#myst thoughts | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

hythlodaes · 1 month ago

Text

and then came june - chapter three

emile/leofard 11.6k words [read on ao3] explicit summary: the summer has changed leofard's relationship with emile, but the fall semester will challenge everything he thought he wanted from him. thank you @scionshtola for letting me borrow cori !! <3

Chapter Three - Fall, Part One

Five years from now, Emile will walk into a bar in New York City.

He'll linger by the door for too long, eyes caught on the bartender who talks with a familiar crooked grin, whose curly hair still flops into his eyes as he looks down to pour a drink. Emile will watch him with his breath held in his chest, his tongue between his teeth, his heart heavy with a feeling that he hasn't let himself acknowledge in all these years.

And then he'll step up to the bar, catch the attention of those pale blue eyes, and smile for what feels like the first time in months.

Hey gorgeous, Leofard will say, as if it could be that easy. Never thought I'd see you here.

Not for the first time, Emile will wish that it had ended differently.

I’m in the city for the weekend, he’ll say. Stacia mentioned you had a bar here.

But that gaze still knows him too well. Where are you staying?

Hotel on 54th street.

His crooked smile knows him even better.

Cancel that reservation, baby.

—

"Pancakes," Leofard says.

Emile raises a brow but he doesn't look up, chin tucked into his hand, elbow propped up on the sticky table. They sit in a booth tucked away in the corner of their local diner. It’s a quiet Wednesday morning, and they're surrounded mostly by old people, one young family, and stragglers at the chrome lined countertop bar, music from the forties and fifties playing around them.

Leofard has been here enough times to already know what he wants, so he's left to watch Emile study the menu. "Or an omelette. One where you choose all the fillings."

"Are you guessing or suggesting?" Emile asks.

"French toast," he continues, and Emile finally looks up at him, lips stretching into a smile. Leofard can't help but return it. "Or maybe some combination of everything. Am I close?"

"You can't guess 'everything' and then ask if you're close," he argues, looking back at the menu. Leofard studies the fan of his lashes, biting down on the comment he wants to make as he thinks about how close they were this morning, tangled up in his bed.

Since Stacia wasn’t home, they traded lazy kisses in the shower before deciding to go out to breakfast. They both still have damp hair and share the same scent of his body wash. Emile's skin is still a little flushed, his freckles deeper from the summer sun.

Leofard smirks at him. “I’ll take that as a yes.”

Emile rolls his eyes but he does order pancakes, flicking his straw wrapper at Leofard when he teases him about it.

Everything feels easier than it should. He watches Emile over the rim of his mug of coffee, steam warming his face, their ankles locked together beneath the table as conversation flows between them. Leofard doesn’t even complain when Emile swipes a piece of bacon from his plate.

They stop at his favorite thrift store after, and Emile's eyes go wide when they go in. Leofard supposes it's a lot—there's racks upon racks of clothing, a section for furniture, odd little knick nacks on shelves, and a section for toys that have already seen their fair share of love. Leofard goes to the records first to see if there’s anything new in, and as he’s flipping through, Emile comes over, holding out a pair of large red sunglasses.

“These are perfect for you.”

There’s a smile teasing his mouth but Leofard trades him the Led Zeppelin album in his hands and puts them on, pursing his lips as he models them.

"Gorgeous," Emile says with a giggle, and it's so cute that Leofard half considers buying them.

At least he can recognize when he’s making a fool of himself.

Emile turns to put them away, and Leofard follows him back to the clothing racks, picking up a worn flannel shirt. It’s soft but it’s missing a few buttons. "Will anything even fit you?"

Emile snorts. “How big do you think I am? I literally fit in your shirt.”

"Emile," he says, and his name feels strange in his mouth. “Do you seriously think that shirt fit you? Like for real?”

“What do you mean?”

He actually raises his brows in question. Leofard laughs. “It was so small on you, I’m surprised it didn’t cut off your circulation. I don’t know if we’d even be here right now if it wasn’t for the way your tits looked that night.”

Emile glances away as he laughs too, his cheeks burning red. “Yes we would, you wanted me so bad.”

“Says the guy who blatantly stripped in front of me."

"I had to change!"

"Admit it, you wanted me to look."

“Maybe,” Emile mumbles. He raises the album still in his hands and hides the lower half of his face, only his eyes curving into half moons are visible. "I thought you were cute."

Leofard reaches over to take the album back and leans up on his tiptoes to kiss him. Emile returns it easily, resting a hand on his lower back to pull him closer. Leofard's chest warms at the casual intimacy, letting his eyes drift shut with the soft press of his lips.

They part when the front door chimes.

“Are you getting anything?” Leofard asks after he clears his throat.

Emile shakes his head. “Are you?”

Leofard just holds up the album. Emile lingers by the door while he checks out, and when they get back in the car, Leofard automatically reaches over to place his hand on Emile's thigh.

There are things that have become familiar, things that have become routine.

It's like this: the familiarity of touch, his music playing, the windows down and letting in the late summer air. If someone took him aside and asked him what he wanted most right now—this is all it would be.

Which is why he should’ve seen this conversation coming:

They're driving through an intersection when Emile clears his throat and says, "I'm going back to my dorm."

"What?" The word leaves Leofard's lips before he can stop it, and when he looks over, Emile has his head turned towards the passenger window.

"My roommate is moving back in this weekend," he explains, "and my AC must have been fixed by now."

Leofard raises his brows. It's been a month and a half. "You're...not sure?"

"It got away from me!" The easiness in his voice softens the disappointment, but Leofard's still catching up to the idea of Emile leaving. He keeps his eyes on the tree lined streets, the empty sky—all blue, all green. "It's been fun, baby."

"I really appreciate you letting me stay," he murmurs. "You and Stacia both."

"I think I arguably benefited from the situation more than she did."

He laughs. "I should buy her flowers."

Leofard feels the smile on his lips slowly fade. The light ahead of them turns red, and Leofard looks over at him when they come to a stop. "When do you want to pack up? I can drive you back over."

Emile meets his gaze, something uncertain in those brown eyes. "I was thinking this afternoon."

"Oh.”

"I know it's soon," Emile says, "but it's my only day off this week."

"No, that's fine," he lies, because what else could he say? I've gotten used to having you around, and I want you to stay. He keeps his voice steady. "I get it—we can head over after we get back."

But it's a weird feeling. He's grown so comfortable with Emile's company that his stomach aches at the thought of him not being there. Somewhere in the back of his mind he knew that it couldn't last forever, but he hasn't let himself really think about it. He would've been okay with him staying a little longer, would've been okay with more than he ever expected to be.

If he'd known last night would be their last night together, he would've held him closer, would've breathed him in with his nose against the hollow of his throat, committing the feeling to memory.

Maybe it's better this way.

