The Naming of Weather

Colby Kent, stretched out between sunshine and shade across cushions beside the backyard swimming pool, heard the purr of the classic Mustang as his future husband came home. He recognized the rumble—Jason's stunt-driver expert trainer father had wanted an opinion about the handling, though Colby suspected his fiancé might be stealthily trying to discover what sort of car Colby himself might like as a gift—and so he did not jump, or drop his pen, at a noise and an approach.

Los Angeles sun, summer sun, traced his arm. A whisper of breeze ruffled leaves and citrus trees and landscaping, which was still in the process of filling itself out, because they'd only bought the house a few months ago. Everything was growing, though, light and bright as California skies.

Colby thought the trees and the lounge cushions and the blue water of the pool must be happy, being here. He hoped they were. The gold of it felt so bright in his own heart that it almost hurt, except that it didn't, it couldn't, it was wondrous.

He ran a hand through his hair, and picked up his pen again, and then touched the screen of his tablet, where he'd been looking up various film-producer-related tasks and also wedding centerpiece ideas involving antique leather-bound novels. He'd been idly drawing on the side, on an open notebook page: random calligraphy practice, stray letters and lines in various hands and styles, nothing focused, only keeping his fingers occupied. The sunlight slid along the bare sole of his right foot.

The garage hummed.

He counted steps in his head, not with any real accuracy. Jason coming in, through the garage door. Jason pausing to close the garage: another low hum. Jason kicking off shoes, looking across bookshelves and sofas to the wide-open glass doors—

Jason's voice said, "Colby?"

"Out here!" Colby called back. "By the pool!"

"Not a surprise—" Jason came out onto the patio, framed by open sunny door-frames, and as ever filled up the whole world: a giant kindhearted shaggy brown oak tree, ready and willing to offer shelter to all, currently wearing loose gym shorts and a very old pale green athletic shirt. The shirt was, as usual, losing to the biceps underneath. The stitching on one sleeve was giving way.

Colby drank in the presence of him shamelessly, not bothering to get up. Jason Mirelli was thoroughly glorious, large and masculine and powerful and considerate all at once, and Colby wanted to lick him everyplace, in the sunshine.

Jason's next step paused. Small, but noticeable. And then he came the rest of the way over, chased by the flirtatious breeze, and looked down at Colby. His eyebrows went up, a question.

"I did get a decent workout in," Colby said, mostly for something to say. "I like that we have the pool now. And I knew you'd be a few hours. I'm more out of shape than I thought, though, I should've been able to manage more distance in that amount of time."

Jason's expression changed a fraction. "Did you eat something?"

"Did I…well, I meant to…"

Jason breathed out, not quite a sigh. One big hand touched Colby's shoulder. "Babe…"

"I didn't not eat on purpose," Colby explained. "I was planning to, I just picked up my phone first and then I had to answer Laurie and then he asked me a question and then Jill needed an answer about finances and the timeline, and I know what you're going to say about working out and energy, and I know you're right, I'm not arguing—"

Jason sighed again, but with unshakeable affection. "Stay there."

"Oh," Colby said. "Yes."

He watched Jason head back into the house. He watched Jason's back, and the shape and bulk, and the movement of muscles. He wanted so much, just then, in a shivery radiant way.

Jason came back with a fruit-and-nut bar—homemade, courtesy of his best friend and sparring partner Evan—and a vaguely orange sports sort of drink, and held them out. "Start with that?"

Colby took both obediently. Jason watched him some more.

Colby sat up more, stretched one long leg up and out while doing so, and considered his fiancé's expression: someplace between extremely turned on and hotly protective, he decided.

He knew his current outfit didn't cover much. It wasn't the same swimsuit he'd once worn for a late-night character-motivation discussion with Jason in a hotel pool, because he hadn't been able to find that one, but it was the same designer. And the same style. Dark turquoise, and tight, and good for quick movement.

He really had done a proper workout—he was, and had been for years, a swimmer, and that was the core of his usual plan—but he'd also guessed Jason might like this view. He had been, apparently, wholly correct in that guess. Excellent.

Jason had showered at the gym, being considerate in at least two ways. The breeze tugged at still-damp brown hair, drying it. Jason's eyes were dark and soft and kinder than anything Colby had ever known.

They both were thinking about older memories, other moments, he understood. About days when Colby had hidden under layers of clothing and could not imagine ever wanting to be touched again, when he could barely breathe when Jason—back then, only a friend—so much as put a hand on his arm.

The summer light ran along his bare shoulder, his naked thigh, merrily. Here at their home, the house they'd bought together. Here and safe and unafraid. With the hidden defensive gates and the green views and the deep pool and the citrus trees and the heat drifting up from the sun-dappled ground, under the small wooden arch and bower.

Jason sat down on the flat deck next to Colby's pillow-strewn lounge. Colby wriggled closer, setting down the vaguely orange beverage; Jason leaned back, looking up at him, one knee pulled up as an arm-rest. This meant that Jason's loose shorts slid around in interesting ways; the shirt stretched over his arms, his chest.

