Deleon. At last.

Miles and miles of streets lined by orderly rows of houses, fences, gates. Smoke curling up from chimneys and mingling with the clouds hanging above. Snow-crusted trees peeking over frozen hedges at the people and horses passing by. Beyond them, not visible from here and yet very much present, a shockingly systematic matrix of streets: the city center, its straight wide boulevards and gracefully curving crescent streets and all those handsome buildings of dark stone.

Deleon, portly and self-satisfied and teeming. Larger than life, in every sense of the word, beyond comprehension in its enormity. Deleon.

I should be feeling tiny and pitiful, rejected and miserable in the middle of this grandeur that is so Revnashi, among massive buildings and broad streets and tall, self-assured people. I should be feeling lost and utterly insignificant within this giant that has swallowed me again and now surrounds me, stretching miles and miles in every direction.

Yet I don't. No, I feel at home. I feel almost – safe. Safe in the way a mouse might feel when it has somehow strayed outside the old castle where it has made its home and finally finds itself within those crumbling walls once more.

Yesterday morning we went to the deck of the riverboat and saw the smoke and the buildings and the port on the south side of the big river, and my heart swelled so that it hurt. As the cab took us to the city center, I kept looking around and gulping down tears and thinking what a good thing it was that I'd never realized just how much I missed this place. We drove through the city, towards Fordan's apartment and I soaked in the surroundings, the sounds, the view. Deleon.

Now we've slept there one night, in our home. I'd never seen it before, he's got it and moved away from home well after I'd already left, but I suppose I should call it home anyway even though it doesn't quite feel like it. Not yet. Fordan's been away so long that it has lost the feel of being lived in; there's no smell, no whisper of life. It will come back, I want to believe so. Sleeping one night in the bed, heating the fireplaces once, making breakfast on one morning, those things aren't enough. More days are needed, more nights and mornings and evenings together.

Those will come later, in due time. Now it's already getting dark and we are walking along a street I know so well, towards a house I love. We wanted to get going earlier, but there was so much unpacking and arranging and grocery-shopping to do that somehow the better part of the day just slipped through our fingers. Now I'm at the same time very nervous and so eager to get there that my legs want to move faster and faster. As if we weren't walking briskly enough already. Fordan is in a hurry, too, his eyes are shining as he glances at me, never mind this fucking cold wind that cuts into flesh and bone through whatever gloves and coats we're wearing.

I can already see it, that familiar house, a house not significantly bigger or smaller than the ones next to it. An ordinary house that blends in with the little gardens and other houses along the street. A friendly-looking house with long eaves, steep roof with some skylights, a chimney from which a steady stream of smoke is rising. And that lovely, welcoming door of the deepest, ripest yellow that almost feels warm to touch.

Fordan knocks on the door, then we hold our breath and listen. After a while we hear steps and I know those steps, oh yes I do. My heart skips a beat and the yellow door opens, first just enough to let the person inside to see who's calling, and then it swings wide open.

"Fordan!"

They bear-hug tight right there on the doorstep, kiss each other on the cheek, and I observe with relief that the years since our last meeting haven't treated him too unkindly. The once jet-black hair is a little more grizzled than I remember, but still he stands so tall and imposing, still makes my breath catch. Once again I can't help marveling at how much they resemble each other in looks, father and his adopted son, even though there are no blood ties to excuse it.

A thought flashes through my mind: is that what Fordan, too, will look like when he's sixty-five?

Something clutches at my heart and twists it, makes me swallow, and right then his gaze falls upon me and he gasps. Slowly he lets go of Fordan and turns to look properly. He doesn't believe what he's seeing.

I try to say something, my voice fails and I know tears are welling up but there's nothing I can do to stop them when he steps closer and pulls me into a tight embrace. I smell his cologne, its familiar sting, and words come to me at last.

"It's good to see you again, Krisch," I whisper into his shirt and he squeezes me tighter.

"Nash," he murmurs. "Nash, thank goodness. Oh, thank goodness."

I close my eyes and just listen to his warmth as he holds me close, then pushes me at an arm's length and looks closely. His smile is incredulous as he glances at Fordan and shakes his head.

"I can't believe how lucky you are, son," he says with a wry little smirk. "And I hope that this time you're enough in your senses to –" He catches himself, hugs me once more, laughs. "Now, boys, let's go inside, we've let in quite enough of this nasty wind. Come in, come in! Ahh, at last I think I have something that will tempt the poet down from his literary cloud."

The little hall is just like I remember it. I know every step of the stairs, every tile in the kitchen floor, every little crack in the wooden wall. It's been years but the house embraces me. It welcomes me back.

Fordan glances around as we shed our outdoor clothes, then hugs his father yet again with one arm and smiles. "Shanti is upstairs?"

