Work Text:
The night had long since fallen, and the last bright glow of the campfire flickered over the jagged edges of the abandoned huts. Above them stretched a starry sky, so clear and cool that the darkness seemed almost velvety. Leon sat on a fallen tree trunk, his back leaning against one of the charred walls, watching the ember-red sparks the wind carried away.
Next to him lay Luis, arms folded behind his head, legs casually crossed. The embers painted golden lines across his cheekbones, making the small scars and fine lines on his skin glow. They had spent almost the entire day on the run — from monsters, from villagers, from the all-consuming madness of this cursed place. And yet, in this strange, eerie stillness of the night, it was the first time Luis took a deep breath.
“You know,” Luis began after a while, and Leon lifted his head in surprise. “I never told you what it was like when I got my first testosterone shot.”
Leon blinked. Not because the topic surprised him — Luis sometimes dropped the most personal things between a couple of jokes and a firefight — but because the moment felt so out of place, and at the same time, exactly right. Out here, where the world could end any moment, there was no reason left to save anything for later.
“Tell me,” Leon said quietly.
Luis turned his head toward him. There was a glint in his dark eyes that had nothing to do with the fire.
“It was…” Luis hesitated, as if he first had to sort out which piece of memory he wanted to pull from the jumble in his head. “I was twenty-two. Way too late, if you ask me. At least, that’s what it felt like. Everyone else seemed to reach that point sooner somehow. And me… well. I always had a talent for missing the right moment.”
Leon gave a crooked smile. “I know the feeling.”
“I still remember the smell in the clinic. That sterile, unsettling stuff that smells the same everywhere, whether you're getting a broken leg fixed or getting testosterone. And the doctor. She had this look… you know, that pity that hides behind professionalism. I hate that.”
Luis closed his eyes for a moment, as if he could still see that look before him.
“And then she hands you this tiny vial. Like it’s nothing. Like it’s not a promise, not a liberation, not a goddamn elixir of life. Just a bottle. Milliliter by milliliter, a piece of what I’d always missed without knowing what it would feel like.”
Leon felt a shiver crawl up his neck. He knew Luis as the man with the sarcastic remarks and the exaggeratedly charming grin, who could still find a joke in the worst of situations. But right now, none of that was there.
“I looked at her and asked: ‘This is it? That’s what it looks like?’ And she just nodded. I still remember how my hands trembled. It was…” He gave a quiet laugh, but it sounded rough, as if it hurt. “I almost cried, Leon. I’d waited my whole life to hear that this was really happening. That I wouldn’t be stuck in that in-between world forever.”
Leon shifted a little closer, resting his elbows on his knees. “I get that. You don’t have to be ashamed of it.”
Luis opened one eye and grinned crookedly. “I know. I’m not even ashamed. I was proud. So damn proud. And at the same time… the world changed in an instant.”
He slid his hands behind his neck and gazed up at the stars. “I gave myself the first shot. Hands shaking, no clue if I was doing it right. My ego told me I could manage it somehow, and I did… somehow. But it didn’t matter. Afterward, I waited. Stood in front of the mirror every day, like I might be able to see it overnight.”
A soft smile crept onto Luis’ face. “And eventually, there was this scratchiness in my throat. At first, I thought I was getting sick. But then… it got rougher. Deeper. A little crack, right in the middle of a sentence, when I was asking someone something. A bit like an old wooden beam groaning under too much weight.”
Leon had to grin. “That sounds weird.”
“It was. And at the same time… I heard myself for the first time. Really heard myself. Not what everyone else always said, not that ‘little high-pitched voice’ or ‘you sound so delicate,’ but me. It was like my throat had finally decided it didn’t want to pretend anymore.”
Luis ran a hand down his throat, almost as if he could summon that scratchiness again. “I loved every single damn moment of it. Even when it sounded ugly. Even when, for the first few weeks, I couldn’t hit a single note, and my friends made bets on how long I’d sound like a teenager with a cracking voice. I let them win. Didn’t give a damn.”
Leon stayed silent for a while, letting the words settle between them as though they were too precious to answer right away.
