#i was so caught up in the euphoria of ponies that for a moment i lived in a world where the gender binary didnt exist

[woolydemon]

i now realized that "filly" was a term only for young female horses and in my defense I kinda just forgot horses had gender

[slippinmickeys]

The Earl (13/13)

This was a labor of love, and I can’t thank you guys enough for sticking with me. For Lin, my science editor, to Fiona and Amanda for beta-ing like champions, you guys were my rocks. Finally, thank you to you readers for keeping up the enthusiasm for this story for far longer than it probably should have taken me to write it. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. I do hope its everything you wanted it to be.

To read this in its entirety on AO3, you may do so here. 

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Mulder, on his horse Hercule at the lead of what amounted to a well-outfitted cavalry, pounded down the stretch of road that led to Harwood Hall, the manse just coming into view. It was all thundering hooves behind him, and he could hear grunts of the horsed men that followed, could feel their thrilled energy at his back, and he was half-compelled to let out the war whoop of his Celtic forebears, riding into battle as they were, ready to save their damsel in distress. If it hadn't been for the generations of genteel decorum bred into him, he probably would have.

The fields lay long on either side of the narrow road, dotted occasionally with sheep and ancient stone fences. The sea shone far to the right and came into the land at an angle, pushing in toward the thumb-sized house like a shining sapphire buttress.

He was armed to the teeth, as were the men with him -- two pistols strapped to his hips and an old but perfectly balanced sword tight to his waist, the sheathed end of it tapping into Hercule’s flank and spurring him on. Walter and his Runner colleague Doggett were each carrying pistols — Doggett carrying an English flintlock blunderbuss in his left hand. Langly, who looked queasy on horseback and was not keeping his seat well, had what looked to be a long flintlock Kentucky plains rifle (said to be favored on the American Frontier), and Frohike, sturdy as a barnacle on his steely grey pony, had the intricately carved handle and stock of a Prussian target percussion rifle sticking out of an odd holster on his back. Byers carried a saber. Mulder couldn't help but wonder what a sight they made rolling along the English countryside at full gallop, their armory glinting in the sun.

As they barreled closer, Mulder could see that the manor itself was not overly large, but had a long fence and tall gate. They would have to get through it just to get on the property. Perhaps riding in like the Roman Legion hadn't been the best idea, but his wife was close -- he could feel it -- and his heart would have nothing but war until she was by his side.

Hercule had energy and heart to give, and Mulder could feel the animal ranging further and further ahead of the inferior horses giving chase behind them. In fact, when he looked back, he could see nothing but road dust and the occasional glint of metal.

Looking ahead, he could now see the house clearly, its brick the color of the sand on the shores surrounding it, and his eye caught movement at the building's entrance. Perhaps the fight was coming to them -- so be it.

He eased back on the reins and murmured a low command to Hercule, who slowed his steps only enough for the cavalry behind them to ease closer, and the figure from the manse -- Mulder could see that it was single figure now, dressed in white -- was moving quickly toward the gate. Perhaps it was a servant who thought Mulder was the post.

He wouldn't give them the chance to discover otherwise.

He pulled his pistol out from his hip and cocked it, skidding Hercule to a halt on the slippery gravel, and throwing himself from the saddle as he did so to land in a crouch in front of the gate. He could hear the other riders pulling in behind him as he rose and raised his pistol to point at the person who had just swung open the weir. He could not yet make out their identity, blocked as they were by the ornate iron lock.

"Stand and deliver," he said with calibrated fury.

And then he saw her face.

XxXxXxXxXxX

“Stand and deliver,” said a voice with the steely edge of violence. There was a pistol aimed directly at her nose. It took her only a moment to look past the barrel to the man holding it.

“Mulder!” she gasped, and launched herself at him. His arms came around her with the feeling of home and she allowed herself one brief moment of transcendent euphoria before she pulled away from him.

“Good God, Scully, I-” he fumbled. She had clearly taken him by surprise. The men mounted behind him were all wearing equally shocked looks.

“Away!” she said quickly, “Mulder, we must away!”

Upon the heels of her statement came a calamitous blast, followed immediately by another. The horses threw their heads nervously.

A balding man she didn’t know squared his jaw up and turned his horse away from the house, shouting, “On me!” before spurring away.

Mulder practically leapt upon Hercule’s back and grabbed Scully around the waist, lifting her easily up into the saddle in front of him, and they were away before a third and fourth detonation burst from the house behind them. The other riders, Sir Byers and his associates among them, followed, their horses spurred along by fear. They were barely away when there was an absolutely massive explosion. Frohike’s pony screamed.

Hercule was in the lead, despite having the added burden of a second rider, and rode on, unfazed. After several hundred yards, Mulder slowed the creature, holding Scully tightly to him, and turned the horse to look back on the estate.

There was nothing left. Where once stood a large country house there was now just a smoking crater. Scully felt nothing but satisfaction. She supposed she should feel something for the life that she had taken, but her God believed in an eye for an eye, and so help her, when it came to that man, she did too.

The other riders caught up with them and turned their horses to look as well. The balding man had fine, wire rim spectacles and looked at what was left of the house and then at her, giving her an assessing once-over.

“My lady,” the man said, “you did not, perchance, happen to find munitions somewhere on the estate, did you?”

“As a matter of fact,” Scully said, leaning back into the warm bulk of Mulder, “I did.”

XxXxXxXxXxX

“Well,” said Frohike as he dismounted his pony in front of the stables at Ashford Park, swinging his Prussian rifle over his shoulder, “we’re all dressed up and we’ve nowhere to go.”

A groom helped Scully dismount, then Mulder swung down behind her, handing over his reins, refusing to let his wife get so much as an arm’s length away from him. The other members of the rescue party were dismounting around them, scattering gravel at their feet and shaking hands.

Suddenly, there was a shout from the manor and Suzanne came careening down the steps and running towards them.

“You’ve done it!” she said, skidding to a stop in front of Scully and then wrapping her up in an embrace, “you’ve saved her!”

“Nay,” said Byers, stepping forward, “the lady has saved herself. We were but an armed escort bringing her home.”

Mulder felt a swell of pride momentarily override his intense sense of relief. His wife; intelligent, capable, resourceful. She had described her escape to the men on their slow ride back to Byers’s estate to the impressed astonishment of the horsed collective -- how she used her extensive knowledge of chemistry to escape the small cottage in which she had been imprisoned, how she found stores and stores of gunpowder and munitions in Spender’s stables and used them to ensure that the man never hurt anyone else ever again.

