#g.writes

“Remaining still for hours on end is hardly a challenge,” he remarks dryly. “The real challenge lies with you. Are you able to see this commission through to its completion? I’ve watched you abandon dozens of fledgling projects over the years, and I can’t say I’m one hundred percent confident that my portrait won’t end up… orphaned.” 

You huff at his audacity. “Hey, let’s not stone the person trying to capture your likeness. I could give you a big zit on your nose — or endow you with a wealthy, bushy mustache. Think Old Oti.”

Sunday levels you with an unimpressed stare. It’s a sight you’ve grown used to over the years, which is a fortunate thing, because it’ll aid in the whole process. Since you can already paint his unsightly, mirror-shattering face with your eyes closed, how hard will painting his portrait be with him standing right in front of you, offering a constant frame of reference?

“Don’t look at me like that,” your face sours. “Besides, since when is Sunday, the boy I grew up with, the dessert-snatching rugrat, and now silly politician, not one hundred percent confident in something? I’m shocked. Gobsmacked, even. Are you feeling under the weather, Sunny? We can always reschedule.”

He straightens his posture for the umpteenth time. There’s that determined set to his brow, a quirk that’s only grown more prominent in recent years. Such ambition doesn’t look out of place on his person now, but when it was developing during your shared adolescence as he spurted tall under Mr. Wood’s wing, it definitely would’ve. A pang of grief sieges your gut. 

He’s grown into those priggish, stuffy shoes. What an individual he’s become.

If your fellow Halovian notices your solemn expression (which he most certainly does), he elects to ignore it and play along with your teasing. You live for this endearing, predictable routine.

“That’s unnecessary. I trust you with this.” His headwings flutter, a knee-jerk reaction he doesn’t bother to conceal in the privacy of Dewlight Pavilion’s most barren parlor. The vulnerability of his statement isn’t lost on you, but for the sake of your lackadaisical image, you pretend it flies over your head like a wayward Charmony Dove. 

“Don’t make me regret doing so, please. Finding another painter on such short notice would hinder my schedule. And as delightful as it would be to not have my embarrassing childhood memories weaponized every five seconds, I doubt anyone else out there even comes close enough to your skill level to steal the job from you.”

“Well, call me crazy, but I think I’m getting mixed signals here.”

“All of that may have sounded contradictory. But I trust you understand what I mean.”

“Such fancy words you spout,” you mimic Sunday’s holier-than-thou cadence, donning the most ostentatious mask — all just to annoy him. “But never fear! The Iris Family burnout is here! Just wait, Sunny, your portrait’ll be the best on the wall, and you’ll be the envy of the masses, a glistening gem amongst dull pebbles! The Harmony shall weep for THEIR ward, the one to ultimately outshine THEM—”

“Enough.”

You swiftly shut up, a smirk pulling at your lips.

You don’t know what agitated him the most. Perhaps it was the insinuation that he’s still a follower of Xipe (and the unspoken knowledge that you know better), or perhaps it was your usual smear campaign against his character — or perhaps it was the fact that you’re finally starting to have fun. Heartbreaking. A tragedy for the ages.

“Sketch is done. Shall we begin?” you ask, smoothing the wrinkles out of your smock.

“Yes, that would be nice,” he sighs. “One more thing, however.” 

“At your service, Sunny.”

A lengthy pause. Now your impatience is showing. You scrutinize him like a jeweler would their trade under a loupe, waiting for his inevitable request with a tapping foot. Your boot thumps against the floor unevenly, the rhythm attuned to your muddled thoughts. When Sunday finally speaks again, it’s in a softer tone, one that you rarely hear. 

“...I don’t like it when you call yourself a burnout.”

He sounds… concerned. You almost gawk before you think better of it, seeking coverage by shrinking behind the canvas, letting its breadth shield you from his doleful eyes. His distaste for your self-deprecating jokes is something you’re aware of, but when he expresses it beyond a troubled sigh or an affronted hand-clasp? Rare. Asdana could soon very well be plunged into eternal darkness.

You hum. “I don’t cater to your likes and dislikes, unfortunately.”

“You quite literally do, as of right now. The clock is ticking. I’m paying you to cater to me,” he informs you, voice almost strangled before he clears his throat, tamping his frustration down. Sunday is ruffled. You can tell his anger on your behalf is genuine; it always has been. You don’t need it, but it’s there. “And what would Robin think of you speaking of yourself in such a way while she’s absent?”

“Bringing up Robin is some serious low-hanging fruit. Don’t tumble down the orchard ladder during your descent.”

The banter flows so naturally now — you can’t help but be grateful for it. Upon showing up a bit late to this first session, everything was so unnaturally rigid — which you couldn’t feasibly attribute to your tardiness at all. The man across from you was so distant, so formal, like he was up late the night prior memorizing a script just to soldier through this meeting with you. Has his contrivance finally crumbled under the weight of your signature charm? 

You hope so. There will always be that part of you; the wondrous section that hopes.

“Number one,” you assert, holding up your index finger, its neighbors following suit as you continue to list. “Don’t use Robin as a trump card — only I can do that. And number two, you aren’t paying me to cater to you. You’re paying me to deliver what was requested.”

“And pray tell, what exactly did I request?” Sunday presses, eager to reinforce his point.

He doesn’t get the chance to.

“To depict you accurately, as others see you, untouched by the Sweet Dream’s spell.”

“Those are not the words I used.” 

“Those are the words you meant. And don’t be surprised when I deliver exactly that.”

“I mean it. No scheming.”

“None,” you swear.

The atmosphere now is a charged concoction of hope, despair, and each interwoven gap of stagnation. You take stock of the charcoal-stained surface in front of you, the thing itself massive and daunting, symbolic of this commission’s insurmountable undertaking. But that’s okay. Because you’re doing this for someone you nebulously consider a friend, and friends are nestled achingly close to your heart. You’ll finish Sunday’s portrait before you draw your last breath. It’ll hang next to Mr. Wood’s, the outlying addition in a long line of faces.

You are going to spin gold. You are going to make your mark. You are going to create a masterpiece.

There are no amicable dust particles floating about like there would be in reality, leaving only the low light of mood lamps to illuminate your subject. After making sure your colors are mixed and ready to go, you take a generous step back. This way, you have a good view of him in your peripherals. It’s insurance, a safety net; you don’t necessarily need the whole guy in your face — it’s not a want, either — because you'll get him just right regardless.

And so you start, toiling away over your initial rudimentary sketch.

You don’t get very far. A week and a half later, your subject regrettably opens his mouth.

“It’s…”

“Good, right?”

“...”

Sunday is pensively surveying your progress. You’ve already gotten bored of fishing for his approval. Once this guy starts thinking, you have to wait an Amber Era before he actually wraps up. But by the tiniest misgivings of his features, you’ve determined that he has a few nitpicks. That surprises you more than you let on. He’s usually not an art critic — but then again, most would dip their toes in if it was their image being produced. 

He’s just particular. The handful of clients you’ve entertained were the same way; this shouldn’t bother you. This is part of the job, the gargantuan process.

“Just tell me what’s wrong with it,” you sigh. “It doesn’t do either of us any good if you’re dissatisfied. Portraiture isn’t exactly my forte, but I’ve been around the block once or twice. It’s like painting the superior landscape — but with faces and all that instead of trees.”

Sunday’s eyes sweep across the canvas. 

“You cannot possibly be at fault,” he says, because in his eyes, you truly can do no wrong. All of the blame is to be placed on the collective nature of the public, which also just so happens to be his dominion. “I seem to be unable to place my finger on it. My apologies, my judgment is eluding me.”

“Well, that’s a new one. Since when does the Oak Family Head struggle with something as indisputable as his judgment?”

He doesn’t respond to your jab. You watch as he carefully extends a gloved hand, stopping what must be a scant inch from the canvas. With a gentleness belying his worried lip, he traces what are supposed to be his unfinished features, careful to keep his touch strictly phantom.

Watching him scrutinize your work so diligently is fraying your nerves just a little. “...It’s not gonna bite you, y’know.”

“Sorry,” he clears his throat, reeling his hand back. “Like I said, I’m not sure where I’d go about anything differently — it looks much like me already. Not to mention, it’s still in an early state of development, lacking the shadows and my lower half, so it wouldn’t be unreasonable to chalk my concern up to that.”

“Yeah, that wouldn’t be unreasonable,” you agree. “I trust you to speak up if you have any grievances, Sunny, but there’s something else on your mind, something else gnawing at you. It’s only our third session and you look more keyed up each time we meet.”

“I do?” Your fellow Halovian becomes flustered, his voice throatier in timbre, like he can’t believe you somehow picked up on his unright state. It’s nothing novel, really. If he can read you by now, why doesn’t he expect the same of you? Has elevating himself in high society inadvertently made him plateau, so isolated as he is from his loved ones?

You groan. “Yes. You were fidgeting earlier and your feathers were getting all restless. I didn’t say anything because it wasn’t impeding my progress any, but still. Also, have you been resting at all? Don’t lie, I can tell you’re tired. Just because we’re in a dream doesn’t mean you don’t need a sleep equivalent! Honestly, I don’t even know what they have you doing half the time—”

Sunday speaks your name, brittle like glass. You’re obliged to listen.

He airs out his troubles to you. You listen because he’s a client, yes, but mostly you listen because you care. Colors stain your smock (and also your clothes), decorating your palms in swatches of rainbow, establishing you as the center of attention, the sore thumb, despite your best efforts to simply play the role of humble painter today. 

The conversation indulged is nothing short of nostalgic. Sunday not-quite-bemoans the logistics of the Charmony Festival, of how he’s up to his ears in planning and how every Family lineage is vying for a piece of the pie, a sliver of spotlight. He’s never had a problem with his fellow public figures breathing down his neck, but when it comes to a centennial celebration like this, it’s only natural he’d need a reprieve from the responsibility of it all.

He putters and paces around the room while he speaks, shoes clicking, before eventually seeking comfort in the sparse amenities of the old parlor. A previously forgotten chaise inhabiting the corner welcomes the Oak Family Head, on which he lounges with still a great helping of propriety. His words ebb and flow and slant and staunch, escaping their tightly wound vessel. You offer a sharp-witted quip here and there, actively listening as you might. 

You’ve made it a point to never entertain a dull conversation, and while the illusion of a structured meeting falls apart, you remain standing, unwilling to soil the furniture with residual paint. 

“Sounds like you’re gonna croak before I can even deliver the final draft.”

“It does sound that way, yes.” 

A pall settles over the room. Silence with Sunday is never oppressive, but today could change that, if the pressure weighing on your shoulders is anything to go by. Dread, dread, dread. 

Sunday shakes his head mournfully. “Even though I don’t know what exactly troubles me about the portrait, revisions must be made; it cannot go up on the wall as is, or how it’s going.” 

“That’s fine. You’re the client. But the issue likely runs deeper than what a quick paint-over could fix. I’ll have to start fresh, spend more time on construction — maybe pick a different angle, something like that.” A pause. That’s a tall order, especially for a man as busy as him. “While the last few sessions weren’t a waste, per se…” 

“I should reconsider my schedule and compensate you accordingly for your trouble,” he concludes, solid. “I wish I could help you out more, make up my mind, offer you a healthier semblance of direction. However, if you think starting fresh will offer a novel perspective, I’d be inclined to trust you, and to extend my apologies once again.” 

Your friend has been throwing around words like trust a lot lately. It roils and writhes, trust does. It’s so restless and antsy because declaring that you trust someone is declaring weakness, vulnerability. The minute you say it, the axe starts swinging, far away in the distance, inching closer and closer until it eventually takes off your head. And Sunday surely knows this too, being so important and whatnot. So, is it the beginning of the end, a bad omen, that he’s welcomed the blade pining for his neck? Like he’s waiting for the other shoe to drop and getting his I trust you’s out now? 

He still lets you hang around him, even if he’s more distant, and he knows that you know that you’re losing him, slowly. You’d stay away if you could. Instead, you focus on what’s right in front of you: the potential crash and burn. And your front row seat won’t be so accommodating when the flames also immolate you by extension.

You’ve tried to steer him away from where he’s heading. There were letters, arguments that weren’t quite arguments. But you can hardly remember those. 

He’s frowning again, adjusting his gloves. 

“Does that not work? I apologize, I—”

“No, Sunny, it’s okay. You’re just particular,” you assure, banishing those thoughts of his. There’s a voice in your head telling you that he won’t ever be satisfied with how he’s seen. Ever the contrarian, it’s your sworn duty to extend other options. You steeple your fingers and ultimately decide to tease one of your hidden cards. 

“I have an idea that’ll help both of us.”

Your fellow Halovian’s suspicion is palpable. “Chilling.” 

“Ha-ha,” you narrow your eyes, jutting your thumb out towards the door. “But seriously, I swear it’ll offer us some clarity. A new direction, perspective, whatever. Do you trust me?”

“Yes, my trust in you is implicit,” he promises. “Even so, I’m not certain if I have the time right now…”

Sunday checks his watch. It’s gonna be a swing and a half to get him to agree to go along with your whims during this wild festival mess. But you must try.

(I hope it’s not too late.)

“Look,” you shift on your feet, “I’ll ask again. Do you trust me?”

He nods. Dear Aeons, those thick eyelashes under that fringe—

“Good!” you clap. “Come, come, we must go.”

Before he can get you to elaborate further, you’re out the door, mental gears turning with hissing friction. Dewlight Pavilion is a location you now know by heart, and familiar attendants passing by greet you and the man trotting hot on your heels, some amused and some exhausted. Mixed bag. 

Sunday’s long learned to suppress his questions until you’ll actually answer them, and you’re grateful for it, because it’s a little fun to watch him bite his tongue. 

Keeping him on his toes is your most favorite pastime, after all.

Coaxing him into painting a mural, however, is another caliber of manipulation. 

This stretch of the building could easily be called neglected, much like the parlor. The design on the wall remains unfinished, even years after the initial artists stepped away from the project; it’s said that Mr. Wood reallocated the funds for the mural towards other projects, insisting that the money could be put to better use elsewhere — or whatever that’s supposed to mean. 

And so it’s been sitting here, mostly abandoned. You’ve been meaning to touch it up, breathe life into it as the greatest hallmark of your career, but you hadn’t quite gotten around to taking the plunge. That changes now. 

Of course, Sunny questions what you’re doing as you shove a balled-up smock into his hands and begin ordering him around like you own the joint. 

He doesn’t have to comply, but he does, donning the smattered fabric and subsequently looking a great deal like you. There’s a ladder bumped against the wall, sheltering buckets of gold and violet under its apex. All of this endearing clutter would’ve been swept up a long time ago if someone as organized as Sunday was bothered to see it every day. 

“If you can’t identify an issue from the outside looking in, maybe you just need to get your feet wet — and your hands dirty.” 

“Pardon?” he begs.

Uncharacteristically patient, you gesture towards the array of stiff, flat varnishing brushes haphazardly scattered about. If you had to guess, they were forgotten the moment funding was pulled, lying in tragic catatonia ever since. 

“What I’m trying to say is,” you click your tongue, “you need to try it. Try painting.” 

“I’m afraid I know nothing of… this, and I can’t say I was ever good at composition—”

“That doesn’t matter, none of that matters. Just… give it a shot. That’s all I’m asking. You’re already late, for something that can be easily delegated to an overzealous yes-man, no less — so all you have to do is take the first step, hm? It’s fun. Well, it’s fun sometimes, when it doesn’t brutalize the very essence of your soul. We must amuse ourselves to death.”

He doesn’t pretend to understand such a sentiment. It’s not that he’s uninspired — your fellow Halovian is an astounding musician, a conductor of himself and others through the diaphragm of song and reason. But beyond that, he’s hesitant, having been discouraged by time and obligation and himself. 

He’s comfortable doing what he’s good at, and that’s not a bad thing, but you want Sunday to feel safe trying new things, too. And you know he’s curious. Why not give him a little push?

The answer finds you shortly: little pushes are a slippery slope.

Sunday shakes. Capable hands stripped of their gloves don’t know what to do or where to go. You left him alone so you could soften up the brushes (and simultaneously give him a moment), but upon your return, he still looks utterly stuck. 

