Chapter 5 A Hotel and a Home

California. The week in question. A job. Sam, standing by a hotel window and a glorious view of Los Angeles, breathed in and out. The view gazed back at him: blue skies and a city of dreams.

He had a job. He had an assignment. One he couldn’t quite wrap his head around, though he’d started to accept that it was happening.

Camera equipment—not much, he traveled light—and his bag and his jacket collectively watched him from the bed. He’d dropped everything there, for now.

The bed was nice: towering and luxurious and crowned with more pillows than Sam had ever seen in one place. He hoped they didn’t know that he had no idea what to do with them all.

The whole room was nice. No. Not nice. Fabulous. Plush pale gold carpets, high ceilings, swooping blue curtains, light California-breeze wood. Serene and expensive and a little old-fashioned, not in any sort of negative way but in the sense of having Hollywood history, personality, a design that evoked decades of movie-star luxury.

It was the sort of room and the sort of hotel Colby Kent would reserve, because Colby had in fact reserved it, for Sam’s stay. Sam had thought, when the car’d dropped him off, that there must be some mistake. He still kind of thought so.

He eyed his travel bag again. Brown and battered, it sat on the fluffy white expanse of bed and shrugged at him. Maybe neither of them belonged, but they could damn well enjoy the luxury for a while, seemed to be the point.

Leo would like the bed. And all the pillows. They came in ocean colors: turquoise, aqua, deep teal, sand-gold. One had a seahorse design picked out in lacy white stitching. Sam pictured Leo scooping it up, falling in love with it, rolling over into the whole pillow extravaganza: unabashedly adoring it all.

The thought made him feel like adoring some pillows too.

He took a picture of the seahorse puffball shape and sent it Leo’s way. He wasn’t sure where Leo was at this exact minute—a meeting about returning as that television-show space-wizard villain, and then getting ready for dinner with parents, had been mentioned—but the reply came back within seconds. I’d love to ride a seahorse, wouldn’t you? It’d be such a unique experience. Not like anything else. Which is in fact the definition of unique, isn’t it?

Sam checked the time; Leo must be in between events, then. He himself had about half an hour before he was supposed to meet Jason Mirelli downstairs, which he was attempting not to think too much about. He’d offered to make his own way over to whatever the lunch plans involved; Jason had said, utterly casual, “Don’t worry about it, I’ll come pick you up,” as if he played chauffeur to tabloid photographers every day. Sam had tried not to whimper.

He hadn’t spoken to Colby yet, at least not on the phone. They’d emailed. Colby’s emails were very organized, in the way of someone who’d been a producer on multiple films and who knew about organization, and also mostly but not entirely very English in phrasing and spelling, and on top of that often vaguely apologetic without actually containing an apology for anything, generally hoping Sam wouldn’t mind the arrangements and offering to carry out any changes, large or small, if desired.

Colby definitely wasn’t Leo. Leo would’ve laughed and said, “You get what I arrange for you!” while making sure everything was exactly what the person in question needed, without drawing attention to that truth.

Sam, thinking about what people needed, looked at Leo’s text for a second, and went with, Was that some sort of idea about you coming over here and riding this pillow?

Leo started typing, stopped, started again. If you’d like! I expect I would also like, though I’ve never done that either. Trying to picture it. Two days from now!

I like you , Sam thought . I adore you, Leo Whyte. Said I’d have plans for you. You’ll love this bed.

I’ll love being in it with you. Is this an appropriate coming out to one’s parents outfit, do you think? Or should there be more rainbows? This came with a picture: Leo standing by his bed, in dark blue pants and a pale pink button-down, sleeves rolled up to show a hint of polka-dot pattern. A shiny blue jacket lay across the bed; Leo’s hair swept itself up in a stylish blond wave, shorter on the sides, and he was grinning.

The sight flooded right into Sam’s chest and painted color there. Love bloomed, physical, aching.

He knew Leo had meant to tell his parents sooner; they’d had to reschedule a family dinner. Some sort of minor emergency involving sets and rehearsals at the historic West End venue where Leo’s mother managed theatrical finances. Nothing serious, Leo’d said, but a panicked meeting or two.

He answered, I like it. You look like you. Colorful. Cute.

I am entirely both of those, thank you. Say hello to Jason and Colby for me. Tell Colby he owes me a person-sized lemon tart. Actually don’t. He’ll try to bake one.

I’ll say hi for you. Let me know how things go with your parents.

Leo did the start-and-stop typing again. Sam wondered suddenly how many people had ever said those words to Leo Whyte: I’ll be here, I want to know how things go, you’re important to me.

