I could write it better than you ever felt it.

Chris frowned. “Did you not sleep again, Otabek? I don’t want you to be embarrassed later for actually talking about your feelings to me.”

Otabek let out a soft sigh and turned away from his coworker without another word. He regretted saying anything already, remembering that Chris was the kind of person who would go around the coffee shop and tell everyone who cared to listen (or didn’t) that Otabek had feelings that needed to be addressed immediately because he had just admitted there was something missing in his life. Otabek didn’t come up with this “theory” on his own - he literally heard Chris say that to Phichit just then - but it gave him a pause. Was there something missing in his life? Was there a hole in his chest because there was an empty, shrivelled shell barely pumping blood to his brain where his heart was supposed to be? If so, what was he supposed to fill it with, if skating and riding a bike hadn’t already?

“I’m sure Chris is exaggerating a bit, as usual, but if you need a friend to talk to, I’m here.”

Otabek lifted his eyes to stare at Phichit, who looked undeterred by Otabek’s impassive expression, smiling gently like he always did. Phichit was a warm, kind guy, and Otabek didn’t like him very much. He didn’t really like anyone, to be honest, and it never affected him in any way - he enjoyed being alone, didn’t feel the need for company other than an unresponsive cat who didn’t require anything from Otabek except for food and a lap to sit on, very occasionally. People puzzled him, mostly, and seemed to be too much effort than they were worth in general. Still, that did seem to be only thing that was missing in Otabek’s life, even if he wasn’t aware it was a bad thing that warranted the universe to carve a hole in his chest to make him realise it.

“Maybe I do need a friend,” he admitted blandly, and promptly turned away from Phichit, just in time to see his bright happy smile slip when he realised Otabek didn’t mean him in particular.

Like with many things, Otabek didn’t bother following through with actually finding a friend. Testing a flaky theory was not incentive enough to turn his life upside down and let a random person in, and for what? To fix an issue that didn’t even cause him any discomfort? Otabek always believed that friendship was something that should happen naturally, so he decided to wait his current situation out - if someone came along to fill the literal hole in his chest, great, but Otabek wasn’t going to go out of his way to make it happen.

“You do need to create an opportunity, though.”

Otabek admittedly wondered how a customer was aware of his predicament and his thought process, but didn’t question it out loud, wanting to limit their interaction as much as possible. Yuuri Katsuki reminded Otabek of a shaking leaf hanging on the branch by sheer power of determination and fear of falling. He was an odd and complicated person, perhaps not much more than any other, but still too much for Otabek’s taste. He seemed shy and insecure in one moment, and resolved and larger-than-life in the next. He was five years older than Otabek, but seemed like a fragile child in comparison, naive and easily excitable, prone to sudden mood changes; Otabek sometimes had to wonder which one of them was the weird one. He was willing to entertain the thought that he was the oddball, considering Yuuri was a highly functioning member of society, with a husband and a dog, and a house he wasn’t renting from shifty Russians.

“Like, I was crushing on Victor for forever, but I was always too afraid to do anything about it, and if he hadn’t approached me, I’d die alone pining after him instead of getting married to him.”

Otabek quickly decided against that idea. “Please stop talking to me.”

“My point is—”

“I get your point. Here’s your order. Good day.”

Dejected, Yuuri moved away from the counter and sat at one of the tables, presumably to wait for Victor to come pick him up. It wasn’t that Otabek paid attention to the daily routine of the married couple, it was just that Yuuri seemed like someone who’d be afraid to go anywhere alone, lest a natural disaster or, say, a squirrel happened to end his life, ridding him of a chance to spend his last moments with the person he loved. Otabek felt a little bit sick, and he was glad his facial expression wasn’t reflecting that when the man in question finally entered the cafe. Surprisingly, there was a sample sized blond kid with peculiar fashion sense in his tow that instantly made Otabek think of his grumpy cat. The kid was visibly unwilling to hang around the couple any longer than necessary, and he was eyeing Otabek with petulant suspicion. Otabek could definitely sympathise - if there was anything more difficult than being around people, it was being around people in love.

“What can I get you, kid?” he droned when the boy approached the counter.

The kid tensed, his expression momentarily vulnerable before clouding again. “Strong black coffee, no sugar.”

Otabek shrugged, pleased with the simplicity of the order. “And what name should I put on the cup?”

“I’m the only customer here,” replied the boy as he looked around the place with a bored expression. “I think we will manage without me disclosing my personal information to a complete stranger, thanks.”

Otabek couldn’t help but smile to himself at the kid’s quite obviously forced nonchalance, but he was at least able to hold back until he turned away to prepare the coffee. They didn’t speak to each other again, and Victor soon called his young friend over (Yurio, so Yuri, like his husband, and why was Otabek even paying attention?). They stayed a bit longer, enough for Otabek to notice Yurio grimace in disgust as he sipped his black coffee a few times before leaving a basically full cup on the table and trailing behind Victor and Yuuri. Otabek would have been offended if he cared about the quality of his coffee-making skills. Or doubted it.

Yurio quickly became a regular customer, sometimes coming by with Victor, sometimes alone, and always ordered the same thing, always making the same disgusted face as he tasted the coffee, and always leaving without finishing his drink. Otabek had to admit it was rather amusing, almost as much as his blatant dislike for Yuuri. He always shouted at him, getting all up in his face, leaving him a shaking and teary-eyed mess, naturally gravitating towards Victor’s comforting open arms, which only seemed to enrage Yurio more. The kid couldn’t have been older than eighteen, and Otabek had to be in awe of his potential for emotional destruction at such a young age. He occasionally wondered where all that pent-up rage was coming from, but never for long - he was always good at accepting reality as it was and leaving it be.

Still, he felt himself drawn to that new and unexpected addition to his daily life, a little stormy cloud in a flashy t-shirt coming and going before Otabek could decide if he minded that it rained on him. People-watching wasn’t something he’s ever tried before, so he wasn’t sure if Yurio was a particularly entertaining subject or if it was always this engaging. Otabek was almost positive it was the former, so he kept watching, and he never got bored, learning something new every day and greedily storing all the information. He hadn’t noticed it at first, but Yurio had hard eyes of a soldier, which contrasted with his almost angelic look and the natural grace of his movements. If he had to guess, Otabek would say he was a dancer, and he found himself wishing there was a way to confirm his suspicions without seeming like he cared.

But he did care, and it was unsettling.

“You should just talk to him,” offered Phichit, as usual unprompted, just so Otabek remembered that he cared. Otabek seriously disliked him. “I think you’d make good friends. You’ve got so much in common!”

Phichit was clearly getting excited, so Otabek decided to humour him, and raised his eyebrows in silent question, almost curious as to how Phichit was planning to talk his way out of that particular overstatement. He patiently watched Phichit close and open his mouth, raising his finger when he thought he did come up with something sensible to say, and flagging when he finally realised how absurd that would sound. Just before Otabek decided the conversation was pointless, Phichit tried again.

“You both… dislike… other people?”

Otabek let out a genuine chuckle. “Great foundation for friendship.”

“It’s a start! Friends who slay together, stay together! Or… something… You haven’t even had a proper conversation with him! Who knows what you will find out about him if you just talk to him. Come on, Otabek!”

“Why is it so important to you?”

Phichit looked embarrassed, and it was suddenly clear to Otabek that Yuuri must have put him up to this so that Yurio would get off his back, distracted by a new relationship that would hopefully consume a large portion of his free time - Otabek had never liked Phichit more. Of course, there were probably more reasons for Phichit to push, cheesy and nauseating reasons like wanting Otabek to be happy, but no one was perfect. Feeling generous and in a rather good mood, he ruffled Phichit’s hair before proceeding to ignore him for the rest of his shift. There was no avoiding noticing Phichit and Chris basically crying in each other’s arms, but Otabek refused to let that ruin his day. When Yurio came in, alone this time, there was a moment when Otabek felt confident he would talk to him and offer something more than an impassive expression and a cup of coffee Yurio obviously hated, until he realised he had no idea what to say.

“Why do you always order that? You always make weird faces as you sip it, and you never finish your drink. Are you trying to look mature because you’re so small?”

For the first time in his life, Otabek learned what mortification felt like. It took him that entire time to come up with possibly the most insulting thing he could have come up with, and he was afraid to meet Yurio’s eye. All he could see was Yurio’s hand shaking violently as it reached for the coffee, and worried it would end up splashed on his face, disfiguring him for the rest of his life, Otabek finally lifted his eyes, his breath catching in his throat. Yurio’s mouth was twisted in a furious snarl, his blue eyes aflame, an angry blush covering his cheeks, and underneath all of that was something like betrayal and embarrassment. The hole in Otabek’s chest throbbed. He nearly had forgotten it was there, and now it throbbed almost painfully, making Otabek dizzy. Before Yurio could react in any way to the affront, Otabek blurted out the first thing that came to his mind:

“Do you want to be my friend?”

Yurio visibly started, his features gradually smoothing into mild confusion, only slightly coloured with distrust. “Why?”

Otabek thought for a while about his answer. He considered telling him about a hole in his chest, but that would only make it sound like an experiment. He could tell the truth and admit he’d never really had any friends, but that would make him sound pathetic and unappealing as a future friend prospect. He could say he has been watching Yurio and took interest in him, that he was curious and wanted to get to know more about him, but even Otabek realised how creepy that was. He took a deep breath to keep panic and anxiety at bay, and finally shrugged.

“Why not?”

It had been a bit awkward at first. Well, it was very awkward at first, but it got considerably less awkward with time. They weren’t that compatible - where Otabek barely let anything affect him, Yurio probably had the shortest fuse of everyone Otabek had every come across. Where Otabek scared people away just by looking at them, Yurio had to beat them off with a stick, sometimes literally. It was weird to talk about themselves only to find out that the other was a complete opposite. They didn’t share any interest beyond skating, but to Otabek it was mostly a replacement for the bike, and for Yurio it was a part of his training regime for the ballet, so they quickly stopped talking about it too.The only thing they seemed to have in common was, actually, the general dislike for other people.

But they made it work. They’ve put effort into it. They had the kind of friendship that just didn’t make any sense, and you stayed friends just to spite other people. Unfortunately for both of them, the people in their lives were cartoon characters made of rainbows and sunshine, and they were beyond themselves with happiness for them. Otabek and Yurio tried their best not to let that taint their relationship. Instead, they focused on the benefits of finally having someone to complain about those people to, and simply standing by each other, on principle, occasionally rescuing a certain someone from fans in a dramatic fashion involving motorbikes, or verbally abusing a horrible customer when a different someone couldn’t be bothered to defend himself.

It took a lot of effort, but they made it work.

Otabek had to admit that he was pretty… content. Considering that neither of them had anything to compare it to, and that both of their expectations were somewhat different to most people, Otabek would say they’ve became pretty great friends. There was only one thing that slightly bothered him about Yurio. He wasn’t a jealous or a possessive person - for example, he didn’t mind that when Yurio visited his entire world was instantly shrunk down to Otabek’s cat and Otabek himself might as well not exist - but he definitely thought that Yurio was whining about Victor’s relationship with Yuuri too much.

“Are you in love with Victor?” he asked one day, and was relieved when Yurio looked mortally offended, but only for a brief moment. “Do you have a crush on Yuuri then?”

“What the hell?!” snarled Yurio, his face instantly going red. “It’s one thing to accuse me of having feelings for my cousin, really, honest mistake, but for you to even think I would want anything to do with that little piggy-”

“I think you have a crush on Yuuri,” interrupted Otabek, unable to hold back a smirk. “I think you like him, that’s why you’re so mean to him.”

Yurio spluttered. “You’re mean to him too! Does that mean you want to bone him too?!”

Otabek grinned, reminding Yurio that no one said anything about sex, and Yurio pointed out that it was what everybody thought, and that was the end of it. Otabek didn’t learn the answer to his question, but if Yurio wasn’t comfortable with sharing anything on that particular subject, Otabek was going to wait patiently until he was. It wasn’t as if it had any real effect on their relationship, or on Otabek himself. As much as he enjoyed being friends with Yurio, it didn’t change that much in his life - it didn’t even get rid of the gaping hole in his chest. His existence was still remarkably unremarkable, filled with basically the same ordinary routines, and still missing something that could only be his very heart. If Otabek was willing to ignore something of that magnitude, what did he care that his best (and only) friend was involved in a hopeless love triangle?

Only he did care, a little bit.

Ever since Otabek mentioned it, Yurio would grow distant, sometimes, watching Otabek warily, or snapping at him with seemingly no reason. Even if he was in a good mood, smiling and excitable, he would suddenly dim in the least expected moment, putting up his walls back again. Otabek suspected Yurio wanted to maybe talk about it, but neither of them was any good at discussing feelings, or even expressing them properly. As for Otabek, he wasn’t very good at even having them - he wasn’t sure he could relate to Yukio’s heart troubles. He’s never been in love, never really thought he could love. He’s barely made one friend at twenty-two, who was going through something Otabek had no control over, and he wasn’t sure what he could do to keep him.

“Am I a good friend?”

Yurio looked up at him, his hand freezing still in the cat’s fur, a scowl forming on his lips. Otabek regretted asking, but he couldn’t back out again. He wanted Yurio to know he cared, because he did, he valued him more than anyone else in his life, even if he didn’t fill the hole in him, he was still more important than all other people Otabek has ever known put together. He wished he could say it out loud. He wished he was enough for Yurio, just like Yurio was enough for him. He wished there was something, anything, he could do to make Yurio say yes.

“Yes,” said Yurio, simply and honestly, surprised it was even questioned. “Why do you ask? You need references? Are you suddenly planing to become a social butterfly or something? Come on, I want to go shopping for cat collars.”

Otabek exhaled, and smiled.

All things considered, their relationship progressed normally after that. They started talking more honestly, perhaps, learned to communicate with each other better. Put even more effort. They didn’t see each other every day, as the novelty of the friendship and anxiety to maintain it wore off. Some days were better and some worse. Sometimes Yurio shut him out and locked himself in the dancing studio, and sometimes Otabek chose the bike over Yurio. Sometimes they went skating together. Sometimes, they spent a whole day in bed - a lazy, tangled mess of boys and cat. It was normal, for them at least, and Otabek liked it. He continued to live his ordinary life with his cat, his friend, coworkers, and a hole in his chest.

People teased them sometimes, and he wasn’t exactly sure why. Maybe they seemed too co-dependent, or too cold towards each other; Otabek didn’t care to know what others chose to focus on when it came to judging them. It didn’t matter anyway. How could it, when he had Yurio’s head in his lap, scrolling through one social media app or the other, scoffing and pushing the phone in Otabek’s face ever so often, half-heartedly swatting his hand away when Otabek tried playing with his hair. The cat came and went, the only indication of the time passing by. Otabek would be content staying like that forever.

“I don’t have a crush on Yuuri, you know,” said Yurio suddenly. “I was jealous. Victor has always been kind of my hero, and then the pig showed up and took him away. I was just acting like a child. I was jealous and lonely. I’m not anymore.”

He didn’t push Otabek’s hand away this time when it started gently stroking the soft blond strands of hair. Otabek didn’t think he needed to say anything, so they stayed like that until Yurio had to go back home. Otabek saw him to the door, and somehow sensed it wasn’t going to be the usual good-bye they shared. It was in the tense line of Yurio’s shoulders, in his skittish glances, as he hesitated between avoiding and meeting Otabek’s confused gaze. They stood in the doorstep, each on the other side, waiting. Finally, Yurio seemed to resolve himself, and took a step closer, stood on his toes, and kissed Otabek on the mouth. Blushing furiously, he turned away to flee, leaving Otabek with a cat rubbing itself on his calves, and a tingle on his lips.

Was he expecting that, even subconsciously? He wasn’t sure, but he felt calm, normal. He went back into the apartment, then back to bed, and tried asking himself countless questions, tried forcing himself to analyse the development and examine his feelings. But all he could feel was calm, and that peculiar brand of satisfaction you experienced when something long overdue finally happened even though you weren’t really waiting for it. He smiled to himself when he felt his phone vibrate, and his grin only widened as he read the text from Yurio, “Hope that wasn’t weird.” It was. It was the weirdest thing that’s ever happened to Otabek Altin, hands down, and he’s never felt happier. “It wasn’t,” he replied.

His grandparents were visiting next weekend, and Lance was distinctly lacking the aforementioned boyfriend he'd been bragging about for months. If he said they'd split up now, he'd not only break a couple of seventy-five-years-old hearts, but also lose face in front of his siblings, who'd been mocking him already, rightfully suspicious, and Lance just couldn't have that. He had to think, and fast, if he wanted to avoid the biggest disaster of his life so far, and Hunk usually did the thinking for him in highly emotional situations.

“Just ask someone to fake-date you, man. Despite what you may believe, not everyone in school is a bigoted asshole.”

“I know that!” protested Lance, not acknowledging what a brilliant idea it was for the sake of voicing his indignation. “I know you're not. Hey, can you do it?”

“No, man! Absolutely not! I'm pretty sure your grandma changed my diapers at some point. She knows me! She shares her secret recipes with me! I won't be able to look her in the eye, and she will see right through this. We're like brothers! Don't you know any other people?”

Lance squeaked, offended. “As if your circle of friends goes beyond me and Pidge! Thanks for being great help, Hunk, as usual! Good day, sir!”

He was being kind of unfair, but he was also on the verge of mental breakdown, and Hunk was used to Lance's dramatics by now, anyway. It was true he didn't really have that many friends – while he was friendly with plenty of people, especially the ladies, he could only call two people in his life friends. It was also true that his situation didn't require a person with whom Lance had formed a strong emotional bond. All he needed was a pretty boy willing to spend a weekend eating the best food of his life with the best people he's ever met.

Although Lance didn't exactly have the luxury of setting his standards too high, he still had to keep things in character, so good looks was an essential requirement. That wasn't going to be difficult, as he didn't have to look further than the house next door for that, because his neighbor Keith was, like, at least a seven, if he changed his haircut. It also would help if the guy wasn't one of the popular kids – it would just be a huge mess if any of that spread around school after summer – and he wouldn't have to look further than next door for that either, since Keith was a loner with bad reputation, and none of his siblings really had any contact with him.

The more Lance thought about it, the less sense it made not to simply go next door and ask Keith. Him being such an obviously bad choice only covered Lance in the sorry-grandma-but-it-just-didn't-work-out-between-us-in-the-end department. Fairly confident that Keith was hiding at home until the sun went down and he could finally broodingly roam the streets, Lance put on his shoes, made the most sensible thirty steps of his life, and rang the doorbell. Keith took his sweet time answering the door, probably unaccustomed to guest, but Lance was in a forgiving mood, basking in his own genius, and smiled brightly when the door finally opened.

“Hi, Keith, I have a favor to ask.”

Keith frowned and froze, which was to be expected – it wasn't like they spoke all that much, or rather at all, if Lance was totally honest. Lance thought it must have been a while since he's last seen Keith up close, because he was definitely a solid nine, even with the hair. He waited patiently, if tapping his foot, fidgeting nervously, and possibly even blushing a bit, could be read as a sign of patience, for Keith to invite him in, or at least to acknowledge Lance's presence. Eventually, Keith moved, crossing his arms and tilting his chin down, staring at Lance suspiciously.

“Who are you?”

Lance's jaw dropped. “I've lived next door your entire life!” he screeched after good two minutes of complete shock. “We go to the same school! I'm Lance!”

Keith rubbed his ear theatrically, and Lance fumed. Who was that stupid mullet-head calling a loudmouth?! And who did he think he was, not recognizing Lance?! He was unforgettable, he changed lives wherever he went with his mere presence! That was simply unacceptable, and he wanted to scream. Taking a deep breath, and reminding himself he really needed Keith's help, Lance pushed down his righteous anger, and waved his hand dismissively, flashing his most winning smile.

“Never mind! I guess my brilliant existence can be a bit much for some, so I understand your denial. Now, back to business. I need you to be my boyfriend.”

Keith unceremoniously slammed the door in Lance's face, and Lance equally unceremoniously kicked it, after a brief period of adjustment, throwing his hands in the air. That was unbelievably rude. Lance came here in good faith, hoping for some good old-fashioned neighborly hospitality, and what did he get? Keith didn't even let him explain! Oh, how incredibly fragile a concept masculinity was!

“Hunk is a liar!” he shouted at the door. “You are all bigoted assholes!”

The door instantly flung open. “How am I bigoted?” hissed Keith, face flushed with anger. “I'm gay! You're bigoted, coming here looking for a boyfriend, when I've never seen a bigger skirt-chaser. Did you lose a bet or something?”

Lance's face lit up. “So you do know who I am! Also, bi.”

“Right,” said Keith simply, and closed the door again.

“I said bi, not bye!” Lance whined, resting his forehead against the frame. “Keith, come on... I'll pay you...”

That was a desperate move, seeing as Lance was perpetually broke, but money spoke to everyone, and he was hoping to at least get Keith's attention. The silence on the other side of the door was as unnerving as it was unpromising, and Lance was about to give up and go back home to sulk, when the door cracked open again, and Keith was looking at him with narrowed eyes. Lance tried to smile confidently in order to create an impression of being someone wealthy enough to buy services like that on daily basis, but it probably resembled a pathetic grimace more than anything.

“With what?” demanded Keith simply.

Lance hesitated. “The pleasure of my company?” he tried. He was hoping they would discuss such details much further into the future, as he didn't have anything tangible to offer at the moment. Keith tried closing the door again, but Lance blocked it with his foot. “Come on, man, this is getting old. Please. Just tell me what you want, I'm gonna make it happen. I really need your help. And I promise it's not evil. I just want to make my grandparents happy. Scout's honor. Just have dinner with us next weekend and pretend not to be disgusted by the general idea of me, that's it.”

“Somehow I doubt you were ever in the scouts,” muttered Keith after a long moment's silence. “Fine. Just. Fine. But I don't want to know anything. I don’t need my IQ dropping.”

Keith's idea of helping Lance turned out to be giving him a long list of demands, a short list of his favorite things, and expecting it would be enough to fool Lance's family; Lance would laugh hysterically for a week if he didn't think his situation was beginning to look absolutely hopeless. Keith was uncooperative, stubborn, and overall difficult to deal with, and Lance could honestly admit he simply disliked the guy, which usually didn't discourage him in the slightest, but he couldn't really afford stepping up for a challenge at the moment, and the idea of eventually appearing like they tolerated each other, let alone actually liked each other, currently seemed absurd.

“None of them knows my favorite food or band, dude, and they're my family. No one cares about that. What's important is things like who would win a battle between a shark and a bear, okay, that's the kind of questions you'll be asked in my house. We have to focus on, I don't know, hiding the blatantly obvious awkwardness we feel around each other, we have to spend some time together, go on a couple of pretend-dates, or-”

“Why would a bear and a shark get into a fight?” Keith interrupted, genuinely confused. “Would there even be a fight? Clearly, either the bear is drowning in the depths of the ocean, or the shark is suffocating on the surface, so neither is in any condition to fight anything.”

Lance blinked, appalled. “Keith, my man, I don't think you're paying me enough...”

Keith scowled, a mixture of confusion and anger that would look unappealing on most people, but made Lance want to rile Keith up until the end of time, because he liked the funny feeling in his stomach, suspiciously similar to satisfaction, that Keith's oddly entertaining reactions caused. On the other hand, he felt like he never should've bothered with him, because Keith didn't get Lance's jokes, or anyone else's for that matter, or appreciate anything that Lance held dear, like, well, everything that wasn't jogging or riding a cool bike, alone – while these limited hobbies did wonders for Keith's image and body, they weren't helpful to Lance in the least.

They were a work in progress, that was certain.

His friends were even less helpful, always being the annoyingly pragmatic voices of reason, constantly reminding Lance about new possible obstacles, just as he thought he'd dealt with the worst one. There was apparently a plethora of rules regarding fake relationships, and Pidge was seemingly an expert on it all of the sudden, treating it as some kind of sensitive intelligence mission. They had to get their stories straight, like how they got together, how long they've been dating, what they usually did together, how far they've gone with each other, etc. While Keith appeared to be unfazed by the lecture, Lance was mere seconds away from spontaneous self-combustion, because he was a horny teenager, so of course he'd end up imagining taking it very far with Keith.

“You should also get comfortable with physical contact,” advised Pidge, voice rather bored, yet still authoritative and matter-of-fact. “You can't flinch when your elbows brush during dinner, or your cover'll be blown into the next week.”

Keith made a noise of protest. “No way. Absolutely no touching, Lance. Whenever you want to hold my hand, remember I'll be holding a knife.”

“Don't worry, man,” whispered Hunk conspiratorially, patting Lance's shoulder. “It's only gonna be a butter knife.”

Not comforted in the slightest, and half-suspecting that Keith had meant a switchblade he was hiding somewhere in his bad-boy jacket, Lance slumped in his seat and let his head fall onto the table, allowing his pizza to get cold. He didn't have an appetite anyway, which was something that impending doom tended to do to him. Still, he couldn't help but whine softly as Hunk was reassuringly rubbing his back with his massive best-friend hand, and when he lifted his head slightly to offer silent thanks, his eyes met Keith's, and Lance froze. There was something unrecognizable in his usual scowl, something almost petulant that Lance couldn't pinpoint, but made him sit up straight and focus his attentions on the cold slice of pizza just to avoid the accusatory gaze.

“You guys should go out alone together,” continued Pidge, as if nothing else happened, or mattered. “Some place where you'll feel like people expect you to be a couple. Experiencing social pressure like that will help you prepare for the dinner with Lance's family.”

Lance sighed. “Were you born being forty years old?”

“Do you want my help or not? I'd say you should take it wherever you can get it, but it just might be my jaded personality of a bitter old fart.”

Lance crossed his arms and pouted at no one in particular, which was about his only way of protesting without trying, and ultimately failing, to win an argument with Pidge. He resigned himself to obediently listening to his betters, pretending like he didn't feel Keith's eyes on him, and regretting every single decision that has led him to this point. While Hunk ate Lance's cold pizza, Pidge was planning their date, reminding them they only had a week to learn to be around each other without fighting about something; Lance was honestly wounded by the accusation, because they so could be civil. They didn't even argue over irrelevant stuff that much, except maybe that one time they fought over who'd walk through the door first. Usually, their fights were warranted and possibly even important for posterity, like the one they had over the sounds laser guns made.

In all honesty, fighting with Keith was the only way Lance knew how to communicate with him. There was just something about that boy that made Lance competitive, like he had to prove himself, and it wasn't just Keith's frequent condescending looks and dismissive words – it was the general pull of Keith's presence that compelled Lance to do everything in his might to make Keith recognize him. He often tried to impress people, usually girls, but guys too, even if more discretely,  but what Keith inadvertently pushed him to do was on a completely different level, and it was sort of upsetting, how helpless Lance was against the overwhelming urge to push back. They've only been hanging out for a few days, and Lance was already sporting a few bruises he could have easily avoided if he hadn't been trying to show off every moment they spent together.

He's known Keith ever since he could remember, always in the peripheries of his vision, always effortlessly better at something, always inexplicably unattainable, and so drastically different than Lance – parents never home, just his brother Shiro and, later, his girlfriend Allura, never playing with other kids, never chasing after girls. Which could be explained by the whole gay thing that Lance's brain hadn't fully computed, for some strange reason, until this very moment. Keith liked boys. Did he ever date one? Kissed one? What was it like to grow up in their town liking only boys?Lance was rather new at this, considering, and out only to his undyingly supportive family and a couple of his closest friends, so he's never had a heart-to-heart with any of the very few queer kids he knew.

“What's it like to be gay?” he blurted out.

Keith's eyes widened in guarded surprise, and Lance instantly ducked his head in awkward apology. Hunk and Pidge chose that moment to excuse themselves, promising to call later, but Lance didn't even acknowledge that. He was already planning his escape and was raking his mind in search of another guy who'd pretend to be his boyfriend, because after this conversation, or more likely a fight, Keith would want nothing to do with him – weird rivalry and pointless arguments Lance constantly instigated were one thing, but asking such an intimate question in such a spectacularly insensitive manner was another.

“Probably a lot like being bi, I imagine?” Keith's uncharacteristically mild tone was surprising. “I mean, you already know what's it like to be attracted to guys around here. Not that great in the grand scheme of things. Kind of intimidating.”

“Yeah. But at least I have girls. And they're awesome.”

The corner of Keith's mouth turned upwards in amusement. “I bet they are. But I'm not sure they're much comfort when you really want to kiss a boy and you don't know if you can.”

Lance shook his head, slightly stunned. Keith's seemingly off-hand comment was startlingly on point. Lance liked telling himself he's won the lottery with being bisexual, that he had twice as many people to woo with his impeccable flirting skills, which simply doubled his chances. But reality was somewhat less rosy, and Keith was right – he could focus his efforts on girls, gladly even, because they were awesome, but it didn't exactly distract him from the fact he couldn't as easily act on a crush on a boy. What did it matter that he found girls attractive in general, when he liked a specific boy? It didn't work like that, and he was oddly comforted by the thought that Keith got that, that he didn't dismiss Lance's experiences with guys just because he also liked girls, like Lance half-expected him to.

“Why do you ask?”

Lance shrugged. “Just curious. I guess I was just wondering if you've ever kissed a guy.”

The way Keith blushed to the tips of his ears – though it was only an expression, considering Lance couldn't see his ears under that mop of disastrous hair – and averted his eyes, resting his cheek on his palm and feigning immense interest in the world outside the window they were sitting by, was telling enough, so Lance didn't press. He didn't know why he was so taken aback, but he kind of assumed Keith was the kind of guy other boys experimented with, because if someone was curious about kissing guys in general, they'd definitely be curious about kissing Keith; Lance would know. Maybe Keith was just reserved, or worse – a romantic.

“I've never kissed anyone either, and I'm pretty sure I tried to, or at least wanted to, do that with twice as many people, and not only because I'm counting girls, okay, but because I want to kiss people all the time, like all the time, which only makes me twice as pathetic, so I guess you win. Again.”

Keith blinked, confused. “This isn't a competition, you weirdo.”

“Sometimes I feel like everything is a competition when you're involved,” Lance admitted on impulse. “Dunno why. Maybe because you hate me. I want people to like me.”

“I don't hate you, Lance, what the hell? Do you think I'd give you even a second of my time if I hated you?”

Lance considered. It was true that Keith didn't give the impression of being a particularly accommodating person. He was, simply put, a real asshole, and he clearly didn't mind solitude, so the fact he was more or less willingly spending time with Lance should have been a clue. Perhaps Lance knew all along that Keith didn't really hate him, deep down, but it was easier to pretend it was the case, as the remaining options were much worse. Strong emotions, even negative, were better than indifference, and Lance couldn't stand the thought of Keith not even caring enough to dislike him, now that they finally interacted. The worst case scenario was, ironically, Keith actually liking him – Lance did want people to like him, yes, but he was afraid of being liked by Keith for some reason that he would figure out later, because he's reached his limit of heavy thoughts for the day.

“I don't know, you do seem pretty lonely,” he teased with a smug smile.

“Fuck off,” muttered Keith, but his lips were twitching with the urge to smile.

Things between them improved considerably after they've established that no one hated anyone, which didn't mean they weren't bickering half the time, or weren't trying to one-up the other at every opportunity. Lance kind of liked it. He especially enjoyed their new competition they indulged in when Lance was working in the coffee shop, the summer job he had to take up in the last moment in order to pay Keith. Keith amused himself with being an asshole to him in front of his boss, which prevented Lance from reacting with anything but a professional smile and impeccable customer service, and Lance retaliated with signing Keith's cups with the most embarrassing pet names he could think of, and shouting them across the floor; Hunk was unhealthily invested in finding out who was going to crack first.

Pidge finally managed to force them out on a date two days before the big evening, because spending twelve hours a day together for almost two weeks still wasn't enough to get comfortable around each other, apparently. Lance was plenty comfortable, alright? He's reached the flirting-and-invading-personal-space level of comfort, which clearly didn't escape Keith's notice, judging by the increase of scowls and growls, but didn't mess up their dynamics. Keith seemed completely immune to Lance's charms and, contrary to popular belief, Lance was perfectly capable of keeping it in his pants, so the fact he was potentially developing a tiny crush on someone he's only considered an unfairly attractive rival so far wasn't going to get in the way of business.

