The Comfort of Cinnamon Pancakes

Colby couldn't breathe. Too many bodies—too many people here at this London glitz-and-glamour awards-event after party, but that wasn't the main problem—

Jason had an arm around him and was steering them toward an exit. He appreciated that: Jason defending him.

Jason thought it was simply about the crowds, the pressing-close in a too-small room, everybody coming up to offer handshakes and hugs and congratulations. That was part of it, but not all. Colby couldn't make himself recall how to talk, much less how to talk over the din. Couldn't explain.

Blond hair, and height, and broad shoulders—not quite Jason-sized, but powerful enough to pin someone down—moved, and kept moving, his way. They sliced like a shark's fin through the ocean of dresses and suits.

A scent drifted. A cologne, a certain spice: too heavy, too much, too familiar. Getting closer. And closer.

That wasn't Liam. Couldn't be. Shouldn't be: Liam's career had careened into nothingness, after a few drunken rants and also some sneaky vengeance enacted by Colby's friends, because he did have friends, now—

Liam couldn't be here. But might be: if he'd known someone, been owed a favor, managed to get himself into this party—if those were his shoulders, if—

Colby tripped over nothing on the floor. Nearly fell. Some well-meaning hands reached to help. He flinched, collided with Jason, realized he was trembling.

No. No, he was better than that. He had to be. He couldn't fall apart. Movie-star idol Colby Kent did not collapse into a ball of petrified fear and let everyone down.

He could play a role. He knew how to do that.

But he tasted dark thick spice when he tried for a next breath.

It got into his nose and his mouth and his chest—God, his chest, his whole body, the way he'd once lain trapped under smothering weight while Liam's hand shoved his face into the mattress and Liam's massive cock split him open, and he'd just resigned himself to waiting for it all to be over—

The sheets had smelled of that cologne too.

He tripped over his feet again. They didn't feel like his.

He clung to Jason. Who stopped walking, eyes dark with concern. "Colby?"

Colby opened his mouth. No noise emerged.

He'd given up on making sounds, then. Anything he'd said had never made a difference. Not after the first time Liam had put him in handcuffs and pushed him to his knees, looked at him thoughtfully, and then hit him.

He'd said yes to the handcuffs. He'd said yes to perhaps trying a bit more roughness in bed. He'd always liked more dominant men, more forceful men, charismatic confident presences; he'd wanted to make Liam happy, the way he'd tried to make Tony happy before that.

He had said yes. Aloud. A choice. More than once. He'd kept trying to say yes. He hadn't known what that would mean.

Jason said that that wasn't consent, and definitely not once it'd escalated past what Colby'd thought he'd been agreeing to. Their therapist said so as well. Colby thought they were probably right. After all, he had known it wasn't right, even at the time; he'd just thought that perhaps he could fix things, could do better, if he tried harder to please. He'd known then, and he thought he knew now, that he might not be perfect, might not be the best at sex or relationships, but he didn't deserve to be hurt. And he had done the leaving—or more accurately the final throwing-out of Liam from his flat, along with the movie producer who'd been having such a splendid time with Colby's supposed boyfriend—in the end.

Jason said that was a good thing, Colby having done that. So did Jill and Andy. Jason had in fact said a lot of words on that subject on more than one occasion, many of them profane, all of them cheering him on with protective fury. Jason said—

But if Liam were here, then that hadn't worked, and nothing'd changed after all—

He hadn't wanted this, with Liam. No—not present tense, not this. Right now wasn't the past. None of that was happening now.

No hands leaving bruises, no voice telling him to stop talking but keep that pretty mouth open, to try to be at least useful in bed, to take whatever he was being given because that was all he was good for, and if it hurt it was his own fault, not being good enough—

The weight pushed against his chest more sharply. He couldn't see well. Sparkles. Glittering and deadly.

The shine of cocktail glasses, shimmery dresses, jewelry, chandeliers. The light swung tipsily, crazily, shedding drunken halos.

He didn't know where the blond hair and the shoulders had gone. He couldn't find them.

Jason was saying his name. Touching him. Colby couldn't feel anything except the memories. They stampeded over him. All the air went away.

If he couldn't see, he couldn't know where Liam's hands might be, or where they'd land next. He couldn't know whether Liam would pull someone else over at a party, both of them high or drunk and laughing, and invite the new man to fondle Colby's arse or cock: showing off all the ways world-famous actor Colby Kent was his property, to be grabbed or shared or played with. Colby had tried to laugh, the first time; had tried to protest, the second time. Liam's eyes had gone stormy, and one hand had closed around Colby's wrist.

They'd ended up in the bedroom, for a reminder of who was in charge. You're embarrassing me, Liam had hissed into his ear while bending him over. Not doing what I want. Not even up for a little fun with my friends. You'd rather hide in here with your books, being fucking boring, the way you always are. You're lucky I put up with you at all.

Colby, hurting and confused, had thought that maybe that was true. He was boring, and he did like books, and he didn't know how to do parties. He'd liked being wanted, the first time Liam had ever come over and looked him up and down and put a hand on his arm; that must have meant something, if Liam had wanted him enough for that once upon a time, so obviously something had changed, Colby himself must've done something wrong, not got something right, not done enough to keep Liam happy…

He blinked and saw blond hair and icy eyes instead of Jason's generous deep brown. He blinked again and couldn't see anything. Swirls of color. Indistinct.

That was Jason touching him, he knew it was—or was it? Hands on his arm, both arms…

The world went away for a bit, inside his head.

He came back when he realized he could breathe. The inhale tasted ragged but cool and clean. Jason was saying something he couldn't quite make out. The noise had gone, otherwise. So had the people.

A different space tiptoed into perception. Not the afterparty. A hallway. Where they were standing. Featureless and ordinary. Pale gold walls. Dry unremarkable air. Maroon and cream carpet with a sort of art-deco pattern, very retro.

He stared at that carpet for a second, following lines. Their shapes felt comforting. Simple. Recognizable. Straightforward.

Jason had a hand resting on his shoulder. He could feel that: just the one hand. Not hard. Not clamping down.

