Chapter 3 London

Leo woke far too early, but the waking came with a kiss, so he did not mind as much. He cracked open both eyes, recognized the bulk of an unexpected presence beside him, had a brief moment of utter bewilderment, moved a leg, and remembered.

Physically. Incontrovertibly.

“Oh. Oh, my .”

Sam balanced on an elbow beside him, left his legs tangled up with Leo’s, got visibly concerned. In pearlescent dawn light his eyes were dark gold as temptation, and gave away nothing of whatever he’d been thinking when offering a fairytale awakening. “Sore?”

“Let’s say I’m…noticing everything we did.” Leo yawned. This was himself in bed with a man. This was himself, in bed with a man, much too early the morning after. A bit sore—well, perhaps more than a bit, but not so much he’d admit to anything; he’d felt far worse after fight training and flying-harness stunts on various sets—and inarguably nestled into a firm masculine body.

All right. He’d woken up with people before. And his bed remained his bed, luxurious and pillow-topped and layered with indulgent fluff. And the person in his bed was Sam.

And Leo couldn’t find any sort of real panic about that fact, though maybe he should at some point do some re-evaluation of self and sexuality. “You’re a splendid bed-warmer. Are we getting up?”

“You don’t have to.” Sam touched him while talking: cheek, shoulder, hip. Sam did like touching, Leo concluded all over again. “I can get up and go. You can stay in bed. Stay warm.”

“No, I promised.” He wriggled closer, though. Sharing naked skin, under the weight of sheets and covers. The indigo pool of his duvet kept them close. “I’m entirely skipping the gym this morning, though.”

Sam’s hand encountered Leo’s backside. Squeezed appreciatively. Lingered there. “I think you’re allowed that much. What’re you up to, anyway? After your successful world-changing film premiere.”

“Is it? I hope so—those stories need telling—but we’ll see how the reviews turn out. I’ll read a few once I’m more awake. We’ve got some press to do, this afternoon, tomorrow, and then next week when we hit New York and Los Angeles. Would you like tea? Coffee? Pictures of me?” He knew Sam had to leave. He did not want Sam to leave. The extent of not wanting that astounded him.

“Right now I want to do something else for you.” The exploring hand snuck over between Leo’s legs. Leo’s cock, which had quite liked awakening with that large radiator-heat right up against him, perked up further “The way you look…the way this feels…God, I want to do things to you.”

“Do you always feel like sex in the morning? Not that I’m saying no. I’m quite interested.” So was Sam, given the thick upright stiffness nudging Leo’s thigh. “So that part feels different. Your, er, literal part. As far as waking up with someone.”

Sam’s hand did not leave Leo’s morning arousal, but ceased moving. “If you don’t want…I mean I get it, you said before you weren’t usually into guys…and if you want to say this never happened…”

“No, no, not at all! I’m not about to pretend I’m not into you when I am, and I think I’ll have some sorting out to do but I’m quite happy to do it. I won’t even be bothered if you tell people about this…though…perhaps give me a day or so to have dinner with my parents first? If you wouldn’t mind.”

Sam’s eyes did something complicated: a wince, a flinching from a dart-wound, a resolution. “I won’t tell anyone.”

“I don’t hide anything,” Leo told him. “And I very rarely regret things.”

“No.” The dart didn’t quite land. The wound knit itself back together, entertained. “Not you. You’re yourself for the world. And for me, right now. I won’t tell anyone, though. That way you can decide what you want to do, whenever you want to do it.”

“Oh,” Leo said. “That’s…well. Thank you. For that. Would you like to do me , right now? I would like that.” He would. Looking into Sam’s eyes, all treasure-brown against a frame of winter-blue sheets, he saw the promise and the conviction; gold slipped along his bones and gathered and pooled into need, all at once. “What else would you like to show me?”

Sam gave him a curious sort of head-tip, between laughter and ruefulness; his hand resumed stroking Leo’s cock, which very much agreed with the attention. Leo, who had always preferred talking over silence and having to guess, inquired, “Is that the plan? Your hands on me? Can I put my hands on you?”

Sam did start laughing, this time. Strokes sped up, stoking fires. “You really do mean it, don’t you? You want this.”

“I want you,” Leo informed him. “I say what I’m thinking. For instance, at the moment I would like you to do that more, and maybe a bit harder? Like…” Oh, well; he had just said he’d say what he was thinking. “Like, oh, when you did a bit of pulling my hair? Like that, sort of. Intensity.”

“Intensity, huh?” Sam slowed the next stroke, rubbing his big hand torturously gradually along Leo’s poor yearning length; Leo nearly protested, but then Sam caught the head with his thumb and did a little scrape of thumbnail over the tip, right at the slit, and Leo yelped as brightness shot through his entire body, more shock than pain and skewered with pleasure. “Like that?”

“So much like that,” Leo agreed weakly, lying very still indeed now, just letting Sam’s hand take him and take over all of him. “Is that the plan? You just…er…do this, and I come all over your hand? But what about you? What can I do?”

