This short story was published on Friday, 30 January 2026 and is part of the Kakantiga Ultra or Cantos of the Beyond: a daily new short story or play dreamfishing and celebrating past, present, possible and future Kristang culture. This short story features the anticipated future 43rd Kabesa and is set in Nova Melaka in April 2582.
He had never fallen in love with another boy before, and that was surprisingly not the most disconcerting thing.
The most disconcerting thing was that it felt older than him.
Not older in the sense of age, or wrinkles, or recorded birthdays stored in municipal clouds. Older in the way rivers are older than bridges. Older in the way songs remember mouths that no longer exist. Older in the way Nova Melaka itself remembered tides that no longer reached its walls.
Hercules Aroozoo stood on the upper deck of the Pasar Laut Complex, watching the evening barges slide in like tired animals returning to water. Below him, traders were closing their smart-canopies, folding light and fabric into neat cubes. A woman selling fermented jackfruit sang to herself in Kristang, off-key and unembarrassed. Somewhere, a drone chimed the hour: nineteen forty-three, local orbital-adjusted time.
April 2582 was supposed to be quiet.
It was the middle of the monsoon lull, the season when storms gathered their breath and the sea pretended, briefly, to behave. Schools were in soft recess. Research institutes slowed their cycles. Even the political feeds had learned, grudgingly, to rest.
But Hercules’s chest did not know any of that.
It was busy rearranging itself.
He leaned against the glass balustrade and pretended to be absorbed in his wrist-slate, scrolling through archival footage for his heritage practicum. Old Nova Melaka. Old Old Melaka. Timber shophouses. Salt-stained saints. Brown children barefoot on docks that no longer existed. The usual.
Except his eyes kept drifting.
Across the plaza, near the tidal gardens, Wolver was laughing.
Not performing-laughing. Not curated-laughing. Not the clipped, photogenic laugh people learned for feeds and recordings.
It was a collapsing laugh.
The kind that bent him forward slightly, one hand braced on his knee, as though gravity had suddenly remembered him and decided to collect.
Hercules felt it in his ribs.
He had noticed Wolver months ago, of course. Everyone did. You could not miss someone who moved through space like he was quietly negotiating treaties with it. Tall, long-limbed, perpetually sun-browned from fieldwork on the outer reefs. Hair always escaping its tie. Voice low, warm, impossible to archive properly.
But noticing was safe.
This was not.
This was something else.
This was his grandmother’s stories waking up inside his bloodstream.
She had told him, once, when he was twelve and sulking about exams, that love was not an emotion. It was a migration pattern.
“Some birds only know where to fly when the wind changes,” she had said, slicing papaya with surgical precision. “Until then, they pretend they are trees.”
At the time, Hercules had rolled his eyes and gone back to his holos.
Now, at nineteen, he felt feathers forming under his skin.
He closed the slate.
Wolver was walking toward him.
Not dramatically. Not with intention. Just… drifting, as though the plaza itself had decided to deliver him.
Each step rewrote something.
Hercules’s palms were damp. His tongue forgot how to sit in his mouth. His thoughts began arriving out of order, like files from a corrupted archive.
Say something.
Don’t say anything.
Smile.
No, softer.
Too soft.
Breathe.
“Hey,” Wolver said.
One word.
A universe.
“Hey,” Hercules replied, and was quietly proud that it came out recognisably human.
They stood there, between sea and city and centuries of unfinished history, two massive, buffalo-brawny nineteen-year-old boys pretending to be casual in a place built by people who had never once been casual about survival.
Up close, Wolver was even bigger than he looked from a distance.
Not inflated-big. Not gym-sculpted-big.
Working-big.
The kind of body shaped by hauling nets at dawn, by wrestling tide-lines in storms, by carrying engine parts up rusted ladders, by rowing until your shoulders learned new languages of pain. His forearms were scored with old cuts and salt scars. His hands were wide, square, permanently marked by rope-burn and resin.
Hercules knew those hands.
Not personally.
Culturally.
Every Kristang boy grew up knowing them.
They were the hands of uncles and grandfathers. Of dock captains and reef-wardens. Of men who fixed things because nobody else would. Of men who never learned the word “fragile” and didn’t trust anyone who used it too often.
And Hercules’s hands were not so different.
Thick fingers. Blunt nails. Calluses layered like sediment. A knuckle that had never quite healed right after a regatta collision when he was sixteen and too proud to report it.
They were both built like arguments.
Like answers to storms.
Like small, walking breakwaters.
Which made the fact that Hercules currently felt like he might dissolve into vapour particularly offensive.
Wolver cleared his throat.
It was not a delicate sound.
It was the sound of an engine trying to decide whether it was still alive.
“So,” he said. “You, uh. You still training with the South Basin crew?”
Hercules blinked.
Language. Right. Conversation.
“Yeah,” he said. “Four mornings a week. Six when the currents get stupid.”
Wolver snorted.
“Currents are always stupid.”
“Only when you’re in them.”
“Exactly.”
A pause.
Then they both smiled.
Not pretty smiles.
Crooked, practical smiles. Smiles that had been chipped by mouthguards and bitten by wind.
Smiles that belonged on people who had spent most of their lives shouting over waves.
Some tension drained.
A little.
Wolver shifted his weight, the deck plates humming faintly under the redistribution of mass.
“I saw you at the Storm Relay last month,” he said. “Final leg.”
Hercules felt heat climb his neck.
“You mean when I nearly blacked out?”
“When you refused to black out,” Wolver corrected. “There’s a difference.”
He mimed a rowing stroke, exaggerated, brutal.
“You looked like you were trying to punch the ocean into submission.”
Hercules laughed despite himself.
“It deserved it.”
“Fair.”
They leaned side by side now, shoulders almost touching.
Almost.
Hercules could feel the warmth through the thin fabric of Wolver’s work-shirt. Could smell salt and engine oil and sunblock and something quietly, dangerously human underneath.
This was worse than distance.
This was proximity.
He swallowed.
“You’re still on reef patrol, right?” Hercules asked.
“Outer ring. Three-week rotations.”
“Still fighting rogue trawlers?”
“Still losing sleep over idiots with money and no maps.”
“Good.”
Wolver glanced sideways.
“Good?”
“Means you’re doing it right.”
That earned him a look. Soft. Brief. Unarmoured.
It landed harder than any tackle ever had.
They were quiet again.
Below them, a cargo skimmer growled past, its wake rippling through the tidal gardens’ filtration pools. Somewhere, someone was practicing old Kristang hymns on a solar flute, the notes bending oddly in recycled air.
Hercules felt something tighten in his chest.
He had wrestled men twice his size.
He had ridden storms that tore buoys out of concrete.
He had stood between drunk cousins and angry policemen and not moved.
