Steadfast

It’d been a good day. No: it’d been an incredible day. Jason kept a hand at Colby’s back as they stepped into the hotel room, and let his heart exhale. Colby’d handled the return to work without much trouble. With painkillers, yeah, and without much exertion—mostly lying down or sitting propped up in bed—but generally fine. Better than fine. Glowing with love: this film, Will’s and Stephen’s romance, Jason’s hand in his. Colby would be okay. Jason believed that. The accident had been just that, an accident. The hillside collapsing. The rocks under Colby’s back. Nothing anyone could’ve done to stop it. Colby said so, and Jason’s heart had mostly listened. And Colby was doing fine. Bruised and sore—and those were some ugly bruises, dark and glaring along his spine, his hip—but nothing permanent. Nothing broken. And they’d gone public. They’d made that video. Let the world see them: in love, and together, on set here in England. At that historic manor house, in the bedroom. Arms around each other. It’d been Colby’s idea. But Jason had wanted to, too. Himself at Colby’s side—on Colby’s side—no matter what. Proudly, openly so. And the world seemed to approve, or at least Jason’s sister said so. The Colby Kent fandom had erupted in glee. Allie’d even sent over some fan art, because evidently Colby’s fans worked astoundingly fast. It’d been an adorable drawing, fluffy and G-rated, himself with massively exaggerated action-hero muscles cuddling Colby in large arms, while Colby held a book and a rolling pin and a quill pen and a movie script all at once and possessed improbably fluffy standing-up hair. Looked about right, Jason had thought, all of it; and had shown it to his other half. Colby had loved it; no surprise there. They’d talked about moving in together. About living together, after this film ended. About seeing where they could go, what they could be, together. In Colby’s London, or Jason’s own Los Angeles house. They’d said the words. I love you. Aloud, unafraid, committed. He wanted to say those words all the time. To hear them back. Himself, Jason Mirelli, and Colby Kent. Amazing. Incredible. Who’d’ve guessed? He got to have this. He got to be here. With Colby. And the life they’d planned out, entwined in bed, tangled up in each other. The storm swung back in with a jaunty roll of thunder that made Colby laugh. Storms found matching electricity in those blue eyes, Jason knew. He loved knowing that. He loved everything about Colby Kent. Ridiculous middle names. Cinnamon cravings. Stubbornness when having had an idea. Commitment. Baked goods and calligraphy. They’d made it to dinner—a relatively subdued version, no violently colorful drinks this time—with Jill and Andy and some of the crew. So many people had clapped him on the shoulder and congratulated him and Colby. Everyone’d seen the video, apparently, which he’d expected; the unexpected part was how many of them went out of their way to tell him how happy Colby looked and how glad they were that he had Jason now. Some of that shouldn’t’ve been a surprise either. Colby’d worked on multiple projects with Jillian and her usual collaborators; they all knew and loved him. They wanted him to be happy. And they thought he was happy with Jason. The core of it bloomed small and bronze and proud inside his chest. If everyone thought so, not only Colby, maybe it was true, right? Maybe he had done enough. Maybe he could be enough: just being here. Trying hard. Colby managed to ease one boot off, wobbled, caught balance with a hand on Jason’s arm. Made a face at himself. “More clumsy than anything else. I’m not feeling worse. I swear.” “Don’t bother,” Jason said, “I’ll get it,” and knelt. Looking up, he discovered Colby’s blush, bitten lip, faint smile; he tugged at slim black leather, set it down by its friend, stayed on both knees for a second. Gazing up. Colby blushed more, shy but happy, and one tentative hand touched Jason’s head, stroked back his hair. A magician, Jason thought. Young and wounded and generous. Someone he’d gladly serve. He knelt there, being an aging faithful champion, and liked the feeling. His hands rested on Colby’s ankle, over a blue-striped sock. Boots and plush gold carpet formed a curious audience. Colby’s fingers brushed his hair. Jason leaned in and kissed Colby’s leg, the spot just above one knee, a little to one side: Colby’s inner thigh and clinging blue pants and heat. No one but the rain said anything for a moment, and that felt right too. Susurrations of water, and memories of other boot-removal, and Colby’s hand resting lightly on his head. Colby murmured, “I love you.” “I know,” Jason said. “I love you.” He got back up, not breaking the spell. He ran a hand over Colby while doing so: leg, hip, thin waist. Still too thin, because Colby hadn’t been eating much before all this. More ice cream might have to happen. “You want to lie down, and I can get your painkillers, or give you a massage, or whatever you need?” “What I need…” Colby put both hands on Jason’s shoulders, steadying not so much out of necessity as sudden excitement. “I do need something. I don’t know whether you recall, but I had something to tell you. Before the interruption of disintegrating hillsides. I’ve never told anyone—well, Jill knows, but no one else—but I think perhaps I could tell you. I wanted to. I want to. Perhaps now?” The shiver hit like ice-razors, cold and cruel along his spine. He’d forgotten. He hadn’t remembered. Colby had some sort of secret— Something that wasn’t bad, Colby’d said. That comment felt so long ago. Eons. Eras. Geological time. Colby’d said it was nothing to do with their relationship, or not exactly. Something Jillian knew, but no one else. Something, from the phrasing, that Colby thought Jason might need to know. Need? Colby wasn’t secretly ill—that was Will Crawford, that was a movie-role character—and Colby had meant to tell him earlier, so it couldn’t be injury-related. But what if there’d been some sort of older trauma? Some harm caused by one of those ex-boyfriends, the last in particular? Something they’d aggravated, doing what they’d been doing together? Had Colby not liked what they’d been doing? But—not bad— Jason couldn’t fathom an answer. Couldn’t begin to reach for one. He stumbled over, “Yeah…you said…” “You remember the day I did some, ah, dialogue polishing, on set…” Jason, now snarled hopelessly in cobwebs of confusion, could only nod. “It’s, er, not the first time.” Colby bit that lip again, cheeks pink but eyes brimming over with anticipation. He’d said he wanted to say this; he looked as if he did, nervous but eager. “I—I do write. I have done for years. Not continuously, not even original screenplays, but—oh, drat, I’m telling this all wrong. I’ve, er, essentially played Hollywood script doctor for quite some time? Most of Jill’s films? A few of her friends? Uncredited, obviously.” He paused as if expecting Jason to ask a question. Jason’s brain was busy spinning in place, in shocked bewildered snarls of yarn. That made sense. That made perfect f*****g sense. Colby knew about good writing. Colby knew about timing and story beats and dialogue rhythm. Of course Colby was an author. But—uncredited? No one knew? Hollywood was full of open secrets; everybody knew everyone else’s business… Why keep it a secret? If that included most of Jillian Poe’s films, that should’ve meant awards, critical praise, skills in demand. Conversations and recommendations. Colby’s name floating around. “Jillian tells people she has someone,” Colby went on, enthusiasm noticeably fading in the face of Jason’s dumbfounded non-reaction, “but she’s never said it’s me. I’ve asked her not to. I don’t do much really, just tidying up, polishing…it’s always someone else’s project, in the end, not mine, I know. I know it’s silly that I’m even a little proud when I hear my lines being delivered, up on screen, in a theater. I shouldn’t be, it’s not much, I only…I thought perhaps you’d think it was something…I don’t know.” “Most of