An october question, p.1
An October Question, page 1
An October Question
By K.L. Noone
Published by JMS Books LLC
Visit jms-books.com for more information.
Copyright 2022 K.L. Noone
ISBN 9781685503154
Cover Design: Written Ink Designs | written-ink.com
Image(s) used under a Standard Royalty-Free License.
All rights reserved.
WARNING: This book is not transferable. It is for your own personal use. If it is sold, shared, or given away, it is an infringement of the copyright of this work and violators will be prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law.
No portion of this book may be transmitted or reproduced in any form, or by any means, without permission in writing from the publisher, with the exception of brief excerpts used for the purposes of review. This book is for ADULT AUDIENCES ONLY. It may contain sexually explicit scenes and graphic language which might be considered offensive by some readers. Please store your files where they cannot be accessed by minors.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are solely the product of the author’s imagination and/or are used fictitiously, though reference may be made to actual historical events or existing locations. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Published in the United States of America.
* * * *
For all my fellow lovers of autumn, Halloween, and happy endings.
* * * *
An October Question
By K.L. Noone
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 1
Wesley Kim had a problem. Specifically, his problem involved his own desire to propose to his boyfriend. And Finn’s uncanny ability to avoid proposal discussions.
He looked down at Finn, in hushed evening candlelight and television-glow. The evening was quiet, except for movie-night sounds, which considerately stayed in the background and did not interrupt.
Finn, recently home from filming, was beautiful and satisfied and tired; he loved his superhero show, loved the spy thriller he’d be starting in a couple of weeks, and admitted to feeling both proud of his work and worn out. He’d been resting a lot, trying to balance training and physical roles with care for his knee and his legs, and practicing lines in the kitchen and in the shower.
Wes adjusted an arm around him. Finn, having fallen asleep partway through a classic Colby Kent gay rom-com, made a drowsy noise and nestled closer. Wes’s heart hurt with love, with cherishing.
The night surrounded them with shades of honey, amber, pumpkin-leaf sweetness. Southern California, in their home near the beach, in early October. Not too cold yet, no longer too hot, and good for lazy evening—or morning—cuddles.
With Finn’s candle collection and black-cat-shaped pillows and artistic colorful corn displays. With the book-lined space of Wes’s office down the hall, and this large squishy couch beneath them, and the three bowls of flavored popcorn on the table because Wes’s future fiancé had decided that experimental popcorn flavors were the hobby of the month.
Finn had said this was seasonal. Popcorn balls, autumnal snack mixes, and so on. Wes had been fine with the caramel-marshmallow option, and had eyed the strawberry-sugar and chipotle-lime versions with a few reservations. They hadn’t been that bad, in fact.
Of course they hadn’t. Finn was a fantastic cook, in some very specific ways. Experimental, and easily distracted by a new improbable combination of ingredients—Finn’s reaction to a recipe for blueberry-Szechuan black-bean-and-sweet-potato chili had been to literally hop around the kitchen in glee and then go shopping—but usually he was also pretty good at knowing and envisioning how ingredients and flavor combinations might fit together.
Wes liked familiar recipes. He could follow them. Steady. Unimaginative. Reliable.
He adjusted his arm around Finn, rubbed the closest arm gently, mostly just to touch. His boyfriend, his other half, his heart, did not wake. Exhausted; the Hollywood industry would do that. Even more so for Finn Ransom, former teen idol, no longer the biggest news story but someone audiences adored.
Finn wasn’t scandalous or shocking, was definitely in a long-term committed relationship, had been out as bisexual for years, and—given the old injuries and long absence from stage and screen—wasn’t the top of the A-list by any means, so he and Wes generally avoided the worst of the paparazzi and star-stalkers. But Finn remained supernaturally likeable, was open and genuine about his love for stories and extra-spicy gochujang chicken and Wes, and had a lot of fans, both the ones who remembered Cody and Finn’s Upside-Down Life and the ones who’d been impressed by more recent serious work, supporting parts, the recurring and compelling role involving super-suits and fantastical powers and a return, reluctantly, to a team.
