Let's Go! Dancing Music Lovely Romance

“And now,” Sebastian says. “You’re lost.”

“Yeah,” Vinco says.

He sits up, hunches over his own knees and sighing. Cigarette held in his teeth, Sebastian rubs his eyes and his temples.

“We can see Bercy, but you know we went in the tunnels and popped out somewhere.  No fucking idea where. If you could drive over around here and we’ll try to head toward Bercy and, hey, maybe you’ll find us!”

“Maybe,” Sebastian concedes.

“Awesome! That would be so great! I will really—”

The call cuts to static and then nothing. Sebastian stares at his phone, realizing that he has no idea how many people Vinco is lost with. His car will only fit himself and three others. He doesn’t bother trying to call back, though, not knowing that Vinco’s phone has probably either died or lost signal. There’s no point.

He pulls on pants without bothering to find underwear, and a shirt but no watch or rings. He doesn’t comb his hair. Cigarettes, a lighter, his keys, his phone, and his wallet are all Sebastian thinks he needs for this adventure.

The drive south is boring, waiting through red lights that don’t accommodate any cross traffic or pedestrians, maneuvering around garbage trucks and a street sweeper. The city of lights is not really awake this early — or late. The sun is starting to turn the black sky into something grey, not the most thrilling sunrise.

When it starts to rain, Sebastian flicks on his wipers and laughs at Vinco’s expense. As he crosses Pont de Bercy, the sky opens up and pisses down on the streets like a drunk — aiming for the walls and striking everything else as well. He pulls over on the other side of the river and sits in his car with the fan running and smokes.

“I’m at the bridge,” he texts Vinco.

Then he turns on his car radio. Three tracks of popular trash later, his phone chimes with a reply.

“ALMOST THERE,” Vinco replies.

“I think.”

“You hope,” Sebastian types out.

He gets to enjoy a bit more of America’s musical imports to the world, plus an early morning French rap.

It’s a relief when Vinco’s big fist pounds on his passenger side window. Sebastian pops open the locks and Vinco crashes wetly into the passenger seat as Mike throws himself into the back.

“Only two?” he asks.

“Yeah,” Vinco says.

“How impressive,” He says, turning the key in the ignition until the engine rolls back to life.

“You’re a lifesaver,” Vinco says. “We almost drowned! I mean, it made me miss the tunnels, it’s just as dark in there right now as it is this morning.”

In the back, Mike brushes his long, wet hair off his face and laughs.

“Do you think you could take me home first?” he asks. “I’ve got to get the boy up for school.”

“Of course,” Sebastian says.

Vinco teases him about his responsible parenting. Mike teases him back about having pets instead of children, calling him a father to two cats and a puppy. Sebastian listens and occasionally lifts his hand off the steering wheel to smoke.

The Paris sky pours down on them even as Sebastian pulls up outside Mike’s apartment building. He pulls his jacket up over his head and dashes out of the car, to struggle with putting in a security code and getting through the gate to the building’s courtyard before he can hope to get up to his apartment.

Vinco watches from inside Sebastian’s car and laughs.

“Can I have a smoke?” he asks, still chuckling.

Sebastian picks up the pack of cigarettes out of the dash and tosses it into Vinco’s lap. What Vinco mumbles in reply might be gratitude — or it could just as easily be something obscenes. Sebastian doesn’t listen. From the corner of his eyes, he sees the flame of Vinco’s lighter. He cups his hand around it and reflects the light off his face.

“Sebos,” he says, smoke flowing past his lips. “I really owe you for this one.”

“You owe me for so many things,” Sebastian says. “I’ve lost track.”

Vinco sighs and shrugs, going back to smoking.

“It’s true.”

The rest of the drive, he says nothing and Vinco joins his silence. The rain begins to ease and he re-adjusts his wipers every few blocks. At the end, the sun even brightens the wet streets as Sebastian approaches Vinco’s neighborhood.

“It was good to see you,” Vinco says. “Always a pleasure.”

“Yes,” Sebastian agrees. “Always.”

“Drinks tonight?” Vinco asks. “If you’re feeling up for it. And if I am.”

“Maybe,” Sebastian offers.

