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Chapter Text

The dim lights of Philadelphia faded behind them. As the plane rose above the city, a once-vibrant panorama of lights and motion appeared to the passengers, now flickering faintly in the darkness. At night, an industrial city could look mesmerizing from above, if one didn't know what they were looking at. What once had been a dazzling mosaic of thousands of lights, street lamps and glowing windows now seemed like a dying constellation. The central districts used to shine the brightest, marking a few vital arteries. Not anymore. And not anytime soon.

The factories that were still operating stood out in sharp contrast, their floodlights bright and unnatural. Some smokestacks glowed faintly with light-tinged smoke. Not for long, Rearden thought. Soon they too will go dark, and be forced to shut down.

The rows of apartment buildings and the suburbs lay almost entirely in darkness. Parks had become black voids where once there had been warmth and motion.

Not a single neon sign.

Roads and highways were no longer visible from above once, Hank had flown over this very city in his own plane and watched the luminous veins of traffic, headlights flowing like rivers. The airport, the rail lines… he shook his head, thinking of Dagny, still somewhere far below.

"The first step is always the hardest. The main thing is to choose to take it," Francisco said, as if reading his thoughts.

Hank looked down one last time. There was nothing left of the former dynamism, of the human momentum and technological might.

Francisco sat upright, eyes ahead, hands firm on the controls, his entire posture radiating unshakable control and confidence. He was flying the plane that carried Hank, and his people to Atlantis. What nonsense, Rearden thought. Atlantis. It would likely take him days to get used to the idea that the myth had turned out to be real.

"We'll be there in the morning," the Argentine said, flipping a few switches to engage the autopilot. "You can get some sleep." He smiled as he reached out and covered Hank's hand with his own.

"Tell me about that place about… Atlantis."

"We don't call it Atlantis. Not there. It's the valley Midas' Valley. You know him."

Hank nodded.

"We built it twelve years ago. At first, it was just a few houses, but now we've got John's motor and unlimited power, so there are a couple of factories and workshops. And copper mines, of course," Francisco added with pride. "Dagny and I even started building a narrow-gauge railway." He smiled again this time, with a trace of sadness.

"We just land there and..?"

"That's the question all the newcomers ask. Normally it's John's task he'll arrive in the morning too. We have a tradition, sort of an initiation. Every newcomer spends their first night in John's house. It's always the hardest night, everyone doubts, wonders what comes next, whether they made the right choice leaving everything behind."

"And your home?"

"Yes, in the forest. It's more like a cabin, really."

"I want to see it," Hank said, covering Francisco's hand with his own. He wasn't asking about the gulch as a whole he wanted to know about Francisco's life there.

And the truth was, Francisco had spent more time outside the gulch than in it, watching over Hank and Dagny from afar. He said they'd talk in the morning about the new life ahead of them, and everything still waiting to begin.

At dawn, Francisco shook the sleeping Rearden, pointing somewhere down below they had arrived. Hank saw through the window a narrow, almost invisible landing strip amidst ancient trees.

The first rays of the sun painted the sky in gentle shades of pink and orange, and Francisco's skin, as expected, took on a coppery hue. Hank sleepily looked at his friend and smiled.

"Wake up, we're coming in for landing," the Argentine encouraged him. Hank stretched in place, driving the blood through his body and loosening the muscles stiff from sleep and the uncomfortable position.

The autumn forest below seemed to be on fire; the ancient trees stood tall and proud, creating the impression of an eternal and unchanging world unfolding before their eyes. The silence and peace, broken only by the soft hum of the engines, created an atmosphere of serenity and reverence for the majesty of nature. Hank felt at peace with himself and ready for a new life.

The airfield, hidden among the tall trees, seemed like a secret refuge known only to a chosen few, and indeed, they were the chosen ones, Hank thought.

The narrow runway approached, surrounded by dense forest and blending almost seamlessly into the natural landscape, making it practically invisible to any outsider. Only those with the right information and access could find this hidden airstrip and use its services.

When the landing gear gently touched the black strip of ground and slowed down, Rearden noticed a small group of people waiting among the trees near the landing strip. In the morning light filtering through the dense foliage, their figures looked almost ghostly. In the distance, partly concealed by greenery, a few vehicles could be seen. 

"There's John," Francisco said cheerfully, yawning.

Among the greeters stood a mysterious figure in a wide-brimmed hat. His face was hidden in shadow, and his entire appearance breathed secrecy and untold stories. That must be John, Hank realized.

The others kept a respectful distance, highlighting the importance of the man. In the soft morning light breaking through the leaves, the figure in the hat looked even more enigmatic like someone out of the past or a world of secrets and intrigue.

The plane jolted slightly on landing, and just as the engines switched to idle, Francisco flipped the switches and rose sharply from his seat. Hank was about to get up as well, their bodies collided in the tight cockpit. The Argentine nearly bumped his forehead against Hank's chin but froze just a centimeter away.

For a moment, time stood still.

Then Francisco relaxed and dropped his forehead onto Hank's shoulder, giggling quietly nervously, with a slight tremble. Hank's hand instinctively found Francisco's side, his fingers gripping the fabric of his sweater just above the belt. His throat went dry. He opened his mouth to say something, but…

"Hey, you two stuck in there?" came a voice from the cabin.

Hank jerked back, as if burned.

The hatch opened with a soft hiss, and Francisco, as if shaking off the tension, leaped outside in one bound. He ran toward the man in the hat with the carefree joy of a boy.

Hank stepped out more cautiously, feeling the metal stairs of the gangway tremble slightly under his weight. He paused, taking in the scene:

Mist.

It lay across the ground, cloaking everything in a bluish haze and making the air cool and damp. Silence. Only their voices, the soft rustle of leaves, and the occasional cry of a bird as if the forest itself was awakening.

Hank breathed deeply. It smelled of earth, grass, and something indescribably new.

He took a step forward toward this place, this morning, this strange feeling that tugged at his chest.

A step into the unknown.

The ground was covered in morning mist, evoking a sense of calm and seclusion. When he took his first step onto the earth, the fresh scent of the autumn forest filled his lungs. The smell of damp soil mixed with the scent of leaves and pine. The leaves, painted in golden and crimson hues, rustled softly around, creating an atmosphere of mystery and comfort.

The sounds of his steps were muffled, as if nature itself absorbed every sound. Occasionally, fallen leaves crunched beneath his feet, breaking the forest's silence. Everything around them was slowly waking up, but for now, the morning belonged only to them and the forest.

On the wet asphalt of the runway, Hank looked around. Francisco was already hugging John and shaking hands with Midas and a guy Hank didn't know.

The man in the hat had already come over and extended his hand.

"John Galt, I presume?" Hank replied to the handshake. The man smiled shyly, and his eyes sparkled almost like Francisco's, he was truly glad, Hank thought.

Rearden felt a strong sense of respect and admiration for John Galt for the work he had done, but he also felt a hint of jealousy. Hank realized he had finally met someone who embodied his own ideals and beliefs someone who could understand and support his drive.

And yet, despite all of Galt's greatness and achievements, he smiled at Hank with humility. He's just as impressed by me as I am by him, Rearden thought.

"We're here!" Francisco exclaimed joyfully, placing his hands on John's and Hank's shoulders.

In moments like this, Hank felt something unusual and inexplicable. He was captivated by Francisco, experiencing a mixture of admiration and bewilderment. That smile seemed to possess a kind of magic, capable of knocking him out of his usual rational state which was deeply unfamiliar and unsettling for Hank.

They looked like three friends who had finally reunited after a long separation. Francisco, unable to contain his joy, began jumping up and down and shouting, pulling the other two by their shoulders. Their laughter and joyful shouts echoed through the quiet forest, filling the space with warmth and happiness.

For a while, the three of them were completely absorbed in each other, forgetting they weren't alone. A voice from Midas brought them back to reality.

