The Next Day
Something is wrong with Cecil.
Not wrong in the way that triggers my protective instincts—he's not having a bad day, not spiraling, not retreating into that dark place he sometimes goes.
But something is definitely off.
He's quiet.
Too quiet.
We're having breakfast—Keith making his usual chaotic attempts at scrambled eggs while I handle the bacon—and Cecil is just sitting at the table, staring into his tea like it holds the secrets of the universe.
He hasn't said more than three words since he woke up.
I glance at Keith, who's noticed too based on the concerned looks he keeps shooting Cecil's way.
Did I do something wrong?
I mentally review the past twenty-four hours. Yesterday was good—Cecil went to the amusement park with Naomi and Nalani, came back happy, invited them for tea. We all talked, laughed, it was comfortable and easy.
Then we went to bed in Keith's room—Keith fell asleep first like always, Cecil took a while but eventually drifted off.
Nothing seemed wrong then.
So what changed between last night and this morning?
I set the bacon on a plate, watching Cecil from the corner of my eye.
He's gripping his mug tightly. His shoulders are tense. And he keeps opening his mouth like he wants to say something, then closing it again.
Okay. Something is definitely going on.
I make a mental note to ask him about it later—after breakfast, when we're settled somewhere more comfortable. Sometimes Cecil finds it easier to talk when he's not sitting at the formal dining table.
We finish breakfast in relative silence—Keith tries to make conversation a few times but even he picks up on Cecil's mood and lets it drop.
After we clear the dishes, we migrate to the living room. Keith settles on the couch, I take the armchair, and Cecil sits on the other end of the couch, still clutching his now-empty mug like it's a lifeline.
My mind is still racing through possibilities.
Was the tea I made last night not good enough? Did I use the wrong kind? Cecil likes chamomile in the evening but maybe I should have asked—
No, wait. The tea was fine. He drank all of it.
Was it breakfast? Did I cook the bacon wrong? Too crispy? Not crispy enough?
Or lunch yesterday? The sandwiches I made before he left for the amusement park?
Maybe it was the snacks I gave him when he got home? Were they too sweet? Not sweet enough?
The silence stretches.
Keith is watching Cecil with obvious concern. I'm trying to appear calm while mentally cataloging every possible thing I could have done wrong in the past forty-eight hours.
Finally, Cecil sets his mug down on the coffee table with more force than necessary.
Keith and I both look at him immediately.
"I need to talk to you both," Cecil says, his voice steady but quiet.
My stomach drops.
Oh no.
What did I do?
"Of course," Keith says immediately, shifting to face Cecil more fully. "What's up?"
Cecil's hands are shaking slightly. He notices and folds them in his lap.
He's looking down, his expression serious.
Keith and I exchange a worried glance.
"Cecil?" I prompt gently. "What did you want to talk about?"
He takes a deep breath.
Then another.
Then he looks up at us—his expression so serious it makes my chest tight with worry.
"I'm ready," he says.
I blink.
Ready for what? Ready to leave? Ready to end this? Ready to tell us whatever we did wrong?
"Ready for...?" Keith trails off, clearly as confused as I am.
Cecil's face flushes red but he doesn't look away.
"I want to do it," he says quietly.
The words hang in the air.
I stare at him, my brain trying to process what he just said.
I want to do it.
Do what? Do what activity? Go somewhere? Try something new?
Maybe he wants to adopt another kitten? Is that what this is about?
Or maybe he wants to take another trip with Naomi and Nalani and he's worried we'll be upset?
Or he wants to—
Oh.
Oh.
Everything clicks into place at once.
The conversation with Nalani on the Ferris wheel that I could tell happened but didn't ask about.
The nervous energy this morning.
The serious expression.
I'm ready.
I want to do it.
He means—
He wants to—
With us—
My brain short-circuits completely.
Every carefully constructed wall of control I've built over decades shatters in an instant.
I'm staring at Cecil and my mind has gone from analytical and concerned to completely, utterly blank except for one thought that's rapidly taking over everything else:
He's ready.
He wants us.
He's ours.
"Dylan?" Cecil's voice sounds worried. "Are you okay?"
Am I okay?
No. No, I'm absolutely not okay.
Because every instinct I have—every carefully controlled, patiently waiting part of me—has just been replaced by something far more primal.
I want him.
I've wanted him since the moment he walked into our lives, but I've been so careful. So controlled. So determined to wait until he was ready, to never push, to be patient and understanding and—
And now he's sitting here telling me he's ready and every ounce of that control is disintegrating.
I want to claim him as mine.
I want to share him with Keith.
I want to make sure he knows—really, truly knows—that he belongs to us.
"Dylan, you're scaring me a little," Cecil says, and there's genuine concern in his voice now.
Keith is staring at me too. "Dyl? You good?"
I try to form words. Any words.
What comes out is: "Say it again."
Cecil blinks. "What?"
"Say it again," I repeat, and my voice sounds rough even to my own ears. "What you just said."
Understanding dawns on Cecil's face, followed by more color flooding his cheeks.
