luninosity

Want a little piece from Leo's book-in-progress? From the press round, just after Leo's come out...

~

Leo, in a nondescript side hallway in a Los Angles hotel, lurked around a corner. Waited for Sam. Wished for an open window, a breeze, anything. His hallway was trying hard but had no views, only sandy beige walls.

 

The carpet was blue. And gold. He looked down at his feet. He hadn’t put his shoes back on; the orange and pink and blue polka-dots of his socks did not exactly clash with the décor.

 

Like so many things in his life, just now. Not a disaster, but discordant. Or a surprise. Or only a change. Or just who he was: Leo Whyte, random and colorful, a disruption.

 

He leaned back against the beige expanse. It held him up, companionably.

 

He shut his eyes, for a second. Alone in a hallway, a stolen glimpse of time. He’d brought props, purely for fun—two of Jason’s action figures, one in the Santa hat from Saint Nick Steel—and he’d planned to set them up on the arm of his chair for the next interview.

 

He liked making people laugh. He always had.

 

He didn’t hear a sound, as such. But the air changed. A presence.

 

He opened his eyes, and Sam was right there: brown hair, golden eyes, comfortable jeans, battered black jacket. So real: lines around his eyes, scuffs on his shoes, human and solid and believable.

 

Sam didn’t say anything, just held out his arms. Leo peeled himself off the wall and fell into them.

 

He wasn’t crying. He didn’t feel like crying. He felt shaken and also anchored, as if he hadn’t known he was falling until his feet hit sturdy ground.

 

Sam held him, made soft wordless comforting noises, rubbed Leo’s back, kissed the top of his head. Leo said, into Sam’s jacket, “You feel like my snowglobe.”

 

“I’ll build you a sandcastle.” Sam’s hand kneaded the back of his neck. “With a seahorse to be your friend.”

 

“You’re my friend.” Leo pulled back enough to breathe, to find Sam’s eyes—honey, sunlight over trails, a firm landing—and discovered that, after all, he wanted to smile. Remembering what he’d chosen, and why. Sure of his heart all over again. “And you’re definitely not a seahorse. I think I’d know.”

 

“It’s an interesting costume party idea.” Sam kept an arm around him, holding him close. “How’re you doing? Seahorses aside.”

 

“I’m…I don’t know.” He bit his lip, admitting it. He had to, though. This was Sam. And Leo would never be anything less than honest. “Good, I think. Overall. Though I’m not certain how many times I can say, yes, I meant what I posted online, that was me coming out. Which is an interesting phrase, isn’t it? I can think of so many not at all family-friendly visuals. We could test some of them out, tonight.”

 

“We can.” Sam touched him again: over Leo’s temple, right where a tiny headache hid. “Go back to the part where you said you don’t know how you’re feeling.”

 

“Oh. You’re far too good at that…I don’t know, precisely. I just…” He wanted to lean against the wall again; he took a step back, felt helpful flatness at his back, and then slid slowly down to sit on patterned carpet. Blue and gold abstract shapes peeked up worriedly.

 

Sam sat down beside him. Took his hand. Right there in a hotel hallway. Five minutes until another interview. Meeting Leo’s absurd life—press rounds, sock feet, and all—without flinching. “I’m here.”

 

Leo played with Sam’s fingers, in his. “I’m okay.”

 

Sam waited.

 

“I’m…I think I’m okay. It’s both more real and more ridiculous, now that I’ve said it at least eight times. I like telling the world who I am. I’ve always done that.”

 

“I know.”

 

“Sometimes I wish I were Colby. Not really, of course, I could never be, but in the sense that he and Jason aren’t doing quite as much press. They can get away with that; everyone’s honored whenever Colby decides to agree to something, and he’s such a big name, and so lovable, he can say yes or no to interviews and everyone’ll adore him either way.”

 

“No,” Sam said, “you’re not Colby. Or Jason. And I don’t want you to be. I want you, Leo. The person you are. Tell me something you learned about historical ships, for your movie.”

 

“Ah. Er. There’s a difference between cannon and carronades. Carronades are the short-range thicker ones. More powerful for broadsides, versus long guns.”

 

“Huh. Never knew that. Your Lieutenant Harper totally would, though.”

