Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It happens at a party – or not at a party. Not exactly.

Viago can get himself together to go on stage; something about being behind a bass, he can hold it in front of himself like a shield, pretend that he's not surrounded by people. There’s the stage lights and the sound, and somehow this is enough for him to forget about the audience altogether, to imagine that he is still fucking around in his garage, playing for the hell of it, playing out of habit, or something. Something other than what it is.

(Sometimes – sometimes he can't forget. Sometimes every ritual he's invented is not enough, and he finds himself panicking in some grimy back room, his heart pounding in his ears until Rosa appears, insulting his moustache or licking his ear or even, once, taking off her shirt and handing it to him before wandering out onto the stage with nothing but electrical tape on her nipples, leaving him to chase after her, clutching some scrap of ridiculous garish fabric until he found himself, suddenly, under the lights with the first chords starting.

She always knows how to make him chase her, anxiety forgotten in the face of his own fury, and somehow he has never missed a show, not once since she returned, no matter how many times he has convinced himself this is the time he will not be able to perform.)

But parties? Parties are hard. Parties are a thousand inane conversations and strangers commenting on his gloves. Watching Rosa hold court, spinning elaborate tales for a rapt audience while Teia gives him an altogether too knowing look. She broke up with him again, and yet she had insisted he come to this party, and he had agreed because – because he keeps hoping it will work, one of these days, and he’s trying to show her he’s trying.

Trying, but maybe not hard enough, because eventually he takes his drink outside onto the street and stands, leaning against a wall. It's not cold, exactly, but there's a chill in the air that makes him grateful for the layers he constantly wears. He can hear voices from inside, people laughing and talking. Smells of cigarette smoke and weed. Lucanis went home a while ago, something about needing to feed his sourdough starter. Lucanis is like that – able to come and go when it pleases him, making some vague excuse about how he has somewhere else to be, something else to do.

Viago should go too, and maybe he will, when he finishes his wine. Teia will forgive him, or she won’t, and they’ll keep going around and around. He is resigned to this fate.

This is when and where Vero finds him, stepping out of the side door and coming to join him against the wall. Automatically, he shifts to make room for them. Vero is – well. Viago doesn’t like to think about it too much, what Vero is. Young, mostly, he reminds himself constantly. Young and wearing skinny jeans and a t-shirt that he is pretty sure used to belong to Lucanis. Maybe it still does; often they seem to share a wardrobe. This is not something he should think about right now.

Vero is his drummer. Their drummer, he corrects himself. The band's drummer. Maybe Lucanis's, he supposes, but never his, never Viago's. Because Vero is 22 and Viago is nearly 31, and there had been a year, once, when they were both at the same school.

(There had been a time, once, a few months after they'd first met, after the first time Lucanis had brought them to a show, when Vero had looked at him, and said, simply: "De Riva?"

Viago, for a second, had assumed this was a moment he was used to, the one where someone put together who his father was. It was not that moment, because Vero's brows had knit together for a second and then they'd said, "Shit, I remember you. You taught at Treviso High, right?"

He hates when he sees his former students in the audience at their shows, and yet somehow one of them had ended up in his band, and this is much worse. (Not his student. Not really. A student, one he'd seen in hallways and never remembered until that moment.)

He still teaches chemistry.)

"You played really well tonight," Vero says, leaning against the wall next to him. Their dark hair is still in disarray from the show, pulled half-up into a messy bun. They shove their hands into their pockets, but even like this, even leaning against a brick wall with hands in their pockets, there is a strange kind of grace to them. Like every movement has been carefully considered, their apparent relaxation just as precise and poised as everything else about them.

Viago grimaces, thinking back to the show. "I missed a couple notes on the third song," he says.

"Nobody noticed it."

"You did." He had seen them notice – their quizzical expression from behind their drum set as he regained his fingering. Vero is always doing that, noticing things. At first Viago had dismissed it as just one of those things, the way drummers and bassists are, have to be, for the band to work. It had been easier to write it off as a necessary kind of synchronicity, the intimacy of their instruments making this kind of attentiveness a requirement. But then Vero had never stopped noticing, even when they aren't on stage, aren't practicing, when there is no drum kit or bass between them.

Vero shrugs. "I'm detail-oriented. You know this."

"I do," he admits. Vero shivers in their thin t-shirt. And this is the problem, right here: Viago notices things too, like the goosebumps on their muscled arms, the faint tension in the line of their shoulders. He notices the strangeness of that small, involuntary movement, how it stands out because Vero is constantly so self-possessed, as though the elements should not affect them. "You should go in. You must be freezing."

"I'd rather be here with you," Vero says with sudden earnestness. They do that sometimes – disarm him with unexpected affection. It only ever lasts a second before they lapse back into their usual seriousness. But tonight, they're looking at him with this expression that is equal parts fond and uncertain. When did they start looking at him like that?

"You're drunk," he accuses.

"A little drunk, a little high," Vero says, and they have one of those faint smiles they often wear, like they're amused by a private joke. "Doesn't change how I feel."

“How you –” but he stops, because Vero has pushed away from the wall and has instead reached for the front of his perfectly pressed shirt, twisting those long and delicate fingers into the fabric. This is – this is not supposed to happen, because Vero is many things. Young, first and foremost. His drummer. (Not his. Never his.) A little drunk. A little high. He is suddenly aware of their scent – beer and sweat and cigarette smoke and the sticky-sweet smell of Rosa’s perfume.

Viago knows he should pull away, or do anything other than what he does, which is lean in until his lips brush against theirs.

And – oh.

Vero's mouth is warm and soft, and they make this sound, something like a gasp. And Viago, for a moment, is lost. His gloved hand moves to their waist; without meaning to, he finds that he has placed it under the fabric of their t-shirt. Lucanis's t-shirt. When he slides his tongue against theirs, they taste faintly bitter, like those awful IPAs they always drink. Under that, just spit and skin.

It is different than kissing Teia. Vero is almost of a height with him, so there is no need to lean down. He can simply press them back against the wall, that glass of wine still in his hand, as they use their grip on his shirt to pull him in closer, closer. Their body is all lean muscle and tension, so carefully restrained, even now. He slides his knee between their thighs, can feel the heat of their body through the layers of fabric, and this time they really do moan.

And then common sense reasserts itself, and he pulls away.

"I should go," he says, and because he's an idiot, he gives them his wine glass, because what else is he supposed to do with it.

He walks off, away from the party and into the street, already pulling his phone from his back pocket.

He needs to text Rosa.

Vero is eighteen and not quite newly on their own with very few life skills and a handful of coins to their name. They know a few things – how to play drums, how to disarm someone in a dark alley if they have to, how to fix a bike chain when it breaks in the middle of nowhere. They decide they should learn how to cook. It seems like the kind of thing an adult should know how to do, and supposedly they are an adult now.

(Adult enough, at least, to let strangers fuck them for money. Or not quite strangers. It's been a few months, and there are a few clients they have seen more than once, men who are strangely drawn to their seriousness and their amber eyes.)

There’s a community centre they’ve gone to for years, a place that’s stayed familiar as they bounced between group homes. A little shabby, a little worn around the edges, but always a safe place to land. Vero learned to play here, years ago, and still comes around a few times a week because they don't yet own their own kit and a practice pad only gets you so far.

It was Anders who suggested the class.

(Anders is, somehow, the one person Vero has kept in touch with for more than a couple of years. It's not because of him, exactly, but because of the place. He's always there, in his slogan t-shirts and ripped jeans, his blond hair tugged up into a loose ponytail, doling out life advice in between lectures on mage liberation and healthcare inequality.

Vero is still not sure how he consistently manages not to get fired, but is grateful he's still there all the same.)

He's always been able to talk them into the right things, the same way he'd once handed them the keys to the music room. And later they will realize how much they owe him for that, but if they ever tried to tell him, he would simply shrug and tell them, "That's what they pay me the medium bucks for."

The teaching kitchen isn't much - a handful of hotplates, an oven that's probably on its last legs. Like everything here, most of the equipment is held together mostly by hope. (Vero has heard Anders on the phone more than once, begging or fighting for more resources, whatever will keep this place going.) The instructor is an older woman with soft lines around her blue eyes; Vero's seen her around before, knows she's taught classes here for years.

Her assistant, though, is someone new. Vero knows his type, the well-meaning wealth, wearing a sweater that probably cost nearly as much as their rent, if not more. He moves between the counters, giving pointers and making small talk. Mostly, Vero ignores him, absently drumming their hands on the counter as they wait for their water to boil.

They don't notice him watching until he comes up next to them, watching their hands with interest, and asks, "That's Void Take the Divine, isn't it?"

Vero stops drumming. "By Three Dead Templars, yeah," Vero agrees. "You know it?"

He's a bit older than them, they think – probably in his mid-twenties. He's got a bit of a mullet going, a well-groomed beard, and soft brown eyes that crinkle at the corners when he smiles. "I've got a soft spot for Kirkwall's underground music scene," he admits, "though I'm more of a City Guard Rejects fan, personally." And – huh. That's interesting.

"Yeah?" Vero asks, and maybe – maybe they're testing him a little bit. Seeing what this soft, rich boy knows about punk music. "What's your favourite album?"

"I know Darktown Rising is a classic," he acknowledges, "but I'd argue Chains of the Gallows is stronger lyrically, and it's definitely more fun to play."

Vero can't help raising an eyebrow. "You play?"

"Keys, yeah," he says. "And you're a drummer, clearly."

Despite their best efforts, Vero feels their mouth twitch into a smile. "I'm Vero."

"Lucanis." He sticks out a hand, giving them a smile that's both genuine and a little wry, like he understands the absurdity of the gesture. They shake it.

(Later, they will think about this moment – about the warmth in Lucanis's expression, the particular curve of his smile, the calluses on his fingertips as he gripped their hand. They will wonder at how it felt, that something so monumental, so life-altering could somehow be so quiet.)

Vero goes to more cooking classes after that one. The classes themselves aren't bad – Vero finds they like simple things best, the repetitive motions of cutting vegetables or stirring a pot in steady circles, finding the rhythms in it. But Lucanis always finds a minute to stop by their spot near the back of the room, and they talk about music – about favourite bands and the magic of the perfect key change, about musical theory and drum fills.

Eventually, when the classes end, Lucanis invites them for coffee. Vero knows better than to go for coffee with strange men in expensive sweaters, even if they do have a near-encyclopedic knowledge of Orlesian prog rock. They go anyway.

He takes them to this place nearby, one Vero's walked by countless times before but never gone in. It's not quite a hole in the wall – the furnishings and finishings are too expensive, with carefully chosen antique furniture and eye-watering drink prices. But there's interesting outsider art on the walls and a woman strumming a guitar on a stage in the corner. Lucanis buys two cups of single-origin, ethically-sourced coffee, and only makes a little bit of a face when Vero drowns theirs in sugar and cream.