"You seem to have forgotten about the rest of us," he said.

Francisco was the first to snap out of the joyful trance, his smile softening slightly but not fading. He turned to Midas with the same ease he had just shown embracing Hank and John, as if there was no difference between the two moments.

"Oh, friends, forgive me!" he exclaimed, spreading his arms slightly in a gesture of apology though there was no hint of regret in his voice.

They stepped apart a little, and Hank felt a sudden emptiness where Francisco's hand had just been.

The Argentinian moved aside and began introducing Hank's people to John and Midas. Hank had completely forgotten about them. Francisco introduced them one by one. When he finished with Hank's group, he introduced Galt and Midas to them, and the third man's name was William, a student of Richard Halley who had once worked for Taggart Transcontinental.

Once the formalities were done, Francisco declared he was hungry.

They spent the morning at John's house, having breakfast and coffee. Hank didn't feel hostility, only curiosity, and he trusted Dagny's judgment.

Francisco, animated but with a shadow of exhaustion in his eyes, told the story of how he had saved Rearden and how they had reached the gulch. His voice sped up and slowed down, as if he was barely holding himself upright. Miss Ives, finally giving in to fatigue, quietly leaned against his shoulder, her breathing growing calm and deep.

The others, too, were barely staying awake, adrenaline had long since worn off, leaving behind a heavy, warm drowsiness. Their eyes drooped, and their nods grew more frequent.

"Time for sleep," John finally said, rising from the table. "We'll talk about the rest tomorrow."

No one argued.

Hank said goodnight to his people and left them with John. Galt had admitted earlier that he hadn't been prepared for so many people.

After that, Hank and Francisco headed to the Argentinian's house. William drove them, letting either of them get behind the wheel would have been madness.

As promised, it wasn't a house so much as a cabin.

Inside, it was exactly as Hank had imagined Francisco's home would be simple and practical, nothing superfluous, yet everything felt very personal: from the crest above the door to the quilt on the bed, clearly handmade and very old. Hank thought perhaps it had been a gift from Francisco's childhood.

He walked around the house, touching a few of the items.

"I recently made a guest bedroom," Francisco said, showing him the room. "Dagny accused me of having only one bed in the whole house." He shrugged.

Rearden barely stepped into the guest room. Francisco chatted about how it had once been a study, but he preferred to work by the fireplace so now it was a guest bedroom. But Rearden didn't need that room. He certainly wouldn't be sleeping there.

They settled on the floor in the living room by the fireplace. Francisco liked lying on the rug, working on his plans stretched out.

This time, Francisco wasn't wearing pajamas, but he was just as comfortably dressed. They'd both taken off their boots and sat barefoot.

Hank leaned against the couch while Francisco kept shifting fetching rum, then food, which William had brought from the café run by Ragnar and Kay Ludlow.

"They run a café together?" Hank raised an eyebrow, clearly surprised.

"Yup," Francisco stretched lazily. "And they have a million more plans. Ragnar owns the whole building."

He popped the last bite into his mouth, set down the empty glass, and without ceremony rested his head on Hank's lap.

Hank didn't object.

It had seemed like the most natural thing in the world just like the way Hank's fingers had reached up to brush the unruly strand of hair away from his friend's blue eyes. Francisco closed them for a second, then opened them again with a smile.

The conversation flowed lazily, words growing softer, the pauses longer. The adrenaline had long since faded, leaving behind only a pleasant tiredness.

"Sleep," Francisco finally declared, yawning so wide his jaw cracked audibly.

"Yeah," Hank agreed, feeling his eyelids grow heavy.

They got up from the floor without discussing the obvious that they would sleep in the same bed. There was no need to.

Hank lazily stripped off his outer clothes and collapsed onto the sheets. Francisco, ever the aesthete, took his time changing into pajamas dark ones, probably silk.

Hank, comfortably settled in, watched him through the haze of drowsiness.

The Argentine's body was lean and flexible, each movement precise, practiced. His copper skin, marked by old scars and fresh scratches, gleamed in the dim light of the lamp. Hank followed the lines of muscle, the curve of a collarbone, the shadow between ribs until Francisco began buttoning his shirt, one by one, hiding it all from view.

Pity, Hank thought sleepily.

"You're staring," Francisco noted, without a trace of irritation.

"Mmm," Hank murmured in reply, not even trying to deny it.

Francisco smirked, turned off the light, and in the next second slid under the covers. He shoved his cold feet against Hank's shin, Hank snorted but didn't pull away.

"You," Francisco murmured, wrapping his arms around him and pulling him back against his chest.

One word. And in it his greatest conquest.

The blanket was warm, Francisco's skin even warmer. He smelled like wind, a little like smoke, and adventure, and it all calmed Hank down.

"Sleep," Francisco whispered into his neck, nuzzling the light hair there with his nose.

And Hank closed his eyes, feeling Francisco's breath settle into a rhythm that matched his own.

Home. The word flickered in Hank's mind just before sleep took him.

Chapter Text

Hank opened his eyes and for a moment didn't recognize where he was. Slowly, his mind cleared, and he saw the rays of November sun filtering through the window. He realized he was in Galt's Gulch.

He lay sprawled on the bed for a while, arms spread, soaking in the moment. Only now did he fully feel how exhausted he had been the day before. He absorbed the sensations and smells around him, memorizing every detail. He wanted to keep these moments forever.

Only when he heard the sound of the coffee machine did Hank finally get up and head to the kitchen. There, behind the kitchen island, stood Francisco d'Anconia. Hank felt warmth and peace inside, realizing that he was home.

Overcome by his feelings, he walked up to Francisco, kissed him on the temple, and shamelessly stole his coffee, saying only afterward:

"Good morning."

"Good morning," Francisco smiled brightly, and Hank realized just how much he loved this man. "How did you sleep?"

"Better than I could have imagined," Hank replied, savoring the unusual taste of the coffee. He looked into Francisco's bright eyes and wished every morning could be like this.

Francisco grew serious.

"You know, Hank, nothing here comes for free. You have to pay rent and help around the house."

Still half-asleep, Hank smiled.

"How much do you want for rent?"

"Let's say fifty cents in gold per day," Francisco replied with a grin. "And we'll take turns cooking."

No one doubted Hank would stay.

"Deal," Hank agreed, though he didn't admit that he didn't know how to cook. They exchanged smiles, both realizing they had an interesting, if challenging, life ahead.

"And now," Francisco continued, "you need to freshen up. Go to the bathroom and shave. You looked rough even before you arrived."

"Yes, sir," Hank replied with a laugh.

Francisco laughed too and gave his still sleepy friend a playful shove. This kind of life was something he could get used to. He headed to the bathroom, feeling the warmth and comfort of this new beginning.

Francisco watched him go and added:

"And don't forget, I'm supposed to hand you over to John this morning. So hurry up."

"All right," Hank called back from the bathroom. "I'm on it."

When Hank finished his shower and shaving and returned to the kitchen, Francisco was waiting for him with another cup of coffee.

"Well, ready for a new day?" Francisco asked, handing him the cup.

"Ready," Hank replied, feeling more alive than ever. "Let's do it."

Then they dived into their daily routine. To their disappointment, Francisco handed Hank over to John and left for his mines.

When John Galt met Rearden that morning, Hank, though still a little sleepy and not fully recovered from the long journey, was full of curiosity. John greeted him with a sincere smile.

"Good morning, Mr. Rearden. Ready for a new day?" His smile was infectious it gave hope and calm.

"Just Hank," Rearden replied. "And of course I'm ready!" He shook John's extended hand firmly.

They set off to explore the gulch together.

Hank walked through the gulch, his eyes lingering on every detail of this remarkable place. Everything was both functional and cozy, and nature merged harmoniously with human creation. A twinge of jealousy stirred in his chest: John had gained not only Dagny's heart but also this place. But it was impossible to deny the uniqueness of that man.

