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When Luka opens the cupboard to grab a coffee mug, his hand hovers near the green one with a chip in the rim. He pauses to run his fingers across the exposed ceramic, remembering how Adrien once banged it off the faucet while washing it—and then he grabs a different mug and shuts the door, shutting the memory away as well.
He wishes his apartment wasn’t full of reminders, but it is: the chipped mug, the black bomber jacket hanging in the coat closet, the bathroom towel with the snag caused by Chat Noir’s claws. Luka knows that he could get rid of the things, clear away all traces of Adrien, except that would be like throwing away the instrument for a song he might need to play one day.
Because Adrien is supposed to come back, eventually—even though each day of waiting makes that feel like more of an impossibility.
Although Luka is a musician, the apartment has been too quiet for almost a year now. Each day, he comes home, and it feels like he has nothing to come home to. Outside the apartment, he has friends, a job, a life; but in the apartment, all he has are echoes of a song that used to be sung.
Sighing, Luka grabs his keys off the counter and heads toward the door, slinging his guitar over his shoulder as he does. Another day of trying to escape the silence, and succeeding for a few hours—and then evening will come, and he’ll be forced to confront the empty quiet of his home once again.
Even in its absence, though, he still remembers how the music started, and how it sounded before it stopped.
Loving Adrien was one of those things that began slowly.
A grace note when their hands first touched, a quiet sound that told Luka that Adrien would be important in some way—but too quick, too brief for Luka to understand how.
Then, the beginnings of a melody the second time Luka saw him, when Adrien laughed and smiled at other people, and Luka yearned to have Adrien turn that soft smile on him instead.
And the first time Adrien did, a sforzando: because instead of a soft smile, it was a bright toothy grin, punctuated with a snort, as Adrien guffawed at some stupid music pun Luka had made.
From there, Luka fell fast.
He wanted to see that smile again, and so he found ways to tease it out: plucking the Imperial March whenever Chloé approached, or making awful boat puns when Adrien came over to hang out. (The puns took Luka far too long to think of, and often prompted only a second of laughter, but even that one second made the effort worth it.)
And it worked. Adrien would smile, and be happy, and Luka’s heart would thrum in the presence of that joy.
Adrien did not fall fast. He fell in movements, motifs. Luka could feel Adrien’s song as he slowly felt his way through the stages of love, taking his time with each one. And Luka heard the motifs that came and went: you’re special to me and I’m happy around you, followed by a change of subject; and lips against cheeks, corners of mouths, a hundred almost-touches that made Luka hope—but then Adrien always moved on as if they hadn’t happened, the themes of love fading into the background.
Luka never let himself be certain, even when the song between him and Adrien seemed unmistakable. He forced himself to hang onto the questions: what if Adrien still loves her, or what if he can’t like me that way? The thoughts made their song less sweet, but Luka preferred it that way, rough and unpolished, a bit painful.
When Adrien was seventeen, he told Luka that he was Chat Noir. Back then, Adrien had still pined for Ladybug, and been forced to live with his father—and so, many nights were spent at the Liberty, sprawled on the couch or the deck, as Luka’s songs tried to soothe Adrien’s heartache.
Adrien offered to listen, too, if Luka was hurting; but Luka knew he couldn’t really confide in the boy he was in love with.
By the time Adrien turned eighteen, Luka was moving out of the houseboat, and Adrien was free in two ways: his feelings for Ladybug had settled into close friendship, and he’d finally managed to move out of the cold Agreste mansion.
Luka was tempted to ask Adrien if he wanted to share an apartment, but he also knew that he would have been asking Adrien for selfish reasons. So instead, he kept his mouth shut, and moved into his studio apartment alone.
A week later, Adrien moved into an apartment in the same arrondissement, a two-minute walk away from Luka.
First it was music sessions, where Adrien would stop at Luka’s apartment after his classes to unwind. Then lunch, sometimes—and Adrien would always arrive as Chat Noir, just to make the visits start a little sooner and end a little later.
“I’m pretty sure you’re misusing your Miraculous,” Luka once teased.
“Is it wrong that I just want to spend more time with you?” Adrien responded.
To race across the city for just a few more minutes together, though—Luka thought maybe that meant something.
