Path of the Vampire forum

GREY WESTON
He slid closer as Kaspar’s arm completed its arc, draping across his shoulders. He allowed himself to be drawn against the taller of the pair, curling into his side after a moment with a low, content sigh. A mixture of exhaustion and a hazy contentment left him with a pleasant warmth centered in his chest. He drew his knees up a moment later, feet bracing against the back of the couch as his head tipped back, coming to rest against Kaspar’s shoulder. His eyes briefly drifted shut at the soft brush of Kaspar’s lips against his forehead. “At least I was the one saying it!” He countered, the protest at once meek and yet not entirely serious. That much was clear from the shy, mildly sly quirk of his lips. “Go around repeating it and we may have a problem, Mr. Grube. At the very least you’ll blow your chances at becoming an honorary Weston.” “Mm,” he murmured, the sound teasingly noncommittal. “Wouldn’t count on much sleep.” He risked the cautious crack of an eye as he spoke, the gesture almost reflexive, a remnant of the youth spent in a household subjected to his mother’s rules.

She’d been surprisingly lax when it came to the various relationships Grey’d fostered over the years; friendships and conquests alike. There’d never been a stern policy regarding closed doors when in the company of some fleeting partner or other; merely a prevailing concern for her child’s safety, which lead to what was, at the time, an appallingly frank discussion about his proclivities and the appropriate safety measures. He gazed after Kaspar when he rose, disentangling himself to drift over to the collection of framed photographs and the handful of earlier pieces he’d sent to his mother over the years. They were primarily first-print editions; no other copies offered in circulation. A piece of her son for his mother alone.

He settled back against the couch, startlingly at ease. He roused a split second later, meeting Kaspar’s gaze levelly, a quiet question reflected in his own. He extended a hand, fingertips brushing against his before lacing through them, gently reeling him closer. “Yes?”

KASPAR
Kas stepped towards him, as if he might let their entwined fingers pull him back down onto the couch, but at the last second he pulled back, other hand reaching down take his other arm, lifting him off the couch, against his frame. “I love you, very much.” He murmured quietly, head dipping as he drew his partner against him, kissing him with a renewed enthusiasm, like it were brand new all over again.
---
Dinner was a calm affair, more chatter and laughter between bites. Grey’s mother was a good cook, the food rich and flavourful without being too heavy, accompanied by a perfectly fresh and crisp salad that appealed to the green loving German. Kaspar took dishes duty with some tactful shooing, encouraging Grey and his mother to go sit and catch-up while he tidied. Eventually they’d all sat down for coffee and cake, Izzie collecting up a photo album after a particularly snarky tease from Grey, threatening photos of baby Grey in the nude. Of course he’d tried to grab for it but Kaspar had the reach advantage and speed, plucking it casually from the offered hand, opening it and thumbing through the pages. He could smell the years that had passed, the chemicals that had developed the photos trapped behind tacky clear plastic sheets, keeping treasured images safe to jog fading memories as days went by. They’d looked through together, Grey grumping only briefly before he began to explain each one. It was nice, laughing and listening to memories. When Izzie started yawning she excused herself to head to bed, telling the boys that they could take either the spare room or Grey’s, both set-up for guests.

He’d been turning the a page while he said goodnight to her, glancing back to it, pausing on a photo that he studied more closely, fingertip tracing idly against the plastic that protected it. “Does this mean you are going to show me your room now?” He muttered, brows raising in expectation once they were alone, though his heart wasn’t entirely in it due to the distraction.

GREY WESTON
The meal had been a compromise; a hybrid of two cultures whose flavors offered balance, even if they hadn’t outright complimented the other with their contrast. Grey’d excused himself midway through the meal preparations, quietly settling behind his mother, arms absently wrapping around her waist as he tucked himself against her, chin resting on her shoulder. She’d shrugged him off more than once, swatting at him with the cool edge of the spatula, gently scolding him, condemning him for a teenager, hovering with the expectation of being fed. Things escalated soon after - her tone souring, turning sharp with indignation when, taking advantage of a moment of inattention, he’d snaked out a hand, seizing a piece of chicken from the simmering skillet of Coq au vin between thumb and forefinger. He’d retreated quickly, reeling under the assault of her disbelief and incredulous demands for Kaspar to collect Grey from the kitchen.

For his part, he’d flashed a ****-eating grin, hands held palm outward in surrender, stained to the wrist with a thin trickle of the pale brown sauce that the offending morsel had simmered in, savoring the last inch and the rich taste that accompanied it, heavy with garlic. He was content to hide behind a mask of his own affront, putting on vaguely wounded airs as he sulked his way into the dining room. The rest of the meal was, mercifully, rather uneventful. The main dish was accompanied by tartiflette, followed by a modest autumnal side salad, consisting of halved pears and tangerines over a bed of mixed greens. Roasted walnuts had been mixed throughout, finished with a raspberry vinaigrette, rounded out at its conclusion with mugs of coffee. There was something almost shy in the way Isidora presented dessert; a quiet humility mixed with an obvious anxiety. Tucked in crystal cut wine glasses was a sort of fruit pudding; a mixture of red currants, blackberries, raspberries, and the last of summer’s ripe strawberries, garnished with a mixture of sugar and vanilla. “We didn’t want you to feel left out. Just remember, it’s his fault if you hate it,” she teased.

He hadn’t protested the procuring of the photo albums too much; content to slump against Kaspar, sharing the memories contained in its brittle pages. No sooner had his mother retired for the night than the question he’d been putting off for the majority of the evening - rather predictably - surfaced. A groan escaped him, and he let himself fall backwards, sinking into the cushions of the couch and what little escape they offered. “You’re persistent,” he muttered. It was the echo of a long-ago complaint. “Fine. But first you have to tell me what you were staring at.”

KASPAR
“It is something you love about me?” He asked sweetly, not really requesting an answer, giving his best adorable face. He gave Grey a brief grin, though the face faltered at his question, fingertips still paused against the picture. It was one of a young Grey, late teens, with that youthful freshness to his face. He was laughing at something, his face bright with it but that wasn’t what had caught his attention. Slung over Grey’s lap in the photo was a bass, a beautiful vintage piece that looked remarkably similar to one he’d seen before, years ago. “This one… It’s nothing, just the bass. It’s beautiful... and so are you of course, always.” He hastened to add. The reality was that seeing the bass had brought on memories he’d tried hard not to dwell on, not so much about the instrument itself but a man who had once owned one that was near identical. A man he was going to have to face again in a few days, who he still kept in contact with but tried not spend much time with, face to face, too many old wounds marking their relationship.

It was part of the reason that he’d agreed to travel, he’d been invited to play a one day festival event with his band, and it was only an hour from Grey’s mother’s place. It was a good opportunity, one that was hard to turn down for multiple reasons. Grey hadn’t been entirely enthused, it meant that even on vacation Kaspar would be working, but it was a compromise and he’d agreed to support him if he surrendered his work phone for the majority of the trip.

Staring down at the photo reminded him of one of the reasons, the sound of a familiar voice asking him to come, to play the same stage. It made him recall the last time he’d seen a bass like that, when he was a teenager. The finely made instrument had been resting in the arms of one of his father’s bandmates as they’d sat around the studio in Canada. It was the last time he’d play it, the newest Cherry album just finished and the bassist telling him how he was going to gift it to someone who he loved dearly, though they’d been kept apart. He’d not seen it again after that day, he remembered running his fingers over the neck of the bass, tracing the strings and asking if he was sure that he could give it up. The man had nodded, a certain sadness about his eyes as he told Kas that he hoped it would be loved by the recipient as much as he’d loved it.

Kas shook his head in an effort to banish the memories and got to his feet, returning the album to the place that Izzie had taken it from, treating it with care. He understood the value of memories, even as he tried to dismiss his own before they blossomed further.

It was time for Grey to give in to the inevitable, “Come on,” Kas spun on his heel, levelling a look on Grey, “It is getting late. Show me? Then... we can go to bed.” He had a devilish look about him as he slunk towards Grey, more than just a hint of suggestion in his tone and expression. He had no doubt that they’d be sneaking around like naughty teenagers soon enough, trying to be quiet, not to be caught out when they should be sleeping.