When they get back to the apartment, Leofard sits at the end of his bed while Emile packs his life back up. His duffle bag and his gym bag lay open next to Leofard, and his guitar sits to the side in its case. He's methodical as he folds each t-shirt and pair of shorts and fits them neatly together. Leofard just watches, talking about anything that comes to mind until he's tired of the sound of his own voice.

The semester starts in a couple weeks, so campus is busier when they head out. Leofard ignores the heaviness in his chest as he drives back to Emile's dorm, this time just letting the music play between them. It feels like it’s been so long since they were last here, and it goes unspoken as he pulls up: he parks and gets out as well, following Emile back to his room.

It's still the same: half empty, half full of life, and the pictures are still on the walls but Leofard doesn't look at them this time. Emile turns to him as he sets his guitar down and leans it carefully against the bed.

"Thank you," he says, his gaze not wavering.

Leofard shakes his head. "Come here."

Emile steps into his open arms and wraps him up in a hug. Leofard closes his eyes against his chest, breathing him in, focusing on the solid plane of his body, the strength of his arms around him. It doesn't make saying goodbye any easier.

"I'm only ten minutes away," Leofard murmurs against him.

"I know," Emile says, and he pulls away. "I'll try to make time, but I'm going to be really busy this semester."

There's something soft about his expression, something apologetic, and Leofard steels himself against it. "Don't worry about it, football is more important than getting laid."

Emile giggles. "Is it?"

"I guess," he says. "If not, just give me a call. You can bend me over in the locker room or something."

"That's hot."

Leofard smiles—distant, wistful. "Just kiss me."

And Emile does, stepping forward to cup his hands along Leofard's jaw. Leofard leans up, ignoring the feeling that tangles in his chest as they melt into it, warm and chaste and sweet.

The feeling doesn't go away when they part, and not when Leofard looks up at those big brown eyes and says, "Bye, Emile."

—

There will be more difficult goodbyes for them.

—

The rest of the afternoon wears on him. Emile isn’t usually around during the day anyway, but the lack of his presence is different knowing that he won’t come home, knowing that he won’t curl up beside him in bed tonight.

He only gets up to leave his room when he hears Stacia moving around the kitchen and the smell of food fills the apartment. When he comes out, she has three plates set on the table.

“Oh,” he says, and clears his throat, trying to sound casual. “Emile won't be here for dinner anymore, he went back to his dorm.”

She glances up with a raised brow. “Is everything okay between you?”

“Yeah of course, he just…doesn’t live here.”

His voice is as pathetic as his word choice.

She lets out a snort. “Could’ve fooled me.”

Could've fooled him, too. The subject changes when they sit down to eat, but it sticks in his mind for the rest of the night. It doesn’t matter how him and Emile act, or what they do, or what Stacia says. They defined this thing when they hooked up at that party, and even if they got too comfortable with each other this summer, that's all it will ever be.

Maybe distance will be good for them.

Still, the emptiness itches when Leofard goes to bed, and he turns over again and again, half expecting to see the outline of Emile's body beside him. The feeling creeps along his arms, his chest, and he has to hold Emile’s pillow against himself to ease the ache, the scent of Emile lingering on the cheap fabric.

Leofard will never tell a soul, but it’s the only thing that helps him fall asleep that night.

—

The next two weeks pass without seeing Emile.

It's fine. They're both busy anyway. It's just weird, after a month and a half of living together, to not see him at all. Now that Stacia's internship is over, she has all the time to joke that they've broken up, but he waves her off. At least there's the distraction of school starting and his friends moving back onto campus. He and Stacia spend most of their time with them in the days leading up to the semester.

V'kebbe is back, and Leofard suddenly knows what it was like for Stacia all summer. He comes home to the two of them curled up on the couch, or V'kebbe sitting on the counter while Stacia cooks dinner, and he ignores the muffled noises hidden away in Stacia's room. He gets used to eating breakfast with V'kebbe there, seeing her profile in his rearview mirror, and splitting restaurant bills in threes.

It's not that Leofard minds playing third wheel, but they're openly and happily dating, so he can't even tease Stacia about it.

And as much time as he's had to prepare, it still feels like the semester starts out of nowhere. He hates being stuck in his head, but it's his senior year and his thoughts spin constantly, tangled up in the idea of making all of this count for something. Raimille asked this one thing of him, and he's so close to finishing, but—

Will it feel like another goodbye?

Luckily, he doesn't have to dwell on it for long. His first day of classes is a mess of overlapping important dates to write down: tests that are months down the line, projects that will be worth half his grade, and reading assignments off the bat. The only good thing is that he spots Cori in his first class, the unmistakable sight of their curly hair a few rows ahead of him.

He waits for them at the door after class, noting the small smile that pulls at their lips when they meet his gaze.

"Please tell me you have engineering dynamics next," he says instead of an actual greeting.

“Hi, Leo.” Their voice is always the same when they say his name: somewhere between amused and annoyed. “How was your summer?”

Emile, is the first word his mind supplies. That was his summer: Emile’s tanned skin on the beach, Emile wrapped up in the blankets in his bed, Emile in the morning light, eyes golden with the sun. Emile, Emile, Emile.

He needs to get a grip.

They catch up as they walk across campus. Leofard tries not to be vague about the details, but there isn't much to say outside of hanging out around campus and going to the beach. Under the pale light of the morning sun, Cori describes a summer full of hiking, visits to museums, and a road trip down the coast that he's a little jealous of.

"Are you still seeing that girl?" he asks as they head into the building for their next class.

"Y'shtola."

"Oh. What happened to the other one?"

"It's always been her, Leo," they say. "You just never remember her name."

He glances up at them, surprised to see a hint of hurt in their expression. It's there and gone again in a moment, but he still feels a tug of guilt in his chest. "Sorry."

"It's fine," Cori says, waving him off. "Have you been taking care of your car?"

"Of course, but I think she misses you."

A small smile crosses her lips before they head into their next class. "I can take a look soon."

—

Emile calls him on Saturday night.

It's creeping towards midnight and Leofard is half asleep, watching tv but not really watching at all. He drifts in and out of old reruns until the sound of his phone ringing stirs him awake. He stares at it for a long moment, at Emile's name on the tiny screen, and wonders why his whole body stills as his heart picks up a beat.

He flips it open. "Hello?"

"Hi...did I wake you up?"

"No," Leofard answers too quickly. He takes a breath, hoping it'll make him sound more awake. "What's up?"

"I just wanted to say hi," comes Emile's voice. "I haven't seen you in a bit."

Leofard's stomach twists. "Miss me?"

"Is it weird if I say yes?"

"No," Leofard says. It sounds soft; reassuring. Would it make a difference if he said it back? "I'll see you tomorrow—Stacia's dragging me to your game. I promise I'll actually pay attention this time."

"You will?"

"To your ass, mostly," he says, smiling at the sound of Emile's quiet laughter. Leofard lays back on his bed and blinks up at the ceiling. "First game of the season though…seems like a big deal."

"Yeah," he murmurs. Quiet sits between them for a moment, and then finally, "I'm nervous."

