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“Oh—give me a hug, Lukas!”
Lukas chuckles, the sound coming out more as a wheeze from the way Olivia is embracing him. She's deceptively strong for somebody who spends most of her day indoors tinkering with redstone and circuits. He returns her hug, patting her shoulder as they sway back and forth.
“I will, thank you, Olivia.”
She finally pulls back, whining as she squeezes his shoulders in one last firm display of affection.
“Happy birthday again,” she says, now placing her hands on his face and smushing his cheeks, “let us know if you ever need anything, alright? Redstonia is busy but never too busy for you.”
He can’t help but wince while smiling at her aggressive tenderness, his eyes crescenting up from how hard she holds his head. He taps her knuckles with his fingers, willing her to relax and let go, “I will, I will.”
Axel stands just by the porch steps, grinning up at him as he talks, his voice still as booming as ever, “Tell Dewey I said bye, yeah?”
Just before Lukas can call out a response, a firm punch connects with his shoulder as Petra walks out, smirking, no doubt a little inebriated judging by the way the normally steady adventurer is swaying.
“Good to see you again, Lukas.” She rubs a knuckle under her nose, sniffling, “Until next time?”
He nods, “Yeah, until next time.”
At that, Petra and Olivia make their way down the porch steps, the engineer having to support the other lest she trip over her own ankles, Lukas can’t help but snort at the drunken display of Petra’s lack of coordination as she tries to push herself off Olivia—a vain attempt to show her soberness. The position is made awkward by the height difference—Petra towers over Olivia. She towers over most of them anyway, save for Axel.
“She’s always been a little bit of a lightweight.”
He turns his head to his left. Jesse stands there, hands shoved into the pockets of his black bomber jacket.
“And you’re not?”
Lukas gets an elbow shove to his arm. He laughs lightly, rubbing at the sore spot. Jesse gives him an eye roll, its annoyance undermined by the small upturn of his lips and the furrow of his brows, his brown eyes crinkling in their corners in faint, developing lines at their edges. The cold breeze tousles his dark curls. They’re longer than what Lukas remembers, reaching past the nape of his neck.
Jesse is older. They all are.
The cottage’s old lantern lights catch in the hero’s eyes. A younger Lukas would’ve written poetry about that small detail. Those reflected lights suddenly look right at him, and Lukas has to fight the way his breath hitches.
He tries not to stare at the scars all over the other’s face, old ones he remembers him getting—the one that juts across the bridge of his nose, the large, rough patch of burned skin that spreads from his neck to the corner of his jaw—and new ones—like the small one just under his brow, the line that cuts from his hairline down to his cheek.
It's the alcohol talking.
“Happy birthday, Lukas,” Jesse says, quiet, like it’s a secret, “three decades… you’re getting old.”
A warm hand comes to rest on his shoulder, and it burns through the woven thread of his sweater, Jesse’s thumb circling gently on his arm. Lukas coughs, smiling, passing it off as a laugh, a distraction from the way his heart seems to skip a beat.
“Yeah, right. Give it a few months and you’ll be thirty too.”
Jesse snorts, ending his contact with Lukas with another punch to his shoulder—gentler than Petra’s.
“Thanks, Jesse. For coming.”
The other nods, seeming lost in thought.
“Hey! Jesse, you comin’ or nah?”
Their heads snap over to their friends. Petra is waving a hand over at the hero, beckoning him to join her, “Jack wants to head out tomorrow!”
Lukas’ stomach drops as he looks back at the other man.
Well, Lukas thinks, This is it, I guess.
He’ll leave and return to his adventures, and they’ll see each other again in a few years and tell each other stories when they have the time. Lukas is fine with that, even if the ugly knot in his gut says otherwise.
It’s the alcohol talking.
Jesse glances at him before looking back at Petra, raising a dark, scarred brow just a bit.
“I’ll uh… I’ll meet with you guys tomorrow,” then to Axel and Olivia, “Walk her to the inn, would you, please?”
