Three Days Later
I've been thinking about this for days.
Three days, to be exact. Seventy-two hours of turning the same question over and over in my mind until it's worn grooves into my thoughts.
Does he love us like we love him?
It sounds so simple when I put it like that. So straightforward.
But nothing about this is simple.
Cecil trusts us. The flower on his wrist proves that—glowing softly whenever he's around us, a constant reminder that he feels safe. That we're his home.
But trust and love aren't the same thing.
I know that. Dylan knows that. We've talked about it—in careful, circling conversations late at night when Cecil is asleep and we're both too wired to rest.
"What if he doesn't feel the same way?" Dylan had whispered two nights ago, his voice barely audible in the darkness of his room. "What if the trust is all there is?"
I hadn't had an answer then.
I still don't.
Cecil is affectionate with us—curling into our sides during movies, holding our hands at breakfast, falling asleep between us most nights. He laughs at my terrible jokes. He listens to Dylan's rambling explanations about things. He stays.
But he's never said the words.
Never looked at us and said "I love you" out loud.
And I'm terrified that if I ask—if I put voice to this question that's been eating me alive—the answer will be something I can't come back from.
What if he doesn't?
I'm sitting at the kitchen table, staring at my cold coffee, when Dylan appears in the doorway.
He takes one look at my face and sighs. "You're spiraling again."
"I'm not spiraling."
"Keith."
"Okay, fine. Maybe I'm spiraling a little."
Dylan moves to the coffee maker, starting a fresh pot with the kind of efficiency that comes from years of dealing with my anxiety spirals. "We need to talk to him."
"I know."
"Today."
"I know," I say again, quieter this time.
"You've been saying that for three days."
"I know!" The words come out sharper than intended and I immediately feel guilty. "Sorry. I just—what if he says no? What if we ask and he realizes he doesn't actually feel that way and everything gets weird and—"
"Then we deal with it," Dylan interrupts firmly. "Together. Like we deal with everything else."
He's right. I know he's right.
But knowing something and actually doing it are two very different things.
I was thinking of talking to them for days but I didn't have the courage to. I still don't have it. But it's better to spill it all out than being unable to sleep at night, thinking if I should even talk to them about this.
"Tonight," I say, forcing the words out before I can take them back. "We'll talk to him tonight."
Dylan nods, relief evident in his expression. "Tonight."
---
Except Cecil has a bad day.
I notice it immediately when he emerges from his room around ten—the careful blankness in his expression, the way he moves like his body is heavier than usual, the absence of his usual morning greeting.
He's retreating. Pulling back into himself.
Dylan sees it too. I watch his entire demeanor shift—becoming softer, more present, hyper-aware of Cecil's every movement.
"Morning," I say gently, not asking how he slept because I can already see the answer in the shadows under his eyes.
"Morning," Cecil replies, his voice flat.
He moves to make tea with mechanical precision—each step exact, controlled, like he's using the routine to hold himself together.
Dylan and I exchange a look.
Not today. We're not having that conversation today.
The unspoken agreement passes between us effortlessly.
Today, we just stay close.
---
We spend the day carefully orbiting Cecil.
Not hovering—we learned early on that too much attention when he's like this makes it worse. But present. Available. A steady reminder that he's not alone even when his mind is trying to convince him otherwise.
Dylan makes lunch. I do dishes. Cecil sits at the table with a book he's not actually reading, turning pages at random intervals.
"Want to watch something?" I offer around two PM, when the silence has stretched long enough that it's starting to feel heavy.
Cecil looks up, considering. "Sure. You pick."
I choose something mindless—a nature documentary about penguins that requires no emotional investment. We settle on the couch with Cecil in the middle, and I feel the slight relaxation in his shoulders when we bracket him on either side.
He leans into me after about twenty minutes, his head resting on my shoulder.
Dylan's hand finds Cecil's, holding it loosely. Not demanding. Just there.
We stay like that for hours—through penguins and then something about coral reefs, the narrator's soothing voice filling the space where conversation would normally be.
