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There's little the two keep secret in their lives, yet there are always things that must be spoken before they're known, and so they come out to each other four separate times in the thirteen years they know one another.
The first time, they're only six. They'd met already, technically; their fathers had served in the military together and, after settling down in the same area, chose to keep contact despite their antagonistic relationship. To tell the truth, Linhardt can't recall much of Caspar before that particular day, sometime between spring and summer just before the weather was warm enough to swim in. He does remember that detail because he'd been staring at the pool in Caspar's backyard in want, the sun bearing down enough to turn their necks pink yet the crisp breeze calling for long-sleeves. He turned to complain of this when he noticed his friend wasn't beside him any longer, and so Linhardt called out a long-dead name.
When Cas ran back up to him, he pouted and told Linhardt not to call him that, and even as a child he'd never been one to question other's choices, so Linhardt simply asked, What do I call you? His friend obviously hadn't known, a single front tooth biting his bottom lip and his blonde brows scrunching into one. Linhardt can recall this memory so clearly, despite how long ago it'd now taken place, that when he thinks of it– when he conjures the image of this day– he even remembers Cas's flared nostrils, perfect little os against round, dirty cheeks.
Linhardt had prompted, Maybe you can name yourself after your favorite character?
His friend's cherub face lit-up; Linhardt spotted a missing molar. Cas said, Yeah, good idea! I'll do that. I gotta- I gotta think about it, though. And- and can you call me a boy, too?
Linhardt said, Okay, because what his friend wanted to be called didn't matter to him, nor would it ever, because no one knew nor knows Caspar better than Caspar himself. Plus, Linhardt was six– so long as Cas let him talk about the things that interested him before asking if they could play make-believe in a world of Linhardt's creation, he didn't care if Cas was a boy or a girl or neither or an alien, even. He was his friend.
While that was the first time Caspar came out full-stop, neither of them even had a name for what was transpiring, so his journey with being a trans man was much more complex from there, especially with a father like his own. He also didn't decide on a name for another couple years, when the two were just shy of ten. Linhardt had discovered a book about a knight befriending a dragon despite everyone wanting him to slay it, and he'd enjoyed it so much he begged Caspar to read it– of course, Cas asked if he could listen to it, instead. So, one weekend after they'd spent hours reading the novel, Caspar said he liked the narrator's name. It was as simple as that.
Still, when Linhardt thinks of Caspar, the truth is he's only ever known him as a boy. It was odd to consider there ever being a moment for that, because he'd never seen his friend another way.
Linhardt supposes when he came out, it was similar in that regard.
He'd just turned thirteen, and they'd both had cell phones and were lonely outcasts at their separate schools, so they spent a lot of time texting. With the way the district drew school-intake lines, they weren't lucky enough to attend the same one– it never deterred their friendship. Even from a young age, despite the distance in their relationship solely due to those city lines, the two had a strong bond. As younger children, they'd pester their fathers to let them hang out, and then as they grew to teenagers together that was satiated by modern means of communication. Honestly, Linhardt thinks the fact they only got to see each other every few weekends strengthened their friendship. Neither quite fit in anywhere else aside from with one another as they aged– Caspar was loud and fidgety on top of fighting with his father daily about his gender presentation, and Linhardt didn't get along well with others. Actually, he was fairly amicable in that he wasn't confrontational, but no one seemed to care for him, and he didn't much like anyone else, either. Caspar never made him feel odd like some of his classmates had, after he'd said something in particular or spoken a little too long and they'd make eye contact with each other as if Linhardt wouldn't notice– as if he didn't know that meant it was time to shut up. When the two were together, they felt no pressure to mask their truest selves. So, Caspar was Linhardt's best friend and vice versa, above all else.
On a weekend before Christmas, when they were seventh graders with puberty fast approaching, Caspar stayed at Linhardt's house. They'd spent the day playing video games and had just climbed into bed: Linhardt on his own while Cas took the blow-up mattress on the ground. They laid parallel, and through his curtains the moon shone just enough light Linhardt could make out shadows– this, like Caspar's round nostrils at six, is an image ingrained in his memory, a near-perfect recollection of the first time he told anyone his own secret. Safe in the dark and in Cas's presence, Linhardt admitted he liked boys. He remembers this was the exact phrasing and looking back on it, he can't help laughing fondly.
