Copyright © 2023 XM Moon
All rights reserved.
First release by Moon Enterprise, llc
June 24, 2023

ISBN 9798223261797 | ASIN B0C6HH7D6F

No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission from the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles, reviews and social media features.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, character, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locals, is entirely coincidental.

Cover Art by Marten Norr
martennorr.com

Edited by Dangerproof Lit
dangerproof.co

This story is dedicated to my family, who taught me the true meaning of unconditional love

Note: this work contains themes and language that may not be suitable for all audiences. A full list of content warnings may be found on the author’s site at
moonography.com/writing/dog-wont-hunt

Part One:

Something

“Excuse me.”

Milo looks up into a pair of blue eyes for the fifth time in less than two weeks, their owner wearing the same shy smile. “How can I help you Mister um— it was Abernathy, right?”

“Yeah.” The guy’s expression lights up in surprise. “Uh, Remington.”

“So, what’re you lookin’ for today?” Milo asks. Because every time Remington has approached the help desk before today, there’s been something. A title he can’t track down that’s exactly where it’s supposed to be. A scanner that isn’t working because it’s not plugged into the computer.

Remington gives him a title — one that only reaffirms Milo’s assumption that this guy’s a law student.

“You wasted a trip over here. I think Bounds has at least a couple copies.”

“Yeah, but they’re all uh— they’re out. I figured it might be in over here?”

They do, but he’s pretty sure at least one is restricted to in-library use. But his job is to check, so he types it into Scout, confirms that both the resident copy in the law library and their copy are available, then switches systems to look up the check-out records. Again, his suspicions are confirmed.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Abernathy—”

“Remington.”

“Remington,” Milo amends with a smile, “I can’t help you.”

The smile crumples, a furrow forming between Remington’s carefully sculpted golden eyebrows.

It’s cute enough to counterbalance some of the discomfort, the anxiety, simmering in Milo’s veins at the prospect that this guy — this Remington Abernathy — went to these lengths… for him. He swallows and says, “I don’t know if you’re eatin’ ‘em, or what, but I definitely can’t check out another copy to someone who’s already got two out.”

With a new little smile, Remington reaches into his bag and pulls out two copies of the book. “And if I’m not eating them?”

“Well assuming you eat normal food, I get off in like, half an hour,” Milo says, unable to keep himself from grinning now between Remi’s almost-confession and his own almost-joke.

“Well, shit.”

“What, you don’t eat normal food or library books?” Milo lifts an eyebrow in question. “Figures.”

Remington’s laugh is a startled, disbelieving thing, and suddenly Milo needs to know if it always sounds like that — like he’s not even used to the sound of it — or if he’s accomplished something else entirely. It might get him a disapproving shushing noise from one of the staff librarians, but Milo can’t see how anyone could actually be upset about it.

Even better, Remington follows it with, “You beat me to it. Would’ve been a lot easier if I knew your name, but I don’t have a system to look it up in.”

“Milo. Nelson.”

“Well, Milo Nelson, it looks like I found the book all on my own, so your librarian services aren’t needed. But yeah, if you’re not doing anything when you get off, dinner sounds great.”

It is good, too. He’s not surprised that Remington is smart, but it’s… effusive. The conversation doesn’t lull, and even the handful of times that they end up on a subject Milo knows more about, Remington still has something to contribute, even if it’s just a series of well-worded questions. He shouldn’t be surprised, since the man is simultaneously working on a J.D. and a Ph.D., but that he’s still fun to talk to is impressive.

All at once, it’s great and terrible because he knows where he wants it to go, but there’s still the same hurdle he can’t ever escape. Since he didn’t plan for this when he got ready that morning, it’s an even bigger problem than normal once they finally make it to the stage of lingering on the sidewalk outside. And since, endearing as it may be, Remington has remained reserved on this particular front, Milo expects that he’s going to have to be the one to broach the subject at all.

Except as he opens his mouth, Remington asks, “Do you want to… come back to my place?”

Milo blinks and finds just a hint of something victorious in that shy little smile, like Remington knows he’s beaten Milo to the punch.

But he does want to, so he swallows and says, “Yeah. But uh, depending on what you’re hopin’ for—”

Remington’s eyebrows arch.

“—I may need to run back by mine first?”

“Planning on an all-nighter?” Remington asks, one corner of his mouth shifting into something wry and more blatantly pleased.

Even as he sighs internally, Milo can’t help but laugh. So much for his faint hope that Remington would just get what he’s saying. “I mean, I wouldn’t be against that if you can keep up. But no, I…”

He sighs, audibly this time. There’s no easy way to say it, but if the guy is gonna be a dick about it, better somewhere public where he’s less likely to make a scene that Milo can’t get out of. At least by now, he’s got something like a script that he can force out in one hurried breath.

“Ok, look, I’m trans and I haven’t had any like— I mean, all the original hardware is there, so that’s why I said depending on what you wanted because I didn’t realize this was where my day was headed. But if that’s gonna be an issue then like, I get it, you don’t have to do anything and we can just go our separate ways and whatever.”

“Um, ok? Would you rather go back by your place first? Your call.” Remington replies after a second.

Milo lets out a slow, relieved breath. This guy is proving to be one of the better chances he’s taken in a while. “Nah, we can head back to your place.”

The shy smile slips into something confident and hungry just before Remington nods and turns toward his car.

***

“I got it.”

“What?” Milo asks, looking up from the paper he’s been working on for the last few hours.

“Jackson Walker. The summer program in Dallas I applied to.”

He blinks, trying to remember what — if anything — he’s been told about this particular program. “That’s the one you wanted, right?”

“Yeah,” Remington laughs. “I mean there were a few, but a couple of them told me that with the amount of work I’ve still got left before my dissertation is done that they’d rather wait, which is fair I guess, but JW wants me.”

“Well, then that’s awesome. Congrats.”

“Thanks.” His smile is still shy, but not nearly as infrequent as Milo had thought it might be when they first met.

“So you’re in Dallas all summer?”

“Nine weeks.”

Milo nods. He really doesn’t know what to say that won’t come off wrong, and the last thing he wants is to seem clingy or depressing. Not when this unlabeled thing they keep doing has been going so well.

“I’m not looking forward to paying rent two places, but—” Remington shrugs. “Should be a good time.”

Rent in two places. Milo can’t even begin to fathom such a thing, since he can only barely afford his rent normally and still hasn’t figured out if he’s going to have to move back in with his grandparents for the summer or not, since his lease ends a week after the semester and the space he’s hoping to take over in the fall isn’t available until the start of August. But even as it is, it could be worse. A forty-five-minute drive is a hell of a lot better than being homeless.

Fortunately, he’s saved from saying anything else because Remington adds, “Think we’re going out for drinks tonight. You gonna be able to come out?”

“Oh, uh… Where and when?” Because of course, it’s out of the frying pan and into the fire.

In an ideal world, whatever it is they’re doing would just involve the two of them. Or at least, less social complication. In reality, however, it also involves Remington’s friends — mostly from his law class rather than his doctoral program — whose tastes have run well over Milo’s budget the couple of times Milo’s met up with them.

This time isn’t going to be any different, Remington’s answer confirms, and Milo doesn’t have nearly enough time to finish his paper and get ready.

“I can try to meet y’all for a drink later, but I’ve gotta get this done.”

“I know.” Remington drops forward, bracing one arm on the back of the couch by Milo’s shoulder. “You staying here or going back to your place?”

“Um.” Milo blinks, his focus thoroughly lacking now that Remington’s face is only a few inches away from his own.

Any question he has about whether or not that’s intentional is answered by the slow smile he gets as he tries to weigh the pros — reliable internet and hot water — against the discomfort of being in someone else’s space without them. The discomfort wins out.

“I’ll probably go back to mine. I think I forgot a book I need anyways.”

Lips meet his for a kiss that’s definitely intentionally distracting. When they part, Remington says, “Fine. Be responsible.”

“I don’t know how you do it,” Milo laughs.

Remington winks at him. From anyone else, it would be ridiculous, but when you’re tall, hot, and brilliant, there’s apparently not much you can’t get away with. “You wanna wait and I can give you a ride, or are you leaving me now?”

“I can wait,” Milo says. He doesn’t point out that he isn’t leaving Remington, because there’s nothing to leave. He especially doesn’t say that he doesn’t see what Remington would possibly ever do to make him do so.

***

The first week is weird. He’s paying rent and he has his own room, so it shouldn’t be different from any other sublease. Normally, a sublease doesn’t involve an apartment full of someone else’s things and no other person, though.

Normally, he isn’t subleasing from someone he’s spent the last few months hanging out with and fucking with no conversation of what’s going on. Never, actually.

The first week, he doesn’t touch anything beyond what’s absolutely necessary. At the end of the second, he admits as much when Remington calls late Sunday morning and asks how things are going. The third, things go to shit. Crampy, moody shit.

It’s not like it’s unprecedented, but it’s rare enough anymore that he’s sort of allowed himself to forget. That also means that he’s wildly unprepared to deal with it, and even less equipped to handle Remington calling.

“Is everything ok?” Remington asks after Milo finally answers.

He grumbles vaguely.

“Milo?”

“’M fine.”

“You sure? Because you don’t sound fine.”

Milo sighs and adjusts the pillow he’s curled around so he isn’t speaking directly into it. “Just. Having a day.”

“Yeah. Tell me about it,” Remington replies with a humorless laugh.

“It’s nothing. Definitely not why you called at…” he taps his phone screen to check the time. “You really callin’ me on your lunch?”

“Mhmm.”

He listens to Remington ramble for the next fifteen minutes, his own minimal acknowledgments seemingly enough to keep the conversation going. Of the two of them, Remington has far more to tell anyways, and Milo certainly doesn’t mind the distraction from his own problems.

“Are you sure you’re ok?”

Milo sighs again. “It’s just uh— one of those things. Feel like shit, can’t find the ibuprofen, really don’t feel like going anywhere.”

“Oh. There’s some in the medicine cabinet, I think. Or Tylenol. I don’t know if it makes a difference?”

“At this point, no,” he grumbles, dragging himself out of bed and down the hall to the bathroom to check. “Fuck.”

“What?”

“There’s a bottle, but it’s empty.”

“Oh. Then it’s in my nightstand. Don’t ask me which drawer, I don’t know.”

“I’ll be fine.” He stares at the shower, debating if it’ll make things better or worse.

“I mean I’m assuming you can find it, yeah.”

“I’m not—” He exhales slowly, fighting the urge to snap. “Don’t worry about it, dude. Seriously.”

There’s an extended silence, then Milo’s phone begins to chime with a new incoming call. Video, this time. After another brief but intense internal debate, he answers.

Five hundred-something miles away, he watches Remington exhale a cloud of smoke. It shouldn’t be hot, but it is, and Milo’s insides twist in an entirely different way.

“You’re still in the bathroom.”

“Yep. I can see why you got picked for this fancy-ass internship. Your observation skills are off the charts,” Milo replies drily.

Remington laughs around a drag, more smoke billowing as he says, “Ok but seriously, are you gonna be alright? Did you get in a fight with a soccer team of toddlers or something? A thousand tiny kicks to the shins?”

Despite everything, Milo laughs. “No. It’s just uh— y’know. Things I’d rather never have to deal with again.”

It takes a second, but thankfully recognition dawns on Remington’s face before Milo has to explain further. He says, “Stop being weird. It’s not like you haven’t been in my room before. And I’m not sure if there are any or if they’re still good but there might also be some like, sour patch gummies either also in my nightstand or my desk drawer.”

The video call was a mistake. Jaw tight, Milo glares at the shower and silently curses every single thing on Earth.

“Milo?”

“Where’d you get edibles?”

Remington exhales a laugh. “My brother left them there a while back. Clearly, he doesn’t care about ‘em that much, and I’ve uh… heard they help?”

He can’t deal with this. Especially not when Remington is watching him intently as he smokes a cigarette in some expensive-looking corporate patio area.

“Can I— Do you need anything else? Like, obviously anything that’s there that you need, it’s yours, but is there anything I can do?”

“Nah, even your dick’s not that big,” Milo says with a choked laugh. And god, if he wouldn’t be all over that right now, even as miserable as he feels.

Clearly whatever exposure Remington’s had that taught him weed helps cramps didn’t cover other areas, though, so in response to his confused frown, Milo explains, “That helps too. It’s almost a catch-22, though, because under typical conditions it’s kind of gross, and like, you feel like shit especially in a very localized way, so it doesn’t exactly seem appealing.”

“Oh. Well, if you need me in a few more weeks…”

“Thanks, but uh— it doesn’t really come around often so fingers crossed, I don’t.”

“Guess I’ll have to find another excuse, then,” Remington says with a bright grin. “I gotta go back in. Let me know if there is anything? I’m not gonna keep pushing, but—”

“Yeah. Um. Thanks.”

His smile softens and he nods. “Go steal my drugs. Gotta go.”

The call ends and Milo sighs. At himself, at the situation, at Remington. He crosses the hallway to Remington’s closed door, still hesitating despite the numerous direct assurances that he could and should rifle through the man’s drawers. He finds the bottle of Tylenol easily enough, stashed in the top drawer of Remington’s nightstand alongside a familiar bottle of lube, an almost-empty box of condoms, and a handful of other odds and ends. Milo almost doesn’t bother looking for the gummies, but he decides of the two discomforts, he’d rather spend a couple of extra seconds searching. The bottom drawer yields nothing, but as soon as he opens the wide drawer in Remington’s desk, he sees the neon yellow pouch.

“Well, thank you Remington’s brother, I guess,” he mutters to himself as he grabs the packet and closes the drawer.

Three hours later, there’s a knock at the front door. He almost ignores it, but his phone vibrates a second later.

Remington > Took the liberty of ordering pizza. Should be there soon if not now. Hope you’re feeling better.

He certainly feels something, and less of it’s pain than it was a few hours earlier. Still, Milo isn’t sure what to make of it.

After that, it gets easier, though. They don’t actually talk much — a handful of texts and memes here and there. Sometimes he gets typo-ridden messages late at night, or a blurry picture, which is his cue to give Remington shit the next morning, knowing he’ll be tired and hungover and in a mood. For all that the situation is well outside of anything Milo’s used to, it’s not bad. Just… different. And what kind of hypocrite would he be if he pitched a fit about something different?

***

Milo sighs, smoke pluming from his nostrils. “I dunno,” he says. “She keeps gettin’ onto me about how I need to go back. She’s fine and can take care of herself and I need to finish school like I haven’t already done that twice. But like, my aunt and uncle have their hands full with all this shit with my cousin, and it feels wrong leavin’ her alone.”

“I know,” Remi says softly. “Not like you’re far, though. Isn’t even an hour from here to Tuscaloosa, and you’ve only got what, a semester left?”

“Yeah. I’m sure the drive gets old when you do it all the time, though.” Like almost every weekend for the past four months.

Remi’s knuckles brush his, their fingers not quite tangling together on the stretch of brick wall between them. “It’s not so bad.”

“No, but then there’s like— I have to get my financial aid figured back out and find somewhere to live since that place I was gonna take over didn’t want to hold it and I couldn’t get someone to take it for a semester, then I have to figure out what I’m gonna do about money since I pretty much dropped everything when…”

When his grandfather died of a sudden heart attack, barely a week after Remi got back from Dallas. On top of everything else — taking time he doesn’t have to come up here and see Milo on Sundays — Remi let Milo leave everything in his second bedroom. Milo keeps telling himself he’s going to go pick it up, but a part of him worries that as soon as he does, that’ll be it.

“Oh,” Remi says, disappointment so heavy in that single syllable that Milo doesn’t have to look to know what his expression would be if he did. “I thought— I mean, you obviously don’t have to, but I figured when you came back—”

“Oh.”

“Like I’ll be fine either way, since it’s not like I had a roommate before. But I know finding something in the middle of the year can be a pain, so if you need it, it’s there.”

A roommate. Right. Milo has no idea what to say to that, but he knows the way it makes something ache in his chest can’t be good. Yet despite that, the words that come out of Milo’s mouth are, “Yeah um, if you’re sure, that’d be great. I don’t really have a whole lot of cash right now, but once I get a job figured out again, I can like, catch back up on rent and all.”

“Milo, you don’t have to—”

“I do, though. I mean you’ve done me a huge favor letting me leave my shit there for free, but if I’m gonna live there… I can’t be a charity case.”

“Charity case? Damn, if I knew that was a pro bono option, I would’ve had a way easier workload,” Remi says with a laugh.

“Dick.”

“I’d use the whole Dick is my father joke, but I think he’d have a stroke if anyone called him that to his face.”

“I still can’t believe your family is that uptight about nicknames.” His own family took a bit after he came out, but by now, the dust has mostly settled. The people who haven’t come around didn’t like him much even before, so it was hardly a surprise when they took the change poorly.

“Yeah,” Remi says with another weak laugh. “If only everyone was your grandma.”

“You can take her with you. See if you still think that when she’s interrogating you about your socks and shit.”

This time, Remi’s laugh is full and alive. He slings an arm across Milo’s shoulders and presses a sloppy kiss to his temple. “Have you seen your socks? Because I have. They’re sad as shit.”

“Socks are expensive!”

“Mhmm.”

***

The frantic buzzing from the nightstand succeeds in waking Milo where the throbbing in his head and the increasing discomfort from his bladder have failed. When he reaches for his phone, however, it’s silent.

“Mm, fuck,” he grumbles, turning over. “Remi. Remington. Richard Remington Abernathy the Third, your phone’s about to explode.”

Remi makes an indistinct sound in his sleep, burrowing further into his pillow. Given the state of his own hangover, he can only imagine how Remi feels. Whoever’s trying to reach him is either unaware or uncaring, however, because his phone vibrates again.

“Whyyyy,” Remi groans. He reaches for his phone, silencing it without looking. “Time’s it?”

“Uh.” Milo reaches for his phone again, squinting at the screen when it lights up. “Shit. Almost eleven.”

On the other side of the bed, Remi goes very, very still. Slowly, he reaches for his phone again, unlocking it and skimming the stream of notifications.

“Remi? You good?”

Remi sucks in a breath, the sound of it sniffly and strained. “My entire family’s gonna be here in twenty minutes.”

“Oh.”

“Yep.”

“Um. Ok, what do you need from me?”

One hand covering his eyes, Remi drops back down onto the mattress. “How bad’s the apartment?”

“Not too bad, I don’t think. I can check real quick?”

“Yeah, that’d be… good.” There’s another pause, and then Remi asks, “What are your plans for today?”

“Have to grade some stuff. Was gonna do it here, but if you need me to leave—”

“No, just— I mean you can if that’s easier, but probably just stay out of their way.”

Milo swallows, his throat clicking with how dry it is. “Sure.”

He reacts on autopilot when Remi rolls over and kisses him before getting out of bed, but already Milo can feel himself going into a numb sort of shutdown, retreating into himself. Stay out of the way. Because Remi won’t explicitly tell Milo that he doesn’t want him here when his family shows up, but the message is clear.

While Remi showers, gets dressed, and downs water — and, Milo is sure, more coke — like his life depends on it, Milo speed cleans the apartment, relocating everything that can’t be cleaned or disappeared to somewhere it isn’t likely to cause an issue into his room, since he doubts Remi’s family will have any reason to come in there. By the time Milo’s done, he feels like he’s been hit by a truck, but Remi looks remarkably fine again.

One hell of a drug, Milo thinks to himself as Remi cages him against the bathroom counter and kisses him hungrily.

The pocket of Remi’s pants vibrates, and he pulls away. As he reads the text message, a dozen tiny things shift in his demeanor, his posture, until he’s barely recognizable as the same person. He says, “Pray for me,” and exits the bathroom, closing the door behind him.

Voices fill the apartment as Milo gets in the shower, the spray muffling the sound to something indistinct and distant. Like it’s part of another world entirely. It might as well be.

When he gets out, the apartment is silent. Empty. That’s just as strange, especially given how quickly the change occurs. While Milo hadn’t looked forward to the inevitable awkwardness, he’d wanted to at least meet Remi’s family. Not talk to them, necessarily, but he can’t help the curiosity.

On the way back to his room, he steals two Tylenol from the bottle in Remi’s nightstand, washing them down with the last cup of coffee from the pot he made. While he waits for it to kick in, he boots up his laptop and starts pulling up that week’s discussion boards for his TA sections.

By the time the front door opens, voices once again spilling into the living room, Milo’s finished the discussion responses and moved on to quizzes he’s been putting off. It wouldn’t be an issue — after all, the mountain of work he still needs to get done means he wouldn’t be doing much else today anyways — but the amount of coffee and water he’s had to try to deal with his hangover simultaneously has his bladder ready to burst and isn’t enough. Sighing, Milo sets the thick stack of packets aside. He deliberates for as long as he can, but leaving is no longer an option. Serves him right for putting it off for an hour.

His hand is on the knob when he thinks to look himself over first, and he’s glad he does. The sweatshirt he has on as his common weekend alternative to a binder not only says SAMFORD TRACK AND FIELD across the front, but ABERNATHY on the back, and while some small, vicious part of him wants to walk out in it, he knows he shouldn’t. Milo breathes a silent godfuckingdammit, his bladder protesting sharply as he pulls off his sweatshirt and t-shirt all at once, one hand shaking the shirt out of the hoodie while he reaches for the binder on top of his hamper with the other. He redresses, feeling around the neck of his shirt to make sure nothing is visible, then opens the door.

“...and then we’re doing a donation drive leading up to spring break,” a girl is saying.

“Donating what? Your—”

“Ellis,” warns a voice he’s only eighty percent sure is Remi’s. Either way, the tone is one Milo’s heard before, and now Milo can’t help but wonder if it’s one of those family things.

As Milo slips into the bathroom, another woman’s voice says, “Ellis, you know I don’t like it when you talk like that. Especially to your sister.”

He smiles a little ruefully, the door muffling the conversation enough that he can’t make out what’s said in response. For all that he technically has a few by way of marriage, Milo can’t imagine actually having siblings. Or parents that are married. He can’t imagine much of Remi’s life, really, other than the parts that most directly overlap. The polar ends of intense studying, notes strewn across the living room, and equally intense partying.

Since he’s already broken containment, Milo decides to risk venturing into the kitchen. There’s no chance he won’t be noticed since, given their limited seating, someone is bound to be sitting at the breakfast bar separating the two spaces.

Milo sucks in a breath and turns into the kitchen, the conversation coming to an immediate halt as five pairs of eyes gravitate to him.

“Sorry,” he says, meeting Remi’s gaze briefly before ducking behind the refrigerator door to grab a Dr. Pepper. He doesn’t bother with a glass or ice, not wanting to prolong the scrutiny any longer than necessary, but he does snatch the last banana before he backs out of the room, which gets him a curious look from the guy who he assumes is Remi’s brother.

“And here I thought you were making up another person living with you by choice,” he hears someone — Ellis again, he thinks — mutter once he’s down the hall. “Although willingly seems like it may be a stretch.”

“Ellis,” another man’s voice, just slightly too tired to be Remi’s, chides. “Your brother is aiding one of his peers in a time of need. Compassion for those less—”

“Fortunate,” his mother says pointedly.

“Yes, less fortunate is an indication of character. And I’m sure your brother means well, but we should be mindful of the sort of people we extend such offerings to.”

“Richard,” his mother hisses, barely loud enough to be heard from Milo’s room.

“I’m sure Remington didn’t realize what kind of trouble he was opening himself up to,” the man says.

“His grandfather just died,” Remi points out. “And it’s Saturday. It’s not like he has classes today.”

Remi’s mother says something that sounds placating but is too quiet for Milo to make out from his room. He probably shouldn’t, but he creeps back toward his bedroom door.

“...but your father is right, Remington. He may be struggling, but that’s the time to turn toward the Lord, not whoever he’s been spending time with that’s leaving hickeys on the back of his neck,” she says, not quite a whisper.

Milo swallows, embarrassment flooding through his veins.

“Mama, I’m pretty sure the Lord also said somethin’ about not judging other people.”

That someone comes to his defense is a surprise, although he realizes after a moment that it’s Ellis, and not Remi, who spoke it when he adds, “Besides, it’s not like it’s contagious.”

Carefully and quietly, Milo eases the door the rest of the way closed and retreats to his bed. He fishes his earbuds out of his bag and shoves them in his ears, hoping to drown out both the noise of his own thoughts and Remi’s silence.

It’s getting dark when the door to his room opens. He doesn’t look up, but he does subtly pause his music. Remi looms in his periphery for a minute, watching him, then invites himself in and stretches out at the end of his bed. Still, Milo refuses to acknowledge him. In the hours since, the vague, wordless discomfort the overheard conversation created has honed itself into a vicious sort of anger.

His phone vibrates at the same moment the notification pops up in his browser. Milo waits a few seconds, certain he knows who the message is from, then clicks over to the tab.

Remi > They’re gone. Do you wanna get dinner or are you busy?

“You have eyes, don’t you?” Milo spits without looking away from the screen. He clicks back to the assignment he was working on.

“Yeah, but I didn’t know if you could take a break or if you were in the middle of something.”

After a moment, Remi sighs and says, “I’m sorry. I forgot they were coming, and I guess Ellis tried to remind me last night but I wasn’t really reading his texts.”

“Can’t see when you would’ve had time, between drinking an entire bottle of vodka, doing lines off my ass, and, apparently, makin’ a mess out of the back of my neck.”

“Milo, I— Wait, you heard?”

Whatever control he had left goes up in smoke; Milo slams his laptop shut and rips out his earbuds. “That’s what you have to say? Really? They didn’t even wait for me to get out of the room so yeah, I heard.”

Remi sighs and scrubs a hand over his face. “I’m sorry. This is why I told you to avoid—”

“You think this whole situation would be less fucked up if I hadn’t heard?”

A furrow forms between Remi’s eyebrows.

“I’m used to conservative assholes not thinking I’m worth shit. And that sucks, sure, but it’s not what I’m mad about.”

“Ok, then I’m even more confused,” Remi says, frowning.

“You don’t get why I’m mad that they sat there talking about how awful and shameful of a person I am when you’re the one who gave ‘em somethin’ to talk about last night when you were fucked up and had your dick in me? And that whole time they were dancing around what a horrible little faggot I am and how you shouldn’t be anywhere near me, you didn’t say a single goddamn word other than that it’s Saturday?”

“I—”

“Like, you do understand that just because you’re the one fucking me doesn’t make this not gay, right? Or are you hoping that since I have a pussy, I’ll be some kind of stepping stone so you can convince yourself you’re straight? Because that’s the only thing I can figure is that you either don’t know or you’re ashamed.”

“Can I talk now?” Remi asks, his arms crossing as he sits up.

Milo waves a hand for him to go ahead, ready to tear into whatever bullshit comes out of his mouth next.

“Great, thank you. And as much as I appreciate the condescension, obviously I’m aware of the fact that I’m gay. They’re not, though, and as I’ve mentioned and now you’ve heard, they’re not exactly supportive. So since they’re paying for my school and literally everything else, I’m not really in a spot where I can afford to tell them at the moment. Unfortunately, some of us don’t have the liberty to just do whatever we want without getting disowned.”

A disbelieving laugh tears out of Milo. “I’m sorry, you think I have a choice?”

“That’s not— What do you want me to do? Call them right now and say ‘Hey y’all remember my friend Milo who you saw earlier? Yeah, we’re actually fucking’?” Remi says, his hand held up to his face like it’s a phone. “Because I fail to see how that’s gonna make anything better, but if it’ll make you happy, I’ll do it and we can see how that goes.”

“You’re such a fucking asshole,” Milo snaps. “Y’know, if I’m such a problem for you, I don’t know why you even let me move in.”

Remi blinks at him. “Because you’re my friend and you needed somewhere to go. And yeah, I knew what they’d think but I offered anyways because in my head it made sense and was the right thing to do.”

“Wow,” Milo scoffs. “What a great fucking friend you are to put yourself in such a terrible position. That’s really big of you. I’m sure Jesus would be proud.”

“Dude, what is your deal?”

“My deal? Is that I wouldn’t sit there and let people talk about my roommate or my friend like that, much less…” Milo shakes his head, suddenly more tired than anything.

Sighing, Remi says, “You’re right.”

“Yeah. I know.”

“And I’m sorry about the whole uh, neck thing. I’d say let me buy you dinner and make it up to you, but I’m pretty sure you’ll just yell at me about charity.”

Milo gives him a flat look. He probably wouldn’t take it, but Remi could at least ask instead of this whole hypothetical.

“Thought so.” Remi sighs again and stands. “I’ll go see if we have anything so you can keep working on… whatever. I have some reading I need to do anyways.”

***

Milo crams another shirt into the trash bag, his duffel bag still packed and his suitcase already full. There’s more than he thought, his belongings littering the floor of a living room that had never quite been theirs and definitely not his. For a while, the piles seemed to grow more than they shrank, but he’s finally getting close. Some books that can be sold or donated. A lot of the clothes probably can be too, but for now, it’s easier to pack them and deal with them later.

By the time he’s gotten everything he intends to keep loaded into the back of his truck, the rest dropped off at Goodwill or in the dumpster outside, it’s getting dark. He could stay the night. Drive back to his grandmother’s house in the morning. His name might not be on the lease, but even as things currently stand, he’s paid rent through the end of the month. This apartment is technically as much his home as anywhere. It was supposed to be his home for another two months, at the very least. Maybe longer, if-

If nothing. A year and a half, and nothing’s changed the way he told himself it should, could, would if he just gave it time.

It’s him — he got tired of it.

If things were different…

But they aren’t.

Milo takes a slow, uneven breath and does one last walkthrough to make sure there isn’t anything obvious that he missed. And there are things, here and there, that he probably could take. Things without any clear owner. A coffee pot that only he uses, but he didn’t buy, a set of glasses still in the box, any of the towels in the hall closet – things he doesn’t want, even if they might be useful.

Standing in the door to the bedroom, he works the apartment key off the ring. The ache of loss is a known feeling by now. That doesn’t make it easier, but he can’t stay just to avoid it. A part of Milo wonders if that’s what Remington thinks he’ll do — that Milo will just wait for him to get back from his latest fancy internship in California so they can talk this out face to face. But that’s part of why he came back as soon as he snapped and told Remington he was done. He knows how that score settles if he tries to hold his own in an in-person argument. At worst, he fumes for a bit, and then the countdown timer to next time resets, and he’s done doing that.

On his way out, he drops the key in the mailbox. From the driver’s seat of his truck, he transfers the rest of the money he would’ve owed on the lease. It just about empties his bank account, but it’s better than feeling like he still owes something.

He hasn’t even made it out of the parking lot before his phone vibrates.

Richard Abernathy III > Fine. Fuck you too, then.

Part Two:

Nothing

“Jesus fuck.”

In response, he gets a hummed laugh, the warm rumble of it pleased.

Milo isn’t sure when he was last wound this tight, but he’s pretty sure if this stopped now that he’d explode. It’s the first time he’s gotten laid since he burned every dollar he had and then some to get a doctor to cut him open and then stitch him back together again. Between that and the time he had to take off work, he’s still feeling the hit to his bank account, but nonetheless, it’s a weight off his chest.

