Page 3 of Coffee and Tea

“Yes, quite. Only not literally, because certainly not, thank you.”

Jason snorted.

“And you’d think I’d’ve been sympathetic, and I was, really, it’s just it was hard to remember that when he—Simon, not his father—kept telling me how utterly dull and useless I was for preferring books and quiet, as opposed to the oh-so-marvelous joys of finding the nearest underground rave and consuming some sort of illegal sparkly substance and getting on both knees for the first willing man.”

Colby was almost never, possibly literally never before now, anywhere near the neighborhood of that sort of sarcasm. Jason blinked, and adjusted expectations. “Um. Wow. Okay.”

Colby sighed, though it was more of a groan, and collapsed back into Jason’s lap, head on Jason’s thigh, eyes shut again for a second. “I’m so sorry. That was awful of me, wasn’t it? I’m not usually that…that…”

“Spiky?”

“Absolutely mean-spirited. Bitchy. You can say it.”

“Wasn’t going to.”

“I was, though. Oh, God. Sorry. I didn’t mean it.”

“Sounds like you kinda did. If he was making you feel dull and useless.” Jason was moderately concerned, now. And entertained. He’d never heard Colby be acerbic about anyone before, and apparently that emerged in verbose and descriptive and vicious elegance.

Colby clearly felt bad about it, though. Jason ran a hand through his husband’s hair, through dark brown silky waves; paused to rub Colby’s temple. “We don’t have to go to the gala. You don’t have to see him.”

“Now I feel guilty, so we have to.” Colby tipped his head into the massage, burrowing closer. “That really was dreadful of me. I like being nice to people.”

“I know.”

“Stop being reasonable about it.”

“Nope, sorry. Love you.”

“Oh, honestly…just admit I was being terrible. I was. I know it.”

“You said he used to make fun of you.”

“Yes, well, I was terribly boring, and far better with books than with people.” Colby sighed. “And I envied him, a bit. Someone who knew what people thought of him, and then decided he just didn’t give a damn, and he’d do what he wanted and who he wanted, and he’d take pleasure where he wanted…I could never be that reckless. My parents likely wouldn’t’ve even noticed, mind you, as long as I didn’t actively inconvenience them. But my head just couldn’t think that way. I wanted to be good. Simon didn’t care, and that was…I wished I could do that, sometimes. Only not really. If that makes any sense at all. And I love you, so much, of course.”

Jason played with his hair: looping cocoa strands around fingers, feeling the slide and the softness. “Yeah, I think I got it. Like you and the sex on a hotel balcony fantasies.” Something Colby didn’t exactly want, in reality—in public—but the idea of it, being that free, for once not aching with anxiety about being good enough, simply letting it all go…

He touched Colby’s mouth, a kiss of fingertip. “You’re not boring. You make cinnamon-pear French toast and you do calligraphy and you can come up with stories about dragon magician librarians on the spot. Plus, you know. Award-winning screenwriter and actor and all.”

“That might make it worse. Living in fantasies, still…”

“No. It’s all real.” He pressed the fingertip harder against Colby’s mouth, until those pretty lips softened and parted. “You’re wonderful, and you make people happy every day, with every story. And you’re all mine, and I’m totally fine with punching a duke’s son in the face if he tries to make you feel not good enough, got it?”

Colby nodded, wide-eyed. His breathing had quickened.

“Do you want me to show you how good you are?” He had the other hand in Colby’s hair, and Colby’s head on his thigh, still: he kept petting the hair, being tender, even while his finger pressed into Colby’s mouth, mimicked a thrust, slid back across pink lips, left a shining smudge. “And how absolutely fucking not bored I am? The way you look, the way you feel, the way you want me, us, like nothing else, ever…”

“Yes.” Nearly a gasp, that answer; Jason grinned inwardly. Colby’s arousal was obvious now, stiff and full beneath his pants; his hips shifted.

Jason knew that feeling. Because it was everyplace inside him too: excitement scampering up and down his bones, sheer crackling need making his dick throb in his jeans, and beneath it all the deep-rooted certainty of this and them and being exactly where they belonged.

He said, “So, fantasies…you know our mirror…and you know how much we both like you being mine…so, um, if I did take you to some sort of club—I mean our bedroom—you know, sex and kink and us getting up on stage, everyone seeing how you belong to me, how nice and sweet you are for me…”

“Oh God yes.” Colby licked his lips. “Yes. That. I’ll be so good for you, I’m yours, all yours, and you’ll show everyone that I am.”

“Mine,” Jason agreed, and caught his wrists and tugged him up from the couch. “Come here—”

In their bedroom, surrounded by the sugared glow of steampunk lamplight, fantastical shapes echoed on the walls, tumbles of brass and bronze and books and the giant bed with swirling vine-curls in the headboard and the sheets with raindrop patterns because Colby missed English weather, Jason kissed his husband. With conviction.

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