GREY WESTON
Grey paused, his attention briefly arrested by the subtle shift in Kaspar’s expression, grin flagging, his gaze suddenly distant. It was a look that, while not quite remote, was removed; an obvious indication that he wasn’t entirely present. Grey rose from the couch, circling behind it with cautious steps, as if memories were cobwebs - delicate and fragile - that could be preserved if he moved slowly enough. His elbows propped against the back of the couch a moment later, his chin coming to rest in his hand as he studied the photograph that commanded Kaspar’s attention. “Ah. That…” He began, his hand falling away in favor of settling back onto the couch, fingers digging into the firm arch of its back as if he might borrow some of its fortitude, “is…” He continued, allowing himself to lean further over the couch, the skin of his knuckles briefly blanching as his fingers curved inward, his palms absorbing the majority of his weight as his feet tucked themselves upwards. He teetered for a moment, feet a handful of inches off the floor, swinging gently, “a…” The sentence hovered, incomplete, as he slid bonelessly forward, effectively tumbling into Kaspar’s lap, back effectively covering the photo album.

The mild chill of the carefully laminated pages seeped into the fabric of his shirt. “Fender. 1959. Precision.” He finished, his right hand idly reaching upwards, fingers locating and then teasing free a strand of Kaspar’s hair, winding it around the faint lines of his knuckle before releasing it with a light flick. “Nerd.” He didn’t refute Kaspar’s claim; far from being washed out by the passage of years, the photograph fading, edges first yellowing and then growing brittle, the instrument in question gleamed, the body a sleek black. The pickguard was not a traditional white, but instead a solid gold. It wasn’t a shade that continued to the fingerboard; that shifted back into the same pitch black as the body itself, the transition almost jarring. He rose slowly, his movements fluid as he gained his feet once more, shooting the album a cursory glance to ensure that he hadn’t caused any lasting damage. Satisfied by the absence of creases, he moved aside, giving Kaspar time to replace the album. His gaze softened briefly as he watched him, noting the careful, respectful way the man tucked it into place on the low shelf.

He nearly rolled his eyes at the entreaty - or demand - it was difficult to place which. “You’re going to be disappointed,” he warned, even as he closed the distance between them, hands settling to his hips. He peered up at him, rising slightly onto his toes in order to sink his teeth playfully along the edge of his jaw. “Dirty socks, probably full of unmentionables, and some art books. But bed does sound nice,” he relented. “Especially if it will shut you up about the damned room,” he concluded. “Come on.”
---
The trip up the stairs had been uneventful. Grey’s steps were measured, slowing as they neared his mother’s silent bedroom - a mixture of courtesy and habit - before proceeding on to the bedroom at the end of the hallway. The walls that lined the short hallway were gunmetal in color, terminating at the end of a lighter, ash-gray door that had once, originally, been a nondescript cream in color. He paused just outside of the door, glancing over his shoulder. “Care to do the honors?”

KASPAR
Grey’s antics were up to their normal standards, Kas’ skin shivering at the way he’d gripped at his hips, the teasing of teeth against his jaw. He was pulling his strings, and Kas wasn’t about to argue. When they’d crept up the stairs, Grey shushing when they’d gotten a few up and had paused, chuckling quietly, stealing kisses in the dark. Eventually they’d sobered enough to make the rest of the trip, Kaspar tip toeing behind Grey, trying very hard to not to giggle or let his hands wander to catch at the man’s hips or pinch his backside in teasing.

When they paused at the door, Kaspar took Grey’s suggestion, reaching around him, curving his taller frame against the man’s back as he twisted the handle. The door gave with slight protest, the slightest creak that spoke of it’s lack of regular use. The funny thing about rooms that were so preserved was that opening them was like opening a time capsule.

While the sheets were changed and a window had been opened there still hung about it the smell of things that had made up Grey’s youth. The faint lingering of memories that could never be captured or bottled, that could never be truly preserved. It was what he had expected in a way, larger than he’d pictured, full of character and quirks, of things that just screamed “Grey”. The colour scheme was very suited to his personality, the cool tones in the same family but varying shades, something that was echoed more maturely in their current home though far warmer in tone. Posters and pictures graced the walls, items arranged that clearly meant something to him on available surfaces, enough to be kept all these years and capture Kas’ immediate curiosity. He couldn’t suppress the smile that he wore, head tilting to nuzzle kisses against the side of Grey’s neck. “So… This is your old room.” His arm slid around the shorter man’s waist, ushering him inside, closing the door behind them. When he glanced up again something caught his eye that had his face blanching, mouth dropping open in surprise. Based on previous discussions it was probably the last thing he’d expected to see on the man’s wall, and he was sure as **** going to give him just a little bit of hell over it. It took him a few moments to find the words, his hand lifting to point at the incriminating poster. “Grey Weston, you dirty liar… ”

GREY WESTON
At some point in the evening, his mother had taken care to ensure his bedroom was well-lit. There was a floor lamp nearest the bed, split into five separate lamps which extended in various directions, branching like the limbs of a lightning scarred tree. The soft light pooled across the floor, illuminating the ceramic tiles of the floor. It gleamed like wet asphalt under the light. It should have seemed remote; uninviting, in comparison to the carpeted length of the hallway before it. The effect was softened by a handful of rugs; two of which were thick, plush monstrosities; pleasantly soft, and thick enough to keep the worst of the chill at bay. The first was centered between the door and the foot of his bed, looking not unlike bearskin with its tight whorls and stray spikes of errant fluff. The color was wrong, however; coal black I the center, fading to white at its outer edges. A second, the anemic silver-blue of cigarette smoke, rested against the right side of the bed.

The room itself was dotted with a handful more rugs; shorter in length,their fibers worn with age, colors bleeding into each other after years of wear, feet treading over them until they were worn smooth, colors muted. The first of these was in a style that mimicked a Kilim rug; shades of blues and grays and whites forming geometric patterns, white tassels crowning the faded edges. A handful of beanbag chairs rested at its center; white and navy, impossible wide in a way that suggested they might swallow the unwary whole if they allowed themselves to sink into their depths. A bookcase was built into the wall nearest the chairs (the third of which was an ancient recliner, salvaged from a yard sale and then carefully reupholstered, stuck through with various iron-on patches and sample pieces of textured leather.) It was at a slant, angled so that the items and books housed within seemed in danger of tumbling to the floor at any moment. There were a handful of titles remaining; the few he hadn’t gotten around to packing up and taking with him. Bland classics that had been required reading, a handful of horror novels. Half a dozen textbooks on various art techniques. A collection of poetry, translated in two a total of three languages, tucked on its side behind a stack of comics.

His dresser took up the eastern wall; sleek, despite its compact size, varnished wood a gleaming black. The rounded silver handles that dotted each drawer gleamed faintly in the low light. A mirror - vaguely oval in shape - rose behind it, fanning outwards in an imperious display. There were a handful of pictures tucked into the frame, threatening to crowd out the glass entirely, leaving only the barest half-circle available for reflection. Closer examination revealed them to mostly be photographs of friends; loose groups of teenagers lounging on porches, at parks. Inside the crowded living room’s of some home or another, expressions frozen in laughter, capturing everything from Halloween parties to post-venue revelry. One in particular stood out, taking pride of place at the center. It featured Grey, dressed in a faded denim jacket, tell-tale dark patches at the elbows - drawn close against the chest of a taller youth. The boy sported a leather jacket, bristling with studs along the back of the shoulders, smaller chains looping along the chest and front pockets. His hair was a riot of spikes, stiff with gel, one arm wrapped confidently around Grey’s waist as they balanced on the railing of a local park, lips pressed to Grey’s cheek. Grey’s grin was wide, infectious; somewhat marred by the wink he flashed at the camera. A handful of ticket stubs dotted the wooden trim; remnants of favored or memorable concerts.