They talk for hours, that first time, staying long after their mugs are empty. Lucanis asks questions, but never the obvious ones. This makes him weirdly easy to talk to, in part because he also knows when to let the silences speak for themselves. They find themself talking about their life – about the first song they taught themself to play, about the three-times-a-week pilgrimage from their apartment to the community centre to jam on a real kit, about the way drumming has long been the one thing they've been able to hold onto in a world that's constantly shifting. Eventually, they even talk about growing up in foster care, about the short placements and group homes and meetings with caseworkers who never remembered their name.

Vero has never talked so much all in one sitting, maybe, and Lucanis just listens, attentive and apparently interested. He offers little stories from his own life, and Vero learns he's doing an MBA, a fact that makes Vero arch a brow.

"It's kind of a family thing," Lucanis says, giving a wry little smile. He's wearing a silverite ring on his right hand, one that has some kind of crest on it, and he twists it, seeming suddenly boyish and self-conscious.

Vero knows better than to pry, and so they talk about other things – how he grew up playing classical piano while his cousin took up the guitar, how it feels to play with someone who just gets you, the way music can feel like something that's so deeply personal while still being better when it's shared.

Eventually, Lucanis's phone rings. He grimaces when he looks at the screen. "I'm sorry," he says, "I have to take this." He takes a breath before swiping his thumb across the screen, and Vero watches his posture shift into something tense.

"Caterina," he says, and his voice has – maybe not an edge to it, exactly, but something strained. He pauses, listening to a tinny voice on the end of the line. "No, I'm not on campus right now – Yes. I know. My exam isn't until next week." A beat. The voice on the other line says something about a dinner. "Yes, we agreed I should focus on my studies." Another pause. "Okay. Yes. I'll be there. Yes, I'll tell Illario. I'll see you then. Yes. Bye."

When he hangs up, he seems to just deflate, sinking low in his chair. He slides his phone back into his pocket and goes back to twisting the ring on his finger. "My grandmother," he says, by way of explanation. There's something faintly bitter in his tone. "She raised me, and she likes to check in. Make sure I'm staying focused on school and my other ... obligations."

Vero looks at the ring he's been fiddling with. It looks vaguely familiar, something they've seen somewhere before, but they can't quite place it. "Sorry," Lucanis says before Vero can respond. "I probably sound ungrateful, complaining about my family when ..." he trails off, his meaning obvious.

"It's okay," Vero says. "Sounds like it's complicated."

Lucanis laughs. "You could say that." He pauses, considering. Vero watches as he makes a decision, something steeling in his expression, though there's a vulnerability there. "My grandmother. She's Caterina Dellamorte."

And that's where Vero recognizes the symbol on his ring from, they realize. Everyone in Treviso knows Dellamorte Industries, Antiva's most infamous weapons manufacturer. Their headquarters take up a full city block downtown, a gleaming monument of metal and glass.

"I should have said something earlier," Lucanis says suddenly, all in a rush. "It was just nice to talk about music with someone who didn't know, who didn't –"

"It's okay," Vero tells him again, interrupting. They have secrets of their own, after all. "You don't have to explain. But maybe ... maybe you should get us more coffee. I want to hear more about why you think The City Guard Rejects are better than Three Dead Templars."

 Lucanis's answering smile is small and slow, but he nods, getting to his feet. "Okay," he says.

Vero has learned that, generally speaking, it is better not to depend on people. People – again, generally speaking – will let you down. Eighteen years of getting bounced around foster homes and group homes – a few weeks here, a few months there, even a year in one place – and Vero has learned that it’s easier not to get too attached.

But they find they like Lucanis. He’s got those soft, brown eyes and … he’s sweet. He has an easy smile that always starts slow, and he’s a little too earnest, somehow unguarded despite his family. They trade phone numbers, and after that, most weeks they meet up for coffee, and he never, ever lets them pay for anything. And yet, he never seems to expect anything, either, except maybe someone who will listen to him wax poetic about about the way certain keys feel when he plays.

Sometimes he texts. It's just small things, at first – a new record he picked up at that store near Heart and Central, a show he went to, something stupid one of his classmates said.

It is rather like having a friend.

It's a Friday night, after a date, and Vero has sweat on their skin and cash in their back pocket. It's been a good night, as far as these things go, and maybe they aren't quite ready to go back to the glorified shoebox they call an apartment, so they find themself pulling out their phone and finding their last message thread. It's ten o'clock, maybe a little late, but they've realized from his texting habits that Lucanis is a bit of a night owl.

Hey, do you want to grab a drink?

Their phone buzzes almost immediately in response as Lucanis sends a series of short texts in quick succession.

can't tonight. i have a show with my band
do you want to come maybe?
i can put you on the guest list
the diamond, we're on at 11

Lucanis had mentioned being in a band, a casual thing with his cousin and some old friends. Vero hasn't been to many shows lately – usually they're working on weekends and too tired to go out afterward. And the Diamond isn’t that far, walking distance really.

Yeah, that sounds great. I'm on my way.

Sure enough, when Vero tells the security at the door their name, the guy waves them in without making them pay the cover.

Inside, the Diamond is busy. It smells the way it always has – stale beer soaked into the sticky floor, the ashy scent of cigarette smoke from decades past mixed with old sweat and somebody's perfume. It's not the first time Vero's been here, but it's been a while. Walking into the crowd feels like coming home.

There’s already a band on stage when they arrive, something that’s a bit pop punk with a decent beat to it, though the drums and bass aren’t synchronized as well as they could be.

They send Lucanis a quick text. I'm here.

be right there
i'll buy you a beer before we go on
meet me at the bar?

They’re overdressed for the Diamond, looking maybe a little out of place in tailored slacks and a loose silk shirt. Normally they’d be in a band t-shirt and ripped jeans, just like everyone else, but they hadn’t had time to bus back across town and change.

They make their way to the crush of people to the bar set on the far side of the venue, and that’s where Lucanis finds them. He pulls them into an unexpected hug; almost automatically, Vero returns it, and finds it feels natural. Lucanis smells like cologne, something expensive but not overdone, with hints of leather, cardamom and jasmine. He’s wearing what he usually does – dark jeans and a cashmere sweater that feels impossibly soft under their palm on his back.

Lucanis smiles broadly when they pull apart. “I’m so glad you came,” he says, raising his voice to be heard above the music. “You look great. Did you come from somewhere else?”

“Yeah, I had a dinner thing.” Vero doesn’t elaborate and Lucanis doesn’t press for details, just orders Vero one of the bitter IPAs they like.

“We’re on pretty soon,” Lucanis says. “Come find me after? I want to introduce you to everyone.”

“Yeah,” Vero agrees. “Sure.”

When Lucanis heads backstage, Vero finds a vantage point near the back right of the club. They’re tall enough to get good sight lines, and the crowd is a little thinner back here.

Lucanis’s band is surprisingly good – maybe not great, but good. Vero notices the drummer first. They always do. He’s bombastic and a little wild, playing with an aggression that Vero assumes goes through a lot of drumsticks. It works on its own, but the bassist – a tall, skinny guy with a pointed beard and a serious expression – keeps receding toward the back, both on the stage and in the music.

The guitarist struts across the stage with a kind of restless energy, taking up all the space the bass player leaves unoccupied like he deserves it and more besides. Based on his resemblance to Lucanis – there’s something around the cheekbones, maybe – Vero assumes this is Illario, his cousin. They know his type immediately based on the cocky swagger and artfully distressed clothes. Their singer, though – she’s something special. She has a mass of curly hair that catches the stage lights and glows like a halo, and a voice that soars.

And Lucanis. He’s got one of those smiles of his, his eyes closed as his hands dance across the keys. Maybe the music itself isn’t anything special – a little simple, just another indie rock band at another dive bar, probably a bit derivative – but Lucanis plays it with heart, leaning his whole body into each note he plays. So yeah, maybe the chord progressions are a bit predictable, and maybe the energy isn’t quite balanced, but it’s good, and Vero finds themself tapping a foot along with the beat, smiling as they nurse their beer.

It’s not a long set, just a handful of songs, and then the band files off-stage to scattered applause. Vero heads towards the back of the venue, and that’s where Lucanis finds them a few minutes later. He’s put his hair up in a loose bun at the nape of his neck, and he’s smiling and a little sweaty.

“Well, what did you think?” he asks.

Vero smiles. “You were great,” they say honestly. “But I have to ask about the name.”

“Why Snakes Why?” Lucanis laughs. “My cousin wanted us to be Illario and the Heartbreakers, so we had to come up with an alternative quickly.” He pauses, then grabs their hand. “Come on, come backstage. I’ll introduce you.”

They’ve been coming to shows at the Diamond for a couple years now, but they’ve never been backstage. Lucanis leads them through the twisting back hallways with practiced familiarity, until they arrive at a small room in the bowels of the venue.

Lucanis steers them into the room ahead of him. “Everybody,” he says, “this is Vero.”

The lead singer immediately leaps up from the threadbare couch, bounding forward to embrace Vero in a tight hug. “It’s so good to finally meet you,” she effuses when she draws back. “Lucanis won’t stop talking about you.”

“I – really?” Vero isn’t sure how to respond, but they glance at Lucanis, who looks maybe a little abashed.

She laughs, and she has a beautiful laugh, bright and warm and full of promises. “All good things, I promise. I’m Teia, by the way.”

“That’s my cousin, Illario,” Lucanis says, indicating the guitarist. “And that’s Chance,” he nods at the drummer. “And Viago.”

The bassist, who is busy wrapping up some cables, looks up from his task. He’s wearing a pair of black leather gloves despite the heat in the space. Seeing him closer, there’s something familiar about him, though Vero can’t place where they might know him from. He’s handsome enough, with bright, focused blue-grey eyes, and a precise way of moving that speaks of careful restraint. His dark hair curls slightly around his ears, still a little damp from performing under bright lights. “Hey,” he says, and nothing else.

Illario is the next to approach, eyeing Vero with sharp eyes and a slight twist at the corner of his mouth before he breaks into a wide smile. “Vero, is it?” he asks. “What’s a lovely thing like you doing in a pit like this – with my cousin, no less?” He looks them up and down, clearly taking in their apparel, and Vero feels suddenly exposed.

“Illario,” Teia says, and there’s a hint of sharpness to her voice.

The drummer – Chance – wipes his face with a towel before taking a long swig of water from a plastic bottle. “Ah, ignore Illario,” he says in a lilting Orlesian accent. “He can’t stand when he’s not the centre of attention.”

He stands and offers a hand, which Vero takes. He has a firm handshake and gives a wide smile. “Lucanis tells us you’re a drummer,” he says. “What kind of kit are you working with?”

“I’m mostly playing at a community centre right now. My landlord would frown on actual drums, so I’ve just got a practice pad set-up at home.” They wince. “Not that it stops the noise complaints.”

Chance chuckles. “Thin walls, yes? I’m sure the neighbours love you,” he says, and there’s a twinkle in his eye as he leans against the wall and takes another swig of water. “I have been there myself.”

“You should come jam with us sometime!” Teia says. “Chance would let you use his kit, I’m sure.”

“Ah, yes,” the drummer deadpans. “Thank you for volunteering my equipment. She's temperamental, but you're welcome to try her out.”

“Are you talking about me or the drums, Chance?” Teia teases.

