I couldn't pull my eyes away.

      From the people, hundreds of them, bustling in the streets below me. Every shape, size, and color imaginable. From the buildings I looked down on, and the ones I had to lift my chin to see the tops of. From the lights—so many of them that not a single star could be seen in the night sky. From the cars, the sidewalks, the everything.

     My hands were pressed against the glass; my nose, too, because no matter how close I got, I felt as though I wasn't close enough to see it all. I wanted to see it all.

     I nearly jumped at the sensation of arms sliding around my sides from behind, a chin resting on my shoulder blade.

"Pretty crazy, huh?" Lucas chuckled, pressing a kiss to my shoulder. "It's all there."

"I feel like it's not real," I said, my voice coming out distant. "Eighteen years of dreaming, right there."

"Is it as good as you imagined?"

I felt myself smile—one of those smiles that you absolutely can't control, but it's okay because you would never want to. "Of course it is," I whispered. "It's just like the pictures—the physical ones and the ones in my head. But the feeling is totally different."

"Yeah?" Lucas mused, and I could feel him smiling, too, against my back. "What's the feeling?"

I turned around to face him and put my arms around his neck, took a good moment to just stand there and look at him and relish in the fact that he was mine, and that uncontrollable smile got bigger. "It feels like victory," I said. "Like . . . Like I'm not just surviving anymore. I'm actually winning. It feels weird."

"Are you . . . crying?" Lucas asked, trying and failing to suppress a chuckle. "Since when are you the emotional type, Jean?"

"Fuck off," I laughed, looking up at the ceiling and blinking tears out of my eyes as my cheeks turned pink. "I can't help it, I'm happy."

Lucas leaned forward to rest his head on my chest and hugged me close. "I know," he said. "I'm happy, too."

Happy. We were really, really happy. War was over, and the struggle of battle made the triumph so much sweeter.

We were unlimited. Not in concrete concepts, of course—money and time were not infinite, and we would learn that time and time again in the years to come. But more abstract ideas—the mushy ones, like love and joy and freedom—were ours for the taking. The American big city was a complete contrast from the American small town. The American big city didn't care who I was or what I did.

A rush of excitement came over me, just as uncontrollable as my smile, because we were free at last, and despite having just spent hours driving, I was full of a sudden, incredible energy. I grabbed Lucas around the waist and, with a triumphant whoop, spun around with him in my arms, pulling his entire body with me. His yelp turned into a giggle, and pretty soon we were both in hysterics, laughing and crying even though there wasn't anything real to laugh about; after all we'd gone through, we deserved some laughter.

    Ecstatic. That's what we were.

He leaned up to kiss me—our first kiss in New York City—still chuckling against my lips, and I felt every butterfly, every chill, every spark imaginable.

I think I really could have stood there all day, kissing him in our new, wonderful home, but my eyes itched for another look.

The apartment was small and partially furnished—Lucas insisted on spending the extra money for furnishings because he "refused to spend our first day in New York sleeping on the floor like peasants"—and littered all over with boxes and bags of our things. One bedroom, one bathroom, a living room, a kitchen, and a dining area—all that we needed. I absolutely loved it, because it was ours, and it was here.

And from the huge window on the far wall of the living room, what seemed like all of Manhattan stretched out below us.

     I pulled Lucas closer to it—the poor boy practically stumbled into the glass—and said, "Look."

So he looked, and the awe in his expression grew to meet mine as he stared, not for the first time and certainly not for the last, at the life we were entering.

    "I don't care what kind of shit the world throws at us now," he said, slipping his hand into mine and lacing our fingers together, his eyes trained on the unending commotion outside. "We can handle it. You know that, right?"

     "We'll do better than handle it," I said with a confidence I didn't know I had, but also couldn't let go of. "New York's not gonna know what hit it."

     He nodded, and I could see his elation in every detail of his face. His wide eyes and big dimpled smile made him look like a child at Disneyland, and seeing him so animated only worked to increase my own eagerness. "Kings at last," he said dreamily. He lifted our hands, pressing his lips to the edge of my palm, and the small gesture made me feel like a twelve year old with a crush all over again—heart pounding in my chest, butterflies going mad in my stomach, nervous energy in my veins. Those lips curved into a playful smile, and I wondered if I'd ever be able to stop looking at them, or thinking about them, or kissing them.  "Bet you I look great in a crown," he said, biting his bottom lip in that Lucas-way he always did as his smile spread.

Never.

    Chuckling, I said, "I don't doubt that for a second." Lucas looked good in everything. "But forget crowns—I bet you'll look great on Broadway."

