"I hope you hear many more songs."

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There's a familiar knock at the door, the same quickfire four-count as always; a staccato ta-ta-ta-tap. 

Simon picks it up even through the comfortable muffle of his headphones, through the swaying, lilting instrumental of the game’s background music. The knock grabs his attention as immediately as it ever does, a response so Pavlovian that he's eternally grateful for the stellar background noise suppression of modern audio software. He certainly doesn't need Chat (proper noun, collective) to learn the pattern by which four little beats can open his ribcage like a goddamn treasure chest, beating heart ripe for the taking.

Or something.

He slides the headphones off and lets them fall to rest around his neck, half lost amidst the dark waves of his hair. At the same time he swivels his chair with an easy push of a single foot to face towards the doorway to his right. Just in time to see the handle twist, and the door pushes inward into that very practiced, perfectly acute angle Ryland has perfected for unobtrusively checking in while Simon's streaming. 

Chat is already lighting up, clued in by the telltale shift in Simon's attention and posture, the abandonment of his headphones. Well-versed by now in this little ritual that has become an evidently beloved stream-tradition. Words and emotes are flying by in the dedicated window on his second monitor, a gleeful chorus of PAPA STARs and RETURN OF THE KINGs and SCIENCE SNACK BREAKs. 

Through the opened gap in the doorway, Ryland peeks into the room, smile already in place and glasses somehow gone already askew in the space between here and their kitchen. Truly a cosmic mystery, Ryland Grace’s quantum glasses. It feels like sometimes Simon blinks and the things are in a new spot. 

(Chat would get a kick out of that ‘Papa Star' lore drop, but Simon's not quite that generous. There's a greedy little animal somewhere in his head or heart that likes to hoard pieces of Ryland for himself. A seabed keeping its treasures.)

Ryland's quantum lenses briefly catch the light from the mandatory Streamer Moody LED Setup™️ within— soft purple tonight— as he pokes his head through the doorway. “Am I good?” he asks, a shoulder bobbing in request for entry. Knowing full well the answer, always, but never failing to ask anyways.

Simon pauses the game and swaps his gameplay and cam windows on the stream without needing to look, the motion rote. He sees his own face briefly in profile on the stream preview, limned in that same violet. And yeah, he's well aware he wears his heart right on his sleeve and all over his face in regards to his partner, thanks. He doesn't need to read the rapid roll of Chat all declaring HEART EYES to know he's not exactly subtle. 

“Always good, starshine,” Simon replies, purposefully hammy. He can feel his own smile tug up into his cheek, lifting a hand to beckon the other man in. Ryland shoulders the door open so he can pass, and a rectangle of soft gold light from the hall cuts into the room. Stepping over the threshold, he shifts the bowl precariously balanced in the crook of his elbow to a free hand and pads over to the desk.

It's a familiar routine, and Ryland knows his marks. They have gaffers tape on the floor, for fucks sake, having long since mapped out precisely where Ryland can move within the room while still never revealing anything above the collarbones. And, again, Simon's quite fine with keeping those collarbones to himself. He's greedy, sue him. 

Simon stays seated as Ryland steps over beside his chair. A quick peek at the stream window verifies there's nothing immediately identifiable to be seen; just the soft sleeve of a sweater, the band of a nondescript watch at the wrist, short-bitten fingernails. 

Chat is, of course, acting like they're being treated to a full boudoir set. It is a nice wrist, Simon will concede.

He brings a hand up to the small of Ryland's back in thanks as a mug of steaming tea is deposited in the customary desk space left clear for exactly that. “Your perfect, very talented, and probably really hot spouse is here to bring you tea and monosaccharides,” Ryland announces, sporting enough to angle his voice towards the mic. Simon snorts. (He can see the exact moment ‘monosaccharides’ hits Chat, parroted back dozens of times and with letters in every conceivable order.)

“Yeah, yeah,” Simon drawls, voice low and fond. “That's definitely the totally normal way I am always introducing you.” The camera catches just enough of Ryland's shrug. Out of sight, Simon's thumb idly traces the dip of Ryland's spine through the plush knit of his sweater. Another little treasure to hoard.

From Ryland's other hand, a bowl of grapes joins the tea upon the desk. Simon snorts when his partner also sets a pair of chopsticks down with an audible clack atop the bowl. It's in clear view of the camera, and Chat whirls again into a higher gear, confused and delighted and crowing. 

Simon doesn't react— he's a professional. But there's a twist of amusement and affection and something like pride that curls up warmly behind his ribs and settles in to stay. Ryland certainly knows how to play for the audience sometimes. 