They both know they’re more inclined to stay at home. There’s good company guaranteed there.

“Have a good one!” Vinco tells him. “Thought we’re probably both going to sleep after this, right?”

Sebastian laughs and grabs his cigarettes off Vinco’s lap. They rest nearly over his crotch, settled into the space between his skinny legs. He would probably just leave them on the seat when he goes, but Sebastian wants a fresh cigarette right then. And those are his cigarettes. He sits parked by the curb with Vinco still sitting in the passenger seat while he lights up.

“Before you go,” Sebastian says after two puffs.

“Yeah?” Vinco asks. “What do you want from me?”

“Find out,” Sebastian tells him.

He holds a hand out and curls his fingers. When Vinco leans towards him, he takes the cigarette from his lips and exhales carefully through his nose.

“What game is this?” Vinco asks.

“An old one,” Sebastian says.

When he leans in, Vinco doesn’t back away. He doesn’t move particularly quick either, easing close enough for his nose to brush Vinco’s cheek and to feel stubble tickling his chin. Their mouths meet quite chastely. There’s no taste in it. More intimate than kissing the air beside Vinco’s skin, his lips are only the lips of a good friend.

“It certainly is an old game,” Vinco says. “Not as fun as it used to be.”

Sebastian shrugs. “Our interests have changed.”

“A little,” Vinco says, holding up his hand to demonstrate with the space between his finger and thumb.

Sebastian laughs before going back to the cigarette burning between his fingers.

“Gotta go,” Vinco says. “I meant it about drinks!”

He opens the door and offers Sebastian another good-bye, another well wish, a wave. Out of politeness, Sebastian waits for Vinco’s building’s door to close behind him before he drives away.

“You’re doing the dishes?” asks a breath full of cigarette smoke.

He hums and nods his head. Arms drape over his arms and wrap around his chest. He doesn’t shake them off.

“What did I do to deserve this? An amazing home-cooked meal and I don’t even have to clean up.”

Stubble scratches his ear and the ash from a cigarette drops into the sink.

“Nothing,” he says.

Laughter rattles through his chest from behind him and he catches himself laughing as well.

“You know, I think you missed your calling in life.”

A hand lifts the cigarette and for a moment it’s so close to his mouth he could taste it. He certainly tastes the smoke of an exhale.

“Not a DJ, not a producer, not even an exotic dancer—”

He laughs.

“No, don’t interrupt, I’m trying to tell you what your true calling in life should have been.”

“Alright then, I’m quiet.” he says. “What’s my calling?”

“You should have been someone’s wife.”

He nods and smiles, cupping one hand until it fills with soapy water. With a grin no one can see, he splashes it back over his shoulder.

“Fuck!”

Tiga turns his hand in the air beside his face, slowly and gracefully. His long fingers look delicately arranged, like a ballet dancer’s.

“Bigger.”

“Alright,” Vinco says, nodding. He knows to give Tiga his space to speak.

“You have a fine mind, really you do, I can’t say enough about your… mind. No! Don’t laugh, I mean it.”

Vinco had no intention of laughing, but just so that Tiga believes him, he lifts his martini off the table and rests the lip of the glass against his mouth.

“You’ve got such a mind for the details and the… The devil’s in the fucking details. Isn’t it always that way? Motherfucking details. But you always remember, you always cut to the heart of a person — even me, and Vinco I pride myself, truly pride myself, on my inscrutability.”

“You do,” Vinco says, lips against his martini.

He swallows a mouthful of it, burning with vodka, and then sets the glass down. The sword thrust through the olive garnish is made of stainless steel and sharp. He barely avoids cutting his tongue when he picks it up and pulls the olive off with his teeth.

Tiga’s still talking, but he’s tuning him out. There’s only so much of this Vinco can bear to listen to, he knows better than to let it get to his head.

“— And you always have the best blow, I don’t even know how you afford it.”

“Favors,” Vinco says.

“I just cannot comprehend that,” Tiga says. “People just trip over themselves to do what you want.”

