 
we are not interested in logical

Copyright 2014 V. Orpal

Published 2014 by V. Orpal at Smashwords

**It's 11 am on a Tuesday morning; do** _you_ **know where** _your_ **pseudo-child-figure is?**

"Go slower or you'll puke," Tobe says, wry and resigned. He was only in the kitchenette for a moment to get a new cup of oolong, but in that interval of time Neal has somehow ninja'd his way into Tobe's swivel chair. Neal is twirling in it, his St. Xavier's tie hitting his face with each revolution and his knees just missing hitting against Tobe's desk.

Neal drags his foot against the hardwood floor, the patent leather making a harsh sound. He grins at Tobe once he's stopped. Or, more specifically, he grins at Tobe's mug. "Is that for me?"

Tobe takes a deliberate sip, swallows, and says, "The cocoa's where you left it. Have at."

"Thanks, Tobiah!" Neal somehow makes his gait jaunty as he gets out of the swivel chair and only weaves a little bit from dizziness, heading for the kitchenette and its hot chocolate supply with unerring focus.

The office's new hire comes by Tobe's desk and leans against it and stares after the back of Neal's twelve-year-old head. "The interns just keep getting younger," Adewale deadpans.

"Hah hah," Tobe says back. But he's smiling. He knows he should really not be encouraging delinquency, but, well. Whose kid skips school to hang out with their pseudo-parental-figure? Tobe's kid, that's who. "Come on," Tobe says. "I'll introduce you."

Everyone else in the office is already familiar with Neal. It's highly likely that Gwynnifer, who handles most of the graphics editing and integration, is the reason why Neal can effortlessly get in and out of the office. She gives Tobe a large-eyed wink as he and Adewale pass her by. This is especially startling because Gwynnifer's huge dark eyes are the only colour in her face. Her pixie-cut hair is so blonde it's white, as are her eyebrows and eyelashes, and her skin-tone is a natural shade of pale that frequently gets her mistaken for a goth. Her lips are only slightly pink. Tobe rolls his eyes at her and she impishly grins.

In the kitchenette, Neal is very painstakingly measuring out the correct amount of cocoa powder for a perfect cup into his very favourite mug, which is actually Tobe's boss' favourite mug, which has embossed in dark purple against a light green background: FROODY. Tobe's boss is old enough that appreciation for Douglas Adams is appropriate, and Neal is young enough that appreciation for Douglas Adams is retro. Tobe is the awkward age where he has to politely pretend never to have read anything about hitchhikers, unless it was also about the methodology of serial killers or traveloguing a significant landmass. Tobe has buried most recollections of a childhood of scifi and fantasy obsession, and is currently working on getting over the remnants of his hipster lifestyle. He still retains a guilty cache of ironic t-shirts and skinny jeans and, hidden somewhere he's too ashamed to remember now, plastic-framed pretentious-douche glasses. They weren't even prescription.

"Neal," Tobe says, and Neal glances up with a question in his big blue eyes. They are devastating eyes. Tobe despairs of the day girls (and guys) finally take note of them. "This is Adewale Mufwene, the new guy. He's been freelancing for us long distance for a while. He does the food thing."

"Oh!" Neal's devastating eyes light up. The effect will, in a few years, be nuclear. Neal grins and says, "Tobe makes your recipes all the time!" Because of course your pseudo-child-figure _will_ always say the most embarrassing thing, Tobe despairs. Neal settles his cocoa-making-apparatus back to the counter and steps forward, proffering a hand.

"Pleased to meet you," Adewale says, taking it. He grins widely and appealingly and adds, "Though I'm still not sure what it is you're doing here."

"Tobe's my pseudo-dad," Neal says blithely. "We have a deal where if I can sneak out of my school's security measures and come over here, I can stay for lunch." He smiles winningly. "They're very good measures," he explains. "I'm just better."

"Overconfidence will end your lucky streak," Tobe warns.

"I prefer to think of it as the right amount of confidence, myself," Neal says. Then the kettle starts to whistle and he happily turns back to his cocoa. Neal is just about the definition of chocoholic. Halloween is his holy day. Easter brings him paroxysms of joy.

"The devil take him, but it's true," Tobe confides to Adewale on the walk back to their desks. "He is a very good rule-breaker. It is almost inspiring, until I start thinking of all his career prospects. Around ninety percent of his future probable job titles include the word 'criminal' in them."

"At least it's an ever-expanding field," Adewale says, smiling. Then, "Pseudo-dad?"

"My partner's his biological father," Tobe explains easily. It took a while to get that explanation down to one sentence. "We co-parent, but Daniel's work keeps him away most of the time so it's really just me and Neal."

"That has to get tough," Adewale says.

Tobe glances at him sidelong and smiles. "Neal's the best thing that has ever happened to me." This is the complete and utter truth.

But the best thing can also sometimes be the worst.

Hacking is just one weapon in a modern young person's arsenal.

Ursa and Orsin are usually out of the office, so Neal feels no guilt over cheerfully invading their desk space. Gwynn's desk is across the room facing him and they throw balled up notes and sketches back and forth while Tobe and the new guy ignore them in favour of staring at the layout wall, randomly pointing at pinned up pages and just as randomly rearranging them. They're about the same height (tallish) and have similar builds (super-skinny), and when one gestures and the other gestures back it looks almost mirror-like, which combines to give their interaction a weird, near-hypnotic symmetry. There's another guy in the office, but he's always hiding so Neal does him the courtesy of forgetting he exists unless he's actually talking.

In between impromptu games of catch, Neal gets his netbook out of its case and piggybacks the office's wifi. He checks his email and then he checks the time: it's just a little past eleven, and lunch at St. Xavier's is over at twelve-forty. That gives him around an hour to get some work done.

St. Xavier's is a ladder school. For most kids, that means that they're on the first rung before they're even born – sometimes before they're conceived, for the IVF kids. The waiting list is pretty long. This is pretty baffling for what is ultimately a school where the teachers are basically computer programmers and the students spend all day staring at monitors in their individual work stations, meeting educational milestones. In a ladder school, the students get carried up the rungs – nominally, 'climb' is the correct verb, but in a lot of cases 'carried' is infinitely more accurate – until they ascend to the top, where the next step is presumably an Ivy or Oxford. Cambridge is also acceptable. It's all stupidly snobby and Neal doesn't get the point of going to a different building to sit in a room and not look or interact with anyone but a screen. It's possible to do that from basically _any_ room in _any_ building, as long as that room has internet access. It's possible to do that from _home_ , with the added benefit of not having to wear a stupid uniform.

Neal compromises by doing it from Tobe's office whenever his teachers aren't paying close enough attention and he can sneak out, which is fairly often. It took him maybe three afternoons to set up his school workstation to allow remote access, and he slips through the backdoor now. He's ahead in all his units, but he likes to build up pretty big cushions for the inevitable times when he gets caught up in a different project and forgets about school, or for when he goes through a lazy period. He also wants to graduate at least a year early, which drives his ambition onwards. Math is something easy and fairly interesting so Neal opens his latest module and starts to work through problem sets. After around ten minutes, a chat client that runs on the students' workstations' intranet, illicit and only available to those in the know, pops up. The message is from Jaytoo so Neal clicks it open.

Jaytoo: t-r-u-a-n-t-!-D :

Astroneal: whatchutalk, don't you see the attendance chart has me all lit up present.  
(Just having his workstation active makes him register as present, to the school records if not to his teachers' gaze.)

Jaytoo: w-e-l-p u-r d-i-g-i-t-a-l l-o-g-i-c h-a-s d-e-f-e-a-t-e-d m-e-.

Astroneal: your text is messed.

Jaytoo: t-e-l-l m-e a-b-o-u-t i-t . m-y c-l-i-e-n-t-s m-o-t-h-e-r-f-u-c-k-i-n-g g-l-i- t-c-h-i-n-g l-i-k-e -a- m-o-t-h-e-r-f-u-c-k-e-r . i-m-m-a t-h-i-n-k-i-n-g a-b-o-u-t r-e - n-a-m-i-n-g i-t o-e-d-i-p-u-s r-e-x t-h-a-t-s h-o-w m-u-c-h m-o-t-h-e-r-f-u-c-k-i-n-g i-t i-s c-u-r-r-e-n-t-l-y e-n-g-a-g-i-n-g i-n . i-n-c-e-s-t-u-o-u-s c-o-i-t-u-s a-l-l o-v-e-r t-h-e p-l-a-c-e-.

Astroneal: you kiss your mother with that mouth?

Jaytoo: n-a-h b-r-o -i- k-i-s-s u-r p-s-e-u-d-o-–-d-a-d w-i-t-h t-h-i-s m-o-u-t-h-. a-l-s-o-, w-a-y -2- f-u-r-t-h-e-r c-r-e-e-p-i-f-y t-h-e- m-o-t-h-e-r-f-u-c-k-i-n-g c-o-n-n-o-t-a-t-i-o-n-s o-f w-h-a-t -i- j-u-s-t f-u-c-k-i-n-g- s-a-i-d-.

{Astroneal has sent a file. Accept/Decline?}

{Jaytoo Accept}

{Jaytoo Execute}

Jaytoo: ah so much better tnx.

Astroneal: np jimmy.

Jaytoo: motherfucking stop calling me that.

Astroneal: whatever you say jemjem.

Jaytoo: fucker h8 u.

Astroneal: :D

Astroneal: did roboteachbot notice i'm mia?

Jaytoo: r u kidding me the poor fucker is still stuck walking anderfailson through the cns/pns module from 2wksago i think hes about 2 have a frustration aneurysm.

Astroneal: jesus bless anderfailson.

Jaytoo: amirite in assuming u r at the gr8 publishing offices of over sea over air over there?

Astroneal: that is a truthfact, indeed.

Jaytoo: sooooo... whats ur pseudo-dad wearing? ;D?

Astroneal: dude, sickwrong. D:

Jaytoo: tobiah cho is a beautiful man.

Astroneal: and YOU are a 12yo. perverted, but still not pubescent. also talk about electra complex.

Jaytoo: girls mature faster than boys i cannot help this biofact. also hes UR pseudo-dad. there is therefore no electra in this complex.

Astroneal: ugh you always make me go to the freudian place.

Jaytoo: haha inorite. gutter gutter gutter. buuuut u havent said, wats he wearing?

Astroneal: D: stoppit stop perving on my pseudo-dad.

Jaytoo: send me a photo and ill stop perving out loud. :D?

Astroneal: agh fine, hold on lemme get my phone out.

{Astroneal has sent a file. Accept/Decline?}  
{Jaytoo Accept}

Jaytoo: hummina. thats the stuff.

Astroneal: D: you said you'd stoppit!

Jaytoo: u poor naive fool.

Jaytoo: hey whos the other guy.

Astroneal: new hire, old freelancer. tobe's been foodgasming over his articles for the last umm. 5 months?

Jaytoo: hes pretty hot too. id hit it.

Astroneal: i repeat. YOU ARE TWELVE.

Jaytoo: id hit it like the hammer of thor.

Astroneal: i regret ever knowing you.

Jaytoo: lies such lies.

Jaytoo: welp loser i g2g i just finished the roman emperors module need 2 test out. pseudo-dad bringing u back after lunch?

Astroneal: that is correct, yes. also holy fucking hell how far ahead are you in history now?

Jaytoo: 2&1/2yrs. be 3 even in another month fingers crossed.

Jaytoo: r ur fingers crossed.

Jaytoo: cross those fingers motherfucker.

Astroneal: my mother's dead.

Jaytoo: deadmotherfucker.

Astroneal: D:

Jaytoo: ;D

{Jaytoo has signed out.}

{Astroneal has signed out.}

So... that ate up around fifteen minutes. By Neal's estimation, this means he has around another twenty minutes before Tobe makes him get packed up so that they can go for lunch, probably at the diner, and then drop Neal back at St. Xavier's. He's more than halfway through the math module. If he pushes, he can get it done and the test too before he has to log out. He's only about a year ahead in math – this'll push him closer to the year and a half mark. He thought that was pretty impressive, but Jemima's always got to show him up.

Neal cracks his knuckles and gets to work.

Foodies.

Tobe invites Adewale to join them for lunch, which they grab from a food truck parked three blocks over. The food is weirdly gourmet. Neal gets lobster pasta, Tobe gets something with octopus, and Adewale tries the oysters. "I feel like I'm tempting fate, eating oysters from a truck," Adewale says meditatively. But they're good, briny and flavourful and delicious.

"You've had street food from all over, right?" Neal asks, bright-eyed.

They wander as a trio until they find a low-lying cement block; Neal and Adewale sit and Tobe stands, facing them.

"That's right," Adewale says.

Neal kicks out at Tobe's shoe, and Tobe kicks back. It's absent-minded playfulness. It makes Adewale feel weirdly fond of them when he watches. Even though he's just met Neal, and has only known Tobe a little longer, and thus has no right to feel fond of either. Fondness requires familiarity. But already they feel like old friends.

"That would make a good article," Tobe says. "Comparing street foods from different locales, maybe with recipes if you have them? There's a resurgence of interest. I think because Food Network has that show now, Eat St."

"Those are all food trucks like the one we just went to, right?" Adewale wrinkles his nose. "It's, ah, a little different in other parts of the world."

Tobe shrugs and smiles. The sun conspires to hit him at just the right angle to make him seem to glow. Or maybe that's the smile, maybe it has that power. "So write about that, too," he says. "Acknowledge the superficial similarity and then dive deeper."