"I'm ready," he says quietly. "I want... I want to be with you. Both of you. Like that."
The last thread of my control snaps.
I stand so abruptly that Keith startles slightly.
Cecil's eyes widen as I cross the short distance to the couch.
"Dylan—"
I'm pulling Cecil up from the couch before I consciously decide to move, into my arms, against me.
He makes a surprised sound but I'm already kissing him—harder and more desperate than I ever have before.
He responds immediately, his hands fisting in my shirt, and that just makes everything worse. Or better. I can't tell anymore.
When I finally pull back, we're both breathing hard.
"You're sure," I say, and it's not really a question. "You're absolutely sure."
"Yes," Cecil breathes. "I'm sure."
"Because once we start—" I stop, trying to find words through the haze of want that's completely overtaken my brain. "I've been waiting. Being patient. Being careful. But if you're telling me you're ready, I don't know if I can—"
"Dylan." Cecil's hands come up to cup my face. "I'm ready. I trust you. Both of you. I want this."
Something in my chest roars with possessive satisfaction.
Mine.
Ours.
I kiss him again, and this time I let myself show exactly how much I want him—how much patience and control has cost me, how desperately I've been waiting for this moment.
"Um." Keith's voice breaks through the haze. "Should I leave? Or—"
"No," Cecil and I say at the same time.
I pull back just enough to look at Keith, who's still on the couch looking slightly stunned.
"You're part of this," I say, and my voice is steadier now but still rough with want. "Cecil wants both of us. Right?"
"Right," Cecil confirms, looking at Keith. "Both of you."
Keith stands slowly, moving toward us like he's not quite sure this is real.
"You're sure?" he asks Cecil, echoing my question. "Because we can wait longer if you need—"
"I'm sure," Cecil interrupts. "I've been thinking about it. A lot. And I'm ready. I want this. I want you both."
Keith's expression shifts into something fierce and tender at the same time.
He joins us, his arms wrapping around Cecil from behind while I'm still holding him from the front.
Cecil is caught between us—exactly where he belongs.
"When?" Keith asks against Cecil's neck.
"I—" Cecil's breath hitches. "Now? If that's okay?"
The word sends a jolt through me.
Now.
Not tonight. Not later.
Now.
"My room," I say, and my voice comes out rougher than intended. "Now."
Keith nods against Cecil's shoulder. "Yeah. Now."
We move as one—still tangled together, not willing to let go of Cecil for even a moment.
Down the hallway. To my room. Through the door.
The familiar space looks different now. Charged. Full of possibility.
We stand there for a moment—just inside the door, still holding Cecil between us.
The reality of what's about to happen settles over all of us.
Then Keith turns Cecil's face toward him and kisses him.
And I'm struck by the strangest sense of déjà vu.
I've seen this before. That night—weeks ago now—when Cecil kissed Keith for the first time. When Keith completely melted and I felt that sharp twist of something in my chest.
Jealousy.
I'd been jealous.
But I hadn't been sure who I was jealous of.
Keith for being kissed?
Or Cecil for getting to kiss Keith?
Now, watching them together—Keith's hand in Cecil's hair, Cecil making a soft sound against Keith's mouth—the answer is crystal clear.
I'm jealous of Keith.
Jealous that he gets to kiss Cecil right now while I'm standing here watching.
We're not related—Aethera created us both, but there's no biological connection between Keith and me. We're fated partners, but we've spent decades dancing around each other, never quite bridging that final gap.
And now Cecil is here, and suddenly everything makes sense.
I want Keith.
I want Cecil.
I want both of them.
And I'm done waiting.
I move closer, my hand finding the back of Cecil's neck, and Keith pulls back—reading my intention immediately.
Cecil turns toward me, his lips already swollen from Keith's kiss, his eyes dark and wanting.
"Dylan—"
I don't let him finish. I pull him into a kiss that's possessive and claiming and leaves no doubt about exactly how much I want this.
Want him.
Keith's hands are still on Cecil, I can feel them—one on Cecil's waist, one tangling with mine at the back of Cecil's neck.
We're all connected. All touching. All exactly where we're supposed to be.
When I finally pull back, Cecil looks dazed.
"Bed," I manage. "Now."
"Bossy," Keith observes, but he's grinning.
"You have a problem with that?"
"Not even a little."
We guide Cecil to the bed—all of us moving together, not willing to separate even for the few steps it takes.
Cecil sits on the edge and looks up at us with a mix of nervousness and want that makes my chest tight.
"You can change your mind," I say, even though the thought of stopping now might actually kill me. "Anytime. Just say the word."
"I know," Cecil says quietly. "But I'm not changing my mind. I want this. I want you. Both of you."
Keith kneels in front of Cecil, his hands finding Cecil's. "We're going to take care of you, beautiful. I promise."
"I know," Cecil whispers.
I move to sit beside Cecil on the bed, my hand finding his face, turning him toward me.
"Tell us if something doesn't feel right," I say. "Tell us if you need to stop. Tell us what you want."
"I will," Cecil promises.
And then—finally, finally—we stop talking.
