EXCERPT FROM "Seasons"

Finn had both rings on -- he always did, when not explicitly required to remove them for a role. The engagement ring hugged his finger in gold, with its inlay of sapphire, not overly ornate but heavy enough to be a reassurance. It matched the first ring Wes had given him, the promise: a medieval hand-clasp, also in gold, with aquamarine.

He touched that one, the older one; knew that Wes’s own hand also wore gold, because Finn had proposed and Wes had said yes, a vow, an acceptance of him and of everything.

Terrible puns and seasonal throw pillows and random hobbies, arts and crafts, everything he wanted to try to learn or play with or get his hands into. Filming on location or at recording studios. Reading lines aloud at home, memorizing. Massages and physical therapy sessions, painkillers and exhaustion on bad days, aching days, random days.

Wes had said yes to all of it. To him. Wanting him.

Wes lit the last candle over on the fireplace mantel, put the lighter down, and stopped. His eyes got wider, dark and worried. “Finn --”

“Totally fine,” Finn interrupted, and swiped a hand over his eyes. “Absolutely awesome. Admiring your arms. Hands. Skill at making fire. Have I told you you’re extremely hot, yet, today?”

Wes rolled his eyes but came over and sat back down. Like Finn, he’d dressed for comfort: not going out today, but somehow tidy despite casual sweatpants and a plain blue long-sleeved shirt. One of the extremely attractive hands in question found Finn’s to play with. Wes’s finger had a small pen-callus. Finn adored it.

Wes said, “This is me asking, all right? Because I want to know. And you look like you were crying, a little.” His gaze was deep and secure and full of anchors. “I’m here. I’ll say yes to winter decorations if you want.”

“Even if it’s not technically winter yet?”

“Even if. Explain how you’re going to turn sparkly cotton-ball pom-poms into holiday trees, and I’ll order you some.”

“I’m holding you to that. No, I’m all right, I’m just ...” He shrugged a shoulder, finding words. “Happy, I think. More than I realized. Deep down, everywhere, sort of ... all through me.”

Wes lifted Finn’s hand in his. Pressed a kiss to the back of it. “I love knowing you’re happy.”

“Same to you.”

“I like that you’ll tell me how you’re feeling.”

“I know.” He did know. That was something they’d had to work on, together: himself remembering that he had someone to talk to, someone who wanted to listen; Wes understanding that sometimes Finn needed him to ask, to offer that opening.

“And I like being deep inside you.”

“Wes.” Finn put his free hand over his heart. Widened both eyes, melodramatically. “That was almost a pun. I’m so proud.”

“Don’t make me say the line about you rubbing off on me.”

Finn pointed at him. Full of contented glee. “Next you’ll make a joke about my pom-poms. Or Yule logs. Speaking of wood --”

“Oh no.”

“Did you know you have a tree-mendous --”

Wes kissed him. Soundly.

Finn ended up laughing, Wes’s lips claiming his, wandering along his jawline, ear, throat. Wes murmured into his ear, “Thank you for the compliment, but please don’t finish that sentence.”

“You love my sense of humor. You love me.”

“I do. Would you want --”

Finn’s phone made a noise. Vibration, because he’d left it that way; but the buzz rattled it across the living room table.

He grumbled back at it. Wes bit his ear. “Do you need to get that?”

“No. Do that again.”

The phone obligingly did. Finn said, “I didn’t mean you!” and then sat up because two calls in a row might mean it was important, so he should at least check. Wes moved so he could reach.

On the other end, his agent was making high-pitched child-on-Christmas-morning sounds. Finn said, “Wait, slow down, Janice, was that something about a mystery and a murder?” and made Wes look at him with a certain amount of alarm.

He whispered, “It’s probably a film role.”

Wes nodded but whispered back, “Probably?”