Took Nothing, Left Nothing
Geocaching (n): A pastime in which objects are hidden at secret locations for participants to find using GPS positions posted on the Internet.
It's nearly bedtime, and Vexen Weathervane is reaching for his pyjamas when his computer, buttons glowing harmlessly in the corner of his bedroom-cum-office, pings with an incoming message. Vexen, a tall and gangly thirty-something scientist, husband and general technophile, sighs a little, and opens up his inbox. One unread email. It's about a geocache. A new geocache.
"Naminé, I need to go out quickly."
"As this time of night?"
Naminé Weathervane, Vexen's mild-mannered wife, has never understood the allure of geocaching, and Vexen has long since abandoned any efforts to convince her that trudging out into the October wind and rain armed with nothing but a Sat Nav to find a Tupperware box is not only tolerable, but actively exciting.
"It's a new cache. Someone's going to find it first if I don't get going."
Naminé rolls over and buries herself in the duvet.
"Alright. Try not to wake me up when you get back."
Vexen, already pulling his long blonde hair up into a ponytail, hums in acknowledgement. The cache is of medium size, hidden in a hollow under a tree. He has the details memorised.
Vexen, or FrozenPride44, as he is known to his fellow geocachers, was introduced to the sport (he has no qualms in classifying it as such given all of exercise he's done since he started) some years ago, by a friend at his old workplace. They began hunting for urban caches during their lunch breaks but Vexen soon broke out on his own, scouring the local parks, then the neighbouring countryside, for more caches. When they moved to Traverse Town he had an entire blank catalogue to work through. To date, he's successfully found several hundred boxes of varying sizes - which, even though it's not as much as some real geocache fanatics, he considers impressive.
Dressed again and ready to brave the eleven o'clock chill, Vexen grabs his Sat Nav and little bag of trinkets, and runs out to his car. Logging as many caches as he was, Vexen soon began to recognise names of other local regulars: Read and Stone, The Melodious Nocturne, PrincessofHeart7… Even though he's never met them, he feels as he almost knows his fellow cachers just by seeing their names in those little log books. Read and Stone, who own a dog, only cache on Sundays. The Melodious Nocturne's stamp can be found on any micro, but he never bothers with multicaches. PrincessofHeart7 is the one who drags her reluctant boyfriend out caching whenever she can. But they're all just casual geocachers. Vexen goes one step further than that. They have acquaintances: he has rivals.
There's one rival in particular he's out to beat: GracefulDahlia, a cocky upstart who began popping up on cache logs some time last year, and seems to have a particular interest in being FTF - First To Find. Vexen isn't sure why, but there's something about that swirly, calligraphic handwriting and elegant depiction of a flower that really incites him. The signature, in all its pompousness, mocks him every time she reaches each new cache before him. So Vexen set up email alerts for new caches and prepared himself to brace any cruel elements to show up that self-congratulating bitch. The first time he reached a cache before her, he boasted to a somewhat bemused Naminé for hours.
And he has no doubt that GracefulDahlia got the alert the moment he did, which is why he's driving through deserted country lanes precisely ten percent above the speed limit, walking boots and waterproofs on, and fully prepared to sprint to the cache if need be.
He reaches the closest car park in good time - but there's already another car in one of the spaces, a shiny BMW that looks like it's never seen a drop of mud in its life.
Vexen wrinkles his nose in disgust and accidentally bumps into the back of the BMW a little as he manoeuvres his way into the next space along. And then, long legs beating against the gravel path into the forest, he runs, all the while keeping a look out for the familiar flash of another torch's light between the trees. Once, he thinks he sees something, but it soon disappears. He draws closer to the coordinates. The slap of his feet hitting the mud and his own frantic breath are the only sounds.
Sometimes Vexen thinks that all of this intensity and competition is ridiculous. They're racing for a plastic box full of McDonald's toys and foreign coins. But then he thinks about GracefulDahlia's face when she sees that he's written a tidy, clinical FTF under his name on the first page - and runs even faster. Fifty feet away…twenty feet away…ten feet... It's not a difficult find; Vexen recognises the tree instantly - unfortunately, his torchlight also flashes over a figure leaning against its wide trunk, a smirk on her - his - face, and a Tupperware box in his hand.
Vexen is so surprised to actually meet his adversary that, for a moment, he doesn't manage to say a thing, too overcome by the man's pretty, effeminate features, fluffy brown hair and long leather coat.
"Graceful Dahlia?"
The man smiles, and extends a hand. Numbly, but feeling like he ought to be a good sport, Vexen shakes it.
"Frozen Pride forty-four."
"The name's Vexen. Vexen Weathervane."
"A pleasure to finally meet you," Graceful Dahlia says, handing over the box. Vexen quickly scribbles his username at the bottom of the first page, pressing just a little harder than perhaps he usually would. "I'm Marluxia."
"No wonder I thought you were a woman."
Marluxia, who is an attractive man with a tall, strong build, the same broad shoulders and narrow hips as comic book heroes, laughs.
"Yes, I get that a lot." He says as he waits for Vexen to return the cache. "You make a challenging opponent."
"Good," Vexen says without much conviction, straightening up again. That's the thing about geocaching: you can be arch rivals if you like, but it's kind of hard to really hate someone who's willing to tramp through a forest at midnight to hunt for a Tupperware. "You've not been caching long, I take it?"
"Only since I moved to the area. I stumbled across one dog walking for a friend. It's proved…interesting." Marluxia laughs. They're making their way back to the car park, at a more reasonable pace now. "You look as though you could do with something warming,"
Marluxia reaches his shiny car, popping open the boot with a squeak, and pulls out a flask which turns out to be full of hot (and slightly sugared) tea. But Vexen's hands are entirely frigid, so he doesn't say no to a plastic cup filled with the beverage, which he sips at as Marluxia tells him about how ridiculous his wife thinks this all is, but he does it anyway even though he's not exactly sure why, and from the looks of the pair of them he's not the only one. Feeling the same way hardly surprises Vexen, but… Marluxia's wife?
"You're married?"
"For two years now," Marluxia says, chuckling again as he pulls off his glove to reveal a golden band on his ring finger. "You thought I was gay, didn't you?"
"Well, with the floral nickname, long hair and rather effeminate mannerisms, I had assumed-"
"It's fine." Marluxia puts his hands up to stop Vexen just as he realises that the statement was probably rather offensive. "Another mistake I get a lot." He peers at Vexen, grinning. "Why?"
Vexen quickly raises his hand, displaying his own ring.
"Also married. To a woman, I hasten to add."
Marluxia nods, backing off.
"To be honest," He says, gazing up at the stars, "Sometimes I just go out looking for new caches to get away from her indoors."
"But you ought to still be in your honeymoon phase," Vexen protests. It's been a long time since his own relationship with Naminé's been anything close to passionate (which is probably why after ten years of marriage they're still without children) - but after just two years, Marluxia and his wife are practically newlyweds. Should still be joined at the hip, not running away into damp woods to get away from each other.
"Oh, you haven't met Larxene," Marluxia says, a glint in his eye. "She can be awful at the wrong time of the month. I love her, of course, but she's an absolute bitch."
"I see."
"And your lady?"
"She's an art teacher at the local comprehensive," Vexen says, purposefully being difficult. But Marluxia keeps looking at him until he sighs, shaking his head. "We were childhood sweethearts. We married in our early twenties. It seemed like the right thing to do."
"And was it?"
"We're happy together," Vexen sniffs. He checks his watch. "I'd better get home."
"See you at the next cache, then," Marluxia says, taking back his empty tumbler and sliding effortlessly into his car. "Not, of course, that there's any point you even bothering to rush..."
"Oh, don't even start, you cocky egotist."