He shrugs, a bit uncomfortable with this. Actually, he was uncomfortable twenty minutes ago. But, hey, one of the waitresses has a bra with gas flames coming out of her nipples. It’s really a hell of a place Tiga’s brought him to and he’s not going to walk out now, if only for the experience.

“Are you flirting with me?” he asks.

“No,” Tiga says. “Well, yes, I suppose, you could interpret it that way, but really, I’m trying to offer you a job, Vinco.”

He blinks. “Ah.”

Then he laughs.

“Why are you doing that?” Tiga asks. “I wasn’t being funny, Vince. I mean, flirtatious, yeah, I can see where you’d get that but—”

“Tiga, I can’t work for you,” Vinco says.

Tiga leans back in his seat. His lips curls delicately over his straight, white teeth.

“What do you mean by ‘Tiga, I can’t work for you’?” he asks.

“I mean… I can’t do it,” Vinco says. “I do appreciate the offer, really, I’m not slighting you. But I can’t leave the job I have now. There’s a lot of reasons for that, I don’t wanna bore you, but, y’know, we couldn’t be doing this if I worked for you.”

“What ‘this’?” Tiga asks. “I don’t see a ‘this’ happening here, Vince.”

“This,” Vinco says. He holds his hand up and crooks one finger toward Tiga and then towards himself. “I know you and you just don’t keep an interest in your employees.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Tiga says, crossing his arms over his chest. “I do too.”

“Oh yeah?” Vinco says. “When we first met you were all over that Russian of yours, wouldn’t quit talking about him. And what about your proteges? Taken any business trips with the pair of them recently?”

Tiga’s sneering mouth forms a very straight, hard line.

“Fuck you Vincent,” he says.

“Okay, now we’re flirting,” Vinco says. “And honestly, that’s way more fun that work.”

“Meet who?” he text back immediately.

“You’re scowling at your phone,” Sarah says over her lunch. “Why don’t you put it away?”

“It’s Thibaut,” he says, to defend poking at his phone at the table under the hot summer sun. A minute ago, he was on Instagram, but she doesn’t need to know that.

“Ah,” she says, going back to poking at the vegetables on her plate with her fork.

“Oh! The first text didn’t go through. I’m so sorry!” Thibaut texts him.

Then, “I got a kitten.”

Irfane looks at his phone, then up at Sarah.

“What is it?”

“He got a kitten,” he says.

“Oh?” she says, her face lighting up. “Did he send you a picture? Is she cute?”

She leans up off her chair to reach across the table and grab at Irfane’s phone. Snatching it up, Irfane holds the phone above his head and well out of her reach.

“Be careful,” she says. “Someone will steal your phone like that!”

“Yeah, but not you!” Irfane says, laughing.

Just so he knows how displeased she is by that comment, Sarah takes off her sunglasses.

A kitten, then.

Irfane takes apart the last portion of his sandwich and reconstructs it as he thinks. Irfane’s tenderness toward their friends’ pets. Spending the evening seated with two fat, old cats on his lap, petting them both with each hand, while Vinco makes coffee and pours drinks and Gaspard stares intently at his collection of toys on the shelf.

“They are like little children,” Gaëlle says, in Irfane’s memory.

“No, no, big children,” he corrects, holding his hand above his head to indicate the men’s heights.

She laughs.

Vinco mentions something about a signed guitar on Ebay. Gaspard says he’s thought of buying a guitar shaped like the Prince symbol. Irfane moves towards them in increments, until they’re all huddled in the kitchen staring at Vinco’s iPhone.

When he looks over, Gaëlle kneels at the foot of the chair and leans against the arm, idly petting one of the cats. Honestly, Irfane cannot tell them apart.

“Didn’t he always say he wanted a kitten?” Sarah asks, interrupting his reverie.

“Well, yeah,” Irfane says. “When we were on tour, especially in Japan, because, you know, Eri and Kiri have cats. He loves their cats, actually. He said he wanted to get one when we were done touring.”

“And now you’re done touring,” Sarah says.

Irfane frowns. “Yeah, I guess.”

“Ask your boyfriend when I can meet his kitten,” Sarah teases. “I love cute little animals.”

“You’re such a girl,” Irfane says, putting his phone in his pocket.

