Erin Ptah (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
ptahrrific) wrote2013-07-08 08:57 pm
ptahrrific) wrote2013-07-08 08:57 pm
Entry tags:
Fake News | ensemble | R | Shout*For, chapter 12
Title: Shout*For, chapter 12: I'm On Fire
Characters/Pairings: Jon/"Stephen"+Jimmy, cameos, OCs.
Rating: R
Contents: Non-con (offscreen, but only just), with a hefty dose of manipulation.
Disclaimer: See series Table of Contents.
Stephen, with the help of a special extra-American cardigan, is having a great time in Vancouver. And then he isn't.
(On the fluffier side: sketches of boyband Jon and "Stephen" cuddling and singing.)
Vancouver, but connected with LA thanks to the magic of Skype.
"So, how's Canada treating you?" asked Jon, his well-lit face and Jimmy's side by side on Stephen's screen. "Has anyone forced you to speak French yet?"
"Well, it's no Italy," said Stephen, "but it's okay. America's still the best, though."
Jon grinned. "Yes, we can see that."
Stephen preened. He was wearing his favorite cardigan; it had been released last year in honor of the Olympics, and subtly conveyed his national pride by being navy blue with red trim and white piping, and also by having "USA" printed in huge block letters across the back. He'd leaped for it the second Ralph Lauren put it on the runway, a steal at only $385 (which his brother Ed, who had been visiting for a few days when Stephen first wore it, explained was mostly to cover the fees for using the Olympic logo on the patch on the front).
It was a bit warm for indoor wear in April, even this far north, but right now he was compensating by not wearing a shirt underneath it.
"Hey, by the way, can you see anything behind me?" He held up the laptop, aiming the camera through the picture window behind the couch he was on. "The view out our window is mountains!"
"Sorry, everything past the window frame is pretty much black," said Jimmy. The view in his own frame wasn't much better, though Stephen recognized Jimmy's screen porch, and could fill in the scenery beyond it for himself. "Nice decorative plant, though."
"Uh-huh. We got a suite, so everything's classy. The plants are even real." There was a big leafy one next to the lamp he was using, and a smaller bowl of flowers resting on the coffee table his sock feet were resting on. "And the show is...I mean, I mostly don't understand it, but I think it's going okay."
"Judging by the TVTropes page, nobody understands Wigfield," Jimmy assured him. "And, hey, speaking of shows, did you know Tina was going to be on ours?"
"Tina? Tina Fey?" repeated Stephen. Jimmy nodded brightly. "No! That's awesome. Is she just guest-starring, or is this going to be a thing?"
"I sure hope it's going to be a thing!" Jimmy nodded to Jon. "I think they're setting her up as Jon's love interest. And they can't cram that whole arc into this season, because we have like one episode left."
Jon did a double-take. "Wait, they're what?"
Stephen narrowed his eyes. "And how's that going, Jon? Do you like her?"
"She seemed nice enough...!" stammered Jon, voice cracking.
"Jon had to be introduced to her twice," put in Jimmy. (Jon looked mortified, but didn't deny it.) "And I don't even know if 'love interest' is the plan, we've only seen scripts for a couple of scenes. It's just a guess, since it would be an easy storyline to do for the whole raising-Jon's-profile plan, that's all."
"It would," admitted Stephen. "Along with you getting to be lead singer. Which I have forgiven you for, by the way," he added magnanimously.
"Gee, thanks," said Jon. "Seriously, though, this song...did you guys ever look up the real lyrics before? What does 'every moment red-letter' even mean?"
"It's a more emphatic version of red-letter days," said Stephen without having to think about it. "Which means any day of special significance. The expression took off in the 16th century when the Book of Common Prayer had calendars with holy days printed in red ink, but it really dates back to when the Council of Nicaea made it a printing standard for church calendars back in 325."
"Neat," said Jimmy, looking impressed.
Jon wore a more complicated expression. "Seriously, how is it that you can rattle off all these amazing facts off the top of your head, but then you think the Mayo Clinic got its name from being dedicated to the study of mayonnaise?"
"I'm quirky and esoteric," huffed Stephen. "It's part of my charm."
In a sudden burst of sincerity, Jon sighed, "It really is."
There was a pause, during which Jimmy looked from Jon to the screen. "Hey, I think I hear the kettle boiling!" he said. (Stephen couldn't. The microphone must not be picking it up.) "Have to skip out for a couple minutes. You two, go ahead and keep talking while I'm gone."
So saying, he vanished out-of-frame.
"That guy is such a good friend," remarked Jon.
Stephen frowned. "For making tea?"
"No, for...you know what, never mind." Jon sighed. He was really pretty, even over a jumpy and low-res video stream. "I, uh. I miss you. Don't know if I mentioned that. I know it hasn't even been twenty-four hours, but still."
"I know the feeling," admitted Stephen. Why couldn't Jon have confessed to wanting to kiss him earlier? They could have been cuddling for days already by now, maybe weeks. He could've built up a reserve supply of affection before being thrown across the continent. "I...miss you too."
"Uh-huh?"
Stephen found himself running his fingertips along the curve of Jon's digital face. "Uh-huh. And I miss my fish."
Jon winced. "Not the category I was expecting to be put in."
"Well, it's a different kind of missing, obviously!" said Stephen. "I'm not planning on getting home and..." He threw a nervous glance at the half-open door to Ned's room. "...and doing...stuff...with my fish."