It’s Petra’s turn to raise her own scarred brow, her eyes flitting between the two of them, scrutinizing the pair with a frown. She puts her hands up, drunkenly surrendering as she turns back around with guidance from Olivia.
“Alright, alright. Have fun, you lovebirds!”
Lukas feels his face flush bright red.
For fuck’s sake. He’s thirty.
It’s the alcohol talking.
Lukas closes the door.
It creaks loudly in the sudden silence of the night. Dewey’s ear twitches at the sound as he brings his head up from where he was sleeping on the living area’s carpet. The large cat drops his head right back onto his paws once he catches sight of Jesse and Lukas.
“Would you look at that, even Dew is tired,” Jesse remarks, huffing in amusement. The hero shrugs off his jacket, hanging it up on the coat rack near the door. Lukas smiles as he watches Jesse make his way over to the large cat, bending down to place a scarred hand on Dewey’s head in gentle headrubs. Dewey leans into it, his eyes still closed.
The place is a mess, plain and simple. Confetti—courtesy of a particularly large party popper made by Axel—is strewn across the floor and dining table. A few small plastic kazoos, small party horns, and shot glasses sit forgotten at each seat, and the homemade cake by Olivia is half eaten right in the middle—strawberry shortcake, Lukas’ favorite.
He swats some of the confetti off a few chairs, pushing them back under the table, the wooden legs scraping and screeching against the wooden floor.
He hasn’t had to push in this many chairs in a long time.
Jesse comes up to the other side of the table, pushing in Lukas’ seat and grabbing the vodka bottle by the neck. He takes a nearby shot glass—Lukas’, it just so happens to be—and pours the alcohol in.
“Haven’t had enough yet?” Lukas asks, eyeing Jesse curiously. The other throws back the shot, making a sour face as he exhales, clinking the glass back onto the table.
“Guess not,” he says, clearing his throat. He points a finger at Lukas, smiling in a way that lets Lukas know that the burn of the alcohol is simmering in the back of his throat. “For your information, I’ve gotten better at holding my alcohol, thank you.”
“How many shots have you had?”
“Three? No… four.”
“Oh wow. Yeah. Better than two a few years ago.”
“You?”
“Seven.”
“How are you not shit-faced right now, Lukas?”
He laughs at that one, shrugging, “Well, when you spend enough time alone, most entertaining thing to do is to drink.”
He doesn’t get a response for a beat, so he looks up, only to be met with the loudest concern written all over Jesse’s face.
“That… that was fucking depressing.”
He pauses, blinking. Once. Twice.
“Ah… it was funnier in my head.”
It goes quiet again as Lukas returns to cleaning the table, stacking the plates atop one another.
“Need uh, need some help?” Jesse’s voice is suddenly right next to him, rough with alcohol as he sets the bottle down onto the table.
Lukas looks at Jesse, nodding, “Yeah uh, could you just put the cake away and…” Lukas gestures vaguely at the area as he walks absentmindedly to the kitchen sink, holding the small pile of plates in one hand, “confetti.”
He gets a nod in response and an affirmative noise as Jesse follows after him, placing the cake gingerly into the fridge—not before stealing one last swipe at the vanilla frosting, licking it off his finger.
The cottage falls into the comfortable silence of shuffling and movement—the rushing of faucet water, the scraping of metal against porcelain, the sound of the thin, woody branches of a broom sweeping against the floor—and Lukas feels himself settle into his skin.
He can tell which plate is whose by what is left on it. Olivia’s is spotless. Petra’s is a smushed mess of frosting and cake. Axel’s has the tops of the strawberries still lying on it. And Jesse’s is the one with extra chocolate syrup all over it.
A shiver of realization runs down his spine as he stands there, scrubbing the plates. It’s taking longer than usual. He usually only has to clean one plate.
Come tomorrow morning, the incessant clacking of dishes in the sink and the sound of another’s footsteps will pass, and it’ll go back to the life Lukas has found himself in. A good, quiet one with Dewey and his manuscripts—he can’t complain, but he will miss the person of which the footsteps come from.
