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.

  Seasons

  Summertime

  Wesley Kim had not, historically, been a beach person. Unfortunately, his fiancé was.

  He watched Finn, across sun and sand. Gold and blue, sea and sky, Finn’s summer-kissed hair and tropical eyes. Fitting in, right at home. Finn Ransom had always been a Southern California surfer-boy, growing up with sand under his toes and salt on his skin, both in real life and on everyone’s sitcom television screens. He’d been athletic, warm, approachable. Even more than that, he’d always been simply nice: the sort of boy next door who’d smile and assist an elderly neighbor with her groceries, and if he got into trouble it would only be the result of impetuously doing a favor for a friend in need, or keeping someone’s secret if they asked, or caring too much about a local community cause.

  That’d been a plotline of more than one episode. Wes admittedly hadn’t seen them all. Sometimes he wondered whether he should, given that he was marrying former teen idol Finn Ransom; but then he thought that might be weird, and anyway he had seen pretty much all of Finn’s more recent work, those cautious comeback ventures, a couple of voice-acting parts in colorful animated fantasy features, supporting actor roles in some impressively prestigious films.

  Wes had even been on a red carpet or two. Dressed up, facing flashbulbs and microphones, at Finn Ransom’s side. Photos of them had made it to tabloids, as well as more respectable entertainment news sites, and various levels of celebrity gossip. He knew that would happen again, more and more.

  He was getting used to it, mostly. He loved Finn, and he’d known who he was dating; he’d known from the start. They’d met on a movie set, after all. Finn had said once that it sounded like a romance novel: the sexy historical consultant and the lonely former teen star trying for a comeback. He’d been joking, but the truth of the emotion lay like a sunspike in the blue of his eyes: hot enough to sear, to scar. Wes had kissed him, fiercely, and had done his best to make the loneliness go away.

  He thought he’d done a pretty good job. Most days, most times, at least. With Finn’s ring on his finger, the ring Finn had had made and surprised him with, a glorious perfect proposal. With the matching ring on Finn’s finger, because Wes had been planning to ask; of course his other half had beat him to it, diving in with sheer joy.

  Finn had got down on one knee. Wes knew how much that meant. He knew how hard Finn had worked, in physical therapy and consultations with doctors, to make that happen—easily, without a flinch. Practiced.

  Wes had felt tears spring to his own eyes, then. They still did, when he thought—thought, wondered, got lost in awe—about that moment. He thought he always might feel that way.

  He’d do anything for Finn. Forever, always. Including the publicity. And, today, the beach.

  He didn’t exactly mind the attention, as such; he was used to guest lectures, conferences, public speaking. Red carpets and Hollywood were generally bearable, especially with his arm around Finn; they were, of course, also not anything he’d ever have guessed would be part of his quiet medieval-history professor’s life.

  Like so much, since meeting Finn, he thought; and watched his fiancé some more. The sun beat down on his head, his shoulders. The Venice Beach summer tasted like oceans and sunblock and sea-salt, when he breathed.

  They’d wanted a tiny vacation. A day of play, relatively local. Venice was nearby, and pretty, and had good food, not to mention shops full of candles and scented soaps and artistic glass sculptures. And Finn did love oceans.

  The sun shimmered happily. The waves curled and leapt and danced. Surfers bobbed, out in the swells. The whole day was busy offering its best impression of a picture-perfect postcard, complete with palm trees and Southern California sun. Wes looked at his fiancé, who after all was the most important part of that picture, and considered his present options.

  They’d ended up wandering into a sand-sculpture competition, at this specific moment. Wes could see a dragon, an alligator, a pile of seashells, a mermaid, a few less defined shapes, taking form. They were honestly decently impressive: large-scale, obviously serious, made by sculptors hard at work. The competition was an actual contest, with judges: an event, happening.

  Finn, who loved every random piece of the world, had immediately bounded that direction and plunged into chatting with sculptors, asking questions, gesturing with animated hands, befriending artists and judges and probably the sand-alligator too. A few people had recognized Finn Ransom and asked for pictures, which had started a tiny ripple effect of curiosity, so the few was slowly becoming more.

  Finn looked back Wes’s way. Waved happily, feet buried in warm sand, arms very tan against the turquoise of his tank top. Like Wes, he was wearing jeans, because they’d been expecting to stay on the boardwalk, the pier, flatter walking areas that were easier on his left knee and those hidden silver-scar reconstructions. That resolution had lasted until the first shiny distraction. Wes fully expected to have to brush sand out of clothing, and their car, and wherever else it snuck into.

  He also expected to have to help, later. A massage, a heated wrap, painkillers, support. Sand was notoriously uneven. Finn hadn’t brought the cane.

  And Finn was now making beckoning motions at him. Wes, not currently in a sand-competition circle and not good at talking to people outside of lecture halls, tried to wave back with a no please come back over here on stable ground and I’ll buy you ice cream message.

  Finn pointed at the dragon sculpture. And then gave him enormous tragic kitten eyes, exaggerated, irresistible.

  Wes sighed. Tried to roll up his jeans enough to avoid sand, a futile effort. Picked up his shoes and Finn’s abandoned flip-flops, and picked his way around the competition space, not disturbing anyone, eyeing a supposedly medieval castle that looked more like a Disney fantasy than any proper twelfth-century construction. “Do you need more sunblock?”

  “I was pointing at the dragon.” Finn considered this. “Do dragons need sunblock? Oil, maybe. For scales. Anyway, Wes, this’s Luis, he’s organizing this whole sand sculpture event, and that’s Bethany, she’s one of the judges, and they’ve been doing this for like six years, and that’s awesome, and also we had an idea, oh, sorry, Luis and Bethany, meet my fiancé Wes, he’s perfect and I adore him and he knows about medieval dragons and decorative jewelry.”

