Chapter Text
It’s only 7 am and already the sun is bearing down mercilessly, baking the dust in the streets. It rises behind the spoked wheels of the many autos already whizzing about in a never ending-flow, carrying busy people where they need to go. To studios, to auditions, to the stage, to fame and glory. It’s hard not to feel cynical about the cobbled-up mess that is Los Angeles and its movie colony, especially in the morning. Hollywood looks tawdry and cheap when the sun has just come up, like a girl who stayed up too late the night before, ragged, tired and a little sad, a run in her stockings and with her caked-on makeup slowly peeling off like dry plaster.
Thorin had his chauffeur drop him at a cafe he likes not far from the studio. He thought walking the few yards to the large columned gate would wake him, shake him from this funk he seems to have fallen in, but it’s not working. The day hasn’t even started and he’s already tired. He shouldn’t be, this is a new project, with a director he doesn't actively hate, and the script is not the worst he’s read this year. Another piece of sentimental, vaguely exotic nonsense, but he knows he can do it with his eyes closed.
Perhaps that’s the problem. The studio knows exactly what he’s good at, and they’re not asking for more. After all, Thorin has been Photoplay’s Alpha of the year twice now. This year, and two years ago, in 1923, the year he made that blasted swashbuckling film that has cemented him as a romantic lead in the public’s imagination. One turn as a loveable alpha rogue gallantly rescuing a nobleman’s pretty omega daughter, and now this is all he does. Swoosh in, in whatever dubiously historically accurate costume has been picked for him, defeat some ridiculous, moustache-twirling villain in a hammy sword fight, sweep some lithe, swooning omega off her (it’s almost always a her) pretty feet and that’s it. The public loves it. As his agent says, simple sells. Sure, back in Europe, they’re making sophisticated, realistic pictures that are artistically miles ahead of this drivel, but that’s not what the public wants.
The public, even though it’s mostly composed of betas, the most common sub-gender by far, can’t get enough of alpha-omega romances, the least likely the better. They want to see powerful alphas snarl and bear their fangs, sweet little omegas bat their eyelids and cry prettily in distress, they want all the drama of bond-bites and the sexual thrill of heats, even though of course you can’t openly use the word or show a heat too explicitly on the screen. Not unless you want your film burned by the censors, at any rate. But you can suggest things, with a hand pressed feverishly to a forehead, a languid swoon, a bared leg here, a negligee slipping off a shoulder there, a tasteful yet ardent embrace.
And Thorin is, for some reason, very good at the whole thing. He is known for his commanding presence, his smoldering alpha good looks, his flashing dark eyes and his mane of black hair, but mostly, the public like his love scenes, the way he’ll take an omega by the waist and hold her (or him, but again, that’s very rare) passionately, the omega trembling like a delicate flower in his strong manly arms.
It’s all fake, of course. Thorin himself is probably as far from the alpha ideal as he could humanly be. In real life, he’s never been with an omega. He’s got nothing against them, of course, but there’s something about the meek, needy way most of them seem to behave that put him off. He sticks to betas, where he doesn’t have to worry about the complex interplay of alpha/beta behaviour. And more than once, he’s been attracted to the heady strength of another alpha, even though this kind of thing is quite impossible these days given his fame. It’s much too risky.
Still, it’s a living, Thorin supposes. He can’t complain. A few years back, he was starving on the Orpheum Circuit, playing excerpts from famous plays with a small bedraggled theatre troupe in between infinitely more successful vaudeville acts, and now he’s the King of the movies, as the fan magazines like to print. The greatest alpha to ever grace the silver screen.
What a lot of drivel. No wonder he finds his steps slowing as he nears the studio entrance. For a second, he wonders what would happen if he just turned around. Left. Walked out of this town and this life and went… somewhere. Anywhere. It wouldn’t matter. Some small town somewhere, where no one would know him, and he’d be something simple, a mechanic, perhaps. After all, that was what he’d been supposed to be, before he caught the acting bug and found himself chasing fame and fortune, never for one second guessing that he’d end up so damnably bored by all of it before even turning thirty.
