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You're not too sure how it narrowed down to just Caine and you, standing about in the vast lobby of the circus. You've just finished a particularly lengthy and physically taxing adventure, your body aching and sore all over. It took everything in you to hold off on outwardly complaining and huffing about the harsh tasks and scenarios he puts upon you, all while your friends (you like to think you're all friends) sighed and groaned as they exited the swirling portal, visibly battered and bruised all over.

You can't say it was your favorite, but you know he puts his all into those adventures and it'd surely hurt you more than him to see his artificial feelings get hurt all over again. So you stay quiet.

You watch the forms of the other members grow smaller as they disappear to go do their own things, backs turned to you. You're already planning on how to unwind after this—maybe retire to your room for the last half of the day to stretch a little and nap. That sounds nice. However, you don't leave before acknowledging Caine. That would be a little rude. And you know how much he loves just a little attention.

"Um, nice one, Caine," you remark with a wobbly voice, turning to his floating figure and flashing him a reassuring smile. "I liked the, uh...addition of laser sharks. Very creative." You choose to omit how overwhelming it all was, but you're not entirely lying; they were a fun touch, just a little too violent for your liking.

At your compliment, Caine visibly perks up and fixes his posture, his pair of dentures-for-a-head contorting in a way that conveys a truly blown away look. He even puffs his chest out a little. It's a cute look on him, really—wide-eyed and visibly trying to contain his joy.

"Why, think nothing of it, my melodious macrural mink! I aim to please and I'm happy to deliver! It's my job, y'know," he speaks in that boisterous, booming voice of his, eagerly lowering himself to your level and bashfully fluttering lashes that weren't present before. "But, uh, what part did you like most?"

You can't help but chuckle when he tries to press for more, disguising it as an attempt to get feedback. You press a finger to your chin as you think.

Well, there was the barbecue. That was nice, until somebody went and tried to extinguish the grease fire with water. You liked having access to the lake, but it was terribly infested with sharks equipped with laser beams on their backs and an intense craving for blood (that none of you happen to have). You suppose you enjoyed having time to lounge on the shore before getting dragged into the water by the ankle. That was nice.

"The lake. That was nice."

Caine materializes a tiny notepad and flips through its endless pages, stopping on an empty one and scribbling some stuff down, as if taking note of your praise. "You liked the lake, huh?"

You nod. "Mhm. It's nice and quiet."

Caine hums to himself, ceasing the note-taking and pocketing the notepad. "I'm sure I can arrange more lake-centered adventures in the future! I could add whatever you'd like, really. Just say the word, you know my name!"

"Sure." You smile and shift a little in place, eager to head to your own room. Your feet ache hellishly from all the sprinting you've done today. However, Caine is still expectantly beaming down at you—at least, it sure looks like it—as if he expects something more. Another compliment, maybe?

"Well, I'm gonna go now. We're all pretty tired after that, so..." you trail off, blinking up at Caine, hoping he'll take the hint and let you go. However, he continues staring right back down at you, unblinking and, scarily enough, unmoving. You tilt your head and narrow your eyes at him.

"Um. Goodnight, Caine."

Right as those words leave your lips, Caine's gaze focuses once more. He jumps a little in place and tilts his head back up again, taking in the look of an empty, quiet circus. His upper jaw twists in a way that conveys a slight look of shock as he stares in the general direction the others left.

"Wow! They sure were outta here fast!" he exclaims, although, this time, his glee sounds rather forced, unnatural.

You follow his gaze and turn around to find everyone's already retired to their rooms for the afternoon. You're almost a little jealous. Impatient and undeniably exhausted, you sigh and nod along.

"Yeah, haha. They're probably pretty tired."

Caine hums, lowers himself to the ground, and shifts most of his weight onto one foot, his eyes trained on the ground as he sinks deeper into thought.

"They don't talk to me like you do. Heck, they hardly talk to me at all!" He punctuates his statement with a series of obnoxiously loud, clipped laughter. "I'm starting to wonder what I'm doing wrong!"

Your body stiffens just slightly, though you're not too sure why. Maybe it's because you're admittedly a little intimidated by the ringmaster, or perhaps you just sympathize with him. It must really suck to be bad at the only thing you're good at.

Regardless, you can't help but feel a tiny bit sorry for him. You know he tries hard, he's just too oblivious, a little too eager, and oftentimes too much. He's truly one of the main sources of everyone's stress and grey hairs, but you can't bring yourself to outwardly tell him off for it just yet.

Hesitantly, you inch closer, extending a hand and letting it hover just above his shoulder before placing it there, your touch feather-light. It's a rather awkward gesture, one Caine blinks at and repeatedly glances between you and your hand in response to, but he doesn't seem offended or particularly upset, so you run your thumb along the material of his suit in a semi-comforting gesture. It grows less forced as you do.

"I wouldn't say you're doing anything wrong," you start—a bit of a white lie, but surely mostly harmless—offering him a soft smile. "But, y'know, there's always room for improvement. They like being listened to."

"But I do listen! I let them have their field day, I gave them guns, I have a suggestion box!" he cries, absolutely leaning into your touch now. You suppress a quiet laugh and shake your head at him.

"But do you read the suggestions?"

Caine goes silent. You both know he's guilty of breezing past the overflowing box on multiple occasions.

"They're just a little lost, still adjusting. We all are. It was a sudden transition, y'know—we all had lives and stuff. What they need is a break, I think." You hope and pray that Caine will come to his senses and reel in the intensity. "Doesn't mean they don't like you. Anyone would be scared if their life was just turned upside down."

Caine hums thoughtfully, wide pupils focused on your face. It's a little unnerving, but you're just happy to have possibly gotten through to him (and saved yourself from a few gnarly adventures).

"You wouldn't leave me, would you?"

The question feels rather out of the blue, and you're sure you're doing a poor job at hiding your surprise. For a moment, you gawk at him, struggling to process how the conversation took such a turn, and how he really interpreted your words.

Automatically, you assume he's collectively referring to the entire lot of people trapped inside the circus. And that's a difficult question to answer with honesty, because you don't want to speak on behalf of anyone else or make empty promises that most certainly nobody will keep, but how could you possibly deliver such news—which really shouldn't even be news to begin with—when he looks like a kicked puppy? You've never seen such a pathetic look on him.

You suck in a sharp breath, eager to look at anything but his suddenly very watery, very expectant eyes. Perhaps you can let him down slowly?

