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Chapter Text

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I’m not quite sure how I wound up here, in the backroom of a church, getting ready to marry Richard Fucking Peele of all people. There was a chain of ill-fated decisions and events that led to this point, and they’re mostly my fault, but it’s still utterly baffling how quickly you can fall headfirst into what might be the worst mistake of your life. 

This is perhaps not what you’re supposed to be thinking on your wedding day, but, then again, you’re also not supposed to hate your fiance. Or have gotten legally married drunk. Or only have a ceremony because his family is traditional but trying to look accepting and can’t stand the idea of their only son having a shotgun wedding with strangers as witnesses. Especially if he’s marrying another man. 

I stare at myself in the mirror, taking in the sight. I hope I don’t look as awful as I feel. I think I look fine. Maybe I should be hoping for more than fine on my wedding day, but we can’t all have what we want. Most of this wedding isn’t what I want, but it’s better than nothing. Better than the alternative.

My suit is awful, I can say that much. It’s too plain. I wanted something different. I found a suit that I loved. It was a gorgeous, floral thing. It was going to be something about today I was actually looking forward to. But it made me look like, in Richard’s words, a “fucking pansy,” so I’m wearing one he approved. It’s fine though. It’s just one day, one wedding. It’s not like I’m going to be forced to play delighted, heterosexual-adjacent newlywed for his family for the rest of my life. 

And I’ll never have to pretend for my family, so at least that’s something. 

I attempted to invite my sister to the ceremony—more out of courtesy and the desire to not be surrounded by strangers than anything else—but when she found out who I tied myself to, she was (albeit appropriately) horrified. I thought she would at least be willing to come and see what a trainwreck she’s sure we’ll make, but she refused and kept demanding to know what was going through my head when I married Richard Fucking Peele . The truth is that there was a lot more vodka in me than coherent thoughts, but that’s none of Felicity’s business. So she isn’t coming.

I didn’t even bother with my parents. I haven’t spoken to either of them since Richard and I were legally married, but the message then was clear: we don’t claim you anymore .

My disownment didn’t come as a surprise to anyone. The legal processes of removing me from all the wills and policies and inheritances were already well underway. My father was finally making good on the threats he had been making for years now that there was a new Montague son in the picture. Adrian was only two but he had already been a better son in my father’s eyes than I was. My marriage to Richard was simply the final straw, the pebble that set off an avalanche we were all anticipating.

At the time, this marriage seemed like the only solution. I was being cut off, and could feel my life slipping out of my own hands, and did what I always do when everything is shit: I fell into bed with someone. Richard was just the unlucky one who happened to get caught up in my self-preservation efforts. 

I’ve spent a while trying to come up with a romantic alternative to my actual proposal to him. He was sitting on a countertop and buttoning his fly while I rummaged around his cabinets for a bottle of something that would get me drunk enough for round two, and I made the mistake of opening my mouth. 

“You know, my father’s going to kick me out.”

He looked up across his shitty little kitchenette to squint at me. “And?”

“Can’t I just make small talk?” I emerged from halfway in one of the cabinets with some cheap, half-drunk vodka, and took a swig straight from the bottle. He pulled a face. “Y’know, I make for an excellent conversationalist.”

“Do you want something from me?” Richard took the bottle from me to pour himself a glass. “Because I’m not lending you money.”

I laughed. “I don’t want your money.” A blatant lie. “I don’t need your money.” A bigger lie. “I can just bartend. I have marketable skills.”

“Are you here because you’ve already been thrown out?”

“No, Richard. I’m here because I was bored.” I snatched back the bottle and took another drink, almost relishing the burning at the back of my throat. “You’re definitely not my first choice of roommate.” 

“Excellent.”

He pulled me into a kiss that felt more like he was trying to eat my face than anything else, and a bit later, we wound up in his bedroom, him on his twin-sized mattress—you would think he could spring for a real bed in his multimillion-dollar apartment—and me on the floor. I was apparently not worth moving over for after he collapsed, sweaty and blotchy and smelling like the same cheap vodka that I retrieved from the kitchen. 

I’d like to blame said vodka for the next words out of my mouth, which were “What if we got married?”

Richard didn’t even look over at me. He just laughed, staring up at his ceiling and wiping a hand across his face. “Why the fuck would we do that?”

I sat up and shoved my way onto the end of his bed. “Aren’t your parents trying to set you up all the time?”

“You want me to marry you to avoid being pestered by my family.” He scowled. “What if they find someone better?”

“No one would be willing to marry you except me, Richard.”

He groaned, reaching for the bottle. “Fuck you.”

“Listen, it doesn’t even have to be a thing. We can go to a courthouse right now and it would be done, and they’d be off your back about finding a perfect rich gay heir to some oil company. You could divorce me in a year and pretend to be so heartbroken you could never wed again.”

“I don’t think anyone would believe that.”

“It’s worth a try.”

He rolled his eyes and took the bottle again. “Okay.” He took a deep breath, huffed out a sigh, and finished the vodka. “Let’s get married.” 

So we waited just long enough to pass as sober and got an Uber downtown to the courthouse. And we signed the papers and got married and went back to his apartment and fell back into bed. So, really, Richard’s not even my shitbag fiance, he’s my shitbag husband. God, that’s such a strange thought. I don’t feel married. I feel like a man awaiting his execution. 

I’m making a valiant attempt at putting on eyeliner (because really, something about my appearance has to be at least a little bit interesting) when the door opens, and Richard sticks his head in. His hair is slicked back with so much gel that it’s almost reflective, and when he sees me he scowls, which is basically par for the course. 

“What are you doing?” 

“What does it look like, darling?” I return to my efforts and ignore his scoff.

“You can’t wear that.”

“Whyever not?” I look back up at him, more confused than anything. 

He’s shut the door behind him and has his face scrunched up. “You look… gay.”

I hum. “Hate to break it to you darling, but you’re marrying a man today. I think that’s gayer than a little eyeliner.”

“Can you not be… yourself for one day?” he huffs. “I don’t need to get shit from my father about respectability .”

I set down the eyeliner pen. I shouldn't be angry. It’s one day. It’s one day, and I don’t even give a shit about the wedding, and it’s a simple ask. But the whole point of marrying Richard was to escape a house where my father always has an opinion about what I wear and how I act and who I go home with.

I shouldn’t compare Richard to my father. They’re nothing alike. Richard is a far, far better option. But I’m still ready to take a pair of scissors to the neat little dimple in his tie. 

“I think you left respectability behind when you dragged me into the alley by the courthouse so I could—”

“I’m just asking you to tone it down for one day. What the hell is your problem?” 

“I don’t have one,” I say, getting to my feet and pushing past him as he rolls his eyes. “Everything is abso-fucking-lutely perfect , darling. Thank you for such a magical day.” 

He starts to say something that’s most likely Henry in that absolutely exasperated voice he uses when we’re fighting, but I shut the door behind me before he can get it out. 

I’ve not taken three steps when I smack directly into the priest, a short, round man who seems to always be smiling. I can’t remember his name for the life of me. He drops his clipboard, and papers go flying. “Fuck, sorry.”

He looks up at me, and I wince. “Wait, oh my god, sorry. Shouldn’t swear in church.” When he’s still silent, I catch myself. “Shit, I can’t say that— wait, sorry, damnit. Sorry.”

For the first time since I’ve met him, the priest’s smile seems a little strained. “I was just coming round to remind you and Mr. Peele that you have fifteen minutes.”

I gather up the papers and shove them back into his arms. “Right. God, that’s soon. Sorry.” 

“Would you walk with me?”

“Are you going to lecture me? Sorry, I haven’t been to church consistently in years, and I never talk whenever I do go, and it’s just—”

“It’s quite alright, Mr. Montague.” He starts down the hall, and I follow behind, unsure of if he’s taking me somewhere or simply wandering. “It’s normal to be nervous.”

“I’m not,” I say before I can stop myself. 

The priest looks up to me (really, it’s a miracle that he’s shorter than me) and squints. “So you and Mr. Peele were not having an anxious quarrel?”

I wince again. “No, that’s just— he’s worried because his family’s here, and they don’t know me well, and neither of us actually wanted this goddamn ceremony, but we got badgered into it. Sorry.” 

“Are you sure you’d like to do this?” He stops walking. 

“What, get paraded around for the rest of the day so Richard’s parents can feel better about the way they raised their son?”

“I meant marry Mr. Peele,” the priest says, so quietly I almost don’t hear it. 

I’m not sure how in the hell I’m supposed to answer that when we’re already married. I don’t know what to say to this man, who’s so concerned for my wellbeing that he’s willing to stick his neck out and be, objectively, incredibly rude about my marriage. I can’t tell him what I’m thinking, that this is either the best or worst decision I’ve made in my life, because I’m trading living with my father for marrying my childhood-tormentor-turned-friend-with-benefits. I’m definitely not telling him that I’m terrified I’ve already made a huge mistake in saddling anyone with my baggage, even if it is Richard Fucking Peele. 

What I say to him is, “I’m sure,” and it comes out shaky enough that neither of us believes it.

After what can only be described as the most awkward leisurely stroll the priest and I have ever endured, I barely have time to find Richard again before the ceremony (which promises to be only marginally less awkward).

Originally, I think Richard’s parents wanted to make the most out of the whole imitating heterosexuality thing and have me walk down the aisle by myself. I told Richard that would only happen if he dragged me kicking and screaming. He didn’t seem interested in doing that, or explaining to his family why it wasn’t possible for anyone in mine to walk with me, so we walk together. The organist doesn’t play Here Comes the Bride for obvious reasons, and instead plays a song I don’t recognize that resembles a death march. (Or maybe that’s just me.) Richard and I commence our walk of shame as quickly as possible without looking like we’re speedwalking in tandem. When we pass his family, his mother gives me a sour look. I realize only then that I never did anything about the makeup and, to make matters worse, never even finished with the second eye before storming out on Richard. I can only hope the photographer is being paid enough to work around it.

We meet the priest—who does very little to hide the concerned glances he throws my way—at the altar. Richard takes my hands as stiffly as possible and keeps a godly distance between us. It should annoy me, but I won’t object to putting distance between myself and Richard.

The priest launches into an introductory speech about love and trust and commitment in marriage. It takes everything in me not to scoff to Richard’s face. I can feel him resisting the urge to roll his eyes. Richard and I don’t agree about most things, but I take a little comfort in knowing we both think this is stupid.

After the priest says his piece, we say our vows. We both strongly protested to this part under the guise of not performing well under pressure (an excuse I’ve heard from Richard many times) but his parents insisted that we profess our love for each other. I’m fairly certain we’re all aware that this marriage is a sham by now, and his parents are trying to see how far they can push us before we admit to it. But Richard is a stubborn ass if nothing else and I have too much to lose, so we play along.

Richard pulls a folded piece of paper from his jacket and opens it to his vows, written in what I think is his sister’s handwriting. He reads from them, reciting more bullshit about love and fate and fabricated dates. (The fake backstory he gives us is almost impressive, making me even more sure that he didn’t write it.) When he’s finished, I read my own. They’re a lackluster patchwork of vow material I found on the internet, vague enough that they don’t contradict any fake stories Richard may have told his parents but interspersed with details that might convince his distant relatives we actually like each other.

The priest, looking underwhelmed by our grand displays of love, barrels on to the “I do”s. I don’t actually listen to what he says. I almost don’t want to. I only know it’s my turn to speak when Richard gives my foot a subtle kick.

“Oh, I do,” I say, hoping my surprise isn’t obvious. If the looks Richard and the priest are giving me are any indication, it is.

The priest, in his everlasting patience, continues. One of Richard’s young cousins presents the rings and we slide them onto each other’s fingers. Then, the priest says that we can kiss.

It’s the one thing Richard doesn’t hesitate to do. He pulls me to him, one hand on my face and the other on my hip, gripping me with his usual possessiveness that only I—and maybe the priest—notice. Only Richard could manage to make a marital kiss feel so dirty.

Suddenly, it sets in how real this all is. Although the damage had already been done before today, this is when I truly feel married to Richard. There is no going back. This is the point of no return. This is the rest of my life.

I try to ignore the panic that starts to build in my chest. I try not to feel like an animal in a snare. I try to remind myself that Richard’s vise-like grip isn’t just binding but security. Richard is stability.

And when all of that falls short, I remind myself that the reception is starting soon and I can drown all my misgivings in gin.

As we part, the guests start to cheer. Richard—my husband —and I lock eyes, significantly less joyful. He releases me, then takes my hand to pull me down the aisle again. I follow; one long, loud, easy descent into hell.

You would think that, when passing the point of no return, there would be more warning. You would expect signs that say stop here or you’ll pass the point of no return and probably die ! You would expect alarm bells and sirens and some kind of resistance. But there isn’t. There are only drunken decisions to later be justified and that point of no return far, far behind you.

Surprisingly, the reception is bearable. Once our dance is out of the way, I spend it with a glass in hand and as far from Richard as possible. I expect avoiding Richard to be the hard part, especially since he gets extra handsy when he’s drunk, but the avoidance seems to be mutual. That’s fine by me.

I drift through the guests, also avoiding Richard’s parents (though between the ceremony and the reception I managed to remove the makeup) and making my best small talk with relatives that look like they would give the most generous Christmas gifts. I think I might make it through the whole night without a hitch until Caroline—Richard’s younger sister—corners me at the bar.

Of all the Peeles, Caroline is the most tolerable. I don’t know her that well but she’s quiet and was once friends with Felicity. Unlike her parents, she doesn’t look overall pained by my existence. She gives me a pleasant smile and tucks a blonde strand of hair behind her ear.

“Congratulations, Henry,” she says. She even sounds sincere.

“Thanks,” I say, hoping my smile is as convincing as hers. The dimples tend to help.

Caroline settles in beside me and, without asking, is given a drink by the bartender. I get the strangest urge to scold her, but I know I don’t have room to talk since neither of us is of drinking age. Still, Caroline is sixteen like Felicity, only three years younger than me, but I almost want to warn her that drinking at that age doesn’t do you any favors.

But in the interest of not getting called a hypocrite, I don’t.

Caroline smiles again. I can’t tell if it’s fake or if, drinking habits aside, she’s as sweet and unsuspecting as she appears. “I guess this makes you my brother-in-law.”

I freeze, glass halfway to my mouth. “I guess,” I echo. I don’t know where she’s going with this but I don’t like the sound of that all the same.

“You don’t sound very happy about that,” she observes.

“About marrying into your family? I’m ecstatic.” I can’t keep the sarcasm out of my voice. I worry a moment too late that Caroline might be offended by that, but she laughs.

“My parents aren’t thrilled about it either.”

“I’m well aware.”

“They were so mad when Richard told them what you two did,” she continues as if I never spoke. It must be a family trait. “They had been trying to set Richard up for ages, and you’re not exactly—”

“Do you have a point, Caroline?” I snap.

She’s unfazed. “I defended him. I said Richard wouldn’t have done that for someone he didn’t love.” She looks over at me. Her gaze is searching, but not accusing. “I’m not that close with my brother. But he’s never mentioned you, has barely looked at you all night, and—just between you and me—has about as much romantic potential as a dead fish.”

I laugh, cracking my first genuine smile all day.

Caroline looks pleased. “So correct me if I’m wrong,” she says, with an unspoken but I know that I’m right . “But you and Richard got married for another reason, didn’t you?”

I don’t respond right away. I entertain the possibility that admitting to Caroline might be a bad idea. She could tell her parents. Richard might not want me telling her anything. On the other hand, Caroline could have sabotaged this already, knows my history with Richard is so unsavory we needed a fake backstory, and most importantly, I’m not interested in doing anything to please Richard.

“Richard and I both have our reasons,” I finally say, keeping my voice down so we won’t be overheard.

Caroline nods like she suspected as much. “Well, good luck.” She stands and pushes an empty glass back on the bar. I hadn’t even noticed her drain it while we talked. “You should go talk to Richard so my parents don’t catch on as fast as I did.”

“Will do.” I give Caroline a little salute. I’m definitely tipsier than I thought I was, but it makes her laugh so I’m okay with it. As I watch her go, I realize it could be nice to have an ally somewhere in this family.

I empty the rest of my glass for liquid patience and set off to find my dear husband.

My patience doesn’t last long. I spend about half an hour hanging around Richard and his friends—a few of whom I think called me slurs in high school. Caroline is right. Richard hardly looks at me. He doesn’t touch me. He doesn’t even let me stand too close without inching away. Whenever I touch him, testing the waters, he pulls away like I’m tainted. Most of the things I say go ignored.

I never wanted Richard fawning all over me. Hell, if we didn’t talk for the entire reception I wouldn’t mind. I don’t need (and oftentimes don’t want) his attention. But the way he pushes me out on purpose and treats me like I’m beneath his notice around the people he knows stings. I should have expected this behavior from him. The only attention he ever paid me in public growing up was to join his friends in harassing me. But it’s our goddamn wedding day, and I’m not going to spend it feeling like something he cast aside.

The third time Richard pushes me off of his shoulder, I’ve had it. I shove my chair back and storm off, not caring that he and his friends will only laugh it off. I don’t expect Richard to change but I might as well make a dramatic exit.

However, my dramatic exit only makes me look that much more pathetic when I return to sulking at the bar, hating Richard and myself and this entire wedding. I resolve to get so drunk that maybe I’ll forget this whole terrible day, but I don’t get very far with that plan before one of Richard’s friends comes up to me.

“Henry?” he asks.

I turn, already prepared to tell him off, but I stop myself. I recognize him as one of the few who actually seemed to notice me when I was with them.

“Hi,” he says, offering a hesitant smile. He’s cute, in a scruffy way.

“Hi,” I return flatly.

He rubs the back of his neck. “I just wanted to apologize for Rich and…the rest of the guys. They’re not usually—”

“Trust me, they are.”

He looks taken aback. “Oh, I’m sorry.”

I wave off his apologies, turning my attention back to my drink. I’m not interested in making Richard’s friends feel better about being assholes. 

I expect him to leave, but instead, he takes a step closer. When I look at him again, I notice the way his eyes travel, studying me.

Oh, I think with a pleasant thrill. I can work with this. At least someone will give me attention tonight. And you have to admire the guts to flirt with the groom at his own wedding.

“Well, do you want a drink?”

