by Lisa Henry
His phone went off.
Are you all right?
Oh my . . . Alistair had broken his self-imposed rule about not texting during the show. He grinned down at the screen. Well, if they were going to be playing loose with that rule tonight . . .
Fine. Wes deserved to win.
So did you.
Already had my coming-out gala this season, plenty for me. You’ll have to win for both of us.
Edward is very deserving. He did a remarkable job.
Edward was the last thing Jon wanted to be thinking about right now. His character is currently dying a slow death.
A camera panned to Alistair, and the shock on his face made Jon chuckle. Alistair looked up from his phone and smiled a second later, perfect and unforced, but the moment was immortalized on DVR forever.
Jon was less pleased when the DVR also immortalized Edward leaning over to whisper something to Alistair, some brief moment of commiseration before the camera panned up front to Wes, and Jon went back to ignoring the TV in favor of writing some more torture. He was still prevaricating over the binding, a little stuck when it came to finding a way to inflict pain that had the right symbolism. Nails were a popular choice with various saints, but the comparison to Jesus was maybe too strong to escape. While Father Roman was a lot of things, no one, not even Patrick, would compare him to the Son of God.
Jon typed halfheartedly, caught between expecting his phone to chime again and knowing that it was very unlikely since Alistair had already been caught out once. The rule about texting was there for a reason, after all, and Alistair was always very clear about his rules. He must’ve really been concerned to break it, and that was a heartening thought. Jon smiled a little and refocused on his work. Nails were good as long as they were just the starter.
He managed to get almost to the end of the scene, where Father Patrick cradled Father Roman’s head in one hand as he kissed his forehead—just his forehead, and let the fandom make of that what they wanted, but Jon wasn’t going to feed the frenzy any more than he had to—in blessing before making the final cut. Then, finally, the award for Best Actor came around. He set his computer aside to give the screen his full attention, and pulled his knees to his chest in an effort to keep his heart from beating right through it. Even Brutus seemed to feel the tension in the air and sat up straight, looking at Jon with big, interested eyes.
Now came the spiel introducing the nominees: Leonardo DiCaprio (perennially), Sherlock Holmes (or at least the guy who played him), Channing Tatum—totally a dark horse nomination there, Jon kind of loved it—and then Alistair and Edward. Jon bit his lip as he watched Charlize Theron open the envelope, tried to read into her sudden, beaming smile, and waited desperately for her to say—
“Edward Temple!”
No. Jon watched, frozen and dumbfounded, as the camera switched to Edward’s reaction, his expression of shock, the way he looked at Alistair like he wanted comfort and confirmation. Alistair gave him both, of course: a tremendous smile, a handshake that quickly became a hug, and then Edward was being urged toward the stage, and he took his hands off Alistair, finally, and went up to accept his award and make the requisite speech. Jon hoped it would be stultifyingly long and bore everyone.
“Oh,” Edward exclaimed, taking the statuette from Charlize and kissing her cheek. “Oh my God, what an astonishing thing. I am . . .” He stared down at the Oscar, then out at the crowd. “I am truly humbled by this. It’s a tremendous honor, and an unexpected . . . I must say, I never thought this would happen to me. Not with such deserving competition. This is truly a dream come true. There are so many people to thank that I can’t take the time for you all now or they’ll kick me off of this stage.” Muted laughter confirmed that. “But I must at least thank our brilliant director Paul, all the magnificent cast and the crew of Blessed Father, and most importantly, my fellow nominee Alistair Fraser. Al.” The camera moved back to Alistair, who was watching with a soft smile that made Jon’s stomach twist. “Working with you on this project was an absolute joy, and if I truly did my job well enough to merit this award, it’s only because I had your brilliance as a model and inspiration.” Was he getting choked up? “Thank you, and thank you all.” Edward lifted the award up to cheers, and then gracefully vacated the stage.
Jon shut off the television. He reached for his phone, then nervously pulled back. Al wouldn’t be checking his messages anytime soon, not after getting caught out the last time. Besides, what would he even say? Sorry you lost to your friend, that asshole.
