Character Bleed Book 1: Seaworthy

Chapter 1: Day 1, Morning-2

Colby might just be one of those people who couldn’t stand to look unkempt. Considering the motion of those hands, the half-messy swoop of dark hair that fluffed outward more on one side than the other, Jason wasn’t sure. Something about the sleeves and the buttons suggested armor. Something about Colby’s smile suggested steps across ice: not shy, not afraid, but aware. Conscious of each reply, as if making sure it was what would be desired.

Colby’s hair, like Jason’s, was longer now. Will Crawford needed to have dramatic windswept Byronic locks, good for pensive longing beside a library window or winding a lover’s fingers through. Colby hadn’t done extensions, though; that was all his, soft and dark and rumpled from the early morning.

Jason’s fingers, without regard for Jason’s brain, wanted to go over there and rumple it more.

“I’m so sorry,” Colby said, turning his way. “We’re neglecting you. It wasn’t even that good a party; I only went because, well, they invited me, and I didn’t want to be rude and say no. I left early, in fact, and went home and found a book. Have you had any pastries? This one’s got blueberries and some sort of creamy center. How are you feeling about this morning? Have you been practicing all of Stephen’s nautical terminology?”

You went because they invited you and your popularity with the media, Jason thought. You probably bought the most expensive item on their gift list, too. And then went home early. With a book. He said, “What book?”

“What? Oh.” Colby’s smile flickered: more real for a second, then more hesitant, then something unidentifiable. “Er…you won’t’ve heard of it, I wouldn’t think? It’s, er, queer paranormal steampunk romance. It’s brilliant and inventive and surprisingly tender, and I’d recommend the whole series if you’re actually interested, but no need to say so if you’re not, of course. Am I interrupting your getting ready? What time do you need to be over in wardrobe?”

“You’re fine,” Cherry said, and glanced between them with open fascination. “He’s got five minutes.”

“I’m interested,” Jason said.

“Oh,” Colby said again, as if uncertain what to do with this response. “I could…send you the list of titles in the series? Or the link to the author’s website?”

“I’d like that,” Jason told him. “Did you have one? The blueberries and cream or whatever.”

“Did I…oh, no, not yet. I didn’t want to take something someone else might want. I expect the crew’s demolished the cart outside, so you’re down to what I’ve got in this box, as far as choices.”

“Sugar,” Cherry inquired, with exasperated affection, “did you even eat breakfast?”

“I had coffee,” Colby protested. “I like food, you know I do. I’ll eat later. Craft services. Playing producer and inspecting the quality. I’m sure I’m allowed to do that. Jason, support me on this.”

Jason gave this request the consideration it deserved. “You’re probably allowed to do that. Whatever producers get to do. Blueberry, or cinnamon?”

“Hmm?”

“Blueberry or cinnamon? Pick one.”

“They’re not for me,” Colby said.

“I didn’t say you were having one. Just in general. Tell me your preference.” He thought this might work. The tone, the word choice, that purposeful echo.

It did work. Colby bit a lip—toothmarks in pink plushness—and glanced at Jason’s face, then admitted, “Cinnamon.” His cheeks were faintly pink as well.

“Okay then,” Jason said. “Hand me the blueberry thing.”

Cherry, eyebrows arching upward, gave a soundless whistle and then hopped up and went in search of some sort of bronzing product, possibly one that did not in fact exist, from the way she tripped over the name.

Colby offered up a blue-and-cream snail-shell from the box. Jason, who honestly had no preference one way or the other regarding blueberries, took it out of his hand. Their fingers touched, under a makeup mirror and gleaming lights.

Colby’s fingers shook, very slightly, almost imperceptibly. Jason noticed the shiver.

He moved his own hand.

Colby, blushing more, stared down at the tips of his shoes, at grey fabric and the foot of a chair.

A voice rang in from outside. One of the personal assistants. Shouting Jason’s name. Due over in the getting-dressed department. Historically accurate naval uniform waiting.

“You should be going,” Colby told his own foot. “It’s the first day, and—and Jill respects professionalism, and—so you should be going.”

“I’m going.” Jason got up. “I’ll see you on set, though? After lunch.”

“Maybe even at lunch,” Colby said. “I do eat.”

“I’ve only ever seen you talk about food,” Jason said. “And drink coffee.”

Colby glared at him, or tried to—it was like watching a kitten scowl—and picked up the cinnamon pastry, which made a unicorn-horn of sugary spice and icing in those elegant fingers. “Happy?”

“Almost,” Jason said.

Colby glared at him more, and took a bite. A large one. Sugar on those lips.

“Okay, I’m going,” Jason said, inching toward the door. White icing. Colby Kent’s mouth. A delicate lip-lick, a swipe of tongue. Christ. “I’ll see you at lunch.”

He fled. Off to fit himself into a nineteenth-century officer’s coat and cravat. Away from Colby and that mouth.

He wasn’t entirely sure what he’d just done. He didn’t think Colby was actually annoyed with him; that hadn’t been that much of a glare. And Colby had taken the bite.

