generalsdiary

The midnight black Yamaha Dragstar ‘96 is the only means of transportation you brought with you. You didn’t dare drive to work on it yet… Unfamiliar town and the difficulties of using navigation while driving, you suppose that is about to change.

While you can't claim you know the neighborhoods around here, this one sure looks like a higher-end one. A few minutes before the agreed time you arrive outside his building. Tall buildings, excluded from main city roads, surrounded by parks and greenery — Kennedy must live comfortably. 

You turn the key to switch off the bike. Near the entrance of one apartment building, you notice Leon leaning against the wall wearing the same black leather jacket, unintentionally matching you.

“Hey,” he approaches you, helmet in hand.

“Hey yourself. Ever ride on a motorcycle before?” While the question may be dumb, technically, he has a helmet. Safety comes first and it is important to have all the information.

Leon tilts his head down and looks at you through his eyelashes with a smirk that makes you stop breathing, “Ride? I’m usually the one driving them.” The smirk stretches into a smile as he puts his helmet on.

With a cheeky wink you invite him, “Hop on, husband.”

The bike sinks under your shared weight, Leon’s thighs press, ever so gently, against yours; the only two indicators that he is behind you. While both of you, as experienced drivers, know it isn’t necessary to cling onto the driver; there’s a lingering respect for your space which he doesn’t cross. You note that he elected to not embrace you, not utilizing the unique opportunity to put you in a possibly uncomfortable situation.

Without going too much over the speed limit, you safely get both of you to the restaurant, Leon had probably expected you to drive recklessly. Well, not around here; especially not with another person riding with you.

Leaning the bike on its left stand, you get off it and a warmth spreads down your back — he’s observing you. Bikers always look good when they get off them, and your pants grip you just right in all the right places, his gazing is more than welcome.

The restaurant is midbudget; nothing you can’t afford, but also not something too fancy-looking.

A round table by the window with an emerald green tablecloth is where the receptionist seats you. While he picks up the menu, you don’t bother touching it, having looked up the menu online and planned out your order prior to the date. You casually look around the room, a practiced natural action, it’s not supposed to look out of place. Your eyes catch a few couples having dinner, a family bickering about their teenager’s behavior, a couple of suits discussing business matters, a total of six briefcases that you can see… Sprinklers on the ceiling, smoke alarms, two cameras, hallways leading to the bathrooms which have no other exit, possible exits are the windows facing the street, kitchen, possibly behind the bar—

“Did you decide what you’ll eat?” A twinkle in his eyes makes you realize he isn’t as oblivious to your tendencies as you might have assumed. A smidge of worry appears on his face — you can only presume by your need to do so — neatly covered by a small impressed smile.

“Yeah, I’m having pasta with four kinds of cheese, and a tomato salad,” you finally give him your full attention.

“All that without looking at the menu,” his blue eyes are relentlessly staring at you as if scolding you for not being focused on him, “I’ll order the steak.”

You shake your head, fidgeting with one of your rings, “I tend to prepare in advance for these things,” you begin explaining.

A young waitress approaches the table and takes your orders, cutting the small talk about food.

“Anything else I can get for you?” She leans in and coos at your date.

Aiming a bit fucking high, he is too old for her. He is too old for you, but because you’re a grown adult, it’s less problematic… less controversial. The surprise on your face is hard to hide, your eyebrows shoot up on your forehead, and the sheer audacity makes you smile brightly. Technically, you haven’t known the man for long and it shouldn’t matter.

Regardless, this is your date, and she’s posing like a little imposter. Or, this jealousy is out of self-doubt. A younger, more naive, a girl, might have an easier time catching his eye.

Leon glances at you, catching your reaction, and shuts up any intrusive thought with a flat response, “Just water, please,” enough to be polite and offer a simple rejection.

You snort softly. Her eagerness is a refreshing reality check, people tend to behave like this. A good reminder why you dislike social interactions. And an excellent reminder why you miss your four walls back at the hotel.

Only then do you notice her hand on his forearm, lingering a second too long. You see red. If anyone were touching you, you’d probably cut their arm off. Touching someone without consent? Not okay. Or is this how neurotypical heteronormative people flirt? How could you even know — you’re none of those things.

“Husband, dear,” you start, and it is more than enough. Her hand falls off as if she got burnt. With a soft cough, she clears her throat, quietly excusing herself, “I-I’ll get those waters for you.”

Leon has a sparkle in his eyes and an enigmatic smile plays on his lips, “You’re trouble.”

“I… may be… just a tiny bit…” showcasing with your forefinger and thumb, “of a jealous man,” you look away with a shrug.

The lovely sound of his laughter meets your ears, “And who exactly are you jealous of?”

There it is, he is mocking the sheer idea that he would consider the young girl or her flirty approach, “She was flirting with you!” you cross your legs, “And, it looked uncomfortable for you, so— it was more for your sake than mine.”

The babyblues do not move away from you. He looks thoroughly entertained, fascinated… dare you think, content? Not one nonverbal language that could claim he sees this as a red flag. “Ah, so you were feeling territorial? Good to know.”

Blood rushes to your face, you can feel your cheeks heating up. Avoiding his gaze, you look above his shoulder. 

“There it is,” he softly proclaimed.

“Shut up,” can he stop teasing for a single moment — it’s giving your stomach a funny feeling.

“Make me,” he dares you.

This is when you look back at him, as one would prey, locked on his eyes, more than ready to strike back. An invitation to kiss would make your hands shake, however a challenge? Now that, you’ll gladly rise up to.

The young girl returns with your food, and hot plates are carefully placed down with a mumble of ‘enjoy your meals’.

“Don’t say anything stupid,” Leon jokingly warns you under his breath.

“Don’t say ‘make me’ if you don’t want me to kiss you,” bravely striking back, you look down at your plate, refusing to give your brain more nonverbal body language to analyze. The pasta looks great, yep, white, yellow, nice and cheesy. Smells good, some green stuff on top, yep, yep. Good food, surely it will taste good too, savory and full of flavor. Yeah, yummy food.

Your plan semifailed; the verbal body language still gets served to you on a silver platter. He coughed the moment you launched your counterstrike; a threat and a promise, nearly choking on his steak.

After loudly clearing his throat, he finally replies, “For the record, if I said ‘make me’, I’d be expecting a kiss.”

You narrow your eyes and stab a piece of pasta, “Shut up, you old man.”

“Old man?” he pierces a piece of pasta from your plate before you can defend your territory, your eyes widen, “Watch it, kid.”

Who is he calling kid? If you weren’t in a restaurant, you’d probably tackle him down, “Hey! That is mine.”

He makes a soft noise, waving his staked prize like a finger, “Tsk, tsk, too slow.”

You raise an eyebrow, “I’m no match for your combat skills with a fork and,” you can’t help but laugh, “stolen food.”

Leon shrugs, the fabric of his shirt ripples around his shoulders — why is he wearing such a tight shirt, goddamn, “Well, I’m surprised you didn’t see my attack incoming. Ya’know with all your… superior pattern recognition.”

He is playing with you like a toy violin, picking each string and producing a melody to his liking, “I indeed did not,” time to switch the power dynamic, “Also, if you’re expecting a kiss after this date, you will have to wash out your mouth with something. I do not eat meat and I don’t wanna be tasting meat.”

Instead of shock, displeasure, drama, he simply nods, “Noted.” As if it is not the hassle you were made out to believe it is. As if it is the bare minimum and not something to create a scene about. 

A different waitress steals your attention; asking about dessert. You order one of their lemon cakes and Leon does the same.

But the universe must be testing your patience when the girl asks, “Anything else I can get for you?” And she’s practically undressing Leon with her eyes.

One waitress flirting is… bearable, but another one makes your smile drop. You inhale, ready to cut this cute attempt short.

“Nothing else, thank you. Just the desserts,” Leon wastes no time in speaking up, electing to not even look at her.

You look down at the tablecloth. Would this be a constant if you guys actually decided to date? Not that you are even allowed. Coworkers, moreover: partners are not allowed romantic or sexual relationships, unless they’re married.

Leon calls out your name gently.

“Leon,” you answer him.

“What’s going on in that head of yours right now?” His large hands are calm, covered with a scar here and there, but he isn’t reaching out to hold your hand. This pattern won’t apply to him. You note it down in your head; he is respectful and mindful, and, despite his age, he is patient. 

“I get it,” you exhale, “you’re hot— old and hot. But does everything on two legs have to flirt with you? Gods forbid two men go out on a date. What do they think, that we are on a business dinner?” you roll your eyes and prop your chin on your hand. 

He takes a moment to look down, mimicking your body language for a moment, “It is better for us than it used to be. And the flirting? None of it matters. After all, I am here with you, not one of them.”

