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Anden’s father once compared the masses of people attending Republic parties to termites.
He had pointed at the crowd, as he and Anden were buried inside it, and spoke only loud enough for Anden to hear. His father said he could nearly hear the snap of teeth as they stole away everything, reduced what he had into sawdust one bite at a time. Anden understands the comparison now, feeling eroded. Each wave of people that swept over him took another piece of him.
He’s used to crowds, but with the growing stress of the crisis between the Colonies and the Republic, and the illusive cure that the Republic must cough up or face extinction, he starts to feel unsteady on his feet. The people appear inhuman as they skitter past, and the clatter of conversation seems closer to the buzz of a hive.
Do termites even have hives? It doesn’t matter. No one gets termites anymore.
Besides, every move Anden has made in office, everything he’s fought for and struggled to achieve, have been in direct opposition to his father’s beliefs. His father was a complicated, but fundamentally corrupt man, and Anden lives in the world that his father destroyed. Anden didn’t necessarily inherit an empire, he inherited a dead nation, and he’s been tasked with necromancy. Still, Anden repeats his father’s sayings, and thinks about his metaphors.
Anden stands in the hallway, observing the crowd from this brief sanctuary. He had left the table abruptly, but so far, no one has clambered after him. He’s sure that his security team is waiting impatiently near the doorframe, a couple steps behind him like paranoid parents. He suppresses a scoff at that.
Anden was the paranoid one between himself and his father, always following him like his coattails. Anden, his safety, life, and future were so certain to his father that supervision was made redundant. His father would often tell a story of how Anden once managed to sneak away from his nannies, and after an hour of great panic, they found him sitting in his father’s study, reading quietly next to the desk.
“A child with all the freedom he could dream of,” his father would remark, “and what does he do? He finds somewhere calm to read.”
Anden had always been embarrassed by that story. It was usually used as proof of his loyalty, though loyalty was another word for malleability. There’s nothing to worry about, the story insists, Anden will do what he’s told.
Anden huffs and steps into the ballroom. Deserting the dinner he had specially arranged for him and his closest (with asterisk) advisors is a dramatic move. It might have been too immature or youthful for the image he’s attempting to cultivate, but if the two guests of highest honor walk out then why stay? The conversation?
He does audibly scoff then, but it’s thankfully drowned out in the monotony of the ballroom.
Anden assumes that his security team is behind him now, watching, waiting for him to find somewhere to land. The stress simmers inside Anden, and a restlessness overtakes him. He doesn’t want to sit down, or find somewhere to idle and be monitored, or let another snide remark wash over him. So he doesn’t stop walking.
None of this affects his outward appearance of course. Anden feels as though he’s boiling over, running so hot with worry that he’ll burn the marble beneath his feet, but he remains graceful. His steps are confident, measured, and each smile he casts to the noble strangers all around him is perfectly charming.
Anden feels uncanny most days, like he’s an exception in the worst way. He has no peers, no family, no equals. Anden is alone when he’s surrounded by people, and he’s silent when he speaks. He attempts to ground himself as he stalks the ballroom, adjusting his cufflinks to feel something cool as bodies warm the room.
The warmth is an intentional and palpable feeling in Colburn Hall. The Republic’s higher ups hate to feel startled; like farm animals, the entirety of their trust relies on the appearance of safety. The majority of Anden’s guests could be convinced to ignore danger at their doors if the hors d’oeuvres are timed well enough. The venue is coddled in the heart of Denver, on unending streets that stretch the length of the city. Denver is intrinsically connected, though sloppy, and with only a few load-bearing strings tying sectors together. It’s like a child’s hastily weaved cat’s cradle, connected only by technicality and faith.
Colburn Hall, like most of Denver, has been outwardly preserved but completely gutted internally, with modern renovations carving out the heart of every building that stood the test of time. It’s a little eerie, seeing all the bones of old America without any of the soul. Denver feels like a graveyard to Anden, full of stone sentinels that rise above the fog but bow beneath the heavy clouds. Though the majority of structures remain intact, there’s no life here.
