#phyripo writes things

Matthew seriously doubted that first part. They were out in the center of what was now also his hometown, had been for just a few months after he’d finally made the choice to come over from Canada to the Netherlands. It was an overcast April day, and what seemed like every person was out, many dressed in orange, walking in droves along many stalls and blankets set up in the streets, where yet more people were selling—well, junk. A little girl was playing a violin for donations nearby, and across the water that must have once been part of the town’s moat, Matthew could see even more stalls, more people. He felt very much like a foreigner at that moment.

Maarten rubbed his hands together, looking uncharacteristically gleeful.

“I had no idea you were such a monarchist,” Matthew joked, following him when he walked into the fray. In a way, he was from a kingdom as well, but Queen Elizabeth always seemed very distant compared to whatever this was.

Maarten just looked down at him, unimpressed. He grinned. It was still amazing that they could do that now. Just… Look at each other. Touch each other. Neither of them was huge on PDA, but Matthew was still a little gleeful that he could reach out and touch his boyfriend after having the entire Atlantic Ocean between them for years.

Some of Maarten’s friends, many of whom had quickly become Matthew’s friends, too, thought it was very fitting to compare the two of them to the Crown Prince and his new wife, who’d just married a month or two ago, right as Matthew had settled in in Maarten’s small hometown. She had come from South America, though. And Maarten was much handsomer than Prince Willem-Alexander.

Now,  though, when Matthew snapped out of his thoughts and his mindless shuffling along with the crowd, the man was not at his side anymore. Blinking, he stopped. Turned around.

Well, good thing Maarten was very tall even by Dutch standards; it was easy to spot him towering over one of the blankets a few meters back. Apologizing, Matthew made his way back to him. He was crouched down when he got there, holding—a video game? Matthew rested his hand on his shoulder, getting a brief glance up and a small smile, before Maarten continued to haggle in Dutch that was just a bit too rapid to fully understand. The blanket was full of random stuff, clothes and board games and books, and the woman sitting behind it in a folding chair seemed in high spirits. She grinned when Maarten took out his wallet and handed over some coins. He pocketed the game and rose.

“Good deal,” he told Matthew.

“Maarten, we don’t have a game console.”

“No, what we got, is resale value.” His green eyes brightened. “People don’t know what they got, Matt. You know they let their kids set the prices sometimes? Incredible!”

“Oh my god, is this how you feel when I talk about hockey? Ice hockey,” Matthew corrected himself immediately. They’d gotten into several (very petty) arguments over whether field hockey or ice hockey was the real hockey, both having played one of those, and had agreed to just call both by their full names in the end.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Maarten replied guilelessly. He smiled when Matthew snorted. “Come on, we’ve just gotten started. I’ll buy you a stroopwafel, there’s always a stall near the bridge that does them.”

It took them over forty minutes to get to the bridge in question, rather than the two it would normally take.

Maarten’s eye kept being caught by what seemed like random shit to Matthew. But, after the item was bought, he’d drone off an encyclopedia entry’s worth of trivia about every single purchase, first and foremost its worth in euros. How he’d already memorized all of that was a mystery, but much of his mind was.

“And just think, if I go to Belgium to sell, I won’t even have to account for conversion rates now!” Maarten would say. Or, “I have a contact in Germany that would pay good money for this, for sure.”

Matthew would probably get bored if it wasn’t so entertaining to watch him haggle, trying to understand his rapid speech. He’d seen him trying to sell his art to people (it’s how they met) but this was almost the opposite of that, and it was fascinating. One time, Maarten even got close to raising his voice at a man, arguing that he was taking advantage of people who didn’t quite get the conversion rate from the old Dutch guilders to the new European currency. Matthew, who was still doing mental maths with Canadian dollars and euros, tuned him out, not needing an additional currency in the mix. The man was selling jewelry, surely not interesting to Maarten.

He could smell the stroopwafel stand. When he gently tugged on Maarten’s arm, his boyfriend looked at him, and his gaze softened. He let Matthew pull him away from the man’s stand.

“I’ve never seen you so passionate,” Matthew told him.

“That’s definitely not true.” Maarten adjusted the bag he’d pulled out of the pocket of his windbreaker, already quite filled.

“Not like this,” Matthew amended. “About other things than…” Here, he gestured vaguely, not wanting to say sex with so many people around.

“You?” Maarten finished, and Matthew ducked his head, his face heating. That was another way to put it.

They joined the small line for the stroopwafel stall, Maarten counting his euros. Still brand new in circulation, the coins were all shiny, the bills bright and colourful.

“Well, you know, my two great loves,” the man mumbled. Matthew saw colour on his cheeks too, and smiled, touching his arm again. Silently, he took the bag of random stuff from him. He shouldered it himself, wondering how much profit he was now carrying.

Maarten bought them both stroopwafels and didn’t even grumble at the price.

Across the bridge, there were yet more people. As they entered the old city centre, some of the shops there had put their wares out front for the occasion. Predictably, Maarten avoided those stalls, although he never stopped Matthew from looking at anything. More children were playing various instruments interspersed throughout, and some had set up little games that looked absolutely bizarre to Matthew. He watched people try to eat a slice of cake suspended on a string above their heads with their arms behind their backs while Maarten haggled over a woman’s handbag next to him, again resting his hand on his shoulder when he crouched. Absently, he ran his fingertips over the warm skin of his neck.

A child with a flute was playing quite a nice rendition of Can’t Get You Out of My Head by Kylie Minogue, which didn’t seem like it should be possible, so Matthew dug out his own wallet and gave her… He checked her donation box. One euro seemed appropriate.

“That’s two guilders,” Maarten informed him, standing up.

“And?”

“I was lucky to get a quarter as a kid,” he said dryly.

“Maybe you were just bad—wait, you played an instrument?”

“We were great! I played the clarinet for a while. Manon played the sax, and Noah played the flute, actually.”

Matthew knew that his siblings played instruments, but this was a new revelation about Maarten. He tried to picture the three of them dressed up in orange, Maarten already with his signature spiky hair and serious expression, playing folk songs for a crowd.

“That sounds like… An interesting ensemble,” he mused.

Maarten pointed at him threateningly, though humour danced in his eyes, and it was definitely undercut by the dainty, beaded bag dangling from his forearm. Matthew laughed out loud, grabbing his wrist.

“Do you still have a clarinet?” A shake of his head. “Maybe there’s one for sale!”

That got him a disgusted look, which… Yeah, you probably shouldn’t buy something you put in your mouth second-hand. Matthew blinked and then smirked, which changed the look to bemused.

“Guess it makes sense,” he said. And, before he could overthink it, “You are good with your mouth.”

“Well, actually, it’s more about the fingering,” Maarten replied, quirking his brows, and then he turned while Matthew blushed through his startled laughter.

“You’re good at that too!” he called as he hurried after him, and he saw Maarten’s shoulders jump with amusement.

In the town market square, there were more bizarre games for children, and a little stage holding a band playing Dutch classics. Matthew was happy that he could understand most of the lyrics easily. When he told Maarten this, the man smiled widely enough to tug at his eyes.

“We’ll get you speaking the local dialect next—ooh!” He rushed off when he spotted some more junk of value.

Fondness bloomed under Matthew’s skin. There was no way he could have been prepared for all of Maarten’s odd quirks, like this fascination with flea market junk, before he came to live with him. It had not yet gotten old to get the chance to learn, to let Maarten learn his little idiosyncrasies in return. Those everyday things that didn’t (couldn’t, in a way) come up when they talked online or over the phone, or during the relatively short visits they’d managed since they met in New York, where neither of them knew anything.

Still— “Maarten, are you buying a chair?”

“Uh… No?”

The salesman behind the chair crossed his arms.

“How are you getting a chair home? We don’t have a car and I’m not carrying it,” Matthew said, trying not to laugh at Maarten’s expression. He really hadn’t thought of that, had he? He was usually all about thinking things through, multiple times. It really was a whole new side to him.

“But it’s—”

“No to the chair. I’m serious.”

“…Fine.”

They wandered on.

A bit of sunlight worked its way through the clouds, highlighting once again just how much orange there was. An alley led them to the square in front of the local theatre, where some people were putting on a comedic re-enactment of the Royal Wedding on an outdoor stage. Further down the way, the fire department had set up shop and was doing demonstrations.

Leaving Maarten admiring (the low price of) some ornamental boxes, Matthew went over, picking up a pamphlet about joining the volunteer firefighters. He’d done that back in Canada, and it had been a point of pride for him. He stubbornly kept speaking Dutch when the man running the stand heard his accent and tried to switch to English; he eventually caught on.

Along the side of the square, there were some stalls dedicated to people selling their art, and Matthew, on his way back to where Maarten was, admired paintings and yarn crafts and jewelry.

He stopped at the jewelry stand, hoisting Maarten’s bag of stuff up on his shoulder as something caught his eye. It only did because the small stone caught the sunlight and was somehow the exact colour of Maarten’s eyes when they lit up like they’d been doing all day. A bright, mossy green shot through with gold, set into a gold band. The woman behind the stall smiled genially and gestured to go ahead when Matthew questioningly reached out. He plucked the ring from among some others, turning it in the sunlight.

“Did you make this?” he asked the woman, who nodded. “It’s beautiful.”

“Thank you!”

Glancing over at where Maarten was picking up his new box, whatever that was, Matthew considered buying the ring. It felt incredibly sappy, really. He could see Maarten’s eyes every day now, from the moment he woke in the same bed. He didn’t need some gemstone to remind him. He wore no other rings, anyway; the only gold on him was the frame of his glasses.

Just as he was about to put the ring back, Maarten walked up next to him, putting a hand on his shoulder this time.

“What’d you find?” he asked curiously, looking at the stall. Wow, the stone really was the exact same colour as his eyes. Dropping the ring in the palm of his hand, Matthew showed him.

The man set his wooden box down on the ground between them to take the small piece of jewelry, holding it carefully between two fingers. He hummed appreciatively; Maarten always respected art, no matter what people thought it was worth. Having seen him argue with a teenager over the price of a discman today, it stood out even more to Matthew, endearing him to Maarten further.

“It’s… The colour of your eyes,” Matthew told him, voice low.

“Is it really?” Maarten wet his lips. “Does it fit?”

“Oh, I—”

Maarten swiftly grasped Matthew’s left hand and parted his lips in concentration as he slid the ring on to his ring finger. Matthew swallowed hard. It fit perfectly.

When he was done, Maarten just held his hand and stared down at it, thumbs stroking the skin.

“Should have known,” he mumbled.

“What?”

“I should’ve known you’d find the exact thing I’d been looking for this whole time.” He met Matthew’s eye, and Matthew’s heart skipped a beat at the intensity of that green gaze. “Right. I’m getting you this. How much?” he asked the woman, who smiled an indulgent smile. He was still holding Matthew’s hand with one of his.

“Fifty euros.”

“Only fifty? You got your conversion rates right? That’s a hundred guilders—”

“I’m sure,” she interrupted. “Well, perhaps you’ll need another one soon?”

“Ah, I see!” Maarten said, amused. Then, he blanched. “Matt?”

“Yes,” Matthew said, in reply to both that question and the one he hadn’t actually asked.

“You can always come by my studio,” the woman said brightly. “I also do engravings!”

Maarten pressed a crisp fifty-euro bill into her hand, picked up his box, and then dragged Matthew away.

“Matt—” he started, halfway behind the stage where the fake Royal Wedding was happening. ‘Princess Máxima’ was crying exaggeratedly.

“Yes,” Matthew repeated, turning his hand so his new ring caught the light. “You didn’t even need to get a ring.”

“I wanted to… Do it right.” Maarten huffed. “And I didn’t even ask you. Go figure.”

“You still can. Or I can ask, if you prefer.”

Though Matthew was half-joking, Maarten opened and closed his mouth, then laughed helplessly, ducking his head as a blush stole over his sharp features.

“Yes,” he breathed softly.

Matthew took the box from him and set it on the ground, using the opportunity to get down on one knee. He swept blond curls out of his face and adjusted his glasses, lamenting that he wasn’t wearing anything nicer than a denim jacket. Still, if he was going to ask, he was going to do it the way he’d always envisioned he would. Almost.

“Maarten van Dijk, all I have is this bag of random junk you bought—”

“It’s got value!”

“I’m trying to propose to you!” Matthew held the canvas bag up, and despite the absurdity of the situation, found that his heart was pounding, his hands shaky. “Maarten, will you marry me?”

“You’re just doing all the things I wanted to do,” Maarten said, grabbing his bag. “Yes, Matthew, I will. I would love to.”

In the exact moment Matthew got back up and threw his arms around him, the crowd started applauding for the wedding sketch, and they both laughed, a little hysterically.

“I had a plan, Matt,” Maarten complained, pressing his lips against his cheek. “And none of it included random junk or an audience.”

“So you admit it’s junk!” Matthew said triumphantly, pulling back just to gloat. Maarten’s eyes narrowed, which made him laugh before quickly kissing him.

Voice dangerously low, Maarten asked, “You know we’re only halfway through the flea market, right?”

“Wh— Are you serious?”

“Matt, I have only just begun.” He smirked. “It won’t be junk when it pays for our wedding.”

That made a little thrill roll through Matthew. Maarten’s eyes were still soft, and he turned his face into Matthew’s hand when he touched his cheek.

“Well, alright, lead the way,” Matthew told him. “Maybe we can hire one of those kids to do the music, huh?”

“I’m not paying them more than a quarter.”

Laughing, Matthew picked up his mysterious box and followed Maarten back into the orange crowd. He was going to ban that colour at the wedding in question, he decided.

“Ooh!” Maarten said, and Matthew grinned warmly as he started to haggle with an old lady over a tiny book of poems he found among some debris on a blanket. Maarten glanced up and smiled back.

“Oh my god, shut your mouth.”

Maarten decides to just go down and open the door before the brothers wake the whole street. Sure, he lives close enough to the city center that some amount of noise is expected, but Alfred’s got quite the mouth on him.

“I’m really sorry,” Matthew repeats as soon as the door opens. He’s red-faced and stumbling under his brother’s weight. “Al’s got a little, uh…”

“Matt, are you drunk?” Maarten asks.

“I’m really not, I had like, three beers, two hours ago.”

Alfred, who’s definitely had more than three beers, giggles drunkenly, as Matthew continues, “But that’s more than I’m willing to drive on and I’m really sorry to ask but can we just sober up a bit here?”

If it’d just been Alfred, there is absolutely no way Maarten would allow this—he might not have even opened the door—but when Matthew’s asking, he always has a hard time saying no, so he steps back and gestures them in.

“You rock,” Alfred slurs at him, trying to… Pat him on the head, maybe? Maarten ducks out of his reach, but the man knocks Matthew’s glasses askew with his uncoordinated gesturing. “Matt, your friends are cool.”

“That’s the first time he’s ever said that,” Matthew tells Maarten, and that makes him laugh as he closes the door.

By the time Matthew has wrangled his brother up the narrow stairs to Maarten’s apartment, it is exactly midnight.

“Is he gonna throw up?” Maarten asks warily.

“I don’t think so.” Matthew is slightly out of breath, and Alfred is leaning against a door, seemingly fascinated by the pictures on Maarten’s wall.

“’S you, Matt!” he enthuses, jabbing a finger against one of the frames.

“Yes, yeah, don’t touch Maarten’s stuff, Al.” He does look at the picture, and smiles, before turning to Maarten again. “If we can just… Sit on your couch or something.”

Maarten nods. It takes both him and Matthew to maneuver Alfred into his living room and deposit him on the couch; the man’s limbs are heavy. He’s obviously coming down from his high mood already, and drapes across the whole couch.

“Dude,” Matthew starts, tugging at him, but Maarten grasps his shoulder to gently pull him back.

“It’s fine,” he says, while Alfred yawns widely.

With a put-upon sigh, Matthew plucks his brother’s glasses from his nose and puts them on the coffee table, pats his hair, and then he follows Maarten to the kitchen without further comment from the man.

“I’m sorry,” he says again, pushing his own glasses up and his hair away from his forehead, which is still a little flushed.

“As long as he doesn’t throw up, you’re good,” Maarten tells him. And if he does, it’ll be on Alfred’s own head to clean that, not Matthew’s. “Want something to drink?”

Amused, Matthew echoes, “To drink?”

“Well, I was thinking some water, or tea,” Maarten clarifies. “But I’m sure I have a fourth beer if you want it.”

“Tea sounds nice, Maarten, thank you.”

While he busies himself with the water, and measuring tea into a strainer, Maarten asks, “So what exactly’s goin’ on here? It’s not every day you turn up at midnight with your wasted brother in tow.”

“Yeah, I told him to slow down.” Matthew reaches over to grab mugs from the cabinet with practiced ease, setting them down on the counter. “He wanted to celebrate getting a promotion. I was basically enlisted as driver.”

“And then you drank three beers?”

“Well, I didn’t know he’d be so out of it by midnight.”

“Must be good money in that promotion, huh?”

The water is boiling, so Maarten fills the mugs while Matthew laughs. He’s leaning against the kitchen counter, watching with sleepy eyes as the tea steeps. Immediately, Maarten’s fingers itch with the familiar urge to draw him, to study every angle of his face and every line around his eyes that’s appeared over the years they’ve known each other. Even that urge, he’s admitted to himself some time ago, is just a stand-in for what he actually wants, but it’s easier to admit than the deep, nearly all-encompassing things he feels.

“You wanna go outside?” he asks. “It’s a nice night.”

“I could use some air,” Matthew agrees, smiling softly. On the way, he pokes his head into the living room; apparently, Alfred has already fallen asleep on the couch.

Out on Maarten’s roof terrace, the air is quiet and cool, moonlight illuminating his lounge set and the array of flowers he keeps up here. In these early days of summer, they’re doing well. Matthew sets his mug of tea down and goes around looking at the plants as though he’s never seen them before.

Definitely a little tipsy, Maarten thinks with amusement as the man tells a sunflower it’s looking beautiful.

When he’s done praising Maarten’s plants, Matthew flops over next to him on the rattan couch. He stretches slowly, and nudges his glasses up to rub his eyes.

“What were you doing, anyway?” he asks Maarten after a moment. “I hope I didn’t interrupt anything.”

“Nothing much, just some painting.” Come to think of it, he needs to remember to clean his brushes later.

“That’s something. Really, I’ll pay you back for this.”

“Matt, it’s…” Maarten takes a breath. “You’re my friend. Don’t worry about it.”

“Weren’t you telling me just last week about how Simão still owes you 50 cents?”

“Ah, see, the difference is, Simão’s annoying.”

That gets him a laugh. Maarten is mostly joking, was mostly joking last week as well—although it would be nice to get his 50 cents back.

“What’re you painting?”

“Hm, commission work.” Maarten blows over his tea, then takes a cautious sip. Too hot.

“At midnight?”

“Y’know, inspiration struck.” He glances over when Matthew fidgets. “Really, Matt, it’s fine. I owe you much more than you could ever owe me.”

Brow furrowing, Matthew looks at him and says, “I’m sure that’s not true.”

He probably thinks so, but Maarten knows that his life would have turned out much different if not for Matthew. If not for his sudden presence years ago, quiet and unassuming but steady, just when he needed it. Of course, there’s no telling what would’ve happened without him but, well… He’s never really told anyone that in so many words, let alone Matthew himself.

Now, he bites the inside of his cheek and inadvisably sips some more tea. The night is quiet, the wind carrying the sounds of nightlife away from the terrace and just rustling the leaves of the flowers instead. The two of them drink tea in easy silence, and when Maarten’s is finished, he digs a cigarette out of his pocket, lighting it absently.

Equally as absently, he hands it over to Matthew when he holds a hand out. Then blinks, watching him take a slow drag.

“You know that’s just a cigarette,” he says, a little perplexed. Matthew just smiles, leaning back into the pillows.

“Yeah, I know.”

“Alright, then.”

Matthew’s smile is soft around the edges, and his hair is messier than usual, and Maarten looks at him smoking his cigarette with fondness. It’s still a bit of an odd feeling, although it’s been creeping up on him for years. In the beginning, it scared him sometimes; getting caught up, not in Matthew’s looks but the way he laughed at Maarten’s dry jokes, or how thoughtful his quiet insights could be, or the way his face lit up when he brought his dog home.

And that’s not to say Maarten isn’t attracted to him, but he knows sex, he knows what to do with that feeling. And this is… Something more than that.

“Al’s trying to get me to vape,” Matthew’s saying, unimpressed.

“I hear that’s bad for you,” Maarten replies, watching him laugh while he passes the cigarette back over, their fingers touching.

“So’s drinking too much.” He shifts towards him, pulling one leg up on the couch and resting an arm on the backrest. “Thank you, Maarten.”

