Welcome, friends, to rarepair hell.

Dappled sunlight fills the room; cool, gentle breezes whisper in through the open windows. After a moment of hesitation, Belsio offers his hand.

"Walk with me," he says.

Candid, but not cutting. Mild, but not meek. Russell accepts his invitation, twining their fingers together, and decides he likes the fit.

They're quiet as they walk through the orchard, hand in hand, but it's a peaceful, unassuming quiet, not the sort of awkward silence that drives a wedge. Belsio's hand is warm in Russell's; his grip, like him, is steady. Stable. That stability pulls more than any flame would. What a gift it'd be to have him near.

Well, all he needs to do is ask. Here's one person Russell can depend on for honesty.

Before he can decide how to frame the question, though, Belsio speaks first. "Nineteen years," he says, the corner of his mouth twitching, "is not a small gap."

That again, then. Russell doesn't bother to hide his careless smile.

"Eighteen years, four months, and six days, actually," he corrects him.

"You don't have it calculated to the hour?" Belsio says. "I'm honestly shocked."

"I live to surprise," Russell replies.

He can't take another step before Belsio tugs him to a gentle, if sudden, halt. Meeting his eyes, his cool, solemn expression, Russell finds himself having to swallow against the sudden dryness in his mouth.

"It's a sizable gap, Russell," Belsio tells him. "Nothing we can't work around, but not something we can ignore entirely, either. We come from different times. We have different experiences. We're different people."

"You say that like we wouldn't be anyway," Russell says, lifting an eyebrow. "Or like it's a bad thing. I certainly don't think so."

"Different can cause conflict," Belsio says.

"Different makes things exciting," Russell responds, and grins until Belsio relents with a roll of his eyes. "Look, relationships are about compromise. This is more of the same," Russell continues, shrugging. "We'll argue. We'll work it out. We'll make up." No double entendre intended, but if their shoulders brush and Russell's lip quirks, he's not sorry for it, either.

The noise Belsio makes sounds like a laugh, but then his fingers tighten around Russell's with sudden intensity. With his other hand, he reaches out and touches Russell's cheek, wanting his attention.

"I don't want to trap you here," he says quietly.

"You can't 'trap' someone somewhere they want to be," Russell tells him, growing solemn himself now. "By virtue of definition. If someone's trapped, they're forced to stay somewhere they don't want to be against their will; I'm here of my own accord, because I want to be here. That's the exact opposite of trapped."

"Not if I'm the only thing that keeps you from leaving," Belsio argues.

"But you're not," Russell says. "If I really didn't want to be here, believe me, you couldn't keep me if you tried. But I like it here. It's stable, it's peaceful, and I get to be with you." Belsio blinks, and Russell flushes, glancing down at his shoes. The hand on his cheek cups the side of his face, the thumb tracing a line there. "Besides, it's not as if I'm signing a contract in blood saying I'll never set foot outside Xenotime again. I can travel sometimes, if you're that worried about me going stir crazy." Russell looks up again, struck with an idea. "I can bring you pictures," he says.

"Only if you're in them," Belsio responds. "Otherwise, I can't say I'm interested."

It makes Russell's face burn brighter, but he at least maintains the gaze this time. With reverent slowness, Belsio's fingers slide down his cheek and jaw, linger over his throat, and then sweep behind his neck to sink into Russell's hair. Russell's breath hitches; unbidden, his eyes fall closed, as he tilts his chin up expectantly. Cupping the nape of his neck, Belsio kisses his forehead.

Russell makes a sound caught between a laugh and a snort; Belsio returns it with a contented hum, pressing their foreheads together. Russell opens his eyes again to see his smile, as warm and affectionate as it is teasing.

"Does that cover it, then?" Russell asks, a little rougher than strictly intended. He tugs his hand from Belsio's to drape his arms around his neck. "Or do you have another argument?"

"There's caution, and then there's stupidity. I'm not stupid enough to keep arguing with you," Belsio says, as he puts his free arm around Russell's waist, pulling him closer. There's space to breathe between them, and no more than that. "Or against something I want so much. Let's call you a calculated risk I'm willing and eager to take."

"Here's hoping I pay off," Russell says.

"You say that like you haven't already." When Russell's eyebrows knit in confusion, Belsio says, "Oh, don't give me that. You helped me expand my livelihood; I could never have done all of this—" his hand leaves Russell's back for just a moment, to gesture around the orchard, "—without you and Fletcher. And you're a joy to have around, Russell. You're bright and clever and determined. Already, you make my life better just by being part of it. The risk is making sure that holds true for you, too."

Russell stares, startled speechless. After a small pause, Belsio huffs out an awkward laugh and glances down, at last seeming flustered himself. It makes Russell feel a little better about gaping like a very red-faced fish.

"Listen to me," Belsio mutters, while his mouth twitches. "I sound like a teenager. I hope you're happy."

