Love Conventions

by Morgan James

  After another deep breath, Ash composed himself and headed for the set. He and Miya were filming some “best friends” scenes today. He suspected the make-believe intimacy and care would do him good.

  During the first break in filming, Ash sat in the director’s chair labeled with his name and pulled out his phone. He clicked over to Etta’s text chain and stared at it for a long moment before he typed. Talked to him again. He considered what else to say. Not the worst thing ever.

  She answered a minute later. What every boy wants to hear. “Not the worst.”

  Ash sighed and tucked his phone back into the pocket hanging off the side of the chair.

  “All right, Ash, Miya, if you could get back on scene.” They’d redressed—apparently sitting on the couch without props looked weird, so now they were at the kitchen table, where two mugs and a plate of cookies were set out. Ash eyed the treats—and their many calories—suspiciously.

  The director waved them into their seats and toward the cookies.

  Ash chewed his lip. Should he mention…? “Um, Hamish never bakes for hi’self, ye ken?” In the old lore, brownies did housework for food, especially of the calorie-heavy variety, so Hamish disliked baking for himself. It should be compensation, or a gift. Besides, according to the pilot, he and chocolate didn’t mix.

  The director narrowed her eyes, like she thought Ash was Difficult.

  “He’s also allergic to chocolate.” He looked again at the chocolate chip cookies.

  The director rolled her eyes and muttered a “Why?” and Ash didn’t say, “Because the writers couldn’t resist a brownie who couldn’t stomach brownies.” Instead he shrugged and looked as innocent as possible.

  Miya’s lips twitched as she pinched them together, clearly wanting to laugh in his face. Ash loved filming with her.

  She, like the rest of their costars, was stupidly talented. When the cameras were off, she was sweet and bubbly, but when the director called action, she turned into a fierce and intimidating weather demon. She had the ability to make your guts quiver with one look. And Ash wasn’t immune, for all he was three times her size. Fortunately Hamish had nothing to fear from Nariko the elemental and adored her more than anyone on earth, even when her black moods brought the rain.

  Right then Hamish’s headspace had less doubt and more overwhelming contentment from taking care of his best friend.

  At times like this, Ash loved his job.

  ASH hated his job. He was outside in the middle of another dreich Vancouver night, with the added bonus of an April chill, and soaked to the bone, all the while having to pretend to be excited and happy about his circumstances. Stupid brownie lore about helpful nighttime workers who could be bribed with honey. Ash didn’t even like honey.

  Stupid light Vancouver rains—so like those of the Isles—that didn’t show up on camera but left you cold and wet.

  Ash shivered under his umbrella and glumly waited to be called into the scene. He’d find a smile when the cameras were rolling.

  “You look miserable,” said a familiar voice.

  Ash turned to see Remy a few feet away, dressed in a raincoat and wellies and holding an umbrella and a travel mug. He looked dry. Ash probably looked like a drowned rat. Well-good.

  “Am drookit”—he shifted unhappily in his wet clothes—“and it’s a wee bit baltic,” Ash grumbled. “It’s like being in Scotland.” But without the perks. The only drawback to Vancouver. If it was gonna rain for half the year, it should at least have the benefits of proper comfort food. He’d kill for some stovies or tablet.

  Remy snorted. “You’re like a grumpy Scottish cat, indignant about being wet.”

  Ash gave him a baleful look. He was in Chucks and jeans because Hamish wouldn’t wear wellies, or so Ash had been told very passionately by the costume department. He wasn’t sure why they fought to keep the Chucks, given the damage the damp must be doing.

  “Oh geez. Put those eyes away, will you? I feel bad enough already….” Remy sighed. “Now I wanna wrap you in a blanket too.” Too? “Here. I got you hot tea from craft services.” He held out the travel mug Ash hadn’t been eyeing jealously and waggled it.

  Ash blinked at the offering. “Really?”

  “Yes, really. Now hurry up and drink it before you’re called back.”

  Not waiting to be told twice, Ash snagged the mug, popped the top open, and took a careful sip. Oh God, it was so guid. Normally Ash would snark at a body for bringing him a cup of bloody Scottish breakfast, but right now he didnae care. The familiar brew was so comforting. He wished he had both hands free to wrap around the warm cup.

