thegreatmanda's Reviews (459)

I was talking to a man (first mistake), reminiscing about old shit (that's a trap, never do it), and he said to me, with the kind of brazenness only handsome people can get away with: "Level with me, baby: Don't you wish we'd gotten serious back in the day and had a kid?" I damn near choked on my own tongue.

I have just taken my first sip of water today at 2:57 p.m., I cannot be a person who reliably gets treatments done to herself.

Being perceived is excruciating, especially if you can't go person to person explaining why you look like that. I'd go to a lot more stuff if I knew I could take each person aside and explain to them why I look and dress the way I do.

When you go into anaphylactic shock, they have to keep you for four hours, because, apparently, when the epinephrine wears off, the symptoms can come back. Life is hell. Every time I learn new shit about the human body, it makes me yearn for the grave.

Has anyone ever gotten divorced citing "too many assorted milks"? Is this the "for worse" to which I am resigned???

Let me save you from the heartbreak caused by the withering look on your nephew's face when you attempt to make small talk about anything invented in the last ten years: don't.

Bodies are an off-limit subject for me in general because if I have to talk to you about your body, then you're gonna very courteously ask me about my body, and then I have to watch you struggle to be polite as I launch into a laundry list of my physiological issues while you try not to say "Have you considered dying?" to my face.

Ancel was a virgin the first twelve times he had sex. The thirteenth time, it lacked all plausibility.

Jord took out the flecked, dinted Captain's badge and looked down at it.
The Regent had sent them to the border to fail. The task of captaining these mercenaries was not one any man would volunteer for. Even for an experienced captain, holding discipline together among this rabble, against attacks from eight different sides, was impossible.
The Prince had known the scale of the task when he had tossed Jord this badge. Jord thought about that.
And, passing his thumb over the dinted starburst in the solitary clearing, he smiled.

"It was a nice hat," said Jord.
"I told you I'd take care of it," said the Prince.

"It's lucky King Damianos is at Delpha," said Charls, uncertainly. "There's no need to worry that the Prince is away so close to the Ascension."
"Yes, this would be a terrible idea otherwise," said Lamen.

Not everyone could have the blissful equanimity of Lamen, who seemed to pay the Prince no deference of rank, a piece of very good acting.

"Lamen," he said, when they were a few steps away. "Is the Prince of Vere holding a dead rabbit?"
"Yes, but—"
"He is a prince. That is a rabbit. Do you think he has ever skinned a rabbit in his life?"
"No, but—"
"No. A Prince's hands are instruments of refinement. A Prince's hands are not made to touch a dead rabbit. You have to do it!"
"But Charls—"
Charls pushed him firmly in the back. "Go!"

"They showed me to my rooms, they're open like this, to the sea. I had them lay out these clothes for me, and I thought about you coming. I thought about what it would be like here, with you."
"Like this," said Damen. He kissed the top of Laurent's bare shoulder, then his jaw.
"No, I—thinking about you and being with you are different, you're always more powerful, more—"
"Go on." Damen felt a wellspring of pure pleasure, laughing against his neck.
"Stop my mouth," said Laurent. "I don't know what I'm saying."
Damen lifted his head and kissed Laurent tenderly, found him flushed, warm like summer. He could feel Laurent's hands sliding up over his body, an unconscious mapping that was new, or rather, recent, like the new look in Laurent's eyes.

Damen was smiling; there was delight in seeing Laurent explore himself, a young man who was sweet, teasing, at times unexpectedly earnest. Having made the decision to let Damen in, Laurent had not gone back on it. When the walls went up, it was with Damen inside them.

"The night you told me about this place, it was the first time that I ever thought about the future. I thought about coming here. I thought about... being with you. It meant something to me that you suggested it. What we had on the ride to Ios, it was already more than I... At the trial, I thought it was enough. I thought I was ready. And then you came."
"In case you wanted me," said Damen.
"I thought, I have lost everything and gained you, and I would almost make the trade, if I didn't know it had happened that way for you, too."
It was so close to his own thoughts—that everything he knew was gone, but that this was here in its place, this one bright thing.

He smiled and carried on into the kitchen, moving around the space without any assistance from me. Watching him, already so at ease, it was like he was meant to be here.

"There was a man I was supposed to meet. He's got all these ideas about honour and fair play, and he tries to keep me from doing the wrong thing. But he's not here right now. Unfortunately for you."

