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.

Hadn't shared actual writing in a while, missing the conversations about it! So...from a bonus Character Bleed story in progress...the shower sex hurt/comfort story, in face...here's a piece of the Colby POV, after the incident in question...

#

Colby waited two entire days before asking what was on Jason’s mind. He’d’ve asked sooner, but he still felt a bit shaky. Better—far better, vastly so, mountains of better—but regaining balance.

 

The shuddery aftermath of a near-miss car-crash. The easing of a bruise, purple to yellow-brown. The knitting of bone back together, to borrow Jason’s metaphor.

 

He was all right, he thought. Or he would be. He got out flour, oats, cranberries, sesame seeds; he found yeast and milk and butter, and a bowl or two. Sunshine striped the pale granite of the countertops, gold against grey, next to his hands.

 

Jason hadn’t been subtle. No sex—nothing even vaguely along those lines—these last two days, though there’d been lots of cuddling, and attentive kisses. Glancing at Colby, glancing at the shower. Looking up something on his phone, and then casually putting on a home-renovation show while they’d been washing dishes. It’d just sounded interesting, he’d said casually. Simply that. For now.

 

Colby thought it was probably a good idea. He was a bit surprised he himself hadn’t thought of it—he’d bought new furniture, after all, after everything—but somehow anything as drastic as remodeling the flat honestly hadn’t occurred to him.

 

Of course, at the time, he’d been about to leave for the start of filming, and he hadn’t wanted to think about Liam ever again, and he hadn’t been letting himself feel much. Not letting anything crack open, behind the enthusiastic and upbeat public persona. No matter how cold his hands felt.

 

Jason wanted him to never have cold hands. Jason wanted him to reach out, so that those large strong hands could enfold his. So that Jason could keep him warm.

 

He touched the sunlight on the countertop, thinking of warmth. He loved rain, but this was nice as well: clean brightness under his fingertips, lying there as if happy to be appreciated.

 

He gave his countertop a tiny pat, because he would like that, if he were a cuddly bit of sun-striped granite; and he smiled a little and set about conjuring up cranberry-oat bread, with sesame and flaxseed.

 

Jason came in from the small balcony while Colby’s hands were buried in shaggy dough, and said, “Sorry, that took longer than I thought. Susan had a whole list of late-night shows she wants to see me on, for interviews. Can I help?”

 

“Just grab that bowl, would you? Light oil—perfect, thank you. Of course you’ll be marvelous doing press. You always are.”

 

Jason set down the oil. Blinked at him, a large perplexed foothill in worn jeans and a dark red Henley. “You’ve seen me do press before?”

 

“Er…I might’ve watched some things. Promoting new John Kill installments, and such.” The dough had obligingly become a nice smooth ball; he tucked it into its bowl-bed. “About two hours, for that, I think….you’re always so gracious. Praising your directors, co-stars, crew. Playing along with spy trivia questions or little how-well-do-you-know-your-castmates games. You’re such a good sport about it. I always liked that.”

 

Jason carried on gazing at him, and finally said, “I mean…you have to have fun with it, right? Even if it’s not, like…I mean, in Saint Nick Steel I ran around wearing a Santa hat that made me into a reincarnated spirit of Christmas that rescued kids. By punching bad guys. Or shooting them. Or something.”

 

“It’s certainly original.”

 

“Terrible. You mean terrible. But, like…people still worked on it. Our cast, our crew…we made something, y’know? So of course I’m going to be a good sport about the press circus. For them, and for me, because it’s not like it wasn’t fun. So, yeah, I’ll say so.”

 

“And there’s always an audience for those sorts of stories, which, as it happens, includes me.” Colby looked around for plastic wrap to cover the bowl; Jason held it out. “I like fantasy, and I like you running around in extremely tight shirts while protecting people.” Their eyes met, across dough and sunshine.

 

“Two hours,” Jason said, a question, an invitation, a joy.

 

“Plenty of time for you to kiss me in our kitchen?”

 

Jason laughed, stepped in closer—carefully, not throwing looming weight around—and slid a big hand to the back of Colby’s head, fingers threading through his hair. Their lips met, lightly at first. Jason tasted like mint and sunlight, having been outside; his tongue teased Colby’s mouth, coaxing and gentle, not a demand.

