Chapter 6 Los Angeles

The elevator proved to be smooth and swift. Sam arrived in the lobby ten minutes early—11:30, Jason’d said—and hovered beside a potted fern and a sculpted column, uncertain. Find someplace to sit? Look around? What if Jason was also here early, and was waiting for him? What if Jason couldn’t find him? Was the polished receptionist considering his scuffed Converse and several-years-old jacket and deciding whether to summon hotel security to deal with this person who plainly didn’t belong?

He inched closer to the fern. It provided no assistance. It knew it had a place here.

He wished he could feel that certain. He kind of wanted to put a hand on the ornate pot and soak up some self-assurance. But then he’d end up looking like a person who’d come into a fancy hotel lobby to fondle the foliage. And the receptionist really would call security.

He leaned a shoulder against the decorative column, experimentally. Casual. Okay. Working so far. He could watch the lobby doors from here.

A car engine purred. A streak of silver flowed up the drive. Sam did not know much about cars beyond the basics, but he could tell this one was a Ferrari, maybe from the nineteen-sixties, and beautiful. A movie star of cars. A glory of classic grace.

The owner must love it, he decided. Visible in the care and the age. Felt good, seeing that: like a little bit of optimism in the world.

The car door opened. The world’s most famous pair of shoulders emerged into sunshine. Sam leaned more weight against his sympathetic pillar, and forgot to breathe.

Jason Mirelli, in jeans and a dark green shirt that was failing to adequately contain his expanse of chest, said something to the valet, laughed, took off his sunglasses. The valet very obviously admired the car some more.

Jason said something else, turned, and jogged up the steps. Toward the doors. Toward Sam.

He was even larger in person. No cinema tricks at all. Just big happy Italian-American muscle and a t-shirt with some sort of logo involving dice and tabletop gaming and a wizard. Jason was kind of a geek, Sam recalled somewhere in the stunned recesses of his head. A few nerd loves mentioned in interviews. Fantasy novels, roleplaying games, stuff like that.

Jason had unfair biceps. Sam, head-over-heels in love with Leo, couldn’t help a moment of astonished staring. He figured Leo would understand.

Jason bounded through the doors, which moved rapidly out of the way, and looked around. Spotted Sam and Sam’s helpful pillar. Waved, then ran over. Sam resisted the urge to check the marble lobby floor for signs of impact.

“Hey, you’re Sam, right?” Jason held out a hand. “Leo’s Sam. Nice to meet you. I’m Jason.” His eyes were long-lashed and dark, up close: rich thoughtful brown, friendly but with a suggestion of evaluation, of protectiveness. He did not mention a Las Vegas night and a bachelor party and their first encounter. Sam swallowed down nerves and did not mention those things either.

He also did not briefly worry about his own hand, disappearing into that powerful one. His mouth, while trying not to say holy shit you’re Jason Mirelli and Jason Mirelli’s muscles , in fact said, “Kinda guessed you were? I mean, um, the car, and the, um, never mind.”

Jason laughed—mountains rumbled, but in a nice way—and let Sam’s hand go. “It’s one of my dad’s, not mine. He just finished doing some work on the engine, and he wanted someone to drive it around for a while, and, hey, I’m not gonna say no. Come on, we’ve got a couple errands before we head over to the house.”

Jason clearly had a schedule in mind. Sam nodded, being agreeable, and then some other pieces of his brain caught up and started shrieking in pure glee. “We’re taking that car?”

“We are.” Jason grinned at him. “And I drive fast. Dad taught me, though, don’t worry.”

Sam flipped through his mental celebrity index for a second, pulled up Jason’s background—Luca Mirelli, while not movie-star famous, was basically the name in stunt driving, or had been, once upon a time; post-accident, trained the best other names; the whole Mirelli family came with that stunt-person legacy, in varying forms—and raised eyebrows right back. “Who says I was worried?”

“Oh, good,” Jason said, “this should be fun ,” and waved at the valet loyally guarding the Ferrari. “Quick errands, I promise.”

They went out the door. They got in the car. Sam tried to believe that, yes, this was him getting into a classic Ferrari with Jason Mirelli. Fucking incredible. Unreal. Maybe he should try pinching himself. Jason might notice that.

Jason did drive fast, but expertly; the Ferrari handled Los Angeles streets and corners and traffic with pleasure, and Jason had complete control, steady if mischievous as far as speed and turns. Sam hung on and felt his heartbeat pick up, exhilarated.

He said, “Can I get a picture of you and this car, or would your dad mind?”

“He’d love that.” The car in question danced around a corner, a ballerina given direction by large practiced hands. Sam wasn’t sure where they were going, but then again he’d mostly spent his time in LA lurking around red carpets, hotels, nightclubs, and anyplace else a photo of someone’s wardrobe malfunction might be obtainable.

Jason added, “I do want to get Colby a car. Not this one, but something fun. With some history. He doesn’t have one. Car, not history, I mean.”

“You two live in LA, and he doesn’t have a car?”

“Well…we literally just bought this house, and he’d been mostly living in London, and…” A red light paused panther speed momentarily. The Ferrari purred with good-natured impatience.

“And he wasn’t going out much,” Jason said, very quietly, and then, swiftly, “And if he did he had a driver. He kinda always has, he grew up with that, with his parents being, y’know, who they are. He does have a driver’s license, in both countries, even, and he used to have a car, he just didn’t bother to replace it when it died.”

“Oh.” A whole other world, that one. Growing up with personal chauffeurs. Not bothering to replace cars, instead of not being able to afford to.

“I like driving us places, don’t get me wrong, I’ll still do that, but I want him to have his own, too, just in case he needs to go somewhere and I’m not home.”

“And you like cars.”

“I do.” Jason did. Clearly. As well as acceleration. Practically flight. Sam smothered a laugh of sheer childhood exuberance. Jason was having a good time.

And Sam thought, watching him: Colby could still have a driver. He grew up with that, you said. You’ve got the money. But you don’t want him dependent on someone else, someone he might not know well or feel close to. You want him to feel safe as well as free.

Jason did also like cars, of course. And liked sharing that passion.

They’d ended up in a vividly artistic neighborhood, full of bookshops and art galleries and mysterious shops promising antiques and rare perfumes and curiosities. Some sort of street fair was happening, turning pavement and roads into vibrant color, creation, life under California sun. Jason drove around the back of a shop, spun the car into a spot with flair, and turned the engine off. “You can wait or come in, shouldn’t take long.”

“I’ll come with you.” Sam one hundred percent wanted to. Aside from impressing Jason with willingness, he was fascinated. Movie stars doing errands? In quirky artisanal local shops? Utterly besotted?

That last one he’d known. Everyone who’d ever seen Jason looking at Colby Kent knew. Different in person, though. More solid and unshakeable.