His smile is unabashed as he sits next to me, victorious. The bartender brings him a drink. We sit there talking for a while. It’s not any meaningful conversation but it’s nice, making small talk neither of us really cares about while sitting as close as is socially acceptable and exchanging looks that most certainly aren’t. I start to debate the logistics of sneaking away from my own wedding or whether it would be easier to get his number when Richard appears at my side like an unwanted apparition.

“Henry.” He grabs my arm, a bit too tightly for my taste, and I pull it free. “I need to talk to you,” he says in a way that leaves no room for argument. He shoots a glare at his friend. His friend looks caught in the act. I should probably feel bad for potentially ruining that friendship, but I don’t know what he expected to happen after openly hitting on me in public. “Henry,” Richard says again.

I stand, brushing off my suit. “Of course, darling.” I give Richard a saccharine smile, which he returns with a scowl. “Lead the way.”

Richard leads me out into a small sitting room off of the reception hall. I assume it’s meant for newlyweds to have a place for more romantic private moments before facing their families after the ceremony. Our private moment is anything but. As soon as the door is shut, Richard turns on me, eyes blazing.

“What the hell was that?” he demands.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” I answer mildly.

“I asked you to be less… yourself today,” Richard says, as if I should be so ashamed of who I am. “Not throw yourself at one of my friends!”

I bristle. “I did not throw myself— ”

“You were making ‘fuck me’ eyes at him all night!”

“How would you know? You’ve hardly looked at me all night.”

He sighs and says “ Henry, ” in that damn voice.

“If you won’t even touch me at our wedding—”

“My parents are here, Henry.”

“It’s a gay wedding! We’re going to look gay!” I snap. “Your parents would learn to get over it. They wouldn’t control you if you would act like the adult you are and grow a fucking spine.” I’m aware of the hypocrisy as soon as it leaves my mouth, but I don’t take it back. Not for Richard.

Richard steps forward, suddenly in my space. “This was your idea. I’m not going to stick my neck out for some idiotic plan you came up with because you got thrown out.”

I’m caught. We’re both well aware I need this more than he does, and if Richard’s parents become fed up enough with us that Richard is left on his own, I’m a tad fucked.

But I’m not letting Richard Fucking Peele win this argument, so I tip my nose defiantly and step forward, practically in Richard’s face. “Well,” I say petulantly, “you certainly weren’t complaining when I went—”

“Oh my god . Would you shut up? For five minutes?”

“What are you going to do?” I ask. “Make me?”

That’s the final straw. Richard makes a frustrated sound before grabbing me by the collar and kissing me. He pushes me back into the wall. My head hits it rather unpleasantly, but if Richard notices he doesn’t show it. He just kisses me like it’s an extension of the argument. (I suppose it always kind of is with us.) Then his hands are on my shoulders pushing me down, onto my knees.

This, I tell myself, letting him manhandle me, letting him distract me from that inexplicable panic trying to fill my chest again. I can work with this.

Chapter Text

I’m busy flipping through my script for perhaps the ten millionth time when I first notice him. Puck talks far too much for me to memorize in six rehearsals, but that hasn’t stopped me from trying. It’s just good to have something to do while I’m sitting at home avoiding Richard, and if that’s reading A Midsummer Night’s Dream cover-to-cover until the spine breaks, so be it. It’s in the middle of one of Oberon and Puck’s more homoerotic conversations that I look up to see the orchestra players filing in, and my eyes catch on one of them. 

I’m not sure how I got lucky enough to score a major part at such a large company, but they bring in the musicians once a week to practice the backing tracks, and it’s incredibly inconvenient. We don’t have microphones yet, won’t get them until tech week, so we all have to shout over the orchestra to be heard. Last Wednesday, the first time they were here, I went home and had tea instead of wine because I was terrified of losing my voice. 

He must be the violinist who was sick last week because I don’t recognize him. I would remember a face like that, even if he is entirely off the table. I watch as he sets up and try not to seem like an utter creep by hiding behind my script. It doesn’t seem to work very well, because Theo, who’s playing Titania, stops her trajectory across the house seats and gives me a bewildered look. She knows me well enough (we hooked up a few times before I was married) to tell that I’m close to losing my mind.

“What’s wrong with you?”

I beckon her closer and, once she’s within earshot, hiss “Who’s the new violinist?”

“Percy Newton. He’s not new ; he’s been here forever. Why?”

I feign indifference, which seems useless since she just saw me staring. “I just like knowing people’s names.”

She rolls her eyes, a smile playing across her face. “Okay, Henry.”

It’s times like these that I’m glad I haven’t gotten around to telling anyone here that I’m married. Half the time I forget to put my ring back on when I’m done doing the dishes or getting out of the shower, and no one’s noticed it yet. I don’t need a scolding for innocent admiration. It’s not like I’m going to do anything. Richard seems to think I’m a massive slut who can’t manage monogamy—I’m not going to prove him right. 

When I told my dearest husband about seeing a flyer for auditions, he said nothing, so I assumed he didn’t care enough to complain about me being gone from the house. It’s not like I’m particularly skilled at homemaking, even with nine months of halfhearted practice. But as soon as I announced that I’d been cast, he started trying to poke holes in my brilliant plan to finally pick up a hobby. Apparently, gas money is suddenly an issue despite the fact that his family is basically bankrolling his entire life until he graduates from business school. I don’t bring up the show at home, and that’s fine by me. I like having something untouched by Richard. 

I’m distracted from my staring when the director calls us up to talk about waiting for orchestral cues and proper projection (as if any amount of breathing from the diaphragm is going to make me louder than a string quintet and timpani), but after we begin Act One, I’m stationed in the wings and nearly get knocked on my ass when someone walks into me. 

“ Shit , sorry.”

I turn, ready to whisper back something just petty enough to pass off as benign, but the words get caught in my throat. Percy Newton is catching himself on the set of lockers I’d been leaning on, clutching his violin in his free hand. 

He’s even prettier up close. He has deep, dark brown eyes, staring at me in what seems to be genuine alarm. His curls threaten to come loose from their ponytail, probably because of the May humidity. He’s tall and gangly in a weirdly endearing way and has a smattering of freckles under his eyes that I didn’t notice from far away. 

And I’m staring at him blankly instead of responding. Shit. “It’s fine.”

He keeps standing there, looking at me expectantly, and I realize with a start that I’m blocking his path to the orchestra’s section of the lockers. I shuffle aside, and he reaches past me to rummage around until he procures a violin string. 

“Broke it during the first number,” he says, lifting his violin in explanation, and sure enough, one of the middle strings is dangling from it in two pieces. 

“Is that bad luck?” I ask. 

He looks around like he’s checking to make sure no higher, bad-luck-bestowing power heard me. “God, I hope not. I’d like to have an easy day.”

I watch as he sets his violin on a precariously balanced stack of boxes and begins switching out the string with nimble, practiced hands, and I end up missing my cue. 

Over the next few weeks, I strike up a routine: every Wednesday, I spend my time offstage camped out in front of the orchestra’s lockers, and wait for Percy to come around. Not just to stare, although I do a bit of that. He’s always nervous about something, it seems, but he’s fun to whisper to in between my scenes. I learn the basics through these conversations and some tasteful Instagram stalking: he’s twenty, went to the public high school that I avoided by virtue of having a father who wanted me three hours away except on holidays, has been playing violin with the theatre company since he was thirteen, and his service dog, a well-mannered labradoodle who’s got daisies stitched into her vest, is named Florence. And judging by the amount of maintenance his violin seems to need, he must play nearly non-stop. 

I also tell him, among other things, that I’m married. He’s not indicated any interest, but I’d rather get ahead of that particular issue in the unlikely event that it becomes one. He’s too sweet to lead on or flirt with for a laugh. But I like talking to him. He’s an easy conversation that provides a respite from arguing with Richard and spending my weekends getting drunk on liquor I don’t pay for. I think we might be friends. Maybe. 

A month into rehearsals, the costume mistress starts coming in to get our measurements, and it’s on a Wednesday that she returns with my costume. It’s a green corset top with matching pants and shoes that curl up at the toes like they’re meant for elves. The entire thing is made to look like it’s vines and leaves fashioned into clothing, and she tells me that I’ll probably get a set of matching wings and look like I’ve been rolled around in a vat of glitter on show day. It seems like no one’s bothering to mask the fact that Puck is massively gay. 

I’m kind of obsessed. 

I try on the ensemble in the break between Act Two and Act Three and run down to the pit under the stage to show Percy, grinning like a fool. 

“Perce, you would not believe the magic the costuming department has worked on this one,” I announce as I push through the doors. 

He looks up from his music in almost perfect unison with the rest of the orchestra, and his face splits open in a laugh. “Jesus, they’re not being subtle with this one.” 

“Subtlety,” I say, nose tipped up in the air, “is overrated. I think it’s magnificent.”

“Oh, absolutely.”

I spin a few times to give him a full view of my outfit, then collapse in the chair next to him, which was recently vacated by the other violin player. “I think you should get one matching,” I say, and I don’t think about what he might look like in tight pants. Right now, he’s in a jean jacket that practically swallows him that’s decorated with about five thousand pins. The one on his collar reads ‘If abortion is murder, blow jobs are cannibalism,’ and I desperately want him to read it aloud. I’ve been treated to a few of Percy’s dirty jokes over the past weeks, and the bluntness with which he says filthy things is absolutely delightful, especially given how prim-and-proper he tries to pass himself off as most of the time. 

There are more pins, with song lyrics from bands I don’t know, mushrooms, photos of Florence with what looks like a baby goat, and a myriad of slogans and logos for various organizations. Shoved between ‘Democracy, not Theocracy’ and ‘Happiness is an extremely uneventful subject,’ almost like he’s trying to hide it, is a tiny trans flag. I don’t ask about it, even though I’m curious. 

Percy is almost certainly queer. No straight man is as obsessed with Pride and Prejudice as him, and he’s joked about needing a boyfriend to stop him from turning his house into a jungle with all his houseplants. But we’ve not talked about it at all, and I’ve never had a friend that would understand why I’m leaning so hard into Puck’s flamboyance and sparkle before. He’s the only person that would get how it’s almost like a catharsis after years of being repressed (or, at least, repressed in public). I want to bring these things up, but I don’t know if we’re that kind of friends, or if he’ll be scared off, and I don’t want to have to avoid him while we’re still in the same production. 

Percy is still gaping at my costume while I tease him about hiding in the pit, and I honestly can’t blame him. I’m going to have to buy the costume mistress a coffee. This might be my favorite thing I’ve ever worn. 

I swan back up the steps for Act Three, and if I do another twirl on the landing, that’s between me and the Hello Dolly! posters. 

Most days, I’m one of the last people to leave rehearsal. I’m never in any rush to get home, despite Richard’s bitching about me coming home late, and I quite enjoy hanging back with some of the other actors.

Percy, on the other hand, doesn’t stick around for long. I’ve tried to catch him on his way out a few times but he always seems to be in a hurry to leave. I’m surprised one evening, as I exit the theater with Theo, to find him lingering by the door outside. Percy doesn’t pay much attention to us, but Theo notices me noticing him.

She looks between us meaningfully, green eyes wide. “I’ll see you later, Henry.” I don’t get the chance to return her goodbye before she runs off, leaving me and Percy alone.

Percy is leaning against the wall, staring down at his phone. He has a troubled frown that I know well at this point. Florence, ever the lady, lays calmly by his feet.

“Are you alright, Perce?” I ask.

Percy looks up from his phone. He tries to smooth his face. “Uh, yeah,” he says unconvincingly.

“Do you have a way to get home?”

“Not yet,” he says softly. He looks almost embarrassed.

I stare. “Do you need a ride home?”

“I don’t want to be any trouble—”

“It isn’t,” I interject. “Really, I’m not in a rush.”

He rubs the back of his neck. “Are you sure?”

“Well, I’m definitely not going to strand you here.” I fish my keys out of my pocket. “Really, I don’t mind.”

Percy allows a relieved smile. “Thanks,” he says, and follows me to my car. Florence hops into the backseat and Percy climbs in on the passenger side. Once I get in, I hand Percy my phone. 

“Music choice is yours.”

Percy grins. “Really?”

I give him a pointed look. “Don’t make me regret it.”

“I won’t. I promise,” he says, laughing.

“Put in your address too,” I add, “unless you want to direct me the whole way.”

Percy starts the navigation for me and I drive as he picks out the music. It’s a song that I don’t recognize, something kind of sad and romantic, but it’s not depressing and Percy seems to enjoy it so I don’t complain.

“Thanks again,” Percy says, “for giving me a ride. I really appreciate it.”

I wave him off. “Seriously, Perce, it’s no problem. I like to think you wouldn’t strand me on the side of the road either.” I glance over at him with a crooked smile. Percy smiles back.

“I’d like to think so too. But I don’t drive, so you might be out of luck.”

“You can’t drive ?” I ask in disbelief. Theoretically, I could understand managing that in town, where things are relatively close, but from the way Google Maps is leading me, Percy seems to live out just past the suburbs.

“I know how to drive,” Percy points out. “My parents taught me how, but I don’t have a license.”

“How come?”

Percy shrugs. “Epilepsy stuff,” he says. “There’s a minimum time to be seizure-free, medication side effects, et cetera. It’s complicated.”

“Oh,” is all I say. I don’t really know anything about epilepsy. I don’t know what I should say, if anything. I circle back to known territory. “Well, if you ever need a ride again, you can always ask me.”

“It shouldn’t happen again,” Percy assures me, a little sheepishly. “Besides, I’m sure you have places to be.”

I snort. “Not really. You might not have noticed, but I don’t do much other than the show.”

“You don’t have a job or anything?” Percy asks. It’s not judgemental, merely curious, and I guess he’s entitled to ask after I asked about his driving.

“No, I’m…an aspiring house husband.”

He chuckles. “Aspiring?”

“I’m not very good at it,” I admit with a smile.

“Your husband must not mind.” Percy says it like we’re still sharing a joke. There’s an implied because he loves you to it. I’m not sure what to say to that. I really don’t want to talk about my husband with Percy.

“Not really,” is all I say, which isn’t really a lie. Richard doesn’t mind that I’m shit at most domestic skills—or, at the very least, doesn’t often bother me about it. We both manage to make our own coffees in the morning and feed ourselves. For routine cleaning tasks, he hires someone. “What do you do when you’re not playing with the orchestra?” I ask, grasping for a subject change. “Or are you a violin prodigy full-time?”

“I wouldn’t call myself a prodigy ,” Percy says wryly. “You only hear me play things I’ve well-practiced.”

“As humble as he is talented,” I muse, making Percy laugh again.

“Whatever you say, Henry.”

I mask my discomfort at the name. I still hate my legal name, my father’s name, but Richard always calls me that (or occasionally, before we were married, Montague). “Monty” doesn’t make much sense when your last name is Peele. The only person who might still call me that, Felicity, hasn’t spoken to me since I got married.

“But for the record,” Percy continues, “I don’t play violin full-time. I work part-time at a small bookstore downtown.”

“I would ask what store, but I don’t read.”

“You don’t read ?” Percy asks, incredulous.

“I’m afraid not, darling.”

“Well, this has been a very nice friendship, but I don’t think it’s going to work out.”

Percy sounds serious, but when I look over at him, he’s biting back a smile.

“I could still strand you on the side of the road, you know.”

“You wouldn’t dare!”

I give him an innocent smile like try me . Percy just rolls his eyes, a grin still tugging at his lips.

Percy lives in a small house outside the city. It’s not a rural area by any means, but it’s quiet and overgrown. The houses are so spread out and set back from the road so that you can see your neighbors, but you can’t talk to them from your front lawn. Most of the houses have small gardens and large, fenced-off yards, some with animals. Percy’s house is cozy-looking, with wind chimes hanging around the porch and a pride flag hanging beside the door. His backyard is much like the others.

I pull into the driveway. Percy turns to me with a smile. “Thanks again for—” He stops. “Hey, do you want to see my goats?”

“ Goats? ” I repeat. “You have goats ? Plural?”

“Just two,” Percy amends with a soft laugh. “They’re little. You want to meet them?”

“Abso-fucking-lutely.”

We get out and Percy leads me to his backyard. He shuts the gate behind us, then leans down and takes off Florence’s vest. Florence shakes herself out and watches Percy expectantly. Percy scratches behind her ears and says, “Go play.”

That must have been the command Florence was waiting for. She takes off running and does a lap around the big yard. On the way, she picks something up off of the ground and when she returns, drops it at my feet. It looks like a mangled duck plush.

“That’s her favorite,” Percy tells me.

Florence sits and looks up at me. I wasn’t allowed any pets growing up, but I get the gesture. I pick up the duck and throw it as far as I can. Florence takes off after it. We do this a few more times before Florence gets bored of it and abandons her duck for chasing a squirrel across the yard.

Percy scans the yard. “They must be in the shed.” He leads me farther out into the yard to a small three-sided shed. Two goats lay asleep huddled on straw inside. They’re small, with little horns and white coats spotted with brown. They stir when we approach.

“This is Chopin,” Percy says, gesturing to one of the goats, then the other. “This is Vivaldi.”

“You named your goats after composers?”

“Florence is too.”

“Really?”

Percy nods. “She’s named after Florence Price. She was the first Black woman recognized as a symphonic composer.” He tacks on, “And Florence Welch, but that was more of an afterthought.”

“You are such a nerd,” I say with no accusation behind it.

Percy just gives me a tipped-headed smile that I always want to bring out of him.

Chopin and Vivaldi trot through the yard. Florence is still running around. Once, she very narrowly avoids running into Chopin (or it could be Vivaldi; I can’t really tell them apart). Though they never actually collide, Chopin (or Vivaldi) stiffens and suddenly collapses on the ground.

“Is he—” I start.

“He’s alright,” Percy interrupts. “Chopin and Vivaldi are fainting goats. They have a condition where their muscles stiffen when they’re startled and usually makes them collapse like that. It doesn’t hurt or anything. He’ll get up in a few seconds and walk it off.”

Sure enough, the goat gets up, shakes himself out, and walks off like nothing happened. I laugh.

The other goat (I’m almost sure this one is Vivaldi) ambles back over and drinks from a bucket of water under the shed. They have a whole setup with water, hay feeders, and what looks like small climbing structures near the shed.

“Do you take care of them all by yourself?” I ask.

“Oh, no,” Percy says. “They’re only really half-mine. They originally belonged to my neighbors but they found out someone in their house was allergic. Their youngest, Georgie, was too attached to the goats to let them go so I offered to take them. I do the day-to-day maintenance but Georgie comes by on the weekends and some evenings to see them and take care of them.”