"Why?" Leofard asks. "You've worked so hard all summer, I can personally testify to you getting up at ass o'clock in the morning to train. I'm sure that's not for nothing."

There’s only warmth as Emile laughs again. “You’re right, I guess that just…makes it worse if I do fail. It’s hard to prepare for something and still come up short, you know? Like even my best isn't good enough."

"Emile—"

"Sorry," he says before Leofard can reassure him. "I didn't call to whine about football. I just...I think the stress is getting to me."

Leofard shakes his head into the emptiness of his room, chest aching a little at the thought of Emile up and alone and worrying about tomorrow.

"It's fine," he says. “It’s completely fine. Don’t forget the whole ‘friends’ part of friends with benefits. Believe it or not, I like knowing what’s going on with you.”

Emile sighs. “You mean listening to me complain isn’t the benefit?”

“With that dick?”

“Oh my god.”

But it gets him to laugh again, and Leofard can't help but laugh too. He bites down on it, pressing his lips together as he watches the echoes of the streetlights hover against his ceiling. He takes a breath and resolves, "You'll win tomorrow."

"You can't be sure about that."

"I am," he argues. "And I'm always right, so deal with it, babe."

Emile lets out a short sound, something tired but amused. "Alright...thank you."

"I'm guessing this means you're not up for anything tonight?" Leofard asks, as if he isn't bundled up in his sweats, teeth brushed and half asleep. He'd still be out of here in a heartbeat if Emile wanted to see him.

But Emile says, "No, I should probably go to bed."

“Yeah, for sure,” he murmurs. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Wait, Leo—”

“Yeah?”

“Could you just…” he trails off. “Could you keep talking?”

Leofard blinks at the ceiling. “About what?”

“I don’t know—anything. How are your classes?”

It takes a moment for Leofard to realize what Emile is asking, and when he does, he finds himself grinning into the dark room. He shifts under the blanket as he begins to tell Emile about the first few days of the semester, curling up as he tells him about senior year, about V'kebbe constantly at their apartment, about Cori and the way their friendship has changed over the years. He hears his own voice grow softer, slower, and Emile keeps up at first, asking questions and making comments, but then after a while he doesn't say anything at all.

Leofard pauses, listening to the silence.

"Are you still there?" he asks, but there's no answer. He imagines Emile in his dorm, asleep in that too small bed with his phone still next to his ear. If Leofard was there, he’d curl up against his broad back, finding that place where it feels like he’s hidden away from the world. He presses his lips together at the memory.

“Goodnight,” he murmurs; soft, pointless, but still... “I missed you, too.”

It doesn’t make a difference at all.

—

"Do you need to kiss your boyfriend for luck or should we find our seats?" Stacia asks the next day.

They're outside the stadium, and the whole campus is buzzing with life. Leofard swears it wasn't this busy the last time he went to a game—the parking lot is so full that they have to park on a side street, and there are people everywhere dressed in their team's colors. Leofard just walks alongside Stacia with wide eyes as they make their way into the stadium, far different from how quiet it was this summer whenever he dropped Emile off.

"No," he mutters. "I'm sure he has enough going on right now, let's just sit."

They shuffle among the crowd as they head inside. At least it's a clear day—there's the slightest September chill in the air that promises the oncoming fall, but the sky is deep blue and cloudless, and the sun paints the field vivid green as Leofard and Stacia walk down to their seats.

Leofard's gaze travels over the figures on the field: what looks to be a few players finishing warming up and people gathered along the sidelines. His knee bobs up and down as he talks to Stacia, nervous energy making his hands itch. It's a relief when the fanfare begins and the national anthem plays. This feeling of importance fills the stadium, like Emile really is part of something bigger than just a football game.

And then he takes the field with his team, jogging ahead of them. Leofard's breath stills in his chest at the sight of his uniform clinging to his thighs, the way his shoulder pads stretch over his broad shoulders, how he shakes his hair out before putting his helmet on. Leofard knows him so intimately, from the touch of his body to the fears murmured between them last night, and yet—

He's in awe.

"Is it different for you too?" he asks Stacia, leaning close to be heard over the roar of the crowd. "Knowing Emile?"

He catches her smile out of the corner of his eye.

“Yeah,” she says. "It's more personal."

Leofard nods absently as the game begins. Stacia explains the rules to him again, pointing out different positions in the lineup—she does this for every game he goes to, but this is the first time it matters to him. He finds himself tensing when the ball snaps into Emile's hands, when he hands it off or backs away to peer down the field before he throws. Leofard wonders what goes through his mind each time, if the nerves are still there or if it's crystal clear now that he's in the game.

The other team is vicious. Uniforms meet with a loud crack for each down, the defense trying to crash through to Emile in the pocket. At one point, Emile has to throw the ball away to avoid being tackled.

"Are they even allowed to do that?" Leofard exclaims, only raising his voice because the crowd is so loud.

Stacia just laughs at him.

It’s impossible to look away from Emile, even when he’s on the sideline pulling his helmet free and shaking out his sweaty hair. Desire coils in Leofard’s chest as Emile tips his head back to chug his drink, watching the game with a hand on his hip, chatting with his team and his coaches with a smile.

They win easily—they pull ahead at the start and keep the lead until the end. It’s easy to get caught up in the celebration of it all, and Leofard cheers until his throat feels raw.

“Kebbe and I are going to grab pizza, if you want to come with us,” Stacia offers afterwards. Around them, people have already begun to get up from their seats and shuffle out of the stadium.

“I think I’ll stay and wait for him,” he admits, watching as a soft smile steals over her expression. "I haven't seen him in a while."

She snorts. "I'll steer clear of the apartment tonight."

He rolls his eyes but gives her a hug before she takes off, leaving him to the dwindling crowd. Leofard lingers a moment longer before heading down to the players entrance, where he’s picked up Emile countless times over the summer. It takes a while for players to start filtering out, damp hair and gym bags over their shoulders, but he just waits against the wall, arms crossed. He can see the recognition in some of their faces, wearing knowing smirks that make his thoughts spin. What has Emile said about him?

But then Emile walks through those doors, lighting up with a smile as soon as their eyes meet. He drops his duffle bag as he crosses the few steps between them and scoops Leofard into a hug, lifting him into the air. Leofard lets out a noise of surprise that quickly turns into a laugh as Emile spins them around, the world blurring as Leofard tightens his hold around his neck and wraps his legs around his waist.

Someday, he'll come to regret so many things when it comes to Emile, but never this moment. He'll always smile to himself at the memory of Emile's arms around him and the absolute relief, absolute joy between them.

Their hurricane slows to a stop as they kiss.

"You did it," Leofard murmurs against his lips, parting his mouth to kiss him again and again, greedy for it after weeks apart. "You were so fucking amazing."

“I'm glad you're here,” Emile says, the words nearly indistinguishable as he tightens his grip on Leofard and lets his lips move over his, their breath picking up between them.

