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Chapter Text

We had planned to spend the night in the mountains after meeting Cheadle’s parents at the hotel, but neither of us felt up to it. Cheadle was finishing a paper for a conference submission, and I was tired after a string of night shifts in the hospital. It was early evening when we started the long drive home. Cicadas groaned in the trees, and the spring air smelled sulphury and electric. 

“Do you really have to do that in the car?” I asked, glancing at Cheadle’s laptop as she typed furiously. “Aren’t you carsick?”

She shook her head. “I need to get this draft out by tonight.” 

“I know, but…” I trailed off. “Is everything okay? Did I fuck up?” 

“I need to work, Leo,” she said brusquely, brushing her hair out of her face. “Can you turn the wipers on?” 

The sky had gone a menacing dark purple, and fat raindrops spattered against the windshield. Cheadle had a thing about driving in the rain. “I can manage,” I said, flicking on the wipers. “Focus on your paper.” 

 I replayed the afternoon as I drove, trying to pinpoint where I’d gone wrong. I’d been nervous to meet her parents for the first time, overdue as it was. We’d already been engaged for over two months. We met them for a late lunch in the restaurant of their hotel lobby, me sweating through my best (and only) suit, Cheadle looking crisp in a green gingham sundress. Mr. Yorkshire, a mild-mannered retired banker, said maybe ten words to me the entire meal. Apparently this was normal, because Mrs. Yorkshire, or Tricia, as she insisted I call her, talked non-stop through four courses of bland Indian food, telling me story after story about Cheadle as a baby, Cheadle winning chess contests at 6, Cheadle getting full scholarships to every university in the country. Cheadle had blushed and grumbled through the meal, picking at her vegan curry, but I thought it went fine overall. Tricia kissed me wetly on the cheek when we left, and Mr. Yorkshire offered me a papery handshake, smiling behind his pale mustache. 

“Are you sure it was okay with your dad?” I asked, unable to contain myself. “He was so quiet.” 

“He’s always like that,” she said, fidgeting with her emerald engagement ring. “My mom never lets him get a word in.” She jumped as a truck passed us with a noisy splash. “Jesus, Leorio, you’re driving like a maniac. Would it kill you to slow down?”

“I’m going five under the speed limit. Would you prefer to drive, my dear?” 

She glared at me over her laptop screen. “You know I need to finish this.”

“Of course, of course,” I replied, irritated. “Nothing could ever compete with your research . How could I forget?” 

It came out meaner than I meant it. The rain was hammering against the car now, but I heard her sniffle. I softened. “Hey. I didn’t mean it. It was just — it’s been — stressful. You know. I want your parents to like me. Given that we’re betrothed and all.”

She was silent for a long stretch of road, staring at her hands. Night was falling quickly, and the mountains grew dark and velvety on either side of us as the rain lashed the windows. A panicky upset tightness crept up my throat. 

“Can you please say something?” I tried. “Look. I know I don’t have money like your parents, but –”

“It has nothing to do with that,” she said sharply. “You know that.” 

“Then what is it?” 

“I think,” she began, her voice brittle, “I think that we need to take a break.” 

My heart dropped into my stomach. “What? Why?”

She was crying now, and closed her laptop with a click. “I’m not saying forever, okay? But ever since….it’s just…Leorio, I know this has been hard. But I don’t think we can keep this up right now.” 

My eyes blurred with tears. I pulled into a rest stop and parked underneath a hulking magnolia tree. 

“I cared about him too, you know?” she continued, wiping her nose. “Pietro was my friend too. But now it’s like he never even existed. You haven’t even said his name once.” 

There it was. I had known all day this was coming, I had felt it in my gut, and yet it still stung to hear her say it out loud. All the fight went out of me. I leaned my cheek against the cool window. 

“It’s hard,” I said quietly. “It’s only been two months. This is always hard on couples, right? We have to lean on each other.”

The rain slowed to a trickle as a chorus of frogs sang in the underbrush. She took a deep breath and twisted a strand of hair around her finger, her nervous habit. 

“I’m taking a job with the Wasserman lab. I accepted the offer this morning.” 

I blinked. “Wait, what?” 

“I’m sorry,” she said, and blew her nose. I felt hollowed out, too stunned to speak. “I’m leaving for New York in two days.” 

“You already got a place?” I said numbly, turning to look at her. Her face was wet and red. “Seriously? Were you gonna tell me before you moved out or let me figure it out myself?” 

“I’m sorry, Leo,” she repeated miserably. “I need space to think. It’s not personal.”

“Not personal,” I echoed, and exhaled a weary laugh. “Heh. Sure. Of course not. It’s all business with you, isn’t it?” 

To her credit, she did not rise to the bait. We said nothing more as I started the car and drove the remaining twenty miles home to our apartment. My apartment, I corrected myself in my head, watching her silently lug her duffel bag out of the trunk and traipse inside. 

“I’ll sleep on the couch,” she said as we stepped inside the dark entryway, peeling off our shoes. “And tomorrow the movers are coming.” 

I had nothing left to say, and raised my hands into the air before letting them fall. After Cheadle had showered and gone to bed in the living room, I drifted upstairs into the den, unable to face my empty bed. Everything in this room was exactly as it had been the day Pietro died. I hadn’t had the energy to clear out the twin bed or the nightstand with his plastic water jugs and pill organizers. Cheadle had asked, several times, whether Senritsu could come over and help us clean, but I ignored her. I’d be ready in a few weeks. A few months. I sighed and picked up one of Pietro’s books. He’d loved Tom Clancy and John Grisham, all those cheap airport thrillers, and I’d gone nuts in the months before he died collecting old paperbacks from thrift stores and garage sales until they lined every surface of the room. He hadn’t even been able to read for the last couple of weeks once the tumor hit his optic nerve. 

Really I was only mad at myself. I couldn’t even blame Cheadle. I knew things had gotten out of hand. “But why’d I have to meet your parents?” I asked the books, irate. “Really? You couldn’t have told me this on the way there?” I imagined Pietro smirking at me, his eyes glinting in the darkness. What do you know , I thought, scowling, but then I felt guilty and left the room abruptly.

Cheadle was nothing if not efficient. By the time I was making my first espresso the next morning, she had removed every trace of herself from our small apartment. Two pimply Italian teenagers filled a moving truck with boxes as she hovered around, biting her nails when they carried out her expensive microscopes. Once the truck was packed, I watched as she hesitated in the doorway of Pietro’s room, her eyes alighting on the dusty stacks of books and medical equipment. 

“Will you be okay?” she asked, turning towards me. She looked genuinely concerned, and I deflated. “Call me if you need help. Or call Senritsu.” 

“It’s okay, Cheads. Don’t worry too much. And congrats on the lab. Really.” 

Her face crumpled. We both cried into our sleeves for a moment before she kissed me on the cheek and left, leaving behind a whiff of her juniper perfume. When the door closed, I stood in the sunlit kitchen for a long time, feeling the emptiness of the apartment. It wasn’t even nine in the morning. The day yawned ahead of me, bright and flat. 

“Well,” I announced to no one. “Looks like it’s just us now.”

Thankfully I was scheduled for an evening shift in the emergency department later that day. I got to the hospital much earlier than I needed to, and spent the thirty minutes before my shift drinking a cup of instant coffee in the stairwell and chatting with Gary, my favorite charge nurse. We were halfway through a spirited discussion about the latest Barcelona soccer game (fútbol, excuse me) when he dropped the bomb. 

“It sucks about the budget cuts,” he said, rummaging through a bag of radioactive orange Takis. “We’ll miss you around here. You were the only good scribe. All the doctors liked you.” 

I froze, a Taki halfway to my mouth. “Gary. The what now?”

“Oh, shit,” he said, wincing. “Did you not get the email yet?” 

I pawed at my scrub pockets for my phone and pulled up my email, cursing the bad service in the basement. “God dammit Gary. You know why I’m here early? Because my fianceé moved out this morning.  You’re telling me I just got fired?” 

“Ah. I’m sorry, bro. Hey, maybe you can take a nursing assistant class. I do the hiring, you know? The pay’s not bad.”

“I needed this for my med school application, though. I was gonna get letters of rec from the doctors. Fuck,” I hissed, finding the incriminating email. “Here it is. Medical scribe program disbanded, effective immediately. Hospital wide.” I looked up at Gary in disbelief. “What the fuck? Why? Did you hear anything?” 

“Man, we all got pay cuts too. It’s an admin thing. The ER never makes any money. I thought you knew already.” He hung his large bald head. “Seriously though. Think about the assistant gig, right? You’d be good.” 

“Yeah,” I said vaguely, but my mind was going a million miles an hour. I couldn’t afford to take a nursing class right now, and I definitely couldn’t afford to be out of a job all summer. Signing up for the MCAT and buying all the practice books had drained my anemic savings; that and Cheadle’s ring, a $3000 hit I’d be microdosing in installments for the next nine months. “Guess I’ll see you around sometime.”

“See you,” Gary echoed mournfully, waving as I drifted down the hallway and buzzed myself out. The parking lot asphalt steamed into the night as an ambulance trundled past me, lights and sirens going full tilt. I was so dazed that I barely stepped out of the way in time.

“I shall arrive with copious intoxicating substances within the hour,” Zepile announced the second I picked up the phone. I had sent him a pathetic text informing him of my recent life failures. Thankfully he recognized it as a cry for help and called me immediately. “Do not concern yourself with matters of finances.” 

“Good auction day?” I asked, pulling into my apartment complex. The sight of Cheadle’s vacated parking spot immediately zapped a chill through my testicles and heart. I wrenched my gaze away and tried to remember what Zepile was selling this week. “You still doing colonial plates?”

“Oh, God, no,” he said vehemently. “I got bored with that. Plus they’re ugly. I’m onto medieval instruments now. I am up to my ears in rare lutes if you ever feel the yen to acquire one for a reasonable price in the low thirteen thousands. Tequila or vodka?”

“Both. Whatever. Paint thinner,” I said, stumbling into my apartment and kicking off my sneakers. “Thanks.”

“Don’t mention it! Of what use is a companion if they cannot provide solace during times of darkness?”

“Sure. Hey, Zep, why are you talking like that?” I asked, opening my fridge. Cheadle had taken her weird vegan dips and probiotic elixirs, leaving behind my protein shakes and cocktail garnishes.

“Oh, I dunno,”  he said, dropping his unctuous tone and sounding like his usual Jersey self again. “The lutes are rubbing off on me or something. Or maybe it’s the fumes from the wood varnish I bought. You got any food there?”

“Not really. Two jars of pickled onions and something that may have once been a carrot for Halloween. If you bring a pizza or something I’ll pay you back.”

“Roger that.” 

An hour later we had polished off the better portion of the tequila and all of the pizza (anchovies and green pepper, Zepile’s disgusting favorite). We sat across from each other at the rickety kitchen table, both of us leaning back in our chairs and engaging in various balancing maneuvers. Zepile popped a soggy onion into his mouth and chewed thoughtfully towards me, eyes narrowed.

“So. Forgive me if this is too personal, but did she leave the ring?” 

I drained the icy dregs of my margarita. “It’s not. And no. She didn’t. I don’t know if this is final, you know? As far as I know we’re taking a break.”

He regarded me with pity, his magnificent eyebrows drifting towards one another like ice floes. “I see. A break.” 

“What do you mean?” I asked, churlish. “You know we’ve been together for almost a year, right?” 

“Are you sure there’s not someone at the lab, or something?” He poured me another slug of tequila. “I promise I’m not trying to be nosy, but this all happened kinda out of the blue, no?”

A beetle was flinging itself against my kitchen light fixture over and over. I watched it for ten seconds, distracted by the sound of its glossy shell striking the glass. Within the past minute I had become very drunk, and I struggled to articulate my thoughts. “Yes. But then – no. I dunno. Man, you weren’t here for everything with Pietro. You did see some of it, but when it was only Cheadle and me here, after his mom left, it was really hard on her.” I paused to suppress a wave of anchovy-themed nausea as Zepile listened intently. “I swear I’m not even mad at her. Although I will say I have no idea why she introduced me to her parents yesterday. I can’t really make sense of that.” 

“Yeah. Maybe she hadn’t made up her mind until the end.” He emitted a gentle belch. “Damn. Anyways. This all fucking sucks. Hang in there, buddy.” 

After that we were too drunk and tired to enjoy conversation. As we cleaned up the kitchen and chugged glasses of water, I privately wondered whether it was worse or better if Cheadle chose to leave at the eleventh hour rather than something premeditated. Either option seemed equally painful. I decided to ponder this another time, as it was becoming clear that I needed to evacuate my gastric contents before going to bed. Once Zepile was snoring on the living room couch, I crept into the upstairs bathroom and barfed up four slices of pizza and six margaritas. I brushed my teeth and gargled mouthwash until I felt human again, sensing the presence of raised eyebrows behind me. It lingered as I turned off the hall lights and crawled into my unmade bed. 

Not a good look, Leo. 

Acutely aware of the possibility that I was maybe going crazy, I gave a small shake to dispel the ghost Pietro cynicism. I know, I know , I answered, pressing my hands to my aching temples. Tomorrow won’t be so bad. Cut me some slack. Before long I had fallen into the staticky half-sleep that passes for rest while intoxicated. Unsurprisingly, Pietro and Cheadle followed me into my uneasy dreams.

Zepile left for work early the next morning. Feeling the gorilla of my hangover crouched on my chest, I tried to stay asleep as my bedroom filled with buttery sunlight, but eventually I admitted defeat and dragged myself into a cold shower. I had decided somewhere during the night that today would be the day I found a new job, and my conviction was so strong that it was a surprise to wake and find that I hadn’t applied anywhere yet. After getting dressed in clean clothes and forcing down a piece of toast, I settled myself at the kitchen table with my laptop to hunt for jobs. 

The problem was that it was summer, and I was sort of overqualified for the usual temp work. Ideally, I’d find something healthcare-adjacent to tide me over until the fall when I’d take my MCAT and start preparing my medical school application for the following year. I drank a cup of cold coffee as I scrolled through listings, trying to keep an open mind. I could work in a nursing home for $9 an hour, but getting the required certification would take months and put me out $1500: not an option right now. A private science tutoring company was hiring, but they expected you to drive long distances to students’ homes seven days a week. The gas alone would keep me in the red. I emailed a handful of my old biology professors asking if they had any openings in their labs over the summer, but I knew how research work paid, and wet lab benchwork was stultifying. Worth a shot, at least, I thought as I fired off another email. Sighing, I ran a hand through my hair. I had $347 in my bank account and couldn’t afford to be picky. 

The kitchen was growing hot and stuffy. Yawning, I decided to take a walk into town to eat something and cheer myself up before resuming the search. In my pocket was a gift card to a mediocre local cafe gifted to us by one of Cheadle’s friends when Pietro died. One of the few upsides to losing your closest friend was that people sent you stuff. At least I could get some free avocado toast out of the deal. 

Mourning doves cooed in the shrubs as I meandered downtown. The air was green and humid and sticky, and I started to sweat immediately and rolled up my sleeves, wishing I’d worn shorts. It felt good to walk. For a minute I entertained the notion of going for an evening run later through the mountain trails, but by the time I reached the train tracks my limbs were tired and leaden. I wondered, not for the first time, if I would ever feel energetic again. Since Pietro’s death, the simplest tasks left me exhausted. 

The cafe was nestled on a tree-lined block on the east side of town between a yoga studio and an art gallery. As I walked, my eyes were drawn to a garden center on the corner. The sidewalk in front of the shop was cluttered with lush jungle plants, and large feathery ferns spilled out of the open windows. I had paused to touch the waxy leaves of a spiky bird of paradise plant when I became aware that a small dark-haired man was watching me. Feeling like I’d been caught doing something illicit, I straightened up abruptly. 

“Strelitzia reginae,” the man said, smiling. He was a good two feet shorter than me, and wore thick glasses which reflected the milky sunshine so that the lenses were almost opaque. “Are you looking for anything in particular?” 

“Oh,” I said, rubbing my neck, “not really. I guess I never noticed this place. How long have you guys been here?”

“Takayama’s Flowers has been in business for twenty years. Can I help you find something?”

Over his shoulder, the store was devoid of customers. He watched me expectantly, still smiling, and I felt trapped. “Well, actually, I’d like a houseplant. How about one that doesn’t need too much light. Or water. If you have that.” 

“Certainly. Right this way!” he said happily, and gestured for me to follow him inside the store. The door opened with a jingle, and I entered a chilled damp darkness to see a surprisingly large room filled from floor to ceiling with potted plants. As the man crouched down to examine one of the plants, I closed my eyes and enjoyed the rich scents of fertilizer and mulch. 

“How about this pothos?” the man asked, displaying a glossy bundle of leaves tucked into a wicker basket. “You can’t get lower maintenance than this fellow. What do you think? $40 with the pot.” 

“It’s really nice,” I said, hesitating. 

“You only need to water him once a month!” he continued, eyes widening behind his glasses. “And I’ll repot for free if he outgrows this one.”  

“I really like it, but I’m tight on cash right now.” 

“We have plastic pots! What about $30 with the plastic pot?” He scurried behind the counter and brandished a blue container at me. “More water resistant anyways. What do you think?” 

“I have to be honest,” I said, holding up a placating hand. “I just lost my job. I can’t buy a plant right now.” 

“You should have said so!” he exclaimed, and pointed to a sign posted near the register reading HIRING NOW. “What do you think? Part time, $15 an hour. Discounts on everything in the store.” 

I swallowed. This was not exactly the meaningful healthcare job I had imagined. The man waited, bouncing up and down on his heels. I knew nothing about plants, and this job would have no significance on my medical school application. Still, $15 an hour wasn’t terrible, and it was air-conditioned and peaceful here. Maybe it wasn’t a bad idea. 

“In that case,” I began, scratching my chin, and he clapped his hands with excitement. 

“Excellent! We can do an interview tomorrow morning. Bring your resume. Is eight all right? I’m Wing, by the way. It’s a pleasure.” 

I shrugged inwardly. What else did I have going on? “Name’s Leorio. Sounds like a plan,” I told him as he shook my hand with unexpected intensity. As I left the store, momentarily blinded by the sunlight after the dim interior, I wondered if perhaps he was too eager to hire me. What had I signed up for? I reassured myself that I could always turn down the offer after the interview if it seemed sketchy. At least now I wouldn’t have to change diapers in a nursing home all summer. 

I ate my avocado toast and returned home with a spring in my step. After the plants and sunshine, my apartment felt stifling and messy. I grabbed cleaning supplies and tramped upstairs, thinking that I’d use my newfound mojo to tackle Pietro’s room. I started by gathering up the tattered paperbacks and piling them into three large cardboard boxes, sneezing through the clouds of dust stirred up by my exertions. Because I knew I’d forget if I didn’t do it right away, I loaded the boxes of books into my car so I could donate them next time I was out. Nose running, I returned upstairs and sprayed every surface with Lysol and wiped a rag over everything until it shone. I’d need Zepile to help me dismantle the twin bed another day, but removing the books and grime made the room less tomblike. Satisfied, I collapsed on the couch. 

The apartment was so quiet. I could hear the whine of a neighbor’s lawnmower through the open window and birdsong in the trees, but the only sounds in my home were the ticking of Cheadle’s analog alarm clock and my own breathing. I wondered if Cheadle had started work yet, and almost picked up my phone to call her before the realization hit me like a sack of rocks. We hadn’t set any limits on communication, but I hadn’t heard from her since she’d left. I was proud enough that I refused to be the first to reach out. The sky was bruised and lilac by the time I went downstairs to make dinner.

My interview the next morning was clearly nothing more than a formality. I arrived five minutes early to find Wing waiting on the sidewalk with two cups of coffee. His white button-down shirt was jauntily untucked on one side. 

“Thought you might need this,” he said, handing me a coffee and ushering me into the store’s verdant interior. “Let’s see what you’ve got for me.” 

Stifling a yawn, I produced my printed resume and handed it to him. He scanned it briefly before setting it aside with a pleased expression. 

“So you’re studying medicine, I take it?”

“That’s the plan. I seem to be sidetracked right now, but I’ll apply for school next year.” 

“Not to worry.  I don’t expect you to stay on past the summer. When can you start?”

“Whenever, really. Today, I guess,” I admitted. He nodded and bustled behind the counter to fetch a pair of leather gardening gloves, which he thrust at me. 

“Excellent. Excellent. Take these, and let’s begin our orientation.” 

Over the next two hours, Wing walked me through every leaf and stem of the store, explaining the specific care and keeping of hundreds of different plants. I tried to jot down notes on the back of my resume, but I knew I’d never remember everything. He was unperturbed when I confessed I had never worked with plants, let alone sustained a windowsill garden. The tour ended on the back patio where the mulch and fruit trees and larger plants were kept. My first assignment was to unload a shipment of fertilizer. Wing left me to it with a cheerful wave and retreated inside to prune mini cactuses. It was easy, mindless work, and once I got into the rhythm of it, it was nice to be outside in the sun, carrying the bags from the storage shed and arranging them neatly on the display shelves. The fertilizer smelled robustly organic. Suspicious, I sniffed my hands after the third bag and confirmed my differential of cow manure versus sheep manure. Whatever. So I’d take a long shower later. I hefted another bag onto my shoulders and resumed my task. 

I was exhausted by the time Wing sent me home. To my knowledge the store hadn’t seen a single customer all day, but he appeared unbothered. “Excellent work,” he beamed as I returned the filthy garden gloves and rinsed my hands under the hose. “Glad to have you.” 

I’d driven to work that morning for fear of being late, and thought I’d take a scenic route home. It was a sweetly golden evening with a hint of forest chill in the air, and I was in no rush to return to my empty apartment. With my windows rolled down, I drove leisurely through the quieter part of town and wondered what Zepile and Senritsu were up to. Maybe I’d call them to grab a beer. Sitting outside and having a drink sounded good. I had picked up my phone to dial Zepile when I spotted a used bookstore. 

