#brain... shutting... down. please... reboot... system...!!!

He stares over at you again. Peaceful. Cozy. Curled into the blankets like some mythical sleep creature who doesn’t suffer from nighttime biohazards. You look so soft. So warm. So absolutely not something he should be waking up for this bullshit.

But the longer he looks, the worse the problem gets. His body is basically going, Oh, look, comfort and love and safety? Cool, let’s funnel all blood resources to the dick immediately. Idiot.

Robert drops back against the pillow with another pathetic groan. His eyes are half-lidded, exhausted, begging for mercy. “You gotta be kidding me,” he mutters to the ceiling, which does nothing but stare back like it’s judging him.

It doesn’t help that his hips keep trying to move. Little, desperate shifts like he’s subconsciously grinding for friction. It’s humiliating. He feels like he’s trapped in some low-budget late-night infomercial titled Man Fights God for Right to Sleep, Loses.

He grunts through his teeth, fed up but not beaten, and drags a shaky hand down his stomach. He’s so wrung out he can barely keep his eyes open, but he wraps his fingers around his cock anyway, desperate enough to try again even though he already knows how this ends.

He should’ve asked his therapist for those insomnia meds. Should’ve swallowed his pride and admitted he can’t sleep for shit. If he had, maybe he wouldn’t be lying here at two-something in the damn morning with a hard-on that refuses to clock out.

His grip tightens as he pumps his cock, slow at first, then faster when his hips start twitching up to meet his hand on their own. He groans low, biting the inside of his cheek so he doesn’t wake you. Precum slicks his palm instantly, letting him stroke up and down without resistance. The wet slide only makes him shiver harder.

Please, he thinks, almost praying at this point. Please just work. I’m begging you.

His muscles tighten. Heat coils low in his stomach again, creeping up his spine like a fuse burning fast. He pants quietly, breath stuttering with every upward jerk of his hips. He can feel it—his high gathering, swelling, seconds from breaking.

It’s right there. Right there.

Why can’t he just fall over the edge?

His thighs tense. His balls pull tight. His back arches off the mattress.

Then his body seizes up.

The pleasure spikes—then stalls. Locks. Refuses.

He chokes on a groan, frustration tearing through him like fire.

“Fuck!” he snarls under his breath, voice raw, letting go of his twitching length because touching it hurts now. “Fuck…”

His dick jerks against his stomach, angry, swollen, and absolutely no closer to giving him the one thing he needs to sleep.

He’s exhausted. He’s furious. And he’s no closer to relief than when he started.

He closes his eyes, just for a second, letting exhaustion drag through him like static. When he turns toward you, it’s instinct, gravity, something primal pulling him in. His arm slips around your waist, and the moment his skin meets yours—warm, bare, soft in all the places he’s craving—his whole body prickles with goosebumps.

Your naked body molded against him is torture. Sweet, perfect torture.

He presses his forehead to your shoulder and breathes in, shaking. The soft kiss he places there is barely a kiss at all, more like a plea disguised as affection. You shift in your sleep, barely conscious, instinctively pressing your body back into his like you’re made to fit there.

Your ass brushes his cock.

He hisses like he’s been burned, hips jerking forward before he can stop himself.

“Babe…” he whispers, voice cracking as he tries to keep it quiet. He’s out of options. Out of sanity. “Fuck, baby, I need you…”

You let out a soft, sleepy sound, something warm and unintelligible. His heart slams into his ribs.

“Baby,” he tries again, breath hot against your skin. “Fuck, can I fuck you?” The desperation bleeds through every word. He’s begging, actually begging.

You sigh, eyes barely fluttering, and give a slow, easy nod before melting right back into sleep, like he just asked you to pass the salt instead of ruin him.

“Shit…” The apology dies on his tongue as his hand moves on its own. He grips your thigh, warm and soft, and lifts it up, opening you for him. Your legs fall into place with the kind of trust that makes his chest ache.

And there you are.

Wet. Glowing in the low light. Ready for him without even waking up.