Leofard doesn't know how long they stay like that: kissing outside the stadium in the late afternoon sunshine, but then he's leading Emile by the hand back to his car, heart racing in his chest through every stop sign, through every red light. It's just the proximity of Emile after all this time, he tells himself. It's just the memory of how he looked on that football field, the way Leofard wants him and never stops wanting him—that’s all it ever is.

They race up the front steps of Leofard's apartment, through the living room and straight to his room, shedding layers of clothing along the way. Leofard sighs against him once they're finally kissing again, once his hands roam the bare skin of his back, pulling him closer, desperate for his touch.

"Missed you," he lets himself admit this time, if only because he slips his hand past the waistband of Emile's sweats to palm him. "Missed this."

Emile gasps into his mouth, laughing on the exhale before they break apart to shed the rest of their clothes. It's just for a moment, and then the weight of Emile's body is on his own, covering him as he lays him across the bed and slots their hips together. Emile's hand teases down his chest, lingering at his waist before drawing down to his thigh and pushing it aside.

Leofard’s breath catches in his chest at the touch of Emile's fingers sinking inside him. Emile kisses him through it, working him open as carefully as their eagerness will let them. The feeling blazes through him like wildfire, pleasure rushing past the discomfort, and it isn't enough. He finds himself whispering please against his lips, again and again until Emile withdraws completely and leans back.

"Oh, fuck," he groans at the sudden emptiness, but then he looks up to the sight of Emile pushing his hair out of his face, his other hand stroking his cock to slick himself up. Leofard can't breathe. "Need you, baby."

“Turn over,” Emile says, his voice rough. Leofard savors the sound even if he doesn’t want to listen to him. He wants—oh, he wants to stay like this, he wants to wrap his legs around his waist and kiss him the whole time. He wants Emile to moan into his mouth, he wants to swallow each sound and know that he's the reason behind it.

He wants too much—always too much.

So he ignores his heart and gets onto his hands and knees, squeezing his eyes shut when Emile enters him, hips moving quick and rough—a reminder that they're just getting off, that's all this is. It’s just casual, just touch between friends, just Emile’s hand smoothing up Leofard's back and pushing his shoulders down into the mattress, keeping a firm grip around the back of his neck as he moves faster.

Leofard’s fingers twist into the blanket but he barely registers the soft fabric beneath him. All his focus is blindly on Emile—only aware of the drive of his hips, his strength holding him down, and the soft sound of his moans echoing into his room.

Leofard thinks he could come from this alone.

To save himself the embarrassment, he reaches between his legs to stroke himself. Emile lets go only to wrap his arm around Leofard's middle instead, hauling him up to hold him against his chest, and his other hand moves down to cover Leofard's own. Like this, there is no such thing as distance between them, only the way their bodies fit together, the rhythm that coaxes a sigh from them both.

"I'm close," Emile breathes out, mouthing at the skin beneath his ear, but Leofard can't focus, can't recognize his own voice as he groans openly. The sound chokes in his throat and once he's there, he doesn't hold back. He comes apart, cock pulsing into their shared grasp as he lets his head fall back onto Emile's shoulder, brows pinched together as he rides it out.

Emile just holds him in place, moving with a singular intent. Leofard loves this part—completely spent but still full, towing the line of too much while being used for someone else's pleasure. A wrecked sound escapes Emile, and his hips stutter until he stills inside him, trembling through it. They stay like that for a long moment, Emile merely panting against his skin before he places a gentle kiss to his shoulder and mumbles, “So good."

Leofard smiles to himself, biting down on it when Emile pulls out and shifts over to lay next to him. He takes in the hazy pleasure written in Emile's expression and raises a hand to trace his fingertips over his brow. Brown eyes lift to meet his, and the look in them is so sweet that Leofard glances at his lips. Would one more kiss be too much?

He clears his throat instead. “I still have some leftover pizza, if you’re hungry.”

Emile nods into his touch. “Starving, to be honest.”

They clean up once they catch their breath, throwing on boxers before they sneak into the kitchen to finish up the last pieces of pizza. They lean against the counter while they eat, bare feet on cold tile. Emile tells him about his game, and Leofard nods along each time he asks if he saw a specific play. The excitement is plain in his eyes, the way he fights a smile as he chews. Happiness looks good on him.

The two of them curl up in his bed again, turning off the lights so they can put on a movie. It’s just as familiar as it was before. Emile slings an arm over his waist, head against his shoulder, and for once Leofard is quiet, watching the tv while while he lets his hand gently card through Emile's hair.

Leofard knows when he falls asleep given the deep, even breaths against his skin, the steady rise and fall of his chest next to him. He looks over, lips pulling up at the corners at the sight of his relaxed face, the fan of his lashes, the way his mouth parts in the slightest. Something flutters in his stomach, the movie all but forgotten—

I like you, is what he would say if he wanted to ruin everything. I like you and I think it’s getting worse.

He must end up falling asleep too, because he wakes to his dark bedroom broken only by the flashes of the tv playing paid programming. It takes a confused blink at the screen for him to realize what happened, and he looks over to see Emile awake and carefully shifting out of his arms.

Leofard makes himself let go. “Are you going home?”

“I have class in the morning,” he says, voice soft. He gets up to dress, his silhouette moving through the bedroom like a ghost. Before he leaves, he comes back over and crouches next to the bed, kissing Leofard’s cheek, his brow, his nose, his mouth. Leofard grins against the onslaught of his lips.

“Give me a second and I can drive you,” he mumbles.

This time Emile is the one to brush his hair from his forehead, a small smile on the shadow of his face. “It’s okay, you should get your sleep. I’ll see you soon.”

And then he slips from the room, leaving Leofard to stare at the tv with his empty head.

He leaves it on as he drifts off again.

—

The sun streams through his bedroom when he wakes again, golden light coating the room in a warmth that pours over him like honey. He lets out a long exhale as he stretches out, still wrapped up cozy in the blankets, and his body aches but it's only a pleasant reminder of Emile yesterday. A smile pulls at his lips.

Then he glances at the time.

"Oh, shit."

He must’ve forgotten to set his alarm—it’s already ten minutes past his first class. He gets out of bed immediately and throws on a t-shirt and a pair of jeans, shoving his feet into his sneakers. He grabs the sweatshirt on his desk chair and puts it on while he grabs his keys and rushes out the door.

It isn’t until he gets in his car that he realizes the sweatshirt goes down to his thighs, that the sleeves are bunched at his wrists, and it smells like Emile’s cologne.

Emile must've forgotten to take it with him last night.

There isn't time to go back and change, and the September morning is too chilly to take it off, so Leofard keeps it on, ignoring the possessive thought in the back of his mind as he races across campus.

His professor glares at him when he slips into the classroom. He just takes a seat at the back, pulling out his notebook and a pen, but it's hard to pay attention. He worries his thumb along the cuff, wondering what Emile would think if he saw him like this. Would his eyes light up in amusement? Would he tease him with that soft laugh?

