Soren shifts the bag on his shoulders for the tenth time in as many minutes. "You took the first left, right?"
Ike's voice crackles on his end. “Yeah. Where are you? I can’t find you.”
“I’m in front of the house with the weird lawn ornaments.”
Soren hears shifting on Ike’s end. “No offence,” he catches him saying, “but all the lawns here have weird ornaments.”
Soren snorts. “Why do you think I want to get out of here? Um.” He looks around for anything else that would identify him. The sun beats down on him and each of the other slightly unnerving lawns in the cul-de-sac. Soren, not for the first time, quietly resents Kurthnaga for starting a neighborhood gnome war.
“There’s a flamingo next to me.”
“...Jump up and down, or something. I’m not sure.”
“I’d sooner die.”
Ike chuckles, and Soren hears it outside his phone speaker this time.
Ike’s pickup slows down to meet him by the sidewalk. He’s leaning out of the driver’s window now (with the air conditioning blasting, Soren notes, that’s just a waste of fuel), and Soren hears the call end on his phone.
“Hey!” Ike yells.
Ike looks like he’s about to say something else, but they make eye contact and his mouth closes. There's a beat where they stand and stare at each other, trying to get used to it again, before the sustained eye contact gets awkward and they both look away and laugh breathlessly.
“You going to stand there all day?” Ike asks.
“Alright, alright.”
Soren jerks a handle, stuffs himself and his bags in the back, and closes the door just as quickly. Ike smiles at him through the rearview mirror in that gentle way Soren missed.
God, the neighbors must think they’re both high. With the way Soren’s chest is twisting, he can’t discredit them.
“Be gentle. This thing’s ancient.” Ike fiddles with the mirrors.
“But if the car breaks down, you might even consider getting a new one. This is a biohazard masquerading as a vehicle.”
“Sentimental value can’t be bought, Soren.”
“But a car where Mist hasn’t thrown up on all the seats before...”
Ike chuckles again, and Soren finds his himself fixed on how Ike’s eyes wrinkle at the edges. He pulls his head away from it.
“Have your seatbelt on?”
“Mm.”
“Alright. Hold on.”
Ike makes a few unsuccessful tries at kick-starting the engine back to life before he starts a little forcefully and they’re off.
Soren's stomach lurches to accommodate as they zip down the road, leaving lines of townhouses in their wake. He makes eye contact with Ike in the rearview mirror and snaps his gaze back just as quickly, jittery.
The sights out the window start to blur into each other. Soren catches his reflection in the glass, tired enough that he can see Almedha’s eyes and Kurthnaga’s nose and Rajaion’s birthmarks in it.
Soren narrows his eyes, and the Almedha in his reflection does the same. It’s profoundly uncomfortable.
He can hear her speaking to him in that stilted way that she usually does as he stares at her. The last time they spoke was two days ago, when Soren was grabbing toiletries from downstairs and ran into her on the way back up. She was in the sitting room, looking dazed.
“You’re almost done packing?” she asked, in the tone of voice that let Soren know he wouldn’t be able to worm his way out of this conversation. He sat across from her.
“I am.” Soren kept himself from shivering under Almedha’s glare. He knew she meant well, but she had a tendency to look intimidating that Soren hadn’t built up a full resistance to yet.
“You have everything?” She asked.
“Yes.”
“Toothbrush?”
“Yes.”
“Laptop?”
“Yes.”
“Spare boxers?”
“ Almedha. ”
She flinched. Soren berated himself. “I’ll be fine,” he pushed. “You’ve spoken to Greil and his family. Ike and Mist are good people, and it’s a safe neighborhood.”
“Right. Yes, thank you.”
He had said the same thing countless times already, but at least it got her to look less openly nervous this time.
Almedha stared out the window overlooking their front yard, as if Ike would arrive two days early if she didn’t keep watch. Soren wasn’t sure if he should want that or not.
“I’m going to sit outside,” he said in lieu of trying to revive the conversation.
Almedha nodded, not taking her eyes from the window. “It’s thirty-five degrees. Did you wear sunblock?”
Soren made a noncommittal noise and put on a baseball cap to delude himself into thinking the sun wasn’t trying to fry him. Judging by the look Kurth gave him when he stepped onto the veranda, he’d failed.
“Soren! How are you?”
Soren’s mouth opened, then closed again. For all his open kindness, Soren never knew how to keep up a conversation with him, either. He sat on the chair across from the hammock Kurth was lying on without a word.
“You’re done packing?”
Soren nodded.
“That’s good. When Raj moved in with Ena, he spent his last two days with us trying to stuff everything he owned into three boxes. It's a good skill to be able to plan ahead!"
The mental image of Rajaion, who’d been nothing but the picture of well-adjusted whenever they met, scrambling to stuff a cardboard box full of knickknacks made Soren huff out a laugh. Kurth sat up straighter.
“I’m glad you have your mother’s wits. As much as I love him, Pelleas had his moments too.”
“It’s hard to see you call Pelleas a kid when he looks ten years older than you.”
“And it’s hard to see you old enough to leave for college at the ripe old age of twelve.”
Soren’s glare only served to make Kurth giggle harder. When he finished wiping the tears from his eyes and Soren finished wondering if his baby face would haunt him forever, Kurth smiled at him with a gentleness that put Soren on guard.
“You know, Pelleas is sweet.”
“I’m sure he is.”
“Soren.”
Soren kept quiet. Kurth leaned sideways and continued. “The day we brought him home, you know, he started calling Almedha his mother. Called me and Raj his uncles. Blood relative or no, he’s precious to us.”
And there it was. Soren bore a hole into his shoes. “Good for him.”
“Soren, I--” Kurth frowned, trying to think his words over carefully. “It doesn’t have to be today, or tomorrow, or-- or ever, if you don’t think you can. That’s okay. Just… we’re your family. And I know we haven’t always been there for you, but I hope you can think of us the same way. We love you, and if you can, or if you want to… remember that. I know that your mother feels the same.”
Soren wanted to be done with this conversation. They’d had it before, and he wasn’t naive enough to think it wouldn’t happen again, but he wanted to throw a tantrum about it all the same. I’m tired of you using me to feel better about yourselves, he could yell. Where were you for the first sixteen years of my life?
It would be pointless, it would end in a screaming match, and it would feel good. Kurthnaga was kind enough, but Soren was anxious to find out when that kindness would wear thin.
Taking the briefest moment to steady himself, he settled for a clean “Thank you, Kurthnaga. I appreciate it.”
Kurth seemed to deflate a little. “Of course, Soren.” he said. He didn’t bring it up for the rest of the day.
The pickup's engine burps, and the sound makes Soren jolt in his seat. He must have been daydreaming for some time-- they’ve made it out of the first cluster of cities, and grass stretches out for miles.
“Is that supposed to happen?” Soren mumbles.
“Eh?”
“The engine just made a noise.”
“Oh,” Ike says. “It does that sometimes. It should be fine.”
“... Should be?” He can’t keep the amusement out of his voice. “Ike, I don’t think there’s a town for miles now. If we get stranded…”
“Ha. I’ll carry you over my shoulder if you get tired.”
“Like a sack of potatoes? I’ll faint from blood rushing to my head.”
“You look like you could use the rest.”
The joke stings. Soren rubs at his eyes. Does he really look that tired?
“I’ll sleep tonight,” he says, because Ike won't leave it alone otherwise. Ike acknowledges it with a grunt.
Ike keeps looking between the road and the rearview mirror, at Soren. Part of Soren wants to scold Ike for bad driving habits, but the rest…
"How have you been?"
Once they both get their bearings and Soren can bear to look Ike in the eye, the next hour or so of the ride is a sort of manic back and forth of how have you been, it’s been so long, how’s everyone at home doing that comes out of both of them in a rush. They’ve been keeping in touch by text and the occasional video call for the past year and a half, but as soon as the shock wore off-- he’s still here, Soren couldn’t stop thinking -- he couldn’t keep himself from talking about anything and everything that came to mind. At some point they’d passed over a pothole and Soren had been leaning so far forward to talk to Ike from the back seat that he’d lurched dangerously close to moving the gear shift.
The good news, at least, is that Ike seems to be just as enthused as he is. Between breaths, he interjects with a comment or a story of his own.
They do eventually run out of things to talk about, though, and the frenzied conversation runs down into a more comfortable silence just as easily. They grab lunch, which consists of McDonald’s ( “Classy,” Soren says while Ike tears into some burger or another) and Soren moves to the passenger’s seat to avoid another near-collision.