In less time than it took to admit, Cas had responded, Okay! Then, just as hurriedly, as if afraid Linhardt may misinterpret his initial speed, That's cool! Linhardt chuckled at his friend and for a tense moment, Cas stared at him before he cracked; the two hid their howls beneath their palms lest Linhardt's parents heard and came rushing in to quiet them.
Later, Caspar would say he'd always known, to which Linhardt would turn his nose up and contend he always knew Caspar was a boy, then.
When Caspar talks about coming out, if he's asked, he always starts with his own father as the receiver of the news. That's the beginning of his story, as he claims regretfully he doesn't remember the moment shortly after the two boys first met– the first time he said aloud to Linhardt that he's a boy. Caspar will admit that Linhardt calling him one is what helped him figure things out, but the memory of the very first instance had been lost to both the passage of time and the limit of space for the sheer magnitude of life lived.
Still, if asked, Linhardt would begin with the moment by the pool when they were six. For his own coming out story, though, they both tell it as that night they're thirteen. Then four years later, it happens again–
They miraculously make it through middle school, somehow. They're assigned the same high school and for once have the opportunity to see each other daily, even though freshman year their schedules don't align. Despite their differences in taste, they choose an obscure elective each proceeding year to ensure they have one class together.
In their sophomore year of high school, Caspar got his license. He had also socially transitioned by then along with beginning puberty blockers. He took Linhardt home every day after school, a benefit for them both as he preferred even the dirty sedan to public transport and Caspar liked to spend as little time as possible at his own house.
They were stuck behind a line of cars at a red light with music thrumming low from the speakers; the AC worked overtime in the unusual autumn heat, and Linhardt couldn't keep his thoughts to himself any longer. They'd plagued him nonstop since he first had them, only six days prior– he'd never been much for patience. So, he turned to Caspar and blurted out, Not that it really matters– I don't know– but– I'm nonbinary. Or… I'm something. I just know I'm not totally a boy, but I'm definitely not a girl.
This memory, of them all, is the sharpest. Perhaps that's only true because it's the most recent (but soon enough, even that will be false– there is still the fourth and final time one of them will come out).
Caspar had glanced at him from the corner of his eye before returning to the road, the light going green and cars inching forward. That's cool, he said. Then, What are your pronouns? and Linhardt released a breath.
Why he'd held it in the first place, he still isn't sure.
'He' is fine, usually, but 'they' feels nice, too. I don't really… know. It'd been Linhardt's confession, but he felt lost.
Caspar didn't let him wander alone. He was calm and casual in a way that provided comfort as he said, You don't gotta know. Honestly, you can take it day by day!
Linhardt remembers the resonance of the words, how they warmed him as he watched buildings pass them by outside. They meant more to him than Caspar realized, he thinks. They still do.
They trudged through high school as technology aged and advanced, as news outlets covered a larger variety of topics from around the world and information became readily accessible, and soon there seemed more people like them than unlike– the internet is nothing if not a means of connection. They gained a greater understanding of where they fit into the world, and though expectations still weighed heavily over them, their bond never weaned.
They graduated; Linhardt ranked eighth in their class and Caspar somewhere in the hundreds, yet somehow they both wound up at the same university. The truth is, they did it purposefully, but if asked they'd insist they enrolled for different reasons.
As they were finally separated from their parents and lived mostly-independent lives, they began to blossom together. Linhardt experimented more with the clothing he wore and decided to grow out his hair. Caspar used his own savings to pay for top surgery their freshman year, and Linhardt had been at his bedside through the aftercare, because who else would the young, stubborn man let see him so vulnerable? When they entered their second year of college, Caspar was the traditional sophomore whereas Linhardt was a junior– he'd received credits while in high school, but there was more to learn before he was ready for his medical degree, and he was expected to apply for that sometime this coming year. The problem with that, as there's always a problem with something, is the fact Linhardt doesn't want to go to medical school.
