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apparitionism · 3 months ago

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Bonus 4

First, a PSA: If you are eligible to vote in next week’s US election, please VOTE FOR HARRIS as well as every other Democratic candidate on the ballot, and do what you can to persuade as many other people as you can to do the same. I assume anyone who bothers to read my writing is smart enough to understand why that’s necessary—and why engaging in any sort of protest-vote or sit-this-one-out charade is counter to the interests of most living breathing people at this point in history.

Anyway. Here I offer the final part of last year’s Christmas story... again and as usual, where were we? I recommend the intro to part 1 for where we are, canon-wise (S4, essentially, but diverging); beyond that, Myka has just returned to the Warehouse after a holiday retrieval in Cleveland (Pete, in town visiting his family, was tangentially involved), where Helena, whom Myka hadn’t seen since the Warehouse didn’t explode, served as her backup—a situation facilitated by Claudia as something of a Christmas bonus. Post-retrieval, Helena and Myka shared a meal at a restaurant; this was a new experience that went quite well until, alas, Helena was instructed (by powers higher than Claudia) to leave. Thus Myka returned home, both buoyed and bereft... and here the tale resumes. I mentioned part 1, but for the full scraping of Myka’s soul, see part 2 and part 3 as well.

Bonus 4

Late on Christmas Day, Myka is heading to the kitchen for a warm and, preferably, spiked beverage, intending to curl up with that and a book—well, maybe a book; a restless scanning of her shelves had left her drained and decisionless, hence the need for a resetting, and settling, beverage—and to convince herself to appreciate the peace of these waning Christmas hours. She peeks into the living room, just to assess the wider situation, and regards a sofa-draped Pete. He returned from Ohio barely an hour ago, which Myka knows because she had heard Claudia exclaim over his arrival. Then things had gone quiet.

Now, he appears to be napping.

Myka tries to slink away.

“Claud mentioned about your backup,” he says as soon as her back is turned, startling her and proving she’s a terrible slinker. Small favors, though: at least she hadn’t already had her beverage in hand and so isn’t wearing it now. “That had to be weird,” he goes on, sitting up.

She’s been wondering whether the topic would come up, whenever they happened to get beyond how-was-your-trip pleasantries... she entertains herself for a moment with the idea of referring to Helena, specifically with Pete, as “the topic.” So she tries it: “‘Weird’ does not begin to describe the topic.” It is entertaining, as a little secret-layers-of-meaning sneak. But there’s yet more entertainment in the offing, with its own secret layers: “Incidentally, speaking of weird—which I’m sure was also mentioned—I met your cousin. Thanks for giving her an artifact. Very Christmas of you.”

He rounds his spine into the sofa like he’s trying to back his way through the upholstery and escape. “Don’t be mad. I didn’t mean to. I didn’t know it was an artifact.”

Myka is tempted to keep him guessing about her feelings, but she doesn’t really have the energy; she gives up on entertainment and tells the truth: “I’m not mad. I’m serious: thank you.”

“I think you’re trying to trick me,” he skeptics. “Soften me up for something. But if that’s for real, then you should thank my mom more than me.”

Pete’s mother. The extent of Jane Lattimer’s role in Myka’s life is... surprising. Then again the extent of her role in Pete’s life has turned out to be surprising too, and that’s probably a bigger deal, all things considered.

Pete goes on, “Because I was gonna blame her, but should I give her props instead? It was her idea to give the little feather guy to Nancy, because of how after I got it I saw that it’d probably PTSD you.”

“I appreciate the seeing, but... wait. After you got it. How’d you get it in the first place?”

“I was in this antique store,” Pete says.

As if that explains everything—when in fact it explains nothing. In further fact, it unexplains. “Why were you in an antique store? According to you, you hated those even before the Warehouse turned them into artifact arcades.”

“Mom was picking something up there, and this guy showed it to me.”

“Your mom, this guy...” Myka is now beyond suspicious. “What did this guy look like?” A pointless question. As if knowing that could help her... as if anything could really help her. This is madness. “Fine. It doesn’t matter what he looked like, because I’m stopping here. I can’t keep doing this. For my sanity, I can’t.”

“Keep doing what?”

“Tracing it back. You win. You all win.”

“Do we? Doesn’t feel like it. And that doesn’t seem like a reason you’d be thanking me.”

“No. That isn’t. But as of now I’m trying to keep myself from focusing on... let’s call it the causal chain.”

“I’d rather focus on the popcorn chain.” He points to the strands that loop the Christmas tree.

They are the tree’s only adornment. Every prior holiday season of Myka’s Warehouse association, Leena has decorated the B&B unto a traditional-Christmas Platonic ideal; this year, in her absence, Myka, Steve, and Claudia, trying to replicate that, had purchased a tree. And transported it home. And situated it near to plumb in the tree stand, which was an exhausting exercise in what they earnestly assured each other was complicated physics but was really just physical incompetence.

They had then settled in to do the actual decorating, starting with popcorn strings... but once they’d finished those, they were indeed finished, pathetically drained of holiday effort. And they’d succeeded in that initial (and sadly final) project only because, as they’d all agreed once they’d strung the popcorn, Pete hadn’t been there to shovel the bulk of their also-pathetic popping efforts into his mouth.

“Take them down, slurp them up like spaghetti if you want,” Myka says now. “Christmas is pretty much over.” The statement—its truth—makes her stew. At Pete? But the situation isn’t ultimately his fault, no matter what part he played. And why is she so set on assigning, or marinating in, this vague blame anyway? She got something she wanted: time with Helena. It didn’t work out as perfectly as she’d wished it would, but she got it.

She tries to resettle: her heart to remembrance, her brain to appreciation.

The doorbell rings, its old-fashioned rounded bing-bong resounding from foyer to living room and beyond, bouncing heavily against every surface. Myka lets the vibrations push her toward the kitchen; she’s had enough of interaction for now. Her beverage and book, whichever one will provide some right refuge, await. As do remembrance and appreciation.

She hears Pete sigh and the sofa creak; he must have shoved himself from it in order to lurch to the foyer. A minute later, he yells, “Guess what! Christmas might not be over!”

Still kitchen-focused, Myka yells back, “If that’s not Santa himself, you’re wrong!”

“Never heard of that being one of her things!” Pete shouts, even louder.

“Quit shouting!” Myka bellows, so loud that she drowns out her own initial registering of what he’s said, which then starts to resonate in her head, a stimulating hum that resolves into meaning... her things? Her things... Myka’s torso initiates a turn; her body knows what’s happening, even if her brain—

“Hey, H.G.,” Pete says, and now every part of Myka knows.

Except her eyes, but once she moves to the foyer to stand behind Pete, they know too: There Helena is. Her body. Embodied. The illumination of her, in the foyer semi-dark... her bright eyes catching Myka’s, warming to the catch... oh, this.

Seeing the sight—greeting, once again, her perfect match—she is struck dumb.

There’s movement behind her, though, and she turns to see Steve and Claudia poking their heads into the space like meerkats—well, no, in South Dakota she should think prairie dogs... but they’re both built more like meerkats than prairie dogs, so she should probably keep thinking meerkats out of... respect? Whatever: they’re animal-alert, heads aswivel, faces alight. It surely signifies something.

Turning back to Helena, trying to get a voice in her mouth, she coughs out, “You’re back? Now? I mean, already? How did you—”

“To quote myself: ‘when I can, I will,’” Helena says, as matter-of-factly as anyone could possibly speak while maintaining intense eye contact with one person, and Myka thanks all gods and firefighters above that she is herself that person. “Now, not forty-eight hours later, I could. Thus I did. I should note that I’m unsure as to why I could, but perhaps it’s a gift horse?” Her focus on Myka does not waver. Pete and the meerkats might as well not exist, and Myka in turn is mesmerized.

“Maybe that’s the horse you rode in on,” Claudia says. Is she trying to break the spell? Myka wishes she wouldn’t... she ideates shushing her, even as Claudia goes on, “But better late than never, Christmas-wise, right?”

“Did you enjoy your additional portion of squash?” Helena asks Myka, ignoring Claudia’s interjection. Her tone is formal, presenting public, but her question is for Myka alone.

“It was very good for my heart,” Myka says. She doesn’t add, though she could, And so was that question.

Helena smiles like she heard both good-fors—like she’s grateful for both—and Myka thinks, for the first time out loud in her head, She feels the same way I do.

It’s... new. Different. Perfect? Not yet, the out-loud-in-her-head voice instructs.

But she can make a move in that direction. “Please put your suitcase in my room,” she says. Out loud, outside her head. Realing it.

“I will,” Helena says. She takes up her case and moves toward the stairs, presumably to real that too.

It renders Myka once again enraptured. She is taking her suitcase to my room. My room. She is.

The first stair-creaks that Helena’s ascent occasions sound, to Myka’s eagerly interpretive ears, approving.

Claudia and Steve don’t even blink. Pete does—well, more the opposite; he widens his eyes in the cartoony way.

But then he turns on his heel, Marine-brusque and not at all cartoony, and exits the space. Myka doesn’t know what to make of that. She’ll most likely have to address the topic—in fact, “the topic”—with him later. Fortunately, later isn’t now.

She does know, however, what to make of Steve and Claudia’s aspect: “I’m sensing some ‘aren’t we clever’ preening,” she accuses.

“We are clever,” Claudia says, dusting off her shoulder. “More Fred. Don’t sweat it.”

Exasperating. “Don’t sweat it? As I understood the situation, Fred was a retrieval and an insanely expensive dinner. Are we doing that again, or is she back for good?”

“She’s back for nice,” Claudia says.

Steve jumps in with, “To answer your question: we’re not a hundred percent sure.”

“See, we made a deal,” Claudia says.

“With whom?” Myka asks.

“Santa?” Claudia says, but without commitment. Myka’s response of an oh-come-on face causes her to huff, “Fine. Pete’s mom and company. And Mrs. F. And even Artie, in absentia.”

“What kind of deal?” Myka asks, because while she can’t dispute the indisputably positive fact that Helena is here, she mistrusts any deal involving Regents. Pete’s mom aside. Or Pete’s mom included: She can’t stop her brain from stirring, stirring once again to life those causal-chain questions: What’s being put in motion this time?

“A kind of deal about which things they’re willing to let us—well, technically Steve—say are nice,” Claudia pronounces, as if that explains everything.

Myka is very tired of proffered explanations that actually unexplain.

Steve says, “Claudia finally found the file on the pen. Seems that Santa’s list, once made, is kind of ridiculously powerful. And it turns out you can put a situation on the list.”

“For example,” Claudia supplies, “H.G. and you. Getting to be in each other’s... proximity.”

Steve adds, “And yours isn’t the only one I put there. That was part of the deal.”

“So you’re letting the pen reward nice situations with... existing,” Myka says. “And are you storing it on some new ‘Don’t Neutralize’ shelf? So nobody accidentally bags the existence out of them?”

Claudia says, “Kinda. At least for a while.”

This all seems deceptively, not to mention dangerously, easy. “But: personal gain, not for,” Myka points out.

“Right,” Steve says. “So here’s a question: what does ‘personal gain’ actually mean? The manual doesn’t have a glossary. So we’re trying to work it out. Let’s say Claud uses an artifact and then makes this utterance: ‘My use of this artifact was not for personal gain.’ And let’s say I assess that utterance as not a lie. The question remains, are the Warehouse and Claud and I agreeing on the definition of ‘personal gain’?”

“The question remains,” Myka echoes, fretting. “And the answer?”

“We’ll see,” Steve says.

It’s destabilizing, but that’s the Warehouse’s fault, not Steve’s. “I just hope the artifact won’t downside you for any disagreement. Because you’re remarkably nonjudgmental, and—”

“With a Liam exception,” Steve notes. “Or several. Ideally, though, the Warehouse and I can work through these things like adults. Unlike me and Liam.”

Myka respects his honesty. And yet: “I’m having a seriously hard time ideating the Warehouse as an adult.”

“We’re working through that too,” Steve concedes.

“You clearly have the patience of a saint.”

Steve chuckles. “Pete’s your partner, right? And in another sense, H.G. might be too?” Myka waves her hands, no-no-too-soon, because suitcases notwithstanding, she has certainly in the past thought she was making a safe all-in bet, only to lose every last copper-coated-zinc penny of her metaphorical money. “No matter what we call anybody,” he continues, “I think you get a lot more patience practice than I do. I’m just dealing with one little Warehouse and its feelings.”

“Aren’t its feelings... unassimilable?” she asks. “Or at least, shouldn’t they be?” It’s a building. Whatever its feelings, they should be talking about it like it’s an alien, not somebody who’s in therapy. Or somebody who should be in therapy.

“Maybe,” Steve says. “Or maybe not. That was part of the deal too, that I would test out how it feels. About personal gain specifically here, eventually maybe more. But if it has a meltdown...”

“Ah. We cancel the test, neutralize the pen, and face the consequences.”

Steve nods. “But ideally, if that happens, we will have leapfrogged whatever the looming Artie-and-Leena crises are. The two of them coming back here safely are the other situations we niced, as part of the deal.”

Claudia adds, “My big fingers-crossed leapfrog is over their stupid administrative ‘keep H.G. away from Myka and everybody else who loves her’ dealy-thingy. We’re hoping they’ll just forget about whatever their dumbass reasons for that were when they see how great it is for her to be back.”

“Dealy-thingy? Have you been talking to Pete?” Myka asks, trying for silly, for light—so as to deflect that “love her” arrow.

“Not about that. But wait, are you saying he loves her too? I mean I figured he was okay with her after the whole Mom-still-alive thing, but his Houdini out of here just now makes me think he’s not quite all the way to—”

“Never mind,” Myka says, as a command.

Claudia squints like she wants to pursue it. Myka crosses her arms against any such idea, in response to which Claudia says, “Fine. Here’s some funsies you’ll like better. Making that list, you’ve gotta have balance. Naughty against the nice.”

“And you think I’ll like that because?”

“I talked to Pete’s cousin, a little pretty-sure-we-don’t-have-to-tesla-you-but-let’s-make-super-sure exit interview. Heard some things about a guy. Bob? Seemed like a good candidate.”

Well. Pete had been right on several levels about Christmas not being over yet. “That’s the best news I’ve had in the past... I don’t know. Five minutes?” Other than the Pete-vs.-“the topic” question, it’s been an absurdly good-news-y several minutes.

Claudia goes on, “Personal gain, what is it? There’s also a warden from that place I don’t like to remember being committed to who’s about to have a Boxing Day that’ll haunt him longer than he’s been haunting me.”

That definitely raises questions—flags, even—about “personal gain” in a definitional sense, but letting all that lie seems the better part of valor, so Myka asks Steve, “Any Liam on there?”

“Too personal to let the Warehouse anywhere near,” he says, but with a smile.

Myka smiles too. “Would that I could say the same about my situation.”

Claudia snickers. “Your situation is Warehouse-dependent. Warehouse-designed. Warehouse-destined.”

“All the more reason said Warehouse shouldn’t object to easing the pressure,” Steve says.

“Are you kidding?” Claudia says. “Its birth certificate reads ‘Ware Stress-Test House.’”

Myka appreciates their positions—Steve’s in particular, even as she internally allows that Claudia’s is probably more accurate—but she would appreciate even more their ceasing to talk about her situation like they’re the ones whose philosophy will determine how, and whether, it succeeds. Or even proceeds.

And she would most appreciate their ceasing to talk about her situation entirely. So that she can go upstairs and be in her situation, because Helena hasn’t come back downstairs, a fact for which Myka’s rapidly overheating libido has provided a similarly overheated reason: she is waiting, up there in the bedroom, for Myka.

Which thought is of course followed by Helena’s preemption of same: she descends the stairs and presents herself in the foyer.

Damn it, Myka’s disappointed libido fumes.

Sacrilege! an overriding executive self chastises, and it isn’t wrong, for again, here Helena is. To fail to appreciate that—ever—is an error of, indeed, biblical, or anti-biblical, proportions.

In any case, now four people are just standing here, awkwardness personified.

Helena flicks her eyes briefly toward Myka—it seems a little offer of “hold on”—then turns to Steve and Claudia. “I didn’t greet either of you directly when I arrived. I apologize. Claudia darling, it warms my heart to see you... and this is of course the famous Steve, whose acquaintance I’m delighted to make at last.”

Striking to witness: Helena has essentially absorbed the awkward into her very body and transmogrified it into formality.

Myka loves her.

“Famous?” Steve echoes, like she’s said “Martian.”

“I’ve heard much of you,” Helena says, with an emphasizing finger-point on “much.”

Steve smiles his I’m-astonished-you’re-not-lying smile, through which he articulates, “Likewise? I mean, likewise, but with more. Obviously.”

Yes, Myka loves her: for her charming self alone, but also for how that charm extends; her sweet attention to Steve has him immediately smitten. Myka’s the one to catch Helena’s gaze now, intending merely to convey gratitude, but to her gratification it stops Helena, causing her to abandon her engagement with Steve.

Maybe she and Myka can stand here and gaze at each other forever. It wouldn’t be everything, but it would be something. Second on second, it is something. It is something.

Claudia interrupts it all, saying to Helena, “Can I hug you?”

Myka doesn’t begrudge the breaking of this spell, particularly not with that; she had been selfish, before, greedy to keep Helena and her eyes all to herself. She also doesn’t begrudge the ease of the hug in which Claudia and Helena engage; getting a hug right is simpler when its purpose is clear. And clearly joyful.

Over Claudia’s shoulder, Myka’s and Helena’s gazes lock yet again, and it’s spectacular.

However: it also seems to introduce a foreign element into the hug, some friction that Claudia must sense, for she disengages and says, “So. I have to go. I just remembered I have an appointment to not be here.”