They had lunch at Kay and Ragnar's café. At a window table bathed in sunlight, a light atmosphere prevailed.

"Hank, this is Kay," John introduced.

"Hi. I've seen some of your films," Rearden admitted as he shook her hand. "But I haven't followed your career closely. It's surprising to meet you here."

Kay laughed.

"There's a lot of surprising things here."

Over delicious food and coffee, the conversation flowed easily. Kay promised,

"When Ragnar returns, I'll make sure to introduce you."

"We've met already," Hank smiled. "Though the circumstances were… unusual."

Surprise flashed in Kay's eyes.

"Oh? I thought only John did the recruiting."

John merely smirked, saluting with his coffee cup.

"Ragnar's always one step ahead."

Hank joined in the salute, beginning to understand why Dagny had chosen these people.

After lunch, they went to the farmer's market noisy, colorful, filled with the aromas of fresh bread, spices, and fruits. Hank looked around wide-eyed, trying to reconcile two seemingly incompatible images: the greatest minds of the age, and their simple, almost mundane activities. Brilliant inventors, composers, and industrialists calmly picked out vegetables, haggled over cheese, and exchanged jokes with the vendors, as if it were an ordinary provincial market.

First, they met Lawrence Hammond.

"Your cars are masterpieces of engineering," Hank couldn't help saying as he shook his hand.

Lawrence smiled, his eyes gleaming with excitement.

"Thanks, but the best ones are still ahead. Just wait till you see the new models."

Then Richard Halley stopped them.

"Mr. Halley!" Hank's face broke into a smile. "My friend is a devoted fan."

The composer laughed, clearly flattered.

"Tell her the next one will be written for admirers like her."

The conversation shifted smoothly into memories how each of them came to the gulch, the unexpected twists of fate, and what it meant to find a place where you were truly understood. Hank listened, captivated, catching every word.

Then Ellis Wyatt appeared in their path. Rough and straightforward, he gave Hank an assessing look and grunted,

"Ah, you're the guy who was with Dagny on the train."

Hank's heart tightened unpleasantly. He nodded, trying not to show how much that offhand mention of Dagny affected him.

"Yes, that was me."

Wyatt grunted again but said nothing more, only threw,

"Don't stand around."

And disappeared into the crowd, leaving behind a hint of tension.

"Don't mind him," John said quietly.

But Hank already felt that same stupid jealousy again, clinging to him ever since he'd learned about Dagny and John. He took a deep breath, trying to push those thoughts away. There was still a whole day ahead, and he didn't want to ruin it with pointless emotions.

Then John wanted to show him his motor.

Sunlight filtered through the tall trees overhead as they walked through the forest, reflecting off the droplets left by the night's rain and creating an atmosphere even more serene yet also a place where great discoveries were made without haste.

"Welcome, Hank," John said, leading him to a small structure in the woods. Hank might have been surprised, if it were anyone but John Galt.

"I want to show you what I've been working on all these years."

On the building was written their motto, the same one Hank had repeated after Francisco before arriving in the gulch.

The doors opened, revealing a small mechanism surrounded by wires and tools. John carefully opened the device's casing, revealing a complex system of coils and rotors.

"This is a motor that runs on static electricity," John began to explain. "It uses ambient energy and converts it into electricity, providing clean and inexhaustible power."

Hank looked closely at the motor, struck by its complexity and simplicity at the same time. He understood that this invention could change the world.

"How does it work?" Hank asked, unable to hide his admiration.

John ran a finger along one of the wires.

"It's simple," he said. "The motor collects static electricity from the air and converts it into direct current. It's an entirely new form of energy independent of external sources and practically eternal."

Hank leaned in to examine the details.

"It's brilliant, John. This motor is nothing like the one Dagny and I found. I never thought I'd see anything like this in action."

John smiled, seeing Hank's genuine admiration.

"We can use this motor to free the world from its dependence on hydrocarbons," he said. "This will be a new step in human history."

As they were walking back, John asked Hank a question:

"Do you miss your old life? Do you have any doubts?"

Hank realized that ever since he had arrived in the gulch, he hadn't thought about his past life at all.

He had asked a lot about Francisco, and John had spoken of the first time he met him   confident, driven, eager for action. John explained that it had been hardest for Francisco:

"It was hardest for Francisco. He didn't just have to walk away he had to destroy something built by generations of his family. He knew his actions would be seen as betrayal, but he understood it was the only path to real freedom."

Hank listened with interest, growing more and more respectful toward Francisco. He understood the gravity of the choice Francisco had made and the sacrifices he had endured for the sake of his beliefs. It made Hank feel even deeper respect, and love for him.

Hank liked everything he had heard about the gulch, and the day spent with John had left him full of positive impressions. He had enjoyed every moment, every conversation, every new acquaintance. And he couldn't wait to return home to talk to Francisco.

The day was nearing its end, painting the sky above the gulch in dark hues. Hank walked alongside John down a narrow path leading home, filled with impressions. Every moment of that day the talks, the meetings, even simply observing life in the had left a warm trace in him. He wanted to remember everything in detail, to share it all later with Francisco.

"Well, Hank," John broke the silence, giving him a sparkling look, "ready to try something new? Around here, it's kind of a tradition."

Hank frowned, but couldn't hold back a faint smile.

"Not sure I'm thrilled about new experiments right now."

John laughed, raising his hands in mock surrender.

"Fair enough, I won't push. But if you ever want to build a new Rearden Steel here I'll be the first to help."

"I'll think about it," Hank shook his head, though his voice held a note of curiosity.

Suddenly, Hank realized how much he wanted to share this day with Dagny.

"Can I… send her a message?"

"Of course," John nodded, without a trace of jealousy or disapproval. "She'll be glad." He handed Hank a pen and his notebook. "I'll give it to her when I go to New York."

Hank's fingers paused above the paper. Too many emotions, too many thoughts. How could he put everything he had seen and felt into just a few lines?

He sighed and wrote something short. She'd understand.

For now, he simply needed to absorb the day incredible, full, and somehow transforming.

"Thank you," he said softly to John, handing him the folded note.

John just smiled in response, as if he understood everything without a word. The air in the gulch itself seemed filled with the promise of new possibilities, and for the first time in a long while, Hank felt ready to step forward.

Evening shadows had already settled over the gulch when John walked Hank to the house. Home , Hank thought with surprising warmth. He remembered how he used to love coming to Dagny's apartment in the evening that feeling of being awaited, of a space filled with someone's presence. This felt the same.

With one small difference.

Hank froze in the kitchen doorway, pressing his lips together to keep from laughing aloud. Francisco smeared with something blood-red (sauce? blood? better not think too hard) was battling at the stove with the expression of a general losing a decisive war. His fingers were wrapped in band-aids, and the kitchen looked like the aftermath of a storm splatters on the walls, utensils everywhere, smoke curling from the oven…

"I bought ready-made food that just needed reheating," the Argentinian announced triumphantly, spreading his arms in a theatrical gesture. "But something went wrong."

At that moment, Hank realized he was hopelessly in love with this man.

He stepped closer and gently ran his finger along Francisco's cheek, collecting a drop of the mysterious substance.

"Sauce?" he asked for formality's sake, tasting it.

"Hopefully," Francisco's eyes sparkled.

"Tastes good," Hank smiled.

Their eyes met, and something tightened painfully in Hank's chest. He quickly looked away and stepped back, breaking the dangerous moment.

"Let me help," he offered, secretly hoping to be turned down.

But of course, Francisco happily nodded.

So they saved dinner together. The bird, which turned out not to be chicken, but something larger, was slightly burnt. Hank had insisted that 200 degrees wasn't enough, and Francisco had readily agreed, though both later admitted that food temperature had nothing to do with the melting point of steel.

