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Tangerine knows all about impossibilities. He lived, (Knows he shouldn’t have, can feel it like an ever present skip in the beat of his heart) so what’s one more? Dream communication is nothing compared to coming back to life. He tries not to think too hard about the strain of his neck, the pink skin that sits there, and the shaking hands of the man who put it there.
(Ladybug’s hands didn’t shake while firing the gun, only when leaving his jacket draped over him. The feeling of the scratchy polyester is seared into Tangerine’s mind, as are the words that followed- the Lord’s prayer. An absurd waste of time- God doesn't concern Himself with assassins.)
—
Here’s what he doesn't tell Lemon:
He could feel the exact moment he died. Could feel the thread unravelling, could feel his heartbeat slowing. He could’ve fought it- pulled through some amount of anger for the little bitch who killed his brother, for a stupid man in an ugly hat- but he was so tired.
He was so tired, and there was no one waiting for him to come home.
—
Sanguinello
The first time he wakes up, it is to the ever constant beeping of machines. He’s in a hospital. You only have to spend a couple hours in one before you can recognize the smell, rot working its way into your nostrils.
There’s a certain weight to movement in hospitals, like every person is overburdened, carrying more than they have to. (His mum used to grip his hand and tell him that the souls of people wander the halls, on their way to their next journey, although he could never see them, not the way she could. He pushes the memory away, trying to remember what happened.)
He cracks his eyes, and croaks out “Lemon?”, a cry of desperation. The relief that fills him when Leomon’s face swims into view is so overwhelming that he has to close his eyes.
Fuck.
They made it.
He’s shaking, he can feel it as he reaches for Lemon’s hands. It matches the tremor in his heart.
They leave the hospital two days later. It’s forty-eight hours later than either one of them wanted to stay - hospitals hold them in some sort of unspoken, shared grief- but Lemon insisted.
He left and came back with a wheelchair and a bag of oranges, because he thinks he’s funny. (When Tangerine slices into them later, he finds that they are blood oranges, dark red juice seeping into the tile of his countertops. He bites his lips hard enough to taste metal. The irony is enough to make him snort, before he dumps them in the rubbish bin. He’s had enough citrus for a while.)
Lemon and him don’t talk about it, at least not at first. Instead, they trade remarks on the sheer foolishness of having so many fucking assassins on the same train.
They don’t talk about how close they stay to one another these days.
They don’t talk about Lemon finding Tangerine curled up in a closet on their first mission back.
They talk about silly things. Jaffa cakes, Lemon’s overdue fine at the library, the colours they should repaint their kitchen. (It will not be plum. Tangerine will die on this hill.)
It will pass. These things always do, worries swept away as others replace them.
(It is fitting that Ladybug proves him wrong. That Ladybug has always been (will always be) his exception.)
—
Tangerine is one half of the world’s best hired hitmen. He will not be brought down because of a scruffy bloke who talks about meditative practices.
So when he first sees Ladybug, awash in fluorescent lighting, (Why the dream supplies fucking fluorescents will continue to be a mystery.) he is angry, and rightfully so. This is the man who shot him and had the audacity to look sorry, to talk to him as he bled out.
He tells Ladybug that. He’s screaming at him, can see Ladybug’s hunched shoulders and the pain on his face and Tangerine revels in it. He’s not going to win this, not with his sky-fucking-high morals and mindful breathing and watchful eyes.
The next few nights pass in the same way, and Tangerine starts to feel a little guilty. It’s because Ladybug doesn't do anything- just stands there and watches Tangerine breathe.
So the next night, Tangerine throws a few half-hearted insults, and then lays down on the ground. So sue him, he’s bloody tired. Ladybug seems to be rather taken aback by this, and mirrors him a couple feet apart. Not far enough away that Tangerine couldn’t kill him. (He wonders if Ladybug considered this, if he moved closer to invite Tangerine to stab him. Maybe he’s acting on some fucked up desire for repentance. Not that he’d do it- Ladybug has earned himself a painful, drawn out death.)
They didn't talk that night. Instead, the hours pass while Tangerine stares back at Ladybug, determined to catalogue every one of his weaknesses.
—
Moro
He says, “You didn’t visit me in the hospital.”
Ladybug flinches. His reply, voice scratchy with disuse is quiet. “I didn’t want to see your body.”
“Well, next time you decide to summon me here, try to dream up some more comfortable furniture. The colours here are atrocious.”