Frohike himself had asked many questions, and with each answer, he would shake his head and look at Mulder, no doubt wondering what the Earl had done to deserve such a remarkable paradigm of a woman.

Mulder wondered that, himself.

As the group began wandering back toward the house, Mulder pulled Scully aside.

“This must all be overwhelming. And I would like to hear all that happened to you -- when you are ready to share it -- but first, I must know one thing: Did he hurt you? Did any of them hurt you?”

She reached up and cupped his cheek, and he closed his eyes and leaned into her hand.

“Not in the way you fear,” she whispered.

He reached up and put his hand over her own, holding it close. “I would take whatever suffering you have endured and make it my own.”

“Something tells me you already have,” she said. She was more right than she knew. “I would like to go to our chambers now, Mulder, and change out of this soiled and ruined dress. And I would like to take a bath. And then…”

“Then?”

“Will you hold me?”

“I can do that,” he said.

XxXxXxXxXxX

Mulder gently fingered the uneven ends of Scully’s shorn hair from where she lay tightly spooned up into his side. It felt so wonderful to be back in her husband’s arms.

“Does it look horrid?” she mumbled half into the pillow they shared. She knew he had loved her long tresses.

“You could never look horrid. It’s actually quite fetching. It highlights the elegant column of your neck. And if I’m honest, I can’t stop touching it.” He placed a soft kiss to the place where her jaw met her neck and she shivered, finally turning to face him.

“Whatever will the ton say?”

“They’ll say ‘what an extraordinary woman is the Countess of Wexford, and what an undeserving wretch she has for an Earl.’”

“Never.” She reached for his face and he kissed the tips of her fingers.

“I should have saved you. I should have done something about Spender, long ago. I never should have-“

She shushed him. “Mulder, I am frequently underestimated because of my sex. For once, I was able to use that fact to my advantage. I don’t ever want to hear you blame yourself for the reprehensible actions of another. You were not to blame. For any of it.”

He reached out and ran his fingers once again through what remained of her hair, looking at her with reverence. She was silent for a moment before reaching up and touching it, too.

“I suppose my hair will have plenty of time to grow out before we attend any events in Town,” she said.

“You don’t wish to return to London?” he asked, his voice a low murmur.

“Most ladies I know retreat to their country homes for the duration of their confinement.” She watched closely for his reaction, and saw it in his eyes the moment realization hit -- they went from confusion to elation.

“Your… your confinement?” he asked breathily. She nodded, smiling.

He grabbed her face in two hands and kissed her soundly, then pulled back the covers on the bed and moved down until his face was level with her abdomen. He lifted her shift until the bare skin of her belly was exposed, and leaned in to place a reverential kiss there, too. His mouth lingered. He whispered something she could not make out.

She felt a rush of yearning wash over her. “Mulder,” she whispered, and he looked up, his mossy eyes connecting with hers. They didn’t have to speak. He crawled his way back up her body slowly and kissed her softly, his weight resting on his hip, one hand in her hair, the other caressing her with a featherlight touch. She felt desire pool between her legs.

He pulled back and nosed his way gently down the curve of her jaw, flicking his tongue slowly as he eased his way along the column of tendons in her neck. Her head fell back on a blissful moan, and she threaded her fingers through his hair, letting the silken softness play about the skin of her hands, wanting to feel him -- all of him -- reveling in having him back at her side, within her grasp.

He drew back momentarily to pull his white lawn shirt up and over his head, dropping it to the floor. The space between them felt like a sea, and she realized in that moment that however deeply she thought she had loved him before she’d been taken by Spender was a pittance. The love she felt for him in this moment threatened to overwhelm her. She longed to feel him against her, inside of her, every unyielding edge and hard plane of him; she wanted to take all that he was and absorb him like water, like air.

She reached for him.

XxXxXxXxXxX

He marveled at her. The soft contours of her body called to him; her pliant skin, her lush, pearl-pink-tipped breasts, her soft seawater eyes. None of which compared to the rapier-sharp intelligence of her beautiful mind. It was like she was moulded from clay by the gods specifically for him. He was a hopeless wretch in love. And now there was a babe inside her belly.

He felt an overwhelming tenderness toward her, at her resilience and strength in finding her way back to him, and he felt himself marveling at the miracle of life they’d created.

He sat back on his haunches, roving his eyes over her, struck dumb.

And then she reached for him.

“I need you,” she whispered, beseeching him, “I need to take you inside of me. Please.”

The blood thrummed inside of him.

He reached down and delicately parted her legs, taking himself in hand and gently thumbing the soft bud at the crest of her sex. She hissed a breath through her teeth and he guided himself, sliding straight home.

Scully reached under his arms with both hands and wrapped them around his shoulders, pulling him tightly to her. He thrust up into her slowly, tenderly, keeping his weight on his elbows, framing her face with his arms.

He could feel her pulse as it beat in her slick sheath and he took a breath, trying to control himself. He wanted this to be sweet, tender lovemaking -- a homecoming -- but with every stroke, he felt more and more desperate for release.

A sob wrenched from her throat and she turned her face into his neck, pressing her teeth into the skin there.

“Mulder,” she panted, her voice hungry with yearning, with palpable, unabashed need.

He turned and pressed a soft kiss to her lips and then leaned back, grabbing her hips in both hands. He began to snap into her with more force, and her hips rose with each plunge, as desperate to meet him as he was to be buried deep inside of her. And then she threw her arms over her head, her hands pushing against the carved headboard of the bed, her head thrown back, and she keened an almost inhuman sound, her muscles gripping him in an endless, pulsing clutch.  

He ascended to a place beyond thought.

XxX

Mulder awoke once again with the smell of lavender in his nose, the soft curve of Scully’s behind pressed into him. He inhaled deeply and pulled her more tightly to him.

He would stay here all week, all month, all year, if he could. But he needed to send word to Henwick Priory that he and the Countess would be arriving soon, and staying for the duration.

He rose and gently extricated himself from around Scully, dressing as quickly and quietly as he could. He was just pulling on his Hessians when his wife inhaled deeply in the bed and rolled over, cracking an eye to look at him with a small smile on her face.

“What time is it?” she croaked, her voice rough with sleep.

There was an ormolu clock on the mantle of the bedroom, and Mulder peered at it before coming to sit on the bed next to her hip.

“It’s just past nine o’clock. If you wish to go back to sleep, please do so.”

She stretched, brushing a hand down his arm to thread her fingers through his own.

“I shall rise,” she said, “I’d like to write to my mother and visit with Suzanne. Would you mind calling for Prudence?”

Mulder hesitated briefly, but then rose and pulled the cord. It seemed only moments before the door to their chambers opened.

