Chapter 4 Connections

Leo, up far earlier than usual, found himself with a great deal of time to kill before the afternoon press circus over at the historic Langman Hotel, and therefore wandered around his house for a while, needing to be in motion.

He considered opening his front door and waving to anyone present. He wasn’t Colby, but he wasn’t entirely uninteresting, either, and there’d be at least two or three paparazzi camping out the morning after a premiere and an after-party. But thinking about the camera-carrying horde made him think about Sam, and he didn’t want to be photographed by anyone but Sam at this precise moment.

He truly didn’t. He felt like himself, and not like himself. Like some new version of himself. Turned inside-out and shaken and stirred.

He found himself in his bedroom. He regarded his bed, with new resplendent memories of Sam. He did not make his bed, and it did not mind.

He peeked into his bathroom and stared at his shower: at the knowledge of Sam having stood there, having helped scrub his back, having been real.

He got fuzzy polka-dotted socks out of a drawer and went downstairs, keeping the curtains drawn. He made more tea, the autopilot usual English Breakfast blend—he had more exciting varieties, but his mother always had English Breakfast in the mornings, and Leo’s head associated it with coziness and routine—and put sugar in it.

He found his laptop and opened his email, sitting cross-legged on his sofa with a mug in one hand, and contemplated emails from his agent, press tour schedules, interview requests, invitations to a convention or two.

He generally liked conventions. He liked hugging fans and hearing what they had to say about his characters, particularly some of the most inventive theories about how Del the villainous space wizard might return from being trapped in a time vortex. Leo knew that the minds behind that particular British-institution science fiction show did indeed want him back; the writers were working on it, and he’d happily don over-the-top swooping robes and headgear again and run around menacing time and space.

He wondered whether Sam had ever seen any of his episodes. Sam liked science fiction, right? At least the children’s cartoon version.

He wondered whether any of those conventions requesting his presence might take place in or near Las Vegas. He spent some time looking up science-fiction fan gatherings, and then the prices of luxury hotels in Vegas. Ones with large pillow-topped beds.

He wanted to see Sam again. He wanted more. He wanted so many things that they got into his chest and stomach and throat and tangled up there.

Sunshine, now fully present and chasing off fog, snuck through curtains to flood across his laptop, his knee, his sofa.

Sam had liked his sofa. His decorating sense. His accents of color, sequins, comfort.

He’d had sex with Sam. Splendid, incandescent, rhapsodic sex. He’d had sex with a man, and liked it, and been aroused by the feel and taste and rush of their bodies fitting together.

He was almost certainly not straight, he concluded. Or not exclusively straight. Not that he’d thought he was. Or at least he hadn’t been opposed to the idea of not being straight. He simply…hadn’t thought about it much. Until now. When he had to look his sexuality in the face. As it were.

Sam had a very lovely face. Very kissable.

He said to his laptop, experimentally, “I might be gay?” His laptop shrugged back, electronic support of whatever identity Leo chose to explore.

He drummed fingers beside the keys. “You’re no help. But thanks.”

So, he thought. What would help? Or, specifically, who?

He eyed his phone. He picked it up, tossing it from hand to hand.

Twenty minutes later, standing outside Colby’s building, he texted Have you got clothing on yet? that direction. The neighborhood, leafy and literary and museum-decorated, widened eyes at Leo Whyte’s lime-green bomber jacket in bemused but well-mannered welcome. Leo had always thought Colby Kent would live someplace exactly like this: quiet and quietly full of quirky architectural detail and tidbits of history, discreetly expensive without showing off, unless one counted having that many books as showing off.

He’d evaded paparazzi eyeballs successfully, having taken the same exit strategy he’d offered to Sam; he’d told Carolyn, his own driver, to go and have the rest of the day off, since he’d no idea how long he’d be, and he could get a ride over to the press event with Colby and Jason if necessary. The vultures and their cameras were not permitted outside Colby’s building; devoted security saw to that. He knew there’d be some random gossip items—Leo Whyte Visits Gay Co-Stars Post-Premiere! Potential Polyamory?—but that much was unavoidable, and anyway Colby and Jason would be entertained by the rumors.

Colby answered his text with We’re perfectly decent at the moment, if you were serious about dropping by for brunch! Tell us when to expect you.

This time Leo called instead of texting. “About that…”

An upper-floor window flew open in white-sashed amazement. Colby’s head popped out, hair standing up in a way that suggested the recent presence of a large hand petting dark brown waves. “Leo? You haven’t learned to teleport, have you? Can you teach me? I’d love to be able to escape when—oh, dear, are you quite all right?”

“I don’t know!” Leo yelled up. “I might need your help!” He tried to make the words jocular, cavalier, lacking teeth; he was entirely fine, only wanting a bit of assistance, nothing for Colby to fret over. No impositions.

“Anything we can do,” Colby announced instantly, “yes, of course, come on up, straight away,” and vanished from the window.

A yes. Just like that. With sincerity. Leo, standing in front of Colby’s building with sunshine laying golden bars across his shoulders, took a second to understand the shift of weight. A hint at lightness, an astonishment of comprehension.

He’d mentioned needing help. Colby had offered.

Maybe it could be just that simple. Maybe he’d only ever needed to ask.

He took stairs two at a time, not wanting to wait for the lift. His toes felt lighter. Must be some gold sneaking in there too.

Colby’s flat lounged over the two topmost floors—the lower flat was currently occupied by a couple of those security-guard foothills, Sara and Leslie, who were in fact a couple and adored Colby Kent—and stretched out across historic building-supports with tranquil equanimity. Leo had just lifted a hand to knock when the door flew wide; Jason, occupying most of the world simply by existing, invited, “Hey, Leo, come on in.” His voice dusted antique English neighborhoods with laid-back California sun, and his shoulders filled up every available inch, as usual. “Colby’s getting dressed.”

“I’m dressed!” Colby flew down the last few stairs and landed in the embrace of one of Jason’s arms. He was indeed dressed, in neat grey trousers and a pale pink shirt under a too-large rainbow-patterned knit cardigan, and managed to transform this collection of color into the next fashion trend just by glowing at the world. His hair fluffed up in defiance of the hand attempting to smooth it. “Leo, you said you needed help, we’re here, what can we do?”

“You said you were decent,” Leo pointed out, kicking shoes off in the entryway. “Not naked. Was naked happening? Because I can come back later.” He would. Colby and Jason had had a hard enough time falling into each other’s orbit; Colby even now did not always have good days, and they’d have the clamor of the press round later too. “Unless there’s collective mutual naked, in which case I’m comfortable if you are. Though that’s what I wanted to talk to you about.”

Colby and Jason looked at each other, then at him, and trailed him out to the living room, which folded tall built-in bookshelves and sweeping windows and long blue curtains around them. Colby and Jason decorated like interior designers with a joint unconcealed love of fantasy maps and steampunk lamps and literature about elves and airships; the flat mingled classic elegance and whimsical accents and Colby’s rather apologetic upper-class knowledge of wine into Jason’s Wizards you’re splendid in it, which you know, and the premiere went excellently. Except—did it, for you? You left so promptly. And you weren’t at any of the after-parties. Not that we made more than a brief appearance either, but I did talk to Jill this morning. Were you feeling all right?”

Colby Kent, Leo considered with affection, would never use one word when twenty would do. “I don’t know. Yes. No. Absolutely yes. Orgasmically all right. But then that’s the problem. Maybe I’m not.”

“Er…” Colby slid down from the sofa-arm to a cushion, inching closer. Jason watched him with the eyes of a royal bodyguard on the brink of hauling his prince back from peril. “You went home with—with someone, is that it? And now you’re here…oh, Leo. Are you hurt? Do you need us to call someone? Or would you like to talk? You don’t seem terribly upset…”

“I’m not hurt! I’m fine.” Mostly to make Colby feel better, he melodramatically flung the back of a wrist against his forehead, tipped his head back, and intoned, “I’m simply overwrought, darling,” which made Colby laugh and Jason snort. Leo dropped the hand and sat up more and said, “The person I went home with was a Sam. I mean a man. I mean Sam. I mean my Sam.”

“Oh,” Colby said. “Your…your photographer.” That was polite; they all recalled first meeting Sam and Sam’s camera. “He did come to the premiere, then. Did he like Steadfast ?”

“Loved it. You, the writing, the setting, the art design…me, obviously…”

“No,” Jason put in, low and firm. “Not obvious. Not that you’re not fantastic, you are, but you say it like you don’t think it matters.”

Leo shrugged at him. “It’s your movie. You and Colby.”

Jason got a small line between dark thick eyebrows. “Leo, you know it wouldn’t be the same without you, right?”

“My point is,” Leo said, “I had all sorts of sex with a very male person, for the first time ever, last night—and also this morning—and I’m suddenly having a lot of emotions, and you two have definitely also had the sex with men, including whatever you were doing that meant Colby needed to get dressed, and you know about this type of thing, and please help.”

“Er,” Colby said again, “what is it, precisely, you’d like our help…with?”

“I don’t know! Me, life, being a celebrity and being gay, apparently. Got any sex tips?”

Jason rumbled, “Yes. Go back to the being gay part.”

“That’s the first time I’ve said that.” Leo stared at their rug. Plush and shaggy and blue with little white flecks, it stared back. He wiggled green-striped sock-toes in it.

Maybe if he kept looking at his toes he wouldn’t have to think. He liked not thinking. “Out loud, I mean. To anyone. I’m not even sure I am . I suppose what I’m asking is…well, you know I’ve dated women, and I enjoyed that…as far as I’m aware they also enjoyed that, I get on with all my exes, we’re on good terms…and now there’s this…am I in fact gay now? Or some sort of…bisexual sort of word?”

Colby and Jason traded glances. Jason raised eyebrows Leo’s direction. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but I kinda already thought you were. Bi, I mean. With the flirting, the comments…and I know Jill’s casting preferences for Steadfast were, well…us, for one…and you got all annoyed when I said you weren’t Colby’s type, that time. Unless those were all just you making jokes.”