The unfinished mural depicts the Golden Hour. It’s a sight he knows intimately, only with some flashy landmarks missing, some strokes absent. But understandably, he struggles. There is kinship in that. Maybe struggling is the fabled first step. 

“You gotta trust the process, Sunny.”

He huffs stubbornly. “...I think not.”

More mixed signals. He’s already here, humoring you. This would’ve been a better activity to partake in some other time, accompanied by detailed planning beforehand, but oh well. What matters is the here and the now, and what definitely doesn’t matter is how your fingers twitch, eager to guide his aimless ministrations — it’s an urge you stifle violently, not just because of its condescension, but because you believe, deep down, the Oak Family Head wants to experience this on his own. 

Though you watch for a good while, what he gleans from stepping into your shoes is up to him. 

“If this will make your job easier,” he says softly, head angled to the side, “then I have no qualms.” 

You laugh. “Not everything is about me.” 

Silence. Complete and utter contentious silence.

And just as much as words, silence carries. It permeates within false walls making up false safehavens. It wedges its way in between every gap, every person, including you and Sunday, reminding you two that there will always be distance exacerbating differences of character. 

How long will it be until you’ve presented thirty drafts, granted dozens of revisions, and he realizes he’s unhappy not with your craftsmanship, but his own being? Will he sooner righteously chase his lofty ideals until they collapse out from under him?

Only time will tell. You watch as the Oak Family Head switches between his palette and the daintier brushes, his eyes periodically flicking between you and the mural, searching for reassurance. 

The Sweet Dream is paradise to visit, but a prison to reside.

“You’re doing real good, Sunny. Learning anything?”

“Only that this isn’t my strong suit.”

“Don’t worry. There’s always tomorrow. There’s always time — and I won’t give up on you.”

“Don’t you mean the portrait? Or my sudden enrichment?” he questions, willfully obtuse.

You hum noncommittally.

“Hi, darling!” you chirp, shifting to sit more comfortably, “I miss you. How’re you holding up? Still in the library studying the day away?”

The other line crackles with life. “Hello. I feel the same,” Dan Heng informs you matter-of-factly, his cadence clear as a river. “And no, I’m not there anymore. It was… too crowded for my liking.”

That’s no surprise. Finals are upon the whole campus in a few days, and it shows. There is a distinct, depressing atmospheric pressure that weighs upon your fellow students. 

The scourge of exams, the final boss of the semester, the enemy of mental fortitude and peace. Though Dan Heng loves your university’s expansive library, you can imagine he’d be less enthralled when a hundred tired young adults are populating it to cram.

“Yeah, I can imagine,” you wince. “Well, look on the bright side. We’re almost done, yeah? Soon enough, the library will be solely your domain once again, and you can be a doll and skim the archives in my stead.”

His voice takes on a sarcastic lilt, affection hidden underneath the words like a hard-won reward. You think it’s an indulgence for him. “If my memory serves correctly, I had to smooth things over with the librarian on your behalf. I don’t think it’s a wise idea for you to loiter there any longer, as energetic as you are.”

How cheeky! Honestly, you’re not even that loud. Sometimes you laugh a little too hard at benign things (like the way some book titles sound out of context), or react too vibrantly at the wrong times (like exclaiming profanities after tripping over your own feet), but those aren’t crimes.

Even now, ruminating over this reasoning, you still don’t understand how you got banned from the library. Unreal.

“Hey, come on now! I don’t even loiter… I just want to spend time with you, even if studying isn’t something I burden myself with. That guy has it out for me,” you insist, growing smile threatening to split your face in two. “Anyway, I’m not saying this to be rude, but…”

“But?” Dan Heng asks cautiously.

“You normally don’t call first. Is everything okay?”

You mean it when you ask. Though you love your boyfriend, he isn’t the best at initiating longform communication. Sometimes you’ll get a text with a link to a video he found interesting, or he’ll update you with life (mostly just classes and endless papers), and then you’ll respond by quadruple-texting and then maybe calling him. For hours. And then asking to come over to his dorm. And then falling asleep with him. All at your request, which he doesn’t seem to mind.

That being said, it’s atypical that he takes up the mantle, which makes you worry. And if you worry, Dan Heng feels guilty. Trying not to be patronizing, you patiently wait for him to speak on his own terms, humming to yourself idly. You could, y’know, do your laundry, but you’re not gonna do that. Free will is so cool and awesome.

“Yes, everything’s fine,” he assures, words measured. “I just have something I’d like to run by you, but I didn’t want to interrupt if you were busy.”

“I’m never busy! Spill!” Extremely curious, you pluck your phone from your ear and put Dan Heng on speaker. While you’re at it, you also stand up and pace the short length from your bed to the door of your suite, clothes abandoned on the floor. 

“It’s about this winter break. We haven’t conferred on plans yet, but I was planning to ask you if you’d meet my… my family. Of course, it all depends on your availability - don’t feel too rushed to answer, I’d just like to know in advance so I can get things in order on my end.”

Woah, what just happened? You stop walking to think, gears spinning and grinding and pushing all sorts of implications. His family. 

Dan Heng has one, yes, he divulges details every once in a while and elaborates on his mishmash of a homelife when you ask, but you’ve never heard him refer to these mystical figures as family. They’ve always been referred to as my friend, followed by their name. You know them well, committing each to memory despite not having met them yet: March, Caelus, Welt, and Himeko. 

Of course, you pester your boyfriend about them. Nothing too invasive, just remembering the important details. Asking for updates about March’s creative ventures or inquiring if Himeko’s coffee has gotten any more palatable, to name a few. 

In turn, Dan Heng would make a comment about how they also pester him about you. It’s like a big game of telephone - this indirect communication is what you’re used to. It’s kind of surreal to think about actually meeting them after all this time.

Then the joy comes. He wants to share this part of his life with you. Is this the natural next step in your relationship, like all seasoned married couples fondly reflect back on? Dan Heng wants to spend three and half weeks with you, uninterrupted, at home. His home.

Tears prick at your eyes, but you blink them away, grinning like an absolute fool. Does he really think you’ll say no? You’d already do anything to make him happy. Despite being several buildings and crosswalks away from him right now, your hearts feel impossibly close together.

(It’s not like you have anything else planned.)

That thought is pushed away as quickly as it comes. No time for you to be bitter when it’s the season of giving and all things cheerful! This opportunity is nothing short of a blessing… you’re saved from being cramped up inside the inevitably deserted hall for the entirety of break. You’re saved from having to admit to Dan Heng that I have nowhere to go and nothing to do like everyone else. 

Shock, joy, relief. 

“Oh my god,” you laugh, breathy. With a repressed-young-man-trained-ear, you catch a soft sigh of relief dissipating on the other line. “Yes, of course I want to meet them! Dude, this is so exciting! What if I died? What if I blew up the entirety of campus in my merriment? What then?”

He is far too used to your theatrics to react too strongly to them at this point. “...I wouldn’t put it past you. But I’m glad you said yes. There’s just the issue of details to work out.”

Dan Heng proposes different times on different days to leave. Well, he probably went more in depth than that - he likes to schedule and plan for the future, even if he doesn’t always stick to those self-imposed regulations in the end - probably droning on about the cost of gas or something. But you’re way too shell-shocked to respond coherently, muffling squeals and noncommittal hums that give away exactly how much you’re not paying attention.

Digesting about half of the information, you bring up what you have left to do before winter break after he does the same: registration for next semester’s classes, turning in textbooks for certain courses (thank the stars renting is affordable here), and the remaining days riddled with finals. 

Despite how daunting these tasks are for others, you find yourself enjoying the denouement. Guessing on scantrons has gotten you pretty far, and the other obligations can be swiftly eliminated through sheer will and lots of Christmas music. Your Spotify listening history must look like some kind of tinsel-festooned warzone.

This will be your first ever Christmas with Dan Heng. He’s never been extremely festive by any means, but you cajoled him into a matching Halloween costume a month ago, and he is fond of horror movies despite how silly they can be, offering little bits of trivia or his critiques on the film’s score. 

You think this holiday, spent at his home, in his hometown - will be the source of many happy memories. It’ll also, hopefully, be another endless source of teasing. 

Images flit through your mind, the most notable of which being your stoic boyfriend in a truly hideous red and green sweater. You snicker to yourself until your amusement is disturbed by Dan Heng promptly clearing his throat. 

He says your name in that soft way that makes you weak in the knees. You’re under his spell just as much as he is under yours. You should take to reminding him of that more often. “Just to be clear, is this alright with you?”

It’s so much more than alright, you think. Winter, for all of its bitter cold and unforgiving responsibilities, still teems with life as the leaves die. For every day you’ve spent alone during the last two Christmases, you’ll be repaid with one in kind spent with Dan Heng and the people he trusts most.

You’re blessed with the sweet thought that you’re now a part of those treasured, trustworthy few as well. 

You know you’ve been treasured for a long time, but feeling it actualized, solidified in action, is as homey and warm as a burning hearth.

“Yeah,” you breathe. “I am, darling. I’m so excited that I think I’m shaking!”

You tighten your grip on your phone, almost leaving indents in the shitty case, attempting to still your vibrating fingers. His response is a mumble along the lines of you should probably eat something, and I’m glad. Dan Heng can be a little awkward, especially over the phone, but that just speaks of his sincerity. He’s glad you’re coming. 

You scuttle over to the window beside your bed, yanking the blinds askew to peek outside. A glimpse of the first frost coating the student parking lot promises something more. Something magical and childlike.

Joy. You have a feeling you’re going to be extremely insufferable to any and all scrooges (people rightfully sick of dealing with your chipper attitude) in the coming days. Oh well, they can suck it up because it’s the most wonderful time of the year, and you’re in love with the most amazing person in the world. 

You tell him not to worry, which he sighs at, and then the brunt of the conversation is over. The following silence is calm but electric, dragging on for just the right amount of time. A well-deserved respite, you think. 

“I love you,” you confess.

“...I love you too. Touch base soon.”

With that, the call ends abruptly. Your cheeks feel hot and you’re reinvigorated, daydreaming of Dan Heng’s expressions obscured by distance - you want nothing more than to see him, but you know your partner well enough to realize when he needs a break; to realize when he needs his alone time. You would never begrudge him for it.

That was a fucking whirlwind.

You shove your phone in your pocket after nudging the blinds back in place. There’s so much to do, and you’re definitely gonna need another run-down of the schedule (preferably in person), but for now, you’ll let yourself be over the moon and overrun with task paralysis. 

Triumphantly, you turn to flip off your abandoned pile of laundry. Free will is so cool and awesome.

“We are so back!”

You’re so impatient that you’ve started counting the hours.

The final stretch is a lot more boring than you thought it was going to be. Picking a time to check out of your dorm, fixing up any scuffs on the walls from your shitty posters before room inspection, actually passing your classes. The normal stuff. 

Both you and Dan Heng decided that you would leave at around three in the morning on the first day of break. It sounded bewildering at first, and you had levelled him with a look that made him hurriedly elaborate.

“In order to get there at a reasonable time, it’s the best way to go,” he’d said over coffee. “The drive isn’t more than a few hours, but if we leave right after routine inspection, we’d be arriving in the middle of the night.”

Though the mental image of showing up on a quaint little home’s doorstep in your pajamas and waking up the whole neighborhood with your knocking is funny, it’s not funny enough to quell your nerves. 

You’ve noticed, usually in the midst of trying to be productive, that the excitement is weighing heavily on your heart. Your hands are perpetually shaky, you’re sweating disgusting buckets, and you’re sure you look as if you’ve lost your marbles to any soul brave enough to strike up conversation.

That last part came to your attention when Bronya, your desk neighbor in your Interpersonal Communications class, dared ask you if she could borrow a pencil. She barely got the question out before she asked if you were alright. And if Bronya asks you if you’re alright, it means that you must look terrible. 

Sure enough, you are getting less and less sleep, and you’ve been prone to twitching. In retrospect, you probably had that wild look in your eye that screamed I am at rock bottom and it’s in the public’s best interest that I’m contained.

But you’re not at rock bottom! You’re just nervous, and it’s weird when you’re nervous, because such an occurrence is as rare as a blue moon. You’re going to be meeting Dan Heng’s family in a matter of days, and you’re expected to behave as a normal, functioning member of society. Unbelievable. Even the love of your life has noticed the difference in your behavior - he seems disturbed but respectful. 

You recall him asking if you were ill, which you had vehemently denied. Then he kissed you under the thin covers of his bed, and everything was fine for a moment.

But you think you’re feeling better on this day in particular. To distract yourself from the anxiety, you’ve sunk deeper into the holiday cheer. With Dan Heng at your side, you’ve blown off classes for the day to go gift shopping. The outlet mall near your university is always bustling, but during this time of year, you’d think there’s an overpopulation crisis wreaking havoc on your city.

Escalators are crammed with excited children dragging their parents along, there are decorations painstakingly put up in every nook and cranny, and you have a mission to see through.

“Thanks for ditching to help me out,” you preface. “It’d be way too difficult to shop for your family on my own. Just the idea of stress-buying things they may not even like… ugh. Also, wow! I realized you haven’t told me jack shit about them! I’m actually clueless.”

Dan Heng is not amused, but he doesn’t outright refute your assertion. “I suppose you have a point. And I didn’t ditch class,” he emphasizes, ears red. “Psychology got canceled.”

Here, among the sea of people, Dan Heng looks his least confident. While you, the person known for befriending every stray cat you meet, look your best.

The juxtaposition makes you feel fuzzy, and you know in your heart that he would've helped you anyway, even if he had class. He can be so obvious but so subtle at the same time. You tug on the sleeve of his sweatshirt once, purely affectionate. 

“Right. Uh, where do we start? Who’s the easiest to shop for?” you wonder aloud, crossing the stretches of marble and doing your best to peer down the massive store-lined strip. “We could start with March. She’s into crafty stuff, right?”

Your boyfriend tames a cowlick in his dark hair. “Yes. You seem to have a plan figured out already, but she uses up heaps of film while taking photos. An arts and crafts store would likely have the 600 type for her Polaroid. That’s what I had in mind in terms of a gift she’d appreciate.”

“We seem to be on the same page, but that just sounds so… impersonal! Bit of a safe choice, don’t you think? Let’s play it by ear and see what they have. I’m sure she’d also appreciate something handmade. I think I have enough time to DIY a gift; they probably have kits for all sorts of stuff.”

Dan Heng is starting off in the direction of the correct storefront. The display window is easily spotted, plastered with all kinds of paper mache ornaments. “You don’t need to fret. Knowing her, she’ll love anything that comes from you.”

You blink, grinning. “Really? Didn’t know I was so popular.”

“You have no idea,” sighs Dan Heng.

Warmly titled Make n’ Create, the door chimes, signifying your entry. Immediately, you’re assaulted by the smell of candles - a few hundred thousand, you hazard. 

Scents of vanilla and evergreen paired with cinnamon burn your nostrils as you survey the aisles of winding shelves overflowing with endless possibilities. Almost forgetting to return the greeting of the woman behind the counter, you snap out of your stupor and drag your boyfriend along.

Everything looks enticing… your savings account is telling you to be responsible, but your heart is telling you to snatch up and squirrel away any item of interest just in case. You wander the marble floor under the bright fluorescents, humming under your breath. “Hey, we can probably save some time and split up. Could you go look for the film? We’ll definitely get that along with whatever catches my eye.”

Relieved to have something to do, Dan Heng nods and disembarks from your side, perilously weaving between other shoppers buzzing with excitement. He mentioned that he deliberately put off Christmas shopping since you insisted on doing it together, the thought alone satisfying. 

The prospect of scrawling both of your names on the same box, passed off into eager hands. The words will read From: Dan Heng and his partner.

Rounding a corner, the pottery and ceramics section calls to you like a siren. There are stocks upon stocks of white, unpainted Christmas trees and wreaths, advertised as blank canvases to decorate as your own - paint included. Those are cute, but something relevant year-round would probably be received better. 

Impressions, impressions. Your gaze drops lower, dutifully searching…

Aha!

