#esiako

“You, man,” Logan says.

“Oh. Well, yeah.”

Logan’s outline is visible now, in the dark, leaning against the wall at the mouth of the hallway. “Sleep’s important, bro. Gotta get your eight hours in.”

“I know.” Mike runs a hand through his hair, grimaces. He needs a shower. “Sorry. I’ll - I fucked up my sleep schedule while I was in the shadows.”

“Nocturnal-ass Ring Pop husband,” Logan says pensively. He shuffles into the living room proper, then past it and into the kitchen, where Mike hears him starting to rummage around in the cabinets.

Mike twists on the couch to look, squinting into the dark. “What are you doing?”

“You got tea, Mikey T?” Logan asks. “That shit always puts me to sleep. Magic-ass sleepytime leafs. I mean, I could boil some Sprite, but -”

“What the fuck are you two doing?” Edric asks from the hallway, yawning behind the words, rubbing at their eyes.

“Oh, shit, letterboy,” Logan says, elated. “You want in on sleepytime tea?”

“Logan is putting me to bed,” Mike adds. He finds the power button of his Switch in his lap and presses it, shifts the whole thing to the coffee table. He can come back to it tomorrow.

“Good,” Edric says. They take a few steps into the living room, and throw themself into the armchair. “Logan, do you even know how to make tea?”

“No,” Mike says, at the same time that Logan says, “Yeah, dude, of course!”

“He’ll figure it out,” Mike concedes, tugging his blanket up around his shoulders. “You can go back to bed, Edric. Sorry we woke you.”

“Nah, nah, if you guys are having cool late night bonding moments, I want in.” Edric shifts in the armchair, curling up in it with their legs tucked under them. They yawn again, and fold their arms to make a place for their head to rest, face tilted sideways to look at Mike.

“Oh,” Mike says. “Okay. Cool.”

He should feel irritated, maybe, about having his quiet time broken in on like this, or about being pestered to go to bed. But some of the anxiety has sloughed from his shoulders, however improbable that is. Maybe it wasn’t anxiety after all. With Jaylen away and Allie gone...maybe he’s lonely, however little he wants to think about it. Why else would he fill his apartment with people like this?

Breckenridge is an adjustment from Miami, and from Mexico City before it. Briskie had almost forgotten what cold, real cold, was like, but he remembers now, reluctantly bundling up in four layers of jackets and sweaters to head out on a grocery run that can’t be put off. Jeans over wool socks, boots over jeans, fur-lined hunter’s cap yanked down over his hair - a laundry list of steps to take just to step out the front door.

His keys knock together and jingle tunelessly as he locks the door lock, then the deadbolt. The noise almost covers the sound of footsteps - almost, until Briskie turns and sees his neighbor picking their way down the hall, nearly invisible behind the stack of paper grocery bags clutched in their arms.

“Can I help?” he asks, because it’s only polite. And if it’s also because he senses an in, well, that’s secondary to the politeness, of course. “You look a little overloaded.”

“Oh,” the neighbor says, freezing in place. Then, “Would you, actually?”

“Of course,” Briskie says. This is the part he’s good at - the being nice to neighbors. The casual ambling into other peoples’ lives, handling their groceries, being invited inside their apartments. Not the dirty work.

He takes the grocery bag from the top of the teetering stack into his arms, then another, and then he can see his neighbor’s face blinking big, deer-in-headlights blue eyes at him from under a wind-tangled fringe of pink and blond. A face Briskie recognizes from the file sitting in his bedroom drawer. De Luna. Their hair is longer than in their photograph, and they’re buttoned into an expensive-looking coat (also pink) that they look like they’d rather be taking off immediately, but still definitely Quill de Luna.

“Thanks,” they say, and waver in one spot for a long moment, shifting their weight in their impractical knee-high boots and digging their key ring out of their coat pocket. Briskie watches them unlock the door lock, then the deadbolt, and push their door open, holding it with their foot so he can follow them once they’re inside.

“Don’t mention it,” Briskie says smoothly, slipping past them and down the hall to set the grocery bags down on the kitchen table. “I don’t think we’ve met. My fiancee and I just moved in about a week ago.”

“Oh,” de Luna says, “right! We haven’t met.”

They’re stripping out of their layers in the hall, discarding boots and coat with their groceries half-forgotten on the floor next to them. Briskie catches a grin flashed in his direction, all teeth, and returns it with a tight-lipped smile of his own.

“I’m Briskie,” he offers.

“Quill.” De Luna is out of their coat and in the kitchen now, bustling to put produce in the fridge. The collar of their sleeveless blouse is unbuttoned, exposing their throat as they twist to look at Briskie over their shoulder. “Nice to meet you! Thanks for the hand.”

“Happy to help,” Briskie says, more or less honest. “You’re here by yourself?”

“I can handle myself,” de Luna says, without turning around from the fridge this time. “Usually.”

“I heard there’s been bodies found around here. In the woods. You’re not scared of murderers or anything?”

De Luna laughs. Softly, so softly that Briskie doubts for a moment that he’s heard it at all, but definitely there.

“I’ve got a guy who handles the scary things for me,” they say. Even without being able to read their face, Briskie can tell it’s half-sarcastic.

“He’s not here now,” Briskie says. “What if I’m scary?”