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Galo digs into his food like the sloppy, ravenous beast he must’ve been in a previous life.
Lio smiles over at his expanding disaster zone and cuts into his own slice of pizza with a knife. A real knife, stainless steel, part of the utensil set he insists on bringing when they go out for pizza or burgers or hotdogs. Lio eats every traditionally handheld food with a knife and fork, a quirk Galo has trouble wrapping his mind around. Bread is merely a vessel by which culinary delight travels; pizza crust is a built-in handle! Lio apparently doesn’t know the unspoken rules of pizza because he eats the crust which Galo honestly considers sacrilegious. He doesn’t understand his boyfriend sometimes.
Not only does Lio eat pizza wrong, but he holds his fork strangely as well; tines downward, held steady by his index finger pressed on the neck.
Lio is weird.
“Pardon?”
Galo swallows his mouthful before attempting again. “I said, ‘Why do you hold your fork like that?’”
“Like what?”
“You hold it, like, upside down! Lemme show you-“ He makes grabby hands at Lio, who sighs and relinquishes the fork. Galo flips it over so the prongs face upward and holds the handle with his whole fist. “See? This is how normal people hold forks. It’s so much easier to shovel it all in!” He mimes scooping just in case Lio doesn’t get the idea. “And you use your left hand too, why? You’re right handed!”
Lio stares at him, eyes never deviating from their trajectory. “Galo…” Uh oh. That’s the tone Lio uses when he calls him a blockhead. “The way I hold my fork is correct. Continental style. It’s proper etiquette.”
“Wait…” Galo squints. “There’s a right way to hold a fork?”
“Well, if you subscribe to a set of rules created by pompous old men to further the class divide, then yes, there is a right way,” Lio says. He pinches the end of his fork and wiggles it out of Galo’s grasp so he can cut off another piece of pizza. “Don’t put any stock in it, it’s all bullshit. Believe me.”
“If it’s bullshit, why are you doing it?”
Lio criss-crosses his utensils on his plate and pats his grease-shined lips with a napkin. “It was taught to me as a child. It’s what feels natural. Can you pass the red pepper flakes?”
Galo ponders over another bite of pizza what Lio’s childhood might have been like. He already knows about Lio’s life after he presented Burnish. Lio spares him the bleak and gritty details, opts to give synopses and loglines rather than screenplays. Galo can’t conceptualize the breadth of Lio’s suffering or the residual anguish that clings to his coattails, but he knows it exists. That’s okay with him. He doesn’t need to know everything.
It had taken pointed time and effort for Galo to understand how Lio communicates things that are hard for him to say. Lio trusts him with the stories of his life, he really does. He divulges on occasion. But more often than not, Lio shows before he tells. And despite the disjointed way Lio reveals snippets of experiences, Galo has noticed the obvious absence of information that spans from his birth to the day he emigrated to America, eighteen and alone. It’s like there’s a wall that prevents Lio from dredging up stories from that time. He’s hinted that familial strife prompted him to leave England. But that’s all Galo has. Hints.
Galo has absolutely no idea what Lio’s life was like before he was an adult.
“Lio,” Galo says. “What was your childhood like?”
Lio freezes. Eyes dart around the table, fingers curl in on nothing. “Galo, you must be aware how loaded that question is.”
“Well, I don’t mean all of it- Not that bad stuff, you don’t have to tell me that, not yet at least-“ The wary expression on Lio’s face reminds him to slow down, stop word-vomiting, easy easy easy. He inhales, counts to three. “I didn’t know there’s a “right” way to eat. If someone cared enough to teach you…” Galo tapers off, hesitant to make an assumption. “We were really raised differently, huh?” Lio tilts his head down in acknowledgement, an incomplete nod. “Sorry, you don’t have to tell me anything. I didn’t mean to pry."
“You’re not prying,” Lio says softly. “But I think you’re getting the wrong idea. I wasn’t taught this,” he gestures to his fork and knife, which Galo now realizes are laid in a purposeful way, “because my parents cared. It was mandatory. Everything I did was mandatory,” Lio picks up his utensils to aggressively saw off another bite.
“What was that like?” Galo asks, eyes following the movement of Lio’s hand to his mouth. Tines downward.
Lio chews carefully. “My childhood was routine,” he says. “Regimented. Oppressive.” Galo frowns at the progressively negative list. “Every aspect of my personality and behaviors were nitpicked until I had no idea who I was.”
“That doesn’t sound like much of a childhood.”