     Lucas turned to look at me, and I saw the sparkle of a dreamer in his eyes. "Bet you'll melt hearts in a U.S. soccer uniform at the World Cup."

     "I don't want to melt hearts," I said with a cheesy grin. "Just yours."

    Lucas scoffed. "You're such an idiot," he said, pushing his hand into my hair and pulling my face down to meet his.

    "'Course I am," I muttered into the kiss. "That's our thing, isn't it?"

     I felt Lucas smile—it seemed that neither of us could stop smiling, and that was the best feeling ever. He pulled back to look at me, and I fell in love all over again with his face, absolutely glowing. He was so damn cute. "I can't wait to see you in the history books," he said, and I caught a break in his voice as he choked up a little.

      "Now who's the emotional one?" I teased.

     "Still you," he said, which, to be fair, was also true.

    "Shut up," I said. He opened his mouth defiantly to say something else, and this time, I made him shut up.

Then, because fate had apparently decided to kill the moment, there was a knock on the door.

"Visitors already?" I whistled, wiping under my eyes in a sorry attempt to pull myself together before I faced anyone new. "We must have friendly neighbors."

When I opened the door, however, I wasn't met with friendly neighbors. My breath caught in my throat.

"So, are we supposed to do the straight-guy-handshake-half-hug thing, or will it not completely destroy your fragile masculinity if we hug for real?"

I tossed my head back in another excited, giddy laugh and practically threw my arms around my cousin, Kenneth Jean.

"You little fucker!" I exclaimed. "You didn't tell me you were coming!"

Kenny laughed, hugging me back just as tight. "I wanted to surprise you," he said. I thought back to all of the times I'd greeted Kenny this way when we were younger, because he'd been my favorite part of the year, and I'd been unable to contain my excitement whenever I saw him. Right now, I was feeling eight years worth of that excitement all at once. He still felt familiar. "I kind of couldn't wait."

Kenny. My cousin Kenny, who I'd idolized so much as a child. Kenny who, when my parents found out was gay, had been ripped suddenly and painfully from my life. Who they'd made me hate, who they'd tried so hard to destroy.

But certain things—certain people—could never be destroyed, no matter how hard you tried. I'd learned that lesson with Lucas before, and now I was learning it again with Kenny. Eight years later, seeing him in person still felt like a gift. A treat I would only get twice a year, so it was something I treasured. I treasured my cousin.

He leaned back to look at me, and I could see that his eyes were glazing over with unshed tears. What a sap. Then again, I'd been crying for the last five minutes, so maybe I couldn't say anything about being a sap.

"Damn," he breathed. "If someone had told fifteen year old me that I'd see my little cousin again someday, I wouldn't have spent so much time crying like a baby during Dancing with the Stars."

     "Dancing with the Stars," I snorted. "That's pretty gay."

     "That's my brand," he joked, "But more importantly, how the hell are you taller than me?"

I scoffed. To be fair, the difference was only a few inches, but it was funny nonetheless. "How the hell are you shorter than me? You seemed massive when you were fifteen."

"Yeah," he said grudgingly. "I was. And I haven't grown since."

I looked at him—really looked at him—for what felt like the first time. The shitty-quality FaceTime camera had completely obscured the freckles all over his face, and my memory hadn't done them justice. His eyes were a lighter brown than they'd seemed. His hair, too. I laughed and pulled him back in for another tight hug, before letting him go so that he could greet Lucas.

"Where the hell is Nick?" I asked when they pulled apart, anxious to see Kenny's fiancé. I'd spoken to him over the phone several times, and he was an absolute gem. Just as Lucas had become Kenny's friend, Nicholas had become mine.

    "He's out in the hall," Kenny said, and I raised my eyebrows incredulously.

     "Why is the poor boy waiting in the hall?" Lucas asked before I had the chance, looking both amused and bewildered.

     "Because," Kenny said smugly, "We have a little housewarming gift for you."

     He made a show of reopening the door and retreating through it. When he came back in, he was holding one end of a box too large for him to bring in on his own, while Nicholas carried the other half.

    Lucas and I watched, wide-eyed, as they stepped through the door sideways and set the box, which claimed to contain a sixty inch TV, on the floor.

   "I'm sorry, do you know what a housewarming gift is?" I said in disbelief, unable to look away from his "little" gift. "Because that sure as hell isn't one."

     Nicholas smirked. "We thought a coffee machine would be too basic."