"Ah," said Jon, with a weak grin. "So, um, you're not...having second thoughts about...stuff?"
"I haven't had any time for second thoughts! I've been very busy with acting. Also, puppy gifs."
"Oh, well, in that case."
"I'm glad you understand," said Stephen primly. "Have you figured out how to use Tumblr yet?"
"That's the one that doesn't use the E, right?" asked Jon. "And Twitter is the one that does?"
Stephen groaned. What was the point of reblogging things with a super-subtle hidden message that only Jon would pick up on if Jon wasn't even reading them? "Make Jimmy explain it to you, okay? And then tell him to show you —"
He caught his breath.
"— well, it's been great talking to you guys!" he said brightly. "Gotta go now. I'll catch up with you more tomorrow, okay?"
He closed the lid of his laptop, cutting off Jon's "uh, okay —", just as Ned sat down beside him. In a fluffy white hotel-issue bathrobe (hopefully with something underneath it). Stephen would have died of embarrassment if Jon had seen it.
"So, how are your less-famous friends doing?" asked Ned, ruffling Stephen's hair.
"Lost without me," said Stephen automatically. "I'm surprised Jon can even remember how to sing when I'm gone."
"Well, not everyone can have the strong sense of direction you've got about your talent." Ned's arm settled around his shoulders. "Here, I have something to show you."
~*~
Back at Jimmy's house.
"So you click the 'follow' button, which is always up here, and now updates will show up on your dashboard."
"Is the dashboard layout less confusing? Maybe with text in colors that are legible?"
"It's easy to get the hang of once you know what to look for! See, they have to have some kind of navigation, and these little unicorn-head graphics are next to each other and facing in opposite directions, which could mean 'forward' and 'back', so let's hover over them for a second...yes! These are how you browse."
"Well, sure. How could I not have figured that out?"
"Now, Stephen's going to be following you back, so you might want to change your blog name, because he'll probably feel hurt if you keep referring to yourself as 'lonelyjew14'."
"It was the only thing I could think of on short notice! ...Did Stephen make all these images?"
"No, no, those came off someone else's Tumblr. See the 'reblogged from' up here?"
"Oh. ...Hey, don't I get to be un-thrilled that he's, uh, reblogging pictures of hot guys with loving captions?"
"It's fine, they're just stock images, the point of it is...the words...."
"Um. Are there any other people we know who are following this?"
"...A few."
~*~
And back in Vancouver.
Stephen held his breath as the next video loaded on Ned's iPad, then squealed with delight when an old familiar jingle started playing. "I forgot I'd even done this!"
"I'm not surprised," said Ned warmly. "It's been a while. That was before I'd even met you."
On-screen, a wide-eyed, chubby-cheeked Stephen took an awestruck bite out of a brightly colored hamburger. "Ooh, wait, I remember that part," said Stephen, wincing on behalf of his five-year-old self. "TV burgers are disgusting. All commercial food is bad, but those have to be the worst. Right off-screen there's the bucket where I got to spit it out right after every take."
Ned squeezed his shoulder. "Bet you didn't have to do many takes."
"I had pretty good motivation," agreed Stephen. Balking and refusing to put the thing in his mouth at all hadn't been an option, so the easiest thing to do was clamp down hard on your real feelings and fake it until you made it.
The fast food logo splashed across the frame, and then the playlist cut to something more recent: one of the clothing commercials Shout*For had done after their first tour. A narrator extolled the virtues of the brand ("comfortable whether you're in your own back yard — or on stage!"), while the four of them messed around in settings with various degrees of fakery. (The grassy hill was legit. The rec room was a set. The stage with all their instruments was real, but the crowd was spliced in from elsewhere.)
You wouldn't notice unless you slowed it down and tallied things frame-by-frame, but there wasn't a single shot of Jon looking buddy-buddy with Tucker. Stephen was dead sure the crew hadn't caught any that were remotely usable. They'd gotten a bounty featuring Stephen and Jimmy, plus a few of each of the pair with Tucker, and even back then Jimmy and Jon were friendly, in an acquaintance-y sort of way....
"Look at you, huh?" murmured Ned. "Talent coming out your ears. Those other kids do good work, but you? You're dazzling."
The praise dragged Stephen out of his rumination over the clips, no more than a few seconds long, in which he was treating Jon like an over-treated artificially-bright TV burger. "It's a gift," he said, trying to stop feeling all guilty and complicated and just be happy again.
"Between the album over the summer and the movie over Christmas, you're going to be sweeping the awards next year. Might even round up the rest of the big four."
Right on cue, the iPad began introducing the Teen Choice Music: Pop Album nominees from 2010. They had looked awesome that night, all in coordinating almost-suits (the businesslike stiffness sexed up with short sleeves here, a non-button-down shirt there, and some fun with colors). When Stephen had run along the front of the stage to high-five the lucky first row of the audience, his tie had gone streaming out behind him. Tucker and his bow ties didn't know what they were missing.
"I have a Kids' Choice Award, too," Stephen pointed out. That's So Rachel had made Favorite TV Show in 2007.
"For a series where you were just one eleven-year-old in an ensemble," Ned reminded him. "This time you could get Favorite TV Show for the series where you're the lead. Hell, you could get Favorite TV Actor."
Stephen shivered in spite of himself.
