#denspa

Opalescence — teen+, nedport — i went to the dentist recently and was reminded of this fic and uh. it's just a bit silly, really :')

Abel is suffering. Henrique wants to bring that to an end it for him.

Tutela — teen+, engport — a little historical thing exploring two dear nations and some parallels they unwittingly share...

July, 1386. "He is not worth it."

August, 1808. "He is not worth it."

Lovebirds — teen+, nedport — i love this au! a workplace relationship with a bit of a twist!

There was something about the scene of tropical plants and mist and the man he held a flame for being covered, arm to arm and even on his head, by colourful, chirping lovebirds, that made Abel wonder, just sometimes, if the door into the open section of the Aviary was in fact a gateway to Heaven.

Pearlescence — mature, engspa — from the same rarepair week as the first fic on this list, this one-shot is a bit of a beast, but was also a really big achievement for me at the time!

“I love this island, you know,” he said, voice whimsical in the breeze, “but I have never wandered too close to the streets, the people. I wonder… Would you go with me?”

Arthur blinked. “You want to head towards town?”

“You think it is a bad idea?”

“No, no, I just… I can go with you,” he claimed, “but would you feel safe? It can get quite busy, especially at this time of day.”

“I’ll be fine, I’m sure,” Antonio returned with a smile. “I’ll have you, after all. You can look after me.”

Study Session — teen+, denspa — i've only written this pairing a couple of times, but oooooh they make me feel things...

"You came all the way up here to keep me company?" Mikkel asked him, not entirely believing it to be true.

I’m not sure you want to do this, Sig. Like look you don’t deserve to do this to yourself…

            Sigve’s phone lit up, drawing his attention away from the uncharacteristically silent movie night he and Mikkel were having. His brows knit slightly as he skimmed the text from his coworker, his stomach flipped a moment later when his phone buzzed again.

Don’t just leave me on read lmao

             He gave a soft snort then glanced over at Mikkel, who was watching The Lobster with rather intense concentration. Sigve found himself gazing fondly at the Dane, a fondness that was almost painful. He uncrossed his legs which were propped against the coffee table and shifted them into his boyfriend’s lap. Momentarily confused, Mikkel gave him a sideways glance then set about massaging Sigve’s foot through the thick wool socks he was wearing. Sucking in a deep breath, Sigve reveled in the normalcy of the moment before unlocking his phone and typing out his response.

If I didn’t think this was necessary I wouldn’t have texted you. Give me his number.              A few minutes passed and Sigve let the movie take him away again. The way the people in the movie spoke was somewhat disconcerting upon first tuning in—constantly texting was definitely taking away from the atmosphere the filmmakers worked so hard to create, but this conversation felt so much more important. He became aware that Mikkel was looking at him after a few moments, his nerves were getting the better of him and he’d been shaking his foot in his boyfriend’s grip.

“Want me to stop?” Mikkel asked, his fingers digging into his tendon. “Mh-mhm…” Sigve gave him a soft smile. “You’re breaking your own rule, texting away on that thing,” he tossed his head towards his phone, “You doin’ alright, Sig? Something with work?”

             Well, the king of excuses picked out an excuse for him, so Sigve didn’t struggle to fabricate a story about how his buddies at work were trying to plan some office get together for later that month. It didn’t take much to make it work—Mikkel didn’t seem too interested to begin with. This had been a common theme. He’d try to talk about developments in his work relationships or just office drama but Mikkel refused to take the time to learn the names of the people he was talking about and he constantly forgot the details of the prior story so there was no point. His lack of curiosity stung. It seemed that he’d just lost interest with him as a whole…

             He was dragged from his self-pitying thoughts as his phone lit up again, this time with an attached contact. Toni Carriedo with the number attached. He flipped to his notes to compare the contact to the unsaved number that he’d pulled off of Mikkel’s phone. They were exactly the same. Sigve’s mouth went dry and his hands suddenly felt restless. He closed his phone and sat with his hands in his lap for a moment before staring at the TV, trying to find it in himself to get interested in the movie again.

             He wanted his feet out of Mikkel’s lap. He wanted to be anywhere else but on the couch with him, and the thought that he’d be sharing a bed with him tonight was just… It was too much. After forcing himself to sit still for a solid minute, he pulled his feet back to himself and tucked them tightly under him. His face was completely still, but he felt like something was shredding his insides. Sigve wasn’t typically a crier, and this little bump in the road wasn’t going to change that about him. But… God, did this hurt. He needed space.

