Archive of Our Own

Part I: Perfumed Love Letters

They say absence makes the heart grow fonder, but they fail to mention the way it can make a man restless. Or the way it can consume one's thoughts so completely it leaves room for little else. Elliott had only been away a few days, and he'd be back by the end of the season, but Gunther is quickly learning that the heart is not a rational thing. It aches for what it can't have, and it accepts no reassurances.

Penny's looking at him expectantly, but he'd been too lost in thought to register what she said.

"Hmm?"

"I asked how Elliott's book tour was going," Penny says, an amused smile crinkling her button nose. "Have you heard from him?"

The success of 'Kindling Hearts' is huge news in Pelican Town— unsurprising, given how little goes on here. Having a famous author in their midst gives people something to talk about, and it goes without saying that the community shares no small amount of pride at the fact that Elliott's newfound prominence in the literary world put this sleepy little town on the map.

Gunther couldn't be more proud of his husband, even though it pains him to be apart like this. This is a lot like those earlier days, magnified tenfold.

When Elliott first admitted his feelings, Gunther had been reluctant to entertain them. Elliott is a much younger man, and youth often comes with impulsivity. Gunther had sent him away, challenging him to spend some time getting to know his neighbors under the guise of helping him find inspiration for his writing— something he had been struggling with at the time. In truth, it was more of a test to see if the man was actually serious, or if his affection was merely a passing fascination.

He thought he could handle it, if that was really the end of things. He knew there was a possibility that Elliott would find someone much more suitable to accept his love. But Elliott had taken the challenge to heart, and in those weeks Gunther found himself unable to get the writer off his mind. His fondness for Elliott crept in like the tide. Before he knew it, the water was up to his neck, and he didn't much care to swim to shore.

Elliott has a way of drawing people in with that earnest charm of his. When he found Elliott in the museum, showing the children the Dwarven artifacts on display and repeating the explanations Gunther had given him weeks prior . . . well, that cemented it for Gunther. Elliott had him wrapped around his finger from that day on.

"It's going well," Gunther says, offering Penny a smile. "There's been an excellent turnout at the signings so far."

"Gosh, what's it like to be married to a celebrity?" Penny asks, a playful glint in her eyes. She leans on the circulation desk, resting her head atop her steepled fingers. "Bet you miss him though."

"More and more each day," Gunther admits, "but he's worked hard for this, so I endure." He lets out a soft chuckle, his heart swelling with a pride that briefly cuts through his longing.

"Aww . . . I never knew you were such a softie," Penny teases, giving Gunther's hand a squeeze.

"Well . . ." Gunther laughs softly, shaking his head. A sentimental old fool might be a more apt description. The farmer, Kieran, told him once that Elliott had described him as 'stoic'. Now here is he is, pining away like a lovesick schoolboy.

"I think it's sweet, really," Penny assures him. "I know Elliott is probably feeling the same way."

𓂃🖋

A letter arrives for him the next morning, and he knows who it's from before he even turns it over to read Elliott's elegant slanted script on the back. The envelope is sealed with a dollop of crimson wax, impressed with a fine-lined etching of an open pomegranate.

Gunther had commissioned the hand-carved wax stamper from Leah as a wedding gift, and presented it to Elliott along with a stationary set. He traces the edges of the stamp with his fingers, smiling fondly at the memory; the way those emerald eyes of his had lit up when he saw the design. Elliott had been dying for a chance to use it, but he insisted that something like this must be used for something special.

He'd missed it in Elliott's belongings in the mad dash to pack. Or perhaps it had been hidden from him intentionally. Gunther can almost picture Elliott's mischievous little smirk as he squirreled the supplies away into his bag while Gunther's back was turned.

He laughs to himself as he brings the letter into the kitchen, setting it carefully in the freezer and retrieving a small paring knife. When the wax is cold and brittle, he places the letter on the table and uses the knife to carefully remove the seal with surgical precision. It separates easily from the paper, perfectly whole. He'll have to find a safe place for it later, but for now he turns his eager eyes back to the letter.

The first thing that hits him as he slides the thick stationary from the envelope is the sweet scent of Elliott, the pages perfumed with his familiar fragrance.

At the night market, bundled against the winter chill and nursing mugs of hot coffee, they'd stumbled across a perfumer— something new and different from the wares usually sold at the event. Gunther had stood with his arm around Elliott as the merchant offered them samples of the notes on little paper cards, explaining the anatomy of a signature fragrance. He admired the care Elliott put into his selection, occasionally wafting the coffee under his nose to clear his palate, asking Gunther for his input even though he had to admit he didn't know much about the subject. The aftershave Elliott loves so much had been a gift at first, and then Gunther had just kept buying the same one.

