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Zeke was fine, even without memories. He was fine, wandering Valencia, ignoring the feeling of a lost home, the feeling of a lost life, that occupied the empty space in his mind where his memories had been. He told himself it was better not to know, better not to remember the stories behind the scars on his body. Better not to remember the reason for the large, ugly wound that crossed his torso like he had been sliced in two. Better to ignore the feeling that he was a man who should not be able to ignore a thing. A man who had lost his memories as a payment, the price he had to pay to retain a life he could not remember why he should have lost.
Tatiana was kind to him, had looked after him, had given him a place to stay when he had nothing. She had not pressed him, had not questioned why he woke up in a cold sweat with nightmares about a life he could not remember. But there was a distance there, between them. A distance between a man who had nothing to give, not even his story, and the woman who had saved him without asking for anything. He wondered, sometimes, if he could have fallen in love with her, if he was a different man. A man not so detached from his own life that he lived in a haze, haunted by ghosts that grabbed at his ankles, keeping him from truly moving on no matter how much he tried. But he was not a different man. And so, while he loved Tatiana as his savior and as his friend, he did not love her as one would love, well, a lover.
And he did try. He had… considerable talent as a knight, and had found employ in the service of Rudolf, King of Rigelia. Rudolf had shown him kindness and had given him purpose, to find the boy with a mark on his hand, destined to save Valencia in its hour of need. He had given him his name, Ezekiel, and a nickname, Zeke, and with it an identity. And Zeke has filled his heart with his new purpose, had focused all his strength on aiding Tatiana and Rudolf, those who had given him a life.
He hoped that if he filled his heart with the desire to repay his debt, he would drown out the deep feeling of wrongness, the way that he wore this identity like a pair of ill-fitting clothes. The way he felt like a man pretending to be someone else.
~~~~~~
To say his memory came back in a series of dreams was a romantic concept, in a way. He was sure he had read of such things in tales and stories long ago. And yet it was the truth.
They started indistinct, so much so that he brushed them off as merely being the oddity of dreams. Dreams of red hair, remarkably long, ruffled by fierce winds. And yet he didn’t mind it. In fact, he felt a longing to touch it, to brush it back into its proper place. He had the faintest feeling he had done so, once. But he could not remember when, an unfortunate side effect of amnesia.
Then he dreamed of a dragon. A small one, large enough to ride but not large enough to match the descriptions of the dragons in stories of places far away, told by travelers from distant lands. A wyvern, he later learned. He dreamed of awaiting its arrival, or rather the arrival of its rider. But he could not remember who.
Next, the dreams turned violent. A battlefield, unlike any of the lands he had seen in Valencia. A horse he did not recognize, surrounded by knights in armor he didn’t know. But what stood out most was the lance he held. It was impressive, beautiful, and ornate, unlike any weapon he had ever seen, and yet holding it felt natural. He could hear voices calling him, calling his name, but he couldn’t hear the name they called. And then, there was silence. His lance fell from his hands. He fell off his horse. He fell unconscious. And then he woke up.
Because however vivid, they were just dreams… weren’t they? But Zeke knew that he was remembering. In fact, perhaps the dream he was waking up from was his new life.
And soon, he no longer dreamed. Instead, his memories would return to him, in pieces. A deep voice, melodious, enchanting. A voice he could listen to forever. Gloved hands in his own, soft lips on his own. A beautiful, warm feeling, and yet a bittersweet one.
A parting, and a promise to meet again, tinged with a horrible, dark feeling that perhaps that promise would be broken, if not this time then the next. He had accepted his death at that point, and yet he longed to see his lover once more, to have one more moment with him, to drown out the inevitability of death with soft touches and warm silence.
And Zeke knew, by now, that the red haired man who haunted his dreams had been his lover once.
~~~~~~
He remembered those pieces of his own life, bittersweet vignettes that spoke of lost love, lost life, lost responsibilities, but no matter how hard he tried he could never seem to find the truth. He could remember the blue haired boy who had cut him down, but not his name, not the reason why the boy struck or why he felt it was what was due. He could remember how he loved his lost lover, but not who he was. It haunted him. But he would never say it.
It all changed, though, when he met Alm, the boy with the mark on his hand. He joined his army because it was his purpose, because it was his duty, and gave his all, as he knew a knight should. Those in Valencia had been so kind, so accepting to he who had nothing. He could not abandon them now. But he had another reason. A selfish reason, perhaps. A duty not as a knight but as a man who had disappeared.
