i remember a garden, @hythlodaes - Tumblr Blog

and then came june - chapter 9

emile/leofard 20k words [read on ao3] explicit summary: in the aftermath, leofard learns how to let go. thank you kels @scionshtola for letting me borrow cori one last time <33

June

Five years from now, Emile will wake up in Leofard's apartment for the last time.

He'll roll over in an attempt to escape the alarm, body aching with an exhaustion that doesn't totally belong to their sleepless night. Part of him will want to close his eyes against the morning light, fall back asleep, and miss his flight home. All of him will want to pull Leofard into his chest, bury his face in his curls, and forget that there's a reason to say goodbye.

But the bed will be empty, and Emile's suitcase will be open on the floor, waiting for him.

He'll get up to pack, taking his time. There won't be much—just a few changes of clothes and his toiletries. While he packs, he'll wonder if Leofard felt like this when he left for New York, like he's walking away from his own heart.

Cait Sith will come over to sit in his suitcase, climbing back in each time Emile moves him out of the way. Emile’s heart will be tangled enough in his chest that he’ll simply leave him, hoping maybe this is what will make him miss his flight.

And then Leofard will come in, already dressed and with two coffees in his hands, and he’ll laugh softly at them as he shakes his head and puts the coffees down.

Come on, he'll say, pulling Cait Sith from his bag one more time and holding him against his chest. I'll take you to the airport.

They've done this before.

Everything in Emile will protest as they close the apartment door behind them, like he's caught in a dream and he's moving too slow, his whole body heavy with emotion. He'll be grateful for Leofard pulling his suitcase for him—he won't care if he leaves it behind.

Leofard will fill the quiet air between them as they walk down the street towards the subway, and Emile will bite his cheek as he listens to him talk about his plans to visit Stacia and V'kebbe in a couple weeks, still close after all these years.

Emile will know that could've included him, too.

As they wait on the subway platform, Emile will touch Leofard's chin, tilting his head back so he can lean down and kiss him. He won't hide his grief, he'll just kiss him with each aching emotion in his chest, as if it could tell Leofard how much he doesn't want this to end.

They'll still be kissing as the train arrives, the rush of air sweeping over them and pulling at their clothes. They'll part, meeting each other's eyes, and Emile will stare into that pale blue gaze, wishing he could rewind time, go back to that cafe, and tell Leofard that he's the only thing he wants.

He'll wear his regret like a heavy winter coat, but it won't change anything.

They'll still get on the train. Emile will duck his head under the ceiling of the car, and hold onto one of the hand rails while Leofard holds onto him, arms wrapped tight around his middle, head against his chest. With each stop, people will filter in and out around them, and Emile will wish that it could just keep going, that they'll never have to arrive, that he could have just a little longer, just a little bit—please.

He’ll wish that he could go back to bed, lay in Leofard’s arms, and lean into his touch as he breathes beside him. At twenty six years old, he’ll wish that Leofard would whisper little stories to him until he falls asleep again. No flight home. No emptiness in his chest. No such thing as leaving.

But Leofard will help him navigate all the way to the airport, getting on another train that feels like it takes mere seconds to Emile's terminal. They'll walk through the crowd towards the line for security, and then Leofard will stop. They'll face each other. Their time will end.

Well, baby, Leofard will say. He'll turn his head away and clear his throat before he'll look back up at him with a shaky smile. It's been fun. I'm glad we got to...that I got to see you again.

And Emile won't be able to breathe around the tight pain in his chest.

I can't do this, he'll choke out.

Leofard will frown. What?

I can't leave, he'll say. Each emotion he's been holding back will loosen, and tears will burn in his eyes before they slip down his cheeks. He'll suppose he should feel like a fool as his shoulders shake—crying in public like this—but nothing will matter compared to this: I was wrong, Leo. I was so stupid, and I made so many mistakes. I should've chosen you over everything.

Leofard won't say anything at first, watching him with wide eyes, until the only thing that comes out of his mouth is a soft, Emile.

I'm sorry, he'll say through his tears, voice uneven and trembling. I'm so fucking sorry, Leo. I loved you, and I know I hurt you, but I can't—I can't do this. I can't get on that plane knowing that I'll never see you again.

He'll take a deep breath, another, until he's steady enough to ask:

Can you forgive me? Can we try again?

—

Leofard drives until his tank runs empty.

It's almost dark when he pulls into a gas station, the sunset thinning out until the stars begin to peek through. The air has cooled, so he ends up half-shivering while he fills his car, one hand shoved in his sweatshirt pocket. He blinks in a daze under the fluorescent lights, his thoughts forever tracing back to Emile.

It's funny—he wrestled with saying something all semester, and now that he has, he wonders why it was a thought at all. He wonders how he could have possibly thought this would've gone any other way, how Emile could have ever returned his feelings after a year of saying nothing. It's his own fault, he thinks, for believing in his daydreams, for wanting more than he could have.

He wanted it so bad.

Leofard buys a coffee before he heads home, coasting over the road and fighting off memories from this past year. He can't help but run New Year's Eve through his mind, when he laid with Emile on that football field, stadium lights haloing his boy, and they kissed long past midnight—meeting you was the best thing that happened to me this year. He can't help but remember each call that ran too late, the way Emile stayed up until six in the morning just to talk to him, how sometimes they'd fall asleep still on the line. None of it makes sense now.

It's late when he gets back, and he doesn't turn on the lights, wading through the shadows pooling in the apartment. Stacia's door is closed, thankfully. Leofard kicks off his shoes and goes to his room, pulling his wallet and his phone from his pockets.

His phone lights up as he sets it down on his bureau, and he frowns as he reads the notification: 1 Message Received.

Leofard swallows hard before he flips it open.

From Emile: sorry i was so tired. mabye we can hang out tmrw night if ur free?

Leofard pauses, staring at it for a long time. Maybe he's just...overthinking this again. Maybe he can't see this clearly because he's too stuck in his own head, too paralyzed by the thought of all his fears coming true.

Maybe they can go back to the way things were.

The thought doesn't sit easily in his mind, but he still holds onto it as he gets ready for bed, texting Emile a simple: yea, come over whenever

And he doesn't think he sleeps much that night, but he reminds himself again and again that he'll see Emile tomorrow, and they'll figure it out. At some point, his restless body finally settles down.

—

He barely pays attention in any of his classes the next day. His leg bounces incessantly, fingers worrying at his bottom lip as he stares in a daze at the front of each classroom, ignoring his lectures. Will Emile want to talk about it? Did he miss him too? Does he want to spend time together or just fool around after a week apart?

Leofard sits alone in the library during his break, ignoring his notes on the table to stare at the empty seat across from him. If he squints, he can almost see Emile the last time they were here together, their feet touching under the table, Emile's soft smile. At his next class, he asks Cori about the rest of their spring break, and he's grateful that their professor interrupts before they can return the question.

And then he races home. Emile didn't say what time he'd come over, so it's just a matter of waiting for him to show up. Leofard spends too long looking in the mirror, fussing at his curls and wondering if he looks good enough for Emile to forget about how stupid he was.

Are we dating?

Sometimes it feels like more.

I just wanted to hear your voice.

He closes his eyes to shake the memories away and blinks them back open, staring at the reflection of his pale gaze.

You know I love your eyes, Emile had once said.

Leofard blows out a frustrated breath and turns away.

He's alone in the apartment, so he sits on the couch in the living room and puts on the TV. He looks at it, at each passing image, but he doesn't watch it, too stuck in his own head, trying to anticipate what will happen, what he'll say, what Emile will want. The minutes pass slowly, and Leofard can feel each beat of his heart as he waits for a knock on the door.

When it comes, Leofard doesn't get up right away, instead taking a moment to breathe before he turns the TV off. He walks slowly, dread coiling in his chest as he goes to the door, but Emile just stands on the opposite side, arms crossed, something uncertain in his gaze. Leofard looks up at him with an attempted smile.

"Hey," he says, stepping aside to let him in.

"Hi," Emile returns. "How are you?"

"Fine," he answers. He turns to walk towards his room, and when he glaces back, Emile follows him. "Class was shit today, but it always sucks going back after spring break."

"Yeah, I'm not looking forward to that."

Leofard presses his lips together. "How was your day? Did you catch up on your sleep?"

"Kind of," he says, and he goes to sit at the edge of Leofard's bed, blinking at him from across the room.

Leofard takes a step closer when he doesn't continue. Emile tips his chin down like half a nod, and Leofard takes another step closer, heart picking up in his chest. So they aren't going to talk. He keeps going until he's close enough for Emile to reach out and put his hand at his waist, tugging him a little closer. Leofard just keeps his gaze on him, searching those brown eyes for anything that would resemble an answer.

Don't think about it, he tells himself, as if Emile could look at him and know what he wants, know that he's thinking about their last conversation.

He's acting nervous. He knows he is. He makes himself reach up to push Emile's hair back, and he can't help the small grin that pulls at his lips as he watches Emile's handsome face, and he bends his head down to press his mouth to his. Emile leans into it, grip tightening at Leofard's t-shirt as he pulls him onto his lap.

Relax, Leofard tells himself. He wants to melt into Emile, but he holds himself too stiff, grip tight enough in Emile's hair that Emile pulls back a little to wince. Leofard lets go with a murmured, sorry, and takes a breath before he kisses him again, trying to find their usual rhythm.

But Emile's hands stay still on his body, unmoving beneath him, and neither of them part their lips. They linger for too long, too uncertain, somehow lost when they know how to find each other.

Emile breaks the kiss to let his head drop onto Leofard's shoulder, where he mumbles, "Why'd you have to ask me that?"

Leofard immediately pulls away to meet his gaze. "What?"

"When you asked if we were dating," he says, brown eyes cautious as he watches him. "I haven't been able to stop thinking about it."

So they are talking about it. Leofard's heart races as he tries to think of an answer, tries to think of what Emile needs to hear. Can they really make this go away, or does he have to own up to it?

"Does it matter?" he asks. "I got my answer, and I'm fine with it. Let's just let it go."

"Yeah, but why did you ask?"

"I don't know," he murmurs. "Is it so crazy to think that things could've changed in the last year?"

"No, but..." He sighs, looking away as he seems to search for what to say next. Leofard watches his gaze shift over his room before it turns back to him. "It just felt like it came out of nowhere."

A surge of frustration rushes through Leofard. "You really can't see how I would question our relationship?"

Emile lets out a similarly frustrated sigh. "No, it's just—after everything, why are you asking now?"

"Because I leave in two months, Emile! Something has to change if we want to keep going."

"Is that the only reason?" Emile asks. "If you weren't leaving, would you still be asking the same question?"

Leofard swallows back the emotion that sits in the back of his throat. Everything he's been holding back unravels in a moment, and he thinks that maybe—maybe Emile just needs to hear it. Maybe Leofard just needs to finally be brave.

"I would," he admits. "Obviously I don't know what I'm doing, but I want to be with you. I think we could make this work for real, even if it's long distance at first, or we have to wait. I'm willing to try, baby."

But Emile just stares at him, eyes wide. "I don't understand."

"Don't." Leofard says. He gets up off of his lap, crossing his arms over his chest as he crosses the room to lean against his bureau. "Don't fucking do that to me. You don't have to feel the same way, but don't act like you don't know where this is coming from."

"But I don't!" Emile snaps. "You haven't shown any interest in a relationship until now."