Steve says, “I feel like I was supposed to remember to meet you there, wasn’t I,” Steve says, and Myka has never been able to predict when he’ll be able to play along instead of blurting “lie” (even if he does often follow such blurts with some version of an apologetic “but I see the social purpose”).

“I don’t think you were,” Claudia says, “because I’m revising the gag; it makes more sense if I just now made an appointment to not be here. So you couldn’t be remembering some nonexistent-before-now appointment.”

“But I still think the appointment ought to be with me, gag-wise and otherwise,” Steve says, doggedly, still playing. “In the first and second place.”

“Is this the first place?” Claudia muses, faux-serious, now rewarding his doggedness. “Is the appointment in the second place?”

They could who’s-in-the-first-place this for days, so Myka intervenes, “In the first place, if this is a gag, it desperately needs workshopping. But in the second place: Scram!”

“You mean to the second place,” Claudia sasses.

Myka scowls, wishing she could growl proficiently.

Claudia’s eyes widen. “Scramming. Best scrammer,” she says, sans sass, proving the actual growl unnecessary. Interesting.

“Except that’s about to be me with the gold-medal scram,” Steve objects and concurs.

Myka pronounces, “I’ll be the judge of who’s what. Once you actually do it.”

“You’ll award the medals later though, right?” asks Claudia. Her words are jokey, yet her tone is weirdly sincere, as if Myka might forget they had scrammed on her behalf, and that such amnesia would be hurtful.

“Participation trophies,” Myka semi-affirms, “in the form of a healthy breakfast.” She adds, internally, Take the damn hint.

After much winking and nudging, the comedians at last absent themselves, and Myka and Helena are alone.

Unfortunately that doesn’t immediately yield the perfected situation Myka seeks, first and foremost because she doesn’t know what comes next. Take your own damn hint, she tells herself, but... how? They need privacy, and the only reasonable place for that is where Helena’s suitcase rests: upstairs. Myka can’t magic them there, so what incremental movement will be recognizable as an appropriate beginning?

She casts a wish for Helena to ease it all, as she had with Claudia and Steve, but Helena is stock-still, offering no increment. For both of them, upstairs seems to have become a different place... the promised land?

Nothing is promised, she reminds herself. Some things are newly possible, but nothing is promised. Certainly not when the Warehouse is involved.

So maybe the point, probably the point, is that it’s incumbent on Myka and Helena to realize the possibility.

Nevertheless, here they stick.

After a time—most likely shorter than Myka feels it to be—Helena announces, “Pete and I have had a chat.” Her articulation of “chat” shapes it into a synonym for “fight.” “Who won?” Myka asks.

“I believe it was a draw. He opened by saying he ‘didn’t get how far along this thing had got.’” Hearing Pete’s diction in Helena’s mouth is disorienting. “He then said he wants to protect you.”

That’s so Pete. “I don’t need protecting.”

Eyebrow. “I noted that I want to protect you too.”

That thrills Myka. At the same time, she wants to object to it nearly as much as to Pete’s assertion... internal contradictions, what are they? She lands weakly on, “I hope that persuaded him.”

“Pete finds deeds more persuasive than words,” Helena says. “Thus I’m ‘on probation where Myka’s concerned,’ until he determines I won’t damage you.”

That’s so Pete too. But. “That is my determination.”

“I expressed a similar sentiment. He responded, ‘And how’d that go last time?’” Helena’s wince after she says this is awful, and Myka dares to assuage it, stepping toward Helena with open arms, drawing her into an embrace.

This time, their hug—simpler because its purpose is clear—works, bodies soft-querying at the start, then firm, intentional. Not quite catching fire, but this is a palpable first cut into whatever membrane of uncertainty is obstructing their movement.

Slow, slow, they move apart. Yet they stay close, the embrace’s softness lingering as Helena says, “Selfishly, I didn’t concede his point, which is in any case indeed down to your determination. But I did note that circumstances have changed since then. And to be fair I must report that he allowed they have.”

“You’re both right,” Myka says. But: “Was this Cleveland mission contrived to... further change the circumstances?”

“I didn’t contrive it,” Helena says, fast. “I would have, if I could, but I didn’t.”

“I’m not saying you did. I’m saying I always wonder, because I can’t help it, how much, or how little, of what happens just happens.”

“And the rest—or if I’m understanding your implication, the bulk—would be...?”

“Some sort of social engineering.”

“On whose part?” Helena asks.

That’s disingenuous. “Your engineers of choice. Regents. Mrs. Frederic. Mr. Kosan. Ententes thereof.”

Helena runs a hand through her hair—frustration at the thought of those entities? Or just showing off? Then she shrugs, as if to dismiss both possibilities. “I favor any engineering that places me in private proximity to you.”

The words are beyond welcome. And yet. “I’m not objecting to it. I’m just...”

“Objecting to it.”

“No. Questioning its provenance.”

“Why?”

That brings Myka up short. “What?”

“If it produces an outcome you desire, what does the provenance matter? In this case, at the very least.”

It’s a reasonable question, and Myka’s most-honest answer would have something to do with the ethical acceptability of poisonous-tree fruits. For now, though, she goes with, “Because I don’t like being manipulated.”

“Don’t you?” That’s flirty, a near-whisper, compelling Myka to lean even closer. Helena knows—she’s always known—the power she has over Myka. And she’s always known how—and when—to wield that power.

“The manipulator matters,” Myka says, responding to the flirt, accepting the push away from ethics.

“Then would that I could in truth say I contrived that relatively banal retrieval. And sabotaged the elevator, so as to draw our attention to... that to which it was drawn.”

“I can’t say I was displeased with the drawing,” Myka allows. “So if you had...”

Helena moves her lips, a sly hint of curve, and says, “Oh, but perhaps I’ve manipulated you into that sentiment.” Again, an ostentatious flirt.

Myka’s knowing that flirt-show for what it is? That’s Helena-specific. In the past Myka has always had to be told when she was being flirted with: “He was interested in you,” an exasperated friend would explain of an interaction Myka found incomprehensible, and she would cringe internally at her inability to recognize such an apparently basic, obvious display. But with Helena she’s never needed a flirt translator. From the first lock of gaze, unto this night’s myriad connections; from that first brush of finger, unto the way Helena has just allowed their hug to linger; from the first just-for-you conspiratorial grin, unto this very moment’s slip of smile—all the advances, heavy and light, have been legible to Myka.

And based on what she is now reading, she has no ground left. “Fine. I like being manipulated if it means.” She clears her throat. “If it means I get closer to you. You win.”

“Do I?” Here’s the disingenuity again, but now Myka understands its intentional irony. Helena follows up with, “This establishment has no elevator,” Helena says, like it’s nothing more than a structural observation that checks a box on a form, a minor note in an overall architectural assessment.

“No,” Myka agrees.

“How fortunate,” Helena says.

Myka waits for the conclusion, the help... but it’s not forthcoming, probably in a that’s-down-to-your-determination-as-well sense. The next cut is clearly Myka’s responsibility too. So: “It has stairs though,” she offers. “That go. Up. Well, both down and up. Of course. As stairs do.” Stop talking, she tells herself, but her nerves don’t heed the advice. “As they have to? I don’t know; do they? Escher?”

“Ess-sherr,” Helena echoes, clearly uncomprehending. That she lets Myka hear her knowledge gap is a gift. For Christmas?

“He’s an artist. I promise I’ll explain later. Eventually. Anyway the stairs. I think you just used them? Without incident?”

Myka expects a comeback. She gets none, which leaves her in some non-place, absent as it is of Helena-attitude... but what form had she expected such attitude to take? Aggression? Naughtiness? Or “naughtiness”... does the lack of all that mean Helena is offering a self more authentic than the one who charms and flirts? But that doesn’t seem quite right, for the charms and the flirts have always seemed clearly intrinsic Helena-talents. Deployed, yes, but not inauthentic. So if this Helena is deploying fewer such talents, maybe it’s that she’s... less?

Ironically—of course ironically, because all of this is so, so layered like that—a reduced Helena is an even greater bonus.

All of this, which Myka had better figure out, fast, how to appreciate and accommodate. “Of course that’s no guarantee that travel will go well,” she begins. “So we should try not to trip on the stairs... wait, no, that would make it our problem, which I don’t think this ever was. Maybe better: we shouldn’t let the stairs trip us.” She considers. “But no again: what I really mean is, we shouldn’t give the stairs a reason to trip us. Right?”

Helena looks at her and blinks, charmingly blank. “I have no idea. Are you through?”

“I have no idea either,” Myka admits, still directionless without Helena’s attitudinal lead. Is this, like the semi-botched hug of two days ago, a seemingly terrible sign?

“Merely delay.” A little head-shake follows. Signifying disappointment? Making light of Myka’s inability to get through? Then Helena says, “And yet I don’t know how much more delay I can withstand.”

Those raw words are mediated by nothing more than molecules—the nitrogen-oxygen-argon-et-cetera invisibilities conveying waves to Myka’s ossicles—and for the second time, Myka ideates, in full awe, She feels the same way I do.

“Me either,” she says, literally heartfelt, sending the words back, a final push through everything, molecules and otherwise, that has stood between them.

Testing, she offers Helena her hand. Helena takes it.

These hands together: not a first. Not even a second. In the present circumstance, that translates to something very like “comfortingly familiar.”

Under the aegis of that comfort, they ascend the stairs, Myka leading the way, marveling that she can. Against her pulling hand, Helena offers what seems a single erg of resistance, a display, an I-am-letting-you affirmation.

They cross the threshold of Myka’s room, and then. Then, after Myka makes one turn and twist, a closed non-elevator door stands, for once and at last, between them and the rest of the world.

Closed, the door is, but not locked. In the door-closing instant, turning the lock—adding its presumptive click—had struck Myka’s hand as overly brazen: that’s a frustrating flinch her hand will have to work out with whatever part of her brain-body complex was certain enough to start this, start it by saying what she did about the suitcase... the same part that keeps telling her that Helena’s feelings match hers.

As Myka turns her back on the now-closed door, she sees her bed. She sees her bed. Disconcerting, in this new now, how large a percentage of the room’s space this one piece of furniture seems to be occupying...

But she’s self-aware enough to know that she’s overlaying the bed’s current brain space, the desires it signifies, on the physical. Whatever’s going to happen—or not—will happen, she tries to force into that space in her brain, pushing it down... for desire, sometimes indistinguishable from expectation, has devastated her before. But she tries too hard: missing the mark, she slips and falls into some past-obsessed cerebral fold, once again lost, quietly but deeply, in that devastation.

“Here we are,” Helena remarks into the silence. “Or, harking back to engineering: Here we are? I continue to be unsure as to why. I can accept unclear provenance, but I’d prefer more explication regarding my allowable movements.”

That’s help. That’s rescue. But oh: movements. The word nearly derails Myka in a different direction, but she gathers herself, resetting to reply, “It’s explicable, but I honestly don’t have the energy to explicate even my minimal knowledge of the mechanism. The most basic base is, Claudia and Steve worked out a deal to use that pen, and there’s a list that you and I are on. As a ‘nice’ situation. Anyway if you want real details, you probably should sit down with Steve.”

A mind’s-eye image comes to her, of Helena and Steve leaning toward each other, bringing complementary concentration to bear on some topic large or small... and then an incipient sound strikes her: the chime of their voices together, both seriously and lightheartedly, ringing notes she hadn’t before this new instant thought to anticipate. “Actually I think you and Steve sitting down would be really pleasant. Even productive. Given that you’ll be sticking around. I mean, if you’re willing, and if, or at least until, some definitional issues get worked out. As I understand it.” As I devoutly hope, she doesn’t quite utter.

“That addresses... some issues, I suppose. Yet a question remains.”

This is a bonus of a day: Helena turning into the queen of understatement? It’s freeing; Myka laughs and says, “Tons of questions remain. Which one’s on your mind?”

Head-tilt. “You said you didn’t have the energy... to explain the mechanism,” Helena says.

More delay, Myka knee-jerks... but she knows the reflex immediately as wrongheaded, for this is conversation, the value of which she should have learned by now not to discount. “Right. Sorry, I’ll try: so the pen, and honestly speaking of questions and provenance, I still have some questions about provenance, which I’m trying to ignore, but anyway, Claudia found the file, and—”

“That is not the issue I had in mind.”

“Sorry. I’m not getting anything right, am I?” Because of course she isn’t getting anything right.

“We’ll see,” Helena says.

“So what did I jump the gun on?”

“You don’t have the energy to explain.”

This muddles Myka; it will probably require another reset. “I did say that, but I can try to—”

“Myka,” Helena says, and her name in that mouth will never cease to be a singular wonder. “What do you have the energy for?”

Here again is the difference between the attitude that Myka, in her more cynical moments, might have thought Helena would maintain, and the reality she is instead offering: the question is suggestive, but guilelessly, graciously so; its import is genuine, not manipulative. “How do you do that?” Myka asks.

“Do what?” This question, too, is guileless, gracious.

“Stop me.” It’s the best definition Myka can produce of what Helena has in fact done, what she seems consistently able to do.

Helena breathes several breaths, like she’s waiting for the right words to arrive... no, more like they’ve already arrived, but she’s preparing herself, gearing up to deliver them. “I don’t want to stop you,” she eventually says, and Myka should have used that windup to prepare herself: for the admission this is, for how this don’t-want utterance nevertheless is want.

They are the most vulnerable words Myka has ever heard.

New, new, new... the fact is that historically, people have tended to twist and shy from revealing weakness to Myka. Fallout from her tendency to judge, no doubt, but it means that this, too, is new: here is Helena, and maybe in some other world someone else might have made such a mattering move but here in this best one it’s Helena, Helena ignoring that character defect, Helena blowing past it for a chance to change everything.

Everything. “It’s Christmas,” Myka says, because it is. And because now it is.

“So give me this gift,” Helena rejoins.

“You too,” Myka says.

For the space of one breath, they both wait—bracing for whatever fate intends to use to stop them this time.

But this time nothing stops them, for in the ensuing instant, they both give that gift, blowing fast past everything that, slow, might stop them, grasping at this chance to change.

The jolt of their contact reminds Myka of—no: the shock of it strikes her as—artifact activation, that calling of vested power into being, that enabling of such longed-for release. Before the Warehouse taught her to recognize this transubstantiating, she would not have understood this moment’s raw unleashing, its summoning and compelling of stored potential to manifest as what it has lain in wait, in desperate wish, to become.

But also: all the blood in her body knows she has never felt such power released nonartifactually before now, before this.

Before this world-encompassing, world-creating first kiss.

“You’re thinking,” Helena murmurs into the space of a pause for breath. “I can taste it.”

“Sorry, sorry, sorry,” Myka scrambles, kicking herself for not staying in the unprecedented moment, for letting thought intrude, as she always does, and it’s always bad, and Helena is now rightfully offended and disenchanted and—

“It’s delicious,” Helena says, punctuating—proving—by meeting Myka’s lips again, again again again, as if determined to never stop.

Myka would be perfectly happy, oh so perfectly happy, with that forever-continuation, but something in her brain has begun gesturing wildly, demanding her attention... something about her hand... brazen... she rips her lips away and yelps, “Wait! I have to lock the door!”

“The thinking continues,” Helena says, stepping back, freeing Myka, and spreading her arms in a ta-da endorsement. “You’re brilliant.”

A memory: “Bunny, you think too much.” No I don’t, she can now answer. Not for her. In time, given time, she’ll tell Helena how much this matters, but now is not that time. Not when Helena is saying, “However, as we’re behind a locked door, I’ll wager I can make you stop thinking... for at least one consequential moment...”

To Myka’s extremely consequential—and utterly, blissfully unthinking—delight, Helena wins that bet.

****

Later. Lazily, later: “I genuinely cannot believe we were stuck in an elevator,” Myka says. A thing to say, said. “As the prelude to all this.” Which is what she really means.

Against Myka’s neck, newly and blessedly intimate, Helena says, “Your limited capacity for belief is noted. Are you equally incapable of believing that we had the apparently obligatory, if not preordained, chat?”

“Obligatory... preordained...” Myka is still so lazy, she’s practically drawling, and the out-of-character surprise of it pricks at the edge of her ability to stay in such a state. Stay, stay, stay... “Honestly... just clichéd.”

“And yet I was able to add a reference to my Myka-index. Entry: Mirrors, your artifact-related discomfort with.”

Myka’s heart seizes: Helena has a Myka-index. That, plus their proximity now, surely requires her to do better than the little falsehood she’d rested on with regard to the mirror-discomfort. Pushing laziness aside, with something too much like relief, she acknowledges, “I misled you. There was an artifact, but that isn’t what bothers me. The real thing is that mirrors make me observe myself too closely. Too much. Which I do all the time anyway.”

“I wish you’d delegate that observational task to me.” Sweet. Helena sounds so sweet. And not just sounds: Myka can tell (hopes she can tell) Helena means it. Which is even sweeter.

And which in turn entails a need for Myka to think seriously about being observed. Being protected. Being willing—but more important, able—to delegate in the correct spirit, even minimally. “I can try.”

“I can accept that,” Helena says, and the approval is better than sweet: it’s buy-all-the-books-you-want indulgent. “But I must ask: do you honestly think any part of the Cleveland interregnum was the elevator’s doing?”

The true answer references Myka’s entire Warehouse experience, from day one: “Yes and no.”

Helena nods, her hair sliding mink-soft on Myka. “I can accept that as well.”

“And whoever’s at fault, our chat was interrupted,” Myka says.

“As it was poised to progress beyond ‘chat’... but in truth I would rather this happened here than in an elevator. Better environs for still further progress. Don’t you agree?” Helena moves her unclad limbs against Myka’s, in transcendent emphasis.

