Archive of Our Own ^beta

Trouvaille:
(n.) something lovely discovered by chance; a windfall

☆☆☆

"Dude, can you please put a shirt on?" Ifa asks. No, he is not begging, but y'know what? At this point, he isn't above begging.

Ororon stares up at him, his ears twitching in the way that they do when he doesn't fully understand something. "Why, bro? You do the same thing." There is a line of ants picking away at a piece of candy he'd left for them. Ifa feels criminal for interrupting his ant watching time. But whatever, dude, something had to be done.

"That's different," Ifa claims. Unfortunately, there is absolutely no difference between Ororon having his shirt off and Ifa having his shirt off. It's just Ifa's reaction to the whole situation that's different. "You'll burn in the sun, dude. You're paler than most Fontainians."

"What, bro? I just put on sunscreen." When Ifa doesn't budge, Ororon huffs and makes to stand. Wait, that really worked? Ororon is usually more stubborn than that– "I can put on some more, though. Thanks for worrying about me, dude." He smiles because he's oblivious to Ifa's panic, and Ifa can't even breath because it's the smile that makes his snaggletooth show.

And Ifa just has to watch as Ororon puts on more sunscreen with slow movements over his lithe limbs until he asks Ifa to help with his back, and of course, Ifa can't do a bad job for his bro, so he pushes his long hair over his shoulder and rubs it in over the dimples on his lower back, and Ifa tries not to wonder what it would be like to bite his neck, to slip a hand below his waistband, to–

What's worse is he's not even trying to be seductive. Like, no one else would be damn near frothing at the mouth like Ifa is because of a little bare, sweaty skin. Ifa is just a freak. A freak for Ororon.

His hands are tingling when he pulls away, and he tugs his hat down a little further, praying his darker skin hides his flush. At least Ororon has no such luxury.

"Thanks, dude!" Ororon beams. He smacks Ifa's shoulder and darts off before Ifa can yell at him about leaving a smear of sunscreen behind on his sleeve. Ororon and Co. Menaces. The lot of 'em.

☆☆☆

Once upon a time, Ifa met Ororon.

Okay, okay. He'll tell the story better than that.

Once upon a time, there was a boy in a tree. There was also a lot of crying coming from said tree, which was why Ifa stopped. Small and with hair that looked as though it hadn't been cut in years, the boy was covered in shallow cuts. Tears streamed down his face.

"Are you okay?" Ifa asked. He wasn't very high up in the branches. Low enough that jumping would at worst leave him with a sprained ankle, though the height might've seemed dizzying when you were actually up there. Riding Qucusuars always made Ifa feel that way. He liked his feet firmly planted on the ground. "Why are you crying?"

The boy hicced out a response that was largely incoherent and curled further into the trunk of the tree.

"Bro," Ifa said. To be honest with you, he was at a loss with what to do. Scuffing his feet against the ground, he said, "If you jump, I'll catch you?" Maybe. Hopefully. Listen, he was barely a preteen. He had big dreams and little to back them up with.

At least, this seemed to make the boy laugh. A little giggle that snuck out like he hadn't meant for it to, and he reached up to wipe his cheeks. From where he stood, Ifa could see his eyes peering at him. They were two different colors–pink and cyan–and Ifa was hit with the horrifying thought of: oh, he’s pretty.

"What's your name?" Ifa asked.

"Ororon." His voice was small, and he turned away again like he expected some horrible reaction at that answer. Though, Ifa didn't know anyone by that name. He didn't look familiar either, so he must've come from the Night-Wind tribe. It was the closest tribe to his, but it wasn’t a distance a child should make alone. At least, that’s what his parents said. "What's yours?"

"I'm Ifa!" he called back. Hopefully, his parents wouldn’t be upset with him for going so far away. Ifa could imagine the earful waiting for him as soon as he got home. "Can you get out of the tree?" Questions about how he'd gotten up there would have to wait.

A pause, and then Ororon shook his head. "I don't think so."

"Okay," Ifa said, mostly to himself. The crying problem had been solved, but then there was the other major problem looming ominously over him. Kind of like a tree. "Okay. I think I'm going to go get my dad."

"Please don't leave," Ororon said. His eyes were welling up with tears again. In hindsight, this is where the problems began for Ifa. "I'm sorry. Please don't leave."

"It's okay, it's okay! Please don't cry," Ifa said. Watching this kid sniff and sob was a different kind of torture. Lifting his arms up, he offered, "You can jump."

"Really?" His brows were all twisted up in uncertainty, and Ifa couldn't blame him. He wasn't certain this would work either. At the very least, he could work as a soft landing pad.

"Yes, jump, dude." He instilled as much confidence into the words as he could. Dad always told him people were more likely to listen to his words if he sounded like he meant them.

He was promptly knocked on his ass by the weight of another child. "Archons," he gasped. If all the air hadn't been knocked from him, he might've had the urge to swear. "A little warning?"

Ororon sniffled. Up close, his eyes were even bigger and brighter and framed by long, delicate lashes. "Are you okay?" he whispered, voice a little raspy from crying.

Up close, Ifa could also get a better look at all the cuts that covered him–bruises, too. Some were fresh, but there were others that looked faded or healed over. "Dude, forget about me!" Ifa half yelled. "What happened to you?"

Ororon winced, bringing his hands up to his–wait, were those Iktomisaurus ears? "I'm okay," he said, but Ifa grabbed his wrist before he could pull away.

"Sorry," he said, when Ororon flinched away. "I'm just– those cuts, dude. What happened?"

The whites of his eyes flashed as he glanced around like someone was going to jump out of the bushes at him. "There were some boys," he gasped out. "I made them mad. I'm sorry." And then he curled into a little ball, his arms wrapped around his knees–chin tucked to his chest.