But Jason's voice cracked, and Jason's eyes were wide and frantic, trying to project calm but utterly failing. "Colby? Colby, baby, you gotta wake up, come on, please. Please wake up for me. You're safe, you're here, I'm here, there's nobody else, I won't let anyone near you, I swear. But please—please look at me. Please try. You can see me, can't you? It's just me. Try to wake up for me."

I can, Colby wanted to say. I'm awake. Please don't cry. I'm here.

He couldn't make even a syllable happen. How bizarre.

"Oh God. Oh God, okay, just—just stay with me, okay? Stay with me. Can you hear me? I love you." Jason was pulling out his phone, nearly dropping it, fumbling. "Please just—oh fuck, Colby, I don't know what to do. I don't—please come back, please come back to me, please wake up, I can't—" Tears spilled over. One big shaky hand lifted from Colby's shoulder, moved to touch Colby's cheek, then skidded to a halt before landing. "I don't know how to help, Colby, I'm sorry—I don't know if you want to be touched, or if—I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, I think I gotta call someone, I don't know if you want me to, if you want that, but this—this is worse than I've seen you—I love you and I'm really fucking scared, baby."

Colby tried to breathe some more. Air filled his lungs, and he felt that. Jason's presence was large and frightened next to him, wrapped up in a familiar navy-blue suit; Jason smelled of woods and freshness and soap and the outdoors, not drenched in spice or smoke.

He watched the carpet-lines, his new friends, for another second or two, borrowing their undeniable reality; he thanked them silently, and looked up.

Jason had the phone poised to make a call. Doctor Priya. His therapist. Theirs, more accurately; they went in together, because Colby felt better that way, because he had no secrets from Jason, and because Jason wanted to know how to be a good partner, how to best support him, how and when to deploy protective care.

One corner of his mouth wanted to lift. A smile. His Jason. Loving him.

He became all at once aware that he was exhausted, hairline prickling a bit from sweat, legs uncertain about being upright much longer.

But that was his body, in the present. Feeling those things. Being here and now. In a deserted hotel hallway. With Jason. And a compassionate carpet.

He focused on Jason's eyes. He watched as Jason registered that, as hope snuck into frightened forest groves.

He said, tasting the shape of each word across his tongue, "I'm here."

"Colby," Jason breathed, "oh thank God, oh God, fuck, you're here—" and started to throw arms around him. Froze, muscles arrested mid-action. "I shouldn't—should I—can I—"

"Please. Please hold me."

Jason gathered him close, held on tightly enough that Colby's feet nearly left the ground, and buried his face in Colby's neck. Dampness brushed Colby's skin; Jason was crying.

"I'm here," he tried again, and ventured an attempt at resting his own hands on his loyal champion's back. Jason made a sound and kept on holding him.

"Er…Jason?"

"What do you need? What can I do?" Jason pulled back enough to search his face. "Anything."

"I think I'd like to go home. But…how did we get here? In a…hallway?"

"You don't remember—" Jason stopped. "No. You don't. Christ. Um, okay. You, um. You went so fucking quiet—and just completely white, like you were seeing a ghost—but you were still on your feet, you walked out of there—with me—I didn't realize how bad it was. I knew you weren't okay, but then we got out here and I said your name and you just…you weren't there." He stumbled over the words. Anguish shredded the velvet of his gaze. "You weren't seeing me or hearing me. Or anything, I think."

"I'm so sorry—"

"No," Jason said. "No. It's not—it's not your fucking fault, Colby. It's not. Everything he did to you—that's not your fault, and this isn't either, you came back and woke up and looked at me and that was amazing, you're amazing, every fucking day you wake up and let me kiss you is amazing. You're not apologizing to me because you don't have to. Not for still being here."

"Oh," Colby said, bewildered and wrung out and suddenly wanting very badly to sit down. Perhaps to lie down. To have Jason beside him, a shape and a tower he knew and loved. "I…I don't know. I can't think. Was I…was it very melodramatic? Me making a scene?"

"You didn't." Jason's eyebrows drew together, darkly defensive of him. "Seriously, you basically just—I mean, you looked like you'd seen—something—and you stopped talking, but you kept everything together and we got out the closest door. People might've seen you were upset, wanting to leave, but I don't think they knew you were—you weren't…"

"They won't've realized everything was essentially functioning on autopilot," Colby filled in. "Any actual pilots had leapt out of the emergency exit, I'm afraid."

Jason winced.

"If anyone's allowed a dreadful extended metaphor at the moment, that person should be me. I'm awfully tired and I'd like to sit down, but I'd also very much like to go home, if we could?" His legs had transformed themselves into pudding. The wobbly kind.

"I'll get us out of here right now. And…I love you." Jason sounded wobbly as well. Colby wondered whether Jason also felt like pudding, got an exceedingly strange mental picture for a moment, and discovered that he knew how to smile.

"Colby?" So tentative. So afraid. It must've been bad, for Jason to look this way.

"I was picturing you covered in custard and jam," Colby attempted to explain, which only prompted more worried wrinkles on Jason's forehead. "Oh…no, I'm all right, I'm not handing the controls back to a delirious autopilot, I promise. I thought about my legs and being wobbly, and then I thought you must be feeling that too, and I thought about jelly…it made sense in my head. I love you, of course."

"That…actually, you do sound normal," Jason said, rallying. Knightly courage gathered up to lean on. "Like your normal, anyway. I can carry you if you're feeling like, um, structurally unstable dessert food. I'll call the car, but…home? Not…I don't know. A hospital?"

Colby fought back a shiver. More people, more touching. "No. Please. I'm not hurt, I'm only…"

"Wobbly?"

"Yes. I need…" He wasn't sure. He essayed a shrug, or half of one, or an approximation. "I'm not certain what else I might need, but I want to be home with you." Too plaintive? But Jason didn't appear to mind.

Jason, in fact, tucked him even more securely into a circle of muscles, and guided Colby's head down to rest on his shoulder, and stroked Colby's hair. "We can do that. I'll get the car to pick us up right now, okay? You just rest. Don't worry about anything, I got it."

"I know you have," Colby whispered back, and let his eyes close, face nestled into Jason's strength and scent and love. He could stay right here, being held, and let Jason handle getting them home. He trusted Jason.