“It wasn’t,” Lio admits. “I had to go to dinners and balls and galas for no reason other than to represent a legacy I had no hand in creating.” Lio stabs his fork straight in the middle of his pizza and leaves it there. “All that time I wasted in finishing school, and for what? It has no bearing on my life anymore.”
“Do you think you could show me?” Galo asks ahead of himself.
Lio purses his lips. “What do you mean?”
“Well-!” Galo starts. “It sounds like you had a lot of training on how to be fancy. Maybe you could catch me up to speed? I know I don’t have the best table manners…” They both look down at the carnage of his own creation, bleeding viscera of cheese and sauce splattered across his plate. “You must be embarrassed to be seen with me, huh?” Galo startles at the clatter of silverware when Lio slams his hand flat on the table.
“No, Galo,” Lio says sternly. “I am never embarrassed by you. I would never want you to change yourself.”
Galo reddens. “I-I just thought it would help me understand you better. That’s all. I’ll drop it, I’m sorry Lio.”
“Oh, Galo.” Lio settles back and Galo exhales a breath that was starting to burn the bottom of his lungs. “I don’t have any qualms showing you what my childhood was like. But I know you’ll hate it. I hated it, and you have way less patience than me. No offense.”
“None taken,” Galo grumbles. It’s true and he knows it; he’s bouncing his leg right now to ease away nervous jitters. He digs the blunt edges of his nails into his his palms to ground himself. “It doesn’t matter if I hate it or if you hated it. You lived it, so I want to know about it. I want to know about you, and why you’re you, you know? Did I say “you” too many times? I think I said “you” too many times.”
“Galo, Relax.” Lio takes Galo’s hands so he can squeeze them instead. “It’s not a strange request. I’ve just never shown anyone that part of my life before. Well, except Meis and Gueira, but even they got the abridged version.”
“I can handle anything you throw at me!”
“I know you can.” Lio drops one of Galo’s hands to pluck a forgotten crust off his plate and take a bite. “It’ll be a challenge to find something interesting enough to show you. Most of my time was spent stuck in tutoring.”
“Tutoring? Were you rich or something?”
“Yes.”
“Well, you don’t have to tutor me! Just teach me some manners.”
“Okay.” Lio pulls out reams of napkins from the holder and flings at Galo’s face. They flutter down in front of him harmlessly. “Lesson one: wipe your face once in a while.”
Galo draws the back of his hand over his chin and it comes away with a red smear of sauce that had likely been there for the whole conversation. “Aww man.”
“You’re lucky you make a cute little barbarian,” Lio says. He hops off his stool and stomps feeling back into his feet. They always dangle and cut off his circulation since he’s too short to touch the ground. “I paid, can you tip?” He wipes off his utensils and tucks them into their portable plastic pouch.
“I’m not done!”
“You can finish it when we get home. It's almost 8 and I'm not about to miss The Bachelor."
Galo sighs and flags down a waiter to bring him a to-go box.
Galo whistles a cheerful tune on his stroll through Promepolis’ downtown park. The late afternoon sun still shines proudly through its waning descent towards the horizon. Flowers lean towards it, lushly packed into the landscape, and healthy green grass rustles in the hot breeze. A wave of summer heat cusps skin, dry enough to not raise sweat. Children laugh and chase each other, elderly couples feed pigeons out of their palms and relax on the newly installed benches. Galo revels in a splashback of secondhand pride. All of this, only possible because of Lio’s hard work.
Most of Lio’s job revolves around necessary reconstruction efforts, to rebuild what was destroyed and put the city back together piece by piece. Lio worked hard to restore Promepolis to its “former glory” (city officials’ words), but it was a daily reminder of the disparities and hardships that still linger in the community. Promepolis pre-Parnassus was institutional, streamlined, business-oriented; the urban planning sacrificed recreation for efficiency. Lio’s proposal to make room for a number of parks was the first venture that undercut his vision of the city. Lio had cut the ribbon at the opening ceremony with scissors longer than his torso, back when grass seeds still laid dormant under a layer of straw and before freshly planted flowers were in bloom. Galo may or may not have cried from his spot in the crowd, watching Lio usher in a new chapter of healing for Promepolis with one snip of those giant scissors.
Speaking of, Galo sees him now. He jogs over to where Lio is waiting on the bench, eyes closed in a picture of peace, hands folded on his lap and recharging himself with sun rays on exposed skin.