With a flourish, the merchant gathered up a selection of tiny, corked flasks— Earl Grey, bergamot, vanilla, black pepper, and musk went into the bottle, sealed with a filigreed gold cap. A fine fragrance, when sampled from the paper card the seller handed him, but then Elliott had spritzed it on his neck, right there on the docks, tugging aside his scarf and beckoning Gunther closer. Then it became a scent he longed to get lost in— warm, enticing, and quintessentially Elliott— and he couldn't resist kissing the tender skin just below his husband's ear.

He brings the letter to his nose, his chest swelling with the fond memory as his eyes slip closed, remembering the night they spent together after— a long night tangled together in the sheets, the perfume in his nose and Elliott's sweet cries of pleasure in ears, Elliott's soft skin against his, Elliott's long silky hair twined around his fingers.

At the present moment it's an ache, deep in his chest— but a sweet one. It's a painful yearning that only strengthens as he reads the letter.

Beloved,

It has only been a few nights on the road, but already I'm missing you fiercely. I've set out on a grand journey, but in the rush of packing and preparing I have left my heart at home. Keep it safe for me, will you?

My days have been hectic— so full of meetings, and signings, and press. I've scarcely had time to think, but every quiet moment inevitably leads me back to thoughts of you. I see you in the smallest things: in the careful way a bookseller arranges his window display, in the hush of a library in an unfamiliar town just before closing, in the reverent touch of hands upon pages that have outlived their authors. It is these small moments I am reminded that love, much like history, leaves its mark in ways both grand and subtle.

The readings have gone well— better than I had dared to hope. There is something profoundly humbling about hearing one's own words reflected back through the expressions of strangers. They laugh where I had only smiled, they linger on moments I hurried past, and sometimes— though I rarely feel deserve it— they are moved. If my work has found any measure of success, it is because you taught me to see with greater care. You told me once that every artifact carries a story worth preserving. I think, perhaps, you have done the same for me.

Still, for all the applause and admiration, there is an emptiness at the end of each evening that no audience can fill. I return to my lodgings and find myself reaching for you without thinking— expecting the warmth of your hand, the steady presence at my side to which I have grown so accustomed. It is a cruel sort of habit, this love of mine, that it should persist even in your absence.

Last night, I uncorked a bottle of your aftershave— I hope you don't mind that I took it, I left you a spare— and allowed myself a little indulgence. I thought it would bring me comfort. Instead, it unraveled me entirely. It is one thing to miss you, quite another to be surrounded by the scent of you with no reprieve. I confess, I slept poorly for it.

Do you remember the docks that evening, at the night market? The way the lantern light danced on the water? I do. I remember the way you looked at me— as though I were something rare and irreplaceable. I carry that with me now, more precious than any praise I receive along this tour.

I wonder how you are passing your days. Have the children been by the museum? I can picture you there, patient as ever, guiding them through stories of ancient peoples with that quiet passion of yours. There is a tenderness in you that I cherish more deeply than I have ever been able to put into words. (And you know how that pains me, to admit such a limitation.)

Take care of yourself while I am gone. Do not work too late into the evening, and please— do not skip your meals. I know you are prone to that when left to your own devices. If Penny or Kieran, or any of our other neighbors offer you company, I hope you will accept it. It comforts me to think of you surrounded by those who care for you, even as I ache to be the one at your side.

As for me, I count the days in quiet anticipation. Each mile I travel only serves to measure the distance between us— yet it also brings me, inevitably, closer to home.

Yours, always and forever,

Elliott

P.S. I have enclosed a small clipping from one of the city papers. This is not meant as a brag— I just thought you might enjoy seeing my name in print. It felt incomplete without you there to share the moment, and I couldn't have done any of this without you.

It brings tears to his eyes: several pages of Elliott's elegant, slanted script, reflecting Gunther's own longing back to him in the most beautiful prose. He thinks perhaps his husband is too humble. After all, Gunther had only given him a push in the right direction. It's funny, seeing him shy away from his success like this when his attitude had been far more grandiose before.

The clipping enclosed with the letter is the same one Gunther already had, printed from the Zuzu Chronicler, which he'd only subscribed to in order to get news from Elliott's tour. He chuckles to himself as he adds the clipping to his collection.

The question now, as it has been these last few days, is how to fill his evening. Elliott's letter had rightfully called him out— he hasn't been taking the best care of himself in his husband's absence. It's sweet of him to think about that, as busy as he must be. Sweeter still to take such time and care to send a handwritten letter when they both have access to a telephone.

After reluctantly cooking dinner for himself, Gunther finds himself pacing through the apartment, holding the letter to his nose and breathing in Elliott's perfume. It doesn't smell quite the same as it does when it mingles with Elliott's skin, but it brings him some comfort. As do the signs of Elliott littered throughout their home: the wedding photo on the mantle, the last book Elliott had been reading still sitting out on the coffee table, and the long strands of auburn hair that he finds in the most absurd places.