Nikandros held his gaze, then let out a breath and passed his hand over his face, massaging it briefly. He said, "The Prince of Vere." When he looked at Damen again, it was a sidelong glance under his raised brows, and for a moment they were boys again, on the sawdust, throwing spears that fell six feet short of the men's hide targets.
"Can you imagine," said Nikandros, "what your father would say if he knew?"
"Yes," said Damen. "Which girl from the village was called Kyra?"
"They all were. Damianos. You can't trust him."
"I know that." He finished the wine. Outside, there were hours of daylight left, and work to be done. "You've spent a morning with him and you're warning me off. Just wait," said Damen, "until you've spent a full day with him."
"You mean that he improves with time?"
"Not exactly," said Damen.

"I know you're not cold," said Damen. "You weren't cold when you ordered me tied to the post. You weren't cold when you pushed me down on your bed."

Laurent acted without hesitation. He released his reins - and as Damen watched, as the spear flew right for him - he jumped, not out of the way, but into the path of the spear, leaping from his horse to Pallas's, dragging them both to the left. Pallas swayed, shocked, and Laurent bodily kept him down low in the saddle. The spear sailed past them and landed in the tufted grass like a javelin.
The crowd went wild.
Laurent ignored it. Laurent reached down and neatly filched Pallas's last spear for himself. And, keeping Pallas's horse at a gallop - as the sounds of the crowd swelled to a crescendo - he threw it, sending it flying right into the centre of the final target.
Completing the okton one spear ahead of Pallas and of Damen, Laurent drew his horse up in a little circle, and met Damen's gaze, his pale brows rising, as if to say, "Well?"
Damen grinned. He hefted the spear he had caught, and from where he was on the far side of the course, threw; let it go sailing over the full, impossible length of the field, to thunk into the target alongside Laurent's spear, where it rested, quivering.
Pandemonium.

"You have the mind of a snake," Makedon said.
"You have the mind of an old bull," said Laurent.
They stared at one another.
After a long moment, Makedon waved at the slave, who came forward with a fat-bellied bottle of Akielon spirits and two shallow cups.
"I will drink with you," said Makedon.

"I tried to kill you. I can't seem to go through with it. You keep overturning all my plans."

"One cup of griva and you slept like the dead," said Makedon. He clapped Laurent's shoulder again. "This one had six! Can you doubt the power of his will? The steadiness of his arm in the hunt?"
"Not your uncle's griva," said a horrified voice.
"With two such as us on the ride, there won't be a chamois left in the mountains." Another shoulder clap. "We go now to Karthas to prove our worth in battle."
This provoked a wave of soldierly camaraderie. Laurent did not typically engage in soldierly camaraderie, and did not know what to do.

"Did I," Laurent said. It took him a long time to push the words out. "Say anything."
Laurent held himself taut, as if for flight. He lifted his eyes to meet Damen's.
"You said you missed me," said Damen.
Laurent flushed, hard, the change in colour startling.
"I see. Thank you for-" He could see Laurent taste the edges of the statement. "-resisting my advances."
In the silence, he could hear voices beyond the door that had nothing to do with the two of them, or the honesty of the moment that almost hurt, as if they stood again in Laurent's chambers by the bed.
"I miss you too," he said. "I'm jealous of Isander."
"Isander's a slave."
"I was a slave."
The moment ached. Laurent met his gaze, his eyes too clear.
"You were never a slave, Damianos. You were born to rule, as I was."

To have his people mistrust him, to have his friends turn from him, to have the thing that had been most dear and good in his life twisted into a weapon to hurt-
He turned. Laurent was standing alone, against the backdrop of the hall.
With sudden double vision, Damen saw Laurent as he was, the true isolation. The Regent had done this to Laurent, had whittled away his support, had turned his people against him. He remembered trying to convince Laurent of the Regent's benevolence in Arles, as naive as Estienne. Laurent had had a lifetime of this.

When he made himself look at Laurent, Laurent's eyes on him were very dark, his voice quiet.
"How can you trust me, after what your own brother did to you?"
"Because he was false," said Damen, "and you are true. I have never known a truer man." He said, into the stillness, "I think if I gave you my heart, you would treat it tenderly."
Laurent turned his head, denying Damen his face. Damen could see his breathing. After a moment he said in a low voice, "When you make love to me like that, I can't think."
"Don't think," said Damen.

"Don't," said Laurent, "toy with me. I—have not the means to—defend against this."
"I don't toy with you."

“It’s me," said Damen. "It’s me, here with you. Say my name."
"Damianos."

