Chapter 1
1: Still Day 26
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 wasdoing 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—onColby’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.