But it’s too late. Sam Jenkins, the security guard at the gate, has seen him, and is already waving at him with a huge smile on his face, and Thorin painfully forces himself to smile back.
“Good mornin’, Mr. Oakenshield!” says the beta jauntily. “Hot as the dickens, ain’t it?”
“Good morning, Sam. It sure is,” answers Thorin, trying to sound friendly. It’s not the man’s fault, after all.
“New movie startin’ today, ain’t it? Sure is exciting!”
All the man sees day in, day out are movie people come in and out of the studio, and yet he’s still starry-eyed about it all. Thorin barely manages a nod in answer as he walks by.
“Oh, Mr. Oakenshield, you’ve been moved over to lot 3. They said 2 wasn’t big enough. Only the best for your movies, right? They’ve set up makeup and costume there as well. If you just wait here a second, I’ll get a car for you, sir.”
“It’s okay, Sam. I’ll walk.”
Thorin walks off before Sam has had time to reply. He doesn’t want to wait, and he certainly doesn’t want a car ride. That would mean more hassle, small talk with the chauffeur, the trouble of making one’s way with a car through the crowded space between the studios, always full of people carrying props, of extras in full costume, of god knows what animals are required these days. No, he’d rather walk.
Besides, it’ll take longer, which means he gets a few more moments with his thoughts before he has to be on stage. The great hulking shape of lot 3 looms in front of him, a mountain of iron and glass, already teeming with people dashing in and out. He can almost hear the excited chatter from here.
Sighing to himself, he starts down the path, trying to will himself to find some kind of point to what he’s doing, when a horn sounds loudly, right behind him, startling him out of his brooding.
“Hey, you, out of the way!” shouts a voice, and Thorin whips round, incensed. The chauffeur of the car, a sparkling white Packard limousine, meets his eyes and his mouth snaps shut audibly. He stops the car abruptly. “Oh gosh, sorry, Mr. Oakenshield, didn’t see it was you there. I’m so sorry.”
Thorin bites back his first answer, which was going to be less than polite. “It’s quite alright,” he says through clenched teeth.
The man, a middle-aged beta, leans out of the car with an anxious look. “Gosh, I’m sorry, now your suit’s all dusty…”
“I’m fine.” In truth, his suit’s been dusty all morning, with all the walking he’s been doing.
A white-gloved hand appears at the passenger window, elegantly extended. “What appears to be the problem, Smythe?”
The voice is much deeper than what Thorin expected, and he’s taken aback slightly. The chauffeur steps down quickly and opens the passenger door, bowing with deference. “There’s nothing wrong, Mr. Lasgalen, I just stopped because there was someone in the way. It’s Mr. Oakenshield, Mr. Lasgalen.”
“Is it?” says the voice in deep, cultured tones, but now, of course, it makes perfect sense, because Thorin knows that name, as does half the planet, probably. “Help me out, if you please, Smythe.”
The chauffeur holds out a practiced hand, and, in a perfect, controlled picture of grace, a long white figure emerges from the car, wrapped in silk trimmed with snow-white fur despite the stifling heat, his famously unfashionably long white-blonde hair softly draped over one shoulder under a snug-fitting cloche hat, his lean, supple waist emphasized by the long, drop-waisted line of the coat, his face a picture of pale perfection, with the barest hint of paint to enhance his gorgeous, dramatic features.
This is Thranduil Lasgalen, possibly the biggest star in the movies in the year 1925, male omega, worshipped by the public the world over.
Thorin stares without meaning to. He’s never seen Thranduil Lasgalen up close before. Although Thranduil does attend some Hollywood parties, he’s always aloof, surrounded by a close entourage, and accompanied, naturally, by his alpha father. After all, not only is he that rarest of prizes, a male omega, he is also famously unclaimed and unmated, at the ripe old age of 24. More than that, famously untouched, if you believe the copy the publicists sell to the fan magazines. He is a paragon of omega virtue and purity, which of course makes his stunning beauty all the more intriguing. Omega magazines, glossy, large-print affairs with titles like Sweet Sunflower or Precious and more pictures than words, feature him more than any other celebrity on their covers. He is supposed to be the most perfect omega to ever grace this earth, which to Thorin, who knows this business all too well, has always sounded like a load of bollocks. It’s just a ploy, an angle worked by the omega’s father and the studio. It always is.