I braked abruptly and pulled into a parking spot. The store looked open, and I had those boxes of Pietro’s books with me. I deliberated for a second, tapping my hands on the wheel, before nodding to myself and hefting the boxes out of the trunk. I could barely carry all three at once, and staggered into the store as the seams of the bottommost box threatened to rip. Inside smelled intensely of old books and earthy incense. Catching my breath, I knelt down to restack some of the books. I thought at first that the place was empty until I saw a glimmer of blond hair near an overstuffed bookshelf in the corner. “Excuse me?” I called, peering into the shadowy aisles. “Do you buy used books here?” 

A young blond-haired guy emerged from behind a shelf of mystery novels and fixed me with a distressed stare. He (or at least I was fairly sure he was male) was slender and slight, with wispy corn-silk hair nearly covering wide dark eyes. Something about his gaze unnerved me, and I looked away. 

“Usually the manager determines the pricing,” he said, lips pursed as he surveyed my boxes. “Hm. Is it anything besides Clancy and Grisham in there?” He knelt down to inspect the books, picking up a copy of The Firm with an expression of poorly concealed disdain. I tensed with annoyance. 

“There’s some Nora Roberts too. Look, I’m trying to get these out of my house. If you guys don’t want ‘em, I’ll go to Goodwill.” 

“I didn’t say that,” he snapped, shaking his bangs out of his face as he straightened up. “But it will take me several hours to go through these individually and price them. Could you return tomorrow?” 

“Is there any way you can offer a flat rate? I’m not looking to make a profit on these,” I said, feeling tired. In the tiny store, the aroma of my manure-streaked jeans had turned heady, and I wanted to go home and change. “I’ll take $10. It doesn’t matter.” 

He frowned. “That would be unfair. These are worth at least $20.” 

“$20 is great.”

“But I can’t say definitively what you’re owed unless I price them,” he continued, a stubborn glint in his eyes. “It would be best if you returned tomorrow.” 

We seemed to be stuck. I fought back the urge to roll my eyes, and instead gave him a curt nod. “Sure. Same time tomorrow work for you?” 

“Yes. I’ll be working. Please leave your name and number on the form by the cash register before you go. If I am indisposed, one of my coworkers can assist you.” 

I exhaled a laugh, thinking he was trying to crack a joke, but as I walked to the door to jot down my name I saw that his face was deadly serious. He was examining each book with a surgeon’s precision and making notes in a moleskine notebook, and he did not reply to my goodbye as I left. 

Now I really needed a beer. Shaking my head, I pulled out my phone and called Zepile as I walked through the twilight back to my car.

I could see the rhythm of my summer stretching in front of me: sleepy mornings in the garden store, dirt under my nails and a pleasant ache in my muscles, endless hazy afternoons, drinking with Zepile on the back porch. Thunderstorms, sweating with the windows open trying to sleep, hot asphalt in the sun. I knew it could be worse, but I couldn’t shake the sense that I was becoming a tremendous loser. I wasn’t in school or working towards any appreciable goal, I had been dumped, and Pietro was dead. But at least I had a job. 

“It sounds relaxing,” Senritsu hummed. We were walking into town for a glass of sangria at our favorite cheap Peruvian place. “I’d love to work somewhere so silent.” 

“Literally zero customers have come in, though. I’m worried it’s about to go out of business.”

“Hmm. Is it perhaps some sort of, you know, front?”

“What do you mean?”

“Could it be a cover for something questionably legal?”

I snorted, picturing the mild-mannered Wing. “I doubt it. The manager seems normal. Just really into plants. Really, really into plants. Maybe it’s family money or something.”

“Still, it’s good that you found something. My treat tonight, by the way.”

“You don’t have to do that,” I insisted, but she shook her head. A warm breeze ruffled her long silver hair. 

“The Lincoln Center prize money came in last week. You helped me tape all of the scores, so think of it as backpay.”

I laughed, remembering the night I’d spent taping together hundreds of pages of her flute music before she submitted her compositions to the New Sounds contest. Pietro had helped too, propped up in bed fumbling with the stacks of manila paper. “Fine, fine. I’ll charge higher next time.” 

We were a pitcher of sangria deep when I smacked my forehead. “Oh shit. The books.” 

Senritsu looked up from her glass. “What’s that?”

“I totally forgot. I was supposed to meet this guy at a bookstore after work today. I dropped off a bunch of books but he had to appraise them all.” 

“It’s almost six. Will it be open?” 

“I think so. It’s only a few blocks from here. Do you mind?” 

She waved me away. “Go ahead. I’ll drink slowly.” 

Shoveling a handful of tortilla chips into my mouth, I took off at a brisk jog. It was Friday night, and the streets were full of merry after-work people headed for restaurants and parks. I broke into a prickly sweat and clutched at a stitch in my side after two blocks, slowing to an awkward speed-walk. Luckily it was right around the corner, and I made it there by 5:52 PM. I hurried into the store and was struck by the overpowering scent of decaying books. “Hello?” I called into the gloom, peering around for the blond guy. “Er…” 

An unfamiliar older woman stepped out from behind the cash register. “Can I help you?”

“Hi there. I was here yesterday dropping off some books and one of your employees told me to come back tonight for the money,” I said, trying to catch my breath. “He was blond? About this tall?”

“Kurapika,” she nodded, and stooped down to rummage behind the counter. “Yes, here we are.” She pulled out a crisp envelope and handed it to me. “The receipt and payment should be included there. He mentioned you’d be here.”

I thanked her and left the store, feeling oddly disappointed that the blond guy wasn’t there. Stepping outside, I opened the envelope to find exactly thirty-seven dollars and thirteen cents along with an itemized receipt written in old-fashioned cursive. “Kurapika,” I muttered, pocketing the cash. “Huh.” 

I jogged back to the restaurant to find Senritsu patiently waiting in front of two bowls of ceviche. She was amused by the handwritten receipt, and our conversation turned to her upcoming concerts in Italy. By the end of the meal we polished off another pitcher of sangria, and I returned home feeling lighter than I had in months.

This, of course, didn’t last. I had completely forgotten that Pietro’s birthday was coming up, and two weeks later I woke on a Saturday morning struggling to place my sense of breathless dread until I rolled over to see May 17th on my Playboy calendar (an “ironic” gift from Zepile that Pietro had found hilarious and Cheadle despised). “Fuck,” I groaned, and pulled a pillow over my head to dull my throbbing sangria headache. He would have been twenty-five today. 

Twenty-five. Not even old enough to rent a car. Ten years too young to run for president. About fifty years short of the average American male’s life expectancy. I’d been feeling okay for the past week, even enjoying my boring new job, but all at once I was paralyzed with grief. Against my better judgment, I grabbed my phone and dialed Cheadle’s number. She picked up on the first ring. 

“Leorio?”

“Hey. Hope you’re not busy.” 

“Are you drunk?” she asked, incredulous. “It’s eight thirty.” 

“What? No. I just woke up. Um. It’s Pietro’s twenty-fifth.”

I heard her exhale. “I know. I wouldn’t forget.”

“Yeah, well,” I said, feeling sneezy tears welling up in my nose. “ I dunno. I didn’t know if you remembered, because I almost forgot. I don’t know what to do today. Sorry to bother you.”

“You’re not bothering me,” she said, her voice softer. “Are you doing all right? Senritsu said you started a new job.” 

Senritsu, that turncoat. I flushed with embarrassment, cringing at what Cheadle must think of me working in a plant store. “We can’t all work in the Wasserman lab. The scribe program was disbanded. I wasn’t fired.” 

“I know. I didn’t say that.”

“Did you by any chance bring that letter he sent us from Tokyo? Did you pack it?” I rolled out of bed, thinking of a long handwritten postcard Pietro had mailed us in January. We’d paid for him to go to Japan for a week between surgeries. “I don’t know what I did with it.”

She gave an anxious hum. “Hmm. No, I wouldn’t have taken it. It was probably still in his room.” 

“Are you sure? You didn’t pack it with your office stuff?”

“No, I wouldn’t have.”

Suddenly I could think of nothing but the letter. “Okay. Got it. Talk to you later, then.” 

“Wait, no,” she said, sounding worried. “Are you sure you’re all right?”

“Cheadle, I don’t know what to tell you. Let’s talk again if you want. Or not. Have a nice weekend.” I hung up abruptly, not wanting to burst into tears on the phone with her. If she cared so much, she knew where to find me. “Dammit.” 

Deep down I knew it wasn’t anywhere in my bedroom, but I spent twenty minutes methodically ripping apart my desk and closet before proceeding into the guest bedroom. My heart sank as I flipped through a stack of unopened mail and medical bills. I knew it wasn’t here either. In fact, I knew where it was. But which book was it in? Grisham? Clancy? Roberts? The errant Prousts and Vonneguts lumped in with the dumb bestsellers? It was Saturday, and Google told me that the bookstore was closed today. In despair, I sank onto the twin bed and cried hot snotty tears into the musty quilt. I knew this was ridiculous, I knew it wasn’t about the letter, but I was so helpless and angry that I could barely breathe. I hadn’t cried this hard since Pietro died.

The rest of the weekend passed in a blur of vodka and Chinese takeout. I’d been too upset to text Zepile or Senritsu, and I was sure Cheadle was worrying about me with Senritsu behind my back. The idea pissed me off. I wasn’t some invalid to be pitied.

Something had happened to my sleep schedule since Cheadle had left. I’d been waking up earlier and earlier each day without trying, and on Monday I woke up wide awake to see 4:57 AM blinking red on my alarm clock. I padded downstairs in the gray suede darkness and drank leftover coffee out of the fridge, listening to the dawn chorus. The bookstore opened at eight, and Wing expected me by nine or so. I’d swing by on my way to work and explain that I needed to…what, exactly? Buy every single one of my books back? It had been weeks now, and some of the books might have already been sold. I hadn’t thought this through. Chewing my lip, I checked the receipt and tallied up at least fifty books before I stopped counting. No matter. I showered and shaved, thinking it was lucky that this Kurapika guy had taken so long to write down the book titles. If I had to go through all of them, I’d do it. I didn’t have anything else with Pietro’s writing, and the idea of some stranger throwing it away was intolerable. 

A light drizzly rain fell as I drove into town, rehearsing my spiel. The books were part of a research project. I was using them as a movie prop. I’d won the lottery over the weekend and wanted to spend it all on used books. Heaving a sigh, I parked across the street and slumped in my seat to wait. It was only 7:40. 

Kurapika appeared at the end of the block at 7:52. I watched with interest as he strode briskly towards the store, braced against the rain. A low peal of thunder rumbled in the distance. Dressed in a stylish navy raincoat, he looked smaller and younger than I remembered. He stopped to throw away a broken beer bottle in the gutter before unlocking the store and disappearing inside. I gave him a five minute head start before following him in. He was engrossed in a pile of paperwork at the register when I stepped inside, scuffing my feet on the doormat. His strange eyes widened when he saw me. My ears turned hot.

“Morning! Hope I didn’t scare you,” I began, clearing my throat. “I was, uh…” 

“I heard you were able to collect the payment on Friday,” he said mildly, looking me up and down. I was dressed in my raggedy gardening jeans and an old sweatshirt, and felt sloppy next to his elegant linen tunic. “I trust the amount was satisfactory?” 

“Oh, yeah, no problem. The thing is,” I said, and then fell silent. My heart was racing, and I looked at the ceiling to avoid his flinty gaze. “I was actually wondering if I could get those books back.” 

The rain was intensifying, hammering against the windows. He raised an eyebrow. 

“Was it not a fair price?”

“No, no, the price was fine. I’m happy to pay more than what you gave me. You see, I think I left something in one of them, but I don’t know which one,” I said hurriedly, twisting my hands in my pockets. Kurapika frowned. “But it’s something important to me. So if you could let me look through them, I guess.” 

“Something important to you,” he repeated, studying me. “And you said it could be in any of the books? The final sale was fifty-seven titles. One was too damaged for resale.” 

“Right. Look, I wouldn’t usually do something like this, but it’s the only letter I have left from a friend of mine. And he died, and I don’t even have, like, a birthday card from him.” I stopped and ran a hand over my face, trying to suppress a sudden wave of emotion. It was too early and I was too sober to cry in front of a stranger. “I promise I’m not crazy. It’s just that I don’t know why everyone seems to have — to have left me, you know? Like there was something horribly wrong with me, even though all I tried to do was take care of everyone, and look where it got me. And now I want this one stupid letter that probably doesn’t even say anything interesting except him complaining about Japanese food. I know it’s silly.” 

“He didn’t like Japanese food?” Kurapika asked after a moment. For some reason this struck me as very funny.

“No! God, we spent thousands of dollars on this fancy trip for him when we knew he didn’t even like raw fish. It was stupid, but we wanted him to…” My laughter was turning erratic. Mortified, I stopped myself and turned away as he continued to watch me with those catlike eyes. “I’m sorry,” I said, taking a steadying breath. “Didn’t mean to ruin your morning.” 

“You’re not,” he said swiftly. “We don’t exactly get a lot of business here.” 

I attempted a wry grin. “You know, we have the same problem where I work. Takayama’s Flowers. Right up the street.”

“Ah, the nursery? I’ve been meaning to go for some time. Now if you’ll give me one second.” 

I waited as he vanished behind a teetering pile of books, muttering to himself. After a period of shuffling and whispered cursing, he reappeared with a cobweb clinging to his elbow. Smiling, he held out a warped postcard like a proud student presenting their report card. My breath caught in my throat. 

“How did you…?” I asked, unable to keep my voice from trembling. “Oh wow. You have no idea what a relief this is.” 

I took the postcard and flipped it over, hungrily skimming the lines of familiar cramped handwriting. Like I remembered, most of the text was a rambling account of weird sushi and hot girls, but my eyes raced ahead to the end where he’d scrawled THANK U THANK U LEORIO AND CHEADLE! I LOVE YOU GUYS!!!  

“How on earth did you find this so quickly?” I asked, carefully pocketing the postcard. 

“A lucky guess,” he said with a shrug, staring outside at the sheets of rain. “It was in Debt of Honor . The one about the extremists taking over Japan,” he supplied, noticing my blank look. 

“Ha! No kidding. Good old Jack Ryan.” I hesitated. “Listen, can I pay you something for this? I feel bad that I came here and vented at you like a lunatic. Can you charge me something?”

“I don’t think that’s necessary,” he said, giving me a quick lemon-twist of a smile. 

“Are you sure?” I pressed. “You don’t want to call it a consulting service or something?”  I was eyeing the clock on the wall, but it felt rude to leave without proper thanks. 

He tilted his head. I noticed the sparkle of a red earring in his yellow hair. “I suppose you could buy me dinner tonight. I’m off at five.” 

Startled, I searched his face for any sign of sarcasm, but he wore a serene deadpan expression. “Oh! I — uh. I would, but I’m engaged.”

“I was joking,” he said immediately, tossing his hair, and I relaxed. 

“Hah. Anyways, thanks again. Kurapika, right?” 

“Don’t mention it. And you are?” 

“Leorio,” I said, and offered him a handshake. His hand was small and cool in mine. “Hey, listen, if you need some plants, come by and I’ll give you a discount. You’ll be our first customer ever.”

“I’ll keep it in mind,” he said dryly, and brushed by me to return to the dark aisles of shelves. Recognizing my dismissal, I watched him for a moment before rushing outside into the pouring rain. I laughed into the wind and pulled up my collar before setting off at a flat-footed sprint towards my car. There was no chance I’d be on time for work.

“Wait. Was he hitting on me?” I asked Zepile a week later through a mouthful of potato chips. We were grilling on his roof with his neighbors, two young guys named Gon and Killua who were in town for the summer working as hiking guides in the mountains. We’d met them last year and gone camping several times. “Was that not a joke?”

“I mean, I kinda wondered when you’d figure it out.”

“I told him I was engaged, though.” 

“Doesn’t sound that way,” Killua remarked, balancing the bowl of chips on his stomach as he lounged in a lawn chair. “Sounds like you got dumped, old man.”

“Shut up,” I shot back, throwing a twig at him. “You’ve gotten worse.”

“Aw, be nice, Killua,” Gon implored, fixing me with his puppy dog eyes. “Leorio, don’t listen to him. He’s salty because I kicked his ass rock climbing today.” 

“That’s because you’re a feral monkey freak. I was raised by humans.” 

“Children, children,” Zepile intoned, carrying over a tray of charred hot dogs and vegetables. A half-smoked joint smoldered in his hand. “We are gathered here tonight to celebrate the union of sausage and peppers. And onions. Did someone call Senritsu?” 

“She’s gigging, but she might stop by later,” I reported. The kids descended on the food like vultures. I sidled up to Zepile and pulled the joint out of his fingers. Taking a long drag, I held it in my lungs as he watched me with bloodshot eyes. “Do you really think that was a come on?” 

“Who knows, brother. First question is: did you want it to be?” 

“Um,” I began, looking out over the dark street below. I pictured Kurapika’s terse expression, the red earring, and felt confused. “I don’t know. I don’t know if I know.”

“I mean this in the nicest way possible, but I don’t think Cheadle would mind.” 

I coughed. “What do you mean?”

“I mean that if you wanted to, you know, go for it, she would understand.”

“Are you also talking to her behind my back?” I asked, scowling. “You and Senritsu?”

“No,” he said firmly, leaning down to assemble his hot dog. Gon and Killua had already finished their food and were practicing handstands in the patch of fake grass. “But I know you guys, and you’re both my friends, and, like, you don’t have to be a martyr about this. You can date people if you want.”

Slowly it dawned on me. My hands went cold as I reached for the buns, although admittedly that could have been the shitty cheap weed. “God dammit. Is she seeing someone?”

Zepile looked apologetic. “Okay, look. All I know is that she just met someone at the lab. She wasn’t cheating on you. She was gonna tell you soon. But that’s what I heard from Senritsu.” He peered into my face. “Are you okay? Sorry to drop this on you.”

I thought about this for a while, or maybe it was only five seconds. “I think so,” I said. And then: “Zep, what is wrong with this weed? How long have I been chewing this bite?” 

He met my gaze, and we both looked over to see Killua and Gon heaped over each other on the ground, laughing and wheezing. 

“You’re a terrible influence on the youth,” I informed him somberly. Killua looked up and stuck out his tongue at me. 

“They’re nineteen! They’re legal adults.” 

“We are corrupting them.”

“I think it’s the other way around, actually. Are you sure you’re okay?” 

“What’s going on?” came Senritsu’s melodious voice from behind us. She had arrived within the last minute without us noticing. “Who’s corrupting whom?”

“Hey Senritsu. I told him about Cheadle’s, um, new friend,” Zepile said, craning around to greet her. She patted him on the head primly. “He’s okay though. He’s gonna ask out bookstore boy.”

“Can you all stop running my life for a minute?” I spluttered. “What, are you guys my managers?” 

“Someone’s gotta do it,” Killua offered. I aimed a kick at him and missed. After that someone turned up the music, and we all required another round of hot dogs.

Wednesday mornings were dedicated to pruning the cherry trees on the back patio. Wing gave me extremely detailed instructions on how to clip only the smallest quantity of damaged bark away from the tender branches, and it took me several tries to perform up to his standards. He watched, wincing, as I attempted my first solo tree. “Picture the form in your mind first,” he cautioned, hands clenching at his sides as I wrestled with the shears. “It should be like water against the stem. Barely changed.”

Privately I wondered what the point was, but I nodded and wiped a bead of sweat from my forehead. I liked Wing, and I liked my job. The clamor of the emergency department seemed like something from another lifetime. Nobody was screaming or bleeding out here. I became engrossed in the dainty, finicky work of shaping each branch, and several hours passed easily. 

The sun was high in the sky by the time I finished my tree and straightened up. I was stiff all over. To my great surprise, I heard a voice other than Wing’s coming from inside the store. Did we actually have a customer? Fascinated, I paused to eavesdrop. Wing was speaking in a low agitated tone very unlike his usual manner. Something told me I wasn’t supposed to overhear. I froze behind the shed, one ear pressed to the screen door. 

“I don’t think this is a good idea. You know this isn’t safe.” 

“I’ve done my research,” came a familiar voice. “The connection to Sotheby’s is legitimate. This is the only lead I have right now. It’s not like I enjoy working with the Nostrades.” 

“I understand. But we’re worried. Izunavi told me you had to be hospitalized last month. This isn’t sustainable.”

There was silence, and then one set of footsteps approached the patio. My heart stuttered in my chest. Holding my breath, I hurried back to the cherry trees and hovered over a branch. The door swung open with a squeal, and Kurapika stepped onto the patio, shading his eyes. His anxious face relaxed into a smile when he saw me. I pretended to be startled by his arrival.

“Oh! Hi there!” 

“Hello, Leorio. Hard at work?”

“Heh, something like that,” I said weakly, gesturing down at my pruning shears. “Um.” 

He was wearing an intricately embroidered blue tunic today, and his golden hair caught the sun as he leaned down to brush his fingers across the petals of a peony. Something about the cicadas droning in the heat and the tension of the secret conversation set my nerves jangling, and I was emboldened. I put down the shears and cleared my throat. “Hey. Are you busy tomorrow night? I’d like to buy you that dinner.” 

His eyes flickered. “Tomorrow night?”

“If you’re free, yeah.” 

“Did you become unengaged?” he asked politely, a trace of amusement around his mouth. My traitorous ears burned, but I held his gaze. 

“Something like that. Or rather, I was less engaged to begin with than, uh, previously stated.” 

“I see. What time shall we meet?”

“How’s eight? Do you like Peruvian?”

“I do like Peruvian. Do you mean the place on the corner of Oak?”

“Exactly. Is this the part where I can ask for your number?”

This won me a sniff of laughter, the first I’d heard from him. He pulled out a slim black phone, a Japanese brand I’d never seen before, and we exchanged numbers. 