Ceramic jewelry dishes. Same gimmick as the trees and wreaths, but not necessarily seasonal. There are a few different types among the kits - heart-shaped, some with hinges that open and close, even some with music box elements with heftier price tags. 

Your intuition slaps you across the face multiple times. March will love one of these, you just know it! Cautious, you spare a shifty glance from left to right before squealing to yourself. The package in your hand is crisp and promising as you check over the price and instructions.

Dan Heng returns to witness your perfect find. You know this because you recognize the soft padding of his footsteps anywhere (which is not creepy). You turn to see him and the fond look in his eye - and the aforementioned packages of film he’s clutching. 

“Hey, you,” you chuckle. “You found it, great! Anyway, look what I stumbled upon. Do you think she’ll--” “Yes,” he breathes, suddenly decisive. “She will. Especially the heart one.”

Quickly heeding the ever-rare suggestion from Dan Heng, you discard the now inferior package and seize the heart-shaped one. “I trust your judgment. She has good taste, honestly. Thanks for your help, love, I appreciate it. I know for a fact she likes pink, and though my hands are a little clumsy… I’ll make a masterpiece outta this, trust me.”

He exhales through his nose. That’s a laugh if you’ve ever heard one. “You sound so resolute…”

“Duty-bound, if you will,” you grin. “We can move on to the next place if you’d like. Didn’t expect to be done here so fast.”

“...wait.”

You tilt your head, following his line of sight back to the shelves. He seems transfixed on something else there, and a few seconds go by in silence as you’re left to figure out what it is on your lonesome. 

Dan Heng has gotten better at speaking his mind - he was never bad at it, but sometimes words get tangled up in his reticent hesitation. You understand this well. So, you try to determine what’s caught his eye. The understanding you come to is a nice one. The lowest rung of the shelf, almost overshadowed, are more ceramics - no surprise there. But it feels like fate the way that they’re displayed; two sturdy coffee cups with intricate handles, then a miniature raccoon forever inlaid with a devilish expression, practically commanding a paintbrush to make its mischievous grin come to life with color. 

Himeko, Welt, Caelus.

You laugh, loud and bright, grabbing your boyfriend’s hand with a conspiratorial grin. “Four birds with one stone, huh? We’re gonna need a cart!”

Dan Heng is blushing. It’s subtle, not at all burning or obvious to any nosy bystanders, but it’s enough to make your heart sing with delight. You take it he’s glad that you picked up on his thoughts so wordlessly. 

He excuses himself after muttering something about going to get the cart while you smile like an idiot. A lovestruck idiot. A lovestruck idiot with a soon-to-be overdrawn bank account.

…well, not exactly. After you gather everything and go to check out, he insists on paying for all of it. You make sure to argue with him in front of the very amused cashier, reaching a compromise in no time at all thanks to your amazing negotiation skills. He’ll pay for this load (whatever), and you’ll pay for any remaining splurges today. It’s only natural you need to stop by a few more places, considering March has two gifts while the others only have one. 

By the time Dan Heng’s social battery is drained and yours is frayed, you have everything. An apparel outlet that you would’ve never stepped foot in normally now has your patronage; a golden brooch in the shape of a rose (that’s surprisingly affordable) for Himeko, a classy but patterned tie for Welt, and a trendy jacket for Caelus.

You think you’re the most jealous of that last one - it has many pockets and takes up enough space to suffocate a small orphan.

Hauling the bags into the icy parking lot, you suddenly stop in your tracks, feeling the generous weight of your spending in the process. “Hold on.”

Your tired but loving partner heeds your command. “What? Is something the matter?”

“We forgot to shop for each other,” you point out, sheepish and breathy. Seems you’ve both been so caught up in the tradewinds that you forgot. “Should we go back inside?”

“No,” he blurts, “I’ve already acquired your gift.”

Gobsmacked, you almost drop your share of the bags. He’s been holding out on you?! The surprise quickly fades into mushy limerence before it dulls. “Huh? When did you do that? Oh shit, I haven’t gotten you anything yet… dude, I’m sorry, I’ll head back inside, all secret mission-esque and find you something while you wait in the car--” 

Dan Heng shakes his head. “You… you don’t have to.”

The hell? Does he even know how Christmas works? “Of course I do, come on,” you push forward. Knowing you’ve already forgotten where you’ve parked, he strides out in front of you and leads the way, preparing to argue his case. “We’ll put these in the back, and I’ll find you an amazing gift, you’ll see.”

You both reach his little beat-up sedan (which you’ve aptly named Granny), while he fumbles for his keys. He sighs, rolling the frigid joints in his shoulders as he opens the driver’s seat to unlock the trunk. Setting the bags down on the gross pavement is unfortunately inevitable. You throw the thing open, already loading. 

Dan Heng’s rebuttal is almost startling.

“I don’t need an ‘amazing gift’. I have you.”

You freeze. Where did he pull that from? Are you hallucinating again? Is this like the time you stayed up for two days straight to half-ass a dozen unfinished assignments? Or maybe it’s selective hearing… such a line is probably from an old romcom that you’re mentally regurgitating and then projecting onto him.

But you don’t tease or ask him to repeat it. Instead, you choose to fully believe and embrace that compliment, warming your heart and your cheeks. His expression is obscured from your position, but he probably looks the same.

“I’m… really glad you think so, Dan Heng,” you almost whisper.

Before he can say anything else that’ll ruin the moment, you decide that’s your job! and slam the trunk closed, deafeningly loud. 

“But that’s unacceptable! I’ll find you something perfect in the coming days no matter what!”

You hear him sigh before you hear his approaching footsteps. “Try not to stress too hard about it. Also, open that back up, there are more bags.”

“Oops,” you giggle. “Why not ask me nicely, like in that Romeo way you did five seconds ago?”

Your other half rightfully elects to ignore you.

As you finish wrapping up with him at your side, the subsequent ride back to campus is in comfortable silence. The buzz of what’s to come lingers on your mind as you stare out of the passenger window at the familiar scenery. You’ll find time to squeeze in finding a gift for Dan Heng, you’ll make sure of it. 

But for now, what to pack for the impending trip…?

You wake to the sound of your blaring alarm. Scrambling for your phone to make the thing shut up, you’re blinded by the time. It’s 2:30 in the morning, you’re disoriented, and you desperately want to go back to sleep. But when you really come to a minute later after hitting snooze, it all sinks in. 

Your room inspection is over with, your finals have been taken (you didn’t fail any of them, yay), and you have to leave campus with Dan Heng in about thirty minutes. Surreal that you’re awake at this hour, you go about getting ready - this includes texting the man of the hour to make sure he didn’t oversleep.

To your satisfaction, he responds swiftly. To your horror, he mentions that he’s ready and waiting. Unfair, in your opinion - why is he always punctual, and why are you always late?

You look in the mirror at your haphazard reflection. Not too shabby; just a leisure t-shirt and some sweatpants, pulled together by the thickest jacket you have since it’s grown even colder out. Your bags are already packed and practically bursting at the seams, loaded with your essentials, and of course the presents for Dan Heng’s family. 

You spent all of your free time crammed between everything else painting the ceramics while he wrapped and made everything else look pretty.

(You almost got crudely mixed pink paint on your dorm wall - well, you did just a little bit. Luckily it came off without the need to go sprinting to the nearest hardware store in pursuit of a cover-up job. That would have been bad. Very bad. Also, you left the primary suite door open to ventilate, and at least three students walking down the hallway witnessed your perfectionism-driven breakdown. Also, your suitemate hates you now.)

All of that’s over, though. Making sure you have everything once, then twice, then three whole times - you decide it’s finally time to go. You lug everything out of your dorm, down the hallway, into the elevator, and wait as it descends.

You check your phone, updating your boyfriend as the cabin grinds to a halt on the ground floor. Outside is nothing short of beautiful, if not hypothermic.

Snow falls in tiny flurries that make the dark cement purgatory look like a dream. The floodlights leave some corners of the parking lot shadowed, but illuminate Dan Heng just right. You spot him and his old ass car smack dab in the middle of all the empty spaces, just about everyone having vacated already.

“Hi, darling,” your breath syncs with the air as a wispy cloud. You kiss his cheek. “You ready?”

“I have been for the better part of an hour,” he informs you, perhaps a little grumpy from waking up so early - or it could just be that wry sarcasm rearing its head.

You find that Dan Heng is neither an early bird nor a night owl, oscillating between the two like nobody’s business. He’s up when he needs to be, including now, softened under the touch of your lips. 

And so, without much fanfare, the road trip commences. It’s notably different than the other times he’s chauffeured you around - so silent and grave. It kind of puts a damper on the Christmas spirit you’ve so painstakingly adopted, but you think twice about cranking the radio. He is the one driving, after all.  

You offered to switch with him halfway, and to his credit, he thought about it. But then Dan Heng politely shook his head and muttered something about bad weather and hydroplaning. Whatever a hydroplane is, you aren’t sure what it has to do with you being untrustworthy behind the wheel. 

The pleasant blast of the heater, the occasional robotic warbling from the GPS app, and the noise of the light drizzle outside are your more talkative companions. You’re getting antsy; you feel it in the bouncing of your leg and how you mindlessly chew on the dead skin of your bottom lip. 

Should you try to ignore it? Put on your headphones and tune out? The thought is appealing. 

Instead, you pipe up a few minutes before you’re due to turn on the interstate.

“Wanna get coffee?” you singsong. “I mean, you especially are going to need the caffeine to keep awake. Sleep deprivation is, like, the number three reason people get into car crashes.”

Dan Heng huffs in amusement. You’re glad that got some kind of reaction out of him, glad that the stoney silence has been broken. But if you’re being completely honest with yourself (which you really hate doing), this detour suggestion is just an excuse to delay the inevitable. For all of your joy, lingering anxiety chips away at your trademark smirk. 

You decide to bribe him just a little. “I’m buying.”

He turns into the nearest place without any further prodding. The coffee, which you have successfully paid for by the way, is nice. The searing light of the menu options, clambering over Dan Heng to place your orders as loud as you can because you know it’s hard for them to hear anything - fleeting memories of taking orders at your high school part-time job and all that. 

As you take the cup holder tray from your partner, ferried through the drive thru window, he speaks up, much to your chagrin.

“You’re nervous,” he says, leaving no room for doubt. You continue to situate the drinks and glance into the side view mirror, taking a sudden rapt interest in the line forming behind you.

You decide to lie. Maybe he’ll be merciful and let you work this one out on your own. “Me? Nervous? Whatever gives you that impression? Perhaps you needed the coffee more than I thought… poor Dan Heng, so tired that he’s hallucinating…” you whistle.

Gaslighting, unfortunately, doesn’t work. Persuasion check must’ve rolled off. Dan Heng says your name, soft but stilted in a way that makes your heart ache. He rolls out of the drive thru after checking the rearview mirror, his knuckles white around the steering wheel. They gain their color back after he realizes you’re staring at them.

“I’m nervous too. Extremely.” You’re back on the highway, and you fiddle with the GPS to get yourself back en route, taking in his words as they come. Dan Heng is being candid with you; encouraging. “Going back home is always an… ordeal.”

You deflate a bit, conflict warring on your face. Considering how flustered he gets when you dote on him, albeit within his limits, you can’t imagine how exhausting being fussed at from all angles would be. Not like he’s a kid, but that he’s returning home after another semester of being independent.

“Yeah, um, I can imagine. I don’t know much about that stuff, but it’ll probably be amplified with me coming with you. We’ll get through it together and have a great time.”

You say it to convince yourself more than him, but it works. Perhaps that was his plan all along?

“Yes,” agrees Dan Heng. “We will.”

The interstate stretch, predictably, is the most sizable chunk of the trip. Temptation whispers in your ears tantalizingly, the idea of a nap or two at the forefront of your sleep-addled mind. The soft pitter-patter of the rain against the windshield battling with the snow makes it even harder to resist.

So, you doze soundly in your reclined seat, nice and warm. You think you feel a hand, cold and calloused, brushing against your cheek, but fighting it would require waking up to demand he focus on the road! It retracts, and you’re out for a good long while.

You know that for a fact, because when you wake up, dawn is encroaching. The stars are still visible against the bleeding horizon. You feel much better, even if Dan Heng suppresses a smile at your expense - you seriously must look wrecked from a few simple hours of rest. Geez.

You yawn, waking up to chat. Your boyfriend looks unruffled, cool eyes scanning road signs for a place to apparently fuel up.

He tells you that there’s only about an hour or so left, the ETA checking out. Nerves flood your system, but after a deep breath and stepping out to stretch your legs, you feel better.

“Who knew you were so good at pep talks,” you tease, if not to hide the fact you’re completely enamored with him. You fill up the tank after he cuts the engine, purposefully yelling so he can hear your words through the rolled up windows. “My man, the motivator!”

You hear his ensuing groan, claiming mental victory as the pump dings. Easy. 

Staring at the signs of his hometown, a foreign sense of wonder engulfs you as you split from the interstate. Has that diner been there since Dan Heng was a kid? Did he even spend all of his childhood in one place? Should you ask, or is that too invasive? 

The trees lining the grassy outcrops are tiny and thin, likely just having been planted by the city. How much has changed since you’ve started monopolizing his time?

Your questions spill out, and he does his best to answer them - but he also seems nostalgic, wistful and pained. Your earlier revelation rings true; you don’t know much about Dan Heng’s past.

That’s slowly changing as he tells you some stories, though his words are messy and create a muddled image in your head. You don’t push too far, chattering his ear off in response to keep things lighthearted. 

(Maybe you’ll be more open about yourself too. Maybe.)

Then you careen into a residential area. It’s more suburban than you expected for a city-town hybrid of this size, streets of apartment units and then gated communities of houses. You whistle because you’re almost there, you can feel it!

“Which one is it, huh?” you pester, practically pressing your face against the glass. “Come on, pick up the pace a little!”

“I am not keen on getting a ticket this far in. A few more turns.”

True to his word, a row of townhouses come into view. They’re not massive, but the few you see are brimming with character. Full, decadent awnings and aged brick matched with just the right colors to make your brain happy. They look lived in, filled with memories that you’re eager to digest and, hopefully, be a part of.

Dan Heng pulls into the driveway of the oldest-looking one and parks. The GPS drones on, informing you of your arrival. Your anxiety has almost entirely abated at this point, thank the heavens and stars, and it’s near time to face the music with open arms.

“What a nice place! I guess we should greet them, and then start unloading?”

He nods. It’s still cold out, but less so than at school. Stepping out onto the pavement gives you a little thrill, and you trail behind Dan Heng, stuffing your hands into your jacket pockets as you stare at the front door.

It has a little brass knocker in lieu of a doorbell, and you reach out to grasp it on instinct. Your hand brushes his that had reached out at the same time.

You wiggle your eyebrows at him. 

He sighs and finally knocks after you reel your grubby hand back. It all comes down to this - kind of anticlimactic from someone else’s perspective, but paramount from yours. Who will answer the door?

The answer is immediate: Welt. The thing creaks open, revealing a tall, older man with graying brown hair and glasses. He’s utilizing a cane and looks exactly like you imagined, distinguished and fitting right into the scene with his creme turtleneck and kind eyes. He regards you both, first Dan Heng, then you. 

“You’re here early. Welcome back - and I see you’ve brought them, as promised,” Welt’s voice is warm, and you get the feeling the small smile he’s wearing is quite rare. “Come in, we’ve been waiting on you two. It’s an honor to meet Dan Heng’s esteemed partner.”

You’re utterly awestruck, responses forming on your tongue only to dissolve into garbled nothings. As you robotically follow inside, you watch as Dan Heng falls into an awkward-looking side hug with Welt - quickly averting your eyes so they can have a moment. Then, you can’t contain it anymore, speaking to your heart’s content.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you too. I’ve heard a lot - well, not a lot, but enough,” you ramble unapologetically, taking in the decor of the foyer, “and I’m really excited to be here, you have no idea. Are those Ray Bans? You have a lovely home!”

Your boyfriend, wetting his chapped lips, communicates silently with Welt. You think it’s something like a greeting, a familial synergy you can’t quite grasp yet. Maybe it’s a warning: I am dating an idiot chatterbox, please be nice to them. 