Eventually, it was lunch every day, and then dinner most nights. And dinner led to staying over—with Adrien, a gentleman, always taking the couch. Luka was relieved, in a way. If they’d shared the bed, he would have been awake all night, painfully aware of each sigh that escaped Adrien’s lips, each expansion of his diaphragm, each twitch of his muscles.
Luka remembers the first time he woke up and saw Adrien sprawled on the couch in the morning, arm flung over the side, blanket tangled around his feet. There was something intimate and reverent about the moment, seeing Adrien just before sunrise in a way that only his lover should see him.
And when Adrien sat up and yawned, hair messy and eyes bleary, Luka abruptly turned away and asked if he wanted coffee, his face burning secretly in the dark apartment.
From there, it was nights spent full of longing, wondering how Adrien’s touch would feel against Luka’s skin—and mornings spent with hot drinks and pastries, cheery conversations, raspy laughs that eased the pain in Luka’s heart.
Adrien is loud in the mornings; his voice fills up the room, he talks quickly and gestures broadly, he noisily sips his coffee. Even when the sun hasn’t risen yet, his eyes are bright, and he acts as if he’s been awake for hours.
Luka is quiet in the mornings, moves silently and slowly, but every day, he basked in the warmth of Adrien’s presence—as if that was the real sun that signaled morning.
Sometimes Adrien stayed too long, and ended up skipping class just to spend the day with Luka. Those days, they would try (and fail) to bake recipes that Marinette had given them, or experiment with song ideas they had, or just lounge on the couch together while they watched stupid videos on their phones. Those rosy, timeless hours were Luka’s favorites, when spending the whole day with Adrien made him forget the inevitable heartbreak waiting in the wings.
After a few months, Luka gave Adrien a key to the apartment, just in case he wanted to visit when the windows were locked or Luka wasn’t home. And once he had a key, Adrien became a fixture in the apartment, just as much a part of it as the furniture or walls. When Luka opened the door, Adrien would be doing homework, or making food, or sometimes just napping on the couch—but as soon as Luka walked into the room, Adrien would rush over and greet Luka with a kiss on the cheek, oblivious to the way that made Luka feel.
It was one of those beautiful songs that was torture to play. Luka had tried to avoid this: the feeling of having Adrien when he didn’t actually have him. Because even though Luka’s heart reveled in the domesticity, he knew that it probably wouldn’t last forever. As much as he would love to hear this song every day for the rest of his life, there would come a day that he wouldn’t—a day when Adrien would shut the fallboard, and leave Luka with only fragmented memories of the melodies he’d played.
But when Adrien’s head rested on Luka’s shoulder as he dozed on the couch, or when he stole a bite of food from Luka’s plate, Luka didn’t think about that.
In those moments, it was all too easy to pretend.
Then there was the night that Adrien didn’t take the couch.
Luka told him good night and flicked off the lights, then collapsed into bed, biting back the words I love you. Some time later, though—while Luka lay awake and wondered what it would be like to have Adrien in his arms—he saw movement out of the corner of his eye, and watched as Adrien sat up on the couch.
“Adrien,” Luka said, sitting up. “What’s wrong?”
“I can’t sleep,” Adrien said.
“Do you want to talk?”
“Not really. It’s just…” Adrien sighed. “Do you ever get a bad feeling about something?”
Immediately, Luka threw off the covers and swung his legs out of bed. “What’s the bad feeling about?”
“No, no, don’t get up. I don’t know what it’s about.”
“You can come over here, if you want,” Luka told him.
Tentatively, Adrien crossed the room and perched on the mattress next to Luka.
“I’m happy, like this,” Adrien said, and the words hung potent between them, full of possibility. He might be happy, and want more—or he might be happy, and want things to stay the same. Luka braced himself for the worst, his fingers curling into the sheets. “And I’m afraid I’m going to lose it.”
“Adrien,” Luka said, “you’re not going to lose me.”
“Not you. It’s nothing specific,” Adrien said. “I’m just…not usually happy for this long. It feels like I’m due for something bad.” Before Luka could respond, Adrien shook his head and added, “I don’t really want to talk about it. I guess I’m just paranoid after years of fighting supervillains.”