     Nicholas Abadi was a twenty-five year old giant, standing at a solid six foot four. He was Egyptian on his dad's side and Greek on his mom's, and it showed in his olive skin and dark features, typical of a Mediterranean. He was the human embodiment of the phrase tall, dark, and handsome. He laughed at my shocked expression and stepped forward to give me a hug. "Welcome to New York," he cooed.

     I shook my head as he stepped back, still staring at the TV. "We can't take that," I said.

      "Hey, speak for yourself, headass," Lucas scoffed. Then he beckoned to Nicholas and said, "Get over here, Nicky, I want a hug," because we all knew he absolutely despised that nickname. While I stared between Kenny, Nicholas, and the TV like an idiot, Lucas was the normal functioning human out of the two of us, thanking them profusely.

     "How much did this cost?" I asked.

     Nicholas put a finger to his lips. "St. Nick never tell his secrets."

     "Don't worry, hun," Kenny chuckled. "I'm a trust fund baby and I own a company. My boy is a sales manager. We can afford it."

    When he put it so bluntly, it seemed impossible to argue. So I laughed instead, shaking my head in lingering disbelief, and gave them both grateful hugs.

     "You better keep him around," Lucas said to me, grinning slyly. "Picture the birthday gifts."

     "My god," Kenny breathed, tossing his arms around Lucas dramatically. "I think I might be in love with you. Nate, can I steal your boyfriend?"

     "Sure thing," I laughed, wrapping an arm around Nicholas' shoulders. "Long as I can get yours."

      "It's a deal," Kenny said, giving Lucas' cheek a noisy kiss. "Real talk though, I'm one hundred percent down to be a sugar daddy for the two of you. Always been a dream of mine," he joked, shimmying his shoulders suggestively, and I rolled my eyes.

    "You're such a dork," I teased. "Anyways, since you guys are here, how about you give us a tour?" I couldn't keep the eagerness from my voice. The opportunity to explore was screaming my name, and I wouldn't try to ignore it.

     "Right now?"

    "When else?"

     Kenny laughed. "Aren't you tired? The drive from Nebraska to New York is what, a day long?"

     "I don't care," I insisted. Besides, we'd stopped mid-way to stay in a hotel for the night, so it wasn't that bad. "I don't think I've ever felt more awake. The city is right there. I wanna see it all!" I was practically bouncing now, hyper with anticipation.

     Nicholas rested his elbow on my shoulder, his eyes amused behind his glasses. "I'm not sure we can get it all done tonight," he said. "But we sure as hell can start."

     So we left the apartment, went down what felt like two hundred flights in the elevator, and emerged onto the city streets. It took all of my self-control not to break into a run.

     The scene was so unfamiliar to me, I felt as though I were in a new world, not a new state. I was Alice, and Manhattan was my Wonderland. People walking instead of driving. So many of them out and about, even though the sky had long been dark. The lights never seemed to dim, and neither did the noise. It was breathtaking.

     "We walking or driving?" Kenny asked.

     "Walking," Lucas and I said at the same time. We shared a glance, and when he smiled, I couldn't help but think that even he looked different. Maybe it was the illumination of his face in the street lights, or the fact that now I was looking at him when he was surrounded by everything I'd been anticipating for my entire life. Maybe it was just the liberty that I could see in his gaze, framed by happiness and wonder and every good thing imaginable. Maybe it was all of those, maybe none. It didn't matter—the sight of him now, whatever had changed, was just as stunning as the city in which I stood.

    When I looked ahead, I saw that Kenny and Nicholas had already begun strolling down the sidewalk, the latter with his arm around my cousin's waist, their heads bent close together as they spoke to one another. Kenny kissed Nicholas' cheek.

     "C'mon," Lucas said, and he, too, started walking, though I didn't miss how his eyes had darted to my hand for a moment so brief, anyone else—anyone who didn't know him like I did—would've never caught it. I hurried to keep up with him, noticing that he kept a decent distance between us. He didn't want to scare me.

    The sad thing was, I did feel scared. I wanted to put an arm around him, or kiss his cheek, or hold his hand. But I couldn't help but think of the place we'd just come from, where such a gesture would have torn me down before I could even begin to put my defenses together. I could easily picture spending the rest of my life here receiving glares from every passerby and being shunned wherever I went. I wouldn't be able to run away as soon as the damage was done, like I had in Nowhere, Nebraska.

    I reminded myself that this was New York, not Nebraska. That the people I was passing on the sidewalk now, I would probably never see again. That those people didn't care either way. But the nerves were still there, beyond my control. Even after I'd left that place behind, anxiety followed me here.