“Ah! Don’t insult my soft heart,” she says. “I like cute little animals, but also big, dumb hairy ones like you. You’re lucky!”

Irfane smiles, maybe even smirks. “I guess.”

He expects to meet the kitten that evening, but Thibaut tells him, “Charlie is still adjusting to home.”

“Charlie?”

“That’s his name!”

Irfane doesn’t meet Charlie for weeks, actually, between recording and travel and other work. And then, Charlie’s not so much a soft ball of grey fur as a lanky adolescent cat.

Irfane kneels beside his shoes near the front door and sticks his hand out at the small cat winding itself around Thibaut’s ankles.

“Hello Charlie,” he says.

The cat backs away from his hand, folding itself up into an arch and slipping behind Thibaut’s legs.

“I don’t think he likes me,” Irfane says, looking up at Thibaut.

“Well, he’s not a dog,” Thibaut says. “You need to be a little more gentle.”

“I was,” Irfane says.

He stands up, as Charlie dashes across the room and leaps across the sofa.

“Dinner is ready,” Thibaut says, if you’re hungry.

Irfane puts his arm around Thibaut’s thin shoulders and tucks his hair behind his ear before he kisses his cheek.

“It’s good to see you,” he says.

“You too,” Thibaut says, kissing Irfane’s cheek in turn.

“I really miss you when we’re not touring,” Irfane says. “You know, seeing exotic places, sharing meals, sleeping in tiny hotel rooms together.”

“We’re sharing a meal tonight,” Thibaut says. “Just pretend we’re paying too much for it and no one speaks French, it will be just like old times.”

Irfane laughs and, out of the corner of his eye, sees Charlie bolting back across the couch and out of the room.

He creeps back into the room after Thibaut has served the creamy mushroom sauce and gnocchi onto two plates. Irfane pays attention to their conversation, catching up on friends’ lives and the things they’ve done since they’ve been apart, but he keeps looking over at the little grey cat licking his paw and then rubbing it against his face. Charlie sits beside the couch now.

“Is he getting into something?” Thibaut asks, looking over his shoulder at the cat.

“No, no,” Irfane says.

Thibaut turns back and gives Irfane a look with a half-raised eyebrow. He doesn’t ask, but Irfane knows he should stop staring at the cat. He’s only washing his face. He’s only a cat. Digging into his gnocchi, Thibaut quietly ignores him.

“This is really good,” Irfane tells him, before he shovels some into his mouth. It’s richer than the food he makes for himself or for other people. There isn’t even any meat, but it’s delicious.

What sauce the gnocchi doesn’t absorb, Irfane wipes off his dish with chunks of the baguette on the table between them.

“Do you not like cats?” Thibaut asks.

“No?” Irfane says. “I mean, I think I like dogs more, but… I don’t hate cats.”

Thibaut laughs softly. “There’s a big difference between hating something and not liking it.”

Irfane reaches over the table, tears off another part of the baguette with both hands, and uses it to pick up the last little chunks of mushroom on his plate.

“I like cats,” he defends himself. “I’m not sure they like me, but I like them.”

“Charlie is a nice cat,” Thibaut says.

“Uh huh,” Irfane replies.

Politely, Thibaut does not ask him again. Irfane collects the dishes and sets them in the sink.

“Actually,” Thibaut says, tapping him on the shoulder. “Could you put the rest of the gnocchi in this? I’ll take care of all the dishes.”

“Okay,” Irfane says. “Seems a little unfair to you, but… Sure.”

He scrapes what’s left of their meal from its large metal pot into the glass bowl that Thibaut gave him. It looks a bit gross, potato colored lumps in a sauce that’s all shades of brown, but it makes Irfane hungry just looking at it. He covers it quickly and hides it in the fridge.

“Do you want something to drink?” he asks.

“Sure,” Thibaut says, over the water pouring in the kitchen sink.

After some digging around, Irfane finds an unfinished bottle of white wine, sweet and strong. He pours a little of it into two glasses.

He steps in beside Thibaut at the sink and holds one glass up level with his mouth. Thibaut looks at him from the corner of his eye, but doesn’t question it. Parting his lips slightly, Thibaut lets him pour a taste into his mouth.