Anden nods politely at a pair of senators, pretending he’s striding somewhere important. Really, he’s only pacing in circles, giving himself the illusion of control. It’s a short term solution.
If Denver is like a graveyard, then Los Angeles is like the body. The coasts were hit hardest when the oceans rose, and the wreckage of decaying buildings rise from black water like the dead climbing out of a grave. The water grasps at the edges of the city, and tears away at the infrastructure like claws through flesh. Everything seems fragile in a rotten way, and the city is one lonely night away from caving in.
But Anden is in Denver tonight, and like the city itself, Colburn Hall has been devoured from the inside out. The empty flash of the interior clashes constantly with the hardened and bitten brick facade. Though, in Denver, the conflict fits right in. The decor is familiarly extravagant, with the red trappings rippling along marble that the Republic’s men and women of power have come to expect.
There is a ginormous and frankly humiliating portrait of Anden looming over the entrance that Anden has been avoiding all evening. He initially protested the very idea of the portrait, but he was advised that some traditions would be harder to pry from elite hands than others, and maybe this was a strategic battle to lose. Now that he can feel his own painted eyes boring into his back, foreboding and too heavy-handed of an omen, he wished he had fought the idea more.
He pauses his frantic escape attempt, of sorts, and looks around the room. The sight is more familiar than his own reflection, but the longer he stares, he starts to feel sick with it. The men and women are perched like painted figures, duplicitous but shallow at the same time. The decor glitters in guilt, each glass or crystal or sparkle of champagne is another reminder of the corruption that Anden finds himself trapped by. Anden can masquerade with the best of them, but tonight, the smoke of tension is too thick to see through. He’s getting frustrated with playing petty politics in a burning house.
He cuts through the crowd, parting it easily like water with each step forward, and wanders into a hallway that shoots off from the ballroom. It’s empty, and he immediately appreciates the quiet as he climbs a set of stairs. Anden knows this hall well, from the galas of his childhood and the exhaustive planning process for this banquet, and finds himself standing at the entrance of a balcony. Maybe some sort of instinctual, subconscious knowledge led him here. The recesses of his mind remembered the nights he’d scurried away from similar crowds to similar hidden places.
The slice of Denver’s cool air is so liberating and refreshing that Anden sighs pleasantly, taking a full breath for the first time that evening. Denver is known for its extremes, but in general it’s less cold than it used to be. Tonight the air has a nip of frost that makes it refreshing, but he’s still warm enough in his suit.
Outside, Anden really feels like he’s home. He’s reminded of rebellious nights he spent on his father’s roof, looking up at stars that cut through the smog like a bullet through the air. Even his moments of rebellion weren’t disruptive. When Anden was done angsting and the desert’s evening bite got to be too much for him, he’d crawl back to his room and lay down, perfectly well behaved.
Glancing down at the traffic, Anden makes note of the increased liveliness of the city. Since the Colonies’ threats, he’s increased security everywhere he can spare resources to. The distant rumble of jeeps and military trucks sounds like thunder, but if all were right in the world, the streets would be deserted this time of night.
Anden sighs and rubs a hand over his eyes, attempting to soothe a constant tension headache. With no success, he shifts his hand to tug at his hair, abandoning the suave style that the hairdresser had perfected earlier.
Suddenly the sound of the door opening startles Anden, and he whirls around to face the intruder. Day stumbles onto the balcony, but there’s still an air of weightlessness to it. Like a deer getting caught, the shock dulled by softness.
Anden swallows, mouth dry. He doesn’t know what to say.
Day’s mouth falls open in his surprise, but he quickly composes himself and stands up straight. He lifts his chin at Anden defiantly, and anger radiates from him so intensely that Anden can’t help but wither. He doesn’t back down, but still can’t think of a single thing to say.
Anden doesn’t apologize superfluously, in fact, he was raised to not apologize at all. Recently, he’s been making a lot of amends, in a state of constant mea culpa, and for good reason. If Anden isn’t feeling guilty, he’s not feeling anything at all. Still, any and all apologies he makes, he means, and the first thing he does when he sees Day out on the balcony is apologize.
