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The overhead kitchen light flickers like it’s trying to make up its mind. Ian notices it before anything else.
“You keep saying you’ll fix that,” he says, standing in the doorway with his arms folded, voice calm in that way that somehow feels more accusatory than yelling. Rain taps steadily against the windows behind him, soft but persistent, like it also wants an answer.
Anthony doesn’t look up from where he’s sitting cross-legged on the counter, eating cereal straight from the box. “I will fix it,” he replies around a mouthful, completely unbothered. “I’m just waiting for the right emotional moment.”
Ian blinks once. Twice. “The lightbulb requires emotional timing?”
“Absolutely. You can’t rush art.”
Another flicker. This time the whole kitchen dims for a second before brightening again.
Ian exhales slowly through his nose, stepping further inside. There’s water on the floor from Anthony’s shoes, a half-open window letting in cold air, and somehow a hoodie Ian is fairly sure belongs to him draped over the toaster. “You left the window open,” Ian says.
Anthony finally looks at him, grin lazy and bright. “Yeah. I like the rain.”
Ian follows his gaze. Outside, the streetlights glow gold through the storm, turning the world into something softer, quieter. For a moment, neither of them speaks.
Then the light flickers again, harder this time.
Anthony winces. “…Okay, maybe now is the emotional moment.”
Ian almost smiles. “Well, you’d know all about those, wouldn’t you?”
He freezes, spoon frozen in the air. Ian pulls his eyes from the window to watch him, stock-still on the counter. Anthony chews slowly, swallowing but staying still otherwise. For a moment, it feels like they just stare at one another, waiting to see who will break the silence first.
Anthony sets the bowl down with exaggerated care. It makes a soft ceramic thud against the counter that somehow sounds louder than it should. “Wow,” he says after a second, voice light but a little too deliberate. “We’re doing subtext now. That’s new for us.”
Ian doesn’t move. He’s still standing just inside the kitchen like he’s not sure he’s allowed any further in. “We’ve always done subtext,” he replies.
Anthony snorts. “No, you’ve always done subtext. I’ve always done… whatever this is.” He gestures vaguely at himself, at the mess, at the open window letting rain-specked air curl into the room.
The light flickers again.
This time it stays dim for longer.
Ian’s jaw tightens. “You can’t keep pretending nothing’s wrong.”
Anthony slides off the counter in one smooth motion, bare feet hitting the cold tile. Water soaks into the hem of his sweatpants where it’s already damp. He doesn’t seem to notice.
“Nothing’s wrong,” he says.
It’s automatic. Too fast.
They both hear it.
Ian laughs under his breath, not amused. “You didn’t even try to make that convincing.” Anthony shrugs, reaching for the step stool tucked beside the fridge. “Maybe I’m tired.”
“Of what?”
“Of,” he says, climbing up, unscrewing the flickering bulb with careful fingers, barely wincing at the heat in his palm now, “being analyzed like I’m a broken appliance you can fix if you just stare hard enough.”
The bulb comes loose in his hand. The kitchen drops into near-darkness, lit only by the storm-muted glow from the window.
For a second, neither of them moves. Rain hisses softly against the glass.
Ian finally steps forward. “I don’t think you’re broken,” he says, quieter now. “I think you’re avoiding.”
Anthony lets out a short breath that might be a laugh. Might not. “Same difference.”
He reaches for the new bulb sitting on top of the fridge, except when he twists to grab it, the step stool wobbles on the wet tile. His balance goes.
Instinct is faster than pride.
Ian catches him around the waist before he can hit the floor.
The moment freezes there– Anthony half-tilted into him, one hand still clutching the dead bulb, Ian’s grip firm and unthinking.
Too close.
Way too close.
Anthony’s heartbeat is loud enough he’s almost sure Ian can feel it.
“…Okay,” Anthony says finally, staring somewhere near Ian’s collarbone. “Now this feels like an emotional moment.”
Ian doesn’t let go. “Yeah,” he murmurs. “I noticed.” Anthony’s pants catch against his, soaking them more than they already are. His own soaked hoodie seeps into Anthony’s sweater, mingling until it’s warm and humid between them. Neither moves, staying linked at the waist.
The taller man makes no move to change his position, whispering in a fractured tone into Ian’s neck. “Thought we didn’t do emotional moments.”