They went in through a back door, conveniently open. Art bloomed around them: a forest of ocean waves, glowing hibiscus, delicate ink, dancing painted humanity in every shade imaginable. Woods shaped and curved and wrapped themselves into frames: dark, light, oaken, walnut, white-painted, blonde. The air tasted of craftsmanship, dry shavings, light and heat.

Jason waved; the young woman up front waved back, said, “Right on time, as usual!” and then shouted, “Roz!” The purple streaks in her hair bounced, framing dark skin and dark sparkling eyes and dramatic bronze-and-plum eyeliner; Sam wanted to capture her in various light, motion and bracelets whirling for a camera lens.

“Roz is in the workshop,” she added to Jason, coming over. “They’ll be out in a sec. Who’d you bring?”

“Sam,” Jason said. “He’s good with a camera. Visiting for a while. Sam, this is Lena, she’s great at design. Can I see them?”

“Oh, yeah, here, got it—” Lena found shelves, sorted through wrapped artworks and their labels, found a decently large wrapped package. “Came out fantastic. You’re such a sap. I love it. He is,” she added to Sam, “ such a sap. Romantic. Gives the rest of us hope, y’know?”

Sam, unsure whether he was meant to respond to this—he’d only just met Jason—opened his mouth without a real plan, at which point the aforementioned Roz came in through a side door and said, “I swear you get bigger every time I see you, how’s Colby, who’s this?”

Roz was tall, tanned, in some indeterminate older-than-Sam age range, and attractive in a wiry beach-going way, sunstreaks and dust in short brown hair; they had on rainbow earrings and an outfit that suggested they’d been getting some woodworking done, over in the workshop, and they looked at Jason with both appreciation and some stern admonition about muscles versus objects of art.

Jason laughed, ran through introductions again, and said Colby was wonderful. Lena opened up the package for him to look at; they all did, for a moment. Aged paper and faded watercolor glimmered up, surrounded by graceful carved wood and shining glass; centuries long gone watched them back.

“This one was such fun,” Roz said. “Paper that delicate, and matching some of the curves of the sketches in the frame, the way we talked about…I love the way this came out. Do keep us in mind for anything else you pick up.”

The set of sketches glowed in the shop’s kindly light. Two of them were simpler: antique centuries-old ship designs, masts and rigging and cutaways to show the decks, the holds, the mechanics. Lines flowed across worn paper, building a vessel to race the waves and Napoleon’s guns; old-fashioned handwriting made notes, drew arrows, explained for the future. The third was what looked like the same ship, but hand-drawn and colored with a tinted wash: floating in a busy harbor, kissed by ocean, preparing for sail and war and the mission she’d been born for.

Sam choked on history and a love story. “That’s not—you didn’t find the actual —”

“No,” Jason put in, an earthquake of ruefulness. “None of Will Crawford’s sketches of the Steadfast —if he did any—survived. We have some of the letters—I don’t mean us personally, they’re in an archive back in England, in Bath—and some of his scientific notes, but not much. No, this is the H.M.S. Henrietta . Not all that distinguished, she didn’t ever do much, but her first captain wanted to be an artist, or at least he drew that third one himself.”

The perspective wasn’t perfect. A line or two noticeably crooked. Amateur in execution. But someone had loved that ship, his ship. Had drawn her, on a sunny day, with all the pride he’d felt in his command.

Jason finished, ears a little pink, “These weren’t even all that expensive; there’re better versions out there, other ships, better preserved. They’re not museum quality. But they are original, and we’d met that rare book and manuscript guy at Andy’s party, and when these came up, he called me, and I had to say yes. For the house. For Colby. They’re not exactly a surprise—he knows I bought them—but he doesn’t know what they’ll look like all framed and finished.”

Sam opened his mouth, closed it, and asked, “Can I take a picture of you real quick? With those? Nothing else,” he added to Roz and Lena. “Unless you don’t mind.”

“We don’t mind.” Roz beamed. “Go on.”

“Me?” Jason looked at the watercolor again, big hand brushing a foam-white frame-curlicue. The white wasn’t smooth or pure; it had faint lines too, echoing water, ink, age. “Here?”

“Talking about Colby,” Sam said. “Please.” He had his small Nikon in one hand. Slightly better in low light than his phone, though he’d still need to do some corrections. Wouldn’t matter. He could see it.

“Um,” Jason said. “Okay? What do you want me to do?”

“Just that. Hold that one. Look at it. Think about Colby. Giving it to him. Like that—” Perfect, perfect; almost perfect, at first, as Jason looked his way a bit uncertainly and then looked down.

And large shoulders softened; Jason’s thumb rubbed over wood, and the tilt of his head changed, and his smile got softer too, more private, thinking or remembering or hoping. He stood there in a local artist’s shop, a man wanting to make his partner smile, an action hero with a giant heart on display, holding an artifact made of emotion in one hand.

Sam let the background blur, focused on the crinkle of unfolded brown paper and the shimmer of the ship and the line of Jason’s gaze and the upward drift of Jason’s lips, and caught each second of simple straightforward love.

Because they’d said he could, he pulled back a little and brought the backdrop of the shop in too: Jason Mirelli outlined in art, in stories, in color, here on this LA afternoon.

Jason glanced up, and Sam caught that too: the wry quirk of his mouth, the lifted eyebrows. “Never thought I was the photogenic one.”

“You are,” Sam said. It was true. Jason didn’t have Colby’s wide-eyed adorableness or camera-beckoning aristocratic-rainbow fashion sense, but did have intriguing shapes and motions, paradoxical and fascinating. Lots of breadth and height, lots of tenderness, that once-broken nose, deep soulful gaze, more lines and textures. “Trust me.” And then he cringed, and added, “I don’t mean Colby’s not! Just, um, you are. Also. Equally, I mean.” Oh God.

Jason laughed. Muscles flexed in amusement. “Got it. Thanks. We should get going, we’ve got one more stop.” He also said thank you to Roz and Lena, handed over a credit card, collected rebundled art, and ushered Sam back out the back door. “Sorry about the errands.”

“I don’t mind,” Sam said. “Kind of fun. They’re nice.” He meant the people, not the errands; Jason figured it out with no hesitation.

“Yeah, they are. Lena comes into the same game shop I go to, out here, and we got to talking.” The Ferrari roared to life with eagerness. “Okay, bakery next. Then home. Where, just so you know, we don’t have a ton of furniture yet.”

“Fine by me. I can sit on floors.”

“We can do a little better than that,” Jason promised, and the car leapt ahead into California sun, catching light.

They swung by a bakery—also local, or at least not a name Sam recognized—and picked up miniature cupcakes, an assortment of impressive flavors: blueberry cream, chocolate cherry mocha, tiramisu, cinnamon dulce de leche. Jason was friends with these owners too, because Jason was friends with everyone, in a broad-shouldered calm and comfortable sort of way. Muscles on display, power evident, love of Colby also evident, everything laid-back in the same sense a lion might relax when happy. Jason would pick up cupcakes and artwork with hearts in his eyes, and would defend Colby with every heroic inch if necessary, Sam concluded.

