purple guy

There's a warmth in the air of your room that wasn't there before. And no, it's not originating from the heater you had just turned on a few moments ago, nor is it you suddenly having gotten warm beneath your several blankets.

It's the type of heat in the atmosphere that you're intimately familiar with. That holds and hugs and cuddles you far better than any weighted, heated blanket could.

The magic that signifies Dust has just shown.

You sit up the smallest bit in your bed, pushing back the corner of a blanket, and there he is. At the foot of your mattress, both hands in his pockets, posture low in some type of stalk (his standard pose), and staring right down at you.

Or what you think is right down at you. His face is obscured yet again. Can't even see his eyelights shine through.

Not quite sure what else he could possibly be lookin' at, though.

You draw a hand up to your forehead to make a lazy 'flip the hood' gesture, but you're ignored. And the best response you could come up with to being dismissed is to ignore him in return, rolling over in bed and tucking yourself back in. Like he's not even there.

He disliked that.

Dust is a man of… well, he's a needy attention hog, but he doesn't want to be the one to work for any of it. So, he's not a fan when you make him have to put in effort to get what he wants.

You hear his slippers 'thunk' away against something, the weight of his steps as he nears you, and then there's a dip in the bed where he hiked a knee up.

"move."

You couldn't possibly roll your eyes any farther north. "I'm too tired for your shit." But, alas, you make plenty of room for him.

"doubt you're tired."

Yeah, sure, whatever. He's not any better about sleep. "Leave me be."

You're ignored. He quietly and greedily takes the space beside you without any hesitation, like he belongs here—and you could probably say that he does.

Although he doesn't pay any of the bills around here, so you'll continue to lightheartedly specify the 'probably' in belonging in your space and home.

He most definitely does. It's just that you both haven't put a label on anything yet.

Dust snags the end of the blanket from your offered hand, and dips himself right beneath, already shimmying himself to get up close to you with no care in the world.

You get about two seconds to process that he is particularly NEEDY tonight before he goes as far as to lock his arm with yours(?).

The side eye you give him gets ignored—the avoidance a trend between y'all—and you feel as his gloved hand drags across the skin of your forearm. Dust's phalanges find your palm, pressing into the give of it, and then slides the last bit upward to your fingers where they twine.

He's holding your hand all sappy-like, but also there's zero pressure. His hand is lax and hardly even holding you, really.

You give him a small squeeze and shift your head to face him, but he's looking straight up at the ceiling. His eyelights and expression are visible, though.

The red of his eye is hardly there. The blue's blown out like he's enjoying himself, but his brow is tense.

Can't help but tease him for not holding your hand properly, though, "Got plans to be emotionally constipated all night?"

He makes a soft noise in response. Probably a grunt.

You simply squeeze his hand again, "Thought so—"

Turns out you were wrong. And you're yet again reminded that Dust is indecisive. But what he did figure out is that laying right beside you and touching your arm isn't enough.

He has a concept of personal space, sure, but after you've previously convinced him that he deserves things (a long time of work), Dust has become unpredictable.

And increasingly clingier.

He suddenly sits up, almost startling you, and there's no time to waste when he's already moving to crawl on top of you.

The space between your legs and across your body becomes his resting spot.

There's a small battle he has with the blanket to try getting it perfect over the both of you, and after deeming that to his standard, he drops his head to your shoulder and settles down, his arms sprawled outward and feet probably hanging off the bed.

He's like a… you want to say a 'cat', but you don't want to offend him.

You feel him exhale his discarded tension against your skin like it was punched out of him, and the remainder of his weight is put on you when he relaxes.

Dust is heavy, but not so much that it's uncomfortable. If anything, you could probably describe it as 'grounding'.

You're just glad he can find comfort in you. Or, well… on you. Your relationship—whatever it is—has been hard. But things get better, and things have gotten better.

He lets you cup the back of his clothed head in one hand, and your other you press to the center of his back to keep him to you.