Eventually his restless legs lead him to the small laptop he rarely uses, save to keep abreast with the latest in archaeology and historical research when he isn't in the library. As he brushes a strand of Elliott's hair off the keys, he finds himself navigating to Elliott's website and pulling up his tour dates.

The long list of dates is a depressing reminder of just how long he must wait until Elliott is in his arms again. But there's a seed of an idea blooming in his mind.

Before he can think better of it, he's searching for flights. As luck would have it, there just happens to be one departing at the exact right time to catch Elliott before the next leg of the tour.

Surely he couldn't . . .

Gunther stares at the screen, the stark glow reflecting off his glasses as he sighs. The cursor blinks beside the departure time, as if reminding him that he only has so much time to make up his mind.

A thousand miles is no small thing.

There's the library to consider— responsibilities that have always anchored him firmly in place. He has never been a man prone to impulsive decisions. Elliott, perhaps, would argue otherwise now, but only because the man has a way of loosening those careful knots Gunther has spent a lifetime tying.

He exhales slowly, tugging off his glasses and dragging a hand over his face. "You're a sentimental old fool," he murmurs to himself.

His eyes flick, once more, to the date of Elliott's next appearance. He imagines it: the crowed, the applause, Elliott commanding the front of the room with that practiced poise— yet searching, always searching, for a familiar face that isn't there.

That thought settles something in him. Before he can second-guess it, he clicks confirm. The screen refreshes. The ticket is booked.

Gunther stares at the confirmation for a long moment, as though expecting it to vanish; as though this version of himself— this man who boards planes on a whim, who crosses great distances for the sake of love alone— is some sort of elaborate fiction.

And then, slowly, a smile pulls at his lips.

"Well," he says to the empty apartment, "I suppose I ought to pack."

Part II: A Thousand Miles Away

The restaurant is too loud. Not in an overt way— no clattering chaos or raised voices— but in that insidious, constant hum of conversation and clinking silverware that fills the space between Elliott's ears and disrupts the stream of his thoughts. It presses in on him from all sides, stirring the baseline, low level anxiety he's been feeling into a storm.

His publicist, Diane, is speaking— has been for quite some time. Elliott knows this because her lips are moving, because she occasionally gestures with her fork for emphasis, and because every so often she laughs in a way that suggests she expects him to follow suit.

He tries, though he's not sure what's funny. His mind is elsewhere— adrift in an endless sea of longing, as it has been so often these past few days. As much as he tries to exist in the present, his thoughts are back at home.

He wonders if the letter has arrived yet.

He pictures it sitting in Gunther's hands, the careful way he would open it— no doubt preserving the seal, because of course he would— and the quiet reverence with which he would read each line; the same way he read the initial manuscript of 'Kindling Hearts' when all of these accolades were still just a dream. The thought alone makes Elliott's heart ache, a sharp and sudden pang that has him drumming his fingers restlessly on the table as he tries to tune in to what Diane is saying.

"—and of course, the Brynvale signing is going to be your biggest turnout yet," Diane says, "We've had incredible engagement since the Chronicler piece— oh!" She brightens suddenly, shuffling through her bag. "I almost forgot to show you this."

She slides a folded newspaper clipping across the table.

Elliott blinks, dragging himself back to present enough to glance down at it. It's got a snappy title: 'The Next Chapter: Breakout Voices in Queer Storytelling' by Jessica Rivers. He scans it, finding his book nestled amidst a slew of other best-selling works by debut LGBT authors, accompanied by a small blurb. He reads it twice, not quite processing the words but recognizing the upbeat tone.

'A standout debut, 'Kindling Hearts' showcases Elliott Calloway's gift for introspective storytelling with lyrical prose and aching vulnerability. Through the unlikely romance between an isolated writer and a reserved lumberjack, Calloway crafts a poignant meditation on solitude, connection, and the courage it takes to let oneself be known.'

"Oh . . . that's very . . . kind," he says, after a moment. Kind is the wrong word. It's just a listicle, though he knows it's good for publicity.

Diane laughs lightly, a bemused expression furrowing her brows. "Kind? Elliott, this is huge. Do you know how many writers would kill for a feature like this? Jessica Rivers is a big name in journalism— she doesn't normally cover stuff like this."

Elliott offers a small smile in response, but it doesn't quite reach his eyes. "Yes, I didn't mean to make light of it," he says, "Sorry, my mind is miles away. I think the stress of it all is starting to get to me."

She tilts her head, studying him. "Is it just the schedule?" Diane asks, her tone shifting from her usual brightness to concern. "Or is there something else going on?"