"I would court you," said Damen, "with all the grace and courtesy that you deserve."
He undid the first lace on Laurent's shirt, and the fabric began to open, a glimpse of the hollow of his throat. Laurent's lips were parted, his breath hardly stirring.
Damen said, "There'd be no lies between us."
He opened the second lace, felt the low throb of his own pulse, the warmth of Laurent's skin as his fingers moved to the third.
"We'd have time," Damen said, "to be together."
And in the warm flame light, he lifted his hand and cupped Laurent's cheek, and then leaned in, and kissed him on the lips, gently.

He looked at Laurent, and he understood now what he had not understood then: that Laurent had known who he was that night. Laurent had known who he was and had still protected him, out of a sense of fairness that had somehow survived what had happened to him.

"There's a lot of blood," said Laurent.
"Luckily," said Damen, "I brought a physician."

Laurent said, "Our men have the gates and the halls. Ios is yours."
"And you," said Damen. "With your uncle gone, there won't be resistance. You have Vere."
Laurent was very still, and the moment seemed to draw out, the space between them private in the hushed baths.
"And the centre. We both hold the centre," said Laurent. And then: "It was one kingdom, once."
Laurent wasn't looking at him when he said it, and it was a long moment before he lifted his eyes to Damen's waiting ones, and Damen's breath caught at what he saw there, the odd shyness of it, as though Laurent was asking instead of answering.
"Yes," said Damen, feeling light-headed at the question.
And then he really did feel light-headed, because Laurent's face was so transformed by the new light in his eyes that Damen almost didn't recognize him, the expression full of joy.

"I'm glad I brought you along. I wasn't expecting to have to tear things out of walls. Do you visit brothels often?"
"No," said Damen.
"Not brothels. Camp followers?" said Laurent. And then: "Slaves." And then, after the satisfaction of a pause: "Akielos, the garden of delights. So you enjoy slavery in others. Just not in yourself."
Damen shifted on the long bench, and regarded him.
"Don't strain yourself," said Laurent.
"You talk more," said Damen, "when you're uncomfortable."

"What makes you think Kastor is the weaker man? You don't know him."
"But I'm coming to know you," said Laurent.

 “Damen felt Laurent start shaking against him, and realised that, silently, helplessly, he was laughing.
There came the sound of at least two more sets of footsteps striding into the room, greeted with: "Here he is. We found him fucking this derelict, disguised as the tavern prostitute."
"This is the tavern prostitute. You idiot, the Prince of Vere is so celibate I doubt he even touches himself once every ten years. You. We're looking for two men. One was a barbarian soldier, a giant animal. The other was blond. Not like this boy. Attractive."
"There was a blond lord's pet downstairs," said Volo. "Brained like a pea and easy to hoodwink. I don't think he was the Prince."
"I wouldn't call him blond. More like mousy. And he wasn't that attractive," said the boy, sulkily.
The shaking, progressively, had worsened.
"Stop enjoying yourself," Damen murmured. "We're going to be killed, any minute."
"Giant animal," said Laurent.
"Stop it.”

"You're alive," Damen said, and the words came out on a rush of relief that made him feel weak.
"I'm alive," said Laurent. They were gazing at one another. "I wasn't sure you'd come back."
"I came back," said Damen.

A prudent ruler would want a seasoned diplomat overseeing this fraught standoff, not Laurent, who had arrived like a wasp at an outdoor feast, annoying everybody.

"That's right, I'm still captured," said Damen.
"Your eyes say 'For now,'" Laurent said. "Your eyes have always said, 'For now.'" And then: "If you were a pet, I would have gifted you enough by now to buy out your contract, many times over."
"I'd still be here," said Damen, "with you. I told you that I would see this border dispute through to its finish. Do you think I'd go back on my word?"
"No," said Laurent, almost as if he was realising it for the first time. "I don't think you would. But I know you don't like it. I remember how much it maddened you in the palace, to be bound and powerless. I felt yesterday how badly you wanted to hit someone."
Damen found he'd moved without realising it, his fingers lifting to touch the bruised edge of Laurent's jaw. He said, "The man who did this to you."

"Friends," said Laurent. "Is that what we are?"
Laurent's voice was tightly knotted, as though the answer was obvious; as though it was as obvious as what was happening between them, the air disappearing, mote by mote.

Never had he wanted something this badly, and held it in his hands knowing that tomorrow it would be gone, traded for the high cliffs of Ios, and the uncertain future across the border, the chance to stand before his brother, to ask him for all the answers that no longer seemed so important. A kingdom, or this.

