Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Gurney wakes before his alarm, and for the longest time he doesn’t know why. He’s certain that something must have disturbed him; it’s still early, the sun has yet to rise high enough to shine through his bedroom window, and these days he usually stays up late enough to sleep long into the morning.

He’s still dazed by the time his phone buzzes, and when he glances at the screen, he finally pieces together what woke him up. There are over twenty notifications from Instagram, all of them likes or comments from Paul, a minute at most between each one.

Gurney groans as he sits up in bed, blinking the sleep from his eyes, scratching at his beard, trying to clear his mind. He considers unlocking his phone and engaging with Paul right this moment, but on the other hand – if he has only now discovered Gurney’s account, he might want to explore it on his own, and chat about it during their next call.

After a moment of indecision, Gurney grabs his phone and gets out of bed, knowing full well that it would be useless to try and return to sleep at this point. He shrugs on a t-shirt and gym shorts, heading into the kitchen to make his first cup of coffee for the day.

Still. Even as he tries to distract himself with something that resembles a morning routine, his gaze keeps drifting to the phone, and despite how silly it makes him feel, he can’t keep from smiling. It certainly warms his heart seeing Paul appreciate his posts this much, and the thought that they’re currently awake at the same time, that Paul is – right this moment – scrolling through his photos and engaging with the life Gurney’s led these past few months; it all feels oddly intimate.

He’s just made his way to the living room and taken a seat on the couch when his phone starts vibrating with an incoming call. For a brief moment, he expects it to be Paul – impulsively reaching out despite the fact that their scheduled call isn’t planned for another couple of hours. Instead, when he looks at the screen, he finds Stilgar’s name there.

“Hello?” His voice is still raspy with sleep, and he clears his throat, sipping the too-hot coffee with the hope of not sounding like he’s still in bed.

“He’s an emotional one, your boy.” Stilgar’s cadence is dry as always, and he sounds far away, his voice drowned out by wind and static. It’s been a long time since they last met, but Gurney can easily imagine him in some chilly, snow-covered alley, going outside for a smoke, making a quick call while he has the privacy.

But except for the fact that Stilgar is calling him at all, the observation seems both nonsensical and worrying. As far as Gurney’s aware, the old jaeger doesn’t know about his and Paul’s relationship in the first place.

“Excuse me?”

Stilgar snorts at that, perfectly striking a balance of amusement and flippancy when he says; “Just had to deal with him weeping in the hotel lobby.”

Gurney does spill some of his coffee, only barely stopping himself from pouring the entire cup in his own lap. “What?”

“Something about a voice note? I don’t get these newfangled ways of communication.”

It’s not that Gurney was too drunk to remember what he said, it’s just – knowing that he said something that made Paul cry has him immediately trying to think back and go through everything he might have talked about during the almost twenty-minute note, and no matter how deeply he thinks about it, he can’t think of anything that should cause this reaction. “Stilgar, I’m sorry, let me get off this call and…”

“He claimed it was happy tears”, Stilgar muses, the flippant tone with which he has approached this conversation finally making sense. “Insisted, actually. In case you were wondering.”

Gurney tips his head back, just staring up at the ceiling and letting out a deep breath. The rising panic in his chest has stilled, but he’s still reeling from all of this. Paul crying, in the first place, but then – Stilgar, of all people, apparently not only comforting him, but also reaching out?

It’s a lot to take in, and Gurney has spilled more coffee on his gym shorts and thighs than he has had a chance to drink.

“He’s held up appearances well”, Stilgar continues, sounding thoughtful now. “I had no idea that this was your relation until now.  He’s spoken of you sparingly, but with a sort of… cadence. Finally makes sense.”

“Mmm.” And while Gurney knows that he should offer more – that it is sort of weird that he himself never took the initiative to have this conversation with Stilgar – he’s still caught by a sense of vertigo; still slowly grounding himself.

There’s a halt in the conversation, as Stilgar seems to pause to give him room to speak, and when Gurney ultimately offers nothing, there’s an affronted huff, and even after all this time, Gurney can easily envision the jaeger rolling his eyes, insulted that he has to be the emotionally mature one. “Homesickness is expected. Especially when it comes to matters of the heart.”

It's a surprisingly empathetic observation, and while they have spent many years apart, Gurney cannot help but wonder what experience this understanding might be rooted in. He also knows better than to pry.

“I don’t remember you ever saying these many words in a single conversation”, Gurney says, knowing there’s a small smile on his lips now – almost wistful.

“Some days I make exceptions.” Maybe Gurney is imagining it, but he’s pretty sure he can hear a smile in Stilgar’s voice. There’s a lingering silence though, and then, Stilgar clears his throat, his tone way more direct. “You could’ve told me he was yours. When you reached out.”

“He wasn’t”, Gurney starts, then catches himself, thinking back to the months they spent at the library; the reading sessions; the early breakfasts; the gleam in Paul’s eyes when he had stumbled across Chani’s exhibition. “Not at the time.”

“Hmmm.” Stilgar doesn’t sound convinced at all, but there’s no judgement to his tone either. It should feel ridiculous that Gurney’s still confident in how he interprets the many wordless hums of the man, but old habits die hard. “Well. He is now.”

It’s such a simple statement, and yet, considering how none of this has been simple in the past year, hearing it said like it’s a universal truth – water is wet, the earth orbits the sun, Paul and Gurney belong together – has a longing ache burn bright in Gurney’s chest. “Thanks for looking out for him.”

“Mmm.” Like always, Stilgar seems deeply uncomfortable having to face genuine gratitude, and Gurney isn’t at all surprised by the immediate change of topic. “He reminds me of you when you were young.”

Gurney huffs a laugh at that, and while the observation intrigues him, he’s not sure if he’s ready to find out exactly what Stilgar means by it. “Insane?”

Stilgar snorts, and it could be a laugh, but it’s always hard to tell with him.

“You were gonna call today?”

“Yeah”, and Gurney finds that he says it with hesitation, because after this conversation – knowing what he knows now – he’s not sure how he could have a casual chat with Paul without this taking centre stage.

“Good. He’s collecting himself, I think. Give him a bit. He should be fine to talk.”

Gurney just hums a reply, thanking Stilgar for taking the time to reach out, and then they say their goodbyes. Perhaps it shouldn’t surprise Gurney how easy it is to fall into something this companionable with Stilgar, but after all the decades they’ve spent apart, and considering how things ended between them, it catches him off-guard.

Fact of the matter is that once the call is over, he’s overcome with relief. Just knowing that Paul has someone in his corner – someone who looks out for him, and is much too blunt of a person not to reach out and speak frankly about things that should be complicated – will help him sleep better at night.

Now, he finds himself set adrift, though. There are several hours until he’s supposed to meet up with the band, and while Duncan never declines an impromptu gym session, Gurney’s muscles are still aching from the day before.

He’s not normally bad at finding things to do with his free time, but like this? Knowing that Paul is across the ocean from him, sat alone in some hotel lobby, trying to catch his breath after crying? Gurney won’t be able to focus on anything else until they’ve spoken.

He does make a valiant attempt, though, looking through his text messages, hoping that he can maybe indulge in some mind-numbing conversation. Duncan has dutifully sent him a series of funny images that Gurney can write all-too elaborate replies to (mostly because he knows that sending several paragraphs starting with, “well, actually the scorpion and the frog is a story that dates back to…” is bound to infuriate Duncan profusely, and that fury is always immensely entertaining), but the new message in the family group chat is from Leto, and the question “how should we celebrate old man Gurney’s 55^th birthday?”  followed by a series of emojis – among them a dollar with angel wings, a surf board, and multiple skulls – immediately brings him to a pause.

Gurney rarely thinks about his age, and he’s never been big on celebrating birthdays. At most, he’ll have dinner with family or friends, and every once in a while, he might begrudgingly allow someone to drag him along to a bar, a show, or something a bit more lively.

Like this, though?