“But the world got more complicated, you’re saying,” he eventually prodded.
Luis nodded, his gaze turning serious again. “You know… I kept telling myself, once I started, everything would change. That people would suddenly see me. That the endless explaining would stop. But it doesn’t. The shots change your body, not the way people think. And on some days… I wondered whether I was trying to prove it to them or to myself.”
He took a deep breath, his voice now barely a whisper. “I noticed it at university. Suddenly people wanted to know why I was changing. If I really knew what I was doing. If I was sure. As if someone who doesn’t live like them is automatically more confused. And then come the remarks. Those damn sharp-edged comments they throw in your face and then laugh like it’s a joke.”
Leon looked at him, saw the shadow crossing his features, and knew those words had left scars no injection, no surgery in the world could ever erase.
“I never felt like less,” Luis went on. “Not once. But I did wonder how many compromises I’d have to make just to breathe. Whether I’d get tired one day. Whether I’d stop wanting to fight.”
Leon placed a hand on his shoulder, not much, just a steady, wordless pressure.
“And?” he asked softly. “Are you tired?”
Luis grinned, and this time it was crooked but real. “Never. I’m stubborn as a damn mule, Kennedy. I swore to myself once, and I’m sticking to it. With everything that comes with it. The scratchy throat, the patchy beard that still grows uneven after years, the days when people stare more than they talk. With the knowledge that there are others who have it even harder. And that I’m still not obligated to be grateful when someone treats me like a human being.”
Leon returned the grin. “Damn right.”
They fell silent again, but it wasn’t an uncomfortable kind of silence. It was the kind that hung in the air like a warm coat against the raw night sky.
After a while, Luis rummaged through his jacket, pulling out an old, slightly worn photo. He handed it to Leon, who took it with curious fingers.
“That was the day after my first dose,” Luis said. “I looked like a complete idiot. But I had this grin on my face that didn’t leave for three days.”
Leon looked at the picture. A younger Luis, face softer, hair a mess, but the same eyes. And yes — that grin, half joy, half defiance. Impossible to miss.
“You looked annoyingly charming even back then,” Leon remarked, handing the picture back.
Luis laughed. “See? Some things never change.”
The wind stirred the half-dead fire, making the flames flare up one last time. Somewhere in the dark, an animal cried out. But for now, it was all far away.
Leon leaned back. “Thanks for telling me that.”
Luis just nodded. “Had to get it out sometime. And you… well. You’re the first person I’ve told in years.”
A faint, almost shy smile tugged at his lips.
“I guess that means you matter.”
Leon grinned and raised an eyebrow. “Already knew that.”
Luis chuckled — low, rough, and honest.
He tucked the photo back into his jacket, right over his heart, then pushed away from the scorched hut wall. For a moment he just stood there, a silhouette against the dying glow of the fire, his coat swallowed by the night, and Leon found himself wondering, once again, just how much more there was to this man than he’d ever admit.
“You know,” Leon began, his voice rough from the cold air, and maybe from what Luis had just said, too, “I think that’s the bravest thing I’ve heard in a long time.”
Luis turned, a crooked grin in the shadow of his face. “Brave would’ve been going to that damn party my roommate invited me to. Instead I sat alone in my apartment, killed half a bottle of red wine, and convinced myself everything would get better the moment I stopped being the person people wanted to see.”
Leon snorted. “Welcome to the club. I once locked myself in the bathroom for half a night because at sixteen, I thought I could tell my mom I liked guys more than the cheerleader from next door. She didn’t scream or anything. She just looked at me. Then left the room. Didn’t bring it up again for three years.”
Luis’ expression softened. “Fuck, Kennedy.”
“Yeah.” Leon shrugged. “Not my proudest moment. But… you’re right. You keep waiting for that big ‘everything’s gonna be fine.’ For someone to tell you, or for the world to somehow fix itself. But it doesn’t. You gotta stitch your peace together yourself. Piece by piece. And sometimes there’s a corner that’ll never fit.”