Of course Myka agrees. Which leads her to a painful realization: “So maybe the elevator wasn’t as judgmental as I... judged it to be.”

Helena bestows a kiss to Myka’s shoulder—small, intimate—bringing Myka’s mind back, sharp, to what those bestowing lips have so recently accomplished, which threatens to render her again overcome. She shudders, which reduces her to embarrassment instead, but Helena is kind enough to feign obliviousness as she says, “You did note your own judgmental nature.”

Myka’s soul twinges in genuine regret, collapsing her lip-recall. She regrets that too. “Do you think I need to go back and apologize? I feel all guilty now.”

“The elevator has most likely moved on,” Helena says, quite dry.

“You’re saying it doesn’t have my memory.”

“I’m saying that even if it does—an open question, though the lack of elevator memoirs argues in the negative—it’s unlikely to care as much as you do about what it does remember.”

“Story of my life,” Myka sighs out. Now she’s really saying it, because memory, and caring too much about it, is that story.

“For the best, I suspect. Your life story and an elevator’s shouldn’t be entirely congruent, should they?” Helena questions, and that makes Myka laugh and want to read an entire library shelf’s worth of elevators’ memoirs. Feigning seriousness, Helena continues, “Although we might revisit so as to investigate whether its conveyance of Bob proceeded properly after our visit. That could be revealing.”

“Speaking of Bob, I feel bad for Nancy. Because of course he’ll blame her.”

“For elevator mischief?”

Ah. Helena doesn’t know. “For naughty.”

“Naughty what?”

“The list. He’s back on it, thanks to Steve and Claudia.”

“Is he.” Her satisfaction is evident, and for a moment she and Myka are one in their schadenfreude. That, too, is delicious. “Better they punish him than we do,” Helena then says.

This sends Myka back to guilt. “It feels like cheating. We didn’t use the artifact, but we get the personal gain.”

Myka’s shoulder now receives an indignant exhale. In its wake, Myka is dwelling on how she would have preferred another kiss, but Helena says, “I was speaking of soul-consequences, not this personal-gain fetish you all seem to embrace. Or perhaps it’s an anti-fetish, but in any case was no hard-and-fast dictum in my day.”

“I’ll reiterate that you should sit down with Steve,” Myka tells her, and Helena accedes with a nestle that erases the exhale.

Are words about such things—ambiguously motivated elevators, deserved punishments, fetishes of undetermined valence—a waste of time? No... for again, they are conversation... the value of which, Myka has lately learned, is even greater when the words it comprises land as soft breath on skin.

In fact Myka has learned a great many things in this locked-door recent while. There is, for one, the gratifying fact that she and Helena are physically compatible, at least as evidenced by this first performance, in terms both of wants and of abilities to satisfy them. But nearly as important, particularly in its physical component but not only that, is her new understanding that while her life has offered her several circumstances with which she’s been reasonably satisfied—that she hasn’t minded—this right-now is orders of magnitude above such contentment. She must have in some soul-stratum known this would prove true, or she would not have been panting in its pursuit so seemingly hopelessly, with such dogged desperation.

She says, with gratitude, “This is what I wanted.”

Getting what she wants: that, too, is new. And very. very nice.

“I would hope so,” Helena says. As if she had some genuine doubt about Myka’s motivation? “No, that’s rhetorical; rather, I did hope so. You’ve realized that hope, and... well. I should be clear: this is more than I dared to want.”

Myka, endeavoring to bring everything together, says, “So what you’re saying, want-wise, is that it’s a bonus. A nice one.”

“I’m saying, want-wise, that my wildest hopes have been exceeded. Surpassed. Transcended.”

It’s something, that reply. Also more than a little over the top, rhetorically, which Helena obviously knows. “Pleonast,” Myka accuses.

Helena laughs. “Not inaccurate. I suppose your ‘nice bonus’ translation is technically correct, if a bit... with apologies, pedestrian?”

“It’s less pedestrian than ‘Fred,’” Myka says. A “hm?” from Helena reminds Myka that she hasn’t yet made that translation evident. “I guess ‘Fred’ counts as esoteric instead, so never mind. You’re right, ‘bonus’ is pedestrian. So is ‘nice.’ But maybe it’s a good idea to call our whatever-it-is something pedestrian. I don’t want to scare it away.”

“And what precisely do you think would ‘scare it away’?”

“Bigness,” Myka offers, weakly. It’s what she means, but—

“‘Bigness?’” Helena says, quotes evident. “From the woman who so recently deployed ‘pleonast’? Should I fear that you’ll regularly revert without warning to Pete-reminiscent locutions?”

Myka chuckles. “Spend enough time with him, it’ll probably happen to you too.” The laziness is back. Earned back?

After a time—or perhaps Myka only after a time processes the sound—Helena says, “God forbid.”

A further lag ensues before Myka manages to respond, with a drowsy “I agree.”

Sleep follows. That is certainly earned.

****

Consciousness resumes for Myka with a banging on her door and a shout from Pete: “It’ s really not Christmas anymore, because Artie’s back!”

“Being Artie about it!” Claudia shouts in addition. “He says get to work!”

“I’m awake,” Myka says as she becomes more fully so. This is a Warehouse morning, and Warehouse alarms ring as they do.

Then: I’m not awake; I’m dreaming, because the back of Helena’s head and her naked shoulders greet Myka’s opening eyes. That’s a bracingly new alarm.

Helena’s voice comes next. “He says get to work,” she quotes, playfully, and Myka would be willing to wake to such an alarm with joy for the rest of her life.

But assuredly, if the content of that alarm is the dictate, then no one is dreaming. There’s really nothing for Myka to say except, “Sorry, but one more time: Story of my life.”

“Now? Our life,” Helena corrects.

That is a literally life-story-altering assertion, and a self-deprecating impulse tempts Myka to scoff it away. Behind that impulse, however, lies a clear-eyed recognition that she must meet what Helena has said. How, how, how...

...and then her mind starts fully working. She begins to formulate a plan. One that will, if possible, manifest her gratitude, but also, display her difference from the Myka she used to be, that one from so few hours ago, who had not yet known the dream-surprise of this awakening’s sight.

“I’m going to tell them I can’t get the door unlocked,” she says. Steve isn’t there. She can get away with it. She sits up, ready to head for the door and tell that story.

Helena touches Myka’s shoulder. “Would it lend credibility for me to suggest out loud that I genuinely can’t believe we’re stuck in your bedroom?” More play, but the touch is becoming a don’t-leave-this-bed grasp.

Myka leans to kiss the restraining hand. “I think that would make them think you planned it. And were being nefarious about it. Shocked incredulity isn’t really your strong suit.”

“It’s true that my capacity for belief outstrips yours.” She pulls down on the sheet, exposing both her body and Myka’s.

Talk about overdetermined. Or is it, in this as-yet-unmapped terrain, underdetermined? To be determined later, if at all... Myka somehow marshals sufficient will to rise from the bed, while telling herself that she is not, conceptually at least, actually leaving it. At the door, she fiddles with the lock, expressing frustration to support her claim, after which Pete and Claudia make noises about toolboxes and battering rams, respectively, and then mercifully depart.

“They’re going to try to get us out,” Myka reports as she returns to bed. “Maybe violently?”

“Let them,” Helena murmurs. “That elevator and its manifestation of mischief... comparatively amateur. You’ve bested it handily.”

That jolts Myka out of a back-of-mind consideration of whether she might be able to jam the bedroom door’s lock with something easily to hand, or perhaps whether her dresser might be pushed across the room to block the door entirely. She then considers, front of mind, the possibility that Helena—her physical presence, her physical provocation—is a bad influence... or at the very least a naughty one... for these thoughts are so, so out of character.

“That, on the other hand, is not the story of my life,” Myka says, and the fact of it does make her more than a little nervous.

“A new chapter,” Helena counters, reading Myka’s mind and setting it right—in three words. Such economy.

****

Myka and Helena are engaged in adding to that new chapter (or at the very least, drafting a steamy interlude of same, even if it isn’t essential to the plot) when a banging on the door interrupts them yet again. As does shouting: “We’re back!” yells Pete, unnecessarily.

“Hey, Myka, what’s going on?” That’s Steve. Far more quiet.

“I brought Steve,” Pete says, also unnecessarily.

“I gathered that from his voice,” Myka notes.

“But!” Pete says, in aha-I-got-you mode, “what if it turns out all I brought was his voice?”

“Then I guess he’d still be here in some sense?” she says; she’s thinking on the Helena-hologram, on what a lack of visual might have meant, on how a more ontologically disembodied voice would have made her believe Helena was there, there but standing on the other side of a door. How she would have wanted to take her own battering ram to that door. The hologram’s present non-presence had stranded her, stranded them, in a strange shared space, offering no barrier Myka could use her body to break violently through.

“But!” Claudia exclaims, jokey, fighting with Myka’s ache of reminiscence, “what if it’s just me, doing my Steve impression?”

“That’d be a different thing,” Myka concedes.

“You do a me impression?” Steve asks Claudia.

Who exhales so dramatically, Myka’s surprised the door doesn’t just blow open. “You have stood next to me while I did it.”

“I have?” Puzzled-Steve is honestly Myka’s favorite Steve.

“Are we not a team?” Claudia demands. “Myka does a Pete. Pete does a Myka. Naturally they both suck, but the point is, why don’t you do a me?”

“Because you’d kill me?”

“Guys,” Pete says, “this isn’t getting Myka and H.G. out of the bedroom.”

Claudia says, “But let me just. Myka, H.G., you guys do impressions of each other, right?”

Helena raises her arms, a gesture of observe-this!—or maybe it’s at-last!—and exclaims, “I feel compelled to express disbelief about this circumstance!”

It takes Myka a second to get it, but once she does, she shouts, “I love blooming onions!”

For quite some time, there’s silence from the other side of the door.

Then Steve says, “Am I the only one who’s extremely confused?”

“Usually, yes,” Claudia says. “Except now, no. I’m with you. Pete?”

“Myka loves blooming onions,” Pete says, slow; he’s the one having trouble now with belief. Myka can picture his gobsmacked face. “There’s my endless wonder for the day. Also, I gotta rethink a whole lot of stuff she said about what she was willing to eat.”

Myka presses an apologetic kiss to Helena’s lips (and how nearly unbelievable it is to feel comfortable with such a touch being swift, to not need to hoard, to believe there will be more), then extricates herself yet again from the sheets, the bed. She heads for the door: to make a show of unlocking it, to send them away temporarily so she and Helena can reassemble themselves to rejoin the world—but. Problem. Big problem. “Guys. I really can’t get the door unlocked now.”

“‘Now’?” Pete echoes.

“You mean you actually could before?” Claudia asks.

Moment of truth. So, fine, truth: “I didn’t actually try before.”

“Ha!” Claudia barks. “Are we still on impressions? That might’ve been a decent one, for real, because the attitude? Way H.G.”

“Thank you so much!” Helena chirps.

“H.G.,” says Claudia, with a whiff of pedantry—and that she feels free to express such an attitude toward Helena is most likely because she’s on the safe side of a closed door—“I was complimenting Myka’s impression.”

“But in it, you recognized my attitude.” Helena’s words are a full preen, and as she speaks, she’s rising from the bed, approaching Myka, slipping arms around her, such that Myka loses her ability to track what’s happening on the other side of the door, even as splinters of sound catch in her ears—“hinges inside,” “lock plate solid,” and finally, “break it down”—whereupon she realizes anew that neither she nor Helena is clothed, and that being caught and seen in that state will constitute a disaster that outstrips a great many of the others in her experience.

“We have to get dressed,” she breathes at Helena.

“Wait,” Helena says. “I suspect a realization is about to occur.”

At times, Helena can be eerily prescient. But what is it this time?

As if in answer, Claudia says, “I have a really depressing theory. Myka, can you get the window open?”, whereupon Myka understands Helena’s deduction: this isn’t mechanical; it’s artifactual. More specifically, list-artifactual.

She cannot open the window.

“Yeah,” Claudia says, a defeated I-knew-it. “I’d be all ‘try to smash it!’, but since I can’t see you try it and, like, bounce off the glass, what’s the point? I mean, go for it if H.G. wants the lulz.”

“I don’t know what that means!” Helena informs her. That too is a chirp, and Myka’s pleased to note it’ll probably head off the slapstick.

“Kind of a shame,” Claudia says, but with a drag, like she’s picturing it, and Myka is less pleased to have to devoutly hope that picturing involves everybody fully clothed. “Anyway I hate to say it, but it’s pretty clear this is on us, the list-makers.”

Pete groans. “You were supposed to check it twice! It’s right there in the song!”

“Listen, we seriously argued about the wording,” Steve says.

“And oh guess what!” Claudia says, defeat apparently tabled for the moment. “Everybody in the world is going on about their day as usual due to the unshocking news that I was right.”

“No, I was right. I was the one who said ‘proximity’ was likely to be too vague,” Steve says.

Myka’s inclined to agree with him.

“Bro, I was,” Claudia says, “because I said it was likely to be not vague enough.”

Well. Now Myka’s inclined to agree with Claudia.

She sees the conundrum. “I appreciate it either way,” she says, and that quiets the combatants.

“Regardless, we obviously need different wording,” Steve diplomats.

“I think our first mistake was thinking an artifact would word like we thought it should. You need to get more into its head than you did before.”

“I was in a hurry before,” Steve says, a little less diplomatically. “Because you were yelling at me.”

“I am so so so so glad,” Pete hosannas, “that none of this is on me.”

Myka cannot let that stand. “Who gave his cousin a thing?”

A pause. Then, “Whoops,” Pete says, very sad-clown.

Later, she’ll thank him again, but for now, she doesn’t mind having wielded this little shiv, inflicting this little nick, so he’ll remember that there is, or should be, always a downside.

“How fortunate they’re not asking for our help,” Helena says, bringing her back to the upside.

“Who’s better with words though? You certainly are,” Myka says.

“You hold your own, Ms. ‘Pleonast.’ But ssssh. Don’t remind them.”

“We’ll fix it, we promise!” Claudia says.

“Don’t feel compelled to hurry!” Helena directs, cheerily.

Steve says, “I think she means ‘Don’t yell at Steve this time.’” His hopefulness is clear.

“He isn’t wrong,” Helena notes into Myka’s ear.

Pete announces, “I think she means bow chicka wow wow.”

“He isn’t either,” Myka notes back. “Even less so?”

Helena answers by kissing her with intent.

Claudia snorts. “I think no matter what she means, Artie’s gonna kill us.”

“Alas, the least wrong of all,” Helena grants with a sigh.

The wrecking crew’s voices fade, and they may still be making non-wrong statements, but for Myka and Helena there is at last, again, peace. And once Myka pulls Helena back to bed—a delectable spin she is now bold enough to put on their dynamic—there is at last again not-peace.

Lazily later—and these lazy laters are vying to be Myka’s favorite at-last—she says, “Not to overinterpret the artifact’s thinking, but this feels very nice. As an in-proximity situation.”

“This particular proximity seems more than a bit naughty, however,” Helena says, incongruously matter-of-fact. She isn’t wrong. “Pete obviously made an inference to that effect. Perhaps if Steve and Claudia can use that as a way of writing us out of the current situation.”

“I’m sure that’s for the best,” Myka says, with no small amount of regret, first attached to her embarrassment at Pete, Steve, and Claudia’s involvement in that inference, but even more due to the sad fact that this beginning must come to an end.

“Are you...” Helena’s words are a smile.

“No. I’d much rather stay here forever with you.” Her practical side then takes over, as even Helena’s body twined around hers can’t prevent. “But if they don’t fix it we’ll die—pretty soon, unless they can figure out how to get food in.”

“Would the artifact allow us to starve? That seem the antithesis of a situation that might be termed ‘nice.’”

“‘Termed’? Isn’t problematic terminology why we’re still here?”

“Granted. But of course we’ll die regardless.”

The casual, literal fatalism trips Myka up. She temporizes, “The artifact might have something to say about that,” placeholding, as she finds her way to a real response: “But artifact aside... will you though?” It’s a question about... well, about whether Helena is, for want of a better word, real. Speaking of terminology. “Die,” she adds, not as a word she must expel, for its terrible taste, but one she feels a need to place. As a marker.

Helena takes a moment. Before, Myka would have read that pause as censure; it would have pushed her overboard into I-have-overstepped agony. But the plates have shifted, and her footing feels—strange but nice (oh, nice!)—sure.

The answer, when it comes: “Here with you, I don’t want to be bronzed again. So yes.”

That leaves Myka warm, yet shaking her head. “I honestly don’t know a lot about romance.”

“Don’t you?” Helena asks, all of her limbs beginning to move again against all of Myka’s.

Which, for the moment, Myka resists: “So I’m not sure if it’s weird that I find it incredibly romantic for you to have said yes to dying.”

Now Helena’s smile is a smile; she rears away, back and up, showing Myka her face’s full measure of delight. “Weird or no, whatever you find romantic, I’m inclined to approve. If that’s acceptable to you.” Helena bows her head, as if to formally request Myka’s benediction.

The very idea of such an ask floods her with happy tenderness. “Is it okay for me to find that romantic too?”

“‘Okay’ seems a sadly weak word to convey the extent of my approval,” Helena says. “Further, I find it romantic for you to ask my permission to find any thing romantic. Unnecessary, yet romantic. Is that ‘okay’ as well?”

“It’s a relief,” Myka understates. “Can I call it a romantic relief?”

“I don’t see why not. However, to what extent is it romantic, or non-, that we seem to be finding—or placing—ourselves in recursive loops of romantic-allowable querying?” Helena accompanies this academically focused, seemingly serious question with yet more limb movement.

Myka is actively in bed with someone who’s questioning the romantic quotient of recursive loops of romantic-allowable querying. It is a level of “nice” that she could never ever have ideated on her own. “I genuinely cannot believe any of this,” she says.

