Chapter 4

Their living room lights had an automatic setting, and were on when he and Colby came in; the low amber and occasional blue-green stained-glass flecks beckoned worn-out bodies into welcome. The tall shapes of the bookshelves stretched out worried arms, fantasies of dragons and warrior-queens and steampunk werewolf romance offering distractions, recognitions, long-known refuges of story. Their wedding photo, the gorgeous one taken out on a historic balcony at sunset by their friend—and Steadfast co-star—Leo's boyfriend Sam, glowed with joy.

Colby dropped keys in their small dragon's-egg metal bowl, kicked off his boots, shed his jacket and tossed it at the closest chair, where it landed in a splash of teal. Jason stood there watching him, not thinking much, phone in one hand because he'd been holding onto it in case Allie texted.

Colby took it from his unresisting grip and put it into a cardigan pocket. "Here, let me help with that."

Jason lifted both arms. Let Colby remove his jacket. Noticed that Colby actually hung it up on a hook, unlike his own. Couldn't quite work out how to mention that.

"Yes, I caught that, sorry." Colby waved a hand. "I forgot. Apologies again. And then I remembered about yours, because you always do. I'll get mine later. Shoes?"

"Huh?"

Colby gave him a small affectionate head-tip, a sideways smile; and then got down on the floor in their entryway, long legs folded up, and untied Jason's left shoe and tugged.

"Oh," Jason said. "Um…okay?" He hadn't expected that, and he wasn't sure he had the energy to be good at issuing dominant commands for Colby's willing submission tonight, but if Colby wanted…something…he could try. "You know I'm not asking you for, um…"

Colby blinked up at him, setting Jason's shoe aside. "Oh! Sorry, no. Not what I meant. Simply trying to help." Sitting back on his heels, on the floor, he looked younger and very earnest: hair fluffed up more on one side than the other, violet sweater-sleeves shoved up, eyes big and sincere.

"Oh," Jason said again. "Right. Sorry." His brain wasn't working well. "Also, um, even if we're not…if you didn't want, like…but, um, usual order. Standing one. You not apologizing for shit that doesn't need it. That was like three, and you don't have to."

"Oh, well. Spank me later. Not tomorrow, I mean, later. Sometime." Colby had finished with Jason's other shoe, and set it down tidily by its mate. He got back up, after—Jason put out a helping hand instinctively, which Colby accepted—and added, "We do have lemons and brandy, which your grandmother suggested, and I do make an excellent hot toddy, but I think for now probably sleep is the best option, don't you? Knitting up raveled sleeves of care, the balm of hurt, and all that. Come here?"

Jason came, because Colby being sweetly decisive and tenderly imperious was inarguable. Inevitable as love, as the way his heart responded. Blue and gold as hand-blown treasure-trove glass.

Colby took him off to their bedroom, steps matching, house and footfalls quiet. The midnight world pooled distant, hazy, haloed with aftermath and reprieve. Adrenaline fading to rest.

He watched Colby's hands, slim and long-fingered and good at fencing and writing and kneading bread dough and caressing Jason's body. Colby's fingers were mesmerizing, as they flipped on bedroom lights, connected phones to chargers, peeled off clothing, rubbed Jason's shoulders briefly before lifting his shirt up and off.

Jason vaguely thought that he should be doing more. Taking some sort of action. Asking whether Colby was okay, in need of comfort, thinking about families and old wounds. He knew Colby had never known anything like the riotous whirlwind of love and exuberance that defined a Mirelli gathering, and the contrast could at times be staggeringly stark.

He couldn't work out how to ask. Strings cut. Joints and limbs flopping loose. Defined next steps all taken now, and nothing left to focus on.

Colby was standing in front of him, and leaned in, meeting Jason's eyes. Colby's own were very blue and very certain, and full of love; and he smiled a fraction and put a hand into Jason's hair and brought their lips together, lightly, a feather of a kiss.

Jason shut his eyes. The tears were back, for no good reason. They seared his eyelids.

Colby knelt, unhurried and undramatic about it, and undid Jason's jeans, and eased them down. Jason wobbled a fraction, literally and metaphorically. "Babe…"

"Shh." Colby kissed his thigh, not a flirtation but a comfort; he hadn't bothered removing Jason's boxers. "I've got this. And you. I've got you."

Jason let a hand fall, let it rest atop Colby's head. Those pretty eyes were confident, looking up at him. Colby's hair under his palm and fingers was a fluffy steadying luxury, cocoa strands ruffling beneath his touch. "…okay."

"Yes," Colby said again, and got back up, and tossed his own clothing accurately at the hamper, down to silky sunset-mauve underwear now. He was beautiful, of course, and Jason's cock gave a valiant twitch; but Colby only smiled more and guided him down into bed and turned off the light and checked on both their alarms, and then tugged until Jason ended up in his arms, head on Colby's shoulder.

The dark surrounded them, pewter and indigo, velvet and satin.

Colby's body was capable and welcoming and recognizable, every line and plane and shape Jason knew so well. He'd left his wedding ring on—so had Jason—and the gold of it lay against Jason's skin, as Colby rubbed his back. Jason put an arm around his waist, holding on.

Colby kissed the top of his head. And then leaned their heads together, with a wordless soothing murmur.

"Colby," Jason said, except it came out half-cracking over a breath, a choke of emotion.

"I'm here." Colby held him more tightly. "I'm right here. And you're here, and your father's home and doing well, and you've taken care of everything so well. It's all gone right, it's splendid, you've done enough. You've been enough, love. You are enough. My Jason. So much love."