Neal makes a _gimme_ gesture, and Tobe extends his container of food. Neal plucks out a tentacle and chews on it.

"You think there'll be interest?" Adewale asks.

"Yes," Tobe nods. "Especially if you give some tips on which kinds of vendors to avoid and which to trust. That's pretty invaluable for travelers." He smiles again. Either the sun, or the smile, makes his hazel eyes flare golden.

It's quite possible Adewale is in trouble.

The morning habits of transplanted journalists.

'Dear Adewale Mufwene, _get up_ , you lazy sod.'

That's what Adewale has written on his palm in glittery silver ink against deep brown skin. It's written on his palm so that it will be the first thing he sees when he wakes up, and is meant as an inspirational message to _get up_ , as he is a lazy sod. (Adewale doesn't exactly know what 'sod' means, just that his mother calls his father this word quite a lot with a loving, but fully exasperated, intonation. Also, a British accent, because she is English, and so is her husband, but Adewale is not. Adewale also has an accent, but it is firmly, not-at-all glamorously, American Mid-West.)

Adewale Mufwene, lazy sod, gets up.

He performs his morning ablutions and prepares a simple breakfast of spongy flat pan-bread wrapped around a sausage and leftover couscous filling and drizzled over with mushroom gravy. He eats the rest of last night's pear-and-rocket salad for a greenery component and drinks cafe au lait for a caffeine and dairy component, hops in the shower, seven minutes later hops out of the shower, and dresses. He has to pull his clothes out of suitcases and boxes which should make them hang horribly, but Adewale Mufwene, lazy sod, is an accomplished packer, mover, shaker. Okay, not the last one. But until recently his job was literally the ability to move great distances at a moment's notice and to look professional whenever he got where he was going.

How unstable a life, Adewale Mufwene! How adventurous yet lonely!

The natural reaction to instability is to create small pockets of stability, and this is why every morning before work Adewale sits down at his cleared kitchen table and writes out a list. Usually this list is the ubiquitous 'to do', but not always. Today the list is entitled: My new colleagues/coworkers (future friends?). He has chosen this list subject in order to ensure he'll be able to greet each person in the office by name. This is an important skill to facilitate interpersonal harmony, or so the books all say. Adewale normally has above-average face-name recall, but his memory tends to suffer when he is stressed and this sudden career shift has left him rather discombobulated. So to be sure, he writes:

The Boss aka Leena Simic – _Editor in Chief_

Gwynnifer Wallander – _Graphics Editor  
_  
Ursa Govaj – _Advertisements Editor  
_  
Orsin Govaj – _On-The-Spot Columnist, Curator of New Talent_ (Adewale adds a '?' next to this, because he has no idea what it means.)

Elvis (really?) Vissell (really?! _)_ – _Articles Editor_

Tobiah Cho – _Copy Editor_ aka _Most Attractive Person I Have Ever Met In Actual Life, Who Is, Of Course, Taken_

Adewale stares at that last added name for a beat. The name invokes the face, and the face makes Adewale's heart literally stutter in his chest. It truly does not help that Tobiah Cho is a lovely person as well as a perfect face. He has gone out of his way to welcome Adewale into the office's fold, has more than once invited Adewale out to lunch and coffee, and has repeatedly complimented Adewale's prior freelance contributions and enthused over what Adewale will accomplish as a full member of the team. He is maybe the first real friend Adewale has made in actual years, when before moving around all the time necessitated the making of acquaintances and contacts more than friends. Having a crush on Tobiah is worse than hopeless – it's _disrespectful_.

How awkward your infatuation is, Adewale Mufwene! How deep your shame at lusting after a married family man!

Speaking of the family of the man, Adewale stares at his list and discovers it is incomplete. There is another in the office he sees more often than not. He adds:

Neal Brulé – _Office Mascot_ (This is maybe derogatory but Adewale truly doesn't know what else could adequately summarize the precocious Neal. Perhaps:), _Youngest Intern_.

The list, and his ritual, is complete and Adewale may now go into work. He pauses by his doorway, halting in closing the door and locking the lock in order to look around his small apartment. Almost all of his things are still in boxes. The only room completely unpacked is the kitchen, where he tends to spend most of his time. The rest of the apartment is in slight disarray. And yet the light comes in from windows that catch the wind through mesh screens, and the city-sounds are pleasantly muffled this high up, and it is home. Already this new space is home.

He has traveled a long way to get here. And here he is to stay.

**Gwynnifer Wallander is a woman who goes** _woo_ **.**

"Office lunch party!" Gwynnifer puts her arms in the air and whirls them around, going _woo_ with a ridiculous expression on her face. No one else joins in so she pushes her swivel chair away from her desk and gets to her feet and does a twirling boogie. " _Office lunch party_ ," she sings out, insistently.

"Yeah, okay," Elvis says from behind the water cooler. That's where his desk is. They keep telling him he can rearrange things so that he's not stuck staring at the water cooler all day, but he insists that the soothing _glub glub_ helps him focus.

Tobe and Adewale look up from Tobe's monitor, where they are intently staring at something either a) completely fascinating, or b) totally snoozefest, dependent on who it is doing the looking. Then they exchange a perfectly synchronized glance, roll their eyes at the same time, and nod their heads. Gwynnifer tilts her head at them and notes that, yes, Neal was totally right, they do have a freaky mirror thing going on. How delightfully odd! It makes her hands itch to sketch the negative space between them, the edges of their profiles when they stand next to each other.

Ursa and Orsin are still out and the Boss has her door closed (as the Boss, she gets a door, and also a wall that separates the general office from her own, specific office), and today is one of the days Neal has chosen _not_ to break out of school, so it's just the four of them traipsing out of the building and down the pavement to the diner on the corner, where the proprietor is a middle aged Vietnamese-American woman who knows all their names and gives them complimentary cold rolls.

"Thanks, Thu," Tobe gives her his very best _grateful_ smile, and Gwynnifer can see Thu's fingers twitch, but she heroically refrains from pinching Tobe's adorable cheek.

"Least I can do, you're too skinny! All of you are!" Thu beams around and finger-guns at each face. "Skinny, skinny, skinny. Eh, you, you're okay."

"Hey!" Poor Elvis.

"I didn't call you fat, did I? Anyway, I'll be back in a few minutes for your orders," and Thu bustles away.

Elvis turns to Gwynnifer. "Am I fat?"

Gwynnifer pats his cheek soothingly. It's a round cheek, but that's just because Elvis has a baby face. "You're fine," she soothes. Then she grins across the table at Tobe and Adewale and knocks her foot against theirs under the table, first one foot and then another foot, tapping the toe of her white leather boot against the toe of Tobe's Italian hand-tooled and Adewale's Doc Marten. "So!" she says brightly. "Have you decided yet?"

"We haven't even opened the menus," Adewale says, giving her a gently amused look. Adewale, Gwynnifer has decided, is _very good_ at gentle. Maybe that's how he's managed to sneak so quickly past Tobe's highly held defensive walls.

Gwynnifer crosses her arms over her chest. She's wearing the purple silk sheathe dress today, sleeveless and hitting mid-thigh, but with strong architectural details around the neckline. When she crosses her arms, those architectural details _pop_ for grand intimidating effect. "No, silly," she says. "It's Neal's birthday in a few days. Last I heard, Tobe was still scrambling for ideas."

"Eh," Tobe shrugs. "Probably dinner out with his best friend?"

"Boring!"

"You should play laser tag," Elvis chimes in. "Kids love laser tag, right?"

"Not this kid," Tobe laughs. "He'd rather build the lasers." Then he adds, "If I can find a good chocolate themed restaurant, it would probably make his year."

"Chocolate themed restaurant?" Elvis wrinkles his nose.

"You can use chocolate for savoury foods as well as sweet," Adewale chimes in. "I think the most common example is a good molé sauce, but it shows up elsewhere, too. I've come up with a few main dishes that feature chocolate, but the recipes are still in development –"

"There's your answer," Gwynnifer says, smiling broadly. "Dinner at home, taste-testing the chocolate recipes for Adewale. Neal will love it!"

"Gwynn," Tobe shakes his head, amused, "you can't just volunteer people against their will."

"He doesn't mind!" Gwynnifer looks to Adewale. "You don't mind, do you? Of course you don't. It'll be great. Tobe has an awesome kitchen."

Adewale's mouth drops open, like he's about to say something, but then he glances at Tobe and the words morph into a smile. "Of course I don't mind," he says. "It'll be fun."

Gwynnifer grins. She is the most awesome problem-solver. Her problem-solving is epic, like the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel. _Woo_.

The mysterious Bears.

This is the thing about Ursa and Orsin Govaj: they are never in the office at the same time. Never. Not once in the entire period of time Elvis has worked at Over Sea, Over Air, Over There (which is admittedly a fairly short duration).

This is the other thing about Ursa and Orsin Govaj: they are basically the same person. They stand at the same height (six feet even), sport the same hairstyle (brown-black, to the chin, pin-straight and gelled severely back), and have the same amused, condescending way of relating to everyone who isn't the Boss.

"I'm pretty sure they _are_ the same person," Gwynn muses. She's sitting on the edge of her desk with one leg crossed over the other, swinging her ankle to a beat only she hears. She's dressed like an Impressionist painting today, all muted colours fading into each other, dreamy and romantic. Elvis has the most embarrassing crush on her and he's pretty sure she knows (she does), that the whole office knows (they do), but Elvis is accustomed to having embarrassing crushes, so he can actually bear to go into work every day. He just keeps behind the water cooler for when he needs to hide his blushing face. "I mean, look at them. I bet they're bi-gender, or something. You know, one day they're Orsin, and then the next day – or whenever – they're Ursa."

"They could be siblings," Tobe offers from where he is standing facing the layout wall with his hands on his hips, head cocked. Tobe is intimidating for the way he always notices everything that goes on while seemingly focused on only one thing. It's very misleading. Tobe is also intimidating for being the kind of beautiful that launches a thousand ships. There are maybe eight ethnicities packed into Tobe's face and they're all blended in perfect harmony. Being around someone so beautiful on a daily basis would be horrible if they were cruel about it, or even unaware of it, because that would be infuriating for someone who had always been average, like Elvis. But Tobe is graceful with his beauty. He acknowledges it, carries it, and moves on. He's comfortable with being ludicrously attractive, and that puts everyone else at ease too. "That would explain the similarities, the _Govaj_."

"'Ursa' and 'Orsin' both mean 'bear'," Elvis says, craning his neck around the water cooler. "What kind of parents would do that to their kids?"

Gwynn snaps her fingers. "Maybe they're twins!" She looks between Tobe, Elvis and Adewale's faces. "You know, how some parents do the weird naming thing with multiple births? Like, um, I went to high school with these triplets named Melody, Lyric and Rhythm." They all make horrified expressions and she says, "Yeah, I know, I always felt pretty bad for them. Especially Rhythm. There's not even a good way of turning that one into a nickname, I think she had it legally changed to like, Alice or something once she was eighteen."

"They could be married," Adewale says from behind his desk. "Married couples tend to begin to look alike the longer they're together. I mean, that's probably the most logical explanation."

"We are not interested in logical," Gwynn explains kindly.

Adewale grins at her, a wide white flash of teeth. He has a good smile, which is part of why Elvis likes him. He also makes everyone around him feel soothed and welcome despite being the new guy himself. That's probably why he made such a good interviewer, and thus such a good freelancer. "My thanks for the clarification, demoiselle," and Gwynn laughs her snorting chuckle, so inelegant and gorgeous, and performs a little bow from her perch.

Elvis really, very badly, and quite intensely, wants to marry her and have kids with her and live with her until he dies. He ducks back behind the water cooler.

Tobe does a little twirl to face them all, the expression on his face triumphant. He opens his mouth and says one word. "Clones!"

They all pause in thought. "Different genders, though?" Elvis ventures after a beat.

"If some Eastern European lab can grow Ursa and Orsin in test tubes, I bet they can also make an Ursa into an Orsin and vice versa," Tobe says, reasonably.

"Why would some Eastern European lab be growing Ursa and Orsin in test tubes?" Gwynn tilts her head.

Adewale rests his chin against his interlaced fingers. His profile looks almost wistful as he ponders. Finally he ventures, "Spies? Train them from the cradle."

"That is some serious KGB," Gwynn breathes, delighted.

"Assassin spies," Tobe agrees. "It explains everything."

In the theatre of Elvis' mind, every memory he holds of Ursa and Orsin flashes in sequential rapid-fire order. He nods. "It really does."

"Or!" Tobe holds one hand up, index finger extended. "Or they could be doing some serious Fringe-type action, and one is the gender-switched alternate universe version of the other!" He's grinning, geekily delighted. It lights him up. If Elvis weren't already sitting, he'd be weak at the knees – and he's not even bi.

He looks away, because there's only so long you can stare at the sun, after all; and his glance falls on Adewale; and he thinks, _Oh_.

Because Adewale is staring at Tobe with his mouth dropped just a little bit open and his eyes embarrassingly star-struck, pupils dilated so widely Elvis can see them from his desk. Because Adewale looks stunned, and a little stupid, and, it has to be said, in love.

_Oh_. There is a very high probability that this will not end well.

A sly eye through which she spies a nice guy.

When the door opens, there's a young girl on the other side of it. She's surreally perfect like a Renaissance portrait come to life and walking around, but when Adewale blinks he notices that at least part of this effect is due to subtle cosmetics. She tilts her head at him and her shoulder-length blackish reddish brownish hair swings from side to side like a metronome. She's wearing the same school uniform that Neal wears, albeit with a skirt rather than trousers, and she's eyeing him slyly. Without looking away, she yells over her shoulder, "He's here!"

