Chapter 3

Jason did indeed make some phone calls. After the first one or two—tracking down someone's contact information, finding them in London—he did so on speaker, letting Colby hear. Colby, understanding that this was also a gesture, stayed quiet but couldn't help smiling.

Jason loved him. Jason was doing this for him. Well, for them both. But nevertheless.

Jason's friends-of-friends did indeed have a contracting and design business, these days; well-reviewed, too, it turned out. Popular. Acclaimed. Celebrity clients, even. Good word of mouth, and lovely photos online. Two of the friends in question, Bradley and Karin, came over to visit and to chat about design ideas and to catch up with Jason, two days after all the phone calls.

Colby, nervous, did too much baking beforehand—lemon poppy seed cake, cheese-laced scones, chocolate-chip biscuits—and bought three different types of tea he did not like just in case Jason's friends wanted Earl Grey or English Breakfast or Darjeeling. He was panicking slightly, he was aware.

Jason came into the kitchen while Colby was staring rather blankly at the pantry and wondering whether a homemade hummus would be excessive, and picked up the Earl Grey. "Why do we even have this? You don't like it, and we both drink coffee."

"I don't know," Colby said, now looking helplessly at whole-wheat flour. "Should I make pasta? Will they have had lunch already? Would individual baked servings of butternut-squash macaroni be interesting? Or I can make pizza dough, you like my pizza dough, I could do that instead."

"Okay," Jason said patiently, and circled around to catch his eye, and only then put a hand on his shoulder. "What's going on? Or, if that one's a tricky question, how can I help?"

"I think I need to sit down," Colby said, and did, on the kitchen floor, leaning back against the closed pantry door. "Could you do something for me? Tell me to breathe. Check my pulse. Something. Anything."

Jason eased down beside him. Cupped Colby's cheek with one large hand, and stroked his cheekbone with a thumb. "Of course. That's an order, Colby. Breathe for me. In, and out. Again. Good."

His tone was deliberately even, and also complicated: dominant, a command, but worried underneath. His fingers touched Colby's throat, settled over the fluttering beat.

Colby exhaled. Jason, touching him. His Jason. Keeping him safe, present, grounded. That voice, that control.

He wanted Jason's hand there forever, soothing and possessive and choosing him, Colby.

Jason said softly, "Okay, that's kinda fast, baby, but still strong, you're fine, it's fine, I'm here, all right? Keep breathing for me. In. Out. Good, so good, like that, one more time." His voice was low and sure and deep, and Colby listened, with a flood of relief.

After a minute he said, "I'm all right now, I think," and leaned against Jason. "Oh, please just hold me. Just like that. You're perfect."

"I'm not, but I'll take it. I like it when you think so." Jason put both arms around him, pulling Colby more or less into his lap. Their kitchen floor had to be hard, but evidently Jason didn't mind. "Better?"

"Much. I only felt…off, for a moment. Wobbly."

"We can cancel." It was a genuine offer, even though that wouldn't be much notice: Bradley and Karin would be stopping by in just under three hours.

"No," Colby said. "It was just that I realized I, ah…haven't had anyone else in the flat, anyone not you or Jillian or Andy, since…well, since. And certainly not people I've never met."

Jason's jaw did the expected heroic clench. His arms got more devoted. "And you don't want to, is that it?"

"No, sorry, it's not that. Or mostly not. Maybe a bit. But, no…honestly it's more that I used to be, well, a decent host. Or I tried to be. Food, drinks, anticipating needs, making sure everything was lovely. Ensuring everyone had a splendid time. I'm afraid I've forgotten how, and it'll be dreadful."

Jason's face went through several expressions, and settled on affectionate concern, with a hint of relief. "You made scones and bread and like three types of cookies. And you bought cheese and olives and crackers and all the tea you're never going to drink. Also, babe, they want to impress you. They want to talk to you about your style, and design ideas, and budgets, and them getting to say they've had Colby Kent as a client. It's helping them."

"…I suppose that's true."

"You don't need to entertain them."

"How dare you." Colby poked his loyal knight with one finger, less shaky now. "You know I absolutely do need to. Also, by the way, you're sort of wrong, sorry."

"I am?"

"Yes. It's not just me as their client. Me and you. Our style and design ideas."

Jason's eyes lit up. Delight like a thunderclap, like Colby's favorite weather. "I'm pretty good at making pasta. Not that we need to, or anything. Just for fun. If you want. I used to do that with my mom sometimes."

"I think…I'd like that. For fun. Show me your technique, and I'll help?"

"Sounds good," Jason agreed, and kissed him, there on the floor in their kitchen, with chilly London sunshine tapping at Colby's toes.