"I feel like that's all I do," Leofard returns, heart racing. "I treat you like you're my boyfriend and then say we're just friends. That doesn't make any sense."

Emile shakes his head. "Everything comes with the reminder that you just want to fuck me. I swear, Leo, every time I've wondered if this is something more, you shut me down."

Everything in Leofard pauses, trying to think back, but it's impossible to wade through his memories right now. "What do you mean?"

"I've tried to talk to you about it," Emile says. "You just laugh it off like it's not important. I'm not questioning your friendship, Leo, but I also know you don't really want this."

"That's not true," he tries, panic swelling in his chest.

"Come on," Emile murmurs. "Then what about Halloween?"

Leofard immediately turns his head away, staring at his window. He left the blinds open, and the branches of the trees wave in the spring air. He takes a breath. "I told you, I fucked up."

"And it hurt me," Emile says, voice thin enough to get Leofard to look back at him, at the pain still in his gaze. "But I thought, at least I know where you stand."

"I had feelings for you," Leofard tries. "I was just...scared of them."

"So you practically fuck some girl in front of me?"

"That's not fair."

"Right, that's what's not fair," Emile mutters.

Leofard tilts his head back for a moment, blinking at the ceiling. How does he explain it to Emile? How does he fix his own foolishness?

"Look," he starts, and he hates the guarded expression on Emile's face. He hates that he's the reason it's there. "I've never...I've never been in a situation like this before. I've never had such strong feelings for anyone, and I thought it might've been because I hadn't slept with anyone else. I didn't even want to kiss her, but—I don't know—I thought it would help me figure things out."

"What?" Emile asks, just a whisp of the word. "You weren't sleeping with other people?"

"Shit," Leofard lets out. He bites his lip for a moment. "I haven't, um—no, not since we met."

Emile's brows push together, eyes wide. It looks something like despair. "This whole time?"

Leofard shakes his head. "I don't want anyone else."

Emile leans forward to rest his elbows on his knees, his head in his hands. He just sits there for a long moment, and Leofard wants to close his eyes, he doesn't want to face this. Finally, Emile says, "Why didn't you tell me?"

"Because I didn't want this to stop," Leofard murmurs, hearing the misery in his own voice. Cori was right—how long can you keep things to yourself before it hurts everyone? "I thought it would be over if I did."

"So instead, you let me think that you didn't want me."

"I thought it was obvious that I did."

"No, Leo..." He sits up, running his hands through his hair before he looks back over at him, then away again. "I'm so stupid."

"No you're not," Leofard assures him. "I'm the one fucking this up, but it's only because I don't know what I'm doing, not that I don't want you."

"You could've just talked to me."

"Would it have made a difference if I did?" Leofard asks. "Or would we have had this conversation earlier?"

Emile looks back at him, that same guarded look in his eyes. "I don't know."

Leofard has to take a deep breath. "What do you want, Emile?"

"It doesn't matter."

"It really fucking does," he says. "I'm sorry that I didn't say anything before, but I don't know where you're at with any of this. You shut me down last week, but I can't understand why you're mad at me unless you also wanted something more."

"You lied to me for a year, Leo."

"I didn't." Emotion chokes its way up his throat, but he swallows it back. "You know it's been different the past few months. I haven't done or said anything that wasn't how I felt, I just didn't tell you the full extent of it. That doesn't change anything." "It changes everything!"

"Tell me what it changes," Leofard says. "Tell me what happens if I said something in October. If Halloween never happened."

Emile stands, his height and his breadth filling the room. He felt so small sitting on the bed, but now Leofard looks up at him, and something shifts between them. Leofard has never felt intimidated by him before, but he supposes nothing feels right at the moment, anyway.

"We would've had more time," Emile says. "We could've figured things out, and I wouldn't have—we wouldn't be scrambling right before you leave, like an afterthought."

"I told you, we can make this work. It's just a year until you graduate, we could try long distance."

Emile shakes his head. "You don't get it."

"I don't! Just fucking talk to me."

"There's nothing to talk about! Nothing ever works out for me, okay? And just when I think I know what I'm doing, you go and change everything. It's just—it's too late, Leo."

"So you'd just give up?" Leofard asks. "You won't even try?"

Emile takes a long, deep breath before he says, "I'm not in love with you."

It hits like a fist, like a physical blow. It might hurt less if it was.

"I never fucking said anything about love," Leofard snaps. His head spins as he tries to focus on the room around him. "I never asked you to fucking love me!"

"Then what do you want from me!"

Leofard just wants this to be real. He wants to hold him and kiss him and not have to pretend that he doesn't feel more than he does. He just wants to wake up to Emile in the morning, wants to murmurs soft, loving words to him, brush his hair out of his face, make him coffee. He wants to come home to him every night, wants to take him on dates, make him happy. He just wants a chance.

Leofard feels his face crumple but he doesn't let himself break down. There's a storm in his chest—something hurt and angry, something that recognizes that this conversation is a bruise they keep touching, and he won't stop now.

"I want you to be honest with me," he finally says. "Does this have anything to do with Estinien?"

Emile's eyes widen. "What do you know about Estinien?"

"I know he fucking haunts you," Leofard bites. "You talk about him when you're drunk. You miss him."

"You don't know anything," Emile mutters, and if there's anything that tells Leofard this is the wrong direction to take, it's the anger in Emile's voice.

But he doesn't care. He wants it to hurt.

"He's an asshole who didn't want you," Leofard continues. "And yet you can't let go of him. You can't let anyone else in. You hang his picture on your wall because you can't fucking move on!"

"Shut up!" Emile yells. For a moment, there’s only silence between them. Emile's anger bleeds out. "At least he wouldn't do this to me."

"He wouldn't—" Leofard breaks off, letting out a breath that almost sounds like a laugh. "He isn't here, Emile! He left! I'm the one who actually gives a shit about you."

"Yeah, because you're great at showing it."

Leofard's lips part for a moment, utterly bewildered.

"You slept in my bed when you were sick. I dropped everything to come see you when you got hurt, and you wouldn't even let me stay because your roommate couldn't know I exist!” He struggles to take a breath. It hurts so bad. “Don't try and fucking tell me that I wasn't there for you. I've told you things that I've never shared with anyone before, okay? You could never do the same, you never let me in."

"It's not that easy for me!" Emile returns.

"It's not easy for me, either!" he says. "But I chose you—over and over again. I'm still here, I'm not walking away like he did."

"This isn't about him."

"Isn't it?" Leofard asks. "You'll close yourself off forever because Estinien wouldn't fuck you."

He knows, immediately, that it's the wrong thing to say.

Unfortunately, that doesn't stop him from saying it.

"It's not Estinien's fault I don't love you," Emile murmurs—quiet, angry, hurt. "You treat everything like a joke and then act surprised when no one takes you seriously."

"Then go!" Leofard yells. "There's no point in this anymore, I don't even know what you're fucking doing here. If you don't want me, then just get the fuck out of my life!"

For a moment, something flashes in Emile's expression, something Leofard can't pinpoint through the haze of his anger. Whatever it was, it's gone just as quickly, and Emile uncrosses his arms. "Fine."

It's like Leofard stands outside of himself when it happens, trapped in place as he watches Emile walk away. There's nothing for Emile to take with him, so he just...leaves. Like it's easy. Like none of it mattered.

Leofard feels his pulse quicken, panic pulling at the edges of him as he follows him out of his room. Emile pauses at the front door, turning back to face him. Leofard meets his gaze, and the feeling sinks so deep in his chest that he doesn't know how he'll ever get it out.

Because Emile sees all of him, knows what Leofard wants, knows how Leofard feels about him, and he's still walking away.

And he just shakes his head. "Fuck you, Leo."

Emile reaches for the door. It's about to be over, and all Leofard can say is, "I hope you're happy, now no one wants you."

Leofard will always remember that last glimpse of Emile, he'll always remember the sound of the door slamming shut behind him. He'll never really remember what happens after that, just that he ends up on the floor, and he's curled into himself as he sobs, chest heaving, breaking down into nothing. He can't catch his breath, can't stop crying, and it's over, it's actually over.

Everything he wanted is gone.

He never cries like this—maybe as a lonely child, or when Raimille died. Her loss made him feel like he was going to sink into the ground, like the weight of his grief would bury him with her. He wishes she was here, that she would hold him and stroke his hair and tell him that he didn't ruin everything.

As much as she taught him about life, she never told him what to do when a boy breaks his heart.

So he cries, shaking all over, heart twisted in his chest. He doesn't want this to be real, doesn't want this to be how it ends. He doesn't want to get up, to have to live with the knowledge that Emile doesn't love him. He was so stupid—so, so stupid.

It all comes up—everything that's he's been fighting back, each emotion that he has held onto for so long. It chokes out of him until there's arms around him, and Stacia's voice in his ear. "You're okay, you're okay, I'm here."

He lets his hands drop as she pulls back, and through his tears he looks up to meet her concerned gaze. She brushes his hair from his face, sweeping her thumbs across his cheeks.

"Oh my god," she murmurs. "What happened?"

"Emile," he manages.

She immediately shakes her head. "No."

"He doesn't love me," he cries. "It's over. He's gone."

Stacia simply pulls him back into her arms. He goes instantly, wrapping himself around her as he buries his head in her shoulder. She's the only home he has, and she holds him tightly, hand stroking his back as she murmurs again and again, "You're okay."

He doesn't feel okay. He doesn't know if he'll ever feel okay again, but Stacia takes him to her room so he can lay down on her bed. She brings him tissues and holds him close. He eventually stops crying, too exhausted from it to feel ashamed, so he just leans into Stacia's touch as she runs her hand through his hair.

Everything sits raw in his chest, like he's been carved open and there's nothing left. He didn't know that heartbreak could physically hurt, not until each breath feels like it’ll crack his ribs apart.

He just stares at Stacia's wall until the afternoon light shifts into orange through her window. He turns his head into her pillow and closes his eyes. "Why can't I be enough for him?"

"Don't say that," she murmurs, voice soft. "You're everything, Leo."

And maybe his world ends on a Monday night, but the only thing he can think is that he should've seen it coming.

He should've known it was too good to be true.

—

The night stretches on, it stretches out.

Leofard feels each minute that passes, still awake long after Stacia falls asleep. He doesn't even try—he's too afraid to close his eyes in case he'll see Emile there, in his mind, still angry at him.

The reality of it slowly sinks in during the emptiness of the night. He breathes in. He'll never hold Emile again, never kiss him again, never have his body next to his. He breathes out. He won't curl up in his arms again, won't tuck his face into the curve of his neck and press his lips to his warm skin. He'll never watch his brown eyes turn gold in the sunlight, won't fix that stupid piece of hair that always falls into his face, won't hear the sound of his laughter again.

Emile doesn't love him, doesn't want him, doesn't even want to try.

And the worst part is, Leofard thought he had a chance. He thought they'd go back to the city and build a life together, that this next year would be full of phone calls and weekend visits. He'd make Emile CDs with his favorite music, mail him handwritten letters, and it would feel like they were close even though they'd be far apart.

He would laugh at himself if it didn't hurt so much.

The truth is, he'll be alone. He'll always be alone.

—

Stacia skips class with him the next day. She has to drag him out of bed and make him eat breakfast, quietly miserable as they pick at their eggs and toast. They don't really talk about it, but they don't talk much at all. They sit on the couch and they watch The Price is Right, and Leofard curls up under a blanket, holding a pillow to his chest. When Stacia puts on a movie after, he falls asleep.