It happened when he had met the three young women on the pegasi. He felt that something was pulling at his mind, more than ever before, but he did not know what. But then Alm introduced them, and their eyes widened, and he knew that they had known him too. Palla, Catria, and Est… they had known him in the life he could not recall. But they did not speak out, and he did not ask.
It was the eldest, Palla, who approached him. She stood in front of him and faced him, a frown on her face, but Zeke know it was out of concern, not anger. “I am told you have lost your memories,” she said. “Do you mean all of them?” Zeke sighed, slightly. “Enough of them,” he said, and her expression softened. “Do you mind telling me?” she asked. “I will aid you,” she added, “because I can see that it bothers you.”
And Zeke told her all that he knew, about his duty, about his death, and about his lover. And Palla listened, with patience and understanding, and he found that as he did he remembered more, as if being in the presence of one who knew him was the key to his locked away memories
He told her about the war he had fought, against the innocent, against the righteous, knowing he was wrong and knowing that his loyalty kept him from acting against it. He told her about a coup, a plan to end the threat, and how it failed with his death. And how his last regret as he fell was that he could not see his lover again.
And at the end, hours after they had began, he had finished. “Very well,” Palla said. “There are many things you have told me that I did not know. But I am glad you did. It brings me peace of mind. And so, in thanks, I will tell you what you do not know.”
“My name is Palla, the eldest of the Whitewing Sisters of Macedon, in Archanea. The man you dream of, the man you loved… was Michalis, our king.” Camus nodded gently. “And I?” he asked. Palla smiled gently. “You, Zeke… you were Camus, the commander of Grust’s Sable Knights, the greatest knight in Archanea.”
“Camus,” he repeated. “I… I see. Thank you for telling me. If I may ask you… what happened after I fell?” Palla brightens, her eyes shining with pride. “Our army forced Medeus down, and saved the continent. Marth and Princess Nyna ushered in a new era of peace. We are well,” she said. Camus was relieved, but he did not smile, for he had one more question, a question he knew in his heart he would not want to hear the answer to. “And Michalis?”
Palla’s smile fell. “King Michalis… has died.” Camus had expected such an answer, and yet hearing it out loud, that the man he had loved, that the man he still loved, had died. That no matter how much he longed to see him again, to hold him again… such wishes could never be granted.
“Camus?” Palla asked, clearly worried. “Are you alright?” He nodded. “I am. I may grieve, but I cannot let grief get in the way of my duty,” he said, focusing on the path ahead of him. “Well put,” Palla said. “Perhaps, one day, you will return,” she said. “I… cannot,” Camus said, masking his desire to do just that. “Archanea has no use for a dead man.” “I understand,” Palla replied. “Goodnight, Zeke.” And she left Zeke— Camus alone with his thoughts, alone with the knowledge of who he was, and what he had lost.
~~~~~~
“My offer is still open,” Palla said to him, with a sorrowful smile. Valencia’s war was over, and the Whitewing Sisters intended to return home. “Thank you. But I cannot.” It was a simple answer, but one Palla had expected. “I understand. I can perhaps take a token?” she said. The “to his grave” went unspoken, but it would not matter if she had said it aloud. Camus nodded. He removed one of his cufflinks, the only one he had left, plain silver, simple and functional. “I… thank you, Palla,” he said, trying to keep his voice steady, trying not to show how much he wished to see Michalis again, how much he felt the loss of his lover. Palla saw it anyway, but didn’t press. “Take care,” she said. “And you too,” Camus replied.
He watched until they could no longer be seen, longing in his heart.
He had considered going, at least as far as Macedon, to see the resting place of the man he loved. For closure, or to say a goodbye he never got to say. Or perhaps in the hope to assuage his fears that these bittersweet memories, of loving and being loved, would depart, and leave him empty. It was better to have loved and lost than to have never loved at all.
But he could not risk it. He could not return, and he could not tell those he cared for here his past. So he locked the memories of those moonlit nights away in his heart, keeping them close. And that was fine, for a while.
But one day, a day in the boundary of spring and summer, Camus had a visitor. Est, the sister of Palla, flying like her life depended on it. It did, but Camus did not know that at the time. She barreled towards him the second she saw him, barely stopping before crashing into him. “Camus,” she gasped out. “Est,” he said, “perhaps you should sit down.” “No time,” she replied. “We need your help.” Camus frowned. “I’ll explain on the way, so please please please come!” Camus decided that if Palla would share his secret with her sister and send her across the sea to get him, it must be important enough to warrant his aid. Perhaps now he could make up for the damage he caused.