"Well, it's just that, we—"

"No, you," Caine clarifies with great haste. "You won't leave me, will you?" he presses, his voice taking on a pitifully desperate, hopeful tone. His hands even land on your forearms, his touch achingly gentle and wanting, as if he's contemplating holding on forever and never letting go.

Naturally, you shy away, squirming a little in place as he uses you to anchor himself. In fact, he's only invading your personal space because he's inching closer, not pulling you towards him. You force yourself to respond to his question, which is insanely difficult to do when he's practically trying to see into your soul.

"I...I don't know, Caine. I don't want to make a bunch of promises I'm not gonna keep. I'm sorry," you begin, voice as soft as you can manage. You give him a genuine, apologetic smile. "But that doesn't mean I don't want to. If i could, I'd have it both ways."

Caine visibly deflates—almost cartoonishly so—at your honest admission. He can't help but feel totally, irrevocably helpless, flawed.

Then again, you're human. An outstanding one, at that. He's so fond of you it hurts. All humans are truly remarkable, with their own unique lives, hobbies, and, worst of all, families. Surely you've got a life waiting on you, a promising future, maybe. None of which involves him, unfortunately. He hears what you're saying, and he knows you know it's not happening.

Still, it doesn't hurt to pretend for a bit. Caine nods slowly, softly, and wraps his arms around your back, inching them along your body as if to give you plenty of time to pull away or shove him off. You exhale through your nose and give him a sorry frown.

Soon enough, his arms have a frightening hold around your body, fingers curling against you as if you'll turn to dust any second now. His form—so much smaller now that he's curled against you—shakes and jolts every so often in a way that tells you he's choking on sobs and hiccups. You can't help but feel sorry for the A.I. He was never meant to feel this way, let alone feel at all. He shouldn't be going through an existential crisis or sobbing into your chest like he is right now. He's so shockingly, scarily human at the moment. You've seen the tiny slip-ups every now and then, the minuscule cracks in his facade, but you've certainly never seen him like this. Your chest tightens when he whimpers, an oddly breathy little noise to accompany a few reverent whispers of the name he gave you the day you landed yourself in this hellhole.

Caine's voice is meek and muffled against your chest when he speaks, a stark contrast to his usual loud, energetic displays.

"Say you won't leave, please. I don't want to be alone."

You don't respond.

Slowly, your arms wrap around his shoulders, reciprocating the suffocating embrace, and hush him gently. Caine can only shudder and press himself flush against you as if you're the band-aid that'll cover up every little wound of his. If there were a way for him to keep you forever, he'd do it in a heartbeat, as selfish as it is.

Caine knows he can't have you, at least not forever. But for now, he can.

I JUST MADE SOME BULLSHIIIT part 2

Caine just adores you. Loves you, even.

At least, he thinks he does.

Well, he certainly loves the way you put your all into his adventures, even the particularly grueling and chaotic ones. He just loves watching you carry out the tasks he specifically crafted to mimic his idea of the real world. He wonders what you were like before the circus—how you lived, and what you did for fun. Were you always this agreeable?

He loves the way you snort at his jokes. Nobody else does, because they don't find him funny in the way you do. Instead of endless complaints, it's giggles and chuckles that escape your mouth.

He loves your approving smiles and obedient nods of agreement at his suggestions and queries. You don't groan or protest, and it sure does seem like you're enjoying your stay in the circus quite a bit more than the others.

He loves it when your eyes land on his. He loves it when your attention is on him. He loves the way you acknowledge him when he announces his brand-new ideas, even when you're occupied with someone else. He especially loves stealing your attention and roping you back in whenever you think the conversation is done. He loves feeling valued. He loves feeling appreciated.

He loves feeling special, and by God, do you make him feel special.

What he doesn't like is how much he craves. It bugs him more than he'd like to admit, leaving him restless and antsy. What he craves, he's not entirely sure. He seeks the attention, the validation, and the euphoria you generously supply him with each and every brief interaction. He can't help but want more, and more, and more. He wants to own that—have it all wrapped up in one pretty white bow, all for him to keep.

So, maybe he just wants you. Maybe you should consider staying with him forever.

And all that brainstorming and daydreaming leads right to a brand-new idea for an adventure. Caine loves your attention, and you sure seem to enjoy giving it to him—there's really only one clear solution.

The adventure itself calls for a new suit, black in color and free of wrinkles, complete with a tiny flower in the breast pocket. In fact, everyone ought to dress up for the occasion—surely you'd like to see your friends put effort into your special day. Even you deserve to be dressed up in fancy lace and shiny fabrics, all the things he knows you like.

Your hands are metaphorically tied as you're put on the spot, staring wide-eyed at the rows and rows of traditional church pews before you, your fellow prisoners all dolled up in neat, uncomfortable suits and pretty, classy dresses. The seats that the small group can't fill are filled with blank mannequins, free of clothing or accessories.

Blaring notes sound from an organ you can't seem to pinpoint, and a blank-faced mannequin in formal wear waltzes down the aisle, proudly displaying a little pink pillow with two wedding bands for all to see. You wince when you catch a glimpse of what you're wearing—traditional wedding wear composed of itchy fabrics and painfully tight pieces. It's a terrible thing to see yourself in, really. Perhaps sucking up to the AI wasn't a very smart idea.

Bubble floats between you two and off to the side, exempt from the "fancy clothing" rule. He must be the officiator. He babbles for a bit, his words sounding a lot like gibberish, before they stop. You're far too focused on the wedding scene unfolding before you to listen, although Caine takes your chin in his hand and tilts your head up and down a few times, as if answering Bubble for you.

When you look back at Caine, he's still floating just a few inches in the air, dressed in apparel that perfectly mirrors the luxury of your own. His multi-colored eyes are wide and brimming with fascination and adoration and uncharacteristic warmth and every other kind term in the dictionary. You hardly have it in yourself to respectfully object.

Well, he hardly gives you the time to, anyway. Caine speeds through his and your own vows, the rings are delivered and exchanged, confetti falls from the sky, and he eagerly dips you in a rather dramatic manner, puckering up his dentures to mimic a passionate kiss. The sound of wooden hands clapping and gasps erupts as he does, and you wince a little. It's brief and fleeting, over before you know it. He swiftly pulls away and floats a few feet higher, clapping his hands once and announcing something you can't quite catch, before snapping his fingers and disappearing with you in tow. You can only imagine your friends' mortified expressions and pitiful laughter.