He slides the last plate—his own—into the drying rack, wiping his hands on a nearby rack. When he turns back around, Jesse’s just about finished, and the area looks clean—everything is away except for the vodka.
Lukas walks over, hand reaching out to take the bottle. He turns around—
“Wait.”
He looks back, bottle still in his hand. Jesse’s standing before him, reaching into the back pockets of his worn pants.
“I have your birthday present,” he pulls out a small leather bound book, presenting it simply to Lukas, “Don’t think I just came for the food, now.”
Only… it’s one Lukas recognizes.
He places the bottle back down on the table, his lips parted in surprise.
“Holy shit.”
Lukas takes the book gingerly into his hands.
It’s his first journal. LUKAS is scrawled in black, bold, sloppy letters right in the center. It still has that same tear right in its corner, revealing the soft inner material of the leather. The green, silk bookmark sticks out at the bottom, dirtied and frayed with age.
“How… How did you even get this?” He asks, marveling as he opens it, the cover limps with time and use, “Didn’t I lose this back at the Builder Games?”
“You did,” Jesse confirms. He sees him step closer, hands on his hips as he looks down at the book with him, “Found its way into a pawnshop somehow in a small desert town. Instantly recognized it. Paid good money for it.”
Lukas can’t help the disbelieving laugh that escapes his mouth as he flips through its stiff, yellowed pages.
Fire World.
Snow World.
Big Cave World.
He’s gotten better at naming things, at least.
“I’m sorry I wasn’t able to get it back sooner,” Jesse suddenly says. His voice sounds closer. Lukas looks up, and he’s right in front of him, hands in his pockets as he sighs, continuing, “Slab wouldn’t budge.”
Lukas lets out a breathy laugh, flipping to the next page mindlessly.
“Better late than never, I suppose.”
“It’s just a little late, yeah?”
Lukas nods, smiling as he looks at Jesse through his lashes, “Yeah, just a little.”
Jesse clears his throat, and the sound pulls Lukas out of the pages.
“I haven’t looked at it,” he says, shrugging one shoulder, “I thought… I thought you’d like to look at it together, maybe?”
The hero takes the vodka bottle off the table, holding it between them in an invitation.
Lukas nods, huffing in fondness.
“Yeah. I’d like that.”
“Third night here: we were attacked by a horde of spiders in the trees—“
“Oh my god—didn’t Petra get a huge one on her face that time?”
“Yeah—I wrote about that right after!”
Jesse laughs, loud and unabashed, “Oh please—I remember that. Oh—she was so scared!”
Lukas joins in on Jesse’s drunken laughter, throwing his head back over the armrest. Both of their words are slurred from the alcohol, their shot glasses are sitting empty, and the bottle almost is too. They’ve made a fun game—take a shot every time Lukas named a dimension something obvious and stupid. This one was aptly named Forest (Spider) World. Parentheses included.
It’s dark. The lights are off, saved for the fireplace crackling in the background, lighting their figures in a bright, wavering light. The couch is old and rickety, its springs digging into Lukas’ back—but he couldn’t care less right now as he lays down. His legs have somehow found their resting place on Jesse’s thighs as the other sits up right at the other end of the couch, his arms and hands draped over the backend of his seat comfortably.
“Y’know what?” Jesse says, breathless from laughing, “that sorta thing happened again to her not too long ago. She yelled at the top of her lungs, Not again! Get it off! while wrestling with it.”
Jesse shifts in his spot, but he holds Lukas’ legs in place so as to not have him pull away. Lukas tries not to think about the contact’s intention too much. He might pass out.
“Is she okay?” Lukas asks, still laughing.
“Oh yeah, she’s peachy,” Jesse says, “She fuckin’ hates spiders now, though.”
Lukas snorts, “I would too, if I were her.”
“She hates spiders, you hate lava.”
“God—don’t remind me—“
“Your ass was literally on fire after—“
Lukas gently pulls back his leg, kicking Jesse in the thigh with his socked feet, laughing lightly.
“Woooow, kicking the person who literally patted your ass out?”