 

Colby tried to get even closer. Pressed up against Jason, hands roaming the broad expanse of Jason’s back, such muscle and strength and kindness. The feeling of Jason’s body against his, exquisitely male and powerful and aroused.

 

He wanted Jason to kiss him more, harder, deeper. He wanted to be Jason’s, to know that he was: beyond any question, belonging to and cherished by the man loved. He wanted to feel Jason everywhere; he attempted to beckon Jason further, a hopeful shy question of tongue and parted lips and shifting hips.

 

Jason smiled—Colby felt it—but drew back, though he kept both big arms around Colby, holding fast. “Just checking, that’s what you wanted, right? You know I’m fine with whatever you say’s okay.”

 

Colby felt his own eyebrows go up. “Was I not being clear enough about you and fantasies and our kitchen?”

 

“You asked me to kiss you.” Jason hugged him more tightly. “If that’s where we’re at, today, that’s perfect.”

 

“Oh.” He recalibrated his reactions for a second. Not him not being clear enough; not his fault. Jason being careful. Because Jason was that, at heart: built of care. “Thank you. But in fact I was hoping you might ravish me on the kitchen table? Or a chair. Or these countertops. They’re in favor of ravishing. Which sounds a lot like radishes, so of course they’d be in favor, we’re in a kitchen, that somehow seems appropriate. Or inappropriate, as it were. But not being inappropriate with radishes, please.”

 

Jason burst out laughing, though it was a gentle thunderclap, softened by emotion. “God, I love you. And the radishes.”

 

“Please,” Colby said, and traced a heart over Jason’s back, behind a shoulder blade. “I want you. Here, in sunshine.”

I was looking for something else, and stumbled across this, which was obviously meant to be the opening of a...short story? something longer? I think I have a vague idea of where it might've been going, or at least the relationship in question, if not the plot! I actually rather like it. I wonder what I could do with it...

#

The envoys from all six neighboring countries had begun arriving for the Winter Banquet. Therefore, of course, the youngest prince of Tenebrae was dead again.

 

Cinnabar Flint glared at the royal messenger, grumbled, “I’m only a journeyman, let me call Master Horatio—” and tried to shut the door to the College of Necromancers in the young woman’s face. The messenger, being experienced at this, stuck her foot in the crack before he could.

 

“Cinn,” Master Horatio observed, appearing in the corridor behind him, “you know you’re only a journeyman because you keep avoiding your final masterwork, now go and help the nice young person.” In casual black—trousers, robe with rolled-up sleeves, silver master’s pin crooked as usual at his throat—he had a pencil and a small bag in one hand, and lifted both eyebrows Cinn’s direction, only lightly grey over cheerful brown amusement.

 

“You go,” Cinn said. “I’m busy. Testing the first-years on Caelian funeral runes this afternoon.” Most of the first- and second-year apprentices remained in awe of the masters and their supposed power. Cinn, who’d grown up on the grounds and who’d deliberately remained a journeyman for three years and more, had once seen Master Horatio consume an entire Renewing Day fruitcake sculpture in one sitting, and had acquired a rather different form of awe in that direction.

 

“No you’re not,” his Master said. “I’m taking your class, and you’re waking up our recalcitrant prince.”

 

“Soon would be nice,” said the messenger, to Cinn. “The banquet’s in two hours.” Her expression suggested fast-eroding patience regarding collegiate bickering, balanced with the awareness that the College felt similar emotions regarding Prince Hyacinthe’s penchant for escape from uncomfortable social obligations.

 

“You just don’t want to deal with him,” Cinn said to his Master, accurately.

 

“True, which is why I’m sending my favorite and most skilled journeyman,” Horatio agreed serenely. “Young person, would you like a roasted pumpkin seed? They’re delicious.”

 

The messenger’s expression now contained quite a lot of doubt about the casual consumption of pumpkin seeds in a hallway that almost certainly led to dead bodies. Cinn felt this was rather unfair; the College had excellent kitchens and brilliant cooks.

 

He inquired, “What happened this time? Riding accident, doing a terrible job at fighting an ogre, impressive ability to drown in his own new shower-bath twice?”

 

“Boar hunting, I think.” The messenger ran a hand through her blonde curls, above royal livery. Rain dripped, desultory, over cobblestones outside. “Something about tripping over his own spear. Er…you are good at this, aren’t you?”