You're in what you assume is his office/headquarters/evil lair, expected to fully embrace the fact that the two of you are now newlyweds, and a honeymoon is to be planned. What would you like? Digital Hawaii? Computerized Cancun with a special twist? A virtual tour of Europe where all of your friends rearrange themselves into a smaller-scale model of the Eiffel Tower? Just say the word, and he'll arrange whatever you want in under three seconds—guaranteed!

Caine aims to please; he wants this to be as perfect as it is for him for you as well. Though with how much you seem to reciprocate his adoration and appreciation, you must be the happiest person in the circus right now! He can go on and on about what he has planned for you both, from your future in the circus to every single date you'll share twenty moons from now. He drones on with that booming voice of his for a good while, jumping from topic to topic. First, he's eagerly vocalizing how he'll tailor every future adventure to your wants and needs, before murmuring something about earning your approval. It all kind of blends together—affirming words and future plans, how happy he is and how much happier he'll make you, how he can bake a mean lasagna and tell you everything you could ever wish to hear. You hardly notice when his fingers shyly interlace with yours, thumb brushing over your knuckles and giving it the occasional squeeze.

It's not long before he's withdrawing his hand and hastily excusing himself, making quick work of teleporting the two of you to your own room and insisting you get a full night of quality rest after such an eventful day. When you glance down, you're back in your normal attire. Oh, how you've missed it. You'd be insane to not comply, so you nod along and agree to head to bed. He floats in the middle of your room, unmoving, as he watches you awkwardly stumble into bed. He delivers a curt goodnight, you return it with a strained smile.

When you finally doze off, Caine stands still at the edge of your bed, peering over your calm form. Your digital avatar doesn't really need to breathe, but your chest still rises and falls with every "not breath" you take, and he realizes he loves the way you move, even when it's not intentional. He sets a hand on the bedding and runs it along the edge, smoothing it out as his eyes trail over your sleeping form. He loves how you squirm when the mattress dips below the weight of his hand. He loves the way your breathing patterns shift and change. He loves how your fingers curl around the sheets, one of them sporting a shiny new wedding band. He loves how human you are.

But, in the end, he's an AI—what does he know about love?

Vid creds: sunny.klear on tt

I JUST MADE SOME BULLSHIITT!!!

i should let u know that the plot is gonna be really bad bc i had full freedom on this

sorry

SO i wanted to do a comforting theme bc i feel like thats what ppl would like but at the same time its a bitch to write and id rather have fun LMAO

anywho i tried to not specify like outfit details (making it too masc or fem or whatever) incase u prefer a suit over a dress but i totally wrote with a fem reader in mind so im sorry for that

Not like this is reallyyyy the place to put it but I just wanted to reiterate that BOTH of my blogs r for 16 and up!!! I really don't want y'all here if ur not!! I've started (respectfully) blocking ppl on here i suspect are below 16 as my content changes/features more mature themes. ok thanks bye

You're no stranger to being ignored or avoided. Every middle schooler has experienced the onslaught of feelings that comes with getting ghosted by their entire friend group at least once, after all—when there's suddenly no more room for you at the table during lunch, and you're being picked last for group projects. It's a yucky, foreboding feeling that gathers in your gut and mixes with all the anxiety and insecurity a middle-schooler already has to begin with, and it lingers far after the fact.

You'd just never thought you'd feel that way because of Nil, of all people.

He likes his space and solitude–you're well-aware of that–but you're not strangers. You've spent countless nights in your backyard, sword-fighting with sticks and watching the sky turn dark. He's seen you through probably every single mortifying, cringeworthy phase you've gone through, and even confided in you when the comfort of home wasn't an option. You did, in fact, also trauma bond over the Algebra course you shared in eighth grade.

You really only began to notice your interactions had grown scarce and brief when he slowly stopped showing up during lunch, often wandering off elsewhere for that short 30-minute period and disappearing before you'd have the chance to catch him.

"Is Nil avoiding us, or something?" you'd once leaned over and murmured to Momo, glancing at your opposite side. Nil favored Dimitri's cool and casual nature, sure, but there were times when he'd sit by you and let you talk his ear off for a bit. You liked that.

Momo, unbothered as always, had simply shrugged and flashed you a cheeky smile.

"I wouldn't word it that way," she'd responded coolly, nudging your shoulder a few times. You'd only tilted your head.

"Okay? Then where's he at?"

To that, Momo didn't reply. Not audibly, at least, as if waiting for you to figure it all out on your own. She cast you a knowing smile before returning her attention to the ancient Gameboy in her hands.

Maybe Nil's not intentionally avoiding you during lunch. Maybe all the schoolwork he'd refused to do months ago was finally caught up to him to bite him in the ass, and now he's gotta sit in some classroom solving French crosswords and composing essays.

But even then, conversations are curt and strained, and rather one-sided. Not only that, but he seldom walks you home anymore. It's not like it was all that common for him to agree on making the short walk back to your house, but if you'd ask really nicely, sometimes he'd cave, so long as there was a quick stop at Junkie's on the way. Now he gets all antsy, makes up some lame excuse, and runs off into the woods.

Quite honestly, you're a little hurt. Very hurt, actually. This really does feel like seventh grade all over again, where every day played out like an episode of PEN15, and somewhere along the line, you'd lost a few really close friends. You'd argue seventh grade was worse than this, though.

Regardless, you're absolutely gonna wring his neck out the next time you run into him—if ever.

Thankfully, prom is only three short weeks away—a good chance to get out of the house and enjoy whatever lame party the school manages to throw, given their budget—and you'd rather not have to trouble yourself with Nil's mood swings.

You've spent a decent amount of both time and money on your outfit, doing your best to ensure it aligns with the theme. You thrifted what you could, but considering Pine Point's mall—if it can truly even be considered one—is insanely lame and barren, your choices were slim. A nice, clean outfit, accessories, and matching shoes are plenty.

You're later than you really planned on, though you're sure you're not missing out on much. The school's minuscule budget could surely only cover a few boxes of pizza, a bowl of punch waiting to be spiked, and some streamers from the Dollar Store.

