Forgotten age [a Martin Freeman fanfic]

22.

"I feel like this is the happiest I've ever been," He whispered in my ear.

I jumped a little when I noticed his proximity, we were about to go out to the press conference for the new movie, which Wes had proudly titled 'Forgotten Age'. We were still in the backstage, sipping on our last cup of coffee, ready to make the press go crazy about the production. We had to make them believe this was the next Titanic. And it sort of was, if you ask me. However, since it was Wes's first work as a producer, I highly doubted we'd get any major recognition. 

"Oh, really?" I whispered back, peeking at him from the corner of my eye. 

"What, you don't believe me?" He asked with a chuckle, a bit louder this time. 

"I thought you might be practicing. For the press, you know?" I lied, hoping to get a sweet answer out of him. 

"Ah, you're right. Because I'm, actually, drowning in sorrow when I'm next to you."

Not the answer I was expecting at all. But still, sarcasm is always appreciated in times of apprehension. Not that I was exactly 'stressed out', but I've never been really good at questions. Sort of like Tom Holland and his long list of illegal spoilers. In any case, I lack his charm, so there's no way I could mess up and still smile at journalists throughout my career. 

"Hey, little sis," Wes called from behind the curtains, popping his dead-serious face between the both of them. Man, was he nervous. He then looked over at Martin by my side and continued with a nod, "Big bro, you guys ready?"

I made a face and nodded uneasily, that somehow managed to pull a grin out of my brother. 

"Breathe, sis. You got this," He laughed, taking a bit of my tension away.

I felt Martin's hand slipping up my spine from under my blouse, I sensed his warmth almost instantly, I very much appreciated his gesture. He knew I was easily relaxed by his touch. 

"So, what do you say?" He asked me softly. "Should we go out there and make this a memorable interview?"

"Like we practiced?" I whispered back, my eyes slightly closed, focusing on my breath in order not to let the anxiety take over me. 

"Like we practiced." He repeated. He quickly cupped my cheek from the side he was standing on and pecked it gently. I was ready.

"You deserved that Oscar, I can't say it enough!" I complained as Martin started the car.

"Darling, would you calm down?" He laughed. "I'm no Brad Pitt."

"Exactly!" I exclaimed. "He has like, what? Ten Oscars, already? What's he going to do with so many? It's outrageous, it's unfair, it's –"

"–It's life!" He finished.

I crossed my arms, I was feeling extremely disappointed. Not at Martin, not at all. At the Academy. After all our hard work, our life stories, preparation, dedication and effort. They chose to award same old Brad Pitt. And as much as I liked him, because I did like him, I couldn't help but to feel significantly impotent at their choice.