Ladybug’s gaze is still fixed on Tangerine. It doesn't ever seem to leave him, which Tangerine supposes he should be used to, but it still throws him off guard. He’s not used to men staring at him without acting on some form of carnal desires, not used to anyone watching him without wanting something from him.
(He’s sure Ladybug does. Everyone does. Tangerine’s just not quick enough to figure out what it is.
He will, though. Before he gets caught up in this cycle, before his imagination leaps ahead without him.)
Ladybug coughs, seemingly in surprise. “I-” He pauses, still staring at Tangerine. “I will. Next time”
Tangerine definitely isn’t controlling this. For one thing, everyone would be shirtless. Secondly, there would be things lying around for him to throw at Ladybug.
—
The next night, there’s a rug waiting for him. It’s horribly patterned- bright paisley, for fucks sake- but he sits down anyway. Lemon would tell him that this is a good step, that he’s meeting Ladybug in the middle.
He hasn’t told Lemon about this.
He doesn't know why. He doesn't want Lemon to worry (and knows he does regardless, has woken up to Lemon’s tired eyes one too many times to pretend it’s any different), and yet-
This feels like a secret. Not the sort of secret that topples nations, that leaves the taste of rust in the back of your throat. But rather, something small and growing and-
He shuts down that train of thought. He’s not doing this again. Especially not with this man (split into pieces) lying next to him. He can practically smell the sorrow coming off of Ladybug.
—
Cedro
He wakes, and doesn't tell Lemon.
They eat breakfast together, the smell of burnt toast and marmalade floating through the flat, and plan their next move.
They’re due for a new city. Lemon proposes a holiday, which isn’t unusual, but the quickness of it makes Tangerine itch.
He lived.
He’s here.
He tells Lemon this, and watches the concern coupled with irritation pass across his face like a wave. It hides in the dark circles under his eyes, and Tangerine knows he’s responsible for at least half of that, can feel the guilt rising in his chest.
They decide on Sirmione. There’s a job in the area, but small enough that they can take their time. Maybe go sightseeing, pick up another one of those dumb touristy magnets that adorn the kitchen fridge.
It’s- well, pleasant isn’t a word he uses very often, but it’s a nice enough trip.
They stick their feet in the sand on one of the beaches, they walk through the streets and buy ice lollies for the sake of it, they dine at fancy restaurants and look impeccable. (No one tells them they don’t belong here.)
Ladybug, however, seems determined to ruin it. He hasn’t shown up anywhere besides dreams (more like pulled Tangerine up and sideways into his own) but when Tangerine wakes, he finds that Lemon’s eyes follow him, watching cautiously from the twin bed to the right of his own.
“You seem distracted lately.”
Listen, Tangerine knows that Lemon doesn't mean anything by it- nothing more than brotherly concern- but it grates on him.
He’s not quick enough to bite down the bitter words he hisses in response.
“Maybe you would be too, if you were left for dead in a train car.”
It’s cruel. It’s not the truth either- or at least, not the whole truth. He knows there are more layers to it, knows that Lemon fears hospitals, and spent days at his bedside, woke up to see the poorly hidden tear stained sheets.
He knows his brother. He loves him, too- loves him, will choose him over everything. He’s known that for a very long time, almost since Lemon walked into his life. You don’t grow up like they did and not have some sort of twisted, unbreakable bond - one made of laughter, blood and the stink of fear.
But there is enough truth in his words that Lemon can see it.
( Sometimes, Tangerine forgets that Lemon knows him as well as he knows himself.) It’s a dangerous thing to have, in their world- this shared kinship, this much power over someone- and he wouldn’t trade it for anything. Won’t give this up - Won’t give Lemon up, no matter where this conversation goes.
“Oi, fuck you.” Lemon’s response is instinctual, and the look of horror on his face is enough to make Tangerine snort.
He is starting to apologise- it was too far, and Lemon has always been the kinder of the two, but Lemon throws a pillow at him before he can even begin. That bastard.
“Listen, you absolute bastard- I shouldn’t have left you. I saw your body and all the blood and Tan-”
Tears are welling in his own eyes, matching Lemon’s.
“Tan, I didn’t want to see your body and not you. I couldn’t bear to look at you and not have you there.”
It’s a sickening display of emotion and tenderness, far outside of their usual bonds of conversation. Tangerine rolls his eyes and lobs a pillow back at Lemon, decidedly ignoring the lump in his throat.
Lemon knows. He doesn't have to say it back.
—
“You got- you’re sunburned.”
