Page 10 of In Frame
He’d thought initially that he might tell this story. He would’ve told it to actor and industry acquaintances for laughs: a new adventure, an illicit crossing of invisible borders between professions, a provocation.
He wouldn’t. Didn’t want to, somehow.
He touched a finger to his own lips, a memory. He kept it there, unspoken.
He settled back into the seat, and let the cab take him over to his friends, only slightly late for the show; he smiled reassuringly when Colby leaned over to ask whether he was all right, and he even apologized when Jason grumbled about unanswered texts. He meant the apology. He had not wanted Jason to worry, not really.
Not that the worry was directed at Leo himself. Might’ve been anyone. Anybody Jason’s big arms and big heart decided to collect. Leo Whyte just happened to be in the vicinity of all that overflowing care. Nothing personal. He knew.
And that was fine; that was all right; that was exactly right. Jason was a good person—they all were, the whole group of them—and couldn’t be expected to care beyond general genial friendliness, or to pay any attention at all to Leo’s silliness. That’d be asking too much. By far. And anyway Jason needed to focus on Colby, who shone with that support, emerging from pain into coruscating triumph and writing success and the knowledge of love.
Music swooped through the venue like sequins and glitter; their private box had a marvelous view, and the show was a good one, funny and over-the-top and full of color and feathersand style and unabashedly campy joy. Leo appreciated cabaret and props and theatricality; he sat back and watched, both the performances and his people. Andy and Jill had acquired pink sparkly drinks, which matched Andy’s newfound pink sparkly top hat; Colby was chattering about the rainbow ribbons being displayed in someone’s costume and simultaneously being cuddled up against Jason, who every so often murmured something to him or stroked his hair or kissed him.
Leo’s heart approved. Colby had needed that: someone who’d give him the attention, the affection, the protection, that he’d been so obviously starved for. And Jason had needed someone to care for, to direct all that love and compassion toward. They were right together. The way Andy and Adrian were, as well: good people finding each other, finding where they fit, in the whole huge world.
He thought about rightness. He thought, while ribbons fluttered on stage and a laughing voice sang about having too many men and too many choices, about warmth and the taste of whiskey.
He thought about Sam and Sam’s mouth on his. The thought unfolded like a love-letter: private, profound, kept secret in his chest.
He wondered whether Sam would in fact appear in London in February. He knew the chances were slender; he knew this whole night was a fantasy, a dream, a moment out of time and reality. He’d take that much gladly, without regret.
Nevertheless—
He wanted those dancing tawny eyes to turn up. He wanted to shareSteadfastwith them; he thought Sam might understand, might be swept away by the story, the love of two men through Regency-era ballrooms and battleships. He wanted to know whether Sam liked romance or history or spy stories, and whether he liked popcorn at movies, and how he’d reactto some of Leo’s own favorite scenes, from shipwrecks to quiet understated sympathy for his fictional captain’s difficult love.
He wanted to try kissing a man, kissingSam, again.
He wanted more.
He might not ever have it.
But the wanting felt right as well: something he’d learned tonight, coming into focus as true as hope, as curiosity, as gold.
Chapter 1: Premiere
Leo had been to very many premieres in his actor’s life. He was an expert, if there was such a thing: energetic on red carpets, quirkily humorous for interviews and sound bites, willing to pull faces at cameras or run over and tackle castmates into full-body hugs.
He should be perfectly relaxed. He should be immune to anxiety and the creeping nibbling tiny teeth that gnawed away inside.
He sat with one hand on the limousine’s door. He did not get up. The teeth gnawed some more.
Nothing to do with the film—he knew it was good. Nothing to do with the premiere—he honestly did like premieres. Nothing to do with his suit—he liked that too, expensive and velvety and rose-gold as a sunrise, nothing as boring as black or blue. He’d picked it on first sight, out of the options his stylist had waved at him.
He’d wanted to look good. He’d wanted…
No. That was silly. Weeks ago. Sam wouldn’t’ve come. Sam had a demanding job and lived in America and probably went around kissing men all the time and almost certainly had never given fourth-billed and featherheaded actor Leo Whyte another thought.
“Hey,” Tim nudged, leaning forward in their shared limo. Timothy Hayes was a good kid, Leo’d decided: eager and talented, enthusiastic about acting and playing a youthful midshipman, a whole future ahead of him. All of this meant that Leo’d had no qualms about including Tim in on-set pranks, both as target and as assistant. The boy needed to learn early on, after all, how to look innocent when pouring real rum into bowls of punch for an on-camera ballroom scene.
Tim at the moment raised eyebrows at him. “You gettingout, or are we staying here all night? It’s a nice limo and all, but I kind of want to see our movie, grandpa.” Despite the teasing, his eyes watched Leo’s expression; he’d been learning from Colby, also. Lots of compassion there. Getting good at empathy. Dangerous, that.
Leo said back, “No candy at the movies foryou, young man, with that attitude,” and took a deep breath. Opened the door.
The noise hit first, as it always did: a swelling roar that never failed to lift his steps and his spirits. Cheers. Calls to look over, to smile, to wave. Camera-clicks. Glamor and glitter and fame; it felt like being loved, and it reminded him that he did love this, all of it. The profession, the chance to tell stories, the way those stories meant so much to audiences and fans. He’d been to conventions, especially for that science-fiction series; he’d held fans’ shaking hands, and given hugs, and been awed by the passion and creativity. And he remained in awe of it all, though nobody’d believe him if he tried to explain with any degree of sincerity how honored he felt.
At the last convention he’d settled for walking out on stage in full space-wizard villain costume and shouting “Kneel before your master!” at the crowd. They’d loved it. So had he.
The press swung cameras and microphones his way. He gazed out at them all. He caught himself looking for dark wavy hair, tanned skin, golden-brown eyes.