It hits him that, not only is he aging, but maybe he’s at a point in his life when he wants to make the most of what he has, and this is something that won’t be possible, because the one person he would want to involve in a big birthday celebration won’t be here.

Gurney closes the message, and the last thing he does before putting his phone down is to connect to the speaker in his kitchen, and put on a playlist. Then heads over to the window. He doesn’t smoke every morning, but right now he would be hard pressed to think of anything else to do with himself.

The coffee is cooling, but still pleasant enough to drink, and the morning air is humid with dew, but still refreshing. He sits on the windowsill, taking a deep drag, and the day is quiet enough that he can hear the crackling embers burning through the tobacco. Birthdays and skulls, another day to waste – another long day’s journey into night.

Still. With Kate Bush singing about fear and yearning; and with the blue of dawn, and the early rays of sun creeping over the horizon; with bitter coffee lingering on his tongue, and smoke billowing from his lips, he thinks of the library stairs. He thinks of Paul, trying so hard to act casual that he might as well be a mannequin with those perfectly posed limbs. He thinks of hopeful, gleaming eyes and the breathless “so, I’m a special occasion?”

Gurney thinks that even if an ocean separates them, they are beneath the same skies, and the memories of what they shared are tactile; very much alive on his lips and against his fingertips.

He watches the sunrise, and he drinks his coffee, and through it all his heart won’t still even a little. When Paul calls him back, he lunges for the phone so quickly that the sheer speed and agility of the act makes him feel like he’s thirty again.

“Hi”, Paul sighs, and he doesn’t sound like he’s been crying at all. Or well; maybe he does. Maybe he sounds like he’s gotten something pent up and monumental off his chest, and like he’s softened – relaxed – with relief.

Gurney smiles, looking at the rising sun like he could hope to see a smile reflected there. “Good morning.”

Paul laughs, as if time difference is the height of humor, and the silence they fall into is easy. Gurney leans against the phone, as if being physically close to it is the same as being physically close to Paul, and he imagines that Paul does the same. That they both cling to what they have.

They speak for almost an hour, and by the time they’re done, it is bright outside. Paul ends the call by apologizing repeatedly that he’ll be off-grid for Gurney’s birthday, and Gurney reassures him that they’ll share plenty of birthdays in the future, besides; if they were together for this, it wouldn’t be a big event anyway.

The second they’ve ended the call, Gurney calls Duncan Idaho and asks if he wants to go for a run. Duncan grumbles that he’s hungover, that he would rather die, and then tells Gurney that he’ll head over shortly.

Thirty minutes later he’s knocking on the door, looking like death, and dressed in a dreadful combo of turquoise shorts, an orange tank top, and a pink headband. Annoyingly enough, Duncan keeps good pace with him despite the disadvantage, sprinting ahead of Gurney towards the end of their jog – looking like he’s escaped from a jazzercize video.

“Suck it, old man!” Duncan hollers – as if he isn’t about to keel over from overexerting himself – and any other day Gurney probably wouldn’t even have noticed the taunt. Now, though, it nestles in the back of his mind, lingering long after they’ve parted.

It is said that distance makes the heart grow fonder, and while that might be true, Gurney has found that distance makes his heart grow restless. He needs to channel his love and longing into something, and now, suddenly, he finds himself with over a dozen new songs.

The band hasn’t exactly decided what to do with the new music, since it’s almost two decades since they last released an album, but fact is that they suddenly have something new – something good – on their hands, and after weeks of polishing their work, Lanville shows up to the studio with a case of beer, insisting that they not only celebrate, but also make a game plan.

“How do you even release music these days?” Jason asks, straight-faced enough that it’s hard to tell if he’s joking or not.

“Through the internet”, Lanville deadpans, sipping his beer. “Though vinyl is apparently becoming popular again.”

Gurney listens to them argue for almost half an hour, sipping his beer while trying not to get a headache over suggestions like “releasing songs as NFTs just like Tom Morello” and “utilizing TikTok to reach a younger audience”.

“Why don’t we just go on tour?”

Apparently, his idea is completely out of left field, because the others fall silent and just stare at him.

“No, really”, Gurney looks around the room, and he’s not really used to feeling like the young and crazy one these days, but with the looks they’re giving him, now he certainly does. “We have the audience, Duncan can help us with the bookings, and we can see how people feel about the new stuff.”

“And then we sell it on the blockchain?” Jason asks, and judging by the crooked smile on his lips he’s just out to antagonize everyone at this point.

Lanville bristles, standing from his chair quick enough that it nearly falls over. “I will kill you, and no one will find the body.”

By the time Gurney leaves the studio hours later, he’s had to break up two brawls, and he has also agreed to plan a tour across both the US and Europe. The others have a lot going on with work and kids, but if nothing else, Gurney will have Lanville by his side for the entirety of the tour, and they’ll be able to recruit local talent as they go.

He texts Duncan, informing him that an old man is in desperate need of his input on what clubs and bars would suit an aged-out rocker such as himself, and then he shuts off notifications, knowing full well that Duncan is bound to start spamming him with suggestions immediately.

It’s been a while since he walked home – in recent months he has avoided being alone with his thoughts – but now the skies are clear and the night is dark, and he walks beneath light-polluted constellations, not really minding how lifeless the heavens seem, because he knows that the stars shine bright for Paul.

While he didn’t suggest the tour to distract himself, he still finds the thought of being back on the road energizing. At this point they can’t expect big crowds when playing, but the cult following will be there, and most of them will probably be Gurney’s age at this point.

He’s looking forward to the run-down bars and niche night clubs; to standing on stages that aren’t even elevated above the audience; to losing himself to the safety of a crowd sharing the same space – the same pulse – for as long as he’s playing.

Gurney has known Duncan Idaho for decades, and it shouldn’t surprise him that the first suggested tour plan starts in Portugal, only to climb north-east until it ends in Finland. Helsinki, to be precise. As far as Gurney can tell, Paul will still be over nine hours of travel by train and bus – and possibly snowmobile – from the location (because, of course, this is the first thing he looks into when handed the tour suggestion), and he will also be in the final stretch of his work. For now, they don’t know if his contract will be extended again, and well; Gurney would feel like he was interfering with Paul’s job if he asked him to prioritize a goddamn concert.

Even though this, on paper, should look like the perfect opportunity for a reunion, it might be anything but.

He decides not to mention this to Paul until they’ve actually finalized the tour dates, and even then; he’ll have to wait and see where Paul is at with his work. They’ve made it through almost two years apart – another couple of months will certainly be manageable, one way or the other.

A few days later, he wakes up to a text message. Once he’s glanced at the screen and realized it isn’t Paul, he’s intending to go back to sleep, except he actually ends up reading the contents of the message.

            “Happy birthday! Dinner reservations at seven. I’ll send you the address.”

It’s not an invitation as much as it’s an order, and Jessica has signed it with a single flower-emoji; Gurney squints at the screen, realizing that he’ll need his glasses to actually figure out if it’s a rose or a tulip – and he’s also painfully aware that he’s focusing on the flower, rather than the mix of surprise and worry he feels at the invitation.

            “Just the two of us?”

Her reply is immediate, like she’s been waiting for him to write back.

            “Yes. My dear husband is out of town, and Duncan is boring. We’ll do a proper celebration this weekend.”

Gurney manages not to write back that he doesn’t need multiple celebrations, and settles for admonishing her for calling Duncan boring. After all, if Idaho isn’t present – who will she argue with about action movies? Gurney certainly doesn’t know enough about the genre to replace Duncan.

Still. It’s clear that Jessica wants for this dinner to be just the two of them, and while it could be that she just wants to treat him to a nice meal and make sure he’s not alone on his birthday, Gurney has a feeling that there’s more to it.

After some light-hearted back and forth, she gives him the name of the restaurant – some French bistro that he’s never even heard of – and instructs him to dress “like a person”. Reading between the lines, Gurney assumes that this means that she will actually kill him if he shows up in one of his multicolored cardigans.

