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The gate opened with a mechanical groan that Billy felt in his chest—a sound that marked the threshold between confinement and freedom, between the year that had hollowed him out and whatever waited beyond.
He stepped through slowly, his movements careful and measured, as though his body had forgotten how to navigate space without walls pressing in from all sides. The prison jumpsuit hung loose on his frame, the fabric damp within seconds as rain hammered down from a sky so dark it seemed to swallow the city's ambient light. Street lamps cast harsh halos in the downpour, their reflections fragmenting across puddles that had already begun to flood the cracked pavement.
Billy stood just beyond the gate and felt nothing.
A year. Three hundred sixty-five days of deliberate emotional shutdown, of retreating so far inside himself that the world became a series of mechanical actions performed by a body that no longer felt like his own. He'd survived by becoming numb, by resurrecting the dissociative mechanisms he'd learned in juvenile detention—that careful art of being present without being, of existing without feeling, of breathing without living.
The rain soaked through his jumpsuit, plastering the fabric to his skin, running in rivulets down his face. He should have felt cold. Should have felt the discomfort of being drenched, the relief of open air after a year of recycled ventilation and fluorescent lighting. But there was only the familiar numbness, the protective void he'd wrapped around himself like armor.
Behind him, the gate clanged shut with a finality that should have meant something.
Billy took another step forward, then another, his feet finding purchase on wet concrete. The city stretched out before him—familiar and foreign all at once, a landscape he'd navigated for years but now viewed as though through glass. Somewhere in the distance, sirens wailed. Traffic hummed its endless rhythm. The world had continued without him, indifferent to his absence, and he felt that indifference settle over him like a second skin.
Free, he thought distantly. You're free.
But freedom felt like another word for emptiness.
For a year, he'd had one constant companion in the void: memory. Not the full spectrum of his life with Apollo—that would have been too painful, too dangerous to his carefully maintained numbness—but a single moment, frozen and replayed with obsessive precision.
Apollo's face in that alley. How he held his shirt together, not bothering to button it, but the discomfort and true fear was so obvious in his body language. The way his expression had twisted with betrayal when he'd looked at his father standing beside the officers. The tears that had filled those golden eyes as they'd locked onto Billy's face, as the cuffs had closed around his wrists with cold finality. And behind Apollo, the Warlord—proud, satisfied, convinced he was protecting his son by destroying the thing his son loved most.
Billy had replayed that moment thousands of times. In his cell at night, staring at the ceiling. During meals that tasted like nothing. In the yard, going through the motions of exercise while his mind remained trapped in that alley, watching Apollo's heart break in real time.
I'm sorry, he'd thought at the prince across the distance of memory and confinement. I'm so fucking sorry.
But there had been no word. No visits beyond Vyper's brief, uncomfortable appearances—her attempts at comfort falling flat against the wall Billy had built around himself. No letters. No calls. Nothing from Apollo for an entire year.
Billy had told himself it made sense. That Apollo had moved on, had returned to Ixia, had done what his father demanded and forgotten the anarchist who'd dragged him into danger. That the silence was mercy, a clean break, the kindest thing the prince could offer.
He'd told himself that, and almost believed it.
Now, standing in the rain with the prison gate at his back and the city sprawling before him, Billy felt the first crack in his carefully maintained numbness.
It started small—a flutter in his chest, a quickening of his pulse that had nothing to do with physical exertion. His vision, which had been flat and distant for months, suddenly sharpened with painful clarity. The rain wasn't just water anymore; it was sensation, cold and immediate against his skin. The street lights weren't just illumination; they were harsh and real, cutting through the fog that had insulated him from the world.
And then he saw him.
Apollo stood perhaps thirty feet away, just beyond the reach of the prison's exterior lighting, and he was soaking wet.
The prince's clothes—expensive, well-tailored, the kind of thing he wore when he was trying to blend his royal status with New York practicality—were plastered to his body, his beautiful pale-red skin darkened by rain. His tail hung heavy with water, its usual elegant swish reduced to a slow, weighted movement. He'd been standing there for a while, Billy realized with sudden, devastating clarity. Standing in the downpour, waiting.