“Thank you…” he whispers against your shoulder, stunned, reverent, starving. You’re already drifting in dreamland again, completely unaware of how close he is to breaking apart.

He lines himself up, breath hitching as the head of his cock presses against your heat. Then slowly—so slowly it kills him—he pushes in.

Your warmth wraps around him like a blessing. Like salvation. Like every answer he’s been denied for the past hour.

He shudders, eyes rolling back.

Thanking every star in the sky for this. For you. For the relief hitting him like a wave as he finally—finally—sinks into you.

He doesn’t move at first. He can’t. Not when you’re wrapped around him like this—tight, warm, soft in a way that makes every nerve in his body light up. He holds himself there, buried deep, jaw locked as he forces his breathing to stay quiet so he doesn’t wake you.

When he finally pulls back, it’s slow. Careful. Like he’s afraid to lose the feeling of your heat around him. Then he pushes back in, just as slowly, letting his hips settle into a rhythm that gives him friction without disturbing your sleep.

It’s heaven. It’s torture. It’s exactly what he needed.

His mind starts to haze over, his thoughts dissolving into the steady pulse of your body clenching around him. Words start spilling from his lips before he even realizes he’s saying them.

“Shit… so pretty…” he pants quietly, eyes fixed on where your bodies meet. “Taking me so pretty… so wet.”

Another slow, deep thrust. The kind that makes his thighs tremble.

“Just drooling all over me, yeah?” he whispers, breath hitching as your warmth sucks him in again.

His tip grazes your cervix. You tighten around him on instinct, a sleepy, unconscious reaction that nearly sends him collapsing.

“Ugh—fuck…” he chokes out, shivering. “You trynna break me apart, ain’t you, pretty?”

His voice drops lower, rougher, words slurring as they tumble out. He keeps thrusting into you with that same slow, needy rhythm, each push dragging more filth out of him.

“You feel unreal.”

“Fuck, baby, you’re hugging me so tight…”

“So warm… so wet… fuck…”

“You’re gonna make me lose my mind…”

“You’re perfect—god, you’re perfect…”

“Gonna make me fill you up if you keep squeezing me like that…”

He doesn’t even know if he’s talking to you or your pussy anymore. Probably both. Definitely both. The filth gets worse the longer he moves inside you, his voice soft and broken, like he’s confessing every dirty thought he’s ever had straight into your skin.

And you’re just sleeping through it, gripping him like you were built for him.

It’s driving him insane.

He grunts low in his throat when that familiar burn coils tight in his gut again, hotter this time, sharper, like his body finally decided to cooperate. He forces his eyes open. He needs to see it—his hips snapping gently against yours, the soft bounce of your ass meeting every thrust. It’s almost hypnotic, the way you take him without even waking up.

“So close…” he mumbles, voice ragged. “Gonna make a right mess outta you, girly… want you dripping…”

He bites back a moan as he picks up the pace—still quiet, still controlled, but deeper, more desperate. Each thrust sinks him a little harder into your warmth, each push dragging another pulse out of you. Your pussy keeps clenching around him, little fluttering squeezes that make his head spin… until one sudden, tight grip nearly knocks the breath out of him.

His hips stutter. His heartbeat jumps.

“Hah… fuck…” he pants, thrusting through it, barely holding on. “Made you feel good, yeah?” His voice breaks at the end. “Made you cum all over my dick?”

He can’t keep the rhythm anymore. His thrusts go sloppy, shaky, frantic—his whole body trembling as the pressure snaps inside him with a violent rush.

He stills, buried flush against you, and spills into you hard.

Hot. Deep. Endless.

“Fuck…” he groans, forehead falling to your shoulder as release rips through him. “Take it all, pretty… drink in my cum…”

More filth follows, unfiltered and breathless, tumbling out between shaky exhales.

“Shit… so thirsty for it…”

“That’s it… that’s my girl… milking me so good…”

“Fuck, you’re perfect… perfect…”

His cock twitches inside you, pushing the last few pulses of cum into your already-full cunt. When the high finally begins to ebb, he slumps against you, boneless and bliss-struck, panting quietly against your skin.