“Great! Eight it is,” I said, wiping my sweaty hands on my jeans. “Glad I bumped into you. Quite a coincidence.”

“Yes,” he agreed, eyes darting towards the store. Wing was making a great deal of noise moving pots around inside, and I wondered if he had overheard our conversation and was trying to make his presence known. “I’ll see you then, Leorio. I’m looking forward to it.”

After he left, I allowed myself a private fist-pump. He really was remarkably good-looking, sleek and catlike and delicate. Before Cheadle, I’d dated a string of leggy blondes. Maybe I still had it. Heartened, I returned to pruning with zest, and the warm afternoon passed quickly. 

Driving home, I wondered idly if perhaps Senritsu was onto something. I had no idea what to make of the conversation with Wing. It was certainly possible that Takayama’s Flowers was not what it seemed. Years later I would look back and marvel at my naivety, but as it was I was just happy to have something to distract me from thoughts of Pietro and Cheadle and her fancy new Manhattan boyfriend. I let out a whoop and rolled down the windows, letting the humid evening air wash over my face as I drove. 

Chapter Text

“Oh my God, everything in my closet is such a fucking joke.”

Senritsu looked up from where she was curled on the foot of my bed, editing a piece of sheet music with a pencil held between her teeth. I was standing in front of my ransacked closet and rifling through my meager collection of shirts. 

“It’s not formal. And it’s a beautiful night. Don’t overthink it,” she said, circling something on the music. “Hm. You’d think they would learn how to use codas.” Senritsu was always grousing about her composition students, who routinely turned in what she described as irreparably flawed work despite her $100 hourly rate. 

“Somehow I don’t feel like this is causing you the appropriate level of turmoil. Blue or purple?” I said, holding up two options. “Wait, don’t say purple.”

She barely glanced at the shirts. “Blue, then.”

“Thank you for your careful input.”

“Maybe have a drink before you leave,” she remarked, chewing the end of her pencil. I clutched my chest and pretended to be offended.

“Thanks a lot, ye of zero faith.”

“I’m just saying that I know it’s been a while since you were, ah, on the scene. What time are you meeting?”

“Eight.” I checked my watch. “It’s almost seven-thirty. I’m going to kick you out now.” 

She slid off of my bed and gathered her portfolio of music. It was the time of year where the sun didn’t set fully until late in the evening, and my bedroom was suffused with a peachy glow. Her sea-glass eyes glinted in the sun as she stood on tiptoe to hug me goodbye. 

“Have a nice time. You deserve it. Oh, if you’re looking for something after dinner, Basho’s band is playing at the Terrarium later. I think it’s salsa night.”

“Hah. Let me get through dinner first. I have no idea if we’ll even get along.”

She winked, making me laugh. “I think you will. Ciao.” 

After I saw her out I finished my ablutions upstairs, splashing my neck with stinging cologne and combing my hair for the tenth time. For a moment, I observed myself dispassionately in the toothpaste-speckled mirror. Not bad, really. In hindsight, being with Cheadle had leached some of my self-confidence; she had a tendency to make me feel foolish for caring too much about my appearance, always scoffing when she caught me checking my hair in a window or taking too long knotting my tie. Darkly I wondered what her new boyfriend looked like. Probably a nerd. Hopefully a nerd. After a final gargle of mouthwash, it was time to leave. I pocketed my keys and took off down the block whistling. 

I got to the restaurant ten minutes early and staked out an outdoor table under a blooming forsythia tree. Brushing the confetti of yellow petals off of the menu, I tried to arrange myself in a way that looked relaxed and collected. My heart was pounding hard. As I re-crossed my knees for the third time, Kurapika appeared on the corner, breezy in a sky blue sweater. I stood up to greet him and wiped my hands against my jeans. 

“Hey! You found it. Outside okay?”

He nodded, glancing around. “This should be all right. Do you mind if I sit against the wall?”

“Oh, sure,” I said, watching in bemusement as he dragged a metal chair against the brick wall. His cheeks were tinged pink in the warm evening air. Something fluttered low in my stomach as he settled himself and took a menu. 

“So how do you know Wing?” I asked, keeping my voice friendly. If Kurapika was caught off guard, he hid it well, and took his time perusing the wine list before replying. 

“Family friends,” he said, tucking a loose strand of yellow hair behind his ear. “He speaks highly of you, you know.”

“Does he?” I answered, wondering what about my stellar manure-stacking performance was worth sharing. “So how long have you worked at the bookstore?”

“A while. What do you usually order here?” 

Point taken. Chewing my cheek, I considered him while his gaze was downcast. The translucent skin beneath his eyes was darkly shadowed, and on closer inspection he looked exhausted and pale. I frowned. “The ceviche is good. Are you feeling okay?”

“Oh yes. Work’s been busy,” he said quickly, sitting up straighter. “But let’s talk about something else. Tell me about yourself. You started with Wing three weeks ago. You were engaged. I hear you want to study medicine.”

“Hey, not bad. That’s pretty much it,” I said, giving him a teasing smile. “What else? Um, my favorite color is blue and I like long walks on the beach. Now your turn. Give me your life story.” 

A waitress came out to collect our order: ceviche, a half bottle of Argentinean shiraz, and an extra side of spicy aji amarillo sauce. I knew I had exactly $217 of wiggle room left on one of my credit cards, and prayed that Kurapika wouldn’t drink an exorbitant amount after the wine. 

“Let’s see. You know I work at Tatum’s Books,” he began, leaning his chin in his hands. “I enjoy reading.”

“I would hope.” 

He rolled his eyes. “No need to be rude.” 

I grinned and gestured for him to continue. “I’m buying you dinner. Don’t worry. Now go on. Where are you from?” 

“I’m an expat. Why do you want to be a doctor?” 

Okay, so he wasn’t going to give me anything. The wine arrived, and I raised my glass for a toast. “To Tatum’s Books, forging new friendships.” He smirked and clinked his glass against mine. “Anyway, I want to be a doctor because I want to make fuck-you money. I grew up poor and I hated it. I like science enough to study it for a long time. Coding and business are boring to me, so I chose the next logical option.”

“I don’t believe you,” he said lightly, taking a long sip of wine. “But continue.”

I shrugged. “Believe whatever you want. Are you not going to tell me anything about yourself?”

“No. But don’t hold it against me. I’m having a nice time. Tell me about Pietro.”

I thought about this for a moment. His face was kind, and I didn’t feel like I was going to go to pieces. “Hmm. I guess I owe you some context.”

“Only if you feel like sharing.”

“No, it’s okay. He, uh,” I began, tapping the rim of my wine glass. “He was my best friend growing up. His family was a mess. Dad was in prison for like, money laundering, mom had all sorts of pill problems. When he got really sick, Cheadle — my fiancée, er, ex-fiancée — we had him come stay with us so he could be closer to the hospital. And we kinda knew at that point that he wouldn’t be leaving. So.” 

“What happened to him?” Kurapika asked, leaning closer. Our ceviche had arrived while we were talking, but neither of us moved to start eating. “Cancer?”

I nodded, feeling the warm buzz of wine spreading across my chest. “Brain cancer. Glioblastoma. It was exactly as awful as you’d think.”

“I’m very sorry.”

“Thanks.” I finished my glass, feeling self-conscious. “Sorry. This is the second time I’ve dumped all this on you.”

“No, no, don’t apologize,” he said, and took a mouthful of fish. “Oh, it’s delicious. No need to apologize whatsoever. I’m sorry if my question was intrusive.”

 “Nah. You’re fine.” 

“So what now? When will you start medical school?”

“Well, I was supposed to be taking the MCAT – that’s the med school admission test – this month, and applying next month. But with Pietro, everything sort of fell apart.” I speared a piece of corn on my fork and sighed. “I should really be studying right now, but it’s not the most exciting thing in the world. Physics is torture.”

“Wing wouldn’t mind if you studied at the store, I’m sure.”

As we ate, I noticed that Kurapika had a habit of stopping every other bite to scan the street. After the fourth instance, I put my fork down. 

“Do you wanna get out of here? Is everything okay?” 

His shoulders slumped in relief. “If you wouldn’t mind.”

“Yeah, no problem,” I said slowly. “My friend has a show at the Terrarium I was thinking of checking out. Would you want to come?” 

“Certainly. One second. I’ll be back.” 

He stood up and darted inside the cafe, and I realized too late that he was paying the bill at the host stand. When he returned, pocketing his wallet, I wagged a finger at him. “Wait, wait, I was supposed to be taking you out, remember? Let me Venmo you.” 

“It’s fine. Shall we?” he said, and started down the sidewalk ahead of me at a brisk stride. I jogged to catch up with him, weaving between crowds of chatty young people heading into the bars. A crescent moon hung low in the evening sky. 

“Whoa, hold on.”

He slowed to match my pace, bumping against my elbow. “You can buy the next round.”

There was a lively twinkle in his eyes that made my mouth go dry. I returned his grin and knocked gently against his shoulder, breathing the grapefruit-mint scent of his hair. Now that I was tipsy, I could admit to myself that I knew where the night was going. 

The Terrarium was a basement rock club frequented by the more esoteric end of the musical spectrum in town. Senritsu approved of it, which meant that our friend group often ended our nights there. It was a dank, cramped room, but Kurapika visibly brightened when we squeezed down the rickety staircase and emerged onto the packed dance floor. On the tiny stage, Basho and his band wailed through a salsa tune. A group of dancers congregated at the front, laughing and yelling. I left Kurapika against the wall and shoved my way back to the bar to order two vodka sodas, coughing through a cloud of cigarette smoke. When I returned, Kurapika took a drink out of my hand, downed it in one gulp, and wrapped an arm around my waist to lead me onto the floor. He was surprisingly strong. 

“Hah, whoa! Where are you taking me?”

“Let’s dance,” he said into my ear. His breath was hot against my skin. I allowed him to drag me into the center of the raucous dancers. He wore a determined look on his face, but it quickly became clear that he didn’t know the steps. Our knees kept colliding. What Kurapika didn’t know was that I had once spent a summer in the Bronx learning how to dance salsa, courtesy of my bored older cousin visiting from Puerto Rico. Amused, I let him fling me around for a song before shaking free of his grip. He looked up in irritation as the band finished to wild applause. 

“What are you doing?”

“Just follow my lead. Your rhythm sucks.” 

“It does not,” he hissed, but allowed me to reposition his hands properly as the next song began. “You’re pushy.”

“You’re stubborn. Relax.”

Before he could complain, I twirled him around and dipped him low. Someone wolf whistled, and the band erupted into a loud chorus of trumpets. 

“See? I know what I’m doing,” I said. He gave a reluctant laugh and leaned into my chest. Pleased, I led us through another three songs before the band stepped offstage for a break. We were both breathing hard by the time we left the dance floor. Kurapika’s cheeks were flushed with an appealing deep magenta. I led him outside to the secret courtyard for fresh air, where we perched on a stone wall in a secluded corner. A handful of other couples were outside, finishing their drinks and talking quietly. 

“You’re a good dancer,” Kurapika said, fanning himself. I pretended to take a bow. 

“See? Bet you didn’t think you were here with a salsa master .” 

“Shut up,” he said reflexively, but his eyes were soft in the gloom. He gave me an unfocused sort of smile and placed his hand on my arm. “This is where you kiss me.” 

“Oh, are we already there? I should have read ahead in the script,” I said, grinning, but wasted no time in leaning closer to touch our noses together. I felt his inhale. “You’re really something.”

“I know,” he murmured, and brushed his lips against mine. The first kiss was slow and luxurious, both of us hesitant. He tasted clean and familiar. “I’m not going home with you, so don’t ask.”

“Whatever,” I whispered, and kissed him again, running my tongue against his sharp teeth. He let out a very quiet sound of pleasure. Gratified, I pressed closer to him, sneaking my hand underneath his sweater to trace the contour of his spine. “You’ll change your mind at some point.” 

“I’m sure you’d like that.”

“Like you wouldn’t.”

We kissed for a minute longer before he broke away, fixing his hair and sweater. “I have to go, but I had a wonderful time.” 

“Hey, me too. Can I ask you out again sometime?” 

He tilted his head. “Maybe. Not right now.”

“I’ll take a maybe. Can I walk you home?”

“No thank you. I have a car on the way if you’d like a ride, though.”

“That’s okay. I’m only two blocks from here.” 

He kissed me once more before walking back inside the noisy club. I stood rooted in place for a long time, dazed, as his yellow hair vanished into the gloom. After a while I realized that my phone was vibrating in my pants. With a start, I grabbed it to see Cheadle’s name flashing across the screen. A slug of unpleasant adrenaline slid down my throat. “Agh,” I groaned, and had a brief but intense internal debate about whether to answer before deciding that it was probably important if she was calling so late. I held the phone to my ear in apprehension.

“Leorio? Are you there?” came Cheadle’s voice. She sounded tremulous. “Is this a bad time?”

“Um, no, it’s fine. What’s up?” I ducked out of the courtyard through a service gate and started walking home through a light rain shower. “You okay?”

I heard her sniffle. “Yes. Or, no. I don’t know. I just – I feel terrible.” 

“Why? How’s the lab going?”

“The lab is fine.” She took a shuddering breath. “I’m worried I’m making a huge mistake.”

“Oh. Honey, you’re not. It’s okay,” I said, wincing. “Look. I think this has been good for both of us, right? 

“Has it? Senritsu said you’re seeing someone.”

“She told me the same thing about you. Aren’t you? It’s fine if you are.”

“Oh. Well, I am now. But that was after she told me about you.”

I paused, slightly confused. “Oh.” 

We were both quiet for a minute as I turned onto my block. The rain had stopped, and a fine steam rose up from the pavement. 

“I should say why I called. I have an extra ticket to the Mount Sinai medical student conference the first weekend of June. I wanted to invite you. I know it would be great for you to network and meet the admissions committee.”

“A ticket?” I said, taken aback. “That’s –”

“You don’t have to stay with me,” she interrupted, sounding defensive. “But I wanted to at least put the offer out there. Usually tickets are $300. Think about it.”

The first weekend of June was the weekend after next. I stared at the glowing blue light of my downstairs neighbor’s television through his window, weighing my options. “Can I give you my answer in a day or two? I’m not saying no.”

“That’s fine. But think about it.”

“I will,” I promised. We said a stilted goodbye and hung up. Frowning, I went through the motions of showering and getting ready for bed, unable to make sense of the conversation. ‘Making a huge mistake’ was uncharacteristically dramatic for Cheadle, and I worried that something had happened. I made a note to ask Senritsu about it tomorrow. Still, though, it was impossible to fully dampen my Kurapika buzz. I laid in bed replaying the evening, and fell into a pleasant sleep imagining the next time I’d see him.

Apparently we hadn’t been subtle at the Terrarium, because I woke the next morning to a phone full of gloating texts from Zepile, who had been informed of my exploits by Basho after he saw my dance performance from the stage. I groaned and did damage control in bed until it was time to get ready for work. Although it was Saturday, Wing had asked me to come in for a few hours to repot the fiddle leaf fig trees. As I got out of bed, my eyes fell onto my stack of MCAT books looming glossy and unopened on my desk. I was starting to feel panicked whenever I saw them.  “I know, I know,” I told them guiltily. “Monday we’ll start. Mark my words.” They could smell my fear, especially the bulky Physics and Math workbook. Between ghost Pietro and the books’ baleful stares, I had become eager to escape my apartment whenever possible. Ashamed, I threw on my dirt-stained jeans and hurried off to my simpler world of potting soil and fertilizer.

When I arrived, squinting through my lingering wine headache, I was surprised to see Gon and Killua loitering on the sidewalk in front of the store. Gon’s arm was encased in a wrist-to-elbow green cast. “What happened, champ?” I asked, clapping him on the shoulder.

Killua heaved a long-suffering sigh. “His carabiner broke on Mount Mitchell yesterday because he was an idiot and didn’t double check it before we started bouldering. He’s lucky he’s alive.” 

“But I was fine!” Gon beamed. “They said I’ll be able to get this off in five weeks, but I think I’ll heal faster than that.”

Killua and I shared a horrified look as Wing ambled outside and surveyed the boys. 

“Morning, Leorio. Gon, Killua, shall we begin?”

“What are you all up to?” I asked, curious. “Are you guys working here now?”

Wing chuckled and shook his head. “Gon and Killua are here to begin their aikido training. It’s unfortunate that Gon will be down an arm today.”

“Oh. I had no idea. I guess I’ll start on the figs, then,” I said, and went inside as the other three fell into shop talk. It made sense that Wing had a side hustle, but I struggled to imagine him as a martial arts master. I wanted to spy on them to see him in action, but sequestered myself dutifully on the back patio and began the slow process of repotting the seventeen fig trees awaiting their new homes. I felt a little sick, and hoped that the work would perk me up. Gradually, I fell into a rhythm and let my mind wander back to the previous night. 

I’d be lying if I said that the call from Cheadle hadn’t made me miss her. Since her departure I’d mostly tried to block out any memories or thoughts about her, but hearing her voice and imagining seeing her in a week unlocked feelings I had tried to conceal underneath work and my new crush on Kurapika. I buried my hands in the rich soil and thought back to when we started dating last year. We’d met in our masters biology seminar, and I disliked her at first. She was fiercely competitive and had a bad habit of blurting out correct answers before anyone else could get a word in. After the third week of this, I was fed up and confronted her after a lecture. “You know,” I’d said, cornering her in a stairwell as she zipped up her backpack, “you’re making more enemies than friends this way. At least let someone else try before you jump down our throats.”

She glared up at me and crossed her arms, unintimidated by my presence. “It’s not my problem if the rest of you can’t keep up. I am here to get the absolute best education that I can.”

“What, and you’re going to work completely alone for the rest of your life? Everyone needs colleagues. Even geniuses like you.” 

Behind her stony expression, I could tell I had touched a nerve. A muscle jumped in her firm jaw. “I haven’t encountered anyone I would consider a colleague here.”

“Then look harder,” I snapped, and left her standing there. But I felt less vindicated than expected, and when I glanced over my shoulder she was staring at her shoes, looking small and defeated. My stomach twisted with guilt. 

During our next lecture, Cheadle took the seat next to mine without speaking and spent five minutes loudly arranging her notebooks and pens. “Hey,” I said, trying to look friendly. “I didn’t mean to upset you the other day. I hope we’re cool.”

She flared up at once. “Cool? Sure. We’re cool . Why wouldn’t we be? We’re colleagues .” 

I watched her uneasily as she sat without uttering a word throughout the entire lecture. Our professor was clearly nonplussed by her silence, and kept glancing at her after every question. I offered up a few half-hearted answers, but without Cheadle leaping out of her seat to yell them out, the thrill was gone. When the professor dismissed us five minutes early, disheartened by the class’s reticence, I put a hand on her arm before she could escape. From this distance I could see the clear green of her eyes behind her wire-rimmed glasses. “Listen. Point taken.”

She snatched her arm out of my reach. “You’re a prick, Paladiknight.” 

“That’s fair. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to embarrass you yesterday.” 

“Forgive me if I don’t believe you.”

“Have lunch with me,” I said, pulse quickening. She froze halfway through putting her notebook away. “Wherever you want.” 

“Why would I want to do that?” she asked, eyes narrowed. 

“Because I think you’re beautiful.” 

She continued to scowl, but I caught the blush rising on her neck. Wordlessly, she stood and waited for me to gather my books. Fighting back a grin, I followed her out to the parking lot. 

We didn’t sleep together until after our seventh date. I liked her sexy librarian thing, and was entertained when she kept her glasses on in bed. She had loosened up considerably by then, and slowly revealed her sly sense of humor. Pietro and Zepile hadn’t known what to make of her until we all went out for drinks the night after turning in our final biology seminar posters. 

“Did Leorio use my sob story on you?” Pietro asked, elbowing me as we sat side-by-side on a picnic table. Cheadle pulled the cherry out of her drink and popped it neatly into her mouth. “I’m assuming he did, because how else did he get you to agree to date him?”

“He didn’t. I must have suffered some other lapse in judgment,” Cheadle said, catching my eye and winking. “What’s this sob story?”

“Wow! I’m impressed. He didn’t tell you I have brain cancer? The big C? Didn’t you notice my gross chemo eyebrows?”

I kicked Pietro under the table as Zepile made a face. Lately Pietro had been making a lot of dark jokes, and we never knew how to react. Cheadle, admirably, took it in stride.

“I didn’t know. I’m really sorry to hear that. How are you doing right now?”

“Oh, well,” he mumbled. He got bashful when you showed genuine concern. “It is what it is. Chemo sucks and radiation makes food taste disgusting. But they gave me six months a year ago and I’m still here. So.”

“Cheers to that,” Zepile added, raising his beer. We touched our glasses together. 

“You know, Leorio’s the one taking me to all the appointments and shit. I wouldn’t be able to do this without him,” Pietro went on. “He’s a good dude. A really good dude.” 

“I didn’t know,” Cheadle said. She met my eyes across the table, and I looked away, uncomfortable with the attention. “Listen, Pietro. I know we’ve only just met, but please let me know if there’s anything I can do to help.” 

“Aw, don’t worry. Just be nice to Leorio, that’s all,” Pietro said, gulping down his beer. The conversation turned to politics, and I relaxed.  

Later in bed, Cheadle turned to me with a worried look in her eyes. “I wish you’d told me,” she said, running a hand through my hair. I exhaled and pulled her closer. 

“It’s complicated. I wasn’t trying to hide it or anything.” 

“No, I know. But let me help. I have connections, you know. My last internship was with the rad onc team at Carillion. I can ask around.” 

“Well, okay,” I agreed, privately thinking I would never do that. I was far too proud to ask for help, and Pietro trusted me. I kissed her forehead and ran my hand down her soft stomach. “Let’s not talk about that now.”