             And with that he picked himself up and gave his boyfriend a tired smile and told him he was going to go shower then lay down; he was feeling sick.

             As he stood under the hot water of the shower he let his head fall limply. Staring at his feet, Sigve tried to understand. What had changed between the two of them? Had he done something wrong or was this just something inside of Mikkel? He couldn’t parse it apart.

             About a month ago, something in their 3-year relationship had changed. Mikkel switched his password on his phone and wouldn’t let Sigve in, which inherently hadn’t seemed like the worst thing in the world. Mikkel offered up some excuse that he’d read about the dangers of having someone know your codes on that snapchat, Mashable daily reading thing. Sigve had brushed it off. Then, Mikkel began to keep a closer hold on his phone.

             Once, Sigve found it on the counter and went to put on some music—only to remember that he didn’t know the code anymore. Just as he was setting it down, his startled boyfriend was there. Charming as ever, Mikkel spun up something about needing to make a phone call to someone, somewhere for work. Sigve had thought nothing of it at the time and willingly handed him his phone back.

             Then, their time together seemed to evaporate. Fewer dates, less time alone together, and far more alone time for Sigve. Mikkel always seemed to be out. He was working, going drinking with his friends, working late, getting more drinks, late night gym trips, he joined a cycling group… Nothing unusual for Mikkel, really. But it was just the combination of everything.

             Sigve didn’t snoop. He prided himself on this. As a partner, he felt that snooping and constant checking of your partner’s phone showed signs of an unhealthy relationship. After 3 weeks of minimal contact and a wild swing from over affection to almost none, Sigve found himself feeling in need of reassurance. So, he watched Mikkel unlock his phone one day and memorized the passcode.

             And if this story was a good one, Sigve would have forgotten about the code and had a direct conversation with Mikkel and addressed his issues. But that’s not what happened at all. Instead he found texts between Mikkel and some random number that spanned the past two months. At first, they started out platonic enough but the most recent ones were… Explicit to say the least. And there were photos. So many back and forths between the two men.

             Sigve hadn’t noticed when he had started crying, but his nostrils were pouring mucous and the steam wasn’t making breathing any easier. He could hardly feel where his tears ended and the water ended and he liked it that way. He shifted to lean against the wall and cried. He had stuffed his feelings down far enough that he had been able to ignore them but now they were all rushing to the surface. Every sign that Mikkel was acting different came back to him and the confusion and sadness that he’d forced himself to not feel were fresh as day. He was gasping at this point. The hot water was calming usually, but the steam was making it hard for him to breathe. Gasping and snotty, Sigve’s sobs ripped out of him silently, wracking his entire frame.

             The stupid man had him turned in knots. He loved him—it had been three years and Sigve was the happiest he’d ever been. Never in his life had he found someone who could make him smile quite like Mikkel. They’d known each other since they were children but it wasn’t until they were both out of college and in the working world that they realized they were in the same city. They met for coffee and the rest was history. It was the dream. It was perfect. It was wonderful…. In the beginning it was all Sigve could do to keep Mikkel. The world had so much to offer and while Sigve knew he wasn’t plain by any means, there was just so much out there. And keeping Mikkel tethered was like trying to tame a falcon: hard, but possible.

             The introduction of this Toni person had, seemingly thrown the balance. And Sigve couldn’t really blame Mikkel. He’d seen the photos. The man was gorgeous. Fit, trim, tall, tanned, handsome—with a smile much like Mikkel’s own. They could have met anywhere… The gym, a bar, work… Well, Sigve had suspicions it was through the bar Mikkel made a habit of going to. His coworker, Matthew, tended to drop by there with his sister every now and again and when Sigve gave the description of the man—Toni—Matthew knew who he was talking about immediately.

             He was making himself feel sick again. He needed to figure out what he was going to do.

 ------

             Confrontations always went smoother in public, right? That’s what Sigve tried to tell himself as his anxiety spiked. It was about ten minutes into waiting that he wished he’d kept his prescription for Xanax or that it was past 3PM so he wouldn’t feel quite so terrible being in public drunk. Not that drunk, mind you. Buzzed. Something to take the edge off so he wouldn’t feel quite so… terrible.

Every brunette to enter the café made his heartrate jump up about a hundred beats per minute. By the time the proper brunette walked into the café Sigve’s poor heart was about to give out. But the second he finally saw Toni he wished he could go back to waiting for the guy to show up. He’d texted him off Mikkel’s phone and asked him to meet him here and up until now he’d never seen the man in person. He could understand why Mikkel was fucking him, he gave off this electric energy and his features were stunning.