“ I always thought those were just me making jokes! Or…maybe not. I mean, I do like Matt Grant’s mouth, that was true when I said it, it’s a delicious-looking mouth. And Colby’s adorable, so who wouldn’t —”

“Thank you for that.”

“—and then Sam was so—he’s so—he was nothing like I expected, and everything that I wanted to say yes to, and I think I like him, not just the sex, I actually like being with him, but I don’t even know him. I met him for the second time literally a day ago. I’m very confused.”

Colby and Jason did some more silent communing. Jason asked, “You had sex with him, you said?”

“I definitely did that.” Inarguably so. Wonderfully so. Repeatedly so.

“You said you were confused. But you did it because you wanted to, right? He asked whether you wanted to? And it was good?” Jason, Leo noticed, had a hand holding Colby’s.

He knew why Jason would be the one to ask that. Not all the details—Colby never had talked about his ex-boyfriend publicly, nor what’d happened the night that’d all finally come crashing down—but Leo had seen the difference. The Colby Kent he’d first met, back during the filming of The Far Cry of Guns , had been young and hopeful and eager to please, self-deprecating and anxious about getting everything right but irrepressibly bubbly. The Colby he’d met several years later at the auditions for Steadfast had grown thinner and quieter, and flinched away from even friendly touch.

Leo had never previously wanted to hit anyone in anger, had no clue how he’d even go about it in non-filming life, and nevertheless had imagined putting his fist into the face of the man who’d done that. He would’ve tried, if Colby’d ever indicated any desire for revenge.

Everything had changed again when Jason Mirelli had gently bought cinnamon bagels and asked permission before touching Colby, on set and off, with those large callused action-hero hands.

Colby looked at Jason as if perpetually amazed that such kindness had landed in his life. Jason looked at Colby the exact same way, only maybe with even more sunshiney awe, Leo decided.

He said, “I absolutely wanted to. He did ask. I said yes. And it was spectacular.” It had been. And he wanted to reassure Colby, and by extension Jason’s muscles. “I would like to do it more. But I do still quite like women. Or I think I still do. Should I find a friend who’d be willing to test the hypothesis? We didn’t say anything about being exclusive. Except I don’t want to have sex with anyone else at the moment, even if she is a friend. I do want to have more spectacular sex with Sam. And only Sam. Am I properly gay, then? Or is this some sort of thirty-three-year-old bisexuality crisis? Should I feel awakened or enlightened?”

“Do you?” Colby inquired.

“I don’t know. Should I have slept with you , ages ago, to help figure it all out? Except your type is human Mount Everests and I wouldn’t’ve known what I was doing, so it likely wouldn’t’ve worked at all and I’d’ve ended up thinking I was in fact straight.”

Colby was outright laughing now.

Jason, with a hint of protectiveness but also pleasure because Colby was laughing, rumbled, “You’re still not his type. And being bisexual doesn’t have to be a crisis. I should know.”

“It feels as if I’m having one,” Leo pointed out dolefully. “Shouldn’t I at least be allowed one graceful swoon onto a fainting couch? Colby, do you own a fainting couch? If not, can I buy you one so that I can bisexually swoon onto it?”

“Hmm,” Colby said. “I’m afraid this is a bit outside my area of expertise, given that I’ve been very much attracted to only one option, ever since I first realized I appreciated large men with delicious muscles. But I can leave you in Jason’s brilliant and capable hands and go and make French toast if you’d like.”

Leo perked up. “With your brandy whipped cream?”

Colby gave him the smile that only a few people, certainly not red-carpet interviewers, got to see. “Anything for you.” Getting up, he touched Leo’s shoulder, offered a fleeting grip, a squeeze. That gesture, given in defiance of a scarred and healing past, spoke whole monologues about love, and just about shattered Leo’s heart with gladness for his friend.

To Jason, therefore, he overexaggerated pathetically, “Help me.”

“I think you’re doing okay,” Jason said. “You like him, you said. And from what you’ve told us, he seems like he’s being good to you.”

“He is. He’s very…well, he’s…experienced. But nice! Very nice. I felt…all sorts of things. Good things! I mean the things he got me to feel. Emotionally. But also with my hands. There was definite feeling of things. It’s just…I like how he felt. But I also like women. I like breasts. Theoretically I do. What if I’ve forgotten how to like breasts?”

Jason performed the most dramatic eye-roll Leo’d ever seen from a mountain. “You do know what bisexual means, right? Or we could maybe say pan, but let’s not confuse your brain more.”

Leo stuck his tongue out at Jason, flopped backwards on the marvelously comfortable sofa, grabbed a convenient throw pillow, shoved it over his face, and said, “Argh argh argh ,” with great force into it.

“Don’t tease him too much!” Colby called over from the kitchen. “His brain’s clearly having a moment of difficulty. Leo, cinnamon and pear sauce all right?”

“I love you as much as your pet Hercules will let me!” Leo yelled back, still under the pillow.

“Okay, look, seriously.” Jason waited until Leo tossed the pillow aside and pushed himself up on elbows to listen, then went on. “There’s no secret test or entrance exam or seal of sexuality approval or whatever. If that’s what you feel, and that’s how you want to identify, then you are. And it’s okay if you don’t know right away, or if you need a while to figure it out.”

“Ugh,” Leo told him. “Why’d you have to make it sound so reasonable?”

“Because it should be.”

“All of us know it isn’t.”

“Trust me, I know.” Jason gave him a sympathetic shrug. Muscles performed a brief continental drift. Leo spared a moment of empathy for Jason’s shirtsleeves. “I knew about me back in, um, junior year of high school. I sort of assumed I was straight, I went out with girls, and if I ever had other thoughts, I didn’t think about them. If that makes sense. And then I ended up tutoring Dustin Thompson in history for a peer-mentor thing, and I just remember looking up and looking over at him and right in the middle of the Civil War I couldn’t help noticing the color of his eyes, the gold in his eyelashes, the way he grinned at me when I said something that made history make sense, and I kinda went, oh shit, y’know?”

“And you, what, asked him to the big dance and made a fairytale night of it?”

“Hell no. I liked being on the wrestling team, being cool with everybody, having friends. Couldn’t say anything and make it all weird.” Jason sighed. “When I did publicly come out as bi…and that wasn’t until after the third John Kill movie, when I got so sick of hiding, and I was dating a guy I really liked, and I just thought, fuck it, why not…it did get weird. I won’t say it didn’t. Not exactly outright backlash, but a lot of speculation, a lot of jokes, fewer roles because I just wasn’t quite what they were looking for…” His tone turned remembered rejection into wryness. “Plus the guy in question broke up with me over rumors about me and an ex-girlfriend getting back together, so that was fun.”

“Everything’s a story,” Leo said. “Certainly John Kill being into men was. I remember that. The media had a field day.” And he himself had been in bed with a photographer the previous night. Not even a respectable photographer. The tabloid kind. The shrieking scandal sheet kind.

He couldn’t quite look at Jason.

Colby reappeared, buried behind enough food to sustain an entire film production. Brandy-infused homemade whipped cream and cinnamon poached pears drifted in golden serenity above richly-browned French toast. American-style bacon had also happened, which made Leo want to laugh. So had coffee, with tiny accompanying pots of cream and sugar. “Is that enough, or should I do something with the eggs and plain toast as well?”

“Baby,” Jason said, “cream puff, love of my life, Colby, sit down. Leo doesn’t need you to feed him an entire restaurant menu.”

“Leo might,” Leo protested. “Have you seen what your other half can do with a quiche? Of course you have. You live with him. Which is unfair to the rest of us. Look at all of that, Colby, you’re a wizard.” The last came out around a mouthful of pear and French toast and whipped cream.

“If I were a wizard,” Colby said, amused, “my chocolate soufflés would always come out flawless. I can promise you they don’t. Jason knows.”

“They tasted great,” Jason countered, stabbing a pear with barbarian-warrior muscular precision, “no matter what they looked like. Anyway the second round came out perfect. Look, Leo, I’m not saying it’s gonna be easy. But it can also be awesome. Being yourself, owning that. And we’re here for you.”

“I know you’re here.” Leo devoured another cloudlike bite of heaven. “Also I might never leave your flat, just so you know. Moving in. Eating all your food.”

“I do rather wonder what a Seal of Sexuality Approval would look like.” Colby poured cream into coffee, watched the swirl with the delight of a Renaissance polymath contemplating art, finally took a sip. “It would simply say we approve of everyone, of course. No one left out. And there’d be lots of rainbows. And something shimmery. Leo, as Jason said, it’s all right to not have a label, or simply to not know yet. I did, when I was fairly young, but that’s not a guarantee of anything at all working out; clearly so, considering my personal terrible choices in men before Jason. So you’re perhaps better off.”

Leo tried to say something about Colby’s taste in men, was busy basking in a mouthful of brandied pear and sugar, and just pointed at Colby’s hair instead.

Colby blinked at him, baffled.

“Mmmph,” Leo said, and swallowed. “You deserve to have all the sex hair.”

“My…hair?” Colby put a hand up to touch a stray wave. “Oh, dear. How bad is it?”

“I love your hair,” Jason said.

“That’s not a no,” Leo pointed out. “You were totally having the sex before I got here. Er. Sorry about that.”

Colby set down the coffee.

“I mean, I can leave,” Leo said. A final bite of pear shuffled itself away from his fork, abashed on his behalf. “You really have helped. Both of you.” True.

“Leo.” Jason did the worried heroic eyebrows again. “It’s not a problem. We mean that.”

“I could get out of your way and let you get ready for the hordes, over at the hotel. I don’t mind.”

“How long have we known each other?” Colby said. “Since, oh, whenever we did The Far Cry of Guns , not that we shared all that many scenes…still, it’s been a decent amount of time. And you were such fun to be around when we did press. I remember that, you know. I was awfully new to this, and you’d been working steadily for at least a few years by then, and you made people laugh and enjoy themselves even during the longest days. I always admired that.”