I stare at Percy. Though I tease him, sometimes he really does seem to be too good of a person to be true.

Percy notices my staring and gives me a bemused smile. “What?”

“Nothing.” I glance away, then notice how dark it’s starting to get. “I should probably go.”

“Probably,” Percy says softly. I don’t know if it’s a trick of the fading light, but he almost looks disappointed. “I’ll walk you,” he offers.

“You’re a real gentleman, Perce.”

Percy walks with me back to my car, lingering at the door. Neither of us really wants me to go. I would much rather stay here watching the goats with Percy all night than go home and eat dinner in silence. A part of me wants to do this again.

“Hey, could I give you my number?” I ask. When Percy looks surprised, I tack on “Just in case, you know, something like this happens again. You could just text me.”

“I really don’t think that will be a problem,” Percy says. “Thanks though.”

“Oh, alright.” 

Well, now it’s just awkward. 

I start to get in my car. “I guess I’ll—”

“ Oh ,” Percy interjects, suddenly flustered. “ Oh , I mean yes. Yes, I would like your number. Anyway. Please.”

A smile tugs at my lips and I hold out my hand. Percy pulls up his contacts and hands his phone to me. I put in my number and enter my name as puck with a fairy emoji. 

Percy takes his phone and, when he reads the contact, he grins. “I’ll see you at rehearsal.”

When I get back to the apartment, still feeling warm and content and soft in a way I can’t explain, Richard is sitting on our couch with his tie undone. He’s nursing a beer and watching some incredibly boring cop show. He looks up as I enter, and scowls in greeting. “You’re late,” he observes.

“I had to give a friend a ride home from rehearsal,” I say. I don’t tell him that I stayed at Percy’s half to avoid him. I don’t want him to touch this one good thing I have right now.

He narrows his eyes, like the idea of me having a friend is somehow suspicious, and, in a way, I suppose it is. I don’t ever tell him about the few people I spend time with, because he gets irrationally tense and jealous. “Who?”

I start inching my way towards the kitchen, hoping that if I’m out of his line of sight he’ll go back to his show. “His name is Percy. He’s in the orchestra.” 

“Shakespeare has an orchestra?”

“That’s what I thought at first, but they’re actually very good.”

“And how is Percy?”

I stop and turn back to face him. I’m almost to the kitchen, but the way Richard says Percy’s name sets off alarm bells in my head. “He’s fine . His dog is sweet. He lives out in the countryside.” 

Richard’s scowl, impossibly, gets deeper. “Is he…” 

I wait. Richard looks back to the television and takes another swig of his beer. “Is he what?” I want to hear him say it. I want him to have to ask. 

“Is he gay?” Richard finally says, determinedly not looking at me, and it seems like getting the words out is a Herculean task for him. 

“Does it matter?” 

“Of course it matters, Henry,” he snaps. He meets my eyes, and I’m struck by how genuinely angry he looks. 

I laugh, but there’s no humor behind it. “Because you think that if he was gay, I’d have hooked up with him in the back of my car, and that’s why I’m late.” 

I’m expecting Richard to deny it. I want him to at least pretend like he thinks better of me than that. But he just takes another sip of beer and hums, putting his feet up on our coffee table as he turns back to his show.

I hate it. I hate how fucking aloof he is. I have half a mind to snatch the beer away and dump it in his lap, just so he’ll pay attention while I chew him out. “So I can’t have friends now, because you feel threatened? That’s what this is? You’re so pathetic and insecure that me giving someone a ride home makes you think I’m cheating?”

Richard doesn’t look at me. “It’s not my fault you hit on anything that moves.”

I give him the finger and storm into the kitchen, making an effort to slam as many cabinets open and shut as possible while I microwave myself dinner. He turns up the volume on his show so loud that the neighbor bangs on the wall in complaint, and when he goes to bed, I stay on the couch, wishing I were anywhere else.

Chapter Text

fic playlist!

“ When in that moment so it came to pass, Titania waked and straightway loved an ass! ”

It takes everything in me not to burst out laughing straightaway at the comically exaggerated look of delight that stretches over Geoffrey’s face. He sprints towards me from across the stage, and even though I’m expecting it by now, I still shriek as he grabs me by the waist and dips me. He laughs at my shriek, because of course he does, and his grip on my waist slips. 

“Jesus!” I grab onto his shoulders. “Don’t drop me.” I pull myself up and adjust my corset, still laughing. Someone down in the pit must hear the chaos above them, because there’s a horrible squeak as a note is missed, and I can hear Theo choking on air in the wings. 

It’s possibly the best I’ve felt in years. 

“ This falls out better— “ Geoffrey tries to continue, but there’s glitter all down his front from when he grabbed me, and he lapses into laughter again. Eventually, he fights his way back into Oberon’s pleased composure. “ This falls out better than I could devise. But hast thou yet latched the Athenian’s eyes with the love juice, as I did bid thee do? ”

I run a hand over my face, and when I pull it away, my eye is stinging. Right. Glitter. “ I took him sleeping, that is —ow, fuck .” I grin like an absolute fool despite myself. “ That is finished too—and the Athenian woman by his side, that, when he waked, of force she must be eyed… ”

After the scene ends, the director calls rehearsals for the day, which is probably wise. I change, reluctantly, and intend to slip down into the pit to find Percy, but he’s already sitting in the front row, Florence curled up at his feet. There’s a wolf whistle from the wings, and I stop to strike one last pose before I descend the steps and flop down onto the open seat next to Percy. 

“Hallo, darling,” I huff, and Percy laughs.

“You’ve been having fun.”

“I have . Except when Geoffrey almost dropped me. My life flashed before my eyes, I think. I may never recover from the trauma of that moment.”

“Oh, stop,” Percy scolds, grinning. “You only would’ve fallen about six inches.”

I shove him playfully. “I hate you.” 

“Sure you do.” 

“Are you sure you don’t need a ride again?” I lean on his shoulder. “It’s really no trouble.”

“Do you just want to visit the goats again?”

“Oh, god, I think they hate me. They’re like your Disney animal companions and they’re going to eat my pant leg if I’m ever mean to you.”

“They don’t hate you, Henry. They probably don’t even know who you are.”

“Ugh. That’s worse somehow.” 

Percy rolls his eyes. “Don’t take it personally. Anyway, I’m fine, thank you. I’m going to dinner with my parents.”

“Oh.” I do an awkward sort of dance to lift myself off of his shoulder without it being noticeable. It’s definitely selfish, but I don’t want to hear about Percy’s perfect family full of people equally as perfect as him who all love each other. “Fun.”

He must not notice that I’ve failed to keep the note of intense bitchiness out of my voice, because he continues, “We normally go every week, but they had to cancel before because of a last-minute doctor’s appointment. They just take me home after dinner, so I carpool here and leave with them. But then they couldn’t come, and the rest of the orchestra had left by the time I realized, so. Thank you.”

“You don’t have to keep thanking me for spending time with you,” I say. “It’s not like I was missing any family dinner.” Yikes. 

“Well, no, but I know that you probably want to go home to your husband, and it’s just—”

How did this conversation get out of hand so quickly? “Jesus, Percy, it’s fine.”

“Oh.” He looks over to me, a question in his eyes, and it takes everything in me not to crumple immediately into a humiliating number of apologies. 

I settle for one while steadfastly avoiding eye contact. “I’m sorry.”

“No, it’s fine. Sorry, I do this all the time, apologizing for stupid things.” 

“It’s not that . I just…” I struggle to come up with a tactful way to phrase it. “Don’t really talk to my family. So it’s weird to hear about other people’s shiny happy two-and-a-half kids set up sometimes.” 

Percy is quiet for a moment, then says, “I’m an only child, actually.” I stare at him, and he laughs. “Sorry, not the point. But I’m sorry about your family too.”

“And I’m happy for you,” I return, and wince when it comes out sort of sarcastic. “That sounds like I’m being a bitch, but I’m not. Hopefully.”

“You’re not.”

There’s another awkward pause. Percy starts “So, anyway—” at the same time as I start to speak, and we both laugh. 

“We’re very good at this,” I say. “Absolutely top-notch at apologies.”

“Definitely.” Percy smiles, and his phone buzzes. “Oh, shit, that’s my mom.” He gets to his feet, and I stand up too, helping him shovel errant pieces of sheet music into his bag. 

“Have fun. I’ll see you next week?”

Percy slings his bag over his shoulder. “Yeah.” I’m expecting him to walk away, but instead, he leans in and gives me a hug. 

For a second I’m too surprised to move. I can’t remember the last time anyone’s properly hugged me. Maybe Sinjon, my high school boyfriend did. Before that, probably only my mother when I was a little kid. But Percy is warm, and his sweater is soft, and I’m wrapping my arms around him without really thinking about it, until my eyes catch on someone standing in the back row, staring at us. 

It’s fucking Richard. 

I freeze, and Percy must notice, because he pulls away. “Sorry.”

“No, it’s fine, I just—” I bite the inside of my cheek as Richard’s scowl deepens. I can feel it from across the room. “I have to go.”

“Okay,” Percy says, barely above a whisper. He won’t look at me. 

“I’ll see you Wednesday. Next Wednesday. I’ve already seen you today.”

“Okay.”

“Okay.” I start to walk away, then realize I’ve left my bag, and backtrack to grab it, almost smacking into Percy in the process. He flinches back to avoid me, and I flee, refusing to look at where Richard’s still glowering.

“Bye, Henry,” Percy calls, and I don’t look back.

Richard doesn’t wait for me to catch up before he turns and heads for the door. I know he expects me to follow him, which pisses me off. It pisses me off even more that I do.

I try not to let on as I fall into step beside him outside. “What are you doing here?”

“Why? Am I not supposed to be here?” Richard asks flatly.

“I thought you didn’t care about this stuff.”

Richard laughs. “I don’t.” He ignores me as I form a response, getting into his car. “I’ll see you at home,” he says, before slamming the car door shut. The silent implication hangs between us: Come right home. Don’t run off after rehearsal again.

He drives off, again leaving me no choice but to follow him.

When I get back to our apartment, Richard is already slamming around in the kitchen. I hear him shut a cabinet door so hard that the pans inside (which we hardly use) clatter. He shuts another and the glasses rattle. I roll my eyes. I figure I might as well get it over with and seek him out, lingering in the kitchen doorway.

“What are you being so bitchy about?”

Richard doesn’t look at me, now abusing the fridge. “I haven’t said anything.”

“No, but you’re”—I wave generally in his direction—“slamming shit. What’s your problem?”

Richard rolls his eyes like I’m the one being ridiculous. He leans against the counter, crossing his arms. “Take a wild guess, Henry.”

“What?” I demand. Richard just stares at me until it clicks. I huff. “It's not like that.”

“So you didn’t even need to ask.”

“Percy and I are just friends.”

“That didn’t look very friendly to me.”

I scoff. “Just because your friend group consists of dudebros with latent homosexual tendencies who think eye contact is gay doesn’t mean everyone else is so violently repressed. Friends hug.”

“Right.” He turns back to the fridge like that’s the end of the conversation. It should be. I should just leave it at that and we might be able to push this to the side for a few weeks longer. But Richard seems to be doing everything he can to get on my nerves, and it’s working.

“So, what? You followed me to rehearsal like a fucking creep because you’re…jealous?”

He shuts the fridge again and turns back to me. (I’m starting to think he isn’t looking for anything in the fridge to begin with.) He gives me that wide-eyed look that always means I’ve said something he doesn’t like. I try not to look too pleased about it. “I didn’t follow you anywhere.”

“Well, I certainly didn’t tell you where rehearsals meet, so…”

Richard shrugs, guiltless. “I’d like to know where you are when you’re gone all the time.”

“It’s one night a week. Am I not allowed to have hobbies now?”

Richard doesn’t answer right away.

“ Richard. ”

“I don’t think you should do that play anymore.”

“What? Why? Are you that jealous?”

“It’s not just about your gay friend.”

“He says like he isn’t gay,” I mutter just loud enough for him to hear.

“ Henry. ”

“I just don’t get what the problem is.”

“Just look at you.” He gestures to my face, and it isn’t until then that I realize I never really cleaned the glitter off. I rub at it self-consciously. “You look like an idiot. You’re gone all the time—”

“I thought you would be glad that you wouldn’t have to deal with me,” I snap.

“When did I say that?” Richard asks flatly. He’s pushed the emotion from his voice and is putting on his best impression of unaffectedness. “You’re putting words in my mouth.”

“I am not!”

“You are. I’m not being unreasonable, Henry, but you’re making us both look ridiculous here.”

“This has nothing to do with you. I’m an adult—I can do what I want.”

“With whose money?”

I stop. He’s caught me and we both know it.

After we got married, Richard wanted to cling to his last few shreds of masculinity and expressed a very discouraging attitude about me getting a job. Because his parents’ money and the job waiting for him at his father’s bank after he graduates is enough to provide for both of us and then some, and I’ve never been particularly interested in working, I didn’t put up a fight. Aside from the fact that it’s Richard , it’s an ideal arrangement. But it does put me in a bit of a bind when Richard doesn’t want me using his money for certain things. I’m in no position to argue.

“I’m just saying,” Richard continues casually, “if you want a hobby so badly, you could always get a job.”

I scrutinize him, trying to figure out if he’s bluffing or if the possibility that I might be enjoying myself around people other than him makes him so angry that he’s willing to let go of his delusion that he’s “man of the house.”

“Why did it have to be theatre anyway?” he asks, still pushing. “You didn’t do any of this shit in high school.”

“I did, actually,” I say mildly. I was in a few shows in high school until Junior year took a turn and I spent most of my days too sore or hungover to show up to class, let alone rehearsals. “Not that you would know. I’m sure the lacrosse team was very demanding.”

“Don’t tell me you’re upset about me not seeing your shows or something in high school.”

“I don’t give a fuck about high school, Richard. I want to do this show. And I don’t understand why you’re being such a dick about it.”

My phone buzzes in my pocket. I hold up a hand, silencing whatever protests Richard was forming so that I can check it. Miraculously, it works. I open my texts to find almost perfectly-timed messages from Percy.

percy: hey im really sorry about earlier 

percy: i didn’t mean to cause any problems with your husband or anything

“See?” I say to Richard, shoving my phone in his face. “You have no reason to be jealous.”

He squints at it, then rolls his eyes. “I’m not dealing with this.” He starts to walk off. “You’re being ridiculous. I’m not jealous.”

I follow him. “Since fucking when ? Because this whole time you’ve—”

“Jesus Christ, Henry, enough !” Richard turns on me, really yelling now. I take a step back and freeze. For a moment, the air between us is charged. Then Richard sighs and rubs his forehead. “You’re done with it, okay?”

“Okay,” I say quietly.

Richard shoves his way past me to the front door. He grabs his keys and leaves without another word, slamming the door behind him. He’ll probably go to some sports bar with his friends, nursing beers and an undeserved sense of righteousness, and I won’t see him again until tomorrow. Which is perfectly fine by me.

I return to the kitchen to microwave leftovers and pour myself a drink. To get a glass from the cabinet, I have to pull down one of Richard’s. Like a heathen, Richard drinks almost exclusively beer. As I hold one of Richard’s ridiculously large beer mugs from one of his stupid sports bars, all my earlier anger that was doused by Richard’s outburst is reignited. Before I can really think it through, I drop the glass. It shatters on the kitchen floor.

I stare at the shards, processing what I’ve done. Richard is going to be pissed. A logical part of me knows that I should clean it up and hope he doesn’t notice the missing mug. But a much larger, much angrier part of me decides to leave it there and make it his problem. 

If he wants to treat me like a child, the least I can do is play along. 

When I wake up the next morning, Richard is already gone. I expected another fight about the broken glass last night after he got home last night, but it never came. I fell asleep on the couch drinking wine and watching shitty sitcoms.

I roll over, intending to turn the TV back on and begin my day of reality shows and complaining to another bottle of wine about Richard, but I stop. Sitting on our coffee table, in another one of Richard’s stupid mugs, is a slightly wilted bouquet of flowers. My stomach twists. 

I drag myself off the couch, snatching up the flowers as I stumble into the kitchen. The remnants of the mug I broke are gone. I refill the water in the flowers, and make myself a coffee with a shot of whiskey, throwing back some Advil as I work.

I take the flowers and my coffee with me as I crawl into bed (a proper king-sized mattress that I forced Richard to get after we were married), leaving both on the bedside table. I stare at the flowers; they’re yellow roses. There’s no note, no I’m sorry , but coming from Richard, it seems a momentous gesture. I’m still angry with him. I want to be angrier. Yet something about the flowers knocks some of the fight out of me, replaces it with something that feels uncomfortably like shame. 

I lay there and have a staring contest with the roses. I half-expect there to be a catch, something that goes wrong. There isn’t. It’s just a bouquet left by my husband. He’s extending an olive branch. It’s a weak and flimsy excuse for an apology, but it’s much less exhausting than fighting.

The roses win out. I sit up and pull my phone out to call the director.

That evening, Richard comes home with takeout and a new bottle of wine. He finds me, once again making camp on the couch, and I expect him to make a comment about the glass already in my hand as he often does. Instead, he lifts a large brown bag and flashes me a cocksure smile. “I brought dinner,” he says like he wants an award for it. But when I follow him into the kitchen, I realize that he went to a small Italian place that I frequent. He pours a glass of the new wine and hands it to me.

If nothing else , I think, he’s trying.

Of course, we only keep up the charade of a harmonious marriage for so long. Even on the rare occasions when we eat meals together, we never eat at the table and try to hack our way through pleasant conversation. Instead, we take our dinner on the couch with a movie in the background. It’s not my ideal night, but every now and then Richard says something that makes me laugh despite myself, and it’s almost nice.

When we’re done, I take my dishes to the kitchen and set them in the sink. Richard comes up behind me, snaking his arms around my hips and setting his chin on my shoulder.

“What, Richard?” I ask flatly, though it loses any bite as I lean back into him anyway. 

I feel his triumphant smile against my neck. He nips at my ear, ignoring the annoyed sound I make when he does, and says, “Do you even need to ask?”

Between the bite and his words, reminiscent of our argument yesterday, I’m almost bothered enough to push him off. But I’ve felt like shit all day since my call to the director, and at this point I’m more than a little tipsy and I just want to think about something other than how tired I am. 

Richard takes my hips and turns me around, crowding me against the counter. “What do you say?” he asks, already sucking on my neck.