It was just that Keith was surprisingly likable.

Because he was interested in so few things, he was contagiously passionate about what he loved, and since he was usually so serious and gloomy, his rare laughter sounded all the happier, drastically transforming his face into something bright and dazzling. He was hot-headed and easy to provoke, and when he was offended, his voice hitched adorably and he fumbled for words until someone – usually Lance – supplied him with a more or less appropriate expression. He could talk about physics for hours on end, he was crazy about his veteran brother, and about cats, and Lance's crush was possibly a bit more than tiny, but he could totally be professional about it, and he was going to prove it on their pretend-date by keeping it absolutely pretend.

“Is Allura here?” he asked when Keith let him inside.

Keith rolled his eyes. “Could you please stop your sad attempts at flirting with her? First of all, it's pathetic, and not that you'd have any chances otherwise, but she's engaged to Shiro.”

“You say engaged, I hear not married yet,” muttered Lance dismissively. “Why is it such a big deal anyway? You jealous?” he taunted with an obnoxious waggle of his eyebrows.

Keith smirked nastily, crossing his arms. “We are going on a date, aren't we?”

“I'll concede as soon as you hold my hand without breaking it.”

Lance grinned triumphantly when Keith didn't grace him with a reply – he took his victories wherever he could find them. With a long-suffering sigh, Keith grabbed his wallet and a set of keys from the table, looking at Lance expectantly, eyebrows raised; Lance stuck out his tongue. They at least seemed to agree that the whole exercise was pointless, and neither was particularly excited for the rendezvous. It wasn't as if they would go to an amusement park if they were really dating – they were both the type to do nerdy things on dates, like visiting planetariums and obscure game arcades, or foregoing the process altogether, and simply making out in the backseat. Lance was very unhappy with himself and his train of thought, so he repented by eyeing Keith with fake disgust, pointing at his jacket.

“How can you wear this? It's like three hundred degrees out there.”

Keith sighed again, even more annoyed. “Fine, happy now?”

Lance's throat went dry as he watched the slow and tantalizing shift of Keith's muscles under his tight black t-shirt when he took of his jacket. Lance was a weak, small man, and he deserved to be locked up somewhere with other perverts, because the flush creeping down his neck was dangerously bordering on extremely unprofessional. He panicked. He wrangled the jacket out of Keith's hands and covered his chest with it, almost toppling them over with the force he used to push the suddenly essential to his well-being article of clothing on its owner.

“No, put that back on!” he squeaked desperately. “It might get windy!”

Keith gaped. “What the hell.”

Embarrassed and out of breath, Lance didn't rest until he wrestled the jacked back on Keith's shoulders, because that guy simply wouldn't listen to reason, so it was a while before they finally left the house, but at least Lance's integrity was safe. He automatically went in the direction of the bus stop, but Keith roughly grabbed him by the elbow and led him to his own garage, handing him the helmet. Lance's lips parted in mute protest. Did Keith honestly think he would get on his bike? Because Lance wasn't getting on that death machine under no circumstances – he didn't trust any engine-powered contraptions he wasn't controlling himself, not to mention that he's seen that maniac ride it.

“You're joking.”

Keith smirked. “We're already late and this is faster. It's gonna be a good bonding experience.”

The only good thing about the experience was that Lance didn't wet himself. It definitely was fast, and windy too, and Lance was genuinely shocked he didn't crush all of Keith's ribs, he was holding on so tight. Next time, if there was even going to be any, they were taking Lance's car, who drove sensibly and responsibly – or would have, if all of his driving instructors stopped paying attention to insignificant details, like minor traffic accidents, and finally gave him his driving license. Either way, he wasn't getting back on that bike ever again, he decided, as he got off on shaky legs. As soon as his feet touched the ground, he slumped against Keith's side, light-headed.

“You should come with a warning label,” he wheezed. “You're a health hazard.”

Keith seemed amused. “Sounds like one of your bad pick-up lines.”

“Well, it's not. I'm very upset with you. I don't see a point in getting on a roller-coaster, you've already offered me the wildest ride of my life.”

“That wasn't the wildest ride I can offer.”

Lance forgot how to breathe. His chilled by the ride skin heated up instantly, ears started ringing with mortification, face felt hotter than ever before, and he couldn't get his throat to work enough to swallow, let alone respond. Keith really was a health hazard, and Lance couldn't believe he actually had it in him, definitely preferring the halfheartedly hostile and oblivious Keith who wasn't actively trying to kill him. Seeing his reaction, Keith immediately blushed as well, his brows scrunching and lips forming an angry scowl. He cleared his throat, fingers reflexively tightening on his helmet.

“What, it's fine when you say lame stuff like that, but when I do it, you freak out?” he demanded, voice cracking slightly. “It's a fake-date, I'm fake-flirting.”

Lance barely managed to reply without stammering. “Well, don't. It's weird.”

“Eat shit.”

They ate ice-cream instead. It wasn't a bad date, all things considered, even if Lance had to pay for all the tickets, the slave he was. Another thing the car would be useful for were all the prizes they've won, because amusement parks turned out to encourage competition, so they got slightly carried away. Keith was certainly more skilled with his hands, but Lance was a better shot, so they were going neck in neck, and their final contest was either getting on the roller-coaster, or entering the haunted house – the first one to make a sound lost. Both queues were daunting, but the one to the ride was marginally shorter, so they bought more ice-cream and braced themselves. At some point, loud shrieks interrupted their very important conversation about robots, and Lance instinctively looked up, just in time to see a wooden sandal falling down from the sky right in his direction.

When he came to, Pidge's unimpressed face was hovering over him, and his head was pounding like a drum. He sat up slowly and looked around. Keith looked nervous, sitting on the bench and nipping at his cuticles, hands shaking slightly as he frowned at Lance, expression pinched, as if he was blaming him for passing out. Finally, he averted his eyes and got up swiftly, his movements jerky, and unceremoniously walked away, which made it hard for Lance to focus on Pidge's questions about fingers and maths; Hunk was there too, eating cotton candy as sadly as was humanly possible. When Pidge deemed him fit to get up, Keith was back with a bottle of cold water, a stupidly simple gesture that made Lance's heart skip a beat, and he didn't trust his legs yet.

“Keith cradled you in his arms,” offered Hunk, unprompted.

Both Lance and Keith flipped him off.

On the evening of the family dinner, all seemed to be in perfect order, until it was completely ruined beyond repair. His grandparents were ecstatic to meet his boyfriend, and the rest of his family seemed curious about the big reveal too. All Lance had to do was call or text, but he sneaked out and walked over to Keith's house, just to make sure everything was alright. His knees almost gave out under him when Shiro opened the door, and he saw his pretend-date all dressed up, Allura fussing over him, straightening his collar, and futilely trying to fix his hair. Keith blushed when he looked at Lance, and he couldn't help but mirror it, causing Allura to squeal and turn her attention to Lance, subjecting him to a similar motherly treatment.

“I'm so happy for you boys,” she said, smoothing out his shirt. “Meeting the parents is such a big deal... Keith is so nervous!”

Lance giggled awkwardly, always a mess around her. “What do you mean?”

“Well, he's been crushing on you for almost a year, so I'm just really glad it finally worked out.”

Lance didn't think he'd heard that right, but when he finished stupidly blinking at Allura, whose smile was slowly faltering, and followed her gaze that was helplessly flickering to Shiro, Keith's brother was hiding his face in his prosthetic hand and shaking his head. Allura stepped away from Lance. and covered her mouth with her hands, letting out a small gasp of shocked realization, and glanced pleadingly at Keith, who looked absolutely crushed. He abruptly stormed past all of them without a word, and Lance followed on numb legs, his heart hammering in his chest.

It couldn't not be awkward after that.

Everyone was surprised, but perfectly polite and accepting, not that either Lance or Keith cared. His grandparents and siblings were asking lots of questions, and they both answered them automatically, as Pidge drilled all the fake information into them like a pro. They've known each other forever, but they only started spending time together after the science fair last year, and one thing led to another – a classic boy meets boy story, except for the fact that Lance wanted to fight Keith for beating his science project yet again. They've been dating for a few months, but kept it a secret at school. Everyone was delighted, so Lance had to make sure to congratulate Pidge on lie-inventing skills, but he was absolutely miserable.

How could Keith lie to him like that? How could he let Lance agonize over having an unrequited crush on him every day they spend together? Surely, Lance was the opposite of subtle, so it had to be fairly obvious that he was pining after Keith like a lonely raccoon, right? There was no way Keith could possibly be that dense and not notice, was there? Why keep it a secret then? Was he so undesirable that Keith didn't want to like him? Lance risked a glance at him, and he didn't look any happier than Lance. He was determinedly staring into his plate, lifting his head only when someone spoke to him, and offering small smiles that never reached his eyes. Lance really needed to talk to him as soon as possible, but his mother, who didn't ask them about anything yet, cornered him immediately after dinner; she only had one question.

“Are you boys having a fight?”

Lance chuckled bitterly. “We're always arguing about something, mom.”

“Yes, I recall you picking fights with him when you were around four. You cried a lot afterwards. Ever since I can remember the only people you talked more about than Keith were Pidge and Hunk. Keith did this, Keith did that, and you were as impressed with him as you were frustrated with yourself... I'm glad you finally got him to notice you...”

“Mom, you're embarrassing me,” he whined, cheeks flaring up.

“Yes, right. What I mean is... Lance, is everything alright between you two? Was meeting us a bit too much for Keith this early on?”

Lance swallowed, shrugging. “I don't know, maybe. He didn't say. We still have some... communication issues.”

His mom stroked his cheek, smiling fondly. “But you like him?”

“So much,” said Lance without missing a beat, surprising himself with how much he meant it.

His mother seemed satisfied with his answer, and she let him go, pointing him in the direction of the living room. His siblings have apparently lost interest once the novelty of seeing Keith in a new light wore off, and he went back to being just the neighborhood kid who fell for Lance's pathetic pick-up lines, but Lance's father and grandparents seemed to be even more in love with him than Lance was, and just because cliche was his family's favorite word, they were currently torturing him with baby pictures. Either Keith was that good at pretending, or he genuinely found Lance's childhood photos cute, and both options seemed equally viable to Lance, because he was an adorable kid, and Keith was a big fat liar.

He was so confused.

He joined them on the sofa, deliberately keeping his distance from Keith, and his grandpa ruffle his hair, grinning at his conspiratorial winks. His grandma's face was flushed as she described every photo in great detail, recalling every moment with astonishing clarity. Lance was surprised to discover that Keith has made guest appearance on several of the pictures, mostly looking displeased with Lance's antics, but there was one photo of them sitting together on Keith's porch, crying and holding hands, knees scraped bloody, cheeks covered in mud; Lance couldn't remember it at all. He swallowed thickly and looked at Keith, who averted his gaze as soon as their eyes met, possibly for the first time since they've known each other. Lance hated it.

“Can we talk?”

“I don't want to be rude,” tried Keith hopelessly, motioning at Lance's family.

Lance's grandma laughed heartily. “Oh dear boy, go! We've kept you long enough! We just wanted to meet you, and now that we have, you should spend some time alone together.”

“Not too alone, though,” added his dad in mock-warning. “Keep the doors open.”

Lance rolled his eyes, and held out his hand for Keith to take. He realized too late that one of Keith's rules was no touching, and him refusing to accept Lance's hand was going to look really suspicious, but as he raked his mind in search of an excuse, Keith's slightly damp fingers slid through his, and he let Lance lead him upstairs, still unnervingly silent, but not letting go of his hand. Lance did leave the door open, wanting Keith to know he wasn't trying to trap him. In all honesty, Keith looked like he was going to be sick, and Lance has never seen him so anxious, so he couldn't help but wonder if Keith really was that oblivious. There was only one way to find out.

“Okay, I'm not very good at this, so I'm just gonna be straight with you,” he blurted out, blushing furiously. “Pun not intended. Look, Keith, do you want to kiss me? Cause I want to kiss you. And not just because I want to kiss people all the time, because recently I've been thinking of kissing only one person, which is you, in case you have difficulties following my train of thought, and you're on my mind all the time, and I've been tripping over myself to impress you like an idiot, and I didn't even know why, but I think I do now, because we had all those bonding moments, and you are the smartest, weirdest, most surprising, and least funny person I know, and I realize we've been fake-dating for only two weeks, but I have it on good authority that you've had a crush on me for a while now, and according to my mom, I've been trying to get your attention since I was four, so I thought maybe you wanted to kiss me as much as I want to kiss you. There. I said it.”

Keith's face was a completely new shade of red. “I'd do about anything right now to make you stop saying those things...”

“Normally, I'd be all up for it, cause I'm really easy,” admitted Lance. “But I also really like you, man, so I can totally shut up without you forcing yourself, okay? But if you wanna...”

“You're honestly gonna make me say it, you asshole?”

Lance wasn't going to let hope blooming in his chest to cloud his judgment. “Consent is important, Keith, my buddy, especially between people with out track record. So you can't be all broodingly cool and aloof right now. You have to be crystal clear about whether or not you want us to lock lips. You need to use your words for once. Take one for Team Klance. That's our names combined, in case you're confused. Hunk and I came up with it.”

Because Keith was Keith, endearingly allergic to aforementioned word-using, he let out a frustrated groan, and simply grabbed Lance by the shoulders, pressing their mouths together in a bruising kiss. Lance might have let out an embarrassing moan, but he was a teenage boy who thought about kissing people – and recently one person – all the time, and he was currently having his first kiss with that person, so he was allowed to be absolutely, shamelessly happy and turned on, even if the kiss lacked any skill or finesse, now that Lance thought about it. He considered making a snarky comment about it as soon as they parted for breath, but Keith looked so good flushed and breathless, dazedly touching his own lips in something akin to awe, somehow still managing to frown, and Lance probably didn't look any less wrecked, considering his head didn't stop swimming yet.

“We are a good team,” he decided.

Until recently, Magnus has been just a rumor and a face in the yearbook. He wasn't exactly popular – Alec would even go as far as to call him notorious. Magnus was too unconventional and flashy for the Institute's standards, so almost no one wanted to work with him, and while people were attracted to his good looks and charm, he did not mingle well with over-privileged and self-involved wasps attending the school. Alec didn't have the time outside practice to pay too much attention to fellow students who didn't directly affect him, so that was the extent of his knowledge about Magnus Bane. Until recently, that is.

“When I decided to open up to you, and share this incredibly intimate composition with you, I expected help, not ridicule! I will not be held back for the third year in a row, because you can't grasp this simple concept, Samuel!”

“For the last time, my name is Simon! And I can't grasp, or help you with, something that doesn't make any sense! No one can! Crazy people can, maybe! Tell him, Raphael! This makes no sense! Why are we working with him again? Do not ignore me, Raphael, I demand answers, it's your fault we're here!”

Alec had to stop in his tracks, and sneak a look inside the room, because he’s taken it upon himself to break up the fights ahead of time, before Jace showed up, and things escalated beyond any control (Jace was furiously protective of the Institute, as it’s apparently saved his life, and he didn't tolerate anything that could tarnish its reputation). Alec was surprised to see that the commotion was just Simon and Magnus sitting in safe distance from one another, shouting at each other from behind their laptops, while Raphael leisurely drank tomato juice in the corner, wearing sunglasses, probably hungover; on second thought, it could have been a blood mary. To Alec's despair, Simon noticed him before he could flee, and immediately pulled him into the room.

“Alec, listen to this. Listen to this cacophony, and tell me if you could dance to it. Go on, listen. Listen and weep.”

Alec rolled his eyes, but he accepted the headphones. Normally, he would ignore Simon, who was nothing but an annoying extension of Clary in his opinion, but he had to admit he was curious about Magnus's work. It was somehow exactly what he expected from the infamous Magnus Bane, but also nothing he could ever anticipate in the entire world. It was perhaps slightly chaotic, and it sounded unfinished, but it also felt natural, considering the source. Alec felt a reflexive surge of jealousy towards the person who managed to create and perform a dancing routine to a piece like that. It wasn't anything he's ever worked with before, as his mother insisted on a more conservative musical upbringing, but it pulled at something in him, something raised on classical music and ballet, and it was disorienting to listen to hip-hop and feel nostalgic. He put down the headphones, and met Magnus's eye for the briefest moment, involuntarily flushing under his causally curious, but still scorching gaze.

“Well?” Simon kept tapping his foot impatiently, arms crossed on his chest.

“I couldn't dance to it,” admitted Alec.

“Ha!” shouted Simon triumphantly, throwing his hands in the air.

Alec rolled his eyes again. “But I'm not a hip-hop dancer. This could work, I guess. Anything can work, provided you have the right dancer. Is that all? I'm already late.”

“Well!” Magnus cleared his throat, and got up from his seat, arrogant smile stretching his lips. “Let this unhelpfully ambiguous answer be a lesson to you, Stanley, that I'm the expert here. No offense, blue eyes. It clearly needs more work, though, so I will see you tomorrow. Raphael, my utmost gratitude for your assistance, but do not offer me alcoholic drinks again – you know this school doesn't condone underage drinking. Now, if you excuse me, I need to go tell the Chairman that I love him and that he is an inspiration.”

Simon groaned in frustration as Magnus unceremoniously left the room, although Alec wasn't sure if Magnus ever really did anything without ceremony. It took him a moment too long to shake off the daze that being exposed to Magnus for the first time has left him under, but he eventually regained control over his limbs, and left the room without acknowledging either of the boys who's already wasted so much of his precious time.

Lydia didn't get angry with him (she never did), but she was visibly tense with the effort not to. Alec understood why Maryse liked her so much – Lydia was talented, determined, persevering, and insanely disciplined. She was a good partner, and they turned out to be compatible, but it was difficult to get used to her at first, simply because he has spent nearly all his life practicing with Izzy, who brought unrestrained joy to her dancing, and could synchronize with him perfectly, just because she didn't care. Not like Lydia cared, almost zealously, or even like Alec cared, instinctively, because it's what he's always cared about; all Izzy wanted was to have fun and make Alec happy.

“Come on, Alec, let's practice,” Lydia urged on, less tense now, even cracking a gentle smile. “Sometimes I think I care more about your showcase than you do.”

Alec didn't think it was true, but maybe it was. He appreciated that Lydia was putting so much of herself into a routine with him, considering she had one to prepare for herself next year, but he couldn't help thinking, sometimes, very occasionally, almost never, really, that something was missing. He didn't think it was because of Lydia, or Izzy, or Jace, or his divorced parents, or anyone, because he'd mastered separating dancing from his personal life. There was just... something missing, but it was easy enough to ignore once Lydia put on the music.

Or maybe it wasn't, because his head clearly wasn't in the game, and they ended up staying so late it was ridiculous even for the two of them. Lydia was panting on the floor for a few minutes, exhausted and frustrated, and Alec half-expected her to just storm out without even looking at him, which he wouldn't blame her for, but she sighed and got up slowly, methodically toweling her face and neck as she approached him. Putting her hand on his shoulder, Lydia looked him in the eye, genuine concern written all over her kind face, and waited for an explanation; Alec had none to offer.

“I'm sorry, Lydia,” he managed. “I don't know what's wrong with me today.”

“It's okay, we all have bad days. Just make sure you're up for it next time you take four hours of my time. I do have a life outside of you.”

Her tone was light and almost teasing, but Alec felt gutted all the same. He knew very well that not being able to offer his best was unfair to Lydia, when all she did was support and motivate him, and he could only apologize again. She smiled at him before she left, and Alec decided to stay sprawled on the floor where he belonged. He wasn't allowed much time to wallow in pointless self-pity before Jace's and Clary's heads came into his field of vision. He sat up and swirled around to face them, immediately scowling; most students left the Institute flushed and sweaty, but Alec could tell their latest exercise was of a different nature than his.

“Hey, Alec, you done?” asked Jace in lieu of greeting. “We saw Lydia leaving.”

“Are you heading home too?” added Clary, annoyingly warm and welcoming. “We're just gonna grab Simon before we go. We could wait for you, if you want?”

“Do we really have to 'grab Simon' before we go?” Jace protested, his hands sliding up her waist.

Clary rolled her eyes, but her smile was shy and her eyes clouded, and Alec could tell she was the tiniest bit tempted. Their seemingly unending honeymoon phase honestly made him sick, and their giddy giggling, not to mention the plurals, were worse than chalkboard scraping. He identified the feeling as jealousy, because he wasn't as emotionally stunted as Izzy liked to imply, but he also acknowledged that he wasn't jealous of Clary anymore – he rather envied them both what they had with each other.

“Don't wait up,” he said dismissively, not accounting for the questioning looks he got in return. “I need to practice! I mean, clean up after practice. Clean shower would be-- That is, I need a shower and... stuff.”

He cringed, cursing the gene pool for giving all the bullshitting skills to Izzy, and leaving him with that. Jace shrugged, oblivious as usual, and Clary nodded, smiling sympathetically. Alec waited until he couldn't hear them anymore before lifting a finger, and even then he took his time getting ready to head out. It wasn't the light coming out of one of the rooms that stopped him on the way out, it was a low hum of a now familiar tune that made him feel even more nostalgic than before. He swallowed, quietly approaching the door.

“Thanks, Sidney, you can skedaddle now,” said Magnus loftily. “Your girlfriend and her boyfriend are waiting. I promise not to break any of your toys. Bye-bye now!”

Simon was so furious he didn't even notice Alec as he stormed off. He left the door open, and when the music blasted on full volume, Alec dared to take a look inside. He instantly backed off with a gasp, because he was not prepared to see Magnus Bane stretching, wearing a very tight tank-top and sweatpants that hung very low on his hips. Wasn't he in music arrangement, cupped up behind a computer screen all day? What was he doing being all well-toned and flexible? Alec was honestly appalled. Next thing he'd know Simon had a six pack. Casting one final glance at Magnus dancing, Alec hurriedly left the Institute, because spying was rude and unbecoming. 

That's why it made no sense that he came back the next evening to spy. In his defense, he didn't mean to, at first. His and Lydia's session went infinitely better this time, which was a huge relief, and Alec was leaving the school without the heavy burden of yesterday's doubt and insecurity. This time, before he reached the ground floor, the lights caught his attention before the music did. Through the glass wall he was passing, he saw Magnus one floor below, dancing to his composition. Was dancing even the right word? Alec has never seen anything like this, and he's seen Jace and Izzy dance.

It was... he couldn't put it into words that made up a coherent sentence – he only had single words to use to describe what he was seeing. It was hip-hop, for one. It was uninhabited. It was expressive. Fluid. Light. Over-the-top, but that could just be Magnus. Exciting. Liberating. Natural. Really, really hot, but that could just be Magnus as well. Before Alec knew, he watched the entire routine three times, picking up on the subtle changes Magnus implemented, and even noticing when he made a mistake. It was inexplicable, but there was something magnetic about his dance, and Alec was completely immersed in watching it. He was so mesmerized, he nearly jumped when Magnus suddenly lost his footing, and kicked the table with the stereo system, one or other piece of equipment wobbling and falling on the floor with an unpromising sound.

“Oops, Steven will be mad,” muttered Magnus without remorse.

Alec barely held back the laughter bubbling in his throat. With an oddly satisfied sigh, he picked up his stuff and went home. 

But he came back the next evening, and the next. He started staying behind to watch Magnus dance every night, actually. It didn't interfere with his schedule, and it was refreshing to watch a routine so drastically different to his own. He found himself involved in the evolution of both the music composition and the steps, not to mention Magnus himself. Alec believed a lot could be said about a person from the way they danced – it was all in the way they moved, how they cooperated with the music to convey a unique message. That didn't apply to Magnus at all. To Alec, Magnus was inscrutable, an impenetrable fortress of secrets and promises. All he could tell by the way his hips moved was that Magnus Bane was a sinner.

Alec never came out to anyone. The only people who knew were Izzy (“Hello, I'm your sister!”) and Clary, who seemed to compensate for the complete lack of any common sense and self-preservation instincts with some kind of sixth sense when it came to seeing right through people who never wanted to be seen through. Alec obviously still held some animosity towards Jace's girlfriend, because people didn't get over their first crush just like that, but that wasn't the point. The point was, Alec knew coming out as gay when he planned to live his life in the spotlight wasn't the best idea, but Magnus Bane made him want to shout, “I am so gay, the gayest even, do you want to be gay together?” So, naturally, what he did was lurk, because he was a pathetic creep, and Magnus was this radiant, magical thing that moved in a way Alec could never even dream of.

It was genuinely unfair how talented Magnus was at dancing, when he obviously only did it in secret. Maryse would lose her mind over him if she'd ever see him dance, Alec was sure of that. He couldn't understand what Magnus was doing spending his days in front of a laptop with Simon of all people, when he could be wholly focusing on perfecting his routine for the showcase – he'd be beating job offers with a stick. Alec actually started researching the showcase and its numerous loopholes that would allow Magnus to perform regardless of his major, when the subject in question gently knocked on the open door, startling him.

“Don't look so surprised, lemon drop,” said Magnus, his voice low and seductive, at least to Alec's ears. “You were taking longer than usual, and I didn't want to start without you.”

Alec gaped, stunned. “What?”

“Oh, is this the part where we pretend you didn't not-so-secretly watch me practice every night?”

“Y-yeah, well... I guess- I m-mean, I guess we can... Yeah, we can skip that part,” Alec stammered out eventually, hating himself with every fiber of his being.

Magnus clapped his hands happily, offering a blinding smile, and left the studio without any indication that he expected Alec to follow him; Alec did anyway. The distance they had to cross to reach Magnus's working space was enough for Alec to recover enough to ask the question that's been weighing on his mind all this time, even if he still lacked basic social graces about it. He awkwardly grabbed Magnus's elbow, causing him to stop abruptly and turn around, watching Alec curiously with slightly narrowed eyes. He reminded Alec of a cat.

“Why don't you dance here? I've never seen anyone move like you, you... You should be dancing.”

Magnus looked pleased, but he waved his hand dismissively. “Yes, yes, I'm well aware of how amazing I am, thank you, carrot cake. As I'm sure you are aware of this fine Institute's well-established classical leanings, momentarily forgotten because of my overwhelming brilliance. Sorry, oatmeal cookie, but this is it for me. While I'm convinced I would look absolutely fabulous in a tutu, hip-hop is what I want to do, and they can't help me with that in here. What they can help me with is making my own music I can dance to, so that's what I'm here to do. And I do it marvelously, if I do say so myself. Does this quench your curiosity, apple kneel?”

His own naivety hit Alec like a ton of bricks. He was so impressed with, and captivated by, Magnus's dancing that it didn't even cross his mind that hip-hop wasn't considered refined enough for this school, or for the kind of companies that would be recruiting during the senior showcase. Dejected, he simply nodded, having nothing sensible to say, and Magnus winked playfully before turning around. Alec felt kind of stupid being unable to respond in any way, afraid he'd appear awkward or anti-social, both of which were coincidentally true, so he blurted out the first thing that came to his mind.

“Alec. My name's Alec. You don't have to call me after... um... sugary snacks?”

Magnus looked at him over his shoulder, smiling. “Cocktails, actually. And I know your name, dummy. I know every attractive person's name.”

Alec blushed, unsurprisingly, and followed Magnus into the room to watch him practice. 

He half-expected Magnus to thrive with an audience, to take the performance even further and beyond, but then again, he'd been aware of Alec watching him from the beginning. It was Alec who was oblivious to so many aspects of Magnus's performance, never allowed close enough to notice – of the way he scrunched his brows in concentration and bit his lip, the way his skin glistened with sweat, and his fingers moved as if he was casting a spell. Alec was definitely charmed, though that seemed like an understatement. At this point, he could probably call it for what it was – a big fat crush. He resisted at first, when Magnus offered to teach him “some moves” one day, because it sounded tacky and silly, and Alec definitely lacked the unrepressed looseness he thought hip-hip required.

“You know, Alexander, I would never ask you to do anything I didn't wholeheartedly believe you'd benefit from.”

“Really? I can't see how bringing you coffee every evening is beneficial for me. Or you, for that matter, you take too much sugar.”

Magnus grinned unabashedly. “You're collecting brownie points you can exchange for a toaster at a later date. Come on, I know it's a foreign concept to you, but trust me. Just try! You might even think it's fun. Or is that a foreign concept as well?”

Well, that was definitely a challenge, if Alec's ever heard one. Despite the initial mortification of feeling like a particularly stiff trained monkey, Alec eventually relaxed enough to actually enjoy it. Magnus was a good teacher, and he was great at making people feel at ease, if he wanted to (he didn't, usually), so Alec was grasping the basics in record time. By the end of the week, he wasn't anywhere near the level of proficiency that his mother, for instance, would demand of him, but dancing with Magnus was primarily “just for fun,” and Magnus was pleased with his progress.

“You're a natural at this. Maybe you're wasting your talent on-”

“I'm not wasting anything,” Alec shot back, a tad too defensively. “I love ballet, okay? I'm not just doing it because it's expected of me, you know.”

Magnus held up his palms in a gesture of surrender. “Forgive the follies of a young, brash mind of a Brooklyn boy straight out of high school. Oh my, that's the only time I use the word straight in a self-descriptive sentence. Look at my hands, Alexander, they're shaking! What if I break out in hives now?”

Grinning, Alec shook his head in fond exasperation, feeling the tension leave his body. When Magnus smiled at him, Alec's heart fluttered dangerously. 

He knew next to nothing about Magnus, and he'd never liked anyone except Jace, so he was on guard, not to say in denial, but he knew he was starting to feel something. His skin prickled with heat every time Magnus looked at him, and his stomach swooped whenever he caught himself thinking about him. Maybe it was just a combination of hormones and fascination, but Alec liked to think it was more than that, because it felt really nice. Magnus made him laugh in the most inappropriate moments, and made him blush in the most unfamiliarly pleasing ways. He inspired Alec, and continuously opened his eyes to ideas and points of view he never would've considered. Most disconcertingly, he made him feel desirable – Magnus was generous with simple compliments that baffled and embarrassed Alec more often than not. For the first time in his life, Alec felt appreciated for something else than his dancing by someone from outside of his family.

Those disorienting, but not unwelcome, feelings grew stronger every day he spent with Magnus. Even if they didn't see each other that often outside of their usual late night practice, which involved much more talking (and grinding) than was strictly necessary, in his opinion, Alec slowly learned more and more about this cryptic man, though he suspected he was only scraping the surface. He found out that Magnus practiced steps as he walked, had an absolutely shameless fashion sense and even worse pick-up lines, haven't seen the keys to his apartment in approximately two to four years, constantly lied about his past and his age, and wasn't actually romantically involved with any members of the board of directors, but had a cat named Chairman Meow. It wasn't much, but it was enough for Alec to start falling for Magnus, which was, frankly, a little terrifying for someone who prided himself in being in total control of himself, and never did anything reckless or impulsive.

“Something is different about you, I can smell it.”

Izzy obviously couldn't smell anything on him except the usual sweat and desperation, but she was his sister, and Alec wasn't surprised she became suspicious as soon as she saw him for the first time since Magnus Bane became a part of his life. Alec's really missed her. She looked positively vibrant, and despite the fact that her trip with Meliorn ended in a break-up, it definitely did wonders for her skin and general disposition. She showed up in the Institute immediately after stepping off the plane, and demanded to see the final version of his routine, unhealthily interested in the progress he and Lydia made, possibly out of misplaced jealousy.

“And I know you'll never tell me, so I'll just have to find out myself. Maybe with a little bit of Clary's help. If I can detach her from Jace's face for long enough, that is. Hmm... I'd assume you finally got laid, but I'm of strong opinion that you're one of those people who simply don't survive an experience like that, so it must be something less exciting. Did you, like, take a day off from practice and discover trees?”

