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They’d settled into a comfortable routine by now, and Pastel had gotten quite used to it: Napoleon would come into the cafe and badger Pastel about one thing or another, and Pastel would tell him in no uncertain terms to fuck off and leave him alone, and Napoleon would be entirely undeterred by this and continue until he became bored enough to wander off. At first he had wondered whether Napoleon would ever stop, and he’d spent many an afternoon rubbing his temples to stave off headaches; now, though, he found himself watching the door each day around the time Napoleon would arrive, tapping his fingers against the counter as he waited. Napoleon was hardly ever late—if he was, Pastel would chide him for it like he was an unruly child. So why had he not arrived yet today?
Pastel ground his teeth, leaning over the counter in a vain attempt to get a better view out the windows. The sun was angled to shine directly into his eyes, and the blare was so brilliant he couldn’t see the sky, let alone approaching customers. He stepped back, closing his eyes and turning his face down to rid his vision of the lingering sun spots.
“Looking for someone?” The voice had a teasing lilt to it.
Pastel’s head snapped up, and he opened his eyes to shoot a glare at Chocolate, who was standing in the kitchen doorway with arms folded loosely across his chest. Chocolate smirked, unfazed by Pastel’s half-hearted attempt at intimidation.
“Maybe,” Pastel said, trying and failing to seem impartial to it all. “I just want to be prepared for the harassment I’ll have to endure.”
It was a lie, and he knew it, and Chocolate knew it too. To Pastel’s surprise, though, Chocolate simply nodded and returned to the kitchen—Pastel still begrudged him the twinkle of knowing amusement in his eyes, but at least Pastel could be alone to stew in his thoughts for now. Napoleon’s tardiness was forcing Pastel to confront the truth of his feelings, and he didn’t like it at all. What nerve Napoleon had to be late when he knew Pastel was expecting him! Pastel clenched his jaw tighter, the tapping of his fingers turning into more of a frustrated palm-slap against the marble. He was lucky it was a slow day and there weren’t any customers to be bothered by the noise.
What the hell’s gotten into me? he wondered despairingly. An ache was starting to form behind his left eye.
He broke from the counter and began instead to pace back and forth, frowning at the floor as his shoes clacked against the tiles. When at last he heard the jingle of the bell above the door and turned his attention to the front, and when he spotted that garish shade of red he’d come to know so well, he hated how his heart leapt into his throat, how butterflies began to swarm and dance in his stomach—it made him want to vomit them all up and shoo them away from him. He supposed he should’ve been glad, then, to feel his heart sink as Napoleon took a seat at a table without saying a word. He should’ve been grateful for the tense silence that settled over them. Instead, his irritation only grew, his blood buzzing with the urge to—to do something!
He busied himself with wiping the equipment, washing the dishes, clearing the sink drain, all with his back turned to Napoleon and his feet planted and his teeth gnashing against each other. The silence went on. Napoleon was someone who couldn’t even sit still—it was so odd to not even hear him tapping his foot, or humming a tune, or tossing his hat up and catching it in his hand. The longer this quiet continued, the more it crept up on Pastel, sinking into him, worming its way under his skin, slinking around his stomach. Cold and slimy and wrong. This all felt wrong. Finally he set his pride aside and turned to Napoleon, and all at once he found himself longing for the butterflies to return—anything to replace the slick chill tendrils wrapping around his heart.
Napoleon’s eyes were downcast, his hat sitting askew on the table, back hunched and arms hugging himself. His knees were drawn up past the edge of the chair, his head dipped towards his chest. Pastel had never seen him like this. He would’ve given anything right then to hear Napoleon’s too-loud laughter again, to have him pester Pastel about the lack of sweets available to him, to see his eyes shine and his cheeks glow and his chest puff out with pride.
“Napoleon,” Pastel ground out, completely abandoning his post at the counter to stomp over to Napoleon’s table. Napoleon looked up at him—Pastel’s stomach twisted again at the sight of his eyes, dull and glossed over. “You… you arrived late and now you’re not bothering me. What’s your problem?”
Napoleon just stared. Pastel couldn’t tear his eyes away from Napoleon’s face, and the longer he looked the more he noticed, and the more his hair stood on end. Napoleon looked pale and exhausted and withered, wilted, haggard—he’d been fine yesterday, Pastel had seen him just yesterday, he had to still be fine now, didn’t he? There couldn’t be anything terribly wrong. Pastel wouldn’t believe that. The very thought of it made Pastel sure he was going to be sick for real, and he swallowed hard against the churning that had crept up into his throat.
“Sorry,” Napoleon said, his voice hoarse and much, much too quiet.
Pastel sighed, and it came out shaky, and finally he knew he couldn’t keep up this pretense of anger. He was worried. Not that he’d admit it to Napoleon, but there was no way to deny it to himself any longer, and he wasn’t much for lying to himself anyway—it felt even sillier and more childish than recognizing he had feelings for someone. He sat down in the seat opposite from Napoleon. Napoleon’s eyes followed his every move, and he shifted, unsettled by the glassy intensity of Napoleon’s gaze.
“Just tell me what’s going on,” Pastel said.
Napoleon laughed, except he didn’t really, and Pastel hated to even call it laughter—it was hollow empty terrible and he hated it. He couldn’t stand it. That wasn’t Napoleon’s laughter, that wasn’t how he sounded when he was happy, that wasn’t Napoleon.