“Oh, well thank you—I bet you enjoyed it,” Lukas teases, resting the book on his chest as he looks over at the other man, who’s laughing lightly. Lukas thinks his face looks redder, but that’s probably just his drunken eyes playing tricks on him.
The hero suddenly bends forward over Lukas’ legs, reaching for the Vodka and his shot glass, pouring and knocking the alcohol back. Lukas takes the opportunity to flip a few pages forward.
“Weeeeell, the next one’s called Hallway World, so you might have to take another one soon.”
Jesse shakes his head, leaning back into the couch, smiling with his brows furrowed in amusement, “We’re literally going to die from this, Lukas.”
“Vodka shots: best way to go out.”
Jesse turns his head to face Lukas’ direction, his eyes squinted in thought as he looks somewhere faraway from the moment, “Hallway World? Was it that maze one where we lost Ivor for a few days?”
Lukas’ eyes skim through some of the entries, “Yup. Seems like it.”
Jesse snorts, “Man, he was… wild.”
Lukas shakes his head, “Senile, I think is the word you’re looking for.”
Lukas hasn’t seen Ivor since the admin fiasco—certainly he’s off exploring worlds with Harper, maybe even with The Old Order Of The Stone.
Maybe that’ll be Jesse in the future, with Petra, Jack, and Nurm—older, well into the middle of his life, still breaking bones and getting into more life-threatening situations than Lukas would like—and Lukas will still be here. Writing. Reporting.
Waiting.
A sigh from the other pulls him out of his head. Jesse’s focus is on him now, his brown eyes lidded in clear exhaustion—the type that seems to run deep into his bones. Or maybe it’s just the alcohol.
“I missed this,” Jesse says. His words are quiet, but firm. They cut through the space between them and pierce straight through Lukas’ chest like an arrow. His heart feels tight.
“What? Talking about Petra’s spider trauma, my ass being on fire, and Ivor being old?”
A grin splits Jesse’s face. Its corners feel rougher than what Lukas remembers—or maybe it’s just the more apparent stubble around his mouth and jaw.
Jesse exhales sharply in subtle laughter, shaking his head, “No,” he says. He waves his hand in the space between them, gesturing back and forth vaguely, “I meant this…”
“Us?”
“Yeah… I missed this,” he says, breathless, “I… I missed you, Lukas.”
A younger Lukas would’ve immediately pulled Jesse into a hug—instead he just stares at him, smiling lightly, ignoring the way his chest burns with heat—dread and affection.
“You said that last time too.”
And the time before that, Lukas thinks. And yet you leave anyway.
“And I mean it every time I say it.”
And Lukas can’t find it in his drunken, inebriated brain to refute that—not when Jesse’s eyes are staring straight at his, golden brown in the firelight just a ways a way. Not when his hand has come down to rest on his knee, not holding or grasping, just resting there like it’s meant to be there. Not when his expression is so quiet and soft that even the harsh scar lines on his face have seemed to round out. Not when it’s Jesse.
“I’ve missed you too,” he says, because that's the only response he can come up with.
At that, Jesse nods, looking down. His thumb traces mindless circles on his leg, and suddenly, as he places the journal closed onto the nearby coffee table, Lukas never wants to move from the couch ever again.
“Scoot,” Jesse jerks his head to the side, “Lemme lay down.”
Lukas pulls his legs off Jesse’s lap, moving a little closer to the edge of the couch, shifting to his side, trying his best to make enough space for Jesse to slip right into—which is a challenge, given how… built Jesse is.
“Tight squeeze, sorry,” Lukas mutters as the other grunts, fitting himself into the corner of the couch. His legs stretch far out to the other end, laying and tangling on top of Lukas’.
“Nah,” Jesse says, “You’re good.”
He breathes in as he settles his head on the armrest, right next to Lukas.’ He can smell the vodka on the other’s breath, and he’s sure Jesse can smell it on his. It’s disgusting, but he’s too drunk to care.