He had a feeling the number was lower than anyone realized. He disliked that feeling with vast intensity.

I will , Leo answered. I promise .

Thank you.

For talking to you? Hardly. By the way, don’t be nervous about Jason and Colby! Jason’s a teddy bear under all the muscles and Colby will attempt to buy you a castle if you express any interest at all. You may need to protect him from his own generosity.

Sam, glancing around at palatial opulence, had to agree. Long curtains fluttered at him, airy coquettes framing sun and sky.

He answered, Trying not to be too nervous. Thanks again. Gotta go, but I’ll talk to you later?

Leo this time sent him a gif of animated dancing seahorses, which Sam figured meant yes in that color-drenched whimsical vocabulary; he watched them bob up and down, and ended up smiling.

Right. Getting ready. Meeting Jason. A job. Not running late. Demonstrating his professionalism, his gratitude, his completely sincere amazement that the hottest celebrity couple on the planet had extended this chance. They’d asked whether he needed some time to settle in. Sam, trying to be as eager and accommodating as possible, had said no, the flight wasn’t that long, he could absolutely meet up for lunch and talk about plans for the week, whatever they wanted.

He ran into the bathroom, marveled at the lake of bathtub—it had gold fixtures—and brushed his teeth just in case because he’d had coffee on the plane, and checked everything else in the mirror. His reflection regarded him: a hint of stubble over tanned skin, dark hair in casual short waves, eyes the same golden-brown as usual but with trepidation and excitement having a battle in the background.

He’d put on a decent dark blue button-down shirt and also decent but flexible grey pants, getting ready. He had no idea what Jason and Colby had planned for lunch, and he wanted to show them that he was taking this seriously, that he wanted to be here, that he could be ready for anything, and also he was more or less working for them now and he really did know how to look like someone who had not made a living out of sleazy scandalous photography.

He ran out of the bathroom, grabbed his jacket—black, lightweight, unobtrusive, old but not too noticeably so—and took a deep breath.

As predicted, Jameson had wanted to send him to Atlanta, to that superhero movie location; several of the other editors and publishers Sam sometimes freelanced for would’ve also liked that. Set leaks would’ve been fantastic, and there’d been rumors about the heroic lead having a boyfriend; lots of cameras would be circling. Sam had said he couldn’t go, he’d had something come up, but it might lead to something significant; he’d hinted that it might have to do with Colby Kent and the Los Angeles premiere of Steadfast , and Jameson had told him that it’d better be good, with an ominous implication of you need my money more than I need you , and had hung up the phone.

At least five, probably more, of the Colby pictures would have to go to the Daily World News if he wanted to preserve that relationship. Exclusively so. For Jameson’s use.

He swallowed around the newfound lump in his throat. Eyed the tip of one shoe, the worn familiarity of his Converse forming a paradox against plush five-star hotel carpeting.

He had the momentary impulse to call Jason and say he couldn’t do this, he wasn’t good enough for this, they could find a real celebrity photographer, someone with a reputation and recognition—or maybe he could call Leo and cling to that fantastical voice, irrepressible and English and bubbling over with emotion—

Leo was busy. Commitments, confessions, of his own. And Leo had done this, had arranged this, for him.

Sam squared shoulders, scooped up his phone and his small Nikon—neither expensive, and both a few years old—and figured he could shove the camera into a pocket if photography wasn’t requested yet, or he could use it on the spot if Jason and Colby asked. Either way, he’d be prepared.

Leo, he thought, believed in him. Enough to ask for this, for him. So maybe—

He shut the door behind himself, and went down the hall to the elevators, which were also gold, in a dark and subtly gleaming way: smug in the knowledge of their own worth.

The excitement emerged anew: not without nerves, but giddy and beckoning.

He’d get to do this. He’d get to meet Jason Mirelli and Colby Kent. He’d try his best for them, for Leo’s friends. And he’d hear from Leo later, the two of them coming together at the end of the day. Here for each other.

Yes, he thought. Yes.

* * * *

Leo, letting himself into his parents’ cluttered but tidy house, shut the door and gazed at a pink-painted wall and the multiple coat-hooks and the framed poster depicting Sir Laurence Taylor in Macbeth at the Coronation Theatre in 1996, and let home sink into his bones. All the way to his toes. Up to his hair.

He wondered momentarily whether his hair had memories, and if it did, whether his had forgiven him for the terrible bleach-blond dye job a decade or so ago. Probably, he decided. He got on well enough with his hair these days.

He shrugged out of his jacket. Hung it up.

His mother’s voice floated over from the back office: “Leo, is that you? Stand and unfold yourself!”