“My lady!” Prudence came rushing into the room, a joyful look of relief on her face.

“Prudence,” said Scully fondly, reaching her hands out to recieve her.

“Oh, my lady ,” Prudence said again, taking Scully’s hands. She seemed to be overwhelmed with emotion.

Mulder stepped forward. He had not spoken with Prudence since calling her in to meet the Bow Street Runners, and charging off the second she gave them the location of Spender’s Kent estate. The young woman eyed him warily before glancing back at her mistress.

“You need not call the Countess that anymore,” he said calmly to her.

Both women swung their eyes to him; Scully in confusion, Prudence in something close to fear.

“And what should she call me?” Scully asked.

“Sister,” Mulder said simply. “For that is what she is to me.”

“My lord?” Prudence queried.

“Come,” Mulder said, pulling the envelope scrawled with a large X out of his pocket. “I’ve something to show you both.”

XxXxXxXxXxX

EPILOGUE

Several Years Later

The spring air was deeply fragrant, the mossy banks of the ornamental lake a dazzling shade of green. The sun was so bright she sneezed.

"Bless you, my lady," said a gentle voice from behind her.

Scully turned to thank Sir Byers from where he sat on a large blanket spread out on the grassy embankment just under an ancient oak on the north lawn of Henwick Priory. Byers was cradling a sleeping babe -- he and Suzanne's second, little Reynard, named for his Godfather.

Scully turned back to where she had been watching -- peering at the arbor twenty yards away for the child's namesake. Mulder had taken three-year-old Clio into the vast gardens to look for butterflies, but they had been gone near to thirty minutes -- it was likely the child had been distracted by something or other in the terraced space -- she had, after all, inherited her mother's scientific curiosity.

Just as she was about to turn away, she saw movement, and Clio came running out from the garden, her skirts flying out behind her. She wore a gleeful smile and her bright red curls glinted in the sun.

"Mama!" she shouted as she approached, "we found a caterpillar!"

Scully swept the girl up in her arms and pressed a kiss into the child's pink cheek.

"Oh, you must tell me the color! We'll identify it."  

"Papa said it was a Cinnabar moth," Clio said, dropping her heavy head sleepily onto Scully's shoulder. The child had a tendency, like her father, to drop off at a moment's notice and it was nearing time for her afternoon lay-down.

"Oh, he did, did he?" Scully said. Mulder was getting better at taxonomy, but he had a habit of misidentifying the things he classified for their children, if only to get a playful rise out of their mother.

Scully looked for said Papa and found him emerging from the gardens, walking slowly with his hands behind his back, patiently trailing William, the future Tenth Earl of Wexford, who had learned to walk only the month before and was toddling along jerkily, like a sailor in his cups. Scully caught eyes with the boy's father and he grinned at her, the smile crinkling the skin at his eyes.

"I see your father found your little brother," Scully said, smoothing out Clio's pinafore. "Where is your Auntie Pru?"

Samantha had offered to take William along on the garden expedition when the boy began crying that his father was walking away.

"She and Monica are cutting flowers for the picnic!" Clio answered, and turned in Scully's arms, wanting down.

William finally toddled up and flopped down on the blanket next to Byers, and Mulder strode up to Scully smelling of grass and sunshine with an underlying trace of clover. He leaned down and captured her lips in a quick kiss.

"My lady," he mumbled into her.

"My lord," she said, then looked down to see William attempting to dive into one of the baskets the footman had set out for their afternoon picnic.

"O-ho!" said Mulder as he swept up William away from the temptation, throwing the child into the air and catching him a moment later. The boy squealed in glee. "Not until everyone has arrived, little one," his father gently chided him.

In what amounted to rather perfect timing, Frohike, Langly, Suzanne and the oldest Byers child Emma at that moment came tromping down the steps on the north side of the estate, just as Samantha and another woman emerged from the garden, each with an armful of pink tulips.

"Oh, what a lovely addition to our picnic!" Scully said to Samantha's bright smile. She kissed her sister-in-law's cheek.

"It looks like Cli is about to drop off," Samantha grinned.

"No I'm not, Auntie Pru," the child said on a large yawn. To the day, both Mulder and Scully sometimes called Samantha by her middle name out of habit and the children had latched onto the idea.

"Do you want me to take her up to the nursery?" Samantha whispered. Scully shook her head. Samantha had been welcomed into the family without reservation, but at times was still not used to her elevated rank and attempted to do various tasks best left to the staff. It drove Mrs. Paxton batty.

"Sit, Samantha," said Monica Reyes, Samantha's hired companion, who was arranging the flowers prettily in an empty basket, "put your feet up. Have a cup of tea."

Initially Monica had been hired as companion, chaperone and etiquette tutor, drilling Samantha in the ways of the ton , but the ladies were now very good friends and, thought Scully wistfully, perhaps something more.

Mulder set his son down once again on the blanket and came up to Scully, putting his arms around her from behind. "That's good advice," he rumbled in her ear. She shivered slightly. He still had the ability to give her gooseflesh with a mere touch.

"Perhaps I will," she sighed happily, leaning into him.

“Ah, the cavalry has arrived!” said Mulder as the group from the house approached.

“Good company, good wine, good welcome, can make good people,” Frohike quoted, letting go of Emma’s hand. She and Clio -- who had found a second wind of energy upon seeing her friend -- darted off to play on the spacious lawn.

“I count myself in nothing else so happy,” Mulder quoted back, “As in a soul remembering my good friends.”

“Shakespeare is all well and good,” said Langly, whinging ever so slightly, “but can we eat?”

“Champagne first!” Mulder announced, nodding to a footman who had been waiting nearby with the refreshment.

Frohike’s eyebrows rose as he took the proffered glass and he peered knowingly at the lord and lady of the house, who still stood in an embrace. “What’s the occasion?”

“We’ve an announcement,” Scully smiled, and Mulder reached down to caress the bump in Scully’s belly that was just beginning to make itself known.

“I knew it!” clapped Suzanne.

“Again?” gaped Langly.

Mulder winked at his bespeckled friend and raised his glass. “To good friends reunited,” he said, “and the blessing of another child.”

The gathered party raised their glasses in a toast.

Frohike looked up, thoughtful. “A third Wexford babe, and I’ve yet to find a wife.”

“My friend,” Mulder said, pressing a loving kiss into Scully’s hair before looking up at him, “never give up on a miracle.”

THE END

[bestillmyslashyheart]

when a soul breaks pt 2

part one 

Michael felt different after Caulfield. The first few weeks he was lost in the haze of meeting and losing his mother, in the trauma after Noah, after Max died. Once the haze started to lift and he really began to take notice, he thought it was all down to Maria. The woman had been by his side as he struggled. She’d been there when he’d needed her the most and he would never be able to repay that kindness. 