"Told so. He's lost in his cloud again." Krischmerion spreads his arms and heaves an exaggerated sigh. "I did take him tea quite a while ago, but I wouldn't be surprised if he never even noticed me... Go right ahead, boy, he's been there since morning!"

Fordan climbs the stairs, two at a time. When he disappears, Krisch turns and fixes me with a penetrating look. His dark eyes are warm and worried and questioning, and the large hand rises to gently ruffle my hair, just enough to make sure he's not seeing things after all.

"You," he says, voice ringing with wonder. "That he should've found you again! Did you go back to Dirna or what?"

I nod and he sighs.

"We've talked about you so many times, Nash. Where you are, how you're doing, is everything all right with you." Krisch smiles a little ruefully, and I can't help pressing into the touch. "You could've written, you know. Wouldn't even have needed to give an address. Just a few words to let us know you were all right, even if –"

I want to apologize but he pauses and raises his head, and we both listen to the voices from upstairs. Surprised, delighted, they get clearer until we can begin to make out the words. I can't help smiling as I hear how Shantiam scolds Fordan for giving him such a surprise and in the same breath presses him for details about his vacation. That's so Shanti...

When he notices me he falls silent and just gapes, clutching the handrail so hard that the knuckles of his narrow, delicate hands turn white.

"Shanti," I manage. "Hello."

No, he just can't believe it either. Not even after he's hugged me many times and is holding me by the shoulders and looks at me with those hazy-blue eyes. They're still pretty sharp despite the countless hours he's spent writing during his over seventy years of life, but he's not sure if he can trust them anyway, because this is just too marvelous to be true.

It takes a while before he recovers from the first pleasant shock, and then the fussing starts. Fordan and I try to insist that the two of them should just sit down and let us take care of the dinner, but of course we're talking complete nonsense. Shanti has been sitting quite enough in one place, he wants to spoil us now and hear everything about Fordan's journey and about me, and why hasn't Krisch told him earlier that he should come downstairs? It's just about dinnertime, too, Krisch should know better than to let him forget the world like this!

Krisch smiles fondly and waggles his eyebrows at us but doesn't comment, nor does Shantiam really expect him to. They've lived under the same roof for over forty years now, loved and fought and loved some more, and this is one of their standing jokes. Of course Krisch isn't even nearly on par with Shanti where cooking is concerned, but he knows well enough how to feed himself and others. And as for letting Shantiam hole up in his little upstairs study – Krisch never fails to point out that the only sound that has ever been able to break through Shanti's concentration when he's writing is the voice of their adoptive sons in distress. His long-time lover never had that effect, oh no...

It feels incredibly good to listen to them like this, at home, so comfortable with each other. The atmosphere of safety and belonging coils around me, whispering to me what I used to dream about, years ago. That we'd grow old together, me and Fordan, just like Shanti and Krisch have. Except that I mustn't think about that. Not now, not ever. Why do I stubbornly keep dreaming, even though I know it's useless and pointless and only means more hurting?

And yet, I guess I can't be blamed too much for remembering it as I watch them and listen to them, because for some funny reason there's such striking resemblance between them and us. If I squint a little, it's easy to imagine that one day, years and years ahead, I'll probably look pretty much like Shantiam now, and Fordan has always been a spitting image of Krisch anyway. I mustn't fool myself, though. They are a miracle, the two of them, and miracles are few and far between.

As my thoughts are drifting, Shantiam has taken charge. Of course we are having dinner with them, there's no question of anything else, and a gigantic omelet is already in the works. I have to smile as I watch the undisputed master of this kitchen ordering his minion about. Such an unlikely couple they are.

Shanti, slim and smallish and so obviously a Dorelioni both in looks and name, and yet his earliest memories are from various orphanages in the north of Revnash, thousands of miles away from Dorelion. Krischmerion, the younger son of a Count, his mother's pampered favorite from one of the wealthiest parts of Revnash. Shanti, who still vividly remembers all those years as illegal child labor before his adoption. Krisch, who out of some whim decided to leave home and study and was then too proud and stubborn to back out of his extraordinary choice. Shanti, lithe and mild in manner and yet the writer of explicit and outrageous and breathtaking poetry that has made him famous throughout the country. Krisch, tall and black and spectacularly handsome, an accomplished engineer.

That these two should ever have even met each other? That they should've fallen in love? That they should still be together?

They are a miracle, and I have already got more than my fair share of it, when they took me into their family and in their hearts. I mustn't get greedy, mustn't hope for any more miracles, and bite my tongue to hold back the tears, cursing myself yet again. Why the hell must I be such a crybaby?

"You must go to see Banerr and his family," Shantiam says, watching the steaming omelet like a hawk. Fordan rolls his eyes with a grin.