“Maybe both,” he says, grinning, then glances at the bassist, who is now sitting back on the couch, the spool of cables set in his lap. “Although Viago may object.”

Viago looks over, and there’s a faint flush in his cheeks despite his serious expression. “I’ve learned not to object to anything Teia does,” he says, and maybe the corner of his mouth lifts, just slightly.

Next to them, Lucanis smiles, and there’s a comfortable familiarity to the banter.

“Smart man,” Teia says. “I knew I liked you for a reason.” Viago’s mouth twitches again as he clearly tries to suppress a smile.

To Vero she adds, “We need to load out, but you should stick around, we always go for drinks and nachos after.“ Glancing up at Lucanis, Vero sees something clearly hopeful in his expression. It’s nearing midnight, but Vero’s job doesn’t require early mornings.

“Sure,” they say. “I’d like that.”

Lucanis notices immediately because, well, it's obvious.

They have a split lip and a bruise on their jaw. Their hands are curled around their coffee cup, and they tilt their head away like it will make the markings less obvious. Lucanis watches them – the rigidity of their shoulders, the way the muscles in their neck stand out beneath their skin.

This is not one of their usual coffee dates. Vero had texted late last night, asking if they could meet. They’re at their usual spot, settled across from each other in a back corner. Behind them, the espresso machine hisses as one of the baristas prepares someone’s drink.

In the nine or so months they've known each other, Lucanis has learned that being their friend is a balancing act. Ask too many questions, get too close, and they pull back. On the other hand, go too quiet, and Vero will volunteer nothing.

"Do you want to tell me what happened?" he asks at last.

Vero’s hands tighten around the mug, and they look up at him. There’s a long pause while they just look at him, as though they’re making a decision. Finally, they give a sharp, short nod.

“I had a bad date last night,” they say. There’s something in the way the say the word date that Lucanis can’t quite place, maybe an odd kind of emphasis.

“Are you okay?”

Vero nods. “Yeah,” they say. “I had security … they handled it pretty quickly.”

Lucanis frowns, considering their words. “Security?” He keeps his tone carefully neutral.

“Yeah,” they say, their voice soft. “I’m an escort.”

Maybe Lucanis should be surprised, but it makes a certain amount of sense. Throughout all their conversations, Vero has never specified what they do for work, and there have been times they’ve come to shows at the Diamond dressed for an entirely different kind of evening. Those nights when they'd slip in at the back of the bar during the second set, all sharp lines and dark makeup, looking nothing like the person who sits huddled across from him now in a threadbare band t-shirt with the sleeves cut off.

He isn’t sure how to respond, but he knows he needs to say something – Vero is watching him, waiting for his response. Their expression is outwardly calm, composed, but he can see the tension in their jaw, in the way they hold themselves.

“Oh,” he says at last. “That’s – hm. That explains a few things, I guess.” He pauses for a beat. “Does this kind of thing happen often?”

“No. It’s never happened before. They screen the clients pretty carefully, it … usually prevents problems.” They look down now. “I just – I kind of freaked out, and I needed to tell someone.”

Lucanis smiles a little at that. “I like when you tell me things,” he admits. “We’re friends. I’m always here if you need to talk, or if you need anything at all.”

“Thanks,” Vero says softly. Their shoulders have started to relax, their hands loosening on the mug.

“I’m serious. If you ever need a ride, or a place to stay, or anything, I’m here.”

Vero smiles. “I know.”

(They know, but maybe they do not quite believe it. But there will come a day, when they come home to an eviction noticed plastered on their door, that they will call him, and he will come in his expensive electric SUV and they will load their few belongings into the trunk. And then – then they will believe it.)

Vero has always had an easy time finding the rhythm of things. It’s why they’re a drummer, after all. But still, they’re pretty sure it should be harder to fit themselves into the flow of Lucanis’s life.

It isn’t hard at all, in fact. He makes coffee every morning. He makes dinner most nights. He pays for groceries without comment – without, in fact, giving Vero the opportunity to pay for much of anything. Vero does what they can, corralling Lucanis’s creative chaos into neatness. Sometimes they trail after him, collecting his abandoned coffee cups and returning them to the kitchen.

It is not enough, they think, to simply clean up after him.

It’s another night, where Lucanis has made dinner. Lucanis is drinking coffee – there is no time of night when he won’t drink coffee – and Vero is drinking beer, bitter and cold. There’s a record on the turntable, the sound of it all low and velvety. When they glance over at him, he looks up, and his brown eyes are soft as his lips quirk into a smile. Vero’s heart seizes, as though someone has reached into their chest cavity and tightened a fist around it.

“What?” Lucanis asks, seeing their expression.

It is an impulse, more than anything, that has Vero leaning in to kiss him. But there is maybe something behind it, a sense of – exchange, perhaps. His kindness. Their touch.

Lucanis makes a noise – surprise and something else, something warm and maybe relieved – and then his hand is in Vero’s hair, pulling them closer. He moans when Vero deepens the kiss. It is bitter, coffee and beer, but sweeter than anything they could have imagined.

It only lasts a few seconds, and then Lucanis leans back. He is still smiling, and his hand moves until he can stroke a thumb over Vero’s cheekbone.

“What was that for?” he asks.

Vero shrugs. “Everything, I guess.”

Lucanis’s brows draw together a little bit, and the confusion is … adorable, Vero thinks. They lean and kiss him again, just a quick press of lips.

“Is that okay?” Vero asks.

“Yes,” he says, and he is blushing, Vero realizes. “Yes.”

It goes like that, for a while. There is a rhythm to it, one Vero can find and feel and lose themselves in. Lucanis makes coffee, and then he makes dinner, and sometimes when Vero doesn’t know how to thank him, they kiss him instead.

It goes like this for a couple months: early mornings and late nights. They stumble home after shows, high on the energy and, well, sometimes the weed, too. Vero spends nights at the merch table, tapping out a beat with their foot, watching Lucanis on stage. They settle into something like harmony. Sometimes they play together, just messing around in the studio in the loft. They aren’t writing songs, and aren't trying to turn it into anything. Just jamming for the hell of it. But they’re making something anyway, Vero realizes.

“So, hey,” Lucanis says one night. “You know Chance, right?”

It’s a stupid question. Vero and Chance have spent hours talking about stick weights and grips, debating click tracks and vintage snares, laughing as Viago rolls his eyes.

“Yes,” Vero deadpans. “We’ve met once or twice.”

“He’s moving back to Val Royeaux for a while,” Lucanis says. “He got another offer, and, well, we kind of … need a drummer. If you’re interested.”

Vero puts down their beer. “I – really?”

“Yeah,” Lucanis says. “I talked to Viago and Teia about it, and we thought, you know – if you wanted.”

There’s a beat, as the reality sets in. What he is offering. And then –

“Yes,” Vero says, and suddenly they are laughing, and they are kissing him. “Yes, Lucanis, yes,” they tell him between kisses. It is the best kind of proposal, maybe.

Somehow they end up in his lap, straddling him, and his hands are on their waist, under their shirt (it is his shirt, really, but neither of them is keeping track anymore). They are both smiling into it as they kiss, and then Vero rolls their hips, pressing closer, and Lucanis gasps and goes still, as though he has just noticed how they are positioned.

They both stop laughing, then.

“Vero,” Lucanis breathes. His fingers flex into their skin, and he is breathing hard.

“Is this okay?” Vero asks.

The conversation is familiar, though it feels different now. The tension is not uncomfortable. Their body hums with it. It’s been months since they’ve been with anyone, and this – this is different than that. Like an old song they know by heart, but something changed; a cover, maybe, that makes them hear something new beneath the resonant chords.

“I –” Lucanis says. There is a flush rising from beneath his beard. “I haven’t done this before,” he finally admits.

“Oh.” A pause. “Really?”

They watch his throat bob as he swallows. “Kissing, a few times, before,” he says. “But not … not this. If this is what I think it is.”

Vero does not move from his lap. His hands are still on them, warm with those faint calluses on his fingertips. “It’s whatever you want it to be,” Vero tells him. “We don’t have to do anything, if you don’t want to.”

Lucanis is quiet for a long moment, thinking. “I do want to,” he finally says. “But … maybe not on the couch?” A beat. “That’s stupid, isn’t it? To want –”

Vero silences him with a swift kiss. “Don’t say that. It’s not stupid.” Another kiss. “Of course it’s not stupid.”

Finally, they pull ouf of his lap, getting to their feet. They hold out a hand, smiling down at him. “Take me to bed, Lucanis.”

It would be easier, maybe, to think of it as payment. To couch it in these terms: Lucanis has offered them something precious, so they will give him something in return. That would be tidier, certainly.

But this is not tidy. It can’t be, Vero realizes. They are too tangled up in it. There are debts, certainly, things that could be repaid, and on some level, maybe that is a part of it. But there are other things, too. The slow, almost shy way Lucanis smiles sometimes, and the softness of his brown eyes. The way he relaxes when he’s behind the keys, losing himself in the music in a way that makes Vero want to lose themself with him.

Vero can’t call it love. Love is something people say before they leave. Something dates said, sometimes, paying for the privilege of pretending. Whatever this is, it’s not that. Whatever this is, it’s real.

Lucanis leads them to his room, and Vero tugs him down onto the bed.

“I don’t really know what I’m doing,” Lucanis says. They both lie on their sides, facing each other.

“I’ll show you,” Vero promises.

A slow nod. And then – “You don’t have to do this. You know that, right? You don’t – you don’t owe me anything.”

“Lucanis.” They reach out, curling their fingers in the soft, worn fabric of his shirt. “I owe you everything.” He looks like he might object, but Vero rushes on before he can get a word in, before he can argue. “But I also want to. I want this. With you.”

“Okay,” Lucanis says.

“Just – do one thing for me?”

“Anything.”

“Don’t tell me you love me. Not tonight.”

Lucanis doesn’t say anything, but he leans in, and he presses his mouth to theirs. He kisses them, slowly and deliberately, and tells them nothing at all.

It happens like this:

Vero guides his hands on their body. He touches them slowly, reverently, cautiously. They let him take his time as he pushes up their shirt (his shirt) to bare their breasts. His mouth on their skin is hot. He explores. There is no rush, no urgency to it.

“That’s it,” Vero murmurs, threading their fingers through his hair and holding him close as he tugs a nipple between his teeth. “Fuck, that’s good.”

His palms are so warm on their skin, rubbing over the bare skin of their sides, their belly, their back. Vero reaches for the hem of his t-shirt, pulling at it, wanting to feel him, too. He pulls away for just long enough to let them remove it.

Vero has always had an easy time finding the rhythm of things, but this is different. Not harder or more difficult, but more important to get right. It is not the kind of sex they’re used to. With Lucanis, it’s like a cover song, something new made from a familiar beat. One of those ones that’s somehow better than the original, like they found something in the verses that was always there but never heard before now.

Getting Lucanis out of his sweats is simple, though he hesitates and blushes furiously. “We can stop whenever you want,” Vero promises, but he shakes his head.

“I don’t want to stop.”

