Work Text:
Frank felt his bones protrude past his skin, stretching it thin and uncomfortable. Of all his exploring, there was yet a form that fit. He was trying (he promises, really, he is) to lay his epidermis on his dermis, to connect his bones with tendons, to be anything but a scrap yard of awkward body parts. He looks at himself sometimes, and doesn't see himself so he looks away and focuses on what's important. He looks at his name, his friends, his, his, his. His to protect, his to love, his to coexist with. His to choose. His to meld his organs against, comfortably, snuggly. His family is his to worry about. That's why he's here, pulling at his hair (not that he had much of that in the first place), worrying about Leo.
Leo makes space next to himself when he walks. An empty space between himself and his surroundings, seemingly filled by something, yet empty. He walks and mutters and mumbles and trips over himself, always smiling, always at par with this absence. Loneliness never had to creep up onto Leo. It made its presence obvious to the boy and watched, gleefully, cruelly, as the boy accepted it as if lack and longing was all he deserved.
And Frank watched Leo, wishing he could fill that space, wishing he had the right. He knew he didn't, not after Hazel chose him, not after what happened with Calypso. Frank wondered how easy it was for her to leave him after getting a taste of what it's like to bump shoulders with him when walking so close, too close. (He wondered how hard it would be for him to leave).
He sighed, looking at his coffee, hoping Hazel would wake up soon. He wanted to
talk to her about it, she was always so much better at this than him.
***
Hazel missed being dead. She was a baby bird, leaving the nest for the first time, struggling to fly. She knew she only missed the stability because it was what she knew, what felt comfortable. She will keep building her own nest, here with Frank. She groaned, her feelings were always so complicated. What was missing? What was missing? Whatever, time to get up.
Frank was already in the kitchen when she arrived.
So was Leo. After Calypso left, they coerced him into living with them for a while, until he found out what he wanted to do. Hazel smiled, a full kitchen was better than she thought she was going to get.
Frank looked soft, as he tended to look in her eyes, when comfort seeped into his muscles and bid them to relax.
Leo looked crazed, his eyebags drooped and his hands shook around the spoon he was holding but the smile on his face looked at least partially genuine as he explained to Frank, in an astonishing amount of detail, what exactly he was working on. Gods, she wanted to kiss him. Well, both of them really, that's the foundation of the situation, isn't it? She's not supposed to want to kiss both of them. Frank isn't supposed to look so soft as Leo speaks to him about pythons. They're not supposed to be better like this. However, comfort is found in this conjunction of souls and she doesn't know how to act on it. She doesn't know how to look Frank in the eyes and ask him if she's allowed this. She wants desperately to ask if it's real for him too, if the softness that surrounds them eases his pains as much as it does hers, if Leo is a vital part of that. She needs him to look her in the eyes (soft, comforting, understanding) and nod, ever so slightly. Would Leo even want them, if Frank was okay with it? She looked at them again, just to be able to see them. Those thoughts aren't important now. Her boys are. Her boys whose faces are so close their breaths linger on each other's faces. Her Frank softly fiddles with strands of (possibly, maybe her) Leo’s hair (freshly washed, clean of all the usual mechanic grime). Her soft boys. Hers to covet, hers to protect, hers to watch, hers to talk to, hers to adore, hers to be adored by. Hers, hers, hers.
***
Leo is not capable of caning, he is not made to withstand this. He calculates what he can, deals in absolutes, in the way mathematics is absolute. When he's not thinking in algorithms and measurements, he's a chaotic force of nature, unstoppable and whimsical. Emotions are not logical. There are no equations he can use, or lines to measure. The answer is usually just the endless process of them. But this matters too much for Leo to let himself be Leo. He takes the reins, he extinguishes the flames that are reaching, reaching, reaching for them and hopes that they won't hate him when the human melts away and leaves behind Leo, reaching. Leo, loving. Leo, adoring. Leo, hoping.
Here, in this kitchen, with Frank so close, with a finished, functioning project in his workshop, with Hazel’s (always piercing) eyes fondly watching, he wants to engulf them in this flame, this harmless, passionate flame. He wants to show them that he loves them, just so they know. He wants the flames of this, this big feeling, to dance across their skins and whisper his secrets into their ears (i love you, i stare often, i would disassemble myself if you asked for it, i would assemble anything if that's what you seemed). He wanted them to know the ardour of his feelings, just so they never doubt how loved they are. So he stops talking, before those secrets spill out of his mouth. So he looks, at Frank’s confusion, at Hazel getting closer. So he laughs, because for a second, he felt they loved him too. They couldn't possibly love him too. But Frank is staring; soft, worried. But Hazel is reaching for both their hands. Oh gods, when did they get so close? Leo calculates sometimes, all the time really. So he knows that one plus one plus one is three. He's not stupid, when it's right in front of him, he can see one plus one plus one is three. Can he really reach out? Can he believe that the calculations he's processing (her eyes on his lips, his hands in his hair, them standing side by side) are based on factually interpreted data. Where is his …
“I love you, both of you, I just, you know, I love you”
The words escaped him before he realised they formed in his mouth. He didn't have time to think though. Frank was pulling him in, lips (oh so soft) against his. Hazel is shining, shimmering, as if she can't hold back the happiness so it's spilling out of her in the form of magic and he sends out his fire (himself) to meet it, to connect. He doesn't know if he touches her magic or if she touches his hand first, grazing her lips against his knuckles. He realises, at that moment, they are his, his, his.