#fandomworkday2016

It starts with the summer-hire technician, who might be the most adorably manly creature he’s ever laid eyes on.  He’s six feet and some inches of well-toned gorgeousness, rich brown skin and sparkling eyes, hair cropped short in a way that makes Kurapika’s palms itch, imagining the texture.  He’s not particularly religious but is pretty sure he ought to be worshiping some god in thanks for the way this man’s t-shirt hugs his waist and biceps.

He’s shuffling his feet when Kurapika opens the door that connects the storage vault to the study center, responding to an unexpected knock, hunched over like he’s self-conscious about his height, or used to being around people much shorter than him, or perhaps like he’s hit his head on doorframes one too many times.  Kurapika blinks, and he smiles as broadly as a door-to-door salesman.

His name is Leorio.

Kurapika is unprepared for this meeting for more than one reason.  First, he’s been putting away a stack of works on paper, which means hauling around flat black archival boxes full of art, which are goddamn heavy.  Which means he’s sweating and stripped down to the camisole under the t-shirt under the sweater that’s his usual defense against the HVAC system.  Which means all he’s wearing is that and black leggings and the leg warmers sagging around his ankles and the edges of his pink flats.  It’s appropriate, he figures, with Depeche Mode blaring in the background.

Second, he’s not been introduced to Leorio, and no one from the workshop downstairs called ahead to say they were sending someone up to pick up a loose art portfolio, so he stands there staring at Leorio’s smile for several seconds wondering what he’s supposed to do with the gorgeous, oversized male artifact knocking on the door to his vault.  There aren’t any boxes big enough for him, and he won’t fit on any of the painting racks, but Kurapika could, potentially, find some space for him on one of the compactor shelves with the ceramics.  He should be accessioned properly, labeled, catalogued, photographed, and preserved for future generations.

It may or may not be fortunate when, after introducing himself, Leorio says, “I’m here to pick up your mat order,” and Kurapika realizes he’s not an art piece.

One of the tables in the study center is still padded and covered from the class the day before, so Kurapika slips out the door and lets it slam shut on the strains of Personal Jesus filling the vault.  The loose art portfolio is in one of the cupboards, and when he pulls it out to set it on the table Leorio predictably jokes about how the unbleached cotton pad cover looks like a fitted bedsheet.

Then, less predictably, adds, “Almost like you’d be getting up to something other than art around here.”

Kurapika straightens, not sure if his skin is prickling because of the innuendo or because of the cooling sweat on his neck.  “That wouldn’t be archival.”

He says it with a flat expression, head tilted to the side, looking up and measuring the distance between his eyes and Leorio’s, but the man laughs--throws back his head and laughs like he’s just seen the best comedy act of his life.  Somehow, just like with the broad salesman smile, it doesn’t come off as fake.

It’s a great moment.  It’s nearly perfect.  Kurapika is thinking about smiling, possibly, or striking up a conversation, asking what brought Leorio to the framing workshop for the summer, what he thinks of the Pae White installation in the lower gallery, how much he can lift.  Anything.

He doesn’t remember what he was saying, at the moment he opens the portfolio--something relevant about the mat order, probably.  The beginnings of a joke he promptly forgets, if he were actually charming.

Whatever it is, he chokes on his own saliva the instant he sees the full-color, larger than life image on top of the pile of photographs inside.

It’s not even a momentary thing, either; Kurapika wheezes, and at least has the presence of mind mid-suffocation to turn away from the art and crouch on the floor before descending into a coughing fit.  It lasts long enough that Leorio bends over him in concern, which might have been nice under other circumstances.

When he stands back up his face is burning red--from lack of oxygen, not embarrassment, but the damage is done either way.

“So,” Leorio says, one hand scratching the back of his neck.  “That’s a penis.”

Kurapika’s voice comes out in an unflattering croak.  “This is a modern art museum.  Genitals happen.”

“Oh, no, I get it.  I mean, I’m a med student, I see them all the time whether I want to or not.  Of course, they’re usually not this… magnificent.”

“It’s been over-saturated and enlarged.”  Kurapika coughs into his elbow, windpipe still tickling unpleasantly, and balks when Leorio chuckles like a twelve year old.  “Photographically, I mean photographically.”

“Right, right,” Leorio reassures him, flipping the portfolio cover closed.  Kurapika doesn’t want to think about him downstairs in the workshop, cutting mat board especially for the penis photo, fitting corners to it, measuring the window, constantly face to face with its magnificence.  “Are you sure you’re okay?”

“I’ve survived worse.  We’ve hosted Joseph McCarthy exhibits before.”

Leorio blinks, but seems to be filing that away, taking it in stride.  “Let me make it up to you.  I’ll bring you a coffee when I deliver the mats.”

“I can’t have food or drinks in here.”

“Oh.”  Leorio looks to the side, hands slipping casually into his own back pockets.  “I guess I’ll have to take you out then.”

Kurapika blinks at him and his forced nonchalance, and coughs again, then steps around him.  “I’ll get you a cart.”

There’s a heartbeat of hesitation before Leorio’s voice says quietly, “Okay.”

“My break is at four.”

He’s not looking, but he can practically hear Leorio’s posture straighten, the smile curl across his face.  “Okay!”