"I love you," Jason said, right as Colby told him, "I like you looking at me."

Jason laughed. "Want me to feed you, too?"

"Maybe. I do also like that." He nibbled at a piece of cranberry-granola stickiness. A shimmer of memory drifted up, iridescent.

Not the first night they'd made love, when Colby himself had been such a tangled ball of need and nerves and fear and hope. Instead, the night Jason had come up to his room during filming, after drinks at the bar and reckless courage and the astonishing warmth of Jason at his side all evening, making certain he ate enough and had an escape route and hadn't lost yet another room key after the third or fourth round of glittery pink or violet cocktails.

Jason had got down on the floor then too. Lowering himself, unthreatening, while Colby peeked down at him from the bed. Kneeling, and gently taking off Colby's boots, and ensuring he had water and would feel well enough and would be all right. Talking to him, simply that, and making certain he felt safe.

Not asking for more. Not pushing for it, even though Colby—tipsy and tired and hopeful and fraying at the edges—might've said yes.

Jason hadn't, though. Had only looked up at him with that quiet smile, the one he wore sometimes when happy. And then had left, still without asking anything, without expectation, without a demand that Colby be quiet and be grateful and let cruel laughing hands touch him however they pleased.

"Were you busy?" Jason, in the here-and-now on a pool deck, reached up, evidently just to find a point of contact, a loose grip around Colby's ankle. His hand was large and broad, but in a nice way: a caress, thumb idly rubbing over skin and delicate bones, not a trap. "I didn't mean to interrupt."

"You're not. I knew you'd be back soon, and I wasn't doing much."

"Kinda looked like you were."

"Oh, well. Working, but not in the thoroughly absorbed, lost in a story, words flowing out, sort of way." He waved a hand. "Lots of emails. Discussions—Jillian and Andy want to go through with Andy's glam rock musical period piece. And I am sort of both the screenplay, eventually, once I finish it, and also a certain amount of the funding, and I do like being the sort of producer who actually helps with budgets and location ideas and logistics, properly involved, you know."

"Making everything happen." Jason tapped a finger over Colby's ankle. "All our stories. At least another bite or two? Please."

"I'm eating, I promise." He knew Jason thought he was still too thin. He'd never exactly meant that to happen. He simply hadn't been hungry for…quite a long time, during and then after Liam and that whole disaster he'd made of his life. He'd kept forgetting to eat, or simply not feeling up to it.

But he was doing better. He woke back up around Jason, in so many ways.

He had another bite of the cranberry-almond-granola stickiness. It was probably good for him. "I could make honey-orange poached plums. Do we have plums?"

"We can buy plums," Jason agreed, keeping up: part of the stickiness was honey-related. "And then I can lick dessert sauce off you. All over."

"How do you feel about lavender-orange Chantilly cream?"

"To lick off you, or in general? Either way, totally yes. Did you put on sunblock?"

"Yes?"

"How recently?"

"Recently enough. And I'm in the shade."

"Not enough," Jason said. "The back of your neck is pink."

"Is it? Drat."

"I'm coming up there," Jason said, which he did not have to announce, and Colby loved him for it. "Got room?"

"I like being close to you," Colby agreed, and moved tablet and notebook and pen, and let Jason's bulk settle into a fortress around him. He had always liked large men, powerful men, dominant men; even when he'd been afraid he'd never want anyone ever again, he'd appreciated the aesthetics of Jason Mirelli, action hero of ridiculous blockbusters full of superspies and gadgets and dramatic fistfights, sometimes shirtless in the rain.

Jason never wanted to scare him, never wanted to hurt him. Lots of strength, but tender, and also a lot of worry about it.

Jason found the sunblock. His fingers, smooth with lotion, layered coolness against Colby's skin, generous over sensitive spots. "Gonna have to buy more, if we're going to live out here." His tone said more, casually but carefully. Very American, as opposed to Colby's own messy disaster of an accent, which was mostly distressingly palace-garden-party English but also tangled up with various years of his father's diplomatic postings across Europe, and then Hollywood movie-industry in-character dialects on top of that.

"I like California. I like our house. I like you."

"But you miss the rain."

"I do, but we kept our London flat for a reason. Well, many reasons, but that was one. We'll always have the weather. Any time we go back."

"Speaking of. What'd Laurie want?"

"Oh…two questions, really. No, three. One was about which trousers I thought George would appreciate most for their date this weekend. I never imagined Sir Laurence Taylor asking me for fashion advice. It still doesn't feel precisely real. He's a legend, he's got all the acting awards, he's got a terrifically sharp sword hanging in the hall, and I'm me and we all saw me trip and fall into the mud while getting out of a carriage on set that time."

"You're adorable," Jason said loyally. "And you know Laurie and George both adore you. Don't say you don't know."

