Chapter 2 Jason

Jason's agent called at two in the afternoon on a glorious early-autumn Sunday, Los Angeles bathed in gold and orange and intimations of copper and bronze and leaves in the air, alongside sea-spray and waving palms. Jason, lying stretched out amid sailing-ship patterned sheets with Colby draped across him, chose not to answer.

"Is that Susan," Colby murmured into his collarbone, not moving. Jason had thoroughly worn him out, though to be fair Colby had been an active participant.

All of Jason's muscles, recalling recent exertions, hummed with satisfaction. Colby atop him, riding him, a slim shape of huge blue eyes and tumbled hair and gasping babbling ecstasy, awash with pure pleasure: yes. So much yes.

He had an arm plopped across Colby's back, and his face tipped to rest a cheek in Colby's hair. So much hair, and distractingly blond, at the moment, though that was fading. Jason had had to process that look for a while—he was used to Colby's usual cocoa-dark fluffy waves, and this had been dramatically not that, a bleach-blond attention-grabbing look for the 1970s glam rock musical film they'd been working on.

He'd kind of liked it, he'd decided. Made Colby more otherworldly, magical, elfin, with that sapphire gaze and pointed chin and long graceful body.

He liked Colby being himself, too, though. He knew how hard Colby'd fought for that; he loved being allowed to see it, to be here.

He traced fingers idly over Colby's back, through a hint of drying sweat. "Kinda busy. No phone calls."

"It might be important…"

"You're important." Inarguable. A fact. Colby Kent, Hollywood mega-star and romantic-comedy darling, the world's favorite wide-eyed sweetheart gay celebrity, had smiled at Jason during an audition, and on a film set. Had lit up his entire world.

Him. Jason Mirelli, star of action-hero franchises and B-movie thrillers. Former stuntman who'd tried to have an acting career. Quietly bisexual, not really hiding it but not having dated anyone much lately, either. Getting tired. Pushing forty, with a once-broken nose and knees that complained in the mornings.

Colby had believed in him. Had given him the role of a lifetime, in the historical—and eventually award-winning—romantic gay drama that'd paired them up. A love story, and a happy ending. On screen, and then off. Together, entwined.

Jason sometimes still secretly thought his life might be a dream. He didn't want to wake up, if so.

"Mmm." Colby yawned, boneless and languid. "You're a wonderful pillow. Nice and firm and warm…"

"You do like things that're nice and firm and warm."

"I do, and I like you, so that's all good, then."

Jason's phone rang again. Susan. Again.

"Should you…" Colby shoved his face more deeply into Jason's chest. "But then I'd have to move…"

"How're you feeling?"

"Wrung out. In a splendid way." That'd been round four of the day, in fact. Jason was kind of surprised Colby was awake, given his own best efforts, but then mere mortal exhaustion would never stop Colby from finding words.

Proving that point, Colby added, "Perhaps a bit tired in, er, certain places…but happy about it. You know how much I like feeling it, after. Feeling you." His voice was wrung out and happy too, a lazy tangle of accents: mostly very upper-class English, from having spent early and also later formative decades there, but woven through with ribbons of other countries from all the diplomat's-child travel and his father's postings: Parisian lights, German pastries, warm American familiarity.

He'd been emphasizing the Englishness for the early-days-of-glam-rock role, lately, but he wasn't bothering right now. Tired, apparently. Good.

"Mine," Jason told him, but lightly; and stroked his hair. Colby was his, and they both liked that: Colby had always loved feeling wanted, claimed, chosen by someone. Submissive, maybe not in a super-formal scenes-and-protocols sense, but aching to belong to someone who'd accept that gift. Who'd be kind.

Colby had never felt loved, had never felt good enough to be loved, Jason knew. If he thought too much about why—about Colby's childhood, about the parents who hadn't deserved to be called parents at all, about the string of awful and cruel and outright vicious ex-boyfriends—he ended up wanting to punch something or someone. Which was the opposite of what Colby needed, and he knew that too.

Anchors. Promises made and kept. Gentleness, even in claiming and taking and protecting. Strength put to work healing, guarding, loving. Never pain. Colby'd had too much of that.

Jason wanted to hold him forever. To be his guardian, forever. To let Colby save him in turn, because Colby did that too: right there at his side telling him that he could do anything, he deserved those award nominations, he was exactly the person those big blue eyes loved and wanted and trusted. That he also deserved that love and want and trust, forever.

His phone went off a third time, over on the nightstand. He groaned.

Colby exhaled, the breath a kiss against Jason's skin.

Jason grumbled, "No…"

"She keeps trying…I'd hate to not answer, if it's something you should respond to…"

"Fine." He stuck out an arm. Flailed. Grabbed electronic nosiness. "Hello?"

"Were you two still in bed? Never mind, I don't want to know. Check your email, finally."

"Um." Jason found Colby's laptop—it'd been on the nightstand too; Colby sometimes did some writing in bed—and found his own email. Colby cuddled up next to him, under his left arm; both of them were comfortable that way. The sheets nudged his feet with designs of sails and ships and waves, from the heap they'd been kicked into. "Okay…"

"If you don't want to do it, that's fine, it's just GourmetTV, a holiday baking thing, but they reached out and we like this new cozy domestic version of you, so it might be a good idea."