Their jeans are another story – denim that needs to be slowly rolled down and wriggled out of, so tight their underwear just naturally go with it. The waistband leaves red marks on their skin, and Vero smiles when Lucanis moves down to kiss these.

“Can I?” he asks, as he nuzzles into their hip, his hand splayed across their stomach.

“You can do anything you want.”

“Show me how,” he says.

So Vero does. They guide him, pressing two of his fingers into their body, his thumb on that wet bud of nerves just above. Lucanis gasps like he is the one being touched this way. He presses kisses to the dark curls above their seam, pushes his fingers in deeper, embedded to the last knuckle.

“Like that,” Vero says. And Lucanis may be inexperienced, but he is good with his hands; Vero can watch him play for hours, his fingers moving deftly across the keys. It does not take him long to figure out how to play them the same way, responding to their moans like he’s following a melody.

And then – without warning, without asking, because Lucanis has always been able to riff on an idea or a tune or a progression – he shifts the angle of his hand and then his mouth is sealing over their clit, his beard scratching between their thighs. It is more enthusiastic than expert, but also nobody has done this for Vero in a long time, so they thread their hands in his hair and rock their hips up against his mouth and onto his fingers that have by now found the tempo of thrusting into them.

There are orgasms, and then there are orgasms. This one is perhaps not the most earth-shattering; they do not see stars or fireworks, their body does not arch up off the bed. It is more like a gentle wave that builds and builds and then crests. Their body tightens, like a string being pulled, and then loosens.

Lucanis pauses and pulls away. There is moisture smeared in the bristles of his beard, and his fingers are still inside them. “Was that –?”

“Yes,” Vero says, and pulls at his shoulder until he clambers back up the bed.

They kiss him, and he still tastes like coffee, but also the tang of something salty and the slightest bit sweet.

“Inside me now,” they tell him. Their muscles are still contracting in that steady pulse that happens after climax, and they want him to feel it.

This part does not last long. He settles on top of them, uses a trembling hand to align himself and then pushes in. Vero leans up to kiss him again as he does, their mouths sliding together in a messy, languorous embrace. They roll their hips, showing him the rhythm of it, the push and pull. They are both maybe a little stupid and uncoordinated, from Lucanis’s inexperience and Vero’s orgasm.

“You’re so – mierda,” Lucanis gasps. “You’re beautiful.”

It is maybe a minute, and then he is groaning against their neck as he releases. Vero holds him as he does, rocking in time with his last faltering thrusts.

“I’m sorry,” Lucanis murmurs after, his face still pressed against their shoulder. “That was – I didn’t mean to.”

Vero hugs him tightly against them, reveling in the feeling of sweat cooling on their skin. The warmth of his body. The feeling of him still inside them, softening. “You were perfect.”

“But I –”

“Perfect. I promise.”

“I just … I know you’ve been with – I mean … I just wanted it to be good for you, too.”

Vero pulls back, then, enough to let him slide from their body. Enough that they can look into the soft, dark depths of his eyes. “It was good, because it’s you. Because I wanted you. I still do.”

“Oh.”

“You’ll last longer next time. It’s like learning any new song. It takes practice.”

“Next time?”

“Yes.”

Vero is on their third beer (or maybe fourth?), settled on the end of the couch next to Teia. They’re feeling warm and loose, the way they always do when they smoke, watching the last lazy curls of haze dissipate into the air.

Rosa’s sprawled with her head in their lap, telling a story about her mysterious co-worker and a maybe-cursed artifact, though she keeps wandering down tangents about ancient myths and how some tragedies have happy endings after all. Vero listens to her raspy-rough voice, following the tune of it more than the actual words.

“It’s like this,” Rosa says. “It’s stories, you know. Like – there’s a thread there, and if you pull it, then maybe it comes unravelled or maybe it just becomes something new.”

Vero makes an agreeable noise, taking another swig of beer and combing the fingers of their other hand through Rosa’s hair. She spouts such beautiful nonsense, speaks so often in fragments of poetry. There’s meaning there, buried between the wandering words, though Vero is currently too stoned to make anything of it.

This thing between them is still only a few months old, new enough that Vero’s still feeling out what it means. But Rosa makes it hard to hesitate, always throwing herself headlong into things. These days she brings Vero along for the the ride, and they’re learning to embrace her particular brand of mayhem.

Lucanis left a little while ago, smiling and bending to kiss the top of their head. He’d said something about his sourdough starter, and Vero had let him go. Lucanis was like that – he could enjoy a party for a while, but when he was done, he was done, and he’d make some excuse and be on his way.

(They’re still figuring out how it works with the three of them, as Rosa careens in and out of their lives like a particularly chaotic comet. But that it works, so far, is the thing that matters most.)

It’s just as Rosa is sitting up, fumbling for Vero’s beer, that they see Viago heading for the side door. He’s not leaving, not yet, still holding a glass of wine as he steps outside. Next to them, Teia sighs.

Viago’s been keeping to the edges of the party all night, though it was maybe a small miracle that he’d come at all.

“I’ll go check on him,” Vero says, lifting themself off the couch. Rosa blinks up at them, and then her expression shifts into something sly. Teia looks amused, too, and Vero would really like to be less transparent, one of these days, less obvious in their affections.

“Both of you shut up,” they say, and make for the door.

“We said nothing,” Teia teases. “Nothing at all.”

Vero has done many stupid things in their life. It comes with the territory, growing up the way they did. This is probably not the stupidest, but top five, maybe. Top ten, at least. Stupider than joining the band in the first place. Stupider than having a stupid crush on the stupid bass player who doesn’t even like them.

But he had kissed them back, tasting like wine and smelling like the same mix of cigarette smoke and weed that clings to Vero’s clothes even now. And something under that – the faint underlying scents of coffee and anise. And he had been warm – warm and solid with his mouth on theirs and his knee between their thighs. And then he was gone.

They texted Rosa to tell her they were leaving, and she responded immediately.

he’s an idiot & also you left your jacket

It’s fine. They’ll get it later. Right now all they want is to be home, so they hailed a cab and now their keys are jingling in the lock. Inside, the apartment is dark and quiet. Lucanis must already be in bed. He’d left the party early. He should have been there, to stop Vero from doing stupid things. Not that he would have – Lucanis is a romantic at heart, and he would have encouraged it. Has been encouraging it. Stupid. They should know better, by now, than to listen to Lucanis when it comes to love.

Vero could go to their own room, but they already know that they won’t. They almost never do, now, since they've fallen back into familiar patterns. Instead, they toe off their boots and pad past the kitchen, past their own door, to the room at the end of the hall.. Lucanis doesn’t wake, sprawled across his mattress on his back, but his eyes slit open and flash violet as Vero struggles out of the excessively tight denim of their jeans. They keep their underwear and the old t-shirt they borrowed from his dresser this morning, not that Lucanis would care if they didn’t.

At the foot of the bed, the cat stretches out and then curls back into a comfortable position.

They prod at Lucanis's sleeping form. “Spite,” they say. “Move him over.”

He shifts, making room for them on the bed, and Vero crawls in beside him, tucking themself in along him. Lucanis – or Spite, it’s probably Spite – shifts onto his side and throws an arm over them, pulling them tighter against him. There’s that faint scent of ozone, petrichor, maybe something electric, familiar by now. “You’re sad,” he says.

“I think I just ruined everything,” Vero tells him, nuzzling in against his neck. There is something pricking behind their eyes, and they squeeze them shut as though that might stop the burn of tears.

Spite can be sweet, in his strange way, but is probably not the one to turn to for relationship advice. Even less so than Lucanis.

“You’re crying,” Spite says.

“I’m not. Go back to sleep.”

“I don’t sleep,” he reminds them.

“Just pretend,” Vero says, and Spite hums in that way he does when he thinks they’re being foolish, and cards his fingers – Lucanis’s fingers – through their hair.   

“So,” Lucanis says, leaning back against the counter in their kitchen. Their kitchen – it’s still strange to think about. It's been nearly six months since they came back (came home). Once again, they are so closely enmeshed that Vero sometimes isn’t sure where their individual lives begin and end. It works; it might not be entirely healthy, but it works. (Probably Vero’s therapist would have something to say about this, if Vero still had a therapist.) “Are you going to tell me what happened?”

Vero curls their hands around the cup of coffee that Lucanis has placed in front of them. They are still wearing his t-shirt from last night, legs bare as they sit on the stool. Lucanis is dressed – perfectly fitted jeans and a button-down shirt with its sleeves rolled up around his elbows. “Who says anything happened?”

“Well, I woke up with you in my bed wrapped around me like an octopus,” he says, “and that’s usually a sign.”

“Maybe I just wanted to say hello to Spite.”

Lucanis gives them a look that says he knows they are deflecting. Most people think Vero is hard to read. Too serious, it’s been said. Lucanis knows them too well for that. Vero sighs, leaning in to smell their coffee. They might be hungover, they think. Probably they drank too much. Not so much that they can blame their poor decisions on the alcohol, but too much nonetheless.

“Let me put this another way,” Lucanis says. “What did Viago do?”

Lucanis knows them far too well, and this is the proof.

“Nothing,” Vero says. “It wasn’t him. It was me.” They pause, considering how much they should confess. It’s Lucanis, though. By now he knows every secret, every story, every scar. There is nothing left they keep from each other anymore.

“I kissed him,” they finally admit.

“Finally,” Lucanis says.

“Yeah, well. He left.”

Lucanis hums. “Viago is …” he starts, then stops.

“He hates me.”

“He doesn’t hate you.”

“Do you know what he did?” Vero asks. It’s rhetorical. Lucanis does not know, because they have not yet told him. “I kissed him, and for one second, he kissed me back, and then he stopped, and he gave me his wine glass. And then he just walked away.”

“But he kissed you back,” Lucanis points out.

“I don’t think that’s the important part.”

“I do.”

Eventually, they end up back in bed, because … well, that’s how things work between them. Thankfully, Lucanis doesn’t share Viago’s particular brand of guilt. He is happy enough to let Vero snake a hand into his boxers, press their mouth so sweetly to his.  

This thing between them is a tangle. Love, certainly, but Vero’s brand of love is never straightforward. They come at things sideways, finding sex easier than romance. Lucanis is the opposite, and yet somehow this still works. They have built it gradually, over the last two years, finding mutual comfort in shared breaths and soft touches.

“You’re doing it again,” Lucanis says, his breath hitching as Vero strokes him. They are curled against his side, eyes half-closed as they work to give him this physical pleasure.

“Doing what?”

“Touching me because you want to touch him.” It is not the first time; it will not be the last. He can play surrogate, accepting this affection that is meant for a man too prickly, too repressed to accept it. It is negotiated between them now, this pattern.

“I'm sorry," Vero says softly, their hand stilling on his cock, and they look at each other in the soft light of the bedroom.

“I didn’t mean you had to stop,” Lucanis says, his voice husky.

“I love you,” Vero says, sudden and fierce, as they pull their hand away. “You’re … you’re everything to me. You know that, don’t you?”