But this?
This was a different discipline.
This was standing still while your insides learned a new geometry.
Wolver rubbed the back of his neck.
“Can I… ask you something weird?”
Hercules’s heart attempted to exit through his throat.
“Depends how weird.”
Wolver exhaled slowly.
“You ever get the feeling,” he said, carefully, “that everything you were taught about what you’re supposed to want… just quietly forgot to ask you first?”
There it was.
No drama.
No confession fireworks.
Just a clean, dangerous sentence laid between them.
Hercules looked out at the water.
At the barges.
At the layered reflections.
At the long, unfinished routes of his people.
“Yes,” he said.
Wolver’s shoulders loosened.
Not much.
Enough.
That, later, was how Hercules would know it mattered.
He kept his gaze on the water, on the barges threading their slow geometry through the harbour, on the soft blue grid of the tidal barriers rising and falling like mechanical lungs.
“You know,” Wolver said, lightly, “this is usually where people expect… something.”
Hercules frowned. “Something like…?”
Wolver shrugged, one shoulder rolling like a tide shift.
“A moment. A confession. A dramatic line. Maybe a bad poem.”
“I don’t write poems.”
“I know. You fix motors.”
“Someone has to.”
That earned a soft huff of laughter.
Wolver folded his arms on the railing, muscles bunching under sun-faded fabric.
“I like you,” he said.
Just like that.
No buildup.
No ceremony.
Then, immediately:
“But.”
Hercules braced.
“But I’m not… going to do anything about it.”
There it was.
Not a door slam.
A hand on the doorframe.
Holding it still.
Hercules turned to him now. “Why?”
Wolver finally looked back.
His eyes were steady.
Not afraid.
Not evasive.
Careful.
“Because,” he said, “I know myself.”
He tapped two fingers against his own chest.
“I go all in. On everything. Work. Patrol. Crew. Training. If I start something, I don’t do half.”
“That sounds… good,” Hercules said.
Wolver smiled, crooked again.
“Sounds dangerous.”
He leaned back slightly, creating a few inches of space between them.
Not fleeing.
Recalibrating.
“And you,” he continued, “you’re the same. You don’t quit. You don’t drift. You don’t play games.”
“I can play games,” Hercules protested weakly.
Wolver snorted. “You once apologised to a broken winch.”
“It was under a lot of stress.”
“Exactly.”
They both laughed.
Then Wolver grew quieter.
“I don’t want us becoming another story people tell,” he said. “You know the kind. ‘Two strong boys, too young, too intense, burned each other out by twenty-two.’”
Hercules felt that land.
He had seen those stories.
Dockside ghosts.
Men who stopped speaking after loving too hard, too fast.
Crews split.
Families strained.
Routes abandoned.
“So you’re… rejecting me?” Hercules asked.
Wolver winced.
“Don’t say it like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like I’m throwing you overboard.”
He reached out, briefly, and tapped Hercules’s forearm with two knuckles.
A familiar, jocky gesture.
Crew to crew.
Mate to mate.
Except it lingered half a second too long.
“I’m… pacing us,” Wolver said.
“Like storm sailing?”
“Like storm sailing.”
Hercules studied him.
“You’re saying no,” he said slowly, “so that later you can say yes properly.”
Wolver blinked.
Then laughed, full and loud.
“Why are you so annoyingly accurate?”
“Pattern recognition.”
“Show-off.”
They stood closer again now, the gap quietly erased.
Wolver bumped his shoulder into Hercules’s.
Not hard.
Testing.
“You’re important to me,” he said. “I don’t want to rush something important.”
Hercules felt something loosen inside him.
Not disappointment.
Relief.
“So what are we, then?” he asked.
Wolver grinned.
“Two idiots who train too much, eat too much protein, and occasionally get coffee together.”
“Only occasionally?”
“Gotta keep you humble.”
Hercules laughed.
“And the liking part?”
“That stays,” Wolver said simply. “No expiry date.”
He straightened, stretching, all muscle and sun and quiet discipline.
“Come on,” he added. “I’ve got patrol prep. You’ve got morning drills.”
“Five a.m.”
“Disgusting.”
They started walking side by side toward the transit ramps.
Big bodies. Easy strides. Matching rhythms.
Before they parted, Wolver reached out and squeezed Hercules’s shoulder.
Firm.
Warm.
Grounded.
“Don’t disappear,” he said.
“I won’t,” Hercules replied.
“Good.”
Then, with a grin that was half challenge, half promise:
“I’d hate to have to chase you.”
And Hercules, watching him go, realised that being gently held at arm’s length had never felt so much like being carefully kept.
The first month was easy.
That surprised Hercules.
He had expected misery. Dramatic yearning. Sleepless nights. Bad training sessions. Dropped weights. Missed catches. Sloppy drills.
None of that happened.
Instead, he became… precise.
He woke earlier.
He trained harder.
He cleaned his equipment with near-religious devotion. Oiled chains. Rewrapped grips. Rebalanced oars. Recalibrated tide-maps twice when once was enough.
If he could not hold Wolver’s hand, he would hold his standards.
If he could not kiss him, he would perfect his form.
It felt noble.
Like standing guard over something sacred.
Every morning at South Basin, when the water was still slate-grey and the sun hadn’t decided what colour it wanted to be yet, Hercules rowed as though each stroke were a promise he was keeping.
Not to Wolver.
To himself.
The other boys noticed.
“Bro,” Mateo said one morning, panting between intervals, “are you training for the Continental Trials or running from heartbreak?”
Hercules didn’t slow.
“Both,” he replied.
Mateo respected that.
So did most of them.
Among Kristang boys, suffering productively had always been a language.
You didn’t cry.
You hauled.
You didn’t spiral.
You repaired.
You didn’t confess.
You showed up.
So Hercules showed up.
He volunteered for extra coastal runs.
Took late-night maintenance shifts.
Filled in for sick crewmates without complaint.
When Wolver was on rotation, Hercules sent exactly one message a week.
Short. Steady. Non-invasive.
How’s the water?
Stay safe.
Bring back stories.
Wolver always replied.
Sometimes with photos of bioluminescent tides.
Sometimes with jokes about incompetent drones.
Sometimes just:
Still here. Thinking of you.
Those were the hardest.
Because they were gentle.
And gentle things cut deeper when you are trying to be strong.
By month three, the ache had learned new shapes.
It was no longer sharp.
It was structural.
It lived in his posture.
In the way he stood slightly too straight, as though bracing against an invisible load.
In the way he laughed half a second later than everyone else.
In the way he stayed longer after training, watching the water when others went home.
He told himself he was fine.
And in most ways, he was.
His performance metrics improved.
His endurance peaked.
His supervisors praised his reliability.
