Bonus Scene In Focus, Chapter 1

Character Study Book 2

“Would you mind,” Leo said to the interviewer, an alert young woman with an encyclopedic knowledge of Jane Austen’s novels, “if I took off my shoes? It’s such a nice carpet.” It was, thick and royal blue and plush.

The whole hotel was nice: elegant in a California way, laid-back and dressed up, mingling palm trees and swimsuits and champagne and celebrity weddings. Leo, having been trapped in this specific room for two hours of makeup and lighting and light-blocking curtains and preparations already, desperately wanted to wander out to the balcony or onto the beach.

Maybe he could roll up his trousers. Do an interview standing in sand. Jump into some waves. Meet some dolphins.

At the very least he could wiggle his toes, in their polka-dotted socks. The interviewer, bemused, said, “Of course, go on…” as if wondering whether he remembered that he was on camera.

Leo kicked off his shoes. Beamed at her. “Have you had a chance to go down to the beach? It’s such a gorgeous day.”

“Well, we have been kind of busy,” she observed. “With your premiere. It’s a fantastic film, both the romance and the LGBTQ history. Was that important to you—either or both of those parts?”

She clearly wanted to ask a follow-up question, and was inching toward it. Leo had expected as much. Prepared for it. For now, he said, “Both, honestly. I love a good romance, and I love great sweeping melodrama—I grew up all around the theatre, musicals, the opera, you know—and Steadfast has all of that, a war, desperate pining, lovers believing the other one to be dead…just wonderful big emotions.”

“And the fact that it’s a central gay romance, specifically, was also important?”

“Yes, of course. It’s a true story—well, inspired by one; fictionalized to an extent, of course—and those sorts of stories need to be told. And celebrated, with lots of prestigious awards, hopefully.”

That one made her laugh. “I’m sure it will be. But was it significant to you personally?”

“Ah,” Leo said. “I know the next question. Let me jump in here.” He paused. Looked right at the camera. Himself, being recorded. Not live—the footage could be edited—but he had a feeling this moment would be significant.

He’d had sixteen messages that morning, all from his agent. Anne-Marie had scolded him about spontaneous acts of social media, but she’d also approved of the publicity—apparently he was trending on various sites—and she’d also told him she was happy for him. So that’d been all right.

He’d got dressed with care. Colorful, because he liked color; that was who he was. Not too over the top, because he didn’t want anyone to think he wasn’t taking this seriously. But bright. A sky-blue soft stretchy shirt, under a darker blue jacket. Pink jeans, because why not. The watch with the aged leather strap, because it looked vaguely antique, even though it wasn’t.

He wished Sam were here.

He wished his parents were here.

Hell, he wished Jason and Colby were here. They’d smile at him, and probably bake something for him as a reward. They had, in fact: dinner had been short but lovely, all of them knowing they’d have to be up early. But Sam had clearly had a word with Colby, because there had indeed been cake. Raspberry-orange and white chocolate and caramel layers, when Leo himself had flippantly mentioned raspberry, earlier.

Jason had hugged him, which Leo had promptly answered by petting Jason’s biceps and inquiring, “Can I openly appreciate these now? Am I supposed to call you some sort of animal name, now, like, oh, a bear? I don’t think I’ve got that definition quite right, though, and I don’t think you’re fuzzy enough, though I’m fairly certain you like honey—”

Jason had started making some sort of threatening avalanche noise, so Leo had just patted him again and said, “I’m sure you’re a very sweet teddy bear,” and had looked over at Colby, who’d been trying not to laugh and spectacularly failing. “I can see the appeal, but I also think I like not having to buy mountain-sized beds. How do the two of you fit?”

Jason’s face had gone pink. “Don’t answer that—”

Colby, now nearly dying of laughter, had got out, “We did just buy a new bed, in fact—”

Sam had put in, taking the bottle of wine before Colby dropped it, “I was there. I’ve got pictures from when you made him lie down to test it out.”

Colby, later—cleaning up, in fact; Leo had been picking up wine glasses to take back to the kitchen, and Colby had followed—had touched his arm. Lightly, but an initiation of contact; Leo had turned. Colby’s eyes were steady, very blue, seeing him.

Leo had said, wine glasses in hand, “I’m happy.” He was. Incandescently so, just then.

“I’m so very glad for you.” Colby hadn’t moved the hand yet: touching him. “We do love you, you know, Leo. You’re our friend. And Sam’s wonderful. I’m honored you’ve let us meet him. He’s very kind.”

“Yes,” Leo had said back. Of everything Colby might’ve said—Sam was handsome, a gifted photographer, patient, good at helping set up bookshelves—Colby had chosen that particular word. Because Sam was kind, the sort of kindness that knew about hardship and loss and pain, and then reached out when other people—a lonely actor, for instance—needed to be held, or kissed, or given a beach-themed snow globe. “He is.”

But today Colby and Jason were doing their own press in a room down the hall, and Sam was there with them.

Because Sam was getting paid to document this week with Colby Kent and Jason Mirelli, not with Leo Whyte. Which was exactly the point, and good, and working out well for everyone, in theory.