“Lio!” Galo shouts. Lio starts. He blinks a few times and rubs the last frames of a dream from his eyes. The glaze clears and Lio relaxes when he focuses on Galo.
“Ah, Galo. You startled me. I was just resting my eyes.”
Galo doesn’t comment on how he was clearly fast asleep, lest he invoke a lecture on how he’s always on high alert. “I got your text,” Galo says instead. “You want to teach me how to play ‘croakette?’”
“It’s pronounced ‘croquet,’” Lio says. “But yes, if you’re up for it.”
“I thought that was a sandwich?”
Lio stares. “That’s croque-monsieur.”
“Who?”
“I can’t tell when you’re joking or not anymore,” Lio says. He sighs when Galo answers with laughter. “Do you want to learn or not? It’s a game I played frequently in my youth.”
“Oh. Oh!” Galo had forgotten that delving into the facets of Lio’s childhood was a thing they were doing. His burning soul ignites anew at Lio’s offering. “Of course I do!”
Lio smiles at his enthusiasm. “I thought you’d say that.” He brings a long wooden mallet from behind the bench and places it in Galo’s hands.
Galo tests it out by swinging it in a slow aerial circle. The weight of it puts an immediate strain on his arm muscles, an uncomfortable twinge of this-isn’t-right. “Damn, this thing’s a heavy hitter!”
“It’s croquet, not cricket,” Lio says. “You’re getting your games mixed up. Did you ever watch Alice in Wonderland?”
“Oh!” Galo lowers the mallet to the ground and swings a wide golf arc. “Like this?”
“Close,” Lio says. “You don’t need that much force, you’re just knocking a ball through those.” Lio points to a series of small wire wickets spread in a diamond across the grass. “Here, we can practice.”
Lio wraps his body around him from behind. Hands clasp around Galo’s and nudge them into the correct position. “Legs apart,” Lio mutters and knees the back of Galo’s thigh to goad him into a widened stance.
Galo warms at the proximity, at Lio’s chest pressed up against his back. At least he can blame the sweat beading down his neck on the heat of summer.
“You swing it in front of you, between your legs. Bend your knees.”
“This doesn’t feel right,” Galo says, squatting with Lio form-fitted around him like one of his skin-tight gloves.
“You’ll survive.”
Lio guides him through a few practice swings and explains the basic rules before extricating himself. He drops a heavy ball in front of him so Galo can practice a few goals on his own.
“That’s the gist of it,” Lio says after Galo finally angles a ball through one of the wire hoops. “There’s more rules but I can explain as we go. Ready for a real game?”
“I guess so,” Galo says. “Alice in Wonderland made this look a lot more exciting.”
“True,” Lio admits. “I’ll be the Queen of Hearts. If you lose,” he mimes a finger dragging across his neck, “off with your head.”
Galo is not one to back down to a competition, especially against Lio. He grins, reinvigorated. “You’re going to eat those words, Fotia!”
Galo loses steam after fifteen minutes.
It turns out that croquet is not the type of game Galo likes. He likes sports with high intensity and sweat and contact; something with higher stakes, maybe a little danger. He knows Lio does too. Galo is confused as to why he chose to teach him this instead of rugby or something.They might as well be playing shuffleboard for as much movement this game requires.
“Show some sportsmanship,” Lio chides at Galo’s tasteless attempt at a trick shot that is undoubtedly against the rules.
“How can I show sportsmanship when I’m not even playing a sport?” Galo whines. “This is just like pool, just about angles and techniques and boring stuff!”
Lio raises an eyebrow at him. He leans on his mallet and crosses one leg, toe pointed in the grass. “Pool is a sport. So is croquet.”
“Not a real one!”
“I think you’re just upset I’m winning,” Lio says, words laced in sardonicism.
“Hey, this isn’t over! The tides might turn in my favor!”
The tides did, in fact, not turn. Galo mopes on the bench and watches Lio pull wickets out of the ground, cleaning up after his total victory.
“I didn’t realize how satisfying it would be to mop the floor with you. I’ll have to ask the treasury if they can divert some funds for an archery set so I can experience this again.”
Galo slides further down the bench. “You should ask them for footballs so I at least have a chance of beating you at something!”
“Ugh, Gueira already showed me that game. A little homoerotic, is it not?” Lio stands in front of him, wickets and balls and mallets in arm. “Stop pouting and help me carry these back to the rental facility.”
The haloed rays of the sinking sun crown Lio in a sanguine glow. Galo has to look away before he says something silly.
“So,” Galo says on the journey back through the park, “You have fun?”
