kingston gilmore

“I- um..” he could feel his face heating up red at the call out, thinking he would’ve gotten away without anyone knowing. And if they knew him, who else did?? He couldn’t deny it but it was true, it was his 3rd time seeing it. And that was embarrassing. “I.. I’m sorry, Macbeth is hard… for me to understand,” Tomas admitted, and it was mostly the truth. It was the truth, it’s what Tomas told himself, every time he came, but a hint of a shy smile came at the mention of his customers from the play house, “oh no it’s nothing.. they’ve been lovely customers. They really liven up the place when they visit.” It was the beauty of having so many performers as his patrons, they’d come and hang out, some of them play the piano there, have a singing session, it felt wonderful to be able to give them a place to rest and have fun, to be themselves away from the grueling stages of New York always acting to be someone else. 

It was truly a huge relief, as the door closed behind them the world suddenly shifted as with just a click shut the crowds muffled out into a calm relaxing silence, only peppered in with the murmurs from the people still lingering around with the calm after the rush of a show. He definitely felt like he didn’t belong here, but Tomas couldn’t help but gaze in awe to a place he’s never been before, “this doesn’t look like hell to me..” Tomas voice had suddenly dropped a lot softer, trying to blend into the wall or the air, to make him seem like he wasn’t here but also wanted to hold the conversation with them. He looked back towards them with a nervous smile, pulling away his gaze from some of the recognisable cast simply winding down post show. “I just– don’t belong in the same world, I don’t know how you guys do it, really.. it’s amazing. Do you.. work back stage? or..”

A life given to the dramatics freely and without hesitation gave way to a response that felt natural, if only to Kingston. Their finger drew to Tomas' lips, the curse silenced hastily and entertainingly. The superstition wasn't taken seriously, but played with as if it was, no one rarely the wiser. "We don't speak in blasphemous tongues when it comes to our well-being. All other sins can be excused," they spoke, a glimmer of a teasing light dancing in their eyes as the finger drew back, feather-light touch lifted.

"Hell may not be as terrible as the claims. For do you know anyone that has gone and come back to tell the tale? It could be paradise and all the poems that say otherwise may be leading us astray." Faith was nebulous to the writer, figureless and ultimately godless. Tomas was looked over, eyes meeting his with an amused smile, lively when the passions of the creative heart were on display. "What other world is there if not ours?" they asked before the lips spread a little more. "I'm afraid I'm only the writer, my dear. Kingston Gilmore, and I believe you're Tomas. We have no more formalities left to suffer through, now."

Jess was about to answer, but then Kingston’s head was against his chest, the breath that was in it leaving in a stunned sigh. He could feel his heart begin to stutter again, twenty years of loneliness brushed away and replaced by a kind of long-overdue giddiness, a continuation from where they’d left off. When he’d lost Kingston, he’d never even considered finding them again – it was almost too good to be true, a dazed grin forming on his face when Kingston looked up again. “Perhaps I’ve met mine,” he murmured, leaning down to nestle a quick kiss against their temple.

The New York night air was cold and biting, a refreshing change from the champagne-tinged gallery; as they walked, Jess’ heart only melted further at the movement of Kingston’s thumb. Such a simple gesture, caressing something he hated, just one chapter of the history book that was his body – it was enough to make his chest tighten, hardly expecting his scars to be treated with such affection.

It was strange, walking with Kingston on his arm – it almost felt like this was meant to be, that those two decades of separation had simply been a stretching of the red string that would pull them back together. Their words only confirmed it; Jess could only nod, not wanting to say anything in case he shattered the fragile, spun-silk moment. The allusion was clear, suddenly a twist of shame, considering what he’d been teetering on the edge of. “I was waiting for you, doll. My artist.” And as soon as he spoke those words into existence, he knew they were true. “I couldn’t leave without seeing you again, at least one more time.”

There was those that entered into your life and stayed a lifetime, even if they physically were not there to be beside you during the length of it. In mind and spirit, Jessamine played his role in Kingston's place on earth, thought back on during the darkest nights and those shimmering dawns of early morning. Curious to his whereabouts, dreams wandering back to him, reaching out to touch, only to wind up here. Touch was attainable, warmth was held onto, the sound of his voice was no longer filled with echoes and questioning if the tone was exactly such. Their Muse was here in the flesh with words of acceptance that made them smile, the kiss at their side breathing life into them.