You smooth your hand up and down him, trying to see if you can take a peek beneath his hood. You can't. "Y'alright?"

Seems you don't get to have any answers this time around. All he does in response is turn his face to press into your neck, and grumbles incoherently against your skin.

So, naturally you decide to dote a little extra on him, since he's chosen to act all cute and whiny.

You hug him the slightest bit firmer to you, and tip your head the very short distance needed to kiss him on the top of his skull through his hood.

He immediately tenses.

Like he wants to sit up and get off of you, which you brace and ready for, already arming yourself with an apology for upsetting him—but after a small and quiet beat, he settles again. Going fully lax once more.

He decided he liked it.

Shifting your hand placement to hold the back of his neck instead of his head, you gently and slowly massage him there while you pamper the rest of his noggin in small and noiseless kisses; although on his fabric and not his actual skull, since he's not quite presenting that real estate to you.

His breathing is slow and soft on your neck as you love on him, his body and posture relaxed and loose, the tension having completely faded under your attention.

Though, per the usual, he's a greedy son of a bitch.

Dust finally brings his arms forward, looping them around your shoulders as he sits up the very slightest bit—just enough to be able to lift his head and look at you beneath lidded eyelights.

You don't move away when he draws himself closer, his blue'd out and fuzzy lights leaving your gaze to drop to your lips, and he presses his own to you. Soft, unhurried.

There's the smallest bite to your bottom lip, but it was hardly felt, and even abandoned in favor of kissing you slowly a second time. Like he quickly realized doing it sweetly fit the vibe far better.

And only those two kisses was what he wanted.

He's just as slow falling back to rest himself on you, moving his arms to wrap around your waist instead of your shoulders, and the energy in the room changes to a far more satisfied one.

Maybe the two of you will actually drift to sleep at a decent hour, with the comfort of each other.

There's five packages out in the open on their front steps, and it's well past 8pm right now. These boxes must've been here a million years (one full day), what is Edge's problem?

May as well nab them and do the boys a favor. Your one good deed before you go and bother the snot out of your boy toy.

On polite reflex, and with a very weird grip on three of five packages in both arms, you go to knock on the door—before remembering that you can just walk the hell in.

What're they gonna do, throw a bone at you?

Most Edge will do is—

You open the door, and he's already looking at you from the open kitchen, dish apron strapped on and a soapy plate in hand. "WHAT IS IT YOU THINK YOU'RE DOING ON MY PROPERTY SO LATE AT NIGHT?"

Yell.

Stepping through the frame with no care at his threatening volume, you move to plop the packages down on the nearby sidetable they keep keys and bags and whatnot on. Taking your sweet time, really. "If you didn't want intruders, you should consider locking your doors. You literally never do."

"NO, I DON'T CARE FOR THAT." You can still hear him even as you go back outside for the remaining two boxes. "YOU SHOULD NOT BE OUT SO LATE IN THE EVENING! IT IS DANGEROUS BY YOURSELF."

…Oh, "That's awful sweet, I think? But it's not like I walked here."

He just grunts. Loudly, of course.

"I will be walking up to your brother's room to mess with him, though. Good night."

Another, louder grunt.

…

He bids a bit more of a 'proper' goodbye that you hear from where you're already at, way up the stairs around the corner, "THANK YOU FOR THE PACKAGES!"

"Yep! Whatever!"

Red had a lock on his doorknob a few months ago til a petty squabble ended up in the lock being removed for a smooth handle, much to everyone's (Red's, mostly) displeasure.

Edge's displeasure in the sense that he was torn a whole new one in a fist fight, and Red's because he no longer has privacy.

Sucks for him.

You open his bedroom door wide like you own the place, and there he is. Back turned to you and lounging in his messy yet incredibly comfortable nest of a bed.

It's remarkably dark. His black-out curtains are doing the most phenomenal job of snuffing out the lights. You only know Red's on his bed—and can see him—is because he's got his phone on and shining bright enough to illuminate the immediate space of him and his bed.