Jason wasn't crying, and wasn't exactly shaking with reaction—his entire body had cuddled up to Colby and was busy clinging—but he couldn't talk.

"We're all all right." Colby's hand stroked his back again, slow and lulling. "We're here, we've got a plan for tomorrow, and for next week, and for all the upcoming physical therapy appointments. You're so very good at plans, you know, and your mother told me how glad she was to have you handling that, so you know you've made her feel much better, very comforted, with that. As you do for us all, so marvelously."

"I want to," Jason protested. "I can…I should…I want to help." But Colby's words lay like bandages across his soul, every storybook syllable in that fairytale voice a loving stitch, lacing him back together.

A salve, rich as honey. True as the weight of Colby's hand on him. Real as the heartbeat he could feel in Colby's chest.

"I know you do." Colby held him even closer. Neither of them mentioned older anguish, scars and grief and fear: Charlie's name, and the old gaping hole of that loss, during that stunt gone wrong. Or the years-ago horror that'd ended Jason's father's stunt-driving career, that'd eventually led to this moment, as relatively routine as this round had been.

Or the terror of Colby, on location on another movie set, falling from a cliff. Crumpled and bleeding in a stream.

Jason still wanted to walk a set, before filming. He wanted to know a location, to test props, safety, rigging. To speak to the crew, the prop masters, the stunt teams. He thought he might always need that.

Colby came with him, most days, whenever possible. At his side.

"You do help," Colby said now, adamant, an answer. His voice stayed low, but bright with conviction. "It's who you are. The way you love. And we're all so very well taken care of. Your family, me, everyone you've ever met…you're here for us. So let us, let me, be here for you now. You can rest, I promise. I'll keep everything safe for you, while you do."

Jason whispered, "I love you." It was all he could manage, and not enough for everything he felt.

But Colby would understand. Those blue eyes always did.

That was another truth. He knew it in his soul.

The tiredness kicked harder, with implacable boots. Their bed formed a cocoon of comfort in heavy sheets and blankets, bulwarks against any cold.

They both had their phones, and his father was doing fine. They had a plan for the next day, and the days after. Everything and everyone was all right, for now.

He let himself feel that, fall into it, believe it.

Sleep plucked at his eyes, at his fingers and toes. The night lay hushed as stars in velvet, peaceful as a tidied-up suitcase, outlined in well-known shapes and textures.

He trusted Colby. Colby would wake him if something happened. And nothing would, probably; everything was routine, his father had even felt up to checking email, his mother had told them to go home…Allie was there, and Colby was here, and Colby also seemed to be doing okay, more than okay…beautiful and wonderful and competent and holding him…

"I love you, as well." Colby kept him close, kept him surrounded. "So much, Jason. All of me, all of you."

"I mean…y'know…I really love you. Really."

"I know. I really love you, too. Go to sleep, love. Rest."

"You too."

"I will. With you." Colby resettled his head against Jason's. "Sleep with me. And we'll be awake and ready for your family in the morning."

"Okay," Jason agreed, and let himself slide into beckoning clouds, because Colby was there to anchor him.

* * * *

He woke to an absence of warmth, though the blankets and sheets were thick and snug. A Colby-shaped space lay beside him, no sleeping chocolate hair, no drowsy ocean-wave eyes. Jason's heart stuttered, flinching from the emptiness even before it'd fully come awake—

But heat lingered. The scent of coffee, rich and dark and sweet, swirled through the morning. Colby's voice, light and low and also warm and sweet, was saying something from out in the hall, sound moving closer.

He'd slept later than he'd meant. The morning was serene and shimmer-grey, but definitely past the time he'd set his alarm. Colby wouldn't've shut it off without telling him—Colby would never interfere, not like that—so he must've done it himself. He did have a fuzzy memory of waking up, announcing that they were going to get up, silencing the noise, and…

And obviously falling right back to sleep. And Colby, who wouldn't actively turn off something Jason had turned on, would absolutely decide to let him sleep if that seemed necessary.

Maybe it had been. He felt better. Energy recovered. More clearheaded. Aside from the empty spot beside him.

When he moved his hand, paper crinkled. Torn from Colby's current late-night-ideas nightstand notebook, it explained, in swooping nineteenth-century script, Your sister called to check in, it's not urgent, I'll wake you if need be, but I wanted to let you sleep! Love you!

Colby had used the same handwriting he'd practiced for his role as Will Crawford, on the film sets and soundstages where they'd met. He'd also used indigo ink, the hue of midnight plums and whispering velvet and autumn decadence.

Jason touched the note, ran a fingertip over it. Felt all the layers, all the love.

He was sitting up, having checked his phone, still holding Colby's note, when the bedroom door swung wider and his husband came in. Colby stopped to take in the fact of Jason being up, and protested, "I didn't want to wake you, I was coming right back!" His hair stood up and out in glorious unbrushed waves, and he was wearing his own pajama pants but one of Jason's shirts, long-sleeved but with the sleeves shoved up, with the tumbling-gears logo of the shop that'd made their antique bronze astrolabe decorating one arm. He was barefoot, toes exposed against the floor.

"Come here." Jason held out both arms. "Everything okay?"

"All under control." Colby, accompanied by the world's largest coffee—Leo had bought the mug for him as a joke, or possibly not—curled fluidly back into Jason's arms and the blankets. His arm felt cold; Jason tried to rub some heat into his skin, and made sure Colby's toes were covered up.