They fit in a quick stop for coffee at a small corner-shop drive-through. Jason asked whether Sam wanted anything; Sam panicked momentarily about whether or not to accept, and settled on simple straightforward black. Jason acquired something very large and iced, with white chocolate and hazelnut, and explained, “It’s for Colby really. But I like hazelnut too. We usually share.”

“Adorable of you,” Sam said. “Like Lady and the Tramp . The spaghetti scene.” He actually did think it was adorable. John Kill, with that action-hero franchise at his back, bought sweetly flavored coffee to share with his partner.

“Thanks. You okay holding cupcakes? We’ll be home in just a couple of minutes.”

“I’m good. A whole couple of minutes? Not like thirty seconds?”

Jason grinned. The Ferrari picked up speed. “I see why Leo likes you.”

“Because I don’t mind you showing off?”

“Because you don’t get scared easily,” Jason said, “and because he needs that, I think. Someone who takes him seriously, who’ll stick around. Hey, this is a fun corner—”

It was. So was the whole last winding curving drive, heading up the low hill. There was a gate, and then more of a drive, under tall waving palm trees; the approach was green and brown and blue, lush in California colors under a wide sunny sky, and neatly landscaped and maintained.

The house saw them coming, and waved along with the palm trees. Beautiful graceful architecture beckoned in curved roof tiles and wrought iron, a graceful splash of imagined castle somehow transported to Southern California; front steps formed a waterfall of pale stone, and the driveway pooled into a curve of homecoming off to the side. Sam’s first impression was of stylish but understated fantasy: character woven into tall strong bones and decorative detail, but not huge nor glitteringly ostentatious nor even particularly imposing.

It looked like a house, he thought, not a proclamation of mansion. A home.

Jason’s words rattled around in his head, in his heart. Leo needing someone. Leo needing him. Jason saying so, looking at him.

He hoped he was the person Leo needed, the person Leo could believe in.

Jason let the car race its shadow right up to the garage, and came to a flawless halt a breath away from collision with the closed door. “Sorry again in advance about the lack of furniture. Did I mention we literally just bought this place? The kitchen was more of a priority.”

“Hey, I’m good with helping build bookshelves if you need a hand.”

Jason laughed. “Careful, or I’ll say yes to that one. Here, I can take the cupcakes. Come meet Colby.”

They went in through a side gate—more swirling fanciful wrought iron twirled up in greeting—and a side door, not the dramatic front; Jason fished out keys while juggling gifts. Sam’s stomach performed a sudden lurch as reality sank in all over again.

He’d managed to get used to Jason, mostly, during the drive. Colby Kent, though—that name, that presence—

“Love you,” Jason shouted in the direction of the kitchen, balancing packages on their way through a box-laden floor and a single tall dark bookshelf and a floor-lamp with a forest of willow-branch lights, “and I brought coffee! And Sam!”

“Ah, my triumphant hero!” Colby popped out of what looked like either a very big pantry or a small second kitchen, ran across the open room and the box-strewn expanse, and flung himself at Jason and coffee.

And Sam realized that if Jason’d been happy earlier, that was nothing at all compared to now. Pure joy lit up deep brown eyes and smile-crinkles and every melting of giant muscles. Completely home, here and now, at the sight of the man he loved.

Jason, still holding presents, folded both arms around Colby. Leaned down, and they both got lost in a kiss: tender and adoring and entirely honest, unselfconscious about emotion and passion and pleasure in each other. Colby’s hand slid up to the back of Jason’s neck, intimate and natural, holding him there.

Sam shifted weight. Wanted to preserve that moment, that kiss, in art: simple clear devotion, the mundane—packages in hands, coffee delivered—combined with the wondrous.

He also wanted to talk to Leo. He wanted to kiss Leo, to come home to Leo. The want stabbed through his entire body, and left him breathless.

He glanced around the house, giving the reunion some privacy. The ceilings were high, and the walls were pale and mostly undecorated as yet, though a tantalizing wild knot of abstract steampunk brass and copper shimmered in coiling decoration over in the kitchen. A large canvas leaned against the single bookshelf in the living room; Sam couldn’t quite see the art, only the edge of colors: grey, gold, sapphire. The back of the house opened up in gleaming glass windows and doors: the view stretched out, drenched in California light, gazing down the hill. The yard wasn’t finished: some bare landscaping lingered in shades of dirt, and he could also see the corner of a swimming pool peeking over, blue and inviting.

He glanced back at Colby and Jason. Jason still had both arms around Colby, and was murmuring something inaudible that made Colby laugh and blush and retort, “Of course you are, love, always. With cinnamon. Or even ginger.”

“Hmm,” Jason said, “later, maybe—”

“Oh!” Colby, no longer being thoroughly kissed, had remembered Sam’s presence. “Oh, no, my apologies, Jason did introduce you, I’m so sorry, hello, I’m Colby, and you must be Sam! Did you like the car? She’s such fun, especially when Jason’s driving, though of course we’ll give her back next week, when we see Jason’s parents for brunch. Oh, sorry, come in and have food!”

Colby Kent. Sam was meeting Colby Kent. Award-winning actor, producer, and writer Colby Kent. In a half-furnished newly-bought house. While Colby paused to consume a significant amount of iced coffee and share a smile with Jason.

While Sam tried to process the whirlwind of words and the moment and his whole damn life, Colby went on, “I’m very sorry about the lack of furniture, but we have got the bar stools, and we’re getting the sofa and chairs tomorrow, and can I get you anything else to drink, or a coffee refill? And how’s Leo? Not that we’re not seeing him soon, but of course you’ll have heard from him more recently, I’d think? Is the hotel all right?”

Sam fought the urge to stop and breathe out of sympathy on Colby’s behalf. Or maybe his own. This was him, talking to—being talked at—by Colby Kent. How?

Colby in person was also taller than Sam, because both movie stars were, but an inch or two shorter than Jason, and thinner, built like a swimmer or dancer instead of a mountainside. He had both sleeves of his violet cardigan shoved up, baring graceful forearms; he also had what looked like ink on the side of one hand, a swoop of incongruous messy indigo. His eyes were and weren’t the famous film-poster shade: even more vivid in person, and more complicated, with darker and lighter blue mingling together.

Colby did not put out a hand for shaking, but that was fine. Sam, like most people, knew that Colby Kent did not like being touched, though he’d never heard any specific details. He hadn’t expected a handshake greeting or anything. And Colby was already doing him a massive favor just by agreeing to this.

Monumental. Unbelievable. Other adjectives involving everlasting gratitude.

Colby did not, apparently, mind being touched by Jason. One expansive shield-wall arm looped around slim shoulders and kept exuberance tucked in close. Colby kept talking. “If anything’s not to your liking, let me know, and I’ll try to sort it out for you? And thank you for your part in delivering the artwork! Shall we see how it all came out? I haven’t seen it finished, and I’m sure it’ll be perfect for that wall over by the fireplace.”