“Thank you,” he says.

“It’s nothing,” Irfane tells him. “It’s your wine. I should thank you.”

Thibaut smiles and looks away, leaving Irfane the perfect opportunity to kiss his cheek and dash away while he’s still washing dishes.

“I’m out here if you need me!” Irfane says, from halfway to the couch.

“I’ll be finished in a moment,” Thibaut tells him.

Irfane sets the drinks on the glass-topped table beside it, then settles onto the couch to wait.

To his surprise, Charlie leaps up onto the couch beside him, rather than flee to the other room again. Irfane ignores the little cat, having already been rejected once. He’s not really interested in being scratched. He looks away from the cat, only to get the shock of a small, wet touch against his knuckles.

Irfane looks down at Charlie sniffing his hand.

“Oh, well, if you’re going to be friendly now,” he says to the cat.

He turns his hand and Charlie sniffs into the curve of his palm, then down his fingers. It’s actually kind of cute. Especially when Charlie licks his fingertips.

“Maybe you’re not so bad afte—Ow!”

Irfane pulls his hand back sharply when Charlie bites down on his finger. It’s not a hard bite, but it’s a bite all the same. The cat leaps off the couch and runs off into Thibaut’s bedroom.

“What happened?” Thibaut asks.

“Your cat bit me,” Irfane says, irritated. He shakes his hand in the air to ward off the small, throbbing pain in his fingertip.

“Oh no,” Thibaut says. He frowns and his whole posture seems to frown with him. Irfane suddenly wants to apologize, if only it would make Thibaut’s shoulders stop drooping.

“I’m very sorry,” he says, sitting beside Irfane on the couch. “Is it bleeding?”

He takes Irfane’s hand between both of his hands, still damp from the dishes.

“No,” Irfane says. “It was only a little bite. It doesn’t hurt.”

Well, it does hurt a little bit, but he’s not going to be a little kid about it.

“Well, here,” Thibaut says.

Gently, he touches Irfane’s fingers against his lips. It’s the softest kiss. Mostly Irfane just feels Thibaut’s beard against his skin.

“Does that help?” he asks, pulling away.

“It kind of makes me feel like a little kid,” Irfane says.

Thibaut laughs.

“Maybe this would be better,” he says.

Thibaut’s hand brushes against Irfane’s cheek as he leans in close enough to kiss his mouth. This kiss is gentle, but not as soft. He feels Thibaut’s lips press against his until he parts his lips. Irfane pulls his hand out of Thibaut’s grasp so that he can put both arms around Thibaut’s shoulders and pull him in closer.

As Thibaut moves his hand to the hem of Irfane’s shirt, the little wet touch returns at Irfane’s elbow. He ignores it resolutely.

Then a little cat paw digs into his thigh and, before Thibaut can do anything, there is a cat in both their laps.

Charlie meows.

And Thibaut pulls away from the kiss to laugh.

“I believe in all gods,” Armand says, but Alain’s pretty sure he just likes shopping. He buys Alain a pair of shoes for every day of Hanukkah, and somehow arranges it so each one gets to him on a separate day.

“You’re a lunatic,” Alain tells him over the phone.

“You like it,” Armand says, with a quiet certainty that makes Alain laugh.

“I love it,” he assures him.

He proves it by wearing a pair when they meet in Miami a few days later.

Then, Alain receives a leather jacket on the 17th that Armand explains is a Saturnalia present.

“Okay,” Alain says. “Whatever you say. Thank you, by the way, it fits perfectly.”

“It better,” Armand says. “I think I know your measurements pretty well.”

Putting his face in his hand, Alain bites his tongue to keep himself from calling Armand a cheeseball. Even though he is. The jacket is so nice, though, and he really does appreciate it. The gift-giving extravagance is particularly nice after all the hard work they’ve done getting things ready for the next year. Alain always feels like he’s doing twenty things at once and Armand makes sure he gets regularly interrupted by FedEx.

On the 21st he gets a package full of carefully packed records — Armand’s own records. The hand-written note inside the box says, “Something to listen to for the longest night of the year.”

“I didn’t know it was the longest night of the year last night,” Alain tells him the next day.