“A moment, please,” he asked, returning to his home to retrieve one thing: a mask he had been given as a gift. He donned the mask and returned, allowing Est to haul him onto her Pegasus. She was very strong. It must have been all the fighting with lances. The moment Est thought he was situated, she took off like an arrow.
Camus found quickly that while the experience of riding a Pegasus was certainly new to him, he was able to acclimate rather quickly. Memories spring to his head, of riding a wyvern, escorted by Michalis. His skill in riding did not go unnoticed by Est, and she smiled knowingly. “Did you ride with King Michalis?” she asked. “I assume Palla told you that too?” he groaned. Est chuckled wryly. “She let it slip while we were leaving a few years back. Said she was bringing your cufflink back for the king, a final gift from his lover. Catria and I, we pressed her on why the king would have a lover in another continent until she spilled. I hope you’re not mad.” Camus shook his head, even though Est could not see it, her eyes focused on the expanse of ocean beneath them. “Of course not,” he said. “Palla has been so kind to me. I could not begrudge her anything. And you two neither, as her sisters.”
They rode in silence after that, until Est spoke up again. “You really loved him, didn’t you?” she whispered. “Catria was busy with the Pegasi, but I saw you talking to Palla. You looked like the world had ended.” “I see. Perhaps I should get better at hiding my emotions. The mask should help with that,” he muttered. “But yes. I did. I dream, you know. Of my meetings with him. Of the quiet nights we shared, and of-“ he paused. “Of the times you embraced him?” Est supplied. “Yes. I wish more than anything I could hold him again. I wish that I could comb out his ruffled hair and have him bat my hands away. I wish I could feel him sleep on my shoulder, or hear him complain about the quality of the wine I served, even though he enjoyed it. I feel so terribly lonely without him.” Camus sighed. “But I’ve said too much. I’m sure you don’t wish to hear about my romantic woes.”
“That’s not true,” Est said. “The king… he pushed everyone away. And it got worse after Grust fell. We thought that perhaps he had gotten worried about his plans, but… he must have been grieving. In the end… he died alone. But I’m glad he wasn’t unloved, I’m glad that in all those years we thought he had no one, he had someone to care for him. It… it lightens my heart. I think you should tell Minerva too, and Maria. They miss him terribly,” Est said. “Oh! But only if you want to,” she quickly exclaimed, looking a bit sheepish. Camus smiled bitterly. “I’m afraid-“ “Yeah, yeah, you can’t,” Est interrupted. “You shouldn’t interrupt people,” Camus chided. “Perhaps, when this is over, I shall leave a letter to be burned.” “Wow, good idea!” Est replied. “I would have never thought of that.”
Camus was still thinking of something to reply with when Macedon came into sight. “We’re here!” Est cheered. “I can’t wait to rest.” “Yes, you worked hard,” Camus said in return. “Take a break.” When they landed, Est practically dragged herself to her quarters to rest. However, Camus spent his time wandering Macedon’s castle. Minerva was gone, as was Maria, but as he paced the halls he ran into the only Whitewing he had not conversed with: Catria.
She looked startled running into him, letting out a brief shout, a squeak, really, not that Camus would ever say so, but she quickly regained her composure, though she looked embarrassed for her outburst. “Hello, Lord Camus,” she said, quietly. It occurred to Camus then that if he was going to hide his identity then he would need a new name. Catria seemed to catch on to his thoughts. “Um, if you don’t want to be called Camus, then how about Sirius? It’s one of the stars in the sky,” Catria offered. “That’s good. Thank you very much,” he replied. Catria gave an awkward nod. There was a very present, almost stifling silence.
Catria cleared her thought. “Um, you’re a knight. So would you like to borrow a horse? Our horses aren’t as good as the ones from Grust, though…” she trailed off. “That would be wonderful,” Camus said, bowing slightly to express his gratitude. “Thank you.” Catria nodded, obviously unsure how to react to Camus’s bow. She gestured to a hallway. “The stables are down there,” she said. “I can’t escort you… sorry.” “That’s fine,” Camus said. “You should check in with your sister.” Catria looked surprised that he could guess her intentions, but nodded politely, if stiffly. “And Catria,” Camus added gently. “You and your sisters have been incredibly kind to me. If I can repay you in any way, I beseech you to inform me.” Catria smiled slightly. “We’re glad you’re willing to help.”