That being said, seeing his full figure only dredged up mental images of him and Mikkel fucking or whatever it was that they did. That was what sealed the deal. Sigve’s hands and feet felt cold as he stood. He clutched his cup of coffee in shaking hands and headed towards the table Toni had seated himself at as he tapped away on his phone. Sigve loomed beside him; Toni didn’t look up.

“Ah, give me a second I’m waiting for someone--,” He glanced up to see Sigve and gave him a confused smile when he realized he wasn’t staff. “Oh, uh, sorry can I help you?”              God dammit, even the way he speaks is beautiful. Sigve couldn’t help but compare Toni’s soft rolling of his r’s and tutting of his t’s to his own harsh r sounds and his morphing of t’s to d’s.

“Are you Toni Carriedo?” He felt totally numb, his brain was on auto-pilot. “Yes, I am. Antonio, but same difference. I’m sorry, do I know you?” Though he still looked confused he flashed a brilliant smile. Sigve sank into the chair across from him, earning an even more confused look. “I’m sorry, I have someone who’s coming…” He began.

             Sigve shook his head until Antonio fell silent, he was beginning to look antsy. Sigve stilled himself with a sip of coffee.

“Mikkie isn’t coming.” He used the pet name with little affection and the word felt like glass in his mouth. “I don’t need to hear anything from you I just… I need you to listen to me.”

“…Alright,” Antonio looked downright concerned at this point.

             Sigve sucked in a deep breath and set the coffee down on the table, his eyes trained on the stains near the rim of the cup. As he sighed it out, he felt like he was going to completely deflate. The chipper demeanor he’d been trying to sell fell away with that sigh and it lay in a heap on the ground at his feet. What was left, whatever little emotion he’d been able to knit together was all that was left.

“I don’t know,” he began, delicately licking his lips, “what it is you have with Mikkel Jensen. I don’t—I can’t know. But Antonio, this man has been the light of my life since I was a child. I… I am not a happy person. But he makes me happy. You are, I mean… You know. You wake up and see how you look. You know that you’ve got me beat in looks. You’re fit, you’re tall, you’re… You’re perfect. You could have any person man you ever wanted and all you’d have to do is pass them a wayward glance and… And they’d fall into your fucking lap.”

             Sigve’s voice was low but his gaze was steady as he looked at Antonio. After a moment he let his eyes drop.

“I can easily understand how you could… You could take him. You could have anyone, Antonio.” He coughed and cleared his throat before continuing on. “I don’t want to sound too melodramatic but, Mikkel is the love of my life. And I do not think—“ his voice cracked and he quickly adverted his gaze to the lid of his coffee as he paused. “I—I’m—,” Antonio began, stumbling with words with a pain in his eyes. “Please. Just let me finish.”        

             They sat in silence for a moment. The bustle of the café continued on around them, but the two men seated by the window seemed frozen against the chaos.

“I’m begging you, please don’t take him just because you know you can. If what you have is… If it’s something more than simple lust—I don’t… I can’t condone it. I’m having this talk with you Antonio, because… Because my happiness hinges on whatever you decide to do. Please. Don’t take him, even though you can.”

             With that, Sigve stood up abruptly. He sniffled softly and shoved his free hand into his pocket, his lukewarm coffee in the other hand.

“Hope I didn’t interrupt your day,” he said stiffly before turning to go.

“I didn’t know,” Antonio caught his elbow and Sigve visibly recoiled. Whether it was the touch or the words was unclear.

“Next time you should ask,” he spoke softly but the words came out with venom.

             And with that, Sigve made his way out of the café and onto the street. He stood on the sidewalk for a moment, taking in a moment to enjoy the warm breeze that danced between the buildings. Nothing had changed about his physical appearance but he felt so… exposed. When he let go of that thick skin to Antonio he peeled completely out of it and that protection was lying in that café while Sigve was walking back to his small apartment in the outskirts of the city. He couldn’t hold back the tears that welled in his eyes, but they felt somewhat refreshing this time around. There was no running from it anymore.

             A week passed and Mikkel was in a blue mood that fluctuated between depressed and angry. But there was no mention of his intervention. His moods swung far from raging—slamming cabinets and stomping through the house—to dismal—not leaving bed for hours, not speaking or returning texts—within mere hours. To anyone who didn’t know him better, it would seem like a bad week. But Sigve knew him well—it was how Mikkel dealt with rejection.