Leo shouted back, “You come most carefully upon your hour!” because it was the next line of Hamlet , and then, “But that’s wrong, I’m the one coming in to find you !” while wandering through the sitting room and dining room and kitchen, navigating dentistry-related journal towers and time-worn squishy chairs. “Mum, why’s there a sword in the umbrella stand?”

“So I remember to take it back, of course.” His mother popped out of the office, beaming at him. They’d always looked alike; Leo took after her in tall height, thick dark blond hair, expressive eyebrows. Harriet Whyte had browner eyes—Leo’s own hazel had come out midway between his parents’ woodsmoke and emerald—and the inexhaustible energy of a greyhound before a race, assuming that greyhound also knew how to wield a broadsword, speak Latin, and manage the finances for one of the oldest and most intimate examples of London’s theatre world. “I borrowed it for some practice with that grip. It’s for a production of Blood and Sand next month. Oh, those’re lovely, thank you—”

Leo had picked up the flowers with her favorite colors in mind, riotous pinks and purples and the occasional pop of white and gold; he said cheerfully, “Maybe they’re for Dad, not you,” and wiggled them at her. “Got a vase?”

“Oh, yes, somewhere.” His mother glanced back at her office, which currently held multiple bookshelves, one dozing tabby cat on his perch, two computer monitors, and ten toy knights arranged along her desk. “Not in here, obviously. Kitchen?”

“Logical,” Leo agreed, and trailed her back out to the world of copper pots and an old but much-loved teakettle and a covered pan of something mysterious but savory-smelling on the stove. Benvolio the tabby yawned, stretched, and sauntered after them.

“Your father’s been experimenting again, so it’s a sort of venison cobbler? I think? With horseradish scones.”

“I’m not even going to ask.” Leo peeked into the pan. “Actually, yes I am. Are those parsnips?”

“Probably? I really couldn’t tell you. I’m sure it’ll be delicious, though.” Harriet Whyte did not cook, famously so. Leo adored his mother and would physically stand between her and the stove if she ever expressed interest in attempting scrambled eggs again. They’d been simultaneously rubbery and crispy. He to this day had many unanswered questions.

She got down on the floor to peek into a cupboard. Benvolio sat down beside her and put whiskers forward. “Here, will this work?”

Leo looked at the object in question. It was in fact a vase—odds had been against that—though it was a vase of a tall hand-blown murky green glass variety, with perplexing lumps and ripples in unexpected places. “Where’d this come from? And how can I get one?”

“It’s hideous.”

“It’s incredible. I want three on display somewhere. Mum, the cat’s in the cupboard.”

Harriet looked at the cupboard she’d just closed. The cupboard meowed plaintively. She said, “Oh dear,” and opened it again. Benvolio strolled out, tail held high, and went over to sit by his food bowl.

Leo put flowers into vase, water into vase, and vase on kitchen counter, next to the small sculpture of Dionysus with grapes. And then hugged his mother properly. And hard.

Harriet hugged him right back. “This is quite nice. It’s been a few weeks, hasn’t it? Oh, there, I know you’ve missed us, we’ve missed you too, what’s brought this on? Not that I’m complaining.”

“Nothing,” Leo said. “Just. I love you. And Dad.” He let go, reluctantly. “Where is Dad?”

“Wren!” his mother said. “That was where.”

“Mum, if Dad’s turned into a bird, I wish you’d told me sooner.”

“Wouldn’t it be marvelous if he could?” She considered this possibility, head on one side. “He could just swoop us all away, take us up for a sunset flight…”

“He’d be a large bird, then. Where you got the vase, right?”

“Oh yes. This lovely young man named Wren whom I’ve just hired to do some backdrop painting. He’s learning to be a glass-blower in his spare time. I believe he was practicing. That one was a gift. Your father went out for…something. Cinnamon? No. Sugar? Coffee?”

“Maybe the coffee. Should I feed Ben? He’s glaring at me.”

“It’s his default expression, you know that. But yes, if you wouldn’t mind. Wine?”

“Yes,” Leo said, wholeheartedly. He expected he might need it. He got out a tin of cat food, which prompted a yowl of anticipation, and dutifully served the cat, who went back to purring while eating. Benvolio had ruled the house for twelve years, and approved of Leo, provided that Leo knew his place in the household hierarchy.

He took a deep breath. He didn’t truly think his parents would react poorly to his sudden discovery of bi—or possibly pan, thank you, Jason—sexuality. He knew they loved him, he knew they had huge and generous and accepting hearts—

He had never imagined coming out to his parents. He’d honestly never realized he’d need to.