He hums questioningly.

“Well, just, I know he isn’t your friend, is all.”

“Maybe I should ask Alfred for payment, then.”

“I’m the one who dumped him on you. Really, if there’s anything…”

Through the haze of smoke as he breathes out, Maarten looks over at him curiously. Something about his voice seems different than usual—maybe that’s down to those three beers, or the moonlight, or maybe it’s his own wishful thinking. He offers him the cigarette, which Matthew takes, but their fingers tangle together briefly as he does. There’s no reason for that to happen, unless they make it.

“There’s things, Matt,” Maarten says, tilting his head back to look at the night sky.

“Yeah?” he breathes, and his voice does something new again, going heavy with anticipation.

“But nothing I’d want to… Nothing you should owe me.”

“What if I just…” Matthew shifts abruptly; he pushes the cigarette out into the ashtray on the table, then leans back again. “What if I just want to do something? For you? Or—or with you?”

“With me,” Maarten echoes, swallowing.

Voice low, Matthew says, “Humor me, Maarten. What would you ask for?”

He takes a deep breath. “Well, you’re already here.”

“I am.” Fingers brush over Maarten’s shoulder. “Happy to be.”

“God, Matt, is this really—is this how…” Is this how this finally happens, is what he wants to ask. It seems so incongruous.

In a near-whisper, “Just ask me.”

“For putting up your brother, I think I’d deserve… A kiss.” He hears Matthew let out a shuddering breath. Maarten glances over at him out of the corner of his eye. “Is that… Is that something that’s on offer?”

“If it’s you asking, Maarten…” He leans close to brush his lips over Maarten’s cheek, his breath hot and the touch barely there, yet Maarten’s heart skips a beat. Even more so when Matthew’s fingertips brush over the back of his neck, almost ticklish.

“I am asking,” he mumbles.

“Then, yes.” Matthew presses a kiss against the corner of his mouth. Maarten can feel him smile when he involuntarily makes a small, somewhat embarrassing noise.

When Maarten slowly turns his head, Matthew makes a sound in turn, as their lips brush together and Maarten’s lower lip gets gently caught between his. Eyes nearly closed, he reaches up. Tucks his fingers around Matthew’s jaw, the shape of which he’s studied so often.

“Oh,” Matthew breathes. And, fingers curling around the back of Maarten’s neck, he tilts his head to properly kiss him.

Although the touch sparks through Maarten like wildfire, the actual kiss is easy and unhurried, so he lets himself melt into it, thinking only finally. He’d hardly let himself think about it, but when he did, it usually was like this; none of the frantic mess he could get from other people, just Matthew, kissing him like they’ve been doing it for ages. His lips are warm in the night air.

When Matthew pulls back a bit, just enough to look at him, he lets his fingers wander over his face, trying to memorize it in this new way. He tucks some blond curls behind his ear, ghosting the pads of his fingers along the shell. Matthew smiles, so Maarten runs his thumb over the man’s lips.

“I’m tempted to say finally,” Matthew says, which makes Maarten smile too. They both knew, then. Still, he wonders.

“Matt, why didn’t you ever…”

“Maybe it was easier not to.” He taps his fingers absently on the side of Maarten’s neck. “I guess I just needed…”

“Three beers?” Maarten supplies.

“Well, maybe.” A wry smile. “Don’t let that reflect poorly on me.”

“Never, Matt.” Maarten pulls him close to kiss him again, because he doesn’t think he’ll want to stop doing that now.

“Mh, why didn’t you?” Matthew asks him in turn, their lips still touching.

“Sometimes, I’m stupid.” He’ll try to explain, sometime, that it feels to him as though things like romance, or affection, are buried somewhere deep inside him and take massive amounts of time and effort to actually take hold, and that very few people have been worth that effort—but now’s not the time for that. “You’re—you’re important to me.”

Another soft noise, and Matthew bites his lip through one of those smiles that light up his face when Maarten looks at him. His eyes are bright even in the moonlight.

“Alright,” he whispers. Then, abruptly, he yawns, and Maarten chuckles.

“You could stay here, if you want,” he says, now absently winding those blond curls around his fingers.

Of course, he’s stayed before, but he asks, “Where? Al’s on the couch.”

“There’s space in my bed.” He wets his lips. “Not for anything—well, there’s space for that too, later, if you want.”

“Not with my brother here for sure,” Matthew says, huffing a laugh when Maarten grimaces. “But I’m sure that’ll be great later.”

Maarten nods, though he realizes at the same time that, when he imagines later, it’s not actually sex, right now. It’s breakfast the morning after, or kissing Matthew goodbye before work. Finding the most scenic spots on holiday to make him smile and talk with enthusiasm. Getting into silly arguments about plants at the nursery.

“What’re you thinking about?” Matthew asks. Maarten blinks.

“Flowers.”

A fond grin, tired eyes scrunching up behind his glasses. “Figures.”

“Really. What’s the date? I have to get you flowers in a year,” Maarten mostly-jokes, and so he’s smiling when Matthew kisses him quiet.

Against his lips, he says, “I want tulips.”

“I’ll remember.”

Pulling back, Matthew gazes at him for a while. “Can’t wait.” He yawns again, so Maarten stands, offering him a hand up.

“Let’s get you to bed, then.”

Before that, though, Matthew wraps his arms around his neck, looking up at him, and Maarten leans down a little, until their noses touch. He presses his hands down along Matthew’s spine, pulling him close. They stand silently entangled on his roof for a while, leaning into each other. It feels easy. Safe, even. Maarten’s eyes get heavy, and he yawns, which makes Matthew chuckle.

“You started it,” Maarten grumbles.

“So sorry.” A soft kiss pressed to the corner of his lips. “Come on, then. I hope Al’s still alive.”

Alfred, it turns out, has somehow eaten all of Maarten’s cornflakes—and nothing else—and then fallen back asleep on the couch. The only comment he has the following morning is, “Aw man, you guys. Now I owe Manon a twenty! You got any cornflakes?”

Between the dunes, there was a man, standing quietly, with blond curls flying every which way as the wind picked up. The tall grass waved around his bare knees. There were scraps of what once must have been nice clothes clinging to him, and he was looking straight at Maarten.

“Godsamme, je laat me schrikken! Hoelang sta je daar al?”

The man frowned, and Maarten cautiously stepped a little closer. He looked fairly young, maybe in his mid-twenties.

“Hé, gaat het wel goed met je?” Maarten asked him.

“Sorry, I don’t…”

“Spreek je Nederlands?” Taking a drag of his cigarette, Maarten surmised, “You don’t speak Dutch?”

“Dutch,” the man echoed wonderingly, and shook his head. His voice was soft enough that Maarten stepped even closer, sand whirling about his feet.

“Are you okay?” he asked, repeating his earlier question. “Do you need help?”

“No,” the man replied. He took a few steps towards the beach, out of the grass. “Sorry. I didn’t realize I’d come so far.”

“So far from where?” Maarten swore when he felt a fat raindrop hit his head, and the strange man lifted his eyebrows.

“The other side.”

“Look, if you’re going to be cryptic, I don’t have time for that.” He started walking briskly down the beach to where he could cross the dunes, not really caring if the man followed or not.

The man did; by the time Maarten reached his bungalow just on the other side of the dunes, luckily still mostly dry, he was right behind him, seeming more curious than anything. Maarten glanced at him as he opened his backdoor, and his attention was caught by the man’s eyes. They were a bright, vibrant purple that surely couldn’t be real. He blinked, and the man blinked back. His eyes stayed purple.

Swearing once more, Maarten went inside his house and left the door open. Honestly, his life could use a little mystery.

He put his art supplies in their proper place in the living room, and when he finished, the strange man was standing in his kitchen. His clothes were barely more than rags.

“Really. What happened to you?” Maarten asked.

“I came a long way.”

“From where? What’s your name?” Maybe he’d been in a shipwreck. It seemed as good a guess as any, although he seemed pretty calm if that was the case.

“I’ve been called Matthew. When I was in Canada.”

Now even more confused, Maarten continued to stare at him and his strange eyes, as rain started beating against the windows. Surely, people in Canada didn’t have eyes like that either? He’d met Canadians before. They’d seemed perfectly normal to him.

“I’m… Maarten,” he eventually just said. He looked down at Matthew’s tattered clothes, and noticed, in the dim light, that there were shapes on the pale skin underneath, silvery-blue lines curving over his arms, his legs, even his face. They were faint, and didn’t make sense. Very little about this made sense.

“So, when you say you were in Canada… How did you come here?”

Matthew tilted his head, curls falling into his face as something almost like amusement flickered in his eyes.

“It was quite a long swim.”

“Okay. Okay. Fantastisch.” Maarten turned and pushed the beaded curtain aside to return to his living room so he could get another cigarette. He lit it and started to pace around his coffee table.

“You seem upset,” Matthew observed, peeking through the curtain. He sounded amused too.

“I’m not upset. I’m confused.” Maarten stopped in front of him, looking down—Matthew was tall, but Maarten was taller. He usually was.

“I don’t think I’m confusing.” His voice remained soft, almost melodious.

“Good. Great. Do you need new clothes?” It was easiest to focus on things he understood, Maarten decided. And he understood that Matthew, whoever he was, was very nearly nude. While Maarten had no problem with nude men, he preferred them in different circumstances.

“Need is a strong word,” said Matthew, “but I’ve been told it upsets people if I don’t wear any.”

Nodding, Maarten beat a hasty retreat to his bedroom, where he lit another cigarette and found a pair of old shorts and a short-sleeved shirt he thought might fit his mysterious… Guest. Back in the living room, he found Matthew peering at one of his paintings, shirtless. The lines swirled around his back, too, and disappeared beneath the rags clinging to his hips. His arms and legs looked muscular. They probably had to be, if one were to swim across the Atlantic.

Maarten cleared his throat.

“You’re an artist,” Matthew said, turning.

“Yes.” Maarten took a deep drag and breathed out smoke. “What are you?”

“I’m… A traveler.”

 Apart from the mysterious lines and strange eyes, he looked perfectly human. He had a sharp nose and broad chest, even a hint of stubble on his chin. A traveler. Fair enough.

“I’ve been a traveler. Here.” Maarten handed the clothes to him.

Shrugging the orange shirt over his shoulders, Matthew reached for what remained of his pants, which once must have been slacks, of all things. Maarten blinked, cleared his throat again, and quickly looked away.

“So, what brings you here?” he asked, facing one of his macramé plant holders. Matthew rustled behind him.

“I get tired of the sea.”

Right, because that was where he lived.

The rustling stopped, and Maarten peeked. The shirt wasn’t buttoned up, and the shorts hung low on Matthew’s hips. It was difficult not to look at the shape of his hipbones leading down to the fly of the pants.

“So I wanted to come and see what was on this side of the ocean,” Matthew finished, seeming unconcerned by the staring.

“Alright. Well, I’m—I’m not sure I’m the right person to help you with that.” Maarten met his eye. “I don’t go out much, nowadays.”

He tilted his head. “But you used to?”

“I used to. But now I’m here, and I paint.”

For a long moment, Matthew just peered up at him, those violet eyes contemplative, but eventually, he nodded.

“Then, I will find my way. Thank you.”

“Alright.”

When Matthew left, stepping into the pouring rain, Maarten didn’t think he would ever see him again. Honestly, he wasn’t sure he hadn’t imagined the whole thing. If he was going to hallucinate anything, he supposed it would be a nearly-unclothed man emerging from the North Sea.

Just two weeks later, he was proven wrong.

On a crisp day at the tail end of summer, Maarten was painting the boats he could see out on the water, although framed by the menacing clouds from weeks before; there was nothing interesting about a clear blue sky, pleasant though it was.

When he glanced at the sea again, Maarten was startled to see a familiar figure walking out of the surf, somehow completely dry. Matthew’s blond curls shone like gold in the sunlight. He was still wearing Maarten’s clothes, the shirt now buttoned up.

“You’re back, huh?” Maarten said to him as he neared. Matthew smiled, obviously amused.

“It was nice here.” He sat down a few meters away from Maarten, bare feet in the loose sand of the dunes.

“It was raining a lot last time you were here.”

“And why would I mind that?”

That was a good point. If anything, he should probably dislike dry weather.

Since Matthew didn’t seem inclined to say anything else right now, Maarten continued to paint silently, not bothered by the presence on his left. A few people walked by on the beach, but no one paid him any mind; the locals knew who he was and knew he preferred to be left alone.

After a while, Maarten glanced over and saw that Matthew had removed his shirt again and was lying on top of it, eyes closed. He reminded Maarten of a cat, basking in the sun. Or… A seal, maybe, like the ones he saw out on the shoals from time to time. Wiping his hands on his corduroys, he picked up his sketchbook and started putting down light lines. A flyaway strand of hair curling over Matthew’s forehead. The muscles in his arms as he rested his head on them. The path of his dark chest hair as it trailed down into his indecently low shorts—Maarten’s shorts.

“What are you doing?” Matthew asked, and Maarten was startled, scratching a long black line into the paper.

Licking his lips, he slowly turned his sketchbook so Matthew could see. The man squinted and scooted closer.

“Oh,” he said softly, and looked up at Maarten. “I don’t think anyone has ever drawn me before.”

“It’s probably difficult, to draw in the sea.”

Matthew laughed, shaking that same springy curl away from his face, and said, “Well, yes, but even on land, in all this time…”

“How… Old are you?”

He shook his head. “By your reckoning? I’m not sure. We do have art, you know.”

“What? Your—your people?”

“Yes! We have sculptures, and etchings. But nothing like this.” He touched Maarten’s sketch with one finger, violet eyes soft. Maarten wondered if he missed his people, whatever they were, wherever they were. It seemed like he’d come across that whole ocean of his own free will, but still.

“I’d say you can have it, but I don’t think it would hold well in the sea,” he said.

“No, it wouldn’t. Not many things from the land do, but that’s also true the other way around.”

“You’re out here.”

Matthew sat on his knees and looked down at his hands.

“Only for a short while. If I don’t return to the water by midnight, I would wither.”

“Oh.” Maarten blinked, trying to process that. “So… Where have you been?”

“Along the coast. Most of your people don’t speak this—English. I learned it in Canada.”

“So you came back here.”

“Well, I also wanted… To see you again. You weren’t like most people.” He swept his hair away. The sunlight fell across his bare shoulders. There were freckles on the skin there that Maarten instantly itched to draw. He wiped his hands on his pants again.

“I didn’t expect to see you again,” he confessed. “But I’m…” What he really was, he thought, was fascinated, but that would sound a little too intense out loud. “Can I continue this?” he asked instead, tapping his sketchbook. With a curious smile, Matthew nodded.

He stayed close. The long grass of the dunes created interesting shapes on his skin that intersected with the lines all over his body, and Maarten lost himself in the patterns for a while.

Eventually, he noticed the light changing, fading into a soft orange, and he looked up. Matthew’s peculiar eyes were even brighter contrasted like that.

“I should get home,” Maarten said. And, “God, I’m sorry, you’re sitting there already this whole time.”

“I don’t mind. It’s been nice to watch you.”

Maarten swallowed and wet his lips, nodding.

“Most people don’t really notice me at all,” Matthew continued, laughing a little.

“How could they not?” Maarten had to ask, as he carefully put his sketchbook away. He looked at Matthew, who opened and closed his mouth, and then smiled down at his knees. “Do you eat, Matthew? I mean, do you eat things that we eat?”

“Eh?”

“Do you—I’m asking you to come eat with me, if that’s something what you do.”

“Oh! Yes, I’ve enjoyed most foods I’ve tried.”

“Good.” Maarten stood, brushing sand off his corduroys and folding up his little chair. He was glad to see Matthew do the same, although he just slung the orange shirt over one shoulder instead of putting it on. Maarten had no problems with this.

They plodded through the loose sand, across the dunes, to his bungalow. There, Maarten realized he absolutely could not let Matthew into his house like that; he’d get sand everywhere. Of course, this wasn’t an unfamiliar problem, even if Maarten never got quite this sandy, so he had a hose attached to his outside faucet.

“Land is so inconvenient,” Matthew said, when informed of the problem. “What should I do?”

“Rinse off.” Maarten raised the hose, and Matthew nodded and stood there expectantly on the tiled terrace.

Sand rinsed off his legs easily enough, and they kept dripping when Maarten was finished, the hair there darkened by the water.

“So, you do get wet,” Maarten observed idly, handing Matthew a towel he hadn’t been sure would be needed.

“Of course I do.”

“Well, I wouldn’t know it. I have never met someone like you before.” They stepped into the kitchen.

“I’ve never met someone like you, either,” Matthew told him.

Pausing in getting out some potatoes, Maarten blinked at him, and shook his head slowly, saying, “No, I don’t think that can be true.”

“It is,” he just said quietly, and then he watched him peel potatoes.

Matthew seemed to like the meal, and helped put dishes away according to Maarten’s instructions, and then, he was going again, finally putting the shirt on properly. It was getting dark outside.

“Will you come back?” Maarten asked him, and he smiled brightly. His eyes seemed almost lilac in the low light from the kitchen, in contrast to the green tiles.

“I will,” he promised. And off he went, across the dunes and towards the crashing of the waves.

When Maarten moved here, to this lonely bungalow on the coast, he had expected to leave most of the excitement of his younger years behind, both the good and the bad parts of it, but it seemed that it had found a way to creep back into his life now that he was in his thirties. Perhaps it was the sea, always equal parts generous and foreboding. Apparently, there was much more out there than he’d ever thought possible, and he was curious to see what it would bring.

The next day, the sea brought back Matthew. He appeared in Maarten’s backyard, where he was tending to his little vegetable plot, just after lunch and wanted to show him some seashells that had intricate, tiny carvings inside. They were scenes depicting figures that looked just as human as Matthew, but also fish and other sea creatures.

“Have you made these?” Maarten asked, studying them in the sunlight.

“Oh no, I’m not an artist.”

“No, you’re a traveler.”

“That’s right,” he said with a smile. “I had these stored. My seal went to go fetch them for me.”

“You sent a…”

“My seal.”

“Yes, I heard you.” Maarten blinked. Okay, sure. Domesticated seals. Why not, after all? They were akin to dogs, he guessed. “What do these depict?”

So Matthew told him in a steady, soft voice about celebrations his people held, about strange deep-sea fish that no human being had ever seen, about the shifting of currents and the legends they told about that. When he’d left once more, Maarten tried to draw some of those scenes as he imagined them, but he kept getting stuck on Matthew’s eyes, those lines on his skin, on the strong muscles of his calves and the freckles on his shoulders.

It was a long while before he got to sleep that night.

Over the next few weeks, as summer turned very abruptly to autumn, Matthew appeared almost every other day. Sometimes, he brought stories or questions about other places along the coast, sometimes more tales of his people. He was fascinated by Maarten’s bicycle and listened with apparent wonder to his stories about the travels he’d been on. They tried to map things using an old atlas, and Matthew seemed to realize just how far he had actually come, looking at the expanse of the Atlantic Ocean on the paper.

In October, Maarten swam out much too far trying to keep up with Matthew, and had to be dragged back to shore. He lay on the sand, panting and wet, while Matthew was completely dry and glaring at him, autumn wind ruffling his hair. Maarten reached up and touched his calf, unable to lift his hand any further than that. The skin felt warm under his cold fingers.

Matthew kneeled on the wet sand, knees sinking into it, and leaned over him, so Maarten touched his arm, the curve of his shoulder underneath the orange shirt.

“There’s a lot of sea,” he said, just loud enough to be heard over the waves and the seagulls.

“There’s quite a lot of land, too,” Matthew replied, gently pressing a hand to his bare chest. Maarten held it there as his breath calmed.

They just looked at each other, until Maarten shivered violently, cold seeping into him, and he had to go home. Matthew, as if in a huff, walked straight into the sea. Maarten painted him, as he’d been doing for weeks though Matthew didn’t know. This time, he was in the center of a storm that loomed the same purple as his eyes. Maarten had never mixed so many shades of purple before in his life.

The morning after that, the sky looked dreary, but Maarten knew he had to go into the nearest town to get some groceries. As he cycled back, it started to rain lightly. Luckily, it wasn’t too bad, especially since he found Matthew sitting on the bench outside his backdoor, seemingly unconcerned.

“Welcome back,” Maarten told him. Matthew smiled, looking almost relieved, and helped him bring in groceries. Maarten grew many things himself, but he still needed to get supplies every other week or so. He wondered if Matthew’s people grew produce.

“Oh!” Matthew was saying from the living room on the other side of the beaded curtain. Oh, right, the paintings. He’d left them out, not quite expecting him to be back.

Maarten went over to him.