"No…well, I'm working on believing it. Laurie says hello to you, by the way." Some small piece of Colby's head—at least eight pieces, if he were honest—couldn't quite believe it yet. He'd somehow got to be friends with the massively legendary acting icon Sir Laurence Taylor, not simply sharing scenes on set but actual friends, maybe, perhaps; and then Laurie had said such lovely words at the Steadfast film premiere, about Colby and Jason being an inspiration, being themselves, being in love; and now Laurie was delightedly openly out as bisexual and going about with George Forrest, author of one of Colby's favorite-ever historical novels and the basis for their movie, and calling sometimes just to chat about gingersnap recipes and this whole tentative venture back into dating someone at his age and in this new world, and now Colby's entire life was overflowing with astonishment…

He tried to twist round to look at Jason. Jason's hand coaxed him back into place. Colby let the low unfurling pleasure of that direction—Jason taking charge of him, taking care of him—sink into his bones, for a moment. He shut his eyes, feeling it.

"Was that all he wanted? Advice about trousers?"

"Oh…no, sorry. It was about our wedding plans, in fact, and I said possibly yes but I wanted to ask you, and then he said hello to you, and that I should tell you he's looking forward to having us over for another Wizards Wyverns game session next time we're back home, sorry, London home, and he'll promise not to get us distracted by trying to translate Shakespeare for the deep woods gnomes."

"At some point," Jason said, "I was a decent Game Master and could actually get my group to finish a quest. I'm not complaining. No, hold still, your shoulder's pink too."

"I'm sorry about the whole trading recipes with the tunneling ghouls bit. That one was my fault."

"I completely love that your reaction to ghouls is to try to offer them food, even if most people would've fought them," Jason said. "I promise you I love that. Even though you made me invent stew recipes written by ghouls on the spot. And it worked, anyway, you got the information you needed. And you're a good negotiator." He genuinely did sound pleased about it; Colby smiled to himself, to the sunlight, to the afternoon.

Jason, when they'd met, had been very much an action hero, and a former stuntman, and also an avid reader of fantasy and science fiction; he hadn't exactly been embarrassed about it, having decided several years ago—around the time he'd come out as bisexual, in fact: being himself, for better or worse—to get over that and shrug it off and embrace running Wizards Wyverns games with stuntperson friends, if any of them would agree to play.

That'd all already been true. But he hadn't had a lot of people to talk to about it.

Colby, who had not previously done any sort of role-playing gaming adventures, but who adored fantasy and paranormal romance, would happily listen to his fiancé all day, whenever Jason got bashfully enthusiastic about new dice or some sort of enchanted tower scenario or the first novel in a series involving ancient dragon-riding kingdoms. Jason was also reading the paranormal gay romance series about the werewolves in waistcoats, on Colby's recommendation, and kept stopping to say things like, "No, don't believe Lord Wickham about the silver mines, Randolph, you idiot, Lyle loves you!" which Colby considered a success.

He added, while Jason applied sunblock to his shoulder, "By the way, he and George are heading to some sort of horticultural exposition this weekend. Laurie says George is looking forward to complaining about everyone's inadequate care and pruning of their roses."

"I'm sure George has a lot to say about good landscaping and bushes."

"That's what I said! And then Laurie sent me a photo of a strawberry-rhubarb trifle that he'd made using my recipe, and he said, By the way, dear boy, this is excellent, we do love a little trifle in the garden, thank you. With a winky face. I think I've created a monster. Especially with the whipped cream innuendo. He's an actual literal knight."

"You realize that's basically you in fifty years. Mythical film career, innuendo, baking, and all."

"Hmm." Colby attempted the turning around again. This time Jason let him, and then put both arms around him and tugged him in for some cuddling, heedless of sunblock and athletic wear, sprawled across the expansive lounge seat and striped nautical cushions.

Colby, securely draped over Jason's broad chest, said, "If I've got half that career I'll be fortunate." He meant it. "I'll take the fairytale ending, though. With my knight. My hero. My husband."

"Your husband," Jason agreed, arms around him. "All yours."

"I love you," Colby said. "So very much. More than a trifle. More than lavender-orange cream. More than strawberry-rhubarb." Jason had started laughing, so Colby stretched up to kiss him, and their mouths came together, as the breeze flirted with rustling leaves and water and the wide blue sky above.

Jason kissed like thunderstorms, Colby thought: like considerate, kindhearted, wild electric billows. Like home, a home built out of sweet shivery certainty: this was here, this was real, this was all-encompassing, full of heat and fire and life-giving liquid drops sliding along his bones. He'd never been able to put all that into words, as much as he told Jason he loved storms; Jason's mouth and tongue were too distracting, pulling him into ripples and light. Colby did his best to kiss back, feeling every sensation, every nibble and stroke of tongue and pressure of Jason's lips. They collectively stole his ability to be coherent, so he gave up and just wrapped himself around his fiancé while Jason tenderly took him apart.

Jason, even in the swirl of breathless cloud-collisions, remained solid and protective and aware of Colby's needs, even when Colby himself wasn't thinking. One of those massive hands had settled into Colby's hair, and the other stayed appreciative but cautious: running along Colby's back, along one thigh, but not venturing near the swimsuit. Colby whimpered a little, especially when Jason traced the edge of the fabric, only the hem, with a hand.