Something ugly curdles in Ian’s gut, but his hand tightens in Anthony’s sweater. “We don’t,” he murmurs back. For a second, it sounds like the rain gets louder. Or maybe it’s just the silence stretching thin enough to tear.
Anthony huffs out a quiet breath that ghosts warm against Ian’s collar. He doesn’t pull away. If anything, his fingers tighten slightly around the useless bulb still trapped in his hand. “Then what is this?” he asks.
It’s not teasing now. Not really.
Ian swallows. He becomes suddenly, painfully aware of everything, the damp fabric clinging to his skin, the uneven rhythm of Anthony’s breathing, the way the kitchen smells faintly like rainwater and stale cereal and something sharper underneath.
“I don’t know,” Ian admits.
The words feel heavier than they should.
Anthony shifts just enough to look at him properly. In the dim light, his expression is harder to read, edges blurred by shadow and something unguarded that he usually keeps buried under jokes.
“That’s new,” Anthony says quietly. “You not knowing.”
Ian almost lets go then.
Almost.
But Anthony is still half-balanced against him, and the step stool is still slick beneath his feet, and maybe that’s reason enough to stay exactly where he is. Or maybe it isn’t.
“You don’t give me anything to work with,” Ian says instead. “You shut down. You deflect. You pretend you’re fine until–”
“Until what?”
The question lands sharper than it sounds. Ian’s grip tightens again without meaning to. “Until I’m the one who has to guess when you’re not.” Anthony’s mouth opens like he’s about to fire back something easy and careless.
Nothing comes out.
The storm flashes white against the window.
For half a heartbeat, the kitchen is bright enough to see everything– the strain in Ian’s shoulders, the damp curl of Anthony’s hair at his temple, the way they’re still holding onto each other like letting go might actually mean something.
Then darkness folds back in.
Anthony exhales slowly. “You ever think,” he says, voice rough around the edges now, “that maybe I don’t say anything because you already look at me like you’ve decided what the answer is?”
Ian frowns. “That’s not–”
“It kind of is.”
Anthony finally shifts his weight properly, but he doesn’t step away. His hand, still clutching the dead bulb, lowers between them. “I get one bad day,” he goes on, quieter, “and suddenly you’re watching me like I’m about to fall apart.”
“You are about to fall apart,” Ian says before he can stop himself. The words hit the air and stay there.
Anthony goes very still. Outside, thunder rolls low and distant.
“…Wow,” he murmurs after a moment. “Okay.” There’s no anger in it. That almost makes it worse. Ian feels something sink hard in his chest. “That’s not what I meant.”
“Yeah,” Anthony says. “It is.”
For the first time since Ian caught him, Anthony starts to pull back. Not abruptly. Not dramatically. Just enough to test whether Ian will let him.
The step stool creaks softly under the shift. The new bulb is still sitting untouched on top of the fridge. The kitchen is still dim.
There have been moments in Ian’s life where he had the choice to let go or hold on. When he was young, he chose to hold on, to keep everything and everyone near him. As he got older, he let go of more and more, because it wasn’t worth fighting for everything only to get a fraction in return.
✦•··················•✦
“I don’t understand what the problem is with–”
“I don’t understand what your problem is!”
Anthony had stormed out of yet another Smosh meeting, and Ian diligently followed him like everyone expected him to. Now standing in the doorway to an empty, quieter conference room, Ian felt frozen. “What? What do you mean, ‘my problem’?”
Running his hands through his hair, Anthony paced back and forth in sharp, angry steps. “With me! What the fuck is your problem with me? Is this not our company anymore?” He stopped, looking into Ian’s face with a cutting amount of rage. “Oh, wait, sorry. It’s not. It’s not our company. This is no longer the same thing we made when we were seventeen, ex-fucking-scuse me.”
Ian could only watch him speak, dumbfounded. “I still don’t get why you’re upset. We’re supposed to be in a meeting, because we still have an obligation to this company.”
“Oh, sure, because we did all of this just to be in meetings all day and take whoever flashes the biggest check at us.”
Ian puffed out an impatient sigh. “Well, if you hate it so much, why are you even here?”
Anthony drew back like he’d been punched, hands throwing up. “I don’t know! I don’t know why I’m still fucking here, man! You don’t need me, none of you do, so what the fuck am I doing here, man?”