  “Thank you,” he said sincerely once he finally managed to remember his manners. His maw would be ashamed of the delay. “Really, thanks. Am better already.”

  “Good,” Remy said. He gripped his umbrella handle in both hands while he watched Ash drink. “So, uh, how goes the filming?”

  Ash’s shoulders slumped. “No’ so good. Damn the writers for having a scene outside and at night.”

  Remy gave an awkwardly wee cough. Ash groaned internally. Hello, mouth, meet foot.

  “The scene is guid,” Ash hurried to say. “Well-guid. Lots of great character development for Hamish, and it’s really… guid.” He stumbled to a halt, then took a deep gulp of tea. Why was he such an awkward mess?

  He shot a glance Remy’s way and found himself on the end of an assessing look. Head tilted to the side with a speculative air, Remy seemed to be deciding something.

  “You really hate the rain, don’t you?”

  “Naw,” Ash said stubbornly, then relented. “I cannae stand being in wet clothes.”

  “Oh.” A smile pulled at the corners of Remy’s mouth and made his lips tremble.

  “Say it.” Ash sighed. Whatever was bursting to get out couldn’t be worse than his speculation.

  “I’m sorry,” Remy said around a giggle. “It’s only, I didn’t know two hundred pounds of Scottish manly man could be so adorable.”

  That… was not anything like what Ash expected. Adorable? He eyed Remy’s smiling face. Was he being mocked?

  “Probably for the best. It is, after all, what makes Hamish work so well.”

  Ash frowned. “Whit do ye know about my Hamish?”

  “Dude, I’ve seen you film some scenes.”

  “No’ many like.”

  “No. But I’ve seen the pilot—right after I got the job—and it’s possible they sent an early cut of episode two my way.”

  Wait, Remy had seen episode two? “How’s it look?”

  “So good,” Remy gushed. “Like, it didn’t have the musical cues, and some of the transitions were rough, but this show is so funny, and it’s only gonna get better.”

  “Ye ken?”

  Remy stared at him for a moment, then shook his head. “Sorry, I—Hamish’s accent always throws me off. Especially when it’s coming out of Ash.”

  Should Ash be insulted? “It’s no’ far off how I sounded as a wee lad.” His voice was as dry as the rest of him was wet.

  Remy nodded. “No, I’m sure it isn’t. But you don’t anymore. You also sound a little English, a little Canadian. No one else sounds like you.” Remy looked away and cleared his throat.

  That was…. Ash didn’t know what to make of it. They stood in awkward silence for a moment. Ash wished he knew what to say. He had never been a natural conversationalist, and clearly, sometime during the intervening months, he’d lost his ability to speak to Remy. He’d lost the comfort he felt during their runaway day and the learned skills he frequently dusted off to talk with strangers. For the third time since Remy arrived in Vancouver, Ash stared dumbly at him and wondered how to form sentences.

  Ash took a sip of his tea. If his mouth was full, he wouldn’t have to talk. Also, comforting warmth.

  “Ashland! Here you are.” Bob, the director this week, strode toward them. “Hiding under your umbrella? We’re ready for you.”

  “Okay, let me….” He waved his
tea and then tilted it back so he could quickly drink the rest. He shifted awkwardly for a second, wondering where to put the empty mug.

  “Here.” Remy held out a hand. “I can take it, bring it back.”

  Ash handed it to him. “Ta for the tea.”

  Remy smiled.

  “Keeping the talent happy, are you?” Bob said jovially. He clapped a hand on Remy’s shoulder. “Good work, kid. You’ll fit in fine in this business if you’ve already figured out how to manage the actors.” He chuckled. “Let’s go, Ashland.”

  Ash’s stomach dropped. He glanced at Remy’s face but couldnae read it. Was that what Remy had been doing? Ash hadn’t thought Remy the manipulative type, but it struck him suddenly how little he actually knew him. They’d only spent one day together.

  Ash said nothing and turned to follow his director.