I tip my head to the side, sighing like I need to think it over. “I suppose it would be a shame to let the night go to waste.”

That’s all Richard needs to hear before picking me up by the backs of my thighs and carrying me back to the bedroom.

I would take this over shouting matches and slamming doors any day.

The next few days, I’m spared the effort of holding my tongue since Richard is almost never home (a bit of irony I can’t help but be sour about). It’s not until Tuesday night that I speak more than three words in a row, and even then, it’s not to him. It’s to Percy.

I’ve been ignoring an ever-growing stack of texts from Percy since my fight with Richard. They range from concerned to apologetic to pretending nothing is wrong. I’m not sure whether to be irritated with him for not taking a hint or find it endearing that he so obviously cares. 

I quickly make up my mind and settle on irritation when I’m halfway through an episode of Project Runway and he starts calling me. Who the fuck calls people?

I pick up with a huff. “What?”

“Oh! Henry!” He sounds genuinely surprised that I answered.

“Yes?”

“Listen, if you quit because of me, don’t. I’m really sorry that I made you uncomfortable, and I promise I’ll never do it again. I can never speak to you again if you want. But you’re an amazing Puck, and you shouldn’t have to stop the show because I’m bad at picking up on social cues.” Percy inhales dramatically, and I realize that he’s said all of that in one breath. “And I’m sorry.”

I sit in silence for a moment, then say, “I didn’t quit because of you , Perce.”

“Oh.”

“It was just family stuff. Richard stuff. But it’s not your fault. I’m sorry I’ve been ignoring you. I’ve been… tired.” It’s a flimsy excuse, and he could see through it in an instant if he wanted to. But I’m hoping he doesn’t. 

“Okay. Do you want to get coffee then?”

“What?”

“Well, I mean, just because you’re not doing the show doesn’t mean we can’t be friends, right?” His voice curls up at the end in a nervous sort of squeak, and he laughs, awkward and ridiculously endearing. “You do still want to be friends?”

I smile, and something in my chest that’s been cold and sharp since last Wednesday warms. “Of course. Coffee tomorrow?”

I meet Percy at a little cafe downtown during his lunch break, expecting it to take at least ten minutes until he actually shows up, but he’s already there when I arrive, hovering nervously next to a table for two. I wave, and his entire face lights up as he waves back. 

“Hey, Percy,” I call, crossing the room. He sticks his hand out like he wants me to shake it, but I throw my arms around him instead. He makes a surprised little noise at the back of his throat, and I start to pull away, but he holds me, and when he does eventually pull away, he gives me an awkward tap on the shoulder.

“I missed you,” he says, doing a little tipped-head smile. For a moment, I don’t know what to say, but then he pulls a chair back and gestures for me to sit. “How are you? I mean, you’re probably not great, but…”

I take the chair, and he settles across from me, doing a poor job at hiding his concern. I sigh, then smile. “Not great, you’re right. But better now.” 

A waiter comes to take our orders, and Percy makes fun of me for the amount of caramel I get in my coffee, and we settle back into easy conversation about music and Percy’s job and the goats. Florence is curled around the leg of the table, and Percy lets me feed her treats while we wait for our food. 

When the waiter returns with our drinks, Percy squints at his cup, then frowns. “I think this one’s yours.” 

He starts to switch them, but the waiter blushes. “No, sorry, it’s for you.”

“Oh.” Percy looks from his cup back to the waiter, and blushes as well. “Oh. Sorry.”

The waiter scuttles off, still fantastically red, and I try to angle my head to get a better look at Percy’s cup. “What was that ?”

Percy turns his coffee so that I can see the phone number written on it in neat penmanship, followed by ‘August’ with a little heart. “I think he’s into me?”

I laugh. “Why did you think it was for me ?”

Percy rakes a hand through his hair. “Well, I mean, you’ve got this… aura about you. Like everyone in the room just has to pay attention.”

“Bullshit.” I grin. “I have an aura ? C’mon Perce, that’s not—” 

“I’m not as handsome as you,” he hisses, taking a swig of the coffee. 

I stop. “You’re not actually serious.”

He, impossibly, gets redder. “Well, I mean—”

“Percy, I promise you, everyone you meet wants to climb you like a ladder.” 

Percy laughs. “Sure.” 

“I mean why wouldn’t they? You’re smart, and talented, and fucking gorgeous ,” I insist. I’m not sure why I’m defending Percy’s inherent date-ability, but it feels important to get this point across. “Seriously, anybody you were with would be lucky.” 

He doesn’t say anything for a moment, just stares at the number on his cup. “Okay.” 

“And he’s cute! You should talk to him.”

Percy shrugs, and sips his coffee. “I don’t know. I’m not very good at it.”

“You don’t need to be, though. You can just be adorably awkward,” I say, poking his cheek. He bats my hand away with a smile. 

“Right. That’s worked wonderfully thus far.”

“Oh, hush. You get hit on. There must be guys tripping over themselves to go out with you.”

Percy rolls his eyes. “There emphatically are not.”

“I bet you had a legion of secret admirers in high school.” I’m starting to enjoy winding him up to sustain the blush that’s still all over his face. “I bet there was somebody who never worked up the nerve to ask you to prom.”

“I was barely out in high school,” Percy says, shifting in his seat. “The limited circle of queer guys was extremely disinterested.” 

I’m suddenly aware that I’m walking treacherous ground, that I’ve been clomping through flowers in my heaviest boots throughout this entire conversation. “Oh.”

“So, yeah,” Percy gestures back towards where the waiter is serving another table with a sad little smile. “Not very good at picking up on things like that.” 

I reach out and awkwardly pat his hand where it’s resting on the table. “Well, you’ll find someone. It’s a matter of time.” 

He smiles. “Thank you.” 

He gets up to go to the bathroom, and I spend the interim staring out the window, wondering if I’m just naturally destined to make people uncomfortable whenever I speak. Percy has to say my name twice before I realize he’s back, and as he sits back down, he squints at me. 

“What was that?”

“What?”

“That face.”

“What face?” I ask, tripping on a laugh.

“You made a face when I said your name. You do that a lot, you know.”

“I do not.”

“Yes, you do, Henry,” he retorts. I’m not sure what I do but Percy points an accusing finger at me. “There! You did it again!”

I roll my eyes, if only so I don’t have to look at him. “What’s your point?”

“Why don’t you like it when I use your name?”

And God, where to begin with that? Well, Percy, it all began when my father started beating the shit out of me for kissing my future husband when we were thirteen. Anyway, if I was going to buy you a present for dealing with me, would you like a sweater or a gift card? I give a half-hearted shrug and the simplest answer I can muster. “I’m named after my father.” 

Percy, bless his heart, doesn’t address that. “Is there something you’d rather I call you?”

“Well, I mean, my maiden name— I mean, not my maiden name. My last name before I got married was Montague. So I was Monty. But it doesn’t really make sense anymore.” 

“Do you like that better?” he asks. 

“God, yeah.” 

“Then who gives a fuck if it makes sense?” 

I laugh, catching us both by surprise. “I love when you swear. Can you do it all the time?” 

Percy smiles, and reaches for my hand, giving it a squeeze. “Only for you, Monty.”

Chapter Text

fic playlist!

“Do you like teal or gold better?” Percy asks, sticking his head out of the bathroom, where he’s been rummaging around for a good two minutes. 

“What?”

He emerges, clutching two bottles of nail polish. “Do you want teal or gold?”

I laugh. “Neither.”

“Why not?” Percy frowns, looking almost disappointed as he settles cross-legged on the couch next to me. I’ve spent the last hour watching trashy Real Housewives reruns with the volume turned down low while Percy’s made tea and teased me about my extensive reality television knowledge. It’s not the first time I’ve stayed over for an afternoon doing whatever I would’ve done at home (although there is noticeably less wine here). 

I’m not sure how to answer Percy without sounding like Richard, who side-eyes me whenever I so much as use concealer to cover a zit, so I set down my teacup (he has actual, proper teacups) and extend my hands towards him, fingers splayed. “What the hell. Teal, please.”

He grins, and pulls my hand so it’s resting on his knee before opening the polish and getting to work. His brow furrows as he paints my thumbnail and a fair bit of the skin around it, and he huffs. “I’ll be back.”

He returns from down a hall that I assume leads to his bedroom, though I haven’t ever asked, and flops back down on the couch. He crams a pair of gold-rimmed glasses with dirty lenses on his face, squints, takes them off to clean them using his t-shirt, and puts them back on again before getting back to work on my nails. 

“I didn’t know you wore glasses,” I say. It seems like something I would’ve noticed after coming over nearly every day for a month. I’ve got Percy’s Sonic order memorized from picking up food along the way to his house, and I can list Florence and the Machine’s albums in order of his most to least favorite. He’s got a stack of composer biographies on his coffee table, and the hand soap in his bathroom always smells like lavender. It’s weird to learn new things about him when I feel like I already know him inside and out. 

Percy doesn’t look up from my nails. “I have contacts in most of the time.” 

“They look good on you.”

He does look up this time, doing the lovely tilted-head smile that I’ve become familiar with. “Oh. Thanks.” His hair falls in his face when he looks down again, and I watch as he finishes a shaky coat on my right hand and moves on to my left. “God, I haven’t done this since middle school.”

I grin. “Did you paint your nails black and write sad poetry?”

“No,” he says, and I make a noise of disbelief. “Maybe a little bit.”

“So you’ve never had the proper middle-school experience of playing spin the bottle way too young and sneaking unhealthy numbers of Capri Suns at sleepovers.”

“I’ve been missing out,” Percy says dryly. “I don’t think my life could be complete without a bad kiss that tastes like strawberry kiwi.” 

“You haven’t truly lived until you’ve watched Pretty Woman surrounded by a bunch of other sugar-high fourteen-year-olds.” 

“I think this serves pretty well as a sleepover experience. There’s trash TV and manicures.” 

I nod sagely. “All you need is a hazardous amount of body spray and you’re set.”

Percy smirks. “Are you saying this from experience?”

“I don’t like what you’re insinuating, Mister Newton.”

“Am I wrong, though?”

I give him the finger, which messes up my nail polish, and he grabs my hand again, laughing. “I hate you, actually.”

“I am in no way responsible for the questionable choices of middle school Monty,” Percy says solemnly, redoing the polish. “I cannot be blamed for his sins.”

I groan, and spend the rest of the time required for his painting squirming and parroting lines from Real Housewives as they’re spoken, much to Percy’s amusement. When he’s finished, he leans back but makes me keep my hands on his knees so I don’t smear the polish. 

“How long does this take to dry?” I ask when it’s been five minutes and he’s made no move to indicate I can go back to drinking my tea. “I haven’t done this in a long time either.”

“Really? I thought you would’ve, since you were so enamored with your costume,” Percy says. 

“No, I don’t really…” I can’t come up with a way to phrase it. “I don’t do stuff like that at home.”

“Why not?”

I shrug with a sigh. “Richard isn’t the biggest fan.”

Percy’s face twists, but he makes an attempt at rearranging it into a neutral expression. “Oh. Is there a reason for that?”

“I don’t really know,” I lie. Richard hates when I do anything feminine because he thinks it makes him look bad.

“Maybe he’ll change his mind,” Percy offers. He smiles. “I mean, I think I did alright.”

I take the out, staring down at my nails. “Yeah, maybe.” 

“Anyway, top five musicians, go.”

“What?”

“I don’t know anything about your music taste,” Percy says. “You always let me pick.”

I raise an eyebrow. “Are you complaining?”

“No! I’m just a firm believer that someone’s favorite music is a window to their soul.”

“You are such a nerd,” I say, grinning. Only Percy could say something like that with complete seriousness.

Percy blushes. “Shut up.”

When I return home that evening with takeout, the apartment is blessedly quiet. I still never know when exactly Richard returns, as it always seems to change, but I must have beat him this time. I set the food on the kitchen counter and take my share with a glass of wine to the couch. I entertain myself with more Real Housewives as I eat dinner, but it’s distinctly less fun without Percy to watch it with.

When Richard comes home and joins me, he immediately complains and takes the remote to change it to something else. I don’t care enough to argue, pulling out my phone instead. In my aimless scrolling, I am reminded that Doja Cat will be nearby on tour next week. I’ve wanted to see her in concert ever since she announced tour dates, but going by myself didn’t sound nearly as fun. However, I think as an idea strikes me, I may not have to go alone .

“If I bought tickets to see Doja Cat, would you go with me?” I ask.

Richard looks away from his show, clearly not expecting me to speak. “What?”

“Would you see Doja Cat with me?”

He scoffs. “No.”

“Okay.”

I wasn't expecting him to say yes. I certainly didn’t want him to. But now he can never say that I didn’t ask. I turn back to my phone, already typing up my offer to Percy.

“What did you do to your nails?” Richard asks suddenly.

I pause, but don’t look up. “I painted them.”

“Why?”

“I…wanted to?”

Richard makes a poorly concealed sound of disapproval. “It makes you look gay.”

“Thank you for the astute observation, darling,” I say flatly. “What’s next? Is my hair looking brown today?”

I don’t have to look at Richard to know that he’s rolling his eyes. “Don’t be a prick.”

I’m strongly tempted to snap at him that I’m not the one being a prick in this conversation. I almost do, but I decide that I would much rather text Percy than pick a fight with Richard. Richard isn’t going anywhere anyway.

me: what r u doing next weekend

percy: nothing?

percy: why do you ask

me: do u want to see doja cat with me

me: i got two tickets but richard wont go :/

me: interested?

percy: absofuckinglutely

That’s all I need to hear to buy the tickets.

The next week, Richard is surprised when he emerges from the shower in the morning to find me already awake. He pauses in the doorway, watching me shove clothes into a suitcase.

“Where are you going?” he asks slowly.

I don’t stop for him. I told Percy I would pick him up in less than an hour but I’m only halfway packed and the drive to Percy’s house isn’t the shortest. “I told you—I’m going to see Doja Cat.”

“Alone?”

I know a trap question when I hear one. If I tell the truth, he’ll get pissed. If I lie, he’ll call it out and be even more pissed. He just wants to hear me say it. But I don’t pause. I don’t have anything to be guilty about. “No,” I say, “I’m going with Percy.”

“ Henry —” Richard starts.

“I asked you to come!” I cut in, turning to face him. “You said you didn’t want to, so I asked Percy.”

Richard crosses his arms and doesn’t say anything at first. I wonder how far he’s willing to take his I’m not jealous argument. “You didn’t ask me if you could do that.”

“When have I ever needed your permission?”

“You’re using my money to run off to a concert with some guy —”

“We could have afforded those tickets four times over, Richard. You don’t care about the money. You care that I’m going with Percy. You’re not subtle.” I roll my eyes and turn back to my suitcase. “I don’t have time for this. I need to leave soon.”

Richard steps up next to me, trying to catch my attention again. “You can’t just—”

I cut him off. “I goddamn well can. I’m an adult, Richard. I can do what I want.”

I’m sick of having variations of this fight with him. I don’t know why he suddenly cares so much when he’s never hovered this much before, but I especially don’t want to put up with it right now. I skirt around Richard to grab my things out of the bathroom. He’s still standing there when I come back and tries to start the argument again.

“How do you think I feel about you running off overnight with another man?” he demands, waving a hand in my face. I ignore the slight jump in my pulse.

I throw the last of my stuff into my suitcase and zip it up. “I don’t care.” I grab my keys off of the dresser and start for the door with my things. “Don’t you think if I was having an affair I’d try to be a bit more subtle about it?”

Richard pursues me. “Henry,” he says, earning no response. “ Henry .”

“Relax,” I say, still refusing to stop or look at him. “I’ll be back tomorrow.”

“Henry,” he repeats. “Henry, look at me when I’m talking to you .”

Richard suddenly grabs for my arm. I’m not expecting the touch, or for him to sound so much like my father out of nowhere, and I flinch. I startle so badly that I back into the wall, hitting my head and surprising both myself and Richard. I feel my face heat as he stares at me.

“What the hell was that?”

“I—”

“Did you think I was going to hit you or something?” he asks, like the idea is laughable, then scoffs. “I’m not your fucking dad.”

It’s my turn to stare. I don’t know what to say. I don’t even know how to feel except for the sinking feeling in my stomach. I open my mouth a few times but nothing comes out.

Richard seems to realize that he’s crossed some sort of line, but not so much that he’s going to apologize for it. Instead, he takes a step back and crosses his arms defensively. “I’ll see you tomorrow,” is all he says before stalking off to our bedroom.

Once Richard is gone, I slide down onto the floor. I’m not sure what else to do. It feels a bit harder to breathe than it should.

My father has never come up with Richard. I never told Richard about him, though I’m not completely surprised that he pieced it together. I’m sure there were a few hookups in high school where I didn’t care enough to hide the bruises and anyone who has ever seen me in the same room as my father could probably get the sense that we’re lacking in father-son bonding. But I assumed that, even if Richard had known, there was no reason for it to come up. Now I see that I had just never gotten him angry enough.

There’s something particularly painful about having it used against me.

Before I can sink too deeply into my shame spiral, my phone buzzes with a message.

percy: plans still on for today?

Shit. I realize with a start that I’m even more behind than I was. I force myself to my feet and shoot a quick text back.

me: on the way

When I make it to Percy’s house, I don’t even get the chance to text him that I’ve arrived before he comes running outside with a wide grin, a small suitcase in hand, and Florence at his heels. I roll down the window and do my best to return his smile. I’m moderately more composed after my fight with Richard.

“You can throw your things in the back if you want,” I say, gesturing behind myself.

Percy opens the trunk to load his suitcase, then opens the door for Florence to hop into the backseat. He slides into the passenger seat and fixes with a grin so broad that it makes mine feel a little more genuine.

“Hey,” he says.

“Hey,” I reply. “Are you excited?”

Percy nods. It’s a little adorable. “I haven’t been to a concert in ages. Thanks for inviting me.” He reaches a hand out. I’m not sure what he intends to do and I don’t find out because I startle so obviously that he freezes. It’s not a full-blown flinch, but Percy certainly notices.

“Are you okay?” he asks, smile faltering but not quite falling.

“Yeah, I’m just…” I trail off, coming up short of an excuse. Percy watches me with something a bit too much like pity. I turn my attention back to the wheel. “We should get going,” I say instead. “We’re already running late.”

Though I still feel his heavy gaze, Percy doesn’t press. “Alright.” He takes the aux cord and plugs his phone in as I pull out of the driveway.