“You have a good memory,” Matthew told him, looking at one of the earlier drawings, at the lines he had drawn.

“I’m an artist.”

“Most people don’t seem to notice.” Matthew smiled up at him, looking amused. “Not a perfect memory, though.”

With deliberate slowness, he eased his shirt off one shoulder so he could trace the lines on the underside of his arm. He glanced up at Maarten.

“See?”

Swallowing, Maarten reached for him, and with a soft “oh”, Matthew let him trace his fingers over his skin. It really felt just like any other person’s skin, soft and warm, the lines not tangible at all.

“Yes, I see,” Maarten whispered, and met Matthew’s wide eyes. “Uh—”

“No, continue,” Matthew said breathlessly, when he went to withdraw his hand. “It’s… Continue.”

Struck with inspiration, Maarten slowly reached around him with his free hand, and grabbed one of his brushes, never looking away from those strange eyes. When he finally did, it was so could look as he swept the brush over Matthew’s skin, following the same lines his fingers had.

“Oh,” Matthew gasped, and his breathing sped up when Maarten slowly brushed down his side, across his ribcage and back up to his clavicle, the touch light.

“You breathe, just like… Like a human,” Maarten said, finding himself quite short of breath too.

“I think we are. My people. We just—” Matthew tipped his head back when Maarten swept the brush up his neck.

“Is it… Magic?” Maarten asked him. He ran the brush just underneath Matthew’s lip and across his cheekbone, and followed the contour of his jaw.

“Maybe.”

A month ago, all of this would have seemed absurd. It still did. Absurd, but not impossible.

Maarten trailed his brush over Matthew’s shoulder, switching it to his other hand. He wet his lips and met Matthew’s eye when he made a choked little noise. The purple was dark and intense as Matthew shrugged his shirt completely off. Maarten shivered.

“Do you know what,” he started, but trailed off when Matthew touched him, running his fingers along the side of his neck.

“I know,” Matthew answered anyway, as Maarten leaned over a little. “We’re not that different.”

“Oh, good,” was all Maarten could say, before he was tugged down, and Matthew kissed him.

He let his paintbrush clatter to the ground to pull him close, fingers fanning over all that exposed skin. Matthew started working on the buttons of his shirt.

“Have you done this before?” Maarten asked, gasping when Matthew pushed his shirt away, off his shoulders.

“On land? Once.” He pulled back to look at Maarten.

It was raining hard now, beating against the windows, and Maarten nodded slowly, heart hammering.

“I did it in the sea once,” he said. “Not that great.”

Matthew laughed, told him it could be, and kissed him again. The taste of sea salt clung to his lips, to every bit of skin Maarten managed to get his mouth on. He tried to memorize the new lines on Matthew’s body that were revealed to him but quickly gave up because there were many other things to concentrate on. The way Matthew’s lips felt on his skin, or the noise he made when Maarten tugged him down onto the couch, or the rhythm of his heartbeat under Maarten’s palm.

It might just be a very bad idea to become so fascinated with this mysterious man from the sea, but Maarten found that he didn’t care, as he grasped the back of his couch and arched his back into Matthew’s touch, clutching his legs around the man’s hips. There were worse things to be fascinated with.

Afterwards, when they were done catching their breath and Maarten felt like he could walk again, Matthew watched him peel potatoes as he’d done so often now, and later still, Maarten got to trace over all the lines on his body with his dry paintbrush until Matthew was gasping for breath. Maarten rested his forehead against his thigh, kneeling on the carpet between his legs. It had gone eleven.

“Will you come back?” he asked, muttering into Matthew’s skin.

“I will,” he breathed.

And he did; throughout the rest of the month, he showed up almost every day without fail. He brought more stories of the sea and of Canada, and watched him draw, and Maarten taught himself to carve seashells, which was difficult but rewarding, and he almost swam out much too far again, and he wondered what else was out there that he didn’t know about.

And many nights, Maarten kept committing to memory the patterns of Matthew’s skin, the cadence of his gasps and the way he felt, over and under and inside him.

“I have to go away for a few days,” he told Matthew in November, catching his breath.

“Oh. Where?”

“Utrecht. I have an exhibition at an art gallery and need to be there for a bit.”

Matthew frowned. “Utrecht isn’t by the sea, is it?”

“No.” He carded a hand through Matthew’s curls. “I hope you don’t mind it.”

Matthew shook his head slowly, his nose brushing Maarten’s chest.

“I will say when I return,” Maarten said.

“I wish I could go with you.” Matthew muffled the words into his skin. And, “I’m sorry, I’m not trying to—”

“No, I wish you could, too.” He didn’t think they’d even bat an eye if he showed up with Matthew; the fact that he liked men was, especially in the art scene, the least peculiar thing about Maarten and ranked far below him living out here on the coast all by himself. Especially after all that the sea had taken from him.

There was always something about the water, though. Something that almost seemed to call to him.

When Maarten left for Utrecht on what was sure to be a tedious journey using public transport, Matthew was the one to ask, for once.

“Will you be back?”

“I will,” Maarten promised, and he biked away.

He took some of his seashell carvings to supplement the paintings that were already in Utrecht. He’d gotten quite good at this new art form already, he thought. While in the city, he contemplated finally getting a phone again if just so he would be able to call his own house and talk to Matthew. He refrained.

When he returned, it was freezing cold, and Maarten could see lights on in his bungalow. For a moment after putting his bike away, he watched through the window, where Matthew flipped a record over and looked at the clock. He’d explained to Maarten that his people’s concept of time was different, measured mostly in currents and seasons. To most of them, the mention of ‘midnight’ in their legends meant very little, but he had learned to read a clock in Canada.

Since it was very cold, Maarten quickly went inside, and Matthew smiled brightly up at him. It wasn’t very warm here either, but still much more pleasant, especially when Matthew looked like that. Quietly, Maarten sat next to him on the couch. He lit a cigarette while Matthew curled into him.

“I missed you,” he said softly, looking ahead at the record player. Wasn’t that something? In years past, Maarten had sometimes feared he’d lost the ability to care. That all his capacity for love had washed away into the North Sea twenty years ago. But the sea had brought it back.

“Yes,” Matthew breathed, curls brushing Maarten’s cheek when he pushed his sharp nose against his neck. “Me too.”

They sat, quietly for the most part, although the record kept playing until the end, and then Maarten shared some tidbits about his time in Utrecht.

“People liked the shells,” he said. “But I didn’t sell them.”

He’d planned to, but it hadn’t felt right. Matthew just hummed into his skin, then glanced up.

“I need to go,” he said.

“I wish you didn’t.”

“Me too.” He frowned. “My people have legends…”

“Legends?”

“I will tell you tomorrow. It’s late.”

It was late—very nearly midnight, Maarten noticed with a start.

So Matthew rushed out over the dunes and back to the sea, and Maarten lay back on the couch and sighed.

The next day, Matthew appeared just after dawn. He had told Maarten that he needed to stay in the sea until the sun rose. Although he wouldn’t wither immediately, it would be dangerous to go out on land all the same. This meant, as winter approached with the last day of November, that his time to be on land, be with Maarten, got shorter and shorter. Dawn was at half past eight already, and only getting later.

More than that, though, Maarten would just like to have him close throughout the night. To wake up next to him.

“So the legend goes,” Matthew started, barely inside, “that there is a way to be… Like my people.”

“What does that mean?” Maarten asked.

“If it is magic, if maybe we were created somehow, then this is the way to transfer it.”

“So I could…” Be with him. “And what is the way, according to the legend?”

“Do you want to—would you really want to…” Matthew trailed off, gazing at Maarten, who put his cup of tea away and nodded.

“I feel like it’s always been the sea, Matt,” he said. “It makes sense.”

Matthew gently touched his cheek. His jaw. Swiped his thumb over his lips.

“It’s about this,” he said, turning his arm and touching the mysterious lines. “If I…” Now again, he touched Maarten, trailing a finger down his neck, smiling when he shivered.

“That’s all?”

“If the legend is true. It could also be about love. It wouldn’t work if we didn’t…”

“I don’t think that’s a problem,” Maarten said, voice low. He met Matthew’s violet gaze.

“No,” he replied, equally soft. “It shouldn’t be.”

It took three days, and a few distractions, for Matthew to trace all the lines into Maarten’s skin so they mirrored his own, using a paintbrush wet with sea water, though they didn’t know if it would make a difference.

And then, December 3rd, Matthew swept the brush up the inside of Maarten’s ankle, and said, “It’s done.” He looked up and met Maarten’s eye, swallowing.

“Yes?”

Matthew nodded, slowly pushing himself up using Maarten’s knees, until their noses touched. He asked, “Are you sure?”

“Yes.” Maarten kissed him softly, swiping his hair away from his face. “Are you?”

“Yes,” Matthew mumbled against his lips. “You were right. It feels like it makes sense.”

It did, especially when Matthew kissed him again, pushing until he lay down and leaning over him, every part of them sliding together. Maarten was sure he felt a tingle under his skin that was brand new, a tingle that only intensified every time they touched, became more pronounced with every thrust of Matthew’s hips. It felt like longing, yet not the desperate kind he’d felt before.

“Oh,” he gasped, arching into it. “I can—”

“Yes,” Matthew said, violet eyes intense, his fingers digging into Maarten’s hips.

Even as they both came down from that, the tingle stayed, urging Maarten to move.

“Is this what it feels like? The sea?” he asked.

“It’s also what you feel like, to me,” Matthew murmured, and Maarten smiled. “But if we get to the water, you will know.”

And so, leaving Maarten’s bungalow behind, they walked across the dunes to the familiar North Sea, dark in the December evening. Maarten didn’t feel like he would return. There were seas to explore, and brand new coastlines and kinds of art and ways of living.

He paused only briefly at the edge of the water. Matthew waited patiently.

“Goed. Tijd om te gaan.” Time to go.

They walked into the surf, until a wave swept both of them under, and they vanished into the cold North Sea.

.

+ a clipping from a December 1974 newspaper, reporting on this. It reads, 'Missing. 34-year-old Maarten van Dijk from Scheveningen has been missing since December 3rd. His house was found abandoned. It is feared that an accident happened, possibly at sea. Van Dijk is over 1.95m tall and has dark blond hair. He is known as an artist. Tips to police in The Hague: 070-636969.'

“What? What happened?” the man asked. “I ain’t never seen you without him. And he said to meet—”

“Yes, that’s why I’m here, isn’t it?” Egill snapped. “He’s gone. They fucking killed him.”

“What?” he repeated, stupidly. Egill did not have the patience for this right now. He’d just lost his brother, the stupid idiot, he told him it was a bad idea to linger in that stupid town—

“Søren, leave the man alone,” another voice interrupted before the stupid man—Søren, then—could say anything else. His companion came around a corner of the cabin Egill had spent the night at, wiping his hands on his large coat. Egill had thought Søren was tall, even from up on the porch looking down, but this man dwarfed him. He was a lot broader, and his jaw was sharp.

He took his hat off, revealing piercing blue eyes over narrow glasses.

“Sorry to hear about Einar,” he rumbled.

Clenching his jaw, Egill nodded.

The two men climbed up on the porch, and Egill sat silently as they went inside. He’d been trying to write in his journal, but couldn’t really find the words to describe what had transpired. Einar had told him to go here if something bad happened to him, to find this cabin hidden near an abandoned mine in the mountains near Kai’s Bend, and to wait for people he could trust, but he had no idea what to do now.

Heavy footsteps on the wood, stopping next to him.

“Didn’t mention my name,” said the tall man, now just in his shirt and vest, a necktie tucked into it. “’M Torbjörn. Søren’s my cousin.”

“I’m Egill,” Egill replied, doodling in the margins of his journal. He may already know that.

“You want some food? Be happy to share.”

Egill looked up at him, sighing. Though he took some of his and Einar’s supply, he had barely eaten anything since he took the stagecoach out of that stupid town, almost three days ago; he had seen smoke rising behind him as he traveled.

“I’d like that.” He closed his journal. Torbjörn held the door open to let him in, which almost got a smile out of him.

The food turned out to be some dried meat, crackers, and some vegetables that the men must have foraged on the way up the mountain, which Søren was warming on the small stove. It smelled good. The man, now sans hat, glanced over at Egill as he sat, but said nothing for the moment. Torbjörn sat down as well, handing him a strip of dried meat. Egill nibbled on it.

“Coffee,” Søren said, and started digging in a bag. “Torbjörn, did—”

“Other one,” he said, without even looking. This time, Egill did smile, tiredly.

Søren unearthed the tin he was looking for triumphantly.

“You want some?” he asked Egill.

“Yes, please.”

Egill was silent as they ate, while the two men talked casually about what they’d seen on the way up here, seemingly with each other although they were obviously both there at the time. He mostly ignored them, but it was nice to have some noise, Egill would admit. It made it easier to drown out his thoughts.

“Egill?” Torbjörn asked, and he blinked at the man over his empty cup.

“Sorry?”

“Was asking where you’re going now.”

“I don’t—Einar usually made the plans.”

“Hm.”

Søren stood to go back to his pack and pulled out a map. Egil had to hastily lift his plate when he went to spread the paper on the table. It was a map of the whole country, and so the old mine wasn’t marked, but the man pointed.

“We’re ‘round here. Torbjörn and I, we do this loop ‘round the whole peninsula, findin’ work along the way. You and your brother have a set itinerary like that?”

“Not really.” The country was large, but Egill felt like it was closing in on him, now. Like it would never be the same, from the mountains all the way down to the beaches in the south.

“I need to leave,” he mumbled, his throat closing up. “I can’t—”

“The country?” Søren asked. “We know some people down in Havenbridge, brothers. They’ll get you on a boat anywhere you’d like.”

Egill found the city way on the southern point of the peninsula. It was a long way, but here in the north, the mountains were nearly impassable even in the spring, so a boat was the only viable way to leave.

“You can come with us,” Søren added. “Much cheaper than gettin’ on a train or a stagecoach.”

A large part of Egill dreaded having to spend so much time with people he didn’t know, but he didn’t have nearly enough money to get down to the city any other way. Walking would take months, and even then, how would he find these brothers with the boat Søren apparently knew?

“Alright,” he sighed, and then yelped in alarm when Søren clapped him on the back.

They spent the night at the cabin, Egill tossing and turning restlessly up in the loft while Torbjörn rumbled snores and Søren mumbled in his sleep downstairs. When he finally fell asleep, his dreams were full of fire.

In the morning, it was the smell of coffee that woke Egill. Søren was alone downstairs, his long coat already on. It had a lining just as red as his hat, which seemed a little ostentatious to Egill and clashed with his coppery hair.

“Mornin’!” the man said, much too brightly. “Torbjörn’s packin’, he’s taken your things out to the horses too.”

Mildly annoyed, Egill pulled his boots on and went outside to find the other man by the side of the house, securing saddlebags to a grey horse’s saddle. Egill’s meager belongings were set on the wooden banister of the porch, leaning against the wall. He went over to take out his journal and, after some consideration, his knife. Torbjörn just hummed silently, seemingly unbothered.

It was a sunny spring day, still cool up in the mountains. Good weather for traveling. When Torbjörn held his hand out, Egill handed him his bag, which he added to the saddle.

“Think you’ll be alright riding with Søren?” he asked, patting his horse.

“Søren?” Egill asked, surprised. He hadn’t considered… The other horse, a chestnut mare, had fewer saddlebags, he noticed. “Can’t I… Walk?”

Torbjörn’s lips twitched as if he were trying not to smile.

“While we’re up here, probably. Don’t think you can keep up with a trot, though.”

“I’ve got—I’ve got stamina,” Egill protested, then felt his cheeks flush when the tall man’s eyebrows rose. “I’ll share with Søren.”

He hurried back inside to drink coffee, and he wrote briefly in his journal, recording the date and place. In the margin, he drew a complex pattern of intersecting lines—a new stave that he could use, although he wasn’t sure yet what for.

“You do that too, huh?” Søren asked. Egill snapped the notebook closed on instinct.

“Einar was better at it,” he mumbled, looking up over his shoulder.

“Ain’t that just the way.” Søren shrugged. “Could come in handy. I ain’t never met anyone else like you two. Real amazin’.”

This time, his hand landed softly on Egill’s shoulder. He squeezed quickly. Egill stood, shrugging him off.

“Are we leaving?”

Søren blinked, then nodded and grinned, saying, “Let me introduce you to my horse!”

The horse, it turned out, was named Harald, and Søren just shrugged and grinned some more when Egill pointed out that it was, in fact, female. Torbjörn, behind Søren’s back, raised his eyebrows again, unimpressed overtop his glasses, and Egill smiled.

It’d been a while since he’d ridden, but once they made their way down to a relatively well-kept dirt road that must lead up to Kai’s Bend eventually, he agreed to get on Harald behind Søren. Torbjörn stood next to the horse, seemingly ready to help, as if he were a child. Harald, to her credit, seemed perfectly content to stand still while Egill awkwardly put his foot in the stirrup and tried not to grab any part of Søren, who scooted forward, as he tried to swing himself up.

“Here,” said Torbjörn. “Lean on me.”

Egill wasn’t sure that was better. Flushing again, he leaned one hand on Torbjörn’s broad shoulder to give himself leverage, and then squeaked embarrassingly when the man grabbed his waist with his massive hands, all but lifting him onto Harald.

Once Egill was on, Søren had to reach back and grab his thigh to prevent him from toppling off the other side.

“Fuck,” he yelped, instinctively grabbing his flashy coat. “Okay, I’m—I’m here.” He wriggled his foot out of the stirrup so Søren could put his in and tried to lean back against the saddlebags, putting distance between them. Søren patted his thigh while Torbjörn mounted his grey horse, and off they went.

The road was pretty quiet. The three of them passed one cart carrying timber, the driver of which greeted them amicably, and only two or three people on horseback going up to Kai’s Bend. Egill kept leaning back, holding the saddlebags, and was actually quite comfortable. Søren tried to talk to him, asking him about his and Einar’s previous travels, but he pretended he hadn’t heard, and the man took the hint after a while, speaking to his cousin instead.

After maybe an hour or two, the road opened up into the valley, where the river was fast and deep and Egill, peering around Søren, could see several buildings dotted along the banks. They stopped for a moment.

“If we just follow the river, we should be able to get to Havenbridge in about three weeks,” Søren said over his shoulder. Egill hummed, shifting. Harald shook her head, and Søren knocked her on the neck gently, saying, “Good girl!”

They rode down into the valley, encountering some more people, and eventually stopped for a break at the riverside, eating some more dried meat. Søren cracked his back and wandered down to the water with the horses so they could drink.

Egill looked up at the mountains, shading his eyes, at least until Torbjörn appeared next to him and silently offered him a hat. Luckily, it was just a plain brown one. Egill put it on, nodding his thanks.

“Got a question,” Torbjörn said.

“Yes?”

“Can you hunt?”

“Hunt?”

“’S a long way down to the city. Normally, we’d stop, earn some money to get supplies.”

“Right.” Egill looked up at him. “I can make snares.” Ones that were effective and quick, thanks to magic staves carved into the materials.

“Good.” Torbjörn nodded. “Søren’s… Loud.”

At that, Egill laughed abruptly. The sound felt rusty to him, but it made Torbjörn definitely smile, his light eyes glittering in the shadow of his hat.

“That makes sense.”

“You comfortable on there?” Torbjörn nodded towards where Harald was eating riverside plants.

“Enough,” Egill shrugged. Another hum, the smile still playing around his full lips.

As they continued their journey, Egill was grateful for the hat, because it felt much warmer down here, and he knew he was prone to burning—and he couldn’t imagine that Torbjörn and Søren weren’t, both having very light skin and freckles, Søren more than Torbjörn. There were even some on the back of his neck, where his coppery hair curled against his collar.

Egill stared unseeingly at the bit of skin, imagining new staves. He stared until his eyelids drooped, and his head lurched forward suddenly, knocking against Søren’s back. He shot up, grabbing his hat as Søren grabbed for him, shouting in alarm.

“Egill?” asked Torbjörn, trotting over on his horse.

“Fuck, I’m sorry,” Egill said, heart pounding. He’d grabbed Søren’s arm, the man’s hand on his hips again.

“Sleepy?” Torbjörn guessed. “’S getting late anyway, should find a place to rest.”

It was getting dark already, Egill noticed with a jolt. Most of the valley was deep in shadow.

None of them, of course, were strangers to spending the night outside, and so it was quick work to set up a little camp, securing canvas to trees for shelter and starting a little fire, which Torbjörn was in charge of.

Egill, out of habit, sought out a large rock and carried it into the light, taking out some charcoal to etch protective staves on its surface.

“Oh, what’s that for?” Søren asked curiously. Torbjörn frowned as he got out a pan.