And three months later, pressed into the mattress, so close to coming on the guy’s cock that he wants to scream, he can’t say he’s got a single regret. Lips drag across the back of his shoulder at the same time that the guy’s thumb rolls over his cock again in a practiced tease. Milo’s burning up with it. Ready to beg, if it comes down to that.

The guy — Milo doesn’t even know his name, just that he’s passing through for work — doesn’t seem like the type, though. If anything, he seems like he’s barely holding on while he tries to get Milo off. And under ordinary circumstances, Milo would write it off as a loss or take over himself, but this guy seems to have a handle on things. He can feel it cresting, the bubbling tension reaching a tipping point.

Milo does yell, then, muffled by a pillow and mingling with a sudden whine as the man on top of him comes as well. He pulls out gently and flops onto the bed beside Milo, only pulling off the condom and tossing it toward the trash can instead of cleaning up immediately. It’s an interesting deviation from how neat and composed he’s been otherwise. But Milo isn’t complaining when the guy drags him in for a lazy kiss.

One of the guy’s thumbs follows the line of a scar absently, tracing beneath Milo’s freshly healed pecs-not-boobs. For all that the guy hasn’t seemed put off by it, something in Milo feels compelled to apologize, so before he can stop himself, he’s done exactly that.

“What’re you sorry about?”

Milo gestures vaguely at the twin scars, then lower. The guy frowns, his eyebrows furrowing.

“For starters, you’re not my first rodeo. If it seemed like it was or like I was bothered somehow, I’m very sorry. Two, don’t ever apologize for who you are. At least not like that. It’d be different if you were like, beating your wife and kids. That’s shitty and I’m not into it. And three…” he says, glancing down at himself, “I’m pretty sure on the scar front, I’ve got you beat by a long shot.”

He pulls Milo in again, the kiss hungry but unhurried. His fingers dig into Milo’s ass, not quite possessive. But they could be.

“I know you’re not from around here,” Milo drawls against his lips, “but if you ever happen to be back in the area, I’d be down to do that again any time.”

The laugh he gets in return is tired and easy. “As much as I’d like to go again, I’ve got a plane to catch.”

For a moment, he’s free to look as the man closes his eyes. He certainly does have Milo beat when it comes to scar count and some of his look nasty. Milo can only begin to guess at where they came from.

“Guy like you, though?” the stranger continues, opening his eyes again to meet Milo’s. The blue is a shade too light and his hair several shades too dark for the long, lean lines of his body to be uncomfortably familiar. For the brush of oddly-calloused fingertips against his skin to raise the ghosts of memory, even though Milo knows exactly how long it’s been since he was fucked anywhere near as good. With an easy sort of sincerity, he says, “You can find someone way better than me.”

One eyebrow raised skeptically, Milo glances around the hotel room. It’s nice, at least as far as things go around here. Just like the guy’s suit, and his shoes. The most normal thing about him is his watch, worn against the inside of his wrist the same way his grandfather used to.

He groans as the guy kisses him again, hard, both of them apparently still hungry for more.

“I’m sorry,” the guy says, “but I do have to go. The room’s paid for through tomorrow, though, so you’re welcome to stay if you want.”

Milo shakes his head and follows him up, retrieving his clothes from their trailed resting places between the bed and the door.

“Can I at least cover your ride back to yours, then? Or wherever you parked? I know it’s a pain having to figure out those logistics later.”

Between his oddly flat accent and the consideration of it, Milo stumbles mentally. “I mean, you don’t have to do that. It’s not far—”

“Please?”

“Yeah, ok. Thanks.”

The guy nods and retrieves his phone, opening Lyft before he passes his phone to Milo.

“Thanks again,” Milo says as he passes it back.

He lets himself be dragged closer by the stranger, a quiet, “No, thank you,” mumbled against his lips.

***

By the time he drops into the driver’s seat of his grandmother’s old Malibu, Milo is exhausted. It’s not that anything even went poorly, but after waking up at six because his brain’s decided that should be the default every day, driving almost four hours to get to his aunt and uncle’s house, did Thanksgiving with relatives he’d do just fine not being in the same room with again, followed that with a solid half hour of goodbyes, and now he’s got another four hours home. Closer to three, if he goes through Birmingham, but he’s not sure if he feels like risking it. Not when Black Friday’s somehow already started and he knows what traffic is gonna be like and he has to deal with it again in another day or so.

At least now he gets some quiet. He wants a drink. A cigarette, even though he hasn’t had one in over a year. A fucking blowjob and a real vacation, since he hasn’t had either one in what feels like just as long and the couple of days he gets off for Thanksgiving aren’t nearly enough. He’ll settle for the quiet for now, though, and thinks his grandmother is on the same page.

She waits until the streetlights taper off to ambush him.

“I’m sorry I brought up your love life at the supper table.”

Milo inhales slowly.

“Well, I guess I should say your lack of a love life. Either way, I know it made you uncomfortable and I need to learn to mind my own business,” she continues.

He exhales, just as slowly, hoping it’s quiet enough that her hearing aids won’t pick it up over the sound of the heat.

“I just worry about you.”

“I’m fine.”

She looks at him skeptically from the passenger seat. Milo can feel it.

“I am!”

“Ok, sweetheart. I just remember how happy you were every time that boy came around.”

This time, he sighs for real because he knows exactly who she means. It’s hardly the first time she’s made her feelings on the matter known, either. “Nana, I haven’t spoken to Remington in over two years. I’m sure he’s married with kids by now, and even if he’s not, I don’t have a single thing to say to him.”

“Well, he was a good man. And he was there for you when your Papaw died.”

“And I don’t doubt that his ego would love to hear you say that,” Milo says, “but I’ve moved on with my life.”

“It sure doesn’t seem like it,” she says, ever direct.

“Nana, I work two jobs. When do you think I have time for any of that?”

“I know. And I don’t doubt that it’s even harder for you than it was back when I had to worry about it, what with the technology and everything, but you’re young and you need someone to spend time with who’ll look out for you.”

“Ain’t that what I’ve got you for?” he says, betting — hoping — it’ll make her happy enough to drop it.

It doesn’t. She says, “And I do love you for saying it, especially when I’m nagging you, but I won’t be around forever, and you need someone who’ll make you happy.”

For a long moment, she’s quiet, and Milo wonders if that might be the end of it. The sound of a wet sniffle from the passenger seat tells him it’s not, though.

“When your Papaw died, that was one of the hardest things that’s ever happened to me. And it still is. But I wouldn’t trade the time I had with him for anything in the world.”

“I know,” Milo sighs. He doesn’t say that it doesn’t change anything for him. That he’s pretty sure he’s not going to get that, especially not like they did since they got together when they were barely twenty and he’s already approaching thirty and very, very single.

Even more so as far as she knows, since he’s only mentioned one guy — whose name was Trevor, of all fucking things, and quickly lived up to it — in the past two years, and that was before he got top surgery. So it’s been a while, regardless of who’s counting. But Milo truly doesn’t have time and he just doesn’t…

His track record is bad, and his grandfather taught him plenty about risk management via Kenny Rogers and Texas Hold ’em played with match sticks when he was a kid. Choosing not to sit at the table is a perfectly valid option. Milo barely even has time for friends, and most of those are effectively contained to the internet. So for now, he’s focusing on more important things. Like getting a full-time, salaried position at the library so he can finally get benefits and quit his other job.

Maybe one day the right guy will come along, but he’s not gonna hold his breath.

***

The year’s just started and Milo needs a day off. Not wants, but needs.

Really, he needs at least a week off, but he’ll take one actual day off and to himself. When one of those might happen he couldn’t say, but it won’t be soon enough. Not between the backlog at the shop and how short-staffed every single goddamn branch seems to be all the time.

It’s the latter of the two that had him across town, and traffic caused by a combination of construction and an accident that causes him to say fuck it and stop at some yuppie gastropub in the hopes that he can at least get a beer while he waits for traffic to die down.

The place is relatively quiet and the food smells decent, both of which Milo counts in the place’s favor as he takes a seat at the empty rail. As much as he knows that he shouldn’t be spending the money, especially right after the holidays and when he’s got food at home, his stomach growls and his resolve dissipates in a puff of smoke.

Food helps, though. He’s still just drained, but whatever meltdown is awaiting him feels slightly less like it’s looming just out of sight. The alcohol helps, too, the bar’s $5 old fashioned special making his decision easy enough. He’s nursing a second and absently scrolling through Twitter when someone steps into his periphery — a tall blonde, which tells him all he needs to. Milo keeps scrolling.

“Excuse me.”

The voice is almost familiar, something in the guy’s tone scratching at a door in the back of his mind. He doesn’t look up. There’s nothing he could possibly have to say that is of interest to Milo.

“Is… this seat taken?” he asks, and Milo knows if he did check, he’d find storm-blue eyes trying to bore through him.

His earlier mood resurfaces, the urge to snap at something just barely tamped down with a slow exhale. The bar rail is still sparsely populated, but Milo gestures in a vague, do whatever you want kind of way because he can’t come up with a reason that isn’t the faint scent of fucking Versace Eros.

He finishes his drink in silence, wishing the bartender would reappear so he can close out and leave.

“Can I get you another one?”

“No.” The bartender steps out of the kitchen and Milo wastes no time catching her eye.

He beats Milo to the mark, though, handing over his card to close them both out, please and thank you.

“Whatever,” Milo mutters, out of his seat before the bartender even reaches the point of sale.

The door of his truck slams as he gets in, making Milo jump. Without traffic, he’s maybe ten minutes from home, but he can’t do more than put the keys in the ignition. Can’t drive, or even think, what with the way his brain is going a thousand miles a minute, a solar system orbiting one question: what are the fucking odds?

A soft knock on the driver’s side window cements him back in the present. Milo doesn’t have to look to know that it’s not some stranger who wants his parking place or change for the meter. He sucks in a breath and turns the key, then rolls down the window.

“What?”

“Wow, hi Milo, great to see you too. You look like you’re doing well. How am I? Oh, y’know—”

“Still a bitch. Definitely wouldn’t have guessed that,” Milo says, sarcasm dripping.

Perfect jawline going tight, Richard Remington Abernathy III looks away. “Never mind. I’m sorry I interrupted your evening.”

He turns to leave, but something in Milo can’t let him get the last word again, even if he regrets it before the words are out of his mouth. “What do you want, Dick?”

Back ramrod straight and still turned to Milo, there’s only the faintest of movements as Remington takes a breath. “Don’t worry about it, Milo. Have a good night.”

Then, he retreats to the dark Mercedes parked behind Milo’s old truck. Before Milo can decide if he wants to know enough to argue, Remington has pulled out of the space, his tail lights shrinking into the twilight.

Once they disappear around the corner, he finally manages to roll the window back up and leave.

That doesn’t help, though. Milo can’t just drive away from what’s in his head, and now that he’s seen Remington again, everything feels oddly fresh. Like it’s been two and a half months, instead of two and a half years.

He tells himself he’s not going to think about it. He pointedly does not think about it on the drive, or once he gets back to his apartment. At least then, he has routine to fall back on. Shower, changing his sheets since it’s been a couple of weeks, sorting laundry then bagging it, checking his shopping list.

Once he’s done and in bed, though… then the thoughts sneak back in.

He starts at the end, for whatever reason. The four days he spent in an apartment in L.A., increasingly pissed that he was both not working and spending money to sit around and do nothing all day. He went out, sure. Wandered around. Spent an entire day in the library. But he still had to get places. To eat. He still knew no one in this massive city and his one reason for being here didn’t seem to give a shit that he was losing money he didn’t have.

So Milo pushed through one weekend, the pattern nearly identical to their life back home — Remington was always busy, while he was sidelined to impersonal fucks in the dark in which he was still, somehow, an afterthought. A placeholder. Except in L.A., everything was three times as much, so the separate finances he already couldn’t afford back home were even worse. The whole thing was a mistake.

Five days. Less than half the time he was supposed to be out there. On the morning of the sixth, he rescheduled his flight, and when Remington finally got back that night, Milo said he was leaving.

Remington had looked at him, then noticed his bags. Said something like, “Did something happen? Is everything ok?”

And Milo had replied that nothing happened and that was exactly the problem. Obviously everything wasn’t ok, or he wouldn’t be leaving.

He remembers exactly what Remington said next because even then, he wouldn’t put a name to what they were.

“So you came all the way out here, just to—”

“Yeah,” Milo’d said, “I guess so.”

And then he’d left.

There were things that followed — unanswered texts of Can we talk? and I know this isn’t ideal, but…

Milo had decided somewhere in there that it couldn’t be that important or he’d just say it. But no. Never anything committal in writing because anything you say can and will be used against you in the court of fucking Abernathy. Then, the last message burned itself into Milo’s memory for the way every harsh ounce of contempt he’d developed seemed to echo back at him.

Which is why tonight doesn’t make sense. Fuck you too Remington and Excuse me Remington are not the same person in his mind, but then tonight’s Remington isn’t either of those people, either. Not with his grown-out hair and glasses on in public, where people might see him and discover he’s not actually perfect.

As if somehow that would be enough to diminish everything else. Milo scoffs, alone in the darkness, at that absurd possibility. Like Remington Abernathy, the epitome of the mannered southern gentleman, is somehow less so for one or two endearing “flaws” that confirm he’s human instead of Jesus Christ reincarnate.

It’s a facade, he knows. Milo’s seen what’s behind the curtain and knows that for every minute of public polish, there’s a twin moment of frantic anxiety and hair-trigger temper coupled with so much repression that he isn’t sure how Remington’s still alive, much less a functional person. Living like that can’t be healthy. He knows that much.

Milo scowls and turns over, yawning into his pillow. Despite his best efforts and the fact that he still has to be up in the morning, he can’t stop thinking. Not just about the end, or how his biggest regret to this day is that he didn’t do it before Remington went to California, but how it got there. The question of whether or not he could’ve done anything that would’ve made a difference, or if it was doomed from the start.

It’s impossible that none of the blame is Milo’s, he knows, but he at least tried. He thought what they had was real, or at least could’ve been, while Remington just seemed to… Well, it doesn’t matter now. Tonight was a weird fluke, and-

On the nightstand, his phone lights up. Probably some friend in another time zone, or at least one who’s still awake. It dims, then brightens again with another message. Sighing around another yawn, Milo leans over to see two unread texts instead of server notifications.

This late, he can’t imagine who would be texting him. Concern that it might be about his grandmother makes his pulse race, anxious impatience spiking as he waits for the messages to open. It isn’t anyone in his family, but a number no longer in his contacts.

(251) 555-5555 > Hopng this is still your number but I’m sorry. Should’ve said that a long time ago. Can we talk? Coffee or something?

Then:

(251) 555-5555 > Plesse?

As Milo stares at the two texts with their uncharacteristic mistakes, a third comes through.

(251) 555-5555 > Fyxj. Please?

Milo breathes an involuntary laugh, unsure if he’s just struggling with his keyboard, drunk, or both. Probably both. Without responding, he puts the phone down. His response is irrelevant because he can’t do it. Not that he would — that he’s even considering it — but he can’t. He’s got things to do.

***

The sky is still gray when Milo tosses his bulging laundry bag into his truck. Too early by a good few hours, especially since Remington’s texts came in around one in the morning, but he doesn’t have much of a choice. Sighing, he blindly navigates to his text messages to let his grandmother know he’s on the way. At the top of his inbox, however, are the texts from Remington. He lingers at the stop sign, debating deleting them before he taps the conversation with his grandmother.

For the first forty or so minutes, the churn of his thoughts is a distant problem as he sips his coffee and waits for his brain to truly come online. As he approaches exit 70, though, he finds himself snapping a blurry picture of the sign and sending it with a can’t before he can fully process what he’s doing.

Milo spends the rest of the drive anxious and yelling at himself, distracted enough that he overshoots and has to come in the other way. That’s sign enough that he has to find something else to think about. Not like he can take it back now; all he can do is handle — ignore — whatever else Remington might say.

Gravel churns under his tires, dust clouding behind him the whole length of the long driveway. He needs to fill it in. Or get someone to, because he doesn’t want to do it himself. But it’s cheaper that way, if he can get a couple days off in a row, and for all he knows that if he mentions it, his grandmother will insist she can cover it, Milo can’t do that.

He parks in the grass, out of the way so he won’t have to back her car around the truck later, and slings the laundry bag over his shoulder. Part of him wishes she’d get another dog or something, and not just because he wants one. It worries him, her being alone out here. Even with her hearing aids in, he knows she doesn’t hear anyone pull up. Doesn’t know he’s there until he opens the door, from the startled look on her face when he steps into the laundry room.

“You about ready to go?” he calls as he moves her clothes from the washer to the dryer so he can start his own.

She doesn’t respond to that, but her robe and the look she gives him when he comes into the kitchen are answer enough. Instead, she says, “Good day yesterday?”

“It was fine.” He shrugs, hoping it comes across as unbothered.

“Just fine?”

“Just another day. Sent me across town because they were short. Probably gonna send me out there all next week too.”

“Do you need money for gas?”

He rolls his eyes, fond and forever grateful. “No ma’am.”

“If you do, you tell me. Did you eat breakfast?”

“No ma’am,” he says again.

“Well,” she frowns. “I didn’t fix anything, but if you see anything you want, you help yourself.”

Because it’s easier than anything else, he says, “Go get dressed or you’re gonna be late and you’re gonna fuss at me the whole time.”

Once she’s out of the room, he pours himself another cup of coffee; she’s made a full pot, no doubt expecting him to drink it all while she’s at church. He will, too. Even if he had slept the night before, he’s running close enough to empty that no one thing is enough.

His phone vibrates in his pocket. Milo tells himself he’s not gonna check it. That whatever it is, it can wait, and if it’s him, he can fuck right on off.

It only takes a quick glance when his resolve cracks a few seconds later for him to see the area code. Nope. He’s not doing it. There’s a reason he deleted the number. Firmly and pointedly, Milo puts his phone on the table and walks back into the kitchen, scavenging through the cabinets like he doesn’t know the contents well enough that he could make an inventory from memory.

His phone vibrates again, loud on the bare wood.

(251) 555-5555 > I’m free all day.

(251) 555-5555 > Or some other time?

Milo blinks at the texts. Remington Abernathy isn’t accommodating. He doesn’t think the word is even in his vocabulary, impressive as it is. It’s something he gets from his dad, Milo thinks — some sort of ingrained decisiveness that makes him unable to consider the possibility that anyone else might have plans.

Maybe it’s all coincidence, and he’s been getting texts from a wrong number that just seems similar to Remington’s.

He snorts a laugh at himself. No. It’s not that at all.

> You don’t even like coffee.

At least, he didn’t. He drank it here and there, but not because he wanted to. And sure, who needs caffeine when you can get your stimulants in powdered form?

Milo’s nose scrunches, remembering. He never quite got the appeal, and without the safety net of family money and connections, the risk had always felt too great.

(251) 555-5555 > I don’t hate it.

(251) 555-5555 > Is that a no?

The texts arrive in rapid succession, and for a minute, all Milo can do is stare at them. Footsteps in the hall mark the urgent end of this interaction. He’s not sure why, but he replies:

> I’ll think about it

Even once the text is sent, he can’t stop staring at the screen. Can’t explain what’s happening or why. Maybe after too many days without a break, he’s finally snapped, or maybe it’s just that the little spikes of adrenaline he gets with each message cut through the stress and exhaustion.

Either way, he needs to quit while he’s ahead.

Folding now isn’t losing. It’s walking away with what he’s got, and he’s already walked away once. This time shouldn’t even be a problem since there’s nothing to walk away from.

“What’re you smiling about over there?”

“Nothin’.”

“Well, not now you’re not. You don’t want your face to stick like that.”

Childishly, Milo sticks out his tongue and shoves his phone in his pocket.

“Is it a boy?”

“Nana, you know I don’t have time for any of that.”

The look she gives him is unimpressed. “You have time to come out here every weekend and chauffeur me around when I’m perfectly capable of doing it myself, and even then, that leaves you with six other days a week that you could’ve met someone.”

“Well, I haven’t.” Technically, it’s true, but Milo can’t help but glance away guiltily.

“Milo Alexander, you were raised better than that.”

He sighs, knowing there’s no winning this one. Not now. “I may have run into Richard the Third,” he mumbles, using another of Remington’s least favorite name variations. It only feels fair after he got his own first and middle name used against him as a result of this whole thing.

Midway through putting on a shoe, his grandmother has stopped to stare at him, both eyebrows raised.

“He won’t stop textin’ me. Nothing’s going on!”

“And why not?”

“Because he’s still a bossy, pretentious fuckin’ douchebag,” Milo says automatically.

“Do I need to go get the bar of soap?”

“No ma’am. I just mean…” He sighs and scrubs a hand over his face. This is exactly why he didn’t want to have this conversation. Why he told himself the whole second half of the drive that he wasn’t gonna respond. “All the reasons I left are still valid.”

“It’s been almost three years. You can’t possibly know that.”

“You’re right. He’s actually a lawyer now so it’s worse.”

For once, time is on Milo’s side. He rushes his grandmother out the door and into her car, although his apology for not warming it up gets him a comment about doing more important things. By some small miracle, he keeps his mouth shut.

The much larger miracle is that his grandmother doesn’t bring it up again, although that could have a lot to do with the fact that Milo puts his phone on silent before he leaves to pick her up from church. Maybe, he thinks, it means she gets that there’s nothing going on. He doesn’t go so far as to hope that this is the last of it; he might not know what Remington wants, but Milo has a sinking feeling that whatever it is, he won’t give up so easily the one time Milo wants him to.

But sitting at the end of his grandmother’s driveway, it occurs to him that if he lets Remington think he’s won, he might get this over with more quickly. For a full minute, his thumb hovers over the send icon. It’s just coffee. It means nothing beyond that he wants to tell Remington to stop fucking texting him to his face.

***

In the time he’s lived in his apartment, he doesn’t think he’s ever been to this Starbucks. Not like he goes to Starbucks anyways, since paying eight dollars for coffee isn’t his idea of money well spent. But it’s the only place that’s open and he doesn’t want to go anywhere more… real. Nowhere that he’s gonna be stuck waiting for a bill or anything.

Despite the fact that he has to be at work at six the next morning and knowing it means he’ll also leave that much later, he makes a point of getting there second. Making Remington wait.

He can squirm a little. It’s the least he deserves.

It works, too; Remington doesn’t get the look of anxious surprise off of his face fast enough when Milo walks up, his own expression carefully neutral and his hands shoved in his coat pocket. Even guarded as he is, a part of Milo is still weak for the shy little smile that follows. There are things that have changed, obviously. A few faint lines at the corners of Remington’s eyes, and between his eyebrows. That smile is the same, though.

“You order yet?” Milo asks.

“No, I was um— I thought I’d wait for you to get here.” Remington’s tone climbs slightly at the end, the uncertainty saying what his lips don’t: he wasn’t sure Milo would show at all. He stands, leaving his coat folded over the back of the armchair he’s claimed.

Milo considers it for a moment, then tugs off his own and tosses it into the other chair before he turns toward the counter. This time, he makes a point of getting there first. He orders the first thing he sees on the menu that looks like it won’t keep him up later than he needs to be and pays quickly so Remington can’t, then moves down to the end to wait.

The only thing worse than the tense silence once Remington joins him is the fact that Milo can feel people watching it happen. Not that he cares what they think, but he knows that Remington does — inherently, since that’s who he is — and even three years later, the way he changes under observation gets under Milo’s skin. It also means that he can’t watch Remington. Even if he tried, he wouldn’t get anything useful from the blank mask.

Once they make it back to the corner, Remington’s controlled façade drops a bit. Milo waits silently. He wants to see what Remington will do.

“So…” Remington says after another couple of tense, silent moments. “How was the drive back?”

Milo lifts an eyebrow. He takes a long sip of his drink, which is one small step away from a milkshake, then says, “Fine.”

“How’s your grandmother?”

“Fine,” he says again. He sighs. “Not really drivin’ anymore, but pretty much the same otherwise.”

“Bet she hates that. You go out there much?”

“Every Sunday,” Milo says around his straw.

“Oh.” His thoughtful little frown disappears behind his cup as he takes a sip.

Stalling, a forgotten corner of Milo’s brain provides. He wants to cut to the point — to get this over with — but Milo can’t get the words out. Instead, a question escapes when he opens his mouth. “What’re you doin’ in Birmingham? Figured you’d be in some fancy big city.”

“Oh,” Remington says again, surprise coloring his tone. Clearly, he didn’t expect the question any more than Milo did. “I got a job at the federal court. Money’s not the best, but the opportunity was… I want a seat on the bench. If I can get it before I’m thirty-five, that’d be cool, but it’ll depend on a lot.”

“A judge?” Milo snorts a laugh.

Remington shrugs, self-conscious. “What about you? What’re you up to?”

“Not much.” He doesn’t realize until it’s too late, but he’s echoed Remington’s shrug. It’s not that he’s ashamed of what he’s doing, or even that he thinks it’s less impressive or anything, but he knows who he’s sitting across from. “Waiting for a full-time librarian spot to open up. ‘M there part-time and at this mechanic’s shop the rest of it because the money’s good.”

Of course, what Remington says is, “Oh.”

Despite knowing logically that he doesn’t owe Remington any justification, Milo feels compelled to offer one for his own sake. He finds himself scratching absently at the place he knows a scar to be as he explains, “Payin’ off surgery still.”

“Oh,” Remington says again. “Uh, congrats. When did that happen?”

“’Round a year and a half ago.” He shrugs.

Remington nods, his expression going distant in a way Milo recognizes. As much as he tells himself he doesn’t, Milo finds himself wishing once again that he could see the way the gears turn in Remington’s head — see his thought process laid bare. Maybe then it would make some kind of sense. The silence stretches and that urge only grows to fill the space. Once Remington finally does speak, it snaps like a rubber band.

“You want to get out of here?”

For a few seconds, Milo can only stare at him. He keeps his tone carefully flat when he asks, “Why would I want to do that?”

“So we can talk? Somewhere a little less… public?”

“Yeah, there it is. Always more worried about what a stranger might say,” Milo says coldly.

“Is that what you think?”

Milo shrugs. “Is it not? I mean Jesus Christ, dude, you’re like a whole other person in private. So yeah, I think back then you kept me quarantined to the apartment and like, club bathrooms, so you could pretend you were something you’re not and you’re still trying to do it now.”

“Because then it would have been real,” Remington murmurs, so quiet Milo probably would’ve missed it entirely if he hadn’t seen Remington’s mouth move.

“What?”

“I couldn’t because if that was, then all of it would’ve been. It would’ve meant the way I felt about you was real, and—”

“Well thank the fuckin’ lord the way you felt about me wasn’t real. Don’t know how I’d possibly go on if it was,” Milo spits.

Remington exhales slowly; he looks wounded and fragile, the same way he did when he caught Milo outside of the bar. His voice is soft and on the verge of cracking when he says, “Don’t do that.”

“What, you think you have exclusive rights to being an angry asshole? Hate to be the one to tell you this, princess, but daddy doesn’t own that yet. Maybe you’ll have to use the money you make at your fancy big-boy job and get it for yourself.”

“Milo—”

“Richard.”

Remington sighs and lets his head tip back to rest against the chair, eyes on the ceiling.

“Was there actually a point to all of this, or are we done here? I have to be at work early.”

“I miss you, you fucking dick,” Remington says without looking at him.

“No, you’re Dick. I’m Milo,” he says before he can stop himself. It means he gets to — has to — watch Remington shatter in real-time.

All long legs, Remington stands. Looks at him. Opens his mouth like he’s going to say something, his eyes visibly damp, then just shakes his head. He looks too fucking pretty like that, but it also makes Milo feel bad because unfortunately, unlike Remington, he has a conscience.

So he says, “Wait.”

“Why, so people can stare a little more? This is why I asked if we could leave, by the way.”

“That’s probably because you’re standing there like a fuckin’ freak and you look like an underwear model.”

With an audible huff, Remington shakes his head again and sits, on the arm of the chair instead of in the seat this time.

“So what?” Milo says. “You miss me? What am I supposed to do with that? Because it sounds like you’re still trying to one-up the rest of your family and you still haven’t even fuckin’ come out so I still don’t get what any of this has to do with me. I mean, it’s been like, two and a half years—”

“Yeah, and the entire time I’ve regretted letting you walk away. I don’t know what I expect you to do with that. I really don’t. In whatever fantasy world do I know what I wish would happen? Sure. But as you’ve pointed out, we don’t live in that one. We still live in the one where I’m trying to land a spot on the bench before I’m thirty-five, in the state of Alabama. So no, Milo, I don’t have all the answers and even if I did, you’d argue with every single one of them. I just— I saw you, and I knew if I didn’t try I was gonna regret it for the rest of my life.”

And Milo especially doesn’t know what to do with that.

“Please. I know I’m not perfect, but I’m not the same guy I was back then, either.”

“Yeah, see, it may not look like it, but I fell off the turnip truck at least a week ago,” Milo shoots back.

“I don’t expect you to just believe me, even if you weren’t… you. But let me show you. Please.”

“And what if I don’t wanna stop living my life while you try to prove it, huh?”

“What does that even mean, Milo?”

“What does it sound like it means, Richard? I already tried giving you a chance once and look where it got me. What if I don’t wanna drop all my eggs in your basket? If I don’t trust you’ve suddenly got enough sense to get yourself out of a paper bag?”

Remington looks at him, tired. “What, so you wanna see other people? That it? Fine.”

It isn’t fine. Milo knows there’s no way he actually means it. But Remington said it and Milo’s in a mood, so he mutters, “Wow thanks, real glad I have your permission, your honor.”

The effect is immediate; Remington’s jaw goes tight and his eyes go hard — all the confirmation Milo needs. He hasn’t changed, not that much, but he’s willing to lie to make Milo happy, which is… something. It’s interesting, at the very least.

A second later, Remington sighs and deflates like he’s too tired to put up more of a fight. He says, “I probably deserve that. But I’m still asking for a chance. Just a chance.”

Despite knowing better, Milo finds himself considering it, and before he can say no, Remington opens his mouth again.

“My schedule’s still a mess during the week. I’ll be upfront about that right now. So like, unless your feelings about eating takeout at eight thirty’ve changed, you’re probably still gonna be annoyed with me then. On the weekends, I’m usually pretty alright, though. If you wanted to… I dunno, get breakfast or something on Saturday. Since I’m assuming you’re probably goin’ out to see your grandmother again on Sunday?”

Milo nods. “She doesn’t like driving anymore. And she’s got a washer ‘n’ dryer,” he says, half to watch the predictable way Remington frowns.

Remington surprises him once again, though, by saying, “I’m sure she’s glad to have you there,” a disgustingly soft little smile replacing the downturned corners of his mouth.

Which means Milo finds himself saying, “Ok.”

***

By the time Friday rolls around, Milo is ready to crawl out of his skin waiting for something to happen. Something more than the normal, reasonable sporadic text messages — casual conversation, or at least attempts at it, that stop without warning but pick back up with just as little fanfare, adapting to the ebb and flow of their individual lives with an ease that makes Milo angry for reasons he can’t even begin to explain.