"Dude," Ifa said. "It's okay. I'm not mad. Why were they mad?"

"I'm not sure," Ororon murmured. Ifa had to lean in close to hear him. "They called me... unnatural."

Ororon was shaking, Ifa realized. "I'm going to help you," he declared. This was something he could do. So, he wiped his scratches and bandaged them up and walked Ororon back to his tribe even when Ifa got yelled at for coming back after dark. Whether or not he was thanked was irrelevant.

Ifa had seen him then and thought: "I'll protect you." And so, it was.

Back then, Ifa hadn't known what made Ororon different. It hadn't mattered; it still didn't matter. Ororon was Ororon.

Nowadays, it bothers him. It bothers him a whole lot. Okay, to be frank, it pisses him the fuck off. Ororon didn't seem to even care that they had tried to sacrifice him. His life would've been snuffed out, and Ifa never would've met him–a change both great and infinitesimal in its magnitude. Ifa would still be himself, and yet, left severely lacking.

All that to say, Ifa didn't enter into his friendship with Ororon with the intention of getting into his pants. He's not a dick.

Being friends with Ororon has never been a hardship either. The weird shit he does is honestly kind of a perk because now no one bats an eye when Ifa does something.

And, fine! Yes, Ifa is a bit of a sucker. So, yes, Ororon licks his cheek and steals his shirts and makes Ifa feed him bites of melon, and Ifa buys him that bubble bath solution he likes, and Ifa lets it happen because he wants his bro to be safe, warm and fed. Any good bro would want that for him.

No, Ororon doesn't ask for that last part, but Ifa buys it for him anyway because it makes him happy. Mind your own business.

☆☆☆

Ororon had been a small kid. Combined with the advantage of a few years on him and the general neglect Ororon experienced, Ifa had been blessed with a couple additional inches that Ororon did not have in height. This basically granted infinite authority for children.

Unfortunately, once Ororon hit his teens, he shot up like an overgrown tree shrub and developed a stubborn streak to rival Citlali's.

"Do you remember when you used to listen to me?" Ifa chides. He misses those days. He visits the grave of those days. "But no, now it's 'it'll be fine, Ifa,'" he mocks, "'you worry too much, Ifa.'"

Why does no one (Ororon) listen to him when he tells them (Ororon) that running while holding something sharp is a bad idea? Now look at him. He has a gash running up the side of his arm. Ifa sighs. At least it's not too deep.

"It was fine," Ororon responds, his voice all soft and his eyes all pretty, blinking up at Ifa like he's never done anything wrong and can't Ifa just let this slide. "Also, my voice doesn't sound like that."

"I'm not letting you flutter your eyelashes at me out of this one, pal." Ororon stops, and Ifa just knew he was doing that on purpose. Spending enough time with Ororon has led to Ifa developing some defense mechanisms. Like staring between his eyes when he's trying to make the puppy dog look work.

"Awh, I thought that would work. Granny said it would." It almost had, but Ifa isn't about to tell Ororon that.

"Granny needs to stop reading so many light novels," Ifa huffs.

Ororon leans forward, and for a second, Ifa thinks he's going to– "Bro! What the fuck did I say about doing that?" Yeah, he licked the tip of his nose.

"You said not to do that while you're working," Ororon says, smiling like nothing here is wrong. Which, to be fair, is what Ifa said.

"You are such a freak, bro," Ifa says, but Ororon just continues to smile at him. He knows he's won.

"Thank you for helping me, Ifa," Ororon says, very earnestly. Ugh, he's so genuine it's hard to stay mad. Ifa turns away to see someone standing in the doorway.

"Archons, Chasca." Holy fuck, that woman can be quiet. He clutches at his heart for a second. "How long have you been there? Damn near scared me out of my skin."

Rolling her eyes at him, Chasca says, "A few minutes. Seemed like you had something else going on, so I didn't want to interrupt." Her eyes flick between Ifa and Ororon with a smirk that Ifa decidedly doesn't like. "Have a second?"

"Of course, bro." Ifa wipes his hands off at the sink. "I'm all ears."

"There's going to be a big Qucusuar race tomorrow night, and the organizers thought it would be a good idea to have someone on site in case there were any injuries." Chasca waves a hand. "You know how things get with all the excitement."

Humming, Ifa goes back to Ororon to tie his hair back. The back of his neck always gets too hot in the thick of the summer heat. It's why Ifa never grows his hair out. "My schedule should be clear."

When Ifa glances back up, Chasca is looking at them with a little too much knowing, and Ifa shakes his head at her like that'll answer whatever question she has. Not that he really has the answer either. "Great," she says, and Ifa almost breathes a sigh of relief. "Your friend can come too. Ororon, right?"

Ororon is too busy doing his weird purring thing he does while Ifa scratches through his hair to answer, so Ifa nods. This only makes Chasca chuckle. Man, he hopes she isn't the type to gossip.

"I'll see you both tomorrow, hopefully." There's a twitch of her left brow like she's trying not to laugh. "And I'll leave you both to your business."

Everyone in life is his enemy.

☆☆☆

Though Ifa is technically from the Flower-Feather Clan, he isn't sure he would call it home. The sense of familiarity is comforting, but this isn't the place he sleeps at night or eats his meals. But seeing family is always nice, even when they start regaling Ororon with embarrassing tales of Ifa's younger years like he wasn't there for half of them.

Still, Ifa can sense the tension in Ororon–the hitch of his shoulders, the pace of his breath–so when he continues to edge closer to Ifa, he throws an arm around his shoulders to ward off any well-meaning but ill-received touches. "You okay?" Ifa tips his head to murmur into Ororon's ear. "The main event should start soon."