“You’re solid,” Captain Ramesh told him after a storm drill. “Like old timber. Doesn’t warp.”
Hercules thanked him.
And went home to an empty room that smelled faintly of salt and disinfectant and nothing else.
By month five, restraint became work.
Not moral work.
Physical work.
He would see Wolver in person during short leave windows.
At supply docks.
At training exchanges.
At community festivals where everyone pretended not to notice how two massive boys kept finding themselves side by side.
They never crossed the line.
Never even leaned too close.
But sometimes Wolver would clap him on the back.
Or adjust his harness strap.
Or hand him a drink and let their fingers touch.
Each time, Hercules felt like he was holding back a tide with his ribs.
He did it.
Every time.
Because he had agreed.
Because Wolver trusted him.
Because this was what honour looked like now.
But honour, he was learning, was heavy.
By month seven, he started dreaming.
Not explicit dreams.
Worse ones.
Dreams where they were repairing boats together.
Laughing.
Cooking.
Sleeping back-to-back on long voyages.
Domestic, impossible futures.
He woke from those with his jaw clenched.
By month nine, his friends noticed again.
“You okay?” Liana asked after he snapped at a faulty sensor.
“I’m fine,” he said too quickly.
She raised an eyebrow.
“Since when do you lie badly?”
He apologised.
Fixed the sensor.
Didn’t explain.
By month eleven, Wolver extended his next rotation.
Two extra months.
Unexpected storms.
Funding issues.
Staff shortages.
All real.
All reasonable.
All devastating.
Hercules congratulated him sincerely.
Then went to the gym and lifted until his vision blurred.
He did not cry.
He never cried.
But sometimes, alone, he rested his forehead against cold metal and breathed like he was underwater.
The nobility was still there.
The patience.
The loyalty.
The quiet pride of keeping his word.
But now it coexisted with something else.
Loneliness.
Not social loneliness.
Existential loneliness.
The loneliness of carrying a story that had no current chapter.
By the end of the first year, Hercules understood something no one had taught him:
That waiting, when done with love, is not passive.
It is an endurance sport.
And he was starting to feel the strain in places no muscle scanner could see.
The break did not arrive like a storm.
It arrived like rust.
Quiet.
Gradual.
Invisible until something important failed.
It happened on a Tuesday.
No anniversary.
No argument.
No dramatic message from Wolver.
Just a normal Tuesday in late March, 2583.
Hercules was halfway through a coastal endurance circuit when his left arm stopped answering him.
Not injured.
Not cramped.
Simply… absent.
The signal left his brain and never quite arrived.
The oar slipped.
The boat yawed.
Mateo swore and corrected.
“Herc, you good?”
“Yeah,” Hercules said automatically.
He finished the circuit.
He always finished.
After that, he did not go home.
He did not go to the gym.
He did not message anyone.
He walked.
Past the transit hub.
Past the flood barriers.
Past the last row of housing towers where Nova Melaka softened into mangrove fringe and unmanaged green.
He followed an old maintenance path that most people forgot still existed.
It led through secondary jungle.
Not pristine.
Not curated.
Just stubborn.
Vines reclaiming pylons.
Feral pandanus.
Salt-twisted trees growing at wrong angles because nobody had told them to behave.
By the time he reached the beach, twilight had arrived.
That in-between hour when the sky forgot whether it was leaving or staying.
Purple low on the horizon.
Gold caught in clouds.
The sea darkening into ink.
No lights.
No feeds.
No people.
Just surf, insects, wind.
Hercules dropped his pack.
Sat in the sand.
And finally, stopped holding.
His breathing went wrong first.
Too fast.
Too shallow.
Like he was trying to outrun something inside his own ribs.
Then his shoulders started shaking.
He pressed his palms into his thighs, hard, as though he could anchor himself to bone.
Didn’t work.
A sound escaped him.
Not a sob.
A broken, animal exhale.
The kind men make when they’ve been strong for too long.
He leaned forward, forehead nearly touching his knees.
“I’m so tired,” he whispered to nobody.
The sea did not answer.
The jungle rustled.
And then, behind him, someone cleared their throat.
Softly.
Hercules froze.
He wiped his face roughly and turned.
And immediately walked straight into a wall of muscle.
Not metaphorically.
Physically.
Thud.
A solid, warm, very human obstacle that had not existed behind him half a second earlier.
“Whoa!”
“Shit!”
“Sorry!”
All three came out at once.
Hercules staggered back, feet skidding in loose sand, arms windmilling. The other man grabbed him by instinct, one huge hand catching his forearm, the other bracing his shoulder.
For a ridiculous moment, they were locked together.
Chest to chest.
Breath to breath.
Salt and sweat and heat.
Hercules became acutely, catastrophically aware that:
This man was shirtless.
This man was enormous.
This man smelled like sun, seawater, and citrus soap.
This man was the Forty-Third Kabesa.
“Oh my god,” Hercules blurted.
The Forty-Third Kabesa blinked.
“Oh my god,” he echoed.
They froze.
Then, simultaneously, sprang apart like startled cats.
Hercules nearly fell again.
The Forty-Third Kabesa caught him again.
“Sorry!” the Forty-Third Kabesa said. “I wasn’t trying to tackle you!”
“I wasn’t trying to… run into you!”
“Why were you running?”
“I wasn’t running! I was emotionally collapsing!”
There was a beat.
Then the Forty-Third Kabesa started laughing.
Not polite laughter.
Not ceremonial laughter.
Full-body, helpless, wheezing laughter.
He bent forward, hands on his knees, shoulders shaking.
“I’m sorry,” he gasped. “Emotionally collapsing is… wow.”
Hercules stared.
Then, to his own horror, he started laughing too.
Loud.
Messy.
Uncontrolled.
The kind of laughter that comes out when crying and dignity have both given up.
They laughed at the same time.
At each other.
At the situation.
At the universe.
At fate’s deeply questionable timing.
When they finally calmed down, both of them were slightly breathless.
“Okay,” the Forty-Third Kabesa said, wiping his eyes. “Hi. Properly.”
“I know who you are,” Hercules said weakly. “You’re… famous.”
“Regrettably.”
“I’m Hercules.”
“Oars guy.”
“…Yes.”
“Punches water.”
“Please stop saying that.”
“Never.”
He grinned.
It was huge.
Bright.
Unapologetic.
A smile that took up space.
“Sorry if I startled you,” the Forty-Third Kabesa said. “I was checking tide markers and you were having… a dramatic beach moment.”
“I was not dramatic.”
“You were whispering to the ocean.”
Hercules flushed.
“…It’s been a year.”
The grin softened.
“Ah.”
He dropped onto the sand without ceremony, long legs stretched out, palms braced behind him.
“Want company while you recover from your emotionally collapsing sprint?”
Hercules hesitated.
