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B-52 had never been good at comprehending his emotions, let alone expressing them. After so many years being brainwashed to believe he didn’t have any, after so long spent convinced he was a worthless toy, a huge part of his recovery was simply learning to accept that he could feel. It was Brownie who had introduced him to metaphors—ways to talk about something intangible by comparing it to something solid, something real, something he could see or hear or touch. He found the concept fascinating, albeit almost as confusing as emotions themselves. Now, standing on the bridge overlooking the water as the sky above them burst into a thousand brilliant colors, he thought maybe he was beginning to understand.
“Brownie,” he said, wincing as another boom rumbled throughout the earth.
“Hm?” Brownie turned his head to look at B-52, standing beside him, then his eyes dropped to where B-52’s hands clutched the railing of the bridge. “Ah, is it too loud? Would you like to leave?”
“No, I’m okay.” He took a deep breath, focusing on the feeling of his lungs filling with cool clean air. “It is… really loud, but I think I can deal with it.”
“You’ll let me know if it’s too much, won’t you?” Brownie had to raise his voice to be heard above the clamor of the fireworks, but somehow his tone remained gentle, comforting. “I don’t want you to be nervous or uncomfortable. Festivals are meant for enjoying yourself, after all.”
There it was again—that burst inside his chest, warm and glittering and ever-expanding, and his heart beat louder than anything until it was all he could hear. He lost his breath. Again he sucked in air, struggling to stay calm as his head spun.
“I’ll let you know,” he managed.
The fireworks went on, but now he turned his attention to Brownie. In the golden light his face seemed to shine, and B-52 couldn’t tear his gaze away; he drank in Brownie’s cheekbones, his long eyelashes, his lips. When Brownie looked back at him, he saw the fireworks reflected in the depths of Brownie’s eyes, and again B-52’s heart pounded. Brownie opened his mouth as if to say something—whatever it was was lost in the noise, swallowed up by the smell of gunpowder and fire and the river beneath their feet. Brownie stepped closer.
“Did you want to tell me something earlier?” Brownie asked, meeting B-52’s eyes. Normally he couldn’t stand eye contact—now he couldn’t look away. He watched the mirrored fireworks, flashing and pulsing into stars and snowflakes and hearts, a million shades of blue green gold, and for a moment he was sure he’d forgotten how to speak.
“I did,” he said at last. “Remember you told me about metaphors?”
“Yes.” Brownie tilted his head in confusion, though he responded without missing a beat. “Why do you ask?”
“Uh.” B-52’s mouth dried up. Brownie was standing far too close to him. Out of the corner of his eye, he watched, as if in a daze, one white-gloved hand inch towards his own. “The… the fireworks.”
“What about them?” Brownie’s voice was soft now. The noise of the fireworks seemed to have faded, and B-52’s heartbeat faded with it, and now there was only Brownie.
“They’re—” Fumbling for words, he grabbed Brownie’s hand and clumsily pulled it to his chest. “You—you make me feel like I have fireworks inside my chest.”
Brownie’s eyes went wide. B-52 saw, reflected, a huge burst of glimmering red that came together into a beating heart. Brownie didn’t speak, nor did he pull away—B-52 felt his pulse where one finger lay against B-52’s shirt.
“Oh,” Brownie breathed. “I see.”
“I’m sorry,” he said, and released Brownie’s hand, but Brownie didn’t move away. On the contrary, he uncurled his fingers and pressed his palm flat against B-52’s chest. “Did I—should I not have done that?”
Brownie shook his head, and then he smiled and said, “I don’t mind at all,” and B-52’s lungs allowed him air once again.
Slowly the noise of the fireworks returned, and the cool air against B-52’s skin pulled him back to reality. He felt as if he were waking from a dream. It wasn’t a dream, though, because—because Brownie was still holding his hand to B-52’s chest and still looking at him with a funny expression and B-52 still felt incredibly warm. Even when the festival ended, even when they met up with Napoleon and made their way home, even as B-52 lay in bed that night replaying that moment over and over in his head, the fireworks in his chest continued, and his heart continued to beat stronger than ever. He pressed his own hand to his chest as if searching for the ghost of Brownie’s touch. Finally, finally, he could put a name to the way it made him feel.
“Fireworks,” he whispered into his blanket, pulling it up over his chin and closing his eyes, picturing Brownie’s smile and flushed cheeks and how gentle his eyes were when he looked at B-52.
That image stayed with him through the night, and he slept better than he had in months. He dreamt of Brownie—his face and the lights and the river, and the fireworks going off all around; in his dreams he moved closer and his lips met Brownie’s. When he awoke, he couldn’t help but think he would very much like to do that in reality someday.