“I’m sorry,” Anden says.
Day looks surprised, then annoyed.
“I was looking for the exit,” Day announces, curt though venomous.
Anden turns to the edge of the balcony and emphasizes the way he leans to peer down at the sidewalk from several stories up.
“I wouldn’t recommend trying to get home this way,” he replies, forcing his tone to be even and easy.
Day scoffs. It’s not a laugh, but it’s not an insult.
He doesn’t leave, either. Instead, Day shifts from foot to foot and looks around, as though weighing his options. Silence fills in the wide space between them, and the noise of distant traffic becomes clear again.
“You know, you’ve got some nerve,” Day starts up.
They lasted a minute and a half without arguing, Anden clocks it.
“Being outdoors?”
“Standing here and pouting that you didn’t get your way,” Day snarls, “is this what you do all day? You cry from your many balconies and hope that if you look pitiful enough you’ll just be graced with a solution?”
That remark stings. Anden frowns at Day, expression hardening.
“I’m allowed to take a break now and then,” Anden defends, harsh and angry, “I’m constantly working to keep this country from collapsing, and when any possibility of peace gets ripped out from underneath you, it gets a little tiring.”
Day seems unconvinced.
“I was just trying to catch my breath,” Anden emphasizes, calmer now, and he massages the bridge of his nose, “but if it bothers you, I’ll leave.”
“No no, far be it from me to disturb the Elector while he’s hard at work,” Day jeers, pairing it with a dramatic shrug.
Despite his hostility, Day steps fully onto the balcony and leans against the railing next to Anden. He gets comfortable, then fishes a pack of prescription cigarettes and a lighter from his pocket. Day lights a cigarette as Anden watches him carefully. Anden is fairly certain he’s never been truly alone with Day before, and certainly not like this. He tries to stay level-headed.
Day is framed by the cityscape as blue smoke pours from his nostrils, streetlights turning his light hair golden.
“There’s no smoking inside,” Day grumbles, as though it’s an explanation.
Anden chooses to take that as an invitation for conversation. He resists the urge to move smoke away from his face.
“Right, but it feels like a pointless rule now, since there’s no shortage of actual problems to solve,” Anden comments, attention caught by the tremble of Day’s throat when he swallows.
“You know, you’re the one in charge, you could change any rule you think is ‘pointless,’” Day responds, sardonically emphasizing pointless.
“Of course, tomorrow I’ll send out a press release. Smoking is allowed in public buildings again, everyone thank Day Wing.”
“It might help your image, people actually like me.”
Day smirks at Anden, but it lacks any playfulness, or the teasing affection he’s seen aimed at June.
“I’ll take whatever endorsement I can get,” Anden says, looking back at the sprawling brick buildings.
Day exhales another cloud of smoke. He regards Anden, spending a long moment studying his face, then seems to get angry again.
“Look, I can’t tell you to get lost, it’s your goddy building anyway, but I’m not going to sit and chit chat with you,” Day spits, barbed in anger.
Anden nods silently. He marks this as an unsteady truce between them. For now, they’re just two partygoers avoiding the party.
He considers correcting Day, technically, Colburn Hall isn’t his building, but ultimately leaves it alone.
“You’d think it’d be cold in December,” Day drawls, despite his supposed stance against chit chat.
“In Denver it doesn’t usually get cold until January,” Anden says, watching military trucks soldier along the highways like lines of ants, “and then it freezes and thaws in a constant cycle until May.”
Day huffs out cigarette smoke, briefly blue before it disappears.
“Your seasons are all screwy,” he complains, as if it’s Anden’s fault.
Anden appreciates the harmless jab. This is the closest thing to a human interaction that he’s ever had with Day.
“Not that you’d know, California is stuck in the worst part of spring; it’s warm without being pleasant.”
Day frowns so deeply that he hunches into his shoulders. Anden takes the hit, makes note of his mistake.