He wanted to tell them. He told them everything, or just about; they’d never had secrets, as a family.

He wanted to text Sam. He wouldn’t—Sam was meeting Jason, and that was important, and Leo couldn’t interrupt—but the presence of his phone was a reassuring weight in his pocket.

He didn’t have a plan, a script, a bit of dialogue to memorize. He did not know how they’d react; he thought it’d be all right. He hoped so.

He took the goblet—large and painted with dragonflies—that his mother handed over. Gulped wine without thinking.

Light golden flavors washed over his tongue: pears and peaches, summer sun, effervescence. Colby would’ve known the year and the winery; Leo just swallowed and appreciated the taste, the sensation. He focused on only that, for a moment.

“Oh dear,” his mother said, setting down her own glass—it wore hand-painted strawberries with pride—and looking over at him across it. “Are you all right? Is something wrong?”

“No,” Leo said. “I mean…that is…nothing’s wrong. Something’s very right, I think. I wanted to tell you both, though. Later. Tell me about your next big production. Gladiators?”

Harriet pointed a finger at him. “As soon as your father gets home, then. And yes, and we’re so over-budget on the blood, it’s astonishing how much we’re needing, but I saw the rehearsals and it looks so gloriously gory, it’ll be a smashing success…”

They settled in at the small kitchen table, cozy, sipping wine. Scents of experimental venison and parsnips and horseradish drifted, not badly, through the air. Benvolio came over, hopped up, and made himself at home on Leo’s lap. Leo scratched the cat’s fluffy head and tried to not think about anything except his mother’s stories regarding proper budgeting for a production’s worth of loincloths.

The door opened again; his father’s voice said, amused, “Hello, son,” to Leo’s jacket, and a moment later Chester himself appeared: greying, merry, wearing jeans and a blue knit jumper that straddled the line between avuncular Royal College of Dentistry dean and fashionable avuncular Royal College of Dentistry dean. “Come here—”

The cat ran over for petting, and Leo got up for more hugging. His father felt solid and strong, clothes chilly with London air, somewhat shorter than Leo himself; Leo wanted to hold on and be held and never let that closeness go, just then.

His father patted his back, and said, in much the same way his mother had, “Are you all right? Is there anything we can do?”

“He said he’s got something to tell us,” provided Leo’s mother helpfully.

“I…” Leo said. His eyes prickled suddenly. He wasn’t sure why. “Um. Was it coffee? Why you went out?”

“Ginger.” His father, keeping up, waved a shopping bag. “For the plum and apricot crumble. And some ice cream, proper vanilla bean, and carrots. I was thinking about carrot and avocado muffins. Harry, light of backstage finances and broadswords and my life, did you remember to turn down the heat on that cobbler?”

Leo’s mother said, “I love you and you know I didn’t,” and got up to kiss him. Soundly.

Leo, who would’ve ordinarily applauded or made a joke or offered a not-serious rating of kisses, reached out and picked up wine. Took a sip.

Venison cobbler, rescued from heat, happened. So did a quick salad with a bewildering but not terrible combination of mint and poppyseed flavors, and some rye bread his father’d baked the day before, and more wine. The venison was in fact delicious, if richly and somewhat confusingly spiced. The horseradish scone topping was fine.

Leo’s father, with the tact that made him a much-beloved administrator, kept the conversation on work, students, the new laboratory building they’d be getting in the summer. Leo’s mother chatted about the theatre; they both asked about Steadfast , about the joy of the success and the excitement of the press tour and the premieres, about his earlier meeting and the multi-episode villainous science-fiction arc he’d agreed to. They did not push; expectance hung in the air above plum and apricot crumble, topped with freshly grated ginger, but it hung there unobtrusively.

Leo’s mother, when they’d more or less finished and were picking at the last bones of the demolished crumble, said casually, “Anyone up for a family game night? Something cooperative, perhaps solving a mystery or escaping a mystical island?” and Leo took a deep breath and said, “Yes, but first, I did have something to tell you,” and both his parents smiled at him, holding hands.

He fiddled with a fork. Made himself stop. “Er…speaking of Steadfast . And love stories. Between men.”

“Oh yes,” his father agreed encouragingly. “So lovely, seeing that.”

“It is, yes. And I’m proud to be part of it. Er…when I say part of it…I mean I’ve sort of met someone. Someone I, ah. Really like.”

His mother instantly put a hand out, gathered up Leo’s anxious forkless one, and said, “Oh, darling, we’re so happy for you, what’s his name? How’d you two meet? Is he also an actor, or in the industry?”