Six months passed in relative normalcy, and then Pietro’s next MRI lit up like a Christmas tree. After that it all happened so quickly. To spare Pietro more misery, the oncologists canceled his remaining chemo treatments and put him on a high dose of steroids to relieve the pressure in his brain. He gained thirty pounds of puffy water weight in a week, along with a horrible temper. I knew it wasn’t his fault, but it was awful to endure. It was the worst right after his palliative radiation sessions. He’d cuss me out the entire drive home, raging and crying as the Ativan wore off. By then Cheadle virtually lived with me, and we decided together that it made sense to set up a room for Pietro in my office. She helped me drag a twin bed upstairs, and spent hours on the phone with the hospital pharmacists demanding that they increase his morphine doses. Pietro developed an insatiable hunger, asking for frozen pizza and scrambled eggs at four in the morning. Exhausted, desperate to give him something comforting, Cheadle and I would stagger downstairs and make him whatever food he wanted, but he would devour each meal only to promptly vomit it back up. 

It was Pietro who asked if we were getting married. “Leorio, don’t fuck this up,” he slurred one night as I cleaned the surgical wound on his scalp. “Lock it down while you can. If she stays with you through this, what else do you need?” 

“You’re stoned,” I told him gently, but I had been thinking the same thing. I bought an emerald ring a week later and decided to propose during our upcoming weekend escape to the beach. The trip was arranged by Zepile and Senritsu, who insisted we leave town for two nights while they stayed with Pietro. It was obvious by then that it was near the end. I almost refused to go until Pietro caught wind of my plan. 

“Get the hell out of here. I won’t die while you’re gone,” he slurred, reaching out to punch me on the arm weakly. “I promise.”

True to his word, he lived through the trip. I waited until we were walking on the beach at sunset to drop onto one knee. Cheadle couldn’t figure out what was happening, and asked me twice if I was feeling sick. When I got the ring out of my pocket, she gasped, her hands flying to her mouth.

“Leorio! Really?”

“If you’ll have me,” I said, sliding the ring onto her finger. She turned her hand this way and that to admire the jewels sparkling in the last rays of the sun. “So it’s a yes?”

“It’s a yes,” she repeated, smiling through a wash of tears. Exhilarated, we called Senritsu and Zepile and Pietro on our drive back to the hotel, who all congratulated us. Without saying it out loud, we had somehow agreed not to tell her parents or my cousins yet. They might think we were foolish to get engaged after only eight months of dating, but our friends understood. We were blissfully happy for the next nine days, until Pietro died in the middle of the night and my world came crashing down.

I was startled out of my reverie when Gon and Killua burst onto the patio, talking and laughing. “You done yet?” Killua asked. “We’re going to Zep’s. I hear your friend might be there.”

“Which friend?” I replied, wiping my face with my sleeve. The afternoon sun was fiery. “I have lots of friends.”

Killua rolled his eyes. “You know which friend. Are you done with your trees yet?”

Behind Killua, Wing stepped outside and surveyed my work, smiling. “That’s enough for today, Leorio.”

“Are you sure? I have four or five left to go,” I said. Wing shook his head.

“Another day. It’s the weekend. I shouldn’t have even asked you to come.”

“If you insist,” I said, and shucked off my dirty gloves. “You don’t have to tell me twice.”

I followed the boys out, and we piled into Gon’s beat-up Subaru. I had to shove aside an empty aquarium tank in the backseat. “Are you filling your apartment with amphibians again?” I said, remembering the frog incident of last summer. Gon laughed from the driver’s seat as he backed out of the parking spot, his tanned arm slung around Killua’s headrest. 

“No, don’t worry! It was just a teensy tiny black snake that had gotten lost.”

I recoiled away from the tank. “Ugh. I hope he’s already at his new home.”

Zepile’s rooftop was crowded by the time we arrived. I found Senritsu by over by a table of appetizers, ladling herself a glass of rum punch. “Who are all these people?” I asked, leaning down to peck her on the cheek. There were at least thirty people on the roof, many of them sporting interesting artsy jewelry and trendy haircuts. “Since when is Zepile so popular?”

“He’s got high society friends from the auctions now,” she said, handing me a sweaty glass of punch. “Careful, it’s stronger than it tastes.”

“Thanks. By the way, I need to talk to you.” 

She raised an eyebrow. “About?”

I led her over to lean against the iron railing overlooking the street. “Cheadle called me last night. What are you up to?” 

“What do you mean?” she asked, taking a bite of celery. “She’s my friend too, you know.”

“I know,” I said sternly, “but it feels like you’re feeding us different information. What’s the deal?”

“I’m not sure what you mean,” she said, shrugging. “Look, your friend is here.” She pointed with a celery stick towards the stairs, where Kurapika was talking to Zepile. My stomach swooped into my groin. “Go on. I know you want to say hi.” 

I looked back at her, puzzled, before taking a big sip of my punch and setting off towards Kurapika. I had to squeeze my way through the talkative crowd to reach the stairs. Zepile spotted me and waved me over, sloshing his punch. 

“Yo! Salsa man! He lives!” 

“He does indeed. I didn’t know you two knew each other.” 

“Zepile visited the bookstore today,” Kurapika said, giving me a tight-lipped smile. He was wearing a soft white T-shirt and faded blue jeans, and looked painfully cool. “He was kind enough to extend the invitation.”

“Nice, nice,” I said, touching my hair self-consciously. “That’s awesome.”

 Zepile was watching our interaction with a strained grin. “I’ll leave you to it,” he called, and backed away into the crowd. “Holler if the booze runs out.”

“I always feel kind of awkward at these things,” I confessed to Kurapika. “Like, I never know quite enough people to have fun. Then I end up trapped in small talk with someone I don’t really know.” 

“Mm,” he offered, clutching his drink. 

“I had a really great time with you. Sorry I didn’t text you after or anything. I didn’t want to come on too strong,” I said in a rush. Kurapika continued to stare out over the rooftops as I finished my drink and threw away my plastic cup. “I hope I’m not trapping you in small talk,” I added, anxious. 

“No, no,” he said vaguely. “I don’t know anyone else, anyways.” 

The punch and the sun were giving me a headache. Squinting, I struggled to think of anything to say. Everything felt weird, and I started to worry that I had imagined our chemistry last night.

“Are you okay?” Kurapika asked, leaning closer. His face changed as he peered into my eyes. “You look green.” 

“Do I?” I said, touching my temple as my head gave a piercing throb. “I think I’m hungover.” 

“No, I think it’s something else,” Kurapika said, placing a hand on my neck. His hand was wonderfully cool against my flushed skin. “Hmm. Come with me.” 

The sunny rooftop blurred and shifted as I followed him down the metal fire escape. Had I accidentally drank way too much? But no, I’d only had that one glass. Still, something was wrong. I stumbled on the last step as Kurapika grabbed my elbow to steady me. “Whoa. Sorry,” I said. Kurapika took my arm and guided me firmly into the front passenger seat of a parked sedan. “Are you kidnapping me?” 

“Sure. Watch your head.”

 I watched in bemusement as he reached down and buckled my seatbelt before walking around to the other side of the car and getting behind the wheel. I must have dozed off, because the next thing I registered was Kurapika helping me into an air-conditioned lobby. Distantly I recognized that we were in one of the nicer hotels downtown. 

“Did you drug me?” I mumbled as we rode the elevator. Our distorted reflections blinked back at us from the mirrored wall.

“No, but you’re ill,” Kurapika said. An indeterminate amount of time passed. There was another throb in my temples. I shut my eyes tightly against the pain, and then I felt my socks and shoes being removed. 

“Wait, buy me dinner first,” I tried, but he only exhaled a quiet huff of laughter before pulling off my jeans with great tenderness. A damp washcloth was placed on my forehead. 

“You should try to sleep,” he said softly, and covered me with a thick down comforter. All at once my eyelids felt incredibly heavy. The last thing I knew before falling into a dense sleep was Kurapika perched on the side of the bed, touching my cheek with a cool hand.

I woke up in a dark room. Desperately thirsty, I smacked my lips and gazed around blearily, trying to figure out where I was. My mouth felt carpeted. 

“You’re awake,” came a voice, and I realized through the gloom that Kurapika was seated beside me in a chaise lounge. A thick paperback lay open on his lap. “How are you feeling?” 

“Like I was hit by a train,” I said, rubbing my eyes. “What happened?” 

“You got sick at Zepile’s party. Did you drink any water today?”

I rolled onto my side, thinking back to my morning and afternoon. “I woke up and went right to the flower store and was out in the sun for a while, and then I went to the party.” 

“Heat exhaustion, I’m guessing,” Kurapika said, getting up from his chair and stretching. The clock on the bedside table read 2:37 AM. “You should really make sure you’re drinking more water. And perhaps less alcohol.” 

“Damn. I guess so,” I said, yawning. “Um, I really appreciate it, but why did you bring me here?” 

Before he answered, Kurapika padded sock-footed into the bathroom to fill a glass with water. He brought it back and handed it to me, and I drank it obediently.

“You were ill. I wasn’t sure if you would have made it home on your own. It was the least I could do.” 

In my post-sleep haze, this felt like the nicest thing anyone had ever done for me. My throat tightened with emotion, and I looked away, overwhelmed. 

“God. Thanks. I don’t even know what to say.” 

“No need to say anything.” 

“Not that I’m complaining, but why the hotel?” 

He was quiet for a moment. “It made more sense.” 

This didn’t track, but it was the middle of the night and nothing made sense. “Fair enough,” I said, and got out of bed in search of a toothbrush. I felt gross and wanted to freshen up. Kurapika picked up his book again as I splashed my face with cold water and brushed my teeth with a miniature complimentary toothbrush. When I returned, Kurapika set his book to the side. 

“Feeling better?” he asked, fixing me with his feline gaze. 

“More or less. Aren’t you tired?” I asked, my mouth going dry. “It’s so late.” 

“I’m mostly nocturnal.” 

“Interesting,” I breathed, and reached out to touch his hair, soft as kitten fur. He leaned into my hand and closed his eyes.“Very interesting.”

This time we both knew the right angle, and wasted no time getting right to deep open-mouthed kisses. He stayed seated for the first minute as I hunched over, holding his face in both hands, and when that became too uncomfortable I backed against the mattress and fell back into the pillows, pulling him with me. He laughed and straddled my hips, pushing my chest down. 

“Easy, tiger. I’m still recovering.” 

“You’re fragile,” he agreed, kissing down my neck as I shivered with delight. “I won’t hurt you.” 

“You can hurt me a little if you want.”  

“Careful what you wish for,” he whispered, and tucked a cold hand into my boxers. I closed my eyes in anticipation, breathing hard. He traced my thighs lightly for an agonizing thirty seconds before arriving at my cock. 

“Ah, fuck.” 

“Relax,” he said against my chest. He set a slow rhythm, but it was hopeless once he bit my earlobe. I sighed his name into his silky hair and came so hard that my vision clouded with fireworks.

“Jesus.” 

“You can just call me Kurapika,” he said, delicately wiping his hand on a towel. I scoffed, still struggling to catch my breath. 

“Wait,” I said, reaching for his hips as he sat up. “You don’t want me to…?”

“You should rest.”

“That doesn’t seem fair,” I protested, running a hand down his leg. He took my hand and pressed it briefly against his mouth before placing it on the bed.

“I have to go, but don’t take it personally.”

“What? In the middle of the night?”

“Like I said, I’m nocturnal,” he said, and disappeared into the bathroom. After a minute, I heard the shower running. I sank back into the pillows. Kurapika emerged ten minutes later, hair slicked back and smelling of mint. He kissed me chastely on the side of my mouth. 

“Check out is at eleven. Feel free to order breakfast on my tab, though,” he said. I tried to bring him down for another kiss as he slipped out of my grasp. “Get some rest. You need it.”

“Hang on,” I called after him, but he had already left soundlessly. I rolled onto my back and stared at the ceiling, head spinning.

When I woke up again the room was filled with sunlight. I stretched and yawned, looking around hopefully for Kurapika, but I was alone. A folded note sat on the nightstand.  Curious, I picked it up. 

Stay hydrated and take care of yourself. Best, Kurapika 

I frowned and flipped it over, looking for something more, but the rest of the creamy hotel stationary was blank. Okay, so he was trying to be mysterious. That was fine. I could be into it. As instructed, I ordered room service breakfast ($27 for two waffles!) and took a hot shower with the fancy soaps before leaving the hotel. My intense headache from the day before was gone, but I felt stiff and sore as I walked. When I got home I stood in my kitchen for a while, watching dust motes sparkling in a sunbeam. 

It occurred to me that I should probably feel guilty about stepping out on Cheadle. I considered this for a while as I puttered around the kitchen, throwing out bags of ambitiously purchased wilted vegetables, but I didn’t feel like I had done anything wrong. To probe this, I pictured Cheadle sleeping with someone else, and was surprised to feel only a flicker of jealousy. 

I couldn’t hide from it any longer. I needed to start studying for the MCAT. I woke up at 5 AM on Monday morning and made an extra-strong coffee, feeling purposeful and motivated. Vibrating slightly from the caffeine, I sat down at my desk and cracked open my biology review textbook, thinking that this would be the easiest place to start. Biology had always been my strongest subject, and I felt reasonably confident that I remembered a good amount of content. The first unit was a review of brain anatomy. Chewing the end of my pencil, I scanned the Check Your Knowledge quiz at the beginning of the chapter. 

Question one: which of the following structures is a part of the rhombencephalon? I knew this one, and circled choice B with a flourish. It was the medulla oblongata, the connection between the brainstem and the spinal cord. Without it, our bodies would no longer know to beat our hearts or inflate our lungs. I moved onto the next question, which asked me to determine the effects of a tumor in the temporal lobe. I knew this one too. The temporal lobe processed auditory information, emotions, and memory. When this area of the brain was damaged by encroaching tumors or overzealous radiation, patients became aggressive and struggled to recognize faces. Pietro’s glioblastoma had nestled up against his amygdala, the fear center. I knew it wasn’t his fault when he snarled at Senritsu and Cheadle, scared and combative. We watched in horror as he shook and drooled from seizures. His own mother had left in tears after watching him scream and throw a plate across the room, but it wasn’t his fault, it was only the wiring in his tortured brain misfiring after it was carved and poisoned. 

My pencil splintered in half. I shut the book and pushed it away, chest heaving. I would do chemistry instead. 

Later, elbow-deep in potting soil, I scolded myself. How the hell did I expect to survive medical school if I broke down at the slightest memory of Pietro’s illness? It was ridiculous. The only way to overcome this phobia was more exposure. I promised myself I would read the brain chapter again tomorrow.

Something odd had happened to my phone. I was at Senritsu’s place after work, drinking lavender lemonade in the backyard with Killua and Zepile. During a lull in the conversation, I pulled out my phone to text Kurapika, hoping I could entice him to come over later. Scrolling through my contacts, I found that the K section went from Katrina (an intolerable high school ex) to Killua and then straight onto the Laurens (several, but none memorable enough to mention). Perturbed, I looked through my notes app to see if I had saved Kurapika’s number there instead, but it only contained grocery lists and important numbers for Pietro’s doctors. 

“He deleted his own number,” I muttered. “Geez.” 

Killua looked up, a sprig of lavender in his teeth. “Damn. That’s cold.”

“Yeah,” I said, scratching my head ruefully. “I don’t get it. What did I do?”

“I thought you guys went home together after Zep’s thing?” 

“Eh, sort of,” I said as Senritsu returned from the kitchen with a platter heaped with tomatoes and mozzarella. We paused to pile our bamboo plates with food. “He, like, rescued me. I had heat stroke or something.”

Senritsu looked pensive. “I imagine he still has your number. Maybe he’ll text you.” 

“Yeah, but what the hell?” I took a bite of garlicky tomato. “This is great, by the way. Killua, where’s Gon?”

He developed an interest in a loose piece of wicker on his chair. “No idea. We don’t do everything together, you know.” 

“I mean, you kinda do.” 

“I’m not his mom, okay? I don’t know where he is,” he retorted. Something in his face looked wounded enough that I let it drop, and instead changed the subject to Zepile’s latest auction fodder. This week was Nigerian bone sculptures, which made us all squeamish. 

“But do you think it’s human bones?” Killua said, perking up. “Isn’t that illegal?”

“I think it’s deer bones. I hope it’s deer bones,” I said, grimacing. “I dunno. He’s getting into some kooky stuff. But damn, if I was making that kind of money, I’d be all over it too, I guess.”

“You know that’s how he met Kurapika, don’t you?” Senritsu said. “Through Sotheby’s.”

“What’s Sotheby’s?” Killua asked. Frowning, I quickly Googled it to make sure I was right before responding. 

“Okay, yeah. It’s a swanky auction house. They told me they met at the bookstore…wait, so what’s Kurapika trying to auction off?”

“I think he’s looking to buy, actually,” Senritsu replied, swatting away a mosquito. It was a steamy tropical evening with distant low murmurs of thunder, and we were all a little hot and grumpy waiting for the rain. “But don’t ask me what, because we already tried at Zep’s party and he was very cagey about it.” 

“So he must have money,” I said, thinking. “Right? Everything Zep sells is minimum ten grand.”

We all pondered this for a while, slapping at bugs and picking at the caprese salad. An unpleasant scenario crossed my mind. 

“Do you think he could smell the poor on me?” I asked. “I don’t dress that badly. And I tried to pay for our date.”

“Oh, drop it, Leorio,” Killua moaned. “You’re not the only one in the world with problems.” 

“Will you just call him already? You’re a pain in the ass like this,” I snapped, reaching over to flick him on the arm. He smacked my hand away, but there was no real malice behind it. At that moment Zepile sauntered into the yard, holding a six-pack. He was fresh from an auction, dressed in a white tuxedo with a limp bow tie hanging untied around his neck. “Good timing,” I told him gratefully through a peal of thunder. A warm splashy rain began to fall, and we all hurried inside Senritsu’s small kitchen. 

Chapter Text

I knew I was depressed because I was watching a lot of lame vanilla porn, the type where the couples seemed to genuinely like each other and didn’t do anything weird. Forgive me for discussing jerking off, but the truth is that I didn’t have much else to do when I got home from work. I was lonely and bored, and could only spend so many nights drinking with my friends. Zepile was busy with the auctions, Senritsu was preparing for her upcoming concerts in Italy, and Gon and Killua led several multi-day camping trips with their hiking group. Without trying, I woke up earlier and earlier each day, and spent many drowsy pre-dawn hours reviewing chemistry. I did okay on the practice tests, but my brain felt sluggish and I made dumb mistakes. After breakfast I would go to work, sometimes not saying a word to Wing all day as I toiled under the blazing sun. 

Kurapika did not contact me in any way. I checked my email and searched for Kurapika Kurta on my neglected social media accounts and even my LinkedIn profile, but it was like he didn’t exist. He was completely unGoogleable; I couldn’t even dig up a middle school soccer roster or something. Gradually it occurred to me that he may have given me a fake name. 

I hadn’t yet told Cheadle if I planned to go to New York for the conference. By the last Wednesday of May, I decided I had nothing to lose. I bought a cheap Amtrak ticket to Penn Station and told Cheadle I’d be arriving Friday evening. She sounded happy when I called, and said I was welcome to crash on her couch. I think we both knew that would never happen, but I went along with it and thanked her for the tickets. So what if I was excited to sleep with my ex-fiancée again? I knew it was a bad idea, especially if she was dating some new guy, but I reassured myself that it was just for two days. Besides, Kurapika apparently wanted nothing more to do with me, so much so that he concealed his identity and erased his number from my phone. I was quite stung by that, and tried to put him out of my mind as I packed a duffel bag for the weekend. I had enough to worry about without pining over some guy who wouldn’t give me the time of day. 

I planned to catch the train after work on Friday. When I arrived at Takayama's Flowers that morning, Wing was nowhere to be found. After a minute of standing around in the lush wet coolness of the shop, I heard chatter coming from the back of the building. I followed the sound onto the back patio and found Wing overseeing two workers carrying large cardboard boxes out of an unmarked truck. Both men were swarthy and heavily muscled. 

“Need a hand?” I called, rolling up my sleeves. Wing blinked and turned to me, looking rather haggard. Usually he was shiny and clean-shaven, but today he sported a dark shadow of stubble around his jaw and coffee stains on his white shirt. The men worked without speaking, hefting the boxes out of the truck and piling them against the storage shed. 

“No, no. Take the day off,” Wing said, raspy-voiced. “Actually, take Monday off too. You’ve been working hard.”

“Really? You don’t want some help with that? Looks like there’s a lot,” I said, motioning towards the dozens of remaining boxes. Wing shifted, and I realized too late that he was trying to conceal the truck's contents. Suddenly I was uneasy. “Or, uh, if you’re sure. I’m actually gonna be out of town this weekend anyways. Maybe I’ll extend my trip,” I said, backing away. “Have a good weekend.”

“Yes, you too,” Wing said, raising a hand in farewell as the men continued to lug boxes onto the patio. “Enjoy!”

I hustled through the back exit, Wing watching me as I left. He was smiling, but I didn’t miss how he slumped in relief when I latched the gate shut.

Drugs , I told myself grimly as the train rattled along the Chesapeake Bay in the late afternoon. It had to be drugs. Nothing else could explain Wing’s complete lack of concern for our grand total of zero customers. While I mulled this over, I thought about Kurapika’s connection with Wing and realized with a jolt that he must be in on it too. Distressed, I wobbled down to the dining car for a beverage. The scenery changed from dingy city outskirts to rusted hillsides and silvery river as I sipped a can of warm beer. Did this mean I was implicated in something too? I’d have to quit next week. I didn’t have any particularly strong moral conviction against drugs (unless, say, Wing was involved with some gruesome cartel), but it would look terrible on my medical school application if I got arrested. Maybe I could ask someone about it at the conference tomorrow. Hey guys, what do admissions committees think if you accidentally become a drug mule? I let out a short barking laugh. Across the aisle, a redheaded woman startled and glared at me over her laptop. 