* * * *

Jason, having gotten Colby very carefully home and up to the bedroom, having removed collective jackets and ties and shoes—keeping motions slow, measured, in plain sight—and having gingerly settled Colby into bed under blankets, finally managed to believe they might be okay.

He looked at Colby, who was pale and clearly exhausted but sitting up with the aid of pillows. Tumultuous hair lay flatter than usual, hit hard by memories. Colby's eyes—

He felt the shiver bolt down his spine. Haunted. Blue like phantoms. Like deep water over old bones.

And even that was better than they'd looked earlier. When he'd been steering Colby out the nearest door, and turned to ask a question, and realized then that Colby hadn't been hearing him or seeing him at all, gaze locked someplace else behind unbreakable glass—

He'd guessed why. The crowds, at first. The lack of breathing space. But he'd caught a glimpse of blond hair, a shape and a face that at a distance looked a lot like Colby's ex. He hadn't been sure.

He wanted to hit something. Liam, by preference. Hard, and repeatedly.

He wanted to fix everything. He couldn't. What good were his hands, his muscles, his strength, if he couldn't fight back the worst thing that'd ever happened to the man he loved?

Colby said, voice far too small but not too uneven, "Will you sit with me?"

"Of course." Should he? Would he be too large, too imposing? But Colby wanted him.

He sat, tentatively. The bed felt like their bed, the one they'd bought here in London, in this flat that'd once been Colby's and was now definitively theirs. Plush top over firmness. Graceful headboard. Dancing cupcake sheets. He'd bought them to make Colby laugh. They had. They tried hard now.

They were both still dressed, or mostly. Suit-pieces. Shirts and pants. He swallowed. Inched a hand over. "Are you…how're you feeling?"

If he closed his own eyes he saw it all again. Colby completely not present, there but empty, dragged back into a past where Jason couldn't follow…

Colby took his hand, lacing their fingers together. All the bedroom lights were on; Jason had done that, first thing. No shadows in sight. "Better, I think. Mostly terribly tired. Somewhat…fractured. As if I'd been doing a fairly good job of putting puzzle pieces together, and then someone bumped the table, and quite a few of them ended up scattered. I can find them again, though. With your help."

"I never knew you felt like that. Still, I mean. Now."

"I don't, generally. Day to day. I hadn't thought…I didn't expect this. You know why…that is, you know who I thought I…"

"Yeah." He reached over with his other hand too. Cradled Colby's fingers. Long and graceful, they were cold at first, but warmed under his touch. "I saw him. Or someone who looked like him."

"It was even the same overpowering cologne he used to wear." Colby found a glint of humor, hauled up from depths and hard-won. "I never liked it, though perhaps that was because he practically bathed in it. I suppose it's not a bad olfactory warning system. Horribleness approaching."

"I could find out," Jason suggested tentatively, "if it was him. And who let him in." And then he could hit things.

"Oh…no, I think not. If it was or it wasn't, this time…it doesn't matter." Colby sighed, looked down at their hands, looked back up. "It seems we know what my reaction is, either way."

"Yeah. Self-defense mechanisms." He leaned over, caught a stray clinging strand of brown silk, brushed it away from Colby's right eye. "Makes sense. And don't say you're sorry."

"No. But…I wish…"

"Yeah. Me too. I wish I could…" He didn't have the words. Inarticulate. Too immense. "I just wish I could make it easier. Take some of it for you."

"You do," Colby said. "You do. Every day. I…you know, I think I might need to cry a little. I feel…"

"Go on." Jason scooted closer. Offered himself. Everything he was. "All over me. I'm a good box of tissues."

"Now I'm attempting to picture that," Colby told him, and then did something between a collapse and a dive into Jason's arms, and did start to cry, abrupt as the breaking-open of a small scared raincloud.

He hid his face in Jason's chest, muffling sound, though he wasn't loud; some sort of internalized need to not disturb anyone, Jason thought, and rubbed Colby's back with ferocious reaffirmation. Colby's shoulders shook; Jason held him, murmured whatever words came to mind, everything he could think of involving reassurance and love and praise, how incredible Colby was, how strong, how loved. How honored he, Jason, felt, getting to be here when Colby needed to fall apart for a minute, which was absolutely fine because they were both here and safe and Jason wasn't going anywhere.

Colby, unlike Jason himself, was even gorgeous when sobbing, tear-tracks and sniffles and all. Always, Jason thought, always; and kissed the top of his head, lightly, and promised to make breakfast in the morning, cinnamon pancakes exactly how Colby liked them, nice and fluffy, and macadamia nut coffee, and anything else that might be wanted.

Colby just kept crying, not hard but not stopping, a release that overflowed and left him clinging to Jason, while Jason's shirt took in tears with quiet understanding. After a while the sobs trailed off, and his head rested against Jason's chest, not moving. Jason peeked down, realized that Colby had fallen asleep, and felt the sight slice open a crack in his chest.

Oh, Colby, he thought. My Colby. I love you. So damn much.

Colby, utterly worn out, did not wake. Jason shifted position slightly—his left knee was grateful for the adjustment—and settled in. He could sit with his heart right here all night. All morning. As long as necessary.

* * * *

Colby awakened with a mild crick in his neck, a nice heated firm pillow, the sound of purring—no, very light snoring—and the prickly sensation behind his eyes that suggested he'd been crying before falling asleep. He was warm, perhaps too warm: mostly dressed and tucked into multiple blankets. He lay unmoving for a second or two and tried to sort all this out.

He had been crying. He recalled that. He'd been scared, and broken, in the way of once-mended glass knocked off a shelf a second time. He'd needed to let go, to let it fall.

He felt pieces slide and shift and catch on each other, deep inside; but a few of them had done some self-repair as well, laced back together with gold.

He was home and safe. He could be home and safe. If he'd fallen apart, he'd been able to gather the shards again, with Jason's hands there to catch some bits and cradle them until he could fit them in again.

His pillow was of course Jason. Large and solid and also still dressed in most of a suit, propped up against the headboard and pillows at what must be a terrifically uncomfortable angle, head drooping, plainly having drifted off while protecting him.

He loved Jason. He loved waking up with Jason. He wasn't afraid, not here in those broad arms, resting atop that expanse of impressive chest.