Luis gave a quiet laugh and sat back down beside him, close enough for their shoulders to brush. “And you’re supposed to be the optimist out of the two of us.”
“I’m not,” Leon shot back, though he grinned as he said it. “I’m just better at hiding it.”
For a few minutes, neither of them spoke. The sky above stretched out in deep black and blue, the stars brighter than they’d ever looked in Raccoon City. The fire was no more than a shimmer now, a final breath of embers and ash.
“You know, Leon,” Luis finally said, his voice sounding like himself again — that sarcastic charm, a touch of recklessness, and the weight that showed through the cracks. “If we make it out of here alive… I owe you a beer. And maybe a truly shitty guitar solo.”
Leon snorted a laugh. “If you play me a guitar solo, Luis, I’m buying the first round.”
Luis lifted his hand, and without a second thought, Leon met it. Their fingers closed around each other for a moment — firm, warm, wordless.
Then they let go, and Leon leaned back again, his gaze on the sky. “Deal,” he murmured.
Luis closed his eyes and took a breath, deep enough to chase the whole world’s darkness from his lungs for a second. After a while, he reached into his pocket, pulled out his lighter, slipped a cigarette between his lips, and held the lighter out to Leon.
“Would you be so kind?” he asked. Leon took the lighter, flicked it open, and the flame danced for a tiny, defiant second against the wind before it held. Luis leaned in, shielding the flame with his hand, and the orange glow flickered across his face.
Leon snapped the lighter shut, placed it back in Luis’ hand. “You really should cut down on those,” he muttered.
“And you should stop saving people who don’t deserve it,” Luis shot back, blowing smoke into the cold air, leaning back. “But here we are.”
“Here we are,” Leon echoed — and though it meant nothing, it meant everything.
Luis’ voice cut through the silence, softer this time. “Don’t know if I ever told you, Kennedy… but I’m damn glad you’re here.”
Leon glanced over, a crooked, almost bashful grin on his face. “You’re getting sentimental, Serra.”
“Only when it’s dark and no one’s looking.”
“Too bad I’m sitting right here.”
Luis shrugged, took a drag from his cigarette, and grinned. “Then remember it.”
Leon didn’t reply, but he nodded. Slow. Steady.
Luis blew smoke into the dark, then glanced over. “You know… sometimes I worry I’ve seen so much shit, I won’t recognize anything good, even if it’s standing right in front of me.”
Leon let his gaze wander over the remains of the fire and the flickering shadows. “Then you’re lucky tonight,” he murmured.
Luis turned toward him, a faint crease between his brows, and Leon didn’t even know why he’d said it. But there was this pull in his chest — not from everything they’d been through, but from everything left unsaid.
Slowly, he raised a hand, let his fingers brush the back of Luis’ hand. The touch was barely there, a ghost of contact — but Luis didn’t pull away. On the contrary. He turned his hand and let their fingers intertwine.
“Leon…” His voice was rough, quiet, and there it was again — that crooked, weary grin that gave away more than any words ever could.
“I know,” Leon said. That was all it took.
For a moment, there was nothing but silence. Just the last crackle of embers, the whisper of wind in the branches.
Leon lowered his gaze briefly, drew in a deep breath, and when he looked back up, there was that small nod from Luis. A silent okay, if you want to.
And Leon did.
Then Leon leaned in, just a little, so cautiously as though any wrong move might shatter what was between them. But Luis stayed, lifted his chin a fraction, and Leon closed the last inches.
The kiss was gentle. No urgency, no possessive hunger. Just a quiet recognition. Luis tasted of smoke and cold night air.
When they parted, Luis stayed close, his forehead resting against Leon’s.
“Holy shit,” he whispered, a smile in his voice.
Leon gave a soft laugh. “Yeah.”
“If I’d known you kissed like that, Kennedy…”
Leon chuckled, pressing his forehead against Luis’s. “Shut up, Serra.”
“Yes, sir.”
They stayed like that for a while, forehead to forehead, as the night slowly grew cooler above them. The smoke from Luis’ cigarette hung thick in the air, mingling with the scent of burned wood. Leon had never thought he could feel this calm in the middle of so much ruin.
