Ira Carpenter is mine. Warren Caldwell is @asininestars‘s Chicago Spirit OC. Pure fluff. I’m inflicting you with the unspeakable wholesomeness that is Warren/Ira.
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Ira tugs Warren by the hand down the shortcut he’s found, their footsteps echoing off the brick walls of the alley. Warren casts a look around them, because Ira seems blase about this but Warren’s learned from experience to be wary of dark streets like this. “Are you sure about this?”
Ira’s grin glints in the shadows. “It’s fine! It’s short. You’ll see in a second.”
Warren squeezes that hand in his, just to feel its cherished warmth and weight better. It’s impossible not to catch a bit of that contagious optimism. He smiles back.
And sure enough, this time Ira’s assurances come through. The alley opens up, and they’re across the street from Humboldt Park.
Warren stops for a second, struck by how the branches and brush are limned in silver from the moon’s light.
Warren’s pause knocks Ira off balance and he turns back to look, kicking out a leg to keep his balance. Warren can see the light dancing in his eyes as he takes in Warren’s face. “I know, right?” He grins again and it looks a little dopey with fondness. Warren’s heart hurts. But just before he reaches out to grab, to pull that beloved face close, Ira tugs again. “But wait, just wait. We aren’t there yet. It’s worth it!”
And so Warren follows him, helpless with love, across the street and into the moon-veiled walking paths, even though the shadows it casts are inky voids where anything could be hiding. Ira squeezes back when Warren tightens his grip on his hand. How can the man be so fearless when he’s been through just as much as Warren? Warren’s never sure whether it’s courage or fecklessness, but the thought of convincing him to change is like a knife in his chest.
But again, this time, it pays off. It’s not more than a hundred meters or so before the park’s lagoon opens before them, down a little slope of tall grasses, late flowers and cattails at the water’s edge.
Ira pulls Warren close to wrap an arm around his shoulders and lifts a finger to his lips.
Warren widens his eyes at him in silent question. Are they hiding? But the crinkle he can see at the corners of Ira’s eyes is entirely playful.
They stand there at the edge, between the trees and the meadow and the water. The moon shimmers silver on the tiny ripples of the nearly-still lake. The breeze is too faint to do more than rustle the tips of the leaves and the grass. It’s pretty, and Ira is warm. Warren slips an arm around his waist and tucks tight against him.
After a moment, something blinks.
And then, a second later, another.
Wide-eyed, Warren watches as the fireflies come back out of hiding. In small groups and then waves, they blink into a sea of tiny golden sparkles as though the night sky has descended to earth around them.
It’s so beautiful he thinks he might cry.
For a little while—a long while?—all he can do is turn in place. In every direction, they’re standing in a bowl of the sky, ribbons of silver and spills of black shadow filled with tiny, flitting stars.
Eventually he manages to find his way back to himself through the wonder, and grabs Ira tight. “I love you so much,” he whispers, right in Ira’s ear so he won’t scare their little fairy companions.
He feels Ira’s laugh against him. “You deserve beautiful things,” he whispers back, and tucks a lock of Warren’s hair back behind his ear.
Warren shakes his head, because he can’t conceive of deserving something this beautiful but he’s too selfish to give it back, and resorts to kissing his gratitude into Ira.
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