Besides, he was used to being alone. The center of attention, the joke of the party or the film set, nobody’s best friend or partner or anchor. Just ridiculous lighthearted dandelion-fluff Leo, all by himself.

So he’d do this by himself, too.

He took a deep breath. “So, we all know I love sharing, well, all sorts of things.”

The interviewer—he thought her name was Jenny—nodded, smiling at him, waiting.

“If you’d ever wanted photos of me eating a slice of cake as large as my head, or sneaky behind the scenes shots of time-traveling spaceships—for which I got in trouble, by the way, that’s a different story…well, the thing is, there’s one piece I hadn’t ever shared. To be fair, I hadn’t figured it out myself until recently. Though apparently I’m the last to know. Just ask my parents, or Colby and Jason, or half the internet, evidently.”

Jenny nodded more, gaze sympathetic. Leo appreciated that.

He went on, “I don’t actually think it’s a big deal—that is, obviously it is, it means something to me and I hope perhaps to other people, if I come out and say it. Publicly. Owning it. But it shouldn’t change who I am, as far as being an actor, liking raspberries, being good at riding a unicycle, all of that. That’s all still me. But…to answer your question…yes, Steadfast matters to me personally, because I’m a bisexual man and, yes, in a relationship with a man, as it happens. In case you hadn’t all guessed from that photo, which we did because we wanted to tell the fans, the people who’ve supported me, first.”

“And who is your—”

“His name’s Sam and he makes me smile. And no, I’m not giving you any more details, I have to preserve some secrets; how will I ever be a dashing and enigmatic international man of mystery otherwise?”

There. Done. He’d done that.

No going back. Not that he wanted to. He just wished he’d had Sam here for the moment.

He pictured a snow globe, a sandcastle. He wished he could’ve brought it. To hold onto.

Jenny laughed. “Were you ever a man of mystery?”

“Well. No, actually, not at all. Damn. So much for shadowy secretive noir roles in my future.”

“So,” Jenny said. “Is this you officially coming out, Leo?” She was grinning now, probably at the exclusive.

Leo wasn’t sure when all the interviews would go live; he wondered whether she’d be the first to get hers up. “Er…yes? I thought I just did?”

An assistant, off to one side, held up a one-minute warning sign.

“Well,” Jenny said, “That’s certainly going to give you some publicity. This film, Sir Laurence Taylor coming out at the London premiere, and now you…is it something about this story? You’re all feeling inspired to share yourselves?”

Leo felt his eyebrows go up. “Maybe? Maybe that’s part of why it felt right.” He hadn’t in fact thought about it in those terms. “But mostly I think it just felt…well, I’m happy. And I want to share that with the world.”

“Thanks for sharing it with us.” That was a wrap-up line, but she meant it, he thought; her smile was genuine. “And we’ll see it all on screen, in Steadfast !”

The cameras stopped rolling. The recording ended.

Leo exhaled. He felt very warm, suddenly. The carpet was thick under his toes, and the hotel-room air tasted dry.

He ran a hand through his hair. Just to touch something.

Jenny leaned forward. “That was great. And, if you don’t mind me saying…seriously brave.” Her eyes were brown and soft and sincere. “Thank you.”

“Oh, well. I don’t hide anything, everyone knows that. And I don’t want to hide this. Besides, I told my parents first, so it’s not as if I’m shocking the family or anything.” He paused. Thought that over. “Well, maybe my great-uncle Mortimer…no, no, kidding. He’ll be fine with it.”

“It still means something.” She patted his arm. “And it’s a big moment, saying that. My sister came out, last year—she introduced her girlfriend at Thanksgiving dinner—and I could see how much it meant to her. It’ll mean a lot for some young queer kids, hearing it from you, I think.”

The room was getting even warmer. “I’m hardly a good role model. You’ve all got Colby and Jason for that, on this very film. I once spent three weeks hiding random plastic bananas around the Castlereigh manor set purely to watch everyone, well, go bananas.”

“Mr. Whyte,” interjected a different assistant—not one of Jenny’s crew, but one of the multiple babysitters and organizational geniuses who kept the press circus moving. This one was tall and skinny, with red hair and an alert expression that put Leo in mind of an enthusiastic pointer-dog. “The next interview…”

“Right,” Leo agreed, and squared his shoulders. Subconsciously, at first; but when he noticed he’d done it, he turned it into an exaggerated motion, upright and eager in his chair.

He wondered how many times he’d be asked to come out, today.

He wondered whether it’d be rude to pull out his phone and text Sam.

He glanced out the window, at sunlight, at waves coiling and breaking over the beach. Sand, he thought. Slipping, crumbling, sliding through his fingers. Uneven, under his feet. Water spilling across his toes.

He wanted to go home, an abrupt welling-up want like lightning out of the blue horizon.

Home, or at least back to a quiet seaside hotel room. Full of pillows and lacy curtains and no expectations. Where he could sit down and breathe for a moment.

Of course he was already sitting down. Here. In a chair. So he shouldn’t need that.

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 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.