The hand paused. Jason petted his hair. "Still okay?"

"Could you…I don't know, I…"

"I remember where you said not to touch," Jason promised. His lips brushed Colby's ear, nibbling. "Not in public. Is this okay?"

"We're not in public," Colby managed, panting. His entire body, particularly the enormous throb of arousal currently happening beneath the swimsuit, coruscated like stars. "We're home."

"Yeah, but you just said you didn't know, and it's not that private." Jason kissed his ear. "Outside and all. Not that much tree cover yet. And your heart's pounding."

"That's from you kissing me like…like storm clouds. Purple ones. Plum. I want you. I'm yours. Whatever you want to do with me. Please."

"This's nice." Jason nuzzled Colby's throat, mouth busy again. Against Colby's collarbone, he added, "I like you wanting me. Storm clouds?"

"About to explode?"

"Hmm," Jason said, borrowing Colby's answer from earlier. Then rolled them over—carefully, taking most of his own weight—and settled on top. His arousal, also obvious and large, pressed into Colby's bare thigh; Colby's head got fuzzy for a moment.

So many sensations. So many: Jason, of course, Jason loving him and holding him and wanting him. The plushness of lounge cushions at his back, and the backs of his legs, and all his exposed skin, tingling. The scents of sunblock and honey and chlorine and Jason's soap.

The weight, and the memories of other weight, of being pinned down, of being touched when he'd said no, being wanted but in a way that only meant pain, often in public, a demonstration—

"Yeah," Jason said, very very softly, easing to one side. "Thought so. I'm here, I love you, look at me for a sec."

"I'm fine. I still want you. Just…not like that. That position, just now, I mean, I obviously want you in the sense of having ecstatic storm cloud explosions."

"I'll toss you into bed in a minute. Come here." Jason scooped him up and folded him proprietarily into guardian muscles, and kissed him again. Soundly. "Talk to me about what Laurie wanted."

"Sorry, who?"

"I can pretend to be a gardener and, um, trifle with you in our bedroom. With whipped cream. But talk to me first."

Colby curled up into Jason's warmth, against the softly-worn athletic shirt with the loose sleeve. He felt shimmery and achy and confused, turned on and relieved simultaneously, but Jason's hand was rubbing slow soothing rhythms along his thigh, and that helped. "I honestly am all right. And I'm yours, you know that. If you really wanted…" He could feel Jason wanting him, hard and hot.

"I know you are. My fantasy-quest genius cream puff negotiator." Jason's fingers skimmed over Colby's thigh, no pressure, only a susurration of sensation and a vow of presence. "And I do want you. In a minute, okay?"

Colby tucked his face into Jason's neck for a second, simply breathing. In, and out. And then, because he could, licked that spot.

Jason made an amused sound. "Tasting me?"

"My bread loaf. Large and warm and cozy. Durable. Fluffy inside. Delicious, especially spread with honey."

"Fluffy?"

"You're not objecting to the honey?"

"Hey, if you're in the mood for that, works for me."

This time Colby exhaled, mostly a laugh, and then met Jason's eyes: velvet brown, straightforward, loving. "Thank you."

"Nah," Jason said, arms around him. "I'm here to be your ecstatic storm cloud. Or fresh-baked bread. Or dessert food. Seriously, though, you said Laurie had a question? About our wedding?"

"Yes…well, two questions. One you know about, about hosting something small and celebratory for us at his home, a sort of round two of the engagement party, since he'll be doing the play and can't make it out to the party at your parents' house. So we were chatting about dates. Which is how we got to the question of trousers. And then to possible locations."

"Of…the trousers?"

"You know what I mean."

"Most of the time, yeah, but you might have to help out on that one."

"Oh, sorry…er, for the wedding. Venues. What we were thinking. I said we hadn't settled on anything yet, only that we wanted someplace historic and relatively intimate but probably not a church wedding as such, since neither of us is terribly religious, though if some of your family—"

"Nobody close enough to bother about," Jason said. "Maybe some of my aunts."

"Oh—should we—"

"Nope. Our wedding, not my great-aunt Maria's."

"But if—"

"You know what you like," Jason reinforced. "So do I. Go back to the trouser location question."

"It wasn't about trousers! Er…what was I…oh, right. So after I said that, Laurie said, well, he'd love to be involved somehow, if there's anything he can offer, that luscious house or his favorite cufflinks or doing a reading or even performing the service, as the officiant, because you can do that sort of thing online, you know, getting ordained and such, and then we both sort of stopped and thought about that one, and that was when I said, well, I'd love that, honestly, but of course I'd have to ask you."

A second or two of silence happened, and then Jason said, "Our marriage might be officiated by Sir Laurence Taylor?"

"He does keep reminding us both to call him Laurie."

"Colby. Holy shit."

"He wants to do it."

"Oh my God."