But the sauce was delicious. Even the cold side dish they had forgotten to heat turned out surprisingly tasty.

Sitting at the table, messy, tired, and happy, they silently raised their glasses. No toasts, no words. Just because sometimes food, even a little burnt, could be perfect if shared with someone who truly mattered.

"I admire John Galt and everything he's accomplished, but what I don't fully understand is why you love him so much, and why you were one of the first to follow him," Rearden said after dinner.

Francisco looked at him and replied:

"Hank, your admiration for John Galt means a lot to me. He embodied all the principles I had dedicated my life to. He believed in reason, freedom, and human dignity. He never compromised with lies or injustice, and he was willing to stand by his convictions no matter what the cost. John inspired me to be the best version of myself, and he showed me that it was possible to build a world where each person lives by their own values and enjoys the fruits of their labor.

He created this place and brought to life the ideas we all shared. But my love for John ran deeper than that. It wasn't just admiration for his achievements it was recognition of him as a man who not only thought and acted on principle, but also inspired others to do the same.

I followed him early on, not out of blind devotion, but because I saw in him the embodiment of everything I had always sought: absolute adherence to one's beliefs, courage, and the ability to change the world. He wasn't just a leader he was a symbol of the ideal I was striving to bring into my own life. His personal strength and his refusal to compromise his principles in times of hardship became a source of inspiration and motivation for me. I followed him because I found a kindred spirit, someone who shared my values and ideals."

When they finished dinner, they spent a while cleaning up the mess in the kitchen, until Hank grinned and said:

"Maybe we should hire a housekeeper. I'll pay her myself."

Francisco just laughed in response.

"The only one who's ever had a housekeeper here in the gulch was John. And it was Dagny."

Hank was surprised, and even a little disappointed. He had spent the entire day with John, and he even liked some of his ideas. He would've gone as far as to say he admired them. But this fact stung a bit.

"Dagny was here as a maid? For John?" Hank asked, trying to hide his irritation.

Francisco noticed his tone and calmly replied:

"Yes, Dagny. But only for a month. She literally dropped in on him before we were ready to receive her. But it was her own decision to work for John, don't get the wrong idea." He smiled a little sheepishly and added, "I offered her to stay with me, but she said I didn't have a guest room and only one bed, so she'd stay with John. But honestly, I don't think it was about the guest room at all. I think it was about John." He looked at Hank.

Hank nodded, surprised and still a bit disappointed. He was trying to process the information. He had spent the whole day with John, and he had to admit, he admired some of the man's convictions. But there was still something that hurt, or rather unsettled him, about Dagny choosing John over him. And the fact that she'd worked for John as a housekeeper didn't exactly make things easier to swallow. Still, he understood that this new beginning required him to accept a new set of rules.

"As for this place," Francisco continued, "we're all equals here, Hank. When we were planning this gulch… we didn't think of everything. The day-to-day stuff just didn't cross our minds, probably because I always lived in Wayne-Falkland, and back home in Buenos Aires we had staff. And Ragnar, well, he's practically royalty. So… now, we're responsible for ourselves."

"All right," Hank said with a smile. "Then we'll clean up ourselves."

Francisco smiled back and continued washing dishes. Hank joined him, realizing that despite everything, he was more and more certain that the choice he made just two days ago, though it already felt like a lifetime had been the right one. He was exactly where he needed to be.

When the kitchen was finally clean, they moved to the rug by the fireplace. Francisco immediately rested his head on Hank's lap, no one was surprised; it was exactly what they both wanted.

The fire crackled softly, casting a warm glow over their faces. Francisco's eyes were half-closed, his expression calm, his head on Rearden's lap. He has long eyelashes, Hank thought, like Dagny. He pushed the thought away. No more Dagny. She wouldn't walk in and slip on his bracelet and make everything go back to the way it used to be.

Francisco was saying something, but Hank just looked at his face. His friend frowned, noticing Hank wasn't listening. Hank, without thinking, began to run his fingers through Francisco's hair it was soft. He liked the feeling.

"It's so peaceful here," Rearden said, burying his hand in his hair.

"Sometimes feelings overwhelm us so deeply, no words can contain them. They're so vast and consuming, they defy description. All you can do is surrender to them and let them carry you like a storm carries a ship across the open sea…" Francisco began a new speech.

"Shut up, please shut up," Hank begged.

Francisco laughed. Hank gave his hair a gentle tug.

"Tomorrow I'll show you my copper mines," Francisco said, lifting his head to look at Hank.

Hank slowly ran his hand through Francisco's hair, smiling.

"Your mines? I thought you blew them all up," Hank joked.

Francisco laughed, the sound quiet but genuine.

"Oh, Hank, how mistaken you are. But I'll admit I used too much dynamite. And I could never abandon something so dear to me. Those mines are part of my legacy, my work. A small part, I must admit, but still, a legacy. And I wanted you to see it with your own eyes."

Hank looked thoughtfully at Francisco, his eyes shining in the firelight. "Tell me about them. How do you manage them? How did you make them succeed? How much copper is in that gulch?"

Francisco pushed himself up slightly, leaning on one elbow.

"It wasn't just my success, really. I was moving too slowly until Dagny showed up and, as always, made everything easier for us. She suggested building a narrow-gauge railway from the mine to simplify copper transport. It was a brilliant idea, and John and I brought it to life."

Hank kept stroking Francisco's hair, his gaze full of admiration.

"You're a real genius, Francisco. I once thought of you as just a playboy and an idler. How blind I was."

Francisco smiled, his eyes glowing warmly.

"We all make mistakes sometimes, Hank. The important thing is to learn from them and move forward."

Hank nodded, feeling his heart fill with pride and respect for this man.

"I'm glad I can see you for who you really are now. And I'm looking forward to tomorrow."

Francisco stood and offered his hand, and Hank took it without hesitation.

"Time for bed," the Argentine simply said, leading them to the bedroom.

That simple gesture symbolized not just their friendship but a growing understanding between them. Tomorrow promised to be an important day for both.

Chapter Text

The early morning in Galt's Gulch was still dark when Hank opened his eyes. The silence and peace of his new surroundings felt foreign after the noise and constant tension of his previous life. Thoughts about what still needed to be done lingered in his mind, but they gave way to the serenity of the moment. Rearden was used to waking up early yesterday had been an exception.

Today, he opened his eyes before the first rays of sunlight touched the horizon, partly due to the time difference between Colorado and Philadelphia.

He turned his head quietly and saw Francisco beside him, his face softly lit by the first hints of dawn. Hank smiled, his gaze resting on the peaceful expression of d'Anconia, who looked completely different in that stillness than he usually did. He silently watched the faint shadows from the trees outside tremble across Francisco's skin.

When Francisco stirred slightly and opened his eyes, he saw Hank watching him with a gentle smile. Still drowsy and not fully awake, he raised an eyebrow, unsure what had drawn Hank's attention.

"Your skin looks like copper in the sunrise," Hank said, not looking away.

Francisco frowned, still half-asleep.

"Yeah?" he mumbled, his voice low and puzzled.

Hank smiled wider.

"I was thinking about you... about how you look in the morning light. When I worked through the night, I used to imagine you beside me, how you'd look in moments like this when the morning touches your skin." He unconsciously ran his fingers down Francisco's arm, feeling the warmth of his body.

Francisco smiled, looking at him.

"It's so quiet here," Hank continued. "I'm used to waking up early, and today even earlier, thanks to the time shift. And when I woke up, I just watched you sleep."

Francisco looked at him, now fully awake. "You... just watched me?" he asked softly, his voice carrying a hint of shyness, but also appreciation.

"Yes," Hank replied, his voice quieter now, almost a whisper. "I like seeing you like this. It's something I never allowed myself before."