He buries himself deeper, like he wants to seal his cum inside you. Then he wraps his arm around your waist again, pulling you close, tucking himself against your back like you’re the world’s softest pillow.

His breathing evens out.

He’s out cold within minutes.

Finally—finally—ready for the best damn sleep of his life before he has to drag himself out of bed tomorrow and pretend he’s a fully functional adult.

suddenly it's too much. a cacophony of stimulation hits your body like a truck and you jolt immediately, a haggard gasp prying itself from your chest. “mmf—haah—”

“there she is.” a presence shifts over you and your eyes finally peel open, blurry vision focusing on a smile that totters between tender and calculating. another stroke and your lids flutter with the threat of squeezing shut. “welcome back to the land of the living.”

you feel it, then. long and precise and reaching into the deepest parts of you. the feeling of wet between your legs, the ache in your bones. your brain slowly reboots as it catalogs each feeling to paint a bigger picture, each blink akin to a herculean task.

“what…”

“you squirted on my fingers.” his voice is too casual for the words leaving his mouth. it makes your head spin, a defeated sound sighing from your lips. his answering smile is sweet. too sweet for his next words. “and then you passed out.”

…oh. “i—mm…?” you entire body feels heavy. and he's still moving, clouding your thoughts and turning any of the half structured attempts at sentences into mush. “too much… ‘s too much, it's—”

pressure on your clit makes your hips jump, an embarrassingly high squeal promptly cut in half when your head falls back. “fuck—fuck—”

there's a phantom feeling of loss of air. like he's reaching deep enough inside you to wrap around your lungs and squeeze. another low laugh makes your skin burn.

“i can’t, i can’t—“ your back arches in a futile attempt to get away from his onslaught, clumsy fingers pushing at his. “please, i can’t—“

“you can,” tight circles against your already sensitive bud make you sob out for relief. “and you will.”

frantic shakes of your head only seem to turn him on. even with your pleading, even with the tremble of your thighs threatening to close around his hands. his fingers curl, prompting a wail from what feels like the depths of your chest to ring in tandem with the static building up in your head.

and yet he still sounds so unfazed. “breathe." a soft murmur against the column of your neck. a shiver lights a path down your neck. "don't choke, now.”

you're trying. you think. most of your thoughts have pooled next to your head on the soft surface of your pillow. you have to remember to blink. remember… remember to…

your chest constricts with a shaky breath, earning you a pleased hum that goes straight to your lower stomach. oh, you think a bit dumbly. right.

fingers curl into the deepest parts of you and your mouth falls open. a stifled whine that cuts itself off halfway into a moan slips past your lips without permission. your eyelids feel so heavy. maybe you'll just close them for a bit.

“no, we can't have that now. keep your eyes open for me. won't you?”

fingertips ghost over your lips in a greeting that grants him access to the wet cavern of your mouth, more pitiful sounds of need lingering in the air to the wet squelch of his fingers between your legs. keep your eyes open, he says. how could you? when the pleasure embraced your body like a warm hug, a caress that made you want nothing more than to just sink into its velvet hold. to let him mold you into whatever he pleased so long as he didn't stop.

teary eyes meet ones that crinkle with fondness. "good," he murmurs softly. "doesn't it feel good?"

"ye–es," you hiccup around his fingers, lower lip trembling as your writhe underneath him. your hands scramble for the hand nestled at your most sensitive parts, fingers wrapped around his wrist as his pace speeds up unforgivably. your voice warbles to match. "feels—fuck, i-it feels so—good!"