  “Hi,” Wes said to the organizers. They beamed at him.

  “So we did have an idea—oh, hi, yes, I can totally sign that, are you sure you want me to, if it’s your sketchbook? If you’re sure—” This fan was bashfully holding out a book, with a half-done drawing of the sculpture competition. Finn asked their name and complimented the detail of the art, genuinely impressed by skill. The fan gazed at him with starry eyes. Wes understood completely.

  “Anyway,” Finn said, keeping more weight on his right leg than his left, Wes’s hand now automatically at his back, “so we all thought it would be fun if you and I sort of joined in as guest judges? Not making the decision, I mean, I’m so not a sculpture expert and they’ve got actual judges who’ve done this before, but Luis said it would be good for the attention, publicity, and I thought, well, you know things about historical castles and also adornment and textile culture?”

  Wes glanced at Luis, who smiled sunnily. Finn did the hopeful-kitten expression even more hopefully, and shifted weight a fraction, readjusting.

  Personally, Wes suspected the initial suggestion had been more to do with actor Finn Ransom and that resultant attention, versus the presence of an unexciting medieval historian. That second part would’ve been his fiancé, wanting everyone involved. He said, “I don’t know…”

  “They’re really almost done,” Finn said, “it won’t take that long—oh, look at the alligator, look at the detail on those teeth—” The sculptor of the alligator inflated with pride. “And it’ll be fun!”

  “We were going to find the bookshop,” Wes tried. “And I’ll buy you fancy artisan ice cream.”

  “We can still do that, only after?”

  Bethany volunteered, “If you agree to help out, we can send someone to get you ice cream!” Even the myriad dark braids of her hair quivered with anticipation.

  “Finn,” Wes said, and let the hand touching Finn’s back touch a little harder, a question, a worry.

  Finn looked at him: softer, understanding, eyes bluer than the horizon. “I just think it’ll be neat. I like watching people make art. But we can go and find books if you want.” He meant it, too.

  Wes put the arm around him, this time. Kissed him lightly. Eyed the dragon, the alligator, the sand castle, the less defined shapes. “The tail on that dragon’s too short for good weight distribution. The scales look interesting. Intricate.”

  Finn’s eyes lit up.

  “And that crenellation work on the castle is crooked. Terrible for practical defense. I like the color they’ve got on that alligator, though; it stands out.”

  “I love you,” Finn said.

  “You’re going to sit down,” Wes said, “in between looking at sculptures. And someone’s finding you ice cream. They did offer.”

  “We absolutely did,” Luis put in, with the eagerness of a youthful organizer sensing publicity and social media opportunities. “Would you like chocolate, or mint, or lemon-honey, or lavender? And we’ve definitely got beach chairs! And do you mind if our event photographer takes pictures? Only a few, I promise, but it’ll be so exciting for our competition!”

  “Go ahead,” Wes said. Finn was smiling at him, and the afternoon was light and bright and sparkling as the rhythm of the sea. “Send us copies, maybe? And I want a closer look at that dragon.”

  “Sounds like a plan,” Finn said, “so do I,” and kissed him, while sand got between Wes’s toes, and waves shimmered in the background, and sculptures and sculptors made art around them.

  * * * *

  Wintertime

  “It’s not even winter yet,” Wes said. Finn had been mentally counting. His fiancé had managed to hold out an entire thirty-two seconds before protesting. “Technically it’s still fall. If you look at the actual solstice—”

  “Wes,” Finn said, putting the wedding-décor magazine aside—the cover article suggested 21 Tips for A Winter Wonderland Your Wedding Guests Will Love!—and sitting up more, “I adore you, worship you, and bow at the altar of your knowledge of ancient solstice customs. I was honestly just using it for ideas to decorate our house. I was wondering whether I could make those little fuzzy cotton-ball pom-pom Christmas trees. Not real trees, I know, but they might…spruce the place up.”

  “Oh God,” Wes said, “how is it already time for the holiday puns, what have I done to deserve this,” but he leaned down and gathered Finn up into a kiss, hands strong and knowledgeable and brilliant at touching, as always.

  Finn shut his eyes and kissed back. Let himself sink into the taste of Wes, the tall clever heat, the tangle of their bodies here at home, on their familiar couch in their familiar living room, surrounded by modern straight lines and deep rich colors and plush rugs and the throw pillows he’d bought, the ones with autumn-leaf designs, bronze and copper and brown over deep blue.

  He said, resurfacing, “You agreed to marry me. You know…fir better or worse.”

  Wes’s expression got vaguely speculative, and he said, “Didn’t that spy thriller of yours have that scene involving characters being tied up and gagged…”

  “I could be insulted, you know. But now I’m imagining you and me and bondage, so go on, tell me more.”

  “Were you serious about wanting fuzzy pom-poms? I can buy you some.” Wes ran a hand through the floppy blond-brown rumple of Finn’s hair, which he liked to do, for some reason; Finn leaned into the caress of it. He loved being touched, because it meant that someone was there, liking him, just as he was now; he thought Wes knew that, though he hadn’t said so aloud.

  The afternoon was a cozy one, made of shared blankets and non-slip fuzzy socks and chilly sunlight; they’d been going over some wedding checklists, some ideas. They had some time; they both wanted an autumn wedding, so there’d be a while yet to plan. This particular weekend was quiet, a lull before Wes had an onslaught of papers, before Finn had to go in and record his lines for the next animated Dragon Tamers sequel, next week. They’d vaguely talked about watching a fluffy weightless Colby Kent-starring romantic comedy, later; that was something of a tradition, especially seasonally. Date nights and happy endings.

 

1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10