~~~~~~
Camus, now Sirius, had not been riding long before he came across the mercenary Ogma, protecting Grust’s royal children from pirates. Though he was nothing but a wandering knight now, with no allegiances, he could not help but intervene. He knew, deep down, that he could never leave his life as Camus behind, but now was not the time to reminisce.
Upon noticing him, Ogma had fought his way towards Camus. He extended an offer for Camus to join his army, and while Camus wished for nothing more than to accept, he could not make any promises. If he got too attached to this life, he may never find the resolve to return to Valencia, and he could not risk the effects of such a decision. But longing won over reason, and by the end of the fight Camus had agreed anyway.
And so he returned to Macedon to tell the Whitewings of his decision, which the three were terribly excited to find out. But such excitement did not last long. There was work to do, after all. But when Est and Catria had set off to return to their tasks, Palla had requested Camus follow her.
They went two places: the first was to the king’s private chambers, untouched since his death. Palla led him in quietly and left just as quietly, leaving him to his memories, recollections of distant days.
The first time they met: when Michalis had alighted in Grust. He remembered how panicked the officers at the castle were. You would think that Michalis was a demon who crawled out of hell, not a prince Camus’s age. He remembered Michalis’ bright eyes, full of conviction, and his proud smile when he introduced himself to Camus. Camus was instantly enchanted.
The day he had attempted to braid Michalis’s hair, only to turn it into a tangled mess. “A man of culture,” Michalis had said. “But he can’t even braid. Unacceptable.” Michalis had spent the next hour teaching Camus every braid in existence, until Camus could braid in his sleep.
The time when Michalis had received dozens of books he had ordered all at once and had to ask Camus to help sort them so he could walk through his own door.
The time when Camus had come to him, broken up about what he had done, torn between his morals and his loyalty, and Michalis had kissed him, had led him out into the night and rode with him through the skies, visiting every place in Macedon he could think of until Camus did not feel so weary and so weak.
The time when Camus had mentioned offhand that he was hungry and Michalis had ordered every kind of food possible.
The time that Michalis had proposed a coup against Medeus. Had confessed a desire to make a strong world, free of control.
When Michalis had arrived, late one night, and had wrapped his arms around Camus, holding him, existing with him, until the weight of his responsibilities no longer threatened to crush him.
And then, the last time he ever saw Michalis, mere days before his battle with Marth. “I don’t care if you die, or I die, or we both do. I won’t let you go. I’ll find a way to be with you, even if it takes a thousand years.”
But he could not allow himself to reminisce forever. So he found what Palla had meant to show him draped on the chair in front of him. An old outfit of his, inherited from his ancestor, a red coat and white outfit. Camus had spilled wine on it, years ago, and Michalis had laughed at him but offered to get it cleaned. Michalis must have kept it since, never having an opportunity to return it. Camus knew that the outfit was far less telling than his usual dark colors, and so he changed into it, Michalis’ words echoing in his head. “Did your ancestor really wear pajamas into battle?”
Exiting the room, Camus found Palla waiting for him. “I’m sorry to keep you waiting,” he said, apologetically. Palla smiled. “I found those clothes soon after the king’s death, when looking for something in his room. It always confused me, why he would have such an outfit. But it made sense after I learned of your relationship.” Palla paused. “I have one more thing to show you.” Camus knew what it was. “His resting place,” he said, trying to keep his voice steady. Palla nodded, leading him down the right corridor and into a shaded garden.
“We never found his body,” she said. “But we gave him a grave anyway. He… is missed. The knowledge of your coup was hard on Minerva, but it was comforting too. It seemed to bring her peace of mind. Perhaps...” she took a deep breath, as if steeling herself, gathering her resolve. Camus got the feeling that she was telling him something she had never told anyone, or thought to tell anyone. “Perhaps she wanted to trust him all along. I think that she feels incredibly guilty about tearing their family apart.” Camus nodded. “I understand. I do not blame her. I would never,” he said, thinking about how Michalis had told him the same thing, years ago. Palla looked relieved, unburdened, as he was sure he looked when they had first met, when she had helped him put to rest his uncertainties and doubts about himself. They stood in silence after that, both looking at the grave of Palla’s king and Camus’s lover. He spent what felt like eternity staring at the memorial before him, and the cufflink upon it.