“Hmm.” Sam drummed fingers along Leo’s cock. Leo, delighting in every new sensation and every proprietary edge of the grip, wriggled in appreciation. Sam grinned. “You do like me playing with that. How do you feel about oral? Specifically—”

“Me or you? Yes.”

“Or you could wait for me to finish talking.” Sam leaned down, though, and licked the tip of Leo’s cock, so that was perfect. His hair fell in all sorts of directions, and Leo wanted to kiss him. “Both at once, to answer the question.”

“Oh,” Leo said, and then, “Oh! Yes. So much yes. Er…directorial input, please.”

Sam tugged gently at Leo’s cock: assertive but playful, the way they were both learning that Leo enjoyed. Some more wetness beaded up to play along too. “Lie down. And I’ll just—”

He squirmed around. They ended up pressed together, a proper sixty-nine position, bodies flexible and eager and close. Sam’s mouth nudged Leo’s cock, dark hair tickling Leo’s thighs; Leo, newly eye to eye with Sam’s large heated girth, blinked and considered size and masculinity and that full shiny head and his own mouth.

He wanted to dive in and taste it all—but the wanting was oddly shy as well, something vulnerable and wanton and intimate, utter decadence combined with strange bashfulness. What if he wasn’t coordinated enough? What if he couldn’t think enough to give Sam the same amount of pleasure?

He liked the muscles of Sam’s thighs, though, and the scent of Sam’s body, and the firm male beauty of that cock and those balls and the light fuzz of hair. He licked Sam’s inner thigh on impulse. Sam said, words tracing kisses over Leo’s rigid arousal, “Go on, I like that.”

“You do?”

“You doing what you want, with me? Yeah. Taste anything you want. Go on.”

Leo did not quite laugh, but breathed out an exhale of happiness. Giddy rainbows. Early-morning sun. February air, crisp and alive. Clear in his lungs, in his chest. Like a valentine. Shaped like Sam.

He licked Sam’s cock, a little hesitantly; then he moved his head a bit, found a better angle, and felt the whole heavy weight of it slide into his mouth, over his tongue, into his throat. Filling him up, as he sucked at it and took it down and closed lips around the base.

Sam groaned, wordless and deep; wet heat wrapped around Leo’s cock in turn, and Sam’s mouth began sucking at him, surrounding him, skillfully working him with tongue and lips and throat. Leo tried to moan, became even more deliciously aware of the cock pushing into his own mouth, and felt his hips jerk with reaction.

Sam did more, then. So much more, licking and sucking and causing fiery shimmers and streaks of sensation all through Leo’s body, centered on his cock but flooding out everyplace. He could not have said what, specifically, that marvelous mouth was doing; he could only feel, and he felt everything. Sam’s cock rocking, thrusting, not hard but in quick small motions into his own throat; his body pressed wholly against Sam’s; the smooth cradle of sheets; the iridescent unrelenting swirl of ecstasy that was happening and kept on happening between his legs…

Something pressed lightly behind his balls. A fingertip, a caress. Leo shuddered helplessly, on the brink.

The fingertip, wet and slick, drifted back. It rubbed at his hole: not penetrating, but stroking over the rim, teasing the furl of muscle, hinting at the idea, the remembrance of thrusts there too, Sam’s body sinking in. The rubbing did not cease, and Sam’s mouth drew him deeper and deeper, and all at once Leo was shaking and quivering and coming apart, coming to pieces, flung dizzily upside-down and head-over-heels and inside-out by the wave as it peaked and crashed, like this, just like this, with Sam’s cock plundering his mouth and Sam’s hands teasing his body over the edge.

And Sam’s hips snapped forward, harder now and sudden, burying Leo’s face between strong tanned thighs—and there was more heat, more of that fabulous newfound salty male flavor, pumping into his throat and over his tongue, so much it spilled up around the corners of his mouth even as he swallowed and swallowed more, dazed by sheer bliss. He could not think; he could only feel it all and taste it all and take it all, swept away and floating and full of white light.

The ecstatic heat between Leo’s legs lifted for a moment; Sam’s voice murmured something, but Leo couldn’t hear. Sam’s tongue lapped at him again after, bathing sensitive flesh in even more attention; Leo tried to reply by suckling at Sam’s softening cock, a welcome wondrous occupation for his mouth, and also tried to arch his hips up in confirmation that, yes, he loved the exquisite racing sharpness of almost-but-not-quite too much, as Sam’s mouth stayed busy on him.

Somehow he’d ended up more on his back, more or less beneath Sam’s weight, and that felt exactly right. So did the anguished brilliance of the licking and lapping, making nerve-endings fizz and fray and fill with heady static; he never wanted this feeling to end, even as he writhed and squirmed and twitched in place under the anchor.

Eventually the quivery riots of feeling dwindled, ebbing, draining into easier sensations; Sam had stopped moving, and his mouth slid off Leo’s cock. His hips moved too: thick spent length slipping from Leo’s mouth.