Vero still doesn’t say it often. Mostly, they put it in texts. He will be going about his day, and his phone in his back pocket will buzz in the pattern of a heartbeat, and he will pull it out and Vero’s words will be there on his screen. I love you. I love you. I love you. He understands now, that the words don’t always come easily for them, not like this. They like things that are simple and precise, things that can be organized and put into boxes. This is not one of those things. But it works well enough. Friendship. Love. Who knows where one ends and the other begins. Lucanis often thinks it doesn’t matter. There is no need to categorize this warm feeling in his chest, to put a label on it. It is enough just to feel it.

“I do,” he agrees.

Vero slides out of their underwear, moving to straddle him. Their eyes now are sharp and focused, clear in a way they haven’t been all day. Lucanis understands immediately, because this is something that is only ever for them. This is the deal they have made.

“Yes?” Vero asks.

Lucanis nods, reaching between them to align himself to their entrance. Vero sinks down, and he moves his hands to their hips, under the soft fabric of their shirt – his shirt – guiding them as they rock against him. Their body is hot and wet and tight around him, and they stabilize themself with one hand on his chest as the other moves between their own legs.

“Lucanis,” Vero says, and he smiles at the sound of his own name, because it means they have forgotten Viago for now, focused instead on the pleasure of this joining, the way their bodies move together in a familiar rhythm of warmth and belonging.

Neither of them close their eyes, watching each other, and then Vero leans down to kiss him, their shirt (his shirt) pressing against his chest.

"Te quiero," Lucanis says. For a moment, the word hovers in the air then between them, and then Vero smiles and leans in to kiss him again.

Chapter Text

9:47

There isn’t much, at the end.

A second-hand suitcase packed with hand-me-downs. A battered shoebox full of things considered valuable: a birth certificate, some documents, a handful of photos, a stack of old ticket stubs, a silver lighter engraved with someone else's initials, a set of broken drumsticks. Everything Vero owns, acquired over the course of their eighteen years, and it doesn’t amount to much at all. 

They think, sometimes, about their earliest memories: lying in an unfamiliar bed, listening to water dripping from a leaking tap, the tick of a too-loud clock hung on the wall, the thump and rattle of an old washing machine somewhere downstairs. All the rooms they’ve stayed in seem to blend together, and what’s left are the sounds, a kind of steady rhythm that spans years. 

So this is an ending – an end of being shuffled around to different homes, being told go here and do this and you live here now. It also a beginning, the start of something, of being able to make their own choices.

And yet it doesn’t feel so much different at all. The shelter – they call it a transitional home, but it’s not much of a home, just an old hotel shabbily refurbished – isn’t much different than any group home. There’s still a curfew. There are still rules. There are still caseworkers with pads and pens who ask a lot of questions but never the right ones. Theoretically they are here by choice, but it is not as if they have anywhere else to go.

Still, Vero has learned the art to getting along in places like this. Stay quiet, keep your head down, don’t engage. It’s easy enough to be forgotten if you just stay out of the way.

Vero is used to being forgotten.

9:49

It’s the light in the kitchen that wakes them up, coming in where the door is cracked slightly open. Or maybe it’s the quiet hiss of the espresso machine. It doesn’t matter, really, but Vero is awake. 

They find Lucanis in the kitchen, sitting one of the stools at the kitchen island, drinking coffee. It is sometime past three in the morning. 

The coffee, on its own, is not unusual. He consumes an absurd amount of the stuff, often at odd hours. But there’s something in the set of his shoulders that bothers them – a tension that wasn’t there when they’d arrived home from the show.

“Lucanis?” they ask.

“Hey,” he says. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to wake you up.”

There are papers spread out on the counter in front of him. Not his usual homework – he graduated a week ago, so there will be no more of that. Vero recognizes the logo at the top of a piece of letterhead, the stylized raven that represents his grandmother’s company. His company.

“What’s all this?”

Lucanis shoves the documents away with a sigh, as though he can’t stand to look at it anymore. “It’s the paperwork for my trust,” he says.

They’ve talked about this, a little. It’s an exorbitant sum of money – Vero doesn’t know exactly how much, but more sovereigns than they can really conceive of. And it’s his now that he’s completed his degree. 

Vero pulls up a seat next to him at the counter, leaning over to examine one of the pages. “Have you signed it yet?"

He shakes his head. “No,” he says, and the word has a weight to it. “I just – I keep thinking about it. About what it means.”

Vero says nothing, waiting for him to continue.

“I sign this, and I go back to work, and – and I become everything I’m supposed to be, and –”

“And you don’t want it,” Vero says.

There’s a long moment of silence. Vero has long understood Lucanis’s mixed feelings about the  business – he’s not exactly a bleeding heart, isn’t overcome by guilt at how the family makes their money, but … Vero knows he wants more for himself than a corner office on the top floor. He’d been a junior executive there before leaving to complete his MBA, and the degree had been more or less an excuse to escape, at least for a couple years. That completing an advanced degree unlocked the trust a few years early was just a fringe benefit.

“No,” he says finally. “I don’t.”

“If you don’t want to do it,” they say, “then don’t.”

Lucanis gives a sharp, bitter laugh. “It’s not that simple.”

“Why not?” Vero pushes. 

“I’ve spent my whole life preparing for this,” he says. “It’s not something you just walk away from. My family. Their legacy.” He runs a hand through his hair. “Besides, nobody likes their job, right? Do you?”

This isn’t something they’ve talked about, not much. Lucanis has made it clear he did not object to how they made a living, and beyond that, there was not much to discuss. “Not really,” Vero says. “I don’t hate it, or anything. But no, I don’t love it.” They pause then, looking at him for a long moment. “But it’s different. I didn’t have choices. You do.”

They had become an escort because it was a path that was open to them, an eighteen-year-old ex-foster-kid with no real skills to speak of. They were good at the kind of compartmentalization the work required, and they didn’t mind doing it, but if there had been other options, better ones … 

“Choices,” Lucanis echoes.

“The money’s yours, right?” Vero asks. “You finished your degree. You can do anything you want. Make music. Cook. Anything.” They turn their chair towards him, and he meets their eyes, sees the seriousness there. “Lucanis, I – I can’t even imagine having that kind of freedom. Don’t throw it away.”

Lucanis looks at them for a long moment, his expression suddenly thoughtful. “You could,” he says, “if you wanted.”

“Could … what?"

“Have freedom. Choices.” His dark eyes are serious and warm, and there’s something hopeful there. “I could support us. You could quit. We both could.” 

“Lucanis …”

“I’m serious,” he insists.

“I know you are, but I don’t need you to save me. And you do so much already.” 

He has already given them a home, refused their offer to pay rent (he owns the building, so he says there is no need), asks for nothing in return. When Vero had come home to that eviction notice on their door, he had come as soon as they had called, and then he had said they could stay as long as they needed, until they got their feet under them. That was two months ago, and since then they have fallen into an easy routine of shared space. 

What he offers now – it is too much. Too permanent.

“I’m not … I’m not trying to save you,” he says, and his voice is gentle. Pleading, almost. “I just – you’re my best friend. And I want … I thought maybe … I don’t know.” He pauses again. “I thought maybe we could do it together, and … it would be easier. Maybe you could save me.”

Oh, Vero thinks. 

They knew this, of course. They’ve known each other for more than a year, and Vero has felt the attachment between them grow. But hearing him say it out loud is different.

“Okay,” they say.

“Okay?” They can see the hope in his expression. 

“Yes.” Vero gives a decisive nod. “I’ll quit,” they promise, “if you do too.”

Lucanis reaches once more for the papers, for a nearby pen. “I need someone to witness my signature,” he says. 

9:50

Illario likes to make comments. Just little digs at first. Vero thinks he could be funny, if he were less of an asshole. But Lucanis loves his cousin – doesn’t like him, maybe, but loves him – so Vero puts up with it. With the sarcastic comments about strays and sugar daddies, the innuendo and the veiled insults.

“Just ignore him,” Teia says. “He’ll get bored eventually.” 

Vero would like him to get bored a lot faster, but they never say much. They’ve put up with worse than some sarcastic rich kid who thinks he’s the gods’ gift with an electric guitar. And Lucanis wants them there, and Viago’s alright, mostly, even if he still calls them the merch kid half the time. He does it with a twinkle in his eye now sometimes, like they’re sharing a joke, and that’s not so bad.

It comes to a head after Illario lets himself into the apartment – because he has a key from long before Vero moved in – and finds them sleeping tangled together in Lucanis’s bed. After that, he starts calling them Lucanis’s teenage lover, and a few other, less complimentary things. 

It’s after rehearsal and they’re drinking beers in Viago’s garage. It’s probably too early for it on a Sunday morning, but that’s how these things sometimes go. Lucanis is in the house – making coffee, probably, knowing him – when Illario looks at them with that sharp, predatory glint in his eye.

“You know, when Lucanis is done with you, you could always make a career out of it,” he says, casually, like he’s talking about the weather outside. “I'm sure there are plenty of rich men who'd pay good money for someone with your experience. Maybe even Viago, if you can get him drunk enough.”

Vero’s fingers tighten on the neck of their bottle, and they feel the heat rise in their face. Illario doesn't know – can't possibly know – and Vero doesn't do that any more, hasn't for months. But ... 

“Illario,” Teia says, “what the fuck.”

“What? I’m just saying what everyone’s thinking,” Illario sneers. “I mean –” 

Vero isn’t entirely sure when Viago got out of his seat, except that then his gloved fist is colliding with Illario’s jaw and the other man is reeling backwards, tripping over one of the amp cords so that he lands on his ass on the cement floor. 

“Don’t you ever fucking talk that way about a member of this band,” Viago snarls. Vero has seen him annoyed before; irritation, in fact, sometimes seems to be his default state. But they’ve never seen him properly angry, all cold fury and storm-grey eyes as he shakes out his hand. “Get the fuck out.”

Illario scrambles to his feet, rubbing at his face where Viago hit him. “All this over some –”

Viago clearly isn’t interested in hearing the rest of that sentence. “Out, or I swear to the Maker I will break that stupid, overpriced guitar over your fucking head.”

“I think you should go,” Teia says, and Illario huffs a sigh, going over to put his guitar in his case.

Lucanis comes back with his coffee just as Illario opens the garage to step out onto the street. “Mierda,” he says. “What did he do now?” 

“Tell you later,” Teia promises.

Vero looks at them – Viago still absently rubbing his knuckles as Teia fetches ice from the chest freezer in the corner, Lucanis who stands in the door that leads to the house with an expression somewhere between bemused and befuddled.

“Please tell me you didn’t break your hand again,” Lucanis says, looking at Viago. 

He snorts. "I’m fine. I didn’t hit him that hard.”

Vero looks between them, and there is a tight feeling in their chest. “Vi,” they say, their voice soft, but the bassist just shakes his head. 

“Don’t,” he tells them. “It’s fine.”

“I think we might need a new guitarist,” Teia says, and Viago’s expression shifts to something – something Vero can’t quite place. Resigned, maybe.

“Yeah,” he says. “You’re probably right. I’ll make a call.” 

9:37

The Bastard.

