E.L. Massey

He clicks on the new video link before he can talk himself out of it.

Jeff is right. The towering D-man pair is endearing in the way big, earnest people are, finishing each other's sentences and trying to do delicate work with hands that are simply too large. Muzz is a comedic star in his own right with snappy one-liners and occasional rants about consumerism and The Patriarchy. If the internet loves Jeff, they'll really like Muzz. James and Cody steal the show though. The chemistry between them is undeniable.

They're opposites in the most complimentary way—James, overly serious, brows pinched as he tries to measure the exact amount of paprika the recipe calls for, while Cody teases him gently and nudges his elbow so the teaspoon runs a little over into the bowl. James, soft- spoken and measured movements; Cody, darting around, loud and laughing. Even their voices are oddly suited, the drawl of Cody's long, southern consonants and James's slightly accented Russian vowels seamlessly meshing as they chirp at each other, familiar and fond.

The music starts, loud in the silence, shocking like a plunge into cold water—and the moment the first beginning cello cords start, muscle memory takes over.

Eli knows the song as intimately as he does his own body. He's simultaneously eleven years old, full of the indomitable confidence only youth affords, and sixteen years old, in a hospital bed, eyes closed against the song playing in his headphones, uncertain if he'll ever skate again. He's seventeen and applying for colleges and bribing the Zamboni driver to give him another twenty minutes after practice because he's behind, dammit. And he's eighteen and skating Jeff Cooper's routine in front of Jeff Cooper hoping desperately he doesn't embarrass himself in a dark rink with echoing ceilings and low lights, and—it's surreal, is what it is.

"If you were to die tonight, what would you regret not having told someone? Why haven't you told them yet?"

Alex stays silent, just looking at him in a way that makes Eli's chest feel like it's cracked open.

"Eli," he says finally.

And that's—he doesn't know what that means.

Alex moves his hand slowly up the pebbled line of Eli's vertebrae, calluses catching on the soft knit of his T-shirt. He cups the back of Eli's neck and presses his thumb gently to the rift of scar tissue that hugs the curve of his skull. Alex's eyes are dark and serious, and his mouth is so close, but he looks so sad, and Eli can't—

He notices James watching Cody from the other side of the couch, eyes hooded, leaning against the wall next to the stairwell.

Eli pushes off the doorframe, makes his way across the room, and stops, right next to him. He leans a little farther into James's space than he probably would have without the two beers in his system.

He takes his time licking the tines of his fork clean. "You have a type, Mr. Petrov."

James ducks his head, sheepish, but doesn't take his eyes off Cody.

"Yeah," he says quietly. "I guess I do."

"Hey. Eli."

Eli licks his lips and glances back up at Alex. "What?"

"My therapist says your first response to something isn't really your response. It's society's response or the way you've been trained to respond from your environment? But your second response, after you've had a minute to think about, you know, how you really feel, that's the one that matters."

Eli isn't sure where he's going with this. "Okay?"

"So. Can I give you my second response?"

Eli has never been punched before. It's something he's pretty proud of, considering he grew up gay and Black and speaking Spanish in rural Alabama but this—

Eli imagines this is a little like what it would feel like.

Not in the face, but maybe in the chest. Right down the center. Where there's a knotted line of scar tissue that he rubs with shea butter every night.

"Te amo," Eli says.

And Alex's face lights up like the fucking sun.

It's not fair.

It's so easy—too easy—for Eli to make Alex smile like that. Eli can't decide if he loves or hates having that ability. He doesn't know if it's one he should be trusted with.

"Yeah?" Alex asks softly and so happy.

"Yeah," Eli says, and he means it.

"Eli," Alex says with mock solemnity. "I think I may be dying."

"You're not cute," Eli says, even though he is. Very cute. Possibly the cutest.

"No," Alex agrees a little mournfully. "Not right now. Bells is the cute one. And she's too busy cuddling with your dog to care that I'm dying."

Francesca only asks a couple of invasive questions, and his mother only shares a couple of embarrassing baby photos, and his father only makes a couple of vaguely threatening comments.

It's a good night.

Alex is worse than Eli's grandmother on a shopping trip to Walmart. You can't so much as look at a package of socks or it'll end up in the cart.