What remaining wall space there was was dominated in a riot of band posters. By far, however, the crowning glory of the room rested on the ceiling, lit by the handful of white Christmas lights that had been hung there in a failed effort to mimic constellations in his youth. What appeared at first to be a collage; a riot of color formed from the careful sketching and eventual outlining of well over a hundred magazines - formed slowly into pointed silhouettes; a mixture of monochrome paper to form a snaking cord and mic stand; warmer grays and beige, soft yellows to form amps of various heights. The same soft pinks and beiges to give the impression of skin, lend life to one of the figures stretched along the ceiling; the suggestion of shirtlessness and low slung jeans. The second of them was turned slightly to the left, one foot propped solidly on the nearest of the shorter amps, guitar in hand. There were milk crates stacked near the bed, full of old vinyls and aged CD cases. He was content to drink in the familiar sight, lips quirking into a gentle smile in response to the soft, nuzzled kisses. “Yeah, it’s -- huh?” He blinked, dazed for a moment. “Kaspar wh--oh.” There, between half a dozen posters depicting a shirtless Reznor, was a slightly larger, brighter poster. His gaze slid upwards slowly, lips twisting in something halfway between a sheepish grin and something sharper, slyer. “Look, I never said I didn’t know about his band,” he pointed out, as if the explanation were enough to excuse the prominent pride of place the Nik Cherry poster commanded.

KASPAR
Kaspar was floored by it’s presence, and slightly put out. It had a place of pride, centred among the impressive collages and posters, bigger and more prominent than many of the NIN and Reznor ones. On closer inspection he noticed a cut out picture from the festival where his father had been performing on the same stage as them, Nik and Reznor caught arms around each other with drinks in hand laughing backstage and a brief article piece about the event. Kas had been only a kid at the time, but he’d remembered that night, he and his siblings allowed to stay up late and watch from backstage. It wasn’t the first time they’d performed together, but it would be the last, both getting older and while still talented becoming less relevant. Legends, now, rock royalty rather than festival regulars.
“My Papa is on your wall, that is… That is weird!” He was pouting, he knew he was pouting about it but he couldn’t help himself. “You always seemed so.... I do not know, I just did not expect THAT.” He gestured to it, turning away as if it was too much to look at. Instead he approached the bed, eyeing a stuffed toy on it. “That I did…” He grinned, “Cute.” It wasn’t the only childhood artifact among the relics of teenage angst, Kaspar glancing at a series of Digimon toys. “Ruining your attempts at being an edgelord, liebchen.” With that he turned on his heel, letting his body slump back onto the bed, stretching out on it beside the stuffed toy. From where he was lying it was easy to see the poster, Kas trying to shy from a horrific thought. “Please tell me you didn’t… Oh, god.” He threw an arm over his eyes, cringing. “It smells like teen spirit in here, you know?” He teased, even in his playfully disgusted state.

GREY WESTON
Grey’s brief confusion gave way to understanding, followed immediately by a low scoff. “That’s what you’re going to focus on? Really?” He demanded. “When…” He offered an expansive gesture with the sweep of an arm, encompassing the whole of his bedroom. There were several other posters that swept up from behind his headboard; ranging from magnified iconic album covers - such as The Clash, followed closely by an empty album cover for The Cure’s Disintegration. “You’re only overreacting because I don’t have any of your posters,” he finished. He trailed off, the argument briefly stalled when Kaspar turned away, his gaze settling on the stuffed animal that rested against the headboard of Grey’s bed. It was old; the once sleek fur having faded into tight rolls, making it appear vaguely sheeplike. It had been a husky at one time; squeezed into a red plaid shirt, peppered with safety pins, a tiny tophat settled between its ears. There were Digimon figurines lining the windowsill, frozen in place, only slightly faded by the sunlight that streamed through the panes over the years. “My reputation is firmly intact, thank you,” he huffed, drifting towards the foot of the bed. The sheets were a soft gold-flecked cream; flannel to account for the change in weather, freshly laundered. The duvet itself was a dark navy in color, with pillows to match; flecks of gold thread winding through it to break up its monotony.

He snorted. “If I were to **** anyone old enough to be my father, it definitely wouldn’t be yours,” he was quick to assure. “If it bothers you that much…” He conceded, reaching out to grip him by the ankle, turning him gently towards the right, so that his gaze was forced to settle elsewhere, “look..” He resisted, seeking something suitable to direct Kaspar’s attention to; something he would find less objectionable. “Oh. Look,” he finished, abruptly moving to the side of the bed to catch Kaspar’s chin between his fingers, forcing his head to the right with a gentle, pointed motion. It was enough to coax his gaze to fall in line with the stand tucked against the corner; the bass from the photograph settled against it.

KASPAR
He made a pathetic sound, somewhere between a disgusted whine and a groan as he said the words “****” and “father” in the same sentence. Not that he believed someone like Grey would be his father’s type, then again, he’d wondered a few times over the years if something hadn’t happened between him and one of his bandmates. One who had the same dark hair and hazel eyed good looks that Grey did, though the man had been much taller and more ruggedly masculine. It had been a sore point between the two men over the years though they’d never discussed it, too awkward a conversation for father and son to have outright, there had been subtle jabs and suggestions that made him think there was more to the story. He shook the thought from his head, eyeing Grey as he came over to the foot of the bed, reaching out for him. Kaspar was distracted, knocked off kilter by the memories that wouldn’t quite leave him alone, adding pressure to the impending catch-up at the concert he’d been roped into playing, the bass in the picture and posters serving as reminders didn’t help. Damn him for choosing a partner who shared similar interests. At the encouragement to turn he huffed, grumbling quietly, moving his feet in protest against the grip on his ankle. He only relented when Grey moved closer, turning his head as his fingers tucked against his chin, making him look.

It was the bass, the very one that had brought on a flurry of memories, like snowflakes blanketing his mind, covering it in white, the cold sterility of it that bleached away sense if he let himself to get buried under it. Silently he sat up, his mouth forming an “o” of wonder. A creeping sensation of unease built in his chest as he stared at it, moving in a dreamlike state off the bed to creep closer. His hand reached towards it, shaky as if afraid it might bite him if he touched it. It was older now, more worn and well-loved but still in beautiful condition. More to the point it was undeniably the exact same one he’d watched a man say goodbye to, so full of hope and long suffering sadness. How had it ended up in Grey’s possession? When his fingers finally brushed against the strings, the lightest of touches, he murmured. “Matthias.” The name falling from his lips before he could stop it, teeth sinking into the full flesh of his lower lip as it began to tremble. There was disbelief in his tone, and something that could have been longing, fingers tracing against the neck of the instrument. “How do you have this?”

GREY WESTON
It had aged well, despite the years. As patient as Argos, despite the years of neglect. Even so, there was no hint of oxidizing along the mental; no slow creep of rust to tarnish its edges. The vivid slash of gold that lent it its beauty all those years ago, had helped to establish it as iconic beyond the man who had played it emitted a soft glow under the lamplight, seemingly in defiance of the years, as if welcoming touch. Grey made no move to stop him as Kaspar reached out to touch it, fingers lightly coming to rest on the strings. They hummed in response, shifting under his fingertips, vibrations of sound traveling along the neck in a sliding scale. Grey winced slightly, moving from his place to hunt among the stacked tupperware containers that lined the shelves of a rollaway desk tucked into the corner of his bedroom. There were several so overfull with faded patches and spools of thread, fabric glue and safety pins, that the rasp of their contents nearly swallowed the low murmur of Grey’s father’s name, the contents of the boxes falling still and silent a moment later.

His fingers closed over an oblong device; solid black with a small, square-shaped electronic screen that flashed in the dim lighting, jarred from its dormant state with the press of a button. He crossed the space between himself and Kaspar a moment later, carefully clipping the device in place. “It was a birthday gift,” he clarified, one hand shifting behind the instrument to gather it up by its strap, lifting it from its cradle within the stand. “My 15th. My dad gave it to me, remember?” he concluded, raising the strap up and over his head, arm lowering as it settled over his chest, fingers absently settling onto the strings with the ginger air of a man questing for an open wound, taking care to shift his grip along the keys, turning them gently when the sound soured. “Why?” He asked after a moment, glancing up to meet his gaze.

