Chapter 4

Interlude, While Filming

"Resting," Jason said, meaningfully. "You. Not moving." He had a hand on Colby's shoulder, a reminder. The bed perked up under Colby: doing its job.

Colby sighed. "I'm really all right."

"You are, but you're also recovering."

"It's not as if it's even terribly—"

"You were," Jason said, as calmly as he could under the circumstances, "in a fucking explosion. And got knocked out." The stunt had gone wrong, there on the John Kill set. Explosives too early and too strong. Something not measured right on the part of the demolitions crew. Colby hadn't been far enough away. He'd hit unforgiving ground hard.

Jason, not in that shot, had been watching from behind a bank of monitors. Had run, heart in his throat. Colby had been waking up already, but gradually, bewildered about how he'd landed on the ground, when Jason had flung himself down beside those blue eyes.

Concussion, the doctors said. Not too bad, but needing rest and care. No strenuous activity for at least a couple of days, assuming nothing got worse. Nothing seemed to be, though Jason's heart wasn't convinced of that.

"They didn't say no working on the novel, specifically…" Colby tried, plaintive.

"No exerting yourself physically or mentally, and you know it." He touched Colby's temple. The lights in the hotel suite were low; they'd been too bright, earlier. "No screens. So no laptop. Your next award-winning collaboration with George can wait. How're you doing?"

"Tired. Bored. I can't even look up banana bread recipes?"

"Not yet." He ran his hand over Colby's head, gentle. "I can do some baking. If you want bread."

"Maybe later." Colby shut both eyes, leaning back into pillows and Jason's touch. "I'm not very hungry, at the moment."

Jason's chest tightened. "Something not feeling right? Nausea, headaches, like that?"

"Just a bit…"

"Want me to call someone?"

"They said it was normal, and it should go away on its own, and—"

"And if it doesn't," Jason said evenly, "then I'm calling someone. Okay?"

"If it gets worse, you can." Colby opened his eyes again. "I wish I could remember more. It's disconcerting. One minute I'm being Cam, running out of the warehouse, perfectly in character…and then I woke up lying on the ground with far too many faces hovering around me. I don't even recall that very clearly; I know you were there, and Evan, but it's all sort of foggy from there to a hospital room. It's such an odd feeling, knowing there's something missing."

"That's normal too," Jason told him, reminding them both, and reached over to get the cup of water. "Here. Stay hydrated, at least." He hated the small quiver in Colby's voice. He hated that Colby had had to be hurt again, to face tests and strange-if-professional hands on him again, to have a lingering unnerving gap in memory.

And today, today, of all days…

He couldn't think of that. He'd been trying not to think of that for a while now. He'd known what anniversary it was. Evan did too, and they'd looked at each other that morning, running through hallway fight sequences one more time.

Jason had guessed they'd both probably want to talk, or drink, later. He hadn't mentioned it to Colby then. He'd planned to, when they had a break. Evan had been busy most of the day, stunt choreographer responsibilities, working with his team on the upcoming big everyone's-a-secret-assassin marketplace fight; Colby and Jason had also been busy, escaping a warehouse before it blew up dramatically.

It had. And then the world had imploded. And now they were here.

In a luxurious hotel suite in Vancouver. Home, sort of. Recovering. Not in a hospital, not anymore. But with Colby very much injured. Jason's lungs didn't feel like they'd taken a full breath ever since the explosion. Or earlier. This day, this day, and now this…Colby, and—

An older body hovered, when he rubbed his spare hand over his face. A friend. A good friend, the best, really, because Charlie had been the sort of person who'd happily teach a younger colleague how to do a kick or a fall or a vault across rooftops, sharing knowledge without jealousy; Charlie had been the sort of person who'd come over, bringing food and cheerful competent company, when Jason's father had been so badly injured decades ago; and Charlie had been kind to his own younger brother and to Jason and to everyone, and then—

He tried to breathe some more, through the hurt. Through the anniversary. He knew Evan was hurting too.