Elliott hesitates, letting out an exasperated sigh as his thoughts scatter and chase each other around in dizzy circles. The easy answer would be yes— of course it's the schedule. He's scarcely had time to breathe between the travel, the pressure to perform, the endless parade of faces and conversations that blur together until he can hardly discern where he is one day to the next.

But that isn't it. Or rather, it isn't all of it.

"I suppose," he begins slowly, fingers tracing the edge of the newspaper clipping, "I hadn't quite anticipated how . . . detached it would feel."

"Detached?" Diane echoes, confusion drawing her perfectly arched brows together.

"Yes." He glances up at her, searching for the right words. "All of this . . ." He gestures vaguely, encompassing the restaurant, the article, the tour itself. "It's something I wanted, once. Or thought I did. And now that it's here, it feels as though I'm watching it happen to someone else."

Diane leans back in her chair, considering him. She taps her lips with one manicured fingernail. "That's not uncommon," she says after a moment. "First big tour, first real wave of attention. It can be overwhelming. You'll settle into it."

Elliott nods, though the reassurance doesn't quite land. "It isn't only that," he admits.

There's a pause, long enough for nervous butterflies to take flight in Elliott's stomach. He takes a long sip of his wine.

"Alright," Diane says, drawing out the word, "then what is it?"

Elliott sets his glass back down, sliding the base around on the table and watching the red liquid slosh around. "My husband," he says, huffing a sigh.

Something in Diane's expression shifts. It's not surprise, exactly, but something close to it. He can see the gears turning behind her eyes as she recalibrates.

"Ah," she says, nodding.

"I find myself thinking of him constantly," Elliott continues. "It's rather inconvenient for the tour, I'm afraid. There's just never a time when he doesn't occupy my mind."

That earns him a small smile from her. "Aw, well, I'd hope so. A romance writer in love is a powerful thing."

Elliott lets out a humorless laugh. "Yes, well. It makes it rather difficult to care about articles and signings when all I can think about is whether he's eaten dinner, or if he's remembering to go to sleep at a reasonable hour."

Diane taps her fork lightly against the edge of her plate, deep in thought. "How long have you been married?" she asks.

"Not long. Though it feels like a lifetime, in the best possible way," Elliott replies, a nostalgic smile tugging at the corners of his lips.

"Mhm . . ." She watches him for another beat, a knowing glint in her eye. "And this is your first time being away from him like this?"

"Yes."

"That'll do it," she says, matter-of-fact.

Elliott blinks, certain he's missed several chapters of this conversation. "I beg your pardon?"

"You're not detached," Diane says, gesturing toward him. "You're homesick. There's a difference."

He considers that. Homesick. The word settles on his heart with surprising weight. "I guess I am," he says, turning to gaze out the window. He watches the people bustling past, and wonders how many of them are on their way to see their lovers. "Homesick . . ." he repeats quietly, mostly to himself.

"For what it's worth," Diane adds, leaning forward slightly, "this isn't a bad thing. People eat this up."

Elliott tears his gaze away from the street, brows furrowing. "I'm not sure I follow."

"The devoted husband angle," she says. "The longing, the letters, the whole 'tortured romantic separated from his great love' thing? That's literary gold."

Elliott stiffens. "I would prefer," he says cautiously, "that my marriage not be treated as a marketing strategy."

"Elliott, did you forget that you wrote a whole book based on a fictionalized version of your own love story?" When he scowls at that she holds up her hands defensively. "Hey, I'm not saying we exploit it. I'm saying it's authentic. And authenticity sells."

Elliott looks down at the clipping again, at his name printed in neat black type, surrounded by praise that feels strangely hollow in comparison to what waits for him at home.

"I didn't write the book for any of this," he says, softly.

"I know," Diane replies. "That's why it works."

He continues to sit in sullen silence, his gaze returning to the window, until Diane clicks her teeth.

"Look," she says, folding her hands primly on the table, "I'm not going to push you into anything you're uncomfortable with. But you should think about why people are connecting with your work. It's not just the prose— it's the feeling behind it."

The feeling behind it . . . Of course that brings his thoughts back to Gunther.

Gunther, standing in the museum, patiently telling the children stories of the past through his carefully curated artifacts.

Gunther, reading the manuscript for 'Kindling Hearts' at the kitchen table, glancing up at him over the pages to give him a warm smile— to tell him about a particular line he was fond of.

Gunther, who carried Elliott's heart with him, a thousand miles away.

"I think," Elliott says, almost too quietly to be heard over the dull roar of the restaurant, "that feeling belongs to him."

Then, unexpectedly, Diane smiles. "Maybe you should tell him that, instead of me," she says. "Give him a call tonight."