Alec rolled his eyes, pushing Izzy into the room. “You're cracking me up, Isabelle, truly. Now, do you want to see what we've got, or not?”

“I do, but I was hoping to hear all the gossip first,” said Izzy, pouting briefly before breaking into a grin. “Hi, guys! Guess who's back even more beautiful and awesome than ever?”

She was wrapped in Jace and Clary's conjoined arms in ten seconds flat, both promising to fill her in on everything, which was a blatant lie – these two knew nothing about the real life outside of their little love-sick bubble. Izzy and Lydia had a professional, but icy relationship, so they just nodded at each other, and Simon probably thought Izzy was so out of his league he'd spontaneously combust if she touched him; he was possibly not wrong. Alec was getting impatient, because Izzy and Jace were the ones whose opinion mattered the most to him, and he couldn't wait for them to finally see what he had prepared for the showcase.

“You will have plenty of time to catch up after I'm done baring my soul to you guys through the medium of classical ballet.”

Izzy gasped in mock offense. “Who died and made you the head drama queen?”

“You dropped out,” supplied Jace, laughing.

Izzy punched Jace's arm, and Alec felt a surge of warmth at the carefree atmosphere around him. Gaining confidence from Izzy's encouraging grin alone, he motioned for Lydia to start. 

At first, it was just like a hundred other times they did this, but something in him broke suddenly, and he felt unusually light, as if he weighed nothing, and Lydia weighed nothing in his arms. Some people often compared dancing to flying, but Alec had never felt even close to it until now. That's why he was so thrown off when Lydia suddenly just stopped, and let out a startled laugh, looking at him like he's grown a second head. Everyone else was unnervingly silent, and it was even more obvious when Simon turned off the music.

“What was that?” Lydia asked, still chuckling.

Alec was really confused. “What do you mean? I thought it was going great.”

“These moves just now. They're not in the routine. They're not even ballet. That was... I don't know, funky weird. Like something you see on videos of people dancing in the underground stations. You're honestly telling me you didn't notice doing it?”

“You totally did it,” Jace piped in helpfully.

Alec had no idea what they were talking about, and Izzy's uncharacteristically thoughtful expression alarmed him. He tried to retrace his routine step by step, and remember if he did anything out of place, but every step he took felt so natural to him that he wasn't even taking them consciously. He paled upon the realization – he'd never in his life not paid extremely careful attention to his every move. Shit.

“Someone better start explaining what happened to my brother in my absence,” said Izzy evenly, revealing nothing of what she was thinking.

Alec's throat was dry. “Izzy, come on, it was just a mistake.”

“You don't make mistakes,” reminded Lydia.

Everyone nodded, familiar faces displaying various levels of shock and bewilderment, and Alec felt despair overtake him. Clary was staring at him with that look in her eyes, like she actually saw inside his head, his heart even, and played with the dusty old boxes hiding his deepest secrets and desires with an innocent, yet calculating, curiosity of a child; Alec felt angry and helpless. When he turned to Jace for help, he seemed distant, a small frown of confusion being the only thing his otherwise expressionless face betrayed.

“Maybe Alec spends too much time with Magnus,” offered Simon The Traitor suddenly.

Alec felt his soul leave his body when Izzy snapped her owlishly big eyes to Simon, tuning in for an influx of new information. Why would he even mention Magnus, when it had nothing to do with him? Alec made one mistake during his dancing routine, and the universe was punishing him by revealing the only secret he's managed to, wanted to, keep from his friends. He shot Simon his best death glare, and he was mildly satisfied with the way he visibly shrank in on himself.

“What?” he demanded, crossing his arms. “It was kind of hip-hop-y, slash campy... Very Magnus Bane, if you ask me. I'm somewhat of an expert on him, since he's been recently plaguing my existence on regular basis, and Raphael's knows him since, like, kindergarten or something, and hip-hop and camp are unquestionably my immediate associations. You did a set of very Magnus Bane moves there, Alec. What?! Stop trying to kill me with your eyes, or you'll get an aneurysm – even your distaste for me isn't that powerful! Besides, Lydia said so too. Not in so many words. She kind of said so. She definitely meant so, didn't you, Lydia? Back me up here, sister, I'm running out of steam, he's terrifying.”

Alec swallowed, taken aback by Lydia's curt nod of acknowledgment even more than Simon's senseless ramblings. He incorporated some of Magnus's hip-hop moves into his ballet routine and didn't notice? They felt natural to him? They made him feel like he was flying? It made no sense. Hip-hop had never evoked anything like that, not to mention even ballet never had, so what the hell happened? Alec needed to sit down, and take a deep breath – no one seemed to have caught on on his mental breakdown yet, and he would very much like to keep it that way. Luckily, Jace came to the rescue with his pragmatic problems of the most popular guy in school:

“Okay, hold up for a sec. What are you hanging out with Magnus Bane for? He's trouble.”

“Oh, come on, Jace, really?” Clary protested, cheeks pink with righteous indignation. “You don't even know him.”

Jace scoffed. “I know he's weird!”

“Hey, I'm weird too.”

“Yeah, but you're good weird. Cute weird. Hot weird. Perfect hair, and skin, and smile weird.”

“I'm gonna throw up,” said Izzy and Simon in nearly perfect unison.

Alec was so appalled by the scene that he momentarily managed to forget about his existential crisis. Lydia didn't say anything either, but her pinched expression indicated she would much rather be anywhere else in the world right now; Alec could sympathize. Except Lydia was free to simply excuse herself without raising suspicions, which she promptly did, suggesting they should take the rest of the day off for Alec to catch up with his sister, which roughly translated to sorting out whatever he was going through before involving her in any way. Ever the one to instantly pick up on social cues, Simon eventually took off with Clary, and Alec half-expected Jace to start disintegrating, but his presence in the room remained as solid and pressuring as Izzy's.

So he told them everything. And by everything, he meant that he skipped a few details, like the fact Magnus has been actually teaching him to dance, or the frequency of their meetings, or how he'd probably cry for a week if Magnus suddenly told him to get lost. Basically, he told them he's been watching Magnus dance occasionally. He lied, is what he did. Jace was causally displeased, like with most things in the world, but begrudgingly supportive, because at the end of the day, even if he had his doubts, he was Alec's best friend, his brother. Izzy was rather intrigued, and Alec could only hope she wouldn't reach any incorrect conclusions about the relationship between him and Magnus.

“Well, I thought it was interesting,” said Izzy. “I never would've expected such bold, rebellious moves from you. I want to meet Magnus.”

Alec spluttered, flushing. “He's busy. I'm busy. I need to go. I have to talk to Lydia.”

He wasn't going to talk to Lydia. He was going to find Magnus, and tell him he couldn't do it anymore – that it interfered with his own thing, and that they could still hang out, but Alec couldn't dance with him anymore, because he couldn't have hip-hop steps just casually seeping into his ballet routine like that. He's worked too hard for everything to jeopardize it only to have some fun, and be close to a boy he liked and wanted to spend time with, constantly. Oh god, how was he going to say all that without losing Magnus for good? He regretted not actually sitting down and having a quiet think, because before he could even begin to come up with a solution, he was in the room where Magnus usually worked on his music. He was the only one there, and he positively lit up when he saw Alec; Alec's chest felt tight.

“Alexander, am I glad to see you! I need to show you something. So, obviously, I've been diligently working on my piece in secret – yes, I can multitask too – and Seymour actually does have some valuable input to offer, sometimes, and... Well, let's say you've unlocked something in me, so please just listen to it, before I embarrass myself any further. I think it's finished.”

Feeling himself blush at the sight of Magnus's reddening cheeks, Alec accepted the headphones, swallowing audibly. Visibly nervous, Magnus actually exhaled before pressing play, surprising Alec – he never imagined Magnus was capable of caring about other people's opinion about anything, let alone someone as far from an expert as Alec. Before he could reassure Magnus in any way, the music started playing, and Alec's breath caught in his throat; it was possible he held it until the piece ended. The new version was a combination of Magnus's original hip-hop composition, and that melancholic classical feel that captivated Alec before, only now it was more prominent. Before, Alec could only catch mere glimpses of it, but now it was perfectly accompanying the basic melodic line. It took him somewhere he couldn't quite place, like a fantasy land where everything was simply right. Alec felt at peace, in complete harmony with himself and the world, and something in him unlocked as well.

“Can I take it home?” he blurted out.

“Does it mean you think it's good?” asked Magnus, uncharacteristically uncertain.

Alec didn't hide his surprise. “You really care what I think?”

“Alexander, honestly...” Magnus frowned, his lips a thin line. “I'm not going to get mad only because I know it's a genuine question, and not fishing, because for some unfathomable reason your favorite pastime is doubting your own worth. Of course your opinion matters, you're important to me.”

Alec could only blush furiously, unable to reply in any coherent way; he would never get used to Magnus being so honest and open with his feelings. For a moment, Alec was overwhelmed by gratitude that this incredibly gifted, fearless, generous, and completely unreal man would share his unbelievable creation for the first time with him, of all people. He tried not to think of himself as undeserving only because he knew that would upset Magnus, who truly cared about and appreciated him, which only made Alec want to kiss him more. Really, it was bordering on absurd how much he wanted to kiss Magnus in that moment.

“It's... It's like magic, Magnus.”

Magnus inhaled deeply, eyes widening almost comically. He cleared his throat, clearly embarrassed by the compliment, which was honestly bewildering – Magnus usually thrived on attention and admiration. Running a hand down his flushed face, Magnus covered his mouth with it, but not before Alec saw his lips quiver with the urge to smile. Heat pooled in the pit of his stomach when Magnus averted his eyes shyly for a brief moment, before lifting them to look at Alec like he's never been looked at before; it was equally terrifying and exhilarating.

“You can take it home, Alexander,” said Magnus, casing the disc for Alec. “I can almost feel Scott disapproving, but he's boring, and it's very entertaining to imagine you cry yourself to sleep while listening to it because it's just too good to process without an excessive emotional reaction.”

Alec grinned. “Close enough. Thank you, Magnus.”

On an impulse, he put his hand on Magnus's shoulder, and leaned in to place a chaste kiss on his cheek; it was hot to the touch, and Alec missed the warmth even before it was gone. Everything kind of stopped for a moment, narrowed to Magnus's loud, sharp inhale when Alec's shuddering breath hit his slightly wet skin, just before he pulled off completely – Alec's never done something like that and, judging by his thundering heart and general lightheadedness, there was a good reason for it. Unable to look Magnus in the eye and face his reaction, he snatched the disc, and ran out of the room. All of the alarms in Alec's head were going off, and he wasn't sure if it was because of what he did just then, or because of what he was doing right now.

Cursing under this breath, he shook his head, as if there was a way to physically remove the thoughts from his mind through his ears – he really didn't have time for feelings. He didn't have time for anything, to be honest, so he turned off his phone, and went straight home. He needed to cool off and concentrate, because hearing Magnus's music gave him an idea, or rather watered the seed of a concept his subconscious has already tried to communicate to him through his body. It wasn't that dancing with Magnus corrupted him in some way – the confounding, weightless feeling he'd experienced earlier that day didn't come from hip-hop, but from combining it with ballet.

Izzy was probably going to kill him for ditching her, but Alec had a dance to choreograph.

He really expected to be at least slightly at a loss for what to do, but once he let his instincts take over, it was the most natural thing he's ever done. Alec felt like he was only liberating something hidden deep inside him that, once freed, instantly started living its own wild, exceptional life. When he was finished, Alec nearly vibrated out of his skin with the need to share it with Magnus; he was rather startled by the fact it was already morning, and he actually could. Running on coffee and exaltation alone, he probably scared Magnus a bit with his urgency and excitement, but Magnus rarely questioned him, as accepting as one could get, and he immediately agreed to watch Alec dance, putting on his music. Alec was laser focused, but he still couldn't help catching glimpses of Magnus's eyes widening and face flushing, and it filled him with a sense of accomplishment like nothing else before. Alec knew it was unconventional enough to capture Magnus's attention, but he hoped it was also good enough to impress him.

“So what do you think?” asked Alec, far from casually.

“I love it, Alexander, obviously. I'm actually rather speechless, you must give me a moment.”

Alec was breathless, and not only from the exertion. “Do you mean it?”

“Of course! It's absolutely astonishing. It's... symbiotic. A perfect balance, between hip-hop and ballet, between my music and your steps, I mean... How did you accomplish all this in one night?”

“I didn't sleep,” Alec admitted, shrugging.

“Of course you didn't. I'd scold you if I wasn't so impressed. Is it going to be a solo, or are you working your way up to a duet?”

Alec took a deep breath. He was embarrassed to admit that he's envisioned the routine with him and Magnus at the center of it, not to mention asking Magnus to agree to do this with him. Alec had always accepted not being anyone's first priority, it was just the way things were, and he took it for granted that Magnus had better things to do than an extra project like that, as he was graduating this year as well, and composing with Simon and Raphael took precedence. Still, it was Magnus who had inspired Alec, and he couldn't imagine not sharing his vision with him.

“I was thinking of a, uh, a duet as a part of, um... an ensemble dance, actually. And I was wondering if, you, uh... if you'd be willing to be my partner...” He blushed when Magnus raised his eyebrows in mild surprise. “It's extracurricular, of course, nothing binding, just... for fun. Wow, I can't believe I said that... We could work together to come up with steps for you, and some other people who want to practice in their free time, not necessarily from the Institute, I'm sure my sister would love to be a part of it, and-”

“Alexander, breathe,” interrupted Magnus with a chuckle. “I've got a feeling you think you're acting crazy, but you're not, trust me. I'd love to. It's going to be magical. Let's do it! Come on, show me again, I want to get a better feel for it before we start working out where I fit in there. Oh, how exciting, I haven't felt that way in eight years, ever since I took Etta to the prom, and I was the one wearing a dress. It was a blast, Alexander, believe me, and I need to tell you all about it one day, but this? This is even better.”

Alec was shaking with excitement and unadulterated joy, and he was more than happy to oblige Magnus. Dancing now was even easier and more elating, and catching glimpses of Magnus carefully following his every step, even nodding and occasionally taking notes as if he was in class, encompassed Alec in unfamiliar and delightful warmth. The routine seemed to be a natural extension of his very being, and Alec didn't feel disturbed when Magnus suddenly joined him, casually sliding in-between his movements like he belong there, and simply trying things out – he felt complete. When they finished, Magnus laughed at the obvious urgency Alec was thrumming with, apparently under the impression that there was plenty of time for everything, and he was taken aback when Alec finally explained he wanted to start practicing immediately.

“Wait, Alexander, I assumed it was going to be a post-graduation project! I mean, I have time, my solo piece is finished, and Seth would gladly do my part of the group project just to avoid seeing me ever again, but aren't you taking too much on yourself? What about the routine for your showcase? Isn't it in, like, three months?”

“Oh, no, it's fine. Lydia and I have it down to a tee already. We've been practicing only twice a week for a while now. I came up with this routine when I was a junior, Magnus, and Lydia is just amazing, she's much better suited for it than Izzy was. We've only became partners four months ago, and she could already do it blindfolded.”

“Yes, that Lydia sure does sound great,” Magnus bit out petulantly. “I would simply love to hear more about her.”

Alec let out an embarrassed chuckle. “Come on, Magnus, you know I'm gay.”

“I do, but I wanted you to say it out loud. Feels good, doesn't it?”

It did. Everything felt great. He felt amazing. They gave the new routine a shot a couple more times – working with Magnus was a special experience on its own, but creating something with him was beyond imagination. They complemented each other, and every addition or alteration Magnus came up with seemed to intuitively fit into Alec's vision. He felt like he could do it forever, but Magnus eventually ordered him to get some rest. Even though Alec was certain he wouldn't be able to, as soon as his body touched the bed, he felt exactly how exhausted he was, and drifted off to sleep almost immediately.

The first thing he did after waking up in the evening was to tell Izzy about everything (really everything this time), and it was intriguing enough for her to forgive him for “disappearing off the face of the planet for twenty-four hours,” and to sign up for the project straight away. The recruitment of the dancers went much better than expected too – Clary didn't need any convincing at all, as heavens and all the angels knew she needed all the practice she could get, and while Jace absolutely loathed both Magnus and the idea, he's never backed down from a challenge, which mastering hip-hop steps evidently was. Before Alec knew, he had a dedicated dance troupe consisting of his family, closest friends, and people he's never even met.

Alec and Magnus practiced almost every day, but they both acknowledged it was primarily to simply do it together, and get immersed in the incredible feeling that dancing together evoked, than for the actual practice's sake – they both seemed to have been born to perform that dance, as cheesy as it sounded. Getting the group to work well together was a bigger challenge, as everyone had their own priorities, and very limited time to offer, which was the basic requirement for three or four separate groups of friends to learn how to synchronize. They tried their best individually, but together they squabbled, and succumbed to the spirit of competition instead of cooperation. After a couple of weeks of that, Alec wasn't even surprised to find himself in Magnus's apartment, going through all the strengths and weaknesses of the team.

“Lily and Maia keep colliding with each other, and I've had enough experience with alpha females to know we need to put them on the opposite ends of the stage before they attack each other, with Izzy at a safe distance, if possible. That means Elliot and Jordan should be moved as well. But we have to keep Kaelie on the other side of Jace, cause jealousy motivates Clary, and--”

“Yes, yes, and because our sweet Maureen is making such a spectacular progress because she wants to impress Stuart, we should get her to dance directly over his lap. I love it when you talk about people like they were mere game pieces on the board. Take a break, Alexander.”

Alec blushed, ashamed, and put away his notebook to accept the drink Magnus offered. “You're right, sorry. You know I get controlling when I'm stressed. Are you sure you should drink?”

“That's why I want you to loosen up. And please, I've been legally allowed to drink for...” Magnus looked at the non-existent watch on his wrist, pursing his lips. “Three months, sixteen days, and twenty one hours now. In Europe, at least.”

Alec shook his head, grinning. “Not what I meant, but alright. Cheers.”

He smiled around his glass, maintaining eye contact with Magnus as he took a generous sip. It was strong, but tasted sweet, which he expected of Magnus, and it spread pleasant warmth over his body almost instantly. Suppressing a shiver, Alec willed himself to relax, and downed his drink before instinctively shifting closer to Magnus. When he thought of everything Magnus had done for him, of everything he made him feel every second they were together and apart, Alec wished he wasn't so scared.

“Are you referring to my morning rehearsal with Raphael and Silas tomorrow?” asked Magnus teasingly, raising an eyebrow. “Why, Alexander, can it be that you've memorized my schedule? I'm incredibly flattered, and also slightly alarmed. But mostly flattered. Glass always half full.”

“Do you ever stop talking?” whined Alec, mortified at being discovered. “I'm starting to think you live to embarrass me...”

Magnus laughed flippantly. “Oh, there are some very easy ways to shut me up, but I don't think we're there yet. Unless you think we are, I can certainly be persuaded.”

Alec's breath caught audibly, and it was enough for Magnus's taunting grin to slip from his face, and he cleared his throat awkwardly. The atmosphere became tense suddenly, and Alec was hyper-aware of every shift in the air between them. Alec knew very well that Magnus could tell when to stop joking around, and as he realized it was time to be serious right now, he waited. Alec also knew very well that Magnus has been waiting for a very long time already, infuriatingly patient with Alec while never trying to hide what he wanted.

Magnus wanted Alec. Alec wanted Magnus back. It could be simple, if Alec let it. He wanted to let it be simple, and complicated, and magical, and dramatic – anything Magnus would make it to be. Before he could change his mind, he slowly, tentatively, closed the distance between them, and kissed Magnus. It was terrifying, and addictive, bitter-sweet from the drinks and months of anticipation, all-encompassing, really. It was Alec's first kiss. He nearly whimpered when he pulled away, Magnus chasing his inexperienced, unskilled lips; his fingers were tingling.

“Well,” Magnus croaked out, clearing his throat again. “Consider me persuaded, and totally on board. Did you know I have no belly button?”

Alec blinked, confused. “One, that... escalated quickly. And two, what?

“I mean, I obviously have belly button, but it's so perfectly flat you can't even see it. Alexander, please take the hint, and kiss me again before I completely lose all appeal to you.”

Alec did.

He continued to do so every day after that, whenever they felt like it, which was admittedly a lot, because it's been building between them for a very long time, and it was difficult to stop it once the dam broke. They weren't dating, because Alec couldn't just come out of the closet like that, not at such a decisive moment in his life, but Magnus didn't seem to mind; he seemed to understand. Alec knew some people in their group had their suspicions – Izzy and Clary, for example, who were both intuitive and observant, but also had something called tact, which couldn't be said about Raphael, who made gagging noises whenever he saw Alec and Magnus together – but everyone was much more focused on preparing the showcase than on Alec's personal life.

He was startled for the first time he'd thought about what they were doing as practice for his senior showcase, but once the idea generated in his mind, he couldn't disregard it, not with the progress everyone's made, not with how good the dance was. There were no seniors in the dance group except him and Magnus, whose final project was finished, and completely separate from Alec's, and four of his dancers weren't even attending the Institute, so as long as everyone agreed, there were no regulations that could stop them from performing during his senior showcase, as there would be no violation of the anti-fraternization policies concerning graduating contestants.

He started with Jace, who was the most reluctant team member, and the most stubborn person in the world, which meant that Alec could convince just about anyone, if he managed to sell the idea to him; he wasn't wrong. Izzy was more than willing to “stick it to the man,” and everyone was mostly just grateful for the opportunity to show off their skills in front of potential recruiters. The way Magnus kissed Alec later in the evening, passionate and demanding, suggested that he wasn't opposed to the idea either, at the very least – he was even a little offended that Alec expected him to be anything but proud and happy. Everything actually fell into place, as improbable as it seemed, and the last person Alec needed to talk to was his mother. 

He didn't expect it to be easy, of course, but his mother's hostility, in front of Lydia as well, was unwarranted.

“You will do no such thing, Alec. You will not throw away your future for an-- for an experiment.”

“Magnus isn't an experiment,” he protested, instantly livid enough to be reckless.

Maryse's nostrils flared. “I was referring to your new routine, for lack of a better word, but now I see it's even worse than that. Alec, do you really want to risk everything we've worked for because of some unnatural infatuation?”

Alec couldn't breathe for a moment. He had never given much thought to the idea of coming out to his parents, always almost zealously avoiding the issue, hoping it would simply go away if he ignored it long enough, but he certainly didn't want it to be like that. It was funny, though, the way Maryse just moved past that vital piece of information, making a point of disapproving of it, but mostly just dismissing it as something far less important than Alec's act of blatant disobedience. For the sake of her own ambition, Maryse disregarded his love (Love? Yes, love.) for Magnus as meaningless and wrong, and Alec was hurting, but he was going to fight.

“Don't call it that. Don't ever call it that. And what if I do? What if I want to throw away everything you've made me work for, and do something for myself for once? Something that feels right? I want to do this. I can do this. I am doing this, mother. We have the music and the routine, we have people invested in this as much as we are, and we have enough time to practice. If you want to stop me, you'll have to expel me.”

Maryse was silent for a long moment, and Alec though she's given up for a second. “What about Lydia? You've used her for months, taking up the time she could have used to work on her own routines, to study and practice, and now you're just changing your mind? Do you think that's fair?”

Alec's heart sank, and then it sank even deeper when he realized he hadn't been thinking about Lydia at all. They weren't exactly friends – they had a mutually beneficial, professional partnership – but Alec must have disappointed and let her down regardless, by making such a sudden and huge decision without considering her feelings. He was possibly the worst, most selfish person to ever attend this school, and that was saying a lot. Crestfallen, he turned around to face Lydia, who was hugging her sides, and wearing a smile that didn't quite reach her eyes. She shrugged, taking a step towards him, and reached out to stroke his cheek once. Before she could pull away, Alec covered her palm with his.

“I've seen you two practice one time,” she confessed, voice clear. “We are a very good team, Alec, because we are determined to work well together, but we don't have the effortless chemistry you and Magnus share. I don't think anyone in this school has something like that. So, I say: do it. What the hell, Alec, do it, and don't worry about me for a second. It was great practice, and I've improved so much thanks to you. I'll be just fine, you'll see next year. You should do what you think is best for your career. Maybe even what makes you happy. So, thank you, Maryse, for your concern, but it's unnecessary, and I'd appreciate not being used for emotional manipulation of my friends.”

Alec momentarily froze upon hearing Lydia refer to him like that, but he was instantly warm all over. It was true – even if Alec didn't consider himself her friend, she has become his, maybe always has been, and he would do everything he could from now on to deserve her loyalty and kindness. It was quite shocking to realize that in this – whatever that qualified as, a project, an ambition, a dream? – he had the support of everyone in his life, even people who didn't truly know or cared about him, but not his mother. Perhaps he should have seen it coming, in hindsight, because Maryse Lightwood had already shunned her husband and one of her children before, and Alec had never properly hated her for that. He looked at her now, his eyes burning with determination, dignity, and disappointment, but Maryse only gritted her teeth, and averted her eyes.

“Do what you want, Alec, but don't expect me to help you after all this is over, and Alicante wants absolutely nothing to do with you. You can leave now. I've had such high hopes for you... And you're exactly like Isabelle.”

Alec bit back a scream. “I consider it a compliment, mother. Come on, Lydia.”

With that horrid experience out of the way, Alec felt better – he had no obligations except to himself, and people who were generously helping him do something that meant a world to him. 

They practiced, as simple as that. They danced, and laughed, and argued, they worked harder if they hit a wall, and celebrated when they managed to overcome it. Alec didn't really appreciate what a difference a good leader could make until Lydia started bossing everyone around, bringing the best out of everyone, and maximizing their potential; Alec decided that the day Lydia had her own dance company couldn't come fast enough.

He was happy. He was hopeful. He was doing what he loved, with someone he loved, and he felt unstoppable. Between perfecting the routine with the group, spending his nights at Magnus's apartment, his days on getting regularly dragged into a whirlwind that was Izzy's constantly changing plans for the future, and learning to finally accept Clary, who loved Jace with more than one could expect from such a small body, as a part of his crazy, doting family, Alec's life has become really good, trouble-free even. 

He was almost taken by surprise, when the day before his senior showcase finally came. The dress rehearsal left Alec breathless, triumphant, and most importantly, absolutely confident. The way he hugged Magnus at the end, burying his face in the crook of his not-at-all-disgustingly sweaty neck, might have been a bit revealing, but Alec honestly didn't care, and it felt amazing. They were ready.

“Oh, for the love of my cat, I've just realized something,” announced Magnus, throwing up his hands dramatically. “I can't believe I forgot about that! I can't dance and conduct my piece at the same time!”

“I can do it,” Simon piped in immediately. “What? You don't think I can, considering you've been basically molesting me with that piece for almost a year? Hey, I go to this school too, okay, which means I am a man of many talents, and I'll have you know that I'm perfectly capable of conducting your little love song.”

“No, no, that's-- very kind of you, I...” Magnus was speechless for a moment, lips pursed as he was looking for the right words. “Thank you, Simon.”

Simon's eyes widened comically as he stared at Magnus in utter disbelief, using one hand to cover his mouth, while the other reached blindly to find Clary's arm. “Clary. Clary. Clarissa, did you hear that? He called me Simon. He actually knows my name. I might cry.”

“Congratulations, Simon,” said Clary, somehow simultaneously teasing and genuinely delighted.

“Alright, that's quite enough, let's not get emotional,” mumbled Magnus, visibly embarrassed, and shooed everyone away, not that they listened.

Everyone seemed to be in good spirits, excited for the showcase, and getting along much better than when they'd started – Kaelie talking to Clary instead of Jace as they were leaving was the greatest testament to that. Magnus was reluctant to go, so Alec started gathering his things deliberately slowly as well. They all agreed, and that was possibly the most awkward conversation of Alec's entire life, that everyone would go home alone the night before the showcase, and Alec didn't get the idea. When Magnus noticed him staring, brows furrowed in frustration, he stepped closer, fingers discretely brushing against Alec's, and said nothing. He just stood there, smiling, and still managed to set Alec's blood on fire – he understood the stupid rule now.

“Okay,” he decided, his voice cracking despite his best attempts at keeping it professional. “I look forward to seeing you tomorrow.”

“I look forward to seeing you in tights.”

Blushing, Alec looked around to make sure no one has heard them. “W-what?”

“Oh, I think you heard me just fine, Alexander.”

Alec swallowed, barely standing straight. His fingers were itching with the urge to reach for Magnus's hand, but Alec only let his knuckles graze the back of his palm, eyes not leaving Magnus. It was a precaution, taken on instinct, but also a punishment meant for Magnus for playing dirty. He knew how weak Alec was against him, and how much he wanted to spend the night, even if all they ever did in bed was kiss and hold hands. Alec wanted to do more, he really did, and Magnus purposely trying to exploit that knowledge for the first time, not twenty-four hours before the most important night of Alec's life was just... It was driving Alec crazy, and he needed to go, but Magnus was there, looking at him, and Alec didn't want to leave without kissing him at least once.

“Ugh, get a room you two,” demanded Lily suddenly with her trademark dismay.

Raphael whacked her on the back of her head. “Cállate. Yo te crié mejor.”

“Cào nĭ mā... You're not my real dad.”

Raphael cuffed her again, Lily flipped him off, they left, and that was it – over before Alec could even comprehend what happened. The world didn't end. Alec didn't dissolve. Magnus was still there, smiling at him. Alec took a deep breath to help him adjust to the thought, but it was the gentle curve of Magnus's lips that anchored him. With no one else in the room, Alec locked their fingers together – all twenty of them, his shaking slightly, Magnus's warm and sure – and he let his forehead touch Magnus's. He pushed softly, as if it could get him closer to Magnus, and sighed deeply.

“Are we having a breakdown?” asked Magnus.

Alec smiled and shook his head. “No. We're good. Can I kiss you?”

Magnus didn't reply before capturing Alec's mouth in his, and they stayed there much longer than was appropriate, but they both eventually went to their respective homes to get some well-deserved rest. 

When Alec woke up the next morning, he wasn't scared, or even nervous, but excited. He'd always had to deal with mild performance anxiety, but he was so sure of what he was about to do that his stomach was tight only with anticipation. Getting ready was a loud and hectic affair, but it kept everyone in good mood, and Alec was almost as proud of them as he was of himself; almost as proud as Magnus was of him.

Maryse was there, and Robert with Max, sitting on the opposite sides of the auditorium, and Alec didn't feel bitter – he welcomed the chance to prove himself, especially now, that he was no longer seeking his their approval. As top of the class, or the Institute's equivalent of it, Alec was performing last, and he was glad about it, because they were going to leave a hell of an impression. As Alec checked on Simon and Raphael, Magnus was shadowing him, smelling really good and distracting him from over-thinking. His silent presence was so comforting that they didn't speak at all, until Magnus made a distressed sound all of the sudden, stopping dead in his tracks.

“My ex is in the jury,” he explained when Alec sent him a questioning look. “The hot older blonde over there in the middle? I haven't seen Camille in four years.”

Alec was appalled. “Okay, wow, seriously, how old actually are you?”

“Oh please, Alexander, you make me sound ancient! Like you've never dated a professor when you were young and impressionable.”

“I've never dated anyone but you,” hissed Alec, annoyed.

Magnus instantly perked up. “Are we dating then? Do you finally admit we're dating? Can I have that in writing? Does that mean we can hold hands in public now? Will you introduce me to Jace as your boyfriend? I'm curious as to how many shades of scandalized his face can turn.”

Alec tried his best to keep a straight face, but he could feel his lips twitch, and he knew Magnus could see that. Shaking his head, he pushed Magnus further into the backstage, and stopped only when Magnus's back gently hit the wall. Casting a quick glance around – out of habit, he realized, as he berated himself for it – he put a hand on Magnus's cheek, and kissed him once, sweetly. His face was hot when he pulled away, and he was embarrassed; he was beginning to think he'd never not be.

“If I don't die out there, I need to tell you something.”

Magnus hummed, half-dazed. “Why would you die, Alexander? You could do it blindfolded.”

