Sara (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
scripted_sra) wrote2009-03-04 03:36 am
scripted_sra) wrote2009-03-04 03:36 am
Fake News (FPF) | Somewhere Between Hopeless... | PG-13 | Pre-Jon/"Stephen"
Title: Somewhere Between Hopeless And Hopeful (But Not Far From Home)
Fandom: Fake News (FPF)
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Pre-Jon/”Stephen”
Warning: Angst; some unpleasantness; absurd rationalizations.
Summary: Six months before Stephen’s new show is due to debut, he receives some devastating news.
Word Count: 2,345
Disclaimer: All copyrighted material referred to in this work, and the characters, settings, and events thereof, are the properties of their respective owners. This work is not created for profit and constitutes fair use. References to real persons, places, or events are made in a fictional context, and are not intended to be libelous, defamatory, or in any way factual.
A/N: Thank you for the beta, Kelly.
May 17th, 2005
“Hey, uh, I hope this is the right number,” the message started, the voice distorted and tinny through his answering machine. Stephen recognized the speaker instantly, however; not by name (they’d never exchanged names, and certainly not numbers) but by vivid recollection. Six months ago, almost exactly—the day after his divorce was final—they’d met in one of the seediest bars Stephen had ever been in, and two beers later he’d been pressed forcefully up against a bathroom stall divider, begging to be taken. It’d been a week before he stopped feeling dirty, another three before he stopped jerking off to the memories.
“This is, um, this is Kyle, not that you’d know that,” the voice continued. “You’re Stephen, right? I asked around, finally got your number—I hope—but tracking you down was fuckin’ hard, man. You work for the CIA?” Kyle chuckled awkwardly at his own joke. “Uh, yeah, anyway. I don’t know if you remember, um, that night at Shaky’s—well, uh—god, I fuckin’ hope this is the right number—I just found out I’m HIV positive.”
And just like that, in the span of a few seconds, Stephen felt his entire world slip out from under him, like a rug forcefully yanked in order to make him stumble.
“I don’t know how long I’ve, uh, been positive, but—yeah, you should probably get yourself tested, since we didn’t use protection. Fuckin’ stupid of us, right?” the message played on, but Stephen only heard it distantly now, as if he were suddenly miles away. “This is a shitty thing to hear over an answering machine, I know, and, uh, I’m sorry—I didn’t know. Not that that helps, right, I know. Just...take care of yourself, okay? Bye.”
The cheerfully monotone lady informing him that that was the last of his unheard messages went ignored, as Stephen felt himself falling, sinking, like he was being swallowed whole by the Earth. Without even realizing it, he ended up on his floor, curled into a ball, sobbing near-hysterically.
He stayed that way for hours.
* * *
June 16th, 2005
He wondered how many people knew, how many could tell just by looking at him. How many knew what he was, what he had, and what sins he’d committed to deserve it? He’d succumbed to temptation, failed the test—it was a test, after all, it was always a test—and that was that. This was his fault. He’d broken the rules and now he was being punished for it.
“Stephen?”
Jon. That was Jon. He must know, Stephen thought. He has to know that I’m...dirty, that I’ve got something wrong with me. I probably have it written on my forehead.
Stephen looked up, into Jon’s eyes, expecting to see fear, obvious revulsion. What he found instead was concern. “Y—yeah?”
“Are you okay? You’ve seemed out of it lately. Is something wrong?” Jon touched his shoulder gently, reassuringly, and Stephen immediately jerked away. He couldn’t let this get to Jon. Not sweet, wonderful, incredible Jon. He wouldn’t let it infect him, too.
“I’m fine!” he said loudly, because the louder you were the righter you were. Maybe if he repeated that enough times, it’d become truth. Or at least something close to the truth. Like...truthiness. That sounded about right.
“Okay, okay,” Jon replied, holding up his hands in mock surrender. “Just thought I’d make sure. You’re not nervous about your show, are you? Because you’re going to be great.”
“Of course I am, Jon,” Stephen said haughtily, and Jon gave him a small smile. Stephen had to fight the urge to spill everything, to tell Jon, I don’t deserve this. I failed. I’m not a good boy. Was that what he was trying to do? Get him to confess?
“That’s the spirit,” Jon said. “You’ve earned this chance, Stephen. I’m proud of you.”
Stephen just nodded, unable to stop thinking, He doesn’t know. How doesn’t he know? He wouldn’t say that if he knew.