That seems unlikely; necessitates further observation. This is just like Animal Planet. 

“Thank you, I recognize your sincerity. It’s a rare trait, these days,” he mutters mostly to himself, probably reminiscing on some mysterious past. He goes on to curtly answer your more frivolous questions while leading the two of you deeper inside. Dan Heng squeezes your hand and you share your own telepathic glance with him. 

This is going well!

The interior of the living room is striking, bearing the marks of age and care. You recognize most of the furniture as antiques - leather couches and loveseats with beautiful upholstery, a sage grandfather clock standing tall near the stone fireplace, and overflowing bookshelves that’d satiate even the most voracious of readers.

Paintings adorn every wall, not a square inch left blank. The mantle boasts many trinkets and baubles of various cultures, some of which you recognize - and some of which you don’t. Those could definitely be a great conversation starter! 

So charming, so quaint, so rich in history! You’d wax poetic and stare at each nifty little thing until your eyes bled if you could.

“Darling, I didn’t know you were so well-off! Maybe I should start calling you Mr. Old Money.” “...please don’t.”

Welt hides a chuckle in his gloved hand before surveying the room. “It seems everyone is doing their own thing. I’ll go get Himeko, she must be in her study,” he throws a look over his shoulder, uttering your name with just the right amount of phlegm. “Welcome. Don’t be afraid to make yourself at home.”

And you’re left alone to breathe for a short minute. You run your thumb over Dan Heng’s knuckles reverently, pondering aloud. “He’s so cool! He’s an animator, right? I’ve heard you mention something like that before.”

He nods. “Indeed. He’s worked on various pitch bibles for all kinds of IPs, but he’s more content on assuming quieter roles in the industry, or so he’s told us. His passion is what carries him, not the spotlight.”

“...that’s a great way to live,” you marvel. The air feels vulnerable after that, the nature of something as intangible as family running through the undercurrents of the house. “Do you think he’s right for being so humble?”

“It is not my place to comment, but… I can say that I look up to him,” he admits, giving your hand a shy squeeze. “Himeko is similar. She’s--” “--enthralled to finally meet your acquaintance?” 

A new voice cuts in. Himeko is also a vision, donning a winter shawl that wraps around a sepia-colored dress with tights, topped off with a beret. She looks absolutely stunning, and you’re overwhelmed with the urge to compliment her profusely. She stands at a comparable height to Welt, expression softened with mirth.

“It’s long since overdue,” Himeko extends a handshake which you take. Your jaw must be scraping the floor, which Welt and Dan Heng see fit to ignore.

She whips a ruby curl out of her face to scrutinize you - shit, you probably should’ve worn something nicer. First impressions and all that!

She greets Dan Heng with a hardy embrace after letting your hand go. He stands rigid.

“I was beginning to think he was making you up,” she teases. “When you both settle in, we have a lot to catch up on. Can we help you with your bags?”

You grin at your boyfriend, nudging him with your elbow. “Whaddya say, huh?”

He nods, shoulders slumping as if he’s made it past some great obstacle. 

“Great,” Welt interjects, heading back towards the front door with Himeko in tow. Dan Heng turns to you, voice akin to a whisper.

“March and Caelus are probably in their bedrooms or,” he sighs, “conspiring elsewhere. If you’d like, you can go on and look around while we deal with the luggage. It’s a lot to get used to, and you’re better off getting your curiosity out of your system.”

You gasp, splaying a hand over your heart. “You say that like I’m some unruly child! I’m not going to break anything…”

Dan Heng gives you a look.

“...this time,” you begrudgingly add.

Before he can hurry after them though, you gingerly (roughly) grab him by the collar and give him a smooch. It’s over as quick as it began, and you barely get a glimpse of his scandalized visage before you set off to explore. 

The adjoining hallway leading you out of the living room is painted stark white, all kinds of framed photographs hanging on display. Most of them are noir shots of famous people; movie stars, historical figures and the like. You stop in your tracks to look each of them over.

Some aren’t so impersonal. For example, there’s one of Himeko standing in a train station, posing on the platform with a massive and austere steam locomotive behind her. There is also a gray-haired dude at her side, pointing at the train with an exaggerated expression of shock. Caelus. And the photo’s signature - March 7th. 

Right on time, before you can continue snooping, you hear the distinct noise of bickering further down the hallway. You grin, sensing drama like a blood-sniffing shark. 

The muffled racket becomes clearer as you approach what is probably a bedroom door, and you hesitate for only a second before not-rudely throwing it open. You can deal with the consequences later. After all, this sounds more like banter than a serious argument - you would know!

The first thing you see are two figures with their backs turned to you. Pink and gray hair hunched over a desk - Caelus sitting and clicking furiously with March pointing at the one of the three flashing monitors, posing a threat to this hell of a gamer setup.

“You actually suck at this! Log off already, Dan Heng and his guest are going to be here soon,” she chastises as Caelus huffs, him dying moments later (in Pac-Man of all things). “Seriously, this is as boring as watching paint dry. I don’t know how you have so many viewers…”

You blink, scrutinizing the monitors again. Yes, there’s Pac-Man, but there’s also a live chat that seems to be going crazy, dozens of messages burying even more dozens of messages. There’s a facecam too, framing all three of you - wait, three? 

Oops. You’re live on Twitch.

“March is just a grade-A hater,” Caelus declares to his audience, “always betting against me. I’ll have all of you know that I, Whisperer of Dumpsters, Toilet Destroyer--”

A groan. “Not this again.”

They seem oblivious to the fact that you’re here, and you clamp a hand over your mouth to suppress a laugh. Clippers must be going nuts right about now…

Dan Heng never mentioned that Caelus took this career path - but then again, you can imagine he was trying to avoid the headache of you pestering him with stream references. Either way, you’re here now, and you’ll be damned if you pass up an opportunity this golden.

“They’ve been keeping me in the basement for three years!” you yell, causing both of them to jump and turn in bewilderment, “They’re frauds, kidnappers, liars--”

“We’ve been what?!” March shrieks. She’s either 1.) quickly adjusting to your improv and playing along or 2.) now wholeheartedly convinced that you’ve been held captive here under the floorboards.

The chat lags from how fast messages are coming in, and Caelus cackles maniacally before mashing a shortcut on his keyboard to switch to a Be Right Back screen. What a performance, and you also burst out in laughter, not unlike his. 

“Well, you certainly uh… made an entrance,” March grimaces, looking only slightly mortified. That sourness fades into a friendly smile as she scratches the back of her head. “It’s so nice to finally meet you. Oh my god, c’mere!”

Caelus stares at you with beady eyes as she bounds towards your form in the doorway, engulfing you in a giant hug. You feel like crying again. This was supposed to be unserious, but you can’t help but already feel at home. 

“It’s nice to meet you too. Your hair clips are so cute!” 

You exchange pleasantries for a moment before you hear creaking. Caelus has stood up now, an unreadable expression on his face as he approaches slowly - like molasses slowly. One menacing stomp in front of the other like he’s trying to intimidate a bear. You tilt your head curiously while March spins around to look at him.

“What are you doing?”

“Group hug. Bring it in,” he answers cryptically.

March wrinkles her nose. “Why do you sound like that? You’ll creep them out!”

Caelus turns to you, looking for confirmation. Immediately, you understand what you must do. This chemistry you share with this kindred spirit should be studied in a lab under a microscope.

“Collective embrace,” you parrot. “Bring it in.”

“...so you’re both weird, huh? Just great.”

You respond by smushing both of them in a crushing hug, a chorus of giggles echoing off the walls, all three of you being the perpetrators. 

This year’s holidays are off to a great start.

Things surprisingly don’t drag on. 

What that means is a little hard to quantify; nebulous like carbon monoxide. You can’t see it, you can’t taste it, but it certainly takes its toll. 

The first day comes to a close after a shared dinner, a feast, really - you’d never seen so much food in your life and you scarfed it down like a starving man in between conversation on every topic under the sun. You’ve fallen into the swing of things so naturally, and while that’s good, it’s a little too good.

You’ve never considered anxiety to be a formidable foe in your life. You carry conversation, pass the cornbread, spice up everyone’s lives (sometimes at the detriment of your reputation), and most importantly, you do it with a smile.

But after a night or two spent in Dan Heng’s almost spartan bedroom, tossing and turning, you’re starting to believe you’re in more trouble than you thought previously.

The nerves are easy to suppress when you’re bouncing energy off someone else, lost in the moment, because you do truly enjoy the socializing - but that feeling lingers.

And when you’re left with nothing to do, staring at the ceiling with a vengeance on the third night of your stay, all of the doubt catches up. It gains ground until your heart thunders in your chest.

You’ve learned that Himeko is buddy-buddy with the department of transportation, doubling as an engineer and cartographer. She’s even had a part in restoring defunct trains to their former glory, spearheading many vacations along the way. 

(You don’t deserve to be privy to such a meaningful story.) 

Caelus can’t ride a bike. Neither can you. Upon coming to this seismic revelation, he offered to take the plunge with you in an attempt to learn if you were interested. You agreed before he could even get the full sentence out. 

(You’re only good at goofing around.)

March insisted that you be a temporary proofreader for her own university essays, most of which being on topics you could never wrap your head around in a million years.

Shenanigans ensued until you ended up denouncing higher education as a whole, choosing to believe in her own freestyle structure rather than whatever hellish rubric was being peddled. 

(You’re too airheaded to help in a normal way.)

You’ve even grown closer with Welt. You two listened to the crackling of the old gramophone in his respective study, chiming in with your own thoughts on his archaic but classic music taste. There was a little bit of discussion on media preservation, your earnest passion pairing well with his own. 

(You’re coming off too strong.)

But you feel the worst about the man sleeping next to you. 

You’re supposed to be in your highest spirits, but Dan Heng has gotten good at spotting your tells. The tightness of your smile comes off as overjoyed to your new friends, but strained to him. The guilt of possibly ruining it all is unforgiving, tightened about your neck like an evil scarf.

He knows something’s up, and you know that he knows. It’s on you for not being forward about your struggles - hell, you’ve scolded him countless times about how he clams up about feelings and all that mess. You’re just a little bit of a hypocrite, then. What would you even say on the subject?

Sorry I’m such a buzzkill? Sorry I haven’t been more open with you? Sorry that I’m the actual wors--

You muffle a sob, burying your face in Dan Heng’s pillow. You just need to calm down, even if that means getting snot on his nice shams. You hiccup, and to your muted horror, the mattress creaks with movement.

Voice rough with sleep and alarm, Dan Heng calls out to you. You tense but otherwise refuse to lift your head up from your comfy sanctuary, chest rising and falling in snappy bursts.

You can’t face him like this, so tangled in everything you feel. You feel so unbelievably guilty, even if a more sensible part of you knows you’re just overthinking.

“Please look at me.”

If you’re making comparisons, Dan Heng must be the wind. Gentle and mild like a calming gale, never a torrent eager to knock you off your feet. No, he is sobering like a wayward breeze. His plea is so soft, and you only hate yourself a little bit for giving in and meeting his eyes.

His hair is sticking up in every direction just like yours. It’s not a foreign sight - you’ve slept in the same bed at least a hundred times, but the worried frown tugging at his lips is new. You sniffle and wipe your face, words a jumble of nonsense.

“Try to breathe. It’s going to be alright,” he swallows, Adam’s apple bobbing. “I’ll wait.”

That last part might sound impatient in some other context, but right now, it’s resolute - it’s a promise. He’ll wait until you’re ready, however long that will take.

You crumble, shakily inhaling and exhaling until you sit up to mirror his stance. You fumble to embrace him, which he accepts readily - not unused to your spontaneous acts of affection. 

However, there’s a stutter in his movements. He’s not used to seeing you so put out, you hazard, unable to even produce coherent speech.

“I love you so much,” you gasp.

“...is that what this is about? Or is there more?”

Dan Heng strokes your hair through your tearful explanation. You know you don’t make a lot of sense right now, but it’s all you can manage. He still listens with scholarly attention to detail, not doting or prying. He’s here. He’s here for you, just like you are for him.

The dam has burst. “Have I ever told you about my family?”

“No,” he admits. “Do you want to?”

So you tell him enough. You only paint a vague picture; recounting endless disagreements and fighting, being kicked to the curb and ostracized, scrambling to pick up the pieces of your barely adult life before being thrusted into college all alone with no one to watch out for you. You’ve only dropped hints beforehand - after all, who wants to reopen old wounds? 

Silence can be just as powerful of a response as spoken words. Dan Heng understands, you know that already, but the way he holds you is compelling evidence alone.

Dan Heng’s family is wonderful; being part of it makes you feel a little sick inside, somehow made worse by his ministrations. “It may be unfair of me to say, but… I think I know how you feel. My life before I came to live and travel with everyone was lonely. Lonely and painful, and you don’t deserve to feel that way. Ever.”

When you don’t respond, he continues. 

“But I’m now content to call them my cherished companions. And you,” Dan Heng emphasizes, syllables unsure despite his best efforts, “are one of them as well. We haven’t pried too much into what is painful, but I’ve always felt like we’ve never needed to. That was my mistake.”

He makes a point of thumbing the residue of your episode away, an apology in and of itself. Of course he blames solely himself, you muse, biting back a playful reprimand that wouldn’t land well right now. Your breathing regains a semblance of normalcy as you muster up enough gusto to respond. 

“No, don’t be silly. I want to talk to you more about our lives before each other, I think. Together, y’know? I-Isn’t that just so romantic? Being emotionally constipated doesn’t do either of us any favors.” 

Your tone has lightened, enough for him to notice and furrow his brows in concern. Given, you rebound at the speed of light, never wishing to linger on the bad - partially because sadness is unpleasant and uncommon, but mostly because you feel like you’re unable to. That’s just how you are. However, the way he looks at you is encouragement enough to move forward.

You feel better, you do, but your eyes are still red and puffy. The night outside is still cold and unpredictable.

“Whatever you need,” Dan Heng nods. He can only be so sworn in his promises - so determined - before you crack a smile.

“Alright, easy on the white knight talk,” you chuckle. Realizing how close you actually are, there’s a pause. You can smell the mint of his shampoo, and your arms are tangled with his in some kind of human knot that’d have Houdini sweating. “It’s weird…”

He stares at you, unimpressed. “I thought you wanted me to talk to you in a ‘Romeo’ way.”

You only huff, unable to come up with a retort for once, which is fine. You wipe your face again and drag him down with you back onto the bed, which he allows, because Dan Heng is too good for you and also happens to be a complete pushover. At least you can use your frazzled, unstable emotional state to get what you want.

Case in point: you spoon him. The covers assume their original position after you wrangle them to behave, holding him close from behind. A little part of you does this so he can’t see if you start up the waterworks again, but he doesn’t need to know that.

“It’ll be alright,” Dan Heng reminds, surrendering to your whims as always.

The dust settles and you’re inclined to believe him. There is still much time left, with Christmas day being the focal point of your visit, and you’re starting to get sleepy again. That’s always a good sign; sleepy, relaxed, and with a head drained of pressing worries - at least for the present moment.

Your eyes close, bereft of tears as you murmur your agreement.

To your surprise and horror, this house didn’t have a Christmas tree. It’s not like it mattered that much, but it was still shocking nonetheless. With a building exploding with life, there wasn't an evergreen decked out in ornaments or a pine covered in lights to tie the room together.

Honestly, where were they going to put their presents? 

However, you forgave this transgression a day or two later under the condition that you would be allowed to pick one out. Everyone seemed to be fine with it, with you offering to cover the cost this close to the 25th - and your determined expression that would’ve been pointless to argue with. Santa Claus works hard but you work harder.

Caelus and March jumped to go with you, much to the others’ relief, and that was more than enough hands on deck for you to hop in Caelus’s car and drive to the nearest tree farm in the dead of winter, borrowing some mittens and a cute knitted hat from March so you wouldn’t become a human popsicle before your 30s.

Uh, you did get a bit lost. You had to interrogate the shit out of the GPS and one poor local to get there; the latter was not your fault by the way! Caelus just so happened to be carrying a bat and had a concerning look in his eye. That put you in good enough standing to make it there, even if the selection of trees were picked over, leaving only the runts on sale.

