Character Bleed Book 3: Steadfast

Chapter 1: Still Day 26-3

“Huh.” Jason traced a heart across his shoulder, this time. That’d sounded pretty damn healthy, all things considered. “Okay. You can have that one. But only in that sense. Really not your fault about why it happened.”

“Thank you.” Colby turned that head, breathed a kiss against Jason’s collarbone. “Thank you. For all of it. I know I’m not easy.”

“I don’t know,” Jason said. “I mean, me touching your arm made you just about come in your pants, on set, that time…”

This made Colby giggle, which he’d wanted. The second after that, though, Colby winced, tried to hide it, and winced again. Physical, not mental. Discomfort in that slender frame, tucked against Jason’s bulwark.

“What’s wrong?”

“I don’t entirely know. I don’t know what I’ve done.” Colby made a face. “My back. Something’s sore. Not bad, but—”

“s**t. Hold still. Let me help.” He did know, or he had an idea. He grumbled internal self-directed profanities. Should’ve known. Should’ve thought of that. “All that stress just now, you felt everything tighten up, right? Or maybe you didn’t—”

He wasn’t sure Colby would’ve registered much physical hurt, in the grip of emotions and what’d looked a hell of a lot like a trauma response, not exactly dissociation but not entirely not that, either. “Still not your fault. But you’re gonna feel it now. Muscle strain. Tension. All of that. How bad does it hurt?”

“Some. More than earlier. Not terribly much.” Colby, thanks to Jason’s assistance efficiently naked and lying prone on his stomach in bed, tried to meet his eyes through a waterfall of hair. Jason guided the hair away. Heart in his throat. Heavy and snarled up. Painful as a bruise. Those bruises. Marring Colby’s smooth skin.

Colby murmured, “You know a decent amount about this, muscles and strain and all…well, of course you do, given all your experience. I’m plainly in good hands.”

The heart-knot loosened. Colby trusted his hands.

Jason set one of the hands in question on the nearest shoulder, evaluating. “Still not too bad? Anything worse, or going numb?” He didn’t really think so—Colby’d been healing well, and this should just be aftermath, awareness returning—but he had to check. For them both. “Nothing sharper or out of the ordinary?”

“No, only a twinge. The aftermath. Just now.” Colby’s body supported this assertion, calm under Jason’s exploring touch. The bruising remained ugly but less than it’d been when they’d left the hospital. The edges had begun to fade. The scrawl of blue and black and purple over his lower back would take longer. “I wouldn’t’ve said, but you did say to tell you. I’m trying.”

“I know you are. Thanks for that.” He ran a hand along Colby’s back, to the side: not quite touching the worst of it, checking on reactions and sensitivity. Colby didn’t seem bothered, so nothing’d spread or gotten more ominous. “Okay. I’m gonna turn up the heat in here, grab your painkillers, and also see what we’ve got as far as giving you a massage. Sound good?”

“Enormously yes. Magical hands, I believe I’ve mentioned. Enchanting.”

“I love you,” Jason said. “I love you. And I’m f*****g honored that you told me. Since I kind of forgot to say that. You said you never told anyone. And you told me, and—and, I mean, wow. Thank you.”

“I do trust you.” Colby, head pillowed on an arm, gave him a small and layered eyebrow-shrug: letting it go, dismissive of his own courage, holding out reassurances, offering another apology. Jason didn’t know how one expression could say all that, but Colby had figured it out. Because Colby was a damn good actor, as well as a writer. Colby understood emotion.

A paper-airplane of memory zoomed past. Himself watching Colby’s morning-show interview. Colby complimenting scone choices that he’d told Jason later weren’t proper scones. Jason had thought at the time that Colby was good at thinking on the spot, and generous, and a fluid and eloquent liar. He let out a huff of breath, entertained. He’d had no idea.

“Was that amusing?” Colby’s question came out tiny, as if afraid Jason’d been laughing at his assertion of trust.

“Not that. Just a thought. I believe you. Don’t move.”

He went over and turned up the heat, found painkillers and the end of the cinnamon-spice trail mix and some water, and his own stuntperson approved jar of bruise-related lotion. It was getting low; he’d been using some on Colby these last few days. He also changed, stripping out of jeans and shirt and stepping into pajama pants. Colby’s eyes were shut; Jason sighed a little, smiled a little, and folded and put away his jeans, and also two of Colby’s wayward scarves, one of which was dangling off a chair and being a tripping hazard.

He came back over, scarves successfully admonished, and held pills out, right in front of Colby’s lips. Colby gave him a slightly surprised look, but accepted Jason hand-feeding him, holding water for him, and popping trail mix into his mouth. Jason fed him more and gave him small sips of water, and felt a gradual complicated pleasure build with each act.

He wasn’t angry. He did understand. Colby trusted him. Colby lay here naked and accepted Jason’s touch, Jason’s care, believing that Jason wouldn’t hurt him.

He liked taking care of Colby. Felt right. Like what he’d always been searching for, unconsciously: someone his absolute equal on a film set or in a conversation about steampunk pirates, someone with bright kind eyes who got excited about pizza and museums and probably a museum of pizza, if that existed, and also someone who did not mind that Jason himself liked providing care and direction, especially in bed.

He scooped up lotion, and said, hand poised, “I’m gonna touch you more, if you still want a backrub. Tell me yes or, y’know, no.”

