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This is not, by any measure, Seiji’s idea of fun.
He wraps both of his hands around the piping hot mug of tea he’d accepted to look like he was doing something and interlaces his fingers where they met across the ceramic. A sweet, spiced aroma rises to his neck. Tendrils of steam tickle strands of hair, and they start to come undone from the styling gel holding them in place. He takes a sip. Slowly but surely, the warmth of the beverage starts to diffuse through him, for which Seiji is grateful, but he can’t fully shake off the cold that has sunk deep into his bones.
I need a haircut, he thinks.
As sure, as adamant as he had been about never again setting foot in the Costes’ house, life turned out to be as ironic and infuriating as a Shakespearean comedy. The hardwood floors, covered in a carpet that’s soft underfoot, are as solid as Seiji remembers them to be, the origin of countless bumps and bruises as he and Jesse had rambled around the place as kids. And, at six feet tall, the ceilings still seem to be infinitely far away, walls stretching up endlessly. The hall is dimly lit in a way that, Seiji has to admit, isn’t entirely unpleasant.
However, it’s still fucking cold.
Seiji doesn’t know if internal body temperature is genetically determined, but the Coste men seem to prove the positive of the theory, because they all run hot - Seiji remembers the time when Jesse passed out from heat exhaustion at a Cadet competition, and the endless jokes Nicholas makes about himself being warm-blooded and Seiji cold-blooded - and so their home is sparsely heated.
When he was thirteen, Seiji had thought Jesse was the sun.
In his adolescent brain, it was the only plausible explanation for the sheer effect Jesse had on others, on Seiji himself. Countless fencers crowded around to watch his matches at competitions; adults found him bright and humorous; other kids wanted to be his friend. But Jesse had picked Seiji to befriend, for reasons Seiji couldn’t ascertain, and Jesse had picked Seiji to share his light, to reflect it.
I was Jesse’s mirror, Seiji had said to Nicholas once, attempting to explain the situation. It had been apt.
They did everything together. Seiji thought it would remain that way forever, in-jokes and a shared language of touch and whispered dreams in the dark, a tingling warmth rising from the pit of his stomach. They spoke bluntly to each other, fought often, and almost always made up immediately afterwards.
And then slowly, something shifted. The line between truth and lie and lie by omission and is it really a lie if I myself don’t know how to verbalise this? blurred, blending together until it all became a murky ocean he couldn’t chart out or cross. In their final season training together, Jesse had started letting a few others into their inner circle and making Seiji the butt of the joke. When Seiji brought it up, he’d apologise, say he was sorry Seiji felt that way, get defensive, and then do it all over again. While they had always been competitive with each other to a certain degree, Jesse became downright hostile, taking every opportunity to put Seiji down, all under the guise of wisecracks and banter.
Seiji had dealt with it the only way he knew how to deal with things at fifteen: he had run away. France had been a good place to hide, fresh after the anguish of a final, messy fallout and the shame of a silver medal; when he’d arrived, unable to speak more than a mouthful of broken French, most people left him alone except to ask to fence.
He’d shut the world out, and it served him well for a while. Then, he’d gone to Kings Row.
Unitas mirabile vinculum and all. Gradually, grudgingly, he’d come to call his teammates not just his teammates, but also his friends. Nicholas Cox had been especially earnest about it, in the way he was earnest about fencing and being Seiji’s rival. But as Seiji had got to know him more, he learned to appreciate Nicholas’ vulnerabilities as well as his externally raucous side, and not just to use them as petty ammunition, either. They became friends, close friends, and then more than friends.
Seiji recalls Nick’s face at seventeen, open and yet still a little guarded, uncharacteristically nervous, his voice raw and cracking slightly as he told Seiji his truth - his secret.
How could you keep this from me, some small, selfish part of him had wanted to shout, to cry out. He’d felt suddenly hollow, like all the air had been crushed right out of his lungs, and the floor had caved open under his feet and he’d been plunged into ice-cold water. His mind spun elaborate, catastrophic narratives, and convinced Seiji of their inevitability. His primary instinct had been to run away, to put as much distance between himself and this unimaginable situation as possible, so he wouldn’t - couldn’t - be hurt again. Why orbit a star if, one day, it’ll become a black hole and consume you?