"Have you staked your claim on me?" they teased softly, chin tilted up to meet the eyes. They stayed on him, searching, taking him in, memorizing the details that had blurred with time in his memories. "You see me, and I see you, and now you cannot leave without taking me, as well," they warned in the most docile manner, but no less meaningful in all its implications. "It gives me more incentive to treat this as our last time together, doesn't it?"

Jess hummed his agreement, lost for a moment in Kingston’s eyes. It was so easy to wander into them, almost forget himself in the worlds they contained, Worlds he’d walked in, too; writing, painting, it was all art, all an exercise in baring your soul to another and trusting them not to shatter it. He’d have to bring Kingston up to his studio, show them what he’d done since they last saw him – of everyone he’d shown, it was Kingston’s opinion of his ghosts that mattered most to him. It was as close as he’d ever get to being able to introduce them to his family, after all. 

“I can assure you it’s feeling suitably bold, doll.” As if Jess’ grin didn’t speak for itself, a shy, bubbly smile very few people over the years had been privy to. Even less realised what a rarity it was. The fingers of his burnt hand interlaced with Kingston’s, giving it as much of a reassuring squeeze as the damaged nerve endings were capable of. There was something of a familiarity in the movement, even if time hadn’t afforded them the opportunity to learn the nuances of each other’s affection; it was almost as if he already knew them, somewhere in the maze of memories. “Sounds like a plan,” he murmured.

He hadn’t felt this giddy in years – twenty years, to be precise. And it just had to be said, more of a sigh than a sentence: “I’ve missed you.” 

"Bold enough to rival mine?" An impish smile hinted at the eyes, glowing brighter at the sight of Jessamine's own grin mirroring in them. Like a magnetic draw, the side of their head tipped to their side until their ear landed at the chest. The reverberations of the heart beneath thudding against the ear drum, a rhythm that dared to use the honey-dewed term of love spilling into Kingston's mind before freeing him from the exposure. Their face said it all before words could even be formed to confirm it. "I believe I may have met my match."

Free hand drew the cloak over their shoulder, keeping it hinged against themselves as they walked together. Fingers intertwined, thumb stroking and idly outlining the burns of the hand that was held. It had been asked about years ago. In retrospect, it should have been a clue to the age of the owner, but the allure of a mystery could carry logic away, and now with the answers in place, it felt fitting of a time.

That sentence made little sense to him as he tried to grasp its English, which really shows in his multiple attempts to understand Shakespeare. Yet it sounded ominous enough for him to gulp, even with a pat on the back, it could mean a multitude of meanings. I’m kidding, it’s okay, or you’re so gullible, you’re gonna die. You know, just like any other regular pat on the back. “Stop by any time, -if you like.. that is, on the house for your first visit. Friend of the theatre.” Tomas wasn’t exactly smart at business, maybe it’s a bad idea to freely offer such freebies but their collective patronage have done more for the store than they’d ever know. 

It should’ve been a telltale sign that they belonged here knowing the cast, but Tomas still was reluctant, knowing for sure he didn’t belong. “I mean–.. I’m definitely not-” Tomas stood at the door, nervously rubbing his arm as his eyes darted around. Security didn’t seem to blink an eye to them but then again they’re more concerned with the big crowd. And as Tomas looked back at his only other option, following them in to some quiet solace, or go back and face suffocating into the crowds. “O-okay..” He murmured as he gingerly took a step through and sighed as the door closed behind him. “Just.. Just until the crowd leaves.. I- shouldn’t be here. But thank you,” still, he was very aware of the rules of stranger danger, “where.. are we going?”

"That's very kind of you to offer, but I don't intend to take advantage of your generosity with an empty hand. I would hazard a guess that you may be returning for a... would it be a fourth time?" It wasn't as much of a call out as it was Kingston attempting to genuinely count the amount of times he had touched upon the familiar face from the crowd. "If anyone has earned themselves a season pass, it could go to no one else but you. After all, you have done miraculous work in feeding us all with no complaints to be noted."