KASPAR
His breath had started to come faster, as if he wasn’t entirely in control of his breathing, not that he needed it but he was firmly in the habit of pulling oxygen into his lungs, letting it exhale mechanically and when he was stressed found it stuttering. His chest constricted with the sudden anxiety, that unsettled feeling gripping at him. Surely it was all just strange coincidences, there had to be an explanation that would make him feel less like he was going to lose the contents of his stomach at any given second. “Your dad?” Hadn't Grey said his father was a bassist? That he’d sent his old bass and it was a piece of him Grey kept close, even though his resentment over the years had grown and eventually faded into sharp dismissal this was something the man had loved. Maybe it had been gifted on, maybe Matthias had sent it to Grey’s father but the man had shunned the gift, found it a sour reminder rather than the token of affection it was intended as. Even as the evidence was laid out damningly before him Kaspar tried to convince himself that he’d missed a detail, that he was being foolish. He watched the instrument as it moved, embraced by Grey to be tuned, fingertips twisting to tighten and loosen strings accordingly.

The last time he’d seen it be played he had only recently turned sixteen, and had started to genuinely resemble the man he would become, broader of shoulder and moving all too quickly towards his full height. He’d grown ever more confident, almost cocky at times, talented and aware of it. He’d also grown emotionally, ever more disenchanted with his father and his rockstar antics. It was probably why he’d chosen to put his focus on a slightly different instrument, wanting to be better and yet different from his father, why he’d bonded with the band’s bassist. Tias had first been a member years before, but after a particularly sour blow-up between himself and Nik he’d taken time out for other projects. When he’d returned it had been to find Nik’s kids almost all grown-up and with attitudes to match. Matthias had treated Kaspar like one of the boys, acknowledged his intelligence rather than telling him he was too young to understand and keeping things from him. It had been refreshing.

They’d sat around playing together, he’d even let Kas play the very bass that Grey now held. Things weren’t complicated then, it was nice to have the company of someone who shared his interests and cared what he had to say. It was just under two years later when **** had hit the fan, when he’d found himself alone, frustrated and bitterly heartbroken on a hotel room floor watching the man walk away. “Fifteen.” Kaspar repeated, doing the math. There was a year between them, it added up but he still clung to the hope that it had been gifted to someone else originally, that it didn’t mean…

“Grey, you never did tell me your father’s name.”

GREY WESTON
Grey was silent for a time, his focus divided. He released a short exhale - the breath hissed between his teeth - at one particularly jarring chord, the discordant sound all the louder in the silence that had fallen between them. The sound was less one of frustration than quiet sympathy; bordering on the low, soothing noise one might make to comfort a feverish and sleepless infant. The sound from the bass, in contrast, seemed almost one of reproach; due punishment for Grey’s abandonment. He slowed, careful not to nick his fingers against the strings. The calluses that had once been present had softened over the years, shifting into an alignment better suited for the angled shape of a brush. It meant that it took only minutes for the tips of his fingers to begin to sting, the flesh there flushing a healthy shade of pink. “Could you check that box?” He began. “I should have some wax in the bottom right.” He paused, catching sight of Kaspar’s stricken expression, the shallow rise and fall of his chest as he took shortened breaths.

“Kaspar?” He ventured, brow knitting in concern. The question that left Kaspar was abrupt, lacking context. Grey was slightly taken aback. His gaze averted, taking a moment to consult the pale glow of the screen, satisfied, for the moment, that it had been reasonably tuned. He carefully drew the strap over his head, fingers crowding close together to grip the neck in a mild choke, before settling it back onto its stand. “It never really came up. My mom always called him Matthias the handful of times she mentioned him at all. Why?”

KASPAR
The world seemed to close in, everything hanging on that answer, all of his attention focused on Grey’s mouth, on the words it might form in response to his question. Matthias. Everything after that was a blur, Kaspar’s chest and stomach contracting as he sucked in a breath, swallowing harshly. The wave of dismay at the realisation hit him, swallowed into a sea of confusion, trying to process. How didn't he find this out earlier? How didn't he know? Why didn't these men ever just say each other’s damn names? It was hard to look at Grey, at the features that had indeed been familiar, that had made him feel some pull of connection, made him curious about the man on those first few meetings. Of course the similarities were softened by his mother’s elegance, but he didn't really look like her. No, he looked like his father. The realisation of just how much he resembled a younger Matthias made Kaspar feel a stunning blow of guilt, like a punch to the gut.

Kaspar found himself wanting to move, to pace as he often did when under some amount of stress but he didn't trust himself to be steady enough on his feet or not bolt for the door to avoid saying things to Grey he wasn't sure he wanted the man to ever know. His body felt like it was swaying, the man widening his stance, planting his feet as a hand swept across his face as if to push away the shock from his expression. “Matthias.” The word came out choked and anxious, Kas clearing his throat gently before continuing in a calmer tone,“As in Matthias Brandt, the famous bassist who worked for years with Nik Cherry, that Matthias? As in the one who is on that poster?” The finger he stabbed towards it was almost angry, trembling with the tenseness that held Kaspar in arrest. It was only his faltering voice that made it seem more like concerned uncertainty than accusation. There was still a layer of disbelief, a refusal to accept that all along he’d known Grey’s father, and known him well. Too difficult to reconcile the two.

GREY WESTON
Grey tensed, a subtle play of emotions flickering over his features. Concern was replaced by bewilderment, which in turn yielded to a guarded expression. A part of him want to interrupt the other man; to deny him the chance to ruin what little sanctity the room still held. It had been both a prison and a refuge in equal turns in his youth; more the latter than the former. A place to silence the rest of the world or simply drown out the rise and fall of his mother’s voice; at times sharp with anger, words slurring with all the elegance of a car crash, at times choked, caught through with half-sobbed breaths and the barely-there knocking against his bedroom door; a quiet plea that he answered less and less over the years; perfectly still, willing his breathing to grow slow and even, dreaming of a better life. Not necessarily better. Just...different. They always managed to find their way back to each other by the sobering light of dawn.

Yet then, like now, what had always been the hardest was not knowing what he stood accused of. “My name is Weston,” he said, lowly. He winced at how thin the words seemed; how small and uncertain. There was an edge to them all the same. “Oh. That man. You want to have a conversation about my father? Fine.” He drew himself up, spine straightening. “His name means nothing in this house. Is nothing. He doesn’t have the luxury of demanding **** all from us. So whatever sob story he spun, you can save it, Kaspar. He walked out. Why do you care?”

KASPAR
It wasn't what he’d expected, he knew how touchy the topic was for Grey, knew the long held hurt over his parents not being together, his mother’s habits and father’s lack of presence. That he held resentment, understandably. What he didn't expect was the sharp retort at his question, a response that implied that perhaps he knew Kaspar might have crossed paths with him. “I'm sorry, I'm not…” He sat then, moving back to let his weight drop onto the bed, face in his hands as he took a moment to steady himself.

It was a lot to process, and he tried not to let the thought that maybe Grey knew take seed, to grow into something twisted and bitter. There could be no malice behind it, and as much as Kaspar was disturbed by their common link he wanted the comfort of and to comfort the man he loved. Tentatively a hand reached out, wanting to draw Grey closer. “I'm in shock. Just bare with me, Liebchen.” He pleaded, gently capturing the man’s hand. When he explained his voice was pitched low, hazy with reverie.“I know him, well, I have known him for years. I've played that bass, saw him say goodbye to it. We traveled together for months on a tour bus, hell he once punched my Papa in the face before I could do it. I'm not… I'm not expecting anything of you over this, but I cannot believe that of all the people in this world that I could have fallen madly in love with it was his son that I chose. I just need you to understand that this is strange for me. That I did not know… Had… Did y-... Of course not. You would have said.”

He probably hadn't ever thought of it, Grey liked to put things that upset him to the furthest reaches of his mind, avoid facing them. Besides, he knew almost nothing about the man beyond his name and profession. Of course, he couldn't know what it meant, couldn't know why Kaspar looked like he was strongly considering whether to give in to the desire to be sick. What was worse was wondering if Matthias knew, if he'd seen the pictures of him with Grey. Did he know that Kaspar was dating his son? There was a very uncomfortable conversation in their near future, and Kas wasn't prepared for it.

“I'm sorry, Grey.” He murmured, head bowing, staring down at the rug. “I shouldn't have said anything.”