Once they’re back on the road, Soren rests his head in his hands and watches shops and upscale houses roll by through his bangs. Every now and again he chances a look at Ike before feeling something uneasy in his stomach and turning back.
"I'm surprised Mist isn't here," he says.
"Yeah. She really wanted to make it, but she has summer classes right now."
They make a turn and listen to the GPS's text to speech mispronounce basic nouns.
"Honestly," Ike continues, "I think she's grateful to have me out of the house. When me and Dad are out, she gets to invite over this girl she's gone nuts over without us barging in."
"Mist is seeing someone?"
That's surprising in and of itself. Ike and his father combined are intimidating enough to glare most people into submission. We don’t mean to do it, Ike had once said, but it’s useful. Mist had been in the background of that particular video call and gave her brother a smack on the head for his trouble.
"I don't think so. Not yet, at least. They've been tiptoeing around each other for so long, even though she's interested in her. It's frustrating to watch, so I’m glad to be out of the house for a while."
Just as he wonders what kind of girl would be able to pine after the perceptive monster that was Mist, Ike speaks up again. "You reminded me, though."
They’re at a red light, and Ike digs through his pocket and tosses him a Starburst. They're barely a foot apart, but somehow Soren fumbles with the receive. He pushes his hair back with his free hand, which promptly falls back over his face.
"That's from her. She says she'll buy a real present once she sees you.” He pauses. “Uh, I will too."
Another wave of anxiety rolls through him.
Greil is a kind man and his family is kinder, but even they would find an outsider living in their house for weeks a burden. Soren had been apartment hunting in the area around his university’s campus (he had seen how Pelleas lived in a dorm and wasn’t impressed), but the only place he could feasibly afford had to have a gas leak and stay quarantined until the middle of September. Weeks after his first classes would have started.
Ike, being fully unable to leave anyone well alone, suggested Soren stay with his family. The conversation had gone something like this:
“Stay with us for the time being.”
“It’s fine.”
“We live near campus, so you wouldn’t have to commute far. I think there’s a shuttle.”
“I’ll be fine, Ike.”
“I was going to come visit after seeing Ranulf anyways. He lives the next city over, right? Might as well bring you with me when I’m coming back home."
“Ike.”
“Yeah, that sounds like a plan.”
“Ike, are you even listening to me?”
Soren pushes it out of his mind. He makes a promise to himself not to stay a second longer than he needs to.
“Mist wanted to know what to get you for a gift,” Ike is saying, and the rest of that sentence hits him belatedly.
“Wait, she remembered my birthday?” Soren blurts out.
“You sound like you’re surprised.”
He really shouldn’t be, but Soren barely remembers it’s coming up himself. He tugs on some rogue strands of hair in his face.
“She-- um, you two don’t need to--” Soren curses himself for getting tongue-tied at a time like this. “Don’t feel obligated to get me anything.”
“We aren’t obligated to do anything. We want to.”
Soren cranes his head to look at Ike fully. He’s still looking at the road, but he has a set to his jaw that Soren knows means he won’t reconsider.
His hair falls back into his line of sight again with the movement, and he shoves it back with a squirm. This time the breeze from the open window blows it right back into his face.
If Ike’s noticed any of… this, he hasn’t said anything about it. Soren’s only good hair tie hangs uselessly stretched out around his wrist-- he belatedly remembers fiddling with it while they were speaking earlier.
The light’s yellow as they approach it. Soren pulls his thoughts in order.
"I need a haircut."
The light goes red and he can feel Ike's eyes on the side of his head. "I thought you liked it long."
"I did. But." But now it feels like he needs to pull it out if it gets any longer.
There's a pause while Ike hums to himself. "If you can’t wait ‘till we get back, we'd have to buy scissors. Or borrow someone else's stuff. I don't keep anything in the car, and I don't think we can afford a salon visit with what we have on us right now."
"And what a spectacle we’d make," Soren turns to face him now, deadpan, "knocking on some poor stranger's door and asking them if we can use their scissors. Not suspicious in the slightest." His lips quirk up at the end, betraying the joke.
Ike laughs quietly. The light goes green again. "Alright, alright. We could buy a pair when we get gas, then."
It's a question-- would you want to -- phrased as a statement. It's almost refreshing after the statements-phrased-as-questions Soren's heard all his life.
He leans back in his seat. "Sounds like a plan."
Soren isn’t a stranger to bad motels, and knows to keep his standards low. Bring bottled water and you could avoid a stroke of misfortune that would end with you bent over a toilet. If you find a curly hair in the bedding, don’t think too hard about it. And sure, there was a chance the room would smell a little like piss, but if you could get used to it then you’d probably gotten your money’s worth.
Ike looks at him with a bugged-out expression that Soren finds a little amusing. “Wait, what was that about a hair?”
“Don’t worry about it.”
The door to their room opens after a few shakes. While they take off their shoes and get unpacked, Soren makes an immediate assessment: no piss smell. Crack in the wall peeking behind a painting, but it doesn’t look serious. His expectations were too low, he supposes.
Soren wasn’t sure at the counter, but it seems that here a “double room” is a room with two twin beds, and not one larger bed. He feels disappointed for a second, then feels disappointed in himself for feeling disappointed. This is exhausting.
“Did you want to shower first?”
Ike looks like he’s claimed the bed by the window-- Soren’s not too interested in a view of a parking lot, anyways-- and he’s rummaging through his bag. Ike is bent in a way that Soren can just see where his hair’s starting to curl at the nape of his neck. He should get it cut soon, but it could look nice long as well.
“Soren?”
Ike’s staring at him. Soren’s face feels uncomfortably warm.
“You can go ahead.”
“Alright.”
Soren feels so unreasonably restless, even the steady sound of the shower running can’t do anything to ease his mind. He checks out the crack in the wall again, smoothes out his sheets, and walks about twenty laps around the room until he eyes the gap between their beds and lets himself feel irritated.
Something has to be wrong with me, he thinks. If he’s at all grateful to his family, he should pretend they’d never left him to rot in the first place. But no, he runs away from his problems at home only to find another in ogling Ike.
He can’t say he’s surprised he has feelings for him (he briefly wonders how long this has gone on for-- maybe as long as they’ve known each other, the thought of which sends a stab of terror down his spine), but it’s somehow so much worse than what he was trying to leave behind. He’s been without a family for long enough, and can stand to tear himself away from them again. But losing Ike… Losing Ike would be…
The door to the bathroom opens, and Soren freezes.
“Shower’s open.”
Ike’s skin is still flushed, something outside of him notes. Soren doesn’t know how he looks right now, but it must be bad because Ike adds “Are-- are you okay?”
Soren grabs a night shirt and briefs from his duffel. “Yes.”
Ike looks like he wants to say something else, but he doesn’t get anything in before Soren’s past him and in the shower. The next twenty minutes become the usual seesaws between existentialism and out-of-body experiences in lukewarm water with the addition of when he very pointedly does not think about Ike’s flushed skin.
By the time he’s dressed, Ike’s face down on his bed. Making as little noise as he can, Soren turns the light out and sits on his own.
“Soren?”
He flinches.
“Soren, I can hear you fidgeting.”
Soren sits on his hands, wincing at how the bed creaks under him.
“Hey.” He can barely make out Ike turning towards him. “Are you really okay?”
“Yes.”
He hates how hoarse his voice sounds, and he knows Ike doesn’t take his bullshit for a minute. “You sound terrible.”
“Drop it. Please.”
“Soren--”
"Ike.” I can’t talk about this right now. “...It’s late.”
Ike stares at him for another terrifying moment. “Okay,” he says, before turning away from Soren again.
Soren’s heart sinks, and he scolds himself. Isn’t this what you wanted to happen?
...Is it?
Soren pulls a blanket over his torso. What does he want to happen?
Soren isn’t naive. Telling Ike how he felt wouldn’t make him love him, even out of pity, and saying anything would only serve to leave him vulnerable. He would rather keep Ike by his side than do anything to change what they have between them.
Ike’s back is just visible in the low light. If Soren puts his arm out, he can imagine how his palm would feel splayed out against it.
“Good night,” he whispers.
Soren pulls himself together into complacency by the next morning. By the time Ike’s awake he’s already showered, bought coffee for the both of them next door, and spent upwards of half an hour trying to corral his hair into something manageable.
“You don’t think the motel could lend us complimentary scissors,” Soren mumbles when he spots Ike in the bathroom mirror. “Or a knife.”
