Sebastian could pose for professional mug shots.
He’s had enough practise.
He knew to hold still and not to smile. His muscles knew how high to raise the sign. His rights were memorized and his one phone call was on speed dial.
It was a clockwork waltz between him and Elo. He sidesteps and Elo follows; he leans into a dip and Elo’s arms are there. Elo pretends he is the lead in this dance, but it is a necessary lie. For all the independence in which Elo bathes, their lives are too intertwined for either one to stop the dance.
***
Gemma is surprised when a ringing comes from Elo’s pocket. He said phones were useless; no one ever called him and if he wanted to talk, he’d rather it be in person.
Elo’s face registered a flash of anxiety before melting into his usual clean lines. He raised an eyebrow to mirror Gemma’s questioning face, but turned it into a smirk as he cradled the phone to his ear.
“Same amount to the same place?” He hadn’t even let the other party speak first. There was a pause and Gemma fruitlessly tried to read his expression. Nothing. He gave an imperceptible nod and answered “Of course” and that was the end of the call.
“Elo, who-” she started.
He stood up, buttoning his jacket and strode to the door.
“Elo, seriously!?” She ran after him, worried now. He turned as he pulled the door open, holding her gaze. There was something like pain in his eyes and she slowed to a stop.
“So dear of you to worry, but I will be back in time for dinner.”
She sighed. “Are you expecting me to cook? I thought it was your turn.”
“It is. I’m picking something up. Just set the table for three.”
And with that he closed the door and Gemma was left alone, eyebrows drawn together over the mystery that was ‘three’.

Seb had his highs and lows, as Elo was very aware. When he hit withdrawal, he hit it like an steel wall, hard and fast and frictionless as he slid farther and farther down into shaky, desperate pure need. He’d fall and fall until he picked up a syringe again.
But when he was in a high, teetering on that unspoken brink of fine-not-fine, a big smile on his face and stifled turmoil in his heart, he would cook. Elo would let him crash at his place (it wasn’t really crashing. He had given his cousin a spare key a while back) and Seb would use up all those fancy ingredients Gemma kept stocking in the kitchen. He’d throw things together, wild laughter and glinting eyes, and come up with combinations that sounded horrible but tasted like heaven.
In those moments Elo was so comfortable calling him ‘Kid’ again.

“Hey, Kid. Whatcha cooking tonight?”

It was nice while it lasted. But like all addicts, Seb would crash again.
And Elo would call him. And he wouldn’t pick up the phone.

Benedict Cumberbatch and Rebecca Hall for Harper’s Bazaar