Character Bleed Book 3: Steadfast

Chapter 1: Still Day 26It’d been a good day. No: it’d been an incredible day. Jason kept a hand at Colby’s back as they stepped into the hotel room, and let his heart exhale. Colby’d handled the return to work without much trouble. With painkillers, yeah, and without much exertion—mostly lying down or sitting propped up in bed—but generally fine. Better than fine. Glowing with love: this film, Will’s and Stephen’s romance, Jason’s hand in his. Colby would be okay. Jason believed that. The accident had been just that, an accident. The hillside collapsing. The rocks under Colby’s back. Nothing anyone could’ve done to stop it. Colby said so, and Jason’s heart had mostly listened. And Colby was doing fine. Bruised and sore—and those were some ugly bruises, dark and glaring along his spine, his hip—but nothing permanent. Nothing broken. And they’d gone public. They’d made that video. Let the world see them: in love, and together, on set here in England. At that historic manor house, in the bedroom. Arms around each other. It’d been Colby’s idea. But Jason had wanted to, too. Himself at Colby’s side—on Colby’s side—no matter what. Proudly, openly so. And the world seemed to approve, or at least Jason’s sister said so. The Colby Kent fandom had erupted in glee. Allie’d even sent over some fan art, because evidently Colby’s fans worked astoundingly fast. It’d been an adorable drawing, fluffy and G-rated, himself with massively exaggerated action-hero muscles cuddling Colby in large arms, while Colby held a book and a rolling pin and a quill pen and a movie script all at once and possessed improbably fluffy standing-up hair. Looked about right, Jason had thought, all of it; and had shown it to his other half. Colby had loved it; no surprise there. They’d talked about moving in together. About living together, after this film ended. About seeing where they could go, what they could be, together. In Colby’s London, or Jason’s own Los Angeles house. They’d said the words. I love you. Aloud, unafraid, committed. He wanted to say those words all the time. To hear them back. Himself, Jason Mirelli, and Colby Kent. Amazing. Incredible. Who’d’ve guessed? He got to have this. He got to be here. With Colby. And the life they’d planned out, entwined in bed, tangled up in each other. The storm swung back in with a jaunty roll of thunder that made Colby laugh. Storms found matching electricity in those blue eyes, Jason knew. He loved knowing that. He loved everything about Colby Kent. Ridiculous middle names. Cinnamon cravings. Stubbornness when having had an idea. Commitment. Baked goods and calligraphy. They’d made it to dinner—a relatively subdued version, no violently colorful drinks this time—with Jill and Andy and some of the crew. So many people had clapped him on the shoulder and congratulated him and Colby. Everyone’d seen the video, apparently, which he’d expected; the unexpected part was how many of them went out of their way to tell him how happy Colby looked and how glad they were that he had Jason now. Some of that shouldn’t’ve been a surprise either. Colby’d worked on multiple projects with Jillian and her usual collaborators; they all knew and loved him. They wanted him to be happy. And they thought he was happy with Jason. The core of it bloomed small and bronze and proud inside his chest. If everyone thought so, not only Colby, maybe it was true, right? Maybe he had done enough. Maybe he could be enough: just being here. Trying hard. Colby managed to ease one boot off, wobbled, caught balance with a hand on Jason’s arm. Made a face at himself. “More clumsy than anything else. I’m not feeling worse. I swear.” “Don’t bother,” Jason said, “I’ll get it,” and knelt. Looking up, he discovered Colby’s blush, bitten lip, faint smile; he tugged at slim black leather, set it down by its friend, stayed on both knees for a second. Gazing up. Colby blushed more, shy but happy, and one tentative hand touched Jason’s head, stroked back his hair. A magician, Jason thought. Young and wounded and generous. Someone he’d gladly serve. He knelt there, being an aging faithful champion, and liked the feeling. His hands rested on Colby’s ankle, over a blue-striped sock. Boots and plush gold carpet formed a curious audience. Colby’s fingers brushed his hair. Jason leaned in and kissed Colby’s leg, the spot just above one knee, a little to one side: Colby’s inner thigh and clinging blue pants and heat. No one but the rain said anything for a moment, and that felt right too. Susurrations of water, and memories of other boot-removal, and Colby’s hand resting lightly on his head. Colby murmured, “I love you.” “I know,” Jason said. “I love you.” He got back up, not breaking the spell. He ran a hand over Colby while doing so: leg, hip, thin waist. Still too thin, because Colby hadn’t been eating much before all this. More ice cream might have to happen. “You want to lie down, and I can get your painkillers, or give you a massage, or whatever you need?” “What I need…” Colby put both hands on Jason’s shoulders, steadying not so much out of necessity as sudden excitement. “I do need something. I don’t know whether you recall, but I had something to tell you. Before the interruption of disintegrating hillsides. I’ve never told anyone—well, Jill knows, but no one else—but I think perhaps I could tell you. I wanted to. I want to. Perhaps now?” The shiver hit like ice-razors, cold and cruel along his spine. He’d forgotten. He hadn’t remembered. Colby had some sort of secret— Something that wasn’t bad, Colby’d said. That comment felt so long ago. Eons. Eras. Geological time. Colby’d said it was nothing to do with their relationship, or not exactly. Something Jillian knew, but no one else. Something, from the phrasing, that Colby thought Jason might need to know. Need? Colby wasn’t secretly ill—that was Will Crawford, that was a movie-role character—and Colby had meant to tell him earlier, so it couldn’t