Now that he’s already awake, he figures that getting an early start to the day is as good of a birthday present as any.

He has the ingredients to make scones, and – still dazed from sleep – ends up not only making enough breakfast for two, but also brews a big pot of coffee. When the realization hits, he resolves to view this as “thinking ahead”, making enough for breakfast and lunch – as if he doesn’t know fully well that his traitor of a heart stubbornly continues to make meals that are big enough for company.

It's not hard to take his mind off things, though. He settles down with a book, sipping his coffee until it’s lukewarm and barely drinkable, enjoying the way the morning sun settles in his living room.

Gurney isn’t expecting gifts to be delivered to his door. The only time he’s ever been sent flowers or gift baskets have been for his “big birthdays”, or, on a few occasions, when Duncan and Leto have gotten drunk together and thought of “totally hilarious presents”; the gift basket full of penis shaped pasta forever haunting them – often held over Leto’s head by Jessica, as an example of why he shouldn’t be trusted with money.

Since Gurney isn’t expecting anything, the sound of a package being shoved through the letter slot and hitting the hallway floor has him jump out of his armchair, heart racing like he has caught someone actually tried to break into his home, rather than the daily mail simply being delivered. He makes his way to the door, and finds a scraped up, rectangular package – covered in stamps and a customs declaration.

All he needs is a single glance at the stamps, and then his dignity is pretty much the only thing keeping him from tearing the package open with his bare hands. He takes it into the kitchen, and gently cuts it open according to the instructions on the cardboard.

When he sees the contents, his heart drops.

Stuffed into the package, he finds the copy of “The Last Unicorn” that he gifted Paul over a year ago. The book has seen some wear and tear – especially from having been unceremoniously shoved into a package that is barely big enough to hold it – but it is without a doubt the very same copy.

While he’s telling himself that he shouldn’t read too much into this – that returning a gift isn’t necessarily the same as rejection – holding this memento that used to connect them, feels akin to a door being closed.

He lets out a shaky breath, holding the book in one hand, while flipping through the pages with the other.

That’s when he sees the annotations.

Tiny lettering, black and blue and grey; a collage of different pens, telling a story of their own; weeks, if not months, of thought put into the way Paul has read (and probably reread) the book. As Gurney starts going through the notes, he finds sentences and words underlined, accompanied by Paul’s observations.

            “The unicorn lived in a lilac wood, and she lived all alone.”

            Underlined, accompanied with the note “couldn’t make it past this during my first month here. The woods outside my cabin are beautiful, the ice reflecting the pastel skies, and I have never felt more alone”.

            “She hurried through her forest, trying to look at nothing and smell nothing, trying not to feel her earth beneath her cloven hooves. […] I must go quickly, she thought, and come back as soon as I can. Maybe I won’t have to go very far. But whether I find the others or not, I will come back very soon, as soon as I can.”

            A long paragraph, accompanied by only a few scribbled words; “the art of leaving something you love.”

Gurney isn’t sure how long he spends browsing through the book, tracing Paul’s scribbles with gentle fingertips. Some of the words press into the frail paper, almost tearing it, others are written with ink that bleeds, and some are scribbled with pencil, the thin lines of grey lead barely visible.

While it’s unclear if Paul’s intention was always to share this with him, this is clearly something he has spent a long time on, and the annotations are so intimate; chronicling his feelings at the moment, the parts of adventure and work that he craves, and the yearning in his heart.

Gurney forgets about lunch, and he’s so wrapped up in reading that he would have forgotten about his evening plans as well, had not his phone been buzzing insistently with incoming congratulations.

He’s about to put the book down and get ready, when he catches a glimpse of much larger writing on one of the first pages.

            “Happy birthday, Gurney. I got to read your annotated copy of Generation X – it feels about time that I return the favor.

            Love

            Paul”

The only thing he can think to do is to press the book to his chest in some mimic of an embrace. More than anything, he’s struck by how brave he finds this gift, because it’s so much more than something as simple as a love letter. It’s Paul openly sharing how he’s felt for months, if not the entire past year; it’s him allowing Gurney to see not only what’s important to him and what he treasures, but also his fears and doubts and anxiety. It’s him baring his highs and lows, and trusting that Gurney will not only accept, but appreciate, every part of him.

And god, of course Gurney appreciates all of Paul. Of course he treasures this gift more than any of his other possessions. He has spent a year writing and rewriting songs – trying to make sense of his feelings by putting his fingers to the strings of his bass guitar – and none of it has come close to capturing what this time has been like as effectively as what Paul has created here.

If he didn’t have dinner plans, he would sit down and write Paul a thank you-note this very instant, but alas; he has to search through his wardrobe for clothes that won’t have Jessica look at him like he’s a raccoon she’s found digging through the garbage. Not that he owns anything fancy – or French – enough for the place she’s taking him.

Still, he settles for a button-up, burgundy linen shirt, and pairs it with a pair of black denim pants. Both pieces of clothing are well worn, but at least the colors haven’t faded too much, and they still suit him well. After a quick shower he trims his beard, dabs on some cologne, and shrugs on the clothes – barely having the time to put on a belt and cufflinks before hurrying out the door.

Gurney thankfully arrives at the restaurant on time, not even having to convince Jessica that he’s fashionably late on purpose.

She’s early as always though, seated at a small table with a bottle of wine and glasses for the two of them. Her hair is drawn back into a tight ponytail, and she’s wearing a minimalist black dress that’s so simple in its design that it has to be ridiculously expensive.

“I took the liberty to order for us”, she says in lieu of greeting, those cool blue eyes locked on Gurney with a sharp focus. “Like any modern place they serve small dishes to share. I got us the ones that are edible.”

“So, no oysters?” Gurney asks, and it’s only partly a joke.

“Only oysters”, Jessica says dryly as she pours him a generous serving of the red wine, and like always, she has enough of a poker face that it’s impossible to tell if she’s actually being serious.

Like any day hanging out with family, it’s relaxed, and like any time hanging out with Jessica, there’s an undercurrent that leaves him on edge. Gurney can’t remember the last time they spent time together, just the two of them, and he sort of wonders if she’ll have him disappeared by the end of the night – birthday be damned.

“Happy birthday!” Jessica offers, raising her glass in a toast.

They clink their glasses together, and Gurney finds the wine earthy, tannic. Certainly not something that he himself would order, but this is why he appreciates Jessica; she has a tendency of getting him to try new things, whether he likes it or not.

“Have you done anything fun on your big day?”

Gurney huffs a laugh, throwing a glance around the room, trying to scope out what kind of food that they will actually be served.

“Not really. Paul sent me a really wonderful gift, and I ended up spending most of my day at home.”

She raises an eyebrow, and it’s all performance, because she doesn’t seem surprised at all. “Oh?”

“I gifted him a book for his trip, back when he left. He sent it back to me, full of annotations”, and Gurney falls silent, because just speaking about it has him smile, and he knows all too well that he’s incapable of keeping his feelings hidden. The whirlwind of emotions that he’s felt today are bound to already show in his eyes, in the way he holds himself, and he’s unsure of how much of this would be appropriate to share with Jessica.

Not that she gives anything away in return. She simply watches him with a mild expression, and when she leans forward it’s with slow, calculated movements, until her elbows are on the table, and she’s resting her chin on both hands.

“You wear it well.”

He cannot help but to sigh, because whatever comes next, it is bound to be a dig at his outfit – or another myriad of things that he deserves to be teased for. “I wear what well?”

“Being in a relationship with someone my son’s age.”

Gurney doesn’t know what to do with that, so he sips his wine, not putting his glass down for quite some time, while trying to figure out what to say.

There’s a smile curving her lips now, genuine, teasing; but at least she doesn’t look judgemental; at least she seems to be enjoying herself. “No, really. Had you asked my opinion a year or two ago, I’m not sure what I would have said.”