  Chapter Four

  ASH paused on the pavement corner, hands on his hips, and stared up at the street sign. Panting, he silently cursed himself. When he woke up on his day off to discover sunny April weather, he’d decided to go for a run. And somehow he got turned round. Apparently seven years living in a city counted for nothing when put up against Ash’s sense of direction.

  He was also seriously regretting his commitment to his iPod. It still worked and was less bulky than his phone, so he preferred it for running soundtracks, and it also had the added bonus of making him unreachable—but the definite disadvantage of leaving him without GPS.

  Ash scrubbed a hand through his hair. He had no idea which way was home. He wondered if he could get out of this without asking a stranger for directions. Vancouver was a big city, so the odds for him picking someone who recognized him were probably low, but he didn’t want to talk to strangers. Especially not with his recognizable and eye-catching ginger hair uncovered.

  He tapped at his pendant, not that he expected the coin to bring him luck just then.

  “I Need a Hero” was midchorus when Ash turned, looked south—or maybe east?—and spotted a familiar figure.

  For a long moment, he weighed the pros and cons of admitting to Remy he’d got lost in the city that was his second home.

  Then Remy looked over and saw him. A smile transformed his face, and he lifted a hand to wave.

  Figuring he’d give in to the inevitable, Ash jogged over and pulled the buds from his ears, cutting Bonnie Tyler off.

  “Hey,” Remy said loudly. “How are you? What are you—oh, running, right.” He waved to take in Ash’s gear.

  Ash nodded, unsure what to say. He’d barely seen Remy since the night shoot earlier that week.

  Remy looked away, cleared his throat, and turned back. “Look, the other night, I think maybe…. The director said something kinda assholey, and I wanted to make sure you didn’t think I brought you tea to, like, make you more biddable.” He swallowed. “I was trying to be nice. Anyway you’ve probably forgotten about it, but….” He shrugged.

  Ash stared. The tight knot in his chest eased, and he cleared his throat. “No, uh, thank you. People act odd,” he blurted. “When they know you’re even a wee bit famous, they start being weird.”

  “Oh.” Remy’s shoulders drooped. “Well, I hope I haven’t—”

  “No,” Ash rushed to say.

  “Because I would hate for you to think I cared about that. I mean, I know this probably sounds totally stupid because of how we met, but I don’t. Care, that is.”

  “No. Yeah.” Ash swallowed, throat dry, and once again wished he knew what to say.

  The silence stretched between them. Remy scratched at his nose, and Ash admired his long fingers and the curve of his delicate wrist.

  “So,” Remy said. “You must live around here if you’re running in the neighborhood.”

  Ash had completely forgotten his predicament. His exertion-flushed cheeks grew warmer. Desperately he wished for a way out of the conversation, but no pits opened below his feet or angels descended from the heavens to point the way home. Time to be a big boy.

  “I’m, um, not actually sure.” Ash wrinkled his nose. “To be honest I wasn’t focusing on my route, and I don’t have my phone.”

  Remy’s lips twitched. “Are you saying you’re lost?”

  Ash sighed and wished his cheeks were not so pale. Stupid ginger skin. “Wee bit,” he admitted.

  “Oh,” Remy said through stiff lips, clearly still trying to keep the laughter at bay.

  Ash sighed.

  Shoulders shaking, Remy pulled his phone from his pocket and opened up Maps. He turned the phone so Ash could read it more easily.

  “You are here,” Remy said with a flourish.

  Ash stared at the map, glanced at Remy, then reached out to touch the screen and widen the view. Shit. He’d run much farther than expected.

  “Bollocks.” He considered the route he’d have to take home again and, for the first time in a while, lamented that he always went running without his wallet. A cab might have been nice.

  “You going to be able to find your way home again?” Remy chuckled.

  Ash hated to admit his lack of surety, but remembering directions was also not a strong suit.

  “Well.” Remy licked his lips. “If you don’t mind playing tour guide”—his lips twitched—“I wouldn’t mind lending you the use of my phone.” He waggled it in the air.

  Ash considered the offer. “Tour guide. Right now?”