"Duh, Jemjem," Neal says, skidding into view, his socked feet sliding for traction against the polished hardwood floor. "We all heard the doorbell."

"It could have been someone else, loser," Jemjem (?) says, rolling her eyes. Then she smiles, brilliant and wide, at Adewale. She's wearing bright green braces. "Hi! I've heard _so_ much about you. I'm Jemima Jerome. I put up with Neal on a daily basis so Tobe rewards me by inviting me to family events. It's nice to meet you!" She leans forward a little and her eyes widen – but, Adewale senses, for effect, and not out of surprise. "Those are a lot of grocery bags." She gestures, imperious, to Neal. "Help the man, dumbass."

Neal rolls his eyes at her but he grins at Adewale. "Hi! Thanks for coming! And bringing food! And cooking it, too, I guess, though you haven't done that part yet –" he's reaching forward and pulling at the canvas handles, pulling Adewale into his apartment.

"Happy birthday, Neal," Adewale says, chuckling, and nods to Jemima. "Hello, nice to meet you too."

Jemima grabs the canvas bag out of his other hand and he trails the two kids into the kitchen, idly noting that Jemima is a good six inches taller than Neal. Tobe is in the kitchen, barefoot and dressed down, which makes Adewale's heart _thud_ , painfully. "Adewale!" Tobe calls, grinning. "You found the apartment, great. I just finished cleaning up in here – it was a mess, I'd have been embarrassed to show it to you – you kids can set those down anywhere – did you want something to drink? Eat? I mean, I know we're forcing you to cook for us soon, but if you're hungry right now I should have some snacks around here – "

"Take a breath, Tobiah," Neal calls from the kitchen table, which is a pitted plastic topped ugly-yet-endearing thing. There's a tidy pile of presents on the centre of the table, and he's adding to it the grocery bag in his possession.

"Water or coffee would be great," Adewale says. It's something he's noticed, when invited into someone's home: saying yes when they offer food or drink will immediately set them at ease in the same way that refusing either will make them jittery and anxious.

"Sure! Coming right up! One second!"

"Just one of those answers would be enough," Jemima says, laughing. This reaction is genuine. She's a good actress, though; Adewale thinks in another few years, no one will be able to tell which gestures are calculated and which are true.

"Quiet from the peanut gallery," Tobe says, moving from one counter space to the next. "Or no more make-up and lighting lessons for you."  
Jemima immediately zips her lips and tosses away the figurative key. There are a set of bar stools running along the outside of one of the counters and she climbs up onto one of them, peering over the edge to stare at Tobe. Then she looks over to Adewale and smiles at him again. "You can sit down, you know," she says. "I don't bite."

Adewale bites back a smile at the thought that he would find a twelve year old intimidating and accommodatingly sits down at the counter, leaving an empty seat between him and Jemima. He glances around the kitchen. It is, as Gwynn promised, awesome. New and gleaming with cherry-wood cabinetry and granite countertops, shining appliances, and an impressive range of cookware arranged on the far side of the counter space. There are soft, cheery pot lights in the ceiling and a window lined with pots of growing kitchen herbs over the double-sink. Everything looks well cared-for and lived in, well-used. It's the kitchen of someone who enjoys cooking.

"Do you like it?" Tobe is setting a bone china mug of coffee, one sugar, a little cream, in front of him. They make coffee for each other all the time at work so it's not significant that Tobe knows exactly how Adewale likes it. But Adewale's heart goes _thud_ , traitorously, once more.

"It's beautiful," Adewale says, honestly.

Tobe beams.

Adewale despairs.

BFFs.

"He's pretty beautiful," Jemima whispers to Neal.

"Who, Adewale?" Neal whispers back.

"Yeah! Look at him."

Neal looks. Neal shrugs. "He's all right, I guess."

"He has a great smile," Jemima insists.

Neal tilts his head. Neal considers. Neal finds this to be true. "Okay, sure."

"Ugh!" Jemima throws her hands up in disgust. She's emoting at a normal volume, but Tobe is used to the dramatics so he doesn't even look their way from where he and Adewale are chopping – something – at the counter. Since Tobe isn't treating it as a strange occurrence, Adewale isn't either. "You're useless!" Jemima flagrantly insulting Neal is also pretty common.

"Yeah, okay," Neal says. He's preoccupied by trying to sniff out the cooking chocolate Adewale brought with him. Maybe he can sneak a taste...

Jemima points at his face. "I know that face," she says. "That's your chocolate face." She waggles her finger and repeats, "Useless!"

(By the counter Adewale whispers, "She is so mean to the birthday boy."

Tobe chuckles and whispers back, "Trust me. This isn't Jemima being mean. There's no blood being drawn." Adewale laughs slightly which throws his aim off and he just barely clips the side of one finger with his knife. Tobe stares at the cut and says, "Maybe I spoke too soon.")

The chocolate-y thirteenth birthday menu of Neal Brulé.

They eat at the endearingly ugly kitchen table.

For the first course there is: bitter greens topped with chopped strawberries and a light chocolate-truffle oil dressing.

For the second course there is: a paper-thin crust pizza topped with molé sauce and spicy chicken.

For the third course there is: pumpkin, ricotta, and parmesan filling inside chocolate dough ravioli, with cocoa-glazed sweet potatoes.

For the fourth course there is: chocolate-crumb based chocolate cheesecake with an inner filling of chocolate mousse and liquid bitter chocolate poured in an atom-thin layer over top, hardening in seconds to a stiff, crackling shell, then topped with chocolate-sugar and caramelized with a small blow-torch.

And then there is mocha.

The Neal Brulé guided tour.

"Where'd you learn to cook like that, Mister Mufwene?" Jemima tosses her hair a little and gives him an arch look. They're walking down the hall while Neal aimlessly points out things like _That's the thing we got when we went to that place for spring break last year, it's pretty ugly but don't tell Tobe I said that,_ ostensibly giving Adewale a tour of the apartment while Tobe does the dishes in the kitchen. "It was really great, and I don't even like chocolate that much."

"Ah, call me Adewale, please," Adewale smiles. "And I went to culinary school, and before that I learned from my mother, who worked as a personal chef, and I also have spent the last seven years traveling through Africa and the Middle East, and parts of India and Pakistan, interviewing chefs renowned in their individual regions."

"Woah," Jemima blinks. "That's a lot of interviews. Hey!" She perks, and prods Neal, who is currently saying _This is Tobe's office but he never uses it, so I kind of took it over for all my game consoles since he doesn't like it when I play in the living room_. "Isn't Tobe, like, a quarter Pakistani?"

"Huh?" Neal glances over. His messy black hair seems to emote befuddlement. "What?"

Jemima points an accusing finger at him. "How are you so _useless_?"

"Special skill, I guess," Neal smiles and shrugs affably.

"Special's definitely the word for it," Jemima mutters. Neal's smile briefly morphs into a grin, and Adewale muffles his corresponding laugh. He's starting to get a good idea of the friendship between Neal Brulé and Jemima Jerome. She repeats, "Tobe's quarter-Pakistani, right?"

"Tobiah's _everything_ ," Neal says. He squints a little in thought, idly adds, "Oh yeah and this is the library, you can totally borrow a book if you want, Tobe has a lot of random things in here, go nuts," and gestures to the room they're standing before. Adewale takes a peek inside. There are floor to ceiling bookshelves in cherry-wood, packed with hardcovers and softcovers, with a coffee table and matching loveseat, sofa and armchair arranged to look appealingly inviting. "Yeah, he's ummm. Okay," and Neal starts to count things off on his finger tips. "Quarter-Chinese, quarter-Pakistani, quarter-Norwegian, eighth-Polish and eighth-Irish. I'm pretty sure that's right? It's kind of hard to keep track."

Jemima rolls her eyes. "Neal's _boring_ ," she confides, in a not-at-all confidential stage whisper. "He's one hundred percent French Canadian."

"Lumberjack stock," Neal says, grinning.

"I suppose that makes me boring too," Adewale says. "One hundred percent Nigerian ancestry, me. My grandparents on both sides moved to Britain and had my parents, and then my parents moved to America and had me." He smiles at Jemima. "Are you also boring?"

"Pfft!" Jemima flounces a little. It's a very little girl move, and makes Neal grin some more before he tucks the smile away. "My mom's Cree-Korean, and my dad's Creole, which is basically _everything_."

"I call her a Creeoreale," Neal says.

"No you don't," Jemima says. "That's a horrible word, never say it again."

"Koreeole?"

"No, stop it, you're so bad at that."

"It's better than 'Cablinasian'."

"Ew, don't talk to me about Tiger Woods." Jemima flounces again.

"Whatever you say, Jemjem."

"Ugh, no, that's not my nickname."

"Jimmy-ima."

"Oh my god!" Jemima flies at Neal and starts to attack. She has the height advantage, so Adewale gives her good odds of beating him up. "You're the worst, you're the worst!" she shrieks.

"Jemmy! Mee-maah!" Neal flails wildly, giggling, and Adewale realizes he's being tickled.

Tobe appears down the hall, dishtowel slung over one shoulder. "Don't make me come down there," he warns, but Adewale sees his smile.

Neal and Jemima collapse together on the floor in breathless chortles.

Because science!

Neal squints around the bookshelves and then pulls an album out. When he turns around, grinning, he sees Jemima's trying to corner Adewale into sitting next to her, so he makes a quick bee-line and sits next to Adewale instead. _He_ finds it creepy when Jemima hits on – well, anyone, but especially grown men (including Neal's very own pseudo-dad) – so he can't imagine how discomfiting it would be for Adewale to realize he's being hit on by a twelve year old. Jemima scowls at him and he rolls his eyes at her, jerking his chin to one side, his symbol for _Cut it out, you indescribably disturbing person._ She rolls her eyes back, but then comes to sit down on the arm of the sofa next to him, so she can look over his shoulder.

"See?" Neal says, flipping open the album. "This is the Brulé family. Most of us live in a little village a few hours out from Quebec City, in Canada. They all speak Quebecois and I haven't really learned much, my mom died when I was really little. See? That's her, there." He points down at the photograph of his mother standing next to her father, uncles and brothers. She has long curly black hair and bright blue eyes and she's wearing a pale blue sundress. Neal smiles down at her as she smiles back up at him. He still remembers crying a lot when she died, remembers not so much the feeling of sadness but more how thirsty he'd get and how lonely, and how he just wanted her to come back and hold him. He's still sad, a little bit, when he looks at her: but it's an old ache, and he's used to it now. "Her name was Annie."

"She's beautiful, Neal," Adewale says. Then he chokes and says, "Um, would she happen to have been a particularly small woman?"

"Huh?" Neal blinks. "Oh! Haha, no. All the guys in my family get that big." He puffs out his chest. "I'm just waiting for my growth spurt."

"Never gonna happen," Jemima says, too loud, almost directly into his ear.

"Shut it," Neal says, and shoves her knee lightly. In the photo, Annie Brulé is surrounded, a sapling in a grove of Redwoods, by her male relatives who are all about seven feet tall and heavily muscled. "It's my genetics, you can't argue against genetics! Because science!"

Jemima shoves him back. "Because science, because science," she mocks. The photo album almost goes flying as they scuffle, and Neal can feel Adewale take it from his hands.

"It's going to happen one day! Soon! It's in my blood!" and Neal is laughing as he says it, but he feels a thrill of deeply running fear, because he knows what else is in his blood.

Tempests in teacups.

When Adewale takes the photo album, it's mostly with the intention of keeping the keepsakes of Neal's mother safe from being ruined by yet another of Neal and Jemima's scuffles; but then, jostled, photos begin to spill out of the pages of the album. They drop to the ground and Adewale stares at them, dumbfounded, because they're all Tobe – but not candid; professional. And not merely professional – artistic. They look a few years old. Tobe is older now, and carries himself differently. But it's still a bit of a shock.

Adewale gathers them back up and starts to flip through them, when Jemima – the fight apparently done – chirps, "Oh! You found Tobe's portfolio! I've been looking for that since forever, he's like, all ashamed of his glory days."

Neal shoves her again. "Those weren't his glory days," he says, and there's something less than playful in his voice.

"Hel _lo_ ," Jemima rolls her eyes. "What is he right now, a copy editor?" She jabs her finger at the glossy photographs in Adewale's hands. "Well he _used to be_ a top tier male model."

Neal rolls his eyes right back. "Well he's _happier_ right now."

"I don't see how he could be," Jemima snipes back. "Your dad is like, _never_ home. Poor Tobiah is too beautiful to be neglected like this."

"Oh my god!" Neal throws his hands up, his body language and tone reading as honestly upset. "Beautiful this, hot that. Could you try not being so goddamn fucking _shallow_ for two seconds?" Jemima flinches. Neal gets to his feet and whirls around to face them and his blue eyes are blazing. When he speaks, his voice is the terrible kind of quiet that signifies deep anger. "And for your information, we do _just fine_ with my dad being gone so much. So don't even think about mentioning him again." And then he's stomping off, out of the room and down the hall, and then into his own room, presumably, based off of the loud _slam_ that reverberates.

There's an awkward pause where Adewale isn't quite sure what just happened, where he's supposed to look, or what he's supposed to do.

He sees Jemima's jaw give a dangerous quiver, and her eyes sheen brightly and threateningly of tears; and he feels truly, terrifyingly panicked because, dear god, he has no idea how to handle a crying little girl.