* * *
July 22nd, 2005
The emergency room was cold, and felt lonelier. There were four or five other people sitting in the uncomfortable chairs in the uncomfortable room, but Stephen wasn’t paying any attention to them.
He’d woken up in the middle of the night with a cough and a sore throat. After going through a bag of cough drops, the fears started setting in: Is this the beginning? Am I dying?
Half an hour later, he was standing at the reception of the closest emergency room, waiting in line to be checked in.
“Stephen? Stephen Col-bert?” called a nurse, and Stephen didn’t even bother correcting her on the pronunciation of his name. He was simply too tired.
“That’s me,” Stephen said, standing up.
She nodded. “Follow me.”
They headed into the back, where the doctors and patients were, and she led him to an unoccupied room. “Can you talk to me about your symptoms? It says here a sore throat—anything else?”
“Coughing, too,” Stephen said, and let out a string of hoarse ones, as if to demonstrate.
“Is that all?” Stephen could see her mentally deciding he was nothing more than a hypochondriac, trying to garner attention. It made him bristle.
“No,” he snapped. “I wouldn’t have come in if it were just that.”
“What other symptoms do you have?” she asked patiently.
“I—” He stopped, swallowing, which hurt. “I—I’m—I have—” Squeezing his eyes shut and taking a deep breath he said, “I have HIV.” He opened his eyes slowly, expecting her disgust. He didn’t find it.
“Oh, sweetie,” said the nurse, tone and expression sympathetic. “Did you just find out?” He nodded wordlessly. “It’s natural to be scared. This is probably nothing—we’ll check your T-cell count to make sure. Have you been taking your medicine?” He nodded again. “Good. This isn’t the end of the road, not by a long shot. My best friend has HIV—he’s had it almost twenty-five years now. He’s also healthier than I am.”
Stephen gaped at her. “He—you—but—you know he has it, and you’re still his friend? But—why?”
She gave him a curious look. “Why not?”
“Because it’s—he’s—I’m dirty!” Stephen blurted out.
“You’re not,” the nurse replied calmly. “You’re absolutely not.”
Stephen wanted to protest, but he couldn’t find the words.
* * *
August 28th, 2005
He should’ve hidden his pills better.
One of his nieces and nephews had been bound to find them—he knew they got into everything. He knew they’d then parade their findings around to the entire family. He knew how hard it was to keep secrets from this group of people.
Somehow, he still hadn’t expected this to get out.
Once the pills were in the hands of one of the adults, after Lucy asked her dad, wide-eyed, “Is Uncle Stephen sick?” there was no going back. One of his siblings had become a doctor, and two others were married to doctors. They knew immediately what those particular pills were for.
It wasn’t long before the kids were hushed and sent outside to play, and then the yelling started, followed by the tears, the cruel declaration from one of his brothers: “It’s a good thing Dad’s already dead. This would’ve killed him.”
Two of his sisters—Lulu and Mary—found him later, back in his old room on his old bed, staring dejectedly up at the ceiling. They said nothing, just joined him, wrapping their arms around him, and he didn’t even realize he’d started crying until he felt wetness on his cheeks.
“I’m sorry,” he choked out, and they held him tighter.
* * *
September 12th, 2005
Stephen didn’t remember the last time he’d been this drunk, but he supposed that was the point. Jon had noticed his subdued demeanor after he’d gotten back from South Carolina and wouldn’t let up with his concern until Stephen agreed to go out for drinks with him. Stephen had to hand it to Jon—for a liberal, he could be pretty sneaky and underhanded.
“So,” Jon said, looking steadily at Stephen, “are you going to tell me what’s wrong?”
Jon seemed drunk, too, but Stephen was pretty sure he wasn’t as drunk as he was. Of course, no one in the world was probably as drunk as he was at that moment. It was, he’d later insist, the only reason he answered Jon’s question with a sad-sounding, “I can’t.”
“Why not?” Jon asked. “Maybe I could help.”
“No,” said Stephen, tone turning miserable. “You can’t. No one can.”
“Are you sure? What is it?”
“’m sick, Jon,” Stephen said, staring into his drink. “And it’s my fault. There’s nothing no one can do, so just forget about it.”
Jon blinked at him. “Stephen—what—are you dying?” he asked, suddenly sounding a lot more sober.
Stephen furrowed his brow. “What? No. Well,” he started, “not yet, at least. But I will be.”