All of Tomas' broken protests seemed to land on deaf ears. Kingston's gentle touch leading the way, but nothing short of determined in its destination. The door clicking shut behind the two was heard, separating them from the crowd, the front of the playhouse from the backstage, passing dressing rooms and wardrobe. "Nothing short of the murky depths of Hell and all its splendor," they replied with a flair for enthusiasm, a smile tossed up at him. "How can anyone say they don't belong in such company as devils like us?"

“I’ll have to paint you one day,” Jess murmured; he could already see it, chiaroscuro with a shaft of light coming from the top of the canvas, illuminating his love. The style of Caravaggio would be fitting for Kingston, Renaissance like Shakespeare, stark yet beautiful at the same time. Proud but soulful.

Jess didn’t exactly flinch at Kingston’s hand, but he stiffened momentarily, painfully unused to gentle touch. Yet at the same time, hungering for it, melting into it with barely a second thought, only a near-imperceptible shiver of relief. Somehow, it felt like home, Kingston’s laughter more welcome to his ears than any kind of music. “How can it be flattery when it’s true?” At least, it was true for Jess, the customary courtship response holding far more weight when it referred to his artist. Their response made him snort with laughter, a scraping, painful sound, marred by mustard-gas souvenirs. “Is that so?” His cheek was hot beneath Kingston’s hand, both the implications of their words and the simple touch enough to set his heart pattering in his chest. “Well, that’s not exactly an offer I can refuse.” It’d certainly be more refreshing than trying to find something meaningful in Poldark’s work. Offering Kingston his arm, Jess grinned, his chest fluttering with a feeling he thought he’d lost. “Shall we?”

"There's something deeply poetic in immortalizing me from your touch," they spoke, eyes searching his, telling how Jess' mind was already outlining the masterpiece. Kingston's world was written, line-by-line, a flowing rhythm of words, some of which were brought to life with the right cadence from the right voice. Jessamine's was more visual, more tangible, and yet no less tugging to the heart in how it demanded its own right to live. It was deeply admirable, especially from a man whose melancholy could shower himself in tones of grey.

Beneath their touch, the sinews firmed, blood stilling, but Kingston did not move, patiently waiting for him to relax. Perhaps they didn't know the direct reasons why, but with a life as seemingly endless as his, there was some spiritual understanding. The atrocities one must have witnessed, for time is not gentle, surely not for as long as he has had it offered to him. A smile was given back at the question of flattery, its answer a silent tilt of the head, impossible, awaiting for his own answer to return to them instead.

The laugh gave him a short lived reassurance until he continued, Tomas couldn’t be sure if he was joking or not, letting out a nervous chuckle, “ha, I.. I hope you’re kidding. Please- don’t remove my head..” it doesn’t help that they just saw Macbeth of all things. His mind wandered with stress of what if. He was just kind of blindly following a stranger somewhere. “Yes.. I don’t– particularly do well with crowds..” or people, or people wanting to complain about him. All aren’t fun. 

“Oh– have you been before? Yeah some of the performers like to come over, we’re not too far from Broadway.” He was explaining but he noticed where they were actually heading to, opposite of the exiting crowd, back into the stage door. “I don’t think I’m allowed–..” Tomas stopped in his tracks as he realised, “are you.. part of the staff?” Worse, were they just performing and he didn’t even recognise him?

"The theatre knows no bounds for its audience's accolades," Kingston further teased, probably more than likely not helping in easing Tomas' worries. For such a preposterous idea, though, it was only fitting for there to be an equally fiendish response. Their hand rested on his back as they led him away, giving a small pat in silent reassurance.

“My apologies.” Though Jess was grinning too much for those apologies to be sincere, savouring every moment of the kiss. 20 years. Just a drop in the ocean for him – or it should’ve been, if Kingston hadn’t made a home in his heart, hadn’t constantly reminded him of what brief time they’d had together. And they hadn’t changed all that much, merely softened slightly by time.