Jason would never hurt him. Jason would try to save him. Jason would stay up all night to protect him, and jump off a cliff to rescue him, and gently ask about consent and caresses, and listen to every yes and no without hesitation.

Jason couldn't save him from everything.

He didn't bother to move, feeling the motion as Jason breathed, a slow steady rise and fall like tides. He knew those earthwork eyes wanted to be his knight, his shield, his shining sword. I wish I could, Jason had said. I wish I could take some of it for you. Make it easier.

You do, Colby thought again, crystalline and clear enough that he hoped Jason heard it through dreams. Oh, you do. More than you know. More than I know how to tell you. I love you, Jason.

He glanced around without moving, in the wake of that thought, drinking in the room. Their bedroom. His flat, originally, but theirs now, remodeled and redecorated. The dresser with the fanciful knobs and handles, with Jason's things joining his. The new enormous freestanding mirror. That one'd made him blush when Jason first kissed him as they stood naked in front of it, but in a way he'd liked: a sort of embarrassment that went all hot and shivery in his bones, something like the exhibitionist fantasies he'd never want in real life, all about him being publicly claimed and wanted and utterly completely taken hard, blatant willing submission to Jason's dominance and Jason's choosing of him. That was here on display but in private, reflected just for them.

Jason knew that, about his fantasies. Jason knew him. Better than anyone.

Colby thought, for a moment, about dominance and being taken; the echo pressed up against new internal stitches and nudged but did not snap golden thread. Holding, for the moment; and it was only an echo, after all.

He took a deep breath, let it out. Let himself be real and present and alive in the moment.

Jason stirred. Shifted. Mountains moved. Colby hastily adjusted his own position so as to stay curled up atop the muscles.

"Shit—Colby—" Jason jerked upright, or began to; he recognized Colby atop him and hauled continental drift to a halt. One of the pillows slid away, which meant they ended up flatter on the bed, Colby more or less draped over him. "I didn't mean to fall asleep, if you need—how're you feeling, are you okay—never mind, okay isn't the right word, sorry, fuck—"

"Jason." Colby patted his champion's chest, and fought an inexplicable absurd urge to giggle. "I'm okay."

"Um…"

"Or, well, I'm not, we both know that, but I am, right this instant, I think?"

"Are you?" Jason reached out gradually; when Colby didn't flinch, one hand came to rest atop his head, playing with his hair. "You seem…I don't know."

"I don't know either." He tilted his head into the petting. "I woke up…oh, sugar decorations on a cake, perhaps. Fragile, and I wouldn't want to be dropped, but in one piece. And relatively secured in place. You're my edible glue. Buttercream. Anchors."

"I don't mind being your buttercream. We already said I was your bread." Jason touched a finger to the edge of Colby's left eyebrow: beside his eye. "I can be whatever bakery staple you want. I'm happy you're feeling secure, and don't take this any way other than what I'm saying, 'cause that's what I mean, but…are you sure? Last night…"

"Last night was…" Colby twitched a shoulder, not a full shrug. "What it was. But it was a specific moment, a specific cause…I know what happened and why. I know you're you and not him. I know that." Saying so, he understood that it was true.

He might have a few scars that ran deeper than he'd known, and they'd have to learn how to live with that. But Jason wasn't Liam. Not even Tony, or Mark, or anyone who'd hurt or hit or simply left him. And Colby himself wasn't the same person he'd been.

He'd remembered, or rediscovered, how to choose. How to want, or not want, and how to be wanted. How to be proud of his words and his writing and his life and maybe himself, once in a while. He belonged with Jason—sometimes to Jason, in wondrous radiant submission—because that felt right.

He wanted this. He wanted all of this.

Propped up on Jason's chest, looking down into Jason's eyes—such beautiful eyes, deep luscious brown with those long portrait-frame eyelashes—he said, "I'm all right. We should ring Doctor Priya, agreed—I do think we ought to talk about it with her—but not just yet. Thank you, also. I haven't said that yet, and I should."

"For what?" Jason remained immobile under him: marginally more relaxed but controlling every last muscle with a stunt-man's self-awareness. The one hand stroking Colby's hair did so weightlessly and deliberately. "Haven't exactly done much."

"Oh, no—you have!" He poked Jason's chest, right over that large vulnerable heart. Making the point literal. "So much. I'm doing as well as I am because I've got you to land on."

Jason sighed, though a tiny smile tugged at one corner of his mouth. "No shattered sugar decorations?"

"Not with you around." He was feeling decidedly warm now, with sunshine brushing his back; he glanced at his arm, and a rolled-up lilac shirtsleeve, and remnants of the night before. "I think…I might want to change. Perhaps shower. Would you—"

"I'll make breakfast." Jason swallowed. His glance darted away, then back up. "Promised I would. And you…you sure you want to get up? You could stay here. In bed."

Jason didn't want to join him? Didn't want to wash away sweat and fear and pain? Or didn't want to see him naked, after that awful fragility? "I…I could, I suppose, but…I can get up."

"I know what you're thinking." Jason's eyes did something complicated, a wince and an apology. "I would. I love jumping in the shower with you. You know I do. I just…I don't know. Right now. If the best thing for you is, um…me. Naked. Large. Muscles. Enclosed spaces. With you."

"Oh."

"It's not because I don't want you."

"No…I…wasn't…"

"Don't say you weren't thinking that." Jason tapped his index finger against Colby's lips; the expression on his face nearly broke Colby's heart. "I knew how you'd hear it as soon as I said it. Fucking words. But that's not it, okay? I love you, Colby Algernon Emerson Kent. That's not gonna change."

Colby nodded, behind the fingertip. Then kissed it, shy but certain he wanted to.

"Okay." Jason lifted the finger. "Okay, how's this. I'll sit right here and make sure you can stand up—"

"I can!"

"—and if you can, you should go shower. Get cleaned up." Jason traced the line of Colby's jaw. Colby's entire body tingled, in a weary but not uninterested way. He hadn't known his jawline liked that, until now. "Feel better. And then put on something soft and maybe get back in bed? I'll make pancakes for us, and you don't have to do anything, got it? You just stay here, stay warm—" Stay safe, said his face. "—and let me take care of you today."

Colby thought this over. "Is that an order, then?"