The rocking motion of the train lulled me into a reflective mood. I used to take the train to visit my family in the Bronx every few months before Grandma died, but that was over three years ago now. My favorite part was when it started to get dark right around the border of Pennsylvania, the train’s speed gradually decreasing as it meandered through the Jersey suburbs. Then you traveled through several endless dark tunnels, and every time the train emerged the sky was a darker navy and the electric pulse of Manhattan throbbed closer. Impatient, I pulled my backpack down from the luggage rack and stood in the corridor, watching the bejeweled lights of the city blur past the windows. Finally the train pulled into Penn Station with a screeching huff of diesel fumes. The passengers around me looked bedraggled from the long ride, but I crackled with energy as I slung my backpack over one shoulder and emerged into the onslaught of hot fragrant air. Instantly I smelled the city’s overwhelming bouquet of urine and cigarettes and cologne and hot dogs, revolting and appetizing all at once. 

Cheadle’s apartment was in Tribeca, within walking distance of the Wasserman lab. It was only a fifteen minute subway ride from Penn Station. I strode briskly through a crowd of Midwestern tourists and checked a text from Cheadle. She wanted to meet at her place, after which we’d walk to dinner with her lab mates. Squeezing my way into a packed subway car, I grabbed a handrail just before the train accelerated with a squeal of metal. I was starving and jittery, and, it must be said, kind of horny. Manhattan always had that effect on me, even though I’d grown up a few miles north in the Bronx. People often assumed this meant I was exceptionally tough and street-smart, which was flattering, but in reality my grandma’s neighborhood in Riverdale was safe and boring, filled with trees and playgrounds and wholesome families. Manhattan was a long subway ride away. We hardly ever came down here, except during Christmas to go ice skating at Rockefeller and buy presents at Macy’s to send back to the Puerto Rico aunties. Driving anywhere was an unthinkable luxury. Although Grandma had owned a neighbor’s ancient Buick, she had been terrified behind the wheel ever since someone rear-ended her on the Brooklyn Bridge in the seventies. I eventually figured out how to navigate the trains alone when I was in high school and Grandma insisted that I attend a Catholic after-school club. It was taught by three bitchy old nuns and a bald priest who stank of mothballs and petted the boys’ hair, but I didn’t mind because I kept meeting these incredible girls there. On Saturday mornings I’d wake up early to ride the subway downtown for 80 minutes to meet Maria or Luciana or Giuliana or whoever and do hand stuff in her bedroom while her parents were out running errands. In hindsight there was something laughably on-the-nose about the Catholicness of it all leading me directly to the leopard-print training bras and watermelon lip glosses of these preteen Madonnas of the Lower East Side, but at the time it felt very forbidden-fruit and adult. Maybe it was only fair that I ended up engaged to serious, unromantic Cheadle with her fiercely atheist stance on everything. Even when Pietro had asked her to pray with him during the last week of his life, she had pointedly omitted God’s name.

Cheadle met me on the sidewalk outside of her apartment with a one-armed hug. She wore a long-sleeved burgundy satin dress and stiletto heeled boots, and the overall effect was jarring compared to her usual librarian getup. I combed through my hair covertly, wishing I had brought some sexier clothes. “How was the trip?” she asked, taking my backpack out of my hands and leading me into the courtyard. “You’re hungry, right? Is Japanese okay? Do you need to stop at the store for anything?”

“Oh, yeah, Japanese is fine,” I told her as we crossed the carpeted lobby and rode the elevator up to the seventeenth floor. “I’m easy. Just give me a couch.” 

“Sorry to overwhelm you with new people, but we’ll meet my lab mates for dinner if that’s all right,” she explained as we entered her apartment. It was a dark, cramped unit shared with a violinist studying at Juilliard. You could tell that nobody was using the kitchen; the counters were littered with thick scientific journals and unopened mail. Cheadle was clearly nervous, and kept shuffling from foot to foot as I washed up in the miniscule bathroom. 

“Hey,” I said, walking over to her as she hovered in the hallway. “It’s good to see you. I like your New York outfit.” 

She stiffened. “Oh. I just came from a student mixer with a dress code. I don’t normally wear things like this. At the lab we’re in scrubs every day.” 

“I like it,” I murmured, brushing a hand against the slick fabric of the dress. She moved away and began rummaging in a bowl for her keys and wallet. 

“Let’s walk and talk. The reservation is at eight.” 

I kept stealing sidelong glances at her as we walked down the avenue, trying to pinpoint why she seemed so different. The clothes were new, but something else about her was sharper, more in focus. “Did you do something to your hair?” I asked as we huddled by the host stand in the restaurant, waiting for the other three. “And you’re not wearing your glasses.” 

Her hand flew to her temple. “Oh, yes. I finally got contacts.”

“And your perfume. You changed it, didn’t you?” 

She gave me a bemused look. Two young women and a sandy-haired man approached and greeted us warmly. 

“Leorio, this is Pyon, Gel, and Pariston.” 

I shook everyone’s hands, trying to match names to faces. Gel was a strikingly pretty Indian girl with ice blue eyes and waist-long black hair, and Pyon was a mousy redhead. I immediately disliked Pariston, who was handsome and tanned in a WASP-y lacrosse bro way that raised my hackles. 

“We’ve heard so much about you,” Pyon chirped as the host led us back to our table. “Cheadle says you’re brilliant.”

“Gosh, that’s news to me,” I said, raising my eyebrows as Cheadle laughed. The restaurant was the kind where you were about ten millimeters away from the next group of diners, and I could barely fit my long legs underneath the table. We settled ourselves and endured an awkward silence as everyone fumbled to scan the QR code menu with their phones. I was seated between Cheadle and Pariston, and could smell musky cologne radiating out of Pariston’s lime green Lacoste polo. What did Cheadle see in this guy? 

“Shall we do omakase like last time?” Gel asked, and everyone nodded enthusiastically. “Leorio, trust us, everything is amazing here. You eat sushi, right?”

“Yeah,” I said, eyeing Cheadle, “but you guys know she’s vegan, right?” 

“Pescatarian,” she corrected swiftly. I opened my mouth to question this, but she shot me a warning glance. Chastised, I sank back in my seat and opened the menu on my phone again. Nothing was under $30. 

“So, Leorio,” Pariston was saying, leaning his elbows on the table and fixing me with a shark smile. His teeth were square and blindingly white. “You’re applying to medical school this cycle? How’s everything going? I’m on the admissions committee for NYU, so let me be a resource for you. I remember how challenging this process was.”

A flight of sake arrived at the table as I considered strangling him. Taking a long gulp of my sake, I returned his smile. “I’m taking a gap year, but things are looking good. Just need to take my MCAT in the fall and I’ll be ready to go.”

“You’ve got your clinical work? Volunteering? Shadowing? Research experience? Grades? You’d still have time to do GPA repair work if you need, you know,” he said brightly. Gel rolled her vivid eyes.

“Can we not talk about med school for one second?” 

“Yeah, give it a rest, Pariston,” Pyon added, scratching her nose. “Leorio, how do you and Cheadle know each other?” 

Cheadle became interested in her lap and wouldn’t catch my eye. “We…uh, we met in our masters program,” I began, and then paused. It appeared that nobody knew our history, and although my feelings were bruised, I didn’t want to embarrass Cheadle as she sat fidgeting with her dress. “Ooh, look, here comes the first course,” I exclaimed as a waiter approached carrying five plates of glossy sea urchin and raw fish. My distraction worked, and the conversation pivoted to the food as Cheadle cast me a bashful half-smile. I couldn’t bring myself to be mad at her. Chewing a piece of tuna belly, I nudged her leg under the table, and she leaned into my arm. The sake was going to my head, but I felt a glow of affection for her. I watched her fondly as she engaged Pyon in a lively discussion about their latest nanotechnology project. If Pariston was jealous of Cheadle resting her head on my shoulder during dessert, he didn’t show it. 

After dinner we were tipsy from the sake and decided to walk to a nearby rooftop bar. Cheadle hurried ahead of me to walk with Gel and linked her arm through hers. I ended up next to Pariston, who caught me in the headlights of his high-beam smile again. 

“How long have you and Cheadle been seeing each other?” I asked, stepping to avoid a puddle of fresh garbage. “You guys met at the lab?”

“Cheadle and I? You must have the wrong idea,” he said, eyes twinkling. I bristled. 

“Listen, man. It’s cool if you are. We’re, uh, on a break,” I said truthfully. He tilted his head towards Cheadle and Gel ahead of us, Pyon trailing behind and fixing her makeup in a compact mirror. I followed his gaze and saw Gel snake her arm around Cheadle’s waist, pulling her close. Cheadle, to my surprise, giggled and nuzzled Gel’s cheek. I turned back to Pariston, my mouth halfway open.

“...Oh. Really?” 

He nodded as we strode into an elegant lobby. The girls’ heels clacked against the tiled floor. “If I were you I’d consider this your lucky day. Gel was checking you out at dinner, and Cheadle is still crazy about you. You could do whatever you wanted with both of them. If you’re into that.” 

Unfortunately the same thought had already crossed my mind, but I would never admit that to Pariston. I scoffed, pretending to be affronted by the notion. 

“Jesus, man. One thing at a time. We were engaged, you know.” 

“Suit yourself,” he shrugged. We all crowded into a velvet-lined elevator. I looked at Gel and Cheadle again and saw an unmistakable pink flush around Cheadle’s neck and ears. The memory of kissing Kurapika’s silky hair flashed across my mind, and I felt a sudden ache.

After several rounds of drinks (astronomically expensive, but Cheadle insisted on paying for me) we decided to call it a night. The conference started at eight the next morning, and it was after midnight. Before we left the bar, Cheadle snuck out to the curb to say goodbye to Gel, who had also given me a prolonged hug. I could smell her floral perfume on my shirt as Cheadle and I returned to the apartment. The violinist was out for the night. 

“You’re sure you’re not mad?” Cheadle asked, pacing in the hall as I brushed my teeth. “You’re dating someone too, right?”

From her hopeful expression I knew I was supposed to say yes. I spat out my toothpaste and nodded emphatically. “Mm. Yeah.”

“What’s she like?” 

I hesitated, and Cheadle shook her head. 

“Never mind! I promise I’m not trying to be nosy. As long as you’re happy, that’s what matters.”

“Thanks. You too. Seriously, you look so happy with her. Relaxed.”

She smiled. “I really think she’s good for me, you know?” Her eyes widened, and she flapped her hands in apology. “Not that you were bad for me. That’s not what I mean.”

“No, no, it’s okay. I get it.”

We were facing each other in the dark hallway, both of us dressed in pajama t-shirts and sweatpants. A smear of Gel’s blue eyeshadow shimmered on Cheadle’s collarbone. “In that case,” I said, rubbing my neck, “guess I’ll hit the hay. You said the sheets are on the couch already?”

“Oh. Yes. I’ll grab the spare pillows for you,” she said. We both continued to stand in place. 

“Okay. Sounds good,” I said, and she sighed.

“All right. Like we didn’t know this would happen. Come on.” 

I followed her into her tiny bedroom and sat on the edge of her sagging bed. Her room was cluttered with textbooks and microscope equipment. I waited as she bustled around taking out her earrings and hair clips. Eventually she clicked off the lamp and laid down next to me, folding her hands underneath her head in a familiar gesture. She wound her legs between mine, but by now my boozy threesome fantasies had evaporated and I just felt kind of sad and empty. We were in some stranger’s apartment far from home, she wasn’t wearing her ring, and everything was different. 

“Maybe we should just sleep,” I said, laying a hand on her shoulder. “It would probably be better for both of us.”

Her eyes shone in the darkness. “Gel and I talked about it. She doesn’t mind at all. She sleeps with other people too.” 

“Baby, this is just going to make everything harder,” I whispered, but she was already kissing me. Well, I tried. I buried my face in her long hair and pulled her on top of me.

The sex was comfortable and predictable. When we finished, she fell asleep pressed against my side, but I was wide awake and too warm with her skin touching mine. Sweating, I stared up at someone’s left behind glow-in-the-dark stars on the ceiling and thought about Gel and Pariston, these movie-star attractive and intelligent people who had accepted Cheadle as one of their own. (Pyon was cute too, but not as glamorous.) Everyone was nice enough to me all evening, but it was obvious I didn’t belong. I didn’t get their inside jokes about the lab and their doctor friends, and I knew my carefully ironed gray suit would look tacky and cheap next to their designer outfits tomorrow. I started to wish I hadn’t agreed to attend the conference. 

At some point I must have drifted off, because I was roused from a thin layer of sleep to the sound of my phone ringing. Drowsy and cotton-mouthed, I scrabbled on the nightstand to silence it as Cheadle stirred and flung an arm across her face. It was four in the morning. I was almost asleep again when I thought to check the caller ID, and squinted at the screen in the darkness to see a voicemail from an unknown number. This was intriguing enough that I rolled out of bed and walked down the hall to listen. 

“My apologies,” came a scratchy voice. “I realized halfway through calling how late it was. I hear you’re in the city and wanted to ask if you wanted to get together tomorrow. Or I suppose today. Saturday, I mean. I’m sure you’re busy with the conference, so please don’t feel pressured to respond.” Silence for ten seconds, and then: “This is Kurapika, by the way. Anyway, you can use this number for me. I hope you’re sleeping. Good night.” 

I knew who it was by the second sentence. Kurapika’s speech had the off-kilter patter of a non-native English speaker, with something clipped and formal about his consonants. Through my sleep haze, I buzzed with adrenaline as my thumb hovered over the call back button. On one hand, Kurapika was possibly (probably) some sort of criminal, but on the other hand he seemed to like me and I most certainly liked him. I liked him so much that it took my breath away to imagine seeing him again. Since I had gotten laid less than two hours ago, I couldn’t even blame my interest in him on an unsatisfied sex drive. I called him back, my pulse quickening. He picked up on the second ring. 

“Yes?”

“I…Kurapika?” 

“I hope I didn’t wake you.”

“No, no, I gave up sleeping for Lent one year and now I never touch the stuff.” He didn’t laugh, but I plowed ahead. “How the hell do you know I’m in the city? Are you stalking me?”

“Of course not. I heard from Wing,” he said, and I nodded. That was believable enough. 

“Listen, I figure you sort of owe me this, since you’ve already kidnapped me and woke me up in the middle of the night. So tell me. Are you and Wing involved in selling something you shouldn’t be?”

“Wing? No. What gave you that idea?” 

“I overheard you two at the shop the other day,” I said quietly, walking into the kitchen. On the street below, the garbage trucks were starting their clanking pilgrimage through the city. “What was that about?”

“Do you really think I would have had that conversation without checking who was listening? Of course I knew you heard us.” 

“Kurapika. I’m trying to go to medical school. I can’t get tied up with, like, drug trafficking or whatever you two are up to. I cannot afford to break bad. I can barely afford my textbooks.” 

He blew out a long exhale. “You have my word that it has nothing to do with drugs. Open one of the boxes for yourself if you don’t believe me.”

I picked at a fridge magnet, considering this. “Huh.”

“I’m calling because I didn’t want you to think that I didn’t enjoy our last encounter. I did, very much. And I’d like to see you again.” 

“Me too. I’d like to see you too.”

“Are you free tomorrow at, say, eight-thirty? Name a location.”

This was getting complicated. Cheadle would expect me to spend the entire day with her at the conference, and I didn’t know the schedule. “I can’t promise a time right now. Can I text you tomorrow?”

“Possibly. I may be occupied by then. I am unsure of how my business will unfold tomorrow.”

“Well, take a break from the mafia or whatever it is that demands so much of your time,” I said, growing annoyed. “You’re the one who called me , Don Corleone.” 

“You’re right. I’ll make whatever you decide work. Just name the place. Good night, Leorio.”

He hung up before I could get another word in. Perplexed, I tiptoed back to bed and slipped under the blankets beside Cheadle. She nestled closer to me in her sleep, and I felt guilty.

The conference, as it turned out, was boring. We went to a morning talk hosted by a panel of deadly earnest medical students who extolled the uniqueness and creativity and diversity of their school’s classes, which ended up sounding awfully similar to the classes described by the other panelists hosting the mid-morning and afternoon talks. Cheadle and I parted ways for the lunchtime lectures, me choosing the Oncologists of Tomorrow while she beelined for Milestones in Interventional Radiology. I nibbled a dry turkey sandwich and watched a silver-haired doctor drone through a PowerPoint presentation. The students around me seemed enraptured, many scrawling feverish notes, but the doctor’s monotone voice and the warmth of so many bodies in the room made me sleepy. I started to daydream after the fifth slide, gazing out the skylight at a billowing thunderhead. 

“What did you think?” Cheadle asked me afterwards, ebullient, as we walked towards the student mixer in the ballroom. She reached over to adjust my crooked nametag. “Wasn’t it useful? Make sure you have your phone out for numbers. These events are crucial for making connections.” 

The thought of making small talk with two hundred Cheadles made me preemptively exhausted, but she looked so eager that I feigned a smile. “Definitely. Hey, thanks again for the tickets.” 

Almost immediately after we entered the ballroom, Cheadle spotted her coworkers from an old internship and abandoned me to chat with them. I drifted over to the hors d'oeuvres table and filled a plate with cocktail shrimp and crackers. Happy to escape the networking, I stood munching my shrimp in the corner for a few minutes until I was discovered by Pariston. He had three other lacrosse bro types in tow today, all of them dressed in navy blazers and khaki slacks. 

“There’s the man of the hour! Did Cheadle ditch you already?”

“I don’t blame her,” I mumbled through a mouthful of crackers. “She loves this stuff and I, uh, I don’t. Did you plan the outfits?”

“This guy. He’s a real comedian,” Pariston said to the bros, who gave dutiful braying laughs. In the glow of a crystal chandelier hanging overhead, I noticed a faint sheen of white powder on Pariston’s upper lip. “What are you and Cheadle doing tonight? There’s a party at Harry’s penthouse if you’re interested. Gel’s going, I’m sure.”

“I’ll mention it to her,” I said, thinking that perhaps this would let me meet Kurapika. I still hadn’t texted him, unsure of what Cheadle wanted to do later. “What’s the address?”

“Cheadle knows. Come by around eight.” 

He jogged over to the bar, the bros following him like ducklings. Leaning against a potted palm tree, I let the noise of the room wash over me. After five minutes I grew restless and pulled out my phone. I saw a text from Kurapika and experienced a brief cardiac arrhythmia at the sight of his name. It was remarkable how quickly I’d developed a Pavlovian tic for him.

Change of plans. I’ll be at Le Bernardin at nine if you’d like to meet. It will be my treat and I will wrestle you for the check if you even attempt to pay. 

Le Bernardin! Damn. That meant he had serious money. Under Kurapika’s text, there was a message from Zepile. I swiped it open, popping my fourteenth shrimp into my mouth. 

Whaddup! I’m in the city tonight and my auction is probably ending early. I have someone I want you to meet. Can we rendezvous after your thing is done? 

I ducked behind the palm and called Zepile, too keyed up to wait. 

“Dang, what’s going on this weekend?” I asked when he picked up. “I feel like the prettiest girl at the dance.”

“You’re a star!” he crowed. “Anyways, yeah, I’d like to see Cheadle, assuming you guys are getting along. Is everything cool?”

Across the room, Gel and Cheadle were deep in conversation with two-thirds of Pariston’s lacrosse team. Pariston himself was talking to the oncologist from the lecture earlier, nodding seriously.

“Oh, you know,” I said. “You’d feel more comfortable at these places than me. I ate all the shrimp and I want to go home.”

“Daddy Zep will take care of you. Do you guys wanna get together?” 

“Actually, I might have dinner plans tonight. But I gotta see what Cheadle’s up to.”

“What, you’re ditching her already?”

 “There might be some fancy penthouse party she wants to go to.” I lowered my voice. “And I might go out with Kurapika. He’s in town.” 

“Whoa now! Wait, I want to see him. And I want to see Cheadle. Can we all meet up?” 

“Er,” I said, imagining everyone in one room, “that might be a bit much.” 

“Oh, come on. How many times will we all be in one place again?” 

“So far it’s one for one,” I said, but I realized I was losing this battle. Zepile had Cheadle’s number and had probably already reached out to her, and I didn’t want to hurt her feelings by excluding her. “Okay, fine. Let me make a phone call and get back to you.”

Three hours later, I was crammed into a cab with Cheadle, Gel, Pariston, Zepile, and Zepile’s new boyfriend, a strong silent guy named Mizai I’d never met. Kurapika had taken my long winding explanation in stride, merely chuckling and agreeing to extend the invitation to my growing posse. After temporarily losing consciousness while reading Le Bernardin’s prices, I tried desperately to get Kurapika to agree to anywhere else, but he insisted on it and reiterated that it was his treat, mentioning that he knew someone. I cautioned the others that they’d likely need to cover their own $200 meals if they joined us, but everyone was enthusiastic, saying they’d never be able to get reservations otherwise. “He must be the heir to something,” Gel said wonderingly. “I say go for it. Med school won’t pay for itself.” 

When we arrived at the restaurant, Kurapika was stationed at a large table in a secluded room in the back. He wore a beautiful black suit with a starchy white Oxford shirt, and stood to kiss the girls on both cheeks European-style during the introductions. Cheadle caught my eye as we sat down and gave an approving nod. She really cared about manners. Personally I’d been concerned that my suit wouldn’t pass the dress code, and was relieved when the waiters let us in without comment. The table was laden with crystal glassware and vases of white roses. Feeling wildly out of place, I sat between Kurapika and Cheadle and inspected the menu, which contained a dizzying array of three and four digit numbers. Some of the wines cost more than two months of my rent. Zepile and Pariston launched into chatter about Zepile’s latest auction as Mizai listened stoically, and Gel and Cheadle fell into more lab talk, their hands intertwined. When no one was looking, Kurapika treated me to a shy smile and touched my knee. 

