The world is so quiet with him.
"You won't let me fall?"
"I won't," Barry promises. He glides backwards across the ice. Cisco's metallic fingers cling to his downy sleeves, his frame tense. Ice-skating was easier when he knew a broken fall wouldn't break both of his hands. But he trusts Barry. Even if he barely knows the man who has aged seven years, Cisco trusts him.
"Why here?" he dares to ask.
Barry says, "Because it is far away."
It's true. They're far beyond city limits. The frozen lake receives no other visitors. "It's very far," he concurs. Barry huffs in amusement. Slowly, Cisco relaxes his grip on Barry's sleeves. He feels tension leak out of Barry's shoulders. "I forgot how much taller you were," he remarks.
The tension presses down like a piano key, a single loud note, before it releases. "You've changed, too," he reminds, but his tone is gentle. He skates to a halt and curls his fingers in Cisco's. Cisco cannot feel the lightning warmth, but he knows it is there. "I would love to make a promise I can't keep," Barry tells the blue winter air, "but I don't know if I can ever fix this."
"I don't need you to fix them," Cisco says, tugging on Barry's hands. He does it to let Barry know that they are still there; he does it to prove that even without feeling it, he recognizes the connection between them. "I need you to know that they're there."
In response, Barry lifts their joined hands and rests one of Cisco's over his own heart. "I know," he says. Cisco can hear the unspoken flourish: I know they are there like I know my own heartbeat. He cannot feel Barry's heartbeat, not with his cold metallic hands, but he doesn't need to feel it to know it exists. His shoulders relax. He slides his hands down and around Barry, holding onto his midriff. He is beautifully warm at every point of contact.
"I wish I was made of your lightning," he muses aloud.
Barry says, "It's yours." Cisco knows how heat travels, how warmth travels from fire to open air, and feels the lightning sink into his own skin. Barry's right: it's his.
Together, they sway on the ice. Cisco does not know if it is truly strong enough to hold them, but he doesn't question Barry's judgment. Barry doesn't like the cold much, but he brought Cisco to this lonely place for a reason. To be alone together, Cisco thinks, and closes his eyes. He rests his cheek on Barry's shoulder. He can feel his breath rise and fall through the jacket and shirt beneath it.
"I'm sorry I left you," Barry tells him.
Cisco says, "Me, too."
He means it. He wanted to keep the other Barry, the younger Barry. He tried to, but he knew that it was doomed to fail. He couldn't keep any other Barry but this one.
When this Barry, his Barry, emerged from the shadows, Cisco knew that he still had room for him. He'd never filled the vacant space in his heart. Instead, he had left it untouched and grieved for seven years.
His tired heart is happy to find a resting place now.
He trusts Barry's motion as they slide slowly across the ice. Barry's boots glide effortlessly; they were designed to. They were one of the last hands-on modifications Cisco ever made to the last Flash suit. After confronting frost metas, he placed a cap on the boots that could be removed to reduce traction, leaving only a velvet smooth surface below it. It was useful on super-slick terrain, offering an otter-like agility that standard hiking boots simply would not.
They circle the ice slowly. Snow drifts around them. With Barry beside him, Cisco is very warm. "I missed you," he tells the shoulder closest to him. Beneath it rests a beating heart he can almost feel.
Barry replies, "I missed you, too."
The ring of truth surprises Cisco. He remembers the dark nights. He remembers the tense moments. He remembers finding Barry at his trashed apartment, in a rage so potent it was transformative. He didn't dare approach him then. When Barry locked himself in the lowest level at STAR labs, he stayed away for a few days, hoping that things would change on their own. When they did not, he brought food, but Barry never emerged from the catacombs. When he went looking for Barry, he found him, and was promptly driven away, forewarned by glaring red eyes never to return.
And he had not.
Tears graze his cheeks and sink into the suit underneath them. He is so tired, but he does not cry for fatigue: he cries because he is relieved. Barry is heavy and warm underneath him, which does not surprise him, but the winter air is cold. The chill is an unmistakable reminder that this is not a dream. He is never cold in his dreams. In his dreams, there is only Barry's lightning.
It is more tangible than he remembers, like a living creature. He wants to ask what it is like, but he keeps his silence. The night is too breakable yet. He does not want to disturb it, and he knows that as soft as the lightning is, it is a source of pain, too. If the lightning did not exist, then, Cisco knows, Iris West would still be alive.
He says, "I'm sorry."
Barry replies, "Don't be." He strokes a hand up and down Cisco's back, powerful and firm. "Don't be," he repeats. Cisco does not remark on the tears that drip down Barry's face.