So, “You’ve never seen snow?” the Dane questions sceptically. Because he can’t believe it to be true. And Antonio duly confirms his suspicions:

“I mean, I’ve obviously seen snow,” he replies. “I’ve seen it up in the mountains back home enough times. But I… I don’t think I’ve ever seen it falling. It’s always already there, waiting, melting away…”

“But you’ve never actually seen it fall from the sky?”

“No, not like this,” Antonio says. 

While still somewhat hard to believe, Mikkel knows it is not impossible, and the wisps of wonder in Antonio’s eyes as he watches the fresh snowflakes dance down to the ground is anything but a pretence. 

Mikkel couldn’t imagine not knowing what falling snow looks like, what it feels like, what it tastes like. A childhood of snow is the best childhood he believes he could have had. And now, that is something he wants to share—something he wants Antonio to experience, too, even if childhood is long lost to them.

That is why he suggests they venture outside. That is why Antonio looks at him, puzzled, and says, “But isn’t it super cold outside?” and that is why, in turn, Mikkel reminds him, “That’s what coats are for.”

It takes a few minutes to get together the thick jackets, the appropriate footwear, and even a scarf and scarf to protect a snow-shy Antonio. But it’s worth it when they leave the cabin they’ve rented for a week in the Norwegian forests and the snow greets them by seemingly falling harder. 

Mikkel spares Antonio a glance as the other takes a few extra steps out across the grass. Snow is beginning to blanket the floor—a good sign—and snow lightly crunches under his feet while, at the same time, his eyes are cast upwards towards the snowflakes still raining down on them. The smile that appears is a whole other kind of magical.

“You know,” Mikkel eventually says, prying Antonio’s gaze and attention away from the sky, “when I was a kid, I’d spent the first few minutes of snowfall with my tongue hanging out, trying to see how many snowflakes I could catch.”

Antonio’s nose scrunches up for a moment, but he is, apparently, amused. “You would try to catch snowflakes? In your mouth?” he questions. “What for?”

“For fun,” the blonde replies. “That’s why kids do anything! My friends and I did it all the time!”

“I don’t know if I can see the fun in sticking my tongue out and tasting snow,” Antonio says nevertheless. 

“That’s because you’ve not tried it,” Mikkel defends in turn. 

And as though to prove a point, he then does exactly that: he turns his head towards the falling snow, and sticks his tongue out to the cold.

He’s hit by a wave of nostalgia. He’s taken back fifteen years to his home, his parents, his friends, and he feels once more like that child who spent so many snowing days standing outside, trying to taste the sky. 

For what feels like minutes, Mikkel is stuck there in the past. He watches the snowflakes fall and struggles to get any land on his tongue as he so wishes they would, and then—a blossom of ice. He pulls his tongue back into his mouth and recognises that frozen yet watery sensation of an already-gone snowflake, and he smiles to himself, victorious.  

Looking back at Antonio, he finds the other is smiling, too. Perhaps he finds the action funny. Perhaps Mikkel was pulling some sort of face and he hadn’t realised. Only, just as the Dane goes to question this, Antonio turns back to the sky and mimics what Mikkel had been doing: he stands there, hands shoved in pockets, bobble hat bouncing as he moves his head back, and his tongue pokes out and greets the icy air. 

Mikkel is amazed. He’s touched, too, because it reminds him that Antonio is one of few people who has ever been open to trying the little odd things he does. He doesn’t laugh at him, only with him—and the way he now tries his best to fish for a snowflake is so unbelievably adorable and amusing, that Mikkel simply cannot help himself:

He wanders over to the other and once more pulls Antonio’s attention away from his hunt, and, not thinking twice, he meets the tip of the other’s tongue with his own. 

Antonio is too stunned to speak. His tongue retreats back into his mouth and he gawks at Mikkel for a moment, before blinking, breathing, and resetting. His smile returns. Cheek glimmers in his eyes. His hands, cold and averse to winter, settle onto Mikkel’s face, and before he knows it, he’s being pulled down. 

Lips touch his. Maybe he gets to reacquaint himself with the other’s mouth. Maybe they share in each other’s warmth, hands creeping up underneath a jumper, or wrapping around a body to act as an extra barrier to the cold…

Either way, the snow continues to fall, and Mikkel, bit by bit, slowly feels himself beginning to fall with it.

Antonio was meant to leave with Arthur and Francis. That had been the deal; Arthur and Francis, who lived with Antonio elsewhere on campus, were meant to have made sure all three of them—sober or not—made it back to their own flat. 

