It was in this booth, almost exactly two years ago, that they kissed for the first time. The memory of it blooms in the dark of his mind as Jesper traces the constellations of his freckles. So much has happened since then that Wilhelm can't be the same boy anymore, and yet a part of him still is. He came to Jesper that day because he couldn't stand being by himself — because in the aftermath of Thorne and Cadens exchanging fire, he was being crushed under the weight of his own thoughts. He wanted to forget everything. To slip outside of himself.

Today, he's lonely again. He still misses Kelson. He thinks that a little part of him will always love Kelson, the way a flower, cut in its prime, can be pressed and preserved behind glass. It's not as sharp anymore, the missing. The waves of it, which once crashed over his head and stole his breath away, come in less violently. They're fewer and farther between.

Wilhelm didn't plan it this way, but it feels right. As if something has shifted into place, slowly and then all at once.

He sets down his drink to glide his fingers down the edges of Jesper's jaw. The look he lifts to him holds a question. And then there's a breath of laughter fluttering from his lips as he remembers how, when Jesper had asked if he was interested in kissing him, he'd stupidly answered, Really? Like right now?

So leaning in, he nestles a kiss against his lips.