“Mmm, I’ll admit, I’ve missed it.” The thing about the Playhouse was that it was alive, it thrummed with an energy so foreign to Jess, hollowed-out wreck that he was, that it almost made him forget. Acting almost salved his scars. “Thank you.” It was almost shameful, how quickly Kingston could put colour in his cheeks, make his heart flutter like he was a century less damaged. “If I was beautiful, you must’ve been sublime.” There was nothing like seeing the words given life by their creator; it was half of  why Kingston had never left Jess’ heart, the way they could electrify him even more than being on the stage himself – though he had to laugh at Kingston’s next words. “I hope you know that sounds extremely suggestive, doll. But then again, I’m rusty in that area too. I could use some practice.”

"I can taste your lies, my dear. You're fortunate enough for them to be so sweet," their jest hummed against Jessamine's lips, eyes crinkling from the smile that was just as brimming with mischief as their companion's. "I've painted you in colors that have yet to be named, too," they went on after the briefest pause before the expression softened, eyes too ensnared by the attention they were being given by the other pair to do anything less than melt around the edges.

Even after coming to a halt, he was still being nudged and shoved, his shoulder his back, so he didn’t expect to start having a conversation in the middle of it. Tomas cautiously hugged the programme booklet with shakey arms, hoping it doesn’t get crumpled amongst the crowd. He could feel the anxiety riding up as the space closed in until they somehow managed to slowly guide them through to a thinner crowd, Tomas simply followed without a second thought, mostly just wanting to breathe again.

“Thank you..-wait, how.. do you know me?” Tomas blinked, panic rushing through his face, they haven’t met before have they? Did Tomas forget their name? Where would they have met? “-oh, unless you’ve been to the dessert bar.. –or did someone complain? Was I too tall? I’m sorry, I tried to slouch more but..” the nervous ramble spilled out, suddenly more conscious of where they might be leading him.

The sight of panic grazing the boyish features made Kingston nearly chuckle. For it to be over something so insignificant as knowing one or another, or perhaps the thought that he had forgotten if they had been introduced yet or not. There was no chance to assure, already railroaded by assumptions that furthered the smile on their face until a soft laugh escaped.

"It's nothing of the sort," they answered, but could not resist continuing. "Although, I am afraid I will have to ask you to remove your head going forward. It should shave some of the loftiness off." Another smile was given before their hand patted the side of his shoulder. "I don't mean to stir any more butterflies in your stomach. Your heart sounds as though it could use a rest. All worries should be left at the door, as much as possible.--I only know you by your face, so I wouldn't even know who I was complaining about if I did have any grievances."

Eyes dipped down to the program being held tightly before looking back up at him. "Are you the owner of the dessert bar our troupe has been exalting these past few months?"

“Oh, I’m sure you’re an absolute demon.” Jess leant in again, a kiss that barely lasted a moment but was laden with unspoken promises. That he would unravel Kingston, explore them as no-one else had, as he’d known and loved his favourite ghosts. He pulled away with a soft, rueful smile, his mind drifting back to those ghosts – his poet, such a short life, such a broken one. The pieces of it were still embedded in Jess’ heart; he desperately wanted a different ending for Kingston, a whole different story. “But you’ll always be the holiest of angels to me.” Perhaps the novelty came in loving someone whose skin was unblemished, a light that flourished in a world that admired it, made room for it, rather than struggling to be seen through the pea-soup of mustard gas. 

At least they didn’t have to love behind closed doors now; Jess could blush at Kingston’s suggestion, at the ghosting of their thumb over his hand. “My acting skills are a little rusty,” he murmured, more of a confession than an excuse. Despite that, their writing had been all he had to know them by for 20 years, each word, like almost everything else, etched indelibly into his memory. “I’d love to drop by, though – how is the Playhouse these days? Resolutely blazing new trails as always?”

"Your imagination is running wild. It's painting me in unflattering colors, my dear," they soothed before their lips were glossed over, a sticking brush that let Jess' be tugged faintly from the release. Eyes closed delicately, relishing in a moment where his breath was able to wash over them, ears filling with his voice, lips imbued in his taste, letting every sense take over and make a home inside of them. The smile that started to form let the vision return, a gesture that savored the time with the promise to deliver the brunet in all his glory like his reflection belonged in Kingston's eyes.