"I haven't said yes yet, but I was thinking, if we liked that idea…he's such a good friend…"

"He and George would adopt you if they could." Jason continued to sound, and look, somewhat poleaxed. "But yes, fuck yes, I mean, wow."

"We can call him tomorrow, then. Late tomorrow, their time, obviously. Or even the day after. Not interrupting their date. We'll work out time zones later. He'll be thrilled." Colby ran a hand along Jason's arm, enjoying the shape and breadth. "I do love that idea. A friend up there with us. With me, and you."

Jason's arms tightened around him. "Yeah. Me too."

"Thinking about that…the wedding plans, and such…"

"Picking a calligraphy style?"

Jason had noticed the pen and notebook, then; Colby, entertained and in love, drew a J across his fiancé's bicep, fingertip a writing implement for an instant. "No, that was only random. Keeping my fingers busy, while thinking about all the emails and production questions and answers for Jillian. Purely meditative, I'm afraid, this time."

"I like it when you're happy. So if not that, then what?"

"Ah…it might be an odd question. Or perhaps not. I don't know."

Jason moved a hand, stroked hair out of Colby's face, gently defied the tugging breeze on his behalf. "Ask me whatever you want, cream puff."

"Well…yes. All right. About the wedding plans…this was on a checklist I saw, and I hadn't thought, but then I thought, well, if that might be perhaps a question, and then I thought about the question…" He'd begun now. No going back. "Do you want me to take your name?"

"Do I want you to—" Jason stopped. The afternoon skipped a beat, suspended in gold.

Even the breeze got expectant. Hushed. Paying attention.

"Colby," Jason said, sitting back more. His hands were solid on Colby's shoulders, one moving to touch Colby's chin, to ensure their eyes met. He did not move much other than that, as if afraid to shatter a crystal moment.

"It was only a question?" Colby said, and then realized that that'd come out as a question, and cringed internally at himself.

Jason swallowed. "I know. Um…before I say anything…can you do something for me?"

"Of course, anything—"

"Think about how you just asked me that. What you said."

"Whether you want me to…oh." He heard it, then. "Oh. I didn't mean…I don't know what I meant. I'm sorry."

This time Jason flinched, visibly. Grief in those deep earth-rich wells, windows right down into a giant heart that opened up and bled for everyone.

Colby bit his lip, and then, because he meant it and because he had a decent guess about the reaction he'd provoke, grumbled, "Oh, damn."

Jason blinked. Eyebrows going up. "You swear now?"

"Learning from the best. I could've said fuck."

"I can count on maybe four fingers the number of times you've said fuck."

"Only if you're allowed to count multiple times as one, because I'm very sure I was begging you to, er, do that, that time. And I said it more than once. About now, and the question…all right, yes, I can hear it now. I didn't even think about it. About how I…thought about it. Except I'm not sure I do. Or I didn't mean to. Like George and the flowers."

Jason clearly spent a couple of seconds working this out, and then said, "Because he doesn't actually mean the complaining? Oh. Okay. Because the way he says it isn't what he actually means. It's what he's used to."

"Yes. And…it's even fun for him, I think."

"Got it. But you don't need to apologize."

"That one's more of a work in progress, I'm afraid." He leaned in, leaned weight against Jason; felt those massive protective arms go around him. Head on Jason's shoulder, he added, "Let me try that first question again, then. Would you like it, and that's me honestly asking because I want to know, so, would you like it if I took your name?"

Jason made a small considering rumbling sound, a shift of earth under sun and shade. Colby snuck a hand up under the clinging shirt just to touch heated skin and fabulous muscle.

Jason said, slowly, not as if hesitant but as if he'd not thought much about it, "It doesn't really matter to me, I think?"

Colby, surprised, realized his fingers had stopped exploring Jason's abs, at the first words.

"I don't mean it doesn't matter!" Jason had plainly also noticed the cessation of motion. "You can touch me, baby, touch me anywhere you want. Go on. I mean…I don't know. I guess I feel like…it's not up to me. It's your name. And I don't need you to do that. It really doesn't…I think what I'm trying to say is, I know you love me. And I love you. And we'll be married. No matter what our names are."

"I know," Colby agreed. "All of that."

"So I guess it doesn't matter to me, but…not in a bad way?" Jason let out a breath, wry about himself or his next thought or both. "Hell, I'll change mine if you want. You've already got four names, and one of them's Algernon."

"It isn't my fault my mother was having a Swinburne moment! But I'm not entirely opposed to being a poetic reference. Generally speaking, that is. You really would?"

"Jason Lorenzo Mirelli Kent," Jason said. "Not bad. I kinda like it." And then he paused, and added, flawlessly earnest, "Jason Lorenzo Algernon Mirelli Kent. If I'm changing it anyway."

Colby poked him right over the heart, not hard. "Don't you dare. One of us is enough."

"I love you," Jason said, catching his hand with an exaggerated motion that Colby saw coming a mile away. "Colby Algernon Emerson Kent."

"If you say it enough times it stops sounding like a real name. Honestly, though…" He took a deep breath. Jason's fingers felt good, laced into his. "I was considering the other way round. I like yours. I like…the idea of it, I think."