Finn had borrowed one of the suits, black leather, full of tactically useless but delicious straps and buckles and ornamentation. Both he and Wes enjoyed that suit. Thoroughly.
Audiences did love Finn. Millions of followers on social media, tons of comments. Finn tended to be entertained, and a little surprised, by that, since he mostly posted pictures and videos of new recipes or new hobbies—the one of him learning to make his own lavender essential oils had been a favorite, because apparently the internet liked attractive men who could do home aromatherapy—or of himself and Wes on a bookshop date or reading on the sofa at home or traveling to a medieval history conference.
Wes thought that it was just Finn. Those big tropical-ocean eyes loved everything in the world, with the passion of someone who’d almost died once and who’d chosen to dive headfirst into everything, after. The world saw that and loved him right back.
And he was Wes’s. Here, at home, in Wes’s arms.
Wes’s husband, hopefully. Sooner rather than later.
Wes had finally bought the ring, after agonizing over the decision of which one: three options, various choices he thought Finn would like. The one he’d settled on was gold because he thought of Finn in terms of blue and gold, sunlight and sea-waves, unfussy but with a thin inlay of sapphire. It’d match the small promise ring he’d had made for Finn a while ago, which had a medieval hand-clasp design with small blue aquamarine and topaz stones. Finn wore that one every day, all the time; he only took it off when he had to, for filming or when doing a serious swimming workout.
Wes had said then that he was going to ask, he wanted to, he wanted to be sure Finn knew. Finn, who did believe him but who had never had anyone except his long-gone Nana love him unconditionally, had said everything, wordless and radiant, with his expression, with his kiss.
Since then, Wes had been trying—not entirely successfully—to work out what might constitute the proposal of Finn’s dreams. To give his boyfriend that. Utterly perfect. A fairytale. Exactly everything Finn could’ve ever wanted.
The problem was that he wasn’t sure what Finn wanted. He just didn’t know. And that was a whole other problem, itself.
For someone who ended up giddy over rock-painting or historical paper-marbling, Finn had been amazingly noncommittal about proposal scenarios. Never once bringing it up, in fact. Not even now that he knew Wes wanted to ask.
He’d answered Wes’s casual comment about two of the history department’s PhD candidates getting engaged with, “Oh, that’s so awesome, I’m so happy for them, should we send a gift?” And then he’d evaded Wes’s exploratory nudge of, “Yeah, he proposed at that craft brewery the agriculture students started, we’ve been there, I guess it’s where they went for their first date?” with, “The brewery students must be so thrilled, they’ve helped with a love story, it’ll be a lifetime of hoppiness!”
Wes had groaned. And kissed him for it, naturally.
A few weeks ago they’d been out at a restaurant when a tall nervous young person had got down on one knee while a chocolate soufflé had come out from the kitchen. Finn had cheered along with everyone else when the young person’s petite tattooed partner had found the ring in all the chocolate and had put it on and shouted “Yes!” loudly enough to shake the rafters.
Wes had said, on the way out, “So that was kind of adorable…”
Finn had laughed. “It was. They looked so happy. Rings in food, though…I’ve never been a fan, there’re so many ways that could go so wrong…”
“Agreed,” Wes had said, because it was true. “And it’s messy.” Which he hated. He would’ve done it if Finn liked the idea, but he appreciated them being on the same page as far as that one. “Still, though…I don’t know, the restaurant and nice dinner might be…nice?”
It wasn’t even subtle. But he’d needed to know.
“Maybe,” Finn had said. “If the restaurant’s meaningful to them. Something personal. I’m sure it was. I kind of want chocolate now. Ice cream?”