"Yes," Elliott murmurs, "perhaps I should."

Diane raises her wine glass. "And in the meantime," she adds, a hint of her typical brightness returning, "try to enjoy your win. You've earned it."

Elliott inclines his head, a faint smile falling across his face. "I'll do my best."

But even as he says it, his thoughts are already drifting back across the miles, toward home.

𓂃🖋

The restaurant had been too loud, but the hotel room is too quiet. It's not a peaceful quiet, either, not the kind he craves. That lives in libraries and forest clearings, in the hush of turning pages and the wind through the leaves, and the steady breathing of a warm body lying close to his, fingers whispering through his hair, and sips of coffee at the breakfast table when neither he nor Gunther is awake enough to speak. This is a hollow, artificial stillness broken only by the faint hum of the air conditioner in the corner of the room.

He shuts the door behind him and leans against it, eyes slipping closed. For a moment, he lets himself imagine that Gunther is here. He's sitting at the small writing desk in the corner, sleeves rolled neatly to the forearms, spectacles perched low on his nose. There's a faint scratch of pen against paper— the grounding presence of another person inhabiting the same space. The illusion dissolves as quickly as it comes, and Elliott exhales.

He moves slowly through the room in a daze, shedding his jacket, his shoes, the careful composure he's worn all evening. His bag sits open on the bed, its contents in disarray— a life half-packed, never fully settled. His fingers find the bottle of aftershave without looking, and he stills.

There's something almost shameful in it now, this small indulgence. As though he's taken something sacred and reduced it to a substitute— an echo. Still, he uncaps it.

The scent rises immediately: bergamot, cedar, black pepper, and something darker beneath it. Not quite Gunther, but close enough to make his chest tighten. He breathes it in, and after a moment the roof starts to soften around the edges.

He remembers the weight of Gunther's hand at the small of his back— the steady warmth of him, always so solid and certain. The way he always leans in, almost unconsciously, whenever Elliott speaks, as though every word out of his mouth is worth catching.

"This is ridiculous," Elliott murmurs.

He sinks down onto the edge of the bed, elbows braced against his knees as he daubs some of the aftershave onto his wrists. It doesn't help. If anything, it makes things worse.

Because now he can feel the absence of him more acutely— the space next to him where Gunther should be, the silence where his low, reassuring voice ought to live. It's only for a season. He keeps reminding himself, as if it'll do anything to assuage the emptiness in his chest.

Sleep doesn't come easily. Time stretches on, the hours passing without meaning, marked only by the leering red digital readout on the alarm clock next to the bed and the restless pulse of the city beyond the window.

'This is the long, dark night of the soul,' he thinks. The phrase feels dramatic, indulgent even. And yet . . .

He turns onto his side, curling into himself as he reaches, instinctively toward the empty half of the bed. Eventually, his eyelids grow heavy, and he falls into a restless sleep.

𓂃🖋

The next day is a blur.

Brynvale is much larger than the last city— louder, too. The venue is packed well before the signing is scheduled to begin, a line stretching out the door of T&J Booksellers and down the block. Diane is thrilled. Elliott can see it in the sharp, efficient way she moves, and in the cheerful but clipped tone of her voice as she coordinates staff and signage.

"Biggest turnout yet. Just like I said," she gushes, handing over a cup full of pens, like she expects him to blow through more than one cartridge of ink today. The thought fills him with dread, and a preemptive ache in his hand.

Elliott just nods, smiles, and takes his place at the table.

It's easier, in a way, when he doesn't think too much about it. When he lets the rhythm take over— name, signature, brief exchange of pleasantries, repeat. The readers are kind and enthusiastic. Some of them are nervous, some effusive, all of them looking at him as he's given them something meaningful.

He tries to be present for them, he really does. But somewhere along the line, the faces begin to blur. The voices soften into indistinct sounds. And beneath it all, unrelenting, is that same aching pull toward home.

"—your writing means so much to me," someone is saying.

Elliott blinks, dragging himself back long enough to offer a warm smile. "I'm very glad to hear that," he says, and he means it. Even with his mind scattered as it is, he is still grateful.

The line moves. Another book, another signature, another friendly face gushing about his work— another moment he will not remember. By the time the last copy is signed, his hand aches, and his smile feels thin at the edges.

Diane appears at his side almost immediately. "That was incredible," she says, "Seriously, Elliott, this is—"

"I need some air," he says, abruptly cutting her off.

She pauses, studying him the way she had back at the restaurant. "Alright," she says, after a beat. "Don't go far, we've got—"

"I won't," he assures her, already making a beeline for the door.