It’s that irritation, that expectation of something that has yet to occur, that makes Milo go out Friday night. He stops by his apartment first to eat and change, burning some time before he makes his way to the bar.

He spends the entire drive and several minutes in the parking lot trying to convince himself that he wants to be here, instead of at home in bed. If the stars align and he finds another guy like his nameless traveler from last time, sure, he might. But that feels as likely as the situation with Remington not being a setup for disappointment.

That’s why he’s here, he reminds himself. He’s here because he can be. Because it doesn’t mean anything that he’s talking to Remington again, he just needs a valid reason to tell him no. That he’s moved on.

He has, a few times. None of them lasted, but that had with Remington. As any sort of metric for comparison, Milo’s not-relationship with Remington Abernathy was hardly a high bar. That no one else has managed to meet it speaks to the available options more than anything. And Milo knows some of it’s him — he knows who and what he is, and what he isn’t. Patience, waiting for things to develop, isn’t one of his strong points.

Milo just doesn’t see what the point is if he has to grit his teeth from the beginning for one reason or another. At least with Remington, the beginning was good. Really good.

The bar is emptier than he’d hoped. A couple of older guys that are a walking game of reaction Russian roulette as far as Milo’s concerned. A fucking bachelorette party that does him less than no good. The dance floor has a few people, but he’s not sure there’s enough alcohol in the world to get him out there tonight. Maybe if he already had someone, but not as an instigation point.

He claims a stool and orders a drink, trying to feign interest he can’t quite muster. His mind wanders through his previous visits; a few of them have been successful and plenty of them fun, at least. Of course, tonight would be the exception.

Milo’s phone vibrates in his pocket. He shifts on the stool and pulls it out, half-hoping he might be lucky and it might be Grindr. Instead, his notifications show an unread text message. Jaw tight, he shoves his phone back into his pocket. There’s only one person that would be texting him this late, and it’s not anyone he wants to talk to.

He’s not going to open it. He’s not going to read it. He’s not going to give Remington the satisfaction of this, too. Not when it’s his fault Milo’s out tonight.

Instead, he shoves his empty cup aside and gets up to piss, telling himself that when he comes back out, he’ll make an effort. That something will change.

On the way out, he digs his phone out of his pocket, brain operating on faulty autopilot as he taps the wrong app, his messages opening instead of a queue of potential options that aren’t Remington. Milo stops in the dark hallway and stares at the screen for a moment, not quite sure what he’s looking at.

Well, more accurately, why — what the words in the attached Tumblr post are supposed to mean. He frowns, thoughts splitting off in too many directions. Before he can put the phone away like he means to, another message appears.

(251) 555-5555 > Hope you have a good night. See you in the morning

That opens up an entirely new line of possibilities. Everything from asking what the fuck the last message went, now that he’s broken his own rule and read it, to a fucking dick pic to just telling Remington to come out; all of them are bad options, he knows. But somehow, they all feel safer than something more benign.

Milo swallows at the sudden unwelcome clarity. He opens the image in the first message again, staring at it for another long, hard minute.

the king cobra isn’t a cobra, the electric eel isn’t an eel, and it turns out my anger was just fear all along.

His eyes close as Remington’s comment about things being real echoes unbidden in his mind. If he strips away the source of his anger — the surety that Remington never cared about him the same way — Milo isn’t sure where that leaves him. Leaves them. He doesn’t believe it, exactly, but even the question of it shakes him to his core.

For a moment, his thumb hovers over the keyboard before he types out:

> 6am?

(251) 555-5555 > 😭

Milo laughs, alone in the dead zone between the bar and the bathrooms.

(251) 555-5555 > If you’re serious, I’ll be there.

> Fuck no. I get one day a week if I’m lucky. 9s pushing it

There’s a delay while he waits for Remington to reply, Milo’s eyes glued to the screen in a way he can’t help.

(251) 555-5555 > We can do lunch instead

Milo considers it. A second offer of flexibility, of accommodation, in the same conversation. A third, if he counts the coffee thing. It’s weird.

> Nah, it’s fine. I’m up by then anyways. Wearing pants is a different story, though

He sends the message before he can think better of it, and instead of returning to the bar, he leaves. His phone vibrates again on the short drive home, but he makes himself wait until he’s inside to check it. Makes Remington wait.

(251) 555-5555 > I’m not sure how I’m supposed to respond to that

Milo huffs. He isn’t either. Doesn’t know what he expected. If there even is one he would’ve been happy about. It’s part of why he always hated it when Remington was gone. Sure, Remington is a force of nature face to face when he wants to be, but at least in person he always says something. Without that forced human side, he’s inaccessible. Cold, almost.

That’s where the problem came in. There were two options. Remington was there — where Milo could touch him, could make him be real — or he was untouchable as the stars, no in-between or warning.

Milo isn’t sure what Remington is now, but it’s late enough that nothing good’s going to come from more talking. He’s sure as shit not going to understand something in a night that he hasn’t been able to figure out in however many years. Still, it takes another minute of staring at Remington’s last text before he can make himself shut it down.

> Go to sleep. I’m about to pass out.

Then, just to make sure he doesn’t do anything else, Milo tosses his phone onto the bed and goes to stand under the showerhead until the water runs cold.

***

Whatever psychological warfare Remington’s been waging, Milo is losing. He doesn’t even realize it until it’s too late. They’re halfway through their food, somehow, when an unthinking joke about Remington being a slut for bread slips out of his mouth.

Without missing a beat or even looking up, Remington huffs a quiet laugh and says, “Suck my dick. Bread’s never disappointed me.”

And just like that, the tide turns, but Milo’s pretty sure it’s not in anyone’s favor. He suddenly can’t tell if he wants the levity back or to dig the knife in deeper, even knowing that if he’s not already bleeding, he will be soon. The quiet stretches a bit too long, and of course, their server can’t choose this moment to spawn and save them from the sudden, suffocating tension, so they’re on their own.

Remington looks up. It’s plain on his face that he’s realized it too, and now he’s waiting for Milo to make the next move — to return the joke or shoot him down.

Anger wins out, far more present, more solid, than whatever fleeting positive feeling he’d had. “Yeah well then maybe you should see if bread can suck your dick.”

There’s some sick satisfaction in watching Remington stiffen at his words. The way his chewing slows, then stops. The pause before he manages to swallow.

“It’d be a match made in heaven, come to think of it, since you can just come right out and say how you feel about it in public. Must be nice, not havin’ to deal with you being ashamed of it or lyin’ about it to your parents or never reciprocating a single goddamn thing,” Milo continues, blood boiling now.

Across from him, Remington looks stricken, pale except for the violent bloom of red across his cheeks and the tops of his ears. Milo isn’t sure if it’s anger or something else. He doesn’t care.

He says, “What, did it never occur to you that you’re another self-centered fucking asshole in a whole line of them?”

Slowly, Remington seems to unstick himself enough to speak. “I didn’t realize—”

Both of Milo’s eyebrows shoot up, the challenge readying itself on his tongue.

Remington holds up both hands, retreating against his side of the booth. “I knew I was, and that you were pissed at me, but I didn’t realize just how much. Definitely not before it was too late. I mean like, you met my family. How was I supposed to ask you to spend more time around them? Other’n Ellis, they don’t—”

He shakes his head, expression going distant. There’s something else there that he isn’t saying, but Milo doesn’t care to press that now.

“There’re people in the world whose last name’s not Abernathy,” Milo points out. “Y’know, normal people introduce the person they’re dating to their friends. Spend time with ‘em in public.”

“Yeah.”

“Oh good, so you know, and just didn’t give a shit how it felt to be on the other end of it.”

“Milo—” he protests quietly.

“No. You wanted this. Begged for it, even. So now you get to tell me why you think you get to treat me like some shameful inconvenience then get a fresh do-over because wow, who’d guess, you’re bored and lonely years down the line because you’re a selfish dick who never wants to put any effort in or give a shit.”

Remington sighs and shoves his hair back. “Look, y’know what, Milo? I’m not gonna defend myself and say that I didn’t do anything wrong, because clearly I did more than I knew and I’m sorry. But you wanna maybe take into account the fact that you’re the most difficult, stubborn, proud pain in the ass to ever walk the earth? You say I didn’t put any effort in? Maybe that’s because every time I tried, you bristled like a stray cat and insisted you had it. That you were fine. And don’t you dare say I didn’t care. Every ounce of free time I had was yours and you’re the one who walked out when things were exactly how I said they were gonna be.”

“Yeah, the way you said,” Milo starts before Remington’s even gotten the last syllable out. “Your apartment, your life that I was just another little object in, even though I still can’t figure out why for the life of me. I mean I genuinely don’t know if you were ever even attracted to me. Like, did you even actually like me?”

Remington’s blue eyes are hard when he says, “Dude what planet are you even on? You were the one good thing happening in my life and I chased that every chance I got. Why would I have kept fucking you if I didn’t want it?”

“Well you never really like, tried to get me off or anything.”

“Yeah, because you pushed me away and told me not to worry about it and I figured with everything else, y’know, physically—” he gestures vaguely at Milo, “—that it was better not to push and make things worse! If not for that, yeah, obviously I would have. Do you know how good of a distraction that would’ve been?”

Milo feels his expression go flat, a new kind of anger sparking in him.

“Not that you were a distraction, but— Milo, I was going to pieces back then. You were like, a life raft and a dream all at once. The only thing keeping me at all sane and way, way too good to be true. But as much as anything, I always wanted you to be happy. That’s why when you left, I just…” he sighs, tired and sad.

Somehow, the unexpected genuineness of it makes Milo want to fix it. “You could’ve asked,” he says weakly.

“Yeah, I know that now, but I didn’t know how to talk about any of it back then and I’m sorry, Milo.”

Milo sits there for a minute, just breathing.

“I know I did, and I can’t take that back, but I promise I didn’t ever mean to hurt you. I may not have understood it at the time, much less knew what to do with it, but I—” his jaw snaps shut, and he shakes his head. “Never mind. Not the time. I got a cat.”

“You what?”

“Got a cat…?” Remington replies, his tone creeping up uncertainly at the end.

Milo glares at him. “Not what I meant, and you know it. Before you changed the subject you were gonna say something else. And don’t fuckin’ try to lawyer me.”

Remington sighs. “Yeah. And I’ll tell you sooner or later, but now’s not…”

“What’s the cat’s name?” Milo asks, suddenly curious as to why Remington chose that as his distraction.

Across the table, Remington makes a face. “Well, now I feel like that’s gonna get me in trouble too.”

“Why…?” he asks suspiciously.

He watches as Remington picks up his phone, tapping quickly through a few photos, then turns it around after a second so Milo can see the screen. It looks like a bobcat and a Siamese had a baby — not that he’s sure if that’s genetically possible — all paws, no tail, stretched out on its back on what looks like sheets and staring at the phone like it’s posing.

“Ok, it’s kinda cute.”

“Yeah,” Remington agrees shyly.

“Hang on, how many toes is a cat supposed to have?” He leans in to get a better look at the closest paw, counting what looks like seven.

“Uh, five if you count the dew claws? At least on the front. He’s got too many. That’s why he got sent to the rescue, which then named him Mr. Fingers.”

Milo scowls. “Tell me you didn’t keep that before I have to call animal control.”

“No,” Remington laughs. “No, I uh— His name’s Nelson.”

Over the next second, Milo is pretty sure he experiences every emotion known to man and then some. “Your cat’s name is Nelson.”

“Yeah,” Remington says softly.

That’s more than Milo can handle, especially on top of everything else.

“I uh— You’re gonna have to give me a minute.” He leaves his keys and wallet on the table in his hurried retreat to the restroom.

By some small miracle, it’s empty. At least, until the door opens and Remington walks in.

“I told you to—”

Remington holds up his hands defensively. “Give you a minute. Yeah, but I didn’t think you’d be in here because I know you’re not big on public bathrooms, but I have to pee, and I figured I’d go while you were up.”

“My keys and wallet are—” Milo starts to snap, already moving for the door.

Remington pulls them out of his pocket, his expression wounded.

“So you didn’t follow me in here on purpose, but you did take my keys and wallet.”

He sighs. “So you wouldn’t freak out about someone taking them, yeah.”

“And you named your cat after me.”

Remington’s throat bobs visibly as he swallows. “Yeah.”

“Why?”

They’re too close. Maybe the closest they’ve been without something between them since before they split.

Since before Milo left.

“You know why,” Remington breathes.

Annoyance flares in Milo once again; it must show on his face because Remington sighs, crumpling in on himself in a way that just brings their faces closer together. He doesn’t meet Milo’s eyes as he says, “I don’t know that I had any real clue until it was too late, and I definitely didn’t know what to do about it, but I loved you and you were gone.”

The hole in his chest that Milo’s told himself healed up rips open again, edges jagged around everything that’s happened and everything that keeps happening. Loved.

By the time Milo’s brain catches up to the fact that he’s not supposed to be kissing Remington Abernathy in the bathroom, he’s got one hand in his hair and the other on his jaw and very, very much does not want to stop. Once he musters the willpower to tighten his grip and stop Remington short when he tries to chase Milo’s lips, he almost loses it at the resulting whine.

He clears his throat, and before he can stop himself asks, “Past tense?”

“I’m pretty sure I still do,” Remington replies, blue eyes fixed on his and his voice rough.

“And I’m pretty sure our waitress is gonna think we left her.”

“I told her I was gonna be right back.”

“And how long ago was that?” Milo asks, right under the sharp line of Remington’s jaw. He takes a slow breath that does little to successfully calm him down, then lets go. Remington doesn’t. His fingers tighten in the back of Milo’s shirt as he ducks to bury his face in the juncture of Milo’s neck and shoulder.

“God, I missed you,” Remington groans, sounding every ounce like a prayer for the way he never says it in any other context.

Milo can’t say it back. Can’t say any of it — he’s already given up too much. But despite all of his intentions, his arms wrap around Remington’s ribcage, the feeling of it still so goddamn familiar it’s like the past two years never happened.

He says, “C’mon, I wanna actually eat my food,” although he doesn’t move until Remington does.

After that, the tone shifts, of course. Milo tries to regain some distance, but the ground’s been lost entirely so his disapproving look just gets a shy little smile when Remington’s knee bumps his under the table and stays there. When one long pointer finger curls around the end of Milo’s pinkie for the briefest second when they both reach for the bill.

Once they’re outside instead of tucked away in a corner, however, that shy daring shifts into something far more uncertain and anxious. Like Remington can no longer act on what he wants now that anyone might see them, never mind that anyone could’ve before. And Milo’s impulse is still to be angry, but unfortunately, he’s only human. He wants to know what it is that Remington wants to do, so he says, “C’mere,” and turns toward where his truck is parked in the lot around the corner.

He opens the driver’s side door and nods for Remington to sit, caging him in before he can turn away and kissing the confused look off of his stupid, perfect face. It’s almost definitely a mistake, but not doing it would be worse. Milo can draw a line here.

Except as he goes to pull away, Milo tugs at Remington’s bottom lip with his teeth, which proves to be another misstep. Remington lets out another desperate little whine and pulls Milo fully flush up against him which makes Milo need more than he can have.

So when they finally have to part for air, he puts space between them. Takes in the sight of Remington’s perfect fucking mouth and his flushed cheeks without touching him and reminds himself that there’s a reason he left and a lot of fixing to do before he can act like it never happened.

This is the line. He’s not giving up anything else. Not yet. Not after Remington let him walk away and stay gone, no matter how badly he wants it.

“You’re uh— you’re kinda in my seat,” he says, tone teasing.

“What, you put me here and now you’re kickin’ me out?” The low rumble of Remington’s words turns into a pleased hum when Milo leans in to kiss him one more time.

“I gotta go. Things to do before tomorrow.”

Remington hums another acknowledgment then nods. “You’re not gonna disappear on me again though, right?”

He sounds so genuinely worried that it takes everything Milo has to not pull them even tighter together. To not climb on top of him so he can block out everything else in the world.

Milo opens his mouth to joke about the fact that he clearly didn’t succeed before, then closes it again. He can’t. “No. Not unless you give me a reason to.”

Remington shakes his head slightly, their noses bumping against each other.

“Mmkay. Then I guess this is just an until later kind of thing.”

***

It starts with a picture of the cat as he’s dumping his first load into the washer. Milo smiles, as much reflex as anything; the cat is cute, with his excess of little pink toes, and as tightly framed as the picture is, Milo can see a few hints of Remington at the edges. A strip of pajama pants, the edge of a familiar, freckled forearm.

Then, Milo remembers. You know why.

Milo slams the washer lid.

“Everything alright in there?” his grandmother calls, her tone pointedly disapproving.

“You wanna worry about gettin’ yourself ready? You’re gonna be late for church.”

He knows it was the wrong thing to say even before she appears in the doorway, one white eyebrow arched dangerously.

Milo sighs. “Sorry. Long week.”

“Hm.”

He doesn’t respond until after he’s dropped her off, but then he can’t stop. He does other things too, of course: he picks up around his grandmother’s house; dusts because he knows she hates doing it; adds to her grocery list because he knows there are things she forgot. Milo gets caught up in all of it — in juggling his normal rhythm with the flow of conversation — to the point that he’s almost late to pick his grandmother up.

Almost.

“What’re you so tied up in over there?” his grandmother asks.

Milo looks up from his phone, the shelves of cereal and baking mixes on either side of him familiar only for the number of times he’s been here. The buggy is full, but he has no real memory of putting anything in it, even though he’s the one who’s presumably been pushing it the whole time, his elbows propped on the handle. This time, he can’t say nothing, either. Not without it being an outright lie.

So he says, “Sorry. How was church?”

That distracts her for a while, or at least gets him out of talking about whatever is going on with Remington. Nothing. That’s nothing. He just happened to get distracted, and now that he’s aware of the problem, Milo can take steps to mitigate it.

It’s easier said than done. He manages to make it through the rest of that Sunday without his grandmother calling him out again, but it’s harder once he’s home. Once he’s home, there’s nothing but Milo and the quiet of his apartment. Normally, that’s how he likes it, but now it’s a problem.

Especially when, Monday night, Remington asks the question that Milo knows is going to be a problem.

Remington > It wasn’t all bad, right?

He lays in bed, thinking about it for too long. The question feels like a loaded gun, any answer he may give a game of Russian roulette.

> No

That doesn’t feel like enough, so Milo types out a second message.

> It wasn’t

Thinking about that feels unfathomably dangerous. No longer Russian roulette, but something riskier, even if he only allows himself to consider the recent past. Doubly so if he thinks about how breakfast ended — not just because he’d ended up making out with Remington in both the bathroom and his truck like they were teenagers, either. The unexpected honesty had been disarming. Still is, as much as Milo hates to admit it.

Almost as surprising, Remington doesn’t press the matter. Not that night, or in the days that follow. Rather than allowing Milo to forget about it, however, it means it’s always lurking in the back of his mind, the question sifting through memories like he’s panning for gold, any particularly shiny moments replaying in his head no matter how inopportune the timing may be.

It’s worst is at night, when there’s nothing left between his bones but tired frustration. Then, the shiny parts are even brighter, the memories of particular moments past more likely to work their way to the surface. Lying in bed, alone, Remington’s comment about only not doing more because he’d thought Milo didn’t want to tangling with the taste of his mouth and the more distant ghost of the rest of him.

The memory may be foggy, but he can imagine it if he tries. Even when Milo didn’t get off, it’s not like the sex was bad, and there was plenty of it. If nothing else, the combination of the stretch and Remington’s absurd stamina left him tired and sated in its own way.

Milo’s hips shift against nothing, the blankets hardly enough weight for real friction, and a far cry from a good fuck. It’s been too long. That’s all it is. He hasn’t gotten laid since the guy in the hotel room and that was… a year ago, give or take, not that it’s been a year for sleeping with strangers. Doesn’t mean he’s gonna fuck Remington Abernathy again though, no matter how big his dick is, or that he knows exactly where to sink his teeth into the back of Milo’s shoulder to make him go boneless.

He breathes a fuck as he reaches for the drawer of his nightstand, shoving his underwear down with one hand as the other closes around the bottle of lube. Then, it’s one hand balancing his phone where he can see it, the other on his cock — a scenario that’s just as familiar and has a much higher success rate than anyone else does, including Remington.

Speak of the devil, he thinks as a notification drops across the top of his screen. Milo ignores it successfully, then he doesn’t. His fingers keep moving, the video still playing in the background as he switches to his messages.

Remington > Thought you’d like it

It takes a few seconds for Milo’s brain to process the words in context, his eyes skimming over the conversation. Remington had sent him a link to something or other. Several, technically, throughout the day. He taps the one in question again and laughs again at the post that loads. That makes him clench around his fingers, the feeling of it turning whatever rhythm he’d found into a frantic grind.

For a moment, Milo thinks about doing something stupid. Texting back that he’d like something else more, or worse. A picture, his address. Tapping either of the little icons in the top corner that would get him a reaction in real-time.

> You might’ve been right. Don’t let it go to your head though.

He switches back to the video in his browser, the slap of skin on skin loud through his phone’s speakers. It’s background noise, no longer a viable alternative to Milo’s memories. Not when Remington texts him again, then again — likely entirely unaware of what Milo’s doing, but maybe, possibly, doing the same thing. The mental image of Remington’s long fingers around his cock, skin flushed red all the way down his chest, is what tips Milo over the edge.

After, he just lies there, phone silent once again as he stares at his messages and waits for his pulse to slow. He types out half a response and deletes it, returning his phone to his nightstand. Just because he came harder than he has in recent memory doesn’t mean Remington had anything to do with it. Milo feels a little bit better, though, and he falls asleep seconds after the screen goes dark.

They make it to Wednesday before Remington asks when he gets to see Milo again, and all the way to Friday before he cancels. Reschedules. Work, he’s sorry, he’ll make it up to him. Milo orders pizza and spends the rest of the weekend ignoring his phone. It’s not like he doesn’t have other things to do, other people to talk to, no matter how scattered across the globe they are. Sunday, he goes to see his grandmother like usual. Her eyes bore holes in him the whole day, but she keeps her thoughts to herself. Only a matter of time, he knows — either he has to get rid of Remington fast, or she’s gonna find out and then he’ll really never hear the end of it.

That night, he texts Remington back, the fingers of his other hand still sticky and damp. No apology, no excuse. Just a regular response like this isn’t the longest he’s gone since they started talking again.

Immediately, a reply appears.

Remington > Saturday?

A second message with a link follows immediately, then a third with an explanation that he got tickets — presumably for whatever the link redirects to — from someone at work and that they could get dinner if Milo wants.

Milo swallows. That sounds like a date, and he doesn’t know if he wants anything along those lines. They were supposed to get dinner, just dinner, somewhere casual, this last Friday, and that might’ve been manageable. But a date? Something undeniably a date, with Remington?

To buy himself time, even though he should be going to sleep, Milo taps the link. It’s some sort of stand-up night featuring a touring comedian Milo’s never heard of — not exactly the kind of thing he seeks out, much less expects from Remington. The problem is that that alone makes him curious.

> Only if we get tacos. And you’re not picking me up.

Remington > You drive a hard bargain, but ok

Milo smiles to himself and puts his phone away. He isn’t sure what the victory means — isn’t sure what any of this with Remington means — but for all that he’s sure it’s going to end the same way it did last time, a part of him wants to let it just so he can be right.

Part Three:

Something Else

He should know better, he thinks.

Remington carries the conversation on the way to the restaurant which Milo is grateful for, silently. He can’t handle that and driving and trying to force down the strange, irrational anxiety that’s flooded his body all at once. So he contributes an occasional mhmm or other vague acknowledgment and lets the familiar deep drawl of Remington’s voice work its weird magic on him.

By the time they get to the restaurant, it’s a little better, and once he has food and alcohol in front of him, the tension finally bleeds out of him more appreciably. He can at least breathe around it and settle into the ebb and flow of dinner table conversation. Remington’s good at that; it reminds him of the very beginning, years ago. That’s what got him the first time, and it’s just as easy now.

About the same time that he realizes it’s too easy — right around the same time their server brings back the separate checks Milo’d been the one to request — he realizes he’s waiting for the other shoe to drop.

Under the table, Remington bumps the toe of one expensive shoe against Milo’s ankle. He says, “Hey,” in that tone that tells Milo his face has betrayed him somehow.

“Hm?” Milo hums, reaching for his drink to buy himself some kind of time.

“You still wanna go to the thing after or no?”

He swallows. The alcohol does nothing for his nerves. Or at least, not enough to make up for what the heavy, cool weight of Remington’s gaze does to him. That’s what’s got him all fucked up; the entire time, he doesn’t think Remington’s looked anywhere else. He’d forgotten what that felt like, having all of the attention of someone who has just about anything they could ever want.

Milo forces his throat to work, his jaw to unclench. “Sure. If you do.”

Good-natured and fond, Remington rolls his eyes. “You can’t just give a straight answer, can you?”

“You really wanna start that one?” Milo asks, smiling.

It makes Remington’s cheeks flush the slightest shade of pink, his gaze dropping to the stretch of table between them for just a moment. Milo watches as his eyes narrow like he’s calculating something, then he looks back up.

“Finish your drink,” he says with a nod toward Milo’s hand, still curled around the heavy bottom of the tumbler. Remington drains the last of his own, exposing the long line of his throat in the process. Only once the glass returns to the table does Milo seem to be able to unstick himself, heat flooding his veins as Remington catches him staring and only lifts an eyebrow in response.

Milo tosses back the last watery remains of his whiskey sour and scoops up his belongings in one blessedly smooth motion. He stretches as he gets to his feet, and says, “Well, c’mon, then.”

With another exasperated-but-fond little eye roll that Milo doesn’t know how to feel about, Remington stands and pulls on his coat. “You know where we’re goin’?”

“No, but that’s what I have a phone for.”

The soft huff of Remington’s laugh is a familiar sound behind him, and for a moment, Milo finds himself wanting to lean back into it. To see how far the ease would carry him — if Remington would hook an arm around his waist or something before concern about appearances caught up with him. He keeps walking.

“You in a hurry all of a sudden?” Remington asks once they’re outside.

Milo pauses for the single long stride it takes Remington to fall in beside him. Their shoulders brush every couple of steps. Fleeting, unintentional contact that could be overlooked by anyone who might see them. But it’s just enough that when they reach the truck and Remington’s hand drags across the small of Milo’s back on his way to the passenger side, the touch registers differently. More. The look Remington gives him across the safe distance of the hood is a heated, heavy thing, and suddenly Milo can’t decide if the comedy show is a great plan or a terrible one.

He knows as he turns the key in the ignition that he wishes he had a bigger truck; that the little cab is too small for them — for this — right now. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see the faint, smug curve of Remington’s mouth. Of course the motherfucker knows what he’s doing.

Milo takes a breath to compose himself as he pulls up the directions, the instructions to turn right ahead the only noise other than the heat for the short duration of the drive. When they park behind the comedy club, Remington gives him another inscrutable smile before he gets out, and Milo wonders if this is how a fish feels when it’s hooked. He has just as much control over the situation as Remington does, though, and just because he’s not immune to the man’s charm doesn’t mean he has to be an idiot about it.

They sit, and Milo keeps his replies brief. Noncommittal. Controlled. Then, the lights in the audience go dark as the emcee takes the stage. Remington shifts in his seat like he’s getting comfortable, but when he goes still again, there’s no space between them. Milo can’t breathe. Can’t even turn his head to glare a warning because Remington’s got his chin propped in his hand, the armrest between them the only interruption from shoulder to knee.

Milo wants to scream. He doesn’t, though, and gradually the heat of Remington pressed against him fades to something tolerable. The opener is very obviously new, the timing off and the delivery stilted, and Milo couldn’t be more grateful for the reprieve it provides from the charged discomfort of Remington Abernathy glued to his side and untouchable all at once.

In the polite applause that ushers the first act away from the mic, Remington leans in even closer and asks, “You ok?” right in Milo’s ear.

He nods, eyes still trained on the stage.

“You sure? You seem tense.”

This time, Milo risks giving Remington a look. He’s met with the practiced innocence of guys who spent more time in church growing up than he did and can’t help the humorless huffed laugh that forces out of him. All the time Remington spent there either didn’t work at all or worked exactly as intended; Milo can’t decide which, but he also can’t help thinking that if it’d worked just a little bit better either way, he wouldn’t be dealing with this right now.

The next comedian takes the stage, saving Milo from a reply. This one is more practiced, but there’s something about him that makes Milo uneasy. Something off in his demeanor. It worsens as the guy works through some bit about his wife. His ex-wife. The punchline lands like a kick to the gut. Milo feels the moment it registers for Remington, right before Milo’s out of his chair and up the darkened stairs.

His feet carry him into one of the bathrooms, which are by some small miracle single-occupant. He locks the door and lets his shoulders drop against it. Takes a slow breath. It shouldn’t bother him. It’s not like it’s anything new, or even unexpected. In fact, this is exactly what he expected from a comedy show.

He should know better by now.

Maybe the other shoe didn’t drop due to something Remington did, but there’s no arguing it’s not in some small way a Remington problem. The ingrained conservative bullshit that made the joke funny to most of the room comes from the same source as all of Remington’s hangups that ruined things the last time. The same ones that Milo assumes still exist now.

Someone knocks on the door and Milo jumps.

“Just a minute,” he calls, forcing his voice into something even.

“It’s me.”

“Oh.” Milo exhales slowly and turns to open the door.

Remington slips in, closing the door behind him. “You alright?”

Milo nods. “We’ve uh— gotta stop meeting like this. People’re gonna talk.”

The look of concern on Remington’s face dissolves into the suddenly more tolerable amused exasperation. He pulls Milo in slowly, looping both arms around him with plenty of time for Milo to put a stop to it.

He doesn’t. Milo lets his forehead drop against Remington’s chest and his lungs fill with a mix of scents he only knows in one expensive combination. Somehow, it’s more comfortable than not, and what could be minutes or hours later, Milo realizes he’s relaxed into it. Remington’s fingers have found their way to the back of Milo’s head, scratching through his hair absently.

“You wanna get out of here?”

The question is low and close, a warm rumble that Milo feels as much as hears. He breathes a sigh as he processes the words; his mind feels like it’s a million places and nowhere all at once. Face still buried against Remington’s ribcage, he says, “What do you mean?”

“Out of the bathroom? Out of here completely?”

“And go where?”

Remington shrugs. “Back to my place?”

Milo fights a shiver. He knows that tone, and it works all too well. It takes all his willpower to say, “No.”

The hand at the back of his head drops as Remington pulls back, confused. Rather than making his retreat, however, Milo pushes onto his toes so his lips are even with Remington’s ear. “But you can come back to mine.”

When he pulls back, Remington’s pupils are wide, rings of stormy blue only the thinnest barrier between them and the whites of his eyes.

“Ok,” he says, just like that. No argument about getting home, or proximity, or anything else. Just two wrecked little syllables.

Milo isn’t sure how he’s supposed to resist that, so he doesn’t. He just adjusts the angle to let their lips brush. “I mean, only if you want to. Wouldn’t want to make you do anything you didn’t—”

A whine slips out of him as Remington closes the last tiny bit of distance, kissing him hungrily.