Tangerine throws Ladybug a glare, because he was midway through reenacting Lemon’s screeches on the plane ride, and this bloody idiot thought sunburn was important enough to interrupt for.
“Yes, thank you kindly for that brilliant observation.” The sarcasm practically drips from his words, and he watches the right side of Ladybug’s mouth quirk up.
“I didn’t know that could happen.”
Perhaps Ladybug is actually a giant fucking idiot. Perhaps he was shot and killed. (But he wasn’t, he lived, even if swallowing hurts sometimes, even if he occasionally wakes up in a cold sweat.) by a bloody fucking dumbass. Ladybug must see something reflected on Tangerine’s face because he has the grace to look ashamed.
“It happened while I was doing surveillance in a hot spring, for your information. It wasn’t like I was going to leave and come back with a bottle of fucking suncream. The target wasn’t into any of that shit.”
Ladybug is still looking at him like he might disappear at any moment. Given that this has been happening for about a month now, he thinks Ladybug should’ve moved into a new emotion. Maybe wantonness– is dream sex a thing? Tangerine shifts against the rugs (there are two now) watching Ladybug think.
“Is that your job? Honeypot?”
“I’m good at it.” It’s not quite an answer, not enough of one. Ladybug will let it go, and they’ll go back to their regularly scheduled dream interactions.
He doesn't.
He looks at Tangerine- straight in the eyes, and pauses, his mouth drifting open for just a second, before asking ; “Do you enjoy it?”
For fucks sake. Godfucking damnit. He’s not here for existential questions about the way he uses his body, or for Ladybug’s pitiful eyes.
But Ladybug is still watching, still waiting like he wants an answer to this- looking at Tangerine like he cares what he has to say.
(And Tangerine is a weak man.)
He tries to be casual about his response, tries to toss the “Sometimes.” out like it doesn't matter, but it lands hard in the weighted space between them.
When he wakes, he lies there and thinks about what slicked back blond hair would feel like in his fingers, the feel of taut muscle underneath him.
He does not think about hearing his name, does not think about how he could hear the smile in it, the pleased expression to him - ( to think that someone wants him, wants him for more than the shape of his face and the slide of his body).
It’s fucking stupid. He is desirable, a weapon that he wields well. He knows this. It doesn't mean anything more. He knows, he knows, he knows.
—
Pomelo
He tells Lemon.
Not all the way, because he’s still a coward. Lemon, however, is both brilliant and unfairly good at reading situations.
“So, you’re not just seeing him in your dreams- you’re…” Lemon trails off, fixing his gaze on Tangerine’s forehead.
Tangerine determinedly stares at the plates adorning the cafe and holds the tablecloth a little tighter. “We’re meeting. In his dreams. It’s like talking to him.”
Lemon nods, and helpfully does not call him crazy.
Tangerine breathes in and out and relaxes his grip on the tablecloth. (He can almost hear Ladybug telling him to picture his happy place, which is annoying and not at all useful. He reminds himself that he does not take self-improvement advice from assassins who refuse to use guns on moral principles.)
“You should find him, then.”
“It’s not that simple.”
Lemon’s voice raises an octave in disbelief. “No fucking shit, Sherlock! You’re communicating with a man who shot you via dream. Simple is your concern?”
“Well.” Tangerine shifts his gaze from the table to scan around the tea shop. “He also thinks I’m a figment of his subconscious.”
Lemon puts his head down on the table and mutters obscenities.
“Get your fucking head off that table, you’ll stain that tie.”
“I don’t see why I would give two bloody fucks,” comes from between a mound of biscuit crumbs and jam.
“Because it’s MY fucking tie, you twat!”
The conversation is dropped when Lemon kicks him in the shins and Tangerine retaliates by spilling a pot of lukewarm tea over his trousers.
—
Lima
Lemon doesn't forget.
(That was wishful thinking, to entertain the thought that he would. They are brothers (Bound together, choosing each other, always.) and he knows Lemon would never let go of something important to Tangerine. The fact that Lemon assumes Ladybug is important to Tangerine is a miscalculation but he can’t think where to start. Nothing he could stammer out would sound like the truth, and he has never been able to lie to Lemon.)
—
Their dreams have been quiet lately.
They lay side by side, scant centimetres apart. He thinks about rolling over and touching Ladybug- wonders how he would feel beneath his terrible clothes. (His skin would be rougher- Tangerine is almost entirely sure that Ladybug has never used moisturiser. Or that he knows what it is.)
