Character Bleed Box Set

Chapter 1: Day 1, Morning-3

He did not know why Jason had wanted him to eat. Some sort of display of power? Dominance? Colby wouldn’t fight that; it’d make everyone’s lives easier if Jason was happy, and Colby didn’t need to be in charge.

In fact, murmured an insidious small voice in his head, you like him being in charge. Telling you what to do. Asking you about preferences.

Will Crawford would like that: someone who did not treat him with the deference due to a lord’s son nor the pity given to an invalid, but who respected him and his desires as an equal. As someone who could, and would, take everything Captain Stephen Lanyon could offer.

Colby himself—

No. Dangerous thoughts. Because he would, oh yes he would, and he knew he shouldn’t. Even as he thought it, even as he admired Jason’s chest and shoulders and narrow waist in those period designs, a bolt of cold trickled down his spine. He couldn’t do that again.

“No,” he said aloud. “No.”

Jillian popped up at his side. She’d pulled her pink-and-blonde hair up into a ponytail today, and she was dressed for comfort, jeans and a hoodie; she looked too impossibly young to be an award-winning director, even though they’d been friends for over a decade and Colby knew she was nearly fifty-two. Nobody’d believe it. “No to what? The scene? The lighting? Do you think we need a closer shot of Jason’s reaction, just there?”

“Yes, in fact, but that wasn’t it.” He waved the script pages at her, a motion that covered up a tugging-down of one sleeve. “It’s not quite right. The ending. What were you all laughing about?”

“Leo can’t tell the difference between port and starboard. He thinks you can drink both. What do you think of Jason?”

“He’s very good. He wants this very badly. He occasionally tries too hard, and it’s visible.”

“Yeah, I thought so too. I’ll talk to him about it.” Jill flopped into her own chair and eyed him. “We’ll run back the footage in a sec. What’s wrong with the ending?”

“Mmm…not sure yet. I’ll think about it. Is this lunch, then?”

“Yep, as soon as they’ve got a couple of heroic close-ups. They’ve got instructions. I’m watching. I’m also talking to you.” Jill stretched over to tap fingers on the nearest script page. “You know I trust you, but we’ll need to talk to Ben if there’s something you want to change.”

“I know.” Jillian was the only person who knew that about him. He’d told her years ago, lonely and heart-sore and slightly tipsy after a premiere-night afterparty, that if he’d not been discovered as an actor, if the world had been different, if his family had been different, if he had been different, he would’ve been a writer. He’d always liked words. Stories. Memorable turns of phrase like glinting jewels, catching fire.

He’d only told her in the first place because she’d figured it out. That’d been their very first film together, over a decade ago, when he’d been more comfortable around people but less sure about his own skill; he’d quietly changed a few of his own lines into words people would actually say, and hoped no one would notice. Jill had noticed, had promptly waved a script at him, watched Colby make a few edits while reading over his shoulder, and then demanded that he play script doctor on both their current and her next project, and more.

He never took credit. That was complicated as well. Not merely in terms of the industry. For the same reasons he liked to read but never read poetry. His mother would have loved it if he had.

He did call his mother on her birthday. Holidays. Special occasions. Six months ago his ex had thought it’d be hilarious to wave a copy of much-lauded poet Lydia Sable-Kent’s latest free-form experiment in his direction. Specifically, that’d been the poem in which she expressed her difficulties and disappointments with a child who’d grown famous in such a popular field of entertainment, and bemoaned how hard this state of existence was for her.

Liam had found that hysterically funny, Colby recalled. It even was, a bit. He supposed he could see the absurdity. He should be better at seeing it, he knew.

“It’s not Ben’s writing,” he added hastily. “Lovely as ever. It’s the structure. Or the sadness in the ending, as Will gets that letter, after the ship’s lost for good. How is Jason doing?” Damn. He’d meant to keep that curiosity held back. Trapped on his tongue.

“I like him.” Jill took the script to glance at his notes. “He’s a giant marshmallow. Wouldn’t’ve guessed, after Saint Nick Steel. But it works for Stephen, with that emotional center. What do you think of him?”

“He despises me,” Colby said. “And with some justification. The man could wrestle a tiger bare-handed. I’d be eaten in the first second.” He did not mention how very much he’d like to watch Jason Mirelli engaged in any sort of wrestling, particularly naked and well-oiled.

“You would not.” Jill swatted him with the script copy. She was one of the people who could. “Honestly, Colby.”