* * * *

As it turned out, the initial meeting went perfectly well. Jason's friends were enthusiastic but calm and competent, obviously thrilled at getting to work with Colby Kent but also obviously trying hard to tamp down giddiness. They appreciated bread and scones and homemade hummus and pita triangles, and even drank some of the Earl Grey, so that was good, and Colby was glad he'd bought it.

They went through and looked at the bathroom in question, and made notes and murmured to each other about plumbing and pipes, and came back; they sat down and wanted to chat about design ideas, with some portfolios of previous work to show off.

Jason had an arm around Colby, and said, "We definitely want the shower completely redone, so probably all the other fixtures, too, to match." Colby appreciated both the arm and the phrasing. We. Him and Jason. Yes.

"Colby," Karin said encouragingly, "was there something you liked, or something you had in mind, looking through those examples?" She had a welcoming face, Colby thought: cheerful, with lovely light brown eyes and warm golden-tanned skin and a pink streak in her dark hair. Her hands were competent and neat, like her measurements.

He liked her, he thought. He said, tentatively, "I like fantasy…that sort of Victorian steampunk style…we both like that…and also oceans…"

"Oh, perfect." Karin beamed at him. "We've done something along those lines before, let me show you, lots of copper pipes and gears, and maybe an old-fashioned clawfoot tub? Here, I'll find those pictures for you."

Jason's hand rubbed Colby's arm, casual but comforting; when Colby looked up Jason was smiling at him.

"Maybe blue," Karin said, "for your walls, sort of like this," and showed him a photograph that could've come straight out of a Jules Verne novel: deep blue-green hues, brass and copper pipes and climbing shelves, and a custom sink that curled waving octopus arms upward.

Colby leaned forward inadvertently. Jason said, "Not sure about octopi, Karin, but I love those shelves," and he glanced at Colby again, and this time they were both smiling.

* * * *

Demolition had to happen first, of course. And it happened rapidly; Colby and Jason did have press and multiple film premieres coming up, all too rapidly now, and Bradley and Karin actually had another project waiting, though they'd do this one first, as a favor. Colby wasn't sure what Jason'd told them as far as urgency—surely not any detail; Jason wouldn't—but they seemed ready to dive in straight away. Pun intended, given the vaguely oceanic steampunk theme they'd settled on.

He watched as equipment and tools appeared. As Jason, stepping out of the open shower, had a quick discussion with Bradley about something.

The reply made Jason laugh, sleeves shoved up, cool cloud-light pouring over him through the open window. Colby propped a shoulder against the bedroom door-frame, smiling to himself.

Jason took up space and radiated solidity. An anchor, one built of massive shoulders and scuffed jeans and pleased dark eyes. Standing in their bathroom, making this happen. For Colby; for them both.

It was, Colby thought, perhaps the kindest thing someone'd ever done for him. Taking an old wound, and cleansing it, and building a future. With a deep copper bathtub, and oil-rubbed bronze fixtures, and light-bulbs that'd glow warmly orange and electric.

He'd forgotten what he'd come in for. Hadn't been important. Irrelevant, when Jason ran a hand through his own hair and so many muscles flexed and stirred.

He and Jason hadn't bothered moving to a hotel, since they did have a spare full bath, normally for guests and nicely appointed in a simple nondescript but expensive style. It was, however, smaller.

Jason did fit. But less well. A challenge.

They could squeeze into the shower together, cleaning up, if they didn't mind being close. They didn't, so that was fine; though Jason did glance at him occasionally, and took great care not to surprise him or touch him in any suggestive way, under water and heat. Colby might've in fact been all right with the latter, since he had no particular memories associated with the guest shower, but there really wasn't space.

They had had sex again, tenderly, nothing rough or elaborate. Jason had kissed him while they'd been tangled up together on the sofa beneath blankets, alternately reading and idly making out between chapters, hands and lips wandering, no pressure. Colby had eventually realized that he was going to have to be the one to ask for more, because Jason wasn't going to, and also because he was growing increasingly desperate for Jason's hands and voice and command.

He'd sat up, swung a leg over Jason, and settled down. Happily straddling Jason's lap, and the very nice bulge there.

Jason had laughed, one hand finding Colby's waist, the other stroking up along his thigh to rest on Colby's cock, through fabric. "Yeah?"

"Yes," Colby'd said, arching into the touch. "Please."

And Jason's smile had echoed like music in his veins, in every heartbeat, a symphony of love and want.

They'd thrown the blankets in the laundry, after. And made love again in bed, later: slow and deliberate and loving, heated skin and mouths and Jason's body atop his, firm and solid as a shield. Jason had got him to come twice, spinning ecstasy out of Colby's body with relentless loving authority, and had moved inside him with that same steady power, filling him so thoroughly and so well.

Those were not, most likely, thoughts that he should be dwelling upon while staring at a gaggle of contractors about to tear apart their bathroom.