It's dark when he wakes, but Stacia still sits beside him, concerned eyes peering over at him from the other side of the couch.

“Hey," she murmurs. "How are you feeling?"

"Like shit," he answers. He can see the question in her eyes, the uncertainty of how to bring it up. He just shakes his head. "I should've listened to you."

“No,” she says. “He’s an asshole.”

And Leofard wonders if this is how Emile felt when he called Estinien an asshole last summer. He wants to say it isn't true, wants to defend him, to say, You don't understand.

I miss him, Emile said back then, and is that Leofard's fate now too?

“We said awful things to each other,” he mumbles. “I think I was worse to him.”

For a moment, only the sound of the TV plays between them. She shifts, sitting up a little as she says, "I just don't get it. You guys seemed so happy together—how does he not feel the same?"

Leofard shakes his head in an absent motion. He doesn't know how to explain Estinien. He doesn't know how to tell Stacia that he knew there was someone else this whole time.

But he can't even say for sure that it's because of Estinien—Leofard wants to believe it is, if only to spare himself the pain of Emile not wanting him for him alone.

“I waited too long,” he says. “I hurt him.”

“Neither of you said anything,” she reminds him. “He wouldn’t have done half the shit he did if he didn’t have some kind of feelings for you. It wasn’t just your responsibility to say something.”

“I don’t know.” But he can't help but think how nice it would've been if Emile had been the one to say it, if he ever did feel something for Leofard. Maybe it would've scared him away, but maybe they could've figured it out, and they would've been happy together. Maybe this would've had a different ending.

He lays his head back on the couch, blinking at the TV. “I didn’t give him a Christmas present, even though he got me one. It was really thoughtful, too.”

Stacia is quiet for a long time, then finally: “You’ll drive yourself crazy thinking like that.”

“I don’t know,” he repeats. “I should’ve ended it a while ago.”

Before it ever got to this point. It would’ve hurt then, but not like this—like there's nothing left of him.

"I was wrong about him," she murmurs, her voice sad. "Just not in the way that I thought."

He stays quiet, his heart too broken to ask what she means.

—

Leofard lays in his own bed that night, staring at the space beside him.

He blinks into the dark, and he can almost see the silhouette of Emile's body. It comes easily: the picture of him curled up on his side, face towards Leofard, his long legs knocking into his. Leofard lays next to a ghost, and he pulls the other pillow closer, hiding his face in the soft fabric as he breathes it in.

It's been almost two weeks since the last time Emile used it, so he shouldn't be disappointed that it doesn't smell like him anymore.

—

He skips class again the next day, and the next. He doesn't want to get out of bed, doesn't want to shower, or get dressed, or try. He sleeps, he half-watches movies, and he thinks about Emile. He replays their fight in his head, looking for where he could've gotten it right, and he thinks about that phone call that set them on this path. That’s not what this is, Emile said, and Leofard should've known, then.

Part of him did.

As a cruelty to himself, he imagines what it would've been like if Emile's answer was different. He imagines Emile saying, I love you, calling Leofard his boyfriend, the way his gaze would soften around him—automatic, secure. They would make plans for the summer, and Emile would finally quit football to hang out with him in Manhattan. They'd go to museums, hold hands in Central Park, and they'd redecorate Leofard's apartment to make it feel like theirs.

And then he remembers when they went away for Emile's birthday, and Emile talked about going to New York with him. That's where Leofard falters, because how do they go from a conversation like that, to ending things completely?

He doesn’t really cry again, but he feels it in his chest, like it’s always there.

Each afternoon, Stacia comes back from class and checks in on him, asking if he's eaten anything, if there's anything she can do. The answer is always no, even if he appreciates her more than he could say. Sometimes she leaves him alone, but most of the time she brings him a plate of food and a glass of water.

He loves her too much to completely ignore it, so he always manages a few bites.

—

V'kebbe comes over that weekend, and her normally bright eyes carry too much caution in them. Leofard hates it, hates seeing the concerned looks her and Stacia pass back and forth, the way they communicate without speaking. They try and cheer him up, but it has the opposite effect. It's hard to watch them be a couple right now.

He stays in his room until V'kebbe leaves, ignoring the guilt that breathes with him. Stacia orders them food Sunday night, and the two of them sit at the kitchen table, eating in the quiet. He washes the dishes after they finish because it's the least he can do for her after everything this week, but she stays in the kitchen, leaning against the counter across from him.

"Are you going to class tomorrow?" she asks.

“I don’t know,” he murmurs, keeping his gaze on the soapy plate in his hands. The evening sun sinks in through the kitchen window and casts lines of light across it, shifting as he moves. “I don’t want to.”

He doesn’t want to be himself right now. He doesn’t want to talk to anyone, doesn’t want to risk the chance of running into Emile, doesn’t want to face the world as this sad, lonely person.

"You should," she says. “I’m not going to let you fail this semester because of him.”

He rinses the plate and sets it aside. "I'll probably fail anyway."

"You won't. I don't care how shitty you do on your last assignments, you just have to do something, Leo. We're so close to graduation, you can't give up now."

He sighs. "I just don't know how."

"You don't have to have it all figured out, or move on," she tries. "You just have to take it one step at a time. I think getting out of the apartment for a little bit would help."

He grabs another plate, but this time he looks over at her. "You mean I shouldn't wallow in self-pity all day?"

She smiles at him, soft at the edges. "I mean, you can do that in class, too."

"I guess," he murmurs, but he makes himself return her smile. It might be the first time in days. "I owe you so much, Stace."

"You really don't," she returns, and she takes the next plate from him, drying it with the towel on the countertop. "I'd do anything for you, you know that. And I know what he meant to you, but he's the one losing the best guy in the world, okay? You'll be just fine, because you're strong, and you have a big heart, and you don't need him as much as you think you do."

He swallows hard, wishing he could believe it. He just hands her another plate. "Thank you."

—

He does it for Stacia.

He makes himself get up, he makes himself get dressed, and then he makes himself get in his car, where he plays his music loud enough to smother his thoughts.

The first two classes pass without incident. He doesn't know what he was expecting—like everyone would turn to him and know exactly what happened. He barely pays attention, but his attendance counts, and he picks up the assignments he missed last week, so he thinks it's probably a good thing.

He's already standing at the library door when he remembers that Emile won't be waiting for him inside.

It was automatic. He's just used to coming here, it was just his favorite part of his routine. Now he stares at the library for too long, breathing in slow and deep, frozen in place. A couple students nearly run into him, but he can't move. All he wants is to go in, order a couple of coffees, find Emile upstairs, and sit with him as they try and be quiet.

They spent so many afternoons just talking without getting any work done, shushing each other when their laughter grew too loud. Sometimes they'd work side by side in the quiet, and he'd steal glances at Emile until Emile caught him looking, and his face would light up with a smile that would warm Leofard all the way to his fingertips.

Leofard turns on his heel and walks away, but this campus is made of memories.

All he can think of is the day Emile held his hand as he walked him to class. How could Leofard have misinterpreted that? How could Emile think that didn't mean anything?

He sits on a bench in the shade, knee bobbing up and down, hands trembling as he reaches into his backpack to pull out his iPod. He puts his headphones in and crosses his arms, just trying to breathe around the ache that has made a home in his chest. The breeze pushes through his hair as he stares at the sidewalk in front of him, and he waits until it's time for his next class.

Cori's eyes go wide as soon as he sits next to them, concern bleeding through their expression even before they ask, "Are you okay?"

And Leofard just...stares at them, trying to think of an answer that doesn't sound like, No, I'm not okay. I don't think I'll be okay again.

"You haven't been to class in a while," they add, brows pushing together.

It's not fair, is it? He looks at them, at the pretty curl of their thick hair, the sweetness that lingers in their gaze, even now. Of course Cori gets the happy ending, of course it works out for her and Y'shtola. Why wouldn't it? What chance did he ever have? He isn't as honest as them, not nearly as selfless. They both fell for someone they weren't supposed to, but Leofard is the only one that ended up heartbroken.

He just blinks and turns his head back to the front of the classroom, swallowing back the guilt as he ignores them.

Their professor begins her lecture. Leofard doesn't write anything down.

Stacia said it would be good for him to get out of the apartment, but he thinks it's worse like this. Everything around him is so normal, nothing has changed, and yet he can't be the person he was before. His heartbreak defines this version of him, and he hates it, he hates that everyone around him is a witness to his grief. He wants to get up and walk out. He wants to turn back time and forget Emile completely.

"Cori," he says after class.

They're already packing up, but they pause, glancing back at him with concern still plain in their eyes.

"Me and Emile," he starts, but how is he supposed to say it? How does he say it and be okay? "It, um...it didn't work out between us."

His voice only wavers a little. He's proud of himself for that.

"Oh," is all they say at first, but he can see the understanding in their eyes. They were ready to lose Y'shtola, just as he lost Emile.

He bites his lip to keep the emotion back, but Cori pulls him into their arms. They're tall enough to press their cheek to the top of his head, and he lets himself be held, squeezing his eyes shut against them as he returns the hug. They smell warm and sweet, and he breathes in as they tighten their arms around him, accepting the comfort for what it is.

And maybe, just for a moment, it doesn't feel like the end of the world.

—

Cori brings him cupcakes the next time he sees them. Homemade, chocolate with vanilla frosting. Stacia admits later that they asked her what his favorite flavor is.

Still, April passes like a dry pill stuck in his throat. He barely sleeps, he barely eats, he avoids his reflection in the mirror. He keeps waiting for it to get easier, but the days drag on, and he has to force himself to get out of bed every morning, to get dressed and go out and pretend that he's okay.

He doesn't hear from Emile. Part of him thought he would—as if the passing days would make Emile realize he misses him, and he'd want to come over, and he'd want to talk about it. They've never gone this long without talking before, and he wonders if it's strange for Emile too, if he also catches himself wanting to tell him things, if he also lets himself forget, even just for a moment, that they fought. He wonders if they could pretend it didn't happen, even just for that small moment, and it wouldn't have to hurt so much.

Leofard still checks his phone, ignoring texts to look for the one that will never come. At his lowest points, he hits voicemail so he can listen to Emile's message from January.

I think about you all the time, he'd said.

But then I talk to you and I feel like I'm—I don’t know—like I'm real, he'd said.

I wish I could talk to you right now, or maybe just hold you for a long time, he'd said.

Maybe Leofard will never understand.

There's an ever present emptiness without Emile. Leofard just wants to fall asleep in his arms again, he wants to breathe in the scent of his skin, drag his fingers through his hair and pull him in for a kiss. He wants to wake up in the middle of the night and roll over to face him, to watch his sleepy face, to inch closer and tuck himself against his body.

He wants Emile's hands on him, strong and deft, the way they knew him exactly. He misses the soft, pliant touch of his lips, the slide of his tongue along his. He wants his mouth at his ear, at his neck, the catch of his breath when he loses himself inside him. Leofard's whole body aches with it, and he touches himself, trying to race the shame that rises up his throat.

He never wins.

He doesn't even think about finding someone else.

He tells himself that at least he has his friends, but they're so angry at Emile. Utata and V'kebbe come over more often than they did before, and all of them curl up in the living room together, sometimes watching a movie, sometimes talking shit about Emile. Leofard just listens, tucked between Utata and Stacia, pretending that it helps.