His first day sober since Max died, since Caulfield, Michael woke up feeling warm and safe. Maria lay on his chest, her arms around him and Michael smiled. This is what it was supposed to feel like. This is what a real relationship, an easy relationship is supposed to feel like. Loved, not hated, safe not afraid, calm not angry. He loved Alex, he knew it like he knew his next breath was coming, but it had never been like this. That day, he didn’t drink so much as a drop of alcohol or acetone; he was too lost in the euphoria of knowing beyond a shadow of a doubt that he was loved. 

The feeling only grew as the days passed, mostly without him noticing. When he sat and thought about it it felt like a warm blanket or his favorite sweatshirt (an old Air Force hoodie he’d stolen from Alex years before). If he was being sentimental at all, he’d probably say he blossomed under it. He stopped drinking, because the drink muffled the feeling, and he started spending all of his free time with Maria. Her smile, her laugh, her kisses, they all lit a fire in him. It paled in comparison to the actual warmth blooming inside him but he chalked that down to his reaction to her as opposed to the way she made him feel. Either way, it was clearly Maria making him feel this way. Nothing else in his life had changed.

It was during the third week after Caulfield that Michael saw Alex for the first time since the night Max died. He looked awful, his skin pale and drawn, huge bags under his eyes like he wasn’t sleeping. His eyes lit up when he saw Michael but Michael held back. As much as he ached to go to Alex (he always ached to be around Alex) he couldn’t. He may love him, but loving Alex was painful. Too painful. Not like loving Maria. 

Alex flinched when Michael grabbed Maria’s hand and Michael swore he felt it like a physical blow, a chink in the armor of warmth he’d become ensconsed in. Michael ignored it and focused on the issue Liz had brought them together to discuss. All throughout, he felt Alex’s gaze like a physical thing but Michael ignored it. He ignored the fact that the warmth surrounding him turned into an inferno under Alex’s gaze. He ignored it all and as soon as Liz was done speaking, he left. Maria was staying behind to spend time with Liz so Michael didn’t have any reason to stick around.

“Guerin.”

Michael almost sagged against his car at the sound of Alex’s voice. He felt like he hadn’t heard it in years. The warmth inside him grew until he felt like he was on fire. In a good way, but still on fire nonetheless. He turned his head to see Alex open his mouth to say something more but whatever it was, he knew he couldn’t handle it.

“I can’t do this with you, Alex. Not now. Not anymore.” He shook his head and got in his truck without waiting for Alex to reply. Michael peeled away and very carefully didn’t check the rearview mirror until he knew the house (and Alex) were out of sight.

Their second meeting a week and a half later went much the same way except Alex looked worse. Michael was beginning to worry that he was sick or worse but Valenti didn’t seem concerned so he brushed it aside. If the doctor, and Alex’s closest friend these days, wasn’t worried, Michael didn’t really have a right to. 

Alex didn’t try to talk to him this time but he did follow him as Michael moved around. It was nothing overt but he kept finding excuses to be in whatever room Michael was. 

They were there for almost two hours and Alex looked better by the time Michael and Maria left; his color was coming back and he didn’t seem nearly so shaky on his feet. As they drove back to the Pony, Michael couldn’t help but realize that though he was warmer than he’d ever been, that blanket still wrapping him up tight, he grew colder the further they got away from the house. 

It was the first time Michael had seriously considered that Maria may not be the cause of this feeling. 

No. That wasn’t right.

It was the first time Michael admitted to himself that he knew the feeling wasn’t coming from Maria.

While the first few days and weeks, Michael had only registered the feeling as safety and security and love, the more time that passed, the more he realized it for what it was.

Alex.

He didn’t know how and he wasn’t sure he wanted to find out, but Michael knew his sobriety, among other things, was in thanks to Alex. As much as the truth made him want to down a bottle of acetone, he refused to give up this feeling. Whatever it was.

It was almost six weeks post-Caulfield that Michael realized something was dangerously wrong. The last week had proven that whatever this thing was it was coming from Alex. Half of the time (most of the time) it felt like Alex’s physical presence, like Michael was constantly wrapped up in his arms. Every day, that feeling grew until Michael had to keep checking that Alex wasn’t actually standing next to him. 

“Have you guys seen Alex?” Liz burst into the Pony, Kyle and Isobel tight on her heels. Michael and Maria exchanged looks and shook their heads in unison, both bowing their heads slightly in shame. Their relationship had seriously damaged both of their relationships with the man in question and neither had really made an effort to fix that. Not yet.

“Is he okay?” Maria asked.

“I don’t think so,” Kyle answered. “I saw him on Monday and he looked really sick so I sent him home from the bunker and told him to take a few days off. I called him on Tuesday to check in but he didn’t answer and when I went out to the cabin he wasn’t there.” He stopped and shook his head. “I knew I shouldn’t have let him drive home that night. He was in really rough shape.”

“We just drove down every route he might have taken home but there was no sign of him or his car,” Liz told them. “And his phone’s going straight to voicemail which means it’s probably dead.”

“Did you check the hospital?” Maria asked. “If he was as sick as you said maybe he needed a doctor.”

“Oh he definitely needed a doctor,” Kyle agreed easily, “but he refused to even let me check him over. Kept saying he was fine.” He sighed. “I did check the hospital, though. He’s not there.”

“Alright,” Michael stood up and put his hat on. “Let’s go find him. Split up and search the town. If he’s not here, we track down his father and brothers and see if they took advantage of him being sick.”

“I’ll head downtown,” Liz offered. “I can ask around, see if anyone’s seen him. Maria, can you come with me? We’ll cover more ground.”

“Yeah, absolutely.” Maria waved down her bartender and let him know she was leaving.

“I’ll check the hospital again,” Kyle announced, “talk to the EMTs and first responders and see if there was a car accident reported. I’ll call my mom, too. I didn’t want to get her involved until I was sure it was something to worry about but…”

“I’ll head out to the ranches in case he got turned around heading home,” Michael grabbed his keys. “Iz-”

“Already got the word out at the club. Also called my Air Force contacts from when I set up his Welcome Home parade and the drive in fundraiser. If anyone hears anything, I should be the first to know.”

“Ok,” Liz took a deep breath. “Everyone stay in touch and text the groupchat the second you hear anything.”

Michael didn’t wait around for more team planning, he just pushed past Liz and hurried out to his car. When he pulled out of the parking lot, he turned west towards Alex’s cabin and the outlying ranches. There weren’t many ways for Alex to get lost going from the Project Shepherd bunker to his cabin but if he did, he would most likely end up out there.