All three of you turned away with your hands empty, opting to make a last minute shopping trip to the mall to buy a fake one. You were against it, but your suggestion to buy three small trees and place them really close together was vetoed. “Majority rules” is totes unfair…

But the mall trip turned into a lot more when you actually got there. Both of them ganged up on you with a reminder that you haven’t gotten Dan Heng a gift yet! Honestly, you could say you regret confessing that to them earlier, but you totally needed to hear it.

Imagine you, waking up on Christmas morning with nothing to give the love of your life! Deplorable, unforgivable, and tragically heartbreaking. 

And you had a council there to help you; people that know Dan Heng just as well as you do. 

“He’s so hard to shop for,” March had groaned, flicking through racks of clothes with a dark aura surrounding her. “Trust me, I’ve tried in the past. He always says he’s fine with anything, giving me zero hints…”

“Maybe get him nothing,” Caelus suggested after, more occupied with trying to steal coins from the nearby wishing fountain. Like one does. “You could run him over and he’d thank you politely.”

Similar experiences there. He’s always been more attuned to your wants than his own, which you’ve been trying to get him to work on at his own pace. Unfortunately, the place was about to close for the night since you already spent the day gallivanting around.

The burly mall security guard looked dangerously close to kicking your trio out, with at least one of you kicking and screaming, so you had to leave empty handed again. 

The others assured you that you’d find a present in time. You decided to go with the flow and hope that the heavens above would drop one into your lap by the day of.

Spoiler alert: they didn’t! Because Christmas day is now here, and it all seems hopeless. Well, aside from the fact that you’re all settled around the coffee table and a big, burning fire is roaring in the fireplace. 

There’s still a smile on your face as Welt and Himeko tear open their presents with wise, softened gazes. You can’t let your own mistakes ruin the moment, after all.

“Truly, thank you both,” Himeko croons, looking over her respective mug and brooch with awe. “I was prepared to perhaps play up the excitement a bit, but… I’m very impressed. Dan Heng, you’ve picked well.”

He flushes. “They helped me,” he nods to you.

“No,” she laughs, “I meant you picked a good partner.”

Before you can stammer out a reply, Welt chimes in. He’s inspecting the quality of his tie with muted gratitude - his new mug seems to only serve as a reminder that he has to drink Himeko’s coffee out of it. Hey, at least your heart was in the right place!

“I have to agree. Both of you must have collaborated seamlessly to shop for our preferences.” 

Caelus, wearing his big ass jacket that you and Dan Heng bought him, sprawls out across one of the couches like a housecat. “This is a lot better than what you got me last year, Cold Dragon Young.”

Dan Heng bristles and you burst out laughing at the expression he’s making. “Cold Dragon what?”

“Ignore them,” he pleads, lips twitching upward just a smidge; a ghost of a smile. Dan Heng really does like the teasing more than he lets on. 

March was almost reduced to tears by the jewelry dish you painted for her - which is more of a jewelry box at this point - but she recovers from her reverie and endless thank yous to giggle at your partner’s expense, something that’s swiftly turning into a group effort. “One time, we all got roped into fistfighting these bad guys in a club, and after Dan Heng took care of them--”

“I was left with no other choice--”

“--then that became his ring name. Cold Dragon Young!” she finishes. 

Himeko and Welt exchange an exhausted look. You immediately decide that the moniker is going to become his contact name in your phone until the end of time. You also start wheezing (and also kind of blushing) at the idea of Dan Heng, the near-pacifist, duking it out with someone. “S-Sounds like you guys have been everywhere…”

“...we have,” your boyfriend clears his throat. You sense a topic change, or even a segue, drawing your attention. You sit up a little straighter and wipe the comically-induced hysteria from your eyes. 

He’s looking at you expectantly with some of the earlier heat coloring the tips of his ears. The room lulls into silence as he makes his way over to the tree to retrieve a box from underneath the branches, wrapped in pastel yellow with no bow.

Dan Heng hands it over, and when your skin brushes against his for a fleeting second, you feel the clamminess of his palms.

“Oh, me next?” you blink. Shaking the thing a bit too aggressively, listening for any indication of a bomb (just in case), you get a good feel of its weight. Light and mysterious. You’re too busy making mental guesses that you don’t notice Welt shepherding the others out of the room.

“Yes. I hope you like it,” he watches as you tear open the wrapping paper and the box itself. Dan Heng is so beautiful it’s almost criminal, unintentionally batting his lashes in a way that has you swallowing drool.

You scoff. “Of course I will!”

Inside the box rests… two tickets? Your mind jumps to movie tickets first and foremost, but that’s obviously not the case; the ones here are golden with faded ridges and accented with red, sparkling as you fawn over them. Then you read the printed text lining the bottom of the thin cardstock.

The Astral Express. They’re two boarding passes.

“No way,” It’s the name of the restored steam locomotive in the picture, the very same one that Himeko told you about working on during the height of her career. “Does this mean…?”

Dan Heng drinks in the surprised part of your lips, scratching at his neck. “You mentioned that you wanted to travel. I, and the rest of us, thought you’d like to accompany us on a trip. If you don’t want to, that’s perfectly fine,” he promises. “I can get refunded, and we’ll all stay. But it’s scheduled to start the day after tomorrow and last until the new year.”

You don’t want to cry again, even if they’re happy tears, so you launch yourself into his arms as a welcome distraction. You may be imagining it, but you think you feel him slump in relief. Again. How long will it take to get it through his thick skull that he could never disappoint you?

“Duh, of course I want to! Darling, what kind of jerk would I be if I said no and made everyone cancel their plans? Oh my god, oh my god--”

“You m-may want to breathe.”

His concern is so genuine - that’s not even meant to be teasing. You scream into his shoulder, already thinking of nights spent in velvet cabins and days spent watching the cross-country scenery go by on the silver rail. With good food. Lots of it. 

“I’m breathing,” you huff, in fact, short of breath. “Thank you, Dan Heng. I love it so much.”

You pull back, box and tickets still safe in your grasp despite your earlier flailing. The magical moment fizzles, your joy stunted as guilt emerges. “But I… I didn’t get you anything. I’m so sorry, we shopped all over, and everything’s been so hectic…”

He closes his eyes and shakes his head. “I meant what I said.”

“Huh?”

“When we were shopping all that time ago,” he clarifies. “I don’t need anything but you. And with the others coming along,” Dan Heng gestures to the tickets, everyone else’s likely stowed away somewhere safe, “It’s the best gift I could ask for, more than I could ever want.”

You don’t rebut him this time.

The guilt has all but vanished, and you pull Dan Heng into a tender kiss. This has, no joke, probably been the best break of your life so far. Not to mention you have a whole new trip to look forward to, with a whole new family at your side.

Just as you think this perfect moment is unshakable, hoots and jeers break out from behind you. You whip around, dazed, and Caelus is cheering both of you on like his life depends on it.

“Wooooo! I told you they’d like it, dude! May your love burn bright for years to co--”

…then March clamps a hand over his mouth and hauls him away. 

Dan Heng is so embarrassed that he chokes on a laugh. You make sure to join him in kind, the present moment also holding the infinite possibilities of the future.

Her tone is expectant, bordering on indifferent. Her bifocals are perched neatly on her nose, and just a little further down, her lips sit perfectly straight. Her countenance gives away nothing determinative, and it just pisses you off. 

“What?” you wrinkle your nose, melting into your seat. It’s not plush enough to be comfortable, nothing like her desk chair. The difference in class speaks to the illusion of a high horse, one that she’s riding strong. “Can I go now? Y’know, if we’re just gonna stare at each other.” 

She sighs, testing the syllables of your name on her tongue. “I’m just trying to bridge a gap here. Please understand that. Your grades have been slipping — and we’ve been made aware of your unfortunate situation — so it’s understandable. But extending accommodations isn’t where my support has to stop; I’m always here if you need someone to talk to. However, that offer only stands if you actually spare me the time of day. I can’t read minds, as much as I’d like to.”

Unfortunate situation. What a way to put it. But you can’t blame her too much for that description — others have been way more tactless with your feelings in the last fourteen days. Having said that, the fact that anyone even has to tiptoe around your person like you’re made of glass is maddening. 

Has anyone seen you cry? No. Have you started taking your unfortunate situation out on your fellow students? No. Have you been acting out? Not really, unless you count skipping class in the hallways to do nothing but stare at the wall. You don’t need this. You don’t need the coddling. You’re the man of the house now, and you honestly can’t be bothered with processing grief that you don’t even feel. 

You continue to stare her down. “I’m aware.” 

“I know that you’re aware. I just wish you’d override your stubbornness.” Her response strikes you as bold. Despite her efforts to help you, she’s firm in a way that makes you secretly ache with need and panic. The ailment is easy to trample, to bury. If one’s heart is already sinking, one can let it slip impossibly further into the depths, past the point of salvation. “You didn’t take any time off from school, even though it’d be readily excused. Bereavement leave is highlighted in our attendance policy as a priority for our students and staff.”

“How generous of the board.”

“I’ll let that snark sli—”

“How generous of you.”

Ms. Lingsha fixes you with a different look. You place it as pitying, and you get ready to bristle, to retaliate with barbs and jabs like you always do, but the counselor then speaks in a softer manner, almost vulnerable. It’s impossible to ignore, even with your skilled efforts.

“I’m sorry about your father, I really am,” she gentles. “That notwithstanding, because I’ll do you a favor and spare you my platitudes from now on, your behavior is still concerning. Your teachers came to me with their worries this time around, so I’d be remiss not to pull you in here again and try my damndest to help you.”

Faintly, your fingers shake. You can feel them quiver like they’re trying to feebly grasp something unattainable. Namely, you think of your father’s hands you’d refused to hold so many times — you think of how warm they always were, and how cold they surely are now, when he is in the local cemetery, six feet under. But beyond that fleeting, unwelcome thought, you will yourself to keep a straight face; it’s as easy as you expect. 

Suppression has always come effortlessly when contending with life’s fat middle fingers, and you suppose it’d remain that way when you need its numbing agent the most. 

Ms. Lingsha is trying, that is for certain. You think yourself stronger, smarter, than her attempts at comfort and wheedling and tough love. How else would you be standing? Breathing? Living with the nightmarish guilt that you’d never, ever admit to carrying? That’s all you. You can’t be debilitated if you can’t be sad to begin with. It’s your special talent, being unflappable — if you don’t count the faint lapses in the dead of night, when your breath is all but stolen from your lungs, that is. 

“Help me?” you parrot her last two words, disbelieving. “You can’t.”

The woman looks as if she’d really like to rebut — but stops herself at the last second. Your wounds, however deep they’re hidden from her prying eyes, are still too fresh to constitute any more pushing. You can taste victory on your tongue, not unlike the onset of nausea. Sweetness aside, you can also discern your win from the now-defeated set of her brow. It’s a strange look on her, since before your father’s death, she’d win just about every battle with that smart-aleck mouth of yours.

(Things have changed a great deal, haven’t they?)

She purses her lips, carding manicured nails through her muddy bangs. “I’ve tried to get ahold of your mother, but she’s not returning any of my calls — straight to voicemail — but of course, there are bigger battles she must be fighting. Can you do me a favor? Just one? Tell her to call me back when she’s ready.”

You blink, unimpressed. “So you two can talk about me? Real subtle.”

Your mother is strong, as are you, and she taught you that sometimes it is better to be silent. Why begrudge Ma for that? Even if everything’s not okay (and it certainly isn’t from a qualified professional’s perspective), what good will it do bringing it up? What is Ms. Lingsha going to do for you that you haven’t already done for yourself?

The woman sitting across from you steeples her fingers in exasperation. At the very least, you can get away with your sunny personality for a little while longer.

“I can’t tell you what your process looks like — that’s your business. Having said that, I also know you’re gonna walk out of here and ignore every single piece of advice I try to impart upon your bull-headed self. But giving up on a student? No.” She shakes her head as if she physically cannot bear the thought. “Quitting isn’t in my job description; you can’t shake me off your back so easily.”

“A tinge parasitic,” you hum, messing with your cuticles. “I don’t think you get paid enough to worry so much over kids who want nothing to do with you.” 

“The matter of such equity pales in the face of your struggles.” When Ms. Lingsha catches your picking (a nasty habit she detests quite loudly), she slides open a drawer behind her desk, plucking out a fidget toy and tossing it into your lap with a graceful flourish. You glare at the tactile worm with the fulcrum of your teenage hatred. “And stop worrying about my salary. This is a private school — the least you can do is make friends with Mr. Worm here.”

You pull an ugly face. “Give it time. Take him home,” she encourages, unfairly sure of herself. “You’ll end up caring for him more than you think.” 

“Caring is the stupidest thing you could’ve asked me to do,” you deadpan. Poking the colorful toy, it emanates a pleasant click. Mr. Worm is definitely being relocated to the dumpster later. “What’s your angle, counselor?”

She shuts the drawer, eyeing you critically. 

“Don’t deal with the weight on your shoulders alone. You don’t have to come to me, and clearly you’re cognizant of that, so reach out to your other friends. For the love of everything aromatic, please cobble together something at least resembling a support system. Or I’ll — so cruelly — keep meddling in your affairs.” 

Maybe you shouldn’t be taking her threats as idle ones. Still, the way she speaks puts you off. “Affairs?” 

Ms. Lingsha bobs her head. “That boy, for starters. The blond one you stick to like glue. Does he know what’s going on? I bet he’d like to. I won’t say anything to him, but I think you should.”

Of course you know who she’s referring to — Aventurine, the school’s resident enigma. The mention of his moniker from someone else’s mouth makes you feel a little sick inside. How much does she know? Clearly, you hang around him more than you thought if even the staff are noticing. But you haven’t spoken to the guy in about three weeks. 

His spotty attendance coincides splendidly with your brooding — or your process — and that appeals just fine to your tastes. You stroke Mr. Worm like he’s a pedigree cat, biding your response carefully. 

“He’s back at school?”

“As of third period,” she answers. “You sound relieved.” 

To be truthful, you are a little relieved. Aventurine comes and goes like the seasons, still somehow remaining in good standing with the school and maintaining perfect grades. He does this while also being halfway around the world, gallivanting about in another country like it’s a completely normal thing for a teenager to do. You and him text, sometimes, to stay in contact. He doesn’t post his face to social media, only uploading lavish photos to his profile of which document his travels.

It’s nice to know he’s still around, that he hasn’t left for good. But you can’t admit that. Not yet. 

“Well, he’s kind of a floater,” you mumble, semi-grateful for the shift in conversation. “Showing up, leaving, showing up, and then leaving again. Doesn’t make sense for me to tell him squat.” A loaded beat of silence passes as you belatedly tack on, “Not that there’s anything to tell.” 

“...Right.” The woman actually rolls her eyes at you. Damn. “Regardless, he’s good for you. Do something about it.”

Do something about it. She’s purposefully using that diction. Ms. Lingsha knows you’re restless, that you need to keep moving or else you’ll die like you’re a bloodthirsty shark on Animal Planet. It grates on you to no end, how much she thinks she knows. You shift in your seat again, garnering any vitriol you have left, preparing to sling venom—

“I’m bringing in my bunny tomorrow — for any students up for some animal therapy. Can I expect you there? Art room in Honor Hall during lunch. Y’know, the usual drill.”

“I’m not skipping out on food for some… some rabbit,” you flounder, though the smaller part of you regrets insulting her harmless pet. After all, animals are decidedly more tolerable than humans; they’re less pest than nosy counselors and self-involved extended family.

“Lying is going to get you in trouble one of these days,” Ms. Lingsha drawls. “I’ll be seeing you, I’m sure. Bring your blond-headed friend, too. This school needs more upstanding young men who aren’t afraid to accept help.” 

Upstanding? Has she huffed one too many fumes? You wisely abstain from voicing that thought aloud (a celebration is in order), taking the lull in conversation as your chance to bolt. When you place Mr. Worm back onto the edge of her desk (in a callous attempt to abandon him), she expertly returns fire by chucking the toy into your slightly unzipped backpack (previously left on the floor). You reluctantly give her the win, respecting the shot.