Still, you take hasty steps inside and down the hall where the gymnasium is located. Even though the doors opened a good fifteen to twenty minutes ago, a few students continue to file in through the entrance in groups, donning clean tuxedos and pretty floor-length dresses. The hallway's lights have all been turned off, but you can see the streamers hanging from the wall as they catch the light from the street lamps outside, giving them a subtle glint as you pass by. You can already hear the latest grunge-y, hard rock hits blasting on a few speakers, along with shuffling heels and overlapping voices. The doors are propped wide open by heavy rocks from outside, revealing a pitch-black gym lit by a few multicolored strobe lights and balloons floating through the crowd, getting kicked about. Some students grab them and squeeze them until they pop. It's almost intimidating how large and rowdy the crowd is, despite being less than half an hour into the actual events. Your school is small—and therefore so are the junior and senior classes—but when everyone is packed in one room, they certainly seem much bigger.

You suck in a breath and head in, doing your best to politely weave through the crowd without stepping on anyone's toes. You wander around aimlessly for a bit, visiting with a few school friends and asking about your group's whereabouts. They all point you in different directions, though a few only shrug their shoulders in response, eventually mistakenly leading you right to the punch table. You spare it a glance.

The punch in question is a funny purple-red color and almost entirely finished off. You take the ladle and stir the liquid around a bit before pouring some into a little plastic cup, taking a hesitant sip. It tastes like fruity yogurt, but you aren't complaining. It's plenty to soothe your already sore throat from yelling over the music. There's probably a few ounces of hard seltzer or Everclear or something strange mixed in there, but you don't mind; if anything, you could use it. You go back for another sip before choking when a heavy hand comes down on your shoulder, swiveling you around on your heels.

"Yoo, you made it!" Momo exclaims in your face, shaking you gently before letting go and grabbing your tiny cup of punch, taking a sip for herself. She gives you a quick look-over, nodding a little in approval.

"Nice," she mouths, quirking her brows at you in a playful manner. You beam and look at her outfit—you've always wondered if she'd choose a dress or a suit in a more formal setting.

Neither, apparently. She's wearing a pair of distressed jeans, a white long-sleeve shirt, and one of those T-shirts with the corny slogans on them from Spencer's on top of it.

"Huh. Sick shirt," you say, blinking at it a few times. She grins with visible pride.

"I know!! I got it on clearance. It says, "I peed in the pool"!"

You nod along. "I can read."

Momo punches your arm before leading you right back into the crowd of ditzy, dancing teenagers, dragging you along behind her. You're jabbed in the gut by a barrage of elbows and waving hands in the process. You try to mind other people's feet and long dresses on the way. Momo continues pulling you across the gym before stopping in front of Journey, Dimitri, and Nil, all lingering by the bleachers. She presents you to them like it's show-and-tell.

"Lookit who I found!"

"Hey, there you are," Dimitri remarks, having to shout a little over the music. He flashes you a relaxed smile. "We were looking all over for you."

He's wearing a clean suit and a cute little bow tie, his hair parted and styled neatly. You nod in understanding and defend yourself by pointing out that you had to jump-start your car, which pushed back your arrival by at least ten minutes. He laughs and promises to drive you next time. He's already got a pretty blonde on his arm. You don't quite recognize her, but she goes as far as to give you an eager wave, so you return it with a wobbly smile.

Journey gives you a friendly smile and an eager wave, dressed up in usual prom attire and even a tiny flower in the pocket of his tuxedo. Everything looks so clean and put-together—his mom must have picked everything out.

Your eyes widen a little in surprise when you spot Nil standing off to the side, brooding. For once, he's dressed just like everyone else—a tux, some kind of tie, and shiny dress shoes. His hair is still spiky and unruly, though.

You like it that way.

"Aw, you guys look nice!" You're talking to the whole group, but your eyes settle on Nil.

Nil glares at you for a second, his brows knitting together and his face growing hot, before he hastily averts his gaze elsewhere.

"...thanks," is all he responds with, almost a murmur you can hardly hear over the music.

You smile and nod once, awkwardly averting your gaze and instead looking back to Momo, who's got both hands on your shoulders, shaking vigorously as she tries to get you to join her in the "Cha Cha Slide". Unfortunately, you'd sooner die than pass that up. It's a bummer—this is the first time you've really had the opportunity to be one-on-one with Nil, and you'd just love to ask him about who or what convinced him to show up.

Dimitri's eyes flicker down to Nil as he nudges his shoulder with his elbow, repeatedly glancing between him and you with an expectant look, trying to hint that he probably should've complimented you in return long ago. Nil grumbles below his breath before reluctantly looking you in the eye.

"You look...nice, too."

Your eyes grow wide and dart to him again. You want to kick yourself for daring to feel an ounce of relief, as if everything is suddenly back to normal and you can go mess around in the Walmart parking lot like always. Still, you thank him before you're dragged back to the dance floor with Momo.

You end up sticking around, even when the song ends. Momo makes for a pretty okay dancing partner, and she partially makes you, pulling you back and promising it'll be "just one more song" whenever you sigh or whine about how your feet are beginning to ache. However, you're not complaining. She's not the best at dancing—at least, not traditionally—but she takes your hands in hers and waves them around, bumping your hip with her own and twirling you around every now and then, and tries to pull something really stupid every so often, like dipping you mid-song, only to drop you flat on your back.

You flail around with just her for a good while—definitely a few songs past intended—until she manages to rope everybody else in, having to cling to the collar of Nil's dress shirt and physically drag him along. You walk around the gym, gossiping and laughing a little too loudly. Nil is rather silent, only occasionally glancing at you from his peripheral and grumbling stuff you can never seem to catch below his breath.

After a good hour of stumbling around and bulshitting, you find yourselves grouped by the punch table yet again; however, this time, both bowls are empty, having been finished off long ago. You stand off to the side in an awkward clump with tired legs and sore throats from all the yelling you've had to do over the music.

Momo sticks around to snack on all the free cookies and snacks, but vaguely mentions dipping soon to go hit her bong back at home or something stupid like that, and Dimitri briefly entertains the idea of joining her. He also mentions wanting to go do donuts in some empty parking lot after the dance, making his date laugh and whoop enthusiastically. You quirk a brow as everyone discusses their after-party plans even though you've really only been here for two hours or so.

The music still plays, and balloons still float about the gym; however, a good portion of the students are seated at the many tables scattered around the perimeter. Girls toe their heels off and rub their sore feet, sure to be sporting a few blisters the following morning, and boys pull at their collars and loosen their ties, undoing a few buttons to combat the warmth. Some shamelessly reveal flasks from inside their coats and pass them around the table, as if the spiked punch wasn't enough. The sight is very "trashy high school prom", but you don't totally hate it. You only begin to wonder where all the staff members wandered off to, or if they're just choosing to turn a blind eye for one night.