“Just preparing for the worst.”

“How sensible.”

They both grinned, and Magnus kissed him. He kept kissing him, soft and slow, until they were both breathless, and Lydia was calling them. Alec took Magnus's hand, and followed her to join his unexpectedly well-oiled machine of a young dance group, ready to blow everyone out there away. 

And they did – they were perfect, and Magnus was incredible, and Alec felt like he's been flying again. He saw Max jumping in the air, whooping with joy and pride for his older siblings, his father clapping so hard his whole body shook, and Maryse, gaping in shock at all the people standing up and cheering. Alec felt more alive than ever, his hammering heart louder in his ears than the overwhelming reaction of the crowd, and he's made a decision in that moment. 

His words startled Lance. He blinked a couple of times, computing the fact that Keith has apparently got into a fight for him without even knowing why. It was incredibly reassuring and actually quite flattering, though Lance couldn't see why he shouldn't be taking it for granted – he was a pretty great guy after all, and the least Keith could do for the absolute pleasure of basking in Lance's presence was to defend his honor when the need arose. Still, it was surprisingly nice to realize that their team was gradually becoming a second family, and Lance didn't really feel like ruining the moment by confessing he was hitting on a married woman and didn't know when to stop.

“I was hitting on a married woman and didn't know when to stop,” he blurted out, face-palming internally while trying to keep up the face of someone incredibly proud of himself and his life choices. “It was totally worth it too. I'm telling you, if you weren't such a shit bodyguard, I could practically smell the space divorce in the air. When you think about, it's your fault I ended up a prisoner instead of an exotic boy toy, like planned. You owe me big time, buddy.”

There, that went spectacularly well. The moment was certainly ruined, but Keith was gritting his teeth in irritation, and that was Lance's comfort zone, and it sure was good to be back – Lance preferred the constant bickering, and their possibly one-sided rivalry over Keith acting like he cared. Opting for dreamily staring at the ceiling to hide his embarrassment under the guise of remembering the good old days of two hours ago, Lance hoped Keith would actually call bullshit so they could engage in a familiar, good-natured fight between friends. After approximately three minutes of unnerving silence, he cleared his throat and looked at Keith pointedly, rolling his eyes when Keith refused to stoop down to Lance's level.

“I'm fine talking enough for the both of us, you know,” he offered nonchalantly, inspecting his hands. There was a bit of bluish skin and blood under his fingernails. He wasn't sure how he felt about it.

“I wish the others were here,” Keith admitted reluctantly. “It would be a good bonding experience. Instead it's just you and your delusions of grandeur.”

Lance gasped in shock, his disgusting fingers forgotten. Despite being of the exact same opinion a while ago, having it reversed like that was simply insulting, seeing as Lance was a delight of a human being, and Keith was... Keith. Clearly, Lance was in the losing position in this situation.

“Are you saying just the two of us can't bond?” he demanded, annoyance sipping into his voice.

Keith raised an eyebrow. “Even if we could, you have the tendency to forget our bonding moments. Remember the-”

Lance interrupted Keith with a scoff, trying to hide the rapidly spreading blush of mortification. “Whatever, man, I change my mind. Sit there and brood for all I care. I don't need your attitude to keep me warm in here, I have a lot of fond memories. Just remember I didn't ask you to rush to my rescue, as I was doing perfectly fine on my own, so don't expect a thank you basket.”

Unsurprisingly, Keith fell obnoxiously silent, as only Keith could, leaving Lance to his own depressing thoughts. Of course he remembered – it was the most homoerotic thing that's ever happened to him, and he'd kissed a guy once. Thinking about half-dazedly spewing pathetic poetics about team work made him cringe inwardly, and then there was the cradling-in-arms part, which, just no. Lance didn't particularly like liking boys. They made his breath catch, and his head swim, and his toes tingle, definitely, but they were problematic. The ladies, on the other hand, on top of causing all the aforementioned effects, being beautiful, soft, nice-smelling, and overall flawless were... Well, to put it simply, girls were used to guys like Lance. They'd giggle, or roll their eyes, flirt back, or reject him – as simple as that. He'd get punched in the face if he tried his usual, admittedly a bit flamboyant routine on a wrong boy, and he's learned that the hard way. So, liking guys was problematic, which was something Lance generally tried to avoid in life on principle, thus focusing all his efforts on the ladies, but liking Keith in particular? That was a disaster.

“You were doing fine taking down a beating on your own,” Keith finally said, sounding peeved, as if he couldn't keep it in any longer. “Pidge was doing the majority of ass-whooping before I showed up. You mostly scratched at people. Including me.”

It wasn't how Lance remembered it, but before he tackled that specific issue, he decided to point out the obvious. “It took you ten minutes to come up with that elaborate insult? That's just adding salt to injury. Besides, what can I say? I'm a lover, not a fighter.” He shrugged casually, immediately regretting the unnecessary movement, as dull pain pulled on his ribs. “The healing pods have spoiled me, man. Do you think Allura would be partial to offering some good old-fashioned TLC when we get back to the castle? I bet she'll be into the new, dangerous me. I'm a man with the past now!” His smug grin fell, and he let out a soft sigh. “Probably depends on how annoyed she'll be... And to think all this could have been avoided if the guy was down for a threesome.”

He didn't know why he said that. He supposed being locked up in there with just Keith, focused only on him, deprived of all usual distractions of a normal day, and possibly simply being depressed by being in jail, Lance felt the impulsive urge to confess his feelings. He's always been too honest for his own good, too quick to naively expose himself in front of others, make himself vulnerable; it was just his luck that most people never took him seriously. At least he had a half-mind to gauge for Keith's reaction to the mere concept of the mere possibility of Lance being merely attracted to him before completely ruining whatever tentative relationship they've built these past months.

“I can hear your brain breaking from over here,” muttered Keith, resigned. “You can relax. So you're into guys too. I'm surprised it hasn't slipped out up til now with how much you babble all the time.”

Lance let out a breath he was unknowingly holding. Keith thought he was having a breakdown over accidentally revealing he was bi, not over having a hopeless crush on the last person in all the galaxies they've visited who could in all honesty say they actually liked Lance. He could work with that. Except he couldn't, because the rare moments of kindness, understanding, and support Keith offered – no, not that rare, because Keith was a good person and a good friend, and Lance's stupidly honest brain wouldn't even let him lie to himself – were dangerous. Because of Lance's own carefully hidden insecurities, sometimes they felt like pity, coming from Keith. I won't yell at Lance for getting us thrown in jail, he's already got his ass kicked. I won't make a big deal of Lance's coming out, he's terrified enough. Lance overreacted.

“Oh yeah? You seem pretty cool about it now, but are you sure you won't freak out at some point that a guy might be secretly drooling over your ass?”

As soon as the words were out of his mouth, Lance felt truly trapped for the first time, fully realizing there was nowhere for him to run from the consequences of his lack of brain-to-mouth filter. He briefly considered repeatedly hitting his head against the wall until he got through to Pidge's cell, and begging her to hold him in her arms and protect him from himself. Why was it so difficult for him to keep his mouth shut? Keith was frowning now, his narrowed eyes fixed on Lance's grimacing, flaming-hot face, probably imagining Lance hiding in the dark corners of the castle, panting after his virtue with his tongue on his chin, and hadn't Lance ever heard of not thinking about elephants? He physically flinched when Keith cleared his throat.

“Lance, 'guys drooling over my ass' – Lance absentmindedly registered that Keith looked like a goofball doing the air quotes – is pretty much what I'm going for... I thought you knew?”

Lance hadn't known. He had no idea. Keith's only ever expressed desire for kicking alien butts in a giant robotic cat, and Lance has never entertained the idea. The complete shock must have been coming across pretty well even without him saying anything, because Keith's expression was gradually changing from mildly amused to bewildered. Lance's entire face was permanently on fire at this point, but seeing Keith blush and avoid his eyes startled him. Lance decided his brain has finally been fried, because he could have sworn Keith was being shy, and that was simply impossible.

“You- You flirt with me,” Keith mumbled, sounding uncertain. “All the time.”

Lance took a sharp breath through his nose, instantly going out of the state of shock and slipping into panic. “I don't flirt with you!” he protested, voice cracking pitifully. “Have you ever see me flirt? You'd know if I was coming onto you, man, trust me. I'd sweep you off your feet! That being said, just because a dude occasionally enjoys the company of other dudes, that doesn't mean I'm into you of all people, even in our dire social circumstances. Shiro is much better-looking. Hunk is so much nicer than you. Pidge is a total cutie, if you like them pint-sized. There's Allura! Actually, Even Coran holds more appeal to me than you!”

“Are you done?”

Lance could see Keith wasn't buying any of it, judging by the way his face was slowly relaxing and starting to express something akin to fondness, and Lance really couldn't blame him. He wasn't even trying, for quiznack's sake; there was endearing level of arrogance, and there was flat out insulting lies. There was no point in dignifying Keith's uncharacteristically soft question with a response, not that Lance had any dignity left to spare. Hiding his face in his hands, he let out a strangled whimper, praying for quick death, or Allura, or a quick death at Allura's hands.

“Look, Lance, it's okay. Everything's fine. I know you like me, dumbass. You're not exactly subtle. Ever. I didn't say anything because I thought you were having an existential crisis over it.”

“I am having an existential crisis over it!”

Well, so that cat was out of the bag as well. Why deny it? He's humiliated himself enough for one night. He could hear Keith's soft chuckle, but it wasn't mean or deprecating, and Lance finally dared to look at him – Keith's face was serious, but his eyes crinkled with warm amusement. Naturally, it pissed Lance off, because he was having an actual meltdown, and that stupid Mullet thought it was funny. Huffing angrily, Lance crossed his arms on his chest, tipping his face to the side to indicate how unimpressed he was with what he was seeing.

“But not because I'm a guy?” Keith prompted lightly, almost teasingly. Case in point.

“No!” Lance hissed. “Because you're the worst!”

Keith nodded gravely. “I'm having a similar problem here.”

“Well, it's not like- Wait, what?”

“You heard me.”

Lance usually associated these words with a defiant tone of voice and hard eyes, not hushed stammering and blushing. Keith was embarrassed. Lance was embarrassed too. They were embarrassed together because it was all so embarrassing, and there was nothing to say that would ever change that. Lance nearly jumped two feet into the air when Pidge's voice came from the other side of the wall, clear as day, telling them to just go out on a date and get it over with. Keith and Lance stared at each other dumbly, mortified with the realization that Pidge has apparently been silently listening to everything this whole time, but before Lance could call her out on being a massive creep, their cell doors opened with a loud clang, and Allura walked in, a faint blush of vexation on her beautiful face.

“Hunk has told me all about how the unruly children on Earth are punished for irresponsible antics like that, so all of you are grounded,” she declared. “This includes you, Pidge!”

“Worth it!” Pidge shouted back, her voice cheerful.

Lances eyes filled with tears of joy and he lunged at Allura. “My princess, my savior! You have no idea what I've been through! In the spirit of teaching you about Earth's customs, have you heard of the term TLC?”

He could hear Keith clearing his throat pointedly behind his back, as he walked Allura out of the cell, but he ignored it. Painfully awkward half-confessions aside, he wasn't off the market just yet, and Allura would always be his first choice, despite his stomach swooping at mere the memory of Keith's flushed cheeks. If Keith really did want a piece of that, he would have to make an effort beyond scorching looks and manly grunts he usually used to communicate, and that was final. Lance was so pleased with himself at getting over this acutely distressing situation so quickly and appearing inwardly unscathed for Allura's sake, who certainly found comfort in knowing he was okay after spending long hours in a space jail.

“Lance, you're trembling!” Allura noticed, concerned. “Is everything alright? Is it your injuries?”

He stilled, color draining from his face in shame upon realizing his knees were shaking, his heart still pounding rapidly from the intense emotional turmoil he's just been through, the courtesy of Keith. Behind him, he could hear Pidge huff in amusement. He cast her a scornful glance over his shoulder, daring her to say anything. When she smiled at him innocently, he turned back to Allura, but not before catching a glimpse of Keith, still slightly flushed and dazed. Immediate blushing, Lance unceremoniously tripped over his own feet with an indignant squawk.

“Sometimes you look so sad when Gon isn't looking, brother.”

He and Alluka were trailing only a few steps behind Gon, and Killua held his breath for a moment, but Gon went on ahead, oblivious to anything that wasn't in front of him. Killua slowed down before turning his face to his sister, her big loving eyes filled with helpless worry, and smiled.

“I'm sad to part with him, just like I've always been sad when I had to leave you.”

Alluka shook her head, pensive. “That's not it.”

He was twelve again, next time. As much as his insane family tried to keep him sheltered, it was a world of close-knit communities and child services. The best his paranoid mother could do was home-school him, give him a strict curfew, run background checks on the neighbors, and poison his brain with lies he refused to believe in, but she couldn't keep him locked up. She couldn't lock up Kalluto either, nor Alluka, nor Milluki, if he ever wanted to go out; Illumi moved out a long time ago. Killua was free, even if he didn't understand why it meant so much to him.

He's never made many friends (he had been waiting, even though he hadn't – couldn't have – realized it), because there weren't many kids his age in the neighborhood – Biscuit was bossy, and much older in mind than she was in body, which annoyed and impressed him in equal measures, and Canary was great too, very responsible for her age, yet warm and affectionate, but she was afraid of Killua's parents. He was excited when he learned that a boy his age was moving in the house next door, hoping he would finally have someone to skateboard with.

Remembering Gon Freecss was confusing at first, as if through a haze, a silent ghost of a memory that made Killua feel incredibly, hopelessly sad. He often woke up screaming, his dreams bloody, but during the day, Gon was brighter than the sun, chasing the shadows away, and Killua loved him. Gon laughed a lot, invited Killua to stargaze on the roof, played with Kikyo's vicious dog, put band-aids on Killua's scraped elbows and knees, and beat up kids that called Alluka a boy. He was Killua's best friend, his first kiss, and every kiss after that; Killua was happy.

For three years, he believed this time would be different, even when aunt Mito announced that they were moving away. Ging could finally make a home for them, and Gon was overjoyed, because he wanted to be with his father, so Killua was glad for him. He was smiling when he climbed through the window of Gon's room, nervous and embarrassed when he tentatively sat on the bed. He believed Gon when he promised him, between kisses, that they would meet again, didn't cry. He did wonder if he was really free if he couldn't follow Gon once again.

Killua didn't flinch when Gon's car was hit by a truck barely three blocks away from his house.

“Ah, you caught me,” complained Killua, smiling fondly. “Would you believe me if I said that I had said goodbye to him a million times already?”

Alluka considered. He knew she wasn't thinking they've parted that many times in two years, that she was looking for a different explanation to Killua's question before giving her answer. He also knew it wasn't what he wanted to think, or talk about before he had to say goodbye for the millionth and one time.

“I'm joking,” he said, laughing. “You're right! Now's not the time to sulk, we should make the best of this trip. Let's go catch up with Gon!”

Alluka grinned happily, innocent and carefree again, and nodded, squeezing Killua's hand in hers.

They were both twenty when Killua finally remembered. This time, they'd been together from the beginning, childhood companions, blissfully ignorant, always in danger and in love. Killua only remembered because Gon said he wanted to run away and live his own life – he was reminded so he could anticipate the outcome of that decision with agonizing clarity. Killua thought about stopping him, changing his mind, buying them more time. It was only for a moment, though; he's known Gon for centuries. Of course, he said, this time, they would leave together.

No one simply quit being yakuza, and certainly not people like them. As hard it was going to be for Gon, sold as a baby to pay off the debts of his father with his life, it was going to be impossible for Killua, the third in line to the bloody throne. He didn't care – for once, he wanted to be with Gon until the end, stay by his side, instead of merely watching, helpless and hollow. They made love, and they sneaked out in the middle of the night, holding hands and smiling, just like Killua had once imagined, lifetimes ago.

For a while, he was happy. Gon was everything, and everything was Gon, and together with him, Killua felt invincible; for a while. They couldn't stay long in one place, and they had to be careful contacting their friends – Kurapika managed to occasionally update them on the family's movements, but Leorio was under constant surveillance, which was rather insulting; as if Killua would go to his father's doctor if he was in need of medical assistance. They stayed with Kite's gang outside the city for a while, but they had to move again soon enough.

Eventually, Silva sent the Phantom Troupe to hunt them down. Killua was almost flattered, until it made him realize that following Gon has been a mistake. He wasn't supposed to be naive. The spiders hunted them for long weeks without rest – the best squad in the family, a resource not easily dispensed, certainly not on a runaway foot soldier of a lower rank, practically a slave. They should have given up a long time ago, and the only reason why they didn't, why Gon was still on the run, was that they were sent to collect Killua.

It was too late when they decided to part ways. Gon was gunned down. Killua lost a finger.

As Killua prepared to have their picture taken, he thought about the impossibility of cheating fate; he's been toying with the concept in this lifetime for far too long already. He recalled how difficult it was to breathe when he finally remembered, how he dreaded the price for delaying the inevitable for so long, for surviving so much together, and apart (his blood chilled at the memory of parting ways once before), how he hoped that he would get one more chance to protect Gon, long enough to buy him some more time by abandoning him, cutting out the cancer that was Killua's presence. He didn't want to entertain the idea that Alluka helped Gon cheat death this time. He wasn't naive.

He was glad he looked so happy in the picture. They all did.

There was a time they never met. Killua was already sixteen when he recognized Gon on an online forum for fans of extreme sports. He instantly became tired and miserable with the sudden knowledge he's never asked for, and he blocked the user ThexMasterxOfxThexSwamp, deciding to find another hobby. A few years later, somehow, he was there anyway, just in time to watch Gon kill himself while saving the life of a fellow competitor.

There was a time Killua cut down Gon's life himself. It was war, and Killua killed a lot of men and boys, he was very good at it. He recognized Gon the moment he pulled his sword out of his lifeless body, and he didn't kill anyone else after that. He collapsed in the middle of the battlefield, clutching at Gon's corpse, and cried, possibly for the first time in that version of his life. His youngest brother found him like that, scornful.

There was a time he was merely an accomplice, too young to understand. People say the families of psychopaths often remain oblivious until it's too late, and the nine-years-old him believed his brother when he said the friends he's been helping Killua find weren't interested after all. He met a lot of little boys and girls, and accepted their sudden departures, but he refused to let Gon out of his sight, so he witnessed Milluki strangling him.

There was a time Killua actively tried to be the end of Gon. The only son of a famous and controversial politician, a bright boy Killua inexplicably longed for, Gon was his mark, and Killua was determined to embrace his role, and assist in the triple assassination the best a scrawny thirteen-year-old could. He wanted to hate Gon when he turned his back on him, but no matter how hard he tried, Gon was the light of all his lives, snuffed out every time.

Some times were worse than others, and Killua was used to none of them.

Killua didn't look back even once as they parted ways at the gate. Gon had always looked only ahead, and Killua was tired, maybe, of being the only one looking back – always the only one knowing, remembering, suffering. No, that wasn't why he didn't look back. He tried to smile at Alluka, to let her know everything was going to be okay, but his jaw clenched, and the corners of his lips turned downwards in spite of his best efforts. His eyes stung with tears.

“I don't understand, brother,” she admitted eventually, lost, voice wet and breaking. “You said you'll see each other again, that you'll always be friends. Why are you so sad? I hate it, brother. I wish I could take your pain away.”

Other times, he was born waiting. When that happened, he often went looking for Gon, if he could. He thought, perhaps, they would have more time. Sometimes they did, sometimes not. It always ended the same, anyway. Once, he started running away from home in search of Gon as soon as he could reach high enough to steal cash. Everyone was always on drugs then, even his parents, and it was enough of a head start. Illumi always brought him back home afterwards, indifferently displeased with him, and angry at his own inability to comprehend Killua's motivations.

The older Killua got, the longer he could survive on the streets, but he was fourteen when he's finally found him. Gon was a nobody, and had nobody, but he was as radiant as ever, a bright light Killua still couldn't look directly at after so long. Gon loved his foster mom, but he was looking for his real father, and he hadn't eaten in a while, so he would let Killua fuck him for money. Killua blushed, heat flaring up in his gut, taken aback (but not disappointed, never in Gon), and bought him dinner. Gon was surprised but untroubled when Killua refused to touch him.

They lived on the road for almost a year before Illumi caught up with them. Doing odd jobs and squatting, Killua was content with this rough life as long as Gon was with him; he's been born waiting for him. They slept in each other's arms every night, and Gon would touch him sometimes, panting into Killua's ear that he wanted to, that he loved him, needed him. Killua loved the way Gon kissed his entire face, after, each kiss punctuated with a giddy chuckle, pure and bare affection nearly suffocating Killua with immense pleasure and indescribable fear it elicited.

When he opened his sleep-heavy eyelids to see Illumi's impassively curious face, he shivered partly in disgust, partly because he was cold – that was when the panic struck, when he realized Gon was no longer by his side. Hisoka, always leeching on the family because of the drugs, always high and dangerous, was pressing Gon into the wall with a feral grin, and Illumi held Killua down when he tried to help. He would go home, he swore, if they'd just let Gon go, he would come back without a fight, he promised. But Hisoka liked little boys like Gon, and Illumi didn't care.

Something in Killua died differently this time around, as he watched Gon getting beaten to death.

Killua wiped his face with his sleeve, took a deep breath.

“Nanika,” he rasped. “When I die, make me forget him.”

Killua met Gon Freecs for the first time at the troubling age of seventeen, though he wasn't very troubled at that time. Gon caught his attention by wearing the most atrocious green pants Killua has ever seen, but didn't exactly hold it for too long. Alluka teased him, as she always did whenever he looked at a boy for longer than three seconds, and it kind of made Killua's attention occasionally drift back to the stranger. He seemed nice – and cute, maybe, he added to himself, blushing – but that was about as far as Killua's initial conclusions went. When their eyes met momentarily, Killua flushed again, quickly averting his gaze in embarrassment.

“Do you know him?” Alluka asked, curious.

Everything changed, but it was as if nothing changed at the same time. Only the lucky ones survived – not the strong, or good, just random lucky individuals that were going to create everything from scraps again. They no longer treated Syd like their messiah – another word from the world before this, and the one before, that made Syd think fondly of Mr. Baram, and miss him terribly – and they seemed happier. Free. Like Marie always believed they could.

Liam was still hovering, no more nor less than before… everything. He kept his distance, but his presence felt as constricting as it felt then. He touched Syd only if he absolutely had to, and only with his metal hand; as if nothing changed at all. Syd wondered if Liam lost interest once Syd stopped being Yovel, if he kept an eye on him out of some misguided sense of duty or guilt. Syd didn’t like the idea.

“He’s giving you an out you know,” Marie said, watching Syd watch Liam. “All these breath-stopping looks, dramatic kisses, and whatnot, he thinks it was just a 'well if we’re going to die anyway' thing. He’s giving you an out, and you’re taking it.”

“No, I’m not. Because no, he’s not.”

Syd didn’t think so. Now that he was only Syd again, he was just that one guy who almost got Liam killed in all the imaginable ways, and ended up not saving anyone. Who ended up like everyone else – lucky. Liam didn’t want to hear Syd's story anymore.

“He has your name tattooed on his chest Syd,” Marie reminded him.

He shook his head. “He has a political function tattooed on his chest. I’m no longer serving that function.”

“I don't know enough about blood transfusions,” she said with a sigh, “but I worry that Knox infected you with his stupidity somehow. Through sheer exposure perhaps.”

Syd didn’t want to talk or think about Liam, so he welcomed the change of subject. He smiled despite himself, unable to remember if they'd ever talked about Knox like that, after. He decided it was a good way of remembering him, and hoped he and Marie would do it frequently from now on.

He missed Knox now more than ever. He missed Egan too. They should have been here. They should have been able to see this world, and be a part of it. He believed both of them would have been lucky enough. Idiots like them often were.

“Maybe stupidity is transmitted orally,” he mused.

Once Marie realized he was talking about kissing, she punched him in the arm and laughed. Syd laughed too, but he was thinking about Liam again.

At first, it was weird to work again after being an untouchable savior who only used his hands to wave at the crowds. It was weird having Liam let him, most of all. Then it felt refreshing, and then exhausting, and then it was just a part of his day, like he was a part of the community. It was normal, and boring, and tiring, and Syd liked it. Things have changed completely, for the second time in his short life, but he found himself wishing they would stay like that, at least for a while.

He also wished Liam would talk to him. He didn't have to want Syd again, but a conversation of more than five clipped sentences would be nice. Syd assumed that was what Liam felt like when Syd was Yovel, and determined on remaining stubbornly ignorant of Liam's feelings. He assumed that was what having feelings felt like.

Having feeling for Atticus Finch, in all their superficial convenience of the first unattainable crush, was easy. Having feelings for Knox, in all their inappropriate complexity, and most probably utter hopelessness, and confusion that never really went away, was easy too. All that was easy because Syd never had to – never had a chance to – do anything about it.

Having feelings for Liam was different, but Syd still did nothing about it. With the world changing drastically around him, not much about Syd has changed – in many ways he was still a Chapter Eleven orphan from the Valve that didn't deserve, or amount to, anything.

Marie was rolling her eyes a lot, which wasn't helpful in the slightest.

Liam seemed to gradually become more comfortable around Syd, and they started spending time together again. They talked a lot, laying foundation for tentative friendship, as there was no longer any obligation or difference in status between them, and they could. They discussed the future, the past, the people, the weather. They shared their stories. They got to know each other, and Syd was happy. And yet, something was missing.

“You want to kiss him,” Marie drawled, pursing her lips not unlike the fever-induced Knox. “Admit it. You really care about him.”

“Of course I care about him,” said Syd, frowning and crossing his arms defensively. “Me not caring about him is not the problem.”

Marie whistled, impressed for some reason. “You actually think he doesn’t care about you. Amazing. Millions of years of evolution and boys are still as dumb as bells.”

No one talked like that anymore. Or rather, no one had before, and now they started to speak like that again. The people have found more books. Not many, but enough to start reading again, for education and pleasure. Liam brought Syd whatever he found, and while they lost on their novelty and rarity, the gifts still made Syd’s chest tighten. He offered to teach Liam to read, but he refused. Syd understood.

“You need to talk to him,” Marie said, suddenly serious. “I know the big, strong, silent type has its appeal, but you need to communicate.”

Syd blushed at Marie's description, because it was quite accurate, and it did hold some appeal to Syd. There was still a part of him that didn't believe Marie, that was convinced that Liam was simply no longer interested in Syd like that. Marie's argument about dramatic life and death situations boosting male libido went both ways – it was more likely to be attracted to someone you believed had saved your life and changed your world for the better than for “just Syd,” who was now only good for fixing the few machines people were slowly learning to trust again to make their lives easier, instead of taking control of them.

But Marie was probably right, as she often had been, and besides, could he really call himself and Liam friends if they weren't honest with each other? It was only fair to get everything between them out in the open, and deal with any unresolved issues, unfinished businesses, and the like.

Syd also maybe wanted to kiss Liam again, possibly many times. At least that's what Marie thought.

He was more surprised than he probably should, really, that Liam’s metal hand needed some minor repairs. It made sense, of course, because things broke all the time. Body parts broke too, and Liam’s hand was both. More of a thing, perhaps, if Liam came to Syd with it. Syd hadn’t performed any makeshift medical procedures on anyone since that one time in the hovercraft. He blushed at the memory. As he tweaked with metal hand currently in his lap, Liam’s elbow resting on his knee, he regretted not having a reason to ask Liam to take off his shirt this time. He blushed even harder at that.

“Is doing this making you uncomfortable?” asked Liam, his voice tight.

Syd didn’t want to say it was making him kind of horny. He sometimes still couldn’t wrap his head around the fact he had time to get kind of horny nowadays. He shook his head and shushed Liam, focusing on the task, which was difficult with Liam’s thighs shifting restlessly in his peripheral vision, and his uneven breath fanning over the top of Syd’s head. Marie was right, and Syd disliked her for it very much.

“We've never really talked about what happened in Mountain City,” Sid managed to say finally. “Between us, I mean.”

Liam's metal hand clenched so hard, the loose parts Syd was fixing nearly popped off. Blinking, Syd sat up straight, and looked at Liam, who averted his eyes, a pained grimace twisting his mouth. Syd put away his tools, taking Liam's hand off his lap, and waited, holding his breath. This had to be the part where Liam said the truth, and Syd walked away, scorned and disappointed.

“I thought you've forgiven me,” Liam said through gritted teeth.

Syd didn't understand. “Forgiven you?”

“For the things I said when I... when we fought.”

Syd remembered. He remembered all the ugly things Liam felt he had to say to make Syd fight back. He remembered thinking that saying those things hurt Liam more than hearing them hurt Syd. He remembered feeling it was wrong of Liam to use his affection as a weapon, to see it as ugly and depraved enough to cut. Stupidly, he didn't realize Liam was still troubled by that.

“You said you loved me.”

“I do,” Liam said immediately, appalled Syd could ever doubt it. “I always will.”

Syd sighed in relief, surprising himself. “Then- Why? Why did you push me away? I don't care about that, I know why you did that. You know I don't care, Liam, I didn't even then, I- I kissed you. Did you think I did that because, what? I was sending a soldier off to die?”

He sucked in a breath when he realized there was some truth to that statement, and that Liam had known that then. After all, he had watched Syd a lot. He let out a shaky breath, a half-laugh. He looked away, unable to face that wet puppy look and see it confirm that Syd was too late with his feelings, or that they weren't enough for Liam.

“I'm not an easy guy to love, am I?” he asked, resigned, and he almost flinched when Liam put his good hand on the side of his neck.

He tried to remember anything from last night that could have led to his current predicament, but everything was blank past moving Tsuna out of the third club on their list, and what he remembered most from the place was the security, which was never a good sign. He remembered the bouncer, a loud muscle man with a band aid on his nose, pleading with Gokudera to run before the head of security showed up. Apparently the guy turned cannibalistic or something if the club got as much as a tiny scratch, and judging by the honest dread on the bouncer's face, Gokudera did much more than just to scratch the place. It was mortifying when he thought about it now, but it had been Tsuna's bachelor party, and it was supposed to be this epic Las Vegas adventure, even if it cost Gokudera his life. And since it definitely cost him his integrity, he certainly hoped it had been the best night of Tsuna's life.

“Morning,” he heard suddenly, muffled by a pillow.

He snapped his head to look at his partner in crime, and he had to hold his breath. God, he was so young. He had to be Gokudera's age, if not younger, but that might have been just the dumb and self-satisfied grin that smoothed out his features and made his face look almost adolescent. For a second, Gokudera simply wondered what was the kid doing being married so young, but then he remembered lots of people their age were, if they didn't have severe abandonment and trust issues like Gokudera. As he stared at the perfect stranger in his bed – was the bed even his? – with no clue whatsoever what to say, the guy's stupid grin only widened, as he looked at Gokudera dreamily with those big, brown, half-lidded eyes. Gokudera tensed then, slowly coming to realize that what he was seeing was less of a “you fucked my brains out and ruined me for all other men” dumb smile and more of a “I'm the kind of carefree happy-go-lucky idiot man-child that you hate the most in the world” dumb smile.

“I want to die,” he decided with a groan, covering his face with his hands.

The guy laughed happily, a grating sound, sending unpleasant shivers down Gokudera's back. Just how drunk had he been? Suddenly, being married was at the very bottom of the list of that man's flaws, and Gokudera wasn't going to wait and find out more of them. He got up with a disgusted grunt, and instantly stumbled, landing right back on the bed, soft mattress like stone under his ass. His legs actually gave up underneath him. Just what kind of an animal was he dealing with exactly? Gokudera turned around to glare upon hearing a sickeningly good-natured chuckle, but the guy was suddenly too busy frowning at his own hands in confusion to notice. Gokudera scowled when he finally lifted his eyes, holding a spread palm between them, the light catching on the wedding ring again.

“Say Gokudera, did we get married?”