“I can assure you that I will be taking some time—if allowed, and thus perhaps only in an ideal world, some great length of time—to determine whether your incredulity will ever cease to be tedious and elevate itself to ‘romantic.’ Some great length of time,” she repeats, playfully.

Myka knows Helena’s appreciation for time’s length is far greater than any ordinary individual’s... so this smacks of a promise. Myka’s gratitude rises, as does her willingness to pursue any and all romantic activity, despite her apparently romance-dampening incredulity... but then the limbs pause. “However,” Helena says.

“What’s this ‘however’?” Myka asks, now selfishly impatient.

Helena has, obviously and of course, heard and felt the impatience. Myka’s neck receives a press of lips, a curve of smile. “However: fortunately, at this juncture, belief isn’t required. Participation, on the other hand, is. So?” This is something Myka has always suspected was a Helena tactic, but here in intimacy she recognizes as true: challenge not for its own sake, but as an attitude in which to wrap something different, deeper, some authenticity Helena isn’t fully willing, or doesn’t quite yet know how, to express.

Myka moves her own limbs, her limbs that are even longer than, and just as flexible as, Helena’s. She moves them against Helena’s. She cannot believe she is doing so; nevertheless, she is. She is participating.

She places a chock under this particular incredulity, for unlike facts, the quality of emotions can escape her if she doesn’t consciously tie them down. She paints the word “bonus” on the emotion-wheel as she secures it, to ensure she elevates that felt quality too. Then she eases herself back to the full experience of the physical, this smooth beauty—and that is the word for every touch-heat-rise their bodies execute—that she and Helena together are creating... are enjoying.

She sighs soft against Helena’s neck; in return, Helena offers again her lips-on-skin smile.

They are participating. In this. Together. Lips on skin.

“So,” Myka agrees.

END

#bering and wells #Warehouse 13 #fanfic #holiday (but not Gift Exchange)#Bonus #part 4 #Pete and the Meerkats is probably a stupid band name #but it works for a Hanna-Barbera animated show #in which they play concerts and solve crimes #anyway yes I did go back to a particular stuck-in-a-location well here #but it certainly beats an elevator #anyway the story didn’t fully adhere (to itself) as I intended #but I hope there were a couple moments #coming next will be another Christmas story #because god forbid I get to anything other than Gift Exchange and Christmas #which I have to hope is better than nothing #PS if you don't vote if you're eligible and physically can #then guess who's fixing to use that pen to write your name on the wrong side of the list #ME #which may not sound sufficiently scary but there you have it

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hythlodaes · 1 month ago

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and then came june - part two

emile/leofard 18.4k words [read on ao3] explicit summary: leofard invites emile to spend the fourth of july with him and his friends, surely everything will stay the same between them <3

Chapter Two - Summer

A year from now, Leofard won't know Emile anymore.

From strangers to lovers, to something more but never clear, until the end—there isn't a word to define the way they move into each other's lives, or how the edges blur between them. It's something like chemistry, like connection, like the sound of Emile's laugh still ringing in his ears. It will always be the memory of his brown eyes in the morning, the weight of his body on his, each kiss they steal from a relationship that will never be.

It could be love. It could look a lot like love, but if you asked Leofard right now, all he would say is, He's my friend.

And someday friend won't be enough, but—

—

"Are you going home this summer?"

It's the first thing either of them have said in some time—they're in Leofard's bed, and Emile lays on his chest, warm skin against warm skin. They trade idle touches and soft, relaxed breaths while music plays and the afternoon blurs one hour into the next. The light stretches on as the days get longer, and with the semester over and nowhere to be, Leofard loses track of time.

He's in no rush to get up.

"I'm not sure yet," Emile says in answer to his question, the words half muffled against him. "I usually try to find time to visit, but I'll be busy with football all summer."

Leofard hums in response, and Emile tilts his head back, hair tickling his chest in the process. He looks up with those brown eyes and asks, "What about you?"

Leofard lets out a half-laugh. "This is my home."

It isn't entirely true—Raimille left him her apartment in New York. It's where he lived with her when she adopted him, and for nine years it was the closest thing he’d ever felt to home. He hasn't been back since she passed, but he plans to move there when he graduates and make it his own.

For now it's still hers, and like everything of hers, it's difficult to face.

Emile shifts, getting up onto one elbow, and looks down at him with a question in his eyes. Leofard holds his gaze but doesn't offer him an explanation. What could he say? I have no one to go home to. He doesn't feel sorry for himself, so he doesn't want anyone else’s pity—especially not Emile's.

But whatever Emile sees in him is enough, and he leans down to press a soft kiss to his lips. When he pulls back, he smiles. "So we can keep hanging out this summer?"

Leofard matches his grin, reaching up to brush a lock of his hair behind his ear. "Yeah, baby. Me and you."

—

Stacia gets an internship at a local HR company, so she stays on campus as well. Leofard doesn't see her as much since she leaves early in the morning and is gone until the evening, but they still have weekends together, and sometimes he'll wake up early enough to catch her at breakfast.

This morning he barely restrains a yawn as he pours himself a cup of coffee. He would sleep all morning if he let himself, so he likes having a reason to get up. They don't even talk at first—he pulls out one of his car magazines while she races to finish her cereal.

"By the way," she says, mouth full. "Emmanellain asked us if we want to spend the Fourth with them again."

It's something they've done the past couple years—Emmanellain and his boyfriend rent a house on the beach and invite a whole bunch of their friends down for the Fourth of July. Usually it's just a reason to get drunk together, but there's always music and fireworks, and Leofard likes to lay out in the sun.

"Yeah, definitely," he says. "Will you have the time off?"

She nods. "They said it was okay if we wanted to invite more people, too."

"Who are you inviting?"

"No one," she says. "You are."

He blinks at her. "What?"

"You should invite Emile," she suggests. "It would be fun."

"No," he says immediately, and to make his point, he looks back down at his article. It's just for show—he can barely focus on the words now that the suggestion is out there, but against his better judgment, he hopes that she'll let it go.

She doesn't.

"Why not?"

"Because he's not my boyfriend." He's said it so many times that it's starting to lose all meaning. "I don't know—wouldn't that be weird? Like 'hey everyone, here's the guy I'm sleeping with'!"

She snorts. "Well you don't have to announce it."

"He's probably busy with football stuff anyway."

"There's no harm in asking," she says as she gets up, putting her bowl and mug in the sink. When Leofard doesn't say anything else, she tries: "At least consider it?"

He crosses his arms as he leans back in his seat, all but pouting at her. "Have fun making coffee at the office today."

She rolls her eyes. “Asshole.”

—

The problem is, he lets himself imagine it—the sun shining down on Emile's bare chest, his long legs in a swimsuit, wet hair curving down his jaw, stray water droplets clinging to his freckled skin—and once that thought enters his mind, it's hard to let it go.

He just doesn't know how to ask without making it weird. As much as he likes that they're actually friends, they still only hang out to have sex—that one time during finals being the exception. In the month since then, they've mostly gone back to normal. Emile hasn't stayed the night, he never told Leofard what was going on, and it hasn’t come up again.

The only thing that's changed since they said goodbye that day is that they kiss whenever they want now. They kiss without intent.

They kiss a lot.

Leofard tells himself that it's just because it feels good. It's nice to lean over and press his lips to Emile's when he says something cute, when they greet each other at the door, when they say goodbye. Emile is always so warm, his body so inviting, it makes it hard not to touch him as much as he can. That's the point of this whole thing anyway, so why should he question it?

Unlike Stacia, whose pointed looks only increase in severity. Leofard tries to ignore her.

June passes faster than he thought it would. Summer means longer days, sunshine late into the evenings, it means freedom, sleeping with the windows open, and late night drives. Football practice and workouts take up a lot of Emile's time, but he comes over after, and they order takeout and they fool around and they stay up late talking, just like usual.

Leofard keeps his job at the pizza shop, but it's pretty empty when the campus is quiet. They don't need him as much, and even when they do, he'll give his shifts to his coworkers and hang out with Emile instead—he only really likes to work when he has nothing else going on. It's a miracle that he hasn't been fired.

Most of his days are spent tuning up his car or checking out local thrift stores. His collection of records grows over the weeks, and he finds a vintage Rolling Stones t-shirt that instantly becomes a staple of his wardrobe.

Today he drives across campus with the windows down, the wind blowing at his hair, sunglasses on. The sky is the perfect shade of blue, and big white fluffy clouds drift between the trees. He has his music turned all the way up, so he almost misses Stacia's call.

"What's up?" he answers, putting her on speaker.

“It’s like they just wanted someone to do all the shit they don’t want to," she starts. They're always somewhere in the middle of a conversation. "If someone asked me what I learned this summer, it's that I'm the only one in the office that can use these tiny Ikea wrenches."

He laughs. "Are you building something?"

"New desk chairs," she answers. "They’re replacing all of them. I've been working for like two hours, and there has to be fifty more. I swear, my hands are going to fall off."

"Do you want me to come help? I just happen to be an engineering student with spare time."

She sighs. "No, it's okay. I just want to complain."

"Those bastards."

"Thank you!" she says. "Anyway—distract me. What are you doing?"

"Um. Well," he says, pulling into a parking lot. He looks up at the enormous building in front of him. "I'm venturing into the sports side of campus. Emile left his phone at the apartment last night."

"And you're bringing it to him?"

He doesn't love the way her voice goes higher with the question.

"Yeah," he says, getting out of his car. He glances around. He doesn't actually know where he'll be—as much as Emile talks about what he does during the day, Leofard has only been to the stadium to watch a few games. The whole complex seems so much bigger and more expensive compared to the rest of campus—the sidewalks are actually clean and the landscaping is carefully manicured between lampposts. He can't help but frown. “This school spends too much money on football.”

"Don't distract me from how cute you’re being right now," Stacia says. "Who would've guessed that you make such a sweet boyfriend?"

"I’m not—," he cuts himself off with a sigh. "I'd do the same for you."

She laughs. "You literally haven't. And you know he'll just be back tonight, you could’ve waited."

"What if he gets a call before then?" he asks. "A very important call that he'll miss because I'm holding his phone hostage."

"If that makes you feel better."

He catches voices calling somewhere in the distance, then a sharp whistle, and he follows the sound around the corner of the building. There's a track filled with dozens of boys, some running steadily, some sprinting ahead, and as he steps closer, he sees Emile among them. His hair is tied up and he's shirtless, sun shining across his sweat slick skin. He wears gym shorts that ride up with each long stride, and he tears across the track with ease.

"I got to go, Stace," he says quickly. "I think I'm having a religious experience."

He hears the echo of her laugh as he shuts his phone and walks up to the chain link fence that surrounds the training fields, stuffing his hands into his pockets. He feels a little out of place—he's never really been interested in sports outside of playing basketball with his friends after school—but he thinks he could get used to a sight like this.

Emile notices him on the next lap, slowing his pace as his head tilts in question, and he jogs over. A stray piece of hair falls from his ponytail, and he tucks it behind his ear before he stops at the fence and puts his hands on his hips, catching his breath.

"Now this is just unfair," Leofard says, gaze sticking for too long on the way his chest rises and falls in a rush.

Emile laughs. "What are you doing here?"

"You left your phone last night," he says, the excuse even weaker the second time around. "I wanted to drop it off."

"You didn't have to," Emile says, but his expression softens. "Now I won't have a reason to come back over tonight."

"Is that what this was?"

"I can't say."

"You better come over." He gestures to Emile's body. "After seeing this? I’m going to bite you."

Emile laughs even harder this time, and his chin dips in that shy way of his before he peeks up at him. He takes a step closer, one hand curving around the fence as he leans over it to kiss him. Something in Leofard's chest eases at the warmth of his mouth, the familiar taste of his sweat, the way he can tell he's still holding back a smile as he kisses him, and Leofard makes a quick attempt to deepen it, his hand on the back of his neck pulling him closer.

Someone whistles behind them, and they break apart as Emile's teammates let out cheers.

"Ignore them," Emile says, face even more flushed than before.

Leofard looks over Emile's shoulder. None of them hide the fact that they're watching, and he laughs, almost embarrassed but mostly proud. When he looks back at Emile, he blurts out, "What are you doing for the Fourth of July?"

Emile’s brows crinkle for a second in thought. “I’m not sure. We have a few days off but I don’t think I have plans yet—why?”

“A few of my friends rent a house on the beach every year,” he says. “You should come with us.”

“You don’t think they'll mind?”

“Nah, there’s always a bunch of us,” he says. “It’ll be fun.”

He smiles. “Okay, I'm in.”

—

Leofard still hasn't finished packing by the time Emile comes over on the third—he hasn't really started, if he's being honest with himself. Emile comes in with a duffle bag over his shoulder and guitar case in his hand, and Leofard takes one look at him and has to hold back a laugh.

"Are you going to perform for us?"

"No," he answers immediately. "I don't know—I thought it could be fun to have around!"

"If I ask nicely, will you play us Wonderwall?"

"Depends on how nicely you ask."

Leofard takes a step closer. "I can be very persuasive."

"Okay, none of that," Stacia cuts in as she enters the room, hauling her giant suitcase behind her. "Hi, Emile."

"Hi," he returns, but his eyes stay on her bag. "I thought we were just going to be there for a couple of days."

She glances behind her. "Oh, yeah, of course! You just never know, right?"

Leofard raises a brow at her stiff laugh, and immediately turns to Emile. "She needs to overthink her outfits because V'kebbe will be there."

"Leo, I swear to god."

Emile's eyes light up. "Who's V'kebbe?"

"Don't answer that," she says, just as Leofard opens his mouth. Her expression pins him in place for a moment before she turns to Emile, "I had a class with her freshman year, and her best friend also happens to be friends with Leo, so we still see each other around. It's not a big deal."

"And Stacia has a huge crush on her," Leofard adds. "Which everyone can tell is mutual, by the way."

"You don't know that," she says. "We're just friends."

"Just friends," he repeats. He should give her more credit, it's fun being on this side of the teasing.

"Yeah, Leo," she says. "Do you really want to go down that road?"

Her gaze travels meaningfully to Emile, who blinks wide eyes at them in confusion. Leofard feels himself smile at him for a moment before he clears his throat. "I should finish packing."

He leaves them in the living room to fish his backpack out of his closet. They're only staying two full days, so it's not like he needs much, especially since he'll probably be in his swimsuit the whole time, anyway. While he packs, he can hear Emile and Stacia talking, just the sound of their voices carrying through the apartment, fragments of a conversation that warms his chest. He loves that his best friend gets along with the guy he—

The guy he's...well.

He's happy they get along.

It only takes him a few minutes to finish packing up, and they finally head out to the driveway, where he and Emile spend too long wedging Stacia's suitcase into his trunk. Emile puts their bags and his guitar in the backseat, and moves to get in beside it when Stacia speaks up.

"Oh no, Emile, take the front."

“I won't make you sit in the back,” he says.

“Do you even fit in the back?”

Leofard snorts. “He sure does."

Stacia stares at him for a moment before rolling her eyes, while Emile sputters out a laugh, his cheeks burning red. Leofard bites down on a satisfied smirk as they get in his car. Emile does end up in the passenger seat, and the three of them argue over what music to play. It isn't until they reach the highway that they settle on a CD that Leofard burned in high school.

There's something nostalgic about it, something like the past sitting alongside the present. He's sixteen again, he's twenty two, singing along to the All American Rejects over the roar of his car. All the while the sun shines down, that empty kind of brightness of July, and he reaches over to rest his hand on Emile’s thigh, fingertips brushing along his skin where his shorts run up. After a few minutes, Emile covers his hand with his own, holding it in place.

He keeps his gaze fixed on the road, but the corners of his lips raise. It's a rare thing for him to feel this content.

They pull into a rest stop about halfway there, and Emile and Stacia head inside while Leofard fills the tank with gas. He follows a moment later, finding the two of them with all the snacks, loading up a basket in Stacia's hand. Emile meets his gaze over his shoulder and immediately smiles, eyes curving into half moons, and Leofard swears he stops breathing whenever he's on the receiving end of that look.

"Do you want anything?" Emile asks.

"I'll just share whatever," he says. "I'm going to grab drinks."

He returns a moment later with three iced teas and a couple packs of beer. Stacia waves him over to a section towards the back, where her and Emile stand in front of brightly colored boxes, odd names all over them. Funky Monkey, Sea Serpent, Dragon's Tears.

"Fireworks?" he asks, a slow grin spreading across his lips.

He laughs as Emile holds up one shaped like a sword, eyes wide. "How does this even work?"

"I think you light this end," Stacia says, pointing to the tip of the sword. "Let's just buy it and see."

And this is why she's Leofard's best friend.

They barely have any room left in the car, but they manage to cram everything in before continuing on. Their excitement has settled, so they hardly make a fuss about the music this time, and soon after they're back on the road, Emile dozes against the window while Leofard and Stacia carry on quiet conversation.

The sun begins to angle a little lower in the sky by the time they get off the highway, warm and golden against the sporadic pine trees. With the windows down, they can smell the salt air of the ocean before they see it, driving through a small town that leads to interwoven gravel roads.

The house they're staying at is right on the water. It's narrow but has two floors, covered in worn shingles that reflect the sun. The ocean sits bright blue behind it, and Jacke and V'kebbe are on the front steps, shoulder to shoulder. Both of them look over at the sound of Leofard's car approaching.

V'kebbe gets up first, throwing her arms around Stacia as soon as she gets out of the car. She hugs Leofard next, and he looks over her shoulder at the blush on Stacia's cheeks as she bites down on a grin. He doesn't know how she doesn't see it.

Jacke comes over a second later, clapping him on the back. "Hey, man, glad you guys could make it.”