Viago should be used to it by now: the whispers behind his back, the glances, the snide comments. He’s been at Collegia Velasco for nearly five years, after all, barely given the chance to pack his things after the funeral. He’s tolerated the way his things go missing only to reappear damaged and in strange places; quietly ignored the graffiti that sometimes appears on his door; made it through lonely summers haunting empty halls, one of the few students left on the expansive campus during holidays.

He is nearly seventeen, and he needs only survive two more years of this hell to graduate. 

Viago does his best to make himself invisible, just another awkward teenager in a dark blazer. As much as possible, he sticks to his dorm, though it’s less of a refuge since they’d placed him with a new roommate, the older of the two Dellamorte heirs. Other than that, he tries to make himself scarce, sticking to the library or the music room, or hiding out in the chemistry teacher’s classroom. Mr. Adan doesn’t much mind if he sits quietly at a desk, doing homework or writing music in the back pages of his notebook.

Viago’s fine with being alone – prefers it, even. He’s long since accepted that this is not a place where he will make friends, where the best he can hope for is simply to avoid notice as much as possible. But peaceful solitude is becoming harder and harder to find. Niccolò Silvan has a way of getting under his skin, and the taunts have been escalating since the new school year started. 

(“Enjoy your summer, Bastard? How was court? Oh wait – I forgot – you’re not welcome there.”

“Oh, terribly sorry, your Highness, I didn’t see you there.”

“How many bastards does your father have, anyway? Does he even remember you exist?”

“Your mom was the one who humiliated herself when he dumped her, right? The famous whore who got herself killed in that accident? At least she set herself apart, I guess. More than anyone can say about you.“

And so on, and so on.)

He should be used to it by now. He tells himself this as the anger mounts, a simmering rage that is slowly building into something he can no longer contain.

It’s after class, and Viago is heading back to the dorms when someone knocks the textbook from his hand. He looks up to see Niccolò standing with a group of his friends, smirking. The hallway is crowded with other students Viago recognizes – Lucanis stands near the water fountain, next to his cousin Illario. Everyone watches in silence, a stark reminder that (as usual) Viago is alone. 

“What’s the matter, Bastard?” Niccolò sneers. “Lost your royal composure?”

“Fuck off, Silvan,” Viago says.

He laughs. “Touchy, aren’t we? Guess I’d be pissed too if my mother spread her legs for a king and still died a nobody.”

Viago should pick up his book and leave. He should ignore the taunts, the way he always does. He should swallow it down, smother his anger, control it. 

He does not do these things. Instead, he curls his right hand into a fist, and before he is fully aware of what he is doing, he is smashing his knuckles into the side of Niccolò Silvan’s smug face. Bone cracks against bone, and pain lances through his hand almost immediately, searing and hot. But it’s too late to pull himself back, and his second punch collides with Niccolo’s mouth, teeth cutting his knuckles.

He is vaguely aware of someone shouting, someone swearing – he thinks maybe it’s him – and someone pulling at the collar of his jacket as he does it again, and again. His fist makes a wet sound with each strike, fresh agony shooting up up his arm. Somehow the pain feels like relief. He keeps punching until there is blood covering his hand, until suddenly he is being hauled to his feet. He doesn’t even remember ending up on the floor.

He is still spitting and snarling, even as his shattered hand drips crimson onto the tiled floor.

“Bastard,” Niccolò says again as blood and spit run from a split in his lip. Viago tries to lunge for him again but is dragged back by Lucanis and Illario; humiliating, really, that a pair of fourteen-year-olds can restrain him. Still, there’s satisfaction in seeing the damage he’s wrought. His tormentor’s face resembles raw meat, bruised and slick with blood. His nose is definitely crooked, and one of his eyes is swelling shut. 

(Later, they will both be taken to the infirmary, where the nurse will confirm that Viago has  shattered a bone in his wrist and broken Niccolò’s nose. It will be agony, as she splints the damaged hand, and he will again scream and swear. He will be transported to hospital, where they will admit him. He will require surgery and spend ten weeks in a cast. He will never go back to that school.

It will be worth it.)

Salle’s hospital doesn’t have a surgeon with the proper experience to repair his splintered scaphoid, so they load him up with painkillers (the good stuff, not just the ibuprofen the school infirmary had) and transfer him to Treviso. 

It’s maybe the strangest kind of homecoming. 

Viago honestly doesn’t mind the hospital. He’s there for five days, all told – two days before his surgery, and three after. It’s quiet; he watches television, and there’s a button he can push when his hand hurts too much and then everything goes warm and soft around the edges. 

They discharge him on the sixth day, though there’s no one there to get him. He’s got the bag the school packed for him – some clothes and basic toiletries, but not much else. It’s not entirely clear to anyone where he’s supposed to go from here.

“It’s fine,” he tells the nurse at the front desk as he fills out the discharge papers as best he can with his left hand, holding his cast against his chest. “I’ve got someone waiting for me at home.”

It’s a lie, of course. 

But she doesn’t argue, just gives him instructions for his follow-up appointments and sends him on his way. At least he’s in the right city; it’s easy enough to call a cab and go to the old house, to let himself with the key he’s kept for the past five years. It doesn’t feel much like home anymore, but it’s better than the dorms. 

Someone’s been keeping up with the yard work; Viago assumes one of his father’s retainers made sure the property was cared for. It’s not much – a three-bedroom ranch on a quiet suburban street, a perfect place to send a disgraced mistress to raise an unwanted son in semi-exile. It’s his, now, in any case.

Inside, it’s both how he remembers and not. He drops his bag next to the front door, closing it behind him, and inhales a deep breath. The old familiar smell of it – stale wine and his mother’s floral perfume – has long since been replaced by something musty and faintly antiseptic. The furniture is all the same, though it’s tidier than it ever was when he was twelve. There are no bottles or glasses left out on the coffee table, no unwashed laundry piled up.

He wonders at how the house feels somehow so much smaller than he remembers while also feeling so expansively empty, as though it has somehow simultaneously both shrunk and grown in the intervening years. He wanders through the rooms, turning on lights as he goes. His mother’s things are still in the main suite, though everything has been carefully tidied away. In his mind, he is already thinking of the things he will need to do: get boxes, to pack all this away; get groceries, because no doubt the cupboards are bare; sort through all these remnants of a life he had not known he was leaving behind.

His own bedroom is exactly as he left it – books neatly arranged on a shelf above a small desk, the bed carefully made. A small dresser is still full of his old clothes, all the things he couldn’t take with him. The walls are empty of any decoration aside from a calendar that hangs next to the desk, still turned to Firstfall 9:32. He remembers so precisely organizing this space, the only real control he had over anything in his life, and wonders at the twelve-year-old boy who did not hang a single poster or photograph. Even his dorm room wasn’t this bare.

The mattress sinks under him as he sits down on the bed. His wrist is aching again. He needs to get food, take his painkillers. He wonders if the place where they used to order pizza is still around, and pulls the phone from his pocket to check.

9:38

The courtroom is smaller and shabbier than Viago imagined it would be. 

Fluorescent lights flicker overhead. The judge’s bench is a long, raised desk against the far wall. She eyes him over her glasses.

Viago sits at one of the tables facing the judge’s dais. The second table is empty. There are only six of them in the room: the judge, a bailiff, the court reporter, Viago himself, and then Varric and Rosa seated on one of the wooden benches behind him. He is wearing a new suit, a welcome change from the blazer of his school uniform. It is black and carefully fitted, the tie tight at his throat. His hair, for once, is combed back from his face. He feels rather like a child playing dress-up, an irony that makes his skin prickle, given what he is here to do.

He resists the urge to tug self-consciously at his gloves. The leather covers the thick, red scar on the inside of his right wrist, where doctors had opened him up and inserted four pins to hold together his broken bone. 

“You’ve filed an application for emancipation,” the judge says. “Can you tell me why?”

“I’ve been on my own since I was twelve,” Viago says carefully. He glances down at his notes, not because he needs to remember what to say, but because it gives him a second to collect himself, to calm the waver in his voice. “This just makes it easier.”

“You were at boarding school,” she corrects. “That’s not quite the same.”

“Yes,” he agrees. “That’s true, Your Honour. But –” he swallows, tightens his hands into fists. His wrist aches, still, as it often does now. “But my mother is dead. And my father –” he hesitates, glancing back at the door. 

“Yes. I understand your situation is rather unique.” Her eyes soften somewhat. “This is a closed hearing. You can speak freely.”

He nods. “My father just wants me out of the way,” he says at last. He’s practiced these words, but saying them is still a struggle. He does his best to speak slowly, not to stumble. “For the last five years, decisions about my life have been made by his functionaries, not for my benefit, but for his. All I’m asking for is the ability to make my own choices, in my own best interest.”

“What are your plans for school?”

“I started doing classes by correspondence a couple months ago.”

“And work? How will you support yourself?”

“I’m looking for a job,” Viago says. “I couldn’t, before now – I broke my wrist. But I have the money from the life insurance to hold me over until I find something. And the house is paid for, so my bills are minimal.” 

She leafs through the papers in front of him, presumably the financial records that Varric had helped him pull together. “I see,” she says. “How did you hurt yourself, again?”

Viago had hoped she wouldn’t ask that. He had submitted his academic records, showing his grades, but no other school or medical files. He looks down at his hands on the desk. “I was in a fight,” he admits. It’s close enough to the truth. “At school. It’s why I won’t go back.”

“Do you make a habit of getting into fights, Mr. De Riva?”

“No, Your Honour.” He pauses. “I never hit anyone before. If that matters.”

She makes a thoughtful sound before turning her gaze behind him. “Mr. Tethras,” she says. “I see you’re supporting this young man’s application. You’ve known him for … four months, it says here.”

Viago turns to see Varric stand from the bench. He’s dressed more formally than Viago’s ever seen him, wearing a shirt that’s only slightly rumpled and even mostly buttoned up, along with a tweed blazer. Next to him, his niece sits on the bench, her mittened hands folded in her lap. For once, her face is clean – there are no smudges of dirt or star-shaped bandages. She gives him a quicksilver smile when he catches her eye – the elastic bands on her braces are still a rainbow. 

How strange, Viago thinks, to not be entirely alone. 

“Yes, Your Honour,” Varric says.

“That’s not very long.”

“Sure, maybe not,” Varric agrees, “but it’s long enough to know what kind of person he is. He’s a good kid. Responsible. Quite probably too serious, for someone his age.”

“And you’re personally willing to offer him guidance and support, if needed? That’s quite the commitment, for a neighbour you’ve only recently met.” 

“I wouldn’t be here if I wasn’t,” he says. “Besides, someone’s gotta do it. Kid hasn’t exactly lucked out in the family department up until now.”

Viago’s chest feels strange. His heart is beating too fast, his palms sweating in his gloves, and his tie is almost certainly too tight against his throat as he swallows. It is – not quite a promise, what Varric has said. But it’s – something. 

The judge nods again, her gaze shifting back to him. “Well, given that your father doesn’t appear to object, and that you seem to have something of a support network in place, I see no reason not to grant your request.” She gives him the faintest of smiles. “You are hereby emancipated, Mr. De Riva. I trust you’ll make the most of it.”