"On the teen side, you could pick up awards all over the movie categories." Ned had lowered his voice; he was leaning close in to Stephen's ear now, the better to be heard over the recording of a screaming audience. "You could finally get that Radio Disney Music Award you deserve."
His breath was hot on Stephen's neck. Stephen could feel the tip of his goatee brushing against his skin.
"You might even catch an MTV Music Award," he all but purred.
The playlist had moved on again. Nine-year-old Stephen was in a line of other kids in the Barney backyard set, singing about how it was fun to play on a sunny day.
"I — I should go to bed!" stammered Stephen. "I have work. Early. In the morning."
"Now that's the kind of work ethic I like to see." Ned gave him a one-armed squeeze. "Come on. I'll tuck you in." He took back the iPad with one hand, and — as Stephen was getting up — patted Stephen's backside with the other, just briefly enough that it could have been a mistake.
Once Stephen had taken his Vaxasopor, he crawled straight into bed, cardigan and all. The heavy knit was much too warm now, especially after Ned smoothed the covers over top of him, but he couldn't bring himself to take anything off.
~*~
The next day, on-set.
Stephen had rarely gotten to have backup dancers before. When eight of them joined him on the makeshift float that headed up the Wigfield parade, he resolved to use them more often.
The outdoor rehearsal was chilly enough that he could run through the whole routine a couple of times without overheating, but it was still thirsty work, and as soon as they broke for lunch he mobbed the drinks table with the rest of the dancers. He downed half a can of soda before making it to the buffet line...where a tiny blonde actress (who he'd seen playing at least three different roles) positioned herself next to him. "You were on fire out there today, new kid," she told him, grabbing a turkey sandwich. "Listen, me and some friends are having a get-together later this evening. Mostly show regulars, but other people drop in now and then. Feel like coming by?"
"Amy!" reproached the taller man behind her (the director, who also filled out a place or two in the cast on his own). "He's only fifteen!"
"I'll be sixteen in three weeks!" said Stephen, with more than a little indignation.
"He'll be sixteen in three weeks," echoed Amy. "See? Nothin' indecent about it. So, Steve, what do you say?"
"Um...it sort of depends on whether my manager agrees." Before they could question his hard-fought image of maturity, he added, "For security reasons, of course! Is it in a public place?"
"Nope, my house," said the director. "And not to brag, but some of the actors here have pretty dedicated stalkers, and we still haven't had a cast party security problem once in three years. So I'm sure you'll be fine."
~*~
By evening it had finally cooled down to the point where Stephen could comfortably show up at the party in his favorite cardigan.
"Don't you look handsome!" said Amy when she saw him, completely unfazed by the blast of United States patriotism that was Stephen's torso. She pushed a cup of something bubbly into his hands. "Here, try one of these. It'll warm you right up."
Stephen looked nervously over his shoulder — Ned had been right behind him, and he had gotten in enough trouble already for drinking when the man couldn't prove it — but by now his manager was halfway across the spacious backyard, and had inserted himself into a conversation with people whose names Stephen hadn't caught.
"C'mon, don't be shy. The drinking age up here is only nineteen, so you're practically there already, right? Live a little."
Girls, Stephen decided, were bad influences. "I'm supposed to be here to bolster my reputation as a reliable professional," he told her.
Amy shrugged. "I guess that's fair. And you are only fifteen, after all."
She patted his arm and took off in the direction of the grill. Stephen watched her go, then took a good long look at the rest of the party: the pool (still empty of water at this time of year, so a bunch of guests were using it as a makeshift dance floor), the oversized outdoor sound system (a couple of people were arguing over the laptop it was attached to, presumably fighting about the playlist), the tables where people were eating (someone was laughing so loud Stephen could hear it from thirty feet away).
Everyone was having a good time. Most everyone had a drink sitting around. And nobody was being unprofessional or unreliable, because they were mature adults, and that was how mature adults rolled.
"Hey, Stephen!" It was one of the backup dancers, a blond who was taller and bulkier than Stephen but had more than enough grace for the role of being secondary to Stephen's moves. He jogged up to Stephen and jerked his head in the direction of the speakers. "You're only here tonight, right? Come over and help us settle on the music."
"Sure!" Stephen fell in step beside the guy, and knocked back a swallow of his drink: just one more grown-up ready to enjoy the party. The liquid was stronger than whatever Olivia had ordered for him back in Venice, and burned as it went down, but as long as he only finished this one it shouldn't be too bad. "Do you guys have any Springsteen?"
(If he got them to play Born In The USA, it would do his country proud and make Jon happy.)
~*~
One drink, as it turned out, was enough to make all these mature and responsible adults turn hilarious.
After the music question was settled, he spent a while at one of the tables, where some actor's girlfriend tried to explain the plot of Wigfield. Stephen still wasn't really clear on the details, but it must have been a comedy after all. The description of the violin episode alone made him laugh so hard he nearly choked on his cannoli.
He was laughing about...some other thing, and it felt like the night had barely begun when strong hands settled on his shoulders. "Time to go, buddy."
"What, already?" moaned Stephen. "I didn't even get to dance in the pool yet!"
"You can drain your pool at home some time," Ned told him. "Car'll be here in a minute. Say goodbye to your friends, now."
"You're the...manager?" asked the actor whose girlfriend had been so helpful. "The dad too?"
"Just the manager," said Ned tightly.