(That's a realization he isn't ready to face, yet.)
However, as he begins to question his degree choice, Caspar has his own crisis. Linhardt finds out only now– and it completely changes the trajectory of their life paths.
It happens on a Tuesday in October, a few short weeks before Halloween. Linhardt reads a post-modern novel for his British literature course, a late elective for his basics that he'd put off in favor of taking more science courses. He's enjoying the class, in particular getting to write out his own thoughts as opposed to merely memorizing information, which is how most of his anatomy and biology courses felt. He does get to use his analytical mind when asked to put the memorized knowledge to practical use, and he knows when he gets to medical school, he'll be doing so more often. It's not necessarily a long book, but reading it three times before he's supposed to have the full thing done might be overkill– as undoubtedly is the ten-page paper he'll soon turn in. So when Cas interrupts, despite usually knowing to avoid the act, Linhardt isn't too peeved. Everything with the assignment is technically complete.
Caspar sits on Linhardt's bed in his dorm room. He has a private room, his father willing to spend more money to ensure he has adequate study space; Caspar lives in far cheaper dorms and sleeps less than ten feet from another person every night. The thought makes Linhardt cringe. Along one wall of the room is a twin-sized bed and the other a small desk, which is where he currently resides. As he turns to look at his longest friend, whatever annoyance he may have had at being bothered dies the moment he sees Caspar's vulnerable form.
He leans sideways, his profile facing Linhardt. His arms are holding him up in a seated position, although his shoulder closest to the wall seems to be gathering support from it as well. His neck bows and face ducks, shadows obscuring his eyes but Linhardt can still make out his mouth, twisted in a way indicative of pain. His legs are stretched ahead of him, Nintendo Switch forgotten on his lap in favor of wherever his eyes rest.
Nothing beyond his name has been said, a simple phrase to call his attention, yet Linhardt knows something is upsetting Caspar.
Maintaining an even tone despite the spike of panic at seeing his happy-go-lucky friend in distress, Linhardt says, "What's wrong?"
Caspar's twisted mouth breaks as he barks out an unexpected laugh. Linhardt startles a little at his desk chair, but the other merely shakes his head. There's a lack of humor to the sound, and Caspar screws his mouth up again.
Linhardt tries not to worry, but then Caspar says, "You always get straight to the point, huh?" As if triggered, Linhardt wants to rear in defense, but he takes a moment to consider tone– he says it not as if in judgment but in observation. So Linhardt keeps quiet, and fortunately, Cas continues. "I- I wanna talk to you about something."
Then, as if that's enough for the time being and he isn't leaving Linhardt riddled with anxiety, he stops.
Linhardt waits, but there is only silence, so he prompts, "Okay, what is it?"
The worry is unavoidable, now, as Caspar fidgets. He pulls his knees up, rubbing his palms against them before abruptly leaning back again. His movements are jerky in a way that tell Linhardt his friend is nervous, and this in turn only makes him so. He does everything he can not to convey it.
Finally, Caspar admits, "I'm scared to tell you, but I- I don't know who else to talk to. There's no one else I wanna talk to, but I'm- I'm afraid of…" Caspar hesitates, glancing through his bangs at Linhardt. He's having a hard time breathing when Caspar looks away again and says, "I don't wanna ruin our friendship."
Swallowing feels near impossible, but Linhardt manages. He shifts in his chair, suddenly stiff and afraid any move might frighten Caspar more than he already is, as if his best friend is a wild animal. This is uncharted territory; as far as Linhardt is aware, they've never been afraid to tell each other something and they didn't keep many secrets to begin with– if any at all. The biggest surprise, though, is that Caspar is afraid what he'll say will change their friendship, like such a thing could even happen. Linhardt can't fathom anything Caspar might say that would change the fact they're best friends– nothing can change their shared history, their shared interests and aspirations, the sheer comfort they find in each other that they cannot find elsewhere. Thus, he doesn't know what Caspar might say next. Not if it's gotten him afraid of the unimaginable happening.