Jill’s films,” Jason said. The words emerged like quicksand, tugging at his heart. “Like…Local News. Like…the Golden Globe winner for comedy…Local News. And Romeo and Jules—” Which had been Academy Award nominated. Screenplay, as well as actors and costume design. They’d won for the costumes. And Colby’d written it, at least the version that’d made it to the screen. That everyone’d loved. “Er,” Colby said. “Yes.” “This film,” Jason said. “Steadfast.” “Yes…” “You’ve been working on it all along.” “Yes?” Colby nibbled at his lip more. The spot was turning pinker. “I did mean to tell you sooner. It’s just I’ve never told anyone, and I wasn’t sure how to go about it, and then I wanted to check with Jill, and then I wasn’t sure it would be all that interesting in any case…but I thought you might like knowing…we both like stories…” “You’ve worked on my scenes,” Jason said. “You’ve written my dialogue. You’ve listened to me complain about lines. You—you know I would’ve wanted to know. We could’ve talked about it. Not like—like…” He wanted to be jumping up and down and praising Colby nonstop. He wanted to love the fact that Colby was this good, had shared this secret with him, had sparkled at him and been excited to tell him. And he did love it, he was feeling all that, Colby was even more amazing than he’d known— But— He hurt, too. Because Colby had never said anything. Had sat there and listened to him, had handed him new pages and pretended they’d come from Ben the original scriptwriter, a lie of omission if not outright— Colby had talked about books and stories and characters with him, more than once; Colby had run lines with him, and had— What? Assumed Jason was too big and dumb to care about the craft of writing? Thought that Jason’s muscles would break a promise and blurt out a secret? Trusted Jason with every piece of himself except one? He took a step back. Colby blinked at him, sock-footed and off-balance. The rain let up, a portent. Colby remained dressed—they both did—with his black jacket open but unremoved, because Jason’d been planning to help with that too. It was the same stylish leather one he’d thrown on over Jason’s shirt, once before. Colby said, “Jason?” Breathing. Right. Colby hadn’t meant to hurt him. He thought not, anyway. And Colby had wanted to tell him. It was just— The rush of his pulse filled his ears. He couldn’t meet familiar blue eyes. He also couldn’t talk. Too few words. Or too many. Shoving themselves into knots on his tongue. I love you, he failed to say aloud. I love you and you lied every time you pretended to be right there with me as far as loving or laughing over this script. I know you’re not used to trusting people, I know you believed every single f*****g monster who told you you weren’t worth loving, I know you probably didn’t believe you could trust me— The hurt twisted like screws. The ghosts of older words shrieked. Jason Mirelli, action hero. All muscles, maybe even a kind heart, but stupid. Good at kicking and punching and shooting things. Not subtleties. Not eloquence. Not capable of anything more. That wasn’t Colby’s fault. Colby didn’t think that about him. Maybe Colby didn’t think that. Colby couldn’t, right? Just Jason’s own head. Had to be. But they’d talked about moving in together—about bookstore dates and lazy mornings—and Colby hadn’t said— “Jason,” Colby said again, a step closer, and Jason held up a hand, and Colby stopped talking. That wasn’t right either. The rain, scared off, hadn’t returned. The bed stood behind Colby like an invitation gone wrong. They’d been safe there only that morning. He hauled words out of the quicksand syllable by syllable. “I’m not mad at you.” Was he? “Aren’t you?” Colby shifted weight. His back might be flaring up, causing pain. Jason wanted to kiss him, wanted to tell him to lie down, wanted to take care of everything for him, wanted to scream. He said, “I don’t know. Yes. No.” “You sound as if you are, and I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—” “I said I don’t f*****g know!” Colby went quiet, eyes huge as oceans stabbed by a spear. “f**k,” Jason said, looking at him: a gaze across a divide of cream-and-gold carpet and confession. “Don’t apologize to me again. Jesus. I don’t know. Give me a minute.” Colby nodded, voiceless acquiescence too fast to be comfortable. The silence grew impossibly brittle, and cracked under their toes. Amid the wreckage of the evening, Jason took a breath. Fought to stay afloat. Colby wasn’t talking. Clouds painted the sky beyond the window in flat leaden grey; the hotel-room lights they’d left on were battling valiantly but losing. He said, “That’s what you and Jill were disagreeing about. Way back then. She didn’t want you to tell me?” Saying so burned. Both Colby and Jillian had thought he didn’t deserve to be let in— “No, not at all!” Colby put out a hand, let it drop. “The opposite. She wanted me to tell you. She’s always thought I should ask for some sort of acknowledgement—at least recognition in the industry, if not an on-screen credit. She told me to trust you.” And that was abruptly worse. “But you didn’t want to try.” “I…” Colby faltered. “I didn’t realize…I can hear how it sounds, but I didn’t think…I’d never told anyone, I never wanted to—to have someone lie and tell me my writing’s good when it isn’t, when they’re only saying so to not offend me…and I already know it’s not as if I do much, it’s not that important, so if someone said that, it’d only be what I already know, and—and so I never wanted to share it with anyone—” He’d gathered arms in, clutching his jacket more closely around himself; his hair fell down in a dark brown fluffy swoop, making his eyes extra-vivid. He was thin and lovely and fragile and still talking. Jason had to close his own eyes for a heartbeat or two. Colby was too vulnerable right this second: physically and emotionally, unconsciously and unfairly so. Jason yearned to go over there and scoop up that long-legged ball of pain and sort out the need for warmth and comfort. Taking care of his other half. He stopped his feet from moving. The frustration screamed like the thunder, resonating low and near. He couldn’t sort it all out. Too much. Slipping through his hands. “I wanted to share it with you,” Colby said. “I—I’m sorry. Oh God. Apologizing. You said not to—but I don’t know what to say. To do. Please tell me what to do.” “I can’t,” Jason said. “I can’t. I don’t know.” Colby’s breath caught, small and distressed. “I get why you didn’t tell me. I swear I do. I’m not even angry about that.” True. That wasn’t the emotion. “It’s just. You—you said you love me, you trust me, hell, we’ve talked about books, we’ve talked about this movie—about your words—and you still think I’m someone who’d, what, lie to you? About what I think? Or laugh at you? Make fun of you? Tell people your secret if you asked me not to? You really think I’d—” “I don’t—” Colby had gone pale. His eyes stood out even more, horrified color against fairness. “I never meant—I don’t think any of that about you—” “I don’t think you meant to.” Jason raked a hand through his hair, felt his heart crack like splintering ship’s hulls, fought for equilibrium. “But you know I—you know how much this means, being here with you, for me—I f*****g love you, and it hurts, Colby, God—” “I’m so sorry.” Colby’s voice buckled. Whirlpools dragging that melodic accent down. “I’m sorry, Jason, I—I love you, and—” “But you can think that about me!” He wanted to kick something. To punch something. To fight the pain away. He flung arms wildly around in desperation. “I know you’ve been through—Christ, the f*****g ugliest—but that’s not me, I thought you knew, you trusted me, you believed I wasn’t like that—but you don’t, or you can’t, or—” He stopped. His voice had gotten louder toward the end. And Colby had gone utterly still. Motionless as the first second after an impalement. Eyes wide, not quite focused on Jason. Not quite present. “Colby?” “You should leave,” Colby whispered. That sentence hit