Moving closer to the arena, Ifa spots Chasca soaring through the sky–likely making one last safety check. There's a lot of people, and a surprising number of them know Ororon. In all fairness, in the past couples of years, he's experienced a rise in popularity making deliveries and such. Sells vegetables, check. Good-looking, check. Mysterious, check. Most people can overlook the general weirdness.

Even if– even if Ifa wishes he could keep Ororon all for himself, he knows that's not possible. A bro should always want what's best for another bro. So Ifa hopes he ends up with someone who see his oddball tendencies as a perk not a draw. Someone who will remember that he likes his coffee black. Someone who won't mind that he struggles to wake up in the morning and is most alert late at night.

Suddenly, Ororon is shaking him by his arm. "Ifa, look!" When he looks where Ororon is pointing, he sees the Qucusuar riders about to take off. "Who do you think will win?"

Ifa points to one Qucusuar and rider pair at the end. Even from this distance, Ifa can see the way they move in time with each other.

When Ifa is right, Ororon grins at him.

"Thank you for coming, everyone!" the announcer shouts. "There will be an after-party for anyone interested," she adds with a wink. Natlanese and their parties, Ifa thinks. Surely, Ororon will want to go home.

"Dude, we have to go!" Ororon is shouting and, oh. Archons, no. But this should come as no surprise, Ifa lets Ororon drag him to the damn party. Truly, the things a man does for love.

"Why'd you even want to do this?" Ifa shouts once they're in the thick of it. The thick of it, as in, the crowd, the music, and the alcohol. Wow, there is so much alcohol.

Ororon looks about as comfortable as someone stranded in the middle of the sea, and Ifa takes his hands. Maybe this was his bad idea, but Ifa isn't going to abandon him to his fate. He can make this fun. "C'mon, dude, I'll show you how to shake that flat ass."

What better reason to break out moves he was taught when he was a teenager by other teenagers. It's embarrassing, but Ororon starts to lose the hunted look after a couple minutes, so Ifa counts it as a win. He even–joins in!

Citlali can't say Ifa's never done anything for this guy's social life.

But damn, Ifa has to piss. Eyeing the crowd, though, there are too many vultures trying to swoop in on Ororon to leave him alone. Ifa takes him over to the bar to sit. "Drink this," Ifa says, placing a water in front of him. Cheeks are flushed a pretty pink, Ororon looks good enough to steal away. "I'm going to the bathroom, and I'll be back in a minute." He sticks him with his most commanding look. "Do not move."

When Ifa makes his way back, he sees Ororon talking to a girl who is, admittedly, very attractive. Colored hair, fit in the way most Natlanese are, tall. Ororon is talking, and the girl is nodding away, twirling a lock of hair around her finger with her other hand curled around his bicep.

For a second, Ifa considers turning around. Who would he be to cockblock his bro because he's what–in love with him? It's not like Ororon feels the same way. But then, Ororon spots him in the crowd, and his face just, well– he lights up. Like a full body reaction. He tugs his arm loose to wave at Ifa. "Dude," he shouts over the music. "I thought you got lost."

"In my own clan?" Ifa rolls his eyes. The girl's eyes dart between him and Ororon before she smiles at both of them.

"Sorry," she says. "I didn't realize."

"Didn't realize what–"

"It's okay," Ifa responds, cutting Ororon off before he can make a fool of himself. Seriously, this guy. "Anyone who can listen to him talk about radishes is good in my book."

She grins. "He had a lot of good tips." Winking at Ifa, she adds, "Have a fun night you two," before walking off with a laugh and a sashay.

"How'd you know I was talking about radishes?" Ororon asks, eyes bright even in the dim light.

Guiding him further away from the main area, Ifa says, "That's like one of three things you're willing to talk to strangers about, dude." He brushes a stray hair out of Ororon's eyes. "Did you like her?"

"She was touching me a lot." Ororon shrugs. "Her hair kind of reminded me of carrots."

"Nice orange color, yeah?" Ifa agrees and raises a brow when Ororon just shrugs again. Did he really not know? "Dude, she was trying to get with you."

"Oh."

"Alright, lady-killer, leave some for the rest of us." He frowns when Ororon's expression doesn't change. "She didn't do anything to make you uncomfortable, right, dude?" The pair had found a corner where the music of the party was distant and muted, and Ifa is grateful for it. Ororon always goes quiet when he's getting overwhelmed.

But Ororon shakes his head, "No, don't worry. I'm just…not into that."

There's a lot of things that can mean, and Ifa isn't sure if he should press right now. Or ever. Is this something friends talk about? "Like, what? Women, bro?"

His head tips to the side, gaze skittering away, in a way that Ifa doesn't know how to take. He knows that Ororon doesn't have much experience in that department–he spends the majority of his time with the guy, how could he not know–but it was never something they talked about. Even the few dates that Ifa went on over the few years before he realized how unfair that was, was something that didn't come up.

"I don't know," Ororon says, finally. "I've thought about it, but I can't imagine..." he trails off with a twitch of his ears.

Ifa catches himself pressing further into his space and switches to leaning against the wall next to Ororon–shoulder to shoulder. He's always run hotter than Ororon. "Men, then?"

Ororon hums, inquisitive.

"Have you ever imagined men?" This is a dangerous line of questioning that's either going to end up smashing his hopes and dreams right now, or smashing his hopes and dreams later on when he's still not the man Ororon wants.

"I always thought that if I ever imagined someone that it would be you."

"Man," Ifa sputters, choking on his own saliva when he inhales. "You can't just say stuff like that."

"Sorry," Ororon says. He does not sound particularly sorry.