"Well, you're a lucky guy," the actor informed him, tipping him a mug of something dark and foamy in congratulations. "Hell of a talent you get to work with. Stick to him, because this kid is going places."
He winked at Stephen, who grinned delightedly back. "I already am places! Vancouver is technically a place, right?"
Ned started kneading the muscles of his shoulders through the cardigan — not ungently, but with clear impatience.
"Okay, okay, I'm coming," sighed Stephen. "See you tomorrow!"
He tried to walk away and wave at the same time, a feat of balance that proved a little too much, so that he ended up falling heavily against Ned's shoulder to keep from going down. Ned's arm slipped around his waist (under the cardigan, whose buttons had all come undone in the course of the night), and with that extra support he stayed upright the rest of the way to the car.
~*~
By the time they got to the hotel, Stephen thought he might actually be sobering up. He only half-stumbled once on the way to the elevators. Barely bumped into Ned at all.
He took the first step into the darkness of their suite, and reached for the lightswitch.
Before his hand could find it, Ned pinned him against the wall.
"Don't worry, sweetheart," murmured Ned, while Stephen's breath caught in his throat. "You don't have to keep throwing yourself at me. I've got you."
"I wasn't —" panted Stephen —
— and then his manager was kissing him, tongue slipping into his mouth, forcing Stephen to taste that he'd been drinking too.
When the older man let him go, it was to move his lips hotly to Stephen's neck, hands roaming Stephen's torso and tugging on his tucked-in shirt. At last Stephen unfroze enough to struggle. "Please," he whispered, twisting, trying to push Ned back. "Please don't...."
"Oh, buddy, don't start complaining now," purred Ned. His body was heavy against Stephen's. "Never heard you have a problem with me touching you before."
"No, but — but before, it was all normal!"
Ned actually chuckled at him, then. "That's your normal? No wonder you run around kissing strangers. How many other people have you let get away with this?"
"None," pleaded Stephen, but why should Ned believe him? He had gotten sexy with the aesthetically pleasing stranger. He'd let Ned get away with all kinds of things. Earlier, he'd even told Olivia it was normal. Maybe there really was something wrong with him, maybe he'd brought this all on himself...."And I won't do anything like it again! I'll be celibate as a...a nun, won't let anyone touch me, won't drink ever, I swear...."
"We both know you won't do that." The calm assurance in Ned's voice wiped away Stephen's half-formed conviction that he could somehow resist Olivia's delicious cocktails and Jon's soft hands. "Besides," he added, rolling his hips against Stephen's (it felt like he was smuggling a roll of quarters in there), "you can't just wind a man up like this and then leave him hanging."
"I'm sorry!" cried Stephen, flattening himself against the wall. "I didn't mean to!"
"You say that, but you didn't exactly go out of your way to stop it, did you? Seducing your own manager. What would your father think?"
Stephen choked back tears. Papa would think he was sick, disgusting, ungrateful, a disappointment. A shame on the Col-bert name. Definitely not getting a puppy.
"Shhh." Ned stepped back, but kept his hands clenched in the loose knit folds of Stephen's cardigan. "It's okay, buddy. You're not going to give me any more trouble, are you?"
"Don't want to be trouble," sniffed Stephen automatically. He felt hot all over; his shirt was untucked and rumpled, his belt askew.
"That's right. So you're going to come help me out now, and you're going to be real good and cooperative, and then everything's going to be fine. Nobody has to know what you've done. As far as Papa dearest knows, you'll have been a perfect angel this whole trip."
Stephen was so turned around, he had lost track of how much of this was his fault. Maybe all of it. When Ned tugged on his lapels, he stumbled obediently forward.
"Don't look so scared, sweetheart," the older man added, low and rough, as he guided Stephen to the king-size bed. "I'm not going to do anything that hurts you. I always take care of you, remember?"
~*~
When Ned finally started snoring, Stephen gently lifted the arm lying across his torso, slipped out from under it, and padded barefoot to the bathroom.
He was okay (he told himself, over and over). Still shaking, but not shaking too hard to unzip and aim, so it couldn't be that bad. Ned hadn't even taken any of his clothes off — Stephen had toed the socks off himself when he got too warm, reasoning that Ned had seen his bare feet before plenty of times — and his hands hadn't gone anywhere they hadn't been already (which was almost everywhere, but never mind that).
Stephen's own hand, though....
But that was nothing he hadn't done already — to himself, granted, but one penis wasn't that different from another, right? Once you'd touched one, you'd touched them all. It wasn't like he'd had anything shoved in his mouth (tongues didn't count), or...it wasn't like that.
He tucked himself away and went to wash up, afraid at first to face his reflection in the mirror. To his relief, that was okay too. Hair all tousled, like he'd tossed and turned a lot in his sleep, and with red-tinged eyes, but he was a far cry from...debauched, or anything like that. Courage thus raised, he bent forward and craned his neck to one side and then the other. Didn't look like there were any marks.
It was over. The worst had come and gone. He was fine.
He focused on lathering up his hands...
...and abruptly noticed the stain. About halfway up the sleeve of his cardigan, on the inside of his elbow, lay a streak of whitish, crusted spatter.
Heart in his mouth, Stephen shoved his whole arm under the faucet, ran the stain through the water, worked at it with his fingers. He couldn't take something like this to be dry-cleaned; they would see. Bits of it flaked off under his desperate attention, but not all of it, not nearly enough.