“This one’s for protection from wildlife,” Egill explained. And, finishing the other symbol, “This one is to help keep us alert in sleep.”

“Very nice!” Søren clapped him on the back. “Ain’t that right, Torbjörn?”

“’F you believe it,” the man rumbled, pouring something into his pan. “Can’t hurt.”

Egill was a little confused by this difference in belief, but he didn’t mind. He knew what he could do. He concentrated on the stone, pouring power in, and then set it next to the fire.

Nothing happened during the night. He slept better.

In fact, nothing much happened for the next three days of travel. The three of them made steady progress south along the river, with Egill riding behind Torbjörn for one of them, but that made his thighs ache more than they already had, and he couldn’t see anything around his broad back, so he gave up on that to ride Harald with Søren. The landscape was slowly changing into hills, wildly in bloom with spring flowers that made Egill sneeze.

He caught rabbits in his snares that they had for dinner, with Torbjörn pointing out herbs for him to pick. It was strangely peaceful, even with Søren’s need to talk the whole way through.

On the fifth day of their journey, they noticed that the road was getting busier. By the early afternoon, they’d reached a moderately sized town. Egill had definitely been here before, but he and Einar tended to stay in smaller places. Neither of them were great with cities.

“Ah, the wonderful scent of the city!” Søren said, as they rode in. Egill was sure that wasn’t a compliment, but he’d been sneezing so much he couldn’t smell anything right then.

“We oughta stay a day, let the horses get some rest. Do some shoppin’,” he added, while pouting after neither Egill nor Torbjörn laughed.

“Good plan,” Torbjörn said, glancing questioningly at Egill, who nodded. With any luck, he’d be able to have a real bath after washing off in the icy river, and get some new soap to carry along for his clothes. He’d barely had this coat a month, and it deserved to look nice.

Søren seemed to know where he was going, leading Harald through busy streets to a little hotel tucked away behind a theater. He jumped off the horse, swinging one long leg over her head, and told them he’d get a room.

“A room?” Egill asked, but he was already gone. He patted Harald’s warm neck, mumbling, “You’re lucky you can’t understand him.”

Torbjörn got off his own horse, which didn’t seem to have a name, with a thump, and then he held a hand up to Egill, who took it without thinking about it, to get off Harald. He groaned when he landed on the paved ground, his whole body aching. He was used to walking, not riding. Torbjörn gently squeezed his fingers. Egill stared down at their joined hands as if they weren’t attached to his body. Torbjörn really had very large hands, dwarfing his own, and they were warm and callused…

“Mh—thanks!” Egill mumbled, and pulled his hand back.

“Got a place!” Søren announced as he came back outside. “Two nights, horses can go ‘round back, and they got a bath on offer.”

“Very good,” Torbjörn said.

It was indeed very good, though Egill nearly jumped out of his skin when someone knocked on the door during his bath and asked if he wanted assistance. His no was nearly a yell. He was a grown damn man, he could wash himself.

He shaved for the first time since he left Kai’s Bend—his beard didn’t grow quickly, and he felt uncomfortable doing it without a mirror. It was unfortunate that he had to put the same clothes back on. Maybe, he should get an extra shirt tomorrow. If he had enough money—hold on.

Walking back into the room Søren had gotten them, he asked, “Did you pay for me as well?”

Søren wasn’t there, just Torbjörn, looking out of the window in his shirtsleeves.

“’S one room,” he said, looking over his shoulder. “Price is the same.”

“I should contribute. I’m the reason you’re going down south in the first place.”

Torbjörn turned to him fully, looking down at him. He’d actually gotten a slight tan from the spring sun, and his eyes seemed even bluer now. Egill was still just as pale, just like Søren.

“Alright,” he said. “’F that’s what you prefer.”

Egill nodded. He did not want to feel like a burden, even if he clearly was.

Søren, when he got back with meals from the pub down the street, tried to argue the point. The food, he claimed to have won off someone in a card game, so Egill would let that go, but Søren insisted that no payment was needed for the room.

At least until Torbjörn, just when Egill was about to start yelling at Søren that he wasn’t a fucking child, interrupted in an unusually sharp tone, saying, “Let the man pay you back, Søren.”

Søren opened his mouth, but shut it after looking at his cousin’s face.

“Fine, then. If it matters so much to you.”

It did.

Luckily, Søren was much less hard-headed about letting Egill draw a stave on his meal tray to make sure it was safe to eat. Egill was not taking any chances after what happened in Goldcrest with his brother. Torbjörn let him do it, too, though he was clearly not bothered.

It was also very good to sleep in an actual bed again.

The next day, though Egill was very sore from riding for almost a week, they ventured into the city to collect some supplies. Some tinned vegetables and dried meat for the road, and Egill got a new whetstone for his knife, pretty sure he’d forgotten his old one in Goldcrest. He considered buying a gun of some kind, but decided it wasn’t worth the money; he’d never been a good shot anyway. Instead, he spent it on a new shirt, plain white, and let himself be talked into purchasing a neckerchief he didn’t really need.

Søren got his hair cut and pomaded in the back of a pub, and Torbjörn bought a new straight razor and a bag for his horse.

While Søren tried to win more card games and maybe earn some money that way, Egill and Torbjörn sat in a quiet corner to eat dinner, and Egill couldn’t help but ask the question that had been plaguing his mind.

“Does your horse not have a name?”

Amusingly, Torbjörn tried to hide his face behind his mug of ale.

“What is it?”

“’M surprised Søren hasn’t told you yet.”

“Maybe he has, he’s very easy to ignore,” Egill confessed. He was pleased that Torbjörn huffed a laugh. “Is it more stupid than Harald?”

“Torbjörn Jr,” Torbjörn mumbled. Egill blinked, but he didn’t seem to be joking.

“Sorry, Torbjörn—”

“Friend of mine named him. ‘S the only name he’ll listen to now.” He sounded very long-suffering, and Egill laughed out loud.

“So that wasn’t Søren’s fault?” he asked.

“One of the men in Havenbridge we’re going t’see. Thought he was very funny.”

“Torbjörn Jr,” Egill repeated under his breath.

“Y’don’t want a horse ‘f your own?” Torbjörn asked, obviously attempting to change the topic.

“I can’t afford that. Besides, it’s… Not so bad, sharing.”

A hum, Egill guessed inquisitive.

“I don’t have to look at Søren’s face,” he added jokingly, and Torbjörn once again laughed softly. The sound was gentle, not matching his intimidating appearance at all, and it made Egill smile in turn, a pleased flush stealing over him.

Søren stayed behind, finishing his game, when Egill and Torbjörn returned to their hotel. In the light of a gas lamp, they looked at a map, seeking out the town they were in and following the river down to the sea. It was still a ways to go, but Egill found that he didn’t mind so much.

Now that he had left the mountains behind, the memory of Einar’s death already stung just a little less. It felt just a little less like he was going to suffocate under it, though he was sure it would always weigh on him.

Before Søren came back in, they decided it was time to sleep. Not wanting to get his new shirt sweaty, and also having access to quite nice covers to sleep under, Egill took it off to go to bed, his back turned to Torbjörn. He was so pale he nearly glowed in the sparse light; amused, Egill held up his bare arm and wondered if he could think of a stave that would actually make him glow. That might be useful. Torbjörn made a sudden noise, as if he was choking, but he was fine when Egill turned, climbing into his own bed with his back turned. Egill did the same.

“G’night,” Torbjörn said.

“Goodnight.” Egill bit his lip. “Torbjörn Sr.”

The exasperated groan from the other side of the room made him laugh. He didn’t even hear Søren return.

The next day, there was good news and there was bad news. The good news was that Søren had done well in his game, had won a good sum, and so insisted on stopping on the way out of town to buy extra coffee for the road. He walked alongside Harald while Egill sat atop the horse and tried not to laugh every time he saw Torbjörn Jr.

The bad news was that the weather had turned, and spring rain was now falling down. It wasn’t heavy, but it was cold, and Egill hadn’t yet thought to stitch staves for imperviousness and warmth into his new shirt. The ones in his other clothes were wearing out; Einar had done those. He was always better at them.

Søren and Torbjörn, of course, had not even that, and Torbjörn was squinting through glasses full of raindrops. Still, they went on, out of the city. For now, they would follow the railroad tracks, because the river meandered far west at this point while the tracks went almost straight south to Wildrose Valley, which was about halfway between Kai’s Bend and Havenbridge, and would take two or three days to reach.

At the end of a miserable day’s ride that even Søren’s coffee couldn’t make better, all three of them were grumpy, but they set up camp in a relatively sheltered dell. Though the foliage wasn’t thick yet, the trees still provided some cover. Torbjörn sat under a canvas and was trying to light a fire when Egill returned from setting up his tent and the magic staves to protect them. Søren was looking after the horses.

Predictably, Torbjörn was having a difficult time getting the wet wood to take a spark, grumbling under his breath as he struck match after match.

“Can I try?” Egill asked. With a disgruntled hum, Torbjörn handed him the matches. Sitting down on the log next to him, Egill set them down, instead pulling a piece of wood from the little pile of kindling and drawing his knife from his belt. He did this often when he traveled with his brother; he was better at fire.

Into the wet piece of wood, Egill carved a familiar stave. Torbjörn watched with obvious skepticism, and Egill couldn’t help but smile at him, excited despite himself to be able to prove him wrong. He held the wood in his left hand, folding his fingers around it, and took a deep, concentrated breath to push his power into the stave.

The wood crackled and burst into flame.

Torbjörn jolted, and his eyes widened behind his glasses, now reflecting the small flame in Egill’s hand. It didn’t hurt. Carefully, he used the flame to light the kindling, and he knew the rest of the wood would catch easily now.

“There you go,” he said to Torbjörn, who was silently looking at him, expression unreadable. His hair looked gold in the firelight. Egill wriggled nervously, clearing his throat. “Torbjörn?”

Suddenly, the man moved. He reached for Egill’s hand, cradling it gently with both of his own, holding his palm up with his warm thumbs swiping over the sensitive skin there.

“I’m—I’m alright,” Egill said through a shiver, meeting his eye.

“Didn’t think… Didn’t believe it was real.”

“You knew Einar, didn’t you?” Egill shivered once more when Torbjörn’s callused thumbs swept over the inside of his wrist. The touch was so soft.

“Søren knew Einar. I knew of him. What he told me seemed…”

“I don’t blame you. I don’t think I’d believe him either.”

Torbjörn quirked a small smile, glancing over at the fire.

“’S really incredible, Egill.” This time, he swept his long fingers over Egill’s palm, but he startled when he made a noise. He dropped his hand. “I’ll—cook.” He nudged his glasses up.

“Okay,” Egill breathed. He rubbed his own hand, which now felt cold. “Oh, uh, do you have any sewing supplies?”

Torbjörn told him they were in his saddlebags, so Egill reluctantly stood and went to see where Søren had left those.

With the fire crackling and all three of them sheltered underneath the tarp, the rain didn’t seem so bad. Søren dozed after dinner. Torbjörn watched, now with curiosity, while Egill stitched staves into his new shirt and channeled some power into the old ones.

“How’d you learn these?” the man asked, leaning close. His hands were now clasped around an empty bowl, and his deep voice rumbled in Einar’s ear.

“My father taught us some, but Einar and I, we both just know when something works.”

“Incredible,” Torbjörn said again.

“Should—shall I make one for you?”

“’F you want.”

Swallowing, Egill nodded, and Torbjörn took his large, dark blue coat off. It was a nice coat, heavy and still warmed when Egill pulled it over his legs. He doubted it needed the stave, as it was obviously well-made, but he set to stitching it into the back of the collar.

It was quick work, and he pushed a good amount of his power into it.

“It’ll wear off over time,” he told Torbjörn, handing the coat back to him. Yawning, he felt his head pound suddenly. That might have been a little too much power. “If it doesn’t work anymore, I can redo it.” He pressed a hand against his temple.

“Maybe—you alright?”

“Overdid it. I just need to sleep.”

Torbjörn had to steady him when he stood. Egill leaned on his shoulder, closing his eyes.

“Come.” Torbjörn stood too, and steered Egill to his tent with his hands on both shoulders, draping his coat over him.

“Torbjörn, I’m—I’m fine,” Egill protested. “There’s no need.”

On the other side of the fire, Søren jolted and made a confused noise.

“Rest,” Torbjörn said. And, when Egill did duck into his tent after being once more relieved of his coat, “Good. Thank you, Egill.”

“Yeah, of course,” he stuttered. “Of course.” He lay down and tried not to think about the unexpected softness of Torbjörn’s voice. He was kind. And despite being at most ten years older than him, he probably thought of Egill as a helpful child, a charge even. Egill wouldn’t be surprised if that was how he saw everyone.

But then again… His hand tingled with the memory of the man’s touch. Egill turned over on his bedroll, curled into a ball and willed himself to sleep.

Fortunately, though dawn was grey, the rain had ceased. They continued their journey. Wildrose Valley was close, already visible in the distance between the hills, but they agreed they had no business in the city and would travel around it.

“It ain’t much anyway,” Søren told Egill, gesturing at the smoke rising on the horizon. The road was fairly busy. “Unless you’re lackin’ in company, if y’know what I mean.”

“I’m not,” Egill said.

“No, I suppose y’ain’t.” Søren grinned over his shoulder, and Egill was startled into smiling back.

“No one could be, with you around,” Torbjörn put in from behind them on Torbjörn Jr, dryly. Egill bit his lip to keep from laughing at Søren’s pout.

They did take advantage of being close to the city to stop at a roadside bakery and pick up fresh bread, which smelled amazing. Torbjörn even helped the baker lift a barrel of grain and got an extra bit of honey cake for his trouble, carefully wrapped in wax paper for the road. His hum was definitely pleased. Egill was starting to learn to differentiate them.

And so, they had a little feast that evening, as Søren caught several fish—aided by a stave etched into his fishing pole—in a stream that fed into the river that ran through the city. Egill made his usual protections, walking around camp.

Torbjörn looked up when he sat down beside him, stretching his sore legs.

“You alright?” he asked.

“Fine,” Egill confirmed.

“Tired?”

“Torbjörn, I’m fine.”

A hum, this one indecipherable to Egill.

“Hey, Egill,” Søren said, coming over, “wanna play a game?”

He taught Egill how to cheat at card games, grinning with delight when he was tricked.

“Einar never let me play,” Egill told him absently.

“Lookin’ after you, I’d imagine.” Søren stilled for a moment. “Gonna be another week and a half down to Havenbridge.”

Egill nodded as he ran his fingers over the edge of his cards.

“You still plannin’ to leave?”

He looked up at Søren. Opened his mouth, then closed it and bit his lip. He played a card and Søren did too, a very bad one.

“Why else would I still be here?” Egill asked, staring at the cards. He put another down.

“I’d like to think we’ve grown on you, Egill.” His tone was joking, but somehow soft. “’Cause I do think you’ve grown on us. Companionship and all that.”

Egill glanced over at Torbjörn, who was running his finger over the collar of his coat, where he’d sewn the stave. Søren raised his dark eyebrows.

“It’s your turn,” Egill told him.

“It sure is.” He didn’t say anything more.

South of Wildrose Valley, the river split the landscape in two. On one side, there was the Lake Valley, which was a generous name for what was mostly swampland, where Einar had liked to tell Egill strange creatures dwelt, and on the other side was another rocky, mountainous area. The main road and the train tracks both veered west there, around the whole wet area, but, after another day of travel and a night spent under the stars, the three travelers stayed on the eastern bank, taking smaller roads up into the hills.

Although some rain fell, it wasn’t too bad, and they were making good headway when Torbjörn, ahead of Harald on the path, suddenly pulled Torbjörn Jr to a halt.

“What’s goin’ on?” Søren asked loudly, but Egill could hear what Torbjörn had evidently heard and shushed him. Someone was yelling for help, cutting off abruptly. Torbjörn squinted.

Another shrill shriek, and he took off, away from the path.

“Hey!” said Søren, and wheeled Harald around to follow him. They were forced to jump off the horse at a steep incline, both hurrying after Torbjörn and towards the harrowing sounds of a fight, which Søren now evidently heard too. He pulled out his pistol, cocking it. Egill drew his knife.

“Hey!” Torbjörn said in a booming voice that Egill had not yet heard from him but what he probably would have imagined him to sound like from his appearance. Like a roll of thunder, it was loud and intimidating. Søren tugged Egill behind a tree.

In a small clearing, there were two men and a young woman, younger than Egill, sat on the ground and looking terrified. Several other men were on the ground, evidently having been taken out in the fight, and random items were scattered about. When they saw Torbjörn, one of the men immediately pointed his pistol at the girl’s head. She cried out, and Søren swore under his breath.

“Stay here,” he told Egill, and began to scamper in her direction, hiding in the brush.

Stay here? Was he serious?

“You turn back now,” said the other man. He raised his own gun towards Torbjörn. “Nothin’ happened here, alright?”

The young woman sobbed silently, shoulders shaking beneath her fancy purple dress. Egill, who had his knife in his hand anyway, started carving a stave into the tree. The one he’d been working on in his journal.

“I won’t. You will,” said Torbjörn, steadily.

“Or what?”

As if on cue, Søren appeared behind the men, and he fired once at the one holding the gun on the girl, hitting his shoulder and knocking him to the mossy ground while he snatched her up with lightning-quick movements. They were both scrambling away when the uninjured man fired at them, disappearing between the trees.

The man who had fired at them whirled back to Torbjörn just as Torbjörn knocked his companion out with one slam of his massive fist. Egill’s hands were sweating, and he almost dropped his knife and leapt out, but Torbjörn was fast, getting close in one big step to grab the man’s arm, twisting it so that he dropped his gun.

“Ow! Ow, let—fuck!”

Torbjörn knocked him out just as unceremoniously, and glanced around the clearing with a deep frown. He whistled. From somewhere in the woods, a whistle sounded back. He kneeled down to pick up the fallen men’s weapons, glancing over at them continuously.

It all happened very quickly, and was perhaps not the first time the cousins had done this, but Egill still felt stupid and useless, could feel his power bubbling with the tension still. Søren emerged from the trees on the other side, his arm around the terrified girl’s shoulders, and Torbjörn started to ask him something, turning away. And so, Egill was the only one who noticed movement, as two separate bandits—the one who had fired at Søren and one who had already been knocked out—both clambered to their feet, both somehow still having weapons to draw.

He had no time to think. With a yell, he slammed his hand into the tree and channeled all the simmering power under his skin into it. He felt a thousand tiny pieces of bark rip off, could feel them fly into the clearing with the speed of a bullet, past Torbjörn without hitting him. They seemed to be sparking with light. Just as both men fired their guns, they were hit, knocked back with an incredible force as wood splintered and dug into their skin. They both fell over, shots going wide. One of them yelled, and Egill grimaced, looking at the lines of his new stave, reading sleep and heat both.

As the man went quiet, Egill sagged, power draining from him.

When he stumbled, he was surprised that Torbjörn caught him. Egill grabbed his coat, hanging on, burying his face in the heavy fabric as he shook. Søren was speaking, and so was the young woman, but Torbjörn just held him, strong hands on his back, now so gentle again. One curved around the back of his neck.

“Egill?” the man said, after what might have been an hour.

Egill blearily blinked at him.

“Thank you,” he said quietly, though Egill could feel his voice vibrate in his chest.

“Is—did I kill them?” he asked, voice catching.

Torbjörn squeezed his neck and said, “Yes.”

“Fuck.”

“He would’ve killed me.” His tone wasn’t matter-of-fact, but he didn’t sound horrified. He repeated, “Thank you.”

Egill made a noise in the back of his throat and hid his face in Torbjörn’s coat again. He was exhausted. Staves weren’t meant for things like this. He’d just been so scared, so… Angry. After Einar, he couldn’t lose these new people in his life too.

“We’re taking the young lady home,” Torbjörn was telling him. “Come. Can you walk?”

Although he could probably easily carry Egill, he let him struggle down the hillside, only supporting him when he stumbled. They made it back down to the horses, and Egill saw that the girl was now on Harald, sitting aside behind Søren, arms wrapped around him. Egill didn’t protest when Torbjörn all but lifted him onto Torbjörn Jr, although he yelped halfheartedly when he realized that the man was swinging into the saddle behind him, his legs pressing into Egill’s and arms reaching around to hold the reins.

If he had been more awake, Egill might have objected—then again, he might not have—but now, he let himself lean back against Torbjörn’s broad chest and go limp.

He was nearly asleep when they reached the young woman’s residence. He only noticed this because they were immediately greeted by an irate blond man in a top-hat running out of the massive building.

“Erika!” he shouted. “What happened? Who are these people?”