“Well,” Gurney pauses, weighing his words carefully. “Had you told me a few years ago that I would be here, I’m not sure I’d believe you.”

She smiles brightly, but her gaze is sharp, calculating. In a way, she doesn’t have to speak for him to know what is going through her mind – a lot of it is written in her eyes, and she’s allowing him close enough to read it.

Still. While it feels like they’re sharing a secret, it also feels like she is much more in the know to what the secret actually entails.

“I’ve had many thoughts about the two of you, but I refrained from sharing them before I knew my own feelings on the matter.” When Jessica falls silent, she tilts her head slowly, studying him for a moment. “Though, I knew early on that you would have to be uncharacteristically careless and cruel to him, in order for me to interfere.”

Before he has a chance to reply, a server approached their table with a large silver tray, and Gurney is immensely grateful to be interrupted. For the next couple of minutes, a myriad of small plates is placed in front of them, and they’re walked through every single dish; pâté with Dijon mustard and bread, tarte flambé, something-something langoustine, and a dozen other dishes that Gurney doesn’t have a chance to memorize.

By the time the waiter wishes them “bon appétit” and leaves them to enjoy the food, the tension from before has dissolved somewhat. Jessica is still watching Gurney though, and there’s a sharp focus on those blue eyes – softened somewhat by the wry smile on her lips.

“You’re one of the reasons I gave Leto a chance back in the day, you know?”

For a while, Gurney just finds himself staring at her, and then he huffs a laugh, unsure of how to voice his surprise. “I had no idea. As far as I remember, we barely spoke back then.”

“Exactly.” This time, she smiles wide enough to show teeth, and despite her comment, there’s not a hint of sarcasm in her tone. “Leto was all about big words and gestures, and Duncan would have supported him in anything. Had he wanted to jump into a volcano to impress me, that big buffoon would have jumped with him. You didn’t interfere at all. You didn’t look at me like I was a prize for your friend to win. Only when I, out of the kindness of my heart, decided to give Leto a chance, did you approach me, and when you did, you treated me like I was family.”

Gurney’s smiling despite himself, because honestly; he had no idea she actually paid attention to his actions back in the day. Hell; he’s not even sure he actually put much thought into what he did and how he acted.

But, the fact that he’s part of such a fond memory, and seen as a person capable of care and gentleness – even back when he dressed in atrocious amounts of black denim and leather, and the scars on his face, his arms, had yet to heal and fade – is all sort of overwhelming.

“I’m glad to hear that”, he offers, belatedly, realizing that he’s been quiet for some time.

Jessica raises her glass in another toast, and only after the both of them have drunk from the wine does she continue.

“We are very different, but I think we may love in similar ways.” When she pauses this time, it doesn’t seem performative at all. She averts her gaze, narrowing her eyes in thought, before she continues. “You know better than anyone that the life Leto and I have found is far from conventional. When I think about what you have with Paul, I’m surprised by how much I relate to your situation, and I want you to know that you have my blessing. I wish the two of you all the luck in the world.”

A thousand things are rushing through his mind, and not a single of them seems enough for this moment. More than anything, the thing at the front of Gurney’s mind is that this is the best gift she could have ever given him.

“I don’t know what to say.”

The smile she offers him now definitely has a sarcastic edge to it. “You could thank me.”

Gurney chuckles, shaking his head, lowering his gaze to the abundance of food, before finally looking up at her again. “Thank you.”

Jessica bows her head, and while the graciousness feels performative to some extent, there’s a layer to it – the fact that she even puts on a performance at all – that feels genuine. She reaches for one of the plates, serving herself some bread and pâté, but before digging in she looks at him.

“I’m sorry I missed when your band played last time. Duncan’s videos were awful. The audio didn’t do you justice – I think he blocked the microphone with his thumb.”

At this point it’s been a long day of Duncan slander, and Gurney will absolutely let Duncan know – so that he can start planning his revenge. “We would have loved to have you there. Maybe Leto would have stuck out until the end of the show.”

“Lucky for you, I have business in Italy. I will catch you there when you go on tour.”

“Oh? What business?” Gurney raises both eyebrows, and maybe he’s trying too hard to come across as harmlessly curious, but fact is that he still doesn’t know what exactly Jessica does. It’s been decades; she might have switched careers several times by this point, but even if that’s the case, she has managed to keep each and every new job as secret as the previous ones.

She gives him a wide, but close-mouthed, smile. “Work.”

“Ah”, he says, reaching for one of the plates, because they really have to start making their way through all of this, or he’ll feel like they’ve wasted the food. “Of course. Work.”

A month later, after he has packed up his life and set out on the road, Gurney does indeed find Jessica in the audience of their show in Rome.

It’s a fairly small locale, located in the basement of a bar in the Monti district. The structure of the house itself has to be hundreds of years old, and Gurney can’t help but to wonder how many people have passed through here; how much laughter and singing and spilled wine has seeped into the foundation of the house.

In a sea of people dressed in band-tees and denim, Jessica shows up with five women in tow, all of them looking much too fashionable for the establishment. Despite the rowdy crowd, they stick around through the entirety of the show, looking uncannily ethereal as they navigate from the front of the stage to the bar and back, balancing their wine without spilling even once – as if they work with circus performance and not… whatever it is that Jessica does for a living.

Most of the night, Gurney is caught in the music, but every now and then, he searches through the crowd for that cool gaze, and towards the end of the night, Jessica is especially easy to find; she’s illuminated by the screen of her phone, somehow managing to make a call despite the shitty reception (and the people singing along to the songs).

“I face-timed Paul”, she tells him after the show, her voice flat, but her eyes gleaming with amusement. “He said you looked very attractive.”

Gurney chokes on his beer, and while he’s busy coughing, Lanville happily joins the conversation.

“Gurney really has a Chris Wolstenholme-vibe when he’s on stage, doesn’t he?”

For many, many drawn-out seconds, Jessica stares at him, unblinking. “I don’t know who that is, but sure.”

Gurney, having finally recovered from the coughing fit, interrupts the two of them, offering Jessica a quick hug. “Thanks for coming by. And for bringing your friends.”

“They’re not friends”, she replies, but she squeezes him tightly before taking a few steps back. “They are people on which I needed to impress the fact that I am familiar with the music industry.”

Gurney turns to Lanville at that, hoping perhaps for some more trivia to derail the conversation, but it turns out that the drummer has made his escape to the bar, leaving Gurney to fend for himself.

“Ah”, he says, completely out of his depth.

“Don’t worry, they were impressed”, and Jessica’s smiling now, looking quite pleased at having made him squirm. “Let me buy you a glass of something nice – and maybe some food?”

And well, Gurney had planned to hightail it back to his hotel room, hoping to relax after an intense couple of days – and maybe getting enough time to sit down and write to Paul.

While they have been in similar time zones during these past few weeks, Paul’s reception is as bad as always, so Gurney has found a new pastime in writing him long e-mails that chronicle his travels. Often, he includes photos, and puts a lot of thought into recounting any entertaining conversations or funny events, almost like a diary, except the contents are tailored for Paul to read them.

But, before he has mentioned any of this, Jessica is already waving at the bartender, her Italian practically fluent. He’s not exactly following what’s happening, but Gurney does manage to pick out “vino” and “prosciutto”, and he accepts that he’ll be here for another couple of hours, at least.

If nothing else, enjoying a few more hours of the roman night-life should offer him plenty of anecdotes for his next e-mail.

A few weeks later, they have made it all the way to the Netherlands, and Gurney and Paul have managed to have exactly one phone call.

The radio silence is getting troublesome, and not only because Gurney misses the sound of Paul’s voice; he technically hasn’t told Paul that the tour will take them to Finland, and the more time that passes, the harder he finds it to bring up the topic.