Would it make him uncomfortable?

Leofard sinks down on the desk and lets his head rest against the crook of his arm, doodling instead of taking notes. Emile’s sweatshirt is soft against his cheek, and he breathes in the familiar scent of him, pretending that the shape in the corner of his notebook doesn’t look like the letter E.

He tells himself that he'll take it off before he goes home.

—

Emile calls him again.

The days are long but busy, so Leofard doesn’t even realize it’s almost been a week since they last saw each other, not until it’s Saturday night and his phone is ringing. He's in the living room with Stacia, V'kebbe, and Utata, and the four of them are tucked under blankets on the couch together as a romantic comedy plays. It takes one glance at his caller ID for him to get up, ignoring the questioning looks from his friends as he tells them not to pause the movie, and slips into his room.

“Hey,” he says, closing the door behind him. “I was just thinking about you.”

“You were?” comes Emile’s voice. Leofard thinks his favorite thing might be when he can hear the smile in it.

“You had a game today, right?”

“Yeah, I just got back to the hotel.”

“How’d it go?”

“We won,” he says, but he just sounds tired. “It was close, though. Our coach chewed out defense after, which was kind of a headache.”

“Damn.”

“How are you, though?” he asks. “I wasn’t sure if you’d be free to talk, with it being Saturday night and all.”

Leofard sits at the end of his bed, picking at a loose thread in his blanket. “It's fine, V’kebbe and Utata came over for dinner, so we're having a bit of a girls night.”

“Oh my god, that’s fun,” Emile says. “Am I interrupting?”

“Only from finding out if Meg Ryan and Tom Hanks end up together—which I strongly suspect that they will.”

“You’ve Got Mail or Sleepless in Seattle?”

“Oh. Big fan?”

"I—my sisters love them," he says, his voice shy. "I've watched a lot of movies with them."

Leofard bites his lip. "You're so fucking cute."

"Shut up."

He can imagine him rolling his eyes, alone in his hotel room across the country. Leofard twists his free hand into his hair. "What are you up to, then? Any plans for the rest of the night?"

"No, I have a flight early in the morning," he answers. "It's hard to relax after a game though, so I thought...I don't know. You're good at talking."

"That's the nicest way anyone's ever put it," Leofard says, but his whole chest feels warm. They chat while Emile packs and then still while he gets washed up. They both take a minute break to brush their teeth, and Leofard dodges questions from the girls when he tries to sneak back to his room. Once he’s alone again, he strips down and gets into bed, snuggling up to his pillow with the phone pressed to his ear.

It's kind of like the last time Emile called, except he stays awake this time. They talk until way too late, about nothing and everything, school and work and stories about the people in their lives, until their voices grow slower and the pauses grow longer.

"What time is your flight in the morning?" Leofard asks.

Emile makes a low sound. "Around eight, I think. We're taking a bus to the airport at five."

"That’s shit," Leofard mumbles, glancing at the clock. It's past midnight for him, even later for Emile. "Go to sleep."

"I will."

Still, the conversation carries on. He likes the tired sound of Emile's voice, and he wonders if Emile feels the same way on the other side of the country. He wonders if it means something that Emile called him out of all of his friends, that he chooses Leofard when he wants to shut out the world, come down from his high.

And then Emile asks, "Are you free on Thursday?"

"I should be—why?"

"It's my night off this week," he says. "We could hang out, if you want."

Leofard must be tired, because he says, "I always want to, baby."

But maybe it isn't so bad to say these things aloud. Maybe none of this is so wrong.

When he closes his eyes, the sound of Emile’s voice pulls him in until it feels like he’s in the room with him. Leofard can almost imagine him on the other side of the bed, his long legs knocking into his, and the two of them murmuring soft conversation to keep themselves awake.

Neither of them say goodnight. Neither of them hang up.

Leofard falls asleep just like that.

—

Where last week passed like a dream, this week inches along slowly.

Thursday hangs over his head with an anticipation that turns his stomach with nerves. It isn't a date, he tells himself, but it feels intentional. He doesn't tell anyone, especially not Stacia, because the last thing he needs is for someone to encourage his overthinking, to sway him from doubt. This isn't anything different, this isn’t anything special, this isn't—

Shit, why is he so nervous?

He barely pays attention in class when Thursday finally comes. His knee bobs up and down incessantly, he doesn't take a single note. He stares blankly at his professor as her lecture washes over him, and Cori shoots him a questioning look but he merely shakes his head at her.

After class, he races home to shower, slowing down enough to carefully style his hair, pick out an outfit, and spray a little cologne. It's more effort than he usually makes, but it feels right, even if Stacia and V'kebbe watch him with wide eyes as he leaves his room to grab his keys.

"Tell Emile we said hi," Stacia says.

Leofard just throws her a grin. "I'll be home late."

He takes a few deep breaths as he drives across campus, and it’s enough to steady the nervous energy in his hands as he follows the familiar route. Emile waits outside his dorm, a smile crossing his lips as soon as he looks over at Leofard's car. The breeze pulls at his hair, loose down to his shoulders now, and he wears a black long sleeve shirt that fits tight around his arms, his chest.

He never plays fair.

He leans over to kiss Leofard as soon as he gets in the car, lingering against his lips with a smile before kissing him again. “Are we going somewhere?”

Leofard nods as they part. “My friend's band is performing across town tonight, I thought we could check it out."

"Yeah, sounds fun!"

It's already growing dark, and as they drive through the twilight dim streets, Leofard reaches over to rest his hand on Emile's thigh, just as usual. Just as usual, Emile covers it with his own. They talk about their week, about classes and midterms coming up, and as he listens to the soft sound of Emile's voice, he risks turning his hand over so they’re palm to palm. A moment later, Emile’s fingers weave between his.

Leofard keeps his eyes on the road, but he bites down on a shy smile.

There's another band warming up when they get there, and the sound buzzes through the parking lot, muffled in the empty night air. They walk side by side towards the bar, and this time Emile lets him see his fake ID. Leofard tries not to laugh at how cute he was with his short scruffy hair.

It's even louder inside, and the lights are low over the small space, glancing off the brick walls and dark countertops. Leofard leaves Emile at the back of the bar to grab a couple of beers, and he glances over his shoulder while he waits, watching Emile nod along to the beat, eyes fixed on the stage, the smallest grin pulling at his lips.

When is this going to make sense again?

"Thank you," Emile says once Leofard joins him and hands over his beer. "Do you mind if we stay back here? I feel bad being in front of anyone at concerts."

Leofard snorts. "You can't help being tall, baby."

"Would you want to stand behind me?"

"Are you calling me short?"

Emile raises his brows as he looks away, lips pressed together to hold back a smile before he takes a sip of his drink.

“Oh my god,” Leofard whines. “Five eight is perfectly average, you know!”