Traversing carefully, Linhardt keeps everything about himself neutral, but his heart pounds away in his chest. He asserts, "There's nothing you could say that would change our friendship, Cas. What's going on? Talk to me."
All of this is unexpected, and it leaves Linhardt exposed, but he finds ways to show Caspar he can also be strong. He knows what it's like to keep something in until it bursts; whatever his friend may say next, Linhardt bets he's been holding onto it for a while. There's also something upsetting about Caspar keeping things bottled up from Linhardt. As far as he's concerned, Caspar was an oversharer; Linhardt always welcomed it. Worse yet is the knowledge that, if it is something that's been on Caspar's mind for some time, then Linhardt hadn't noticed. That leaves him hollow.
There is such little in this world to sets off his serotonin, so little beyond himself and his fixations, but Caspar has always been a bright point in Linhardt's life. The truth is, he can't imagine a world without him in it.
Some piece of him, in this moment, fears that will happen anyway.
Caspar gets Linhardt's full and rapt attention, his nails digging into his palms for some relief as he waits for the man to gather his thoughts and voice his worries. The last thing Linhardt expected of the week night, which they were spending together solely because they wanted to despite partaking in different activities, was this. He doesn't much enjoy the anxiety.
Then, Caspar says it.
"I think- I think I might have romantic feelings for you."
Linhardt blinks.
As if still stuck on literature, his brain refuses to grasp what Caspar is saying, so he asks, "You think?"
"I don't-" from across the room, Linhardt hears Caspar gulp "-I don't know."
Linhardt considers this as Caspar fidgets. Eventually, his elbows settle on his knees, leaving him folded inward. His shoulders curl close, making him appear smaller than he is, and the oversized sleep shirt he donnes didn't help. Linhardt can imagine a younger Cas in this same position, and yet it's also unfamiliar. The man had been insecure before, of course, especially in terms of his height. Yet never had he seemed so exposed, as if revealing a piece of himself not even he liked.
Linhardt's chest continues to pound and his naval clenches tightly, then explodes in a barrage of nerves. To say he'd never thought of Caspar 'romantically' would be a lie; he simply never allowed himself to linger on the thought, and after some time he regarded it as intrusive. Being attracted to the person he's closest to emotionally doesn't seem far-fetched nor inappropriate, but as long as Linhardt had known Caspar, he wasn't interested in romance or dating or anything of the like, not even sex. So in this case, Linhardt never felt okay having thoughts like that, despite the fact they'd rear up at inopportune times– he'd gotten good at dismissing them.
It wasn't like Cas put a word to it or specifically said it. Although Linhardt had mentioned the crushes he'd had since first coming out to Caspar, his friend never did the same. Caspar simply didn't offer that type of information and Linhardt wasn't going to ask. Besides, he knew his friend better than anyone, and Caspar had never shown interest in these things in the thirteen years they'd been friends. Truthfully, Linhardt assumed Caspar just wasn't built for it.
Only, now Caspar says the opposite.
He can't get his hopes up for something that may not be, though. He can't let himself truly consider the possibility. Not yet.
Linhardt needs clarification, and through the onslaught of thoughts he has, he asks, "What does romantic mean? To you? In this instance." He knows he sounds clipped, and by the way Caspar clenches his hands around his knees, it doesn't go unnoticed. Linhardt wishes he could take it back but is grateful he asked.
Speaking seems difficult for Caspar, perhaps a first, his voice low and slow as if trying to remain steady. He manages, "Just- like- it mostly started at the festival? I wanted to hold your hand, that's all, and- and I thought that would probably be weird, but at first I couldn't figure out why that would be weird."
Caspar releases his grip, and alongside the action Linhardt does the same with his breath. He can tell how conflicted his friend is over all of this; plus, knowing the festival occurred nearly two months ago meant Caspar had been thinking and feeling this way longer than Linhardt likes. He recalls the night, though only in pieces; he'd spent most of his time loitering amongst the vendors, but a great deal had been following Caspar around the different rows of carnival games. Nothing about it had been different to any other public gathering they went to– they ran into some of their friends halfway through the event and ended up sticking with them, but beyond that, he isn't sure when Caspar might have wanted to hold his hand or what might have triggered the thought.