"i'm sure it does." teeth graze against sensitive skin only to laugh when you jolt. "good enough to cum again, hm? you'll give me another, won't you?"

in your current state of mind, you'd give him the moon if you were able to bring it down with your own two hands. tears blur your vision once more, warm rivulets cascading down your cheeks and seeping into the rumpled sheets below. but nothing could have prepared you for the feeling of warmth against your cheek, masked by the misconception of a kiss against your skin.

his tongue traces a wet path similar to the tears spilling down your cheeks, nosing almost affectionately against your cheek. a start contrast to the filth smeared between your bodies in sweat, salt, and slick. your chest constricts with another burst of air desperately needing to escape. and when it does, heart flaring like live flamed licking across your bare skin—

his fingers delve even deeper with you. as if sin itself had made contact with the outline of your soul.

your orgasm wracks through your body almost instantly. you can't even scream—voice lodged between stolen breath and words—but your body does. bowing off the bed as if electrocuted, the current struck through his fingers alone. drool strings and stretches when he pulls his fingers from your mouth. your fingers secure an iron grip around his unforgiving hand.

a low curse leaves his lips in a rush. the hushed word spreads like a balm against your chest, eliciting a shuddering exhale of your own. finally, your tired eyes peel open, squinting against light and an orgasm induced head rush.

you're met with twin pools of open need swirling in amber. his gaze wide and predatory, pinning your body to the bed like a moth between metal and plaque. sweat lines his brow and plasters long hair to his forehead. his eyes dilated as if transfixed by the product of his relentless pursuit of your unraveling.

you whisper his name as his tongue darts out to sweep across his lips. caged in as he slowly brings his soiled fingers to his mouth. his gaze is molten as he spreads the taste of you across his tongue, pink blossoming across the bridge of his nose and cheeks.

it's futile. you know he won't stop so long as he has you spread out in front of him like a treat to indulge in. and you know he intends to do just that when his lips find yours in a deceptively soft manner, the hardened mass of his want pressing against the warmth between your legs.

Ross's bedroom is an utter disaster. It always has been... but now, the mess feels suffocating.

   Old, smelly laundry, piled up in wrinkly mountains that suggest intention but never follow through. Empty takeout cups, leaking rancid carbonated liquids and sweating sticky rings into the hardwood floor. An overstuffed, nearly torn trash bag that should've been taken out weeks ago, slumped in the corner.

   Even the blinds on the windows are tacky, stained, crooked, and torn. A few of them are bent permanently upward, like they're trying to climb up the wall and get away. The others are all tangled up in a wad of plastic strips.

There's virtually no air circulation... and the room stinks. It smells like several cans of gag skunk spray — months-worth of sickly burps and farts that have accumulated and lingered in the atmosphere, soured sweat soaked into every surface, unwashed clothing, rotten food scraps, and... something with a real punch, that neither he nor Penn has been able to identify.

   Nobody else knows about the state of his space — just the two of them. Not even Ross's roommates are aware of just how bad it is. The only indication they have is the smell, leaking out into the hallway.

Ross sits slouched on top of his unmade bed — back against the wall, head lazily flopped over, knees drawn up to his chest, and arms wrapped tightly around his calves. His eyes aren't focused on anything. They're just... open. Staring at... nothing.

Penn is sitting cross-legged on the floor at the foot of the frameless mattress — barely a foot away — his butt scooched against the frayed edge.

   He hasn't moved in almost an hour. Neither of them has.

Yesterday, they were holed up in another room — sat on the cold tile of the bathroom floor, waiting for what felt like hours as they watched four pregnancy tests develop in agonizing silence.

The first positive result was shocking... but funny. It had to be wrong... right? Two was scary... but still deniable. Back-to-back flukes.

   Three positives was... undeniable. Four felt like a universal verdict. A lifetime sentence.

Penn had gone quiet at the sight of the final positive — for only a second. He just... stared down at it... with an unexpected calmness... hands resting on Ross's shoulders.

They were all the confirmation that he needed. He already knew — his reaction made that much clear.

He was the one who first considered the possibility of a pregnancy, silently contemplating it alone in his car on the rides back home.

   He was the one who smuggled the boxes of tests into the apartment, concealing it so that none of Ross's roommates would see.

Penn was silent for a split-second, after the confirmation... and then, almost immediately, his brain started firing with logistics.