“I’m sure!” he returns. “That doesn’t mean I can’t think of you as small and cute.”

Something in Leofard's chest tightens. He looks at Emile—he looks up at Emile because he doesn’t even reach his shoulder, and he pouts. “And here I thought I was sexy.”

“You can be both,” Emile says. Leofard raises a brow at him but Emile just leans down, breath ghosting his ear as he murmurs, "Like how your curls bounce when we fuck. It’s the cutest thing."

"Shut up," is all Leofard can say, his cheeks warm, too aware of his pulse racing beneath his skin. He searches his mind for something clever to say but he's too caught up in the thought of Emile remembering little details about him. It's easy to be the one to tease him, far more difficult to accept it in return.

He keeps his attention forward as he takes a sip of his beer. He needs this to make sense again.

Thankfully, the opening band finishes their song. Leofard uses the distraction to change the subject, telling Emile about his friend who is currently taking the stage. They met in English class freshman year, realizing their shared love of music over a group project at Leofard's dorm. They've kept in touch ever since, and Leofard tries to come to his concerts whenever he can.

Emile leans in to explain something about the guitar on stage. It's too loud to fully hear him, but Leofard likes how close he is, the scent of his cologne, the heat of his skin. He would only have to move the slightest bit closer to press his lips against him, but he just nods along at his excitement, tempted to ask if he ever performs.

Leofard would go to his show, unlike Estinien.

It's what holds him back. He focuses on the band instead, letting the music pulse through him and blot out his thoughts. I can't wait not to go home, his friend sings, so far away from everything I know. Leofard finishes his beer, bites the inside of his cheek. The music shakes the bar as the setlist goes on, as it grows louder, and they get into it, laughing as they bang their heads to the beat.

When a slower song comes on, he lets his shoulder lean against Emile, who merely shifts to wrap his arm around him. The side of Leofard's face presses into his chest, and he turns into it, closing his eyes—just for this song. Just for one chance to breathe him in under the weight of his arm, to savor the feeling of this boy who, for a moment, feels like something more than a friend.

Leofard pulls away.

That isn't—this isn't what they are. It isn't what he wants.

And yet he looks up into Emile's eyes to say, "Let's get out of here, I have an idea."

Emile raises a brow but follows behind him, hand in hand, music fading to a buzzing hum in the sudden quiet of the parking lot. Leofard only lets go to shrug his jacket back on, and when they get in the car, Leofard hands over his CD collection. "Here, pick something."

"What?" Emile asks, looking over at him with wide eyes.

"Your choice, baby."

"Are you sure? This is a huge responsibility," he murmurs as he takes the book from him. "I don't know how I'll decide."

"I think you can handle it."

"I'll try my best," he says absently, already lost flipping through the pages. Leofard smiles to himself and pulls out onto the main road, headlights cutting through the dark as they take to the quiet streets. Emile finally pulls a CD free and slides it into the stereo.

One baby to another says, "I'm lucky to have met you"

"Oh," Leofard says, reaching over to turn it up. "This is my favorite."

"Really?"

"I practically played it on repeat when I drove out here for the first time," he offers—a piece of him. Something real. The memories of those endless hours alone drift in with the music, the grief as fresh as it was then. It was a comfort to see the country like that, each new sight drowning out his anxiety, the road demanding his attention away from the worst of it.

Beside him, Emile pries Leofard's hand away from the gear shift and pulls it into his lap, twining their fingers together.

In a passionate kiss from my mouth to yours

I like you

Leofard is so, so screwed.

"Where are we going?" Emile asks. "I don't know if I’ve been out this way before."

They're even further from campus now, straying from the bustle of the town beyond it. The spaces between buildings grow larger, lessening into the trees until there's no sign of them at all. Dark silhouettes surround them, rising from the streetlights' glow, stars peeking through the still full branches.

"You'll see," Leofard answers. "It's one of my favorite spots off campus, I came here all the time during the summer."

"Without me?"

"You were busy with football."

"Damn, I should've quit," he says. "I could've hung out with you in the woods instead."

"I promise you, it's not that exciting," Leofard says, only a little uneasy. He knows he struggles with his relationship with football, but to joke about quitting?

"That was fun, though," Emile says.

Leofard half turns his head to sneak a glance at him, at his profile in the dim light, and squeezes his hand. "What was?"

"Hanging out all summer," he replies. "Your bed is so comfy—when I went back to my dorm, it took me forever to get used to sleeping alone again."

Me too, he should say. It's embarrassing, but it's better than, "Well, you can sleep over again sometime, if you want to. I don't mind."

But Emile just lets out a breath that sounds almost like a laugh. "I might take you up on that."

Leofard doesn't think about it—not these small promises, their hands tangled together in Emile's lap, the inescapable desire for more. His thoughts drift out into the dark, chasing the lines in the road, and the thing is—he knows that this is too much. He knows that they should just go back to his apartment and fool around and say goodnight.

And yet.

It isn't too much further until they reach the blink-and-you'll-miss-it turn for the parking lot. It sits quiet and empty, and once he parks the car he reaches over to the glove compartment and pulls out a flashlight.

"Why?" is all Emile asks.

Leofard laughs. "Where’s your sense of adventure?”

Emile's eyes are wide with distrust, but his expression softens into a smile before they get out of the car. The dark blankets them completely, but Leofard turns the flashlight on and holds out his hand for Emile to take. They follow a path that leads up the hill, the quiet clouded only by the wind playing through the trees, the sound of their footsteps crunching over stray roots and branches.

"So is this the part where you murder me?" Emile asks.

Leofard bites his lip to keep from giggling. "Yeah, actually. How’d you figure me out?"

"Too charming," he mutters. "I should've known better."

Leofard stops walking, their tethered hands pulling Emile to a stop as well. He holds the flashlight up to his own face as he looks up at the suggestion of him. "Any last words?"

He points the flashlight at Emile next, who squints against the light, gold brushing over his whole face and pulling him from the dark. His eyelashes cast a faint shadow, deeper beneath his nose, his lips. He just shakes his head. "I'll haunt you."

"Promise?" Leofard asks, letting the flashlight drop back to the path as they continue to walk.

"Of course," he says. "I'll be watching when you burn your food, and I'll distract you when you jerk off; throw your records around your room."

Leofard snorts. "I'd be thinking of you!"

"That's a lie," Emile says, and Leofard doesn't have to look at him to know the exact amused pull of his lips right now. "You'd move on immediately."

"Never," he swears. "You know what they say—relationships come and go, but friends with benefits are forever."

He savors the sound of Emile's sharp laughter. "Fuck off."

They follow the path until it breaks at the top of the hill. Before them lies the town they've both called home. Streetlights echo into the night sky with a polluted glow, winding gold and hazy red through the trees, and at the very edge sits the familiar lines of campus. The view hits Leofard the same each time he comes here, something that quiets his ever spinning thoughts.