He tore the cardigan off, threw it at the sink, and fell hard to his knees just in time to grab the toilet bowl before he started retching. The water was still running above him, but it wasn't until long after he'd lost everything left of his dinner that he had the strength to stand up and fix it.
Characters/Pairings: Jon/"Stephen"+Jimmy, cameos, OCs.
Rating: R
Contents: Non-con (offscreen, but only just), with a hefty dose of manipulation.
Disclaimer: See series Table of Contents.
Stephen, with the help of a special extra-American cardigan, is having a great time in Vancouver. And then he isn't.
(On the fluffier side: sketches of boyband Jon and "Stephen" cuddling and singing.)
"So, how's Canada treating you?" asked Jon, his well-lit face and Jimmy's side by side on Stephen's screen. "Has anyone forced you to speak French yet?"
"Well, it's no Italy," said Stephen, "but it's okay. America's still the best, though."
Jon grinned. "Yes, we can see that."
Stephen preened. He was wearing his favorite cardigan; it had been released last year in honor of the Olympics, and subtly conveyed his national pride by being navy blue with red trim and white piping, and also by having "USA" printed in huge block letters across the back. He'd leaped for it the second Ralph Lauren put it on the runway, a steal at only $385 (which his brother Ed, who had been visiting for a few days when Stephen first wore it, explained was mostly to cover the fees for using the Olympic logo on the patch on the front).
It was a bit warm for indoor wear in April, even this far north, but right now he was compensating by not wearing a shirt underneath it.
"Hey, by the way, can you see anything behind me?" He held up the laptop, aiming the camera through the picture window behind the couch he was on. "The view out our window is mountains!"
"Sorry, everything past the window frame is pretty much black," said Jimmy. The view in his own frame wasn't much better, though Stephen recognized Jimmy's screen porch, and could fill in the scenery beyond it for himself. "Nice decorative plant, though."
"Uh-huh. We got a suite, so everything's classy. The plants are even real." There was a big leafy one next to the lamp he was using, and a smaller bowl of flowers resting on the coffee table his sock feet were resting on. "And the show is...I mean, I mostly don't understand it, but I think it's going okay."
"Judging by the TVTropes page, nobody understands Wigfield," Jimmy assured him. "And, hey, speaking of shows, did you know Tina was going to be on ours?"
"Tina? Tina Fey?" repeated Stephen. Jimmy nodded brightly. "No! That's awesome. Is she just guest-starring, or is this going to be a thing?"
"I sure hope it's going to be a thing!" Jimmy nodded to Jon. "I think they're setting her up as Jon's love interest. And they can't cram that whole arc into this season, because we have like one episode left."
Jon did a double-take. "Wait, they're what?"
Stephen narrowed his eyes. "And how's that going, Jon? Do you like her?"
"She seemed nice enough...!" stammered Jon, voice cracking.
"Jon had to be introduced to her twice," put in Jimmy. (Jon looked mortified, but didn't deny it.) "And I don't even know if 'love interest' is the plan, we've only seen scripts for a couple of scenes. It's just a guess, since it would be an easy storyline to do for the whole raising-Jon's-profile plan, that's all."
"It would," admitted Stephen. "Along with you getting to be lead singer. Which I have forgiven you for, by the way," he added magnanimously.
"Gee, thanks," said Jon. "Seriously, though, this song...did you guys ever look up the real lyrics before? What does 'every moment red-letter' even mean?"
"It's a more emphatic version of red-letter days," said Stephen without having to think about it. "Which means any day of special significance. The expression took off in the 16th century when the Book of Common Prayer had calendars with holy days printed in red ink, but it really dates back to when the Council of Nicaea made it a printing standard for church calendars back in 325."
"Neat," said Jimmy, looking impressed.
Jon wore a more complicated expression. "Seriously, how is it that you can rattle off all these amazing facts off the top of your head, but then you think the Mayo Clinic got its name from being dedicated to the study of mayonnaise?"
"I'm quirky and esoteric," huffed Stephen. "It's part of my charm."
In a sudden burst of sincerity, Jon sighed, "It really is."
There was a pause, during which Jimmy looked from Jon to the screen. "Hey, I think I hear the kettle boiling!" he said. (Stephen couldn't. The microphone must not be picking it up.) "Have to skip out for a couple minutes. You two, go ahead and keep talking while I'm gone."
So saying, he vanished out-of-frame.
"That guy is such a good friend," remarked Jon.
Stephen frowned. "For making tea?"
"No, for...you know what, never mind." Jon sighed. He was really pretty, even over a jumpy and low-res video stream. "I, uh. I miss you. Don't know if I mentioned that. I know it hasn't even been twenty-four hours, but still."
"I know the feeling," admitted Stephen. Why couldn't Jon have confessed to wanting to kiss him earlier? They could have been cuddling for days already by now, maybe weeks. He could've built up a reserve supply of affection before being thrown across the continent. "I...miss you too."
"Uh-huh?"
Stephen found himself running his fingertips along the curve of Jon's digital face. "Uh-huh. And I miss my fish."
Jon winced. "Not the category I was expecting to be put in."
"Well, it's a different kind of missing, obviously!" said Stephen. "I'm not planning on getting home and..." He threw a nervous glance at the half-open door to Ned's room. "...and doing...stuff...with my fish."
"Ah," said Jon, with a weak grin. "So, um, you're not...having second thoughts about...stuff?"