like a blow to the solar plexus. Staggered, airless, Jason gasped, “What?” “You should leave,” Colby said again, and the words sounded wrong, and not only because Jason couldn’t figure out how they’d hit that point. He looked at Colby more closely. “Colby? Hey. You…you’re okay, right?” Colby said nothing this time, and Jason took a step closer, and something was really wrong, because Colby didn’t react. No flinching away from unexpected touch, no tentative welcome of Jason’s touch. Nothing. “Colby,” he tried. “Look at me.” “But you’re leaving,” Colby said. “I’m not. I’m not. What the f—no, okay, I’m here. I’m right here.” He held out a hand. “I’m here and I’m asking if it’s okay to touch you. Me. Jason.” “You’re already not here,” Colby said. “It’s—it’s all right. You can go. I won’t make you stay. I know I’m not—I knew I’d get it wrong. I always do. You’re right and you should leave, you’ll be happier, that’s how it works, and I’m sorry.” “Oh, God…” Jason couldn’t find air. Colby’s gaze held that far-off resigned quality, and that voice was all fractured, flat and not rippling, not as if he was trying but as if he’d simply given up… He shoved out, “No. No, that’s not right, that’s not…I’m not leaving you, I’m not, I don’t know what to say, I don’t know if you’re even hearing me, Colby, please…” “You’re trying to be kind,” Colby said distantly. “You always are. So kind. It’ll be easier if you make it clean.” “I’m not leaving you.” Maybe repetition would work. His eyes prickled. “I don’t want to leave. And right now you’re really f*****g scaring me, Colby, baby, and I love you, and I don’t know what to do.” Colby took this in. A bit of awareness returned. “You’re scared?” “f**k yes!” “I don’t understand.” Colby’s eyebrows drew together. “I—how can I help? I don’t want you to be scared.” “Oh Jesus f*****g Christ,” Jason said, crying freely now. “Please. Please let me hold you, I won’t unless you say it’s okay, but I want to, if you do—how can you even ask—how can you help, God—” “It’s fine,” Colby said, sounding honestly confused but more awake. “I like you holding me. Have I told you that? You feel nice.” “You might’ve said—once or twice—” He folded arms around Colby. Guided them down to the bed, himself sitting up against the headboard, Colby cuddled up against him. Saltwater got mopped up by Colby’s hair. “You feel nice too.” Colby snuck an arm around his waist in turn. “Is this helping?” Hesitant, afraid, courageous: Colby Kent would forever haul broken pieces back together and try his best to make the universe feel better if the universe indicated that it needed that. “Yeah.” It was. “You’re helping. This is helping. You can hear me, right?” He stroked a hand over Colby’s head, over dark waves that needed soothing. “You know I’m here. Not going anywhere.” “You’re here.” “Completely.” More petting. Tangible assurances. “We have to talk about this. When you’re up to it. No rush.” “I’m all right.” Colby, resting against Jason’s shoulder, shifted to look up at him. “Are you?” “God. I don’t know. Give me a sec.” He dropped a kiss above Colby’s eyebrow. Hoped they could both feel that. “And, don’t take this the wrong way, but you’re not. What the hell happened?” “I’m not certain.” Colby contemplated the last few minutes from the protected harbor of Jason’s embrace. “It’s honestly a bit of a blur. I remember what I said, I think, but…not how I got there. I—I panicked, a bit, didn’t I? I’m so sorry.” “No. You don’t have to be. Not for that.” One more kiss. Confirmation. “I’m sorry. I said something that—that was a kind of trigger, right? Or I did something. And you went back there, in your head.” “Something like that,” Colby agreed, leaning into him more. “Not so much back, I think. Not a memory. I simply…I couldn’t think. And I knew you’d leave. That’s what happens. You hurt me, or you leave, or both, because that’s all I deserve—oh, no, no, I don’t mean you you, you’re here. Don’t look like that. I do know you’re here. And you didn’t know that would happen. Neither did I, clearly. So you’re not apologizing for something you didn’t expect.” “Yeah, so neither are you.” He nudged Colby, somewhere between a shake and a caress. “Okay. So we know for next time. Something about me raising my voice? Or my arms? All of that? I’ll work on it.” “Next time?” Colby’s eyes were enormous, shining, weary and remorseful but beginning to hope. Visible. Written in that shimmering stripe of blue. “You think…we’re going to fight more?” “Sometimes couples fight, right?” He made a rhythm out of fingers over Colby’s shoulder-blade, a cadence and a promise. “Especially if we’re moving in together.” “Are we?” “Told you I wasn’t going anywhere. Maybe we’ll argue about me not doing the dishes, or you borrowing the book I was reading and not giving it back, or whatever.” He stopped, moved the hand, touched Colby’s chin. “But I swear to you right now, I’m not ever gonna hurt you, okay? I won’t hit you and I won’t hurt you and I won’t use it against you in bed. And I won’t leave you. I know I can say that all day and it’s just gonna be words, and I can’t wave a magic wand and f*****g fix everything, but I’ll keep on showing you I mean it. You don’t have to believe me now. I just want you to hear me say it.” Colby, chin lifted by Jason’s fingertips, smiled a fraction. “I believe you. Or at least every part of me that I can tell to listen…those all believe you.” “Then those’re enough parts.” “Jason…” “Yeah?” “You’re being splendid.” Colby smiled more, though his eyes were anxious. “And I love your, er, magic wand. Sorry. Not the time for those jokes. You said you were hurt. I did something that hurt you. What can we do to help you?” Jason grimaced. That hurt had gone deep, and lingered. But he did know Colby hadn’t meant to cause the pain. He hated Liam; he hated all Colby’s exes, and Colby’s parents, and everyone who’d made that storyteller’s heart believe that concealment of joy and talent and delight was the only option, with complete and gut-wrenching fury. But he loved Colby. And maybe that came with some rocks and vines and shadows to trip over. But the path was clear. Because it was simple. It was the truest piece of the universe. Jason Mirelli loved Colby Kent, and he believed that Colby loved him too. He said, “Go ahead and make the wand jokes. I love that you want to. You get why I’m upset, right? Not because I’m mad at you. It’s just…I’m trying to get a handle on it. I know you trust me. But you also don’t. And it’s not your fault.” “I do trust you,” Colby said. “It isn’t that I don’t, exactly. If I’d thought about it…I did think about it. And I decided to tell you. But you’re not wrong. I was scared, before that, so possibly I didn’t…trust us enough, maybe. I’m working on that. I’ll keep working on it. And yes, I think I understand. The way it felt. After everything we’ve shared, to think that I hadn’t felt safe sharing everything with you, to think I thought those things about you…can I at least apologize for the hurt? I know you’ll say I shouldn’t, but I mean it in the sense of…you’re hurt as a consequence of something I did, even if I didn’t mean to, and I do feel awful about that, and I want to tell you that I understand and I’m sorry.” “Huh.” Jason traced a heart across his shoulder, this time. That’d sounded pretty damn healthy, all things considered. “Okay. You can have that one. But only in that sense. Really not your fault about why it happened.” “Thank you.” Colby turned that head, breathed a kiss against Jason’s collarbone. “Thank you. For all of it. I know I’m not easy.” “I don’t know,” Jason said. “I mean, me touching your arm made you just about come in your pants, on set, that time…” This made Colby giggle, which he’d wanted. The second after that, though, Colby winced, tried to hide it, and winced again. Physical, not mental. Discomfort in that slender frame, tucked against Jason’s bulwark. “What’s wrong?” “I don’t entirely know. I don’t know what I’ve done.” Colby made a face. “My back. Something’s sore. Not