Søren helped the girl—Erika, then—off Harald so she could explain. Torbjörn leaned forward, his hat knocking into Egill’s head, to ask if he was awake. He must have lost his own hat when he caused the tree to explode.

“Maybe,” he replied, turning his head a little. Torbjörn let go of his horse’s reins to touch his thigh, leaving his warm hand there for a moment. Fascinated, Egill stared down at the way his whole leg was covered, and touched the back of his hand. He squeezed slightly.

“Hey!” Søren called. He jerked his chin. The man and the girl both looked up at them, his arm wrapped protectively around her narrow shoulders. They looked alike in the same way that people used to say Egill and Einar did.

Torbjörn helped Egill off Torbjörn Jr, holding him steady.

“I can see you’re tired,” said the man. “You saved my sister’s life, and for that, I am more than grateful. You’re welcome to rest here for a few days.”

 Erika nodded, eyes wide. Torbjörn squeezed Egill’s shoulder, and Søren looked at them.

“Thank you. We’re happy to take you up on that generous offer, Baron Zwingli.”

It was very odd to hear Søren speak so formally, almost making Egill laugh. Where had he learned that?

“Good. Come, my staff will show you…”

Egill let himself be led by the shoulders, not paying attention until he was finally presented with a wonderfully large bed with fresh sheets. He sat down at the foot of it, and looked at Torbjörn as the man kneeled down in front of him. He tugged at his boots.

“You don’t have to take care of me,” Einar mumbled, or did his best to, even as he shuffled up on the bed and wriggled his toes.

Torbjörn hummed, and tucked him in. He fell asleep.

When Egill woke, he was disoriented, alone in an unfamiliar bedchamber. Sunlight streamed through high windows, and it was quiet. No snoring, no mumbling, no rustling of leaves or rushing of water. Rubbing his eyes, Egill sat up.

Oh, right, they had apparently rescued a Baron’s sister, and he had… He’d saved Torbjörn’s life.

Climbing out of the bed, Egill pulled his boots on, and went out.

The house was pleasantly warm, and richly decorated even in the hallways. A broad staircase led down into the foyer, and Egill could hear a familiar laugh echoing from outside the entrance doors. He hurried towards it.

Søren had evidently already made friends with the Baron’s staff and was helping a man carry a bucket somewhere, talking animatedly. When he saw Egill come outside, he stopped, put his bucket down, and rushed over. He clasped his shoulders, and Egill was startled to see a deep relief on his freckled face, etched among the laugh lines.

“Søren—”

“I am so glad you’re awake, y’scared the hell outta us, passin’ out for a whole day like that. How d’you feel? You hungry?”

Søren,” Egill tried again. “A whole day?”

“Just about. Torbjörn’s been—”

“Søren, I can’t—” the man in question was saying, frantically, bursting outside in an entirely un-Torbjörn-like manner— “find… Egill.” He trailed off when he saw Egill, who waved awkwardly.

“I’m okay,” he said, and then he was being pulled out of Søren’s grip and into Torbjörn’s arms, which wrapped all the way around him. He muffled a noise into the man’s vest, which smelled clean and was warm. Torbjörn’s breath ghosted over his temple, ruffling his messy hair.

Slowly, Egill wrapped his arms around the man in turn, pressing his hands against his back.

“I’m okay,” he repeated, although his voice got caught in his throat when Torbjörn turned his head so that his lips brushed his temple.

“Told you he’d be fine,” said Søren. “He’s a resilient one.”

Torbjörn hummed, rumbling in his chest. Egill categorized this one as relief, and then tried to extricate himself, suddenly very aware of what was happening and that Søren was right there.

As soon as he stepped back, Søren asked, “What about me, do I get a hug?”

“Søren,” said Torbjörn.

Biting his lip, Egill did turn to Søren, and hugged him too, yelping when he was pulled close. Søren was also warm, and he sighed deeply, which Egill also categorized as relief. It didn’t last nearly as long, though, and the man clasped his shoulder briefly when they parted.

“Torbjörn’ll take care of you. I got horses to feed.” He went back to his bucket.

“Hungry?” Torbjörn asked.

Egill was. Baron Zwingli had apparently given them free use of his house as long as they stayed out of his and his sister’s rooms, so Torbjörn took Egill to the kitchen to beg some food off the cook, who was more than happy to help the men who’d saved Erika’s life.

After that, Egill realized he was in desperate need of a bath, and that his clothes needed cleaning. Torbjörn went to tell someone to get warm water ready, and then led Egill to the correct room. The bath was steaming in the sunlight and smelled great.

“Let me take your clothes to get washed,” Torbjörn said, hovering in the doorway. Halfway through unbuttoning his vest, desperate to get in the tub, Egill turned to him, irritated despite himself.

“You don’t have to take care of me,” he said once again. “I’m not a child.”

“I know,” Torbjörn said, stepping inside and closing the door behind him.

“Then why do you—I thought you—” Egill angrily threw his vest on the ground and started on his shirt.

“I want to,” Torbjörn said, with some force behind it.

“You want to?”

“Look after you. Want you to be—” He cut himself off when Egill removed his shirt, throwing it down as well and leaving him in his sleeveless undergarments.

“To be what?” Egill asked, stalking over, although he faltered a little when he realized Torbjörn was staring at his bare arms, where staves were inked into his skin, disappearing underneath his last layer. The man’s blue eyes were wide. “To be what?”

Torbjörn cleared his throat, licking his lips. “Happy,” he said. “I’ll… Wait outside. Hand me your clothes ‘round the door.”

Baffled, Egill did just that, and he got in the bath. It was perfect.

He didn’t consider what he would wear until his clothes were done being laundered, before there was a knock on the door.

“Egill?” It was Torbjörn. “’Ve brought you some of my clothes to wear, ‘f you want. Already clean.”

“Oh.” Egill felt himself flush, and not because of the water, which had cooled down quite a bit. He’d been here for a while. “Thank you.”

Torbjörn placed them just inside the door in a little pile, only his arm visible.

“I’ll be—”

“Wait,” Egill interrupted. “Wait, stay there.”

He quickly got out of the bath, dried off, and got into Torbjörn’s pants and shirt, both of which were, of course, comically large on him. The collar was slipping when he opened the door to let the man back in.

“’S not ideal.” There was some humor in Torbjörn’s voice, although his gaze lingered much too long on Egill’s collarbone.

“Better than nothing.”

“Maybe,” Torbjörn said, then cleared his throat and adjusted his glasses. What did that mean?

“I need to shave,” Egill said.

“Hm. So do I.” Torbjörn had quite an impressive beard, after what must have been just two or three days without shaving. “Here.” He pulled out his own new razor, handing it to Egill.

“Can I… Add something?”

At Torbjörn’s nod, Egill laid the razor down on the edge of the washbasin and, using the sharp edge of a chipped piece of it, etched in a magic stave. His power felt good, back to normal.

“What does that one do?” Torbjörn asked.

“The stave?”

“Stave,” he echoed. “Yes.”

“It’s to prevent cuts.”

“Useful.”

Torbjörn watched him shave, hands clasped in front of him. The air was still warm.

Eventually, he said, “You saved my life, Egill.”

“Maybe. I…” He rinsed the razor in the basin. “Someone is dead, because of me.” His hand shook, but he didn’t cut himself. He still could, even with the stave, if it got worse.

“I know ‘s not an easy thing. Here.” Torbjörn took the razor from him, and Egill let him, turning away from the mirror. He used his left hand, just like Egill did, using his right to touch Egill’s face, tilting his head back.

A vulnerability swept over Egill, but he felt no urge to flee, not even to cover up. It was odd.

“You don’t have to,” he said.

“I know.”

 Egill closed his eyes for a moment as Torbjörn finished his pass, leaning back against the washbasin.

“You’re… A very strong man,” Torbjörn mumbled after a moment, tilting Einar’s head with his warm hand and carefully running the razor over his jaw, his neck. “But if y’can’t be sometimes, ‘s no reason to think less ‘f yourself. I want to take care of you, Egill.”

Egill breathed a curse, voice catching when he tried to speak. Torbjörn shushed him. He ran a damp cloth over Egill’s skin, and Egill opened his eyes.

“The only person who’s taken care of me is Einar,” he said, meeting Torbjörn’s icy blue eyes, steady on his face. “I don’t… Want that.”

“You’re not my brother.”

Egill made a noise in the back of his throat and reached for the shaving soap and brush.

“Turn around.”

Without a word, Torbjörn did, leaning on the edge of the washbasin in a slouch so Egill could easily reach his face. It’d been a long time since Egill had shaved anyone else—and it’d only happened with Einar, and, once upon a time, his father, who’d mostly done it to teach him. He willed his hands to stop shaking, certain he’d cut Torbjörn despite his stave if he didn’t.

His shirt—Torbjörn’s shirt—slipped down his shoulder. He saw Torbjörn gaze at his tattooed skin.

“They’re for protection,” he said, as he brushed shaving soap over his beard. “And to make me stronger.”

Egill was now standing between the other man’s long legs. He put the brush down and picked up the razor. Torbjörn tilted his head back.

“Fuck,” Egill breathed. The trust. He knew that he would kill ten more men if he could protect Torbjörn that way, even if it knocked him unconscious for a month. He raised the razor.

Egill was careful shaving him, listening to his breath as it sped a little, running his fingers over newly revealed skin when he rinsed the razor. Torbjörn’s eyes closed, only opening again when Egill ran the damp cloth over his jaw and neck. They were dark, and Egill made another strangled noise. Trembling, he continued to run his fingers over Torbjörn’s skin, over his faint freckles and the lines around his mouth.

“I want.” He swallowed. “I want to take care of you, too.”

“You can,” Torbjörn promised. “Be happy to let you.”

“You’re not… My brother.” His breath caught when Torbjörn touched his bare shoulder, running his large hand to the side of his neck. He must be able to feel how Egill’s heart was hammering, maybe even to feel his power thrum under his skin.

“Don’t wanna be.”

“Fuck,” Egill said once more, his body strung tight.

And then, he tugged at Torbjörn’s face with both hands until he leaned over, and kissed him. He was immediately pulled closer, and wrapped his arms around the man’s neck, arching into him as their mouths met. It was not frantic but it was deep, and Egill could swear he felt a spark leap between them, something that felt like his powers surging into Torbjörn. The man groaned, tilting his head into the kiss. His thighs spread around Egill’s hips, strong arms wrapped around him and almost lifting him off the floor.

It felt both safe and infinitely thrilling, and Egill did not want to stop. He wanted to stay here until he couldn’t feel his lips, until he couldn’t feel where his powers flowed from him into Torbjörn.

When Torbjörn did eventually pull back, his pale face was flushed and his expression dazed, and Egill could only think yes. He did that. His lips tingled.

“Stay with us,” Torbjörn whispered. “With me.”

Egill didn’t even really have to think about it. He realized that he hadn’t thought of why they were going to Havenbridge in days now.

“I won’t go into the mountains,” he said. Never again.

“I won’t make you.”

“You’re…” Egill shuffled, looking down at Torbjörn’s chest, hidden beneath that nice blue vest. “You’re a good man.”

“Hope so.” His fingers swept underneath Egill’s shirt, seemingly absentmindedly; he widened his eyes when Egill softly gasped.

“But if you don’t want to be for a while…”

Blue eyes swept over his exposed collarbones, and Torbjörn’s whole hand pressed underneath Egill’s shirt.

“I’d be happy to help.”

Torbjörn kissed him again, hungrily, Egill pressing him against the edge of the washbasin, the whole length of their chests touching.

“Hey! You folks gettin’ busy in there?” yelled Søren, outside the washroom door.

“Go away!” Egill shouted back, and Torbjörn seemed to choke, face going even redder.

“Just sayin’. We’re invited for dinner with the Baron, now you’re awake. Be presentable in a half an hour.”

Egill looked down at his messy, too-large shirt, Torbjörn’s hand rucking it up.

“Uh.”

“Let me, hm.” Torbjörn cleared his throat. “Let me go check with the launderer.”

Before he left, he ducked down and kissed Egill again, and Egill saw him smile as he walked away.

Søren, at dinner, seemed very amused. He and Torbjörn also seemed to be very well-versed in etiquette, which Egill wondered at. There was obviously a lot he didn’t yet know about the cousins’ history, but he would have time to learn, now.

As they turned in for the night, he debated going into Torbjörn’s room, but he needn’t have bothered; there was, after about fifteen minutes, a knock at his door.

“’S me.”

“Come in.”

Torbjörn was just in his undergarments, and Egill’s mouth went dry as he finally got the chance to openly gaze at the impressive figure the man cut in the low light. He made room for him on the bed, still on top of the covers, but Torbjörn didn’t sit. Instead, he leaned over to kiss Egill, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. Egill gripped his short hair, arching up.

“Gonna take care of you,” Torbjörn rumbled against his lips.

“Oh—please.”

They ended up with Torbjörn sitting against the headboard, Egill kneeling over his impressive thighs. They had both removed their shirts but nothing more. There was no need to hurry, and there was enough to explore already, just like this. Torbjörn had, for example, kissed Egill’s neck, touched his chest with careful fingers, making his heart skip multiple beats.

“D’you do these yourself?” he was asking now, tracing the slightly raised skin of the tattooed stave that protected Egill from small fires.

“Einar. I don’t know how, or I’d—I’d…” He traced invisible lines into Torbjörn’s skin. “You and Søren both.”

He hummed, consideringly. “Does the person who does them have to be… Like you?”

“No, my father’s were made by my mother.”

“The man in Havenbridge, with the boat. He does tattoos.”

“The man who named your horse Torbjörn Jr?” Egill laughed, and was quite pleased to be pulled into a kiss to be stopped. He could get used to that.

The door burst open.

“Hey, Egill—Jesus Christ, I should’ve knocked!” Søren yelped.

“Søren!” Torbjörn boomed, certainly loud enough to wake the whole household, but for some reason, Egill could only continue laughing. He hid his face in his hands, shaking.

Torbjörn huffed.

“What’re you doing here?” he asked Søren.

“It was… Quiet. I can go.”

Egill looked at Søren, who clasped the back of his neck, and at Torbjörn, who looked unimpressed but somehow fond.

“You can stay,” he said, climbing off Torbjörn’s legs to sit next to him instead.

“Okay!” Coming closer, Søren widened his eyes when he looked at Egill. “Wow, that’s some ink! Is that… Magic?”

Egill nodded.

“Wow,” he repeated. Søren was also in his undergarments, and sat cross-legged at the foot of the bed. His hair was in disarray. “You comin’ along with us now?”

“He is,” Torbjörn confirmed, the fondness now creeping into his voice. Egill ducked his head, smiling down at his hands in his lap.

“Glad to hear it. Not goin’ down to Havenbridge anymore, then?”

“No, we are,” Torbjörn said.

“Oh?”

Egill leaned into his side, touching a hand to his chest.

Søren can coax Einar out of any mood, with his smile undeterred by the man’s often dark countenance. He throws an arm around his shoulders, grins against his temple while he tugs Torbjörn over with his other hand, fisted in his coat.

“I don’t think they know how annoying he is,” Einar said, and then seemed to choke on the food he hadn’t eaten. “Was.”

Søren the Axe-wielder, they were calling him. The warrior who finally conquered the powerful entity most people were afraid to name. It was a title he would’ve loved, Torbjörn thought. Although he probably wouldn’t have been a fan of the way his axe was now being passed around like some sort of relic, by people that weren’t him or either of them.

“Very annoying,” Torbjörn agreed, his voice scratchy with disuse. “Never should’ve let him go out in the first place.”

He’s so earnest, so ready to lay down his life for them from the moment they meet, and seems confused that they’d do the same. Torbjörn worries, sometimes, that they aren’t good for him, that they’ll drag him down with their silences. But he doesn’t know how to tell Søren that, so he tries to pour his appreciation into the wood he carves, making new beads for his wild hair or a new handle for his axe, talismans for both him and Einar. Just as Einar learns protective spells to lay on the wood and weaves tales by firesides across the realm to enchant both of them. It’s always the three of them.

“He can be so stubborn,” Einar continued, stabbing his knife into a piece of meat. He didn’t correct his tense this time, and neither did Torbjörn, who just nodded, reaching for his arm. He really should eat; it had been a long battle. Einar looked over at him, dark blue eyes edged with the wild, iridescent purple of his magic.

Or, maybe, it was just emotion this time. If it was, Torbjörn had not the skill to say. Søren would have known.

Relieved and adrenalin-filled after a mighty battle, Torbjörn tangles his hands in Søren’s ever-unruly hair while the man recounts the whole thing, and Einar tiredly crafts healing potions. Søren never shuts his mouth, and in moments like these, it’s a relief to both of them, to know he’s still there. The way he lets Torbjörn mend his armor and Einar heal his wounds means he’s relieved, too.

Eventually, they managed to eat some food, quietly. Ignored by the revelers in the tavern. Søren was still soaking up the attention that neither of them wanted, even though he was no longer here.

Einar kept cutting three pieces.

Sighing, Torbjörn continued to touch his arm, reminding both of them where they were. Who they were—even if he wasn’t entirely sure of what that was, now.

When the food was gone at long last, Einar laid his slender hand over where Torbjörn’s rested on his forearm. They sat still.

He never stops moving if they don’t slow him down now and then. Søren flies through life with little regard for his surroundings. He even wriggles and talks in his sleep. Einar keeps a parchment to note the strangest things he says, and Søren is always amused to find out. Sometimes, when all three of them can sleep at once, without the need for a watch, he ends up between Torbjörn and Einar, and is still for once. And then, of course, he tells Torbjörn that he snores much too loud.

The tavern started emptying; the townsfolk were exhausted from the long day and full of food and drink. They left Søren’s axe, stained with tar-like blood, behind. Torbjörn wasn’t sure what they intended to do with it, so he stood up from his bench, marched over, and took it, glaring at the few people still hanging around. They did know who he was despite Søren getting all the fame, and let him.

Of course, Torbjörn used a sword most of the time, but perhaps he could take up this weapon as a tribute to Søren. He ran his fingers over the runes he had carved into the handle, and saw them light up with a familiar purple glow as he got back.

Standing, Einar also touched the axe. A frisson of energy ran through both of them. Einar took a deep breath, the light flaring with it.

“I can feel him,” he breathed.

An infectious grin, hands rough from gripping an axe, but ever so gentle in their touch. Hair burnished copper in the sun, a thousand freckles bunching as Søren laughs.

“’S not right,” Torbjörn said.

“It’s not,” Einar agreed.

“Supposed to be three of us.”

Their hands touched over the glowing runes, and Torbjörn could almost hear Søren’s exasperated exclamation of, ‘Just say what you mean for once, you guys! By the gods, you’d think words cost gold!’

They finally speak their unspoken pact the day before the final battle: it’s the three of them against everything else. Einar weaves a spell between them, connecting them all, and he drapes over both of them in a fitful sleep, his visions darker than ever. Torbjörn is still a knight at heart, even if he’s been caught up with these strange men for years, and his sleep is watchful. Søren is the only one who sleeps well, content in the knowledge that he’s exactly where he’s supposed to be, who he’s supposed to be.

“He’s beyond this realm,” Einar said slowly, in the same sort of voice with which he issued prophecies or chanted spells—something deep and otherworldly that settled under Torbjörn’s skin. “But I don’t believe he’s beyond our reach.”

The runes flared as if in agreement, as if Søren was watching and he was grinning triumphantly, saying, ‘I knew you guys would figure it out!’

And even if he wasn’t, Torbjörn knew they would find him, would move mountains and challenge the gods themselves if they had to.

“It’s tempting,” Eduard tells Tolys while he walks over to make some coffee. “Is Raivis still going?”

“No, Dragos is doing his weird accent again and Erzsébet is yelling at him, as usual.” Tolys shrugs at Eduard’s incredulous look, with his eyebrows disappearing behind his hair. “It’s part of the charm.”

With a laugh, Eduard dries his hands. There is still some paint on his long fingers, flecks of gold and white over an old ink stain.

“And what do you do, Tolys?”

“Hm?”

“Well,” he says, leaning a hip against the kitchen counter and adjusting his glasses, “Raivis monologues, Erzsébet yells at people, Stefan keeps telling me I’m bad at painting. What’s your thing?”

Tolys doesn’t think he has a thing, but he tucks his hair behind one ear and says, “I guess you’ll have to find out,” so that Eduard raises an intrigued eyebrow and leans a little closer to him.

“I look forward to it,” he replies. “Any chance you can help paint the sets?”

Picking up his cup of coffee from the awful coffee machine he himself donated to the rickety community theatre building years ago, Tolys gestures for Eduard to lead the way. They pass through the main hall, where they speedwalk away from Erzsébet trying to drag them into her argument with Dragos about his ridiculous fake accent, and into a side-room turned workshop. The air is heavy with paint fumes.