And then she slams to her feet, hands curled into her fists by her sides, incandescent rage lighting her face. "Did that motherfucker just fucking _swear_ at me? Who the fuck does he think he is –" and she's out the door, running after him, opening and slamming his bedroom door as she barrels her way inside – not even giving him the option of refusing entry.

There's another awkward pause, again one in which Adewale isn't quite sure what just happened, where he's supposed to look, or what he's supposed to do. But at least this time there's no on-the-verge-of-crying little girl. So, he guesses, that's probably a step up?

"Sorry about that," Tobe says from the library's doorway, and Adewale startles. Tobe laughs lightly. "Sorry for startling you, too," he adds. He still has a dishtowel over one shoulder and, as he walks in and sits next to Adewale, taking Neal's spot, Adewale notices his water-wrinkled hands. Tobe holds them up and laughs a little at them. "Pruny," he says, grinning. His face is a little shadowed from the kids' argument, and also from a long day; there are small bags under his eyes and his hair is a mess. He smells slightly earthy – not quite of sweat, just pleasantly run down by the day. He has dozens of tiny physical imperfections and he's real, and he seems a million years distant from the Tobe Adewale has photographs of in his lap right this very instant. "Neal and Jemima fight a lot. Usually it's light hearted, but sometimes they get kind of harsh with each other. Try not to take it so seriously, and please don't judge my parenting skills on their frequent falls into profanity."

"Ah, I won't," Adewale attempts a smile. He still feels a little shell-shocked. Did he ever have mood-swings as fast as those children? Also, Tobe is sitting close next to him, and now is picking the photographs out of Adewale's lap, and Adewale feels a fierce rush of gladness that his dark skin mostly hides his blush. "Sorry – they just fell out."

"Yeah," Tobe says, still smiling. "It's all right. I hid them there because Neal doesn't usually look through that album, so I thought it would be safe." He glances at Adewale while his hands fiddle with the photographs, neatening the edges together and then flipping the pile so that they're all face-down. "Jemima plans to be a model," he explains. "I think it's been her life goal since she was seven, or whenever she started watching America's Next Top Model." He shrugs. "I warned her it wasn't as fun and glamorous as it sounds, and that you really only have a few years where you'll be in high demand – _if_ you ever get that far. And trying to be a model can destroy a lot of other things in your life, too. It took me a while to get my GED, for instance, and then it took me even longer to get through college. But – " he smiles, and it's bittersweet. "It's definitely an experience. And it's definitely an experience Jemima wants to have. So she's going for it, and I guess if she's really determined, no one can – or should – stop her."

"Ah," Adewale clears his throat. "Do you, ah, believe she'll make it?"

Tobe blinks and shrugs. "She's intuitive enough and driven enough," he says. "I've given her tips on her walk and I've walked her through poses. Her parents are both tall but not too tall, so it looks good from that aspect too. She'll probably have the right body type. She's current on fashion, trends and designers. But it's all a roulette, really. It's not something you can depend on." Tobe's lips twist, wryly. "A few mid-list designers liked me, and then a few upper-level designers liked me, and then I was doing some runway shows here and there. It was all luck. It was all a different life." He settles the photographs very firmly on the coffee table. "Now, if I know my pseudo-kid, I'm guessing he didn't finish up the tour? You should come see the view out the balcony, it's spectacular," and he smiles at Adewale, but Adewale can see the cracks at the edges that show the smile isn't real.

BFFs redux.

Jemima bursts through the bedroom door, ready to fight.

Her mom calls her 'little bull' because when she gets so angry, angry like this, she puts her head down and charges. She doesn't care what she breaks, even if she breaks herself.

She doesn't care that it's stupid Neal's stupid birthday.

"You fucker," she snarls.

Then she realizes that Neal is curled up not under the covers of his bed but on his closet's floor, hugging his knees to his chest and burying his face in his arms. Shaking. Not crying, because Neal doesn't cry.

He gets like this sometimes. Jemima never knows why or what will set him off, but apparently this time it was _her_. Which, okay, she maybe cares about that a little.

So she walks over and crawls into the closet and sits next to her best friend, knocking her knee against his elbow and clunking her forehead against his temple. "You're such a loser," she sighs, and takes his hand when he drops it down to her side.

Thud.

The view from the balcony is as spectacular as promised. Adewale and Tobe split a bottle of white wine and stare at the edge of the horizon, where the twilight is blooming up in shades of violet and umber. They're sitting in individual chairs facing outward, but the chairs are pushed close together, so it's fairly natural for Tobe to lean his head against Adewale's shoulder.

Adewale's heart goes _thud_ , and Tobe sighs, soft and sweet, and Adewale's heart goes _thud-thud_. This may very well kill him, he realizes, and in his mind calls himself an utter fool.

Curse this treacherous heart, Adewale Mufwene! Curse this voiceless, nameless, idiotic yearning!

And then Tobe turns his head just slightly and whispers just lightly into Adewale's ear, "Thank you for tonight," his breath hot and slightly boozy. "You're a good friend," he whispers on, "I think you're my best friend," and then Tobe kisses that ear, and kisses that cheek, and drifts down to kiss the outer curve of that mouth.

Adewale's heart is going: _THUD-THUD, THUD-THUD, THUD-THUD._

He leans back, breathless, terrified and exhilarated. He turns his head to look Tobe in the eye. He whispers, "What are you doing?"

"Shh," Tobe whispers back. Adewale is facing him now, so when he leans in for the next kiss he doesn't get the outer curve of that mouth, but the sweet full lips instead.

Adewale's heart is going: _THUD-THUD, THUD-THUD, THUD-THUD._

Tobe smiles against Adewale's mouth. The edge of Tobe's teeth graze against Adewale's lower lip.

You are only a mortal man, Adewale Mufwene. Even you are helpless before love.

Adewale kisses Tobe back.

**All kinds of temptations.  
**  
"Oh my god," Gwynn says blankly. "I think I just had an orgasm in my mouth."

Elvis chokes.

"This is very good," Ursa agrees, Bosnian accent rumbling with satisfaction, and pulls the spoon out of her mouth with a _pop_. "Save some for Orsin, he has a sweet tooth he does not admit."

"How in the world did you ever get Neal to share the rest of his birthday cake?" the Boss, aka Leena, asks.

Tobe grins. "Are you kidding me? If I left this in the apartment, he'd break out of school just to get home before me and finish it off. I'm saving myself from that inevitable sugar rush, crash and coma." He takes a bite out of his own slice of the cake. "I left him a little bit for dessert tonight, I'm not entirely cruel."

"Just mostly," Leena murmurs with approval. Then she glances at Adewale and says, "This is your personal recipe?"

"That's correct," Adewale nods, blessing again his skin which mostly hides a blush.

"Hmm," Leena says. Then she smiles. It immediately takes at least a decade off of her age. She has one of those kinds of smiles. "We should have a talk sometime soon. Remind me if I forget." Leena Simic is not the kind of woman to forget anything easily. Adewale swallows and nods, trying his best to look agreeable.

Tobe nudges his elbow against Adewale's, and gives him a reassuring sidelong glance. Once everyone has traipsed out of the kitchenette, plates of leftover birthday cake in hand, he says, "Don't look so nervous. Leena's great, and she likes you."

"I don't know how you can tell," Adewale mutters back. He feels the paranoid urge to look over his shoulder.

The Boss is an intimidating woman, though in an indescribable way. She doesn't wear power suits and she doesn't glare. If anything, her presence is overwhelmingly _kind_. She is like a mother who will always love you no matter your faults or failings, but whose disappointment is a deathblow to the ego.

Tobe nudges Adewale again. "Hey," he cajoles. "Calm down," and he smiles.

Adewale closes his eyes. Dear god, he thinks, killed by a smile: what a tombstone that would make. He musters up a smile of his own but is aware that it is sickly. "Tobe," he begins. And then he doesn't know what else to say.

Tobe glances quickly over Adewale's shoulder, checking the door and hallway, and then darts forward and kisses Adewale, very briefly, catching Adewale's lower lip between his two and nipping at it in a gentle tease. He leans back and his smile is gentler. "I meant what I said last night," he says. Then he takes his plate of cake and leaves the kitchenette, leaves Adewale standing there, bewildered and aroused.

What was it Tobe had said last night? He'd said: _I just... I just want to touch you, sometimes. I like you a lot. Is that okay? I'll stop when you tell me to stop._

It hadn't gone further than a few kisses. A few kisses, and then Neal and Jemima were galumphing down the hall towards them, whatever rift between them healed as quickly as it had appeared, babbling about constellations and star charts and Neal's birthday telescope. There were enough binoculars to share between whoever didn't have possession of the telescope, and Neal spent the rest of the night, until Adewale had to go home, pointing out galaxies other than their own.

_I'll stop when you tell me to stop_.

It's that easy, Adewale thinks. And it's that hard.

Down the hall in the main office, there's the sudden squawking of an outraged newly-teenaged kid. "Why are you all eating my cake? Stop that! Stop chewing! Put those spoons down!"

Shark-smiling bear... in space!

When Ursa smiles, somewhere a shark shudders and feels distinctly robbed of its teeth. "Dear boy," Ursa croons. "How was your birthday? In many cultures you would now be considered a man."

"Uh, it was great, thanks," Neal says. He likes Ursa, but is vaguely alarmed by how demonstrably Ursa likes him _back._ Ursa doesn't like anyone. It's one of the hallmarks of her personality. She's aesthetically austere, like a nun out of her habit, and renowned for speaking to others only in tones of condescension. But with Neal she almost seems to, well, _dote_.

"There should be a small present for you, if you'd care to look, in the top drawer of Orsin's side of the desk," Ursa says. She says _if you'd care to look_ , but she all but glows with excitement, waiting for him to investigate: so he, nervously, does.

He's readying himself to fake excitement when he opens the small present, but he doesn't have to, because it is pretty awesome. "Woah!" he says. "Woah, Ursa! _Oh my god._ "

"You like, yes?" Ursa rounds the corner of the desk to spread the tickets out on the surface. "You see, it is open for the dates, you can register for which weeks you like, arrange it with Tobiah."

"I can't believe this," Neal says, face numb with delight he's grinning so hard. "Ursa!" And he throws his arms around her. " _Thank you_ ," he breathes.

He feels her sigh, happy, and smoothen her hand against the top of his head down the back, like she's petting a cat. She does this twice and then pushes him away gently. "Yes, yes, good, I'm very glad you like it, you will have fun I think. It will be good for summer, lots of fun."

Neal looks up, beaming. "Tobe!" he calls out to his pseudo-dad. He waves the airplane tickets and the registration forms in the air. "Space camp! Tobe, oh my god, space camp!"

Tobe blinks and walks over. "What?" he asks, blankly. "Ursa – that's too much."

"No it's not!" Neal looks between Tobe and Ursa. "It's not, right, Ursa? It's not too much."

"It's just enough," Ursa says, firmly. "Besides it is also from Orsin. A gift from both of us makes it just right."

"Well," Tobe hesitates and bites his lower lip. "Well, I suppose. This is a very thoughtful gift, thank you. Isn't that right, Neal? _Very thoughtful._ "

Neal nods so hard he feels himself getting whiplash. "The thoughtfullest! And _the coolest_ , oh my god, _space camp_."

"The young should always reach for the stars," Ursa says, smiling, wistful, fond.

Complicit.

There are two days where, every time they are close enough, Tobe reaches out and touches Adewale. Adewale hadn't realized how very carefully Tobe had kept his distance before – close but never touching, mirroring Adewale's gestures but never making a connection – until quite suddenly he is inundated with Tobe's confident, deft touch. Nothing improper: a brief clasp around Adewale's wrist, a guiding hand to the small of Adewale's back, a way of leaning close.

On the third day Tobe says, "Are you still mostly unpacked? Neal's over at Jemima's tonight, I can help you at least get your living room sorted." Adewale knows what Tobe is really proposing. Adewale knows what will happen, and he says, "Yes," he says, "Okay," he says, "That would be – good."

He knows what will happen and he says all of these things, anyway.

Because science! redux.

Neal and Jemima are such exciting kids. Not.

Neal and Jemima are sitting in her bedroom, Jemima on the bed and Neal at the desk, remote access logged into their school workstations.

"Agh, motherfucker," Jemima says. "I only got a ninety on this exam. Fuckity fucking shitballs fuck."

"Boohoo," Neal says absentmindedly from where he is clicking his way through the brain-training exercises they have to complete every week. They're supposed to do something with the something and the neuro-whatever something in Neal's cognitive ability. He doesn't really know and he doesn't really care. They're a waste of time, but it's faster to just do them than it is to hack them every time.

Jemima throws a tiny pillow at his head. "Five more percent," she says. "Five more fucking percent and I could have skipped the memory reinforcement section."

"Five more percent and you wouldn't _need_ the memory reinforcement section," Neal taunts. Then, "Oh, come _on_ , you're already, what a year ahead in everything? At _least_? So what if this one little section will take you a little bit longer."

"So what? It's a time suck, and time sucks are cumu-fucking-lative, loser. I thought you were the one of us supposed to be good at math?"

Neal rolls his eyes and throws the tiny pillow back at her. It gets her on the nose and she squawks. "All systems contain a degree of loss in their function. It's the price we pay for living in an entropic universe."

"'Entropic universe', what the fuck," Jemima mocks. "Are you brushing up on your science talk for space camp? You don't want to fall behind all the rest of your fellow nerds?"

Neal's face lights up and he turns in his seat to look at her. "It's _space camp_ ," he says.