“You what ?” Leo said. “Oh dear God. Colby…no, sorry, go back to the part where you admired me . Say it again.”

Colby’s eyes were steady, holding his. “I will if you want. Having you around was important—you are important. So thank you for that. I should’ve told you that much earlier, I suspect. I’m sorry.”

Jason, at that last, cocked an eyebrow Colby’s direction. Colby scrunched up that nose at him. “Yes, all right, but I’m allowed to say it when I’m genuinely in the wrong. And I am. Leo, we’re here for whatever you need. Just say the word. Whatever you want.”

Leo, perplexed by generosity, opened his mouth, shut it, tried for refuge in flippancy. “Such a dangerous offer…what if I ask you for a person-sized lemon tart or a hand-knitted scarf or a castle…Jason, help. He’s apologizing to me. Not that I don’t love it, but, honestly. Him. Me .”

“I don’t in fact know how to knit,” Colby mused, momentarily thoughtful. “I could learn. I might be able to acquire the castle, at least for a weekend.”

“Colby,” Jason said, “you remember what we said. And you agreed. We’ll talk about it later. But, Leo, he’s right about us being here for you. What do you want to do?”

“I don’t know!” Leo picked up a piece of bacon and stabbed it at him. “I don’t know. I want—I want to help him. Sam. I want to kiss him. I want him to not do what he does for a living, and I know he’s good at it, and I hate it, and I want to meet his family, and I want to see him smile when I buy another pillow shaped like a fish. I want to fall asleep feeling him next to me again. I want to tell my parents about him, which means I have to tell them I’m…something. Whatever I am. But I want all of that. If he does. I don’t know what he wants.” He wobbled the bacon around futilely. “I want him to be happy. What was it Colby agreed to, again?”

“That one’s rather an ongoing order,” Colby said, so mildly that the word didn’t register for a moment. “I’m trying to work on what Jason calls the unnecessary sort of apologies. And our therapist understands kink and power dynamics and the way orders sometimes help me remember, because I want to listen. But that doesn’t mean never apologizing, and I do want to show you I mean it. The castle might be a bit over the top, but then again I’m fairly sure it’d only take a phone call or two…”

“I don’t need a castle!”

“No, I expect not.” Colby looked a bit rueful for a second. “Though I’d love to attempt to cook a medieval banquet sometime…no, not now. There are really only two important questions, right now, aren’t there?”

“Um,” Leo said. “Are there?”

“Yes.” Colby sipped coffee, set the mug down, folded up one leg and tucked arms around his knee, quietly flexible and insightful as a stray bit of telepathy. The extra-blue stripe around those famous irises held hard-won wisdom and delight and care for all the bruised pieces of this room, this world, this story. “You don’t need to have everything sorted out in an instant. I certainly didn’t. I still haven’t. Though we do keep trying.” His glance at Jason spoke volumes: whole movie scripts played out in pain and yearning and the happily-ever-after embrace of joy.

Jason put a big arm around Colby’s shoulders and nestled him back into being cuddled. Colby went on, “First, do you care about him? You don’t have to give it a name, not yet. But he matters to you?”

“Yes,” Leo said, and felt the word in his throat, on his tongue, like a sob or a burst of sugar or a splash of molten caramel. Hot and sweet to the point of searing, it occupied all his senses. “Yes.”

“All right, then. Second, you said you believe he’s a good person. And you want to help. Even if nothing more ever happens—if he wants to simply be friends, not that I think that’s true, I think you’re lovable and he clearly cares for you, but hypothetically speaking—would you still want to help? To do something? To offer, I mean, not to swoop in and solve everything. Life rarely works that way, I’ve found. But to have…perhaps a suggestion. That he could accept, or not.”

A suggestion? What suggestion? Leo accidentally snapped the bacon in half, and said it aloud. “What suggestion?”

“I’m still thinking about it.” Colby batted those long eyelashes at him. “Answer the question.”

“Yes,” Leo said again, answer immediate and instinctive; and then he thought about it for a second, and the pain of it scratched like an echo of breaking in his chest. He knew why Colby would ask; the bittersweetness blossomed under his ribs, and it felt like nothing he’d ever quite known before, all complicated and tangled up with want and sacrifice and hurt and desire, and he’d never be the same. He welcomed the feeling. “Yes. He’s worth helping.”

“And you wouldn’t mind me having an idea? Oh, sorry, three questions.”

Jason laughed. “I’ll spank you later.”

“What—oh. Drat. I didn’t even mean to. Er…sorry?” That one was deliberate, and made Jason laugh even more, arms securely around his other half, a kiss nuzzled into Colby’s hair.

“Yes, fine,” Colby said to his human shield-wall, and patted Jason’s arm. “Leo?” Morning sunlight brushed his cheekbone, his hair, with pale citrine. All that alert intent focus landed on Leo’s face and waited for an answer, with patience, without hurry.

And Leo remembered all over again just why everyone turned to look when Colby Kent spoke or lifted a hand or entered a room. Those blue eyes could inspire armies, not out of any rush for glory but because Colby would smile and tuck hands into princely jacket-pockets and recall the names of every person under his command and also the favorite ice-cream flavors of their children. Colby as a king would earnestly appreciate, in person, everything his knights did on a daily basis, probably while bringing them lemon bars and asking whether anyone would like to borrow any more books from the royal library, and what they’d thought of the last epic romance, and whether they should invite the next-door kingdom’s entire populace over for a book club meeting, and no one would have to fight anyone over the negotiation of shipping treaties, they could certainly work something out across coffee and scones, he’d heard their queen liked pumpkin-chocolate and he’d happened to bake some just that morning…

Magical. Every time. They’d all throw themselves in front of swords for him. Whatever Colby asked for. Because he’d be the first to jump in front of any one of them, to take an oncoming swing.

Colby, Leo thought, was his friend. Colby, and Jason, and him. And now Sam, apparently. Because he, Leo, had asked. And Colby and Jason cared.

Because his friends wanted to help. To be here.

He for some reason needed to clear his throat. His coffee played along. Hiding emotion. “I trust you.”

“Oh, good.” Colby positively beamed at him, as if he’d been worried that Leo somehow wouldn’t. “Then yes, I have an idea.”

* * * *

Sam, home and getting used to that, stared at the last unused trash bag in the box, sighed, and mentally added that to the list. He needed to do some shopping. Groceries. Dish soap. Some sort of superglue or duct tape for the broken arm on that dining room chair. Not the chair’s fault; it was getting older, like the house, and it tried hard.

They all tried. Cynthea and Diana had done the dishes unprompted and had even made breakfast for him, the day before. They’d asked him about London, about the movie, about why he was smiling when talking about Leo Whyte’s performance. They’d been grinning, teasing him about having a crush.

But his sisters hadn’t pushed for answers when he hadn’t known how to explain. They’d let it go. He hadn’t thought they would.

Growing up, he thought. Not kids anymore. But then none of them were.

For a minute, just for a minute, the weight hunkered down on his shoulders again. Made them sag.

The kitchen, small and outdated but theirs, leaned some compassion against him in the form of an oak-hued cupboard door. It was trying hard too.

He’d gone through his photos, both from the red carpet and from the morning after, at Leo’s. He’d picked out the best. Some excellent shots of Colby Kent with a smile more real and visible than he’d worn at any event Sam could recall, and Jason Mirelli looking at Colby with hearts in his eyes, a tower of soft sappy muscles. Some interesting shots of Sir Laurence and a man Sam hadn’t recognized, who was apparently the author of Steadfast -the-novel, and who—intriguingly—seemed to be making Sir Laurence laugh.

That one’d be a fantastic scoop: right alongside Sir Laurence coming out, they’d have a love interest for him. Any truth to the suggestion wouldn’t even matter. Jameson had liked that idea, of course.

The photos of Leo…

Those had been harder. And easier. Both, and brutally so.

Leo laughing, posing, dancing shamelessly with a teakettle in his kitchen. Leo barefoot and reckless and vulnerable, dressed in a melodramatic robe. Leo cupping tea in both hands, glancing up, smile swift and small as a secret. Steam had kissed his eyelashes, long and blond and bare of any on-camera makeup.

Looking at that last one, Sam had felt his chest try to ache and expand and cave in all at once. Bizarre and welcome as an avalanche, a cascade, a release of tension. Complicated, the way Leo denied being. Made of layers.

He wanted, more than he’d ever wanted anything ever, to be the person allowed to unfold those layers. To hold any pieces that Leo chose to give him, and to guard them forever.

He sold celebrity photographs for a living. That was inescapably true.

He’d gone home with Leo. He’d woken up with Leo. That was also true. He didn’t know how to think about it; he barely recognized himself. Who was this person, the one who’d tasted mimosas and laughter in Leo Whyte’s kitchen in the depths of night? The person who’d dared to give Leo his number, who’d kissed Leo in a limousine, who hoped in the face of all practicality that fairytales could be real?

Even if Leo did want him…somehow, some way…

That kind of story didn’t happen. And didn’t include the heartbreak: questions about who’d pay for dinner, who could afford to fly first class, how Sam’s current job would cease to be an option once he himself became a subject for scrutiny, and what that’d mean for his family…

None of those questions involved whether he wanted to try.

He wanted to be with Leo again. So damn much his whole body screamed to grab the phone and send a text just to say hi.

They’d begun doing that almost as soon as he’d stepped off the plane. Casual, silly, lighthearted. Random snapshots and thoughts. Sam had sent the comment about mermen and Leo’s affinity for fish pillows; Leo had sent back a link to a person-sized plush stuffed shark and some thoughts about acquiring it for the décor. Sam had wished him luck with the press tour and interviews, and Leo had texted him in spare moments, across time zones and unspoken questions and answers.

That would always be part of Leo’s life. Premieres, press events, the demands of the job. Sam, who’d skulked around the fringes of that world, couldn’t picture himself being a part of it.

He would try. For Leo. If he thought he could.