Damen's skin felt too hot, too tight. His ideas of what might happen in bed with Laurent had not moved beyond an aching tenderness, which was only now finding physical expression. The reality of it was different; Laurent was different. Damen had never thought that it could be like this, soft and quiet and acutely personal.

He felt some sense that he needed to hold onto this, to hold it tight and never let it out of his grip.
You're mine, he wanted to say, and couldn't. Laurent didn't belong to him; this was something he could have only once.

"He needs me," said Damen. "I don't care if you tell the world."

Damen knew his body now. He knew the surprise that gentle attention could draw from him. He knew his lazy, dangerous assurance, his hesitancies... his sweet, tender hesitancies. He knew the way that he made love, a combination of explicit knowledge and almost shy reticences.
Stirring drowsily, Laurent shifted a fraction closer and made a soft, unthinking sound of pleasure that Damen was going to remember for the rest of his life.
And then Laurent was blinking sleepily, and Damen was watching Laurent grow aware of his surroundings and come awake in his arms.
He wasn't sure how it would be, but when Laurent saw who was beside him, he smiled, the expression a little shy but completely genuine. Damen, who hadn't been expecting it, felt the single painful beat of his heart. He'd never thought Laurent could look like that at anyone.

Laurent had restored both his shirt and a flickering version of his usual standoffishness. But he had not laced himself back into his clothes, had not reappeared in his high-necked jacket and shiny boots as he might have done. He was here, hesitating, on the edge of uncertainty. Damen drew on Laurent's hand.

"I lack," said Laurent, "the easy mannerisms that are usually shared with," you could see him pushing the words out, "a lover."
"You lack the easy mannerisms that are usually shared with anyone," said Damen.

"I speak your language better than you speak mine, sweetheart."

Laurent could inspire homicidal tendencies simply by breathing.

"Nephew, you were not invited to these discussions."
"And yet, here I am. It's very irritating, isn't it?" said Laurent.

He didn't reprimand Damen. He didn't seem particularly displeased with barbaric behavior, as long as it was directed outward. Like a man who enjoys owning an animal who will rake others with its claws but eat peacefully from his own hand, he was giving his pet a great deal of license.
As a result, courtiers kept one eye on Damen, giving him a wide berth. Laurent used that to his advantage, using the propensity of courtiers to fall back in reaction to Damen's presence as a means of extricating himself smoothly from conversation.
The third time this happened Damen said, "Shall I make a face at the ones you don't like, or is it enough to just look like a barbarian?"

"You seem to vacillate between assistance and assault. Which is it?"
"I'm not surprised you've driven three men to try and kill you, I'm only surprised there weren't more," said Damen, bluntly.
"There were," said Laurent, "more."

"You have to admire it," said Laurent, in a detached voice. "It's the perfect time to attack Akielos. Kastor is dealing with factional problems from the kyroi. Damianos, who turned the tide at Marlas, is dead. And the whole of Vere would rise up against a bastard, especially one who had cut down a Veretian prince. If only my murder weren't the catalyst, it's a scheme I would wholeheartedly support."

It was my first lesson. Beneath the smooth, familiar face of things is another that waits to tear the world in two.

That is one thing gods and mortals share. When we are young, we think ourselves the first to have each feeling in the world.

All those years I had spent with them were like a stone tossed in a pool. Already, the ripples were gone.

You threw me to the crows, but it turns out I prefer them to you.

You can teach a viper to eat from your hands, but you cannot take away how much it likes to bite.

I had no right to claim him, I knew it. But in a solitary life, there are rare moments when another soul dips near yours, as stars once a year brush the earth. Such a constellation was he to me.

I ran my hands over his ribbed scars, easing him as I could. The scars themselves I offered to wipe away. He shook his head. "How would I know myself?"

But perhaps no parent can truly see their child. When we look we see only the mirror of our own faults.

Odysseus' favorite task was the sort that only had to be performed once: raiding a town, defeating a monster, finding a way inside an impenetrable city.

So many years I had spent as a child sifting his bright features for his thoughts, trying to glimpse among them one that bore my name. But he was a harp with only one string, and the note it played was himself.
"You have always been the worst of my children," he said. "Be sure you do not dishonor me."
"I have a better idea. I will do as I please, and when you count your children, leave me out."

I reached across that breathing air between us and found him.