He steps outside, taking a deep inhale even as his nose protests the stinging, acrid air of the city. The air is cooler out here, and the crowd has thinned, leaving only a few lingering figures near the entrance. The chatter of the bookstore is replaced by the energetic thrum of traffic and the blare of car horns singing their cacophonous melody to the high rises around them.

Elliott stands there a moment, just breathing and trying to ignore the reek of the dumpsters in the alleyway behind him.

And then he's moving. The decision is sudden, but not entirely impulsive. It's been building within him since he left the restaurant the night before, simmering beneath the surface as he went through the motions at the signing.

He flags down the first cab he sees, sliding into the back seat before he can give himself time to reconsider. "To the airport," he says. The driver nods, pulling into traffic.

Elliott leans back against the seat, his heart pounding. A thousand miles is no small distance, but love is no small thing, either.

As the city blurs past the windows, the restless, aching feeling in his chest begins— slowly, finally— to settle.

Part III: Darling, Let's Run Away Together

Elliott loathes airports: the chaos of them, the noise, the throngs of people running toward something, or away from it— or meandering as slowly as possible in front of him when he is on a mission, damn it.

His pulse hasn't settled since the cab ride, his anxiety only doubling— no, tripling— after he begged the driver to reroute to his hotel so he could snatch his suitcase, praying the whole way that the man wouldn't just drive off the second Elliott disappeared inside. Luckily, the cab was still idling at the curb when he ran back outside, leaping onto the seat with a breathless apology. He tipped the driver handsomely for the trouble, and all seemed to be forgiven.

He checks the departures board, then the arrivals. He doesn't even know where to begin looking, but he supposes he should start at the ticket counter. He's never purchased a last-minute flight before, but he imagines it's not impossible. This happens all the time in romance novels— the rush through the airport culminating in some grand romantic gesture at the gate. But does it work that way in real life?

His thoughts are racing as he turns on his heels, immediately colliding full-force with another body. The impact jars him, knocking the breath from his lungs as his suitcase falls from his hands and clatters across the floor.

"I'm so sorr—" The words fall apart before they can even form.

Gunther stands before him like an apparition from his restless dreams, his eyes wide with shock. The hands that reach out to grip his shoulders are solid, real— not conjured from longing or sleeplessness, or the stubborn refusal of Elliott's heart to accept the distance as reality— but here. He's real, and close enough that Elliott hear his breath catching, can see the crows feet crinkling at the corners of his eyes as they search Elliott's face, as though trying to confirm that he, too, is more than just a figment of Gunther's imagination.

For a long moment, the world around them ceases to exist. There's nothing but the shine of those blue-green eyes, looking at Elliott as if he were a fantasy made real. One gloved hand rises from Elliott's shoulder to stroke his cheek.

" . . . Beloved?" Elliott murmurs in amazement.

"Elliott."

"I— what are you doing here?" Elliott stammers. He's not sure he'll ever be over the shock.

Gunther lets out a soft, incredulous huff of laugher, shaking his head as though he doesn't quite believe this himself. "I might ask you the same question."

Elliott laughs then— a light, breathless sound. "I was running away. I missed my husband."

"It just so happens," Gunther replies, stepping closer, "that I was attempting the same."

The realization settles between them as that scant space grows even smaller, chest to chest now. Elliott is only vaguely registering the sound of someone kicking his suitcase, letting out a quiet swear as they pass.

"It seems we're both equally foolish," Elliott murmurs.

"My Darling, love makes fools of us all," Gunther replies, pressing a kiss to Elliott's forehead.

Elliott grins as Gunther's hands find his waist, turning him with a smooth, effortless motion, and dipping him, as if this were a dance floor, not a busy airport. The world tilts.

Elliott lets out a startled laugh, one hand catching at Gunther's shoulder, the other instinctively clutching at his shirt as his heart leaps into his throat.

"Gunther—!" Elliott protests. But there's no real admonition in it, just more delighted laughter as his head spins. He's dizzy, delirious even.

"Run away with me," Gunther says, still holding Elliott in the dip, his arm beginning to tremble slightly from the effort.

It's absurd, impractical, ill-advised, entirely unreasonable— the list goes on.

"Yes," Elliott replies, without hesitation.

𓂃🖋

The hotel is chosen at random, selected in haste from a list Elliott pulls up on his phone— proximity is the only thing that matters. Even that doesn't matter, in the end, because they're together.

Gunther's brow furrows as he watches Elliott remove his mermaid pendant and slip it into his pocket. In his eyes is a silent question.

Elliott smirks, leaning in so his lips brush the shell of Gunther's ear as he whispers, "We're having a secret affair, remember?"

"Right . . ." Gunther murmurs, winking as he tucks his own pendant into his pearl snap shirt. "Though I can't promise I'll be particularly discrete."