"Shanti, give us a little time, okay?" he says good-humoredly. "We only reached Deleon yesterday! Of course we'll be visiting everybody in the next few days, don't you worry about that."

"I was just thinking that maybe you'll be going to work soon."

"Oh, I won't start work a single day early," Fordan assures him. "Not a day before I've used up all the vacation that's been piling up over the past few years, you hear me? For one thing, I want to make sure that Nash gets properly settled in."

Krisch, placing the teapot on the table next to the jars and plates, exchanges a surreptitious glance with Shanti. I wish I knew what it means. Fordan doesn't notice.

"How are Banerr and Elenna and the kids? And what about the Double Trouble?" he asks.

"Oh, Dharik and Dhamil are both going steady." Krisch winks at him. "With twin girls."

Fordan gapes. "You're kidding, right?"

Both Shanti and Krisch nod with conviction, and Fordan bursts into laughter. "And here I always thought it was just a joke of theirs!"

"Apparently not, at least completely," Shantiam says with a little shrug, then nods in satisfaction. "Ahh, now it's ready!"

"Let me," Krisch says and gently pushes him aside. "You sit down right now and stop that fussing."

The large iron pan is heavy and its contents sizzle as he carries it over to the table, a thick towel wrapped around the handle. My mouth waters, and Shanti chuckles at my expression. I look ravenous, I just know it. Of all his cooking, those omelets that he conjures up at the drop of a hat are my absolute favorite. He calls them 'leftovers scraped together', I call them ambrosia.

"So good to have you here again, Nash," he says softly over his cup of tea, is about to say something else but obviously stops himself. I nearly choke on my first mouthful of bread when Fordan's hand covers mine and squeezes a bit. He mouths a silent 'yes' and I have to swallow a few times when he smiles to me.

Again Shanti's and Krisch's eyes meet quickly. Krisch takes a deep breath, digs into his piece of omelet and decides to change the topic. "So, Fordan, how much of your vacation do you still have left?"

"The whole of next week. No need to worry, Shanti, I guess we'll try to catch at least Banerr's family tomorrow. Nobody's moved, have they?"

"No," Krisch says. "This time D&D are happy with their apartment, too, so I don't think they're likely to move anywhere for a while – that is, unless this thing with the girls gets serious."

"I'd thought the twins would still be living here," I put in and immediately regret it when I hear Shanti's sigh. That's the truth, though, Fordan still did at their age and I'd half expected to find them here even though Fordan has corrected me on our way here. Krisch gives a little shrug.

"They thought it was better to find a place a little closer to the University, what with their evening jobs and all."

"It was the reasonable solution," Shantiam agrees, though I hear regret in his voice. "But they do come in the weekends, usually for Sunday lunch or dinner here."

"Have you met the young ladies yet?" Fordan wants to know, and this time his both parents chuckle.

"No, not yet," Krisch says with a little smirk. "We are mightily curious, of course. The boys assure us that the girls have definitely been told about us, and claim that they aren't at all intimidated, but that's a statement I'll believe only when I actually see them in front of me."

"I guess they all think that an introduction would mean things are indeed getting serious," Shanti puts in and smiles. "I have a feeling, though, that it might not be long any more. They have been seeing the same girls for quite a while now. In fact I believe they'd already met well before you left, even though they probably weren't really seeing each other yet, back then."

I listen as they talk about Fordan's brothers and what's been going on during his absence, and just bask in the warmth and safety. Deleon feels like home, and this – this is home. Not Fordan's place, not yet, though I hope it'll soon be.

We retire to the living room and Krisch pours us drinks. I can see that they would like to ask me a thousand questions but silently decide against it for now and instead nudge Fordan into telling about his vacation. He doesn't need much prompting, though, he's happy to talk about it. So he tells about the journey and about bumping into me in a bar, just like that, and Shantiam's gaze brushes over me several times but I think I manage not to give anything away, not even when Fordan pulls me close while telling about those last few weeks we spent together in Dirna.

He tells of walks on the beach at low tide, and I go hot all over when I remember how he pressed me against rough stone and kissed me dizzy. He mentions the name of the hotel where we stayed, and I hear again the squeak of the bed when he fucked me slowly and it felt so good I nearly passed out. He drops familiar names of places, streets, squares, and all I can think of is my hand in his when we walked around, fingers laced together, never mind how hot it was.

Krisch smiles at something and sips from his glass, and I realize that somehow my hand has found Fordan's where it's resting on my shoulder and our fingers are entwined.

If I closed my eyes now and stopped listening to Fordan and Shanti and Krisch, I could almost imagine that everything's still as it used to be, that all those years have been just a bad dream and we never separated in the first place. Only almost, though, because back then it was rarely so quiet, with the three younger brothers still around and young and boisterous.

Only almost, because back then there was no malicious little voice whispering all the time in my ear: how much longer?