“What? Oh, no,” Lio says. “I hate croquet. God, it’s boring.” Galo nearly cracks the sidewalk when he almost drops the croquet balls.
“What? Lio, what?” He stops to rebalance the equipment in his hands. Lio doesn’t wait for him, and he jogs to catch up. “I hated it too,” Galo gripes freely now that he’s aware he won’t hurt Lio’s feelings. “C’mon, Lio. You must’ve known I wouldn’t like this sort of thing.”
“This is what you signed up for,” Lio quips. “You wanted to know what my childhood was like. Well, here it is. Boring as hell. Even the games I played were an underhanded way to get me to sit still and be quiet.”
Galo can’t conjure a response to that. His chest constricts a little knowing Lio spent his childhood in a drawn-out purgatorial slog. It wasn’t particularly egregious like his Burnish days, but bad in its own droning, flat, mediocre way.
“You said you’re the Queen of Hearts, but you’re more like Alice, aren’t you?”
Lio shoots him a curious glance. “What are you talking about?”
“Well, she didn’t have any control over what she did. Someone always told her what to do. Y’know, eat this, drink that, change places. Plus she had to be polite and curtsy and everything. That’s kind of what your life was like, isn’t it?”
“Hm.” Lio’s gaze is caught in the trees and carried in the sway of leaves, backlit by a swath of warm orange light. “I suppose it's a fair comparison. I did feel like my imagination was the only place I could escape to. I read a lot of books.”
The sun dips further into the horizon. The last light frames Lio’s face, highlights the upturn of his nose and shadows the curve of his cheeks. Galo manages to shift all the croquet balls into the crook of one elbow and wraps his free arm around Lio’s shoulders. Somewhere in the recesses of his mind he vows to do everything in his power to make this chapter of Lio’s life the best one yet.
“Hey, can we make cheese toasties when we get home?”
“You’re still thinking about croque-monsieurs?”
“I have been this whole time.”
Lio sighs. “Me too.”
Galo tugs the bottom of his navy jacket, scratches the back of his neck, smooths down the collar on his button-up. He can’t stop fidgeting, severely out of his element amongst the coiffed hair and pocket squares and ball gowns and three piece suits.
Lio nudges his arm. “Stop fussing. You look fine.”
“You didn’t tell me it was gonna be fancy fancy!” Galo whisper-whines.
Lio had pulled him aside at home earlier that evening. “Remember how I said we were going on a date tonight?” Galo deflated, prepared to hear Lio had taken on extra work again, visions of a romantic evening out swirling down the drain. “Stop making that face, we’re still going out, it’s just more of a… learning excursion.”
“You’re taking me on a field trip?”
Lio had laughed, light and airy. “Sort of. I signed us up for an adult cotillion class.”
“A what?”
“You’ll see. Put on something nice, we’re leaving in ten.” Galo obeyed with a groan, contemplating when where and how Lio wrapped him entirely around his finger. “If you come out in that tuxedo t-shirt I’m leaving you on the side of the road.”
Galo had tried hard to look presentable. He even put on a tie, a tie, drudged up from the back of the closet, rumpled but serviceable. Lio said he looked nice; a rare compliment from someone who usually bemoans his fashion choices. Which, to be fair, primarily consists of the same four basketball shorts in constant rotation. Regardless, he’s out of place and underdressed in a blazer and dark wash jeans when everyone here looks straight out of Downton Abbey.
Lio is equally underdressed, but he somehow still drips with opulence. A white chiffon blouse drapes off his frame in ruffles that cascade down the front and bunch neatly where it’s tucked in. His sleeves hang loose and poof out where they cuff tightly at the wrists, and his black slacks are cut just high enough to expose thin ankles. Standard black leather boots were exchanged for a pair of oxfords Galo has never seen before this night. Lio is elegance incarnate.
“Everyone else is tryharding. Come on,” Lio says. He cups his hand around Galo’s elbow and leads him to a table. Place-cards with their names printed in curling script are propped up on the tiniest plates Galo had ever seen. Lio sits without preamble and unfolds his napkin, laying it across his lap with the fluidity and ease of an action repeated a thousand times over.
Galo prides himself on his ability to check his brain at the door and go boldly forth, diving headfirst into any unfamiliar territory. But somehow, here, aware of the sheer magnitude of rules that exist for him to unwittingly break, he’s apprehensive.
“Galo? Sit down.”