Ian’s mouth opened and closed. For a second he genuinely had no idea what Anthony wanted him to say.
The conference room suddenly feels too small, too quiet without the low murmur of producers in the hallway, too bright under fluorescent lights that hum like they’re judging him.
“That’s not true,” Ian said finally.
Anthony laughed.
It wasn’t funny.
It was sharp and disbelieving and cracked halfway through like the sound itself gave up trying to hold together. He turned away again, pacing, hands dragging down his face before he gripped the back of one of the empty chairs hard enough his knuckles pale.
“You don’t get it,” he muttered. “You don’t get it.”
“Then explain it to me,” Ian shot back, frustration rising now, hot and defensive. “Because right now it just sounds like you’re pissed we’re trying to be adults.”
Anthony spun.
“Adults?” he echoed. “You think this is about being adults?”
Ian threw his hands up. “I think this is about you refusing to accept that things change.”
“And I think,” Anthony said, stepping closer, voice dropping into something dangerously quiet, “this is about you being totally fine with letting them change without me.”
The words land harder than Ian expected. He frowned. “That’s not fair.”
Anthony’s eyes flashed. “Fair? Fair? Dude, you started making decisions without me months ago. Meetings I wasn’t invited to. Calls I didn’t know about. Suddenly we’re signing papers and I’m supposed to just— what? Smile and nod because it’s ‘good for the company’?”
“It was good for the company,” Ian insisted.
Anthony stared at him like he’s speaking a different language. “Yeah,” he said after a moment. “Exactly.”
Silence flooded the room. Ian could feel something slipping out of his grasp but he didn’t know what it was or how to catch it.
“We built this together,” Anthony goes on, quieter now. “It was never just a job to me. It was… us. And then one day it wasn’t anymore. And you didn’t even notice.”
Ian’s stomach twisted. “I noticed,” he said.
Anthony shook his head immediately. “No. If you noticed, you didn’t care.”
“That’s not–”
“Then why does it feel like I’m the only one still fighting for something that already died?”
The question hung between them. Outside the conference room window, people passed by carrying laptops and coffee cups, moving through their day like nothing world-ending was happening ten feet away.
Ian felt tired all at once.
“You’re being dramatic,” he said.
The second it left his mouth, he knew it was the wrong thing.
Anthony went completely still. “…Right,” he said softly. He let go of the chair. The scrape of metal legs against the floor sounded unbearably final. “So that’s what this is to you.”
Ian reached out without thinking. “Anthony–”
But Anthony was already backing toward the door. “I think,” he said, voice steady in a way that scared Ian more than yelling ever could, “I think I need to figure out who I am without this. Without you. Because right now I don’t think there’s room for both.”
He paused in the doorway.
For half a second it looked like he might turn back.
He didn’t.
The door swung shut behind him with a quiet click that somehow echoed louder than any slam.
✦•··················•✦
Through friendships that faded into polite texts. Through projects that became obligations instead of dreams. Through nights spent staring at ceilings wondering when exactly something he loved had started to feel like something he had to survive.
Holding on, he’s realised, doesn’t always mean winning.
Sometimes it just meant being the last one still gripping something that had already slipped away.
But Anthony… Anthony had never been easy to let go of.
Even now, half-balanced against him in a dark kitchen that smelled like rain and old arguments, Ian can feel the old instinct clawing its way back up his spine. The stubborn, irrational refusal to be the first one to release.
The step stool shifts again.
Anthony’s hand comes up, not quite touching Ian’s shoulder, hovering there like he can’t decide what he’s allowed to do. “You always do this,” Anthony says quietly. Ian blinks. “Do what?”
“Decide how it’s going to end before it actually does.”
The words land softer than the ones before them. No accusation. Just tired certainty. Ian’s throat feels tight. “I’m not deciding anything,” he says. Anthony huffs out a faint, humorless laugh. “You already did. You said it, remember?”
You are about to fall apart.
It echoes in the dim kitchen like a verdict.
Anthony shifts his weight fully this time, feet finding steadier ground on the tile. He isn’t falling anymore. Ian doesn’t technically need to keep holding him.
He doesn’t move.
“Maybe I am,” Anthony goes on. “Maybe I’ve been close for a while. But you don’t get to look at me like that and then act surprised when I don’t want you there to watch it happen.”