“What makes you think you get aux privileges?” I demand, though my words lose their bite.

Percy smiles sheepishly. “You always give it to me so I just sort of assumed…”

“The audacity,” I scoff, making Percy laugh, and it draws a real smile out of me. I don't actually care. I almost like that Percy feels that comfortable making himself at home in my car.

After a moment, some of Percy’s sappy indie music starts playing.

“You know,” I say, “I’m a little surprised that you wanted to see Doja with me. She doesn’t seem like your type.”

“Oh, she’s not,” Percy admits. “I wasn’t super familiar with her but going with you sounded like fun.” He gives me a warm smile, then tacks on: “Besides, you already bought the tickets. It would be a shame to waste them. I’ve heard the name at least.”

I decide, just in case Percy ends up hating this, that I’ll be taking the true order of events to my grave. Instead, I pull up Doja Cat on my phone (earning a scolding from Percy for not watching the road) and pass it to him. “Plug mine in,” I say. “I’m going to fix that right now.”

With a bemused chuckle, Percy does as I ask. He connects my phone to the aux and Kiss Me More starts to play as we drive.

The drive to the venue is about an hour, and we pass the time singing along. Or rather, I sing along, and Percy laughs at me as I proclaim that I’m Mother Earth, Mother Mary rise to the top, divine feminine with the windows rolled down, drawing the stares of the people in the car next to us. He’s still grinning when we arrive at the hotel to drop off our things, and a thought that threatens to derail the entire weekend occurs to me.

“Hey, Perce,” I say, not turning from where I’m tossing the extra blanket I packed onto the bed. “Your epilepsy won’t get set off by strobe lights, will it?”

“Nope,” he says. He ducked into the bathroom as soon as we got here to line up his epilepsy medication and some sort of shot (maybe testosterone?) on the vanity, and he emerges with his bag slung over his shoulder, stopping in the entranceway to the main room. His eyes land on the singular bed. “I’d have said no to coming if it would.”

“Oh, good.” I watch him stare at the bed until he looks away, and wince. I hadn’t thought anything of sharing a bed when I booked the hotel. Maybe I should’ve asked? Back in high school I shared a bed with my friend Jeanne all the time. 

I mean, we also hooked up quite a bit, but it’s not like that’s the aim here. I’m very married, and Percy is very not interested.

Percy is rambling about a concert he went to when he was sixteen and rearranging the two cardigans he packed in the dresser drawer over and over when I finally blurt “I can sleep in the bathtub if you want.”

He turns. “What?”

“You don’t have to share the bed with me. I don’t mind.”

“Oh, no, it’s not—” he flushes. “Normally Florence sleeps down by my feet, and I just didn’t want you to get dog hair on your blanket.”

“Okay, that’s super sweet, but washing machines exist.” I jab a thumb in Percy’s direction. “Now stop dicking around with your sweaters. We have a show to attend.”

We walk the four blocks to the venue (with a small detour for a coffee for Percy) and get in with twenty minutes before the show starts. It’s a hassle to get Florence through security, despite her service dog vest, and Percy looks like he’d rather chop his own hand off rather than explain that they’re legally required to let her in to a third guard, so when we’re finally through, I buy him a stiff drink and let him take the aisle seat. 

“ Jesus fuck ,” he shouts over the opening act as he takes a sip. “Is this rat poison?”

“I hope not.”

He throws the rest of it back, then wheezes. “I think it is.” 

I laugh. “Am I meeting drunk Percy tonight?”

“Very, very soon.” 

Drunk Percy, as it turns out, is quite the poet. 

Doja is halfway through Talk Dirty, and he’s seemed to have taken it as a suggestion, because he’s shouting absolutely filthy limericks over the music as he comes up with them and grinning like a menace. He’s dancing very badly. The entire display is absurdly endearing. 

I’m not quite as deep in the drink as he is, but I’m buzzing with the music and a strange warmth in my chest that only intensifies with a shot and Percy grabbing my hand to get me to sway in time with him. Which is not in time with the beat. But I don’t mind.

During Kiss Me More , which Percy has remembered half the words to from the car ride, he slurs “I feel like fuckin’ something” right on cue, and I start laughing so hard I almost fall forward into the next row of seats.

“What?” he asks, indignant, and slings an arm around my shoulders to lean on me. “Just because everyone wants to kiss you —” 

“Excuse me?” I shout, still laughing. 

“Just because you’re you doesn’t mean you get to laugh at me —” He turns back towards the stage, and in an impressive falsetto trills “ It’s just principle .” 

I let out what can only be termed a giggle. “What the fuck are you saying?” 

He hiccups and presses his face to my shoulder. “I have noooooooo clue.” 

Ten minutes later, a girl even more wasted than Percy sidles up the aisle and waves to him like she recognizes him. “ Ohmygod, hi. Hi, you have a dog, hi.”

Percy, who’s still clinging to me, doesn’t hear her at first, and I have to nudge his head in her direction. He sees her, and grins, gesturing to where Florence is pacing in front of her. “Hi. Hi, hi, hi.” 

I shout, “Do you two know each other?” and they both shake their heads violently in near-perfect unison.

“I want to,” the girl yells, and leans on Percy, waving her hand in front of their faces. “Do you want a drink?”

Percy laughs. “I’m good. Very good. Very drinked. Drunk.” He turns back to me, and announces, in a tone that I think is supposed to be confidential, “She’s nice.”

“She’s hitting on you,” I say, fighting back another laugh. 

“Oh. Oh!” Percy claps a hand to his forehead in an almost-comic display of surprise, and turns to the girl, gently pushing her off of him. “You’re soooooooooo drunk. And I’m sooooooooooooo gay.” 

“Ohhhhhhhhh.” She looks at me. “Oh my god, y’all are cute .” Another girl comes up the aisle and grabs her by the arm, looking concerned, and they have a conversation I can’t hear. She sticks out her bottom lip like a little kid. “I have to go. Byeeeeeeee.”

“We’re not together,” I shout after her, waving my left hand to show off my wedding ring, which is of course when I realize I must’ve left the ring at the hotel, because it’s nowhere to be found. Percy drapes himself over me again, and I make an executive decision to blame the way my heart kicks on the cocktail I’ve been nursing. 

“Byeeeeeeeeee,” he says, to no one in particular, and sighs, knocking his hip into mine. “ Thick in the thighs, thick in the waist .”

I finish the cocktail off, and hip-check him back, grinning. “ Thick in the right motherfuckin’ places. ”

After the show, we stumble back to the hotel hand in hand, giggling and walking into each other and tripping over cracks in the sidewalk. Percy is clingy when he’s drunk, and he’s very drunk. Not that I’m complaining. Maybe I should be? 

“Why aren’t you married?” he asks, suddenly serious as we crash back into the hotel lobby. Or, I crash back in. It’s beastly inconvenient to have a table right by the entrance. 

I blink. “I am married.” We’re not at a point in the night at which I’ve drunk enough to forget about that , as pleasant as that may be. “I’m married to Richard.”

“But you don’t—” Percy frowns, deep in thought, then holds up our linked hands. “No ring. You wear a ring when you’re married.” 

“I forgot it,” I reply, pulling him towards the elevators, then stop. “Do you want chips?” 

“Okay?”

“Okay.” I fumble in my pocket for our room key, then remember he has one too. “Go up to the room, I’ll get you some.” 

“Okayyyyy Monts,” he says, squeezing my hand before dropping it. He presses both the up and down button for the elevator, and then swears as I round the corner in search of a vending machine. 

Five minutes of searching and another five of wrestling a crinkled dollar bill into the machine later, I return triumphantly to our room ready to deflect any further questions about my marriage by pretending I didn’t hear them. It takes me three tries to get the key to work, and when I push open the door, some Hozier song of Percy’s that I might recognize sober is playing from inside the bathroom. As I pass, Percy nearly knocks me over in the cramped doorway. 

“Fuck, sorry,” he says, dropping the pile of clothes he’s holding. He bends to pick it up, then wobbles, and I catch him by the arm. 

“Steady on, darling,” I tease. 

He straightens back up to look at me, eyes almost comically wide, and I am suddenly aware of just how close together we are. He’s in nothing but an oversized and ancient-looking hoodie and his boxers, his glasses crooked and his hair falling out of a messy bun, and he seems alarmed by something, though I can’t imagine what. 

Percy hiccups, and reaches up to rub a thumb across my jaw. “You’ve got something.”

“Oh?” 

He pulls his hand away, and it’s covered in glitter. “Oh my god, Monty you’re a fairy.”

I laugh, stepping back. “Somehow I don’t think that’s as much of a compliment as you mean it to be.”

“No, Puck ,” he insists, then grabs my hand again and pulls me into the room proper and down onto our bed. “No, because I’m so so glad you were Puck.”

I don’t know where he’s going with this. I roll onto my side to watch him as he lays on his back and gestures at the ceiling. “Why? I quit.”

“Becaaaaaaause,” he says, rolling onto his side too. “I got to meet you. And you kick fucking ass.” 

I grin. “I suppose.”

“No, because you’re like my best friend. You know that right? You’re my whole favorite person.” Percy rolls again, so we’re almost nose to nose, then throws an arm around me to pull me into a hug. 

I settle into it, into the warmth of his body, the sound of his music still playing, the safety that’s thrumming out from everything around me. Florence hops up onto the bed and lays in the crook of Percy’s knees. The lights are still on, and I’m still in my clothes from the concert, but I don’t want to get out of bed or pull away. This is good. This is right. 

“You’re my favorite person,” I say, my face pressed into Percy’s shoulder, and I mean it.  

In the morning, I wake up still entangled with Percy. The lights shut off automatically in the night, so it takes me a minute to get my bearings in the semidarkness. We moved around some in our sleep so that I’m practically spooning him, my face pressed between his shoulder blades. Florence is asleep by our feet. I’m still in my concert clothes. When I lift my head I notice some of my glitter smeared on the back of Percy’s hoodie. He’s breathing steadily, still dead to the world after last night.

I should get up. I can feel my phone vibrating in my pocket and I have a pretty confident guess of who it is, but I can’t bring myself to pull away from Percy to answer. Despite the fact that my clothes are chafing at this point, I smell like I spent all night drinking and dancing, and I could really go for a few painkillers, I don’t want to disturb this delicate peace. It’s been a long time since I’ve woken up next to someone like this. Sure, Richard and I share the bed more often than not, but he’s typically gone by the time I wake up. When he is there, we certainly never wake up spooning. I can’t imagine what either of us would do if we did. It would be too weird. It doesn’t feel weird with Percy, though. It feels easy. Natural. Comfortable in a way that it isn’t even with my past hookups. I wonder if this is what it’s usually like having a best friend.

Eventually, the headache building behind my eyes is too strong to ignore. I carefully detach myself, though Percy seems to be sleeping so soundly that I don’t really need to worry. I assume that I’ll be okay to turn on the bedside lamp to find my way around. Once I do, though, Percy lets out a hissing sound and rolls over, pressing his face into my pillow.

I can’t help but laugh. “Good morning, sunshine.”

Percy makes a sound that resembles no human language.

I dig Advil out of my bag. I take some and leave the bottle on the bedside table for Percy. “There’s Advil for your inevitable hangover. I’m going to shower, and then we can get breakfast?”

Percy makes another unintelligible noise and waves a hand, which I take for a go ahead .

When I get out of the shower, Percy is up and at least semi-functional, halfway dressed now in sweatpants and an oversized t-shirt. He’s sitting up in bed squinting at the television and nursing a paper cup of water.

“How are you feeling?” I ask, unable to hide the amusement in my voice.

“Ugh.” Percy lets his head fall back with a gentle thunk against the headboard. “Never let me get that drunk again.”

I laugh. “I don’t know. I kind of like drunk Percy. He’s fun. And very creative.”

“Oh, god .” He puts a hand over his eyes as an adorable blush spreads across his face. “I don’t even want to know.”

“Do you not remember?”

“It’s all pretty fuzzy.”

“You composed some very colorful limericks—”

“Nope. Stop. Please , stop,” Percy says, going even redder.

As much as I enjoy embarrassing him, I do. I sit beside him on the bed, nudging his shoulder with mine. “Alright, I’ll spare you. Do you want to get breakfast downstairs before we go?”

Percy nods. “I’m starving.”

After gathering the few things we unpacked last night, we go down to the lobby to return our keys and partake of the free breakfast. Percy makes coffee and piles eggs and bacon (which he also sneaks a piece of to Florence) onto a plate while I struggle with the waffle maker. Eventually, he has to come over and help me.

“Making waffles is an art,” he says solemnly as he slides one onto a plate. “Not everyone can master it.”

I roll my eyes, nudging his hip with mine as I take the plate. “I appreciate your skills, Perce.”

When we sit down, I finally check my phone as I eat my waffle. I have multiple messages and a missed call, all from Richard, all asking what I’m doing and where I am and when I’m coming home. I let out a sigh, almost against my will, pinching the bridge of my nose.

“You okay?” Percy asks.

“Just Richard,” I say with a wave. “He wants to know when I’ll be home.”

“Oh,” Percy says softly. “Well…it’s sweet that he cares,” he offers weakly. I’m not sure he even believes it.

I laugh drily without really meaning to. “Sure.”

Percy frowns. “Monty, I don’t want to overstep but…”

I raise an eyebrow. That’s never a good way to start.

“Do you think that you and Richard might have some things to work out?”

You don’t know the half of it . “What makes you say that?”

Percy gives a small shrug. “I don’t know, it just seems like you’ve been pretty unhappy with him lately. Maybe…you should talk to him?”

I almost laugh again. But Percy sounds so sincere and is looking at me so intensely with those big brown eyes that I make myself stop and consider it. The last thing that I want to do right now is talk to Richard even more . But then I think about the flowers and the dinner. Maybe all Richard needs is some time and space to come around again. Maybe, just maybe, there’s a chance that Richard could be reasoned with now. After all, I haven’t been the most agreeable husband either.

“Maybe you’re right.”

The drive back home is quiet. Percy reclaims the aux for his music but spends most of the ride asleep anyway. When he isn’t, he’s reading. I ask about the book and he says that it’s his favorite: The Picture of Dorian Gray. I make a mental note of that. We don’t talk much, but I find that comfortable silence with Percy is easy too.

When I drop Percy off at his house, he pulls me into a tight hug in the driveway.

“Thanks for inviting me,” he says. “I had a lot of fun.”

“We should do this again sometime,” I venture.

“Do I get to pick next time?”

I pretend to consider it. “Maybe.”

Percy laughs. “Get back to me.” He takes my hand and gives it a quick squeeze before dropping it. “Lunch later this week?”

I smile. “Sounds like a plan.”

Percy beams and waves as he turns to head inside. I watch him go, feeling that strange warmth settle inside my chest again.

When I get home, Richard is in the kitchen getting himself a beer. It’s pretty early in the day for drinking, but I can’t judge.

“There you are,” he says when he sees me. “You didn’t answer my calls.” He holds up his phone as if I’ve forgotten what its use is.

“I was driving. I told you that I would be back today.”

“You didn’t say when.”

“I’m here now, aren’t I?”

Richard rolls his eyes. “How was the concert?”

“It was fun,” I say carefully. I don’t know why he cares.

“Yeah? You had fun with Percy?”

“Oh my god.” I turn to leave the kitchen. “I’m not doing this with you.”

“Hey, no, come on.” Richard grabs my hand and pulls me back to him. He puts his arms around my waist, our faces so close that I can feel his breath on my face. “Don’t get pissed.”

“Don’t get jealous,” I retort.

“I’m not jealous,” he says, already sliding a hand up the back of my shirt. “I’m done.”

I put a hand on his chest, pushing back without pushing away. “Really?”

“Sure.” He’s already distracted, looking at my mouth.

I do push then. He steps back, frowning. “Good. I wanted to talk to you about something.”

I don’t know where I’m getting the courage right now. Maybe it’s the remnants of that strange warmth in my chest, the sincerity in Percy’s gaze when he suggested this, the fact that I told myself that living with Richard would be better.

I can tell he’s impatient, but he leans back against the counter and takes another sip of beer. “What’s up?”

I take a deep breath and a preemptive step back. “What you did yesterday…don’t do it again.”

“What did I do yesterday?”

I stare at him. I can’t tell if he’s being coy or if he genuinely can’t remember. He almost looks bored now. “You know, when you got in my face,” I say slowly, waiting for some kind of recognition. “You started waving your hands around and…grabbed me. Don’t do that again.”

He looks really confused now. “Why?”

I laugh, disbelieving. “Richard, you can’t be serious.”

“What?” he asks, and his frown deepens. “Did that scare you?”

He makes it sound like I’m being ridiculous. “It didn’t—”

“Did you really think I was going to hit you?” he demands. “I told you that I’m not—”

“Don’t,” I cut in.

“Do you really think I would do that? What kind of person do you think I am?”

I huff. “That’s not what this is about.”

“Then what’s this about, Henry? Because it feels like you’re saying you think I would hit you. When have I ever done anything that suggested that?”

“Nothing! I just asked you for one thing —”

“I already do so much for you,” he says. “I’ve never hurt you. I take care of you. I pay for your whole life. And this is how you treat me? You think I would stoop that low?”

We stare at each other for a breath. The air is charged. I want to turn and run. I want a drink. I want to be where I was this morning, curled up in Percy’s safe, steady warmth.

“Fine,” I say eventually. “Whatever. I knew this was a dumb idea as soon as he suggested it.”

“He?”

I realize my mistake too late.

“Did Percy tell you this was a problem?”

“Don’t bring him into this.”

“You’re spending too much time with him.”

“You said you weren’t jealous.”

“I’m not jealous. But if he’s going to keep causing problems like this—”

“Richard—”

“I don’t want you hanging around with him anymore,” he says, leaving no room for argument as he pushes past me and out of the kitchen.

Chapter Text

fic playlist!

There is something remarkably demeaning about being sent out to buy frozen pizzas for your husband.

It’s the first time I’ve gone out in a little over a week since I came home from the concert with Percy. After Richard forbade me from seeing Percy, I haven’t dared to go against him. I can’t afford to. Richard is the one that pays the bills in our marriage. I’m near flat broke without him. Some things just aren’t worth risking.

However, that hasn’t stopped me from complaining, constantly and loudly. When Richard got sick of my constant pestering and avoidance of any move he made on me, he thought sending me out of the apartment on errands would sate me.