He was pretty sure Colby knew that Jason had wanted him to eat. They definitely both knew Colby Kent would always want to make someone else happy. That’d been more of the source of the glare.

But it’d worked.

He caught himself grinning.

And then he thought that he’d managed to annoy Colby and make Colby eat food and lust over Colby’s mouth, and he’d not ever managed to actually apologize or say any of the things he’d meant to say, needed to say, wanted to say.

He swore out loud. The personal assistant, a skinny blond kid with rainbow piercings in his ears, appeared unfazed: having either heard worse or expected worse from a brute-force action star.

“Sorry,” Jason said. At least he could apologize to someone.

“No worries,” said the kid, “Jill says that word all the time. Come on, I’m not gonna let you be late—” and led him off to embrace his character and this story, this love story, the kind of story Jason had secretly dreamed of being able to tell.

* * * *

Colby, settled into his chair and half-heartedly half-hidden behind various monitors and camera displays, deliberately did not watch Jason on set. Not as such. Not much, at any rate.

Maybe a bit. He had to know, right? He had to see just how good Jason Mirelli was on camera, with a proper set, with someone who wasn’t Colby himself. He had to contemplate Jason’s wardrobe and the way those shoulders and biceps filled out the embroidered coat, the way the high collar drew attention to the ruggedness of Jason’s jaw, the determination in dark eyes.

Colby jerked his gaze away. Stared at his script page without seeing any words.

Leo Whyte, playing Jason’s trustworthy first lieutenant, stumbled over a tongue-twisting line involving nautical terminology. Everyone laughed. Jason clapped him on the shoulder, a big hand and a companion, getting along.

Of course he was. Jason Mirelli was utterly depressingly adorable. Leo was practically vibrating with camaraderie.

Colby flipped a script page, and flipped it back.

The half-ship sailed majestically through the soundstage. The greenscreen backdrop would turn into an ocean, a Napoleonic War battlefield of flags and currents and cannons, courtesy of special-effects wizardry. Right now it gave them just enough for intense conversations: Jason shouting orders, being obeyed, quietly and tensely consulting with his lieutenant. Jill came over to offer a suggestion about emphasis, tone, emotional nuance. A world at war, and also personal loyalty and devotion.

Jason nodded, looking earnest. Jason wanted so very profoundly to be good at this; Colby could see it in his face, in the set of those muscles. That’d been one reason he’d wanted Jason cast opposite himself: that passion, that desire. Jason’s whole heart was right here, thrown into this role.

One reason. The other…

That chemistry. The way Jason had touched him, all presence and control, but also a perceptiveness Colby hadn’t expected. Bulk and breadth that could pin a man against a wall or over a library desk, but the kind of consideration that’d ask first, holding out an open hand. It’d been so easy, too easy, to want to take that hand, to fall into that long-lashed brown gaze. Barely acting.

And Jason didn’t even like him. Which was fine, of course; not everyone had to, and Colby was certainly aware of his own shortcomings. Tended to be a nuisance. In the way. Best in character, being someone else, playing a role. He was good at that.

Jason was a better actor than most people realized. Colby had watched all the dreadful John Kill movies. The plots made no sense and the dialogue was groan-worthy, but Jason managed to throw complexities into lines such as “My name’s Kill. And that’s what I’m here to do.”

As much complexity as possible, at any rate. In those eyes, in his expression—a hint of weariness, of tired pride at his own skill set, regret at the necessity and resolution to do what would be necessary. And that body. Jason moved like a panther, and one that’d learned karate and boxing stances to boot.

Jason was talking to Jill now. They were both smiling; she stepped away and back behind the cameras, and the scene took off again. More energy.

Colby put a hand up, looped a bit of his hair around a finger, let it go. He was growing more used to the length.

His costume for the day was arguably less elaborate than Jason’s military trim, but still delicious. Bottle-green coat, clinging fawn-colored breeches, crisp white cravat, Regency style: the sort of clothing an earl’s son would fling on in a hurry to rush down to the docks and say farewell to the man he loved.

Love, he thought. It was a good thing Jason Mirelli was a good actor. Jason didn’t like him, and hadn’t since that first screen test, or even before. Fake, Jason had called him. Unbelievable. Unreal, without substance. No wonder Jason was so good at their joint profession, seeing to the core of people that way.

His fingers caught in his hair. He tugged, hard. Welcomed the sensation.

After that first screen test he’d tried to avoid imposing himself on Jason. Careful distance at table reads. Polite all-business emails when required. Surely that much would be acceptable.

He knew Jason hadn’t meant it, about any interest in paranormal romance novels. Being polite in turn.

Those expressive dark eyes had looked so shocked, even dismayed, when Colby had arrived that morning. Hadn’t even been able to talk at first. Had grown irritated when Colby tried to be nice about the pastries. That made sense, though: Jason didn’t believe in the niceness, so of course it’d be irritating.

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.