But that's the thing—he doesn't suddenly stop being in love with him. Despite the way it ended, Emile is still his favorite person, still who he wants to spend his time with. As much as he misses Emile's affection, he misses his best friend—he misses talking to him on the phone while he grocery shops, misses how they'd tuck themselves into bed, whispering conversations into the dark, wrestling the covers back and forth, laughing about bullshit that wouldn't be funny around anyone else.

Sometimes it felt like they had their own little world. Leofard just didn't realize how much space it took up until he was left alone in it.

He listens to a lot of Radiohead, which might be Stacia's least favorite part. He turns it down whenever she pops her head into his room, because it's the only thing he can do right now. He's grateful for her every day, for the way she gets him up and out of his head, how much she checks in on him, makes sure that he's eating. She is the love he needs, and he holds onto it, constantly avoiding the thought that soon he'll lose her too.

He gets a call from his lawyer about his inheritance, and he talks to the property manager of Raimille's apartment, and suddenly moving back to New York feels so real that he has to sit on the floor of his bedroom with his legs tucked against his chest, his forehead to his knees.

The next day, he quits his job. It takes all of his self control not to flip off Radlia on his way out, but as he takes off his uniform for the last time, he feels sad in a different way. Much like everything else in his life, he can feel the shift, the change, the moving on while still being here, recognizing it as a piece of the past while it's still his present. It's an uncomfortable in between.

He supposes he's just never really been good at letting go.

—

Spring comes on strong in May, the air warms and finally stays warm, and the sun shines while the landscape brightens into green. Leofard lets it ease some of the weight off of him, driving with the windows down across campus while he listens to his music.

But May means finals, which means Leofard needs to actually focus. His grades aren't the best, but he'll be okay as long as he passes these last few projects. After spending hours working in his room, he feels restless enough to brave the library. He anxiously plays with the strap of his backpack as he walks up the stairs past the first two floors, which is where he spent most of his time with Emile. He's out of breath by the time he reaches the third floor, but it's quiet, and after he settles in to work, he stops looking over his shoulder for a ghost that won't be there.

On his way out, he stops for a coffee, his gaze tracing along the bulletin board on the wall while he waits in line. There's a flyer on it, bright green with pink flowers around the edges, music notes along the bottom, and in cursive writing: Spring 2009 Student Concert.

Leofard's chest tightens as he scans the list of names of the students performing until, at last, Emile Jenidaut.

It's on May seventh. This Thursday.

Leofard stares at it until the person behind him catches his attention and points out that the line moved. Still, even as he closes the gap ahead of him, he looks over at his shoulder at the flyer, as if it changed the moment he looked away.

There is a very dangerous thought in the back of his mind, where it stays all the way back to the apartment. He drives with one hand on the steering wheel, the other pulling at his bottom lip. Stacia is in the kitchen when he gets home, and he tries to smile at her, as if she could figure him out in one glance. She just hands him an envelope.

"What's this?" he asks, looking down at it. It's from the school.

"A letter about graduation," she says. "There's a meeting next week—fees, cap and gown, all that."

Leofard just tosses it on the counter. "Oh. I don't think I'm going."

"What?" Stacia all but exclaims, eyes wide. "To graduation?"

"I don't see the point," he says. "We get our degree either way, right?"

"Yeah, but...it's an honor. You've worked hard for this."

"I haven't worked that hard," he says. "And this spring has been hell. I just don't really think it's worth it."

He looks away when disappointment overtakes her delicate features. She's quiet for a moment, but then, "Will you at least think about it?"

—

He thinks about it. He thinks about a lot of things. Thursday looms over him, lingering with him as it draws closer. Unshakable.

He knows he can't possibly go to Emile's concert. It crosses the unspoken line that formed the last time they saw each other. It isn't his place, and it's been hard enough on him this past month, seeing Emile again would only make things worse. He knows this.

And yet.

It's not that he wants Emile to know that he's there, he just...doesn't want Emile to have no one. Leofard remembers that night in July: He didn't even come to my concert. He knew how much it meant to me. Leofard remembers the look on Emile's face when he offered to watch him practice for it. Even if Leofard is angry, and hurt, and sad...he still cares.

So he keeps thinking about it, and on Thursday evening he puts on his denim jacket and grabs his keys, trying to ignore the expressions on Stacia and V'kebbe's faces as they watch him from the couch.

“You're going out?” Stacia asks.

She looks so hopeful that he doesn’t, not even for a moment, consider telling her where he’s going.

“Yeah,” he says, and he makes himself smile. “I shouldn’t be too late.”

His hands tremble, so he grips his keys even tighter and shoves his other hand in his pocket, all but running out of the apartment before they can ask him anything else. On the drive over, he wonders if he's making a mistake, if this will undo the very little progress he's made in moving on, but maybe it doesn't matter. There's only so much he can heal while he's still living in the same place as Emile. Time and distance might be the only things that can help, and they're coming so, so fast.

So he ignores his anxiety as he parks in the lot behind the auditorium, keeping his head down as he slips into the back of the large room. It's dark enough that he lets out a relieved breath, but the stage is brightly lit, with a piano and a microphone and various cords crisscrossing each other and trailing towards the speakers at the front.

Only the first few rows of seats are full, with people scattered throughout the rest of the auditorium. Leofard sits alone in the back, and he sinks down in his seat, swallowing hard as he waits for the concert to begin.

The first few students seem especially nervous—one of the girls keeps her eyes closed as she sings, but her voice is beautiful as it echoes into the auditorium. Another guy fumbles over a piano piece, but he pulls it together about halfway through. Student after student gets up there, each of them brave and talented and vulnerable. Leofard admires them in a way he's never really considered before.

Then Emile steps onto the stage, guitar in hand.

Leofard knows, immediately, that he wasn't ready to see him again.

Emile is dressed in a white button down, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, and black slacks that can't quite hide the muscular shape of his legs. His hair is neatly combed back, but he runs a hand through it before he takes a seat, keeping his head down as he adjusts the strap of his guitar around him, the stage lighting catching the line of his profile.

He is so, so beautiful.

The first few notes ring out, slow and confident, a haunting melody that grows in intensity. The song tells a story—it quiets and dulls and grows again. Emile moves with it, head bent and nodding with each shift, brows pushed together. Leofard has watched him play countless times, but it's different like this—completely open, the music raw with emotion, the entire room transfixed.

Leofard doesn't know that two years ago, Estinien was in the same exact place as him. Hidden in the back of the room, he also watched Emile perform, only his love ran so deep that he had to run from it.

Leofard watches that stubborn piece of hair fall loose onto Emile's cheek, and he clenches his hands into fists in his lap. It's like his heart beats in time with the music, until it's pounding in his chest and he feels like he can't breathe, and all he wants to do is run onto that stage and pull Emile into his arms.

He loves him, he's so proud of him, and no one will ever really know.

The last note fades into silence, and then the whole auditorium bursts into applause. Leofard knows he should leave, but he stays in his seat, clapping along with everyone else, unwilling to miss even a glimpse of Emile after over a month apart.

Emile stands, a shy smile on his face as he finally looks up at the crowd. He bows, and when he rises, it's like his gaze lands directly on Leofard. Even from here, Leofard can see the way his eyes widen. He feels his own do the same.

His stomach twists. Emile stays fixed in place, just watching him with something unrecognizable in his expression. It's like the rest of the auditorium disappears around them, and for a moment, it's just them again.

As soon as Emile turns to leave the stage, Leofard gets up and all but runs back to his car. He shouldn't have—it wasn't his place to come and see him. He has no idea what Emile must be thinking right now, but he worries that it ruined his night, that he went and made everything worse, that Emile thinks Leofard doesn't know how to fucking move on.

Which is true, but Leofard's heart still pounds the entire drive home.

He stays in his car, staring at their building for a long time. It's fully dark out, but Stacia left the light on for him, and it glows yellow above the front steps. He thinks about her smile as he left, thinks about what she would read from his face right now.

"Fuck," he breathes aloud.

He makes himself get out of the car, taking a step closer before he stops again, starts and then stops again. He can't go in—not yet. He kicks at the gravel walkway before he sits on the bottom step, listening to the spring air alive around him as he stares at the empty road.

And maybe some part of him hopes that Emile will follow him home, that they could sit here and talk like they used to.

Or maybe Emile could—maybe he could just come over to sleep in his bed, like he did that night in November. They could just lay beside each other in the dark, and it wouldn't fix anything now the way it didn't fix anything then, but Leofard would stay awake all night just to steal a little more time with him.

Leofard draws his knees to his chest. Emile doesn't come. The minutes pass until it grows cool enough to force him to get up and go inside.

Stacia's door is closed, and Leofard quietly gets ready for bed, the weight on his chest heavier with each passing minute. When he closes his eyes, he still sees Emile up on that stage, still sees his head bent over his guitar, still feels his music in his chest.

In spite of everything, he tries to hold onto the feeling until he falls asleep.

—

That weekend, he's at the kitchen table eating cereal when Stacia sits across from him, eyes expectant.

For a second, he's worried she knows that he went to see Emile. He just stares at her for a moment, and through a mouthful of cereal he asks, "What?"

"Are you going to graduation?"

He squeezes his eyes shut for a moment before peeking them back open at her. "Will you be mad at me if I say no?"

"Yes," she says softly. "Don't let him take this from you, you'll regret it someday."

"It's not just Emile," he says, his voice catching on Emile's name. He lets his gaze drop to his cereal, watching the last few bloated flakes drift across the milk, and he quietly admits, "I won't have anyone there."

"I'll be there," she says. "V'kebbe will be there, and so will Utata, and Cori, and everyone else who loves you and wants to support you."

"But you guys are also graduating. You know what I mean."

Her lips press together. "This is what Raimille wanted for you. She would've been so proud."

"Yeah," he murmurs. It's all he can manage.

He regrets how much they argued about school, but college was the last thing on his mind when she got sick. The only reason he applied here is because she kept asking which schools he got into, where he was going to go, and what he would study. He could see her disappointment each time he didn't have an answer for her, until he grew worried that the added stress would make her health worse.

She came to his high school graduation, and he remembers being frustrated with her about it. She wasn't supposed to leave the hospital at that point—she was growing too weak to stand, and the risk of her contracting anything else was too high, but no one could ever really stop her from doing what she wanted.

In the end, he was grateful she was there. As quiet as she was, when he walked across the stage, he swore he could hear her cheering louder than everyone else, and in that moment all he could think was, That's my mom.

He wonders if Stacia's right, if Raimille would be proud of him right now. He's doing what she asked, but sometimes he wonders if it was only to help him move on and find his own path.

He's never felt more lost.

"Leo," Stacia says, interrupting his thoughts. "If you won't do it for yourself, will you do it for me? Your best friend who has been with you this whole time? We're in this together, and I want to stand beside you at the end."

He lets out a long sigh, pursing his lips before he smiles at her. "Maybe. But only because I love you."

She rolls her eyes. "I love you too."

—

The sun shines on graduation day, bright and easy, like even the world is celebrating around them. Their friends come over to get ready at the apartment, dressing up before they put on their robes and pin their caps on. He drives them across campus—Utata wanted to decorate his car, but he immediately threatened anyone who'd paint his rear window—and there's so much nervous and excited energy in the air that Leofard stays quiet, just trying to soak it all in.