A few moments pass as Ifa clears his throat. The thought hits him then. He shouldn't ask. It would be so inappropriate to ask, but... "Have you imagined me?"

"Yeah," he says, so point blank that Ifa almost chokes again. "But I never get very far into it."

"Why not?" This conversation has gotten so far out of hand that why the hell shouldn't Ifa dig himself deeper? Genuinely, give him a reason not to because clearly his hind brain has taken control today.

"I don't have any point of reference.”

“Oh,” Ifa says, valiantly, instead of, I could give you one. Ifa would not consider himself an unintelligent person, it's just that at this moment his brain seems to have seeped out of his ears into a puddle on the floor. Which is probably a slipping hazard.

Fireworks explode across the dark sky in splashes of red, orange, and yellow, and the crowd erupts with cheers. It's beautiful, but the loud pops and booms make Ororon flinch.

“Do you need to go home?” Ifa asks. His heart has steadied to a normal pace again with the interruption, and he settles his hand on the wall near Ororon's shoulder–careful not to touch when he's already overwhelmed with stimulation. Or he wouldn't be touching if Ororon didn't shift into him.

“I want to watch,” he says, “but…” His ears twitch again at another boom, and his shoulders draw in.

“I can put my hands over your ears,” Ifa offers. Ororon could very well put his own hands over his own ears, but Ifa has never claimed to be a strong man. A small smile softens Ororon's lips–happy, and Ifa wants to be a part of what makes him happy. Even if it's small, especially if it's small. A lot of people could be willing to do the big, grand gestures of love, but if Ifa is only ever allowed to show his love through things like this, then he'll be content.

And that's how Ifa ends up with his hands closed over Ororon's soft ears as Ororon stares up at the night sky.

“Are you ready to go home?” Ifa asks again when the show seems to be over. People are clearing out now, but no one pays the two of them any mind.

Ororon smiles–the one with his canines and the creases as the corners of his eyes. The one that always makes Ifa wonder if he should be allowed to see it. “I am, bro.”

***

“So,” Ororon says. He's in bed next to Ifa an hour later, hair still damp from his shower, and shirtless, which is a fact that Ifa does his best to ignore. If you're wondering why they're sleeping together–literally, sleeping together–well, that would be because they've been doing so since they were kids, and they never stopped. “I've been thinking.”

Ifa flips a page in the book that Ororon is making him read. Some light novel with a title so long Ifa wonders how it can fit on the cover or the spine. “Have you? Careful, bro, I'm a vet. Not a doctor.”

Ororon's brows pinch together. “I don't know what that means, but aren't you going to ask what I've been thinking about?”

Ifa was, but he was kind of hoping he could get to the end of his next chapter before he got there. He dog ears the page and places it on the bed side table. “I'll bite. What big thoughts have you been having, dude?”

His sharp, front canine worries at his lip, and Ifa presses his thumb against the plush, red skin. "Don't hurt yourself," Ifa says. "Having second thoughts about your first ones?"

Two eyes focus on him, then flick down to the place where Ifa is touching him. “I've never kissed anyone,” Ororon says, which is something Ifa knew in the back of his mind, but now that it's been dragged to the forefront, it might have the power to do damage.

“Yeah…?” If he approaches this the same way he does a baby saurian, maybe he can leave without blood. On second thought, maybe the baby saurian example wasn't the best comparison because he usually leaves those encounters with some kind of bite mark, and actually, maybe that wouldn't be that bad if it was Ororon doing the biting– No. Ifa beats that thought off with a stick and a firm finger shaking.

"Maybe we should try," Ororon says, which has about the same impact on Ifa as if he'd smacked him over the head with a cast-iron skillet.

Mercy! His brain cries. His hands land somewhere on the stretch of skin where Ororon's waist tapers in. Cool skin, pale against Ifa's brown, easy to hold, bite, bruise–

"No," Ifa says, and he's kind of impressed with himself for that.

"Why not?" His eyes are wide with genuine curiosity, like all he needs is one reason and he'll back off for the rest of Ifa's life.

"It's late." Compelling argument, Ifa. Great job. "You're not in your right mind," Ifa says, which is a funny way of saying, I'm not in my right mind. Everything feels too warm, and he can smell Ororon, and that shouldn't be nice because Ororon tends to smell like dirt, except right now dirt might be petrichor, and Ifa kind of wants to stick his nose in his neck. "Tomorrow," Ifa says. "If you still want to tomorrow, we can try." He doesn't know if he wants Ororon to remember this, or if he's praying he'll forget.

A few seconds pass where Ororon seems to mull it over. "Okay," he says finally, and then he slumps down against Ifa's chest. "Tomorrow." Another second. "Touch my hair, bro."

"Oh, yeah, sorry." His hair is soft like always when Ifa's fingers slide into it.

Ifa falls asleep with Ororon in his arms, and he loves him in equal measure to how much he hates he won't always have this. He dreams that he's watching Ororon garden, and right before he wakes up, Ororon cants his head to him, backlit by the sun, and smiles.

***

“Too early,” Ifa mutters. Someone is knocking at his door. Somehow Ororon is still asleep, though he snuffles a little where his face is pressed into Ifa's chest. Carefully, Ifa extricates himself from the bed when the knocking only gets louder. Seriously, who could possibly need him this early? The sun is only just beginning to broach the horizon.

A finger is in his face as soon as he opens the door. “You.” Ah, it's Citlali. Ifa feels a peaceful morning slipping out of his grasp and down the drain.

“Me, bro,” Ifa greets. “Can I help you?”

“Yes, you can help me,” Citlali says. Her foot stamps the ground. “You're the scoundrel who's kidnapped my grandson.”