It'd been most of the day, now. Late afternoon. He wished he could do more about the edges of sun, slanting cruelly in around the long curtains. Colby needed dimness. Quiet. Soothing.

They'd started filming at dawn, first light, early. They'd made it to the local hospital fast. And he'd been able to bring Colby home, or at least temporary home, this hotel, after a few hours.

He wished they could go home—really home, the house they'd bought together back in Los Angeles, or even the London flat, smaller but luxurious. Places Colby knew well, places that felt familiar, places Jason could make warm and safe and theirs. Their hotel room was trying—most places did, for Colby, and the small desk by the window proudly wore several of those stray rainbow sticky notes with their brilliant writer's ideas—but it wasn't the same.

Colby had slept, on and off; sleep was good for healing, though Jason had been told to wake him every two hours to check on his awareness. Colby seemed fine so far, if mildly distressed by the amnesia surrounding the impact.

Colby shifted a fraction; Jason realized he'd been holding the water and its straw in place way too long, and hastily set it down. "Sorry."

"It's fine. Are you at least allowed to read to me?"

"Probably? Nothing that's work, though." He picked up the nearest beloved hand, played with slim calligrapher's fingers, surreptitiously tested Colby's pulse. Seemed fine. "New Alex Castle novel? Rival steampunk magicians falling in love?"

"Yes, if you wouldn't mind. It's in my bag, from yesterday—"

"I'll get it. Don't move."

When he came back Colby was setting down his phone, looking suddenly guilty. Jason said, "Don't tell me you were doing work," but kept his tone very light, not scolding: Colby still instinctively flinched from disapproval. They were both aware of that, and aware of the working through it; those scars ran deep, a lifetime's worth. That was also complicated by Colby's genuine desire to please, and equally genuine excited arousal about following lovingly issued orders, in the realm of sex and submission.

Given all of that, Jason threw in, just to make sure, "I love you, babe, but no, not yet, okay?"

"I, ah. I wasn't attempting to work. I promise." Colby sounded nervous but not afraid; he met Jason's eyes. "Just checking something. Entirely quick. Finished, I swear."

"I already called Jill and Andy, but if you want—"

"No, it's fine, they know I'm fine." That was an exaggeration, but Jason let it go. Colby's two best friends had heard about the accident via industry connections and Andy's husband's fingers on the pulse of the internet. They'd been concerned; they still were.

Colby added, "Very well, not entirely fine as such, you don't have to say it. Come sit with me?"

"Of course." He settled down next to his heart, in bed; the padded headboard took some weight and offered some reassurance. He waved the book he'd been sent for, with its swirling blue magical cover. "Tell me where to start."

"Oh, we can start from the beginning, I was only a chapter or so in. But, before that…" Colby bit a lip, watched Jason's face. "Er…may I ask you about something?"

"You don't need to ask me whether you can ask—" He took a breath, let it go. He knew about instincts. About the reasons Colby would. "You can always ask. Anything you want, cream puff."

The occasional nickname made Colby giggle, though his eyes remained anxious. "I only wanted to…if I can, ah…you see, I do know what day it is, what anniversary, and…and I know this likely isn't how you wanted to spend it…"

Jason had opened his mouth. No words emerged. He set the book down without thinking. It landed safely next to Colby's leg.

That anniversary. Today. Charlie's body, sprawled at the side of a diving tank, lifeless and limp, because a stunt had gone wrong then too—because it'd gone wrong right before Jason had arrived, coming to meet him and grab lunch and talk about respective movies—because Jason hadn't been two minutes earlier, hadn't known, maybe couldn't've done anything that everyone else hadn't done, but he'd never know, he couldn't go back and make himself drive faster or walk faster or—

Because he'd been there, he'd known before Evan had. Before any of Charlie's family had. He hadn't been the one to call them—too blinded by shock—but he'd always thought he should have. As a friend.

