#{ seems accurate...probably...hopefully not... }

Nobody— absolutely nobody could've foresaw this outcome. Not even Hugo, who acutely understood the adjacent possible, could've possibly predicted this probability!

The irony of the situation really was the work of fate's quaint mockery, something that even Hugo himself didn't argue against.

Which was, to say the least, strange.

Besides the notion of Hugo having a crush being completely unbelievable, the fact that he didn't refute the teases of his teammates — not at all in denial like most would be with their feelings — that, might've been the strangest part of it all.

Just who could this mysterious being possibly be?

"Hey, Hugo?"

"Hm?"

The boy in question didn't so much as glance up from his book at the call of his name. Instead, he merely hummed in response, visibly preoccupied with whatever was written in the pages before him — a habit that came to be after their suspicions of his crush arose.

It's as if he physically couldn't put that book down!

"Do you— um," Renoir briefly cringed as he stumbled on his words, the embarrassment of actually voicing out his curiosity finally dawning upon him.

He cast a pitiful gaze to his teammates that had forced him up to the task, hoping they would be merciful even when he finished last in a childish round of 'turn around, touch the ground, bagsy not it'. But alas, their pointed looks of encouragement urged him to bite his tongue and steel his skyrocketing nerves.

"Doyouhaveatype?!"

"…."

That, promptly snapped Hugo out of the rose-tinted reverie he was living in. Had he heard that right or were all those maladaptive daydreams finally getting to him?

"I asked if you—"

"I heard." Hugo blinked, his lashes fluttering comically with disbelief as he processed the bullshit that just came out Renoir's mouth. So he did hear correctly after all.

"Oh… um, then— do you..?"

"….."

It seems he wasn't going to give up anytime soon, not with that hopeful glint in his eyes at least. Well, it certainly wouldn't hurt to entertain their curiosity… It's just a type, nothing more and nothing less. Just an ideal individual that he would be happy to be with— it really wasn't that big of a deal.

Heaving a deep sigh that had Renoir and the curious-eyed audience flinching momentarily, Hugo snapped his book shut and thought back on its plot — or more accurately — the female lead. A fictional being that he had taken a particular liking to.

"Someone who likes reading…"

Collective groans of disappointment were quick to fill the suspenseful air from before. Of course Hugo, the quiet guy with only disdainful things to say would have such a boring type.

"Around about this height." Standing up to his full height, he gestured to the approximate height he wished his ideal partner would be. A sight so unbelievably inconceivable from the usually reserved midfielder.

Oh?

Well, this was certainly new.

"Oh! And what else?" Charles, finding quaint interest in this topic, quickly hopped at the chance to take reigns of the amusing turn in conversation.

"Someone with this specific hair and eye colour." Proudly, he pointed to the specific colour he had — for some strange fucking reason — saved on his phone.

"Ideally someone who's got nose shaped like this—" he drew his ideal nose shape in the air and promptly began gesturing wildly to all the features he desired his type to have.

Hugo went on and on, and on.

The aloof boy was no more, not in the midst of listing out each and every detailed description of all his required traits and proportions.

They all knew he wasn't the nicest guy on the planet, the midfielder was a member of the new generation eleven, arrogance was a required part of who they were, but heavens! With the way he was motioning around his chest and rambling on about the exact, precise fucking measurement he coveted from this clearly non-existent person, Hugo might've gained the title for the World's Biggest Scum!

The guys who were victim to his explicit details could only bite their tongue with defeat. Hugo having a crush was one thing, but scoring whoever this chick was?

Im-fucking-possible.

"Oh, I would be quite pleased if they liked chocolate as well."

As if this cute and endearing trait would nullify all the other bullshit he was spouting just a second ago!

"Everyone! Hugo is secretly texting somebody!"

Charles' announcement was most likely another lie. The contrarian was rather fond of deceiving others despite it being a socially unacceptable thing.

And everybody here knew how much Charles lied, it was nothing new for the boy, the act came as natural as breathing for him. But… that did not, by any means, dictate that his lies weren't head-turners. Not this one. Especially not this one.

This lie, the one about Hugo secretly texting someone, obviously false, because who in their right mind would hear Hugo's strict list of required qualities and think to themselves, 'Oh! This guy just is the most dreamiest guy ever.'

Nobody. Absolutely nobody would.

Right, nobody would. And yet— somebody did.

Everybody watched with gaping mouths and bulging eyes as Hugo abruptly flinched in his spot and held his phone securely close his chest— a pathetic attempt to conceal whatever he was doing on it previously. Hugo looked the very image of a comically guilty criminal with his nervously darting eyes that sung of his unlawful act.

"…I can explain."

There was no need to defend himself. Everybody in the room universally could agree on that. After all, they were all men who shared the same thought. Hugo had somehow managed to get this chick's number despite his scummy behaviour.

Truly, the boy had achieved an incredible feat amongst all players his age.

If only they knew, Hugo was not texting this mysterious chick who somehow met his impossible standards. If only they knew just what kind of degenerate behaviour he got himself into…

"Hugo, want to come hang out with us? We're going to eat at this—"

"Nope." Hugo firmly declined their invitation and promptly began to pack his bags, clearly ready to leave practice and get some alone time to do his little hobby.

"What!? But you never spend time with us anymore!"

The boy could only roll his eyes at their desperation, just how pathetic were they seeking his attention like some maiden in love?

"I've ran out of money. So I can't come."

"You ran out of money?! HOW???"

"Sigh."

It wasn't a lie, Hugo really was low on funds, especially after everything he'd spent his earnings on. This was the same guy who had a strict standard, it was only natural of him to buy the best of the best for his…. yeah.

Well, anyway, that was besides the point.

Hugo had even taken up more modelling gigs than usual just to rack up his income, he couldn't afford to be cheap for his— in any case, his wallet was bleeding dry because of his hobbies and other stuff…

Heaving another deeply frustrated sigh, Hugo ruffled the tuffs of his short hair and prepared to berate his annoying teammates for the umpteenth time this week.

"Hey, cut him some slack. Unlike you guys, Hugo here has other, more important priorities." Turning to face the aloof boy with a mellow expression, Loki raised a friendly brow at him. "Isn't that right, Hugo?"

"…." Mirroring his expression, Hugo chewed on his lips as he processed the quaint enjoyment evident in Loki's expression. It's like, he knows…

Lashes fluttering, his eyes narrowed with paranoid scrutiny as Loki returned back to the information on his tablet. "Well, I'll be off…"

"Mhm, don't be late for tomorrow's morning practice."

"Yeah, yeah." Hugo huffed with mild annoyance, pulling his duffle bag over his shoulders and mentally cursing Loki for being so uptight. It looks like Charles' lax attitude was rubbing off on him—

"Oh, and Hugo?" Loki called out, voice curt and serious.

What now?! Stopping in his tracks, Hugo cast him a nervous side glance, his stomach churning with dread as he awaited for soul crushing news.

"Use protection." Not looking up from the tablet, Loki continued his business as if he hadn't just knocked the air out of every other member there.

"Huh."

Hugo blinked, face morphing into puzzlement as he took in Loki's advice. Just what would he need to protection for when— oh. Of course! He needed to use protection when doing his little hobby!

"I'll wear my blue light glasses." Hugo nodded appreciatively, unaware of the way Loki's face contorted with confusion at his misleading words.

Sigh.

It was… really bad, wasn't it?

The boy sighed self-deprecatingly, shoving his hands deeper into his pockets as he aimlessly walked down the familiar street. Thoughts of his unrequited love and his desperation to seek the tangible spirit of his fictional crush weighing down on his shoulders with heavier weight than his pr ever could.

Damn it.

There was no 'chick', no mysterious person who met his unfathomably high standards like his teammates thought there was.

That time Charles had caught him texting this mysterious person?

Charles had actually caught him reading a smau of his favourite character with himself. A texting, self-insert fucking fanfic of his fictional crush.

And what about the protection that Loki teased him for along with coming early to practice the next day?

That was actually because Hugo had gained a bad habit of sleeping late at night and waking up late as a result of it. Was it from supposedly sleeping with this chick?

No. It was not.

Hugo had developed a bad routine of reading self insert fanfics of his fictional crush late into the night…

But what about the time when his wallet has been bled dry from the 'priorities' Loki was berating others for not having!

Oh, that!

That, actually was because Hugo had spent a disgusting amount of money on merchandise and commissions.

The best of the best for his lover? As if.

That dime was spent on posters of his fictional crush, yumeship fanarts of his non-existent crush with himself, and figurines of said character….

Hugo was, to say the very least, down bad.

So down bad that he was actually on his way to the local bakery to buy a cake to celebrate the birthday of his fictional crush…

Just how bad had he fallen?

Really bad.

"Good morning Sir! What can I get for you today?"

Huh?

What was this?

A tender voice, soft and mellifluous, resembling a hymn sung only by the most divine of all beings reached his unsuspecting ears.

No seriously, what the hell was this?

Was this fate's cruel mockery playing him right in face again? Or was it his hysteria that had conjured up the most eeriest imitation yet of his fictional crush's voice?

No, Hugo shook his head firmly. He was already batshit crazy for being so down bad, this most likely was a withdrawal he was facing from the lack of fanfics— he's binge read all the existing ones already.

"Sir?"

"…Chocolate cake." Hugo refused to look up, he was here for one reason and one reason only. To get chocolate cake for the birthday of—

"What kind of occasion is it? Belated New Years or Early Valentines? Heh!"