  Remy shrugged. “I can walk you home… or to a neighborhood you know, and then collect on the tour-guide favor later. You know, at a time when you’re not in sweaty running gear.” He slowly ran his gaze over Ash’s outfit, and Ash felt… seen, exposed. A shiver ran up his spine. He was pretty sure he liked it.

  “How about lunch?” Ash blurted. “Get me home, and I’ll change and take you to lunch.” The walk would be one of the longest cooldowns Ash had ever taken.

  “You’re on!” Then he held out the phone again so Ash could read it. “Which way first, o fearless leader?”

  FOR a brief moment, Ash considered dropping Remy off at a coffee shop in the neighborhood of his condo and not showing him where he lived, but he quickly realized he was acting a right dunderheid.

  He let Remy into the flat and waved him toward the sitting room.

  “Have a seat. I’ll only be a mo.”

  Remy settled onto the sofa, pulled out his phone, and dangled it in the air. “I’m good. You go shower.” He leaned back with a wiggle, evidently getting comfy.

  Ash left him. He grabbed some jeans, briefs, and a henley, and then ducked into his en suite for the fastest shower. He was dressed and walking into the living room in under ten minutes.

  His back to Ash, Remy was bent over to get a look at the books arranged on one of the lower shelves of the built-ins. They were one of Ash’s favorite features of the place—on either side of a bay window sat floor-to-ceiling bookcases. He was especially grateful for them right then, as they facilitated a spectacular view of Remy’s round bum.

  You perv, stop ogling without permission.

  Nervously Ash stepped closer and ran his hand through his damp hair. “Hey.”

  Remy straightened and turned, his face already full of a wide grin. “Hey! You’re all clean, I see. That was fast.”

  Ash shrugged. Twitchy, he pushed up the sleeves of his shirt. “Practice.” He licked his lips and glanced at the clock. Almost noon. His stomach rumbled audibly.

  “Sounds like you’re ready to eat. Man, you must be famished after your run. Should we go find a place?”

  Ash hesitated. He didn’t hate the idea of going out with Remy, of sitting down with him in a restaurant—like a date—but he wanted to stay in his space at the moment.

  “Or we could stay in and grab something to eat here?”

  Remy considered him and then nodded. “Okay.” He waved Ash toward the kitchen end of the open-concept space. “So you gonna wow me with your culinary skills?”

  A small coal of shame burned in Ash’s stomach. He wished he could. He and Ett
a had a long-standing obsession with the Food Network, and during his second year on Restraint, he’d decided to learn to cook. Over the years, he’d hung on to the notion, and “learning to cook, proper like” had become one of those “someday” life goals. As such, he had at his disposal a functional kitchen fully stocked with appliances and tools, cookbooks, and spices. He did not, however, have very many skills with which to use them.

  Still, he could make a decent brekkie of eggs, toast, bacon, and fruit.

  He pulled out ingredients.

  Remy eyed up the appliances on his countertops and opened a couple of drawers. He whistled at the knives hanging on the back wall. “Damn. You’re giving me kitchen envy. I moved in with someone advertising for a roommate, and she doesn’t have anything like this in hers. It drives me a bit nuts trying to use the space, actually. There’s no room, and it’s missing nearly all the stuff I need.”

  He spun and watched Ash turn the heat on underneath a frying pan. He cocked his head as Ash pulled out the butter.

  “Can I help with anything? I’m an excellent veggie slicer.”

  Ash shrugged. “Naw. Was going to scramble eggs.”

  Remy frowned, but there was a stubborn lilt to his mouth. “No veggies?”

  Ash shook his head.

  “Okay. I know I saw vegetables hiding in that fridge.”

  He honestly wasn’t sure what Remy expected him to do with the veg in his fridge. Most of them were for making salads. Etta was big on salads.

  “Sorry? I’m not that great in the kitchen—”

  “But,” Remy exclaimed and made wide sweeping motions to take in the room, “this kitchen is amazing.”

  Ash put the butter down on the counter, an excuse to avoid eye contact. “I, erm, never really learned how to use it.”

  “What?” He sounded appalled.

  Ash peeked over. Remy’s mouth hung open. “I want to, but I’ve never really had the opportunity….” He ended with another shrug.