Cecil doesn't talk much. Doesn't need to.
We can read him well enough by now to know when he needs silence more than words.
---
By evening, some of the tension has eased from Cecil's frame. Not gone—it never fully goes away on days like this—but manageable.
"Where are we sleeping tonight?" Dylan asks casually as we're cleaning up after dinner.
Cecil glances between us, something uncertain crossing his face. "I don't want to be alone."
"You won't be," I say immediately. "My room?"
He nods, relief evident.
My room it is.
---
We settle into bed around eleven—Dylan on the left, Cecil in the middle, me on the right. The fairy lights I strung up last month cast soft shadows across the ceiling.
Cecil is quiet, his breathing not quite even. Not quite relaxed.
I can feel the tension still coiled in him, waiting.
"You okay?" I murmur.
"Yeah." But his voice is tight. Strained.
"Cecil—"
"I'm fine. Really. Just tired."
He's lying. We both know he's lying.
I'm about to push when I feel it—a slight tremor running through Cecil's body. Barely noticeable, but there.
He's shaking.
Instinct takes over. I pull him closer, wrapping my arms around him more securely, letting him bury his face in my shoulder.
Dylan shifts on Cecil's other side, pulling the blanket up to cover all of us more completely. His hand comes to rest on Cecil's back, steady and grounding.
"Talk to us," Dylan says softly. "Please."
For a long moment, I think Cecil isn't going to respond.
Then, so quietly I almost miss it: "I don't deserve you."
The words hit like a physical blow.
"What?" I manage.
"People like you. People who are good and patient and—" His voice cracks. "I don't deserve to have people like you in my life."
"Cecil, that's not—"
"It is." He pulls back slightly, just enough to look at us, and his eyes are bright with unshed tears. "You both stay by my side even on days like this. When I'm not fun or interesting or worth being around. When I'm just... broken. And I feel so guilty about it."
"Guilty?" Dylan's voice is careful. Gentle.
"Because I need you. I need you to stay even though I know I should be strong enough to get better on my own. I should be able to handle my bad days without dragging you both down with me."
His hands fist in my shirt, holding on like I might disappear.
"But I'm too selfish to push you away. Too selfish to tell you to leave because I want you here. I want you by my side even though I'm a mess and I'll probably always be a little bit broken and—"
"Cecil," I interrupt, because I can't listen to him tear himself apart like this. "Why do you think that makes you selfish?"
"Because I'm in love with you," he says, the words tumbling out in a rush. "Both of you. And I know that complicates everything and maybe you don't feel the same way and—"
I go completely still.
Did he just—
Did he say—
"What?" The word comes out strangled.
Cecil's eyes widen, like he didn't mean to say it. "I—"
"Say it again," I demand, my heart hammering so hard I can feel it in my throat. "Cecil, please. Say it again."
He stares at me, then at Dylan, then back at me.
"I'm in love with you," he repeats, quieter this time but no less certain. "Both of you. I have been for a while now. And I know that probably makes things complicated and—"
I'm crying.
When did I start crying?
Tears are streaming down my face and I can't stop them, can't even try to stop them because Cecil just said he loves us and I've been waiting—we've been waiting—for so long to hear those words and—
"Keith?" Cecil's voice is worried now. "Are you—did I say something wrong?"
I try to answer but all that comes out is a broken sob.
Dylan's hand finds the back of my neck, grounding, while his other arm pulls Cecil closer.
"You didn't say anything wrong," Dylan murmurs, and his voice is thick too. "We've been wanting to hear those words for so long, Cecil. So long."
"You—what?"
"We love you," Dylan continues, his thumb tracing circles on Cecil's back. "Both of us. We've been in love with you for years. Decades, in Keith's case, if you count his childhood pining."
"Hey," I manage weakly, but there's no heat in it.
"It's true," Dylan says, and he's smiling now—soft and warm and completely unguarded. "We were terrified you didn't feel the same way. That the trust was all there was."
"But I—" Cecil looks between us, understanding dawning. "You thought I didn't love you?"