"Hey," Leofard returns, and he looks over at Emile, who watches with a small smile on his lips. "This is Emile. Emile, this is Jacke and V'kebbe."

"Thanks for having me."

"We’re all just mooching off of Emmanellain," Jacke says. "He and Sicard are out grabbing a few things for dinner tonight, they should be back soon."

V'kebbe grins. "We can show you around before then!"

"We also have to figure out who's sleeping where," Jacke says. "Someone ripped the air mattress, so we're one bed short. The couch is pretty comfy, but hell if you want to sleep in."

"Oh, Leo and I can share a room," Emile offers, just like that. Like it's easy.

Leofard blinks at him for a second before he nods. "Yeah, no big deal."

He catches the hint of Stacia's smile, but V'kebbe cuts in. "Come on, Emile, you should see the back deck."

The three of them disappear into the house, but Jacke stays behind, turning towards him with a raised brow.

”I know what you’re going to ask,” Leofard says.

He turns back to the car to grab their bags, and Jacke helps him unwedge Stacia’s suitcase from the trunk before he says, “Finally settling down, Leo?”

"We're just friends,” he sighs out. He already knows this is a losing battle.

“Well, Stacia and V’kebbe have the room with separate beds, so you’re about to get a lot closer.”

“I mean, we’ve already slept together,” he explains, grabbing Emile’s guitar and their bags from the back seat. "That's just all it is."

They head inside, which opens to the kitchen and a hall that extends towards the living room and back deck, where Emile, Stacia, and V’kebbe are talking. It’s bright and clean and modern, with little details that scream, Don’t forget that you’re at the beach.

“Listen,” Jacke says as they head upstairs. “I’m not judging—you do you. All I'm saying is that I’ve had friends with benefits before, but I can’t say I’d invite any of them on vacation.”

“Have you seen him?”

Jacke laughs, setting down Stacia’s suitcase at the door of her and V’kebbe’s room. “What does she think?”

Leofard rolls his eyes. “That we’re dating.”

“You know she’s always right.”

“Not this time,” he murmurs.

Jacke gives him a look but doesn’t say anything else. He leaves Leofard to settle in at the room down the hall. It’s bright and faces the water, with a wide window across from the queen sized bed. Leofard puts down their bags as he looks around, letting his hand smooth over the soft blanket folded at the end of the bed.

Emile pops in a moment later.

"Hey," he says. "I hope that was okay."

Leofard nods. "It's fine. I think I can handle a few nights next to you."

He says it, but he has to take a breath at the memory of Emile’s arms around him that one morning. The warmth, the comfort—it’s never far from his mind. Maybe it’s dangerous to tempt that feeling again.

Emile bites down on a grin. "Still—I don't want to make it weird for you in front of your friends."

"I don't think they give a shit, baby."

"Okay," he says. "Well, Stacia said they're going to start grilling soon, but you're not allowed near it."

"What the hell?"

“I don’t know, she said you ruined dinner last year.”

"So what if the burgers were a little well done?" he grumbles. "I cooked those with love! No one in this damn house appreciates me.”

Emile giggles at him. “Come here.”

Leofard watches him for a moment, narrowing his gaze before he steps closer, and he doesn’t stop until they're a breath apart, chest to chest. Emile cups his face in his hands, tilting Leofard's head back to look up at him. Those big brown eyes crinkle at the corners, steady on him for too long, and Leofard's heart picks up a beat when he bends down to place a single kiss against his lips—there and gone again.

"I would eat your burnt burgers, Leo,” he murmurs.

Leofard laughs, pushing him away. "That's not a compliment, you would eat anything."

"I’m just always hungry!” he exclaims. "Which—if they're going to start grilling, I think we should probably go back downstairs."

“Fine,” he returns. It’s hard to stop smiling.

They head downstairs, where everyone has gathered on the deck. Emmanellain and Sicard are back, and Emmanellain wears an apron despite sitting on the railing off to the side, decidedly not cooking.

Jacke stands next to the grill, burgers sizzling over the flame, and he points the spatula at Leofard. "Don't even think about it."

"It wasn't that bad!"

Stacia hands out beers while everyone properly introduces themselves to Emile. There’s a table and chairs but they all stand around eating before they make their way down to the beach, where the sun is just beginning to set, turning the sky pale orange shifting into pink. Jacke has them collect rocks for their makeshift fire pit while he grabs wood, and they set up their beach chairs in a circle around it.

It's just nice to be with his friends, drinking on the beach until the sky turns dark and the stars spin above them. He sits across from Emile, and he keeps stealing glances at him, at the way the fire's glow hovers over his skin, the way he laughs, so easily getting along with his friends.

They play truth or dare. It's stupid, and they're all a little tipsy, but it’s funny. Leofard ends up attempting a handstand that's only possible because Jacke and Emile hold his ankles up, Emmanellain tells a particularly compelling story about the time he got into a fistfight, and V'kebbe has to do an interpretive dance in silence, which she does with more flair than expected.

When it's her turn to ask, she looks to Emile. "Truth or dare."

Emile glances around everyone with wide eyes before he settles on, "Truth."

"Okay," V'kebbe says, and a long moment passes as she purses her lips in thought. The light reflects across her face, how she blinks a little slowly from the alcohol, but then she glances at Stacia and her lips curve into a grin as she asks Emile, "What’s your favorite thing about Leo?"

Everyone around the fire makes a low sound.

“Shit, why is this about me?” Leofard asks.

“Hmm,” Emile starts, and Leofard's stomach flips when he looks over, considering. “Let me think.”

Leofard digs his toes in the sand, cool and damp against his skin, against the fire's warmth, and beat after beat of silence passes. He huffs. “It can’t be that hard!”

“Well give me a second!”

“Obviously it’s my sexy car, right?”

“Obviously,” Emile echoes, and he shakes his head, turning to V’kebbe. “No—I like how funny he is. He‘s always making me laugh.”

Leofard has to bite his tongue to stop himself from smiling, but he still feels his lips pull at the corners as he tucks his chin down.

He hears Stacia snort. “He doesn't need to hear that."

"Hey!" He glares at her for a moment before looking back at Emile, who watches him softly. "Can you please make Stacia do something embarrassing?"

"I have a better idea," she says. "Why doesn’t Emile play his guitar?”

"Oh, no," Emile says immediately. "That's okay. I don't—"

"You brought a guitar?” Emmanellain asks, perking up. “You have to play for us!”

"I only brought it just in case, I'm not trying to perform for you or anything."

"Don't listen to him, he's literally a music major," Leofard says.

Everyone’s voices overlap as they all try to convince him to play for them, and Emile glances around the fire with wide eyes, his protests getting weaker and weaker.

He looks to Leofard.

Leofard just tilts his head towards the house. "Come on, baby, we want to hear Wonderwall."

He laughs. "Alright, but feel free to talk over me, please."

Leofard watches as he carefully gets up and maneuvers around their chairs back towards the house, keeping his eyes on him until his silhouette disappears into the dark. When he looks back, everyone is staring at him.

"What?"

"Oh my god, Leofard," V'kebbe starts. "I can't believe you just showed up with a boyfriend without telling any of us. You guys are so cute, I'm going to be sick."

His brows shoot up, and he tries to laugh it off. "Oh, it’s not like that between us."

But he should know that this will only raise more questions.

What does that even mean?

You literally called him baby.

How long have you been together?

Where did you meet?

Couldn't you find someone taller?

Do you love him?

"Hey!" Stacia's voice cuts in, and everyone quiets down. "Leave him alone. Even though we can all agree he’s being very dumb about the situation, it's my job to annoy him about it.”

Leofard offers her a grateful smile.

“Okay everyone shut up, he’s coming back,” he says, just loud enough to be heard. The yellow light of the back deck outlines Emile's silhouette as he closes the door behind him, and they're all way too quiet as he makes his way back over.

Emile doesn't seem to notice, he just smiles nervously at them as he settles back into his chair. His guitar is a darker stain of wood, and its gloss shines in the fire's light. He plucks idly at the strings with his long fingers, the sound clear and bright, and a moment later he forms a chord and begins to strum.

Leofard laughs when he recognizes the progression.

Today is gonna be the day that they're gonna throw it back to you.

Emile immediately looks up at him with a wide smile that leaves him breathless. Leofard can’t look away.

"Okay," Emile says as he lets the sound ring out. "I'll play one song, but then you have to sing along."

It's a classical piece—one that Leofard doesn't recognize, but it's intricate and pretty. He likes watching Emile's hands move over the strings, the way his brows pinch together as the song grows more intense, the way he relaxes at it softens. The music flows through him, an extension of the guitar, each note felt before it's heard.

Leofard is too aware of each beat of his own heart, the breath he holds in his chest. Stacia catches his eye across the fire, and she watches him watch. He just shrugs a shoulder at her, keeping his face neutral despite the knowing look in her eyes.

If he could, he would hide this desire even from himself.

They clap when the song is over, and Leofard swears Emile’s cheeks burn red as he waves them all off. He plays a few songs after, ones that are easy to sing along to, and they're tipsy enough to get into it. Leofard doesn't really sing, but watching them settles something in his chest—this is his kind of home.

And after, they put out the fire as they pack up for the night. Leofard's body feels heavy as he moves through the loose sand, stopping at the outdoor shower to rinse off his feet before heading inside. They all murmur soft good nights to each other and slip away to their rooms.

Emile and Leofard wordlessly get ready for bed. They take turns brushing their teeth, and Leofard watches Emile strip down to his boxers, eyes lingering too long on his bare chest, the stretch of his thighs in the low light. He clears his throat. “Which side of the bed do you want?”

“Either side is fine,” Emile says. “Sorry if I end up in the middle anyway.”

“As long as you don’t snore.”

He smiles. “Just kick me if I do.”

Leofard opens the window, letting in the sound of the ocean with the cool night air, and he gets in bed first, pulling the thin blanket up to his chin as he curls up on his side. Emile turns off the lights before joining him, and his long legs knock into his as he settles in, facing him in the dark. Neither of them shift apart.

"Hey," Leofard says as his eyes adjust to the dark, blinking until he recognizes the shape of Emile beside him. "If you stretched out, would the blankets cover your feet?"

"No," he says with an exasperated laugh. "My grandma actually crocheted me an extra long blanket in high school. I thought it was really embarrassing at first, but now it's my favorite."

Leofard thinks about Emile in his special blanket and bites down on a smile—he’s glad he’s that loved. "That's really fucking cute."

Emile just turns his face into the pillow for a moment before he says, "You know, I get that question a lot. Or if I have to get an extra long bed. Which I don't, even if it's a little cramped sometimes."

"To be fair, baby, I can't picture you fitting in those beds at the dorms."

"Do you picture me in bed a lot?"

"Yeah, actually," Leofard says. "That's one of my favorite things to do.”

A rush of warmth runs through him at the sound of Emile giggling into the dark. It makes Emile's knee press a little further into his thigh, and the only thought in his mind is, Stay there.

"I like V'kebbe, by the way," Emile says. "I think you were right about her and Stacia."

"It makes sense, right?"

Emile nods, quiet for a moment, and then, "You really do care about her."

"I just want her to be happy," he says, and it's such a small admission, something assumed already, but it still makes him itch. He focuses on Emile's hand resting in the space in front of him instead, and with just the sound of the rolling waves between them, he lets his fingertips trace across his knuckles. "Hey."

"Yeah?"

“You’re pretty good at the guitar.”

"Thanks," Emile says, his voice whisper soft. He turns his hand over, letting Leofard's fingers drop to his palm, and Leofard lets them slide up until their hands align. His sits so much smaller against Emile’s, but they fit together just right as their fingers intertwine. Emile looks back up at him. "Hey."

"Yeah?"

“There was something else I wanted to say earlier, when V’kebbe asked me what my favorite thing is about you. I didn’t want to embarrass you, though.”

Leofard raises a brow. "I'm listening."

Emile’s smile echoes in the dark before he admits, “I love your eyes, Leo. They're so pretty.”

It isn't often that something catches him so off guard, but Leofard's heart immediately begins to pound in his chest, and for a moment, he doesn't know what to say. In his panic he only has one choice—he laughs. "Too bad they don't work too well."

“Yeah, well, your glasses are cute, too.”

He should say thank you. He should just say thank you, roll over, and go to sleep. Instead he squeezes Emile's hand and leans in to kiss him, lips soft against his. It lingers, something warm and comforting, and they stay close after, just breathing against each other as Leofard's heart calms.

They don’t say anything else. He lets his eyes fall closed, listening to the distant sound of the ocean. Usually it would lull him to sleep, but his stomach flips again and again as he repeats Emile's words in his head, embarrassed only by the way it makes his chest warm, his fingertips warm, his whole body warm all over.

He can't help it.

I love your eyes.

I love—

—

In the morning, Leofard stirs at the touch of a hand on his wrist, and he frowns as he blinks his eyes open to the still dark bedroom. It takes a moment for him to register Emile carefully pulling his arms off of him, not until cool air brushes along his body where he was so warm against him. Their eyes meet.

“Sorry,” Emile whispers.

Leofard takes a deep breath, fighting the pull of sleep. His body feels so, so heavy, and everything moves so slow. He reaches towards him without thought. “Where are you going?”

“Just for a run, I’ll be back.”

“Why do you have to have such a hot body,” he mumbles, pulling the blanket over him and rolling into the warm space Emile left behind. He's too sleepy to do anything other than curl up and close his eyes, already beginning to drift off again.

He doesn't see the way Emile smiles as he leaves.

—

Leofard dozes for a while longer, finally dragging himself out of bed when the room grows too warm. He throws on a swimsuit and t-shirt before he wanders downstairs, where Jacke and V'kebbe are still cooking in the kitchen. He chats with them while he makes a cup of coffee, and he takes it to the back deck to sit beside Stacia overlooking the water.

“Good morning, how’d you sleep?” he asks.

“Just fine,” she returns. “How was sharing a bed with your not-boyfriend?”

“Downright platonic,” he says, which is only mostly true. He can’t help but ask, “Where is he?”

She grins, nodding towards the beach. “Right there.”

There's the distant shape of Emile’s figure jogging along the shore, barefoot and kicking up sand as he effortlessly strides down the beach, hair loose and flowing behind him. He looks like something out of a movie with the morning sun along his skin, and Leofard takes a breath at the familiar thrum of desire that starts in his stomach, hot and wanting.

It's been too long since he's properly touched him.

“Leo,” Stacia says, but he can’t turn his attention away. “Word of advice? If you want people to believe that you’re just friends, you have to stop looking at him like that.”

He finally blinks and glances over at her. “Like what?”

“Like you’re going to fuck him the second he comes back.”

He just laughs. “Look at him. Can you blame me?”

Emile stops at the outdoor shower, chest heaving as he pulls the chain. The water runs a river down his body, and he ducks his head under the spray, running his hands through his hair before slicking it back. As he steps out, he stretches his arms into the sun. Leofard has to hold back a moan.

“You realize you’re allowed to like him, right?”

Stacia's voice is too gentle, too cautious. His attention snaps towards her, because he isn’t allowed to like Emile like that. That isn’t what either of them want.

He shakes his head. “Why are we always talking about this?”

“Because I want you to be happy, Leo,” she says, and something in him softens as she repeats what he’d said about her last night. “And I think this is the closest you’ve ever been to a real relationship.”

“I don’t want to date anyone,” he says absently, ignoring all the reasons why churning in his stomach. “The real question is when are you going to ask out V’kebbe?”

She glares at him. “It’s not the same.”

“It is, though,” he says. “Forget the way I look at Emile—you should see the way she looks at you.”

"Please," she says, but her gaze shifts back towards the house, and Leofard sees the moment her eyes land on V'kebbe. The smallest smile pulls at the corners of her lips and her head tilts to the side, her whole expression open and vulnerable. She sighs. "We stayed up way too late talking last night. I don't even remember saying goodnight—I think we just fell asleep in the middle of our conversation."

“That’s…” he starts, shaking his head. “You have nothing to worry about, Stace.”

She doesn't look convinced, but before she can say anything, Jacke walks over and pokes his head outside. “Hey, we’re going to head down to the beach in a few minutes to set up.”

“We’ll be right there.”

As soon as he's out of earshot, she turns back to Leofard. "How about this: I'll ask out V'kebbe when you tell Emile how you feel."

"There’s nothing to tell."

"Then I guess we'll both be single forever."

He laughs. "You'll always have me, babe."

"God help me."

She goes upstairs to change into her swimsuit while Leofard heads down to the beach. It's a clear day, the sky bright is blue and completely free of clouds, with only the echo of the half moon on the horizon. Emile is already helping Jacke dig the umbrella into the sand, and they lay out a wide beach blanket and some extra towels around it. Emmanellain and Sicard join soon after, carrying a cooler between the two of them.

"How was your run?" Leofard asks Emile while the others are distracted.

"Really good,” he says with a grin. “I forgot how much I love running on the beach."

"Sure looked good."

Emile waves him off. "Did you fall back asleep?"

"Still waking up, actually."

"You should go for a swim, the water is nice and cold."

"I think," he starts, blinking at him, "that would kill me."

Emile laughs. "It's refreshing!"

"Yeah, I'm not taking outdoors advice from someone from Maine."

"Hey!" he starts, but he's still laughing. "Actually, I grew up by a lake, and my mom would get so mad at me for swimming in like, March. I promise it's fine as long as you don't stay in for too long."

"See, I love that for you. However," he says, hand on his chest, "I am a city boy, and I am much happier looking pretty on the beach."

He punctuates the statement by pulling his shirt off, the sun's warmth already trickling along his skin. He notes with satisfaction the way Emile's eyes cast down along his chest, snapping back up to meet his gaze again. It's only fair, after all.