Marluxia laughs again, without restraint, and disappears away into the night. Vexen follows, but in the twisting, winding country roads the other man could have taken one of any number of turnings, and he can't track the headlights further than to the end of the first lane. Then he arrives home to a sleepy Naminé who protests at his cold hands and feet in bed.
Marluxia keeps leaving traces, often annoyingly alongside those mocking initials FTF, but it's several months until Vexen sees the man again. This time, Vexen's been revisiting a multicache in the area just for a breath of fresh air when he notices that same fluffy brown hair and long leather coat a little way back in the distance, rummaging in heather and gorse. There's a dog rushing about Marluxia's feet, a glossy chocolate labrador who bounds over to Vexen with tongue out and ears flapping, hoping for attention. Vexen bends a little to ruffle the fur on its head.
"Hello, you."
He doesn't mind dogs - in fact, he remembers having an enormous St Bernard as a boy - but Naminé's allergic, so they just keep tropical fish at home now. He retraces his steps towards the other man, who is so engrossed in his hunting that he doesn't even seem to notice that he has company.
Vexen smirks to himself.
"You're getting close."
Marluxia starts, surprising the dog, which leaps excitedly into the back of his knees. There's a moment of madness as Marluxia flails to regain his balance and the energetic labrador, jumps about like a startled rabbit.
"Vexen! I wasn't expecting to see you here."
Vexen laughs at him, fussing over the dog again once it's calmed down long enough to stay in one place for more than five seconds.
"Evidently not. It's the next gorse along, by the way."
"I was getting to it," Marluxia huffs, his fun ruined. But he kneels below the overgrown bush anyway, soon pulling out his prized Tupperware. He signs his name, swaps a toy car for a plastic model plane, and replaces the cache. "It's good to see you again."
Vexen hums indistinctly.
"Excellent weather for it. And the dog, yours?"
"His name's Sora," Marluxia says, the labrador duly wiggling in mad excitement again at the sound of his name. "Belongs to a friend of mine. I walk him at the weekends, if the weather's good."
"He's certainly friendly."
Marluxia fusses over Sora, who whines happily before spying a rabbit and bowling off down the path.
"Knocks children over sometimes, but he never means any harm."
They walk on, Vexen leading down the narrow dirt track.
"How's the wife?"
"Naminé? Oh, she's doing well enough. She might be getting a promotion soon, but I'm not sure she wants it. Money aside, there's a lot more paperwork. She's worried that she won't have time to give her kids the attention they deserve. And yours?"
Marluxia shrugs.
"Same old, same old. Gets home late from work and shouts at me for not doing the dishes, as though I'm not in full time employment either."
Vexen remembers those kinds of arguments, when he and Naminé had first moved in together and were having teething problems.
"You'll settle down in time, I'm sure." He assures Marluxia. "On the topic, actually, where do you work?"
"I'm an administrator for a big organisation," Marluxia replies, which surprises Vexen. He'd expected the other man to have been a florist, or at least something vaguely interesting. He doesn't seem like the kind of man to spend hours hunched over endless accounts and forms and files. "And yourself?"
"I'm a research scientist. Mainly biochemical."
"Wow. Sounds exciting."
Vexen smiles to himself. Actually, most of the interesting work is done by machines now - when he was doing his degree he'd spend hours in the lab performing experiments on samples in order to determine exactly which compounds he'd synthesised, but now a mass spectrometer can do all that in seconds. Still, it's interesting and varied work, capable of keeping Vexen's insane academic mind on its toes.
"It has its moments."
Marluxia hums. They've reached the site of the next cache, which Vexen already found a few minutes ago: so he leaves Marluxia to dig it out from the roots of a lone tree, inspect its contents and note down the co-ordinates of the next in the series before they move on. As they walk, they talk about Christmas, work, dogs, the flora in February - Marluxia makes an easy conversationalist, full of questions when Vexen's in his element and anecdotes when Vexen has nothing to say. He's not much like the fictional female that Vexen devised under the pseudonym GracefulDahlia, even though sometimes the tone of his voice has the exact same smug qualities as his cursive handwriting. They hunt for the next cache together, somewhat competitively (Vexen wins), and the next (Marluxia wins), before they reach the final box, which they rummage about for for twenty minutes before Marluxia triumphantly wrestles it from a mat of heather roots. The user who laid the cache - a fellow rather assertively calling himself Ansem the Wise - chose a good location, with views stretching right across the moor and into the Traverse Town beyond it.
"I don't suppose you thought to bring your own cup this time," Marluxia says, finding a comfortable spot on a patch of moss to sit down, pulling the flask out of his backpack again. Vexen shakes his head - but he does have tuna and cucumber sandwiches, which he shares with Marluxia (and inadvertently Sora, who when he isn't chasing imaginary rabbits seems to enjoy licking people's faces and stealing their food) as the other man sips his sugary tea.
"You make for pleasant company, actually," Marluxia says once they're finished eating and just watching the horizon, too lazy to climb back down to the car park. "Perhaps we ought to make a habit of this."
"Only if you promise to be worse than me," Vexen jokes, pulling his phone out to collect Marluxia's number.
"I'll try my utmost," Marluxia promises, but he doesn't sound so sure. "I usually work late so I don't go out during the week unless there's a new cache-"
"-the all important FTF," Vexen interjects dryly-
"-but I'm usually free at the weekend, if Larxene isn't dragging me to some pointless social event."
"Not much of a socialite?"
"I can be when it suits me," Marluxia says. He's closed his eyes, his face tipped up to the wind. "But there's only so much small talk a man can handle without going insane, even if he does have a passing interest in fashion and interior design."
Vexen laughs.
"Imagine what it must be like for someone whose sole interests lie in the spectrum of academia."
"And geocaching."
"Women don't understand geocaching."
Marluxia chuckles lightly, as Sora comes bounding back from a sniffing expedition to leap all over his surrogate owner.
"I know a few ladies who would have your neck for that."
"They're a complex species," Vexen retorts dismissively; "You have to make generalisations."
"Ah, the mystery of Homo Feminins,"
Vexen gives the man a sidelong look.
"Are you sure you're not gay?"
"I have slept with men before, since you're so desperate to know," Marluxia sniffs, "But it was just a phase. I've settled down now."
Vexen nods a little, and turns to pick out landmarks in the town. There's not much to say about that: he almost feels a little bad for pressing the matter.
"I don't have a problem with that," He says finally when Marluxia doesn't change the subject. "Naminé has quite a few gay friends. It's your choice."
"I came from a very sexually liberated family," Marluxia says after a few moments. Sora careers after a grouse, which warbles as it flaps out of the undergrowth. "They've always been very open about…" He pauses, looking down. "Those kinds of things."
The conversation moves on, as the weak winter sun inches lethargically across the pale sky. And when there's a lull somewhere after whether it's acceptable to brew tea in a cup unless necessary, Marluxia suddenly leans forwards and looks at Vexen with intense azure eyes.
"Vexen? Do you love your wife?"
Vexen considers this for only a moment. It's not why he married her: their partnership has always been based more on the healthier, less fickle values of trust and commitment, but he still wouldn't have proposed all those years ago if he hadn't loved her.
"Of course I do."
Marluxia sighs, and watches Sora leap with boundless energy from one hilly tussock to another.
"Why? Don't you?"
"I don't know," He says at length. "We've been arguing a lot. There's a lot of passion in the relationship, but I don't know if we're cut out for the long term. I'm beginning to feel like I rushed into all of this." He puts his head in his hands. "Sorry. You're too easy to talk to about all of this. Because you don't know Larxene, I suppose."
Vexen takes some time to ingest all of this, and, never the best marital counsellor, settles for asking more questions than daring to offer advice.
"How long were you dating before you married?"
"Three years. And then we were engaged for six months."