Michalis of Macedon
King, Warrior, Brother
He turned away with effort. “I would not want to keep the Altean Army waiting,” he said. “Of course. Neither would I. The three of us are due to return to our old allies in the morning. Will you accompany us?” she asked. “Of course,” he replied. He sighed, allowing his shoulders to relax, dropping his perfect posture for just a bit. “Good night, Palla. I appreciate what you have done for me.” She nodded. “Of course.”
~~~~~~
Things were fine, for a while. At first, he wondered if a mere mask and change of clothing was enough to hide his identity, but it seemed few, if none, of his allies could recognize him. In their defense, the Whitewing Sisters has spun a rather well made cover story for him, which Camus was eternally grateful for. But everything went to hell when the army fought one of the Sable Knights, Belf.
Belf had recognized him instantly, and made a point of declaring his identity to everyone in hearing range… which was most of Altea’s army. Ever since then, he was pestered with questions and watching by eyes trying to ascribe his identity. He began to keep to himself, in a vain hope to maintain his privacy.
Until one day, an announcement was made that Minerva had returned to the army, and had brought a guest. Est had found him, and dragged him to the courtyard of Macedon, where Minerva and her companion would be arriving. Camus had expected her companion to be her sister Maria, and so he was rather surprised when he saw two wyverns descending. Maria hadn’t learned to ride, had she?
But all his expectations were shattered when the two riders dismounted. There was Minerva, looking a bit tired but alright and… a man, with long red hair, bright eyes, and a proud expression. Camus’s heart leapt into his throat. Michalis? But he had died, hadn’t he? Camus wondered if this was a dream, but when Michalis had stepped forward, had paused in front of him as if attempting to ascertain whether he was a ghost, gazing into his eyes with a mixture of surprise, doubt, and relief, Camus decided that this was real.
And so when Michalis walked into the hallway, Camus had given a brief bow to excuse himself from three knowing Pegasus Knights and their very confused queen and followed Michalis to his quarters.
~~~~~~
They stood in dead silence. Michalis looked at Camus. Camus looked at Michalis. And after a good solid minute of silence, Michalis said one word. “Camus.” Camus nodded. “It’s been a while,” he said in response. Michalis took a deep breath. “May I?” he said, uncharacteristically quiet. Camus nodded again, and Michalis wrapped his arms around Camus, and Camus embraced him back, allowing himself to hold his lover, the man he had lost and found again.
“I thought,” Michalis began, pulling away just enough to look into Camus’s eyes. “I thought you had died. I thought I had lost you.” Camus didn’t reply, merely brushed a stray piece of hair behind Michalis’s ear. “What happened to you? How did you survive?” “It’s a long story,” he said. “Perhaps we should sit down.”
~~~~~~
Hours passed as Camus told Michalis everything, about his fight with Marth, about washing up in Valencia, on the verge of death, with no memories. About Tatiana, and about Rudolf, and about Alm. And he talked about his dreams, and his memories, and his interactions with the Whitewings, and finding out that Michalis had died, and how he grieved. And in the end he asked one question. “What happened to you, Michalis?”
Michalis closed his eyes, and he sighed. “Minerva could not kill me.” He paused. “She... she did not want to kill me,” he added, quieter. She knocked me down, and I fell. Fortunately, we were not high enough for the fall to guarantee death, but it was a bit too close of a call for my liking. Maria was the one who saved me. She healed me. She’s become so good at healing, I would have never thought she was the same cleric who had trouble even carrying a healing staff. After that we traveled around Archanea, searching for Alexandros.” “Alexandros?” Camus asked, confused. “I assume that’s your wyvern?” Michalis stared blankly at him. “Yes,” he said slowly. “You fed him chickens and he decided he loved you for life.” He sighed. “He’s almost like an overgrown puppy, really, when it comes to you. Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten.” Camus smiled wryly. “My memory’s not what it used to be.” Michalis sighed. “Anyway,” he said, pointedly. “Maria. She’s an angel.” He paused. “And now she’s missing. I must find her, Camus.”