The ceremony drags on, but when it's his turn to walk across the stage, he can't help the emotion that crawls up his throat. He looks out at the crowd, then somewhere beyond it. I did it, Mama.

Stacia, V'kebbe, and Utata practically scream for him. He laughs, fingers clutching his diploma as he raises it over his head.

Afterwards, V'kebbe demands pictures to be taken of every combination of people there. Her family flew in, and Stacia's stepdad is there, and Utata's parents, and so Leofard ends up with the camera, snapping shot after shot.

His favorites are the ones of Stacia and V'kebbe. Their sides press together as they wrap their arms around each other, their smiles blinding. In the next shot, Stacia leans down to kiss V'kebbe, their bulky hats knocking together as they laugh against each other's mouths—so happy, so in love.

Leofard feels himself grin as he straightens, lowering the camera. He turns to see if anyone else wants their picture taken when his gaze stops at the edge of the crowd, and he freezes.

Emile's standing there, watching him with a small smile.

In that moment, Leofard doesn't care what happened to them, doesn't think about the anger that they hurled at each other. He hands the camera off to Stacia's stepdad before he hurries towards Emile, wordlessly throwing his arms around him. Everything in him eases as Emile holds him tight against his chest, and he breathes him in, familiar and warm and so, so missed.

“What are you doing here?” Leofard asks as he pulls away to look up at him. The sunlight shines over him, his freckles, his brown eyes. Leofard takes him in as much as he can, like he could've forgotten the details.

"I know how much this means to you," Emile murmurs.

"Yeah," Leofard lets out. "I can't believe I made it, to be honest."

Emile smiles for a half second before it falls again. "I wasn't—I wasn't sure if you'd, um, want to see me again, but after last week..."

His concert. Leofard's eyes close for a moment. "I should've said something."

"It's okay!" Emile rushes out. "It meant a lot to me that you came."

"You were amazing."

"Thank you." Emile’s lips press together. “Are you, um...how have you been?”

"I'm alright," Leofard says, voice kind of empty. "I—how are you?"

"Leo!" he hears Stacia call. Like breaking a spell, Leofard glances over his shoulder at the concern plain in her eyes. "We still need to take a photo together!"

It's a way out, but not one that he's ready to take yet. “I’ll be right there!”

“I don’t want to hold you up,” Emile murmurs.

"No, it's okay," Leofard says, too quickly. For a moment, he just watches Emile through the afternoon sun, squinting a little against the brightness. After all these weeks apart, he doesn't know what to say—he didn't plan on seeing him again.. He clears his throat. "I'm moving soon."

"Yeah," Emile says. "Are you excited?"

Leofard almost laughs. "Not really. This has been my life for four years, you know?"

“Yeah,” Emile echoes. There's something in his eyes—something so sad that Leofard feels his heart stutter in his chest. Emile just presses his lips into a small smile. “We should get coffee before you go. I mean, if you want to…I think it would be good to talk.”

Leofard nods. “I'd like that."

"I'll um, I'll text you when I'm free," Emile says. "I'm still kind of busy with football practice."

"Right," Leofard says. He keeps watching Emile's expression, discomforted by the way he can't fully read him. He wants to tell him he misses him, he wants to ask if Emile has missed him too, but that's not what they are right now.

Instead, he just opens his arms again, and Emile immediately pulls him up into a hug. It feels so good to have his body against his again, to feel his strength wrapped around him. Their heads press together, and in his ear, Emile murmurs, "Congratulations, Leo. I'm really proud of you."

Leofard knows better than to think it sounds like an apology, but maybe they both owe each other something.

"Thank you," Leofard murmurs back, pretending his voice is even and free of emotion. "Thank you for being here."

They pull back to look at each other one more time.

Later, and certainly it'll be much later, Leofard will wish that he asked Emile to take a picture with him. There won't be any evidence of their time together, nothing to look back on. As it is, they part, and Leofard keeps glancing over his shoulder to watch Emile walk away with every unnamed emotion stirring in his chest.

"Are you okay?" Stacia asks when he catches back up with her.

"Yeah," he answers absently. He's still processing the fact that Emile was here. "It means a lot that he came."

She gives him a look that says, if you're sure, but then V'kebbe comes over with the camera, aiming it at the two of them. Leofard pulls Stacia into his side and smiles, feeling Stacia's arm at his waist, her head tipped towards his. In that moment, he lets himself forget everything else.

They did it.

—

They have plans for dinner that night, but everyone's leaving with their families, so Leofard ducks away on his own to head back to his car. The air cools as it begins to cloud over, and Leofard pulls the sleeves of his graduation robe tight around his wrists.

Of course he's thinking about Emile. He winds through campus, through groups of friends and families, flowers and balloons, and all he's thinking about is the way Emile hugged him, the promise of one more conversation with him.

He clutches his diploma a little tighter in his hands.

In the parking lot, he sees a familiar jeep, and beside it, Cori stands tall and beautiful, their cap clinging to their curly hair.

"Cori!" he calls out. When they turn towards him, he sees Y'shtola standing on the other side of the jeep, wearing a pretty black dress, a bouquet in her hands. Both of them smile.

"Hey," they say, holding out their arms to hug him as soon as he comes over. "Congratulations."

"You too," he says, the words muffled against them. He grins as he pulls back, ignoring the wave of sadness that curls through his chest. He knows they're spending time with Y'shtola this summer before going back for their Master's degree this fall. He knows that life is changing for all of them, regardless of whether they're ready for it or not.

When they part, he says, "If you guys are ever in New York, come say hi."

Cori's gaze travels to Y'shtola, their expression softer when they turn back to him. "We will. Take care of your car for me."

"She'll miss you," he says, but it doesn't feel like enough. "So will I."

They nod. "It won't be the same having classes without you."

"You'll probably be better off," he jokes. Neither of them laugh.

"I won't," they return. "I wish you the best, Leo."

"You too," he says, and he swallows hard. This might be the last time he sees them. "I'm really happy for you. Both of you."

He glances over at Y'shtola, who offers him another small smile. What else can he say? I’m sorry you had to see me fall apart? or Thank you for putting up with me when I was an annoying asshole for the past four years?

“Thanks for being my friend.” He settles on.

When he gets back in his car, he sits in the quiet for a long time, the breeze brushing in through the open windows. It's the first time that it sinks in that this is all ending, that this is just the beginning of every goodbye he has.

He takes a deep breath. He puts the car in drive.

—

Leofard and Stacia are supposed to begin packing over the next few days, but he puts it off. They still have over a week and a half left before they move, so he's waiting for urgency to hasten the process. He and Stacia spend all their time together, both of them ignoring reality in favor of these last moments of living together.

They take V'kebbe to the airport, and Leofard waits in the car as Stacia gets out to say goodbye. Selfishly, he can't help but think about when he dropped Emile off here, of those last good moments between them. He watches Stacia hold V'kebbe in her arms, kissing the top of her head, then kissing her. They linger for so long, and the familiar ache in his heart makes itself known.

Stacia only sniffles once when she finally gets back in the car, but she turns her head towards the window and doesn't say anything. Leofard reaches over to cover her hand with his.

The next day, Emile texts him to ask if he's free at the end of the week.

Leofard stares at it, pretending that his heart doesn't race at the thought. He glances over to Stacia on the other end of the couch, blinking tiredly at the TV.

He snaps his phone shut and murmurs, "Emile wants to talk."

"Took him long enough," she returns. She looks over at him with a raised brow. "Is that what you want?"

"I don't know," he says. It's only half a lie—he wants to see Emile more than anything, but he doesn't know if he's ready for whatever conversation they need to have. He sighs. "I was happy to see him at graduation, but it was also really hard. None of my feelings for him have gone away."

She presses her lips together. "I mean, you basically dated him for a year."

"Yeah," he says. It's almost hard to believe now that he had so much time with him. "Maybe it'll be good to get closure."

Because the worst has already happened, hasn't it? He doesn't dare to hope that they can fix this, but he also doesn't think they could hurt each other more than they already have. The only harm he can see in going is just how much he still wants Emile. Despite everything, they've never been just friends. He doesn't know how to be around Emile and not belong to him.

So maybe that's why Leofard's hands shake on his way to see him. Nerves buzz uncomfortably through his body. He's a live wire made of messy thoughts, and he hates it. He's spent his whole life wearing a confidence that he's never felt, but he's never let anyone shake him, never let anyone know just how out of control and anxious he feels.

Then he met Emile, and all these walls came down.

Is that what love is? Wanting to let someone in so much that you can't hide anything from them? He just wanted Emile to see him, to accept him, to love him too.

And he didn't.

Leofard bites his lip as he parks his car in front of the cafe they agreed to meet at. It's a small, locally owned place right outside of campus. He used to come here all the time during his first year of college, but more infrequently once he moved in with Stacia. He stands outside now, taking deep breaths, hands curled into fists at his sides until he's ready to go in.

There's wide windows around the door, letting in light over the tables in the front half of the cafe, a wrap around bar at the back. Emile sits at a table near it, wide eyes watching the door, so their gazes meet as soon as Leofard walks in. Leofard's heart drops into his stomach at the sight of him, but he forces himself to walk over to Emile, who stands up, holding his arms out once Leofard is close enough.

And then he's pressed against Emile's chest, cheek against his soft white t-shirt, eyes squeezed shut. He holds him with all his strength, like it can make him forget everything but the feeling of being wrapped in his arms. He can feel Emile's chin against the top of his head for a moment before Emile shifts, burying his face in his curls.

Maybe neither of them have been alone in this.

They stay like that for a long time, but Leofard still feels a pang of loss when they break apart.

"I got you a coffee," Emile murmurs, and Leofard looks down at the table, where two paper cups sit across from each other.

"Thank you," he returns, and they sit, gazes interlocked while the cafe buzzes around them. "Just like old times."

It definitely isn't the right thing to say. There's something unsettled about the way they watch each other, familiar and unfamiliar—like he knows Emile, but in this moment he feels like a stranger, like they're meeting for the first time again. A crowded cafe instead of a crowded party, still those brown eyes, still the two of them.

"How are you?" Emile finally asks.

"Okay, I guess," he answers with a shrug. "Everything's kind of weird right now, with graduation and...everything. How are you?"

Emile shrugs as well. "I don't know, to be honest."

A helpless smile crosses his lips for a moment before it's gone again.

"I, um," Leofard starts. He clears his throat. He can't look at Emile. He suddenly feels the weight of the past year in his chest, the way everything winds down to the end. And this is it, this might be all that they have left. He clears his throat a second time. "I owe you an apology."

"Leo—"

"I do," he says. He finally makes himself look up at Emile, who watches him with an unrecognizable sadness. It makes Leofard pause for a moment; unsteady. "I should've been more honest with you, and I promise I would've been if I wasn't so scared of pushing you away, but, well...obviously I did anyway."

"Leo," Emile tries again.

Leofard shakes his head. "I just need to say that I'm sorry for everything at my apartment. That was so fucking awful, I don't want that to be how this ends."

"Me neither," Emile murmurs. "I'm sorry, too. I could've—I mean, I know I should've explained myself. I just panicked."

"To be fair, I think we both kind of panicked."

Emile shifts closer in his seat. "Yeah, but I should've said..."

He merely trails off. Leofard watches him as his gaze falls to his coffee, fingers tracing along the edge of the paper seam, golden skin against pale white.