Immediately, Stefan Borisov pushes a paintbrush into Eduard’s hand, all the while telling him he sucks at painting.

“I’m an accountant!” Eduard protests indignantly.

“Good, maybe you can find out why I have almost no budget.”

In response, Eduard rolls his eyes, and turns to a large plywood slab that must be a background, half-painted in some abstract pattern.

“What exactly… Is it?” Tolys asks him, and gets a grimace in return.

“I’ve been told it’s art deco, since the play takes place in the twenties.”

“Alright.” He tilts his head. “Well, I’m sure you have other talents.”

Stefan snorts on the other side of the room. Eduard narrows his light eyes at Tolys, who smiles into his coffee. It’s been nice, having someone new in the group who’s not yet used to the general chaos that is the theatre. Especially nice since Eduard has taken all the weirdness in stride so far. And, of course, since Tolys was immediately mesmerized by the man’s eyes when they were introduced, and Eduard has seemed more than happy to let him explain things so he could see much more of them—of all of him.

“I have plenty of talents, Tolys,” he says now. “I guess you’ll have to find out.”

“Hm. I look forward to that.”

Just then, Erzsébet storms into the room, agitatedly waving her hands.

“This is all your fault, Borisov!” she shouts. “You let him do his stupid accent one time—”

Stefan blithely continues measuring plywood, so Tolys sighs and tells her he’ll come talk to Dragos.

Not that it will help.

-

Now that they’re a good while into preparations for this autumn’s play at the community theatre, there are finally things to do for Tolys, and for Eduard. The two of them are in charge of lighting and sound respectively, but have mostly been helping Stefan with the sets until the cast’s blocking was close to finished.

This evening after he got home from work, Tolys had been quite eager to get to the theatre if just to spend time in his control box with Eduard, but he hasn’t been able to find the man anywhere.

Not, at least, until he walks into a dressing room.

“Not to interrupt…” he starts slowly. “Feliks, you know he’s not in the play, right?”

In a corner of the room, Eduard is sitting stiffly in a folding chair, blond hair pulled back from his face with a bandana. He’s squinting in Tolys’s direction, his sea-green eyes even more striking than usual because they’re, for some reason, framed by dark eyeliner. Something has surely happened to his eyebrows as well, but Tolys has no idea what.

Feliks swivels to him on his saddle chair, pointing a thing of mascara his way.

“No, but!” He gestures at Eduard, who squints some more. “He’s got a very similar complexion to Raivis and I need to know what works, and Raivis is too busy doing stress monologues.”

Raivis is currently, as far as Tolys is aware, trying to teach Zdeno to longboard in the parking lot, much to Erzsébet’s dismay, but it’s a fair point otherwise.

“Are you done now?” Eduard asks Feliks faintly.

“No! Sit still.”

Tolys tries to shoot Eduard a reassuring smile but gets no reaction, and that’s when he realizes that the man isn’t wearing his glasses. And that, even more than the eyeliner, is what’s making his eyes stand out so much. He watches with fascination while Feliks puts the mascara on Eduard, who looks terrified the entire time. Having been part of several plays now, including as an actor, Tolys has come to realize that more makeup always seems to be needed than he expects beforehand.

“Is mascara really dependent on complexion?” he asks nonetheless. Feliks just grins and winks at him over his shoulder, and then tells Eduard he’s finished. Standing, he snaps his fingers.

“Tolys, what do you think?”

“I think…”

Eduard seems terrified to blink.

“Well, he looks very handsome.”

With a dramatic sigh, Feliks elbows Tolys in the side and rolls his eyes when he looks over, obviously amused.

“Can I put my glasses back on?” asks Eduard.

“Yeah, sure. I’m gonna go see if Raivis has some time to spare!” Feliks waltzes out of the dressing room with a jaunty salute.

“If Raivis has time, why did you need—” Frowning, Eduard crosses his arms.

Tolys walks over, spotting the man’s wire-rimmed glasses sitting on a table. He picks them up and hands them to Eduard, who smiles gratefully as he puts them on.

“I feel like an idiot,” he says morosely, standing up and looking in a mirror.

“Don’t worry, Feliks putting makeup on crew members is basically tradition. That’s his thing, I guess.” Even when, as they do, the roles change and someone else is in charge of the makeup. “Besides, I do think you look nice.”

“Nice, hm?” Eduard pulls the bandana from his hair. “That’s a step down from handsome.”

“I believe I said very handsome,” Tolys replies, feeling his face heat.

“Is that your thing?”

“Huh?” Handsome, tall men? Those certainly are. At least some of them.

“Compliments.” Eduard smiles, a slight mischievous edge to it that is exacerbated by the eyeliner, which makes him look roguish. Tolys didn’t realize that was his thing, but he has to admit, it’s working. He blinks, Eduard’s response filtering through to him. Compliments?

“Only when I mean them.”

“Alright, good to know,” Eduard says softly. And then, “Hold on, how am I going to get this off my face? I don’t own any makeup remover!”

“Surely there’s some around here?”

They both look at the array of bottles and brushes Feliks has left behind. Eduard pushes his glasses up and squares his shoulders.

“Right.”

They find the remover and some cotton pads quickly enough. Sighing, Eduard takes his glasses off again and leans very close to a mirror to start to wipe the makeup off.

“How did Feliks rope you into this, anyway?” Tolys asks, sitting down on Feliks’s chair.

“He said he had ‘experiments’ to do.”

“And you just went along with it?”

“Well, I didn’t know! And I’m not afraid of experiments.”

“I guess that’s good to know.”

Eduard chuckles. As he leans on the table with one hand, Tolys’s eye is drawn to the lean muscle in his forearm, moving under the pale skin. He wonders at it; surely, an accountant shouldn’t have such nice arms.

“You’re left-handed,” he observes, clearing his throat. Eduard hums as he scrubs furiously at one eye with a cotton pad.

“Yeah. Oh, I wanted to ask you something.” He picks up another cotton pad. The eyeliner has smudged everywhere, which is also very distracting.

“Yes?”

“Do you play any instruments?”

“Oh, not really. Learned to play the recorder in school, like everyone 20 years ago, but nothing since. Why do you ask?”

“I had this idea.” He switches to his other eye. Cringes. “Oh my god, that is very unpleasant.” He’s tearing up, and Tolys can’t help but laugh a little. “No, shut up. I hate when things are in my eyes. I swear I nearly had a panic attack when I tried contact lenses.”

“I’m sorry, that’s fair,” Tolys says, even if he’s still a little amused. “Anyway, I think… I think you’re cute with glasses, so that’s alright.”

For a moment, Eduard is silent, although Tolys can see him smiling in the reflection even as he scrubs makeup away.

“It’s cute now, is it?” he eventually asks, and picks up yet another cotton pad.

“Better or worse than nice?”

“It’s all great,” he says earnestly, still smiling.

“I’m glad.” Tolys pushes a hand through his hair, suddenly quite warm. “What was that about musical instruments?”

Wiping a last, clean, cotton pad across his face, Eduard puts his glasses back on and leans back against the table. Feliks would probably call it a vanity, but it really isn’t; it used to be a set piece, several years ago. When Eduard crosses his arms, the muscles in his arms move again, distractingly.

“I was thinking about background music. Or at least some musical stings. But I barely have the budget for stock sound effects, after getting that new microphone.”

The old microphone broke during the spring play’s last showing; Erzsébet needed to shout all her lines. Luckily, she’s very good at shouting.

“So you want us to do the music?”

“If there are enough instruments among everyone. I play a couple myself, and I can compose some things…”

“So those are some of the talents you mentioned?”

 Eduard laughs, uncrossing his arms to grip the edge of the table. His hair is still a little wilder than usual, when it is very straight down his forehead, and the scrubbing at his face has left him flushed, and Tolys would love to see more of that. He’d also love to know just how strong his arms actually are. If he could push them down, maybe, if just to watch the muscles work.

“What instruments do you play?” he asks instead.

“Mostly piano, or keyboard.”

With those long fingers? That makes sense. Oh, that might be where the muscles come in.

“I think Feliks plays the piano.”

“Organ, actually,” Feliks interjects from where he’s appeared back in the doorway, Raivis trailing behind.

Eduard jumps, rattling the table. Feliks snaps his fingers at the both of them.

“Get out of here. I’ve got experiments to conduct.”

“Godspeed, Raivis,” Eduard mutters. Raivis shrugs, and Feliks winks at Tolys again as he leaves the dressing room.

-

When Tolys enters the theatre, Iryna is singing. Apparently, she’s still upset they’re not doing a musical. This time, however, there is someone singing with her. It isn’t her sister, or Raivis, who is a great singer, but this voice is too deep to be his. Tolys knows Stefan can sing but just doesn’t, and so he has no idea who to expect until he opens the doors, leaving the summer heat outside, and sees that it is Eduard, who’s also playing the keyboard that’s somehow always left unattended somewhere in the building.

He has a very pleasant voice, a steady counter to Iryna’s nearly operatic vocals. It takes a moment for Tolys to realize that the song they’re singing is about the play, although most of the lyrics are pretty nonsensical. Are they making it up on the spot?

“Ah, Tolys,” says Kveta, apparently unimpressed as she enters the hall behind him. Eduard glances over and smiles, but his hands don’t falter on the keyboard.

Tolys greets Kveta. She taps his arm, and he reluctantly looks at her instead of at Eduard’s elegant fingers, or his arms. They’re very nice.

“Can I borrow you for a moment?”

“Are you doing experiments, too?” he asks her warily, eyeing her sharp eyeliner as she rolls her eyes.

“I just need a hand. I know you can sew.”

He can, so he follows her to the side room that’s been designated her workshop. It’s a little overwhelming in here, to be honest. With Kveta in charge of costumes, it was bound to be. Technically, she and Feliks share responsibility for makeup and wardrobe, and they are, from a creative standpoint, the best choices among them by far. Tolys does think the look of the play may end up outshining the actual play, though.

Kveta tells him to sew a trim to a dress that he thinks is for Nadzeya’s villain character, which is easy enough, so he sets to work at the sewing machine.

After a while, both Iryna and Eduard wander into the room, chatting amicably.

“Great!” Kveta says happily. “Iryna, I’ve finished the modifications to your suit.” She gestures her over, leaving Eduard to wander to Tolys’s corner of the room. Tolys looks up when he’s finished the trim.

“So, you sew,” Eduard says, sounding… Impressed.

“And you sing, apparently.”

Eduard shrugs, pushing his glasses up.

“That’s another talent. I can see why you volunteered to do the sound.” Tolys cuts the thread and flips the dress right-side-out.

“Well, I don’t think any of my many other talents would be useful at a theatre,” Eduard says, deadpan. He looks around at the explosion of fabrics and colors in the room. “Actually, I think I know where the budget went.”

“Yeah, we really shouldn’t have given Kveta free rein. There should be someone overseeing everything. Maybe for next year’s spring play.”

Iryna emerges, and Kveta makes a delighted noise that makes everyone smile.

“Maybe a little free rein,” Tolys amends. Iryna truly looks as though she’s stepped out of the 1920s. He holds both thumbs up at her, and she beams, and then he turns to Eduard, asking, “Do we have something to do?”

“Right, yes! Erzsébet wants to do the big reveal scene with Nadzeya and Raivis, and I think it will need lots of dramatic lighting.”

“Exciting.” He follows the man out of the dressing room. Eduard looks over his shoulder, curiosity in his eyes.

“Any reason in particular you know how to sew?”

“I, ah…” Tolys pushes a hand through his hair. “I do historical re-enactments. It’s very useful for that.”

“Really?” Eduard pauses in front of the door to their sound-and-lighting box, which is sure to be unbearably hot in the summer evening. He looks with something like wonder down at Tolys, which isn’t the reaction he’s used to receiving. “You know, I’ve always wanted to try that, it’s fascinating!”

“Yeah?” Tolys smiles. “Well, you know, everyone’s welcome. I’d be happy to help out.”

“What sort of time period do you… Re-enact?”

“Late medieval, mostly. I, ah, I’ve done archery since I was a teenager, and that’s the main reason I went in the beginning.”

“Archery,” Eduard says wonderingly, looking down at Tolys’s arms. “That’s very nice.”

“Any reason in particular you know how to sing, Eduard?”

“Ha!” He opens the door to the box, which does, unfortunately, feel like a sauna, so Tolys puts a chair in front of it to keep it open. “Mostly dumb luck.”

Fair enough. That reminds Tolys, though…

“Are you having any luck with the music thing?” he asks as they take their places behind the control panel overlooking the hall. Despite the general state of the building and possible misdistribution of the budget, the box is quite well-appointed. Tolys has never done lighting before, but he understands now why Zdeno was doing whole laser shows last spring; it’s very tempting to press all the buttons.

“Yes!” Eduard says enthusiastically. “Have you ever heard Dragos play the violin? He’s very good.”

“Really?” Tolys had no idea.

“And I wanted some jazz elements in there, you know, since it’s the twenties,” he continues. “No one has a trumpet, sadly, but Luca plays the saxophone, so that’s great.”

“Ah, yes, everyone knows about Luca’s saxophone. Dragos won’t shut up about it.”

Eduard snorts, putting his headphones on one ear so he can hear what’s happening on stage.

“He’s just proud of his brother.” Abruptly, he takes his headphones off again and swivels to Tolys, expression serious. “I have to ask. What’s the deal with Kveta and Zdeno? Are they related or married or what?”

Tolys laughs out loud, leaning back in his chair. “They do it on purpose, I swear! Every time someone new joins, they get confused. They’re siblings.”

“Real family affair around here, isn’t it?” Eduard asks, lips twitching with laughter as he puts his headphones on once more.

“You’re here because of your cousin,” Tolys reminds him.

“Yes, and she’s yelling at Dragos again. Also, I hope my brother never joins; he’s a horror fanatic.”

Oh no, that’s a bad idea. Tolys spent ages washing fake blood out of rented costumes a few years ago. Damn Dragos and his obsession with vampires. And Stefan, who had let him do his outrageous accent.

 “Okay, ready,” Eduard is saying over the loudspeakers, so that it echoes through the empty hall. Tolys puts his headphones on as well and gets ready to push buttons.

-

“That looks really nice, actually!” Tolys enthuses, stepping back from the stage to take in the whole set.

“There’s no need to sound so surprised about it,” Stefan grumbles even as he gazes proudly at his work. Much like Kveta and Feliks, Stefan is the right person for this role, and he can actually work within a budget.

“Well, he saw me painting,” Eduard rationalizes. He’s sitting on the edge of the stage and typing on a laptop.

“I’ve heard you have other talents,” Stefan says dryly. “Right. Erzsébet! Give me a hand!”

She stomps onstage from the wings. Tolys hops up to sit next to Eduard, peering at his screen, from which he gleans nothing. It’s either accounting or music production, both of which might as well be magic to him. There are lots of colors.

Eduard glances at Tolys, the screen reflecting in his glasses, opens his mouth but doesn’t say anything, and then he shifts ever so slightly, until his thigh presses barely into Tolys’s. It’s a small, seemingly innocent movement that has Tolys’s heart skipping a beat anyway. Ever since the first time they met, he thinks they’ve both been aware that something could be there. It feels very much like it’s a matter of time, and he’s happy to let it play out.

“Anything I can help with?” he asks, knowing it’s probably futile.

“You can take a listen later and tell me what you think.”

“I don’t know anything about music.”

“That’s nonsense.” Eduard smiles at him. He’s close enough that Tolys notices he smells pleasantly like baked goods.

“Hey, Ed, can you come over here a second?” Erzsébet asks from behind them. “I have some questions.”

Nodding and throwing Tolys an apologetic smile, Eduard puts his laptop aside and clambers to his feet to go with his cousin. She’s the only one who calls him Ed; Tolys wonders if the man would mind if he did.

Feliks comes walking up to the stage, looking at his phone until he spots Tolys. For some reason, he’s wearing one of Luca’s costumes. One for when he’s a villainous henchman. Luca has a lot of roles; they really need more people to join.

“How’s it going with the new guy?” Feliks asks. He puts both elbows on the edge of the stage so he can lean his chin in his hands and look up at Tolys.

“He’s doing great, I think!”

“Sorry, I should’ve been more clear.” Feliks gestures with one hand. “How’s it going with your seduction of the new guy?”

“Seduction?”

“Courting?” he suggests, grinning, and then grinning even wider when Raivis, who is also wearing one of Luca’s costumes, comes up from the other side and says, “Wooing, surely.”

“Ooh!” Feliks snaps his fingers. “Romancing!”

“Guys,” Tolys says, looking back over his shoulder. “What is this, high school?”

“It feels like it sometimes,” Raivis says.

“You must’ve done a lot of very long presentations, then,” Feliks replies. Turns back to Tolys. “And I was homeschooled. Anyway, I’m not blaming you. He’s cute.”

“Very tall,” Raivis puts in, nodding sagely, as if that isn’t the first thing anyone would notice about Eduard. Well, aside from his eyes. Tolys puts both his hands over his warm face.

“No, like, really! I support you!” Feliks insists. “I just want to know how it’s going!”

“You want to gossip about it with Erzsébet, is what you mean,” Tolys mutters into his hands. “Look, it’s… It’s going. I’m not sure where yet, but it is.”

“Cryptic,” Raivis comments, while Feliks just sighs dramatically, although he’s grinning when Tolys looks at him, not unkindly. They’ve been friends for a long time, and he supposes it’s nice to know Feliks approves. Over the years, he’s proven quite insightful when it comes to his taste in men.

“Hey,” comes Eduard’s voice from behind Tolys once more, and one of the man’s hands lands gently on his right shoulder, “is there a reason everyone’s wearing Luca’s clothes?”

“Experiments,” Raivis just says, which makes Eduard chuckle warmly. He puts his other hand on Tolys’s left shoulder, long fingers gently pressing down, and Tolys bites his lip when Raivis quirks his eyebrows at him.

As Eduard thanks Feliks for his help with the music, Tolys leans his head back a little bit, and he can feel Eduard shift in response, until one of the man’s thumbs swipes over the collar of his T-shirt and across the bare skin of his neck. Surely, he must be able to feel Tolys’s pulse thundering?

“Right.” Eduard clears his throat. He pushes down briefly, so Tolys tilts his head further back to look up at him, meeting those sea-green eyes. What little hair Tolys has left out of his ponytail falls away from his face.

Eduard blinks, fingers curling against Tolys’s shoulders. Then, he smiles.

“Want to listen to some musical stings?” he asks, leaning down just a little bit.

“Sure.”

Stepping back, Eduard offers a hand to Tolys to help him up, which Tolys takes and uses to step close to him. In response, he only gets another smile, and Eduard bends down to retrieve his laptop, then gestures for him to come along.

“It really is going, huh?” Feliks asks. Raivis snorts, and Tolys laughs softly.

“It is,” he confirms, and follows Eduard to their box.

-

Somehow, things manage to get more chaotic as opening night approaches, but Tolys is certain it will all come together in the end, as it always seems to do. Luca’s doing all his costume changes in time now, Raivis has stopped his nervous monologuing, Dragos isn’t doing the accent anymore, and Iryna has remembered she’s supposed to act, not sing.

Nadzeya and Zdeno were already doing well, even if they both seemed disinterested at first.

All the budget going to costumes was worth it, Tolys thinks. Obviously, Kveta is just as concerned with historical accuracy as he is when it comes to his re-enactments.

It’s a shame, though, that Eduard won’t be wearing one of those nice suits Raivis has; Tolys has taken to imagining him in a waistcoat.

“Can I offer you some cake in this trying time?” the man in question is asking now, holding a Tupperware out to Tolys. Though he isn’t in a waistcoat, he has a nice blue shirt on, the sleeves distractingly rolled up to his elbows.

“Huh?”

“I made some cake,” Eduard elaborates. “Nothing fancy.”

Tolys gratefully takes a slice of cake, smiling up at him.

They’re in the foyer of the theatre, watching people come in—mostly family—to watch the dress rehearsal. There really isn’t any reason for there to be an audience during the dress rehearsal, but it’s a tradition started long before Tolys joined that everyone’s family and friends would show up to watch. This is also the reason, he thinks, that they have a relatively large number of siblings at the community theatre.

He waves at his mother as she arrives, and she blows him a kiss.

“Your mother?” Eduard asks, sounding amused. Tolys refuses to be embarrassed. Sure, he’s thirty-one, but he loves his mom.

“It’s for good luck,” he says.

“That’s nice. My brother gave me the finger.”

Tolys laughs at Eduard’s pained look, narrowly avoiding spraying cake crumbs everywhere.

“This is very good,” he says instead, swallowing. “Another talent, is it?”