“I actually miss the cold when I’m away,” Anden muses, leaning into a more casual position with his arms resting on the railing, “and sometimes I wish winter would last a little longer. The cold can be frustrating, but also beautiful.”
He can feel Day’s scowl on him without looking over.
“It’s great that you can appreciate the beauty in the cold or whatever crap you’re trying to preach to me,” Day snaps, “but a lot of people don’t get the fancy parkas or hot meals that you do, and I’m sure winter is a lot more than frustrating for them.”
Anden puts in extra effort to appear neutral and unthreatening, and slightly tilts his head to show that he’s thinking about what Day said.
“I know that, and I understand where your anger is coming from, but-”
“No, I don’t think you do understand,” Day cuts him off, furious and nearly burning in the low light, “you won’t understand until you’re the one between the pavement cracks, freezing to death in trash soaked rags.”
Day grabs a fistful of Anden’s suit then, yanks him a step forward, then shoves him away. Anden stumbles but rights himself, absorbing the shock. He’s surprised by the outburst, but still considers the direct acknowledgement of Day’s frustration a kind of progress. It’s better than Day icing him out and only grunting when Anden tries for any conversation. It’s like seeing a crack of sky through layers of ice.
“You’re right, I don’t understand,” Anden admits, “but I’m not your enemy here, either.”
Day looks incredibly suspicious, but stays in place and listens.
“You and I aren’t working against each other, you don’t have to treat me like I’m my father.”
Day scoffs.
“Right, like that’s easy. You know what your father was?”
“Awful,” Anden answers automatically, “he was awful. He was a scourge that didn’t merely let the country down, he purposefully tore it apart, then left me the debris.”
Day is still wary, but loosens at Anden’s words. Anden tries not to be offended that Day still considers Anden to be just as dangerous and unreliable as his father was. He straightens tension out of his shoulders.
“I’m not him,” Anden tells Day, flat out, because he needs to hear it.
“And I’m not one for blind faith,” Day retorts, “I’ll need a little proof, your excellence.”
Anden huffs, he can’t help it.
“Here’s the proof,” he steps closer to Day, though Day steps away, “I swear, I want to do right by this country. My father…” Anden takes a deep breath, “my father spent his life looking at his own reflection, and everything became warped. Right only existed in his portraits.”
“That’s cute,” Day barks, with his back against the wall, he still looks like a stray, “but any politician can make promises he won’t keep. I’m waiting for something more substantial.”
“I’m asking for you to give me a chance to create something more substantial,” Anden’s voice is soft when he says this, close enough to a plea to seem empathetic, then he chances a small smile, “and for you to stop rooting for my downfall.”
“I’m not rooting for your downfall,” Day defends lightheartedly, “you’d know it if I was. If I put any effort into hating you, your reign as elector would be a lot shorter.”
“Ha,” Anden deadpans, “that’s kind of you.”
When Day glances at him, for once, it’s not in anger. He’s never seen Day without his sharp edges. Day has never been slightly soft or friendly with Anden, so the open half-smile he offers Anden takes his breath away. Day looks away, but Anden is stuck staring at him, chasing the briefest moment of tenderness.
“It doesn’t really change anything,” Day begins, “but it’s nice to hear you condemn your dad like that.”
“There’s nothing to do other than condemn him. If he were still alive, I’d put him on trial.”
Day nods, processing. His cigarette has burnt to the end by now, so he shakes another out of his carton and lights it. There’s a careless ease to his motions, and an expertise in the way he guides the cigarette to his lips and takes a drag.
“You’ve been doing that a lot lately,” Day says, then, when Anden seems confused, adds “putting people on trial, I mean.”
“Well, you know, the people want trials one way or another.”
Day doesn’t exactly laugh, but he huffs through his nose and smiles, avoiding Anden’s eyes.
“It does seem like a step in the right direction,” Day admits, “but I can’t say I have the stomach for it.”
“You don’t have to,” Anden replies, “it’s my work. All you have to do is not end up on the wrong side of the courtroom.”
“That’s harder than you’d think.”
Anden levels an unamused frown at Day.