Galo sits, muscles stiff and unrelaxed. He runs his fingers across the swath of thick fabric, more dense and lux than the flimsy brown paper napkins he’s familiar with. He tries to imitate, attempts unravel it with the same finesse, but Lio halts his shaking hands with a small touch.
“Hey,” Lio murmurs. “You don’t have to be nervous. It’s a class, everyone is in the same boat. You’re fine.”
The thump of a tapped microphone blares out speakers placed around the room. The chatter quiets, everyone turns to the front of the room. The event MC, a mature woman in a pressed pantsuit, stands poised at a podium onstage. “The first course will be brought out in a moment. But your job as a polite dinner guest has already begun.” She motions to the audience with a sweeping arm gesture. “The first rule of etiquette is to be respectful to your dining companions. Talk to your neighbor, get to know them.”
Galo turns to Lio desperately, but he has already turned away to chat up the man next to him. I’m not a crutch, don’t use me as one.
“Hello.” A hand enters Galo’s periphery. He turns to the young lady beside him; red hair swirled into a beehive atop her head, shoulders set rigid, an anxious smile. “I’m Cybele. Pleased to meet you.”
“Galo.” He is deceived by her decorum when she clamps his hand in a vise-grip, wrenching it down once, twice, three times too many before letting go.
“What brings you here, Mister Galo?”
Galo rubs some feeling back into his fingers. “It’s complicated.” He glances over at Lio who is in the midst of a polite laugh. “Just trying to learn something new. You?”
This flips a switch in her. An incensed sigh leaves cherried lips and she throws an arm over the chair back. “Obligatory job excursion. I work in sales. Tinted glass for commercial buildings. You wouldn’t believe how many old businessmen need a dinner date before buying a window from you.”
An unexpected bark of laughter leaves Galo’s mouth at the jejune barrage of information. He relaxes.
“Hors d'oeuvres are coming around now. This is the only course you will use your hands to eat,” the MC directs over the burble of smalltalk.
Waiters descend upon the table, passing out small pieces of toasted bread slathered in an unknown substance. Galo suddenly understands the tiny plates. He sends Lio a furtive look, not quite sure if this is a trick, if he can really eat this with his hands. Lio pops one in his mouth, whole, and shrugs. Placated, Galo follows suit.
“Speaking of using your hands,” Cybele says, “you think the MC is single? Hubba hubba. Total mommy material.”
Lio glances at Galo sidelong as he chokes on his crostini.
Soup comes around in short order, and it’s news to Galo that there’s a spoon specifically invented for soup eating. He scoops it away from himself how MC instructs, still not one hundred percent on how this is more polite.
Galo grimaces when the liquid hits his taste buds, thin, bland, and disappointing. Lio muffles a laugh in his sleeve beside him.
“This soup isn’t very good,” Galo whispers.
“Of course it isn’t. It’s watered-down broth,” Lio says. He swirls the liquid around with his spoon, directing little tsunamis in his bowl. He’s stalling too. “They had to make enough food for what, two hundred people? This is the easiest place to cut costs. It’s just for educational purposes, anyway.”
“Oh.” Galo searches the room for a fern close enough to dump it into.
“It’s rude not to finish your food.” Lio sips the diluted liquid from his spoon, expression relaxed in perfect practiced impassivity. “Drink up.”
“Right." It's going to be a long night.
The rest of the class passes in a blur of rules and do’s and don’ts and you should’s and you shouldn’ts. Pass to the right. Don’t lay used utensils on the table. Salad fork to your left. Galo can barely keep this overload of information in the front of his brain long enough to put it into practice, but Lio smiles at him when his fingers fumble around his fork as he struggles to remember which-o’clock he should rest it on his plate because he’d much rather hold Lio’s hand under the table than eat lettuce any day.
By the time dessert rolls around Galo has gained substantial confidence in his fork wielding abilities. He also snags Cybele’s number to pass onto a certain mech technician, and it’s not because Burning Rescue is in the market for tinted windows.
“If you’ll all follow me to the ballroom, we can begin the second portion of our evening. We’ll be learning the basic box step,” the MC says over the scrape of silver against porcelain.
Galo stuffs the rest of his cake in his mouth as the room swells. Lio takes one last languid sip of coffee before he stands, completely unhurried.
“What was that?” Lio responds to Galo’s unintelligible grunt, staring down at him expectantly. Galo swallows. It’s rude to speak with your mouth full, after all.
“There’s more?” Galo asks, nearly inaudible beneath the bustle of the herd collectively shuffling towards the door. “Box step? Isn’t that dancing? We have to dance?”