Leo whimpered at the emptiness. His mouth felt messy, sticky with trickles of Sam’s climax; he wanted more, or to be held, or to weep from pure unadulterated awe and release, or—

“Leo.” Sam rearranged them hastily. Folded arms around him. Kept him close, secure, tethered. A thumb brushed the corners of Leo’s lips, cleaning traces of everything they’d just done. “Oh, Leo. Shh, you’re okay, I’ve got you, you’re fantastic. So fucking fantastic, Leo, God. Can you look at me?”

That American accent, burnished by tawny contented completion, poured comfort into all the corners of Leo’s bedroom. Burnished white bedposts and dresser drawers and Leo’s heart to a gleaming shine.

He managed, “Leo God, you say…I like that…”

Sam made an utterly undignified sound and hid laughter in Leo’s hair. “Fucking perfect . I’m sorry about, um, not giving you much warning, there. When I, um. Couldn’t not come like that, with you—you just felt so damn good.”

“So that was good?” In the next second he wished he hadn’t asked, hadn’t needed to ask; he could only hope the question had come out flip and casual, as if he’d asked precisely because the asking was a joke.

Sam hugged him more tightly. Said into Leo’s hair, mouth nuzzling Leo’s head, “Yeah, Leo. That was good. That was great. If you hadn’t noticed.” He paused. Pulled back. Searched Leo’s expression. “It was for you, too, right?”

“Yes,” Leo whispered. “Oh, yes.”

“I’m glad.” Sam touched the corner of Leo’s mouth again. “You didn’t mind? Me, y’know. Kinda asking a lot of you, for a first time.”

“I told you I want to know.” He shut both eyes, tipped his head into Sam’s hand. Let himself want and feel and simply be, just for an instant. “I loved it.”

“You sound tired.” Sam stroked a thumb over Leo’s cheekbone. “I’d say I’m sorry about that, except I’m not. Your voice, though…here, I’ll at least get you water. Stay still for a sec.”

“Mmm,” Leo said, “all right…” and tucked himself down into the warm spot left by Sam’s body. Water flipped on—Sam had found glasses, obviously—and off; a heap of indigo watched him, smiling in duvet-fluff.

Stunned by exultance, Leo flopped to his back, starfished on the bed, stared blankly at his ceiling. His ceiling smirked back; voyeur, he thought exhaustedly at it. But his bedroom approved of everything they’d just done, so that was all right.

His mouth tasted like Sam, which was like nothing else ever. He stuck out his tongue. Tried to squint at it.

“What’re you doing?” Sam settled down beside him, propped on an elbow. One big hand landed across Leo’s stomach, evidently just to touch. The other offered water, in a familiar glass that caught the morning and became extraordinary.

“Trying to see the flavor,” Leo explained. “You. On my tongue.”

* * * *

The complete honest guilelessness of that reply charmed Sam’s heart into wordless emotion. He sat still and looked at Leo for a second: Leo Whyte, beautiful and freshly loved and fascinated by the world. Trying to see flavor, to taste Sam, on his tongue.

He wanted to kiss Leo all over. He wanted to tumble Leo down into sticky sheets and laugh. He felt like sunlight, like holiday mornings, like the scent in the seconds just before rain.

Leo said, “I know that’s probably less than possible, seeing flavor, but why not try?” and reached over and took the water and took a sip, and then pulled Sam closer, fitting their bodies together. Sam breathed a kiss over his temple, tasted soft sandy blond hair, never wanted to leave this bed with its mountains of color and pillows and lavish mattress-topper ever again.

He asked, hand sneaking to the back of Leo’s head, cradling Leo against him, “Feeling better?” He hoped so.

Leo hadn’t been feeling bad , he thought. Overcome by sensation. Flexible voice scratchy around the edges, used hard. But enjoyably. He believed that. Leo had said so.

The sweetness of it all hurt too much. Clear-etched as streetlamps spilling light.

Leo looked up from water. He’d been sipping slowly, and a drop clung to his top lip before he licked it away. Sam’s whole entire self, despite recent exertion, swelled with desire. Naked, he held onto Leo as hard as he could.

Leo’s lips quirked into a smile. “Feeling thoroughly spoiled. You taking care of me, holding me…you getting me to feel all of that…everything I’ve felt…it’s so much. I’m all wrung out and twinkly.”

“Sounds about right.” He took the glass when Leo handed it back, and set it on the bedside table. “Done?”

“Unromantically,” Leo said, “I may in fact need to brush my teeth? Not because of you. Just because it’s the morning and I like clean teeth.”

Sam collapsed into laughter. Couldn’t help it. Not because the line was even funny. Because it felt so right: so domestic, so unguarded, so much like the exact collection of words for that exact moment in time.

“And here I wasn’t even trying to be entertaining.” Leo waved a hand. “I’ll talk about showering next. My entire morning routine, narrated for your pleasure.”