I listen to his breath, warm upon the night air, and somehow I am comforted. He does not mean that it does not hurt. He does not mean that we are not frightened. Only that we are here. This is what it means to swim in the tide, to walk the earth and feel it touch your feet. This is what it means to be alive.

I thought once that gods are the opposite of death, but I see now they are more dead than anything, for they are unchanging, and can hold nothing in their hands.

Honestly, none of them ever seemed to like me, but they were around, which isn't nothing.

the first bell rings. like all the bells in our fine institute of lower learning, it's not a bell at all, it's a long beep, like you're about to leave a voicemail saying you're having the suckiest day ever. and nobody's ever going to listen to it.

The question is rhetorical, but if I wasn't trying to shut up, I'd answer it: You like someone who can't like you back because unrequited love can be survived in a way that once-requited love cannot.

And then I realize the full extent of the insanity. Tiny Cooper has brought me to a Gay-Straight Alliance meeting to hook me up with a girl.

maura is the kind of friend i enjoy swapping doomsday scenarios with. she's not, however, someone who makes me want to prevent doomsday from happening. for the year or so we've hung out, this has always been a problem. i know if i told her about liking guys, she'd probably stop wanting to date me, which would be a huge plus. but i also know i'd immediately become her gay pet, and that's the last kind of leash i want. and it's not like i'm really that gay. i fucking hate madonna.

when things break, it's not the actual breaking that prevents them from getting back together again. it's because a little piece gets lost — the two remaining ends couldn't fit together even if they wanted to. the whole shape has changed.

by saying you don't care if the world falls apart, in some small way you're saying you want it to stay together, on your terms.

this is what i never allow myself to need.
and of course i've been needing it all along.

still, what could i say? that i didn't just feel depressed — instead, it was like the depression was the core of me, of every part of me, from my mind to my bones? that if he got blue, i got black? that i hated those pills so much, because i knew how much i relied on them to live?
no, i couldn't say any of this. because, when it all comes down to it, nobody wants to hear it. no matter how much they like you or love you, they don't want to hear it.

how have i ended up dating this sprinkled donut of a person?

"Dad, I don't need your approval," I say softly.
"I know," he answers. "But I thought you might like it anyway."

it just goes to show, if you try to ruin someone's life, it only gets better. you just don't get to be a part of it.

It helps they've given People an exclusive - a few generic quotes about how much Alex "cherishes" his friendship with Henry and their "shared life experience" as sons of world leaders. Alex thinks their main shared life experience is probably wishing they could set that quote adrift on the ocean between them and watch it drown.

As usual, the day guard at the Dirksen Building glares at him as he slides through security. She’s certain he was the one who vandalized the sign outside one particular senator’s office to read BITCH MCCONNELL, but she’ll never prove it.

After Secret Service misread an olive-based shouting match in 2017 and almost put the Residence on lockdown, they now each get their own pizzas.

Alex is taking notes in a policy lecture when he gets the first text.
This bloke looks like you.
There's a picture attached, an image of a laptop screen paused on Chief Chirpa from Return of the Jedi: tiny, commanding, adorable, pissed off.
This is Henry, by the way.
He rolls his eyes, but adds the new contact to his phone: HRH Prince Dickhead. Poop emoji.
He's honestly not planning to respond, but a week later he sees a headline on the cover of People - PRINCE HENRY FLIES SOUTH FOR WINTER - complete with a photo of Henry artistically posed on an Australian beach in a pair of sensible yet miniscule navy swim trunks, and he can't stop himself.
you have a lot of moles, he texts, along with a snap of the spread. is that a result of the inbreeding?
Henry's retort comes two days later by way of a screenshot of a Daily Mail tweet that reads, Is Alex Claremont-Diaz going to be a father? The attached message says, But we were ever so careful, dear, which surprises a big enough laugh out of Alex that Zahra ejects him from her weekly debriefing with him and June.

He just... Well, he gets told he's great a lot. He just doesn't often get told he's good enough.

But Nora makes friends, and Alex ends up with acquaintances who think they know him because they've read his profile in New York magazine, and perfectly fine people with perfectly fine bodies who want to take him home from the bar. None of it is satisfying - it never has been, not really, but it never mattered as much as it does now that there's the sharp counterpoint of Henry, who knows him. Henry who's seen him in glasses and tolerates him at his most annoying and still kissed him like he wanted him, singularly, not the idea of him.

"I'm not going to have a marriage of convenience with you if you're always embarrassing me with the way you eat burritos," Alex says, watching her chew. A black bean falls out of her mouth and lands on one of her keyboards.
"Aren't you from Texas?" she says through her mouthful. "I've seen you shotgun a bottle of barbecue sauce. Watch yourself or I'm gonna marry June instead."