   Calendar math, approximated due dates, trimester breakdowns, prenatal vitamins, insurance, doctor appointments, housing arrangements, nutrition adjustments... substance restrictions.

   Forty weeks mapped out in neat, mental bullet-points.

Ross, sat naked on the toilet... head gone blank.

   He didn't cry. He didn't scream. He didn't smile... or laugh... or wrap Penn up in a big hug.

   He just sat there. Gone.

Penn knew what it was. He knows that kind of shock when he sees it. The way that the human body shuts down in order to protect itself from the punch that kind of news packs... to stop a man from doing something crazy in response. Like a biological robot, rebooting its systems to keep from self-destructing. He... remembers it.

He hasn't tried to coax a reaction out of Ross — even still. He hasn't spun some optimistic narrative, or filled the silence with the sound of his own bullshit. He's just... been here for him. Present. Taking up space. Occupying air that would be completely dead otherwise.

Ross finally inhales. Deeply. Audibly. Like he's coming up from underwater. "I can't believe I'm pregnant," he says, voice thin and strange, being used for the first time in nearly a day.

Penn looks up at him but doesn't interrupt.

"Me," he continues. "Of all people." His fingers curl slightly into the mattress. "It's... crazy."

Penn stays silent, hanging on every word as though he hasn't heard him talk in years... because that's exactly how it feels. He hadn't realized just how much he enjoys listening to his pointless, angst-fueled train-of-thought ramblings until they were gone.

Ross lets out a short, humorless laugh. "Growing up, my family always said I'd be the first."

There's a flicker in his eyes. No longer catatonic. Not entirely. Just... stunned... as though the cluster of cells growing inside of him are a cancer, not a baby.

Penn's brow furrows slightly. "The first?"

"To get knocked up." He shrugs. "They just... knew."

Penn's jaw tightens at the phrasing, but Ross keeps talking, words spilling now that they've started...

"They used to bet on it."

"They'd bet?"

"Yeah." He explains. "Evan bet that I'd be fourteen when it happened. He knew I was active then... wanted to get ahead of everyone."

   Penn stays quiet, simply shaking his head. That number... it's shocking... makes his heart drop. He can't even imagine...

   Ross continues. "Jace... he was little when he started placing bets. Just doing what everyone else was doing."

"What?"

"He wagered I'd be sixteen when it happened... said the same thing Evan used to say. I "had no impulse control." Kid didn't even know what he was saying. Couldn't tell you what an impulse was."

"That's... that's terrible."

"No kidding. He had no clue how babies were made, back then, and he was betting on it."

Penn's hands curl into fists against his knees — unseen.

"They'd laugh about it like it was inevitable." Ross continues. "Like I was just... getting lucky with every year that passed. Built for disaster."

He stares at the opposite wall, a far-off stare.

"My dads would say it too," he adds more quietly. "Pop wasn't joking whenever he brought it up. Just... matter-of-fact. Like it'd be karma. Like a baby would be punishment for all the hell I gave him. My recklessness catching up to me."

The word punishment hangs heavy between them.

Ross swallows. "I guess I'm just glad I beat teen pregnancy." He laughs again, softer this time. "At least there's that. I made it to twenty-one. Drinking age. So technically... they were wrong."

Penn rises slowly and sits on the edge of the mattress, leaving a careful space between them. "There's no 'technically.' You did beat it," he says gently. "That counts."

Ross glances at him. "Does it? I mean... I'm still young."

"Yes," Penn answers firmly. "It does."

Ross nods, absorbing that. "You know... I'm not even... mad," he admits after a moment. "That's the weird part."

Penn's chest tightens.

"I... I always thought I'd be furious if I ever found out I was pregnant. You know? Or terrified to death. Or... something loud." He presses a hand against his sternum. "Honestly didn't think I could get pregnant, with everything I was doing. But, after yesterday, I just feel... fuzzy."

He looks down at his flat stomach like it's already swollen. "Strangely, I'm kind of happy," he whispers, as if confessing a crime. "Is that stupid?"

"It's not stupid," Penn says immediately.