"I'd be disappointed if you were," Elliott replies, playfully curling his fingers over Gunther's belt buckle and giving it a tug.

The receptionist startles them apart, all polite smiles and practiced indifference. Elliott steps forward before Gunther can speak, the role settling over him like a second skin as he leans his elbows on the counter.

"Good evening," he says, a conspiratorial grin spreading across his face. "We'd like a room . . . just for tonight."

He lets the implication linger, secretly delighting in the disapproving look the receptionist gives them before she composes her face into a pleasant mask of customer-service neutrality. An illicit thrill runs through him, tingling from his scalp all the way to his toes. Then the key is placed in his hand, and the pair slips off down the hallway— quick and quiet, like they're actually doing something scandalous.

The room is nothing remarkable, decorated in boring neutrals— tasteful, impersonal, designed for transience— but Elliott feels the shift in the air the moment the latch clicks into place.

He sets his suitcase down with deliberate care, acutely aware of Gunther's attention following his across the room. He draws each movement out just a little longer than necessary, slipping his jacket from his shoulders, smoothing it over the back of the chair, savoring the heat of Gunther's gaze.

Gunther crosses the room in three quick strides, his hands framing Elliott's face as he pulls him into a kiss, a slow and deliberate claiming of everything withheld by time and distance. Elliott exhales into it, his hands finding Gunther's shoulders, anchoring himself there as if he might drift away.

He tilts his head back as Gunther kisses slowly up the column of his throat, sucking his lower lip between his teeth at Gunther's gravelly whisper tickling his ear: "Do you do this often? Disappear . . . run off with strangers in unfamiliar places?"

A slow smile curls Elliott's lips as he plucks the hat from Gunther's head and tosses it behind him. "Only when I'm certain they'll be worth the trouble," he purrs.

Gunther exhales a quiet laugh, one hand gripping Elliott's jaw and tilting his face up to meet his gaze. "That's a dangerous habit."

"And yet," Elliott replies, his voice low and sultry. "You followed me here."

"Tell me," Gunther says, his voice lowering just enough to send a shiver down Elliott's spine, "does your husband know you're here?"

Elliott stills, for a moment forgetting the game that they're playing. Then his smile returns. "I imagine," he says, speaking softly, "he would be quite distressed."

"Distressed?" Gunther echoes, running a thumb along Elliott's bottom lip.

"He worries," Elliott says, slipping some truth into their little roleplay, "About small things. Whether I've eaten, if I'm sleeping enough— if the work is stressing me out too much. He looks at me like I'm a precious artifact to be protected and preserved. He carries my heart with him, even when I'm foolish enough to run off without it."

Gunther falters for a moment, his thumb still idly brushing Elliott's jaw. "He sounds like a good man," he says, finally.

"He is."

"Then he must be out of his mind," Gunther murmurs, "letting you out of his sight."

His words stir up that ache in Elliott's chest again, burning away all pretense and leaving behind that intense yearning that compelled him to abandon his responsibilities in the first place. He lets his head fall against Gunther's chest, wrapping his arms tightly around him.

"I missed you," Elliott says, "I missed you so much it made me crazy." The words feel insufficient— too small to describe the hole that yawned in chest while they were apart. "I mean, Yoba, it's only been a week . . ."

Gunther tugs off his gloves, one hand reaching up to stroke Elliott's hair as the other finds the small of his back. A familiar, comforting gesture that has Elliott melting into the embrace.

"Only a week, and yet . . . I followed you here. You've turned me into lovesick fool," Gunther replies, punctuating his words with a kiss on the crown of Elliott's head.

"I don't want to roleplay anymore," Elliott says, muffled against the fabric of Gunther's shirt. "I want to make love to my husband."

The fragile scaffolding of their game falls apart completely, leaving only what had been beneath it all along, waiting. Gunther's hand stills in his hair, followed by a soft inhale as his grip tightens.

Elliott doesn't remember crossing the space between thought and action, only the way his hands find purchase on the buttons of Gunther's shirt, snapping them open as Gunther's mouth finds his again. The kiss is different from before, slower, deeper, expressing the longing within him that mirrors Elliott's own.

Everything unspools from there. The room, the city, the miles that had stretched so impossibly far between them, fade into irrelevance. There is only love, expressed in tender touches, in kisses, in the gentle, careful way they undress each other. Elliott forgets about the tour— about the phone buzzing in the pocket of his discarded pants, likely full of unread text messages from his panicked publicist.

His startled yelp dissolves into giddy laughter as Gunther scoops him up and lays him down on the bed. For a long moment he just stands there, drinking in the sight of Elliott splayed out on the sheets, and Elliott does the same. Elliott holds out his arms, beckoning Gunther into bed. He doesn't have to ask twice.