Hugo, for all his nonchalance, couldn't resist his desires any longer, not when the sound of your titters resembled wedding bells. Not when the lilt that adorned your voice was the incarnation of temptation. How could he even think to refuse what his heart ached so desperately for?

Your smile greeted him first. Wide and toothy, framed by the curve of your soft lips, and above all, familiar. Like he'd seen it before, like he'd read of it before.

Hugo's heart tinged with jealousy at the kind words that got to touch them before him. His chest grew heavy at the sight of your lashes caressing the swell of your cheeks in place of his hands. And his legs weakened with envy at the thought of others witnessing the sight of your sublimity.

Just how long has he been searching for you, the incarnate of his fictional crush— the bane of his existence and the object of all his desires. You.

Your facial features— the curves of your nose, the arch of your brows, and the curve of your mellow eyes, it was you—

"No occasion—?"

"For our wedding. The cake's for our wedding."

"…." You blinked, huh?

"Marry me." He shamelessly grabbed your hands over the counter and encased them in his much larger ones. Lashes fluttering with desperation, he pleaded for you to return his love.

"Uh…. WHAT?!"

hehe hugo being down bad... 🤤

Somewhere toward the back, there’s a database full of old local newspaper publications, as well as every issue of the National Geographic magazine published since 1950. It’s pretty cool, but you’re sure you’d spend more time staring at the pretty pictures than actually learning anything of value.

Come to think of it, you’re not even sure you have a library card. This is… what, the second time you’ve ever visited the library since moving in? The first time wasn’t even to check out anything. No, it was because the internet provider fucked your shit up sideways and your whole apartment complex was without wifi for a week, right when you had a sizeable stack of assignments to submit for some university classes you were taking at the time. So you came here with your laptop, a thermos of coffee, and a broken dream.

Would it be-

No, probably not here. Maybe, uh…

Maybe here? Hopefully? It should be over-

Ah, that’s it.

You manage to spare yourself the awkward conversation of asking the librarian where the wildlife books sit, finding them just adjacent to the collection of National Geographic magazines. ‘Birds of the Northwest,’ ‘Hunter’s Guide to Local Wildlife,’ ‘Foraging for Dummies’ - it seems that there’s no shortage of works to choose from. And finally, you find a book that really piques your interest: ‘A Field Guide to North American Mammals.’ Hm. Seems cool.

It also seems ancient, you note, thumbing through the worn and yellowed pages as you come across old colored prints that look to date around the 60s or 70s. Deer, rabbits, foxes, bears - this book has it all. Flipping to the table of contents, it looks like the book is split up by areas of North America, primarily focusing on the United States. In each section, it breaks down predators and prey, and then each individual animal has their own couple of pages dedicated to them. Seems like a nice read, and hopefully you can-

Wait.

As you turn a few pages toward the beginning of the book, you spot the familiar library check-out card that was probably glued in back when people used to write down who had checked out each book. There are several names you don’t recognize from dates as far back as 1998. However, most importantly, you see ‘John Price,’ written in neat print in a few lines. That’s right, a few. John had checked this book out multiple times from about 2015 to 2019.

And it occurs to you then, as a swell of warmth lingers in your chest and your cheeks, that you’ve been at this fucking library looking for wildlife books to impress this goddamn park ranger. And you’ve just so happened to find a book that he likes quite a lot. Part of you feels proud for having guessed so accurately a topic that John enjoys for you to learn about. The other part of you, though, is embarrassed for having wasted gas money looking for a book to impress a man. Jesus Christ, you never thought you’d stoop so low.

This needed to be worth it. If you were going to go through getting a library card, checking out a book, reading said book, and logging this information in your mind on a day when you could be sleeping in, then John Price better appreciate it.

Bechdel Test, your dignity utters. Are you even capable of not thinking about a man?

You close the book and listen to the creak of the broken spine, tucking it under your arm to check it out with the clerk. She’s a pleasant, older woman, who gives you a smile when you walk up to the desk. She’s eager to help you sign up for a library card, hoping - perhaps presumptuously - that you’re just aching to further your education.

“That’s a popular one,” She tells you in a quiet voice, nodding toward the wildlife book. “I’ve got someone who likes to come in and read it on his off time. Might break his heart to tell him it’s been checked out.”

Oh. So those times written down aren’t the only times John has read this book. You feel yourself burn hot, likely red from your chin to the tips of your ears. Would he notice? Would the librarian tell John that it was some random girl who had stumbled blindly through the rows of books and ‘coincidentally’ pulled one that he frequented? Did anyone really give a shit as much as you did?

“Oh- uh,” An awkward smile tilts your lips crooked. You scramble for an answer to the librarian’s observation, dumbly believing that somehow she must have ascertained that you and John know each other. It’s a small town, after all. “I… hope he won’t miss it,” is what you finally settle on.

The librarian shakes her head, waving her hand as if to tell you to take the book.

“He’ll live, hon.”

As you step out of the library, your phone buzzes. Phil and Alex are buzzing in your work group chat over something your boss said.

> I need another server to close tonight. Johnny canceled. Please get back to me ASAP. > Thought 1 server would be enough? > I bet it’s because he still owes me a pack of Newports > Alex, save the banter for private conversations. I do not need the kitchen included in this conversation unless you’re willing to take orders tonight.

You sigh. Without Johnny serving tonight, it just leaves Gaz. And, God knows, Gaz hardly gets along a shift without fighting with Phil. Your plans for the night had been, hopefully, to sit down with this book and eat the heaping ton of pasta you made the night before. However, Alex beats you to the punch before you can claim that you’re busy.

> There’s only one server I know who brings in the customers ;)

Alex, that bastard. You love him to death, but sometimes he has to go and open his big mouth. And, to make matters worse? He makes it exceedingly clear to old-as-dirt Mr. Herschel by following up the text with your name.

> Are you available to work tonight? Saturdays are busy during this time of year. We cannot do with one server.

Right, so. Apparently, this wasn’t as voluntary as Mr. Shepherd was implying it to be. With a heavy sigh and the roll of your eyes, you try and justify this shift by thinking about the money you’d get from it.

I’ll take the shift, Shepherd < > Thank you. I will see you tonight.

You’re looking forward to it. Totally.

Christ alive, John’s back hurts. He’s not even that old, he swears it. Fit as a fiddle, too. It’s just that, weirdly enough, he slept next to a river earlier today.

Sleep gnaws at him persistently, these days. Makes his brain sit heavy in his head, and makes gravity feel like his biggest present problem.

But he couldn’t help it. John was a victim of his biology.

There’s a satisfying crack that rings out when he stretches out, realizing when his arms fold back and touch rough bark that he’s been perched at the base of a tree. Blinking blearily, it becomes abundantly clear exactly what’s happened here.

Dead, devoured fish litter the riverbank. The air smells briny and metallic, but it’s closer than a few feet away; it’s right under John’s nose, coating his beard. A quick swipe of his tongue makes him grimace when he catches a piece of scale in his teeth. Gross.

Why couldn’t it have been berries or something? Even if his coworkers think he looks funny with the purple stain of fruit coating his lips, at least it wouldn’t smell so…

Well, one part of him wants to say ‘delicious.’ The part of him that’s sinking back deep into his chest, content to leave his human form to work out what remains of his bounty. The part that, at some point during the afternoon, had caught a whiff of something and reared its head and bared its teeth.

As John pulls himself to his feet, he curses his clumsy footing. Flat paws make it much easier to walk off the path, he thinks to himself. While he was thankful that some part of his more feral hindbrain reminded him to put his clothes back on once he shifted back into human form, there was realistically only so much that hiking boots could do. He walks past the fish carcasses by the bank to crouch down at the water. The pebbly soil is uneven and coarse, and nearly makes John fall straight in.

“That’s enough of that,” he huffs to himself, shaking his head.

It’s always strange to regain opposable thumbs. Being able to use fine motor skills is really something that he takes for granted - there’s no way a bear could clean viscera from their maw without dunking their head in the current. This way, John can cup the water and bring it to him, scrubbing his beard until he’s sure that the scent is as faded as it’ll get (which is hardly, where fish are concerned).

He sure hopes his coworkers didn’t need him. Simon knows well enough that when John traipses off into the woods that trying to find him is a lost cause. Hopefully, he dissuaded any of the greener rangers from trying to find him. He finds his phone nestled in a root back at the tree he slept under - no missed calls, unless the bad signal is misleading him.

There are a slew of things that he needs to do, yet the sun is hanging heavy and low in the sky as the evening settles in. John finds the trail as he backtracks the path his boots had left in the brush. He’s gotten clumsy; he knows better than to trample the local ecology like that. But with Winter setting in, his mind is always someplace else. He hopes that falling into routine might take the burden from his foggy brain.

It had rained recently, and the tires of John’s truck showed it. The ground was still soft, pliable, and damp. It was likely the last rainfall the town would have before it froze into snow. When he’d smell the air, the thickness of summer humidity evaded him, sometimes leaving his nose stinging from the bite of cold air.

John hardly cranks the heat when he clambers into his truck. He’s too drowsy for that.

Simon is the only one at the ranger station when John’s truck pulls in. Everyone else has retired for the evening. He finds Simon behind a desk, book in hand, some cable game show playing on a TV to serve as white noise. Simon hardly even looks up - he already knows the cadence of John’s footfalls and hears his subtle grumbling.