Stacia and V'kebbe are the last to come down from the house, and Stacia holds up a football in her hands. "Who wants to play?" Everyone looks at Emile.

Leofard clears his throat. "Dibs on being on the professional quarterback's team."

"No, that's not fun," Emile says with a giggle. "I want to be on Stacia's team."

"Hell yeah."

"You just want to kick my ass," Leofard grumbles.

Emile has the audacity to smirk. "Maybe."

They try to split up evenly, and it ends with Emile, Stacia, and Sicard versus Leofard, Jacke, V'kebbe, and Emmanellain. It starts out serious enough—since the beach is still relatively quiet, they mark each end zone far apart in the sand, and spend at least ten minutes deciding on the rules, which essentially narrows down to no tackling or yelling.

It starts with Emile throwing the ball to Stacia for one point, and then chaos promptly ensues. Leofard quickly forgets who is even on his team, throwing the ball to Sicard, who scores for the other team, but then Emmanellain steals it from V'kebbe, who loses them a point by yelling at him.

After a while, it just turns into keepaway, and Emmanellain and Sicard start bickering, so no one throws them the ball. They've stopped keeping track of points by the time it makes it back to Leofard. He's taken to standing on the side, but he’s the closest to the end zone and no one’s guarding it, so he runs. Only as he’s kicking up loose sand does he realize someone’s chasing after him.

"No!" he yells when he realizes it’s Emile. He makes it past the end zone but neither of them stop, and he lets the ball go somewhere behind him as a laugh escapes his throat. He feels like a kid again, silly and free, but Emile is mere inches behind him, so he winces as he prepares himself to be tackled.

Only that isn't what happens.

One moment he's running, the next, Emile's arms catch him around his waist, and he's hauled into the air with a yelp. Emile throws him over his shoulder like he weighs nothing at all, strong arms wrapped around his legs, and carries him across the beach. Leofard's too busy admiring Emile's ass from this angle to realize where he's taking him, not until he steps into the water.

"Emile," he warns. "Don't you dare."

"What do you mean?" he asks innocently, each step slower as he wades further out.

"I know you want to see me wet and glistening, but this isn't the way."

He hears him laugh, and then everything goes fuzzy as Emile lets him go. Cool water surrounds him, disorienting him for just a moment before he rights himself and breaks through the surface, catching his breath.

"You're so dead!" he yells as he throws his arms around Emile to try and drag him down with him. Their bodies crash together with the waves, skin against skin, but Emile catches him and holds him against his chest. Leofard fights a shiver, but he finds that he doesn’t mind, wrapping his legs around Emile's waist, his arms around his neck. They're nose to nose, and Leofard tilts his head to the side to glance at the beach before leaning in to kiss him, tasting the salt water on his lips.

Emile smiles at him when they part. "You're pretty like this too, you know."

"Sweet talker," he murmurs, fingers playing at the ends of Emile’s hair. He brushes it aside to press his lips to his shoulder, trailing kisses along wet skin, up the side of his neck, lingering just below his ear. Emile’s grip tightens on him.

"Leo," he breathes out. "We should stop."

Leofard's lips curl up in a grin. "What—is this turning you on, baby?"

He pulls back enough to catch the flush on Emile’s face as he looks away. “Shut up.”

Leofard holds back a laugh as he relents, letting go completely and putting a few inches between them. Pride swells in his chest as they swim back to shore, and he drifts along his back, face to the sun with the cool water surrounding him, Emile beside him. Everything, for a moment, is absolutely perfect.

They have hot dogs for lunch, loading up on potato chips and ice cold beers. The day is hot and sticky and Leofard stretches out on his towel, chatting with the girls while Emile, Jacke, Emmanellain, and Sicard go back in the water to body surf the low waves.

He ends up dozing, only half awake when Emile comes over and lays next to him. Emile closes his eyes against the afternoon sun, allowing Leofard to steal the smallest pieces of him: the bridge of his nose, the freckles scattered across his cheeks, each little grain of sand clinging to his still damp skin. Leofard watches the steady rise and fall of his chest, and he curls his hands into fists.

He could laugh at himself—at this same recurring thought, which sometimes just sounds like Emile's name.

Taking a deep breath, the rest of the beach comes back into focus, but when he looks over again, Emile's eyes are open and he's watching him back. His eyes look lighter in this light, golden and warm, and for a long moment all they can do is stare at each other.

"What are you thinking about?" Emile asks, and this time Leofard does laugh, just the echo of it on an exhale.

He makes himself look away. "Don't worry about it."

As afternoon stretches into evening, Leofard finds himself a little buzzed. They build another fire as it begins to get dark, and this time Emile sits next to him, shoulder to shoulder. They make s'mores, and Leofard can't even pretend to hide the way he watches Emile lick at his sticky thumb after he pulls his marshmallow off the stick.

Leofard's promptly falls into the fire.

And later, fireworks fill the sky, so close that the sound resonates along the beach. Just for a few moments, sharp color cuts through the dark, igniting the area around them. Leofard watches each tiny explosion, and then he looks over to Emile. He is there a moment and then gone the next—Emile in red, Emile in blue, Emile in sparkling white light.

He turns to meet Leofard’s gaze, a smile spreading across his lips before he leans in to kiss his cheek. Leofard closes his eyes against the feeling, which lingers in his chest even as Emile pulls away to murmur, “I’m really glad you invited me.”

"Me too," he returns, just as quiet, and before he can think better of it, he presses his lips to his, a marshmallow sweet kiss as the fireworks echo around them.

They're out of beer by the time the fireworks end, and Leofard offers to go back to the house to get some more, having to steady himself against Emile's shoulder as he stands up. He only sways a little as he walks through the dark, giggling to himself as he fumbles through the kitchen. When he looks out the window, he can see the distant shape of his friends gathered around the fire, and a different kind of warmth fill his chest.

When he walks back, he looks at his empty seat for a moment before he looks at Emile. Why shouldn't I? is the only thought on his mind before he plops down in Emile's lap, scooching back along his broad chest. He hears Emile laugh, but then his arms come around Leofard's middle, hands settling against his stomach and resting so close to the waistband of his swimsuit. Everyone just continues to talk around them, but Leofard finds it hard to concentrate as Emile traces tiny patterns into his skin.

He doesn’t care about the glances his friends give them, doesn’t let anything bother him, drunk enough that when Emile tucks his chin down onto his shoulder, he just turns to press his nose to his hair. Eventually they go back to the house, Emmanellain and Sicard first, then Jacke, V'kebbe, and Stacia, and then it’s just Leofard and Emile left at the dying fire.

He extracts himself from Emile, slow to stand before he lowers a hand to help him up, and their bodies knock into each other from the momentum.

"Hi," Emile says as he steadies himself against him, head bent low.

"Hi baby," he returns, sliding his hands along his arms. He pulls him closer, finally kissing him the way he's wanted to all day, sliding his tongue along his as his fingers dig into his skin.

They part to breathe, too close to do anything other than keep their eyes closed when Emile asks, "What do you want?"

The words are half hidden against his lips. Leofard’s head spins.

“I want to touch you,” he mumbles, and he mouths at his jaw, down to his neck. His hands tighten around Emile’s arms. “I want you to suck me off…I want you to pick me up again.” He breaks off with a giggle. “That was so hot.”

Emile pulls back, and Leofard wishes he could see the way he looks at him in the dark. His thoughts sit above the sound of the ocean waves, and it's always too much, too much, too much, but Emile bends down to pick him up, setting him easily against his chest as Leofard wraps his legs around his waist, his arms around his neck. He pulls at Emile's ponytail until his hair spills loose, and he kisses him again, mouth warm like alcohol, like salt air, like desire.

Then he's laughing into Emile's neck while he carries him back to the house, and as the door closes behind them, Emile turns and presses him against it. Their lips find each other again, and Leofard sighs into the kiss, hands curling into his hair as Emile parts his mouth against his.

Someone clears their throat.

They both look to the kitchen, where Stacia and V’kebbe watch them with wide eyes. Leofard isn’t drunk enough to miss how close they are—V'kebbe sits on the counter while Stacia practically stands between her legs, and they're both holding a spoon for the open tub of ice cream between them.

"Can you maybe not do that right here?" Stacia asks while V'kebbe raises a hand to cover her laugh.

“Sorry,” they both say at the same time. Emile lets Leofard down, but his hand finds his as they go upstairs. They leave the lights off in their room, fumbling through the dark for the bed.

“Sit,” Emile says, his voice soft—not a command, but Leofard still listens, letting his thighs part as Emile kneels between them.

He cups Emile’s chin with his hand, raising his head to look at him. It’s there—in the small smile Emile gives him before he parts his mouth, eyes wide as he watches him in the echoed light.

What do you want? he’d asked.

Leofard touches his thumb to his bottom lip, heart racing in his chest. How could he want anything else?

—

He stirs again while it’s still dark.

Blinking his eyes open, he tries to squint through the blurry shadows of the room. He can hear Emile’s deep, even breaths across the bed, and he turns towards the sound, only able to make out the bulky shape of him in the dark. They aren’t touching, but something still settles in him just knowing that he’s there as he takes stock of his still fuzzy head, his dry mouth, and he reaches for the nightstand to put his glasses on, glancing at the clock.

Three in the morning.

With one more look at Emile, he carefully pulls back the blanket and gets up, tip-toeing to the other side of the room to put on a pair of shorts before heading downstairs. The house is silent save for the distant sound of the ocean, and he moves slowly through the dark while his eyes adjust. It's easier in the kitchen, with moonlight spilling in through the window above the sink, and he takes a moment to fill a glass of water before he slips onto the back deck.

The crashing waves are so much louder out here, rolling onto the empty beach, everything washed in grey. The wind feels cool against his warm skin, strong enough to push his hair out of his face. He just sips at his water, his mind sleep slow, his body relaxed, and he takes a deep breath.

He lets his thoughts wander, not really thinking about anything except for the strange, content feeling in his chest.

Maybe he'll want this for real someday—not only someone to share his bed with, but to share the day to day, someone who will make his friends laugh, who will have their own little life with him. Maybe someday he'll move past all this fear tangled up in his chest and let someone in. Maybe he won't always need a way out.

The words roll through his mind with the waves.

Maybe.

Someday.

He finishes his water and slips back into the house, easier now in the dark. He moves slowly to stay quiet, but Emile still stirs when he gets back to their room, just the shift of his body beneath the covers—enough for Leofard to know that he's awake. He opens his eyes for only a moment, and once Leofard gets back in bed, he reaches out to pull him into his side.

Leofard lets him, curling up against him under the weight of his arm. He presses his cheek to his chest and breathes him in, a combination of his flowery body wash and smoke from the campfire. It's more comforting than Leofard would ever admit, just like the steady sound of Emile's heart beating, the way he smooths his thumb against his back, his chin against the top of his head.

Leofard closes his eyes, and those same words carry in through the window.

Maybe.

Someday.

—

In the morning, he’s alone again.

He only dozes for a little bit before he heads downstairs, where he finds Stacia in the kitchen, pouring a cup of coffee. When she looks over at him, she automatically reaches for a second mug and pours one for him.

"You're the best," he murmurs.

"I know."

He should be nicer to her, but he can't help but say, “You and V’kebbe looked cozy last night.”

“Please,” she says, waving him off. “I’m still trying to forget what I saw.”

He laughs. "We might have been a little drunk."

It's the closest he'll get to an apology for it, but if there's one thing he can always trust with Stacia, it's that she understands. As much as she teases him, she's never judged him for any of his antics. So it's with a grin that she hands him the mug. "Will you be okay to go out tonight? We were thinking of going to the bar up the street."

Leofard is very familiar with that bar. He went last year with a girl he met on the beach, and his hangover was so bad that he could barely move the next day. It sounds like a fun idea, except— "Emile can't. He's only twenty."

"I love how that was your first thought," she says. "Don't worry, I asked. Your boy has a fake ID."

"Does he really?" He can't help the grin that follows, glancing over to the back deck, where Emile talks to Jacke. His expression is bright as he explains something, his hands giving him away, but then, as if sensing him watching, Emile looks over. When his gaze lands on Leofard, his lips pull into a smile—something small, secretive, knowing.

Leofard has butterflies.

"Oh, you're so done for," Stacia says with a soft laugh.

He glances at her before he takes a sip of his coffee, but the bitter taste isn't enough to distract him. "Shit."

—

The day starts the same as yesterday, and as they head down to the beach, Leofard catches up to Emile, walking side by side down the steps behind the rest of the group. They don't say anything at first, not past the initial good morning they pass between each other, but it's nice. Their arms keep brushing as they walk towards their spot on the beach, and that feeling in his stomach doesn't go away.

Funny how he can have Emile and still want him so much.

But he doesn't know if it counts, if what they’re doing means that he has him at all.

They join the others, setting up the umbrella again and laying out their towels. Leofard shakes the sand loose from his and spreads it out next to Emile's.

"Hey, Leo?"

He looks up at Emile towering over him, holding a bottle of sunscreen. He doesn't even need to ask, Leofard just reaches for the bottle as he turns around.

He has to take a deep breath at the sight of Emile's broad back—something has to be wrong with him today. It’s the only explanation for the way he feels his heart in his chest as he spreads the sunscreen into his skin. He works slowly, across his shoulders and then down to the taper of his waist, holding his breath as the thing inside him that feels too soft, too fragile and tender, begs to be let out.

When he finishes, he leans forward to press his lips to Emile's shoulder. "All set."

"Thank you," he says softly, and Leofard catches the tiny smile on his lips when he turns to take the sunscreen back. "Do you need some?"

He never really bothers, but he looks at Emile's hands and finds himself nodding. He must be tired, or maybe he's hungover. Why else would he stare at the sand in a daze, keeping his breathing steady as Emile's touch works into his skin? He closes his eyes for a moment, certain that his friends are nearby, that Stacia will probably say something later, but he finds that he just…doesn’t care.

Something's definitely wrong with him.

It doesn't get any better when they lay out beside each other on their towels, chatting the morning away. Leofard teases him about his fake ID, and Emile talks about his schedule once they go home tomorrow, how practice starts to pick up in earnest as the season approaches. He's nervous, especially with so many eyes on him after the Heisman rumors last season.

"Do you ever think about stopping?" Leofard asks. He's on his back beside him, Emile up on one elbow and covering him in his shadow.

"I don't know what else I would do."

It isn’t an answer, and the emptiness of the statement hits him so strongly that he almost regrets asking. He offers him a small smile. "You could do something with your music."

The sunshine lines Emile's face, highlighting along his nose as he considers it. It's an odd expression for him, something not quite settled, but all he says is, "Maybe."

Someone brought the football out with them, but no one seems interested in playing today. After lunch, Leofard grabs it and holds it out towards Emile. "Show me."

Emile raises a brow. "Show you what?"

"How to throw a football."

There's a spark of amusement through his expression as he takes it from him and positions it against his palm. "There's a few ways, but I always hold it like this."

He rotates it slowly to show Leofard, but Leofard just blinks at it.

"Here," Emile says, and he takes him by the wrist and presses the football into his hand.

"Ring finger to the second seam," he murmurs, voice soft, and he guides Leofard's fingers, moving them for him as he speaks. "Put your index finger here, then your pinky to the edge here. Leave a little bit of room for your thumb underneath."

But Leofard stops watching their hands and looks up at Emile, at the focus in his eyes, the thought that he puts into helping him. Emile must feel his gaze, because he lifts his head a moment later.

Their faces are so close, just a breath apart, and he's reminded of that feeling he had the night they met, that same draw to him. It pulses in his blood, always hungry for him, and he yields first, letting his gaze cast down to his lips. Emile leans in just a little closer, noses nearly touching, and Leofard closes his eyes—

Emile lets go.

"I think," he says, pausing to take a breath as he pulls back and looks away. "I'm going to shower before we go out tonight."

"Okay," Leofard returns. "I might do the same when you're done."

Emile nods, blinking at him a few times before he gets up and heads back to the house. Leofard watches him go, turning to meet Stacia and V'kebbe's gazes. There isn't a hint of teasing in either of their eyes, just something curious. Stacia raises a brow at him, a silent question. Are you good?

He nods absently before he gets up.

All he wants to do is follow Emile back into the house. He wants to trail after him, step into the shower behind him, and let his hands wander over his slick skin. He wants Emile's touch on him—anywhere. Absolutely anywhere. But instead, he makes himself walk down the beach, focusing on the heat of the sand beneath his feet, picking his way over the rocky shore to the water until he's ankle deep.

It isn't as distracting as he thought it would be, and he doesn't know how long he walks for, trailing along the water's edge away from the house, but after a while he finally turns back.

The bathroom is empty at the top of the stairs, and he goes straight in. He lets his thoughts blank out when he steps into the shower, staring at the white tiled wall in front of him. Water pours like a storm down his back, slowly soaking through his hair and dripping along his cheeks, steady down to his chin. Its warmth numbs the heaviness inside him, the burning desire that sometimes doesn't even look like desire—just this aching space that wants to be filled.

When he's done, he wraps himself up in a big fluffy towel, blinking at his blurry reflection in the mirror. He feels like it should be so obvious, like there should be a neon sign hanging over him, but it's just him on the other side. His eyes look even paler in this light—the eyes that Emile said he loves.

He looks away.

Don't be stupid, he tells himself, but he can’t help it, can he?

He goes back to their room, where Emile lays diagonally across the bed, wearing just a pair of boxers. His eyes are closed but they open at the sound of Leofard closing the door behind him, and he blinks at him before a smile stretches across his lips.

Leofard crosses the room to kneel on the bed, letting his towel drop as he straddles his waist, bare skin brushing along bare skin. There's a square of reflected sunlight from the window that lays across Emile, and it highlights the gold in his eyes, scattering over the freckles that have only increased with the summer. His damp hair lays spread around him, and he watches Leofard openly, hands idly tracing up his thighs.