"Said what?" Leofard prompts.

"I've had all this time to think about it, and I still—" He breaks off with a sigh. "Especially with you, Leo."

Something stirs unsteadily through Leofard. Emile's gaze lifts to his again, but there's something heavy about it, something wrong.

"You were right about me, you know," Emile continues. "When you said I never let you in."

"Don't feel like you have to, just because I—"

"No, I know," he says. "And there were times when I thought I should, but...it just feels impossible. I don't even talk to my family about a lot of things anymore. I don't want anyone to feel sorry for me, or lose people when they realize that I'm not okay, or that I'm not really that fun to hang out with."

Leofard presses his lips together. "You were always fun to hang out with, baby."

The nickname slips out before he can think better of it. Habit.

The corners of Emile's lips raise. "That's because of you, and I just...didn't know if that would change. Like, I know you would've understood, and you would've been there for me because you were always there for me, but I still—"

Emile blinks as he turns his head away, and Leofard reaches out to touch the back of his hand, heart racing as Emile turns his over and laces their fingers together, squeezing tight. Leofard thinks about all the times he knew Emile wasn't okay, each time he held him close and kissed his face and hoped that it helped. He would've been there for Emile through whatever's hurting him.

But he thinks about Raimille, and he understands not wanting to talk about it.

"Leo," Emile says, his voice thin and quiet. "Being with you this past year has been the happiest I’ve been in a long time, but I really thought you were still seeing other people. I didn't think this meant anything more to you, or that you'd want a relationship with me. I thought we just got lucky that we get along so well."

"Lucky," Leofard repeats, just the echo of the word. Those brown eyes return to him, so beautiful, so full of regret. Leofard feels himself shake his head. "But was it ever something you wanted?"

"I can't do that to you," he says. He drops Leofard's hand. Retreats. "I, um. I was so mad that you brought up Estinien—I honestly didn't even know that you knew who he was—but you weren't wrong, either."

And the heaviness comes back, chokes its way up Leofard's throat, so much that he has to turn his head away. He looks out at the cafe, at everyone else talking or working, oblivious to the fact that Leofard knows his world is about to end for good.

"I don't know how to explain this without sounding like an asshole," Emile continues. "And maybe I am an asshole, but I spent my whole freshman year in love with him, and those feelings never went away, even when I thought I was getting over him."

Emile clears his throat. Leofard still can't look at him.

"I saw him over spring break," Emile says—quickly, like he needs to get it out. "He's working as an assistant coach at the camp I went to, and everything...felt the same as it did before. I know it's not fair, Leo, but I can't try and make a relationship work with you when I'm still not over him."

Leofard's chest hurts—he doesn't think he's taken a breath this entire time.

"Oh," is all he says.

"Please don't blame yourself," Emile rushes out next. "I know it's my fault, and I'm so, so sorry."

Leofard can feel his eyes well up with tears, but he takes a deep breath, turning his gaze to his hands on the table. "You don't have to apologize. You stuck to our original agreement, I'm the one who changed things."

Emile's hand inches towards his again, but he doesn't touch him. "I still care about you so much."

"But you don't love me," Leofard says, not a question, but a fact. When he blinks, two tears escape, fast enough that they barely score his cheeks. Leofard immediately wipes them away, sniffling as he tilts his head back to blink at the lights, willing himself to keep it together.

"The last thing I want to do is hurt you," Emile murmurs, an unmistakable ache in his voice.

Too late for that, he almost bites back, but it was over before it ever started, it was never going to work. Leofard dove headfirst into his own bad ending, raced right past the point of no return, thinking he had a chance. He gathers himself to look back at Emile, at his brows pushed together and brown eyes wide with worry. Leofard deflates. He was such a fool to think they could've built something together, to think that Emile would ever be his boyfriend.

"Did you know Estinien would be there before you went?" he asks, helpless to remember the way Emile kissed him at the airport.

"No, I had no idea," Emile says. "And nothing happened between us—nothing's ever happened between us, to be honest."

And yet Emile still chooses him.

"Okay," Leofard says.

"Okay?"

"I don't really know what else to say," Leofard murmurs, glancing at his coffee. He hasn't taken a single sip. He looks back up at Emile. "I guess that's it for us."

Emile's lips part, but it takes a long moment for him to ask, "When do you leave?"

"June first."

"And you're driving back?"

Leofard nods. "I still have to start packing, I've been putting it off for like, a week."

"I could come over and help," Emile offers. "I'm pretty good at lifting things."

Leofard almost laughs. He even feels a smile at the corners of his lips. How do you break someone's heart and then offer to help them move?

"We're not taking any of the furniture," he explains. "I'm just going to throw all my shit in my car."

"Oh," Emile lets out. "Is Stacia going with you?"

"No, she's moving to Phoenix with Kebbe."

His voice drifts off. He knows that he isn't losing her, but neither of them can pretend that their relationship will be the same once they're no longer living together.

He can't think too hard about any of it right now.

Leofard takes a deep breath before he asks, "What are your plans for the summer?"

"Oh, you know, football training," Emile murmurs. He pulls his bottom lip between his teeth before he glances away. "That's kind of it."

And as hurt, and as angry, and as disappointed as Leofard is in Emile, his heart still pulls in his chest. This boy will always be trapped in this world he doesn't love, his heart will always be tied to someone who's never returned his feelings.

In that moment, above his heartbreak, Leofard feels sorry for him.

"We're um," Leofard starts, and when Emile looks back at him, Leofard feels his expression soften. "Utata's throwing a going away party for us the night before we leave. You should come."

"I doubt your friends will want me there."

"They're not your biggest fans right now." Leofard admits. "You should still come."

Emile's brown eyes look so unsure. "Do you actually want me to?"

"Yeah," he says, even if he wants to cry, even if he wants to yell and scream and curse at Emile for being everything he wants while being so out of reach. He looks at the cafe around him. "I don't want to say goodbye here, anyway."

Emile is quiet for even longer this time, and then, "I don't want to say goodbye at all."

Leofard's face falls when he looks back at him.

"Yeah, well," he breathes out, meeting those brown eyes. "Nothing I can do about that, baby."

—

They don't talk for much longer—it's hard to keep pretending they’re something they're not anymore. Still, Emile pulls him into another hug before they leave, and Leofard closes his eyes as he holds him, taking a deep breath against him even though he knows that he shouldn't. He just doesn't know how to keep his distance.

Leofard thinks about it as he drives the familiar streets past campus, letting the drifting lines of the roads ease the weight in his chest.

So all of his fears came true: the man he loves is in love with someone else, he's about to leave the home he's built over the past four years, and he won't have Stacia anymore. He'll go back to New York, he'll open the door to that apartment he shared with Raimille, and life will go on.

Strangely, he doesn't feel as lost as he usually does.

He knows where he stands among the mess. Everything might be broken, but he knows where he's going. He has a chance, once more, to start over.

He thinks he's finally ready to go.

—

Stacia sits with him while he packs up his room, watching from the end of his bed while he sorts out things he's keeping and things he's throwing away. He sits in front of his closet with an empty cardboard box next to him, a bunch more folded up and pushed to the side, even though he’s leaving most things behind since he doesn't have a lot of room in his car.

There's isn't a way to escape how strange it is to pack his life up like this. They've lived here for three years, this has been his home, and to watch it dwindle into nothing makes him feel just as empty.

He dumps all of his clothes on the other end of his bed, and as he goes back for his shoes, he hears Stacia say, "Okay, this definitely isn't yours."

He looks over to see her holding up one of Emile's sweatshirts—the gray one he gave Leofard that time he slept in his dorm.

Leofard wishes he could relive that moment, go back in time and walk home in the morning light, wrapped up in Emile's sweatshirt. It was one of the moments he felt most secure in their relationship, so at ease, so confident. If Stacia wasn't here, he'd hold the sweatshirt to his face, breathe in and hope that there's still something left of Emile all these months later.

He blinks as he looks back to meet her gaze. "We can put that in the toss pile."

"Are you..." she trails off, still holding the sweatshirt. "Are you done with him?"

"I have to be."

She tilts her head, brows raised. It's enough of a question.

"Not entirely," he adds. "I invited him to Utata's party."

"Why?"

"Because I'm an idiot."

"You're not an idiot."

"I still love him," Leofard admits, which sounds the same as, yes I am. "It's like—even though I'm miserable about our situation, I'm still happier when I'm with him than I was that entire month without him. That's fucked up."

"Only a little," she says with a sympathetic laugh. "Like, I get it, but at the same time you also have to look out for yourself."

He looks back down, tossing a pair of shoes into the box. "I know, but I'm also leaving in a few days. I'm never going to see him again, so is it wrong to want a few more moments with him?"

She sighs. "I don't know."

"Another part of me hopes that he doesn't come," he admits. "We talked everything over, and we know where we stand, so it would be...easier, I guess, to not say goodbye."

"Sure, but I feel like you'd regret it," she says. "As much as you guys were convinced you were just friends, you were together for a long time. You owe it to each other to say goodbye, and if you don't—won't it feel like that door is still open?"

Yes, he thinks, because part of him wants to leave it open. Because even if Emile called him right now and said, I'll ignore my feelings for Estinien and try to make things work with you, Leofard would say yes. Because he is stupid and he is pathetic and he just wants Emile to be the person he comes home to. He wants a chance at a life with him.

He wants so much more than he can have.

"I know," he breathes out. "It just doesn't feel fair that everything's ending at the same time—it's hard enough saying goodbye to everyone else."

"Leo," she says in a quiet voice. "I'm not ready to say goodbye to you."

His heart stutters in his chest.

"That's because we're not saying goodbye," he says, but his voice falters too. He knows they're moving apart, but it's the one thing that doesn't feel real. He can't imagine his life without Stacia in it every day.

She shakes her head. "But you know how people grow apart—I don't want to lose you."

"Come here," he says, standing up. He pulls her into a tight hug, burying his face in her hair and simply holding her close. "You're never going to lose me, okay? You're my sister."

"But it won't be the same."

"I know," he murmurs against her, because as much as he wants her to move to New York with him, he knows she has a life ahead of her with V'kebbe. "I'll call you every day, you'll get so fucking sick of me."

She laughs wetly into his shoulder. "Never." "And as soon as you've settled in, come to New York," he says. "Hang out as long as you want. I'll always have a space for you."

"Okay," she says, pulling back to look up at him. "You have to come to Phoenix, too. There's so much I want to show you."

He lets himself smile—how did he get so lucky to have her in his life?

"Deal," he says, but this smile falls too. "I'll miss you like hell, Stace."

"Oh my god, shut up," she says, blinking up at the ceiling, then turns her head away. "I'll start sobbing."

He laughs, but he can feel the emotion build behind his eyes. He swallows hard. "Don't, because you'll make me cry too."

"Okay, let's move on," she says, and she shakes her head with a weak laugh, glancing over at his closet. "What's that?"

His gaze follows as she reaches for what looks like bundled up fabric at the back of his closet. It must've fallen behind everything else a while ago, because he doesn't recognize it, not until Stacia lifts it up and shakes it out.

His stomach drops when he realizes it's white t-shirt with a red stain settled into the wrinkles, stretching from collar to hem.

I'll just rinse this off, Emile had said.