He wasn’t worried about himself—he could handle it, he knew what to expect, he didn’t have any deep dark dangerous secrets to uncover, and he’d make the choice without hesitation—as much as he was about Leo, about his family, about consequences.

Leo Whyte was famous. Not top-of-the-A-list Colby Kent levels of famous, but enough for recognition. Steady work for over a decade, several big films—mostly supporting or ensemble roles, but acclaimed as well as popular—and also stage and television productions, including that well-known British science-fiction institution where he kept popping back up as the beloved villain. Sam had in fact seen an episode or two, late at night, and had been entertained; he didn’t think Leo’d been in any of the ones he’d caught.

Leo did some fan conventions, he knew, mostly for that science-fiction crowd, but sometimes for one of the nineteenth- century period drama shows, one that’d run for five years and gained a massive following. A younger Leo had played the aristocratic family’s youngest son, flirtatious and reckless and looking for his place in the world, eventually forced to grow up after the death of his father and the threat of mounting debts; Sam had inadvertently watched some of that because his brother Carlos, with a historian’s interest, had liked the show and the international imperial politics. He recalled thinking Leo’s character was among the most complex, especially later on, when they’d given him more weight and more responsibility.

Leo had fans. A career. A world that included autograph-seekers and people who’d pay money to ask him about Del the space wizard or the Honorable Benedict Castlereigh. And Sam…

He’d stand at Leo’s side proudly, if Leo wanted that. He just didn’t know whether Leo’d be proud to do the same.

That wasn’t a critique regarding Leo. Leo Whyte, Sam considered with fondness, would jump right into the middle of a storm if the jumping felt worthwhile.

It wouldn’t be a question of Leo not wanting to. It wouldn’t even necessarily be about coming out; that was getting more accepted in the industry these days, and Leo hadn’t been shy about inviting him to the limo after the premiere. But the world would have comments about Leo’s choice of partner. What would Sam Hernandez-Blake have to offer? What kind of relationship would that be? How badly would the world judge Leo for dating a former paparazzo?

It’d have to be former. He tried to imagine keeping his job while simultaneously being the subject of said job, as other cameras followed him around. No.

And then what, he thought. Be unemployed? Depend on Leo? No, again. No.

They might not get ambushed on a daily basis—Sam tried for a second to recall how often he’d seen Leo-related stories pop up—but Leo coming out would be news, and any big film role or announcement would also be news. He guessed that they could maybe manage to go out to dinner without too much trouble, especially after the first wave of novelty died down; Leo wasn’t one of the outright biggest fish in the camera-lens sights.

But he also knew he’d seen pictures, not his, of Leo out jogging in a park, and leaving a shop with an ice cream cone, and also the infamous waving-of-sex-toys incident.

But, he thought. But I want to. Despite everything, despite knowing: I want to.

His head hurt. He rubbed the spot between his eyebrows, just for a second, and thought longingly about aspirin, or maybe good whiskey, though he only had the one nice bottle in the house and he’d been saving it. A single indulgence. A present to himself, the last time he’d had a tiny bit of extra cash and could afford it.

He’d shared that with Leo, too. On a magical night, the first magical night, when the world had spun just right and clicked into place, every gear and wheel right where it should be, and the universe had stood still just to let him taste honey and fire and the flavor of Leo Whyte’s mouth.

He shut his eyes and saw Leo and the teacup again, sugar and steam and roses. He wanted to play with the colors of that picture, to let the background fade, to catch the pale old-fashioned pink in the teacup’s design and the swirl of color in Leo’s eyes and the eddy of heat upward.

He wanted. Oh, he wanted. He looked down at the kitchen trash can and the closest interlocked pattern of floor-tiles, decades-old, brown and familiar.

He hadn’t sent in that last photograph. Most of the rest, yes. Jameson had been thrilled. And hadn’t even asked how Sam’d managed that, no doubt assuming he’d lurked in Leo’s garden or scaled the next-door balcony. The paycheck had been far better than average.

He could pay some bills. Buy some groceries. And more trash bags.

He ignored his imminent headache. He got back to taking care of the trash in question. Picking up the full bag.

His phone buzzed at that exact second, because of course it did. He stared at the trash bag in his hand, and considered just checking later. But it might be Jameson. Might be a job, an assignment, a demand. Something about Atlanta next week, maybe, stalking that superhero film as they started up production. More money coming in.

He set down the trash, made a lunge for the phone, and froze. Not his editor. Leo.

Leo Whyte, and a simple message: Can I call you and ask a question?

Sam’s heart did somersaults, while his body stood perfectly still. The text, a question itself, stared up at him with electronic expectance.

He answered carefully, Of course. Give me two minutes . He could’ve talked to Leo in the open; he did not want to share Leo. Not his choice to make.

His sisters grumbled to each other about calculus, over in the dining room. Thea fiddled with a pencil, spinning it over fingers. They’d absolutely be eavesdropping the second he picked up the phone. He’d take Leo to his bedroom.

Leo. Wanting to talk. In his life. Memories stampeded: ruffled blond hair, long limbs, laughter. So much laughter. Vivid and vibrant, full of brightness everywhere.

He ached with want, abruptly; he set a hand on the counter, steadying himself.

Leo had texted him now . Which would be…one in the morning, London time. What could be so urgent? Was Leo simply awake, or was Leo in trouble? And that last thought launched a bullet into Sam’s already overworked heart: what if Leo, newly curious about sexuality, had gone out to experiment and found someone not kind to him?

No. No, that was assuming; more likely Leo’d just had a long day of press and couldn’t unwind. Sam could help. He could try.

He exhaled, standing in his kitchen with a trash bag at his feet; he ran outside and threw the trash at the bin, ran back in, washed his hands, discovered a strange newfound anticipation in each step. He’d get to talk to Leo again. In thirty seconds or so.

He did not run down the hall to his bedroom, because Thea and Diana would’ve noticed that. But he did walk fast.

Leo called right as he shut the door. “Two minutes precisely. I did count.”

“Wouldn’t expect anything less.” Sam flopped onto his bed, rolled over, ended up grinning at his ceiling. That voice. Expressive and English and color-drenched as summer. In his ear. “Talk to me. Ask your question.” His hamper, with the one overflowing jeans leg, beamed with encouragement. The timeworn wood of his dresser leaned in to pay attention.

“It might require some context.” Leo must’ve moved or sat down or shifted position; rustling of fabric suggested as much. “I realize I normally dive right in, but I suspect I should explain this one first. Were you busy? I like being an interruption as much as the next attention-seeking person, but I can wait if you were in the middle of something.”

“Nope,” Sam countered happily, poking a blanket with bare toes. Blue and plain—it’d been cheap—but stoically serviceable, it accepted the gesture with some surprise but also with welcome. “Just house stuff. You know. Chores.” He rethought his phrasing. Cringed. Leo probably didn’t know. Probably paid people to deal with that. “Weren’t you doing more press today? How’d that go?”

“I was a nineteenth-century teatime hostess for a bit, so it was marvelous. And I crashed one of Jason and Colby’s interviews and made Colby compliment my top hat, so I’m fairly proud of that.” Leo paused, clearly for dramatic effect, and finished, “I do look adorable in a top hat.”

“I can see it. Not black, though. Blue, or purple, or orange. Something with color.”

“Now you’ve given me an idea. Potentially three. You’ll see the high tea interview in a day or so, I think. Jillian’s idea. We all sat round and had historically accurate sips and sandwiches and discussion of characters with an expert scholar of the time period. I poured. Colby would’ve, but I did it first.”

Of course Leo had. A host, at heart. Wanting to dive in and do everything for other people. “Looking forward to it. Was that why the top hat? Costumes?”

“No, I just thought it’d be amusing. And I know someone—well, the internet version of knowing, she’s active in the fandom and helps run those charity scavenger hunts we do—who knows someone who, as it happens, makes hats. So I asked, and one appeared at the hotel. Perfect timing to pop into the next room and hold up a monocle and ask Jason how difficult finding shirts must be in the Colonies, with that whole taming-the-wild-frontier physique and no proper gentleman’s tailors anywhere. Made Colby laugh, so there’s that.”

Yes, noted Sam’s heart. You did. Because you know Colby Kent doesn’t like being surrounded by strangers and their questions all day long. “Sounds like a good day, then.”

“Oh, well. Mostly. There’re only so many ways to answer the same questions about historical accuracy, or retell the same funny stories from set, or explain how much research I did. Which I did, in fact, and I learned quite a lot about Napoleonic Wars naval etiquette and my job as Jason’s second-in-command, but no one really wants to hear me talk about cannon drills or the organization of the ship’s watch. We’d all want to toss me overboard within five minutes. Did your pictures go over well, speaking of things and going over? The ones of me, naturally, the ones I definitely care about.”

Another chest-stab. Also painful, though for different reasons. “I’d listen to you talk about cannon drills for at least fifteen minutes. Not sixteen, that’d be pushing it, but fifteen, sure.” And he listened to Leo’s breath of laughter with satisfaction. “And yeah, my editor loved them. Thanks again. Um…I didn’t send him all of them.”

“Really? Why not?”

“I like you smiling at tea. You don’t have any right now, do you?”

“As it happens,” Leo said after a second, “extremely rich and chocolatey hot cocoa. End of yet another long day. Sounded tasty. I like indulgence. Take your pick of reasons.” His voice landed pleased, in a startled sort of way. Stars and fireworks bashfully liking the idea of being valued, being kept safe.

“Are you in bed?”

“I am, though I’ll have to get up to get ready for bed properly. I liked the idea of calling you from my bed, though. Where’re you?”

Leo Whyte would never equivocate or avoid confessions of desire. Wants laid open and transparent and unafraid. Held out with both hands.

One of those wants had been calling Sam from bed. Sam’s gut, and other places, tingled with heat. “Also in bed. Not in bed, I mean, it’s early, just here for, um, privacy. The door locks. To my bedroom.” His sentence got distracted by the mental picture of Leo in bed, the bed where they’d made love, curled up and sipping hot chocolate.