You fidget with your rings, taking one off your thumb and moving another one from your pointer finger to your ring finger. They’re rather similar, simple silver bands. The one from your thumb you gently push in his direction. If he laughs, if he says no, if he does or thinks anything negative; it will be fine. You will be fine. What’s the worst thing he can say?

Leon glances at the ring and makes no comment. He’s looking at you, waiting for an explanation.

“We are working together. This…” you look around the restaurant. This might as well be your one and only grander date, the last time you get to do this before you have to end everything that never began.

“This isn’t allowed. Today can pass off as us getting to know each other as partners, should anyone be keeping an eye on either of us. But… if… If you’re interested in going on dates and seeing what this may be,” you shrug, refusing to meet his eyes, your brain would already start analyzing his every microexpression to your words and it would steal the wind under your wings, “it would be best to act married, for them.” With a dry chuckle you wrap up your daring suggestion, “Also, it might make ballsy younglings stop flirting with you.”

“And you just so happened to have the rings ready to go?” Leon raises his eyebrows, carefully picking up the ring from the table.

“No— Leon, I am wearing rings, I wore them here!” you defensively shake your head, raising your hands to prove the fact.

“Planning our wedding already, have you been thinking about marriage since this morning, or perhaps even since the other day?”

“Leon!” you plead, “I wore them—”

“I know, I’m teasing,” he smiles, easing your mind. Leon slips the ring on his ring finger. A perfect fit.

At some point when one faces the music, the song itself gets too loud. The chair gently pushes back without a sound, “I’ll be right back,” this is the very reason you started hating leaving your house. The sounds get too much, the clothes on your body feel too tight or the fabric is just touching you— the lights are too bright, the air is too heavy— you finally make it to the bathroom.

The fluorescent white lights do not help, a hefty price to pay for less noise. You hang your jacket on a door and splash some water on your face. Once your hand is cold and still dripping water, you palm your nape, directly calming down the largest nerve in your body.

With each deep breath, you tremble less. It is not nearly enough to function perfectly, but it will do. It is the best you can do for now. You thank the gods that Leon didn’t follow you like some loyal puppy who cannot survive five fucking minutes without its owner.

Taking one last deep breath in, you exit the bathroom and make your way back to the table.

Leon slowly stands up before you approach the table, he waits until you’re beside him to speak, “I took care of the bill.”

Splitting it equally would be better, given where you two stand, so this irks you, “Oh, you fucking ass,” you whisper. On another hand, maybe he noticed your mood change and aimed to take your mind off of it.

Leon hums in turn, “Language, dear,” he walks in step with you to the exit. His hand presents itself in front of you, as if for a dance, offering.

Yeah, he is teasing, “I need a cigarette, dear,” you breathe out and take his hand in yours. A nifty performance for prying eyes. Finally outside in the fresh air, you take out the pack one-handed and light up a cigarette. Smoke fills your lungs and grounds you again.

Attentively, he watches you fiddle with it, “Those things will kill you.”

“You’ll still die before me,” you glance at the cig, twirling it between your pointer and middle finger, “No amount of cigarettes could bridge the years I’d have to live alone if we end up dating seriously.”

His hand is gently gripping yours like it isn’t the first time. It is warm, soft, surprisingly reassuring. Leon tilts his head down, “Already planning that far ahead?”

You blink a few times and stare at your shoes for a few moments, “I… Sorry, if it makes you not like me. It’s just the way I am.”

Leon shakes his head, the evening’s wind shifts the soft strands of his hair, “No need. It is refreshing, new.” He reaches out and carefully takes the cigarette from your hands, you already see the scene play out in front of you; he will throw it away or extinguish it or shit about it. A good excuse to end this charade early, if anything.

Your abdomen tightens when he brings the cigarette to his lips and inhales, looking at you across the smoke. You can’t remember when you have seen something this attractive. Your body freezes on the outside, while on the inside heat pools low in your stomach and your knees feel weak. You can’t believe something that simple got you hard. Instantly.

His beautiful lips wrap around the filter once more before he returns the cigarette to your hand. Holy fuck. Do not panic, everything is fine, no you’re not thinking about fucking him right now, nope, nope, you’re fine.

A thumb caresses your hand, “You good?” Fuck no, you’re not. Every single thought you could possibly have is jumping around like a cartoon chipmunk on speed. Someone send help. 

Tilting your chin up, you nod, “Yeah, I’m just peachy.” Blinking to take your mind over the pornography that it just played out from something as innocent as cigarette sharing, you mumble out your exact thoughts. Why hold back, he will take it as a joke and continue this lighthearted teasing. Or, you’ll get burnt for being too loose with him, “Got hard from that.” Oof, too late, brain. Your mouth always worked faster than your head.

Leon chuckles, “I never thought it would be that easy to turn you on, you look like you’d be impossible… With all the walls you like to keep up,” he vaguely gestures up and down with his finger.

“Shut up, Kennedy.”

Oh he gladly takes you up for that challenge, raising an eyebrow, stepping closer, continuing his train of thought, “Bet you like seeing that ring on my finger.”

That man is dangerously right on the money and you opt for glaring at him to hide your true thoughts. Except, he’s had well over twenty years over you to learn how to read people and how to play you like a fiddle. Leon just… smirks.

Glaring failed. Once the original plan fails, one can either sit and wallow in shame or…laugh at your own slightly embarrassing moment. It feels right to laugh; it takes some weight off your shoulders.

You can’t recall the last time someone so consistently kept looking at you, it’s as if you’re holding all the stars up in the night sky. He is planet Earth and you’re the Sun, rotating around you. “I like that. When you laugh. It is… disarming.”

“Is it?” you purposefully hint.

“Good, good, hiding your nerves with confidence. Clever,” he turns fully toward you.

“Oh, I know I am, husband dear,” the smile so easily brightens up your face and you step closer. Highly above average intelligence, tested as a child, teen and young adult, there is no denying it and no reason to pretend you’re not. Might as well be cocky with it, and with your date too.

His lips part before he speaks, “...Husband,” his gaze is piercing through you along with all the teasing of the night, locking you in place — a moth drawn by the open flame. What more could you do but fly closer?

You nod, eyes daring to finally fall to his lips, “Mhm.”

Leon’s free hand cups your jaw. He meets your eyes, silently asking for consent, checking if you want to do this too. Your eyes fall back to his lips and it’s all he needs as confirmation. His lips part and they’re meeting yours, as soft as you assumed they would be. Bold, firm but not biting off more than he can chew, Leon keeps it simple.

This close you can finally smell his cologne, something simple, light — it makes you lean in more, wanting, needing to inhale more of him. You tilt your head, separate for a moment and go in for one more— is it that easy to get addicted to him?

Brushing his nose against yours, he pulls away, lips parted. He looks needy. Incredibly easy to read.

“Still thinking about dying before me?” What an opener.

“Well, now I am!” Your mind, of course, like an old film player, puts the tape on and flips through the well-revised facts.

His hand falls off your jaw, “I’m sorry, I’ll be more mindful of your busy bee of a head,” he smiles and it calls for your attention; it is impossible to not look at his lips.

Now that, is in turn disarming, he has a far too easy time getting to you. Scarily easy.

“It felt good,” you whisper, slowly leaning in to kiss him again. Eagerly, his lips part and meet yours faster than the first time. The stubble feels surprisingly good against your skin, you can smell him again, your fingers twitch to go through his hair and you desperately try to hold back from running your fingers through it. More like you want to run your hand all over him, and man, it is fucking hard not to. You settle for running your thumb across his jawline, the sharpness of his stubble is as sensory satisfying as you assumed it would be.

More, more, more. You want to keep kissing him, go at him like a hormone-driven teenager.

When he pulls away, because you lacked any self-control to stop, his breath brushes against your cheek, “We should go.” Fucking hell.

Your hand falls from his face, “Why is that? Are you so eager to go back to your empty home?” 

Leon gives your hand a little squeeze, “My home isn’t empty anymore,” he smirks, “I have a partner these days. A husband, apparently.”

Your laughter makes him smile, “I doubt we have to live together to pretend we are married, Leon.” Although, it is highly likely they’re keeping an eye on you and would find out you two are living separately, which would not be good…

“That is true,” his hand gently brushes your hair, lucky bastard that you’re not the one who gets to do the same thing, “But… we cannot afford to wait to see if we are going to work out; to start seriously pretending with the marriage. Sadly, we already need established shared living patterns, joint accounts, responsibilities, preferably the same living address.”

You sigh. He is right. There is no time to date and see how you two breathe and then go all in with the pretend marriage. The cover story needs to cover you, like, yesterday or it all needs to end right now. And when you ask yourself about right now… you see Leon Kennedy standing in front of you, respectful, patient, fucking hot, eyes only for you, no red flags, yet, from what you can tell and still, it is far too early to go all in. It is getting hard to say no, to turn away, why does he look at you like that… like you’re the whole world. If these are the tactics older men use, you’re fucking cooked. Because it is absolutely working.