His hand slid hesitantly over the back of Luis’s, along his arm, up to his shoulder. Luis didn’t move, only the steady rise and fall of his breath. Leon felt the tremor beneath his fingertips, not sure if it was from the cold or something else.
His gaze lingered on the fabric of Luis’s shirt, right where the cloth stretched over the scar. The one Luis had carved into himself. To cut that damned thing out. A mark of how much courage it took to fight death in one’s own flesh.
Carefully, Leon pushed the fabric aside just enough for his fingertips to brush over the scarred skin. Rough, uneven, strange — and yet so much a part of Luis. He felt the other man’s breath hitch.
“Does it hurt?” Leon asked quietly.
Luis shook his head, eyes closing. “Not anymore.”
Leon let his fingertips trace the scar, exploring its rough line as tenderly as if his touch could ease the pain it had once cost. Beneath his hand, Luis’s heart beat faster.
And then, almost without thinking, Leon moved higher, finding the second scar — the longer, thinner one. The one Luis never spoke much about. The one that wasn’t from Las Plagas. The one that was older. And Leon knew what it meant.
His hand stilled there.
Luis opened his eyes, meeting his gaze. There was no teasing, no smirk to hide behind. Only that quiet, raw seriousness Leon had seen so rarely in him.
“I used to imagine it’d be different,” Luis murmured. “If someone ever saw them… like this.”
“It’s good like this,” Leon said. His voice was rough, almost breaking.
He leaned in and kissed him again. Not on the mouth this time, but at that spot above Luis’s heart, where skin met scar. Luis closed his eyes, breathing shallowly.
“You’re here,” Leon whispered. “Goddamn it, you made it.”
Luis gave a soft snort, a hand sliding to the back of Leon’s neck, pulling him in. “Barely.”
They stayed like that, chest to chest, foreheads resting against shoulders, hands tangled together.
Luis began pressing small, tentative kisses to Leon’s face — at the faint scar on his cheek. Leon felt the light brush of his lips, a touch so faint yet leaving a warmth beneath his skin. He closed his eyes, let his forehead sink to Luis’s shoulder, breathed him in.
Luis took the cigarette still in his hand, took a final drag, then held it out toward Leon, raising his eyebrows expectantly. Leon opened his eyes, took it slowly, feeling its warmth even against the cold air. He gave a faint smile, meeting Luis’s gaze.
“Alright. I’ll give it a shot.”
He took a quick pull, coughed almost instantly, and Luis laughed softly, that low, honest laugh Leon heard so rarely.
“Bit of practice, Sir. But not bad.”
Luis set the cigarette aside, his hand finding Leon’s again, holding it tightly as if to remind himself this was real.
Luis’s hand brushed along Leon’s cheek, his fingers tracing a line neither of them broke.
“Promise me something, Kennedy.”
Leon gave him a questioning look.
“That you won’t forget I’m here. That we’re not just surviving this. That somehow, we get out. Together.”
Leon nodded, his voice barely a whisper. “Promise.”
And they kissed again, tender and yet full of longing. Leon tasted smoke and Luis and wanted more, so much more. Luis’s fingers buried themselves in Leon’s hair, holding him as though he’d never let go. The kiss deepened, grew more urgent — yet still held that fragile tenderness that made it feel so precious.
Slowly, they pulled apart, foreheads still resting together, breath mingling in the night air.
“I fucking missed you,” Luis murmured.
Leon looked at him, his eyes gleaming in the glow of the embers. “I missed you too.”
They lay close like that, on the grass, the dark night hanging over them and the mist of the forest settling around them like a blanket. It was good this way. It was enough.
Luis pulled his jacket tighter around him, felt the creeping chill of the night threading through the branches, yet with Leon beside him, it hardly bit anymore.
“You know,” Luis began softly, “I used to think… that there was no place for stuff like this. In a life like this.” He glanced at Leon, searching his eyes for an answer, for a sign that maybe it could be different.