It’s an hour later, probably, when Kurapika’s brain has re-oxygenated itself enough to realize that Leorio could not possibly have this job and not know that food and drinks are forbidden pretty much everywhere except the office and the break rooms.  That the curator who last handled that particular portfolio spends a lot of her free time downstairs with the technicians.  That there might be a distinct possibility he’d just been set up.

“I’ll go out with him,” Kurapika says decisively to the stack of 1970’s sketchbooks he’s rehousing.  “And then I’ll either buy her chocolate or get her back.”

The HVAC system offers a particularly loud grumble, and that sounds enough like a sign that Kurapika doesn’t push his luck any further than fate already has.

          With the volume of the game around them, it was almost a miracle Leo could hear anything else at all. There was the music, the shouting of everyone else, the loud beeps and buzzes of the game vests, and flashing lights coming from every which direction, but he wasn’t paying attention to any of it. He was only able to hear his own labored breathing and his heart pounding in his ears, and the lights didn’t even register behind closed eyelids.

          It was no surprise at all that they’d managed to find a secluded spot, away from where everyone else was running around, and had spent the better part of ten minutes not paying attention to the game of laser tag. Their plastic guns were hanging off their vests, only a few inches off the ground, and neither of them had scored a single point, even on each other. With his boyfriend’s lips at his neck, the Scotsman couldn’t bringing himself to care in the slightest. He was perfectly happy with the current arrangement, and he didn’t foresee changing it any time soon.

          Of course, all too soon, Grant stepped back with a plain smirk, the smug expression only growing into something more like a grin when the shorter man let out a sound of complaint. They hadn’t meant to get so carried away, they really hadn’t, but it was all too easy to get caught up in each other after the week they’d had. There had been too much tension and uncertainty surrounding them over the course of just a few days, and working that tension out would be the most important part of the weekend.

          “Come back...” Leo only managed the short whine before taking control of the situation himself, standing on his toes and reaching up to pull a familiar set of lips down to his. If they were going to waste time kissing, they were going to do it properly. The next step in their relationship wasn’t one he wanted to take in the dark corner of a laser tag arena, but five minutes wasn’t nearly enough time to score the points needed for a victory -- besides, if that week had taught him anything, it was that losing could be better than winning.

          After laser tag and pizza, Grant had taken it upon himself to get them to his apartment as quickly as possible. Technically, the plan was to turn on a movie, and let the night progress from there -- if the night progressed from there. Even if there was confirmation that they were ready for it, there was no pressure to get around to things any time soon. They could take things slow for as long as they needed or wanted to. If things didn’t progress that night, they knew it wasn’t anything to worry about, and if things did go that far, there was no question of whether or not they both wanted it.

          With the television on, and something playing mostly for noise so that there would be no moments of extended silence, they both settled into the leather cushions of the couch comfortably, Leo practically in his boyfriend’s lap. There was a bowl of popcorn on the coffee table, but it went entirely untouched, and, by the end of the movie, the couch was empty.

          Even with the morning light streaming in from the window, Leo did his best to stay asleep for as long as he possibly could. He was reluctant to blink his eyes open, just awake enough to give his body the order to lean into the arm wrapped around him. All he found with the action was a solid chest, and then the arm around him grew tighter, keeping him in place. Just the night before, the muscles that he was able to use as a pillow had been used to hold him close in a very different way -- a way that had left him feeling a pleasant sort of ache. He was tired, he could say that much, but, right where he was, curled up and warm and as close to Grant as he was going to get without repeating the very things that had left him so tired to begin with, it was the most comfortable he’d ever been.

          “Morning...”

          The groggy voice in his ear only made the Scot smile, somehow managing to relax even further despite how impossible it seemed. He did his best to respond, though in his state, his reply was just as drowsy and slurred. “Is waking up in bed with me not enough to call it a good morning...?”

          A quiet chuckled was quickly followed by a kiss to the top of his head, and he received a hum in answer only a few moments later. “I want to call it a great morning, but it doesn’t sound as nice... and i’m still sleepy.”

          They both laughed, then, low enough as to not disturb their morning of happiness, but enough to be heard. It was nicer than Leo expected it to be -- the morning after -- and if he wasn’t so comfortable and happy with the idea of wasting the rest of the weekend right there in that position, he’d be asking questions. Wasn’t something like that, the first clear moment after giving one’s body and soul over to someone else, supposed to be awkward or uneasy? Or at least get that way? They’d been there, awake and tangled up in each other, for at least a few minutes, but he wasn’t feeling any of that.

          Slowly, he rolled himself over, lifting his chin just enough to meet the warm, brown gaze that was already fixed on him. Something about Grant’s eyes in that moment made him pause, taking the time to memorize every detail he could. Maybe it was a trick of the light, the sun’s early morning rays bouncing off just the right combination of objects and filtering expertly through the curtains to make those eyes look both brighter and darker in the same moment. It was like magic, and he didn’t let himself linger on the science behind it for too long, certain it didn’t matter at all. With how closely he was being watched, likely with the same level of intensity as there was in his own gaze, nothing mattered besides taking in as much of it as he could.

          After a while -- it felt like hours, but it was likely no more than a few minutes -- he had to say something, before the air between them got any thicker with poorly veiled emotion. “You’re looking at me funny...” That was all he could manage, a short, not at all scientific observation, but he didn’t need to say anything more than that.

          “I’m just thinking.” They were both quiet for a moment, holding each other’s gaze even when Grant spoke again. “You’re my best friend, you know that?”