“Because you’d show up to rescue me, yes, understood.” He caught the script and nudged it open again. The ending proceeded to bother him more. “I know you would.”

“No,” Jill said. “Because you’d talk the tiger into being your friend. And then nobody would be eaten. Well, only metaphorically. Did you not see the way he looked at you during that screen test?”

“Yes,” Colby said, “it’s called acting, he’s very good at it, we’ve been saying,” and hid behind words. “That’s why we wanted him. I really do feel as if the last act isn’t right. It needs to end on an upward trajectory, more hopeful, don’t you think? We’ve had enough sadness. Enough burying of, well, me, and gay people in general, for now. I know I’ve done the tragic sorts of roles too, and there’s room for that as well, but I’d rather not, if we can avoid it.”

“It’s the way the novel ends, the way Ben’s adapted it,” Jill observed, but not as a disagreement. “Are you okay, though? Will you be okay, working with him?” Her eyes said more. She’d been the person he’d called the night everything’d imploded with Liam; she’d talked him through the shakiness and the tears and the self-doubt: what could I have done, why wasn’t I enough, why would he laugh and tell me I wasn’t good enough when I’d just found him with another man in our bed, in our apartment…maybe he was right, maybe I wasn’t there enough, maybe I didn’t do enough for him, maybe I should’ve bought him that second car he said he wanted, it wasn’t THAT much of my last paycheck, maybe I should call him back and apologize…

Liam, like Jason, had been tall and towering and masculine, the kind of person who promised strength like an anchor, able to stand firm and encompass the world. The exact opposite had proven to be true.

Colby had rather frantically internally bandaged himself up in the wake of that first devastation. Haphazard slings and supports flung into place. Jury-rigged but holding. Jill shouldn’t have to deal with yet another of his personal disasters; she’d done enough for him already over the years, from that first-ever film role to taking his phone and hiding it when he’d mentioned calling Liam and possibly buying a car. He’d spent the night at her place; he’d got up and thrown together light and fluffy spinach-and-cheddar omelets for breakfast. He’d smiled at Jill while holding out a plate. He’d done the dishes.

He did like to cook, or he thought he did; other people liked it when he did, though lately the effort didn’t seem worth it for only himself. He’d opted for delivery, a few times; he’d possibly forgotten to actually call and arrange that, a few times. He wasn’t certain when he’d last been shopping; of course it wouldn’t matter now. Jill had wanted everyone nearby; the studio had put them all up in hotel accommodations, which would continue to be the case once production moved to England and historic locations. Colby hadn’t minded getting out of his apartment and the memories ensnared in those walls.

He wondered whether he should’ve bought ingredients and learned about his hotel suite’s kitchenette and stayed up baking first-morning pastries to bring to set, rather than buying them. Maybe people would’ve preferred that. Maybe Jason would’ve been happier, rather than going silent and then engaging in some sort of bizarre test of preferences and eating habits, about which Colby did not know the rules.

And he kept thinking about Jason’s strength. Those muscles, and the perplexing gentleness in those big hands.

He shouldn’t be thinking about that. He shouldn’t.

He said to Jill, “I’m always okay, you should know that by now,” and batted eyelashes at her: silly and frivolous and exaggerated, dispelling worry in playfulness. “It looks as if your minions are done. Have lunch with me?” Jason had mentioned something about that, but that’d been out of obligation, obviously, and Colby wouldn’t hold him to it.

“Someone’s got to make sure you eat,” Jill said meaningfully. “Coffee doesn’t count.”

“I do eat! I had a cinnamon narwhal horn this morning. I think that’s what it was. Unless land-unicorns come with cinnamon-sugar horns. I will absolutely eat something right this instant.” He offered up his best plaintive eyes. “Anyway Will’s meant to be slender. Sickly. Wasting away. Perhaps I should be dieting.”

“You basically are,” Jill muttered. “But not in a good way. Lunch, and then you can run onto a ship and stand next to Jason and show me how okay you are.”

“We’ll be splendid.” He got up when Jillian did. “You and me and Jason. And the ship. I’ll think more about the ending. Do you think there’ll be anything chocolate? I mean craft services, not the script. Though that certainly couldn’t hurt. Chocolate eclairs and happy endings, perhaps? I could entirely write that scene. More than one scene, even.”

Jill laughed, and forgot to fuss, distracted by the historical relevance of eclairs. Colby smiled at her, was happy that she was happy, and went in search of chocolate.