It was all wrong. That wasn’t what was supposed to happen, not what Jon had intended when he wrote the script. Blessed Father was supposed to have been a vehicle for Alistair, the movie that took him from the stage and small screen to the big time. It had worked, in that regard, except that it had simultaneously turned Edward Temple, art house darling and first choice for angsty Shakespearean heroes, into an Oscar winner, and worse, into Alistair’s friend. And Alistair into Edward’s inspiration.
If Al were here, he would be telling Jon off for not trusting him to manage his own friendships, his own life. That wasn’t it, though. Jon trusted Alistair to be a man of his word, but he didn’t trust Edward farther than he could throw him. From their first meeting, Jon and Edward had shared a mutual dislike and competed for Alistair’s attention. Jon had the advantage there, as he’d been monopolizing most of Alistair’s attention for the past two years, but nothing was set in stone. Especially not when the opposition was an Oscar-winning actor too handsome for his own good, was well liked, was well respected, and looked at Alistair like he could be everything.
Jon was tempted to send Alistair an excerpt from Father Roman’s death scene, but that would just be petty. The no-texting rule was still in effect, since tonight there would be parties and mingling and the sort of A-list socializing that Jon abhorred. The after-parties were a big reason why he could never go with Alistair to these things, despite owning the wardrobe for them. Jon was a writer, not an actor, and he was miserable at keeping his opinions to himself. He’d either insult someone important and Alistair would pay the price for it, or Al would have to bind him so tightly with the rules that Jon couldn’t speak at all, and silence didn’t make any better an impression than bluntness.
Jon got to his feet and headed toward the porch, bringing his cigarettes with him. One just wasn’t going to cut it today.
Unfortunately, the first drag, combined with the anxiety he felt over Al’s reaction to Edward’s win, and general dislike of the evening, made a sour taste well up in the back of his throat, the kind of raw patina that foretold pain and suffering if he didn’t back off. He doggedly ignored it and took another puff, then another, determined to finish the damn thing if he was going to get the punishment for it anyway.
Halfway through the cigarette, he lurched to the edge of the porch and emptied his stomach over the side; nothing in there but acid and a few limp chunks of peach. He retched until he was empty, spit to clear out his mouth, and wiped the back of one shaking hand across his lips. His head ached and his guts stung and cramped, and he wanted nothing more than to wrap himself around Alistair and fall asleep. He didn’t have Alistair, but he could at least do the second part.
Jon made sure the cigarette was out—traitor-stick that it was—and headed inside, pausing only to rinse out his mouth in the bathroom sink before falling onto their enormous bed face-first, pulling his pillow low enough to squeeze against his chest and curling up until the quivers in his abdomen subsided and he could be gratefully, dreamlessly unconscious.
Jon woke up with his arm wrapped around Alistair’s thigh and his face pressed so hard against the side of his hip that his nose hurt. He pulled back with a faint groan and opened his eyes. Soft gray cotton filled his vision. Alistair’s sweatpants. On top of them sat Jon’s laptop, which was open.
“Look who’s finally awake.” Alistair didn’t move his eyes from the screen as he spoke, scrolling down a little. “You realize that writin
g this ending is an exercise in futility, don’t you? Edward just won an Oscar for this role; there’s no way the studio is going to let you murder him in the sequel.”
“You’d be the one murdering him, not me.” Jon grimaced at the sound of his own voice, gravelly and hoarse. “Ugh. I need water . . . and mouthwash.”
“Among other things.” Something in Alistair’s deliberately mild voice made Jon wince in anticipation. He knew without a doubt that Al wasn’t happy. “Go take care of yourself, then. I’ll have brunch waiting in the kitchen.”
“I’m really not that hungry.”
Alistair finally turned to look directly at him, and for all the calmness in his face, anger brightened his eyes. “Tell me how that’s a material concern of mine.”
Jon shivered all the way down his spine. “Sorry. I’m going.”
