Not Time’s Fool

📅 Late Spring of 2020

Life in lockdown had been difficult for Anarchy to adjust to, there was no doubt about that: He missed the gym, missed early-morning jogs that didn’t involve a face mask and swerving six feet around strangers in order to pass them. He missed playing shows and a consistent work schedule and seeing the rest of his friends. But even with all of that...he couldn’t pretend that having more time with Chey didn’t feel explicitly wonderful. In theory, getting stuck together 24/7 was meant to make people pricklier—but Anarchy just wasn’t seeing it. He felt close as ever to Chey, their hours and days spent side-by-side ringing through as a healthier, happier re-take of the past: Bodies pressed together as then, but uninterrupted by use and on the couch, on a bed; all of it for love and not for warmth or protection. And they were clean; holy shit, they were both clean. For real. Chey had come off of methadone when lockdown started and pushed through the initial withdrawal; quickly found his way back to ‘upbeat’ and had been able to stay a solid support for Kohao through all the hell in his head and history.
Pride wasn’t a strong enough word for what Anarchy felt: It just seemed like Chey kept giving him reasons to fall deeper in love. 

Kohao, thankfully, seemed to be returning to stability, now, too—or as close to stability as was normal for him. His sarcasm’s comeback was welcome; for a few days he’d been too fragile to even be biting and it had worried Anarchy to no end. It was a cause for relief that things were good enough again that Kohao could offer to make the bi-weekly grocery run while rolling his eyes at the pair on the couch, with a sarcastic quip about it being worth risking covid just to escape the PDA for thirty minutes. Their position was unchanged when he returned, though Anarchy and Chey both started to sit up when they heard the door open.
“D’you need any help, K-O?” they ended up asking in complete unison.
Kohao pulled his face mask down and quirked a faintly amused eyebrow. 
“I’m fine, I’ve got it,” he said, hefting one of the shopping bags higher on his shoulder and crossing easily to the kitchen.
“If you’re sure…” Chey and Anarchy responded, again exactly at the same time. They’d started to relax back into the couch at the same rate, too. Chey giggled at the synchronicity. 
“Mm, gross. It’s like you’re already married,” Kohao dryly drawled, rolling his eyes.
“Thank you,” Chey laughed, “D’you wanna sit with us when you’re done in there? We’re watching The Witcher.”

Kohao must have answered in the negative, but Anarchy didn’t hear him: He was too busy staring down at Chey’s left hand, clasped overtop of his own. “It’s like you’re already married.” 
Married. Marriage. 
We...we could do that, Anarchy thought to himself. He imagined Chey’s hand glittering with an engagement ring, imagined saying ‘my fiancé’ when talking about him. Holy shit. We could do that.
His mind abuzz, Anarchy ended up totally missing the majority of the final three episodes of The Witcher, unable to focus on whatever the fuck Geralt or Yennefer were doing because Holy fuck, marriage exists.
Would Chey want to get married, though? Like, for real? Anarchy wondered. He’d said thank you to Kohao… 
Anarchy fussed internally to himself: They’d been dating-dating for under two years, was that too short?
Well, even if it was, they’d been basically dating-without-dating for longer. So maybe it doesn’t matter.
And Chey said he’d been in love since he was thirteen; that had to count for something…

Anarchy was still caught up in an anxious back-and-forth with himself he couldn’t quite wrangle when Chey went to take his evening shower, and Anarchy took the chance to pull Kohao aside.
“K...Do you think if I asked Chey to marry me he’d say yes?” Anarchy asked, because in the end that was the question that all the others led back to.
“Of fucking course.” Kohao’s answer was so certain and immediate that it took Anarchy by surprise; he blinked a couple times, somewhat speechless. Kohao just raised an eyebrow, looking confused as to why he was even being consulted.
“Have you seen the way he looks at you?” he asked, “The way he’s looked at you since day fucking one? I called it the morning after I fuckin’ met him, ‘Key.”
Anarchy felt flustered and ran his fingers through his hair.
“I...yeah, maybe. I’m...I’m gonna ask his sister what she thinks, too, though. Shit...I don’t know fucking anything about this.”

Alaska seemed a far more serious confidante than Kohao, and it took a couple days of wallowing in his own love and certainty for Anarchy to pluck up the courage to call her. His morning jog was the most privacy he could be certain to afford, so he dialed her number from a bench beside the reservoir, pulling down his mask and keeping his fingers crossed that 6:40am wasn’t so early a time he’d be risking an earful. 
“Anarchy, good morning! To what do I owe the pleasure?” Alaska asked upon picking up, unperturbed and aristocratic as ever; “Is everything alright with you? With Kaspar?”
Anarchy felt almost startled.
“Yeah, ‘Las, no, we’re fine—sorry it’s so early. Um. I was actually calling because, er. You and Chey are close and I was...I wanted your opinion, uh, and you can't tip him off. But…” Anarchy kept stuttering, struggling to scrape together his words and nerves alike. “...Do you think—If...If I asked him to marry me, do you think Chey’d say yes?” 
“Absolutely; no doubt. Are you planning on proposing, Anarchy Keystone?” Alaska’s delighted smile was audible in her tone, and Anarchy felt his own lips upturning at its sound.
“I mean...I don’t have a ring yet,” he said slowly, taking in her response and all its confidence. “...But I think that’s about all that’s in my way now.”