He wanted to keep Leo warm and cuddle away all the tiredness. He also wanted to roll Leo over into rainbow pillows and taste chocolate-flavored kisses, and then get his mouth into other places and make Leo scream his name.

He poked his blanket again just for something to do, some motion, a fiddling with toes.

“So we’re both in bed,” Leo mused, the lifted eyebrows audible. “And you’ve got a locked door. I’ve never had phone sex with a man—well, obviously not, since you’re my first—but I’m not opposed to trying.”

Sam’s foot kicked the blanket off the end of the bed.

“That is, if you’d like,” Leo finished. “Though I don’t know how much time you’ve got.”

“I have time! Um. I mean. Yeah, I—I would, of course I would, but you don’t have to, either.” The blanket-blob eyed him with some reproach, from the floor. “You don’t have to do anything you’re not up for. And you did say you had a question. It wasn’t about phone sex, was it…?”

Leo had said that. And any questions took priority. Not Sam’s dick, which had some opinions on this subject too.

“Oh, I want to.” Leo paused for a sip of hot chocolate. “I like the idea of exploring that with you. But yes, I did have a question. So…first, you’re not busy next week, are you? Or are you? Other assignments and such? Because this may not work after all, though I’d like to think we could sort it out. I’m good at arranging things, sometimes.”

“Um…nothing definite. And yeah, you are. Why?” Atlanta, maybe, but not officially yet. If Leo wanted to know his schedule—Leo would be in America, in California, for that premiere—if Leo wanted…

Possibilities spun like tops in a hurricane: candy-colored, dancing, tantalizing. He couldn’t dare to reach out for one. “Leo?”

“Sorry, I’m here, just…having emotions for a second. About possible things. Like dandelion fluff, only in a whirlwind. Right, yes. So I talked to Colby and Jason. Earlier, not during the press carnival. After you left, I mean.”

“Okay…”

“The thing is,” Leo said, as usual with refreshingly straightforward candor, “I did rather want someone to talk to, I realized, about the sudden arrival of sex-with-a-man desires in my life. And you were on a plane, and in any case that might’ve turned into phone sex at that point, and I wanted to talk to someone who wouldn’t immediately distract me by being incredibly desirable, and Colby and Jason know about managing sexuality and coming out and our profession.”

Sam bit his lip. Hard. Arousal ebbed in the face of those words. Leo’d needed to talk to someone, hadn’t been fine, after all. “Are you…um, doing okay? Can I help?”

“Oh, I’m wonderful.” Leo sounded confident. Sam exhaled again. Leo went on, “A bit of self-reevaluation, but I’m starting to figure out that in retrospect me looking at men’s mouths and thinking about how nice they’d feel probably should’ve been a clue. Jason says it’s all right to still be sorting it out, to not feel as though I need to rush into a label or anything like that, though I suspect it’s something like bi or pansexual. I’ll say as much when I tell my mum and dad, tomorrow.”

“Sorry, when you what? ”

“It’s not as if I’m not going to tell them! Er…I know not everyone does run off to tell their parents first thing, of course. But I want to. We do tell each other most things. But that was part of my question. Would you like me to also mention you? Or…that’s getting ahead of the rest of the question. I should finish asking first.”

Of course Leo Whyte told his parents everything. Of course this wouldn’t be a secret. Leo would be himself, the way he always was. Standing in front of the world and baring that heart.

That courage left Sam a little stunned, a little spun around. Hurricanes and whirlwinds reemerging.

Leo did keep secrets, he decided in the wake of the spinning. Or one secret. Had to do with loneliness. With breakability. With the knowledge that everyone else saw the jokes, the pranks, the top hats and interview-crashing, and then assumed the surface covered up nothing more.

With a wistful smile into a teacup. And hesitant delight in hazel eyes, at being seen.

Somewhere in there he’d made a choice. He knew he had, though he wasn’t sure he could put it into words. But he knew.

He sat up more, back against the old battered pine of the headboard. He said, “You can mention me. I’d be honored.” His voice scraped, rough with the truth of it. “Just tell me what you want me to be. A friend, or…more. Whatever you want.”

“Yes, well…” Leo drew a breath, let it out. “That’s the second part. If I had a—an offer—well, really it’s Colby’s offer, but he’s doing it for us…it’d bring you to Los Angeles…would you be interested?”

“You’re gonna have to explain that some more, I think?” Colby? Colby Kent ? Making him some sort of…offer?

“I told Colby and Jason that I wanted to see you again,” Leo said, clear and simple, as if it could be simple, “and Colby asked whether you liked your current job, and I said it was a bit complicated, and he offered to give you exclusive access to follow him and Jason around in Los Angeles for a week or so and document their life together, on the condition that all your photos remain your pictures, your property, and any money you make from them is all yours.”

Sam nearly fell off his bed. Would’ve, if he hadn’t been more or less sitting in the middle, against the headboard. It propped him up while he forgot how to breathe.

“Oh, and they’d like copies of any they particularly like, if you wouldn’t mind,” Leo heaped atop that. “Not a condition, but a request.”

“Colby Kent…and Jason Mirelli…a week with Colby Kent and Jason Mirelli …”

“They’ve finally bought that house they’ve been looking at, the one in LA, or around LA, near Jason’s family, so you’ll get a lot of pictures of them redecorating, I imagine. Plus the Los Angeles Steadfast premiere.”

“Nobody gets pictures of Colby Kent!”

“Except you, now.”

“But he…they…they don’t even know me! Why would they—” He stopped, whispered, “You asked. For me.”

“I didn’t,” Leo said. “Not precisely. I said I wanted to see you again, and Colby asked whether I’d like help, and I said yes, possibly, and…then he offered. I never expected this particular offer. I wouldn’t’ve asked for that.”

“No, you wouldn’t…you don’t. Ask. For yourself.” He managed to inhale. Exhale. Right. Lungs working. Going well so far. “You would never ask him for something like this. Something that maybe he wouldn’t want to do.”

“I wouldn’t.” Leo’s accent held emotion like newly lifted castle banners, woven of fragile unfurling pleasure at Sam’s certainty. “But I did ask for help. So…”

“He offered, you said. He’s—he and Jason—they’re okay with this? With doing this?”

“Jason asked that,” Leo said. “After Colby said it. The way he looked at Colby, asking—that nearly made me cry, unless that was just the beauty of Colby’s pear and brandy French toast. And Colby said yes, he was sure, and then he asked if I thought you’d mind the inconvenience of any schedule interruptions and whether he could compensate you for that, on top of paying you for the week and for travel expenses.”

Sam, back to feeling flattened by a Colby Kent-shaped missile of niceness, choked out, “They don’t have to pay me, if I’m making money off their pictures—!”

“To be candid about it, Colby can more than afford to,” Leo pointed out. “And that’s not even counting Jason and all the John Kill money. He’s an action figure, did you know that? A collectible. I’ve bought twelve. I have plans for a display.”

Sam looked at his own right hand, which had decided to clutch a pillow. The pillowcase, faded green and getting thin, looked back with something like a shrug. Uncharted territory for them both. “Leo…I…I don’t know what to say.”

“If it helps…I’ll be there as well? For the premiere, and some press, but also I thought I might…well, stay for a bit. In Los Angeles. For the week.”

“Leo,” Sam breathed, caught in splinters of happiness like shattering crystal. Sharp-edged, potentially dangerous, they promised glimpses of shimmering delight.

“I think,” Leo said, “Colby and Jason also want to play chaperone. To get to know you, as it were. They’re being protective. Of me.”

“Because they’re your friends.”

“They…” Leo laughed softly. “They are. I think. And you’re…something else, perhaps. Something more. If you’d like. You see why I asked how I might mention you to my parents…”

“You…you’d want…I said I was honored.” He tightened his grip on his supportive pillow. “I am. I want…whatever you want. Being with you. Public, not public, whatever you decide…but should we talk about it?”

“Not public just yet,” Leo said, and the part of Sam’s heart that wished it could believe in fairytales flinched, but it made sense: Leo had an audience to consider, a movie-star image to maintain. Dating a tabloid journalist likely landed right above an announcement about hating puppies, on the career-wounding scale.

But Leo went on, “I only mean not just yet in the sense of, not in the next few days, of course. You’re right that we should talk about how to handle it—your life will change as well, as soon as we say anything, which of course you know—and I feel as if that’s the sort of talk we ought to have in person. I don’t plan to hide, though, and I absolutely don’t want to hide you. By the way…you haven’t in fact said yes yet, as far as Colby’s offer.”

“Oh my God,” Sam said, mostly directed at himself and the pillow.

Leo hesitated for a second, and then said, even more quietly, “Please.”

“Yes! Oh God, fuck, yes, seriously!” Shouting a little; he hauled his voice back down to reasonable-person levels. His sisters might’ve heard that one. But he couldn’t let sadness thread itself into the tapestry of Leo Whyte for another second. “Leo. Yes. I’ll be there. With you. Yes to everything. Tell me where and when to show up. And where and when you want me to kiss you. Any time, any place.”

He’d made Leo laugh again. His feet wanted to tap dance right there on the bed.

“I want you to kiss me right now,” Leo informed him, still laughing. “Where? Everywhere, honestly. Not my feet. They’re ticklish. But everywhere else. The way your mouth feels, on me…I want more of that.”

More. Like sunshine. Like another movie premiere, out in California. Like a chance, a fantastic glittering once-in-a-lifetime chance.

He had that chance. Because Colby Kent was apparently the nicest person on the entire fucking planet. And because Leo had reached out to a friend. Had been brave enough, hopeful enough, to try to believe that someone would be there for him.

Leo hadn’t asked on his own behalf. He’d done it for Sam.

Sam’s heart had always known that Leo was amazing. It hadn’t known just how amazing. The want filled up his whole body, sweet and aching. Leo deserved everything. So much love, so much care. Hot chocolate and ridiculous ornate robes.