Memories from that first night replay in his mind: Emile drunkenly giggling in his room, that first glance of his bare chest, the way they flirted with no idea where this would take them. He remembers kissing him outside, how Emile had to leave before they got anywhere, and the only thing Leofard wanted was a little more time with him.

Fuck.

"I meant to throw that out a while ago," he manages.

Stacia's brow furrows for a moment, but she just shakes her head. "You really need to clean your room more."

"Yeah," he breathes. He reaches over for it, bunching the fabric into his hands like he can feel Emile again. He swallows hard before he throws it in the toss pile. "I really do."

—

His room feels painfully empty when they're done, missing all the life that he's breathed into this space. The walls are bare and free of his posters, his desk completely clear, all his records and his record player already in his car. The only thing that's left is a few changes of clothes and his suitcase, ready to be packed up the morning he leaves.

He finds the watch that he meant to give to Emile for Christmas, still wrapped. It makes his heart hurt, knowing that Emile thought he didn't want him. Leofard could've done so much more for him, could've shown him how he felt. At least then it wouldn't have come as such a surprise.

He initially puts all of Emile's things in a trash bag, then rethinks it and take them out, leaving them on his desk. He just needs more time to think about it.

But much like his room, the days dwindle until there's nothing left.

Leofard puts on a smile as they head to Utata's house on Sunday night—one last party to see them off. Everyone tries to get him to drink, but he waves them off, the last thing he needs is a hangover when he has a nine hour drive tomorrow. Balloons kiss the ceiling, and there's a banner that says, Congrats, Grad! in big letters.

So many people come up and give him hugs, saying, I'll come visit you, or, I'll miss you. Leofard just walks around the house feeling like someone scooped out his insides. Hollow. Sad.

The thing is, he knows he should be letting loose and having fun. It's his last night with everyone, and he's never been one to take things seriously, but all he wants is to watch everything around him. He wants to commit it all to memory: Stacia laughing in the kitchen, Pickles trotting between rooms with a smudge of red lipstick on his head, Utata turning the music up until it's hard to hear his own sad thoughts.

It's beautiful because it's the last time, because this is who they are, and it's one final moment to be together, to be carefree, to be young.

Leofard slips out the front door and sits on the steps. The late spring air envelops him in its warmth, and he finally breathes out, looking up at the distant shapes of the stars.

He'll be in Utah tomorrow night, looking at this same sky, and everything will be different.

He sits there for a long time, alone and watching the stars spin above him, and he doesn't think he's waiting for anything until he sees Emile walk up the driveway. The streetlights halo his body, like he's stepping out of a dream, like he's everything Leofard wants.

"Hey," Leofard says.

"Hi," Emile returns, stopping just at the bottom of the steps. "What are you doing out here?"

Leofard shrugs. "The party's too sad."

But the music echoes out here, the sound of laughter echoes out here—all the noise of people having fun. Emile raises a brow before he comes over to sit next to Leofard on the steps. It feels important that as close as they are, they don't touch.

"Are you okay?" Emile asks.

"Not really," he answers, because pretending around Emile got him nowhere. He steals a glance at him, at his profile in the dim light. How many times has he kissed those lips? That perfect curve of his nose? His cheek? He stares at each part of him that has been so familiar, that he has loved. "You came."

"Yeah," Emile murmurs, looking over at him. He stares for a long moment, gaze falling to Leofard's lips before he looks back out at the yard. "I wouldn't miss it."

Leofard wishes he could lean closer, press his shoulder to his, and close his eyes.

He doesn't love you, he reminds himself.

"Thank you," he says anyway. "I'm glad you're here."

Emile shakes his head before he turns back to him again, this time with a grin. "You're lying."

It might be the first time Leofard laughs that night. "Only a little."

"Do you want to go inside?" Emile asks.

Leofard glances back at the door, listening to the sound of the party. It's a house full of memories—countless moments of Utata and his friends over the years, but also of that night when Emile danced with him, where they touched for the first time, hidden away in Utata's bathroom like the idiots they are. It's where they told each other, we can just be friends, and ended this thing before it started.

He swallows past the tightness in his throat, looking back at Emile, who watches him carefully. Leofard offers him a small smile. "Let's go for a walk."

Under the night sky, the two of them wander the streets of campus, just like they have countless times before. They move slow through the blue dark, quiet at first, but then Leofard begins to tell him about his plans to drive home. He has his whole route mapped out, each stop already planned at cities along the way, carefully thought out over the course of the next five days.

He'll leave first thing in the morning for Salt Lake City, not even staying for breakfast or coffee, since they don't have any food at the apartment.

All the while, they walk close enough that their bare arms brush. Leofard aches to reach for his hand but holds himself back. There is so much he wishes he could change, but there's no point in any of it now. Even if he never said anything, even if he didn't open his mouth and ruin their relationship, they would still be here. It would still be ending.

It hurts, but it was inevitable.

They don't really walk anywhere specific, but after a while, Leofard asks, "Do you want to swing by my apartment? I found some of your stuff while I was packing, I figured you probably want it back."

"Oh." Emile is quiet for a long moment. "Yeah, okay."

They cut down a couple side streets, in and out of the streetlamps' glow. Leofard only glances over at him when they're in the dark again, stealing pieces of him and committing them to memory—his hair already brushing along his jaw again, the way he presses his lips together as he listens, the long stretch of his muscular arms—all of him so close but so out of reach.

Leofard leads him into the apartment, both of them quiet as they kick off their shoes and walk to his room. It's been two months since the last time they were here. Two months since they fought.

He turns on the light and goes over to his desk, where Emile's sweatshirts are folded neatly alongside one of his notebooks, a couple of guitar picks, and his scarf that he wore nearly every day in the winter. Leofard decided to keep the watch—some mistakes just can't be fixed.

Leofard looks over his shoulder, but Emile still stands in the doorway, staring at his empty room.

"Emile?"

"Sorry," he says, blinking back over at him. He draws closer. "It's weird to see your room like this."

"I know," Leofard sympathizes, because it's been a few days but he still isn't used to it. "I hope whoever moves in next will bring its personality back."

Emile doesn't even crack a smile. His gaze falls to the desk, and he takes a step closer, reaching out to brush his fingers along the edge of his sweatshirts. "You could've kept these."

"I don't want them," Leofard breathes out. His throat feels tight. "I need to start over, and I can't—I need to let you go."

Emile's hand curls into a fist before he lets it drop to his side. "I'm so sorry."

"Don't be," Leofard says with the shake of his head. "There's no point. It doesn't change anything, does it?"

"No," he returns softly. "But I still need to say it. I know this is my fault, but I just don't want you to hate me. Please, Leo."

Leofard just watches him for a moment before he feels his shoulders drop. He holds out his arms and Emile immediately falls into them, holding him tight enough to suffocate. Leofard doesn't care, he hugs him with everything he has, burying his face in his shoulder. He breathes him in, the familiar scent still warm and comforting, and he breathes out.

"I don't hate you," Leofard mumbles against him. "I love you—that's kind of the problem."

Emile's grip tightens around him.

When they pull back, it's only far enough to look at each other, Emile's brown eyes full of an emotion Leofard can't name. One hand still bunches at Leofard's shirt, but the other raises to brush his curls back. He lingers, coming down to cup his cheek, where his thumb grazes the corner of Leofard's mouth. Leofard watches those big eyes trace down, then back up to meet his gaze.

Leofard gives him the slightest nod.

Emile bends his head to press their lips together. It's a kiss, it's an apology, it's who they are. Leofard closes his eyes as he leans up into it, warmth pooling in his chest at the taste of him. I’ve missed you so much.

There's a different question in their eyes when they pull back. Leofard can feel Emile's heart beat fast enough to match his own pulse, and desire pools in his gaze. It takes mere seconds before they crash into each other again, foolish to think there was any other outcome in coming here tonight.

Leofard parts his lips against his, letting out a soft gasp as Emile licks into his mouth, warmth curling through his belly and spilling down. Leofard reaches up to thread his fingers through his hair, tugging as he leans up on his toes. He just needs his body flush against his. He just needs to feel him.

They know how to strike this match.

Emile's hand trails down his back until it settles on his ass, shifting his hips into his. Leofard has to break the kiss to catch his breath, pretending that he isn't trembling as he slips his other hand beneath Emile's shirt, feeling along his warm skin and hard muscle. Part of him thinks he could tear Emile open and crawl inside, like he could hide away in him and be happy there.

Emile lets go long enough to tug his shirt off, but it breaks the spell between them. They're left to watch each other in the dim light, measurable distance bringing measurable clarity. Where do they go from here? They're stuck at an intersection of what they once were and what's left between them.

Which, after tonight, will be nothing at all.

Leofard’s gaze draws down to the planes of Emile's chest, from the full curve of his pecs to the solid lines of his waist, drifting along the hair that trails down to the waistband of his jeans. Leofard just leans forward to press his lips to Emile's collarbone.

"Leo."

Leofard looks back up at him, at the question that sits openly in his eyes. Leofard merely tugs his own shirt off in response.

"Are you sure?" Emile asks.

It's a bad idea, and Leofard knows that he'll regret it in the morning—maybe for the rest of his life—but right now, he can't imagine being anywhere else.

He nods. "Come on, baby."

Still, Emile stares at him like he'll change his mind. Leofard just lets himself smirk. Let's pretend, he wants to say. Let's pretend it isn't the last time.

And then, as if he understands, Emile kisses him again, reaching down to lift Leofard into his arms. Leofard lets out a breathless laugh against his lips before Emile lays him down on the bed, settling over him. Familiar. Leofard wishes he could pause time as he looks up at his beautiful face, just to save this moment, just to keep this one memory. He reaches up to push back that one lock of hair, tucking it behind his ear, and Emile smiles at him like it's easy. Maybe it is.

Emile kisses his neck, body pressing down into his, and Leofard tilts his head back with a soft moan at the friction, at the wet press of his lips. It's been too long, and he feels breathless with it, like he's already teetering on the edge before they've even started. Emile works down to his collar, then his chest, hands shifting down to his thighs as his tongue traces around his nipple.

Leofard only grows louder, heart racing with each kiss that trails lower, chest rising and falling against Emile, who noses at his abdomen while his hands tug at his jeans, then his boxers. Leofard shifts just enough to pull them off all the way, leaving him naked and hard beneath him. Vulnerable.

Even if Emile doesn't love him, he still touches him like he does, fingertips carefully tracing up his thighs before he pushes them apart and lowers his head, taking him into his mouth. He moves slowly down his length, and Leofard cries out, hands tangling into the sheets as his body arches into it.

Emile just lets him, gaze flicking back up to meet his, something knowing, something heated in his eyes.

"Fuck, baby," Leofard lets out, and he tugs at his hair. "Emile—Emile, you have to—I'll come if you don't stop."

Emile lets go, and raises his brows. "That's kind of the point."

"Not yet," Leofard laughs. It's the easiest he's felt around him in a long time. He reaches up to touch his chin, wet with spit. "I haven't even seen your dick."

Emile grins before he gets up from the bed, tugging his jeans down. As quickly as it came, the easiness leaves the room. They watch each other, both of them naked, completely visible, and even this small space between them feels distant. Maybe they're both aware of it as their eyes meet again, their smiles gone, the heaviness a third shadow in the room.

Leofard just lets himself memorize Emile's body, his gaze tracing over each muscle in the low light, drawing down to the long line of his cock aching upwards.