“Good.” Alistair smiled pleasantly, and Jon backed out of the bed and headed to the bathroom as fast as he could go without stumbling over his own feet. He closed the door behind him and glanced at himself in the mirror, then groaned. Even with probably ten hours of sleep, he still looked like shit, his dark eyes pinched tight with fatigue, olive skin gone sallow. No wonder Al was mad. Jon stripped down, used his toothbrush, and got into the shower. The faster he got his ass to the kitchen, the better off he’d be.
The hot water did some good in waking him up, and the smell of coffee as he grabbed clean clothes did even more. By the time he walked into the kitchen, he felt almost human again, and seeing Alistair standing at the stove, bent over a pan full of eggs, sausages, and tomatoes, put a smile on his face. There was already toast waiting, piled on a plate on the counter. He walked over and grabbed a piece. “Fancy breakfast,” he said around a mouthful, gesturing at the stove with his toast before getting himself a cup of coffee.
“I spent last night looking bloody fantastic; I can afford to eat whatever I want today.” Alistair pointed at the chair he’d pulled back. “Sit down.”
“I need to update the board.” Jon glanced uncertainly at the whiteboard, then did a double take. “Wait . . . What the hell?”
“I updated it for you.” Alistair shifted the eggs onto dark-blue plates, his voice still disconcertingly mild. “Since it doesn’t seem like you can manage to do so on your own.”
“I marked off some of yesterday’s rules. I just didn’t get to all of them after I started feeling sick.”
“Duly noted, but nevertheless, you left the tasks unfinished. I would have known without your confession, judging from the cigarette butts on the porch, but I do appreciate you owning up that you failed.”
“I didn’t—”
“Sit. Down.” Jon sat on his chair, and Alistair set a glass of water and a plate in front of him, passing over silverware and a crisp, white napkin a moment later. “Eat.” It was only one egg, one piece of sausage, and a few slices of tomato, not nearly as much as he was giving himself, but Jon still felt a little queasy looking at it.
“It’s a lot.”
Alistair eyed him narrowly for a moment, then shrugged.
“Eat as much as you can manage. At least half, Jonathan. My absence is no excuse for you to neglect yourself. That’s what the bloody rules are for.”
“I know.” He picked up his fork and started eating. It tasted delicious, and his nausea wasn’t kicking up again, so that was good. He polished off the tomatoes in just a few bites and started on the egg with a renewed sense of hunger.
“Good.” Alistair sat across from him and tucked into his own breakfast, still mild, still calm. Jon glanced a few times at the whiteboard, noting the additions made in red, not the usual black. Two more slashes in the Vices column—but he’d only had one extra cigarette! He opened his mouth, ready to argue. Alistair looked at him, and Jon’s words dried up. He sipped at his coffee and decided discretion was the better choice at the moment. Still . . . he could expect twenty-five swats now. Dinner was no longer marked off, which, no, he’d definitely eaten last night.
“I had dinner!”
“You had one peach.”
“How did you know that?”
“Because Mrs. Wozniak visited this morning to give us a peach cobbler and mentioned that she’d sent you home with two. I put the other one in the fridge.” His pale eyes, made all the more striking framed by his dark-red lashes, gazed at Jon steadily. “And I had to clean up the mess below the porch before Brutus could get to it. Meals only get counted if you keep them down, Jonathan.”
Jon winced. “Sorry about that.”
“So am I. I thought we had an understanding, but clearly something isn’t working between us lately. What is that?”
Jon felt like Alistair had just shoved an ice cube down his shirt. “There’s nothing wrong between us.”
“Your behavior begs to differ.” Alistair sat back and folded his hands, and Jon groaned. That was his You’re not getting out of this posture, and Jon hated it with a passion, even when it made sense. What he and Alistair had worked in part because Alistair wasn’t willing to take his bullshit, but that didn’t mean he enjoyed beating his mistakes to death. “I assume it wasn’t the time apart. I’m gone for filming for weeks at a time, and it hasn’t ever been enough to make you sick.”