“Kidnapping is a strong word, ma'am,” Ifa says. He does not sigh, and he even breaks out the dusty word in his vocabulary. Ma'am. Word of advice: do not sigh in front of this woman. She will kill you. “Would you like to come inside?

Citlali only looks slightly more appeased when she's sitting down at Ifa's table. The top is crowded with papers, tools, and vegetables Ororon has forced him to take, but he manages to clear off enough space for Citlali to set her elbows as she glares at him over steepled hands.

Unfortunately, Ororon chooses that moment to come out of Ifa's room, wearing one of Ifa's shirts, yawning and stretching so the shirt rises to reveal a tiny sliver of his midriff, and– Wait. He glances back at Citlali.

Well, it was nice knowing Ororon. Cheeks puffed up and fists clenched, she stares at the two of them with something close to what Ifa imagines as pure rage. A pillow goes flying at Ororon's face.

"Oh," Ororon says, unfazed even after the pillow collides with his face. Ifa is envious. "Hi, granny."

"So," Citlali seethes, "this is where you've been hiding."

"Please don't kill him, ma'am," Ifa says. "He just woke up." Ororon, on his part, is trying to smooth his hair down and nearly sprawls over the table when Ifa beckons him over.

"Ma'am?" Citlali repeats, whipping back to glare at Ifa. "Ma'am makes me sound old." And "granny" doesn't? Oookay.

Not that Ifa is going to argue that point right now. He's already on thin ice and with one fat ass at that.

Ororon plants a kiss on Citlali's cheek, which she tolerates with crossed arms before shoving him away. Ifa hands him a plate of sliced up strawberries, or he would hand it to him, except Ororon just stands there picking them off the plate as Ifa holds it. “Thanks, bro,” Ororon says, voice still raspy from sleep. Across from him, a single one of Citlali's brows arches.

“I see,” Citlali says. “I always knew this day would come.”

Does she know she's talking out loud? “Do you know you're talking out loud?” Ifa asks.

“An old lady like me is more than capable of recognizing what's playing out right under my nose.”

“Okay, bro.”

“Though I suppose it's been years in the making.” A wistful sigh then. “I need to get drunk.”

“It can't be past noon,” Ifa says.

“Shut it, wisecracker!” Citlali jabs a finger at him before slumping back in her seat. “All in all, you're not so bad a fellow,” she says. “A little smart, but that can be dealt with. My grandson could do worse for himself, not that I'd let him.”

“Thanks?” Ifa says.

“He really isn't, granny,” Ororon says. “Like I've been telling you.”

Like I've been telling you. “Wait,” Ifa cuts in. “What do you tell her about me?”

Ororon says, “How great you are,” so sincerely that it has to be a joke, except Citlali nods along.

Everything is normal after that. Ororon wakes up enough to allow Ifa to shuffle him out the door with Citlali, but not before he bites the tip of Ifa's finger. “I have my gardening to tend to,” he says. “My turnips must be missing me.”

To which, Ifa replies, “I'm sure they are, bro.” It’s only after he's gone that Ifa realizes.

“That bastard took my shirt.” Seriously, Ororon has to have a stash of at least ten of Ifa's shirts by now. But Ifa, a well-known sucker, has never been able to ask for them back.

A silly discussion about a kiss took place when they were both tired or whatever, and that doesn't have to mean anything even if it maybe meant something to Ifa. The mundanity of it all allows Ifa to grow complacent. Something you should never be when you have someone like Ororon in your life.

☆☆☆

Mualani, because she is secretly evil and praying on Ifa's downfall, smacks an empty bottle down in the middle of where they were all busy getting tipsy. “You guys,” she starts, “Lumine told about the best game ever.”

“What game?” Ororon asks, ears perking up. Ifa decides right then that there's no way there isn't something nefarious afoot. A glance around the room reveals that Kinich has an equally suspicious look on his face, which only confirms what Ifa feels.

Unfortunately, Kinich is also down bad in love with Mualani. Fuck, Ifa thinks with spite, there's no way he's getting out of this.

He could only count his lucky stars that Lumine wasn't here. For someone who has a monthly quota of about ten words, she somehow managed to be the life of every party. If she was here, Ifa would probably end up having to pry Ororon off the ceiling by the end of the night.

“Seven minutes in heaven!” Mualani cheers. “Someone spins the bottle–” okay, not too bad– “and whoever the bottle lands on–” wait… “is locked into a room with the person who spun it!”

So, this is her ploy. Life advice: under no circumstances do you confide in your friend that you are in love with your mutual friend.

“To do what?” Ororon asks, but Mualani only grins at him. Evil woman.

“That, my friend, is for you to decide.” She sets her hand on the bottle. “I'm going first.”

Around and around, the bottle spins. It's always kind of hard to read what's on Kinich's face because he has all the effusiveness of a particularly expressive stone, but his eyes have widened. Not a lot. But in this moment, it either says bomb about to go off, or man about to win everything he's ever wanted.

“Oh, no,” Kinich says, voice dry. “It landed on me.”

Seven minutes later, the pair of them stumble out of Mualani's closet. But only after Ifa pounded on the door. He would've let them stay caught up in each other, but things started to get a little too loud. “Your headband,” Mualani giggles. “You look so naked without your headband.”

Kinich flushes a color Ifa had never seen before and musses his black hair to cover his forehead. “Don’t say that while you're looking at me so intensely.”

“We're right here,” Ifa cuts in. There's no point in looking to Ororon for back-up. He's busy looking all soft because he's literally always just happy to be there.

“Sorry,” Mualani says. There is no shame in her voice. Dragging him back to the couch, she tucks him into her side and says, “Alright, Ororon!” She looks right at Ifa with a god damned twinkle in her eye. “It's your turn!”