Instead, he’d taken Nicholas’s shaking form into his arms and held him there for a long time. He’d kissed him, and told him he was glad Nick trusted him enough to tell him, and that he loved Nicholas regardless.
Spotting a group of Coste relatives he didn’t recognise inching closer to where he’d holed up, Seiji surreptitiously moves away. What Robert had described to Nick over the phone as a small family gathering to welcome in the new year turned out to be thirty or so odd people. We don’t have to go if you don’t want to, Nicholas had said, always considerate, but Seiji could tell that this was important to Nick, so he’d smiled and said it sounded like a nice night. Seiji’s become more open-minded towards parties through his time at university, but his favourite part of a party is still leaving or locating a quiet corner to sit it out in.
He finds himself next to the fireplace carved out of marble, flames crackling. He watches them flicker in the hearth for a few moments; a log topples over, engulfed from the inside with a hiss. Then, Seiji’s gaze moves upward, to the mantlepiece and all that it bears. Trophies, in various states of upkeep, both Robert’s and Jesse’s from over the years, and photographs - a great deal of them, framed. There’s a young Robert in sepia, Olympic medal around his neck, smiling broadly in a way both alike to and unlike Nick and Jesse. There’s a recent addition, a portrait of Robert with his sons on either side of him. They’re all smiling, but Seiji can feel the tension in the moment.
Nicholas approaches the whole estranged father situation with only a little less enthusiasm than he approaches anything else in life (except laundry, it seems), and while Seiji still harbours complicated feelings towards Robert and Jesse, he’s willing to try to help Nick. So, he’s in a house he would rather not be in, somewhere between childishly sulking in a corner and pondering his existence in a decidedly middle-aged way, but it’s going to be okay.
He notices a picture from the Coste salle - himself and Jesse in whites, aged thirteen or fourteen. They’re having a moment of their own, high-fiving after a match, red-faced and messy-haired, mouths open in broad laughter. It makes Seiji stop for a moment; were they really that small? It was taken before Jesse’s growth spurt, and Seiji was still taller than Jesse, just slightly, in the photograph. We were just kids, he thinks, inhaling and exhaling.
Seiji’s no longer a kid.
Sometimes, it takes him a little longer to remember. Two Olympic games and an 8-year relationship and two degrees and the international fencing circuit and a grueling PhD programme make time pass strangely, and when he slows down, he can feel the enormity of it all crash down upon him. It’s a lot, but not entirely unpleasant. It’s his own.
“Hey!” Nick, having spotted him, pads over to Seiji. His arms are full of so much tinsel - iridescent and shining, drooping in his grip, writhing, almost - it looks like he’s carrying a cat, if cats were synthetic and sparkling. Seiji feels himself relax at his presence, letting out a sigh.
“Hey,” he says back, with a smile.
“This tinsel messed with the wrong guy,” Nicholas says, drawing out a little chuckle from Seiji. “But I’m going to put it back where it belongs.”
“Always the knight in shining armour,” Seiji responds, flicking a lock of hair out of Nick’s face and giving him a kiss. “Emphasis on shining, in this case.” Nicholas responds by wrapping his arms around Seiji’s, the solidity and warmth in the action seeping into Seiji. He feels a little more grounded, now. He doesn’t want to run anymore, and he’s glad he didn’t, all those years ago.
“Nick,” Seiji hears a voice call out from behind him. “They’re starting the midnight countdown, where have you- oh, there you are.”
Seiji swivels around to face Jesse. They give each other tight-lipped smiles and small nods; it’s not a lot, it’s not perfect, but it’s enough for now. Perhaps it’ll give way to more one day, perhaps it’ll always be this way. Seiji finds himself strangely okay with any of the myriad possibilities.
“Leave the tinsel, come out to the balcony to watch the fireworks,” Jesse says. Whether it’s to Nicholas only or the both of them, Seiji can’t tell. Sweeping an eye across the room, he notices it has, in fact, emptied via the open glass doors to the balcony.
“Shall we?” Nick’s hand, outstretched, offered to Seiji. He takes it, setting down the mug of tea now gone cold. Together, they step out into the cold air.
Three, two, one.
The sky lights up, chemical reactions yielding bursts of vibrant colour.
“Happy New Year!” someone cheers.
Nick kisses him, and synapses fire in Seiji’s brain, mirroring the fireworks. He squeezes Nicholas’ hand.
Maybe it’s all going to be okay, Seiji thinks.