“Out seeing the Missus?”

“Oh yeah. She sent me off with a picnic basket and a kiss.”

Simon chuckles to himself at John’s attitude. Clearly, whatever he gets up to out in the woods leaves him a bit out of it. If only Simon knew.

John stands still in Simon’s office for a long moment, absently watching whatever show is on the TV. He doesn’t really pay attention to it, but it’s hard to keep his head clear. Eventually, he’s brought back when Simon sits up in his chair.

“Those uni students are arriving here next week,” He grumbles. “Laswell told me that she needs you around in case someone wanders off.”

“They’re adults,” John huffs.

“Hardly. None of my business, anyway. Only thing Laswell wants me to do is get copies of the trail cam footage to show ‘em.”

“We’re working you hard, huh?”

“Half. To. Death.”

John eventually makes his way out for the evening. Simon nods when he tells him to lock up when he leaves.

God, he needs some real dinner.

masterlist

taglist: @lavenderloss, @motzglorp, @beebeechaos

It was obvious to anyone who watched you interact with him for any amount of time. How you stood closer to him than need be, how you watched him through your lashes when he spoke his few words to you, the way your voice changed when you spoke to him. Then it was the little touches and little gifts, sitting with him at empty tables when others would turn and walk the other way. You were so sweet on him, maybe even smitten with him.

Ghost never seemed to notice, and if he did he didn't pay it much mind. Just assumed you were just one of those chatty and nice people he seemed to attract every now and then- like Price or Soap. It didn't hurt either that you were sweet & pretty & and smelled good... no, didn't hurt at all and certainly didn't mean anything.

He brushed off Johnny and Gaz's teasings, met Price's knowing looks with icy glares. You definitely weren't flirting with him. There was no way someone like you was pursuing someone like him romantically. That was... ridiculous. Right?

Still. Something about that idea scratched his brain just right. Planted a seed that you unknowingly watered with sweet smiles and bright eyes. So, he started paying more attention.

You never got Price's attention by lingering a small, warm hand on the Captain's bicep- but you did with Ghost. You were chatty with Gaz, but never so much so that you made yourself late to other engagements- Ghost was losing track of the times you'd been chatting at with him only to look at your watch and scurry off with hot cheeks. And Soap could make you laugh, but he never got your cheeks to turn that pretty pink color- Ghost rarely saw you without rosy cheeks. Hmmm... Interesting.

So, he watched and observed (pined and yearned, more accurately). Until one day when he noticed how you flipped your hair over your shoulder as you spoke to him, direct eye contact through fluttering lashes, the dilation of your eyes.

"You have such pretty eyes-" You barely finished your statement before he interjected. He cut you off before you could even giggle, voice stern and hard and quick as those pretty dangerous eyes narrowed in a way that would have chased anyone else off. Not you though.

"Are you flirting with me?"

He asked, taking a looming step closer to you where you were standing by the breakroom coffee machine. He expected you to stutter out an excuse or apologize, or even frantically excuse yourself. He did not expect you to sigh, almost in relief(?) with that bright smile of yours.

"I have been for the last two years." You breathe in admittance, "But thanks for noticing now."

Bloody hell, you were trying to kill him.

----

It was a simple old Toyota-something—you could never remember the exact model, some generic sedan from the late nineties—but whether it was because you've always loved old cars (no matter if they were the classic muscle cars that made people's heads turn or not), you had a deep, irrational love for that basic vehicle. It had that smell that remains memorable yet frustratingly vague, something that came not only from within the car itself but mingled with whatever cologne gramps used to spritz on before taking a drive to some restaurant or their favorite store of Seafood City. Hints of heated leather? Is that how heated leather smells? Or was it just how an old person smells—? You don't know because well, you can't remember a time you pointedly sniffed an old person to compare. That would be weird. Probably get you banned from the senior center.

Jokingly, Robert had said once—about the car, not your grandfather, though he had plenty of jokes about gramps too—that it was your version of Mecha Man. Your legacy vehicle, passed down through generations, held together by duct tape and prayers and sheer stubborn will. And in a way that simple joke had oddly meant a lot more than you expected it to. Maybe it was because it came from Robert and just like anything he says, it automatically becomes ten times more meaningful. He could probably sell you one of your own belongings with some elaborate story and you wouldn't notice until it was too damn late, until you were already handing over cash and thanking him for the "deal."

But, knowing the way you are with him—completely, embarrassingly soft—you probably wouldn't even care once you had that moment of revelation. You'd just laugh it off, call him an asshole (affectionately), and move on with your life, your wallet lighter and your heart fuller.

That's not to say you listen to him each time though.

For example, work. Dreadful fucking work. It took an irresponsible week or so—maybe longer, time had been a blur of hospital hallways and the steady beep of machines—for you to contact your boss properly. You'd spent hours crafting that text message, deleting and rewriting, explaining very, very, VERY apologetically that you had a 'sudden family emergency' and really, REALLY needed the time off. You'd even used proper capitalization and punctuation, which you never do, to show how serious you were.

Did your boss really care about your explanation?

Yeah, no.

To be fair, you hadn't expected him to in the first place. The dude is an asshole of the highest caliber and he's got a stick shoved so far up said hole that you genuinely wonder how he even functions the way he does on a day-to-day basis. How does he sit down? Does the stick bend? These are questions that plague you during particularly boring shifts. Even his friends—a very loose term, maybe just acquaintances or "people who tolerate his existence for networking purposes" is more appropriate—seem largely on the 'I don't like this bastard' wavelength but smile nevertheless with that awkward grimace-smile we all give each other in passing glances over a weird situation. You know the one. That look that says "yeah, I know, but what can you do?" or "what the hell?" or "serious?" Quite diverse in its usage.

Needless to say, to compensate for you being gone for months—and let's be honest, to punish you for having the audacity to have a personal life—he required overtime at the clinic. Is that legal…? Technically, terribly, in a convoluted loophole-exploiting way, yes. If done right. If documented properly. If he dots his i's and crosses his t's and makes sure everything looks legitimate on paper. However, forcing you to 'volunteer' for events (which often means blood drives where you hold elderly people's hands while they get woozy, or standing by for something like marathons in case someone collapses from heat stroke or overexertion) with the thinly veiled threat that if you don't, you'll lose your job—that's definitely not legal. Multiple violations, actually. You could probably list them if you'd paid more attention in that one business law elective you took in community college.

But who the hell are you going to tell? A lawyer? Hilarious. Legal help isn't exactly readily available for someone who's living paycheck to paycheck, especially in L.A. where even breathing costs extra. And despite Robert's voice echoing in your head more than once—concerned, frustrated, almost angry on your behalf—telling you that you should quit, find literally any other job that won't continue hassling you the way that weirdo does, you haven't.

You can't afford to.

Not when rent is due and your car just died and medical bills from your own sporadic doctor visits are piling up and—

At the very least your landlady is much more accommodating.

"Miss Matilda" is one of those quintessential old cat ladies you see in movies—the ones with dozens upon dozens of feline friends, each with their own personality and backstory that she'll tell you about whether you ask or not. She's rather laid-back despite the initial reviews people left on the building (you'd gone down a rabbit hole reading them before you moved in, morbidly fascinated). While previous tenants said she was naggy, with the additional splurge of not-so-appropriate sentences and colorful language that would make a nun cry, she's just strict. Strict about simple things, reasonable things. Don't destroy shit. Don't blare music at 3 AM on a Tuesday. And don't be late on rent—she's not running a charity here, kid.

She tells you from the beginning, straight up, no sugar-coating: you have a problem? Tell her before she has to see your stupid mug in her office. Grandma's pretty tech-savvy too—she's got a Ring doorbell, security cameras, the whole nine yards. She knows when you're trying to sneak past her door. Don't waste her time with excuses or lies. She's seen it all, heard it all, and has exactly zero patience for bullshit.

In other words… She finds out your little boothang (yes, she actually calls Robert your… that, and no amount of protesting will make her stop) got injured and you've been playing his ever-dutiful nursemaid for months… Who is she not to accommodate? I mean, you aren't even in your apartment, nothing is being used so no bills are being rung up—no water, no electricity, no gas. On top of that, you've fostered strays for her previously when she couldn't, when she had too many already and the shelter was full and some poor cat needed a temporary home. So she has that soft spot for you, that grudging affection disguised as gruff practicality.

All she asks for—scarily enough, with that sharp-eyed look that sees right through your soul—is… details. Nothing graphic, she isn't a pervert for Christ's sake, just details of if one of you has finally puckered up and kissed already. "Life's too short," she always says, usually while petting Mr. Whiskers or Count Fluffula or whatever ridiculous name she's given her latest feline acquisition. "And you kids are too stupid to see what's right in front of you."

Which you tell her each time you HAVEN'T kissed him. That nothing has happened. That you're just friends.

She never believes you. Just gives you this look—this knowing look—and shakes her head like you're the most hopeless case she's ever seen. She feels sorry for you. She really does. It's a blessing she hasn't tried to adopt you herself and set up playdates with other cats (humans, in this case, of course).

And it's likely you never will kiss him. Because that's just weird! It would ruin everything, wouldn't it? You can't risk the friendship, can't risk losing him entirely just because you can't control your stupid feelings. It's not like you spend an unreasonable amount of time imagining how it would be—at his side… the sun doing that movie-esque stream through the windows to land on both of you in golden rays that make everything look softer, warmer, possible. In a bed, or at the very least a proper mattress, even if it is on the floor because neither of you can really afford bed frames right now. Facing each other, close enough to share breath, you having woken up first this time.