Two streets later he inexplicably turned right. At the next intersection he meant to turn left to get back on course but he kept going straight. It was as if his hands were no longer listening to him.

Michael tried to course correct three more times before he ended up at Sanders’. He was about to pull a u-turn and head back out when he caught a glimpse of Alex’s car parked behind the Airstream. 

“The fuck?” He muttered as he threw the truck in park and turned the ignition off. “Alex?!” He called as he got out.

There was no answer.

“Alex!?” Louder this time. Still no answer.

Michael shook his head and pulled out his phone to let everyone he’d found Alex’s car but no sign of Alex yet.

He yanked the door of his Airstream open and let it bounce back against the side as he stomped up the stairs. “What the hell are you do-” Michael stopped cold at the sight of Alex’s slumped form in his bed. Infuriatingly, the ever present warmth didn’t leave him. If anything, it was nearly tangible at this point. “Alex?” The anger and the frustration had disappeared from his voice and left only fear. Michael knew in that moment that every ounce of warmth he carried with him had come from Alex. 

Alex was paler than Michael had ever seen him, his skin almost white. His face was gaunt and-

Michael stopped breathing. Except-

It wasn’t Michael’s chest that wasn’t moving.

[gvbejvmes]

Task: Euphoria

Title: The Stages of Euphoria. Rating: R Pairing: Gabriel/Johnny, Gabe & Georgie Warnings: My love of the F-word, parents having sex lives.

Stage One: Paint

Euphoria is the smell of paint. Not the walk into a freshly painted room and can’t breathe kind of paint, but the elementary school paint. You know the kind I’m talking about. That big green bottle of paint with the crust around the spout. Close your eyes, and think about the smell - the way it gets into your nostrils, the way the smell brings you back into that moment. Do you remember? 

First grade, maybe second, construction paper and paint: hands pressed into it, more paint on your skin and clothes and the table than on the construction paper. Laughter echoing through the room as you make a mess. There’s conversation around you and everyone showing each other what they’re doing. The teacher realizing that it wasn’t a good idea to do art right before lunch. The energy thrumming through the room as paint gets everywhere. That happy memory of creating? That’s euphoria. 

It doesn’t matter that your parents threw it away, that it never made it onto the fridge. That’s never been the point. That’s why that cheap paint smell is important: it brings back the childish wonder and joy of creation. It reminds you of the child art allowed you to be. It reminds you of escape. The one time you were allowed to be yourself - true happiness. That paint smell? It’s a smell that can never be tarnished -- it’s forever.

Stage Two: Baseball

Euphoria is the crack of wood in the summer heat. It’s the sound of a baseball connecting with a metal bat, the RING of metal as the bat hits the ground. It’s your breath, caught in your chest as you run, legs pumping, hope spiking that you’ll make it to the base in time. It’s the sting against your calves as you slide onto base, dirt rising up around you as you wait for the ump’s call. It’s the feel of the grass against your cleats as you run across the grass, so close so close so close and lean over the fence to catch the ball to end the inning. It’s the feel of the worn leather against your hand, the weight of the ball as you catch it. 

The knowledge that you’ll never play professionally that college is as far as you’ll go that the time your dad pulled your arm out of its socket so badly a bad landing pops it out of place means you’ll never be able to play at full capacity without permanently damaging your rotator cuff? That means nothing. Those aren’t the memories that matter. 

It’s the adrenaline of not knowing how the game is going to end. Of sun baked skin, tired bones, and blisters in places you didn’t know you could get blisters. It’s the love of the game that keeps you going, of Dodger blue running through your veins even though you’ve never even seen them play in person. It’s endless summers, and exhausted joy. It’s watching a game on TV and flashing back to all those memories of perfect summer days. 

Stage Three: Soulmate 

Euphoria is being followed around everywhere by a little girl with pigtails. It’s making up your own language so no one understands what you’re talking about and then talking, talking, talking about everything and nothing. It’s pulling your mattresses off the bed in the middle of the night and pressing them together on the floor because there’s strength in numbers. 

It’s having someone to practice putting eyeliner on because dad would flip out if he knew. It’s having someone to buy things for you that would otherwise get you smacked around. It’s laying on the roof for hours, hiding from the world and staring at the stars. 

It’s having a sixth sense about the other. It’s knowing something is wrong with the other without asking. It’s being together and feeding off the other’s energy. It’s being one complete person in two bodies. 

The memories are tinged in red now - bad memories trying to overtake the good ones, but that one final day doesn’t define a lifetime of memories. It’s remembering the good times, and imagining her at all the important life events she should have been at. 

It’s still knowing that she’s there and a part of you and  that she’d be so fucking proud of the person you were able to become - so fucking proud.

Stage Four: Kids

Euphoria is shrill screaming at 3am. It’s diapers that smell worse than any dumpster ever could and weird colored shit with textures you didn’t know existed. It’s a little, red-faced, screaming monster that pukes on you, and pees down your shirt, and sneezes into your mouth. 

It’s trusting eyes that look at you like you’re their whole world. It’s tears that stop when they see your face, and grabby hands that reach for you no matter who’s holding them. It’s kisses, and hugs, and crying when they say Dada for the first time. It’s also trying not to laugh when they say fuck for the first time. 

It’s learning to French braid fine hair, and watching her hold her sister for the first time. It’s holding a baby and a toddler against your chest when you sleep at night. It’s having two shadows that want to play, and cuddle, and hear stories, and make forts, and “draw another silly monster, daddy, please.” 

The missed years while you’re in jail? The letters that never make it to them? Those don’t matter because you have these moments. Crawling around the living room with one daughter dragging you like a show pony while the other one rides on your back? That’s what matters. That’s always been all that matters.

Stage Five: Husband

Euphoria is...blue blue blue blue eyes. It’s broad shoulders hidden by deep blue suits and a jawline that would make Roman sculptures weep. 

It’s big hands handing you art supplies and letting their fingers linger for far longer than what’s socially acceptable. It’s eyes that see through you, and seeing how long it takes to make his mask fall enough to see his true emotions. 

It’s phone calls that aren’t entirely professional. It’s weekly visits that only last a half hour but that get you through your entire week, sometimes through your entire month if your behavior is bad. It’s uncertainty thrumming through your veins. It’s flirting, and not knowing if he’s flirting back. It’s long hugs, and stolen glances while you change into your court clothes. It’s kissing where no one can see, and sneaking in quickies during visitation hours.

