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I think I might have fallen in love with you.
It cuts Fugo’s breath at his Adam’s apple. It leaves his heart skipping beats. His brain buzzes in Plagal Cadence. F, A, C. Amen.
I think… I might have fallen in love with you.
But Mista is so much more than “you.” He’s Sir Percivale from George MacDonald’s Phantastes: a protective nature, a guiding hand, a deadly competency covered up with camaraderie. He’s Merlyn from The Once and Future King: a fountain of wisdom made obvious in his antics. He is Pygmalion (creative and a slave to his own heart) and Reepicheep (loyal and chivalrous) and Puck (mischievous and magical) and… and.
And Fugo might have fallen in love with him.
In fair Venezia, where we lay our scene.
Fugo thought he’d never be able to set foot in Venice again. At least, not without feeling sick to his stomach. Well… technically they’re not “in” Venice. They’re sitting on the roof of the new car, on a road in the middle of nowhere that Mista promises is the nowhere next to Venice.
(“C’mon,” Mista had said. “You’ll feel better. I promise.”)
(Professor Abraham Van Helsing. Someone who dispels monsters. Someone who wants to help as best he can, even though sometimes “help” is a stake. A beheading. A mouthful of garlic.)
Mista points at a different constellation, and Fugo thinks, again, I think I might have fallen in love with you.
“That’s, uh…” Mista squints at the sky. The sodium lamp highlights his far side in orange. The full moon casts stark shadows on the back of Mista’s head where the streetlamp can’t reach. “Camelo… something. It’s something long. Camelo…-opolis.”
Camelopardalis, joins the clog in Fugo’s throat. He read about that constellation somewhere recently. Something about a supernova.
“Mamma always called it the giraffe,” Mista says. “You know that part in the Bible when Abraham sent his servant to find a wife for Isaac, and the servant chooses Rebecca ‘cause she lugs water from the well not just for him, but for every camel he had with him?” Mista draws his hand back a little and repoints. “That’s the camel that carried Rebecca to marry Isaac. I don’t know where the giraffe thing got mixed in.”
Guido was a well-chosen name for him. He’s Guy from Ray Bradbury’s Fahrenheit 451: a collector of stories. Not just to entertain himself, but to share. Not because he thinks he has something to teach. Not because of some false sense of superiority. But because he wants to. He wants to with Fugo.
“And there.” Mista sweeps his pointing hand far to the left. Fugo’s not sure what he’s pointing at, but Fugo can feel the warmth radiating off of his bicep now. “One of those dots around there should be, uh… I think the planet Uranus. You know the important thing about Uranus in myth, so I’ll skip—”
Fugo panics at the thought of not having more words to hang off. He shakes his head.
Mista blinks. “Really? You don’t?”
Fugo nods.
“Shit, a’ight!” Mista chuckles good-naturedly and leans to bump shoulders. “Well, it’s not much. He’s a titan. His son with Gaia is Cronus. You know Cronus right?”
Stars dot his eyes white from above. The one sodium lamp out here, in the middle of nowhere on the way to Venice, lights him from slightly below. A light breeze kicks up, and Mista’s curls dance in time.
“You really gotta brush up on your mythos, man! Cronus is the one who had Poseidon and Hades and Demeter, but ate them to keep a prophecy from coming true. Zeus, Cronus’s last son, became, like, the head honcho cause Cronus’s wife outsmarted Cronus to save Zeus, and when Zeus grew up he beat the shit out of Cronus and saved all his siblings.”
Fugo nods along.
Mista stops there. His eyes flick around Fugo’s face.
“What’s up?” he asks. “You seem a little out of it. Tired?”
Fugo shakes his head.
“You sure?”
Fugo nods.
Mista leans closer. The smell of him—a woodsy cologne, mostly, undercut by the scent of skin—is intoxicating. Fugo wills himself to hold still.
“What’re you thinking about?” Mista asks.
I’m not sure who I am around you.
Fugo knows who he wants to be. Knowledge for the Guy and closure for the Van Helsing and a co-conspirator for the Puck and Aslan’s land for the Reepicheep and peace for the Merlyn and a squire for the Sir Percivale, and… and.
And if Mista is Pygmalion, Fugo would give anything to be his statue.
I think I might love you.
Mista squints closer. What used to be warmth from where they sat closest now feels like a hearth on every nerve of Fugo’s body.
“If you have a fever, you should rest.”
“I’m not sick, you idiot.” Fugo chokes the words out to keep them from getting caught in the clog in his throat.
Mista raises an eyebrow and smirks. But his voice is soft. “You totally are. I can feel your forehead from here.” His expression sobers a little. “You wanna try and catch some sleep in the back? I’m good to drive us the rest of the way.”
They’ve drifted closer somewhere along the way. Mista starts to pull away, and Fugo panics. He grabs Mista’s arm in an iron grip.
Mista looks down at Fugo’s hand on his bicep.
Mista looks back up.
His eyes are wide and a touch confused. A little hopeful, hopefully.
“Fugo?” Mista’s voice is the softest Fugo’s ever heard it.
Somehow, impossibly, his lips are softer. Like the clouds in an illustrated fairytale.