A million years ago, it seems like.
Teddy has eyes that no one really sees from far away, always lost in the reflection of his glasses or downcast in the faces of the cruel, but up close, Vincent sees everything. There's laughter in his smile and something else in the way he brushes his thumb along the inside of Vincent's palm, warm and invasive and secret.
"I'm sorry she dumped you," Teddy says, and he doesn't really look sorry.
She doesn't matter (what was her name?) and Vincent breathes out through his nose and can't remember who or what Teddy is talking about.
His hand is warm and small in comparison and Vincent almost rests his chin on Teddy's shoulder before he remembers why that would matter. He laughs instead, uneasy and restless and his stomach crawling with a feeling he can't name.
A million years ago, in the cheap artificial lighting, Vincent remembers the summer (and the night they don't talk about, the roadtrip that never passes through their lips, the way Vincent pressed a kiss to the patch of soft skin just above the prominent knobs of Teddy's spine), and he remembers why everything matters so much, and he kind of falls in love, slow and easy, the easiest thing he'll ever do.