Heat radiates from the hero, and it burns Lukas’ body in a way that sends tingles down his spine. Face to face with Jesse like this, he can count the lashes over his eyes. He can see every rise and fall and ridge of rough and smooth skin in a patchwork of adventures and injuries. The drying skin of his lips.
“Comfy?” Lukas whispers.
“Very. Your couch is better than the inn’s beds.”
“Really? This springy thing?”
“Really. The beds there are like rocks.”
As their breathing mingles, Lukas fights the drunken urge to rest their foreheads together. The familiar weight settles down on his body—the weight that feels like a thick, heavy blanket.
They used to lie together like this back then too—when nights were too long and they couldn’t sleep; when they woke up in cold sweats, shaking and teary eyed from too many what ifs and whys.
As if he were reading his thoughts, Jesse speaks, words low and slurred into near mush.
“You still get nightmares?”
Lukas swallows, sighing through his nose, “Sometimes. Different ones now, though.”
“Like what?”
Lukas shrugs, the movement awkward in his position.
“I uhh… Dewey eating my papers, I guess?”
Not a lie. Not the whole truth.
He can tell Jesse knows that there’s more, but the other chuckles anyway, “Dewey’s not a dog or a goat, though.”
“Yeah, well, he’s a jungle cat, so…”
Jesse shrugs, frowning momentarily in agreement, “Fair.”
In truth, Lukas has nightmares about Jesse coming to his door, half dead, wheezing, bleeding, his scars indiscernible from fresh wounds, hair matted and tangled beyond belief. And in those nightmares, Lukas can’t do anything but drag his broken body inside and watch him stain his floors and carpets red, unable to move. Watching. Waiting for the inevitable.
He has nightmares where Petra, Jack, and Nurm come back to Beacontown, and Jesse isn’t there. They’ll break it to him and the others that he’s died. That they lost him. That Lukas doesn’t have to wait anymore, because there’s nothing to wait for—that their last conversation will forever be unfinished, and Lukas will forever be left wondering and wanting, but never waiting.
He has nightmares where Jesse visits—except it’s not Jesse. He doesn’t smile. He doesn’t laugh. He never looks at him. This Jesse looks faraway, and his eyes never glint or catch the light the same way his Jesse’s did. When this Jesse leaves, Lukas knows he’ll never see him again, but he’ll wait anyway, because he’s out there, alive, somewhere, and if he waits long enough he’ll come back.
Two gentle taps to his temple bring him back.
“You’re thinking too hard,” Jesse whispers, pulling his hand back, “… always thinking too hard…”
“Sorry,” he responds. He wants to pull Jesse’s hand back.
Instead, he finds himself asking, “Do you? Still get nightmares, I mean.”
The question seems to make Jesse pause, his eyes boring into a spot somewhere on Lukas’ shirt for a moment.
“Yeah,” his voice cracks at the admission, “most nights.”
Then quieter, “Different ones, sometimes.”
“Like what?”
Jesse huffs in amusement. He looks up at Lukas, then to the side at the ceiling.
“Uh… Petra becoming a massive spider, I guess?”
The fire crackles nearby.
Not a lie. Not the whole truth.
It’s okay. They’re even now.
“That does genuinely sound terrifying.”
Jesse chuckles. Lukas can’t help but smile at the sound—even after all these years, it still sounds the same.
The other takes a breath in, trailing off his laughter as he shifts a little closer, his curls tickling Lukas’ cheek and nose. He smells of wind and cold and something uniquely woody—like a forest the day after a storm, fresh and aged at the same time.
Lukas takes a risk—stirred on by the heat of the alcohol settling deep into his gut—reaching a tentative hand to the curls that frame Jesse’s face. He watches his own fingers caress the brown waves, wandering further down to the ones that kiss the sides and nape of the other’s neck. The curls are wild and unkempt—dry and long and windswept like rustling trees on an autumn day. His fingertips dance with a particularly long strand of hair behind his ear. It’s… therapeutic.
“Are you okay?” Jesse suddenly asks—and Lukas can all but feel the words right on his mouth, “You’re frowning.”
Lukas blinks, willing his face to fix itself. His fingers pause their ministrations on his curls.