At first, he was just annoyed that the guy had the audacity to remember his name when Gokudera couldn't even recall seeing him before this morning, but then the rest of the question sank in, and his brain short-circuited. He snapped his hands to his face, horrified, and he noticed it instantly – a matching gold ring, hidden among countless pieces of jewelry that Gokudera always wore, which initially disguised the alien presence on his finger. He married a random idiot during a drunken night in Las Vegas, right before his best friend's wedding, like some enormous cliché of a human being, and What Would Tsuna Think of that. He was actually going to pass out. He had to call Tsuna.

“I need to call Tsuna,” he said aloud. “I need a cigarette. Where the fuck are my pants?!”

His hands shook as he wrapped a sheet over his waist before getting up from the bed in search of his clothes. He was never body shy, but something about his fucking husband lying languidly in bed, unaffected by being left naked, making soft moaning noises as his muscles stretched and his joints cracked, and following Gokudera's every move made him feel self-conscious, overly aware and ashamed of every finger-shaped bruise on his body. He needed his pants. He needed Tsuna.

“Is Tsuna the cute little kid you were with when we met?”

Gokudera glowered. “He's older than he looks! Probably older than you, anyway.”

He's always been overly protective of Tsuna, he knew that even without a stranger laughing at the passion with which he defended his best friend's honor as an adult. But Tsuna was the first, and probably the only person, who managed to completely tear down Gokudera's carefully built walls. And he didn't just smash them, leaving Gokudera defenseless, he helped him fortify them. Together, they've built new walls, with enough room for both of them, and maybe a heavy door for other people to occasionally come and go through, if they knew the right password.

“Hey, I'm twenty-four, you know!” protested the guy with that idiotic chuckle of his. “Do you, actually? Do you even know my name?”

That was the opening Gokudera needed. What he knew best was how to hurt people, which even a ten-years-long friendship with Tsuna wouldn't change. He finally found his phone, and put on a bored look on his face before pointedly ignoring the man as he pretended to scroll through his messages, lighting another cigarette.

“Of course not,” he muttered dismissively, exhaling smoke. “Why would I bother remembering it?”

Unsurprisingly, he heard a chuckle. “You seemed to remember it pretty well when you panted 'Yamamoto, Yamamoto' as I-”

Gokudera dropped his phone with a loud thud, causing the idiot to laugh again. Black spots appeared in front of his eyes as his whole body heated with absolute mortification, and he couldn't even force his hands to hold up his cigarette, or the sheets he wrapped himself in – he only noticed they slid down his body because of the happy sigh that Yamamoto let out behind him. Flushing even more, Gokudera growled, picking up the sheets and his phone, and promptly locking himself in the bathroom. His ears were ringing, and it took him a moment to hear Tsuna on the other line, who sounded genuinely concerned, as always, and it only added to the agony of everything.

“I'm so sorry, Tenth... I'm so sorry...”

“What happened, Gokudera? Where are you? Are you alright?”

He wanted to fall to his knees in front of Tsuna and grovel, because he worried about Gokudera, who did nothing but to get out of his way to ruin the most important day of his best friend's life. How could he confess his heinous crimes a few hours before Tsuna was to finally marry his middle school sweetheart? The answer was he couldn't, and he had to do what he did second best – lie. He lit another cigarette, inhaling deeply.

“I'm sorry I'm not there yet,Tenth!” he exclaimed with fake cheer. “I ran into an old friend, and we got completely shit-faced, but I'll be there in an hour!”

Tsuna laughed a little bit nervously. “Oh, I see. It was a wild night, wasn't it? I'm still not sure I remember everything! I think we broke a table and someone wanted to bite me...”

Gokudera let Tsuna chatter about what he remembered of his bachelor evening, partly because he knew talking helped Tsuna relax and forget about his anxiety, and partly because he was the best source of information about what the hell actually happened to Gokudera that led him to this point. He listened intently and made comprehensive noises in all the right moments, while struggling to take off his wedding band without dislocating his shoulder. God, he was stiff, and sore, and he needed a hot shower.

“Anyway, would you like to bring your friend with you?” asked Tsuna out of the sudden. “I don't want you to spend the entire wedding by yourself... Seriously, Gokudera, I know you don't do boyfriends, but you could have at least invited your sister...”

“You know she makes me sick,” he grumbled automatically, barely containing a shout of triumph at finally removing the ring. “And I'll be fine, Tenth, you know I will.”

“Alright,” said Tsuna with a soft, defeated sigh. “If you change your mind, your invite does say plus one. I'll see you soon, yeah?”

Tsuna hung up before Gokudera could assure him again that he'd be fine on his own. He momentarily considered asking Bianchi to come, as she was rich enough to get there in time, just so Tsuna wouldn't worry about him on his big day, but that was simply unimaginable. Yamamoto was obviously out of the question, as Gokudera never wanted to see him again, ever. Except, he would have to, as he realized when he dropped the forgotten wedding band on the shower floor. He didn't bother picking it up, too grateful for the strong spray of hot water relaxing his muscles and clearing his head. He let himself simply enjoy the shower for a few minutes before he forced himself to face the facts again.

As much as he hated the thought of ever interacting with that idiot, he needed Yamamoto to annul the marriage. Even before that, he needed Yamamoto to respect that it was Tsuna's wedding day, and Gokudera didn't have any time to waste on this farce until the next day. And most of all, he needed him to stay put until the whole thing was over, no matter how long it took. He couldn't imagine Yamamoto wanting anymore to do with Gokudera than the other way round; no matter how stupid he seemed, who would actually want to marry a stranger in Vegas and stay married to them? Still, he didn't know anything about Yamamoto, except that he was an idiot, and a pervert. Gokudera honestly didn't have any guarantee that he wouldn't cause at least some problems – like turn out to be a prostitute, just to maximize Gokudera's humiliation, or worse, and more plausible, forget about the whole thing, and get on a plane to Japan in two hours.

Clearly, Gokudera had to keep an eye on Yamamoto until he was a free man again, and as soon as he stepped out of the shower and dried himself off, he barged back into the bedroom, too determined to worry about his nudity, and absolutely didn't pause at the sight of sleeping Yamamoto, having ridiculous thoughts about pinnacles of human perfection and whatnot, before throwing a random article of clothing at him, and startling him awake.

“Take a shower and get dressed, you idiot,” he seethed. “We're going to a wedding.”

The journey to the venue was a quiet and well-organized affair, considering. It was a bit surprising that Yamamoto went along with the plan with no complaining, and minimum questioning, but it really was the least he could do after getting Gokudera drunk enough to get married by an Elvis. Even though he was still laughing at Gokudera's every annoyed grunt, which was all the time, seeing as everything annoyed Gokudera at the moment, and tried to make dumb idle conversation, his biggest offense, in all honesty, was how good he looked in a suit.

“Listen,” snapped Gokudera, putting out a cigarette, just before they entered Tsuna's hotel. “In case anyone asks, we're old friends who ran into each other by accident. If you even hint at what actually happened last night, I will stick a dynamite up your ass and light it with the fire of my vengeance. We're gonna deal with it after Tenth is a happily married man. Understood?”

Yamamoto laughed. “You're funny when you try to be scary. But okay, I won't say anything.”

Gokudera only rolled his eyes, fixing his tie before walking into the hotel. It was hectic, which was probably pretty standard for wedding preparations, but Gokudera spotted Tsuna in a second. He looked absolutely terrified, but the excitement was clear in his eyes too, his frame tense with anticipation. He beamed when he noticed Gokudera, and his grin only grew wider when he looked at Yamamoto. At first, Gokudera thought it was because Tsuna was glad he would have company, but was soon disillusioned.  

“You never told me you were friends with Yamamoto Takeshi!” he squeaked, cheeks pink. “I can't believe Yamamoto Takeshi is at my wedding! Now I'm twice as nervous!”

Gokudera paled. Yamamoto being anyone recognizable was something he did not take into account at all, but he always worked well under pressure, so after a brief period of adjustment to a new situation, he plastered a fake grin, and patiently waited for Tsuna and Yamamoto to exchange pleasantries and congratulations.

“We should leave you to get ready, Tenth!” said Gokudera, grabbing Yamamoto's elbow. “We'll see you at the church!”

Tsuna nodded enthusiastically, still staring at Yamamoto a little blearily, and joined his overexcited mother, visibly more relaxed. It infuriated Gokudera that the biggest mistake of his life calmed Tsuna down more in two minutes than anything Gokudera's done in the last two months. As soon as they were was out of sight, Gokudera scowled, pulling Yamamoto closer by the collar of his shirt, and grit his teeth, wanting nothing more than to wipe that soft, surprised smile off his face with his fist.

“Who the hell are you? You're famous? Why didn't you tell me, you complete idiot?”

Yamomoto was still smiling. “You didn't ask. I told you last night that I was here to celebrate the end of the baseball season.”

Baseball. Gokudera wasn't even shocked anymore that Yamamoto was a jock on top of being an idiot. He should have known, though, he should have guessed, or asked, or something. Now he was stuck with a useless feeble lie that he, a nerd for all intents and purposes, was somehow friends with a professional baseball player, which he managed to hide from his best friend for ten years. It was just his luck that Tsuna was too consumed with the wedding, and possibly too awestruck by meeting a celebrity, to see the holes in the logic of it all. Frankly, Gokudera was mostly angry with himself, but it was much more satisfying to take it out on Yamamoto.

“You'll be lucky if I don't kill you before the day is over,” he said. “That would solve my marital problem all the same, and trust me, you baseball idiot, I can make a body disappear.”

Of course, Yamamoto laughed, but it was weak and short-lived, his eyes not leaving Gokudera's mouth long after he finished talking. Gokudera flushed despite himself when Yamamoto distractedly wet his bottom lip with the tip of his tongue, because the idea of his threats getting Yamamoto hot was as insulting as it was inconveniently arousing. Frustrated, he shoved Yamamoto outside and pushed him into the limo, putting a significant distance between them, just to make a point. He could feel Yamamoto's eyes on him, which admittedly made him squirm in his seat, but he didn't look up from his phone even once.

He definitely wasn't googling Yamamoto either.

It was going to be over an hour long drive, because no one respectable, or with half a brain for that matter, actually wanted to get married in Las Vegas, and Gokudera ran out of ways to pretend Yamamoto didn't exist pretty quickly. He decided to take a nap, which was preferable to making a conscious effort to ignore Yamamoto, and Lambo, Gokudera's least favorite driver of all time, was sure to entertain the idiot anyway, not that Gokudera cared.

He dreamed of loud music and bright smiles, strong hands and hot lips, fragments of conversation. He was playing the piano, and watching fireworks, and laughing. He woke up with a start, his cheek pressed into Yamamoto's shoulder, encompassed by his smell, exasperatingly familiar and oddly comforting. He was too confused for a moment to even move, and only Yamamoto's chuckle fully brought him back to reality, but not before he let Yamamoto's fingers brush a strand of hair off his face.

“Are we there yet, you stupid cow?” he snapped to Lambo, scrambling away from Yamamoto with as much dignity as he could muster. “What time is it?”

Lambo ignored him in lieu of humming a stupid kids song, and Gokudera reached for his phone before Yamamoto could feel compelled to answer him. There was still twenty minutes to the wedding, and Gokudera was restless; he really needed a cigarette. There was a message from Bianchi on his phone, and two missed calls, which he was more than happy to disregard, so he opted for clearing his search history, and checking if there were any incriminating photos on there.

He didn't have to look far, because the last photo he's taken was one of Yamamoto's bare ass, still angry red where, as Gokudera suddenly remembered with humiliating clarity, he grabbed it in an attempt to pull Yamamoto in even deeper. He dropped his phone again, and he had to resist the urge to throw it out of the window as soon as he picked it up. He risked a glance at Yamamoto, who was looking at his phone too, wearing that stupid dumb idiotic smile on his awful face, and Gokudera was too horrified to even try to imagine what he could be looking at.

“Finally,” he grumbled in relief as the car came to a stop. “You are literally the worst driver, you stupid cow. We're almost late! Come on, Yamamoto, we can't make Tenth wait.”

He locked his phone, shoving it in his pocket, and sprung out of the car to smoke a cigarette, ignoring Lambo sticking his tongue out like an immature child he was. Yamamoto was at his side instantly, still smiling softly, and making Gokudera wonder if his face was simply stuck like that at this point of his life, unable to express any emotion other than idiocy. Yamamoto yawned and rolled his shoulders, seemingly unaware of the effect that every tiny shift of his muscles under that fucking suit had on Gokudera. He had to look away, face warm, hating how weak he was, memories of last night gradually coming back to him, and infecting his mind with Yamamoto.

“Why do you keep calling your friend Tenth?” asked Yamamoto out of the blue, providing much needed distraction.

Gokudera clicked his tongue. “Not that it's any of your business, but Tsuna is an heir to the Vongola family. Tenth generation, hence the nickname.”

Yamamoto's eyes widened comically, and Gokudera snorted; so even idiots like that knew about the Vongola. Putting out his cigarette, he unceremoniously headed towards the church, smirking at Yamamoto muttering to himself in disbelief at attending an actual mafia wedding. Gokudera entertained himself with occasionally pointing out certain members of prominent families and groups – Millefiore, Simon, Chiavarone, Varia, Kokuyo – in high hopes that Yamamoto's head would eventually explode, but all it did was to put an even wider grin on the idiot's face, much to Gokudera's disappointment.

The ceremony started before Gokudera had a chance to vent his frustrations, and it was so absolutely beautiful, he forgot about Yamamoto entirely. He wasn't above admitting he teared up, standing by Tsuna's side as he and Kyoko exchanged vows, but for the past ten years, all he's wanted was for his best friend to be happy, and Gokudera simply couldn't keep his emotions in check; besides, their old school friend Haru made such a spectacle of herself crying that no one could hear or see anything else. Gokudera was so happy that he didn't even rip Yamamoto's arm off when he covered Gokudera's shaking hand with his.

The reception was an outdoor event, loud and joyous, with delicious food and an actually good band, and couldn't even be ruined by Gokudera's inadequate toast as the best man. He's worked on his speech for ages, he poured his soul into it, and the only reason he didn't break down at the end was because of Yamamoto's intense gaze fixed on him all the time. He resented him for witnessing it, because he wasn't supposed to be here, a complete stranger among Gokudera's family, but he refused to let Yamamoto ruin if for him, or for Tsuna.

“That was a great speech,” he complimented, genuine, when Gokudera sat down. “You must love Tsuna a lot, haha.”

Gokudera scoffed, feeling himself blush. “I write for scientific journals, I think I know how to put together a stupid toast. Idiots like you are just easily impressed.”

“So modest,” teased Yamamoto with a chuckle. “And awful. You're such an awful person, Gokudera.”

Gokudera's heart actually skipped a beat. The way Yamamoto said awful was as if he meant wonderful, and they both knew it. He was remembering more than he would have wanted now, not just hands and breaths, but words as well, and the air between them was electrifying, so heavily charged that it was hard to breathe. Gokudera felt that if he made just one wrong move, shifted a little bit too close, he would lose himself in whatever it was that had consumed him last night.

“Will you dance with me?” asked Yamamoto, smiling and unassuming.

Gokudera flushed, because he remembered dancing with Yamamoto in the spray of the fountain, his feet bare, and wet, and cold in the water, just like he used to dance with his mother. He couldn't understand what it was about Yamamoto that's made Gokudera share something like that with him, and he couldn't understand what was it that made him want to find out even now. Yamamoto must have bewitched him, and Gokudera wasn't having it. He wanted everything to be over already.

“No,” he deadpanned. “It's time I told Tenth what happened. Ask Yuni to dance, and if I'm lucky, her husband with feed you to the foxes.”

But of course, Yamamoto followed him instead, mostly concerned with why anyone would feed people to foxes, and Gokudera ignored him. When they approached Tsuna, Gokudera could see he instantly knew something was wrong, and it made him smile ruefully. He pleaded with Tsuna not to overly concern himself with the matter, and to enjoy the rest of his wedding, but Gokudera had to take his leave. He explained everything as briefly as possible, half-expecting Tsuna to react similarly to himself, but he forgot sometimes how much Tsuna's grown and changed. Instead of flailing in panic, like he used to do in middle school at nearly anything, he pressed his lips together in a tight, determined line, and nodded curtly.

“I'll call Reborn.”

Tsuna's lawyer was there in the morning, already having all the answers they needed before Gokudera even opened his eyes. Yamamoto was still snoring lightly on the couch, and Gokudera winced in sympathy for his back. Reborn didn't look happy with them, but then again, Gokudera could rarely correctly interpret his facial expression. The way Reborn asked him to wake up his husband though, rolling the word on his tongue as if it was something sticky and sour, was a dead giveaway of his mood.

“It shouldn't take more than three days to annul the marriage,” he declared. “However, I would prefer if you agreed to a voluntary confinement until then, gentlemen. I'm sure Mr. Yamamoto has some inclination of being in the spotlight in unfortunate situations like that, being a celebrity himself, but it's not just paparazzi we have to deal with here now. You've married a gangster, after all, and attended a mafia wedding together. No matter how inconspicuous you thought you were being, we can't assume someone doesn't know something.”

Yamamoto only laughed in response. “Haha, sure, little guy, I don't mind. I'll just call my dad to say I'll be staying a few days longer.”

“That's acceptable.”

While Reborn seemed pleased, Gokudera was horrified. Yamamoto talking to Reborn as if they were friends, openly commenting on his short height, and acting like all of that was nothing but a silly game, when Reborn could probably kill him with two moves in three seconds without blinking, honestly sent shivers of dread down Gokudera's spine. But Reborn appeared to condone Yamamoto's carefree attitude, which he possibly interpreted as impressive confidence, and after getting them to sing some papers, he prepared to leave.

“The hotel staff will provide everything you need, and I've assigned Kokuyo group as your security detail. They'll be outside your door at all times in case you require any assistance. I'll contact you when it's safe to leave. Gokudera, try your best not to kill Mr. Yamamoto.”

Gokudera scowled, and Yamamoto chuckled, which was an insult to Gokudera's murderous tendencies and skills, but before he could do anything about it, Yamamoto was already talking to someone on the phone in fluent Japanese. Gokudera wondered what excuse he'd come up with for his father, but that felt suspiciously like giving a damn, so he quickly found other things to do. By the time he finished writing an article, he had four cups of coffee and smoked a pack of cigarettes. He's been vaguely aware of Yamamoto's presence – taking a shower, throwing a baseball at the ceiling, ordering sushi, watching dog videos on his phone – but he did his best to ignore him.

However, at some point, there really wasn't much else to do but talk to Yamamoto. Gokudera could be polite if he wanted to, and while he had no qualms letting anyone know what he thought of them, he had to spend three days with Yamamoto locked up in that hotel room, and keeping it civilized was probably a better idea than actively trying to kill him, or himself. They ordered dinner, and had a normal conversation about Tsuna's wedding and Reborn's shoes. It was almost nice.

“Is there anything you want to do, Gokudera?” asked Yamamoto. “Watch a movie maybe?”

Gokudera snorted unkindly. “I have better things to do.”

He didn't, but there was being civil, and there was acting domestic, and that was out of the question.

“Really? Okay, haha. If you change your mind, maybe we could watch a baseball game. You said you've never seen one.”

Gokudera didn't remember ever saying that to anyone, let alone Yamamoto, and he was suddenly furious again, for barely recalling the night they spent together. Yamamoto seemed to remember everything, like a giant, dumb, baseball-playing elephant, and it was completely unfair. Yamamoto hummed, as if he could sense what Gokudera was thinking, and he looked at him, smiling softly, and while it was annoying, it wasn't unkind.

“You really don't remember anything?” he asked.

Gokudera bristled. “Why don't you enlighten me then? I guess you just weren't that memorable.”

Yamamoto laughed, not offended in the slightest, whether because he was too stupid to recognize an insult, or because he could see right through Gokudera – it was hard to decide which was worse. He wanted to remember Yamamoto, even if only to have undeniable proof that it was nothing more than a drunken night resulting in an admittedly great sex, and one big ill-advised but completely reversible decision. But what he was left with was uncertainty, helpless wondering, and it was killing him.

“I was pretty drunk already when I saw you,” started Yamamoto, uncharacteristically serious. “You were playing the piano, and you looked... amazing. You sounded amazing. Haha, I just wanted to talk to you, really bad. And you wanted to talk to anybody about something called U.M.A, and I still don't know what they are, but you were so passionate about it that I followed you, haha. I think my teammates thought U.M.A-watching was code for sex, and they didn't stop me, so we went, just like that. You got really angry when we didn't find any, haha, so we just started walking around, drinking from a paper bag, and talking about everything. You talked a lot, but you listened a lot, too. You wanted to beat up my coach for making me train too hard, even though I said I didn't mind, haha.”

Gokudera stayed quiet, swallowing nervously and frowning in concentration. He thought he could remember seeing childish wonder in Yamamoto's eyes, and hearing his laughter for the first time, so free and kind, and nostalgic. He remembered thinking he's found a soulmate, which was ridiculous, but not impossible considering how drunk he was. But there must have been more to that, because while Gokudera trusted strangers with his body, he's never let anyone close enough to even begin asking himself if he could really trust them. But he trusted Yamamoto that night.

Yamamoto cleared his throat before continuing. “I remember you wanted to dance in the fountain, but the one we've found wasn't working, so you put some explosives in there, haha. I don't even know where you kept them all night. You said you'd make it rain, and you did, and we danced in the rain, haha. It was so much fun, I felt like a kid again. You looked really pretty too. I kissed you there, cause I couldn't help myself. I thought that would be it, haha, but you kissed me back, and you took me to all these places, and told me so many things they made you think of and remember. I think we kissed in every place in Las Vegas, haha. At dawn, we got married by Elvis, and you took me to your hotel, and I couldn't stop touching you-”

“That's enough,” snapped Gokudera.

That part he remembered, vividly. If he let Yamamoto say another word, he would have to face the fact that he longed for it, too. He sprung from the couch, his face heating up pathetically, and took an almost cold shower. When he went back to the room, Yamamoto stood over the couch, shirtless, which didn't help at all, and rolling his shoulders, visibly uncomfortable. It formed a small crack in one of Gokudera's walls, because as much as it pained him to admit, Yamamoto has been nothing but kind and accommodating to him all this time, and even Gokudera could acknowledge that he, on the other hand, was simply being a total dick.

“I'll take the couch tonight,” he muttered. “You can have the bed.”

Yamamoto blinked in surprise and grinned brightly. “Wow, Gokudera, thanks! That's really nice of you.”

“Whatever. I've seen you on this couch, it looks ridiculous. I don't mind cause I'm... less... disproportionately... long...”

Yamamoto laughed at Gokudera's awkward wording. “What? Do you mean short?”

Gokudera wasn't really angry when he threw a pillow at Yamamoto, promising him a painful death, but it seemed appropriate to keep the appearances as they carried out an actual pillow fight, like a couple of teenagers, Yamamoto laughing freely, and Gokudera trying his best to look menacing as they wrestled. He was horrified to realize that he liked how Yamamoto made him feel, like he could let go from time to time. It didn't even come close to the terror he experienced when they landed on the bed, Yamamoto's grinning face hovering over his close enough for Gokudera to feel the hot puffs of his breath on his parted lips.

He really wanted to kiss Yamamoto, so he shoved him away, and curled up on the couch without another word.

It was late when he woke up, and Yamamoto was already opening the door. Gokudera briefly panicked when he saw Tsuna, but he had enough time to compose himself, courtesy of Tsuna's weird baseball crush on Yamamoto. They ate breakfast together, and Tsuna kept apologizing for not stopping by earlier, and Gokudera apologized for getting himself into this mess, causing Tsuna to delay his honeymoon, and Yamamoto just laughed, completely unapologetic. They both seemed to get along great, which simultaneously pleased and irritated Gokudera, and agonizing over it was enough to get him through the baseball game Tsuna insisted on watching with Yamamoto.

Kyoko and Haru dropped by later for dinner, and for the first time Gokudera honestly wished he could leave the room. Yamamoto seemed perfectly happy with everyone and everything, joking around and laughing like he meant it. Instead of dismissing it as permanent brain damage, Gokudera found himself wondering how he did it, and realizing he possibly envied Yamamoto his optimism and bright disposition, maybe even admired it a bit. It was an odd thought to have, but it bothered Gokudera less than he might have imagined.

When they were alone again, they sat in comfortable silence for a while, Gokudera texting his cat sitter, and Yamamoto playing with his baseball again. Unprompted, Yamamoto suddenly got up to make them coffee, and then put his head outside to ask if the guys from Kokuyo didn't want anything. Gokudera was so appalled that he almost didn't notice Yamamoto made the coffee exactly like Gokudera liked it, which was weird, but not enough to complain about a perfect cup of coffee, even in his opinion.

“I was looking at the pictures from that night,” said Yamamoto, sitting opposite Gokudera, and ruining his good mood. “We looked really happy, haha. You looked really happy. Would you like me to send them to you?”

Gokudera gaped, offended. “I'm not giving you my number, you pervert. And of course we looked happy, we were drunk off our fucking asses. We were so drunk we got fucking married.”

“Haha, I guess. What do you wanna do today?”

Gokudera pointedly lifted his phone from the table and made a show of unlocking it to indicate that what he was going to do did not involve Yamamoto in any way. The idiot just shrugged with a chuckle, and picked the ball up again, flopping down on the bed. Gokudera shook his head in exasperation before actually paying attention to his phone. Upon closer inspection, there were even more messages from Bianchi, which he traditionally ignored, but beyond that, the device didn't offer him much entertainment.  

“You should look at the photos, if you don't have anything to do,” offered Yamamoto suddenly, startling him.

His eyes were closed, his arms crossed behind his head, ready to nap, and he was wearing a small, kind of smug smile. Not having anything to throw at him except an empty mug, Gokudera simply clicked his tongue and, out of spite, forced himself to open his photo gallery, his fingers shaking slightly. The last picture still caused heat to pool in the pit of his stomach, but he couldn't bring himself to delete it. Going through the rest of the pictures, he was mortified to discover they were even worse than the first one. They weren't even sexy, which would certainly be a redeeming quality, they were just...

A lot of the photos was just of them kissing, really, some in front of a tacky chapel, but mostly in different locations Gokudera remembered he's always wanted to visit in Vegas, and it was disconcerting to see himself so... He refused to name what he saw on his own face in the pictures, what he gradually remembered more and more clearly feeling. It made no sense anyway, and was probably just misinterpreted lust, because Yamamoto was attractive, God help him, and Gokudera had been really drunk, and even more horny, and perhaps a little bit lonely at the thought of Tsuna finally getting married.

It didn't explain the countless pictures of Yamamoto on his phone that were just him smiling at Gokudera dreamily, and it certainly didn't explain the way it made Gokudera feel as he was looking at them now. More pictures of them kissing, even more of Yamamoto just standing there, all handsome, and drunk, and happy. Gokudera felt a little bit sick. But that could have been his gut warning him about danger, because there was suddenly an incoming call from his sister.

“What do you want?” he hissed, quieter than he intended, but if he didn't want Yamamoto to wake up, it was only because he enjoyed the peace.

Bianchi scoffed. “Hey, why so hostile, little brother? I just wanted to check how the married life's treating you.”

“How-” Gokudera was speechless for a moment, eyes widening. Did Reborn tell her? “How do you know about that?”

“Did you even read any of my messages? You called me that night, and said you've met someone, and you were in love. You said you've never felt like this, and you asked him to marry you, and he said yes. You sent me a picture of his ass. It's very nice, but I'd like to see his face, too.”

More than anything, Gokudera was relieved that the news haven't spread to Italy yet. Besides, Bianchi sounded even more unimpressed with him than Reborn, which helped a lot, not to mention that his sister's opinion of him was literally the last thing he's ever cared about, which often inspired uninhibited honesty that he didn't even offer Tsuna, or sometimes even himself. Yamamoto was napping anyway, so Gokudera casually snapped a picture and sent it to Bianchi. She gasped, and made an appreciative noise, causing him to roll his eyes; another valid reason to hate Yamamoto was that Bianchi approved of him.

“Wait, is that that baseball player?” she asked, unusually excited.

Gokudera groaned. “Does literally everyone know who he is except me? Fucking baseball idiots.”

“Anyone who owns a TV,” she said, back to sounding bored. “He's something of a national heartthrob, that boy. I can't believe you actually married him. His fans would stone you if they knew. What are you gonna do now?”

Gokudera lit a cigarette. “Nothing. Reborn is taking care of it. He'll be out of my life tomorrow, maybe the day after. I don't want to see that idiot ever again.”

Bianchi only hummed, a knowing sound she made whenever she wanted to convey she wasn't convinced in the least. Gokudera didn't sound convincing even to himself at this point, and it bothered him, because the last thing he wanted was Yamamoto growing on him. It was enough he seemed to be the love of his drunk-self's life – sober Gokudera couldn't even handle that knowledge without cringing. It was so out of character for him, and it made him feel things he didn't know how to deal with. He wished he could talk to Tsuna, but that would only be a ridiculous bother.

“I can't believe I married a famous baseball player in Vegas while too drunk to remember it the next day,” he finally said out loud, which felt rather good.

Bianchi was silent only for a moment. “Ah, dear little brother, for someone so hot-headed, you rarely let yourself feel, you know. You do things without thinking all the time, but not in this. And I know it's about our father, and your mother, but maybe- Maybe that's what you secretly want? Some crazy romantic adventure, passion before reason, love at first sight and all that? Maybe you're more like me than you'd like.”

With Bianchi's usually condescending tone, it was often difficult to established how serious she was, but the last bit was a strong indication that she was teasing him, at least a little bit. Growling and blushing all at once, Gokudera gripped his phone tighter, and reminded his sister that it was precisely the reason he hated talking to her, before hanging up on the sound of her laughter. He kicked the table in frustration, and it startled Yamamoto awake.

“How did this happen?” he demanded angrily. “How did I end up married to you?”

Yamamoto was awake in an instant, eyes sharp again. “Hey, now, you asked me to marry you.”

That wasn't the point, but he didn't know how to say this without getting into a humiliating conversation about feelings. He huffed, lighting another cigarette, and flopped down on the couch, his hand dangling above the floor, uselessly waiting for his cat to come rub her head against it. He hated being here.

“Here, Gokudera, lay down on the bed.”

Gokudera clicked his tongue, resentful of Yamamoto's concern. “Don't bother. I'll sleep here. I'm too tired to move anyway. Just go back to sleep.”

Yamamoto did lay back down, but Gokudera could hear he was still awake, shifting restlessly. Gokudera was angry, and confused, and he needed some answers, or all of that was going to drive him insane. And even if Bianchi was right, and he was just a closeted romantic chasing after an adrenaline rush, what was Yamamoto doing here, all nice, and warm, and never offended, and always, always, watching Gokudera with a smile that promised him things he couldn't even begin to understand?

“Why did you say yes?” he asked before he could stop himself.

Yamamoto let out a sigh, but it wasn't tired, or annoyed, but fond. “I was drunk, and a beautiful man asked me to marry him. Seemed like a good idea at the time.”

Gokudera scowled, blushing. He couldn't get used to Yamamoto being so honest about everything he said or did, and yet always sounding like he was joking – it was disorienting and unnerving, and set fire to Gokudera's veins, making his body thrum with violence and something else entirely. He scoffed, just to remind Yamamoto he wasn't impressed with him.

“But why? Be serious for once.”

Yamamoto shifted, and hummed thoughtfully. “I don't know. You said you liked my smile. You said you didn't know many people with kind smiles.”

Gokudera wasn't expecting that. He couldn't believe himself, what had he been thinking? Was he really that pathetic? His ears were burning, and he regretted asking, so he curled on his side, pulling a blanket over himself, and let out one final grunt of defeat.

“Whatever. I'm going to sleep.”

The silence between then seemed too charged now, and Gokudera just couldn't sleep, his brain refusing to shut down. He listened to Yamamoto breathing, and he knew he was listening too, and Gokudera couldn't stand the thought of them both lying awake next to each other, and not doing anything. He made an effort to even out his breaths, willing the darkness and the quiet to lull him to sleep. He almost jumped when he heard Yamamoto chucking to himself softly, fond.  