"I don't really know," Vexen admits finally. "I've sort of just muddled through my marriage through dumb luck and a lot of persistence. I would encourage you to run with it, but if it's not the right thing..." He's never really agreed with divorce, especially since it seemed to lose its stigma and parents began splitting up here there and everywhere: but if a marriage isn't working, what else is there? "Have you talked to her about it?"
"We've discussed it." Marluxia says dully. "I think she wants to work things out, but it's hard to tell. She is exceptionally stubborn."
"Sounds like it," Vexen intones dryly, which makes Marluxia chuckle.
"You've got that right."
He stands up, brushing loose heather off his coat.
"Speaking of stubborn, if I don't get home soon and cook her supper she may very well kill me," He says. He doesn't laugh, but there's a certain amused twinkle in his eye as he calls Sora back from romping in the shrubbery. Vexen, too, packs away his things and prepares himself for the walk back. He didn't see Marluxia's BMW in the car park when he arrived, and sure enough, Marluxia - with a quick glance to his Sat Nav - turns to talk back in the opposite direction.
"Good luck with your wife."
"Thank you," He laughs; "I'll need it." He gestures to his phone, tucked into the pocket of his coat. "I'll send you a text. Are you free next weekend?"
"I ought to be."
"Good."
He walks away, Sora eagerly following at his heels. Vexen watches him jump between beaten paths for some time as he makes his way down to his car, before turning back to return home himself.
They do indeed make a habit of caching together: sometimes walking amiably together through woodlands and fields and suburban sprawl, sometimes rushing off to find a particular cache first, or log as many as possible in a certain time period, sometimes shoving and constantly cheating, and always finishing with a cup of tea from Marluxia's flask and whatever lunch foods Vexen's thought to throw together at the end.
Vexen finds himself divulging all kinds of memories and interests, and discovering equally much about his geocaching partner and rival: Marluxia studied business at college after straight B's at A Level, speaks half-fluent French and pig Italian, collects botanical drawings, once wanted to be a photographer, plays the cello to grade five but hasn't practised in some time, and drinks a lot of tea. Vexen tells him how he always knew he was destined for a life in the confines of a laboratory, took a master's then a PhD in biochemistry and subsequently a discipline so obscure that even if Marluxia was interested, he'd forget it immediately. He hates learning foreign languages, but knows a little German out of necessity, was equally hopeless at music and photography, but has a house filled with aesthetically pleasing mathematical and scientific curiosities next to Naminé's beautiful paintings, and also drinks a lot of tea.
The weather improves with spring - and duly dumps tons of freezing water on them, with spring - then transforms to the baking heat of British summer time. Marluxia drops his heavy leather coat for lighter jackets and finally casual shirts that show off his muscles (Vexen sticks with long, loose sleeves; not, of course, that he's ashamed of his own skinny sticks trying to pass as arms). Marluxia's birthday passes, and knowing that the man can't resist a challenge, Vexen sets a new cache just for him at the top of a perishing climb - at midnight. Luckily, his own birthday isn't until September, but that only gives Marluxia more time to dream up cruel, petty revenge.
Vexen worries occasionally that Marluxia is flirting with him: the way he says "nice" in just the wrong way when Vexen bends down to forage for a cache, or when he laughs that signing their names when they lay their hungry hands on a box just at the same time makes it look as though they're a couple. But he puts it down to Marluxia just being like that: improbably charismatic, attractively suave and shamelessly charming.
Marluxia's relationship troubles persist, but he seems to grow used to them, wearily informing Vexen of a new argument or bout of fisticuffs each time he falls on Larxene's bad side, but the marriage struggles on somehow. As for Vexen and Naminé, they keep the same cosy status quo they've enjoyed for nearly ten years. She declines the promotion. He accepts one. They talk about having children, but nothing much becomes of it: they're neither of them spontaneous people, and sex just doesn't have quite the same flair when one's been expecting it for days and isn't quite in the right mood when the moment arrives.
One Saturday in late July, after an impressive run of caches surrounding a sleepy rural village an hour's drive away (Marluxia more often than not picks Vexen up from his house now; it saves on car emissions, and stops either of them arriving early to pick off easy targets before the other arrives), they find themselves in an attractive little clearing just a little way away from the car park, watching the sun beam down through the leafy trees.
"Larxene's away on a weekend break with her friends," Marluxia says, stretching in his tight fitting clothes as Vexen packs away their tea and remains of lunch. "Did you want to come back for a glass of something a little stronger than tea?"
Naminé's not expecting Vexen back until late anyway, so he doesn't see the harm in a drink or two: he can call for a taxi home.
"Sure, why not."
They walk back to the car, complaining of sticky feet in hot walking boots, the perishing sun, the refreshing stream they waded down at midday when the heat was at its most violent, the caches they missed and the next opportunity to revisit Radiant Garden, then Marluxia drives them with the windows wide open back to Traverse Town.
Marluxia's house turns out to be a decently sized semi-detached with a busy, well kept front garden and attractive reddish-beige brickwork, belying the clutter inside.
"Sorry about the mess," Marluxia says as he leads Vexen through the kitchen with its pile of charming, mismatched plates by the sink and odd ornaments on the windowsill, and into the living room. Here the carpet is old and the furniture more ancient still: but Vexen likes the feel of the armchair that he sinks into, smelling slightly of log fires and musky air. Marluxia heads back into the kitchen and comes out with a thoroughly decent Sicilian wine and two almost-but-not-quite-identical glasses, which he fills, passing one to Vexen.
"We didn't have enough money to renovate when we first moved in," He says, settling on the sofa and tossing cushions out of the way as he does. "But we're working on it now. Slowly."
Vexen notices the anatomic drawings of flowers on the wall, and smiles.
"I like it like this."
Marluxia laughs.
"It's homely, I'll grant you that." He pats the arm of the sofa. "These things came with the house. The old owners didn't want them any more. But Larxene and I liked them. She wants the rest of the house to be more modern, though. I sympathise. You should see the state the bathroom's in."
Vexen, still looking around for more details to crawl out of the woodwork, sees a collection of photographs on the mantelpiece. He heaves himself out of the deceptively comfy armchair to inspect them.
"That's Larxene?" He gestures to a grinning young lady with a crop of fantastically yellow hair and big salt water eyes. Marluxia nods.
"The one and only."
She, like her husband, is photogenic: here they are posing in swimsuits on a crowded beach, in this photograph in their wedding gear, Larxene's low cut dress and Marluxia's top hat, clinging to each other's arms, here's Larxene alone in the garden, dungarees and gardening gloves on, hacking at a particularly stubborn hedge. Here's Larxene with what's presumably her family, with the same ski-jump nose and puppy dog eyes. Marluxia and his incredible hippy parents, tie-dye shirts and long hair and all.
"They were always out to purposefully embarrass me," Marluxia says bitterly, noticing where Vexen's eyes have come to rest. "I must be a masochist, because Larxene's the same. She insisted that photograph was there, just for visitors."
"My parents were lawyers," Vexen replies, turning away from the awkward Polaroid for the sake of Marluxia's dignity. "I don't think I ever saw my father out of a full suit and tie."
He looks at some of the other paintings and photographs on the wall. Aside from the flowers, there are a couple of pretty photographs and a few framed graphic posters presumably chosen by Larxene; Vexen even recognises some of the characters depicted from old comic books he read as a teen. Marluxia follows him, talking amiably until, looking at one print of a Banksy that Larxene liked, the conversation dwindles into silence. Vexen keeps looking at the printed words on the plain brick London wall, even when Marluxia's hand just happens to brush against his.
"Have I ever told you," Marluxia says, very quietly, "That you are terribly attractive?"
"No," Vexen replies, feeling a strange twinge in his gut, "No, I don't think you ever have."