You want to tell him to stop that, to look away, and somehow those words do not part from your lips. It feels too good. This relic knows exactly how to behave with you.

Shaking your head, you laugh and settle with the reality of the situation. It is all or nothing, “Leon Kennedy, will you marry me?”

“We are already pretending to be married,” he lets your hand go to show you the ring you gave him, “Are you just being formal with me about it?” he asks back sarcastically.

You laugh harder, unlike your words, “I’m being serious.”

Leon’s eyes widened, “Seriously? You’re proposing to me in the middle of the street after… two and a half, halfassed dates?”

You nod, “If you want to have established stuff and everything, might as well sign some fucking documents and get married. Wouldn’t you agree?”

Leon’s face hardens, growing serious. He says your name.

You answer back, “Leon.”

“It is fucking rushed, and too much. It does make sense. We’d get married, be husband and husband. With benefits and shit.” Unintentionally, your eyes drift to his lips. What does he taste like, does he taste good, you bet he tastes fucking good—

When his words finally reach your ears, your gaze moves above his shoulder; a sparkle appears in your eyes, “Oo— and lower taxes!”

Leon’s mouth slightly opens and he laughs, “You’re insane!”

You wink at him with a small shrug, “I’m practical.”

While casually talking to him and messing around feels easy… Actually communicating your issues, problems, feelings — those could prove not as easy. Does he rage when he cannot find his keys? Would going bankrupt make him lose his mind? Would the death of a loved one make him shut down? Such questions need to be answered, and dating would answer those.

Merging your life with his, marrying the man you knew nothing about a week ago, is rash. Too bold.

Yet, you look at him now and you see… enough. Knowing he is your coworker, a legend nonetheless, soothes some worries you have. He hasn't proved himself to be an asshole. So far.

Marriage is just a piece of paper with your signatures, you can buy actual rings to sell it better, a joint savings account with a small amount should cover that… A shared living address doesn't have to be necessary, perhaps you two could sell the idea that you're estranged, although that wouldn't fly that well with the higher ups. Not that it is any of their business.

Behaving as lovebirds outside of work and selling the scenario that you're estranged won't cut it. This grows more complicated with every incoming thought.

Leon had noticed your silence and the eventual dive into deep thought, his voice gently guides you back out of the well you’ve delved in, “Hey…”

The clear blue of his eyes grounds you back with him. Reflexively, you squeeze his hand and let go.

“C'mon. Drive me home.”

Cold night air fills your lungs again and you exhale, calming your nerves.

The rumbling of your bike and his thighs barely touching yours, what a strangely comforting sensation. Your mind is balancing on the thin thread between white noise and overthinking.

Leon's hand rubs the outer side of your thigh, not a sign to get your attention nor something sensual. You can't genuinely feel his fingers over your pants, but it is more than enough to soothe some loud thoughts. If you weren't driving, you'd close your eyes. Instead, you breathe in. You're fine, you're driving, you cannot afford to give in to your desire to appreciate the moment.

Coming to a stop in front of his building, you ponder if you should turn off your bike or not. Take off your helmet or not, get off the bike or just say goodbye and leave. 

Leon's torso brushes against you as he gets off. Taking his helmet off, he ruffles his hair. The moonlight shines through the grey strands mixed with darker ones, it steals your attention. Your hands reach for the helmet's strap before you can process it, taking it off. Leaning the bike to the side, you step off.

“I…” the oak trees behind him rustle in the wind, becoming the most interesting thing at the moment, “had a nice time tonight.”

Leon's eyes drag over your face, silently observing for a few moments, “Me too.”

Your barely contained peace fractures when he puts his hands on his hips, helmet swinging from two fingers against his thigh. “There are things I haven't told you. And if you're serious about…” he lowers his head with a frown, “getting married to date, you should know that I am… not flirty nor the type to approach others. If anything, I prefer solitude.” 

He keeps avoiding your eyes. A trembling sensation fills your chest. Whatever he's going to share will probably be the other shoe you've been waiting to drop. To stop this illusion your mind is making you believe: that he is genuinely interested and that this unexplainable curiosity is just that, curiosity. This has to be the exit you’ve been waiting for. Possibly to avoid getting into an overly complicated situation.

“That day, I spoke to you because… a friend of mine insisted I talk to someone, anyone,” Leon sighs, “hot in their words. I did not want to…” He tilts his head back, looking up at the night sky,  “I wanted to talk to someone kind,” when he meets your eyes again, it sends shivers down your body.

Leon looked for someone kind. He was pressured by a friend to date, to meet someone new and he randomly landed on you. It is surreal, and the sheer chances of getting along with someone at random are nearly nil.

All the teasing and the joking isn't genuinely natural to you either, it seems you two just bounce off of each other like that. Perhaps, a calmer lifestyle is what dating would've revealed… if life gave you a chance to explore it. Explore each other.

He is looking at you. Oh fuck, he is looking at you, you've been silently staring for too long— “Thank you.” Thank you? What the hell?

“You're welcome?” he responds with equal confusion.

He is just a stranger. Well, technically, he isn't that anymore. He is Leon Kennedy, your coworker, your partner. Even if you snuff out all interest, you can't help but question yourself. Is he someone you could work beside and not want more? Not want… everything he could possibly be able to offer?

It has been years since just talking to someone felt as good, as natural as it does with him. It is a big call to make on such little time, the risk is high for this gamble. Is a possible divorce worth the risk of dating? Are the stakes worth the risk? Or is the other side… only working together, worse?

Under the starry sky, with Leon looking at you, the decision seems simple. You want to explore this, explore him, explore what “we” could be.

It is time to be honest with yourself: you don't date. You don't go out nor meet people. Here stands someone who is interested in you. You pause, looking above Leon's shoulder. You could go back and forth between these two choices for days. And it has to be made now.

“I am incredibly indecisive right now. Yes, I want to see where this takes us, and I refuse to snuff out the flame before it has gotten a chance to burn. And yet, it is so fucking soon. But marriage is just a piece of paper. Divorce or an annulment are easy options if we don't work out. I am just torn between the two choices,” this is one of the rare instances where you sound serious, and in turn, his shoulders tense.

He doesn't have an answer either. 

“Let's just…” you look up, filling your lungs with the cold air, “fuck,” you shake your head. This situation feels like a stalemate.

Leon reaches out to you, gently touching your elbow, “Hey.” 

It is far too easy to look up at him, to allow him to soothe you, to ground you. “Hey.” Or maybe it isn’t your choice to allow him to do so. Perhaps, he already does that without needing your approval. No… that would mean you've already gotten attached. 

“We don't have to figure it out now. Yes, things will be more difficult if we don't decide, but,” he breathes in and out, “But. We can just exist as we are. And if it gets too late…”

This is the point where you don't know enough about one another, who would be willing to quit their job for the sake of a relationship. What if both took a hit? It would most definitely be you. Based on his achievements, the short end of the stick would land in your hands. Risking your job over a man? Fuck no, it immediately settles your decision. 

Your eyes steel, “Let's get married. Tomorrow morning. Based on the file, our mission isn't until Monday. I have a suit somewhere, let's go to the courthouse, sign a prenup and get it done.” Although, he could go for an early retirement — which raises even more questions. Would he want to, does he have the ability to do so, is he even allowed to?

Leon leans slightly in, eyelids low, and whispers, “You're so romantic.”

Your eyes widen and the tension snaps; you burst into laughter, “Oh, I hadn't realized you wanted romance, Kennedy,” you step closer to him, laughing between every other word.

Leon's laugh meets your ears too, his hand slips past your elbow, “I’m an old man, maybe I want to be pampered and romanced,” his eyes sparkle with the all-too-familiar smirk, “and wooed.”

It is hard to not laugh at his words, and luckily, you have no reason to hold back your giggles, “Is that so, mister Kennedy? Shall I pamper you?” As a part of the joke, you reach out to brush a few strands of hair out of his face. His hair is as soft as you imagined it would be. Your mind flows back to reality; you’re doing exactly what you’ve been daydreaming of. 

Laughing ended a mere second ago and what is left over are two men smiling at each other. His hand gingerly applies pressure to the back of your upper arm, delicately nudging you closer.

Easily enough, there is little space between you two. Your fingers fall out of his hair the long way around. Tracing the shell of his ear, caressing the prickly start of his stubble, where his roots end on his face. The sensations hold your curiosity, welcoming your attention. Every movement, every touch he is allowing you, feels electrifying. Gliding down his cheek, your fingers come to his jaw and your eyes land on his lips.

As if you were caught breaking the law, you look up. Leon was waiting for that, readily meeting your eyes. Allowing a second to pass holding eye contact, he deliberately glances down while slowly licking his bottom lip.