"I'm so happy for you that you will be among your people," Jemima says.

"Space camp," Neal repeats, reverently.

"It is so weird for those people to like, shell out, what, thousands of dollars to send you to space camp. Isn't that weird? It's weird. It's really fucking weird."

Neal shrugs. "Yeah, it's pretty weird," he agrees.

"Are they like, trying to adopt you? Trying to steal you out from Tobe's pseudo-dad grip?"

"What? No!"

Jemima shuts her laptop and flops onto her belly, kicking her feet up and cradling her chin in her interlaced fingers. "It probably wouldn't work anyway," she says. "I mean, I know you never see him, but you _do_ have an actual dad –"

"Tobe's an actual dad," Neal says, frowning.

Jemima rolls her eyes. "Yeah, he's totally old enough to be your dad."

"He is!"

Jemima gives Neal the sceptical eyes.

"Well, if he was a teen dad, I mean."

Jemima considers, judges and accepts this. "Yeah, okay," she says. Her expression goes dreamy. "Tobe as a teenager," she sighs.

"Ugh, oh my god, stop it," Neal says, horrified. "Stop picturing him as a teenager."

"Oh, Neal," Jemima chortles. "I'm picturing him as a _naked_ teenager."

"Oh, god, how are you such a horndog. How is this a thing that is happening to me. How."

Jemima grins widely. "He's over at Adewale's right now, right? Moving furniture around and stuff? I bet they're both getting sweaty. I bet they're both getting... _hot_."

"Oh my god stop it. Stop it stop it stop it. _Stop it_."

"Nuh uh! You can't make me stop. You can't control my brain!"

"You're the worst," Neal says, and gets out of the computer chair to tackle her. "The worst, the worst, the worst."

"Naked!" Jemima shouts, fending off his pointy tickling fingers. "Tobe and Adewale! The air conditioning breaks! They take their clothes off to cool down! Because science!"

"Noooo, stop it, stop using science to perv on my daaaaaad."

"Ahahaha," Jemima chortles. "Ahahaha," and laughs until she can't breathe.

The air conditioning breaks! They take their clothes off to cool down! Because science! (Is one excuse...)

Adewale Mufwene, this is the most awkward of times to be writing a list! Least of all writing that list on the skin of the one you love.

How disconcerting, Adewale Mufwene! How stalker-esque!

No, really, Adewale, this is creepy. Stop it.

But Adewale doesn't want to pull his touch away from the golden, silky skin of Tobe's abdomen, where he is tracing again and again the words he feels right this instant:

Wonder.  
Joy.  
Love.

And, because he is not in the habit of lying to anyone, not even himself, there is also:

_Guilt_.

"Mm," Tobe says, eyes closed and tone sleepy. He strokes Adewale's close-shorn hair and seems almost to vibrate with contentedness. "That's nice." His eyes slit open and his lips curve into a lazy smile. Tobe is always beautiful, but this is perhaps the _most_ beautiful Adewale has ever seen him. This moment, right now, with the early evening sunlight falling into the bedroom, where they are entangled, where they have made love.

And Adewale feels such _guilt_ , because it's not him who is supposed to be here. But the man who is, Neal's father, is nowhere to be seen.

And maybe there's guilt, but – Adewale presses a kiss below Tobe's navel, where the sensitive skin shivers – there's no regret.

The answer is because.

The chat client pops up.

"We are _sitting in the same room_ ," Neal says. He's returned to the desk, facing the wall.

Jaytoo's name wiggles in excitement, signalling she's typed something more.

"I mean, granted, my back is to you right now, but even so I can still _hear you_ if you say something. Try it. Speak out loud."

Jaytoo's name virtually writhes, and the clack of typing behind Neal takes on a loud, angry tone.

"Ugh, fine," Neal says and opens the client. He reads:

Jaytoo: omgbored.

Jaytoo: omgboooooored.

Jaytoo: i know we r sitting in the same room dumbass.

Jaytoo: wtf u condescending jackass wat if i strained my vocal chords did u ever think about that i think not. wat if i suddenly went deaf and couldnt hear u. wat if this is a cry for help. omg worst bestfriend.

Jaytoo: haha ur clicking on i win.

Jaytoo: i am the winner forever.

"I refuse to type anything back to you," Neal says.

Jaytoo: wat a sore loser.

Jaytoo: ;D

"Why are you winking at me," Neal says. "I am very uncomfortable with this. Stop it."

Jaytoo: ;D ;D ;D

" _Ugh_ ," Neal shudders. "Ugh, why."

Jaytoo: because. the answer is because.

Astroneal: OMG WHY ARE WE EVEN FRIENDS YOU ARE SO INCREDIBLY ANNOYING.

Jaytoo: ahahaha omg i win again u started typing ahaha omg i win 2 infinity and beyond.

Astroneal: D: STOPPIT YOU DON'T EVEN LIKE TOY STORY. YOU DON'T EVEN WANT TO BE AN ASTRONAUT.

Jaytoo: ;D ;D ;D

Jaytoo: welp this has been fun buuut i g2g back to work! u should too u don't want 2 end up like anderfailson. owait i forgot ur already a loser nowhere 2 go but up!

{Jaytoo has signed out.}

"You're the worst," Neal says, darkly.

{Astroneal has signed out.}

omg worst bestfriend.

The chat client pops up.

"What, _no_ , we just went through this like twenty minutes ago."

Jaytoo's name wiggles around like a live thing.

"I'm only clicking on this because it's less work than just ignoring you."

Jaytoo dances around, almost merrily.

Neal reads:

Jaytoo: astroneaaaaaaal.

Jaytoo: c'mon astroneaaaaaaal.

Jaytoo: way 2 make a girl feel all neglected.

Jaytoo: yay hi astroneal.

Astroneal: ...hi.

Jaytoo: i think all the words on the screen r swimming. swim swim little schools of fishy words.

"I think that's a sign that you should probably save everything and log out, actually," Neal says out loud.

Jaytoo: wat no logging out is for quitters. r u a quitter astroneaaaaaal. wat am i saying of course u r.

Jaytoo: i mean u r less of a quitter than every1 else at st fucking xaviers.

Jaytoo: wtf is up with all those kids they r like. still on 7th grade curriculum. losers.

Astroneal: to be fair, we're in the seventh grade.

Jaytoo: excuses! excuses r for losers. im a winner astroneaaaal. u r less of a winner but i guess i can drag u in2 a higher echelon of life. i am a good bestfriend that way.

Neal rolls his eyes.

Jaytoo: i saw that!

"How the hell?!"

Jemima audibly cackles.

Jaytoo: a girl has her ways.

Jaytoo: soooo astroneaaaaal. u have never said y u want to grad early. most losers are all about slacking. wat drives you astroneaaaaal.

"There is no reason. I'm bored. That's the reason."

Jaytoo: weak! i guess i shouldnt be surprised at a weak answer like that from a loser like u.

"I really think you should take a break now," Neal says. "You're starting to giggle hysterically. I can hear you trying to muffle it."

Jaytoo: that is just the wall. like when u r marathoning. and u hit the wall. u have to push past the wall neal. there is no motherfucking wall.

Jaytoo: see this is winner's talk. i am a winner and i am talking. u should heed my words neal. they r wise words.

"You're typing, actually."

Jaytoo: SEMANTICS.

Jaytoo: see me i am going 2 grad by age 16. and then. i am going 2 take the modeling world by the balls. and show it whos boss. im boss neal. the boss is motherfucking me.

Jaytoo: u will see.

Astroneal: i know. i believe in you.

Jaytoo: awwww best bestfriend.

Jaytoo: &heart

Astroneal: :)

Jaytoo: cmon best bestfriend i know theres another reason u want 2 grad early. a real reason. u can tell me.

Jaytoo: cmoooooon. best bestfriend. if u tell me i can help u. i am a winner, best bestfriend. if u tell me i will help u win.

Neal stares at the text, shaking his head lightly. There _is_ another reason, a real one. He's just never – said it out loud. He still can't. So he types:

Astroneal: it's because it's easier to get emancipated if you have your high school diploma or a ged.

Jaytoo: :O u want 2 get away from pseudo-dad?! omg poor tobiah. omg u h8 him. omg y. omg r u being abused. omg no but srsly r u.

Astroneal: no! that's not it at all.

Jaytoo: omg good. i am so relieved. i dont know if i couldve gone through in maiming tobiahs beautiful face. but i wouldve if i had 2 because i am an awesome bestfriend.

Astroneal: you know what i love about you, it's how you can turn something intensely personal to me into your own private dilemma and eventual triumph.

Jaytoo: thats y im a winner neal. thats wat makes a winner.

Astroneal: worst bestfriend.

Jaytoo: :D

Jaytoo: no but srsly wat is going on. y do u want 2 be emancipated. omg do u harbour a secret love that dare not speak its name for ur pseudo-dad? r u trying 2 make it legally and morally feasible 2 pursue him?

Astroneal: ...and we're back at the freudian place again. hello, old friends, how i have missed thee, electra and oedipus.

Astroneal: no, i'm not you. i don't lust after older men. or men at all. or anyone really, jesus, i'm only thirteen.

Jaytoo: if u were a girl u would be maturing so much faster than this. poor stunted neal.

Astroneal: being a kid isn't being stunted! agh do you want to hear this or not.

Jaytoo: yes yes ill shut up now go ahead bestfriend. i am listening.

Astroneal: well ok, so. you know tobe doesn't have a legal claim on me, right? so if something happens to my bio-dad, like he dies or um, loses a legal claim to me, my pseudo-dad can't keep me. the only family i have left is in canada and they all speak french. and not the kind of french we learn in school. it's like, regional. it's like, a dialect. so if my bio-dad dies not only do i not get to stay with tobe, i have to go live in another country with people i won't even be able to understand.

Astroneal: it's scary.

Astroneal: i think about it a lot.

Astroneal: if i can get emancipated i can stay with tobe. i mean i know everyone else who gets emancipated does it to get away from their dads but.

Astroneal: i don't want to leave him. if something happens to my bio-dad i mean.

Astroneal: so that's why i'm trying to grad early.

Jaytoo: wow.

Jaytoo: i had no idea.

Jaytoo: i had no idea it happened that fast.

Jaytoo: u have only been a teenager for like a week. and already u r like wah wah death wah wah deportation wah wah despair.

Astroneal: omg worst bestfriend ever.

Jaytoo: :D

But then real, physical best friend arms drop around Neal's shoulders, and Jemima hugs him tight. She doesn't say anything. She just squeezes him, so he knows she's there.

**One shade off from reality.**

When Elvis gets into work, Gwynn is sitting on his desk. She's cross-legged, wearing some sort of dull-brick red overalls, only tailored, with numerous spiky red hair clips stuck through her white-blonde hair. She looks like a modern art installation, and she's peering through the water cooler to the far side of the office.

"I can see the appeal," Gwynn says very seriously. "The _glub_ , I mean. It makes a soothing sound. You can stare at the shape the water makes as it moves. It's steadying, you know when to expect it, it gives each hour a rhythm."

"Er, yes," Elvis says, despite personally finding the water cooler annoying but convenient for his interpersonal issues. He feels himself start to sweat. "Er, that's exactly why I, um. Like it?"

Gwynn glances at him and smiles. "You've got depths, El," she says. "Vis? Huh, did you know –"

"Yes," Elvis says, sighing. "Yes, I know, my full name is almost a palindrome. 'Elvis Vissell.' It's ridiculous. I don't know what my parents were thinking. Or drinking. Or smoking, that's another option."

"I think it's charming," Gwynn says, dimpling at him. "Similar enough first and last names to make you double-take, but just dissimilar enough to cause dissonance. It's like when a subtly unreal shade is used in a painting. It makes everything else about the painting also feel surreal, even magical."

Elvis blinks and feels a blush start somewhere deeper than his heart, working its blood-hot way to his skin. "Wow," he says. "Um, I think that might be the nicest thing anyone's ever said about me?"

"Then people are pretty stupid," Gwynn says. Her dark, dark eyes are perfectly earnest. Then she grimaces and says, "Okay, they're being weird, right? They're totally being weird," and she gestures.

Tobe and Adewale are at the layout wall. They're motioning at it, like normal, and moving things around, as usual, and nodding as they talk to each other. "Um," Elvis says, because he doesn't want to disagree, but.

"No, I mean – okay, you know how they always do that thing where they – um, they, you know, they _mirror_ each other –"

"Oh!" Elvis looks again, squinting a bit in thought. "You're right," he says, his tone a slow dawn of realization. "They're completely out of sync. I wonder what happened?" But then he looks closer.

The way they look at each other, the way they're too careful, the way they seem to try to keep it all _normal_ , trying too hard to actually get there – and Elvis thinks he knows what happened.

He groans and palms his face. Because this really has little to no chance of ending well.

"What?" Gwynn whips her head around to stare at him. "You just realized something, what was it? Elvis!"

"No, no, I didn't," Elvis says, because what if he says something and he's wrong? What if he says something, and he's right? Either way, it's none of his business – _or_ Gwynn's, crush though he may have.

Gwynn narrows her eyes at him, but doesn't push. "Well, okay," she says, and hops off of the desk. "You want to get lunch today? There's a new place that just opened up, but it's a bit of a walk."

"Sure, sounds good," Elvis says, and she grins cheerily. It's only once she's gone that it hits Elvis: Gwynn asked to go for lunch with him, and him alone. He stares wide-eyed into the water cooler. "Gwynn wants to go to lunch with _me_ ," he whispers, wondrously. _Glub_ , the water cooler says back.