"That's nice, thank you, you're wonderful." Colby settled in against him. "Here, coffee, it's supposedly blueberry and ginger, it's for both of us. Oh, wait, phone…" It was in his pocket, and he pulled it out, looked at it, set it on the bed. And yawned, and did a small nose-scrunch at himself after. "Your sister called with a bit of an update. Your father's doing well, he's up and awake and says we don't need to rush over. Allie simply wanted to let us know your aunt's flight's been canceled, out of Vancouver. The weather. That's all."

"Oh." Jason exhaled, rubbed his face into Colby's hair for a second—he liked the feel of it, fluffy as sunlight—and accepted some of Colby's coffee-fishbowl. "Um…okay. We can find another flight and get her on it—there must be a—"

"Taken care of." Colby stretched slightly against him, a satisfied long-legged kitten at rest. "I made a few other calls. She'll be here this afternoon. And then your uncle Joey and his wife Liza and your uncle Bobby, you know, the ones in New York, are arriving Friday. And some of your cousins later on. Your mother thought we should spread out the visitors, but of course all of your family would like to be here. So we've worked that out."

Jason absorbed that statement. Turned it around in his head. "When you say you made some calls, you mean you actually made some calls, don't you?"

Private jets. Hotel rooms. Travel and travel costs. Coordination. His family's enthusiasm about showing up and helping each other out and talking over each other, often at impressive volumes. All worked out, evidently.

He eyed his husband some more.

Colby lifted a shoulder, let it drop. "Something along those lines. The only real use for it all is to help people, isn't it?"

Jason contemplated that, across coffee. Sometimes he forgot, or didn't exactly forget but didn't think about, the fact that Colby came from not only money but power and prestige. They both had money, as successful actors—Colby more so, at least in terms of the movie industry A-list, but Jason's family had that long and lucrative pedigree of stunt work, stunt driving, action choreography—and so that part hadn't been an issue.

But it wasn't just the money. It was Colby's mother visiting literal palaces and having tea with royalty, and Colby's father busy amid American presidential inner circles and political maneuverings, and a network of elite upper-class connections that existed light-years past even Hollywood glitter.

Colby barely spoke to his mother, which made life easier for everyone involved. He was on polite, not close, terms with his father, these days. Jason knew all that, too. He knew most of those stories by now.

He wished he could give Colby his own loving rambunctious childhood, full of heroic novels and car engines and afternoons helping his mother test new recipes. He wanted to shove all that into the empty hollow spaces of Lydia Sable-Kent's icy disapproval of everything her son had grown up to be, and Howard Kent's jovial performance of affection for the cameras and the political advantages. He wanted to run back in time and be Colby's friend, to bring him books and unicorn stickers and pens, during the days or weeks when Howard and Lydia left for receptions or parties or month-long vacations and forgot they'd ever had an inconvenient son.

He knew that Colby didn't like leaning on the privilege, or asking for help in general, at least not on his own behalf. No causing a fuss. Nothing that'd earn disapproval, that'd mean Colby hadn't been good enough.

But Colby would ask on behalf of someone else, the second someone needed assistance. No hesitation.

He said, voice rough with that knowledge, "Thank you."

"Oh, well. All I did was make a few inquiries, a suggestion or two, and other people did the difficult bits." Colby shrugged again, waving it away. "I let your mother tell me what she wanted as far as scheduling and visitors. How're you? I didn't want to disturb you, since you looked so comfortable, but I didn't want you to worry, so I left a note."

"Found it." He waved it for emphasis. Set it back down, so he could put both arms back around his husband. "Thanks."

"I'll write you all the morning notes, if you liked that. Good practice."

"Tell me when you want more fun ink to play with. Teal? Or that burnt orange one? Or new pens."

"I do need some new pointed nibs, in fact. The smallest size." Colby had a sip of coffee. "Not immediately, however. I was considering breakfast, though I wasn't sure what time you'd be awake; I could throw together my pear-brandy French toast. And those egg and pepper sandwiches you like. Unless you'd like something else?"

"I could—"

"I want to, and you like my cooking. Besides…" Colby's eyes were serious as wedding vows. "I rather think it's still my turn on watch, don't you? Holding the shields up, for a bit. While you take a breath or two."

Jason opened his mouth. Closed it. Sun streaked their bedroom floor, blooming gold.

"Every knight needs that, sometimes," Colby added. "Even the world's best champion. You can give Allie a call for yourself—I know you want to—and I'll go and get breakfast started, shall I?"

"Colby," Jason said, and ran a hand over his husband's hair, touching, caressing. His hand shook a little. "God."

"Not quite, but I do try to make you happy." Colby set the ocean of coffee down on the closest bedside table, shifted position, swung a leg across Jason's lap. Cupped Jason's face in both hands, and drew him in.

The kiss was deep and full, heated though not demanding. Colby claimed Jason's mouth with assertion, affirmation, as if proving a point: Jason was his to care for, at the moment. He wasn't forceful about it—at least, not the same way he liked from Jason—but he left no room for doubt, with licks and strokes of tongue, nibbles at Jason's lip, hands cradling Jason's head.

Jason's head spun. Colby in his lap, kissing him like that…God, yes, yes, Colby wanting this and wanting him and being confident about it, taking the lead…Colby taking him, taking over and taking charge, so that Jason didn't have to think or plan or do anything except be loved…

It wasn't their usual. But it was exactly, perfectly, right. It was everything he needed, everything Colby had just told him he could have.

A moment to set weight down, to breathe. To simply be, and trust his husband.

With that thought, eyes shut, being kissed by Colby, he felt himself shiver with arousal. Felt the throb of want go through him, gut and heart and soul and cock and everyplace.

