Page 43 of In Frame
Leo laughing, posing, dancing shamelessly with a teakettle in his kitchen. Leo barefoot and reckless and vulnerable, dressed in a melodramatic robe. Leo cupping tea in both hands, glancing up, smile swift and small as a secret. Steam had kissed his eyelashes, long and blond and bare of any on-camera makeup.
Looking at that last one, Sam had felt his chest try to ache and expand and cave in all at once. Bizarre and welcome as an avalanche, a cascade, a release of tension. Complicated, the way Leo denied being. Made of layers.
He wanted, more than he’d ever wanted anything ever, to be the person allowed to unfold those layers. To hold any pieces that Leo chose to give him, and to guard them forever.
He sold celebrity photographs for a living. That was inescapably true.
He’d gone home with Leo. He’d woken up with Leo. That was also true. He didn’t know how to think about it; he barely recognized himself. Who was this person, the one who’d tasted mimosas and laughter in Leo Whyte’s kitchen in the depths of night? The person who’d dared to give Leo his number, who’d kissed Leo in a limousine, who hoped in the face of all practicality that fairytales could be real?
Even if Leo did want him…somehow, some way…
That kind of story didn’t happen. And didn’t include the heartbreak: questions about who’d pay for dinner, who could afford to fly first class, how Sam’s current job would cease to be an option once he himself became a subject for scrutiny, andwhat that’d mean for his family…
None of those questions involved whether he wanted to try.
He wanted to be with Leo again. So damn much his whole body screamed to grab the phone and send a text just to say hi.
They’d begun doing that almost as soon as he’d stepped off the plane. Casual, silly, lighthearted. Random snapshots and thoughts. Sam had sent the comment about mermen and Leo’s affinity for fish pillows; Leo had sent back a link to a person-sized plush stuffed shark and some thoughts about acquiring it for the décor. Sam had wished him luck with the press tour and interviews, and Leo had texted him in spare moments, across time zones and unspoken questions and answers.
That would always be part of Leo’s life. Premieres, press events, the demands of the job. Sam, who’d skulked around the fringes of that world, couldn’t picture himself being a part of it.
Hewouldtry. For Leo. If he thought he could.
He wasn’t worried about himself—he could handle it, he knew what to expect, he didn’t have any deep dark dangerous secrets to uncover, and he’d make the choice without hesitation—as much as he was about Leo, about his family, about consequences.
Leo Whyte was famous. Not top-of-the-A-list Colby Kent levels of famous, but enough for recognition. Steady work for over a decade, several big films—mostly supporting or ensemble roles, but acclaimed as well as popular—and also stage and television productions, including that well-known British science-fiction institution where he kept popping back up as the beloved villain. Sam had in fact seen an episode or two, late at night, and had been entertained; he didn’t think Leo’d been in any of the ones he’d caught.
Leo did some fan conventions, he knew, mostly for that science-fiction crowd, but sometimes for one of the nineteenth-century period drama shows, one that’d run for five years and gained a massive following. A younger Leo had played the aristocratic family’s youngest son, flirtatious and reckless and looking for his place in the world, eventually forced to grow up after the death of his father and the threat of mounting debts; Sam had inadvertently watched some of that because his brother Carlos, with a historian’s interest, had liked the show and the international imperial politics. He recalled thinking Leo’s character was among the most complex, especially later on, when they’d given him more weight and more responsibility.
Leo had fans. A career. A world that included autograph-seekers and people who’d pay money to ask him about Del the space wizard or the Honorable Benedict Castlereigh. And Sam…
He’d stand at Leo’s side proudly, if Leo wanted that. He just didn’t know whether Leo’d be proud to do the same.
That wasn’t a critique regarding Leo. Leo Whyte, Sam considered with fondness, would jump right into the middle of a storm if the jumping felt worthwhile.
It wouldn’t be a question of Leo not wanting to. It wouldn’t even necessarily be about coming out; that was getting more accepted in the industry these days, and Leo hadn’t been shy about inviting him to the limo after the premiere. But the world would have comments about Leo’s choice of partner. What would Sam Hernandez-Blake have to offer? What kind of relationship would that be? How badly would the world judge Leo for dating a former paparazzo?
It’d have to be former. He tried to imagine keeping his job while simultaneously being the subject of said job, as other cameras followed him around. No.
And then what, he thought. Be unemployed? Depend on Leo? No, again. No.
They might not get ambushed on a daily basis—Sam tried for a second to recall how often he’d seen Leo-related stories popup—but Leo coming out would be news, and any big film role or announcement would also be news. He guessed that they could maybe manage to go out to dinner withouttoomuch trouble, especially after the first wave of novelty died down; Leo wasn’t one of the outright biggest fish in the camera-lens sights.
But he also knew he’d seen pictures, not his, of Leo out jogging in a park, and leaving a shop with an ice cream cone, and also the infamous waving-of-sex-toys incident.
But, he thought. But I want to. Despite everything, despite knowing: I want to.
His head hurt. He rubbed the spot between his eyebrows, just for a second, and thought longingly about aspirin, or maybe good whiskey, though he only had the one nice bottle in the house and he’d been saving it. A single indulgence. A present to himself, the last time he’d had a tiny bit of extra cash and could afford it.
He’d shared that with Leo, too. On a magical night, the first magical night, when the world had spun just right and clicked into place, every gear and wheel right where it should be, and the universe had stood still just to let him taste honey and fire and the flavor of Leo Whyte’s mouth.
He shut his eyes and saw Leo and the teacup again, sugar and steam and roses. He wanted to play with the colors of that picture, to let the background fade, to catch the pale old-fashioned pink in the teacup’s design and the swirl of color in Leo’s eyes and the eddy of heat upward.
He wanted. Oh, he wanted. He looked down at the kitchen trash can and the closest interlocked pattern of floor-tiles, decades-old, brown and familiar.
He hadn’t sent in that last photograph. Most of the rest, yes. Jameson had been thrilled. And hadn’t even asked how Sam’d managed that, no doubt assuming he’d lurked in Leo’s garden or scaled the next-door balcony. The paycheck had beenfar better than average.
He could pay some bills. Buy some groceries. And more trash bags.