"I am." His voice is still rough; Russell clears his throat. "I'm happy," he says again, and leans in close, their lips mere centimeters apart. Belsio chuckles again, a lower, throatier sound this time, and half-shuts his eyes.

"Then I am, too," he murmurs back. "It's funny. I feel younger, when I'm with you."

"Maybe we should take advantage of that youthful energy, then," Russell suggests.

Belsio pulls back a little, raising an eyebrow. "Was that a come-on?"

"You have to ask?" Russell says.

"I'm just making sure. Clarification makes any relationship better," Belsio tells him. "The more we communicate and the less we assume, the happier we'll be in the long-term."

"That's responsible. And true, I guess. But you ruined my line," Russell says. "It was a very good line. Very smooth."

"It was," Belsio agrees, sighing indulgently. "I've got a better one, though."

"What's that?"

"Let's go to bed."

"That's not a line," Russell says, as the heat in his cheeks spreads over his neck. There's similar fire in the pit of his belly, curling there pleasantly. "That's so blunt. Where's the romance in that?"

"I think there's romance in wanting you too much to beat around the bush," Belsio says mildly.

"I'm trying to seduce you," Russell insists.

"There's no need. You already have." He leans back in, bringing his mouth close to Russell's ear. "You seduced me a long time ago," Belsio murmurs. It's hard to contain a shiver. "Without trying, might I add. So why don't you spend that time and energy a little more … productively, hm?"

"Like fucking?" Russell asks, in the spirt of clarification. Belsio nuzzles his jaw, and then nips his earlobe. Russell tightens his fingers in the back of his shirt. "Right here? Right now?"

"Not here, maybe," Belsio says. "That wouldn't be very comfortable. Or sanitary. Do you have it in you to wait the five minutes it'll take to go back to the house, where there's a bed and a lock on the door in case Elisa should drop by?"

"Not if you keep that up," Russell answers, a little breathlessly as Belsio kisses the shell of his ear, then the sensitive skin underneath, working down his pulse as it hammers against his throat. Another nip, this time to Russell's jaw, and Belsio withdraws a little. "That'll be Fletcher's job when he comes back from Resembool," Russell says. "Entertaining Elisa when we're busy."

"He'll be over the moon," Belsio remarks.

"He'll do it gladly out of the kindness of his heart," Russell says. "What you should do out of the kindness of your heart, and soon, is kiss me, because if I kiss you, it'll involve slamming you into that tree over there and I guarantee we won't make it ten feet from there before we start losing clothes."

"That's certainly more straightforward," Belsio replies. He smiles crookedly. "I'll take it."

"Take me," Russell tells him.

That earns a laugh. "Now you're getting uncouth."

Russell makes an affronted noise. "How thin is the line between 'beating around the bush' and 'uncouth,' then?"

"Very thin," Belsio answers, trying and failing to bite back a smirk. "And you're straddling it, love."

"You know what I'd rather straddle—"

Belsio kisses him then, claiming his lips with an unexpected heat that makes Russell clench his fingers and curl his toes, a whine catching in his throat. Fierce as the kiss is, though, his touch is very gentle; one hand cradles the back of Russell's head as the other caresses his shoulders, while Russell grips the fabric of Belsio's shirt so tightly between his fingers his knuckles pop.

In the bedroom, that gentleness lingers—intensifies, even, with how much Belsio's trying not to hurt him, not having had a lover in some time. The sweetness helps offset the awkwardness. Russell frames Belsio's face between his hands to lavish kisses over his neck and chest, while Belsio uses his nails to scratch down Russell's back and over his hips and thighs. If it isn't earth-shattering, each touch sparks in its potential to be; emotionally, it's beyond fulfilling, the sheer intimacy warming Russell's heart to ridiculous degrees. He can't find much at all to complain about.

They're content to just lie there after, not bothering to redress after they take a moment to clean up. Peaceful quiet settles over them; wrapped in Belsio's arms, Belsio's forehead resting between his shoulders, Russell doesn't care to break that quiet, either. This is a moment he could live in—feeling warm and safe and loved, spooning with someone he cares about and who supports him, his blood still buzzing pleasantly in his ears, the sun setting prettily outside the window. If it isn't perfection, it's definitely close.

Yet, as the haze settles, Russell's brain won't quit. Always whirring, like an overtaxed machine, even as his body feels sleepy and relaxed. After several minutes of comfortable silence, Russell finally has to speak.

"So, uh," he begins, and then pauses, wondering if Belsio's fallen asleep behind him. He hums in acknowledgement against Russell's shoulder, prompting him to continue. "What do we call this, then?"

"This, dearest," Belsio tells him, "is called the afterglow. There's no need for talking, really. We just lie here and bask in each other's company, marveling at what we've shared as we drift off. It's very lovely. I recommend trying it."