Toes still wanting to dance, whole self thrilled for Leo and thrilled about seeing Leo, whirling with ideas and possibilities, he said, “Did you say phone sex, earlier?”

“I did! I’m very much in favor of that. But would you have time? I know you’re busy and it’s still early there.”

“Um…” A glance at the clock informed him that he had just under half an hour, give or take, until his sisters, having the appetites of teenage athletics-playing wolves, would start having questions about dinner. “Sure.” He’d make it work. “Not a ton of time, but enough for you to not have to worry about it. Have you, um, done the phone sex thing before? Or, wait, you said you hadn’t.”

“Not with a man, I said, but yes I have. I imagine the idea’s more or less the same. I should tell you I’m only wearing my robe and pajama trousers. Silky blue trousers, if you’d like the image. Though I could take those off. If you’d like me to.”

“Hmm…not yet.” Sam leaned back against the headboard, shut eyes, imagined: Leo lounging in bed, wrapped up in opulent sapphire and gold brocade, arousal tenting silky pants. Leo with parted lips, softness and excitement colliding in the color of that gaze, green and brown tangling with exuberance. Leo made of long lean pale skin and pert pink nipples, which had so clearly liked being played with…

His own dick, trapped under jeans, pushed upward. A swell of need. A craving.

He said, “Nice and silky, you said. Your pants. Touch yourself for me. Through them, no taking anything off yet.”

“Oh. I can do that—” Leo’s breath caught. “Oh. I see. That feels…you want me to tell you that it feels good? I’d like more, please.”

“Tell me what you’re doing.”

“Only…only stroking myself. Over my clothing, yes, as you said.” The smile warmed every layer of English-theater accent. “It’s nice. It feels…nice.”

“Good.” Sam gave in and rubbed a hand over himself as well, not really stroking but fondling idly, through denim. He could wait, if Leo needed some direction, some control. “Got lube or something?”

“Mmm…hang on.” Quick motion, rustling, a return; Leo sounded eager about upcoming events. “I’ve also got both hands free now. Not holding the phone. Go on. Tell me more things to touch.”

“Nope, we’re leaving your cock alone for now. Just making sure you had stuff.”

“But—” Leo stopped. “Oh, all right.” This time the forest groves weren’t so much annoyed as dismayed, entertained, willing to listen. “Should I say the yes, sir? No, that’s a bit odd. I’d probably laugh. But…I do like you telling me what to do.”

“I know. You like it just a little on the rougher side, don’t you? Having someone take charge, take care of you, give you lots of things to feel, so you can feel them…” Fuck. He scrambled for the zipper on his own jeans. Shoved them and boxers hastily down. His cock throbbed, fat and wet-tipped as he closed a hand around himself. “You liked me playing with your nipples, didn’t you? Do that for me. Both hands.”

Leo drew a breath, and then made a noise that was more or less a shiver.

“More,” Sam said. “Harder. Tug on them. Pinch them. Let me hear you.” He rubbed his hand slowly along his shaft, no rhythm yet.

Leo obviously did, and his gasping tiny cry shot like silver down Sam’s spine. “Oh God…that…I felt that everywhere …I need to…”

“You need what I say you need. Do it again.” He paused. “If you want something else, if you want me to stop…you just say so, okay?”

“Yes,” Leo murmured, voice catching, skipping, snagged in desire. “I do tend to speak up about wanting things. Please, Sam…this feels so…I’m rather warm now, you know, I could take off some clothing if you’d like.”

“You don’t, you know. Talk about what you want.” He’d never wanted to stroke someone’s hair, to cup someone’s cheek and make their eyes meet his, so badly. He needed to be there. Needed to fly across an ocean and hold Leo in his arms. “I want you to tell me what you need.”

“I do so—” Leo stopped the protest, though. “I don’t need much, really. Except right now. I need you. This is…it’s hurting a bit but in such a lovely way…they’re getting a bit pink and sore and I feel as if I’ve been drinking Colby’s homemade mead, but I promise you I haven’t. My trousers’re getting messy, by the way. I’m not certain I’ve ever been this hard before, either. You’re so very marvelous at phone sex.”

Sam’s heart broke a little, not from pain, but from love: fractured right along the line of Leo dismissing his own needs in favor of praising Sam’s skills. God, this man. This complicated beautiful generous man. His, somehow. For as long as Leo wanted him, whatever Leo decided they could be.

He managed, hurting with affection, “Stop playing with your nipples. You can lose the pajama pants now. But keep your robe on. I want you like that, in your bed, so I can picture you.”

“Are you touching yourself as well?” The question emerged unusually tentative, as if momentarily younger and unsure: hoping for a yes but afraid the answer might be no, afraid that Sam wasn’t truly honestly into this or into Leo. “Will you tell me if you are?”

“Yeah. Of course. To both.” He said it firmly, trying to eliminate any hint of doubt; he took himself in a tighter grip, gave himself a couple of strokes, knew Leo would be picturing him. “I am, and I’ll tell you. Got my hand on my cock, making myself feel good, thinking about you.”

“About me,” Leo said, less tentative now, “taking off my trousers? Here in bed, the way you wanted me? Feeling rather sparkly and hot and desperate? You like thinking of me…”

“I do. I promise, Leo. I like thinking about you.” Absolute truth. Conviction in every word. He hoped Leo heard it, believed it, knew it. “You can touch yourself—still not your cock. Your balls, though. Play with those for me. Not too gentle, either, you did say you liked it kinda rough. Tell me how you’re feeling.”

“Oh God—” Leo’s breath caught, someplace between a moan and a sob.

“What’d you do?”

“What you said…a bit rougher…holding, touching, squeezing a bit…tugging…”

“Hmm.” Sam thought this over. He had a couple of ideas. He was pretty sure, from the last time—from everything they’d done—that Leo wasn’t into the specifically masochistic side as much as into overall intensity and stimulation, but was definitely up for those last two. Which was perfect, because Sam himself wasn’t big on causing pain for partners. But he did like making Leo feel…well, everything. “You want to try something for me? Spread your legs more. Opened up. Wide.”

“All right…”

“I want you to give your balls a little tap. Nice and light, not too hard, just a tap with your hand, but enough that you feel it. Let me hear you.”

Leo audibly swallowed, but didn’t argue. And followed the order.

Sam heard the sound of it, hand against vulnerable flesh. And then the sound of Leo’s gasp, and several breathless tumbling four-letter words, extra-filthy somehow in that history-laced accent.

“Did that feel good?”

“I—I—” Leo panted, gathered more words, retorted, “I just about came, right then, I’ll have you know. I only didn’t because I thought perhaps you didn’t want me to, yet.”

“And that made you stop?”

“That sounds too deliberate, but sort of? More like a feeling. Swimming around in my head. You telling me I’d been good, I’d got it right, if I behaved myself for you. Or not, if I hadn’t.”

“But you liked that? Doing that. And thinking it.”

“I never knew I did, but it seems I do. What else don’t I know? What sorts of things can you do with my anatomy?”

Sam paused to muffle a laugh. Christ. Moderately kinky phone sex with Leo Whyte, squarely in the middle of an upheaval that could change his life, and he was laughing.

The world shone. The evening blazed with color, sunset and lamplight. His old straightforward bed and dresser and thoroughly squished pillow perked right up again, and even creaked in encouragement.

He was alight with emotion. Alive with it. “I can do a lot with your anatomy, Leo. Got a lot to show you. For now…grab your lube. Keep your legs spread. You’re gonna play with your hole for me, get fingers in there, okay? But not just yet. Back behind your balls, first. Your taint. Just touch yourself, let it feel good, rub at it, maybe give that a little tap too, or more than one. Not hard, again, we’re not gonna hurt you. Just get you all ready, all warmed up and sensitive.”

Leo did as instructed. And began moaning, as the sounds carried across. Sam could picture him: flushed and wide-eyed and trembling, pinkened all over, cock upright, hands obedient to command and pleasure and a hint of erotic pain.

He said, “Tell me how hard you are. I am. All hard and hot, leaking a little for you to lick up, picturing you doing all this for me.”

“Oh God,” Leo said, “yes, yes, please…I am , I’m so…I never even thought…I’m so close , my cock hurts, I’m dripping all over myself, I’m not even touching myself there, how did you even do this to me, what the fuck , Sam,” and the indignance and the pleading and the enthusiasm burst and flooded the evening like thunder, like rain, like a cleansing of the world.

So perfect. So exactly right. Sam tried not to laugh more, couldn’t help it—too happy—and said, “Sorry? But you like it. Go ahead and open yourself up. Your hole. With your fingers. Enough lube so it doesn’t hurt, please.” He figured he might need to add that last part, if Leo enjoyed and wanted to push the roughness.

Leo just moaned, all long and liquid, which meant that’d felt excellent, and also made Sam’s cock jump and pulse and spill some shining fluid over the tip.

He said, “Good. You’re so good, Leo—you know that, right? You always are. But right now, like this…doing everything I say, trusting me…you’re being so good. I want you to know that. What’re you doing now?”

“Fingers,” Leo whispered. “Two. In—in me. So slippery and tight and it feels…I feel as if…it’s almost full enough. It’s not you. I need more. I—I like…”

“You like what?”

“You talking to me,” Leo admitted, sincere and unconcealed. “Being pleased with me. I like that.”

“Me too. And I am pleased with you. So proud of you, Leo.” Too much? Maybe. But Leo let out a soft whimper of pleasure, and that went straight down Sam’s spine and pooled in his balls and gathered gold and imminent at the base of his cock.

He said this time, “Move your fingers. Find that sweet spot for me, just the way I did for you, okay? Make yourself feel it. Imagine it’s me if you want. My hand right there, my fingers in you, moving inside you…”

“You are,” Leo agreed promptly, if somewhat hazily. “Your hand, your fingers…not mine…they’re yours in any case, however you want me to use them…oh. Oh .” All the words stopped for a second.