“Of course,” Lio says like it’s obvious. “Every gentleman needs to know how to dance.”
“I’m not a gentleman!” Galo whispers with great fervor. “And I can’t dance!” He really can’t. The furthest Galo’s dancing prowess extends is shaking his ass whenever YMCA comes on the radio at work, and Aina has expressly informed him that can’t possibly be classed as dancing.
“You’re lucky I’m letting you be my partner. I saw you making eyes at the redhead.” He smiles at Galo’s stuttering denial, I only have eyes for you, Lio. Galo’s anxiety eases, if only a fraction, at Lio’s little bird warble of a laugh.
Galo succumbs like he does with everything that involves Lio. There’s no other person on this planet he would stand here with, surrounded by affluence, wearing jeans and converse on a ballroom dance floor, waltz music washing over them in metered pulses.
“Lio.” Galo’s eyes shift around the room before settling on his partner. “May I have this dance?”
Lio angles his chin down and flutters his eyelashes, demure and bashful. A truly fatal ruse. He offers his gloved hand, dainty and practiced. “You may.”
Galo accepts Lio’s offering delicately. He’s surprised by the antsy energy sparking up his nerves, the tremor in his hands. He actively restrains from tapping his foot. It’s been years and Lio still makes a mess out of him.
“Nervous?” Lio asks, coy smirk gracing his lips.
“Gentlemen, you will be the Lead. Ladies, you will be the Follow.”
“Uh,” Galo says.
“I’ll lead,” Lio murmurs and slides his hand underneath Galo’s jacket to hold his waist. Galo tenses at the innocent contact and lays his hand on Lio’s shoulder. The sheer fabric catching on his calloused skin makes him hyperaware that his palm is overheated and clammy and must be in Lio’s hand too. Lio gives it a comforting squeeze.
The MC is giving directions and step orders but the words fall muted on Galo’s ears. All he can focus on is Lio uttering a hushed set of instructions, just for him.
Lio presses his weight into every touchpoint, tacitly urges Galo’s body to conform to his will. Galo steps back on instinct. Lio is a good Lead; he doesn’t use force, just gentle bodily direction. He sweeps Galo to the side, falls back so Galo steps forward-
“Sorry-!”
Lio smiles, a small inward tick of his eyebrow the only indicator he felt Galo all but stomp on his toes.
They haltingly complete a few squares of motion. Galo picks up fairly quickly, though he attributes it solely to Lio’s precision. He takes steps of equal distance and counts for him, a mumbled one-two-three just loud enough for Galo to get lost in. Soon enough they move fluidly as a unit, a far cry from the faltering and driftless box from their first attempt. Judging how the rest of the room fares, it’s safe to say Galo has an unfair advantage in the Lio department.
“You’re doing so well,” Lio coos, voice low and rumbling in a deep register. “Can I spin you?”
“Lio,” Galo whines in long, drawn out vowels. “You’re showing off.”
“I want to show you off,” Lio says, sliding his hand down the curve of Galo’s waist to his hip and guiding him under his outstretched limb. Galo struggles to duck underneath the arc of Lio’s short arm while keeping their hands connected. Galo flounders through the spin and Lio receives him on the turnaround, drags him flush against his body, and leaves absolutely no room for Jesus.
“Lio, I think we’re making a scene,” Galo says, pierced by hawk-eyed stares from other couples on the dance floor.
“Do you care?” Lio asks, hand drifting further down his hip and dipping into unspeakable territory. Galo sucks a breath. Lio leans up and kisses him. Yes, with Lio licking the lingering flavor of chocolate cake off his teeth, they are definitely making a scene. And no, Galo can’t bring himself to care.
“You wanna get out of here?” Lio asks after they uncouple, still close enough for Galo to feel the words aspirate hotly against his skin.
“Yeah,” Galo breathes. Lio tugs him by their still-joined hands and they sneak out of the room, as discreetly as a sexually-charged duo fresh from a flagrant public make-out session can.
They stumble through lengthy corridors, hands never separating, giggling like a pair of teenagers sneaking off during the prom after-party. Nervous as he was before, Galo hadn’t paid attention to the layout of this intricate building, to the path they traveled when they entered. Lio doesn’t seem to remember the way out either. They press on, falling deeper in deeper into the building, through winding hallways that twist and convolve in an endless maze. They take turns opening doors to check for the elusive exit, finding many empty rooms, a few that are not. They run off laughing when they accidentally disrupt a few events, a delirium so starkly different from the prim and proper they mimed all evening.