“It seem like I don’t want to?” he asks, voice rough.

“Seems like we need to go unless you’ve suddenly come around to fuckin’ in the bathroom.”

“Maybe I have.” Remi smiles against his lips. “But not what I had in mind for tonight.”

Milo groans a laugh and kisses him. He wants his hands and mouth on Remington now — wants to find out if he tastes the same way Milo remembers — but he doesn’t want to be here anymore. “Then take me home.”

“Yes sir.”

They get to the truck, and it finally seems to catch up to Remington that he didn’t drive, doesn’t know where Milo lives, and probably still can’t drive stick if Milo had to guess. Milo laughs again and nudges him toward the passenger side.

It’s another short drive, quiet and charged in a different way from earlier. He parks on the street in front of the old brick building, not thinking a single thing about it until Remington lets out a quiet huh.

“You got a problem with where I live?”

Remington opens the passenger door, looks over, and says, “No.”

With a soft huff of amused disbelief, Milo gets out. He’s not even crazy about where he lives, but it’s cheap and close to work and the property management hasn’t given him any real issues, so he stays. That Remington isn’t judging it, however, is well beyond what he can believe.

“Really?”

Still standing beside the passenger door, Remington looks at the old brick building, cast in the pale streetlight. Next to him, Milo tries to see it for the first time.

“Is it um— just you?” Remington asks.

The question catches Milo off guard, but annoyance follows.

Remington must sense it, because he quickly adds, “I just only see three doors, so it looks big. I didn’t know if you had a roommate or something.”

“It’s just me. And that’s part of why I still live here.”

“Still?”

Milo sucks in a breath. This isn’t what he’s supposed to be doing right now. “Yeah.”

Remi makes another vague, thoughtful noise and follows him to the building. As soon as the front door’s unlocked, Milo turns and pulls Remi inside by his belt. Backs him against it and kisses him like it’s his right.

“Thought I was supposed to be—” Remi’s words break on a whine when Milo’s lips relocate to his throat, the shuddery sounds of his breathing filling a couple of seconds before he manages to continue. “I thought I was making up for lost time?”

“Oh yeah?” Milo asks.

“Mhmm. Bed?”

He releases Remi from the door and herds him toward the bedroom, pressed to his back the whole way from a mix of impatience and some other greedy, possessive feeling. Doesn’t even let him go when they reach the bed, but Remi goes down easy, so Milo ends up folded over him in a novel reversal of their usual — former — positions. Even more interesting is the way Remi whines again and grinds back against him.

“Oh? Somethin’ else you want to tell me?”

Remi gets an arm braced, his back arching as he pushes himself up slightly. “You can. Almost positive I’ll like it if it’s you.”

“Hm, what’s that supposed to mean?” he asks, mouth dragging over Remi’s spine through his shirt.

“Kinda hit or miss. You’ll be shocked to learn that I have trouble relaxing, and when you pair that with the attitude of most of the guys that wanna fuck me, it doesn’t tend to make for the best time.” He shivers, then goes still beneath Milo except for the rise and fall of his breath. “I already know you have an attitude problem, though—”

Curious and impatient, Milo rocks against him. Sure enough, Remington cuts off with another choked sound.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbles against Remington’s shoulder blade. “You were sayin’ somethin’?”

“I was saying with you, I think I’m just—”

Milo does it again, harder this time, and once again, he gets a soft little noise. Those are new, too. He’s not sure if he wants to hate whoever managed that breakthrough or buy them a goddamn cookie cake, but the final result is one Milo likes more than a little.

“Fuck,” Remington groans. “Yeah, ok, with you I want just about anything and everything, all the damn time. Is that what you wanna hear?”

“Mm, well I don’t mind it. That how you’re plannin’ on making it up to me? Beggin’ for cock?”

Even that’s enough to make Remington shiver, his voice rough when he says, “If that’s what you want.”

Milo exhales slowly, reaching over to turn the lamp on while he thinks about it. He does, but not now. Not first, after so long. He shakes his head and levers himself up off of Remington’s back, although he does squeeze his ass for good measure. And so, so obligingly, Remington arches even further in invitation.

“You do look good like that, though.”

Remington looks back at him over his shoulder. “Glad you think so.”

He rolls his eyes to make up for the smile he doesn’t feel like fighting and pulls his shirt off.

“Oh fuck.” Remington apparently turned around in those couple of seconds, and his eyes drag entirely unsubtly down Milo’s chest; it would maybe be enough to make him self-conscious around anyone else, but the look on Remington’s face is unmistakable.

“Somethin’ you like?” Milo raises an eyebrow and reaches for his belt, but before he can undo it, Remington is up.

Remington hums an acknowledgment as his lips find Milo’s, then he says, “You say I look good, but have you seen yourself? I mean, you did before, but now it’s…” He leans back to stare, blue eyes hungry.

Milo does know, technically. He knows that he’s finally been on T long enough that he’s got more hair than he ever thought he’d be happy about, and between top surgery and the amount of time he spends at the gym when his work schedule is something more normal, he looks decent. So Milo is happy with where he is and how far he’s come, but hearing Remington say so — seeing the unmasked interest — is doing things to him that he doesn’t expect. The effect skyrockets when Remington sinks to his knees, lips and teeth trailing down Milo’s stomach to his belt buckle.

“I mean you never did seem like much of a tits guy,” Milo teases.

The puff of Remington’s laugh is warm on his skin. “I dunno, from this angle I might be about to change my mind.”

Milo laughs, pleasantly surprised at this new side of Remington. Or not even new, but one he hasn’t seen in so long. He pushes one hand into Remington’s hair and says, “Yeah, this view isn’t half bad either.”

With a wicked grin, Remington drops another kiss just below his belly button. “You’ll tell me if there’s anything you don’t want?” he asks, fingers hovering over the front of Milo’s jeans.

Mouth dry, Milo just nods.

Still isn’t prepared for Remington to press his entire face against his fly. Isn’t ready for the way it makes his knees go weak. If not for the hands on his thighs he’s pretty sure he’d at least stumble a little, but Remington holds him in place until he regains at least some higher brain function.

He loses it all a couple of seconds later when Remington gets his pants down and mouths at him through his underwear. And even if he can only feel distant pressure through the silicone, it’s hot. Milo has to bite back a frustrated sound when Remington pulls away suddenly. But before he can protest, Remington is steering Milo around and down onto the closest edge of the bed and stripping him down the rest of the way.

“Does this um, have a spot?” he asks, packer cupped in one hand.

“Ha, um. No? I dunno, nightstand’s fine I guess?”

Remington sets it down and settles between Milo’s legs. He trails kisses up the inside of one thigh, from knee to hip, blue eyes flicking up to Milo’s face before he moves even further inward. The first drag of his tongue is a hesitant, teasing thing, but even that’s enough to make Milo’s toes curl. If he tried, he could probably count the number of times Remi’s done this. That thought leaves his head as quickly as it enters, though, because this is nothing like the other times.

The first swipe might have been hesitant, but it was either the briefest warm-up or blatant misdirection because after that, Remington buries his face in Milo’s pussy. And it’s fucking good — like Remington’s been starved for it. Both thumbs spread him open further, making room for Remington to work down to his asshole before his lips find their way back up to his cock.

Remington’s had practice there in some definite, undeniable capacity. The enthusiasm Milo could write off as interest, desperation, but this is something closer to experience. Milo can’t say he has complaints.

He comes hard, and quicker than he expected, pulsing against the flat of Remington’s tongue. “Jesus Christ,” he groans. “The fuck was that?”

When he opens an eye, Remington is smirking at him like the cat that got the canary. “I mean, I can probably do it again if that wasn’t good enough. Seemed like you were into it, though.”

He ducks forward again, lips hovering just above Milo’s skin and his eyes teasing. Milo stops him with a fist in his hair.

“Only if you’re trying to kill me. Fuck, you’ve at least gotta give me a minute. Then you can…” He trails off, releasing his handful of hair before carding his fingers back through it.

Remington hums a vague acknowledgment and kisses his thigh before he pushes himself off of the floor.

“I um—” Milo smothers a yawn. He works his way down Remington’s buttons on autopilot in a subconscious quest for skin.

“Milo,” Remington says, voice low and so, so close again, now that he’s bent over the bed with one arm planted by Milo’s head. He’s just tall enough that they’re not pressed together fully, though. Milo has to imagine the weight of his cock instead of feeling it, even trapped behind a zipper.

“Hm?” He cranes up and exhales a satisfied sigh when Remington drops the necessary inch for their lips to meet, then licks the taste of himself from Remington’s mouth. The rest of the space closes as Remington’s weight drops, but instead of feeling trapped by it, it’s like something slots back into place.

“Do you want to?” Remington asks when the kiss breaks.

Milo lets out a slow breath, one hand dipping under Remington’s undershirt to spread across his waist. “I mean, I don’t know if I’ll be able to get off again any time soon, but I wouldn’t mind. I can at least suck your—”

“Some other time.”

Confused, he frowns. He can feel the hard line of Remington’s cock now. Can feel the hammer of his pulse beneath his fingers. “What, too good to put out on the first date now?”

Remington rolls his eyes, laughs, and says, “Y’know, someone told me I was a selfish asshole once. So I’m trying to work on it.”

Milo huffs a laugh. He kisses Remington again, this time hungry and seeking in an entirely different way, and lets his hands drop to the front of Remington’s pants, muscle memory making quick work of his belt

“’S like you’re trying to start something,” Remi mumbles.

“Told you I won’t say no.” Milo’s knuckles brush down the length of Remington’s cock, the thin layer of his underwear doing nothing to disguise how it jumps at the touch; he shoves both pants and briefs down just far enough to get them out of the way and curls his fingers around it. Remington whines and bucks into his fist.

“That’s— a little more than not saying no. And I—” he cuts off with another choked sound as Milo moves his hand again. Just a single teasing stroke. “I want it to be—”

Milo cuts Remington off with a kiss, fucking into his mouth with his tongue as he slowly works Remington’s cock. He says, “If you don’t want to, just say so. It’s fine.”

“Does this—” Remington starts, thrusting into Milo’s fist, “—seem like I don’t want to?”

“Well no, but the amount of arguin’ you like to do makes me wonder.”

The kiss is wet, sloppy, and feels every bit as necessary as air between the talking. Probably, they should be doing more of that last part, but right now Milo wants this more and he’s pretty sure Remington is on the same page, especially once he starts another question that begins with where, before he gets distracted by Milo’s mouth again.

“Lemme…”

Remington groans and stands, giving Milo room to sit up. The lube is a quick find, tucked in the front corner in easy reach of the bed. He doesn’t even have to look, so he doesn’t, instead shoving Remington’s shirt up to mouth at the familiar planes of his stomach while he fumbles blindly in search of condoms.

Milo rucks Remington’s shirt up further for new real estate. His hand stops moving. “Well hello.”

Above him, Remington sucks in a breath. “Yeah, I um—”

“I can see that,” Milo says before stretching up to seal his lips around one pierced nipple.

The punched-out noise that Remington makes is absolutely pornographic, and Milo knows that no matter what happens between them, that sound will permanently be part of his fantasies. He moves to the other side and gets a softer whimper, Remington’s fingers in his hair, and a desperate little jerk of his hips.

“Milo.”

“Mhmm?” he hums, tugging gently.

Remington exhales something that sounds an awful lot like fuck before he says, “If you’re tryin’ to make me come like this, you’re dangerously close to succeeding.”

“Shit, really?” As interesting as the possibility is, he’s had Remington’s cock pressed against him this entire time, thick and heavy and blood hot, and he needs it.

Remington nods. His breathing goes shaky when Milo presses one last kiss to his sternum before he shifts to one side to search properly.

There has to be at least one somewhere in the mess.

Milo’s back cracks as he twists further, sifting through the contents of the drawer with both hands now. He hasn’t brought anyone home in ages, though. Hasn’t gotten laid in almost as long, which is part of why he needs it so bad now. It’s also why he comes up empty.

Frustrated, he slams the drawer.

Remi must realize why because he exhales a slow sigh, lips still pressed to the back of Milo’s neck when he says, “Some other time. It’s fine.”

“No, it’s really not.” He thinks about it for a second, then says, “I mean won’t say I haven’t slept with anyone, but I haven’t been lettin’ random people rawdog me or anything. As of the last time I went to the doctor, I’m good…”

Between the two of them, Milo’s inner thighs are a slick, sticky mess, and every little movement just smears it further. Remington’s eyes are glued to it; the only sign he’s hearing Milo at all is the slight nod he gives.

“So unless you’re worried, it’s fine,” Milo says, his eyes closing as the head of Remington’s cock drags over his own.

“I’d be—” Remington drops onto his forearms again, teeth scraping over Milo’s shoulder before he bites down on sensitive skin.

Milo groans, the sting only amplifying the desperation coiling low in his belly. His brain barely registers when Remington starts talking again.

“—more concerned for you than for me.”

“You actually worried?”

He hesitates for a second, then shakes his head again.

“Mmkay. Well, neither am I, and it’s not like we haven’t before...”

The look on Remington’s face is priceless — pure, unfiltered astonishment. He licks his lips, then says, “If I’m ever dumb enough to let you walk away again, just shoot me instead.”

Milo laughs and drags him down, kissing him again far safer than anything he might say in reply. His brain turns to static again after that as Remington’s mouth works its way down his throat to his other shoulder, although this time there’s only the teasing drag of teeth.

That’s enough to remind him of what’s supposed to be happening, though.

Not bothering to fight the shiver as Remington begins a reverse path up his neck, Milo asks, “What do you want?”

The question stops Remington in his tracks. He blinks, processing slowly. “What do you mean?”

Milo rolls his eyes and pulls one of Remi’s hands between his legs pointedly.

“Oh. Oh.”

“Yeah, you forget about that?”

Remington huffs a laugh. “No, I just—” He pushes two fingers through the middle of the slick mess to tease around Milo’s rim.

Milo knows what he isn’t saying: they didn’t do that before. Few enough times that Milo could probably count them on one hand, and generally only if Milo was simultaneously drunk, impatient, and in a very particular mood. Most of the time, it wasn’t an option on the table, and he’s pretty sure Remington never cared. Not the old Remington, at least. But the old Remi also never fucking buried his face between Milo’s legs like that, either. This version is already proving to be different.

“Don’t have all night, sweetheart,” Milo drawls, well on his way to the impatient and needy portion of his former requirements.

Remington groans something else that could be either a prayer or a curse, pressing a sloppy kiss to the hinge of Milo’s jaw before he pulls away completely. His, “Turn over,” is only slightly clearer, muffled as he pulls his shirt off.

Milo watches him for another moment, the lamplit stretch and flex of muscle as he moves like something that should be in a gallery somewhere instead of a shitty apartment in Birmingham. He’s not complaining, though. Especially once he has Remington naked and staring at him like some kind of predator.

With a calculated, teasing slowness, Milo turns over.

It’s one long, wrecked, unambiguous syllable when Remington says, “Fuuuuck.”

“Sure do wish you’d get on that.”

The sharp smack precedes the sting of Remington’s hand on his ass by a solid second, the touch lingering as something softer. The contrast makes Milo’s brain cut out entirely, and he’d be mad about Remington being able to play him so well if it wasn’t so good. As it is, he thinks if this lasts much longer, he just might come again.

One finger pushes into him, testing, then two.

“I’m fine,” Milo says, even as his body clenches around Remington’s knuckles. He is, too, but he’ll be even better if Remington will hurry up and-

Remington pulls his fingers free before Milo can finish the thought. He drags the fat head of his cock against Milo’s entrance, slicking himself up and teasing all at once. Shivering, Milo arches his back in anticipation of the stretch. There’s a wet sound behind him before Remington mixes his own spit into the mess, smearing it across his cock.

“Oh,” Milo breathes, as finally, finally, Remington starts to push inside. “Jesus Christ—”

He chokes on a gasp as Remington’s weight drops on top of him, hips snapping as he sheaths himself fully.

“Don’t recall inviting him,” Remington says, low in Milo’s ear.

Without any space between them, the vibration of it rumbles through Milo’s chest in a way that shouldn’t be legal. It means his laugh comes out breathless, but he doesn’t care.

“You feel so fucking good,” Remington says, voice ragged. “I ever tell you that?”

“Mm, you’re welcome to now,” Milo manages. He doesn’t know when the last time was that he was this full. Three years ago, probably. Too long. It’s all he can do to focus on breathing, the stretch riding the border of pleasure and pain in the best way.

Remington doesn’t say anything else, but he does start to move — a deep, dragging roll of his hips that lights Milo up like the Fourth of July. It hasn’t happened before, but suddenly Milo thinks he might just come like this, the inescapable pressure and steady contact of Remington’s balls against his cock working him toward a second orgasm.

“Oh shit.”

Before Milo can even begin to process, Remington’s fingers wrap around the base of his cock. Milo gasps, first at the shock of emptiness as Remington pulls out, and then at the simultaneous feelings of Remington’s teeth digging into the back of his shoulder and hot stripes of come painting his ass and thighs.

Remington whines, biting down harder as he thrusts between Milo’s folds without pushing back inside.

“You alright?” Milo asks with a startled laugh.

Another harsh exhale spreads across his skin as Remington recovers. He says, “I didn’t mean to— I’m not sure what—”

Still laughing, Milo presses an apologetic kiss to the first thing he can reach, which turns out to be Remington’s bicep.

“Glad you think it’s funny,” Remington snaps, standing. “Bathroom?”

“God, you’re just peak romance.” Milo turns over to meet Remington’s flat glare. “Across the hall, door on the left.”

He watches as Remington retreats, every line of his body impossibly tense, then reaches for his own discarded shirt to clean up some of the mess of fluids. Anxiety overwhelms his patience, and he rolls to his feet. The toilet flushes as he reaches the door, so he raps a knuckle against the thick white paint.

“Hm?”

Milo pushes the door open and slips inside. The glance he gets in the mirror is a brief, guarded thing before Remington’s eyes close; he wonders how many of those he missed last time, or wrote off as Remington just being like that. How many times he misinterpreted the defensiveness, his own hurt and confusion outweighing the concern he almost definitely should’ve felt.

“Hey,” he says softly, settling his chin on Remington’s shoulder and watching his reflection. “You wanna tell me what you’re suddenly in a mood about?”

And because they’re so close, he can feel the way Remi exhales half a breath and then stops.

“Remi?” Milo wraps an arm around his waist, hand splayed across the taut planes of his stomach.

Shock flickers across his face in the fraction of a second before his eyes open, finding Milo’s in the mirror. He exhales the rest of the way and says, “Man, I sure fuckin’ wonder.”

“I won’t say it’s not funny that you blew your load in ten seconds like we’re teenagers all over again, but it’s not that big of a deal.”

The look Remi gives him is very decidedly not amused. Jaw still tight, he glares at Milo, but more telling is the flush that blooms again across his cheeks, his ears, and down his chest. Milo stretches up to kiss his jaw, mostly succeeding at smothering another laugh.

“You’re gonna keep making fun of me for this, aren’t you?”

“Maybe.” He shrugs.

“Look, it’s been a while—”

“Sure. I get it.”

Remi’s eyes narrow like he doesn’t trust Milo to give it up that easily.

He shouldn’t, either, because Milo adds, “It’s fine. Really. You can admit the pussy’s just too good, and we can move on.”

Remi groans dramatically and lets his forehead drop, breaking their indirect eye contact. Entirely unrepentant, Milo laughs and kisses his jaw once, twice, and then bites the same spot. He gets an annoyed ow in response, but then Remi turns his head and catches Milo’s bottom lip between his teeth before kissing him properly.

“Ok, but it was, though,” Remi mumbles against his lips.

Milo laughs again, victorious. “You wanna tell me what the other thing is now?”

“Other thing?”

“That you’re suddenly in a mood about. I don’t know what I did, but I clearly did somethin’.”

The muscles in his back shift as Remi shakes his head slightly, eyes trained on the sink instead of anywhere they might meet Milo’s.

“Can we not do this? Please?”

Everything sinks under a sigh. “I’m trying so fucking hard, and that’s fine — I’ll keep trying, but that’s one thing I don’t know if I can give you.”

“What?”

“The romantic… whatever,” Remi forces out, his tone strained.

He loops his other arm around Remi’s ribs and tucks his face against the nape of Remi’s neck.

“It’s not that I don’t— You deserve that. And for the longest time, I thought it was… I dunno, that you were right and I was just repressed. So deep in the fucking closet I was looking for talking lions or whatever it is you said that one time. But I’m fine with the way I am and it’s… still there.”

Milo lets out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding and presses a kiss to Remi’s skin. Experience tells him to wait and see if he’ll keep talking.

“It’s a thousand times worse when it’s not you, though. I can tell you that much right now. But like, you got mad way back then because I told my family you were my friend, but you were. God, Milo you were my best fucking friend.” He laughs, humorless and sharp, then adds, “Literally. And you’re probably gonna get mad at me and you probably have every right to be which is why I’d kinda wanted to tell you before we— y’know. But like, I wasn’t in love with you.”

“Well it sure doesn’t feel great,” Milo mumbles. “Kinda feels like there’s another but though.”

“Yeah, because I do love you but it’s not… like that. I don’t know. It doesn’t make any fuckin’ sense.”

“Explains why you’re annoying as shit about movies, though.”

“They’re ridiculous!” Remi yells, the sound of it bouncing off the tile in the small bathroom. “Everyone agrees that unicorns and shit are fantasy, but you want me to believe people meet and fall in love in two days and it’s real magic? They’re both on the same level for me.”

It makes sense. Well, it doesn’t — not on any personal level, but he can understand, at least kind of, in the context of Remi. He scratches absently through Remi’s happy trail, thinking. Eventually, he says, “But you love me?”

Remi exhales another sigh, relaxing into Milo. “Yeah. I really do. It’s just not, I dunno, butterflies in my stomach or drawing hearts around our names or whatever other sappy shit it’s supposed to be.”

That’s twice now that he’s heard some variation of the words come out of Remi’s mouth, and this time is no less shocking. So Milo just nods, then continues piecing his thoughts together, equally warmed by the easy way Remi just said yes and the comfortable weight of him against his chest. It’s another shift, Remi letting himself be comforted another thing that didn’t happen before, and Milo can’t deny his curiosity as to what life might be like with this new, more flexible Remington Abernathy.

“Everything is easier with you,” Remi says softly. “Better. It’s like I can be… me, I guess. I dunno about you, but I’m happy with you. Yeah, you’re a pain in the ass sometimes but I like you — actually like you — way more than I don’t.”

“You love me and you like me even though I’m a pain in the ass. Which you haven’t even experienced yet, by the way— Ow!” He rubs at his arm where Remi’s tugged at a few hairs in retaliation, then kisses the back of his neck as an apology. “I am too, though. I’m just scared to be, since things did turn out how they did last time.”

“Are we gonna be able to move past that?” Remi asks, the question tired and sober.

He gives up his view of their reflections over Remi’s shoulder in favor of burying his face against the back of Remi’s head, breathing in the warm, familiar smell of him. “I don’t know. I hope so. Probably. I mean, things are better so far.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” Shocked by how true it is, by how much he wants this time to be different, Milo stands there in the comfortable quiet for a moment before he says, “So now what?”

Remi shrugs again, then turns in the circle of Milo’s arms to face him. “I can get an Uber or something back to my place so you don’t have to leave again. I know you’ve got places to be in the morning.”

Milo swallows hard. It isn’t surprising, really, but he hates it. Around the sudden lump in his throat, he says, “Or you could stay?”

“You sure?” Remi asks, eyes on his face. “I don’t want to be in the way. Or like, to push it, if that makes any sense.”

Milo can imagine, though — that Remi doesn’t want to be in the way, sure, but it’s more than that. Staying is more. “I’m sure. If you want to. Think I have an extra contact case and a toothbrush from the last time I went to the dentist somewhere.”

Both of Remi’s eyebrows arch at that.

“Don’t give me that look. Not like it’s anything fancy, but I’m also not a complete savage. I’m not gonna ask you to stay then expect you to be gross and uncomfortable all night. And if you do wanna go home, I’ll—” He’s cut off by Remi’s mouth, the kiss hot and possessive like Remi’s trying to get him in bed rather than like they just finished. He’s not complaining, though. Not when Remi’s arms loop around his waist and his mouth moves to rest against Milo’s forehead once they part for air.

They stand like that for another long, easy minute before Milo realizes the sink has to be digging into Remi’s back even though he hasn’t said a word about it. His exhaled sigh turns into a yawn, which only further serves his point that they should probably move.

“Lemme go so I can find all that and we can go to bed.”

“You sure?” Remi asks, something guarded in his tone even now.

“Yeah,” Milo says, “I’m sure.”

***

Milo wakes up to the sound of his alarm and a body between him and his nightstand. He presses an apologetic kiss to Remi’s shoulder as he stretches across his back to reach it, breathing a laugh when Remi grumbles dramatically and burrows further into the pillow. That part is nothing new. Milo even set his alarm earlier than usual for a Sunday to compensate.

Still, there’s no denying the odd satisfaction he feels at being right. It doesn’t matter that being right in this case also means he and Remi are probably gonna argue before eight in the morning. Not that he wants to, but he likes to be prepared.

“I’ve gotta get goin’,” he mumbles against Remi’s shoulder blade. “Need to be out the door in half an hour.”

“Time’s it?” Remi doesn’t wait for a reply, though, instead pulling Milo’s phone out of his hand and checking himself. He huffs something that almost sounds like liar before somehow dragging Milo between his body and the mattress.

Milo just sighs.

“You’ve got time. Service ain’t until ten,” Remi says, his argument already fully formed and solid even though his voice is still rough with sleep.

“Well, I didn’t figure you wanted to walk home any more than you wanted to waste your day in Berry.”

In response, he gets a sharp, surprised huff against his temple.

“’M serious. Think she likes you more’n me,” he says, struggling to think about anything other than Remi’s weight on top of him and the hard line of his cock — which he knows has everything to do with the fact that it’s morning — where it’s pressed against his own.

“I’d need to stop by my place anyways and change.”

“Find something here. Not like you’re goin’ to the Met.”

Remi makes another vague thoughtful sound, grinding against him again lazily.

“I mean it’d be one thing if you were wearing a fuckin’ suit because yeah, sure, my pants won’t fit you. But you have jeans,” Milo rambles. At this point, he isn’t sure if it’s that he wants Remi to come with him or if he wants the sex that’s gonna make him late if he has to drop Remi off too.

Both, probably, but that requires more honesty than he’s ready for without coffee.

Twenty-three minutes later, he watches Remi’s ass as he crosses to Milo’s closet and pushes the little folding doors open. He doesn’t want to move, but now they really are running low on time.

“You actually comin’ with me?”

Remi gives him a look over his shoulder before turning back to Milo’s closet. “I have time for a shower?”

“No. Not like you’re talkin’ anyways. Might have time to rinse off, but the water probably won’t even be hot.”

The sigh that gets is audible across the room. Milo laughs and forces himself out of bed; as much as he doesn’t want to, he knows he should probably rinse off too and he’d at least like coffee to take with him since there’s no time to drink it before he goes now.

“Hey!”

Milo turns in the doorway, one eyebrow raised.

“This is mine?”

He looks at the pale green sweater in Remi’s hand, then shrugs. “Yeah. Think so.”

Remi arches an eyebrow, as if to say and?

“Found it in my stuff when I was unpacking. Not like I meant to take it.”

“Well, you’re apologizing to Ellis,” Remi says, frowning. “I thought he took it ‘n’ we’re still arguing over it.”

Milo laughs and shakes his head as he walks out. Yeah, he thinks to himself, that’s the Remi he knows.

He gets the same feeling once they’re in the truck and Remi asks, “So why’re we taking all of your laundry out there?”

“She has a washer and dryer. I don’t.” Out of the corner of his eye, Milo watches Remi process, fighting a laugh the entire time.

“There are other apartments in Birmingham. Most of ‘em have laundry.”

“Most of ‘em are more than I wanna pay a month, too. Especially when I’m going to her house anyways.”

“My apartment has laundry,” Remi says.

“Good for you.”

Remi sighs and adds, “If you ever needed it. Or just— Never mind, be an ass about it.”

The laugh finally escapes, but Milo reaches over to find Remi’s hand to make up for it, twining their fingers together. Fortunately, it seems to work because even when the rest of their conversations go more or less the same way, Remi never pulls away. He doesn’t even seem all that bothered. It’s just… how things are.

When they finally come to a stop in front of the old farmhouse, he says, “Last chance to back out.”

“Yeah,” Remi agrees. “You tellin’ me you want to?”

“No.”

Remi’s smile is the same soft, shy thing that wrecked Milo the first time. There’s no resisting the urge to lean over and kiss him one last time before they have to get out. Milo doesn’t even try — he just twists awkwardly in the seat and pulls Remi in to meet him.

They cross the dew-damp grass to the back door. From inside the laundry room, Milo calls, “You decent?”

He pauses, Remi at his back, and waits for an answer. The last thing he wants is the added stress of dealing with facing his grandmother in a threadbare bathrobe.

“Am I what?” The floor creaks under her feet as she steps into view of the doorframe. Milo watches as her eyes land first on him, then over his shoulder. “Remington!”

Milo rolls his eyes and allows himself to be pushed aside as his grandmother pulls Remi into a hug. She’s at least already dressed, and he’s more annoyed by the predictable speed at which she forgives everything Remington did that caused their break-up than anything, no matter how convenient that same fact is now.

Accepting his replacement, Milo makes his way into the kitchen, pouring himself a cup of coffee. He doesn’t ask if Remi wants one, but he can’t say he’s surprised either when Remi takes it from him once he’s finally released. “Yeah, sure, you can have some.”

“He knows. What I’d like to know is why you didn’t tell me he was coming,” his grandmother says.

He sighs. He can’t exactly say this — that he’d wanted to avoid this conversation, this explanation, if at all possible.

But Remi says, “I wasn’t sure if I was gonna be able to make it, and so I thought it’d be better if you were surprised.”

“Well, I sure was surprised. Especially after some of the things Milo said.”

Remi’s eyebrows arch as he returns Milo’s mug. “And what did Milo say?”

“It’s about time we get you to church,” Milo interjects before that line of questioning can go any further. “You have everything you need?”

She gives Milo an unimpressed look but turns toward the living room. “I’ll have to get my purse. Are either of y’all coming with me?”

Milo says no at the same time Remi says, “Oh, uh, I didn’t really—”

Softly, Milo says, “You don’t have to, but you can if you wanna. I’ve got stuff to do here.”

“You want me to just take her and I’ll stay with her?”

“She’ll probably think it’s Christmas all over again. That’s the last time I went with her.”

Remi hums a vague, thoughtful noise against the side of Milo’s head, his slow exhale ruffling Milo’s hair. “Think it’ll make things easier or harder if I do?”

He shrugs. “I’m not gonna fault you for it either way. Probably. Least not for long.”

“Very reassuring.” Remi steals another sip of Milo’s coffee, then straightens. “You’re gonna make us late.”

