Quentin blinks. "A protein shake."
"He'd written 'Be My Gainz' on it. It was chocolate-flavored because he thought that made it romantic." She shrugs, her braids swaying with the movement. My attention shifts to the soft clacks of the beads before I realize what she just said.
I blink a few times and refocus on her face. "I'm sorry, what?"
"I threw it away. Seemed simpler than trying to explain why it wasn't going to work."
The words come out before I can stop them. "You're incredible. Has anyone told you that?"
Something in her expression softens. "Not recently. And not like that."
"Well, you are. Incredible, I mean." I glance at Quentin, whose scent has sharpened again. His eyes are fixed on the spot whereChad is still ranting to Kevin. "Also, we should probably leave before Q commits a crime."
"I'm not going to—"
"Your scent says otherwise."
Iris laughs, just shaking her head. "Let's go. I'm curious what a four-thousand-dollar date looks like." I grimace, trying not to remember that we just spent that kind of money. Iris nudges my shoulder. “Lighten up. That money is going to equipment upgrades which you will directly benefit from.”
That makes me feel marginally better.
iris
TheCrimsonVineisthe kind of restaurant that tries a little too hard with its dark wood and candle-cluttered tables, but the booth we're tucked into feels private enough that I don't mind. A wine rack separates us from the rest of the dining room, and the noise of other conversations blurs into a low hum which makes it easy to ignore. My wine glass is half-empty. The bread basket is demolished. And Milo Vark has not stopped talking since we sat down.
He's telling me about the time he accidentally kicked a football into the marching band's tuba section, his hands carving shapes in the air as he narrates, his hazel eyes wide with the drama of his own story. Quentin is on the other side of the booth with his menu closed and his water glass already half-empty, watching his brother perform with an expression that suggests he's heard this one before and has chosen to endure it.
"The tuba player just stood there," Milo continues, gesturing with his bread roll for emphasis. "Didn't flinch. Didn't blink. The ball bounced off the bell of his instrument and he kept playing like nothing happened. I think about that man every single day. He's my hero."
My cheeks ache from smiling. "Did you apologize?"
"Profusely. Multiple times. I wrote him a card. He never responded, which honestly just made me respect him more."
A laugh falls from my lips as my gaze drifts to his brother. The Beta hasn't said much since we ordered. His attention moves between Milo and me, like he's cataloguing the conversation rather than just listening to it. When the server came by to ask about wine, Milo turned to Quentin without hesitating, a reflex so natural I don't think either of them registered it. Quentin ordered a Pinot Noir with the confidence of someone who'd already decided, and Milo went back to his story about the tuba player without missing a beat.
Despite being twins, they couldn’t be more different. The way Milo defers to his brother on certain things. The way Quentin accepts it without comment, like it's simply how they operate. There's a language between them that I'm only catching fragments of, and I find myself wanting to learn the rest. Most twins are the same designation and yet, in a strange way, Milo and Quentin fit better together than most twins I’ve met.
Quentin catches me looking at him. His eyes hold mine for a beat longer than casual, the Beta watching my mouth when I talk rather than my eyes. Most people look away when they realize I've noticed them staring. He doesn't. He just takes a slow drink of his wine, his gaze locked on my face, and the directness of it sends a warm pulse through my stomach.
"So." Milo tears his bread roll in half and dunks one piece into the olive oil on his plate. "Math and art. Double major. How doesthat work? Because in my head those are opposite ends of the universe."
I get this question a lot, usually from people who are already bored by the time I start answering. Advisors who think I'm being impractical. Teammates who smile politely and change the subject. My father, who supports everything I do but has never quite understood why I need both.
"They're not opposites," I say, turning my wine glass by the stem. "Math is structure. Rules, patterns, frameworks. It's the skeleton of how things work." I pause, considering the best way to explain something I've never been good at putting into words. "Art is what you build inside that structure. The choices you make when the rules give you room to move. I need both. The structure without the art feels sterile, and the art without the structure falls apart."
Milo nods like I've just explained something profound, his bread forgotten in his hand. "That's beautiful. Q, isn't that beautiful?"
I expect Quentin to deflect or brush past it the way he does with most of Milo's commentary. Instead, he leans forward, his forearms resting on the table, and I realize he's been listening with his full attention. Not the polite performance of interest that I've gotten used to from people. Genuine focus, the kind that makes the space between us feel smaller.
"The structure gives the art permission to exist," he says quietly. "Is that what you mean?"
My breath catches in my throat. "Yes. That's exactly what I mean."
Something shifts behind his eyes, a flicker of surprise that he doesn't bother hiding. Most people glaze over when I try to explain the connection between my two majors. They nod politely, ask if I plan to teach, and move on. Quentin justarticulated it better than I've managed to in two years of trying, and he did it like it was obvious.
The main course arrives, and the conversation loosens from there. Milo asks about my art, and I tell him about the canvas I can't seem to finish, an abstract piece in teals and golds that keeps shifting every time I sit down with it. He leans forward on his elbows, bread crumbs on his blazer, genuinely invested in the problem of a painting he's never seen.
"Maybe it's not done because you're not done," he says, like that's a perfectly normal thing to offer.