Galo does a double take into one of the rooms after a cursory glance. He pushes the door open further and pulls Lio with him. “Galo, we can’t, not here-“
Lio’s words ease off and he stills at Galo’s sudden change in demeanor. They take hesitant steps into the extravagant gallery. Romanesque columns line the room and stretch from the glossy floor to the ornate wood paneling of the high ceiling. A grandiose chandelier hangs from the center, candelabras dripping with crystals. Glimmering beams of warm light spiral off the fixture and frame a lone grand piano; sleek and black, lid open to expose its internal workings, gold plated and lined in red velvet.
Galo slowly drops Lio’s hand, slow steps amplified tenfold in the vastness of the empty hall. He sits on the bench. Closes his eyes, just for a moment. His hands drift over the fallboard. He pulls it open and 88 black and white keys stare back at him.
Lio’s approaching footsteps resonate up and around. “Do you play?”
“Not really,” Galo answers. He slides a finger down an ivory and presses lightly. The lone note echoes before whispering off in a slow decrescendo. “We had a piano like this in our house. When I was a kid,” Galo says, testing the unfamiliar words out in his mouth. He has just as much trouble talking about his past as Lio does. “My mom played.”
Lio sits on the bench beside him, attuned to the atmospheric shift. “What kind of music did she play?”
Galo absently presses another note. “Mostly pop songs. Nothing too difficult. I always thought she was great, though.”
“I’m sure she was.”
Galo smiles, something distant and beautiful, eyes glossed with the touch of faraway memory. “She taught me something once, hold on…” Lio smiles in recognition at Galo’s clumsy beginner’s rendition of Heart and Soul. “I only know the right hand,” he says sheepishly. “My mom played the left hand.”
“I’ve got you,” Lio murmurs. He sidles up next to Galo. Arms press together. He waits for the end of the bar and jumps in seamlessly to round out the missing syncopation.
Galo only knows the first two measures of this song, just enough to complete the musical phrase. Lio adapts quickly, only messing up once when Galo timidly repeats the only part he can play. He doesn’t hesitate after that.
There is more to this song, a chorus and a bridge and a second verse and an ending. But they sit and play the initial tune over and over, hands working in tandem to build and rebuild the same melody on endless loop. They play and play until their fingers start to cramp and they fumble notes and laugh at each other’s mistakes and then finally, finally they grow tired of the same notes reverberating off the domed ceiling. They fall off the keys in a mutual decision and revel in the pure silence. Arms still pressed together.
“Let me guess,” Galo says, breaking the silence. “You took piano lessons as a kid?”
“Mmm.” Lio’s head collapses onto Galo’s arm. “I always did better with stringed instruments, though.”
“Pianos have strings.”
“Don’t get smart,” Lio snarks without any bite behind it.
Galo laughs before a realization hits him. “Wait, Lio, how many instruments can you play?”
“I’m pretty good at violin and cello. Mediocre at flute. I can play a few songs on harp.”
“Harp, Lio? Harp?”
“Pretentious as hell. I know.” Lio rolls his head off Galo’s shoulder and stretches, the cracks and pops of his joints echoing ominously in the spacious hall. He catches Galo’s eyes with his own when he settles, glittering in amethyst and quartz. They assess each other for a moment. Lio leans up and kisses him, gentle and chaste.
He pulls back and regards Galo carefully. “We can get a piano if you want,” he says, softly voiced consonants sticking to his teeth. “If it helps you remember.”
“Thank you, Lio.” Galo doesn’t accept or reject. He’ll have to sleep on it.
“Okay,” Lio says with a nod of finality. “Ready to look for the exit again?”
“Yup,” Galo says and they stand. Hands seek out each other, innate. They leave the ballroom behind them.
“I really have no idea how to get out of this place,” Galo says as he closes the door. He glares down at the dizzying tessellated tile flooring.
“We could pull the fire alarm and see which way people run.”
“Sounds illegal.”
“Lots of things are illegal.”
“Lio!”
“Ahhh,” Galo sighs after he kicks off his dress shoes. He sprawls on the couch and loosens his tie in a gratuitous display of relief. “I’m beat! I couldn’t have taken another minute of that!” He unbuckles his belt, pulls it out from the loops, and drops it to the floor with a flippant flick of the wrist. Lio pensively roosts on the arm of the couch.
“I’m sorry. Did you really hate it that much?”