"I haven't had any time for second thoughts! I've been very busy with acting. Also, puppy gifs."
"Oh, well, in that case."
"I'm glad you understand," said Stephen primly. "Have you figured out how to use Tumblr yet?"
"That's the one that doesn't use the E, right?" asked Jon. "And Twitter is the one that does?"
Stephen groaned. What was the point of reblogging things with a super-subtle hidden message that only Jon would pick up on if Jon wasn't even reading them? "Make Jimmy explain it to you, okay? And then tell him to show you —"
He caught his breath.
"— well, it's been great talking to you guys!" he said brightly. "Gotta go now. I'll catch up with you more tomorrow, okay?"
He closed the lid of his laptop, cutting off Jon's "uh, okay —", just as Ned sat down beside him. In a fluffy white hotel-issue bathrobe (hopefully with something underneath it). Stephen would have died of embarrassment if Jon had seen it.
"So, how are your less-famous friends doing?" asked Ned, ruffling Stephen's hair.
"Lost without me," said Stephen automatically. "I'm surprised Jon can even remember how to sing when I'm gone."
"Well, not everyone can have the strong sense of direction you've got about your talent." Ned's arm settled around his shoulders. "Here, I have something to show you."
~*~
"So you click the 'follow' button, which is always up here, and now updates will show up on your dashboard."
"Is the dashboard layout less confusing? Maybe with text in colors that are legible?"
"It's easy to get the hang of once you know what to look for! See, they have to have some kind of navigation, and these little unicorn-head graphics are next to each other and facing in opposite directions, which could mean 'forward' and 'back', so let's hover over them for a second...yes! These are how you browse."
"Well, sure. How could I not have figured that out?"
"Now, Stephen's going to be following you back, so you might want to change your blog name, because he'll probably feel hurt if you keep referring to yourself as 'lonelyjew14'."
"It was the only thing I could think of on short notice! ...Did Stephen make all these images?"
"No, no, those came off someone else's Tumblr. See the 'reblogged from' up here?"
"Oh. ...Hey, don't I get to be un-thrilled that he's, uh, reblogging pictures of hot guys with loving captions?"
"It's fine, they're just stock images, the point of it is...the words...."
"Um. Are there any other people we know who are following this?"
"...A few."
~*~
Stephen held his breath as the next video loaded on Ned's iPad, then squealed with delight when an old familiar jingle started playing. "I forgot I'd even done this!"
"I'm not surprised," said Ned warmly. "It's been a while. That was before I'd even met you."
On-screen, a wide-eyed, chubby-cheeked Stephen took an awestruck bite out of a brightly colored hamburger. "Ooh, wait, I remember that part," said Stephen, wincing on behalf of his five-year-old self. "TV burgers are disgusting. All commercial food is bad, but those have to be the worst. Right off-screen there's the bucket where I got to spit it out right after every take."
Ned squeezed his shoulder. "Bet you didn't have to do many takes."
"I had pretty good motivation," agreed Stephen. Balking and refusing to put the thing in his mouth at all hadn't been an option, so the easiest thing to do was clamp down hard on your real feelings and fake it until you made it.
The fast food logo splashed across the frame, and then the playlist cut to something more recent: one of the clothing commercials Shout*For had done after their first tour. A narrator extolled the virtues of the brand ("comfortable whether you're in your own back yard — or on stage!"), while the four of them messed around in settings with various degrees of fakery. (The grassy hill was legit. The rec room was a set. The stage with all their instruments was real, but the crowd was spliced in from elsewhere.)
You wouldn't notice unless you slowed it down and tallied things frame-by-frame, but there wasn't a single shot of Jon looking buddy-buddy with Tucker. Stephen was dead sure the crew hadn't caught any that were remotely usable. They'd gotten a bounty featuring Stephen and Jimmy, plus a few of each of the pair with Tucker, and even back then Jimmy and Jon were friendly, in an acquaintance-y sort of way....
"Look at you, huh?" murmured Ned. "Talent coming out your ears. Those other kids do good work, but you? You're dazzling."
The praise dragged Stephen out of his rumination over the clips, no more than a few seconds long, in which he was treating Jon like an over-treated artificially-bright TV burger. "It's a gift," he said, trying to stop feeling all guilty and complicated and just be happy again.
"Between the album over the summer and the movie over Christmas, you're going to be sweeping the awards next year. Might even round up the rest of the big four."
Right on cue, the iPad began introducing the Teen Choice Music: Pop Album nominees from 2010. They had looked awesome that night, all in coordinating almost-suits (the businesslike stiffness sexed up with short sleeves here, a non-button-down shirt there, and some fun with colors). When Stephen had run along the front of the stage to high-five the lucky first row of the audience, his tie had gone streaming out behind him. Tucker and his bow ties didn't know what they were missing.
"I have a Kids' Choice Award, too," Stephen pointed out. That's So Rachel had made Favorite TV Show in 2007.
"For a series where you were just one eleven-year-old in an ensemble," Ned reminded him. "This time you could get Favorite TV Show for the series where you're the lead. Hell, you could get Favorite TV Actor."
Stephen shivered in spite of himself.
"On the teen side, you could pick up awards all over the movie categories." Ned had lowered his voice; he was leaning close in to Stephen's ear now, the better to be heard over the recording of a screaming audience. "You could finally get that Radio Disney Music Award you deserve."