It’s not that he doesn’t want Paul to attend, god; he wants that more than anything. It’s just – as far as he knows – Paul only has a few months left on his contract. They’re in the midst of wrapping nearly two years of work, and it would be insanity for Gurney to intrude on that, and ask that Paul travels nearly ten hours to meet up in the basement of some bar.

Ultimately, this isn’t something he just wants to send a text about, or add as a “P.S.” to their correspondence. He wants to tell Paul in person, so that they can talk through the options – and so that Gurney, maybe, can talk Paul out of being impulsive.

So, since they won’t have a call anytime soon, Gurney instead rents a bike and explores Amsterdam. He snaps some photos of the labyrinthian canals, stops at a café and tries some sparkling ice tea that is equal parts horrifying and intriguing, and eventually finds himself sitting by some docks, overlooking a multitude of cruise and cargo ships; anything to take his mind off things. Anything not to question why this is the route he has taken. Anything not to feel like a coward.

By the time they reach Berlin, at least Duncan meets up with them and offers some proper distraction.

“Look at you, big-dick rockstar!” Duncan greets Gurney, pulling him in for a bearhug and nearly squeezing the life out of him in the process.

They’re meeting at a café across from the venue where the band will be playing later in the evening, and fortunately the place is so busy that Duncan’s comment barely draws any attention.

“How the hell have you been?”

Gurney waves a hand in some vague gesture, but try as he may to be coy, he can’t hide the smile on his lips – can’t contain that he hasn’t felt this alive in a long time. “Oh, you know, playing some gigs, signing some merch.”

Duncan waggles his eyebrows. “And have you signed any boobs?”

Gurney actually recoils at the question, which only has Duncan burst out laughing, looking mightily pleased with himself – looking like this is the reaction he was fishing for.

“Anyway, Jessica said you guys were fantastic live.”

Maybe he shouldn’t be surprised at the compliment, but it still catches him off guard. “She caught us on a really good night.”

“Don’t try and be all humble dude, you know you guys are ace at this shit.”

Gurney snorts a laugh, shaking his head. “Fine – we are golden gods. The last vestige of alt rock. That better?”

“Much better”, Duncan says, grinning. “Also, I’m taking you out after the show tonight. Just so you know.”

Gurney doesn’t need details – he knows all too well what Duncan’s plans are.

“Not sure if that’s a great idea. We’re playing quite late. You’ll have a grumpy old man on your hands if you try and drag me around town after that.”

“Hey now”, and Duncan sounds straight up offended, pointing a finger at Gurney while narrowing his eyes. “If you can stay up until 3AM drinking with Jessica, you can go clubbing with me. I don’t approve of you playing favorites, Halleck.”

Gurney raises an eyebrow at him, huffing a disbelieving laugh. “I’m not playing favorites.”

“Good. I’ll pick you up at the venue, and don’t worry, I’m bringing gear.”

The comment gives Gurney pause, and they sit in silence for a moment, as he looks at Duncan and waits him out, waits for him to laugh, except – Duncan doesn’t. “Is this why we’re playing in Berlin? Did you plan this from the beginning?”

Duncan leans across the table and pats Gurney’s shoulder, still grinning. “Sure did, old man. And don’t worry, I’ll be kinky enough for the both of us. I only brought enough stuff for you to fit in.”

Clearly, there’s no point in arguing with him, and thing is; Gurney isn’t sure that he actually wants to. While he can act all reluctant and give lectures about “age-appropriate hobbies”, there is a part of him that wants nothing more than to let Duncan take charge – most likely getting them into heaps of trouble before the night is over.

So, in the evening they play their show, and despite the fact that it’s been at least a decade since Gurney had plans like these, there’s a certain nervous anticipation throughout the entire set. He’s not sure if the energy has him play better or worse than normal, but it sure helps him lose himself to the music; helps him fall into the heat and the pulse of the room, a world of their own making, woven by the synergy of the band.

When they wrap up and start packing up the equipment, Duncan Idaho makes his way through the crowd, wearing a pair of leather pants that leave nothing to the imagination, and while he at least has enough decency to have shrugged on a flannel shirt, it barely conceals the harness he’s wearing underneath.

“You ready?” he bellows, catching the attention of not only Gurney and the band, but also any other person in their near vicinity.

Lanville looks between Duncan and Gurney, eyebrows raised. “Really?”

Gurney shakes his head, and then goes to meet Duncan. “Don’t ask.”

At least they have access to a room backstage where he can change; if he actually would have had to change clothes in the bathroom of the club, Gurney probably would have had an actual existential crisis.

Duncan has apparently raided Gurney’s apartment in anticipation of this, because the pants and arm garters that he supplies Gurney with are definitely from his wardrobe. Maybe he should reconsider having given Duncan the spare key, but – maybe this is what friends are for.

He shimmies into the leather pants, pulls on a black, cotton tank top, and then straps the arm garters over his biceps. Ridiculous as it may be, the outfit carries a nostalgic sense of coming home.

Gurney doesn’t have to ask where they’re going; the club has been around since they were young, and will probably be here long after they’re gone; the sort of home-away-from-home that is present all over the world, if you know where to search for it.

It brings him back to decades before; the years of being utterly alone; the years of self-destruction and pain that seemed insurmountable. He didn’t think there was a place where he would ever belong, and he had no idea who to ask for help, or where to turn for direction. Then, one day, Leto Atreides appeared, and decided they would be friends.

While people make connections like these all of the time, Gurney is sometimes still taken aback by how fundamentally his life changed from that moment on.

Through Leto he found Duncan, and while the two of them were busy prowling the scene looking for hook-ups, Gurney tagged along, finding community along the way. It’s not like he has fit into this world seamlessly, but it sure has worked out better than most other things he has pursued in the hope of relieving his loneliness.

And now, almost thirty years later, here they are; even when they’re spart, spread across the world, the family they’ve built is strong as ever.

It seems that no matter where they go, there will always be a piece of home waiting for them.

Sometime during the night, Duncan snaps a blurry selfie of the two of them, posting it to his instagram with a cheesy caption along the lines of “for old time’s sake”. Gurney isn’t particularly invested in the post nor it’s reception, but of course, this doesn’t stop Duncan from relaying the reactions to the photo in real time.

Within minutes, Leto has commented an incensed “how dare you!! without me??”, followed by a series of emojis, and within an hour, Paul has responded to Leto’s comment with a series of bewildered question marks. At that point, Duncan vows to put his phone down, and the both of them play rock-paper-scissors over who will “have the talk” with Paul in the morning. Duncan loses, and grumbles over it for all of five minutes, the both of them knowing that he is sure to forget about the talk by dawn.

Truly, this tour has had Gurney fall into a life – and tap into an energy – that he hasn’t experienced in years, if not decades.

A month ago, his birthday had him feeling like many doors in life were closing at a rapid pace, like the world was filled of things he still wanted to do, and they were all out of his reach. Now he walks back to his hotel early in the morning, in a city he has known since he was young, and it’s like no time as passed at all; like the world is still full of opportunity.

The skies are bright blue and hazy, blushing with pastel pinks. The streets are painted rose gold by the rising sun, and Gurney’s so exhausted that he feels lightheaded, and still, he slows down his walk to linger and feel the soft warmth on his skin – to bask in something as simple as the beginning of a brand-new day.

He’s settling in for only a couple of hours of sleep, knowing that he’ll feel like crap by the time the tour bus comes around to pick them up at noon, and still; there’s not a thing about this night that he’d change, and there’s not a moment on tour that he’ll look back on with regret.

Even hours later, when he’s curled up in a worn-down seat, his jacket bunched up against the bus window as a makeshift pillow, the bus itself hurtling down the autobahn at – what feels like – the speed of light, well; he’s dazed and carsick and grumpy, but he also carries a newfound contentment in his chest that softens everything – mellows it out.

His phone starts buzzing sometime in the late afternoon, and Gurney’s caught somewhere between lazily looking out the window and actually sleeping – his voice still rough from the Berlin misadventures when he finally picks up.