For him.
Their eyes met across the distance, and Billy felt the numbness shatter completely.
Everything came rushing back at once—a year's worth of suppressed emotion crashing over him with the force of a tidal wave. Longing so intense it felt like physical pain. Relief that made his knees weak. Love that had been carefully locked away now flooding every part of him until he couldn't breathe, couldn't think, couldn't do anything except feel.
Apollo's expression was open in a way Billy had rarely seen—vulnerable, desperate, filled with something that looked like hope and fear in equal measure. His eyes were wide, reflecting the street lights, and even from this distance, Billy could see the way his chest heaved with rapid breathing.
Billy's feet moved before his mind caught up.
He walked faster, his stride lengthening, the mechanical carefulness of his movements dissolving into urgency. Then he was running—really running, his shoes pounding against wet pavement, water splashing up around him, the rain a constant assault that he barely registered because all he could see was Apollo, all he could focus on was closing the distance between them.
"Billy," Apollo said, and the word was barely audible over the rain and thunder, but Billy heard it anyway—heard the way it broke on a sob, heard the year of separation and longing compressed into two syllables.
Then Apollo was running too, meeting him halfway, and when they collided, it felt like the world realigned.
Billy's arms wrapped around Apollo's body with desperate strength, lifting him off the ground in a grip that was probably too tight, probably painful, but he couldn't make himself loosen it. Apollo's legs came up instinctively, wrapping around Billy's waist, his arms circling Billy's neck, and Billy spun them—once, twice—driven by pure adrenaline and the overwhelming need to confirm that this was real, that Apollo was here, solid and warm despite the rain, here.
Thunder crashed overhead, so loud it seemed to shake the ground beneath them, but Billy didn't care. There was no one else around—just an officer somewhere behind them, retreating into the building, indifferent to their reunion. The world had narrowed to this: Apollo in his arms, Apollo's heartbeat against his chest, Apollo's breath hot against his neck despite the cold rain.
"You're here," Billy managed, his voice rough from disuse and emotion. "You're—Apollo, you're here."
"Of course I'm here," Apollo said, and his voice was thick with tears, with relief, with something fierce and protective. "Did you think I wouldn't be? Did you think I'd let you walk out of there alone?"
Billy couldn't answer. His throat had closed completely, his chest heaving with sobs he'd been holding back for a year. He buried his face against Apollo's shoulder and let himself break, let the tears come hot and fast, mixing with the rain that continued to pour over them both.
Apollo's hands moved to cup Billy's face, pulling back just enough to look at him. The prince's eyes were glossy, tears streaming down his face, but his expression was filled with such fierce tenderness that Billy felt something in his chest crack open completely.
"I love you," Apollo said, the words emerging with absolute certainty. "I never stopped. Not for a single day. Do you understand me? Not for a single day."
Billy tried to respond, but Apollo was already moving—pulling him down into a kiss that felt like coming home.
It was desperate and tender all at once, Apollo's lips moving against his with a hunger that spoke of a year's worth of longing compressed into this single moment. Billy kissed back with equal fervor, his hands tangling in Apollo's wet hair, holding him close as though he might disappear if Billy loosened his grip even slightly.
The rain continued to fall around them, thunder rolling overhead, but Billy barely registered it. There was only Apollo—the taste of him, the feel of him, the absolute certainty of his presence. The kiss deepened, grew more urgent, Apollo's fingers resting at the base of Billy's horns for leverage as he pressed closer, as though he could merge their bodies through sheer force of will.
Time became elastic, meaningless. The kiss could have lasted seconds or hours; Billy had no way to measure it, no desire to try. All he knew was that when they finally broke apart, both of them gasping for air, his lips felt swollen and his heart was racing and he felt alive for the first time in a year.