A silence settled between them quiet, almost intimate. A moment that could only exist between people deeply close to each other, a moment they both valued, needing no words.

The morning was already well past its peak when they finally reached the mines. The sun stood high, casting sharp shadows from the massive structures of the shaft. The air was filled with the scent of heated metal and earth.

At the entrance, they were met by a young woman in a work jumpsuit, her hands in heavy gloves, hair tied back in a careless ponytail. When she saw Francisco, her face lit up with joy.

"¡Franci, por fin!" she exclaimed, and a spark of understanding instantly passed between them.

Francisco answered her with that very smile wide, genuine, with eyes slightly narrowed the one that made his face irresistible.

Hank felt something clench sharply in his chest. He hadn't expected it that sudden sting of jealousy, so sharp it stole his breath for a moment. What the hell?

Noticing his gaze, the Argentinian slightly turned away from the girl, though the smile never left his lips.

"Hey," Francisco said, his voice light, carrying that usual playful tone that often preceded something interesting. "This is Emilia Chamorro. Her father kept records at one of my mines in Argentina, and now she helps me here."

The girl turned to Hank, and he saw the same fire in her eyes as in Francisco's stubborn, alive.

"And this is Hank Rearden."

"Good day, Señor Rearden," she said with a soft, lilting accent, so similar to Francisco's. "I'm glad to welcome you to Galt's Gulch."

Hank nodded, feeling his voice come out unnaturally restrained:

"Good day."

Francisco watched them, still smiling, but now there was something else in his gaze understanding? Amusement?

"Come on," he finally said, breaking the light tension. "Let me show you what we're all here for."

And Hank, stepping forward, decided it was better to focus on the mine.

When the formalities were over and the girl left, d'Anconia said:

"But if you want to know, before you arrived, we sometimes spent evenings together, listening to John's lectures on physics and Richard Halley's concerts. We always had a great time."

Hank felt his heart slow down. He tried to find the words, but his thoughts tangled. He wanted to ask what that meant, but wondered whether he had the right to interfere in Francisco's private life. Was he on the verge of becoming someone who worried about who his friend spent time with, or was it just a personal feeling he couldn't express?

"That's… interesting," Hank said, trying to hide his inner turmoil. "I'm glad you had time for such things."

Francisco noticed Hank pulling away, and his smile became more measured.

"She's a wonderful girl, and she means a lot to me, she's helped me a lot. But if you have questions, we can talk about it."

Hank remained silent, feeling that discussing his own feelings might shatter the delicate balance of their relationship.

"Maybe it's not my business," he replied, unable to hide a note of bitterness in his voice.

Francisco looked at him with deep understanding.

"It's okay, Hank. But really, there's nothing to worry about. I've never felt anything for her beyond deep gratitude for her and her family. But I'm glad you're jealous."

"Bastard."

d'Anconia just laughed.

Soon, Francisco and Hank were standing at the mine entrance. Francisco proudly showcased his domain.

The hum of machinery and distant echoes of metal being struck greeted them at the shaft's mouth. Francisco, spreading his arms like a conductor before an orchestra, presented his kingdom to Hank.

"See this ventilation system?" his fingers slid over the diagram. "It works in rhythm with the compressors, like heart and lungs. And all thanks to…"

"Galt's motor," Hank finished for him with a nod.

Francisco flashed a bright smile.

"You catch on fast."

Before entering the shaft, Francisco checked his helmet and flashlight, and their hands accidentally brushed when he adjusted Hank's helmet. For a moment, time stood still, his fingers lingered on the strap longer than necessary, their breaths mingled with the scent of rock and something ineffably personal.

With a dull clank, the lift began to lower them. Francisco, leaning against the grate, continued speaking, though he knew the former miner from Minnesota understood everything without words. But right now, the content didn't matter what mattered was the process itself: the sharing of knowledge, the trust.

Inside the mine, Hank ran his hand along the wall, touching veins of copper. He didn't even realize how much he had missed working with metals. The walls of the mine, vibrant and rich, awakened long-forgotten feelings and memories.

Francisco, noticing this, stopped and said:

"You look like you just met an old friend," his voice was unexpectedly close.

Hank smiled.

"You could say that. Metal's always been part of me, part of my life. I didn't know how much I missed it."

The shadow from Francisco's helmet hid his face when he whispered:

"Work for me. Here."

"With pleasure." Rearden looked genuinely happy.

Francisco nodded, feeling something shift imperceptibly. They continued exploring the mine, diving into a kind of work that was more than a profession, it was part of who they were.

The mine was quiet, only their footsteps, their voices, and the occasional drip of water broke the heavy silence of the underground. The beams of their headlamps caught the damp walls and the rails that disappeared into the darkness. Fine gravel crunched underfoot. The air was cool, with a metallic taste of dust and depth.

Hank walked slightly ahead, instinctively checking his footing. At one point, he stepped on a small stone barely noticeable, but treacherous enough to make his foot slip. He might have regained balance on his own, but he never got the chance to find out.

Francisco's hand appeared swiftly, almost instinctively. He pulled Hank close, tightly, firmly his palm landing just below the ribs, on Hank's stomach. Hank froze, feeling the other man's body press against him through the fabric of his jacket. His own breath caught for a second, and then he sensed Francisco's heartbeat steady and sure. Near his ear, he felt Francisco's breath, slightly faster than usual, as if the moment had touched him too.

"I'm fine," Hank said hoarsely, not turning.

"I know," Francisco replied, a little quieter, but didn't move his hand. His fingers still rested on Hank's stomach, as if reluctant to let go, as if making sure he was truly safe.

Hank sighed and tried to turn to him, but they moved at the same time… their helmets bumped with a dull sound. They recoiled, then leaned in again, and burst out laughing. Nervous, but genuine. Their laughter echoed through the mine.

Francisco smirked and finally pulled his hand away, though his gaze remained watchful.

Hank nodded. He took a step forward, but hesitated for a second, glancing over his shoulder.

Francisco stood in the light of the headlamp, a half-smile playing on his face. Something in that look struck Hank more deeply than the touch. Still, he turned away first and kept walking. The mine awaited, and he was grateful that underground, no one could see what was happening to him.

Kay's café was small and cozy, with a sign glowing softly in neon and windows fogged from the warmth inside. They sat at a corner table by the wall, with a view of the street and an old chalkboard menu. The smell of coffee, cinnamon, and fresh pastries filled the air. Someone laughed quietly in the corner, slow music from the forties played on the radio, and outside, November snow drifted down from the fir trees.

"I got stuck in that mine once," Francisco said. Hank listened without interrupting. "I was down there for almost two days. At some point I must have blacked out. There'd been a collapse, I hadn't seen a crack in the rock. The stones came down, and I was left alone with a lamp and silence," Francisco went on, his gaze still far away, deep underground in the dusty dark.

"Who got you out?" Hank asked calmly, but tension crept into his voice.

"John."

Hank wanted to reach out, to cover Francisco's hand with his own. But he held back.

In public, Francisco would casually touch his friend, lingering a second longer than necessary. But not Hank.

He looked away and stared out the window again, where snowflakes softly fell against the glass. Hank exhaled slowly. He wanted to say, "I would have found you too," but he didn't. He just stayed close. As always.

Several days passed. They worked together in the mine.

Sometimes at home, when they were alone, they kissed each other on the forehead or head at night or to say good morning. It was natural, and they did it without thinking, as they would with family.

Still, Hank wanted to start doing something new, maybe build a factory. Working in Francisco's copper mines had been a great idea, but it wasn't all he could do in the gulch. He wanted to talk to Dagny, he missed their quiet, late-night conversations.

One evening, when it was Hank's turn to cook, he said:

"Remember that first night, that guy William from Kate's and Ragnar brought us dinner?"

Francisco nodded. "Of course I remember. But I doubt he'd help us again."

"Why not?"

Francisco just raised an eyebrow.