But here, in the hushed space between them, there is a scarred sort of beauty.
He finds himself speaking without thinking. “Do you miss me in the mornings?”
It falls out of his mouth quickly, the candour of the question breaking past any attempt to swallow the words. Ladybug stills, and Tangerine finds himself awash in unchecked emotions.
He is a bloody fucking fool for asking. He is a fool for trying to read deeper into the man’s sentiments, for projecting something more onto Ladybug’s words. He can feel the shame rising like bile in the back of his throat, overpowering any sense of rationality.
If he has ruined this-
“Darling, how could I not?” Here is Ladybug’s voice, steady and sure as the hand that rises towards his face, pulling back before his fingers meet Tangerine’s chin. There is honesty written across his face, worry written in the folds of his brows and at the edges of his mouth.
Tangerine is lost in his uncertainty, Ladybug’s ‘darling’ rolling across him like a wave.
He is staring, mouth gaping, at the furrowed ridge in Ladybug’s face, sees the concern in it sharpening at his silence. He knows he should say something light, something to break the mood. He has always known his role, and played it well, but it has never quite felt like this.
The word settles on top of his skin, unbearable in the weight and meaning that follows it. He feels his heart slow, the beat dulling in his ears as he stares at Ladybug. Ladybug called him ‘darling,’ like he meant it, like Tangerine matters to him.
Tangerine has charmed men and women alike, has lost his nights to their silk sheets, used his body to steal secrets, to topple nations. He has worked his way through cities and across countries, collecting stories and sobs alike.
Nothing has ever felt like this. Nothing has felt so intricate, so delicate, like it might vanish if Tangerine looks straight on at it.
He hates it.
He is weak .
He knows this, knows that Ladybug has made him weak, made him frail and far too delicate, with this strange dance that flows between them.
(He tries to tell himself he hates Ladybug, wants to feel the rage rising in him like a tide, but instead all he feels is a sickening sense of fear. He has doomed himself for this man, who dares to look at him with concern in his eyes. He has never wanted to feel like this, emotions and vulnerability on full display.)
He cannot bear to have this, let alone to lose it.
Ladybug has made him weak, and Tangerine will kill him for it.
He turns away from Ladybug, forcing himself into waking.
—
Satsuma
Midway through Peru, he starts to make the connections.
He does not yell ‘Bloody FUCK!’ because they are five hours into a seven hour stakeout, and he has no desire to meet Lemon’s fury so early in the morning, but it is a close call.
He has to test this somehow. He has to know.
But if Ladybug- if Ladybug is convinced he’s dead- well, that must change something.
(It would change everything.)
Hope is for fools, and that’s why he clings to it- something alighting in his chest- a promise, a spark.
Tangerine has always been a little bit fucked in the head.
—
“So. He thinks you’re dead.”
“Yes.”
“And that he killed you.”
“Yes.”
“And he’s still convinced you’re part of his subconscious, because he feels so guilty.”
“Yes.”
“And you’re not at all concerned that he might be a raving lunatic?”
“Lemon, we’re hired assassins.”
“I cannot fucking believe that the first man you’ve liked in ages is—“
“I don’t like him!”
Lemon stares at him.
“You are a bloody terrible liar, which does not bode well for advancements in your career.”
—
He throws back another shot, eyes scanning the club and, for a second, his heart skips a beat. He knows it isn’t Ladybug- has spent his nights studying his body, watching the way it moves around him in an intricate dance. He would know Ladybug anywhere, through any time. He knows the rhythm of his heartbeat, can almost hear it now in the pulsating music and the feverish bodies. He knows, too, where his target is, has spotted the brocade of her dress drawn up around her thighs, and still allows himself one beat of selfishness to dream of dancing with Ladybug
—
Myrtle
The first time Ladybug makes him laugh, Tangerine wakes up feeling unbearably fond.
Fond of a man who thinks that Tangerine is an incarnation of his sins.
It’s not that he hasn’t tried to convince Ladybug that he’s real, it’s more so that Tangerine sometimes forgets he lived. Tangerine would be mortified, but he finds himself too tired to care.
Not always- but sometimes (when he has escaped to the cover of darkness, away from Lemon’s prying eyes) he will think about life and decide that death on the train would be a good end to the narrative. Tangerine, who fought hard -if not for the pursuit of justice, for his brother, and also lots of money- killed by a man he might love. Granted, he really hated the man at the time- but better to end it there, before Tangerine’s foolish heart can attempt to twist his memory.