The details of the affair.

It happens two more times before it stops.

Both times are at Adewale's apartment. In Adewale's bed.

The first of these times is under another thinly veiled pretext. This time, the excuse is that Adewale will teach Tobe how to prepare a tricky dish. They don't even go into the kitchen.

The second of these times, they've given up on the excuses. They walk to Adewale's apartment together from the office, keeping a careful distance between them until they're in the stairwell, and then they hold hands for a brief instant before that's too much to bear and Tobe is pressing Adewale against the stairwell wall, his hands framing Adewale's face, their kiss needy and desperate. They barely manage to stumble all the way to Adewale's front door, not releasing one another even once. They barely manage to get Adewale's key in the door. They forget to lock it after them.

They pull each other into the bedroom, and get naked there, and fall together into the bed.

Tobe presses kiss after kiss against Adewale's skin, all over Adewale's skin, his mouth and the hollow of his throat and his chest and his hip and his thigh. "You want this, right, say you want this," Tobe begs, feverish, taking Adewale into one hand and stroking.

"Yes, yes, please, I want this, I want you," Adewale gasps, and curves his spine with desire as Tobe takes him in his mouth.

Adewale is never much good at speaking during sex – his brain goes liquid, as do his bones, and all he is becomes a muddle of nerves and energy and joy – but Tobe is adamant with his questions, will stop if Adewale doesn't answer -

_Do you like this?  
_ Yes.

_Do you want this?_  
Yes.

_Do you want me?_  
Yes, yes. Yes.

Adewale says yes. To everything, yes.

And it is the strangest thing, but Tobe in bed is even more opaque than Tobe at work or Tobe at home. His expression is intent and content, however; his expression is pleased. Adewale never knows what it is Tobe is thinking. He can only guess, and he knows he mostly guesses wrong. He doesn't know what goes on inside Tobe's mind, why Tobe has chosen Adewale, if Tobe ever feels guilt for this sin they are committing.

It stops because they are careless. Adewale is a fool, a fool in love, this is not news to him. And he thought it would be all right, or he didn't think at all, selfishly, but one mid-morning in the kitchenette at work, Tobe leans forward to give Adewale a small kiss, and Adewale kisses him back, and as the kiss ends, sees Neal standing in the hall.

Neal stands there for an eternal second. His eyes are shuttered and his expression is blank. He takes one step back, then two, then further until he's retreated down the hall, back into the main office. Tobe doesn't realize Neal was ever there. And Adewale feels a molten gush of shame, pooling deep in his belly, overtaking any arousal and dousing it, drowning it. He feels queasy with shame.

In all this, Adewale realizes, he has thought of himself, he has thought of Tobe, and he has thought of Tobe's oft-absent partner. But he hasn't thought of Neal. And how could he _do_ that? How could he be so cavalier with a child?

It stops because, at the beginning, Tobe had said: _I'll stop when you tell me stop._

It stops because Adewale says, "Stop."

Practicalities.

Gwynnifer has Opinions about workplace relationships; mainly, that they shouldn't happen. She's been down that road before. It's good, more than good, to become friends with your co-workers; it's not so good to become romantically or sexually involved with them. Because how do you know if the relationship is driven by genuine emotion and not proximity? It's unhealthy. And how do you know that the relationship won't negatively impact your work performance? That can get you fired.

Because she's not stupid, she knows when it begins between Adewale and Tobe; because she's not insensitive, she knows when it ends.

And she breathes a silent, private sigh of relief that it only lasted so long, and that they still seem amicable, and that the office life can continue apace, unperturbed. She's practical, for all she seems perpetually whimsical. The biggest change between the two, now, is that in addition to the lack of mirroring they used to do, they also keep a careful distance. They still smile and talk, but they no longer direct their smiles and words solely at one another. Gwynnifer is glad that the end came so peacefully, that the fall-out isn't nuclear.

But part of her also thinks, wistfully, _It's been a while since I've seen Tobe look so happy. It's sort of a shame._

Surprise, and then surprise again! Life is full of highs and lows, Adewale Mufwene.

Adewale is aware he goes through life in a type of stupor after he ends the affair. His heart is broken and it hurts, even though he was the one doing the breaking. He manages the professionalism to craft a smiling mask to carry him through the day-to-day, but at home he stops sleeping in his bedroom – how can he sleep there? Where every inch of the bed is a memory, where the bed is cold and lonely? – and naps on his living room couch; and for groceries he stops buying ingredients and gets pre-packaged cardboard meals, because it's not like he can tell the difference in taste with the state he's in, and it's not like he can even finish a meal, anyway. Everything turns to ash when he puts it in his mouth.

He's numb, and underneath the numbness, aching. He watches Tobe sit at his desk, in covert moments, from behind his computer screen. Tobe seems fine. Tobe always seems fine. Tobe had said, "Oh," and then, "All right," when Adewale had said they should stop. Tobe hadn't argued. He'd just taken a small step back when first he'd been leaning forward, not for a kiss but as if drawn, magnetically, closer to Adewale.

That had been the end.

No discussion, no argument, no last kiss. Just: "Oh," and, "All right."

Part of Adewale dearly wishes to get drunk. But his father had been a drunk. Not violent: just weepy. There had been a child before Adewale, and that child's loss haunts his father still. Being drunk had never made his father better, and being drunk won't help Adewale, either.

Part of Adewale dearly wishes to be angry – to transform the hurt into anger – that Tobe initiated this, that Tobe had no thought for Neal, that _Adewale_ had to be the one to end it. But, wrong though it may have been, the affair was a thing done by them both. Hypocrisy is another form of lying, and Adewale tries not to lie.

Part of Adewale dearly wishes to move on from this. To look back on their secret hours in fond sentiment, and go on with his life. But how can he accomplish this? Adewale Mufwene remains, now as before, a man in love.

But life goes on. And it goes on in this way:

"I think you should publish a book," Leena Simic says. She has invited Adewale into her office, which is a pleasant place filled with wooden furniture and green, growing plants, and natural light coming from large windows. Leena smiles, that smile that takes years off of her face, and leans forward over her desk, her wildly curling hair falling forward just slightly. "I've been showing some contacts of mine in the industry a few of your pieces. It will be a cookbook, but also a cultural collection of sorts. There has been a great deal of interest."

Adewale blinks, astonished. "I – well," he stammers.

"The magazine will sponsor you and support you, of course," Leena says briskly. "Ursa, Orsin and I have been discussing branching out, and we think this is the right move both for you and for all of us. It will raise everyone's profile. If you have a rudimentary proposal put together by next Thursday, I'll have Astrid Gammon, an agent whom I trust, come in and look it through with you. We'll go from there. Yes?"

"I – well," Adewale says, again, brain still stuttering. It abruptly falls back into working order and he manages to gulp out, " _Yes._ " And then, _"Thank you._ "

Leena waves one hand in the air dismissively. "You should have many opportunities. You are a kind man, Adewale, and a talented one. These two traits are not often both so strong within one person. I would like to see you go far in life, and I believe you will."

Adewale is still reeling with shock when he leaves Leena's office. He stumbles a bit, dazed, and Orsin is suddenly there to steady him.

"Ah, you have heard the news!" he beams. Orsin Govaj is slightly more approachable than his counterpart, Ursa. This is to say that he treats them all with the disdain of a lofty, celestial creature – but also with amusement, as if they, mere humans, provide him with lively entertainment. "I trust you have not been maddeningly humble, and have taken the offer?"

"The offer?" Gwynn chimes from her desk, where she and the truant Neal are sharing her computer as she teaches him how she does her job. "What offer?" Neal doesn't look up. He hasn't looked at Adewale for a while now.

"I – well," Adewale says, for the third time in too short a period. Then he finds himself happily, stupidly beaming. "There might be a cookbook being published with my name on it," he says.

Gwynn throws her arms up and goes _woo_.

Elvis sticks his head out from around the water cooler and says, "Hey, that's really neat, congratulations, man!"

Neal keeps his gaze down but also adds a, "Super cool, Adewale."

Tobe, over by the layout wall, says, "Daniel – what are you doing here?"

Adewale's gaze flies to him. Tobe is pale, shocked-looking.

"I thought I'd fly in and surprise you, my dear," a new voice, deep and sonorous, says from the office's entrance.

Neal jumps up, also pale, also surprised. "Dad!"

"Hello, Neal," the new voice says, as the man steps forward. He's tall and broad and powerful-looking, wearing a sharply tailored business suit that stands out in the casual-wear of the office. He has dark brown hair and pale blue eyes and he's classically handsome with a nose that looks as if it's been broken at one point in the past. Adewale's gaze unwillingly follows him. He has that type of charisma. He sounds amused when he says, "Aren't you supposed to be in school right now?" He sounds amused, but Neal flinches. Minutely. Everyone notices. The new man says, "I'm hurt. I don't even get a hello?"

"Hi, Dad," Neal says, and gets out from around Gwynn's desk and advances, presumably to give his father a hug. But Tobe crosses the office in an instant and is there first, drawing his partner into a brief, strange looking embrace. It's strange looking, Adewale realizes, because of how Tobe's posture remains entirely stiff throughout.

"Daniel," Tobe says, pulling back. "You should have let us know you were coming. We'd have... picked you up from the airport, if we'd known."

"Oh," Daniel says, smiling toothily, suave and handsome and somehow predatory. "I'm just here for the night. I made Senior Partner, and the firm rewards all those promoted up with a special dinner. I wanted to surprise you," he adds.

"Congratulations," Tobe says. "You've worked so hard."

There's something wrong with Tobe, Adewale registers. His words are losing inflection, his tone is becoming glass-like – flawless surface, but without depth.

Tobe turns to face the office. "Everyone," he says, "this is Daniel Lavoisier. Daniel, these are my co-workers. Orsin Govaj, Gwynnifer Wallander, Elvis Vissell and Adewale Mufwene."

Is it just Adewale's imagination, or does Tobe trip over his name?

"Great to meet all of you," Daniel says, beaming around. "I hope you don't mind that I steal this one out of here early. We need to go pick up his tux if we're going to make it to the dinner." He puts his hand down on the back of Tobe's neck. He's a large man, and he has a large hand. The span of it grips Tobe's neck with capable strength.

"I need to – we need to find someone to stay with Neal," Tobe says. His posture is rigid, drawn tight; and then it abruptly relaxes. He leans into Daniel's touch.  
Ah, Adewale thinks, feeling dismay and jealousy and guilt and shame all curdle together in his stomach; Tobe was only so strange with his partner because of the surprise, the shock, the long distance between his last embrace with his partner and this current one. Of course Tobe would melt against Daniel, once all these reactions had been worked through. Daniel is the man Tobe loves, after all. Daniel, and not Adewale.

"I'm thirteen now, I can stay at home alone," Neal argues.

" _Barely_ thirteen," Tobe says. "Can't you go to Jemima's?"

Neal shakes his head. "She has dance studio, and then after that she always crashes and goes to bed super early once she's home."

One by one the office occupants regretfully and ruefully say they have other plans that they can't cancel, until it's Adewale, and he says – cursing himself all the while, because this will be _so awkward_ , but he can't lie and say he has something when he really doesn't – "I'll keep Neal company." His gaze flicks from Neal to Tobe, meeting each pair of eyes. Then he looks to Daniel Lavoisier. Those pale blue eyes are unsettling, still and calm like ice on a frozen lake.

Tobe visibly hesitates. Then he says, "Yes – that would be great – thank you, Adewale." And Daniel's hand on Tobe's neck tightens.

Matrilineal.

"Huh, wow," Gwynnifer says. She's frowning at the space where Tobe used to be, standing with his partner. Neal's father. Daniel Lavoisier. _So_ not what Gwynn had always envisaged. Colder, for one; she didn't understand how someone so cold could have drawn Tobe, who loved warm things. They'd been together for a long while now, though. Maybe one or both of them had been different, when the love had begun.

"I know, right," Neal says, rolling his eyes. "Typical dad. Blows through town, monopolizes Tobe's time without a moment's notice, and is gone by morning." The words are a bit flippant but the tone is – ugly. Angry. Neal is never angry. Neal sits back down at Gwynn's desk and jabs at his netbook, his fingers stabbing fretfully, vengefully.

"Aww, I'm sure your dad will spend some time with just you before he has to fly back out," Gwynn says, consoling. She turns away to give Neal some privacy with his upset, and so misses the flash of fear that spears across his face.

Orsin doesn't, and he wonders.

"Lavoisier... your last name is Brulé, isn't it?" Elvis pokes his head around the water cooler again, looking like some sort of underground dwelling rodent.

"I use my mom's name," Neal says. He shrugs, and adds, "I like it better."

This is the truth, but it's not the complete truth.

Conversation in a moving car.

There's a town car. It takes them to the apartment. Daniel stays in the backseat while Tobe goes to get changed, and then the town car takes them to Daniel's hotel, where he also changes. It's one of those four star hotels, high rise and opulent. An inflated status symbol with accompanying inflated price tag. Daniel comes down in a tuxedo sharp enough to cut. Tobe stares at Daniel walking toward the town car across the parking lot and feels nothing but disgust and distrust.

In the back of the town car as it drives them to _another_ status symbol hotel Daniel attempts to press Tobe against the car door. Daniel puts one hand, familiarly, on Tobe's hip, and caresses. He tries to ducks his head close and take a kiss, but Tobe turns his head at the last second and Daniel gets his cheek instead. He chuckles against Tobe's cheekbone.

"Playing hard to get?"