“Hey, I mean, you were on the wrong side of justice once upon a time,” Day reminds him, overly haughty, like a parent lecturing a child, “let’s not forget who bailed you out.”
“June, if I remember correctly.”
“With my help!” Day emphasizes, gesturing at himself. “If it weren’t for me, you’d be full of holes in an unmarked grave, courtesy of Razor.”
“Right, and his elusive Patriots,” Anden recalls, warming up to Day again easily. It was difficult to stay completely angry at Day, especially when he relied on his support and help to the degree he did.
“Some people would thank me,” Day muses as he glances up at the sky innocently.
“The luxuries I’ve provided for you haven’t said it enough?”
“So far, the rich junk you waste on me has been pretty quiet,” Day taunts, “unless you sent a singing card that I missed.”
Anden sighs, worrying the skin by his nail beds.
“Thank you for…” he takes a deep breath, “saving my life. I appreciate you giving me the chance to be a better man than my father, even if it was begrudgingly.”
Day smiles at Anden. It’s not muddled by sarcasm or half-genuine, it’s full and earnest and completely new. He doesn’t say ‘you’re welcome’ or anything else, but it’s the first real smile Anden has earned, and he doesn’t need anything else.
After a beat, Day faces the city again, and takes another inhale of blue smoke. With the blue tint wafting from Day’s lips, Denver seems almost magical. Everything shimmers behind the smoke, and even when it disperses, the new clarity seems particularly beautiful. Even Day seems different and especially striking. His eyes are a delicate shade of blue in the sparse light they catch, and the streetlights cast small shadows of his long lashes on his cheeks.
Recently, Anden has been studying Day. He’s been watching Day as though he’s a wild animal, or a rare species of flower. Anden observes his movements, takes notes on the rare occasions he decides to pipe up, combs through backlogs of information from when he was still at large. But with the two of them alone on this balcony, tussled by Denver’s timid breeze, it’s like Anden is seeing Day for the first time.
Day, of course, looks good in his suit. Good isn’t the right word, he looks sharp, with complimentary colors and clean hair, one glare could kill a man. Or, he looks warm, like something left to simmer or bloom, with the way his hair reflects every flash of light and his constant fidgeting. He looks beautiful, Anden would say, if he could be completely honest. It’s ridiculous to ignore the fact that Day is attractive, but so far, Anden has been dealing with it objectively. Now, with Day’s blizzard blue eyes narrowed and focused on the sparse traffic, it isn’t something Anden can categorize or control.
He watches in silence as Day fishes a cigarette out of his chest pocket, and a lighter from his pants. Anden is somewhat charmed by the obvious outline of the cigarette pack in his suit jacket, more unique than any forced flair or pocket square. He stares at Day’s long fingers as he lights the cigarette, noting the small tremor when he takes the first inhale.
“You’re going to burn a hole through me if your stare gets any more intense,” Day says.
Anden startles out of his trance. He coughs awkwardly to try and shoo away the blush he feels warming his cheeks.
“I was admiring your suit,” Anden tries to explain, but Day narrows his eyes like he can see through Anden’s lame excuse, “it fits perfectly, it sticks to the color palette of the event, the dark red tie suits your complexion,” Anden stops there, realizing he’s veering into embarrassing territory.
He flushes and ducks his head as Day chuckles quietly.
“What I mean is, you have good taste.”
“No, the personal shopper you sent for me has good taste,” Day corrects, “I just did what I was told.”
“Well then you’ve got good sense,” Anden replies, allowing the briefest bite into his voice, “if only you did what you were told more often.”
“I listen when I feel like it,” Day shrugs. He punctuates his remark by blowing a cloud of blue smoke from between his lips.
Anden watches Day’s mouth, transfixed.
“You felt like looking nice tonight?”
That pierces Day’s aloof attitude, and a pink flush flashes on his cheeks.
“Try, I didn’t feel like making more of a scene than necessary,” Day corrects, overly defensive, voice high, “it’s bad enough that the master criminal from the slums is rubbing elbows with the Republic’s finest snots, I don’t want to give them any more reasons to stare at me.”