“Bye,” you grunt, gathering up your stuff after glancing at the clock on the wall. 

“See you tomorrow,” the counselor gloats. Right before you’re about to exit her office, she pipes up again, despite your quick feet. “Wait. One more thing, please.”

You groan, stopping in your tracks. “Ma’am?”

“Take some wax melts on your way out. And don’t forget to breathe.”

You depart without doing much else, let alone accepting wax melts. Jesus Christ, who does she take you for? Is this some unique kind of pity you’re yet to be acquainted with? Ms. Lingsha starts humming a calming melody as soon as she thinks you’re out of earshot, and then you’re left standing in the middle of a barren corridor like a spineless tool.

You drag your feet to fourth period, intent on wasting as many class-sanctioned minutes as possible. It’s not hard; you skulk up and down each leg of the building twice before actually heading back, arriving five minutes to lunchtime. 

And when you’re actually out of earshot, the counselor grumbles to herself a singular, freeing, and undeniably fond — indulgence. 

“What a little shithead,” she mutters.

Upon your long-anticipated return, your teacher simply gives you a sad look that makes you want to punch something. Even your gym coach knows what happened — who died — and despite how much you abhor the vulnerability of it all, you may as well use the ill-received consolation to your advantage. 

You’ll ask for extensions on all of your assignments and tests, and they’ll have no reason to veto you. You’ll continue to skip, and you’ll likely continue to see Ms. Lingsha, whether you like it or not. And you definitely don’t like it, absolutely not.

The bell rings, and suddenly, you’re elsewhere. Not in the cafeteria, where everything has always been too loud and too stuffy, but beyond the schoolgates entirely. Behind the photography building, where students are allowed to roam unsupervised with cameras for their projects, there are a few notable landmarks: a decrepit old bank (which you’re sure is a front for a money-laundering scheme of some kind), an abandoned shed (which upperclassmen use as an unofficial makeout spot), and a few creaky picnic tables. You only come out here for the latter. 

Trundling over the uneven terrain and keeping your eyes on the grass, you’re a bit blindsided upon first glancing up.

Aventurine is sitting at your trademark bench. He almost looks out of place — such an ostentatious person plonked down in the midst of dull, probably termite-ridden wood. But this isn’t the first time he’s sat with you, or near you. It’s just surprising today, of all days, when he didn’t catch you after class to ask first where you’d be eating, or if he could come with. You lock eyes for a moment. He blinks before his lips curl into a dazzling smile, waving in your direction like a socialite caught by paparazzi.

You sigh, steeling yourself, before jogging the rest of the way over. Placing a hand on the splintered surface of the picnic table, there’s a little catch in your voice as you greet your friend.

“Hey,” you state simply. “You’re here.”

Stupid. Of course he’s here. You don’t know why you opted to rehash the obvious. Fiddling with your nails, you take your seat across from him, studying his character. His sleeves are impeccably tailored, tandemly embroidered with a subtle dotted motif. His eyes are half-obscured by rose-tinted sunglasses, even though it’s overcast and those are definitely against dresscode. 

Has his tie been color-matched? The plumy earring dangling from this left lobe pops vibrantly against his red blazer. So, he’s the same as always: terribly glamorous, bordering on tacky, but still rocking the look better than you ever could. 

“Yep,” he chuckles. “I’m back. Did you miss me? I wouldn’t blame you if you did.” Your eyes drop to his lunch that’s sitting in front of him — something grainy and leafy that makes your stomach rumble — as he continues speaking. “Just kidding. Unless… you really did pine for me while I was away? Being in another hemisphere for business was just as cumbersome for me as it was for you, you know. I missed your charming self.”

“You’re just about the only person on this earth that’d describe me as charming,” you huff, quickly shoving your hand into his food, causing him to nearly fumble his spoon. You lift the fistful to your mouth curiously. “What’s this stuff?”

He smiles amusedly, no teeth. “Couscous salad.” 

“Cool,” you grunt, shoveling your spoils into your mouth. Without a lunch of your own, Aventurine doesn’t seem to mind you stealing a bit, though he leans back to watch you chew. “S’good.”

The cloudy sky above paints the world in stagnation. You heavily consider the boy in front of you, even though you usually wouldn’t ruminate so hard in the middle of precious downtime. Extenuating circumstances, of course — your gut churns. 

A strange one, Aventurine is. The name he goes by is also the name of an exquisite gemstone. He prattles on about stocks and investments and spouts corporate legalese when you prod him enough, which only worsens your blondie-centric headache. He talks about work like he isn’t worried about passing geometry and writing literary essays. 

Who is he? You aren’t entirely sure. But if he chooses to willingly insert himself into your trainwreck of a life, who are you to stop him? He catches your eye again, voice dulcet.

“A little birdie told me that you’ve been busy. Getting called into the shrink’s office day after day? That’s rough, friend. Though the teachers here do have a nasty habit of jumping to conclusions — when I’m missing from the classroom, as I often am — my mentor must get about a dozen calls each day I remain unaccounted for, despite them being well-aware of my circumstances. Never in my life has my absence been taken so… seriously.”

You arch an eyebrow. “That’s incredibly sad, dude. Of course people miss you — or at the very least, your mentor’s moneybags. I bet half the buildings here have little plaques with his name on them. Diamond, right? He sounds like more of a prick than you. You should celebrate.” 

The way you ignore his observation regarding your misadventures with Ms. Lingsha would be more telling if you weren’t chewing with your mouth wide open (not that the blond’s comfort is your problem or anything). In his primly gloves, Aventurine retrieves a wadded-up napkin and gently dabs at the corner of your mouth. You don’t take it as anything other than concern for your tidiness, which isn’t exactly a prudent quality of yours to begin with.

In lieu of agreeing with the insult aimed at his boss, he makes a jab at the entirety of his situation. “I play croquet with the shareholders next week. It’s a delicate art.”

“No wonder you look like one of the Heathers, then.”

“That’s just the uniform. The one you also wear, by the way.”

“I don’t croquet.” 

He leans back without falling over, adjusting his shades. Behind the lenses, his eyes are displayed like jewels shielded behind a museum-guarded panel of glass, all magenta and turquoise and exhaustion. You watch as he rests his chin on a loose fist in a way that brokers business. 

“But, the question remains…” he pauses for added effect. “Are we going to talk about it or not? Your call, friend.” 

Negotiation. That’s what this is. He knew you wouldn’t bring a lunch, just as he knew something was up before you even entered his line of sight. Aventurine has always been a bit tricky; he’s sly in a way that makes him blend in and stand out all at the same time. It sounds tiring to maintain, and those dark circles he tackles with concealer seem to agree. You caught him in the bathroom, only once, touching up his perfunctory face — which is the sole reason you know he wears any amount of makeup at all. 

And yet, you can’t call him out. He’s your only friend, and it’d be cruel to defensively lash out at his character (or lack thereof) instead of accepting his prying for what it actually is: concern. How much he knows is a mystery, and he likes to keep it that way, expecting you to put the first foot forward. 

You sigh. “I’m fine. Great, even. Best I’ve ever been in my entire life.”

He hums, doubtful.

“I’m gonna kill you,” you mutter, itching to resort to your neanderthal tendencies. “Seriously, I’m fine, besides the whole dead dad thing.”

The blond pauses all lilting and teasing. You suppose it’s a better reaction than seizing up like a feral cat at the news — which is what a few folks in your life did, feeling out of their depth about how to console you. God, as if you needed consoling. Still don’t.

You get the impression that Aventurine is similarly blindsided, but in a way you can’t quite grasp, and he’s biding his response carefully. Maybe he already knew. Maybe he didn’t.

“And how do we feel about that?” he asks. No pity. No platitudes. 

(Like no matter what I do, I’ll always make the wrong choices. Like every consequence of my every action and inaction comes back to bite me in a way that ensures trying at all is pointless. Like I can’t win. Like I’ve been cruelly set up just to inevitably crumble under the weight of living. Like I deserved to lose him. Like I never deserved him at all.)

“I dunno,” you say. “S’hard to describe.”

“That’s fine,” Aventurine decides. He kindly glances at the clouds above, allowing you a chance to sort things out in your head. “There’s no right or wrong way to feel, in my experience. Because thoughts occur regardless if you want them in your head or not. The real unpleasant houseguest isn’t the landlord sniffing around for a routine inspection; it’s what you refuse to acknowledge, most of the time. So… just feel all that noise.”

How stupidly profound. You still want to throttle him. Crawling into a hole somewhere doesn’t sound too bad either. Admitting such an urge, however, would compromise more of your pride than you’d like — and you’ve already compromised a lot today, a feat that could only happen in the other boy’s presence.

“Pot, meet kettle,” you chirp, stretching your arms above your head. “But thanks.”

He purrs something like touché and mirrors your movements when you choose to get up from the table, your legs rife with pins and needles. Students are to head back to class soon, but you aren’t feeling it. Your friend catches on quickly. 

“I know what you need,” Aventurine promises, snapping his fingers. “To leave, right? We sneak out like bandits in the… broad daylight. What do you say, friend?” 

Skipping sounds good. You grunt in response, him gathering his things as you do your own, both of you preparing to fuck off somewhere for the rest of the afternoon. Your unlikely pair treks back to the photography building, then makes a loop around the neverending exterior to avoid being spotted by campus security. You’re almost glad that you don’t have to walk to and from student parking everyday, because the journey does not seem worth it. 

Maybe you’d feel differently if you had a company car to use at your leisure like Aventurine miraculously does. 

“I’m driving,” you declare, taking the lead and striding a few paces ahead of him. “I’m better at merging. And parking. And not cruising five under and pissing everyone behind me the hell off.” 

He makes an effort to match your speed, which you can discern in your periphery. You decide that it’s pretty funny, watching him rush like a clumsy chick chasing after its mother. “There are two lanes for a reason, hotwheels. Besides,” he huffs from either mirth or exertion, “we could go anywhere we want today. Why not savor it? Sow our wild oats?” 

He says anywhere like it’s not an exaggeration — you know better. Both you and the blond have your separate affairs, and when he’s not traveling on business, he’s stuck here. Plus, you have no reason to leave your mother behind for an impromptu road trip to nowhere. 

Movie bachelors make mistakes anywhere they please, but Aventurine has to go wherever he’s told because a supervillain is constantly holding a gun to his head. Perhaps that’s a bit imaginative, but there’s a gleam in his eyes, rarely, that speaks of running. Could he be serious? Could he be wanting to make a mistake with you?

When you spot his sleek black sedan jutting out from one of the cramped spaces, you almost laugh — such a luxury model. At least it’s not a tiny little sportscar. That would be a bit too on the nose.

“Anywhere, huh,” you pretend to marvel. “How about your place?”

“Mine? Are you sure about that?”

He sounds almost… disappointed. Like you really did reject a subtle offer to get a bit more than lost with him. Aventurine is an enigma, you decide. 

“Uh-huh. I’ve never been to where you hole up, but it’s gotta be nice; you’re wearing suede.” 

“More comfortable than most leather, good for casual settings,” he hums. “You’d like the fit. I could commission you a pair… I know a guy who’s the real deal.”

You flat-out ignore his attempt at styling you. “I am not telling you my shoe size.”

When he unlocks the vehicle with a click of a button, you round over to the driver’s side, but he cuts you off with an artful sidestep, leveling you with a look that all but screams you wish, hotwheels. Rolling your eyes but respecting his car nonetheless, you settle for the passenger seat. Aventurine adjusts the tactile knobs of the air conditioner after he starts up the engine, seemingly fiddling with everything in range. 

You’ve ridden with him a couple of times, so you’re used to the scene unfolding around you. A set of fuzzy dice hang from the rearview mirror, the glovebox is nearly overflowing with folders (you spot a sliver of manila sticking out), and a velvety, brimmed black hat is resting far up on the dash. Seems like he moved all the coats and shit out of the back, at least. It used to be like a jungle of hangers and zip-up garment bags. And is that a half-empty bottle of cologne wedged under the seat…?

“Homey as always,” you quip.

Aventurine smirks. He shifts gears, beginning to reverse out of the parking space. You watch as he dutifully checks his blind spots and everything — and then another one of his quirks emerges. While he backs up, his arm automatically slings around the passenger seat – your seat — to allow for better visibility as he turns to survey the rearview window. 

You don’t take it as anything more than instinct. The action feels natural now, and maybe the familiarity could be attributed to the fact that the two of you are bonding. He didn’t bat an eye when you told him what he didn’t need to hear. And now he’s practically stealing you from school, surrendering to your whims and prickly words without even an ounce of upheaval. Is this what it’s like to have a friend? 

“Don’t self-flagellate over it,” he suddenly interrupts your train of thought.

“I’m not.”

“Could’ve fooled me.”

Your eye twitches. “What does that even mean?” 

He laughs, all twinkling bells and coy mystique. The drive goes smoothly enough. You mention sticking your head out of the window like a dog to feel the wind pass you by, but then you think better of it, vividly remembering that one scene from Hereditary. But who did you first see that scary-ass movie with? 

Your father had taken you to a late-night showing (very groovy parenting) a few years ago, which borderline traumatized you and all, but looking back… you had a great time.

Your chest rattles like there’s something crawling around in there. Aventurine flicks on the radio. 

The song that erupts to life inside the cabin is an oldie. Your friend and temporary chauffeur tuts under his breath, twisting the same knob until a fun Top Ten hit starts to blare from the speakers instead. 

Aventurine’s sedan travels through the hybrid ecosystem of rural land and business cityscape, both of you being flanked by perpetual office buildings that hint at a world you’ve only had glimpses of but don’t actually know much about. Be that as it may, you do know about the slower side of things. They have cattle gaps at the farmer’s market now. More people are flocking to this area because of the growing job market; irrigation has its claws wedged deep in the agriculture here. According to your mother, combine harvesters are a hot, controversial topic among the neighbors this fall. 

However, your knowledge is hardly useful where you’re heading — somewhere nice. Unerringly corporate, you assume. If your friend here has been set up with a car, there’s no doubt he’s also been set up with a cushy place to live. You think of those picture-perfect apartments you’ve seen on TV, the ones that have clay bowls with fake fruit and windows with their latches painted shut. It would make sense. The blond seems to live in his car more than anywhere else, though.

“We’re here,” he says, and only then do you realize you’ve zoned out for most of the ride.

Your eyes flit over the chain hotel building he’s parked in front of. 

“Damn. Just can’t escape twenty-four seven room service, huh? Poor you.” The taunting quality to your own voice surprises you. Sometimes the back-and-forth leaps off your tongue before you can stop it. “They didn’t shill out the dough to saddle you with a real place?”

“Nice enough to have valet, but not nice enough to grate on my conscience,” Aventurine responds clinically, twirling his keyfob around on his index finger. He makes quick work of exiting like a red carpet star, painting you as his sidekick-bodyguard in comparison. “And yes, I do have a conscience, believe it or not. Didn’t sell my soul for a magic guitar or a record deal.” 

“The conscience and the soul are two different things. We’ll see, man.”

Standard lobby. Awkward elevator ride. Practiced keycard swipe. Single bed. Den area.

“My place,” he gestures grandly. “I’d show you the trophy room, but it’s being renovated. Don’t pout too hard, though — there’s still much to see.” 

You blink, deadpan.

Aventurine sighs. “I said not to pout. You’ll break my heart with your begging.”

Exhausted. You’re exhausted. He must pick up on it too, because he doesn’t goad any further than that, and he doesn’t seem to accept any more words in kind. He moves fluidly after locking up the door, shedding his blazer and shades, followed by his shoes. It’s an upgraded suite; he steps down from the elevated bedroom-bathroom platform, heading straight for the coffee maker sitting on a round table near a minifridge. 

You take this time to shed your own baggage. Shoes come off, and you feel dubiously warm in lining your footwear up adjacent to his. You left your backpack in his car, not wanting to bring anything from out there in here. Your temples ache faintly, the beginnings of a migraine descending upon you like the antelope of death. But even the threat of mortal peril doesn’t stop you from craving caffeine. 