Caspar continues, "I fixated on it, or something. Overanalyzed it all night! Then– when we met up for lunch I had- I had the urge to kiss you."
Caspar looks over, only the second time thus far, and his eyes are guilty. It breaks a piece of Linhardt to see his best friend agonize over something as silly as a first crush, and yet he understands where the fear comes from. After all, he'd refused to entertain the idea since he first had it in middle school, knowing the friendship they had was more important than anything else that could be. Linhardt crushed on people other than Caspar, though, or at the very least held interest for them, and despite his incredibly short list of PG experiences, he at least had some.
Caspar, on the other hand, doesn't even seem to understand he's describing exactly what it's like to have romantic feelings for another person.
Not looking away this time, Caspar speaks again, and the guilt has seeped into his tone. He says, "I want your attention, like, all the time. Sometimes, you give me this one little smile– I dunno, like it's reserved for me– and it makes my whole stomach clench up really-y-y tight. Kinda like I might be sick, except… good?" Linhardt's stomach does exactly as Caspar describes. "And most the time, just being in your presence or around you, I- I can't help but-" as if to demonstrate rather than verbalize, Caspar's mouth slides over his teeth in an honest smile, the first since they started talking and the kind that releases the clench of Linhardt's stomach to send his nerves firing off.
Then, Caspar's cheeks turn red, and he ducks sideways towards the wall, seeming both bashful and self-critical, and his next words are a sigh. "I've never… felt this way before, and I don't know what to do. I don't- I don't even understand it, really. It's driving me crazy and it's not going away! I thought of trying to talk to someone else, but-" Caspar cuts himself off, tugging on the loose fabric around his knees before he hugs them close to his chest. Once more avoiding eye contact, his tone takes on a self-deprecating edge. "You're kinda the only person I want to talk to about it. I… there's no one else I trust. You're my… you're my best friend."
Either too nervous or too frightened of his own elation, Linhardt takes this information and decides to expand upon it. Knowing just how deeply Caspar's trust for him runs despite fearing rejection warms Linhardt's body from the tips of his ears to his toes. Part of him wants to focus on their mutual feelings, but thankfully his logical side–or perhaps it's emotional–takes over. Beyond what this might mean for them, Linhardt needs to help Caspar traverse these new sensations on his own, first.
So Linhardt says, "I honestly thought you weren't interested in romance." Caspar shrugs, glancing at Linhardt, although through his bangs they can't make eye contact. "What you're describing sounds like a crush, Cas. It does, in fact, sound as if you have romantic feelings toward me."
Caspar nods as if he expected this. His voice is quiet, almost unheard as he mumbles, "Who gets their first crush at twenty?"
Linhardt bites his lip, unsure what his next move ought to be. He doesn't want to keep Caspar waiting, stewing in his own insecurity, so he decides to say–as if it's what they should be focusing on– "I thought you were aro-ace, but maybe not. Maybe you're demi, actually."
This jogs Caspar out of his head enough to look over, brow scrunched in confusion. He says, "What's that? I mean, I know what ace is. I- I never thought about it really, but I guess that's- that's me. Maybe. I don't know anymore."
Linhardt clears his throat, feeling heated and confused. His mind is mostly going off about the fact Caspar has a crush on him and how, now that he's allowing himself to seriously consider it, being romantically involved with Cas sounds like a dream come true. Like something out of a young-adult novel! Yet instead of figuring out what all this entails, he's focusing on labels.
"Aromantic means you're uninterested in romantic relationships, or you just don't have the desire for them– at least not often. So you don't develop the stereotypical romantic feelings and… and urges about people. Whereas demiromantic and demisexual mean you get to know a person before you develop an attraction to them, whether romantic or sexual. For example, you may need to develop a strong friendship with someone before you develop romantic feelings for them…
"Or maybe you're more comfortable in your skin lately. Plus, we have freedom like never before, so maybe you feel– you feel safe. It could be anything, realty."