“No,” Sam tried to explain, “no, no…I’m not laughing at you…I’m just…laughing…”

“Because of my toothbrush? I hadn’t thought about it, but I suppose if you like me putting things in my mouth…” Leo’s smile wasn’t the one displayed across movie posters or on-screen roles. This one was personal, not a performance, and consequently braver than Sam could’ve ever guessed: happy, mischievous, just a little proud of himself for making someone else happy too. “I wonder whether entertainingly-shaped toothbrushes exist? Like certain aspects of the male anatomy. Or other things. Like dinosaurs or pineapples. I’ll ask the internet later.”

I love you, Sam thought. I love you and the dinosaurs and your toothbrush—

He didn’t say it. He couldn’t say it.

He kissed Leo instead. Long and deep and inarguable. And tasting sort of like himself, but that was okay; he didn’t mind. He’d kiss Leo Whyte forever if he were ever allowed.

They got out of bed. They brushed teeth and cleaned up and got dressed: hips and arms bumping, touching a lot, encountering each other over and over in shared space. Easy, so easy: as if they’d had a routine for years, Leo’s hand finding Sam’s too-large shirt, Sam looping a finger into Leo’s boxer-briefs and tugging him in for a kiss. When Leo first held up a toothbrush, in the bathroom, they both burst out laughing.

Leo kissed him amid amber lamplight as it fought the chill of a too-early London morning, and said, “Did you want to take any photographs? Of me, here at home? I really am offering and you’ll need something to show for your time away.” His eyes were more serious than gossip suggested they could ever be. Generosity and commitment lined up among green and brown forest groves.

His posture, his motions, were easy too, untroubled, but also a hint more careful than usual; no regrets, but probably, yeah, decently sore, Sam realized. First times. Exertion. All that.

He said, while the world developed fault lines and the cracking raced along his veins, “If you want…” He couldn’t let Leo offer this. Except for how he could, obviously, because he was. He was saying yes. Using Leo. Using Leo’s kindness for a paycheck.

Was it that awful, if Leo knew about it and offered willingly? Did that make a difference? Should it?

Or was that suddenly worse, because Leo felt the need to make the offer?

“What would work best? More candid, I’d guess, so nothing looks staged? Not that I’m going to make you go out of doors and crouch in my bushes.”

Sam had never exactly done that, though he hadn’t been above hiding behind cars or lurking outside nightclubs. More fractures, more love, more impossibilities. Getting too familiar, that canyon in his chest. “You, um. You in that robe would actually be awesome. Being comfortable and self-indulgent, at home…maybe in the kitchen, or out on your balcony, up here…”

“Oh, absolutely.” Leo sparkled at him: turning necessity into play, complications into kindness and conspiratorial scene-setting. Real magic hid in that grin. The kind that didn’t deny gravity and pain, but took up and wove potential crash-landings into other possibilities, brighter strands of hazel and blond, English Breakfast tea with sugar, imagination and exploration. “It’s rather fun, isn’t it? Sneakily setting this up. A secret. You and me. Any advice about my hair, or other wardrobe tips, or suggestions about posing, from the art director’s point of view?”

Sam snorted, tugged him closer and bit his ear because that felt right too—Leo beamed as if that’d been exactly the desired reaction—and retorted, “This director definitely thinks you’re a piece of art,” which came out completely nonsensical but made Leo laugh, barefoot with an armful of elaborate robe.

He wanted to say more. He wanted to say whatever came to mind, whatever he was thinking, no matter how ridiculous. He liked being ridiculous around Leo.

He found his phone. The camera was decent; not the best possible quality, but it’d do. He’d gotten used to adapting, improvising, catching a moment, working with what he had.

He ignored several emails about when he might get around to submitting the rest of his work—photos, a quick write-up—from the premiere and after-parties. Jameson had grown progressively more annoyed at his lack of response, but would take whatever Sam sent in; they both knew how much a firsthand account, and pictures of Colby Kent out in public in that rainbow-lined suit-jacket, were worth.

He refused to think about Jameson, or the tabloid covers, or the whole ugly snarl of his job. He wanted to think about Leo: currently somehow both classy and adorable, hair rumpled and standing up attractively, bundled up in decadent fabric but letting it slip open in front, playing with a robe-tie apparently just because, flipping it around and making it spin.

Sam’s heart spun around too, a loop of fondness and need and awareness that left him dizzy with roller-coaster desires.

Leo looked up and smiled. “Balcony first, while we’re up here?”

“…yeah.” He had to clear his throat. “Yeah.”

On a London morning, bathed in barely-risen sun, he caught Leo Whyte laughing and half-dressed in blue and gold brocade extravagance on a sliver of townhouse balcony. He caught Leo Whyte sipping tea, barefoot, gazing out over gardens and rooftops; he caught Leo yawning and stretching, swinging arms up. He caught Leo pensively quietly happy, smiling down into a teacup.

That last one would sell copies. It was also one Sam wanted for himself alone.

Leo was a genius actor. Could flow into sun and shadow and find the perfect angle. Could pretend readily that the camera wasn’t there, stepping easily into a performance: as if he’d genuinely wandered out onto the balcony for a morning cup of tea and not noticed a photographer. And he could do all that while giving flawless angles, head-tilts, interesting expressions.

