A fluffy continuation of I know, lover, I know for @lesmistransweek . Again, Glorieux is genderqueer and Gueulemer a trans man. Please enjoy this wholesome sweetness!
Content warning for mentions of drinking alcohol and weaponry (which isnât used).
The winds change, and forgiveness comes slowly.
They see each other around, of course. Both Glorieux and Gueulemer know theyâre doing too well in this business right now to give that up for a petty breakup. Besides, thereâs a certain tenderness that comes with seeing someone youâve lost, or whoâs lost you; each feels their skin turn to paper, and they remember just how much their hearts can take.
Actual speaking is still difficult, and their words shuffle through empty space a lot of the time. But that smile and god forbid their laugh when it crumbles away from Glorieuxâs lips in just that way. Those things are worth any small foolishnesses.
Heâs right, though. He doesnât get over them, and he probably still loves them. Is still in love with them. But he forgives them and eventually himself. His shoulders turn to cotton with the winter â the cotton of the dead, perhaps, but at least itâs soft. Neither of them shakes everything thatâs been said between them, and Gueulemer doesnât forget the breakages in his bones where they left their lipstick-stains.
Perhaps nobody ever does that, really.
He learns to be okay with that, which is more than he ever expected. His hands are stronger now, and when he sees them he waves slowly, once, before he turns away. Itâs a little thing and itâs everything.
Soon, itâs dusk again, late in the year, and heâs in his own small flat. The air cracks with the blur of the before night, and he tries not to think about the second mug heâd made habitually, left on the table.
Heâs standing by the window drinking baileys from the other coffee mug, slowly. Itâs expensive stuff, but this feels like a night which deserves it â the way it glitters smoothly in his throat matches the sky outside. Cold air pants at the windows. He battles it with an interesting variety of blankets strewn everywhere.
The door opens. Before itâs finished clicking, heâs ready with a bat. Knees bent slightly. Feet apart. Face a battleground. Thereâre a couple of knives on him too, and he knows where-
The door closes again. Itâs Glorieux.
Shoulders drop and eyebrows raise. The shock of it paints his face white and his hands red. Moonlight-cool, the mug pinches itself into his hand. The bat swings down, a pendulum through space, and his lips swell into a nervous smile before he can even try to stop it.
Theyâre nervous, too. He hasnât seen that before. Thereâs some kind of sweetness stained at their mouth â he thinks for a moment that theyâd taste of strawberries, of honey wine. Purple withers at the corners of their eyes, and itâs beautiful and lonely and kind. They donât sleep well, though no-one in their business does. Glorieux always says itâs fine because the night is so fun theyâd never want to miss it anyway.
âIâm sorry,â they say, and Gueulemer is suddenly aware that heâs shirtless and this is a strange way to visit your ex. âI just wanted to see you.â
âRight.â He watches them step through his flat in that dizzy kind of way you do in dreams. Of course, theyâd picked the lock. Glorieux would do that. âDo you- uh, do you want some baileys?â
They smile at that, and take it from the table he points them to. They donât joke about it, though, and he almost misses the teasing.
âI wanted to apologise, I guess,â they say, and curl themselves into a paper clip at one end of the sofa. Gueulemer sits at the other end, picks a little at the ragged fabric until the threads come apart at his fingernails, then gestures for them to continue. âJust that I always knew you cared, and I didnât respect that. I made things worse when I shouldâve listened.â They tilt their head to sip the whiskey, and their eyes pierce something invisible in the air. âI think you understood me a lot better than I gave you credit for.â
âI did,â he grins at that, and they bark out a laugh and everything turns misty and purple like the corners of their eyes. âBut Iâm sorry I didnât trust you enough. Thatâs not healthy, and it wasnât fair.â He sets down the empty mug. His hands find theirs in the dust-light. âI loved you, and I knew who you were, but I didnât believe it.â
Perhaps his hand is a match because in the next moment Glorieux is pressed against his shoulder, and he feels their warm body shuddering against him. They both turn paper again, but this time itâs a blessing. Thereâs no more space to hide. Honey wine on their lips swims around him all dusky, catching into a zephyr on the air.
Glorieuxâs hands turn origami on his chest, light and sharp and tender. He reaches down his head to press a kiss to the nape of their neck, and it sits there the colour of the dying sunlight. No thoughts of blood. No anger. He feels their touch on his bare skin and scars â bullets and knives and top surgery and failed tattoos â and everything he is becomes a moon-sickness.
Moon-sickness that could be love and could be lust and could be Iâve missed you and could be letâs try again, darling. Moon-sickness in purple.
âGod, you make me soft, Gueule,â Glorieux pants into the space beneath his chin. âLike Iâm ice cream tasting like beer and cherries and itâs a summer that bleeds gold. And I love you so much I melt with it.â
âGlorieux,â he chokes, wrapping his arms around their waist to press tight and fierce, âthatâs the sappiest thing youâve ever said.â
And then heâs lifting them into his lap and laying down, their face nudged against his and theyâre giggling and giggling and snorting until he is too.
Shimmering air flecked with hope. âI know this isnât enough to fix everything,â Glorieux adds, between breaths that still stutter with joy, âbut itâs enough for now, I think.â
âAgreed, darling.â Heâs interrupted by a shove and a kiss to the shoulder. âYou know that all I am blooms for you. You know that all the colours of you are everything I adore-â he catches that purple again, crinkling with a snicker â-and all I want is to be a home for you.â
Glorieux stills a moment, body shrinking into its own shadow. Gueulemerâs grin collapses, and heâs reaching towards them, heart turned thunderstorm until-
Theyâre kissing him on the lips, breath foggy and stale and perfect and strung out with laughter like lanterns at a festival. Purple shimmers around them. Whiskey and cream flower on their lips. The dusk is gone and night is here, but it just makes them more beautiful.
And whilst love may not always be enough on its own, they have more than that. They have luck and determination and forgiveness and a sense of choice that scatters all fear from his bones, and that is. Gueulemer knows that theyâre enough more than anything else.
Itâs a cold night, but itâs warm where they are, and the blankets make a shelter for them. All they have to be right now is forgiving and in love. And thatâs the most wonderful thing Gueulemer has ever felt.
