#lyuwrites

Felix lets the controller slip down on the bed from his grasp. “Yeah…”

…Barely bothers to hide the disappointment in his voice, pursing his lips. Rome glances at him, half-smiling at the pout before scooting off the bed. Not that Felix notices, now busy picking at the bed’s cover.

It’s been like this ever since they ‘moved in’. Still a temporary solution, but Felix has too clearly taken advantage of their now-constant presence at the Warehouse. He’s in their room each and every day, when and if their schedules just allow it.

Were it anyone else, they wouldn’t stand it.

“So...” He drags the word with the hint of uncertainty that’s seemed to overcome him more often these days. “When can we hang out again?”

Even that simple question sounds heavier than it has before. Much so.

“Whenever you want,” is what they’d usually say—and he would ask if tomorrow works, and Rome would say yes, and it’d be the same thing all over again. Basking in the pale hue of the TV alone together. Wasting away hours upon hours on video games and comfortable non-conversation. All dumb jokes and fleeting touches. There was one time he kissed them goodnight with skittish haste before leaving, only for it to never be talked about again. At first, Rome was glad they didn’t.

Is it weird that lately, they’ve wanted to? To talk about it. About this—

Their eyes drift back to Felix. He meets their gaze a second later, a gentle smile curving his lips. “All good?”

“Yeah. Didn’t mean to stare.”

“You can stare at me all you want.” He winks and they laugh. “So whaddya think? Tomorrow work for you?”

—about them.

The word still feels weird on their tongue.

But it’s starting to make a home there. And maybe they should let it.

•

They’re feeling daring tonight. So this time, it’s: “You can stay if you want to.”

Rome’s by their dresser, back facing Felix, digging out a plain red tee. The white one they wear comes off, and they can feel the amber gaze drill into them.

It prickles softly, right there, at the base of their neck. Drags slowly down the length of their spine like nails.

“Here?” he asks; the word shakes. “Really?”

“Really.”

A beat goes by in silence, and then they look at Felix over their shoulder with a faint smile. “S’probably gonna be boring for you, though.”

“No!” he yelps—too quickly to play it off casually. Rome lifts a brow at him, and he melts into an embarrassed smile. “No, I mean—uh, I can sleep too, y’know? Or try to. Super not boring. And if I can’t, I’ll just...”

“Stare at me while I do?”

Felix’s face contorts. “I’m not a creep, Ro.”

Rome just laughs and shrugs, slips on the shirt, and finds another for Felix to sleep in. His eyes light up in a way that it’s safer to assume the old vibrant print tee will never find its way back to their dresser.

Oh well.

It fits him better, anyway. And the mesmerized smile on his face when he looks down at himself in the shirt is worth giving up one (or two or three or all) of them.

•

Felix settles into their bed like they’ve done this a hundred times before.

He turns off the TV and the console while Rome’s out to brush their teeth. He picks the right side of the bed (the left side) right away, takes the one pillow Rome never uses for himself. Everything falls into place just like that. It’s effortless.

He yanks away the cover from their side when they come back, gently placing it over them once they’re in and beside him. Nose to nose in the dark, it doesn’t feel like they’re not an us. Felix twirling their hair around his fingers and whispering, “We need to touch up your roots,” doesn’t feel like a mere afterthought. He means it. Them. Every us and we and our, and there have been plenty lately, and Rome has grown too used to it to be quite as frightened anymore.

“You do mine, I’ll do yours?” they suggest, tracing circles over his temple.

He blinks. “You’d wanna do my hair?”

“Yeah. I should learn at some point, no?”

And again he blinks, slow as a cat. A shy smile breaks the surprise on his face.

“Okay. That’s—cool. Very cool.”

Rome laughs softly, “Cool.”

•

As expected, Felix doesn’t sleep. Sat up against the headboard, the cold light of his phone illuminates his face. When Rome stirs, he’s quick to discard it, letting it slide down to his lap from his hand.

“What time is it?” they ask, voice raspy and thick from sleep, brown eyes barely open.

“Bit past four. I didn’t wake you up, did I?”

“Nah.”

Felix pushes the few messy blonde strands away from their eyes. Rome turns their face to meet his palm like a flower to sunlight.

“You’ve been up the whole time?” they murmur.

“Pretty much, yeah,” he smiles.

“Sounds boring.”

Felix shrugs. He lets his head loll back against the headboard, eyes still trained on Rome and fingertips dancing over their forehead.

“Never boring with you, Ro. Never.” He turns his hand, strokes their cheek lightly with the back of it. The touch feels warm against their skin. Safe. “I don’t care if you’re out for half a day. I just like being around you.”