Vexen's still focusing on all those tiny little details, the cracks in the wall and imperfections in the print, but he knows that Marluxia is close. Neither of them say anything for several long moments until, quite suddenly and without knowing exactly who initiated what, they step into each other's arms and their mouths blend, Vexen's mind shutting down and his body responding to Marluxia's hungry touch in ways he is quite unused to experiencing. The man's body is hot from the belching summer heat, even in the relative shade of the indoors, his mouth warmer still, his tongue an intrusion strangely welcome and his lips soft and smooth, almost as though he were not a man at all-
Vexen pulls away quite suddenly, spilling wine onto the floor.
"Oh," He says, unable to bring himself to wipe the saliva from his mouth. "Oh."
He bends down very quickly, blushing, fusses over the stain seeping into the carpet. Marluxia quickly puts his hand on Vexen's, pulling him away.
"I'm sorry. That was inappropriate. I'll get a towel and some salt."
Vexen waits in a strange sort of numbness for Marluxia to return from the kitchen, fingers touching his lips as though they could somehow recreate the way Marluxia felt on him. It's scary, it's inexplicable, and Vexen never wants it to happen again: and yet something in there felt stronger than surprise, something like lust or arousal. Something like Marluxia, now mopping at the floor, is a very beautiful man indeed, in more than just platonic ways.
"Perhaps you should get going," Marluxia says once the mess on the carpet is just a faint red blush. Vexen nods, and finds the front door.
"I'll see you next week?" He asks, unsure as to why there's so much hope in his voice.
"Yes. I'll text you details."
But Marluxia doesn't quite meet his eye. And when he gets home, Naminé seems so much more mundane compared to the exotic enigma that is Marluxia, but also, as she curls up next to him to sleep, a lot more vulnerable.
Vexen senses a storm on the horizon.
Marluxia says he can't make it the next Saturday (Vexen suspects he's bailing out of personal shame), but he agrees to go south the next weekend to follow a trail of caches along a riverbank that Vexen found in his idle perusals of the internet. When he turns up to pick up Vexen, though, there's the smell of dog and the excitable explosion of energy that is Sora in the boot, who turns out to be a highly efficient cockblocking technique: each time Vexen and Marluxia find themselves creeping closer, a big black wet nose appears between them, hungry for love. It's not until the labrador is scaring off ducks in the river at lunchtime that Vexen looks Marluxia seriously in the eye and demands serious conversation.
"Come on, seriously. We need to talk about this."
Marluxia looks away.
"Vexen, I did the wrong thing. Just because my marriage is falling apart doesn't mean that I'm going to drag you down with me."
Vexen sighs. He's had a lot of time to think about all of this: his inexplicable attraction towards Marluxia, his passionless relationship with Naminé, the fact that Marluxia really has been flirting with him this whole time, and the even more extraordinary fact that Vexen never protested because he actually enjoyed the attention.
"Shouldn't that be my choice?"
Marluxia, lying back in the long grass to watch flocks of geese fly by in formation, makes a noncommittal noise.
"I feel awful about what happened. I shouldn't have let myself be tempted like that."
"I was kissing right back."
"You pulled away."
Vexen flops down into the meadowy grass too. The sky is almost cloudless, the sun a brilliant orb of punishing heat. August is usually damp and anticlimatic, but this year - so far at least - has been nothing less than a continuation of July's fantastically hot weather. There's talk of droughts, hosepipe bans in the south. It's so hot that even Marluxia has replaced his tea with sparkling water, laced with ice cubes.
"Maybe this is what you - we - need right now," He muses. "Just to get away from everything. This doesn't have to be serious. It doesn't have to last." He can't believe what he's saying: he's never condoned affairs in his life, and yet something about Marluxia just makes him want to stray, even if it's just for a brief few months, even if he goes back to Naminé and loves her for the rest of his life like he'd always planned. "I read somewhere that this kind of thing can actually help relationships that are struggling."
Marluxia considers this.
"I suppose you're right," He reluctantly agrees. Vexen smirks, finds it appropriate to roll over onto Marluxia's stomach. The other man's hands immediately find his arms, his shoulders, the buttons on his sweat-soaked shirt.
"I'm always right."
Marluxia is smiling too, wryly.
"Of course you are."
Vexen eagerly leans forward to kiss Marluxia again, to feel the other man's heady, floral scent and the texture of his lips. Together, they struggle to pull off Marluxia's T-shirt before Marluxia pulls Vexen's hair out of the way to kiss his neck, the faint tan line at his collar, his almost hairless chest.
"Oh, you devil-"
Vexen squeals in horror as a cold, wet mass of fur and slobber, barking gleefully, shoves its way in between their stomachs, begging for attention. Marluxia explodes with laugher, wrestling a hyperactive Sora away, tumbling over and over in the grass, as Vexen struggles to compose himself.
"Oh my God, we nearly just made out in the middle of a field." He manages to say, pulling his shirt back on. Marluxia, who has found a stick for Sora to fetch, gasps one last huge breath to calm himself, and reaches for his own shirt.
"Vexen, we were making out in the middle of the field," He laughs. "Until Sora saw us off, at least."
He helps a rather flustered Vexen up off the floor.
"Come on, you. Let's get the last cache and head back to the car."
But he's got that old twinkle back in his eyes, and a quirky smile on his face for the rest of the afternoon, even when Sora nearly knocks him into the river, and especially when he kisses Vexen goodbye in the car, with the promise that they'll meet again for more geocaching and illicit love next week.
"You know, I'm really glad you're getting on so well with Marluxia."
With the days getting shorter and the air growing colder, Marluxia and Vexen haven't really been able to spend so long out caching, especially now since to find new caches they have to travel further and further through ever-more congested roads: but that hasn't stopped them spending hours together on a Saturday, be it in the back of the car in the middle of nowhere or chatting down at the local pub or around at Marluxia's house whenever Larxene's on one of her frequent business trips. They haven't actually had sex yet (Vexen's a little reluctant, as much as Marluxia assures him that it doesn't hurt - much) - but they've come close. On several occasions.
"Oh? Why's that?"
Naminé put the gas fire on early this year after a nightly chill left a frost on the ground, and she's huddled up in a blanket on the sofa, reading. Vexen's been doing the crossword of the Sunday newspaper like a proper old man - his perfect idea of a night in with Naminé.
"You know I worry about you making friends," Naminé says quietly. She always speaks quietly when they're alone: in fact, she almost always speaks quietly all the time. In fact, sometimes when she's quiet she can be scarier than any of Vexen's enraged screaming. "You've never been the most sociable of people, and I know you argue with your colleagues at work a lot. I think it's really nice for you to have someone to talk to, I suppose."
Vexen sighs, snapping up the fold of his newspaper so she doesn't have to see his face, and thinks for the hundredth time about how his wife doesn't know he's cheating.
"Yeah, he makes for good company," He agrees. "If a little competitive."
Naminé chuckles.
"Oh, I'm sure you're just as bad."
"I may be."
"Do you want anything from the kettle?"
"Tea would be lovely, please."
"M-hm."
Naminé stands up, blanket and all, and shuffles out to the kitchen. She's barely changed at all since Vexen knew her as a child, even as everyone else grew older and more bitter and more spiteful. That's one of the things he likes about Naminé, her innocence. With Naminé, anything will work out if you try hard enough, if you just give it your best shot. And when she comes back in with two steaming mugs, one Vexen's tea and the other her hot chocolate with sprinkles, Vexen ups from his armchair to join her on the sofa.
"Come here, you."
"Oh, hello."
She cuddles up against his chest, and within ten minutes she's fast asleep. Vexen finishes the crossword (except one clue about an obscure artist he doesn't know, but is sure that Naminé will enjoy filling in if he happens to leave it on the hall table for her), and with a bit of effort carries her up to bed.