His grandmother shuffles back into the kitchen, her expression bright, and Milo figures he probably can’t hold it against Remi for long at all.

To Milo’s surprise, he finds it pretty easy to get on with his day once they’re gone. Like always, he has his first load in the dryer and the second in the wash when his phone rings.

He barely confirms it’s Remi before he answers with a, “’lo?”

“Hey, you wanna get lunch?”

Milo checks the time, realizing as he does so that he is hungry. “I guess we could. You gonna come get me or am I meeting you somewhere?”

“We can come get you unless you don’t wanna wait.”

He considers it for a moment, then says, “That’s fine. I’ll meet you outside.”

“Ok.”

The call ends, in a very Remington fashion. That’s not new either. It used to annoy him, but now it feels easier, somehow. It means he can just get to the rest of what he needs to instead of dragging the conversation out needlessly. Probably, that’s why Remi does it, and in light of their talk the night before, everything makes a little more sense.

He walks outside just as his grandmother’s car turns onto the long gravel driveway. Milo half watches the cloud of dust that trails behind them, absently chewing on his bottom lip as he waits. It’s only once he closes himself in the quiet of his grandmother’s car that he puts a name to the anxiety.

They’re halfway back down the driveway before Milo swallows it down and asks, “How’d it go?”

Remi’s jaw flexes, a silent answer that spawns a million other questions Milo can’t ask.

But of course, Nana says, “It went just fine, but it would have been so much nicer if you’d come too.”

“If you’re nice, I’ll go for Easter. Think you’ll be the only one happy about that, though. He behave?”

In the rearview mirror, Remi’s eyes meet his briefly. Milo fights a laugh and adds more questions to the list.

“He did,” his grandmother says, twisting slightly to look at Milo. “He was polite and charming, although I do wish he would’ve been more honest with Pastor Scott.”

Milo doesn’t have to look to know that the tips of Remi’s ears have gone red, but he does it anyways. He says, “Oh yeah?”

“I was trying to avoid makin’ a mess,” Remi says, the first actual words he’s spoken.

“You were,” Nana agrees. “I just wish you didn’t feel like you had to lie to do that.”

The knot in Milo’s chest tightens. There are very few subjects that Remi won’t find a way to speak his mind, however carefully, so he can only imagine what might’ve caused him to do so now. He doesn’t like the list of possibilities. Milo bites back the question, though. Whatever it is, he isn’t gonna push it now. Not when they’re about to be in public. And to his surprise, Remi is just about as close as he gets to normal for the rest of the day. A little stiff, but no more than Milo’d expect even if he didn’t know something had happened.

It’s only once they’re getting ready to leave, in the stretch between the side door and the truck, that he asks, “You good?”

Remi glances at him, then reaches over, fingers curling in the back of Milo’s hair to drag him in closer. “Yeah,” he says, pressing his lips to the side of Milo’s head, “I’m just fine.”

***

Just fine seems to be the tone for the next few days, but then it all goes out the window. Not because Remi does anything — he truly is perfectly fine — but because Milo’s work just won’t settle into something a little more manageable and by Thursday afternoon he’s on his last nerve. He’s gotten himself stuck closing too, covering for a coworker he barely knows because her ex-husband bails on picking up the kids from after-school care. Milo’s not sure what the alternative would be, though. It’s not like he can just tell her to go fuck herself, as much as he wants to after waking up at five to be at the shop. It does mean when Remi texts him that he’s on his way home from work and asks how his day went, Milo does say exactly that.

To his surprise, his phone vibrates again after a minute.

Remington > That good, huh?

Remington > What time are you off now?

Milo takes a slow breath and reminds himself that technically, it’s not Remington he’s mad at. Not yet, at least.

> Assuming no one comes in here, 6. Someone does, as soon as the cops get here to take me

Remington > 😂 Don’t worry — I know a few guys at the courthouse. Come over? I’ll make dinner.

He tosses his phone on the desk, the impact enough to wake the monitor up. Even accounting for the rest of his day, this isn’t how things are supposed to go. Just because they’ve been on one date and Milo happened to drag Remi with him to see his grandmother doesn’t mean this was a thing. Especially not a thing that involves dinner on weeknights. He knows it, which means Remi and his professed disinterest in the romantic shit certainly knows it. That still doesn’t answer the question of what the hell they’re doing this go around, though.

> Funny.

That seems safe enough, if for no other reason than that Remi doesn’t cook, so Milo presses send and starts shutting things off and wiping down the service desk. Unless something terrible happens, he’s walking out of here in eighteen minutes.

His phone vibrates, the sound of it far too loud for the empty library. From several feet away, Milo stares at the offending grey rectangle. He sighs and crosses the room to check it.

Remington > I’m serious? Figured it’d make your life easier. Sounds like your day was shit.

Remington > You can scream into Nelson. He’s fluffy and probably won’t mind. He’s a slut for attention.

Milo huffs a laugh, his thumbs hovering over the keyboard. He pockets his phone without replying. A couple of ok days don’t mean this is suddenly something that works, and as tempting as it is, he knows how this goes. It may make things better in the short run — lord knows the sex would — but he’s just inviting more trouble if he goes.

Twenty-something minutes later, he finds himself greeted by the softest, shyest fucking smile as Remi lets him in. Milo doesn’t know what to do with that, so as soon as the door’s closed, he drags Remi in by his belt and catches his bottom lip between his teeth. The soft hiss before Remi pins him against the door is a lot closer to what Milo expected, and far closer to the wheelhouse of things he can handle tonight.

So of course, instead of just letting him have this, Remi says, “I actually did make dinner.”

The breath has to take before he can even start to think of a reply is enough for Milo to confirm it smells good, too. He trails Remi past the mouth of a stairway and two closed doors to the main living area, entirely unsubtle in his cataloging of the apartment. Much like the building’s exterior suggested, it’s nice but not excessively so. Not enough for him to be able to give Remi shit.

“Drink?”

Milo turns toward Remi and the kitchen, as much as the single wall can be called that. He exhales a tired laugh and says, “Yeah.”

“Go sit. I can get this.”

Eyes narrowing, Milo looks back toward the couch. A sound he can only describe as galloping interrupts Milo’s train of thought before he can clarify, however, accompanied by the closest thing to a Muppet he’s ever seen in real life. The creature skids to a halt as they make eye contact, puffing up in a way he’s sure is meant to be menacing but only succeeds in startling a laugh out of him. Milo can’t stop, either. Not once it takes a very dramatic, scurrying step backward, staring at him like he’s the devil.

“Stop making fun of my son,” Remi says, scooping the gangly, grey animal off of the floor as he brings Milo a glass of what he can only hope is alcohol.

“Your son?” Milo laughs. “He’s named after me and turned into an indignant cotton ball as soon as we made eye contact. I think I’m allowed to make fun of him.”

Remi passes him the glass, smiling. “Well, he is named after you. Not sure what you expected.”

Before Milo can argue, Remi leans in, the kiss whiskey flavored and too hungry to be placating.

“If you’re not careful, he’ll steal your food when you’re not looking,” he says, handing the cat to Milo as well before he returns to the kitchen counter.

The food is good. Nelson does try to stick an entire, seven-toed paw in Milo’s spaghetti, but that’s closer to entertaining than a problem. That they eat on the couch is the strangest part, since it’s something they never did before, but if he ignores the strange departure from what he expects from Remi, it’s comfortable. Easy.

“Awful lot of effort to get in my pants,” Milo says after.

“I’d like to point out that it’s your hand in my pants.”

Milo hums an acknowledgment and squeezes Remi’s ass. “I put you in my lap too?”

“Joint effort,” Remi replies.

He can’t argue with that, since he really can’t say how they ended up here, but he’s also not complaining. Curious, he pulls his hand out and wets two fingers, watching Remi’s face for any sign that this is a mistake. He might not have come over here at all prepared for this, and Milo’s still not sure of how it’ll go over, but he’s willing to test it in light of the way Remi reacted last time.

The first bit of reassurance comes when Remi’s eyes go wide and hungry, but the more definitive answer is the moan that escapes as he lets his forehead drop to Milo’s shoulder.

“You—” Remi shivers and shifts in his lap, seemingly torn between pushing back onto Milo’s fingers and trying to get friction against his dick. “I have a bed.”

“Good for you.”

The whine Remi lets out would be pathetic if it wasn’t hot, but he immediately ruins it when he says, “And I just got these pants dry-cleaned so if you don’t mind—”

“Just got your pants fucking dry-cleaned,” Milo mutters. He shuts Remi up with his mouth, once again catching Remi’s bottom lip between his teeth just as he works his fingers in deeper.

As much fun as it is making Remi squirm, however, Milo wants to take Remi apart even if he can’t do this the way he wants right now. He mutters a vague command to go, and Remi wastes no time getting both of them upstairs, stripping as he goes. It’s a concession he’s having trouble complaining about, though, because Remi folded nearly in half, naked and desperate is a sight. The angle is better too, both for Milo’s wrist and the way Remi turns into an absolute mess.

“Oh fuck—” Remi cuts off with a choked sound, his hips twitching as his cock drips another thick pulse onto his stomach. “If you don’t stop, I’m gonna—”

Milo has no intention of stopping, especially once Remi says that. And sure enough, it’s only a matter of seconds. He adjusts quickly, sealing his lips around Remi’s cock and earning another wrecked noise.

“You’re gonna give me a whole fucking complex,” Remi says, breathless and ragged.

“Oh yeah?” Milo smiles, carefully pulling his fingers free. He wipes them on the sheet, then cleans up the rest of the mess on Remi’s stomach with his mouth, laughing when Remi whines. “And why’s that?”

“Because I’m not supposed to…” Remi gestures vaguely at his dick. “Not that fast. And this is twice now, and the wrong way around when I’m trying to make up for your shitty day.”

“Mm, well I can think of a couple of ways you could still make it up to me.”

“Yeah?” Remi replies. He seems slightly less upset than he was last time, at least, impatiently waiting as Milo strips, before tugging him up the bed to straddle his face. Once again, Remi sucks him off like he’s starving for it — like it’s what he needs to get off, instead of like he just did. And once again, Milo comes so hard that a tiny voice in the back of his mind worries he might pull a muscle.

“Jesus Christ,” Milo groans as he collapses back onto the mattress. “When did you get good at that?”

Remi looks pleased with himself in the funny, almost shy way Milo remembers from so long ago. After a minute he says, “Wait, do you actually want an answer?”

“Dunno. Kind of.” Milo shrugs, eyes fixed on the sharp cut of light from downstairs where it splits through the darkness on the ceiling. “I mean you don’t have to if it’s weird.”

The silence stretches again, then Remi says, “I came back and you’d moved out, so I found a new apartment, hired movers, and left again and I was—” He shakes his head and sighs. “I was so fuckin’ pissed, mostly at myself, but kind of at you, and it just… happened.”

“Was he hot?”

“Yeah,” Remi says, a startled laugh slipping out of him either at the question or his admission. “You would’ve hated him on principle, I think. Got the feeling he was doing the same thing I was, though, so it worked out.”

Milo hums an acknowledgment, not quite sure what to say to that.

“Same time I found out I don’t actually mind being on the other end of things every now and then.”

“Damn, so I really should send this guy a thank you card or somethin’, huh?”

With another exhaled laugh, Remi says, “Nah. End of that week, he got on a plane back to wherever and I came back here. Never spoke to him again.”

“Huh. You actually see anyone or no?” he asks, unable to quash the curiosity.

“I guess, but it wasn’t…” Remi cuts himself off with a frustrated sigh Milo knows well. “Can we not do this now? Please?”

“Ok,” Milo agrees. He turns onto his side, staring at Remi’s half-lit profile. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to—”

“I know.”

Milo sighs and reaches over, gently tilting Remi’s face toward him. “You do understand you didn’t do anything wrong, right? At least unless there’s something else.”

Remi’s laugh is humorless. “I mean, there’s plenty else, but nothing that’s… Not like that.”

“Pretty sure I fucked a married guy if that makes you feel any better. Didn’t realize it at the time, of course. Was at work, too.”

“At the library?”

“Ha, no. The shop. Went to update somethin’ in the computer after and his wife’s name was on the account too.”

“Homewrecker,” Remi accuses. But his tone is teasing and lazy and he immediately follows it with a dramatic, “Fuuuuck, I don’t want to get back up.”

“So don’t. ‘S your apartment. No one can make you. I should probably get going though.” He sits up and stretches, tired and not looking forward to driving home, even if it’s only ten minutes.

“You’re leaving?”

“Yeah?” Milo sighs and turns, the angle awkward as he leans down to kiss Remi in what he hopes is a successful reassurance that he’s not mad about it. “I’m trying to meet you halfway.”

“Meet me halfway where, Milo?” Remi asks, guarded despite Milo’s efforts.

“I dunno. This” he replies, gesturing between them. “I feel like we probably didn’t work out last time at least partially because we were lookin’ for two different things and never actually had a conversation about it. But this time, we did, and you said the relationship shit’s like pullin’ teeth and I’m trying to handle that like an adult. I know you’re trying, and I appreciate the gesture. Really. Dinner was great and the rest was... But it’s Wednesday night and we both have work in the morning and like, I know you. If I’m here it’s just gonna be inconvenient and you’re gonna end up in a mood.”

There’s a quiet huff, then the lamp clicks on and Milo is hit with the full intensity of Remi’s attention. Remi leans back against the headboard, long arms folding over his ribcage. “Did it ever occur to you that maybe I know it’s inconvenient and want you anyways? That maybe I want to have to rearrange my life because of you?”

Milo blinks at him. He can’t breathe, suddenly, around the feelings that settle in the words’ wake.

“I like having you around, Milo, convenient or not. But if you’ve got somewhere else to be, don’t let me stop you.”

He sighs, a part of his brain telling him he’s already made up his mind even as he warns, “I’ve gotta be at the shop early tomorrow.”

“I’m normally up early during the week anyways.”

“Like, I have to be there at six early.”

Remi scowls, but says, “Ok.”

With an amused huff, Milo straddles his hips and kisses him once. Then again, this time not pulling away until Remi kisses him back, one hand pushing into Milo’s hair.

“Ok,” Milo says. He sets his alarm even earlier so he can stop by his place and change, but it’s remarkably easy to fall asleep with Remi curled up against him, breath humid on the back of his neck and one hand spread low and possessive on his belly.

The bed’s already empty when he wakes up. Without much of a choice, Milo pulls on his clothes from the night before and drags himself downstairs. He finds Remi at the kitchen counter in his underwear, his hair still wet from the shower he must have taken without waking Milo up.

“Hey,” he says, once again soft and shy as he looks up from pouring coffee.

Milo exhales around the feeling lodged in his ribcage, crossing the empty space to press his forehead between Remi’s shoulder blades. Under the freshly brewed coffee and body wash, the smell of him is warm and familiar. He lets out another slow breath, his fingers curling around the mug Remi presses into his hand even though he really doesn’t have time, and ignores the traitorous thought that he could maybe get used to this.

***

Things change again after that. Milo feels like he’s made that same observation so many times now that it shouldn’t be noteworthy, but it is. Milo finds it harder and harder to find reasons to say no until he just… gives up. He still rarely sees Remi outside of weekends, and sometimes not even those depending on their work schedules, but he finds himself sending Remi dumb shit throughout the day when he’s bored and getting the same back, conversation surprisingly easy.

Somehow, days turn into months without Milo even really registering it. It finally sinks in one Saturday afternoon. He’s stretched out on Remi’s couch with Nelson while Remi fucks around in the spare bedroom he uses as some sort of combined home office and puzzle room. Because of course, he’s internally an antisocial ninety-year-old man outside of the stress of law school. The strangest part is that when Milo thinks about it, he’s not bothered.

Somehow, things are different this time. Not completely. Remi is still reserved in public, although once Milo learns that he’s the only guy Remi’s even fucked in the state since before they got together the first time, it does something strange to his perception of the whole thing. Even that feels more like a compromise than a point of contention, though.

If he’s being honest, he’s happy with the whole thing. Most of the time, Remi’s existence is like comfortable background noise, and the majority of their time together is more good than bad. Really good, as far as his personal preferences are concerned. They still argue sometimes, but it feels… smaller than before when weighed against easy nights on the couch, quiet, dragging weekend mornings, and sex that’s so reliably good it makes Milo’s head spin. And the routine of all of that, as much as there is one when their lives both fluctuate so much, is nice. Not what Milo expected, but nice.

He doesn’t think much more of it than that until his renewal lease comes in the mail, and he probably wouldn’t have thought about it in conjunction with Remi so quickly if not for the fact that Remi is in his kitchen when he opens it. Milo skims the most relevant parts first. There’s a small increase in rent, but nothing so large that it’s cause for concern. Everything else looks the same as it has the past three times he’s signed it. He’s about to set it aside so they can get ready to leave when Remi comes up behind him, his curiosity finally reaching its tipping point. Something about it is predictable enough to make Milo exhale a laugh as he leans back against Remi’s chest. With Remi reading over his shoulder, Milo flips back to the first page and goes through the whole thing more thoroughly.

He reaches the end a second time and folds the thing back up, tossing it on the counter for later. And for a couple of days after that, he forgets about it.

Not forgets about it, but it sits in some back corner of his mind, processing at the edge of Milo’s awareness. Replaying the way he thought he’d noticed Remi’s breath catch when he first saw what it was, and the way he’s been slightly off since. It isn’t the same kind of off Remi gets when he’s pissy, either, which is why Milo doesn’t put two and two together right away.

At first, he thinks it’s something else entirely; in that same span of days, Remi’s brother is in town for work, so a part of him writes it off as family stress. But even after Remi comes over after dinner with Ellis, mouth still faintly tasting of whiskey, there’s a hint of that same strange tension. Milo lets it go in favor of letting Remi herd him into bed, though, willing to let it not be a conversation at all as long as things keep working.

So of course, like he’s read Milo’s mind and was waiting for that same moment, Remi says, “You just gonna re-sign and not say anything?”

He doesn’t wait for Milo to answer, either, returning immediately to mouthing along a scar, teeth scraping hard enough to make Milo shiver and arch into it.

Now. Remi wants to have this talk now, Milo registers on a delay. Then, once he makes his brain work enough to form words, “You were standin’ right there. You read it too.”

“Yeah, but…” Remi huffs and bites just beneath Milo’s collarbone.

“But what? Not like you’ve ever been one to keep your— fuck—” Milo shifts beneath him, letting his head drop to one side so Remi can have better access to his throat. He exhales another moan and tries to focus. “You don’t keep your opinions to yourself.”

The noise Remi makes is somewhere between a thoughtful grunt and a growl. It does nothing for Milo’s concentration, instead sending more blood to pool between his thighs where Remi is just out of reach. Remi seems to realize the same thing and looks down, eyes dark as he watches Milo shift restlessly. He says, “I thought it was my opinion you wanted?”

“You’re an asshole and a tease,” Milo shoots back, smiling as he tugs Remi in close enough to reach his mouth. “Gonna tell me whatever it is, or are you gonna pretend you don’t wanna do that either?”

“’M I supposed to be pretending I don’t wanna fuck you? Because if so, that’s news to me.”

Exhaling a laugh, Milo pushes a hand into Remi’s hair. “Tell me first, or wanting to is all you’ll be doing.”

“Rude.” Remi leans in to kiss him again, but there’s something distracted in it — like he’s procrastinating, Milo realizes. When they part, he sighs and says, “I just— I mean, I do technically have two bedrooms. And I know Nelson would like having you around more.”

“Nelson, huh?” Milo isn’t even sure how he gets the question out with how dry his throat’s suddenly gone.

Smiling like he’s already won, Remi nods.

Milo clears his throat, or at least tried to, then says, “You’d give up your secret nerd cave for the cat?” because it’s easier than any of the thoughts racing through his head.

Again, Remi nods. “Think about it. Laundry. Gym in the building. And he needs two parents. I work too much to be a good father.”

“Oh, so now you expect me to take over the parenting.”

“I didn’t say that. You can be the fun dad,” Remi says, lips ghosting over Milo’s chest as he inches down the bed.

“And I’m sure you didn’t time this conversation for when we’re naked.”

“Would I do that?”

Milo’s uncertainty about the prospect wars with the urge to laugh at that. With the warm weight of Remi stretched out between his legs. “I’ll think about it.”

“About whether or not I’d do that or whether or not you wanna live with me?”

“Oh, you’d definitely do that,” Milo replies with an amused huff.

In a move that only proves his point, Remi backs down the bed. His mouth is almost enough to make Milo lose his train of thought. Almost. Especially since Milo’s barely seen him all week because Remi’s been so busy. One night, he went over there and fell asleep before he got home, and now Remi’s here. Milo’s fingers curl in his hair, tugging his head away.

Remi frowns at him, confused, but Milo doesn’t have to pull hard to get Remi’s mouth back where he can reach it, claiming his mouth like the prize it is.

Against his lips, Remi mumbles, “You actually not want to or somethin’?”

“Didn’t say that.” He reaches for the bottle of lube, wrapping Remi’s fingers around it. Before Remi can question further, he opens the drawer of his nightstand and grabs the harness, eyes never leaving Remi’s face. The immediate, naked look of want shoots directly to the base of Milo’s spine. He arches an eyebrow — a silent well? — and has to fight a laugh as Remi scrambles out of the way, the bottle opening with a quiet snap.

Milo watches Remi’s expression go slack and unfocused as he works a couple of fingers into himself at once. If not for the needy whine Remi lets out, Milo might have forgotten his own preparations. Fortunately, they’re not that involved. He tugs the harness on, tightening it slightly once he’s got everything in place.

“How do you want me?” Remi asks, voice rough with want.

This is as unplanned as the conversation that preceded it, and Milo would be lying if he said the whole thing doesn’t have him off balance in a way he doesn’t quite know how to handle. Like he’s both shying away from making decisions about anything and like he needs to somehow wrestle everything back under control, immediately. He shifts slightly, getting comfortable without really moving, then nods a vague sort of direction that can really only mean one thing.

Immediately, Remi flushes, his expression going hazy like he’s overwhelmed. Milo can’t fight the grin — if Remi’s already worked up enough to be self-conscious about it, then this is the best idea he could’ve had. Either way, Remi straddles Milo’s hips, his bottom lip caught between his teeth as he lines them up. As soon as he sinks over the tip, he shivers and groans, both the sound of it and the confirmation it provides shooting through Milo like electricity.

Sure enough, he feels better after. Once they’ve made a half-assed effort of cleaning up, Remi stretches out beside him, his head on Milo’s chest.

“You’re being awfully cute,” Milo says, wrapping an arm around Remi’s back before he can misinterpret. For all that it’s not what either of them tend toward, he doesn’t mind it. After a second, he adds, “Not gonna get you an answer tonight, though.”

Remi exhales a laugh. “Wasn’t trying to. You wanna do anything for your birthday?”

“Uh…” The question makes Milo blink, another unexpected twist in the night that his brain is in no state to process.

“You don’t have to answer that now either,” Remi says, his ribcage shaking with more silent laughter. “But it’s coming up so if you did want to, we’re kind of at the deadline to plan.”

Humming another intelligent reply, Milo pushes his fingers through Remi’s hair and tries to think. He honestly hasn’t thought about it. Not really. Remi’s right, though — it’s only a couple of weeks away now. And the idea of doing something for his birthday is one that he snags on like burrs, but that Remi asked is… not nothing.

“And before you go and get pissy, I can also just figure plans out or get you something but I wanted to at least ask.”

“Who says I’m gonna get pissy?” Milo asks, curling his fingers and tugging slightly.

Remi’s breathing catches like he’s stifling some reaction.

Milo grunts disapprovingly, even though he’s not genuinely annoyed, and scratches over Remi’s scalp. “Fine, if you want to plan something, go for it. I’ll even promise I won’t get pissy if— if you actually y’know, like follow through. I’ll even make you a deal and guarantee you an answer on the whole moving in thing if I don’t have one sooner. But I can’t go anywhere. Supposed to do shit with my family that weekend and I think work would burn down if I left right now.”

“Mm, deal,” Remi practically purrs, absurdly pleased with Milo’s conditional acceptance.

“You stayin’ here tonight?”

“That ok?” Remi asks. “Figured I would ‘n’ told Ellis he could just stay at my place, but—”

“‘S fine. Turn off the light, though.”

Remi rolls off of him to turn off the lamp before settling back down with a more normal amount of space between them. Milo’s dropping toward sleep when he says, “Think we’re gonna be alright?”

“Hope so,” Milo replies, a little shocked by how badly he wants it to be true. He looks at Remi’s familiar silhouette in the darkness and reaches over to brush the hard line of his jaw with a knuckle. “Only time’ll tell, but I think we just might.”

Part Four:

Everything

Once Milo can do more than breathe again, he says, “You’re gonna be late.”

Remi groans dramatically before kissing him and pulling out. “Your fault.”

“My fault? How?” Milo laughs. “You started it.”

“Your birthday,” Remi says, like it’s obvious.

Apparently, the entire rest of the week is also Milo’s birthday, but if this is where it gets him, he’s hardly complaining. He watches Remi’s ass as he walks into the bathroom for the second time. “Is this a hint for your birthday?”

For a moment, there’s nothing but the sound of the faucet, but then Remi steps back into the bedroom with a soft little smirk and says, “Maybe.”

Milo laughs again and forces himself out of bed. He mutters a showoff at Nelson, who jumps into his spot and curls up, then begins the task of locating his clothes.

“Would be easier if all your stuff was here,” Remi points out.

“Would be easier if you didn’t do things like throwing my shirt over the wall to make it a two-floor scavenger hunt.”

“That was one time. And I didn’t mean to.”

“Uh-huh.”

“You’re really gonna make me wait until tonight?” Remi asks once he’s fully dressed.

Milo’s asked himself the same question multiple times in the past couple of weeks; truth be told, he didn’t come to terms with his answer until the past few days, and by then it was close enough that he decided that yes, he was going to make Remi wait.

He can’t say that, though.

Instead, he says, “Me tellin’ you tonight’s dependent on whether or not you actually show up.”

It’s a low blow, since Remi’s in court again today with no good indication of when he’ll get to leave. And Milo knows that. He does. Just like he knows what he’s signing up for — the stress, the scrutiny, the secrecy…

He knows. They haven’t had a direct conversation about it, exactly, but they’ve talked around it enough over the past several months. It’s been weighed against everything, and everything against that. For the indefinite future, until some miraculous climate shift or some equally radical internal change occurs, he’s Remi’s dirty little secret. A friend, an old classmate… something unspoken.

Remi knows that he knows, and however Milo feels about it, he’s pretty sure Remi feels worse.

Catching him by the belt loop, Milo reels Remi in so he’s pinned between the counter and the smell of expensive cologne, the edge of the countertop digging into his ass as he stretches up to bite Remi’s bottom lip.

“I’ll be there,” Remi says. Slow and hungry, he licks into Milo’s mouth again, full of promise. Voice rough, he repeats, “I’ll be there. What’s that thing your uncle always says? ‘If the creek doesn’t rise’?”

Milo snorts a laugh. “You little highfalutin’—”

“What?”

“—bougie-ass...”

“What did I do?” Remi asks, anxiety and confusion bleeding into his tone.

“Doesn’t. Phrase don’t work if you go’n make it all fancy ‘n’ proper.” He lets his syllables stretch, slipshod and twangy. The kind of shit Remi’s entire family — his entire social sphere — has tried to distance itself from, like that will hide what kind of people they are.

Remi huffs a laugh of his own and shakes his head. “I gotta go, but I’ll see you tonight.”

Milo says, “Ok,” because it’s safe. Because ok means it’s fine when there’s nothing else, just Remi out the door.

***

He goes to the restaurant once he gets out of work, though, early enough even after he showers and changes that he should still beat Remi there. Doing so is a double-edged thing because it means he inevitably has to wait. He takes a seat at the bar to do it, so he’s less obviously alone. And in a place like this, he doesn’t have to worry about anyone trying to talk to him.

Halfway through the drink he ordered on autopilot, his pocket starts to vibrate. Milo pulls it on reflex, his own sitting on the bar even though no one should be contacting him just now.

So of course, it’s Remi’s.

The name is one of few that’s just a first name, and as the screen flashes with Ellis’s name and some filtered picture, Milo frowns. It isn’t that the two don’t talk, but as far as he can tell, it’s one of those things that seems to happen when Milo’s not around — on weekend afternoons before he’s on his way back from his grandmother’s or while he’s at the gym. He pockets the phone and takes a sip of his drink.

The phone rings again.

On the third, when Remi still isn’t there, he answers. “’lo?”

“Hey you need to— wait, uh— Is Remington there?”

“He had court today. Was supposed to be here—” he checks his watch, “—seventeen minutes ago.”

Ellis sucks in a breath. On the exhale, he says, “Shit. You know how to get in touch with him?”

“Not really, since I don’t have a clue where he is or why he’s not here. Everything ok?”

“No,” Ellis says, voice rough. He takes another breath but sounds even worse when he continues, “No, it’s— There was an um— an accident. I need him to get here, fast. I don’t know if they’re gonna— shit, I can’t do this. Can you have him call me as soon as he shows up? Or Chloe, if I don’t pick up.”

“Yeah, of course.”

“Thanks.” The line goes dead, proving Remi’s inability to say goodbye like a civilized person to be a genetic trait.

Milo mutters a curse under his breath and knocks back the rest of his drink before he pulls a twenty out of his wallet, tucks it under his empty glass, and walks out.

“I am so, so sorry,” is the first thing he hears, once he’s out on the sidewalk in front of the restaurant and can hear anything again.

He blinks and turns toward the voice, toward an already harried and tired Remi.

“Traffic was a nightmare and then I couldn’t find anywhere to park, and I didn’t have my phone, so I couldn’t— Please, I know I’m late, but—”

“We have to go.”

“What, did they give our table away? Let me talk to them. I bet I can—”

“No, listen to me,” he says, squeezing Remi’s shoulder hard. “We have to go. I’ll follow you back to your place.”

Confusion mingles with the animal panic on his face. “Is everything—”

“Do you trust me?”

He frowns, a deep V forming between his eyebrows. “Yeah, of course.”

Milo pulls Remi’s phone out of his pocket, just in case, and hands it to him. “Don’t answer it until we get back.”

“Wait, why?”

“Remi, please.”

He nods and pockets his phone. “I’ll see you back at mine?”

“Yeah. I’ll be right behind you.” Because for all that Milo doesn’t want to leave him alone, he also doesn’t want to have to deal with his truck getting towed.

A few impossibly long minutes later, he parks in a guest spot and finds Remi standing by the door, flipping his phone anxiously in one hand.

“Can you tell me what’s goin’ on now?”

Milo nods for them to go inside, then says, “Call your brother,” once they’re on the stairs.

They’ve made it to the hallway by the time Ellis answers, but Remi keeps moving on clear autopilot until the door to his apartment closes behind them, still ramrod straight and composed, nothing more than little mhms coming out as Ellis talks.

“I’ll be there as soon as I can,” he says eventually. “Call me if you need me before then though.”

Then, he hangs up, long fingers shoved into his hair as he paces a few steps. He turns to face Milo, expression distant, and says, “I don’t, um…”

“You want help packin’ or you want me to order food?”

