He picks up the phone, adjusts the angle, and steps back to check the frame.

August is visible in the screen’s preview: arms crossed, one hip cocked, expression approaching clinical. The wind blows his hair and leaves rustle behind him.

“From the top,” Cas says.

“That’s my line.”

“I’m saying it.”

August uncrosses his arms.

The song starts — that glassy, weightless drop — and for approximately two seconds they are both doing the right thing at the right time, arms rising in loose unison, weight shifting.

Then Cas misses a beat, *barely*, and August throws his arms in the air in frustration.

“*Pay attention*,” August says, snapping to the beat. “It’s five, six, seven, eight.” He demonstrates the moves.

Cas glares. He knows the moves.

He goes back to the phone. Resets. August watches him with the particular quality of silence that means he is composing a sentence he will not say out loud. The song queues up again, the little countdown ticking in the corner of the screen.

“Don’t fuck up this time,” August says.

“You don’t fuck up this time,” Cas hisses. He elbows him.

August slaps him back just before the song drops.

This time Cas gets through the arm sequence clean, pulls off the freeze with his whole chest, chin lifted, like he knows exactly how good he looks frozen mid-motion.

August glances over — involuntary, half a second — and misses his cue entirely.

Cas grins. “You—“

“Shut up.”

“You looked at me,” he finishes, triumphant and stubborn.

“I’m aware.”

Cas is already grinning, which is the worst possible thing he could be doing. August turns back to the phone. The preview shows both of them: Cas still in the pose, still pleased with himself, and August beside him with an expression that could charitably be described as actively suppressing something.

“Again,” August says, not looking at him.