Sam looked at the two of them together. Ached to pull out the camera on the spot: documenting their easy comfort, long lines, matching and not, complementing each other flawlessly, with the welcoming domesticity of their home as a backdrop…

Belatedly, he remembered how to say words. Colby’d asked a question or seven. What’d they all been, again? “Um. No worries about the furniture, the hotel’s great—like, really great, I mean, wow—I didn’t do much about the artwork, that was Jason, I just came along—Leo’s…” He waved a hand. “Leo. He’s…” What words would be enough? “He’s fantastic. He says hi.”

“Leo is fantastic.” Colby, with Jason’s hand in his and cupcakes in the other, headed back toward the kitchen and swept them all along with him. Then began getting out trays laden with lusciously arranged food. “He’s always such fun to be around. Making other people smile, you know…it’s such a gift. He’s got a lovely heart, even if he does cover it up with on-set pranks involving fifty balloons and Tom Bradshaw’s car. Butternut squash and caramelized onion bite? Or roasted strawberry-balsamic tarts? And those little tea sandwiches have mint and date paste and goat cheese in, they’re a bit experimental, but I like how they came out, I think. You said you weren’t allergic to anything, correct?”

“Yeah. I mean I’m not.” Okay, he could manage keeping up. Mostly. “Can I help with anything?”

“Oh—thank you, but I think we’ve got it.” Strawberries and squash bites and tea sandwiches had exploded across the kitchen island in flavorful extravagance. Jason let go of Colby long enough to get out and pour what looked like sparkling water for all of them, and unobtrusively set the first glass near his other half’s left hand. Colby looked up from miniature sandwiches to smile at him, which brought even more sunshine into the kitchen: affection and appreciation and adoration so bright it outshone the day.

Colby said, “We were planning to cook properly for you for dinner—Jason has plans involving orange chipotle chicken and a marinade, and I’m decent at risotto, though mine’s not as good as Jason’s grandmother’s, of course—”

“Might argue that one,” Jason said. “Maybe. Depends on the day. She was impressed by yours.”

Colby did some more smiling at him for that. The universe got newer and more shiny. “Thank you for saying so. I did mean to apologize, I’ve been a bit busy all morning so I haven’t had time to do much about lunch, though there’s homemade sourdough bread and I was thinking of something involving varieties of grilled cheese? I do love cheese. And then there are cupcakes for dessert, or for now, whatever order you’d prefer.”

Sam looked at the kitchen island, or what could be seen of it under various serving trays, and couldn’t stop himself from saying, “This is you not doing much?”

“Oh, well…it isn’t much, really. Jason helped with quite a lot before going to find you. We like cooking together. So that was mostly done already. And then I had a terribly annoying telephone call—which honestly could’ve been worse, it’s just that I’d been worrying about it beforehand—and then I tried to do a bit of calligraphy to relax…” Colby glanced at his own hand and the indigo streak; one corner of his mouth quirked. “And of course I smudged it when Jill texted and I had to grab the phone…”

Jason caught his hand, then caught him, and reeled him in close. Colby settled some weight against his bulwark; Jason’s whole body had snapped to attention, a fortress poised to defend and guard and keep a treasure safe.

Jason ran a large hand over Colby’s dark fluffy hair, just once—aware of an audience but also not caring, because Colby needed care—and grumbled, “I’d’ve talked to your dad so you didn’t have to…”

“Yes, but I’m the one on that children’s literacy program steering committee.” Colby tipped his head into the petting. “Though perhaps you should’ve been there. I could’ve used a loyal knight. I’m not good at saying no, and I think I might’ve agreed to some sort of appearance at a public library in Washington D.C. I don’t mind the library part.”

“No, you mind being your dad’s trophy that he likes to call up and show off.” Jason touched Colby’s cheek; Colby shut both eyes, then opened them, wordless and trusting. “I’ll do it instead of you. Or at least with you. Whatever you decide. Cupcake? Cinnamon dulce de leche?”

“You do know what I like.” Colby accepted sugar, delivered with a kiss. “What I love. Yes, thank you.”

Sam perched on a bar stool. “You do calligraphy?” He knew Colby did; that’d been in some of the Steadfast interviews and press releases, trivia and tantalizing behind-the-scenes details. Colby had done most of the handwriting for the film: Will Crawford’s letters and scientific notes and spycraft ciphers, and also labels on boxes and addresses on letters and Stephen Lanyon’s captain’s log.

Colby turned his way. Visibly perked up, diverted by the question. “I do! It’s only a hobby, in spare moments, but I enjoy it. It’s always so marvelous when it comes out well—a sort of meeting of the practical and the artistic, and it seems to make people smile. I’ve still got the pen I used on set, for Steadfast ; it writes so beautifully, so smooth and clear, and it’s got such good memories, and Lux from the props department said I could have it if I wanted it, they’re so kind, that was so nice of them. I should pick up a new notebook for practicing; I have some gold ink I want to play with.”

Jason, looking at Sam, offered a very fractional head-tip: acknowledgement and approval. The two of them in agreement about protecting, or distracting, talkative blue eyes from potentially painful parental topics. “Already bought you one. Should be here tomorrow. Did you want to see how the art came out?”

“Oh, yes, very much.” Colby licked cinnamon frosting from fingers. Sam ate another tea sandwich, happily. The mint and date and goat cheese combination was a discovery, and a tasty one.

Colby opened up brown crinkly paper. And then caught his breath. “Oh…oh, Jason, they’re wonderful. Well, of course they are, you have such good taste, but…they came out so…”

“Beautiful,” Jason said. He was looking at Colby. “Yeah.”

“The weathered quality there, in the wood they’ve chosen…that just picks up the sense of time and commitment and dedication, doesn’t it…such a story of craftsmanship, in the ship herself, in the love of her captain, in the art of finding the right framing to hold it all…”

“Sam,” Jason said.

Sam, not expecting direct address, hastily swallowed a strawberry. “Um. Yeah.”

Jason did another small head-tip: toward Colby, who was communing with art.

“Oh,” Sam said, “right, of course, yeah,” and fumbled for his camera. “Matching yours.”

Colby looked up. “Yours?”

“Sam took pictures of me,” Jason said, “picking these up.”

“Colby, stay right there,” Sam said. “Hold that first one up again.” Through the camera lens, Colby’s long fingers mirrored the lines of the frame: elegant, mobile, permanently excited about ship designs and amateur watercolors and the stories of the world. The waves of Colby’s hair stood up and out against the kitchen window, becoming a halo, fuzzy with light.

He rethought his own words. Giving orders. To Colby Kent.

Who had obligingly lifted art, cradling the watercolor with delight. “Like this?”

“Yes,” Sam said, “yes, like that—look down—and a little bit toward me, but pretend I’m not here.”

