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mine own and not mine own

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They’re quiet around the kitchen table. Puck swore the spell would only reveal true desires, give you kickass dreams and a good time, not make you act them out. But Demetrius has an intense memory of kissing Lysander in between his clinging to Helena and swearing Hermia had the most perfect feet in the world. He’s hardly able to meet anyone’s eye. Having breakfast with his housemates has never been this awkward. They’ve been doing so well, living together, despite Lysander and Hermia being loud and Demetrius pining and Helena, well, pining after him. If only she’d told him earlier, they might have been able to resolve this situation better.

“Puck’s an asshole,” Hermia finally says, head in her hands. “And I think I’m getting a migraine.”

“I feel nauseous,” Helena says, this quiver in her voice that makes Demetrius wants to reach out and touch her.

“Did we--Demetrius.”

Demetrius looks up and meets Lysander’s dark eyes. “I think we all did,” he croaks, and blushes when he realizes why his throat is so sore.

Lysander rubs at his face, which is something he always does when he’s embarrassed. His hair is a mess, the kind of mess that breaks combs, and Demetrius can’t help but wonder how it got that way. Who dug their hands into his curls? He swallows, thinking of the options. Did he go down on Hermia? Or Helena?

Or, fuck, Demetrius is aching in some very interesting places. What if... He blushes, hard.

“Puck should be shot,” Hermia says firmly, then groans. “Seriously, someone start the coffee.”

“Maybe we could report him for practicing unlicensed magic,” Helena says hesitantly. She still looks so unhappy, Demetrius wishes he could just hold her.

“I’ll get the coffee,” Lysander says. He’s the only one who can work the machine; Hermia handles most of the technical stuff, but the coffee machine is half magic, half steel, and will only work for Lysander. Which is strange, considering it was Demetrius who bought it, but he’s pretty used to Lysander being better with people, children, pets, professors, you name it. He’s got a girlfriend whom Demetrius is in love with, too. Even if he’s realizing he’s more than a little bit in love with Lysander as well. Puck may be an asshole, but his magic is true.

“His dickhead of a fraternity president would alibi him,” Hermia says, and it takes Demetrius a second to realize she’s responding to Helena.

“Still,” Helena says. “I don’t--it wasn’t supposed to happen this way.”

“What do you mean?” Hermia says. Then, quickly, “did you--you saw this coming?” Helena has the Sight, though it’s unpredictable at best.

“I didn’t know what it meant,” Helena says, “but.” She falls silent, looking at her hands.

“Come on,” Hermia says, and it’s like they’re the only ones there, back in their girlhood bubble when Demetrius used to just. Ache. When he saw them.

“You kissed me in the kitchen,” Helena says, so quiet Demetrius has to strain to hear her. “You were wearing that t-shirt, too.” SUN’S OUT GUNS OUT, stolen from Lysander.

Hermia smiles. Like sunlight coming out, like every overwrought metaphor Demetrius can think of. God, she’s lovely, but so is Helena, tall, a Greek statue in her blue robe and flannel pajamas.

“Like this?” says Hermia, and leans in, Helena bending down to accept the kiss.

Demetrius can’t breathe. Gods, they’re beautiful. There’s a crash behind them, and they all turn to see Lysander, two mugs in shards at his feet.

“Stand still,” Demetrius says quickly, “I’ll Mend them, just, don’t step on anything.” Mending’s his only talent. It’s weak enough, but it’s useful for broken crockery.

At Lysander’s feet, he’s hit with another wave of memory: last night, he knelt just like this, Lysander’s hands in his hair.

Blushing again, he yelps as he accidentally burns his hand on the coffee. Lysander moves as if to bend down to help, which will only result in him burning himself too. (Somehow he’d spilt it without getting it on himself, but of course Demetrius put his hand right in it.)

“I’m fine,” he says hurriedly, “don’t move, I’m fine, I’ll get it.” Once he’s got the mugs back together, though, they all get him back to his chair and Helena fusses over his hand.

“I wish I was better at healing,” Lysander says unhappily.

“You’re good at everything else,” Demetrius mutters, and becomes even more embarrassed when he realizes he said it out loud.

“Oh,” Hermia says, evil smile on, “What else is he good at?” She glances at Helena, who nods, looking happy. Those two must’ve figured something out between them when they kissed and Demetrius was busy burning himself, because they seem much calmer.

Demetrius doesn’t know how to answer that. “Everything,” he goes with, shrugging at Lysander, who looks a little like he’s been poleaxed. He swallows, adding, “I’ve always been jealous of you, for, well, everything, but I think that’s half because I think you’re amazing, and…” he trails off. He can’t find the words. But Lysander is smiling, and maybe it will be alright.

“You’re amazing too,” he says, and he’s very close suddenly. “Did you know Hermia once called me Demetrius in bed?” He tips Demetrius’ chin up, and Demetrius’ mouth is so dry.

“No,” he whispers.

“You’re pretty damn hot, what can I say,” Hermia says. She’s grinning at them both from the other side of the table. “You should kiss him, boyfriend,” she adds. “And then we can talk about what else Helena Saw.”

Demetrius closes his eyes and even as Lysander kisses him, warm and long and steady, he can hear the girls coming around to their side, Helena’s hand sneaking into his.

“We’re going to grow old together,” she whispers to him, and the happiness filling him is light as air, as faerie magic (the Outlawed kind), as the sunlight creeping into every corner of the room. It’s the end of a journey, lovers meeting like this, all the cracks Mended, and he never wants to go anywhere without them.