Reluctant to get out of bed—why would you ever want to leave?—as you stared at him. His face relaxed in peaceful slumber, that clipped ear of his pressed against the hand tucked under his head, his other arm resting near you—or even more dreamy, on you. Your side, your hip, your waist, maybe something like that. Heavy and warm and real in a way that makes your heart stutter just thinking about it... That sounds nice. That sounds perfect, actually.

You could spend hours just staring at him, studying him like art in a museum, tracing his face with the freedom that came from an established relationship. The feel of his stubble under your fingertips—scratchy but not unpleasant—the different textures of skin from here to there, smooth and rough and scarred. The freckles dotting his pretty face that you could name after inside jokes and shared memories.

And overtime, slowly, he'd gently stir awake. Roused by your tracing, by the featherlight touch of your fingers against his skin. His eyes would be unfocused initially, heavy with the lingering cloud of sleep that clung to his consciousness, that made him soft and unguarded in ways he never is when fully awake. The haze would begin to clear with the following blinks—slow, languid, like he has all the time in the world. His lashes would fan like a butterfly's attempt at first flight, delicate and fluttering. The pupils shifting just so, adjusting to the light, before finally, finally—both his sight and mind would settle ever so clearly on you.

He'd smile. Nothing large or too expressive, not his performative smile, but something private. Something just for you.

It'd make you smile too. Because his smiles always did. Always have, from the very first time you met him and he'd cracked some stupid joke that shouldn't have been funny but was.

Then you'd both be smiling, smiling and staring at each other with something that is so dangerously close to (or maybe already is) love. The kind of love that's quiet and steady and has been building for years without either of you really acknowledging it.

"Hi," you would whisper. Like you couldn't form a proper greeting, like "good morning" was simply too inadequate, too mundane for whatever this moment is.

His face would do that little thing—that microexpression you've catalogued over years of friendship. A brief rouse of his brow, skeptical and amused, and the smile turning a bit lopsided, those eyes softening with a mix of affection and something else. Something you could never quite decipher but have seen thousands of times before in unguarded moments. You're sure of it. Something that brought down the walls of the man raised on tough love and the life of a mini soldier, trained from childhood to be a hero.

The human, not the hero.

Robert, not Mecha Man.

"Hi," he'd reply, his voice rough with sleep, his tone sprinkled with playfulness that is distinctly teasing. Hi? How silly. How perfectly, wonderfully silly.

Laughter would follow.

That airy laugh from him—the genuine one, not the performative chuckle he uses among strangers or awkward social situations—that always has you giggling in response. Because he always manages to make you giggle all embarrassingly bubbly when you aren't laughing uproariously thanks to his terrible puns and perfectly timed jokes. The two of you would curl closer, bodies shaking with shared amusement as your arms wrap around each other even though you can't remember the last time you've actually given him a proper hug among the land of the living, in reality rather than fantasy.

When was the last time? Months? Years?

You aren't any better, really. In truth, it's probably been years since either of you had a genuine, meaningful hug in your respective lives. Lonely but not alone—what a life you've both built. What a sad, strange existence.

But in that moment—in that imagined, perfect moment—in his arms, surrounded by warmth and safety and him—loneliness would be the last thing you'd feel.

And when you both finally begin to settle, to catch your breath after laughing over nothing and everything, you'd be closer than ever. Glowing under the sun streaming through the windows, flushed from joy and proximity and the weight of unspoken feelings finally being acknowledged. Then, just then, as he's caressing your nape with careful fingers, his thumb tracing small circles against your skin, you'd find yourself both leaning in—

Bzzt.

The vibration against your thigh jolts you back to reality.

—You blink, coming back to the present with a disorienting rush. Breaking through to air and light and the mundane reality of your actual life. Disoriented as you process that right, you had hopped on the bus twenty minutes ago. You'd wanted to quickly pick up some food before heading to Robert's—something good, maybe that Thai place he likes, or the taco truck that parks near his building. Gosh, you really have to stop doing that whole zoning out thing. Dissociating on public transportation. It's dangerous. What if you missed your stop? What if someone tried to talk to you and you just sat there staring into space like a creep?

(Something that Robert has teasingly called you out on more than once, waving his hand in front of your face with a "Earth to [Name], come in [Name]," until you snap back and swat at him.)

Speaking of Robert. Fishing out your phone from your pocket, the screen illuminates with a notification from his contact. Or rather, 'Optimus Prime' currently, complete with a an emoji and his stupid grin as his contact image when he shoved on a kid-sized Optimus Prime half-mask. You've switched between that, 'Transformer Wannabe,' 'Fav Power Ranger', 'Iron Man but Broke'—and a dozen other variations depending on your mood and how annoyed you are with him at any given moment.

Yes, very obviously they're all connected to him being Mecha Man, to piloting that giant robot, to being a hero. Ah, maybe you should change it to something more sensitive given the circumstances. Something that doesn't remind him of what he lost. But then again, maybe that's worse? Maybe pretending it never happened is more insulting than acknowledging it? You never know with this kind of thing. Grief is weird. Trauma is complicated.

Unlocking your phone—which, you pretend not to notice that you failed the first attempt, your thumb print apparently not registering or maybe your hands are just too cold or dirty, whatever—you're brought to your messages.

Two new texts, sent three minutes apart:

Hey, you busy?

I kinda need a hand…

Your heart does that stupid skip-jump thing it always does when he texts. Pavlovian response at this point. You tell yourself it's just concern—he rarely asks for help, so when he does it usually means something is actually wrong. It's definitely just concern. Absolutely nothing else.

"Hey."

There was a pause in the parking lot.

And there he is.

Robert. Poor ole Robert, sitting above, on the ledge of the billboard with the great display of a grinning Phenomaman (that dude’s name still has you stumbling over your tongue most days). His legs dangling off ashe gives a little wave down to you with his simple hello.

Despite your initial worry, you can't help the laughter beginning to blossom across your chest. "What the hell…" A chuckle. "Are you doing up there?" Your face alight by lights above and your own very clear glee from the situation.

"Yeah, yeah, laugh it up. Nice to know my suffering is very amusing to you." But his own smile was heard in his words, even if not so closely seen.

"I’m sorry! I’m sorry! It's just—" more laughter, you waving your arms silently toward the sight. "How? Why?"

"A long story." A pause from him. "Sorta. I’ll tell you if you help me down. It's late and I don't think the neighborhood appreciates hearing my annoying voice."

"Okay. Hold on. Hold on…"

"Please don't–"

"I'm not–"

"I clearly see your phone–"

"It's cute! I don't know. You're like such a big Phenomenal Man fan that you climbed one of his billboards and got stuck." Yes, you know that's not the hero's name.

"[Name]."

"OK OK! I'm coming to save you, little kitty~"

"Really?" His deadpan tone more amused than he'd like, especially as he watches you scramble off giggling.

But hey. Little kitty got saved and no one was hurt.

Once the giggles wore off too, your concern returned.

"Your sling," you began, hand reaching out before you could stop yourself. The contact is gentle, featherlight and mindful, as your fingers brush over the peak of his shoulder. You don’t question why he's in his Mecha Man suit, that's his business. Caressing along the back of his left arm with a furrow of concern. "Where is it? What happened? Are you okay? The doctor said to keep it on for at least a couple more weeks—"

You don't notice the way he's staring at you. Watching your little mother hen routine with eyes that track every little detail.

"Rob? Robert."

He blinks, looking at your concerned face. "Hm? What?" He shakes off the stupor. "Oh, uh, yeah. Yeah, it's fine. Don't worry." He shrugs, only to immediately regret it as he hissed at the movement. Yep… Still a bit sore around the edges. Of course it is. Because that's how it works, Robert. You didn't just magically heal after some famous superhero popped your arm back into place.

"Rob—"

"It's fine," he reassures, firmer this time. His good hand lifting in a halt motion, an emphasis to pause your whole little fluttering around him. "I'm fine, [Name]. I'm okay." His hand smoothed his shoulder followed by him gently rolling his neck. The exhale of relief—or perhaps lingering tension and aches—falling past his lips.

The moment he opened his eyes again, they locked with yours. That's been happening a lot recently, hasn't it? Or at least a lot more than it's ever happened before.

"But-" You try.

His hands, gloved yet even them oh so warm and gentle, land on your shoulders. A barely there squeeze that both grounds you and makes it feel like something is squeezing your heart and lungs.

"We’re okay." The light catches his eyes. Eyes that are tracing your anxiety-ridden body with such deep concern its exposing. "Okay?"

"…Okay."

The moment lingers.

And it passes.

The two of you eventually are walking side by side, close enough that you occasionally feel the brush of his jacket against yours. The silence is comfortable. No performance, no flare of dramatics or whatever else usually breaks these pockets. You love when this happens. Love that you feel such comfort and safety with Robert that words are just unnecessary.

Love…

Just focus. Focus on something else because you’ve been thinking wayyyyy too much about this recently. Way too much. Way way way—

"So." You clear your throat. "You gonna tell me why you were up there now or am I just gonna have to guess?"

Robert huffs. "Right, right. I did say I would tell you once I got down, didn't I?" A side glance at you. "Which I should probably given your guessing skills are horrible."