Anarchy felt like finding a ring should have been the simple part, but it ended up spinning his head. He thought he knew the formula: Gold band, big-ass diamond. But Google was quick to plunge him in over his head with the indecipherable concepts of D-Z grades, of different cuts, of the ‘setting style.’
“Chey would agree to marry you if you offered him a fucking Sour Cherry Ring-Pop,” Kohao drawled from over Anarchy’s shoulder one evening, having apparently tired of peeping an endless stream of “How To Choose The Right Ring For Her” guides—but even if he was right, Anarchy went again in search of less sarcastic advice.
“I don’t know, Athena,” he found himself sighing through the phone a couple afternoons later, scrolling through Brilliant Earth’s catalogue and nursing half a headache; “Alaska said that she liked emerald cuts the most, but Chey wears so much heart-shaped shit. What do you think? ...God, what the fuck does ‘VS2 clarity’ even mean...”
“I think I have no fuckin’ clue,” Athena replied. “Why are you so set on diamonds, though? Aren’t they expensive as shit?”
“And what about Chey?” Teagan interjected, “Would he even want a diamond?”
“Uh...I don’t know.” Anarchy furrowed his brow. “He likes sparkly things.”
Anarchy heard Athena muffle a snort, and Teagan failed to silence her own soft sigh.
“Well, what does he usually wear?” she asked patiently.
“Uhhh…”

Anarchy endeavored to find out, deciding the best course to take would be to just start asking about the stones that studded Chey’s ever-present jewelry. One day, Chey wandered out into the living room sporting one of his many crop-tops; a sparkling, dangly belly button ring drawing attention to his bare midriff. 
“What is that?” Anarchy asked, pointing. Chey looked down.
“A...a belly button ring.”
“No, like...the gemstones on it,” Anarchy clarified awkwardly.
“Uh, I’m not sure,” Chey said, still looking down at his jewelry. “Probably glass? Or cubic zirconium? And the main one’s synthetic opal or whatever.” He laughed and quirked an eyebrow. “Why d’you keep asking about my jewelry?”
Anarchy floundered. He supposed he should have expected it all to seem odd; he’d never shown any particular interest before. Thankfully, Kohao was apparently unable to bear the awkward incompetence of the scene unfolding in front of him, and turned around in his counter stool to give Chey’s navel ring an impassive glance.
“Mm. Probably checking to see if it’s worth pawning now that y’all don’t want me to cam,” he said, sounding almost bored. “Synthetic opal, though, huh? Opal your favorite, or just cheap to fake?”
Chey glanced down again briefly, then offered a shrugged smile.
“It’s one of my birth stones, actually! And cheap enough to fake. But no, my favorite is actually moonstone...it’s a lot like opal but comes a little bluer sometimes.” Chey threw an unabashedly saccharine smile in Anarchy’s direction. “Then it looks like the sky the day I met you, to me. Out in the desert.” He looked back to Kohao and tilted his head. “That’s my favorite. How about you? What’s your favorite gemstone?”
“The Hope Diamond specifically because it’s fucking cursed.”
Chey laughed, hard, as always—and Kohao took the chance to mouth “You’re welcome, idiot” across the room at Anarchy, who inclined his head and gave a grateful thumbs-up.
Alright. ‘Moonstone.’

From there, it wasn’t even that difficult. He was barely into the second page of an Etsy search for ‘moonstone engagement ring’ when Anarchy felt almost certain the stars had aligned to take him to the right listing. It was perfect: A moonstone setting, blue-purple and opalescent, affixed to two braided gold bands; one plain, one an ‘eternity ring’ and studded all the way around with small white gems. It came with a smaller, pointed ‘halo’ ring; a crown of white jewels for the moonstone. It was dazzling. Anarchy sent a screenshot to Alaska for confirmation, and it wasn’t more than two minutes before her name popped up on his ringing phone.
“So what d’you think?” he asked in lieu of a greeting, too anxious for her opinion to worry about pleasantries.
“I think that aside from when I first met you, Anarchy Keystone, I’ve never seen something more perfect for my brother,” Alaska beamed; “...Truly, Anarchy, he’s going to love it. And…” She paused and Anarchy thought he heard her let out the smallest of sighs. “...Thank you for letting me in on this, no matter how little you needed my assistance. In comparison to where Kaspar was four years ago…? You don’t know how wonderful it is for me to watch this all unfold.”