“What, baking? I think that that’s more of an acquired skill.”

“There are people at re-enactments who make all these old recipes, over a fire and everything,” Tolys tells him, and Eduard lights up.

“That sounds so interesting!”

“Yeah, it’s…” Tolys smiles helplessly, a little taken aback by the full force of his enthusiasm. “I’d be happy to take you. You can borrow something of mine, even.”

Eduard’s gaze sweeps down Tolys’s body in a way that’s certainly not assessing if his clothes would fit, and Tolys shoves the last bit of cake into his mouth.

“That sounds great, I’ll have to take you up on that.” Eduard checks his watch. “We should go get ready now, though.”

They make their way to their box, the entrance to which is in an empty corridor outside the theatre hall. Tolys takes a deep breath, and Eduard turns to him, hand on the door handle.

“Are you nervous?” he asks with genuine curiosity.

“Not… Really. Not for myself, at least.” Tolys pushes a hand through his hair and looks up at Eduard to catch him blinking somewhat dazedly down at him. “I suppose I could always use…” He trails off, suddenly embarrassed.

Eduard raises his eyebrows, stepping closer and touching his arm briefly.

“What?”

“I was going to say… I could always use some more luck.”

Parting his lips, Eduard gazes down at him, until he smiles slowly.

“Well, certainly I could help with that. I have so many talents, after all.”

“You—” Tolys laughs, and then decides, might as well—it’s where it’s all been going—and reaches for Eduard’s collar, which reveals the dip of his throat, to fold his fingers into it. The man’s eyes widen, but he is still smiling. He touches Tolys’s arms again, this time lingering.

“Maybe I could sing you a song,” he muses teasingly. “Or write a piece of—”

“Eduard?”

“Hm?” He leans down when Tolys gently tugs at his collar, fingers trailing up his forearms.

“Kiss me already.”

He does, leaning down until Tolys meets him halfway, turning his face into the gentle slide of his lips. It’s soft, but it sparks through Tolys nonetheless, especially when Eduard pulls him closer by the waist until their bodies are touching.

“So…” Eduard starts, straightening just slightly and looking down with half-lidded eyes. “Another talent?”

Tolys grins. “That’s pretty presumptuous, Eduard.” He slides his hands up and around his neck, pulling him down again while he laughs.

This time, he catches Eduard’s bottom lip between his own briefly, which gets him a surprised little sound, Eduard’s fingers flexing on his waist, before the man tilts his head and parts his lips. It’s definitely going, Tolys thinks, pushing his fingers into Eduard’s hair.

He can’t tell how long they just stand there in the warm corridor, kissing slowly; all he knows is that Eduard looks beautifully flushed when they finally part, and somehow his glasses have been knocked askew. Tolys untangles one hand from his hair to right them.

“Yeah, cute,” he mumbles. Eduard laughs, eyes bright.

“Is that enough luck?” he asks.

“I suppose we’ll have to see.” Tolys blinks. “Uh, we really should get in there.”

“Right!”

They untangle themselves hurriedly. Tolys fixes Eduard’s collar, which makes him grin.

“That’s the thing, isn’t it?” he asks as they enter their dimly-lit box and take their places. “Your thing. It’s being helpful.”

“Eduard, I have many things.” Tolys quirks his eyebrows at him, and puts his headphones on.

-

“Oh my god, they’re both doing the accent,” Eduard says, distraught. “Tolys, is it normal for dress rehearsal to be such a mess?”

“Not… This much,” he replies, mostly very amused. Dragos and Nadzeya, who play the main villains, somehow sound both more menacing and absolutely ridiculous at the same time.

Earlier, Zdeno tripped over nothing and took Iryna down as well, and that apparently had been distressing enough that Raivis started stress-monologuing until they shut down both light and sound to end the scene. Then, Eduard had played one of his jazzy stings but somehow much too loud, and even the two of them had heard Erzsébet yell, “What the hell?” in shock.

At least, it’s almost time for the intermission. It won’t be as long as when they do actual performances, the next few weeks, but it’s something. The audience, at least, seem to think the accent is hilarious.

“They probably won’t do it again,” he tells Eduard, who is by now standing up and leaning forward over his control panel as if to see the stage better.

“No, because Erzsébet will murder them.”

“Could be.” Tolys changes the lights for the last scene, which is, unfortunately, one where Raivis speaks a lot and therefore has a high chance of monologue.

Honestly, it’s pretty impressive, the way he stays in-character as the prince the whole time.

“There he goes,” Eduard muses, gesturing.

Tolys decides to center the spotlight on Raivis, and Eduard laughs, glancing his way.

“I guess it wasn’t enough luck.”

“Well.” Deciding not to think too much about it, Tolys stands. He’s delighted when Eduard turns around eagerly, slouching against the control panels so that he can easily crowd close to him and kiss him again.

Now, Eduard pushes one hand into Tolys’s hair, and Tolys grasps his hips where they rest against the table, slotting their legs together. Eduard makes a hoarse noise in the back of his throat when Tolys swipes his tongue over his lips, and he puts his hand on the control panel as he pushes back. Tolys presses his own hand over Eduard’s, and they’re definitely pushing buttons but he’s not sure he cares, not when Eduard’s long fingers are tangling in his hair frantically and the edge of his glasses digs into Tolys’s nose and he gasps into his mouth when Tolys slides his other hand up until his fingers brush heated skin.

Tolys lets his hand linger when he pulls back to look up at Eduard’s flushed face. Then, he glances at the stage, where lights are swirling in a pattern he’s sure he never programmed and Raivis is still speaking over a rising wave of sound, somehow steadily.

“It’s bad, isn’t it?” Eduard asks, lips against his temple, his breath hot on his skin.

“Oh no,” Tolys replies, grinning up at him. “It’s very good.”

With both hands, he pushes every single slider down as Raivis’s monologue crescendoes, and then he tugs Eduard away from the control panels.

“I think we need a lot more luck for after the intermission.”

-

“It’s going, huh?” Feliks asks.

“It’s going,” Tolys confirms with a grin.

“Yeah, I thought so. Your shirt is inside-out.”

“Can you just…” Leon starts pacing around the coffee table, looking at his phone intermittently. “Can you try calling him?”

“I never call, he’ll think something’s wrong. Leon—”

“Good! Maybe he’ll pick up!”

“Leon, what is going on?” Egill repeats, raising his voice a little. “Why are you so worried about my brother?”

Still pacing around the table in the small room, Leon says, “I haven’t been able to get a hold of him since yesterday afternoon, and I’m—I’m worried.”

Why the fuck does he even have Einar’s number, let alone have such frequent contact with him that one day without is enough to send him into this much of a frenzy? And why is Egill not aware of it?

“He’s probably on one of his, I don’t know, nature trips that he does. Really, why are you so worried?”

“He’d let me know,” Leon mutters, which makes no sense; Einar frequently just disappears for a couple of days without telling even his closest friends where he’s off to. Even when it’s March and still cold like it is now.

“Leon…”

“Can you please just try, Egill?” He turns to him again, clutching his phone in both hands.

With a sigh, Egill unlocks his own phone and navigates to his brother’s contact info. He’s a good friend, he wants that on the record. If his best friend wants him to talk to his brother, he will. He presses call. Listens.

“Voicemail,” he tells Leon, the robot lady’s voice still reading numbers at him. Leon’s eyebrows draw together and he sighs deeply as he sits on the edge of the coffee table, facing him. Something in his eyes gives Egill pause. “Should I text him?” he asks. Leon nods.

“Please.”

Egill texts Einar a simple ‘what’s up’ message, but doesn’t get a notification that it’s even received, so he shakes his head at Leon, who presses his lips together tightly.

“Will you tell me what’s happening here, Leon? Why do you apparently talk to my brother more than I do? I didn’t know you were friends.”

As soon as Leon opens his mouth to reply, Egill realizes with sudden clarity that there’s really only one explanation, and feels like an absolute buffoon for not piecing it together sooner.

“We’re dating,” Leon says, just as Egill thought, although it doesn’t make it any less of a shock. “We’ve been dating for over a year.”

Over a year? Alright, that part, he didn’t see coming.

“What the… How the hell did that even happen?”

“It’s…” Leon clears his throat. “Kind of a long story.” He glances at his silent phone, eyebrows jumping indecipherably again. “But I guess I’ve got the time.”

-

There weren’t a whole lot of people on the train, but Arthur still insisted Leon stay near him at all times, as if he were a five-year-old likely to wander off without adult supervision. So Leon sat across from the man and scrolled through Instagram for lack of better things to do, occasionally glancing around when someone exited or entered the carriage.

“Arthur Kirkland,” he suddenly heard a deep, smooth voice say, from behind him. Arthur looked up and smiled in surprise.

“Einar!” he said. Leon turned slightly to look at the man Arthur was standing up to greet. He was taller than him, willowy and pale in a dark blue shirt, one long-fingered hand on the strap of a messenger bag as he shook Arthur’s hand.

“What brings you to the city?” the man was asking.

“I’m taking Leon here to school,” Arthur said, sitting back down and gesturing towards Leon, who lifted one hand in an awkward little wave. Einar raised his eyebrows so that one disappeared behind the wavy blond hair falling against his cheekbone.

“University,” Leon felt the need to clarify, because the way Arthur insisted on saying it made him feel like a child.

The train bumped on the tracks, making Einar stumble in the aisle, so he grabbed the back of Leon’s seat. His bag swung into his shoulder.

“Sorry,” he mumbled. Leon shook his head, smiling politely up at him, and Einar smiled back minutely, before turning to Arthur. “So you… Work for the university now?”

Arthur shook his head, and Leon just knew he was going to say another one of his stupid confusing things. Sometimes, he thought the man did it on purpose.

“Leon is my ward.”

Yep, there it was.

“Ward?” Einar looked down at Leon, who rolled his eyes, which made him smile. His eyes were a surprisingly dark blue, especially compared to his pale eyelashes.

“His family has entrusted him to my care for now,” Arthur was explaining, which was a gross oversimplification of the whole mess that was that situation, and made Einar frown over at him.

“Arthur, we’re the same age.”

“Yes?”

“So that’s… How do you get a ward?”

“He keeps saying that,” Leon muttered irritably. “I’m nearly twenty.”

Surprisingly, he heard Einar hum a little laugh, while Arthur just said, “It’s a long story,” as if that explained anything.

Leon looked up at Einar, who quirked his thin eyebrows and smiled when he shrugged. He smelled like pine and firewood, which seemed out of place on a train.

“We should meet up sometime—oh, excuse me.” Arthur pulled his buzzing phone out and looked at the screen. “Must take this.” He stood and walked quickly out of the carriage with a clipped, “Kirkland.”

“Sure,” Einar said dryly, and then he sprawled into the man’s seat.

“How do you know Arthur?” Leon asked. Einar vaguely waved one elegant hand around.

“We went to school together. High school. Had this little gang of nerds.” He looked at Leon from underneath his eyelashes, then leaned forward. “What d’you study?”

“Oh, uh, criminology.” And, because everyone’s next question was always if he wanted to be a cop, “I want to go into research. Maybe lab work.”

“That’s admirable,” Einar said. He stretched his long legs out in front of him, tucking his ankles between Leon’s. “Is Arthur still at the apothecary?”

Leon nodded. “It’s how my family knows him.” He blinked at Einar, suddenly amused. “Wait, a gang of nerds? That seems, like, contradictory.”

Einar smiled enigmatically and tucked his hair behind one ear. Leon, who’d never had any problems picturing Arthur as a high school nerd, found it difficult to visualize this man as such. There was a quiet elegance about him that was pretty distracting.

“We really were, though. Or at the very least, we upset the teachers plenty by showin’ up at all hours to look for ghosts or play Magic: The Gathering in the basement.”

“Oh my god!” Leon laughed. “Really? How many of you were there?”

“Just three, mostly, although others definitely joined in every now and then.” Einar seemed amused, and his ankle, which was bare between his jeans and his shoe, pressed to Leon’s. “And to my dying day, I’ll proclaim my innocence about comin’ up with any of these plans. All Arthur and Dragos.”

“Hm.” Leon leaned forward. “But what would the evidence show?”

With a languid smirk spreading across his face, Einar only sprawled more in Arthur’s seat.

“I believe I have the right to remain silent.” It was the way his dark eyes flicked down Leon’s body that gave Leon the courage to smirk back. He shook his hair out of his face.

“Sure, but body language always speaks volumes, doesn’t it?” he said. His own body certainly did; his heart beat fast, and he swallowed heavily when Einar nudged their knees together by spreading his legs. On the face of it, it seemed innocent enough, but the sprawl he was in felt absolutely indecent to Leon.

The train was braking for the next station, which meant that there was only one more stop before he and Arthur had to get off.

“Ain’t that the truth,” Einar mumbled, biting his lip.

Arthur was still holding up his phone conversation, which involved a lot of ‘have you looked in the other drawer?’ and ‘no, the other drawer’, even as the train came to a halt and some new passengers entered the carriage. Luckily, it still wasn’t very crowded, and no one bothered to ask Leon to move his luggage. So he just sat there, with Einar’s legs pressed between his, while the train started moving again.

“Next stop’s mine,” he told Einar, who nodded, lip still between his teeth.

Just as he opened his mouth to speak, Arthur entered the carriage again, and both of them straightened up. Arthur just smiled and thanked Einar for keeping his seat for him.

“No problem at all,” Einar told him, standing. “We really should catch up, Arthur. I’m sure Dragos would like to see you, too.”

“Certainly! Here.” Arthur handed Einar his phone, and the man—presumably—programmed his number in, then looked over at Leon.

“If—Leon here needs any help… Gettin’ around the city or anything, I’d be happy to…”

Arthur was nodding, and so Einar handed his phone over to Leon in turn, smirking conspiratorially. He saved his contact info simply as ‘Leon Li’.

The train started braking again, and Arthur began gathering Leon’s luggage.

“Nice to meet you, Leon Li,” Einar said, his cold fingers brushing Leon’s when he took his phone back.

“Yeah.” Leon glanced at Arthur. “See you around, maybe.”

“I’d like that.”

Leon shouldered his bag, and followed Arthur to the train doors. It was time to go meet his new roommate.

-

“People tell me all the time how much I look like Einar and you didn’t realize?” Egill asks, choosing to focus on that instead of all the blatant flirting. He doesn’t know how his brother does it, honestly. Well, Leon’s disarming, he supposes, in a way. It’s why they’re friends.

“Well, it’s not like it makes any sense for that to happen!” Leon says. “Also, your hair was literally purple.”

Oh, right, it had been.

“Yeah, alright. But you must’ve realized pretty soon, right?”

“Uh, it took a while, actually.” Leon taps his fingers on his phone. Turns the screen on and off. “We had other things to do, at first.”

Egill squints at him, then grimaces. “Leon, I don’t want to hear about my brother’s sex life!”

“What? No, that’s not even it. Look, it took us until two months into the school year to even meet again.”

-

Leon would’ve liked to see Einar soon, if just to see if it was a fluke, the way the man had looked at him, or if the crackle it had sent down his spine would be more than a one-off. But, with the start of his second year at university, and settling into the new apartment with his roommate—who was a cool guy, Leon thought, even if he’d taken a while to warm up to him—there just never seemed to be time. Einar had texted, not long after they met, and he took Leon’s excuses in stride. His texts were friendly, mostly, although he always responded in kind when Leon dared to make a slightly flirtatious comment. He sent nice pictures of the city, or little observations, and seemed interested in hearing about Leon’s lectures.

So, when they finally did agree to meet, Leon felt like he had somewhat of an understanding of who Einar was, and vice versa, and he rather liked it.

There was definitely a crackle under his skin when Leon spotted Einar at the local park where they were meeting and Einar’s dark blue gaze swept down his body again. Standing up from the bench he’d been sat on, Einar smoothed out his woolen coat and smiled at Leon as he removed his headphones.

“Hello, Leon Li,” he said, and Leon rolled his eyes.

“Just Leon will do. Hi.”

“If you say so. Nice to see you again.” Einar held out a hand, which Leon shook, politely, although he took the opportunity to step close to him, so that he had to tilt his head back to meet Einar’s eye. Einar only smiled some more, slowly, and swept his fingers briefly over Leon’s wrist, under his coat.

“Y’know, I wasn’t joking,” he said. “About showin’ you around the city, if you want.” His fingertips now curled into Leon’s palm as he finally drew his hand back, which made Leon shiver.

Much as he wanted to make a flirtatious comment right then about just what Einar could show him, he decided to save it for later, if the opportunity arose. Instead, he nodded.

“I haven’t really gotten out a lot, I guess.”

“Yeah, I remember that from university. Wanna go get some food?”

“Sure.”

Gently touching Leon’s back, Einar led them out of the park and into the winding streets of the old city, while Leon told him about how his classes were going—that, one of these days, he might get used to hearing about all the horrible things people do to each other.

“What did you study?” he asked Einar, because that had somehow never come up in all of their texts, and the man smiled wryly.

“Medieval history. And now I edit a newspaper, so…” He frowned. “I forgot to ask, any food… Allergies, or preferences?”

“Will it change where you take me?” Leon asked curiously as they crossed a bridge into a less busy part of town.

“Hm, I could probably think of many places to take you. It’s just good to know.” The smirk Leon could see out of the corner of his eye told him that Einar definitely knew what he was saying. “You know, what if I want to make you dinner?”

“What if you made me breakfast?” Leon replied, and watched as a corner of Einar’s lips ticked up again, though he didn’t reply. “Anyway, I’m lactose intolerant, but nothing too bad.”

“Good.” Guiding him down an alley, Einar pushed open the door of a little café and gestured Leon in.

The odd thing was, Leon thought as they ate some delicious pastries, that it felt… Easy. It felt as though he knew Einar already. And, sure, he never really had problems connecting with people, but still.

“You got any plans for the rest of the afternoon?” Einar asked, looking at Leon over the rim of his dainty little coffee cup with those peculiar eyes.

“Not really.” He leaned forward, elbows on the table, and was sure he saw Einar smile as he sipped coffee. “Any ideas?”

“Hm… I could show you the river, or we could go to a museum…”

“Or we could make out,” Leon said, emboldened. He grinned when that made Einar splutter into his coffee, pale skin turning red. Oh, he had freckles! They stood out when he blushed.

“I guess we could do that, too,” he mumbles. Cleared his throat. “Very straightforward. I like that, Leon.”

Leon wet his lips, which Einar unsubtly watched, but then, the man frowned, and Leon met his eye.

“Look, we don’t have to,” he said.

“Oh, believe me, I wanna. But I do feel like we oughta talk about it first.” And, at Leon’s nod, he leaned forward over the table as well, lowering his voice until the smooth sound rose just above the general hum of conversation. “You barely know anything about me.”

“Isn’t that exactly the point of, like, dating?”

“Okay, fair enough. You really wanna date a guy twelve years older than you?”

Leon quirked his eyebrows, saying, “I’ve got no problems with that. A little into it, to be honest. Do you want to date a guy twelve years younger than you, Einar?”

“Y’know, I guess I do.” He blinked. “You’re… My brother’s age.”

His brother, huh. That hadn’t been mentioned before either.

“I’m also my sister’s age,” Leon offered. “On account of how we’re twins.”

“Huh. Got more to learn about you, hm?”

“Much more,” he replied, quirking his eyebrows again, and Einar smiled that languid smile that Leon already knew he would love to see more of, just because of the promise it held.

“Alright,” Einar breathed.

“Yeah,” Leon agreed. “You know, I’d actually really like to see the river.”

“I can do that.”

Einar showed him the river, and they didn’t quite get around to making out just yet, but Leon was honestly quite content with the way Einar tucked his hair behind his ear as they waited at the bus stop at the end of the afternoon, and how he swept his long fingers over his jaw softly.

“Goodnight, Leon Li,” he said, and laughed when Leon rolled his eyes, his bus pulling up.

“Night, Einar. I’ll hold you to dinner.”

-

“What I don’t understand is why you didn’t tell me. Did you tell anyone?” Egill frowns at Leon, who fidgets. Sure, it would’ve been odd, but in the end, Egill only wants the best for both Einar and Leon; if ‘the best’ happens to be each other, then so be it.

“We didn’t really tell anyone,” Leon says. “It wasn’t even on purpose, at first. We were just, you know, going on a couple dates, having fun.”

“Oh, god, did he make you his fish surprise?” Egill laughs when Leon grimaces. “See, if I’d known, I could have warned you to steer clear!”

“Very funny, Thomassen. Anyway, there is one person who found out.”

-

Einar looked a little dubious, which amused Leon.

“Not your thing, is it?” he asked, standing on his tiptoes to get close enough that Einar could hear him over the music. The man made a vague motion with his hand, letting it land on the back of Leon’s neck as he leaned down a little. The electronic beat thumped through both of them steadily.