bad, but—” “s**t. Hold still. Let me help.” He did know, or he had an idea. He grumbled internal self-directed profanities. Should’ve known. Should’ve thought of that. “All that stress just now, you felt everything tighten up, right? Or maybe you didn’t—” He wasn’t sure Colby would’ve registered much physical hurt, in the grip of emotions and what’d looked a hell of a lot like a trauma response, not exactly dissociation but not entirely not that, either. “Still not your fault. But you’re gonna feel it now. Muscle strain. Tension. All of that. How bad does it hurt?” “Some. More than earlier. Not terribly much.” Colby, thanks to Jason’s assistance efficiently naked and lying prone on his stomach in bed, tried to meet his eyes through a waterfall of hair. Jason guided the hair away. Heart in his throat. Heavy and snarled up. Painful as a bruise. Those bruises. Marring Colby’s smooth skin. Colby murmured, “You know a decent amount about this, muscles and strain and all…well, of course you do, given all your experience. I’m plainly in good hands.” The heart-knot loosened. Colby trusted his hands. Jason set one of the hands in question on the nearest shoulder, evaluating. “Still not too bad? Anything worse, or going numb?” He didn’t really think so—Colby’d been healing well, and this should just be aftermath, awareness returning—but he had to check. For them both. “Nothing sharper or out of the ordinary?” “No, only a twinge. The aftermath. Just now.” Colby’s body supported this assertion, calm under Jason’s exploring touch. The bruising remained ugly but less than it’d been when they’d left the hospital. The edges had begun to fade. The scrawl of blue and black and purple over his lower back would take longer. “I wouldn’t’ve said, but you did say to tell you. I’m trying.” “I know you are. Thanks for that.” He ran a hand along Colby’s back, to the side: not quite touching the worst of it, checking on reactions and sensitivity. Colby didn’t seem bothered, so nothing’d spread or gotten more ominous. “Okay. I’m gonna turn up the heat in here, grab your painkillers, and also see what we’ve got as far as giving you a massage. Sound good?” “Enormously yes. Magical hands, I believe I’ve mentioned. Enchanting.” “I love you,” Jason said. “I love you. And I’m f*****g honored that you told me. Since I kind of forgot to say that. You said you never told anyone. And you told me, and—and, I mean, wow. Thank you.” “I do trust you.” Colby, head pillowed on an arm, gave him a small and layered eyebrow-shrug: letting it go, dismissive of his own courage, holding out reassurances, offering another apology. Jason didn’t know how one expression could say all that, but Colby had figured it out. Because Colby was a damn good actor, as well as a writer. Colby understood emotion. A paper-airplane of memory zoomed past. Himself watching Colby’s morning-show interview. Colby complimenting scone choices that he’d told Jason later weren’t proper scones. Jason had thought at the time that Colby was good at thinking on the spot, and generous, and a fluid and eloquent liar. He let out a huff of breath, entertained. He’d had no idea. “Was that amusing?” Colby’s question came out tiny, as if afraid Jason’d been laughing at his assertion of trust. “Not that. Just a thought. I believe you. Don’t move.” He went over and turned up the heat, found painkillers and the end of the cinnamon-spice trail mix and some water, and his own stuntperson approved jar of bruise-related lotion. It was getting low; he’d been using some on Colby these last few days. He also changed, stripping out of jeans and shirt and stepping into pajama pants. Colby’s eyes were shut; Jason sighed a little, smiled a little, and folded and put away his jeans, and also two of Colby’s wayward scarves, one of which was dangling off a chair and being a tripping hazard. He came back over, scarves successfully admonished, and held pills out, right in front of Colby’s lips. Colby gave him a slightly surprised look, but accepted Jason hand-feeding him, holding water for him, and popping trail mix into his mouth. Jason fed him more and gave him small sips of water, and felt a gradual complicated pleasure build with each act. He wasn’t angry. He did understand. Colby trusted him. Colby lay here naked and accepted Jason’s touch, Jason’s care, believing that Jason wouldn’t hurt him. He liked taking care of Colby. Felt right. Like what he’d always been searching for, unconsciously: someone his absolute equal on a film set or in a conversation about steampunk pirates, someone with bright kind eyes who got excited about pizza and museums and probably a museum of pizza, if that existed, and also someone who did not mind that Jason himself liked providing care and direction, especially in bed. He scooped up lotion, and said, hand poised, “I’m gonna touch you more, if you still want a backrub. Tell me yes or, y’know, no.” “You’re asking about consent? Aren’t we rather beyond—” “We’re not ever beyond asking,” Jason said levelly. He wholeheartedly did want to punch Colby’s exes in the face. Multiple times. “And you always get to say yes or no or not now. Or tell me it’s not a good day. Something for the list.” “You haven’t got an actual list—” “I’ll write it down so you can add stuff. Are you trying not to answer?” “No. I mean I’m not trying to not answer. I mean yes, you can touch me. I would like that. I’m only a bit confused.” “How’s the weather?” On cue, the skies opened up. Raindrops fell like stars, with noise and twinkling collisions over windowpane glass and old English walls and the hotel roof. Colby laughed. “The weather’s quite enthusiastic, I think.” “Good.” He set a hand on Colby’s exposed back, lotion creamy and healing against fair skin. Colby had a few other stray freckles, aside from the one near his collarbone; twin sprinkles of spice sat near the lowest edge of the bruising on his back. Jason liked seeing them: knowing Colby wanted to give him this baring of self. That poignant piercing emotion intensified. It felt kind of like pride, too. He started with that spot. Not s****l, or only a little; it was impossible not to contemplate the nearness of Colby’s adorable ass, right there and tempting. But this wasn’t about that. He said, “I was thinking about you and telling stories, earlier. You’re good at it. Everything you do.” “I like romance novels,” Colby said, a sideways answer, “because they’re stories about love, and people, and people getting to be happy. I love fantasy and historical settings because they’re fascinating, but I’ve always loved stories about people finding each other. I like believing that can happen, at least in a story, at least somewhere.” Because you never had that, Jason thought. Because you thought you hadn’t earned it. He’d heard Colby’s admission, earlier. You leave, or you hurt me, because that’s what happens, that’s what I deserve… He said, “You found me. And I’m not leaving you. How’re you feeling?” “Better. That’s lovely, thanks.” “You don’t have to thank me for taking care of you.” He was kneading Colby’s back more generally too, not only trying to ease bruises, also working on a few noticeable knots behind those shoulders. Colby had been holding himself in very precise positions, and it’d been a long first day back at work. Jason appreciated the sensation: the planes and lines and muscles of Colby’s body, masculine and lean and smooth under his hands. He’d’ve found Colby being naked a turn-on anyway, but this meant more somehow. Profound. He ignored his d**k perking up under pajama pants. Not the time. “What if I want to?” Colby said, and Jason couldn’t help staring down at his d**k again, but no, Colby wasn’t a mindreader or an erection-sensing telepath, and hadn’t meant that. “I mean, ah, what we’re doing. Me being yours. I do have some experience, and I’m fairly certain I’ve heard of that being a thing, er, thank you, sir, and all that.” “Huh. But…no, you don’t have to…” “But you’re thinking about it.” “Try it sometime and we’ll see. Only if you want.” He