GREY WESTON
Grey eyed the hand that reached for him, the gesture quietly imploring for his patience. For his understanding. He kept out of reach for a handful of seconds, not quite ready - or willing - to offer what was asked. It was cruel, perhaps, but the admission had felt not unlike a weakening in the ice, moments before the water began to wash over the feet of the unwary in a bitterly cold tide. It was too much to process at once, and he could not take on the burden of Kaspar’s own emotional baggage and nurse old, bitter hurts as well. “Of course you did.” The words escaped a in a low, humorless chuckle. He hadn’t meant for them to sound the way they did - bitter. Brittle with incredulity and a mounting sense of frustration. He sank his teeth into the soft, yielding flesh of his cheek, biting down without being conscious of it; as if that were enough to stem the words that caught at the back of his throat; to swallow them like jagged shards of glass.

“Why am I not surprised?” He snorted. There was no anger in the question; only a quiet resignation. “Obviously it’d be asking for too much to have one thing - just one - that someone else hadn’t touched first.” He grimaced, still reluctant to take Kaspar’s hand. He wasn’t left with much choice; carefully drawn closer. He leaned away all the same, careful to maintain a wary distance between the pair. “For ****’s -- all I had was his first name. His first. It’s unimportant. He made his choice. We moved on.” He paused. “No,” he agreed, tone clipped. “Probably not. It’s late, Kaspar. I’m... I can’t...” He paused, drawing in a steadying breath. “I can’t have this conversation with you right now.” The words held a calm -a steadiness - he didn’t entirely feel. “We will talk about it. But not tonight. Not in this room.”

It was, in many respects, already too late. What sanctuary the walls had offered seemed diminished; tainted by the unpleasant revelation. The arrival of a man the household had barricaded itself against for years. He lifted a hand, kneading wearily at his eyelids with thumb and forefinger, as if he could massage the sense memory of the evening from his retinas. “And truth be told, I can’t handle how you keep staring at me.”

KASPAR
It was no great comfort when Grey came closer, it was with a reluctance that had Kaspar releasing him immediately, knowing it was doing neither of them any good to maintain contact in that precise moment. He hadn’t meant to take anything from Grey, he never would want that, nor to hurt him, but somehow he’d succeeded in both. He’d felt like things were coming together and with one question had sent it all hurtling towards crumbling apart. That was the problem with emotional baggage, when you both carried it who knew when the weight could be too much. He never thought they would share someone without knowing it twice, that was outside the realm of probability and it was doing his head in.

Grey, as Grey always did when things got too much, began to withdraw. Giving Kaspar no opportunity to talk it through, to soothe or explain, just having to accept silence and keep his eyes trained towards the rug beneath his feet. He cursed under his breath in low, frustrated German, dragging himself to his feet almost robotically. Clearing his throat he reverted to English, loud enough for Grey to hear but still in that same hushed monotone. “It is late, but I can go.” He began towards the door, trying to move around Grey without touching him, fists bunched at his sides to resist the urge. “If you want i’ll sneak back in in the morning, make it look like I slept here, or tell Izzie I had to go do some work if that is easier. Grey, I’m sorry for… I’ll take the ghosts with me. You get some rest.” His blonde head shook, edging closer to the door, hand extending to grasp the handle. He opened it, careful not to agitate the slight squeak of hinges, pausing halfway through. “Look, call me if you want to. I’ll be up.”
He didn’t want to leave, the reluctance clear in his posture and the way he hesitated at the door, but he was going to because he couldn’t stay in the house just waiting for Grey to speak to him, to acknowledge him. He hated it. Instead he’d pace the night, music turned up in his headphones, find a place to sit and write, or drive around aimlessly until the sun came up, until Grey let him know he could come back to him. He was too weary to be angry at it, to feel shunned, he just wanted the night to end so that maybe he could salvage what was left of their holiday, though he knew another challenge loomed. Outside he would call Louis, he would explain and consider his options. Cancel the appearance, maybe, he didn’t know. For now he just had to take a deep breath and close the door behind him.

GREY WESTON
The scent of flour - dusted with the barest hint of sugar - filled the household the following morning. It wreathed the upper floors with the airy, yet strangely heady confection. An echo of rainy Sunday mornings - those rare times during the month when his mother was mercifully hangover free, and in the kitchen with the sunrise. It roused Grey from his fitful slumber, sunk into the soft, slightly scratchy fabric of the nearest beanbag chair. He’d spent the better part of the evening carefully removing the various posters that hung against the walls - taking care not to fold them as he slid them into a spare storage bin. He’d lingered over some more than others; carefully smoothing any errant creases that arose, carefully committing them to memory. Their outlines remained; their absence causing a brief pang not unlike the sharp sear of a bandaid tangled within a few strands of hair and o with the barest hint of crushed mint and pepper, faded from the room. He slid the tubs under the bed, before collapsing with exhaustion some hours later. He was vaguely disoriented, at first; groaning low in his throat as he stirred, wincing against the bright light that flooded the; arms faintly dusted with flour, a pile of gently steaming beignets set out on three plates, alongside thick cuts of bacon, edges crusted with cracked pepper. The eggs were still hissing pleasantly in the skillet.

“Good morning!” Isidora greeted, smiling over the rim of her coffee mug. “Your boy still in bed?” “Ah. No. Something came up.” A frown creased her brow. “Oh. I thought we could…” 8 swooped in, planting a brief kiss on her cheek. “I know. I’m sorry. Next time, okay?” She managed a nod, her gaze troubled. Breakfast was a quiet affair; the next handful of hours devoted to clearing dishes and packing what remained of their luggage. He excused himself to the living room shortly after, placing a quick, hushed call, before quietly ducking out for the morning.

He joined Kaspar an hour later, at an agreed upon sidewalk cafe. He settled int the chair, eyeing him wordlessly, raising an eyebrow. “You missed breakfast.”

KASPAR
Wearing
He sat out the front of the coffee shop, his own coffee in hand, one for Grey sitting on the table beside him. The sun was warm on his skin, bathing him in light that made things feel a little less dreary. Clouds hovered, threatening at a distance, he’d thought it was one that covered him when a shadow passed over him. When he looked up it was with vague surprise to see Grey. He’d called him, in hushed tones, Kas informing of where he was. He knew the man was coming and he wasn’t sure what to say to him. The coffee was pushing towards Grey when he sat, Kas glancing at him. “I love breakfast, I would have come…” His shoulders lifted in a vague shrug, draining another sip of his coffee.

It felt like whatever he said next would be risking stepping on landmine, so for a while he sat in silence. His night hadn’t exactly been stellar, it had involved a lot of walking, headphones in and a few hours laid out in the back of the jeep, texting and catching up on work emails he’d avoided for Grey’s sake. “I hope you apologised to your mother for me, i’ll bring flowers by for her. Does she have a favourite type?”

GREY WESTON
He accepted the coffee wordlessly, rolling the thin paper cup between his palms, focusing on the heat that pressed against them through the insulation. His hands shifted only when the warmth threatened to singe the tips of his fingers, grip moving upwards, a pair of steepled thumbs biting into the edge of the recycled cardboard sleeve. “She packed leftovers. She thinks I didn’t see her smuggle it into your luggage.” He replied, the words somewhat flat in their delivery. Noncommittal. “She was hoping you’d be up for sightseeing. I told her we’d have to take a raincheck. Catch up some other time.” He shrugged, focusing on the faint impression his nails made; aimless designs tracing their way through the thin paper.

“I’m...not entirely sure. She’d sort of have to have gotten them to have a favorite, and I don’t think she ever did. She used to have a painting of passion flowers in her room. Probably those.”

KASPAR
He was glad for the sunglasses, he hoped it might soften the look of disappointment on his face, covering it with another sip from the coffee cup. “She did? That’s… Well, that is very sweet of her.” Kas sighed, “You packed our luggage. I thought we were staying a few more days.” That was apparently out the window, Kaspar chewing his lower lip for a few moments as he considered, “Passion… Ok. I will call around to see if I can find this passion flower, if you think she would like this. I would have been happy to accompany her sightseeing.” He leaned back in his seat, the coffee was finished so he had nothing left to hide behind, putting it back on the table. “So… I love you?” He hazarded, the toe of boot nudging Grey’s foot beneath the table in an affectionate kick.