 

“Ned absolutely knows everything about the Steadfast. He found out everything he could, as soon as they were given command of her.” History, duty, commitment, responsibility. Not, generally speaking, Leo’s own strong suits.

 

But, he thought. But Sam had asked. About what he’d learned. About his preparation for the role. Which he had done. And he’d enjoyed it. “I also learned some period-appropriate dances. For the ballroom scenes. Of course Jason’s off seducing Colby, but I’m doing our actual job and seizing the opportunity for contacts and conversations and advancement.”

 

“Maybe you can show me some steps, later.”

 

“Maybe. It’ll have to be quite a bit later. I’ve got that late-night show to tape, after.”

 

“When do you get a break?”

 

Leo laughed.

 

“Okay,” Sam said. “I get it. I’m not sure how late Jason and Colby want me to stay—I know I’m supposed to be documenting this week, their life—but they might want some space, after this. I can try to come to your show, if you want. Or meet you after.”

 

“I’d like that, if you could. I imagine the lovebirds won’t mind. How’re they handling it all, by the way?”

 

“Want to come say hi?”

 

“I,” Leo said. “Oh. Yes, actually.” He wouldn’t’ve asked. He might’ve just popped in—he had in London, a time or two, to provide a diversion and make Colby laugh—but that wasn’t the same as an invitation. “I’ve only got a minute or so, though.”

 

Sam got up. Held out a hand. “Bet they’d like to see you. Come on.”

 

Leo accepted Sam’s hand, getting up. The grip felt strong: not letting him go.

 

He held Sam’s hand all the way down the hall, and into the hotel suite. It was bigger than the room they’d put him in; that might be because this room needed to hold both Colby and Jason’s shoulders, or because someone wanted to ensure the film’s leads got the nicest space. Sunlight spilled from the open windows, a counter to the thick black backdrop curtains set up for filming. Framed by window-glass and sea and sky, Colby was leaning back against Jason, with Jason’s arms around him, soaking up golden heat and moments of quiet.

 

Leo said, “What if we collectively staged a rebellion and demanded to do the rest of the press down at the beach?” and waved at them, with the hand not securely in Sam’s. “With dolphins.”

 

Colby turned, and laughed, and actually ran over to him, towing Jason behind like a massive planet in orbit around the sun. “I’d love that! I do love the ocean. Lakes. Pools. Rain. Water in general, really. I’d be an excellent merperson. I was reading a romance about otter shapeshifters last week, well, one otter and one marine biologist, to be precise, and they’re adorable together. Would you like shortbread? No Spotted Dick, sorry, though speaking of, I imagine it’s been an interesting morning for you? Though I’m not asking you to do more talking about it, if you’re a bit tired of that.”

 

Adorable, Leo thought. And also, so many words. A recognizable tactic. He studied Colby’s messy hair, pointed chin, big blue eyes with their hint of tension at the corners. “Darling, I’m perfectly happy to talk about interesting dicks. Especially now that I’m officially bisexual.” He even batted his eyelashes. For effect.

 

That made Colby giggle, and Jason roll his eyes and say, “Oh, you’re an authority now?” But he was making a joke, so it wasn’t really sarcastic. Or Leo hoped not.

 

“For the record, Sam has a splendid dick,” he announced, and took one of Colby’s shortbread offerings and devoured it. As usual, it was exquisite.

 

Sam let go of Leo’s hand to put both hands over his own face. “Why, Leo. Why.”

 

“Because he’s Leo,” Jason sighed.

 

“That’s lovely to know,” Colby said, “I’m so glad you’re making Leo so happy,” and his tone and his expression were completely earnest, the exact same answer he’d’ve given if Leo had talked about Sam remembering how he liked his morning tea.

 

“Jesus,” Sam said, from behind the hands. His ears were pink.

 

“Well,” Leo protested, “it’s true, you are splendid, and Colby brought up dicks. And otters. And now I’m thinking about looking up—”

 

“Please don’t finish that sentence,” Sam said, putting his hands down, laughing, pulling Leo in for a quick kiss. “And please don’t tell your interviewers facts about the sex lives of otters.”