His breath was hot on Stephen's neck. Stephen could feel the tip of his goatee brushing against his skin.
"You might even catch an MTV Music Award," he all but purred.
The playlist had moved on again. Nine-year-old Stephen was in a line of other kids in the Barney backyard set, singing about how it was fun to play on a sunny day.
"I — I should go to bed!" stammered Stephen. "I have work. Early. In the morning."
"Now that's the kind of work ethic I like to see." Ned gave him a one-armed squeeze. "Come on. I'll tuck you in." He took back the iPad with one hand, and — as Stephen was getting up — patted Stephen's backside with the other, just briefly enough that it could have been a mistake.
Once Stephen had taken his Vaxasopor, he crawled straight into bed, cardigan and all. The heavy knit was much too warm now, especially after Ned smoothed the covers over top of him, but he couldn't bring himself to take anything off.
~*~
Stephen had rarely gotten to have backup dancers before. When eight of them joined him on the makeshift float that headed up the Wigfield parade, he resolved to use them more often.
The outdoor rehearsal was chilly enough that he could run through the whole routine a couple of times without overheating, but it was still thirsty work, and as soon as they broke for lunch he mobbed the drinks table with the rest of the dancers. He downed half a can of soda before making it to the buffet line...where a tiny blonde actress (who he'd seen playing at least three different roles) positioned herself next to him. "You were on fire out there today, new kid," she told him, grabbing a turkey sandwich. "Listen, me and some friends are having a get-together later this evening. Mostly show regulars, but other people drop in now and then. Feel like coming by?"
"Amy!" reproached the taller man behind her (the director, who also filled out a place or two in the cast on his own). "He's only fifteen!"
"I'll be sixteen in three weeks!" said Stephen, with more than a little indignation.
"He'll be sixteen in three weeks," echoed Amy. "See? Nothin' indecent about it. So, Steve, what do you say?"
"Um...it sort of depends on whether my manager agrees." Before they could question his hard-fought image of maturity, he added, "For security reasons, of course! Is it in a public place?"
"Nope, my house," said the director. "And not to brag, but some of the actors here have pretty dedicated stalkers, and we still haven't had a cast party security problem once in three years. So I'm sure you'll be fine."
~*~
By evening it had finally cooled down to the point where Stephen could comfortably show up at the party in his favorite cardigan.
"Don't you look handsome!" said Amy when she saw him, completely unfazed by the blast of United States patriotism that was Stephen's torso. She pushed a cup of something bubbly into his hands. "Here, try one of these. It'll warm you right up."
Stephen looked nervously over his shoulder — Ned had been right behind him, and he had gotten in enough trouble already for drinking when the man couldn't prove it — but by now his manager was halfway across the spacious backyard, and had inserted himself into a conversation with people whose names Stephen hadn't caught.
"C'mon, don't be shy. The drinking age up here is only nineteen, so you're practically there already, right? Live a little."
Girls, Stephen decided, were bad influences. "I'm supposed to be here to bolster my reputation as a reliable professional," he told her.
Amy shrugged. "I guess that's fair. And you are only fifteen, after all."
She patted his arm and took off in the direction of the grill. Stephen watched her go, then took a good long look at the rest of the party: the pool (still empty of water at this time of year, so a bunch of guests were using it as a makeshift dance floor), the oversized outdoor sound system (a couple of people were arguing over the laptop it was attached to, presumably fighting about the playlist), the tables where people were eating (someone was laughing so loud Stephen could hear it from thirty feet away).
Everyone was having a good time. Most everyone had a drink sitting around. And nobody was being unprofessional or unreliable, because they were mature adults, and that was how mature adults rolled.
"Hey, Stephen!" It was one of the backup dancers, a blond who was taller and bulkier than Stephen but had more than enough grace for the role of being secondary to Stephen's moves. He jogged up to Stephen and jerked his head in the direction of the speakers. "You're only here tonight, right? Come over and help us settle on the music."
"Sure!" Stephen fell in step beside the guy, and knocked back a swallow of his drink: just one more grown-up ready to enjoy the party. The liquid was stronger than whatever Olivia had ordered for him back in Venice, and burned as it went down, but as long as he only finished this one it shouldn't be too bad. "Do you guys have any Springsteen?"
(If he got them to play Born In The USA, it would do his country proud and make Jon happy.)
~*~
One drink, as it turned out, was enough to make all these mature and responsible adults turn hilarious.
After the music question was settled, he spent a while at one of the tables, where some actor's girlfriend tried to explain the plot of Wigfield. Stephen still wasn't really clear on the details, but it must have been a comedy after all. The description of the violin episode alone made him laugh so hard he nearly choked on his cannoli.
He was laughing about...some other thing, and it felt like the night had barely begun when strong hands settled on his shoulders. "Time to go, buddy."
"What, already?" moaned Stephen. "I didn't even get to dance in the pool yet!"
"You can drain your pool at home some time," Ned told him. "Car'll be here in a minute. Say goodbye to your friends, now."
"You're the...manager?" asked the actor whose girlfriend had been so helpful. "The dad too?"
"Just the manager," said Ned tightly.
"Well, you're a lucky guy," the actor informed him, tipping him a mug of something dark and foamy in congratulations. "Hell of a talent you get to work with. Stick to him, because this kid is going places."
He winked at Stephen, who grinned delightedly back. "I already am places! Vancouver is technically a place, right?"