This close, when Tobe speaks it's almost directly into Daniel's ear. "Playing I have a taser aimed at your balls."

Daniel stills. Then carefully draws back. He's still got an amused expression on his face, but it's a mask now, hiding the carefully banked rage. He glances down. Indeed, there is a taser in Tobe's hand, and indeed, it is pointed at Daniel's crotch.

Tobe smiles, sweetly, fakely. "Since you don't seem to hear it when I _say_ no, I thought I'd give you some other incentive to pay attention."

"Oh, not this again," Daniel rolls his eyes. He straightens his cuffs. He adjusts his bow tie, and glances out the window to the passing scenery. "I never forced you, Tobiah," he says, faux-patient. "In fact, I seem to remember you begging for it."

"To _stop_ ," Tobe grits out. He slides the taser back in his hidden pocket. The tailoring is done well enough that the shape it makes is barely discernible in the cut of the jacket. Then he straightens his cuffs, adjusts his collar, and looks out his own window. Off-hand, he adds, "You really shouldn't have blindsided me like that at work. That's not what we agreed."

"Oh, I'm sure you'll make me pay for it," Daniel says, dismissive.

"Oh, I really will," Tobe says, just as casual. Then he adds, sharply, "But you'll pay more for Neal."

"What – _that_ was out of my control. How was I supposed to know he'd be skipping school?"

"You'd know if you phoned ahead, like we agreed."

Daniel rolls his eyes. "You've gotten unreasonable in your old age," he says. "I remember when you hung on every word I said –"

"I remember when you said you didn't want or need a son, and I could take him, if I loved him so much." Tobe swallows. "That means you don't get to talk to him, or look at him, or act like he's supposed to give you a _hug_ –"

"Jesus fucking Christ," Daniel mutters. "We have to keep up appearances, don't we? Isn't that what I get out of this –" he makes a terse gesture with one hand, still not looking at Tobe, "ridiculous business?"

"You get," Tobe says, slowly and with great deliberation, "exactly what you need from this. Just like I do. And _no more_ than that."

"Yes, yes, I get it," Daniel scowls. "Hands to myself. Trust me, with the way you've let yourself go, it's no hardship."

Tobe bares his teeth at Daniel in what someone very stupid could mistake for a smile. "You just keep telling yourself that," he says.

The town car pulls into the hotel's loop, where those being dropped off can make an elegant enough entrance. Tobe and Daniel get out, steeling themselves to get through this celebratory dinner, hopefully without tearing one another to pieces.

Dinner for two.

Neal scowls across the endearingly ugly kitchen table at Adewale, and stabs into his pasta.

Adewale keenly feels as if that fork is intended for his own heart. He can barely eat, himself, despite having been the one to cook this meal. So awkward, this evening, so full of brooding, angry silences. Adewale takes a gulp of water and swallows it down.

Neal watches his every movement like a predator stalking prey.

It is incredibly unnerving.

Finally, Adewale says, "Neal, I'm _sorry_. I never intended – I'm not going to make trouble for your family. I won't tell your dad anything. I won't destroy what you have, I swear. What was happening, I ended it, it's over, it should never have been –"

"Why _not_ ," Neal cries out and slams his utensil against the plate. He throws back his chair as he stands, glaring at Adewale: and Adewale remembers, vividly, the suddenness of Neal's outburst towards Jemima, the quick flare of his anger and his sudden retreat. " _You_ were happy, and _Tobe_ was happy, and I don't know why you had to _ruin_ it all. You're so _stupid_." And he takes off, leaving his plate half-full, his retreat punctuated by the sudden slam of his bedroom door.

Poison, in its many forms.

It's like swan-diving into a pit of pythons. Tobe is surrounded by cold blooded reptiles. They smile and know his name, but Tobe knows they'd rather swallow him whole and spit out his bones than give him a kind word or thought.

He falls back to his model face. That blank expression that he learned to put on while wearing some designer's work of sartorial art. Tobe's mannequin face, Neal called it back then, when they would play the game where Neal would pass one hand over Tobe's face and it would animate, pass the other hand over and it would deaden. Neal had been so young. His fingers were still chubby. He never broke any rules. He wanted, desperately, to be good. Remembering Neal as he was at eight and nine breaks Tobe's heart and renews his resolve: he'll get through this night, and Daniel will fly back to whatever city the firm has moved him to lately, and Tobe and Neal can go back to their happily ever after.

Everyone at the firm knows who Tobe is, of course; they coo and croon that he's fallen so far out of touch, does he know so and so did this and so and so did that? They simper that he has to come back into the social fold, that he has been missed. They're vipers with poison-filled fangs. It's torturous and interminable and it doesn't seem like it'll ever end, until Daniel swoops to his elbow and whispers in his ear, intimate to any onlookers, that they've put on enough of a show and can leave now, if Tobe would like.

Tobe finishes off his champagne and puts the glass back on a passing server's platter, and smiles enigmatically while saying, under his breath but no less fervent for that, " _Yes._ "

Daniel keeps one arm around Tobe, hand resting against Tobe's elbow, guiding him out the hotel's reception hall. Tobe wants to shake him off or elbow him in the gut, but he doesn't. They pass through the glamorous decorations, nodding and smiling goodbyes to those they leave, until they're out in the hallway and heading for the exit. Tobe starts to breathe a sigh of relief, even though he still can't shake Daniel off just yet, but then he stumbles. What? His knees feel suddenly heavy, and his feet, and his neck and his head. Everything feels heavy and slow.

"What did you _do_ ," Tobe breathes, and Daniel's hand on his elbow draws Tobe closer to Daniel's body.

"You're so tense," Daniel murmurs against the side of Tobe's head. "It can't be healthy for you. My dear." He smiles. Tobe can feel his smile, can hear it, even. "Don't worry. I'll take care of you."

Things get dizzying and confusing. There's an elevator, a hall, a card-key and a door. Daniel has to drag him, because Tobe can't make his legs walk. There's a bed. Tobe lands on his face and can't breathe. Daniel mutters behind him, his tone that familiar mix of anger and arousal that still makes Tobe flinch. Oh, god, what's happening. Tobe tries to make his hands work, tries to get to the taser, but Daniel rips his jacket off and throws it to the far corner of the room. He works on getting Tobe's pants off, huge hands rough. Tobe registers things in flashes of impressions. Daniel's chuckle, ugly, as he pushes Tobe's shirt up around his armpits, and puts his hand on the small of Tobe's back. The way the air is cold and Daniel is hot. The soft press of the comforter against Tobe's cheek. How the comforter is glossy deep purple.

Daniel says, "Fucking _whore_ you think you can tell _me_ what I can and can't do."

Daniel says, "I'll show you, _I'll show you,_ " and hurts him.

Daniel says, "You say you don't, but you still want it, you want me, baby, come on."

And Tobe says, slurring, tongue heavy – fighting to make the words intelligible – "October, sixth. Th' – the _witness_."

And Daniel – stops. "What?"

"Get... _off_ ... me," Tobe slurs out.

Tobe's whole body feels numb and barely registers when Daniel pulls away, though he hears the slick sick sound of it. Then Daniel rolls him over and scowls at him, thick brows drawn heavy over his eyes. "What about October the sixth," Daniel bites out.

"I _know_ ," Tobe says. His brain feels – distant. His thoughts feel like... he doesn't know what he knows, he can't grasp it, but whatever it is, he knows what it is when he's not – not being – he _knows_ that this is something that will make Daniel stop. He licks his lips and feels his eyes glaze. Whatever he's been dosed with has made him thirsty. "You thought..." Tobe blinks, slowly, "that I only had _that_ on you? I have... so much... _more._ "

Daniel raises his hand to strike him and it makes Tobe laugh, helplessly, kitten-weak. Daniel lowers his hand. He sets his jaw. "I go down," he says, "and you lose Neal."

Tobe can't stop laughing. But his muscles are all – liquid. So the laugh comes out like a gurgle. He manages to get out, "You'll... just be... disbarred. No jail time. Not... for October sixth." Then he smiles and he knows he looks crazy, because he _is_ crazy, but only because Daniel made him this way. "You'll pay," he slurs, "and pay and _pay_."

Daniel's glare intensifies. But he does up his pants, motions jerky and rough, and straightens himself up, and leaves.

Tobe lies on the bed, unable to move, and blinks at the ceiling. After a while the ceiling blurs. And it's stupid, but this is what breaks him the most, that he can't even lift a hand to wipe the tears away.

Dear Adewale Mufwene, please, get a clue.

When Tobe gets home, it's obvious he's showered. His hair is still slightly wet, glinting in the dimmed entranceway lights, and he smells of unfamiliar soap.  
Adewale scolds the jealousy he feels beginning to form in his stomach, in his heart and in his throat. He has no right to feel jealousy. "Welcome back," he says instead.

"Adewale," Tobe blinks. Then he seems to shake himself, and he smiles, though it's not a real smile. Adewale can always tell the difference. "Sorry I was out so long. I – couldn't call, or I would have told you I'd be delayed. Is Neal all right?"

"He's fine," Adewale says, though that's a debateable fact. "He's been in his room most of the night. When I looked in on him, it seemed like he was doing schoolwork?"

"Oh, yeah, he likes to work ahead," Tobe says. He staggers a little as he walks forward, and he keeps close to one wall. He looks exhausted. "Thank you for looking after him tonight. I, well, I know it's been a little strange between us. But I'm glad you're still. You know." He looks up, and his eyes are glassy as they meet Adewale's. "I'm glad we're still friends."

"I – so am I, Tobe," Adewale says, the words almost choking him. Then he has to look away and ask, "You're here alone, your – um, Daniel, is he coming up soon?" Just to remind himself that it's not his place to be more than friends with Tobe, or to _want_ to be more than friends with Tobe.

"No," Tobe says. His eyes widen and his chin jerks to one side, as if he's stopped himself mid shake. "No, he's gone. He's. On a flight. Late flight. Away." He swallows. "He's not coming back," Tobe says, with a kind of dead-eyed finality. He steps forward again, and again, until he's close to Adewale – within touching distance. He whispers, "Five years from now... will we still be friends?"

And he lifts his eyes and looks at Adewale, and Adewale wants to kiss him.

But instead Adewale says, sincere, "I believe we'll always be friends."

"Good," Tobe breathes. And hugs Adewale, with shaking hands.

Deus ex machina.

Neither Tobe nor Neal shows up for work or school the next day, or the day after that. On the third day life returns to normal. The fourth and fifth days are the weekend. The sixth and seventh days are as usual. On the eighth day, Leena calls Tobe into her office.

"I think you know what this is about," she says.

Tobe blinks and straightens in his seat. "I don't, actually, Leena," he says.

"Adewale hasn't asked you yet? It concerns the book proposal. We were hoping you could run an eye over it before the agent comes tomorrow, if you're amenable and not busy with other work matters."

"I'd be glad to," Tobe says. "I'll just go ask him for a copy of it."

He starts to stand, but Leena stops him with a kindly, "Tobiah."

Tobe settles back down.

Leena looks at him with infinite compassion in her warm hazel eyes. "Things have been strained in the office as of late. Particularly between you and Adewale."

"Um, yes," Tobe says, resisting the urge to squirm. "We're – working on it. On making it better."

Leena tilts her head. She says, "I have always thought of you as a sad person, Tobiah. You became happier when Adewale started working here, don't think I didn't notice. You began to glow. But now, you're back to sadness." She pauses. "The way you are with Neal – you're a father. And parents will do, and suffer through, many terrible things for their children. No," she shakes her head, forestalling the words Tobe is preparing to speak, "you don't have to explain anything. It's not my business. These are just my observations, you understand. I care for you. You have been a part of this magazine for a long time now, and you have done good, solid work. You're a good man and an excellent father. You deserve happiness."

She sighs. "You know, I think, that Ursa and Orsin and I came over to start a business in this country after having successfully run a publication back home. It was a political publication. I don't believe you knew that. We did good work, then. We uncovered many injustices, we helped many who needed to have their stories told. And then we came here, to be happy after our long sad work, and we decided to start a travel and culture magazine. Because we all come from somewhere, and we are all going somewhere, and because the journey is the important part of it all. The exploration is what makes us come alive. Or so we believe. We did this thing to be happy, and we have found our happiness."

Leena leans forward, expression solemn. "I believe you should do what you can to find your happiness again. This is just my opinion, and you don't have to heed it, though I am the boss." She smiles, wryly, and leans back. "That's all, Tobiah. I won't keep you any longer."

Tobe swallows and stands. He feels the odd urge to _bow_ , of all things. Instead he says, "Thank you, Leena," and leaves; and he'd probably turn Leena's words over and eventually dismiss them as inapplicable to his current situation, if not for what Gwynn says as soon as he exits the office:

"Tobe! Neal's school just phoned, he's been in a _fight_."

Worst pseudo-dad.

Once the conference with the Andersons and the Headmaster is concluded, Tobe takes Neal to the diner. Thu bustles over, beaming, and settles them in their booth and brings them complimentary cold rolls, and sweet coffee for Tobe and sweet cocoa for Neal. Neal keeps his eyes firmly on his hands, downcast, while Tobe waits him out.

Finally, Neal bursts. "He's an idiot!" he cries. "Garrett Anderson is _so dense_ I'm astonished his head hasn't become a black hole."

Tobe's lips quirk. "Still," he says. "You beating his face black and blue is probably not helping his brain any."

"He insulted Jemima," Neal tacks on, curling his lip.

Tobe's brows rise. "Let me get this straight," he says. "You attacked someone... on _Jemima_ 's behalf? _Jemima_?"