“Master criminal,” Anden repeats, laughing dryly.
“I have a very infamous reputation, what can I say?”
Anden smiles at Day, exasperated, but still fond.
“If you didn’t want to draw attention you shouldn’t have worn that suit,” Anden comments, examining the small cuts by his cuticles, “I don’t think your fame is the only reason you turned heads tonight.”
Day gives Anden an amused smirk, and he rises to stand a little straighter, so he’s closer to Anden’s eye level.
“If I didn’t know better, Elector, I’d think you were flirting with me.”
Anden clenches his jaw. He knows that his cheeks are red, but it’d be more incriminating to hurriedly turn away. He meets Day’s eyes.
“If I were flirting with you I would have said something more complimentary.”
Day seems delighted by Anden’s response, and he lights up like this is the first time he’s really seen Anden. He leans closer, almost conspiratorially, and Anden feels the weight of his full attention like summer sun rays.
There’s been another shift between them, vaulting them over some line for their relationship. Or, previous lack of one. Anden feels something different in their air between them, something that halts the previous restlessness of the city. They’ve stepped into a new world between the two of them.
“Would you say I’m handsome?” Day suggests, leaning his head heavily in one palm. “Or show stopping?”
“That’s a little much,” Anden dismisses as he turns to completely face Day. He takes a step closer, carefully studying Day’s movements. Day straightens, he stays close to the wall, his eyes shine in the dark like blue sky reflecting on water. Day stays put, eyeing Anden. He doesn’t back away, he lets Anden in.
"I’d say beautiful,” Anden murmurs, closer to Day than he’s ever been before, “or perfect.”
Day always seems very tall when Anden thinks of him, but from here, he has to look up to meet Anden’s eye. His lips are parted, and his breathing is slow. He’s calm, Anden realizes, and he’s never seen Day calm.
“You’re a smooth talker,” Day’s voice is barely above a whisper, “are you really so strapped for company that you have to slum it with a newly reformed terrorist like me?”
“Isn’t that flattering? I could be with anyone, and I choose to stay here with you.” Anden, in a moment that either derails his life or finally sets it on track, reaches and brushes Day’s hair away from his face. He lets his hand hang in the air for a moment, only giving Day the implication of physical contact.
“Alright, that one was pretty good.”
“Don’t tell me you’ve never used that move before,” Anden snarks, daring to tap his hand against Day’s.
“I have, obviously, but I’ve never been on the receiving end.”
Anden absently adjusts the cuffs of his sleeves, looking away.
“I don’t buy that. You look good when you’re flustered, I’d imagine plenty of people have tried to make you blush.”
Day hums, and Anden turns to find him looking unimpressed.
“You could say something more complimentary,” Day suggests.
Propping his arm on the railing, Anden huffs.
“I don’t think you need any more compliments.”
“Maybe I don’t need them…” Day bats his eyelashes at Anden, playing it up.
“I like that your flush reaches here,” Anden touches the arch of Day’s cheek, and watches the slight pink color in, “and here too,” he moves to brush Day’s collar, where his flush is barely visible.
Day watches Anden in a trance, completely still. A breeze whispers past them both, lingering in the strands of Day’s hair. Day tries to hide his shiver, but Anden notices the way he hunches in on himself and grabs his own forearms, as though shielding himself. He puts his hand on Day’s arm to encourage him to unfurl again, and brings them closer together. When Day looks up at Anden, expression soft though hesitant, Anden focuses on his lips.
After feeling like Day’s profile haunts him, seeing it in every news cycle or deep sleep, he seems completely different in front of Anden. He’s fixated on the shape of Day’s lips, something he never noticed in the countless times he’s seen Day’s face. He reaches up without thinking, and traces his thumb along the bow of Day’s upper lip. He presses into Day’s bottom lip, next, and feels Day’s gasp against the pad of his thumb.
“It’s easy to flatter you,” Anden adds, quiet, just a few inches away from Day, “I could praise anything about you and mean it.”