“I’m sure you have better things to do than listen to me whine,” he said.
“I wouldn’t be asking if that was the case!” It came out louder than he’d intended, and he squeezed his eyes shut so he wouldn’t have to see Napoleon flinch. He paused to lower his voice before he continued. “Listen, I—I asked what’s going on because I want to know the answer. So tell me.”
He opened his eyes again to see Napoleon tracing the spiral of the wood table with his finger. Now he was staring at that instead of Pastel, and Pastel wasn’t sure if this felt better or worse. The silence dragged on, and Pastel’s headache pounded against his skull, and he was about ready to explode when Napoleon finally spoke.
“It’s Brownie,” he said. “He… I mean, we were fighting a Fallen, and… it’s my fault, I wasn’t taking it seriously… and ‘e got hurt and—” He drew in a shuddering breath, his eyes glistening in a way Pastel had never seen from him before. “I thought—I thought he was gonna die for a moment, and he—he’s fine now, but… still.”
“I understand,” Pastel said, because he did. He hadn’t quite experienced anything similar, but he could imagine how, for someone like Napoleon, that would be soul-crushing. He knew Napoleon used his lighthearted banter to cope with stress. He knew Napoleon prized victory above all else. He knew Napoleon cared a hell of a lot about his friends and if something happened to Brownie because he’d lost, it’d devastate him. He knew Napoleon better than he’d realized.
“B-52 is watching him now.” Napoleon traced the patterns again and again, trailing his fingertips over the polished wood, and Pastel found himself almost mesmerized by the movement, uncharacteristically slow and precise and cautious as it was. “He’s okay. He wasn’t as badly hurt as I thought. But it scared me. And that’s why I was late today.”
“And that’s why you didn’t come and bother me.”
“Yeah.” Napoleon raised his head, and for the first time that day Pastel saw what might have been the start of a smile. “But I did come eventually.”
“You did,” Pastel said. He did something strange then. He reached across the table and laid a hand over Napoleon’s, and even as he did it he couldn’t explain to himself why he was doing it, but Napoleon didn’t pull away. “I’m glad. I would have been angry if you hadn’t. You can’t make me expect you and then suddenly stop coming.”
Napoleon laughed. It was quiet but it was genuine, and warmth rushed through Pastel’s body, loosening the tension in his chest. The butterflies in his stomach sprang to life once again.
“Sorry,” Napoleon said. “I’m here to bother you now, though.”
He turned his wrist to grip Pastel’s hand, and Pastel’s breath caught in his throat. His butterflies thrived now, fluttering frantically to and fro, flooding his face with heat. He hated it, but he supposed it wasn’t the worst feeling out there. Not even third or fourth on the list. Perhaps, if he were being entirely honest with himself, it was a rather pleasant feeling.
“Good,” Pastel said. “But you’re late. My shift has already ended. So I suppose you’ll have to force me to spend time with you one-on-one.”
Napoleon’s face brightened, and Pastel took satisfaction in the blush that bloomed across his cheeks, spreading to the tips of his ears. He was aware it sounded a bit like he was asking Napoleon out. For some reason, he wasn’t bothered about correcting that.
“Sounds good to me,” Napoleon said.
“I’m sure it does.” Pastel’s mouth twitched. He composed himself—breaking his cool and collected image now would be something he’d never live down—and said, “By the way, what happened with Brownie wasn’t your fault.”
Napoleon’s lips parted, his eyes going wide. Pastel couldn’t tell if he was more surprised by what Pastel had said or the sheer lack of annoyance in his tone.
“You did your best,” Pastel said. “You always do your best. Even if it’s something ridiculous, you’re always very persistent. Honestly, it’s a hassle, but I can’t deny that it’s useful in battle. So quit blaming yourself for something you couldn’t control. It’s silly.”
Napoleon took a breath, paused, and, finding no words, let it out in a rush of air. He shut his mouth and was silent for a second, ruminating over what Pastel had said. Then he smiled. He smiled bright and lovely and Pastel thought, god, I’m in over my head.
“Yeah,” Napoleon said. “Thanks, Pastel. You’re right.”
“Of course I am.” Pastel stood, not relinquishing his grip on Napoleon’s hand, forcing Napoleon to rise with him. He hesitated then, looking at where their fingers interlocked. Doubt began to seep in. “Napoleon, is this… do you like this kind of behavior?”
“D’you even need to ask?” Napoleon squeezed his hand. “Now let me force you to spend time with me.”
“Of course.” Pastel couldn’t help it—he smiled.
The way Napoleon shone like the sun as they walked out the door together, headed to wherever in the world Napoleon had decided to drag him, was more than enough to make up for the embarrassment of breaking composure. If anyone happened to spot him and Napoleon hand-in-hand, he was sure he could think of some excuse. He’d simply say Napoleon was refusing to let go of him. If, in truth, he dearly enjoyed the feeling of Napoleon’s skin against his, and if he was having a lovely time walking with Napoleon, and if at last he understood that, contrary to his ostensible dread, he had somehow come to crave Napoleon’s company—well, the rest of the world was none the wiser. And if he was being honest with himself one last time, being with Napoleon made him feel a whole lot less concerned about the rest of the world.