Jason waited, fingers shifting to circle Colby's wrist: support, an anchor, not a restraint.

"I mean…I'm yours, and I like being yours. And it's…I'm not being horribly traditional about it or anything, it's more that…" He could feel himself blushing now. Unless that was the sun. Pinkness. More. "You know we…er…when I'm on my knees for you, and when you tie me up so very nicely and do all the things that make me turn into the erotic storm clouds, and when you tell me that I'm yours, the way you say that…I love feeling that. Knowing that I belong to you. Or with you, if that sounds less possessive. But I love it. And I love your family, and I love being part of your life, and so I was thinking, as a symbol, sort of…"

Jason blinked at him, and didn't answer, possibly distracted by the tying-up bit, or the erotic storm clouds.

"Er. Or we could hyphenate. Or not hyphenate, and have the terribly complicated double last name, like Conan Doyle. Kent Mirelli."

Jason blinked again, muttered under his breath, "Remind me to put on a thunderstorm sounds playlist later…" and then, "That one."

"The Conan Doyle version?"

"Um. We can talk about the hyphen. Combining names. But I like that." Jason's eyes were big and deep and thrilled and wondering, a little amazed, entirely wildly happy; Colby wanted to kiss him. "I like the idea of us having the same last name. For kind of the reasons you said, but both of us. I'm yours too. But if you want it in that order, um, because you…you want that…then yeah, of course yes. Yes. Hell yes."

"Oh, good," Colby said, with some outright relief because he'd been hoping for that answer, more than he'd realized; and wanting to laugh and wanting to lean in for more kissing and wanting to get married on the spot, right that second, if that could be possible. "Perfect, then. You and me. Officially Jason and Colby Kent-Mirelli-Algernon."

Jason burst out laughing, enough to shake them both. The large bench of their lounge, being sturdy, did not creak. The breeze danced.

"Entirely a joke," Colby threw in, purely for emphasis. Sunshine glittered from the water, and gathered gold and blue in the air. Jason's fingers had stayed around his wrist, a loose curl of gathering sensation, poised as the moment before a kiss.

Jason's next breath caught, hovered, lingered: a wordless burning heat, scorching all through Colby's body. Those earthwork eyes, that expression, might've belonged to a man seeing a treasure, a rarity, a sorcery; but he was looking at Colby, in the afternoon.

Colby told him, "This counts as not in public. And you were right, earlier." He drew a breath, let it out, with a small lip-lick that Jason tracked intently. "I do know what I like."

"Yeah?" Jason swallowed. Hard. "I mean, I know. I know you do."

"I know when I want you." He could feel, where they were nestled together, Jason wanting him in turn: real as the sun, the sky, the earth, the cushions being squashed beneath them, the tall green-woven wood of their poolside alcove. "Here. Now. You."

Jason nodded without looking away from him, intent on Colby's face. His hands, however, did not move: one around Colby's wrist, one lightly resting at Colby's hip.

"You can touch me." Colby offered a hopefully helpful wriggle, demonstrating, in his fiancé's lap. "All over."

Jason gave both the words and Colby's unsubtle physical state some visible consideration, taking a moment. And then he started to grin even more. The hand around Colby's wrist got a fraction tighter, not too much so. "All over?"

"I did say so, didn't I? You also know what I like. I think we should do that."

"You in a swimsuit." Jason teased a finger, two, under the fabric in question. "You talking to me. The way you're smiling."

"Those're all things you like."

"And all mine. My Colby. Kent-Mirelli."

"Much better, yes—"

Jason, still laughing, rolled him back into cushions, in the shadow of the curving wood and young leaves. They landed face to face, side by side, legs tangling: no weight, no flattening crush of memories. Only the worn fabric of Jason's shorts against Colby's bare thighs, the press of bodies together, the joy in Jason's face and mouth and eyes.

Jason kissed him, then: firm and bright, electric and singing. Attention paid in full to Colby's mouth, lips, tongue: tasting, exploring, affirming. One hand found its way to tugging down fabric; Colby gasped into the kiss as Jason's hand wrapped around his length. Jason hesitated, wanting an answer, encouragement; Colby begged, wholeheartedly, "Please, yes, do you want me to say fuck again, more, please," and Jason obliged, stroking and caressing, thumb rubbing over Colby's tip and the slickness gathering there, while the crinkles of joy took up permanent residence in his gaze.

"Me touching you," Jason said softly, "you like that, baby…me playing with you, making you feel good…making you come for me, in my hands, just like this…you do like that, don't you, being all mine like this…"

"Oh God—" Colby's entire body arched with lightning. "Yes, yes, yes—yours, yes, make me—"

"Like this." Jason's hand didn't stop, a ceaseless sweetness that demanded more and more, inexorably coaxing him toward the peak. "Right here, right now, the way you want…the way you're mine everywhere, in our bed or out here, in sunshine, where you're going to come when I tell you to…"

Colby couldn't recall words. Everything shuddered on the brink, afloat in bliss, holy and decadent.