It’s years of trust morphing into something else entirely. It’s wedding bands, and I Dos and holding hands and kissing, kissing, kissing, kissing. It’s building a life together and promising to have and to hold. It’s watching terrible television, and taking care of each other and telling each other everything - even when it’s not necessarily something good. 

The long nights alone, the senseless fighting, the screaming matches, the hours shutting each other out... it doesn’t matter - not in the long run. The love is there; the love will always be there. 

Stage Six: Family

Euphoria is a full house. It’s animals chasing at your heels and a grandchild screaming happily as you swing her around in the air. It’s whining about having kids eating you out of house and home when really you’re thrilled that they fill your house up every Sunday. It’s pretending to be annoyed at the constant stream of ‘dad, dad, papa bear, grandpa,’ but loving every fucking second of it. It’s listening to boy talk, and letting them test nail polish on you. It’s screening boyfriends, and being prepared to put the fear of God into them if necessary. 

It’s singing Morrissey in the kitchen, a toddler on your hip while your husband dances you around the kitchen. It’s second chances. 

It’s having a full heart and a full house and a full life.

[haloud]

“Not as Lost, Violent Souls:” Alex Manes and T.S. Eliot’s “The Hollow Men” -- part 3 (fin.)

- intro - part 1 - part 2 -

- posted in final edited format on ao3 -

Previously on:

(gif by bisexualalienblast, used with permission)

This is not a happy poem. Nor do I believe that analyzing it in this way will reveal any more hopeful, happier meaning for Eliot’s hollow men or for Alex Manes. The existence of the hollow men is a bleak one, and at the very beginning of Roswell, New Mexico—the inciting events that build upon each other until Alex references the poem—Alex is in a fairly bleak place himself. However. I, unlike Eliot, do not believe in unhappy endings, so I didn’t want to close out this section just with a whimper. So while this essay concerns itself primarily with bleakness, I still want to remind everyone that “the world ends with a whimper” in episode nine of thirteen (and yet to come). Alex has already punched through the end of the world and is in the process of pulling himself through that hole and out the other side, retaking agency, rediscovering himself, relearning what he wants and how he is going to achieve those desires. The hollow men may have only empty hopes, but Alex’s hope is very real, and his character’s journey, as is the case with all characters in Roswell’s first season, has only just begun.

Part three of this essay will reexamine Alex’s character, his relationship to “The Hollow Men” at various points in his life, and his decision to quote the poem in context from a Watsonian perspective.

Part VI: Alien nation

In order to examine the place of “The Hollow Men” in Alex’s life, we should start at the earliest point for which we have any context for his character. In episode 1x05, Alex references himself as a child before high school and says his father knew he was gay before he did. This mention is brief and barely expanded, but it does provide a point of reference for Alex as a child and the alienation he experienced beginning from such a young age. The audience is given much more context for his character as a teenager on the cusp of becoming a young man, in his last year of high school and about to enter adulthood. It is likely in high school that Alex would have encountered the works of T.S. Eliot—that’s when I did, personally, through both class assignments and a deeply teenage draw towards angsty modernist poets. Eliot’s work is—and I’m drawing on the evidence of my eyes, here, rather than the scholarly—moody and depressing and vague, full of literary references and snippets of myriad different languages, and all those things are intensely appealing to the emo teen.

There are aspects of Eliot’s work that would have come through for Alex as a representation of his personal experience. Eliot himself was not a soldier; he remained at Oxford through the duration of the first World War, and nor did he involve himself in World War II. However, “The Waste Land” and “The Hollow Men” are poems about war all the same, written in the post-war landscape of 1920’s London and among all the accompanying—appropriately dichotomous—depression and euphoria of victory, survival, guilt, and the Treaty of Versailles. The tension between Eliot’s civilian status and the unavoidable nature of writing about war creates a compellingly fitting—or compellingly antithetical—profile of an author in the life of Alex Manes, who was a soldier long before he officially became an airman. As he states, “My father was my war.”. Unlike war poets both canonized and lost to history, Eliot could not write about the realities of the battlefield. However, the emotions felt, and communicated in “The Hollow Men,” are still intensely resonant with the feelings of soldiers. The struggle with hope and loss of hope, the religious imagery, the over-hanging, vague menace of the Shadow, all call to difficulties of returning soldiers and the transition back into a “normal” life, which may never be “normal” again. Therefore, while Eliot’s body of work in general appeals to a person with Alex’s personality, his taste in fashion and music, and in his stage of life at eighteen, “The Hollow Men” as a specific instance of Eliot’s work would have called to Alex more personally.

The religious themes contained in “The Hollow Men” would have had a particular resonance for Alex as a gay young man trapped in a restrictive, though not outright religiously based, household. Again, I draw from personal experience. Because of the opinion of queerness held by conservative religion, which is at best a sort of compassionate condemnation, young queer people often have an instinct toward rebellion and reclamation of the cultural narratives of salvation and damnation. The hollow men in the poem are a group of people condemned to an eternal purgatory, outside of paradise, outside of hell, and this denial of the spiritual right to judgment hits on some aspects of that rebellious feeling. The religious imagery in “The Hollow Men” is indicative of Eliot’s despair at the failings of love, which he attempts to ameliorate with a turn towards God and Christianity, but this is not a path that holds any sort of sanctuary for Alex, even as he struggles with heartbreak and despair. While I can’t say with certainty how Alex feels about religion, I can say that religious alienation is both another type of alienation keenly felt by many queer youth as well as a key feature in understanding “The Hollow Men.”

This understanding of the poem’s religious themes as well as aspects of the poem I earlier established regarding Alex’s relationship with his father provide understanding as to how Alex might have experienced the poem as a young man. I can imagine a scenario in which he was exposed to Eliot’s writing through school and how that writing might have stuck with him through the ensuing decade. Time passed, he grew up, but the feeling of alienation only grew more severe as he compartmentalized his personal identity and his identity as an airman—and lived more completely in the latter. Until, that is, the audience first meets him in the pilot episode of Roswell, New Mexico.

We first meet Alex as an airman, not as a civilian, but the connection he has with Michael is immediately established. It first comes off as antagonistic, but over the course of the episode it unspools itself until the final romantic confrontation at the very end of the episode. Though the viewer is unsure how adversarial Alex may be at this point, no doubt remains that he is a person leading an intensely complicated life. In subsequent episodes, we see Alex shed the uniform more and more, even as he struggles to overthrow his father’s influence and does not always succeed. Finally, in episode 1x08, he learns that Isobel, Max, and, most importantly, Michael are in fact aliens; and not only that, but Michael has been identified as a high-level threat. Though this information is filtered through the lens of his father’s manipulation, and he rightly rejects that worldview, Alex is still left with a choice to make. Does he follow his heart, which tells him that his father must be wrong and that the man he loves couldn’t possibly be the evil Project Shepherd says he is, or does he follow his head, which tells him that he needs to have all the information before he can make any sort of decision, and that he has to do so alone, not trusting anyone else, not simply going up to Michael and asking?

