Wesley Kim loves watching his boyfriend work. Even when he can’t help worrying about it.
Wes knows his boyfriend’s a genius actor -- after all, Finn Ransom used to be a household name. And Finn’s so compelling, even on the set of a television superhero show where he’s a recurring fan favorite, not the star. He’s brilliant. And Wes gets to tell him so. Repeatedly. In bed.
But this role is physically demanding. Late nights, action scenes. Wes has seen Finn in the hospital before. He never wants to again.
Then Finn gets an offer: the chance to become a series regular ...
Wes watched Finn being brilliant, on set, well into the night. Superhero-themed television-show emotional conversations. Anger. Acceptance. The solitary scene that’d be the moment of his character choosing to suit up again -- not the old prismatic light-refracting white armor, but a black formfitting choice. The super-suits weren’t present in this moment -- that’d be a different day, different set-up -- but the cameras watched Finn’s face, as he stood alone by the bunker’s window. After he’d let the League leave, to go off on their world-saving mission.
He'd given them assistance: money, equipment, his own knowledge of past encounters. He sipped whiskey -- colored water, in reality -- and let his fingers tighten around the glass.
The filming ended there, around midnight, on the chilly studio lot. The moon was out, low and bright and clear; Finn came over to kiss Wes, said, “I’ll just be a few minutes, let me get changed,” and went off to do that. The presence of the cane was more pronounced, maybe still in character, maybe not.
Wes touched his lips, involuntarily, watching the flutter of blond hair under moonlight. Watching the back of Finn’s neck, his shoulders, the shape of him in a wealthy character’s beautifully tailored shirt and slacks. Yes, he thought. Oh, yes. This.
Finn was decently hungry but also currently on a diet; back at their hotel, he inhaled grilled chicken, zucchini, a single tiny square of dark chocolate. He eyed Wes’s chicken sandwich and fries with the expression of a martyr being tempted. Wes, who was trying to get used to night schedules and eating late and sleeping late -- at least for the next few days -- gave him four fries, and would’ve shared more, but Finn said not to. Wes said, “Will anyone care if you have French fries?”
“My super-suit will.”
“It can’t make that much of a difference.”
“If I say that once I’ll say it every night.” Finn did, guiltily, take a fifth fry and toss it into his mouth. He’d changed into the more usual jeans, flip-flops, zip-up hoodie, shirt with the logo of a Malibu surf shop he knew and Wes didn’t. He looked, briefly, like the teenager he’d once been; he didn’t, though, when he smiled at Wes across the remains of room service. “Sorry about the terrible hours. It’ll get better.”
“I don’t mind,” Wes said, heart doing an absurd flip. “Like grad school.”
Finn laughed. “I’m imagining you in grad school. Books, papers, notes ... completely organized, of course ... working on your first field-defining publications ...”
Wes had had four published articles, several book reviews, one edited volume of essays, and a certain amount of silver flecks in his hair by the time he’d finished. Plus the dissertation, which had become his first book. He got up from the small table, came over to the man he loved. “Want a massage?” The back of Finn’s neck remained tempting, under rumpled hair; he skimmed a thumb across soft skin.
Finn looked up at him, leaning back in the chair. The hotel room had dark furniture, high ceilings, and scattered pops of emerald color, accents in the headboard and the lamps and the decorative curtains and throw pillows.
Finn’s eyes were very blue against the wood, the white sheets of the bed, the green highlights. He’d pushed up both sleeves, and he had a smudge of unremoved eyeliner under his left eye, and his smile was breathtaking.
Wes leaned down to kiss him. Finn reached up and pulled him closer. Lips, teeth, tongue: undeniable hungry want.
“Yes,” Wes promised into the kiss, to the corner of Finn’s mouth, to the line of his throat: tasting him, exploring, only leaving marks that’d fade, the lightest pink. “Yes.”