That memory stayed under the surface most of the time, a part of him, familiar and well-worn. Once in a while it bit hard. On a certain day.

He knew Evan didn't blame him. Evan never had. And they'd become closer friends, slowly, through the aftermath: stumbling among emotions, catching each other.

And Evan had been at Jason's side today, waiting for Colby in the hospital. Right there to lean on. Holding his hand.

Colby did know the story, of course. Colby had known that story for a long time, almost since they'd met; he'd heard about Charles Richards and the accident, and he'd known Jason had been a friend, even before they'd talked about it. But Jason hadn't remembered the exact date ever coming up. He was pretty sure he hadn't said, though he really had meant to say something to Colby that afternoon.

He looked at Colby. His husband, injured and tired but hopeful, looked back, eyes big and sweet.

Jason swallowed. Found words, scraping them together out of love. "I don't want to be anywhere else. Not right now."

"I do know you wouldn't leave me alone. Not even temporarily." Colby reached over. Collected Jason's limp hand. Jason's hand was larger overall, though Colby's grip was surprisingly strong. Protective. "I thought perhaps…you might want to talk. And I'm here, of course. I'm always here if you want me. But if—"

"I said I'm not going anywhere."

"No. But—"

This time a text interrupted. Jason's phone. He eyeballed it, annoyed. Colby said, "It's Evan. He's outside, and I'm guessing he didn't want to knock? Making noise?"

Jason paused. Took this in.

"I thought, you see, if I'd never convince you to go anywhere…and if you wouldn't mind me being here…if I asked him to come by…and he said yes, of course…" Colby nibbled his lip again. That spot was turning pink. "Er…was that all right?"

Jason reached over. Set a finger on Colby's mouth. "That's not exactly no stress for you." His voice came out very soft, mostly from amazement. Colby, in pain and dizzy and unhappy about gaps in memory, was trying to take care of him.

"I want you to be all right as well," Colby said, when Jason lifted the finger. "I need that. Please let me be here. For both of you, really; Evan's my friend too, now, I think? Not the way he's been yours, but at least a bit?"

"He is. And you're—Colby, you…" He gave up. Shook his head. Leaned in for a kiss: tender, cautious, wobbly with love and aching emotions, stretched and knotted up and given a beating today. Colby kissed him back, not tentative at all; Jason couldn't resist more tasting of him at that, a swipe of tongue, a nuzzle after.

He said, "I love you so damn much. You know that, right? I just—I love you."

"I know. And I love you equally as much." Colby waved a hand, adorably and grandly imperious but not seriously so. "You may want to go and let him in."

"You don't move," Jason said, and got up, rediscovering some equilibrium in the process.

Evan was leaning against the wall, texting, when Jason opened the door. He looked up, a sculpture of fluid Krav Maga instructor's grace and the same brown eyes and straight nose he and Charlie had shared; they'd always looked alike, even moved alike, though Evan had always been younger and just shorter enough for jokes about it. He said, "Hey," and lowered the phone.

"Hey," Jason said. "So…you and Colby were planning things? Also, say hi to James for me."

"I will. He'll call me later." Evan's boyfriend was busy filming an old-fashioned detective thriller in Norway, though they talked constantly and sent each other pictures of ice cream shops and historical monuments. Jason cautiously approved of James, who seemed to have handled the whole revelation of Evan's asexuality with pure and reaffirmed adoration, and who also looked at Colby Kent with the appropriate amount of awe for someone in the presence of an acting and writing and all-around genius.

"He worries, too," Evan said, "he knows what today is," and Jason nodded, because that meant Evan had told James, which meant Evan trusted James that much, which was another point in favor. Evan also held up bottles. "Sparkling water? Elderflower-blueberry, key lime and mango, orange vanilla cream? I thought about actual alcohol, but it's not like I drink much, and Colby can't, right now, anyway. How's he doing? He said he was fine when he texted, but, y'know."