And now that Thorin is face to face with the real thing, he has to congratulate himself. He was right. Sure, Thranduil is prettier in person than anyone should have a right to be, but there is nothing of the sweet meek omega in the look he’s giving Thorin. Thranduil looks at Thorin as though he’s appraising him and finding him wanting, to judge by the slightly disdainful curl of his upper lip. Thorin feels his hackles rise in response.
“Mr. Oakenshield,” says Thranduil, with a bow of his pretty head. “How do you do.”
“How do you do,” answers Thorin back with a bow of his own. Even though they must be at least ten feet apart, there’s the faintest hint of a scent in the air, sweet and fresh. Thorin tries his best not to sniff at that scent like an animal, but it’s undeniably there, and incredibly enticing. Thorin is used to being surrounded by the scents of omegas, given the fact his job entails spending a fair amount of time openly and demonstratively scenting them for the camera, and usually he’s very good at ignoring them. “It’s a pleasure to meet you,” he adds automatically, trying to cover his reaction. “What are you doing at Erebor Studios?”
Thranduil blinks, looking at Thorin as though he was the stupidest person in the world. “I’m… making a picture, Mr. Oakenshield,” he says, every word perfectly enunciated.
Thorin coughs. “Yes. I meant… You’re signed with Greenwood, aren’t you?”
More than that, Thranduil's father, Oropher Lasgalen, is the head of Greenwood Studio, probably one of the biggest in Hollywood, along with Erebor.
“I am. I do apologise.” Thranduil tilts his head slightly to the side, somehow managing to convey absolute contempt despite the politeness of his words. “I didn’t realise you didn’t know. I start work today on The Falcon.”
“The Falcon?” sputters Thorin. That’s the movie he’s starring in, the one that starts filming today. “But… that’s my movie.”
“Quite, Mr. Oakenshield,” says Thranduil in his low, precise tones. “I’m glad you seem aware of that fact, at the very least. I was wondering whether perhaps you’d been in the sun a little too long.”
At that precise moment, Thorin feels like he could very gladly throttle that perfect, unmarked swan-like neck. “I’m afraid I don’t understand,” he says instead. “The omega role in that film is going to be played by Ms St. Johns. I don’t see what part…”
“So you haven’t been told? How odd. Ms. St. Johns finds herself unable to work at the moment. I would have thought someone would have informed you of that fact?”
The truth is, someone has probably been trying to tell Thorin. But he’s been running away from telephones and messenger boys for the better part of the week, trying to steel himself for shooting this movie with a lot of bootleg liquor and brooding. “I take it you’re taking over Ms St. Johns’s part, then?” he says, trying not to sound as annoyed as he feels.
“Indeed. As a favour to the director. He’s a friend of my father’s, you see.”
“Wonderful.” Thorin smiles. Or at least, he bares his teeth. It’s the same thing, really. “I look forward to working with you, Mr. Lasgalen,” he manages to say. He’s never been less sincere in his life. He feels like he’d rather cut off his own foot than spend one more moment with this omega. He’s not used to an omega looking at him like that, like he’s some vaguely ridiculous overgrown child. Not that he expects every omega to fall for him at first sight, but well, modesty be damned, he is Thorin Oakenshield, after all. There’s usually a lot more blushing and batting of eyelashes and a lot less of this supercilious crap.
“So do I, Mr. Oakenshield.” Thranduil doesn’t look much more sincere. “If you wish, I can give you a ride?”
“No, I enjoy walking.” Thorin would rather die.
Thranduil bows his head once more, before regaining his seat in his car just as gracefully as he’d exited, one hand resting lightly on his chauffeur’s hand for support. A few seconds later, the car is gone, and Thorin is left with nothing but the image of Thranduil’s mocking sneer and the faintest hint of his scent still floating in the air.