 

“It’d break up the monotony, wouldn’t it? How’re you two doing, with all the terribly intrusive questions about your personal lives and baking habits? I assume that’s what they’re asking. Biscuit recipes, favorite bread dough, jokes about banana nut, that sort of thing.” He’d wandered over to the tall windows while talking. Out on the sand, in the distance, some sort of volleyball game was happening.

 

Jason looked at Leo’s feet. “Where’re your shoes? Also, for the record, I like banana nut bread. And yes, I got the euphemism.”

 

“Marvelous, because that’s your new nickname, Banana Nut. Are you trying to fuss over me? Not that I don’t appreciate it. My shoes are happy where they are. Under a chair, taking a nap. Colby, how many more’ve you got, today?”

 

“Hmm? Sorry, I was thinking about zucchini. Er. Bread, that is.” Colby threw him a devastatingly wicked grin. “Which I enjoy. Obviously. Four more interviews, today. Though they’re individual, these last few…they wanted us on our own…”

 

Leo, Sam, and Jason all traded looks. Leo knew what his own expression was doing, because he saw it mirrored twice over.

 

He said, wandering back to the shortbread, “I thought you requested only joint press. With your Banana Nut Mountain at your side.” Being himself, he could get away with asking the unsubtle question out loud.

Here's a little Rainbow Snippet post for this week  - it's the opening of the m/m "Princess and the Pea" retelling! I was in a light and fluffy mood...

#

“Mother,” Arthur said patiently, “that’s the eighth princess. And the fifth prince. It’s only been two weeks.”

Queen Tatiana of Starskeep set down her teacup with a tiny porcelain clink and a frown gathering between her eyes. Sunlight laced the breakfast room with gold, flying like bird’s wings over pale blue-striped wallpaper. The paper was new and delicate and perfectly in fashion, as were the chairs and the paintings and her gown. “And you’ve liked none of them. You did say you were willing to consider marriage, darling.”

“Consider,” Arthur said. “Not propose on the spot. And this last one informed me that she’d overlook my unfortunate literary tendencies because of our money. While her brother tried to put a hand on my thigh under the table at dinner.”

Tatiana considered this. “Did he say it was only about the money?”

“Mother…”

“I want you to be happy, you know.” She reached for his hand, patted it, gave him the melting smile that charmed courtiers and diplomats into agreement. Starskeep sat at the intersection of three gently flowing trading-hub rivers, and had blossomed into a wealthy marzipan confection of a city-state, full of tulips and prosperity and Tatiana’s chess-master mind behind negotiations and import-export arrangements. Arthur adored his mother, and sometimes thought it was a good thing she’d never harbored ambitions to conquer the world.

He said, “I know. And I love you, you know that. But I don’t actually need to meet every eligible person on your list in the span of a single fortnight. How long is your list, anyway?”

“Extensive,” his mother retorted happily. “And exhaustive. Darling, I want the best for you. A proper match. Someone utterly lovely. Someone with impeccable royal bloodlines. Someone who knows how to direct a household and whether the Duke of Oakenwood or the Marchioness of Vervian should have the order of precedence. Someone who brings you a dowry of gold and jewels and roses carved from rubies.”

Arthur sighed.

“Wouldn’t you like rubies?” his mother inquired hopefully. “I’ve always thought one can never have too many.”

“I just thought,” Arthur said, while the sunbeam stretched out to touch the tip of his boot, “that I’d like someone I can talk to. Someone who might be interested in books. Or at least curious about…I don’t know. The world.”

 “What could be more interesting than ruby roses?”

Someone who could carve roses out of gemstones would likely be interesting to talk to, at that; Arthur sighed again, but found himself smiling. His mother meant well. And he did need to start thinking about marriage, as an only son and prince and heir.

He’d managed to put it off until his twenty-fifth birthday, two weeks ago. That’d been the catalyst for the onslaught of prospective spouses, beginning the night of the birthday ball his mother’d thrown. There’d been six flattering sugar sculptures of his head, and an entire wall of rare blue orchids.

He said, “I’ll consider whomever you invite, but no promises, all right?”

“That’s all I ask.” His mother picked up her teacup again. “That and you settling on a perfectly faultless and advantageous match, of course.”