“Good to see you,” I said, feeling the blood rush to my neck. “This is amazing. I already know you’ll never tell me what you’re doing here, but just in case, what are you doing here?”

“As it happens, I was supposed to be paying a visit to your friend’s auction house this weeked,” he said, nodding towards Zepile. “But something came up, so I figured I’d at least enjoy my time here.” 

“Thanks for letting everyone crash our date. Is this a date?” 

He cocked his head. “Yes. I’d say so. In the traditional sense.”

“What other sense is there?”

“Ah, I don’t know,” he said, pulling at a strand of his white-gold hair. “On occasion I say things in English and they aren’t precisely what I’d like. Take it to mean whatever you’d prefer.”   

Although no one had ordered, a first course arrived along with two bottles of vintage Bordeaux. A waiter poured an inch of red wine for Kurapika to sample, who swirled it around in the glass before taking a sip and pronouncing it excellent. Three other waiters flitted around the table pouring everyone a glass of wine and distributing spoonfuls of glistening caviar. I did the math in my head ($220 per spoon in addition to the $198 per person prix fixe, and the wine was at least $400 a bottle) and started to panic. Zepile seemed to be arriving at a similar conclusion, and threw me a frantic look as Mizai slurped his caviar in one bite. Feeling faint, I turned to Kurapika. He was delicately eating the caviar off of his spoon one bead at a time. 

“Um. I appreciate you getting us this reservation, but this is asking a bit much of my friends. This is going to be insanely expensive. It’s too much for them.” 

“You will not be paying,” he said at once, nostrils flaring. “None of you. I would never expect anyone to pay for this without gaining their consent. Please don’t worry, and enjoy the meal.”

“I’m sure it’ll be great and all, but this is going to bankrupt you. Good lord. The whole meal will be five figures,” I said, wincing. While I spoke, he clenched his jaw and made a fist under the table. I grabbed his hand. “We don’t have to order anything else after this. Let’s drink the wine and get out of here, okay? We can have a great time somewhere else.” 

He yanked his hand away and tucked it into his suit pocket, but he wasn’t quick enough for me to miss the dried blood crusted around his nails. I froze with a bite of salty caviar on my tongue.

“Hey. Wait.”

Our scuffle had caught the others’ attention. Cheadle and Gel watched as I tried to take his hand again, and Zepile and Pariston fell silent. 

“It’s nothing,” he said, his face turning pleasant. Mizai’s dull eyes flickered. “I got a papercut earlier. Cheadle, you were saying that you’ve been working with nanobots?” 

She looked at me, uncertain if she should reply. I shrugged and gestured at her to continue. I had no idea what was going on. Kurapika turned out to know a remarkable amount about Cheadle’s field, and asked thoughtful questions which provided her with natural opportunities to show off. The tense mood dissipated as the evening continued. By the time we finished the seared lobster tail, I had drunk enough wine that I had almost forgotten about the blood. Kurapika inched closer to me as Pariston told a funny story about one of his med school professors, and by the cheese course he was tracing my thigh under the table. On my other side, Cheadle and Gel were canoodling, but every so often Cheadle would reach over and ruffle my hair. This isn’t bad at all , I thought, grinning. Zepile winked at me, his arm slung around taciturn Mizai. 

When the check came, Kurapika produced a matte black credit card and gave it to the waiter in one fluid motion. A chorus of thanks rose up from around the table. Kurapika looked embarrassed and started talking about the latest Sunday crossword, which had been particularly tricky. He then excused himself and went to the bathroom, giving everyone an opportunity to gossip about him. 

“Wow,” Gel said, grinning. “He’s smart. He obviously likes you. And he’s so polite.”

“A gentleman,” Cheadle agreed. Zepile applauded in my general direction.

“You’ve done it, Leorio. You are sleeping with a bona fide rich guy. Did you see the bill? I couldn’t see everything, but it was five numbers and started with a one and a two.”

“I haven’t even really slept with him,” I admitted, buttoning my jacket. “I don’t know why he likes me so much, but I’m not complaining.” 

Presently Kurapika returned to the group. We all stood to go, everyone talking in low friendly voices as we crossed the dining room. We were almost to the doors when it happened. As Cheadle asked him a question about the bookstore, Kurapika’s face turned bone-white, and he crumpled gracefully to the carpeted floor. For a second we were too shocked to react, and then someone gasped and broke the spell. A waiter rushed over to us, babbling questions. I ignored him and crouched next to Kurapika. I swallowed hard over the sour bile rising in my throat, trying to stay calm. 

“Zepile, call 911 right now,” I ordered, feeling Kurapika’s jugular. His pulse was weak and thready. “Kurapika? Hey. What’s going on?” I gave him a harsh sternal rub, but he was unresponsive, his soft hair spilling across his ashen face. “Hey. Hey!” 

“Leorio, let Pariston,” Cheadle said, her voice higher than normal. I looked up to see Pariston rolling up his sleeves and shook my head. 

“We need someone who hasn’t been doing eight balls all day,” I said angrily. Restaurant staff clustered around us as Zepile spoke rapidly on the phone. I grasped Kurapika’s thin shoulders, and was aghast to see a coin of bright red blood seeping through his white shirt. 

“Was he shot?” Gel cried. Several voices rose up in alarm around us. Heart pounding, I scanned the restaurant, but there was nothing other than panicked rich people and scurrying waiters. Someone brought over a puffy jacket to wrap around Kurapika as we waited. He was breathing, but it was shallow and his skin was clammy to the touch. When the paramedics arrived after an eternity, we couldn’t answer any of their questions. How had he been injured? We had no clue. Had he overdosed? He’d had one glass of wine, but we had no idea what else. Had he been in a car accident? Did he have a personal or family history of heart disease? What were his allergies? Helpless, I followed them into the ambulance and told the others to go home, although Cheadle promised to meet me at the hospital. That seemed reasonable, as someone would have to fill out paperwork. She was reliable in a crisis. 

The ambulance careened down Third Avenue with lights and sirens blaring. I held my breath as the paramedics started a line in Kurapika’s pale arm and cut away his white shirt to reveal a blood-stained bandage. “You’re sure he didn’t take anything tonight?” the older paramedic asked over the wailing sirens. “He didn’t mention a fight? This looks like penetrating trauma. Looks like he tried to dress it himself earlier.” They pulled the bandages aside to re-pack the wound, which was a dark oozing gash in his left flank. Kidney, lung, colon, spleen, I thought reflexively, picturing my MCAT anatomy book. “Oh, God, Kurapika,” I wheezed, my eyes filling with stinging tears. “What did you do?”

Cheadle was already talking to a bearded attending doctor when we arrived. I jogged alongside the paramedics as they wheeled the stretcher into the trauma bay and slid Kurapika’s limp body onto a bed. A crowd of residents and nurses gathered as the paramedics gave their report. In the corner, a medical scribe clattered away on her computer. 

“Adult male with four centimeter penetrating laceration of unknown mechanism over the left flank. Witnesses say he collapsed after dinner at ten-fifteen and started bleeding shortly after. GCS of 7 en route, slightly arousable to noxious stimuli, pupils equal, round, and reactive.” 

“Is this family?” the bearded doctor asked, nodding towards me and Cheadle. “Any history we should know?”

“We’re just his friends,” I called. “I’m sorry, we don’t know anything more than what the paramedics said.” 

A nurse was cutting away Kurapika’s beautiful clothes so that the doctors could check every inch of his body for injuries. This was not the way I wanted to see him naked for the first time, and I looked away when they reached his underwear. In addition to the wound in his side, he had three deep scratches across his chest and purple bruises encircling his slender wrists: obvious signs of a struggle. Beside me, I heard Cheadle’s sharp inhale. It was surreal to overhear the rhythm of the trauma survey from this perspective. How many times had I heard it before at my old scribe job? When I’d been behind the computer, it was hard to convince myself that the patients coming through the doors of the ambulance bay were real people with existences as rich and complex as my own. The worst days of strangers' lives became run-of-the-mill after enough exposure. But now I was dressed in my dinner suit instead of scrubs, nauseous with fear and wiping my bloodied palms against my pants. A kind nurse noticed and handed me a damp paper towel. 

When they whisked Kurapika away for CT scans, Cheadle ushered me into a hallway. She gave me a bottle of water, fanning herself with her clutch bag. 

“He’ll need surgery. That could have hit lung, or even pancreas,” she said, eyes alight with Science Thinking. “You have no idea what could have caused this injury? He didn’t mention anything?”

“Not a fucking thing.” 

“But he looked fine during dinner. They said the injury looked over twelve hours old. If the mechanism was a penetrating stab wound as they assume – ”

“Cheadle,” I interjected, my voice clipped. “I know as much as you do. Let’s not speculate.” 

“There’s no need to be short,” she said, pulling out her phone to look up anatomy pictures. “I’m trying to help.” 

I knew she was, and that made it worse. Taking a step away from her, I leaned against the wall and tried to breathe slowly to regulate my wild heartbeat. Ten minutes passed before a nurse came out and informed us that Kurapika had a minor liver laceration and needed urgent exploratory surgery. Cheadle said something back to her, and maybe I did as well. We were herded into a crowded family waiting room where we sat on hard chairs and drank watery burnt coffee. The weekend crowd was heavy on belligerent drunks and screaming juice-mouthed toddlers. As the night wore on, punctuated by the regular arrival of ambulance sirens, the room gradually thinned out until it was only us and a strung-out construction worker muttering to himself. 

I needed to figure out how to contact Kurapika’s family and let them know what had happened. I didn’t know his family situation, but the idea of hypothetical Mr. and Mrs. Kurta not knowing what had happened was tying my stomach in knots. In the ambulance I had tried to unlock Kurapika’s phone, hoping to find a Mom or Dad contact, but his passcode was impenetrable and he didn’t have touch ID enabled. The secretary at the hospital front desk told Cheadle with a shrug that Kurapika had no emergency contacts listed. I was at a dead end. 

When Cheadle went to the bathroom, I pulled out my phone and called Wing. Despite the late hour, he picked up after two rings. 

“Leorio? Is everything all right?”

“Hey. I’m sorry to call so late, but I need to talk to you about Kurapika.”

“Did something happen?” he said at once. “Shit. Is he alive?”

“I…yeah, he’s in surgery now, but — ”

“Please let me know when he’s awake,” he said, sounding worried. 

“Yeah. Yeah, of course. The reason I’m calling is to see if you have any numbers for his family. I know he said he’s an expat. Are they abroad? We haven’t been able to reach anyone yet and he didn’t have anyone listed for his emergency contacts. And his phone has a passcode, we already tried.”

There was a long pause. I chewed a hangnail and waited for Wing to reply. Finally he gave a heavy sigh. 

“I’m sure he would prefer to be the one to tell you the details, but Kurapika’s family has been gone for a long time. There’s no one to call.”

My heart stuttered uncomfortably. “Gone? Really. There’s no one?” 

“Maybe a distant cousin or two somewhere, but as far as I know, no one you would need to call in the middle of the night.”

Cheadle had returned from the bathroom. I held up one finger to stave off her inquiring look. “Okay. Well, thanks. Sorry again to wake you. I’ll keep you posted.”

“Please do. Thank you,” Wing said, and hung up. 

“Who was that?” Cheadle asked, bleary-eyed. I quickly fixed my face into a calmer expression.

“Ah, I called Wing to see if he had any way to get in touch with Kurapika’s family. But, uh…” I trailed off, somehow unable to say it out loud. Cheadle studied my face.

“Oh. No family at all? God, that’s sad. He’s young for that, isn’t he?”

“He is,” I said, feeling a sudden deep sadness for Kurapika. What had it been? A car accident? Some hereditary illness that had ravaged the whole family? We lapsed into bleary silence after that. Eventually Cheadle dozed off against my arm, but I stayed awake, watching the night sky change from black to indigo to dove gray.

Around five in the morning, a frazzled young intern found us and told us that Kurapika was out of surgery and recovering well. Before following the intern upstairs to see him, I placed a hand on Cheadle’s shoulder.

“Hey. You should really go home. I know you work Monday.” 

“No, it’s all right,” she protested through an enormous yawn. Her face was puffy with fatigue. “Well. If you’re sure you don’t mind. Will you be okay getting back on your own?”

“I’ll be fine. Go get some sleep.” 

Feeling exhausted myself, I followed the intern back through the tiled hallways into the stepdown unit. “I’m applying to medical school myself,” I told him as we rode the elevator. He clicked his tongue against his teeth. 

“It’s brutal. Gets more competitive every year,” he said, but then he paused and gave me an apologetic smile. We walked down an empty hallway smelling strongly of antiseptic. “Good luck to you. We certainly need more good doctors. He’s in room 404, right here. He’ll be pretty groggy when he wakes up.”

Kurapika was asleep when I entered. Other than the hospital gown and the oxygen cannula, he looked like himself. I tried not to disturb him when I sat down next to the bed, but my chair squeaked loudly. He grimaced and opened his eyes.

“Morning, sunshine,” I said softly, touching his wrist. “How do you feel?”

“Leorio,” he rasped. “What are you doing here?”

“Do you remember what happened?” 

He reached down to touch the bandage over his flank. “I…what’s this?” 

“Liver laceration. Two centimeters. They took you into surgery and looked around, but it’ll just have to heal on its own.”  

“I see,” he said, leaning against the pillow. His lips were pale and chapped. “I realize that there is no suitable apology for how much I’ve inconvenienced you. Please accept my thanks.” 

“Kurapika.” 

He took a deep breath and met my eyes. “Leorio.” 

“What the fuck is going on? What happened to you?”

“Please don’t ask me that.” 

“You have to tell us who did this to you,” I said, lowering my voice and leaning closer. “We need to press charges.” 

“There’s no need for that,” he said, eyes darkening. “I can assure you of that.”

A new and horrible thought crossed my mind. I took his hand, pulse increasing. “Kurapika. Did you do this to yourself?” 

He didn’t pull away, but his hand was limp in mine. “I did not.” 

“You promise me? You absolutely promise me?”

“I do.” 

The sun was rising through the narrow window, throwing a lemony glow across Kurapika’s blankets. He turned away from the light and closed his eyes, and I slumped in my chair. A part of me wanted to shake him by his shoulders and demand answers, but he looked so small and fragile lying there that I couldn’t bring myself to be angry with him. As if he could hear my thoughts, he reached for my hand and gave it a quick squeeze.

“Thank you for being here.”

“Of course. Of course. I didn’t want you to be alone. Just sleep, okay? I’ll be here,” I said, feeling a rush of sleep-deprived overemotion. I wiped my eyes with my sleeve. “You just rest.” 

He fell into a deep sleep after that. I sat watching the gentle rise and fall of his chest underneath the blankets as the room grew brighter. 

Chapter Text

The day passed interminably. I alternated between pacing around Kurapika’s room and sitting paralyzed beside his bed as he slept. As the afternoon wore on, he woke up and ate a few bites of applesauce, but by evening he had spiked a high fever. His face grew flushed and sweaty, and he became delirious and mumbled in a language I didn’t recognize. His doctors started him on stronger intravenous antibiotics right away, but he remained agitated and burning hot for hours. Desperate to comfort him, I placed cool cloths on his forehead and fed him ice chips as he called out to invisible people in the room. I checked his blood pressure compulsively, worried that it would start to plummet as his body tried to compensate for infection. I had seen it happen with Pietro. Once he had ended up in a coma for a week. I tried to push the memory aside, but it was impossible to sit here in the hospital room, with its sickly sweet disinfectant and chirping monitors, and not think of him.

Cheadle dropped by at ten-thirty to bring me a fresh pair of clothes and a sandwich. I was reluctant to leave Kurapika’s bedside, but I was still wearing my blood-spattered suit from last night and hadn’t eaten in almost twenty-four hours. 

“You should really go back to the apartment and sleep for a few hours,” she said when she met me in the lobby, clutching her lab coat under one arm. “You look terrible.” 

“He’s got a temperature and a white count now. I want to be there through the night until the antibiotics kick in,” I replied through a mouthful of sandwich. “Thanks so much for this. How was work?”

“Oh, it was all right. Leorio, I’m worried about you.”

I was mid-bite and had to chew for thirty seconds before replying. “About me? I’m fine.” 

We walked away from the crowded registration desk and sat underneath a large potted ficus plant. Her face was tense and serious. 

“This is going to be Pietro all over again, isn’t it? You’re going to go to pieces over him.”

“Excuse me? What does this have to do with Pietro?” I snapped. “Kurapika doesn’t have cancer. This was an emergency. What were we supposed to do? Let him bleed out in the restaurant?”

“You know that’s not what I mean. Don’t put words in my mouth. You’re so close to applying to school. You can’t let this derail you for another year. You need to focus.” 

“Not this again,” I replied, stung. This was a well-rehearsed argument for us. “I’m sorry I ruined our big weekend together, okay? What do you want from me? Why even invite me here in the first place? Am I just your friend with benefits now?” My voice was growing loud, and she shushed me as a passing nurse glanced at us. “Give me a break, Cheadle.” 

             “This isn’t about you and me. Listen to me. I’m saying this because I care about you. You downplay yourself at every turn, you have an excuse for everything, but you’re brilliant. You are. You deserve to be a doctor, and I don’t understand why you keep self-sabotaging by involving yourself with these….these difficult people who take up all of your time and energy!  I just mean — oh, don’t give me that look, don’t you see it too? Now that you found out about his family? He’s another stray you’ll try to rescue.”

“Wow. Tell me how you really feel, why don’t you?” I said sourly, crossing my arms. We were both near tears, and I felt the perverse urge to say something cruel to her. “Fuck me for having friends, right? I guess you can’t possibly imagine putting anything or anyone above work and school. God forbid I care about someone.”

“That’s not fair,” she said quietly, and she was right. I had nothing more to say. We stared at the linoleum for five minutes before she stood up and placed a hand on my shoulder. 

“I’m sorry,” I said weakly. “I’m just tired. I didn’t mean to yell.” 

She nodded. “I know.”

“Thank you again for coming by. And for the food.” 

“It’s okay. Just text me when you’re coming back to the apartment and I’ll let you in.”

I watched her go, feeling guilty and drained and awful.

Kurapika’s fever raged through the night. At one point there was a huddled conversation between the on-call resident and the nurses about moving him to the ICU if he didn’t improve by morning. I replaced his cool washcloths and silently willed him to pull through. 

“Are you family?” the night nurse asked when she came in to check Kurapika’s temperature at three in the morning. I jolted out of my stupor and shook my head. 

“No, no, just a friend.” 

“Can we bring you in a cot, hon? Visiting hours ended at nine, but we can let you stay for now,” she said, eyes kind behind her plastic face shield.

“Oh, no, that’s okay. I’ll just stay until his fever goes down.” 

She touched my arm lightly. “It could be a while.”

“That’s okay. Thanks.”

As the night wore on, Kurapika’s temperature dropped gradually until he was back to a reassuring 98.7 degrees. Exhausted, I slumped against the armrest of my chair and fell into a light doze, still hearing the bleeps of the monitors through my sleep. I sensed nurses bustling around me, taking his vitals and adjusting his lines, but did not wake fully again until the room was filled with bright sunlight. 

“We’ll have to admit you too at this rate.”

To my immense relief, Kurapika was sitting up in bed and no longer wearing oxygen. A flush of color had returned to his cheeks, and he smiled as I yawned and stretched the kinks out of my neck. 

“I’ll recover. Hey, you scared the shit out of me. You were in bad shape last night,” I said, trying to keep my tone light. “How ya feeling?”

“Not bad,” he said, flexing his shoulders experimentally. “I suppose as well as can be expected.”

“Yeah. So, you know, I don’t mean to pry, but, um…” I trailed off, trying to catch his eye as he became interested in a pigeon on the windowsill. “You’re not gonna give me anything here?”

He heaved a gusty sigh. “Like I said. I would rather not involve you in this.”

“It’s a little late for that, isn’t it?” I said, laughing weakly. “With all due respect, you called me , right?”

“A decision that in hindsight was rash. I apologize.”

“I don’t want you to apologize! Listen to me,” I hissed, grabbing his foot under his blanket. He was frowning down at his hands, picking at a hangnail, and I was seized with the sudden urge to shake him by the shoulders. I took a deep breath before continuing, reminding myself that I was sleep-deprived and he was recovering from surgery. “Sorry. But just…like, you gotta give me something here. I’m gonna go crazy worrying about you after this if you’re routinely getting in knife fights, or whatever this is. Just give me something to go off of. Lie to me if you have to.”

He shot me a sharp look, and we both fell silent for several minutes. Kurapika finished with his hangnail and moved onto combing his tangled hair. Frustrated by his obstinance, I had just made up my mind to leave when he spoke up again.

“So how long has Zepile been seeing that cop?”

I thought I had misheard him at first. “The–who? You mean Mizai?” 

He cast me the first of his Leorio, You Idiot looks, an expression I would come to know intimately in the years to come. Presently I was just annoyed by his eyebrows raised to his hairline. 

“What makes you say that? Dunno where you got that idea. I think they met at the auctions.”

“Obviously. He’s a plainclothes cop. Are you not aware of Zepile’s dealings?” 

“I…yeah, the auctions,” I said, but as I spoke I recalled the conversation at Senritsu’s house about the bone sculptures and felt uneasy. “But I think it’s all above the belt.”

“Then you are more foolish than I believed.”

“Hey now,” I spluttered. “No need for – ”

 “From what I have gleaned, Zepile is a good friend of yours,” he interrupted me, holding up a placating hand. “I only wanted to pass the message along. Although I suppose he may already be aware. Mizai is not terribly subtle.”

“Why don’t you talk to Zepile about it, if you’re so sure?”

A second blistering Leorio, You Idiot was thrown my way. “I’d like to maintain the illusion that I am unaware of my monitors for as long as possible.”