“So you found it. Just keep those fingers still for a sec. Right where they are. No moving.”

Leo actually swore at him again, colorful and cheerful and euphoric. “I’m lying here with my fingers in myself and my balls throbbing and my cock possibly literally wanting to explode. If you tell me to stop I’ll scream. Or cry.”

“But you’d do it, wouldn’t you?”

“Oh, absolutely and entirely fuck you. Yes, I would. I feel splendid. High as some sort of very high thing. Clouds. Kites. Comets. What else would you like me to do? I’m right on the edge in any case, so you may not have to tell me much.”

“Wonder if you could come just like that, holding still for me, not moving, just me talking to you…”

“ Sam ,” Leo practically wailed.

“Bet you could. Not this time, though. Wish I could see you, just the way you said you looked, all spread out and gorgeous and needing me so bad.” He’d started stroking his own cock faster, semi-consciously, along with the words. “Okay. Other hand on your dick. Just real light, just barely touching yourself, got it? A nice little brush with your fingertips…maybe a little more, up and down…”

Leo was just about sobbing with frustrated need now, and Sam guessed he’d either fall over the brink and come on the spot or else get too overwhelmed for anything more within a few seconds, so: “Okay, when I say you can, then you can come. We’re gonna make it feel like everything you need, and it’ll be a lot, but you’ve been doing so well, you’ve been so good for me, and you trust me, right?”

“Yes.” Leo’s voice shuddered with ecstasy, with yearning. “Yes, please.”

“When I tell you to, you’re gonna move those fingers— my fingers—inside you, right where you’re feeling so good, and when you do that…I want you to hit your cock for me, not too hard, just like you were doing, just a nice sweet tap, the way you liked it. And you’re gonna come like that, from that. While I’m over here stroking myself, thinking about you doing that. Understand?”

“Fucking hell,” Leo breathed, astonished, craving. “Yes. Oh God yes. Can I—can I—now, or—”

“Yeah. Now.”

Sounds sizzled, wet and glorious, lube and Leo’s hand moving, fingers thrusting and rubbing inside his body. Leo’s other hand also moving, the noise of it—

Leo cried out, broken and shocked and rapturous, and the cry held Sam’s name and “I’m—it’s—God, Sam —” and collapsed into shaky wordless moans.

“Leo,” Sam said urgently, “Leo, my Leo—that sounded so good, you’re so good, so perfect for me, I’m right there too, I’m about to come, baby, thinking of you, hearing you—” and he was, hand moving faster and faster, slicker now with his own want, hearing Leo’s climax pound in his ears, feeling the heat and the rising in his length as it slid through his hand, up and down—

He came all at once, a deep rush of release that swept up and flooded out of him, overflowing banks and boundaries. He came all over his hand and his stomach and even his shirt, spurts landing further than he’d imagined. Awed, lightheaded, he whispered, “Leo.”

“Oh God,” Leo said, still shaky, maybe even sobbing in the aftermath. “Sam…”

“I’m here. I’ve got you. How’re you feeling? Everything good?”

“I don’t know!” Leo stopped crying to laugh, the sound amazed, intoxicated, exuberant; he stopped, audibly shook his head, went on, “Yes. Definitely good. But that was…so much. I feel as if…I think you’ve taken me apart and put me back together. Naked. Not only in the obvious way. I’m very sticky and covered in myself and utterly exhausted but sparkly, head to toes. It’s wonderful and I’m not certain I can do it every time. Was that also, for you…you did enjoy doing that?” With me? said the tone of that question.

“So much. So fucking much.”

“Really?”

Sam shoved himself more upright against the headboard. “That was, like, top five orgasms ever, and the other four had you there in person. And—oh shit.” Time. He’d seen the clock. “Nothing to do with you! It’s—”

“The time,” Leo said, because Leo understood: good at noticing and remembering what people said or didn’t say or mentioned. “I just thought of that too.”

“I’m not getting off the phone until you’re okay.”

“I’m fine. Wonderful, I said.”

“Leo.”

“I’m…all right. Tender. In spots.”

“Not just physically, you mean. Fuck. Sorry. Wish I could be there.”

“So do I, but you are, as much as you can be.” Leo sighed. Sam could see him: sprawled out in a disaster of open robe and exhausted legs and expensive sheets and limp spent cock, worn out and languid and trying to offer reassurance. “You’re here talking to me. I really am all right; I’m only…coming down from it, I think. I may have to buy more robes, if you like debauching me in them.”

“Leo,” Sam sighed, “you’re not exactly proving that you’re okay, y’know,” and Leo, surprised, said, “Oh,” and stopped talking.

Sam said, “I’m not leaving you,” and Leo swallowed hard and said, “I hope you wouldn’t, after I’ve helped give you one of the five best orgasms of your life, you said?” and Sam said immediately, “All five, didn’t you hear me? And that’s not why. I’m here because I want to be here for you, Leo.”

Leo went quiet again, and then, right as Sam started wondering whether that’d somehow come out wrong, said, “I very literally couldn’t think of anything to say. I don’t know what I’m supposed to say. It’s too important, it’s too big, and I can’t get it wrong or make a joke, and I can’t think.”

Other people, Sam thought, might not’ve said that. Might not admit to not knowing, or to wanting—and not choosing—the deflection of humor. But Leo would always say it all: honest as sunbeams, as gold soaking through new leaves and rich earth.

He said, “You don’t have to say anything yet, it’s fine, I get it. We broke your brain with sex.”

Leo snorted at him, which should’ve been inelegant and wasn’t. “You did, yes, and thank you for it. Good heavens. Which is not something I say normally, but I’ve been spending time with Colby, who hardly swears ever, which makes me feel horribly guilty every time I even think the word fuck . Not that that stops me from thinking it.” Lightness hid emotion, but only barely.

Sam tipped his head back against his headboard. He’d have to get up soon. Clean up. Change shirts. Do something about dinner. Check in on siblings and homework completion. “I like hearing you say it. Do you have any food? Something with sugar? And also something like water or juice.”

“I’d have to go downstairs—oh, wait. I do. One of the assistants gave us some snacks at one point this afternoon, and I put the biscuits in my pocket and forgot about them, and those trousers’re over there on that chair. Are you making me get up?”

“Yes,” Sam announced, throwing just a suggestion of command in there. “If you feel up to it. No rush. Also get water. And I know you’ve got lotion, so find that, you’ll want it in a couple minutes. Something with aloe or arnica would be great, or something cooling, but whatever you’ve got.”

Leo sighed pathetically at him, but rolled off the bed—Sam heard him get up—and went looking. And then flung himself back down. “I’ve got water and rather crumbly chocolate biscuits and I found the salve Jason’s stuntperson family swears by. He gave me some today, in case I ever needed it.”

At this point they both paused to process that statement. In the wake of everything they’d just done. Plus the fact that Colby and Jason knew about at least the sex that’d already happened.

Sam very slowly shut both eyes. He might never be able to look at Jason again. Could be a problem for an upcoming job offer.

“Wow,” Leo said, “I really truly didn’t think of that. Which I can’t quite believe. How did I not think he meant that? But he said it so casually, as if, you know, of course we get bumps and bruises all the time, even Colby does some stunt work, and Jason likes protecting people. But…wow.”

Sam, because he had to, said, “…good heavens?” and listened with vast pride to the sound of Leo dissolving into a puddle of laughter and biscuit crumbs.

“Oh, fuck,” Leo said, reemerging. “You’re wonderful. You’re just wonderful. I feel a lot better, actually, already. Much more balanced. I should probably shower, and sleep, and let you go for now? Not that I want to, but we should, shouldn’t we?”

“Maybe. Let’s say…eat your biscuits—cookies, right?—and have some water, and when you feel up to it, go shower. Then put that…salve…on everyplace that you even think might be even a tiny bit sore, and get in bed, and text me once you’ve done all that. I won’t keep you up, you should rest, but I want to know.”

“So you know I’m all right?”

“Yeah,” Sam said, just that, and the truth of it poured out along the phone connection and brought warmth along, unfurling, shared. “Please.”

“I can do that.”

“Good. And, Leo…”

“Hmm?”

“Thanks. For…” This time he was the one without words. For everything. So much. “For trusting me. With you. And with your friends. I—I don’t know how to say thank you. Other than saying yes. And I’ll be there.” For you, he meant. And for them. For all that you’ve given me.

“I’d take credit, but it really was Colby’s idea.” Leo yawned, drowsy and chocolate-filled and contented. “I’ll tell him tomorrow that you’ve said yes, and he and Jason will be in touch. And someone will tell me things, I hope. And…and I know you’re much more experienced about the sex part than I am, and Colby and Jason will handle the details of getting you out to LA, Jason’s very organized about travel, and…I only want to say that I’m, well, also here. I want to be. I’ll try, if you ask me. You’ve been so good at that for me, and I—I just want to make sure you knew that. That I want to be, too.”

Sam’s heart tripped over itself and Leo’s words. He didn’t know how to fix some of that, how to answer the howling wrongness that was Leo’s assumption about self-worth versus other people, and then he felt a hot burn behind his eyes at the courage it’d taken to offer that self anyway, and most of all he wanted to kiss Leo gently all over, including the ticklish feet, and then turn himself into a shield for that big rainbow-hued soul and take on every arrow shot by the world.

He said, for now, “Leo…one more order, okay? And I want you to listen.”

“Are we honestly doing orders? I’m not certain I’m good at following them. Bossy, I believe you called me.”

“You are, sometimes. You make things happen, around you. I like it. But this one’s important.”

“Oh, fine, if it’s important.” Leo yawned again. “I like saying yes to you. Even if I am a bit sore, after. In nice ways.”

“I’m going to see you,” Sam said, “next week, in California, because you made that happen. For us. Because you are here for me. Because that’s who you are. You don’t have to be anyone else, you don’t have to be some sort of instant sex expert, you don’t have to be Colby Kent, you just have to be you. And the person you are is pretty damn awesome, Leo Whyte.”