He started to stand, and Luka reached out, fingers barely brushing against Adrien’s arm. “Do you want me to sit with you?” Luka asked. “Until you fall asleep?”
Even in the dim light, he saw how Adrien’s features twisted into a frown. “That sounds uncomfortable for you. But I could sleep on the floor next to you, maybe.”
“Sleep on the bed,” Luka said, even as the words cut his heart. Because eating every meal with Adrien, spending mornings and evenings with Adrien, was bad enough—but if Luka spent a night with Adrien’s warmth next to his, he would never recover. Not completely, once he knew what he was missing.
Silence, and a question flashed through Adrien’s dark eyes—and then he lowered himself onto the mattress again. “Are you sure?”
“It’s fine,” Luka says. “I don’t want you tossing and turning all night.”
Adrien laughed. “I might do that anyway. I’m not exactly a graceful sleeper.”
And so they positioned themselves in the bed, perched on opposite sides, each facing their own wall. As Luka stared into the darkness, he pictured Adrien behind him, soft hair fanned out against the pillow, the curve of his spine disappearing underneath the blankets.
After a minute, Adrien murmured something, too quietly for Luka to hear. Then, a second time: “Luka.”
Luka turned and found Adrien facing him, eyes shining in the darkness. “What is it?”
“I…think I need to be closer,” Adrien says. “I’m sorry—I—sleeping on the other side of the bed is just as lonely as the couch.”
Luka could have said no. He could have put his heart first, and declined—but he couldn’t, really. Not when Adrien stared at him with those soft eyes, and spoke to him with those soft words.
“Come here,” Luka murmured, and Adrien moved until his body was pressed against Luka’s, face buried against his shoulder. His arm hovered above Luka’s body for a few seconds, until Luka whispered you can touch me—and then Adrien hugged Luka’s waist and clung to him, as if Luka would tumble out of bed if Adrien didn’t hold onto him as tightly as possible.
Luka forced himself to keep his arms loose, afraid that if he returned the embrace too fervently, Adrien might sense his desperation. Adrien could realize that, as much as he clung to Luka, Luka was holding on even tighter, terrified that Adrien would slip away.
Adrien fell asleep quickly. Luka felt it when his breaths slowed and his body melted against Luka’s, his limbs becoming heavier, his grip becoming lax.
It was exactly how Luka thought it would feel, but a hundred times more painful—and in the end, he was the one who ended up lying awake.
After that, Luka wanted to confess to Adrien. Because when he woke up with Adrien’s legs tangled with his, and heard Adrien’s sleepy mumbles as he tried to get up, he thought that maybe this wasn’t something friends did.
It would have been so easy to ask Adrien to do that every night, to ask him to spell out where they stood. And Luka nearly did. In fact, one morning, as Adrien sat on a stool in the kitchen and Luka leaned across the counter toward him, he almost said, I love you, and I want to be with you.
Luka has never been good with words, but those would have been easy.
A few days later, though, it turned out that Adrien was right: the bad feeling did mean something.
Luka remembers the akuma battle that started out normally. He’d been glued to his phone, watching the livestream as he always did, heart aching for Adrien’s safety. Besides Ladybug, maybe, no one else in Paris ever felt the pain Luka did whenever Chat got injured during an akuma battle.
Following those battles, Luka would temporarily let go of his reservations, and give in to the temptation to touch Adrien, to hold him, to feel for himself that he was safe and sound—and Adrien always let him, collapsing into his arms without a fight.
Suddenly, the livestream cut off, and Luka was left in his apartment with a blank phone screen and a racing heart. He rushed into the street to catch a glimpse of the battle, forced to watch from the sidelines—because Ladybug and Chat Noir rarely used the snake, rarely gave Luka the chance to protect what was precious to him—and by the time he figured out what was going on, the fight was over.
First was the alert on his phone: Le Papillon had been captured and identified, but his identity was being kept anonymous for the first few hours to ensure the safety of his relatives.
Luka wanted to breathe a sigh of relief that the battle Adrien had fought for so long was finally over—except he had a bad feeling of his own, vibrating in his bones like a droning bass, telling him this is wrong, something’s wrong.
His phone buzzed, playing the tune of an anime theme Adrien liked, and Luka lifted it to his ear immediately. “Adrien?”