The ring shipped faster than Anarchy thought it would, and he ended up having to hide both it and the fact that he was attempting to draft a proposal. He knew he couldn’t and shouldn’t script everything, but there were words he wanted to make sure he said, said well, and he wanted to know those, at least, by heart. Somehow he managed it; stealing scattered moments to write and running drafts by Kohao, and he found himself feeling ‘ready’ far earlier than he expected to...Especially considering that he’d only just cottoned on to the concept of engagement so recently. But he’d gotten there—or maybe he’d found himself where he’d ended up before, and had been ‘ready’ before he’d even known and had only needed to prepare. Because God, it was Chey, it was Chey, it was all for Chey: Of course he was ready. 

Despite the unusual circumstances, Anarchy thought about still trying to make a total fairytale out of it—go up the street to Highland Park or drive south to the water and take to one knee there—but everyone was meant to wear masks outside and it just didn’t seem to quite be ‘them,’ anyway, and they had BLM protests to attend. So he kept the ring on him just in case, and instead found the right moment to be one with them out on their own balcony, sharing drinks in the early evening light of the late-setting sun. A warm, intermittent breeze had kicked up; a lull in ambulance traffic allowed them to hear the gentle music playing from a neighbor’s open window. A couple blocks in the distance, a train trundled westward along the elevated J-line tracks, and Anarchy nodded towards it.
“August’s coming up in a couple months,” he said softly. “It’ll be twelve years since you and I met, then. Can you believe it?”
Chey paused the mellow, swaying half-dance he’d been doing to their neighbor’s music and gazed out over the city, his cheeks tinted pink by some combination of near-summer heat and hard lemonade. 
“...No, I can’t; it feels so much shorter than that. We’re going to be old soon.” He laughed and leaned back against the balcony railing, his shimmery eyeshadow and swinging star-charmed jewelry catching the sunset’s light. He seemed a constellation of shooting stars, waiting to be wished upon. 
“...I don’t mind the idea of getting old with you,” Anarchy said softly. Even to his own ear his voice was lower than usual, more serious, and Chey blinked at him; attuned as always. 
“...I’m not as good with words as you are and I’m never gonna be,” Anarchy continued, “But almost twelve years ago, across the country from here, I met you. As Anthony.” He self-consciously slipped a hand into his pocket. 
“Before you came into my life, I didn’t know my real name. I didn’t know myself at all; I had no idea what I really stood for, then, aside from my own survival. We went through hell together—and apart—and I denied who I was for a long time in a lot of ways. But it’s always been you that’s led me back to myself; to where I stand and what for. Even when we were separated...remembering your smile and that promise of spring flowers...just kept bringing me back towards ‘love.’ Towards ‘hope.’” Anarchy stepped closer, cupping the ring box in one hand. 
“...Two years ago, just days after I finally got you back, you told me you’d stay for as long as I wanted you to. It seemed too early to ask for forever then, but I remember thinking it: Knowing that I’m not myself without you; life isn’t life without you, and I’d want you with me for forever. So…” Anarchy took to one knee; Chey’s eyes went wide and he brought his hands to his mouth as Anarchy opened the box towards him. “...Will you marry me?”

“Yes,” Chey gasped from behind his hands, his awestruck smile revealed when he reached out to cup Anarchy’s face as he stood, “Yes, yes, of course I’ll marry you, I—” He stuttered, at a rare loss for words; then, speechless, ended up just throwing his arms around Anarchy’s neck and pulling him into a kiss that said it all. Chey kept laughing ‘I love you’s into it and then meeting Anarchy’s lips again, and Anarchy lifted him up on instinct, smiling too. It all felt stupidly perfect in that saturated sunlight; kissing and smiling and laughing and putting Chey back down so he could slip the ring onto his finger.
“God, ‘Key, it’s beautiful. It’s perfect,” he said, tilting his hand and watching it sparkle.
“Had to be, seeing as it’s for you.”
Chey grinned, ignoring the joyful tears that had welled up in his eyes, and pulled Anarchy into another kiss that melted into a lingering, tight-held embrace.

When they eventually stepped apart, Kohao had ventured from his previous station in the living room and was leaning in the open balcony doorway; his lips curled up into his signature smirk but his eyes unmistakably kind. He waved his phone.
“So you sprung that on me as fuck too, ‘Key, but luckily I looked up from Reddit in time to get some pictures. I’ll have to call Storm and ask what the usual price is for engagement photography so I know how much to take outta your wallet,” he said, his typical sarcastic drawl tracing the edges of his tone. He clinked his glass of whiskey to each of the bottles on the outdoor table—Anarchy’s forgotten beer and Chey’s all-but-empty hard lemonade—but when he raised his glass towards them his expression softened and all sarcasm vanished, leaving the smile he offered with his toast gentle and genuine:
“Congratulations, you two.”