     Anxiety had controlled me for so much of my life. If only Paranoia were a physical being, so I could stand up to him until he backed down and agreed to leave me alone. But no—it seemed that he could torture me for as long as he liked, and I would have to sit and take it.

     Except I wouldn't. Paranoia was bullshit, and it was about time he released his grip on me. If I couldn't get rid of him, I would at least get used to him, because I wasn't about to let him keep dominating my life. Not here. Not in New York.

    So I inched closer to Lucas and took his hand firmly in mine. He turned to me in surprise, and when I grinned at him, albeit a bit sheepishly, he smiled whole-heartedly back.

     "You okay?" He asked. His voice was soft, but it didn't need to be. Privacy lent itself here in the form of car horns and passing conversations.

     My smile only grew, and grew and grew until I was beaming. "I can say," I told him, "With absolute certainly, that I have never in my life felt better than I do right now."

     And it was true. Paranoia was still there, but I tried my best to ignore him. Just as, I realized, the people we passed ignored me. Not a single one of them took any interest in me or my boyfriend—or Kenny and his—and if they did, they didn't show it.

      We caught up to the other two, and from then on we spent the night exploring the city, or as much of it as we could fit into a few hours. They pointed out to us every random shop they adored, told us which restaurants were the best and which were the worst, made plans to take us to see the Empire State Building soon. Just the four of us, walking and talking and laughing; it was perfect. The best possible way I could've spent my first night in New York.

     Kenny and Nicholas became a permanent part of our lives after that. I saw them often, whether we were going for a walk or to see Aunt Lacy and Uncle Brock—who quickly became my New York parents—or to shop or to hang out or to go on cheesy little double dates. Kenny showed me around the NYU campus, and anytime someone asked if the two of us were brothers, we said yes, because we might as well have been. It felt like we were.

Kenny was great. But he wasn't the best thing about coming to New York. I had a boyfriend for that.

Being with Lucas—uninhibited—was what made the experience so indescribable. We could finally do the Boyfriend Thing. The dates and exchanged looks, touching and flirting. It took some time for me to adjust to the prospect of being fully open, and I still struggled with it sometimes, but we quickly learned to be who we were and not care too much about the consequences because there weren't any consequences.

I got to wake up to him every morning, and go to bed next to him every night. Every time I sat down to eat dinner, he was there with me. We could waste hours cuddling on the couch watching shows and movies, or playing games, or doing nothing at all. I got to see him whenever he walked out of the bathroom after taking a shower—I got to be with him in the shower. He helped me shave in the mornings sometimes, because he was better at it than I was and my body was finally figuring out how to produce facial hair. He didn't seem to know what it meant to wake up before ten, so I liked to make him breakfast, because he couldn't cook for shit and I loved the expression he got whenever I did cute little things like that.

So yeah, the Boyfriend Thing was pretty fucking great.

      I got a job at a local gym, and he worked as a barista at a cute little café nearby. Sometimes I'd visit him during his shift and he'd sneak me a free drink, then walk around with me during his lunch break. Training for the soccer team started early on in the summer; it was long, extensive, and absolutely exhausting. Whenever I came home from a particularly rough practice, he would take me out on a mini-date and spoil me for a bit.

I wasn't super comfortable with PDA, and he respected that, so we found other ways to express our feelings when we weren't behind closed doors—after months of hiding, we weren't gonna settle for being buddy-buddy. He liked to play with my hands a lot when we were out, maybe because he knew it made me blush every time. Whenever we were sat next to each other, we'd find some way to be touching—a hand on a knee, a shoulder brushing a shoulder, a thigh against a thigh.

     Simple things, and I loved them. I loved him. More than anyone, and I wasn't afraid to admit that—in my head or out loud, at home or in public. As corny as it was to say, he was the best thing that ever happened to me. Hands down.

I was so glad—more than I could ever put into words—that I'd met him in the seventh grade. That I'd gone to see the school's production of Wicked. That he'd asked me for that ride home, then another, then another.

It was weird, and kind of scary, to think that we probably wouldn't be together now if Shawn hadn't challenged him, compelling him to try out for the soccer team.

Shawn. He was a whole other topic.

As promised, he'd come with his parents to New York a few days after Lucas and I left. He lived in an apartment not far from ours, but he was spending his summer in a rehab facility.

