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Ambrosius burst through the tower’s door like a ray of sunshine. Sweat beaded on his forehead and bare chest after his jog, but in the late summer’s light it only made him look (even more) radiant. “Bal! The apples are getting bigger — they’ll be ripe any day now!”
“Is that so?” Ballister removed his reading glasses and set them on the side table, simultaneously uncrossing his bare feet and planting them solidly on the ground as he shifted to a more upright sitting position. He’d been enjoying a lazy weekend morning curled up on the couch — catching up on his science journals and sipping on some new concoction Meredith had made with fresh lemon and mint from their garden.
His fiancé — fiancé! — bounded closer — clearly the jog hadn't been enough to tire him out — and pulled him to his feet.
“And there was a nice crisp breeze too!”
Ballister extracted his hands and gently poked Ambrosius' chest with a mechanical finger. “My hypothesis is that your so-called ‘crisp breeze’ was simply a side effect of running shirtless.”
Not that he was complaining. It was good that Ambrosius finally seemed sufficiently unselfconscious of his burn scars that he was returning to his typical state of dress for summer runs. (The scarcity of immediate neighbors probably helped too.) Last year, Ambrosius had made a point to cover up. (At least, that's what Ballister had gathered from the photos the paparazzi had managed to steal — they hadn't been on entirely the best of terms back then.) And if Ballister personally benefited from this external sign of Ambrosius' (internal) progress, well, that was his business.
Ambrosius shook his head, undaunted by Ballister's skepticism. “It'll be hoodie weather soon!”
He should have guessed that that was what all this was about. While occasionally Ambrosius seemed to genuinely enjoy dressing up in fancy clothes, the man lived in athleisure a good chunk of the time. Even more so now that he rarely wore his armor. And his hoodie collection had always been unparalleled — he could probably go at least a few weeks without repeating one.
Ballister shrugged. “I’d give it at least another month.”
This was apparently enough to rouse Nimona-the-lizard, who'd been sunning on the windowsill. “Seven weeks and” — she flicked out her tongue — “three days.”
“Wanna bet?” Ambrosius grinned in her direction.
An arc of pink sparkles shimmered through the air, and Nimona-the-shark appeared before him, fin ready for a handshake.
“Sure thing, Nemesis.”
It was seven weeks and two days, actually, but Nimona still won the betting pool by a good margin. (Meredith was next-closest at six weeks and four days.)
Much depended on the precise definition of hoodie weather, of course. Weather sufficiently cool enough for Ambrosius to wear a hoodie for a day was deemed insufficient — he had spluttered at the implication that he would cheat, but was easily overruled.
Meredith had proposed — soundly, in Ballister's opinion — a wider sample of Kingdom residents with a minimum threshold of 40% wearing hoodies. As her personal tastes ran more towards sweaters, she’d also recommended counting any form of outerwear.
Administering this visual survey could have been another potential headache, but Ballister and Ambrosius conveniently still had connections that could give them access to the (former) Institute’s security camera system. It wasn't typically used to calculate rates of jacket, sweater, and hoodie-wearing, but it could be. Nimona wasn't terribly happy about the existence of the cameras in the first place and was of the opinion that using them for any reason would be supporting the police state — and Ballister did admit that she had a point — but he noted that public surveillance was significantly toned down from what it had been and wound up taking advantage of the opportunity to make other Nimona-approved “adjustments” to analytics while he was at it.
At the two week mark, Ambrosius had tried to argue that sleeveless or short-sleeved hooded shirts should count as hoodies, but he was (once again) shot down by the other members of their little household.
At the one month mark, Ambrosius had started wearing a hoodie more often than not, but was thwarted by an unexpected heatwave. (Nimona had smirked knowingly when the temperatures rose, and Meredith immediately began interrogating her about historic weather patterns.)
By the time Nimona won the bet, Ambrosius couldn't be too upset about how spectacularly he had lost by guessing three weeks even — the new season made up for it.
Personally, Ballister wasn't terribly fond of “hoodie weather” — it was a warning of the chill to come, and a reminder of shivering next to his dad in their tiny unheated studio, shivering harder when his dad was gone and he had to sleep rough, and the overcrowded chaos when there was room in a shelter. Years of softer living at the Institute hadn't been quite enough to overcome those earlier memories, and he much preferred the warmer months.
But Ambrosius got to wear his hoodies and go on a quest for all things pumpkin spice while Meredith and Nimona experimented with spice blends of their own and Nimona terrorized children at the fall carnival’s haunted house. And if his people were happy, he could be happy for them.
The bedroom Ballister shared with Ambrosius was fairly tidy, all things considered — one side effect of years of living in Institute barracks. Still, it was always good to check for stray socks accidentally kicked under the bed or other haphazardly discarded clothes before starting laundry.
Ambrosius had apparently left one of his hoodies on a chair and Ballister gave it an experimental sniff.
Lavender, of course. And a hint of something all Ambrosius.
Surreptitiously, Ballister checked if anyone was watching — Nimona would tease him endlessly if she caught him — and buried his face in the fabric once he was satisfied he was alone. He’d spent too many months estranged from Ambrosius to take that scent for granted ever again.
An idea occurred to him. It was a little drafty — their tower renovations were still in progress and they must have missed a gap. An extra layer might be nice. Most of his own clothes were dirty (hence the need to do laundry). Ambrosius was out having lunch with his parents and he had plenty of others…
Satisfied with his justifications, Ballister put on the hoodie.
It felt like a warm hug. (And not just because of the fuzzy lining. Or the fact that it was a little bit snug at the shoulders.)
After loading the washer, Ballister decided he would spend the next hour or so cozying up on their new porch swing with the book Meredith kept pushing on him — some foreign novel once suppressed by the Institute but rediscovered centuries later in its archives. It very prominently did not feature monsters — a key element of most of the Kingdom’s literature.
When Meredith noticed what he was up to, she also pushed a pumpkin spice chai on him. He sniffed it skeptically — Ballister wouldn't say no to a regular chai or cocoa with a little chili and cinnamon, but was less enamored of all things pumpkin spice — but the presence of cardamom, star anise, and black pepper was reassuring.
Meredith was all too smug when he came back inside twenty minutes later for a refill. “You ought to trust me by now, Gregor.”
“What are you wearing, Boss?" Nimona intercepted Ballister on his way back from cycling clothes from the washer to the dryer.
“It's laundry day,” he said a little defensively. Laundry day could easily excuse any number of sartorial sins (or sentimental decisions).
“So you stole your boyfriend's hoodie?” His sidekick nodded approvingly. “Glad you haven't fully renounced your villainous ways.”
Ballister rolled his eyes and began to count on his (mechanical) fingers. “One, I was never a villain. Two, he’s my fiancé, not my boyfriend. Three, the word you are looking for is ‘borrowed.’ I borrowed his hoodie.”
“And you look fantastic in it.” Arms encircled his shoulders from behind. “Brought you back some leftover apple pie, by the way. Oh, and Eomma and Dad send their regards.”
He leaned back against Ambrosius, feeling (doubly) hugged.
Maybe Ballister wouldn't go so far as to actually admit it out loud, but hoodie weather was growing on him.