kept his hands moving: deliberate, practiced, good at this. Feeling tension ebb, seeing muscles turn pliant and comforted. The room smelled of herbs and rain; Colby’s body was warm and secure, protected under his touch. “Mmm,” Colby said. “Thank you for taking care of me, sir. Jason.” “I know you’re not trying to get me to have s*x with you after you’ve just told me you’re sore,” Jason said, meaningfully, and kneaded a fraction harder. “But you liked it.” “Didn’t say I didn’t. Anyone ever tell you you’re too persistent?” Colby laughed at this echo, recalling much earlier swimming-pool plans and stubbornness. “Yes, but I persist in not listening. Wasn’t that what I said? But you don’t mind.” “Nah. Kinda love that when you decide to be stubborn, it’s because you want to help people.” He was being extra-careful with the bruises over Colby’s spine. Lightest of touches, but enough of a rub to coax blood to flow. “Kinda love you, y’know. What you said about people getting to be happy. You make me happy.” “Oh. Do I?” From someone else that might’ve been teasing, flippant, an answer already assumed. Colby was asking. “You do,” Jason told him, over the helpless crack of love in his own chest. “You do. Every day. Every time your hair gets in your mouth and you make that face. Every time you wake up and take a first sip of coffee and look like you’ve just had the best orgasm ever. Actually, no, I’ve seen that too, and that’s an even better face.” “Now I’m afraid I’m making odd faces at you constantly.” “Love all your faces. Love you.” “Hmm. I love you as well. And your hands on me. My bread loaf.” The storm shimmered and sang and waltzed, outside, with oncoming night. Jason’s hands belonged right where they were. Colby loved him. Colby had given him this last secret, because Colby thought he, Jason, deserved that honor. And maybe the words’d been a shock, maybe there’d been some hurt, but that was okay. They were okay. They could be magical. He said, hands resting over that bare expanse of skin, “Just tell me what kind of bread you want me to be. We can get to knots and braids sometime later. Colby?” “Hmm?” Colby sounded sleepy now, having settled under ministrations and painkillers. “I’m awake.” Maybe two-thirds awake, but Jason wouldn’t argue. “I didn’t say something else to you, earlier. I should’ve.” Colby’s shoulders tensed a fraction. Jason silently swore at himself. Repair would take longer than he’d realized. His own doing. He attempted, “No, I’m not mad at you. I never was, exactly. You know. But it’s not about that anyway.” “All right,” Colby said promptly. Listening, through holes in crumbling castle walls and tattered tapestries. Quick to forgive. Generous as a hero. Jason’s entire soul, which did not deserve this man, coiled up in distress. He’d always thought Colby was the nicest person he’d ever met. He’d once upon a time assumed that was an act. It wasn’t, and Colby was the bravest person in the world. The man he’d fallen in love with, because he couldn’t not love Colby Kent. He wanted to stand at Colby’s side forever. He hunted for verbal bandages. Thread to stitch up those tapestries. “I should’ve said it better. I should’ve told you how impressed I am. I was thinking, of course you’re a writer, that makes total sense, and of course you’re good at it.” “I’m not,” Colby said. “It’s only touch-up work. Not even close to what—well, what my mother does, for one. You don’t have to try to make it into something significant; we don’t have to talk about it.” Jason’s whole chest tried to cave in. “No, we should. You told me because you wanted to. I want to. I should’ve said all of that. I’m sorry.” “You don’t need to apologize to me—” “Please,” Jason said. “Um. Sort of an order? Since you still want to be, um. Mine. Let me say this. Please.” “I’m yours,” Colby said. “You can give me orders. If—if you still want that. Me.” “Still a yes. Always a yes. No question about it.” He rubbed a hand over Colby’s hip as reinforcement. “I want you to listen, okay? I mean this. Everything I should’ve said. I think you’re a genius.” Colby didn’t say anything; Jason drew a breath and kept forging ahead. “I mean, like…you’re an actual genius. You’re an amazing writer.” He leaned down, trying to catch Colby’s eye. Colby wasn’t quite looking back. The chest-cavern where Jason’s heart had broken ached even more. He’d done that. “Seriously. I don’t even know what to say. I’m f*****g in awe of you. Your words.” “It’s only tidying up…” “It’s not. You make scripts work.” “It’s only—” “I told you once,” Jason said, extremely gently, venturing onto this brittle ice because he loved Colby and Colby shouldn’t be facing the treacherous path back to solid ground and self-worth alone, “not to insult yourself, didn’t I?” “But that’s hardly the…” Colby paused. “You think it is. The same.” “I think you’re brilliant and I think you don’t give yourself enough credit.” He bent, kissed Colby’s shoulder, sketched a heart in lotion in the same spot. The heart came out lopsided. That was fine; it gleamed cheerfully despite that. “You love stories. You know when a story’s good, right?” “Ah…I hope so?” “And you trust your own writing. Your screenplays’ve been nominated for awards. Jill’s friends send scripts to you—I know they don’t know it’s you, you said, I remember—because they want your help. They wouldn’t do that if you weren’t good. And you were excited about fixing up our scenes. You like your writing.” “I…suppose I do, yes.” “So don’t tell me it’s not significant. Not when it is. Not when it makes you happy.” Colby went quiet for a handful of seconds. Jason crossed fingers—figuratively, but also literally, fleetingly, where those blue eyes couldn’t see—and got back to the massage. “Jason?” “Yeah?” “I might have to think about that a bit. But you might be right. I suspect Jill would say so.” Good, Jason thought. Good. He said, “Bet she would. How’re you feeling? Still getting better?” “Entire galaxies of better. Which is in part how I feel. Floating in stars. I’d say that’s the medication, but I think it’s you. Touching me. You’re marvelous. How did I ever end up here, with you…” “You offered me a role. And then you ate a pastry at me.” “Sorry, I what?” “That first morning you bought pastries,” Jason said. “And you told me to pick one, and I told you to eat the other one, and you looked at me like you thought about throwing it at me, but you ate it.” “And that…made you want to be here?” “Yep.” “Marvelous,” Colby muttered into a pillow, “and possibly insane.” “You’re the sweetest person I’ve ever met, except you think all the sarcastic thoughts, and also all the s*x jokes, but you don’t say them. But you do with me.” “I like talking to you. You listen. And you don’t mind dragons in the conversation.” “And you’re my favorite book-wyrm. Can I ask you more about your writing?” “Oh.” Colby sounded startled, and also pleased. Jason grinned to himself, and moved to the back of Colby’s neck, gathering shaggy hair out of the way. “Yes, of course. What, ah, what would you…oh, that feels superb…” “You said you’d worked on other projects, not just Jill’s. Anything I’d know?” He hoped that came out purely curious; he meant it that way. “Possibly? If you ever saw Darklight, last year, that science-fiction—” “—with the awesome crew dynamics and interstellar exploration and—you wrote that?” “Put a final layer on. Smoothed out. Tightened up. Some sort of metaphor. I didn’t work on the original draft and I was afraid to do much to the science-heavy bits. But…well, I did rework the structure. And I wrote all the dialogue.” “Oh my God.” It’d been one of the best-written science-fiction films Jason had seen recently, intelligent and human and awe-inspiring and cosmic and occasionally outright funny, with a wry affectionate sense of humor that, now that he thought about it, sounded exactly like Colby. Critics had agreed, not that sci-fi films ever won major awards. “What else do we have to thank you for?” “Ah…all right, I’m sorry about this one…Ricochet.” “I was