So here I am, miserably filling a shopping cart with things from Richard’s list. He said that I could even add my own stuff, but that’s not the kindness he seems to think it is when I usually just order and pick up anything I want. Still, it is a release from my isolation. Even once I have everything he sent me to buy, I wander the aisles to kill time looking for anything to spend his money on.

As I make my way over to the produce section, I hear the unmistakable jingle of a dog’s collar. I don’t think much of it until the dog comes around a corner and I see none other than Florence.

Shit.

Florence catches sight of me and gets excited. I know I have only minutes before Percy follows and has a very different reaction. I can’t be seen by Percy. I’ve barely spoken to him since the concert, making bare excuses as to why we can’t hang out like I said we would and letting texts go unanswered. I wouldn’t know how to explain anything going on with Richard to him. I certainly can’t do that here.

Instead, I do the first thing that I can think of to get out of sight and dive behind a display of fruit.

There’s a man with two children standing near the apples. He gives me a strange look and slowly pushes his cart away, an arm guiding his kids. I grimace but don’t say anything. The judgment of a stranger is far better than being seen by Percy. In fact, I receive many strange looks as I sit there on the floor waiting for him to pass. I hear Florence’s collar jingle again and Percy’s voice, in conversation with a woman, as he walks by. My heart is beating unreasonably fast as if I’m hiding from a guy that just caught me with his girlfriend (an unfortunate situation I’ve found myself in too many times) and not a friend I’ve ghosted.

When I don’t hear Percy or Florence anymore, I peek around the corner to make sure they’re gone. When I don’t see them, I get to my feet and wipe imaginary dirt off of my pants, ignoring even more strange looks as I power walk off in the opposite direction like nothing happened.

As I go, I pass by the man with his two children again and he pointedly steers them away from me. I take that as my cue to leave.

Richard is home when I get there, leaning into the kitchen as he hears me come in with the groceries. He gives me a kiss as a thank-you for going to the store that is clearly just an excuse to grab my ass. When he pulls away, I notice that he’s fully dressed, a rarity in the summer when he isn’t working his nepotic part-time as a clerk at his parents’ bank.

“Where are you going?” I ask, looking him up and down. He’s in jeans and a solid t-shirt, so he’s definitely not picking up extra shifts.

He makes a face when I ask, but doesn’t tell me off for it. “Some of the guys invited me to a party tonight.”

Under normal circumstances, the idea of a night with Richard and his friends sounds like my personal version of hell. However, I can’t stand the idea of another night stuck here by myself while Richard goes out with his friends.

My social life wasn’t always so depressing. I used to go out just as much as, if not more than, Richard does, but Richard expressed disapproval for my frequent visits to the bar very early on in our marriage. He didn’t like the idea of me running off to get drunk and, in his mind, hook up with people. I pushed back at first but eventually, I gave up that fight. I can get drunk and have mediocre sex just as easily—if not easier—at home. That said, I do miss a good party every now and then.

“Can I come?”

Richard pulls a face again, starts to speak but then pauses. I’m not sure what runs through his head as he studies me, but something makes him reconsider. Miraculously, he finally says “Sure.”

When we arrive at the party, which is in an older house that’s probably shared by an entire frat, Richard peels off towards a group of guys in khaki shorts without even looking at me. The lights are down, and some top-twenty pop song is blaring at a volume that’s sure to piss off the neighbors. The entire entryway is packed, which is surprising given that it’s only seven in the evening, and I’m alone in the crowd, watching my husband practically sprint away from me. Not that I’m too broken up about that . 

I push further in and find the drinks table, which has an assortment of the kind of beer Richard likes. Dear Lord, if this party is all versions of him it’s going to be much less fun than I thought. I find a solitary bottle of gin and pour myself some, then peel off to go find someone worth talking to.

It’s not that I particularly like any of the people here, or that I want to know any of them. I fully intend to stay here until Richard wants to leave, and then never come back. But at least this is different from the apartment and more entertaining than the grocery store. And there’s not a chance in hell that Percy’s here to make me feel guilty about my own shitty marriage getting in the way of me being a passable friend.

Three rounds of flip cup and an hour of small talk in, I’m about to be mildly offended that no one has tried to hit on me yet, before I realize I’m still wearing my wedding band, and have a sudden brilliant idea. I wander the house looking for Richard, and find him sitting on the couch in the living room, still in a loud conversation with his circle of polo-shirted business school friends. The ones who were at our wedding are noticeably absent. I grin and make my way over, putting an extra sway in my step, then push through the group and flop down next to him, halfway in his lap. 

“Hellooooooo darling,” I slur, throwing an arm around his shoulders. Richard stiffens, and I can feel his friends staring. Perfect .

“Henry, what the hell?” he snaps.

I plant an obnoxiously messy kiss on his cheek, then sway forwards to lay my head on his shoulder. “I missed you.”

“Sorry,” one of Richard’s friends starts, not sounding sorry at all. “But who the fuck are you?”

“Did he not tell you about me?” I have to fight back a smile, instead putting on my best approximation of a very drunk kicked puppy. “I’m Richard’s husband. We’re married .” I wave my left hand and show off my wedding band for emphasis.

Richard pushes me off his shoulder. “ Henry .”

“What about Annie?” Another of Richard’s friends asks. I don’t know any Annie, and as far as I know, neither does Richard. He’s certainly not with an Annie, as his friend’s shock seems to imply, since he’s as gay as the day is long and is no longer striving for parental approval via feigned heterosexuality. But this is a brilliant opportunity to make him look like a complete shit in front of his friends, and I’ll be damned before I waste it.

I give Richard a look of complete fondness that I have never once actually felt for him, and start fixing his hair with one hand. “Oh, she’s one of Richard’s best friends. Why, do you- do you know her?”

For a moment, Richard’s friends are completely silent. Richard seems to have shrunken throughout the conversation, curling in on himself with sullenness and shame. I can’t tell if he’s ashamed at having been caught in a lie (doubtful) or if he’s just embarrassed to be with me (more likely) but either way, I’ll take it.

One of Richard’s friends straight-up walks away. The rest keep staring, almost in horror, and I almost have a thought that they might be better than him, then realize it’s probably less related to Richard apparently cheating on me and more garden-variety homophobia. I’ve just blown up the carefully-curated frat boy image that Richard’s held for god knows how long, and I’m standing in the wreckage. 

“What?” I say, and it is only by biting the inside of my cheek that I am able to keep looking distraught. This is one of the pettier things I’ve done of late, and maybe I’m supposed to feel bad about it, but right now I’m just delighted at having leverage for once. 

Richard’s friend looks from me back to him. “Holy shit.”

Richard just looks at me, his expression reminiscent of someone who’s just stepped in dog shit. “Henry.”

“What?” I tip forward farther and sling my arms over his shoulders so we’re almost nose-to-nose. 

He stands, and I flop onto the couch in my best approximation of drunken limpness. I look up, and he’s already leaving. One of his friends helps me up, and I pat him absentmindedly on the shoulder before staggering after Richard.

Richard is silent until he’s slammed the car door shut and is peeling out of his street parking spot so quickly he almost hits the people in front of us. “What the fuck, Henry?”
I stare out the window, realizing this might’ve been a poor plan to finish mostly sober. “What?”

“What is wrong with you?” Richard shouts. I make a concerted effort not to flinch. 

“You invited me,” I say. “Am I supposed to pretend we’re not married?”

He presses his lips together, and when we’re at a stoplight, turns and says, “Why do you need to make every part of my life difficult?”

“Being publicly married to me is making your life difficult?” I snap. 

Richard doesn’t answer, just drives, and I try not to let the fact that I’m not even worth arguing with sting. 

In the morning, Richard is already gone. I don’t know where he is, nor do I particularly care. As the night before comes back to me, I’m only surprised by the fact that there are no passive-aggressive texts or piles of dirty clothes waiting for me (Richard has made every attempt to get me to do his laundry, but I always just pile it on his side of the bed until he caves). He doesn’t even have an errand to send me on to pacify me. Clearly, Richard wasn’t bothered enough by it. It’s quiet as always.

I make my way to the kitchen and start the coffeemaker, listening to its small sounds in the otherwise silent apartment. Silent as always.

I have a realization then, standing there with nothing to look forward to except the cup of coffee that I’m making.

Nothing I can do to Richard changes anything. Every morning is the same. I still wake up alone. I pass the days in this empty apartment and repeat this cycle with my dull-as-rocks husband until…

Until what? asks a voice in my head, and I don’t have an answer for it. Until we divorce? Until we die? Until this damn apartment gives me cabin fever and I give Richard blunt force trauma with one of his own beer mugs? They all seem equally likely. One way or another, the monotony will kill me.

Against my better judgment, I think of Percy. The days in his house. How much fun we always had. The safety I felt with him.

Fuck it. I go to grab my phone from the bedside table.

me: hey

Even as I send the text, I don’t expect a response. It’s not as if I deserve one. Percy’s reply, however, is almost immediate.

percy: hey! what’s up?

me: still interested in going out for lunch?

Which is how, two hours later, I end up pulling up in front of Percy’s house. I get out, mostly because I kind of want to see the goats again, but Percy comes running outside and all but tackles me before I even get the chance to ask. He pulls me into a tight hug.

I make a surprised sound. “Hey, Perce,” I say haltingly.

Percy laughs a little. “Sorry,” he says. He loosens his hold some but doesn’t let go. He rests his cheek on the top of my head and we just stand there for a moment, hugging. It’s nice. Percy says something soft that I can’t quite make out.

“What?” I ask quietly.

“You disappeared again,” he murmurs, running a hand once up and down my back.

“Oh.” Again, I’m surprised, for an entirely different reason. For all my guilt about ghosting Percy, I didn’t expect it to matter so much to him. Surely someone like Percy has more than enough friends to keep him busy. “Sorry.”

“It’s okay.” Percy gives me a squeeze before letting me go. He smiles. “I just like it better when you’re around.”

“Oh,” I say again. It doesn’t feel like an adequate response, but Percy seems unbothered.

“You ready to go?” he asks.

I nod, still not sure I can form a coherent sentence for reasons I can’t explain.

Percy and Florence get in the car with me. As an unspoken apology for ghosting him, I let Percy pick where we go to eat. He chooses a small café that I’ve never heard of but reminds me of a darker, cozier Panera Bread. We order soups and find a booth in the corner. Once I sit, Percy hovers next to the bench.

“Do you mind if I sit next to you instead?” he asks. I must look confused because he tacks on, “Florence will have more room under the table that way.”

“Oh yeah, sure,” I say with a shrug. I don’t remember this being a problem for Florence before, but I don’t really question it because there’s something pleasant about sitting right next to Percy, his arm brushing mine every now and then. Bracketed between him and the wall, I feel that same safety I did curled up with him in the hotel.

We definitely overstay our welcome in the café, sitting there and talking for almost two hours. Percy fills me in on how the show is going, even offering to work out a free ticket for me when showings come around. I decline, as he should use those for his parents and I have no issue spending Richard’s money to support the theater, but I appreciate the gesture.

When the staff members start giving us dirty looks, Percy turns to me with a smile. “How do you feel about dessert?” he asks. “You think they’ll let us stay longer if we buy something else?”

I laugh. “I think they’ll be more annoyed that we’re still here.”

Percy flushes, looking apologetic. “Yeah, maybe. But I’ll leave an extra good tip if you feel like splitting a brownie with me.”

“You drive a hard bargain,” I say, which Percy takes for agreement. He slides out of the booth and makes his way to the counter.

While he’s gone, I check my phone to see if Richard has said anything. More silence. Either he isn’t home yet or he can’t be bothered to wonder where I am. It doesn’t matter which.

Percy returns with a gooey brownie much too big for any one person to eat. He hands me a fork and we work through it together, laughing every time our hands brush going for the same piece. By the time we finish, the workers look ready to kick us out, so we get out of their way.

“I had a lot of fun today,” Percy says once we’re back in the car.

“Me too,” I say, feeling stupid for missing out on this for so long.

“Well,” Percy begins slowly. “I’m free all day if you want to go back to my place?”

Something restless inside of me settles then. In that moment, there is nothing that I want more than to sit on Percy’s couch and laugh until our sides hurt.

“Can I see the goats?” I ask.

Percy’s house is as welcoming as always. I do get to see Chopin and Vivaldi. We throw the duck for Florence for a bit before we come inside. I perch on the kitchen counter while Percy starts to make tea. Somewhere in the living room, a Taylor Swift album on vinyl plays softly. Percy hums quietly as he works. He has a nice voice, but I don’t want him to be self-conscious of it and stop if I say something. When he stops on his own, I decide to fill the lull myself.

“You know, I talked to Richard.” I’m not sure what prompts me to bring that up of all things, but I do. Something about Percy and his cozy house and his gentle voice make me feel at ease, ready to open any door that Percy so much as thought about knocking on.

Percy, the saint, doesn’t make a big deal of it. “Did you?” he asks softly, not even looking up from the tea that he’s making.

“Yeah, I…tried to talk to him,” I amend, “about some of our issues.”

“And what did he say?” Percy comes to sit beside me and eases a cup into my hand.

I press my shoulder against his, staring down into my tea like it might answer all of my questions. “He didn’t really want to hear it,” I say at last. “He didn’t want to acknowledge it.”

“Oh,” Percy says. I can tell he doesn’t like that. “Maybe…I mean, no one wants to think about their marriage suffering.”

He’s giving Richard the benefit of the doubt and I have to laugh. The truth that I don’t tell him is that Richard doesn’t want to think about our marriage at all. “Maybe,” is all I say instead. “But then he sort of…half-forbade me from hanging out with you. So. You can imagine how that went.”

“Oh,” Percy says again. He frowns deeply. “I’m sorry if I’m causing problems with your husband—”

“Oh god, no, don’t be,” I assure him. I lay my head on his shoulder and he leans his head against mine. “It’s not your fault. I promise that Richard doesn’t need your help to be terrible at marriage. Our first wedding anniversary is coming up but I would bet all my savings that he doesn’t remember. Not that he would know what to do even if he did.”

Percy is quiet at first. I wonder if I’ve scared him off with all my ball-and-chain complaints, permanently turning him off from ever getting married. Finally, he says, “What would you want him to do?”

That surprises another laugh out of me. “Richard? I wouldn’t even know where to begin. We don’t really go on dates and stuff.” I sigh. “But if I could choose…I don’t know, it would be nice to get away for a bit. Break up the monotony. Being a kept man gets boring after a while. I get so stir crazy in our apartment, and I haven’t been on a real vacation in a long time.” It’s not a lie. My honeymoon with Richard was the exact opposite of rest and relaxation. We spent the entire time fighting or fucking, sometimes both at the same time.

Percy hums thoughtfully. “Maybe he’ll surprise you.”

“Maybe,” I allow, taking a sip of my tea. “Hey.” I nudge him. “You want to watch Real Housewives ? We can watch marriages even shittier than mine.”

Percy doesn’t laugh like I want him to but he does crack a smile as he slides off of the counter. “I thought you’d never ask.”

When my anniversary with Richard comes around, I decide to play at being a proper husband. I can hardly complain about Richard forgetting if I remember and don’t do anything either. As I’m shopping, I realize that I can’t name a single hobby Richard has beyond sitting around and drinking with “the boys.” I end up picking out a polo shirt and some ties because he always seems committed to rotating between the same two. If nothing else, I’m putting his money toward a worthy cause. I go to the dollar store on the way back and buy a gift bag to shove it all into.

When I get home, I find Richard in the kitchen pushing a frozen pizza into the oven.

“You’re home late,” he observes. There’s no accusation behind it. He still thinks I’m avoiding Percy, so he couldn’t care less where I’ve been.

I stand in the doorway and stare at him, saying nothing. It takes him a minute to notice me.

He turns, frowning. “What?” he asks. He notices the bag. “What’s that?”

“It’s our anniversary today,” I say flatly.

Any chance I ever had of not going to hell is immediately ruined by the joy I get from Richard’s deer-in-headlights stare. I can see the wheels turning in his head, trying to figure out if I’m actually upset with him or if I’m just giving him a hard time.

“Did you forget?” I ask. I think my calmness unnerves him even more.

“I…” he trails off, glancing around like an anniversary gift will materialize and save him.

I toss the gift down, letting it hit the ground between us with a soft thump . Richard looks down at it like a bomb about to go off. “I got you something.”

“Henry—”

“I got you something,” I say again. “And you didn’t even remember ? You couldn’t even half-ass it? You can’t even pretend to care?”

Richard is still staring at me. He still won’t say anything, but he’s looking at me like I’m a stranger. I can’t wholly blame him. I wasn’t expecting to come in here and tell him off for this. I thought we might exchange a few digs and I would drop the gift I bought with his card in his lap and that would be that. I don’t know why I care . Even if Richard had remembered our anniversary, he would have gotten me an equally disappointing gift. We might have eaten dinner in awkward silence at the table. We definitely would have had mediocre sex before falling asleep with our backs to each other in silence. Just like we always do.

But it’s like Richard doesn’t even care for the charade anymore. I’m not worth the effort. He doesn’t care if I’m gone all day or passed out drunk on a stranger’s couch or if we get into a fight. Now that he thinks I’m not cheating on him, I don’t even matter.

Argue with me! I want to shout at him. Yell at me! Just pay attention! 

I know that’s a big ask for Richard. It’s not even his attention that I really want. But before Richard, there was always someone. Someone to flirt with at a party and take me home and, for just one night, pretend that I was exactly what they’d been looking for. Someone who found me entertaining and charming and at the very least worth a second glance.

And now there’s Percy, who doesn’t flirt or pretend but actually cares when I fall silent and notices when I go missing and remembers what matters to me. And after having all of that for even just a short time, I can’t stand another night in the insignificance of Richard’s life. I don’t need him to be a good husband. I know that I’m not. But would it kill him to give me the time of day?

“I didn’t know,” he finally says, carefully, “that it mattered so much to you.”

“I’m sorry for assuming my husband cared about when we got married,” I say flatly.

Richard bristles at that. “Henry—”

“Stop.” I cut him off again. “Don’t bother. Look, can you just…” I trail off, pointing to the liquor cabinet.

Almost dazedly, he opens it and hands me a bottle. I don’t bother reading what it is before I sulk off to drink it on the couch.