Pausing only long enough to fetch the lube from his bag, Gunther climbs into bed, his lips immediately finding Elliott's, hungrier now, but still unhurried, even as he breaks away to trail kisses down Elliott's jaw, his chest, and lower.

Elliott lets out a soft gasp as Gunther glides the flat of his tongue along Elliott's cock from the base to the tip, swirling his tongue over the head before sucking it into his mouth, warm and gentle. It's not the first time, but it's always a most welcome surprise. He's torn between watching and throwing his back against the pillows as heat radiates from Gunther's mouth into his body, simmering low in his belly. When Gunther slips two lubed fingers inside of him, pressing up against his sensitive prostate, he does the latter, a soft, breathy moan escaping his lips.

"Mmm . . . you make such sweet music when I touch you like this," Gunther says, slowly working his fingers in and out in a 'come hither' motion. "I missed this."

Gunther returns to his ministrations, no doubt enjoying the chorus of moans and sighs it elicits from Elliott as the dual sensation from his mouth and fingers sends delicious waves of pleasure through him.

Elliott's hands twist in the sheets, writhing as Gunther brings him to the edge and gently pushes him over it. The orgasm comes in gentle, like the tide, washing over Elliott as Gunther swallows around him and kisses his way back up Elliott's body, his fingers continuing their leisurely motions.

Elliott glides his hands into Gunther's hair, his hips jerking as the pressure starts to build again, whimpering softly as he meets Gunther's eyes.

"Have I ever told you how beautiful you look like this . . ." Gunther murmurs, his voice almost reverent, like he's praying, "Unraveled . . . your face flushed . . ."

If his cheeks burn any hotter, they're going to catch flame, but Elliott holds the eye contact, unable to stop the obscene sounds pouring from his lips as Gunther slips a third finger inside of him, working him open slowly. "Many times," he says, breathless.

Gunther chuckles at that, pressing a soft kiss to Elliott's forehead. "You are always beautiful, but this . . . this is something precious. I almost feel bad, keeping it all to myself."

Elliott lets out another gasp as Gunther slowly enters him, releasing a moan of his own as he sinks all the way inside.

This is bliss. Pure, simple bliss. Elliott's heart might burst. He's so overcome with emotions he can't put into words that tears roll down his cheeks, and he only realizes it when Gunther stops thrusting, concern knitting his brows as he gazes down at him.

"I love every side of you, Elliott . . . the accomplished author the world sees, and the loving, sensitive man who sleeps next to me," Gunther says as his hips begin to move, the mermaid pendant around his neck swinging between them, "No matter how far you roam, you will always carry my heart with you. And wherever you go, I will follow."

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing. Nothing whatsoever," Elliot says, his voice wavering. "I just . . . I'm so happy. I'm so in love. And I can't . . . I can't contain it." It's an inelegant way to put it, falling short of how he feels in so many ways. But he doesn't need to say it right for his husband to understand the intent, because this is his home, wrapped securely in Gunther's arms.

Gunther's hips begin to rock into him again, the combination of Gunther's cock filling him and the adoration in his gaze, in Gunther's lips peppering his face with kisses is nearly overwhelming. His second orgasm of the night is more like a tidal wave, his cries of pleasure mixing with the tears still falling from his eyes.

𓂃🖋

Elliott lies half-draped over Gunther, his head resting over his husband's heart, listening to its steady rhythm. One of Gunther's hands moves idly through his hair, fingertips brushing against his scalp in a way that sends pleasant, warm tingles through him.

The world feels perfectly aligned, as though something that had slipped out of place has been carefully, gently set right again.

Distantly, he hears his phone buzzing against the floor, still sitting in the pocket of his pants. It's probably Diane, wondering where he's gone off to. He sighs as the insistent buzzing reminds him of everything he ran away from— responsibilities, expectations, the version of himself that exists outside of this room.

"It can wait," he murmurs, waving a dismissive hand in the general direction of the phone.

"You know," Gunther says, "your husband just might be the luckiest man alive."

Elliott laughs at the cheeky reminder of their game— the one they quickly abandoned. "Are you sure?" he asks. "I thought I was the luckiest man alive."

"I don't know," Gunther says, chuckling. "Judging by the sound, you might be in for a world of trouble when your publicist finds you."

"That, Beloved, is a problem for tomorrow Elliott," he says, giving Gunther a squeeze. "Hmm . . . I should probably at least text her, so she knows I'm not lying in a ditch somewhere."

"That would be wise," Gunther agrees.

"But after that, I'm going to fall asleep in your arms. Perhaps for a century."

"I've got the time," Gunther replies, an amused smile twitching at the corners of his mouth. "I'll give you forever, if you want it."

"Of course, Beloved. Always."