“Yeah, it’s the solstice,” Armand explains.

“How did you spend it?” Alain asks.

“On the beach,” Armand says. “Naked.”

“Wow,” Alain says. “Wish I could have been there.”

“Yeah, I missed you,” Armand says.

Pushing aside thoughts of moonlight reflecting off of sand and water in the warm dark, Alain gets back to work.

The presents are nice and Alain loves all of them. Armand is thoughtful and excessive, but always so reasonable in his excess. He could totally send Alain a diamond-encrusted watch, but he already knows Alain wouldn’t watch it. No designer clothes, just things Alain enjoys.

But anything Armand wants for himself? He just buys. Making him the worst person on the planet Alain has ever had to get a present for.

He thought of something, though, while they were working on the album. But it’s taken months to make a reality, so it was probably best he thought of it then. Especially since Armand has now gone totally overboard showering Alain with presents.

He’s just getting Armand one — for Christmas, even though Armand really doesn’t celebrate it, not in a Christian way. But Alain doesn’t celebrate it either and he still knows Armand will use it as an excuse to give him even more gifts.

This time, at least, he’ll be doing it by hand instead of through FedEx.

The best present is meeting Armand at LaGuardia and hear him bitch, in an accent that sounds like it left Boston yesterday instead of Miami, about how fucking cold it is in New York.

“How can you stand it?” he whines.

“Man, it’s even colder in Montreal,” Alain tells him. “This is like summer weather.”

Armand’s face, when he’s truly offended, is so aggressive and sour that Alain just laughs. In his down-stuffed coat and knit toque, all black, he looks like a thug. Just a few weeks ago he was in hot pink and shorts, basking in Miami’s sun with his beatnik shades on. Alain loves it all.

So much so that he has to kiss Armand the moment they get through Alain’s front door. Though that may also be an excuse to snatch his hat off his head and then laugh at his hat hair.

They don’t make it to Alain’s room to unpack Armand’s two huge suitcases. But it’s not really something either of them wants to complain about.

Laying on his back on the floor, Alain stares at the Christmas tree he put up entirely because he knew Armand would like it. Under the branches, which are shedding pine needles all over his carpet, sit two packages neatly wrapped in gold and silver paper with hilariously over the top ribbon bows.

“You want to open your presents now?” he asks.

“It’s not Christmas,” Armand says, kissing Alain’s neck. “I’m not even wearing pants.”

“Whatever,” Alain says. When he shrugs, his shoulders scrape on the carpet.

“In France, they open presents on Christmas Eve.”

“I ain’t fucking French,” Armand says.

He sits up and pulls his jeans and underwear back up from around his knees. Alain gets up and puts his leg back into his boxers, which are still hanging onto his ankle. He fixes his shirt and picks his jeans up as he stands. His shoe ended up nearly in the kitchen somehow — Armand’s fault. Alain doesn’t plan to go get it right now.

He sits on the couch and takes off his other shoe, so at least he’s balanced.

“Those both for me?” Armand asks, approaching the tree cautiously.

“Yeah,” Alain tells him. “Go for it.”

“I’m just gonna open one,” Armand says. “To make you happy.”

“No,” Alain says. “You have to open both, they’re a set.”

Armand frowns. “Then I’m not opening either until it’s Christmas.”

He crosses his arms over his chest. Alain’s torn between finding his thick biceps really, really hot and finding the whole thing stupid because his boyfriend and the love of his life is a petulant child about when to open presents.

“Alright,” he says. “We’ll wait.”

In the end, the time goes by very fast. After all, Armand has to unpack. He adds more presents to the space under the tree. Alain’s excited to know what’s behind the brightly colored paper, but he’s still most excited for Armand to see his present.

There’s a kind of anticipation growing in his stomach that makes him laugh too much and feel drunk without having anything to drink. His palms sweat and he talks too much, too rapidly. Armand makes him open a few presents and Alain can’t shut up about how much he loves everything Armand gets him.

“Open yours now,” he says. “Please.”

Armand pouts at him, but then gets off the couch and crouches low enough to pull the silver and gold packages from under the tree.