Colby shook himself. Attempted to focus. Wondered fleetingly what the collective noun for a group of contractors actually was—a carpentry? a construction?—and then remembered why he'd come up. "Jason?"

Jason spun around. Bounced his way, brimming over with excitement. "Hey. You went down to talk to Sara, right?"

"I did. She grumbled about short notice and people coming and going, but I said you'd vouched for them, and Leslie's already checked into every single person who works for Bradley and Karin, and probably also their parents and grandparents and cousins and tax records."

"Your security's looking out for you." Jason swooped in to land a kiss on the corner of Colby's mouth. "They're just being careful."

Colby made a brief face at that comment. "I really do prefer pretending they're just my downstairs neighbors." They were—Sara and Leslie were in fact a couple, and they did indeed live below—but they were also technically his security detail, more or less. He was famous enough that sometimes fans came looking, and also, as much as he ignored this fact on a daily basis, both his parents moved in circles that involved politics, international relations and intellectual salons, and state affairs.

Sara and Leslie—and their associates, on occasion—didn't follow him and Jason around, and mostly didn't interfere with his life or his career; that wasn't their job. They did keep the building safe, and they arranged to have someone discreetly lurking at public events, and they did a lot of background checks. They approved of Jason.

They hadn't approved of Liam. But they also hadn't intervened. Again, not their job: he knew that. That'd been personal, and they didn't do personal. Besides—and this thought always made him wince slightly—they knew he had certain tastes, as far as assertive and forceful dominant men; they'd definitely known when Tony, before Liam, had chatted with Leslie on the stairs while holding an expensive paddle, unembarrassed about it.

Colby had also attempted to pretend that that hadn't happened. He wasn't sure whether it would've been better, or worse, if they had simply been normal neighbors.

Jason said, "I know you do. But I'm glad they're there." He was, though Colby knew the gladness was tempered by other emotions.

Jason didn't like that they hadn't intervened, with Liam: that was the point of protection, wasn't it? To which Colby had attempted to explain that that'd been personal and also he'd been very good at acting perfectly fine and in any case Liam never left bruises where they'd show, or hardly ever, at least, and anyway Colby himself hadn't wanted to bother anyone when the situation was his own fault, of his own making, and he'd got it wrong as usual.

Jason had held up a hand, carefully not shouted or made any dramatic gestures, but stayed very still, breathing deeply, for a minute. And then had sat down on the bed, still careful, and tipped his head in invitation for Colby to join him.

After a second, holding Colby's hand, he'd said, "You know that's not true, right? What you just said."

"I think I do," Colby had said, looking at their hands. "Now. These days. I know it was his—his choices, something he did to me. Not something I deserved."

"Good." Jason squeezed his fingers. "Hey. Promise me something."

"Anything, you know that—"

"If I ever hurt you, if I scare you, if you don't feel safe, you tell Sara. Even if you think they don't care about your personal life. They're supposed to protect you. So I want you to go to them if you need to."

"You won't ever hurt me," Colby had protested, and then, at the look on Jason's face, "but yes, I promise. I will."

He said, in the here-and-now, Jason's kiss still warm against his mouth, "Sara wants me to tell you they can't stay parked where they are for longer than four hours."

Jason made a small very American grumbling sound. "Fine. We'll hurry."

"We?"

"I'm helping."

"You are?"

"Thanks, babe, that's not deflating at all." But Jason was grinning, so it hadn't been an insult, even accidental.

Nonetheless, Colby said hastily, "Sorry, I'm sure you're a marvelous human wrecking ball, absolutely built for it," and ran a hand over Jason's bicep, hopefully flirtatious about it.

Jason flexed the muscles. On purpose. "Glad you approve."

"Is it odd if I want to lick your arms…What was I saying?"

"Truck. Timing. You not apologizing for things. You licking me. After everyone leaves for the day?"

"All over. Every inch of you. All the inches. Should you be…"

"Telling everyone to hurry? Yep." Jason kissed him again, stepped out of the way of a workman carrying a sledgehammer, and followed, with a small wave back.

Colby watched him cross the bedroom—over and through plastic, protecting floorboards and furniture in translucent drapes—and promptly sat down on the bed, a bit breathless.

He hadn't planned to stay and watch—he had an email from Andy, a suggestion about a rock-and-roll musical, a proposed new project for all of them, to get back to—but he found himself not leaving.

Watching, instead. Mesmerized.

They were about to rip open a part of his—his and Jason's—flat. His memories. His old life. Taking it out, carrying it away. Awash in cloud-scattered sunshine and a London afternoon and the sounds of work boots on the stairs.

The first thump of a sledgehammer made him gasp aloud, hand moving to catch the sound at his mouth. He hadn't expected the noise, which was ridiculous; of course there'd be noise. Him not liking sudden loud noises didn't mean they stopped occurring. Particularly during construction work.