“Stilgar – what’s up?”

There’s a brief pause that could be blamed on a technical delay, but knowing Stilgar, the mounting quiet is definitely intentional. “Saw you visiting our old haunts.”

Gurney blinks a couple of times, as if the physical act will help him take in the information. “I didn’t know you had social media… do you follow me?”

“No. I don’t have a phone. Your boy showed me.”

And well, while Gurney is certainly tempted to ask how Stilgar is calling him when he claims to not have a phone, he also knows to let sleeping dogs lie. “Duncan dragged me along. When in Berlin, and all that.”

“Mmm.” Stilgar falls silent, and Gurney is sort of surprised to find that he still knows him well enough to know that he’s not done speaking. “I’m surprised you haven’t come here for him.”

It’s not said with any accusation, but, well – there’s no need to, when this is exactly what Gurney has spent the past month debating with himself. “I don’t want to interfere with his work – not when there’s such little time left.”

“Hmmm.”

This time, Stilgar’s silence is clearly a strategy to wait him out, and Gurney sighs deeply, pinching the bridge of his nose with his thumb and index finger. “I am coming to the Nordics soon though. With the band.”

“Finland?”

“Helsinki.”

“Mhm.” Stilgar draws the hum out, thinking, and then, either because he still knows Gurney well, or because he knows that Paul would have mentioned this if he knew; “Will you tell him you’re coming through here?”

Gurney leans back in his seat, and this isn’t at all an interrogation, but he’s caught enough in his own head that it sure feels like it. “Should I? It’s quite a journey from where you are, and with everything going on I didn’t feel like I should… distract from all of that.”

Stilgar makes a noncommittal noise, and then he falls silent for such a long time that Gurney actually thinks he might have ended the call. When Stilgar finally speaks again, it’s slow, drawn-out, like he’s still caught in thought. “You might be right. I will talk to him. Maybe easier if I mention it, since I know our schedule.”

When Gurney lets out a deep breath, he is surprised to find how deeply relieved he is. “Thank you.”

The reception is bad, and maybe he’s imagining things, but it actually sounds like Stilgar breathes a laugh.

“What are old friends for?”

Maybe it’s a coward’s way out, to allow Stilgar to have the conversation with Paul, but well; at least it’s better than not mentioning it at all. It’s better than Paul finding out belatedly that they have passed through Finland, or Gurney telling him the day of. But for goodness’ sake, the travel alone is a full-day endeavour; Paul would end up sacrificing multiple days just to visit the show when he could be out there, saving the world. In the grand scheme of things, this is clearly the better option.

They’re only in Denmark for one show, but they stay in Copenhagen for a couple of days, Lanville taking the chance to visit family. Thus, Gurney is left to his own devices, wasting the days in a city where the sun never quite seems to fully set.

On the first day, Jason and Oscar drag him along on a bike trip along the coast line. While Gurney is the most reluctant to go, he also ends up being the one most comfortable actually biking, and soon enough – as the other two manage to crash an embarrassing number of times – they give up on the adventure, stopping at the first restaurant they come across, settling in for an afternoon of smørrebrød and beer.

On the second day, Gurney sneaks out of the hotel at an early hour, needing some time to himself. He spends a few hours walking around town, at first intending to maybe look for a gift to send Paul, but quite quickly changing his mind. Instead, he finds a nice café by the waterfront, going through his photos and slowly composing a new e-mail. The afternoon is warm and golden, and every now and then, the wind carries laughter and screams from the Tivoli gardens. Gurney envisions what this kind of journey could have been like with Paul by his side, and he writes about the adventures he wishes to share once they reunite.

Currently, his days are blurred together; the only clear memories are from the evenings and nights he has spent playing, or talking to friends. When envisioning a future with Paul by his side – a future of travels and exploration – he sees a life lived in daylight.

After the Copenhagen show, the final stretch of the tour is sort of a haze. They play in Oslo, Stockholm, and then catch a ferry to Finland.

While their audience in the Nordics is dedicated and fun to perform for, Gurney is incapable of shaking the thought of just how close he is to Paul now – closer than he has been in almost two years. Just carrying this knowledge around is like an actual physical presence in his life; the weight of it not unlike being the sole subject of someone’s gaze, feeling their focused stare on his bare skin.

Once they’re actually kicking off the Helsinki show, Paul’s presence is palpable. Gurney has carried it with him since he stepped off the ferry, and now, in this surprisingly big locale, with an actual stage, and a balcony overlooking the dance floor and the bar, it’s like he can feel Paul in the heated air – despite the fact that they’re still hundreds of miles apart.

They start the set with some of the classics, moving into the new material for the middle, saving their “one hit wonder” for the end. It’s an old trick for making people stick around, and while it sort of feels cheap, it certainly works. Most nights, their new songs get a good enough reception, but at least half the crowd is here because of nostalgia, so there’s no point in robbing them of the experience they’re actually after.

As they’re moving into the second half of the show – delving into a series of songs that were, to a large extent, written by Gurney and Lanville during some extraordinarily late nights in Gurney’s kitchen – he finds himself finally falling into that familiar sense of peace that playing normally grants him. He taps into that shared pulse that fills the room, the music that passes over and through him, and just as he’s relaxing into what will most likely be his last live show in quite some time, he catches a glimpse of something at the corner of his eyes.

Gurney must be imagining things – his mind insisting that this can only be a dream or a scene from a memory; the library stairs; the Atreides’ kitchen; the airport gate – but Gurney’s imploding the mirage and in its wake… there he is.

In this crowd of middle-aged rockers and young indie snobs, in this sea of band-tees and denim and countless pale blue stares, Gurney finds a pair of green eyes and a wild head of dark hair that he would recognize anywhere; the full attention of that heartbreakingly familiar gaze sending shivers down his spine.

Paul Atreides stands only a few rows back from the stage, dressed in a brightly colored windbreaker, showing no signs of having planned for a night out. He’s not swaying with the music, he’s not singing along, he’s just staring at Gurney, lips slightly parted and curved into a smile, and it takes Gurney a second to realize that Paul’s eyes are so particularly bright because he has been crying.

They’re towards the end of the song, and he doesn’t play a particularly important part, but it’s still embarrassingly obvious when he suddenly just… stops… but, the thing is, Gurney can’t make his hands move anymore. He can’t focus on anything but this; Paul Atreides, in this room, in his space, the two of them sharing the same air again.

Gurney can’t hear the crowd over his own racing pulse, and he blinks repeatedly, belatedly realizing that his vision is blurring with tears. He shuffles over to Lanville’s side, getting a raised eyebrow and confused look as he does so, but when he nods towards Paul and Lanville finally notices, the drummer immediately shifts the beat, transitioning them towards a different song – a song Gurney isn’t needed for.

For a moment, he doesn’t move. It’s like these final couple of steps are too easy, like he’s anticipating something to go wrong simply because it has to, but then Lanville catches his eye, mouthing “go”, and that’s enough to break the spell.

Gurney does his best to exit the stage with some dignity; even as he’s scrambling to get the bass guitar over his head and set it down; even as the hour of escapism on stage has left him slightly dazed.  

Out in the crowd, he sees Paul making his way towards him, apologizing as he pushes through friend groups and couples on his single-minded trek to Gurney. He looks better than any photo; skin tan after having spent so many months outside in the snow, his hair longer now, almost reaching his shoulders, but above anything else, the change is in how he holds himself; like he’s comfortable in his body, comfortable chatting to the strangers in the crowd and offering them apologetic smiles as he pushes past them.

They meet in the dark, beneath the artificial light of cheap spotlights and blinking neon, and Paul crashes into Gurney hard enough to nearly bring the both of them to the floor.

Gurney truly wishes he could say something, but he can’t bring himself to speak around the ache in his chest, and all he can do is scramble to gather Paul in his arms; a hand at the small of his back, the other over his shoulder blades, grasping at the flimsy material of the windbreaker – hearing it crinkle in his grip.