Later, after I’ve successfully avoided mediocre sex by virtue of not speaking to Richard and I’m halfway through the bottle, which turned out to be wine, I end up texting Percy.

me: he forgot :)

percy: shit

percy: i’m sorry monty

I think about taking the opportunity, about explaining to Percy that I don’t really understand why I’m upset about this, that it shouldn’t be disappointing, but before I make up my mind, I get another series of texts in rapid-fire succession. 

percy: so. tell me if this is weird but. i found a b&b.

percy: it’s really cute actually

percy: and i know you wanted to get out of the house

percy: and i’m off of work tomorrow and the weekend

percy: would you maybe want to?? go with me??

I laugh. I don’t know why he’s so nervous. 

me: absofuckinglutely i would

Percy isn’t wrong. The B&B is really cute. It resembles a large cottage, tucked away in a small beach town by the coast. A freshly painted sign swinging over the door reads Esther’s Vineyard . Inside, an elderly woman sits behind a desk reading what looks like a romance novel. She looks up when we enter and smiles. Her name tag confirms that she is, in fact, Esther.

“Welcome to the vineyard!” she says, standing. “Are you boys checking in?”

Percy tells her that we are and she checks us in by writing something in a thick binder before sliding two key cards over to us.

“Enjoy your stay!” she chirps. “And may I just say that you two make the cutest pair!”

Percy and I look at each other, bemused. A bright blush crosses his face, and I like that so much that I decide not to correct her.

“Thanks,” I say, making Percy’s eyes widen. I take the keys and hand one to him. “Down the hall to the left, darling.”

That finally spurs Percy into motion, and we make it halfway down the hall before he turns to me. “Why did you go along with her?” he asks. He doesn’t sound upset, just baffled.

I shrug, grinning. “It was funny to see you so embarrassed,” I say, drawing a smile out of him. “What, would you be embarrassed to be seen with me?” I tease.

“No!” Percy protests, somehow turning fantastically redder. “I was just caught off guard by it.”

I laugh, nudging his hip with mine as we stop in front of our room. “Whatever you say, Perce.”

The room itself is a bit small but cozy. You can tell Esther picked out the decor. There are two beds with a small dresser between them, each with a unique quilt. A TV that looks at least a decade old sits in front of one, and a wooden desk in front of the other. There’s a large window overlooking the beach, which looks empty right now. There’s a door adjacent to the window that I assume leads to the bathroom.

We’ve barely finished unpacking when my phone starts buzzing, and my heart rate jumps. I pull it out of my pocket, and sure enough, it’s Richard calling. 

“Fuck,” I say, and Percy looks up from organizing his socks. 

“What?”

I show him the screen. “Richard.” 

“He’s probably just checking to make sure the drive went okay,” Percy says, and I can tell he doesn’t even believe himself. 

“He doesn’t know I’m here .”

“You didn’t tell him?”

The call times out, and Richard immediately calls again. I wince. “I’m gonna take this.”

I flee to the hall and pick up. I’ve barely brought the phone to my ear before Richard is saying “ Henry ,” in that goddamn voice that I hate. 

“Hello, darling,” I say, as dry as is humanly possible. “How are things at home?”

“Did you get a hotel?” he asks, incredulous. 

I roll my eyes, though he can’t see. “It’s a bed and breakfast, actually.”

“Who are you with?” 

Ah, well, I suppose that’s probably a logical question to ask. I don’t know many twenty-year-olds who go to B&Bs alone for the hell of it. I steel myself, and say, as calmly as I can, “Percy.”

There’s dead silence on the other end of the line for a moment. “Come home.”

I laugh. “Um, no.”

“Goddamnit Henry, are you really so pissed about yesterday that you’re running off with Percy after I told you—”

“Jesus Christ, I’m not even attracted to him!” I shout. It surprises even me. “I don’t just go around hooking up with every adult that looks my direction. Don’t be a fucking asshole.”

“You got a hotel room —”

“With two beds! On your credit card! For fuck’s sake, if I was cheating on you don’t you think I’d try to be a bit more subtle?”

There’s another pause. “We’re talking about this later. Come home.”

“See you Sunday night,” I shoot back, then hang up before he can get another word in. I take a moment in the hall to slow my breathing as much as I can, then step back into the room, where Percy is very obviously trying to look like he wasn’t listening. 

I paste on a fake smile. “Sorry about that, darling.”

“I don’t mind if you want to go back,” he says quietly. He looks almost ashamed, though I can’t tell why. 

“To that train wreck? Nope,” I say, popping the p. “We are having a nice weekend away, and it will be unblemished by Richard fucking Peele.”

He laughs nervously. “Alright. Want to go to the beach?”

“Yeah,” I say, forcing myself to release all the tension from the phone call. We are having a nice weekend away. “Let’s do that.”

Percy and I change and go down to the beach, which is fairly secluded. The only other people out with us are a family so far from us that they’re mere specks down the shoreline.

Percy loves the water. As soon as we get there, he rushes in to start swimming. Personally, I believe that humans were created for land and shouldn’t push the bounds of nature, so I set up a towel close to the shoreline to watch and occasionally offer helpful commentary. Florence runs around in the water for a bit before contenting herself to join me. Percy unsuccessfully tries to convince me to swim with him.

“Come on!” he calls. “Can’t you swim?”

“I can ,” I say pointedly. “That doesn’t mean I enjoy it.”

Percy rolls his eyes and tries to gently coax me into swimming with him a few more times, but eventually resigns himself to swimming along while I watch; not that he seems too upset by that, and I’m not either. For as gangly and awkward as he normally is, Percy is a surprisingly graceful swimmer. Beyond when we first met, I’ve never paid particularly close attention to Percy appearance-wise, but it’s hard not to when he’s soaking wet and cutting through the water like a professional. It’s impressive. (And, though I don’t think he knows it, he has a really nice ass.)

Eventually, Percy tires himself out and trudges back up onto the shore. He plunks down onto the towel beside me and presses his forehead to my shoulder.

“Eugh!” I immediately push him off. “You’re wet .”

Percy laughs. “That does happen in the water.”

“I don’t see why that should be my problem.”

He rolls his eyes again but doesn’t try to use me as a human towel anymore. He pulls his actual towel from our bag and dries off as much as he can. I start to complain about the sand and Percy, done swimming for the day, suggests going up to sit on one of the bench swings closer to the B&B.

Sitting there, we have a fantastic view of the sunset. Florence lays at Percy’s feet and we talk for a while, then we just sit in comfortable silence. Sometimes it still surprises me how easy that is with Percy. Before him, I didn’t know silence could be so comfortable, not awkward or tense. But Percy and I can just sit together, not because we have nothing to say but because we don’t always have to say it.

Still, I am a man of a limited attention span. I get bored and pull my book from our bag, determined to make it past the first ten pages I slogged through this morning.

“What are you reading?” Percy asks softly. He leans in to read over my shoulder. “Monty, is that… The Picture of Dorian Gray ?”

I sigh. “Yeah, I picked it up yesterday. I wanted to read it so I could see why you liked it and, you know, maybe we could talk about it, but it’s just been a real drag.” I pause, realizing Percy might not appreciate being told his favorite book sucks. “I mean, I’m sure it has its…redeeming qualities, and I’m trying to push through for you but—”

“Monty,” he interrupts, “can I kiss you?”

I stop short because that is the very last thing I would have expected him to say. And yet, without thinking too much about it, I find myself saying, “Yes.”

And so he does. He takes my face in his hands and kisses me and it’s good . It’s very, very good. It’s not the best kiss I’ve ever had by any means. It’s obvious that Percy hasn’t done this much before, if ever. But it’s Percy . And I suddenly realize how important that is to me. I realize that I have wanted to kiss Percy, maybe for a while now, and—

Percy pulls back, eyes still closed and a dreamy smile on his face. I get that strange but now familiar warmth in my chest, and at last, I understand why I’ve felt this way.

Percy starts to lean in again, and I am more than happy to oblige, but then he stops. He lurches back, eyes going wide. “Oh shit ,” he says, then starts talking so fast that I can barely keep up. “Oh shit. Oh fuck. Oh my god, Monty, I am so sorry. I can’t believe I just did that. That’s not what I meant to— I mean you’re married and I just—”

“Hey, hey, Perce. Percy, look at me.” I push the book aside and take Percy’s face in my hands. “It’s okay. I’m okay. Are you okay?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Percy says, nodding, still breathless from rambling. He finally pauses, swallows, and takes a deep breath. “Yes. I’m okay.”

“Okay. I’m going to kiss you again now. Is that okay?”

“Yes.”

This time, I pull Percy in and kiss him like it’s the last thing I’ll ever do. (I wouldn’t be upset if it was, if we’re being honest.) Percy scrambles for a moment, unsure where to put his hands, before settling on putting one on my neck and the other on the small of my back, so gentle that it sends a shiver up my spine.

It’s all so different than it’s ever been with Richard. Richard isn’t the worst kisser either. He’s definitely had more experience with it than Percy. Yet with Richard, it feels senseless; following an instinct and taking for satisfaction and nothing more. It’s a transaction rather than a connection. But Percy doesn’t feel that way. Percy is tender, touching me with curiosity instead of demand. Percy feels right , in a way that I’ve almost forgotten how to feel because it’s been so long.

I know logically that there is no good reason to cheat on your husband, no matter how insufferable he is or how much you despise each other. But my marriage to Richard wasn’t about love or commitment. It was about survival more than anything else. I know that. He knows that to some extent. It’s not as if being with another man would break Richard’s heart. I know that if he found out he wouldn’t be pleased , except perhaps by the fact that I’m proving him right, but he wouldn’t be devastated. In fact, he would probably jump at the chance to divorce me on such solid grounds.

I just have to decide if that’s a risk I’m willing to take.

Percy breaks away, smiling against my lips as he rubs the nape of my neck. I find myself leaning forward, chasing his mouth with mine. He laughs a little but indulges me with another kiss. His hand on my neck goes to my hair. Every touch is so gentle that I never want him to stop touching me. I want to be covered by him and his soft kisses.

The decision isn’t really a difficult one. I would risk it for him. I don’t have a lot of my own, but I would risk everything for this right here.

In between kisses, Percy laughs. “It’s not even actually my favorite book, you sap. Stop torturing yourself.”

I laugh too, and press my face to the crook of his neck for a moment before I realize I need his lips on mine, and grab him gently by the collar to pull him back in. “Oh thank god ,” I say, and kiss him again.

Chapter Text

We drag ourselves from the swing, hand in hand, and walk through the B&B to our room without speaking, in that same comfortable silence that I’m used to with Percy. He kisses me twice, once while I’m fighting with the lock on the door, and once when we’ve gotten in and he announces that he wants the sand out of his hair and heads off to shower. I sit on the floor so as to not get my bed sandy, and stare at the bedskirt, piecing together the clues he’s been leaving for me. 

He’s affectionate, more than any of my friends have ever been. He wanted to sit on the same side of the booth as me. He was a fan of my semi-slutty Puck costume. He goes on overnights with me. He offered to take me on a vacation after I complained that my husband never did. I’m his favorite person , for fuck’s sake. I used to think I was good at telling when people were flirting with me. Percy has been trying to make a move. For a while now. Did he ever even have to fix his violin strings that often? 

And really, I am flattered, and very happy that this is happening. It sort of makes sense, this natural progression from being best friends to… whatever we are now. I just can’t believe I didn’t see it coming in the first place. I got blindsided by Percy’s kindness, too busy dealing with my own shitty marriage to realize what was standing right in front of me. 

Percy emerges from the bathroom in the same old hoodie he wore when we were at the concert, winding his hair into a messy bun and humming something. He sees me sitting on the floor, and laughs. “What are you doing down there?” 

“I don’t want to get sand in my sheets,” I say, getting to my feet as he flops down onto his bed. I start to head toward the bathroom, but he grabs me by the hand. 

“Wait, c’mere.” He pulls me to him, then tugs at the front of my shirt so he can kiss me. I definitely drop sand on the bed anyway, but he doesn’t seem to mind. “There we go.”

I smile. “That was absolutely urgent?”

“Of course.”

I roll my eyes, then go and shower quickly, because, though it’s a strange phenomenon, I miss his touch. I’ve never missed Richard. I’ve never missed anyone in any way greater than I-just-need-to-get-off . 

I come back from the bathroom in my pajamas, and Percy is laying in his bed on his side, with Florence curled up at the bottom. His back is to me, and I slip under the covers and press my face to his shoulder, wrapping my arm around his waist. “Hi.”

He rolls over to face me and smiles, but it falters after a moment. “We should… talk. About this.”

It’s as if he’s dropped a heavy rock on my chest. I don’t look at him. Alright Monty, here’s the part where he’s realized you’re too much of a goddamn mess to be worth kissing. “Should we?”

Percy puts a gentle hand to my chin and tilts it up so our eyes can meet. “I think we should. Um—”

I kiss him, because I’m realizing very quickly that I always want to kiss him, and because maybe that’ll get him to stop making my organs tie themselves into complicated knots. He leans into it after the initial half-second of surprise, but pushes me away just as suddenly. “No, Monty, really. You’re married .”

“Does that matter?” I ask. The words come unbidden, because I’m frustrated that Richard gets to ruin even this for me, and for one horrible second, I think Percy is going to be disgusted with me. 

Instead, he rubs his thumb across my jaw, and says, “Of course it does,” so quietly I almost don’t hear him. 

“I’m not in love with him, if that’s the problem,” I say. “He’s definitely not in love with me. We didn’t ever date. Most days, we avoid each other and bicker over what to watch on TV and—” I’m about to say have subpar sex , but that might not ease Percy’s concerns. “—Fall asleep on opposite sides of the bed without even looking at each other.”

Percy’s brow furrows. “Then why are you married?”

“I was out of other choices,” I answer, and I’m hoping that it’s vague enough that he’ll realize I’m embarrassed of the truth, which is that marrying Richard didn’t scare the shit out of me like getting a job and living on my own and being flat fucking broke did. I can have subpar sex and argue if it means there’s a roof over my head that doesn’t belong to my father or have roaches. 

“Oh.” He looks away. 

“So, I get it if you think this was a mistake,” I start, and my voice shakes. “But I don’t think it was. I’m married because I needed to be, not because we make each other happy.” 

Percy looks back to me, sitting with that in silence for a moment. I can’t read his expression exactly, but it feels suspiciously like pity, which I can’t stand. His hand settles on my waist, his palm against my ribs. “Then what makes you happy?”

The answer comes to me, unbidden, and even though we’re far from any wandering eyes, it gets caught in my throat. It feels too fragile to say with my chest, so I whisper it into the scant space between us. “You.”

Percy pulls me to his chest in a hug that nearly knocks the wind out of me, tucking his chin on top of my head. I make a noise of surprise, and he laughs, then releases me. “Sorry. This is alright?”

I don’t answer with words, just pull myself back to his warmth. I spend the rest of the night anchored in it, whether it’s with his hand in mine as we sit side by side, him reading and me sitting on my phone watching theater performance recordings, Dorian Grey abandoned, or with his arm around me when I lean over to show him a scene with a particularly homoerotic Puck and Oberon. After my Youtube recommended runs dry, he opens our windows, then spends a while practicing his pieces for the show while I watch in quiet admiration and feel the warmth of my fondness swell within me. 

Percy is beautiful when he plays, his eyes closed, his face serene. I watch the movements of his fingers, the tilt and sway of his bow, the edges of his mouth curling up in a private smile. When he stops, I whistle, and that smile breaks into a brilliant grin as his face flushes.

“You really love that,” I say. “It’s easy to tell.”

“My father taught me,” he replies. By the way he says it, that’s a good thing. I can’t imagine my father teaching me anything I could be proud of. 

I cross the room to sit next to him and knock our knees together. “You’re really talented, Perce. Why don’t you play professionally?”

He shrugs. “It’s less talent and more years of practice. I’m solidly average.” 

“Lies and slander.”

“Really Monty, I’ve been playing since I was five, it’s not like I’m a prodigy , I just—”

I kiss him to stop him from saying any more bullshit, and he makes a noise partway between a gasp and a laugh before he pushes me away. 

“One second.” He sets his violin and bow back in his case, then kicks it shut (maybe that’s why it looks beat to hell and back) and turns back to me. “Sorry. Anyway.”

He leans back in, and that is the moment that Florence chooses to hop on the bed and shove her head between us. Percy laughs as she licks his face, and I splutter out something that hopefully conveys Do not let her slobber on me . He stands and sits on my bed, and I don’t follow quickly enough, because Florence pounces on me next, and I have to pry myself away from her and her truly beastly amounts of spit. I stand, and she spreads out for a nap, having claimed her new territory. 

“ Sorry ,” Percy says, still laughing a bit as he wipes at his face with his sleeve, and leans in for another kiss, but I shrink away. His face falls for a moment. 

“I am not kissing you when you have dog spit on your face,” I say, holding him at arm’s length. 

His smile returns. “Right. I’ll just…” He looks down at his now-damp sleeve. “I’m just going to change.”

“That would probably be best,” I say, and he leaves for the bathroom, grabbing a hoodie on his way there. I sit on my bed for a moment, staring at Florence warily, before getting up to change my shirt—which is disgusting now—as well. Percy returns as I’m digging around in my bag for a replacement, and stops short, fixing his eyes on the floor. 

I laugh, and stand up straight. “You alright Percy?”

He doesn’t look at me. “Fantastic.”

“You’re allowed to look at me,” I say, grinning. When he doesn’t respond, I pause. “Are you sure you’re fine?”

His eyes snap to my face. “I’m very very gay.”

I cackle in a way that could never be mistaken as sexy. “Do you want me to lose my shirt more often?”

“I hate you.”

“I don’t think you do,” I tease, swanning forward to plant a messy kiss on his cheek. His ears are burning. 

“God, and I thought you were an incorrigible flirt before,” he says, a hint of dread creeping into his voice. 

“Oh, you’ll know when I’m trying to flirt,” I say. 

“You weren’t trying ?” he asks. 

I have to bite my lip to keep from laughing again as I finally fish my shirt from the bottom of my bag and pull it over my head. “I just live in a constant state of desirability. It’s not your fault, darling.”

He rolls his eyes fondly and grabs my hand to drag me over to my bed. “You’re insufferable.”

I tumble down next to him, and we trade lazy kisses until I lose track of time. At some point, I wind up on my hands and knees, leaning down to press our lips together, and I rest my face in the crook of his neck for a moment, grinning. 

“What?” 

“Nothing,” I say, looking at him, then, “I can’t believe this is happening.”

He smiles, bringing a hand up to poke at one of my dimples with his thumb. “I’ve thought about this a lot.”