Despite the refreshing cool night, the air feels thicker and each muscle in your body is pushing you closer. You can barely remember the last thing you said. Or the last thing he said. Your mind is quiet and loud at the same time. Quiet from any obstructing thoughts and exclaiming, Leon Kennedy, on repeat.

His lips part, and you can feel his breath against your lips as he unnoticeably leans closer. Your noses bump, urging you to close your eyes, and you gladly do so. Sliding your nose against his, like a safety railing you know will guide you to the right destination, your lips finally meet.

There’s silence in your head, a delightful comfortable peace, leaving only sensations. The way he breathes in, crickets buzzing in the distance, how warm he is, how cool the night is.

They’re firm against your lips, incredibly close and he pulls away to tilt his head, just as you tilt yours. Without a single taste of him, or any tongue, even so it steals your breath away. Nearly immediately, your breathing is matching his. Inhaling in a single turn, it twists your lower abdominal muscles in the most delicious way. Your ears are blessed with the intimate sound of his breathing.

Leon’s other hand lands on your hip, unobtrusively resting there. Fingers itch you to touch more of him, kiss him more, taste him. Realizing how heated this could become, you make sure the next time his lips press against yours is in the form of a peck.

And you’re far too weak to make it just that. Your lips linger against his, attempting to signify the end of the kiss. With a soft exhale, you two separate.

It is a slow descent from the top. The moment drags eternally, you keep your eyes closed for a handful of seconds, replaying the delicious memory in your mind. When you do open them, so does he and — fuck — his pupils are blown.

His hand falls from your hip, and his blue eyes are searching yours. You cannot tell what’s on his mind, everything just came to a simple… pause. A delicious, satisfying, dangerously addictive, break. You let your hand fall from his face.

Minutes pass in the pleasant silence.

Leon’s eyes glance to your lips once, but he doesn’t push for more. Endearingly so, he clears his throat before speaking in a low voice, “Drive home safely… I’ll…” when he gazes down again, it makes butterflies twirl in your stomach, “see you in court tomorrow.”

He picks up his helmet from your bike, you didn’t even notice when he put it down. “Good night,” he mumbles your name, hovering as if looking away will physically hurt him.

You draw your bottom lip in, applying moisture. The remaining sensation of him lingers there. “Good night, Leon.”

Guess that’s settled.

Moving to a new city brought a new culture and untested coffee shops.

With the hotel serving shit food and shittier drinks, you found yourself standing in line in one of those untested cafés.

A simple corner café with outdoor seating, lacking a seemingly too large crowd, should work just fine.

The regularly scheduled train of thought is interrupted by a woman with a small kid bumping into you. She frantically apologizes and you smile to reassure her that you’re not mad at something that simple and accidental. As she moves on, your attention returns to the line and what you will order. 

It is 7am and you have to get to the police station by 8am to organize your documents. If this breakfast doesn’t take too long and traffic isn’t hell, you should be able to make it there in time.

Maybe you would’ve been able to rent an apartment, or even a house, if they hadn’t insisted on you moving your whole life in the span of a few days. Important work, they said. Nothing like having to chase trains, buses, eventually change your permanent address to something new, pack everything you own; to make you feel like the work is ‘important’. A fucking hassle if anything.

The person in front of you is ordering, so you pause your internal complaining to mentally rehearse your order. The small ritual is interrupted by a deep voice right beside you, “I’ll have whatever you say. You look like you have better judgement than me.”

Your brows furrow and you glance behind your shoulder to look at the man, presumably, talking to you. Piercing blue eyes meet yours and, there is no doubt, that man is talking to you. A small smile dances on your lips, but there’s little to no time to appreciate how handsome he is because the line moves and you’re up. Why is he even talking to you? 

“Yeah, hi,” your voice falters, so you clear your throat and speak up, “I’ll have mint tea and a chocolate croissant. And for my…” you glance at the tall man. There’s not a hint of worry on his face, and if anything, he looks relaxed. Your mind runs in circles; a friend would order for themselves, a coworker would wait outside or keep up the exhausting small talk, the man looks too old to be called a boyfriend… “husband, black coffee with a splash of milk and a grilled cheese, please.” Husband? Husband. You did not just say husband, nope, no way that’s what the stranger’s title roulette landed on. 

Your card presses against the touch screen. If you’re paying and he just leaves without a word, it is a snack for later. The coffee… the coffee you'll throw out or leave with the young man working here.

The screen beeps and the worker hands you a brown paper bag with your order. Something you’re used to; simple orders mean fast execution.

Rushing to get outside, a heavy step behind you lets you know he is still here. The chair scrapes against the floor as you sit down and dig for your tea and croissant. Perhaps he is friendly;  just making friends the old-fashioned way.

You also hand him his items, “Here you go.”

The man takes a sip of the coffee; he is too pretty to look at. “Your judgement is good, but I’d say mine is better.”

Pretty and cocky. “Let me guess, you don’t like milk in your coffee?” You narrow your eyes at him.

He shakes his head, “Just not used to it. It’s not bad.”

A sigh leaves your lips, “Milk is good for you. It softens the blow to your stomach, especially in comparison with just plain coffee.” He looked like a black coffee type guy, a man his age that early in the cafe? Yeah, he drinks black coffee. Too easy to read.

The man smirks before taking another sip, “Husband… is an interesting choice. Did the option of ‘boyfriend’ pass you that quickly?”

Your lips part to offer a quick response, only to shakingly inhale. Why is he playing this game with you? It is definitely not something you’re apt at, “You look too old to just be someone’s boyfriend. Husband fits you better. Or would you prefer I used father or uncle?” A smirk creeps onto your face, while your insides storm between usual confidence and constant overthinking. Regardless, you’re still capable of hitting back.

His eyebrows rise, showing the soft forehead wrinkles, “Well, how old do you think I am?” He laughs softly. The sound isn't too rough on your ears.

“Forty…ish? I don’t know,” Along with the wrinkles on his forehead, there are soft signs of age around his eyes, smile lines, and his stubble is grey and dark blond. His velvety hair is a mix of the same shade which may have some grey in it, you’re unsure. Damn, he looks good.

“Forty-nine. And you look…” he drags his eyes over your torso and face, “twenty-five.” He cocks his head to the side, far too confident in his surprisingly correct guess.

You nod, “That’s right, I’m twenty-five,” At this point, it is too strange that you two are talking, so you speak up, point blank, “Who are you?” Maybe the commonfolk are used to such casual noncommittal conversation. You're not. This isn't your cup of tea.

Gently shifting in his seat, his Adam’s apple bobs, something that would be barely noticeable to an average person, “Leon Kennedy. And you?”

Your name falls easily from your lips, a learnt habit, it has been years since you’ve had to introduce yourself with your deadname. This name fits you; it is right, proper, it is home. He echoes it, feeling how it rolls over his tongue and you find yourself smiling.

The morning sun hits against his skin, highlighting each line of age and piercing through his gorgeous hair. It is a crime to look that good at 7am. You're eternally cursed to look like a furball in the morning.

Riddled with plenty of normal questions, you decide to opt for the ones any typical person wouldn’t ask; however, this one is not obvious to you, “Why did you ask me to order for you? Was that an attempt to pick me up?” 

Pleasant surprise colors his face and he looks away to chuckle before he meets your eyes again, “Yes, it was.”

Small talk be damned, you will have a clear understanding of this situation, “Why?”

Leon smiles brightly and laughs once more, taking his sweet time before answering, “Because you’re attractive, kind, and I like your smile.”

The moment you try to think when you’ve smiled and if he has been stalking you, you recall the woman and the kid bumping into you. Oh. 

“Are all men of the age forty-nine this confident?” A quick-witted response easily exits your mouth. There’s no reason he should know of the turmoil threatening to swirl inside of you. 

A handsome man is basically on a date with you. He picked you up. He complimented you. Is it cocky? Or confident? Or maybe both? Who’s to say. 

Leon raises an eyebrow, “Doubtful. I know I am. I saw something I liked and there’s no time like the present,” he leans over the table, “especially when you’re my age.” He leans back with a smile, oh this guy can take a joke.

He should stop that – stop being so attractive. It is already making your stomach act up and your chest tighten with a mix of panic and excitement. You don’t dare trust it; liking someone is terrifying, “Stop that.” The moment the words leave your lips, it is already too late to take them back.

“Stop what?” Leon questions without a wrinkle of worry between his eyebrows.

You’re an adult in a new city. No one knows you, and you don’t know him: he is a complete stranger, and chances are, you may not even see him after today… Might as well go all in and be blunt, “Stop being so attractive.”

Unsurprisingly, he laughs hard, which only adds to his allure; the way his resting, collected, and calm face shifts into genuine laughter…it looks good. He looks good. “Well, it isn't something I can control. Why are you asking me to stop?”

You roll your eyes, “I don’t like how it makes me feel. It gives you power.”