"Excuse you. My guessing skills are actually amazing." You argue, eyes crinkling as you grin. "I have like a 99.9% correct guess rate, okay? It's to a point that I'm lowkey physic or something."

That had him laughing. His head tossing back, filling the night sky with laughter that you can't help but beam at. Your attention following the motion of his head falling forward with the airy remnants of chuckles. "You're something alright."

"Man, fuck you." You grumble, shouldering him gently. He repaying you with his own shoulder bump, resulting in a childish back and forth. Until he finally conceded in with telling you how he—up on a billboard—came to be.

"…So, where's your car?"

"uh… I forgot it. Anyway, storytime?"

—"Alright, so let me get this straight," by then, the two of you had finally returned to his apartment. Beef half draped across your lap as you sit across from him, using the opposing side of Mecha Man suit as your support. "You get your ass whooped by these skittle people, right? Blonde Blazer comes to save you because you bit off more than you can chew, then she sorta just kidnaps you to a hero bar after fixing your arm?" That name does ring a bell but the face you can't quite remember. What? Your days are more focused on putting one foot in front of the other, not drooling over superheros. But hey, she sounds pretty. And nice. And strong. And perfect… "And at that bar, you run into this flame villain dude you dealt with years ago whos now a superhero or something and you end up getting his tooth knocked out because he slipped on the water you threw. You get kicked out of the bar then Blonde Blazer kidnaps you again... to go admire Hollywood hill on a Pheno-me-man's" a pointed pause as you struggled with the name. "billboard. Where she generally says this was a interview and you can become a dispatcher for heroes in turn for support in rebuilding your suit… And after you agree your kidnapper leaves you up there."

You wave your spoon around because of course, the two of you just decided to enjoy cereal tonight instead of wasting time (and money) on picking something up.

"Obviously I cut out some other parts but you can't tell me that sounds a little…"

"Crazy?" Robert acknowledges. "Stupid? Weird? Yeah. It does. I know." In truth, he actually didn't really process much of what was truly happening till now. As he often does with things he brings to you given you are the ever present voice of reason in his crumbling life.

You shrug, bobbing the spoon between your thumb and forefinger. "All of that, I guess." You murmur. 'I guess' because you don't really want to call him directly out or make him feel belittled. Although, you may have sort of failed at that. In a way, you can easily assume why he was so eager to do it in the first place. I mean, dispatcher work—whatever that truly means—and in turn you get generations of life's work back? You aren't dumb. Robert isn't the same since the accident. Hell, he hasn't been the same for awhile. When it became clearer that he couldn't bring the Mecha Man suit back to life and he even lacked the Astral Pulse, it meant that everything he knew was simply… gone. It was done. And he couldn't do anything about it. Unless he resorted to stealing stuff for the sole purpose of reconstruction but that was something he never wanted to do. If anything, if he was caught, who knows how much worse his public image would be.

Mecha Man, or just rather, just a man, 'nothing' without his suit caught stealing.

"Where are you?"

The question pulls you out of the disassociation. You look up, realizing you've been staring at the empty bowl cradled in your lap for longer than you thought—long enough for the milk residue to start drying in a thin film around the edges. Robert is still there, of course he is, but now there's a slight furrow creasing his brows and a frown pulling at his lips that makes him look younger somehow. Vulnerable. His eyes are flickering over your face with an intensity that makes your skin feel warm, like he's trying to read something written in a language only he can understand. Which is often how he looks when coding. Capturing, memorizing every micro-expression—or perhaps that's just wishful thinking on your part. Perhaps you're projecting your own habits onto him, the way you've memorized the exact shade of his eyes in different lighting, how expressive he really is with such eyes, the way his smile changes depending on his mood.

"Here." You tell him, even though the both of you know it's a lie.

He doesn't call you out.

Not this time, at least.

His jaw works like he's considering it, like the words are right there waiting to be spoken, but he swallows them down. You see the moment he makes the decision, the slight relaxation of his shoulders, the way his expression softens into something more neutral. It makes your chest ache—this dance you both do, this careful navigation around truths, confusion, and whatever else nonsense that this is.

"What do you think?" He asks instead, and the shift in his tone is palpable. Genuine and wanting, almost needy in the way he's seeking your feedback. Like your opinion is the only one that truly matters in all of this chaos. "About the dispatcher thing, I mean. I can always back out if you think it's a stupid idea."

There's something fragile in the offer, in the way he's giving you this power over his decision. Like he'd actually do it—throw away this opportunity, this chance to be part of that world again—if you asked him to.

You're quick to shake your head, perhaps too quick, too desperate. Not ever wanting to be the reason he gives up on something that clearly sparked life back into those warm brown eyes. Not ever wanting to go against his wishes or his hope, especially when both have been in such short supply lately. "No, no." The words tumble out as you begin to shift, using your free hand to carefully dislodge Beef from your lap (much to the dog's grumbling protest) so you can stand. So you can clean up. So you can create distance before you say something you can't take back. "I think… It's a good idea, actually. Really."

You add the second affirmation more sincerely, more firmly, looking down at him while he looks up at you from his spot on the floor. The angle makes him seem smaller somehow, less like the hero he was and more like just... Robert. Your Robert. Not that he's yours. Not in any way that counts.

"You'll do great, Robert. You always do." The conviction in your voice surprises even you. "You're brilliant and resourceful and—" you gesture vaguely with the bowl, some of the remaining milk threatening to slosh over the edge, "—and you care so much about helping people. Even when the world hasn't been particularly kind to you lately. That matters. You matter. SDN-T should be glad to have you."

God. That means a lot to him. It does. Even if you don't know it, even if you can't see the way his breath catches slightly, the way something raw and exposed flashes across his face before he can school it into something more manageable. He really needs to communicate better. Needs to tell you how much your words mean, how much you mean, how you've been the only constant thing keeping him tethered to something resembling sanity these past months. But sometimes it's just… hard with you. Not in a bad way, never in a bad way—just in a way that makes his heart beat too fast and his palms sweat and his usually quick tongue tie itself into knots. In a way that makes him terrified of ruining the best thing in his life by wanting more than he has any right to ask for.

"Thanks," he whispers, your name pouring past his lips with such gratitude it sounds almost like a prayer. Like an invocation. Like something sacred.

The moment stretches between you, elastic and fragile, filled with all the things neither of you are saying. You can feel your pulse in your throat, can see the way his chest rises and falls with slightly uneven breaths. Beef whines softly from his new position near the wall, sensing the shift in atmosphere the way animals do, but neither of you look away from each other.

You should leave. You should clean up the bowls, make some excuse about an early morning or errands to run or literally anything that would let you escape before you do something stupid like lean down and—

"Stay."

The word stops you mid-turn, your hand already reaching for his empty bowl. It's quiet, almost tentative, so unlike Robert's usual confident drawl that for a moment you think you imagined it.

"What?" You hear yourself ask, turning back to face him fully. Your heart is doing that thing again, that stupid acrobatic routine that makes you feel sixteen instead of an adult who should have better control over their cardiovascular system.

"I mean…" He shrugs, and this time the wince is barely noticeable—he's getting better at hiding the pain, which worries you more than you'd like to admit. He looks away briefly, his good hand coming up to rub at the back of his neck in a gesture you've learned means he's nervous. Unsure. "It's late. You shouldn't walk home at this time."

Practical. Reasonable. Exactly the kind of thing he'd say.

But then he continues.

"Plus, Beef could use you as a pillow instead of me." His eyes find yours again, and there's something playful there now, something lighter that doesn't quite mask the undertone of please in his voice. "He's been extra clingy lately and honestly, my leg keeps falling asleep. You'd be doing me a favor. A huge favor. Potentially saving my leg from permanent nerve damage."

The corner of your mouth twitches upward despite yourself. "Oh, so this is a medical necessity? You're asking me to stay for health reasons?"

"Exactly." He nods solemnly, but you can see the smile he's fighting. "Doctor's orders. Well, not a real doctor. But I did stay at a Holiday Inn Express once, so basically the same thing."

"You're ridiculous," you tell him, but you're quick to go drop off the bowls in the sink. Spraying them briefly to submerge and avoid any creepy crawlies from swarming them as your night comes to an end. You'll wash them in the morning.

By the time you return, you already feeling the tension in your shoulders start to ease at the prospect of not having to leave, not having to go back to your empty apartment where you'll just lie awake thinking about him anyway.

"Ridiculously charming?" He offers, that eyebrow arching in the way that absolutely should not be as attractive as it is.

"Ridiculously something," you mutter, echoing his earlier sentiment while lowering yourself back down to the floor. Beef immediately seizes the opportunity, launching himself into your lap that makes your legs ache. "Oof—okay, okay, I'm staying. Happy now?"

But you're not looking at Beef when you ask. You're looking at Robert, whose entire face has softened into something so openly relieved, so genuinely happy, that it makes your chest feel too tight and too full all at once.

"Yeah," he says quietly, and maybe it's the late hour or the dim lighting or the fact that you're both exhausted from months of emotional upheaval, but you swear there's more weight to that single word than there should be. "Yeah, I am."

You settle in, adjusting Beef's considerable weight across your legs, and try to ignore the way your shoulder is now pressed against Robert's arm. Back to simple cushion that separates you from the rough surface of the Mecha Man suit. Try to ignore how warm he is, how solid, how alive in a way that still sometimes surprises you after so many days of watching him lie motionless in that hospital bed.