And then Lemon will kick him in the shins, or talk increasingly about Thomas the Tank Engine and Tangerine will shove it off to the side and decide to Not Think About It.
—
He starts looking for Ladybug.
(Lemon knows, and offers unsolicited advice. “Mate, maybe tell him you want him to dick you down. He’d come running.” That would be easy enough, but Tangerine wants more. Has always wanted more than what anyone ever wanted to give)
He can feel the hunger building in his chest, leaving lust far behind. He wants all of it- wants whatever Ladybug might be convinced to give to him, and more. Would devour the affection Ladybug presents and tear himself apart for the barest echo of more. Ladybug has become his greatest flaw, a knife held against Tangerine’s throat. And it’s still not enough. He wants more, wants slow mornings and grocery shopping, wants the boring and mundane, side by side with the thrill and the dance of danger.
—
He can’t find Ladybug. He’s poked around, stuck his nose right into the underbelly. Stuck his nose exactly where he shouldn’t have- he knows Lemon is watching him, keeping a closer eye on him, now more than ever.
His agency is good- the best in the business, and it shows. There’s nothing on him, no paper trails or stray bullets. There’s nothing but blurry shots on shot cameras scattered across the globe.
He can’t find him. It’s driving him up a bloody wall. There’s nothing on him. He knows Ladybug doesn’t want to be found, knows because they spend their nights talking about what they might have done, in different lives.
(Tangerine can now name every bone in the human neck, has watched Ladybug trace his veins, and imagined the feeling of Ladybugs hands tracing his own. He knows he should be terrified, knows that the Tangerine a year ago would hate him for this, for letting the enemy stray so close to his heart.)
It lies, unspoken between them, that they would each make the same choices, would follow the same paths- for this.
Tangerine has been many people and lived many lives, (slut liar whore killer) but he has never felt anyone step so close to the truth of his soul than the nights he spends with Ladybug.
—
Belladonna
The call comes at precisely 4:13 am. The shrill ringing wakes Tangerine from his sleep, his mouth chalky and cotton filled. His first thought is of Ladybug (always, always) left behind, and guilt fills his chest as he reaches for the burner phone at the side of his mattress.
The voice on the other end is dry and serious. “Are you trying to kill him?”
“Er,” Tangerine adds, intelligently, “Who?”
He’s almost positive she’s rolling her eyes on the other end of the line. “Ladybug.”
The breath is rushing out of him before he realises it. “Is- He’s alright, then? He’s doing well?”
“He’s not doing well. That’s why I called you.”
The word idiot trails off the end of her sentence, and it’s enough to shock him into consciousness. Ladybug. Fuck. What has he done?
“Where is he? Is he in trouble?” He knows this is rash, to express concern for Ladybug, to allow someone else to read into what may or may not exist between them, but he can’t bring himself to care. Not if Ladybug needs him.
She sighs, loudly, and mutters something about ‘senseless assassins’ and the sound crinkles in his ears. Vaguely, he realises he is clenching the phone to his ear, the veins in his knuckles straining.
“He’s fine. He would, I think..like to speak with you.” There is concern in her voice- hidden under layers of aloofness, but he can hear it. Not concern for him, but for Ladybug. The realisation is enough for him to hold his breath, waiting for the other shoe to drop.
“He’s headed to Bordeaux. If you’re anywhere as good as you think you are–”
The last of her sentence is cut off as he hurls himself out of bed and towards the door. Fuck. He needs a change of clothes, and one of his passports. And Lemon- he needs to tell Lemon.
He’s ready in fifteen minutes. He knows that’s too long- knows that Ladybug can disappear into a city at the drop of a pin. Knows he might get to France and have no idea where to find him, might scour the streets day after day for nothing.
But he also knows that Ladybug needs him- needs him enough that someone called the man Ladybug almost killed, someone who knows that he will stop at nothing to find this man.
Tangerine will tear through hell or high water to get to him. He can feel the certainty of that statement settling into his bones.
And yet, his hands are shaking so much he can’t get his rings on. That fucking bastard. He’ll be damned if he lets fucking Ladybug get in the way of fashion.
—
He gets through the airport in a trance. All he can think about on the flight (One hour and forty-eight minutes spent sitting on a plane in economy, seven minutes to leave the airport, five to find the rental car) is Ladybug’s stupid laugh. What is that fool doing? Why bloody France? He leaves the airport, and can feel the pull of Ladybug, like Tangerine is stuck in some fucking orbital dance with the damn man.