“You could try your luck with a plastic one.”
“Very funny.”
Soren swears up and down that he’s going to die if he has to feel his hair stick to his neck one more time. It had never bothered him this much when he kept it tied up all the time, but that was when he didn’t end up fidgeting with and snapping each hair tie he packed within the span of a day.
But he is fine now, everything is fine. He would be better if his hair didn’t fall in his face every few minutes, but he is fine.
Out the corner of his vision, he sees Ike inch closer. “...How about braiding it?”
“It’ll unravel without a hair tie.”
“Not if you braid it tight. I do it for Mist all the time. Here.”
He reaches for Soren’s hair. Soren feels Ike’s warm hands on his scalp and stroking his cheek and on his shoulders pulling him closer before they’re actually on him, and the prospect of it all is so-- terrifying has to be what it is -- that he slaps his hand away before he can think better of it.
...Ah.
Ike rubs his wrist, staring at it with a weird look on his face. Soren feels his stomach churn.
“Sorry,” Ike says.
“I-It’s fine. I’m sorry, Ike.”
“Don’t apologize. I’m gonna...” Ike makes a vague motion with his hands. “Make sure I didn’t leave anything out.”
“Okay. I’ll be out soon.”
When Ike is gone, Soren leans forward to press his forehead against the mirror, sighing at the feeling of its cool surface on his skin. The cold is good, he thinks. It keeps him grounded. Objective.
The boy that stares back at him is skinny with bags under his eyes. For a moment Soren sees Ike in his place, warm and inviting where the mirror and the boy are cold, and jerks back.
He stands straight again before he can think about it. This is fine, he repeats. Things are fine. He’ll get over himself soon enough. It’s not important. It’s fine.
Soren gives up on trying to get his hair into something manageable and resigns himself to a sweaty neck for the foreseeable future.
Ike is sitting on his bed and staring at the ceiling fan when Soren comes out. I should make conversation to distract from what happened earlier, Soren thinks.
He blurts out “Your coffee.”
Ike yelps and falls back, and Soren belatedly realizes he hadn’t noticed him entering. “Whoa-- huh? What?”
What, indeed? “It’s. Probably cold by now. Unless you drank it.” Soren winces.
“Yeah. I, uh, I did.” Ike holds up one of the take-out cups Soren brought in and shakes it for good measure. “Doesn’t look like you drank yours, though.”
He didn’t. And while Ike took his with milk, bad black coffee would become sludge unattended. Soren grabs his cup from its place on the desk, takes a sip, and-- yeah, that’s disgusting. He downs the rest of it in one go and slams the cup on the desk, covering his mouth with his free hand while his stomach figures out what to do with it.
Ike stares at him for a minute. “...Wow.”
“Better than nothing.”
“Yeah, I-- yeah, I guess.” Ike laughs a little under his breath.
Soren, remembering that caffeine increases anxiety levels, regrets his decision as his pulse starts to race.
They pull up to the gas station just after three, and Soren outlines a plan of attack: Ike fills up on gas and gets them lunch (Soren has his money counted and tucked away to shove in Ike’s hands when they get back), while Soren can snake around the other side of the attached strip mall to raid the dollar store for snacks and anything they might need. They’ll meet back at the parking lot in twenty minutes.
Soren feels lighter. He wonders if he gets the same rush from planning basic tasks that a lot of people get from hard drugs.
The dollar store is quiet. There’s a few people strewn around, mostly teenagers raiding the junk food area, but even they don’t say much above a murmur. The only things that greet him are the hum of the too-bright lights and the cashier, who spares a glance at Soren when he enters before going back to their phone. A printout reading ALL SALES ARE FINAL in a demanding font with clipart of a smiley face below it graces the checkout counter at the front.
No one recognizes him here, Soren thinks, ducking into the aisles. How long has it been since he was unrecognizable? The community around Kurth and Almedha’s was small but close-knit, and Soren would usually be pulled into one conversation or another on his way to the grocery store or to pick up the mail. He’d kept his head down in classes, but transferring later in the year still drew probing questions from classmates. In hindsight, his carefully worded and vague answers only served to egg them on.
Soren gives the stationery isle a sweep. Some nice pens, one of which he eyes for a while. Next aisle, a keychain with a horse on it that he picks up for Mist. But no scissors.
Would the people in Ike’s neighborhood recognize him? He hopes they don’t, because looking back now he can barely remember most faces there outside of Ike’s family. He’s not keen on pretending he knows anyone else.
That’s not a good thing, a voice in his head that sounds too much like Kurth says. Die mad about it, Soren shoots back, before he realizes he’s quite literally arguing with himself. He grabs a pair of scissors without looking at them and checks out before he can dig himself any deeper.
He’s done early, but by the looks of it Ike is done earlier. Soren settles into the passenger seat, next to Ike who’s scarfing down a hot dog at a frankly alarming rate.
“Ike,” he says. “Ike, you’re going to choke.”
Ike makes a few muffled noises that Soren can’t begin to parse, pointing at the take-out bag between them. Soren drops his money into Ike’s hand once they’re done inhaling grease, and Ike grabs the plastic bag Soren brought.
“I got the chips you said you wanted and a keychain for Mist,” Soren says, wiping off with a paper napkin, “and a pair of scissors.”
Ike eyes the scissors’ packaging with a frown.
"...You need another pair of scissors to open this."
What.
Soren grabs the scissors from Ike’s hands and stares at the back of the packaging, and true to life there's a plastic tie poking out with a picture of cartoon scissors next to it.
He hears Ike’s voice but doesn’t move his head. Maybe, some small part of him thinks, if he looks at it long enough the illustration will disappear. Or his eyes will dry out and he’ll go blind. Whatever comes first.
“Soren? Soren, you there?”
“Yes, I’m here.” Soren doesn’t look away from the package, holding it up to the light. Or maybe there’s a hidden cipher that can open it if you shine light through it, like in mystery novels.
Ike’s eyes follow his hands. Soren feels a buzz under his skin where Ike bores into him and shoves the package back down into the bag.
"We might be able to return it,” Ike says.
Soren thinks back to the accursed clipart man from the front register. “No refunds.”
“Oh. That, uh. That sucks.”
“...It does.”
“Did they have any others?”
“Don't think so. Doesn’t matter.”
Soren stares at the plastic bag at his feet. It’s a waste of money, sure, but he’s fortunate enough that three dollars isn’t too much at the moment. And… And…
He goes into a coughing fit.
“Soren! Are you okay?!” Ike’s arms are around him in an instant, trying to keep Soren steady where he’s doubled over wheezing in sort of painful laughter.
“Yes, I’m--” Soren goes into another series of wheezy cough-laughs-- “I’m fine, Ike. Give me, um, give me a moment--” Soren’s pretty sure he qualifies for a hysteria diagnosis.
He forgets how long it’s been since he’s laughed so deeply. It’s sort of nice and uncomfortable at the same time. Ike’s arms don’t leave his shoulders, even as he stops laughing.
Soren catches his breath, breathing in and out without speaking. He can see Ike smiling, a little confused, out of the corner of his eye and can’t find the will to push his arms off of his shoulders.
“Sorry. I, um. I was thinking about how ridiculous this whole situation is,” he says.
It’s also not particularly funny in the first place, which makes Soren look like a maniac. He’s fairly certain a block of wood would have made him break out into hysterics the same way.
Well. To be fair, this is terrible.
“...It’s pretty weird,” Ike is saying. “What’re you supposed to do to open it if you don’t already own scissors?”
“I don’t know. Maybe you can bite it off.”
“You can try that.”
Soren huffs out a laugh again. Ike squeezes his shoulder, and Soren can feel the current from his touch spread across his shoulders and chest. The feeling is washed out of him by dread just as quickly.
Soren’s practical reasons for not making himself get over this yet are starting to feel more like excuses with every step he takes. It’s irritating. He can’t make any real progress to become a useful human being at this rate, losing it over a pair of scissors. What if he gets left behind and loses Almedha’s family for it? Loses Greil, or Mist, or Ike?
This needs to end now , he thinks.
“Ike, I… Can I...”
And almost immediately, his resolve cracks under panic.
Soren’s throat feels dry. Ike’s eyes bore into where his fingers tap his thigh, so he curls them into a fist to make them stop moving. His nails press distracting circles into his palm.
Ike pulls off of him. Soren runs a few scenarios in his head: Maybe I breathed on him. Or I’m too cold. Or he could tell how much I wanted to lean in and--
“Do you want to think about it?” Ike says.