December arrives with punishing wind and torrential rain with only the weak promise of snow to show for it, and Marluxia and Vexen are reduced to revisiting local caches in the half-hours they dare to brave the awful weather. Sora, who comes along occasionally, doesn't care, bounding down roads and across muddy fields and making a huge mess in Marluxia's kitchen.
"Looking forward to Christmas?"
"I am, actually. We're visiting Naminé's family. They're a lovely lot."
"It looks like Larxene's going to be away for Christmas," Marluxia says, chasing after a very wet, very muddy Sora. "Her friends are organising a holiday over New Year, so I'll probably visit my family. We'll see. Pass me the hairdryer."
Sora loves the hairdryer. Alongside long walks, muddy puddles, scraps from the table, cuddles, ear rubs, sleeping by the fire and interrupting kisses, the hairdryer is Sora's favourite thing. Which makes him extremely excitable, which in turn gives him the tendency to take great three foot leaps into the air every time the thing is switched on. But finally, with considerable effort and man(dog?)handling, they get him dry enough to bound into the sitting room and flop in front of the radiator to dream about long walks and muddy puddles and all manner of other favourite things. Marluxia and Vexen join him for a glass of wine or two, but then their bodies call for each other, and Marluxia leads Vexen up to his bedroom and gently drops him down onto the covers.
"Ready?"
Vexen's not sure if he's ever going to be ready for a man to take him up the arse, not really, not after a life of rather limited sexual expression and all of three sexual partners, none of whom had ever been exactly imaginative either. But he nods anyway. This is as ready as he's going to get.
"Give me all you've got."
Marluxia laughs, captures Vexen's mouth in that wonderful way, lets his blistering hands trail down Vexen's cool skin. Vexen groans and bucks his hips when Marluxia finds his way inside his trousers. Naminé never did anything like this. Naminé always clings to him like a cuddly animal, which is adorable, but she never really touched him, not like this. But Vexen pushes thoughts of her far out of his mind, lest they ruin him, and lets Marluxia consume him. They roll in the rumpled bedsheets, still fighting even in bed, tearing away clothes and sucking at skin in ways that will force Vexen into turtlenecks for weeks, but eventually - of course - it's still Marluxia who shoves Vexen into the pillows, a look in his eyes that's going mad for want of release, bruising Vexen's mouth with desperate, hungry kisses that are wonderful and well worth returning, and their naked bodies crash together, as their sweaty palms grasp slick skin and their throats run dry from moaning.
"Just do it," Vexen says, so needily that he's hardly sure the words consciously left his lips, and Marluxia doesn't need telling twice, scrabbling in the top drawer of his bedside table for condoms and lubrication, spreading Vexen's legs, pressing his face into the crook of Vexen's neck and pushing his hips forward until they are almost flush against Vexen's skin.
Vexen scrabbles at anything that comes to hand - Marluxia's hair, Marluxia's shoulderblades, the smooth skin of Marluxia's forearms - as the other man thrusts, unsteadily, against him. It does hurt, but in a blunt way that somehow just makes the pleasure dizzier, that makes Vexen cry out that something that's not quite lust but not quite pain.
"Are you alright?" Marluxia gasps, voice breathy and indistinct. Vexen collects himself, swallows, finds it within himself to grab a hold of Marluxia's buttocks and physically force them together again.
"Don't stop," He manages to say with a voice that barely works. "Don't stop, this is amazing."
Marluxia doesn't stop. Marluxia clenches his fists into the soft fabric of the duvet cover and finds some kind of common rhythm for them to scream to, words that aren't words and groans that ask for more, lungs heaving and bodies moving without conscious thought, until Marluxia's fingernails, at Vexen's shoulders, suddenly clench hard into his skin as the man shudders, tenses, gives one last violent thrust that forces Vexen into the overwhelming rush of orgasm, and then they're lying in the messy bedsheets together, gasping for common air, limbs flooded with lactic acid, toes cramping and fingers too stiff to prise from each other's bodies as they catch their breath and their minds, returning slowly to the real world.
Finally, Marluxia rolls onto his back, pulling a very limp Vexen onto his chest and bodily hugging him.
"Why didn't we do this months ago?"
Vexen is busy checking that he hasn't lost any limbs in the madness of passion.
"How am I going to walk tomorrow."
"Just say you feel poorly and spend the day in bed," Marluxia says dismissively. "That's the beauty of affairs on Saturdays." He lets Vexen climb out of his arms to set himself in order again. "I'll run you a bath, shall I?"
Vexen glances over at Marluxia, who looks as dishevelled as he feels. He manages, even with dry lips, to smile, to lean over and give the stupid gorgeous man a kiss.
"That would be fantastic."
It's early evening, just about the time when Naminé's showering away the daily paint and clay and chalk from her skin, when Vexen gets home from a particularly messy day at work, one lucky layer of fabric away from severe acid burns. He tramps upstairs, pulling away his stained lilac tie and dropping his heavy-duty boots in the hall, and pops his head in through the bedroom to say hello, and ask if Naminé wants a cup of tea. She's stepping out of the shower, in adorable petite nudity, small breasts and small curves and blonde hair plastered to her forehead.
"Hullo, Vexen," She says, reaching for a towel that he, on a last minute whim, holds out for her. "Have a good day at work?"
"It was..." Vexen struggles for a word to describe exploding test tubes- "Interesting."
"Well, there's still some hot water left," Naminé says, drying herself off (she's always been particular about this, rubbing the corner of her towel in between each toe until it's dry). "You can clean up any messes you've made."
Vexen listens out for the gurgling boiler, already making up for lost time to replace the water Naminé used up.
"Yeah, I think I will."
He leans down the foot between their heights, and kisses Naminé's damp forehead. She blushes and lets out a surprised little giggle.
"Oh, Vexen."
She balances on the tips of her toes to kiss his cheek, which sends his heart into some kind of flurry. They don't normally do kissing. They hug each other goodbye before work, and Naminé sleeps on him sometimes when it's cold, and their hands brush by each other when they share the kitchen, but kissing isn't really something they do any more.
"I'll see you downstairs," He murmurs as she picks up her clothes and heads for the door.
"Stir fry tonight."
"Perfect."
He strips down to his boxers and leans in to turn on the shower, but a call from the bedroom stops him.
"There's a new cache up, by the way. Your email just came though."
Vexen pulls his trousers back on, belt flapping, and hurries through into the bedroom.
"Really? Whereabouts?"
"Not far away. In the Hundred Acre Wood. You'd better hurry if you don't want Marluxia to find it before you."
Vexen nods, rebuckling his belt and reaching for some clean, warm clothes.
"Download the coordinates for me, will you."
"Of course." Naminé reaches for the Sat Nav and programs in the details Vexen needs. "Don't stay out too late talking to him, will you? I'd hate for your supper to get cold because the two of you got distracted discussing the obscure history of cheese, or something."
"I won't," Vexen promises. It always feel strange when Naminé talks about Marluxia, because she hasn't got a clue that he's having sex with her husband, but over the months Vexen's almost grown used to it, able to keep the best of poker faces when she jokes about how close friends they've become since their roots as geocaching rivals.
He looks out at the misty March drizzle.
"I'm sure Marluxia won't let me keep him long, either."
Naminé hands him the Sat Nav.
"There you go. Good luck."
Vexen's already rushing downstairs to grab his raincoat, gloves and car keys.
"Thanks."