Leo’s face was always doing something. Sam had thought that at the premiere, and thought it again now. Even at rest, he was fascinating to watch: in motion, thinking, feeling. Open and vivid. Shared with everybody who wanted to join in.

Sam, trying to capture that vibrance—and to make it look as if he’d snuck up someplace, maybe the balcony next door, and snagged one of the best vantage points of all time, all without giving away that Leo knew he was there—took shot after shot. Sunrise, color, Leo’s bare legs. Leo sharing a moment with the tea, warming both hands.

Leo did glance over at him occasionally and grin. Sam couldn’t not grin back.

He loved the art of it. He loved the glint of light on porcelain—the old-fashioned teacup had been Leo’s idea; pale pink roses blossomed over eggshell white—and he loved the interplay of time and place, hints of older eras in Leo’s robe and the teacup, side by side with Leo’s naked toes and the moss-green flutter of curtains from the open balcony door.

He wanted to do a series in black and white. Timeless and elegant. But with a pop or two of color: striking turquoise or deep ruby or royal purple. Those forest-toned curtains or the pink of roses. Hazel in wide eyes. Leo Whyte was made of color and deserved color.

He wanted to see versions made larger, on display. He wanted to see what he could do with more fabric, more motion, Leo outright looking at the camera—

He wanted to turn the art of the moment into something bigger. In a gallery. Where everybody else could see it all too: the textures, the contrasts, the story in lighting and angles and better focus.

He wanted—

None of that mattered.

Because he couldn’t.

He had his family. He had bills to pay. He had no formal training. He had no reputation aside from the one in his present profession, which wouldn’t translate in any way to an actual art-photography career.

He pictured that, or tried to. Himself laughed out of galleries. No phone calls ever returned. No more jobs that’d at least bring in money, because he’d missed the next big celebrity scoop while trying to make himself someone else. Nothing he could offer, nothing he could do or say.

Never good enough for someone like Leo Whyte.

He wasn’t good enough now. Except that Leo had somehow wanted him. Had chosen him, out of everyone, as worthy of this.

Leo, who had a knack for picking up emotional shifts, said lightly, “My toes’re a bit cold, and I’m terribly fond of my toes, so could we go inside now? I’ve got bacon—it’ll be American-style bacon, all crunchy, Jason introduced me—and I know people like bacon, so perhaps that’d be fun!” His enthusiasm took the ice down Sam’s spine and layered fluffy blankets atop it, exuberance as reassurance.

Sam lowered his phone. Shook his head, desperately and horribly in love, and knowing he was. “I like your toes too. And yeah, bacon’s a selling point. Stars cheating on diets, all that…”

“Oh, I wasn’t thinking that,” Leo said. “Just that people seem to enjoy the concept of bacon as a food. Come on, I’ll cook it and you can eat it with me!” He even grabbed Sam’s hand. Bringing them both back inside, downstairs, into his kitchen.

Sam kept up with him, and kept Leo’s hand in his, for as long as he could. For every second that he could. Memorizing not just the visual, the way a photograph would, but the shape, the weight, the feel of fingers and palm, long quick bones and knuckles and tantalizing skin.

* * * *

Sam had to leave. Leo understood as much, rationally.

He did not want to be rational. He wanted to be reckless, over-the-top, impetuous. He wanted to let all his emotions spill over in a giant crashing inarticulate flood.

He smiled at Sam, and got dressed when Sam was mostly done with pictures—a last-minute snapshot or two collected visions of Leo shirtless, jeans on but bare-chested, glimpsed through a half-open door—and then pulled on a favorite shirt in an unabashed shade of pumpkin, and walked Sam to the townhouse’s back exit, by the tiny garden. “Thank you for spending the night with me. And sharing midnight breakfast with me. And making me look splendid in photographs. The car’ll meet you at the end of the lane; that’s a private lane, I did tell you, so no one’ll see you.”

He’d won that one, after some negotiation. Sam would in no universe be able to run to a Tube station, make it back to his hotel, pack, and make his flight; even the wait to hail an ordinary cab might’ve been a problem, not to mention the expense. Sam had clearly not liked the proposal, but had also made the argument that a driver picking up a man obviously wearing last night’s suit, at Leo Whyte’s address, would have a lot of information to share with any gossip column. Leo had pointed out that having a reputation for random outrageous requests meant, in fact, that no one would bat an eye: the lane was a shared drive, the driver was a friend, and for all anyone knew Leo wasn’t even home and had simply sent a car to help a neighbor’s guest on his way.

Sam had given in because time and practicality were on Leo’s side—which was not a feeling Leo found especially familiar or comfortable—but had looked unhappy about it. Leo understood. He wouldn’t want to take anything, either.

No, that wasn’t true. He knew himself well enough to admit that he would have. Leo had always liked pampering. Ease. Indulgences, as long as they didn’t harm anyone. He likely would’ve said yes to someone with money offering to make his life easier.