"Sounds…good." It did. Exactly right. Jason held the door for him. "Colby's…okay. We're keeping an eye on him. But he's recovering. Like they said."

He heard the words as they hit the afternoon, in his own voice. They were, he realized with surprise, true.

Colby was hurt, but was recovering. Getting better. And that was okay.

They might all be okay, he thought.

Evan came in and came over to the hotel suite's bedroom. Saluted Colby with a bottle or three. "So you found a way to get out of your next six A.M. training session with me, then."

Colby laughed. "As if I'd want to. Come in, please. Jason offered to bake us banana bread later."

"Did I?" Jason said. "Fine, I did." Their suite had a kitchen. They'd done some shopping. He was pretty sure they had all those ingredients. "Here, I'll open that one. We have glasses."

"Oh, elderflower, that sounds delicious, thank you—"

"I know you like interesting flavors," Evan said, grinning; and took the only bedroom chair. That was fine; Jason was planning to cuddle his husband anyway. "Jason, my parents say thanks for the donation to that charity, by the way, and also they'd love to see you sometime when you're not busy. Kittens, this year?"

"Good," Jason said, "it got there, then." He did try to, every year. In Charlie's name. Different charities, but all things he'd liked. A kitten-rescue charity had been this year's option; Charlie and Evan's family had always had cats. "I'll give them a call. Or we can, maybe." He glanced at Colby, who nodded. "And I promise we'll come over once we're back in California."

"They'd like that." Evan accepted elderflower-blueberry water when Jason handed it over. "So. To family, then?"

"Yeah." Jason sat back down on the bed, arm around Colby, who leaned against him, bright-eyed and alive and real. "To family." They clinked glasses; Jason kissed the side of Colby's head, after. Colby just smiled a little, and didn't say anything for a moment; but his eyes met Jason's, and that was a message too, sapphire-warm.

Jason gingerly, with self-control, on creaking ice, got along with Colby's father. Howard Kent was a consummate politician, and incapable of fidelity both in his marriages and in the keeping of political promises that didn't benefit him; he liked to show Colby off, part of the public image, a father jovially proud of his very gay son's artistic success, with zero sincerity when the cameras stopped. But at least Howard honestly didn't have a problem with Colby's sexuality—maybe with his lack of interest in golf or Washington, DC, ambitions, but that was just Howard—and he knew how to be polite and charming when required, and they'd even done some global literacy campaigns and equality initiatives together.

Colby tended to shrug philosophically: yes, well, he could be worse, at least we all know exactly who we are, don't we? Jason, at those lunches, pretended very hard to grin affably back at his father-in-law. He was a good actor. He could do that.

Colby's stepmother Tinsley, on the other hand, was…almost a friend. Getting to be, maybe. She was extremely pretty and polished, much younger than Howard—closer to Colby's age, or at least Jason's—and she'd known exactly what she was doing back when she'd been one of Howard's infamous office affairs; but Colby said he thought she was lonely, now.

They didn't have much in common, exactly—she didn't read much, and she didn't care much about fantasy novels or science fiction—but they did go riding together sometimes, and Tinsley and Colby both liked shoe-shopping, and the last time they'd had brunch they'd both come back with shimmering expensive pedicures and matching even more expensive rainbow diamond hair-clip accessories. Jason had concluded that Tinsley was probably mostly harmless, and she and Colby got along, so that was okay. He also liked sparkly decorations in Colby's hair, he'd realized. Fun to play with. Pretty.

Colby's mother—

They tended not to talk to Colby's mother. Generally for the best.

Sometimes Lydia called. When she was disappointed in her son. When she wanted to critique something about Colby's writing, acting fame, or life in general. Jason always suggested his husband not answer the phone; Colby worried that the one time he didn't, the call might be actually urgent, or even a real attempt at connection. So he answered, and put up with about five minutes of being told he was an embarrassment and wasting his time with silly Hollywood film scripts and cameras when he could do more significant things with his life, before Jason took the phone away and hung up.