Fortunately Jason hadn't heard him flinch. Those devoted shoulders would've come running.

Colby straightened up more. Watched old creamy tile peel away, witnessed cabinetry being broken apart, a shower wall coming down.

It would look so different. So beautiful, in the end. Stripped bare, and built back up, even lovelier. A fantasy, custom-designed.

He pulled a knee up, hugged it. He watched Jason joining in: broad and strong, hands and arms moving, a line of sweat appearing along his back.

Motion, power, vitality: Jason was elemental and primal and confident. Those shoulders. Those biceps. The thighs. Even his wrists, despite work gloves. The way he shifted weight, swung a hammer, moved.

Colby felt a bit lightheaded. Realized he hadn't drawn a breath in a while. Gulped in air.

Jason literally reached in and pulled the end of the wall apart. Colby made an inadvertent sound. Out loud.

Jason said something to one of the workmen, and they went to work on the old bathtub, also large and heavy and built into tile. Jason's back was glorious.

Colby licked his lips, realized he was doing that, and blushed intensely even though no one appeared to've noticed he was still there.

A few workmen went past, through the bedroom, carrying pieces. Colby blinked, hoped his cheeks weren't as red as they felt, and asked quickly, "Could you use any assistance? And also there's tea and coffee and scones and a lot of sandwiches in the kitchen, ham and egg and cheese and chutney and bacon, not all at once, I mean, different sandwiches!"

The burly young man carrying his old sink stopped to say, "Bacon?"

"Very much so. Please go on, that's all there for all of you. Is there anything else you'd like?"

"Colby fucking Kent," the young man said, now grinning. "Everyone said you were fucking awesome, man. Oh, shit, sorry, language, like I just said fuck in front of the Pope or something—"

"Oh, dear," Colby said, "absolutely not, that's a terrifying comparison, I have, er, said fuck before, a time or two, I promise!"

The young man's lips twitched as if wanting to laugh, but also aware of the presence of multiple Academy Awards somewhere in the flat.

"Oh, honestly. You've seen the insides of our shower and our bedroom and the boots I forgot to put away. I think you're allowed to swear at me. What was your name again? Sorry."

"Erik," said Erik, obligingly. "Uncle Brad's nephew."

"Of course, I should've guessed, you even look a bit alike! Sorry, is that heavy?"

"Nah. Hey…was that an entire first-edition set of the Summerworld novels on your shelf downstairs?"

"Oh, you like fantasy! Yes, I grew up loving those, with the magic mirrors and the portals and the love across separate lands—did you have a favorite character, or—"

Bradley put his head around the door. "Erik!"

"Oops," Erik said, cheerfully. "Gotta go."

"Feel free to borrow anything on the bookshelves, if you'd like."

"Colby fucking Kent," Erik said again, laughing, shaking his head; and went.

Colby looked back at the remains of the bathroom, and at Jason, a fantastically masculine shape etched in muscles and denim and sweat. Work had carried on; there was more left, of course. Today'd be mainly taking it all apart, followed by everything new coming in.

Everything new. Here, home, with Jason. Who'd given him this. Who'd picked up a hammer and stepped right in and physically made it happen.

Colby got up. Poked around in his closet. Found hopefully appropriate shoes, jeans with a hole in one knee and a smudge of spilled persimmon-hued calligraphy ink, and a plain grey shirt.

He managed to change in the closet, rapidly, door shut and heart beating fast.

He tripped over his own shoes, but they were just being eager, and anyway he managed not to fall over completely. So that was all right.

He popped back out. Came over to the construction zone in progress, not being quiet about it. His shoes made the plastic crinkle.

Jason turned. Froze. Mouth open. No sound.

"Hi," Colby offered. "Can I help?"

Jason looked back over his shoulder as if making sure that was still a half-torn-apart shower and tub.

"I'm good at following instructions," Colby reminded him. Helpfully. "I'm not at all experienced at this, but I do my own stunts and I can take orders."

Jason made a sound very similar to the one Colby had made earlier.

"Besides," Colby said, "I want to."

Bradley, checking a measurement, looked up. "Fine by me, it's your flat and it's just demo, kinda hard to mess up too bad, but you're getting a hard hat and some eye protection, first."

"Colby," Jason said. "I mean…yeah. Yes. Totally." His eyes warmed even more, through drifting dust.

He understood, then. Colby came up to his side, taking the hard hat and gloves that someone handed over. Of course Jason understood; Jason knew him. Knew what this would mean, how it'd feel, to join in too.

To lift a hammer, to dismantle the past. To help rebuild.

He put on the gloves. They fit nicely. "So. Tell me where to start, and what to do."