The line answered with a strangled sob, the only coherent words Luka and apartment. Keeping the phone held to his ear, Luka sprinted back home, murmuring reassuring words as he stumbled upstairs and fumbled in his pocket for his keys.
He found Adrien doubled-over on the couch, tugging at his hair as his body shuddered with sobs. And beneath the cries was one refrain: It was him. This whole time. It was him.
Adrien didn’t say a name, but Luka knew.
And once that happened, it wasn’t the time for a love confession. It was the time for holding Adrien as he sobbed and coughed, and for stroking his hair as he cried himself into throwing up—for urging him to drink water, and whispering words of love in the last situation that Luka would have ever imagined. I’m here with you. I’m sorry. You’re not him. It’s not your fault.
But not I love you—because that seemed opportunistic, somehow, to say it when Adrien would desperately accept anything Luka said. Sharing the bed seemed wrong, too; except in that case, Luka couldn’t bring himself to let Adrien sleep alone. Not when he knew how distraught Adrien was, having effectively just lost his father.
Luka isn’t even sure if they slept that night. He thinks it might have just been one long march, hour after hour, trying to keep Adrien from crying for a few minutes at a time. Luka did his best to text back friends as he cradled Adrien and stroked his hair—because somehow, everyone guessed that Adrien would be with Luka, as if they all agreed that was where he was supposed to be.
That night, Luka found no joy in the realization. What did it matter, where Adrien was supposed to be? Luka could only think of other things: like the fact that Adrien was supposed to be happy, and safe, and loved—not dealing with the crippling realization of what his father had been doing all these years, or the looming dread of how the entire city would react to the news.
The biggest struggle for Luka, those long heavy hours, wasn’t comforting Adrien; it was keeping his own tears at bay, as he gradually realized just how heartbreaking the situation was.
At one point, as pale morning light filtered through the windows, Adrien’s breathing deepened, and he went limp against Luka’s side. Luka’s body ached, and his stomach growled for food, but he didn’t dare move, not when Adrien had finally fallen asleep.
When the window blinds could no longer keep the sunlight out, Adrien stirred. Almost mechanically, he removed himself from Luka’s arms and rolled out of bed.
“Sorry,” Adrien croaked. “I have to go take care of some things.”
“I can go with you,” Luka said.
“No,” Adrien said. “Some of it’s as Chat Noir. I’ll be fine.”
And Luka watched, helplessly, as Adrien transformed and left through the window—feeling, deep down, that there was something horribly final about it.
Adrien didn’t come back for three days, and Luka didn’t ask. He had some idea of what was going on, thanks to media coverage—and that was awful in its own way, since no one’s personal affairs should be publicized like that. Luka watched interviews where Chat was uncharacteristically silent, and even Ladybug’s typical confidence seemed muted. He saw clips of Adrien Agreste answering reporters’ questions, mostly in terse words and repetition: I didn’t know. I’m glad they caught him. I wasn’t involved.
If Adrien hadn’t insisted that he’d take care of it alone, Luka would have stormed up to those reporters and grabbed their microphones, smashed their equipment. Rage boiled in his blood every time he saw someone imply that Adrien—sweet, kind Adrien, who had protected Paris for years upon years—might have been helping his father.
It didn’t matter if no one knew that Adrien was Chat Noir. How could anyone look at him and think that he was capable of something like that? And why couldn’t they see how the questions hurt him? Luka saw it in each and every video clip: the way Adrien’s face tightened, and his voice shook on the first word he said, as if he could barely hold back his indignation.
Luka wished Adrien would say something. But Adrien, even more so than Luka, has never liked confrontation—and so he took the reporters’ questions with a strained smile, and answered them politely, even as they shoved microphones at him like daggers.
The fourth day, as Luka lounged on his couch and obsessively scanned news articles, there was a knock on his door.
He didn’t even look through the peephole before flinging the door open. On the other side stood Adrien, face haggard, hair a mess—but his clothes still impeccable as ever, barely a wrinkle in his t-shirt and not a speck of dirt on his jeans.
“Adrien,” Luka breathed. “You…have a key, though.”
“It didn’t feel right to let myself in.”