“You said we've known each other in previous life, and you loved me, and wanted to be with me forever. I thought it was cute.”

Gokudera pretended to be asleep.

He didn't get much sleep that night, unsurprisingly, so at first light, he didn't see any point of staying on that uncomfortable couch. He took the longest shower of his life, made the strongest cup of coffee, and wrote possibly the best article in his career before Yamamoto was up. While he was in the shower, Gokudera wondered if athletes were supposed to sleep so much, but maybe they hibernated like bears off-season. Gokudera wanted to feel good, because it was the last day of their house arrest, but he was just tired.

They ate breakfast separately, because Yamamoto could read the atmosphere better than he let on, and Gokudera simply didn't know how to interact with him after finding out what a complete fool he's made out of himself that night. He honestly couldn't comprehend why Yamamato wasn't the one freaking out, after some drunk maniac asked him to marry him because they were soulmates, and then ruined his vacation with some mafia nonsense, not to mention subjected him to constant verbal abuse.

Gokudera Hayato was actually a horrible human being.

He begged Tsuna to come over and distract him, and it helped, because Tsuna was always a soothing presence, even if he was just sitting here and fretting over whatever worries, which was currently his honeymoon. Gokudera thought it was looking wonderful, everything carefully planned just the way Kyoko wanted, and there was no way Tsuna wasn't going to make her the happiest woman on the planet, so he said as much. Yamamoto's idea of comfort was to laugh, and assure Tsuna that at least his honeymoon wouldn't be worse than theirs.

Tsuna looked like he wasn't sure if it was okay to laugh, letting out nervous squeaks instead, and Gokudera wanted to strangle Yamamoto for making him uncomfortable. No one said anything for a moment, the only sound in the room being Yamamoto's happy laughter, and Gokudera finally snapped, wrapping his hands around Yamamoto's neck and shaking him, spewing profanities while his victim continued to laugh, like it was the best fun of his life. He stopped only when Tsuna intervened, but he was still vibrating with adrenaline when the other two moved to the couch to watch TV.

Only then did he allow himself to let out a startled chuckle. He couldn't believe Yamamoto sometimes, and he couldn't believe he actually found it funny himself, but it was – they really did have the worst honeymoon in history. He looked over to  Tsuna and Yamamoto, sitting side by side, laughing, and he felt a pang of regret. He could get used to it – shouting at Yamamoto, fighting him over Tsuna's attention, fighting him over anything, really, because Yamamoto would only ever smile at him appeasingly, let Gokudera work himself up into a storm, and take everything in stride, until there was nothing left but pleasant exhaustion and each other's company.

Gokudera knew that somehow.

Tsuna was eating dinner with his wife, so he left after a couple of hours, but he did manage to break the tension, and Gokudera and Yamamoto ate dinner together, even if they didn't speak, so that was progress. Considering how little Gokudera slept, he was surprised he didn't crash while still at the table, and he was looking forward to a nap, but when he reached the bed, Yamamoto was already there. Gokudera grit his teeth, annoyed, and looked at the couch with disgust, before giving up.

“Move over,” he demanded, shoving at Yamamoto's shoulder.

Yamamoto made room for him without comment, chuckling softly under his breath, and Gokudera was too tired to care. He was expecting to fall asleep instantly, but he kept tossing and turning, too aware of Yamamoto too close to him to even think straight, let alone sleep. With a frustrated sigh, he flopped on his back and crossed his arms on his chest, glaring at the ceiling. Yamamoto chuckled again, knowingly, and Gokudera rolled his eyes.

“Can't sleep? Do you want to play a game?”

Gokudera snorted. “What, like truth or dare? Forget it. I don't want to get to know you.”

That was a lie, and Yamamoto probably knew that just as well as Gokudera did, but it was too late do anything about it anyway. Yamamoto hummed noncommittally, and Gokudera didn't have to look at him to know he was smiling. It was infuriating, and charming, and Gokudera wanted to kiss Yamamoto again. He was suddenly wide awake with the shock of the realization, his heartbeat and breathing coming on faster, and he wasn't really thinking at all when he turned his head to look at Yamamoto's profile.

“Do you want to have sex?” he asked as neutrally as he could.

Yamamoto's breath caught, and he swallowed audibly, all for Gokudera to watch closely, and commit to memory. He slowly turned his head towards Gokudera, and they laid there, facing each other for a moment, before Yamamoto spoke.

“I do,” he admitted shakily. “But I don't think it's a good idea.”

Gokudera turned his head back to the ceiling, and nodded. “Yeah, I don't think it is.”

Quickly composing himself, he turned to his side, his back to Yamamoto, because he didn't want him to see how actually hurt he was by his rejection, even though he really shouldn't have been expecting anything else. He didn't want it to be a big deal, it was just a thought, and he was honestly surprised by his current emotional state. He was angry, angrier than he had the right to be, probably, but he couldn't help it – anger was how he dealt with helplessness. Yamamoto shifted behind him, and grazed Gokudera's hip with his fingertips, making him flinch, and instantly pulled away. Gokudera swallowed, closing his eyes.

“You see, I like you a lot, Gokudera. Haha, I probably more than like you. I wouldn't mind staying married to you.”

Gokudera's breath hitched, and his eyes snapped wide open. “You don't know what you're talking about, you don't even know me.”

“I do, a little,” said Yamamoto, deceptively casual. “I know you're loyal, and fierce, and impulsive, and so, so smart. I know you can't cook, and your sister can, but you hate her food. I know you can play the piano really well, but almost never do anymore. And you need glasses to read, and you like fireworks. And explosives, which is bad for you, you know. I know how many cigarettes a day you smoke. That's bad for you too. I know you think your cat actually hates you, but you love her almost as much as you love Tsuna. I know you still miss your mother everyday.”

Gokudera had to close his eyes back again, and suck in a breath, or he might actually cry, or burst out laughing. His life was officially absurd, because Yamamoto Takeshi, this impossible person who's learned Gokudera from drunken ramblings, and scarcely-thrown scraps of words and actions, actually managed to scratch the surface, and still liked Gokudera enough to try being married to him. The only sensible course of action was, obviously, to get as far away from him as possible, so Gokudera sit up, reaching for his cigarettes, and putting one in his mouth.

“Yeah well,” he mumbled dismissively around it. “I don't like you, so that settles it.”

“Haha, I guess it does.”

Neither of them bothered acknowledging how fake Yamamoto's laugh sounded, just like neither commented on the fact Gokudera was shaking as he was leaving the room to step out on the balcony. He took a deep breath, inhaling the cold air with the smoke, and as he pressed the heels of his palms to his eyes, it was easy to pretend they stung from the cigarettes, because the wind was strong, and it looked like it was going to rain. He didn't know what to think, even though he had all the facts, and he's never felt this way, so elated and scared at the same time, and it was all one big mess.

Yamamoto liked him. That was a fact. He saw Gokudera drunk, and cruel, and vulnerable, and he still liked him. He was a bit of an idiot, but the kind that Gokudera apparently didn't hate. That was also a fact. He was kind, handsome, fun, reliable, and an excellent fuck – he was sickeningly perfect. Facts, facts, facts. Tsuna loved him, Reborn loved him, everyone loved him, and Gokudera probably loved him a little bit too. Oh. God help him, Gokudera was in love with Yamamoto. That could have been a fact. He needed to talk to someone who knew what to do.

He reached for his phone, almost dropping it. Tsuna was too busy, Shamal was too disgusting, Reborn too scary, and Bianchi- He called Bianchi, already regretting his decision, but of course, just as he needed her, he reached her voicemail, impassively telling him not to leave a message if he wasn't Reborn.

“Bianchi. Bianchi, listen. I think I'm in love with him for real this time. I think I actually love him, Bianchi, and I don't know what to do right now. I've never been in love, so I might be wrong, but I'm hiding on the balcony just in case, and it's going to rain, so call me back asap.”

When he turned around, planning to go inside to grab some extra layers, Yamamoto was there, looking at him in disbelief, because Gokudera naturally didn't close the door, and he could hear everything Gokudera's just said. He must have followed him, for reasons beyond Gokudera's comprehension, considering how he's just treated Yamamoto, but there he was, slowly approaching the balcony, but stopping by the door, cautious. They just stared at each other for a while, neither really knowing what to say, and then Yamamoto laughed, of course.

“You think this is funny, baseball idiot?” snapped Gokudera defensively, voice cracking.

Yamamoto grinned wider, shaking his head. “No. No, I'm just happy. I'm just really happy.”

He sounded sincere, as always, and Gokudera's eyes widened in shock, and he would have been skeptical, but Yamamoto was, after all, an idiot. Yamamoto took a step forward, and Gokudera felt obligated to tell him he was weird for wanting this, just so he knew. But Yamamoto knew, and took another step, so Gokudera told him he was weird for liking sushi so much, and for being so obsessed with a stupid sport, and for preferring dogs over cats, and for taking another step. But Yamamoto knew this, and he knew that, and that as well, and he was suddenly so close their feet were touching.

“Will you dance with me now?”

Gokudera shivered, probably because of the cold. “There's no music, idiot.”

“But there's rain.”

It really was raining, Gokudera realized, and it was such a cheap trick, that all he could do was to sigh in defeat, slump his shoulders, and rest his head against Yamamoto's chest. He felt those arms wrap around his back at last, and he felt in full intensity how powerless he was against that man, so he twisted his fingers in Yamamoto's shirt, and let himself sway with him a little, just a few times, before finally looking up. The smile he saw on Yamamoto's face was just embarrassing, for Gokudera, for both of them, and he just had to kiss it off, for propriety's sake.

The kiss was much like their first one, their lips slick with drops of water falling down between them, and into their mouths. When Yamamoto's lips fell open on a satisfied sigh, Gokudera pressed their faces closer together, throwing his arm around Yamamoto's neck, and kissed him deep and slow, licking into his mouth, and coaxing a more desperate sound. He smirked, unable to help himself, and he could feel Yamamoto's lips forming a scowl, before he was kissing Gokudera back, still keeping it hot, slow and open-mouthed, until they had to part for breath. Gokudera huffed a soft chuckle at Yamamoto's big, dumb smile.

“Does that mean we're not getting a divorce?”

Gokudera's brow twitched in annoyance, because of course Yamamoto knew exactly the right thing to say to ruin the moment. Their faces were still almost touching, so when Gokudera tried to lick the stray drops of rain water from his mouth, he grazed Yamamoto's upper lip as well. Even though it sent shivers down his spine, and nearly distracted him all over again, Gokudera had to implement some rules here, the sooner the better. He kissed Yamamoto again, once, and then lightly smacked him upside the head, earning a laugh.

She nodded gravely, finishing her fifth beer while Hux was barely on his third, and Hux grimaced. Phasma was large and stoic, and had an uncanny ability to stay unfazed by all the things that vexed Hux, or most people for that matter. For over fifteen years that he's known her, he's never heard her raise her voice, or seen her use her physical strength for anything other than boxing – she was in complete control of herself, which was something Hux appreciated immensely.

“He's out of line,” admitted Phasma. “But there's not much we can do about it. We need to adapt, General.”

“Stop calling me that,” muttered Hux automatically, dismissive. “I don't get what's his deal. He's hardly the first man to experience failure, but you don't see everyone thrashing around someone else's house, might I add, and inflicting severe property damage. And what's with his get up? Can you believe I haven't seen his face for the first six weeks? He was this... annoying blur of black hooded clothes that only communicated with grunts. Now he's an annoying blur of black clothes and black hair, with a exceptionally large nose, if you've noticed, who snaps at me whenever I have the audacity to ask him not to take out his frustration on the coffee table.”

Phasma smirked into her beer. “Artists. Did you talk to Snoke about this?”

“Of course. I told him I'm more than happy to keep sending him the bills for the damage, which is a lie, mind you, I am not happy to do that at all, but that was the polite thing to say, and you know what he said? 'I shall speak with him.' That's it. Nothing's changed, of course, as I'm sure you're aware.”

Hux was absolutely miserable. He opened another beer can and took a generous swing before he could do something grossly petulant, like put his head in Phasma's lap and demand comfort in an unbecomingly whiny manner. He just felt so powerless, unable to fight back and put Kylo Ren in his place, to do anything to change his situation, really, except maybe moving out, but he would rather die than abandon ship – no overgrown child who thought naming a band “Knights of Ren” was a good idea would drive Hux out from his crappy apartment.

“I was here first,” he mumbled to himself, immediately realizing how he sounded, even before Phasma snorted in amusement. “Oh God, he's already infected me...”

Phasma chuckled good-naturedly, and patted him on the back, making his whole frame sway. “I think it's time for you to go to bed, General.”

“I told you not to call me that,” he groaned, letting Phasma help him up. “That was one time, and I was very drunk.”

“That was the funniest thing that had ever happened in my entire life,” she deadpanned with a straight face, only her eyes gleaming with mischief. “You can't expect me to let it go.”

Hux grunted in disdain, pointing a sharp finger in the general direction of Phasma's head. “See, your words indicate you're joking, but your- your face? Not so much. You need to work on that. It's confusing, even for me.”

Phasma only saluted him, and despite his protests, dragged him to his bedroom, unceremoniously shoving him onto the bed. He was fine, obviously, as he wasn't that much of a lightweight, but he was exhausted., physically and mentally. The muffled sounds of Phasma ungracefully cleaning after their impromptu drinking session slowly lulled him to sleep, and he almost forgot why he was so tired to begin with.

When a loud bang from behind the wall woke him up seemingly mere minutes after he fell asleep, he remembered. At that moment, he envied Phasma two things: being a heavy sleeper, and occupying the room on the other side of the apartment, far away from Kylo's lair. Hux groaned, hiding his face in the pillow when he heard another crash, and another thud, and finally the inevitable sound of something breaking. Kylo Ren cursed, clearly not done with his tantrum yet, so Hux leaped out of bed to stop him before he destroyed anything else. He barged into the other room and hissed at Kylo to get his attention, shivering in discomfort as soon as Kylo's eyes landed on him.

There was always something unsettling about interacting with that man, especially during those emotional moments, anger and disappointment all but pouring from his odd face for everyone to see and take advantage of. Hux was no Phasma, but he was rather good at keeping his features schooled in order to hide his true emotions, and yet when Kylo looked at him, it was Hux who feel exposed, as if Kylo was trying to look inside his mind and, worst of all, succeeding. Hux had already learned that the suitable approach was distraction – redirecting Kylo's focus from Hux to himself again.

“I realize I might look slightly disheveled, but that's no reason to stare, Kylo Ren,” he gritted. “It's rude. Didn't you parents teach you any manners?”

The moment Hux's plan worked, he regretted it instantly. If Kylo seemed angry before, now he was furious, hatred and blood-thirst coming off of him in almost tangible waves. Hux wasn't exactly a coward, but he had a strong self-preservation instinct, so had Kylo moved then, even a centimeter, Hux would have flinched away on a reflex.

“Shut up,” hissed Kylo, eyes narrowing. “You know nothing about my parents. Never speak of them again.”

“Fine,” conceded Hux flippantly, hoping Kylo wouldn't notice his nervous swallow. “Is there a safe way of asking what on earth warranted this pathetic display?” He gestured at the remnants of Kylo's desk with one hand, and rubbed his eyes with the other. “Well? You might as well tell me, as you clearly don't have any solutions to your own problems, and I'm at the point where I'd do practically anything to get a good night sleep.”

Kylo regarded him silently for a moment, before grunting in defeat. “There's this girl.”

“A g-” Hux almost laughed, but he resisted the impulse in the last moment, and heaved a long-suffering sigh instead. “Straight people's problems... What is it then? Is she taken? Thinks your music is preposterous?”

Kylo's angry eyes snapped up to his face. “I couldn't care less about her sexually,” he seethed, disgusted. “I want her in my band. Rey has talent that is wasted on The Resistance. But she won't listen to reason. Won't betray her friends. Or whatever it is she said.”

Hux bit the inside of his cheek not to snort, or worse, laugh. Not only there was a band out there called “The Resistance,” but Kylo Ren was actually a child that threw a fit because he was denied a new shiny toy. That was certainly a difficult situation, as Kylo surely couldn't offer that mysterious talented girl fame and glory, for obvious reasons, and he definitely lacked proper social skills to be persuasive without seeming threatening. Hux wasn't going to tell him that, of course, but it was amusing enough just to think about it. Still, frustrated Kylo was destructive, and Hux couldn't have that, so the only reasonable course of action was to make him give up on the girl.

“Well then, I can't help you with that,” he said with a shrug, stifling a yawn. “I understand loyalty, provided it is profitable, so if it's as you say, and this girl would be better off with you, she is clearly beyond any reasoning. Find someone else and move on, or take your tantrums elsewhere.”

With that, he turned around and went back to his bedroom. He never actually said he would help, so when he heard Kylo Ren angrily call him useless before blowing one final punch to the wall separating their rooms, Hux didn't really feel guilty. In all honesty, he rather felt something of a perverse satisfaction, and he fell back asleep with a smile on his lips.

It soon turned out Hux enjoyed Kylo Ren's childish outbursts rather thoroughly, given that he was the cause for them. It was egoism, and sadism, and hedonism, as Hux discovered, and it greatly improved the standard of his life in those new, dire circumstances – once he started seeing Kylo as a possible source of entertainment, he had no difficulty exploiting that.

Hux was highly intelligent, well-organized, and his hobbies included politics, and manipulating others for his own gain. The latter involved a substantial level of people-reading skills, so once Hux decided to study his new subject, it wasn't long before he became something of an expert on Kylo Ren. Conclusion: the man was, in simple terms, a walking time bomb waiting to go off.

At first glance, he was aloof, almost dignified in his utter disdain for everything except his own cause, and had a rather impressive presence, at least when he was one of his more more contemplative, meditative moods. Underneath that, however, Kylo was short-tempered, unnecessarily violent and, frankly, quite dramatic. While driven and dedicated, he was also inflexible and proud, which was not a good combination in a conflict of any kind.

He was, surprisingly, a skilled musician. Hux was nothing if not thorough in his research, so observing his test subject in a natural habitat, that is watching a couple of YouTube videos, was unavoidable. The music Knights of Ren played was dark, for lack of a better word – aggressive, and full of pain and anger. It wasn't too terrible, overall, even if it wasn't what Hux usually enjoyed, and it was strangely relatable (perhaps he had listened to more than a couple of songs).

He wasn't one to flatter freely, and Kylo Ren didn't need validation from the likes of Hux anyway, so he never offered a civilized conversation about Knights of Ren. He couldn't imagine himself casually inquiring about the upcoming Battle of the Bands, for instance, as it would involve admitting he actually read the flier he'd found under the couch before tossing it out. Instead, he once asked Kylo if he was ever going to invite them to one his concerts, making sure his tone contained the appropriate level of mockery. Kylo looked at him with an astounding mixture of disgusted shock and pity, refusing without missing a beat.

“Fair enough,” conceded Hux off-handedly. “Does Snoke come to your concerts?”

Kylo shrugged. “He has to. He's the manager.”

Hux's eyes widened in shock, but he filed that important piece of information for later, focusing instead on the stormy expression blooming on Kylo's face as soon as he realized he unintentionally revealed too much about himself. There was something almost innocent in the way Kylo Ren seemed self-conscious about inadvertently expressing emotions other than rage – fury was righteous and terrifying, and thus acceptable to display, but showing something like embarrassment was weakness.

“Your mind must be an awfully fascinating place,” he said out loud distractedly, surprising both of them, and cleared his throat, quickly composing himself. “I mean, Snoke as a band manager. Ludicrous idea.”

Predictably, Kylo's hands curled into fists, flexing at his sides as he fumed silently, and Hux concentrated on the pleasure he derived from knowing that Kylo Ren had to control himself around Hux. Whether it was out of some semblance of respect for Hux, or a sense of obligation towards Snoke, the point was that Kylo Ren wanted to lash out, and never did, leaving Hux unharmed, and free to test his limits, time and time again.

Of course, Kylo always made sure to retaliate, even if not deliberately, by testing Hux's patience in turn, but Hux had always adapted amazingly well. Besides, subjected to Kylo Ren's destructive presence for so long, both Hux – and his apartment – had probably seen it all.

Nothing, however, could have prepared Hux for finding Kylo in the bathroom one evening, his face and shirt covered in blood, panting heavily as he uselessly stared at his reflection with disgust. When he caught sight of Hux in the mirror, he whipped around, his rage instantly focusing on him, as if seeing Kylo in a moment of weakness was a greater offense than actually bringing him to that state; Hux was deeply unimpressed.

“What the hell happened to you?”

“Rey.”

Kylo's response was, as usual, delayed, monosyllabic, and utterly insufficient, leaving everything to Hux's imagination. It wasn't difficult to grasp the situation, though, even with the largely limited knowledge that Hux possessed. Failing to win Rey over with reason, Kylo possibly decided to resort to using force, and it escalated from there, no doubt. Maybe he grabbed her arm, yelled at her – it wasn't hard to imagine Kylo treating people like he dealt with offending inanimate objects – and she defended herself. There must have been actual fighting involved, because Kylo was ever so often rubbing his probably bruised side, wincing in pain; not to mention his face.

“She kicked your ass, didn't she?” asked Hux, half in delight, half in awe. “You've got beaten up by a college student who's probably thirty pounds soaking wet.”

Kylo was looking at him hatefully, nostrils flaring, but there was something in his face that indicated he was still waiting for Hux to finish, to deal the final blow. If he was expecting Hux to tease him for losing to a girl, he was sorely mistaken, and obviously wasn't paying any attention to Hux's friendship with Phasma, or to the world in general, for that matter. He truly presented a pathetic sight.

“She really did a number on you,” muttered Hux, instinctively reaching out for Kylo's bloody face.

“What are you doing?” snapped Kylo suspiciously, jerking back.

Hux rolled his eyes, sighing. “Don't be a baby. Have you seen Phasma's nose? It only looks that good thanks to me.”

Hux could tell Kylo's impulse was to protest that particular description of Phasma's nose, but he actually stopped himself. He finally gave Hux a jerky nod to graciously grant him permission to help, and Hux curtsied, wearing a nasty smirk. He could feel Kylo's wary gaze on him as he held the washcloth under the tap, so he held it up in front of his face before actually touching it, eyebrows raised in silent question, waiting for yet another jerky nod.

Touching Kylo's face for the first time was odd, as there was always something phantom-like about him, and now it felt like Hux was finally holding the proof of his existence in his hands. For a while, the only sounds filling the bathroom were their slow, steady breaths, almost obnoxious against the dead silence between them. Hux never really felt uncomfortable with silences, but it was becoming apparent that Kylo did, if his restless fidgeting was anything to go by.

“She had a knife.”

Hux didn't reply – stating the obvious rarely warranted any kind of intelligent response in his opinion. It amused him that Kylo Ren felt the need to explain himself to Hux, to justify his failure, even though he spent good amount of their time together convincing Hux he meant nothing to him. The idea of insecurities on its own wasn't laughable to Hux at all, even he had a fair share of those, but hiding them as unskillfully as Kylo did was simply comical.

“In this day and age, a girl's got to defend herself,” he said. “Just ask Phasma. Or don't. You're precisely the reason why perfectly nice girls like Rey carry knives.”

Seeing with corner of his eye how Kylo's jaw worked reflexively around the urge to push Hux away was insanely gratifying, and Hux was unable to hold back a lazy smirk as he inspected the now clean cut on Kylo's face. He smelled metallic, which wasn't all that odd, considering the blood, but also sort of fresh, like cold night air in some distant place, and Hux suddenly realized he'd never been this close to Kylo Ren before; it was less distasteful than he'd expected.

Feeling his breathing change for some unfathomable reason, he focused on dressing Kylo's wound – disinfecting it was really all he could do, but it was enough to satisfy his sadistic streak, as Kylo occasionally let out soft hisses of pain. The cut was quite shallow, and would probably not leave a prominent scar, but Kylo didn't have to know that.

“Maybe a scar will add you character.”

“I have plenty of character.”

Hux hummed noncommittally. “Do you? You seem rather one-dimensional to me. Then again, I don't know you that well. There, you're all done. Don't touch it, and you'll be fine.”

In that moment, Hux made a mistake of looking in Kylo's eyes, and his breath caught in his throat pathetically. There was something raw, almost vulnerable in his gaze as he looked at Hux quizzically, without the usual mistrust, as if he couldn't figure out the hidden agenda behind a simple act of kindness – maybe not many people offered Kylo that. Before Hux could dwell on the idea for too long, he cleared his throat awkwardly, and left the bathroom without a word.

Hux's schedule rarely matched Phasma's, so he tried making the best of the limited time they managed to spend together. The usual outcome of his carefully carried out plans was a night of heavy drinking, because neither of them was an especially fun person when sober. They were both particularly fond of a pub nearby their apartment, called “The Finalizer” – it was cold and impersonal enough not to attract many other regulars, which suited them just fine, as neither he nor Phasma were sufficiently sociable to deal with the same people on regular basis.

Phasma always turned heads wherever she went, always had. Hux suspected she was used to it, but never actually figured how she felt about it. On his part, Hux much preferred anonymity. He always thought he had one of those faces that people forgot as soon as they looked at it, and it didn't bother him in the slightest – on the contrary. Halfway through his third drink, he found himself wondering what other people thought of Kylo Ren's face.

“I personally think it's rather odd-looking,” he told Phasma, her seventh drink still untouched, thankfully. “Especially now, with that faint scar running across it. Do you think people who don't know it's there even see it? When did you notice it?”

“When you pointed at his face and asked me to take a look at it,” replied Phasma flatly. “It wasn't your proudest moment.”

Hux shrugged. “You're my friend, I wanted to share that with you.”

“Of course. And it had nothing to do with how gleefully captivated you were when Kylo's face turned red.”

“What can I say, I thrive on other people's humiliation.”

Phasma chuckled. “That was rage, General. He threw an orange at you.”

“Not his proudest moment,” pointed out Hux, raising a finger authoritatively. “Also, don't call me that. And if you're suggesting I'm infatuated with Kylo Ren, and I've known you long enough to know you are, I want you to know you're wrong. We've been through all the possible cliches. I've walked in on him in the shower – he's not exactly shredded, in my opinion. I've stumbled upon him sleeping, and he drools, if you must know. I've even seen him play that cursed red guitar of his, which is the biggest cliche of all. I am fine. By no means am I attracted to him. I'm not that desperate.”

He was, in fact, rather desperate. He was actually desperate enough to briefly consider taking a stranger home, before he remembered the wall separating his and Kylo's rooms seemed to be paper-thin, and he certainly didn't appreciate the idea of Kylo listening to him having sex. He missed sex, and blaming Kylo Ren for the lack of it in his life at the moment seemed like a fantastic concept, and he genuinely hoped Kylo wasn't having any either, for justice's sake.

“Besides, that Rey girl is all he thinks about,” he muttered, not sure why he brought that up.

Phasma stared at him. “Is this jealousy I hear?”

“It's contempt. He's obsessed. It's not good for him, ergo it's not good for my apartment. Which, coincidentally, is where you live as well. How does he not bother you? Especially now, when it's evident he's here to stay. It's been months, Phasma. I'm surprised this place is still standing.”

He couldn't possibly have known how close to the truth his drunken mumbling had been, and suspicion hadn't entered his intoxicated mind even when they stumbled into the apartment a few hours later to find most of the lights on. It wasn't that unusual, and it certainly helped Hux navigate his way to his bedroom after he bid Phasma goodnight.

It wasn't until he was in bed, tossing and turning for a moment to find a position comfortable enough to sleep, eventually opting for lying on his side with his back to the window, when he finally noticed it – in the wall separating his room from Kylo's was a hole almost the size of his head. Hux kept blinking in dazed surprise, until his heavy with exhaustion and alcohol eyelids stayed closed for good, and sweet, merciful sleep claimed him at last.

After he reported the latest of Kylo Ren's mishaps to Snoke, Hux hadn't seen his disastrous housemate for quite a while, and he couldn't say for sure if he was being avoided, or if his landlord finally ordered Kylo to move out. The mystery was solved on one unremarkable day, when Hux came home after work to find Kylo Ren still, or already, there.

They exchanged nods, and Hux went straight to his room, not knowing how long the peace would last with Kylo in the house. On the rare occasions it had happened before, even seemingly innocent phone calls often ended in shouting and abusing furniture – it didn't take much to make Kylo Ren go off.

Two hours later, it was still suspiciously quiet, so Hux decided to check if Kylo hadn't simply sneaked out unnoticed; otherwise it might have been the calm before the storm. He barely prodded the poster hanging in the hole in the wall before it fell off easily, revealing Kylo Ren crouching over some sort of over-sized toy.

Curious, Hux stepped out, and seeing as the doors were open, he unceremoniously entered Kylo's room, getting a closer look at the strange thing. It didn't look overly technologically advanced – just a small metal ball on top of a bigger one, with an antenna, a few buttons, and blinking lights – but it did make some noise, and even seemed to move slightly in Hux's direction when he showed up.

“What is this robot doing here?”

Kylo startled, and Hux congratulated himself on catching him unaware. Kylo stood up, chest put out defensively, arms crossed, and glared at Hux, who mirrored his stance. He knew most of Kylo's mind tricks by now, and he was not going to be intimidated by someone who clearly had something shameful to hide; it worked, and Kylo eventually slumped his shoulders in defeat.

“It's a droid.”

Hux rolled his eyes. “What's this droid doing here?”

“I stole it. It belongs to The Resistance.”

Hux blinked in surprise. “Wait, the band you're competing against?”

When Kylo raised a curious eyebrow, Hux cleared his throat, putting his hands behind his back, and frowned to hide his embarrassment. He didn't mean to let Kylo know that he actually kept track, or remembered the stupid names of the stupid bands, because that did no one any good, especially Hux. Luckily, he wasn't the one who's actions were presently being questioned.

“You stole their robot? Sorry, their droid. Why?”

Kylo was silently staring at him for a moment. “They're nothing without it. They rely on a stupid beeping prop to stand out. I took away that prop.”

Hux smirked, unable to stop himself, because Kylo's explanation basically translated to “I couldn't get Rey, so I decided to sabotage her in the most childish way imaginable.” Hux wondered what Kylo was planning to do with the robot, because he certainly couldn't keep it in their apartment – he was without a doubt the prime suspect, if the stories of his inconspicuous pursuit of the girl was anything to go by.

“You're not much of an evil mastermind, are you? You must know this will be the first place they're going to look for it. I can't imagine Snoke being thrilled when police knocks on our door. Or were you planning on smashing it to pieces and feigning ignorance from the start?”

Kylo gritted his teeth. “Do you have any brilliant ideas?”

“Are you actually asking for my help? If so, you're doing terribly.”

Hux couldn't wipe the triumphant smirk off his face, especially when the tips of Kylo's ears turned red, a petulant scowl on his face, as he refused to meet Hux's eyes, and it was almost... cute – if one had absolutely no taste whatsoever, and perhaps a brain damage to add to that. Hux crossed his arms on his chest expectantly, thrumming with anticipation. This was going to be oh so very good.

“Go to hell, I don't need you.”

Hux's face instantly fell – in his arrogance, he somehow did not see that coming, although he wasn't sure why. If anything, Kylo Ren was a self-absorbed loner, frighteningly determined and entirely independent, and it made absolutely no sense for Hux to be deluding himself into thinking they'd created some sort of a begrudging understanding over time. There was no heat behind Hux's jabs for a while now, and he secretly took interest in Kylo Ren beyond what he could use to vex him, but he apparently shouldn't have let his guard down.

“Very well then,” he snapped, shoulders squaring, and turned to leave. “As long as you get this piece of junk out of my house.”

Hux was good at many things, but being sick wasn't one of them. He hated feeling useless, and staying all day on the couch, wrapped in a blanket that was starting to smell, eating soup from a tin, and watching reruns of old sci-fi shows decidedly qualified as that, making Hux feel even more miserable. Worst of all, Kylo Ren was silently watching all that.