Something in Ian’s chest twists hard enough to almost hurt.
“I’m not watching,” he says. “I’m trying to help.”
“By assuming the worst?”
“By being realistic.”
Anthony finally meets his eyes properly. In the faint stormlight, his expression is open in a way Ian can’t remember seeing in years. No jokes waiting in the wings. No easy exits. Just him.
“And what if I don’t want realistic?” Anthony asks. “What if I just wanted you to… stay?”
The rain hits the window harder, sudden and insistent. Ian’s hand is still fisted in Anthony’s sweater. He realises, distantly, that he’s shaking.
“There was a time,” Anthony says, softer now, “when you wouldn’t have let go. Not even if I told you to.”
Ian swallows. “People change,” he says.
Anthony nods.
“Yeah,” he agrees. “They do.”
✦•··················•✦
“Hey, man! I’m going out with Pam tonight!”
Ian shouted into the apartment, not really expecting an answer back but not wanting to leave without notice. Still, Anthony shouted back, “Cool, dude.” There was something in his tone that should’ve struck Ian more than it did at the time, something he’d only recently begun to reminisce on and question.
When he got back later than night, Anthony was on the couch, eating a TV dinner and staring at the coffee table. Ian shuffled in quietly, pulling his shoes off at the door. Slowly, he sat on the couch beside Anthony.
“How was your night?” Anthony didn’t look up, still eating. Ian leaned back, nodding. “It was good, we got dinner and went to her place. Her cat has been anxious the last few days, so she didn’t want to leave him alone very long.”
Anthony hummed like he’s acknowledging the information, but it sounds distant. Polite. Like he was filing it away somewhere he doesn’t plan to visit again.
“That’s good,” he said after a second.
The microwave tray in his lap shifted when he stabbed at the mashed potatoes a little harder than necessary. Plastic scraped against foil. The TV flickers silently in front of them, some late-night rerun with canned laughter that felt wildly out of place in the quiet apartment.
Ian glanced at him.
Anthony looked… fine. That was the problem. He always looked fine. Hoodie sleeves shoved up, hair a mess like he’d been running his hands through it, posture loose and familiar against the cushions. Normal.
“So,” Ian said, clearing his throat. “What’d you do?” Anthony shrugged without looking over. “Nothing. Worked on some stuff. Ordered props.”
There was a beat.
“You didn’t go out?” Ian asked.
Another shrug. Smaller this time. “Didn’t feel like it.” Ian nodded slowly, like that answers something.
It didn’t.
The clock on the wall ticked louder than usual. Outside, a car passed with a soft rush of tires on pavement. Ian realised he can still smell someone else’s perfume faintly on his jacket and suddenly felt weirdly self-conscious about it.
Anthony took another bite. Chewed. Swallowed. “You like her?” he asked.
The question was casual. Too casual. Ian hesitated just long enough for it to matter. “…Yeah,” he said. “I think so.”
Anthony nodded once. Still didn’t look at him. “That’s good,” he repeated.
Something tightened in Ian’s chest and he had no idea why. They sat there in silence for another minute. The TV audience laughed again at something neither of them was watching.
Finally, Ian shifted, resting his forearms on his knees. “You sure you’re okay?” he asked.
Anthony let out a short breath that might be a laugh. “Dude,” he said. “Why wouldn’t I be?”
Ian opened his mouth. Closed it.
Because he didn't actually have an answer. Because nothing was wrong, not really. Because Anthony was right there beside him, eating a mediocre frozen dinner and existing in the same easy orbit they’d shared for years.
Because that is normal.
“Just asking,” Ian muttered.
Anthony nodded again. That time, he finally glanced over. For half a second their eyes met, and there was something there. Something raw and fleeting and almost impossible to name. Then Anthony looked back at the TV.
“I’m good,” he said quietly.
And Ian believed him.
✦•··················•✦
Ian decides before he realizes he’s decided.
His hand tightens. Not painfully. Not trapping. Just… firm. Certain. Anthony feels it immediately. He goes still again, breath catching somewhere between surprise and something more fragile. The space between them is already nonexistent, but somehow it feels like it shrinks further.
“Ian,” he says quietly. Not a warning. Not a protest. Just his name.