Then sat too.
A little too close.
Neither of them moved away.
“You don’t mind?” Hercules asked.
“I literally run into storms for fun,” the Forty-Third Kabesa replied. “Your feelings are not going to scare me.”
Another pause.
Waves hissed.
Fireflies flickered faintly near the treeline.
“I’m in love,” Hercules said suddenly.
The Forty-Third Kabesa turned his head slowly.
“Cool.”
“…Cool?”
“Yeah. Thanks for trusting me with that.”
Hercules stared.
“You’re not going to interrogate me?”
“Do I look like a detective?”
“You look like you could bench-press one.”
“Unrelated skill set.”
Hercules laughed again, quieter this time.
“And I’m waiting,” he added.
“Mm,” the Forty-Third Kabesa hummed. “Let me guess. Heroically. To your own detriment.”
“…Yes.”
He beamed.
“Classic.”
“Why are you so cheerful about this?”
“Because,” the Forty-Third Kabesa said, poking Hercules’s arm lightly, “you’re sitting on a beach at twilight, crying about love, built like a tidal wall, and still trying to be honourable. That’s objectively beautiful.”
Hercules’s throat tightened.
“Stop saying nice things,” he muttered.
“No.”
He leaned back, staring at the darkening sky.
“You’re not broken,” the Forty-Third Kabesa said casually. “You’re just over-tightened. Like a rope that needs soaking before it snaps.”
Hercules let that sink in.
For the first time in months, his chest didn’t feel like it was collapsing inward.
It felt… wide.
And beside him, barefoot and laughing softly at nothing, sat the Forty-Third Kabesa, twenty-five and solid and utterly at ease in his body, who had just accidentally tackled him into healing.
The realisation did not arrive as panic.
That was the first surprise.
It arrived as… alignment.
Like a joint slipping back into its proper groove.
Like a sail finally catching the wind it had been quietly waiting for.
Hercules noticed it when the Forty-Third Kabesa shifted position.
Just slightly.
Rolling one shoulder.
Rebalancing his weight.
Letting his back rest more fully against his hands.
A simple movement.
And Hercules’s entire nervous system responded as though someone had rung a deep, ancient bell.
Not lust.
Not fantasy.
Not urgency.
Orientation.
Oh.
That.
He stared at the darkening water.
Did not look at him.
Because if he did, he would know.
And he already knew.
His chest felt… warm.
Not tight.
Not anxious.
Warm.
Like standing near an engine room in winter.
He cleared his throat.
“This is… inconvenient,” he said quietly.
The Forty-Third Kabesa glanced over.
“In what way?”
Hercules swallowed.
“I think,” he said, carefully, “I’m starting to… like you.”
Silence.
Not shocked silence.
Interested silence.
The Forty-Third Kabesa considered this.
Then nodded once.
“Okay.”
Hercules blinked.
“…Okay?”
“Yeah.”
“That’s it?”
“What were you expecting, a tribunal?”
Hercules laughed weakly.
“I don’t know. A warning. A lecture. A leadership protocol.”
“I’m off-duty,” the Forty-Third Kabesa replied. “This is a beach.”
Fair.
Hercules risked a glance.
The Forty-Third Kabesa was watching him with open curiosity.
No judgement.
No alarm.
No retreat.
Just… present.
“You’re allowed,” he added.
“Allowed to…?”
“To feel things. Toward me. Toward anyone. Especially after a year of emotional fasting.”
Hercules looked down at his hands.
“They’re… complicated.”
“So are tides.”
“They wreck things.”
“They also carry boats.”
That landed.
Hercules exhaled.
“I don’t want to replace him,” he said quickly.
“I’m not auditioning,” the Forty-Third Kabesa replied instantly.
Relief rushed through Hercules so fast it made him dizzy.
“I just… notice you,” Hercules continued. “And my body is like, ‘Hello, new large emotionally safe man,’ and I don’t know what to do with that.”
The Forty-Third Kabesa burst out laughing.
“That is the most respectful attraction confession I’ve ever heard.”
He shifted closer.
Not suddenly.
Deliberately.
Closing the gap with consent baked into every centimetre.
“Can I try something?” he asked.
Hercules nodded.
The Forty-Third Kabesa reached out.
Not for Hercules’s hand.
Not for his shoulder.
He placed his palm, broad and warm, flat against the centre of Hercules’s upper back.
Between the shoulder blades.
A place rarely touched.
A place that holds posture.
Burden.
History.
He did not press.
He did not rub.
He simply… rested it there.
Like grounding a wire.
Hercules inhaled sharply.
His spine responded first.
Lengthening.
Uncurling.
Years of bracing softened in seconds.
“Oh,” he whispered.
“Yeah,” the Forty-Third Kabesa murmured. “That spot.”
He kept his hand there.
Steady.
Unmoving.
“I’m not flirting,” he said. “I’m regulating.”
Hercules laughed softly.
“I’ve never been regulated by another man before.”
“Underrated experience.”
They sat like that.
Palm to back.
Breath to breath.
Watching stars emerge.
After a while, Hercules leaned slightly into the contact.
Not consciously.
His body voted.
The Forty-Third Kabesa noticed.
Did not comment.
Adjusted to support.
He shifted his weight so Hercules’s shoulder brushed his arm.
A new contact point.
Stable.
Safe.
No claiming.
No escalation.
Just architecture of comfort.
“You’re very… good at this,” Hercules said.
“At what?”
“At being… here. Without taking.”
The Forty-Third Kabesa hummed.
“I worked hard to learn that.”
“Why?”
“Because strong men get taught that touch is either violence or sex,” he replied. “I decided that was stupid.”
Hercules felt something crack open.
Slowly.
Like a sunrise in bone.
“I like you,” he said again.
More certain this time.
The Forty-Third Kabesa smiled, softer now.
“I know.”
“How?”
“Your feet are pointing at me.”
Hercules glanced down.
They were.
He flushed.
“Trait.”
“Cute trait.”
They sat until the moon lifted itself free of the horizon.
Two large men, built for storms and labour and leadership, inventing a new grammar of closeness out of breath and palms and mutual permission.
Nothing claimed.
Nothing owed.
Everything honest.
And Hercules realised that attraction, when met with safety, did not shrink him.
It made him spacious.
For a few minutes, Hercules just sat there.
Letting it happen.
Letting himself be… like this.
Open.
Warm.
Unarmoured.
Which, frankly, was alarming.
He frowned slightly at the water.
“…This isn’t normal,” he muttered.
The Forty-Third Kabesa glanced at him.
“What isn’t?”
“Me.”
“In what sense?”
Hercules gestured vaguely at his own chest.
“I don’t… talk like this. Ever. I’ve spent my entire life communicating through rowing schedules and protein intake.”