Hux mostly pretended to sleep until he was finally home alone, but the fact that Kylo left a glass of water on the table every time before leaving the apartment did not go unnoticed; Hux resented him for that. He couldn't figure out if it was power play, or misguided pity, but it certainly couldn't be genuine concern.

By the end of a truly agonizing week, Hux was able to walk without wanting to throw up, and was actually looking forward spending an afternoon at home. As soon as Kylo left, he texted Phasma, asking her to skip whatever she was doing, and watch television programs of questionable quality with him. While he waited for the reply, the comfortable silence surrounding him was suddenly disrupted by a scraping sound coming from behind the door.

The more closely he listened, the better he heard three separate voices outside, two male and one female, apparently arguing among each other, while ineptly trying to pick the lock on his door. Hux got up from the couch, not caring that he was wrapped in a smelly, spaceship-themed blanket, and slowly walked to the door, opening it abruptly. Three pairs of wide eyes stared at him in varying degrees of horror, as he towered over the kids in all his unimpressive glory.

All of them suddenly scrambled to get up, and Hux patiently waited for the intruders to compose themselves, as they obviously weren't running off. He realized who they were in an instant. The girl currently frowning at him in suspicion had to be Rey, as young and fearless as Hux had imagined. One of the boys held himself like a soldier, back straight and chin high, even as he was sweating nervously, and stepping behind the other boy, whose only noticeable feature was a brown leather jacket – Hux was clearly looking at The Resistance.

“Are you trying to break into my apartment?”

Soldier Boy tugged insistently at Brown Jacket's sleeve. “We are so screwed, I told you it was a bad idea, oh my god,” he hissed, talking fast and frantic, as if Hux couldn't possibly hear him. “Poe, what are we going to do now, you said no one would be home! What are we going to do?!”

“Calm down, Finn,” the-boy-apparently-named-Poe whispered, his wary eyes not leaving Hux, even as he put his hand on the-boy-apparently-named-Finn's shoulder.

“We're here for our robot,” said Ray, confident and straightforward, eyes shining dangerously.

“Droid,” corrected Poe automatically.

Rey clicked her tongue in annoyance. “Now is not the time for semantics.”

“I don't know, Rey, it is a pretty important distinction,” offered Finn uncertainly.

“Thank you, Finn!” chirped Poe, clearly pleased.

Rey rolled her eyes ostentatiously, and Hux decided he disliked her the least out of the trio. At least she seemed to have some kind of head on her shoulders, but they were still all so horrifically... young – carelessly running their mouths, and simply enjoying each other's company even in their current situation. Suddenly feeling old, and not appreciating it one bit, Hux experienced a strong sense of solidarity with the adults, which at the moment included even Kylo Ren.

“There's no robots here,” he said curtly. “Or droids.”

“We know Kylo Ren took it,” replied Rey, tipping her chin defiantly.

Admittedly quite impressed, Hux let his mouth form a lazy smirk. “Why don't you go to the police, then? Of course, there is no point now, with your pathetic attempt at breaking and entering, but out of sheer curiosity...?”

Rey clenched her jaw, finally admitting defeat, and looked falteringly at Poe, who Hux suspected to be behind the entire plan – he seemed like the type to think that stealing back what had been stolen was a better idea than taking a proper, lawful course of action. Hux was about to gloat, when Finn theatrically sighed in exasperation, catching everyone's attention.

“He's Leia Organa's son, dude, I thought you were his boyfriend, don't you know anything?”

Hux was taken aback by so many things in that sorry excuse for a sentence, he didn't even know where to start. First of all, just because he lived at the same address as Kylo Ren, he was automatically his significant other? An assumption personally offensive to Hux, for one, not to mention incredibly immature of Finn.

Secondly, an illegitimate son of a politician? That simultaneously explained a lot about Kylo, and seemed almost too cliche to actually be real. Hux immediately wanted to know who Kylo's father was, as he distinctly remembered Leia Organa not being married – it had to be someone so unsuitable, that he was possibly the best-kept secret in the state.

“He didn't know,” said Rey slowly, reading Hux easily.

“Yeah, Finn, that's probably just his housemate,” added Poe, wincing.

Finn's eyes widened in terror, as he gulped audibly. “Guys, Kylo is going to kill me. I am officially a dead man. First I turn from a supporter to a traitor, and now this. He is going to annihilate me.”

Hux was willing to agree, but he didn't have a chance, as Phasma appeared out of nowhere, holding at least four full shopping bags, and simply stood there, regarding the group silently for a very long moment. Hux was the only one not staring blatantly, still mulling over what he'd just learned, and someone, most likely Finn, gasped when Phasma finally moved.

“Are they staying for dinner?” she asked evenly, and it was all it took to send the kids running for their lives.

Hux never mentioned the entire affair to Kylo, but not because he was still cross. It was never a fight with them – children fought, they simply interacted the only way they knew how. Hux didn't want Kylo holding back on him just because he thought he owed him. That would disrupt their status quo, and Hux rather liked their dynamics – they judged and cut each other, but there was a refreshing honesty in it that strangers couldn't offer.

Hux wasn't fazed when he finally found Phasma in The Finalizer and discovered Kylo sitting at their table. It wasn't a shock that she extended the invitation, or that she didn't warn Hux, and it wasn't surprising that Kylo accepted – he was, after all, a lonely man. Smiling wryly, Hux sat down opposite of Kylo, making sure Phasma felt his foot connect with her ankle under the table.

“Hello, Kylo,” he offered. “You do realize that what we do here is talk politics, and drink ourselves unconscious to forget about the quarterly meetings with our families?”

It wasn't entirely true, not recently, as more often than not, Hux talked at length about Kylo himself. Phasma was blessedly silent, loyal to the end, even when Hux made blatantly questionable choices – he knew Kylo was intelligent enough to realize that putting politics and family in one sentence was Hux's way of informing him that he knew who Kylo's mother was.

“I'll try to keep up,” said Kylo, voice straining, probably with the urge to scream.

Hux smirked. “Well then. First round is on you.”

“We already had the first round,” offered Phasma innocently, shattering Hux's opinion on her impeccable loyalty. “And second.”

“Yes, well,” muttered Hux, clearing his throat. “I don't suspect Kylo here would stand me completely sober.”

Even though it seemed odd at first glance, Hux did understand the quiet rapport between Kylo and Phasma. There was something intrinsically defiant about both of them that Hux couldn't relate to, always content to be just one of the cogs in the machine. He liked order and firm structures – the notion of hierarchy, of a ladder he could climb, gave him an illusion of being able to advance with his life.

Phasma was all about proving everyone else wrong, and being her own priority, but she wasn't obnoxious about it – it was all for her benefit only, and no one else had to know. Kylo was somewhat a polar opposite of her in that regard, as he needed everyone to witness and acknowledge his rebellion, but they were clearly cut out from the same non-compliant cloth.

“I suppose I'll buy the next one, then,” he conceded, straining to catch the bartender's attention.

They actually did talk politics for a while, and it was an incredibly absorbing discussion; so much, in fact, that he stayed in the pub alone with Kylo long after Phasma had left. Leia Organa was a liberal's wet dream, and it was fascinating to learn that her son was a some sort of an anarchist, and not even a committed one. He didn't care about the world leaders, but he believed they were in power because they earned it – the only clear-cut worldview Kylo seemed to have was that the survival of the fittest applied to every aspect of life.

“You'll never get anywhere if you don't fight for it,” he claimed. “If you want something, you have to take it by force. It's really simple.”

“Is this why you are a leader of an unknown band with no real prospects for the future? Because you fought for it?”

Kylo sneered. “At least I'm fighting. You just follow orders.”

“I also have people who follow my orders. And it puts food on the table.”

“I'm not starving either.”

Hux hummed thoughtfully. “I've always just assumed you were prostituting yourself.”

Kylo growled, which made heat coil in the pit of Hux's stomach; the combination of copious amounts of alcohol and thought-provoking hostility was arousing enough on its own without Kylo Ren making indecent noises within Hux's immediate earshot. Before either of them could impulsively act on their respective eros and thanatos, Hux decided to continue his previous line of thought.

“I'm a part of something solid,” he said, staring at Kylo intently. “You just go through life hoping to make enough fuss to get the attention of people as insignificant as you, in the great scheme of things, of course. You hold plenty of significance for many people, I am sure.”

Kylo was silent for a moment, and Hux wondered why he hadn't flipped the table yet, and physically assaulted him – he was clearly aggravated by Hux's carefully-maintained air of superiority, and possibly frustrated with the overall pointlessness of their debate. Perhaps Kylo's knew angle was to keep appearances of self-control in order to unnerve Hux into stooping to his level and finally snapping.

“This is bullshit,” decided Kylo suddenly, wetting his lips. “I need another drink.”

Hux was slightly taken aback, but not in a bad way. Of course, he realistically knew Kylo Ren had to be more than simply a poor impulse-control personified, but it was surprisingly nice to actually see the proof of that. Hux ordered another round of drinks, and decided to spend the rest of the night doing what he did best, which was testing Kylo Ren's limits.

It actually took Hux three days to notice there was something amiss. All that mattered to him was that the droid found its way out of the apartment one way or another, and that the hole in the wall had finally been fixed, but with their disappearance, so did Kylo Ren. Hux was baffled at first, by the silence, and the emptiness, and most of all, the utter lack of relief he was expecting to feel once he realized Kylo was gone. It was unsettling, and genuinely surprising, but the two things that Kylo's absence allowed Hux were a reason and time to think.

He'd long forgotten ever hoping that Kylo Ren would someday move out, and once he finally did, Hux realized it was no longer something he actually wanted. He had gotten used to Kylo's presence, and it became almost as reassuring as Phasma's, even if in a completely different way. There was no point denying that Kylo Ren had become a significant part of Hux's life, and his absence was simply strange. He hadn't hated Kylo for a long time, and despite what he kept telling Phasma, or himself, Hux was more drawn to him than he felt comfortable admitting to anyone. Perhaps it was sheer exposure, but Hux started caring about Kylo, in his own way.

The absolute worst was the realization that he honestly believed Kylo cared about him too, even though he often deliberately tried to tell himself otherwise, afraid of what it could mean. It was easier to doubt Kylo's intentions, refuse to look underneath the cruel words and snap reactions, and see that Hux was important to him as well. They were both too proud for their own good, and they were both alone again, but Hux didn't feel heartbroken about it – he was too cynical to be anything but bitter.

However, it was rather simple, really, as Hux concluded. He and Kylo disliked each other, mostly, but they were both pragmatic enough to know that caring about someone had nothing to do with something as trivial and unreliable as affection. They were both people with carefully-built walls they didn't want torn down, and certainly not in the name of some ridiculous notion like romance. In their own unusual way, they had a rather good, committed relationship; the only thing Hux could think of that could have improved it was sex. Hux really missed sex.

“You miss him,” observed Phasma three days into his brooding.

Hux only shrugged. “I do. Call it Stockholm Syndrome, but I do.”

Her eyes widened slightly, as she clearly didn't expect him to just admit it. Hux couldn't help reflexively smirking in triumph, as everything was competition to him, but it disappeared as quickly. Phasma regarded him in silence for a while, her lips a thin, unmoving line, but her eyebrows expressed and array of emotions, from surprise, to worry, to determination – Hux didn't like the last one.

“Come on, General. We're going out.”

Hux sighed, not feeling like it in the slightest, but opposing Phasma was utterly pointless, as she could physically carry him out, and put him right where she wanted, and Hux wouldn't be able to do anything about it, except making indignant noises that would only draw the unwanted attention of the public to them more. Resigned, he followed Phasma, assuming she would opt for getting completely drunk at The Finalizer, but it soon became clear it wasn't their destination, and Hux quickly figured it out.

“You are not taking me to the damn Battle of the Bands,” he announced, appalled.

“Don't you want to see Kylo Ren lose to a group of children?”

The answer was no. “Of course I do. But I am perfectly content just hearing about it.”

“I didn't take you for a coward, General.”

“I didn't take you for a manipulator, and a poor one. We clearly do the whole friendship thing wrong... Fine,” he concede finally. “But if he laughs at me for showing up, you will have to defend my honor and punch him.”

The corners of Phasma's mouth turned upward. “He is more likely to run off the stage out of fear of losing face while you watched.”

He knew it was her idea of a joke, and he offered her a feeble smile, but he hated to imagine Kylo thinking Hux was just like the rest of the world, having expectations that Kylo would never want to meet, when he didn't even know his real name; Kylo surely had no expectations of him. Thus, the idea of Hux attending the ridiculous competition would probably never occur to Kylo. It never crossed Hux's mind, for that matter. It could be, however, the right step to take, if Hux ever decided to finally disrupt their status quo.

Snoke was even older and uglier than Hux remembered him, and his ability to instill fearful respect in Hux seemed even greater. They didn't interact beyond exchanging nods, for which Hux was grateful, as he couldn't think of anything to say, except commenting on how out of place Snoke seemed in the club. When he thought about, neither he nor Phasma blended in particularly well either, both appearing exceptionally old and boring.

Hux felt exactly like that when he decided he couldn't survive the night sober, simply because The Resistance came up on the stage, and he had never in his life heard so much noise. People went completely wild because of three kids and a beeping robot, and it terrified Hux, the raw power that a mindless mob could generate. He also couldn't imagine Knights of Ren evoking a reaction even half as enthusiastic.

The Resistance turned out to be an interesting band, with music that could have the potential to become popular quickly – Hux hated them immediately. They gave a very good show, judging by the crowd's response, and if Hux understood the rules of the contest correctly, they were sure to win, unless Knights of Ren were hiding a legion of devoted supporters somewhere. Phasma was nowhere to be seen, and Hux was starting to feel nervous.

He didn't want Kylo to lose.

Knights of Ren wore masks on stage, which was a cute idea, and a lot of people seemed excited for their performance, but Hux was a pessimist, or rather a realist, which was essentially the same thing nowadays, and he couldn't help but worry about the outcome. He also hoped Kylo Ren wouldn't notice him in the crowd, scowling and discouraging – there was clearly something wrong with Hux, and he needed to amend that, preferably with alcohol.

He knew a couple of songs from before, but they affected him more now, as he had gotten to know Kylo better. It was a decent show as well, even if in a different manner, but The Resistance clearly spoke to the masses, while Knights of Ren targeted individuals. Hux was still infuriatingly sober enough to be able to rationalize his anxiety, and it was even more exhausting than the anticipation of the verdict.

Of course, The Resistance won, and so Hux waited for Kylo.

He didn't look for him, but he could hear, almost feel his rage and disappointment, and he briefly wondered when rolling his eyes stopped being his immediate instinct. When Kylo finally came out, the rest of his band long gone, his clothes, hair, and face were damp with sweat. He didn't look surprised to see Hux; the pained grimace he was wearing turned into a wry smile when their eyes met. Hux mirrored his expression.

“Done gloating?” asked Kylo, his voice hoarse.

“Done throwing a tantrum?”

Kylo's smirk reached his eyes then, and Hux relaxed. They sat down on the stage, not speaking for what felt like eternity, staring at their knees, or the dirty floor, or whatever was in sight that allowed them to avoid eye contact with each other. They were both terrible that this, whatever it was, and all Hux could think about was the ways he might ask Kylo to move back in without actually asking him to do that.

“I didn't move out,” said Kylo suddenly, as if seeing inside Hux's mind. “Took the week to practice.”

Hux could feel his eyes widen, and his face heat up in mortification. “And you didn't think to say anything because...?”

“Didn't think you'd care.”

It took Hux a moment to realize the game Kylo was playing, and it caused every muscle in his body to tense. So that was it – the biggest cliche of them all, the pompous moment when they talked about feelings, and their romance reached its climax, or maybe its end, before ever beginning. Hux was not ready for that, and would never be, because it would be undignified no matter what.

“You did it only so you could say that, didn't you.”

Kylo waited a moment. “So you could say you did. Care.”

Apparently, Kylo Ren was beyond ready for that, and his words sounded as pathetic as Hux knew they would; the only more pitiful thing was Hux's accelerating heartbeat. In all honesty, his mind was blank, beyond the searing certainty he was not going to say what Kylo wanted him to – it wasn't like he needed to hear the words. Kylo was only testing Hux, and the only appropriate response would be to test him back.

“What's your real name?” he asked.

Kylo exhaled sharply. “Ben. Ben Solo.”

Hux let that sink in as he took a deep breath. Then he stood up, and finally turned to Kylo to meet his gaze. It was much more intense than the situation warranted, so Hux rolled his eyes before holding out his hand, flicking his writs impatiently when Kylo simply stared at it in confusion instead of taking it.

It took another eleven minutes and twenty seven seconds for his passenger to finally emerge from the building, and Bull instantly noticed two things. Dorian was the very definition of “eye candy” – your typical tall dark and handsome, with impeccable hairdo and perfectly groomed mustache. He was and also a Mage, if his staff was anything to go by, and Bull has seen enough of them back in the day, mostly aimed at him.

“What is that foul stench?!” demanded Dorian as soon as he got into the car. “Did something die in here?!”

“That would be me,” deadpanned Bull, frowning. “Don’t like a Qunari driver, get out. Simple.”

Dorian growled in frustration. “I don’t have time for this, I am already late! Well? Why are we still in the driveway?”

The bull rolled his eye, deciding that it was beneath him to point out the actual reason why Dorian was late, and stepped on the gas. His passenger was completely silent, determinedly tapping away at his phone, brows scrunched in angry concentration, the fingers of his other hand flexing on his staff nervously, so Bull took the opportunity to have a good look. If their first exchange was anything to go by, Dorian was going to be the most demanding, pretentious piece of shit he’s ever had the displeasure of driving but, by Maker, he looked hot in that suit. If Bull weren’t so good at multitasking, he would definitely get completely lost in imagining how Dorian would look, how he’d sound, when Bull ripped that suit off of him, probably driving them to their untimely death; but he was great at multitasking.

“That staff is in pretty good shape. Spend much time polishing it?”

The disgusted noise that immediately escaped Dorian wasn’t surprising at all. It wasn’t that Bull didn’t know how corny and lame his lines were, it’s just he didn’t care – it was fun.

“Maker, how much longer is this going to take? Can’t you drive any faster? One might expect a brute like you to have little to no consideration for traffic laws.”

“Well, why don’t you fly yourself over there if taking a cab is such a drag, hm, mage boy?”

Dorian scoffed. “You clearly know very little about Tevinters.”

“Know how to kill ‘em.”

Bull just couldn’t stop himself from making the implication. He always thought of himself as a man with unlimited patience, but there was just something about Dorian than pushed all his buttons in all the wrong ways, and he couldn’t help but want to play the role of the mindless beast Dorian obviously saw him as. He wanted to intimidate him, remind him that things could get ugly with a Vint and a Qunari in a small, confined space.

“Yes, I imagine you do,” said Dorian evenly, a little sadly, and cleared his throat. “Which brings me to the first issue I neglected to address immediately.” Dorian bit his lip and Bull only grunted to indicate he was listening. “I do not have any issues with Qunari. I left my country for a reason. Several, actually. In any case, I don’t want there to be any misunderstandings.”

Bull let out a relieved chuckle, a bit surprised he even felt relief in the first place. Then he laughed out loud, because for someone who supposedly didn’t care about the centuries-long conflict between their people, Dorian sure liked to voice his less than flattering opinions on Qunari, and it suddenly seemed like a very endearing character trait, to push and test the limits like that.

“All’s good with me, big guy. Unless you’re on your way to burn down a dormitory full of kids?”

Dorian blinked slowly and then chuckled lightly. “No, not today.”

They were silent again for a moment, with Dorian casually going back to trying to set his phone aflame with the intensity of his gaze alone, and Bull to watching him in the mirror. Ever so often he glanced at the beauty mark under his right eye, at the furrow of his perfectly shaped eyebrows, his white teeth occasionally biting on his soft lips, the hard set of his jaw, the rise and fall of his Adam’s apple as he swallowed nervously.

By the time his eye wandered down to the suit that Dorian filled out oh-so-deliciously, Bull had to shift in his seat to adjust, and solemnly swore to himself to watch only the road from now on. Dorian must have noticed his squirming, because he put down his phone and leaned in slightly, scowling adorably in confusion.

“I must say I’m rather curious. How do you even… fit in there?”

Bull considered his answer. He couldn’t say it was a magic cab, because Dalish was not a mage, so there was no one who could have had enchanted it.

“I’m nimble.”

“I find that very hard to believe,” said Dorian slowly, eyeing as much of Bull’s bulk as he could from the backseat.

Bull chuckled, leering at him in the rearview mirror. “I’m more than happy to prove you wrong if you’re free tonight…”

Dorian spluttered and flushed, his eyes widening in sheer horror, and Bull would have taken offence to that, but he suspected it was more of an issue of being from Tevinter, where no one would know a good fuck if it hit them with a brick. Besides, what was the point of getting prissy when it was so fun to rile Dorian up like that. Not to mention that they finally reached their destination, and it would be a crying shame to end their journey with a fight.

Dorian made a show of leaving the money on the backseat before he scrambled out of the car, huffing in aggravation, and slammed the door behind himself. Bull rolled down the window and grinned, taking the last chance to ogle that fine body in that goddamned suit. Dorian narrowed his eyes at him and lifted his chin in defiance, as if he wasn’t sporting an embarrassing blush.

“You are positively the most insufferable man I have ever met, and I hope to never see you again,” he announced as he turned around and stormed off.

Bull smirked, unabashedly staring at the angry sway of his hips, confirming his suspicion that Dorian indeed had the sweetest ass he’s ever seen. Ah, Dorian… Bull sure loved to watch him go but, to be completely honest, he also kind of loved to see him leave.

It would be an understatement to say that he was surprised to get another call from Vivienne a few days later. When Bull asked her if she was absolutely sure she wasn’t making a huge mistake, she was terrifyingly delighted to inform him she never made any, and she did not care about Dorian’s opinion on the subject, or any other, for that matter. Which at least answered the question whether he told Vivienne about his traumatic experience with Bull.

Dorian got in the car with a cute pout that made him look like a inconsolable child, but the suit he was wearing quickly erased that image from Bull’s mind. And he smelled so good that Bull had to at least entertain the possibility of getting into a road accident if he didn’t get his shit together, and fast. The best option seemed to be to bring the worst out in Dorian, namely get him talking.

“Your assistant doesn’t seem to like you very much,” he offered with a lopsided grin.

“Vivienne doesn’t like anyone. Probably because everyone thinks she’s my assistant.”

“She’s not?”

“She’s actually the company’s PR convinced I’m incapable of doing anything myself without bringing the world to its ruin. As the only logical solution, she does everything for me.”

“So… like an assistant.”

Dorian sighed heavily. “Drive, please.”

Bull grinned, stepping on the gas, and laughed when Dorian demanded he stopped looking so smug. They squabbled almost all the way, occasionally trying at a civilized conversation, and mostly succeeding. Apparently, without the pressure of being late to some important business meeting, Dorian was a sweet guy, if what you considered sweet was, for example, lemons. And when things were starting to get awkward again, Bull decided to save the day with his admittedly horrible flirting – he’d take blushing, fuming Dorian over strained small talk every time.

Because there was a next time. And a next time, and a time after that. Vivienne seemed to be very satisfied with his service against, undoubtedly, Dorian’s advice, so she called for him quite regularly. The Chargers loved the nights after those days, irrationally excited to listen to him complain at length about some spoiled rich mage, exchanging knowing smirks and glances; Bull refused to get suspicious about those.

“Can’t you just hire a driver?” he asked when Dorian greeted him grumpily on one particularly early morning.

Dorian mumbled something under his breath that even his trained ears couldn’t pick up. When Bull simply stared at him in the rearview mirror with utter lack of understanding, Dorian sighed and crossed his arms on his chest, an angry blush visible on his perfect cheekbones.

“Vivienne won’t let me. The last driver I hired tried to kidnap me.”

Bull would have laughed until the car shook along with him if he weren’t so distracted by that blush; it did funny things to his gut. Lots of things about Dorian did that, which only half-made sense, because while Bull wasn’t above admitting he would fuck the guy in a heartbeat at least three times in a row, he wasn’t masochistic enough to stand the rest of the package. Who would want to listen to that velvety voice incessantly whine about his footsies freezing in the Southern cold every waking minute? Certainly not Bull.

“Are you saying she ran a background check on me?” he asked instead.

If she had, there was no way Vivienne was unaware of the Charger’s previous… occupation. Did she really care so little for Dorian that she would deliberately leave him in the hands of a former mercenary, and a Qunari one too, considering his evident record of attracting trouble? Or was Bull’s pay so generous because he was actually more of a bodyguard than a simple cab driver?

Dorian smirked, his embarrassment already forgotten. “Oh, she most definitely has. She must have established you are either too indifferent or too stupid to kill me.”

“Couldn’t she figure out I’m just one of the good guys?” asked Bull lightly, ignoring the insult.

Dorian hummed, putting a finger to his chin. “I am not entirely certain she is even capable of seeing the good in others, if I’m being perfectly honest.”

Bull shook his head in disbelief, laughing. When their eyes met in the rearview mirror, Dorian was smiling, a small private curl to the corner of his lips, and it shocked Bull how much he wanted to keep putting it there. 

He didn’t get it.

Bull was friendly with lots of people, sure, but he didn’t have many friends, people he cared about, and wanted to protect. He had his boys, and his old boss, and an Elven girl who sometimes slept in his garage and might or might not be a petty thief, and that was about it. Dorian was just a snarky Vint who looked hot in a suit, and Bull had no business caring about him.

Not to say that their relationship didn’t slowly warm up over months. Under all the bluster, caustic remarks and dry jokes bordering on insults, Dorian seemed genuinely interested in Bull’s life, and he’s never denied the endless stories he had to anyone before; there was no reason to start. Dorian wasn’t as keen on sharing, but his jabs have long lost their edge, he laughed more, and more freely, his true self peeking out from behind his carefully crafted mask. Bull was good at puzzles, too, so he filled the blanks on his own.

Dorian was passionate about his work, even if he hated the bureaucracy of it. He wanted to change the world, and he wasn’t naïve about it, but still determined; if someone like Vivienne stuck around, he must have stood at least a small chance. He didn’t hate Tevinter, just like Bull never learned to hate the Qun, but he was critical of it, realistic about its flaws. He definitely had some daddy issues, not to mention horrible reservations about public display of affection.

Maybe Bull just really fucking liked lemons.

“I must be getting used to the smell,” offered Dorian one day in lieu of greeting. “How marvelous that my sense of smell has finally gone numb by sheer exposure.”

“Maybe I washed just for you,” teased Bull, with an obnoxious waggle of his eyebrows.

Dorian snorted in amusement. “You’re not getting an extra tip for that.”

Bull’s wide grin instantly fell when Vivienne suddenly joined Dorian on the backseat. It was the first time they’ve met, and she was certainly a stunning woman, but she still made Bull uncomfortable, now more than ever that he saw her with a staff. She eyed him from behind her designer sunglasses, letting out a pleased hum.

“Oh my, you certainly weren’t exaggerating at all, darling,” she said to Dorian as they started driving. “I would let him conquer me, if you won’t, Dorian, dear. Although we would need to apply some changes in the clothing department…”

Dorian groaned softly, sinking deeper in the backseat, and Bull somehow didn’t feel like laughing. That was certainly going to be an awkward ride – if not for Bull, who’s never had much shame to begin with, then definitely for Dorian. Bull has heard him flirt over the phone with practically everyone except Vivienne but that, ironically, was with people he didn’t actually find attractive, so being teased like that, by Vivienne of all people, was only going to be embarrassing.

Bull only had one eye but he wasn’t blind. All his hard work in form of lame innuendos and well-timed flexes finally paid off – even if he was only ever offered disgusted groans in return, it was pretty obvious that Dorian’s been thinking lately about “riding the Bull.” He would really hate for Vivienne to ruin all that progress.

“Well, ma’am, I would have to be crazy to say no to that,” he said with a practiced chuckle.

Dorian scoffed, waving his hand dismissively. “By all means, pretend I’m not even here. That should be interesting, the beauty and the beast.”

“Ha!” shouted Bull. “Now Dorian! Just because you’re jealous, you shouldn’t insult the lady like that!”

Dorian positively squawked in indignation, causing Bull to cackle jovially, and Vivienne actually giggled. It only made Bull laugh harder, but Dorian was looking at her as if he’s seen a fear demon, gaping incredulously and sporadically glancing at Bull, as if to make sure he was seeing it too.

“You two are simply delightful, darlings!” said Vivienne, fanning herself. “The Iron Bull, tell me, dear. How do you fancy a small get-together tomorrow evening? An acquaintance of ours, a writer of some esteem, is throwing a party for a few friends. I am sadly unable to attend myself, and Dorian always gets so dreadfully bored by himself. I realize it is a short notice, of course, so if you already have plans we can always ask someone else to accompany him. Cole, perhaps.”

Bull hummed, eying Dorian in the rearview mirror; he looked like he really didn’t want to go with Cole, whoever he was. Bull didn’t mind – it wasn’t like the Chargers couldn’t drink themselves to a stupor without his help, and he would be lying if he said he wasn’t looking forward to seeing Dorian outside of the usual setting, but it was entirely up to Dorian.

“You want me to come, big guy?” he asked softly, for once not making a point of emphasizing the double meaning.

Dorian opened his mouth, without a doubt to protest, probably on instinct, but he stopped himself, biting his lips and dropping his eyes on his knees. Being patient around him came easier now, so Bull waited, watching Dorian struggle internally until the very moment they arrived at the address. Bull flexed his hands on the wheel, still waiting. Eventually, Dorian sighed and shrugged his shoulders, schooling his features into an indifferent mask again.

“Not unless you own a different outfit than this horrid Hawaiian shirt and a haphazardly-sewn circus tent you call trousers.”

Bull chuckled as Vivienne scolded Dorian for his atrocious lack of manners, and silently watched them get out of the car. Vivienne slipped him a card with the time and place along with the money, and blew him a kiss before following Dorian into the building.

Bull didn’t think of it as a date. He didn’t do dates, first of all, perfectly happy with simple one night stands with as many redheads as possible. Romance was a foreign concept to him, and being Dorian’s plus one was nothing more than a favor for a friend. As soon as he caught himself thinking of Dorian as a friend, however, he decided to call it an extension of his services. That he was offering for free. Because Dorian asked him to.

Groaning, he rubbed the back of his neck before knocking on the door that instantly flew open, revealing a sickly-looking boy wearing a very odd hat.

“The Iron Bull!” he exclaimed. “Welcome! Dorian isn’t ready yet.”

Bull shook his head fondly. “Of course he isn’t. I’ll… wait in the car.”

“No!” protested the boy. “I have so many questions! Please, come in and sit down!”

Bull frowned but let the boy lead him inside the apartment. It was big enough for Bull to feel comfortable there, and a lot more homey than he expected of Dorian.

“Nervous, apprehensive, confused, what am I even doing here?”

Bull startled at the sound of his own thoughts said out loud.

“Cole, who are you talking to?!” called Dorian, suddenly appearing behind them. “Bull! I… wasn’t expecting you to- I mean-”

Bull had to swallow as he took in the sight of him. Dorian always looked amazing in a suit, sexy and elegant, but seeing him in more casual clothes made Bull’s mouth go dry. The lust flaring up in his gut must have been showing on his face, because Dorian shuddered under his gaze, blushing slightly. He didn’t miss the way Dorian licked his lips reflexively after giving Bull a seemingly casual once-over. This was such a horrible idea.

“I see you do own more socially acceptable clothes,” said Dorian, clearing his throat. “Wonderful. Well, ready when you are.”

Bull only grunted, following Dorian outside, trying not to salivate too much at the sight presented before him; he didn’t get to look at that ass often enough. His fingers itched to grab Dorian by the hips and pull them flush together, but that wasn’t how he did things – people came to him, not the other way round. He needed a distraction, and it came in form of Dorian’s surprised huff when he saw Bull’s pick-up track instead of the cab. Bull shrugged in response to his questioning glance, unsure what to say, and got into the car; if Dorian was actually expecting to pay Bull to drive them there, that was going to be an awkward date.