Day moves his head so Anden’s thumb falls from his lip, then nudges his face into Anden’s hand, convincing him to cup his cheek.
“Right, and if I said anything flattering to you, I’d be lying,” Day counters, sarcastic, but his teasing tone makes Anden’s stomach leap.
“You still could,” he murmurs as he looks down at Day and gingerly grabs his hand, “I’m used to people lying to me.”
“Poor thing,” Day fires back, “it must get exhausting, listening to people call you handsome all day. How do you cope?”
“I don’t know, how do you do it?”
Then, Day kisses him. It’s triumphant, it’s overpowering, and lights Anden like a pyre, but he knows with absolute certainty that it’s another move for power in their relationship.
Anden loves the feeling of kissing Day, he’s already used to the way Day’s full lips feel against his own, but he knows it was a gambit for power between them. Somehow, this makes him like it more.
Anden’s hand is frozen in the air beside Day’s hip. He’s too skittish to place it there, but too eager to pull it away. Somehow, Day can tell it’s there, because he rocks to the side and places his hip in Anden’s hand. In a similar act of bravery, Anden grabs Day’s hand and reaches to place it on his back. Day settles into the position, leaving his hand warm and heavy on the small of Anden’s back.
Day’s other hand plays with Anden’s tie, too nervous to pull it, but the effect still works. Anden moves forward, obeying as though Day had actually forced him closer. With his other hand, Anden twists the ends of Day’s hair around his fingers. Day makes a soft sound similar to a purr, tightening his hold on Anden in approval.
Anden loves knowing that they fit so well together, that there’s a situation where he and Day aren’t constant adversaries. He thinks, in this moment, that there might be a universe where he and Day were never enemies to begin with. He grips Day tighter, pressed close enough that they could melt together.
At some point, Anden realizes that Day is shivering. He pulls away and notes that the temperature dropped significantly since they first came outside. Now, the air has a signature crisp chill that reminds Anden he’s home. For Day, though, home came with kinder evenings. He knows better than to ask about it outright, but he can’t stand to feel Day shudder anymore.
“We don’t have to stay out here,” Anden offers, rubbing Day’s arms up and down to warm him, “I’ve got a room upstairs with a heater that mostly works.”
Day hesitates for a moment, frowning while he thinks. He looks out into the city.
“You’re offering to take me back to your room?” He clarifies. “To your bed?”
Something burns bright inside Anden, rising up through his chest. He realizes he wants this more than he thought he did, and threads his fingers through Day’s.
“Yes,” he says, letting out a breath, “if you want.”
Day regards Anden, eyes flicking between Anden’s own and his lips, as he straightens his mouth in thought. Day lets his head fall onto Anden’s chest. Anden rests his chin on Day’s head, breathing in the luxurious shampoo that Day probably hated using.
It’s quiet.
Day hasn’t answered, but honestly Anden prefers the moment of waiting. Day could still say yes, and Anden still gets to hold him. This peace, like every brief reprieve Anden gets, will fall apart, so he savors it while he can.
Day meets Anden’s eyes slowly, then tilts up to kiss Anden’s throat. Anden sighs dreamily, as if there’s nothing to worry about.
Day kisses Anden’s lips, Anden thinks that maybe there isn’t anything to worry about.
Carefully, Anden guides them to the entrance and back into the building. They kiss every few steps, navigating the hall blindly. He gives Day plenty of time to back off or back out, but Day stays with Anden, right where he wants him.
He’s aware that this is a temporary truce, and that there’s a good chance they’ll hate each other worse tomorrow, but right now Day tastes like champagne and his breath hitches when Anden bites at his lip, so he doesn’t care.
They step haphazardly over the threshold into the building, warm and bright, and the door to the balcony shuts behind them. Day exhales in relief as they escape the cold air, and sinks deeper into Anden's arms while he guides them backwards. They kiss in the elevator up to Anden’s floor.
Few people actually book hotels at all anymore, even fewer in the bank-breaking rooms of Colburn, but Anden didn’t want to deal with a commute after the banquet ended. He didn’t plan for the absurd tryst he was currently involved in, but it seemed extremely convenient now.