He steps out into the rain, runs to the car, and sets off. It's not a long drive to the wood, where the paths have morphed into slush and mud. Grateful for his Wellingtons and overtrousers, Vexen runs into the relative cover of the trees (where instead of a lot of tiny, penetrating drops of water, there's the occasional enormous, jump-inducing splash), following his Sat Nav off the beaten track and into thick, big oaks that obscure his vision and throw off his senses. It's not quite dark enough for a torch, so if Marluxia is hunting too he's invisible in the dusky gloom. Vexen lets his long legs stride along the ground, snapping twigs with damp cracks and squelching in saturated mulch. The counter on the Sat Nav ticks down as he approaches his target, still no signs of movement in the trees. Is Marluxia not even close? Has he already found the cache, adulterating the first page with his pretty, effeminate signature?
Fifty feet away, and already sighing a suspicious looking tree a little way off, Vexen catches sight of Marluxia, just as close but approaching from another direction. He must have seen Vexen too, because he breaks out into a run, trajectory curving to meet Vexen - also sprinting - head on, laughing breathlessly as he all but throws Vexen into a nearby bush. Yelling, Vexen dives for the other man, knocking him into the mud. The cache isn't well hidden: by the time they're fifteen feet away their expert eyes can pick out the shiny clear plastic in a forest of organic matter. It's just a case of reaching it first, fists in hair and limbs flailing, mud absolutely everywhere as they take turns to fall at the other's hands, cursing and laughing in the same breath, until Vexen finally triumphantly closes his fingers around the Tupperware and proceeds to beat Marluxia over the head with it for trying to ambush him on the way.
"Jesus, Vexen, stop that," Marluxia laughs as he picks himself up from the floor, wiping mud from his face with equally dirty gloves, setting upon Vexen. "Look at that. You've ruined my clothes."
"Cheek! You started it!" But Vexen isn't too put off by Marluxia's accusations when he's thoroughly exploring his mouth, gloves dropping into the mud as the pretty man's cold hands worm under Vexen's heavy raincoat, something like powerful lust leaving such impracticalities as freezing extremities and rough bark insignificant in the face of getting close, getting naked, and getting off. Once, Vexen thinks that sex in a forest is an extremely bad idea, not least because he's sure someone else will come looking for the cache, but Marluxia hoists him up against the tree and wordlessly makes it clear that thoughts are not permitted in this situation, and hands rub too desperately against skin to allow for such doubts, when arousal is flooding Vexen's system and making him glow in spite of the evening chill.
Even once Marluxia lets Vexen's feet reunite with the ground and replaces his clothes, they're both still giggling, standing close in the freezing evening rain to sign their names (Vexen forces Marluxia to write his on the second page like the loser he is) before replacing the cache where they found it, hiding it a little more thoroughly this time.
"Come on, then, let's get back to the cars." Marluxia says, amiably shoving Vexen against a tree for insinuating that there was something extremely homoerotic about wrestling in the mud, even before they started kissing. They manage to wobble back even though their limbs feel like jelly, to where their cars are parked next to each other, joined by a third.
Marluxia looks at the stranger's car and laughs breathlessly.
"Wow. That could have been close."
"It probably very nearly was," Vexen, who now has a lot of mud in some very awkward places, huffs.
"Oh, you enjoyed that."
"Next time, we do it in a bed."
Marluxia, who evidently took precautions for the event of falling in mud, strips down to his underwear in the deserted car park and dresses again in clean, dry clothes, dumping his muddy gear in a plastic sack.
"Your call, darling."
Vexen's not so lucky: he prises off his coat and overtrousers, and decides that he can drive home in bare feet if he turns the heater on in the car, but thanks to Marluxia's hands he's muddy even underneath: he'll just have to clean the car very thoroughly before work tomorrow.
"I'll see you on Saturday, yes?"
"Of course."
Marluxia ducks down into Vexen's car for a moment, kisses him again.
"Good luck explaining those handprints to your wife."
Vexen looks down. Sure enough, on his shirt there are stains that unmistakably correspond to the shape of Marluxia's hands.
"Oh, for God's sake."
Naminé and Vexen have been getting on better lately. Not exactly better, because their lives have always blended well, but Vexen can't help but notice how Naminé kisses his cheek when he leaves for work in the morning now, and more readily cuddles up to him in the night. He supposes that he's the same: if he wanders downstairs to find her brewing tea he doesn't feel awkward about hugging her from behind, and nowadays their hands always seem to brush when they sit in their cosy armchairs to watch television in the evening. It's all rather nice, gives Vexen better tempers at work, helps Naminé to cope more easily with the awful children she has to put up with in class.
Vexen finishes brushing his teeth and climbs into bed, where Naminé is already dozing. He had a good day at work, found a few caches up in town on his lunch break (and, flipping through some of the log books, Marluxia's signature), finally managed to sufficiently catalyse the reaction he's been working on for weeks.
Wriggling to get comfortable, he almost-accidentally-but-not-quite brushes his hand against Naminé's side, finds himself a little distracted by her flannel pyjamas and the soft curves she's hiding underneath. She mumbles sleepily at him, but quite encouragingly for someone on the brink of dreaming, when he brings it upon himself to roll over onto her, one hand caressing her hair, and kisses her lips.
"Oh, hello there, Naminé."
"Hello, Vexen."
They always used to say that when they had sex, before it became "I suppose we ought to have a go tonight" and "Oh, alright then". Vexen smiles a little, encouraging the fluttering butterflies in his stomach, and kisses her again more suggestively. Her lips are soft, so soft, her mouth tiny, her tongue shy and the way she moans quietly into him something indescribably more than adorable. He closes his eyes and enjoys her, her quickening breath and the curve of her hips under her trousers, which Vexen with perhaps more haste than he would admit pulls away from her body to stroke her soft hair and touch her just there where she's sensitive.
"You're awfully passionate tonight," She murmurs almost needily as he reaches under her shirt to cup at her breast, hands flush and warm against his chest where she pops open his buttons and pulls away his clothes.
"Well, you're awfully pretty."
They find each other's mouths again, as they wriggle to get closer, pull the duvet around them to trap them in a cosy cocoon; then Naminé's lifting her knees up, watching his eyes as his hands explore her body again, her expression so full of pleasant surprise and unmistakeable love that Vexen's gut curls in a wonderful fashion. He kisses her again and again, trying to share that rush of blood and adrenaline until the way she says his name is hardly recognisable any more, and he knows she feels the same. She's so soft, all of her, this tiny beautiful body that squirms with pleasure and presses her little feet against his legs and mirrors the thudding of Vexen's heart as he brushes against her, lets his fingers guide himself inside her. She holds him so tight that he almost thinks she's going to bruise him, and whispers desperate nothings in his ear, as he moves with her, struggling for control, not close enough, never close enough, until they're a single being wrapped up in their nest and crying out for more, scrabbling against anything that will give them hold, gasping and laughing and kissing and shaking as release floods them, maybe together, maybe one by one; it's impossible to tell, and neither of them care as they fall like feathers back into very real bedding, hummingbird hearts beating against each other's chests.
Naminé squeezes Vexen one last time, and relinquishes the last vestiges of her energy, lying limp and satisfied beneath him.
"What happened to you?"
Vexen knows exactly what happened to him: Marluxia. Marluxia came along and told him he was sexy, showed him what it was like to have a passionate relationship, gave him the confidence to roll over and make love to his wife on a whim.
He shrugs, and settles down beside her, pretending that he's not hot and sticky.
"I don't know. It felt like the right thing to do."
Naminé laughs lethargically, loops her arms around his neck and pecks his cheek.
"We should do the right thing more often."
"Yes, we should."
She kisses him again before tiredness fully overwhelms her, and she settles down in his arms, telling Vexen that she loves him and the both of them relinquishing in the honesty of his reply.
Marluxia looks stressed out today. There are bags under his pretty eyes, something lacklustre in the way he searches for caches. He doesn't bring Sora out with him today, even though the weather's too fantastic for the springy labrador to ever find a muddy puddle, and even when he beats Vexen to a Tupperware for the third time running his face doesn't crinkle with self-congratulating laughter the way it usually does.