“Thank you, Your Honour,” Viago says stiffly. “I plan to.”

In the hallway, afterwards, Varric reaches up and claps him on the shoulder. “Congratulations, Sunshine,” he says. As usual, Viago grimaces at the nickname, but this time he doesn’t try to correct him. Almost immediately, Rosa latches onto his waist, tucking her face against his suit jacket. 

“Can we go now?” she asks, her voice muffled by the fabric. “That was boring and I’m hungry.”

Varric laughs. “How about celebratory pizza?” he suggests.

“Yeah,” Viago says. “Sure."

When he moves to follow Varric, Rosa doesn’t release him, but remains clinging to his jacket so that he has to awkwardly pull her along. “Get off,” he tells the twelve-year-old.

“Only if you hold my hand.”

“Fine,” he agrees. “Come on, if you’re so hungry.”

(There’s a photo of them from that day – Viago and Rosa, still in their court clothes, sitting at a formica table in the restaurant. Viago isn’t smiling, not really, because he never smiles in photos, but maybe there’s a slight softening at the corner of his mouth. Rosa is grinning, showing off her braces. There is a smudge of pizza sauce on her cheek. Viago keeps it stuck to his fridge with a magnet.)

9:45

Rosa is on his couch when he gets home from school; she’s wearing a pair of beat-up sneakers, their rubber toes heavily scuffed, and has clearly tracked dirt from the front door to her spot in the living room, where she sits strumming on an old acoustic guitar she’d picked up second-hand some months earlier.

“Aren’t you supposed to be in class?“ he asks, carefully removing his own shoes and placing them near the door. It’s a rhetorical question; he knows her schedule, knows she’s supposed to still be on campus. He’s had a long day, and his bag his full of homework that needs to be graded. He had been looking forward to having an hour alone to focus before her inevitable arrival. 

“No,” Rosa says, not looking up. There’s a notebook on the table in front of her, filled with mostly indecipherable handwriting. She leans forward, over the guitar, and makes a note.

“Rosa,” he says, a warning in his tone. “I know you have that ridiculous class about ancient bards, and it doesn’t end until four thirty.” He had not approved of her course selections this semester, or any semester, for that matter. She refused to do anything practical, agreeing to fulfill the basic requirements of her degree only after hours of nagging and arguments. 

“Got cancelled,” she says, and Viago suspects she is lying, or, if not lying exactly, then – then there’s some trick there that he can’t find yet. Absurdly, he imagines her pulling the fire alarm or something equally petty and juvenile.

He huffs a sigh as he steps fully into the living room. “Fine,” he says.

Rosa half-hums, half-sings under her breath as she strums chords on the guitar. This goes on for a few minutes, him hovering awkwardly in his own living room while she plays guitar on his couch, until finally she glances up at him, as though she is somehow just now fully registering his presence.

“I’m thinking about quitting,” she says at last, her hand stilling on the strings, “doing something else.”

“Absolutely not,” he says. “You have six months left in your degree.” This is not the first time they have had this conversation, and Viago already feels his ire rising, as though they are picking up the argument from the last time they had it. 

“It’s not actually up to you, you know,” she tells him, her tone conversational, as though she is not talking about throwing out the last three-and-a-bit years of work. 

“It’s not – ” he starts, stops. She does this just to infuriate him, he knows. She is constantly, constantly trying to get under his skin, like she thinks she belongs there, between muscle and sinew. “I never said it was.”

“Well, that’s good.” She starts playing again, though it’s not a song, not really, just random notes, plucked out, an inconsistent heartbeat almost, each one making him grit his teeth. “Since I already withdrew.”

He gapes at her. “You did what.” His voice comes out flat, entirely too controlled, though he can feel the blood rushing in his ears.

“I just told you. I dropped out. Did it all official style, even – signed the paperwork and everything.”  

“You – are you – what – Rosalie.” He doesn’t even know what to say to her about this. How to compute how furious he is, that she would do this – without thinking about it, without talking to him first, without giving him the opportunity to, yet again, talk her out of it. “Why?” he finally asks. 

She sets the guitar down, leaning back on the couch. Not for the first time, not for the last, he thinks how unfair it is that she can lounge this way, especially when he is so angry with her. Like his anger, his disappointment, mean nothing to her, as though they have no impact on her whatsoever. “Why does it matter?” she asks. “I felt like it.” Her tone is casual, dismissive.

He feels something snap inside him. “You felt like it?” he shouts at her. “You’re throwing away everything you’ve worked on, your future, because you felt like it?”

She rolls her eyes, all drama and derision, as though she is annoyed at him for interrupting her relaxation. Now she gets to her feet, draws herself up to her full height – not that there’s much of it – crossing her arms across her chest. Her jaw is set in that particular way she gets, radiating obstinacy.

“You did it – left your fancy-pants school, practically disappeared in the middle of the night,” she insists. “At least I didn’t punch anyone.” She sounds almost put out by this last thing, as though it would be better if she had.

“That was different!” he shouts at her, furious that she would throw that particular piece of his history in his face. “I had a plan – I got my GED, went to university, got a real job –”

“Sure,” she snarls, “a job teaching chemistry to kids who hate you nearly as much as you hate them, making yourself miserable. Some future. Tell me again how that’s supposed to be an inspiration, Vi.”

“Get out,” he tells her, forcing himself to stop shouting, to school his tone into something cold, gesturing at the door.

She rolls her eyes again, grabbing her guitar and her notebook and heading for the door. She wrenches it open and heads out onto the lawn. “Fine,” she says. Viago follows her onto the front steps, the cement cool beneath his socks.

“I can’t believe you’re doing this,” he tells her. “After everything I did to help you –”

“Because of course this is about you,” Rosa shouts back at him. She is halfway across the street, and Viago follows her as far as the sidewalk, trying to avoid the cracks and pebbles. He is even more furious that she has forced him into something so ridiculous, following her outside without his shoes. Because of course he has to follow her – of course even when she does exactly as she is told it is wrong.

“No, it’s about you – you and your pathological refusal to take even a single thing seriously, flitting from one thing to the next like nothing matters to you, like you can just float through life without consequences –”

“Right, because your life is going so great,” she sneers, spinning back to face him. The late afternoon sun catches her hair and turns it to fire. “Definitely the example to follow here, Vi.”

Next door, Mrs. Rosetti is on her porch watering her plants – or at least, she’s pretending to, though clearly she is watching their argument. It’s not a fight – they never actually fight, Viago thinks, because fights imply finality, and this is just the usual cycle of frustration and temporary retreat. 

Rosa finally reaches her front door, flinging it open. Of course she hadn’t locked it, because she cannot be trusted with even the bare minimum of self-preservation. 

She steps in and slams it behind her. Viago shoots their neighbour a look, feeling thoroughly stupid as he steps back towards his own house, to the kitchen where he will start making dinner for two. Rosa will be back, probably in less than twenty minutes, and either they will pick up where they left off, or they will pretend none of this has happened.

9:51

It is not unusual for Teia to break up with him. Viago has, in fact, quite lost track of how often it has happened. Their relationship has ended so many times by now that the endings feel like part of it, like the spaces between notes in a song. 

This time is, as usual, his fault. (Teia would argue it is always his fault.)

It has been percolating since Vero and Rosa got back from Kirkwall. They had called him, one night – all breathless giggles and giddy delight. It was the first time he had seen Vero laugh (genuinely, actually laugh) since before they left Lucanis’s loft. On the small screen of his phone, both their faces were flushed as they lounged in Rosa’s bed, interrupting each other as they attempted to regale him with the stories of their adventures. (He was not jealous, he told himself, not at all. Not that it was Rosa who finally made Vero laugh again, not that they had gone to Kirkwall to see Varric without him, and certainly not that they had nearly gotten themselves arrested.)

Afterwards, they had forgotten to hang up properly, and he had a view of room’s ceiling, and briefly heard the sound of them laughing and kissing before he jammed the button to end the call. (He was not jealous of that either.)

Rosa had texted him the next morning, asking to be picked up at the train station, so of course he had gone. Of course he had, and the pair had clambered into the back seat of his car and held hands the whole way back to Teia’s apartment. 

That had been bad enough, but there was a kind of comfort to knowing he had missed his chance. It was for the best, he thought, if Vero moved on.

But then two months had passed, and they had packed up the things they had accumulated in Teia’s spare room, and they had gone back to Lucanis. 

And now the three of them are … something. He does not know the details, because he refuses to ask. He can see something of the shape of it, though. Rosa and Lucanis both orbit around Vero while blushing furiously at each other. That they are edging closer, though, is obvious. And that makes it worse, somehow, that whatever their relationships are, they are apparently not exclusive. 

It is after practice, and the trio has left together, as they often do now. Teia watches him, her hands on her hips as he unplugs his bass from the amp with more force than is strictly necessary.

“You could just talk to them about it,” she suggests, using her most reasonable tone of voice. He hates it when she does that.

“Who?” He knows perfectly well what she means, but it is easier to pretend. 

“Vero,” she says. “Or Rosa. Or even Lucanis, if you want. Instead of letting it eat you up like this.”

“It’s not,” he insists.

“You could even talk to me, if you wanted,” Teia says, and her tone now is annoyed, “instead of shutting me out and sulking.”

“I’m not.” He picks up his bass and stalks into the house, Teia trailing behind him.

He is, of course, sulking. He has been for weeks. He has been unbearable to be around, for the most part, and not a particularly good boyfriend. He does this, sometimes – he is incapable of initiating a breakup, but he decides she deserves better, so he acts like an asshole until she gives up on him. 

“You’re being ridiculous,” she tells him, following him into the music room where he sets his bass in its stand. “What Vero and Rosa have –”

“Has nothing to do with me,” he says, turning back towards her. She is standing in the doorway now, blocking his exit. “I don’t care, except that maybe we’ve all had enough drama and this is just one more thing that could go wrong. Two more things, if you count Lucanis.” 

“Oh, so it’s about the band, now?” The arch of her eyebrow is a certain kind of incredulous. 

“Of course it is,” he says. “What else would it be about?”

“I don’t know, Viago, maybe the fact that you care about them – both of them – and you’re clearly hurt, or jealous –”

“I am not jealous.”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Teia finally snaps at him. “I have been as patient as I can with this, letting you figure your shit out, but I can’t keep doing this with you.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Just that if you’re so determined to be miserable, maybe I should just leave you to it.”

“Maybe you should,” he agrees. 

Teia gives him a withering look, one of those ones that says she knows exactly what he’s doing, pushing her away, but she’s too exhausted by it to fight him any longer. Even she has her limits.

“Fine,” she says. “I’ll see you around, Vi.” 

She turns from him then, and walks away. He hears the front door shut and lock behind her; she has her own key, which she will not return, even though she has just left him. Band practice will go on as it always does, as will their shows, and eventually they will find their way back to solid ground. Knowing that doesn’t make this moment feel any better.

He sinks down into the chair at his desk, and thinks, cazzo.