Colby laughed—Sam caught that too, Colby unguarded and amused—and gazed down at history and connections across time and space, holding the frame with exquisite grace. He was luminous on camera, all cheekbones and pointed chin and wayward hair and enormous eyes, different from Jason but equally tempting as a subject. Colby knew how to pose, to find angles and light, and wore emotion in the way that’d won him so many awards: expressive and natural and easy to fall into.

Sam took a few just to be sure, though he had a favorite: Colby in the wake of laughter, smiling. Brown paper and strawberry tarts added texture and color to the story, in the foreground.

He put down the camera. “Um. Sorry about the sort of photo shoot directions, there.”

“Oh, no, that was thoroughly helpful, and you’re the professional! May I see?”

Sam swiped back to his favorite, held it out.

“You look so happy.” Jason put an arm back around Colby. “Happy about art, and history.”

“And about you, and you having done this for us, for this house.” Colby looked over at Sam. “You’re so very talented. Such a small moment, but you’ve got so much in here, the emotion and the gift and the glimpse of more, a whole scene, with the tarts and the unwrapping, and I want to know more. That is, obviously I do know more, I’m in it, but if I were looking at this in an exhibition or a display book, without being me, as it were.”

Sam’s brain tripped over itself. Colby Kent, complimenting him. With evident sincerity. Eyes all blue and generous and full of conviction, giving away words like exhibition and talented as if Sam ought to be hearing them every day. “Um. Thank you? I. Um. You make it easy. Want to see Jason?”

“Entirely yes!”

He showed Colby his favorite of that set also. Colby actually did a little fingertips-to-mouth gesture, soft and wide-eyed. “Oh, that’s…oh, look at that…”

“You can have copies of any that you want,” Sam said, because Colby had gone worryingly speechless, drinking in Jason on the camera’s screen, Jason with a small smile and one big hand holding art, a man in love. The real-life Jason was blushing, but in an embarrassedly proud way: a knight who’d pleased his liege lord. “I like that one too.”

“Oh, my…” Colby put out a hand as if wanting to touch the camera, then took it back, penitently. “I’d like both of ours. Next to each other on display, perhaps.”

“So,” Jason said. “Logistics.” His tone said more: Colby was happy, and therefore this was happening, so that Colby would continue to be happy. Colby momentarily ducked out from under his arm to open the refrigerator; Jason went on, “And also lunch. But plans, first. The rest of the bookshelves for this room should be showing up today, so that’s mostly what we were planning to do, but I don’t know how interesting that is for you. And I think we said we didn’t expect you to have to work today.”

Sam took in the concept of being paid to not work, as such, for a day. Or tried to. No. Couldn’t do it. “It is interesting, though, I think? The two of you moving in, making this place your home. I don’t mind helping, or grabbing some shots of that for you. You might want them, later.”

Colby resurfaced from the refrigerator with at least four different types of cheese. “I would, if you wouldn’t mind!”

“I offered,” Sam pointed out, but gently. He was starting to think that Colby at home was different from any version ever seen in public: talkative not just as a performance for press and publicity about projects, but overflowingly enthusiastic about everything from cheese to photographs, and also both more vulnerable and stronger than anyone knew. Colby hadn’t hid a need to lean on Jason after what sounded like a stressful phone call, and worried about not doing enough for people, and listened to directions promptly; Colby had also in five minutes shared more personal information than most interviewers ever got, having apparently decided that if Leo and Jason both approved, Sam must be worth trusting.

Kind of dizzying, that. Being trusted by Colby Kent. Sitting on Colby’s bar stool, eating Colby’s food.

He hoped he was worthy of that. He wanted to be.

“Anyway,” he added, “that’s more or less what we talked about, as far as me getting to document this week with you? Domestic life, daily life…at home, and at your premiere…just let me know when and where to show up, or if there’s something you don’t want me there for. Anything you want.”

“Leo will be here the day after tomorrow.” Colby looked around for bread; Jason had already gotten it out. “So of course you’ll want to spend some time together, so we won’t expect you to do much that day, which is fine, because that afternoon we have a meeting with Jill and Andy over at the Raven Studios production offices, about the possible next project, and I think we’re supposed to be keeping those discussions confidential so the announcement’s a surprise—not that I’d mind having you there, but it might be best to not bring a person with a camera into the room. So you and Leo can enjoy yourselves.” His voice sounded innocent, but his eyes danced, under lifted eyebrows.

Colby was evidently a lot less precious and a lot more capable of innuendo than anyone would ever believe. “I’ll tell him you said we should. He’ll be thrilled.”

Colby’s eyes lit up even more. “Feel free to tell him the offer about gay sex advice still stands, not that you’ll need it, but please make a note of his expression when you say that. For me.”

“And the world thinks you’re fluffy and harmless.” Sam saluted him with a strawberry tart. “Well played.” He also had the impression that Colby rather enjoyed having someone not defaulting to either overly protective or overly deferential upon first meeting. “So tomorrow I’ll come along while you go furniture shopping, like your email said, and today we’ll set up some bookshelves? Sounds good.”

Jason said, “Colby said out loud, during one of the big group interviews for the London press, that he’d be happy to sit on my lap if there weren’t enough chairs. Everyone thought he was just being polite and sweet and, y’know, comfortable with me.” He was eating one of the caramelized onion bites, and leaned over to feed one to Colby.

“All of that was true.” Colby ate the bite, and flipped an absolutely mouthwatering grilled cheese sandwich over, at the stove. “It’s just that another truth happened to involve the position we’d been in two hours earlier, in bed.”

“Impressive.” Sam picked up another tart. They were fantastic. He’d have to get up early and find the hotel’s gym for a workout. He didn’t even care.

“As are you, you understand.” Colby regarded the grilled cheese, visibly approved, slid it onto a plate. Jason sliced it, making stretchy cheese paradise happen, and then put it in front of Sam, which made every atom of Sam’s body quiver with the desire to consume it on the spot and not wait for his hosts.

Colby paused, second sandwich begun. His eyes were merry, but serious under that. “Leo doesn’t generally ask for help. Not when it’s important. As I’m sure you’re aware. So for him to ask…he cares for you very deeply, you know. Because he does care, so very very deeply, about people. He has a huge heart, and it’s more lonely than he lets on, and we want him to be happy.”

That wasn’t a warning, or at least not given as one. It was a simple statement of fact: Colby—and Jason—cared about Leo’s happiness, and wanted to be sure that Sam knew how important this was.

The simplicity of this statement made it more powerful than any more threatening phrasing would’ve been. It plunged through all Sam’s defenses like an arrow, delivered with a spatula in one hand and the scents of toasted sourdough and molten cheeses in the air.

He cleared his throat. “I care about him. Very much.”

“Of course you do,” Colby said, as if that was never in doubt, and went back to kitchen wizardry.

“He’s so…he’s the most colorful person I’ve ever met. I mean full of color. Like stories. And he’s always so…warm. Giving himself. All of him. Even when he knows people take it as a joke. Especially when people think he’s just making jokes. I never want him to feel lonely.” He met Colby’s eyes, and Jason’s, in turn. “I want to make him happy.”