Soren feels flustered. “Think about what?”
“The, uh. Whatever you wanted to say.”
Soren frowns and watches Ike scratch his neck. A nervous tic. “It sounds like something important. And I know you don’t like when stuff doesn’t happen the way you want it to.”
I don’t know what kind of stuff you’re talking about, Soren thinks, and I can’t decide whether I want to know more of what you think of me or not.
Ike is staring at him, probably expecting a response.
“Can we…”
The words Soren needs to say are lodged in his throat. He isn’t sure if he’d cough again or throw up if he tried to pull them out by force. He swallows them back down where they swim and curl unpleasantly in his gut.
“I’ll tell you before we go to bed,” he says instead.
Ike nods quietly. Sealing his fate like this makes Soren feel vaguely uneasy, which isn’t helped by how Ike’s eyes dart to and away from him for the rest of the ride.
He puts it off for as long as he can.
It’s late enough when they clock into their room for the night that Soren can hear the crickets and cicadas buzzing outside, and the dissonance gives him a headache. Soren watches Ike take his shoes off, set his bag on his bed, open his mouth--
Soren interrupts. “I’ll be taking a shower.”
Ike’s mouth closes and he nods without saying anything. Soren grabs a t-shirt and briefs from his bag before he can think to say anything else and all but bolts into the attached washroom.
Soren knows he’s testing his luck and Ike’s patience. He hates it, and he hates himself for doing it. But every time he thinks of actually speaking to Ike about what’s on his mind, it feels more like he’ll combust before he gets the first sentence out.
I have to move forward, Soren repeats over and over in his head, turning off the water and toweling off.
The tips of his fingers have shriveled up, he notes absently. The pads of them rub together, and the feeling is thrillingly unfamiliar. His hand moves up, wrinkled and foreign fingertips skimming his arm, leaving goosebumps until they reach his chest and curl into a fist.
He swallows. Now or never.
Ike’s lying back on his bed, legs dangling off the edge. Soren sits next to him without speaking. Ike’s head turns to face him, and his face feels unreasonably close to Soren’s hand. He briefly entertains the thought of running his hand through his hair, just to see how soft it really is, and digs his fingers into the mattress to push the electric feeling out of them.
“Ike.”
“Soren.”
Ike’s stare is probing.
“I don’t know where to start,” Soren says honestly.
Ike sits up. “Start with this. Are… Are you okay?”
“I should be.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“It is.”
“Soren.”
“Sorry. Um.”
“No, don’t apologize.” Ike runs a hand through his hair. “This is coming out all wrong.”
Ike’s eyes are unfocused, like he’s trying to figure out the best thing to say in the moment. It doesn’t suit him.
Soren’s too used to his brand of brash honesty, refreshing at times and jarring at others. This is more like something Soren would do, and even then not with Ike. Never with Ike.
“Why are you still here?”
Ike looks up to face him. “Soren…?”
“You didn’t have to let me stay with you. And even then, I could have packed lighter and taken the train on my own or-- or something. You didn’t need to bring me there. You shouldn’t have.”
Ike’s lips press together. “I wanted to.”
“Why?”
“Do I have to have a reason to want to?”
Soren leans in. “Yes. Why are you still here?” Why are you still with me?
“Because I want to be!”
“Why do you want to be here, then?”
“Why can’t I just want to?”
“Why should you want to? Why do you care?”
“Because I care about you!”
“You-- what?”
Ike looks away for a moment, frustrated, before meeting Soren's eyes full force. “Soren,” he says, “I’m in love with you.”
Soren’s veins go cold.
“...What?” he says, weaker this time.
“I’m in love with you, Soren, and-- and I think I have been. For a really long time. I, um.” Ike’s eyes dart away from him. “I... really… want... to be next to you. That’s why.”
The ice in Soren’s veins starts to burn. Oh no. Oh no, oh no, oh no, no, no.
He lunges and grabs Ike’s collar, holding tight enough that his knuckles start to turn white.
“Cut the bullshit,” he says.
Ike pushes him away, but Soren’s hands stay fisted in his shirt. “Soren, what-- what are--”
“Don’t lie to me, Ike!”
“Why would I lie to you?” Ike’s eyes grow a little hard, and Soren feels his heart twist before the ice takes it over again.
“I’m not stupid. I know you’re better than this.”
“Better than what, Soren?” Ike’s hands curl around his wrists.
“Better than to… to…”
Soren’s mouth moulds around sounds and words and sentences that he can’t seem to fit together anymore, and it’s in this moment he feels Ike shaking through his shirt and around his wrists. He grips harder.
"I don't appreciate pity," Soren says evenly.
"It's not pity."
"Then what?"
"It's like-- it's this feeling that I want to think of my future with you in it. And that I… I…" Ike grimaces. "I can't explain it. Listen, you don't have to feel the same way. Okay? I just wanted you to know. That's why I'm here."
Ike's cheeks are pink, frustrated as he sounds, and the tension goes out of Soren's body all at once. He drops his hands into his lap, feeling something stir in his stomach.
“Sorry. Ike, I… I’m so sorry.” Soren curls in on himself. “For pressuring you, and reacting poorly.”
“...Thanks. Um, sorry for telling you.”
“No, don’t apologize. Please. I’m the one who-- who lashed out. Just…” He sits up to meet Ike’s eyes. “Can you give me some time? To give you a real answer.”
“Yeah, you can-- yeah.”
“Not forever. Just. Some time to process it. I’ll tell you soon.”
It’s more for his own sake-- he knows without a deadline, he’ll push it back and put off thinking about it-- but Ike nods along all the same, and neither of them say anything for a minute or so after that.
It’s awkward. Ike keeps glancing at him before looking away.
“Are you too tired--”
“Do you want to--”
Soren cuts himself off. Ike coughs into his fist to do the same.
“Don’t do that,” Soren says without thinking.
Ike blinks. “Huh?”
“Don’t, um.” Soren mimes coughing into his fist. “It’s better to cough into your elbow.”
Ike stares at him for a solid few seconds where Soren tries to rack his words for what might have been offensive, before Ike starts laughing under his breath. Soren wants to touch where it reaches his eyes.
“Ike?”
He looks up to meet Soren’s gaze. “This feels sort of stupid,” Ike says with an uncharacteristic grin on his face.
“It does.” Soren joins him, huffing out a little laugh before swallowing it back down again. He can feel Ike’s gaze on him, weighted.
Without a warning, Ike leans forward to rest his head on Soren’s shoulder. Past the initial rush of thunder and lightning in his veins that makes him stiffen up for a moment, it feels… nice. Soren carefully tilts his head to rest on Ike’s.
“I’m bony, Ike,” he murmurs into his hair. “That can’t be comfortable for you.”
“I think it’s alright. What’s that massage where they just poke people? It’s like that.” Soren can feel Ike’s lips brush against his shoulder when he speaks, and he swallows down a shudder with an uncomfortable warmth to his face.
Well. One thing at a time.
“That’s acupuncture. It breaks skin with needles.”
“Really? Doesn’t that hurt?”
“I’ve heard it’s quite relaxing if done right. Something about stimulating pressure points.”
“Hmm.”
“ Hmm,” Soren parrots back.
Ike weakly bats at his arm for the trouble. Soren bats him back and rests an arm on his bicep, smiling a little.
“We haven’t done something like this in a while,” Ike says after a minute or two of silence.
“I can’t remember the last time we did. How old were we?”
“Really little, I think."
“...This is nice.”
“It is.”
Ike yawns against his neck, and the puff of warm air against it is unbearably pleasant in a way that shoots power back into his blood. Soren pushes off of him as elegantly as possible.
“It’s late.” Soren rubs at the warmth still under the skin of his neck. “We should sleep.”
“Mm.” Ike yawns again. “Good night, Soren.”
“Good night, Ike.”
Soren’s chest feels light that night, staring up at the ceiling while Ike snores in the other bed. The warmth under his skin hasn’t left him yet, like some kind of bruise. And scarier yet, he wants to keep that feeling inside himself for as long as he can.
The same way it took some time to call Ike his friend all those years ago, it takes a little more time for Soren to reconcile Ike, his friend with Ike, who tells Soren he loves him as the same person. For his part, Ike doesn't act any differently the next morning save for giving Soren a barely-there smile whenever they make eye contact. It all feels like something out of Soren’s wildest fantasies, and the feeling it inspires is equal parts thrilling and unbearable.