Remi shakes his head. “Don’t think I even can eat right now.”

“I know,” Milo says, taking a step closer. “But you need to. Didn’t eat this morning and I’m assuming you haven’t eaten since.”

“I have to go. I don’t have time to—”

Milo sighs and closes the gap, dragging Remi into a hug. It takes all of two seconds for him to crumple, and all Milo can think is that this is why he told him to wait. That he shouldn’t have to go through this alone.

“Start figurin’ out what all you need to take. I’ll see if there’s anything edible in the kitchen.”

He gets a nod, but Remi does let go of him until Milo backs him up to the foot of the stairs.

The contents of Remi’s pantry and fridge are, as expected, tragically sparse. There’s a bag of rice he knows they don’t have time for, and a couple of boxes of pasta but nothing to go with them. On the counter, he finds a partial loaf of bread that’s stale, but not moldy, and a jar of peanut butter in a cabinet above it that’s new; it doesn’t hold a match to what they’d planned on for dinner, but it’ll do since he knows the chances of Remi going through a drive-thru are zero.

Sandwich and a half in hand, he makes his way up to the bedroom on the second floor. Remi hasn’t packed. He isn’t packing.

Milo sighs as he fits himself into the bathroom door beside Remi and says, “Here.”

Remi looks down, his frown visible in the bathroom mirror. “I’m not—”

“Packing? Yeah, I can see that, so eat. I can at least get you started in the meantime.”

Very likely more numb than anything, he lets Milo steer him to the foot of the bed and sits. He’s silent as Milo packs, but he does at least react when Milo suggests contacting the girl who catsits Nelson to see if she can pick him up.

“If need be, I know my aunt ‘n’ uncle’ll be happy to come get him though.”

Remi blinks at him, clearly processing something. “You’re coming?”

“’M not leaving you to deal with this alone,” he replies softly, ignoring how presumptuous the entire thing is.

He gets no argument, though, and for the tense four hours it takes them to get to the hospital, Remi’s fingers remain tangled with his own. When they arrive, he squeezes Remi’s hand and pulls away, trailing him by a couple of paces on the way in. Remi must’ve texted Ellis on the way in because he steps out into the hall as they approach.

If Ellis is surprised to see Milo there, it doesn’t show in his reaction. He spares Milo a nod before he explains everything the doctors have said so far. It’s not good; if Milo understands it all correctly, both of their parents are essentially all but dead. Kept alive by machines long enough for Remi to get there.

Sighing loudly, Remi shoves a hand through his hair and looks to Milo before he follows Ellis into the room. Milo stays in the hall. Several minutes later, a doctor and a couple of other hospital staff walk in. For a long time after that, it’s quiet. Well, not quite — there are plenty of muffled sounds from inside the room, but the hall is quiet. By some small miracle, there’s a vending machine down the hall that only contains various forms of caffeine. Milo swipes his card and smashes a button at random.

He waits. The medical staff leaves, and then eventually, Remi, Ellis, and Chloe file out. Milo follows them outside, still trailing a couple of paces behind them, which isn’t hard since they’re a matched set of long limbs and perfect posture. To his surprise, Remi looks for him with a faintly panicked expression when they stop further down the sidewalk; Milo isn’t sure what to make of it, and he certainly isn’t going to ask, but he moves in closer.

As soon as he steps up, Chloe says, “I think I’m going to go back to my place tonight. I’ll see you two at the house in the morning?”

Remi and Ellis give matching tired confirmations, which seem to be all she requires to leave.

When she’s out of earshot, Ellis says, “Someone oughta tell her there’s no one left to give a shit about her living in sin.”

“Ellis,” Remi snaps.

It’s more reflex than anything, Milo thinks, but he still winces on Ellis’s behalf.

“Yeah.” Ellis exhales a sigh and drags a hand over his face. “I’ll see y’all there?”

Remi nods and nudges Milo toward the car with the faintest of touches at the small of his back. The car ride is, if anything, even more silent than the drive down, and when they pull up at the house, they’re greeted by nothing more than a few lights left on despite Ellis’s comment. Both bags slung over his shoulder, Milo follows Remi up to the top floor. They pass a closed door, only a faint strip of light visible underneath.

When they reach the last door, Remi opens it almost brusquely and flips a switch inside without looking. The air in the bedroom is stale, but Milo is drawn inside nonetheless by the contents. It’s like a strange sort of memorial for someone he never met, the walls proudly displaying trophies and awards in a way that feels wholly incongruous with Remi at all. Milo isn’t sure when that perception changed — when he realized Remington Abernathy is not at all the self-centered, egotistical thing Milo thought he was — but he knows now isn’t anywhere near the right time to think about it.

Softly, he says, “Hey.”

Remi flicks a glance up at him from where he sits on the edge of the bed before his gaze goes distant and unfocused again.

“What do you need?”

He shakes his head, clearly not even processing the question.

Milo lets both bags slide to the floor so he can push his way into the space between Remi’s knees, looping both arms around his shoulders to pull him close. His throat’s too dry for the words to come out right, but not saying them would be worse so he forces out a rough, “I love you.”

Remi exhales sharply, straightening to meet Milo’s eyes.

“I know I haven’t, um— I’m sorry, I should’ve said it before now and hopefully you knew, but—”

All at once, Remi’s arms close around him, his fingers digging into Milo’s sides as he’s pulled into Remi’s lap. Milo mumbles another apology, this one muffled by Remi’s shoulder. It’s a long time before Remi lets go, silent sobs giving way under the weight of exhaustion. He presses a kiss to Remi’s forehead, then carefully stands, his legs numb from so long in one position. Wordlessly, they strip to underwear. Milo turns off the light and blindly picks his way across the room; the full-sized bed barely seems like enough space for Remi, but they end up fitted together in a tangle of limbs, no real space between them. Somehow, like that, they sleep.

***

Milo doesn’t have to check the time to know it can’t be much later than five in the morning. He isn’t even entirely sure where his phone is, but it’s certainly out of reach from the cage of sharp joints keeping him trapped against Remi’s chest. As much as he doesn’t want to wake Remi up, his bladder has more pressing priorities; even if that weren’t the case, he knows he’s not falling back asleep, so it’s only a matter of time before he can’t lie there anymore and he wakes Remi up anyways. Carefully, he extricates himself from Remi’s grip, his own body protesting the movement as he rolls to his feet.

In the dark, he stumbles in the vague direction he thinks he remembers the bathroom being, exhaling a quiet sigh of relief when his feet hit cold tile. Only once the door is closed does he flip the lights on. He’s immediately rewarded with his haggard reflection, and as he turns into the shared inner portion of the bathroom, Milo catches sight of a few fingertip bruises on his back from how hard Remi held onto him the night before. Between those and the fading marks on his hips and inner thighs, he’s a mottled mess of constellations mapping where Remi’s hands and mouth have been.

Except for the ones from the night before, they all feel impossibly distant now. He splashes cold water over his face like that’s going to do anything for the bags under his eyes or the feeling of gritty exhaustion. He wants a shower, or at least to brush his teeth, but either one of those means digging through bags and making noise, so they can wait. Sighing, Milo turns off the light and gives his eyes a couple of seconds to adjust before he opens the bathroom door.

He thanks whoever built the house for their choice of carpet as he pads across the bedroom, retrieving his phone from his pocket and pulling out clothes from the bag of things he’d brought from Remi’s apartment. Somehow, Remi sleeps through it, and Milo has no intentions of waking him as much as he doesn’t want to deal with whatever might be waiting downstairs on his own. Maybe he can at least get the inevitable tension his presence will cause out of the way before Remi wakes up. Ideally, he can at least get a cup of coffee first. He doesn’t even care if it’s good; he just desperately needs caffeine in his bloodstream before he has to deal with anything else.

By some small miracle, he finds the kitchen empty and coffee in the pot. He finds a mug in the same spot he’d expect to at Remi’s — in the cabinet over the imposing monster of a coffee maker and the equally expensive-looking microwave — and fills it as far as he dares before rounding the counter to drop into the nearest chair on the other side. It takes a few sips before Milo can make himself check his messages. He’s made it as far as staring at the group message with his grandmother, uncle, and aunt when a door opens behind him.

“Well shit,” Ellis mutters under his breath. “Didn’t think anyone else’d be up for a while.”

“Yeah, unfortunate force of habit.”

Ellis huffs a quiet laugh. “Tell me about it. Don’t think I can sleep in even if I want to. Makes drinking a real fuckin’ blast.”

He hums a vague acknowledgment as he takes another sip of his coffee, then realizes he’s only just technically not a stranger sitting in the kitchen this guy grew up in. Awkwardly, he says, “Sorry, last night, introductions didn’t really seem like— I’m uh—”

“I know exactly who you are,” Ellis says, giving him a knowing half-smile as he passes on his way to the coffee pot.

“Oh. Wait, you mean like—”

“I mean like I know there won’t be a Mrs. Richard Abernathy the Third.” He finishes pouring another cup of coffee, then leans against the counter to look at Milo.

Unsure of what to say to that, Milo just replies, “Oh.” Then, frowning, “How long have you known?”

Ellis is bigger than Remi, broader, if not taller, but there’s no denying they’re cut from the same cloth. Especially when he blows out a breath, shoves a hand into his hair, and says, “I mean I wondered, but he finally told me a while back. Right after you left his ass, not that he told me that until a little later. He came back from his little vacation ‘n’ said he had a problem. Didn’t mean the fact that his diet had been equal parts champagne and cocaine for a good half a decade, either. That would’ve been too easy, I guess. Said he was gay and sounded so upset about it, I asked what pussy ever did to him. And he said—”

“Nothin’. Like pussy just fine, depending on who it’s attached to.” Remi’s voice sounds like gravel, which would be hot if he didn’t look terrible as he steps into the bright lights of the kitchen, hair wet like he just came from the shower but his eyes red.

Milo catches himself halfway through reaching for him, freezing with his eyes on Ellis who rolls his eyes.

Remi crosses the few feet to where he sits, though, pressing his mouth to the side of Milo’s head as he whispers, “Sorry. Didn’t think… He’s the only one who knows though.”

“’S ok,” Milo mumbles. He isn’t sure if he can say he’s surprised that he isn’t upset, but given everything, Ellis knowing is the least of his worries, especially since he doesn’t seem to care.

“At the time, it didn’t make much sense to me how that all…” Ellis clears his throat with a cough. “But anyways, yeah, Three finally told Mom and Dad a year or so ago, after the whole faith incident.”

That is a surprise. Milo gives Remi a questioning look; he’d never asked, and Remi certainly hadn’t brought it up.

Jaw tight, Remi sucks in a breath. “I’ll tell you the whole thing later if you want.”

Milo just nods; his curiosity can wait, especially since Ellis’s tone implied more of a story than his actual words. He turns reflexively, not even thinking about it until Remi kisses him like it’s nothing. When they part, he says, “You want coffee?”

“Yeah, but I can get it.” Before Milo can try to argue, Remi looks to Ellis and says, “You have cigarettes or did you quit for real this time?”

Ellis shakes his head and holds up the mostly empty plastic water bottle next to his coffee mug, a half-inch of dip spit sloshing around the inside. “Didn’t feel like gettin’ another earful from Chloe Grace.”

“I thought you’d quit?” Milo murmurs, one eyebrow raised.

“Think you’d’ve noticed if I hadn’t. Doesn’t mean I wouldn’t take one right now though.”

He hums an acknowledgment, using the lull to stand and maneuver Remi into his seat. Remi blinks at him and huffs, but he doesn’t even try to argue. Instead, he and Ellis seem to silently agree to confront the other elephant in the room head-on and start discussing their strategy for dealing with the rest of the day before Milo can even pour another cup of coffee and pass it to Remi.

Feeling more out of place than he did even the night before, Milo quickly drains the last of his mug and says, “I’m not gonna be in anyone’s way if I go shower, right?”

Like a pair of deer in headlights, they both stare at him for a long second. Remi manages an intelligent “Uhhh, no?” only slightly before Ellis says, “Go for it. Should be towels in the cabinet.”

“Ok, cool. Thanks,” Milo says, awkwardly ducking around the corner before he can make things any weirder.

As much as Milo intends to be quick, the heat and quiet render him unable to do much more than stand there even once the guilt starts to creep in. Eventually, he makes himself shut the water off. His stomach growls as he steps onto the bath mat, but something tells him food is a ways off.

Once he’s dressed again, Milo opens the bedroom door to the sound of voices downstairs. Remi and Ellis he expects, if not at this volume, but he gets his explanation a fraction of a second later when a woman’s voice snaps, “Well it’s not up to you!”

Milo mutters a curse to himself and hurries downstairs, reaching the ground floor just as a door slams. He stops in his tracks; he’d bet everything he has that that was Remi, and as unenthusiastic as he was about walking into whatever was happening before, he’s even less so now. But he also can’t stay here forever, and he doesn’t know his way around the house well enough to have confidence in his ability to make it out without being noticed.

With a slow breath, Milo reminds himself that he’s an adult and no stranger to relatives that hate each other — that hate him. At least in this case, it’s not any sort of surprise and he doesn’t really have to care. He’s here for Remi. Not them.

He’s met in the kitchen by a tight smile from Ellis. In the same seat he’d earlier occupied sits a severe-looking blonde he recognizes from the night before. She doesn’t acknowledge Milo’s entrance.

Voice pitched low, Ellis says, “Three uh, stepped out for a moment. The rest of the family should start rolling in soon. Or at least the grandparents.”

Milo just nods, unable to keep his gaze away from the back door.

Louder, Ellis says, “Speaking of arrivals, where’s Russ at?”

“He had to go into work,” Chloe replies without looking up from her phone.

“He not come check on you last night either?” Ellis asks, arms crossed over his chest.

Immediately, Chloe flushes. “No! We talked on the phone, but some of us understand that actions have consequences. I noticed the guest suite was closed up, by the way. Does that mean I should tell Aunt Sarah they can stay here?”

“Fuck no.” Ellis holds Chloe’s glare, seemingly unfazed. “Matt’s already plannin’ on staying here, and you know they don’t get along. And she’s got three little kids.”

“Exactly why she could benefit from a place with a kitchen.”

“Then we’ll get her a room at the extended stay. Tell her she can call me and I’ll give them my card info. Hell, give me ten minutes and I’ll book it for her — that’s probably easier anyways.”

“They’re your family, Ellis,” she snaps.

“Matt’s dad’s brother! He’s family too! It’s not like I invited my fraternity brothers down.”

Chloe very, very pointedly does not look at Milo, which of course, Ellis also notices.

He inhales, glances at Milo, and says, “Oh, I’m sorry. Have you not met Milo yet? I mean technically we did years ago, but—”

The back door opens and Remi steps in, his gaze landing on Milo almost immediately. Every part of his expression makes Milo want to drag him to the car and take him somewhere — anywhere — else.

Ellis says, “Three, I was just about to make the reintroduction since Chloe Grace hasn’t had the pleasure, but if you’d rather do it…?”

Tone cold and his jaw hard enough to cut diamond, Remi replies, “Chloe, Milo. Milo, my sister.”

Somewhere. Anywhere, Milo thinks, but with the apparent landmine of Chloe sitting between them, he isn’t even sure how to get across the room without setting off another round of fire. Fortunately, Chloe’s response is to scoff and walk out the other way, her phone on the way to her ear.

“Well that was fun,” Ellis says, tone dangerously bright. “Can’t wait to do that over and over again for the next week.”

“Ellis,” Remi groans. Then, he sighs and says, “How long before people start showing up?”

Ellis shrugs. “Since Miss Priss hasn’t put her phone down, I’m assuming soon. That or she’s still trying to be America’s Next Top Christian Housewife on Instagram.”

Scoffing, Remi shakes his head and makes his way fully into the kitchen. He leans against the counter opposite Ellis, then snags Milo’s wrist without looking, using it to pull him into his chest. It’s not somewhere else, but it’s better than moments before, and for the time being, Milo knows it’s probably the best they’re going to get.

***

Milo makes it to lunchtime before he can’t take it anymore.

He gets now why Remi and Ellis started discussing strategy for this shit before the sun came up; between Chloe and both sets of grandparents, once they arrive, the situation can only be called a divided struggle for power that feels like it’s only one step shy of boiling over at any given moment. He’s positive he’s missing a lot, but then he’s honestly glad no one — including Remi — seems likely to ask his opinion. How Remi is paying attention to anything, he doesn’t know, but no amount of coffee is going to help the fact that Milo’s brain is shot. He’d maybe kill for a nap, and he’s going to kill someone if he doesn’t get food soon. If nothing else, it might shift whatever power dynamics are at play enough that the yelling would maybe stop and the iron line of Remi’s back might relax a little.

But if he commits murder, the only lawyer he can even pretend to afford is sitting in the room, so instead, he waits until the next time someone calls for a break to use the restroom and steps away from his place against the wall. He props an elbow on the edge of the couch so he’s at relative ear level with Remi and Ellis and says, “Think I’ll go grab food since it seems like this might go on for a bit.”

“You don’t have to—” Remi starts quietly, but he’s quickly interrupted by his brother.

“Please. I might literally kiss you on the mouth. Beard ‘n’ all.”

Milo can’t help but laugh, scrubbing a hand over his jawline. He’d almost shaved it off the other day, but now he’s glad he didn’t. For all the surreptitious looks he’s getting as it is, he feels like it’d be worse if he had. Now, no one is being subtle about watching him. About watching all three of them.

“Any suggestions on what?”

“Not really,” Ellis says. Then, lowering his voice even further, “Not like makin’ everyone happy’s a thing around here, as I’m sure you’ve noticed.”

On his other side, Remi says, “You don’t have to.”

“I know.” Milo shifts to look at him, frowning at the pinched worry he finds, he just barely manages to tamp down the urge to reach over and try to physically smooth it out.

“I can just order something.”

“Let the man get out of this place for a bit, Three,” Ellis says. “He’s a big boy. He’ll be alright.”

Milo holds Remi’s gaze until he sighs and nods.

“I won’t be gone long,” Milo says softly.

“Think the keys are on the nightstand, and my wallet’s in the car.”

“Ok. You want anything while I’m out?”

Remi shakes his head, so Milo straightens up, twisting so his back cracks, and ducks out of the living room. It takes him a couple of minutes to leave once he’s outside, first because his brain feels like it has to reboot and then because of all the cars lining the long, narrow driveway. He has no idea where he’s going, he realizes. The one nice thing about being in Remi’s car, though, is that since it’s a hell of a lot newer and fancier than his truck, he doesn’t even have to dig his phone out to look. The car seems to know where they are and helpfully offers a list of saved addresses in the area when he pulls up the map. One jumps out — a pizza place fifteen minutes away — and Milo decides that’ll do as well as anything.

Unsurprisingly, they tell him it’ll be a minute before everything is done, so Milo runs to the gas station down the road while he waits. It’s not exactly necessary yet, but Milo figures it’s better to do it now when he’s already out than to risk it being an inconvenience later. Besides, the Shell parking lot is quieter than the pizza place, and that alone is enough of a selling point.

His return is marked by another tense silence, the majority of the room visibly, comically torn between the socially obligatory politeness and their blatant discomfort at Milo’s presence. It doesn’t stop them from getting up to eat, though, and to Milo’s amusement, Remi’s grandfather — the former politician, he thinks, not the preacher — even comments, “It’s nice the boys have such good friends.”

Remi must also hear it, because he mutters a quiet, “Don’t,” that’s followed by a sigh Milo assumes comes from Ellis.

“Fun sucker,” Ellis shoots back under his breath.

Unable to help himself, Milo says, “Well you’re not wrong.”

Remi sighs, loudly, but when Milo gets a look at him, he seems marginally less tense than before. After both sets of grandparents and Chloe declare their plans to take their meals elsewhere, he elbows Milo and says, “C’mon.”

They retreat upstairs, not to Remi’s room, but out a door on the other side of it to the balcony. Two Adirondack chairs occupy the space between the doors, a small glass table with a dead potted plant and a covered citronella candle separating them. It feels perfunctory, performative — like the space had to be furnished somehow because it existed, but Milo doubts anyone ever actually sat out here.

Now, it’s just about perfect.

Milo starts to sit, but the uncomfortable dig of his back pocket stops him. “Shit, almost forgot— Got you somethin’ else.”

The confused frown on Remi’s face is quickly replaced by something Milo can only describe as awe. He breathes a laugh, tossing the pack of cigarettes on the table and fishing out the lighter so he can sit down comfortably.

“Figure your sister already doesn’t like me, and a couple of days isn’t the same as a habit,” he says around a bite of pizza.

“Yeah well, I think I’d be worried if she did like you. As it is, I like you enough for both of us. Think Ellis is about ready to pop the question, especially if you’re gonna share those.”

Milo snorts a laugh. He certainly hadn’t expected any part of Ellis’s attitude even knowing that he and Remi were close, at least relatively, but the last thing he’s going to do is look that gift horse in the mouth. Not when the rest of Remi’s family is exactly what he anticipated based on their one past interaction and all the things Remi has said that make even more sense now.

They finish eating in a silence that’s comfortable instead of strained, one of Remi’s legs stretched out to the side so his foot bumps against Milo’s ankle. When he finishes, Remi trades his plate for the pack of cigarettes and the lighter, tearing off the plastic before he stands and moves over to the balcony railing. Milo shoves the last bite into his mouth and follows him. He plucks a cigarette from the pack like his last one was earlier, rather than over two years ago, and lights it.

The nicotine isn’t a substitute for sleep. It doesn’t fix anything. But it does help, at least for a minute. He takes a slow drag, exhales, then turns his face into Remi’s arm, forehead propped against his shoulder. After a second, Remi’s chin drops to rest on top of his head. His arm loops around Milo’s neck, and at first he thinks it’s just comfortable, but after another second he feels the telltale curl of muscle as Remi lifts his hand to his lips.

“Dick,” Milo laughs.

Voice thick with smoke, Remi replies, “If I wanted to cuddle I could do that inside.”

Milo exhales another laugh and turns his face back toward the yard below. Despite Remi’s words, he doesn’t pull away, instead passing the cigarette to his other hand and leaving his arm slung over Milo’s shoulders. Quiet settles between them again, the rhythm of this easy and familiar. As a result, he knows without looking when Remi takes his last drag, the way he lets his head tip back etched into Milo’s memory.

“Thank you,” he says softly.

“You seemed like you needed it.”

“Yeah,” Remi agrees. “But I meant for coming with me.”

“Where the fuck else would I be?”

Remi shrugs. “The lake. It’s supposed to be your birthday weekend, and instead, you’re—”

“This is a little more important. And they understand that. I texted them last night, so they know what’s going on.”

“What’s going on,” Remi echoes, tone dark.

“Do you wanna talk ab—”

“No. There’s not— I don’t even know what to say, Milo.”

“Ok. Well if you do…”

“I know.”

“Ok,” Milo says again.

The silence stretches, but it’s different this time. Remi doesn’t have to say anything for Milo to know that the inside of his head is impossibly loud. Five minutes pass, then ten. Remi’s breathing gets shaky.

“I just, um—” Remi exhales, hard, and clears his throat. “When I said— God, Milo, the last thing I said—”

“Hey, hey.” He turns, pushing into the space between Remi and the balcony railing. Intending to pull Remi in closer, Milo reaches up; just as quickly, he jerks away, not from Remi but from the still-smoldering butt dangling from his fingers.

“Shit, sorry.”

“Not your fault I wasn’t payin’ attention,” Milo mumbles around his cigarette butt, shoved back in his mouth so he can rub at the singed hairs on his arm.

Remi grunts vaguely and takes the butt from between Milo’s lips. He pops off the lid of the citronella tin and tosses both inside without covering it again, then drops into a chair. When he holds out a hand, Milo threads their fingers together without thinking and lets himself be tugged down onto one of Remi’s thighs.

“Only works because my ass isn’t nearly as bony as yours,” he mutters.

“No it is not,” Remi agrees, almost sounding like himself for a moment. “You are deceptively heavy though. Not convinced you’re not shootin’ up dark matter instead of hormones.”

“Yeah right. Because my insurance’ll cover liquid black hole.” Milo laughs. He inhales, about ready to ask… something. Not if Remi’s ok, or even if he wants to talk about it again, but it felt like they were on the verge of some conversation before he literally got burned by his attempt to make Remi feel better.

He exhales and slumps against Remi’s shoulder. There’s no telling how long they’ve got before someone demands Remi’s presence again, so it feels wrong to take what little bit of peace they might get away unnecessarily.

After a minute or two, Remi reaches for his arm and gently rubs a thumb over the small patch of pink skin. He mumbles, “Should’ve listened when you said I’d quit.”

Milo sighs. There’s no point in arguments like this with Remi, he’s learned. Not even that there’s no winning, but it’s actively counterproductive. Winning — in Remi’s mind — just makes it worse. So instead, he twists to press his lips to the hinge of Remi’s jaw and says, “Surprised you quit in the first place, honestly. What made you do that?”

“Faith,” Remi replies around a choked, humorless laugh.

Milo just cocks his head. In the nine-odd months they’ve been doing… whatever they’re doing, the topic hasn’t come up once. He only now realizes how odd that is, given how much Remi struggled with family expectations there before. At the time, Milo’d just been annoyed. Thought it was stupid and immature. Now, he can see the irony; the grandson of a preacher, in church every Sunday for twenty-odd years. If anything, it’s a miracle Remi’s as ok as he is.

He’s opening his mouth to say as much when Remi says, “That first year after… I was finishing up my dissertation research, and— I mean, if you thought I was bad before, you should’ve seen me then. Wasn’t joking when I said you were the only thing holdin’ me together, and yes, I know that wasn’t fair to put on you. Unfortunately, it got bad enough that my family noticed. Still not sure if I got lucky or not that only Ellis knew how bad. Some days, I think rehab might’ve been better.”

Swallowing an odd mix of old guilt and resurfaced anger, Milo turns his face into Remi’s jaw again, more to be close than anything this time.

“Instead, I got my grandparents to agree on something other than fuckin’ shit politics for the first time maybe ever, and by the time I stopped feelin’ like I’d been hit by a bus, they’d decided how to fix all my problems without me.” Remi takes a shaky breath, the arm slung around Milo’s waist tightening.

“We don’t have to talk about this right now.”

“Yeah, we do. Should’ve told you before now, but I finally had you back so I was scared, and there was just… never a good time.”

“Scared of what?” Milo asks before he can stop himself. Immediately, he regrets it for the way Remi deflates, but the question is already out. All he can do is push the hand not tangled with Remi’s into his hair to keep him close and hope that’s enough to hold him together now.

“Dunno. You already know I’m a fuckin’ coward. Can you just let me finish, please?” he half snaps when Milo opens his mouth to argue.

Milo sighs and nods.

“See, they’d decided the problem was that they’d let me have too much freedom ‘just doing school’,” Remi continues bitterly, making tiny air quotes as he says it. “Apparently I needed something to keep me on the right track, especially since I was almost done and needed to look ahead to my career. Their solution was some twenty-year-old whose family goes to my grandfather’s church. She’d never been away from her parents. Home-schooled. Even did her associate’s or whatever online.”

“Faith,” Milo spits, not even trying to hide the disgust that accompanies the awful realization of what Remi’s family had done.

“Faith,” Remi says. “And at the time, I was so angry and tired and desperate for something to change, that I thought maybe I could do it. Keep my fuckin’ nose clean, literally, and play good Christian. I was already miserable. Wouldn’t you know — it sure can get worse!”

It takes all of Milo’s self-restraint to stay anything even vaguely resembling calm, especially knowing two-thirds of the people responsible are sitting downstairs right now. Tone as even as he can manage, he says, “Go on.”

Remi’s jaw works for a minute, clenching like he’s grinding his teeth. He probably is — another one of those tiny tells Milo’s known about but hadn’t learned to interpret properly until recently. His fingers curl in Remi’s hair, tugging just enough to make him exhale.

“It’s like they knew and picked the most naive girl they could. I mean she didn’t even begin to suspect— I honestly don’t know if she ever would’ve. Shit, I didn’t even make it six months before I fucked up and forgot to put my phone on silent around her, not that she knew what the Grindr alert sounds like. And before you yell at me, I know I’m a piece of shit. I didn’t actually do anything, but…” Remi shakes his head and sighs.

“Anyways,” he continues, suddenly sounding exhausted again, “she lasted about as long as it took me to finish cleaning up my dissertation and graduate again. The whole family was supposed to go on a cruise to celebrate. She was supposed to come, sharing a room with Chloe of course, which she didn’t bat an eye at, but I couldn’t keep it up. Knew I wouldn’t be able to— I was supposed to propose. That was the actual reason they booked it. And she might’ve been… Well, it doesn’t matter. She didn’t deserve that. So I tried to break things off gently, then when that didn’t work, I tried telling her the truth. Even went so far as to tell her the kitten I got was named after my ex.”

“Shit. How’d that go?” Milo asks, leaning back to look at him.

“It didn’t. She was every bit as argumentative as you are. Difference is, not a single thing that came out of her mouth made any real sense. But she tried. Honestly, I think she wanted out of her life almost as bad as I wanted out of mine, and maybe if I was a better person, I could’ve—”

“Don’t,” Milo says, tugging at his hair again.

Remi huffs and reaches for the pack of cigarettes, catching one in his mouth and lighting it with his free hand. He takes a long, slow drag, eyes closing, then offers it to Milo as he blows smoke at the ceiling.

Milo takes it and waits for Remi to continue.

“I at least managed to talk her out of coming on the cruise, because that would’ve been even more of a fucking shitshow.”

Despite everything, hearing the words fucking shitshow come out of Remi’s mouth startles a laugh out of Milo, smoke shooting out of his nostrils. He coughs and passes the cigarette back to Remi. “So that was the end of it?”

Remi shakes his head. “After I got back, she wanted to talk about how we were gonna move past this. So I told her I fucked more strangers on the boat than there were days, which is exactly what I said I was going to do.”

“Huh. How’d you manage that?” Milo asks, not even because he wants to know but because it’s so much safer than what he wants to say about her, Remi’s family, and the entire situation right now.

Remi glances at him as he takes another drag and says, “Married couple thought I seemed fun.”

“Joke’s on them.”

“Yeah,” Remi agrees with a weak laugh. “But after that, she decided she couldn’t handle someone so disgusting and packed up the room she was renting from some girl at UAB and moved home.”

From several feet away, Ellis says, “Yeah, with a nice chunk of change from mom ‘n’ dad.”

Milo and Remi both shift to stare at him at the same time. He didn’t even hear the door open, and judging by the flush rapidly blooming across every visible inch of skin above Remi’s collar, he didn’t either. Reflexively, Milo starts to stand, but Ellis waves him off.

“You move and where’m I supposed to go? Because I’m sure as fuck not sitting in his lap,” he says, smiling as he drops into the other chair.

Slowly, Remi relaxes. He nudges the pack toward Ellis, waiting until he sets the lighter back down to say, “You wanna expand on that?”

“Not really,” Ellis says around a mouthful of smoke. “Found out after the holidays that they’d paid her to keep her mouth shut, but I figured tellin’ you’d just make things worse.”