Neal fidgets. "Okay, so, she's kind of pissed at me that I did it before she could," he admits. Tobe bites back a grin. Neal shrugs, morose, and takes a tiny sip of his cocoa. Once he's put the mug back down, he says, "I was angry. That's why I did it. Okay? I was just. I was really mad."

"You were really mad at Garrett Anderson?"

"Yes." Neal fidgets some more. "No," he says. "I'm just –"

"You're mad about Daniel?"

Neal shrugs. "Maybe," he says. "I guess so. I don't know." He swallows. His face feels suddenly hot, like all the blood has rushed to it; but it's not a blush. He fights back tears. It would be such a little kid thing to do, crying to get out of being in trouble. Not that that's why he feels like crying. He doesn't know why he feels like crying, he just does. "I hate that I'm like him," Neal admits, voice small. "I wish – I wish I could just. Tear everything out in me that's like him. I get so angry sometimes and I know, I _know_ that's how he is, and I just. I _hate it_."

"Neal..." Tobe bites his lip. "You're not like Daniel. You're not like him at all."

"Yes, I am!" Neal looks up, eyes blazing. "He's my dad! I have to be like him, I have half his genes. That's _science_."

"No," Tobe says. "Neal, _no_. Daniel is – remember, when you were little, you told me –"

"- that it was like there was a monster walking around the apartment wearing a human face," Neal says. "And everyone thought the monster was a great man, and that I should be happy to call him dad, but it was still a monster. I remember."

"You're not a monster," Tobe says.

"I beat up Anderson," Neal says.

"Yeah, well," Tobe says. "He insulted Jemima. Also, he's an idiot."

Neal cracks up. "Oh my god, you're not supposed to say that to me, oh jeez, worst pseudo-dad."

Tobe tucks a grin away. Then he says, seriously, "You can tell me these things, you know. You don't have to keep them bottled up. I know we can't really talk to anyone else about all this, but you can talk to me. You can talk to the people you trust. You should probably talk to Jemima. She'll keep your secrets."

" _Our_ secrets," Neal reminds him.

"Our secrets," Tobe agrees. Then he sighs. "Just a few more years, and we never have to see him again. It'll be over soon."

"Maybe sooner than we think," Neal says. He pins Tobe with a laser gaze. "You can talk to me, too," he says. "You don't have to protect me all the time just because I'm your kid."

"Yes, I do," Tobe says.

Neal rolls his eyes. "We're in this together," he says. "Aren't we? I'm the one who hacked dad's computer in the first place. And I'm the reason you even, I'm why you _stayed_. Even when he was at his worst. I know you think I don't get that, but I do. So – you can talk to me. You should talk to me. You should talk to the people you trust."

Tobe smiles, affectionate. "I stayed because I love you," he says. Then his gaze trails away and he looks into the distance. "But maybe you're right. Maybe I should talk about this more." He looks at Neal, his expression infinitely tender. "With the people I trust."

**Literary stalking is an expression of love.**

When Adewale opens his apartment door, Tobe is on the other side. He's biting his lip and holding a binder in both hands. "Hi," he says. "I hope you're not busy."

"Ah, no," Adewale says. He hesitates, then stands aside, for Tobe to come in, and then closes the door after him.

They stand awkwardly in the living room before Tobe thrusts the binder forward. "I thought this might help you," he says. "It's, I read your book proposal. It was well done but there were a few gaps. I know you, um. You still have a lot of unpacking to do, so maybe you don't have access to all of your, uh, articles, so."

Adewale blinks and takes the binder. It's dark green vinyl. Adewale's fingertips brush against Tobe's, and an electric current seems to run through them at the point of contact. Each man jumps, startled, and steps forward just slightly. "Thank you?" Adewale hazards, and opens the binder. There are clear plastic slip covers inside, each slip cover containing – "Are these _all_ of my articles?" Adewale flips through, befuddled and amazed. They are. All of Adewale's articles, even the ones not published in Over Sea, Over Air, Over There – all of them, dating even from before Adewale first began traveling.

"I told you I liked your work," Tobe jokes. Then he shakes his head, as if berating himself. "No, I mean. I – I _love_ your work. The first thing I read, it was, um. Just a small thing, it was in an airline magazine, I read it while I was flying from a photo-shoot to a runway, years ago."

Adewale remembers that one. "About Morocco?"

"Yes," Tobe says. "That one. I looked for more of your work after that. I loved – the way you wrote. Not just about food but about people, and the world. How you described things. I, um," he shifts a little and looks shy. "I was the one to mention you to Orsin, way back. He's the one who tends to contact most new freelancers. He liked you too. And then we started hiring you. And then, uh. You came to work with us."

Adewale's mouth feels dry. "Oh," he says, blank, shocked. "I –"

"You don't owe me anything," Tobe says. "I'm not saying you owe me anything. I'm just saying, I... Even before I knew you, I really... I really liked you. And then I met you, and I – liked you more. You were just... I just, the first time I met you, when Leena introduced you to everyone – I just, right away, I really... I liked you so much. And... I'm sorry. I shouldn't have, well, started anything with you, not the way I did." Tobe shrugs and looks slightly lost. It's strange, how uncertain Tobe is, how much it makes Adewale feel like he's seeing Tobe for the first time. "I can't explain everything, and I'm sorry, and – I knew you were a good person, I knew you would feel horrible about what we were doing, but I'm still glad you wanted to do it. And that you did it. And – I don't want you to feel like a horrible person, if you still do, so – I should tell you, I think you should know, but there's a reason I _can't_ tell you."

Tobe is babbling. Adewale feels slightly dazed. He's never seen Tobe babble.

"But – Daniel, he's not. I'm not with him. Not like how you think. He's not... a good person, but he's Neal's father. We have an arrangement. I'm, well. You can't really tell anyone this. _I_ shouldn't be telling you this, but – I trust you, so –" Tobe shrugs, helplessly, expression open and heart-breaking, eyes huge. "I _trust_ you," he repeats. "The happiest I've been in a long time was when I was with you. Can you believe me?"

"I," Adewale says, dizzy, something joyous being born inside of him. "Yes," he says, "I can, I do, I believe you."

"So –" Tobe says, so blatantly, nakedly hopeful, "so can we – can I –"

And Adewale leans forward, and Adewale kisses him.

BFFs, part three.

The chat client pops up. Jemima glares and clicks it open.

Astroneal: uh hi?

Jaytoo: wtf loser wat part of "dont talk 2 me until i talk 2 u" dont u understand.

Jaytoo: is it all of it. do i need 2 make it more loser-appropriate. do i need 2 dumb it down for u.

Astroneal: i said i was sorry.... :(

Jaytoo: u made me look WEAK. i am NOT WEAK.

Astroneal: i'm really sorry?

Jaytoo: WEAK.

Astroneal: really, REALLY sorry?

Jaytoo: if i need 2 cut a bitch ill be the one doing the cutting. NOT U.

Astroneal: ahhh jesus fuck i'm sorry for all time, okay?!

Jaytoo: thats right u are. ugh. welp at least anderfailsons head made that awesome sound when u punched him in2 the wall.

Astroneal: ikr it was pretty sweet.

Astroneal: my lumberjack genetics make me badass. because science.

Jaytoo: u cannot see it but my eyes r rolling.

Jaytoo: so did pseudo-dad chew u out for being all delinquent.

Astroneal: ahaha no tobe was like "good job son here have a cigar".

Jaytoo: the coolest thing about u is ur pseudo-dad.

Astroneal: i know you think that's a pretty sick burn, but tobe is pretty cool so i am all right with that.

Jaytoo: all the eyes. all the rolling.

Jaytoo: so wat is that it. is that all u had 2 say. is that y u decided 2 disturb my valuable study time.

Astroneal: idk, tobe kind of made a good point while we were smoking our cigars.

Jaytoo: ...cigars. ahahahaha.

Astroneal: what no stoppit. i was lying, there were no cigars.

Jaytoo: ahahahaha and u call ME the freudian ahahahaha.

Astroneal: omg worst bestfriend.

Jaytoo: ;D

Jaytoo: ok but u were saying?

Astroneal: ugh. okay so. i uh. have a pretty big secret.

Jaytoo: is it that ur in &heart with tobe.

Astroneal: D: why whyyyyy.

Jaytoo: because. :D

Astroneal: no. NO. do you want to hear this secret or not.

Jaytoo: idk is it good or is it more loser talk?

Astroneal: it involves bribery.

Jaytoo: :O woooow i didnt know u had it in u. or is someone bribing u. do u need me 2 cut a bitch astroneal? i can cut a bitch. all the bitches.

Astroneal: no, no, it's me. and it's tobe. it's both of us. hm. this is kind of hard to really, uh, tell you, actually. i thought it would be easier if i did it online but, huh, i'm so used to not talking about it...

Jaytoo: u can tell me anything.

Astroneal: i know :)

Astroneal: ok, so.

Astroneal: it's like this...

Epilogue: 4 months later

Jemima's cell trills the Darth Vader theme, which means Neal's hacked it again. What a dweeb. "What do you want, loser?"

"Why is no one here when I am here? I thought someone was supposed to be here." Before he went off to space camp, Neal's voice was starting to break. It was _hilarious._ But now, weeks later, it's all smooth and, ugh, deep.

"What are you talking about? Your flight doesn't get in until tomorrow."

"Uh, well, I hate to break it to you, but no." There's a shuffling sound and then busy airport noises filter through the line. "I'm here right now. Where no one else is here right now."

"Aww, is baby Neal having abandonment issues? Just because your pseudo-dad has replaced you with a superhot boyfriend doesn't mean you need to pout. Poor widdle baby Neal." Jemima checks her wallet for cab fare, then checks her house keys, then slings on her purse and jams her feet in sandals and heads out the door.

"So mean, Jimmy-ima, so mean," Neal pouts. Jemima can _hear_ him pouting.

"Motherfucker, stop calling me that."

Neal cackles in her ear. "Sooo," he drawls out. "Do you know why I can't get Adewale or Tobe on the phone?"

"Duh." Jemima rolls her eyes. "I bet they're taking advantage of not having you in the apartment to fuck in your bedroom. I mean, that's what I would do if I thought my pseudo-kid were coming home tomorrow. Obviously."

"Ugh why, _why_ , do you always have to talk about my pseudo-parents fornicating?"

"Because it is literally all I think about it. I am thinking about it _right now_ , Neal. Right now." She lucks out and finds a cab almost right away, giving the driver quick directions as she climbs into the backseat and buckles in. "Why are you here ahead of schedule anyway?"

"I don't know who made and handed out these schedules. _My_ schedule always had me coming back today, at this time. I don't know what _your_ schedule says –"

Jemima's eyes narrow. "That's your lying voice. What are you lying about, baby Neal? It's so cute that you still think you can pull one over on me."

There's a minor hesitation down the line. Then Neal sighs and says, "Okay, so, you know how the bio-dad like, got brutally mugged and assaulted a few days ago?"

"Irrefutable proof of karmic justice, yes, I remember that," Jemima says.

"So... hm, well. This is kind of awkward to say, but I think I might have actually had something to do with that? In a roundabout way. Involving, uh, certain contacts that Orsin – you know Orsin? He and Ursa sent me to space camp – kept from Europe. That might be, uh. Connected. Family-wise. If you get my drift."

"Oh my god, _what_ , are you fucking _serious right now_?!"

"Haha, no, what, you actually bought that?"

Jemima pulls her cell from her ear so she can stare at it, incredulous and incensed. Then she shrieks back into it, "Neal, you asshole."

"Haha, yeah," Neal says. "Anyway the reason why I'm back early is I heard that the bio-dad was trying to pressure Tobe into flying out there to take care of him. Which, you know, fuck that noise."

"Fuck it with a twelve inch dildo," Jemima agrees. "You get that you didn't have to worry though, right? Adewale's here, he's keeping the bio-douche from guilt-pressuring Tobe into being stupid. Not that Tobe is easily pressured into being stupid _anyway_."

"A pseudo-kid worries, what can I say," Neal says. "Tobe said some things that made me think he was considering it, and then I couldn't really get a hold of either of them, so – early flight, not a hard decision."

"Just a dumbass one." Jemima rolls her eyes. "Ugh, for such a genius, you're pretty stupid."

The cab pulls up to a stop and lets her out; she hands over her wads of cash and gets roughly a quarter of it back, after tip.

"I don't need to be smart when I've got you," Neal smarms.

Jemima pushes through the entrance doors, brushing past fellow greeters of idiot travelers. "What's this talk, you've ' _got me_ '? When did that happen? That's not a thing that happened."

"Why Jemjem, with talk like that, you'll make me think you didn't miss me."

"That's because I didn't, loser. If anyone's doing the missing, it's you for me." Jemima cranes her neck and looks around. Where's that idiot? Arrivals gate, arrivals gate... He probably moved on from there, though.

"Heh, you're _literally_ missing me, like, right now," Neal laughs.

Jemima rolls her eyes some more. "What the fuck is up with all that laughing, motherfucker –" She has so much practice ignoring the startled looks of eavesdropping passersby who don't expect her foul language. She's about where Neal should be. She scans around, and doesn't see him.

"Hey Jemima," Neal says. "Look up."

Jemima looks up. Her eyes widen and she almost says _whoa_ , but bites it back at the last second.

"Look who got his growth spurt," Neal says, smugly near six feet tall and climbing. His bright blue eyes sparkle devilishly, devastatingly. "Don't deny. We both knew it was going to happen. Because science."