Soren comes out of the washroom that morning, about to tell Ike the shower’s open, when he sees him on the phone with someone.
“Hello?” Ike says. A pause, then he leans back. “Hi, Dad.”
Soren leans against the door frame, watching Ike speak to his father. He speaks quietly, and Soren isn’t particularly interested in being caught eavesdropping, so instead he watches the tension in Ike’s frame dissolve as he talks. He chuckles, quiet but easily, between what Soren assumes are anecdotes on the other end.
Soren’s mind wanders to the stilted and few conversations he’s had with his birth family. He hasn’t seen Almedha laugh in the year and a half he’s lived with her.
Their unhappiness is their problem, he reminds himself through the twist in his gut. Some better half of him thinks that if Ike had thought of him the same way, they wouldn’t be here right now.
Ike hangs up. Soren quietly envies how content he looks. He clears his throat.
“Shower’s open.”
Ike nods. “Mist took the line for a sec,” he says, tapping at his phone. “She wants to know what kind of cake to buy you tomorrow.”
“Don’t buy a cake. It’s fine.”
“If you say that, she’ll just try to bake one. Do you want food poisoning?”
Soren grimaces. “...Something with strawberries."
“There you go. Cheesecake or shortcake?”
“Whatever’s cheaper.”
“Careful, you might tempt her to bake again.”
“Now that’s just intentionally threatening.”
“I learned from the best.”
Ike’s smug look and praise are too much for Soren to deal with at eight in the morning, so he takes an interest in the carpet below them instead. There’s a bizarre stain tucked underneath a table leg. He looks somewhere else.
“Mist told me something else,” Ike says, making Soren’s head snap up again.
“Huh?”
“There’s a, uh, meteor shower tonight. Peak of the season, apparently.”
“A meteor shower.”
“Yeah, comes this time every year. She called it ‘incredible and amazing’.”
“Those mean the same thing.”
“Her words, not mine.”
Soren hums. “I didn’t think she was interested in astronomy.”
“Neither did I, but when I asked her about it she exploded. She said--” Ike doesn’t change his deadpan inflection, so it takes Soren a moment to realize he’s quoting his sister-- “ Are you really gonna let it slip by? This stuff doesn't happen every day, you know!"
Soren can see her saying it, hands on her hips and all. If it wasn’t sort of funny, he would have sympathy for Ike having incurred her wrath.
“So? Would you want to watch it?” he prompts.
Ike blinks like he’s just now considering it. “I guess, but I don’t know if we could.”
“It’s still possible to appreciate the meteor shower without knowing how it works.”
“No, I mean what time we'll have to pull over.”
“Oh.”
Ike smiles a little at him again. It’s sweet enough that Soren feels another pang of nervousness. His brain is very unhelpfully filling the silence with Ike’s I’m in love with you over and over.
“I’ll text Mist about it,” Ike says.
“Alright. The shower’s open when you’re ready.”
“Thanks. Also, uh, do you mind if I give her your number?”
Soren raises his eyebrows. “I don’t mind, but why?”
“She wouldn’t tell me. You two have plans?”
“We established that I like men a long time ago, Ike.”
Ike snorts. “You know that’s not what I meant.”
“Don't worry, I won't steal your sister away from you.” He taps his chin with his index finger a few times. “Besides, I'm sure she's otherwise preoccupied with that girl she likes as we speak."
Ike glares at him halfheartedly, and Soren has to hide the beginnings of a smile behind his fist.
"I'm going to shower," Ike says, getting up.
"Okay. We'll leave at twenty to nine. I can drive."
Ike frowns. "You know how to drive?"
"No, I'm offering so I can crash your car with the both of us inside. Yes, I learned how to drive, Ike, and I know you could use the rest."
Ike opens his mouth to say something, then closes it again when Soren points at his eye.
“I didn’t realize I still do that,” Ike says, touching his twitching eye self-consciously.
“Mm. Take a break.”
“I could say the same thing to you.”
“Ike.”
He relents. “Fine, but be gentle with the car.”
“I will. Even if I need to give you an incentive to buy a new one.”
“I told you about sentimental value, right?”
“Yes, of course. Now go shower.”
The rest of the morning is uneventful. Soren’s a much more attentive (read: inexperienced) driver than Ike is, so when they bother to make conversation it’s in the form of short questions from Ike and hums or one word answers from Soren.
It’s peaceful. Soren relaxes despite himself.
When noon rolls around, Soren pulls up to a fast food restaurant masquerading as a diner without saying anything. The fluorescent lights inside buzz a little too loud, weaving in and out of tune with the radio.
The waitress who shows them to their booth looks like she’s about to fall asleep standing. Soren thinks he wouldn’t be able to get much sleep either if he had to listen to this for hours on end.
“I’ve been here before,” Ike says, skimming a menu. “It’s good.”
“Really?”
“Food’s good, at least. Try this with the coffee.”
The warm food and warm company serve to let the radio and lights fade into the background.
Soren’s stomach is full enough to be numb afterwards, and their receipt total rattles around in his mind as they leave. Their budget for the trip was already tight, but Soren had to stretch it a little farther for this meal. And they still have dinner tonight and breakfast tomorrow to consider.
We could skip coffee tomorrow, he dares to think. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Ike sigh in relief after taking a sip from his takeaway cup and dashes that thought from his mind. Soren can pay any emergency expenses out of pocket. Probably.
Putting his mind off it for now, he holds his hand out. “Give me your cup if you’re done. I can go throw it out for… you…”
He knows Ike’s noticed the black smudges on his hand too. With a sort of abject horror, he follows his gaze to the smudged phone number on the cup he’s holding.
“Huh,” Ike says.
Huh, Soren thinks.
He remembers ordering for them both, lunch and coffee. When their waitress, one considerably more energized than the woman who seated them, came by with their coaster, she placed it on the table with a wink. It feels sort of obvious in hindsight, but Soren was lost in an anecdote Ike was telling about Boyd snorting milk out of his nose. (The story itself was about as complex as it sounds, but Ike’s delivery kept Soren on the edge of his seat.)
“Which one of us d’you think it was for?” Ike says. He has a look on his face that Soren doesn’t know how to decipher.
“You, obviously,” Soren says drily. “Congratulations. Your life as a straight man would have been a successful one.”
“But she wrote that on the cup with black coffee.”
“Yes, mine. But I didn’t specify which was for who, so she must have… assumed.”
“Hey. Do I look like someone who doesn’t like enjoying coffee?”
“I’ll have you know, good coffee can be very aromatic if you don’t add… any…” The look that Ike is giving him is unbearably fond and clues him in that he’s being teased at the same time.
Soren sighs and leans back, drained already. “It was for you, Ike. You’re more attractive.”
“...Thanks?”
Soren belatedly realizes he said that out loud. His brain scrambles to save himself.
“Conventionally attractive. You’re…” Incredible. Unreasonably handsome. The kindest person I’ve ever met. “You’re tall.”
“I’m tall.”
“You are. Relatively speaking.” Soren fiddles with the rearview mirror to give his hands something to do.
“I guess," Ike says. "But you look good too.”
Soren hears sirens in the distance. “Eh?”
“Your face is really pretty. And your voice is smooth. It’s nice.”
“...”
“So I still think she was hitting on you. Which isn't something to be proud of, I guess, but it's something."
“...”
“...Soren?”
Soren starts the car a little forcefully, his face burning. “We should get going.”
“Alright. Uh.”
Ike's face out the corner of his eye looks just as red as Soren’s feels. Soren shifts gears and stares at the stick for a moment.
“Thanks,” Soren says, not taking his eyes off from his hand. “For the compliment. For what it’s worth, I... think your voice is nice too. It’s soothing.”
Soren hears Ike’s breath hitch, and his eyes look up at Ike’s face without thinking. The look Ike is giving him is a little too vulnerable in its softness and Soren indulges the eye contact for a moment, feeling his ears burn. It feels unreal that this is a look directed at him, and no one else.
Then Soren leans too much weight on his hand, and the click of the gear shift snaps them both out of it. He fixes the gear back to reverse and tears his eyes back to the rearview mirrors, trying to squeeze the jittery feeling out of his veins and into the steering wheel. He can just see Ike cough, into his elbow this time.
“Good, you learned.” Soren murmurs. He barely registers Ike’s little huff before they’re off.
One thing Soren thinks he likes about driving is that, if he wants it to, it takes all of his attention without making him feel like he’s wasting time. Watch for trucks behind you, check your speed, go slower and brake more often when you pass through towns. His eyes go from the road to the mirrors and back to the road while doggedly not absorbing the sights (grass, the occasional small town or farm) or thinking about anything of substance.