Leofard shifts into his touch, breath trembling on an exhale as he settles his hands on Emile's stomach, fingertips ghosting over muscle, up his long torso, brushing across his chest hair. He finds himself smiling, just the edges of it, as he looks back up to meet Emile's gaze.

Brown eyes steady on him.

“Hi, gorgeous,” Leofard murmurs, watching the blush creep along Emile’s cheeks. He reaches up to tuck a piece of hair behind his ear, and he lets his touch linger, dropping to his chin as he leans down to kiss him, guiding their mouths together.

Emile’s hands skim further up his thighs, over his hips and up to his waist, pulling him closer as his body shifts beneath him. Leofard kisses him softly despite the way his heart pounds in his chest, despite the growing heat within him, and he licks at his bottom lip, letting out a soft sound when Emile parts his mouth for him.

He never wants to get used to this feeling, never wants anything more than Emile’s body against his. Satisfaction grows with each hitch of Emile’s breath, with the way he tightens his grip on Leofard’s waist, their kisses turning messy and desperate. Each little thing is reassurance that he isn't alone in this desire.

He pulls away just enough to breathe out, “Fuck me."

“Like this,” Emile groans, and Leofard doesn’t realize it’s a question until he adds, “Please.”

Leofard bites down on the first thing that comes to mind—anything you want—and instead he sits back, grinding down against him as he smirks. “You want to watch me, baby?”

A sharp feeling jolts through him as Emile lifts his hips in response, and Leofard can't wait anymore, can't take the time to tease him like he usually does. His head is a mess of need and now and that feeling that claws its way up his throat when they're this close—something unrecognizable.

But when Emile's inside him, nothing else matters.

The world is only this bedroom, this golden light surrounding them, this boy beneath him, with his brows pushed together, watching him so intently. Neither of them look away, and Emile lets out soft little gasps and groans as Leofard moves over him, rolling his hips slowly at first.

It’s an impossible pace to keep, not with Emile watching him like that, not with his burning heat, so full inside him. Emile’s fingers press down against his waist, nails digging into his skin, and Leofard can't help the sound that he chokes out as his eyes slam shut. He moves faster, blindly chasing more until Emile sits up and wraps his arms around him, crushing him against his chest as he takes over with a dizzying strength.

"Emile," he whines, winding his hands into his hair. He tries to breathe through it but he can’t, overwhelmed by the warmth of their bodies in the afternoon sunshine, each moan muffled and hidden into his neck, the drag of his cock against Emile's belly as he rocks up into him again and again.

A gasp leaves his lips as he spills between them. He swears under his breath—for a moment, there is only the frantic beat of his heart, but then Emile's grip tightens around him as he hurries his pace, and Leofard feels his mouth at his neck, teeth scraping against skin. He finally opens his eyes to blink in and out of the gold room, giving in to the pleasure of it, and he holds back a yelp when Emile bites down on his shoulder, hips falling out of rhythm as he shudders and stills beneath him.

A breath passes. Then another, and another, slowly evening out. Emile licks across the sensitive spot on his shoulder, pressing his lips to it as Leofard loosens his hands from his hair. When he does, Emile tilts his head back to look at him, eyes half lidded, his face flushed. A hazy smile tugs at the edges of his lips before Leofard bends down to kiss him, sighing at the easiness of it, the sweetness.

Emile lays back, pulling him with him. They part carefully, using Leofard’s towel to clean up, and Emile grabs one of the pillows, shifting over to make room for him. Cuddling is the worst temptation of all, a comfort that removes all distance, but still Leofard curls into his side, laying his head on his chest as Emile wraps an arm around his waist.

Just for a moment, he tells himself, but he closes his eyes against the afternoon light, and it only takes the span of a couple deep breaths for him to drift off.

—

Someone knocks on the door.

Leofard stirs. Their room is twilight dark—made up of empty shades of light that takes a few seconds for him to recognize. He swallows hard, then looks over to see that Emile is still wrapped around him, snoring softly against his shoulder. Their legs are intertwined, and they’re both still naked and so, so warm.

Oh, he's not about to move.

Another knock comes.

"Leo, Emile, come on." It's Stacia. “We’re leaving in fifteen minutes, with or without you."

Is it that late already? He lets himself breathe in against Emile's chest for a moment before he sits up, dropping a hand to Emile's shoulder to nudge him awake. Emile shifts slowly, big eyes blinking open and then closed again as the arm slung over Leofard's waist tightens its grip.

Leofard tries not to laugh. "We need to get up."

"Why?" Emile groans, voice a little deeper from sleep. "I'm comfy."

"We're running late," he returns, prying Emile's arm off of him. He ignores the way his body aches when he gets up, stretching out his sore back before fumbling through the shadows of the room for jeans and a t-shirt. When he looks over, he has to laugh at Emile sitting at the edge of the bed. "Your hair, babe."

Emile's brows raise as reaches up to pat down the nest of his hair, which dried in every which direction. Leofard doesn't even pretend not to watch him get up and dress, not until Emile giggles at himself in the mirror.

"I look like a mess," he says, brushing his hair back into a ponytail. “They're all going to know what we were doing.”

Leofard laughs, but he's right. Everyone's waiting for them in the kitchen, knowing looks on their faces as they go downstairs. Still, Leofard raises a brow at the cups strewn across the table. "You started without us?"

"And what," V'kebbe says with a laugh, "were you guys busy doing?"

He exchanges a look with Emile.

“Napping,” he says innocently.

The bar is close enough for them to walk there, only taking a few minutes along the sandy sidewalk. Leofard is quiet, still waking up, but he's happy to be beside Emile in the blue dark, listening to the sounds of his friends' voices growing louder as they talk over each other.

They can hear the music before they see it—a small one storey building made to look like a tiki hut, with a thatched awning over the door and torches lining the walkway. This time of year guarantees a line at the door as a man in a black t-shirt checks everyone's IDs.

The seven of them join the end of the line, and Leofard leans against Emile's chest, tilting his head back to look at him. "Let me see your fake."

"Don't say that too loud," Emile hushes. "And no, it's embarrassing."

“What’s embarrassing about it?”

He pats Leofard's curls down as he sighs. “My picture is old and I have short hair and I don’t look good at all.”

Leofard holds back a laugh. It's hard to imagine that Emile has ever looked bad in his life. Much easier to imagine a younger Emile with his big eyes and short hair. He must've been so cute.

The thought feels traitorous. He shakes his head. “You realize that I already think you’re hot, right?”

“Is that what that was earlier?”

This time Leofard sputters out a laugh, glancing ahead to where the line begins to move. "Come on, just show me."

“Let me see yours first.”

"You giant child," he mutters, but he fishes his wallet out of his back pocket and hands his license over to Emile, who happily takes it. Only as Emile looks it over, a small smile crossing his lips, does Leofard realize how vulnerable of a thing it is.

New York State.

Raimille’s address.

"Look at you, you're so cute," Emile says, and Leofard’s stomach flips at the way his expression softens. "How do you pronounce your last name?"

He clears his throat. “Roulchambord.”

“Is that French?”

He just shrugs. It’s not mine.

“Our birthdays are two months apart, by the way,” Emile murmurs.

“Really?” Leofard asks. “When’s yours?”

“January twenty sixth.”

“No—let me see.”

"I would, but it’s about to be our turn,” he says, handing him his license back. The guy at the door looks over their IDs quickly, and Leofard watches Emile play it cool, not even blinking an eye when it’s his turn. They’re all waved inside.

“Alright, everyone gather around,” Jacke says. “We’ll do a round of shots and then you’re all free.”

As they toast, everything feels right. Leofard lets his gaze pass over his friends' faces, committing the moment to memory. This is its own kind of home. He lets his hand linger next to Emile's, winking at him before he throws back his shot.

Emile is quickly pulled away by Emmanellain and Sicard, and Stacia catches his eye before she nods her head towards the bar. He joins her, and as they wait for their drinks, she knocks her arm into his.

"What?" he asks.

"Did you and Emile have fun?"

He isn't usually embarrassed about this kind of thing, but something in him itches. “You didn't hear anything, did you?”

"No, don't worry," she says. "You just, um...your shoulder."

Leofard angles his head to look. A deep red mark spills out from the collar of his shirt, blotchy and bruised. His mind instantly flashes to Emile biting down as he came, and he makes himself breathe in, looking away as he takes a sip of his drink. "We're just very...compatible."

She snorts. "Meaning?"

"Meaning things are kind of perfect," he says, and he shakes his head at the way her brows raise. "Which is why it works out that we're just friends—there's no risk of ruining this."

"I'll be nice tonight, since you already know what I think. Besides—," she looks over her shoulder at the dance floor, where V'kebbe sways to the music. When she notices them, a giant grin steals across her lips as she waves Stacia over.

Something in his stomach twists at the softness on Stacia’s face, but he won’t call it jealousy. When she turns back to him, he just shakes his head with a smile. “Go get her.”

Stacia leaves her drink, letting out a laugh as V’kebbe takes both of her hands in hers, and the two of them dance together, free and easy and so, so happy.

That’s all Leofard wants for her.

He can’t help the way his gaze travels to the other end of the bar. Emile is waiting on a drink, and there's a woman beside him leaning into his space, talking animatedly as he watches with wide eyes. Leofard just laughs to himself before he joins the others on the dance floor.

One song, he tells himself, but that turns into another, which turns into another. They take shots in between, and the bar begins to pulse with the music, the lights glancing off the fake palm trees and twinkling in the corners of his vision. He's lost count of how many songs he's danced to, but he finds himself out of breath, and Jacke joins him as he goes to get some water.

Jacke elbows him in the side, nodding to the other end of the bar. "That doesn't bother you?"

Emile is still talking to that same woman, only they're joined by another woman who sits on Emile's other side. Shot glasses sit empty on the bar around them, and one of them leans in to murmur something in his ear. Leofard watches the way Emile smiles, and he wants to say that he isn't jealous, because he gets it.

If he saw Emile for the first time here, he'd be in the same place. If Emile wasn't his already, then he'd be right there at the bar, sitting close enough for their shoulders to touch. He’d graze his hand along his, say whatever he could to make him blush, anything to kiss him, to take him home.

He isn't yours, a voice in the back of his head says, and he holds his breath at the familiar ache.

But he thinks about the sun in his brown eyes, the flush of his skin as Leofard moved over him, the way he held him so tightly, teeth digging this mark into his shoulder, and he shakes his head. “Doesn't bother me at all."

It isn't much later that Emile finds him, bracing himself with a hand on his shoulder as he leans down close to his ear. They've been here before. Emile lets his nose brush against Leofard's temple, moving to press his lips to the shell of his ear, and he murmurs, "Dance with me."

"I thought you didn't dance."

“Well I like how you dance.” He wraps his arms around Leofard, letting all of his weight rest against him. "I've been watching you."

“Damn,” he says, and he has to take a step to support him. “You’re kind of too heavy for me, baby.”

Emile just giggles against his neck. “I’m really—I’m—”

“Drunk?” Leofard offers. He can feel Emile nod, his breath warm against his skin. Something loosens in Leofard’s chest, something like affection, and it feels dangerous. He still smiles even as he nudges Emile back to standing on his own. “Come on, let’s go back to the house.”

Emile nods again, and Leofard waves Stacia down to let her know that they're leaving. Outside, the cool air clears his head from the crowded bar, and he attempts to guide Emile towards the sidewalk, a hand on his bicep to grab or push him as necessary. Headlights pass over them like waves, and the sound of tires grinding over the sandy road competes with the ocean rolling in the distance.

And above it all, there's Emile's soft voice asking, "Why don't you ever talk about New York?"

He resists the urge to shrug. “Not much to say about it.”

“You’re always—,” he starts, voice breaking off. Leofard’s brows push together as Emile leans on him a little more, but he doesn’t say anything else.

“Always what?”

“Always so—,” he tries again. “Always Leo.”

Leofard laughs. “What does that mean?”

“I don’t know.” The words kind of slur together, and he reaches over to wind his arm around Leofard’s. Their height difference makes it a bit awkward as they keep bumping into each other, but neither of them let go. “You don’t talk about real stuff.”

He can feel his smile waver. "Of course I do. I talk about my car all the time.”

Emile breathes out a half-laugh. “Is that all that’s important to you?”

“That's all I have left,” he admits. “From New York.”

”Oh.”

Emile doesn’t say anything else, and there’s a question in the back of Leofard’s mind that he doesn't give a voice to. They stumble through the dark house when they get back, letting go of each other only for Emile to stop and grip the railing of the stairs. Leofard tries not to laugh at him as he urges him to keep going, and he has to hold his hand to get him to move the rest of the way, only letting go when Emile sits at the edge of the bed.

“Wait here, I’ll get you some water,” Leofard says, and he hurries back downstairs. When he comes back, Emile is still sitting in the same spot, and he looks up at him with those big eyes, murmuring his thanks when Leofard hands him the glass.

He drinks the whole thing, and Leofard takes it back from him and sets it on the nightstand. “Lift your arms.”

Emile watches him for a moment before he does, and Leofard pulls his shirt over his head, leaving him swaying in place.

“You’re taking my clothes off,” Emile mumbles.

“Just getting you comfy for bed,” he says, his voice soothing. He bends before him to take off his shoes next, and Emile nearly tips to the side before he braces himself against the mattress. Leofard shakes his head, keeping his breath steady as he unbuttons his jeans and has Emile lift his hips, tugging them down. “You should sleep this off, baby.”

“Baby,” he repeats. “You’re always calling me baby.”

Leofard sits on the bed beside him. “Do you like it when I do?”

He nods. “It makes me feel like you actually want me.”

“I want you very much,” he says, raising his hand to brush the hair from Emile’s brow. After everything he’s admitted tonight, maybe he’s a little more drunk than he thought. “Who wouldn’t?”

A bitter smile crosses Emile's lips before he mutters, “Estinien.”

Leofard pulls his hand back, blinking at him in the dark.

"What?"

“He never wanted me,” Emile says, and he lays back on the bed, staring at the ceiling with his brows pushed together. "I was so stupid."

"You're not stupid."

“I am, though. He didn't even come to my concert. He—he knew how much it meant to me, and he still...”

There’s a pain in his voice that Leofard has never heard before, and it makes it so hard to think clearly. Who’s Estinien?, is all he wants to ask, but Emile still just stares at the ceiling with his lips pressed together.

“Then he’s an asshole,” Leofard offers.

“No, he’s not,” Emile says, and the defense comes so quickly. “No, he's—I miss him. I just really miss him.”

Leofard looks away, taking a deep breath. "Let's go to bed, okay? We'll feel better in the morning."

After a moment, he hears Emile shift over, then the rustle of the blankets. Leofard stays where he is, chest heavy, stomach turning. He glances at the empty glass on the nightstand, wishing he'd gotten one for himself too.

"Leo," Emile murmurs. "Come cuddle me."

He looks over at him, at his face squished against the pillow, one arm laying across the bed in an attempt to reach for him. He's just drunk, he doesn't mean any of it. Leofard makes himself let go of his thoughts and crawls across the bed. Emile immediately pulls him close, arms tight around him as he tucks him against his chest.

It doesn't take long for Emile to fall asleep, but Leofard stays awake, blinking into the dark room as he listens to his heart beat, calm and even.

Who wouldn't want you?

He pulls the blanket into his fist. He wasn’t expecting Emile to have an answer to that.

—

The sound of rain wakes him the next morning.

It beats at the window with its own kind of rhythm, wavering as it comes down harder before it softens again. It almost lulls him back to sleep, but he turns his head to look over at Emile beside him. They aren't touching, but Emile faces him, eyes closed, chest rising and falling in a slow rhythm. Leofard's hand automatically inches towards him, his gaze focused on that piece of hair that always falls in his face, but—

I miss him.

It's so stupid. Leofard knows there's no attachment between them, he knows that Emile could have feelings for anyone else, and that just because they sleep together doesn't mean he could see this as something more. It's not—that's not what Leofard wants either.

Things are kind of perfect, he’d said to Stacia last night, and nothing has changed since then, so why does it suddenly feel like a lie?

Emile stirs, stretching out his legs. He opens his eyes, blinking at Leofard for a moment before closing them again, a low groan in the back of his throat.

“Good morning,” Leofard murmurs. He can't help an exhale of a laugh. "How do you feel?"

"Amazing," Emile answers. He inches closer to Leofard, wrapping an arm around him as he tucks his head into his shoulder. His lips brush against Leofard's neck, just resting there, each exhale ghosting against him.

Leofard skims his hand between his shoulder blades, running along the smooth skin down his back. “Do you remember last night?”

“Most of it, I think." The words are half muffled against him. “Why? Did I do something embarrassing?”

I miss him.

Leofard shakes his head. “No, it was just funny dragging your big ass back here.”

“Hey,” he says, drawing the sound out. He rolls onto Leofard, leaning back so he can look in his eyes. There's a smile playing at his lips. “I happen to know that you like my ass.”

“Why would you think that?” Leofard asks, but he lets his hand slide lower, just beneath the waistband of his boxers. Emile's hips shift into his touch.

“Leo,” he breathes out, more of a warning than pleasure.

“This is why you should sleep in, baby.”

He laughs as he rolls off of him. “You’re so annoying.”

And maybe Leofard wouldn’t have questioned that yesterday, but now he finds himself watching Emile for any truth in his expression. Emile merely closes his eyes again, snuggling back down under the blanket. The morning light washes over him, highlighting his messy hair, the fan of his eyelashes, the tiny bit of stubble along his jaw, and Leofard lets himself stare, gaze lingering the longest on the curve of his lips.