Ross's eyes dart up. "It's not?"

"No."

He exhales shakily. "It feels like it is. You know. Just... how this is happening."

Penn studies him for a moment. "You're allowed to feel more than one thing about this," he tells him. "You can be scared and happy. Ashamed and excited. None of that cancels the other out. This is a... a complicated thing."

Ross blinks slowly, like he's processing a language he's never heard before. "I shut down yesterday," he murmurs. "My body just... turned off."

"That's normal."

"Really? Fuck. I hate that it's normal."

Penn almost smiles at that.

Ross drags a hand through his hair. "I don't even know what I want," he says quietly, dancing around the word he really wants to say. "I haven't thought that far."

Penn shuts his eyes. There it is... the unspoken word. The conversation hovering like a storm cloud. The choice.

He hasn't touched it. He wouldn't dare — not for a few more days. Weeks, even. It's... too soon.

Ross looks at him carefully, sensing the sudden tension, and something in him recalibrates. "You went all... strategic yesterday." He says, pivoting.

Penn winces faintly. "I was just trying to make it less... scary, I guess"

"You started talking about vitamins."

"I panic-plan."

Ross studies him for a moment. "You're not freaking out," he says, only now realizing that Penn hasn't made a race for the hills.

"I am," he replies honestly. "Just... internally."

Ross huffs a faint breath that might be a laugh. "I don't know what this means," he says. "For us."

Penn's heartbeat stutters. Ross's does too.

"For you," he corrects himself quickly, giving Penn a chance to run. "For me. I mean."

"For us," Penn echoes quietly.

Ross looks at him again, searching for any hesitation. Any second thoughts. He can take it, if Penn wants to leave. He understands. Ross wouldn't want to be stuck with himself either... especially not with a baby. They still have time to reverse all of this — wash their hands of each other... the last year or so of their relationship... and go on with their separate lives.

To his surprise, though, Penn doesn't look like he wants to go.

"You're really in this?" he asks.

Penn doesn't hesitate. "Yes. I am."

Ross's eyes well up with tears, though he doesn't let them fall. "I was a fucking mess when we met," he says, keeping the door open.

Penn almost smiles. "You were."

"Yeah..."

"You really were," he repeats, gentler. "And I still loved you."

Ross's gaze drops. "You... saw something," he murmurs, saying the words for the very first time. "Nobody else... nobody else did."

"But I did."

"I... I didn't."

"I know."

He shakes his head. "I was... I was high most of the time."

"You were doing what you could to get through every day," Penn corrects.

Ross shrugs.

   Penn makes it sound so pretty... like it was an innocent crutch... but it was anything but that. It's not something that Ross can dress up and make pretty... not now, at least.

   It's years of his life — gone. A struggle that he still faces.

   He can even look at the bottle of headache pills behind the bathroom mirror without wanting to down a fistful of them, just to feel something new... but, somehow, he doesn't. He has the strength to resist now.

"I'm trying to be better," he says, needing to hear it again. "I am."

"I know you are."

"I've been going to those meetings your buddy facilitates, down at the rec center. Every Wednesday night. It's pretty chill. It's helped a lot. The meetings... and some other stuff."

Penn smiles.

"I haven't used... anything... in weeks. Not even weed."

"Good."

"I'm actually... living my life. You know? I've been showing up to my classes and everything... pushing through the last stretch of the semester."

"I've noticed."

Ross lets out a shaky breath. "I'm... doing better."

"You are," Penn says firmly. "You've changed so much. For the better."

Ross looks at him like he doesn't quite believe it himself, but wants to. "I don't want to screw this up," he whispers.

Penn's throat tightens.

"A baby could help me to... you know... be accountable, and responsible, and all that." He says cautiously. "Give me a reason to be better. For someone else." He sighs as though he can already see it in his mind. The future. "Or it could make me... I don't know."

"It'll make you even better." Penn says, perhaps too quickly. "You won’t do anything you know you shouldn't do."

Ross studies him.

"You don't know that. People get... crazy... when they're pregnant. What if I can't handle it sober?"