“I like your ornaments,” he says, holding a tiny record between his thumb and forefinger. He has big hands but the ornament makes him look like a giant. Alain starts nervous laughing again.

At least it doesn’t take Armand long to open his first present.

“It’s… you,” he says.

He turns the package all around, inspecting the sleek cardboard and plastic box that Alain had designed.

“Cute,” he says, before breaking the tape seal and opening the box.

The little action figure boasts “real scratching action” and that it’s “fully poseable,” so of course Armand has to play around with it for the longest time before he opens the next one.

“Real cute,” he says, and he tucks the little plastic Alain in his front shirt pocket with a smile.

“I’m glad you like it,” Alain says. “I kinda figured you would, since you like me.”

Armand laughs. “I’ll give it a very special place on my toy shelf with my Beyoncé Barbie.”

Since he actually has a Beyoncé Barbie, Alain has no idea whether Armand is kidding or not. So he just holds his breath waiting for Armand to open the second package.

He stares at it for a long, long moment as the paper peels away to reveal a similar sleek package with a clear front. The paper isn’t even a third of the way off when Armand looks up and grins at Alain.

“Holy fucking shit,” he says. “It’s me.”

The rest of the paper comes off in one hard tug. Armand suddenly can’t get into the toy’s packaging fast enough. It’s really, Alain thinks, like seeing a kid get the present they always dreamed of on Christmas.

“Goddamn,” Armand says, holding his tiny action figure self with both hands.

“I love it,” he says.

“Good,” Alain says. “It was so hard not to tell you about them. I’ve had them for months now.”

Armand raises his brow and smirks. “Cool.”

Then he pulls the Alain figure out of his pocket and holds it up in front of his own action figure.

“Too bad the clothes don’t come off,” he says.

Laughter explodes out of Alain. “You would say that! You would!”

“What,” Armand says. “Like you wouldn’t want toy-me humping toy-you.”

“I would keep them in the boxes,” Alain says. “They’re one-of-a-kind collector’s items.”

“Shut up,” Armand tells him.

Then he touches the toys together so that they look like they’re kissing. The brim of toy Alain’s hat knocks into toy Armand’s hair with the sound of plastic against plastic.

“Cute,” Alain says, so Armand leans in and kisses him.

Wes has no idea what he’s talking, and the temptation is very high to make a dick joke. For the record, he just woke up.

“What package?” he asks.

“For Lockett,” Lorin replies.

Wes makes a groan of waking up and looks one way then the next in bed, but Kathryn’s not in direct sight. He’s going to have to get out of bed. Which, at least, this is his bed. This is home. It doesn’t feel familiar, which makes him feel guilty. But there’s nothing waiting outside these bedsheets that he doesn’t look forward to. So there’s that.

“I don’t know, let me ask,” Wes says.

He eases out of bed feeling 55 instead of 35, which really just means he trained too hard yesterday and also maybe needs a new mattress. Pulling a shirt on he shuffles out of the bedroom and enjoys the sunshine pouring through the windows all around the house. California isn’t his favorite place, but damn if the weather doesn’t try to make him love it.

“Hey there gorgeous,” he says, finding Kathryn in the kitchen with her hair up.

“Hey,” she replies. “I didn’t know you were awake, so I didn’t make anything extra for lunch.”

“There’s still Christmas cookies, though?” Wes asks.

“You can’t have cookies for breakfast,” she tells him.

“You sound like a mom,” he points out. “I’m gonna have a salad too.”

She sighs. Wes pulls out the ingredients for a salad, plus some leftover chicken. He puts them all on slices of the warm bread sitting on the counter. He makes a sandwich, not a salad, and his phone sits next to him reminding him.

“Did we get anything in the mail from Lor?” he asks. “Also, when was the last time we had the bed replaced.”

“Yes!” Kathryn says. “His gifts are under the tree. Did he ask you about them?”

“Yeah,” Wes says. He taps his phone and sweeps away the lockscreen to tell Lorin the good news.

“I’m not sure about the bed,” Kathryn says. “Do you think it’s time for a new mattress?”

Wes rubs his back after he sends a text to Lorin and tells her what he thinks about the mattress — censored for Lockett’s little ears.