"Come here," Leofard murmurs.

Emile goes to him, crawling over him to settle in the space between his legs. Leofard wraps himself around him, drawing his thighs up around his waist, his arms around his neck, and for a long time they just kiss, slow and messy, like a memory.

It's familiar in the way that everything about Emile is familiar. They know each other too well, know exactly what they like, and they give into it. Each nudge of Leofard's hips comes involuntarily, desperate to seek a little relief despite how much he wants to make it last, to wait just a little longer, to stay in this bubble where everything, for once, feels good.

But it burns too hot. Emile's weight holds him down, hips grinding together, their kisses loosening as their breaths grows heavy. Emile's hand trails down Leofard's body, fingertips grazing his side, his hip, then between them, carefully working him open. Leofard's eyes squeeze shut for a moment before a soft groan pulls out of him.

"I've got you," Emile murmurs, and the worst part is, Leofard knows that he means it.

Leofard can't—he can't let himself think. If he does, then he'll be too sad about the last time of it all. Every other time has been so carefree, so easy. He just wants to chase that feeling.

So he opens his eyes to Emile's half lidded gaze, body stretched out above him, and he smiles. "You're so beautiful."

Emile just kisses his forehead, and when he pulls away, the look in his eyes is infinitely more sad. His fingers ease out of him, and Leofard's whole body shivers at the emptiness, hips arching up, seeking anything. Emile comes back just a moment later, reaching down to guide his cock inside him, moving slow, then slower, breath trembling as he finally buries himself in him.

He moves with his same effortless grace, his body easy and strong around him. Leofard just holds on, watching until the pleasure overwhelms him and he can't help but slam his eyes shut. Emile tucks his head against Leofard's neck, his warm breath against his skin, each soft moan hidden against him.

And Leofard wonders if it's actually different, if it's just been long enough that he forgot how confidently Emile touches him, how well he knows Leofard's body, knows exactly how to make him see stars. Leofard loses himself in it so easily, so much that he almost forgets that he told Emile he loves him.

But now that he's said it, everything else sounds like it.

Each trembling groan, each time he cries Emile's name, each you feel so good, might as well be, I love you, I love you, I love you.

He hates it. He wonders if Emile hears it.

And he hates how close he is already, how his whole body tumbles towards the edge before he's ready to. Emile moves faster, and the sound of their bodies meeting fills the room in an obscene rhythm, skin against skin. Leofard can't hold back—when Emile kisses him again, he reaches for his cock, only lasting a few strokes before he spills onto his belly.

Past the pleasure finds grief, and Leofard's head clears to his heart tangled in a knot, watching Emile begin to fray. He's so beautiful over him, leaning back to change the angle, his hands strong around Leofard's thighs as he lifts them higher, head bent with his eyes squeezed shut. A moan begins in the back of his throat, growing louder as his hips slam against him.

"Want to feel you, baby," Leofard murmurs, still breathless. "Come in me."

"Oh fuck," Emile lets out, voice trembling. A moment later, there's the press of his hips into the mattress, the twitch of his cock, the warmth of his release. Leofard watches with his chest aching, like he knows that this memory will fade, that Emile is a fleeting thing, even as he reaches for him and pulls him down onto him.

They hold each other as they catch their breath, and Leofard just leaves little kisses against his shoulder. Each one says, I'm sorry, I love you, I wish we didn't have to say goodbye.

"Let me, um, let me clean up," Leofard half-whispers against him once his body cools and he begins to feel sticky. Emile just nods against him, carefully lifting off of him and laying on his side of the bed.

Don't leave yet, Leofard wants to say, but he just gets up slowly. His whole body protests his shuffle to the bathroom, legs aching, his back sore, hands shaking. He grips the bathroom sink, staring at his reflection only for a moment before a sob catches in his throat.

He doesn't let it out, he just collapses against the sink, trying to breathe through the pain. He doesn't care about his body—it's his heart, oh god, his heart hurts so much. How does he do this? How does he let Emile go?

His hands still shake as he reaches for their last washcloth, hoping Stacia will forgive him as he wets it down and gently scrubs at his body. He takes it back to his room, where Emile sits at the edge of the bed, looking over at him with wide eyes.

"Should I go?" he asks, even as Leofard comes over to press the damp towel over his belly, then up his chest.

"You don't have to," Leofard murmurs. He knows he won't sleep either way, but he'd rather lay next to Emile all night than be by himself. He'd rather say goodbye tomorrow than let it end tonight.

Emile is quiet for a moment, and then, in a small voice, "Do you want me to go?"

Leofard feels a sad smile at the corner of his lips, and he leans down to press a kiss to the top of his head. "Stay."

He tosses the towel aside and reaches for the lights. In the dark, they lay together, and Emile reaches his arm around him to pull him closer, tucking him against his chest. Leofard adjusts his head against his bicep, warm and strong beneath his cheek, and he reaches out to trace his fingertips along his skin, feeling along the contours of his body, brushing across his chest hair.

They stay like that for a long time, just breathing together in the dark. Neither of them fall asleep, but Leofard listens to the steady beat of Emile's heart beneath him, and it lulls him into something that feels easier.

If he could prevent morning from coming, he would. He would stay here forever.

And in the dark, his mind drifts back.

"I was nervous the first time I called you," he admits into the quiet between them. "Before we went for that drive."

"Really?" Emile asks, amusement coloring his sleepy voice. "Why?"

Leofard's lips pull at the memory of Emile waiting outside his dorms, back when everything between them was brand new. If only, if only, if only.

"I don't know, maybe I already knew you were trouble," he murmurs. "You were so fucking cute."

And he can hear the smile in Emile's voice when he says, "I kept hoping you'd call."

"You did?"

"Of course," he says, like it's obvious. "I was having one of the worst years of my life, and then I met you, and I don't know...you made me laugh. You were so different from anyone I've ever met, and you never bothered to pretend you weren't interested in me. I wanted more."

It still wasn't enough.

"Did you ever expect all this?" Leofard asks.

And Emile laughs. "God, no."

The night passes like that—little conversations that start with, do you remember that time...? They talk about last summer, laughing at how long they used Emile's broken AC as an excuse to live together. They talk about that night they walked through the woods, about winter break, how much they thought about each other when they were apart.

They talk, they kiss, they touch again.

But it can't last.

The light begins to shift around the edges of Leofard's window, just the hint of the sunrise. That's when Emile asks, "Do you regret it?"

"Regret what?" Leofard asks, face pressed to Emile's chest, blinking at the first streams of pale light through the blinds.

"Us," he says. "All of it."

Leofard can see all of it laid out in his mind: this whole year with Emile wrapped around his life. It was a hell of a run.

"Yeah," Leofard lets out. "I wish I never spilled my drink on you."

They're quiet for a while after that.

Leofard must drift off, because he blinks his eyes open to his room saturated with light. It spills in shades of golden orange over his empty walls, stretching across the bed to reach him and Emile. He looks over, and Emile's eyes are closed, face pressed into the pillow. Leofard swallows hard as he allows himself a moment, just one more to memorize him: his freckles, the fan of his lashes, the scar that curves down to his jaw.

But it's already slipping. He's already becoming a memory.

Leofard blinks as he looks away, carefully removing himself from Emile's embrace to get up. He pulls on his clothes, trying not to think about anything other than the road home, and he throws all that's left into his suitcase, zipping it up one last time.

When he glances back at the bed, Emile's eyes are open, and he watches him from where he lays, expressionless.

"I'm going to get going," Leofard says quietly.

"Already?" Emile asks. He leans up on one elbow, rubbing at his eye with his free hand. The sheet slips down his chest, revealing his bare skin, the flex of his muscle in the morning light.

None of this feels fair.

Leofard lets out a sigh. "Nine hours to Utah, baby."

"Right."

Leofard takes his suitcase out to the car, shoving it in the passenger seat—the only space that's left. When he comes back in, Stacia is in the kitchen, leaning against the counter with her arms crossed, eyes already red and watery. Leofard pulls her into a hug, holding her tight. "Please don't cry."

"I'm not," she says despite the way her voice wavers. "It just came too fast. I barely got to see you last night."

"I know."

But then she sighs, "Oh my god."

Leofard's brow twitches when she pulls away, but he follows her gaze to his bedroom door, where Emile waits with that same hollow expression.

"Hi Stace," he murmurs.

She immediately turns back to Leofard, and the look on her face says, You fucking idiot.

Leofard just shrugs. He's well aware of this.

The three of them head out to the driveway, and Leofard holds his keys so tight he thinks they'll break the skin of his palm. It's a beautiful morning—a slight chill in the air, but there's enough warmth from the sun to promise it won't last. He takes a deep breath, staring at his apartment for the last time, and it doesn't feel real, it doesn't. Surely he'll come back later, get on the couch with Stacia, and watch a few movies. Surely life doesn't have to change this much.

"Okay," he says, turning back to Stacia and Emile. They stand side by side on the driveway—the two people that have changed him the most. The two people he has loved with all his heart.

Stacia hugs him again, arms tight around him. He can feel her shaking, and he has to bite his cheek to keep himself from crying too.

"I'll see you in a few weeks, okay?" he says.

"A few weeks," she repeats. "I'll call you when I land."

"Give V'kebbe my love."

"I will."

He's helpless to smile at the way she wipes her tears as soon as they part. His Stacia—always strong. She has saved him so many times.

"I love you," he says.

She smiles back. "I love you, too."

Then he turns to Emile, who just watches with those big eyes, the morning sun doing him every favor against his golden skin. Leofard can't even move at first, because this is the last time he'll see him. This is what his last memory of Emile looks like.

They aren't friends, they aren't lovers...they aren't anything at all, really.

Leofard pulls him into a hug, standing up on his tiptoes to wrap his arms around his neck, tucking his face against him. Emile holds him tight enough to break, hands digging into his shirt, head pressed against his. It's not enough. It can never be enough.

It’s all they have.

"I'll miss you," Leofard murmurs against him. "Probably for the rest of my life."

"I'll miss you too," Emile says, voice aching.

His grip tightens when Leofard tries to let go, and Leofard squeezes his eyes shut, hands at Emile's arms, shaking his head against Emile's chest. I'm not ready either, baby.

"It's okay," Leofard says, voice hidden between them.

Because Emile made his choice. Because even as they finally part, and Emile looks down at him with grief in his gaze—he still doesn't love him. There isn't anywhere else for them to go. This is where it ends.

It doesn't feel right that the sky hangs so blue above them, that the sun shines down and echoes across each freckle on Emile's face.

Leofard swallows hard. "Bye, Emile."

Emile stays quiet for a long moment, but then he takes a breath, and in a half whisper, "Bye."

Stacia watches with a concerned expression, but it smooths out into something softer when he meets her gaze.

“Drive safe," she says.

Leofard nods, and then he finally turns away, fumbling with his keys as he gets in his car. He looks out the window at them, and lets himself smile one last time before he backs down the driveway.

The tears come when he pulls onto his street, the light spilling down through the trees and onto the empty road ahead of him. He just lets them fall, trailing silent paths down his cheeks as he reaches over to turn his stereo on.

He almost laughs as the first chord plays out. One baby to another says I’m lucky to have met you.

Blue sky. Sunshine. Freckles in the morning light. Leofard drives away—he doesn’t look back.

He doesn’t see.

Trending Blogs

Recently Viewed Blogs

i remember a garden,