---
Keith's hands slide up Cecil's thighs, a question in the touch.
Cecil nods, breathless, and Keith's fingers find the hem of his shirt.
"Can I?" Keith asks softly.
"Yes."
Keith pulls the shirt up and over Cecil's head in one smooth motion, and I have to take a moment just to look.
Cecil, sitting on my bed, flushed and nervous and wanting. His chest rising and falling rapidly. The flower on his wrist glowing brighter than I've ever seen it.
I reach out, my hand tracing down his chest, and Cecil shivers under my touch.
"Cold?" I ask.
"No." His voice is rough. "The opposite."
Keith makes a sound low in his throat and leans in to press kisses along Cecil's collarbone.
Cecil's head falls back, exposing more of his neck, and I can't resist—I lean in from the other side, my lips finding the spot just below his ear that I know makes him gasp.
He does. He gasps, and the sound goes straight through me.
"Dylan," Cecil breathes. "Keith—"
"We've got you, beautiful," Keith murmurs against his skin.
"Always, baby," I add.
My hands are shaking slightly as I reach for my own shirt, pulling it off and tossing it aside.
Keith follows suit without breaking contact with Cecil, somehow managing to strip off his shirt while still pressing kisses to Cecil's shoulder.
Cecil's eyes go wide, darting between us.
"I—" he starts, then stops, his face going even redder. "You're both—"
"What?" Keith asks, grinning. "Good-looking? Devastatingly attractive? Your wildest dreams come true?"
"All of that," Cecil manages, and despite his nervousness, he's smiling.
I cup his face again, making sure he's looking at me. "You can still stop this anytime. We mean that."
"I know." Cecil's hand comes up to cover mine. "But I don't want to stop. I want this. I want you."
The certainty in his voice breaks something loose in my chest.
I kiss him again—slower this time, more deliberate. Taking my time to explore, to taste, to memorize every sound he makes.
Keith's hands are still on Cecil's thighs, slowly sliding higher, and I can feel Cecil trembling between us.
"Nervous?" I murmur against his lips.
"A little," Cecil admits. "But good nervous. I think."
"Tell us if it becomes bad nervous," Keith says seriously, his teasing tone gone. "Promise us, Cecil."
"I promise."
Keith nods, satisfied, and goes back to pressing kisses along Cecil's neck and shoulder.
I shift on the bed, pulling Cecil more fully onto it, guiding him to lie back against the pillows.
He goes willingly, his eyes never leaving mine.
Keith crawls up beside him, propped on one elbow, his free hand resting on Cecil's chest.
And I settle on Cecil's other side, mirroring Keith's position.
Cecil is between us again—always between us, always the center of everything.
"This okay?" I ask, my hand tracing idle patterns on his stomach.
"Yes." Cecil's breathing is uneven. "More than okay."
Keith leans down to kiss him, and I watch for a moment—the way Cecil responds, the way his hand comes up to tangle in Keith's hair, the soft sound he makes when Keith's tongue traces his lower lip.
Then I lean down to press kisses along Cecil's jaw, his neck, his shoulder.
Cecil makes another sound—something between a gasp and a moan—and arches slightly into our touches.
"Sensitive," Keith observes, pulling back to look at Cecil with dark, wanting eyes.
"Very," I agree, finding a spot on Cecil's collarbone that makes him shiver.
"Is that—" Cecil's voice is breathless. "Is that a good thing?"
"It's perfect," Keith says. "You're perfect, beautiful."
My hand slides lower, and Cecil's breath hitches.
"Still good?" I ask quietly.
"Yes," Cecil manages. "Don't stop. Please don't stop."
So we don't.
Keith and I work in tandem—years of being fated partners making us naturally coordinated even in this.
When Keith kisses Cecil, I explore with my hands.
When I claim Cecil's mouth, Keith's hands wander.
We take our time, learning what makes Cecil gasp, what makes him arch, what makes him make those soft, desperate sounds that drive us both crazy.
And through it all, Cecil responds with a trust and openness that makes my chest ache.
He's ours.
Completely, utterly ours.
And we're going to spend the rest of our existence making sure he knows it.
"Dylan," Cecil gasps at one point, his hand fisting in my hair. "Keith—I—"
"What do you need, baby?" I ask against his neck.
"I don't know," he admits. "Just—more. Please."
"We'll give you everything," Keith promises. "Anything you want."
"Everything," I echo.
And we do.
We take our time, making sure Cecil is ready for each new touch, each new sensation.
Making sure he knows he's safe, he's loved, he's cherished.
Making sure he understands exactly what it means to be ours.
The control I've maintained for so long is completely gone now, replaced by something fiercer and more possessive than I've ever felt.
But even in this—even lost in want and need and the desperate desire to claim—I'm aware of Cecil.
Of his reactions. His comfort. His pleasure.
We both are.
Keith and I might have waited decades to figure out what we are to each other, but with Cecil between us, everything finally makes sense.
This is what we were waiting for.
Not just each other.
But all three of us together.
Complete.
Whole.
Exactly as we're meant to be.