Chapter 22: 22. Everything is Public Knowledge

Keith

“Cut! Good work, guys. What’s next? Axca, give me the shot list.” 

Acxa gives Mike a tablet containing the required materials, and I exchange an awkward look with Shiro. His hair is mussed after our scene, his skin pale under the layer of make-up, the scar across his nose even more prominent than usual. It should make him less handsome, but somehow, the opposite is true, and I can’t break my gaze away. Coming down from shooting an intimate scene can be jarring. You channel these intense emotions toward another person and then have to flip back to normal once the director calls for the end. It’s doubly hard now when I’m harboring actual attraction toward my coworker. Emphasis on hard. Am I supposed to be in the next shot? Let’s hope not. Let’s hope I can sneak into my trailer to lick my wounds in private. 

“Shiro, we’re gonna need you to stay. Keith, you’re off. Curtis will come to fetch you, but it’s gonna be a while.” 

Thank fuck. With nonchalance I don’t feel, I give a brief nod to Mike and flee, avoiding a further glance at Shiro. My dick is still rock hard, so I can definitely use the break to cool down. It’s a small mercy that the costume doesn’t show anything, allowing me to reach the trailer area without unwanted attention. Once inside, I slam the door shut and lock them behind me. This way, there will be no surprises. No goody-two-shoes PAs barging in on me at the least suitable moment. I fumble for the zipper of my costume, but it’s a struggle. Why the hell are there so many? And why are they on the back? Do you have to be an Olympic gymnast to yank this fucking thing off without breaking something? 

The memories of how Shiro looked after our kiss spur me on, and when I succeed and step out of the costume, I hiss with relief. A series of images plays before my eyes, courtesy of my assholish brain. Shiro’s dark eyes. The little hitch in his breath before his lips molded to mine, velvety soft and perfect. The heat of his tongue surging into my mouth. His taste. A hint of coffee and something sweet, of course, but underneath, solid and masculine. Even the memory is turning me on to the point of coming, and my cock twitches behind the black unitard that serves as a base layer under the armor. Faster than I thought possible, I strip out of it, push down my boxer briefs, and squeeze my painfully hard dick to relieve the building pressure, but it doesn’t work. 

My eyes drift closed for a split second, but Shiro’s image is imprinted on my eyelids, so that’s no fucking help either. 

Am I so pathetic to jerk off at work over my co-star? I give myself a gentle tug, using the precome pearling at the slit as lube, imagining it’s Shiro’s hand instead of mine. That it’s his fingers stroking over my shaft, sliding lower to cup my balls. I guess the answer is yes. A resounding, pathetic yes. 

I stumble to the couch, where I collapse in a heap of need and grab my cock again. My balls are so tight already that this won’t last long. How will I handle more of these scenes if it took only one to get me this desperate? I keep jacking myself, remembering the needy sounds Shiro made when he kissed me during the first take before Mike’s interruption. Was he only acting? He’s decent, sure, but you can’t fake physiological reactions. Blown pupils. Flushed skin. The way he clutched at me before owning my mouth. Fuck, the man can kiss, the right side of aggressive, firm and commanding. My movements speed up, shuttling my cock through my fist while sliding my other hand up to pinch my nipple. It’s rough friction without lube, but I need to come so badly that I don’t care. I need Shiro to be here with me, his fingers wrapped around my erection, his lips hungry on mine. How would they feel elsewhere on my body? How would they feel stretched over my cock? The image of Shiro on his knees for me, looking up from underneath that white fringe with eyes blown with lust, sends me careening over the edge. My hips jackknife off the sofa, and I shoot streams of come all over my abs. 

Relief slams into me, with shame nipping at its heels. Not shame over being attracted to a man. No, I’ve known I was gay since fourteen. Made my peace with it despite being stuffed so deep inside a closet that the coats hanging next to me are about to become fashionable again. The problem is that I should focus on my career. At twenty-four, I barely scratched the surface of my professional goals. Even though Voltron is a passion project, there are more things I want to achieve. Or used to want. Lately, everything is muted, like colors behind a milky glass, but if I stop acting, what good am I? I have no formal education and can’t do anything else, as Kolivan loves to remind me. Once I’m outed, job offers will dwindle and then disappear or turn into episodic roles and comedic relief. Worse, people will endlessly poke their noses into matters that are not their business. I wouldn’t be an actor. I’d be the gay actor, fielding questions about my sexuality during every interview. My star that shines so brightly right now will fade into obscurity, dim as an old penny. 