“Powerful dialect.”
“And now I’m on a beach telling a national leader about my feelings.”
“Regional leader,” the Forty-Third Kabesa corrected. “Let’s not inflate my ego.”
“That’s worse,” Hercules said. “It means you’re just… a guy. And I’m still emotionally naked.”
The Forty-Third Kabesa grinned.
“Emotionally shirtless, at least.”
“Do not make it sexy.”
“I will absolutely make it sexy.”
Hercules snorted.
Then paused.
“…Wait.”
“What?”
“Why am I not panicking?”
Good question.
He should be panicking.
He was sitting very close to a very attractive, very kind, very powerful man.
He was admitting things.
Letting himself be touched.
Flirting.
Lightly.
Without spiralling.
Without shutting down.
Without dissociating.
His nervous system, traitorously, was fine.
Better than fine.
It was… humming.
“I usually shut down,” Hercules said quietly. “Or get stiff. Or joke. Or leave.”
“And tonight?”
“I’m… here.”
The Forty-Third Kabesa studied him.
“Because you’ve been starving,” he said.
“For…?”
“Reciprocity.”
Hercules turned toward him.
“Explain.”
“You’ve been strong at people for a year,” he continued. “Supportive. Patient. Honourable. Contained. You gave safety outward and didn’t receive it back.”
Hercules’s throat tightened.
“I didn’t need it,” he said automatically.
“Lie,” the Forty-Third Kabesa replied gently.
Hercules sighed.
“…Okay.”
He shifted, lying back on one elbow now, half-facing him.
“So why do I suddenly feel like I’ve been emotionally unclenched with a wrench?”
“Because,” the Forty-Third Kabesa said, “I’m not asking you to perform strength.”
He reached out and lightly flicked Hercules’s bicep.
“Trust me, you’ve got plenty.”
“I’m not asking you to be noble.”
Another flick.
“Already covered.”
“I’m asking you to be honest.”
He let his fingers rest there this time.
Warm.
Barely touching.
“And you’re good at that,” he added. “You just don’t get invited to use it.”
Hercules stared.
“That’s… unfairly perceptive.”
“Leadership perk.”
“Stop being hot and wise at the same time.”
“No.”
They both laughed.
Hercules felt boldness bloom.
A strange, unfamiliar courage.
“So,” he said, “are you… flirting with me?”
The Forty-Third Kabesa didn’t hesitate.
“Yes.”
Hercules’s brain short-circuited.
“…Oh.”
“But,” he added immediately, “in a ‘you are safe and interesting and I enjoy you’ way, not a ‘let’s mess up your life’ way.”
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
Hercules shook his head.
“I don’t know how to do this.”
“Do what?”
“Be… emotionally available and slightly attracted to someone without it becoming my entire personality.”
The Forty-Third Kabesa laughed.
“Practice.”
“How?”
“Like this.”
He shifted closer again.
Not trapping.
Inviting.
Their shoulders touched.
This time, Hercules didn’t freeze.
Didn’t overthink.
He let it happen.
“Mutual vulnerability,” the Forty-Third Kabesa said quietly, “is two people saying: I will not weaponise what you show me.”
Hercules absorbed that.
“And integrity?” he asked.
“Is doing that even when nobody’s watching.”
Silence fell.
Not awkward.
Full.
“Does Wolver know you’re here?” the Forty-Third Kabesa asked gently.
“Yes.”
“Does he know you’re hurting?”
Hercules hesitated.
“…No.”
“There it is,” he said softly.
Not accusing.
Naming.
“You’ve been brave alone,” he continued. “That’s impressive. It’s also unsustainable.”
Hercules felt something inside him yield.
Like a knot loosening.
“I didn’t want to burden him,” he admitted.
“Love isn’t a weight,” the Forty-Third Kabesa replied. “It’s a shared load.”
Hercules exhaled shakily.
“You’re… dangerous.”
“How so?”
“You make emotional clarity feel like common sense.”
“Years of therapy and swimming in storms,” he said cheerfully.
“Elite training.”
They sat there, bodies warm, minds open, quietly flirting with honesty itself.
And Hercules realised that whatever happened next, he was learning a language he should have been taught long ago.
He
was quiet for a long time after that.
Not withdrawn.
Processing.
You could see it in the way his jaw shifted slightly, in the way his fingers flexed once against the sand and then relaxed again, in the way his breathing slowed as though he were deliberately choosing not to run.
The Forty-Third Kabesa waited.
That was the first intimacy.
Not filling the space.
Not rescuing.
Letting it exist.
The tide crept closer, whispering over pebbles and broken shells.
The air cooled.
Eventually, Hercules spoke.
“He smells like engine oil and oranges,” he said suddenly.
The Forty-Third Kabesa smiled, faintly.
“Wolver?”
“Yeah.”
“Good smell?”
“The best.”
Hercules shook his head at himself.
“I notice stupid things.”
“No,” the Forty-Third Kabesa said. “You notice real things.”
He shifted closer, slowly, so slowly it was almost ceremonial.
Their thighs brushed.
Not pressed.
Brushed.
A question.
Hercules didn’t move away.
So he stayed.
“Tell me,” the Forty-Third Kabesa said quietly. “About him.”
Hercules stared at the stars.
“He’s… careful,” he said. “Not timid. Strategic. Like he’s always thinking three storms ahead.”
“Mm.”
“He pretends he’s casual. He’s not. He memorises people’s schedules. Brings spare gloves. Knows when someone’s about to burn out before they do.”
“That sounds like love already,” the Forty-Third Kabesa murmured.
Hercules laughed softly.
“Yeah. He does love. He just… doesn’t leap.”
The Forty-Third Kabesa reached out and, with explicit slowness, rested the back of his fingers against Hercules’s forearm.
Light.
Barely there.
Another question.
Hercules inhaled.
Did not pull away.
So the touch deepened.
Not gripping.
Cupping.
Warm.
Steady.
“What hurts most?” he asked.
The question landed gently.
Not invasive.
Inviting.
Hercules swallowed.
“That he thinks protecting me means keeping distance,” he said.
His voice wavered.
“I don’t want to be protected from him. I want to be protected with him.”
The Forty-Third Kabesa nodded.
“That makes sense.”
“He looks at me like I’m… precious cargo,” Hercules continued. “Like if he handles me wrong, I’ll break.”
“Do you feel breakable?”
“No,” Hercules said immediately. Then paused.
“…Sometimes.”
The Forty-Third Kabesa shifted again.
This time, he opened his arm.
Not wrapping.
Offering.
A space.
Hercules stared at it.
“You don’t have to,” he said quickly.
“I know,” he replied.
They waited.
Ten seconds.
Twenty.
Finally, Hercules leaned in.
Not collapsing.
Settling.