Penn doesn't answer immediately... because he does know. He knows all about it.

About being young and with child, feeling like he was completely losing his mind. Being judged for something that, up until a certain point in time, he felt he had no control over. Having to take on a huge responsibility before he could even have a life of his own. Searching and searching for a way out, and only ever reaching dead ends.

   He knows what it's like to be so desperate for an outlet — something... anything... to take the edge off — and not being able to find a safe release. Feeling utterly stuck — like every silver lining and blessing in disguise, looking back, was just another setback.

He looks at Ross now, and he can't help but to see himself. Ross is young... and frightened... and hopeful... and confused... just like Penn was. The only difference is, he took a difference life path. Despite everything he's been through, he beat teen pregnancy. Penn didn't.

He'd grown up well enough. In a stable home, in a nice neighborhood. Two dads — one a high-profile plastic surgeon, the other a successful stage actor. Three brothers — one older, two younger. Everyone under the same happy-enough roof.

   Money wasn't scarce. Life was structured. Expectations were clear. Everyone had a path to follow, with virtually no obstacles in their way. And still — one moment of careless fun... one night of teenage passion, trying to keep quiet underneath his bedsheets while everyone else was asleep, led to the creation of a life in his childhood bedroom... in the same bed he'd been sleeping in since he was in the third grade.

Penn remembers sitting on the bathroom floor in his parents' house, just a week before homecoming, junior year, making that dreaded phone call. The way the room spun around him, like nothing he'd ever experienced before. The way Henry's voice trembled on the other end of the line.

They were only seventeen. Kids. They were stupid, and reckless, and in love. They thought they were going to spend the rest of their lives together.

Penn hasn't told Ross about his past yet — not any of the major stuff. Hasn't found the courage... the right moment to tell him about his son — Felix. Eighteen years old now. Strong... and determined... and outspoken... and brilliant, and beautifully complicated.

He's a great kid... but he's still a secret.

It's almost ironic. Ross — the reckless one, the addict, the wildcard — made it to twenty-one without an accident. And Penn — the careful one — did not.

"You didn't become what they said you would," he says quietly.

Ross's jaw tightens. "No," he agrees. "I didn't."

There's pride there. Small, but real. Penn feels a surge of it himself.

He doesn't know Ross's family yet. Doesn't know Jace, Evan, or "Pop," outside of the characters he's imagined in his head — each with their own set of inferred traits, gleaned from long conversations with Ross.

   Penn doesn't know the details of how they shaped Ross into the man he was when he met him — how their years of help and harm influenced the person he became. What he does know, however, is the Ross who turned in less-than-satisfactory essays at 2:13am, days after they were due. The Ross who hid his pain behind sarcasm and self-destruction. The Ross who showed up to his class one afternoon, bleary-eyed and defiant, ready to make it all right.

He wouldn't have been surprised if that Ross had one or two little accidents trailing behind him — two pairs of little feet pitter-pattering around this cramped bedroom. But... he didn't.

Ross beat the odds that his family set for him. Penn — with a future full of promise and opportunity — didn't.

The truth of it tastes strange.

"Hey," Ross says softly.

Penn looks up.

"If I decide... not to keep it," Ross says carefully, "you won't hate me?"

Penn's heart drops again.

"No," he says immediately. "I won't."

"Promise?"

"I promise."

   He doesn't mean it. He threw that option out the second he laid eyes on that foursome of positive tests. It's just not a possibility. It simply isn’t.

   Now, though, isn't the time to argue about which choice to make.

Ross searches his face, but he doesn't see through Penn's false support. "And if I do?" He asks.

Penn swallows. "Then we figure it out."

"We?"

"Yes."

Ross looks down at his toes. "I don't want to think of this baby as some kind of punishment."

"You won't." Penn says firmly. "And it isn't."

"I always thought, if I ever did get pregnant, it'd be because I screwed up. Because I was careless. High. Stupid."

Penn reaches out slowly and places a hand over Ross's.