"Does that help, Alex? My Bloody Mary is here and I need to talk to it about this phone call."

You're a mad, spiteful, unmitigated demon, and I'm going to kiss you until you forget how to talk.

"I know the feeling. Last summer I almost punched a guy at Lollapalooza because he tried to grab June's ass."
"But you didn't?"
"June had already dumped her milkshake on him," Alex explains. He shrugs a little, knowing Henry can't see it. "And then Amy Tased him. The smell of burnt strawberry milkshake on a sweaty frat guy is really something."

It's all bloody useless because when I'm not thinking about your face, I'm thinking about your arse or your hands or your smart mouth. I suspect the latter is what got me into this predicament in the first place. Nobody's ever got the nerve to be cheeky to a prince, except you. The moment you first called me a prick, my fate was sealed. O, fathers of my bloodline! O, ye kings of olde! Take this crown from me, bury me in my ancestral soil. If only you had known the mighty work of thine loins would be undone by a gay heir who likes it when American boys with chin dimples are mean to him.

Alex feels like somebody has probably warned him about private email servers before, but he's a little fuzzy on the details. It doesn't feel important.

The phrase "see attached bibliography" is the single sexiest thing you have ever written to me.

Should I tell you that when we're apart, your body comes back to me in dreams? That when I sleep, I see you, the dip of your waist, the freckle above your hip, and when I wake up in the morning, it feels like I've just been with you, the phantom touch of your hand on the back of my neck fresh and not imagined? That I can feel your skin against mine, and it makes every bone in my body ache? That, for a few moments, I can hold my breath and be back there with you, in a dream, in a thousand rooms, nowhere at all?

"Hi, love," he hears Henry say quietly, privately, right into the hair above his ear, and Alex's breath forgets how to do anything but laugh helplessly.

Alex forgets, momentarily, about the pancakes and everything else, not because he wants to do absolutely filthy things to Henry—maybe even with the apron still on—but because he loves him, and isn't that wild, to know that that's what makes the filthy things so good.

"Fuck you," Henry says, his voice breaking, and he gets a handful of Alex's shirt collar, and Alex knows he's going to love this stubborn shithead forever.

He reaches up and touches a thumb to Alex's cheekbone. "I'm not...good at saying these things like you are, but. I've always thought...ever since I knew about me, and even before, when I could sense I was different—and, after everything the past few years, all the mad things my head does—I've always thought of myself as a problem that deserved to stay hidden. Never quite trusted myself, or what I wanted. Before you, I was all right letting everything happen to me. I honestly have never thought I deserved to choose." His hand moves, fingertips brushing a curl behind Alex's ear. "But you treat me like I do."

Henry comes with his face turned into Alex's open palm, his bottom lip catching on the knob of his wrist, and Alex tries to memorize every detail down to how his lashes fan across his cheeks and the pink flush that spreads all the way up to his ears. He tells his too-fast brain: Don't miss it this time. He's too important.

Re: telling Philip, sounds like a great plan. If all else fails, just do what I did and act like a huge jackass until most of your family figures it out on their own.

But the first time I saw you. Rio. I took that down to the gardens. I pressed it into the leaves of a silver maple and recited it to the Waterloo Vase. It didn't fit in any rooms.

"But the thing is, jumping off cliffs is kinda my thing. That's the choice. I love him, with all that, because of all that. On purpose. I love him on purpose."

He's on the way back to the airstrip when he sees it, emblazoned on the side of a brick building, a shock of color against a gray street.
"Wait!" Alex yells up to the driver. "Stop! Stop the car!"
Up close, it's beautiful. Two stories tall. He can't imagine how somebody was able to put together something like this so fast.
It's a mural of himself and Henry, facing each other, haloed by a bright yellow sun, depicted as Han and Leia. Henry in all white, starlight in his hair. Alex dressed as a scruffy smuggler, a blaster at his hip. A royal and a rebel, arms around each other.
He snaps a photo on his phone, and fingers shaking, types out a tweet: Never tell me the odds.

Henry's pulling him and kissing him, sandy hair on a pink bedspread, long lashes and long legs and blue eyes, elegant hands pinning his wrists to the mattress. It's like everything he's ever loved about Henry in a moment, in a laugh, in the way he shivers, in the confident roll of his spine, in happy, unfettered sex in the well-furnished eye of a storm.