“Oh, good,” Jason said, “we’re all agreed on that, then,” and fed Colby half of a cupcake, this one blueberries and cream, and then ate the other half in one bite.

Sunshine spilled through the kitchen window, and sizzles echoed from the stove, and book-boxes watched them indulgently from piles. The afternoon, the future, shaped itself in concurrence and gold, in tarts and cupcakes, in coffee and shared pleasures.

Agreement, Sam repeated silently. Himself, and Colby Kent, and Jason Mirelli. All together. Here, on Leo’s side.

He still couldn’t quite believe it all was real, but if it was, it was everything: hope and a future and love, because he did love Leo, and Leo’s friends loved Leo, and so maybe they were Sam’s friends now too. Maybe this could all be true.

Maybe there was a universe in which Sam Hernandez-Blake, freelance photographer, fell in love with Leo Whyte and was loved in return, and could eat homemade tea sandwiches while sitting in Colby Kent and Jason Mirelli’s kitchen. And Colby and Jason had been pleased with his first few snapshots of them.

Maybe, he thought. Maybe. And something fluttered in his chest: lifting, like wings, like hope.

He pulled out his phone. Took a quick picture of the feast spread out across the countertop, sent it to Leo. You were right about the food. It’s like a celebratory banquet over here.

He didn’t expect a quick response, since he knew Leo was busy—with a momentous announcement, needing space, needing to talk to parents—but got one almost immediately. Unfair of you all, having strawberry tarts without me. Unjust. Send me one. Say hello to our lovebirds for me.

I’ll see what I can do about saving you some. How’s it going? Jason and Colby had become distracted by kissing again, along with some sort of discussion about Colby needing to eat more than a bite or two out of Jason’s sandwich, if not a whole one of his own.

Excellent. We’re escaping a sinking island with magical artifacts at the moment. Also I told them. Mum and Dad want to cook for you and take you to the opera. Warning you now. Details later.

Glad it went well. Tell me about it tonight?

Leo paused before answering. Sam wondered whether that was surprise at someone hearing the relief under the cooking and opera, or whether Leo had just been distracted by a tabletop game. After a few long seconds I will. I swear , popped up. Plus a heart. A pink one.

Sam looked at the heart, thought about messages and flippancy and loneliness and buried emotions, and answered, How’d you know?

?

My heart. Yours. You got it . Cheesy? Maybe, yeah. But Leo, he thought, would like cheesy. And honest.

Leo paused again, just long enough for Sam to second-guess his own instincts. And then a picture turned up. Leo. Sitting at a cozy table, backdrop indistinctly homey and colorful. Laughing, happy, his upward swoop of blond hair just a little rumpled, eyes as fluttery as Sam’s chest felt. Holding up both hands: forming a heart. The message that arrived after said Sorry it’s a bit out of focus, Mum took it!

It’s perfect. Thanks.

You are , Leo answered. And your heart. Which is mine now. Insert evil laughter here. Oops, my turn! I’ll call you when I’m home.

Sam, after some consideration, replied with a gif. Of Leo. In full evil space wizard costume. Waving a melodramatic staff, with the devastating smirk that’d launched the fandom into the stratosphere.

Leo sent back, My wish is your command, minion .

Quoting yourself, or was that an idea for later?

Maybe both! Plus a winking face. Plus one more heart. Sam figured that was more or less a sign-off, and he didn’t want to keep Leo from a family game night; he set his phone down and looked up.

Colby and Jason were grinning at him. A third grilled cheese had happened, which meant Jason had won that discussion; Jason’s arms were around Colby, who leaned back against him.

Sam said, “So Leo says hi, and he wants a strawberry tart.”

“If we don’t have any left when he gets here,” Colby said, “we can always make more.”

* * * *

Leo, back at home, shut the door, slumped back against it for a second, shook his head, and laughed at himself and his unnecessary worrying. He’d done it. He’d said it. And everything was good—everything was fantastic, including the leftover apricot and ginger crumble he’d been sent home with—

His parents loved him. And wanted to love Sam.

He wanted to jump up and down and shriek in pure excitement. He wanted to tackle Sam onto his sofa and have incredible mind-blowing sex right there on the spot. He wanted to run out and audition for a role, any role, something big and epic and passionate and possibly bisexual. He could do that right now. He could do anything.

He took off his jacket. Spun it around a finger. Did a quick unchoreographed tango with it across his living room, just because. Shiny blue fabric rippled, getting into the swing of congratulations. It didn’t mind him humming out loud, even if he wasn’t sure exactly what tune he was aiming for.

Both of them twinkle-toed and giddy, he left the jacket on a chair, wandered into the kitchen, put away leftovers, checked the time. Late, but not too late; after midnight, because successfully escaping the tabletop game’s doomed island while carrying magical artifacts had taken some time, but that hadn’t been unexpected. Anyway it’d only be a bit after four in the afternoon, across an ocean.

He hoped Sam was having a good day. He hoped everything was going well. He wanted his friends and his—his boyfriend, and oh that was the best word in the universe, just now—to get along and be happy.

He held onto his giddiness, his anticipation, like a secret: a hot glowing private knowledge of joy that raced along his veins, his bones, each heartbeat.

Just to prolong that feeling, he went and made tea. The scents of lemon and orange made him smile; the heat of the cup, one of his old-fashioned pretty china set with the roses, warmed his hands. Sam had liked that, he recalled. He wasn’t sure why, other than the obvious—it was a lovely cup, and tea was nice and cozy—but Sam very definitely had approved.

He took his tea upstairs, and deliberately changed out of seeing-the-parents attire into loose autumn-orange pajama trousers and a long-sleeved shirt with a misprint in his mother’s theatre’s name, because she’d ended up giving that batch away and they were extremely comfortable. He pushed up the sleeves.

He settled down on his bed, found a blanket, hugged one knee to his chest for a second just to hug something . He felt shivers of elation scamper down his spine, under his skin, setting off tiny exquisite fireworks.

He picked up his phone. Called Sam.

Sam took a second to answer, and sounded a bit out of breath. “You’re here! Are you home? How’d it go?”

“Everything I could’ve hoped for.” He had the phone on speaker; he picked up his tea, liking the sensation against his hands. “What on earth were you up to?”

“Colby and Jason have a lot of books. And a lot of new shelves, now. I was helping sort science fiction. And taking some pictures of them getting distracted by stories.” Sam’s voice echoed oddly; Leo, curious, asked, “Where are you?”

“What’s going to be a guest bedroom. No furniture yet. Colby told me very sweetly that I should go and have some privacy. He’s way too good at sounding innocent while meaning something completely different.”

“No one ever believes me when I say that!”

“I do, if that helps.” Sam’s voice was soothing and low and loyal; Leo wanted to listen to him forever. “They’re really great. Just the nicest people ever. It’s like…I keep thinking neither of them’s actually real, they just walked out of a romance novel, something made up, y’know? They’re planning to cook dinner for me. After they made lunch and tea and tarts. I don’t know how to say thank you enough.”