This is the choice Alex struggles to make in the days and weeks leading up to the confrontation with Michael in the Wild Pony at the beginning of episode 1x09. It is a choice with an explicit emotional link to his identity as an airman, as shown in the later conversation between Alex and Kyle:

Alex: “I just…I can’t go in blind.” Kyle: “I’m talking about a conversation, Manes. Not a war.”

But even when he’s faced with Michael demanding the answer to a question he doesn’t even know Alex is asking, Alex hasn’t yet decided. That decision comes at the end of the episode, when he declares “I’m tired of walking away” and asks Michael to tell him everything. During that moment in the Wild Pony, Alex is still caught, one could say, between the idea and the reality, the motion and the act, the emotion and the response. And he doesn’t say “we’re done;” he doesn’t say “not now;” he doesn’t say “let’s talk.” He quotes “The Hollow Men.”

Part VII: Conclusion

By invoking “The Hollow Men,” Alex calls upon this entire body of bleak imagery, of hopelessness, and of futility. Even what potential for salvation exists within the poem is “the hope only / of empty men.” “Sometimes the world ends with a whimper” is a gut punch of a line to begin with, but the statement he makes is even more deliberate and definite than it first appears. First, it’s a tacit admission that this thing between himself and Michael that he’s ending has or does constitute a “world” of its own. Second, if Alex identifies with the speaker of the poem, it’s an admission that not only does the world end with a whimper, but that it does so because of failings within himself, the same failings of the hollow men. It’s an apology as much as it is a rejection.

Alex’s journey, as previously stated, does not end when he references the end of the world itself. His character, despite the massive strides taken throughout season one, has not completed its arc. He has not struggled for the last time against the influence of his father or the consequences of a lifetime of trauma. There will always be a part of him that identifies with the scarecrow and the effigy. With this explication of “The Hollow Men,” I strive to identify the imagery and themes within the poem that are illustrative of Alex’s character, some of his internal struggles, and his choice to reference the poem at such a subtly key moment. Episode 1x09, both the confrontation in the Wild Pony and the reconnection in the junkyard, is a pivotal moment for both Alex’s character and his relationship with Michael. Understanding the potential weight behind his choice of words aids understanding of him in totality, where he is coming from, and where he may go from here.

References

Eliot, T.S. “The Hollow Men.” Norton Anthology of English Literature: The Major Authors, ed. Stephen Greenblatt, 9th ed., 2013, pp. 2728.

Howard, Jeffrey G. “T.S. Eliot’s THE HOLLOW MEN.” The Explicator, vol. 70, no. 1, 2012, pp. 8-12, https://doi.org/10.1080/00144940.2012.656736. Accessed 2 Sept. 2019.

“Poets of Reality; Six Twentieth-Century Writers.” Cambridge, Belknap Press of Harvard University Press, Cambridge, 1965.

Smith, Grover. T.S. Eliot’s Poetry and Plays: A Study in Sources and Meaning. Chicago: U of Chicago, 1956. Print.

“Watsonian vs. Doylist.” TvTropes.org. Accessed 27 Aug. 2019.

Worthen, John. T.S. Eliot : A Short Biography. London: Haus Pub., 2011. Print.

[thinkingaboutyoungroyals]

Autumn-y fic request! Cyrus finds out TJ is a pumpkin spice enthusiast and decides to surprise him with a date to the cute shop that sells pumpkin doughnuts and apple cider (from the “Perfect Day 2.0”) episode. This can be an actual date if you want to make it established relationship, or just flirty. Bonus points if Cy recounts losing his shoe and Buffy awkwardly carrying him. TJ scoops him up bridal style to “prove he can do a better job than Buffy” (but really he wants an excuse to hold Cy)

This was a cute prompt! Hope this is okay!

AO3

Absentmindedly tapping his fingers against the table, Cyrus patiently waited for his boyfriend to fetch their breakfast before school.

It all still felt like a dream. He, Cyrus Goodman, was in a relationship. Not a fake one. Not a “are they or aren’t they”. A real, hand-holding, sweet kisses kind, fun dates of relationship.

“Here we are.” T.J. occupied the seat across from him, placing two cups and two saran-wrapped muffins on the table. “Hot chocolate and chocolate-chocolate muffin for my muffin.”

Cyrus blushed, holding back a giggle as his boyfriend pushed the items towards him.

“Thank you,” he said, picking up the muffin and unwrapping it. “You don’t have to do this, you know. I can get my own muffin now.”

And by that, he meant that he always tried to come to school early and line up. But, ever since he and T.J. started dating, the jock had taken it upon himself to grab breakfast for him, instead.

“I know,” T.J. replied with a grin. “But, I want to. Is that okay?”

Smiling, Cyrus nodded before taking a sweet bite of the second most glorious food in the world.

“So,” T.J. began as he unwrapped his own muffin. “What are our plans for this weekend?”

Cyrus looked up, mouth full of muffin. He chewed, quickly, and swallowed. “Um… I haven’t really thought of anything, yet,” he said, rather guiltily.

He was supposed to take T.J. out on a date this weekend. But, so far, he couldn’t think of a good one.

“That’s okay.” T.J. handed him a napkin. “Not everyone can plan a perfect date like I can.” He winked, playfully. “If you want, I can-.”

“No,” Cyrus interrupted with a shake of his head. “I said I would take you out on a date and I will. I’m just trying to think of something that we’ll both enjoy and not result in me twisting an ankle.”

Or throwing up in his shoe but they were eating so he chose not to say that part.

“You know I’m just fine with lunch and a movie.”

“But, that’s a typical date! I want us to do something fun and different!”

On their last date, T.J. had taken him to a space-themed café that just opened up for lunch. Then, they spent the afternoon swinging at the park.

In fact, since the moment they got together, T.J. had been planning all their dates. And Cyrus wanted to return the favor, for once.

“Alright, fine. But, you know I’ll have fun with whatever it is because it’s with you.”

T.J. smiled before opening the seal of his drink and taking a swig. Then, he bit into his muffin, the crumbs falling onto the table. Cyrus caught a whiff of pumpkin and cinnamon and he tilted his head to the side.

“Is that a pumpkin spice muffin?” he asked.

“Mmhmm.” T.J. nodded as he took another bite. “They started serving it when October hit.”