"We'll start a delivery service. Instead of cooking every evening, we'll have dinner brought to us."

Francisco was thrilled. The very next day, Hank arranged things with Kate. They quickly found people, and within a few days, their project was up and running. William agreed to be their courier, and Miss Ives became their administrator.

Most of the gulch definitely breathed a sigh of relief, none of them had thought about cooking and chores before moving to Atlantis. They had had staff, or, like Francisco and Hank, lived in Wayne Falkland hotels.

When they received their first delivered dinner, they celebrated. Francisco, who had always considered himself clumsy in the kitchen, was overjoyed. He often laughed, recalling how he used to try cooking and ended up cutting his fingers. Now, thanks to Hank, that problem was solved.

Francisco, smiling and holding a glass of rum, approached Hank, who that evening was wrapped in a warm coat on the porch.

"Rearden, I must say you saved me from a culinary disaster," Francisco said, leaning slightly toward him, the sparkle in his eyes a clear hint of gratitude. "And you deserve any reward I can give you."

Hank felt a flicker of embarrassment, but he couldn't ignore the warmth that spread in his chest at Francisco's words.

You, he thought. And aloud he added, "Francisco, it was just business. But if you insist…" He trailed off. "I'll think of something." Then he turned and walked back into the house toward the fireplace.

"You know, when John told me everyone here starts something new, I never imagined I'd start something not related to metal..."

Francisco lowered his eyes. He looked disappointed.

Down in the mine, the air had been dense, humid, and metallic. It wrapped around the lungs, clung to the skin in a thin sticky layer. Somewhere deep inside, water had been dripping rhythmically into the silence, broken only by the ring of metal against stone. The light from the lanterns had been dim and yellow, trembling against uneven walls, catching glints of shining veins copper pulsing as if it were the blood of the earth.

Hank had been working. He wore an old shirt soaked through with sweat, sleeves rolled up, veins on his forearms swollen with effort. The hammer in his hand moved steadily, without hesitation: strike, pause, strike again. The rock cracked apart with a dry, satisfying sound. Dust settled in his hair, on his eyelashes, crunched between his teeth, but he hadn't noticed. He had been lost in it in the rhythm, the force, the persistence. In harmony with himself.

Francisco had been nearby, leaning against a warped wooden beam, a flask in his hand. He wasn't drinking. Just watching. His face had been half in shadow, his eyes reflecting the flicker of firelight. He hadn't spoken, hadn't interfered.

Hank had felt the gaze. Felt it on his back, on his neck, sliding down to the fingers wrapped around the tool's handle.

"You're watching," Hank had said, without turning.

"Sí," Francisco had replied calmly. He never pretended.

Hank had straightened up, breathing hard but evenly. He had lifted his eyes.

The lantern behind Francisco had outlined him in a soft glow, highlighting the curve of his profile slightly upturned chin, the hint of a smile. A streak of grime crossed his cheekbone. The lantern above them had swayed on its chain, shifting with the faint draft.

"I see you," Hank had said, his voice low, almost tender.

"I know," Francisco had answered, and there had been contentment in his voice. Calm. A trace of gentleness.

They had stood there, silently, just a few steps apart. 

Hank had wanted to wipe the grime from Francisco's cheek, to trace his thumb along the line of his face.

But he hadn't done it.

Instead, he had looked into his eyes. There had been warmth there, and expectation, and trust. Nothing had needed to be said.

"Get back to work," Francisco had said, quiet, almost teasing.

"You're telling me that?" Hank had smirked roughly, but with affection.

"We've got a lot of copper left, mi amor ." Francisco had stepped back again, leaning into the beam, but he hadn't looked away.

Hank had picked up the hammer. And again strike, then another. The rock had given way. Strength had returned to his arms, as if fed by that silent presence beside him.

He had smiled. Francisco was there. And that had been the best part of the work.

The next morning, the room was wrapped in soft twilight. Pale November sunlight filtered through thick but not fully drawn curtains, leaving faint stripes of light on the walls and sheets. The air was cool, but beneath the heavy blanket lingered the warmth of two bodies. They lay close, back to chest, as if in that position they were hiding from the outside world. It was so quiet, it seemed one could hear time itself moving slowly.

Hank wasn't fully awake yet. He simply felt someone alive, warm, familiar beside him. His lips lazily brushed against the soft skin of a neck, a shoulder, leaving barely-there kisses and gentle nips. He did it unconsciously, without intent, as though he were still dreaming, in a place where there were no borders between desire and action. His hand slipped under the fabric of Francisco's pajama shirt, touched the warm skin of his stomach, and pressed close, as if trying to feel not just the surface, but the very essence of his presence.

Francisco flinched slightly, and yet he felt  there wasn't complete certainty in those touches. He woke up without opening his eyes, mumbled something unintelligible not in protest, but in acceptance. Then he slowly covered Hank's hand with his own, not pulling it away, just holding it there. And that simple contact was enough Rearden froze.

A deafening silence filled the room.

He realized what he was doing. Realized how quickly everything was becoming real. And that he wasn't ready not yet. His breathing grew sharper, his body tensed. He pulled back just a little, as if frightened not by his actions, but by what they meant.

Francisco understood instantly. He didn't move, didn't react abruptly, only said softly, still lying with his back to him:

"It's time to get up."

It didn't sound like a reproach. More like a line drawn, a breath released. An acknowledgment that something had almost happened, but shouldn't. Or that it should, but not now.

Rearden withdrew inward. He turned away, buried his face in the pillow, as if the fabric could help hide his confusion. He hadn't truly woken up; he'd just been near someone warm. It had all happened on its own. But when Francisco responded gently, openly he suddenly realized exactly what they were doing. And it scared him. Not the desire, but his own response to it. To them.

Francisco stared at the ceiling. It was too soon. And Hank wasn't to blame. He had already forgiven him calmly, to himself. He knew this would happen eventually. Not now, but later. It was inevitable. So he didn't rush, didn't push.

He turned and looked at Hank.

"Don't run away. Or are you trying to steal all the hot water again?"

"Then come with me," Francisco offered simply, without any hidden meaning, as if he were talking about coffee.

But Hank just smiled faintly without meeting his eyes and stayed. Francisco left.

All morning, there was tension between them, not hostile, but contained, dense, like the ice on water. Hank avoided direct glances, didn't linger in a room with Francisco for more than a few minutes. Francisco didn't push, didn't ask. He only watched from the corner of his eye, knowing it was fear, not indifference. Hank had always been patient. Even with Dagny, especially with Dagny. And now, too, he wasn't rushing. Only now, the weight on the scale wasn't a woman, it was him, a man Hank didn't know how to love.

And Francisco never hurried. He was sure of the outcome.

That evening, when the fire in the fireplace crackled softly and warmth settled thickly through the house, Hank suddenly slowed down. He didn't leave. He stayed silently, a book in hand, though he wasn't reading. Francisco didn't break the silence, just poured hot cocoa for both of them and sat nearby. It was quiet. A log burned down beside them, and it felt like the room was filled with their thoughts.

Before bed, Hank looked into the guest room. He didn't enter. Just opened the door and looked. Convinced himself he needed to check something. But really, he was searching for a way out of his own tension.

In the morning, Hank tried to pretend he was asleep when Francisco woke up.

"You don't have to pretend. I know you're already awake," said d'Anconia, getting up and stretching.

"We don't have to do anything. Or talk. But if you ever want to I'm here."

Rearden didn't answer. He only nodded barely, still lying on his side, facing the window.

And that was enough.

Chapter Text

One evening, everyone knew something important was going to happen. A quiet excitement hung in the air since morning. People exchanged restrained glances, saying nothing but not hiding their anticipation. The gulch lived with this knowledge tonight, Galt would intercept the airwaves and begin his broadcast. That speech. People spoke of it in hushed voices, with respect, almost reverence. That speech was supposed to change everything.