He simply repeats, "I'm sorry."
Shaking, Barry holds onto him. First, he does so lightly, his hands barely there. Then he clenches his fists in the fabric of Cisco's jacket and sobs. Over and over, he bleeds out on the ice, and it is all Cisco can do to hold on and not fall. They halt near the edge of the ice. Cisco feels Barry shake apart. He wants to remove Barry's pain, but some pains can't be glossed over. Some pains can only be felt.
Like watching his hands fall apart in front of him. It was the lack of pain which startled him. He expected agony and found silence. His wrists were raw, burning. But there was no real pain where pain needed to be. His hands were frozen, and he howled in agony. Then his hands were gone, and there was no way to feel pain anymore.
But it lingered, and it lingers now. He can feel a sharp, stabbing pain in his metallic fingers, flexing them unconsciously against Barry's suit. He wants to cry, but his tears are already frozen to his cheeks. He has wept countless nights for pain that wasn't coming anymore. He can feel Barry's agony like it is his own.
Cautiously, he eases them to the shoreline. They sit in the snow together. Cisco is cold, but he doesn't say it, leaning against Barry's side. Barry shakes apart, a hand over his chest, over his heart, holding it like he can replace what is missing. Cisco holds onto his other hand tightly. He holds onto it until the metal is impressed on Barry's skin. It is what Barry needs. It is what he can offer.
"I miss her, too," he says.
Barry reaches up the hand holding his chest to cover his mouth. It does not muffle the sobs. Cisco releases his hand and drapes his arm around Barry's back. A fierce wind snaps at them, but they do not move. Cisco brushes his fingers against Barry's side. It is not the same as before, but it is comfort. As Barry's tears taper off, Cisco dares to believe it is comforting.
Leaning his head on Barry's shoulder, he looks out over the frozen lake. He knows what it is to be lonely, then, even with Barry throwing off heat beside him. That night is emblazoned in his memory. He will never remove it. But holding onto Barry, he stays in the present, and finds it is good enough.
"Let's go home," he suggests softly.
Barry sniffs, and he squeezes Barry's hip. "Let's go home."
Standing slowly, Barry helps Cisco to his feet. Cisco's limbs creak. He tucks his arm over Barry's shoulders, even though they are higher than he remembers. Then there is a rush of light and cold blue winter air, and the entire world melts away. For eons, they travel unimpeded. Cisco asks no questions and Barry provides no answers. He simply runs, and Cisco needn't even hold on, because he knows Barry has him.
They arrive not at Barry's apartment, but at Cisco's. He anticipated this, and cleaned the apartment beforehand in anticipation. His heart beats faster. Barry lets him go and steps back. Cisco steps up to the door, and digs around in his coat pocket for the key. He lets them inside. Barry follows quietly at his heels.
Settling in, Barry cooks. Cisco melts into the cushions on the couch. He doesn't mean to drift off, but the routine is so familiar that his dreams carry him away before he can tell them not to. When he awakens, the entire place smells like cookies. He smiles. He can hear a soft crunching nearby as Barry tries and fails to eat silently.
"Save any for me?" he asks without opening his eyes.
In response, a single cookie lands on his chest. Cracking open an eye, he stares at the sugar cookie, a sign-of-the-times. He smiles and takes a bite. It takes some of the edge off a hunger he did not know he had. Barry cleans and hums to himself. It's nice.
Cisco does not let the peace between them stumble. As Barry finishes putting the dishes away, he approaches, and wraps his arms around Barry's waist again. He hugs him tightly. Barry turns around in his arms slowly and hugs him back. Even though he is the strongest person Cisco has ever met, Cisco is struck by just how soft Atlas seems.
How can your shoulders carry the weight?
Barry lets him lead, because this is Cisco's apartment. A slow waltz brings them to the bedroom. Divesting the outermost wear, they huddle under the covers together. The lights are off, and Cisco can almost see the red tint in Barry's lightning when he breathes. He presses cold toes against Barry's warm shins. Barry holds him close, and purrs, a deep, Speed-induced resonance.
It drags up emotion from Cisco's chest, because he has not been held like this in so long, but he has no more tears. He nuzzles his face against Barry's shoulder. He does not say a word, even though he is so grateful he feels compelled to voice it. If he doesn't say a word, then perhaps the entire world will slow down, and allow him to live in this moment forever.
Softly, barely breaking the silence, Barry murmurs, "I love you."
Cisco, mouth pressed against his shoulder, heart wrapped up in the cradle of Barry's arms, can only reply, "I love you."
Still, the world is so quiet with him.