She tried to pull herself together, their words and expression too bright, too painfully sincere that she felt as if she was looking at the sun, blinded. It was at odds with the darkness in her mind, her grief-stricken memories that were threatening to consume her. “He was.” Her unshakable belief in her son’s talent had nothing to do with a mother’s unconditional love. Andreas had sacrificed everything for his craft, hours spent penning his words on paper till his fingers grew numb and his vision blurred in exhaustion. “I-” She swallowed. “-thank you.” 

Their next words, though still offered with good intentions at heart - it was the last straw, finally robbing Emme of all of her hard-won composure. Her near-sob caught in her throat. 

“Angelique-”

Their hand on her shoulder was the lightest of touches, one that draped as delicately over her as the sleeve that hid her skin, but the moment her grief collapsed in her voice, Kingston's thumb gave a squeeze. Eyes glazed with concern, the stomach growing a pit to it.

"What happened, my dear? Is she..." they could not fulfill the question, hanging uncharacteristically in the air before their thumb stroked back and forth. Their free hand molded around her other shoulder, holding to her. "What is there that I can do for you? Name anything in the world and I will find a way."

Jess realised with a sudden jolt that he’d happily spend the rest of his life – the rest of eternity, at this rate, just staring at Kingston’s face. Taking in every nuance of it, every intricacy of light and shadow; he knew what he’d be painting next, even as a playful smile formed on his lips. “Does that bother you? That it was taken by someone else?”

Despite the question, the kiss provided an answer of its own: that the heart that had regrown in his chest belonged to Kingston alone. It fluttered in time with theirs, a more fragile rhythm but one Jess treasured even more than his own. His hands pulled them even closer, tongue dipping past their lips when the opening appeared; they tasted of sunshine and sticky-sweet ecstasy, so different from the choking tar of war he was used to. Overwhelming, in a way, but deliciously novel, forcing Jess to close his eyes just to experience the kiss in all its purity.

He only relinquished Kingston’s lips with reluctance, wanting to savour their taste. Peace – was this what it tasted like? Was this what it looked like, Kingston’s face gazing up at him? Perhaps that was why it felt so foreign.

Kingston’s hand against his chest only served to make Jess’ heart skip a beat, dancing in a way it hadn’t done in so long. “I thought you were heaven-sent,” he murmured, leaning down so their foreheads touched. “You’re definitely more angelic than I am.”

Kingston's lower lip was glossed faintly over with the tip of their tongue, a smile parting the two halves apart before their eyes drew back to him. "You are acting like a devil in an angel's robes," Kingston spoke, an equal tease in their voice before giving more credence to the questions. "If it was taken and kept," they began before exhaling silently, slowly, enough of a brush to Jessamine's lips in its delivery, "it would be a great loss to me."

It was watched as he slipped closer, a force of gravity that pulled him in and Kingston did nothing to change what nature offered between them. Eyes were shut off from the world, replaced with a universe that rested on the lips that met their own, a tongue slicking over, tasting and exploring in tandem. It felt effortless, as easy as breathing, as /existing,/ and yet something that felt as though it could only happen once in a lifetime.

There was slowness in how Kingston's brown irises returned to the scene, made for only the other to see, as his mouth drew away. They didn't need to feel the skip in their heart to understand the weight of the moment, how longing had enraptured it. It was only feeling Jessamine's beneath their hand did it meet its apex, flourishing at the brush of skin against their forehead and the sides of the noses that met in the closeness.

Rarely, did people catch her off guard - she was always one ready with a glib word, a coy reply, answers perfectly thought out and delivered. But when faced with such gut-wrenching honesty, for Emme was certain there was no falsehood to their words, she could not help the warmth that suffused her smile, a gentle, heartbreaking expression she rarely wore nowadays, in fear of people taking advantage. “Andreas would have been glad to know you thought of him.” Her brave, selfless boy. He’d always been so quiet, so mature and level-headed, that in comparison to his flighty, exuberant twin, he was the first one forgotten, left out. “He was always a deep admirer of your work, he’d wax poetic about it for nights on end.” 