"Oh," is all Emile says at first, and Leofard pulls his attention away to watch him take it in, only the shadow of his face visible from the flashlight's distance, the night holding him so carefully. He reaches up to tuck his hair behind his ear, looking over at Leofard with those big eyes that squint as he smiles at him.

They're alone in this little world up here. Leofard turns the flashlight off, plunging them into the dark as he reaches out for him, pulling him closer until their lips find each other. Their kiss lingers, warm in the cool night. Emile wraps his arms around his middle to pull him even closer, fingertips inching beneath the hem of his shirt to brush along his skin.

"Baby," Leofard sighs out, kissing him and then kissing his jaw, down his neck, mouthing at where his collarbone spills from his shirt. He can hear the hitch in Emile's breath but it's only encouragement to continue, dragging his tongue along his skin as his hands slip beneath his waistband.

"Here?" Emile asks, just the frame of the word around a soft moan.

"Unless you have any objections, " Leofard murmurs, sinking to his knees before him. He wets his lips, tugging Emile's jeans down while he noses at his abdomen. "I can stop, if you want."

But Emile winds his hands into his hair, tugging just enough to make his answer clear.

They speak this language well.

—

They drive back to campus with quiet music playing between them, drifting through the night like a dream, like a film, like a memory that's already come and gone. The lights filter between the trees while they follow the familiar roads back, and their hands link together between them, Emile's thumb rubbing tiny circles against Leofard's knuckle.

If someone took Leofard aside and asked him what he wanted most right now—

He drops Emile off at his dorm, memorizing the soft smile he gives him after they kiss goodnight. His heart twists in his chest watching him walk away, but he stays until Emile slips behind the door, even if he wants to follow after him, kiss him again, and ask, Can I take you home?

The apartment is quiet and dark when he gets back. He drinks a glass of water in the kitchen, listening to the steady tick of the clock above the table while he stares at the empty counter, the sink, the late moonlight filtering in through the window. The minutes pass like that before he makes himself get ready for bed, avoiding his own gaze in the mirror as he brushes his teeth.

There isn't much truth left to bare.

Still, he sighs out a deep breath when he gets in bed, smiling to himself as he replays the night over again in his mind.

He's nothing more than a fool.

—

Because he knows it can't last.

—

Because he knows it won't last.

—

Because he always gets in his own way.

—

Stacia calls on Saturday.

He's only distantly aware of his phone ringing. It's packed somewhere in his backpack, so the sound is muffled and unimportant. He's at a local garage with Cori, where they've borrowed a lift to take a look underneath his car. They have the front tires off, and Cori's checking the wheel bearing on the passenger side while he replaces the other.

His phone rings a second time.

Something unsteady curls through him.

"I'll just be a second," he tells Cori, wiping his hands on a spare rag before digging through his backpack. He grabs his phone from the front pocket and flips it open. "Hello?"

"Hey." It's Stacia. "Did you hear?"

There's enough caution in her voice that he frowns to himself, instinctively taking a few steps away from the garage and onto the sidewalk outside. The warm sunshine frames him as he asks, "What happened?"

"Okay, don't freak out," she starts, which only sets his heart racing, but he forces a deep breath before she continues, "Emile had a game today. He got tackled and it was...really bad. I don't know if he's okay, but I figured you'd want to know as soon as possible."

For a moment, he can’t hear anything except the ringing in his ears. “How bad was it?”

"I don't know, he was on the ground for a long time," she says. "He was able to get up, but it was really hard to watch him struggle to walk off the field. They didn't bring him back in."

“Fuck,” he breathes out.

It feels wrong that the sun is shining, that he can still feel its warmth on his face. There's a familiar helplessness about this, like the first time his guidance counselor pulled him from class and told him that Raimille had to be taken to the hospital. Years later, and he still doesn't know what to do with himself.

His hand clenches into a fist. "Where are you?"

"At the apartment," she answers. "Kebbe's on her way over right now."

"Okay," he says. “Um. I’m going to—I’ll see if I can reach him.”

“Are you okay?”

“Yeah of course,” he lies, glancing over his shoulder back at the garage. Cori watches him with concern pinching their brow, the same question in their eyes. He should be okay. He is. “I just need to talk to him.”

“Update me if you can,” Stacia murmurs. “Let me know if there's anything I can do.”

"I will. Thank you, Stace," he says. The call ends and he immediately goes to Emile's name in his contacts, running his free hand through his hair as he listens to the line ring and ring and ring. It goes to voicemail, and his chest aches as he turns back to the garage, stopping when he looks at his car. It doesn't even have front tires right now. "Fuck!"

"What's wrong?" Cori asks.

"My um—" he starts, closing his eyes for a moment. "My friend got hurt. I need to go see if he's okay."

He shoves his phone in his pocket as he walks past them, and he can feel his breath begin to rush as he stares at the mess of his car, his mind spinning as he tries to remember what they were even doing, how to undo it, how to get out of here as soon as possible.

And yet he just stands there. Helpless.

"Here," Cori says, stepping in to take his place. They finish tightening the bearing he'd been working on, fitting it back together. Leofard just watches for a moment, dazed by their kindness before he snaps out of it enough to help them lift the tires onto the axle. From there, it doesn't take long to check everything over and clean up.

"Thank you," he says, clearing his throat as he meets their gaze. It's probably the most sincere he's ever been with her.

Cori shakes their head. "I hope your friend is okay."

"Me too."

They bring the car down from the lift, and Leofard already has his phone pressed to his ear again as he gets in, driving back to campus immediately. The heavy beat of his heart competes with the line ringing out again.

“Come on,” he says, brows pushed together. He slows to a stop at a red light and dials one more time.

The line clicks.

“Hello?” Emile's voice is barely more than a whisper—half there, distant.

Relief still floods through Leofard at the sound.

"Hey," he says, his own voice a little shaky. He clears his throat. "Are you okay? Stacia told me—"

"I'm fine," he interrupts, the words flat. "It's just a concussion."

"What do you mean, just a concussion?"

"It isn't a big deal, Leo," he says. "I've gotten them before."

“Right, just a casual head injury.”

“Yeah,” Emile murmurs, breathing out what Leofard thinks is the closest he’ll get to a laugh right now. "It's my fault anyway. I'll be okay, I just need to rest for a few days."

Leofard stares very hard at the road ahead of him, trying to focus on anything but the words, It's my fault. In fact, he's trying to focus on anything but the resignation in his voice, the acceptance that this is just something that happens to him.

Leofard sighs. "Where are you?"

"At my dorm," he answers. "They cleared me to sleep it off. Don't worry, I'll be fine."

Saying it a third time only makes it feel less true. Leofard's grip tightens around the steering wheel. "I thought you had to stay awake after a concussion."

"Not really, I think that's just a thing people say."

Give me something here.

"Do you need anything? Pain killers? Food?"

Just let me see you.

He can hear Emile's soft exhale on the other end of the line. "You don't have to, Leo. I'm fine."

"And if I want to?"