Caspar swallows audibly again and Linhardt wishes he'd say the right thing the first time around.
Caspar says, "Oh."
"Labels don't really matter," Linhardt says, pleased when this relaxes Caspar some. "Not unless you need them. You have… never struck me as a person that needs them." Caspar doesn't respond, but he makes eye contact across the small dorm room, and as if reminded of the situation at hand, Linhardt's heart beats rapidly once more. He opens his mouth to tell Caspar he feels the same way, that his first crush was and is also on his oldest friend, but no words come out.
Although not a tense silence, the moment feels too long.
Then, Caspar asks in a deceptively even tone, "Do you… Are you mad?"
Linhardt stands up without meaning to, startling them both. He doesn't actually move towards Caspar, unsure and shy despite who he's with. A new vulnerability has settled upon them, one that is equal parts exciting and debilitating. Like most milestones that have happened in his life, he wants Caspar to pass this one with him, too.
There are gaps they can only cross if they walk in sync, though, and Caspar has yet to unfurl himself from his protective position on the bed. Caspar has yet to realize, because Linhardt hasn't actually said it.
"I'm not mad!" He exclaims abruptly. "I'm not mad. I have– I feel the same way about you." Calling it a crush felt belittling of the new sensations spreading through Linhardt's chest.
Caspar opens his body but doesn't yet stand to cross the distance between them. Although his expression has turned hopeful, it remains guarded.
"You do?"
"Yeah," Linhardt says earnestly, squeezing his fists tightly to stop himself from launching at Caspar, lest he startle him off or give the wrong impression.
Caspar looks doubtful. "Since when?"
Linhardt's mouth opens but no words come out, and a chagrined blush overtakes his cheeks as he averts his gaze. A mumble beneath the fan, he admits, "You were my first crush, Cas. When- When we were younger."
"Oh," Caspar breathes, then, "Have you just… been wanting to– ?"
Linhardt shakes his head, because it's the truth. "You're my friend before you're anything else. That was more important than a childhood crush." Caspar nods slowly, looking at Linhardt without really seeing him. He's thinking too hard, so Linhardt says, "But– but if we both feel the same way, then maybe we could– we could be–"
Linhardt isn't sure how to finish the sentence, but the silence doesn't even last a minute. The logical one for once, Caspar voices their deepest insecurities.
"What if this is a bad idea?" He whispers. "I mean, what if we- we start dating and then something happens and it goes bad? What if this ruins everything?"
Linhardt folds his arms behind his back, if only to pick at the skin around his nails distractedly without prying eyes, and looks away from Caspar. The nerves in his stomach become a bit more dreadful, because Caspar is right. They've been friends for so long but being in a relationship is different. So Linhardt assumes, that is; he might have kissed a person or two, but he'd never been in an actual relationship. In the near-twenty years he's been alive, no one interested him enough to consider seriously being with them– no one aside from one person, that is, and Linhardt shoved that aside as intrusive.
If the chance is presenting itself, he'd be a fool not to take it.
So, Linhardt says, "Isn't that the fear with any relationship?"
"That's not all this is, though," Caspar insists. "You're– Like– You're more than just my best friend! I wouldn't be okay if that- if it changed."
"It wouldn't… They say the best relationships are built on strong friendships."
"Who's they?!" Caspar yelps. "And- And if we still break up and never wanna see each other again? What about that?"
"I can't imagine anything you'd do that would make me never want to see you again. It doesn't matter if we're in a relationship or not."
"What if I cheat on you?" Caspar exasperates; he's becoming desperate, as if trying to convince Linhardt they shouldn't pursue any further.
Meanwhile, Linhardt is desperate to convince Caspar they should.
Even the tease of a possibility is enough to light a fire within Linhardt, and he can see in front of him the thing everyone seems to desire: first love in its sweetest form, as all things from Caspar tend to be. Their mere friendship has taught Linhardt that; a bright spot when his path grew dark, never flickering out. He already loves Caspar, but to have the opportunity to be in love with him is like discovering a new fixation.
Linhardt doesn't know what it's like to be in love with Caspar, but oh– does he want to learn how it feels to fall.