Last night he'd been too tired for anything. Right now, shooting up like a comet, white-hot need bolted along his spine.

Colby paused, lips nuzzling the corner of Jason's mouth. "Would you like something, love?" Straddling Jason's lap, he must've noticed.

Jason had both arms around him now, a protective circle for them both. Colby felt so damn good atop him. "Yeah. I mean, if you want."

"Oh yes. I had a few possibilities under consideration—"

"You did?"

"Depending on what you'd feel up to, and I think perhaps breakfast can wait, given the…situation currently arising." Colby's eyes danced. "As it were."

Jason lifted both eyebrows at him. "What'd you have in mind?"

Colby sparkled at him. "Plans."

"Not exactly specific, babe."

"True. But you trust me."

"Well, yeah."

"Splendid. Then you can lie back, relax…and let me take care of everything. By which I mean you." Colby ran fingertips up along Jason's chest to underscore the point. He even rubbed a thumb across Jason's nipple, which Jason hadn't been expecting, which made his breath catch.

Colby did sometimes explore his body, appreciative, more and more comfortable with Jason's muscles and power. But that was usually shyer, curious, hopeful. Not this lightly assertive easy touching.

Colby found Jason's nipple again, so that'd definitely been on purpose. And played with it, testing reactions. Jason's weren't as sensitive as Colby's, but the caresses still felt good, and Colby's fingers had clearly learned a few things from observing him. Jason's dick pulsed, hot and full in his boxers.

"I did mean that, you know. Lie down for me." Colby slid fluidly off his lap, making room. "And I think I'd like you naked."

Jason, now sprawled out across the bed, went to wriggle his boxers down. A touch of Colby's fingertips made him pause.

"I can do that," Colby decided. "Just lift your hips, but that's all, please."

Orders. In that fairytale voice. Jesus. Jason immediately did as requested, while Colby stripped him of his boxers and tossed them someplace, probably not at all near a hamper, which did not matter in the least right this second.

He lay there naked and hard and on display for Colby, in their bed, while his husband settled beside him. While Colby ran a hand over him, slow and gradual, shoulder and chest and stomach and hip. Soothing, that touch. Deliberate. And also maddening.

"Shh." Colby bent to kiss his stomach, lips warm against Jason's skin. He was still dressed, and something about that—Colby fully clothed, wearing Jason's shirt, casually petting him while Jason quivered for his touch—bolted gold and quick through Jason's thoughts, and stayed there, molten.

"I love you," Colby murmured, and then petted him again, long lazy caresses, over and over. Jason said, kind of desperately, "Colby…" He heard his voice with surprise: raw with need, ragged with it. So much, not enough, craving more…

"Yes, I know." Colby set a finger on the tip of Jason's leaking cock, right over the wet slit and the swollen head. "I promised I'd take care of everything. Don't worry, all right, love? I've got you. I'm here to keep you safe."

"Jesus," Jason said, panting, dizzy. Colby was beautiful, so beautiful, an artwork, a classical sculpture, but not cool or polished marble at all. Warm and desire-flushed, all pink cheeks and blue eyes and messy hair and the tantalizing freckle near his collarbone. "You…you want me to, um…talk to you, or…?" Colby did like being given directions.

"Only if you feel like it." Colby squirmed lower in the tangle of sheets, kicking them further down. He kissed Jason's hip this time, then considered the spot, and did it again, but harder. Enough to make Jason gasp, and then moan, because Jesus Christ he was going to have the mark of Colby's mouth on his hip, on his skin, Colby wanting him and claiming him and making his body shudder with sensation.

Breathless, he tipped his head to watch. Colby tiptoed fingers along Jason's inner thigh, and then up: just barely brushing his balls.

Jason outright whimpered. Unashamed.

Colby laughed. "You do want me, don't you? So very much. My poor hero."

"Jesus fucking Christ, Colby," Jason begged.

"Shh," Colby said again, "I've got this, I've got you, love, just let me make you feel good," and then he bent and licked Jason's cock, one long swipe, and then he took Jason's length into his mouth, most of the way in a single glide.

Jason made a noise he'd never known he could make, desperation and relief colliding. Colby paused, adjusted the angle slightly—hand on the base of Jason's cock, lips and tongue caressing his shaft—and then took him all in.

All of him. Sinking into sweet wet heat. The plushness of Colby's mouth. God, so good—and he knew Colby liked that, liked being filled up with him—Colby's eyes were shining, under a fall of dark hair—

God, he was going to come. So fast, embarrassingly fast, with Colby's mouth on him and Colby's hand fondling his balls and Colby's other hand on his hip, holding him, because Colby was making him feel good, giving him exactly what he needed, as promised—taking care of him—

He felt his body tighten, felt his hips lift, felt the edge of it—

Colby pulled up and off, and smiled at him.

Jason swore out loud, aching, needing, pleading.

"My Jason," Colby said, very softly, fingers caressing him. "Mine to protect. To care for. Would you like me inside you, love?" It was a question, not an order—Colby might be in charge right now, but didn't think in terms of command—but it was heartfelt and sincere.

Jason whispered, "Yes," still trembling from the near-release, collapsed against the bed, naked and exposed as Colby smiled at him. He felt opened up and laid bare. And completely, entirely, loved.

Colby kissed the tip of Jason's dick, apparently just to show appreciation; he licked his lips after, and then lost all his clothing and dove into a bedside drawer to find lube, with whirlwind enthusiasm.