"You weren't high," Penn says quietly. "You weren't careless."

Ross's lips twitch faintly. "Well... that's debatable. You and I were... pretty careless."

Penn squeezes his hand. "But... you were sober," he says. "You were present. You were... enthusiastic. You were choosing something good."

Ross looks at him sharply.

"That's not a screw-up," Penn adds.

Ross breathes in shakily. "You really think this could be... good?"

Penn thinks of Felix's laugh — the one he used to have when he was only the size of a watermelon. He thinks of his son's small fingers, wrapped around his thumb. Of feeling tiny little kicks somewhere deep inside of him. Of sleepless nights, and terrifying responsibility, and a love so consuming it redefined his entire existence.

"Yes," Penn says softly. "It could."

"You... you sound like you know."

Penn's chest tightens. He's said too much.

"I have... some experience with... life not going according to plan," he says carefully — not totally lying, but keeping the truth close.

Ross tilts his head. "Don't we all."

He almost smiles. "Yeah," he admits.

Ross nudges his knee lightly against Penn's. "You don't have to be the logical one right now," he says. "You can freak out too."

Penn exhales slowly, as if all he needed was permission. "I'm scared," he admits.

"Of what?"

"Of failing you," he answers before he can stop himself.

Ross's eyes widen slightly. "You won't,"

"You don't know that."

"Neither do you."

Penn huffs a small breath.

"You'll be a good dad," Ross says, meaning every word.

They hit like a brick wall. Penn goes still.

"You don't know that," he replies, thinking of Felix — of the teenager at home who's already starting to pull away from him. The boy whose life he's about to blow up. How things will only get worse if he doesn't play his cards right.

"I can tell," Ross adds. "You're always prepared. And patient. And you see things in people."

Penn looks away.

"You saw something in me," he continues. "When I was... not great."

   Penn swallows.

"I just don't want to screw this up," Ross says again.

"You won't."

"You don't know that either."

"No," Penn agrees. "I don't."

They sit in that uncertainty together.

The apartment hums faintly around them — distant traffic, a roommate's muffled television, the drip of a faucet that never fully shuts off.

Ross presses a hand tentatively to his stomach. "It's weird," he murmurs. "There's nothing there yet... but there is."

Penn watches the gesture carefully.

Forty weeks.

   He can't help it. His brain maps them automatically. First trimester — nausea, fatigue, doctor visits, ultrasounds. Infinite questions. Ross's body changing in ways he never thought possible. His life changing. Penn's life changing again, just the same.

He hasn't told Ross about Felix. He hasn't told him that he already knows what it's like to sit alone in a cramped room and feel the future rearrange itself around a positive test.

He silently commends Ross for beating teen pregnancy. For outlasting him. For reaching adulthood before this moment. There's pride here... tangled with something else. Something sharper.

Regret?

   No. Not regret.

   Just... complexity.

Ross leans back against the wall again, eyes closing.

"I don't know how I'm gonna tell them," he whispers.

"You don't have to tell them anything. Not right away. You've got time."

"I don't want this to be a big 'I told you so' kind of thing."

"It won't be," Penn replies.

Ross opens one eye, holding back a laugh. "Oh, you don't know my family."

Penn hesitates. "Maybe not... but, you get to define this. Not them."

Ross nods slowly. "I'm glad it's with you," he says suddenly.

Penn blinks. "What?"

"If this is happening," Ross clarifies. "I'm glad it's with you."

Penn's chest tightens painfully. "Me too," he says.

They sit together on the messy bed, in the filthy apartment, surrounded by stale air and uncertainty... and the faintest hint of something fragile and new.

Ross exhales slowly, some of the zombie fog finally lifting.

"Okay," he says quietly.

"Okay?" Penn echoes.

"I'm not gonna think too much about it today," he clarifies. "But... I'm not running from it either."

Penn nods once. "That's completely fine," he says.

Ross looks at him carefully. "You're really staying?" He asks, still leaving the escape door just the tiniest bit cracked, in case Penn decides to get up and make a run for it.

"Yes."