Luka wanted to step forward and wrap Adrien in his arms, and yet, Adrien’s refusal to come inside made Luka’s feet root themselves to the floor. “You’re always welcome here,” Luka said.
Adrien nodded, avoiding Luka’s eyes. “I’m leaving Paris. Alone.”
Luka wasn’t even surprised. After finding out about Adrien’s father, and spending four days without hearing from Adrien—the longest silence in years, when he and Adrien had spoken almost every day—he’d expected something like this.
And still, pain coiled like a viper in Luka’s gut, ready to sink its teeth into him at any moment. Just a few more words, a thought, a memory, and Luka would feel Adrien’s news like fire in his veins.
“I understand,” Luka said.
“I don’t want to leave you,” Adrien said. He looked up, and his eyes shone with tears. “I just—the city is suffocating. I don’t feel like I belong here right now.”
I don’t feel like I belong here.
“Oh,” Luka said, heart shattering.
“I don’t mean here, with you,” Adrien added, which did little to soften the words. Because Luka was there, in Paris, and regardless of the reason Adrien left, the end result would be the same. “But everything is a mess. I can’t stay, and…”
“You don’t have to explain.”
“Luka,” Adrien whispered. “I’m sorry. There are so many things I should have said—things I should have told you, I mean—but I can’t say them now, not when I’m leaving, because…” His breath hitched. “I’m already hurting you, and telling you would just make things worse.”
That was when Luka finally knew how Adrien felt. The only thing that could hurt Luka like that would be a love confession, and Adrien was right. Losing him would hurt enough without hearing that he loved Luka, too.
How strange, that Adrien used to be so bold in love confessions when he loved Ladybug. With Luka, it had been years of unspoken love, uncertain love, only for Adrien to say it without actually saying it.
Luka opened his arms slightly. “Adrien—”
“I’m sorry,” Adrien said, and threw himself into Luka’s arms. “I shouldn’t have even said that. And I don’t expect you to wait for me. I…”
“Are you coming back?”
“Of course,” Adrien murmured. “I won’t leave forever.”
“Then I’ll wait.”
“I can’t ask you to do that.”
“You don’t have to ask.” Luka tightened his hold on Adrien and kissed his hair, tears stinging his eyes as fangs sank into his heart. “I will.”
Waiting often felt hopeless.
Luka had no way of knowing when Adrien would return, or if he would change his mind. If Luka was being honest with himself, during his last conversation with Adrien, they’d never actually cemented what they were. When Adrien eventually came back, it might be as a friend or a stranger, rather than a lover. So, as Luka always did when it came to loving Adrien, he prepared for the worst.
Each month felt monumental. People change enough as time passes—but each month that passed for Adrien was a month in the wake of tragedy. Adrien’s last few days in Paris had been spent putting one parent in the ground and the other in jail; how time might warp him after that, Luka had no idea.
Adrien either got rid of his phone or changed his number, because no one knew how to contact him once he left. He still haunted conversations, though. The mention of his name made a hush fall over any room, everyone’s face pinching with worry as they withdrew into themselves.
Luka withdrew into music. Not every song was about Adrien, but most were.
For Luka’s birthday—eight months after Adrien had left—Adrien sent him a handwritten card, the return address some P.O. Box in New York. It was the first time Luka had any idea where Adrien had been, even if he didn’t know where Adrien currently was.
He delicately held the card the first time he read it, afraid to damage it somehow. It consisted of a few short lines, written in Adrien’s familiar neat handwriting—familiar, because Adrien had once written grocery lists, and left notes on the fridge, back when he was still close enough to touch.
Eventually, though, Luka read it and reread it so many times that the corners became a bit crumpled, the crease flattened out, the ink in Adrien’s name smudged by a fingerprint.
Luka almost kept his life together. He played gigs, spoke to friends, smiled and laughed often. But he also woke up every morning knowing exactly how many days it had been since Adrien left. He hated that he kept track of that, and yet, his mind wouldn’t stop keeping count.
And no matter how many people or sounds Luka filled his apartment with, it always felt too quiet. He noticed the missing sounds all too easily: the silence in the bathroom, where singing should have echoed off the walls, and the stillness of the kitchen, where Adrien’s fork should have been scraping his plate, or his nails tapping his mug, or his early-morning laugh nearly waking the neighbors.