“Can I try your drink?”

T.J. wordlessly pushed his cup towards him and Cyrus picked it up. He took a whiff, noting the sweet scent before taking a sip.

Yep, pumpkin spice.

“You really like pumpkin, huh?” he commented, amused as he returned the cup back to T.J.

His boyfriend blushed, slightly. “Hey, ‘tis the season, might as well,” he replied.

As Cyrus watched T.J. practically inhale his pumpkin spice muffin and down his pumpkin spice drink, the wheels started turning in his head.

…………..

“So, are you gonna tell me where we’re going?” T.J. asked for the tenth time, from the moment they got on the bus to go to the Alpine Slide.

Cyrus kept swinging their entwined hands between them. “Nope. But, you’ll love it. I promise.”

T.J. laughed. “I’m sure, I will.” He looked around the area. “I’ve never been around here before.”

“Really? Andi, Buffy, and I used to take bike rides here. Actually, where I’m taking you is kind of our little secret. But, I got their permission to take you there too.”

“Well, I feel honored.”

Playfully, Cyrus nudged T.J.’s shoulders with his. T.J. nudged back.

Finally, they reached the shop. Cyrus excitedly pulled him inside. As soon as they got a whiff of the air around them, T.J.’s eyes lit up.

“Is that…”

“Pumpkin donuts!” Cyrus declared.

T.J.’s eyes were sparkling as they got in line to order food. Cyrus had never seen him so excited and practically bouncing on his feet like a bunny. If they weren’t holding hands, he would definitely take a video.

After getting a bag of donuts and cups of warm apple cider to ward off the chill from their walk from the bus stop, they settled on a table in the corner and dug in.

T.J. was in euphoria, if his happy little noises were any indication. Cyrus could barely enjoy his own donut as he was too enamored by his boyfriend’s enthusiasm.

“I think these are the best pumpkin donuts I’ve ever had,” T.J. gushed. “I’m definitely buying some to take home. How did you guys find this place?”

And with that, Cyrus regaled him with the tales of the Good Hair Crew’s adventures, specifically Perfect Day 1 and Perfect Day 2.0.

“… and then a villainous bee stung me in the eye! It was awful!” Cyrus shuddered at the memory. “Buffy had to carry me.”

T.J. brows furrowed as he took a sip of his cider. “Really? She carried you?”

“You know how strong she is! And I’m quite light, thank you!”

T.J. smirked. “Bet I can carry you better.”

At that, Cyrus flushed red. “U-Um… there’s a small petting zoo in the back,” he managed, tearing at a donut while trying hard not to grin. “After we eat, we can go there, if you want.”

Grinning, T.J. reached over and squeezed his hand. “Sounds good.”

After finishing their donuts and cider (Cyrus had two, T.J. had four), they went to the back of the shop where a wooly sheep, an overly friendly goat, and a pony were waiting to be petted and given treats. They spent the next half hour petting, feeding, and taking photos to commemorate their date.

And before leaving, T.J. bought himself another bag of pumpkin donuts.

Hand-in-hand, they made their way back to the bus stop with Cyrus recounting his last adventure with the GHC.

“Oh, there’s the quicksand where I lost my shoe!” he pointed out.

T.J. laughed. “Well, good thing you didn’t lose it again this time. Or I might have to carry you back.”

“No, Buffy had to carry me back when I got stung by a bee,” Cyrus corrected. “I’m highly allergic to bees.”

“I guess I’ll have to protect you then? Should I carry you?”

Gosh, T.J. was a really cheesy boyfriend. Cyrus felt pretty privileged to be the only one to see this side of him.

“Well, good thing there aren’t any bees,” Cyrus retorted. “So there’s no need to carry me.”

“I think I can still carry you whether or not you’ve been stung by a bee.”

Cyrus chuckled. “If I didn’t know any better, I think you’re just looking for an excuse to carry me.”

T.J. gasped in pretend shock. “Cyrus Goodman! Are you saying that I have ulterior motives?”

“Don’t you always?”

“Well, maybe I just want to prove that I can do a better job at carrying you than Buffy.”

“Must everything between you two be a competition?”

“It’s how we show affection to each other without all the gross stuff.” Suddenly, T.J. paused in his tracks. He handed Cyrus his bag of donuts. “Can you hold this for me for a sec?”

“Sure?” Confused, Cyrus took the bag.

Before he knew it, his feet were no longer on the ground and he flailed in panic, his arms wrapping around T.J.’s neck. The pumpkin donuts were thankfully still safely clutched in his hands.

“T.J.!”

His boyfriend grinned, happily as he began to walk with Cyrus in his arms. “See? Told you I can carry you better.”

“She carried me on her back!”

“Well, you didn’t say that. But this is better, isn’t it?”

Cyrus was well-aware that he was probably tomato-red right at that moment and it had nothing to do with the chill of the afternoon. And, T.J. was kind of right. Being carried in his arms was more enjoyable than being carried on Buffy’s back. Or maybe it was because he was in T.J.’s arms.

“Silence means ‘yes’,“ T.J. teased.

“Shush,” Cyrus replied, keeping his gaze firmly on the taller boy’s hood.

If he looked up at him, he would blush even more. But, after a minute or so, he couldn’t resist. He lifted his head slightly.

T.J.’s face was so close and his features so sharp and clear. He was reaaaaally handsome. And just looking at him made Cyrus’ stomach fill with butterflies. He couldn’t tear his gaze away.

They arrived right on time to catch the bus and the 10-minute ride was filled with a still red-faced Cyrus laying his head on T.J.’s shoulder. Meanwhile, his boyfriend munched on some of his pumpkin donuts.

Arriving back in town, T.J. walked him home.

“I should be walking you home,” Cyrus said, swinging their entwined hands between them. “I’m the one who took you out.”

“My house is the opposite direction of yours, Underdog,” T.J. replied. “Besides, I don’t mind.” He squeezed Cyrus’ hand. “But, next time you, can walk me.”

Cyrus beamed. “Okay!”

Arriving at his house, he turned on his heels to look at his tall boyfriend.

“Did you have fun?” he asked, a little worriedly.

“Yeah, of course! It was amazing… and I got the most delicious pumpkin donuts to prove it.”

“So… would you say it was the perfect day?” he asked, sheepishly.

T.J. pursed his lips, pretending to think. “Hmm, not quite.”

Cyrus’ face almost fell until the taller boy leaned in and planted a soft kiss on his lips. And Cyrus practically melted.

T.J. broke the kiss and grinned. “Now it’s perfect.”

Cyrus couldn’t agree more.