“I don’t understand. What do you have?”
“HIV.” He hiccupped. As drunk as he was, he still couldn’t help but brace himself for Jon’s reaction. Here it comes, he thought. The scorn, the hatred...
“Oh, god, man,” Jon said, sounding upset. He’s disgusted. “I’m so sorry. That’s—Jesus, how long have you known?”
“I—five months,” Stephen said, giving Jon a confused look. Was Jon too drunk to realize how horrified he was supposed to be? Stephen figured that must be it.
“Why didn’t you tell me sooner, Stephen? I could’ve helped. Christ, I could’ve at least been there for you to talk to, you know. You’re my friend.”
This wasn’t right. It didn’t make any sense. Didn’t Jon see that this was his fault? That he deserved it? He shouldn’t be getting sympathy. Why didn’t Jon seem to understand that? “But—but I’m bad,” he said, this somehow being the only way he could articulate what he was thinking. “How—don’t look sad! You’re supposed to hate me!”
“Because you have HIV?” Jon asked. “I don’t hate you for that. Why would I?”
“It means I’m dirty! I did things I wasn’t supposed to—very bad things!—and now I’m being punished!” He didn’t know why, all of a sudden, he was so angry, so incensed, but he wasn’t surprised to find that he couldn’t exactly contain it. “Like my family. They acted right. Not like that stupid nurse—or you.” He pushed aside the memory of his sisters holding and comforting him. That wasn’t relevant now.
“But…Stephen,” Jon said, voice sounding weak, “you’re not dirty. You’re not being punished. And you definitely don’t deserve to be treated like it. You don’t deserve any of this.”
“Yes, I do!” he shouted, not wanting to listen. If he didn’t deserve it, it didn’t make sense. Why else would something like this happen to him? It couldn’t be random. It had to be for a reason. It had to. ...right?
“No, you don’t,” Jon said, and Stephen fumed at the way he sounded so calm, so confident, like he knew. He drained the last of his drink in one quick gulp.
“You don’t know everything,” Stephen said petulantly.
“Yeah, well, neither do you.”
That shut him up, at least for the time being.
Hours later, when Stephen woke up with the world’s worst hangover, vaguely remembering the conversation they had, he frantically called Jon, leaving a begging, pleading voicemail, Please don’t tell anyone. Please, I’m sorry, please don’t take away my show, before taking some aspirin and falling back asleep, exhausted.
When he woke up again there was a response waiting for him on his cell phone: Jon, saying, It’s okay, Stephen, and nothing else. He didn’t know what to make of that, so he chose to believe Jon had simply not remembered what they’d talked about.
* * *
October 18th, 2005
Stephen was beaming as he made his way back to his office. The first show—his first show—had been perfect. It’d been everything he could’ve hoped for. He knew he needed to get out from under Jon’s shadow, and now he finally had.
Well, he had except for the fact that Jon himself was currently sitting behind his desk, smirking at him. He frowned. “When did you get here?”
“Few minutes ago,” Jon said, standing up and grinning at him. “Saw your first show. You did great, Stephen. I knew you would.”
Stephen puffed out his chest. “It was only natural that I would surpass you one day, Jon,” he said. “Don’t take it too hard.”
Jon looked amused. “I won’t.” He clapped Stephen on the shoulder, and Stephen froze for a few seconds, catching Jon’s gaze. The other man raised an eyebrow at him, shook his head, and pulled him into a hug. “I meant it when I said it was okay, Stephen,” he whispered into his ear. “As well as all that stuff about being here for you to talk to, and being your friend.”
They hadn’t talked about this since that night, and Stephen was tempted to pretend he had no idea what Jon was talking about. Instead, starved for contact, he found himself leaning into Jon’s embrace, returning the hug, suddenly overcome with emotion. “I’m so scared sometimes, Jon,” he choked out, voice a whisper, and soon he was crying, leaning on Jon for support.
“Shhh,” Jon murmured, giving his head a reassuring kiss. “I know, Stephen, I know,” he said. “We’ll talk all about it. Tonight, though, we should celebrate. I’m proud of you, you know. You’ve done good.”
Stephen pulled out of the hug, looking at Jon with watery eyes. “Really?” he asked, uncertain.
“Really,” Jon confirmed, and draped an arm around his shoulders. “Let’s go have fun.”
