“I can’t afford you,” Malik says bluntly, running his hand through his hair and trying not to think of budget sheets, because finding funding for ridiculous, ambitious passion projects is nigh-impossible.

Altair blinks when he looks up from the script and says, “I’ll do it anyways--you want to do this right, right?” with all the assurance of someone who knows that he’s good, and that Malik could take another stuntman or actor, but it wouldn’t be the same; it's then, maybe, that Malik starts thinking that it can really happen.

It takes years yet, but Altair comes every time Malik calls from whatever locations he can wrangle with other jobs, when he has a crew and a camera and a few days to spare, and Altair flies through the air in Argentina, in Turkey, in India, and he’s there even after that, when he hesitantly shakes Malik awake in the editing room, and after, when the lights fall in the theatre and Malik feels Altair’s starched cuff brush against his own as the projector rolls.