 

“The best,” put in Master Horatio, beaming. “Naturally gifted. Quite rare, really, that level of innate talent.”

 

Cinn sighed. Heavily.

 

He knew perfectly well that he did not precisely fit traditional assumptions about necromancers. He’d never been tall or imposing, and he looked even younger and distressingly thin in formal black robes, so he mostly didn’t bother with them. His hair, fortunately, tended to look good in messy pale strawberry-gilt waves, but it was the sort of good that attracted men and playful hands, rather than intimidating them in rooms of power. Cinn did not mind the former, but occasionally, especially when faced with ingredients on tall shelves, he wondered what having actual height and breadth and shoulders would feel like.

 

At least announcing his profession generally helped as far as being taken seriously. Assuming the person looking at him actually believed him, of course. If they did, they looked at him differently; he wasn’t sure yet whether he enjoyed that.

 

That morning, given the cool rainy promise in the air, he’d thrown on battered but comfortable grey trousers and a deep indigo-dyed shirt and a knitted crimson jumper he’d picked up in the market, decent enough for teaching. He had chipped rose-pink nail varnish on because he hadn’t got around to either properly removing or touching up the color, because he’d been busy with fellow journeyman Melody’s birthday celebrations and the pubs, plural; and then he’d been sticking his hands into various bodies and recuperative ingredients and magic and student ritual-language quizzes all week…

 

He knew how the current argument would go. He sighed again. “You owe me.”

 

“They’ll likely invite you to stay. All those visiting nobles, Court fashions, the wine and the food…it’ll be quite splendid.”

 

“You could do this one.”

 

“Oh, dear, no,” Master Horatio said hastily. The specters of polite aristocratic small talk, of dealing with banquet etiquette—and also talking to the youngest reckless embodiment of royal privilege—rose behind the words. “I’ve been to the palace so many times, you know. It’s getting quite dull for me, you see. All yours. Go on. Stay for the banquet. Enjoy the valuable opportunity. You might even meet the King and Queen.”

 

“I don’t want to stay for the banquet. I want to come home and mark exams and read that latest romantic novel by Verena Rose. I want hot cocoa. It’s raining.”

 

“I’m certain you can find a lovely young courtier to romance, if you’d like the non-literary version.”

 

“Just for that,” Cinn announced, “I will, and it’s your fault if I cause a diplomatic incident. Necromancer and visiting duke caught in stairwell. Forming intimate alliances. Naked. I’m taking these with me.” He plucked the sack of roasted pumpkin seeds out of his Master’s startled grip, grabbed a spare weatherproof cloak from behind the door, and found one of the usual travel kits on the shelves: herbs, thread, coins, cypress rods, all neatly packed.

 

He wouldn’t need most of it. Horatio hadn’t been wrong about him.

 

Naturally gifted. Innately talented. Able to hear, to touch, to speak to the dead more clearly than anyone else he’d ever met. Not always, not every time, but most times.

 

He’d stood in old guildhalls and centuries-worn pubs, and he’d felt the whisper of ghosts at his shoulders: too light for even fellow apprentices to hear, but present. All around. Murmuring to him. Never silent, unless he drowned them out. He had good mental walls, though sometimes the scratching grew interminable, relentless, flickering on the edge of pain.

 

At least the prince, being newly dead—again—would be loud and bright. Unmistakable. Easy to find. After all, this was very nearly routine: Prince Hyacinthe, golden and feckless, avoiding responsibilities and failing at heroic quests by, quite literally, dropping dead. Causing anxiety; causing more work; in general being a decidedly royal pain.

 

Still, the College would send someone. They did every time. They did not dislike the King and Queen, who after all had been good rulers for Tenebrae; they did not dislike the Crown Prince, or the sprawling prolific and goodnatured royal family in general.

 

Prince Hyacinthe in particular, though…

 

Cinn tossed a pumpkin seed up and caught it in his mouth just to watch his Master’s mournful expression, and picked up the travel bag. The messenger got visibly relieved.

 

“Have fun,” Horatio said. “I’ll go and find your first-years. Which classroom was it, again? There are so many.”

 

“Thank you for this valuable opportunity,” Cinn told him, utterly deadpan, and went out in the direction of the palace, over puddled streets, in the rain.