GREY WESTON
“Mm. She asked where you’d gone this morning. You can’t have made too terrible an impression.” He glanced up after a moment, idly catching the nail of his index finger just beneath the join of the sleeve, carefully prising at the narrow seam, drawing the edge away from the few drops of rubberized glue that held it in place; far more intent, it seemed, on destroying the cup of coffee than drinking it. “Up to you. You didn’t seem that interested.” He swallowed back a groan. “She’ll make you go to Tinytown. But it’s early; we could probably call her and let her know.”

He jumped slightly, the faint kick unexpected, though not rough enough to displace him. “I guess you’re okay,” he managed eventually, lips quirking into a faint grin. “Love you too,” he finished, relaxing a handful of seconds later, tilting the cup up to his mouth. The coffee had cooled somewhat, though still carried enough warmth to be pleasant.

KASPAR
He winced loudly at Grey’s belief that he wasn’t interested, “Of course I am, liebchen. We came here to see your mother, and I want to get to know her, I made that commitment and I intend to honour it if you’ll let me.” Kas reached across the table, fingertips touching Grey’s, tracing over the gold band he’d put on his finger. The more relaxed response allowed him to settle slightly, breathing out a sigh, slumping in his seat a little, shoe hooking around Grey’s ankle. “Louis said he can get me out of the festival if you want me to cancel it, if it’s too much…”

GREY WESTON
He shot him a cautious look then, his gaze caught between an expression of quiet searching and a shy sort of hopefulness. The latter was more for his mother’s sake; a woman who’d witnessed far too many men exit through the very same door Grey had himself that morning. “Fair warning: Tinytown is non-optional. Pretty sure she’s already bought the tickets. She seems to think that because I loved it when I was five…” He had, point in fact: the first three years of his childhood had been an endless request to host his birthday within the theme park, fascinated by the houses and office parks reduced to a miniature scale, no taller than at hip-height on an adult.
He didn’t pull away at the touch; fingers briefly curling to settle between Kaspar’s. “You don’t have to--” he started, then caught himself. “You can’t do that,” he amended. “You should go. We can…” He exhaled. “Talk about the whole…” He trailed off, gesturing vaguely, “later tonight. Wouldn’t count on mom knowing any German dishes though.”

KASPAR
Kaspar laughed quietly, the sound slightly shaky with relief, “Tiny things are cute, and I am sure I can tell her it is wonderful if it will make her smile. I will go to this Tinytown, I just wish we had Will with us, he would adore it.” At the mention of talk he nodded, slightly more solemn. “We have time for that. Can we enjoy our holiday first? The festival is two days away, let us raid a florist and then explore the town with your maman today. We will talk.” He waved a hand that implied it could happen later, moving to his feet so he could walk around the table, pausing beside Grey. “That is fine, perhaps she will let me help.” He suggested distractedly, crouching down by Grey’s chair, fingertips shifting beneath his jaw to trace the line of it down to his chin. “Ok?”
---
The pair had laughed their way through florist shops, picking up the familiar flirting as they picked out flowers, making a large arrangement which Kaspar delivered with pride to Izzie. It was a mixture of exotics and traditionals in shades ranging from soft lilac to deep purples, accented with delicate yellow highlights, vibrant green leaves and sprigs to finish it off. She’d been so pleased to see him return, tugging the taller man into her embrace, Kaspar realising just how slight she was as he’d bent down to receive the offered affection. It made him feel borderline protecting of this woman, broken and yet strong, repaired by time that worked to heal invisible wounds. Much like her son, though he had learned his lessons far earlier. His apologies had been brushed off, she was beyond excited that they were available once more for her planned sightseeing and wanted only to focus on the day ahead. The three piled in the car, Grey trying his best to look sullen about it, but cracking a few smiles as they drove around checking out the town. Tinytown, as promised, was adorable and thoroughly kitsch. It was the precursor to more youthful moments, Kas being shown a school that Grey had attended, favourite parks and places to hang out. The final stop was an old arcade, faded with time and clearly witness to many years of happy memories being formed. A few games were played, Grey shyly pointing out his favourite as Kaspar pulled out some coins. It was fun, they were able to let go and laugh, sharing fries and milkshakes. Izzie settled into telling Kas a series of adorable and mildly embarrassing childhood stories about her son, who anyone could see she adored. He wrapped his arm around Grey as he tried to hide his face against him, cheeks softly flushed and groaning at his mother to stop. She wasn’t the perfect mother and she knew it, her reflections made that clear, but she tried and Grey loved her dearly. For Kas, that was enough.

After dinner Kaspar and Grey finally got their moment alone, Kaspar silently taking Grey’s hand, drawing him up the stairs into the spare bedroom. They didn’t speak for some time, only whispered affection, sinking beneath the sheets. Curled around each other by the low light of a flickering candle Kas finally felt like the weight that had sat against his chest for the past 24 hours had lifted, knowing that they could work through it. They’d dragged some of their things back up to the room, and the few items Grey had salvaged from his old room hadn’t gone unnoticed, a photo Kaspar had glimpsed briefly on the mirror before his epic distraction now sat on the dresser along with a pile of other pictures and notes Grey had decided he didn’t have the heart to put into storage. He’d drifted over to the dresser, intending to grab his phone from the pocket of the jeans he had kicked across the room, instead lifting the photo. “So…” He angled it so that Grey could see it over his shoulder, the finger he’d delicately lifted, carefully only to touch the very edge. “Was the high school “one”?” He turned his head when Grey came to join him, nudging a fond against his temple, content to lean back into the arms that came up to embrace him.

GREY WESTON
The afternoon had been a whirlwind of activity. Grey had expected that the novelty of Tinytown would have faded; diminished with the natural cynicism that seemed like a prerequisite for putting aside childish things. He’d been pleasantly surprised to find that the same thrill of excitement - the same earnest sense of adventure that once left him content to stare with wide eyes at the perfect replicas of cities and quaint towns built to scale - real and imagined - hadn’t entirely died out. Part of the allure was the roadside attraction’s devotion to detail; even the sprawling dioramas that dominated the center of the visitor's building were impressive; the runway lights dimmed, turning the velvet ropes that cordoned off the area from the inquisitive fingers of children a soft shade of fox fur; an umber so rich it was shot through with gold. The buildings and flowering bushes were rendered with faithful accuracy; fountains with ripples painted realistically enough to give the impression of motion, towering skyscrapers with rows of desks populated with tinier people.

The larger buildings were no higher than a toddler; just shy of the hip on most adults. There were replicas of Victorian Age houses; soft pastels in candy colors with furnishings in miniature. One coral house in particular - turrets rising from the edges of a roof as white and delicate as confectioner’s sugar like the crests of conch shells - housed a tiny piano in miniature, seated nearest the bay window. A small reading nook crooked the windowsill - the cushioning a faded royal blue with a silverish pearl damask pattern. The window was cracked, allowing one to stick their hand inside and stroke their fingers if the keys, if they were so inclined. There were scenes from ancient Greek and Egyptian cities; western towns with railroad tracks that housed, on the hour, a sleek coal engine in miniature. Beer gardens and towns that were obvious throwbacks to the 40’s. Grey, unsurprisingly, was partial to the handful of the more fantastical scenes on offer; charmed by dragon’s with peeling paint, streamers of orange, red, and yellow snapping in the autumn breeze, fluttering pennants of flame. They’d made a point of slowing as they drove by the school's Grey had attended over the years; specifically, 1st grade, followed by his former high school. They’d had just enough time to visit the aging arcade of Grey’s childhood.

The building hadn’t changed. It had dulled over the years - both the paint and the hair along the temples of its employees leaching to a paler shade, edging towards gray. The same faded purple carpet with cartoon-patterned cosmos and oversized runway lights, the same cacophony of trilling electronics and strobing lights. The evening was quieter; Izzie relenting to Grey’s gentle suggestion that she allow Kaspar and himself to handle the meal plan for the remaining two days they had to themselves. He’d insisted on assuming kitchen duties for the evening, briefly escaping to the local corner market for a handful of ingredients. The end result was maultaschen; the pasta shells carefully laden with spinach and diced onion and spices, accompanied by knodel. It was a means of both quiet pampering and apology; crowned with a trio of mugs filled to the brim with hot chocolate made from melted dark chocolate bars, a perfect, curled cap of whipped cream at their center, dusted with cinnamon.