"Maybe. If you want that. Not, if you don't."

"I like it. Being yours…that's good, right now, I think."

"Okay, then." Jason tipped his head up; Colby leaned down. Their lips met, quick and full of promise. "You like being good for me. And you are. Always. So yeah, it's an order."

"Yes, Jason." And the thrill raced down his spine: more distant than usual, not leading anyplace, but undeniable. He was still Jason's; he was still the person who could want this.

He could get up, and proved it: hand catching Jason's for balance while he sorted out legs and the floor and equilibrium, but they all came to an agreement readily enough. He wiggled toes inside his socks, indigo against the creamy rug and topaz sun-stripe. His toes, his socks, their bedroom. Bathed in sun.

He took a breath and found a grin, as Jason sat up but stayed put on the bed, as promised.

He went off to the bathroom, paused, stuck his head back out. "You can come in and brush your teeth."

Jason laughed, got up, and came to join him. "That bad, when I kissed you?"

"No, in fact. But you may as well, while I'm here." He shifted weight, let a hip bump into Jason's. Waved his own toothbrush in demonstration. "Love you."

"Love you," Jason agreed, and joined him.

After general morning ablutions, Jason ducked out into the bedroom and threw on sweatpants and a worn grey T-shirt that stretched across his chest and shoulders. Colby knew which shirt it was, faded from years of washing, friendly to the touch; he wasn't really watching Jason change, but peeked around the bathroom door. Couldn't resist. Wanted to see.

Jason blew him a kiss and commanded, "Shower, and stay warm," and went out and down the short flight of stairs to the kitchen, where noises suggested the imminence of pancakes and the relief of a fortress given a task to complete. Colby glanced at himself in the mirror, shrugged a shoulder philosophically, and flipped on the shower.

He did hesitate for a moment while taking off his suit-trousers and underwear. He'd got the shirt off before his memories had quite caught up; he had his hands on his thighs, clothing sliding down, before he thought that perhaps he ought to've flinched.

He hadn't, though. And he didn't feel worse; he didn't feel anything much about it. Getting naked; well, yes, he did that, often with Jason. And being naked here, in their bedroom, in this bathroom…

He did have some older uglier memories in that bathroom, but those were difficult to find these days. They'd had the entire room renovated; Jason had taken evident satisfaction in helping with demolition, and Colby had taken equal and utterly primal satisfaction in the sight of Jason all sweaty and dusty and rippling with muscle, shirt clinging to his back, whole powerful body intent on making this space something that'd be theirs.

They'd turned the room into a vaguely Atlantean underwater steampunk fantasy, shaped in blue and green and glass and bronze. The shower and tub were oversized enough for all sorts of inventive activities, and the tile in the shower resembled an ocean floor and was decently comfortable if one ended up on one's knees. Colby knew that for a fact. So, come to think of it, did Jason, who had at one point got down there and employed mouth and fingers to pull a third wrenching glorious climax out of Colby's shuddering body.

His cock, which recalled that encounter extremely well, stirred. Not hard precisely, but filling and fattening up a bit. That reaction was clearly unimpeded, then; Colby laughed at himself, shook his head, and finished getting undressed. In the bathroom, steam trailed itself over his skin, beckoning; he'd made it hot.

He stepped in, shut both eyes, and tipped his face up under pelting drops, for a moment.

Water slipped through his hair. Heat sank all the way to his toes. The tile pebbled at his feet, oceanic comfort in place.

Shakiness and sweat and scars faded. Washed toward the drain. Left him breathless, suffused by warmth and steam, surrounded by a fantasy they'd made real.

He scooped up body wash, his own current honey-and-pear favorite, and breathed in the scent; he opened Jason's just to stick his nose over that too, and laughed, and scrubbed at his skin until it tingled and grew pink. He watched his hands move over his own body: arms, legs, stomach. Thighs. Cock. All of himself. All belonging to this version of himself, the version who liked sleeping in Jason's arms.

He made his hair stand up in fantastical tropical-scented shampoo-foam, and ran his fingers through it, luxuriating in sensation.

Jason had been right, to an extent: Colby wouldn't've minded sharing this moment, but this felt right too. Himself, his body, stretching and loosening and getting a tendril of sneaky conditioner dangerously close to one eye.

He flicked it away. Caught himself humming. A song in his head.

He let himself sing a line or two, with an audience of cheering water and curious aquatic tile. About being in love. Friday. Never looking back. Not caring if Monday's black, or Sunday always comes too late.

"It's Friday," he announced to leaping drops, "and I'm in love." It wasn't Friday, the drops pointed out—it was a Monday, in fact, the day after that Sunday-night awards show—but yes, about being in love. They all agreed on that.

Colby smiled to himself, finished with all the hair—Jason did like it a bit long, nice for playing with; Colby had considered cutting it shorter after Steadfast, and had in fact got Will's wild Romantic-poet mop tamed down slightly, but he'd decided he also liked the way it looked, framing his face or curling up or tumbling down—and hopped out.

Clean. Naked. Himself. Whole, if a bit tender in spots. Stronger, perhaps, than he'd realized.

He wandered naked out to the bedroom, considered clothing, opted for pajama trousers and a very specific shirt, and then, barefoot, headed for the door.

* * * *

Jason flipped a pancake. Stared at it. Breathed in cinnamon and heat.

Colby's stove—one of the few things they hadn't replaced—was a chef's stove in the same way the whole kitchen was a chef's dream: belonging to someone who loved to cook and bake and experiment, and who had money to play with. Jason, memories of his Nonna's meatballs and his mother's cannoli resurfacing, had fallen in love. He was pretty sure the kitchen liked him back: someone who appreciated burners and cast iron and really good knives, and also someone who'd use those tools to cook for Colby.

Colby deserved that. Jason and the kitchen were in agreement about this.

He finished with that pancake. Slid it onto the plate to join its friends. Maybe too many friends.

He'd also thrown together scrambled eggs—relatively simple, this version, trying to be quick but finished with red pepper because Colby liked spice—because protein might be good. And bacon, American-style because Jason had some very loud feelings about English ideas of bacon and Colby was American enough, after those years in California, to also like that.

Might be a lot of food. Might've gone a little overboard.