9:51 (five months earlier)

It’s good, Teia thinks, being back in Treviso. She usually enjoys Val Royeaux – the night life, the parties, the recreational drug use. She’s been getting more of these on-location shoots lately, and it means good things for her career, but this one had been bad timing. The worst, really.

She’d left the morning after their show, and had only gotten the text from Lucanis when the plane had landed, asking, has anyone heard from vero?

It was too late to turn around and go home, and so she spent her days trying to focus on the work, to ignore the sinking feeling as three days stretched on without any kind of word from their missing drummer. Lucanis barely explained what had happened, only that they’d had some kind of fight and Vero had left in the middle of the night, and had not returned the next morning. 

In the days that followed, Vero didn’t answer the group texts, or pick up their phone. Rosa had finally asked their boss, that Professor Dorian Pavus, if he knew anything. He’d admitted under some duress that Vero had asked for time off, but insisted he had no idea where they were. 

She wasn’t sleeping well, so she was awake when in the middle of the night after the third day, her phone buzzed with a text from Viago. I found them. I’ve got them. I’m taking them home.

She sat up in bed, scrambling to type a message back. lucanis’s?

No. They can stay with me until we figure something else out.

are you sure that’s a good idea?
and have you told lucanis?

There was a long pause before he texted back. 

It’s just for now, until you get back.
I told Rosa. She’s with him.

Rosa. Not Lucanis. She was perhaps not surprised that he was avoiding talking directly to their keyboardist; there was a tension between them lately, particularly where Vero was concerned. 

Now she’s home, or at least, almost there. They’d agreed that Vero would stay with her, until – well, she’s not entirely sure. She parks her violet convertible in front of Viago’s house, steps out onto the sidewalk. It’s a sunny spring day, and Teia lifts her heart-shaped sunglasses and tucks them into her hair. 

She has a key, but she knocks anyway. It’s Vero who answers the door, and oh – it breaks her heart a little to see them. They are wearing a dark, striped long-sleeved tee that she recognizes immediately as one of Viago’s sleeping shirts, and a pair of sweatpants she thinks might be his, too. Vero is almost always serious, but now their eyes look bruised from lack of sleep. They look smaller, somehow – maybe it’s the way the sleeves of Viago’s shirt are just a little too long for them, or maybe it’s the hunched posture of their shoulders.

Viago is in the living room behind them, looking even more tense than usual. 

“Hello, darlings,” Teia says, putting on her best smile. “I missed you both.”

“Hey, Teia,” Vero says, stepping out of the doorway to let her in. 

Teia wants to reach for Vero, to pull them into a hug, but she’s not sure that they’d welcome to the gesture. It might be a little bit too soon. She goes to Viago instead, who bends down to receive her kiss – though he hesitates briefly for a moment, his eyes flickering to Vero. 

“How was your flight?” he asks.

“Long,” she admits. “Don’t suppose you’d like to feed me?”

He glances again at Vero, who nods. “Sure,” he says. “Let’s order something.”

They order Thai – the red curry is Vero’s favourite – and eat at the kitchen table. Teia regales them with stories from her trip, and Vero even smiles a little while she describes some of the more absurd avant-garde outfits they’d put her in. Viago sees it, too, and she can sense his relief at the expression. She is filled with such sudden fondness for him, this prickly, sometimes infuriating man who tries so hard to hide the depths of his affection.

After dinner, Vero heads to the spare room to gather their things. Viago and Teia stay sitting at the dining room table.

“How are they?” she asks, keeping her voice low.

"Probably about how you’d expect,” he says. “I still only have bits of the story from Lucanis, but … it’s not great.”

“You talked to him?”

Viago nods. “I went to the loft to get them some clothes.” There’s something dark in his expression – anger, guilt, or something between the two. “He kicked them out, Teia.”

“He did what?” The words come out sharper than she intended. It’s not what Teia had expected. Lucanis’s devotion to Vero has always seemed so absolute. For him to –

“That’s why they left. Because he told them to.” He pauses briefly. “I still don’t know what the fight was about, exactly, but … I can guess.” He won’t quite meet her eye, glancing instead towards the hallway that leads to the guest room where Vero’s been staying.

“Oh, Vi,” she says softly, reaching for his gloved hand on the table. He lets her squeeze his fingers without flinching away from the touch. “It isn’t your fault.”

He clears his throat, pulling his hand away as Vero steps back into the room, a duffel bag slung over their shoulder. 

Teia smiles up at them. “Ready to go?” she asks.

Vero nods. “Yeah.”

The three of them head to the front door, where Vero sets down the bag while they pull on their boots. Their movements are slow, a little stiff, lacking their usual grace and precision. Viago hovers nearby, looking uncertain – like he wants to say something but isn’t sure how. 

Vero pauses after they put on their jacket, reaching into the pocket. “Your key,” they say, looking at Viago.

“Keep it.” There’s a downward tug at the corner of his mouth – something a little sad. Vero inhales sharply, then steps forward, their arms going around Viago’s waist.

Teia watches him freeze, the way he always does when someone touches him unexpectedly, and then – then, slowly, he relaxes, and he folds his arms around them. His cheek rests against Vero’s hair, his hands pressed flat over their back. They stand there like that for a few seconds longer than a hug should last, holding each at the edge of the entryway. 

Finally, Vero pulls away and Viago clears his throat again.

“Thank you,” Vero says, “for –”

“It was nothing,” Viago interrupts, unwilling, as always, to accept this kind of gratitude. But his eyes are soft. Teia wonders, not for the first time, if Vero understands the extent to which they’ve already slipped past his defenses. 

They both hesitate for another long moment, and then Viago says, “Text me when you get there,” and Vero nods, stooping to pick up their bag and heading for the car. 

Teia steps forward then, and Viago kisses her, smiles a little when she squeezes his gloved hand. She wishes they had more time – she missed him, while she was gone, and this is maybe not their usual reunion. “I’ll call you later,” she promises, and Viago nods.

She follows Vero out. 

9:51 (ten days earlier)

Vero thinks, afterwards, that they should have seen it coming. Not because there were warning signs, not because there was any kind of simmering tension or anything like that. But simply because they were comfortable, and comfortable is dangerous. They should know better. They used to know better.

It happens on a Saturday night. Sunday morning, technically. 

Lucanis and Vero are both exhausted but still vibrating with energy, in that particular place between post-show adrenaline rush and post-show crash, when they get back to the loft. It was a good show – the best in a while. One of those nights where everything feels magical. Even Viago had been feeling it, laying down basslines like he was on fire. He'd smiled at them over the top of their kit, and afterward he had squeezed Vero's shoulder as they walked offstage, still wearing his fingerless gloves instead of his full ones.

As soon as they get into the apartment, Vero backs Lucanis up against the kitchen counter and kisses him. He smiles into it, melting under their touch. They both smell like sweat and stale beer, that particular scent you always pick up onstage.

They kiss, and then Vero slides a hand down the front of Lucanis's jeans. 

"Wait," Lucanis says, reaching for their hand to stop them.

Vero waits, tilting their head and looking at him. 

Lucanis’s dark eyes search theirs. "Are you thinking about me right now, or him?"

He doesn't need to explain who he means. They both know.

"I don't know," Vero admits, dropping their gaze to avoid his eyes. "Both, maybe. You paid for dinner, again, and I wanted –"

"Mierda, Vero.” Lucanis pinches the bridge of his nose, and Vero tries to categorize the emotion they see in his expression. Disgust, they think. “That makes it worse."

Vero steps back, shoving their hands into the pockets of their shorts. They’re still wearing their show clothes, and with the heat between them dissipated, they feel suddenly cold. "I thought you didn't mind ... about Viago,” they say, their voice quiet.

(They had confessed their crush on the bassist more than a year ago, shortly after they’d joined the band. Lucanis had said he understood. He had kissed them, and asked them to talk to him, to tell him what it was about Viago they admired. He had brought them to orgasm, talking about Viago’s hands and his storm-grey eyes, until the knot of shame had come unwound in their gut.

But things have shifted since then; this distraction has become a habit, and they know it isn’t fair to him, how often they bring thoughts of another man into his bed.)

"I don't,” he says slowly. “Or ... I thought I didn't. I don't know."

The admission of uncertainty, of this possible jealousy, sends a rush of guilt through them. They have taken advantage of his understanding, his kindness. "Lucanis ..."

"Maybe, just once in a while, I'd like it, if when you fucked me it was about me,” he says at last. Somehow, he doesn’t sound angry, exactly, just – sad. Like he knows what he is asking for is too much, that it is more than they are capable of. “Not the guy you're half in love with, who's too emotionally repressed to do anything about it. Not because I showed you a basic level of decency. But maybe, just maybe, because I love you, and I'd like to think you love me, too."

Vero makes a strangled noise. "Don't," they plead.

"Don't what? Say I love you?” His voice rises slightly now, at being denied the affection, the emotional intimacy they know he craves. “Why not? Because I'm not him? Or because it makes this matter, and you'd be happier if I was just another client. Like you're –" He stops all of a sudden, before he can say the words.

"Like I'm what?" Vero pushes. They hear what he isn’t saying – it is expected. They know what they were. What they still are, maybe.

"I don't know,” Lucanis insists.

"Yes, you do. Say it.” They will give him the words, if he does not have them. “Like I'm still a whore. That's what you mean, isn't it?"

"No. But if that's how you see yourself, then maybe that says something.” And there it is - that hint of something ugly in his tone. “I don't want to be your john, Vero,” he says at last. “Or your replacement. Or whatever the fuck this is."

"What, you want to buy me flowers and take me to nice restaurants?" They have always shied away from the romantic, and it is cruel, to throw that in his face this way, but the hurt of what he had said – almost said, shied away from, but thought, maybe – pushes them to it.

"I don't know! Maybe!" He is shouting now, gesturing the way he does when his emotions are raw.

Vero makes their tone low and cruel. "Newsflash, Lucanis,” they tell him, “that's what a john does. It's just dress-up for the same basic transaction. At least I'm honest about it."

Lucanis just stares at them. When he speaks again, his voice is soft again. He says, "Get out."

And, oh. Vero has pushed too far. They stop, suddenly, the anger going out of them. "What?"

He looks away. "I can't – I can't do this right now,” he says. "I can't look at you right now. I need you to leave."

The words sit heavy between them for a long, quiet moment. Vero feels something being stripped away, as something fundamental between them shatters. They look at Lucanis, who will not meet their eyes, then at the loft where they have lived together for nearly two years. The art on the walls – a painting Vero had seen at an exhibit once, and loved, and that Lucanis had bought the next day without any regard to price. The framed setlist of their first show, hung next to old ticket stubs from concerts they’ve been to together. All this evidence of a life they have built.

“Okay," Vero says.

They take nothing with them – not a jacket, not their keys. All they have is their phone in their back pocket. They just leave, because – because they have been told to, when for the first time they did not expect it, had not seen it coming, and all they can think is that they need to go, to get out, to be anywhere but somewhere they are no longer wanted.

(It takes Lucanis only five minutes to realize what he has done, to follow them out onto the street, desperate to take back his words, but Vero is already gone.)