"Larxene and I have been arguing a lot lately," He says dully when the stop for a drink at the top of a hill. "It was our fourth anniversary last week and, well, I went out with you. I didn't have to deal with her complaining about all the things I'm doing wrong for a whole day and pay for an expensive meal on top of that."
Vexen thinks back to all of his anniversaries with Naminé, taking her out to art galleries and picturesque little villages and never fancy restaurants because, frankly, neither of them can stand them.
"Perhaps you ought to have made the effort anyway."
"I don't see the point," Marluxia admits, resting his chin on his crossed arms. "We can't stand each other any more. All we ever do is fight."
Vexen looks at the other man's hands. He isn't wearing his ring: he hasn't been wearing his ring for a long time.
"I'm not sure how I can help," He says at length. "I suppose the two of you just need to talk about it and come to a rational, mature decision."
Marluxia spits a laugh.
"Hah! Hardly likely." But then he shakes his head, as though to clear nasty thoughts from his mind. "Sorry. I shouldn't take this out on you. You've been the only thing keeping me sane over the last few months."
"It's fine. Better me than her."
"She deserves it."
"Well," Vexen says, gesturing to the pair of them, "You're hardly the model husband, are you? Gallivanting off with other men."
"To be fair, I think she's doing her fair share of cheating as well. Her so-called business trips are getting more and more frequent. I suspect that what she's doing out there can hardly be classified as work."
They set off again, back into the bowels of the valley. There are a few nanos to find, which Marluxia with his keen eyes and tireless persistence is best at; as they hunt they discuss the toxic relationship that is Marluxia's marriage.
"I suppose the best thing would be divorce," Marluxia admits finally as they near the car park. "But there are so many ramifications…it's difficult to think about how much everything would change." He laughs humourlessly. "At least I'll probably get to keep the house. Larxene admitted that she hates it the other day."
"Your house is lovely."
"But you're biased, because every time you come in you get laid."
They bundle into the car, where Marluxia logs their finds on the internet while Vexen takes the wheel, trusting the Sat Nav to bring them safely home.
"Well," Marluxia says as he drops Vexen off outside his house, "At least when everything does collapse I'll still have you."
Vexen hums in agreement.
"I'll see you next week."
After a long summer of excellently cooked meals and a tidy house, Naminé's back to school in September, which means late nights marking sketchbooks and Vexen going back to tossing together his own meals most days of the week. But one evening when he gets home, rather than finding Naminé in her dungarees on the floor planning her next lesson, she's wearing a pretty autumn dress and has an expression on her face that's somewhat hard to place, like a strange cross between shock and anticipation.
"We need to talk," She says, practically quivering, as she leads Vexen into the front room and sits him down on the sofa. Instantly, Vexen fears the worst: she knows about Marluxia, and everything wonderful that they've been discovering over the last five months has been for nothing, but then she laughs all in a rush and says "Oh, Vexen, don't look so worried, I'm fine. I have some really exciting news."
He calms his pounding heart and watches her expectantly as she fusses with her hair, takes a deep breath, holds both of his big hands in hers.
"Vexen," She says, delaying the inevitable for a moment longer, "You know I wasn't very well a while ago, and I've been feeling a little strange lately, well, I went to see the doctor today after school and..."
"And."
"Oh, Vexen, I'm pregnant. I'm going to have a baby. We're going to be parents."
Vexen's heart stops. He knows he's making a stupid face but he hasn't got a clue what to do about it, the surprise and amazement and joy just too much for a single body to contain.
"Oh." He manages finally, too shocked to move. "Oh."
"Oh, Vexen," Naminé says, her hands at her mouth to try to hide the grin on her face - but it shows in her eyes, moist and twinkling.
Still struggling for words, Vexen settles for throwing himself forward and pulling her into his arms, so she can shake with him as their shocked minds consider all the ways in which their lives are going to change forever.
"Naminé, that's wonderful," He says once he's found his voice again, pulling her up onto the sofa with him. "Wow. Oh, wow. Congratulations."
She laughs at him, nose buried in his neck.
"It's your fault," She says, clinging to him with a remarkable ferocity. "You and your-" She chuckles- "All of your doing the right thing."
Vexen carries her into the kitchen and pours her a drink of something sparkly, but nonalcoholic.
"We're having a baby," He says, none of it really quite sinking in, too fantastic to be true. After all these years of half-heartedly trying, and suddenly it's dropped on him out of the blue. "I'm going to be a father."
He shouldn't be so surprised. They have been having a lot of sex, and without contraception it was all but inevitable that Naminé was going to end up pregnant sooner or later. But…Vexen's going to be a father.
"You're going to be a wonderful father," Naminé says, kissing Vexen's cheek.
"I'm going to drop it on its head."
"I'll still love you."
And that old spare room they'd always planned to be the nursery is going to finally have a lick of bright paint, yellow maybe, and some murals Naminé's been itching to design ever since they got married. And neither of them are ever going to have time to sleep.
"We won't tell anybody yet," Naminé says, "Just in case. It's going to be our secret."
"Of course," Vexen says, cuddling her again. But there is one person who's going to have to know. Because if Vexen's going to be a father, then he needs to grow up, and do the right thing.
For once, Marluxia and Vexen have been rather too preoccupied by their own thoughts to talk much on Saturday, which comprises of a long walk up to a single cache with a nice view across the countryside. Sora doesn't understand their sobriety, of course, shoving his nose into their hands in puzzlement in between rushing after invisible beasts.
And finally, when they do speak, it's together, their combined "I need to tell you something" mixing in an awkward jumble.
Vexen shakes his head, because that's so typical, and waves to Marluxia.
"You first."
"I'm sure it comes as no surprise," Marluxia says; "But Larxene and I are getting a divorce. She was having an affair too and really, there's just no point being married if you'd rather spend your time with someone else, is there?"
"I'm sure it will be for the best in the end," Vexen assures him. Marluxia, his expression saturnine, doesn't seem so sure.
"Telling my parents was the hardest thing."
"Disappointed?"
"Smug. They knew it was going to happen. Larxene and I were never cut out for marriage."
Considering that in the two years they've known each other he's never heard Marluxia pay Larxene so much as a kind compliment, Vexen wonders how the couple even thought they were.
"She's already making plans to move in with her new boyfriend," Marluxia continues, a little sourly. "She thinks you're going to ditch me now that I don't have as much to lose as you do, but I trust you." He sighs. "More than I ever trusted her, actually."
Vexen feels his heart sink. Once pleased for Marluxia, he now realises that this has come at the worst moment. He doesn't reply, focusing on a demanding Sora to disguise his embarrassment. The one time Marluxia actually needs him to tide through the instability of a decaying marriage, and Vexen knows he can't keep up his end of the affair. Not with Naminé expecting.
"But anyway, what was your news?"
Vexen coughs a little, can't meet Marluxia's eye.
"Look, about this, I would have told you earlier, but I only found out on Wednesday," He says, voice dull. He takes a deep breath, the practiced words coming out harder than he expected. "Naminé's pregnant. And I need to be there for her. All of this-" He gestures briefly to Marluxia, to Sora, to the beautiful countryside around them, "Well, I can't afford to risk my marriage like this any more. Not when I'm going to be a father."
"Do you even love her?" Marluxia asks quite abruptly, and a look of shock that he could blurt such a question out passes his face before he can disguise it with stony displeasure.
Vexen reaches out to brush his hand against Marluxia's arm, but the younger man snaps away.
"Marluxia, I love her more than anything else. I should have ended this a long time ago, the moment I remembered that. I didn't because-" He pinches the bridge of his nose, trying to rationalise carnal lust and poor decisions- "Because it was fun, and I enjoy your company, but I can't keep betraying her like this. It's wrong. And you know that, Marluxia."
