Chapter 1: Still Day 26-6
1213 Words
Jason had asked about the writing. Had wanted to know. That more than anything else had been incontrovertible: Jason had truly been interested in the what and the when and the how. So Colby’d told him. And that had felt…
Good. Right. Shared, and more joyful for being so.
Jason hadn’t asked the obvious follow-up question. Colby’d expected it, and hadn’t had an answer, not then. He’d appreciated the purposeful topic switch to birthdays—he knew Jason’s fell in May, well before they’d begun filming; the twenty-fifth, to be precise, which he’d read while looking up Jason’s previous roles—and the future.
Cradled in Jason’s strength, he asked himself that unspoken question now.
Why hadn’t he ever asked for writing credit? Why hadn’t he wanted it?
I thought I didn’t want it, he answered silently. Jason’s arm lay solid and snug around him in the night. The rain rustled with encouragement.
Do I honestly not want it, he thought. Or have I been scared of that as well? Of telling the world about something I love?
Curled into the dark, bruised and safe, he turned that idea over and cupped it in both invisible hands and examined it. He knew that if he genuinely preferred to stay anonymous, Jason might not understand but would support him regardless; if that was a real choice, a true choice, he could have that.
Knowing that—that there was a choice—he could consider the alternative.
What if he told people? Would he want that?
His mother would sniff and dismiss his work, but she did so already. His father would boast and puff up emptily, but he did that as well. Colby heard a few other voices—Liam, Tony, the laughter of you thought you could be good enough, you never were, no wonder everyone leaves—but he pushed them down and shut the mental trapdoor and sat squarely atop it for good measure.
Not everyone left. Jason hadn’t left. Jillian and Andy, Leo and Tim and Laurie…they’d been there, at the hospital. After. Caring. Yelling about caring, in Andy’s case.
He was good enough. He was good enough for them to love. And if he wasn’t perfect, he didn’t have to be. Jason’d said so. And was indisputably, tangibly, with a tiny adorable huff of sleeping exhale, still here.
So I’m working on not being scared of that, he thought. I’ll keep working on it. Then what else? The reactions? The responses?
Critics and audiences seemed to like his words. The awards and reviews argued in his favor. He’d proven himself; if he publicly admitted he’d written Afterparty or Local News or Darklight, those awards and reviews wouldn’t go away. They’d been earned, not given because of the Colby Kent name.
Did that matter? Would it make a difference whether he took credit or not, as long as the screenplays earned praise?
Perhaps that was the wrong question. Perhaps it didn’t matter as far as the quality of the finished film; did it matter to Colby himself?
He thought about Jason, so large and straightforward and kind, built of emotion and compassion and that oversized heart to match the muscles. He thought about Will Crawford, who left the shelter of his father’s home in order to be himself: to be honest about his love and his convictions, as much as he could be in a time that wouldn’t allow such love openly. Will, like Stephen, chose freely, and truthfully, and without hiding the core of himself. Prudence required secrecy in Regency society; but Colby rather thought that Will would’ve loved to see a more welcoming world, and would’ve been himself even more, as fiercely as he could, seizing joy.
Colby himself could choose not to give away this secret. Nothing would change. He didn’t have to change; he didn’t have to step forward. Jason would love him; Jill and Andy and his friends, because he did have friends, would love him as well.
But, he thought. And then he stopped, and let that emotion blossom.
But he wanted to. He did want it. He loved this film and he loved Stephen and Will, and he was proud of his own writing, and he wanted everyone to know about his love.
He wanted to write a happy ending, and he wanted to stand up and say: I believe in happy endings. I believe in romance. I wrote that. Me. Choosing happiness.
The clarity hit like a cloudburst: drenching, sudden, illuminating and vibrant and annealing. Down to his bones, deep inside.
Oh, he thought. All right. Yes.
He could’ve laughed, caught breath, shouted the yes aloud. He did not, not wanting to wake Jason. But the lightness danced along his bones with the decision. Rain on glass, he thought. Sparkling. Prismatic. A future.
He flattened fingers over Jason’s heart. His own answered.
Even his c**k stirred, responding in turn to delight and the presence of Jason’s hip and thigh pressed so close. Colby had not expected that, and very nearly peeked down at himself in astonishment, but checked the motion. He wasn’t planning to do anything about it—too many emotions, and also Jason’s order about waiting, which resurfaced to quiver at the back of his brain and elsewhere—but he discovered pleasure in the reaction: he was still growing used to the rekindling, to the fact that he could want someone else so powerfully, never mind at all.
He could lie naked with Jason and positively revel in the sensation. He could touch Jason and let Jason touch him, and he knew that everything would feel incredible, and he craved more.
That was not at all reducing the arousal. His c**k throbbed, hot and fat and rubbing against Jason’s hip. Colby felt his cheeks burn at the sheer brazenness of his body, but apparently he enjoyed even the hint of embarrassment, or at least the twist of heat in his stomach admitted as much. Perhaps Jason would appreciate knowing that.
No, he told himself. Jason said so. Not tonight. And you are certainly not waking him up, after everything we’ve been through, simply because you’re having terribly filthy thoughts. You can wait.
Certain parts of himself scowled and glared and argued, having woken back up to life; but he thought about being Jason’s, about belonging to Jason, being, yes, Jason’s submissive. And Jason had given him an order. For his own good. So he could be good.
He shivered a little as that comprehension sank in, and he liked that too.
The hint of dreamy surrender wreathed around his thoughts and left them pleasantly fuzzy. The denial settled like weighty rainbows, a blanket of color holding him down. He could be good for Jason. He could.
He could be himself, and he could be good, and he could be loved.
Jason’s borrowed cot, no longer needed, stood over in the corner. With closed eyes, Colby couldn’t glance at it, but he imagined it was cheering them on. His erection lingered, hard and heated, but that became less important, almost secondary: he did not need to do anything about it in order to feel splendid, and cherished, and as if he belonged right here.
Happy endings, he thought once more, drowsily. Not simple or easily written, but worth fighting for. Worth finding. Worth holding onto.
Surrounded by rainfall and tall historic bedposts and Jason’s arms, Colby smiled, and yawned, and drifted into the rainbows, as they came up to tuck him into sleep.
- Writer