Stephen smiled weakly at him. “Okay,” he agreed, and Stephen grabbed his coat as they headed out of his office. As they made their way through his new studio, Stephen leaned in close to him and said, “Thank you, Jon.”
Jon simply smiled in return, and that was enough.
Fandom: Fake News (FPF)
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Pre-Jon/”Stephen”
Warning: Angst; some unpleasantness; absurd rationalizations.
Summary: Six months before Stephen’s new show is due to debut, he receives some devastating news.
Word Count: 2,345
Disclaimer: All copyrighted material referred to in this work, and the characters, settings, and events thereof, are the properties of their respective owners. This work is not created for profit and constitutes fair use. References to real persons, places, or events are made in a fictional context, and are not intended to be libelous, defamatory, or in any way factual.
A/N: Thank you for the beta, Kelly.
May 17th, 2005
“Hey, uh, I hope this is the right number,” the message started, the voice distorted and tinny through his answering machine. Stephen recognized the speaker instantly, however; not by name (they’d never exchanged names, and certainly not numbers) but by vivid recollection. Six months ago, almost exactly—the day after his divorce was final—they’d met in one of the seediest bars Stephen had ever been in, and two beers later he’d been pressed forcefully up against a bathroom stall divider, begging to be taken. It’d been a week before he stopped feeling dirty, another three before he stopped jerking off to the memories.
“This is, um, this is Kyle, not that you’d know that,” the voice continued. “You’re Stephen, right? I asked around, finally got your number—I hope—but tracking you down was fuckin’ hard, man. You work for the CIA?” Kyle chuckled awkwardly at his own joke. “Uh, yeah, anyway. I don’t know if you remember, um, that night at Shaky’s—well, uh—god, I fuckin’ hope this is the right number—I just found out I’m HIV positive.”
And just like that, in the span of a few seconds, Stephen felt his entire world slip out from under him, like a rug forcefully yanked in order to make him stumble.
“I don’t know how long I’ve, uh, been positive, but—yeah, you should probably get yourself tested, since we didn’t use protection. Fuckin’ stupid of us, right?” the message played on, but Stephen only heard it distantly now, as if he were suddenly miles away. “This is a shitty thing to hear over an answering machine, I know, and, uh, I’m sorry—I didn’t know. Not that that helps, right, I know. Just...take care of yourself, okay? Bye.”
The cheerfully monotone lady informing him that that was the last of his unheard messages went ignored, as Stephen felt himself falling, sinking, like he was being swallowed whole by the Earth. Without even realizing it, he ended up on his floor, curled into a ball, sobbing near-hysterically.
He stayed that way for hours.
June 16th, 2005
He wondered how many people knew, how many could tell just by looking at him. How many knew what he was, what he had, and what sins he’d committed to deserve it? He’d succumbed to temptation, failed the test—it was a test, after all, it was always a test—and that was that. This was his fault. He’d broken the rules and now he was being punished for it.
“Stephen?”
Jon. That was Jon. He must know, Stephen thought. He has to know that I’m...dirty, that I’ve got something wrong with me. I probably have it written on my forehead.
Stephen looked up, into Jon’s eyes, expecting to see fear, obvious revulsion. What he found instead was concern. “Y—yeah?”
“Are you okay? You’ve seemed out of it lately. Is something wrong?” Jon touched his shoulder gently, reassuringly, and Stephen immediately jerked away. He couldn’t let this get to Jon. Not sweet, wonderful, incredible Jon. He wouldn’t let it infect him, too.
“I’m fine!” he said loudly, because the louder you were the righter you were. Maybe if he repeated that enough times, it’d become truth. Or at least something close to the truth. Like...truthiness. That sounded about right.
“Okay, okay,” Jon replied, holding up his hands in mock surrender. “Just thought I’d make sure. You’re not nervous about your show, are you? Because you’re going to be great.”
“Of course I am, Jon,” Stephen said haughtily, and Jon gave him a small smile. Stephen had to fight the urge to spill everything, to tell Jon, I don’t deserve this. I failed. I’m not a good boy. Was that what he was trying to do? Get him to confess?
“That’s the spirit,” Jon said. “You’ve earned this chance, Stephen. I’m proud of you.”
Stephen just nodded, unable to stop thinking, He doesn’t know. How doesn’t he know? He wouldn’t say that if he knew.
July 22nd, 2005
The emergency room was cold, and felt lonelier. There were four or five other people sitting in the uncomfortable chairs in the uncomfortable room, but Stephen wasn’t paying any attention to them.