Anden barely has time to break away and hastily slam the button for his floor before Day reels him back in with a hand on the back of his head.
Anden gasps into Day’s mouth when he tugs on Anden’s hair.
Day’s smile is pressed against Anden’s lips, and with one last kiss, he pulls away. Anden follows after him blindly, but Day is already pressing kisses along Anden’s neck. Anden sighs and slides one hand up Day’s back, grasping at him.
The elevator walls are floor to ceiling mirrors, so when Anden opens his eyes, he sees himself bright red and wide eyed. His lips are pink and shine with Day’s spit. The brief glimpses of Day’s profile he sees in between open mouthed kisses on his neck send shockwaves through Anden, keeping him in place though threatening to make his knees buckle.
The nearly empty building also means that the elevator doesn’t stop or open until they reach the top floor. Eventually, the elevator doors open, and the sound makes Day flinch. He bumps into Anden’s nose as they split apart. Anden feels Day’s breath near his lips, fast and shallow.
Day is suddenly pale and bewildered, cornered, almost. He glances around at the building, the luxurious light fixtures, the off-white paint, the marble floor, panicked. When Day takes a step back, Anden’s hands fall to his sides.
“I can’t-” Day starts, combing a trembling hand through his hair, “what am I doing?”
Anden watches, he feels like he’s been a player in this scene before, like he’s already lived through this moment. Day looks at Anden, then sees something he hadn’t before. Anden can tell that Day is conflicted, but he wishes he knew what Day is caught between.
Day’s hand twitches at his side and moves forward, as though he’s reaching for Anden, but he crosses his arms instead. He frowns at Anden and takes another step back.
“I’m sorry,” Day says.
“You don’t have to be sorry.”
Day huffs and shakes his head. He fusses with his hair again.
“I’m sorry,” he says again, more forcefully, “I have to get home.”
Anden always gets close, but he never reaches what he wants. Still, he nods, and takes a step back. Day is over an arm’s length away now.
“I can have one of my drivers take you back to your apartment,” he offers.
Day nods, eyeing the space between them.
“That’d be great, thank you,” he replies, quiet, almost exhausted, “I should check on Eden.”
“Right, and you’ve had a long night.”
Day narrows his eyes.
“I mean that genuinely,” Anden clarifies, then smiles, trying to smooth over some of the unease growing in his chest, “I’m glad you came tonight.”
Day smiles back mischievously.
“It would’ve been a boring night without me, yeah?”
“You’re good company,” Anden admits as Day gets slightly closer, “even if you’re difficult.”
“It makes the easy moments more rewarding,” Day responds. He reaches out to tap Anden’s knuckles, brushing his fingers along Anden’s.
It’s nice, but Anden knows the night is over.
Their way up to Anden’s room was rushed and steamy, but the way back down is frozen over and slow. They’re quiet in the elevator, and they feel very far apart. Anden doesn’t kiss Day, or smile at him, or rub his thumb into Day’s shoulder. He faces forward, and avoids Day’s eyes in their reflection.
They walk to the lobby together, all softness between them gone. Anden feels Day’s touches like ringing in his ears, haunting him in moments of silence. It feels colder outside by the curb than it did on the balcony, and the view of the sky is obscured by floodlights and buildings. Anden waves over a car, gives the driver Day’s temporary address, then backs away.
The driver steps around to open the door for Day, who is examining the car cautiously. He’s unsure, Anden realizes. Day hesitates on the curb, glancing between the waiting car and Anden. He could convince him to stay, maybe. He could ask Day not to leave, or kiss him again, or grab his hand, anything that would keep them above water for a little longer. But he doesn’t. He nods politely at Day and stays silent.
Day inhales sharply, but nods back. He climbs into the backseat, shuts the door, and avoids Anden’s eyes through the window. The car starts then pulls off the curb and glides down the street. It slips into the city without commotion, joining the other guests finding their way home after the banquet. Anden watches him go.
His father was right- Anden always does what he’s told.