Colby needed that, though. Needed care and cherishing and comforting.

Or maybe that was Jason himself.

His vision blurred, briefly; he set everything down, swiped a hand over his eyes, rested palms on the countertop.

Colby seemed okay, this morning—almost too okay, concerningly so—

God. The memories. Colby white as graveyard snow and silent as grey stone. Colby staring down a conjured-up monster Jason could only imagine. Colby sobbing in his arms, crying himself to sleep.

He tried to breathe. Difficult. Something ripped open in his chest, his lungs. The pancake tower gazed at him in fluffy golden worry.

He couldn't—if he couldn't be enough, couldn't do enough—if all his strength wasn't enough, if he came apart now and couldn't be a rock for the man he loved, who needed him—

He had desperately wanted to stay up there in the bedroom. Or to join Colby in the shower, to gently wash all that fantastic hair, to help clean every inch of smooth skin and maybe leave a kiss on the adorable freckle near Colby's collarbone, the spot Jason's mouth always wanted to nibble.

He'd wanted to be there. He'd been afraid, because he was afraid—

How could Colby want that? Someone huge and hulking and naked, touching him—

He couldn't understand, at this exact second, how Colby could ever have wanted him at all. Intellectually, somewhere in the rational part of his head, he knew Colby could and did, had made that choice, had said so over and over. He believed that.

The rational part of his head wasn't the loudest voice right now.

He'd seen this with Colby, or something like it, once or twice before. Once, the worst—the worst before now—had been back during the filming of Steadfast. When they'd both been upset, Jason had been frustrated, and he'd let his voice get louder, flung arms up in exasperation—

He'd abruptly been petrified then too. Colby had just…shut down. Not as badly as this—he'd been talking, then—but not exactly present, snarled in the past, not responding to Jason as much as to ghosts. Some sort of dissociative episode, Jason'd guessed. Trauma. Flashbacks.

He'd figured out—they'd figured out—that that particular trigger had been his raised voice combined with sudden unpredictable motion. He'd felt sick to his stomach about it, but Colby said it was all right, he hadn't known, they hadn't known. They were working on that one; Jason had to sometimes consciously remember that his family's tendency toward cheerfully dramatic shouting followed by equally dramatic apologies was the exact opposite of what Colby needed. Colby was trying hard to be better about recognizing that Jason could be mildly annoyed about laundry that hadn't made it into the dryer—Colby's writer-brain had interrupted with a scene for the upcoming musical—without that mild annoyance leading to vicious consequences, physical and emotional.

There'd been one or two others, none as bad as this. The time Jason had accidentally tied a knot Colby couldn't get out of, wrists bound together and to the bed, and Colby had started shaking his head and said "No," and had said it again and again, just that single word, until Jason frantically cut him free. That time they'd attempted sex in the shower here in London, before all the renovations, and that memory wasn't one Jason wanted to revisit ever, thanks. He'd thought they were both pretty into it, and they both had been, right up until Colby's last previous shower-sex sensory associations swung in and took over and everything'd spun from enthusiastic participation to a completely chilling lack of response and arguably even lack of consent.

Colby said that that wasn't true, he'd wanted to at the beginning just as much, and of course Jason'd stopped immediately upon realizing what'd happened, so that wasn't at all the same. Jason, who had stopped everything as soon as Colby'd gone eerily silent, had had to try to not pass out or throw up, while simultaneously wrapping Colby up in a towel and rubbing warmth back into icy skin as blue eyes resurfaced and got more focused and aware.

They'd done the remodeling, after that.

But Colby had woken up and been able to reassure him, then. Had at least vaguely recalled what'd happened, how they'd gotten out of the shower, the sound of Jason's voice.

This time had been worse.

Or he thought it had. Maybe. He wasn't in Colby's head. Couldn't know.

Colby had kissed him. Had said, I know what happened and why. I know you're you and not him. I know that. I love you.

Colby had smiled at him, and teased him about orders, and talked about feeling fragile but secure. Puzzle pieces. Glass. Spun sugar. Anchored in place. By cake metaphors.

Colby liked cake. And metaphors.

Jason loved him. So much, so desperately.

Maybe he should've tried to bake a cake. Colby might've appreciated that. He could bake a cake later if Colby wanted him to. However many layers might be requested.

The shower had turned off, upstairs.

Coffee, at least. Colby needed coffee. Morning routine. Warmth. Vanilla and macadamia nut flavors. Ground beans. Rich roasted scents in the air.

Jason lunged for a mug. The one he grabbed bore the logo of that children's literacy foundation Colby worked with here in London, the one that got books into the hands of kids and invited them to read and recommend and pass along stories to others. In hopeful primary colors, it suggested he Share A Story With Someone!

"I'm trying," he pleaded to Colby's mug. "I'm trying—I'm doing the best I can, I swear—I know it's not enough, I know—but I love him."

The vanilla-nut waft of steam brushed his face as he poured. He wasn't sure what that meant.

He begged, even more quietly, "I just want to help. To be whatever he needs. Whatever I can do."

Colby's voice inquired, "Are you asking the coffee for assistance? It'll tell you the same thing I will, which is that you're splendid and I love you."

Jason spun around. Barely avoided knocking pancakes across the floor. "You—shit—sorry! I mean—I thought—what're you—you're up!"

"I am." Colby crossed over to him, bare feet silent against pale kitchen tile. "I'm here. What did you mean, you know it's not enough?"

"I," Jason started, and then just looked at him, really looked: drinking him in. Those bare feet, elegant bones under pink-and-blue plaid pajama pants. Long legs and long waist, and bare arms too, because Colby was wearing not a fuzzy sweater but a T-shirt, which…

…which was one of Jason's shirts. Dark green, with the logo of the local game shop he'd wandered into and left with some new amethyst dice plus an updated Wizard Wyverns handbook and starter kit because he'd left his ancient copy in Los Angeles and Colby had expressed interest.

The shirt was too big, but not ridiculously so. Their height difference wasn't that much, just a couple of inches; the breadth, of course, was another question. But Colby'd managed some sort of stylish half-tucked-in effect that Jason would never be able to duplicate with any amount of effort, which had come out inviting and domestic and attractive. His hair was mostly but not completely dry, standing up and out in silky dark ruffles; his eyes were very very blue, and steady as they met Jason's.