"We should probably actually sleep at some point," you point out, even though neither of you make any move to get up. "You know, in an actual bed. That thing you own that's specifically designed for sleeping."

"Beds are overrated," Robert counters, but he's already starting to slide and slouch, gravity pulling him down into a more comfortable position. "Floors are where it's at. Very grounding. Literally."

"Your back is going to hate you in the morning."

"My back already hates me. We're not on speaking terms." He yawns, the sound catching and morphing into a small laugh. "Besides, if we stay here, Beef doesn't have to move. And we've already established he's been going through a lot."

"Ah yes. Poor Beef. Such a hard life, being constantly fed and loved."

"The hardest," Robert agrees mock-seriously.

The conversation drifts into sleepy nonsense after that—half-finished thoughts and inside jokes, comfortable silence punctuated by the occasional comment that makes one or both of you snort with laughter. Till laughter is so aggressive you're wondering if you have to call an ambulance because you're this close to passing out at something that isn't as funny as either of you think. You talk about nothing and everything: a meme you saw, a weird dream Robert had, a fat squirrel, whether cereal is technically a soup (it's not, and you will die on this hill), what Beef's internal monologue probably sounds like.

At some point, Robert's head tips sideways, coming to rest against your shoulder with a weight that feels both casual and monumental. You freeze for just a second, waiting for him to move, to correct the position, to make some joke about it—but he doesn't. He just settles there, his breathing evening out, and you can feel the moment he starts to drift toward sleep.

"Hey, [Name]?" His voice is rough, muffled slightly against your shoulder.

"Hmm?" You're afraid to say more, afraid to move, afraid to break whatever spell has fallen over this moment.

"Thanks. For everything. For being here. For not… giving up on me. Even when I was—" he pauses, searching for words. "Even when things were really bad."

Your throat feels tight. You want to tell him that there was never a universe where you would have given up on him, never a timeline where you wouldn't have been there. That the thought of leaving never even crossed your mind, not once during those long hospital nights or difficult rehab sessions or moments when he was so frustrated with his body's limitations that he couldn't hide it anymore.

Instead, you carefully shift your free arm—the one not trapped under Beef's bulk—and let your hand find his where it rests near his knee. Your fingers curl around his palm, squeezing gently.

"Always," you whisper into the dim apartment, into the comfortable silence, into the space between what is and what could be. "I'm always going to be here, Rob."

You feel more than hear his response—a small exhale, a slight increase in pressure as his fingers squeeze back, and then the full weight of him relaxing completely against your side.

Within minutes, his breathing has deepened into the steady rhythm of actual sleep. Beef is already snoring, a gentle rumble that vibrates through your legs. And you—

You're wide awake, hyper-aware of every point of contact, every breath, every small shift and adjustment. Your heart is doing that stupid thing again, racing like you've run a marathon instead of just sitting still on a floor with your best friend sleeping on your shoulder.

Your best friend.

The label feels both perfectly accurate and wildly insufficient.

But it's late, and you're tired, and for once—for this one night—you let yourself have this. Let yourself be selfish enough to memorize the weight of him against you, the warmth seeping through layers of fabric, the trust implicit in the way he's completely unguarded in sleep.

Tomorrow, you can go back to being just friends. You can rebuild your walls and maintain appropriate boundaries. You can pretend that your heart doesn't stutter every time he smiles.

But tonight? Tonight you just close your eyes, rest your cheek against the top of his head, and let yourself imagine a world where this is normal. Where this is allowed. Where staying doesn't have to come with caveats and excuses and carefully maintained emotional distance. Just you, Beef, Robert, and the gentle giant of Mecha Man's lifeless vessel protecting your purpose. 

Until recently, where it seems less like a fantasy and more like a terrifying possibility. 

Over the past few weeks Luke has gone out of his way to be sweet to you. Or at least you think so. He’s spent extra time talking to you at lunch, laughing at your half-formed jokes almost in earnest. At bonfires he saves you a seat, grabs you a marshmallow on occasion. You even made him a friendship bracelet of sorts—admittedly a little ugly—but he’s never taken it off. Not since the day you gave it to him. 

Not to mention helping you last week before the archery competition. His hands lingering over yours as he steadied your bow, the curls of his breath on the back of your neck when he stood behind you. 

“Don’t be nervous,” he says, a tinge of mirth in his voice. “You just steady your aim and first is as good as yours.”

(You came in fifteenth.)

You don’t want to say that it’s him weakening your aim, making your pulse beat out of your neck. His nose brushes against the back of your jaw as he leans forward and you smell the pine on his skin. Is this friendly? Is he this close on purpose? Are you delusional?

It’s all you’ve been thinking about these past few days. So when Luke Castellan’s endless admirers come to the forefront of your mind, you feel like all those moments of potential buildup have been ripped away. 

“You alright there, sunshine?” 

He takes you out of your spiral with a teasing lilt you love. When you look at him, his face is a shimmering warmth, complete with boyish smile. 

“Yep,” you reply, trying to ignore the nickname making your insides flutter even though you know he’s saying it ironically.

You’ve always had a gift for identifying colour. It’s the thing you pay attention to most. Something inherited from your mother, you suppose. So you’ve memorized the way Luke’s eyes melt in the sunlight. How his scar blends with his pinking cheeks when it’s hot outside. You never told him, and you probably never will, but you’ve painted him from memory quite a few times in the Apollo cabin—always with the excuse that you were practicing. It's so blatantly obvious you're in love with him there's no point in your friends bringing it up.  

The two of you are meandering around camp before dinner, a tradition Luke started early on in the summer. You talk about high points of your day (mostly you) or share nuggets of gossip you’ve heard around camp (mostly him). It's the thing you looked forward to every morning. A time when his words are just for you. 

Idle chatter flows as you keep walking. Sometimes your arm brushes his and you have the embarrassing urge to tug yours away. You do your best not to stare at him too long or laugh too loud at his jokes. 

“Hey, Castellan!” Someone calls. 

Luke’s head turns. Your heart plummets. A beautiful girl, Aphrodite cabin, you think, is heading towards you. She’s all honey-spun hair and dazzling pink lips, and it’s obvious she knows it. You don’t know her name. But Luke does. 

They fall into conversation the second she arrives. It’s just greetings, pleasantries, but there’s a coy smile on the girl’s face that betrays any sense of disinterest. “Heard you’re not too keen on pairing up with us for the Chariot Race next week. What gives?” Her tone is pouty and playful as she taps Luke’s shoulder. She side-eyes you, lips curling imperceptibly. “I’m sure you’ll have a better chance with us.”

He lets out a strained chuckle. “Dunno, just thought it was fine to switch it up.”

Just like that, you’re out of the loop again. More of her friends flock after her, and soon Luke is tangled in a whole other world. They’re all glowing with a kind of righteousness you only get when you’re popular. You know Luke has friends, tons of them. He's the leader of the cabin with the most campers. Not to mention assertive and gorgeous. His presence is so inviting it’s a challenge not to fall in love with him. 

So you can’t blame this girl, the one that keeps touching his arm and giggling. It’s not like you’ve staked your claim on Luke—no one even knows you exist. As much as you want him to be yours, you know you’ll never stop someone from taking him first. It’s your fatal flaw, you think. Cowardice. 

You end up sidelined completely. Watching him swathed in people more charismatic than you plants an ache deep inside you. All your wishful thinking feels sour now, a pipe dream, a bedtime story to help you sleep better. Somehow it hurts more knowing that it’s nobody’s fault but yours. These people can’t be doing this on purpose. It’s just who they are. It’s who you are—always a step behind, always daydreaming. You are your mother’s daughter, after all. Just a prism reflecting everyone around you. 

Eventually, one of the boys in the group takes notice of you. He’s not nearly as captivating as Luke is—you don’t find the colours of his eyes hold as much depth. There’s also a haughtiness when he looks at you. He sneers, “What the hell do you have on your face?”

It draws the attention of others in the group. You feel like a naked sculpture in an art gallery. “Uh, what?” You stammer. 

Some of them purse their lips. The girl with Luke lets a laugh slip. You’re pretty sure you look like an idiot, waiting there with your brows wrinkled in a daze. Their gazes keep flicking over to your cheek, so your hand flies up there before you can delay any more. When you press your fingers to the side of your face, they come away tacky and pink. Mortification constricts you.

Paint. It’s leftover, half-dried paint. The colour of Luke’s cheeks in the sun. 

“Oh,” you say dumbly. It’s drowned by snickers. All you can do is find Luke, the only face you know, and ask, “Why didn’t you tell me?” without sounding too hurt. 

You know you failed when your voice comes out wrong and his ebony brows push together. “I thought it looked—”

He never gets to finish because the golden girl laughs a little louder, the pink tones in her face a little darker. “Oh my Gods, you’re that Iris kid that’s always singing, right?” She giggles sharply, cornflower eyes darting between her friends. There’s something in there you can’t quite pick up on, until it flushes the pupils of all her friends, and they all grin with a secret knowledge they want you to see. “You’re, like, really good!” The girl simpers, but her bottom lip pulls between her teeth to soften another laugh. 

“Oh, so good!” Another friend piles on. 

Their passive-aggressive chuckles start to sound like hail on a window. You shift further away from them. Dirt slides beneath your shoe, and you long to kick up more of it, displace yourself, disappear. 