But he wasn’t Sam. And Sam was a good person. A self-sacrificing sort of person. More so than Leo Whyte ever had been.

He said, “I’ve told Royal—yes, his name honestly is Royal, it’s dreadful—he’s all yours for as long as you need him. Wherever you tell him to go. He’s excellent at squeezing through traffic, if somewhat terrifyingly optimistic about the relative sizes of cars. On second thought, perhaps you’d rather borrow my unicycle?”

“Leo.” Sam reached out, took Leo’s hand, swung it. “You’re trying to make this easy.”

“It’s been easy,” Leo said. “It’s been simple. It’s been us.” Of course it hadn’t been, and it wasn’t. Not with their lives. But them together, them coming together, that had been, he thought.

In the next second he realized that his phrasing might be taken otherwise: as dismissive, as casual. He had not meant that at all. And a slice of sunbeam, barely risen, cut across his eyes.

“It has,” Sam said. “Because you make the world that way. You have fun , Leo. You like fish-shaped pillows and shirts in the worst kind of orange and having adventures, and I—oh, hell. How can I leave? How can I just walk away from you, when you’re standing there smiling at me?”

“Because,” Leo said, smile affixed in place, hoping the understanding was visible too, “you love your family. And you need to get back to them, and to support them.” With photographs of me, he did not say, to sell at the best price you can.

No point in saying it. They both knew. A night, an interlude, and a bargain. He regretted none of it. Not a single drop. He never would.

“And you’d tell me to go, and you’d never tell me to stay, and I can’t—” Sam’s jaw clenched. One hand swept up, touched Leo’s cheek, skimmed under eyelashes. “You’re sad.”

“I’m not. I never am. Or if I am I’ll go and roll around in rose petals on my bedroom floor. I know someone who knows a florist, you know.”

“Fuck this ,” Sam said. “I can’t go. You’re hurting and I can’t leave you.” He sounded so fierce, so angry: ready to fight a whole universe if it’d made Leo sad. “Tell me how to help.”

“Please don’t,” Leo said. “Don’t—don’t make me responsible for that. For making you choose. I can’t do that.”

“But I—” Sam shut both eyes, exhaled, opened them. “Okay. Okay, how about this. I’ll go. But I don’t want you to be alone. I want to be here. I want to be here for you and all your rose petals and bacon. I know that’s impossible, I know someone like you wouldn’t want—but I can’t not ask. If I give you my number—”

“Yes,” Leo said, breathless and immediate. “Yes, that. Please do that.” A feeling like reprieve hit his bones, standing in his doorway in morning mist; he did not lose balance because he still had Sam’s hands on him, keeping him steady.

“You said yes…?”

That was a question. But it didn’t need to be. And when their eyes met, energy twirled all the way down to Leo’s toes.

He did a tiny hop in place on the balls of his feet, unable to contain it. “Yes. Here, take my phone, put your number in—”

Sam took the phone. Stopped to share a small headshake with it, smiling.

“What?”

“You. The way you just…give me things. Handed right over. I just…how’re you real?”

“Maybe I’m not.” Leo widened eyes dramatically at him. “Maybe I’m a ghost. You’ve spent the night with a ghost. Like one of those old stories out of folklore. Urban legend. Tomorrow you’ll find out this house was never here, or I’ve had a black ribbon keeping my head tied on the whole time, or something.”

“There’s a flaw in your logic,” Sam informed him calmly, “I can touch your neck right now,” and did, hand settling big and firm and tanned over Leo’s skin. His other hand finished putting himself into Leo’s phone, with impressive coordination. “I like you being not dead, thanks.”

“Oh, well. I suppose I’ll have to be alive for you, then.”

“I’m good with that,” Sam said, and his hand tightened on the nape of Leo’s neck, just for a second. “You text me, okay? Let me know…how your interviews go. Your press. Or just how you’re feeling. What you’re up to. Anything you want to say. I’m listening.”

“Sam,” Leo said. He hadn’t exactly meant to. Only feeling the name on the tip of his tongue. “Are we…what are we? Are we…friends? More? Something?”

Sam gave him a helpless shrug, clearly equally at sea in the fog. Then stepped in close and kissed him: an almost rough frantic brush of a kiss, a collision of lips. “We’re…something, Leo Whyte. Hell if I know what. But I want to be here, and I want to talk to you, and…we’ll see, all right? We’ll just…see what happens.”

“I can do that,” Leo said. “I’m good at improvising.” He could be. He was.

“You’re amazing,” Sam said, “now go get ready for your interviews,” and kissed him quickly again, and left without looking back: a sturdy dark-haired American shape in an ill-fitted suit amid diamond-etched mist, heading down a private lane for a car and an airport and a faraway destination.

Leo, who could never resist a tempting idea, and who still had his phone screen showing Sam’s number, promptly texted, while watching him go, I like your shoulders.

I like you, Leo.

How’d you know this was me?

Seriously?