Ned started kneading the muscles of his shoulders through the cardigan — not ungently, but with clear impatience.
"Okay, okay, I'm coming," sighed Stephen. "See you tomorrow!"
He tried to walk away and wave at the same time, a feat of balance that proved a little too much, so that he ended up falling heavily against Ned's shoulder to keep from going down. Ned's arm slipped around his waist (under the cardigan, whose buttons had all come undone in the course of the night), and with that extra support he stayed upright the rest of the way to the car.
~*~
By the time they got to the hotel, Stephen thought he might actually be sobering up. He only half-stumbled once on the way to the elevators. Barely bumped into Ned at all.
He took the first step into the darkness of their suite, and reached for the lightswitch.
Before his hand could find it, Ned pinned him against the wall.
"Don't worry, sweetheart," murmured Ned, while Stephen's breath caught in his throat. "You don't have to keep throwing yourself at me. I've got you."
"I wasn't —" panted Stephen —
— and then his manager was kissing him, tongue slipping into his mouth, forcing Stephen to taste that he'd been drinking too.
When the older man let him go, it was to move his lips hotly to Stephen's neck, hands roaming Stephen's torso and tugging on his tucked-in shirt. At last Stephen unfroze enough to struggle. "Please," he whispered, twisting, trying to push Ned back. "Please don't...."
"Oh, buddy, don't start complaining now," purred Ned. His body was heavy against Stephen's. "Never heard you have a problem with me touching you before."
"No, but — but before, it was all normal!"
Ned actually chuckled at him, then. "That's your normal? No wonder you run around kissing strangers. How many other people have you let get away with this?"
"None," pleaded Stephen, but why should Ned believe him? He had gotten sexy with the aesthetically pleasing stranger. He'd let Ned get away with all kinds of things. Earlier, he'd even told Olivia it was normal. Maybe there really was something wrong with him, maybe he'd brought this all on himself...."And I won't do anything like it again! I'll be celibate as a...a nun, won't let anyone touch me, won't drink ever, I swear...."
"We both know you won't do that." The calm assurance in Ned's voice wiped away Stephen's half-formed conviction that he could somehow resist Olivia's delicious cocktails and Jon's soft hands. "Besides," he added, rolling his hips against Stephen's (it felt like he was smuggling a roll of quarters in there), "you can't just wind a man up like this and then leave him hanging."
"I'm sorry!" cried Stephen, flattening himself against the wall. "I didn't mean to!"
"You say that, but you didn't exactly go out of your way to stop it, did you? Seducing your own manager. What would your father think?"
Stephen choked back tears. Papa would think he was sick, disgusting, ungrateful, a disappointment. A shame on the Col-bert name. Definitely not getting a puppy.
"Shhh." Ned stepped back, but kept his hands clenched in the loose knit folds of Stephen's cardigan. "It's okay, buddy. You're not going to give me any more trouble, are you?"
"Don't want to be trouble," sniffed Stephen automatically. He felt hot all over; his shirt was untucked and rumpled, his belt askew.
"That's right. So you're going to come help me out now, and you're going to be real good and cooperative, and then everything's going to be fine. Nobody has to know what you've done. As far as Papa dearest knows, you'll have been a perfect angel this whole trip."
Stephen was so turned around, he had lost track of how much of this was his fault. Maybe all of it. When Ned tugged on his lapels, he stumbled obediently forward.
"Don't look so scared, sweetheart," the older man added, low and rough, as he guided Stephen to the king-size bed. "I'm not going to do anything that hurts you. I always take care of you, remember?"
~*~
When Ned finally started snoring, Stephen gently lifted the arm lying across his torso, slipped out from under it, and padded barefoot to the bathroom.
He was okay (he told himself, over and over). Still shaking, but not shaking too hard to unzip and aim, so it couldn't be that bad. Ned hadn't even taken any of his clothes off — Stephen had toed the socks off himself when he got too warm, reasoning that Ned had seen his bare feet before plenty of times — and his hands hadn't gone anywhere they hadn't been already (which was almost everywhere, but never mind that).
Stephen's own hand, though....
But that was nothing he hadn't done already — to himself, granted, but one penis wasn't that different from another, right? Once you'd touched one, you'd touched them all. It wasn't like he'd had anything shoved in his mouth (tongues didn't count), or...it wasn't like that.
He tucked himself away and went to wash up, afraid at first to face his reflection in the mirror. To his relief, that was okay too. Hair all tousled, like he'd tossed and turned a lot in his sleep, and with red-tinged eyes, but he was a far cry from...debauched, or anything like that. Courage thus raised, he bent forward and craned his neck to one side and then the other. Didn't look like there were any marks.
It was over. The worst had come and gone. He was fine.
He focused on lathering up his hands...
...and abruptly noticed the stain. About halfway up the sleeve of his cardigan, on the inside of his elbow, lay a streak of whitish, crusted spatter.
Heart in his mouth, Stephen shoved his whole arm under the faucet, ran the stain through the water, worked at it with his fingers. He couldn't take something like this to be dry-cleaned; they would see. Bits of it flaked off under his desperate attention, but not all of it, not nearly enough.
He tore the cardigan off, threw it at the sink, and fell hard to his knees just in time to grab the toilet bowl before he started retching. The water was still running above him, but it wasn't until long after he'd lost everything left of his dinner that he had the strength to stand up and fix it.