He didn’t think he’d like not having his wits about him, but it keeps his mind off of things. Ike is quiet but very present next to him, and when Soren finds his thoughts going to Ike’s confession and his heart racing he can snap them back to the road where they’re safe. Time passes by the shuffling of Ike in his seat and the sun in the sky.
Pulling into the parking lot of their lodgings for the night is just as quiet of an affair as the drive there, so Soren can feel his voice crack with disuse when he asks Ike about the meteor shower.
“Um,” Ike says, pulling out his phone and scrolling, “It’s supposed to start around 11:30.”
“What time is it now?”
“Eleven.”
“Oh. We’ll cut it close, but we should get settled in a room before setting up.”
"Setting up? Can't we just sit out and watch?"
"Grass stains, Ike."
Setting up ends up being a towel Soren packed and scrolling through Ike’s phone, which has some sort of star chart on it from Mist. It takes long enough that it’s eleven-twenty, and you have a leaf in your hair when they settle in. Ike’s fingertips brushing his scalp leave his face feeling warm in a way that Soren hopes isn’t visible in the moonlight.
“It’s clear out here,” Ike says. “We should be able to see it.”
“I’m surprised you’re even interested in this. We didn’t stop for the tourist traps, but a meteor shower catches your eye?”
“You can’t see this stuff every day. I wanted to see it with you.” Ike scratches the back of his neck. “And Mist is going to bug me about it.”
Soren is acutely aware that the buzzing under his skin is back. “You can’t see the world’s largest axe every day, either,” he says.
“You know what I mean.”
“Of course.”
Ike leans back, putting his weight on his hands. Soren watches the shape of them make and smooth out creases in the towel underneath.
“Have you ever…” Ike starts.
Soren looks up at Ike’s face. He’s staring resolutely ahead.
“Have I ever what?”
“Have you ever-- seen a meteor shower before?”
He doesn’t like the weight behind Ike’s words. “I’ve never bothered,” he tells him honestly.
He almost did, once. He remembers Kurthnaga, Almedha behind him, offering to go for a walk and to show Soren some constellations. The constellations halfway across the world are different than the ones here, Kurth had said, even though we're all looking up at the same sky. Isn’t that nice?
Soren’s being there was a fresh wound. He yelled Don’t bother tolerating me if you never meant to, slammed his door and kept his weight on it until he could hear their footsteps leaving.
“I don’t think we’ll be able to see much,” Soren mumbles. “The smog’s lighter here than where Almedha and Kurthnaga live, but it’s still…”
“Still what?”
Soren can see Ike look at him out of the corner of his eye.
“Have you ever seen a meteor shower before?” Soren asks instead.
“It’s my first time too.”
"Oh?"
"Yeah. Mist used to drag me and Dad out to watch the stars or eclipses, but never a meteor shower."
"That sounds exhausting."
"It was," Ike says. "But it was good."
They both stare ahead for another few moments.
"Soren?"
"What is it?"
"Are you okay?"
Soren swallows. The sky stares back at him, unmoving and unflinching. "You've been asking that a lot."
"Because I want to know."
"But that's a loaded question, Ike. What… specifically?"
"You've just been really-- really cagey these past few days. I'm worried about you."
The rush of being worried over so genuinely overcomes Soren for a moment, and he struggles to think over a tidal wave of fondness. Ike saves him from having to respond by continuing.
"Is your family okay? Have they been treating you alright? You haven't said anything about them since you moved in, and I don't want them to have been--
"--like my father." Soren finishes. "Well, they aren't. You know how my father was, um."
"An asshole," Ike offers.
Soren feels himself soften a bit. "An asshole. I'm glad he's gone. My mother's side of the family is… nicer, at least."
"That's a low bar, you know."
Ike knows better than anyone what his father was like. It was Ike and his family that housed him for days on end whenever he needed to get out of the house. And it was Ike and his family who helped him pack and prepare to move in with family he even didn't know he had until his father finally keeled over and died a year and a half ago.
"It is," Soren says. "But they really are nice. They're... good people."
"You don't talk about them like they are."
Soren stares at the sky, still unyielding.
"...Soren?"
It's almost intimidating. Soren feels meaningless in the face of it.
"They're nice," Soren says. He's speaking quickly to keep from regretting it. "They're too nice. They're so nice that I don't know what to do with it. I have to keep them at arm's length so I-- I--"
Ike leaves a palm flat on his back, and Soren lets out a shaky breath. He leans into the touch.
"I don't know, Ike," he says. "At first I thought it was for the best that I don't get too close. I thought-- I thought that when they leave me again, it won't hurt as much."
His voice grows thin enough to break at the end. Ike's hand leaves his back and he misses the contact until it slips around Soren's palm, the implications of which leave his heart to jump in his throat.
Ike squeezes his hand without saying anything. Soren has to clear his throat before he can push sound out of it.
“They told me everything. My mother didn’t have a choice about whether or not to leave that house without me. But still, I’m-- my father’s in the ground now, and we should be past this, but it still feels like he’s here.”
“Soren, you--”
“I hate it,” Soren says. "I can't take it. Almedha, Kurth and the rest of them-- they want me to be a part of their family, and I’m too much of a coward to..."
"You don't have to, you know." Ike blurts out. "You don't have to do anything you don't want to. And you always have a family in us anyways."
Soren gives a weak little grin, going for wicked and ending more in the ballpark of tired. "You sound like me."
"I... guess I do." Ike looks a little dumbfounded.
"You've been spending too much time with me."
"I like spending time with you, though."
"Yes, I know. I do too."
It's always felt obvious in the back of his mind, but putting it in words makes it feel-- more real, somehow. Soren shakes his head before continuing. "And I know that I'm not obligated to really feel anything for them. But I wasn't obligated to enjoy your company either, and I... enjoy it all the same."
Ike looks lost in thought. Soren gives into the temptation to reach up and smooth out the crease in Ike's brow with the pad of his thumb. Ike jolts in response, and he pulls that hand away just as quickly.
"Sorry."
"No, it-- you took me by surprise. It's fine." Ike's voice sounds a little breathless, and Soren watches him get his thoughts in order before he speaks again with an odd look on his face.
"What are you going to do?" he says.
"I don't know. All I know is that-- I think I want to know them more. I want them to mean something to me. More than strangers."
Ike looks him in the eyes. "Soren," he says, "I think they already mean a lot to you."
He's right. Of course.
"What am I supposed to do, then?" Soren asks, frustrated.
Soren has always seen charming people as something routine. Some flattery, steering conversations towards what interested them, and you could win a person's favour deceptively easily. But talking about something like this, he has no idea where to start or where they'll end. Even with Ike, he's been taking it as it goes. It's unreasonably nerve-wracking. He resists the urge to wipe off his sweaty palms on his pants.
(He finds a little bit of solace in how Ike’s hand feels sweaty as well. Letting go of it is proving difficult to do.)
"I don't think I can answer that for you. Just do what feels right."
Soren grimaces. "I can't tell if that's good advice or if you're bullshitting me."
"It's advice. You don't have to try to make it perfect, so long as you're sincere.” Ike looks to the side. “Uh, I think."
"You think?" Soren's voice tilts up at the end, teasing. Ike frowns.
"I can't say it for sure. But if they don't want to take you if you're honest, then I don't think they deserve you trying."
Ike says things like that so easily. He'll say them completely nonchalant, like they're the most obvious statements in the world. Privately, Soren finds his brand of bluntness charming.
"Thank you," he says quietly.
Before he can think better of it, Soren leans to the side to rest his head on Ike’s shoulder. The warm flush that answers him makes him swallow a shiver.
“The stars look nice tonight,” Ike says. His voice sounds a little strained again.
“They do.”
Ike’s hand is loose in his. Soren draws circles around his knuckles, staring straight ahead.
The thing that ties them together has gone fragile, and Soren’s terrified of breaking it. But he knows Ike appreciates the direct approach. And Soren can’t find the patience he used to have to dance around it for very long.
“...Ike,” he starts.
“Soren.”
Soren’s throat goes dry. He wonders if Ike likes to say his name like that as much as Soren likes hearing it.
His thoughts are scrambled for a minute, and Soren abandons what would be an awful confession dying in his mouth.
“Can I try something?” he says instead.
Ike’s brows knit together. “Sure.”