“Your monitors? What, are you on a watch list or something?”

“Most likely,” he said without a trace of humor. I sat up straighter in my chair.

“What’s in the boxes, Kurapika? What am I missing here?”

He met my gaze levelly. “You are welcome to investigate for yourself. I assure you that I am not a criminal. Not in the sense you’re thinking.” 

“I don’t really know what I’m thinking,” I admitted, rubbing my eyes. “Look. I think we got off to the wrong foot today. I’m glad you’re feeling better.” 

“Thank you,” he said, softening. “Truly. You should go home now. You look like you could use the rest.”

“It’s fine,” I said swiftly. “I can stay until you’re discharged. You’ll need help getting home – or, wait, where will you even go? You can’t fly like this, you’ll need to stay in the city for a while–”

“It’s taken care of.” 

“Are you sure? Do you have someone I can call? I, um, I hope you don’t mind, but I talked to Wing. When you were out. He mentioned that you don’t have a whole lot of family around.”

There was a pause, and Kurapika’s shoulders drooped.

“I see.”

“For what it’s worth, I’m in the same boat,” I said quickly, my ears growing hot. “I totally get it. I promise I wasn’t trying to be nosy, I just…I didn’t know who to call.”

“It’s all right. Wing is correct. But I have…I suppose you could call him an old mentor. He’s aware that I am in the city. I will stay with him until I’m well enough to travel.”

“That’s good. Well, then…”

“You should go,” Kurapika said, leaning back into his pillows. “I’m tired. Thank you again for everything. Truly. I don’t know how I can possibly repay you.”

“Don’t mention it,” I shrugged, embarrassed by his formality. “What, was I gonna let you bleed out on the floor?”

He watched me with his catlike gaze as I zipped up my backpack and slung it over my shoulder. Before I left, I stood at the foot of the bed and rested my hand on his ankle under the covers.

“You sure you don’t want me to wait until your friend gets here?”

“Yes. Don’t worry,” he said, motioning towards the door. “Please rest. You’ve done more than enough.”

“Will you at least text me how you’re doing? Otherwise I’m just gonna come back.”

“Mm. I can do that.”

“Okay. In that case…” I said, and gave him an awkward half-wave as I left the hospital room. When I glanced back from the hallway, his eyes were closed. 

Cheadle was still asleep when I got back to the apartment. I brushed my teeth in the tiny bathroom before collapsing onto the living room couch, limbs aching with fatigue. I had a million questions, but fell into a thick sleep before I could pursue any particular train of thought. My dreams were woven through with the bleeping of the hospital machines. At one point I dreamed of a pair of glowing red eyes glittering in the darkness, watching me. When I woke up much later in the dim afternoon light, the image was gone, but my mouth tasted of a bitter coppery tang not unlike blood.

I received a handful of texts from Kurapika two days after I returned home informing me that he had been discharged from the hospital and was recovering well. He was cagey about the details, but from what I could gather, he was staying in his old teacher’s apartment on the Upper East Side and had returned to some sort of remote work which he described vaguely as “consulting”. I knew it was pointless to pry, and simply told him I was glad he was feeling better. Meanwhile the summer plodded on, and I struggled to find various ways to escape myself. The hospital visit had churned up all of my old familiar Pietro-related anxieties, and I wasn’t sleeping or eating much. Cheadle called the first few days to check in on me, but our conversations were perfunctory and awkward. I didn’t blame her for feeling hurt after our confrontation in the hospital, and was relieved when she stopped calling. 

Each morning I woke without an alarm before sunrise and studied chemistry for a while before walking to work, sweating through my shirt in the humid air. Wing had very little to say to me, usually only smiling and waving when I arrived before vanishing into his cluttered office. Kurapika’s mystery boxes remained stacked in the back of the store, but I was never outside of Wing’s quiet watchfulness for long enough to open one. Underworked and lonely, I became mildly obsessed with learning about Kurapika’s family. Like many of my premedical classmates, I’d always had a healthy dose of morbid curiosity, and my mind raced with possibilities. I found myself deep in the Google rabbit hole every night, lying in bed with the windows open to the evening chorus of frogs and cicadas. Searches for “Kurapika Kurta car accident” turned up nothing, as did “Kurapika Kurta family death”, “Kurta family obituary”, and “Kurapika Kurta survivor”. The closest I got was a Japanese article from 2009 with the word “Kurtan” below a stock image of crime scene tape, but when I ran the article through a translation app, it produced an unintelligible wall of garbled text. 

Without real information, Kurapika’s background took on a tantalizing sheen in my imagination. I missed him and wanted to talk to him, but his communication was patchy and unpredictable. When he did finally text me back, I would force myself to wait a few hours to reply so I didn’t seem too eager, although I wasn’t convinced I was even fooling myself.

“You busy this weekend?” demanded Zepile the second I picked up the phone. It was a rainy Thursday night in late August, and I had fallen asleep unusually early only to be startled awake by his call at midnight. “Yes or no? Can you leave town?”

“What, are you on the run?” I asked, fumbling for my glasses. “Um. I dunno. I should study. Probably I’ll just hang out with Senritsu or something. Why?”

“Then it’s settled! You’re coming. We’re all going to the beach. Gon, Killua, Senritsu,  you, me. We’ll stay over tomorrow night at this incredible spot. My treat. Are you in or not?”

“Hold on a second. Who’s paying for this?” 

“Don’t worry about it!” he exclaimed. There was something slightly pressured about his speech, and I sat up in bed, chewing my thumbnail. “Seriously. I want to do something fun for you. I know this year has been shit. Come on! Say yes.”

“Are you okay, dude? You sound kind of…”

I heard the clink of glass and a woman’s muffled laughter in the background. “Yes! I’m amazing. I just had a deal go through, and I want to celebrate with you guys. It’s a really nice house, it’ll be perfect. You can chill for a couple of days, take a break from the greenhouse.”

“Well,” I said, deliberating, but then shrugged. “Why not. Sure.”

“Perfect! I’ll pick you up tomorrow morning. Seven okay?”

After we hung up, I laid back in bed and looked at my ceiling, where my blinds had segmented the orange street lamp glow into stripes. The idea of spending the weekend holed up in a beach house with everyone sounded kind of exhausting, but there were only so many times I could Google Kurapika’s family and re-read Pietro’s medical records. Maybe it would be fun. 

The rain persisted the next morning, as did Zepile’s buoyant mood. When he came to pick me up, his car was crammed with umbrellas, coolers, and multiple unmarked boxes. I squeezed into the passenger seat next to a pile of colorful beach towels. 

“Are you planning on establishing a new colony when we’re there?” I asked him as he backed out of the driveway. “Will it even be warm enough to swim?”

“Of course! Unless you’re a little bitch about it.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

When we reached a red light, he turned to peer into my face, frowning slightly. “Did you sleep? No offense, but you look rough.”

I touched my unshaven jaw, feeling self-conscious. I had grown a little slack with my grooming upkeep since returning from New York. “Oh. I’m fine. Just tired, I guess. Thanks a lot though.” 

“Your hair is kinda rad though. It almost looks like it’s on purpose.”

“Yeah, yeah,” I replied through a huge yawn. “Fuck you too, buddy. Are we picking up anyone else?”

“Nah, everyone else is coming at different times.”

“Mizai didn’t want to come? You guys still seeing each other?”

“What? Oh yeah. Um, he had a work thing,” Zepile said vaguely, merging onto the freeway. “We’re cool. He travels a lot.” The radio was playing a Neil Young song, and Zepile turned it up louder over the lashing rain. “I invited him but he wasn’t sure if he could take time off.”

“Mm,” I offered, too tired to probe further. We drove in silence for a while, and I kept checking my phone compulsively for no reason. I didn’t even know who I expected a text from, since Cheadle and I were effectively not talking, Kurapika hadn’t replied to me in over a week (my last message had been a lame attempt at talking about a new novel I’d read, which I thought would be easy bait), and Pietro and Grandma were dead. 

Finally the rain cleared, revealing a pearlescent baby blue sky. Zepile launched into a funny story about his incompetent new art dealer colleague, and I laughed in the right places and started to lighten up a bit. We stopped at a gas station and bought Coronas and potato chips, the latter of which we opened as we drove the final twenty minutes to the beach house. The smell of saltwater permeating the warm air evoked a powerful nostalgia in me, and I thought of summers in elementary school when Grandma drove us to Florida to visit some great-aunt or church friend. I smiled at the memory, but as we unloaded the car in the gravel driveway, I recalled my last trip to the ocean when I had proposed to Cheadle. 

“Earth to Leorio?” Zepile said, holding out a lawn chair for me to carry inside. I blinked and took the chair from him. “Do you need a nap? Or maybe a drink?”

“I think a lobotomy at this point,” I said, and then felt ashamed. Pietro had made several lobotomy jokes after his first tumor debulking surgery, but it felt wrong to joke about it myself. Zepile chuckled as he lugged the cooler up the front stairs, unaware of my inner turmoil. 

“Me too, dog. Maybe they have a two-for-one special.”

The house was as nice as Zepile had promised, freshly painted in sparkling light blues and furnished in a clean minimalist style. The back deck was perched above a soft grassy hill leading down to a private stretch of beachfront property, and an azure ribbon of ocean was visible from every window. I was eager to walk down to the beach before the rain returned. 

Killua and Gon arrived around noon as Zepile and I were eating potato chips and smoked trout dip on the porch. I had already downed three beers and had a pleasant buzz developing as the kids bounded into the house. Gon looked deeply tanned and Killua’s hair was even wilder than usual in the salty air. 

“I like how these houses come with instructions,” remarked Killua as he surveyed the interior. “There are always those, like, white lady live-laugh-love signs everywhere. This one says DRINK so you don’t forget to drink, and in the kitchen it says EAT and COOK to make sure you know what a kitchen is for, and then in the living room there’s one that says GATHER that’s about three feet tall. I wonder if there’s one in the bathroom that says–”

“Afternoon, gentlemen,” said Senritsu from behind Gon, and we all turned to greet her. She was wearing a floor-length orange Hawaiian print dress, which made her look even smaller than usual. “I’m making margaritas if you want to partake. The rain should hold off until six or so if we’re planning to go to the beach before then.”

Armed with thermoses filled with Senritu’s potent margarita mix, we walked the short distance down to the ocean. Senritsu laid her towel beside mine as Gon and Killua charged into the turquoise surf, and Zepile trailed off towards the scrubby grass to light a joint. She turned to me as I took a swig of my drink, shading her eyes in the strong sun.

“How is it being back here?”

“Fine,” I said too quickly, looking away. I dug my hands into the sand, reaching the damp coolness underneath the sun-warmed surface. “You know. It was – that trip was weird, anyways. We were only here for forty-eight hours or something. It’s honestly kind of a blur.”

“I told Zepile to consider the mountains instead.”

“It’s really fine,” I repeated, faintly irritated by her sympathetic gaze. “Does everyone think I’m about to crack up?”

“No,” she said levelly, handing me a bottle of sunscreen and turning around so I could reach her shoulders. I squeezed a glob onto my hands and dutifully rubbed the coconut-scented cream into her neck. “But, you know, sometimes these things get harder around the six month mark or so. And we want you to know that you’re not alone. You can talk to us if you want.”

I rested my hands against her back for a moment before pulling away. “I…look. I appreciate that. But sometimes it’s easier to just…”

We looked out at the ocean, where Gon and Killua were trying to knock each other down in the strong waves. Pillowy thunderheads were gathering on the horizon. Suddenly restless, I drained my margarita and jogged down to the water, stumbling a little in the sand. I gasped when I waded into the surf, which was so bitingly cold that my balls retreated in terror. I decided to get it over with and dunked my shoulders into the next oncoming wave. Gon splashed over to me, laughing, and grabbed my arm to pull me deeper. 

“It’s not bad once you’re in!” he called, and launched into an athletic backstroke. “You’ll get used to it!”

I was pretty drunk, and spent a few minutes floating on my back and observing the world. Gradually the water felt closer to blood temperature. I observed a trio of pelicans flying overhead before turning my attention to Killua, who was watching Gon swim in the distance. Through my tequila-muddled state, I felt an odd pang.

“Bro, are you trying to swim to another continent?” Killua yelled, a peculiar expression on his pointed face. Gon paused his backstroke and waved back, grinning, before swimming another ten yards further. Growing cold again, I trudged back to shore, still watching Killua watch Gon. There was something in the pinched set of Killua’s pale eyebrows that reminded me of myself. Always worrying. Always the buzzkill.

You have to understand that Pietro was not sick at all, not even a little bit, until he was. It wasn’t like the cases I’d seen in the emergency department, patients with every disease under the sun who were coming to the hospital for their fourteenth last-ditch dialysis or chemo or heart valve replacement. Pietro had never even broken a bone before his glioblastoma diagnosis. At least when Grandma got sick it had been obvious. Her legs ballooned with extra fluid, her face grew ashy, and she struggled to catch her breath after walking a few steps. I was devastated but unsurprised when an echocardiogram revealed what I had suspected, having just learned about it in my freshman physiology class: congestive heart failure. She hated the low-salt diet and the diuretic pills, and never really got better after the initial diagnosis. Still, though, she held out until she saw me finish college, and when she died in July of that summer, I was home with my cousins and it was peaceful. She just fell asleep and never woke up, exactly like you hear people talk about. With Pietro it was nothing like that. It was so quick. One day he was playing soccer every day with me and Zepile, cracking obscene jokes and going to parties, and then he was emaciated and swollen and half-crazy. There was no way to prepare for how sick he would become. But there were signs. 

Admittedly I was paranoid. Almost once a week at work, someone would come into the emergency department with fairly unremarkable symptoms: a stomachache, a fever, an unexplained rash. At first I inwardly scoffed at what seemed to me like hypochondriac worrying, but over time I learned that even the healthiest-looking patients could be ticking time bombs. My heart sank every time I saw a radiologist report spelling out someone’s doom in crisp, emotionless jargon. Radiopaque mass with midline shift. Metabolically active lesion of unknown origin. While the patients awaited their results, I would hide behind my computer and covertly study their faces. Were they anxious? Did they have a gut feeling that they were sick, or would it come as a complete shock? 

Pietro and I liked to meet at the Peruvian place after my afternoon shifts to watch premier league soccer games on the restaurant’s big screen television, as Pietro’s dad had pawned his television years ago and I had never bothered to buy one. We shared sangria and aji de gallina, and I had just finished telling him about the latest ER mystery diagnosis (a rare adenosarcoma) when he rolled his eyes and sighed. 

“Don’t forget to interact with the real world once in a while, man. You’re getting kind of weird. Don’t you think about anything besides medicine and sickness?”

“Uh, I don’t know if you noticed, but I’m trying to go to medical school,” I retorted, annoyed. “Medicine and sickness is literally my job right now. And will be for a long time. Sorry. I won’t talk about it if you don’t like it.”

“I’m only saying you get kinda…intense about it sometimes. Ah! Goal! Come on!”

We paused, chewing with our mouths open, to watch Sergi Roberto shoot a beautiful kick which narrowly missed the net. A groan rose up around the bar. 

“Aghhh. Their defense is so shit this season. Anyways,” he continued, pouring me another glass of sangria. “Don’t get defensive. But sometimes I miss when we could talk about other stuff.”

“Like what?”

“I dunno. Girls. Soccer.”

“We most definitely talked about girls and soccer today. You just have a particularly high capacity for those topics,” I pointed out. Pietro grinned, his freckled nose crinkling.

“Okay okay okay, Saint Leorio. Whatever you say. We will think only of alms for the ill. No fun allowed.”

“Oh, give me a break,” I said, and shoved him playfully in the arm as he cackled. “I get it. I’ll lay off.” 

I hadn’t pushed him hard at all, but somehow he tumbled off of the barstool and landed on his hip on the concrete floor. The tables around us fell briefly silent in alarm, and Pietro swore under his breath as I scrambled down to help him.

“Woah. Dude. Are you okay? Are you…did you drink a lot before I got here?”

“I had one beer. I think the stool was wobbly,” he said, standing up stiffly and resettling himself. Barcelona scored a goal, and the people seated nearby began to cheer and quickly forgot about us. As Pietro clapped along with the other fans, I snuck a sidelong glance and saw that his eyes were suspiciously glassy. Clearly he was trying to hide how much pain he was in. I laid a hand on his arm and lowered my voice.

“Are you okay? I completely did not mean to do that. Do you want to go?” 

“It’s all good,” he said fiercely, shoveling ceviche into his mouth. “Wow, Pedri looks great. Did you fill out your fantasy league yet?”

I remained uneasy for the rest of the evening, but after a week or so I put it out of my mind. I was busy, after all; I was taking my MCAT in two months and had a mountain of studying left. Also on my mind was my upcoming biology masters program I was starting in July, right after my MCAT test date. Through it all, Pietro was a stalwart friend, always the right balance of irreverent and supportive despite his own challenges. Things had been bad with his mom recently, to the point where he had actually had to bail her out of jail a few weeks ago, using $500 pulled from my rapidly dwindling inheritance from Grandma. Pietro had covered for me so many times that I would have sold a kidney for him at that point. Providing the cash felt inconsequential, a no-brainer. To clear our minds, we adopted a routine of playing soccer with Zepile every weekend night that summer, sometimes until 2 or 3 AM. 

I loved watching Pietro on the field. I was overly tall and lanky while he was compact and graceful, all wiry muscle and efficient movement. Zepile was a messy but effusively fun player, and we played two against one in various combinations until we collapsed sweaty and laughing on the scratchy turf. Running in the grass-scented darkness, swapping banter and exhilarating in the lightness of my body, I could shuck off the stress of medical school applications and absent family members. And – you have to forgive me here, because this is not easy to admit, even to myself, even now – the truth is I was starting to feel something more than friendship for Pietro. It unnerved me. Pietro had an extensive track record of liking girls and only girls, and he believed the same was true of me. I didn’t want to jeopardize our friendship over a crush. I pretended I didn’t notice the way his hazel eyes twinkled in the sunshine, the rippling musculature on his tanned forearms, or his warm contagious laugh, but by May of that summer I could barely meet his eyes when we talked. 

Perhaps you can understand, then, why I caught almost imperceptible changes in his behavior: the loss of balance in the bar, the occasional forgotten word, the uncharacteristic gestures. He always had my full attention.

“L-man, hand me that—that…uh…” Pietro said one evening in early June, pointing at the remote control as we lounged on the couch watching Yankees reruns. “You know. That fucker there,” he finished, his face clouding momentarily. “The, um…” 

“The remote?” I said, passing it to him. “You all right?”

He laughed and nodded. “Yeah. Major brain worm moment.”

“Hah. Worm brain,” I conceded, flashing him a smile and sinking back into the couch. We had recently read a delightfully horrifying article about a woman in Argentina or something who had complained of mild headaches for years until a CT scan finally revealed a big parasitic worm living in her head. Worm Brain/Brain Worm quickly entered our lexicon, and we employed it whenever possible. (Bad grade? Worm Brain. Girl is acting strangely on a date? Brain Worm. And so on.) We watched more of the game in companionable silence, but then it happened again not even ten minutes later.

“You wanna order…you know…” Pietro started, and then frowned. “Huh.” 

This time my heart began to race. I muted the game and turned to him, trying to appear calm. “Hey. Spit it out. What’s up?”

“I was just thinking, uh…do you want to get some…you know…” Again he trailed off, and then his face cleared and he laughed. “Damn. Sorry, I’m tired. Worm brain, take the wheel. You wanna get Thai food?”

“Oh. Sure. Hang on, I have a coupon somewhere.”

I couldn’t shake a sense of foreboding as we ate our green curry and noodles later that night, but I tried to tell myself that I was just anxious and also way too observant of Pietro’s every nuance. Three different times that night, I jumped when his hand brushed mine reaching for something, and I worried that he sensed something. Later on, of course, I wished I could go back and shake myself and scream: you were right, you dumbass, you knew something was wrong and you didn’t speak up . But hindsight is omniscient, and in the moment I was wrapped up in my small-scale anxieties. Looking back, that night was the beginning of the end.

As Senritsu predicted, the thunderstorm rolled in right around sunset. A heavy rain dimpled the sea-glass surf, and we traipsed back to the house to take showers and sober up before dinner. I was washing my hair when the lights blacked out, followed almost immediately by a deafening crack of thunder. I hastily rinsed out my shampoo and clambered out of the shower to investigate. 

“Damn, that was a close one,” Zepile remarked as I exited the bathroom, clutching my towel around my waist and dripping on the carpet. “I might have a flashlight in the car somewhere…”

“I found some candles,” said Senritsu from the upstairs landing. “It’s all right, there’s a gas stove and the hot water still works. We’ll just have a very romantic meal.”

 When I came downstairs after throwing on a pair of sweatpants, Zepile and Senritsu were placing tealight candles around the living room while Gon and Killua cooked a fragrant garlic and shrimp pasta for dinner. The candlelight cast long flickering shadows on the walls, and a pleasant spooky ambience settled over the house as the storm raged outside. To do something to help, I grabbed Zepile’s car keys and ducked outside to the covered driveway to search for the flashlight. Even with the beach gear removed, the car was still crammed full of junk. I dug around until I found the flashlight, which was wedged between several wooden crates on the backseat floor; presumably Zepile’s auction stuff. Flashlight in hand, I was about to slam the car door shut when a neatly printed label on the nearest box caught my eye: DELIVER TO KURTA, K.

Pulse increasing, I set down the flashlight and kneeled on the backseat to investigate. The box was identical to those stacked in the back of Wing’s store, and the cardboard lid was only held in place by a small piece of tape. Say I accidentally brushed the box while I was looking for the flashlight…

I hesitated. On one hand, Kurapika himself had given me permission to look inside the boxes, but this felt akin to snooping. Then again, how important could the contents be if Zepile had left them in the unlocked car? After thirty seconds of deliberation, my curiosity outweighed my misgivings, and I peeled back the tape to peek underneath the lid. 