almost in that! They cast—” “Cliff Majors instead. I know. I wished it’d been you, with your sense of timing and delivery, but I only came on once they were so evidently in trouble, when the director begged Jill to send it over to her magic script doctor, but even I couldn’t fix it enough.” The screenplay had been the best piece of a disastrous pile of special effects and blazing guns and sloppy revenge-thriller action, over-budget and miscast. Jason had in fact been up for the lead, had run into scheduling difficulties with the next John Kill movie, and had ultimately been glad to escape unscathed. But the one thing that reviews had praised had been the dialogue, with comments along the lines of, in better hands the dry wit and restrained emotion would’ve landed, and it’s a shame we couldn’t see that film… “I tried,” Colby said. “I did what I could. I think I really wrote it for you. Cliff…I hate to say anything bad about him, when I don’t even know him…” “You can. Trust me. I’ve met him. He literally crushed a beer can on his forehead and then asked me which supermodels I’d slept with.” “Oh dear.” “Yeah. Anything else?” “Hmm…one or two that’ve never gone into production…and, well. The other big one. Princess. Though I wasn’t the only one they asked—they didn’t know it was me, they went through Jill, like always—and I know some of the final version isn’t my writing.” “That was up for best animated feature!” “Yes…that was the first—so far only—time I’ve attempted a children’s movie. Not that it’s only for children, of course.” “Holy shit.” “I did say it wasn’t all mine. I don’t know who else came on after I sent them my version. The opening’s not mine. Most of the second and third acts, however…those are.” “Oh my God.” “Sorry.” “For what? No. And still no about that. The unnecessary sort of saying sorry.” He worked on the massage a little harder, over Colby’s shoulders. “How long’ve you been doing this? Not as far back as—” “Not South Coast. I was too nervous being there on a television series at all, without any acting experience, and initially only a recurring role in any case. I didn’t dare speak up.” “But you had ideas.” “Mmm…I’ll admit to you that I did. I saved the best ones someplace. No, the first proper writing I did was for Afterparty, with Jill. I did most of it on set, in high school classrooms and that prom night hotel suite.” “Weren’t you still in high school yourself? Jesus.” He curled fingers around the back of Colby’s neck, letting the weight be perceptible: a tease and a vow. Colby melted under the caress. “So you really are a genius.” “Oh, no, I was nineteen. Out of school. We were all playing younger on camera, of course.” “You wrote that at nineteen.” It’d been a runaway hit. Critics and audiences alike had fallen in love. Had called it fresh and clever and heartfelt, a teenage comedy that knew with flawless timing when to tug at emotions and when to go quiet and when to dance. Colby didn’t answer right away. Jason cursed himself. He’d put that flinch in place. “I didn’t come up with the story,” Colby said. “Someone else wrote the first treatment—Ashley Bryant, who went on to work on Twirl, that high-school flag squad sitcom, you know—but then Ben took a crack at it when Jill came on, and that was the version I auditioned for, but…well…once we started…he’s marvelous at overall structure and shape, but the details and dialogue…some lines weren’t quite…” “So you fixed them.” “I wouldn’t’ve said anything, except I accidentally said one of my own lines instead of the script version, and everyone thought it was hilarious in the moment, and then Jill caught me making notes before the next scene, and she asked to see my version, and…” “How much of it’s yours?” “More than it ought to’ve been,” Colby admitted. “As far as attribution and credits. I’ve never asked for that, though.” That was a whole other discussion, one Jason didn’t think they were ready to wade into yet. He’d have to think about that, too. He didn’t understand, but he didn’t want to make assumptions or trample over Colby’s wants or needs. He’d done that too much already. He came up with a different question. “Different question. When is your birthday?” “Mine? It’s the second of January. Does that matter?” “Well, yeah, if I’ve got like two and a half months to find you the best present ever. Thirty-one, Andy said?” “Yes, I’ll be properly into my thirties. But you—” “Don’t even try saying I don’t have to get you anything.” “I wasn’t,” Colby protested drowsily. Every inch of him had become languid and flowing as the rain, under Jason’s hands. Jason’s hands beamed with accomplishment. Colby went on, “I admit I rather like the idea…you wanting to do that, to do something for me…no, I was going to say you already are the best present and I enjoy unwrapping you and I’d quite like to do that now.” Jason snorted. Tapped fingers over Colby’s ass, not with any force. “Being persistent. I said we weren’t doing that tonight. You want me to spank you? Not now. Obviously.” “I don’t know,” Colby said. He didn’t sound upset or distressed by the idea; Jason had only thought of that possibility after setting the words free, but maybe this one wasn’t as big a deal as it might’ve been. “You could try. Tony tried it a few times. I didn’t like it much, though I think that was partly because he always did it quite hard, so he could see me cry. I thought it must be my fault that I couldn’t get into it—he plainly enjoyed it, so I must’ve been doing something wrong. But it hurt so much I couldn’t think about anything else. I don’t want you to think he was terrible; he did want me to like the things he tried with me—he kept saying he wanted me to like them, and I kept trying to make him happy, so that’s partly on me—but I never could get off from, er, things that only inflicted pain.” Jason decided that Tony was thoroughly terrible, and also a bad dominant. He had a lot of comments, but kept them to himself, because Colby didn’t need to hear that. Colby raised the one visible eyebrow under rumpled hair-strands. “Your face says you have comments.” “He’s f*****g terrible and a bad dominant and you deserve better. Why’d you say I could try, if you don’t like it?” “I trust you not to hurt me. I do like belonging to you. I think perhaps if it’s more about sensation and the weight of your hands and the sort of hot tingling feeling, and if you’re talking to me throughout, I could try to get into that headspace with it. You’ve already made me feel things I didn’t know I could, so I’m willing.” “Hmm.” He believed that answer: Colby lay there accepting his touch, all malleable and contented and honest, accent blurring at the edges with pleasure. “We can think about it. I don’t need it. I don’t care that much about that one, and I’m not gonna push you.” “I honestly am willing. I’d tell you if not.” “I know you would.” Maybe not weeks ago, but now, yeah. He believed that too. He considered the moment and the timing, and added, “If we do, it’ll be closer to what you said. Reminding you that you’re mine, just enough to warm up that pretty ass, my hands on you, me telling you how good you are, taking it for me. And then I’d get you off. By f*****g you. So we can both feel how hot you are, and you’d come like that, just from my c**k inside you.” Colby’s mouth fell open. Silence emerged. “All hypothetical,” Jason said, with some smugness. The rain snickered. “Since you’re still recovering.” “Oh dear God,” Colby managed. “Please say you’re joking about the hypothetical part. I may be even more willing, now…” “Recovering.” “Jason!” “And you need to rest.” “Stephen would never be this cruel to Will, in our s*x scenes.” “More,” Jason said. “They totally have fun. Exploring everything. Toys, kinks, scientific discoveries in bed, you name it.” “Those leather boots,” Colby said. “Cravats as restraints. And I expect Will would approve of rigorous testing of period-appropriate dildos. It’s odd, I do want you, all of me does, but I’m also rather a puddle of liquified sunshine right