Not to be outdone in his own goddamn stream, he catches Ryland's hand as it withdraws with a single purloined grape. Leaning over and down and hauling Ryland's wrist up, Simon grabs the grape with his teeth and steals it back. “‘Kay, wow, rude,” Ryland huffs, tone colored warm with laughter. Simon is gratified to see the messages scroll faster for that than the chopsticks.

There's what passes for a quiet moment as Ryland lingers there beside the desk, pawing a few grapes up and out of the stream’s view. Simon takes a slow draw of his tea, always unhurried in the time they share. “You know,” Ryland says, thoughtful now around a cheekfull of grapes. Simon glances up at him, mug still at his lips, and watches his partner read the comments firing up across the second screen. “I don't think you ever actually introduced me, so that's why I got assigned Papa Star.”

Simon huffs again, his breath chasing a curl of steam from the tea. He sets it back on the desk, and twists his chair a bit more so it gently jostles where Ryland leans against the armrest. He has his undivided attention. “What, you don't like Papa Star?” Fighting words; Chat will have a field day with that. 

From his vantage, Simon has the pleasure of watching Ryland give him A Look™️. Head tipped toward a shoulder, nose crinkled. For benefit of the stream, Ryland raises a hand and holds it flat, palm to the floor, and then wobbles it side to side. “Ehhh,” he hedges, “I mean, don't get me wrong. It's cute! But a little… juvenile?”

It's Simon's turn to return A Look™️, brows popped as he leans back in the chair to really sell his surprise as he watches his partner. He's really enjoyed this past decade with Ryland, and it's just a real shame he's about to have to watch an internet mob rend the love of his life limb from limb.

Chat may never recover, rejected by their Papa Star.

“Juvenile,” Simon repeats, tone flat enough to walk across blindfolded. 

A quick glance confirms, a field of OH NOs and PAPA STAR WHY WE LOVE YOUs rocketing across the monitor. Undeterred, Ryland continues on. “Yeah, like… why Papa and not Father Star? I could be Daddy Star.” To his credit, Ryland keeps his voice level. But Simon gets to see Ryland glance down at him, glasses still at a totally useless angle but eyes bright, a sliver of canine showing as he bites his lip to keep composure through the smile. It's the sort of smile that’s best suited to start on one mouth and end on another. Simon wants to bite him back. He feels a muscle in his jaw jump as he stares up at Ryland, both doing their best to stay neutral.

“You can't say the word ‘fuck’ but you think you can be Daddy Star?” Simon fires back, completely composed. Ryland shrugs again, and steals another grape, pops it into his mouth. It rounds out his words as he speaks around it, vowels blurring. “I can say that, it's just a professional consideration not to.”

“Okay then, say fuck.”

“I have a reputation to uphold!”

“Yeah, a reputation that made you Papa Star. Daddy Star says fuck.”

“I'm leaving, have fun,” Ryland pouts and pushes himself off the edge of Simon's chair with a hip, hands up as he retreats out of stream view. Well-practiced around those marks on the floor. The smile finally wins its way across Simon's face. 

Chat avalanches, flush with caps and LET PAPA SAY FUCKs but a highlighted message catches his eye. 

Ryland is almost out the door, but obligingly turns back around when Simon calls after him with a “Hey, babe.”

He blinks indulgently at Simon, who points to the grapes by way of explanation. “Chat wants their Science Snack Science Fact.” It's gratifying to watch Ryland roll his eyes and give in to another grin. 

“Seahorses transmit wifi!” Ryland chirps from the doorway. 

“Absolutely not,” Simon purrs right into the mic, eyes fixed on his retreating partner. 

Ryland's out into the hall, backing away and closing the door into his own face— and again the glasses are at another new and jaunty angle— but he still raises his voice for the mic to pick up. “Bananas are radioactive!” 

The door clicks closed, and Simon plonks his headset back on, turns back to properly face his monitors and camera. That warm weight lingers behind his sternum, threading pretty as filigree along his ribs. 

Swapping the inputs back around again, shrinking the cam back to its usual corner, brings the endless scroll of Chat again across his eyeline. Simon shakes his head and levels a stare right down the barrel of his camera. It's endless THANK YOU SCIENCE DADDYs and DADDY STARs. 

“Alright, Chat, emote-only jail for five minutes,” he declares. Then crowds the mic again. “If anyone is Daddy here, it's me.” Let them go wild about that. It'll make Ryland laugh later when he inevitably finds it clipped. He pops a grape into his mouth with the chopsticks just to prove some pointless point, clicks back in and resumes the game. Half an hour more and he can go aggressively cuddle his better half into their couch. 

Simon's not sure what he did in a past life to deserve such a good turn in this one, but he's certainly not going to complain.

(... He might need to ban the word 'daddy' in chat for a few streams, though.)