He’d woken up in the middle of the night with a cough and a sore throat. After going through a bag of cough drops, the fears started setting in: Is this the beginning? Am I dying?
Half an hour later, he was standing at the reception of the closest emergency room, waiting in line to be checked in.
“Stephen? Stephen Col-bert?” called a nurse, and Stephen didn’t even bother correcting her on the pronunciation of his name. He was simply too tired.
“That’s me,” Stephen said, standing up.
She nodded. “Follow me.”
They headed into the back, where the doctors and patients were, and she led him to an unoccupied room. “Can you talk to me about your symptoms? It says here a sore throat—anything else?”
“Coughing, too,” Stephen said, and let out a string of hoarse ones, as if to demonstrate.
“Is that all?” Stephen could see her mentally deciding he was nothing more than a hypochondriac, trying to garner attention. It made him bristle.
“No,” he snapped. “I wouldn’t have come in if it were just that.”
“What other symptoms do you have?” she asked patiently.
“I—” He stopped, swallowing, which hurt. “I—I’m—I have—” Squeezing his eyes shut and taking a deep breath he said, “I have HIV.” He opened his eyes slowly, expecting her disgust. He didn’t find it.
“Oh, sweetie,” said the nurse, tone and expression sympathetic. “Did you just find out?” He nodded wordlessly. “It’s natural to be scared. This is probably nothing—we’ll check your T-cell count to make sure. Have you been taking your medicine?” He nodded again. “Good. This isn’t the end of the road, not by a long shot. My best friend has HIV—he’s had it almost twenty-five years now. He’s also healthier than I am.”
Stephen gaped at her. “He—you—but—you know he has it, and you’re still his friend? But—why?”
She gave him a curious look. “Why not?”
“Because it’s—he’s—I’m dirty!” Stephen blurted out.
“You’re not,” the nurse replied calmly. “You’re absolutely not.”
Stephen wanted to protest, but he couldn’t find the words.
August 28th, 2005
He should’ve hidden his pills better.
One of his nieces and nephews had been bound to find them—he knew they got into everything. He knew they’d then parade their findings around to the entire family. He knew how hard it was to keep secrets from this group of people.
Somehow, he still hadn’t expected this to get out.
Once the pills were in the hands of one of the adults, after Lucy asked her dad, wide-eyed, “Is Uncle Stephen sick?” there was no going back. One of his siblings had become a doctor, and two others were married to doctors. They knew immediately what those particular pills were for.
It wasn’t long before the kids were hushed and sent outside to play, and then the yelling started, followed by the tears, the cruel declaration from one of his brothers: “It’s a good thing Dad’s already dead. This would’ve killed him.”
Two of his sisters—Lulu and Mary—found him later, back in his old room on his old bed, staring dejectedly up at the ceiling. They said nothing, just joined him, wrapping their arms around him, and he didn’t even realize he’d started crying until he felt wetness on his cheeks.
“I’m sorry,” he choked out, and they held him tighter.
September 12th, 2005
Stephen didn’t remember the last time he’d been this drunk, but he supposed that was the point. Jon had noticed his subdued demeanor after he’d gotten back from South Carolina and wouldn’t let up with his concern until Stephen agreed to go out for drinks with him. Stephen had to hand it to Jon—for a liberal, he could be pretty sneaky and underhanded.
“So,” Jon said, looking steadily at Stephen, “are you going to tell me what’s wrong?”
Jon seemed drunk, too, but Stephen was pretty sure he wasn’t as drunk as he was. Of course, no one in the world was probably as drunk as he was at that moment. It was, he’d later insist, the only reason he answered Jon’s question with a sad-sounding, “I can’t.”
“Why not?” Jon asked. “Maybe I could help.”
“No,” said Stephen, tone turning miserable. “You can’t. No one can.”
“Are you sure? What is it?”
“’m sick, Jon,” Stephen said, staring into his drink. “And it’s my fault. There’s nothing no one can do, so just forget about it.”
Jon blinked at him. “Stephen—what—are you dying?” he asked, suddenly sounding a lot more sober.
Stephen furrowed his brow. “What? No. Well,” he started, “not yet, at least. But I will be.”
“I don’t understand. What do you have?”
“HIV.” He hiccupped. As drunk as he was, he still couldn’t help but brace himself for Jon’s reaction. Here it comes, he thought. The scorn, the hatred...