“I like Lor’s presents,” Lockett says. “They’re really big.”

Wes gives Kathryn a look which she mirrors.

“What the fuck did you get my kid?” Wes asks.

“A playset,” Lorin replies immediately. “Why? Does he already have one? I tried to get something cool. I thought since you already have a pool but your yard is so nice and the weather is so great all yearround, he’d enjoy something to play around on outside.”

Wes stares at the text for a while, watches other messages pop up in his notifications. He picks up his sandwich and takes a bite.

“He’s gonna love it,” Wes types.

“I thought so :) he’s like a tiny you so I just work from that,” Lorin replies.

“You gon be here to watch him open it??” he asks via text.

“Haha of course we planned that months ago,” Lorin tells him. Wes knew that, but seeing the words makes him smile.

“Good, I’ll make sure there are some cookies left tomorrow,” he types, thinking about Lorin with the taste of wine and gingerbread on his lips.

“It’s fucking cold,” he jokes.

His laughter makes clouds of condensation in the air.

“Yes,” Thibaut agrees. “Why are we walking in this weather again?”

“Too short for a cab or the train,” Irfane points out.

Thibaut’s sigh makes a sad, visible line in the air as he walks. Even with his gloved hands in the pockets of his jacket, his hands are cold to the bone.

“I can’t feel my fingers,” he says.

“Oh no!” Irfane says. “You need those.”

“They won’t freeze if we walk faster,” Thibaut points out.

“I have another idea,” Irfane says. “If you want to try something.”

“What?” Thibaut asks, but he won’t slow down. It’s too cold outside to just stand around.

“You’d have to take your gloves off, though,” Irfane says.

“My hands would freeze off,” Thibaut says, wincing at the thought of the cold rain directly on his skin. “I need my hands.”

“They won’t freeze,” Irfane promises. “I wouldn’t let that happen. I need your hands, too, remember.”

Thibaut looks at him skeptically, in glances to his left. He hunches his shoulders against the look Irfane gives him.

“It’s too cold,” he says.

“I promise this will help,” Irfane pleads.

Thibaut sighs.

To prove himself, Irfane pulls off his gloves and stuffs them in his jacket pocket.

“Look,” he says, holding his hands up toward Thibaut’s face. “Not freezing.”

Irfane puts his bare hand on Thibaut’s shoulder, pulls him up short on the sidewalk.

“Come on,” he says.

So Thibaut takes his hands from his pockets and carefully tugs off his leather gloves. The lining feels cold as he takes them off. He starts to shiver.

“Aw,” Irfane says.

His hands close around Thibaut’s, broad and thick and so, so warm. Irfane cups Thibaut’s hands together and holds them. Then he lifts their hands together toward his face, bowing to meet them. Irfane’s breath brushes Thibaut’s skin, warm and damp. The skin of his nose and cheeks is cold and wet, but his lips are warm. Thibaut has enough sensation to feel the scrap of Irfane’s stubble as he presses his face into Thibaut’s hands.

Irfane’s breath leaks out between the spaces of their fingers in ribbons of cloud. The blood returns to Thibaut’s palms and fingertips, as well as his cheeks.

When Irfane takes their hands from his face, he asks, “Better now?”

“Yes,” Thibaut says, softly. He hurries to pull his gloves on, though.

“Shit,” Irfane says, rubbing his face. “Now my mouth is cold.”

“Oh?” Thibaut asks.

“Yeah,” Irfane says.

He licks his lips and Thibaut thinks of reminding him that his lips will get chapped faster if he does that.

Instead he says, “I can help with that.”

“Huh?” Irfane says.

Thibaut can’t help the little twist to his mouth as he leans in. His cold nose brushes against the side of Irfane’s. Their mouths touch. His lips are colder than Irfane’s, but he knows the inside of his mouth is warm. He breathes against Irfane’s lips until they part. Then he chases down the taste of cold rain inside Irfane’s mouth until it’s all gone.

“That helped,” Irfane says, grinning.

“Good,” Thibaut says. “But I’m freezing now. Can we hurry?”

“Of course,” Irfane says. “Let’s go!”