Hank and Francisco came together, as they almost always did. In all the rooms and buildings, people had already gathered. The fireplaces were lit, the light of the lamps was soft, and everyone had found a place, some stood, some sat on windowsills. Galt's voice began steady, calm, and as always, confident. The speech was clearly meant to go on for a long time.

An hour passed, maybe two.

Hank tried to listen but fidgeted. His attention slipped past the words, lingering not on meanings but on sounds. He more or less knew what would be said. And why. And yet, he felt tired of all the explanations, of the very act of persuasion. He felt like his body was freezing in place, and his mind beginning to wander.

He turned his head, looked at Francisco's profile, he was sitting still, chin slightly raised, eyes unfocused. Was he not listening either? Or did he simply already know everything and had heard it all before? Hank slowly leaned closer, tilted his head toward Francisco's ear, his breath brushing warm against the skin.

"Let's get out of here," he whispered, lips nearly brushing the earlobe. "Take a walk?"

Francisco smiled slightly and nodded. They rose without drawing attention and stepped out into the night.

The streets were quiet, like in an abandoned city. Almost everyone was still inside, and only a few windows glowed in houses where people chose to listen to Galt from home, or those who didn't want to listen at all. Hank smiled at the thought.

They walked in silence, unhurried. The cold bit at their skin, but the movement kept them warm. Frosted sand crunched under their boots. They walked down the main street, then turned toward a forest path and soon reached the river.

The bank was covered in a thin layer of frost, frozen grass glistening under the moonlight. The river flowed slowly beneath ice, steady as the breath of someone in deep sleep. Francisco stopped, bent down, and picked up a flat stone. He threw it into the water ripples spread across the surface, disturbing the silence.

"Your turn," he said quietly, not looking at Hank. "We're long overdue for a talk."

Hank said nothing. He looked at him at the lithe silhouette in a warm coat, at the dark hair touched with silver by the night. Francisco's eyes were warm, too warm. There was no reproach in them, no impatience. Only calm certainty. I'm waiting, those eyes said. I'm here. And that made Hank uneasy. He felt himself falling not physically, but inside. As if the ground beneath him had shifted. He shook his head slightly, as if to chase off the feeling.

Francisco threw another stone into the water. This time, he didn't look at him. He watched the stone sink, leaving no trace. The silence between them became nearly tangible. Neither of them rushed to break it.

Hank took a step. Then another. He came close. He wanted to say something. He meant to. Even opened his mouth. But no words came. Instead a movement. He reached out and embraced Francisco from behind. Tightly, as if he might disappear. He pulled him close, like that time when Francisco had stood too near the edge, almost falling into the molten steel. He remembered that feeling fear mixed with protection. And something more. He closed his eyes, breathing in his scent, pressing his nose into the back of Francisco's head.

Francisco didn't turn around. He only covered Hank's hands with his own gently. Words were no longer needed.

When the door closed behind them, they stopped, standing close, too close. A heavy tension hung between them, thick as if the air itself had weight. Their eyes met full of recognition and agreement. Everything around them seemed to freeze: the silence in the house, the world outside.

Hank caught the glint in Francisco's eyes, his usual boldness, the ever-present challenge, but also something deeper, something warm and steady. His heart clenched, then quickened, and for a moment he thought he might need to take a step back, catch his breath, distract himself, run, like always. But Francisco was already moving. He raised his hands, gently but unyieldingly, and cupped Hank's face in his palms, not letting him escape. His touch was firm and sure.

And Hank didn't pull away. He didn't want to. It felt so right. So inevitable.

He looked into Francisco's eyes, and the world fell away. There was only this moment, and the man before him. When their lips met, it wasn't tentative. There was no testing, no trace of doubt. The kiss was hungry, demanding, overflowing with everything that had been kept in for too long. Pain, fear, longing, recognition all of it broke free. They finally allowed themselves to feel.

Hank felt Francisco's hands against his skin warm, rough, nothing like Dagny's. The thought of her surfaced abruptly, and he shook his head sharply, as if to banish it. She didn't belong here. Not now.

"I won't hurt you," Francisco said softly, and in his voice there was no plea, no hesitation, only a promise. His gaze, clear and deep, burned with a new light, warm and calm. Hank held it for a moment, feeling himself drawn into those eyes, as if he wanted to drown in them, to become part of the man who held them, and never let go.

He stepped closer, no longer holding back, letting himself feel everything he had hidden for so long. Francisco's touch, his breath, his nearness it all felt unbelievably right. Hank felt as if he were rediscovering something long lost, and he didn't want to let go.

He didn't know how it was supposed to be. He just remembered: the feel of skin, the warmth of a body, the movements tentative at first, as if the two of them were exploring something fragile and unknown. But that hesitation quickly gave way to hungry certainty. Everything that had stayed in the shadows, the ache, the desire, the fear, the tenderness surged forward. He lost himself in it, surrendering completely.

The world narrowed to just them to the scent of skin, to kisses, to heavy breaths and the pounding of their hearts.

"Hank," Francisco whispered, his voice stretching softly across the space between them, calling him back. Hank leaned forward slowly until their foreheads touched, and he wrapped his arms around Francisco tightly, pulling him close as if afraid the feeling might vanish. In that moment, in the silence of their embrace, he felt the world take shape again, but it was a different world now, one filled with an intimacy he had never imagined.

It was the release of everything they had held back for so long unspoken words, suppressed admiration, even anger that had now turned into a burn beneath the skin. Their hands roamed over each other's bodies, exploring, memorizing every inch, every curve of muscle. They moved toward the bed, tangled in kisses.

The world outside the room ceased to exist. There was only them their breath, their bodies, their shared descent into the unknown.

The Argentinian was gentle but curious, until Hank took control, biting at his lips, demanding and claiming what he now believed was rightfully his. These weren't just physical touches, they were expressions of the deep mutual respect and admiration between them.

Their kiss was fierce, passionate, a mirror of their natures.

"Hank… Hank…" Francisco moaned between kisses as Rearden's fingers worked at his shirt. His clothes were on the floor before they even reached the bedroom.

Hank ran his hands down Francisco's body but then froze, the realization that it was a man in front of him made him hesitate for a moment. It felt unfamiliar, wrong…

D'Anconia only smiled, pressing a finger to Hank's lips before he could speak. He gently pushed him back, straddling his hips, and his gaze said it all: there was no turning back.

"You think too much," he whispered, leaning in. "Relax. I would never hurt you."

His fingers slid over Hank's buttons again, undoing them one by one, while his lips traveled lower to his chest, to his stomach… When he reached for the belt, Hank instinctively grabbed his wrist.

"Shhh…" Francisco kissed him again gently, almost teasingly, and while their mouths were still locked, his deft fingers worked the clasp free. His hand slipped down, closed around him, and Hank exhaled sharply.

"Oh…"

D'Anconia's hand was rough, firm, nothing like Dagny's. Hank gripped his hair, bit his lower lip, but Francisco didn't rush, driving him to the edge of impatience.

"So eager," Francisco murmured with a smirk, deliberately slowing his movements before finally ridding them of the last pieces of clothing.

They kissed lazily, almost carelessly, until d'Anconia touched him again, and this time, Hank didn't resist. But everything was happening too fast, and that flicker of doubt returned to his eyes.

Francisco didn't let him speak, he only pulled him closer, fingers digging into his skin, and whispered something in Spanish that made Hank shut his eyes, surrendering to this strange, unfamiliar hunger.

Francisco felt every tension in Hank's body, every shiver beneath his hands. His hands were just as rough and strong as Rearden's, moving with surprising tenderness.

"You…" Hank began, but Francisco silenced him with a deep, wet kiss, pulling him away from every doubt.