“What happened then?” Milo asks softly. He remembers seeing Remi just after New Year’s — his tired resignation — and is as positive as he can be that the answer isn’t going to be good.

Ellis’s expression is immediate confirmation, but nothing could prepare Milo for what Remi says next.

“I told them everything. I told them I’d genuinely, seriously rather die than keep living like that, to which they said God didn’t approve of suicide any more than he did my other behaviors and that if I intended to live a life of unrepentant sin, I wasn’t welcome in their house anymore. So I said fine and left. Drove back to Birmingham. And then I ran into you. And do you know what thought’s kept going through my head since?”

“That they’re assholes? Sorry, too soon.”

“No,” Ellis says.

“No,” Remi agrees, “you’re not wrong. But I’m just as bad, and I keep thinking that no matter how much I’ve changed, no matter how much better I try to be, maybe you were right back then. When you said I was always going to be a selfish piece of shit.”

“You’re not,” Milo says softly.

“You sure about that? Because I’m pretty sure there’s no defending—”

“You were trying to be a good son, and it’s not like you weren’t honest with her. The whole thing was a fucked up situation. I’m not sure there was a good way to handle it. Yeah, you did some shit that isn’t great, but you know that already. I mean there’s maybe another conversation to be had about uh—” he clears his throat pointedly, “—but I don’t think your brother wants to hear that.”

Ellis says, “If it’s about all the shit he did on the boat, I already heard more about it one night when he was drunk and crying about you than I ever needed to.”

“You invited yourself, then and now,” Remi replies.

“Yeah well, Russ is here, so I figured I’d come warn y’all. Next time I’ll just let you find out for yourself.”

“What’s his deal?” Milo asks quickly.

Remi makes an annoyed sound that Milo can feel where they’re pressed together, but that seems to be the only answer he’s going to give so Milo looks to Ellis.

“He’s everything our parents would’ve picked. Blindly-conservative, Christian, political hopeful. Unfortunately, our granddad loves him, which means he has a chance. And since Chloe Grace knows, if not quite as explicitly as I do—”

Milo is jostled suddenly as Remi kicks at him, the top of his foot connecting with the inside of Ellis’s calf.

“Ow, dick!” Ellis laughs and rubs his leg. “See, that’s what’s gonna keep you off the bench, Three. Not your insatiable thirst for— Don’t you dare do it again! I’ll kick back.”

“Y’know, sometimes I regret not getting the experience of being a teenage boy, but y’all’re giving me a nice concentrated dose right now, so thanks,” Milo says, standing and quickly taking a couple of steps out of the potential line of fire. He can only laugh at the look they both give him, though — equal parts stunned and sheepish. Then, he looks at Remi and says, “Hey you’re the lawyer. Since the state’s determined to classify me as a woman, does that give me a pass if I fight your sister for holding the threat of outing you to her shitbag boyfriend over your head?”

Ellis laughs, clearly shocked, but Remi’s used to these kinds of questions from Milo by now so he just sighs, his expression fond, and shakes his head.

“No fighting anyone. Please. That goes for you too.” Remi looks pointedly at Ellis as he stands. “We just… have to get through this. Preferably without a courtroom involved.”

***

Sunday morning, they get a couple of hours of relative peace and quiet, but it comes at a cost. They aren’t the only ones who skip church. No one staying in the house goes; Ellis somehow manages to talk his way out of it, and as far as Milo can tell, no one even asks their uncle to go, but their absence is undeniably a topic of conversation, not that anyone challenges it outright.

It’s exhausting.

By the time the two sets of grandparents make a temporary retreat in their crusade to get Remi and Ellis — who Milo learns was named executor after everything — to bend to their will just before lunchtime on Monday, Milo isn’t sure how anyone could live in a place like this. He may not have much to show for family, and for good reason, but he’ll take his over Remi’s any day.

Ellis says something about needing to take a look at some stuff for work, so Milo follows Remi upstairs. At first, Milo expects Remi to go back out on the deck, but instead, he pulls Milo into the room across the hall from the bedroom. It’s a door Milo hasn’t opened yet, although there are a few of those since this is the first real downtime they’ve gotten where any sort of exploration might be possible. He’s simultaneously surprised and not to see that it’s another, smaller living room.

Slipping back into habit, he drops onto the couch beside Remi. It’s markedly older than the one downstairs, but still nicer than the one in his apartment. As much as Milo wants to comment on that disparity, he keeps the thought to himself because every part of the space feels quieter than the living room downstairs. Like he can finally breathe without worrying it might set off another round of tense back and forth.

Beside him, Remi makes a vague, stressed little noise.

“Hm?”

Remi sighs, his head tipping back against the couch. “So much to get done in a week.”

“Yeah. And I think I’m out of underwear. Not to mention, the shit I had in a bag at your place definitely didn’t include anything more formal’n this,” he says with a nod at his jeans and t-shirt.

He noticed the disparity from the time people started arriving on Saturday, and he’d even packed a wider range for Remi. Enough so that even now, he feels slightly under-dressed. Just one more thing on the ever-growing list of ways he’s not equipped for this.

“So?” Remi frowns.

“So I should probably like, run home and get some stuff? Clothes, ‘nother shot since we’re gonna be here through next weekend it sounds like… Could check on Nelson if you want.”

“He’s fine,” Remi says, too fast.

“Ok, well I still need other stuff to wear. Even if I washed everything I brought, which you’ve seen isn’t much, I definitely can’t wear any of it to the—”

“We can figure something out. No reason for you to drive all the way back up there for that.”

“Remi.” He turns toward Remi, pulling a knee onto the couch so his shin is pressed against Remi’s thigh.

“Milo, don’t,” Remi replies, voice rough. “Please.”

“It’s not like I want to, but I don’t like my chances of findin’ something that fits in a family full of beanpoles.”

“I’ll buy you another suit. I’ll buy you a whole goddamn wardrobe if it means you don’t go back. I don’t give a shit. Just don’t—” His voice cracks, blue eyes closing.

“Can we talk about this?” Milo asks softly. He straddles Remi’s lap, hoping the proximity will provide some sort of reassurance. At the very least, Remi pulls him in closer without hesitation, tucking his face into the space between Milo’s shoulder and jaw.

It takes a minute, but then Remi says, “You’re at the center of every single good thing in my life, and I can’t handle losin’ you again. Especially right now.”

Milo sighs, pushing a hand into Remi’s hair before working his other arm between his waist and the back of the couch. “I’m sorry.”

Remi’s head cocks without leaving Milo’s shoulder.

“For not… for leavin’ the way I did. And for bein’ so difficult this whole time.”

“Milo, you’re not—”

“Yeah, I am. You just… do things. Make decisions. And it’s enough to drive a man insane sometimes, but I love you for it too. ‘N’ there might’ve been a part of me that wanted this to blow up again, least at first, so I could be right for once, but it ain’t like I don’t know how this plays out. So I acted like an ass and held shit up because I just… wanted to control some part of how or when.”

“What’re you saying, Milo?” Remi asks, the question a strained whisper.

Milo turns his head so his lips are close to Remi’s ear. “I’m saying I’m not going anywhere, Rem. And I know what that means, and it’s— We’ll figure it out. Me movin’ in. You and your… out-of-town adventures, if that’s somethin’ you wanna keep doing. But I’m not leaving you again. Not now. Not as long as you want me around.”

Remi leans back as far as he can into the couch cushion to look at Milo, eyes wide and searching. He must find whatever he’s looking for, though, because in the next moment, he stretches up until Milo ducks down to meet him, the kiss hungry in a way it hasn’t been in days. If Milo’s being honest, he’s missed it.

Even now, he feels like he has to put up some sort of protest, though; “We don’t have to do anything right now.”

“I need to feel something else. At least for a little bit,” Remi says, ducking so his lips brush Milo’s neck. “Please.”

And he’s not sure how he’s supposed to argue with that. Especially not when he wants it anyways, so he doesn’t even try. Instead, Milo asks, “What do you want?”

“Pretty sure you didn’t pack for what I want in any sense of the word.”

“Probably not,” Milo agrees. When he’d left his apartment on Friday, it had been with every intention of returning to it that night. Because even up until three days ago, there were things he just sort of pointedly refused to leave in a place that wasn’t his.

“Definitely not,” he amends, because sex hadn’t been anywhere on his list of priorities when he’d been trying to get them out the door after Ellis’s call. “So what’s your second choice with that in mind?”

In reply, Remi huffs and nips at Milo’s throat, not quite hard enough to leave any sort of lasting mark. Milo lets himself melt, his hips shifting against the hardening line of Remi’s cock of their own accord. Somehow, they end up sideways on the couch, and from there, it’s astonishingly easy to get their pants shoved out of the way just far enough.

They really should’ve moved back across the hall, but when Remi bottoms out with a soft, needy little sound, the last thing Milo can fathom doing is telling him to stop so they can move. It’s all Milo can do to breathe, his body adjusting in increments around the thick weight of Remi’s cock.

“Really is— the best fucking feeling— in the whole goddamn world,” Remi says.

Each sharp thrust forces the air out of Milo’s lungs, so he just hums an agreement.

“Always so good,” Remi mumbles. It sounds like he’s just rambling until he continues, “You’re too good for me.”

That’s enough to jar Milo’s brain out of its haze. He fists a hand in Remi’s hair and pulls. “Don’t start that shit. Not with me.”

Remi whines and shudders; he nods even though it has to sting, so Milo loosens his grip and kisses him.

“You think I’d be with you if that was true?” he asks, their mouths still so close together that it comes out muffled.

Again, Remi shivers. His pace doesn’t falter, though, the squelching sound of each thrust obscene.

As soon as Milo registers it, he breathes a laugh. “You hear that? You think I’d sound like that if you weren’t doing something right? God, Remi, you are so, so good for me.”

The noise Remi makes at that is so desperate and perfect that Milo thinks he might go a little bit insane.

“Is that what you need? Me to tell you you’re a good boy?”

Remi smothers his moan against Milo’s mouth as he comes apart all at once, burying himself as deep as he can before he stills. After a couple of unsteady breaths, Remi goes boneless on top of him.

“Yeah,” Milo murmurs, wrapping one arm around Remi’s ribcage. He cards his other hand through Remi’s hair, combing it back into some semblance of order, then settles it at the nape of his neck. “There you go.”

For several minutes, it’s quiet enough that Milo wonders if Remi’s fallen asleep. That would be fine, except for the part where they’re still in a room that’s technically public, the door isn’t even closed, and there’s about to be more of a mess on the couch than there already is if he doesn’t at least put underwear on soon.

“You ok?” he asks quietly.

“I… think so? Shit, sorry, you didn’t—”

The arm around Remi’s chest tightens as Remi starts to push himself up. “I’m fine. This once, I’m telling you not to worry about me and mean it.”

“But—”

“Remi.”

Remi exhales noisily, like he wants to argue, but he nods.

He’s not sure where the line is as far as giving Remi that validation, that praise is concerned — he doesn’t know if now that it’s after instead of in the moment, it’ll be too far — so he just hums a vague approval and slides his hand down to Remi’s waist. Predictably, Remi props himself on his forearms, but he doesn’t try to move any further this time.

“You’re sure?” Remi asks, his eyes searching Milo’s face.

“Yeah. You can owe me one,” he teases. “Should probably put pants back on though.”

Grumbling, Remi lets his weight drop again. He takes a slow breath, kisses just below Milo’s jaw, and gets out of the way just long enough for Milo to pull his pants back on and to tuck himself back into his own. Then, he stretches out once more, his head pillowed on Milo’s stomach.

It’s strange, to experience Remi this explicitly needy. Milo isn’t sure if it’s the weight of his parents’ deaths, the stress of the rest of his family, or just that he’s only just now noticing it properly. There’s no arguing that it’s not understandable or justified with everything that’s happened the last few days, but Milo wishes he knew what else to do — how to fix this — because sex and sleep don’t feel like nearly enough. Sighing, he pushes his hand into Remi’s hair again and leaves it there.

Milo’s mindlessly scrolling through the same three apps on his phone with his other hand when he hears footsteps in the hall. There are only two other people in the house as far as Milo knows, and only one who’s likely to come up here. Still, he doesn’t want to add more stress to Remi’s life right now, so he taps Remi’s leg with his foot and says, “Think we’re about to have company.”

He feels the rise and fall of Remi’s sigh, but that’s the only acknowledgment Milo gets. Remi doesn’t make any effort to move, seemingly following the same train of thought Milo has but deciding it’s not an issue.

A moment later, Ellis steps into the doorway. “Hey, y’all wanna— Am I about to need therapy?”

“You already fuckin’ need therapy,” Remi mumbles.

“But it smells like ball sweat and jizz in here, so now I especially do.”

“Wasn’t me,” Milo says.

“Yeah fuckin’ right. I know my brother, Milo, and he was way too repressed and anxious to ever even dream of sex in the bonus room before you happened.”

Milo laughs, hard enough that Remi even pushes up onto his elbow to give him a questioning look.

“Sorry. It’s the uh—” he looks between them, then shakes his head. “Never mind.”

Without moving any further from where he’s still lazily sprawled on top of Milo, Remi says, “What do you want, Ellis? Because I’m assuming you didn’t come in here so I can ask you why you’re so familiar with the smell of jizz and ball sweat?”

“No. Dinner. I can’t deal with another round of everything. Not yet, at least, and you know we’re gonna have to do more of it with the uh— Anyways, I didn’t know if y’all’d wanna go get somethin’. Try to just like, chill for a bit.”

“Time’s it?”

“Only 3:45, but I’m done staring at a screen for now.”

Remi makes a vague noise in acknowledgment and says, “We’ve gotta go get him a few things. Don’t know if you’d rather meet us somewhere, or what.”

“I don’t mind either way. What all’s he need?” Ellis pauses, makes a face that’s equal parts grimace and thoughtful frown, then looks at Milo. “Sorry, not tryin’ to talk about you like you’re not right there.”

“I know,” Milo mumbles. For all this talk of plans and doing things, he’d just as soon be done for the day. He’s also not going to be the reason they don’t go, though, so he keeps the thought to himself and instead says, “Didn’t go back to my place before we came down here, so you’re lookin’ at the last of what I brought.”

“Shit, Three hasn’t even begged you to move back in yet? Because he was—” Ellis is abruptly silenced by a well-aimed pillow.

Remi gives him an unsympathetic look.

Torn between laughing again and sighing, Milo just says, “Have another month and change on my lease.”

“Matt comin’ too?” Remi asks, like the entire pillow incident never happened.

“Guess I can ask if you think I should.”

“Your call,” Remi replies. There’s an edge in his tone that Milo isn’t quite sure how to interpret — something tense and guarded.

Ellis seems to notice it too, because he says, “If I happen to see him between here and the door, I might just because I’ll feel like a dick if I don’t. Y’all ready to go now, or?”

“Sure.” Remi stands with a groan, his t-shirt riding up as he stretches.

As Milo sits up to do the same, he’s hit by the consequences of his earlier decision not to move. He swallows a groan of his own and says, “Yeah I’ll uh, meet y’all downstairs?”

Fortunately, if Ellis puts two and two together there, he keeps it to himself. With a mumbled comment about starting the car, he retreats, so Milo hurries across the hall to the bathroom to clean up enough to go out.

***

Somehow, they find a suit that fits him decently enough that the tailor says he can have it ready before Friday. Before Milo can open his mouth to protest that he doesn’t need it tailored — and definitely can’t afford it — Remi and Ellis have gracefully wrestled him out of the way and paid for it. He isn’t sure which one of them is technically guilty, and he especially isn’t sure what the correct reaction to any of this is.

They’re at the third store, the third instance, before Milo finds himself struck by how impossibly normal the whole thing feels in between the jarring moments where he finds himself both on the outside and included at the same time. They’ve obviously done this a million times; there is no argument over finances or who owes who between them. It means there’s also no good way for Milo to protest, though, and as the realization dawns that he’s barely even done anything like this with Remi, he finds himself spiraling a little.

Errands done, they somehow end up seated at a table in a Baumhowers. It’s not the first place Milo would’ve picked, but before he can sink any further into his own anxiety, he realizes that Remi is actually relaxed beside him — for the first time since before the accident — and from a glance across the table, Ellis also seems less strained as far as Milo can tell. Once the waitress leaves with their drink order, Milo bumps his shoulder against Remi’s to get his attention.

For just a moment, Remi presses his mouth to Milo’s arm. It’s not a kiss, but it’s also not something that could be written off as anything other than intimate so Milo takes a risk and squeezes his thigh under the table. Remi doesn’t shake his hand off, but he does straighten with a sigh.

Milo looks to Ellis and says, “Is it fair to assume you’re just as emotionally fucked up as your brother and gonna say you’re fine if I ask?”

An entire commercial break starts and ends in the time Ellis spends silently staring at Milo. Milo’s about to tell him to forget it when the waitress returns, exchanging alcohol for a food order none of them are ready for.

“Y’know,” Ellis starts, eyeing Remi over the top of his beer, “I almost thought you were onto somethin’, but if you’ve gotta deal with all the other bullshit and still answer questions about your feelings, I’m gonna have to change my stance. The sex can’t be worth it.”

Remi laughs — actually laughs — settling back in his seat as he shakes his head. “Speaking of, how’s Risa?”

Immediately, Ellis goes red like he’s been caught with his hand in the cookie jar.

“Who’s Risa?”

He has to wait until Ellis clears his throat and takes another long sip of beer before he answers, “She’s uh, this girl.”

“Oh, so that isn’t who I heard you talkin’ to last night?” Remi asks.

“You wanna start on hearin’ things at ni—”

“No, no, no. Don’t even try to change the subject.” Remi laughs, but his tone is serious when he continues, “You want her there this weekend?”

“I dunno.”

“Her dad still giving you shit?”

“Nah, he’s cool,” Ellis replies with an amused huff. He looks at Milo and says, “Her dad’s a contractor I work with. ‘S how I met her. But no, he uh, got over it, I guess. Like, actually. It’s weird. It’s just… I mean you know there’s not exactly a good time for introductions like that, but this feels—”

“Worse,” Remi says.

Ellis nods. “Yeah.”

“Yeah.” With a loud sigh, Remi looks at Milo.

“I know I’m probably assuming a lot,” Milo says without breaking eye contact, “but unless you don’t want her there, maybe she should get the option? Comes down to whose feelings you care more about, I guess, but…”

Under the table, Remi’s knuckles brush his. “Milo’s right.”

“I’m sorry,” Milo says, straightening in his seat, “can you say that again?”

Remi breathes a laugh and knocks their knees together. “No.”

“Course not,” Milo mutters.

“Ok, fine. Y’all made your point,” Ellis says

They both face forward again, expressions questioning.

“If I wanna be gross and happy instead of whatever he was doing for three years while you were gone, I should ask her to come. Message received. Now pretend you hate each other for the next half hour. Some of us want to eat our food,” Ellis continues, teasing.

Milo bites back a smile. It feels wrong, given the circumstances, but a part of him can’t help but be glad they ended up here, and he thinks — just maybe — that he’s not alone in that.

***

He catches Remi’s eye as he ducks into the bathroom. There’s no guarantee he’ll follow — that he’ll be able to get away easily — but this is the last moment of relative quiet they’re going to get until the reception is over, so Milo can’t not try.

He straightens his tie. Adjusts his sleeves. He’s in the middle of checking his teeth when the door squeaks open behind him.

“What’s up?”

“Hey,” Milo says, turning. “You alright?”

“If I say no again, you gonna let me—”

Milo sucks in a breath, the combined feeling of Remi’s fingers digging into his ass and his lips on the curve of Milo’s ear wreaking havoc on his focus. He’s pretty sure his tone gives him away even as he tries to protest; “We’re in a church bathroom, not even for anything fun, and I’m still sore.”

“I know,” Remi says, suddenly far too somber. “I’m sorry. I just… let me pretend for a second.”

Sighing, Milo hooks a finger in Remi’s tie and pulls him in for a kiss — not the filthy distraction he knows Remi wants, but something more honest. Reassuring, he hopes. Either way, Remi sinks into it, folding in against Milo’s chest.

“Get through this, then we can do whatever you want,” Milo promises, looping both arms around Remi’s waist. “And you aren’t in there alone. Ellis’ll be right there with you, and—”

“Milo, please.” Remi’s voice was already rough, but it cracks halfway through the please and Milo breaks a little with it.

His arms tighten around Remi as if he can somehow physically hold him together. Quietly, he says, “You know there’s no explaining that away, and it’s not just gonna be Russ in there to worry about.”

“I don’t care,” Remi grits out.

Now, Milo thinks, but what about later? He sighs and says, “Ok. Actual service, I’ll sit with y’all if you’re sure, and I won’t ever be far, ok?”

Remi nods, his face pressed into the curve between Milo’s neck and shoulder.

After one complete, shuddery breath, Milo smooths a hand over Remi’s back and murmurs, “We should probably get out there. People’ll be gettin’ here soon if they’re not already.”

He gets another small nod in response, and then Remi straightens, the same horrible, composed mask Milo once thought was real dropping into place. Of course, Remi doesn’t say anything as he steps away, fixes his tie in the mirror, and turns toward the door, but Milo can’t let him go just like that.

“Hey,” he says softly.

Remi looks back at him, mask faltering.

“I love you. They can’t take that away.”

As quickly as he’d pulled himself together, Remi turns back into himself; Milo huffs from the impact as his back hits the wall, the sound swallowed up as Remi kisses him hard. It’s only a momentary thing. A brief second before Milo watches him disappear again. He silently hopes that it’ll be enough to get Remi through this.

For better or worse, the lack of a wake means there isn’t much mingling beforehand. Milo finds himself seated in a pew at the front between Remi and Risa. With Ellis and Chloe on either side of the three of them like bookends and Russ at the far end, Milo’s presence can only be interpreted one way. He spends more time thinking about that than he does paying attention to the service, not that he’d ever admit it. That, and the last funeral he attended: his grandfather’s. He hadn’t thought much of it at the time, but there wasn’t any question then; Remi had come without Milo asking and sat there in the tiny old church pressed against Milo’s side like there was nowhere else he could be.

The realization is still echoing inside Milo’s skull — his attention split between trying to be pleasant to whatever stranger is in front of him and keeping an eye on Remi — when he sees the word take shape on Remi’s lips the first time. Just like that, his thoughts go quiet.

Milo says, “Would you excuse me?” and steps around the woman without waiting for a response. He quickly picks through the handful of people between him and Remi, the whole time questioning whether or not he’d actually just seen that when it happens again.

“—my husband,” Remi growls, still hushed but far less ambiguous this time.

The woman standing in front of him recoils slightly, her arms crossing over her chest.

Before Milo can figure out how to handle whatever this is, Remi catches sight of him. He drapes an arm over Milo’s shoulder, a mumbled, “You couldn’t’ve had more perfect timing,” in Milo’s ear the closest thing to an explanation he gets before Remi turns back to the woman and says, “Faith, this is Milo.”

He fights to keep his expression neutral and his posture relaxed. Whatever his reaction, it can’t be worse than Faith’s; her eyes go wide then narrow then wide again, her lips twitching around unspoken words. Her expression settles on something defensive and angry, not nearly controlled enough to be called cool. How she’d hoped to keep up with Remi, Milo can’t begin to wonder.

When she doesn’t say anything, Milo forces his throat to unstick and manages a neutral, “Thank you for coming.”

Faith scoffs.

“Your mom here? She and I need to have a word,” Remi says.

“I’m not done—” she starts to protest.

“Trust me,” Milo interrupts, “it’s better for you if you are.”

“Never mind, found her,” Remi mutters, almost as if he hadn’t heard Faith at all. He tugs Milo with him as he makes his way toward a severe-looking woman who reminds Milo in some strange way of his own mother.

For all Remi doesn’t seem to register anything other than the target of his single-minded focus, Milo can’t help but notice the attention he attracts — that both of them attract — as they make their way across the room.

If there’s a single set of eyes not on them when Remi smiles, beautiful and dangerous, and says, “Beth Ann, so good of you to make the trip,” it’s a miracle.

Beth Ann’s smile is subtly patronizing, but there’s nothing subtle about the way she pulls Remi in for a hug and whispers, “We need to talk.”

It makes Milo’s blood run cold and his pulse go into overdrive, but Remi’s expression doesn’t waver.

Still smiling, he says, “You really didn’t need to come all this way.”

“Oh, Richard, of course I did. After all, your parents were so good to us.”

The words are poison-laced honey, but Milo would only be able to guess at how they land if not for the way Remi’s fist clenches in the back of Milo’s jacket; it’s the only outward indication that slips through.

Unfortunately, like a shark scenting blood, Beth Ann seems to realize Milo’s there in that same moment. “Well, Richard, who’s your friend? I certainly don’t remember this young man from any of your photos from school.”

All of Milo’s self-restraint goes into not telling her that it’s because the only pictures Remi kept of him back then were carefully-cropped nudes, just to see what her face would do. It’s not worth it, and certainly not his to tell. Especially not here. It doesn’t matter that most of their observers have gone back to trying to mind their own business.

Remi doesn’t miss a beat, though. “Of course, I almost forgot y’all haven’t had the pleasure. Beth Ann, this is Milo. Milo, this is Beth Ann. You remember, the one who tried to sell her—”

“Hunting cabin. I almost sold my late husband’s hunting cabin to Richard’s brother after he passed.”

“I didn’t realize Ellis even liked huntin’. You decided to keep it?” Milo asks, his tone as innocent as he can make it.

For a fraction of a second, her expression sours.

“Not exactly,” she says. Her eyes are pointedly fixed on Milo when she continues, “Richard, I wonder if we might go somewhere and talk? Privately.”

“I wish I could, but I’m not sure now is the best time. Maybe we could set something up for oh… I don’t know, maybe never?” Remi replies, unfalteringly, bitingly pleasant.

“Oh, I think you know how important it was to your parents that we do.”

The pleasantry dries up in an instant. Tone ice cold, Remi says, “My parents are dead, Beth Ann.”

“And I’m terribly sorry for that,” she continues, either oblivious to the danger or thinking herself impervious to it, “but I’m sure you understand the burden of being the eldest child, especially the eldest son, is that you’re expected to carry out their wishes and see to their commitments even after they’ve passed.”

“I’m sorry, Beth Ann, but if you have concerns about my parents’ affairs, you’re going to need to talk to Ellis.” Remi scans the room and catches his brother’s eye, waving him over.

“No, my business is with you,” she insists.

Milo only half listens while he watches Ellis pick his way through the crowd. He’s distantly aware of Beth Ann making some thinly-veiled comment about legacies and heirs as Ellis steps up on Remi’s other side.

“You want the heir to the Abernathy family and the executor of my parents’ will, here he is.”

Ellis’s tone has none of Remi’s false brightness as he says, “Mrs. Summitt. Didn’t realize you were comin’.”

“I thought it was best that I… pay my respects in person.”

“Well, consider them paid,” Ellis replies flatly. “Have a pleasant drive home. Three, Carol Phipps was just saying she hadn’t gotten to talk to you yet if you want to go say hi. She should still be over by the water cooler.”

Milo has every intention of taking the opening, and Remi seems ready to do the same, but Beth Ann says, “Just one moment, boys. I think there’s something you’re forgetting.”

Remi bristles beside him, his fingers tightening in Milo’s jacket again as much at Beth Ann’s tone as at Faith’s sudden appearance next to her mother.

“I think you’re the one forgetting something, Mrs. Summitt. Starts with an N and rhymes with non-disclosure? Oh, wait…” Ellis says, crossing his arms over his chest.

“And I think you’ll find that since that agreement was with your parents—”

Remi laughs, literally laughs, the sound of it cruel but his expression pitying. “It’s still good, but if you want to test it, go right ahead. I’m sure I can find the time to take you to court for every single penny you’ll ever see. Get Milo a house and a puppy, maybe another house on a lake or a beach or something with it. How’s that sound, Beth Ann?”

After who knows how many tense, silent seconds, Milo startles when Ellis’s hand settles on his shoulder.

“You wanna take him to get some air? I’ll wrap this up.”

With a nod, Milo steps away from Ellis, mirroring his position as he rests a hand on Remi’s shoulder and leans in to whisper, “Come with me.”

Remi’s gaze doesn’t leave Beth Ann, but he gives his own faint nod and goes subtly pliant against Milo’s chest.

He leads Remi across the room. Down the hall. Through the lobby. Out of the building. Milo slows on the sidewalk — hadn’t planned on going any further; he just wanted out of there — but Remi keeps walking until they reach the car.

“You’re fuckin’ with me, right?” Milo asks under his breath when Remi opens the back door.

“You’re the one who brought me out here,” Remi counters.

Milo huffs and shakes his head. “Yeah, because you—” He shakes his head again. Now’s not the time to get into exactly what Remi did, as much as Milo wants an explanation. “Things seemed a little tense, and Ellis said he’d deal with her.”

“He might be able to talk her out of there, but he can’t deal with dealin’ with her.”

For a moment, Milo just watches Remi — the tension in his jaw and shoulders, the rapid, almost frantic rise and fall of his breathing. This is Remi asking for help. Admitting he needs it, even if his methods could use work. That’s also not an issue for right now, though.

Milo exhales a laugh and nods toward the back seat. There’s no way this is going to go well. Remi is too tall and he’s too broad for it to be comfortable, but the alternative is going back inside. He takes exactly one second to burn the image of Remi draped across the leather into his mind, then follows him in and closes the door.

After, Remi passes him a pack of cigarettes. It’s not the one Milo bought, but he keeps the thought to himself as he takes one and lights it, tobacco mingling with the taste of Remi on his tongue.

“You expecting this to cover the smell?” he teases, turning his head to watch Remi’s cheeks hollow.

As he breathes a cloud of smoke, Remi shrugs. He’s quiet for a couple of minutes, but it’s easy. Comfortable. On another exhale, he says, “Actually, I was thinkin’ we could get out of here instead.”

“Out of here? And go where?”

“Home? The beach?” Remi shrugs again, his expression going shy in a way Milo recognizes like the back of his hand.

That’s probably why when he opens his mouth, what comes out is, “Probably shouldn’t just leave tonight, but the beach is back near the house. Shit, I haven’t been in… I don’t even know. You ever see those pictures?”

With a funny little smile that Milo knows means he’s caught Remi off guard, he replies, “No, I never even—”

“What, you’re tellin’ me that in all this time, the thought of me in a bikini never crossed your mind?” Milo teases.

“Not once,” Remi laughs. “Plenty of others, though.”

A barked laugh escapes Milo’s throat, sending smoke streaming toward the evening sky. “C’mon. You driving or am I?”

“I can, unless you know where we’re goin’?”

“Nope,” Milo replies, grinding his cigarette butt against the pavement with his shoe.

***

The place Remi takes them to is quiet, away from the better-known spots that would be inhabited by tourists even now. A few steps into the sand, his shoes off and his pants carefully rolled up, he slips his hand into Milo’s and tugs him closer to the incoming tide.

“You ok?” Milo asks when they finally stop, just a couple of feet from the water’s edge.

“Yeah,” Remi replies, uncertainty creeping into his tone. “Are you?”