Leo had a sip of tea, liking sweet citrus and herbal flavors. “As far as thank-you gifts, they both enjoy books. And statues of dragons. And cheese. Real cheese, not statues of cheese. Though they might enjoy that as well.”

“I meant you, you know. Well, them too. But mostly you.”

“I didn’t do much.” He tipped his head back against the headboard, eyes shut: just focusing on Sam’s voice, and heat like spreading butter—or perhaps cheese, delicious and golden. “You did. Showing them how good you are.” He meant as a person, not only as a photographer; he hoped that came through.

“Oh, Leo.” Sam sighed; a brief noise suggested he’d moved or sat down. Leo pictured him: sitting on the floor in an empty but friendly room, hair as touchable as ever, maybe some smudges of dust on his arms from sorting books, golden-brown gaze fondly scolding. “Take the compliment.”

“Was it one? You were talking about cheese.”

“I wouldn’t be here without you and you know it. Tell me about your parents. No, wait. Tell me how you’re feeling.”

“How I’m feeling?”

“Yeah.”

“Oh. I…that is, I…I made tea. We successfully escaped a sinking island. I’ve got leftover pudding for tomorrow. My toes’re warm.”

“All good, but not an answer.”

“Oh…well…” He took a breath, let it out. Let himself listen to Sam, who knew him. “I’m happy. Relieved, and feeling a bit foolish about having been nervous in the first place, but…mostly just happy. All over.”

“I’m happy,” Sam said softly, “for you.” He sounded like it; he sounded pleased that Leo’d been honest. “Tell me about it?”

“I said I would,” Leo said, and did, cat-petting and tabletop gaming and asymmetrical vases included. He talked for longer than he’d meant to, but Sam was a good listener, not interrupting but making encouraging sounds, asking questions, being present. Leo finished hopefully, “They really do want to meet you. If you want to, I mean. No pressure. I know this is all a bit fast and you’re awfully busy.”

“I’d be honored,” Sam said immediately. “Said so before, didn’t I? If you’re sure. I know I’m not exactly…I’m not the kind of guy your parents hope you’ll bring home.”

“You mean talented, devoted to your family, and patient with me? Mum and Dad already adore you, you see.”

“Leo,” Sam said again, half a sigh but not a real protest. “You look at the world and see everything good…”

“You,” Leo said. “You make it better.” That admission was more real, all at once, than he’d planned. “I’m in bed, you know. What were we saying about me riding things?”

Sam’s first answer became inarticulate sputtering. “You—I—I’m in Jason and Colby’s house! I can’t—that’s—”

“They wouldn’t mind. But I was mostly teasing you.”

“Were you?”

“I’d never ask you for something you didn’t want to do. And you’re occupied with bookshelves.”

“Hmm.” Sam shifted position. Leo, sitting up in bed, heard the thoughtful noise, considered his own suggestion, and all at once found himself half-hard and growing more so. His cock stirred, rubbed by pajama pants; he recalled Sam’s touch, Sam’s kisses.

Sam said, “Mostly teasing, you said. But you want that.”

“I don’t need to get off via phone sex.”

“You need some taking care of, though.” Convinced of this, now: Sam’s voice held no doubt, and assumed command. “Kind of a big day. And you should get to feel good. A reward. I won’t do anything on this end, but you can.”

“You don’t need to—”

“You deserve it.”

Leo started to protest. Found himself shaky, wanting, yearning all over. Inarticulate lapidary emotions collided and swirled: desire, astonishment, and a strange pleasurable softening, as if he’d always needed to hear that, and now he only needed to hear it more, to let Sam tell him he deserved this, he could have this, he could feel good, and he trusted Sam about that.

“Leo?”

“I…forgot how to think. What do you want me to do?” His cock pushed up against fabric; he did not touch it yet. Liquid sweetness gathered pleasantly at the base, in his balls, in the sudden clench of his hole. His body wanted Sam.

“You okay?”

“More than. I believe you’re correct and I deserve an orgasm or two.”

Sam laughed. “You’re perfect, babe. What’re you wearing?”

“Ah…pajama trousers and a shirt? No underwear.”

“Even more perfect. Shirt off, grab your lube—we’re gonna make this quick, but I wish we had more time—”

“I know,” Leo agreed. “So do I.” Shirt off, his bare chest tingled in night air. He shoved down his trousers, lube now perched beside his tea on the bedside table. Bottle and cup smirked at him. “I can be quick.”

“You can,” Sam said, “because I’m going to tell you to. You remember last time, on the phone?”

“When you made me, ah…hurt my own cock? Only it didn’t really hurt. I liked it.” He had. He squirmed against his bed; arousal dripped from his tip, smearing over his stomach.

“I know you did. But no, not that. The part when I told you that wasn’t your nice pretty cock anymore, it was mine, the way those’re my fingers fucking you, and when you come it’s because I say so.”

Leo made a sound. It was not a dignified sound, someplace between a gasp and a moan and pure wholehearted relief. “Yes—”

“When you come it’s because you deserve it,” Sam said. “You deserve to feel good, Leo. You want me to fuck you now?”

“Oh fuck,” Leo whispered back. His head spun for a moment; he shut his eyes, lying back amid pillows. He was, he recognized abruptly, crying: the corners of his eyes felt damp. And his cock was rock-hard, and his body felt shocked and shimmery and limp with quakes of pleasure and tight with ecstasy, a paradox that left him wordless and floating, carried on so many ceaseless waves. “Yes, please.”

“You okay?”

“Yes.” His voice came out a bit small, not broken but tiny and hopeful. “Please fuck me.”

“I will. My sweet Leo. I’ll always take care of you.” Sam shifted position again, groaned quietly, audibly bit his lip. “Can’t do much about it on this end, but I wish I could. Had to get a hand on myself, just touching for a sec, imagining you.”

Leo pictured that too: Sam sitting there with his glorious cock making a massive bulge under jeans or trousers, a bulge now loosely cupped by one hand, fingers long and tanned, the sight absolutely filthy and lewd and wicked there in an empty guest room with a closed door…

He whimpered. Sam laughed. “Okay, got it, you want more, I’ve got you, I promised, and I’ll give you what you need, right now, okay? Get your lube. Get a couple fingers nice and wet, and just give that hungry little hole a rub for me, not too much, but not too gentle, either. I know how you like feeling it.”

Leo nearly spilled lube all across himself. His hands were shaking. And when he slipped fingers back between his spread legs, finding the furl of muscle, he almost came on the spot; even his rim quivered, too sensitive the way all of him felt too sensitive, alight and awake and alive.

He rubbed at himself, as instructed. His hole fluttered, loosening and clutching at his fingers, growing wet with lube; he moaned.

“Other hand,” Sam said. “On your cock. Go ahead and stroke it for me. Tell me what you’re doing.”