"I'm still opening it! Oh. Huh." He wasn't sure what he'd been expecting. Hadn't been an invitation to come and be a guest judge. On a holiday baking competition. On television.

"Yeah, you don't have to, but they know your mom's a chef, and they're all harmless over there, and it can't hurt. Lighthearted family-friendly seasonal fun, and all that."

"Oh, it's for the Holiday Baking Showdown!" Colby had been reading along. "I've got some marvelous inspiration from that, for recipes! I love it. I watch it every year. Hi, Susan."

"Hi, kid." Susan liked Colby; he'd been good for Jason, she said, both professionally and personally. Jason thought that his agent was sometimes too cynical, but also she was right and he knew it.

Colby was good for him. In every single way.

"Hmm." Colby reread the email. Ran a hand through his own hair, absently. The platinum blond was growing out; he'd contemplated dyeing it back to brown to get that over with, but hadn't done it yet. The lighter strands fell like cornsilk over his fingers.

Jason watched the gesture. Felt the usual throb—lust, love, adoration, pure glee—somewhere in his gut, his heart, his soul. All Colby's, as ever.

"Do you think…" Colby looked up. "Would you mind, would they mind, if I came along with you? Two for one, as it were."

Jason turned to look at him. Sunshine slid across Colby's face, and swirled through his hair—nearly the same shade, at the moment—and painted one cheekbone with gold. Colby also did a tiny eyebrow-shrug—what, you thought I wouldn't want to?—and grinned at him.

Jason wanted to see that grin every afternoon. Every day.

"Oooh," Susan said, over the phone. "You know they wouldn't mind. Colby Kent, on a baking show? The world would eat it up, pun intended. You baking cupcakes for that entire production is, like, an industry legend. But, look, kid, a couple things…first, I'm not your agent, so you should probably get in touch yourself. Second…you don't do a ton of public appearances; you sure you want to do this one? It's not exactly high profile."

"I know," Colby agreed. "I would like to, though."

"Colby," Jason said, kind of quietly because he was still caught up in that grin.

"Well," Susan observed, "I'll let you two talk it over. They don't need an answer immediately, but by the end of the week would be great. Let me know, okay? Bye, kid, take care of him for me!"

"Will do!"

Jason set phone and laptop down, after, a more complicated maneuver than usual because he didn't want to dislodge Colby from under his arm. Still, he'd been an action star for years and a stunt guy before that; he could be flexible. "Babe?"

"Yes, love?" Colby wriggled out from under Jason's arm, rendering that effort moot, but arranged himself across Jason's lap instead, head pillowed on Jason's thigh, gazing up; so that was just as good. "Go on. Ask me."

Jason wove fingers through his hair, petting pale strands as they darkened to brown. "You know what you're feeling up to." It was a question, and also a statement; he trusted Colby.

"I do, and I am up to it, thank you." Colby smiled up at him. "In any case it makes logical sense. I love the show and I love baking, which you know. You'll be there, so you can hold onto me if I start to feel less than balanced. And—"

"Damn right."

"Yes, and it's much appreciated. My hero." Colby turned his head enough to kiss Jason's stomach. "And I'd like to go out in public more—that is, well, I'm always going to be, er, me, and you know I'm not precisely an extrovert—"

"I know." Not in any way. Not at all.

Colby could fake it well—and did, or had, once upon a time—but Jason had also seen him after press rounds and interviews and red-carpet premieres. Colby gave and gave, energy poured out into ensuring that everyone who met the legendarily sweet and adorable and adorably talkative Colby Kent went away beaming and happy. He only afterward curled wearily into Jason's arms, pale and drained and worryingly quiet for someone who could out-chatter a raincloud.

"But I used to be better than this. I don't know that I'll get there again—I really can't do crowds or big parties, I think, any longer—but I want to not dread every venture into public spaces, as it were."

"Do you?" He hadn't realized it was still that bad. Dread? Horror? Ugly memories to fight off, old bruises to battle? Should he, Jason, be doing more? More protective muscles employed?

"Oh…yes, no, somewhere in between." Colby waved a hand, let it fall against Jason's arm, curled fingers against Jason's bicep. "It's easier with you. I'm…you keep me here. Remembering that it's you and me, here and now, and I'm not alone. And if I see someone…or breathe his cologne, even coincidentally…I can breathe out, too, if I'm holding your hand. And I'm all right. But I don't want to end up in the habit of hiding unless I've got you. I want to be able to go to a bookshop or an awards show evening without falling apart if someone taps me on the shoulder. I think perhaps a small televised baking competition—two days of playing guest judge, then going home—would be a good start."

"There'll be people you don't know."

"And people I recognize. I did tell you I'm a fan."

"You really want to, don't you?"

"I do." Colby blushed, pink across fair skin. "I could meet Marcus LeGrand. And ask him about his tiramisu layers. Or ramble endlessly and trip over my own tongue, knowing me, but still. I'd love to try."

Jason played with his hair some more. Soft and tempting, and pretty, the way Colby was pretty; but resilient, too. Strong, looped around his own callused finger. Stubbornly returning to rich dark chocolate, after the dye job. Being itself again, with conviction. "You know, I like baking. And holidays."

"I love your chocolate-orange spice cakes?"

"I think," Jason said, "it kinda sounds like fun, me and you together on a baking show," and bent to kiss him. Colby sat up to meet him, so they met halfway, amid sunshine, laughing.