Slowly, Milo exhales, considering his answer. “Think so. You wanna talk about earlier?”

“What, you mean Beth Ann’s threats?”

“Those. What you said.” Milo shrugs.

“About taking her to court? You think I went too far?”

“Didn’t say that. Not what I was referring to, though.”

“Then what— Oh.” Remi’s gaze turns toward the waves.

Milo takes another breath, making sure it’s true before he says, “Because I’m not… mad. I mean some people, you have to get to the extreme end to make ‘em stop. You maybe could’ve said something beforehand, though.”

“I meant to…” His eyes drop to their hands where they’re laced together, lingering as he continues, “Was gonna wait until the weekend so it wasn’t like for your birthday, just in case. “

“Wait for—” Milo starts to ask. Then, it hits him. “Oh.”

“Yeah, oh,” Remi echoes with a laugh. “We sound like a couple of parrots or something.”

“’Just in case’ what? You think I was gonna say no or somethin’?”

“You already left my ass once. Are you telling me you wouldn’t at least say you had to think about it? Let me stew for a few days?” Remi asks in reply.

Milo smiles. He might have, but that was different. That was before today. “Depends.”

“On?”

“Are you askin’?”

For a long moment, Remi just stares at him like he’s searching for something. Eventually, he swallows and says, “I know I’m not… easy, exactly. To deal with. And I know it’s probably not gonna get any easier, or ever be normal or anything like what you deserve, but—”

“Yes.”

“What?” Remi croaks, disbelief written across his face.

It may be stupid, and there’s not a snowball’s chance in hell it’s going to be easy, Milo knows, but he also can’t imagine any other answer. He twists into Remi’s side, chin tilted up to meet the familiar blue of his eyes, and replies, “I’m saying yes.”

The hungry, claiming crush of Remi’s mouth against his own is something Milo expects, but it’s all the better for it. When they part, he’s predictably breathless and Remi’s pupils are blown wide. Milo smiles and kisses him again as the tide reaches their feet, just because he can.

“Um, I mean, I will if you want me to, but just so you know, I didn’t get a ring? Wasn’t sure if you’d want one, and I kind of figured…” Remi trails off, soft and shy again.

“What?”

“I mean, the money’s there, especially now, but I wondered if you’d rather use it for uh…”

“Spit it out, Dick,” Milo says, his forced-flat tone at odds with the smile he has no chance of controlling.

Remi breathes a laugh. “That’s it, actually.”

“Wait, are you serious?”

“Yeah.” Remi’s smile is a small, hesitant thing, like he can’t help but be pleased with himself but still isn’t positive he’s done the right thing.

“How much money did they leave you?” Milo half-yells. The idea of being left anything monetary is entirely foreign to him, as is the idea of ever having that much to his name.

An arm is wrapped around his shoulders and Milo lets himself be pulled in, a smile pressed to his temple. “Technically none. They left what was my part to be donated to charity. Guess Ellis decided I was a charity case. I can’t think of anything they’d hate more, so from where I’m standing, it seems like the perfect option.”

His face pressed to Remi’s shoulder, Milo hums noncommittally. “Not sure how I’m supposed to feel about that,” he mumbles after another minute.

“You’re a fan. It’s definitely in line with the established precedent of Milo Nelson. I checked.”

“Is that so?” Milo laughs.

Remi nods.

He presses a kiss to the hinge of Remi’s jaw and lets himself be in awe of the fact that somehow, he gets to have this.

“At the risk of seemin’ like an asshole for cutting the moment short,” Remi starts.

Milo pulls back to look at him, one eyebrow raised.

“I just remembered we gave Ellis a ride and left him there, and my phone’s in the car.”

“Oh shit.” Milo laughs again, letting his fingers tangle with Remi’s as the arm around his shoulders drops.

“Yeah. He’ll get over it. Probably.”

They make their way back to the car in the last hints of twilight, and Milo can’t help but think the day’s end feels more like the start of everything than any sort of conclusion.

Epilogue:

Home

He’s quiet. He knows he’s quiet, which is why when he looks up and isn’t alone, it startles him.

The result is a sharp cackle that devolves into softer laughter as he wipes spilled bourbon off of the edge of the glass and his hand; it laces through the muffled “sorry,” that follows, lips pressed between his shoulder blades.

He hums an acknowledgment as he downs what was left in the glass, the combination of the alcohol and the comfortable, solid bulk pressed against his back quickly bleeding the residual tension he’d hoped to escape in the first place. As he relaxes into it, an arm loops around his waist. Comfortable. Familiar.

Finally, he asks, “What’re you doing up? Was trying not to wake you.”

“You didn’t. Least, I don’t think so. Woke up, went to the bathroom… Saw the light was on. How was your flight?”

He sighs and taps the glass against the arm across his stomach.

“That great?”

“Mm.”

The responding huff is warm through his shirt. Remi slumps further into the contact; if Milo notices the added weight, he doesn’t give any sign, doesn’t budge.

“You comin’ to bed?” Milo asks after a minute.

“Want to.” And god, he wants to; even if Milo doesn’t feel like doing anything, Remi desperately wants to at least be in bed. “Need to email some shit first, though.”

Milo nods, nosing at the nape of his neck. “I’ll let you go, then,” he says, voice low, his lips ghosting over Remi’s spine in a way that could almost be considered coincidental if not for the possessive way Milo’s hand curls around his hip at the same time.

The glass is loud on the countertop as he sets it down, but it isn’t immediately followed by barking, so he doesn’t care. Remi turns in the narrow space between Milo’s body and the cabinets and ducks to meet Milo’s mouth, a hungry groan escaping as Milo fists a hand in his hair.

“Thought you had work to do?” Milo mumbles against his lips.

“It can wait.”

Milo pulls back just far enough to give him a skeptical look.

“No, it can’t. The wifi was fucked up on the plane. I should’ve already done it, but then I got home and got…”

“Sidetracked?” Milo drawls, kissing him again in a way that can’t be called anything but intentional and distracting.

He nods without breaking the kiss. He has to send the email; there’s a senior partner waiting on it, and it should’ve been sent by the time he hit cruising altitude. But for all that, in theory, this could be the thing that ends up between him and some potential future promotion, the added stress isn’t quite enough to stop him from catching Milo’s lip between his teeth. A minute or two won’t make a difference. An hour, sure, but-

Another desperate, animal sound claws out of his throat in response to the sharp pleasurepain as Milo teases one of his nipples. Remi does grab his wrist, then. He doesn’t want to. He’d much, much rather let Milo do… whatever it is that he has in mind. But, “Give me five minutes. Please—”

“You not even gonna shower?” Milo asks, his tone teasing more than anything. “Who’re you and what’d you do with the anal little shit I married?”

Despite everything, Remi exhales a laugh. “Ten? Fifteen?”

Milo huffs, and does let him go this time. He says, “If I’m asleep by the time you get there—”

“Just give me a minute,” Remi says. Whines. He’s pretty sure it comes out a whine, but it’s not his fault. To say he needs this might technically be an exaggeration, but to say he’s been looking forward to it for days, weeks, months, even wouldn’t be. And really, after the week he’s had, it’s not even an exaggeration to say he needs it.

As he pulls away, Milo rolls his eyes and smiles. It’s the first actual look Remi’s gotten since he’s been home, and the view from behind does nothing to help his focus; his eyes drag first over the broad spread of his shoulders, split down the middle by an old cutoff that has his name on the back, then to the shape of Milo’s ass where it’s pointedly framed in elastic. Milo pauses in the doorway and glances back over his shoulder, one eyebrow arched.

“What?”

“You actually gonna do your shit or are you just gonna stand there all night?”

Remi shakes his head and pushes away from the counter. “Feel like some of the assholes I work for could take lessons from you.”

Milo laughs again and turns toward the bedroom, leaving him to retreat to the office.

He lets that image loop in his mind while his laptop starts up — the curve of Milo’s ass, the cut of muscle — then wanders into the overlap of memory and fantasy. It doesn’t help that for the past few months, things have been… well, between almost two years of surgeries and revisions and healing and traveling so Milo didn’t have to deal with all of that and moving on top of Remi deciding he was very fucking done with government work, it hasn’t been easy, exactly. Not just because of the inherent stress, but because it had uncovered more buried tension.

That had been a fun fucking fight; somewhere after the first stage, while Milo had been recovering and pissing through a catheter, he’d been frustrated and made the mistake of complaining about the impending danger of his own dick falling off from neglect. It wasn’t until Milo had spat something about him spending more time in another zip code that he’d put two and two together. Never let it be said that Milo Nelson didn’t know him, though, because despite the few days of mutual snapping, it turned out Milo apparently had assumed he already was getting his elsewhere and didn’t particularly care as long as it didn’t cause other issues, especially since the physical recovery was what it was.

And that had been a load off, honestly, that Remi hadn’t even quite been aware of. He never would’ve brought it up, and he certainly wouldn’t have gone behind Milo’s back, no matter how much the year and a half that followed sucked, but explicitly given the option? Well, he’s only human, and while his life with Milo is his life, sex is more like… potassium, or something. Important, but the exact source doesn’t mean much to him.

Now, though, it’s different again.

Now, Milo’s back to normal, or the new normal. It was bad enough getting to look, to know it was there, and not be allowed to touch because it was somewhere ranging from physically painful to just numb for Milo, but now that he’s been cleared by the doctors — a model recovery, they’d said — and has feeling that’s good, it’s all Remi can think about.

Like a professional, he sends the email while still thinking about Milo’s dick. He has touched it now. Sucked it, even, which was another waiting game that made him stupid. But this is on another level. He’s been waiting for the better part of two years for Milo to put him through the mattress, and for the last few months — as soon as the end was in sight, whatever that said about him — other than the handful of instances where the stars have aligned with Milo specifically, it’s pretty much just been Remi and his hand. Toys, but they aren’t the same. He wanted to be… good. For Milo. In every way he reasonably could, which he subsequently realized equated to a marked disinterest in dealing with anyone else even in that limited, anonymous capacity.

Of course, Milo had made fun of him for it. Affectionately, Remi knows, but Milo laughed at him and called him a dumbass fucking martyr which stung, but not enough to change his mind.

And now, the end isn’t just in sight; now, the finish line is here. In the bedroom waiting for him, if he’s lucky. Not that he’s going to push, because maybe Milo’s still not feeling up to that, or maybe he’s not in the mood, but it’s close enough that he doesn’t feel bad about strongly hinting that he’d really like for Milo to fuck him until he can’t think at all. Please.

Milo is still awake when he comes into the bedroom, so Remi strips on his way into the bathroom instead of waiting until the laundry is within easy tossing distance. He smiles to himself when he feels Milo’s eyes on him, confirmed by an unnecessary glance over his shoulder that only makes his blood run hotter.

His shower is quick but thorough; there are things that need to be taken care of — things involving body wash — and things that don’t, necessarily. When he gets out, he checks the time. More than ten minutes, but less than fifteen. He’s still good. Once his mouth no longer tastes like bourbon, he makes his way back into the bedroom without even a towel.

The lamp is still on, but it takes a second for Milo to look up at him. He immediately sets his phone on the nightstand and tosses the sheet aside, exposing an equal amount of skin. Remi lets himself look — all broad muscle on display, the trail of dark hair that runs the full length of his torso, rudely cut off by the jockstrap he knows Milo only still has on to drive him a little more insane, since the tank top is gone.

Somehow, he finds himself stretched out between Milo’s legs, although he can’t say he’s surprised. He mouths up one thigh, trailing along the edge of scar tissue; muscle jumps beneath his lips, and Remi smiles and lets his teeth scrape over the pink skin.

“Tease,” Milo accuses, his voice rough.

Remi looks up to find Milo’s eyes on him, hooded and hungry. “You felt it, though?”

“Yeah, I felt it — you fuckin’ bit me!” Milo huffs and pushes a hand into Remi’s hair, but doesn’t do anything more than that, and he looks… not smug, but undeniably pleased.

And he should be; Remi certainly is as he licks right up the middle of the wide rectangle of dark pink skin. Milo exhales loudly, his legs moving far enough on either side of Remi’s ribcage that his face ends up right in the middle. It’s not exactly an invitation, but it’s close enough. He kisses a trail from the tip of Milo’s dick to his waistband through the thin layer of fabric.

“Tease,” Milo groans.

Remi breathes a laugh and adjusts his weight so he can drag the last barrier between him and what he wants out of the way. He wastes no time burying his face in the familiar smell of him, licking a second stripe from Milo’s tailbone, dipping into the wet mess of his pussy, over his balls, to the tip of his cock, slow enough that he might get some indication of what Milo’s in the mood for. At least, that was his general thought.

Instead, all he gets is a gravelly, drawn-out fuuuuck. Milo’s fingers tighten in his hair, but he still doesn’t provide any direction with it. Watching his face, Remi sucks the head into his mouth, savoring it. That gets a response; Milo’s hips jerk and reflexively, Remi relaxes to suck another few inches past his lips. Milo seems to catch himself as the tip brushes the back of Remi’s throat, seems to realize that he’s still more or less soft, but he doesn’t apologize or pull away; he just shivers and shifts a little before reaching around Remi’s jaw, the only warning before his cock fills where it rests on Remi’s tongue.

Remi groans and swallows, adjusting the angle of his jaw to accommodate the change, and then he just breathes. In. Out. In. Out. In—

With a shudder, Milo rolls his hips a couple of times, then says, “This really— Jesus Christ—” He fucks into Remi’s mouth again, a bit rougher this time.

There’s no way he already… not yet. Remi exhales, inhales, swallows as much as he can around Milo’s cock.

“This really what you want? Right now? Seriously?” Milo manages.

The question is a tricky one for multiple reasons, not the least of which is that answering — which in this case would just be him asking what Milo wants — would require stopping what he’s currently doing. Instead, he hollows out his cheeks despite the fact that he’s not sure how much of it Milo can feel. His eyes definitely work, though, and the punched-out little noise Milo makes does nice things for his ego. Stifling a grin, Remi looks up at him through his lashes. He shrugs and gives Milo a tiny nod, hoping that’ll be enough to satisfy whatever is compelling Milo to ask.

“Yeah, no,” Milo says, breathless and strained. He uses the hand in Remi’s hair to pull him off, then to urge him up the bed and into his lap, which is somewhere else Remi is entirely content to be. After some maneuvering, Milo drags him in for a kiss that’s absolutely filthy — licking the taste of himself from his mouth, Remi realizes somewhere in the back of his mind — and rolls his hips.

It’s not quite what he wants. Not quite what either of them wants, he’s rapidly concluding. But it’s close enough and he is, embarrassingly, worked up enough after so long without this that the tease of friction has him burying his face in the juncture of Milo’s neck and shoulder.

Milo lets out another amused huff and pulls him even closer, flattening Remi against his chest. It means Remi feels the shift of muscle as Milo reaches for the nightstand, that Milo feels his anticipatory shiver. His laugh is punctuated by the pop of a cap, but still there in his voice as he says, “Haven’t seen you this desperate for it in a while.”

“Yeah well, it’s—” Remi mumbles against his skin, his breath catching at the first press of Milo’s fingertips, “—been a while.”

“‘Ve you seriously not since I went in for round three?” Milo asks.

Remi shakes his head. It’s been longer than that, in reality; more like since shortly after round two, at least for this and assuming he’s right about where this is going. Other things, sure — the mouths and hands of strangers whose names he genuinely didn’t care to get — but in the brief flash of brainpower he spares the question, a voice in the back of his mind tells him Milo was the last person to have him like this.

Well, arguably Milo is the only person to have him like this since even now, he can’t quite let go enough with a—

He stifles a moan, but doesn’t fight the urge to shove himself further onto the two fingers Milo’s got in him.

“No that’s cool, I’ll wear fuckin’ turtlenecks to the gym in July.”

It takes a second for Remi to register what Milo’s talking about — his teeth dug into muscle in a spot that most definitely would not be hidden by the tank tops Milo normally wears to the gym. Remi kisses the spot apologetically, then adds, “Sorry.”

“Yeah, right,” Milo says, tone fully disbelieving, but lacking the edge of actual anger. His fingers withdraw, pulling a whine out of Remi before Milo pushes back in with three.

“I mean it’s been a while since— but you don’t have to—” Remi chokes out around the stutter of his breathing. It’s in his head more than anything, he knows, but there’s something different in his fingers and Milo’s, in fucking himself on silicone in his hotel room and the promise of-

Milo curls his fingers and Remi bites down on his shoulder again. The groan in his ear drowns out his own; for all that he might complain about bruises and bite marks, Remi is intimately familiar with the sounds of Milo, wrecked. It’s another thing he can’t get when he’s alone. Another thing no one else can provide in the same way, for all that he’s a fan of responsive partners in general. There’s something about knowing, though. About not having to question or worry or interpret.

It means he can let his brain turn off and just… exist.

“If you’re—” He chokes as another sound forces its way out, then sucks in a breath before he tries again, “If you’re hoping to fuuuu… ohfuckme—”

“Oh is that what you want?” Milo asks, the accompanying satisfied smirk so plain in his voice that Remi doesn’t have to look to know that it’s there.

A part of him wants to sink his teeth into Milo’s throat, well above what any shirt would cover, simply out of spite, but another, bigger part wants, needs this to be good for him. So he nods, shivers as Milo eases his knuckles out of his body, and clears his throat so he can maybe form actual speech. “It’s been— I mean, I’ve been uh, careful. And it’s been long enough that— If you don’t want to…”

Beneath him, Milo’s chest rises and falls slowly. “I told you you didn’t have to—”

“And I told you, you’re the priority. You’re what actually matters to me,” he interrupts, his words rough, wrecked, even to his own ears.

The fingers of Milo’s other hand drum lightly against his hip like he’s thinking, but all he says is, “I love you.” Simple, easy, almost like he’s amused by the fact that Remi was willing to give anything up for him.

Remi opens his mouth to defend himself — to point out that he agreed to marry Milo with the unspoken expectation that he was never going to fuck anyone else again and he was fine with that — but he doesn’t get the chance.

Milo says, “I can still hear you thinkin’.” Then, “Lift up for me. Not quite… sure how this is gonna go if ‘m bein’ honest.”

He pushes up onto his knees and searches for the right combination of words to reassure Milo that however it goes, it’ll be fine. There’s another sharp pop of the bottle, anticipation drowning out his thoughts. Milo reaches around him with one arm, his eyes closing, and that’s very suddenly the only thing in Remi’s awareness — the look on his face as he slicks himself up.

“Can you uh— Slow,” Milo says, his other hand finding its way to Remi’s hip by touch and familiarity alone.

“Yeah.” Remi moves to position himself, reflexively reaching for Milo’s cock to take over the task of lining them up, then stopping himself. “You want me to uh—”

Milo seems to catch on quickly and shakes his head. “Think it’s better if I do, least this first time.”

“Ok. You gonna keep your eyes closed or you want me to turn around so you can pretend I’m someone else?”

Immediately, brown eyes bore into his own, Milo’s expression somewhere between unamused and desperate. “Shut the fuck up, Dick.”

Remi laughs and ducks to kiss him, letting his weight drop slowly. Very, very slowly. He knows — knew — knows that Milo isn’t… small. Now.

There had even been a whole conversation about it. Remi had been in the room for the majority of Milo’s consultations and appointments, at least as his work schedule had allowed. He was also here after, as much as his work schedule had allowed it. In the recovery room. At home. For the first, second, third reveals.

He knows, even in the immediate context of having had Milo’s cock in his mouth minutes ago, but theory and practice are two very different things and there are aspects of this that are both new and delicate.

He takes a controlled breath and forces himself to relax.

Milo grits out, “Is this payback?”

“Payback?” Remi laughs. “No, this is…”

Overwhelming. Not too much, but a lot, in so many ways.

“You said slow,” he adds, earning him a pointed glare. He reaches for the bottle of lube and squeezes more into his hand, smearing it liberally in every relevant spot he can easily reach. Then, he adjusts slightly, takes another breath, and lets his weight drop down what has to be at least halfway, his eyes closing at the stretch. The sudden fullness. The feeling of it.

Milo whines.

Tomorrow, Remi will have at least five fingertip-shaped bruises on his hip. He smiles at that and opens his eyes to find Milo’s gaze unfocused and his lips parted. As he sinks another inch or so, he says, “So I’m guessing you can feel that?”

He looks at Remi, expression flickering like he wants to say something smart, but he just nods. Grinning, Remi lowers himself the rest of the way, then clenches around him. Milo’s fingers dig into his hip, into his ass; he blows out a loud breath and Remi takes the opening for what it is. He’d be lying if he said he didn’t need a second. A minute. Drugs.

But this isn’t about him. And after everything, Milo maybe, probably deserves this.

Remi gives it several long, quiet seconds, watching Milo’s face as he waits for his body to adjust, and asks, “You good?”

“Yeah. Yeah, I think it’s-I think it’s mostly like, mental?” Milo replies, sounding breathless and uncertain. Overwhelmed.

Carefully, Remi leans forward to kiss him, unhurried and — he hopes — reassuring. The shift means he’s no longer fully speared on Milo’s dick, though, which apparently won’t do. Milo’s hips angle in a small, fractured thrust until he bottoms out again, accompanied by another noisy exhale. He chases Remi’s mouth, needing more. It’s a feeling Remi knows too well. Another minute or two and he’ll probably be in the same boat.

Milo rolls his hips again, slowly, like he’s experimenting. It makes Remi wonder how different it is, how much of the experience is physical versus mental, how it’s changed. He kisses Milo again, lazily, because he hasn’t reached the point of impatience yet. He’s getting close, though; just having Milo buried in him helped take the initial edge off, but it’s not enough.

As if he’s having similar thoughts, Milo frowns and says, “Not sure this is the best uh… position.”

“Mm, and where do you want me?”

In response, Milo stills. Remi is ready to complain when one of Milo’s arms wraps around his ribs, and then suddenly, he’s moving. Just as suddenly, he’s on his back, on his side of the bed, looking up at Milo and still stretched around his cock. His mind is nothing but static. Static and the vague thought that he’s maybe about to come already.

Milo smiles at him like he knows.

Of course he knows. He knows what he did, what he’s doing. For all that some part of the mechanical aspect might be new or different in ways Remi doesn’t understand, Milo knows him — sometimes, he thinks, better than he knows himself — and Milo definitely knows how to absolutely ruin him.

Even the promise of it drives him a little insane.

Hooking one heel behind Milo’s thigh and the other over his hips, Remi levers himself closer. Another choked, needy sound slips past his lips; with a hummed agreement, Milo kisses him before rocking into him a couple of times, once again slow and hesitant. Remi watches the shift of Milo’s features, his attention somewhere below Remi’s belly button, and frowns. This should work. It’s worked before, many times. It’s a favorite, even, because Milo likes to see him turn into a dumb fucking mess.

It’s not working now.

He knows the face Milo is making — the mix of concentration and frustration when he’s trying to make something work but it’s not — and it’s not what he wants to see in bed ever, but especially not now. Remi tangles his fingers into Milo’s hair to tug him down for another kiss to buy himself a couple of seconds. The words that come out of his mouth matter, now more than most times. He lets his legs drop to the bed and stretches beneath Milo, a plan that’s only half a lie hastily crafting itself in his mind. “Call me a princess all you want, but the whole bein’ on my back thing isn’t working for me after the plane seat.”

A weak, silent laugh curls against his cheeks. Milo pulls away. Pulls out completely, which feels like a step in the wrong direction. “So what, you want me on mine instead? Or would you rather just…” he shakes his head, his gaze ending up somewhere on the wall above the headboard.

Definitely a step in the wrong direction.

“No, I would not rather just,” he says. Sitting up puts him at eye level, and mouth level, with Milo’s chest, which is too tempting an opportunity to pass up. Remi’s hands find a home on Milo’s ribs without any additional assistance needed and from there, it’s a two-way pull where they meet in the middle. He’s not gentle. He knows, now — has learned the hard way — that too gentle is far more likely to cause problems than not gentle enough, so he sinks his teeth into muscle and then sucks hard on his gathered mouthful of skin and hair, lets his tongue drag.

Around the third or fourth patch of skin, Milo groans something that sounds like his name, then, “You do know what time it is, right?”

“No. You have somewhere to be?” Without waiting for Milo to respond, he stretches up enough to reach the base of his throat. He doesn’t bite down this time. Just mouths at the dip between his collarbones and absently counts the seconds it takes Milo to grind against him.

Not even one — the predictability of it is impossibly pleasing.

“Don’t you—” Milo hisses and shoves a hand into his hair again, holding him in place far more than he’s doing anything to pull him away, “—have to be up?”

Remi shrugs. He does, but he wasn’t getting enough sleep even if he’d walked through the front door and directly into the bed. The only way he’s stopping now is if Milo makes that call for him. Just to nail the point home, he shakes his head enough for Milo to release his hair and moves all at once, repositioning to make his stance very, very clear. He looks back over his shoulder to watch Milo’s gaze follow the arch of his spine to his ass. “You really wanna go to sleep?”

Just before he lets his head drop back between his shoulders, he catches a glimpse of Milo’s flat scowl — which is comically still pointed at his ass — and breathes a laugh. An undignified whimper follows quickly on its heels as Milo pushes two fingers back into him. It’s a quick test that he must pass because just as quickly, the fingers are replaced by a much larger stretch that turns his spine to liquid. Milo’s grip is firm, holding him in place as he once again gives a few slow thrusts. If not for the ten points of pressure digging into his hips, he’d likely sink entirely to the mattress because it’s so-

“Please what?” he hears Milo ask.

Remi blinks and tries to clear his head of the cloud of need enough to think. “What?”

“You said please,” Milo says, self-satisfied amusement dripping from his tone. “Please what?”

“Milo,” is all he can say and it’s more moaned plea than anything.

It’s enough. Milo shifts, adjusting his weight so he can fold himself over Remi’s back, one arm planting itself near Remi’s forearm. The next thrust isn’t experimental. It isn’t hesitant. Remi is distantly aware of his jaw dropping. It may or may not be accompanied by sound, but it doesn’t cut through the rapidly curling tension. The slap of skin on skin.

He’s not going to last. Embarrassment ripples through him at the realization for one fleeting moment before it’s forced from his awareness like every other thought that might have existed in his head. The hand on his hip moves to his chest, pulling him flush against Milo.

He’s not going to last. A part of him feels like he should say something, but there’s no chance that Milo isn’t aware. Except Milo’s fully aware of what he’s doing — from the angle to the speed to the mouth on his spine and the fingers teasing at the bar in one nipple, the other. There’s not even a hand on his cock. If there were, he’d be-

The drag deepens as Milo drops onto him fully, the hand that had been braced near Remi’s shoulder suddenly teasing at the head of his cock instead. Remi opens his mouth to protest, to warn him again, to question, but before he gets the words out, he gets his explanation. Milo smothers a groan against his skin and his rhythm stutters, going erratic without losing any of the force.

He might not last, but that’s what does him in: the feeling of Milo desperately chasing and riding out what is, he assumes, his own orgasm.

For several long moments, all he can do is breathe. He can barely do that with Milo’s weight crushing him against the mattress, but it’s fine. Right. Comfortable, in a distinct way.

Less so, for the way he’s once again sticky — now with sweat and lube and come instead of from recycled plane air — and stretched around Milo’s cock. There might not be any additional mess from that specifically, but Milo’s also not going to go soft. He could, in theory, stay there. Fuck Remi again through the overstimulation, assuming he’s not in the same boat.

Either way, the thought makes him shiver.

A lazy, almost drunken giggle is muffled by his shoulder, where Milo’s mouth is pressed, followed by a slow inhale, and “That was— Uh— This is gonna suck, isn’t it?”

“Yeah,” Remi laughs. “No winning there. Welcome to the club.”

Milo laughs again, a soft, full-body thing. He sighs and rebalances his weight, wipes his hands on the sheets, and pulls out.

With that, it’s like the last current of energy running through Remi’s body has been cut with it; he sinks fully into the mattress, his face buried in a pillow. He can’t stay like this, he knows, but he can’t move either. When he says as much, his words made near-incomprehensible by the pillow, Milo laughs a third time. At him.

Remi is in the process of mustering the energy to flip him off when he’s dragged onto his side by his hips, which inspires a different sort of urge to protest. That doesn’t make it out either before he finds himself scooped off the bed, one of Milo’s arms behind his back and the other under his knees, although he couldn’t begin to explain how. He does know that Milo looks impossibly smug about it as he carries Remi into the bathroom, carefully setting him down half on his own feet and half held to Milo’s side so he can turn the shower on.

Only then does Milo finally look at him and ask, “What?”

“What what? You’re the one who looks like the cat who got every canary in the goddamn coal mine.”

Milo’s smirk turns into a grin. He hauls Remi into the spray with him; the lukewarm water is shockingly welcome, all things considered. The quiet stretches long enough that Remi thinks he’s not going to get an answer, which is fine. There’s not much left in his head anyways, especially not for an actual conversation. He’s content to stand under the water for a minute or two — however long Milo decides, really — in the easy quiet, then fall into bed and pass out until his phone starts screaming at him.

The arm around his waist tightens, and Remi sinks into it easily, letting himself go more or less boneless against Milo’s chest, his head dropping to Milo’s shoulder.

Lips press to Remi’s skin. Not a kiss, but something else easy and close. Familiar. Then, with a small shrug, Milo quietly says, “Nothin’. Just glad you’re back, I guess.”

Acknowledgments

When I first started writing this, it was supposed to be a quick little break-up story. I wanted to write something angsty for one reason or another, and started rambling in a friend’s DMs. In February, I lied to myself and a Discord server full of people and said I was going to write the story that weekend. The outline at the time was something like 12k words.

I did not finish writing in February, but I did eventually write this extremely self-indulgent story that you now hold in your hands. Thank you for giving it a chance, and I sincerely hope it made you feel something.

I’m especially grateful to Em for not only letting me ramble about my “quick, horrible little story,” but for both helping assemble the playlist that was crucial to the writing process and validating my Gay Southern Trauma.

To Marten Norr, for taking my mess of vague vibes across two submission forms and perfectly capturing the energy of the story for the cover.

To my editor, S.D. Alexander, for fixing my most egregious errors and letting me keep the ones that persist in my speech patterns.

To Jake Shandy, for easing my self-doubt with both reassurance and art.

To Zilla Novikov, for putting her immense experience with querying to use to help me craft the dreaded blurb.

To Kasi, Finley, Luci, Sarah, Spring, CS, and Izzy for caring about my silly little book enough to put so many hours of your own time into reading it and providing me with encouragement and feedback.

And to my husband, for obvious reasons.

About the Author

XM Moon is an author living in the middle of nowhere with their spouse and a 1:1 ratio of pets to computers. They write queer speculative fiction with an intimate focus on relationships, identity, and trauma, set against the backdrop of worlds that are fantastical and fascinating. A capacity for serious, thoughtful works and stories imaginative or monstrous keeps their portfolio diversified. When they’re not “writing” - opening and closing documents, outlining endlessly - the bulk of their time is spent keeping up with their business, Moon Enterprise, which provides design and web services to authors and other artists. Find them online at moonography.com