“Well...I won’t say no to food.”

That's my boy.

“I’ll be there soon.”

They hang up. Leofard throws his phone onto the passenger seat and lets out a frustrated breath, running a hand through his hair while the other grips the steering wheel too tight. He drives to a shopping plaza across town, fighting back the thought of Emile on the ground, of him being helped up, unable to walk off the field on his own.

Leofard can do this. He's good at taking care of people.

He picks up snacks, canned soup, and Gatorade, buying an ice pack just in case, and a sports magazine, not even sure why, before he drives to Emile’s dorm.

His hands are full as he walks up the now familiar stairs, heart picking up a beat when he manages to knock on his door. Maybe it just feels like it takes a long time for Emile to answer, standing there trying not to fidget, but then it opens and Emile's on the other side in his sweats, hood pulled over his head. He manages a small smile but blinks slowly through the distant look in his eyes. “Hey.”

“Hi,” Leofard says, lifting the bag of groceries. “I come bearing food.”

"Thank you," Emile rasps, stepping aside to let him in. Leofard watches as he gingerly lays back down and pulls his grandmother's blanket up to his chin. He peeks back at Leofard, mostly obscured by his hood, only his eyes and the bridge of his nose are visible. It's devastatingly cute.

Leofard sets the bag down on the desk and kicks off his sneakers, sitting at the end of Emile's bed. "How do you feel?"

"Like I got hit by a truck," he mumbles. "Which isn't too far off, I guess."

Leofard's lips press together in a small smile. "What happened?"

"I took too long," he says. He closes his eyes for a moment, and when he opens them he keeps his gaze on the mattress. "I was stuck looking for an opening while they broke through our defense. I don't even remember getting hit—the next thing I knew, I was in the medical room."

“This isn’t your fault,” Leofard murmurs.

“It is,” he returns. “I should’ve paid more attention.”

“Emile.”

“You don’t get it,” he says, his voice still so stiff and tired. “Everyone’s expecting me to be better than this.”

Leofard lays his hand on Emile's leg over the blanket, a solid point of contact. It gets Emile's gaze to shift back to him, and there's a certain grief hidden away in his eyes. Something tells Leofard this goes beyond what happened on the field today.

And there's just...this sense of uncertainty about it. He knows Emile but he doesn't know how to comfort him, doesn't know how to offer reassurance when Emile doesn't want it. Emile has come to him before because he knew Leofard wouldn't question him, wouldn't push to understand why he was upset, but is that still the case?

"Well...I don't think that's true," Leofard offers. "And anyone who's mad at you for getting a concussion is an asshole."

The corners of Emile's lips pull up as his expression softens, and his brown eyes stay steady on him. He watches Leofard but he doesn't say anything, instead he pulls back the blanket next to him in invitation. The bed is too small for them both, but Leofard carefully fits himself beside him, tucked up against his chest, faces inches apart on his pillow. Emile is so warm and soft like this, Leofard just closes his eyes and breathes him in.

"How long do you need to rest?" Leofard asks, his voice quieter in the space between them.

"A few days," he answers, just as quiet. "I'll be back for the next game."

His words echo in Leofard's chest with an ache. Leofard opens his eyes and tilts his head back to look at him, lifting a hand to gently push that stubborn piece of hair out of his face. They watch each other, and Leofard wants nothing more than to lean in and kiss him, to reassure him with the soft press of his lips.

He won't risk hurting him.

"Has anyone ever told you that you're shit at taking care of yourself?" he asks.

Emile's lips fall into a loose smile. "Shut up."

"No, I'm serious. It must be the head injury speaking."

"Don't make me laugh, it hurts," he says with a wince. "I'll be okay, but I appreciate the concern. I didn't expect you to be so...nurturing. It's sweet."

"Yeah, well," Leofard sighs. I have experience. His mind flashes back to all those days at Raimille's bedside, the way their roles reversed and how he spoke all of her stories back to her. She was often too weak to do more than squeeze his hand, but he'd like to think that she heard every word.

He clears his throat, covering Emile's hand with his. This is what he knows. This is what he offers:

"I could stay the night, if you want."

This is where it begins to end.

Emile shakes his head the slightest bit, closing his eyes. "Maybe just until I fall asleep? My roommate will be back later, and he doesn't know about you."

"Oh...really?"

"Yeah, I guess it hasn't come up. I don't know. It's not that I care what he thinks, I just...don't feel up to explaining it right now."

"That's fine," Leofard lies, as if Emile's words don't sink to the pit of his stomach. Sure, they're just friends with benefits but... he thought...

Well, he thought the friends part of it mattered.

He's grateful that Emile isn't watching him, hoping that he's tired enough not to notice the way Leofard goes completely still. It just doesn't make sense to him how all this time could pass and Emile hasn’t mentioned him once—especially not when he's told Leofard all about his roommate, not when he knows all of Leofard's friends.

He could understand Emile not wanting his roommate to see him curled up with a guy like this, could understand if he wanted some time alone while he's injured, but to keep Leofard a secret?

He glances up at the picture of Emile and Estinien, still pinned there among all the other photos on the wall. Stacia and Emile have both talked about Estinien's injury, the way it so dramatically ended his football career. Is that what Emile's afraid of? Was Emile there for him when he got hurt?

Did Emile's friends know about him?

It doesn’t matter, he tells himself. He said Estinien never wanted him.

Leofard isn’t sure that it’s true—not with the way Emile sees himself—but if it is, then Estinien is the biggest fool in the world.

And well, maybe Leofard is too.

He doesn't wait long after Emile falls asleep, but he only gets up when he's sure that he won't stir again. He moves slowly and carefully as he slips from the bed, adjusting the blanket to cover the empty space he leaves behind. He takes a moment to watch him, heart pulling in his chest at the sight of him tucked in, knowing he's in pain. It doesn't matter how unsteady he makes Leofard feel, he's still so beautiful.

If only this could be as easy as it was in the beginning.

Leofard closes the door behind him with a soft sound, his thoughts heavy in his mind. He doesn't put on music when he gets in his car, he just rolls down the windows, letting in the late September air. It doesn't do much to clear his head, and he knows—he knows that he's the one who thought this was changing. After everything, Emile is still just keeping to their original agreement.

No expectations, he reminds himself. This has never meant anything.

He presses his lips together at the memory of that party: Emile standing apart from the crowd, the shape of his body in the dark bathroom, that first touch between them, hands and lips sparking their chemistry to life. They were just strangers then, and now—

Leofard puts the radio on, drowning the world in pop bullshit, and when he reaches the turn for his apartment, he keeps driving.

#ffxiv #modern au #emile/leofard #oc: emile jenidaut #leofard myste #ughAHHGHHH #this took. so long. but it's here <33 #everyone tell leofard to think critically instead of spiraling all the time #lock in !!!!!!!#anyway. i'll have more thoughts later i just need to post NOW #my writing

14 notes · View notes