“You’re doing it wrong,” you criticize, perched on the edge of his bed like a power-hungry emperor. “Okay, ugh, stop that. I’m coming.”

The boy raises his hands in faux surrender as you stalk over to meet him by the coffee maker. You’re currently glaring at the disposable soft pod in his hand like it’s personally offended you. And it has, as a matter of fact. 

“Does this thing take actual grounds too, or does it just suck?” 

Aventurine studies your change in demeanor. “It’s a dual, but I don’t have anything authentic.” 

Digging into your blazer’s pocket dimension, you produce a small metal tin. You flick the top open and give it a scan before flashing its contents at your friend. Inside, quite serendipitously, are coffee grounds. You knew you were holding onto them for a reason beyond just being freakishly prepared for everything. Like the cat that got the cream, you break into a toothy grin that appears closer to a grimace.

You don’t wait for him to question you, and he doesn’t say a word — just watches. You poke around his room a bit more for coffee filters, clasping your hands in victory when you end up finding a sheaf of them under the sink. The blond sees fit to mundanely explain that there weren’t any around at first, but he pilfered a bunch from one of the daily complimentary breakfasts, squirreling them away here in case you ever pushed enough to visit. He’d predicted that happening down the line.

And yet, he didn’t say anything about your stupid tin of coffee grounds because he knows you prefer the real deal, whether that be caffeine or anything else. Straight-up, he says. You’re straight-up, aren’t you, hotwheels?

He likes contrast. If you’re straight-up, than he’s anything but. Maybe that’s why this mimicry of a friendship has stayed alive so long. Does Aventurine believe you to complement him? Seems like a sensible thing to believe. Your tie’s gone missing, his is color-matched to perfection. You’re bad with words, he strategically flaunts a silver tongue. You’re sad, he lets you into his only home simply because you asked.

What a sneaky display of vulnerability. But it’s not like he’s left his back turned and handed you a dagger or anything. There’s still a locked safe in the corner, and he still keeps his shoulders squared like he’ll never be able to let them sink until the day he dies. 

That’s another thing you don’t understand. Why is baring every part of one’s soul considered the purest metric of love? Of friendship? Of closeness? Of intimacy? Being mushy has never been your forte, and you aren’t about to change your tune now, but why are people, as individuals, any less valuable for maintaining a modicum of healthy distance? What’s wrong with keeping a few secrets to yourself? 

Well, there’s certainly nothing wrong with secrets here. It’s in every clue left unpursued, every passive observation you’ve made about one another, every drag of silence. There’s comfort in knowing you can let stuff go in Aventurine’s presence. He can closet his ugliest skeletons, and you can do the same if you so choose. 

The coffee brews. You and the gambler settle down at the small sitting area, two wooden chairs shared between you. He’s humming a tune under his breath as he takes his poison with one sugar, no cream. He sips from the paper cup delicately, finally sampling how much better grounds are than pods. Surely he’ll say something like that, right?

“Maybe my palate isn’t as refined as I thought…” he mourns.

“Don’t,” you seethe.

“They’re fairly similar, but I’ll discern. Do I have to swish it around and smell it like snobs tend to do? Are there coffee sommeliers? You see, friend, I’m more of a tea person—”

“It’s better than any of that disposable shit,” you insist. “I’ll put some grounds in a bag for you. I recommend putting them in the fridge to keep them cold. And no matter what anyone says, that doesn’t make them lose their potency. Cold is better.”

“Oh?” he probes with or without thinking, “and who taught you that?”

Your heart sinks. 

That’s been happening a lot lately. It can’t be good for your health, but you manage to prevent your brow from knitting and your nostrils from flaring. Images of sun-dappled mornings in the kitchen needle at the edge of your mind. 

(There’s a warm palm on your scalp; you’re barely tall enough to rest your chin on the counter. He’s wrapping something earthy in baking sheets and then ferrying the finished parcels into the crisper. You’re clutching a mug. You’re going to the park later, and you’re so, so happy.)

Like usual, nothing really shows on your face — it’s one of your only blessings.

“Sorry,” Aventurine says. 

“For what?”

An almost imperceptible pause.

“For disrespecting your expertise, of course.”

You huff, bringing your respective cup to your lips. “Just don’t do it again, rookie.”

“Hm. Yes, sir.”

The honorific is breathed with a hint of a laugh, mock-respect. It’s pleasant enough coming from him, so you’ll take it. The pain that comes and goes inside your chest isn’t strong enough to impede you from functioning; the sensation can be compared to echoes and wisps. In other words, you’re fine, this tight chest of yours is stupid, and you should stop drinking coffee forever.

But you don’t stop. You keep living. Damn it all.

You turn the TV on, surfing the channels and daytime broadcasts with minimal interest, but you’ve always been somewhat drawn to guilty pleasures and empty static. Aventurine sets something down on the table with an audible thunk, causing you to temporarily halt your brainrot. You shimmy back around in your seat until you see what he’s got.

A steel, rectangular box. Semi-textured with two latches and a shiny handle. There’s a glimmer in his eye as peels one of his gloves off — a flash of scarred olive skin littered with tiny calluses that he ducks briefly out of frame — before laying the case flat and leveling you with something close to happiness. 

“Do you play?” he asks, unsnapping the latches.

“Checkers?” you guess.

With finesse, he finally bares the precious cargo. The case is lined with velvet, plush material cradling poker chips and a deck of cards, plus a pouch that clacks around delightfully when jostled. You can only assume there’s a collection of dice inside. In case of gambling-related emergencies, of course. A tickled exhale leaves your nose. 

“Poker,” he corrects. He pulls out a red chip — clay, exceptional quality — pinching it between his thumb and forefinger. He then flicks it across the table like an air hockey puck, the circular object skidding to a stop right in front of you. There are initials scrawled in permanent marker on its scuffed surface, faded and barely legible. 

L.B.J. None of your business. You pick at your nails.

“Texas Hold’em only. My dad taught me, and I was never very good, but I also watched Rounders a total of two times. I can hold my own if need be.” There’s not an iota of pain in your voice. You just can’t escape the elephant in the room, huh? Makes sense; they’re fairly large animals. “We used to play for toothpicks. Couldn’t hold my attention unless we were playing for candy, though.” 

“Sweetening the pot,” he snaps his fingers lightly instead of laughing. “Smart. There’s an incentive there. Your dad was a card shark? That doesn’t surprise me, considering how sharp you are.”

You can’t tell if he’s mindlessly flattering you or not. It’s one of his little quirks. Even so, all roads are stretching towards a painful discussion — towards reminiscing. It’s fine. 

God, you really hope it’s fine.

“He certainly liked to think he was clever, if that’s what you mean. I think he admired how seedy it could get, or the math involved for the super-geniuses trying to cheat the system. He admired walking away from the table on a high note, or fooling others with facial expressions and body language. I was never that intrigued. I was probably busy chewing on the queen of hearts or some shit.”

The blond covers his mouth with a regloved hand. “Now that I can picture crystal clear, friend.”

You flip him off. 

He arranges things quickly, offering up a game. When you insist that you’re rusty and not looking to be easily humiliated, he cajoles you into playing anyway — there’s not much else to do, hotwheels — passing the time without either of you noticing it. You eventually fold after he raises to oblivion, leaving you with a tired smile and a predictable first loss.

“Do you think they’ve got poker tables in Heaven?” you suddenly inquire.

“Of course. The folks who bought their way in need something to do.”

“Yeah? That’s a nice thought.”

“Isn’t it?” he hums, feigning wistfulness. “But where I’m going, I won’t need poker.” 

“You aren’t going anywhere on my watch, Aventurine.”

You aren’t sure why you said it. You just did. He doesn’t look surprised to hear such a thing come out of your mouth, which is even more baffling. Is this the new normal? Feelings?

“Is that so? No Aurora for me?”

“...As in, the Afterlife?”

He nods. You don’t ask.

Pretending to mull it over, you huff. “Fine. You can go.”

“I appreciate your permission. I’ll ask you again on my death bed, just to be sure. Hell, maybe you’d even come with me. Imagine: Surprise! — you drop dead from shock at the appearance of my apparition — and then I whisk you away into the sky.”

You nod. He doesn’t ask.

The world is a beautiful promenade for the next few hours. You’d usually be quick to insult the slow-burn atmosphere by branding it as molasses or something equally impatient, but the air has unexpectedly shifted to accommodate the aroma of estranged honey and the elusive scent of limbo. 

It’s the kind of fragrance that lingers but doesn’t cloy; it’s the virtue of distance personified. It’s the blessing that keeps you and Aventurine within arm’s reach of one another — yet still intertwines your aching hearts and sweet-rotting vessels all the same.

(Everyone else can choke, so long as I have you.)

“Are you ready to blow this joint, friend?”

“I think I’ll stay in your fancy suite until school hours let up,” you answer.

“Sure. Just don’t get too attached.”

As if you could help such a thing. And by the way the blond hides his victorious smile, you have a feeling he was even betting as much against you. 

Oh well. Another win for the house.

You don’t turn around, even when you can feel her eyes burning holes into the back of your head. Light spills out from the pigment-stained windows, illuminating the porch and elongating your shadow in a way that lends credibility to the witching hour’s magic. 

Despite such romance, you don’t feel very whimsical. Not at all. Getting caught smoking by one of your roommates and not-girlfriends wasn’t on your agenda, and so you’re stuck here with your back to the architect, internally scrambling to formulate a response. 

The balmy air smothers the bravado of your next words. “Another project, huh? Just us night owls, burning the midnight oil… tortured by our creative pursuits, endlessly agonizing… I get it, I do. Deadlines can be a pain in the ass. Michelangelo took four years to paint the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel. He was straining his back the whole time. Probably fucked up his ancient body irreparably and stuff. Don’t end up like him, please. My poor heart couldn’t take it.” 

Footsteps. One, two — three strides until Kaveh sidles up next to you. Her profile still somehow shocks you with its beauty, stealing the breath from your lungs in a way smoke could never hope to. You have to look away, because there’s a storm on the horizon; a torrent of concern cutting through everything in its wake. Your abandoned mug (now-turned makeshift ashtray) is suddenly the most captivating sight in the world. Yep. 

“I don’t see a laptop in front of you,” she huffs dryly, trying to catch your eye, “or any chicken-scratch notes that put me to shame. Working, huh? Well, far be it from me to judge your methods, even if watching your process is like watching a car crash. Or a caged animal throwing out non sequiturs to distract me. I can’t believe waffling on about Michelangelo is your knee-jerk reaction to being checked on. Only you.”

She leans forward, transferring the brunt of her weight onto the wooden-beamed railing. Scuffed elbows connect to lithe arms supporting coarsened hands — those curling into fists to support her knowingly angled head. 

“You’re not working. You’re smoking, and you only smoke when something’s wrong. I’m worried. Worried and not stupid, by the way. I heard you two earlier. So don’t insult me by playing dumb.”

Kaveh heard. Of course she did — it’s not like you and Alhaitham were exactly quiet, tangled up in the throes of passion (a sage green comforter and each other’s legs) while the world around you faded into meaningless noise. It shouldn’t bother you that you acted carnally or gave into your impulses, or that the blonde heard the noises bleeding through the walls in an unabashed show of firsts. But it does. 

It does bother you that she’s checking on you after the fact, because there’s a lot Kaveh knows that Alhaitham does not. It bothers you that she knows you so well that she can discern when you’re acting out, when you’re putting forth a misguided cry for help.

(She knows better than anyone. When she and the scribe weren’t talking, when every attempted conversation led back to mangled scraps of paper, you were the first to comfort her. Ever the opportunist, you asserted your feelings outright, even if it was a move better saved for later. And because of your brave impulsivity, Kaveh saw what had been in front of her all along: spontaneous, scatterbrained, beautiful you. In realizing her love for the scribe, she also realized her love for you. 

In the beginning, things were complicated like that. That’s why, when you pulled away during those first heated touches — in the house she had not yet sold for human debts and dreams — Kaveh didn’t question it. Of course you were hesitant. She was grappling and clashing with another. Any tryst with you would’ve felt like a rebound, even if Kaveh didn’t — and still doesn’t — see people that way. She would’ve accepted that explanation had it come out of your mouth. 

But there was only a charged silence like this one before tears fell from your eyes and Kaveh thought she had scalded you. Hurt you. Destroyed yet another great thing in her life. But then you broke down and confessed, in such an uncharacteristic, branding show of vulnerability, that you didn’t want to go that far. You didn’t ever want to go that far. She remembers how your nails dug into the back of her sanguine t-shirt, your hairline pressed into her collarbone like she’d ever cast you aside for not wanting to.

You say so much yet so little. It rattles her, makes her mad. Mad for you.)

“Sorry,” you manage hoarsely. Another drag.

On a good day, you bring the world to its knees. On a bad day, some argue you achieve more. And on days like these, when your haze of sunshine is too easily penetrated and your chest is strangely empty, all you can do is distance yourself from the house and the wonderful people within it. 

“Don’t,” Kaveh admonishes with that omnipresent spark of hers. “Don’t you dare apologize.”

Her pose rigidly unfurls (such information is supplied by your peripherals because you still cannot bring yourself to face her head-on), allowing her to stalk a hair closer and yank you into her chest with a soft thwump.

“God,” she hisses, arms winding around your trembling form. Your shoulders tense but you don’t protest, which only fuels her fierce embrace. It hurts. You were already tachy, breaths coming out in uneven but subtle bursts for most of the day, but now? Now your heart thuds mercilessly at the reality of being held. You want it and you don’t want it; everything would be easier if you could just make up your mind. “You can’t—you can’t just do that—!” 

Misery blurs your vision. Your palms are unbearably sweaty. She continues her tirade, her chin coming to rest atop your head while you struggle to make it through the next few moments.

“Harm yourself, I mean. You can’t just… quietly self-destruct, in bed or not, and expect me not to care. That’s so shitty,” her throat bobs with emotion. “I don’t know if you changed your mind about sex or what, and that’s your prerogative, but coming out here afterwards? Having that look in your eye like you’re gonna disappear on us again? Go wherever it is that you go and hide away? No.” 

Her voice is so resolute. It’d be admirable if you weren’t falling apart and trying to force out reassurances at the same time. You usually don’t have to dig your heels in, because you’re so far removed from the concept of sadness that it’s become hard to recognize or even care about. But that’s the deal with your companions — they’ll care. The thought alone is horrifying when you can’t bring yourself to laugh it off.

“Sweetheart,” you murmur, attempting a breezy tone. It rings so hollow you might as well share blood with a chocolate Easter bunny. “I’m… I’m okay. Slow down.”

She bristles. “Don’t tell me to—”

“Just listen. Please.”

Kaveh reins herself in while you pull yourself together enough to respond. When was the last time you cried in front of someone? It had to be when you thought you lost your first-ever raw manuscript. That was easier than this. How do you convince a loved one that you’re okay? And more importantly, how do you do it without downplaying the entire vehicle of communication while still keeping yourself safe? How do you be a lovable hypocrite, in this moment?

“I could be smoking ‘cause that’s what people do after fooling around. It’s not all that strange,” you hush her, imbuing the words with enough wryness to smooth out your pinched brow. Her grip around you tightens, meaning business and dissuading your penchant for games. That’s a big problem of yours — you’re always jonesing for masquerade, or for a chance to wrap yourself up in other people so you don’t whittle down to nothing. 

How much longer will you be able to surround yourself with the greatest fanfare until someone realizes how incomplete you are? How much longer can you trick sponsors and publishers, vendors and strangers? Detractors and lovers?

“It is strange,” she whispers. A loose braid tickles your ear. “It’s not you. Why’d you do it?” 

She’s all taut like she wants to fix it. Like she wants to fix your mistake of not telling Alhaitham that you didn’t want to fuck or follow the “natural” progression of a relationship. And Kaveh’s simple question pulls at your vocal cords, plucking them only to yield a few flustered, unintelligible explanations. You fight to tame them into something serious, your previously ragdolled arms fumbling for purchase around her middle. It’s awkward when your side is pressed up against her, but you manage. Just barely.

