“I know.Know you wouldn’t do that to me.”
How could he, when Antonio needed him?Leave him to be alone in his grief, with no one to hold on to, to hurt with?Declan knew what that felt like.
“Never.”As close to a promise as he could make it.Declan settled closer, slowly coming back to himself, sagging against Antonio’s chest.“When I ran about more, we’d raise a glass.Would that still be appropriate?”
Eleven in the morning, but they had a maximum of three minutes before Antonio was struck with another vision.They’d made promises to one another about moments like this.
“Fuck.Yeah.Like to be on my way to drunk before that hits again.”
As they moved apart, Declan drew Antonio’s face down and kissed the drying salt from his cheeks.Antonio shuddered, eyes closing.Bittersweet relief and grief, all of it a messy, human tangle.And still, he wanted Declan near, as if Declan were the safety he needed.
“Wasted when things are shit, as promised.Our own Irish wake.Sit with me?”
Antonio all but collapsed onto the loveseat by way of response, dragging Declan down to him.Declan curled against him, Antonio’s arm a heavy, comfortable weight over his shoulders.
On the small living room table in front of them, snacks filched from the pantry appeared where they’d not been before.Easy manifestations.Less so, the handful of bottles and glasses that appeared with them.Bushmills whiskey among them.A favorite wake drink of his mad lads, long dead.
It still ached, some.
“You come with perks, Murderpunk.Not just a hot piece of ass.”Careful teasing, offered with a hesitant smile.
“It can’t all be portents and clandestine meetings.”
Declan wasted no time in pouring whiskey into a set of mismatched cups.Supposedly it was a sipping sort, but Declan had never been in a situation where there was the chance or inclination to take his time.This, passing it to a grieving companion, then clutching his own close, was what lived in his memories.
“You wanna hear about him?”Antonio asked.He lifted his glass toward Declan’s.“Can’t go to the funeral.Too many old friends.”
“It wouldn’t be a proper wake without a story or two,” Declan replied, gently clinking their cups together.“I’d like that.”
They drank.Declan closed his eyes, just for a moment, with the slow, smooth slide over his tongue, and a familiar, comfortable heat no fae spirits could hope to recreate.
Thirty seconds left.
“I stole his car,” Antonio smiled as he said it.“This souped-up Camaro.Cherry red.Beautiful fucking beast.Sounded like a damned dragon when he raced her.Purred like a kitten if you treated her right.Fuck, he loved that car.Nearly killed me for taking her out.But I hadn’t put a scratch on his baby, so we got drunk instead.”
Antonio closed his eyes, head tipped back.Still that faint curl of his lips.“I was seventeen.Reece was, I don’t know, twenty?Turned out, he knew a lot more about boosting cars than I did.”
Stealing cars and racing, drunk over a joyride in a red classic.A story that failed to falter into silent stillness.Nothing cut off or stuttered, Antonio not gone rigid as he witnessed again.
It had been more than ten minutes.
Sluaghs tracked time.Theyknewthe space between visions, once triggered.And Declan, who doubted so many things about himself, knew better than to second guess that.
“Did he race often?”
Antonio pulled him in a little tighter, tapping an irregular beat against his arm.It felt good, just sitting like this.Perhaps it shouldn’t, but it did.
“Some.His girl had the engine, but he didn’t have the head for it.Jumpy’s not good for racing.Takes a cold bastard to win.”Antonio let out a quiet sigh and hooked his foot around Declan’s ankle.“He told me once he was gonna move out to the desert.Somewhere he could justgo.Didn’t like being fenced in.Same as me.Same reasons.Guess he’ll never get to it.”
That swell of grief again.Of loss.Mourninginstead of the tidal pull of a vision.
Declan hugged Antonio around the waist, swallowing hard.Seventeen.Nearly half Antonio’s life.Only a handful of years after his abandonment.Voids.
“It’s always the interesting ones that want to go to the desert and drive,” Declan said, cheek to Antonio’s chest.“You’ll never hear a boring person talk about it.”
“Interesting’s one way to put it, yeah.”Suchfondnessthere.
Twelve minutesandnothing.Impossible.Stupid to hope, but Antonio was a Hollow.Magic acted strangely around them.
