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The last few weeks of Luke's final year pass in a rush, a rush of burbling excitement and assignments to fortresses and the sense of an adventure beginning. Luke tries to make a note of each moment as it passes, to think, after the final archery practice and the final javelin class and the final history exam, I'll never do this here again. He's spent the past five years of his life at the Border camp: in that time he's fought wars, helped broker treaties, discovered his heritage, met two of the most important people in his life. He wants to remember it.
The end of the year is not all classes and exams, of course. On the last full weekend of the year, the stands are packed end to end for the final Trigon game of the season. Luke's year is playing the year below them. It isn't much of a challenge -- truthfully speaking, Luke has been better at Trigon than anyone in the Border camp for years -- but the physical thrill of executing a perfect pass, of reaching out to catch the ball by your very fingertips, of defending a possession three-on-one with the roar of the crowd in your ears, is the same every time.
And he'll never do this here again. So he tries to enjoy it.
As he runs downfield to catch a pass from Delia Winterchild, his eyes flick up automatically to the stands, to where Serene and Elliot usually sit. Serene beams and waves; next to her, Golden is looking politely baffled by this strange human sport, and Elliot --
He fully expects Elliot to have his head down in a book, because that's what Elliot always does at Trigon games, act like he doesn't know or care what's happening and this is all just an annoying interruption of his reading time. But he isn't doing that this time. His book is open in his lap, but he's looking right at Luke, watching him intently, and as his eyes meet Luke's and hold there, for one long moment, the corner of his mouth curves upwards in a sly smile.
Luke gapes back at him, forgetting the game for several long seconds -- and then, abruptly, has to dive to the grass to avoid fumbling the ball.
"Keep your head in the game, Sunborn!" someone shouts. It is all very embarrassing.
Somehow he manages to pull it together after that. They win easily. Luke barely registers the congratulatory back-pats and the exchange of handshakes; he wants, very badly, to rush over to where Elliot is.
The audience in the stands parts reluctantly as he marches up the bleachers. Serene leans in for a kiss on the cheek and a, "You were very impressive," but there's a sparkle in her eye that makes him think he will be hearing about the near-fumble later.
"You do seem quite good at this," Golden says politely, from next to her, which in turn makes Elliot scoff.
"I don't know what these two are talking about," he says, glancing up from the book he's gone back to reading. "Do you always almost drop the ball like that? You looked like an idiot."
And Luke knows he's being wound up, but -- "That was your fault!" he says indignantly.
Elliot tucks away a smile. "I didn't do anything. I was sitting over here, minding my own business. You should stop blaming other people for your shortcomings, loser."
He's so impossible. Luke wants to kiss the smirk off his face. "You were watching," he accuses, struggling not to smile himself. The memory still fills him with a warm glow.
"Was I?" Elliot says, affecting a casual carelessness, but after only a moment he tips his head and relents. "Well, I'm off my game today," he admits, with a shrug. "I usually hide it much better."
And that --
He's known for a while, in the back of his mind, that if Elliot were truly indifferent, he wouldn't have showed up to all of Luke's Trigon games for years on end. But this, the confirmation that Elliot has been watching, maybe for years, maybe the whole time -- even when he pretended not to --
He's leaning in before he can even really think about it. Elliot laughs against his mouth and reels him in the rest of the way, one hand fisted into the front of Luke's shirt. "Yes, yes," he murmurs, into the kiss, "you're very good --" pulling back, letting Luke chase his lips -- "at the stupid game with the glass ball --" kissing him again, heedless of Serene and Golden and the rest of the audience -- "and all the jumping. Is that what you want to hear?"
"Yes," says Luke, shamelessly, and Elliot laughs again, a tiny, bright thing, turning his head into his own shoulder.
"Well, enjoy it, because it's not happening again," and he pushes Luke away, lightly, with his fingertips. "Now go change, loser, you're a mess."
Luke floats -- not literally, although it's a near thing -- all the way down to the changing stalls, where his teammates are already exchanging pleasantries and summer plans. "Bad luck on the southern posting, Sunborn," one of them offers. "But maybe we'll see each other this summer?"
"Sure," Luke replies, because it's easier than explaining that his remote southern posting, at the very edge of the Borderlands, is something that Luke and Elliot and Serene and Golden all agreed on and specifically asked for. (Elliot is convinced he can broker a treaty between the centaurs and mermaids. Also, Elliot wants to see centaurs and mermaids.)
"You're coming to the party later tonight, though, right?" someone else puts in, hopefully.
That sounds absolutely miserable to Luke, but -- "Maybe for a little bit," he allows. It would be rude not to go at all, right?
"Oh, come on," says a voice from the back, scoffing. "Don't tell me Schafer keeps you on that tight a leash."
Luke turns, slowly, to look at the offending player, who has wild dark hair and a strong chin and who he thinks is named -- Parker? Paul? It's irrelevant, anyway. Luke doesn't care.
The room has gone very still.
Parker-or-Paul takes a nervous step back. "I don't mean -- look, I just," he stammers, before getting defensive, "-- you know you can do way better than that, right?"
Silence. Nobody moves.
"No," Luke says, shouldering his jacket on, and leaves.
(He hears a whispered hiss as he departs, something like, "--why would you say that? You know how weird he is about --" but he ignores it.)
It's a bright, sunny afternoon today, but there's a gentle breeze whipping leaves across the field. Luke keeps his wings tucked in during Trigon games, out of habit -- they didn't kick him out for being half-harpy, but it still feels wisest not to flaunt the fact. As soon as he gets far enough from the pitch, though, he takes a running start, spreads his wings -- only partly because he knows how much Elliot loves them -- and soars.