“I…I’m…” Clumsy and sparkling, uncoordinated and enraptured, he wrapped a hand around himself. Rocked hips, thrusting up into his grip, loving the slide of his shaft through his fingers. No, Sam’s fingers. Because he belonged to Sam, body and heart and soul. His entire body tensed sweetly at that, a rhythmic pulsing that swelled and ebbed. “I’m…stroking my cock…rubbing my—my hole for you…’s your hole, it’s, I’m…yours, Sam, please…feels so good…”

“Mine.” Sam sounded both pleased and breathless; at least, his voice was ragged. “Yeah. All of you. Everything you want to give me, your hole and your cock and the way you say my name…I love the way you just dive right in, you don’t hold back, you just give and give and offer up all of yourself, and you’re so fucking incredible, Leo. You just let me—you want me to see you.”

“Very much,” Leo murmured hazily, “right now…”

Sam laughed again, though the sound had an odd catch in the middle. Leo couldn’t think enough to figure out what that’d been. “Quick, we said. And you like it a little rough, you like finding out what you can feel, so…harder. Faster. I’m making you come, you got that, baby? No stopping, no slowing down, just my hand on that sweet hard cock, rubbing you all over, and there’s nothing you can do about it, you’re gonna come for me, with my hand wrapped around your cock and my fingers teasing that pretty pink hole…”

Leo outright sobbed, writhing dazedly atop his bed. His hand, Sam’s hand, worked his cock: harder, as Sam had said, and faster, up and down as his hips rose and fell; so much, so much it almost hurt, his whole length over-sensitive and feeling raw and laid-bare now, and yet he couldn’t stop caressing himself, over and over…and his fingers were stroking his hole as well, teasing and tantalizing, and he was moaning and crying and whimpering and dissolving into incoherent white heat all over…

“Keep going,” Sam told him. “More. I want to hear you scream for me, Leo. I want to hear you come.”

“Oh God—” He couldn’t stop moving, and he couldn’t stop the coiling billowing rush, the wave of diamonds that swept up and crashed outward, sharp and wild and deliriously bright, and he was coming, crying Sam’s name, crying out, sobbing and shaking and spurting all over himself, shuddering in mindless emptied-out bliss.

He lay limp after, trembling, twitching occasionally; his cock throbbed, a wondrous soreness where his hand lay slack around the shaft. He couldn’t move, and didn’t want to.

“Leo,” Sam was saying, somewhat urgently. “Leo? Talk to me. Please.”

“Mmm….”

“Oh thank God. Starting to think I’d—never mind. Are you okay? Can you wake up for me?”

“No,” Leo said, collapsed across his bed with every atom thrumming in utter satisfaction. The end of his tea cheered him on; it did not mind getting cold in the name of this very good cause. The orange of his pajama trousers glowed giddily in a heap of discarded color. “This is me asleep. You thought you’d what? Accidentally killed me with phone sex?”

Sam snorted, relief under humor. “No. But…I wish I was there. You got all quiet on me.”

“That does tend to happen when one’s overwhelmed by orgasms.”

“Overwhelming, huh?”

“Marvelous.” Leo beamed up at his ceiling. It applauded his display. “Spectacular. Resplendent. You’re so very good at fucking me with my own hand. Your hand. Did you know I’m getting on a plane tomorrow night?”

“I did,” Sam agreed gravely. “Did you know that means you’ll be here? With me?”

“Astonishing. Imagine that.”

“We can overwhelm you some more in person. How’re you feeling? Warm enough?”

Leo lifted a sticky hand, wobbled it, pretended Sam could see him. The flush of climax had receded; his drying skin was a bit chilly. “Ah…”

“Leo,” Sam said patiently, “we’re taking care of you. Aftercare’s important. You being comfortable is important. Do you feel like you need to shower, or just clean up and get warm?”

“Ah…the latter. It’s late and I’m tired. Will you—should you get back to helping with books?”

“I’m not leaving you.” Sam’s voice settled firm and incontrovertible into Leo’s ears and chest and stomach. “I’ll stay right here, okay?”

“Okay,” Leo echoed, more quietly than he’d meant to. Felt good somehow. Like contentment.

He cleaned himself up and got dressed and sipped tea. He put on fuzzy socks in shaggy aquatic teal because Sam told him to stay warm. He finished the tea with Sam’s voice beside him, and he went and brushed teeth and got ready for bed with Sam beside him, with Sam gently asking questions about his comfort and offering guidance and suggestions.

Leo, basking in the suggestions and the nudges and the care, began to feel a bit odd: not arousal, or at least not a bright quick leaping sort of arousal. More a pink and fluffy diffuse cloud, expanding and floating around in his head. Drowsy, like morning roses, and calming as steam from a cup of tea.

He nestled into his bed and told Sam that he felt very warm and very flowery, and Sam laughed and asked what sort of flowers. Leo said, “Roses, of course, the big floppy cheerful kind, I’ve always liked them,” and yawned. “I’m so very well taken care of.”

“You sound like it. Rest, okay? Text me when you wake up.”

“I promise. Will you be doing something for yourself later? At your hotel? Will you let me know?”

“I might,” Sam said. “I’ll tell you if I do. Thinking of you.”

“Mmm. Kinky. I’m your fantasy. Let me know what fantasy me does so I can try to recreate it in person.”

“You in person is my fantasy,” Sam said. “Nothing too kinky, just you. The way you feel. The way you look when you come, when I get you to come for me. Maybe a little kinky. Might try spanking you. You like sensation.”

“Now you definitely have to tell me everything you’re imagining!”

“Go to sleep, Leo.”

“I am .”

“Are you?”

“I am now.”

“You’re still talking.”

“There is that small detail.”

“Go on,” Sam said, tender and assertive, “you need to rest, okay? I’ll be here when you get here. I’ll be here.”

“I know,” Leo said, “go have fun with Colby and Jason and the strawberry tarts, I’m going to sleep, I know you’re here, good night,” and hung up on Sam’s amused sound, and wiggled toasty toes under blankets and sock-fuzz.

He sent a heart. Because he could; because he meant it.

Sam sent a heart back, plus, Go to sleep, Leo!

Leo sent over the blowing-a-kiss emoji, and set down the phone, and wriggled down into his pillows and blankets. The pillows were cool and plump and familiar, being his; he felt himself smiling, cheek pressed into the topmost. The blankets tucked anchoring weight around and atop him.

He thought of Sam, and of lovely lingering lassitude in his bones; he thought of his family, of his parents loving him and wanting to meet Sam, and of leftover crumble for a post-run morning snack. He thought of Sam getting on with Colby and Jason, and how good that was, how warm it felt. He thought of getting on a plane tomorrow, and the future unfolding.

He thought of being himself, openly and proudly and excitedly, the way he’d been with his parents. He thought of doing that at Sam’s side, in love, because he was and he knew he was.

Today had, he thought, been a good day. His pillows and toes, snug and cozy, agreed.