Kingston's heart was forever on display, a delicate placement of it against their sleeve. Any loss, any joy, was easy to tell even in the calm temperance that they possessed. All it took was a glimpse at honest brown eyes, the soft curve of lips, to tell that the memory of Andreas was one they both shared with a fondness that spoke to their dismay that it would only remain as a memory and nothing more with his absence. "His talent will be missed," they spoke, a bittersweet smile, putting flattery on hold. "It feels as though it goes beyond us; it is the world's loss, not only ours." Tenderly, a hand reached out, landing on the edge of her shoulder. "I hope you have found some comfort, where no words can properly express.--How has Angelique found this time to be?"

“No, no. Muses can’t die from heart attacks, doll. I had my heart cut out once, I’m still here.” Waking up was what he could never get used to, choking on his own viscera, fingers digging so deep into his thighs they left red crescents on the skin – but he hoped, promised, Kingston would never have to see him like that. 

Jess’ heart beat all the faster, now he could really feel Kingston’s own heartbeat, and he never wanted to forget it. Wanted to replace every stuttering, fading one that beat a tattoo in his head with this one, alive, beautiful; wanted to erase every dying scream from his memory and replace it with Kingston’s voice, a sound he never thought he’d hear again.

Holding out was impossible. Three centuries should’ve made him good at waiting, but in truth they’d only made him more aware of the importance of not waiting, seizing chances, letting his heart carve his path. Leaning down, making good on his promise not to let go, even though he longed to cup their cheek, Jess pressed a shy, hesitant kiss to Kingston’s lips. Eyes closed, savouring the moment, wondering – how long had he been wanting to do this?

Eventually he pulled away, smile returned in a way it hadn’t since 20 years ago. “How lucky do you feel now?”

Kingston's head tipped up, a soft tilt off its axis as they searched his eyes, thinking over such a scene. Literally, poetically, both tangling around each other, a past that was thankfully not their present, and would be damned to be their future. "Someone dared to claim it?" they murmured to him, a soothing jest, a morbid flirt.

The vision of him sinking closer in was exalting, held onto for as long as it could be before conceding to blackness, letting touch take over the senses. A baptismal of a kiss, cleansing and pure, perhaps more of a blessing to the bloodstream in its lightness rather than anything more. Their heart fluttered in their chest without remorse, a beat of a hummingbird trapped in a cage of bone, and all for Jessamine to feel reverberate through the knuckles that still laid over it. What a simple touch to cause such an effect, a faint brush that could topple mountains, certainly strong enough to move Kingston's lips to part, a wordless permission given.

Time regained its normal rhythm, no longer as slow as it had been. The sight of him was restored gradually, and hearing him brought on a curvature to the lips that could have been teased into breathless laughter with only one push.

“If you want.” Jess’ voice was equally soft, almost a whisper; the last time he’d felt like this had been almost a century ago, crammed so tightly into a Lancaster that you couldn’t move without touching someone else. Perhaps that had been the last time he’d allowed himself to feel something like this, allowed his heart to flutter in a boyish way he’d been ashamed of even before he’d become a muse. “I quite like it.” It being the curve of Kingston’s body against his, the veil of intimacy and peace, the way their shared warmth kept out the night’s chill. And of course, the twin heartbeats, his stuttering along somewhat giddily. “Mmm, if you were any nearer, I think my heart might stop altogether.”

Which of course meant don’t hesitate to come nearer. 

He was all too content to surrender his hand to Kingston, grinning at the unspoken challenge in their eyes. “It’s not going anywhere, doll.” The nickname felt like sunlight on his tongue, felt like crawling out of a cave to a blissfully warm morning. A resurrection, of sorts: Kingston was correct, if it wasn’t for his seemingly infallible memory, Jess might’ve entirely forgotten what such light felt like. The urge to kiss them was even greater, longing another foreign feeling, at least this kind of longing – but he held back, simply allowing his eyes to settle on them. “I don’t know.” Risking a little boldness, his smile took on a mischievous edge. “How lucky do you feel?”