The bottle lands on him because of course it does. Mualani isn't even trying to make this not seem like a set up. Did she leave a little bit of water in there so she could shift the bottle with hydro? Is that something a hydro vision holder could do?

It seems like something Mualani could do, given who she is as a person.

Anyway, this is all how Ifa ends up in a closet with Ororon. It's dark, and Ifa's feet nudge into Ororon's, and Ifa can hear Mualani giggling at something Kinich is saying.

The point of all this is clearly for them to make out, or like, confessing their undying love. Which is fine. They don't have to do that. Ororon doesn't know that's what Mualani is trying to coerce them into doing because Ororon doesn't know how Ifa feels because Ifa would rather be hunted for sport than say what's really on his mind.

“Hey, man, I'm in love with you. Also, can we make-out?” Just kill him now. It'll be quicker.

“We should make-out,” Ororon says.

A noise somewhere between groan and man discovering his god truly has abandoned him leaves Ifa's mouth.

“Isn't that what they do in Granny's novels?”

Man, what the hell is Citlali supplying Ororon with? “You've been reading too many of those, dude.”

Leaning in closer now, Ororon says, “Didn't you say we could try?” His eyes are so bright, even in the dark. His lips part for his tongue to flick out, and Ifa can't stop himself from looking.

The thing is, he did say that.

Ifa closes his eyes. Sometimes Ororon gets weird about being looked at, and even if he'd kind of like to see what expression he makes, he'll always want to make him comfortable first. "C'mon, bro. Give me your best shot," he says. "I'll let you have this one for free."

Ororon doesn't hold his shoulders or his face–doesn't touch him anywhere. There's a tickle of breath across his face, and that's about all the warning Ifa gets before Ororon presses his lips to the corner of his own.

"I missed," Ororon says, sounding so miffed, Ifa has to hold back a laugh.

"Buddy," Ifa says.

"Not your buddy."

"Babe," Ifa says, before he can help himself. There's a quiet, shuddery exhale at that. He goes to open his eyes, but then Ororon places his hand over them, and his skin is warm like he's flushed head to toe.

"Don't look," he says.

"I won't," Ifa promises. "I'm going to put my hands on your hips, okay? You can put yours wherever you want them."

“Okay,” Ororon says, and Ifa puts his hands on his hips. There's a moment of hesitation before Ororon places his hands on his shoulders, right where his neck connects. It's a vulnerable spot, someplace he wouldn't let anyone else touch, and Ifa can't stop the rush of goosebumps. Ororon's nails are blunt because he doesn't like dirt getting under them, and his skin is calloused, and his hands on Ifa's bare skin feels so good.

He should not be reacting like this. Ororon touches him all the time. But it's what it means, what the action is leading up to, that makes him swallow thick in his throat.

"What are you so scared of?" Ifa asks. "It's just me." He rubs his thumb over the sliver of skin above Ororon's waistband. "It's always just me.”

“You're scared,” Ororon says, which is childish, and not true. He leans forward, hands brushing up to cup Ifa's jaw, and–

“Time's up, losers,” Mualani says, leering from the entrance.

“Man, really?” Ororon makes no move to make their positions any less indecent.

“The night's still young, loverboy.”

Ifa couldn't say why he ends up wandering away. He mumbles something about getting more drinks, and then just– walks.

The sky is kind of cloudy, which is all the better because Ifa has never cared much for the stars. Steam rises off the hot springs, and the night has settled into something more restful. Some guy is serenading a woman with his guitar, and Ifa tucks his hands into his pockets and hurries on down the boardwalk before he can get caught up in that.

There's buzzing under his skin.

Here's the thing: like he said, Ifa is in love with Ororon. He wants him in his bed, in his home, in his life. Warm, happy, and sated. He wants to be the one to make him those things. He's pretty sure that Ororon will always be in his life in some capacity.

But maybe– maybe he's just curious. Maybe he just wants to know what it feels like to kiss someone. It's not about Ifa.

And that's okay for Ororon to discover–if he wants to kiss someone, who he wants it to be with–but Ifa isn't sure if that's okay for him. Because if Ororon lets Ifa kiss him and decides Ifa isn't the one he wants, it'll hurt.

He'll recover, and they'll be friends, and it'll be okay, but he'll hurt.

“Hey, boy!” A voice cuts into his musings. “Come sit with me.”

Running a hand through his hair, Ifa decides if he wants to turn or not. He recognizes the voice, but he probably has just enough plausible deniability to not having heard, to walk away.

Ifa sits down across from her because he's a good boy who respects his elders especially when they function as Ororon's parental figure. “What's up?” The table is littered with emptied bottles of liquor. The amount is honestly impressive.

“So,” Citlali starts, “where's Ororon? He's never far from wherever you are.”

“He's back with Kinich and Mualani, ma'am.”

“You're playing a dangerous game,” Citlali says, which is kind of sudden, but abrupt topic changes and wild goose chase conversations are something you have to expect from Citlali. She's leaning heavily on her hand like she might topple over at any moment. Ifa knows better than to suggest she slow down.

“I wouldn't hurt him,” he says because there's only one person she's ever really talking about to him.

“No,” she says, and then she's looking at him with eyes so bright and piercing, she almost doesn't seem drunk. “You're playing a dangerous game for yourself.”

“I don't know what you mean, ma'am,” Ifa says, but he kind of feels like he's lying.

“I knew your parents.”

It's been years, and somehow, Ifa still feels a little stricken when he hears those words. He must've heard that exact sentence a dozen times immediately after their deaths, but now? From Citlali?

