In Focus

Chapter 1: Press, Day One-2

He wanted to hug and be hugged by his parents, and he wanted Sam to hold him, just to hold him, so that the world wouldn’t change and he wouldn’t have to face anyone calling him brave or heroic, because he wasn’t, he was just himself, only Leo Whyte, nobody’s hero.

But he also wanted to be here. The interviews, the publicity.

Because he did love this film, and he loved his character, all that profound loyalty and depth and commitment to a cause and to a friendship. Edward choosing to support his captain, when his captain loved another man—a man who was a viscount, a naturalist, a scholar, and sickly, not even a soldier—because Ned saw how happy Stephen was. How that love made Stephen stronger, brighter, able to carry on.

Leo had learned about nautical rigging and cannon-drills. He’d also read the quieter moments, when he’d first got the script, and had known he wanted that. That role, those choices. Being a good man, if only for the space of this film. Being a true friend, when trusted with a secret. In those lines, in those scenes, he’d been allowed to know how that might feel.

And the film itself was important. It did matter. And he loved knowing he’d contributed to a story that both audiences and critics also loved, in reviews, in already-appearing fan art, in discussions and conversations. Even if his part had been small, he liked to think he’d helped.

So, then: he was happy. And he would be happy, and he knew he was, honestly, of course he knew.

He’d made his choices. He owned them. And he had Sam, even if not at this precise instant; and he had his family, even if they were back in London; and he was proud of the film they’d made. So that was that.

He was Leo Whyte, and he was always happy. Never lonely, not when he had cameras on him and a box full of glitter or kittens or a birthday-cake. No secret wounds. No hidden layers. Unless one counted the cake.

He smiled at the next interviewer, as the man came in.

He jumped in, before the journalist could, “Welcome to your next stop on the Steadfast magical mystery press tour, I’m Leo and I’ll be your host for this interview, I can tell you everything you want to know about frigates and post ships and sloops of war and brig-rigged brig sloops, I can say that three times fast if you’d like, or I can tell you about the time Jason and Colby were so busy staring at each other they forgot their actual lines?” and the interviewer started laughing, and Leo smiled more.

* * * *

The morning had only begun. And it was a lot. Sam Hernandez-Blake, being a good photographer with an amazing fairytale assignment for the week, lurked in the background of a nondescript California beach-themed hotel suite, and observed a steady parade of interviewers, journalists, backdrop curtains and cameras and recording devices. And watched Colby Kent put on one hell of a performance.

Colby, a veteran of publicity rounds and interviews, wore wide-eyed adorable winsomeness with familiar charm. He had on multiple layers of clothing—a cozy-looking jewel-blue sweater, a lily-pale violet shirt peeking out under that, slim grey pants and a dark indigo jacket that was more stylish than warm, with too-long sleeves and decorative zippers—and he smiled at interviewers and poured them coffee and opened up a box of freshly-baked shortbread.

Sam had watched him do the baking, extremely early that morning, so everything would be freshly made. Had taken a flurry of photos: Colby laughing, explaining his own recipe, getting flour on his cheek, being kissed by Jason. Made of lemon sugar and long legs and speaking motions, with unguarded artless welcome of Sam, a friend, into the kitchen.

Colby sparkled like armor in sunshine at the next journalist, a serious young man with an impressive hipster moustache, and offered, “If you’re not fond of lemon, there’s a plain version, and also the white-chocolate-dipped blueberry ones!” He was sitting at the very edge of his chair, as if poised to do more baking on the spot if none of the options met with approval.

Jason Mirelli, overflowing the chair beside him, was holding Colby’s hand. Jason’s thumb was unobtrusively rubbing Colby’s wrist, Sam noticed.

He wanted to text Leo. He wasn’t sure he should. Could he interrupt?

He wanted to, though. To see how Leo was doing, in the first round of interviews after that photo’d gone up. To check in. To be there.

It’d be a huge moment, on a personal level, even if Leo said he was fine with coming out and going public. There was no way it couldn’t be enormous: he’d be saying it in an interview for the first time ever. That wouldn’t be nothing.

The social media reaction to Leo’s post had been mostly positive, at least as far as Sam had seen, before they’d stopped checking. Lots of fans were openly thrilled, cheering for Leo being himself and owning his identity. Many said they weren’t surprised at all, or only were surprised because they’d thought he already was openly bisexual, a response which had made Leo laugh out loud. A few of those mentioned the famous, or infamous, Matt Grant red carpet kiss.

Some people seemed to be confused—Leo’s one-word caption of happiness hadn’t completely clarified matters, despite the rainbow flag emoji, and some responses were simply baffled, or commented on how sweet Leo was with his good male friends, how supportive, how close and affectionate. That one made Sam snort; Leo said, “Well, it’s nice that they think I’m a good friend,” and fluttered his eyelashes Sam’s direction. “Very good.”