"You never said it," I finally manage, my voice rough from crying. "You trusted us. You stayed with us. But you never said it."
"Because I thought it was obvious!" Cecil's expression shifts through several emotions—confusion, realization, something that might be exasperation. "I literally have a magical trust flower on my wrist because of you. I sleep in your beds almost every night. I—" He stops, his face going red. "I thought you knew."
"We didn't," Dylan says simply.
"I'm an idiot," Cecil mutters.
"You're perfect," I correct, still crying but smiling now too. "You're absolutely perfect and I love you so much and—"
Cecil and Dylan exchange a glance—one of those silent conversations that I'm not quite part of.
Then Cecil does something that makes my brain short-circuit completely.
He leans over and kisses me.
On the lips.
Actually kisses me.
His lips are soft and warm and taste slightly like the tea he had earlier and—
Oh. My. God.
Did Cecil just kiss me?
Am I dreaming?
This is a dream, right? This has to be a dream because there's no way—
But no. It's real. Cecil is real. His hand is cupping my face, his thumb brushing away tears, and he's kissing me like it's the most natural thing in the world.
Like he's been wanting to do this for as long as I've been wanting him to.
When he finally pulls back, I'm pretty sure my brain has completely stopped functioning.
"Keith?" Cecil's voice sounds concerned. "Are you okay?"
I open my mouth. Close it. Open it again.
No words come out.
Did that really just happen?
Did Cecil just—
With me—
His lips on mine—
"I think you broke him," Dylan observes, sounding amused.
"I didn't mean to—"
"No, this is good. This is great." Dylan's grinning now, wide and genuine. "Keith, breathe."
I take a shaky breath.
Then another.
Cecil kissed me.
Cecil loves us.
Cecil just said he's in love with us and then he kissed me.
"I—" I start, then stop because my voice is doing weird things. "You—we—that was—"
"Eloquent," Dylan comments dryly.
"Shut up, Dyl. I'm having a moment."
Cecil laughs—small and slightly nervous but real—and the sound does something to my chest that I don't have words for.
"Was that okay?" he asks quietly. "The kiss?"
"Okay?" I manage to sound almost normal. "Cecil, that was—that was everything. That was—I love you. So much. More than I know how to say and—"
He kisses me again.
Shorter this time. Sweeter.
And my brain officially gives up on coherent thought.
Cecil loves us.
Cecil kissed me.
This is real.
This is actually happening.
When he pulls back the second time, I'm still staring at him like he personally hung the moon.
Dylan is watching both of us with an expression I can't quite read—something warm and fond and maybe a little bit emotional too.
"My turn?" he asks, his voice soft.
Cecil turns to him, and I watch as Dylan cups his face gently—so carefully, like Cecil is something precious—and kisses him.
It's different from how Cecil kissed me—slower, more deliberate, like Dylan is trying to memorize every second.
And I just lie there, still processing, still trying to wrap my head around the fact that this is my life now.
Cecil loves us.
All of us.
This is real.
When they finally break apart, Cecil is smiling—genuine and soft and completely unguarded in a way I've never seen before.
"I love you," he says again, looking between us. "Both of you. I'm sorry it took me so long to say it."
"Don't apologize," Dylan murmurs. "Just... say it again."
"I love you," Cecil repeats, and this time he's grinning. "I love you, I love you, I love you."
"Never gets old," I manage, and my voice only cracks a little.
We settle back down—Cecil still in the middle, Dylan's arm around him, my face still pressed into his shoulder because I can't quite bring myself to let go yet.
The flower on Cecil's wrist is glowing brighter than I've ever seen it.
Like it's celebrating too.
"We should probably sleep," Dylan says eventually, though he doesn't sound like he wants to.
"Yeah," Cecil agrees.
But none of us move.
Because this moment—this perfect, impossible moment—feels too precious to let go of.
Cecil loves us.
The thought keeps circling through my mind, disbelief and joy and overwhelming relief all tangled together.
He loves us.
And we love him.
And somehow, impossibly, we're all here.
Together.
Exactly where we're supposed to be.