Their voices growing in volume, unfortunate for his loft-mate should they be in their room, Linhardt snaps back, "You really think you'd cheat on me? On anyone?"
Caspar thankfully deflates, although Linhardt doesn't yet celebrate a victory. Instead he watches, picking too harshly at the skin around his thumbnail and squeezing the appendage tightly at the accompanying pain.
Caspar sighs, shaking his head. "No," he says. "I don't, but… still! There's things to consider. I don't- I don't know what it's like to be in a relationship! Do we gotta go on a first date and then decide? More than one date? I don't even know what you do on a date, and what would we talk about, anyways? I know everything about you! Like– ugh!
"What even is romance?" Linhardt can tell Caspar is spiraling, his hands raising to tug on his short hair as he groans out, "I'd be the worst boyfriend ever, probably. I don't even know where to start."
Linhardt's palms are sweating, and his nerves are still split, but he can name at least one thing that would make everything feel okay.
"You could start with a hug?"
Caspar looks up through his arms, slowly dropping his hands as Linhardt holds out his own in an invitation. It doesn't seem to take much contemplation, Caspar pushing himself from the bed without hesitation and closing the distance between them. Linhardt's arms slide along Caspar's waist as his cup Linhardt's shoulder blades.
They've hugged at many different sizes. For a while, they were the same height, though Linhardt had always been on the scrawny side. As they went through puberty, Linhardt shot up like a bean pole and would have to fold Caspar into his chest should he request a hug, which at that point was a rarity. Now only a few inches separate them, just enough Linhardt could kiss Caspar's forehead if he wanted. It isn't a thought he's had before, but now it plays on loop; he ignores it for the time being. It's not just their heights that changed, either– other aspects have as well. Linhardt is still fairly slim, but the university cafeteria softens him each trip. School has the opposite effect for Cas; he goes to the gym almost every single day and the hard work is paying off. From where Linhardt holds him, he feels strength despite Caspar relaxing into his arms.
Their bodies sink together, as hugging is a familiar though unpracticed act between the two. Yet– there's something different to this one. Something new. In the seconds exceeding their typical alloted time to hug, they shift. Caspar lays his chin on Linhardt's shoulder, then tucks his face close; this brings their bodies together, torsos flush. Linhardt's hands slide from Caspar's waist to the low of his back, rooting them in place as one hand's fingers trail down his spine while Caspar loops his other arm further around Linhardt's neck. Cas disappears inside the concave of his chest, or perhaps they just fold into the same entity, but either way the hug satisfies a deep piece of Linhardt he hadn't known existed.
After a minute has passed, Linhardt ducks his chin and leans his forehead on Caspar's temple. His friend sighs too quietly to be heard, but Linhardt feels the rush of air at his throat. His stomach clenches once more, and before he can question whether or not it's the right thing to do, he turns his head enough to lightly press his lips to Caspar's soft cheek.
It's a peck, this kiss Linhardt gives Caspar. As he pulls away, he can feel himself blushing, and it worsens as his friend leans back to look at him. He doesn't move from Linhardt's arms, however, so he doesn't yet panic, but he avoids eye contact. Caspar desperately attempts to make it; from his peripheral vision, he sees his friend smile.
This gives Linhardt the courage to glance at him, teeth finding his bottom lip as their gazes meet. Caspar is soft even in the horrible, university lighting. Where earlier there had been so much trepidation, now he lay willingly open and bare. The elbow across Linhardt's shoulders bends, bringing his hand in close. At the awkward angle, Caspar's fingertips skim his chin. It's a gentle brush of skin to skin, a tender caress as if afraid the touch might be unwelcome. Linhardt's entire face heats, but so does his chest, and everything feels heavy– heavy enough to drag his gaze from Caspar's blue eyes to his pink lips, lightly chapped and swollen from where he'd bitten them in nervousness.
Caspar leans forward.
Linhardt meets him halfway.