Jason lay there watching him: long limbs, the unaware unstudied grace that made audiences sigh and adore and fall in love, the occasional scattered freckles over English-pale skin. Colby was so damn gorgeous. Like calligraphy. Like raindrops, giddy and leaping.

Colby's fingers were more practiced than they'd been once upon a time, slick and skillful at opening Jason up. Jason tipped his head up to watch, as best he could.

Colby blushed. But didn't stop. "You like looking at me, don't you?"

"Always. I—oh fuck—um, yeah. Like that. You."

Colby promptly did that particular thing again. Jason just moaned this time, legs spreading more, back arching. So good, everywhere: his body, where Colby was stroking him deep inside, and also the way he was Colby's, like this: opened up and awash with need, feeling all of Colby's attention given over to him.

He forgot how to talk, very literally, as Colby caressed him and teased him and got him ready. His dick was so hard it hurt, rigid and hot and dripping against his stomach. He was pretty sure he was going to come in an embarrassingly immediate amount of time, as soon as Colby pushed inside him, and he couldn't even manage to care, because everything felt so damn incredible.

He tried to say as much, panting. Colby laughed, bent down, and kissed his stomach, just above the sticky evidence of Jason's need. "Then I'm doing this right."

"So right. So fucking right. Oh God."

"I like the way you feel," Colby observed. "And the way you look…knowing that I've made you feel this good…oh, yes, this is fun."

"I'm so glad you're having—"

Colby's fingers moved, stroked, thrust inside him. Jason lost all the words in the universe, shuddering, tightening around the penetration and that spot. Colby tossed him a smile: pure mischief. "Entirely fun."

"Please," Jason said, "Jesus, Colby, please—"

"Oh, of course—"

Those wicked wonderful fingers withdrew. Jason's body, empty, quivered; but Colby was moving between his spread thighs, bending to kiss him, over him and atop him and everywhere, sinking into him, a thick blunt weight pushing deep.

The stretch and fullness wasn't their usual but it was familiar, because Jason did enjoy the feeling, the sensation. He liked being in charge, but he'd also always liked a nice hard length filling him up in just the right places; and also he and Colby did switch on occasion, a little more often these days. A couple times he'd given Colby very specific orders, what to do, how to touch him, to slide one of their toys inside him so he could feel that too; and then he'd fucked Colby like that, hard and fast, while those blue eyes gazed wide-eyed up at him and took all the pounding thrusts with joy.

Right now it'd been a while, and he felt the stretch of it; he'd feel it later. But Colby had paid assiduous attention to getting him ready. And it was good, it was so good, every inch of Colby pressing into him, hot and hard and slick with lube. Fire slid through Jason's body; his hips jerked.

"I love you," Colby murmured, above him, one hand finding Jason's thigh, lifting a little—and thrusting hard, and deep, so deep, God, Jason could barely think—

Colby, position properly adjusted, wrapped those talented fingers around Jason's dripping cock. Began stroking him there too, finding rhythm. "Is that good for you, love? Oh—yes, that looks so good, so lovely…just let me make you feel good…I've got you, you don't need to worry about anything, just feel this, just feel it all for me, love…"

His hips rocked, cock pumping into Jason. The drag and thrust, the push, the rub of him right there—oh God, right there, that spot, that was—with Colby's hand caressing his shaft, his tip, messy and helpless and hurtling over the edge—

Jason heard himself groan, felt the pulses of his body; he was coming, God, he was coming, so much and so everywhere, white-hot throbs and waves of ecstasy. It swept through him, drawn-out and exquisite, bewildering, blinding, and he was shaking and spilling all over and spasming under and around Colby, and when he managed to gaze up through blurry rapture Colby's eyes were all he saw, sapphire-bright.

"My Jason," Colby told him. Jason said, "Yes," and reached up and clung to him, Colby's arms, shoulders, wherever he could reach, and begged, "You—go on, come in me, let me feel it, I want to feel you, I want you…"

Colby's breath skipped; his hips jerked, and the hardness of him pressed deep, thrust, pumped into Jason's slick clenching body. Coming just like that, openmouthed and abrupt, orgasm pouring out into Jason, deliriously hot and filthy and right.

Jason wrapped both arms and both legs around him. Tight and hard.

Colby's exhales kissed Jason's ear, the side of his face, his skin. "Oh…oh, Jason…"

Jason did not have any words yet. Only holding on. Feeling everything: the stretch, slipperiness, Colby's length softening inside him, Colby's weight atop him. All of him thrummed like a guitar-string: plucked and reverberating and ebbing into profound calm.

Colby propped himself up on a hand, or tried to. Jason cuddled him closer. Colby compromised by settling a hand on Jason's chest and resting his chin atop that, watching Jason's face. "That was…good heavens. I'm not sure I've ever felt…it's never felt quite like that before. In a good way, I mean, not that it's not always good, it's spectacular, this was simply a different kind of spectacular. Tell me I'm making some sort of sense, or don't, if you're not feeling up to talking just yet, if you want to stay here and simply hold me."

"I like talking to you. I love you talking." Jason smoothed a hand along Colby's back, marveling at it. "And yeah. That was…spectacular."

"Exactly." A curl of sunbeam slipped in at the exact angle to land in Colby's hair, a halo. "Very fun."

Jason—worn out, opened up, taken apart—started laughing. Mostly because of Colby's matchless line delivery, and because of the sunbeam, and the way the light filled him up like stained glass, colors transparent and weightless and everywhere.

"Yes," Colby said, with satisfaction, and kissed him: laughing lightly too. "Give me a moment to clean us up, and then I can do something about breakfast?"