His shoulder tucked into the curve of the Forty-Third Kabesa’s chest.
His head rested just under the collarbone.
A place of heartbeat and breath.
The Forty-Third Kabesa’s arm came around him.
Loose.
Protective without possession.
Like a breakwater that lets water pass.
Hercules exhaled, long and shuddering.
“Oh,” he whispered again.
“Yeah,” came the soft reply.
They stayed like that.
Two large men, built for hauling and fighting tides, practising stillness.
“Sometimes,” Hercules murmured, voice muffled, “I’m scared if I stop being strong, he’ll think he was right to keep distance.”
The Forty-Third Kabesa’s hand moved.
Not stroking.
Tracing small, slow circles between Hercules’s shoulder blades.
Regulatory.
Anchoring.
“Strength,” he said quietly, “is letting someone see when you’re tired.”
Hercules closed his eyes.
“I’ve never shown him this,” he admitted.
“Then he doesn’t fully know you yet.”
That wasn’t criticism.
It was possibility.
Hercules tilted his head slightly, cheek resting more fully against warm skin.
“Do you think… I should tell him?”
“I think,” the Forty-Third Kabesa replied, “you deserve to be known.”
Silence.
Waves.
Breathing.
Heartbeats slowly synchronising.
“Thank you,” Hercules whispered.
“For… holding me.”
“For trusting me,” he answered.
And in that simple exchange, Hercules felt something fundamental rearrange itself.
Not replacing Wolver.
Not diminishing him.
Making space.
For honesty.
For courage.
For love that did not require starvation first.
They stayed like that longer than Hercules realised.
Long enough for the stars to rearrange themselves slightly.
Long enough for the tide to touch the edge of his boots.
Long enough for his body to stop bracing for the moment it would have to let go.
It never came.
That was… suspicious.
He shifted a little, lifting his head just enough to look at the Forty-Third Kabesa’s face.
“Can I ask you something without it being weird?” he murmured.
The Forty-Third Kabesa looked down at him, calm and open.
“You’ve been doing that all night. Keep going.”
Hercules frowned slightly.
“Why is this okay?”
“Define this.”
“Me,” Hercules said, gesturing vaguely at his own body. “Curled into you. Talking about another man. Feeling safe. Not feeling… guilty.”
The Forty-Third Kabesa considered that.
Then, quietly:
“Because I’m not trying to own this moment.”
Hercules blinked.
“What?”
“I’m not trying to turn tonight into leverage,” he said. “Or a claim. Or a story about myself.”
He shifted so Hercules was more comfortable, adjusting his arm with care.
“I’m here with you,” he continued. “Not harvesting you.”
The word landed.
Harvesting.
Hercules had felt that before.
From institutions.
From admirers.
From people who loved the idea of him more than him.
“Oh,” he whispered.
“I’ve been harvested,” the Forty-Third Kabesa added calmly.
Hercules looked up sharply.
“You?”
“Yes.”
“When?”
“Most of my twenties,” he replied. “By communities. By media. By people who wanted a symbol instead of a man.”
He smiled faintly.
“Turns out being large and cheerful and good at things makes people project.”
Hercules absorbed that.
“And…?”
“And I let them,” he said. “For a while. Because it felt useful. Because it felt like purpose.”
His voice softened.
“It also made me lonely.”
The arm around Hercules tightened just a fraction.
Not to restrain.
To be honest.
“So I learned,” he continued, “that real closeness has to be non-extractive. Otherwise it’s just another job.”
Hercules felt that settle deep.
“You’re… very open,” he said quietly.
“I practise,” the Forty-Third Kabesa replied. “Openness is a muscle. Nobody is born good at it.”
“Why practise?”
“Because I was terrible at it,” he said simply.
Hercules waited.
He went on.
“I used to disappear into work. Training. Leadership. Service. Anything that let me avoid being seen when I was tired or scared.”
That sounded… familiar.
“One year,” he continued, “I didn’t tell anyone I was burned out until I fainted during a rescue drill.”
Hercules stiffened.
“That’s dangerous.”
“Exactly.”
He exhaled.
“I learned that integrity isn’t just about doing the right thing. It’s about letting people see when you can’t.”
Hercules rested his cheek back against his chest.
“Is that why you’re okay with me liking you and loving someone else?”
“Yes.”
“Both?”
“Both.”
He smiled into Hercules’s hair.
“Affection isn’t a zero-sum system. Neither is care.”
Hercules laughed softly.
“You’re dismantling my entire emotional education.”
“Happy to help.”
Another pause.
“Also,” the Forty-Third Kabesa added, “I find you attractive. Obviously.”
Hercules froze.
“…Obviously?”
“Have you seen you?”
“No.”
“Well, I have. You’re built like a storm wall and you apologise to broken equipment. It’s devastating.”
Hercules groaned.
“Please stop.”
“No.”
“But attraction isn’t a contract,” he continued gently. “It’s information. I can hold it without acting on it.”
“That’s… advanced.”
“Therapy and heartbreak,” he replied cheerfully.
They lay there, two men learning a language most people were never taught.
“I think,” Hercules said slowly, “this is the first time I’ve been close to someone without feeling like I owed them a version of myself.”
The Forty-Third Kabesa’s hand stilled.
“That’s the goal,” he said quietly. “Presence without performance.”
Hercules closed his eyes.
Presence without performance.
For the first time in over a year, he felt like he was allowed to simply exist inside his own life.
Hercules lay there for a while, letting that phrase echo.
Presence without performance.
It felt… illegal.
Like he had discovered a hidden room in himself that nobody had told him he was allowed to enter.
Eventually, he shifted again, propping himself slightly on one elbow so he could look up properly.
Moonlight traced the Forty-Third Kabesa’s jaw and shoulders in pale silver.
He looked, as always, like someone carved out of labour and sunlight.
Which made the next question feel urgent.
“How do you do it?” Hercules asked quietly.
“Do what?”
“Be like this,” he said. “Strong. Capable. Calm. And still… open.”
The Forty-Third Kabesa blinked.
Then smiled.
A little sheepishly.
“Oh,” he said. “That’s easy.”
Hercules waited.
“I’m a squishy pineapple.”
Hercules stared.
“…A what.”
“A squishy pineapple.”
“That is not an explanation.”
“It absolutely is.”
He shifted so they were facing each other more directly.
“Okay,” he said. “Picture a pineapple.”
“I know what a pineapple is.”
“Spiky. Tough. Armour. Looks like it could fight you.”
“Accurate.”
“That’s the outside,” he continued. “That’s training. Discipline. Leadership. Muscles. Boundaries.”
He gently tapped his own chest.
“And inside?”
“Soft,” he said simply. “Sweet. Bruises easily. Needs care.”