Would they do the same for him? Would they enjoy his still and silence? It’s hard to imagine him like that, but they think they would.

“You snore, by the way. Like, a lot. Chainsaw kinda shit.”

Rome snorts.

“Still like you, though,” he whispers, too sweetly. Always, always too sweetly.

•

They end up mindlessly scrolling on his phone. Silly pet clips. Rome likes those, so that’s probably why Felix sticks to them.

At some point, they stop to talk about the differences between this world and his. It starts with how pets aren’t just pets back home and continues all the way to him teaching them a few words in Echolian, and how his name was not always the one it is now. It’s a quick turn, but with Felix, it tends to go like that. He hides nothing. Not his past, not his feelings, not the wistfulness his voice takes on the more the topic lingers. Missing a home there’s no returning to is an ache Rome knows a little too intimately, and so they let him talk about it and his mother until they circle back to Earth and the little big joys found here.

Like pets—and junk food and sweets for breakfast. They make a not-date to grab pastries to try out from Haley’s tomorrow morning. Rome’s treat.

•

They do talk about it eventually. This. Them. Sort of.

“…and the thing is, I just wanna… fall in love, you know? Find my person. Someone to come home to. Don’t get me wrong, I love the team, and I’d be happy with just them, too, but… I wanna really love someone.”

He sighs.

“And I just want… someone to really love me.”

He says it like it’s a greedy thing to ask for. Like there’s shame in wanting to be chosen.

He’s still half-sitting, Rome’s head on his lap. They roll onto their back to look up at him.

“It’ll happen for you one day,” they murmur, eyes half-closed again. Felix returns their drowsy gaze with a weak smile.

“You think?”

“Yeah.”

Even though it’s barely there, his smile is infectious. Rome reaches up to brush their fingers along his jawline; his find their way back into their hair, and his touch is so delicate it’s nearly shattering. Somewhere between spring and 5.30 this morning, Felix learned to adore them the way they needed him to. Quietly, no sudden movements lest they spook.

Would they do the same for him? Learn to adore him a little louder; the way he needs them to?

Hand cupping the back of his neck, Rome lifts themself. Catches him mid-sentence (“You’re a lot softer than you let people think—”) and kisses him.

When his arms wind up around them and he pulls them close, so impossibly close, they know. They can learn. They want it. Want this.

Every us and ours and mine.

•

6 AM. Too late (too early?) to try and sleep anymore. It doesn’t matter anyway. With an hour and a half left before Rome must leave, they’ve got better things to do to pass the time.

Felix makes them giggle. Rome never giggles. It’s out of breath and mixed with a moan, but still a sound unusual to them, yet somehow he finds a way to draw it out, again, and again, and again.

“You’re—pretty good with your hands,” they manage to sputter at some point.

“Even better with my mouth.” A cheeky grin and a sharp flash of canines.

Yeah. He sure is, and Rome’s already adoring him loud and clear.

•

The breakfast table is silent without Felix. Just like that, after one night, his absence by their side feels starker than ever.

Rome nurses their coffee and flips the pages of the newspaper in front of them lazily. Mason sits beside them, eyeing the paper now and then with blatant disinterest, but it must be better than sitting there doing nothing. Nate’s making tea by the kitchen counter, humming lowly to himself.

The air in the room lulls. That is, until Mason decides to break the quiet.

“So.”

Rome doesn’t look up from the paper. “So?”

“Where’s Felix? Thought he was with you last night.”

“He was.” Another page flip. “Just taking a shower.”

“Uh-uh. You guys fucked yet?”

Somewhere behind them, a teacup shatters.

“Mason!” Nate huffs loudly.

Both ignore the reprimand, and Rome turns the page again. “Mhm.”

“Are you like, dating or some shit now, then?”

“I guess.”

“Good for you.”

“Thanks.”

And he knows that were he to walk up to that buzzer now...

Not a good idea. None of those that come long after midnight, after a few drinks, usually are.

He stuffs his hands in the pockets of his drenched jacket instead, digging out a smoke. It gets wet right away, of course, what with the rain and all, but he gets it to light nevertheless. Years of experience, and all that. He'd make it work even if the sky fell, just for that sweet nicotine relief.

Kile looks up at the window again, squinting against the light rain and smoke. There's a shadow moving inside, just one - and somehow that sets him at ease. Has him discard the cigarette, at least, before it's even a third through, right at the first flight of stairs as he skulks up to the door.

He runs a hand through his hair, shaking it dry (drier) when it comes away damp and dripping; punches the number of Sinclair's apartment in, and waits. Waiting was, still is, the worst part. He knows it and remembers and still does it. People say habits die hard, but he'd argue nostalgia dies harder: even in all of its cruelness, it's a comfort impossible to ignore.