Leon tilted his head slightly, a small, quiet smile on his lips. “Maybe that’s exactly why there’s room for it. Because it’s so fucking rare.”
Luis nodded, letting his gaze drift to the night sky, where the stars peeked shyly through the clouds.
“Then I don’t want to miss it anymore. Not a single moment.”
Leon closed his eyes, his hand still clasped tightly in Luis’s. “Not one. Together.”
They gazed up into the night, where the stars shone and the crescent moon cast its pale, quiet glow over the village. Luis’s eyes followed the sparkling points above, mapping out familiar constellations.
“You see over there?” Luis asked softly, pointing to a cluster of bright stars. “That’s the Andromeda constellation.”
Leon followed his finger. “The chained princess, right?”
“Exactly,” Luis replied. “In the mythology, Andromeda was a princess, chained to a rock as a sacrifice to a sea monster. But she was saved — by Perseus, who freed her and made her his companion.”
Luis’s gaze drifted again, seeking out another star pattern. “Over there’s the Phoenix. It stands for rebirth, for the courage to reinvent yourself. To rise from the ashes.”
Leon watched him, hearing the quiet ache in Luis’s voice, like he was telling more than just a story.
“Sometimes I think,” Luis said slowly, “that we’re all like those stars. Writing our own story, even when the world chains us down, like Andromeda to that rock. And sometimes we have to be the Phoenix — finding ourselves again, changing, until we’re finally who we’re meant to be.”
Leon felt the words settle deep in his chest. “And you’re already on your way, Luis. You are.”
Luis nodded, a small, grateful smile curving his lips. “Maybe there’s a constellation somewhere that shows exactly that. That no matter how hard it gets, what we are still has a place up there in the sky.”
They lay there for a long time, eyes anchored to the vast, starlit dark above. Then, almost hesitantly, Luis pointed to a less-known constellation, faint between the brighter ones.
“That’s the Phallus of Dionysus,” he whispered. “An ancient, almost forgotten story from Greek mythology. Dionysus, the god of wine, madness — but also of transformation and letting go. After his death, his phallus was raised to a constellation, a symbol of fertility and renewal, but also of being different.”
Leon furrowed his brow, then asked cautiously, “What does that have to do with you?”
Luis looked at him for a long moment, then answered very quietly, as if sharing a deep secret: “Sometimes you feel in this world like Dionysus — misunderstood, different, maybe even out of place. But it’s exactly that ‘different’ that makes us strong. For me, that constellation means I don’t have to hide who I really am. That I can show myself without fear. And that, just like Dionysus, I have a place in the sky.”
Leon pulled Luis closer, held him tightly as if to protect him from all the uncertainty and the world out there. “You’re not alone, Luis. I’m by your side — in every constellation, in every story.”
“You know,” Luis began softly, “sometimes I think of Achilles and Patroclus.”
Leon frowned, then nodded. “The ones from the Greek myth. The ones who fought side by side.”
Luis tightened his jacket around himself, his gaze drifting back to the sky. “You know,” he started quietly, “in all the stories we tell — about heroes, about great battles — most of them were never really happy. They had courage, honor, fame... but happiness? That was rarely theirs.”
Leon looked at him, feeling the weight behind his words.
“Achilles and Patroclus, for example,” Luis continued, “their story ends in pain and loss. But what if we’re the first to do it differently? The heroes who get to find happiness in the end?”
Leon looked at Luis attentively. “Maybe we really are destined to write our own story,” he said quietly. “Not to repeat the old tragedies, but a new one — one where we don’t just fight, but also live, love, and finally get to be happy.”
Leon pulled him closer, his whisper steady and warm: “Then let’s be the first, Luis. The ones who don’t just search for happiness, but actually find it. Together.”
They lay there a long while, their hands entwined, as the stars slowly shifted overhead.
A comet streaked across the sky, high above, for just a breath’s moment, a glowing trail in the dark.
“Did you make a wish?” Luis finally asked softly.
Leon opened his eyes and looked over at him. Then he nodded slowly.
“And you?”
Luis smiled, without showing his teeth. “I think I already got what I wished for.”