This is all too much, too big for words, and Gurney is still catching up, because only now, as he holds Paul tightly to his chest, does this feel real; the weight of him, the strength of his embrace, the heat of his body held against Gurney’s.

Paul clings to him like he has done so many times before, curling forward to bury his face against Gurney’s shoulder, his throat, that soft hair feathery, every breath a warm puff on his skin.

“Paul”, it’s all that Gurney can manage, voice gravely, barely carrying, and Paul probably feels the vibrations of him speaking rather than actually hearing him, and for a moment he holds Gurney tighter still, before disentangling just enough to meet his eyes.

“Hi.”

Gurney doesn’t hear Paul’s voice over the music, but as he speaks his lips curve with the brightest smile, and he looks at Gurney with the same disbelief that Gurney feels mirrored with a fluttering ache in his own chest.

There are a thousand things he wishes to do, to say, and only when they’ve stood here for god knows how long, just looking at each other – just basking in the other’s presence – does Gurney raise a hand to run his fingers through that wild hair; to trail his thumb along that sharp jawline; to curl his fingers beneath Paul’s chin, something so familiar feeling dangerously new as he leans in, asking “may I?”,

Paul simply nods, lips parted on heavy breath, wanting, eyes dark with anticipation, the moment building and building and building – until Gurney closes the distance between them.

Kissing Paul Atreides is like walking into the winter night and finding a loved one waiting for you; it’s like looking out into a sea of people, and finding the only person you would ever want to take home. It’s like everything they’ve shared together, natural as breakfast for two, or reading, or music, and it’s electrifying in how normal it feels.

Paul is just as all-consuming as Gurney remembers, arching into his touch, crushing them together, sighing into the kiss, his yearning carried in every impatient touch, his elation carried on every hitched breath – in how he can’t keep from smiling even against Gurney’s lips.

The desperation to be close again only lasts for a beat, ebbing out into exploratory touches, in getting to know each-other once more; Gurney running his hands through Paul’s hair, amazed by how it’s gotten long enough to rival Duncan’s mane; Paul’s fingers trailing over Gurney’s buzz cut, his shoulders, pressing into the muscle there.

When they part, they remain close together, Paul leaning down to press his forehead to Gurney’s, his hair practically a curtain separating them from the rest of the world, and like this, they just breathe, slowly settling into the moment together.

“Hi”, Gurney manages, his voice barely steadier now, but at least Paul seems to hear him, because next thing he knows, Paul is actually giggling; both hands coming up to frame Gurney’s face; a thumb stroking along his cheekbone, and the edges of his scar.

“You okay?” and the question sounds weird even to Gurney’s ears, but since he doesn’t know what to do or say right now – since the only thing he can think of is to just be here, stay close, not even wanting to close his eyes and let Paul out of his sight for even a second – checking in seems like a good place to start.

“I’m fantastic”, Paul says, the bright smile on his lips leaving no room for doubt. Then, the next moment, his eyes widen, and he throws a look over his shoulder, seeming suddenly quite self-conscious. “Sorry, I… we have company.”

He’s barely speaking loud enough for Gurney to hear him, but there are enough context clues for Gurney to follow anyway. Paul reluctantly takes a few steps back, holding on to Gurney’s hand as he does so, entwining their fingers. Before doing anything, though, Paul pauses to take a long look at their hands, letting out a soft sigh, almost reverent in his regard.

Not that the world around them seems to care about the quiet moment that Paul’s trying to have in the midst of the concert goers. Life catches up to them in the form of a young woman appearing by Paul’s side, elbowing him hard in the ribs, while chastising; “that’s for leaving me at the bar, jackass.”

Much like Paul, she’s dressed for the outdoors rather than a night out on town. Her eyes are a sharp, deep blue, and her dark hair is pulled back into some kind of updo. Even without an introduction, Gurney knows her from Paul’s stories; his photos; he even knows her through her art.

“This is Chani”, Paul says, giving a simple nod in her direction, as if he’s too insulted by the elbow-attack to offer her a proper introduction. “She drove me here.”

“Nice to meet you”, Gurney smiles, and offers her his free hand to shake. On stage, the band is winding down, and while the crowd is still rowdy, they at least don’t have to shout at each other in order to be heard over the chaos.

“I’m glad you drove him – I’m not sure I’d trust Paul on these roads.”

It’s apparently just the right thing to say, because while Paul lets out an indignant “hey”, Chani grins and says; “I had to. He never would have gotten behind the wheel of the lada. He thinks it’s haunted.”

Paul scoffs, rolling his eyes. “I don’t think it’s haunted – I just think it’s a shitty-ass car!”

Chani raises an eyebrow, and then levels him with a stare. “Well, your driver is heading back home in that shitty-ass car soon. Please pray that I don’t die.”

Gurney clears his throat, feeling awkward about butting in, but at the same time – he remembers quite clearly what it used to be like to drive up north at night. “You’re heading back at this hour?”

Chani nods, giving a hum that is uncannily similar to Stilgar’s. “I’ve got a very important snowball fight in the morning. You kids have fun – don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”

She winks at them, and then starts making her way through the crowd. Gurney stares after her, considering whether or not he should insist that it isn’t safe to go, but ultimately; he doesn’t know her well enough to insist on anything on her behalf.

Besides, Paul Atreides is stood by his side, leaning into his space, holding his hand like it’s a lifeline, and there is very, very little in this world that is more important than this.

“You’re here”, Paul says, his voice rougher now, his hand squeezing Gurney’s, and god; Gurney can’t actually think of anything to say, so he simply turns and gathers Paul in his arms again, needing to just hold him. To feel the shape of him – all the ways he’s the same, and all the ways that he has changed – to breathe in the scent of vetiver and petrichor, the warm, heady notes of Paul; different now, carrying undertones from a life Gurney knows little about, but at the core of it, it’s still so very much Paul.

“I can’t believe you came all this way”, Paul continues, speaking directly against Gurney’s shoulder, his voice muffled where he nuzzles in close.

“You travelled almost ten hours”, Gurney murmurs, a hand at the nape of Paul’s neck, marvelling at how soft that curly hair is beneath his fingertips. “In a haunted car, to boot.”

“You travelled across the world”, and Paul disentangles from Gurney now, leaning back just enough so that their eyes can meet again. “And you didn’t even tell me you were coming, you asshole.”

Gurney only barely catches himself from agreeing that he is an asshole. He has no idea what conversations Paul and Stilgar have had, but still – he could at least try and put into words why he didn’t mention it.

“I didn’t want to jeopardize your job.”

When Gurney says it out loud, it sounds pretty silly. Patronizing, even. A lesser man would have read Gurney’s worry as an insult, but Paul’s gaze holds nothing but fond exasperation.

“Stilgar is right”, Paul mutters, shaking his head. “You are too noble for your own good.”

“I can’t believe the two of you are teaming up on me”, Gurney says it mostly to lighten the mood – mostly to make Paul smile – because right now, he can’t think of a more worthwhile pursuit; can’t think of anything he would rather spend the rest of his life doing.

“You deserve it”, Paul scoffs, grinning while he says it, and his eyes are still gleaming, the tears having yet to dry, and if Gurney has ever seen joy such as this in his life, he sure can’t remember it.

“What are your plans now?”

Paul gestures with his free hand, sort of indicating the crowd, the bar – the state of his own clothing.

“Do I look like I have plans? I travelled here in work clothes, and for the past day I have lived off the shittiest gas station food known to man. I had to wash it down with banana yoghurt not to be plagued with the aftertaste for hours on end and… you know… ” and Paul loses track as he’s ranting, just staring at Gurney, almost like he gets caught off guard by the excitement of being able to rant about petty grievances to him again.