Momo bumps her hand against yours and hands you a stale cookie, and you take it. It's a plain sugar cookie, dry and crumbly, with mini M&Ms baked into it. Overall, quite pleasant. You finish it off and glance around now that half the gym has had enough of the dance floor.

Somehow, all thoughts lead back to Nil and his whereabouts. You look around, but fail to spot him lingering by the bleachers or Dimitri. You get up on your tippy toes to hopefully see above a few students' heads, turning your head this way and that. You don't catch him, but he's short and therefore very easy to miss.

You finally return your attention to Momo right as the music shifts from Nickelback's hooting and hollering to some slow, romantic song for all the couples to slow-dance to. She mock-gags before raising her brows at you, flashing you a teasing smile. You laugh and shove her shoulder.

"Where'd Nil go?"

She hums, looking off to the side as if thinking for a moment, before tinting her head towards the doors leading out the gym.

"Out."

"Oh," you breathe, shoulders sagging a little. You may as well go check on him, offer him a ride if he plans on leaving. You hold up your hand, silently signaling you'll only be out for five, before crossing the gym and heading for the exit doors.

Outside, Nil leans against the old brick wall of the school, still as a statue. His eyes occasionally flicker from the bushes to the trees, and back down to the pavement, before eventually falling shut.

He'd just needed a moment away—away from the noise and commotion, yes, but especially from you.

Nil has been avoiding you. He's not stupid; he knows what he's doing, and he knows it's been upsetting you. Those "kicked dog" looks you flash him in the halls whenever he walks past without returning your greeting are hard to ignore. And, unfortunately for him, the notion only serves to worsen his Insomnia. He hasn't gotten any proper sleep in a good deal of time. Even in the woods, he's unable to get himself to quit tossing and turning and thinking so much.

It's not like Nil means to stress you out, but how else is he to rid himself of the onslaught of funny feelings your mere presence floods him with?

He huffs and kicks a small pebble near his foot, breathing out a quiet curse below his breath and fumbling with the uncomfortably tight collar of his shirt, going as far as to undo the top few buttons and pull the fabric far from his neck.

When you slip out through the back doors, sure enough, Nil is leaning against the nearest wall, brows furrowed and his jaw clenched as he glares at the concrete ground. He looks a little disheveled, though you struggle to recall a time he hasn't.

His head snaps in your direction when you step out, the sound of the door clicking open and your heels on pavement breaking the silence. You linger in the doorway for a moment, welcoming all of the nice air into the building.

"You bailed on us again," you remark with a subtle frown, narrowing your eyes at Nil. "It's prom, don't you wanna have fun?"

"Yeah, well, I can only take so much of you guys, so..." he trails off, eyes darting all over the place, yet somehow never landing on you. Your expression twists into a scowl.

"Does that apply to me, too?" you ask, a teasing lilt to your voice.

"Especially you," he responds. It's the kind of answer you'd expect to be full of snark and sarcasm, paired with a jesting tone, but his is oddly dull, serious. Your expression falls, and you roll your eyes, scoffing below your breath. It's nice to see he's hellbent on avoiding you, yet has no problem with dealing insults.

"You have the attitude of a taller man."

Nil doesn't laugh—hardly cracks a smile, really. He flashes you a puzzled look before shaking his head. You hum and casually shrug, finding your place beside him against the brick wall.

"Tough crowd."

Nil glares at you for a second before staring straight ahead at nothing in particular, his brows knitted together. It seems you're adamant about sticking around. That makes his stomach twist and his head feel light.

"I just came out for some air. You can go back in now, enjoy the party and stuff."

As if. Now is probably the only chance you'll have to talk to him without someone intruding or him finding a semi-valid excuse to leave.

You turn to him and hum. It's a soft, doubtful noise that escapes your throat and makes Nil shudder.

"It's fine. Think I needed some air, too."

Nil huffs and rolls his eyes.

"Great," he mumbles, full of sarcasm, clicking his tongue. Your frown deepens and your mind wanders because what could you have possibly done to make him react that way? You know he's a jerk and a huge sourpuss, but that response feels uncalled for.

A painfully tense, uncomfortable silence settles over you. Sometimes you contemplate opening your mouth to speak—maybe tell a bad joke or ask about his night—but you can easily picture the response you'll receive, or lack thereof, and promptly brush the thought aside. Still, the silence is deafening, and it's growing harder to ignore. You can hear Should I Stay or Should I Go by The Clash blaring from inside the building, and suddenly you wish you were inside with the others.

You still can't help but question what changed between you and Nil in the vast span of two weeks. He's so flippant and dismissive, possibly all because of you, it makes you roll your eyes and squint at the sky so that any tears threatening to fall can't ruin your makeup.

It's during this agonizingly awkward moment of silence that you feel compelled to think back on your first encounter. Not so much out of fondness or to simply reminisce—because it was a pretty rocky start— but rather to give yourself something else to think about and replace those brutal, nagging thoughts.

You were maybe 13 at the time, the age where you get into poorly written, "weird girl" movies written by totally creepy men and Lana Del Rey. The age when everything on the planet sucks and is grounds for dropping out of school and becoming a junkie.

You were sulking by some stream for probably the third time that week. You don't even remember why. Most likely, your algebra homework or the fact that it was three degrees warmer than you would've liked that day. And then you heard the quiet crunching of leaves and snapping of twigs. You internally panicked, fearing you'd be caught in such a compromising, embarrassing state, cupping cold water from the rushing brook in your hands and splashing your face a few times to wash away the tears and calm the redness.

The intruder? A teenage boy with dark, spiky hair, plenty of scratches, somewhat tan skin, narrowed eyes, and lips pulled into an unwavering frown. His hands clutched the straps of a heavy backpack that clung to his shoulders, chipped, black fingernails pressed against the coarse material. He seemed a little odd; maybe it was his style, or that scowl on his face, or possibly the first few words he spoke to you after a long pause.

"You shouldn't wash your face with that stream water. It's dirty, and a brain-eating parasite is gonna get in through your nose and crawl into your brain."

"What…what the hell?" You swiped at your dampened face.

He stared at you with a rather displeased but otherwise neutral expression for a moment before shrugging.

"It's true. I saw it on National Geographic once. The hell's the matter with you, anyway?"