Leon gently says your name, “I just met you. What do you mean?”

Here we go, time to explain. Have to stick to your guns and continue being honest, “Yes, we just met. Attraction grows into liking someone and that… isn’t fun. It gives them the power to hurt you,” your hands wrap around the paper cup, “So yes, it angers me that you’re attractive, and for some reason, interested in me, and you sound good, and express yourself nicely, and–“ you end your thoughts with a groan, leaning your forehead on your hand. 

His gaze remains fixed on you, though his jaw shifts a bit, like you’re the most fascinating being he has laid eyes on, “You’re mad at me for being interested in you?”

This is where the brutally honest part becomes excruciating. 

You bite your lower lip gently, finding the courage to share your thoughts. He is just a stranger, someone random. Unimportant. Both of you will move on right after this… “I’m mad that I… may be interested… in you.”

Leon slowly raises the coffee cup to his lips, swallowing down the warm liquid – goosebumps rise on your skin, impatience will be the death of you – he responds, “You’re overthinking this, kid.”

Kid. Kid. The man who picked you up, and is basically on a date with you, just called you kid. Moreover, for a second it even sounded hot. Rejecting any more fear, you narrow your eyes, “Don’t get cocky with me.”

Leon smirks, and unfortunately, it does things to you, “Wouldn’t dream of it,” When he smiles, his defined fangs catch your eye. What a niche thing to notice, “husband.”

You blink once. Twice. He did not just call you husband, “Leon!” Unfortunately, this Leon Kennedy is becoming more and more intriguing with every word. Which also sadly means… you’ll want to see more of him. Honesty might not be the best policy with the shallow grave it has dug up for you.

Peacefully, he’s gazing at you like he is enjoying the sight. Perhaps he is? Your anxiety would never let you think that. 

“What– you started it!” Leon folds his arms, refusing to stop smiling.

Your fingers find the cool metal pen in your coat, quickly writing on the back of the receipt. Day one of living in a rom-com movie. Although, if this were a rom-com, he'd keep the bill as a token.

You never thought you’d see the day you’d be writing down your number on a random piece of paper to give it to a stranger. And yet, here you are.

“Text me. Or don’t,” you smile and leave without another word. No reason to explain to him that you have personal matters to tend to. If you didn’t have to go to the station, there’s no reason in this world that would’ve gotten you out of bed before 10am. Even that is too early on an off day.

Another sleepless night in the hotel with the far-too-soft mattress reducing the quality of your rem phase. Stirring under the sheets, a notification from your phone makes you groan. Who the fuck needs you at 6am?

Blurry, sleep-ridden vision restricts what you can see – a simple message from an unknown number. At 6am? Someone better cut the jokes. Rubbing one eye to focus on the small text you finally manage to read: “Coffee?” Followed up with an address.

And once more you groan, mumbling aloud how it is still 6am, who in hell would— 

It’s Leon. 

Who else would it be but him? It sends a jolt down your spine. Perhaps you can squeeze in half an hour with him. The idea of leaving the warmth of the uncomfortable bed brings you the sort of pain physical labor does, and yet… This fascinating man most certainly isn't the type to chase. Leon Kennedy will fuck off if you don’t follow up. 

So, with a heavy heart, you slump out of the messy sheets to get ready for your day an hour earlier than planned.

It is too early, it is too early, it is too goddamn early. Your body is falling asleep while you brush your teeth. Excruciating pain travels through each muscle of your body, this man is torturing you. Finally, you decide to grace him with an answer, “when?”

Not wasting a single moment he answers, “Now.” Just as you predicted.

It is annoying the way that single word makes you smile. The warmth in your chest is creeping up on you like a quiet assassin: excitement. He shouldn’t have this much power over your mood.

Morning haze – that’s what you plan to blame the next message on, “don’t grow impatient on me, husband.”

A dark button-up shirt and dress pants, what you had planned on wearing for work, would be too strange to wear on a date… A long black coat catches your eyes, that should cover up what you’re wearing perfectly. Your phone's screen blinks with another notification; it’s him, “Then get over here, before I have to come find you myself.”

If this was sent by anyone normal, it would be a stranger-danger red flag. From a friend it is a joke. From Leon Kennedy who behaves… not completely within the parameters of an average citizen, this is a lighthearted text, nothing to unnecessarily overthink. At least, that’s what you tell yourself.

“you wish.” Even half-asleep, you can’t help but tease him back. The smile makes its way back to your face.

Making your way to the café, which is luckily within walking distance of the hotel, you see him in the same dark jacket with fur, sitting outside with a steaming cup of coffee on the table. He was considerate enough to take note of you preferring outdoor seating but not overbearing in the way that he bought you coffee. Albeit, he also still owes you from last time when you paid for his coffee and toast, which also might be a tactic for another date after today.

The smile refuses to leave your lips and you only glance at him before heading inside to get your tea.

You exit with a paper cup and sit across from him, the steam slowly flows above, “Morning, Leon,” you take out a pack of cigarettes. 

Leon’s eyes fall to your fingers, the cigarette and the lighter, “Morning.”

Might as well passively show him one bad habit of yours. If it’s a deal breaker, it’s better that it’s over sooner rather than later. The last thing you need is actually catching feelings, getting a routine with him and then he dips. Man, fuck him. The sheer thought of it makes your stomach tighten.

“You’re up early,” Leon takes a sip of his coffee, savoring the flavor in his mouth.

You hold back a sigh, “Indeed. I would still be in bed,” you adjust your coat, “but my beloved husband insisted on us going out before the sun itself rose.”

Leon’s lips twitch, holding back a smile, “And you complain.”

There’s a dead glare in your eyes, so you tilt your head and stare him down, “I’m a complainer.” If he was a friend, he would’ve gotten an earful about making you get out of bed at this hour. And that’s exactly the point. Leon isn’t a friend, “You unhappy with it?” you add.

“Tsk,” he shakes his head. Light blue eyes meet yours, “it’s charming.” 

You snort. Charming. Charming, he said. What a load of bullshit. He has yet to hear the level of complaining you do on the daily to deal with everyday struggles.

Outside of the casual attraction and teasing chit-chat; you have yet to learn anything solid about him, so it is time for the thing you cannot stand. 

Small talk.

“What do you do for work?” It took a lot of effort to not say that through gritted teeth.

Leon shrugs and his eyes move elsewhere, “Various things,” he takes another sip of his coffee like he is using it as an excuse to think, “consulting, security stuff.” The cup hovers near his lips, covering his mouth.

Inhaling a puff from your cigarette, you nod. A vague, noncommittal answer spoken with forced nonchalant body language. This man is keeping secrets. Seven years ago, you would’ve judged him based on that. As of late, with your current job, you also offer a similar answer when asked.

“And you?” Leon looks you up and down, as if he was waiting for an opportunity to do that without judgement, “Model, lawyer, writer with a tragic backstory?” While his tone is plain, there’s a hint of humor in it.

The simple joke does make you chuckle, “I moved here recently. Higher ups needed me in a different location. I’m something of an analyst.” As vague as you can keep it, and not a complete lie to the nature of your job. Before it became a practiced answer, the word analyst used to leave your mouth in the form of a question, provoking further questions.

Leon’s eyes narrow, and wrinkles appear between his eyebrows, followed by a slow blink. He appreciates you not prying further and, while he can see you’re not being forward with him, he won’t push you to explain more. Sometimes you find him so easy to read.

“Analyst.” Leon pauses, “Data or… you’re looking at me and running calculations in that head of yours,” he smiles, aiming to keep this lighthearted and not seem as if he is pushing you to answer further, “Tell me what you see.”

You appreciate his humor; it eases the flood of various thoughts, “I see enough,” you smile at him. 

Leon smiles in turn, “Enough?” His eyes follow your hand as you snuff out the cigarette butt, “Enough to know I’m trouble?” There is something delightful in that he doesn’t mind being the butt of the joke.

You chuckle and fold your hands in your lap, “Enough to know you were worth getting out of bed at the crack ass of dawn for this… date.”

Leon’s eyes dash around, forming a carefully worded sentence, “You call this a date?” He looks at you again, adjusting the watch on his wrist, “Last time I checked dates involved more than just warm drinks and psychological warfare.”

“I don’t think either of us are the type to do what is stereotypically normal,” you state. Something deep inside you affirms this, he looks nothing like a stereotypical man – not in his looks, but in the way he carries himself. Everything he isn't saying tells you more than enough. Words unspoken are still written down, and it isn't an empty space if something unseen is occupying it. And that? That is worth your attention.

His eyes follow his finger as he rubs the paper cup's edge, “No… We’re not.”

A familiar tune cuts through the pleasant pause in the conversation. 

“Will you take that?” Endearingly so, he mistakes your phone’s ringing for an incoming phone call.