“I’m not letting go,” Ian says.
The words come out rough, like they’ve been dragged up from somewhere he usually keeps locked down. He doesn’t look away. For once, he doesn’t soften it with logic or distance or a carefully measured tone.
Anthony searches his face. For the joke. For the escape route. For the inevitable moment where Ian recalculates and decides this is too messy to be worth it.
It doesn’t come.
Thunder rolls again, closer now. The lights flicker weakly overhead like they’re trying to rejoin the conversation and failing.
“You just said I was about to fall apart,” Anthony murmurs.
“I know.”
“And now you’re, what? Volunteering to be in the splash zone?” Despite everything, something like a breath of laughter pushes at Anthony’s chest. Ian huffs, almost a smile. “You’re insufferable.”
“You love it.”
The word hangs there.
Both of them hear it.
Anthony’s eyes widen a fraction, like he hadn’t meant to let that slip out unfiltered. Like he’d expected it to get swallowed by the storm and instead it landed squarely between them.
Ian doesn’t move. He could pretend he didn’t hear it. He doesn’t. “Yeah,” he says quietly. “I do.”
Anthony stops breathing.
Not literally, but close enough that Ian can feel the stutter against his ribs where they’re still pressed together. The dead bulb is still clutched uselessly in Anthony’s hand, his knuckles pale now.
“You don’t get to say things like that,” Anthony whispers. “Not after–”
“After I let go?” Ian finishes.
Anthony’s jaw tightens. “Yeah.”
Rain streaks down the window in crooked lines. Somewhere in the apartment a pipe knocks faintly, a hollow metallic rhythm that sounds like a clock counting down.
Ian swallows. “I thought it was the right thing,” he admits. “I thought… if I stopped fighting for everything, I’d stop losing so much.”
Anthony’s gaze flickers, hurt softening into something more complicated. “And did it work?”
Ian doesn’t answer right away. His thumb shifts unconsciously against the damp knit of Anthony’s sweater. A grounding motion. A tell he forgot he still had.
“…No,” he says.
The honesty settles heavy between them.
Anthony lets out a slow breath he didn’t realize he was holding. His shoulders drop a fraction. Some invisible tension loosens. “So what,” he says. “This is you trying again?”
Ian nods once. “Yeah.”
“With me.”
It isn’t a question.
Another flicker of lightning turns the kitchen white. In that split second, they can both see exactly how close they are, how long they’ve stayed like this, balanced on the edge of something neither of them has named out loud.
When the darkness returns, it feels thicker.
“I never really stopped,” Ian says.
Anthony closes his eyes. For a moment, he just leans there, forehead almost touching Ian’s shoulder. The step stool creaks as he shifts his weight completely off it this time, feet planted firmly on the floor.
He’s not falling anymore.
Ian still doesn’t let go.
“…You’re an idiot,” Anthony murmurs.
“I know.”
“And this is probably going to hurt.”
“Yeah.”
Anthony opens his eyes again. There’s fear there. And hope. Equal measure. “Okay,” he says.
Not agreement. Not surrender.
Just… okay.
His free hand finally comes up, resting lightly against Ian’s side. The new lightbulb still sits on top of the fridge. The kitchen is still dim.
✦•··················•✦
“So, senior prom. Who are you gonna go with? Do you still like Jessica from Bio?” They were laying in Ian’s bed, Ian propped on the pillows and Anthony with his back on the bed and legs against the wall. “Nah,” Ian admitted. “She’s going with Matt R., so I’m dateless.”
Anthony’s head twisted to look at Ian, eyes sideways to Ian’s vision. “Really? No one?”
Ian had shrugged, nudging the other boy’s side with his foot. “What about you? Any hot girls?” Anthony choked out a laugh, turning so he was staring at the ceiling again. “Oh, no. No, no one wants to go out with the kid that has a freak mom.”
Ian had frowned at that, even at seventeen. Knowing their humour was blase at times, and raunchy at others, neither of them ever went out of their way to put down other people for a bit. Hearing Anthony talk so simply about himself so negatively struck Ian oddly, and his spine automatically straightened against the pillows.
Still staring at Anthony’s face, he pitched the idea. “What if we go together?”
Anthony laughed again, but stopped when he caught the serious look on Ian’s face. “Wait,” he said, sitting up and propping himself on an elbow. “Really? You’re serious?”