One or two commenters, as expected, left some angry shouting about flaunting of sexuality and disappointing his fan base. Sam had been prepared to be angry, to offer comfort, whatever Leo needed. Leo had looked at the most recent one for a minute, shrugged, put his phone away, and said, “I don’t care what they think. I’m me. And I like kissing you.”

At that invitation, Sam had. Thoroughly.

Recalling that, he tried not to fidget. Fingers brushing his pocket, his phone. But he also had a job to do. Like Leo. Both of them working.

The journalist looked at Colby Kent and baked goods, and smiled behind his moustache, and took a lemon shortbread. “So, Steadfast. Tell me about your characters. Five words or less.”

“Oh dear,” Colby said.

Jason laughed. He’d pushed up both sleeves, large and casual in dark jeans and a forest-green knit shirt. “You can’t ask that. It’s like a form of torture for him.”

Colby made a face at him, leaping effortlessly into the rhythm. “No more shortbread for you. There, five words.”

“Love you.”

“Oh, fine, you can have all the shortbread. I love you enormously. Oh, good heavens, five words…well, Will Crawford is brilliant, he’s a scientific genius, of course, but he’s also very lonely and very curious and very determined when he wants something. Which makes him a delight to play, because in many ways he’s not afraid of anything, and I admire that.”

Jason said, “Five words, huh?”

“I’m so sorry.”

“No, it’s a good quote, even if you totally can’t follow directions,” said the journalist, who probably thought this was humor, and smirked at Jason. “Want to try to do better?”

Sam kept looking at Colby, and therefore saw the minute flinch around those big blue eyes. Or not even a flinch. Nothing a quick glance or a casual camera, at a distance, would pick up. But something. Maybe related to failure.

“Okay,” Jason said. “Let’s see. Stephen is…loyal, courageous, cynical—about class and the aristocracy and also falling in love—and in love and scared of it. All of it.”

“That wasn’t five words either!”

“I was explaining. The extra words don’t count.”

Colby narrowed both eyes at him. “I’m making you sing in our next movie together.”

The interviewer laughed. “Jason, do you sing?”

“No,” Jason said.

“He can,” Colby said. “He pretends he can’t. But if I put on Springsteen in the car—”

“Tell them about Will Crawford’s frogs,” Jason jumped in. “Or calligraphy. Or the time Leo fell off the boat. All the times.”

“The frogs are important for Will,” Colby said. “Very scientific.”

And it was genuine, it was all genuine—Colby loved Jason and loved this film. That was evident in every word, every line of banter, spontaneous and unforced.

But Sam had seen Colby Kent at home, chattering about science fiction or historical ship captains, with a spatula in one hand and ink on his fingertips. Colby when comfortable wandered around in mismatched sock feet while unpacking book-boxes, and made small gestures when speaking, a head-tip or a hand-wave, and worried much less about answering with the exact right words, not letting anyone down.

The interviewer asked about Will and Stephen’s relationship, about the importance of seeing historical gay relationships on screen, and how Colby and Jason felt about bringing that to life. It was a good question, or it would’ve been, except that Colby and Jason had answered a variety of it for at least six interviewers already.

They gave the same answer now. And it was, again, honest, and Colby even managed to sound as if he’d never answered it before, flawlessly sincere. “And we truly are honored—it’s a tremendous responsibility, of course, and we hope we’re doing Stephen and Will justice, and everyone who might see themselves a bit more present and reflected in the past, with this.”

“Well, it’s a fantastic love story, and it’s got a happy ending, and that’s so significant,” the interviewer agreed. “And then you two got to live the real-life romance as well. Was that difficult, keeping your emotions and your characters separate? Or did you?”

“I fell in love with Colby as Colby,” Jason said. “Stephen loves Will, but they’ve got a lot of drama, with the naval battles and Will’s health and all, and we definitely don’t need the near-death experiences. And Colby’s easy to fall in love with.” His fingers squeezed Colby’s, an emphasis or message or reinforcement.

“In fact,” Colby said, squeezing back, “at the start I was convinced that Jason didn’t like me. You may not’ve noticed, but I tend to talk rather a lot—” He waited for them all to be amused at his expense. “—and I can be irritatingly persistent. As it turned out, though, we had a lot in common. And then it simply felt…more right than anything I’ve ever felt before, being with him. I kept wanting to be around him. And wanting to smile, around him. I’m afraid I really did make myself, what did I say, irritatingly persistent?”

“You were perfect,” Jason rumbled, fierce as lifted shields. “You are perfect. You recommended romance novels and you talked about your favorite cities and you told me about that tiny violin museum you found by accident in Venice.”

“So I think what we’re trying to say,” Colby said for the interviewer, remembering about the audience, “is that we very much fell in love as ourselves, not in character, though of course we did that too.”

“Such an inspiration,” said the interviewer, happily. He’d eaten a second shortbread. A crumb was stuck in his moustache. “And congratulations again on the film, and on your own happy ending. Thanks for chatting with us today.”