"Colby," Jason's mouth said helplessly.

"I'm here." Colby came right up and put both arms around his neck, leaning against him. Jason gingerly put arms around him in turn; Colby smiled more, and added, "I meant it about the coffee. It thinks you're absolutely marvelous."

"Does it?" He had the countertop at his back, Colby nestled against him in front; when he breathed he tasted coffee and cinnamon and also the fruit-and-sweetness of Colby's shampoo. "Our coffee…is having a good morning?"

"It wants to be here for you."

"Thought I told it to stay in bed. Stay warm." He tipped his head, leaned in, offered a fleeting kiss. No pressure, but a promise. He'd always want to kiss Colby. No matter what.

"Oh, well…specifically, the order was to put on something soft and stay warm. And let you take care of me. You said maybe stay in bed, as I recall."

"Did I? Is that how this's gonna go, today?" Something invisible eased. A knot in his gut, a vulture on his shoulder. Lifting off. Catching a breeze like a gift. Colby's smile hadn't gone away. "Didn't think you'd be up for that. Not just today, I mean, you're not usually a bratty kind of sub."

Colby made a small entertained sound and leaned more weight against him. "I'm not. I don't really want to be. But I am right and you did say maybe. So I'm not technically not listening. Besides, I wanted you and coffee."

"You can have both. Right here." Grip maybe a little firmer. Just a fraction. Testing: and that seemed to be going just fine. "You wanted me? I could've stayed up there with you."

"No, you were right. I needed a bit of space, I suspect." Colby did a little eyebrow-shrug at him. "It felt nice. Being on my own, standing on my own, for a moment. And then I wanted you, because I always want you. My bread loaf. And coffee-conjuror. And maker of pancakes with cinnamon. And—good heavens, how much food do you think we can eat? I know I've been eating more recently, but I'm not an entire medieval feasting-hall."

"I just…wanted you to have options." Jason bit a lip, glanced over at eggs and bacon. "You know. Anything you want."

"Hmm. Did you want me to stay in bed?" Colby detached one arm from around Jason's neck, leaned over, collected coffee, disappeared into caffeine without moving otherwise, and resurfaced. "Oh, yes, this…thank you for this. Would you like to help me carry everything upstairs, and I'll listen properly and get back into our bed, and you can take care of me some more? That might be nice, I think. I could use that."

Colby had said that would be nice. Could use that. Being cared for. Jason straightened up. "Yeah. Of course. I can get everything. You don't have to carry anything."

"I'm not relinquishing my coffee." Colby sparkled at him over flavored morning indulgence. "You've made it for me. And I love it so."

"Um," Jason said. "It—it loves you too. A lot. If you didn't know."

He found a tray and balanced plates. Colby cradled the mug in both hands, a kitten given warmth, enjoying small sips.

They went back up, sunlight at their heels.

Colby settled down instantly into cupcake sheets and cozy blankets, collecting pillows, sitting up against the headboard. Jason set down the tray and sat down with him, because Colby clearly wanted him to. "You need anything else? Warm enough?"

"Fine." Colby picked up a fork, found syrup, poured. Maple sweetness pooled over cinnamon pancakes. "But I do need something."

"Anything—"

"I need you to join me."

Jason looked at him. Colby lifted eyebrows right back, bite balanced on the fork. A drop of syrup held its breath.

Jason leaned down and ate the bite. Colby wanted him to. "…not bad."

"Fantastic," Colby said. "Which you know. I love you for all sorts of reasons, including your willingness to try to recreate the spaceship wedding banquet from the latest Alex Castle novel with me, in our kitchen." He was also eating his own bite, and more. Jason's chest expanded with pride. Colby liked his food. And his food was doing a good job caring for Colby.

He put an arm over Colby's shoulders. Poked at a blanket-fold with toes. Eyed the game-shop logo on Colby's shirt—his shirt—and found a bubble of unreasonable delight rising in his heart.

Colby nibbled at some of every single thing he'd made, and finished ninety-nine percent of the coffee, and then looked up from the mug, somewhat guiltily. "Er…did you want some of this?"

"Nah, it's for you. I had most of the orange juice. Go ahead." He scooted more pancakes that way. "More?"

Colby looked at the plate. Then looked at Jason. Then turned the fork around and held it out. "Feel free to feed me, if you'd like."

Jason felt his eyebrows shoot up. "Seriously?"

Colby curled up against him, boneless and flexible and contented. "Entirely serious. You like it, and I like it, and I like you taking care of me, and I like food, which I know you know, and—"

Jason judiciously interrupted the stream of chatter with a bite. Colby had meant him to, he was fairly sure.

Colby licked lips. Smiled sunnily at him.

"Oh, okay," Jason said, "I can do that," and did. Small bites, half teasing at first—Colby wasn't helpless, and didn't really need to be hand-fed—but bleeding into a more poignant emotion with each repetition.

Bite after bite. A ritual. Connection. Belonging. Him feeding Colby, Colby accepting what Jason gave him, opening that eloquent mouth as if receiving a benediction. Colby safe and secure, well-loved and treasured. Surrounded by Jason's care.

And he would take such care. Such care, with this man. His magical courageous clever other half, who'd known without words how much Jason had needed exactly this.

He said, quiet because of all the impressed admiration, "You asked for this for me. To make me feel better."

"Hmm? Oh…yes, mostly." Colby sounded kind of drowsy, and his head rested against Jason's chest. When Jason peeked down, his eyes had become a little drowsy too: not the transcendent bliss of deepest subspace, still inarguably awake and articulate, but getting dreamy around the edges. "For myself as well…I feel lovely just now…but yes. I did hear you, in the kitchen. Jason…"

"I'm okay," Jason said. He was, or was getting there. Because of Colby.

"Don't ever think you're not enough." Colby tipped his head back to look up and find Jason's gaze, holding Jason's heart there too in sweet trusting blue. "Everything you are, everything you do—it's so much more than I've ever had. The way you touch me, the way you love me…it means so very much. And if you say it doesn't, then—then you're not listening to me properly. I know how much you matter to me, you see. And even if—if I'm not all right sometimes—you're still here even when I'm not. Do you know how much that means? You wanting to stay with me. Wanting to help. That helps. I promise you it does. You're all my baked goods. Breakfast pastries. Home. With cinnamon."