Slowly, as carefully as he dares, Soren tugs off of Ike and turns to face him, pulling himself forward.
“Tell me if you want me to stop.”
Ike nods.
Soren lets himself fall the rest of the way forward until their foreheads touch. This close, he can see each of Ike’s eyelashes. Soren’s hands are trembling, so he brings the one not holding Ike’s up to cup his cheek in an attempt to still it.
He hears Ike’s breath hitch. Was that bad? This was a mistake. He’s about to pull away and apologize when Ike leans into the touch.
...Oh.
Ike’s eyes close. Soren’s thumb brushes an eyelid in slow, repetitive motions, and Ike doesn’t stop him. He can't hear anything over the sound of his own heart beating as he leaves a kiss on the corner of Ike’s mouth.
He pulls off of him just as quickly, searching Ike’s face for any sign of discomfort, or pain, or disgust or-- or something he still can’t help but feel is inevitable, but nothing comes. Instead, Ike’s eyes crack open to stare at him.
The anticipation thrumming in his veins overwhelms the worry Soren feels. Ike’s voice is quiet when he speaks again.
“Can you do that again?”
Soren’s heart skyrockets. “Yes, Ike.”
He's still terrified when he kisses him this time, but he doesn’t want it to stop for a second.
When he does pull away, he can feel Ike’s arm at the small of his back pulling him closer. He lets his own hand drop to the nape of Ike’s neck and traces circles into the skin there. They’re too close for Soren to study Ike’s face like he always stopped himself from doing, but he can’t tear himself away from Ike’s warmth to do so.
"I-- I don't know if there's anything left of me to love," Soren whispers. "But, um…"
"There is," Ike says, with enough confidence that Soren has to shudder and close his eyes.
Ike pulls him in closer. Soren sets his head on his shoulder.
“Thank you, Ike, for… Thank you.”
“It’s okay. I know you’d do the same thing for me.”
“Yes. If you’ll let me.”
“...I’ll do my best.”
Soren smiles against his pulse. “I will too.”
Soren’s phone buzzes in his pocket and he jolts out of his skin. He’s suddenly very aware of Ike’s heart beating against his, his skin under his fingers, and the arm at his back. It’s not... bad per se, but it’s overwhelming, so he straightens up to pull his phone out of his pocket.
It's from Mist:
Happy birthday soren!!!! ♥♥♥
He looks up to the top of his screen to check: it's 12 AM. There's a message consisting of nothing but a few boxes with question marks that comes after it, which Soren assumes are emoticons his phone can't parse.
Thank you. You should be asleep, though.
So should you!!!! >:(
you virgo
Ike laughs huffs a laugh, reading their texts before Soren saves the contact. His arm snakes around Soren again, and he leans into the touch a little slower this time.
“Happy birthday.”
“Thank you. Do you know what she means by, um...” Soren gestures to the word virgo on his screen.
“No idea.”
“Ah… Huh.”
This is ridiculous. And Soren can still feel his heart beating through his chest despite the conversation.
Soren meets Ike's eyes, watches Ike’s face soften. He can’t keep a matching expression off his own face and in the moment thinks that he doesn’t want to try.
They both laugh again, quiet and breathless, and some part of Soren thinks he could float away if Ike’s touch didn't keep him tethered down.
Ike puts his hand on Soren’s cheek in the midst of it. It’s a question, and Soren answers by pulling him in for another kiss. They end up missing the incredible and amazing meteor shower, but Soren can’t find it in him to care.
Soren falls asleep that night with his arms wrapped around Ike and Ike’s arms wrapped around him, curled into the back of his nightshirt. He doesn’t dream.
Soren wakes up slowly. He feels the rise and fall of Ike’s chest for a while before wriggling off him to check the time on his phone: Five-thirty.
“Mmgh,” Ike says.
“Go back to sleep,” Soren tells him. “I’ll wake you up later.”
“Mm,” Ike says again, ever the eloquent one, before burrowing into the sheets. Soren stares at him for a moment before brushing a kiss on his head, just above his ear.
It still feels strange to do that. He still feels that same electricity under his skin when Ike touches him, but it’s more subdued, and accompanied by a slow happiness he doesn’t really know how to process. It stays with him when he leaves the bed and changes into day clothes, and keeps itself known even as Soren steps outside.
Soren’s not sure if he can get used to it. But it’s all… nice.
The sun rises over the sidewalk, and he watches the streaks of pink in the sky without worry. The wind is gentle enough that it doesn't blow his hair into his face.
It's very nice.
This feeling of nice is foreign enough to border on uncomfortable. He wouldn’t trade it for anything, not for a thousand lifetimes, but he can still expect a familiar twist of guilt to rise into his throat.
Do I deserve this? it asks, prodding at him. Well, does he deserve any of this? Why is he the one who can see Ike like this, can kiss him, can touch him, can say he loves him and expect him to feel the same?
He thinks back to Ike’s confession: I want to be next to you. Without hesitating, Soren thinks I want to be next to you too. He repeats it over and over until his eyes stop stinging.
Remembering what he came out to do, he pulls his phone from his pocket and scrolls to the Kurthnaga/Almedha - Landline contact to stare at it. His thumb hovers over the name for a second.
"Doesn't have to be perfect, just sincere," he murmurs.
He stares at it for a little while longer, feeling the weight of indecision, before stuffing it back into his pockets.
Not now. Not yet. Not until he knows he won't falter.
...He's starting to sound like Ike.
Soren doesn't take as much care to be quiet when he goes back into their room, and Ike is sitting upright by the time Soren shucks off his shoes and socks.
"It's still early," he says.
Ike yawns. "But you're dressed already. Hold on."
He makes to get out of bed, but Soren stops him with a hand on his shoulder.
"Ike. It's fine. You can sleep in for another hour at least. We'll make it back before two."
Ike doesn't look like he's going to listen, so without another word Soren pulls back the sheets and lies down next to him.
"Get some rest," he tells the ceiling.
Soren can feel the weight next to him shift as he lies down next to him.
Ike's hand tugs at Soren's wrist under the covers. His thumb brushes his palm, and the point of contact makes Soren’s face heat up.
"Good morning," Ike murmurs.
Soren turns to face him, his other hand pulling Ike closer.
"Good morning," Soren says.
The rest is good. Better with Ike there. Soren doesn't actually sleep, but he listens to Ike's breaths even out with contentment threatening to boil over in his chest.
The drive is similarly quiet. Ike's profile isn't any less riveting than it has been for the past few days, but there's that thrill there again of knowing Soren's allowed to look at him like this.
They go over a particularly bad speed bump and Soren's hair falls into his face again.
"Are you okay?" Ike-obscured-by-hair asks.
"I've been blinded," Soren says.
Ike, the traitor, just chuckles. "Can you text Mist that we're almost there?"
He does. He gets a string of hearts and boxes with question marks back within the minute.
I can't read this.
???
do you not have emojis on your phone
omg soren do you have a nokia
is it true that they're like bricks
can I throw it at a wall when you guys get here
pls????
Please don't throw my cellphone at anything.
:/
I bought you a keychain.
:D !!
Mist is already outside to greet them under the porch awning by the time Ike's home is in view and Soren can’t help a smile. It's been a long time.
There's a girl he doesn't recognize with long red hair trailing behind her. She looks like she doesn’t know what to do with herself.
"That's the girl Mist likes," Ike tells him, opening the pickup's trunk cover. "I guess she was staying over."
Soren watches the girl fumble her cellphone at Mist's grin before straightening back up like there's a rod in her spine. Her cheeks are flushed red. Mist's are too.
"They're ridiculous," Soren huffs, hauling his duffel out of the back seats. "They aren't together?"
Ike watches the spectacle with a grim look on his face. "Yeah. I don't think we have room to talk, though."
"I would say our expertise in the field lends us credence."
"Maybe.”
"We can only hope."
“Soren! Ike!” Mist yells. “Stop gossiping and come inside!”
Ike’s home is exactly how Soren remembers it (“Did you earn more trophies while I wasn’t looking?” “I didn’t ask for them. And some of them are Mist’s.”) and he finds himself falling into step with the others without thinking, dropping his bags in the spare bedroom. Mist takes her new keychain with a sparkle in her eyes and a bone-crushing hug.
“Hold on! I’ll get your cake, okay? Happy birthday!”
Ike grabs her by the hood before she can get far. “Lunch first, or you’ll get sick.”
“You’re the last person to lecture me on nutrition and stuff, you know that? I bet you guys were eating nothing but Big Macs the whole way here.”