Ian shrugged, nodding. “Why not? Shouldn’t people expect us to go together anyway?” Anthony shared his shrug. “I guess, but not, like… together together. What, do you want to do what every other couple would do on prom night?”
He shook his head, kicking the boy again. “No, not like… sex or something. But yeah, I want our senior prom to be more than another shitty night of high school.” He felt more into the idea, bolstered by his own enthusiasm. “Let’s do matching suits and get overpriced dinner and take cheesy mall photos like everyone else. Who are they to say we can’t have a good time?”
Anthony had smiled then, really smiled, the kind that reached his eyes and softened something in his whole face. It was rare when it was just the two of them, with no cameras, no audience, no pressure to be funny or loud or anything but there.
Ian almost thought it looked breathtaking.
The thought startled him enough that he immediately shoved it somewhere deep and unreachable, replacing it with something easier, safer. He was just happy for his friend. That was all.
“You’re serious,” he said again, softer this time.
Ian rolled his eyes, even though his ears had started burning. “Yeah, dude. I’m serious.”
Anthony leaned back down on the bed, staring up at the ceiling like he was trying to picture it. The faint glow from Ian’s desk lamp painted long shadows across the posters on the wall. Outside, someone’s car drove past with bass thumping faintly through the glass.
“Matching suits,” Anthony repeated, like he was testing the words out. “Man, people are gonna think we’re weird.”
“They already think we’re weird,” Ian pointed out.
Anthony snorted. “Fair.”
For a minute neither of them said anything. Anthony’s legs were still propped against the wall, his socked feet sliding slightly against the paint every time he shifted. Then he said, quieter, “You really don’t mind?”
Ian frowned. “Mind what?”
Anthony gestured vaguely. “Going with me. Instead of, like… an actual date.” Ian didn’t even think about the answer. “You are an actual date,” he said simply.
Anthony turned his head again, eyes searching Ian’s face like he was trying to figure out if he was joking.
Ian didn’t laugh.
After a moment, Anthony looked away again, but the corner of his mouth curled up despite himself. “…Alright,” he said. “But if we’re doing this, we’re doing it right.”
Ian raised an eyebrow. “What does that mean?”
Anthony pushed himself up onto his elbows, suddenly energized. “I mean we show up looking cooler than everyone else,” he said. “Like, stupidly cool. I’m talking sunglasses. I’m talking dramatic entrance. I’m talking people whispering, ‘Who are those mysterious handsome men?’”
Ian groaned. “You’re not wearing sunglasses at night.”
“Watch me.”
“No.”
Anthony grinned, wide and unapologetic. “Coward.”
Ian kicked him again, harder this time, but he was smiling too.
“Whatever,” he muttered. “Just don’t embarrass me.”
Anthony laughed, dropping back onto the mattress. The sound filled the room in that easy, familiar way it always had. “Relax,” he said. “If anyone embarrasses you, it’ll definitely be me.”
Ian rolled his eyes again, but he was already picturing it; The stupid suits, the overpriced dinner, the ridiculous photos they’d probably make fun of later.
Anthony finally glanced over, meeting Ian’s gaze. There was something vulnerable there, something seventeen-year-old and uncertain and trying very hard not to show it.
“Okay,” he said again.
Ian didn’t realize until much later that this had been one of the first times Anthony had ever asked to be chosen.
✦•··················•✦
Neither of them moves for a long second. It isn’t frozen anymore.
It’s charged.
Anthony’s hand stays at Ian’s side, fingers curled just slightly in the damp fabric like he’s getting used to the reality of contact instead of the idea of it. Ian can feel the exact warmth of his palm even through the soaked hoodie.
The storm keeps breathing against the windows.
Ian is the one who finally breaks the stalemate. “Get down,” he says quietly.
Anthony blinks. “…What?”
“The stool,” Ian clarifies, voice steadier than he feels. “You’re still half on it.”
“Oh.”
It’s almost funny. Almost.
Anthony shifts properly, stepping off. The stool rocks once on the wet tile and then settles. They’re both standing flat on the floor now, which means there’s absolutely no practical reason for Ian to still have an arm around his waist.
He doesn’t move it.