I might’ve been someone else deciding to text just this second! Or perhaps a sudden attack of magpies stole my phone and decided to compliment you. They do that sort of thing, you know. Just because you’ve never seen them doesn’t mean they don’t.

Sam started typing, stopped, started over. He’d nearly reached the corner; he paused to wave, though at the end of the lane the gesture was small. In that case, tell the magpies thanks but I’m not interested, I’ve got someone pretty awesome in my life already.

Really? Who?

Sam did the start-and-stop typing again. Then: You know I mean you, right, and that’s not a real question?

Leo stared at the text. Sunshine streaked his vision. He did know, and he didn’t. He’d thought so, but he’d thought Sam was joking; he’d been teasing back. He wasn’t in Sam’s life . He wasn’t that important—

Was he?

Sam, no doubt because Leo hadn’t answered, asked, Leo? Still there? Yes, I mean you . Followed, a second later, by Don’t make me come wrestle the magpies until they give back your phone.

Leo’s mouth made a sound, which was an astounded gut-punch laughter-bubble of sound; he took a step back, leaned against his door-frame, put a hand over his mouth so the laughter wouldn’t become a sob, and let the morning slide home into his chest like an arrow.

I’m here. No avian assault and battery required. Thank you, though. Not only for the offer.

Any time. You just say when. Gotta run, though, your car’s here. Thanks again.

It was that or my unicycle, and I expect this option’s easier with luggage!

Sam sent him a smiley face, which Leo assumed meant an end to conversation; he stepped back inside, shut his door, gazed down at the screen.

He’d not put on a jacket yet. His arms were chilly under summertime orange fabric. He felt cold, or warm, or confused. Did confusion manifest in perplexed bodily temperatures?

His kitchen hadn’t changed—small and bright, white and blue and yellow and silver, holding traces of bacon and sweet strong tea—but it felt different. Emptier, or larger: having known Sam’s shape, Sam’s laughter, next to that cupboard. Holding a plate. Leaning elbows on a countertop.

His backside ached slightly. Not badly. He wouldn’t want to attempt sitting down on hard surfaces, but he rather liked the sensation. He’d done this. He’d had Sam inside him. He’d felt all that.

He had had Sam inside him. Good God.

Standing in his kitchen, surrounded by sunny color and the memories of large skillful tanned hands, Leo took a deep breath, let it out. He felt so much, too much: his jeans against his skin, the softness of a favorite shirt, the brittleness of the early light. Sam had left, would be on the way home, would in all likelihood never be in the same place as Leo Whyte again. Or if so would be taking pictures, pressed close amid the throng.

But, Leo thought. But I have his phone number. We talked about magpies. He said we’ll see what happens. We’re something. Not nothing. We’ll find out together.

And he held onto his phone, and found himself smiling.

* * * *

Sam, sitting in a too-small aisle seat and pretending not to notice the thumps of a child kicking his chair, flipped through photos. Found himself touching the phone’s screen with reverence, with pleasure. With whatever emotion kicked his heart into a somersault and his mouth into a smile, unplanned.

Leo Whyte. Laughing, shirtless, barefoot, lean movie-star muscle wrapped up in blue and gold brocade or satin sheets or low-rise jeans or nothing at all. Frying bacon, making tea, trusting Sam to find plates and open cupboards and trail fingers over naked skin.

The large man beside him in the airplane’s center seat shifted position. Rolled more Sam’s direction. Snored loudly.

Leo Whyte likely flew first class. Or on a private jet. In luxury. Sam tried to stretch out a leg and failed comprehensively.

Leo existed in that colorful townhouse, that world of midnight champagne brunches and sequins and silver-screen stories. Bringing characters to life, on a soundstage or in a glamorous international location. Making everyone laugh and cry and care.

That mattered—that mattered so much—and it was a gift, a talent, not one everyone had. Leo deserved the limousines and the red carpets and the suit that’d fit him like a glove at the premiere, sunrise pink standing out amid blues and blacks because Leo Whyte was never afraid to put on a show.

Leo had called the car and driver for him, that morning. Which had solved the immediate problem—and he really wouldn’t’ve made his flight without Royal’s frightening skill at squeezing into nonexistent traffic openings—but left a sharper sour note amid memories of sugar and toast and tea.

Leo had money. Undeniable. Not the way that, say, Colby Kent had money, but then again Colby Kent came from a background that included national poet laureates, distantly-related English aristocratic titles, and a history of senators and ambassadors and political advisors on the American side. Leo wasn’t Colby, but most people weren’t.

Leo also wasn’t Sam himself, and had almost certainly never pretended to not be hungry in order to give three younger siblings the last serving of macaroni and cheese. That’d been around the darkest couple months, when he hadn’t known what to do or how to rescue them all. He’d known it could’ve been worse—even then they’d had the house, and he’d always managed to feed Carlos and the twins and usually himself, even if that meant peanut-butter sandwiches for weeks, partly because of the money and partly because he’d been a college student with the kind of cooking skills that could about handle ramen noodles or bean burritos. He’d learned to do better, sort of.