Camus nodded in understanding, realizing the unspoken question in Michalis’s words. “I will aid you.” Michalis smiled gently, relief in his eyes. “Thank you. I assume with the mask you are hiding your identity? Though it’s not a very good disguise, I must say.” Camus nodded. “Yes, I am Sirius now.” Michalis hummed thoughtfully. “Camus, Zeke, and now Sirius. But remember this. No matter what name you take, you will always be the man I love.” Camus felt tears prickling at his eyes, but he blinked them back. “Thank you, Michalis.” He said. “I adore you.”
To his surprise and delight, Michalis blushed. “I… yes. It is late. We should sleep. Ah, Camus, Sirius, will you sleep by my side?” Camus smiled. “Of course, Michalis. It would be my honor and pleasure.”
~~~~~~
The war was won. But there was a cost. Michalis had fought Gharnef, nearly to the death. He had survived, through sheer determination. Camus had been by his side, holding his hand, trying his best to aid in his recovery, though Camus had very little talent as a healer. But he did know how to wrap a bandage if nothing else.
It was Maria, of course, who had saved him. “He’s my brother,” she had told Camus, when he tried to urge her to rest. “How could I not save him?” It mattered little to her that his wounds had long been healed, that the bandages he had been ordered to wrap were useless, but he did not protest.
~~~~~~~
Michalis had recovered somewhat. He could walk, though he was too weak to walk far, something he was not pleased with. Perhaps Maria had been on to something with those bandages. However, he enjoyed spending his time relaxing with Camus by his side, something he had told Camus before. But these days could not last forever.
Camus would have to return to Valencia. He had no choice, though it bothered him greatly. Archanea did not need a dead man. Michalis complained that he too was a dead man and Archanea seemed to be fine, but he understood. Camus was determined to repay the debt he owed to those in Valencia. He could not stay, though it broke his heart. And so Michalis let him go: with one condition. Michalis would be able to visit his in Valencia. And Camus accepted. In fact, he would have suggested such a thing himself.
And so, they took off on their journey. The days passed blissfully, speaking of anything and everything. Camus would rest against Michalis, and do his best to navigate while Michalis rested against him. But the days were over sooner than either would have liked, and soon they alighted in Valencia.
Camus had offered to show Michalis around, to introduce him to his friends and allies, but Michalis had to refuse, to his chagrin. Minerva had abdicated as soon as she could, explaining that however much she loved their nation, she was certainly not fit to rule it. Macedon needed its king, while it recovered from the war. But a promise was made, that he would meet Camus’s friends some day.
And another promise was made. Michalis had looked Camus in the eyes. “Let me remind you,” he said. “I don’t care if you die, or I die, or we both do. I will find a way to be with you, even in it takes me a thousand years.” And he sealed his promise with a kiss, sweet and tender, and it filled Camus with warmth. It was over too soon, and they both knew it. But Camus smiled and kissed Michalis on the cheek. “I will love you, Michalis of Macedon, beyond eternity.” He was rewarded with Michalis’s blush, and another kiss.
He watched Michalis go until he could no longer be seen. But his heart was no longer filled with longing. It was filled with hope.
~~~~~~
Camus awoke on a battlefield he did not know. He was disoriented. His body had broken apart, lost in the maelstrom that surrounded him, and he found himself in a wooded area, dressed in armor from years ago, Gradivus in hand. And he saw the enemy coming towards him, a young lord, a young lady, a woman who looked exactly like the shopkeeper of their world (maybe she was the shopkeeper from their world...) and a hooded figure. He knew what they wanted: his allegiance. And he knew he must challenge them to prove their worth.
The battle was long and hard, and in the end he was defeated. And so he offered his strength, as was the duty placed upon his shoulders when he passed through the maelstrom, and agreed to help them restore the balance of worlds. But he did not feel bad. He was happy to help them, happy to join these brave warriors in their fight.
And so he walked into the castle of the Order of Heroes with his head held high, pride in his face and posture. He took in the sight, the number of heroes who wandered the halls of the magnificent castle, and looked for someone he knew.
It did not take long. He heard a sound behind him, a warm voice, one he loved. He turned around to see his lover, his husband, Michalis, smiling at him, and he smiled back. Perhaps he looked like a lovestruck fool. Then again, he was a lovestruck fool. “May I?” he asked, wrapping his arms around Michalis at his affirmative nod.
“It took you long enough,” Michalis said, clearly overjoyed despite his words. Camus kissed him lightly, smiling as he pulled away to kiss his cheek. Camus chuckled when Michalis flushed. “You told me that you’d find a way to be together,” he said. “And it didn’t even take a thousand years.”