Lanterns really are beautiful. There's something about a lantern on a dark, starry summer's night that can't be compared to anything else. No matter the shape, size, or color, each one has a little flickering heart inside, a small and steady flame that keeps in alight. The flame could either illuminate it with heavenly splendor or consume it in a fiery wrath. The precious balance of the fire embraced by fragile paper is a most pure form of trust.
Mott wonders if the festival deliberately chose paper lanterns as their symbol of love for that very reason.
It takes him and Lenny about a half and hour to find the perfect lanterns for themselves. Lenny's is a gentle green sphere, soft and round and delicate. Artful leaves are inked along the sides in an intricate show of beauty. Mott finds a blue, cylindrical lantern, broad and sturdy. Crashing waves circle around the lantern.
Some people have already begun to set theirs off by the time Mott and Lenny are walking back to the beach. The soft glow of the lanterns couples with the silvery glimmer of the stars and creates a work of art unlike anything Mott has ever seen. It all reflects on the glassy lake like an endless galaxy of light.
Mott leads them down to a secluded cove on the beach where they will be able to send off their lanterns in private. It's a place where barely any lanterns have floated off too, so it still retains its unblemished darkness.
He wonders what their lanterns will look like, shining together in the darkness.
When they reach the shoreline, away from the commotion of the festival, they stand shoulder to shoulder. The gentle waves lap at their feet, washing over in soft whispers before retreating into the glossy lake. Above them, a cluster of stars glimmer, the only other witnesses to this moment.
"It sure is beautiful tonight," Lenny sighs, dreamy and content.
Mott turns to look at him, soaking in the sight of a billion, diamond-like stars reflected in his eyes.
"Yes," he agrees, "it is."
Lenny meets his gaze with a smile, holding up his lantern. "Should we send them off?" Mott raises his own in response and mirrors his smile.
Together, wordlessly, they usher their lanterns upward, releasing them to the heavens. The lantern feels airy and weightless in his hands, and it easily drifts toward the sky as if it's being called home. Called home to join the rest of the stars, perhaps—but it doesn't go alone. Lenny's lantern remains alongside throughout the journey, twirling and dancing together beyond the inky and endless horizon.
Together, the lanterns float away. Together, Mott and Lenny watch in contemplative silence. Mott can only assume Lenny is taking the time to be thankful for the love surrounding him, just as Mott is—given the circumstances, he can't fathom anyone doing anything less. The night is so full of love, so saturated in it, that Mott can hardly think of anything else.
He doesn't know how he never realized his feelings for Lenny before. He doesn't know how he was so blind to it. He doesn't know how he thought he was going to keep it a secret forever. But none of that matters anymore, because he's ending that now.
He clears his throat. "Lenny?"
Lenny's eyes remain on their lanterns. "Hmm?"
Lenny's voice is soft; his eyes are softer. He watches their lanterns disappear together. Mott breathes in the sight, his heart racing, and swallows. "There's something that I want to tell you."
Those captivating eyes turn to him. "That you cheated at ring toss?"
"What? No. Why would I—?"
"I know you cheated, don't even lie."
Mott feels unreasonably defensive about the accusation. "I didn't."
"I saw you!"
"I didn't! How would a person even cheat at ring toss?"
"I don't know, you tell me."
"I didn't cheat!"
Lenny laughs, his eyes crinkling with delight as he throws his head back. Mott huffs as Lenny continues to cackle. His laughter is loud and quickly devolves into uncontrollable snorting.
"You don't gotta pout," Lenny giggles, covering his mouth. His eyes are brimming with amusement and affection. "I ain't gonna turn you in to the ring toss police, or nothing."
"They would find me not guilty," he mutters childishly before shaking off the conversation. "That's not what I wanted to talk about though. I have something important to tell you."
'Something' implies that he's only telling one thing; when in reality, it's more like a series of things. Love is not a one-time event. It transcends beyond a singular moment and comes in different forms depending on which direction in time you look. In the past, love is nearly invisible until you review each second with the clearer lens of hindsight and understand that love was hiding around every corner. In the future, love is a gift destined to grow stronger.
And in the present, love is a choice. It is not an emotion that blinds us or a madness that ruins us. Love is a deliberate, difficult, wonderful, action that says, over and over, I choose you.
Lenny blinks at him, tilting his head. "You got something you wanna tell me?"
Mott takes a deep breath before responding to his question. He doesn't want this confession to be some run-of-the-mill conversation. He wants it to be special, so that Lenny can see how much he truly cares for him. He wants it to be poetic.
He knows exactly how he's going to say it, too, as if he'd been born and raised for this very moment. He's going to start from the beginning of it all, when Lenny saved his life in more ways than one. He wants to carry them through each moment in their grand, perilous journey together and express how his love for him grew. More than anything, he wants to show Lenny just how much he loves him and wrap it all in a poetic resolution. A perfect story woven with utmost care, the individual threads specifically chosen for their intended task. By the end of it, he wants their love to be even stronger than it was before.
He starts: "When I first met you, I—"
"I love you, Mott."
Mott chokes. "I'm sorry?"
"You said you had something you wanted to tell me, but I had something to tell you, too, and I just couldn't wait," Lenny explains as Mott flounders. "So, I interrupted. Awfully rude of me, sorry. Now, onto what you were gonna say?"
Sputtering, fragmented words of confusion and distress spilling past his lips, Mott struggles to grasp a sliver of composure and coherency. "H-hold on! We can't just, just—brush over what you just said!"
"Oh, we can come back to it in a bit."
Come back to it?! "Wha—no! We have to—you love me?" He stammers, his heart pounding and his breath coming short. Beside him, Lenny is the perfect image of calm. How?! "You mean, like, love love, or just like, friend love?"
Smooth. Very poetic, Mott.
"Of course I love you as a friend," Lenny says, and Mott's heart deflates before he adds, "but I'd like to be more."
Mott stares at him. Gapes. Realizes he looks like an idiot. Snaps his mouth and stares.
"Me too; I'd like to be more!" Mott blurts, his tongue running faster than his brain. "You know, I mean, if it's cool with you. It's cool with me." He opens and closes his mouth like a fish for another moment. "I—I was trying to confess, you know!"
"Oh?"
"Oh?!" He mocks, then: "Yeah, you jerk! I had a whole speech planned! I was worrying about it all night!"
He can't believe Lenny just stole his confession! It was going to be very romantic!
Lenny beams. "That's great! Then I guess it's settled."
"Uh," he says, dumbly. His mouth hurts from hanging open so much. "Yeah, I. Uh. I guess it is."
Lenny's smile turns warm with a glimmer of mischievous delight, likely taking amusement in Mott's dumbstruck state. Without another word, he leans against Mott, resting his head on his upper arm and watching the lanterns flooding the sky. Mott, still mentally catching up, can only continue to stare.
...He doesn't feel any different.
After a little more thought, he supposes he shouldn't feel much different, after all. He's always loved Lenny. Now he just loves him in a new way.
Dropping his chin on Lenny's head, they rest against each other just as they have a thousand times before.
As they sit together on the beach, watching the lanterns drift, Mott contemplates it all. There was no poetic confession. There was no poetic spring of new emotion and fluttering hearts. And it turns out, he's not the slightest bit upset about it.
After all: true love, so often, is not very poetic at all.