find almond butter among your groceries and spread some on your slice.
"Eh, you've got your classic car picnic going there." Your mouth is completely malfigured by the slices of apple in your cheeks. It's Paul, and he is smiling at you
"Yeah," you swallow your food, "I was feeling hungry."
"Mind if I have a sit?"
"Can't stop you," you slide over and slice another chunk for him. You extend the piece of fruit to him.
"Thank you," he says as he retrieves it, but he doesn't pronounce the 'h,' and suddenly this desolate plaza in Los Angeles feels a little less oppressively depressive and a little more like home.
"I don't think I caught your name in there. My name's Paul if you forgot"
"I didn't throw it. It's (y/n), ehr (Y/n) (L/n). I couldn't forget you, Bogger."
"Are you from the south of Ireland?"
"Eh, yup, Cork County." You spread more almond butter on the juicy red apple
"Ah, ya wee farmer," he patronizes through chomps of apple
"You joke, but my ancestors were very successful cattle farmers, and we had enough land that we leased to others for grazing. You from south dublin?"
"Ehh, born in the Nort', but I was raised in Maynooth."
"Ehh, a little out of the city. So you probably are related to a shepherd."
"On bot' sides," Paul laughs, and you hand another slice to him. "Is that peanut butter?"
"Almond."
"May I have some?"
"Yeah," you laugh, mostly in astonishment but he names you feel girlish under his concentrated gaze "euhh, I don't mind, but why are ya sitting in my trunk?"
"Well, I read against forty girls today, and I can't remember 39 of them. But I can't forget about you. I had to redo like three of the auditions because they were boring compared to you." You snort in shock, causing you to laugh and choke.
"What?"
"It's never really felt so good to act against someone. I really want you to get this part. I even asked them to cast you." You were on the edge of choking death with his comments.
"Oh my god, don't die." He rubbed a circle in you back and patted your shoulder sympathetically, and you finally inhaled, "I think you're an incredible actor."
"Dude, you've got to stop complimenting me," you swatted at his arm petulantly and ineffectively.
“Why, I’m just telling the truth.” And there’s no doubt or insincerity in his tone.
“Well I guess I’m not good handling the truth.”
“How bout a question?” You nod though your throat still burns from the trauma he’d been inflicting with his brash charm. “Can I have your number?” Yet another fit of laughter or choking was blossoming in your chest. Before you could cease to breath you wriggle your phone out of the back pocket of your jeans and hand it over.
“Great I want you to text me as soon as you’ve got the part.”