Hercules’s mouth curved despite himself.
“So you’re saying you’re… dangerous-looking fruit.”
“Exactly.”
“Emotionally.”
“Very.”
Hercules laughed, real and free.
“That’s ridiculous.”
“It’s accurate,” the Forty-Third Kabesa replied. “I spent years pretending I was only the outside. Got very good at it. Almost forgot the inside existed.”
“What changed?”
He grew thoughtful.
“I met someone who treated me like I was already soft,” he said. “Even when I was pretending not to be.”
Hercules felt that land.
“And?”
“And I realised it was exhausting to be armoured all the time,” he continued. “So now I let people see both. Not everyone. But… the right ones.”
He met Hercules’s eyes.
“You’re one.”
Hercules’s chest tightened.
“Why?” he asked, barely audible.
“Because you’re careful,” he replied. “With work. With people. With feelings. Even when it costs you. Squishy pineapples recognise each other.”
“That is not a real proverb.”
“It is now.”
They both smiled.
Hercules traced an absent-minded line in the sand with one finger.
“So being vulnerable doesn’t make you weaker.”
“It makes me harder to manipulate,” the Forty-Third Kabesa said immediately.
Hercules looked up, startled.
“People can only control what you’re hiding,” he continued. “If I know my fears and say them out loud, nobody gets to weaponise them.”
That was… powerful.
“And,” he added softly, “it lets people take care of me when I need it.”
Hercules swallowed.
“I don’t know how to let people do that.”
“I know,” he said gently. “You’re learning.”
He reached up and brushed his thumb lightly over Hercules’s knuckles.
A small, tender gesture.
“I’m proud of you,” he added quietly.
Hercules blinked hard.
“For what?”
“For not numbing. For not hardening. For coming here instead of disappearing.”
Hercules lay back down, overwhelmed in the best way.
“Okay,” he muttered. “I want to be a squishy pineapple too.”
The Forty-Third Kabesa laughed.
“Congratulations. You already are. You just forgot.”
They lay there for a while after that.
Side by side now.
Not quite touching everywhere.
But connected.
A shoulder.
A thigh.
The steady, unconscious drift of two bodies choosing proximity.
The surf kept time.
Hercules watched the moon for a bit, then finally said, quietly:
“So… what do I do.”
It wasn’t framed as a dramatic question.
No “about my life.”
No “about love.”
Just: what do I do.
The Forty-Third Kabesa turned his head.
“About Wolver.”
Hercules nodded.
“Yeah.”
He picked at a bit of shell near his knee.
“I don’t want to pressure him. I don’t want to scare him. I don’t want to… make him think I’m ungrateful for what he’s trying to do.”
“And,” the Forty-Third Kabesa added gently, “you don’t want to disappear inside patience.”
“…Yes.”
He sighed.
“Why is this so hard.”
“Because you’re both good people trying not to hurt each other,” he replied. “Those situations are always the hardest.”
Hercules closed his eyes.
“So what’s the… squishy pineapple solution.”
The Forty-Third Kabesa smiled.
“It’s boring.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“It’s honest,” he corrected.
“Worse.”
He shifted so he could look Hercules in the face.
“Okay,” he said. “Step one: stop protecting Wolver from information about you.”
Hercules frowned.
“I’m not—”
“You are,” he interrupted gently. “You’re editing yourself. You’re showing him the strong, calm, ‘I’m fine’ version. Not the tired, lonely, I-miss-you version.”
Hercules went quiet.
“That’s… accurate.”
“Step two,” he continued, “tell him what you want without turning it into a demand.”
“What do I want?” Hercules asked softly.
The Forty-Third Kabesa didn’t answer immediately.
He waited.
Let Hercules find it.
After a moment:
“I want to be close to him,” Hercules said. “I want to build something with him. Slowly if needed. But together. Not parallel.”
“Good,” he said. “Say that.”
“I’m scared he’ll hear it as pressure.”
“Only if you package it as sacrifice,” the Forty-Third Kabesa replied. “Don’t say, ‘I’ve waited a year for you.’ Say, ‘I want to grow with you.’”
Hercules blinked.
“That’s… different.”
“Very.”
“Okay. Step three?”
“Invite him into your vulnerability,” he said. “Ask him how he’s feeling. Not just what he’s planning.”
Hercules nodded slowly.
“I… never ask that.”
“I know.”
“You know everything.”
“Leadership hazard.”
They shared a small smile.
“And step four?” Hercules asked.
The Forty-Third Kabesa’s tone softened.
“Be ready for any answer.”
Hercules’s stomach dropped.
“Even… no?”
“Even no,” he said quietly. “Because your integrity is worth more than a maybe that costs you your voice.”
Silence.
That one hurt.
But it was clean pain.
The kind that heals.
“I don’t know if I’m strong enough,” Hercules admitted.
The Forty-Third Kabesa reached over and squeezed his hand.
Firm.
Warm.
“You row storms,” he said. “You carry crews. You came here instead of shutting down. You are strong enough.”
Hercules exhaled.
“What if I lose him?”
“Then you’ll grieve honestly,” he replied. “And you’ll still be you.”
Another pause.
“And,” he added, lightly, “you won’t be alone while you do it.”
Hercules smiled faintly.
“Is that a promise.”
“It’s an offer.”
He accepted it anyway.
They lay there, two squishy pineapples under a wide, forgiving sky, mapping a future not with certainty, but with courage.
The night kept moving.
Slowly.
Unbothered by human revelations.
Stars slid.
Waves reorganised.
The air cooled enough that Hercules became aware, distantly, that his shirt was damp with sweat and salt.
He shifted.
Not because he wanted to leave.
Because something in him knew he should.
Responsibility.
Morning drills.
Messages unanswered.
Life waiting.
He sighed.
The Forty-Third Kabesa noticed immediately.
“You’re doing the internal goodbye posture,” he observed.
Hercules blinked.
“I am?”
“You’ve straightened your spine and gone emotionally quiet. It’s very distinctive.”
“…Rude.”
“Accurate.”
Hercules sat up slowly, brushing sand from his hands.
“Yeah,” he admitted. “I should go.”
The Forty-Third Kabesa nodded.
No disappointment.
No guilt.
Respect.
“Want me to walk you partway?”
“No,” Hercules said gently. “I think I need to… process alone for a bit.”
“Good instinct.”
He stood too, unfolding to his full, impressive height.
They faced each other now.
Moonlight between them.
Sea behind.
Jungle at their backs.
For a second, neither spoke.
Then Hercules frowned slightly.
Wait.
Something was… wrong.
Or rather.
Something new.
He felt a small, unexpected ache in his chest.
A familiar ache.
Not for Wolver.
Not only.
For this.
For this man.
For this strange, safe pocket of honesty they had built in a few hours.