Galo exhales a cautious breath. “I didn’t hate it, it’s just…” He grasps at the air like it will bequeath him the right verbiage. “Not me.”
Lio smiles. “I know.”
“Hey, just because you’re so fancy doesn’t mean- Whoa!” Galo scrambles to catch all of Lio as he hurls himself onto the couch from a running start. He doesn’t weigh much but they both emit an oof on collision.
“I know that it’s not you,” Lio says after he settles. “It’s not me either.”
“Wait. It’s not?”
“Hell no.” Lio peels off his gloves and slings them over the back of the couch. Hands freed from their confines, he pops open the first few buttons on his blouse and breathes like it’s his first time encountering oxygen. “Why else do you think I bought myself a plane ticket the instant I became a legal adult?” he asks rhetorically, stretching like a cat over Galo’s broad form. He releases the tension from every muscle in his body and drops stomach to stomach on his human mattress. “Best birthday present ever.”
Galo places tentative hands on Lio’s hips. They make a small reverent journey up and down his sides in time with the rise and fall of Lio’s breath. “You never told me that,” he says softly. “That you left on your birthday.”
“Hm?” Lio pulls away from where his face was colonizing Galo’s upper chest as a pillow. He turns to face him and rests his cheek on his collarbone. “I didn’t? I guess I lose track of what I tell you and what’s inside my head. It feels like you’re already in there.”
Galo holds Lio tighter, a tangible way of saying I feel the same way.
“Your parents,” Galo starts. “Do you know if they’re alive?”
Lio twists his mouth into an apprehensive line. Galo pats his lower back in reassurance. He’s okay. He can handle this now.
Galo had cried the first time Lio told him he was purposefully estranged from his family. It hurt Galo somewhere on an intimate level, confusing and unfair. It’s difficult for him to understand that Lio is content to not have a relationship with his parents, not when he still aches when he imagines the storybook life he’d have if his own were still here with him.
But Galo is not foolish. He knows Lio loves deeply, and his loyalty runs hot and intense. Lio has never gone into specifics about why he permanently cut off his parents, but based on the picture of his childhood Lio has been painting, Galo can come up with a few potential reasons. He knows Lio must have done it out of absolute necessity.
“I don’t know,” Lio eventually answers. “I didn’t change my name, they could find me if they wanted to. I’m sure they’ve heard about the whole “saving the world” thing. If they’re alive, they haven’t tried to contact me. And if they’re dead, they’re dead.” There’s a blunt honesty in his words, an objective acceptance.
Galo smiles, small and sad. He knows there’s a lot more Lio hasn’t told him, memories and hypotheticals far more painful than this. There are days when he comes home after therapy, tense and exhausted and quiet. A wordless exchange tells Galo to just hold him, help ground him in the wake of whatever he’s reliving. Galo doesn’t need to know everything. He helps in other ways. He’s here when Lio needs him, and that’s enough.
“Did you ever regret it? Leaving?” Galo asks.
“Nope,” Lio says, and that’s that.
The metered tick, tick, tick of the analog clock is the only indicator of passing time. Galo might fall asleep here. The warmth generated from every point of contact and the calming weight on his chest coalesce in a melatonin cocktail, and he’s dragged down, down.
“You know, I was starting to get worried,” Lio says, cutting through the fog.
Galo has to blink sleep away, force it to recede. “Mmmbout what?” he says, still wading through the thick syrup of sleep.
“I don’t know. About you,” Lio says. “Tonight, I mean. You were so determined to go through with everything. I thought it would be funny to see you out of your element,” Galo pokes his fingers into Lio’s side in revenge, “but it just felt bad to see you so uncomfortable. It reminded me of how uncomfortable I always was. I never wanted you to feel like that.” Lio swirls his fingers on Galo’s pectoral. “I’m sorry.”
Galo covers and holds down Lio’s moving hand with his own. “I was fine, Lio. There’s a difference between trying something for one night and being forced to do it for years.”
Lio sniffs, heavy and slightly clogged. “I guess so.” Galo smiles and continues rubbing Lio over. “Please forget everything I taught you. It really is bullshit, all of it.”
“I already have!” Galo says proudly. As if there was ever a chance he would absorb any of it in the first place. “You should give yourself the chance to relax too! How about this: I’ll forget all that high class nonsense, but only if you at least try to eat pizza the way it’s supposed to. It’ll be freeing! You’ll love it!”
Lio hides his grin away in Galo’s shoulder. “I suppose I could give it a chance.”