Anthony’s eyes flick down briefly, then back up, something unreadable passing through them. Not discomfort. Not exactly. More like he’s waiting to see what Ian is going to do with this moment he insisted on keeping.
“Lightbulb,” Anthony says after a beat, holding up the dead one slightly like evidence. “We were… doing a task.”
Ian exhales a quiet breath that could be a laugh. “Right.”
Neither of them makes any move toward the fridge.
Anthony turns the useless bulb between his fingers. “You always do this too.” Ian frowns. “Do what?”
“Act like something practical is happening when it’s clearly not.” The words aren’t sharp. They’re almost gentle. Ian considers denying it. Doesn’t. “Yeah,” he admits.
Anthony nods once, like he expected that answer. Rainwater drips from the hem of his sweater onto the tile between them in soft, irregular taps. “You said you’re not letting go,” he says.
“I meant it.”
Anthony studies him for another long second.
Then, carefully, he sets the dead bulb down on the counter behind him without looking. The cereal bowl shifts with a quiet scrape as it makes room. His hand comes back, slower this time.
He doesn’t touch Ian right away. He hovers there. Giving him time.
Giving him a choice.
Ian feels his pulse jump.
This is different from instinct. Different from catching someone before they fall. This is deliberate. Visible. Something they can’t pretend is accidental later. “Ian,” Anthony says, very softly.
Ian meets his eyes.
Anthony closes the last inch.
His fingers curl into the front of Ian’s hoodie, not pulling, just anchoring. Like he’s making sure Ian is actually here and not about to retreat into distance or logic or old habits.
The air between them feels thinner.
“You don’t get to run this time,” Anthony murmurs. Ian shakes his head. “I’m not running.”
“You always think you’re not.”
“I’m not,” Ian repeats.
Anthony searches his face again. He’s so close Ian can see the tiny crease that forms between his brows when he’s trying not to hope too hard. “…Okay,” Anthony says. And then he leans forward. Their foreheads touch first. It’s almost nothing. Barely pressure. Barely contact.
It feels like everything.
Ian’s breath stutters. His grip finally shifts- not loosening, but changing- sliding from Anthony’s waist to rest more securely at his back, like he’s choosing to hold him instead of just preventing him from falling.
For a moment, it feels like the world is holding its breath with them.
Foreheads pressed together. Shared air. Shared heat. The quiet realization that there isn’t any joke left to hide behind. Anthony’s fingers tighten slightly in Ian’s hoodie.
Not pulling him in. Just… asking.
Ian answers without words. He tilts his head the smallest amount.
Anthony feels it, that subtle shift, that permission, that decision. His heart kicks hard against his ribs, loud and reckless and impossible to ignore now. “This is a terrible idea,” Anthony whispers.
Ian lets out a soft, uneven breath. “Probably.”
Neither of them moves away.
Another second passes.
Then Anthony closes the distance. It isn’t dramatic. There’s no sweeping motion, no cinematic certainty. It’s hesitant at first, lips brushing Ian’s like he’s testing whether this is real or something that will disappear the second he leans into it.
It doesn’t disappear.
Ian freezes for half a heartbeat. Then he kisses him back. Carefully. Like he’s relearning something he never actually forgot.
Anthony makes a quiet sound- surprised, relieved, something in between- and his hand slides higher, gripping the fabric at Ian’s shoulder now. The dead lightbulb and the unfinished argument and the years of almosts fall away into the soft rush of rain outside.
Ian’s hand spreads against Anthony’s back, pulling him just a fraction closer.
They’re already close.
It still feels like crossing a distance.
The kiss deepens without either of them planning it. Not frantic. Not messy. Just real. Warm and unsure and long overdue. Anthony tilts his head slightly, fitting more comfortably against him, and Ian follows like it’s instinct.
Like it’s always been instinct.
Thunder rolls somewhere far off.
When they finally break apart, it isn’t because they want to. It’s because breathing becomes necessary again. They stay close. Foreheads touching. Eyes not quite meeting yet.
Anthony laughs softly, breathless. “Wow.” Ian huffs out something that might also be a laugh. “Yeah.”
There’s a pause. Then Anthony finally looks at him. There’s fear there, and wonder. Outside, lightning splits the sky. Inside, the kitchen stays dim and quiet and unbearably close.
Anthony doesn’t pull away.
Neither does Ian.