Night. An awkward night.

“So that was Cole, huh?” he asked when Dorian joined him on the passenger seat. “Ashamed to take him out in public because of the hat?”

Dorian chuckled. “Cole is a good kid, but he always asks too many questions. ”

“Yeah, he mentioned he had some. Didn’t get the chance to ask them though. Got distracted by my thoughts, it seems.”

“Oh Maker,” groaned Dorian, hiding his face in his hands. “I should really fire him, but he’d die out there without me…”

Bull laughed heartily, patting Dorian’s knee, and started to drive. “That’s rich coming from you! Is he really that hopeless?”

“More like he doesn’t have anywhere else to go.”

Bull was expecting Dorian to snark back at him and turn it into a joke, not smile softly and say something so relatable; Dorian really never ceased to surprise him. He hummed, determinedly looking ahead.

“Careful there Dorian,” he muttered darkly. “What will you do if this sensitive information falls into the wrong hands?”

“And what sensitive information that might be, pray tell.”

Bull smirked. “That you’re actually a good guy.”

It wasn’t easy to render Dorian speechless. When Bull cast a side glance at him Dorian was just watching him, his features impassive, except for a slight, surprised lift to his brows. When Bull turned his head and smiled at him, it didn’t take Dorian long to return it.

“Well, I certainly don’t trust you to have the slightest notion of what discretion is, so I suppose I will just have to kill you. Just in case.”

A few months ago Bull wouldn’t have taken it as a joke. He might have pretended he did, but he would actually be planning how to kill Dorian first (he imagined how to kill everyone he met, not just Tevinter mages – it was a reflex). Now, as he parked his car in front of the house where the party was taking place, he just turned to Dorian with a warm smile and slowly, deliberately, with a slight tilt of his head, closed his eye for the briefest moment.

“Just in case,” he repeated lightly.

Dorian gaped in disbelief for a while. “Was that supposed to be a wink? Did you just try to wink at me, Bull? You are utterly ridiculous! Why do you always have to ruin everything?!”

“What?” whined Bull mockingly. “I didn’t realize we were having a moment!”

He laughed as Dorian scrambled out of the car, cursing in Tevinter under his breath. Bull stayed inside a while longer, just to indulge in watching Dorian walk away again, this time with the permission to follow. It was… nice. The way Dorian looked over his shoulder, glancing at him from under his eyelashes was even nicer.

“Are you coming or not, you big oaf?” he asked without a real bite.

“Depends on where the night takes us, big guy,” Bull teased as he got out of the car, waggling his eyebrows even though Dorian wasn’t looking.

Dorian groaned like a very angry dying animal, and entered the house without waiting for him. Bull laughed as he followed, and the boisterous sound must have attracted the attention of other guests, because everyone was currently staring at them, exchanging hushed comments - Bull would bet no one there has seen many Qunari or Vints, and certainly not together. Dorian’s chin was lifted proudly as he defiantly took Bull’s hand and led them across the hall straight to the punch.

No one seemed to be in a particularly festive mood – just a bunch of hipsters listening to shitty music and talking books or some shit. No one was also particularly keen on talking to them either, a big mindless Qunari and a scary evil Tevinter, so after a few minutes of absentmindedly scanning the room, Bull finally shrugged and unceremoniously sat down in an armchair, patting his knee with a grin, motioning for Dorian to sit on it. Dorian rolled his eyes and opted for the armrest, pointedly eyeing Bull’s lap with disgust, but he clinked his glass against Bull’s nonetheless, sighing heavily.

“Can’t say I see why you’d be bored on your own,” said Bull, refilling their glasses already.

Dorian scoffed in distaste. “I’ve absolutely no idea why Vivienne makes me go to these things.”

“I have no idea why Cassandra makes me throw them.”

Bull craned his neck back to look at the dwarf who suddenly appeared behind Dorian, obviously hiding, and silently offered them a bottle of something clearly stronger than the punch. Dorian sighed in resignation, like he’s had this conversation before, but he accepted the bottle. He took a swing, cringing at the burn in his lungs the liquid must have caused before passing it to Bull. Whatever it was, it was strong enough for Bull to feel a bit tingly, so people half his size wouldn’t need much of it to have a very good time.

“She’s your publisher, Varric,” croaked Dorian. “She does everything to keep the public interested in you.”

“She’s also my wife,” protested Varric avidly. “Doesn’t that count for anything?”

Dorian shook his head in amusement, as Bull passed the bottle back to Varric. “Oh, my hairy little friend, everyone knows Cassandra would have married your books instead of you if it were only possible.”

“Look at you, Sparkler!” boomed Varric, cackling. “Suddenly all smug and unsympathetic just because you’re in a happy relationship unlike the rest of us miserable peasants! May I remind you that while Cassandra and I don’t like each other very much, we are certainly deeply in love, so get off your high horse. Though I must say, I’m dying to hear all about your story. It must be incredibly inspirational: two worlds tearing them apart, Tevinter and Qunari, with only love to keep them together.”

Varric took a generous swing out of the bottle and grinned triumphantly, but his face instantly fell when he noticed how Bull and Dorian were both gaping at him in utter horror.

“Passion?” he tried, cringing. “Seriously? You’re not even the tiniest bit involved? Damn, I must be losing my touch. You haven’t even thought about it fleetingly? Come on, Tiny, Dorian’s a decent-looking guy, not even once?”

“I’m Tiny?” managed Bull finally, scratching his head in confusion.

“I’m decent-looking?” demanded Dorian immediately, tearing the bottle out of Varric’s hands. “I am positively dashing, at the very least, I’ll have you know. Now that we’ve finally established there is nothing between us, you’d better run back to Cassandra, because Bull here has a penchant for redheads and it’s exceptionally difficult to tell when he’s winking at you. Off you go, dwarf, and leave the bottle.”

Bull played along and waggled his eyebrows at Varric, who laughed good-naturedly, patting Dorian’s shoulder, but still wandered off looking for his wife. With a heavy sigh, Dorian slumped against the chair, and Bull found himself shifting to make more room for him. His eyes closed, Dorian smiled softly, rewarding Bull’s consideration by putting the bottle in his hands after taking another swing.

“Well, that wasn’t mortifying in the slightest,” he muttered, casting an uncertain glance at Bull.

Bull smirked in response. “What can I say, the guy saw right through me. Though love does sound a bit soft. Passion was much better.”

“Oh, please,” teased Dorian, rolling his eyes. “As if you wouldn’t be all for starlight and gentle blushes if I asked…”

“Careful, Dorian,” warned Bull, growling deep in his throat. “I might take you up on that.”

Dorian hummed, casually sliding into Bull’s lap. “You keep telling me to be careful around you… What if I don’t want to?”

Bull honestly considered it a miracle that he didn’t get instantly hard right there and then. Dorian was warm against his side, his thigh solid under Bull’s hand, and he smelled divine, licking his lips as he looked up at Bull from under his eyelashes. The fingers of his left hand danced absently on Bull’s chest, while the other hand reached up to rub lightly at his horn.

“Maker, have mercy,” he grunted, making Dorian chuckle and shift in his lap. “So much for Varric losing his touch, huh?”

“I cannot confirm nor deny it, as I am very drunk,” said Dorian lightly, planting both his hands on Bull’s shoulders to get off the chair completely, staggering slightly. “What I can confirm is that I hate this so-called party.”

Bull swallowed, reveling in the sweet frustration that sang in his veins when Dorian put distance between them. He considered offering to take him somewhere else where they could have some real fun, but he reminded himself again that he was never the one to push, and certainly not people like Dorian, who did everything at their own pace in their own time.

“Want me to call the boys? Grim alone could bring this house down, and he doesn’t even talk.”

The grin that split Dorian’s face was absolutely brilliant. “Now, Bull, whoever said you never had any bright ideas in that big thick head of yours.”

“That would be you, mage boy,” said Bull with a chuckle and reached for his phone to text Krem. “Wanna spike the punch with what we have until the Chargers arrive with more supplies?”

Dorian gasped, swooning theatrically. “And they say that romance is dead!”

The spiked punch weeded out the weak, so by the time the Chargers and Sera came, the slightly less stuck-up of the present company were quite eager to really party. A woman who he assumed must have been Cassandra was protesting at first, but eventually warmed up to the idea, with Varric’s invaluable help, and let everyone have their long-deserved good time. Bull definitely was having fun even before Dorian and Sera started dancing on one of tables.

It only got better after that.

When he woke up in his car outside the house the next day, for a moment he feared that he couldn’t remember anything past the moment Dorian jumped off the table and kissed Bull stupid. But it all gradually came back to him, putting a ridiculously goofy grin on his lips. Three times. Three fucking glorious times they fucked before... Right. Before Dorian got out of poor Varric’s bed on unsteady legs, got messily dressed and left, just like that, leaving behind only his underwear that probably was currently scarring unfortunate Cassandra.

Never before has Bull had issues with being used like that, but he had to admit that stung like a bitch. Still, far be it from Bull wanting to impose or, Maker forbid, pine. They’ve had their fun, no one got hurt, possibly excluding Varric and Cassandra, so everything was good in Bull’s book. He definitely wasn’t sulking, nor brooding, regardless of what the Chargers were implying, and his heart absolutely didn’t skip a beat when Vivienne ordered a cab to Dorian’s address a few days later.

Waiting for Dorian outside the car was a coincidence as well.

To his credit, Dorian didn’t trip over his feet when he saw Bull, but the blush on his cheeks was pretty telling, and Bull felt better already. The way he faltered in his steps when Bull’s arms flexed as he crossed them on his chest helped too. Humming happily when Dorian approached him, Bull leaned in slightly to leer at him with a gleeful grin.

“So Dorian, about that night…”

Dorian swallowed. “Ah. You mean that ill-considered night after drinking.”

“Uh-uh.”

“That, of course, will never happen again.”

“Uh-uh.”

“Unless, of course, it happens again.”

“Uh-uh.”

Bull watched Dorian sway closer to him with every word, eyes half-lidded and occasionally dropping to Bull’s lips until they just stayed there, dark and hungry, making Bull growl and reach for Dorian to pull him into a kiss. It was hot as hell, sure, especially the noises Dorian was making into his mouth as he gripped Bull’s biceps, but it also tugged at his chest in the most wonderfully unfamiliar ways. Dorian was panting when they pulled apart, still clutching at Bull’s arms and looking positively dazed for a long moment before composing himself.

“Krem says I can’t let you pay for the cab with your body,” muttered Bull, smiling.

Dorian immediately stepped back, sighing dramatically. “Well then, the entire ruse for nothing. Good day to you, sir.”

Kagami was slightly wary of those “secret spies” seeing as Tatsuya never knew any people there except a handful of Kagami’s friends from high school, and the idea of him keeping in touch with them while Kagami hadn’t was disconcerting; then again, he might have met someone during the past four years.

“Fine, I guess I could use a change of scenery,” he conceded. “Your wife okay with that? Won’t she starve to death with you away for a few days?”

Tatsuya sighed. “How many times do I have to tell you we’re not together?”

“How many times do I have to tell you you’re delusional?”

Kagami didn’t understand why his cousin was so hell-bent on denying his relationship with Murasakibara while they were practically married since high school. The only thing missing was probably sex, but not every relationship required that, and from what Kagami could tell, they spent every waking hour together, weren’t seeing other people, and they slept in the same bed. When Kagami pointed it out, Tatsuya scoffed.

“I slept in your bed during sleepovers in middle school! Didn’t mean I was your boyfriend!”

There were so many holes in that logic Kagami couldn’t decide which to highlight first. “Yeah, for one night tops, the rest you spent on the floor because you were ‘suffocating.’ You’ve been living with Murasakibara for seven years including the dorms. Just admit you like cuddling with her and you can’t sleep without her. I bet you’re the little spoon too.”

“So what if I am!” protested Tatsuya, causing to Kagami to laugh. “And I so can sleep without her!”

“Yeah, we’ll see about that. I am not spooning you, man. Anyway, I gotta go pack. See you tomorrow at the airport.”

Tatsuya only scoffed again and disconnected, which made Kagami grin, and momentarily helped him forget about the pain of  packing for the trip – even if it was only one bag to have enough for a few days, Kagami hated packing. Running his hand through his hair, he eyed the winter clothes scattered on his bed like they were to blame for all that’s evil, and hopelessly flopped down on the chair with a heavy sigh.

He still had a few hours…

Tatsuya beamed at him when their eyes met on the airport, and it made Kagami’s chest tighten; a year was a very long time. Ever so often he considered moving back for good, not only to be closer to his cousin, but having lived in both countries, he could certainly say he was the happiest in Japan. The apartment he used to live in in high school was currently empty, his father never getting around to moving there, and more often than not, it seemed like a very appealing idea.

He regretted not asking his parents for the keys to the place before leaving, suddenly realizing that Tatsuya never mentioned where they were going to be staying. He didn’t mind hotels, but it seemed kind of pointless with a perfectly good apartment available. When he voiced his concerns to his cousin, he only laughed, waving a dismissing hand.

“Don’t worry about it, Taiga, I got us a place to stay.”

“And where would that be, huh?”

Tatsuya’s smirk was sly. “All in due time, my friend.”

“I’d like to remind you we wouldn’t be friends if we weren’t related.”

“Keep telling yourself that. Now come on, I wanna get hot chocolate, sit on a park bench, and enjoy the weather!”

Kagami rolled his eyes, but followed nonetheless, immediately shocked with the amount of snow covering the streets. They both shuddered with the cold, but Tatsuya seemed to be more delighted than chilly.

“I can’t believe you’re Californian…” he grumbled, fixing his scarf, and Tatsuya laughed as he dragged him outside.

Their ride flew by, even if Kagami wasn’t exactly sure of their destination – they had lots of catching up to do, and they never had problems talking at length anyway. Caught up in the conversation, completely used to Tatsuya manhandling him inconspicuously, he suddenly found himself on a park bench with a cup of hot chocolate and a happily sighing cousin by his side.

He looked around, realizing the place felt familiar – he used to play basketball nearby – and allowed the nostalgia to swallow him. Tatsuya hummed next to him, stretching his legs as he feet shuffled the snow on the ground. For a second, Kagami wondered if it was an accident that he brought him here, but it must have been. Tatsuya didn’t know the city well, so he probably dragged him to the first park he’s spotted.

Kagami dropped his eyes to the cup, watching marshmallows melt in the hot dark liquid, and it was strangely captivating. So much, actually, that he startled when Tatsuya suddenly got up only to crouch on the ground and scoop some snow in his gloved hands. Kagami couldn’t help rolling his eyes, but his breath hitched in awe when his cousin hurled the snowball at the nearby tree – Tatsuya was always rather mesmerizing when he was throwing.

“What did the poor tree ever do to you,” he teased.

Tatsuya shrugged, smiling gently, and looked around the park. Kagami watched his eyes narrow in concentration and then widen in surprise, and when his grin grew, threatening to split his face, Kagami’s stomach fell with an irrational fear.

“Is that- Is that Momoi-san?” asked Tatsuya, pointing to the distance.

Kagami gulped, refusing to follow his cousin’s gaze. If Momoi was here, he probably wasn’t far behind. From all the people he associated with in high school, Aomine Daiki was the last person he wanted to see now, or ever, and he couldn’t imagine anything worse happening to him – until he heard a distant barking, and all of his blood left his head.

“Is that Nigou? Wow, he’s gotten huge! Does that mean-”

Correction. The last person he wanted to see wasn’t Aomine, but the owner of the hell beast Tatsuya was currently watching. Unable to stop himself, Kagami finally lifted his eyes, and there he was, painting a perfectly domestic picture, smiling gently at his girl while they were out on an afternoon walk to the park with their dog.

Kagami felt a bit sick.

Kuroko Tetsuya was, or rather used to be, his best friend. They were inseparable in high school – an odd duo, some might say, but they worked together like a well-oiled machine. Momoi used to have a crush on Kuroko, and Kagami would like to think “good for her,” but he actually wanted to scream. He was about to tell Tatsuya they should leave before they’re discovered, when he saw him aiming a snowball at the couple. He leapt to his feet with a panicked hiss.

“Don’t you dare throw that snowba-” Splash. “Goddammit!”

He wanted the ground to open and swallow him whole when he heard Momoi squeak and then giggle, watching Tatsuya wave enthusiastically at them with the corner of his eye. Nigou was the first to charge at them, instantly jumping straight into Kagami’s arms, and he was stricken with painful realization that he actually missed the damned dog. Momoi was next, wrapping her arms around his neck with a delighted “Kagamin!” but all he could hear was Kuroko’s soft voice.

“Hello, Kagami-kun.”

If he thought he missed Nigou, he certainly wasn’t prepared for how much he missed Kuroko.

When Momoi let go of him to shift her attention to Tatsuya, Kagami kept absentmindedly rubbing Nigou’s head, and just stared at Kuroko, still so short, and pale, and perfect. He barely resisted the urge to reach out to brush the remnants of snow from his hair and almost laughed at how ridiculous was the idea that he wasn’t in love with him anymore. After all, there really wasn’t a time he weren’t.

“It’s been a while,” said Kuroko, a small smile on his thin lips.

“Y-yeah,” he managed to stammer. “How have you been?”

Before Kuroko could reply, Momoi flung her arm around Kuroko’s shoulder, her cheeks pink from emotion, her big eyes slightly watery. She was really happy to see him, against all odds, and Kagami was about to stop being an ass and return some of that affection, when she slipped her hand in Kuroko’s hair to brush off the snow and he noticed the ring on her finger.

He really was going to be sick.

“Are you staying in your old apartment, Kagamin?” she asked, excited. “If not, you should definitely stay with Tetsu-kun!”

Kagami swallowed the lump in his throat. “Ah, no, it’s fine. Tatsuya got us a place to stay.”

“Uh, no… I lied about that,” said his cousin, grinning sheepishly as he scratched his head in embarrassment.

Kagami gaped at the blatantly horrible acting. “You’re lying now!”

“No, I lied before,” shot back Tatsuya with a shrug. “Now don’t be a butthead, and accept the kind offer.”

Kagami was going to kill him. Honest to all the gods kills him. Momoi squealed, clapping happily, and Kuroko chuckled softly at her enthusiasm. The long-unheard sound did horrible things to Kagami, and he considered simply bolting, consequences be damned. Kuroko smiled at him encouragingly while Momoi and Tatsuya chattered away, already planning to spend the New Year’s together. Normally, upon hearing Aomine and Kise’s names, Kagami would protest with an inch of his life, but he was too immersed in keeping his legs steady as he followed the rest.

Kuroko was staying with his parents for the winter break, and Kagami wasn’t sure if he was surprised that his room didn’t change at all. It brought back countless memories, mostly good ones – only one not so great to be fair. As Kagami flopped down on the bed with a sigh, he internally cursed Tatsuya for ditching him to stay at Momoi’s place. Being alone with Kuroko in his old room was… awkward, to say the least. Painful, to be perfectly honest.

Their friendship ended like this: they fucked.

More accurately, the decided to lose their virginity to each other. A silly pact between best friends. Better to make fools out of themselves in front of the other than someone they actually wanted to impress. Just get it done and over with, no big deal, a mutual favor between friends. Only under all that pretense, it was about Kagami making sure he was, in fact, into guys, and for Kuroko to see if he was into anything at all. But they were best friends, so they didn’t have to say all that out loud.

It was… really good, as far as Kagami was concerned. Clumsy and over way too soon, yes, but really good.

And then he woke up, in the very bed he was sitting on now, naked and sore in all the best ways, looked at Kuroko’s sleeping form, his beautiful face even paler in the sunlight, and he suddenly became aware of something horrible. The realization hit him like a freight train – seemingly out of nowhere, and with enough force to make him dizzy and breathless. He was in love with his best friend, had been for a very long time, with a friend who just slept with him only to lose their virginity, because that was a friendly thing to do.

So he ran – he flew across the ocean, and never looked back.

Which was kind of incredibly stupid and impulsive, and given how flawed his logic was in that dire moment of crisis, probably a huge mistake, but that’s exactly what he did. Half of the reason why he was adamant on making Tatsuya pull his head out of his ass and do something about Murasakibara before it was too late was because he messed up with Kuroko, never even trying to give them a chance. And four years later, he was back in this room, still agonizing over something he could never change, while Kuroko was happily engaged to the sweetest and prettiest girl in Japan.

“The bath is ready, Kagami-kun.”

To his credit, Kagami didn’t shriek, but he did jump a little. All these years of getting used to Kuroko’s strange lack of presence have gone to waste, leaving Kagami as vulnerable to it as he was the first day they met. He muttered his thanks, and slipped out of the room, ignoring Kuroko’s concerned frown. Maybe he’d drown if he was lucky.

He considered calling Tatsuya, but he was afraid he’s end up shouting, and he didn’t want to inconvenience Kuroko’s parents any more than he’s already had. He wasn’t in any hurry to get out of the warm water and finally face Kuroko – alone, just them, in that damned room full of memories.

When he eventually did, a futon was ready for him next to the bed where Kuroko was sitting, clearly waiting for Kagami to come back. If he were a better actor, he could pretend to look around the room with a nostalgic fondness to avoid Kuroko’s gaze, but there really was no point. Without anything better to say, he simply thanked Kuroko for having him again.

“The pleasure is all mine, Kagami-kun. If you aren’t too tired, I was hoping we could catch up.”

“Sure,” managed Kagami, lying down on the futon.

Kuroko smiled at him warmly, and lied down as well, sighing contentedly. They started with small talk – general questions about parents, schools, jobs – just to break the ice, and it helped. It soon stopped being awkward, and they naturally fell into the familiar and comforting rhythm they used to have in high school. It had always been easy to talk to Kuroko, probably even easier than talking to Tatsuya, and Kagami was once again reminded how much he missed his best friend.

For a while, it baffled Kagami that Kuroko didn’t… blame him. For leaving like that, for cutting himself off, for doing everything to make it seem like he has forgotten about him. Then he realized that Kuroko saw right through him, that he knew that Kagami never would have forget him. But being Kuroko – kind, forgiving, considerate Kuroko – he must have assumed Kagami had his reasons, and left it at that. It made Kagami feel like shit.

“I’m glad to see you happy, you know,” he blurted out.

Kuroko hummed softly. “Not to say I am not, but what do you mean exactly, Kagami-kun?”

“You know,” he muttered, wagging his fingers, not sure if Kuroko could even see it. “You and Momoi…”

Kuroko was silent for a long moment, making Kagami wonder if he simply fell asleep, but then he chuckled suddenly, which turned into a full-belly laughter. Kagami was confused, and embarrassed, and he wanted to grab Kuroko’s head and shake him until he stopped, like he used to do in school, but he didn’t have the right anymore, so he waited, grumbling under his breath.

“I’m not the one Satsu-san is engaged to, Kagami-kun.”

“Oh.”

Kagami apparently never knew true relief before that moment. He felt irrationally giddy with it, even if it shouldn’t change anything for them. But he was always a hopeless optimist, or at least has always been arrogant enough to assume things would somehow go his way, so he dared to hope, his entire body suddenly warm and his head filling with possibilities.

“Oh,” he repeated uselessly. “A-aomine?”

Kuroko chuckled again. “I will not tell Satsu-san you insulted her like that. It’s a man she met at work. He’s kind, and gentle, and appreciates her as much as she deserves. Aomine-kun’s girlfriend is an A-cup and an excellent cook, just to keep us all on our toes.”

Kagami laughed at that. “And Kise?”

“Oh, she is very well. A famous model, but still very much in love with her high school sweetheart.”

“I wouldn’t call Kasamatsu a sweetheart. She was… intense.”

Kuroko laughed again, warming Kagami’s skin with the sound. It felt good – familiar but new and exciting. He could stay awake all night talking to Kuroko about everything and nothing. He could stay, period. Just come back and start anew. The foundations were there, and they could build something new on them, he and Kuroko. Unless, of course, his friend has moved on, which was more than likely.

“What about you?” he asked, his voice smaller than he intended.

“Ah, no. It seems I cannot feel physical attraction without a strong emotional connection. That said, not many people wait long enough. I tried dating, but I haven’t been intimate with anyone since- since Kagami-kun, truthfully.”

Kagami held his breath. He was confused, mostly because if he understood correctly, Kuroko must have been in love with him four years ago too to even consider having sex. His instinct was telling him to surge up, climb into bed with Kuroko and just take what he has been missing for all those years. But his stupid, terrified heart was holding him back like a vice made out of uncertainty, while his head filled with countless questions and what if’s.

What if that connection was gone by now and Kuroko would push him away, embarrassed and unnecessarily guilty? What if they never had that connection, and Kuroko thought of their night together as a mistake? That would explain why he didn’t seem upset about Kagami’s leaving. What if Kuroko simply didn’t want to be with him anymore, regardless of what they used to have, because he didn’t trust him anymore, or-

“Good night, Kagami-kun.”

Kagami squeezed his eyes shut, cursing himself for staying silent for too long, for not being able to reply even then, and turned to his side, already sure he wouldn’t sleep at all that night.

Tatsuya laughed at him when he saw him the next day, his eyes red from lack of sleep. Kagami just growled, unable to form comprehensive words, and followed everyone to the station where they were supposed to meet the rest of the old gang. Apparently, Momoi even called Midorima, much to Kuroko and Kagami’s dismay (the guy was simply insufferable), but the silver lining was that at least Akashi was still back in Kyoto.

Momoi’s fiancé indeed seemed like a good guy, and he certainly looked at her as if she was his entire world. Sakurai seemed like a shy girl, but she got extremely possessive and defensive when Aomine insinuated Kagami used to have a rage boner for him, which was simply not true. Midorima brought a guy named Takao, and no one knew who exactly was he supposed be, but no one dared to ask. The unspoken agreement was to wait for Kise to do it, but their shameless friend was going to join them later.

Kagami felt strange.

They were an unusual bunch, and no one seemed to like anyone else, but they’ve been together for years, long before and long after Kagami, and they stuck together against all odds. It felt strange to feel so accepted by them, as if he’s never been gone, and even stranger to feel like he’s really never left at all. Their laughter reverberated deep in his chest, and once again he wished to stay for good. Not just for Kuroko, but for all the rest of those weirdos.

For himself.

Kuroko smiled at him when their eyes met, and returning it was suddenly the easiest thing in the world. The feeling that everything would work out somehow was filling him again, not out of arrogance but out of unadulterated optimism. It was a new year, a new beginning, and Kagami simply decided not to let it go to waste, and where it would take him didn’t matter at this point.

He felt the urge to share with Tatsuya, giddy with irrational joy, but his grin fell when he noticed his cousin sitting away from the group, frowning at his phone.

“Wife not calling?” he quipped without humor, as he sat down next to him.

Tatsuya laughed anyway. “She’s probably asleep. She’ll text back soon. Anyway, how’d it go with Kuroko-kun? Night well spent?”

“What?”

“Oh come on, I can tell you didn’t sleep! All my hard work paid off. Momoi-san was more excited about this than her own wedding!’

Kagami gaped. “Wait, wait, back up! What the hell are you talking about?”

“No, don’t tell me…” muttered Tatsuya, his uncovered eye widening. “Nothing happened?”

“Of course nothing happened! What were you expecting?”

Tatsuya hummed thoughtfully. “A very dramatic and heartfelt reunion, to be perfectly honest with you. After Momoi-san confirmed that Kuroko-kun was definitely still in love with you, I asked her to help me get you two together, seeing as you are definitely still in love with him. We didn’t count on either of you not acting upon your feelings. I must say I’m surprised…”

“Stop, stop, I can’t listen to you right now,” pleaded Kagami, his head swimming. “First of all, was everyone aware of my feelings in high school except for me?”

“Kuroko-kun apparently wasn’t,” supplied Tatsuya helpfully.

Kagami clicked his tongue. “Shut up. Second of all, you read too many trashy romance novels! That’s not how it works! Of course nothing happened after four goddamn years of no contact! And finally, I will kill you both for meddling, as soon as I- I… How does Momoi know he’s in love with me?”

He blushed in embarrassment when Tatsuya grinned widely in triumph. He already knew the answer to that question – of course Kuroko simply told her, and even if he didn’t, Momoi had almost a decade worth of data gathered, and she knew Kuroko like the back of her hand. His heart threatened to beat out of his chest when he allowed everything to sink in.

Kuroko had been, and still was in love with him.

There was still hope, and he was about to get up and find him to do something, anything, when he suddenly found himself with a lapful of a sweet-smelling blond model apparently determined to cover his entire face with lip gloss.

“Oh Kagamicchi, how much I’ve missed you!” wailed Kise, clinging to him with surprising strength.

“Stop kissing me, woman! I’ll break in hives! Kasamatsu, make her stop!”

Everyone laughed, and before Kagami knew what was happening, they were all heading to the temple, Kise asking him endless questions that mostly boiled down to whether she was already famous overseas or not. When Kagami failed to satisfy her, she moved onto Midorima, and everyone finally learned who Takao was supposed to be (an assistant), but they still had no idea who he actually was.

Kagami tried to maneuver himself closer to Kuroko, but even when he finally managed it, he realized this crowd was no place to talk feelings. Dejected, he simply walked next to Kuroko in silence, trying for once to plan ahead. Once they were alone, he would tell Kuroko the truth, regardless of what Kuroko would reveal in his answer. Even if Momoi’s intel was wrong, at least everything would be out in the open, which was much better than lying to himself and Kuroko for years.

“Kagami-kun seems unusually deep in thought,” teased Kuroko. “Is everything alright?”

Kagami mulled over possible responses. He could come up with some excuse, or pretend that Kuroko was seeing things, or even blurt out he loved him right there and then, just to get it over with. He looked at Kuroko instead, just taking in the familiar features, cataloging every little change in them, letting himself be encompassed by that incontrollable affection he’d been bottling inside for so long. Kuroko blushed lightly under his gaze and Kagami grinned.

“It will be.”

Kuroko’s eyes widened momentarily, and his blush deepened slightly, making Kagami’s grin grow wider. He didn’t realize everyone suddenly stopped until he rammed bodily into Midorima, who seemed even more displeased by that than him, to Takao’s utter delight. Shaking off the immediate confusion, Kagami looked ahead to see Tatsuya just standing as if he’s just seen a ghost; in front of him stood Murasakibara.

“Atsushi?”

“I was bored without Muro-chin,” she replied simply, painfully honestly, and shrugged.

Tatsuya sighed out a weird giggle and threw himself at Murasakibara, his arms tight around her neck while he stood on his tiptoes. When she hugged him back, her eyebrows scrunched in mixture of confusion and relief, probably confused as to why she felt relieved, something tugged at Kagami’s heart. Watching them then, he realized there was no need for him to interfere in any way – no matter what they called what they had, no matter what it actually was, they were happy.

Everything really was going to be alright.

Kuroko remained at his side on their seemingly never-ending way to the temple. They talked about nothing important, and Kagami felt a strange mix of calm and excitement which, oddly, made perfect sense at the moment. When they finally reached their destination, he secretly watched Kuroko while they said their prayers. Coins clung against metal, bells tolled, and Kagami smiled when Kuroko looked back at him.

“What did you wish for?” he asked.

“Will my wish still come true if I say it out loud?” shot back Kuroko, not without humor. When Kagami didn’t reply, Kuroko sighed in defeat and nodded. “Very well. I… I wished for someone to come back…”

Kagami took a deep breath and barely bothered to his overjoyed grin. “Funny. I wished for someone to take me back.”

Kuroko didn’t say anything, but the corners of his lips lifted slightly, putting dimples in his cheeks. Kagami bit his lips not to start laughing out loud, less out of respect for the place and more to avoid giving Tatsuya and Momoi the satisfaction. He looked at Kuroko again, his chest tight and light at the same time, and let one quiet chuckle escape him, only to hear Kuroko answer him with one as well.