"With cinnamon, huh?" He had to say it lightly. Heart too full. He kissed the top of Colby's head. "You're happy."

"I am. With you, because of you, because of us. Who we are together." Excitement hovered at the corners of floating submissive jewels: in those glorious eyes, in that glorious voice. "I did have one more idea. I'm not certain I'm ready for sex yet—at the moment I'm full of breakfast and coffee, and I might be a bit…what was my metaphor? Pudding? Wobbly. Trifle. With jam. Not quite balanced enough for sex. But soon, I think. Sorry, I've lost track of the first sentence, where did I start? Not with the jam trifle."

"You had one more idea, you said." He had one arm wrapped around Colby; he rubbed Colby's arm, liking the presence of his hand against bare smooth skin and toned swimmer's muscles, under the edge of a sleeve. "Not sex. Agreed. Whenever you're ready, whatever you're good with, you just tell me when and what you're up for. You're in charge here. I'm listening."

He was.

Colby glowed at him some more. "Oh, good. I mean, not precisely—I mean you know I'd rather have you in charge—but also in that case you might go along with my idea. I thought perhaps you should be naked, you see."

Jason opened his mouth, shut it, then said, "I can do that." It made sense, after the first second's shock. Colby wanted to see him, to feel him, to know this was him; to reclaim this for them. "Now?"

"Yes, please."

"You done with the food?"

"For now, yes."

Jason moved things. Sat up. Kept his eyes on Colby. And pulled off his shirt.

"I do like that view," Colby said helpfully.

Jason laughed, didn't want to cry, dammit, and got up for a sec, peeled down sweatpants—he hadn't bothered with boxers—and set those and his shirt on the chair where he'd fold them later, and turned back around.

Colby looked him up and down. Jason's dick had its usual reaction to being looked at by Colby; they both contemplated that too.

"Um," Jason said. He wouldn't say he was nervous, as such; he wouldn't say he wasn't, though. Weird churning feelings. Swooping butterfly throngs. A sense of immanence, of significance, like he hadn't felt since…maybe since the first time Colby Kent had walked into his hotel room, squared determined shoulders, and announced, "I think we ought to have sex."

Colby put his head on one side, then moved some blanket-layers, hooked thumbs into his own pajama pants, and whipped them down and out of the way, so fast that Jason didn't have time to be surprised. This left him naked under Jason's oversized shirt; the shirt actually covered a lot, but left his legs exposed, long and awkwardly graceful against silly playful cupcakes.

Jason's dick got even more pointed about its interest. He said, "Um, Colby…"

"Come here." Colby patted the bed. "Not sex. Only…only hold me, please. So I can feel you. You, and me, and me being yours."

"Got it." Jason climbed back into bed, stretched out on his side, gathered Colby in close. Colby came without hesitation, and their bodies fit together, the way they always did fit, the kind of fitting that made Jason's eyes burn hot. So right. Everything he'd never known he was missing, until blue eyes and rambling sentences and compassion had plunged into his life.

His dick pressed up against Colby's, caught between their bodies and shirt-cotton. Colby was kind of half- or mostly-hard, partway there but not as much as Jason's own response. Jason understood, and hid his face in waves of beloved hair for a second, just breathing. Colby's shampoo and conditioner contained coconut oil and something he vaguely remembered as being mango or papaya or something else tropical; he liked it. He'd borrowed it once or twice himself, though he hadn't committed to switching; he liked his own cedar and sage too.

He had one hand resting on Colby's back, over the shirt; he had the other arm wrapped around Colby as well. He let a hand drift up to rest at the nape of Colby's neck; he murmured, "Still mine, like you said," and felt Colby nod. He added, because it felt right, "You have good ideas." Every atom of his body agreed.

They'd have some more to talk about, later; they'd call their therapist, later. Colby had said so, and was right about that too. That might hurt also, in the way draining a wound could, but it'd be good. For them both, he thought: for Colby, and for himself, and for their respective reactions.

Something like this might happen again. In public, even. He knew that now, in a way he hadn't fully understood before. They both knew.

But if it did happen, they could handle it. They had, this time. They'd made it through and woken up holding onto each other. Here for each other. And professional advice, structure, tools to think about recovery and agency and leaning on each other, would help even more. They'd be okay.

We are okay, he thought. Together. Me, and him. No, not just okay. We're awesome.

"I love being yours," Colby murmured back, words a kiss against Jason's collarbone. "I truly do. You take such excellent care of me when I need that, and I do need that, Jason. And I want that. I want this, with you."

Jason's thumb wanted to caress Colby's throat; he let it, and Colby made a wordless sound of pleasure, and Jason marveled at that too. "You take pretty good care of me, too, y'know, cream puff."

"I try." Colby's accent landed both euphoric and amused. Castle banners flew high and scampered in the wind, against bright skies. "I like your hand there…doing that…"

"I like knowing you like it. My hand on you, just keeping you here…all safe, all mine, right where I want you…because you want that." He hadn't stopped the caresses. "Also kinda like you in my shirt. Only my shirt."

"I thought you might. I like that as well."

"So…not sex yet, but when you can—" It would be a when; Colby had said soon. Jason trusted that. He played with the shirt-collar for a sec. "—maybe sex with you just wearing this?"

"That was the rest of my idea, yes."

Colby sounded far too smug, so Jason rumbled, "Fine, but you're doing the laundry after I make you come all over yourself and my shirt," and Colby began laughing, and the sunbeam tickled Jason's toes.

"Fine by me," Colby agreed, merriment spilling over all the words, body quivering against his, "I approve of your plans for our future. I love you holding onto me precisely like this. And I love you. So very much."

"I know you do," Jason told him, "I love you, and I love holding onto you, and I love us having plans for you, so that's just, y'know, perfect. Like you."

"Me—"

"Like us," Jason said, and Colby said, "Yes," arm tightening around Jason's waist with the affirmation, binding them even closer in a tapestry of cupcake sheets and naked skin and Jason's shirt, woven with the scent of coffee and the taste of maple syrup and morning light.

THE END