* * * *

They ended up showering together, because Jason didn't want to stop touching his husband; Colby, he thought, agreed. So they kept touching each other. A lot.

Bodies together, under falling water and steam. Hips, thighs, shoulders. Colby's hair, dark against Jason's hands. Shampoo and soap, tropical fruits and flowers and woods. Jason's fingers caressing the length of Colby's spine, finding the other tantalizing freckle low at the crease of his hip, the one that flirted with visibility in extremely low-cut swimsuits or nineteen-seventies glam-rock leather pants. It was a temptation, one that was Jason's to explore.

Colby kissed him for that, and then took a sort of proprietary charge of washing Jason's back, and chest, and even legs, kneeling to do that with devoted attention. Jason ran a hand over his head, across wet waves: a question. Colby looked up, smiled—water-drops slid along his eyebrow—and then kissed Jason's thigh, above his knee, an answer. And got back to what he'd been doing, hands tender, soap-warm, reverent, intent.

Jason, bemused, let him do it. And the heat of it all sank in under his skin, grounding. Colby cleaning him up everywhere, Colby wanting him, wanting this. So good.

He gave his sister a call while Colby went to assemble eggs and peppers. Allie said cheerfully that everything was great and Colby was also great and Uncle Joey and Aunt Liza and Uncle Bobby were looking forward to the private car pickup and private jet. Of course they were, Jason thought.

He told Allie they'd be over soon. His sister observed, "No rush, Uncle Frankie's here and Dad's talking him into taking over the training for those actors for that heist movie, you and Colby can take your time."

"Maybe an hour or two, then," Jason agreed, and went back out to find his husband. Colby turned, spatula in hand, and smiled.

They let the morning be comfortable. Golden. Easy. Savored, like every bite.

Colby said, getting a refill for the ocean of coffee, "We can go back over whenever you'd like; I told Jill we'd be available again tomorrow, if that's all right? I thought you'd want one more day."

"Tomorrow's good. I know we've got some decisions to make."

"We'll need to get started on pre-production, yes." Colby took a sip, resurfaced. He'd put back on his pajama pants and Jason's shirt, though he was barefoot again. Jason wanted to find fuzzy socks for him. What if Colby's toes were cold?

Colby added, "I had some locations in mind, and perhaps you can look at them with me, before we talk to Jill? You'll have a better eye for action scenes and those requirements."

"Sure." He gathered Colby into the circle of one arm, nudged them both over to the sofa. Colby came happily, and curled up under Jason's arm where he belonged, amid couch-pillows and softness, under the gazes of bookshelves and fantasy heroes and their big movie-night television. His eyes were so blue, in the morning. The color of oceans, electricity, possibilities.

Jason put the other arm around him too. Said, with all his heart, "I love you, Colby Kent-Mirelli."

Colby said promptly, "I love you, too. Always, completely. Like thunderstorms."

"You do love rain."

"I do."

"I think maybe I owe you an apology."

Colby's entire face became a question, without words.

"Not for today," Jason said. "I mean, like…the first day we ever met. When I said some really fucking stupid things about you, and you heard me."

Colby blinked at him. Baffled. Genuinely so. "Haven't you already apologized for that?"

"Did I hurt you?"

"Why does it matter now? You did apologize, I remember. You were extremely serious about it."

That answer stabbed a spear through Jason's gut, even though his husband didn't mean it that way. It sounded, it echoed, too much like something Colby would've said back then. Unsure why his own injuries would ever matter.

Time to keep trying, then. One step further into the spear-forest, because he needed to. "I did, and I meant it. I still mean it. But I don't think I ever asked if you were okay. If I'd hurt you. You said it was fine and I didn't need to apologize, but you didn't say you were fine."

"I didn't—" Colby stopped, turned the coffee-mug around in both hands, shook his head. Set the mug on their table, over polished elfin wood and glass, with precision. His fingers were also elfin, magical, eloquent. "I knew you were tired and under quite a lot of stress and worried about your career and wanting the role, wanting to be part of Steadfast, so very badly. And of course in Hollywood so many people do spend a lot of time pretending, and you'd never met me. And you didn't mean for me to overhear you. I understood. It wasn't personal."

"Yeah, but I shouldn't've said it in the first place. And, babe…" He touched Colby's chin, made sure their eyes met. "I love you, I'm saying it again, I'm not upset with you, but we both know you didn't answer my actual question, just now."

Colby did a tiny nose-scrunch. "Oh."

"You want me to keep asking, or you want to not talk about it?"

"I wasn't trying to avoid it." Colby put his hand over Jason's, turned his face into Jason's touch: trusting him. "I wanted you to know I understood. To try to answer you, then, I was…oh, I don't know. Yes. No. It's hard to explain." He stopped again, introspective. "I'm trying to think about how I was thinking about it, back then…about myself. You didn't really hurt me, with that, because…well, because you weren't wrong."

"What the fuck," Jason said. No. No, that was wrong, he knew that was wrong. And for Colby to think that, to say that—"You're the best person I've ever met. You buy books for college students and you sit up with my dad even when he's asking you about cars and you—"

"Jason." Colby wasn't quite laughing, but it lay in his eyes, his face, the upward curve of his lips. "Thank you, love. So much. I meant…all of that is real, or I hope it is. I do try to be nice to people. But you weren't wrong that it was on purpose. I always thought the world should be kinder, you know, if not for me, if it wouldn't be for me—maybe I could do that for someone else. So in that sense it was deliberate, if not pretense. And then…well, you know how I thought about myself, then. After Liam—after everything. I knew I wasn't good enough—I hadn't been, had I? So of course everything everyone thought about Colby Kent, you know, romantic comedies and happy endings and optimism, that wasn't real either. So when you said so, it wasn't that it hurt. It was that you saw that, about me. It was only confirmation."