Marluxia's turned away, into the wind.
"She never needs to know-"
"That's not the point," Vexen interrupts. "That's not what marriage is about."
There's a long moment of silence, punctuated by the wild calls of birds in the shrubbery. Even Sora is too far away for them to hear his heavy footsteps and excited whining.
"Vexen," Marluxia finally says, his voice strained, "Look, I need you right now. Everything is falling apart. I… I don't have anybody else who knows me as well as you do."
Vexen pulls him into his arms, the shorter man's fluffy hair tickling his nose.
"We can still be friends."
Marluxia barks a laugh.
"We were never friends. I was always trying to seduce you."
It's true.
"We can start being friends," Vexen says, already wondering if that could ever work without one of them falling into exactly the same trap again, after everything that's happened, and after so long. "I still care about you, Marluxia. I just need to be with her now. I want to be with her."
Marluxia's fingers are like needles on Vexen's back, his tears cool and unmistakable as they seep into Vexen's sweater.
"But I love you."
Vexen strokes his hair, which only makes Marluxia cling and cry harder.
"I'm sorry."
"I really did love her, you know," Marluxia murmurs, indistinctly. "We really tried. We just couldn't make it work. I thought that..." But he trails off, falls into silence. Vexen shushes him as he begins to sob again, the whole of his not inconsiderable body weight pressing against Vexen's skin. He knows that Marluxia isn't just crying for him; every frustration is pouring out now, trying so hard to understand a dying marriage and falling too deep into a temporary affair.
"Look, if you ever need to talk, you know how to find me," Vexen says when Marluxia eventually pulls away, brushing tears out of his puffy eyes, flushing with embarrassment. "Don't try to keep it all locked up, okay?" Even Vexen, a more or less typical (emotionally, at least) man, knows that. Amazingly, Marluxia nods, even if there's still longing in his eyes.
"Thank you."
They don't do any more caching. Vexen walks Marluxia back to the car and they drive home, back to Marluxia's house, which is already looking bare: half the odd plates gone, Marluxia's botanical prints the only things left on the walls.
"You know this is going to be hard for me," Marluxia says as he brews a cup of tea, his voice cracking a little again. "I always needed you more than you needed me."
"We'll be able to manage," Vexen assures Marluxia, and himself. "We can distract ourselves with geocaches."
Marluxia laughs a little, the first time for a while.
"Yeah. I'll just have to have my steamy love affair with a Tupperware box, instead."
They blow on their tea to make it cool enough to drink, sip at its surface.
"You can go back on the dating scene."
"Oh, don't. I'm terrified. I might stay away from relationships for a while. Get to know myself again."
"There's no rush."
Marluxia looks out of the window, at his perfect garden.
"Maybe it's time for a career change, too," He says at length. "And I'll finally get rid of that stupid "modern" wallpaper in the hall. Get chickens. Larxene never wanted me to have chickens."
"Easy there, tiger," Vexen chuckles, "One step at a time."
"Just as long as you're holding my hand when I need you to," Marluxia murmurs.
"On the agreement that I don't hold any other part of your anatomy."
Marluxia nods.
"Don't worry. I just panicked earlier. I wasn't expecting you to come out with sudden future parenthood. Nobody wants to be a homewrecker."
Oh, it's so nice to have affairs with mature, rational adults.
"But just you wait for the drunk and emotional midnight phone call."
"Oh, you're one of those, are you?"
Marluxia laughs again, warming his hands with his tea.
"You know, I think I may actually be gay, after all."
Vexen recalls his GracefulDahlia, the sheer surprise of discovering that she was a man, and then indulging in geocache-induced romance anyway.
"It wouldn't surprise me."
Marluxia sets his tea cup down in its saucer, rests it on the kitchen counter.
"Just one more kiss," He says.
"Marluxia-"
"Please."
For something more than just physical attraction, but that wasn't ever quite love.
Vexen leans forwards and presses his lips to Marluxia's. No tongues. Just a kiss. Then he pulls away, and it's easier than he expected it to be, and salt water is pressing against Marluxia's beautiful eyes again, but there's hope glittering there, and on his mouth Vexen's left a smile.
...
"Sorry for the short notice. It's really a case of the baby could be popping out at any moment, now."
Marluxia laughs.
"That's fine."
For once, the April showers have relinquished their hold on Britain, and the enthusiastic almost-summer-sun glints off shrinking puddles as the pair of them walk through open meadow, hunting for a new multicache that went up last week. They know they won't be the first to find it; they both had the email, but Vexen was up at the hospital with Naminé recovering from a panicky false alarm, and Marluxia had an important meeting at his new company. And knowing they'd both lost made it easier to wait until the weekend to spend hours tramping through wet grass, and to puzzle over the riddles together as they struggle to keep their balance every time Sora rushes past them.
"How is she?"
"I think she just wants to get it over and done with, to be honest," Vexen says. "She's already on maternity leave, since that last scare, but it's difficult to plan projects at work without knowing when it's going to arrive, not to mention constantly waiting for the call saying she's finally gone into labour."
"Sounds like fun," Marluxia says sarcastically, but for someone who has no interest in babies he's been asking about Vexen and Naminé's impending son an awful lot. Naminé didn't want to know what sex the baby was going to be, but Vexen insisted that it would make planning for the child a hundred times easier, even if instead of the signature blue they painted his room every other colour they could think of, and on mutual consensus bought as gender neutral clothes as they could find. Whatever the baby turns out to be like, he's going to be wearing a lot of green and yellow.
"I'd say it's going to be a big relief when he's born, but that's probably not true," Vexen sighs. "I'm really going to miss sleeping peacefully."
"My house is open any time you need to get away from it all," Marluxia promises half-seriously. "Either of you."
Vexen shakes his head.
"You know I wouldn't abandon her like that. I've even offered to change nappies."
"You're going to regret that."
Apparently Larxene's getting married again; Marluxia hasn't spoken to her since the divorce, but he heard through the grapevine. He and Vexen have bets on how long it's going to last this time. As for Marluxia himself, he's been spending too much time with his new job and new Buff Orpingtons to worry about husbands. He seems to like them more than people.
"Marluxia, you said that about impregnating my wife."
"I stand by that statement."
Marluxia's joking, of course. That child is probably going to be his Godson, if Vexen doesn't object to Naminé's plans. And nobody is going to ever know that they used to have sex, and that that sex is probably, indirectly, why Vexen and Naminé are having a family at all.
"We're getting close."
They're reduced once again to foraging in the grass for something suspicious, shoving each other out of the way and laughing as their clothes soak up the last vestiges of rain trapped in the meadow flowers. Vexen digs up the cache in the end, hidden under a lump of turf, and together they pull out the next clue, swaps bits for bobs, and recalculate their trajectory to the next clue. It takes them more than an hour to collate every cryptic clue and riddle - it's a well designed cache, so good in fact that a lesser man would probably give up - and finally a twenty minute walk to their new coordinates where, lying innocuously under a pile of sticks, is the final cache. For once, they don't run for it. Marluxia picks it up first, but only because Vexen needs to tie his shoelace, and they sign their names together, FrozenPride44 and GracefulDahlia.
And then Vexen's mobile phone rings, a remarkably calm Naminé on the other end.
"Hey, Vexen. It's me. I'm at the hospital. The doctors are pretty sure it's happening for real this time."
Vexen looks down at the cache. He looks at Marluxia, his long leather coat open to accommodate for the unexpectedly fine weather, and he looks down the track disappearing off into the distance, at the end of which is Marluxia's shiny BMW.
"Oh my God," He says, "Oh God, I'm going to be a father."