“Sam, and he’s—” Leo skidded to a halt, mouth open, every single atom quivering with multiple emotions. “That—you—you just…”

Chester and Harriet exchanged glances.

“You’re not even surprised ,” Leo said.

“Well, you see,” his mother said, “the thing is, well…we already rather thought you were, er, not entirely straight, perhaps…”

“You did not! How did you know? I didn’t even know!” He waved the hand not being held in his mother’s, gesture landing someplace between desperate flailing astonishment and equally desperate laughter. “Why was I the last one to know?’

“To be fair,” his father put in, “we thought you did know. Given all those comments about attractive male co-stars, or that time you brought, what was his name, Matt, as a date to that awards show, and then kissed him so thoroughly in front of the cameras…”

“He dared me to! And I thought it’d be fun!”

“And there was the time you bought the dildos,” his mother contributed cheerily. “There were pictures in all those magazines.”

“Those were for someone else! She was embarrassed about wanting them!”

“We always hoped,” his father took up, beaming, “that you’d feel comfortable enough to tell us, someday. Not that we’d ever push, if you weren’t ready. Not at all.”

“Oh my God,” Leo said, and buried his head in both arms atop the table. “Oh my God .”

“We’re so very honored you’ve told us now.” His mother patted his arm. “You did say he, so were you going to tell us it’s all the men all the time, from now on, as it were, or something a bit more all-inclusive, or are you still sorting it out?”

“Oh my God, Mum.”

“As long as you’re happy and they treat you right, that’s the important thing.”

“Thanks,” Leo said into his arms and the table, and then looked up. His parents were still holding hands and radiating fondness at him. He took that in. Sat up more. “I, ah. I’m still sorting it out, but I think…probably bisexual? Or pan. It’s definitely not all the men all the time from now on, Mum, thank you for that. Though actually it kind of is, isn’t it? One specific man’s getting all of my time, so I suppose that works. But it’s something with room for being attracted to lots of people, and genders, I think.”

Saying so, he felt like himself: back to humor, back to teasing, but even more than that. He’d said it aloud, to his parents; something in his chest felt new and raw and fragile and inexpressibly overjoyed.

“Oh, so lovely,” approved his mother. “And, you know, it’s not as if that’s not respectable; look at William Shakespeare, he liked both the women and the men, and he did fairly well for himself, didn’t he?”

Leo, caught between laughter and a sigh, got out, “Thanks, Mum, glad to know you think I’m on the same level as Shakespeare.”

“You’ve certainly got better hair. Though we’ve still got some pictures of you with that unfortunate bleach-blond—”

“We don’t talk about those pictures! I made you pinky swear, Mum!”

“So.” His father leaned in, intrigued. “You said you met someone. His name’s Sam, is it? Tell us about him.”

“Sam, yes. He’s…” How to even start? How to explain Sam’s profession, Sam’s kindness, Sam’s ability to see right into Leo’s heart and know exactly what he’d always been needing to hear?

He said, finally, “He would like your vase. Or at least he’d understand why I like it. He makes me feel like smiling all the time.”

His mother’s expression grew softer, comprehending: happy for him.

“That,” his father said, “sounds about right, doesn’t it, Harry? Tell us more. When can we meet him?”

“We’ve only just started dating!”

“Do you know whether he likes opera? I’ve got some spare tickets to La Cenerentola , if you’d like some evening excursion ideas—”

“If the two of you want to come round for supper first, I’ll make that blackberry sage sauce and roast chicken, and your mother will promise not to greet him with a rapier in hand, after that poor girl looked so startled last time, so just let us know when!”

“Behave yourselves,” Leo complained, but he was grinning: he couldn’t not. Textured gold spilled from familiar lamps, and the night tasted like apricot and ginger pudding, and he wanted all of that, wanted to bring Sam here into the land of blackberries and rapiers and love.

He’d call later, after he got home. He’d hear Sam’s voice and ask how the day was going out in Los Angeles with Colby and Jason, and Sam would hear him, every bit of apprehension and relief and profound emotion Leo didn’t say aloud.

Benvolio reappeared to beg for any last scraps, purring. Leo fed him a tiny piece of venison. “I think he’d love seeing you pose with a sword, in fact, Mum. So, first of all, he’s American—from Las Vegas—and he’s a photographer, a brilliant one—” Something of an omission there; he didn’t want his parents to worry about Sam’s profession and tabloid gossip.

But every word he’d said was true. Sam was a photographer, and Sam was brilliant, and Leo was proud to be with him.

So that was that. And that was and would be real. “Here, I’ll show you some pictures he took of me and my house, look at how splendid the light is through the window, in this one…”