“You’re asking about consent? Aren’t we rather beyond—”

“We’re not ever beyond asking,” Jason said levelly. He wholeheartedly did want to punch Colby’s exes in the face. Multiple times. “And you always get to say yes or no or not now. Or tell me it’s not a good day. Something for the list.”

“You haven’t got an actual list—”

“I’ll write it down so you can add stuff. Are you trying not to answer?”

“No. I mean I’m not trying to not answer. I mean yes, you can touch me. I would like that. I’m only a bit confused.”

“How’s the weather?”

On cue, the skies opened up. Raindrops fell like stars, with noise and twinkling collisions over windowpane glass and old English walls and the hotel roof.

Colby laughed. “The weather’s quite enthusiastic, I think.”

“Good.” He set a hand on Colby’s exposed back, lotion creamy and healing against fair skin. Colby had a few other stray freckles, aside from the one near his collarbone; twin sprinkles of spice sat near the lowest edge of the bruising on his back. Jason liked seeing them: knowing Colby wanted to give him this baring of self.

That poignant piercing emotion intensified. It felt kind of like pride, too.

He started with that spot. Not s****l, or only a little; it was impossible not to contemplate the nearness of Colby’s adorable ass, right there and tempting. But this wasn’t about that.

He said, “I was thinking about you and telling stories, earlier. You’re good at it. Everything you do.”

“I like romance novels,” Colby said, a sideways answer, “because they’re stories about love, and people, and people getting to be happy. I love fantasy and historical settings because they’re fascinating, but I’ve always loved stories about people finding each other. I like believing that can happen, at least in a story, at least somewhere.”

Because you never had that, Jason thought. Because you thought you hadn’t earned it.

He’d heard Colby’s admission, earlier. You leave, or you hurt me, because that’s what happens, that’s what I deserve…

He said, “You found me. And I’m not leaving you. How’re you feeling?”

“Better. That’s lovely, thanks.”

“You don’t have to thank me for taking care of you.” He was kneading Colby’s back more generally too, not only trying to ease bruises, also working on a few noticeable knots behind those shoulders. Colby had been holding himself in very precise positions, and it’d been a long first day back at work. Jason appreciated the sensation: the planes and lines and muscles of Colby’s body, masculine and lean and smooth under his hands.

He’d’ve found Colby being naked a turn-on anyway, but this meant more somehow. Profound. He ignored his d**k perking up under pajama pants. Not the time.

“What if I want to?” Colby said, and Jason couldn’t help staring down at his d**k again, but no, Colby wasn’t a mindreader or an erection-sensing telepath, and hadn’t meant that. “I mean, ah, what we’re doing. Me being yours. I do have some experience, and I’m fairly certain I’ve heard of that being a thing, er, thank you, sir, and all that.”

“Huh. But…no, you don’t have to…”

“But you’re thinking about it.”

“Try it sometime and we’ll see. Only if you want.” He kept his hands moving: deliberate, practiced, good at this. Feeling tension ebb, seeing muscles turn pliant and comforted. The room smelled of herbs and rain; Colby’s body was warm and secure, protected under his touch.

“Mmm,” Colby said. “Thank you for taking care of me, sir. Jason.”

“I know you’re not trying to get me to have s*x with you after you’ve just told me you’re sore,” Jason said, meaningfully, and kneaded a fraction harder.

“But you liked it.”

“Didn’t say I didn’t. Anyone ever tell you you’re too persistent?”

Colby laughed at this echo, recalling much earlier swimming-pool plans and stubbornness. “Yes, but I persist in not listening. Wasn’t that what I said? But you don’t mind.”

“Nah. Kinda love that when you decide to be stubborn, it’s because you want to help people.” He was being extra-careful with the bruises over Colby’s spine. Lightest of touches, but enough of a rub to coax blood to flow. “Kinda love you, y’know. What you said about people getting to be happy. You make me happy.”

“Oh. Do I?” From someone else that might’ve been teasing, flippant, an answer already assumed. Colby was asking.

“You do,” Jason told him, over the helpless crack of love in his own chest. “You do. Every day. Every time your hair gets in your mouth and you make that face. Every time you wake up and take a first sip of coffee and look like you’ve just had the best orgasm ever. Actually, no, I’ve seen that too, and that’s an even better face.”

“Now I’m afraid I’m making odd faces at you constantly.”

“Love all your faces. Love you.”

“Hmm. I love you as well. And your hands on me. My bread loaf.” The storm shimmered and sang and waltzed, outside, with oncoming night. Jason’s hands belonged right where they were.

Colby loved him. Colby had given him this last secret, because Colby thought he, Jason, deserved that honor. And maybe the words’d been a shock, maybe there’d been some hurt, but that was okay. They were okay.

They could be magical.

He said, hands resting over that bare expanse of skin, “Just tell me what kind of bread you want me to be. We can get to knots and braids sometime later. Colby?”

“Hmm?” Colby sounded sleepy now, having settled under ministrations and painkillers. “I’m awake.”

Maybe two-thirds awake, but Jason wouldn’t argue. “I didn’t say something else to you, earlier. I should’ve.”

Colby’s shoulders tensed a fraction. Jason silently swore at himself. Repair would take longer than he’d realized. His own doing.

He attempted, “No, I’m not mad at you. I never was, exactly. You know. But it’s not about that anyway.”

“All right,” Colby said promptly. Listening, through holes in crumbling castle walls and tattered tapestries. Quick to forgive. Generous as a hero. Jason’s entire soul, which did not deserve this man, coiled up in distress.