He’s genuinely brilliant at this.
Brilliant in a way that has nothing to do with his IQ and everything to do with who he is as a person.
This is Archie. The full, unedited, undiminished version. The version that makes a room full of six-year-olds believe in magic. The version that knows everything about Renaissance painters and overstuffed walruses and can turn a pair of crutches into comedy props. The version that lights up every room he walks into.
The version that lights up every room I walk into.
A little girl tugs on my inflatable sleeve. “Sergeant Twinkle, are you Commander Giggles’s best friend?”
“Yes,” I say before I can think about it.
“You’re lucky,” she informs me solemnly. “He’s the best.”
Yeah. He really is.
After the magic show, it’s the balloon-animal segment. I’m now competent enough to handle the basic requests.
“You’ve actually gotten good at those,” Archie says, watching me twist a passable butterfly for a girl who asked very politely.
“I had a good teacher.”
“You had a persistent teacher. There’s a difference.”
“There really isn’t.”
He grins, and it does something to my chest. As usual.
Then he turns to greet the next child with that smile still on his face.
And something shifts inside me.
I love the constant push-pull between us. I love the way he challenges me, the way he makes me laugh even when I’m trying not to. I love the way his brain works. I love the way he cares about these kids. I love how he brings out a version of myself I didn’t know existed.
I love…
Oh holy fuck.
My brain stutters to a halt.
I’m staring at Archie, dressed in his Commander Giggles outfit, balanced on his stool with a half-twisted balloon giraffe in his hands, explaining to a very serious five-year-old why giraffes don’t exist in space.
Oh my fucking god. Shit. Jesus Christ.
I’m in love with him.
This isn’t just attraction or desire or amusement or even plain oldlike.
I’m in love.
I’ve never been in love with someone, but I can’t deny that’s exactly what it is. That ache in my chest when he laughs. The waythe world rearranges itself around him whenever he walks into a room. The way I’d do anything, wear any costume, dance any dance, make any ridiculous sound, just to see him smile.
I knew I was fascinated with him, intoxicated in his presence.
But I didn’t realize I’d crossed the line from fascination into something that’s so much bigger that I can’t see the edges of it.
“Leo?” Archie’s looking at me, head tilted. “You’ve gone weird. Weirder than usual, I mean.”
“I’m fine,” I say.