now, on top of being tired and feeling as if you’ve just turned my personal assumptions upside down and shaken them about, and I want…I don’t know. I honestly don’t. Other than you. I want you to touch me.” “Liquified sunshine?” “Like butter, only more celestial?” “Makes sense.” He ran a hand over Colby’s hip again. Steadied them both for the next question. “I’m here. I’m right here with you. Can I ask you something? About earlier.” “About…” “When you…” God. Words. How. “You kind of…you said you couldn’t remember much, for a minute. Kind of a blur. When you thought I’d…um, you weren’t thinking. Panicked. You said.” “Oh.” He couldn’t tell what that tone might be. He took a breath and took his heart into the words, inept as they were. “I was thinking about you. And recovery. And—and have you ever…would you…have you thought about…talking to…someone…” Colby didn’t say anything, but didn’t pull away, either, so that was promising, right? Jason said, “Um,” and trailed off, giving up. He kept the hand on Colby’s hip. Colby sighed. Shut both eyes, then opened them. “You think I should see a therapist.” “Not…I mean…I don’t know. I just. I talked to someone, a couple times. After Charlie, um. I needed the help. Coping with it. Being there, not being able to save him…I mean, um, it’s not about me. Right now. About you. Getting better.” Okay, words not going well. He cringed internally. “I didn’t mean it like there’s anything wrong with you! I just wondered if…maybe…it’d help…” “I’ve thought about it,” Colby said, and that was so far from anything Jason expected that he literally couldn’t react. Colby went on, “I know…I always knew, I think, that some of this wasn’t…good. Some of what—what happened to me—and then how I reacted, how I thought about it and myself…And I know so many people—I’m certain you do as well, in Hollywood—who do see someone. So yes, it’s occurred to me. But…” Jason waited, and when nothing else emerged, prompted cautiously, “But…? Or don’t tell me. If you don’t want to.” “But I couldn’t. I knew what my parents would say, and how I’d feel, and it felt like admitting that I wasn’t good enough, that I couldn’t handle things. But I always can, I’m good at that, I don’t like to bother anyone, and…” Colby sighed again, and shifted more onto one side, or tried to. Jason shook his head, and ran a hand over him, shoulder to thigh; Colby settled back into place. “I know. But I couldn’t face it. You were right. I hide when I’m scared.” “You do and you don’t,” Jason said. “You help other people instead. I’m not saying you have to talk to anyone, I’m not saying you should, or anything. Just, y’know, it’s an option. I’m here no matter what.” “I’ll think about it,” Colby said. “I do mean that. More seriously than I have before. I don’t want to scare you the way I did tonight. Or myself, for that matter. I didn’t realize I was still so breakable.” Jason snorted, mostly because this was ridiculous and a little because it wasn’t, and the part that wasn’t hurt, and he wanted with every piece of his soul to fix it. “You? Come on. You got me into a pool, you got us on camera announcing our love to the world, you even got Leo to behave—” “I’m afraid that’s an impossible task, and the best option involved redirecting the pranks into presents—” “—and you write scripts that make the world fall in love. You can do anything, and everybody’d follow you. You’re the best of us.” He clarified hastily, “That doesn’t mean you have to always, y’know, be that. The best. But you’re not breakable. You’re still here and trying. Strong. Um. You know. The opposite of breakable. Is what I mean.” “So…what you mean is, in fact…unbreakable?” Jason opened his mouth, saw Colby not bothering to hide the grin, and announced to the ceiling and the storm and his own heart, “Did I say I like you being sarcastic around me? I did, didn’t I…” “You love me,” Colby said, meekly but without any hesitation at all. “You said so.” “I do.” “Jason?” “Yeah?” “Would you stay in bed with me tonight? Hold me?” “Are you sure? I don’t mean I’m doubting you or anything,” he added instantly—he’d done enough of that too—and leaned over to get nose to nose with those blue eyes. “But, um. Large. Weight. Me. Your back.” Colby deciphered this with the ease of a linguist. “You do cuddle, and I like that. I think I’m healed enough that having you wrapped around me won’t hurt, and I miss you.” “Um,” Jason said again. “Okay.” No if you’re sure, no questioning that conviction. Colby would tell him if not up to it, and was telling him that this mattered. “I miss you too.” “Then it’s mutual. May I ask you for one more thing?” “What can I do?” “Take off your clothes? Please.” Jason laughed—Colby was looking at him with kitten-plaintive eyes—and hopped happily off the bed, and yanked at pajama pants. “I can do that. Still not having s*x with you even if you ask.” “I think,” Colby said, “the weather’s quite good with precisely that, not for s*x, I think, not right now, but you holding me and us being naked, yes.” “Yeah,” Jason said, “yes, all of that, I love you, yes.” * * * * Naked in Jason’s arms, Colby listened to the gossip of the rain, felt the firm lightly-haired press of a leg against his, and left his hand atop Jason’s chest, over Jason’s heart. They’d fallen asleep—or at least Jason had, believing Colby to also be sleeping—gingerly nestled together: not quite spoons, because Jason hadn’t wanted to press up against bruises, but with Colby tucked in along Jason’s side, head on Jason’s shoulder, one massive arm around him. Colby’d set his hand over the rise and fall of Jason’s breathing and the love that beat there; Jason’d folded fingers around his wrist and held him in place. They’d held each other. Surfacing from whitewater rapids, emerging battered but victorious. Looking toward clearer waters ahead. Colby had meant to fall asleep, and nearly had. He felt good: comfortable and protected and not in pain, or not much. His back would hurt if poked or twisted wrong, but right this instant that wasn’t an issue. He’d pressed a kiss to Jason’s shoulder and shut his eyes, and Jason had kissed the top of his head and told him to sleep, to rest, to heal. Colby’d planned to; he’d let himself grow slow and heavy with slumber, all the way down to his toes. All at once he’d been more awake. Some stray electric bolt, a prickle of thought, a shiver of immanence. Something numinous and self-aware. He didn’t move. He only lay there feeling, existing, being. Being himself. In the dark, in a shared bed, with Jason and the rain. They’d fought. They’d had an actual fight. He’d hurt Jason—unintended, and that didn’t not matter, but wasn’t an excuse. Jason had hurt him in a different way, also unintended: the pain on that side had come out as anger, and Colby’d been so sure that Jason would leave, those old wounds and precedents ripped open and bleeding anew, now that Colby had once again failed, got it all wrong, not said or done the right thing— But that hadn’t been true either. Jason had stayed. Jason had apologized. Jason had asked to hold him, fretted about consent, offered care and reassurances. Colby had tried to apologize as well, clumsily. He hadn’t realized how his admission would sound, when Jason had his own metaphorical bruises under that laid-back sunkissed skin. He knew now: he could hurt Jason, because Jason cared so deeply that a hint of lack of trust, of dismissal of equality, could take that huge golden heart apart. He breathed in and out, carefully, not moving. He had Jason’s heart in his hands, and he wondered at that gift and that power and that responsibility: the honor of it, being loved by this man. And Jason thought he was a genius. Had said so. Had praised him, with truth in those sincere earth-rich eyes. Worn out, covered in soothing lotion and emotional bandages, Colby turned a bit more into Jason’s embrace, and thought that perhaps this might be happiness: a sort of plush and hard-won poignant peace, luminous as rain, green and lush as an abandoned battlefield. Jason