The magnitude of that, the devastation, hit Jason's heart like the collapse of one of Colby's beloved thunderclouds. A falling burning lightning-bolt. The apocalyptic kind. "I didn't…Colby, I didn't…that wasn't…I didn't know you! And I was wrong, I knew I was wrong, the second I talked to you—you don't still think that. Please." Please. God. After everything—

"No." Colby kissed Jason's palm this time. "As I said. I also knew you were only frustrated. And then I knew, the first time we were supposed to touch, in that scene…you saw me then, too. You saw that I was scared. And you were so kind. And if you could be that kind, if you were trying so hard not to hurt me, then you never would've meant to hurt me. Never, not you. So I simply forgot whatever you might've said when you were being…unhappy."

"I'm sorry," Jason whispered. "I'm so sorry."

"I know." Colby, with the words, hopped right into Jason's lap: atop him, astride him, leaning in for a kiss. "Thank you for telling me. And I've already forgiven you, if you need me to say it."

He did not ask why Jason had brought it up now, this morning. Jason thought, looking at those wide eyes, that they knew. That Colby, who understood characters and hearts, who could capture souls with the next genius screenplay or on-camera line delivery, who knew Jason inside and out, had guessed.

Colby knew how badly he wanted to help. To make things right.

My knight, Colby said. My Jason.

Both their phones lay on the table, quiescent. Present, here if needed; but the world, right this second, was doing just fine.

Better than fine. Everything handled. His organization and checklists, and Colby's quiet compassionate assistance.

California sun spilled through their windows, and across their floor, and onto the arm of the sofa they'd bought, together. In their house, the place they'd also chosen together. With a half-empty lake of coffee sitting beside their phones, and well-worn paperbacks cheering silently from tall dark shelves. With the glinting curve of the pool beyond the glass doors, and the scents of their citrus trees, grapefruit, lime, lemon.

Colby's lips, Colby's mouth, tasted like coffee, and sugar, and heat. His weight was secure and satisfied, having put himself into Jason's lap, choosing that.

Jason looped both arms around his husband's waist. Colby said, leaning in to get nose to nose, kissable and comfortable, "The other part of that answer is…every day since then, you've told me I'm worth loving. You told me that even from the beginning. You touched me as if you thought I was worth all your care. And I thought…maybe, yes. With you. I always knew I could trust you. And therefore I showed up at your door and suggested we have sex."

"Still amazed about that." Jason pulled him closer, ran hands all over him: just to touch, to feel. "And glad you did. So fucking glad. I'll tell you every day if you want. You're worth loving. And I love you."

"Even when I'm terrible at packing a bag?" Colby was laughing, though: bewitching, perfect, radiant with joy. "I saw you heroically restraining yourself. At first."

"I love you," Jason said, hand sliding up under Colby's shirt, which was his own shirt. "I love you."

"And I love you." Colby yanked the shirt up and off, and flung it at a bookshelf corner, where it landed and swung improbably. "You're the person who makes me believe in happy endings. Who makes me want to write them. Every morning, every day."

"Want one more right now?"

"Yes please," Colby said, and the eagerness in his voice, in his eyes, said it again, over and over, even more so when Jason tumbled him down onto the sofa and landed on top, letting Colby feel his weight and his wanting. One of his hands found Colby's wrists, captured them above cocoa-feather hair, gathered them together beneath his grip.

Not hard, not cruel. He'd move the second Colby wanted him to. But this was also them, the same way Colby taking charge earlier had been.

What they both needed, when they needed it. Every day, like Colby said. Seeing each other.

With his spare hand, and some flexibility, he tugged down Colby's pajama pants. Discovered bare skin: his husband hadn't bothered with underwear.

Colby, being a genius and also currently pinned in place by Jason's other hand, managed to shrug with only his eyebrows. "We were planning to change later in any case. And I like the way you look at me when I surprise you."

"Every day," Jason said. "Always." He lost his own clothing in a hectic flail of muscles, put his hand back in place, ran his thumb along the sensitive exposed line of Colby's wrist and forearm: tracing delicate veins, the pulse-beat, warm smooth skin. "Want me to hold you down? Just this. Like this."

"Yours." Colby wiggled under him, not to get away, clearly wanting to feel it. "I would like that, yes, Jason. Very much."

"Yes," Jason told him, and then said it again, and the morning became full of yes: washed clear and clean as the world after rain, easy to see, even easier to feel and to know and to sink into.

He didn't try to make it last too long, not too drawn out. He needed Colby, and Colby needed him, and this was hot and pure and urgent, Colby's long legs parting for him, Jason's thumb rubbing across that tempting hip-freckle—which made Colby shiver—and Jason's fingers, hand, slick with lube. They'd learned to keep some everywhere; this one lived in the drawer under the side table, unless they had visitors.

He breathed, an order, "Don't move your hands," and Colby nodded, arms stretched above his head. His eyes had gone even wider, deeper blue, dreamy: not the most profound level of submission, that infinite glittering headspace, but floating at the edge of it, pushed that direction by the quickness, the need.

Jason opened him up, readied him—hurried, hungry, but tender, so tender, loving Colby—and moved atop him, length pressing against that plush opening. And then into him: a long plunging thrust.