Lucas went to go see him several times a week. Sometimes I went, too, and watching them interact was really, really weird. At first, Shawn was just like he'd been before—moody and mean—minus all of the homophobic slurs. I really did wonder if he'd ever actually been homophobic, or if that had been a costume he'd put on to fit in in nowhere, Nebraska, and now that he was here, he took it off. If he was homophobic, it wasn't to the extent he'd made himself out to be.

Still, he wasn't nice to his brother. I saw right through him, though. He must have wanted Lucas there, because he'd given the staff permission to let him in. I could tell Lucas knew, too, because despite Shawn's attitude, he left with a smile on his face each time, and he was never disheartened when his brother snapped at him.

Shawn's demeanor shifted gradually. Eventually, he stopped being mean and was just . . . quiet. He didn't say much, but listened as Lucas spoke. Then he became somewhat responsive. Then one day, while Lucas was talking about some random thing or another, Shawn went on a tangent that neither of us had been expecting. I felt almost like an intruder—the moment was between Shawn and Lucas, not meant for me. But then again, whenever Shawn was saying something he wanted to keep private, he usually said it in Romanian, so maybe he had wanted me to hear.

"I wanna do good in school, you know," was how he began, completely out of the blue. "Actually study for once. And quit doing dumb shit, like drugs, but I'll need time for that. And get a job. A girlfriend would be nice, too—okay, maybe not yet. Playing the field is kinda fun." He smirked, looking a lot like the Shawn Morgan I was used to. "But when I'm over that, in a few years, I'll settle down. Eventually, I think I even wanna get married. Get a dog. And two kids—a boy and a girl. I wanna play pro league, where all the big shots are, and make some serious money. And when I'm old, I wanna get a house upstate and one of those rocking chairs I can put on my porch so I can yell at kids as they walk past, like the morphine lady from To Kill a Mockingbird."

"You wanna do all that?" Lucas asked, chuckling.

He nodded. "Yeah. And I guess . . . I guess I realized I've gotta be alive to do it. So I wanna do that, too. I want to live."

Lucas had nearly cried then. Hell, so had I. Improvement was a beautiful, beautiful thing to witness, and we saw it every week with Shawn.

He would be leaving the hospital when school started in the fall—he agreed to finding a regular scheduled therapist after that. The fact that he so clearly wanted to feel better was probably the best part of it all. He got nicer, too—not friendly yet, but maybe on the way there.

Shawn wasn't the only one seeking improvement. I started seeing a therapist, and I learned some things about myself that I hadn't known before. That I was clinically depressed and suffered from anxiety. A lot of things made sense after I found that out.

I'd grown so used to the way I always felt, I'd thought it to be normal. But as it turned out, normal worked a bit differently than I did. And being with Lucas had helped me go from terrible to bad, but one boy couldn't cure a mental illness just by loving me. Nothing could, really. But therapy helped. Medication helped. And I liked how I was feeling now a lot more than how I'd felt before. Everything seemed to get better as I grew to understand myself more and as my mental health improved bit-by-bit—my self-esteem, my performance in school, my relationship.

So Shawn Morgan and I had more in common than I'd previously thought. It was crazy how understanding yourself more could help you understand someone else more, too.

I wondered if, in weeks or months or years, he would become a friend, someone who came over to hang out. Or even an acquaintance. If he and Lucas would ever be close again, or if they'd just hover in the realm of mutual respect, acknowledgment, and appreciation. If we'd ever play soccer as a team again, or maybe against each other. If, in some years, he'd be Lucas' best man at—okay, that was a stretch. But it wasn't impossible. Nothing, I finally realized, was impossible.

Except for a fish sprouting hooved legs that it whirled like airplane propellers and used to fly out of the sea. Shit like that was definitely impossible.

"What're you thinking about?" Lucas asked, having caught me spacing out. We were on the couch in our living room, which was finally beginning to look like our own—we'd put some things up on the walls, and even bought a few houseplants and such. Lucas' favorite was a little succulent in a rainbow-colored vase that sat at the center of our coffee table—he'd been responsible for buying it, of course, because only he would want to make our apartment as gay as possible.

His head was rested on my lap, his eyes amused as he looked up at me instead of at the Friends reruns that were playing on the TV that Kenny and St. Nick had given us. My hands rested against his bare torso, my fingers absentmindedly tracing the tattoo on his side. Grinning, I said, "Flying propeller fish with legs."

He blinked once. Twice. Then, laughing and shaking his head, he pulled me down by the collar of my shirt to kiss me and said, "God, I love you."

fin

Upcoming sequel about Morty, the clownfish that grew propeller legs and flew like an airplane to Antarctica, where he joined a tribe of penguins and became their leader.