You don’t look at Luke. The giggly, flaxen girl has already turned back to him, and you’re sure he’s enthralled once more. You try to stir up the image of Luke’s closeness during archery practice, the lilac bruise on his knuckles when he angled your bow, but it doesn’t take. Now, it feels like you’ve dreamed it. 

Out of the corner of your eye, you see Luke leaning down to catch a whisper from the Aphrodite girl’s ear. The boy that first commented on your cheek leans closer to you again. He’s suffocatingly smug when he grins, “Why are you still here? Shouldn’t you go … wash that off? You don’t want to look like that at dinner.” He snorts. “For an Iris kid, you really aren’t good at taking a message.” 

If you were a more confident person, maybe you’d point out how that didn’t really make sense, or how stupid it sounded coming out of his mouth. But the sentiment of it wounds you, and you’re weak enough as is. 

"Guess you're right," you mumble. You wipe your face of paint as you leave. The memory of Luke’s skin stains you until you wash your hands off in the sink. 

You haven’t talked to him since. 

It’s been a few days of you avoiding him, and it’s hard to explain to anyone why you’ve been doing it. How do you tell the truth? Luke Castellan is a work of art and you are … a weird doodle, or something. Despite your adoration, you know there’s no reason he should feel the same for you. Everyone loves him for a reason. Everyone must ignore you for one, too. 

“Why haven’t you been talking to Luke?”

The question breaks your concentrated silence in the Apollo cabin. You’ve been sitting here for a while now, humming to yourself over a mostly blank canvas. The cabin is dusted with a lilac haze, thanks to your manipulation of the light streaming through the windows. Helps you feel less like you’re at camp and more like you’re in a fairytale. 

“Helloooo, lady, I asked you a question.”

You begrudgingly look up. Lee Fletcher, head of the Apollo cabin, is at the mouth of the cabin, gazing at all your supplies strewn about the floor like they’re a bunch of unsavoury substances. “It looks like a hurricane came in here. Now why aren’t you talking to Luke?”

“How do you know I’m not talking to him?” You mutter as Lee sits beside you. 

“Uh, because you’ve been sleeping here multiple nights in a row and you never do that. And you don’t sit with him at dinner. And whenever we see him you drag me in the other direction—”

“Lee!”

“I’m just saying, you should probably talk about it. My beautiful voice can heal wounds, yes, but not of the heart.” He splays a hand across his chest in mock theatrics.

You don’t say anything. The familiar weight of the brush against your fingertips is far more comforting than trying to talk, so you busy yourself with your canvas again. “He waits for you, you know,” Lee continues, quieter. “In the morning. And before dinner. He always asks if you’re here.”

“Oh,” you say, and your wavering voice betrays your expression. But you think of everyone else at camp, their gleaming smiles and their celebrated parents, their own cabins and friends and dreams, how you don’t seem to have any of those. You think of the girl whispering in Luke’s ear. All her shades of beauty. You know it’s wrong to compare yourself, to be jealous. You’re just … sad.

The cabin darkens from a lilac to an imperceptibly gloomier shade. A blue sort of longing gets caught in your throat, blurring the colours on your canvas. But you keep your brush steady, focused on the scratch of its bristles so you don’t have to hear what you say next. 

“I think I love him, Lee.” And then, “But I don’t think he loves me.”

There’s no sound except the scraping of your brush when it’s run out of paint, and a sniffle when a tear rolls down your cheek. 

“Oh,” Lee fills the silence the way you did just moments before. Then he says your name, laced with pity, and hugs you on the floor of his lavender cabin. 

“You want to help me lead the bonfire song tonight?” He asks after a minute. “Or at least … come to the bonfire song?” 

“No to the first, yes to the second.”

You wish you said no to both. 

The spot you choose after dinner is right next to the fire so you can distract yourself with the golden flecks of flame. Fire is so fluid, so complex, from a colour perspective. But no matter how close you get, the searing warmth can’t hide Luke’s gaze peering over the embers. 

He will not. Stop. Looking at you. 

The singing from the Apollo kids usually soothes you but tonight it’s just making you anxious. All this attention so close to you. Will Solace has been sitting next to you this whole time, your unofficial assigned companion for the night thanks to Lee. One of his siblings beckons him over, and he shoots you an apologetic look, hesitating. "Just go," you wave off kindly. "It's all good." He's not entirely convinced, and you aren't either, but he squeezes your shoulder with thanks and leaves you anyway.

Now you’re acutely aware the space next to you is wide open. And so is Luke, it seems. There’s an awkward moment where your gazes slide over each other and he weaves out of his current crowd towards you. So you do the most mature, sound thing you could possibly do in this situation:

You say you have to go to the bathroom to no one in particular and get out of there. 

It’s dark, but you’ve got sharper eyes than most. Soon the noise of the campfire is behind you. You traipse through the camp towards the bathroom,but you don’t get far before you hear something that makes your stomach drop in the worst and best way. 

Luke, calling your name. 

At first you think you can get away with not hearing him. Then he calls a second, a third, a fourth time, punctuated with, “Come on, I know you can hear me, can you just turn around?”

He’s got longer legs than you so the next time he speaks it’s practically in your ear. “Hey, just look at me. Please. I want to talk to you.”

There’s something so tender in his voice that it makes you cave immediately. But you already feel so fragile, you can feel the tears behind your eyes. You know you won’t have the strength to talk to him. 

His hand curls gently around your wrist and it sends warmth all the way up your arm. He says your name again, softer, and you love the way it sounds. You can’t meet his eyes, but you already know what he looks like. Even in the dark you picture him crystal clear. 

“Look at me,” he repeats. “I just—I need to know what I did wrong.”

His dark eyes are full and apprehensive when you heed him. You notice how much you’ve missed studying his face—the slight bunch of his brows, the tensing in his jaw. And you almost delude yourself that he’s missed you just as much, the way he squeezes your wrist and rakes over your expression.

“Why are you ignoring me?” He asks. 

“I’m not—”

“You are. I know you. Just tell me why.” 

He looks so sweet, so earnest, and it kills you. You think of the way he looked when all his friends made fun of you. It all comes up before you can help it. 

“Do you always let me walk around looking like an idiot?” You ask bitingly, staring at the floor. “The thing, with the paint on my cheek—why didn’t you tell me? I looked so stupid and all your friends just laughed at me!” 

His face falls. “I tried to tell you, I thought—”

“It’s okay to say you don’t like me, or that you’re embarrassed, or whatever, but I …” You swallow, tears thick on your lower lashes. “Everyone makes fun of me. I don’t know why you don’t.”

“Because I do like you,” he states, hand moving up to your forearm. 

“Don’t say that,” you whisper. “You’re so much … better, you know you are, and I don’t want your pity, or your spare time. I just—I made something up in my head that wasn’t there and I only noticed it the other day after you talked to that girl and that guy made fun of me and I’m really, really sorry—”

“It looked cute. I was trying to say I didn’t tell you about the paint because I thought it was cute.”

There’s a lull.

“What?” You blink stupidly. 

“I know I should’ve told you about it, but I swear I was going to before dinner, I didn’t think we’d run into anyone before then.” His cheeks tinge red. “I had this whole dumb thing planned out where I’d wipe it off your cheek and tell you how cute it was once you got embarassed. I was waiting to tell you. I was thinking about it the whole time.”

His hand on your arm is a frighteningly grounding thing. You're dumbstruck by that alone. Your lips part, but all that comes out is, “Why?”

A gentle laugh tumbles out of his throat. “Why do you think?”

His other hand comes up to brush your cheekbone, where the paint had been, and you can imagine him doing it to you on that day. How you'd probably react just the way he said you would, the way you are now. A warm orange glow blooming in your chest. “But the girl—”

“She tried whispering to me how much she liked my bracelet,” he smiles fondly. “Told her you made it for me. It shut her up. I don’t know what that guy said to you but I chewed ‘em all out the second you left. They knew I wasn’t happy. I tried looking for you but you were gone. I don't like them, you know."

You don’t know what to say. It’s too difficult, too uncertain for you to jump the gun on this. So you just stare at all the shifting colours on his face as he moves closer to you. All this time going over his every detail, and there's still more to be enthralled by.

“I found the paintings,” he says, voice so close you can feel it brushing your skin. “The ones of me. I was looking for you in the Apollo cabin a week ago and you left one out. I knew it was yours because ... I mean, there’s no one in the world that can make me look that … beautiful.” 

The last word is apprehensive but it’s spoken with an unimaginable tenderness. He looks a little teary himself. You think you’re dreaming. “I knew I had to tell you after that. I’ve been trying to tell you. But you started pulling away from me so I thought I was making it all up.”

“Tell me what?” It’s a ghost of a question between you, an impossible thing, but the hand on your arm slips around to your back and he presses it there with such certainty. 

“You’re really gonna make me say it?” He cocks his head, but you nod. “I’m in love with you, I think.”

The words cascade over you in ribbons of warmth. Your brain feels fuzzy, seperate from the rest of your body. Your mouth opens multiple times but you can’t seem to control what comes out. “Luke, are you joking?”

“Not even a little.”

“But you’ve got so many other—”

“I want you.”

“I am literally the most incompetent person alive; I can’t sing, I can’t talk to people, I have a weird knee—”

"Your knee is fine!"

"I'm just saying, this makes no sense from an outsider perspective, it's—"

“Okay, clearly the telling thing isn’t working so I guess I’m just gonna have to kiss you.”