For the way he had been seen without performance.
He swallowed.
“…This is inconvenient,” he muttered again.
The Forty-Third Kabesa smiled knowingly.
“Let me guess.”
“I’m going to miss you,” Hercules said.
There it was.
Out loud.
The Forty-Third Kabesa’s expression softened.
“Already?”
“Yes,” Hercules said. “Annoyingly.”
“Mm,” he hummed. “That tracks.”
He stepped closer.
Not invading.
Just… present.
“You know,” he said quietly, “missing someone doesn’t mean you’re losing anyone.”
“It doesn’t?”
“It means you let something matter.”
Hercules considered that.
“I’m not good at that,” he admitted.
“You’re learning fast.”
They stood there.
Two large men who had spent most of their lives being useful to others.
Now learning how to be meaningful to each other.
“I’m glad I ran into you,” Hercules said.
“Literally,” the Forty-Third Kabesa replied.
“Especially literally.”
They laughed.
Then, impulsively, Hercules did something new.
He opened his arms.
Not wide.
Not dramatic.
Just enough.
An invitation.
The Forty-Third Kabesa froze for half a second.
Then stepped in.
They hugged.
Not a crushing hug.
Not a performative one.
A full-body, balanced embrace.
Chest to chest.
Arms secure.
Breathing aligned.
A hug that said: I am here. I am not taking. I am not leaving yet.
They held it.
Longer than polite.
Shorter than desperate.
Exactly right.
When they pulled back, the Forty-Third Kabesa rested his forehead briefly against Hercules’s.
Just for a moment.
“Let me know when you talk to him,” he murmured.
“I will.”
“And… you’re welcome back here anytime,” he added. “No emotional collapse required.”
Hercules smiled.
“I’ll try to schedule them.”
“Please don’t.”
They separated.
Hercules picked up his pack.
Started toward the path.
After a few steps, he looked back.
The Forty-Third Kabesa was still standing there, hands in pockets, watching him go with quiet fondness.
Hercules lifted a hand.
He waved back.
And as Hercules disappeared into the trees, he realised something both terrifying and beautiful:
His heart had not divided.
It had expanded.
The nets were heavier than they should have been.
Not because they were full.
Because Hercules was distracted.
He and Wolver had been working the west mooring since late afternoon, helping an older crew reset storm anchors that had shifted during last week’s swell. It was routine work. Dirty. Physical. Familiar.
Normally, Hercules loved this kind of day.
Today, his hands kept missing their rhythm.
“Careful,” Wolver muttered, steadying a line before it slipped.
“Yeah,” Hercules said. “Sorry.”
They worked in silence for a while.
Rope.
Winch.
Clamp.
Repeat.
Gulls wheeled overhead, screaming about nothing. The sky softened into evening. Lights along the harbour blinked on one by one.
At some point, without anyone deciding it, the rest of the crew drifted off.
Someone had a family dinner.
Someone had a shift change.
Someone just vanished the way dock workers always did.
Suddenly, it was just the two of them.
Still working.
Still pretending that was normal.
Wolver finished tying off the last line and wiped his hands on his jacket.
“…You okay?” he asked, casually.
Too casually.
Hercules hesitated.
“Yeah,” he said automatically.
Then:
“…I mean. Mostly.”
Wolver glanced at him.
That second word had changed everything.
They walked toward the edge of the pier to rinse their hands in the wash station. The water was cold. The metal rail was colder.
Hercules leaned on it, staring at the darkening water.
“I’ve been weird lately,” he said.
Wolver stiffened.
“Have you?”
“Yes.”
“Okay.”
Another pause.
“You’re allowed to be weird,” Wolver added, uncertainly.
“That’s not reassuring.”
Wolver huffed.
“Sorry.”
They stood there.
Wind.
Water.
Engines humming somewhere far off.
Hercules rubbed the back of his neck.
“I’m tired,” he said.
“From work?”
“…From waiting.”
The word slipped out before he could stop it.
Wolver froze.
“What?”
Hercules closed his eyes.
Great. Well done.
“I mean,” he rushed, “not like waiting for you to do anything. I mean. Just… waiting in general. For life to start again.”
That was not better.
Wolver turned to face him fully now.
“Herc,” he said quietly. “Talk to me.”
Hercules looked at him.
Really looked.
The familiar curve of his jaw.
The scar near his eyebrow.
The tired kindness in his eyes.
And something in him gave up pretending.
“I miss you,” Hercules said.
Not dramatically.
Not loudly.
Just honestly.
Wolver’s breath caught.
“I’m right here,” he said automatically.
“I know,” Hercules replied. “That’s not what I mean.”
Silence.
Then:
“I miss… us,” Hercules continued. “When we weren’t careful all the time. When it was just… easy.”
Wolver stared at the pier.
“I was trying to be responsible,” he murmured.
“I know.”
“I didn’t want to mess you up.”
“I’m already messed up,” Hercules said weakly.
That got a small laugh out of him.
Then Wolver grew serious.
“…Have I hurt you?”
Hercules hesitated.
“Yes,” he said.
Wolver flinched.
“And no,” Hercules added quickly. “Not on purpose. Not badly. Just… by being far away when you’re standing right next to me.”
Wolver swallowed.
“I thought space was safer.”
“I thought silence would keep you,” Hercules admitted.
They looked at each other.
Two men who had been protecting each other into loneliness.
“I didn’t know you were this lonely,” Wolver whispered.
“I didn’t know how to say it.”
“Why not?”
“Because I’m supposed to be strong,” Hercules said. “And strong people don’t… ask.”
Wolver shook his head slowly.
“That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard.”
“…Yeah.”
He stepped closer.
Not touching.
Just nearer.
“I don’t want to be careful if it means losing you,” Wolver said.
Hercules’s chest tightened.
“I don’t want to be quiet if it means disappearing,” he replied.
They stood there, awkward and exposed and unsure what came next.
Finally, Wolver said:
“…Can we try again?”
“Again?”
“Us,” he clarified. “But… talking. Not guessing.”
Hercules let out a shaky laugh.
“I would like that.”
Wolver hesitated.
Then reached out and bumped his shoulder lightly against Hercules’s.
Not a hug.
Not dramatic.
Just contact.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
“I’m still here,” Hercules replied.
“I know,“ said Wolver, and leaned in and kissed Hercules cleanly on the lips.
Not rushed.
Not dramatic.
Not practiced.
A simple, steady press.
Warm.
Certain.
Present.
When he pulled back, they both froze.
Blinking.
Breathing.
Recalibrating.
“…Wow,” Hercules whispered.
Then he leaned in and kissed Wolver.
And they stood there on the quiet pier, two storm-built men learning that sometimes the bravest thing was not endurance, but choosing each other, time and time and time again.