In the present, here and now, Wes stroked fingers through the soft waves at the nape of Finn’s neck. Finn’s hair was normally blond—and it still technically was—but usually more of a sun-streaked gold-brown, floppy and beach-casual. Currently it was lighter, icy, the color requested for his brittle retired-but-drawn-back-in superhero character. Cool as silence, as walls going up. As words unspoken.
But that color was growing out. Warmer tones reappearing.
Wes wove his fingers through a
Finn murmured, half-waking, “I love that.”
“Me playing with your hair?”
“Mmm. Comfortable.” Finn yawned so deeply Wes worried for his jaw, and then attempted a very good impression of an octopus, all limbs, climbing into Wes’s lap. “You’re comfortable. Sorry, I didn’t mean to fall asleep on you.”
“It’s okay. I love that, too.” He did, an aching breath-stealing tenderness inside his chest. Physical, like his arms around Finn, like the taste of strawberry-sugar popcorn. “Want me to restart the movie?”
“Just the last twenty minutes or so, I was awake before that…”
“Were you?”
“Mostly.” Finn kissed the spot under Wes’s jaw, which instantly tingled with happiness. “Enough to know what happened. I was listening.”
“I can let you sleep if—”
“What part of this seems like me sleeping?” Finn’s hand wandered under Wes’s shirt. Trailed over skin, muscles, every piece of Wes now awake and alert. “Kiss me more?”
“I can do that.” He did; and they made out for a while, unhurried, purposeful, savoring touches and caresses and anticipation. The feel of Finn’s body against his, a strong beloved presence. The sweetness of Finn’s waist, hips, back. The easy way Finn’s mouth opened for him, took Wes’s tongue, welcomed explorations.
He let a hand wander down to Finn’s sweatpants, the arousal there, the response. Finn was sleepy and cuddly and happy, and Wes wanted this, all of this, forever. Always.
On the screen, nearing the end of the movie, Matt Grant as Ryan the big-city journalist went into his dramatic climactic monologue. Declaring love to charmingly flustered local newscaster Mark, played by America’s favorite gay English heartthrob Colby Kent. Doing that live, on air. Adoration, appreciation. Commitment, which his character had needed to learn, and to demonstrate. And in the spirit of that commitment, a question. Down on one knee, as the cameras—in-story newsroom, and movie-making lenses—followed.
“Happy endings,” Finn said, glancing over in between nibbles to Wes’s ear, Wes’s hand playing with his dick through sweatpants.
Wes considered this newly volunteered input. Finn added, “It’s a sweet gesture.”
Potentially helpful. Maybe. An idea. “I’m not sure,” he attempted, “how I’d feel about a big public surprise proposal like that. I mean, that’s a lot of pressure, kind of on the spot…I don’t know, what do you think?”
“Hmm.” Finn regarded the television and the enthusiastic on-screen kissing with interest, which was promising. He still had a hand under Wes’s shirt, teasing Wes’s chest. “The thing is, though—it’s right for them. For Mark and Ryan. Because the romance is so tied up in their jobs, as news anchors and journalists, and they’ve been rivals and also friends, and this is so much of who they are, and it’s Ryan’s big gesture, doing it on air. And also it’s not like it’s out of nowhere; he did ask Mark’s daughter, and she said her dad would like it. So it’s in character. For them.”
His tone was thoughtful, and enthusiastic; but the thoughts were all about the characters, and the enthusiasm was that of an actor analyzing a story, a scene. Nothing in his expression, in his voice, suggested anything more.
Wes gave in. “Yeah…okay. I can see that. For them.”
“It’s a cute movie.” Finn wriggled in Wes’s lap, returning to the other question at hand. “And, speaking of happy endings…”
“Bed, or right here?”
“Right here,” Finn agreed, “yes, Wes, please,” and let Wes tip him down into the sofa cushions, framed by candlelight and cozy blankets, hips lifting as Wes stroked him and made him gasp.