You bite the inside of your cheek to hold back your laughter, “No, it is a reminder, not a call I need to pick up,” you put the phone in your pocket, “I have a meeting, somewhat important.” Finishing the last of your tea, you pick up the paper cup, and stand up. “Text me again, preferably not at dawn. I might just show up again.” With that, you’re ready to leave.

What you don’t expect is him getting up and saying your name, “Hey, I don’t want to… go back and forth with texting.” He steps around the table but maintains a comfortable distance between you two, “And, I want dinner. Tonight…? 7pm.”

You look around the other empty tables and trees in the distance as you recall your schedule for today. It should work on your end, except for one thing you want to nip in the bud immediately, “If you’re expecting sex and that’s why you’re asking for dinner, I’ll let you know right now, you ain’t getting it.”

Leon’s eyebrows raise and he laughs, “No, no… I am just not free in the middle of the day for lunch,” his voice softens, “Want me to pick you up?”

Living in a temporary residence is not something he needs to know about you, “No need, I'll meet you there. Or I can pick you up?” A quick glance at your clock reveals 7:30am. If you catch the early bus or get a cab, although those are too fucking expensive, you’ll make it there 5 minutes before the meeting. But that’s only if you leave right now. You turn halfway to go, trying very hard to portray what hurry looks like in human body language. At least that's what people usually do, and what the books say.

Your attempt proves fruitful. He stops calculating possible solutions and agrees with the former, “I’ll text you the address.”

With a nod, you’re gone. Hoping, praying, that the bus you just saw go by isn’t the exact one you were counting on.

The gods must have been merciful, the one you actually need comes right after the one that got away. With a big exhale, you hop on.

The bus ride barely makes an impression on you when your mind is filled with Leon Kennedy. Would his hair feel soft under your fingers? Is that greying stubble sharp in a satisfying sensory way? Would his lips feel good on yours — his lips looked so pretty… 

A tire falls into a pot hole on the road and you nearly fall on your ass. The universe must be punishing you for thinking about him. The navigation app informs you the next stop is yours.

Perhaps it is just making sure you get to work on time.

Upon arriving in the large building, the security pats you down and a woman greets you with a card in her hands, “Sir, welcome. We have been expecting you. This will unlock all the necessary parts of the building for you.” Her choice of words is rather interesting.

“I hope you are adjusting well to the city. I’ve been told you have moved here,” she’s smiling brightly at you, expecting only positive answers. Most certainly not wanting to hear the hotel you’re forced to live in until you find an available appropriate apartment; all your things are smushed in one room, the trip to the city was crowded, you’re barely navigating through the streets themselves and were nearly late due to an impromptu date.

“It's been great,” you nod. 

Silence is an unexpected grace she offers you for less than a minute in the elevator. Enough to catch your breath from running all the way from the bus station to here, and organize your thoughts.

“You will be working with, or rather, partnered up with, one of our best veteran agents. He prefers and excels at solo work, so to speak, but this mission requires someone with your skill set,” her strawberry blonde curls shake as she excitedly looks at you. She must be new here too, “and you’re the best of the best. Which is why we insisted you move as soon as possible.”

More like insisted you move your whole life in less than one week, but sure. ‘You're the best of the best.’ Technically you are. No one matches your ability to strategize and your highly above average pattern recognition. Plus, you can handle a gun if necessary. Alas, they didn’t drag you here to work with an overpowered veteran because of your shooting capabilities.

She leans over to you, close enough that you can read the identification card around her neck: A. Orchid. Her name evaporated from your mind the moment she introduced herself, names rarely seem to stick around in your head. Except for Leon Kennedy… he seems to have stuck around long enough.

“And between you and me, he is the one who saved the president’s daughter in Spain, and survived the outbreak in Racoon City, supposedly, he was there when it happened— like— as a rookie policeman.” Orchid’s dark eyes sparkle with excitement. You doubt she will last long in this department. The joy in her hasn’t been snuffed out yet and she should run away while she can. Or perhaps you’re too pessimistic.

“Seems like I’m going to meet quite the legend of DSO,” you mumble, fidgeting with your rings. 

“Oh for sure, he is respected and feared even beyond DSO, notoriously capable in various areas. He is like the veteran agent they will never let retire,” her kitten heels pause in front of a black door, “Here we are, good luck, agent!” Orchid smiles at you and turns to leave. 

Deep breath in, soothing any leftover nerves. You know who you are, you know… somewhat why you’re here. Your hand hovers above the door, one more breath to summon the casual confidence which took years to build up…

The door silently opens under your touch; your eyes fall on an older woman sitting behind a neatly organized large desk.

“Good morning, hope I’m not too late,” your voice cuts clearly through the office.

She nods at you to come inside, “Agent, good morning, I hope you have been adjusting well to the city,” stepping further into the office, you turn back to close the door, “This is agent Kennedy, you two will be partners on this mission.”

There is no time to be stunned, no room to be surprised, no air to be breathed in. Steeling yourself with confidence, you smile, hoping that your eyes are not about to fall on that same Kennedy you went out with, “Yes, everything has been well,” your eyes fall on the familiar jacket, large build and dark blond hair. The universe has cursed you, “Hello, agent Kennedy.”

Leon murmurs roughly, “Adjusting fine,” there’s a mocking undertone to his voice, you can tell, like he is angry with himself, confused, intrigued— that’s as much as you can assume from the little information you have.

“Already making assumptions,” a chuckle escapes you, ready to forget the flirting that happened half an hour ago just to quip back professionally.

Leon tilts his head down, meeting your eyes, “Always.” Annoyingly attractive, he is manspreading on a chair in the furthest corner of the office.

Your new boss continues, “I have already debriefed agent Kennedy on your specifications,” he looks… good, his brows are furrowed and his gaze is glued to you. He's obviously not expecting you here, nonetheless, to be partnered up with him, “and you can take today to get familiar with the case.”

With a nod, you pick up the mustard yellow file on her table. Out of the corner of your eye, you can see him following your every movement.

“Agent, Kennedy,” her uninterested gaze shifts from one to the other, “you are partners until further notice. No complaints, no adjustments. There are no better agents at what you do. Make it work,” she ends sternly and leaves the room.

“Yes, ma’am,” the short military training you received kicks back in, and you have to stop your hand from saluting. 

Finally, you inhale that deep grounding breath. It’s time to face the music.

Adjusting the files in your arm to the other one, you check your watch, “So, dinner tonight at 7pm? I don’t know if this will take long… perhaps 8pm.”

Leon stands up, “Are you being serious right now?”

“I don’t see why our plans should change,” you tilt your chin up. Ain’t nobody keeping you away from a dinner date with the museum relic in front of you.

Leon narrows his eyes, glaring you down, “What if I say no?” 

“You’re the one who invited me to dinner,”  it is hard to hold back a smile, but you manage. 

“Fine,” he sighs, running a hand through his hair. It’s getting exhausting how good that looks, “pick me up at 7pm.”

It is impossible to hold the smirk back at this point.

“You got a helmet?” Fiddling with the file in your arms, you still refuse to look at him. His status is higher than yours, the situation is tricky, and hopefully you refusing to look at him leaves an ounce of power in your hands.

Leon rests his hands on his hips; it would be a shame to miss the sight, you turn towards him, “You ride a bike?”

“Yeah.”

“What kind?”

This smile you can’t hold back, “You’ll see.”

He breathes in, pondering something, “Yeah, I got a helmet.”

“I’ll be there at 7:30pm,” the door handle is already falling under your touch, cutting the conversation short – making sure he watches you leave.

a/n: divider cr: @saradika-graphics

“The Worldbearing Titan?” Mydei twirls a flower between his thumb and index finger, “Creating is a powerful thing. Energy cannot be created nor destroyed; it only changes its form.” The pink petals swish left and right from the centrifugal force. “You could make this flower bloom one day, huh?” He gently smiles at Phainon, and it makes a storm of butterflies jump inside his tummy.

“You make it sound beautiful…and I’m glad you do, Mydeimos. My burden will not be an easy one but at least creation does sound lovely,” Phainon smiles back, “Of course, I’m not saying that Strife sucks, you know very well how much I love a good fight.”

Mydei places the small flower on the pile of plucked sharp grass strands next to their legs. His eyes follow the path his hand leads.

Raising an eyebrow, Mydeimos carefully forms the sentences in his head before allowing them to tread past his lips. “To create, to change, to begin anew – it all also means to destroy. Creation is also destruction. If it is all cyclical, then you would be doomed to destroy the Amphoreus of old to allow the birth of the new. Worldbearing might just be a pretty trap for you, a mouse stumbling upon a cheese cube of its dreams and stepping into its death, or worse, eternal prison.” Mydei fixes his posture, sitting up a bit straighter cross-legged. The heavy metal clanks against itself as he rests his wrists on his knees. “Take this flower for example, or a fruit tree,” Mydei takes a peach pit out of his pocket, “If we wanted to plant a tree here, create or start new life, we would do the following.”

