The Time is Here At Last

📅 Late August, 2018

Normalcy. That’s what life felt like to Anarchy, now. Everything right, everything unfolding out into how it was meant to be; even if there was some uncertainty to the slow reconnection with Nightshrike, their faces were familiar and having them back in the picture felt like the world righting itself. Summer had blurred by, hot and bright and easy, and as the dog days dwindled the band began to work on music again; because Kato couldn’t stand not working on an album, and had more lyrics written than they could ever hope to record, and they could finally do synthwork on this one—because Chey was here.
Chey was here.
Yeah, there was that, too. Chey was back and that was normalcy; that was everything being right: Chey, walking home from band practice at Anarchy’s side, smiling.
They arrived home to an ordinary evening like so many that had come before it: Kato was out, still, and Anarchy and Chey stood in the kitchen, just talking, when Chey laughed—laughed like he always did; toothy and without inhibition. What was different was what Anarchy noticed the split second after, where—just for a heartbeat—Chey’s eyes flitted down to Anarchy’s lips before he made eye contact again. Anarchy hadn't quite realized the past six months or so had been building up in that direction until that moment, but suddenly everything fell into place; a million unquestioned puzzle pieces fit themselves together and began to make sense: The way his and Chey’s touch lingered, the way they always seemed to meet one another’s eyes at the same time, the way they always stood so close... 

Anarchy’s breath caught in his throat with realization and there was a split second where time seemed to stop or stutter as his viewpoint spun, splintered, shifted and settled. The moment passed; Chey’s eyes were on his again and Chey didn’t know he knew—but even as Anarchy oriented himself and carried on his end of the conversation as though nothing had happened, his mind was racing. He didn’t understand how he hadn’t figured it out before; what with the teasing banter and constant closeness; how often they smiled or laughed around each other; the fact that he and Chey often stood so near one another that their shoulders touched or it was just mere millimeters which kept them apart. The way that Chey’s occasional visits at night in response to nightmares had become more and more frequent, had started to become preemptive, had always—always—been welcome. 
It was that way tonight—the evening wore on and they both headed to Anarchy’s room unprompted—and maybe that was the most damning evidence: At some point they’d started going to bed together and decided that it was normal. Platonic.

God, I’m a moron, Anarchy thought to himself. It was true that they’d slept beside one another as kids, and if had been more than best-friendship then, Anarchy hadn’t known; there had been too much going on around them both. But he’d let ‘friendship’ stay the label when Chey came back and they slipped back into what they had before, with constant touch and nights beside one another. 
Or maybe ‘let’ was the wrong word, but he hadn’t realized he was forcing himself into seeing his feelings as something other than what they were. It was as though figuring out that Chey felt the same broke the self-protective barrier in Anarchy’s head or heart; that subconscious I-don't-feel-that-way-because-he-certainly-doesn't. But he did. They both did.

The air felt charged to Anarchy as he stepped into the room after Chey; the blue light of evening had come through the doorway and softened the edges of the bedroom, and thoughts and impulses seemed to have more weight to them—to become something more meaningful once the threshold was crossed. If Chey could feel it too then he wasn’t letting on, and Anarchy wondered how long he’d been living in this liminal emotion without addressing it, in the grey area between friends and lovers. Anarchy wondered if he should be nervous about breaking the silence.
“...Cheyenne.”

Anarchy had seemed slightly distracted that evening. Chey had noticed, but chalked it up to tiredness. After all, starting on making an album was difficult: There was writing to be done, chords to be found, Kato’s aggressive lyrical work to contend with. Who wouldn’t be distracted? A little absent? Chey knew he tended to worry just a little too much about Anarchy, and had patiently internally reasoned with himself: He’s alright. Chill. 
But suddenly things were decidedly not chill; the air was electrified and something had either shattered or shifted and Chey didn’t know which.
‘Cheyenne.’ 

Anarchy didn’t call him that. Not anymore, not casually. A few times when they first met, before they’d made it to New York City, before it had been replaced by ‘Chey’ and ‘Kas’. So rarely after that, and almost always fraught: There was the time a few months ago when Anarchy learned about the suicide attempts in the aftermath of their seperation; then another all the way back when they were sixteen and Chey had returned to the squat with that deep cut on his neck—the memory of that desperate, terrified “Cheyenne—!” still stole the breath from his lungs. But this one was different: It was calm, easy, halfway to a prompt or a question but didn’t have enough inflection. Chey turned around to face Anarchy, trying not to look too startled.
Anarchy’s smile was relaxed and Mona-Lisa-eque; his eyes were gentle. He stepped forward.
“...We’re not just friends, are we?” he said, tilting his head to the side, “...We’ve been pretending we are. But we’re...more than that.”
Oh. Chey felt a pleased blush rise in his cheeks and couldn’t resist the shy smile that tugged at his lips. He ducked his head near-nervously and felt silly about it.
“...Yeah,” he said, “I think we might’ve been doing a shit job at pretending, though. I have, at least.” 