I can’t come up with a proper response to that, the right words to articulate the rush of affection that runs through me, so I just kiss him again. He runs his hand through my hair, and it’s definitely a mess at this point. The thought makes me have to fight back another smile so I can keep kissing him. 

It’s strange—we’re in bed, and we’re kissing, and he’s not pushing for anything else. His hands don’t wander, he doesn’t pull my hair or try to shove his tongue in my mouth like a certain someone does. He just holds me, and there’s no expectation of anything more. If this were anyone else, I think I’d probably be on my knees by now. But this is Percy. This is different. It feels better . 

Eventually, my arms get tired, and I just lay on his chest, letting him trace random patterns between my shoulder blades while I play with an errant curl of his. He yawns, then taps my shoulder. “Monty. Monty, get off me, please.”

I lift my head to look at him, frowning. “Did your leg fall asleep?”

“No, but the rest of me is about to. I was going to move back over to my bed.”

“Why would you do that ?” I ask, mildly scandalized. “We’re well past the limits of what my husband will approve of, you can sleep in the same bed as me.”

He tips his head back with a breathy laugh. “I suppose.”

I make a hmph noise, then lay my head back on his chest and close my eyes. “Damn right.” 

I wake up to the smell of coffee and the sound of quiet swearing.

“Those are not for you!” Percy hisses.

I force myself to sit up, rubbing my eyes, and see Percy picking up a brown paper bag and holding it out of Florence’s reach. Two coffee cups sit on the desk beside him. He stops, caught in the act, and frowns. “Shit. Sorry. Did I wake you?”

“A little,” I admit. “Did you go downstairs?”

He nods and grabs one of the cups off of the desk before coming to perch at the end of the bed. “You were still sleeping so I went down and got coffee and muffins—though the muffins are a little beat up because I dropped them.” He apologetically offers the paper bag and coffee. I take them and sip from the cup. Percy made it exactly as I always do. “We can go back down later,” he continues, “if you want. I know it’s not much but I figured it would be nice to—”

I cut him off with a kiss that he doesn’t hesitate at all to melt into, even leaning forward a bit when I pull away. “Thanks, Perce.”

Percy smiles—a dreamy, contented smile that I’ve never caused on anyone. He grabs his coffee and climbs back into bed with me to eat our muffins. (He also points out the inevitable crumbs in the bed, but I refuse to let him distract from the romance of it all.) When the muffins are gone, I lean in again to pick up where we left off. Our kisses turn languid and I slip a hand under Percy’s shirt to trace patterns on his back, but suddenly he flinches, pulling back in alarm.

He tugs his shirt back down, blushing, before clearing his throat. “Uh, sorry.”

“Don’t be.” I deliberately put my hands in my lap. “I wasn’t trying to undress you or anything,” I rush to clarify, “but I should have asked first. We can go slower.”

Percy reddens even more. “Oh, no , that’s not really…what I was worried about.”

“Oh,” I say, suddenly racking my brain. Then I remember Percy’s refusal to change in the same room, the trans pin on his jacket. Oh. “Is it…I mean would this have anything to do with…”

Percy stares at me, brows knitted.

“You’re trans,” is what I finally manage. I immediately kick myself.

“Yes,” Percy says slowly.

“Yes. Sorry. I mean, I knew that already, but that’s what this is about, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” he says again.

“Should we…talk about that?”

“Should we?” Percy counters. “I never brought it up because I didn’t know how you would feel but I’m sure you assumed.”

“I did, but I don’t care . It doesn’t make any difference to me,” I assure him. “Did you… think I wouldn’t be fine with it?”

Percy shrugs. “Look, I never really know if someone is going to be cool about it or not.”

I don’t like the implication there that people have been not cool about it before. “Percy.” I hold out a hand in silent invitation. He takes it and I lace our fingers. “I’m not a fucking idiot,” I say, startling a laugh out of him. I smile. “You are an incredibly attractive and intelligent and talented man who really enjoys kissing me—and is really very good at it—and you think I’m going to care about what’s on your birth certificate?”

“Okay, okay.” Percy is blushing again but smiling, so I take it as a good sign. “Message received.”

“Good.”

“So,” Percy says after a beat. “What was that about me being good at kissing?”

Percy turns out to be full of surprises.

That night, he tells me to dress nice because we have dinner reservations. (I discover that Percy cleans up very, very nicely—even in a standard button-down. I fight the urge to ruin the nice bun he pulled his curls into by running my fingers through them.) When we make it to the restaurant, I realize that Percy got us nice reservations at an expensive-looking Italian place.

“When did you have time to arrange this?” I ask.

Percy shrugs. “That was always the plan for tonight.”

“You were going to take me here as a friend ?” I tease. “Percy. Come on.”

“I wanted to do something nice for you! I know you didn’t really get an anniversary dinner, so…”

That makes me pause, taken aback. It never ceases to amaze me how thoughtful Percy is. I stand on my toes to kiss his cheek. “Thanks, Perce. You’re sweet.”

As we’re being seated, the hostess comments on what a lovely couple we are and asks if it’s a special occasion. I answer her before Percy gets the chance.

“We’re celebrating our anniversary,” I tell her with a winning smile. I reach over and take Percy’s hand. He just stares at me.

“Well, congratulations you two,” she says before walking off with a wink.

Only after the hostess is well out of sight does Percy frown at me. “Why did you say that?”

“Always seize an opportunity for free dessert,” I say, gesturing with a breadstick.

He laughs. “That’s clever. A little underhanded, but clever.”

“I’m sure they can spare one more piece of cheesecake. I think we deserve it.” I grin. “After all, we are a lovely couple .”

In the end, we do get a free dessert (with a little sparkler on top and everything). Percy is a bit embarrassed by it, but I can tell by the way he eyes our cheesecake that he’ll get over it.

“Go on,” I say, carving off a piece with my fork and holding it out to him. “The guilt of dishonesty will weigh on my conscience, not yours.”

Percy gives me a bemused look like he can’t believe I’m actually doing this, but he caves with a smile and takes the bite off of my fork. “Happy now?”

“Very.” I notice a bit of chocolate on the corner of his mouth, and in a show of extreme self-indulgence, lean over the table to kiss it off. When I pull back, Percy is staring, face red. I laugh. “You okay, Perce?”

Percy lets out a strangled sound that I think should be a “Yep!”

Percy doesn’t get any less flustered as we finish our dessert, so I nudge his foot with mine. “You ready to get out of here?”

Percy chokes on his drink. “What?”

“Not like that ,” I assure him. “Jesus, Perce, get your mind out of the gutter.”

He splutters. “What—I didn’t—you—”

I cackle. “Relax, darling, I’m only teasing,” I say, then add, “unless, of course, you want me to be serious.”

Percy balls up a straw wrapper and flicks it at me. “You’re the worst .”

When we get back to our room, Percy flips through the channels until we land on some romcom already halfway over, then settles into my bed, my back against his chest. He hefts the mug he’s brought up from downstairs, filled with hot chocolate, and says, “Take a shot for every red flag.”

I laugh. “You can’t do shots out of a mug of hot chocolate.”

“Not with that attitude,” he says, then takes a heavy swig and immediately swears. “Shit, burnt my tongue.”

“Of course you did,” I say, and he rolls his eyes. 

“Take a sip for every red flag,” he amends. 

“I don’t have any.”

Onscreen, a guy, who’s been in the middle of chatting up the main character, suddenly stops, pulls out his phone, and takes a call, holding out a single finger towards her in a pause motion. Percy makes a face and sips the hot chocolate. “Ew.” 

“Ew,” I agree, then repeat, “I don’t have any hot chocolate to sip.”

Percy reaches around to pass the mug to me, then rests his hand on my waist. “Now you do.”

I sip it and grin. A few minutes later, when the main character is understandably pissed at the guy and starts to leave, he rolls his eyes at her and tells her she’s being too sensitive. I take a heavy sip, then pass the mug back to Percy. “Now why is this considered romantic?”

Percy sighs. “Maybe he gets better?”

He does not, in fact, get better. We run out of hot chocolate within the next half hour, and end up just calling out each incident as it comes. It’s weirdly fun, and Percy ends up absolutely shredding a side character for making excuses for the love interest, which is almost more entertaining than the movie itself. 

Towards the end, the love interest shows up at the main character’s door to reconcile for a fight—mostly caused by him being a dick—and gives her flowers. She, of course, forgives him, and at first I don’t think anything of it, but Percy groans, and says, “Red fucking flag.”

I look at him sideways. “What?”

“He didn’t even apologize,” he says. “He never recognized what he did wrong, he just spent twenty bucks on some flowers, said how much he loves her, and now he expects to get laid.”

Onscreen, it seems like things are moving in that direction. I wrinkle my nose. “Oh. At least he put in some effort?”

“Monty,” Percy almost chides me. “She deserves better.”

“Yeah,” I say, suddenly reminded of Richard’s shitty, wilted yellow roses after he made me quit the show. I half-wish I had an actual shot. 

Percy kisses me on the temple and sighs. “So glad I don’t have to put up with that bullshit.” 

I turn to kiss him properly. Lucky you. “Me too.”

I wake the next morning to Percy pressed against my back, his arm still wrapped around my waist and his slow, even breaths tickling my neck. For a moment, I’m struck by a series of conversation snippets. I can’t have friends now, because you feel threatened? Don’t you think if I was having an affair I’d try to be a bit more subtle about it? Jesus Christ, I’m not even attracted to him! I don’t just go around hooking up with every adult that looks my direction. 

I roll over slowly enough to not wake him and study his face, looking for any hint of disapproval, or disappointment, or judgment. The cocktail of unease and regret I remember seeing frequently before I got married, when I was still waking up in other people’s beds, having missed the opportunity to sneak out. 

You didn’t even have sex. 

Why are you thinking about sex?

Richard wasn’t wrong. 

I keep looking at Percy. He seems… peaceful. The crease between his eyebrows has faded. There’s a ghost of a smile curled across his lips. 

I shuffle closer to his warmth, hoping that it’ll fend off the incoming barrage of self-loathing, and he stirs. Shit. I move back, but that seems only to speed up his waking. He blinks sleepily for a moment before his eyes land on me, and that smile comes back in full force, a brilliant, beaming thing that makes his freckles curl up into crescent moons. 

Richard has never looked at me like that. 

Percy pulls me back to him, so my face is squished against his collarbone, and kisses the top of my head. “G’morning.”

I swallow hard. Richard can think whatever the hell he wants. He doesn’t get to ruin this. “Morning, darling.”

He sighs, leaning his cheek against my head. “We have to go home today,” he says softly, like he’s breaking the news to me.

I knew this, of course, but that doesn’t make me any happier to hear it. I groan and press my face into his chest. “Don’t remind me.”

Percy’s fingers trace soothing shapes on my back. “I know. But I have to go back to work tomorrow and you…” He trails off. He doesn’t know how to finish that thought, but I’m sure we’re both thinking the same thing. You have to go back to your miserable husband. I can’t imagine how that reunion is going to go. Most likely very poorly.

I roll onto my back and stare at the ceiling. Percy’s arm around me lingers, and it’s hard to be properly upset about anything when he’s rubbing at my side like that. I weigh my options like a convicted man ponders his last meal before I ask, “Can we at least get donuts first?”

On our way out of town, we stop at a little donut shop down the road from the bed and breakfast. We get coffee and a little cup of whipped cream for Florence. I buy the best chocolate-filled donut I’ve ever had in my life, and Percy buys something so loaded with cinnamon that I can taste it when we kiss.

The drive home is quiet. I let Percy choose the music but then he falls asleep about twenty minutes in, so I turn on Harry Styles instead. When he stirs again, he doesn’t complain. I listen to him hum along while he does crosswords on his phone, occasionally asking for my input. I do not think about confronting Richard when I get home.

When we make it to Percy’s, he leans over the console to kiss me goodbye. I hold the kiss far longer than necessary, and when he pulls away, I lean in for another one.

Percy smiles against my lips. “Want to come check on the goats with me before you go?”

I know what he’s doing. “Sure.”

Percy brings his bag inside and leads me and Florence to the backyard. He takes off Florence’s vest to let her run around some while we make our way to the shed. The goats are taking turns jumping off one of their structures when we approach, but come over to nose at Percy’s feet when they notice him. They keep a respectable distance from me.

Percy chuckles. “They’ll come around eventually.”

I make a point of turning up my nose. “I don’t care about being liked by some goats .”

“I mean, if you’re going to be hanging around a lot more…” Percy trails off.

“I guess it would be nice for them to like me,” I concede.

“They will,” he assures me. “You’re pretty easy to warm up to.”

That makes me pause and, damn him, only Percy could make conversation about livestock even remotely romantic. When I look at him, he seems blissfully unaware of this, smiling as he reaches down to give Chopin a scratch between the ears. I’m still not totally sure what Percy and I are doing . I don’t know how long this is going to last or how much he wants out of it. But whatever we are right now, I think I could be content with whatever Percy wants to give if it means moments like this. I don’t ever want to leave.

Percy looks over at me, and something in my face causes his smile to falter. He stands, giving the goat’s shed a quick once-over. “Georgie took care of them while I was out of town, so they’re still set,” he says. “Do you…want to come inside for a second? I have something I wanted to give you.”

“Lead the way.”

Percy lets Florence stay outside to play for a bit while we go inside. I’ve only ever passed by the small bedroom Percy has turned into his own personal library, but that’s where he leads me. He crosses the room to a small wooden desk by the window and rummages through the drawers until he pulls out an envelope and hands it to me.

It’s a nice envelope, the kind you’d expect with a wedding invitation in it, with a gold wax seal and everything. “Percy Newton, did you write me a love letter ?”

I’m only teasing, but Percy goes so spectacularly red that I have to wonder if that’s exactly what it is. “Just don’t read it until you get home, okay?”

“Alright,” I say, bemused, then sigh. “Speaking of…”

“You should probably get back soon, huh?” Percy asks softly.

I nod. “Back to the old ball and chain,” I say in a horrendous attempt at making a joke. Neither of us finds it funny.

Percy doesn’t even dignify it with a response. He just pulls me into a hug, pressing a quick kiss to my temple. I don’t know that I’ve been hugged as much in my entire life as I have throughout the duration of my friendship (is that still what this is?) with Percy. When we pull away, he pauses like he wants to say something, but nothing comes out.

“I’ll see you around?” I offer.

“Text me whenever,” he says, and in it I hear the implied don’t disappear again . I don’t know how to tell him that he has nothing to worry about, that I’m keeping this for as long as he'll let me. I don’t know if I can actually promise him that. Instead, I settle for a kiss goodbye.

When I get back to the apartment, I can hear football blaring from the TV. I was really hoping to avoid Richard for a few more hours but I’m obviously not that lucky. He must hear the door because, before I even have time to strategize, he shouts for me.

“Henry!” I hear the sound of a beer mug set on the side table as he gets up from the couch. I decide staying where I am is the best course of action as he all but charges me, looking so annoyed that it would be comical directed at anyone else. He stops in front of me and crosses his arms like a parent about to scold a child who knows better. He looks pointedly at my suitcase on the ground. “Do you have anything to say for yourself?”

“Why should I?”

“Henry—”

“I haven’t done anything wrong.”

“You booked a hotel room with someone else without my permission.”

“How many times do I have to remind you that I’m an adult ? I don’t need your permission.”

“How many times do I have to remind you that you’re using my money?”

“You can’t threaten to cut me off every time I do something you don’t like.”

“Watch me.” He takes a step forward as if I need the physical reminder that he has all the power here. “I could take your cards, your car keys, all of it.” He grabs me by a belt loop and tugs me forward so that I’m forced to look up at him. I bite back the urge to spit in his face. “Is that what you want, Henry? You want to give all that up?”

He has me backed into a corner and he knows it. He has everything I need and I have nothing. If he really decides to cut me off, there’s nothing I can do to argue with him.

Well. Almost nothing.

I take a sharp step back. This is my one bargaining chip. I have to fight a smirk. I might not be a good husband, but I am good at this, and we both know it. “Only if you’re willing to give up sex.”

Richard blinks at me for a moment. I think I may have actually rendered him speechless, then he laughs. “You can’t be serious.”
“I am.” Oh God, what if this doesn’t work?

He rolls his shoulders back, and I can see the gears in his head turning as he tries to figure out if I’m fucking with him or not. “You’re willing to be celibate if I don’t give you money to run around with other men?”

“If you don’t let me have friends,” I correct him. (Is it still correcting him? Technically speaking, I am running around with another man now.)

Richard is quiet. My chest seizes in panic for a moment. What do I do if this doesn’t work? Do I threaten to divorce him? God, I can’t divorce Richard, I don’t even have my own money for a coffee, much less an apartment and a car and food and alcohol. This is the only card I have to play.

“Fucking fine,” Richard says with a sigh. “Christ, Henry.”

The panic unravels. I smile, close-mouthed and tight-lipped. “Glad that’s sorted.”

He doesn’t say anything to that at first. He looks me up and down with a gaze that I’m all too familiar with, one that is animal in both its hunger and its hostility. “I guess we have an agreement then.” 

I very purposefully do not point out that it’s less an agreement and more mutually-assured dysfunction.“I guess so.”

He goes back to his place on the couch and I drag my suitcase to the bedroom to unpack, tossing my clothes haphazardly across the floor and trying not to grind my teeth too hard. Eventually I give up on putting things away and tuck Percy’s letter inside one of my shirts to hide it, figuring it’s safe there since Richard never does laundry. I’m not even going to attempt to read it until Richard is out of the house—I doubt a love letter would do much to help my cause. Instead, I sit in bed considering whether or not it’s pathetic to text Percy already. I type out several messages.

miss you :(

thanks for this weekend

ugh richard is being an ass

want to get lunch tomorrow? 

i can’t believe you have actual wax seals you nerd

i miss you

<3

I don’t send any of them. I can wait a few hours, right? Just so he doesn’t think I’m desperate. I switch to mindlessly scrolling, except I keep seeing things that remind me of Percy, and then I want to text him again, and I end up getting frustrated enough that I start putting clothes away again at a snail’s pace. 

I am almost completely finished when a few hours later Richard appears in the doorway, a crooked smile on his face. He doesn’t even say anything, just waits for me to toss the extra pair of shoes I packed back onto the closet floor before he pulls me by the arm into a kiss with far too much tongue. I have to repress a tired sigh. I’m really not in the mood for Richard and the way kissing him feels like sticking your tongue in a washing machine, but I’d much rather do this than fight about Percy. This is always better than fighting.