The dial sound of the intercom, flat, monotonous beeping, goes on for a while. He counts seven painfully dragging beeps before the sound dies and is replaced by a low static.

"Sinclair?" he calls. The rain doesn't cover the mumbled 'fuck' he gets as an answer, and it nearly makes him laugh.

"Why are you here?"

"...I, uh, don't know." And it's the truth. A deep sigh is what he hears next.

More waiting. More and more, and he knew there would be, and still, he almost can't take it.

"Are you drunk?"

Kile grimaces. Were they face to face now, Sinclair would roll his eyes, crinkle his nose at him. He drags a hand over his face.

"A bit." He sighs. "I'm sorry—fuck, sorry, can you just...?"

"It's open."

He's in and upstairs in a blink. But it's the second door that gives him pause, and not just because he has to catch his breath after climbing up the stairs. Hesitation begins to take hold: he shouldn't be here. He still is.

The door creaks open. Warm light pours out to the dark stairway, and then there is Sinclair. Five, six months in, a few shots of tequila and deep-rooted misery aside, Kile couldn't be happier to see him. Even when it's only in the doorway. Even when he knows there's no getting further than this; Sinclair's hand lingers on the doorknob.

Kile half-winces, half-smiles. "Hey."

Sinclair answers, voice tight, and expressionless, "Hello."

"I don't know why I'm here."

"So you said."

"I'm sorry."

Kile swallows, and a small breath escapes when his lips part again. "I miss you."

It's a whisper so quiet, yet it feels like it echoes on forever. In his mind. In his chest. In here.

Everywhere.

"We see each other. At work. Every day."

"That's not what I meant."

Sinclair's hand slips down from the doorknob. His eyes go over Kile, slowly, it feels as though under a microscope. He comes closer, leans closer; close enough to feel his breath wash over his rain-kissed skin. Close enough for their lips to brush each other on each syllable he speaks. A dozen and then some almost-kisses, each is as delicious as the last.

"I don't see how that's my problem," Sinclair whispers, so softly one could think he was reciting poetry. "Get the fuck out of my building, Quinn."

Maybe he is. There's certainly some poetry in having a door slammed in your face.

It's not a first. It likely won't be the last. For a moment Kile considers raising his hand and knocking on the door and beg and beg and beg. Self-respect is a cause long lost on him anyway. Even if it wasn't, he'd give it all up for him.

But it is what it is: too little, too late.

He tries to let himself out of the building as quietly as possible. Tries telling himself, maybe in another half a year, but it's wishful thinking at best.

He knows.

Vera swipes away the sweat and the damp bangs stuck to his forehead, pushes them back only for them to flop back down a second later, and he groans wearily; whoever said that summer is the season must be a masochist because this is nothing short of torture.

32° degrees and counting, scorching glory of late July. If he's being honest, biting a bullet sounds more fucking appealing by now than enduring another day like this.

(But it is pretty outside, that he can't deny, obscured by the gray trail of the cigarette smoke though his vision might be. The trees are bright green. The flowerbeds are abundant and vibrant. The people faring better under the burning sunlight are smiling, happy.

He can't be mad about that. So, admittedly, there are good sides to the season too.)

Another one being: the familiar presence emerging at his back. Mason's hand grasps Vera's hip, gently moving him aside to make room for himself by the open window. Vera offers him the cigarette half-smoked, but Mason turns it down with a shake of his head.

"Got bored of the dark bedroom?" Vera asks.

Mason kisses his teeth, a sharp but subtle sound. "Not much to do in there without you."

No smirk or grin follows. Just the simple statement, at which Vera nods.

"Did the cold shower help?" He nods at the dark, still wet waves descending down Mason's shoulders, the few drops of water running from them.

"Bit, yeah," a tired huff, and then nothing.

Vera leans against him, and whether it is a conscious decision or not, Mason lets his head loll to the side enough for his cheek to rest against the top of his head.

"S'fucking hot," Vera mutters after a moment. Mason scoffs a laugh, deep and a little rough, worn.

"Don't have to tell me."

They both chuckle weakly. After two more drags, Vera puts out the cigarette.

"It's pretty though."

"Sure."

Another faint wind rustles the leaves of the trees nearby. Somewhere below them, on the street, someone laughs.

"Wanna go back to bed?" Vera asks, turning his face up to nuzzle against Mason's cheek, presses one light kiss there. His skin feels much cooler, fresher, compared to his own. Must be the shower.

Mason hums quietly, leaning down more to reach Vera's lips. Licks the lower one lazily between his own, guiding them into a languid, feeble kiss that tastes of salt and smoke.