He had money now, sort of. Irregular—whenever he had something juicy and got paid—and not exactly reliable, but in nicely large amounts, because he was good at angles and focus and getting a shot, and editors and publishers knew he was. He didn’t worry too much if the twins needed new pairs of shoes, and he could afford to rent a suit—a terrible one, okay, sure—for a movie premiere, and he could wander into his favorite bar and have a drink once in a while, the good whiskey, even. The one he’d shared with Leo, because he’d wanted to.

He was doing okay. Not amazing, but okay. He believed that.

He knew, though, that that life—his life, down on the ground with reality—was nowhere near Leo Whyte’s fantasy world. A whole other realm, up there. With private drivers and film-location travel and buying a unicycle just to learn to ride it. Full of personal stylists and movie scripts and designer fashion. Secure in the knowledge that just about anything could be had for the asking.

He tried to stretch his leg out again, failed again, swiped through pictures. Leo’s eyes stood out against the silver of the morning mist, hazel as elf-groves.

He hadn’t wanted Leo to have to call a driver. To spend money. Felt cheaper somehow. Like they’d slept together and Leo had needed to pay, after.

He also knew the objection was partly his insecurity talking. That one hadn’t even been a big favor. Trivial. Like buying another sparkly pillow or deciding on a marginally more expensive blend of tea. Leo could afford it easily, already paid drivers to do their job, and had made valid points about practicality.

His head hurt. The air was dry, or maybe his eyes were. He looked at Leo, caught out of time on his phone: the picture that’d been his favorite. Leo with hands wrapped around a teacup, gazing down into it; Leo with pale sunshine on a cheekbone, smile mischievous but small, maybe reminded of a past joke or on-set prank but only sharing the thought with his tea, paradoxically pensive and playful on his balcony in the morning.

The flight attendant’s voice said, “Oh, that’s a gorgeous picture!” and Sam jumped, nearly dropped his phone, fumbled, caught it. He managed, “Thanks.”

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to sneak up on you! You looked so happy, just smiling at him. Is that your boyfriend?” She beamed at him, making small talk, chattering and perky. “And would you like something to drink?”

“He’s…” What? What word would be enough to sum up Leo Whyte? “A friend. Um. Coffee? Would be great. Thanks.”

She apologized again for startling him, blonde curls bouncing above her uniform, and got him coffee. The bulk in the center seat snored more. The woman at the window ignored everyone, headphones on, and buried herself in what looked like a mystery novel. The child behind him had stopped kicking his seat, so that was promising.

The coffee wasn’t great. He’d had worse. He sipped it gingerly.

He hoped Leo was smiling. Feeling wonderful. Not too sore. No regrets. Leo had said not—had talked about very rarely regretting anything, in fact—but they’d done so much, and Leo had never done any of it before, had never even kissed a man until Sam, and now—

God, he hoped Leo wouldn’t regret it.

He never would. No matter what happened next, he’d have the memory. He’d fold the love-letter of it up carefully and tuck it away and pull it out sometimes to gaze at, when he needed to smile. Because it had been a love-letter, on his side. For Leo. For that light, that delight.

He wanted to talk to Leo again. He wanted to hear how the afternoon press events went. He wanted to know what silly jokes Leo might’ve made in an interview, and what eyewatering color of shirt he’d chosen to wear on camera, and whether someone’d noticed that Leo’s toes and fingertips sometimes needed warming up, and if so what they’d done about thick socks and gloves or hot beverages to hold.

He missed Leo. He hadn’t ever known he could miss someone so powerfully. Not after a single night and morning. But his bones ached with the entire lack of English-heritage champagne-bubble enthusiasm beside him. His body knew how Leo felt, tasted, fit around him.

He’d land in a few hours. He’d see his family. He’d get to hug the twins and talk to Carlos and thank their neighbors for keeping an eye out. He’d sleep in his own bed for a couple of days before going to Atlanta to stalk a superhero film set and cast-and-crew hotel.

He’d share photographs of Leo Whyte with Jameson and a few others, depending on exclusivity and price. He’d see his Leo spread out across tabloid pages for money. As expected. As Leo also expected.

He thought that maybe if he sent a message just to say, We’re over the ocean and I thought about your sparkly fish-shaped pillow and I thought you would make a good merman, Leo would laugh and come up with something wonderfully weird and instantly clever to say right back, something imaginative about growing kelp or herding clownfish or organizing a protect-the-oceans charity Shakespeare reading; Sam did know about the kitten adoption and children’s hospital and youth theater events.

He did not have in-flight internet, not having paid for it. He would’ve texted Leo, though. He wanted to.

He could text Leo Whyte. Because Leo wanted him to. Because he was allowed to. He’d been given that. Whatever they were to each other, whatever they’d been or might be, they were something. Together.

He could try sending a message with some thoughts about mermen and sparkly fish-shaped pillows after they landed. Leo would be happy, he thought, if he did. He liked that idea.