“Sometimes that just happens,” Jon snapped, indicating his narrow stomach with one hand. Alistair knew all about his myriad of issues when it came to his health, and he didn’t appreciate him being obtuse.
“More often when you do things that you know are bad for you, like smoking.”
“I needed that cigarette.”
“You’ve never been addicted to cigarettes. Try again.”
“I needed something more and you weren’t around to give it to me!” Jon finally exploded, all the tension of yesterday and the strained arguing today abolishing the vestiges of his control. “It was different this time, okay? It was different because you were at the Oscars and Edward fucking Temple was all over you, and he won the award that you should have won, and I fucking hate it when you’re with him!”
Alistair frowned. “You didn’t have any issues when we were filming.”
“That was before I saw the first coming attractions. Could any more erotic subtext have possibly been shoehorned in there? Paul turned Blessed Father into an angsty love story between your characters. This film has already generated more fanfic than fucking Inception, and that movie had Joseph Gordon-Levitt in a three-piece suit.”
“You wrote the screenplay!”
“I wrote a serial killer horror drama set during World War II, but Edward won his Oscar for playing a doe-eyed romantic hero, not a priest suspicious of one of his own. And the more I saw you two together, the more obvious it was.”
“What was?”
Jon stared grimly across the table. “That he’s in love with you.”
Alistair looked blankly at him for a moment, then began to laugh, a deep, hearty sound that flowed up from his belly and burst out of his perfect, stupid mouth like a siren’s wail. Jon scowled. He could stop anytime. Aaanytime now. “Oh God,” Alistair finally said around a chuckle. “No, Jonathan, I can assure you that Edward isn’t in love with me. He’s just a very good actor, that’s all.”
“He was touching you on the red carpet.”
“It’s crowded there; some touching is to be expected. I bumped shoulders with Robert De Niro too; I hope you don’t think he’s in love with me as well.”
“Edward touches you all the time. In every interview you guys do, he’s finding an excuse to touch you. He looks at you like you hung the fucking moon, and even I can admit that he’s stupidly pretty. He wants you, and he doesn’t give a shit that I’ve got a prior claim.”
Alistair gazed at Jon fondly, all traces of cool distance gone. At least Jon’s outburst had lightened the mood, even if Alistair wasn’t taking him seriously. “Jonathan, Edward is resolutely straight. I can assure you of that.”
“I think he’d make a sharp left turn for you,” Jon muttered, but Alistair wasn’t done yet.
“And even if he were interested in me, I’d refuse him. I’ve only got room in my life for one person to fit in close, and that person is you. I can’t believe you wonder about that. I wrote you sodding love poems a decade ago, which I hope you had the good taste to throw out, because they were awful.”
“Nope.” Jon grinned. “I kept every one of them. And I’m not telling you where in case you try to burn them when my back is turned.”
“You were wickedly cruel about my skills back then, so why on earth would you keep them?”
“Because you gave them to me,” Jon said. “Obviously. I’ve kept everything you’ve ever given me, Al.”
“Except the rules, apparently.”
“Oh yay, back to those.” Jon groaned, but he didn’t really mind so much, and Alistair knew it.
“Back to those.” Al turned and looked over at the whiteboard. “So, in the three days I was gone, you managed to rack up five marks in the Vice column, as well as failed to adhere to the rules last night, so there’s my extra.”
“Oh come on, really?” It wasn’t much of a rebuttal, but then Jon didn’t really want to fight Al when it came to the board. He might have a love/hate relationship with it when Al was gone, but when Al was here, the board was more of a catalyst for action than a chore.
“They’re rules, not suggestions, and you disobeyed, Jon. You know the consequences of that.”
Yes, he did. And now that the heavy talk was out of the way, he was actually starting to get familiar, welcome tremors of anticipation in his arms and shoulders.
“Each mark merits five swats, so this morning you’ll get thirty.” Alistair looked at him and cocked his head musingly. “Any preferences?”