Their first kiss is a whisper, hesitant yet anticipatory. It's Linhardt who presses in close for a second time, but every movement they take is slow. When his top lip slides between Caspar's, he puckers too much, and the kiss is too wet, but they merely pull back millimeters to take a breath and reposition. The room is silent aside from the fan clicking above them, and each exhale Caspar makes is warm on Linhardt's cheeks as they meet over and over again, never pressing further than the folding of their lips with neither rush nor force.
Still, they lack no passion.
When they do eventually pull apart, it's a natural progression. Their lips move slower, each time they separate that small distance growing longer and longer until it simply remains. Their foreheads press together, noses a tease against each other as their eyes remain closed. Everything is still.
It can only stay that way for so long with Caspar around.
He pulls back but remains close enough Linhardt can reach out to embrace him again should he choose. Instead, he watches Caspar rub the back of his neck as he looks away demurely; his mouth quivers as if trying to hold back, and then he grins so widely it crinkles his eyes. His cheeks darken in color and Linhardt is flooded with fondness.
"That was- That was cool," Caspar says. "Nice." He nods. "That was nice."
Internally, Linhardt screams. Cuteness aggression isn't something he's ever felt before, he doesn't think, but he suddenly wants to take Caspar into his arms and shake him and yell at him and kiss him silly, all at the same time. There were aspects to Cas that were objectively adorable, but Linhardt had merely acknowledged them. Tonight, he feels as if he's getting to experience them for the first time.
Neutral despite his inner turmoil, he says, "I'm glad you thought so. I thought it was nice, too." Caspar's smile grows wider, somehow, at Linhardt's words, but he doesn't respond. They stand there, two grinning fools a foot apart after having just kissed for at least five minutes, unsure what to say with thoughts lingering on the other's lips– until Linhardt can't stand the distance any more and asks, "Can we hug again?"
Caspar's responding chuckle is like the sun breaking through overcast clouds just long enough to remind you light still exists before it's gone again– Caspar's warmth trails off, too, the sound dying on his lips. Linhardt wants to bottle it up and pull it out on his midnight days, sure little else could be as effective, so quickly and wholly does Caspar fill him. It was true years before he ever thought of kissing his friend and remains true after the fact.
Caspar says, "Don't you have homework?"
"You think I can focus on that now?" Linhardt scoffs. "I just want to focus on this. On you. Technically, I'm done, anyway."
"That's-" Caspar cuts himself off, blushing so brilliantly it trails down his neck in splotches.
Linhardt can't keep from smiling, voice gone as he says, "You're cute."
"Lin," Caspar gripes, blushing harder, yet the smile hasn't once left his lips. They stretch wider, so wide his eyes are mere slits above apple cheeks. Linhardt's soul nearly leaps from his body. "Shouldn't we- should we talk more? About all this?"
Linhardt thinks about it before nodding. He supposes talking is the best option, and it's something they're both pretty good at, especially with each other. He isn't sure where things go from here, but he knows it'll involve Cas whether or not it ends well, and that's comforting on its own. Still, he wants to chase the high of revealed feelings, of requited love and the sweet taste of falling for your best friend over time.
Linhardt says, "I suppose we should, but could we also hug? At the same time, I mean. Or rather, we could cuddle at the same time." Then, fearing he might make Caspar uncomfortable, he rushes, "Only if you want, that is! I can sit back at the desk and you can sit on the bed if- if you want."
Caspar's smile softens as he reaches out. His fingers close over Linhardt's wrist, tugging him along as he steps backward towards the bed. Linhardt follows, because that's what he's always done, if he's being honest– follow Caspar. Should he ever be the lead, Caspar would in turn follow him, of this Linhardt is certain.
As they lay side-by-side in bed, their faces only inches apart and hands clasped awkwardly between their close bodies, palms gathering sweat, Linhardt has an epiphany of sorts. He realizes his life might have always been leading to this tender moment– sharing breaths with a childhood friend and soon-to-be more, so much more. He may be young and inexperienced, but Cas has always been a constant solace. Linhardt hopes he provides a quarter of the comfort and love he receives from his best friend. As their eyes meet, he thinks he does– he thinks he can read it in the way Caspar looks back at him.
Linhardt's excited to learn what happens next.