“I don’t know,” you admit honestly. Her breath hitches just a whisker. “It’s been a long day. I finished the draft and everything… so I had time to spare. I needed to blow off steam somehow, so why not give sex another shot? I was probably being dramatic that one time when you and I… yeah. Plus, the nerd was giving me bedroom eyes.” 

“...It’s hard to second-guess yourself, so I understand. You finished the draft? You didn’t tell us! That’s pretty big. I hear that — but I’m also hearing that you’re now stuck in the house by yourself for most of the day. And that means you’re stuck in your head now, too.”

“Kaveh.”

She lowers her head, inhaling your scent apologetically. “Don’t take this as—as me telling you not to question things. ‘Cause that hamster wheel either pays off or it doesn’t, and sometimes the risk is worth it. But I don’t want you hurting yourself because you know you don’t like it, or because you feel empty and need a distraction. Sex is always optional. You always have a choice.”  

“Kaveh.”

The blonde freezes in immediate regret, “I—” 

“...Thank you.”

The architect gets a lot of credit for her Revit mastery, or for her ability to scrape together a meal from even the saddest of pantry scraps, but what she doesn’t get enough credit for is her uncanny ability to read between the lines. Call it anxiety, call it an eye for detail, call it whatever you want — but Kaveh can pick you apart like no one else. When she’s not being her own hypocrite and tamping down her feelings (that took ages), she discriminates your prose from your grains of truth; a standard literary analysis.

“You’re right,” you concede lowly. Snot sticks to your upper lip. Ew. “I should’ve stopped myself and told Alhaitham that I didn’t want to. I’m sorry. Thank you, I’ll be better.” 

Owning up to your mistakes is a passive affair — that’s not to say you don’t mean your apologies. You’ll feel the shame at its fulcrum later, when you’re curled up under that same quilt, trying to sleep on the divan before coming to the realization that rest is a fool’s errand. 

Your tears are drying. And you hear the blonde’s heart bleeding like she still, miraculously, has ichor to spare.

She huffs out a disbelieving sound, not quite at your solemn promise, but at you. You can almost detach yourself from your body and hear her thoughts. Maybe that’s your ego talking, or your preference for third person omniscience, but what matters is that she feels like she can’t reach you, despite having you. That must hurt. You’re hurting her—

A sharp, stinging pain blooms against your temple.

“Ow!”

“Come on,” she hauls you backwards, having pulled away slightly in your time spent catastrophizing. She must’ve flicked you! How rude! “We’re getting you cleaned up. It’s non-negotiable.” 

Both of you cut through the den, the familiar mess of books almost drying your eyes completely. The lamps are on but the windows are dark — robbing the house of harsh light and leaving you at an impasse until new colors spill over the horizon. Alhaitham sleeps like a rock behind her door, and her ear defenders keep the aftermath of your mistakes sufficiently muffled. There’s no trouble as Kaveh corrals you down the hall and into the bathroom. 

Life is a lot easier with someone by your side. The architect helps you wash your face, offering a steady presence. She braces a hand against your lower back as you prop up your own against the outcrop of the sink, sliding a washcloth over when she’s sure the act of kindness won’t break you completely. Only when she’s sure.

The tap stutters in its smooth rhythm. 

“I’ll have to fix that,” she sighs.

“Just get overcharged by a plumber like the rest of us,” you quip, most of your signature energy defeated by the moment. Your voice is soft. So is hers. “Give yourself a break and all…”

“Too many times have I been scammed. I’m perfectly capable with my own tools, thank you very much.”

She removes your cleanser from the polyethylene basket under the sink. Most of your possessions follow the cleanser’s example; stored out of sight, like you don’t even live here at all. 

Your clothes either hang in the broom closet or rest innocuously in Kaveh’s dresser, tucked away in a forgotten corner. All the memories of your past life are collecting dust within a cardboard box, the temporary vessel now taking up residence as a shelf for the communal key dish. 

And your skincare shit is under the sink, because you’re so afraid of taking up space and encroaching on what is supposed to be — at least partially — yours. 

(They’ve both noticed. But reassurance was agreed upon for Sunday morning.)

“You’re gonna get it in my eye,” you complain, letting her massage the product into your damp cheeks. “Remember last time? I almost went blind!”

The blonde lathers delicately. “It’s tear-free. Although that didn’t stop you, if memory serves.”

“Whose memory? In mine, you get bit with wild abandon.” 

There it is — that laugh. It’s not exactly a happy one, erring more on the side of catharsis. Come morning, everything will be fine. Even though Alhaitham likes to sleep in on weekends, she’ll be up at a reasonable hour and will join you and Kaveh at the breakfast table.

You’ll serve pistachio fudge with raspberry coulis like you didn’t woefully undermix the batter. Maybe there will be talk of your manuscript, if you feel up to it, and there will be no more emptiness in your chest at the prospect of idle hands. Your lives will continue.

“...I’m really sorry,” you tack on there at the end, “for shutting you both out like that.”

Kaveh stills in her ministrations. She remains concerned.

“Well,” she exhales, drying her hands while the treatment sits. “Apology accepted. But this doesn’t mean I’m gonna ignore what happened. Or you, for that matter. God knows we all need to talk — just how normal people do, in between work and everything else. Mostly work. We’ve been busy, haven’t we?”

“Where do people find the time?” There’s a click of your tongue as you imitate a wistful, pensive elder that’s seen better days in their youth. “Honestly.”

“There’s always time for you,” she insists. “For us.”

“For ‘normal people’, you mean.”

She hums in reluctant agreement; she spoke the sentiment first for a reason. The relationship you three share is anything but conventional beyond the whole “living together” shtick.

However, time will be made. You’ve always been welcoming of the unique dynamic — but now? When you’re rinsing off and your reflection breaches the mirror, only to find her gaze locked on nothing but you? You couldn’t be more grateful to be the opposite of normal. 

A few minutes later, you’re dragged into the blonde’s bedroom-office, numerous more insistences spewing forth that you’re not going to sleep out there like it’s law, and you’re not about to object when she’s acting like she might lose you at any given second.

The wire-bent birdcage she’s been fashioning solely for the sake of stress management is coming along nicely. The organized chaos of protractors and compasses accompanied by an overheating tablet and PC is a breath of fresh air. Amigurumi dolls of her two not-lovers sit side by side on the edge of said desk, one with silver hair and a bored expression and the other with a bright smile and a prop straw pen. It almost hurts, how sweet it all is.

“Huh. Where did yours go?” you ask. Padding over to the desk, you begin to maneuver the miniature Alhaitham into a position of defeat (because your doll deserves to beat hers in a fight). 

“I couldn’t get my features to translate correctly. Besides, I have all I need.”

A flash of sanguine tests your mettle — you’re only peeking because she’s changing into that same shirt. Not because it’s the ideal one for sleep, but because of the significance it holds from that night, all those years ago. Unless you’re reading too much into things, as authors are prone to do. 

Nevertheless, it confirms she’s not mad. God help you for even questioning it. Your punishment comes in the form of a cobalt tracksuit being hurled at your head.

The set bounces off your person, both matching pieces landing in a pile at your feet. You scowl, swiveling around to face her tired grin. Loose gold tresses frame her face, much like a gilded halo; a domestic one that also houses bits of brown and gray.

“I hate you,” you grumble.

“It’s because I’m a Cancer,” the blonde informs you matter-of-factly. “Many are envious of my smile lines and sunspots and overall aesthetic appeal. Not to mention my emotional intelligence.”

“I thought you didn’t believe in that stuff?” 

She bats her lashes demurely. “Taking a page out of your blustering book, I’ll quote your main character: ‘Simply claiming something doesn’t make it true, y’know. Anything for the sake of conversation.’ Chapter four.” 

You deserved that one. However, the fact she even remembers that specific line of dialogue from your newly finished novel is… touching. The feeling doesn’t stop you from skewing your arms akimbo and glowering, though. It’s hard to hold your annoyed expression when she’s doing it again — picking you apart effortlessly, calling out the projection of your own qualities onto the narrator. 

“Not the time for your crazed fan ramblings,” you fume with a playfully haughty harrumph, “or your pseudoscience drivel.”

She snaps her fingers towards the mound on the floor. “Hurry up and put your pajamas on. It’s been a long day… and blue complements you well.”

There’s not much to do but relent, or in other words — blissfully surrender.

She drags you into bed shortly, nothing eager, like she doesn’t want to startle you with unreadable intentions. Even though you’re the one spooning her most of the time (she complains about the lack of creative control), she’s earned the privilege to keep holding you during this gloamly escapade of mistakes and misadventures. Kaveh hums little nothings into your ear, ignoring your gooseflesh in favor of switching off the bedside lamp. 

And then, for the second time tonight, one of your companions is upon you.

“The main character is my favorite, by the way,” she murmurs, resuming her earlier position and coveting you so closely you’re almost brought to madness. Breath against skin, ichor kissing blood. “You wouldn’t believe how much soul they have. I hope you gave them the happy ending they deserve.”

It hurts. It hurts so good and so bad and so wildly much.

The hush of darkness blankets your next words. “You know me. Of course I ended it on a good note.”

“I can’t wait to read it.”

There’s a yawn against your crown, and suddenly you leave most of your due regret behind. Red-rimmed eyes have lost their irritated color, and the inky blackness does not seem so daunting as it did when you first exiled yourself from company (your own unique brand of penance). 

If death is isolation, then Kaveh just saved your life. It’s bewildering. The blonde falls asleep within minutes, leaving you awake but content.

…Mostly.

The feeling is still there, just barely. The last vestiges of your foray with the scribe settle poorly in your stomach, becoming an itch you can’t quite scratch. Especially now, when you’re stationary and left without a vice in your hand. You aren’t tired anymore; this is not uncommon. 

Now that the architect is sleeping soundly, you give her a few minutes to settle deeper until you detangle yourself from her embrace and the fleeting peace that comes with it. Poky-limbs-gorgeous-idiot.

“Hey,” you whisper-hiss at her bedside. It’s not enough to wake her — nothing is. Both of your not-girlfriends sleep like the dead once they’re out. “I forgot my disgusting ashes outside. I’ll be right back.”

“Uh-huh, ‘kay,” she responds easily, brow creased and speech slurred. “Go, disgusting.”

Real supportive, Kaveh. You roll your eyes before leaving the room. 

To your credit, you actually do venture out to retrieve said ashes at first. But as you’re strolling down the hall with bated breath, you unwittingly find yourself in front of Alhaitham’s door. 

Are you really gonna wake her up to set the record straight? Probably. And at this hour, is there a small chance you’ll get thrown out on your ass? Well, it’s more of a “getting snarked to death” type of risk. Is it worth it? Yes, you decide. Her voice will be deep from sleep and she’ll hear what you have to say. 

The scribe won’t hear if you knock. So, slowly, and with all the intent of a cat burglar, you twist the knob and cross the threshold when granted entry. It feels wrong, but you’re also feeling too stubborn to hold off until morning. It’s dark, but there she is — supine and out like a light. You joke to yourself that earlier must’ve worn her out, but she always retires early regardless of circumstance. The crankiness you and Kaveh face when she’s deprived of less than eight hours is subtle but undeniably real.

“...Um,” you maintain normal volume while creeping over just enough, trying to gently rouse her. “Haitham, I need to talk to you. It’s important.” 

Nothing. Rocks don’t speak, you suppose. 

Another attempt. You gently take hold of her wrist after nudging the covers askew, resisting the urge to trace a reverent path from her forearm all the way down to her bicep — now’s not the time. Given, she still doesn’t wake up. So you take initiative once again and give her a shake. 

Alhaitham stirs, square jaw setting in place. Her head tips just enough towards you, and then you’re greeted by the startling hue of her eyes. Lashes rise and lids part to reveal teal-green and unamused terracotta. The split second you’re given to ogle and straighten out your prepared script is quickly overtaken by the former urge to stare like a gawping, awestruck fish.

Acute idiocy time. You panic, “What’s twelve times eleven?”

She dismisses your floundering by yanking off her headphones (gingerly placing them on the nightstand after), and then turning over on her side, away from you — welcoming the wall instead of your irksome presence. To be fair, you wouldn’t deign to answer yourself either.

But reason doesn’t stop your heart from sinking. Because this truly was a stupid idea, wasn’t it? Waltzing in here and waking her up to apologize? Maybe it was your conversation with the blonde that made you feel like you needed, more than anything, to tell her how much you want to keep things as they are — sans sex. That what happened earlier was merely a fluke, a communicative error on your part. 

(Is she going to be disappointed in me?)

You can’t bear such a dreadful thought right now; it’d be too painful to see it actualized. So you pivot on your heel for the final time, ready to head back to Kaveh’s room like a dog with its tail between its legs. 

Until something stops you, that is.

Alhaitham seizes your wrist from behind, an homage to your earlier attempt at rousing her. She must’ve rolled back over towards the door — again, in your catastrophizing. Ignoring your yelp, she flings the comforter away and pulls you into the maw of the mattress, dragging you right up against her broad chest. 

“One hundred thirty-two,” she says. You can hear her upper lip tick.

All you’ve done today is mess up and get manhandled like a box of cargo. Usually, enforcing skinship falls under your hand, not theirs, and you’re rattled so good from her little joke that you’re left speechless. The smugness radiating from her right now is palpable, which shouldn’t even be possible, considering she should be tired, and tired only.

“Sounds right,” you breathe awkwardly. “Um, sorry to wake you.”

“It’d be in your best interest to get to the point.”

Despite how disgruntled she sounds, part of you wonders how literally you should take that reply. Maybe it’d be in your best interest because she wants to catch a few more hours before dealing with your bullshit, so you should just go ahead and spit out the problem now. But maybe, just maybe, it’d be in your best interest because your wellbeing is important. At this hour, it’s simply hard to tell which one you should believe.

“It’s about earlier.” The threat of bile coming up is a serious one, so you prattle on with all the gravitas of a seasoned judge. “I don’t wanna do that again… and I never really wanted to in the first place. It’s my fault for not speaking up. Sorry. Is that okay?”

There’s silence for a good while. You can hear your humanity in your ears, rabbiting away.

“To be frank, I hadn’t planned on it either,” says Alhaitham. “I just wasn’t complaining.”

What?

You strain to face her. There’s not a hint of judgment on her face, just an impassivity that would kill any soul audacious enough to venture into her office outside of work hours. 

The scribe continues, “I was under the impression that letting you mark up my back would please you. You initiated, as you had not yet done up until that point. I inferred sex was something you wanted; I consented in return because I didn’t mind the facilitation. Despite what happened, and despite how you regret it, I still don’t mind. You are an exception to my general disinterest in matters of the flesh.”

“...‘Matters of the flesh’?”

“Physical or sexual attraction,” she clarifies.

Her candid elaboration makes you want to cry. Not because it offends you like it would most — but because it’s so unashamed in the way you could never be. Not to mention, you’ve never had this conversation with her. You just unrightfully assumed that she did have needs, and that you weren’t fulfilling them until you decided to start for the wrong reasons. She doesn’t mind bedding you, or Kaveh for that matter, but you initiated just to feel something — and what you felt overall was discomfort.

“I’m really sorry,” you rasp, stroking her thumb and forefinger. 

She blinks at you, slow and restrained like she’s trying hard to suppress a brow-quirk. She succeeds, only letting out a long-suffering exhale that’s at least partially reassurance and entirely saved for people she’s fond of. 

“Go to sleep,” she mutters, cadence less poised. “It’s all right.”

And so you do. There’s a comfortable gap between you and the scribe as you seek reprieve against the pillows. Kaveh’ll be pretty confused as to where you’ve snuck off to, probably disconcerted at the prospect of withdrawal when you’ve only just recovered from it, but that’s an issue for later. 

You slide Alhaitham her headphones back, both of you preferring distance now that the air’s been cleared. No clinging. Just two solid presences meant as gifts to one another.

It doesn’t hurt as much. It’s not all better, but it’s better, and such is the foundation of hope.

You sniffle once. “I care for you two. A lot.”

“...Likewise.”

“Can’t you say it?” 

“I can.”

And she does — by reaching over briefly to thumb away the singular tear rolling down your cheek. The calloused digit reels back after it does its job; a hard-won victory. 

You are complete. Two people just needed to show you what was there all along.