But would it be so terrible? 

Would it be so awful to be forgotten by the masses but have one person who would care about me, not about the image I’m trying to project? The idea of settling down with someone, leading a quiet life in place of chasing fame or the next big break is… thrilling. When I examine my deepest, truest desires, I don’t see a star on the walk of fame or a golden bald guy. No, I see soft grey eyes. I see a crooked smile and lazy mornings spent fucking and arguing over how much sugar in our coffee is too much. 

How idyllic. Idyllic and naïve. I can keep dreaming, but that’s about it. I can’t afford to lose my career, and Shiro, or anyone else, deserves better than being my dirty secret. As if on cue, my phone vibrates, and I dive after it. Oh, freaking great. I can’t answer the call with my hand covered in come, so I redirect at the last moment to pick up with my left hand while looking for something I could use for wiping. 

“Do you check your emails?” 

“Kolivan, hi. How nice to hear from you.”

My sarcasm slides right off him. 

“Yes, yes. The emails.” 

Why don’t I have any paper towels or tissues here? Seems impractical. With the phone on speaker, I head to the bathroom to clean myself.

“I’ve been busy. You know, shooting the show.” Not jerking off while thinking about my colleague, with whom I just shared a hot-as-fuck kiss on camera.

“Keep track of these things more closely. I’ve sent you a script for the new Aronofsky movie. It’s not the main part, but the role has the potential to showcase your acting skills.”

“Unlike Voltron, you mean?”

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“That too. But apart from being your chance to break into movies, it could also shift the perspective of people seeing you as a one-hit child wonder who got lucky and made it big.” The casual dismissal of my current project rankles, but I know from experience it’s pointless to argue. 

“I’ll give it a look,” I say, turning off the water and stepping back into the trailer’s main area. A shiver runs through me. Oh, great, I’m naked, and in my rush, it didn’t occur to me to turn up the heating. I might be Canadian, but I’m not that Canadian.

“Please do. I already checked, and it wouldn’t overlap with your shooting schedule, even though it will probably be a tight fit.” 

A groan forms at the back of my throat, thick enough to make swallowing difficult. Tight fit in Kolivan speak means back-to-back shooting. One morning in Canada, the other in LA, bleary-eyed and exhausted, switching gears without a moment to exhale. But I love what I do, and I’ve always wanted a chance to do a serious movie. To prove that I am more than a pretty face. So why are my veins full of sluggish lead instead of fire? 

“Is there something else?” I ask. It’s not Kolivan’s MO to call over something so basic as a new script. 

“As a matter of fact, there is. A woman contacted me. Her name is Krolia, and she claims to be your mother.” 

There used to be a time when Kolivan’s remark would send me reeling with hope thrumming in my chest. Now, I only sigh.

“Just ignore her, like all the other nut jobs.” 

“You know that’s my usual policy, but this woman seems different. She knows things about you that no one else does.” 

“It’s the age of the internet. Everything is public knowledge.” 

A drop of warmth slides into Kolivan’s voice, which is so odd that it captures my attention. 

“I know you’ve always hoped to find your birth mother, Keith. This seems like a solid lead. But if you don’t wish to respond, delete the email and let me know to block her further attempts to contact you.” 

“I’ll think it over.” 

“And get back to me about the script.”

The nice moment passes, and Kolivan returns to business mode, relegating me to a client again.

“Sure.”

“As soon as possible.” 

“Don’t worry.” 

Finished with our exchange, he hangs up without a goodbye, as usual. I’m used to it, so it doesn’t sting as it once might have. I scan the trailer in search of my laptop. How the hell did it end up next to a sink? Doesn’t matter. I turn it on, trying to ignore the tendril of excitement snaking through my ribcage. Could there be something to this woman’s claims? Could she really be my mother? Based on my experience with random people reaching out to me, I should know better than to get my hopes up, and I have the mental scars to prove it. The only upside is that it pushes my reaction to kissing Shiro out of my mind. My life is complicated enough without crushing on my coworkers. With a deep breath, I open my email and start reading. 

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