Grey hadn’t protested when Kaspar collected him for the evening, leading him upstairs to the spare bedroom. The question prompted a soft, low committal hum; halfway between questioning and neutral. He drifted over to where Kaspar stood a moment later, tucking his chin over his shoulder as his arms rose to wrap tightly around his waist. “Mm. You could say that. Sixteen year old me was convinced we were going to elope,” he allowed, tilting into the soft pressure of lips against his temple with a half-smile.

KASPAR
“Elope?” He asked, mildly amused, still looking at the picture. “You were so young. Love can feel so big when you do not know better, have not had more experience with it. What happened to him?” Kaspar’s first experience with love, with that overbearing feeling that can make you feel like you’re soaring or suffocating, wasn’t until he was an older teen. The kind of love that can break you. He’d thought he’d felt it, but it had always been fleeting interest, it was lust, desire and distraction. It could be forgotten. Love? Love scared the hell out of him, it made him vulnerable, made him feel exposed and unready. It reminded him that they needed to talk, that he ought to build up the courage to face it.

GREY WESTON
His shoulders hitched in a sharp rise, the gesture managing to be nonchalant and quietly self-conscious all at once. In hindsight, it was easier to see it for what it was; the rash idealism of youth that sparked with the first blush of romance. He missed it, sometimes; the naive, unshakable faith that people didn’t change. That love lasted forever, despite concrete evidence to the contrary. “Yes and no,” he agreed evenly. “Keep in mind I was already responsible for someone else by the time I was 10. We had similar ideals; it wasn’t hard to get swept up in the whole ‘love conquers all, **** everyone else, the world’s a disappointment anyway…’ thing,” he clarified. He winced slightly, hyper aware of how cliche it sounded; how blase. Two restless young men, bored with the constraints of suburban life. Not because they’d felt they’d seen or done all there was to see, but because of the grating realization that they could.

“He was probably the biggest ******** salesman I’d ever met. I seem to run with that crowd,” he added, playfully elbowing the taller of the pair in the ribs. “A fuckin’ travesty, let me tell you. But. I dunno. It didn’t seem so unrealistic at the time.” He blinked, lips giving a wry twist at the question. “He moved. The summer of our senior year. Family picked up and moved across the country.”

KASPAR
He listened intently, enjoying the sound of Grey’s voice, the subtle emotion to it as he told a tale of young love, of idealism and ultimately a disappointment. He loved listening to Grey, it never seemed to bore him to find out new little details about his life, about his past and what made him who he was today. Kaspar jumped slightly at the elbow nudges, his laughter breathy and pitched at first, settling into a low rumble of contentment. He put the picture down, freeing his arms to curl over Grey’s, tucking them tighter around his bare midsection. “It never does at the time, seem unrealistic. You want to believe the impossible because the reality of what it would mean to face the obstacles, to actually try and overcome them, is too hard. Being realistic can be the enemy of love, of emotion, it can mean saying goodbye because you know it will hurt less tearing away that piece of your heart now than doing it down the track. Trying isn’t always worth it, acknowledging that is the price of being realistic.” He shrugged, careful not to knock Grey, turning in the man’s embrace. Tucking the shorter man against his chest he scoffed a slightly bitter laugh against his hair, delivering a kiss to the mussed locks that crowned him. “Young love, huh?” Kas stroked his hands down the man’s back, tracing the curve of his spine with idle touch, revelling in the warmth of his skin. “I admit that I am a fool for it, and reality has slapped me only a handful of times but if it means I get this? Well, I'll face the hurdles, I'll jump every single ******* one to get to kiss you every morning of my life. It is crazy, complete madness, but Grey…” He smiled down at his partner, seeking out those gold brushed hazel eyes, warm and inviting as ever when they looked up to meet his. He felt such overwhelming affection for him, it was like it were a bud in his chest, blossoming and flourishing, making roots that dug down deep so that he had no hope of plucking it. It constricted his chest, made his breath come out shakily as he opened his mouth to speak with hushed reverence. “I will always fight to make it work if it feels right. It does not have to be ideal to be perfect, or easy to be right. Love is compromise, and that can be hard, but I'm so in love with you and I am committed to us.” It hadn’t been anything he’d intended to say, it had just poured from him, this determined renewal of a silent vow, the one he’d given when he’d allowed Grey access to his heart.

He knew that the man could twist it, could burn it up and leave it to ash if he wished, boots kicking it up as he strode away but that was a risk he’d take to feel the joy of it, to feel the strength of that emotion. Were it any other relationship he’d probably be on his knee declaring himself, asking Grey to tell him yes, a million times yes and offering to elope. It wasn’t, though, and it wasn’t the gesture needed for them to show how they felt. A promise was enough. Instead, Kaspar lifted Grey against him, carrying him back to the bed, laying him down with deliberate care as he joined him, body to body in the low-lit room. “I am sorry he broke your heart, but I am selfishly glad you did not run away with him so that I could meet you and adore you.”

GREY WESTON
The low sound of Kaspar’s laughter had been unexpected; shallow at first, settling into its familiar lower register a heartbeat later. Grey’s lips quirked, curving into a smile. His hands rose a second later, palms coming to rest over the tops of Kaspar’s wrists, fingers curling inwards to trace inwards, seeking the dormant space at their hollows. “I think I was more focused on avoiding my parent’s mistakes.” It had been a fear; the concern that they’d become, at best, a caricature of their parent’s respective relationships; willing to risk it for the sake of not growing older and shedding bitterness like snakeskin; convincing themselves that ‘close enough’ was a comfort. He settled back against Kaspar a moment later, back pressed flush against his chest. He tipped his chin, angling it so that his lips just barely grazed the underside of Kaspar’s jawline, eyelashes ghosting over the skin in soft, fleeting caresses. His lips settled against the man’s throat a second later, a low, thoughtful hum escaping him, fingertips creeping to run along the backs of Kaspar’s knuckles. “Sounds - dare I say it? - like you’ve got one who got away, yourself,” he observed quietly.

The words were drowsy, half-wistful and buried under a half-yawn he didn’t quite stifle. Kaspar’s lips settled against his hair a second later, the scoff of laughter briefly tousling the dark tangle of locks that still held a vaguely mussed look from the previous afternoon. “Only a handful?” He countered, with a fond sort of tease. “I’m impressed.” He quieted a second later, as the weight of the man’s words gradually settled over him; an unexpected earnestness that caused an echoing rush of warmth - an anxious knot of giddiness at the base of his stomach he hadn’t quite outgrown - to settle into place. He didn’t protest as he was gathered close, swept against Kaspar’s frame and lifted upwards. “It was worth it,” he concluded, tucking against him as they resettled against the mattress. “I don't regret not chasing after him.” He was surprised to find it was true. He had, at first; he'd spent those first few evenings nurturing that brittle, bruised sort of ache in his chest, the way it seemed to taste bitterly of what could have been, squandered instead in a town he couldn't quite bring himself to leave.

“All of those heartbreaks just brought me to the person I was meant to run off into the sunset with.”

KASPAR
Kaspar was content to hear it, though he’d already suspected as much. He was enjoying being reminded of it, the backs of his fingertips tracing against Grey’s cheek, his jaw, following the touch with tender kisses as they got comfortable. “Oh? Into the sunset? I think I could handle that.” Of course, they both knew it wasn’t so easy, both knew that where he went his family came, that it was all of them together now. It wasn’t an easy commitment to make, but Grey had made it. They had found a way to be happy, to be together. Content as he would be to fall into silent affection, and eventually sleep, the promise to talk weighed on him. Though he hated to break the moment between them with heavier, potentially volatile, subjects he knew that it was time. Before it was too late. “As much as I'd like not to, because mouths have MUCH better occupations,…” He groaned, his face pressing against Grey’s shoulder, muttering. “We should talk.”