“Of course I am, I’m—”

“That’s the order. I want you to listen to me saying that, and I want you to really think about it, not just turn it into a joke. You care about people, and you care about me, and you’ve already made my life about fifty times better just by buying fish-shaped pillows and smiling at your tea and letting me see you. When I say I’m not leaving you, it’s because I’m thinking the same thing you are, about being here. And when I see you next week I’m going to have plans for, um, a lot of your anatomy, just letting you know in advance.”

He stopped. Leo had made a rather frantic noise, maybe crying, also sort of like a cough. “You okay?”

Leo swallowed what sounded like a gulp of water, and explained, “I started trying not to cry, but then I was eating a biscuit, and then I sort of tried to inhale a biscuit, and then I had to cough, and…I’m sorry, you were being lovely, and I’m awful, I’ve ruined it, and I—I still might want to cry, but not as badly, I think.”

“You couldn’t ruin anything if you tried. And you wouldn’t, because you only ever try to help.” Why the hell couldn’t he teleport across oceans, again?

But Leo took another sip of water, and said, “Honestly fifty times better?” He didn’t sound skeptical, only curious, exploring the edges of a new idea.

“At least. Maybe a hundred. A thousand.”

“I…did say I like saying yes to you. And trying things.”

“So you’ll think about it.”

“I will. I promise.”

“Good.”

“And…I’ve also got biscuit crumbs all over me now. It’s a bit of a problem. Certain places were still rather sticky. And now you’ve got that image of me to consider, so I’d understand you rethinking the sex plans for my anatomy.”

“Nope,” Sam informed him, “now I’m thinking about eating chocolate off you, sorry, there’s literally nothing you can say that’ll make me not want you,” and Leo laughed, and the evening glowed with sweetness and satisfaction.

They got off the phone, softly, amid affirmations of care and texting and check-ins. Sam let Leo hang up first, and sat there looking at his phone for a while, not moving.

It was real. It was all real. Leo and this life and this job offer. The future changing, opening up, billowing outward right in front of his eyes.

He knew this was only a chance, an opportunity, a glimpse. He wouldn’t even quit his current job right away, especially if he and Leo weren’t going public yet; he’d just have to say he wasn’t available for a while, but he could do that, though Jameson—and a few other editors he sometimes worked for—would grumble about it.

He’d have a week to prove what he could do. At the end he’d have the pictures, and the hope that they were in fact good; he’d have a reputation as the only photographer allowed exclusive access to the home of Colby Kent and Jason Mirelli, and that fact alone would open other doors, even if his work wasn’t flawless, in the end.

He did want to believe he’d do Colby and Jason justice. He would try.

He would give them his best. For Leo’s friends, who deserved that. For Leo, who he loved, and he’d admit that in the privacy of his own head: he was in love, and he knew he was.

Head over heels. Swept away. Fast and all-encompassing and everything he’d never imagined he could have. Leo was the best person he knew, and even more than that, the person who fit him, fit into his heart, just right.

Leo, he thought, had asked him about what he loved, in photography. And he’d answered honestly. People, and stories, and catching moments. Life. The world, shared with others.

So he’d go to California, and he’d do this for Leo’s friends, and for Leo. And for himself.

Because he was good at capturing those stories, or he hoped so. And he knew Colby Kent only rarely allowed photographs, and that might be a challenge, but then there was a love story there, a story about Jason and finding home and trusting people; the tantalization nudged at a long-shut door in his chest and kicked it open partway.

He wanted to see what he could do. He wanted to find out.

He wanted to find out with Leo at his side.

He moved a hand, made a face at drying release all over his skin, hauled himself off the bed. Leo would be showering, getting clean, applying salve, slipping back into luxury sheets. Much nicer than Sam’s own; but somehow that didn’t matter, or not much, in the wake of the moment. They’d shared it together.

Clean-up, he thought. Clothing. Change. Go out and talk to Cynthea and Diana. Maybe pasta for dinner. Easy enough. They had some tomatoes. Some peppers.

Thea and Di were used to him leaving, and at nearly eighteen were independent enough to not be too bothered; they understood about his job, and the demands. He did tell them most things, the way Leo had talked about doing with family; not everything, because there were definitely some parts of his life that sat squarely in the realm of never to be discussed with younger sisters, and those parts generally included first of all how much he hated his job, and secondly anything related to his sex life ever.

He’d tell them about this offer. Of course he would. If this opportunity meant what it could…or even if it didn’t work out, but at least gave him something, a line on a resume, a reference…

It’d change their lives too.

He’d also have to tell them about Leo. About him and Leo.

Him and Leo. Sounded nice. Sounded…not impossible. Improbable, yeah, and Leo was right about them needing to talk, about publicity and photography and relationships and worlds colliding.

But possible? Maybe.

He could see the glimpse of it. A shape on the horizon. He thought that Leo, who’d talked about telling his parents, who’d gone to friends brimming over with hope, had seen it too.

He yanked on a clean shirt, scooped up his phone, knew that Leo would text him soon, and let that knowledge fill up his bones.

He went back out down the hall, towards the kitchen; the twins had abandoned calculus homework in favor of staring into the refrigerator. They both turned when he came in; Diana looked him up and down and said, “Good phone call?”

“Yes,” Sam said. “If you’re going to stand there, get the last two tomatoes out, and I think we have spaghetti?”

Thea narrowed eyes at him. They looked alike but not exactly identical; the same dark hair, the same smoky brown thoughtful stare, but Thea was a fraction taller and Di’s hair curled more. They’d fooled a few teachers, purely for fun, but never either of their brothers. Carlos claimed this was because he was the smartest; the twins always rolled eyes and asked him to explain seventeenth-century politics without using pretentious grad-student words, again, and then also shamelessly asked for help with high-school history projects.

Thea said, finally, “Why’s your hair doing that thing?”

Sam automatically put a hand up to touch. Couldn’t figure out the thing she meant. Extra-wavy? Standing up from pulling a shirt on? Hopefully not splashed with anything more disturbing.

“Also your shirt’s inside-out,” Di informed him. “Were you having phone sex?”

“No! And it is not!”

“But you just checked to make sure.”

“You did,” Thea put in, tossing a tomato at her sister. Her jeans, Sam noticed, were looking worn and faded, though that might just be some sort of style.

“You shouldn’t even know about sex,” he said. “I’m going to pretend you don’t. Not even when you’re forty years old. So, um, I might have news. Wait, first, how was the calculus?”

“Depressing.”

“Disgusting.”

“Finished for now. Is it about Leo Whyte?”

Sam stood in the kitchen, frozen beside a countertop and a package of pasta, and stared at his sisters.

“You think we don’t notice when you come home smiling and staring at your phone—”

“—and also you left it unlocked and showing a picture of him, this morning, when you were making coffee. He’s pretty cute.”

“Maybe,” Sam tried, “I just also think he’s cute—”

“You dropped everything to run off to London for his premiere.”

“You got paid for it, we know, but that one was pretty last-minute even for you.”

“Plus we heard he didn’t show up at any of the after-parties. And in that picture he put on all his social media, you can see someone else’s arm or elbow or something in the corner.” Diana, Sam registered vaguely, would be an award-winning reporter someday. He felt mildly terrified on behalf of her fellow students and her school paper as it was.

“We didn’t know Leo Whyte was into guys. Like, there’re tons of rumors, we went and checked, but nothing confirmed ever.”

“But you’re our brother, so you’re awesome—” They waved hands at him in unison, as if the gesture explained something. “—and so of course he’d be into you. Once he met you. How’d you even meet, anyway?”

Sam propped elbows on the counter, buried his face in his hands for a minute, and complained, “I’m home for like two days and you’re looking up my love life on the internet…”

“Because we care.” Di patted his arm. “Someone has to worry about you, Big Ham.” That particular nickname dated back years, to the time Thea’d decided his name should rhyme with something, had come up with “Ham,” and when Sam had tried to protest this on big-brother grounds, had said instantly, “Fine, Big Ham!” He kept hoping they’d forget. The hoping hadn’t worked yet.

“So,” Thea said, finding garlic, “was that your news? Because, you know, you can still tell us, we’ll pretend we’re surprised—”

“—and we’re totally happy for you. Seriously. Though, like…we might need to talk about you dating a movie star.”

“Total Big Ham move.”

“Can you get us free movie tickets?”

Cynthea looked at him for a second, and said, “It’s kind of a big thing, isn’t it? Dating someone like that.”

“Um,” Sam said. “We’re not…exactly dating. Or maybe. We’re…something. Up to him. But I want to. That’s part of it. I sort of have…more news.”

They waited, almost-mirror images of silent impatient fascination. The twins looked, he thought sometimes, like the mother they’d all lost; they looked more like each other and Carlos, sharing a father, than Sam himself, of course.

But they looked a little like him, Sam, too. Around the eyes, the nose. Some expressions, some gestures, the way they crossed arms or opened a soda can one-handed or raised a single eyebrow.

He hadn’t noticed until their neighbor Annika had mentioned it a couple of years ago. She never minded checking in while he was gone, and the twins liked her and her family’s old Romanian recipes; she’d caught him coming home and chatted with him for a minute, mostly about how much she liked his sisters, how thoughtful they were about helping her take her cats to the veterinarian’s office, and what a good brother he was, and how anyone could see they were a family.

He tried not to feel a little proud—Thea and Di were his family; maybe he’d done a good job—and then usually felt guilty about that. They would’ve grown up differently, he knew, if he hadn’t been the one trying hard to be their parent.

But that would’ve been a whole different life, too. And he’d tried not to wonder about how much better off they might’ve been. They’d done okay. He’d done okay. He was pretty sure he had.

They were a family. No matter what. Awful nicknames included. And the pasta and tomatoes watched from the counter, ready to offer support.

“It’s about California,” he said, and took a deep breath, and thought about Leo texting him soon, the weight of his phone in his pocket, the comfort of that presence. “About Colby Kent. And next week. And a job offer.”