Page 99 of Jinxes and Drumsticks

“There is no but. No caveat. That is an indisputable fact. I care about your happiness. I care about your wellbeing. That has always been the case and will never change.”

“Then why?”

“I simply don’t engage in interpersonal relationships the way you do,” he says. “I think it goes without saying how highly I regard you. I don’t see the need to flatter you and shower you with praise. It would be patronizing and useless to do that. I’ve told you multiple times that I’d marry you with no hesitation, but you’re not interested in that.”

“You want to marry me to make all-powerful witch babies,” I say bitterly.

“One of many reasons I see you as an advantageous marriage prospect, yes,” he says. “You’re also an excellent cook, and easy on the eyes. I’ve very much enjoyed fucking you in the past—more than I have anyone else so far.”

“Bastion, do you not hear how you speak about this?” I say, suddenly exhausted. “Not everything has to be a chess move.”

“Lilipad, this is simply how I think,” he says. “There is more to life than romance and companionship.”

I realize all at once that this is why we never worked out into anything stable or permanent. Bastion is far too good at compartmentalizing the facets of our lives. A place for everything, and everything in its place, even down to his relationships. If I’m a messy palette smeared with different swathes of oil paints that never quite dry, he’s a tidy tray of watercolors, each little cube of pigment pristine. Nothing ever missing—nothing ever overused.

Compared to him, Damien is a goddamn tray of paint buckets thrown against a canvas, excess dripping to the floor and making art of that, too. He showers me in every part of him. The love, the regard, the admiration, the stern hand, the humor—he’s constantly, overwhelmingly, charmingly him at all times, and he has no fear of letting me know exactly how obsessed he is with me. There is nothing tidy about how he loves, and it’s thrilling.

Gods, I miss him.

And it’s okay that Bastion isn’t like him. If he had been, I wouldn’t get to enjoy Damien the way I’m enjoying him now. It’s okay that we aren’t compatible as partners. It’s okay that Bastion isn’t unraveling because I love someone else deeper than him and in different ways.

I don’t know if he senses my racing thoughts, but he takes my hand in one of his.

“I’m sorry for giving you the impression I ever thought of you as disposable or forgettable,” he says. “I know I’m an ass—but I have no problem with being the me that I am, so long as you know that you and Wren are the closest thing I have to family in this world. I will always show up and protect you and root for your happiness, regardless of whether your taste in men is... baffling. I have no desire to disrupt your pursuit of a fulfilling life. If you care about someone, I will at least make sure you’re in every position to continue caring about them.” He shakes his head and adds as an aside, “I still can’t believe you thought I would hex your lover.”

I snort at his use of the word, shaking my head along with him. “You really do sound like a Sondheim character,” I mutter.

“A who?”

“Nothing,” I say. “I love you too, dickhead. Get out of my room. I’m not wearing pants.”

“But I—”

“I don’t care if you’ve seen it all. Part of having a boyfriend is being respectful of our commitment by not letting other men see me half naked.”

“How droll,” he says with a shrug. “Fine. I’ll be in the kitchen. I’m making tea.”

“Great, sounds perfect. Make me some too.”

He gives a noncommittal grunt as he makes his way out of my room. When I hear the tap creak from the kitchen, I get out of bed and shuffle over to the closet to put something on. Upon arriving there, I’m surprised to find an unfamiliar hoodie hanging on the back of the door. It’s a pullover, the black fabric a little worn out along with the screen-printed PORTENT logo. I take a quick photo of it and send it to Damien, and immediately get a text back.

It doesn’t fit me anymore, but it’s the first merch we ever had printed for the band, and I’m a sentimental fucker. I thought you might like something that smelled like me while I’m gone.

I chuckle down at the message and send something snarky back about the parallel between this and puppies with separation anxiety. I tug it on all the same, immediately burying my nose in the pilling fabric and inhaling deeply.

Yeah. That’s the stuff.

I pair it with some ripped jeans and a pair of scuffed boots before joining Bastion in the kitchen.

He sets a cup of tea on the breakfast table for me. “Three sugars, splash of milk.”

Just how I like it.

“Thank you,” I say. The words are muffled through the fabric of the hoodie. I drop it and settle into the seat.

He pours his cup and sits across from me, taking a sip at the same time I do.

“So,” I say as the warmth from the tea spreads through my chest. “What’s the plan today?”