“I’m sorry, I just… don’t think I’m capable of talking right now”, Paul manages eventually, his voice rougher, his gaze trailing to Gurney’s lips, down his throat and the neckline of his shirt, and in the silence that follows they hold nothing between themselves except tension, anticipation, all of it crumbling when Paul puts both palms to Gurney’s chest and kisses him.

This time, it’s a leisurely thing; the frantic edge of reunion dulled just enough for them to indulge in the intimacy; for Paul to press blunt fingernails to Gurney’s chest, just above the neckline of his shirt; for Gurney to frame Paul’s waist with both hands, and drink in the gasp that the suggestion of manhandling earns him.

Gurney loses all sense of time, so fully immersed in this space they share, not able to bring himself to care that they’re around others, that they’re still caught firmly in the midst of the crowd. Unlike the music, there’s a different flow to this, like rolling waves on a shore; the push and pull of tenderness – Paul pressing a kiss to the corner of his mouth, then nuzzling close, as if he just needs to feel Gurney’s stubble against his skin – deepening into an elated frenzy as the realization that this is real washes over them anew.

It's lasts until Gurney is breathless – it lasts until his head is spinning – and it lasts no time at all.

When they break apart this time, Paul remains close, hands still tangled in Gurney’s shirt, eyes still wide with disbelief, and only when Gurney raises a hand to cradle his face does Paul seems to break out of the daze, leaning into the touch, his eyes fluttering shut.

“We should go somewhere”, Gurney says, not able to formulate a plan at all, just knowing that maybe it would be a good idea to find someplace calmer than an actual dance floor.

His hotel is several blocks away, and while it’s inevitable that this is where they’ll end up eventually, it doesn’t seem like either of them will be interested in going for a walk anytime soon.

“Backstage?” Paul asks, a playful gleam in his eyes, like he’s extremely amused at the thought of a rugged rock musician picking him out of the crowd and bringing him to the greenroom. It’s a good enough suggestion though, so Gurney takes Paul by the hand, leading him there.

When they open the door, they’re immediately greeted by Lanville, Oscar and Jason, the three of them lounging in the seating area; and they must have been here for quite some time, judging by the half empty bottle of schnapps on the coffee table. Maybe Gurney should be worried by the fact that he didn’t even notice that they’d stopped playing, but right now he’s too busy trying to think of an alternate place to go.

“What’s up, Paul?” Lanville hollers, Jason wolf-whistling for emphasis, and while Paul just laughs and flips them off, Gurney is already pulling him through the room, heading for the exit. He feels equal parts ridiculous and shitty over the possessiveness, but, well; he’s not sure he’ll be able to share Paul with anyone else right now.

Paul follows him happily through the room, and into the bright summer night. The sun has barely set, and while the air is chilly, the streets are still warm with hues of orange and pink. It feels like walking into a painting, stepping out of the dark rooms of the bar and onto the cobblestone.

They don’t have to walk far to find a bench, and only when they sit down, close enough that Paul’s thigh presses against Gurney’s, does he notice the bottle in Paul’s hand.

“Did you steal that?”

Paul grins, proudly holding up the schnapps. “They’d had enough anyway.”

Gurney snorts a laugh, shaking his head, and when Paul puts the bottle to his lips and takes a sip from the heady liquor, he doesn’t even pretend not to stare.

“Want some?” Paul asks, offering him the bottle.

“Not really”, Gurney murmurs, already knowing that he won’t say no – that he’s too much of a romantic to decline sharing this with Paul. The glass is cool against his lips, wet from where Paul drank from it, and the liquor is horribly heady, biting and bitter, and it takes some actual effort to swallow it down.

He coughs afterwards, looking at Paul through narrowed eyes. “So, you’ve gotten used to the local liquor?”

Paul shakes his head, and when he takes the bottle from Gurney, it seems that he mostly does it just to let his fingers brush over Gurney’s knuckles.

“Not really – but my poker face has gotten better”, Paul muses, once again falling silent with a smile on his lips, his gaze unabashedly taking Gurney in.

It’s an almost bizarre feeling to be the sole focus of someone’s attention and not shy away from it – to invite the heated stare of Paul Atreides and not worry about living up to the expectations – but after two years of longing; endless phone calls with bad connection; grainy photos; and, now, holding each other tightly in a poorly lit bar, there’s nothing but joy at spending time together out in the light, and properly seeing the other.

Gurney isn’t sure how long they sit in silence; all he knows is that he would happily spend the rest of the night just like this. Then, slowly, Paul raises a finger and pokes at Gurney’s bicep, gently at first, and then more insistent – as if he can’t quite believe how defined the muscle is.

“This is ridiculous”, he grumbles, unable to hide the fact that he’s clearly delighted.

Gurney snorts a laugh, and then he flexes his arm, because it’s deeply flattering to see Paul’s eyes actually widen in response.

“Say the word, and I’ll stop going to the gym.”

“God, never”, Paul breathes, without a hint of self-consciousness. Then, his mouth curves with a wry smile, and he looks at Gurney through those dark, long lashes. “I knew those sleeve garters were a kink thing. I just knew it.”

It takes a moment for Gurney to catch on, and then he’s laughing again, as if he can’t go more than a few minutes at a time without these bursts of joy spilling out into the night. “More than anything, it’s an accessory I enjoy pairing with many different outfits.”

“Uhuh, that’s sure what it looked like in Duncan’s photo”, Paul sing-songs, leaning over to bump their shoulders together, his tone teasing, and a heated gleam in his eyes. “Maybe we could find something similar for me? Something that would work with any outfit – even bullshit like this.”

There’s not much room for interpretation, and Gurney finds his mouth dry at the suggestion. He takes the bottle back from Paul, hoping that another sip of the horrid liquor will clear his throat somewhat, and through all of it, Paul watches him with a proud gleam, knowing full well what he’s done.

“I’m not sure I’d call that bullshit. You look good”, Gurney says, finally, and while he well and truly means it, Paul chuckles, looking down himself; the neon colors of the windbreaker, the stained cargo pants.

“You’re just saying that.”

Gurney reaches for him then, just to put a hand on his knee, just to bridge whatever little space still separates them.

“No, truly – you’re glowing. I feel lucky being here, basking in the light coming off you.”

For a moment Paul just stares at him, and then he bursts out laughing, his happiness so bright, his eyebrows drawn together in bafflement – like he can’t quite believe what he just heard. “Since when do we do compliments like that?”

Gurney shrugs, mirroring Paul now that he bumps their shoulders together. “Since now?”

Paul shakes his head – still grinning – averting his eyes for only a moment, but then those green eyes are back on Gurney; like he actually can’t bring himself to look away for too long.  

“I knew our forever wouldn’t be short”, Paul says, his voice quieter now, like he maybe didn’t intend to say it out loud at all, but now that he has – what can Gurney do but kiss him again, and taste that tenderness on his lips?

It only lasts for a moment, Gurney’s hand curled beneath his chin, Paul letting himself be guided, biting at Gurney’s bottom lip, and then pressing a chaste kiss there as they part for breath.

“For as long as you want”, Gurney murmurs, pressing a chaste kiss to the corner of Paul’s mouth, unable to let go just yet. “You have me.”

There’s a pause, a beat where Paul lets out a relieved sigh, like he has been holding his breath since they parted, and only now has been able to exhale.

“Thank you”, the words are whispered against Gurney’s lips; as if it’s an ultimate truth; as if Paul is the one out of the two of them that should be grateful; as if he doesn’t leave Gurney awestruck by simply existing.

There is still so much for them to talk about, and Gurney doesn’t actually know how much time they’ll have together until Paul has to head north again, but, for now, all he can do is cradle Paul’s face and kiss him again.

All he can do is show Paul just how grateful he is for the time that they’ve been blessed with.

High above, the setting sun is finally giving way to velvety starlit skies, and beneath Gurney’s fingertips is a home that he has been missing for years.

Ahead of them is a future that only the two of them can shape together, and Gurney cannot wait to follow Paul Atreides into a new life that holds space for the both of them.