It happens so quickly you don’t have any time to think (probably for the better). You let out a surprised “oh” before his mouth silences you, stopping every other thought. He’s gentle, thumb still rubbing your cheekbone, other hand still firm at your waist. You want to panic—where should you put your hands? How do you know you’re doing this right? But he steadies you, the way he always does, and you give in. 

He starts to smile against your lips. You’re almost positive the intensity of your heartbeat could summon a storm. When he pulls away, he kisses the corners of your mouth and you think you’re going to evaporate. “I don’t think I’m very good at this,” you whisper.

“You’re perfect.” He grins a little when your hands tentatively tug at a curl on the nape of his neck. “And none of that stuff you say is true. I mean, you’re definitely a better singer than me.”

Leaning close to your ear, he warbles out a song you know but gets the words horribly wrong anyways. You can’t help but laugh. “Okay, maybe you have a point.”

He hums and chuckles with you. You swear the moon gets brighter when he wraps his arms around your waist to kiss the side of your face. “Next time you paint me, I want to be there when you do it.”

You blush harder than you ever have in your life. “Only if you try painting me,” you say quietly.

“Of course. You’re very pretty, so I’m sure my horrible artistic skills won’t even make you look bad.”

Luke lets you press your face into the crook of his neck. You soak it up for all it’s worth. 

In the morning, you wake up in the same position. Your nose tucked against his collarbone, the shade of pink you love freckled across his cheeks. You can't wait to paint him again.

When you look out the window, you say a silent, grateful prayer to your mother.

It was your fault, really, having attempted an awkward joke with a delivery just like Trinity’s—in that “heyyy, I hardly know you but I'm gonna crack this dumb joke like I know it’s dumb too so I’m totally lightening the mood, right?” kinda way.

Actually, scratch that: it wasn't your fault. Trinity knows exactly how you are and yet she still put you across the human embodiment of a bunny or a golden retriever puppy. So, naturally, as you all scrambled for a relaxed air at that old bar table, you found yourself pointing finger-guns at Mel and joking that having you as a roommate comes with the bonus of discounted piercings—free, if it’s her birthday.

This earned you no less than 20 minutes of piercing horror stories from the past 6 months of her working in the Emergency Department.

“I just never understood it…? I guess?“ Mel concluded her awkward rambling like it was a question, with a shy smile that didn't quite know how to pull at her lips. “Plus, heh, I could barely handle getting my ears pierced.”

Even her hands seemed to have minds of their own, constantly shifting like they also had no clue what to do with themselves. She went to settle her hands on the table for the millionth time, only to pull them away for the millionth time when assaulted by the physical reminder that the surface was still sticky. At some point during all her talking, she had even tried wiping the spot in front of herself, but the napkin stuck and tore, leaving a paper skin to become one with the table.

“No—no offense, I… yeah, that’s just what I know about body… modifications...”

You glanced at Trinity, who was sighing heavily through her nose and chugging her drink. All you could think was how you had been desperate for a place to stay… but maybe not this desperate. Maybe starting over at a new shop while continuing to be stuck at a hotel and anxiously apartment-hunting all at the same time would be okay. The grass is greener over the septic tank, or something like that…

“It’s alright, I guess… Makes sense since your knowledge on the matter is in a vacuum. When they’re done right, people don’t go to the ER because of their piercings,” you point out, your tone sharper than intended, but it did ease your internal tension a bit. Your initial politeness was worn down a little more every minute that blonde had gone on about infection… and nickel allergies… and unsanitary practices… and that one story an attending told her about someone’s abdominal wall being pierced after a very, very poorly executed navel piercing.

“I- well, yes,” Mel’s lips quirked to the side, and she squinted slightly as if physically pained by your accurate point; seeming to take this as yet another ignorant approach to her good and hardy medical knowledge. Her irritation was temporarily smothered by a brief, overwhelmed silence that came over her. She sipped at her Sprite.

This was honestly the last thing you needed, and you hadn’t expected someone Trin vouched for to be yet another ass about your career and, in turn, the way you look. Let me guess, if I or any of my friends showed up to your ER, you’d be assuming some sort of criminal background, you thought during the pause, visibly tapping out as you stared out the window of the bar.

Or pull that “Oh come on getting stuck one more time won’t be so bad! Look at all these tattoos and piercings you have!” crap.

“I’m sorry, I just-“ Mel stopped to let out a little breath, feeling like her skin was crawling over your not seeming to listen to her very valid points and experience. “I feel very aware of certain dangers…?”

“Jesus…” Trinity groaned through an exasperated laugh, getting up from her spot to order more drinks. Mel blinked her wide-eyed gaze at her coworker until she was out of sight, hands folded away from the table.

“I don’t see the appeal with such a high risk of infection and scarring, I guess, is what I mean. So… yeah.”

Sighing softly, you dragged your gaze back to her, looking her over again. Her posture was like that stereotypical lesson of imagining a string pulling you up from the top of your head. You were sure that if you left a stack of books on her head, they would be steady even while she went on and on… and on.

Mel’s hands, however, remained constantly busy being squeezed tightly together or gesturing; or she was toying with them, sometimes holding onto her glass until the sweat on its surface bothered her too much. She was talking again, you think, but her voice was a distant hum with the occasional word poking through as you took in her features, gears starting to turn in your mind.

“That sucks,” you finally spoke again, interrupting whatever she was saying now.

She blinked, tilted her head, and her lips parted like she meant to make some kind of questioning sound, but didn’t.

“You don’t want any piercings, but you have great anatomy for some of the coolest stuff. I had a client the other week who had been saving up for an industrial piercing, which goes through here,” you drew a line from the upper curve of your ear across to the innermost side. She didn’t do very well at hiding her cringe, if she even tried. “But she didn’t have the anatomy for it. You, however, have a very clear cartilage—sorry—helix ridge and…”

You leaned forward, the blonde flinching inward as you reached across the table to rest the pad of your pointer finger on the curve of her ear. She pressed into herself, looking to the side like if she went inward enough, she might be able to see what you were doing.

“You have a good shape to it, too. She unfortunately had an unusual curve to hers that got in the way. I could easily give you an industrial, though.”

“Well, I don’t- o-kay…” she started off strong only to dip down to a whisper once you kept talking.

“See, I could’ve pierced her even with that anatomical quirk. But,” you sighed with a touch of dramatics, arm drawn back again.

“I wouldn’t have been able to align the barbell the way I’d need to, and it would’ve rejected for sure. At best, it would’ve been inflamed until she got it taken out again. At worst, if the healing process was particularly bad—especially from messing with it and not following my aftercare instructions, which is unfortunately very common, doctor—it would’ve gotten infected.”

“I see…” she trails off, a pretty dusting of pink high on her cheekbones. That cute flushing almost made you feel bad about your attitude. Almost.

“So… you just sent her home?” She tentatively asked the simple, clarifying question like a peace offering, all while giving you those puppy eyes. Damn her for showing how guilty she feels for her social stumbling. It makes you feel like an ass for being irritated in the first place. But she had her tangent, shouldn’t you get yours too?

“I am so glad you asked,” you began, and she huffed out a small laugh, looking down at her lap as a half smile tugged at her slender lips.

“No. I couldn’t give her the traditional look, but I could create a similar effect with a few connected helix piercings. I was able to customize a bit, and with the right jewelry, she was happy.”

“‘S nice you could do that…” she nodded, briefly separating her hands to gesture.

“I can also give you a rundown of my supplies and my sterilization processes, if you want. What materials I work with… where I get my gloves… Oh! I’m sure I could really paint a picture with the sharps containers I’m sure you’re familiar with… let’s see…” you trailed off in faux thought, brows pinched together.

“Oh, my certifications on the wall, right next to the permits we have. From passing mandatory health inspections, for example. I could even tell you which candies I keep in case someone’s blood sugar might crash. I avoid the most common food allergens, too. If that helps.“

“No, no, it’s fine—”

“You sure? Cause I can.”

She rapidly shook her head, squeezing her lips together with her gaze cast down. She didn’t plan on looking up again, if ever after this, but that meant she missed the shift in your expression as you realized maybe you went a little too far with your attitude this time. Had she known you longer than the 30-40 minutes or so that she has, she might’ve known you could get snippy when you were stressed. Not to mention that she had unknowingly leaned into a sore spot.

She only raised her eyes again out of curiosity when her Sprite was being moved aside. You laid out a couple of unfolded napkins in front of her, draping a panel over the lip of the table facing her.

“Oh—okay,” she mumbled when you reached for her hands where she had them clutched together in front of her chest, guiding her by her wrists enough to urge her to set them down the way she had clearly wanted to. You then concluded with the sharp clack of the coaster and soda being placed back down in front of her. She jumped a bit from the sound, unsure what to really do with herself over this, but when she glanced at you, you simply pursed your lips at her.

She awkwardly leaned forward to sip from her straw. Then sat back again, her lips tightly pressed together to match yours as she flicked her gaze back up. Then:

“Uhm… Oh! So, do you sell regular earrings at your job…?” she tried in a brighter tone, features lit up by curiosity, and her glasses looking low on her nose with the way she raised her eyebrows so high.

-

Two days later, Trinity texted you that Mel wanted to offer you that spare room if you were still interested, tacking on a “lol” before she disappeared into her shift.

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𝜗𝜚⋆₊˚ the photos and gif used in this post do not belong to me