He knew what he was doing. Every move was precise, every touch deliberate, as if he were studying a map of Hank's body. And when Hank was on the verge of falling apart, Francisco slowed, prolonging the moment, making him moan in frustration.

"Enough…" Hank rasped, fingers digging into Francisco's shoulders, but d'Anconia only smirked in response.

"So impatient."

And then he finally let him fall over the edge. The wave came too fast, leaving behind nothing but ragged breathing and emptiness where burning tension had just been.

Hank squeezed his eyes shut, trying to catch his breath, feeling Francisco press his forehead to his shoulder, trembling slightly as well.

"That… was too fast," Hank muttered once he could speak again.

Francisco laughed low and warm.

"Next time, I'll go slower. If you earn it."

And there was a promise in his voice dangerous, tempting, enough to send a shiver down Hank's spine.

Hank wanted to say something sharp in return, but instead, he just ran his hand down Francisco's back, feeling the tension in his muscles beneath his fingertips.

Next time.

The hard dick of the Argentine pressed against Rearden's thigh, leaving a damp trace a clear signal that they were far from finished.

This time, Hank acted with more determination. In one swift motion, he flipped d'Anconia over, holding his head steady and gripping his neck firmly not to hurt him, but to make sure he understood who was in charge now.

Francisco only let out a muffled moan when Hank's hand slid down and wrapped around him. Just a few strokes were enough to make his breathing hitch.

But suddenly, Rearden let go, and Francisco was about to protest until he realized what was expected of him.

He caught Hank's gaze challenge and submission blending in his eyes, and slowly, with exaggerated theatricality, licked his fingers, sucking them into his mouth until Hank pulled his hand away.

He hadn't expected the Argentine to be so noisy, but it didn't matter. But it didn't matter, nothing mattered.

Hank pushed him down against the mattress. Francisco yielded more easily than anticipated, but that spark of defiance still glinted in his eyes he wasn't going to surrender completely.

The Argentine moaned the moment Hank touched him.

"You're mine," Hank whispered, gripping him tighter.

"Yours..." d'Anconia breathed, clawing at Hank's shoulders hard enough to leave marks by morning.

"Just breathe."

Hank bit his lip. He wanted to remember every moan, every look, every muscle twitching beneath his hands. The way Francisco arched when he touched him just right. The way his lips usually curled in a mocking smile were now parted from heavy breathing.

He looked so desperate. Hank wanted to memorize every second. Every whimper and every gasp spilling from those lips he wanted it all. He kissed him again and again. How had he lived without these lips?

Soon, Francisco's breath turned into half-words and broken moans, followed by one final tremble.

When he came, his body froze for a second, eyes rolling back, lashes trembling. He lay slack, lips bitten raw, eyes hazy, and Hank suddenly realized he had no idea what to say.

Francisco's eyes were clouded in that unmistakable post-sex daze. His bitten lips said nothing, and Hank didn't know what was expected of him.

Instead of words, he tried to get up to clean the mess, but d'Anconia yanked him back down, pressing his head to his chest. His skin was sticky with sweat, his breath still uneven, but he didn't let go, as if he feared Hank would vanish if he loosened his hold.

Later, Hank woke. Darkness from outside the window. His body was sticky, the sheets tangled, the air heavy with sweat, skin, and sex.

He reached out and bumped into warm flesh beside him. Francisco was already watching him his eyes glittering in the dim light.

"Thinking of running?" he asked, his tone teasing, but something else lay beneath anticipation?

"It's sticky. And cold…" Hank muttered, glancing away. He really didn't know what to say.

"Will I see you again?" Francisco said it too calmly, and Hank couldn't tell if it was a joke or not.

"If you want. I'm free this time next week. Monday?" Hank figured it had been a joke and answered with one of his own.

"Yes," Francisco replied, completely serious, and then burst into his bright, infectious laughter, falling back into the pillows. "Any time you want."

And in that laugh, in that look, in that one word "yes" there was something that made Hank's heart clench.

Something already unstoppable.

In the morning, Francisco had woken up early, not wanting to disturb Hank, who was still asleep. He was making coffee in the kitchen, and the hum of the machine masked the sound of Hank entering. Francisco flinched when he felt a sudden touch, but instantly relaxed the moment he recognized Hank's familiar arms wrapping around him from behind.

The warmth of the embrace filled him with quiet joy and a sense of safety something he had found here, in the gulch, with Hank.

He closed his eyes and tilted his head back slightly, feeling Hank's breath warm against his neck.

"Thank you," Hank whispered.

"For what?" Francisco asked softly, savoring the moment.

"For being here," Hank said, still holding him close, as if afraid Francisco would vanish if he let go. "For this coffee. And for finding me here."

Francisco smiled, placing his hands over Hank's, and whispered:

"I always knew where to find you, Hank."

Then, smirking without turning around, he added:

"But this is my coffee, Rearden. If you want to thank someone, thank my skilled hands."

Hank laughed, and Francisco felt the vibration of that laughter against his back. That quiet, sincere laugh free of sarcasm or tension filled him with warmth. He knew they were truly okay, despite all their differences, despite the barriers Hank had built in his own mind.

Francisco's heart skipped a beat when Hank leaned in and whispered near his ear, barely touching:

"And about those skilled hands… I'm very, very grateful."

The words, spoken in that low, intimate voice, pierced through him. Francisco had to resist the urge to close his eyes and just melt into the moment. Inside, everything tangled together joy, anticipation, and something new they were both only beginning to understand.

He turned his head to see Hank up close, their faces just inches apart. The honesty in Hank's eyes disarmed him, made him feel vulnerable, and yet more alive than ever.

"Then, Hank," Francisco said quietly, a smile playing at the corners of his lips, "I'm glad my hands have found such a use for you."

Hank turned him around with quiet determination and pressed him against the edge of the kitchen island. There was strength and certainty in his movements the very qualities Francisco had always cherished. He tried to finish his sentence, but Hank didn't let him, silencing him with a hot, insistent kiss.

When Francisco finally managed to pull away, catching his breath, he protested weakly, trying to summon some logic:

"Hank… we need to… be on time for work…"

But Hank, leaning back just slightly, brought his lips close to Francisco's neck and murmured with confident, teasing affection:

"These are your mines. We can work something out."

Hank's words shattered the last of Francisco's resistance. He felt his resolve melt away under that gaze, under Hank's hands unfastening his buttons one by one, under lips moving lower until Hank was on his knees, kissing his stomach.

Francisco tried to memorize every sensation, every touch, every movement of Hank, the feel of his soft hair beneath his fingers. d'Anconia tried to commit every detail to memory.

"Oh…" was all that escaped him. He could barely remember who he was or that someone might be waiting for him somewhere. He would have gladly blown up all his mines again if it meant Hank wouldn't stop.

Francisco knew that in this moment, on this day, this man was more important than anything else, and no schedule or duty could ever compare to what they had found in each other.

They were, indeed, late. By the time they finally arrived at work, the morning was in full swing. Hank could almost feel the curious glances cutting through them, but he didn't care. If anyone knew the reason for their delay out there in that other world it might have sparked weeks of gossip.

The image of his former wife, Lillian, flashed in his mind. She would no doubt have turned the whole thing into a scandal. Hank shook his head, pushing the thought away.

"To hell with Lillian," he thought, allowing himself a smile as he looked at Francisco. He looked so stunning in his embarrassment that Hank couldn't take his eyes off him. Every gesture, every word reminded him of the morning when everything had felt perfectly aligned.

Hank was certain that of all people, only Dagny might truly understand them. Only she might notice and grasp the meaning behind the subtle flush on Francisco's face, and the flicker of a smug smile that passed over Hank's usually stern features.

How Hank wished the day would end, so they could be alone again, away from everyone and everything. The day ahead would be long, but the waiting only deepened the longing to return to where they could simply be themselves without hiding, without pretending.