“Well, your mom, really,” Citlali continues. She hics. “I was never that close with your dad, but they– they always wanted you to be happy.”

Sometimes Ifa thinks that it must be hard to be as long lived as Citlali is. Seeing the friends, family, lovers he has grow older–or never having the chance to–while never so much as wrinkling, takes someone stronger than him. He spent months in bed after his parents died, listening to the sound of Ororon puttering around in his kitchen. If Ororon hadn't been there, Ifa isn't sure he would've ever made it out. He was grieving in his own way, but he always– Well, that's Ororon.

“They were–” She sighs. “They're so proud of you. You should know that.”

Ifa stands. There's pain in his jaw, and he unclenches it so that he doesn't chip a tooth. He can't make eye contact with Citlali, but the ground is swirling, and if someone asks if he's okay, he might scream.

“What are you so scared of? What are you so scared to say to him?” Citlali asks, which is objectively the worst question someone could've asked him at this moment. Even worse than the dreaded are you okay? “You know he loves you too.” She downs another swig.

He's breathing fast. Fuck, he thinks, he needs to calm down. Why is he so–? Honestly, what emotion even is this? He'd call it anger, but there's nothing simmering in his gut.

When he chances a look back at Citlali, he sees it. You know that look you give an animal you're trying not to scare off? He reckons that's the face Citlali would be making if she weren't so drunk.

What are you so scared of?

If Ifa were a liar, he would tell you he hasn't been scared in years, but honestly, he's scared every damn day of his life. He smacks some coins on the table, enough to pay for dinner and then some.

“I've got to go, Citlali,” Ifa says. “Thank you.”

It sucks to have so much left to lose.

☆☆☆

Ifa’s parents died when he was seventeen. It was a slow illness that took them, but he was young, and young men are often convinced they have forever.

“Ifa,” his mother said one day. “We’ll be gone soon.”

Ifa didn’t ask where they were going. It was the place they would all know one day. His father’s words had dried up, but he rested his hand in Ifa’s hair, his eyes crinkling into crows' feet at the corners. It was a sight Ifa knew well, and he also knew then that it was true.

He could see it now–the exhaustion, the pain that bowed their noble backs. They were so skinny, and the smiles that had always been so quick to warm their faces had slowed. They were tired, and the abyss that was ravaging their bodies, they could no longer fight. It wouldn’t matter if he prayed to Celestia to beg for more time, they would be gone, and there was nothing he could do about it.

That was the worst part–the waiting.

He took their hands–bony and cool–in his, and his mother spoke again, “I hope you’ll find a way to be happy, Ifa. In any way that is.”

Ifa’s shoulders were shaking, and he pressed his forehead to his mother’s knee as he had so often done as a child. He thought too late of all the questions he might’ve asked.

“Get some rest,” he told them.

“Stay a little longer,” his mother said, and so he did. “Rest won’t help us now.”

Months later, Ifa was standing at the sea.

The ashes spilled into the water, dispersing in a cloud of grey, and Ifa stood there letting the cold turn his feet numb, watching the waves take his parents away, watching the moon and the stars disappear as the horizon darkened with an oncoming storm. When he turned back, Ororon was there, and when Ifa sat down in the sand next to him, he was quiet even when Ifa leaned his shoulder into his until the only thing keeping them upright was each other, until Ifa was more warm than not. The silence was easy–easier than it ever was with anyone else, but Ifa broke it to say, “Thank you.”

Ororon said nothing, only curled his hand over the nape of Ifa’s neck and kept it there when the tears spilled hot and heavy down Ifa’s cheeks, and when he was done and his chest was cored and hollowed out, rain began to fall. First, tiny droplets that meant nothing, but then, the storm was truly on them, and Ororon was pulling him to his feet, and they were running, running, running.

And so, others might not understand their relationship–the hows and whys of them being so close, but Ifa is the only one who needs to understand. He might not have been able to shield him from the loss of his parents, but he was running hand in hand down the beach with him, and that’s what Ifa associates with that night. That’s what Ororon has always been for him, and maybe that won’t make sense to anyone else, but Ifa wouldn’t trade him for the world.

The sea has the moon, and Ifa has Ororon.

☆☆☆

The sand is still warm underneath Ifa's feet when he peels off his boots. Walking to where the waves meet the shore, he sits. Water laps over his feet and gets his ass wet, and he should probably stand up because he's going to look like he pissed himself, but he stays sitting.

Before Ifa's mom had died, she'd called Ororon the unstoppable force to his immovable object. She followed that up with her laugh–the one Ifa would always remember for the way it seemed to shake the entire house–and a smack to the back. And then, before he could escape, his dad had come thundering down the stairs to talk about safe sex.

At the time, Ifa could not have told you why that topic was at all related to Ororon.

His parents were like that–all fire and brash enthusiasm. Which in retrospect, is probably both why they survived as long as they did, and why Ifa is the way that he is. He was the eye in the center of their storm, and Ifa loved them more than anything.

He hasn't cried over them in a long time, but he gets flashes here and there. Of them–smiling and happy and so wrapped up with each other–and every time he has to bring himself back down to earth. They aren't here anymore.

How strange to walk in a world where they aren't.

Someday, Ifa will be older than they ever got the chance to be. Someday, Ifa will have been alive without them longer than he had them.

His parents were never afraid. They said what they were thinking, and they fought like their blades were extensions of their bodies. Maybe that's why Ifa is scared because he already knows what it's like to lose someone he loved so much.

If he says something, he could lose Ororon. But if he doesn't? He could still lose him.

Tomorrow, the day after that, a year from now. It's all just a matter of when.

Maybe it's okay to let himself have this. Even for a moment.