At first I couldn’t make sense of what I saw. Two pale spheres bobbed inside a jar filled with murky gelatinous fluid. I thought nonsensically of pickled eggs, and then of golf balls, but when I reached down to rotate the jar, I realized that I was gazing into a pair of eyeballs attached to trailing streamers of pink tissue. The irises of both eyes were stained an otherworldly deep crimson. Startled, I leapt back, releasing the jar as though I had been scalded. 

“Did you get struck by lightning?” came Zepile’s voice over the wind. I jumped and tried to look casual as he approached, but from his raised eyebrows I knew he had seen me. “Ah. Right.”

“I didn’t mean to pry,” I said hurriedly, my face flushing. “Sorry. The lid just…”

His mouth twisted in an odd grimace. “It’s okay. I figured you had already seen them, but I guess not. You can stop looking at me like that, by the way. I’m not a murderer. They’re fake.”

“Fake?” 

“Yep. Pretty convincing, huh?”

We walked back into the dark kitchen, where Killua was stirring the pasta. I could hear Senritsu and Gon chatting in the dining room as they set the table. Zepile cracked open two beers and handed one to me, and I took it warily, watching his face in the shadows. 

“Cheers. We don’t want them to go bad if the power stays off.”

“Zep, is there something I should know?” I said, tapping a fingernail against my beer bottle. “All of the boxes at Wing’s, are they the same? Fake eyeballs? Why?”

Across the kitchen, Killua’s eyes flashed in the darkness as he looked up sharply. “He doesn’t know?” he said, looking between me and Wing. 

“What do you mean?” 

“We kinda figured he would have told you by now,” Zepile said, and Killua nodded. 

“Told me what? ”

Zepile shushed me, glancing towards the dining room. “Relax. Okay. Apparently it is now my duty to fill you in. So your boy Kurapika hit me up a few months ago. I guess right before you went to New York.”

“Right,” I said, sinking into a chair. Killua opened a beer and joined us at the table. “You met him at Sotheby’s. Senritsu told me.”

“Yeah. And, well, your friend…he had a, um, rather unconventional request, shall we say.”

“And plenty of money, apparently?”

“Plenty of money,” Zepile agreed. “So he hits me up before the auction, and I assume he wants, I don’t know, a fancy watch or a rare painting, the usual rich guy stuff. But then he asks for eyes. Human eyes, to be precise. Real ones.” 

I paused, incredulous. “You’re pulling my leg.” 

“I wish I was joking,” he said. Killua watched us, unsmiling. 

“So like…medical specimens? Like in museums?” 

Zepile shifted uncomfortably. “Not exactly.”

“What exactly?” 

“Eyes…belonging to…people he knew. His family.”

“ What? ”

Killua and Zepile shared a grim look before Zepile spoke. “Look, we thought he had already told you this, but Kurapika’s family was murdered.” 

“Oh God. I didn’t know that,” I said, thinking of random shootings and home invasions. “I thought it was a car crash or something…what happened?”

“It was a targeted attack,” Killua said. “His parents, and his best friend. It was some kind of ritual killing, because they took their eyes, which were –” I flinched, but Killua continued steadily. “Which were sold on the black market and immediately purchased by freaks. We thought he told you before, when you were hanging out.”

“I barely know him, really,” I muttered, and then turned to Killua. “Wait, why are you involved? And how did you find out? I looked around for ages online and never found anything.” 

“Wing hired us as security for the store,” Killua said, puffing out his chest slightly. “Me and Gon. And Gon doesn’t know the details, so don’t tell him. It’s safer that way. When Kurapika found out Wing hired us, he was really upset and told Wing not to get us or anyone else involved, but in the end I convinced him it was cool. But wouldn’t you be curious if someone hired you to guard a bunch of eyeballs? I wanted to make sure he wasn’t a serial killer.” 

“Fair enough,” I admitted. This was taking on so many confusing new directions that my head was starting to spin. “Go on.” 

“I had to go through a bunch of old newspaper clippings in Japanese in the library and translate them and everything, but eventually I found a story about the murders. There was a picture of him as a kid, being led away.” 

“Why doesn’t he go to the cops, or the FBI or something? And wait, Zep, what’s the deal with your guy, then? Mizai?”

Zepile gave me a blank look. “What about Mizai?”

“Oh. I…uh,” I said, caught off guard. “Never mind. So why can’t he go to the police? Do they not know who did it?”

“Not sure. Kurapika didn’t tell us.”

“But you said the eyes he’s gotten so far are fake?”

“The ones in the car, yes. There are lots of counterfeits out there, and it’s hard to tell without an expert. The boxes at Wing’s, we’re not sure yet, but…” Zepile said, making a comme-ci, comme- ç a gesture with his hand. “The real ones are likely still in the possession of their respective owners, who are generally not willing to part with them, not even for heightened sums that would make the head of a lowly plebeian like you or myself spin. Kurapika was supposed to be buying a set at my auction in Manhattan the day we had dinner, but I think the buyer had a sudden change of heart.” 

I processed this for a minute as Zepile and Killua drank their beers. “So in New York…his injury…” I said slowly, putting it all together. “Jesus.”

After another five minutes of gloomy silent drinking in the kitchen, Senritsu and Gon came to find us, and we all sat down to eat our pasta. Gon told us a funny story about an escaped lizard at his aunt’s house, and Zepile and Killua kept shooting me meaningful looks which I assumed were meant to tell me to play it cool. Overwhelmed with new information, I gave up on attempting to follow the thread of the conversation. I was relieved when Zepile brought out a bottle of whiskey and suggested we play a drinking game. The storm subsided, and eventually the lights came back on with hilarious timing right in the middle of a game of strip poker, immediately after Senritsu and Zepile had traded outfits and Zepile was prancing around in Senritsu’s orange muumuu. 

When the others finally went to bed around two in the morning, I snuck outside to the back porch and dialed Kurapika’s number. I had been itching to call him since earlier that evening, but felt awkward doing so in front of the others. Shivering in the cool night air, I held the phone to my ear and stared up at the velvety black sky, which had cleared after the storm to reveal a splatter of brilliant stars. I counted six, seven, eight rings, and was about to hang up when I heard the click of the receiver. My heart shot into my throat. 

“Is everything all right?” came Kurapika’s hoarse voice. “Leorio?” 

“Ah. Shit. I woke you up, didn’t I? I’m sorry.”

“No, no, I was up. What’s up? Are you okay?”

“I’m great,” I said firmly, trying to sound more sober than I was. “I’m awesome. I’m at the beach, actually.”

“You’re with Zepile? And the others?”

“Oh, uh…yeah, I am,” I said, wondering how he knew this information. “And, listen, I don’t know if I’m supposed to know this or not, but I just wanted to say that I’m really sorry. About your family.”

He released a quiet exhale. “I take it you’ve looked in the boxes.”

“It was sort of an accident,” I said, and then sighed. “Kind of. Or maybe not. I’m sorry. I was just so curious.”

“Ah yes. It is indeed a curiosity,” he said dryly. I winced and cursed my tactlessness. 

“Wrong wording. I’m sorry. I’m kind of drunk, but I’m…what I really am is worried about you,” I said, the words coming out in a rush. “I don’t know all the details, but I’m really worried about you. Zepile and Killua told me what’s going on, and I wish I had known earlier. I want to help you.”

“I told you I don’t want you to get involved.” 

I scowled, watching a slow-moving satellite blink across the horizon. “Bullshit. We already talked about this. In the hospital.” 

There was a long pause. “We did, yes.” 

“You’re gonna hurt my feelings, Kurapika. I’m a grown up. I can take care of myself.”

“It has nothing to do with that. I want you to stay on your path. You’re going to be a doctor. You’re a good person, much unlike me.”

“You’re a good person too. Stop that. How are you not?”

“I have done things that would horrify you.”

“Try me, then.”

“You are incorrigible, aren’t you?”

“Like you wouldn’t believe. Come on. What have you done that’s so terrible? From what I know, you went through something awful, and now you’re trying to do the right thing. Let me help you. I may not have connections like Zepile, but I’m not an idiot, either.”

“It’s not about that. I don’t want anything to happen to you. You shouldn’t dirty your hands with me.” 

I knew he didn’t mean it in a suggestive way, but that last line in his stern delivery got me a little excited. Grinning, I sat down on a damp wooden chair, emboldened by the whiskey and the darkness.

“But I’d love to dirty my hands with you. I work in a garden store, remember? I love getting my hands dirty.”

“Oh, shut up.”

“Don’t lie. You like me. You like me a lot. Why’d you pick up so late if you don’t? Working late at the bookshop? Urgent shipment of new Tom Clancy?”

“You’re an asshole,” he shot back, but I could hear the wry smile in his voice. “I was just making sure you were all right. But continue. What else have you masterfully deduced about me?”

“Hmm. Well, through my powers of expert reasoning I’ve concluded that you’re in bed right now, but I have to admit I’m not sure what you’re wearing.”

“Wouldn’t you like to know.”

“Very much so. Can this be headed where I think it’s headed?” I breathed, brushing my palm against my sweatpants. “Not to be too forward, but…”

“I’ve got an early morning,” he said briskly. “Don’t you have to study?”

“Fuck you,” I exhaled, laughing. I was so hard now that my boxers were straining at the waistband. “Are you always such a tease?”

“Not in person, no.”

“Can I see you in person, then? Where even are you?”

He hummed under his breath. “As it happens, I’ll be in your neck of the woods soon. This coming Thursday night, in fact. Perhaps you could pick me up from the airport?” 

“Let me check my schedule. Oh wait, I’m never doing anything important. I’ll come get you in the middle of the night. Any time,” I said, making him laugh. “Of course. I can’t fucking wait to see you. Send me your flight info.”

“Thank you. I will.”

I hung up, exhilarated, and stayed outside a while longer watching a few clouds scud across the starry sky. For the first time in a long time, I felt a small bubble of hopeful anticipation growing in my chest.

I was distracted and impatient for the rest of the trip, and relieved to return to my quiet apartment the following day. Although I was sunburnt and hungover, I spent Friday evening deep cleaning my apartment, a task I had neglected since well before Pietro’s death. To be honest, things had gotten out of hand; there were flocks of dust bunnies congregating underneath the tables and chairs, and when I wiped the top of a bookshelf, the paper towel came away black with grime. Sneezing and wincing, I put on an energetic Dominican rap playlist and attacked the rooms one by one. I worked for so long that the sun was starting to rise when I finally threw down my bucket of cleaning supplies and sank into my couch. Satisfied, I gazed around and admired my handiwork. If Kurapika ended up at my place, I wouldn’t have to feel embarrassed by my nastiness. 

As the week passed, I tried to throw myself into studying, but I was too excited for Kurapika’s visit to concentrate. On Thursday afternoon I found myself mindlessly rereading the same passage about glucose metabolism in my biochemistry textbook before setting the book aside and staring out the window, watching the afternoon sunlight dappling through the golden leaves of early-turning birch trees. Kurapika’s flight was scheduled to land at ten o'clock tonight, and the hours between now and then stretched in front of me like taffy.  

Finally, finally, it was nearing time to leave for the airport. I showered twice, shaved within an inch of my life, doused myself liberally in my most expensive cologne, and changed clothes three times before settling on a soft gray sweater and shorts. I debated leaving off my glasses, which had recently started to look dorky to me, but unfortunately I really needed them to drive in the dark. I gave myself a final dispassionate assessment in the hallway mirror and adjusted my hair to the perfect level of spikiness before stepping outside in the cool damp evening air. 

My heart was pounding when I pulled into the arrivals waiting area, joining a line of other idling cars. Our town’s airport was small and only received a handful of domestic flights, so I hoped it would be easy to spot Kurapika as soon as he came outside. I wiped my sweaty palms on my shorts over and over as I waited. Two or three times, I was sure I saw Kurapika, only to be disappointed when it was some other slender person with light colored hair. I was drumming my hands against the steering wheel and whistling tunelessly when I spotted him striding through the automatic doors, dressed in another elegant black suit and carrying a small leather suitcase. My heart thudded painfully in my throat. I caught his eye and honked my car horn once, making him startle and turn towards me. As he approached the car, I could see deep shadows underneath his eyes. I jumped out of the car to greet him, trying to slow my racing pulse.

“You made it!” I said, giving him an awkward side hug and taking his suitcase. “How was the flight?” 

“Fine, fine,” he said, giving me a quick smile. We got back into the car, and in the contained space I felt dizzied by his proximity and intriguing forest-spice scent. Yawning, he slipped off his suit jacket and rolled up his white shirtsleeves. “I’d hoped there was a direct flight, but what can you do? Thank you for the ride. I know this was an inconvenient time.”

“Are you kidding?” I laughed, wrenching my eyes away from his face and starting the car. I was so jittery that I had to actively focus on driving. “I have nothing going on. Is that bad to admit?”

“Don’t be so self-deprecating. I hear you are studying hard.”

“Oh, well, you know…” I said with a noncommittal shrug, pulling onto the freeway. The roads were nearly empty at this time of night. “I’m trying to stay on track. So what are you doing in town, anyways?”

“Meetings. Nothing exciting. By the way, I’m staying in the Green Magnolia downtown. Do you need directions?”

“...Oh. Do you, uh, want to stop by my place first, or do you have an early morning?” I asked, trying to conceal my disappointment. I had hoped there was an unspoken agreement that he would stay at my place, but apparently it really was a business trip for him. “We could just have a quick drink, or…”

He considered this for a moment, touching his bottom lip unconsciously. I tore my gaze away and stared at the dark highway. 

“I suppose one drink wouldn’t hurt.”

“Perfect. One drink it is.”

When we reached my apartment, I tried not to read too much into the fact that Kurapika took his suitcase inside with him. He was meticulous with safety, after all. 

“Well, it’s nothing special, but here it is,” I said with a grand gesture towards my living room as Kurapika slipped off his Oxfords by the door. “What’s your pleasure? I could do a martini, probably, or something with whiskey and maraschino cherries, maybe, or…” I was rambling with nerves. “Or we can go somewhere! Whatever you want.”

“Leorio,” he said, walking towards me. “It’s fine. I wanted to see you.” 

I swallowed audibly. “You did, huh?” 

“You underestimate me.” 

He was close enough now that I could smell his mint shampoo. “You’re a little hard to read, you know,” I murmured, and then he was reaching up and kissing me, running his hands under my shirt and digging his nails lightly into my back. He laughed when I gasped involuntarily.

“Excited to see me?”

“You’re kind of a little shit sometimes, you know that?” I breathed into his ear, and steered him towards my sagging couch. 

“Hopefully I can make it up to you,” he said in a deadpan, unbuckling my belt. I leaned back into the cushions, feeling my heartbeat flutter and skip. 

“Will you let me touch you this time?” I whispered, tracing the curve of his ear as he undressed me. “You’re too generous.”

“We’ll see. But let me do this first.” 

I meant to protest more, but by then his cool hands were on my cock and my higher neurological centers had shorted out. I surrendered myself and closed my eyes, listening to the rain pattering on the roof.

Afterwards I wanted to hold him, but he slipped away from my grasping hands and settled himself a few inches away from me on the couch. 

“You live alone?” he asked, gazing around the dimly lit room. 

“Mm. Yeah. I do now.”

“But before you did not? You lived with Cheadle?”

“Um, kind of. Cheadle and Pietro. It was never official. They weren’t on the lease, I mean, but when Pietro got near the end it just made more sense. And then after he died, Cheadle stayed for a while.”

“You miss her?” he said lightly, watching me. 

“I…how do I put it. I miss living with someone. I don’t…you know, I don’t miss our relationship,” I said, choosing my words carefully. “It was, uh…I don’t know. I don’t wanna be the type of guy who talks shit about their ex. She’s a really special person, and I don’t blame her for leaving. It was just…not the right fit.”

“I understand. I do not mean to be intrusive.”

“You’re totally fine. Hey, I was the one who said I was engaged when we met. It’s only fair,”  I said, reaching out to brush Kurapika’s knee. He caught my eye and smiled. “But what about you? I don’t even know where you live.”

“There’s not much to report. I have a place in the Village. But mostly I’m traveling right now.”

“To auctions?”

“Auctions, estate sales, private homes. It varies.” 

“How do you find where to go? I can’t imagine this is a Craigslist kind of thing,”  I said, and then winced at my poor taste. “Agh. Sorry.” 

He shrugged off my discomfort. “It’s natural to be curious. I have several contacts similar to Zepile who keep me abreast of new acquisitions. Often it requires last minute travel.”

“But you don’t think you’ve gotten any…you know…non-fakes yet?”

“To my knowledge, I do not believe so.” He looked at the floor for a long minute, clenching his jaw. “It’s exhausting.”

“I can’t imagine,” I said, overwhelmed with emotion for him. This time he didn’t push me away when I reached for him and pulled him to my chest. “God. I’m so sorry.”

“It’s fine,” he said in a brittle voice into my shirt, but I heard a small sniffle and felt his shoulders hitch. “I can manage it. It’s fine.” 

Wordlessly, I rubbed his back as he started to cry. I sensed that this was an extremely rare occurrence, and held him against me while he emitted small, choked sobs. His skin was hot against my bare collarbone. After five minutes or so he took a deep breath and drew back, wiping his eyes roughly with his shirt sleeve. 

“I’m very sorry. I don’t know why that…” 

“Stop, don’t worry,” I hushed him, rising from the couch. I ducked into the kitchen and brought him a damp washcloth which he accepted gratefully and pressed against his flushed cheeks. “It’s really okay.”

“I think I am perhaps overtired,” he said in that same thin voice, sounding very unlike his usual assured self. “I should be getting to bed.” 

“Stay here. It’s late. Please don’t ask me to drive you to the hotel,” I said, so quickly that he gave a shaky laugh. “Seriously. You can sleep in my room and I can take the guest bed, or whatever you want. No pressure. But just…stay here. Let me take care of you a little.”

He gave me a faint smile. “If you insist.”

After I sent him away for a shower with my least threadbare towel, I hurried around the house making things presentable. I fluffed up the pillows on my bed and placed a water bottle and a packet of Tylenol on the nightstand for him, thinking that he felt on the verge of feverish. As I carried his suitcase into the bedroom, he emerged from the steamy bathroom dressed in a white T-shirt and boxers with his hair slicked back behind his ears, making him look much younger than usual. He smiled when I pulled back the comforter with a flourish and patted the pillows.

“It’s not a luxury hotel, but it’s pretty comfortable. Can I get you anything else? Are you hungry? Do you want a nightcap or anything?”

He shook his head and climbed into bed. “No, I’m just exhausted. Will you sleep with me?”

I had been too nervous to ask. “You sure? I’ll…you know, I’ll let you sleep. I’m tired too.”

“Please. I don’t want to be alone.”

Pleased, I stripped down to my boxers and ran into the bathroom to brush my teeth and splash water on my face before slipping under the covers next to him. He clicked out the lamp, and we lay side by side without touching for a moment. The rain was picking up outside, casting watery shadows on the wall across from us. 

“Your cologne,” he said, rustling the sheets as he turned towards me. “I noticed it the first time I met you.”

“Is that a good thing? Is it too strong? It’s just a cheap brand.”

“I like it. It’s very distinctive.”

“Well, in that case I’ll keep it. You smell nice too. What is that, anyways?”

“Peppermint and lavender oils. I make them myself.”

“Oh, wow. It’s nice,” I said again, debating whether or not to reach for him. “Well. I’ll let you get some sleep, then.”

“Good night, Leorio,” he said through a yawn. 

“G’night,” I said, and tried unsuccessfully to doze off for a while. I was thrilled when he rolled closer and kissed me, long and unhurried. For a moment we only kissed, and then he was leaning over me, raking his hands through my hair as he caught my lower lip between his sharp teeth. Holding my breath, I placed my hand tentatively underneath his T-shirt and brushed against his taut abdomen. 

“This is okay?” I whispered, and he nodded before kissing my neck and ears. “Tell me to stop if you want.”

“Don’t stop,” he breathed. “Don’t talk…I’ll tell you if I want you to stop.”

I did as I was told, and was rewarded with a shuddering inhale when I crossed the waistband of his boxers.

“Does this feel good?” I asked, starting with a slow rhythm. “Do you like this?”

“No talking,” he snapped, but his eyes were closed in pleasure. I took that an affirmative, and gradually increased my tempo. By the time he came against my hand, biting his lip and fighting back a barely audible moan, I had grown painfully hard. After a moment of recalibration he sat up and glanced down at my lap.

“Wow. You like me that much?” 

“You have no idea,” I said, breathless as he took me in his hands again. I was so aroused that I came almost immediately, and lay back dazed against him for a moment to catch my breath. 

“What the hell are you doing to me?” I asked, pressing my lips against his temple. “Jesus. Okay, I promise I’ll let you go to sleep this time.”

“I was the one who initiated. No need to apologize,” he said sleepily. “Sleep well.”

Satisfied and lulled by the rain, I fell asleep quickly. At some point in the night I awoke to a noise, and squinted in the darkness to see Kurapika rummaging in his suitcase. He retrieved something half-wrapped with a white cloth, and when he saw that I was awake he put it down and came back to bed. 

“S’matter?” I asked, barely awake. “You need something?”

“It’s nothing,” he shushed me, draping an arm around my waist. “Go back to sleep.”

Dutifully, I closed my eyes and returned quickly to my boring stress dream about MCAT studying. It wasn’t until I awoke hours later at dawn to the sound of birdsong that I realized what I had seen. Kurapika had a gun in his suitcase. Unnerved, I rolled over and looked at his sleeping face. In the indigo light he looked like an actual angel, flaxen hair fanned against the pillowcase, dark eyelashes casting long shadows on his cheeks. He frowned and nestled closer to me. Carefully, I resettled myself next to him and pulled him against me, but I knew I wouldn’t fall back asleep.