A kind of comfortable awkwardness began to settle in, oxymoron though it was; that nameless feeling in the air of uncertainty-becoming-optimism, of I-hope-this-is-right-because-it-feels-right-to-me; of something like clumsy teenage love, despite them both being in their twenties.
“It had me fooled for a bit,” Anarchy half-laughed, moving closer, “but I got pretty good at living in denial about a whole lot over the years, so...maybe that’s not saying much. How long has it been like this?”
“For me?” Chey asked, glancing back up. His heart rose in his chest—as it always had—at the sight of Anarchy’s smile; he couldn’t keep himself from reaching out when Anarchy took that final step to stand directly in front of him. “...Since I was thirteen,” he breathed, “When we were carving our names into boxcars.”

Anarchy whispered some inaudible, touched acknowledgement; his hands found Chey’s waist. Chey brought his own fingertips up half-consciously to brush Anarchy’s cheek and traced two fingers, feather-light, along the familiar scar they found there.
It was the constant, the one thing unchanged; Anarchy was three inches taller than Chey, now—he’d still been shorter when they’d gotten separated—and he was strong, now, too: Muscle had replaced the scarily defined chest bones and the pronounced ribcage of a hungry, craving youth. His hair was short and well-kept, not the overgrown mop he’d had on the streets. And now, looking softly at Chey in the cool evening light, his eyes were gentle and hopeful instead of cynical and half-empty. Chey felt like he was breathing air again for the first time in forever and lightly cupped Anarchy’s face; fingertips at his jawline, stubble rough against Chey’s palm. Time had seemed to slow for them.
“‘Key…” Chey breathed, less than a whisper, “can I…?” 

“...Yeah,” Anarchy murmured back. They were already so close, it was easy for Anarchy to meet Chey halfway; to tangle one hand in his long black hair as they kissed. Anarchy hadn’t necessarily dedicated a lot of time to the thought of kissing his best friend, but Chey still surprised him. Anarchy would have expected him to kiss the way he spoke; fast and messy and a little too much, six steps ahead of himself. But that wasn’t it at all: Their mouths fit together perfectly, moved in tandem without communication. Chey kissed gently and meaningfully and Anarchy couldn’t help but fall into it. The hand that had cupped his face dropped to the crook of his neck, the gentle pressure of Chey’s fingertips on his spine pulling him closer.
It was easy, so easy. Chey was safety and had always been, through everything, and his lips tasted like that truth: ‘We made it, we made it, we made it.’ 
They had, and Anarchy could feel it against his chest, in his hands: He wasn’t the weak, messy kid he had been before; he was strong and capable and could protect them both, now, if he had to. And Chey...Chey was different, too. Still thin, yeah, Anarchy could feel his shoulder blades—but his cheeks weren’t hollow the way they’d been. His hair was shiny and full; not dull, not falling out. And his laughter was back, and his smile, too; that real one which had always seemed too wide for his face. They’d made it. Anarchy’s heart swelled with emotion and he pulled back from the kiss, still holding Chey close; their foreheads pressed together.
“I’m not ready to come out yet,” Anarchy said softly, somewhat guiltily, “I’m sorry. I will be, I just...I need more time. But I—this is all I want, Chey. To be with you, to be together. Be your boyfriend. Even if it’s not out in the open, I want to be able to look at you and know...know you’re mine.”
“Anthony Arland Keystone,” Chey said softly, his eyes dancing, “You can’t honestly think I might say no.” He pressed a gentle, loving kiss to Anarchy’s mouth. When he pulled back to speak again, their lips still brushed: 
“I’m yours. If you’re ready to come out tomorrow, I’m yours. In ten years, I’m yours. If you’re never ready, it doesn’t matter; I’m yours. I already was. We’ve just been pretending otherwise.”
Anarchy’s lips found his again almost before he’d finished speaking; a kiss as an ‘I love you’ it felt too early to say aloud. Chey kissed back, hoping his lips carried his own words equally well:
I love you too.
I love you too.
I love you too.