You're only not over by his side already because you're afraid of what could possibly be littering his bedroom floor. He doesn't deal in laundry hampers.

And also he has a winning streak of chucking things at Edge whenever he barges in, like what you've just done.

Red doesn't always look to see who it is before he throws things, so, for precaution you're staying put in case you have to dodge—although you really could have knocked to avoid the whole thing. But there's simply no fun in playing it that safe, y'know?

The mattress creaks as he props on an elbow and looks over his shoulder, a lone red eyelight breaking through the dark and silhouetted by the brightness of his phone.

Okay, that's intimidating.

He squints, "the hell's yer deal? quit standing there and git o'er here."

…You're going to ignore how calm he's being. It's hard to clock a man's behaviors when he switches up so frequently. All that 'he throws things' talk and for what? "That's tempting and all, but how clean is your floor?"

You quickly find that the answer is it's not alright to traverse blindly.

Red makes the whiniest grunt ever, not wanting to move, but he'll do it for you. Begrudgingly rolling (flopping) over onto his back and the other side of the bed to reach across to his nightstand, where he taps the base of his touch-lamp and it comes on.

The first thing your peripheral catches is the laundry hamper with pants slung over it. Rest of his dirty wardrobe is on the floor.

An attempt was made, you suppose. You'll train him yet.

Your attention's caught by his little audible huff, and you make eye contact with him again.

His expression is soft, a face reserved for you alone, but his voice and attitude remain grumpy like he's afraid of being caught lacking, "what d'you want?"

"Preferably to take my anger out on something." You make your way over, doing what feels like parkour around his clothes.

Red starts to visibly sweat at the double-meaning implications, which you've worded on purpose to mess with him, and he chooses the safer option, "…in, like.. what way? am i about to get my shit rocked?"

He lightly flinches when you start getting into bed with him, immediately going into nervous ramblings, "woah there, cheetah—i get i'm in boxers, but i ain't one. you don't—"

"Oh my God, shut up and make room."

Red shrinks in on himself and promptly sits up, "yes, dear."

He shuffles all the way to against the wall, making sure he doesn't take any unnecessary amount of blanket with him so you can have your share, and you make yourself right at home in his space. In his bed. Under his covers and taking one of his pillows like it were yours.

Or, well… It actually is yours.

He never owned more than one pillow before meeting you. And after finding that you'd be sticking around longer than any relationship he's ever had, he went through the trouble of making his space welcoming.

Starting with spare pillows.

And also with his attitude.

Red's grown softer. He readily lays out his arm in offering for you to rest your head on instead of the pillow, which you take.

It would've been uncomfortable, given he's got no meat on him, but his jacket is so thick that it makes up for all of it.

Now, you're not sure why he's wearing his thick ass jacket inside whilst lounging in his bed like he plans on falling asleep soon, but whatever. His ways of living are sometimes lost on you.

He greedily tucks you into himself with a shimmy of his arm you're on, and he scoots just as close to meet you halfway.

The blanket's fyumped over the two of you, nice and cozy, and he draws his phone back out. High in front for you to see clearly, too.

"wanna watch wi'h me?"

It's… is that Bumblebee from Transformers? On YouTube?

He clocks your only slightly judgmental expression and flicks your forehead with the arm you're resting on, "it was a free movie, git off your high horse."

"Yeah, but how many times do I need to offer you the streaming service I already pay for? It takes nothing to make you your own account."

"shut up and watch the movie, dipshit."

You don't think your eyes could roll any farther back, but when he rewinds the movie to the beginning for you, and adjusts himself to be able to scratch your head, you very quickly decide his insolence can be forgiven.

Fat chance you may just fall asleep like this, actually. He's warm, and the attention to your head and fingers through your hair is lulling.

You dip your head a little farther into the crook of his shoulder, right into the dense fluff of his hood. It's nice. He's nice.

He follows, tilting his head to nudge yours gently in a nuzzle, "comfortable?"