“Oh, god, man,” Jon said, sounding upset. He’s disgusted. “I’m so sorry. That’s—Jesus, how long have you known?”
“I—five months,” Stephen said, giving Jon a confused look. Was Jon too drunk to realize how horrified he was supposed to be? Stephen figured that must be it.
“Why didn’t you tell me sooner, Stephen? I could’ve helped. Christ, I could’ve at least been there for you to talk to, you know. You’re my friend.”
This wasn’t right. It didn’t make any sense. Didn’t Jon see that this was his fault? That he deserved it? He shouldn’t be getting sympathy. Why didn’t Jon seem to understand that? “But—but I’m bad,” he said, this somehow being the only way he could articulate what he was thinking. “How—don’t look sad! You’re supposed to hate me!”
“Because you have HIV?” Jon asked. “I don’t hate you for that. Why would I?”
“It means I’m dirty! I did things I wasn’t supposed to—very bad things!—and now I’m being punished!” He didn’t know why, all of a sudden, he was so angry, so incensed, but he wasn’t surprised to find that he couldn’t exactly contain it. “Like my family. They acted right. Not like that stupid nurse—or you.” He pushed aside the memory of his sisters holding and comforting him. That wasn’t relevant now.
“But…Stephen,” Jon said, voice sounding weak, “you’re not dirty. You’re not being punished. And you definitely don’t deserve to be treated like it. You don’t deserve any of this.”
“Yes, I do!” he shouted, not wanting to listen. If he didn’t deserve it, it didn’t make sense. Why else would something like this happen to him? It couldn’t be random. It had to be for a reason. It had to. ...right?
“No, you don’t,” Jon said, and Stephen fumed at the way he sounded so calm, so confident, like he knew. He drained the last of his drink in one quick gulp.
“You don’t know everything,” Stephen said petulantly.
“Yeah, well, neither do you.”
That shut him up, at least for the time being.
Hours later, when Stephen woke up with the world’s worst hangover, vaguely remembering the conversation they had, he frantically called Jon, leaving a begging, pleading voicemail, Please don’t tell anyone. Please, I’m sorry, please don’t take away my show, before taking some aspirin and falling back asleep, exhausted.
When he woke up again there was a response waiting for him on his cell phone: Jon, saying, It’s okay, Stephen, and nothing else. He didn’t know what to make of that, so he chose to believe Jon had simply not remembered what they’d talked about.
October 18th, 2005
Stephen was beaming as he made his way back to his office. The first show—his first show—had been perfect. It’d been everything he could’ve hoped for. He knew he needed to get out from under Jon’s shadow, and now he finally had.
Well, he had except for the fact that Jon himself was currently sitting behind his desk, smirking at him. He frowned. “When did you get here?”
“Few minutes ago,” Jon said, standing up and grinning at him. “Saw your first show. You did great, Stephen. I knew you would.”
Stephen puffed out his chest. “It was only natural that I would surpass you one day, Jon,” he said. “Don’t take it too hard.”
Jon looked amused. “I won’t.” He clapped Stephen on the shoulder, and Stephen froze for a few seconds, catching Jon’s gaze. The other man raised an eyebrow at him, shook his head, and pulled him into a hug. “I meant it when I said it was okay, Stephen,” he whispered into his ear. “As well as all that stuff about being here for you to talk to, and being your friend.”
They hadn’t talked about this since that night, and Stephen was tempted to pretend he had no idea what Jon was talking about. Instead, starved for contact, he found himself leaning into Jon’s embrace, returning the hug, suddenly overcome with emotion. “I’m so scared sometimes, Jon,” he choked out, voice a whisper, and soon he was crying, leaning on Jon for support.
“Shhh,” Jon murmured, giving his head a reassuring kiss. “I know, Stephen, I know,” he said. “We’ll talk all about it. Tonight, though, we should celebrate. I’m proud of you, you know. You’ve done good.”
Stephen pulled out of the hug, looking at Jon with watery eyes. “Really?” he asked, uncertain.
“Really,” Jon confirmed, and draped an arm around his shoulders. “Let’s go have fun.”
Stephen smiled weakly at him. “Okay,” he agreed, and Stephen grabbed his coat as they headed out of his office. As they made their way through his new studio, Stephen leaned in close to him and said, “Thank you, Jon.”
Jon simply smiled in return, and that was enough.