Mydei punches the dark soil with his metal glove and digs deep enough for a seedling. “We would tear apart the, visible and invisible to our eyes, roots and creatures in the first line of the earth, killing in our path, effortlessly, without paying it any mind.” He twirls the pit between his fingers, “Consider a peach pit; it used to be a gorgeous orangey red peach, juicy and sweet – so this peach is nothing more than a corpse of its past,” Mydei places the peach pit in the hole, “We would push the corpse where it didn’t belong, cover it with more dirt and leave it.” Narrating, his words follow his simple actions, “In its own stead, it would soak up all the necessary nutrients from the ground and tear apart the shallow grave it is in, so it could greet the light in its new form. The skeleton rots in the place of green leaves and baby branches pushing through.” Mydei quietly exhales, his words becoming softer, “Even then, it will be a long while before it births something resembling the peach it came from. And… even then, it will not be the same peach we started with.” Mydei gently pats the ground where he planted the seed, offering it a warm farewell.

“As beautiful as creation sounds, beware that it is also destruction. And, if you get to live beyond the acts of destruction, think of what that will do to you. Is that something you will be able to live with, Deliverer? Would the cries of our people dying under your hands, children screaming for help, trees cracking in two, oceans squealing as they evaporate, mountains groaning as you shatter them…” Mydei breathes in slowly before he looks at Phainon, “Would they let you sleep at night?”

The two men continue sitting silently on the last green patch of grass near a cliff. Around them in every direction lay ruin, blood, ashes, remnants of a great battle. The only colors in this grey painting are the pair of them, the pink flower and the nearly completely burnt grass patch they sit upon.

The memory fades.

The flap of a butterfly’s wings can cause a tornado somewhere else entirely. Their kiss violently rips them away from the new future and settles them, finally, perhaps permanently this time, in the present.

How many days have passed this time – Phainon can't recall anymore. The firm thin mattress of the hospital bed offers no support beneath his body once more. Hyacine's worries and Aglaea's scoldings go in through one ear and out through the other. Unlike his usual behavior, Phainon can barely force the fake smile on his face. A half of him has been ripped away, part of his soul torn apart and left on the fresh ashes to scorch and burn. His heart… shunned, left to rot.

All the while his beloved lies beside Phainon’s hospital bed. Together and doomed to part. One side of him wishes to run away, to immediately try to adapt to the incoming future of separation. The other side, the hopeless romantic, wants to cherish each moment; to smile, laugh, sing, kiss… Oh Titans, how he wants to kiss that man.

Neither of his divergent wishes may come to fruition at the end of the day.

One silent glance at the most beautiful man in Okhema is enough to know – to let Phainon know, they won't speak a word of this future to anyone. An unbearable secret when all he wants to do is cling to Mydei and scream in sorrow. They hadn't even gotten a chance to blossom, to date, to love… before it all got taken away. Nipped in the bud, violently stolen from their grasp.

Mydei's departure comes far too quickly. Months, years, decades, even centuries would be too soon. But two days – two days. Two constricted, hurried days are a far cry from anything Phainon might have hoped for.

The artificial light from Kephale's device keeps burning his eyes, the sun in Aedes Elysiae never hurt him, the sun in Castrum Kremnos always remained gentle. It’s as if Okhema is joking at Phainon's expense. During the artificial nights, the only two nights he had, he prayed. On his knees, letting his eyes burn from gazing directly into the device, he prayed. May he gain Oronyx's power and turn back time, return to Castrum Kremnos of the future, or get just one more day with Mydei; free of any Chrysos Heir obligations.

Just one. He doesn't need much. Just one day, one pitiful, plain, boring day.

No gods, no Titans offer any answer. Nothing new. They have never responded back. When he was kneeling in the ashes of his village, his crumbled childhood home and blackened corpses of his family and friends, no one responded; no one came to help. No Titan offered comfort, reason, excuse. If he hadn't committed himself to this path – the Chrysos Heir path – Phainon would've stood right beside Anaxagoras. Demeaning the idea of godhood and Titans, proving their fake existence and cursing anyone who dares to say otherwise.

Here kneels nobody's son.

He can go anywhere, anywhere he wants – just not home.

The one he loves is leaving. Phainon may hope it is temporary, sadly he knows better. Phainon may try to arrange a meet up in the near future, yet he knows it would not happen.

The utter sadness, which tears his heart's strings apart, slows his footsteps down; makes them heavier. His head is hung low, and his shoulders are slouched from the unbearing weight of his, their, fate. 

The world shouldn't see him cry, Mydeimos should receive a heartfelt, warm goodbye from Okhema. It should be– it must be full of gratitude. Phainon will make sure they know his name and everything he will be doing for everyone. No matter how much Phainon speaks and preaches, they will never know how much that man sacrificed; how much Mydeimos lost, how much they are losing. He will make sure no one dares to mumble a word in bad faith.

They may only chant of the Guardian of Okhema, Mydeimos. He will see it through.

Past the sweetest smiles and cheering, Phainon walks beside Mydei along the faded stone path.

This isn't goodbye, he tells himself.

“But, if there's a chance in the next life, you should come visit my library.” Mydeimos softly invites, putting on a facade much better than Phainon's, hiding every emotion behind a gentle smile. Or perhaps, Mydei's tendency to go along with his duty and do what needs to be done keeps him going. While being aware that there is nothing else he could do.

During the few sentences they exchanged, in a civil manner, there's no one around them. No one, Phainon can perceive, except his equal.

For a couple of moments, he watches Mydei walk away before it gets too hard. Too damn hard. Then he turns away and leaves too.

As Phainon makes his way back, his step is stoic, automatic, accompanied with the same fake smile plastered on his face. People greet him and he nods back, not daring to say a word; for he may break down right there and then.

Nearly a moment too late, Phainon makes it to his room. Heavy armor is roughly ripped away and thrown in all directions, covering the bed, the cupboard, the light blue carpet. On the third day, he kneels. Hot tears run down his cheeks, Phainon's eyes are already raw from excessive crying and his chest is hollow from the unbearable pain. The last ounce of control is spent on biting his tongue to not curse at the Titans.

A warm feeling spreads along the inside of his ribs, and another voice nestles itself in his mind, it too, starts crying and falling apart with him. In the mess of his sadness, he barely notices the moment he lost control over his body.

Phainon hears his voice talking, feels his lips moving, his fist falling down and cracking the marble tile in two. His body stands up and gets dressed once more. His emotions quiet down, letting him silently observe the tragic play of his life.

Trapped, bound and gagged in his own bones, in his own home. Only when his body knocks on Mydei's old room does he realize what happened.

This is him.

The last jump he made to the future. This is the moment he appeared in.

Which means… when he– when they, came to their bodies in the lost future, their future selves were watching them from inside. The two husbands were probably laughing when they stumbled around each other pretending to be married.

There's nothing Phainon can do, so he watches it happen again. The blind rage, the screaming, the angry walk to Castrum Kremnos. The tears, the love confession, and their first kiss which threw them back in the present.

The disassociation symptom fades away, and bodily sensations return to Phainon allowing him to regain control over his body.

Separating from the kiss, he whispers, “Mydei.”

The glowing amber eyes soften, he blinks a few times before answering, “Phainon.”

“I don't want to believe this is reality. Although, reliving this makes me realize how much I've cried. No tears would ever be enough to mourn my loss of you, Mydeimos.” Phainon continues whispering, words fall off his lips like the best kept secret.

Mydei, a man of a few words, settles for rubbing his thumb across Phainon's cheek. A tear rolls down his face and the sight of it breaks Phainon once more, he pulls the Kremnoan into an embrace and sobs into his neck.

Crumbling in each others' arms, seeking the only possible comfort this world may offer, neither lets go for a while. Some tears fall because of their departure and they end up mixing with tears of things never properly mourned. Fallen friends, long since departed family, destroyed home, unspoken unwritten native language, them.

When their tears have dried up, they sit down on the ground. Mydei leans his back against the red crystal throne and Phainon settles beside him, leaning his head on Mydei’s shoulder. The silence envelops them like a warm blanket, fearing that more words could only hurt even more.

In spite of the pain, Mydei dares to offer, “Spend the night.” There is no night, yet Castrum Kremnos is far enough from Okhema’s device to mimic what it used to be.

“How long is a night on Castrum Kremnos?” Sighing heavily, Phainon entangles their fingers, electing to indulge in Mydei’s line of conversation.

“Technically, right now, it is eternal.” Shutting his eyes, Mydei leans his forehead against Phainon’s, “…Oh how I wish you could spend eternity with me… Deliverer.”

The few hours they could afford that ‘night’, ones with Mydei not fighting the Black Tide and Phainon not being back at Okhema, they spend here together. Mourning on borrowed time.