(His fixation with Ladybug has apparently made him go mad. Orbital pull? Lemon would laugh his arse off. But he swears he can feel it, something deep and strong pulling him towards this crazy, wonderful man.)
He’s ripped his cuticles to shreds, and there’s no amount of meticulous skin care that will repair that damage. He realises that he can’t even begin to care about it with more than passing irritation. Fucking Ladybug. He’s ruined Tangerine, through and through.
Tangerine rubs the heels of his palms into his eyes and tries to think like Ladybug. He knows the man as well as he knows himself, knows the rhythm of his heartbeat and the timbre of his laugh.
He drives through the city along the river, scanning for any sign of him. He makes it two miles before he has to pull over, breath rattling in his chest.
Ladybug would want to go someplace quiet. He would want to be alone. He would want to hide from the world, to curl up, to make himself closer to-
Oh.
He will be at a church. Somewhere pretty- he likes to look for lovely things (and finds them), anywhere he goes.
Ladybug finds beauty and worships it, from a weed growing in pavement to stained glass adorning a building. (Something in Tangerine’s heart clenches for a moment in unbearable agony.) Bloody Fuck.
He finds the church shortly thereafter. He can feel the appeal that drew Ladybug in, knows he’s in there somewhere. Apprehension is rising in his gut. He knows Ladybug is here- can feel that same pull deep in his chest. And yet, here he is, standing like a coward, desperately afraid that Ladybug will not want him there, will look through him like he’s a ghost. Tangerine digs his nails into his palms, embracing the sharp burst of pain, and starts towards the steps.
He follows the pull through the church, scaling staircase after staircase. There’s a shake in his legs, and he’s struggling for air, terrified and hopeful all at once. If he was more of a nutjob (or a romantic,) he’d think something idiotic about how every action in his life has led up to this.
Lead him to Ladybug.
He turns a corner and spies a door, hidden away in a corner. He moves towards it, filled with an indescribable certainty.
He knows who is in there, but he doesn't know how Ladybug will react, doesn't know what to wish for. Tangerine knows he’ll grasp at whatever Ladybug will bestow upon him, and hopes that Lemon will forgive him if it goes south.
He will accept it peacefully, as long as he can see Ladybug before the end, this man who he has searched for, inside of dreams and out. He has to know. He has to let Ladybug know that he didn’t kill Tangerine, to resolve some of the guilt that has been eating him alive.
The taste of citrus fills his mouth as he reaches for the door handle and turns it, stepping towards whatever the future will bring.
—
Tangerine can feel his heart racing, hear the blood pounding in his ears. He knows he should be monitoring the room or looking around, but he is lost in the sight of Ladybug standing in front of him, emotions laid bare across his face. He can feel the hot tears leaking out of his uncooperative eyes.
He is alive and Ladybug is here, right in front of him, saying something about a stupid watch, like anything else in the world could matter right now. Like he was worried Tangerine would leave him, would turn away from this and the air that tingles electrically between them.
Like he thought there was anything he could do that would make Tangerine run from him, from what they’ve built together- so many nights spent side-by-side, secrets whispered to each other in the dark, too immense to ever sum up into words.
So instead, he steps forward, reaching for Ladybug, and desperately hoping that his actions can convey the fierceness of his -
Of his love.
He is kissing Ladybug- this man he has chased across continents, through dreams and nightmares alike, and he feels desperately, gloriously, alive.
Yosemiti
They will buy a flat together. It will be small, and the wood floors will creak and their neighbours will be noisy, but Tangerine will think of it and the man who will be waiting for him at the door and call it home. Ladybug will paint the walls cerulean, (“Because it reminds me of you, mi media naranja.”) and Tangerine will bring back art from his trips, and they will decorate the space together, until it feels right. There will always be a chair for Lemon, and his favourite tea proudly displayed on the kitchen counter. He will wake to the early morning light , and find himself draped over Ladybug, where he listens to the rhythms of their hearts beating in tandem, lulling him back to sleep.
They will fight and fuck and love and laugh. They will dance together in a kitchen lit by the glow of the moon. They will hold hands in the street, fold their laundry together and cry over spanish telenovelas. Ladybug will teach Tangerine to meditate, and he will try to learn for this wild, crazy man, who he loves. (Who loves Tangerine, who knows him bone deep, knows every inch of his skin and the heart that lies beneath it.)
And Tangerine will never doubt that there will be someone waiting for him to come home.