Jason ordered, with glorious firmness, "Talk to me, baby," and Colby whimpered a bit and managed, "Please, please…Jason, I need, I need to—it's like the rain, it's—so much," which must've made some sort of sense because Jason kissed him for it.

He couldn't help, now, pushing back into each caress, craving, spilling over with it; the slide of Jason's hand, large and heavy and wet with Colby's own want, was too much and too perfect all at once. Colby's vision was sparkly as well, unfocused and full of light, and he thought he might be talking more, begging, babbling, as Jason gathered him closer.

"Yeah," Jason murmured, still soft but an undeniable command, a kindness. "Show me how good you feel, go on, come for me…"

Colby might've screamed. He started to; some small part of his head remembered about being outside, in the open, and he buried his face in Jason's shirt to hide the sound, but then he wasn't sure he even made a sound, because Jason's thumb rubbed the exact right spot and Jason's hand slid along him and Colby's whole existence went thunderstorm-hot and liquid and empty of everything but release, pouring out, flooding through him.

He was clinging to Jason, he became aware in the aftermath. Trembling, hips not quite still, twitching as Jason touched him. Jason's hand kept fondling him, not at all roughly: loving reminders of presence and dominance, caresses given to crackling over-sensitive flesh, playing with wetness. Colby's face felt damp; Jason's shirt, he discovered, was damp. His eyes were hot too.

"Hey, sweetheart." Jason's voice was low, a shifting of earthworks that Colby felt all over. "Still good? Feeling like your thunderclouds?"

"Good heavens," Colby got out, and then stopped and said, "Er. Pun not intended, though, yes, the heavens feel very very good, splendid, I think, you're marvelous at making the thunder feel extremely ecstatic, Jason, my God," and then he shivered as Jason petted him again. He felt incredible, in a tremulous raw taken-apart way, and he embraced it. Yes. Oh, yes.

"Good." Jason kissed his ear, with evident satisfaction. "I like seeing you all wet. You can rain all over me any time."

"That somehow sounds even more dirty when you say it."

"It's your metaphor. Good touching?"

"So good. So extraordinarily good. Can the thunderclouds, ah…return the favor?"

"Yes," Jason said, solemnly, though some other emotion quirked the edge of his mouth. "You can touch me anywhere you want, always."

Colby narrowed both eyes at him. "Were you imagining thunder elementals?"

"Um. I was just. Wondering whether clouds could have hands. I love your hands. I love you."

"I'd be a fantastic thunder elemental," Colby informed him, "I already feel like one, just now, and I'd definitely have hands, because I'd always want to find you and touch you," and tugged at the string of Jason's shorts, untying them, while Jason made an amused sound that turned into a groan as Colby uncovered the length of him, thick and full and hard.

Jason did not mind any rambling about thunder and mythical creatures. Jason never had minded; they'd fallen into those conversations, if not from the very start, at least early on. One more way they fit together. Words and touches. Stories and metaphors. Understanding.

Jason's next exhale came out all ragged and full of pleasure, as Colby got a hand round him. "Not gonna last too long…watching you, feeling you, like that…"

"Knowing you can do that for me." Colby nudged Jason over onto his back, amid blue-embroidered beckoning pillows. Jason went willingly, one protective arm around Colby in turn. Colby's stomach was sticky, and Jason had at some point shoved his swimsuit so far down it was nearly off completely, trapping his ankles; but he didn't mind and it didn't matter, when Jason looked at him like that.

He added, "Knowing you're taking such good care of me," and watched Jason's eyes get darker and hotter. "Knowing I'm yours, and you make me feel so good, so safe, so absolutely right, with you giving me everything I need…"

Jason made an extremely desperate sort of sound, which Colby mentally filed for future reference. Jason's luscious cock—such girth, such length—also appeared desperate, given the jump and pulse when Colby stroked him.

Working well, then; Colby, body serenely full of spent glitter and lightning, added, "I'm asking, because I like you taking charge of me, taking care of me, deciding what we need, while I'm all yours…" He trailed fingers along Jason's thigh, kissed the same spot: inches from Jason's straining tip. Then glanced up, deliberately. "If I would like to…not only hands, but my mouth…can I do that, for you?"

Jason swore out loud, shaky. "Yes—oh, fuck, Jesus, Colby, yes—if you're sure, I mean, you don't have to—"

"I know. I want to." He leaned down, kissed Jason's tip, tasted the evidence of gathering need, salt-sweet, skin lightly scented with the soap Jason had used at the gym, when showering. "Like honey. Tell me what you want."

"Christ," Jason got out. "Um. Yeah. Okay. Colby, God, I love you. I want you to—to get your mouth on my cock, baby, that pretty mouth. Can I—you want me in charge, right?"

Colby nodded, and then, in case Jason needed to hear it, agreed, "Yes, please," against Jason's cock, which jerked in answer.

One of Jason's hands landed in his hair. The other—fingers and palm a bit sticky, having got Colby off and then cleaned up roughly with a towel—came to rest at the back of his neck, when Colby bent forward.