be injury-related. But what if there’d been some sort of older trauma? Some harm caused by one of those ex-boyfriends, the last in particular? Something they’d aggravated, doing what they’d been doing together? Had Colby not liked what they’d been doing? But—not bad— Jason couldn’t fathom an answer. Couldn’t begin to reach for one. He stumbled over, “Yeah…you said…” “You remember the day I did some, ah, dialogue polishing, on set…” Jason, now snarled hopelessly in cobwebs of confusion, could only nod. “It’s, er, not the first time.” Colby bit that lip again, cheeks pink but eyes brimming over with anticipation. He’d said he wanted to say this; he looked as if he did, nervous but eager. “I—I do write. I have done for years. Not continuously, not even original screenplays, but—oh, drat, I’m telling this all wrong. I’ve, er, essentially played Hollywood script doctor for quite some time? Most of Jill’s films? A few of her friends? Uncredited, obviously.” He paused as if expecting Jason to ask a question. Jason’s brain was busy spinning in place, in shocked bewildered snarls of yarn. That made sense. That made perfect f*****g sense. Colby knew about good writing. Colby knew about timing and story beats and dialogue rhythm. Of course Colby was an author. But—uncredited? No one knew? Hollywood was full of open secrets; everybody knew everyone else’s business… Why keep it a secret? If that included most of Jillian Poe’s films, that should’ve meant awards, critical praise, skills in demand. Conversations and recommendations. Colby’s name floating around. “Jillian tells people she has someone,” Colby went on, enthusiasm noticeably fading in the face of Jason’s dumbfounded non-reaction, “but she’s never said it’s me. I’ve asked her not to. I don’t do much really, just tidying up, polishing…it’s always someone else’s project, in the end, not mine, I know. I know it’s silly that I’m even a little proud when I hear my lines being delivered, up on screen, in a theater. I shouldn’t be, it’s not much, I only…I thought perhaps you’d think it was something…I don’t know.” “Most of Jill’s films,” Jason said. The words emerged like quicksand, tugging at his heart. “Like…Local News. Like…the Golden Globe winner for comedy…Local News. And Romeo and Jules—” Which had been Academy Award nominated. Screenplay, as well as actors and costume design. They’d won for the costumes. And Colby’d written it, at least the version that’d made it to the screen. That everyone’d loved. “Er,” Colby said. “Yes.” “This film,” Jason said. “Steadfast.” “Yes…” “You’ve been working on it all along.” “Yes?” Colby nibbled at his lip more. The spot was turning pinker. “I did mean to tell you sooner. It’s just I’ve never told anyone, and I wasn’t sure how to go about it, and then I wanted to check with Jill, and then I wasn’t sure it would be all that interesting in any case…but I thought you might like knowing…we both like stories…” “You’ve worked on my scenes,” Jason said. “You’ve written my dialogue. You’ve listened to me complain about lines. You—you know I would’ve wanted to know. We could’ve talked about it. Not like—like…” He wanted to be jumping up and down and praising Colby nonstop. He wanted to love the fact that Colby was this good, had shared this secret with him, had sparkled at him and been excited to tell him. And he did love it, he was feeling all that, Colby was even more amazing than he’d known— But— He hurt, too. Because Colby had never said anything. Had sat there and listened to him, had handed him new pages and pretended they’d come from Ben the original scriptwriter, a lie of omission if not outright— Colby had talked about books and stories and characters with him, more than once; Colby had run lines with him, and had— What? Assumed Jason was too big and dumb to care about the craft of writing? Thought that Jason’s muscles would break a promise and blurt out a secret? Trusted Jason with every piece of himself except one? He took a step back. Colby blinked at him, sock-footed and off-balance. The rain let up, a portent. Colby remained dressed—they both did—with his black jacket open but unremoved, because Jason’d been planning to help with that too. It was the same stylish leather one he’d thrown on over Jason’s shirt, once before. Colby said, “Jason?” Breathing. Right. Colby hadn’t meant to hurt him. He thought not, anyway. And Colby had wanted to tell him. It was just— The rush of his pulse filled his ears. He couldn’t meet familiar blue eyes. He also couldn’t talk. Too few words. Or too many. Shoving themselves into knots on his tongue. I love you, he failed to say aloud. I love you and you lied every time you pretended to be right there with me as far as loving or laughing over this script. I know you’re not used to trusting people, I know you believed every single f*****g monster who told you you weren’t worth loving, I know you probably didn’t believe you could trust me— The hurt twisted like screws. The ghosts of older words shrieked. Jason Mirelli, action hero. All muscles, maybe even a kind heart, but stupid. Good at kicking and punching and shooting things. Not subtleties. Not eloquence. Not capable of anything more. That wasn’t Colby’s fault. Colby didn’t think that about him. Maybe Colby didn’t think that. Colby couldn’t, right? Just Jason’s own head. Had to be. But they’d talked about moving in together—about bookstore dates and lazy mornings—and Colby hadn’t said— “Jason,” Colby said again, a step closer, and Jason held up a hand, and Colby stopped talking. That wasn’t right either. The rain, scared off, hadn’t returned. The bed stood behind Colby like an invitation gone wrong. They’d been safe there only that morning. He hauled words out of the quicksand syllable by syllable. “I’m not mad at you.” Was he? “Aren’t you?” Colby shifted weight. His back might be flaring up, causing pain. Jason wanted to kiss him, wanted to tell him to lie down, wanted to take care of everything for him, wanted to scream.