“What,” I said.
“Nothing.” He lifted his head. His eyes were bright and wet with it. “Nothing, just.” He gestured vaguely at the three of us, at the kitchen, at the eggs congealing on the counter. “Look at the state of this.”
Dmitri sat up from the floor with the particular dignity of a man who refused to acknowledge that he'd just been on a kitchen floor. He reached for his abandoned coffee mug, took a long and measured drink, and considered the middle distance.
“Is good kitchen,” he said finally.
Troy dissolved entirely.
I looked at Dmitri. Dmitri looked at me over the rim of his coffee mug with an expression of complete serenity. I felt something crack open in my chest that had nothing to do with want and everything to do with the absurdity of standing half-naked in my own kitchen at nine in the morning covered in evidence of the last hour.
I started laughing too.
Troy pointed at me immediately. “Don't. Don't you dare. You started this.”
“You were wearing lace at the stove.”
“You bought me the lace.”
“That's—” I stopped. “That's a fair point actually.”
“Thank you.” Troy pushed himself upright from the table with considerably less grace than usual, the stockings sliding down his calves, and caught sight of himself in the dark reflection of the microwave. He stared at his own reflection for a full three seconds. “I look absolutely destroyed.”
“Da,” Dmitri confirmed without unkindness.
“You could have lied.”
“I am not a liar.” Dmitri set his mug down and glanced at Troy with warmth underneath the composure. “You look very good destroyed. This is compliment.”
Troy opened his mouth, closed it, and pointed at Dmitri the way you point at someone who has said something you refuse to dignify but can't actually argue with.
Dmitri picked his boxer briefs up from the floor and stepped into them with complete equanimity. He looked around thekitchen at the various evidence of the morning, the overturned lube cap on the table, the apron on the floor, and Troy's lace underwear still somewhere near the chair leg.
“You have nice home,” he said to me with perfect sincerity.
“Thank you,” I said, because what else do you say.
Troy made a sound that was half laugh and half something else. He reached for the apron from the floor, shaking it out, and found a smear across the front of it that made him hold it at arm's length.
“The apron is a casualty,” he announced.
“I'll get another one.”
“You'll get another one.” He dropped it in the sink. “Very blasé about the apron situation.”
“I'm very blasé about most situations now. You've recalibrated me.”
Troy looked at me for a moment with something behind his eyes that was warmer than the laugh and softer than everything that had come before it, and then he glanced over at the plate of eggs on the counter.
“Breakfast is cold now,” he said.
“I can make more.” I grabbed the apron and handed it to him. “You two sit. I'll cook.”
“You are cooking? After that?” Dmitri raised an eyebrow. “You are very domestic, Declan.”
“Someone has to feed you.” I started pulling ingredients out of the fridge. “Besides, all of us just came. Least I can do is make sure you eat.”
Troy pulled the apron on and sat at the table with Dmitri. They both watched me cook with expressions that were entirely too smug.