Jason's breath skipped. Colby did that particular thing again, and again, glorying in the feel and shape of Jason against his tongue, in his mouth, filling him up. Jason held him in place, a little more securely after a minute or two; and then the thrusts got harder, faster, shoving up and pushing into Colby's throat.

Jason said, ragged, "Stop me if you want—you remember that, just tap my knee—if you don't, if you want me to—oh Christ Colby I'm going to—" His body went taut.

Colby happily did not stop, taking every bit of Jason he could. The final pounding thrust, the sharp bright tightening of Jason's hand in his hair, the sudden pulse of heat down his throat: he wanted that, needed it, fell into it. Peacefully so: he was Jason's and this was good.

"Oh fuck," Jason was saying, panting, all the muscles awash with ebbing tension. "Oh, fuck, Colby—baby, cream puff, my fucking thunder elemental, come here, please, come here—" and Jason's arms were around him, tugging him up, holding on tight. "You're so good, baby, you're so perfect, that was so fucking perfect, I love you."

Colby, face being squished into his future husband's chest amid the folds of the shirt they hadn't bothered to remove, murmured, "I thought I was the one who got talkative after all the splendid sex," and stuck one bare leg in between Jason's, contentedly. His swimsuit finally fell off his ankle and landed somewhere, most likely on a nearby cushion. Jason's hands ran all over him, stroking him, as if unable to stop touching every inch.

"You do," Jason said. "I love that you do. I love that you always have words. I love how you feel. I…am I touching you too much?"

"So many varieties of no, you're not, it's not too much. Please keep doing that. So…I was good, then?"

Jason froze, dismayed. "You…didn't hear me, or…"

Colby extricated himself from the extravagance of muscles in order to find the corner of Jason's mouth for a quick kiss. "Sorry. Mostly a joke. I did say splendid, about the sex. And I think I've made you feel splendid as well."

"You did," Jason promised. "You do." And then, "Right, you were totally making a joke, because you obviously heard me, that was actually awesome, you win at timing." And then, "Mostly?"

Colby shrugged one shoulder, let it say everything he didn't in fact have words for, all the relief and reprieve and recognition, the old never-good-enough lonely hurt and the bandages Jason's love put over that hurt, letting him heal while helping to hold some fractured pieces when they needed holding. He met Jason's eyes, and touched Jason's mouth with a fingertip, tracing silent questions and replies, knowing he was smiling.

"Oh," Jason said, against his finger; Colby moved it. "All right. You're wonderful, and we're good."

Colby had to laugh. "I feel wonderful. With you. Because of you."

"Amazing," Jason said. "Me too. With you." His hand ran through Colby's hair. "I get to marry you."

"And then we'll be married. Speaking of perfection."

"Would you want to get married outside?" Jason waved his other hand in the direction of the sunlight and the pool, put his arm back around Colby: keeping them cuddled together, under the wooden shade of the retreat. "In the sun. Someplace warm. Historic, I know we said we like places with history, but maybe also tropical. You could wear a tiny swimsuit. After, I mean, not during the wedding."

"Maybe." Colby considered this proposal, lounging lazily across his future husband's solidity. "Though now I might spend the entire ceremony thinking about you telling me I'm yours, out here, in the sunshine. I do realize we both might enjoy that."

Jason's happiness bounced like a merry earthquake. "Maybe. If you—oh, no, maybe not."

"Hmm? Why?"

"You and sun." Jason made a decently guilty face. "Okay, someplace historic and indoors. At least with a roof. No arguing. Did I hurt you?"

"Sorry?"

"Babe."

"Oh, no, I didn't even mean to say it that time! I meant, why would you ask?"

"The back of your neck's still pink." Jason got more guilty. "And I had a hand holding you, there. Sorry, I didn't think."

"Well, I didn't notice, and I thoroughly enjoyed your hand there, so I think you're all right."

Jason did another low rumbling, this one containing notes of, "Making sure you're all right, take you inside and cover you in aloe cream…"

"What was that? Because it sounded like you've got plans to cover me in cream."

"Definitely," Jason said. "So many plans. Shower. Clean-up. You and food, because we should both eat something that isn't made of honey and Evan's workout mix. You and cream." He hadn't moved, though, except to hold on a bit tighter. "Did you still need to get some work done?"

"Nothing that can't wait. I like making plans with you. About cream. Or food. Or our wedding. I actually did have some calligraphy ideas, not what I was doing when you got here, I mean, I'd been playing with some styles earlier. Practicing. Er…practicing signatures, that is, if you want to know."

Jason's whole face lit up. "You were practicing signatures."

"It was on my mind," Colby told him. "I wanted to see how it'd look. In various versions. What I was thinking about."

"Did you save them? Can I see?"

"I did, and you can. You might want to practice, too. If we're officially doing that, legally, both of us…" He paused, appreciated Jason's utter unconcealed glee, felt the flutter and leap in his own chest. "…Mr. Kent-Mirelli."

THE END