Apollo laughed—a sound of pure, unrestrained relief that bubbled up from somewhere deep in his chest. It was brief, barely more than a breath, but it transformed his face completely, chasing away the tears and the year of separation and leaving only joy in its wake.
Then he was kissing Billy again, softer this time but no less intense, his hands cradling Billy's face with infinite tenderness.
When they finally separated, Apollo's expression had shifted into something more practical, though the joy remained bright in his eyes. "Come on," he said, his voice slightly breathless. "We need to get out of this rain before we both catch a cold."
He slid down from Billy's arms, his feet finding the ground, but immediately laced their fingers together as though he couldn't bear to break contact completely. He pulled Billy toward a covered bus stop perhaps twenty feet away, the small shelter offering minimal protection but better than standing fully exposed to the downpour.
Under the shelter's roof, with rain drumming overhead and creating a curtain of water around them, Apollo pulled out his phone with his free hand. His other hand remained firmly clasped in Billy's, his thumb rubbing small circles against Billy's palm—a constant, grounding touch.
"I'm calling my chauffeur," Apollo said, already dialing. His tail swished behind him with barely contained excitement, flinging water droplets. "We're going home. Your real home. Your apartment. I've been keeping it maintained—paying the rent, making sure everything's exactly as you left it. I wasn't going to let you come back to nothing."
Billy stared at him, something warm and overwhelming expanding in his chest. "You—you've been paying my rent?"
"Of course I have." Apollo's tone suggested this should have been obvious. "Did you think I'd let them evict you? Let some stranger take over your space?" He pressed the phone to his ear, waiting for the chauffeur to answer, and his expression softened as he looked at Billy. "It's your home. I was just... keeping it safe until you could come back to it."
The call connected, and Apollo's voice shifted into something more composed, though the excitement remained audible beneath his careful pronunciation. "Hi, sorry I called a little later than I had mentioned. Can you come pick me up from the outside of Gate B?" He rattled off his demand, though there was always a gentle nature in the way he spoke to the driver. "As fast as you can. Yes. Thank you."
He ended the call and looked back at Billy, and the smile that spread across his face was radiant despite the rain still dripping from his skin, despite the year of separation that hung between them like a ghost.
"He'll be here in ten minutes," Apollo said. Then, quieter, more vulnerable: "I've been waiting for this moment for three hundred sixty-five days. Counting them. Every single one." His free hand rose to cup Billy's face, his thumb brushing across Billy's cheekbone. "You're really here. You're really free."
"I'm here," Billy confirmed, his voice rough but steady. "I'm—Apollo, I thought—"
"I know." Apollo's expression flickered with pain. "I know what you thought. That I'd abandoned you, been forced to move on. That my father had won." His jaw tightened, something fierce moving through his eyes. "He can't take you away from me, Billy. He never had a chance of winning. I definitely won't be hearing any of his ridiculous demands of my love-life after this unforgivable stunt. I'd never simply let him stand between what we are."
Billy's breath caught, his chest tight with emotion too large to name. He pulled Apollo close again, wrapping his arms around the prince's body, and Apollo came willingly, pressing his face against Billy's chest despite the wet jumpsuit, despite everything.
They stood like that under the shelter, rain falling around them in sheets, the city continuing its endless rhythm beyond their small bubble of reunion. Billy's hand moved to stroke through Apollo's wet hair, the gesture automatic and tender, and he felt Apollo's arms tighten around his waist in response.
"I love you," Billy whispered almost too quietly to hear. "I never stopped either. Even when I thought—even when I tried to convince myself you'd moved on—I never stopped."
Apollo's response was muffled against his chest, but Billy felt it more than heard it: "I know. I always knew."
In the distance, headlights appeared through the rain—the chauffeur's car, arriving with perfect timing. But for just a moment longer, Billy and Apollo remained exactly where they were, holding each other under inadequate shelter, soaking wet and exhausted and more alive than either of them had felt in a year.
The gate was behind them now. The year of separation was ending. And ahead, through the rain and the darkness and the impossible complications that still waited to be addressed, was home.
Together.