"First, I'm pretty sure you just very nicely told me to shut up," Russell says. Rather than respond, Belsio kisses the back of his neck. "Second, not what I meant. I meant—you know, us." He feels the muscles in Belsio's face twitch against the skin of his back as he lifts an eyebrow. "What do I call you now? Are you, I don't know—my boyfriend, or—"

At that, Belsio makes a delicate disparaging noise, scowling into Russell's shoulder. It's Russell's turn to raise an eyebrow.

"What, you don't like that?"

"Didn't say that," he answers.

"Well, you reacted the same way you do whenever I try and use your first name," Russell tells him. "I mean, outside of sex."

"We've only had sex once," Belsio points out.

Russell smirks. "That's easily changed."

Belsio tries to hide his laugh with a snort; he doesn't succeed. "In the future, I intend on taking full advantage of the fact that your refractory period is so brief," he says, "but holy hell, Russell. I don't have your gift." He sighs melodramatically. "Oh, to be young."

"You're thirty-eight, not sixty, John," Russell responds, which results in that same displeased noise from Belsio behind him, and a kick to the back of his shin when Russell can't stifle a giggle. "I know you like your last name, but if we're a thing that's yet to be labeled, don't you think it's weird if we're not on a first-name basis?" Russell asks him.

"I think the problem is that you're putting too much stock into labels in general," Belsio replies. "This—" he sketches his fingers across Russell's chest, over his heart, "—doesn't need a label, if you want my opinion. Nor do I need to use a label I don't like. They're just words, in the end; no real significance outside of what they're arbitrarily assigned. I don't see how you referring to me by the handful of syllables I prefer versus the handful of syllables I reluctantly use for official purposes only makes a difference in how much we care about each other. Or why we need a word to quantify that affection."

"Point taken," Russell says. "But labels aren't all bad, you know. When they're not overused, I mean. Sometimes it's good to organize things—not needed, but helpful. It'd help me if we had a word for what this is," he adds, a little quieter. "All that abstract feeling stuff works for you, and that's great, but I'm not like that. I need something concrete."

Belsio mulls this over, idly entwining his fingers with Russell's and squeezing. "'Boyfriend' just feels really, really frivolous," he says after a moment. "Like this is just some fling." He seems to hesitate for a moment; Russell tightens the grip of their hands.

"It's not," he says. "I guess I kind of see that, now that you mention it. It also makes me sound really, really young."

"You are," Belsio tells him.

Russell pinches his arm. "'Paramour' sounds really pretentious," he continues. "'Lover' is a little better, though that kind of sounds like the relationship is all sex, or like you're married and I'm the affair."

"You could be my mistress," Belsio mutters, almost too quietly for him to hear. He squirms away, snickering, when Russell tries to kick him.

"Moving on," Russell says flatly. "'Partner,' then. There's romantic and sexual connotations if you look into it enough, but it's vague enough to offer some privacy and doesn't make us sound too frivolous or too scandalous. Is that better?"

Belsio's quiet for a moment, while Russell waits for his complaint. Instead, when he speaks, he says softly, "You know what, I actually like that."

"Fantastic," Russell says. "Partner it is. Well, would you look at that. Our first disagreement as a couple, solved. We're on a roll, Belsio."

"If you insist," he says, a little amused.

Quiet settles back over them for several more minutes.

"I like this," Russell murmurs, almost to himself.

"The roll we're on?" Belsio asks. "Or the afterglow?"

"Both, I guess. Just … all of this, in general," Russell tells him. "It's … nice. Peaceful. I could get used to it."

He could get used to it, and quickly. It's strange to think about; having been deprived of any sort of stability for his entire adolescence, Russell would think he'd need time to adjust, to convince himself that he won't be uprooted the moment he's comfortably settled. He should be more skeptical. He should be waiting for the catch.

But, no. With Belsio, there'll be no catch, because John Belsio just doesn't operate that way. He doesn't do double-meanings or hidden messages; he doesn't mince his words, telling things the way he sees them with frank, sometimes brutal honesty that makes Russell's silver tongue shrivel to uselessness in his mouth. What's more, Russell doesn't mind it at all. He doesn't need to lie or connive to get by with him. He can be honest, be open, even when things get uncomfortable and ugly, and Belsio will accept him, because it's not in his nature to do anything else.

"Sorry. I forgot; quiet basking," Russell says. "I'll shut up now."

"I was kidding. You can talk if you want," Belsio murmurs, nuzzling his shoulder.

"Maybe now I don't want to."

A soft, sleepy snort. "You're ridiculous."

"Sure am," Russell agrees. He hugs the arm draped over his chest. "And you'll have to deal with it."

The answering chuckle tries and fails to be disparaging, the effect ruined further by the gentle kiss Belsio presses behind his ear. "Gladly."