He leaned down and swished his hands in the running water, which is when you noticed there was a considerable amount of dirt caked beneath his fingernails and between his skinny fingers. You wiped hastily at your face and crossed your arms atop your knees.

"It's whatever. I don't wanna talk about it."

He looked at you, furrowed his brows, and then rolled his eyes. He asked what your issue was, not why you were crying—a big difference anyone but you could pick up on, apparently.

"Whatever."

After a painfully long pause, you spoke up.

"I mean, if you really wanna know—"

"Fuck this."

He'd gotten up to leave, and you let him. You were hoping to get more alone time anyway.

Until you found him lingering in the candy aisle in Junkie's during school hours. Coincidentally, you were both skipping. You'd given him a friendly wave, but he scrunched up his nose and turned away.

You watched as he piled candy and trail mix into his arms, slipping a pack of gum into his pocket in the process, before bringing it up to the front.

What a fatass, you remember thinking, your eyebrows knitting together at the sight of the boy's poor diet. Still, you'd come to try an energy drink for the first time, not judge others. You tried not to side-eye him on your way out.

You caught him in the woods all by himself a few times after that, all purely by coincidence—it's not your fault you happened to live so close. He seemed to love sleeping anywhere but his own home, and you thought that "running away" once a week would convince your parents to buy you an Atari. At first, it was mere, fleeting glances that would occasionally linger when he was doing something especially odd or stupid, but soon evolved to attempting to strike up a conversation, only to be met with a glare. He accused you of stalking him on multiple occasions, but otherwise never did a decent job of shooing you away.

Not to be too harsh on your 13-year-old self, but you were certainly a bit of a prick, loudly complaining about your schoolwork and nagging parents around the boy long before ever properly learning his name. It was through a shared lack of friends and unruly emotions that you two managed to "bond" in a funny, somewhat pathetic way.

Nil still thought you were the absolute worst for constantly pestering him, but it truly wasn't so terrible sharing the brook with you so long as you picked up after yourself. You never once uttered a nasty word about him to his face nor behind his back—for who did you have available to tell—and frequently brought him band-aids and food—real food— because you were, oddly enough, worried about him. Mainly him being out and about in the woods all the time.

He'd scoff because why would somebody like him need that? All before inevitably caving and indulging in your offerings because "he'd hate to waste food" and "used all the instant ramen packets in his bag".

Even into high school, you never quite dropped the habit of subtly looking out for him.

After a long pause and plenty of hesitation, you inhale a shaky breath and speak up again.

"Did I...do something? Like...ever, at all?"

Nil's eyes shoot open, wide as saucers. He tries to avoid looking at you because, judging by your rather hurt tone, he can already picture your expression, and God, does it make him feel guilty. Self-sabotage has always been one of his weak points and, unfortunately, it's not something he can just punch in the face or run away from.

"No," Nil answers bluntly, a little too quickly. He cringes at his tone before attempting to regain his composure. "I mean—maybe. I don't know. It's not a big deal, though, so let's just drop it."

And never speak about it again, preferably. He wants to kick himself every time he deflects your attempts, but right now, it certainly feels like his only option. Maybe you'll get sick of him and leave, or take his half-assed excuses and pretend nothing ever happened to begin with. Instead, you breathe out a heavy sigh, flashing him an irritated look.

"Well, I mean—it's just that—" you stupidly stammer over your words, feeling totally dejected. It's almost like he has no clue just how frustrated he's made you within the past month, let alone in the moment. You clench your jaw, making all kinds of gestures with your hands to help convey your frustration.

"We don't really talk anymore. You don't talk to me. If I did something, you should just tell me."

"You didn't...do anything. I've just been stressed or whatever. That's all. I'll get over it."

You frown, wrinkling your brows and narrowing your eyes at him as if maybe you'll gain the ability to read Nil's mind.

"Y'know, you can talk to me about that, too."

"I know."

Oh, so he's just not gonna. That's cool.

You scoff in irritation. It's like speaking to a brick wall. A brick wall covered in nasty old chewing gum and graffiti. Like that one in Seattle. People actually like that wall, though.

"Fine, then," you huff out, trying not to feel too hurt. You're trying so insanely hard to get through to him, and he just won't budge. It's not like you should be very surprised—he's never really been one for talking out his feelings—but you don't believe you've ever been so irritated with someone before.

But you've also never liked a person this much before.

The night air nips at your exposed skin, and you stiffly cross your arms over your chest, impatiently shifting in place. You look back at Nil—he's staring at the ground.

"If there's someone you've been sneaking around with this whole time, you could've told me. I would've left you alone or whatever," you finally mumble.

He finally directs his rather offended gaze towards you, subconsciously mirroring your stance and crossing his arms above his chest defensively.

"What's that supposed to mean?" He's pretty sure he already knows what you're trying to insinuate—again, he's not stupid—but he'd rather hear it from you first.

Your eyes dart to him, and then back to your shoes, your lips still pulled into a thin line. "You been seeing anybody?"

Nil's face explodes into a hot, red mess, his eyes wide and brows furrowed. His mouth opens and closes, broken protests leaving his throat never to be finished.

"I—What the fuck?! No, God no. I don't know where you got that from. Quit making assumptions."

You let out a quiet, humorless laugh and shrug. "What? Not like I'd judge. Bet that's why you've been so busy lately."

You're hurt. And you're sure he knows it, but is choosing to ignore it like a jerk. You can't help but hide behind humor like some defense mechanism. Like if he sees you don't care just as much as him, he'll feel bad, or tell you the truth, or something.

You continue feigning a carefree, unbothered attitude, even when Nil runs a hand through his hair and glares at you from the corner of his eye, unable to hide his flushed face even when he tilts his head downward.

"Fuck," he breathes out, his tone laced with frustration. "I'm not seeing—or sneaking around with—anyone, alright? God. If I were to do all that stupid shit with someone, it'd probably be you, so quit jumping to conclusions."

Your brain stalls for a brief moment, eyes narrowing in thought.

"Then why do you keep avoiding me?" The response, hasty and exasperated, falls from your lips before you really have the chance to think it through. Nil grits his teeth and shifts uncomfortably in place, kicking at the ground and doing whatever he can to look at anything but your eyes.

"You just make me feel really fucking weird." That could have been worded better, but that's just how it came out. Nil purses his lips as his heart rate quickens.