“Is my hair that bad?” The other asks, a hint of laughter beneath his words.
“What? No, no—It’s just… different.”
“It’s longer,” Jesse huffs out. He turns his head just a bit to look at the hair that nearly tickles his jaw, “It’s a bother. I need to get it cut soon.”
“Well, I imagine there’s not many salons out in the forest or desert though, huh?”
“Hah, yeah, no. Jack offered to cut it but… not sure if I trust him with something as delicate as my hair.”
Lukas smile-winces at the mental image of Jack taking a pair of shears to Jesse’s head.
“Jack definitely seems like more of a sword than a shears person.”
With a newfound sense of boldness, Lukas’ hand trails forward to Jesse’s jaw, running his knuckles along its strong, stubbled line. The hero doesn’t pull away or stiffen—instead, he seems to melt further into the couch’s springy cushions, eyes fluttering shut just for a moment. Lukas revels in being the one that caused it.
“Your hair’s gotten longer too,” Jesse mutters, “just a bit.”
Lukas blinks as a callused thumb comes up to run against a stubborn strand of hair that tickles his neck. It sends a chill down his body. He suddenly feels a little lightheaded.
“Gotta go to Nell’s soon, then…”
“Nell?”
“Huh? Oh yeah… she got her hairstyling license a year or two ago.”
Jesse pulls his hand back, and Lukas does the same, laying their hands right next to each other in what little space remains between their chests, their pinkies brushing.
“That… actually suits her, I think,” Jesse muses, nodding just a bit.
“Mhm. You should go pay her a visit. She’s… actually pretty good.”
The words escape his mouth before he can stop and think about the implications behind it.
Stay a little longer.
Jesse doesn’t seem to catch on though, as he hums, seeming to consider the possibility, “Maybe. Would be nice to see her again.”
Come back.
The plea catches in his throat as he opens his mouth. Pathetic. He’s thirty now.
Behind them, the fire cracks with its burning heat, matching the warmth that seeps through Lukas’ skin as their pinkies somehow overlap. Dewey’s purring nearby suddenly sounds louder, and it matches the stutter and shake of Lukas’ heart.
He can’t plead with Jesse, so instead it comes out as a question, quiet and hesitant, unsure; a plea in everything but words.
“Have you… considered settling down yet?”
Settle down with me.
Please.
Jesse’s eyes widen just a fraction, his breath caught in a sharp inhale as he seems to startle from the question. He shifts, pulling his entire self away, “Lukas, you know I just… I can’t be mayor again, it’s too much. It’s…”
The space between them grows as he moves to sit up as best as he can—and suddenly Lukas feels like he’s freezing when his legs untangle from his, “y’know, Axel and Olivia… town leading is their thing, it was never mine—”
Before he can fully sit up, Lukas follows him, keeping eye contact—like if he were to lose his gaze now he’d lose it forever. His hand finds its grasp around Jesse’s. The starkness of his skin wrapped around Jesse’s travel-worn hand and wrist is almost startling.
“You wouldn’t have to be mayor again—Radar’s doing just fine,” he breathes in deep in a vain attempt to calm his racing heart and cool down the uncomfortable heat of his face, “Just… settle down. In Beacontown.”
Jesse scoffs, his shoulders moving with the action, “Where? There’s so many faces—”
“Here,” the word forces itself out from his mouth, as if it were building force somewhere in his throat, “With me. It’s away from everyone. Everything.”
Jesse breathes out deep, his eyes rove around the dark of the cottage as if he were seeing things that weren’t there. He settles back down onto the couch, his brown eyes catching the orange light of the fire. Lukas doesn’t follow him—opting to watch the other carefully.
“Have you not… thought about that possibility, Jesse?”
The hero squints, his brows furrowing, forming lines and wrinkles in his face that remind Lukas that Jesse is a few years older than the last Jesse he remembers. More experienced. Weathered.
Jesse’s lips part in quiet, contemplative breaths before they draw back into a taut line.
