There he is. A kaleidoscope of regrets. A mirage of questions. A vision, of a memory, of a feeling, of an idea.

Like seeing the buds become poppies, and realising the time has been passing, the seasons changing, and the calm Spring has once again been engulfed by the Summer.

A new person. Renewed under the stage lights. Different now. And it looks good on him.

Like the tangerine and crimson that leaks into the leaves, finally giving way to Autumn.

Smiling. Teeth showing. So starkly different from when Jesse knew him.

Like reaching into the snow, and being surprised there’s nothing in between the flakes, just fingers plunging into the soft freeze of Winter.

Matthew William Fletcher-Seng. Taking in his standing ovation.

And Jesse. One of the many standing.

Clapping hands to a static tingle, colour blushing into palms.

Vivid like the sun-glow of daffodils, opening with the Spring, against the lively grass, refreshed from its hibernation.

Jesse knows Matthew can’t see him. And he doesn’t want to be seen. Not yet.

Alone and bubbling with anticipation, trying his best to be patient as the theatre empties, and he hopes to come face to face, finally.

It’s been an age, and yet a blink of an eye, but these last few moments, oh they are dragging, nails latching onto the dirt, grit gathering, pushing into tender flesh.

Muscles tensed. Pulse in the throat. Stomach in knots.

Shuffling, wanting with everything to push, to yell, to run and trample, anything to get to him sooner.

Useless jacket in his bronze fingers, scrunched under twitching fist, stonewashed denim between black nail polish. The extra layer unneeded in the November warmth, but Jesse brought it anyway, not knowing where the night would lead him. Or more truthfully, hoping it would lead him somewhere else.

Into darkness, through memory, under bed sheets, over to dawn. And it’s always coldest in those small hours of city Spring. Especially when heading home after a hook-up.

Steps tiny. Seconds crawling. So many faces. But only one that Jesse wants to see.

And thankfully, muted light flooding in, the foyer in sight, the small brightness stinging, but maybe that’s just the tears. Dried now, but these walnut eyes haven’t forgotten.

Hanging back, trying to compose himself, Jesse leans against the poster-clad walls, eyes to the imperial red carpet, shoes passing, voices layering into a chorus. Plans being made, calling for drinks, sound-bite reviews, none of it any consequence for The Waiter.

And how he waits.

The crowd thinning around him, no longer wanting to skulk around the bar, shouts muting to indoor voices, no longer needing to cut through so many bodies, a balance gradually muting the chaos, no longer congested by the masses.

And he emerges. Finally.

Matthew.

Trepidatious. With hands clasped in front of his chest. Onyx eyes darting. Taller. Bigger. The same but incredibly changed.

He’s snapped up immediately, seeming to know the one bold enough to be first, face lighting up as they squeeze his arm, nodding as they gesture heartedly, watching with intention as they introduce another.

Jesse watching. Taking Matthew in from afar.

Hair so much longer, still jet black and thick, dead straight, brushing his shoulders as he smiles and leans in, giving each person he’s undivided attention.

Eyes brighter, irises still deep and dark, twinkling as he nods along, then looking to the ceiling’s art deco lights, as he raises his hands in delight.

Skin glowing, carmine undertones peeking through almond warmth, the post-performance atmosphere electric, feeding energy into, and through, the buzzing beings huddling around him.

Chattering and praise filling the air, floating down to the carpet, absorbing into the fibres, staying there for years to come, like all the other conversations that have taken place in such storied walls.

Jesse is those walls, that carpet, the many posters decorating this foyer, soaking it all in, sitting and hanging and waiting, like he often does. Ever one to stay back, to wait and see. Often preferring to listen than to talk, enjoying the chance to be close to the star, but never be the star himself.

And he watches it all, patron after patron, engaging with Matthew, singing well-deserved praises, a revolving door of flattery, taking some time to thin out, but that time needed.

He’s barely ready when his chance comes, trying as he might to find the right words, picturing his hoped end, but not knowing how to begin.

As the final hanger-on gives a wave, taking their leave, Jesse takes a big step, waving himself. Hoping his sudden movement will be noticed, never wanting to yell, to run, to be so bold as to assume.

The gesture doesn’t seem enough, and with thick stickiness, he pushes out:

“Hey… May?”

Matthew snaps his attention, surprised and caught off guard, face dropping, expression plain.

Like hearing a once-beloved song.

Disbelief. And then. Flooding.

A tsunami of moments washing over Matthew. Dark eyes unblinking. Lips parting. Focused and unmoving.

“It’s… Jesse…” He continues, taking another step, hands on thighs, leaning past the tipping point, second-guessing if this was a good idea.

Mathew’s mouth forming the name, but no sound coming out.

“Is it… ok if I approach?” Jesse asks, hands coming up to cross his chest, prepared for every response but this one.

“…Jesse?” Matthew manages, blinking finally, breaking his own spell. “Yeah… yes.”

Gap closing instantly, embrace tight as a vice, tears flowing before they can even be registered.

Like home, like comfort, like not even a second has passed.

But of course, it’s been seventeen years.