“I knew you would be here,” Ororon says, his feet crunching in the sand before he comes to a stop beside Ifa. He plops down next to him before Ifa can tell him not to get wet.

“I knew you would find me,” Ifa says, and he realizes it's true only as he says it.

“Do you want me to leave you be?”

The space between them is so small, and Ifa closes it, presses his shoulder to Ororon's, and feels himself exhale with the action. “No.”

“What are you thinking of?” Ororon scratches at his nose like he does when he's trying to hide embarrassment. “I'm sorry if I overstepped. I know I can be…” he hums. “What's the word?”

Rolling his eyes, Ifa nudges at him. “I would've said no if I didn't want it, man. You didn't make me do anything.”

“Okay.” A pause. “What's the word?”

“Clueless?”

“Yeah.”

Ifa starts laughing. What a lame conversation. But fuck, he's a lame guy because Ifa wants to have lame ass conversations with Ororon for the rest of his life. Tears squeeze from his eyes, and Ororon doesn't laugh, but he smiles.

When Ororon was younger, he didn't smile much, and when he did, he would look all shy about it and turn away so Ifa couldn't see. But when he smiles now, he does it with his whole face. His eyes crinkle, and his canines peak out, and his nose scrunches. He smiles, and he flicks Ifa right on the nose.

“What's funny?” But there's no joke for Ifa to let Ororon in on this time, only the two of them, sitting in the sand and getting their asses wet.

For a second, he's so overcome by everything–the feelings he thought he'd kept buried–that it bursts from him.

"Dude," Ifa says. "I'm in love with you."

“In love,” Ororon repeats. “Aren't you supposed to say something like the moon is beautiful tonight?”

Ifa is burning Citlali's library as soon as he gets the chance. “Have you ever known me to wax poetic?”

“You can play the guitar,” Ororon says as if playing an instrument must also mean that you can wax poetic.

“Alright,” Ifa says, and he stands up, dusting off his ass as he does. “Let's get the guitar.”

“No, wait,” Ororon says. “Let me try. I've never had the chance to confess my undying love before, you know.”

“Give me your best shot.” Ifa crosses his arms over his chest and does not think about the context in which he said that exact phrase only an hour before.

“Hmm, let me think.” Coming to a stand as well, Ororon holds his hands out, palm up. Ifa takes them. He feels kind of like an idiot, standing here with his hands in Ororon's, waiting for a confession, but it also doesn't seem like that bad of a feeling to be having right now. “Ifa,” Ororon starts. “I think you're very beautiful.”

Ifa can't help it. He snorts. A pout forms on Ororon's lips, and he wipes the grin off his face. “No, no, sorry,” Ifa says. “I just didn't think that was a word anyone would use to describe me. Continue.”

“You laugh at my bad jokes, and you go with me wherever I want to go–”

Ifa scoffs. “Shouldn't anyone?”

Tipping his head to the side, Ororon smiles. “You would think that. It's not even a question to you to treat anyone or anything well–to treat me well.” A pause where Ororon clears his throat and finally starts to look a bit flustered with his flushed cheeks. “You're good, Ifa. A good man.”

Ifa tugs a hand loose to adjust the brim of his hat, so he can pretend he hasn't been waiting to hear something like that for years. “Uh.” Ifa coughs. “That was good. I’m sure whoever you mean it for will like it.”

“Did you like it?”

“Yeah,” Ifa says. “I really did.”

“Ifa,” Ororon says, and then, he starts to laugh. Kind of offended, Ifa stares at him. What's so funny it's got him slapping his knee? “Ifa,” he gasps. “It's for you.” Seriously, he's wiping tears from his eyes. “It's for you. I'm in love with you too.”

“Oh.” Wait. “Oh.”

“What did you think I was doing?”

“Satisfying your curiosity?” Ifa says. “Like the kissing thing?”

Somehow, that only makes Ororon laugh harder. “I wanted to kiss you because of you.”

“Damn, really? You should've said that,” Ifa says. “Wait, how long have you liked me?”

That makes Ororon stop laughing. Actually, he sobers up so fast, it almost gives Ifa whiplash. “Maybe like…” his lips stretch thin. “A couple years?”

Ifa throws his hands into the air. “I could've been kissing you all that time!”

☆☆☆

The least surprising thing that happens when he starts dating Ororon is that really nothing changes at all.

“I kind of feel like we might have been dating that whole time,” Ifa tells Lumine when she finds her way back to Natlan.

She covers a cough that Ifa suspects might've been an aborted laugh. “If I had a mora…” She waves a hand before Ifa can ask her what she means. “Are you happy?”

“You know I am.” He thinks of days spent strumming his guitar, listening to Ororon hum along, and Ororon in his sun hat, knees muddy as he talks to his radishes.

“Does he treat you well?” A sinister gleam comes into her eye. “Should I give him the shovel talk? Should I give you the shovel talk?”

Archons, the last thing he needs is more threats. Just Citlali's death glare is enough of one. “Have you met Citlali? You know she'd get to me faster than anyone.”

“You're right.” Lumine smiles. “I'm glad you're happy, Ifa. Of all people, you deserve it.”

“What, because my parents died when I was seventeen?”

“I was going to say because you're hardworking and secretly have kind of a bleeding heart,” Lumine says with an eye roll. Ifa decides that there's definitely some fondness there. “I guess that too.”

☆☆☆

“So when can we get married?” Ororon asks later that night.

Ifa pulls him closer, so that Ororon's head is propped up on his chest. He's warm, and his ears tickle the bottom of Ifa's chin. “Citlali will probably have my hide if I don't do it properly.” Ifa hums. “Maybe a year from now.”

“We could elope?”

“Don’t get any bright ideas, pal.” A pause. “Maybe.”