“A… A few times,” he finally confesses, but it does little to lift the weight from Lukas’ chest, “I’ve thought about it.”
But…
Jesse looks up at Lukas.
He’s sorry. Lukas can tell by the way his eyes twitch and blink. He wants to reach out and smooth the lines between his brows.
“But…”
I’m not ready, goes unsaid.
Lukas doesn’t let him finish his statement, ending it for him with a quick, firm nod.
“Right.”
Jesse’s hand dares to crawl up to Lukas’ elbow. Lukas lets him be guided down onto the couch.
The air feels colder now. The fire does little to warm him up.
“I’m sorry,” Jesse says.
It irks Lukas. He already knows Jesse is sorry. He always is.
And he already knows that Jesse knows that he’ll be here anyway—waiting for the day where Jesse won’t be sorry—so, he doesn’t tell him how with each passing, empty year, he feels a little bit of his resolve chip away, because they both know that he will be waiting, no matter how it ends. He will repair and replace the iron lanterns around the house endlessly and push in that same chair and wash that same plate until it becomes two chairs and two plates.
Lukas shakes his head, “No… I… I get it.”
Jesse nods.
“Thank you.”
He always gets it.
As his lips tighten, Lukas can’t help the way his arms reach out for Jesse despite the hole in his gut, wrapping around the other’s shoulders as he pulls him close. He’s no longer thirty when Jesse returns the embrace, finding himself a spot just under Lukas’ chin, his scarred, worked arms coming up to his back, fingers splayed out across his shoulders and their blades.
Lukas buries his face into the brown, weathered curls, inhaling deep. The scent reminds him of nights in caves by a fire and vines weaving through aged stone walls. It reminds him of a chapter of their lives when they were on the same page.
“Is this ‘until next time’ then?” he murmurs into the hair. For a moment, he thinks Jesse may not have heard him, but the other responds, just as quiet. Lukas feels the words in his chest rather than hear them with his ears.
“Yeah. It is.”
He pulls Jesse closer—or, tries to.
“You’ll be gone when I wake up.”
Jesse responds by wrapping his arms further around Lukas, like vines curling around stone.
“Until next time, Lukas.”
No further words are spoken. Their breathing eventually evens out.
When Lukas awakens from his drunken slumber, the first thing that registers is the piercing pain in his head.
The next thing is the weight of his limbs. He feels like lead as he shifts on the couch, and his back hurts like all hell.
The last thing is that he feels cold.
He drags himself up, groaning with exertion. His woolen sweater has ridden up his body, and he pulls it down to shield himself from the sudden, persisting cold.
Jesse isn’t here—and it’s not anything he didn’t expect.
He sighs, and as he supports himself off the couch, his fingers brush against the small adventure journal, its leather cover a startling sudden texture. He grabs it and carries it with him—for what? He doesn’t know—but he slips it into his pants’ back pocket as he shuffles around the couch, blinking hard to get his vision to focus.
The soft footfalls of Dewey sound nearby, and the large cat weaves between his legs and feet.
“Woah—hey bud… careful. Might step on you—”
As if on cue, he stumbles over virtually nothing, and Dewey chirps as he darts away. Lukas barely manages to prevent catching himself on his face with the coat rack. Groaning, he stands straight up, his hands brushing against a black jacket—
Wait.
He blinks, widening his eyes to focus.
Jesse’s… jacket.
He clears his throat, suddenly a little more awake.
His hand grasps at the jacket’s smooth, leathery sleeve, eventually moving to unhook it.
Gingerly, Lukas takes the piece of clothing in both of his hands, eyeing it curiously.
It’s not like him to leave something this important.
It’s worn and clearly well-loved, some of its edges and stitches fraying. A constant traveling companion, surely.
Lukas reaches for the door, creaking it open.
The sun blinds him, and he has to inhale deeply in order to prevent himself from crying out in extreme headache pain.
Once the pain subsides, he looks down the beaten path that leads to the cottage.
Nothing.
He looks back down at the jacket.
He hopes Jesse comes back sooner rather than later to retrieve it.
Lukas shuts the door.