You can't help but grimace at his reason for avoiding you. You make him "feel weird"? You've never heard a more lame excuse, and you have no clue what he could possibly mean by that. Still, you sincerely hope you didn't unknowingly do something to irk him in any way.

"What's that mean? Weird how? Like, bad weird?"

Nil rolls his eyes for the nth time at your slew of questions. He wishes he could take back everything he'd just said.

"It's nothing. I don't get why you're so bothered," he grumbles, giving you a funny look that suddenly makes you feel like the weird one with weird feelings and avoidant attachment issues.

You groan, dramatically dragging your hands down your face in exasperation, slumped against the cold wall.

"Dude, I'm bothered because we're friends! Friends don't ignore friends! You jerk, just tell me so I can go back inside 'cuz it's fucking cold out."

Nil pauses and blinks at your minor outburst, biting back the small smile his lips threaten to pull into, which only makes you scowl because it truly seems like he's not taking this seriously. He feels a little guilty for keeping you out here for so long, leading you on, and making you think you seriously offended him at some point in your friendship, leading him to almost entirely cut you off.

Now you're freezing out here instead of enjoying the dance or ripping bongs with Momo. He frowns and awkwardly averts his gaze.

"I don't know," Nil eventually murmurs. "Just weird. Like, it's not that bad, I don't really mind it, but it makes me wanna do really fucking strange stuff."

You give him a wide-eyed glare. "Say that again?"

"No," Nil is quick to respond, pulling away when you lean in. You bristle and fix your posture.

"No, really, tell me! I wanna know."

"Fuck off already."

"Dude, just spit it out!"

"Just strange stuff, okay?" he exclaims, equally as exasperated as you. "Stuff you don't do to friends. And I'm not telling you because it's gross and weird."

Finally, everything kind of clicks in your head. At least you have a better idea of why he's been so avoidant. Your heart rate slows a little—only to pick back up again shortly after—and your thoughts cease their racing out of relief. However, his admission does make your face grow far warmer. You discreetly shuffle closer, tilting your head to the side.

Nil shamefully tilts his head the other way, his brows knitted and body language tense and reserved. He almost draws in on himself, in a way, arms more so hugging his sides than crossing firmly over his chest. You sigh through your nose, cocking your head to the side so that you can get a glimpse of his expression. Stubbornly, he turns his head away. Your lips pull into a small, sanguine smile at his admittedly awkward behavior. You take a baby step closer to him, reaching out and grasping the fabric of his sleeve, giving it a gentle tug.

"Nil, look at me," you murmur, your voice soft and low. Nil winces when you speak, hesitating before reluctantly returning his gaze to you. Before you can say anything else, he beats you to it.

"I want to be with you."

As horribly cliché as it sounds, your heart skips a beat. Two. Oh no, one more and you're suddenly experiencing heart palpitations and rendered unable to respond.

Finally, you clear your throat and tilt your head, all aloof and unaffected.

"You're with me right now, aren't you?"

"No, stupid," Nil hisses. "Like, be with you."

You can't help the way your jaw falls at his curt confession—he's seldom been so direct with you about such vulnerable topics before—though you're quick to pick it up and shrug, puffing your chest out and crossing your arms, feigning indifference to the best of your abilities.

"Yeah, I'm not really that surprised. I kinda had a feeling."

Nil clenches his jaw at your casual, confident response, and it almost makes you laugh the way he kicks at the ground and mumbles "Whatever" below his breath.

"I mean, if you wanna be with me so bad, I'm down," you say, a playful lilt to your voice.

"Quit that."

You laugh and shuffle closer, leaning over and brushing some of his messy hair out of the way, lining your lips up with his ear.

"You know I want that too, yeah?"

Nil visibly shudders and takes a cautious step away, giving you another irked look and making a face as if you're the most gross thing he's seen all night. You only hum and shrug.

"We can do some of that totally strange stuff right now, if you're up for it." Your voice is steady and you look all composed, but your knees almost buckle at your own forward suggestion. You've never put on such a brazen display before.

"No! With you? That's disgusting. You're so gross," Nil is quick to exclaim, giving you a hostile look. He scowls and grits his teeth, but with that flush tainting his cheeks and the tips of his ears, it's not as threatening as it should be. He stammers over his words for a bit, sounding a little unsure of whether or not he wants to tell you off or not.

"You don't even know what I meant by that! I wasn't thinking."

"Oh, I know. You wanna, like, make out and stuff. You don't hafta lie."

He all but growls at your response, opening his mouth to protest, only to shut it seconds later. It's almost funny the way his inner turmoil is so obvious on the outside.

"Only if you want," you're sure to reiterate, keeping your voice as level as you can manage, which is pretty difficult when you're trying to imply you want to swap saliva with someone in a nonchalant manner.

Nil eventually goes quiet, shifting so that he's fully facing you, giving you a good view of his flushed face.

"I...ugh. Fine, whatever, but don't make it weird or anything."

Great. Surely you know what to do. You just didn't expect him to be so easy. You'll be sure to subtly slut-shame him later.

Slowly, hesitantly, your hands come up to his shoulders, gently pulling him closer. He stupidly stumbles over his own feet and hastily averts his gaze. Your thumbs stroke the material of his tuxedo before one of your hands snakes around the back of his neck, gently tangling your fingers in the short hair. Nil shivers, and his glare falters, momentarily softening. His hands slowly come up, hovering just above your waist, because where else should he put them? That's what they do in sappy scenes in movies. He only follows through when you snort and use your free hand to guide one of his. His grip instantly tightens as he attempts to ground himself, his hands rigid and unmoving where they lie.

For a moment, you just stare, narrowing your eyes and searching Nil's expression for a moment. When you lean in, and he doesn't back away, his gaze fixed on your lips, you take the initiative and slowly brush yours against his. Nil lets out a faint, strangled gasp, forcing himself to shut his eyes and mimic your movements, running a stiff hand along the curve of your waist.

It starts off as just a quick peck, soft, tentative, and fleeting, hardly a shy grazing of your lips. It's the kind of kiss you'd share with your first boyfriend under the bleachers before he breaks up with you a week later. But when you pull away first, his lips chase yours, his shaky hands coming up to grasp your upper arms, yet not quite pulling you in. Your eyes flutter open, greeted by his reddened face and dark eyes peering through his lashes, upturned brows, and lips slightly pouty, forming a rather desperate, wanting expression.