Nothing Luka tried was ever enough to replace those sounds.
Today, Luka’s feet feel especially heavy as he trudges up the steps with his grocery bags. All week, the days have flown by too quickly, bringing Luka closer and closer to the weekend—closer to the anniversary of Adrien leaving Paris.
Now, on Thursday, he’s got two more days to wonder if his heart can stand the arrival of the date.
Sighing, Luka sets one bag on the ground and digs in his pocket for his keys, keeping the other bag looped over his wrist. He pauses, like he always does—stupidly listening for whistling, humming, the oven fan, something—and when silence greets him, he turns the key and opens the door.
His eyes don’t understand the scene at first. Because it looks like Adrien is sitting on his couch, green eyes wide, a worn black suitcase sitting in front of the end table—and that doesn’t make sense, because Adrien is supposed to be gone, not waiting in Luka’s apartment.
Luka’s hand goes lax, and his grocery bag slips off his wrist and lands on his foot.
He hisses a curse and jumps back, nearly banging his head off the wall. His foot throbs where a can or jar nearly crushed his toes, and he thinks the pain must be making him hallucinate, because he could swear he hears Adrien yelp I’m sorry, could swear he sees Adrien jump to his feet.
And then he realizes it’s real. Adrien is here. Adrien came back.
Adrien starts toward Luka, but his foot catches on his suitcase, and he tumbles to the floor with a swear and a thud.
By then, Luka is finally moving, stumbling over his spilled groceries to kneel on the ground beside Adrien.
Adrien wraps his arms around Luka and tugs him into an embrace, squeezing so tightly that Luka’s chest can’t quite expand. And before Luka can say a word, Adrien is crying, warbling as he tries to speak through tears.
“Shh,” Luka says, clinging to him. “Take your time. I’m here.”
You’re here, he thinks, in disbelief.
After a few minutes, Adrien sniffles and pulls back. His fingers just barely brush Luka’s cheek as he says, “I’m never leaving again.”
“You might want to leave Paris eventually,” Luka points out.
“I don’t mean the city. I mean you.”
Luka blinks, stunned. It’s too much, all at once—as if he’s taken earplugs out, the long-silent apartment is suddenly brimming with life, loud with Adrien’s presence. He feels like his eyes and ears need time to adjust.
“I’m sorry,” Adrien says, running a hand through his hair. Luka notes that it’s longer now, falling messily past his ears. “I guess I don’t have a right to barge in here. Um, I asked Marinette for the address, since I didn’t know if you’d moved or—”
“Don’t apologize,” Luka says. He tentatively traces the line of Adrien’s jaw, fingers coming to rest lightly on his shoulder. “I want you here. I’ve always wanted you here. It’s quiet without you, and music doesn’t fix it, and…”
I need you here, he wants to say, but he doesn’t know if that’s too desperate.
“A few months ago,” Adrien says, “I realized that I was only halfway to being happy again. The city was suffocating, after everything with my father, and it was good to leave and get away from it all…” He shakes his head. “But I got away from you, too, and I realized a few months ago that I couldn’t stay away any longer.”
“A few months ago?” Luka echoes. He reaches up and tucks Adrien’s hair behind one of his ears.
“I didn’t know if I belonged here anymore,” Adrien says. “I didn’t know if I could walk into your home after abandoning you for so long—”
“Adrien,” Luka says. “This isn’t just my home. It’s yours, too.”
Adrien smiles wryly, fallen tears wetting his lips. “My name’s not on the lease.”
“You…” Luka laughs helplessly. “When I was first getting an apartment, I almost asked you to move in with me.”
“Why didn’t you?” Adrien asks. “I would have said yes.”
“Because I didn’t just want an apartment with you,” Luka says, “and it didn’t feel fair to ask when I…when I wanted more.”
Even now, Luka still can’t bring himself to confess; the moment always feels too soon, too late, and it occurs to him that maybe he’ll die before he gets to tell Adrien how he feels.
“I want more,” Adrien says, and Luka’s eyes widen. “That’s why I’ve been so afraid to come back these last few months. Because I didn’t know if you felt the same way, and—but I came back anyway, because I couldn’t let this last a year. I understand if you don’t, you know…”
“I’ll give you more,” Luka murmurs. “If you’ll let me.”