“D’you want me to be tactful about it?”

Intrigued, Leon raised his eyebrows and shook his head.

“Well, in that case, I feel like I could give a dog a drum machine and it’d be better than this.”

Leon couldn’t help but laugh, which made Einar smile.

“Fair enough.” When he turned his head, Einar’s sharp nose brushed through his choppy hair. “Do you want to get out of here?”

“If it’s alright with you.”

Leon didn’t mind; there would be plenty of time to check out this artist later, with friends who actually liked the music.

Once outside in the cold January evening, Einar turned to him as he was putting his earplugs away, saying, “You know this means you got full permission to make fun of the music that I like.”

“We’ll just have to agree to disagree, I guess.” Leon bumped his shoulder into Einar’s arm as they walked down the street. “Besides, you should hear the stuff my roommate’s into. Sometimes, I think he’s trying to summon something with all the, like, chanting and flutes and all.”

“That sounds like the things my brother likes.”

They had already reached the edge of the city’s main nightlife area, and it was getting less crowded. Leon didn’t have any particular destination in mind; over the past few months, it had continued to be easy to just spend time with Einar, and he was happy to do just that. Even if it meant walking outside in freezing weather, his fingers all but threatening to fall off.

As if Einar could feel it too, the man reached down and silently tangled their fingers together. Smiling ahead at the street, Leon tucked both of their hands into his coat pocket.

“How come your hands are warm?” he asked. Einar squeezed his fingers.

“Just used to it, I guess.”

Before Leon could reply to that, they were both startled when a hoarse voice ahead of them called, “Einar! You didn’t tell me you had a thing!”

Leon’s hand jerked, and Einar looked down at him with concern. He shook his head, squeezing the man’s long fingers in his coat pocket.

“Not that I’m calling you a thing,” said the man the voice belonged to, halting in front of them. “Unless you’re into that—”

“Dragos!” Einar snapped, and the man grinned lopsidedly, rocking back on his heels.

“Sorry, I’ll leave that to you.” He looked down at Leon with a frown. Although he was significantly less tall than Einar, both of them towered over him. “You either got good genes or Einar never gets to make fun of me for dating a guy eight years older than me ever again.”

“Dragos…” Einar started again, while Leon looked up and said, deadpan, “I am 59 years old.”

The guy, Dragos, barked a laugh while Einar fell silent. Leon met his eye and shrugged, biting his lip to keep a grin down.

“I like this guy, Einar,” said Dragos, and why was that name familiar?

“Me too,” Einar told him, in such a quiet, earnest way that it made Leon shiver.

Hold on…

“This guy is the other member of your gang of nerds?” he asked Einar incredulously, and Einar actually grinned while Dragos started to sputter indignantly.

“You have a good memory, Leon Li.”

“But you’re… And he’s…” He gestured with his free hand at Dragos’s floor-length coat and pointed boots and the eyeliner he was wearing, visible in the glow of streetlamps. “And Arthur is so… Arthur.”

“He had a whole punk phase,” Dragos said. “Besides, I don’t know if you know this, but this guy knits his own sweaters.”

With a jaunty little wave, he flounced off, while Einar angrily muttered, “It’s crochet and you know it.” And, calling after his friend, “Hey, Bălan, don’t mention this to Arthur!”

“Sure! See you later, Thomassen!”

“Thomassen,” Leon echoed, just as Einar was about to say something to him.

“Yeah, that’s my surname.” A pause. “Hm. Guess I hadn’t mentioned that before.”

“Einar…” Leon blinked up at him. “Is your brother’s name Egill, by any chance?”

Einar blinked back. Nodded slowly.

“Huh. Small world.”

-

Leon shrugs once more.

“I don’t know, I guess it felt kind of awkward to tell you at that point.”

Egill slumps against the back of the couch. Even if that’s true, he’s sure another opportunity could’ve been found in the year since.

“I can’t believe Dragos knew,” he just says. “Of all people.”

“You know Dragos?”

“Yes, I know Dragos! I was around when this infamous gang of nerds was formed.”

“Oh my god! You knew teenage Arthur!”

“Yes, but—Leon, I don’t think that’s the point right now.”

Sobering, Leon checks his phone again, and Egill does as well. There are no messages from his brother, and despite himself, he’s getting worried too.

“But Dragos is the only person?” he asks Leon. “You didn’t even tell your sister?”

“Dude, you know Mei. She can’t keep a secret.” Leon sighs. “It’s mostly about the whole mess…”

“With your uncle. Right.”

-

Wearing those platform boots, Einar was even taller than he usually was, and Leon might not understand his taste in music—it all, unfortunately, just sounded like men with sore throats shouting a lot to him—he very much enjoyed some of the outfits that came with it. The shoes made Einar’s long legs look even longer, and Leon focused on that. On how those legs would feel wrapped around his waist as he now knew they could be, or trembling around his shoulders.

It didn’t quite seem to work like usual, though, and by the time Einar was done playing him a song on his violin that was surely very good, the man looked concerned. After putting his violin away, he slowly crouched in front of Leon, putting his hands on his thighs.

Swallowing, Leon met the familiar dark blue eyes. He still kind of felt like an idiot for not realizing sooner that Einar was his roommate’s brother, or at least related. They had very similar features, especially the striking eyes. And here, in Einar’s house, there were actually plenty of photographs of Egill, but he’d been very preoccupied the first time he’d visited.

“You’ve been quiet.” Einar curled his fingers into Leon’s jeans.

“I know. Sorry.”

Einar shook his head, blond hair covering one eye. Leon swiped it away, letting his hand linger over Einar’s sharp jaw.

“Just let me know if there’s anything I can do?”

“I think…” Spreading his legs, Leon pulled Einar closer until he leaned up and pressed himself against Leon’s chest. “For right now, I think I just need to be distracted.”

“I can do that,” Einar breathed, voice heavy with promise and nudging their noses together. “You sure that’s what you need?”

“For now,” Leon repeated, and he turned his face down to kiss Einar, immediately deepening it.

Einar leaned on his thighs to press back, the smell of pine and woodsmoke surrounding him. He tasted like coffee, as he nearly always did.

“I want to make a request,” Leon mumbled into his mouth.

“Yeah? Whatever you want.”

“Leave the boots on.”

Einar pulled back and that slow smirk stretched across his slick lips.

“As you wish.”

-

“How the fuck is that relevant to the mess?” Egill shouts, desperately trying to erase the mental image his friend’s put in his head.

For his part, Leon is just laughing, doubling over on the edge of the coffee table.

“Jesus Christ, I’m suddenly very happy I was never informed.”

“It’s—it’s relevant, I promise,” Leon giggles.

-

While Einar finally tugged his boots off, Leon sat on his knees on his bed and leaned his forehead against the man’s bare back, letting his hair fall around his face. Einar stayed still until Leon shifted to rest his chin on the man’s shoulder, when he leaned his head back. Still quite flushed, the freckles on his nose and cheeks stood out. Leon absently carded his fingers through Einar’s hair, working out some tangles he’d probably caused himself.

“It’s about my uncle,” he eventually mumbled, his lips nearly against Einar’s neck.

“Hm?” Einar nodded slightly. Reaching back, he swiped his fingers over the top of Leon’s free hand.

“I never really explained how Arthur came to be… You know, whatever Arthur is.” Leon took a deep breath. “I’ve told you my uncle basically raised me and Mei. He’s run the apothecary my whole life.”

Einar hummed again, fingers stroking gently. He’d closed his eyes, listening.

“Arthur came to work there when I was, like, fourteen.” Leon bit his lip. “Anyway, long story short, some shady stuff happened, my uncle’s gonna be on trial for something he definitely didn’t do and so Arthur’s looked after us for a while and I really want to believe he wasn’t involved but sometimes I’m just not sure and I hate it, and I guess that’s just been on my mind today.”

Throughout his tirade, Einar had slowly turned to him and was now watching him with something very close to incredulity.

“I feel like that was a very long story, very short,” he said, but his fingers were still softly caressing Leon’s.

“Probably.” Leon pressed his lips to the junction of Einar’s neck and shoulder more deliberately, tugging at his hair in a way he knew he liked. Sure enough, Einar made a small, choked noise.

“That’s why you don’t want to tell your family about us?”

“It’s part of it. If Yao’s trial ever actually happens, I feel like we could…” He huffed. “Maybe it can be on your podcast.”

Einar, much to Leon’s amusement, had a podcast with the infamous Dragos, where they talked about legends and folklore. It did good numbers according to Einar, which Leon privately attributed mostly to Einar’s hypnotizing voice. Recently, Einar had confessed to him that what he really wanted to make was a true crime series, but Dragos just wasn’t interested. Leon would love to hear it, and he had plenty of ideas to contribute. Not about his uncle, though.

“Who knows,” Einar said, softly. And, “Really, again, if there’s anything I can do…”

“Honestly, it’s just nice to be with you.”

That made him smile one of those rare, beaming smiles that Leon loved to see, even as he shifted and climbed back on to the bed, and pressed Leon down into the sheets to straddle him. His hair was all loose in a mess of pale blond waves around his face, and Leon raised his eyebrows at him, amused.

“It’s almost summer, Leon.”

“Yeah?” It was; end-of-year exams were already underway.

“You wanna go somewhere?”

“Together?”

“Yeah. Somewhere else.” He kissed Leon, slowly, until Leon arched into him. “I wanna take my time with you.”

“I—ah— That sounds awesome.” He bit his lip as Einar ran his teeth along his jaw. “I have some—ideas.”

“About where we can go?”

Leon curled his fingers into Einar’s hair and tugged until the man looked up at him, blue eyes bright, flushed once more.

“Ideas about what exactly you could do with me, with all that time.”

“I have plenty of those, Leon Li,” Einar replied, and leaned back down.

-

“Please don’t—oh my god!” Egill interrupts himself. “I fucking introduced you guys at the end of the school year, and Einar was all ‘Hello, Leon Li,’ and I thought it was odd but—”

“I mean, it is a little odd,” Leon agrees. “I like it, though.”

“Weirdo. So that’s why you were so vague about your vacation? You spent it doing god-knows-what with my brother—do not tell me.”

 “There was plenty of family-friendly stuff,” Leon protests. “Oh!” He turns his phone on again and shows Egill a picture of him and Einar, looking disheveled—though thankfully, fully clothed—on a riverbank. It looks nice, Egill thinks. They seem happy, and it makes sense somehow.

“He managed to convince you to go camping?”

“It was nice!” Leon says, smiling at his phone. “As long as I don’t have to his winter camping trips.”

“Fair enough. So, what do you guys do?” He narrows his eyes at Leon, who chuckles, but his smile turns soft in a way that Egill has never seen.

“You know. Stuff. We go to museums. We watch TV shows and then I watch ahead without him. I like to cook for him. He plays violin, or guitar, and I listen, or I play my keyboard. Stuff.”

“That’s nice,” Egill says, sincerely. Leon shrugs, but he’s still smiling. “But the mess with your uncle is basically done now, right?”

“Basically.”

“So…”

-

“What’re you doing here?” Leon asked incredulously. In the doorway of his and Egill’s apartment, Einar was framed by the hallway light, which shone through his wavy hair like a halo. He hoisted his shoulder bag up and didn’t immediately answer, biting his lip instead.

“Well, come in. Egill isn’t here.”

“Yeah, he’s home for the weekend,” Einar said. “I think him and dad went skiing.”

“Alright.”

“I heard your uncle got acquitted.”

Leon took a deep breath, leaning both hands on the kitchen counter, where he’d been waiting for water to boil for tea when the doorbell rang.

“He did.” He turned around, leaning back against the counter. The kettle clicked off.

“That’s great news, right?”

He nodded, smiling slightly. It really was. Finally, he and Mei had their uncle back, and they didn’t have to lose another parental figure.

“Would you…” Einar took a breath. “Would you introduce him to me?”

Leon looked up at him, somehow startled by the question.

“Or your sister. She sounds great. Or…” He stepped closer, and Leon hopped backwards on to the kitchen counter as he’d done many times in Einar’s house, to make them more level. Einar stepped between his legs as he always did, spreading his hands over his thighs.

“I want to,” Leon breathed. “Yao would like you, I think, and Mei’s gonna tease me. But it’s…”

“I don’t want to keep this—us—a secret anymore,” Einar whispered, leaning their foreheads close together. “I will, if you want that, if you aren’t ready, but I want to… I wanna introduce you to my parents, Leon. I wanna have Egill be disgusted at how much I like you. I wanna—”

Leon swore under his breath and kissed him quiet, curling his legs around the man’s thighs to pin him to the kitchen cabinets.

“I’m just…” Leon took a deep breath and met Einar’s eye. “It’s still not clear who is guilty. And I still don’t know if Arthur…”

“What if he is? What difference does it make for us?”

“I don’t—if Yao’s back, and this was all about control of the apothecary, and Arthur had something to do with it…”

“Leon,” Einar said softly, reaching up to push his hair from his face with ever-cold fingers, “do you think he did?”

“I don’t want to, but after everything, I just don’t know, Einar,” Leon confessed.

“And what does the evidence say?”

Leon paused. Huffed a laugh while Einar smiled a soft, fond smile, swiping his thumb over his cheekbone.

“Look, if all you’re worried about is Arthur Kirkland, I’ll talk to him, when you’re ready. Even if he did something, it has nothing to do with you, and certainly nothing with me.”

“I guess that is the only thing. It’s stupid.”

“Maybe.” Einar shrugged. “Doesn’t mean you can’t be worried about it. I’m claustrophobic.”

“Huh. Not really the same thing, but…” Leon nodded. “I’d like to meet your parents, Einar. Actually, your mom brought Egill food once. You look like her, both of you.”

Einar smiled wryly.

“But… Give me a couple more weeks. I need some time with my uncle, I think.”

“That’s alright. I can think about what to say to Arthur that doesn’t end with him thinkin’ I’m a creep.”

“I’m 21,” Leon grumbled, even as Einar pressed his lips to his forehead.

For a moment, they just stood there—or sat on the kitchen counter—silently tangled around each other.

“Wanna watch Ghost Adventures?” Leon asked, eventually.

Einar laughed. “Sure, let’s watch Ghost Adventures.”

-

“He said he’d go talk to Arthur yesterday,” Leon finishes. “And I haven’t heard from him since.”

Egill frowns. “And Arthur?”

“Not answering anything either.”

That certainly is odd, Egill thinks. He can’t really imagine Arthur Kirkland harming anyone, but then again, Leon probably knows him better, at this point. And he certainly knows more about psychology than Egill, who studies geology and mostly knows things about rocks, and tectonic plates, and volcanoes. He knows a lot about volcanoes.

“Do you think I should call the police?” Leon is asking, flipping his phone over and over between his fingers, like a card in a magic trick.

“Maybe we should go to Einar’s place first,” Egill suggests. “Aren’t you supposed to wait 24 hours or something to report someone missing, anyway?”

“Common misconception. If Einar would just make his podcast, you’d know. Alright.” Leon abruptly stands up. “I’m gonna go—”

“Me too,” says Egill, rising too. Leon blinks at him. “Leon, you’re my best friend. Even if it weren’t my brother we were talking about, of course I’d help out.”

“…Thank you.”

Somehow, at the exact moment that the both of them are in the hall of their apartment to get their coats, the doorbell rings. They look at each other, startled. The bell rings again.

Leon stands on his tiptoes to look through the peephole, gasps, and yanks the door open.

Einar all but falls into the hall, looking tired and disheveled but otherwise fine, and Leon immediately drags him down to kiss him, holding tight to the collar of his coat while Einar buries his hands in Leon’s messy hair.

Pressing his lips together awkwardly, Egill looks away, and only then notices that Einar wasn’t alone—Arthur Kirkland is standing out in the hallway, equally as tired as Einar and as awkward as Egill, but he has quite a nasty bruise on his jaw. With a sigh, Egill waves him in, shutting the door behind him.

“Well, it’s been quite the day,” Arthur says dryly.

“What the hell happened?” Egill asks him, because his brother is a little preoccupied whispering against Leon’s lips, slumped against the wall as if he can’t hold his own weight up. Arthur clears his throat lightly.

“To make a long story short… Yesterday afternoon, Einar was at the right place, at the right time, quite possibly saved my life, we got several people arrested, and we spent the night at the police station giving statements.”

“I’m sorry, what the fuck?” Egill bursts. Leon just stares up at Einar, who shrugs, as though this all makes perfect sense.

“My phone got smashed,” he says. And, “It’s not how I thought it’d go, but it worked out.”

“Worked out!” Leon echoes, tugging at his coat again. “I was so worried! I thought I—fuck—”

“I love you, Leon Li,” Einar whispers, barely loud enough for Egill to hear, but he gets a little choked up at just the soft expression on his brother’s face.

“Right,” he says, turning to Arthur while Leon whispers unintelligibly into Einar’s chest. “Do you want some coffee? You look like you need it.”

“Ah—right.” Arthur blinks, glancing once more at Leon and Einar. “If you have tea, that’d be nice.”

“Probably.” Egill leads Arthur into the apartment, glancing back once into the entrance hall. Einar smiles at him overtop Leon’s head, and Egill nods, smiling back.

Nadzeya can hear her own heartbeat, thundering in her ears. It’s surely not healthy for it to be that fast.

“Manon?” she whispers. Her lips feel cold. Her voice wavers. It never wavers.

“I’m sorry, Nadzeya,” Manon replies. She does not sound sorry, and the smile twists further.

“What is this?” Why is Nadzeya so cold when her insides feel like they are burning? More importantly, why is Manon not cold?

“This is…” Manon reaches for her, and her fingers are scorching hot against Nadzeya’s cheek. “The end.”

“Why?” It’s all she can think to ask, while Manon curves her hot fingers around the back of her neck. Nadzeya tries to grasp her arm, but her fingers are quickly going numb, her body heavy. She accidentally scratches Manon’s pale skin. In the low, flickering light of the single lightbulb illuminating the basement, she seems almost statuesque, with her curled hair impeccable as ever, tucked into her headband. Her pearl earrings glisten like tears, but her eyes are dry.

“It’s too much, Nadzeya. It hurts too much.”

That is why they are here. Why they are both here. They were supposed to be together. She’s not supposed to be smiling.

Slowly, Manon lowers Nadzeya to the couch as her body grows heavier and heavier with each breath. Each shuddering breath. It’s so cold. Nadzeya keeps trying to grab her, trying to pull her close like she’s supposed to be. All this time they’ve been together, Manon has been warm, but not like this. Not this overwhelming heat. This sharp, malicious blaze of her smile. It hurts too much? What does that mean?

To Nadzeya, love has always hurt, and she thought it was that way for everyone for a long time. But for Manon, she has learned, it is soft. Soothing. No hidden truths, no twisted words. Until now. Because now, Nadzeya realizes as her eyes fight to stay open, she knows that it can hurt, and she can’t take it.

“I will be fine,” Manon says, cupping Nadzeya’s cheek. “I’ve learned my lesson this time.”

This time? Nadzeya tries to speak, tries to ask if there have been others who were stupid enough to walk into this obvious web of lies as she did, but her throat is closing up. She can’t feel her legs anymore. She can’t feel anything anymore, except for the white-hot heat of Manon’s betrayal, captured in that smile. Those lovely red lips that drew her in with a bright grin across a crowded dance floor, now smiling as she takes her last breaths. The sparkling eyes that winked at her are now watching her struggle dispassionately. Was this always how it was going to end, or has Manon deluded herself into believing that she’s looking for actual love? Will she, one day, find a woman who’s good enough for her? Who is good enough for the world to see?

“Why?” Nadzeya manages to rasp, again. She gets no reply other than a gentle shushing, like she’s just trying to get to sleep after a bad dream. She’s told Manon about her nightmares, about the fears her youth instilled in her. They’ve spent hours on the phone in the middle of the night, talking about nothing, or lying in bed, hidden from the world. But what does Nadzeya really know about Manon? How much does she actually understand about her life, about her past? Why has it never seemed important until now?

None of her questions will get answers, now. And maybe that’s all there is to Manon’s smile; the knowledge that her secrets are safe. That no one will ever really know her, or know about Nadzeya. That people will just see a lovely young woman, unattached and bright, dancing and smiling through life.

Nadzeya thought she was lonely, before she met Manon, but she sees with startling clarity that no one will ever be as lonely as her. That blazing smile is proof of that. She’ll never find what she wants. She can’t.

With her final breath, Nadzeya twists her own lips into a sharp smile to mirror Manon’s. She’ll not let her have the satisfaction of the last laugh.

The last thing she sees is Manon’s mouth curling down, and then everything is cold.