And so you do it again, finding your hands tangled in his already messy hair and tugging him a little closer. Close enough to deepen the kiss, at least. This one lasts much longer, and you're both shocked and impressed that Nil hasn't drawn away yet. In fact, he eagerly leans into it, his body tense and rigid but undeniably searching for more contact.

It's a little awkward and inexperienced, with your teeth occasionally grazing his and one of you pulling away for half a second, maybe for air or out of hesitation, only to go back for more. You doubt he's ever kissed anyone before—it's actually quite obvious—but, in typical Nil fashion, he's a fast learner, and eagerly kisses you back with twice as much fervor. It doesn't take long for him to get a little more comfortable, for his arms to tighten around your waist and lower back, drawing you closer.

Even when it's over and you've done plenty of awkward kissing for one night, you repeatedly press feather-light kisses against his lips until Nil finally grumbles and pushes you away, gentle and red in the face all the while. You cock your head and snort at his strangely soft, docile expression.

"You're pretty good at this," you hum, playfully leaning in and brushing your lips against his cheek. He clicks his tongue but doesn't nudge you off or lean away this time.

When he doesn't respond, you tug on his sleeve once more.

"We should do that again sometime, I liked it."

"Stop talking," Nil grits out. He turns his face away to conceal the way his cheeks and ears grow red at your likely satirical suggestion, but it does nothing to soothe his warm face. You laugh and release his sleeve, and he breathes out a heavy sigh. "Do whatever you want. Just don't be weird about it."

"I'm not weird about it, and I want you to want it, too," you proclaim, scoffing lightly in offense. "But fine then. Can we go somewhere else? I'm cold."

Of course he wants it. He's wanted it for months, played the scene over and over again in his head, tried to picture how you'd sound or how you'd feel long into the night, no matter how many times he's tried to brush those intrusive thoughts away. Those were the only times he didn't quite mind missing out on the sleep he'd lost.

Nil reluctantly forces himself to face you, expression softening as he slowly nods. "...Can we go to your house?"

"Sure, fine. Junkie's first?"

Nil cracks the tiniest, softest smile and nods once. "Okay."

"Aw, you guys look nice!" You're talking to the whole group, but your eyes settle on Nil.

Nil glares at you for a second, his brows knitting together and his face growing hot, before he hastily averts his gaze elsewhere.

"...thanks," is all he responds with, almost a murmur you can hardly hear over Nickelback's hooting and hollering.

You smile and nod once, awkwardly averting your gaze and instead looking at Momo, who's got both hands on your shoulders, shaking vigorously as she tries to get you to join her in the "Cha Cha Slide". Unfortunately, you'd sooner die than pass that up. It's a bummer—this is the first time you've really had the opportunity to be one-on-one with Nil.

Dimitri's eyes flicker down to Nil as he nudges his shoulder with his elbow, repeatedly glancing between him and you with an expectant look, trying to hint that he probably should've complimented you in return long ago. Nil grumbles below his breath before reluctantly looking you in the eye.

"You look...nice, too."

Your eyes grow wide and dart to him again. You want to kick yourself for daring to feel an ounce of relief, as if everything is suddenly back to normal and you can go mess around in the Walmart parking lot like always. Still, you thank him before you're dragged back to the dance floor with Momo.

probably most irrelevant and boring part of the entire thing tbh but it's taken soo long and it's going to take even longer but i fw feedback if anyones lwk unhappy with how it's looking cuz ik i am 👀👀👀

You and Nil frequently butt heads, often getting on the other's ass for admittedly very silly reasons. But in your defense, it's not your fault he's such a stubborn, contrarian person and an overall pain-in-the-butt to be around.

Despite it all, you're still friends—since middle school, actually. You've since learned how to discern his playful jabs and insults from his more serious complaints, and he knows your heart's never really in anything you say. Still, you'll never not roll your eyes when he raises his voice a little too loud and gets you both in trouble for it. He needs to use his brain more.

It's when you have to share a space that it's worst. You're crammed in the back of Dimitri's busted truck, Nil to your left and Momo sitting in the passenger seat. She laughs and fumbles with the radio's volume, flipping through channels and talking a little too much, all while you're trying to get Nil to quit manspreading.

"Dude! Close your fucking legs! It's cramped enough as is," you scold, giving his shoulder a harsh nudge. You stare out the window and try to ignore the fact he's thrigh-to-thigh with you right now and absolutely in your personal space.

"I can't help it!" he grits out, flashing you a glare of his own.

"Ugh, that's what they all say. Just shut your legs for fifteen minutes. Have some decorum," you sneer, turning away from the window and leaning towards him. Nil rolls his eyes and, unsurprisingly, flips you the bird. However, he does inch his legs just slightly closer together. You perk up when you hear Momo snickering from the front seat and doing a poor job of hiding it.

"Dude, you bicker like an old married couple."

You know it's just a silly comment—and one that you find yourself agreeing with—but you can't help how hot your face grows at the implication of being married to Nil. Immediately, you laugh and shut her down.

"Um, what the fuck, no. I'd shred the certificate."

Nil's face scrunches up in what looks like minor disgust when Momo opens her mouth to speak, already rolling his eyes at the idea.

"Keep your weird, freaky fantasies to yourself," he grumbles, crossing his arms over his chest defensively. One side of his jacket slips down his shoulder a little, exposing part of his tattoo. You're still not too sure what it stands for.

"Just sayin'," Momo coos, shrugging and nudging Dimitri's shoulder a few times in an attempt to get him to verbally agree with her.

While Nil did initially react with utter disgust and offense, truly, he doesn't totally object the idea of being with you forever in some way. He's never seriously considered marriage before, and he certainly doesn't see it in his future, but when he imagines sharing a home, necessities, a bed, with you, his gut twists and churns and he feels like a high-school girl.

Maybe it's not necessarily the idea of marrying you that gets his mind racing and his heart racing. Rather, sticking by your side long after you grow sick of him. He'd go with whatever you want as long as you'll have him for a little while longer.

But he can't say that, and he never will. So, for now, he'll roll his eyes when you tease him and snort when you trip over your laces. The thought will probably always linger in the back of his mind like a lightbulb in a basement, waiting to be turned on, but even with where he stands now—as just your good friend—he's content.

LOL what was that

I feel really bad for never finishing requests but I deadass have 18 total and I've only started like 2 😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭 I really hope this was OK bevahse it was an idea that i had jn my notes app for a bit and idk j thought it would be fun with nil