Adrien hugs Luka again, his fingers carding through Luka’s hair. “I should have asked you to come with me,” he mumbles. “You offered, and I turned you down, and—I realized a few days after I left what a big mistake that was.”
“I’ll always go with you,” Luka says. “Anywhere.”
“Thank you,” Adrien whispers.
“You don’t have to thank me,” Luka says. “I’m just happy that you’re home now.”
“This isn’t quite home, though,” Adrien says. He releases Luka from the hug, though one of his hands intertwines itself with Luka’s. “I mean, I love this apartment, and the memories we’ve made here, but—this building isn’t home, really. That’s not what I came back for.”
“What’s home, then?” Luka asks, hope flickering in his chest.
“You,” Adrien says. “Us. This.”
Luka hesitantly leans forward. He still can’t quite believe that after so long, his feelings might be returned—especially after Adrien left, which should have signaled the end of things. “Adrien,” he says. “What does that mean?”
“It means…” Adrien’s free hand cups Luka’s face, his thumb brushing Luka’s lips. “I love you, and I’ve been an idiot for the past five years.”
“I don’t think you’re an idiot,” Luka says. A dozen bottled-up songs roar in his heart, muddling his thoughts, but he manages to latch onto the most important ones. “I love you, too. I’ve wanted to say that for a while.”
“Can I kiss you?” Adrien whispers.
Luka’s tongue fumbles, unable to find the right words to respond—and so he leans forward and presses his lips to Adrien’s instead, his free hand curling in the fabric of Adrien’s shirt.
He expects Adrien to hesitate, after so many years of holding back, which is why he’s surprised when Adrien kisses back just as firmly. One of his hands tangles in Luka’s hair, tugging lightly, and Luka’s mind goes blank. He can’t believe any of this: that Adrien is here, that he loves Luka, that he’s kissing Luka.
But he is. That’s evident from the warmth of Adrien’s lips, slipping from Luka’s mouth to his jaw, then up to his cheek, over to his nose, as if Adrien needs to map out Luka’s face with kisses to believe that he’s seeing it.
Laughing, Luka tugs Adrien back to his lips. He presses forward, and Adrien leans backward, making them fall to the floor—but then Adrien grunts and mutters, “Ow. Suitcase.”
With a grimace, Luka sits back and realizes that Adrien has fallen on top of his suitcase, the handle probably digging into his back.
“Do you need ice?” Luka asks.
“I should be asking you that,” Adrien says, sitting up and rubbing his back. “Sorry for making you drop your groceries.”
Once again, Luka’s brain slows to a halt, and all he can do is drink in the sight of Adrien: sprawled on the carpet, a few golden strands of hair falling in his face, his smile even sweeter than Luka remembers.
He’s back. He’s here.
Luka wonders how long it will take for the awe to wear off.
“I love you,” Luka says.
Adrien raises an eyebrow. “So do you need ice, or…?”
Belatedly, Luka realizes that he didn’t actually respond to Adrien. “Sorry,” he says. “I’m still a bit shocked, I guess.”
“I love you, too,” Adrien says. He sits up and pecks Luka on the lips, and as he pulls away, Luka realizes that Adrien’s eyes are still a bit red and swollen from crying. “And I hope you get used to hearing that, because I need to make up for all the times I wasn’t here to tell you.”
“You don’t need to make up for anything,” Luka says. “It’s enough that you’re here.”
“Why settle for enough?” Adrien asks. “You know I’m an overachiever.”
“Will you stay the night, then?”
“I hope so,” Adrien says. “I didn’t book a hotel room.”
“Stay every night,” Luka tries, leaning forward until his nose bumps against Adrien’s.
“I’ll stay forever,” Adrien murmurs.
“Even when the lease expires?”
Adrien snorts. “I meant I’ll stay with you forever.”
“Good,” Luka says. He brushes his lips against Adrien’s in a featherlight kiss. “Because I was planning to stay with you forever, too.”
That evening at dinner, the silence in the apartment disappears. The place is alive with the ringing of Adrien’s laughter, with the notes he hums as he helps Luka chop vegetables, with the glass he breaks when he tries to lean across the counter for a kiss—and at last, it sounds like home again.