“I mean, we had some other burgers too.”
Mist groans. “I can’t believe you!”
Soren and Mist’s not-girlfriend meet eyes across the room and share a moment of silent exasperation.
“Mist,” she says in what might be the first thing Soren’s heard from her all day. “Why don’t we make lunch, and you can, um, serve cake with it.”
Mist whirls around, beaming. It’s almost too bright to look at. She says “You’re so smart, Jill!” before grabbing her wrist and running off.
'Jill' nearly trips over herself in her embarrassment. From his left, Soren can hear Ike sigh.
“Um, Ike?”
“Eh?”
“Can I make a phone call?”
“Oh. Sure. I’ll be downstairs.”
He looks at Soren like he’s considering it, then brushes his lips on his forehead before going down.
Soren feels warm. Too warm? He’s not sure what constitutes too warm . He grabs a water bottle from his pack and chugs it to be safe before pulling his phone out again.
The Kurthnaga/Almedha - Landline contact in his phone is no less daunting than it was this morning. He presses the call button.
“Hello, Soren?”
Kurth answers the phone, but he can hear Almedha saying Is that Soren? in the background.
“Kurth. I’ve arrived.”
“Ah!” Soren can hear the line muffle and a faint Yes it is, Sister. “How’s-- how-- how are you?”
“I’m doing well,” Soren says. “How are you?”
The second of stunned silence doesn’t leave him enough time to regret it before Kurth says “I-- I’m doing well! Thank you for asking! Your mother’s doing well too. Um, was the trip alright? No accidents?”
“You’re feeling okay?” Almedha adds. Kurth must have put the phone on speaker.
“We didn’t get into a car wreck, if that’s what you’re saying.”
He can hear Almedha wince and Soren does the same, chastising himself. “That’s-- that's good,” she says, voice strained. “Did you pack enough?”
“Ike's home is fine. And the apartment already has some furniture from the last tenant, so I should be fine if I buy some cutlery.”
“And a bed?”
“I have some sheets.”
“No mattress?”
“Well--”
“Just for now,” Kurth cuts in. “He can buy one when he moves in. Right?”
“Um, sure,” Soren says. "Right."
“Right,” Kurth says. “In the meantime, I’ve heard sleeping on floors can be good for your back!”
Almedha clicks her tongue. “Maybe. These days Raj has been complaining that his mattress isn't firm enough whenever he calls. He says hello, by the way."
"Tell him I said hello, and that I hope he and Ena are doing well."
Another beat of silence before Almedha goes "I... I will."
"Soren, is everything alright?" Kurth says. "You aren't, um, hurt?"
"I'm not. But I'm happy for your concern."
Soren doesn't get the comfort of more shuffling on the line before Almedha sighs this time. "Please don't force yourself," she says quietly.
"I'm not," Soren says.
"I understand if we've made things hard for you," Kurth is saying, "but please don't think you have to--"
" I'm not! "
The line is silent. The chatter downstairs quiets down. Soren feels fear pierce his chest.
"I'm not forcing myself. I--" his voice catches. "This is something I want. Even if… even if I can't forgive you. Not yet."
"Soren, I didn't have a choice in leaving you," Almedha says softly. "You know that."
"Then what about now? How do I know you won't get sick of me? It's only a matter of time before… before…"
His words fail him again-- now, of all times-- and Soren’s frustration mounts.
"You don't," Almedha says.
"Sister--" Kurth starts.
"You can't know for sure. You just have to trust that the people who love you will remain loving you, even if it's… not true in the end," she whispers. "But it's true that we care for you, Soren, and I don't think that could change even if we wanted it to. Understood?"
Soren grips his phone tighter. "...Understood."
"We're just happy you're safe," Kurth says. "We love you."
"I love you, my son," Almedha says.
The line is silent for a long time.
Kurth is the one to break it. "Are you-- are you busy? I know you packed light, but you have to, um. Unpack."
"I do," Soren says. He stares at the floorboards for a moment, mustering his courage, then adds "Thank you, Mother. Uncle Kurth."
He chooses not to notice his mother’s quiet gasp, or how watery his uncle’s rushed “Y-you’re welcome. We’ll talk to you later!” sounds as the line cuts.
Soren stares at the floor for a minute. The boards start to blur into each other-- his first thought is that he must not have eaten enough, and the second is the realization that he is crying. He lets himself soak up the feeling of sheer happiness for a little while before wiping his face off.
Downstairs, Mist is trying to chop carrots, and Jill is taking her uneven chunks and mincing them down to size next to her. Ike is staring holes into a block of tofu.
“Ike,” Soren says. Everyone's heads snap up to meet him, and he clears his throat. “Where do you keep your scissors?”
Ike’s backyard isn’t big, but it’s big enough for them to haul out a chair and tie an old bedspread around Soren’s neck.
“Don’t you want Mist to do this?” Ike says. “She’s the one that usually cuts my hair.”
Soren points to the kitchen window overlooking the backyard. Jill is showing Mist how to chop an onion, which seems more like an excuse to hug her from behind.
“...Right.”
“You’ll be fine,” Soren says. “I don’t care about style, just make it short.”
“If you say so. Um, I should comb it first.”
“...Is that a question?”
Ike huffs. “Right, right,” he says, and brushes Soren’s hair back.
The cold edge of the comb presses against Soren’s neck. For a moment he isn’t in Ike’s home anymore, he’s somewhere he thought he escaped entirely, and his breath is sticking to his lungs and throat in a way he hasn't felt in a long time.
And then, just as quickly, he feels Ike’s hand on his shoulder. He lets his anxieties disperse and grounds himself in the warmth of it.
“...Soren?”
He relaxes with a sigh. “I’m fine, Ike. You can do it.”
“You’re sure?”
“Maybe I should call Mist after all.”
“No, no, okay,” Ike says, and he starts combing in earnest.
Soren finds the overly gentle way Ike handles his hair endearing. He’ll start combing, and when he finds a knot he'll take the comb out to untangle the knot by hand. It’s not terribly efficient, but it’s the same brand of nice that a kiss in the morning and the breeze in his hair was. He lets himself revel in the feeling this time.
“You planted new flowers,” Soren murmurs.
“Not me, Mist. She says they’re four o’clock flowers.”
“Hm.”
“They shrivel up whenever the sun comes out. They remind me of you.”
“ Hm, ” Soren says, sharper this time.
After some time between five minutes and half an hour passes, Ike pulls back. "I'm going to start cutting," he says, "but don't expect much."
"I won't. There's not much you can't do, but I don't think hair styling is part of it."
"Then why did you ask me?"
Soren can't find an answer. "Why are you so apprehensive?" he asks instead.
"Because I think I'll mess it up." Snip. "Actually, I already messed up."
"My standards are low, Ike. Don't worry."
As gentle as he is, Ike’s cuts aren’t even. When he tells him he's finished, helps untie the bedspread, and hands him a mirror, Soren can see how his hair brushes the top of his ear on one side and doesn’t on the other. He’s accidentally snipped some length off of Soren’s bangs, too, so they hang awkwardly over his face.
“I love it,” Soren says, completely honestly. He watches his reflection smile.
"You don't have to spare my feelings, you know."
"I'm not sparing anything." Soren tilts his head up and finds Ike looking back at him. "Thank you. I love you."
Soren watches a blush spread across Ike's face and a small smile follow it. Just for a moment, he catches himself wishing he could watch this forever.
Then Ike leans down to kiss him, and Soren thinks this is far better than watching.
"Ike, I haven't taken a shower yet," Soren murmurs. "You'll be covered in hair."
"Mm," Ike says, and kisses him again.
The kiss breaks because Soren is smiling, and then Ike is smiling, and then Soren is leaning so far back that his chair tips over.
"Are you okay?" Ike says, having caught Soren by the arms. He straightens up and gives Ike another smile.
"I'm alright, Ike. Thank you."
He leans into Ike's arms and enjoys how they encircle his waist so easily. This is mine, he thinks, and wonders if this is the most nice thing he's experienced all day.
Ike’s stomach rumbles, startling them both. Soren tugs himself free, keeping a hand loose on Ike's arm to keep up the high of contact.
"Let's eat," he says. “We’ll clean up later.”
“Alright."
Ike slips his hand into Soren’s. He’ll never stop marveling at how easy it is for him to do that. Feeling a spike of fondness run through him, he leans against Ike’s side as they go inside.
Things will be easier, he thinks. They’ll make sure of it.