“Happy ever after… we couldn’t get our happy ever after.” Mydei laments, laying a feathery kiss on each of Phainon's knuckles between his words. Not regretting one line, honest words depart his lips.

Phainon offers a simple smile, “Happy ever after doesn’t mean forever. It just means… time, a little time.”

Heavy, lukewarm weight disappeared from Varka’s back. Most similar to a weighted blanket — providing ample comfort.

Beating like a drum, his heart is leaping out of his chest. A thin sheen of sweat covers his neck as he tries to catch his breath. Floating down from cloud nine, his brain was slowly returning to the present moment. As if sunrays were emitting from his body, the soft skin and exhausted muscles are hot to touch; burning him as he drags his hand across his torso. Yearning, needy, recalling the touch of his lover — gentler fingers gliding across many scars on his body. Incandescent in the afterglow, tangled in midnight black sheets, Varka moves his hips to lay on his side.

The scent of unapologetic human desire has filled the room completely. Even as his lover stands away; he can still smell him, feel his hands against his body. The nearest pillow gets crumpled up into a semi-circular shape and pushed under Varka’s head. Quietly, he observes Flins spread the thick white curtains and crack open a window.

The crisp winter air quickly reaches Varka. The cold air collides against the heat surrounding his body, making the man hiss in turn.

Flins doesn’t do so much as flinch, shoulders back – proudly standing in front of the window. The long hair, fading in and out from black to white, covers the pale skin of his back. Varka has spent many nights drawing shapes and naming constellations of the moles on his lovers’ back, lulling himself to sleep by dragging his lips over his favorite canvas.

Bathed in the light of the full moon, a gentle glow illuminates his naked lover, resembling the fallen angels Varka read about in various fictional books back in Mondstadt. He can imagine vibrant black feathers, dipped in the blood of their enemies, sprouting from the man’s scapulas. They would compliment Flins more than he’d let anyone else know. Slim figure, muscles defined just enough to be delicious to look at, remnants and marks of their shared pleasure… Varka restrains himself from standing up and dragging the man back into bed with him for another round.

Varka pursed his lips to blow air back towards the window, chasing away the cool drift which raised goosebumps on his skin. The same ones which didn’t rise on Flins’ skin… just how coldblooded can one man be? Caught up in admiring the tall man by the window, a familiar warmth fills Varka once more. Losing himself in his fantasies, desiring more.

The blond man outstretches his arm on the bed toward his lover and gently calls out, “Flins.”

A singular blink is all the movement and answer Varka gets in response. The man stays focused on the view outside the window. Chuckling warmly, Varka pushes his hand through the untamed golden curls, “Sometimes I think you’re fonder of the moon than me.”

Despite Varka’s attempts, Flins offers no response, remaining static for a few more moments. His silence envelops Varka – he elects to ignore it, turning his ears to the faint creaking of the window and dried leaves rustling around the trees outside.

At last, the man moves elsewhere, facing away from the bed as he cleans himself up. Varka groans, “I wanted more.”

“Your hunger is insatiable, Varka.” Flins finally acknowledges the blond man’s presence.

Propping himself up to a sitting position, Varka’s lips spread into a smirk, “And you have always been able to match my stamina. What’s troubling you tonight, Flins?”

The words don’t visibly reach Flins, who ignores them for the sake of crafting up a proper answer. Or, in Varka’s opinion, he’s just being needy.

Without wasting too much time, Flins gets dressed. Calm, calculated movements, ones trained from years of practice, show tremendous grace in his motions. Slender fingers elegantly pull up zippers, button his shirt with zero effort and still make it seem easy, seamless, not rushed. Gloves cover the very hands that left crimson marks across Varka’s body, a map showing everywhere Flins went, any place he stopped to press and squeeze. 

Varka can’t peel his eyes away from the painful sight, akin to a child’s favorite candy being wrapped up and taken away from their hands. Well, this toddler is preparing to throw a temper tantrum – he simply needs more sugar, it’s nothing unusual.

Once more, Flins gazes through the frosted glass of the old wooden window as he pulls the long grey cape around his shoulders. In spite of every layer of clothing he puts on, Varka can still see the vermillion marks blooming under Flins’ jawline, and disappearing below his neck line. Hickeys he created before they were able to get to the bedroom bring a smile to his face.

He cinches his waist in with a belt over his coat. Using the action to avoid gracing Varka with eye contact, he confesses, “I’m tired.”

With a hurried shuffle of sheets, Varka covers his bare body. Using Anemo powers again, he redirects the cold air with a flick of his wrist, “Stay? You can rest here, as always.”

There’s a subtle headshake which Varka nearly misses, Flins keeps his voice firm and low. However, it maddens Varka how the borderline scolding voice sounds intimate, like a secret being shared, “I’m tired of playing dumb.”

The window whines from the strong wind pushing it to close completely, another flick of Varka’s wrist. He wraps up his body in the dark sheets and stands up, questioning the statement, “What do you mean? I know damn well you aren’t stupid, and so do you.”

Flins lifts his chin, clenching his jaw for a moment before releasing the pressure completely. He turned his head towards Varka, “I’m tired of pretending that I don’t know I’m just his replacement.”

Varka flinched at the statement. Aimlessly, his light blue eyes scanned around the room for feasible excuses and Flins could see it from a mile away. Dull, muddied yellow eyes bore into the side of Varka’s head, accusatory without any heat behind them.

If Flins were to yell at him, scream, shout, and throw furniture around, Varka would’ve found it easier to deal with this situation. Instead, a painfully calm and collected man stood in front of him. Scouring any possible thing that could be convincing is proving futile. Varka is damn well aware that when Flins claims something which proposes a change: it is already too late.

Flins had already made his decision.

Varka retorts, “You’re not his replacement. It has been years since him, alright? Based on that, what are you even… What are you on about, Flins?”

Flins turns completely towards Varka. He blinks once, letting the silence stretch out for longer than needed; letting Varka uncomfortably fester. After what feels like eternity, Flins blatantly orders, “Kyryll.”

Blond eyebrows furrow. Slightly shaking his head, Varka places his hands on his hips, “Kyryll? Flins, I’m struggling to follow—“

“Perhaps if you call me Kyryll, we can pretend that when you nearly moan his name that the letter K was the beginning of my name and not his.” Flins’ face remains empty, refusing to portray the hurt, the red-hot anger which Varka can only imagine are raging inside him. Another simple blink from those lightless eyes is all he gets.

To claim he never did that, especially when arguing with his cut-throat lover, would be seen as shameless disrespect. Everything had always gone back to Capitano. Even when he is happy and satisfied and delighted with his lover, it all goes back to the man he loved. The man he lost on more levels than just one.

Varka steps closer to Flins. Immediately, a cold air envelops his body completely along with electricity which makes his hair slightly stand up. Everything is chasing him away. If words weren’t strong enough, the man is radiating barely controlled immense power. One being his Electro vision, and the other one being something far more ineffable. 

Desperately, Varka tries to plead his case, faltering, “Please, it has been years since him,” he  calmly began only to lose it early on, giving way to his temper - he starts shouting, “Not everything is about him, I’m here right now and we are fucking fine! I’m happy with you, I barely think of the man!”

Flins maintained his tone, accusing quietly, “Is that why you gift me clothing which he would wear?”

Dramatically, Varka throws his arms open and heavily exhales, “It’s just clothes!”

“It is just clothes,” Flins echoes with a layer of sarcasm, “and you never looked my way before my hair got long.” The pools of snake-like yellow, unamused and judgmental, stare at Varka. Wordlessly accusing the blond man of many more things. Unapologetic in any of his claims.

Varka rubs his forehead, biting the inside of his cheek and ultimately deciding to confess, “Flins, I ca—“

“Kyryll,” Flins cuts in without letting him finish the sentence, effortlessly rolling the ‘r’ and extending the ‘ee’ sounds, demanding distance. The intimacy of the nickname ‘Flins’ turning to a gatekept thing; stolen from his lover’s vocabulary.

Varka clenched his fists with a defeated scoff, “…nevermind.” He looks away from the man and towards the mess they made on the bed, a heavenly getaway mere minutes ago. Pure bliss he was living in, unaware of what was festering under the surface. Or perhaps, he was purposefully ignorant of what was happening.

Wooden boards creak under Flins’ leather boots and the window hinges squeak under his ghost-like touch. Seemingly done with this conversation, this situationship, Flins adds, “Hang onto dead people for long enough, and the living ones will move past you. Sleep well.”

The brooding man disappears with a loud crack of lightning, followed by the sound of glass shattering. Varka slammed the window with a strong gust of wind, lacking control in his technique.

The cold air fills the small room, a looming presence, an unspoken reminder of his lover and his tendency to be cold.

Flins. And Capitano.

divider credit: @thecutestgrotto