Howard and Lydia weren't family, or only barely, or not by any real definition, Jason had decided. Colby was part of his family, now. The family they'd found and chosen and built, together.

All that was in Colby's eyes, too, in that glance.

"So," Evan said, to Colby, "did Jason ever tell you the story about the time he and my brother snuck a classic Chevy off the set of an astronaut movie, picked me up, and took us all to the beach for the day? It was awesome until we were about to leave, and the car got a flat tire, and of course they were these fancy historical replica tires, not exactly common, so there's us frantically calling everyone we knew to find a replacement, and not calling anyone who knew Jason's dad, so it was harder than you'd think, because Luca knows everyone who knows anything about classic cars and the movie industry…"

"I remember Charlie saying he was going to ditch us with the car and pretend he didn't know us," Jason said. "He wouldn't've, and we knew it, so it was a joke…"

Evan pointed at him, and quoted, with full dramatic effect, "Neither of you is my brother! I am an only child!"

"Oh, no." Colby was laughing. So was Jason, because it'd been spot on. "What'd you do?"

"Gave up and called Jason's dad. Who'd known since the first phone call, because he'd been on a call with that garage owner at the exact same time, total coincidence." Evan swung both shoeless feet up to rest on the bed near Colby's ankles, and tipped his chair back at an improbable angle, balancing. "It's a good thing your dad's very cool. I mean, he wasn't thrilled, but he figured we'd suffered enough, with the panicking and all. He handled it."

"For years," Jason said, "for years, after that, any time the three of us were together, and one of us did something embarrassing…"

Colby's eyebrows went up, amused. "‘I am an only child'?"

"Exactly." Evan nudged Colby's foot with his. "Exactly that. Did Jason tell you the Pumpkin Cat story? I wasn't there when they found her, just when Charlie brought her home, so Jason should start it."

"Pumpkin Cat?" Colby inquired.

"Yeah. It's a cute story." Jason nestled Colby closer, liking the feeling of his own protective warmth, loving the shape of them together, the fit. The lights lay dim and tranquil, and the bedroom tucked supportive walls around them, and Colby was sipping sparkling water, awake and alert. They'd be back at work in a day or two. Colby would be just fine.

Some tension unwound, eased by bubbly water and words.

He knew Colby had be all right. They all would.

He said, "We were working on this terrible low-budget horror movie, about a haunted scarecrow with a pumpkin head that comes alive and murders people…"

"That sounds…improbable."

"Don't even ask about where the cursed cornstalk spear fits in. Anyway, so we walk onto set one day, right past the prop head, this giant fake pumpkin, and the pumpkin squeaks at us in this tiny little kitten voice, and Charlie runs over to look, and there's this tiny orange baby stuck in the light-up mechanism, and he just dives right in to get her out, right as the director walks in, so all the guy sees is Charlie upside down and halfway into a giant pumpkin head we've been told is a delicate piece of prop equipment, so he stops right there to yell at us…"

"At which point," Evan said, "my brother, being my brother…"

"Jumped up, held out a kitten, and said, ‘look, I found your ghost!'" Jason finished. "And everyone cracked up, because nobody ever could stay mad at him."

"And that's how we got Pumpkin Cat," Evan said. "Cat number three, when Charlie brought her home. Cat number four, by the way, was Jason's fault."

"He sounds so lovely," Colby said. "Like someone I would've liked to know."

"He would've liked you," Jason said, and Evan said it too, at the same time; they glanced at each other, and at Colby, who got a little more shyly happy and offered, "It's an honor? And how was your family's fourth cat Jason's fault?"

"So motorcycles are nice and warm in the winter," Jason said, "and cats like to be warm, and my mom's allergic, so we couldn't keep him…" and reached for more elderflower water for a refill for Colby's glass.