GREY WESTON
“Could you?” There was a low intensity to the question, Grey’s voice reaching a lower register. There was an almost innocence in the question; a hushed drowsiness that thinned slightly, losing some of the evenness of its timbre in favor of the mildly rougher pitch characteristic of early mornings; softer and slightly more melodious than usual. He was half-awake; lulled by the warmth that suffused along the sheets. His mother had taken care to line the sheets with ancient sherpa throws, their once vibrant colors faded from teal and a rich crimson into a bleached-bone shade of pale, and the pseudo-fleece had warmed to their body temperature almost immediately. An old electric blanket crowned the crisp linens - flannels, patterned in colors that vaguely resembled tartan-patterned Christmas tree skirts in their contrasting navy, cream, and forest greens trimmed with gold -more than making up for the slight draft that announced itself with an unexpected, lingering patch of damp cold towards the nearest window.

“Sorry,” he added. “For someone who loves words, I’m not very good at them. What a scandal.” He groaned a second later, rolling onto his back, reaching for Kaspar’s hand as he did so. He pressed his lips his palm, showering the skin in gentle kisses, before shifting onto his side. The sheets pooled at his waist, settling at his hips. It left his upper torso exposed, skin taking on a curiously dusky shade in the low light; half-honeyed, half freckled by shadow. He stretched his frame over Kaspar a second later, trailing kisses along the column of his throat. “I thought we just established that I suck at it?” He countered. He sobered a moment later, reaching out to smooth a stray strand of hair from Kaspar’s temple. “Okay,” he settled on, quietly. He sank against the mattress once more, content to let him bury his face against his shoulder, curving against him with a low sigh. “About?”

KASPAR
Grey had been since the first day he’d met him, and would continue to be, one of Kaspar’s favourite distractions. Even if he’d given him hell because of it a number of times. He could easily get caught up in the way the light flickered across his skin, the warm glow of a candle flame shimmering in the draft that made him shiver. Kas found himself leaning into the warm of Grey, accepting the touch, responding to his movements without any forethought. When the man slumped back, confessing that he wasn’t always the best with words, Kaspar gave a low timbered laugh, roughened with the lingering emotion that had fuelled his impassioned speech. “Aren’t you? Well, that is ok, we can use body lang-...” Distraction tugged at him, head dipping down to trace a particularly enticing shadow, lips brushing against the curve of Grey’s ribcage, trailing inwards to the dip of his sternum. It was as he began to slide lower, lips, teeth, tongue and caressing and playing over the skin of the man’s abdomen that he had to forcibly stop himself. A groan, a huff of breath and he was lifting his head, reluctantly. “Damn it. Ok, nein, I am going to talk to you.” He declared boldly rolling over onto his back, folding his arms and tucking his hands firmly under each arm.
“I’m sorry, that I blurted things out last night. I was in shock. Look, Tias and I had a sort of… A falling out, you might call it that? Years ago. We mended it in ways, we still talk but it is mostly business now. I have messaged him when stuck, or when I was setting up Morningstar Inc and wanted industry feedback on my ideas. I’ve seen him a few times, at gigs or for a quick coffee here and there, but…” He winced a little, “Grey. I am telling you this because it is important you know, and I do not want you to be put in a bad position or surprised… Matthias is in town. He is here for this one day festival event with his band, it was part of why I agreed to it. He’d called to make sure I was coming.” Kas turned to look at the ceiling, recalling the conversation in question.

The call had come late at night, when most of the house was asleep and Kaspar had been down in the home studio. It was a space that he and Grey dominated, soundproofed for Kaspar but set-up with artistic endeavours in mind. He was draped across the worn leather couch, working on a lyric that just wasn’t sounding right when the phone began to buzz. His heart was in his throat as he glanced at the seen to see the caller, forcibly swallowing it back down and putting on airs of indifference. “Matthias.” There had been a pause on the other end, a low sigh. “Kaspar.” He hated the way he’d said his name, it was wistful, fond and it made him sit up a little straighter, listening more closely. “Ja? You rang?” He tried for impatience, but wasn’t sure he sold it entirely. “I did… It’s nice to hear your voice. How are you?” Kaspar scoffed, “I’m fine, Tias, busy.” “Busy? Kas, it’s two o’clock in the morning, liebling. The only kind of busy you could be, since you’re answering your phone, is post-coital or thinking yourself to death.” Well, he wasn’t entirely wrong, Kaspar glanced at the traitorous notes in front of him, music sheets and pages of lyrics that he was overthinking. He put them aside, glaring into the middle distance. “I’m a busy man. What about you? Why are you calling me so late?” It was far from the first time he had, they’d shared many late night conversations over the years when one or the other couldn’t sleep but it hadn’t happened for a long time. “Because your assistant said you were reconsidering the gig. I’m calling to make sure you come.” “You couldn’t make me come if you tried.” He snarked automatically, receiving only silence and no doubt raised eyebrows. He carried on as if he’d never said it. “I want to. It worked with my plans but we leave in a few days and I think that my partner would really like for me not to work for once. It has been a long time since I simply took a break.” “It’s ONE day, Kaspar. Early morning sound check then you get to relax until you play, enjoy the other acts. Bring her along.” The assumption he meant Sig was there, and Kaspar didn’t bother disputing it. “Will you keep calling if I say no?” “Yes.” “Then fine.” “What, you don’t want me to call you?” “I don’t know.” “Oh.” Matthias sounded hurt, and it annoyed him how quickly he hastened to soothe it with a correction, “... Nein, fick. You can call, Tias.” The pause was heartbeats but it felt like minutes, just the sound of them breathing, of someone stretching or shifting, rustling fabric. “Ok.” “Gut.” “Kas?” “...What?” Matthias was smiling, he could hear it in his voice and it made Kaspar both irrationally angry and intrigued. “I’m really looking forward to seeing you.” “Hanging up on you now.” “I know… Night, Kaspar.” He’d hung up before saying another word, a desperate stabbing at the end call button, discarding the phone. He was going to go, even if he knew it was probably a bad idea.

In present time his recollection took only a few seconds, a mere pause before he continued, but enough to bring a wavering uncertainty to his tone. “Your… Your father is going to be in town, Grey. I thought you had the right to know. You are both here, and… I’ll understand if you don’t come to watch me, if you do not want to. Whatever you need to do then I will try to support you… I’m sorry, this is so weird.” His hands shifted, releasing them to cover his face, hiding behind his fingers. “I know you don’t want to hear this, please don’t hate me for telling you.” The words were slightly muffled against the cup of his palms, afraid to turn his head, to look at Grey’s expression right now.

GREY WESTON
“My...Matthias.” He exhaled the name tonelessly. A part of him wanted to call a recess to the discussion; to examine the discussion in the clarity of morning. He didn’t so much recoil as gradually fold in on himself, not unlike time lapse photography documenting the decline of a candle left to burn through the night, leaving a pitted, drawn figure in its wake. Less than shell of itself; a ghost of itself. “How long have you known?” He asked. The question was soft, surprisingly even. There was no accusation in the question; no bitterness. The tonelessness had softened into something approaching a quiet resignation and a subtle hurt. A resurgence of all the times he’d scraped his shins raw as a child, teeth sinking into his lower lip until the skin trapped between them turned bloodless; a jaundiced shade that did nothing to distract from the dual sensation of the sharp sting of torn skin and the frantic thud of his own heartbeat, captured at the edge of his canines. A hundred smaller wounds, all of them old and suddenly packed with salt.

A memory surfaced of the time he’d written a letter on the back of a takeout menu; careful not to press the dull lead of the colored pencil between the thin margins . The following Friday had been ‘Take Your Dad to School’ day, and he’d allowed himself to be caught up in the excitement. They were supposed to prepare a mock interview, father and son; a series of questions meant to get to know each other on a more personal level. Grey’d detailed everything from his favorite cartoon to his current favorite color (lime green, that week,) to his speculations on what his father possibly could have done that would draw him so far from home. He’d eventually settled on the the decision that his father was probably invisible. It had delighted him as a concept at first, in the way all vague concepts do; satisfied that he’d be able to introduce his parent to his classmates as present, but intangible. “I don’t…” He started, uncertainly. “I don’t want to see him.”