had stayed, and Colby had wanted him to, and they were here now. Naked together. Jason wanted him to see someone. A therapist. Counseling. The suggestion had been given with love, and Jason had meant it when saying he’d stay no matter what. Colby believed that. He balanced that idea for a while too, contemplating it. To his surprise, the shape of it did not make him feel inadequate; if Jason had seen someone to cope with grief, and if Colby himself actively wanted to work through some of the scars that’d been far too present tonight, then surely that was a good thing. Surely that meant strength, not worthlessness. He let himself get that far, and he knew that the follow-up thought would be a transformative one, about himself and saying yes to help; he set it aside for the moment, in the tranquil world of shadow and water and hotel-room sheets. He’d get there. No rush. He knew he would, now, and that was enough for this night. Jason had asked about the writing. Had wanted to know. That more than anything else had been incontrovertible: Jason had truly been interested in the what and the when and the how. So Colby’d told him. And that had felt… Good. Right. Shared, and more joyful for being so. Jason hadn’t asked the obvious follow-up question. Colby’d expected it, and hadn’t had an answer, not then. He’d appreciated the purposeful topic switch to birthdays—he knew Jason’s fell in May, well before they’d begun filming; the twenty-fifth, to be precise, which he’d read while looking up Jason’s previous roles—and the future. Cradled in Jason’s strength, he asked himself that unspoken question now. Why hadn’t he ever asked for writing credit? Why hadn’t he wanted it? I thought I didn’t want it, he answered silently. Jason’s arm lay solid and snug around him in the night. The rain rustled with encouragement. Do I honestly not want it, he thought. Or have I been scared of that as well? Of telling the world about something I love? Curled into the dark, bruised and safe, he turned that idea over and cupped it in both invisible hands and examined it. He knew that if he genuinely preferred to stay anonymous, Jason might not understand but would support him regardless; if that was a real choice, a true choice, he could have that. Knowing that—that there was a choice—he could consider the alternative. What if he told people? Would he want that? His mother would sniff and dismiss his work, but she did so already. His father would boast and puff up emptily, but he did that as well. Colby heard a few other voices—Liam, Tony, the laughter of you thought you could be good enough, you never were, no wonder everyone leaves—but he pushed them down and shut the mental trapdoor and sat squarely atop it for good measure. Not everyone left. Jason hadn’t left. Jillian and Andy, Leo and Tim and Laurie…they’d been there, at the hospital. After. Caring. Yelling about caring, in Andy’s case. He was good enough. He was good enough for them to love. And if he wasn’t perfect, he didn’t have to be. Jason’d said so. And was indisputably, tangibly, with a tiny adorable huff of sleeping exhale, still here. So I’m working on not being scared of that, he thought. I’ll keep working on it. Then what else? The reactions? The responses? Critics and audiences seemed to like his words. The awards and reviews argued in his favor. He’d proven himself; if he publicly admitted he’d written Afterparty or Local News or Darklight, those awards and reviews wouldn’t go away. They’d been earned, not given because of the Colby Kent name. Did that matter? Would it make a difference whether he took credit or not, as long as the screenplays earned praise? Perhaps that was the wrong question. Perhaps it didn’t matter as far as the quality of the finished film; did it matter to Colby himself? He thought about Jason, so large and straightforward and kind, built of emotion and compassion and that oversized heart to match the muscles. He thought about Will Crawford, who left the shelter of his father’s home in order to be himself: to be honest about his love and his convictions, as much as he could be in a time that wouldn’t allow such love openly. Will, like Stephen, chose freely, and truthfully, and without hiding the core of himself. Prudence required secrecy in Regency society; but Colby rather thought that Will would’ve loved to see a more welcoming world, and would’ve been himself even more, as fiercely as he could, seizing joy. Colby himself could choose not to give away this secret. Nothing would change. He didn’t have to change; he didn’t have to step forward. Jason would love him; Jill and Andy and his friends, because he did have friends, would love him as well. But, he thought. And then he stopped, and let that emotion blossom. But he wanted to. He did want it. He loved this film and he loved Stephen and Will, and he was proud of his own writing, and he wanted everyone to know about his love. He wanted to write a happy ending, and he wanted to stand up and say: I believe in happy endings. I believe in romance. I wrote that. Me. Choosing happiness. The clarity hit like a cloudburst: drenching, sudden, illuminating and vibrant and annealing. Down to his bones, deep inside. Oh, he thought. All right. Yes. He could’ve laughed, caught breath, shouted the yes aloud. He did not, not wanting to wake Jason. But the lightness danced along his bones with the decision. Rain on glass, he thought. Sparkling. Prismatic. A future. He flattened fingers over Jason’s heart. His own answered. Even his c**k stirred, responding in turn to delight and the presence of Jason’s hip and thigh pressed so close. Colby had not expected that, and very nearly peeked down at himself in astonishment, but checked the motion. He wasn’t planning to do anything about it—too many emotions, and also Jason’s order about waiting, which resurfaced to quiver at the back of his brain and elsewhere—but he discovered pleasure in the reaction: he was still growing used to the rekindling, to the fact that he could want someone else so powerfully, never mind at all. He could lie naked with Jason and positively revel in the sensation. He could touch Jason and let Jason touch him, and he knew that everything would feel incredible, and he craved more. That was not at all reducing the arousal. His c**k throbbed, hot and fat and rubbing against Jason’s hip. Colby felt his cheeks burn at the sheer brazenness of his body, but apparently he enjoyed even the hint of embarrassment, or at least the twist of heat in his stomach admitted as much. Perhaps Jason would appreciate knowing that. No, he told himself. Jason said so. Not tonight. And you are certainly not waking him up, after everything we’ve been through, simply because you’re having terribly filthy thoughts. You can wait. Certain parts of himself scowled and glared and argued, having woken back up to life; but he thought about being Jason’s, about belonging to Jason, being, yes, Jason’s submissive. And Jason had given him an order. For his own good. So he could be good. He shivered a little as that comprehension sank in, and he liked that too. The hint of dreamy surrender wreathed around his thoughts and left them pleasantly fuzzy. The denial settled like weighty rainbows, a blanket of color holding him down. He could be good for Jason. He could. He could be himself, and he could be good, and he could be loved. Jason’s borrowed cot, no longer needed, stood over in the corner. With closed eyes, Colby couldn’t glance at it, but he imagined it was cheering them on. His erection lingered, hard and heated, but that became less important, almost secondary: he did not need to do anything about it in order to feel splendid, and cherished, and as if he belonged right here. Happy endings, he thought once more, drowsily. Not simple or easily written, but worth fighting for. Worth finding. Worth holding onto. Surrounded by rainfall and tall historic bedposts and Jason’s arms, Colby smiled, and yawned, and drifted into the rainbows, as they came up to tuck him into sleep.