The cloak became their shelter, banning the chill of New York from touching them. It was merely a house constructed of wool, unable to close around them entirely, but it was the warmest Kingston could remember feeling. It was a comfort that was not credited to the sartorial, but taken by how they each became the other's source of heat. Jessamine's front was brushed upon simply by existing in his presence, a torment to the heart that only was further ravaged when the words sank in.

"As you say," they soothed against the want being placed entirely in their hands, the choice to remain, to become frozen in a moment that they would hold onto dearly. His eyes were captured, that darkness missed, gazing into them until every flare of minute color was given the adoration they deserved. "Until the stars burn out, then."

Kingston's smile spread, a movement that nearly could have caused the thin air between them to ripple against Jessamine's skin before offering a murmur of a tease. "Should I give you space? I could not think of anything more tragic than finding you, only to lose you for good." But the muscles could not find the impulse to part ways, not even a fraction of whatever could have allowed their breaths not to be shared. Hearing his own impish question did nothing to change that, causing roots to pierce through the concrete they stood on, sinking into the earth below and anchor both of them in place.

Jess hadn’t been expecting it, the warm weight of the cloak around his shoulders; he opened his mouth to protest, but all that came out was a soft gasp, realising the warmth was Kingston’s, their hands on his shoulders. There was a time, still fresh in his memory, when a love like theirs could only be conducted through such fleeting touches, giving the brush of fingertips more weight to him than Kingston could’ve known.

“You know what? We can share it.” Tugging a fold of the cloak out, he draped it over Kingston as well, a little awkward with the height difference between the two of them. A completely blatant excuse to draw them closer, feel their warmth not just by proxy but by virtue of bodies pressed together. Twenty years was a long time to subsist on only dreams; now he had the real thing beside him, Jess’ heart felt like it was going to burst.

“Oh? Excuse me for my indiscretion, then.” He went to untangle his fingers from Kingston’s, only to stop at the last minute, giving their hand a reassuring squeeze. As if he’d ever be able to relinquish them – even now, when Kingston wasn’t looking, Jess found himself caught up just marvelling at them. Awkwardly making eye contact when they looked up, Jess realised he was blushing for what had to be the first time in 20 years. The kind of blush that said God, I want to kiss your stupid face, accompanied by a soft, tired smile that said I’m not sure if I should. “I’ll stay as long as you want, doll.” At least for now; he decided he wouldn’t tell Kingston why exactly he’d returned.

The seedling of maturity had taken root in Kingston long before the passage of time. Even in rebellion's appearance during the years of youth, they held weight in every action, not a sense of fickleness, of senselessness, each motion and emotion from a bleeding heart with purpose and structure to what others would call whimsy. It was in these chaste moments where that maturity pounded, beating behind a cage of bone in a chest eager to prove its loyalty.

"Is this how we'll stay?" they asked, a voice soft, barely more than the light breeze around them. There was no need to be any louder. Any louder and the intimacy of the night might just break, and what a terrible fate it would be, given the closeness they shared and how Kingston had no intention of distancing. "If you were any nearer, I'd mistake your heartbeat for my own."

“Oh dear, oh dear.” Emme fretted out loud as she rushed past the person, playing the role of an innocent, frazzled woman to perfection - one who was completely oblivious to the fact that her tiny purse had slipped oh so easily from her hands to land onto the pavement, directly at her target’s feet. 

“Oh, you’re such a dear.” Emme practically cooed, spinning around the moment someone tapped her on shoulder. All her distress seemed to melt away immediately, replaced by a sweet, inviting smile as she accepted the proffered bag. “You must let me repay you somehow, I insist.” 

There was an inkling of who this one silhouette was in a crowd of shadows, but when Emmeline had turned, Kingston's memories flooded forward. Recognition lit up their eyes when the profile of a woman turned into the face of a mother's pride towards her son's talents. The fleeting warmth of nostalgia brought with it the aftertaste of melancholia, even with a kind smile given back to her.

"I hardly find that's needed when I'm paid enough in your image." Her purse was gently released to her, guiding the strap across her fingertips as they continued on. "I was stricken when I heard," they spoke, a murmur of condolence with an open heart. "He was one of the few I had thought to look for when I came here."