Colby cried his name, hips lifting, body clenching; both glorious legs wrapped themselves around Jason's waist. Jason instinctively tightened his grip on those slender wrists—under his weight, held hard, pressed down into the sofa-cushion, and for a split second he worried that'd been too rough, but then Colby gasped, "Yes," and, oh. Oh, yes.

He managed, "You like this, don't you, sweetheart? Being mine, me holding you—holding onto you, all mine—tell me—" and let his grip get firmer, let the next thrust get harder: pounding into Colby, like his heart, like a reprieve, like coming to life.

"Yes," Colby was saying, begging, babbling, "yes, yes, yours, Jason, I love this, I love feeling you, you holding me—please—oh God please, all yours, like this—more—"

More. Yes. His body claiming Colby's. The heat, the friction, the slickness of lube and Colby's want, dripping so much he might've already come. Jason got the other hand on his length, caressed the shaft and the tip of him; felt Colby shudder deliriously around him. "So good. Telling me what you want. Wanting me, like this. Do you want to come like this, sweetheart? My Colby? My hands on you, taking care of you?"

"Yes," Colby begged. "Yes, this, Jason…oh…"

"But you won't until I tell you, will you?" He bent down, hips not moving for a moment; he took Colby's mouth too, another penetration, a claiming with tongue and teeth and teasing. Colby was trembling when he pulled back: small quivers of need, surrender, ecstasy that Jason felt all over. Jason whispered, "You can come, I want you to, I want you to feel good, baby, show me how good you feel," and had to move too, rocking into him, swift powerful thrusts.

"So good," Colby whispered, eyes luminous, "oh, Jason," and his body arched in wild pleasure, and abruptly Jason was right there too, falling over that edge as Colby did—with spurts of sweet white-hot release flooding between them and deep inside Colby's body, Colby's arms shuddering in the bite of Jason's grip.

Jason collapsed atop him, panting. Started to peel his fingers away from Colby's wrists, shaky, half-apologetic and entirely dazed by completion.

Colby made a little protesting sound.

"Huh," Jason got out, not a word, but his brain wasn't working. He stopped trying to move his hand, and left it there.

"I love your hands," Colby informed him reverently. "I want you to hold me down and make me yours forever. I want you to kiss me."

Jason did. Many times.

"I want you—" Colby said while being kissed, which made Jason stop to say against the corner of his mouth, "I want you too."

Colby began laughing again: weightless, buoyant, euphoric. His hair framed his face, a sweat-darkened chocolate sea-splash against the dark blue couch-cover; the freckle on his collarbone winked upward. "I did rather guess as much. I want you to hold me, I was going to say. After we clean up. Again. Did I say spectacular, earlier? I feel like light. Like prisms. Because, you see, I was thinking about feeling spectacular, and spectacles, and then I thought, not the sort of public event meaning, but like seeing, like glass, and then I thought about magnification, and I think that's how I feel. Magnified. Filled up and overflowing. Magnificent. Like magicians. I think perhaps you're a magician."

"Here to use all my powers on you," Jason said. "At your service. So you feel magnificent. All the time."

"Heroic of you." Colby freed one arm but kept the other under Jason's hand, and reached up to touch Jason's arm, shoulder, face. Naked, wondrous, debauched and fantastical, he meant every word precisely. Jason saw it in his eyes. "Or perhaps both of us. Being heroic together. Taking turns at keeping up the shields, perhaps. For each other. Combining magical skills."

"Overflowing," Jason said. It was all he had room for; everything else, the answer he meant, was too big. But Colby would understand. "With enchantment. Filled up with it. Dripping with it."

"Good heavens."

"You said it first."

"Did I?" Colby sparkled happily up at him some more. "Casting spells, sorceries, charms…oh, sex magic…"

"Sex magic later," Jason said. "I'll see what I can come up with, as far as toys and my hands and filling you up." He appreciated Colby's small noise of interest, plus those excited eyes, at that. "For now…" He shifted weight, felt their bodies slipping, softer, sticky. He nuzzled a half-kiss, half-suggestion, under Colby's jawline. "Cleaning up?"

"Yes," Colby said, naked on their sofa and smiling at him; and Jason thought about cleansing, annealing, beginnings, over and over; about mornings, and family, and organization; about eggplant-patterned blanket-gifts lying in wait in his grandmother's knitting needles, and driving his father around for a few of those physical therapy appointments, and then other appointments and plans with Jillian and Colby, discussions of filming locations and scene requirements. About murder mysteries, and fantasies, and new projects, new stories, new happy endings. About meeting his sister's potential partner, hopefully soon, with Colby at his side.

He thought about healing, and heroes and magic and doing the next right thing, and the next, but not doing any of that alone, because he wasn't alone.

And he thought about sunlight and rain, rhythms like the blue of Colby's eyes, and the sweetness of Colby's leg looped around his.

He said, "We might be a little late, getting to Mom and Dad's."

"We might." Colby watched him, free hand idly exploring Jason's chest. "Is that all right? We didn't give your sister an exact time. And all the familial transportation ought to be handled, unless anyone calls to tell me otherwise."

"Yeah," Jason said. "We're good. I'll call her when we're on the way over." He moved his hand from Colby's wrist, finally; he might, he thought, put some soothing cream on that hint of already-fading pink, the mark of his grip. He didn't think he'd left any serious marks, and Colby had loved it, but he still wanted to do something. Because he could, and Colby let him.

Taking care. The way Colby did, with him, for him. Combined magical skills.

He said to Colby and the morning, letting the emotion fill up his chest—like glass, he thought, overflowing, spectacular—and loving it all, "Between us, you and me, we've got everything taken care of."

THE END