He supposes nothing can be wrong if he still wants to kiss him this much.

They doze a while longer, the sound of rain filling the quiet between them, and Emile's thumb wears a small circle into his side, the touch grounding him from his wandering thoughts.

Eventually they get up to dress and head downstairs. Everyone is quiet after last night, but Leofard’s gaze lingers on Stacia and V’kebbe, who sit shoulder to shoulder at the kitchen table, drinking coffee and speaking softly to each other.

They pack up after breakfast, and Emile watches with an amused grin as Leofard just shoves everything back into his bag without thought. He helps him load up the car, and then it's hugs all around before they go.

"We'll do this again next year," Emmanellain says. "Emile, you have to come too."

Emile just smiles. "Thanks for having me."

They kick up puddles as they run out to the car, and the three of them are quiet as Leofard puts on music and navigates back to the highway. The world is blurry through the rain, a mess of headlights and taillights blinking through the windshield wipers, and all his mind repeats is next year.

He won't be doing this, will he?

He'll be back in New York, so far away from his friends, trying to figure out what he's supposed to do with his life. He'll be starting over again, and he doesn't know what he'll lose this time. The thought is too much, but thankfully Stacia clears her throat, cutting through the quiet car. Leofard glances at her through the rearview mirror, but she keeps her attention on the rain splattered window as she admits, "I asked her out last night."

He feels himself grin. "And?"

"We're going to try," she says. She doesn't smile but there's such a soft happiness on her expression that he feels his chest pull at the sight.

"Happy for you, Stace."

He glances at Emile beside him. What did she say? I'll ask out V'kebbe when you tell Emile how you feel.

Sometimes it feels like that's all Leofard ever does.

The rain lets up the closer they get to campus, and they stop at another gas station on the way, getting more coffee and some donuts for the road. Leofard finds himself leaning against Emile's arm while they wait, but he's too tired to move away like he should.

And when they get back to Emile's dorm, he foolishly gets out of the car to help him with his bags while Stacia moves to the front seat. He ends up just standing by the trunk, watching him with an unexpected heaviness in his chest.

"I think that's everything," Emile says, and a smile crosses his lips. "I had a lot of fun."

Leofard matches his smile. "I'm glad you came with us."

He already knows what's coming before it happens. He should just get in that car and drive home, but he stays rooted where he is, watching as Emile sets his bags down and reaches for him. Leofard stands on his tip toes to hug him, wrapping his arms around his shoulders, and he closes his eyes as Emile holds him tight against his chest

They kiss, and Leofard lets out a sound as he parts his mouth, soft but always wanting. They kiss for too long, given where they are, but with Emile's hands on his lower back and knowing that he won't see him for a little bit, he can't help it.

And then he watches him walk back to his dorm, holding his breath until he's gone.

Thankfully, Stacia doesn't say a word about it when he gets back in the car.

—

That night, Leofard lays awake.

He only judges the passing of time by the streetlight echoing through his blinds, shifting over his walls so imperceptibly until it reaches the other side of the room. He rolls over again and again but his mind is too busy and he can't get comfortable. Each point of contact with the blanket makes his skin itch, and his pillow is too—flat? Soft? Too wrong.

He sighs, reaching out his arm to lay across the empty space beside him, and he glances at his phone on the nightstand. Is he awake too?

Leofard's fingers twitch towards it, but he closes his hand in a fist and rolls over.

He would rather lay awake all night than admit that he misses him.

—

Four long, restless nights pass before Emile comes over again.

Relief surpasses any doubt, and Leofard is too happy to see him to feel embarrassed about the way he jumps into his arms. They're home alone anyway, and they barely say a word to each other before Emile is carrying him to his room, laying him across the bed and settling in the space between his legs.

Leofard sighs against his mouth, tugging at Emile’s hair with one hand while his other seeks the touch of his skin beneath his shirt. Emile just kisses him again and again, both of them grinning into it until that hazy kind of pleasure turns into something needy.

They pause to breathe, and Emile pulls back enough to look up at him. Leofard smooths his thumb across his cheek, pressing his mouth to his one more time. "How are you, baby?"

Emile's smile is so broad that his eyes squint into half moons. "Happy."

They finally give in, letting their hips roll against each other, and Leofard curls his hand around the back of Emile's neck, pulling him closer just to breathe him in. It feels so good to have his weight over him, the weight of his desire pressing down on him, covering him so completely. This is all he wants from Emile, he can forget everything else.

He has to forget everything else.

It's easier when it's like this, when it's simple, when it's just touch, when it's what they've done since they first met. It's more difficult after, when he goes to the bathroom to grab a washcloth and he catches his reflection in the mirror. His eyes look darker as he stares back at himself, and he notes the flush of his cheeks, the mess of his hair, the beginning of another hickey at the base of his neck.

Obvious.

It's even more difficult when he goes back to his room, and Emile has curled up on his side with his eyes closed, his chest rising and falling in slow, even movements. Leofard cannot avoid what he wants, not when it's right here, not when the pull of temptation is this strong.

He goes back to the bed and fits himself beside Emile, carefully pulling the blanket over them both. Foolish, he tells himself, but he hasn't slept well in days and he's tired of more than just being tired. He doesn't even sleep, he just lets the afternoon drift beside him, more comfortable than he would ever admit.

It’s a while before Emile stirs again, the shift between asleep and awake now familiar. He groans softly as he opens his eyes, looking at him in question.

“Did I fall asleep?”

“Within minutes,�� Leofard answers with a laugh. “Did I tire you out that much?”

Emile covers his face with his hand for a moment. “Sorry, I’ve just barely slept the past few nights.”

Do you miss me too?

"Is everything okay?"

“The AC at the dorms isn’t working,” he answers. “It’s literally too hot to sleep. Between that and football practice, I’ve been exhausted.”

Leofard blinks at him for a moment. “You can hang out here, if you want.”

His mouth snaps shut. Raimille always used to tell him that he was too quick, that he could benefit from thinking before speaking. As a teenager, he hated it. At twenty two, he realizes she was kind of right about everything.

“What do you mean?” Emile asks.

“Just sleep here until it's fixed,” he offers, too late to take it back. "It's not a big deal."

Emile doesn't say anything at first, but then, "Are you sure you wouldn't mind?"

"Emile," he says, his name sticking in his mouth. “Of course not.”

They head out to grab dinner once Emile wakes up a little more, then they stop at the dorms so Emile can grab a few things. Somehow in the four months they’ve spent together, Leofard has never been inside his room. He's been to this building before, but it's different in the summer, quiet and empty.

Emile wasn't lying about the AC—it's stifling, and he feels a drop of sweat trickle down his neck as he follows Emile up the carpeted stairs. They turn down a hall, and Emile pauses at the door, throwing a shy look over his shoulder. "It's kind of messy."

"Please. You've seen my room," he offers, and Emile smiles before he lets him inside.

The space is cramped, as all dorm rooms are, with a twin bed on each side and a window inbetween. One half is completely bare and empty—Emile mentioned that his roommate went home for the summer—and the other side is perfectly lived in, perfectly Emile.

The bed is unmade but that's about the extent of any messiness, and he feels his lips curve up at the corners at the sight of a handmade blanket bunched up at the end. He glances at his desk, at the gym bag on the floor, but his attention is mostly drawn to the wall above his bed, covered in photos. He steps closer to look at them while Emile grabs his duffle bag and begins to pack.

The first one he sees is a photo of Emile with two girls. He's in the middle, and he looks so much younger. He smiles broadly with his arms around both of the girls, and all three of them have the same brown hair, the same nose, and the one on the left has his brown eyes, while the other's are bright blue.

"Your sisters?" Leofard asks.

Emile looks over his shoulder and smiles. "Yeah, that was from Ren's graduation party. The one next to that is me and my mom."

It must've been taken the same day. She barely reaches Emile's chest, her smile more subdued. Her hair is a little darker, her eyes a little lighter, and Leofard wants to ask if he looks more like his dad, but Emile never talks about him despite the way he's gone on about his family.

"You're not allowed to say you look bad with short hair anymore," Leofard murmurs. "You were so cute."

“Thank you.” There's a slight blush on his cheeks as he goes back to packing, and Leofard bites his lip before his attention shifts to a magazine cutout pinned to the wall.

It’s a closeup of two football players, their teammates rushing towards them in the distance. One of them is Emile, his back is to the camera but his last name sits across his shoulders, and he’s in the arms of the other. They’re helmet to helmet, jerseys tight in each other's fists, and the other guy’s face is visible, his smile blinding as he looks up at Emile.

"Big win?" Leofard asks.

Emile looks over again, but this time his expression doesn’t change. "Yeah. That was when Estinien threw that hail mary—probably the best game of either of our careers."

Estinien.

Leofard breathes in carefully in an attempt to slow his heart—why is it beating so fast? He looks back at the picture. It’s hard to tell what Estinien really looks like with his helmet on, but he has a nice smile, and he must be strong given the way he holds Emile. Leofard clears his throat. "Does he still play?"

"I don't think so. His injury happened right at the end of the season," Emile answers, and he turns to look at the picture one more time. Something flashes in his eyes. "But I haven't seen him since he graduated, so I don’t know."

“Oh. Were you guys close?”

Emile just lifts a shoulder, going back to his bag. “Hey, can I borrow your toothpaste or should I bring my own?”

Leofard stares after him, all too aware of the seconds passing, but Emile just keeps moving, keeps packing. It’s the most he’s ever dismissed him. Leofard presses his lips together. “Yeah, of course you can borrow mine.”

He just lets his gaze travel across the rest of the photos while Emile finishes up. It's the smallest glimpse into his life, faces and stories he'll probably never know about. He's standing at the edge of intimacy but there's nowhere else to go. He's gone, he tells himself, glancing at the photo of Emile and Estinien one more time. He's gone, and he's going home with Leofard. That has to be enough.

There isn't any lingering strangeness as they go back to the car. The fresh air feels good, and he rolls down the windows for the short drive, playing the CD he burned as soon as he got home from the beach. Stacia's at the apartment when they get back, and she raises a brow at them from her spot on the couch. There's a question in her eyes that he knows she won't ask, but still he offers, "Emile's going to stay with us for a little bit."

"Okay," is all she says.

Emile shifts beside him. "My AC is broken."

“Okay,” she repeats. She just looks between the two of them, gaze lingering the longest on Leofard.

He turns to Emile. "Come on."

They settle into his room, and Leofard tries not to think too hard about Emile unpacking his things. It's just for a few days, he tells himself, but he likes the sight of Emile in his bed, likes the way they curl up around each other as he puts on a movie. He tries to hold back from talking through the whole thing, but Emile doesn't complain when he does, he just answers him, his thumb tracing small circles against his side.

Leofard is barely awake when it's over, eyes closed and already half asleep when Emile murmurs, "I should warn you that I get up even earlier for football."

Leofard cracks an eye open. "How early?"

He’s quiet for a moment. “Five?”

“Oh my god, baby,” he says, and he nips at his shoulder. “You really need to work on that.”

“I’ll try not to wake you up," he says with a soft laugh, but Leofard already knows how well that will go. It's just for a few days, he tells himself again, but something in him says that he would gladly deal with Emile slipping from bed early if it means he gets to fall asleep with his arms around him.

They murmur goodnight to each other, and Emile presses his lips to the top of Leofard's head before snuggling down against him.

It's the best he’s slept since the beach.

—

A few days turns into a week, then another. Leofard doesn't ask Emile if his AC is fixed, and Emile never brings it up. Stacia certainly does, whenever Emile is out of the apartment, but Leofard always shrugs it off—who knows how long these things take?

They find a routine in this.

Emile does wake him up each morning—it's impossible not to with the way they sleep so close, always jostling him as he extracts himself from the bed. They both know it, but Emile still tries to be careful each time, and Leofard finds the effort cute. He doesn't mind, considering he gets to move into the warm space Emile leaves behind before he falls back asleep, breathing in the smell of him on his pillow.

It’s just so nice to have someone next to him every night, especially as solid and secure as he is. Leofard would never admit it to anyone, but sometimes he really loves how small Emile makes him feel. The weight of his arm around him is so comforting, and sometimes if he wakes up in the middle of the night, he’ll curl up against Emile’s broad back, his warmth guarding him from his thoughts.

But Leofard’s favorite mornings are the ones when Emile doesn’t any obligation to get up, and they doze late into the morning and share soft, sleepy touches.

The funny thing is, they don’t have sex any more often just because they're spending more time together. It starts to feel like something else after a while, when they catch up about their day over supper, when they go on drives at night, when they come home and fall asleep with a movie on.

If Leofard could tell himself five months ago that this would happen, he’d think something was wrong with him.

He’d be right, too.

There's one night where neither of them can sleep, both of them turning over uselessly, fitting themselves together in different ways until Leofard suggests they go on a walk. They don't say anything as they wander the quiet campus, but halfway through, Emile wraps his hand around his, and despite all the ways they've touched, it's the closest Leofard has ever felt to him.

Emile gets home early from practice one afternoon. Leofard hears the front door open but he's comfy where he's sprawled out on his bed, music playing way too loud. Emile just drops his gym bag on the floor and looks at him with an amused grin.

"What are you doing?" he asks, coming closer. His hair is damp and Leofard can smell his body spray from here.

"Chilling," he says with half a shrug. "Come join me."

He sits up to make room on the bed, but Emile just raises a brow. He lets his hip move to one side, then the other, picking up the pace until he matches the beat of the song. His shoulders follow as he begins to dance in earnest, and Leofard can't help the bark of laughter that comes out. Emile laughs too as he turns around to shake his ass.

"Come here," Leofard manages, breathless. "You're ridiculous—I need you."

Emile does come closer, stepping around his legs to dance down against his lap, but as soon as Leofard reaches out to touch him, Emile takes his hands in his own.

"Dance with me," he says, pulling him to his feet. Leofard goes reluctantly, but after a long look at him, he joins in. It's silly and stupid, but he can't stop laughing, He realizes, as he spins and shakes his hips and sings along, that Emile's probably the only person that he would do this with.

And in that, the freedom from any self-consciousness, that energy that always stirs within him feels a little more settled.

They dance to a few songs before Emile picks him up, both of them out of breath as they slot their lips together, and they kiss the afternoon away.

They kiss, and July passes into August.

—

August is a hard month for Leofard.

August is a reminder of what it was like three years ago, of Raimille's final days. She'd insisted again and again that he go to school despite her worsening health, but he swore he wouldn't leave her, that he'd take another year off—he'd do anything for her after all that she'd done for him.

Then she died.

The anniversary of that awful day finds him with an unshakeable ache in his chest. He sleeps fitfully, but he doesn't say anything to Emile, who slips away early for practice, or Stacia. She knows about Raimille, but this is just something he wants to face alone.

It's tempting to stay in bed with his grief weighing him in place, but that's not what she would’ve wanted for him. If there's one thing he can count on in his life, even now that she's gone, it's that he will always try to make her proud.

She's buried on the other side of the country, so there's nowhere he can go, but he still gets in his car and drives, his mind spinning through memories.

Twelve years ago, he visited her apartment for the first time. As loud and confident as he was in his foster home, he suddenly felt nervous and shy. He'd never been to the city before, and he remembers standing at the window, looking out at the vertical lines of all the surrounding buildings, feeling every bit as small as his ten year old frame, so uncertain about everything in his life.

But she knew, and she never pushed. That day, she smiled at him warmly and suggested that they go out, walking with him to Central Park, where it was a little easier to breathe. As they navigated the winding paths, she asked him question after question, and actually listened as he began to open up, soon chattering away—asking if she knew anything about skateboarding.

She bought them each a root beer, and they sat on a bench as the sun began to dip a little lower in the sky, gold light reflecting off all the windows on the buildings.

He knew then, that even though he didn't have a family, he wanted to be part of hers.

But he is no longer that little boy, or the reckless teenager that she put up with. He is a man with a heart that always aches, who can't let himself want anything because he always loses what he gets. Despite everything, he knows that he'll be okay.

He drives on and on, the day slipping away with each road he passes, until he stops at a convenience store and picks up a couple of root beers. He goes to a park next, and sets one of the drinks on the other side of a bench while he sips at his and looks up at the cloudless sky.

She'll always be with him.

The sun begins to set by the time he returns to the apartment. His brows dip as he kicks his shoes off—there's music coming from his room, but not a song he recognizes. He walks in a daze towards the sound until he realizes it's Emile's guitar. From the doorway, he watches him play at the end of his bed, head bent low as his fingers work across the frets in complicated patterns.

Emile keeps playing, unaware of his presence for a few heartbeats, but when he looks up, his hands still as a smile crosses his lips.

Leofard just shakes his head.

"No, keep playing," he says distantly. "Please."

The smile slips from his expression as he looks at Leofard with a question in his eyes, but he doesn't ask, and as he begins to play another song, something quiet and sweet, he thinks some part of him must understand.

Leofard lets the sound wash over him as he draws closer, and he lays beside him on the bed, watching his profile in the lamp's light. His hair falls loose around his chin, his brows push together in concentration, and Leofard pays attention to the fan of his lashes as he looks down, the crook of his nose. He's so, so beautiful.

Years of grief catch in Leofard's throat, but he swallows it back down. The ache lingers, never out of reach, but—

He just keeps his eyes on Emile, and he doesn't feel alone.

#directors commentary will come later because i have literally so much to say about this #but the important note is one im including on ao3 as well #in which estinien DOES go to emile's concert #but realizes he's in love with him. sneaks out. and lies and tells emile he couldn't make it #feels like very important context that only exists in my head #ANYWAY this is so much and im so sorry #but alas. it is my whole heart #ffxiv #my writing #oc: emile jenidaut #leofard myste #emile/leofard #modern au

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