Chapter 2
On Saturday they drove out to a nearby historical botanic garden and library, because the library had an exhibition centered around luxury textiles, wallpapers, and sketches from the nineteenth century, primarily William Morris-related. Wes, a medievalist and a fabric and textile and sumptuary laws expert, had a lot of thoughts about the Victorian mania for the Middle Ages.
He also liked rose gardens and history, and this particular venue could be used for weddings—or, just possibly, proposals—full of spectacular views and billowing flowers. He watched Finn’s smile; watched his boyfriend fall in love with a huge pink-yellow fluffy bloom, leaning in for a scented breath or two, making friends.
Good, he thought. Excellent. Beautiful.
He had not brought the ring, not today, testing the location. He had not practiced his speech. But he wished he had, as Finn wandered through a lacy white gazebo, framed by climbing color, glowing and golden like the reflection of the sun. Even Finn’s scuffed jeans and local surf-shop hoodie fit right in somehow. He’d also made friends with a librarian, chatting about the job and the exhibit while Wes found a person in charge in order to explain, very patiently, that the title of the medieval romance referenced in one of their informational displays was spelled incorrectly.
Finn had also, Wes had learned while they’d wandered back out to the gardens, given the library a sizeable donation on the spot. Because, he’d said, he’d been having so much fun talking to Irina about her curatorial duties and the need for archival preservation and community outreach funding, and of course that was important, and he wanted to help.
That was Finn Ransom. Wes adored him.
Finn turned, an artwork under winsome October sun, surrounded by flowers. He did have the usual sturdy cane in one hand; he wasn’t leaning on it much, but the path was dirt, and uneven. Wes thought for a split second about walking, stone steps, potential peril; and then he thought, no, Finn was fine, Finn was smiling, Finn was bouncing across dirt and pebbles to grab his hand and kiss him and say, “Did you see those giant purple sunset ones, I didn’t know roses came in that color, I love them!”
Wes let himself be tugged that direction. “They’re…definitely purple.” They were. He wasn’t quite rethinking a plan, not yet. “You love them?”
“I so do. Do you think we can grow roses? I could learn to grow roses.”
“Where? You already planted the strawberry beds, and the zucchini, and the herb garden—”
“You like my herb garden. You like my wild mint. It was…mint to be.”
“No.”
“Not the right, um, thyme for that joke?”
“If you say anything about parsley I’ll leave you in a rose garden.”
“Oh, Wes.”
“What?”
“You,” Finn said, expression angelic, “made a pun about leaves.”
“Oh my God,” Wes said, and then, because he couldn’t help it, because Finn’s eyes were so blue and sparkling, “I love you, come here, if I kiss you will you stop?”
Finn was laughing while being kissed. Finn Ransom laughing, in sunlight, drenched in roses, was the best thing Wes had ever touched, tasted, felt. He drank in the laughter, the tease of Finn’s tongue against his, the light: ensorcelled.
A noise made him reluctantly stop kissing Finn, and turn.
A photographer. Professional. Setting up equipment. And a beaming young couple in matching casual suits, holding hands. The photographer was rhapsodizing, “—these will be such gorgeous engagement shots, I adore this location, it’s such a romantic spot, Rob, Jayden, I love it!”
“Well,” Finn said solemnly, eyes dancing, “we should maybe move, and let them have their photo shoot?”
“Um. Yeah.” And now he couldn’t use this garden. More accurately, he could, but it’d feel unoriginal. Someone else’s story, someone else’s spot. Especially if he asked soon. As per his plans. All three potential options.
Either Rob or Jayden looked their way. Then whispered excitedly to his partner. Then they both turned and stared at Finn.
Wes sighed. “I think you’ve got fans.”
Finn, being Finn, waved.
Rob-or-Jayden lit up like a firework display. And then ran over, still clutching his partner’s hand. Up close they were even younger, golden retriever puppies unleashed. “Oh my God, you are Finn Ransom, you totally are, we’re such big fans, you’re like an inspiration!”