Yet, somehow, Antonio had not left with Arthur and Francis. He had, instead, vanished entirely—both from the get-together everyone was having in the flat that Mikkel, Gilbert, and Alfred shared, and from everyone’s minds, too. 

The six of them had gathered to celebrate the end of a short period of examinations. They had decided to stay on campus rather than go into town for two reasons: firstly, because it would be cheaper to stay home, and secondly, because it would be… cheaper to stay home. That had been enough reasoning. Gilbert and Arthur had been placed in charge of sourcing the alcohol—beers, vodka, rum, and even a horrifying bottle of absinthe, of all things—while the others had collected the snacks, seen to music, and planned the games. 

Seven hours after they had started, the small party had gradually come to an end. To begin with, at about 2am, Francis had dragged Arthur back off home, the blonde a bumbling mess, blabbering on and on about some guy he’d become a bit obsessed with in recent weeks. Then Alfred had called it a night about half an hour later (understandably; he had to wake up early for some sporting event he was participating in and wanted at least four hours!). And then, after perhaps another hour (at least) of them sitting together in the kitchen, finishing off the beer bottles that remained, Gilbert and Mikkel had decided that… going to bed was not such a bad idea. They would clean when they woke up.

It was that action of going to bed, however, that ended up extending Mikkel’s night a bit more than expected.

When he entered his bedroom with the sole intention of lying down on his bed and instantly crashing out, nothing seemed amiss. In fact, nothing seemed amiss until Mikkel waltzed up to his lovely, comfy bed, and flopped down onto it—only to hit a pretty solid lump that he hadn’t seen in the darkness. 

Mikkel ended up bouncing onto the floor, sending his head for a spin and his stomach churning away. The lump on the bed, in the meantime, groaned and whined and stirred, the mattress equally as noisy. 

An explanation escaped him. Had Mikkel… walked into the wrong room? Had he just jumped on Alfred? The kid’s feeling rough enough without you trying to squish him! Such a concern sobered him up ever so slightly; he picked himself up off the floor, using the bedside table to support, and he fumbled for the switch to the university-provided table lamp which, as soon as he found it, then lit up the room.

Not everyone was glad for the fact.

“Nooooo, turn it back oooooff!”

Mikkel was stunned. Stumped. He stared at the lump on the bed—indeed his bed, in his room—and was faced not with Alfred, but with Antonio. Who he had… honestly forgotten had neither left on his own, nor with his own flatmates…

Oops.

But why the fuck was he in Mikkel’s room?

There was only one way to find out:

“Toni?”

He received a drawled, gruff groan.

“Why the fuck are you in my room?”

Straight to the point! Gilbert would be proud!

Mikkel propped himself up on the edge of his mattress, still not quite feeling up to standing (he was feeling a little icky thanks to the mixture of alcohol and shock), and observed as the other did his best drunken impression of a teenager refusing to wake up on a school morning. Or maybe it wasn't an impression, so much as a recreation—a role reprisal. (Antonio seemed the type). He lay on his front, tucked up and hiding away under his own arms, shielding himself from the light. Mikkel would not be deterred.

"C'mon," he said, grabbing the nearest limp limb to him and slowly pulling it away from Antonio's face to grab the other's attention, "it’s not your bed! What are you even doing here still?"

"’M trynna sleep, s’go away,” Antonio protested, snatching his arm back.

But there wasn’t much force behind the words, mostly because Antonio seemed to be both off his face and utterly exhausted at the same time. He was going to be absolutely wrecked in a few hours’ time, no doubt about it! 

Nevertheless, having him holding Mikkel’s bed hostage was not exactly the ideal situation to be in. So Mikkel tried again to grab the other’s arms and encourage him (perhaps not so gently, but then he was hardly sober himself) to move, in the hopes that he could syphon him onto Gilbert, instead. (It would hardly be the first time the two of them had shared a bed, after all!).

Despite his attempts, however, Antonio would not budge. In fact, not only did he not budge, but he also retaliated, suddenly sitting up to yank Mikkel down onto the bed with an unanticipated strength that surprised the blonde so much, he didn’t quite realise what the drunken Antonio had done until it was too late. Because when Mikkel’s head stopped shaking and the room stopped spinning (again), Mikkel found that a certain someone had latched onto him, and was making himself comfortable once more. He was now sandwiched between mattress and mate.

This was… This was a bit, uhh…

“Toni…?”

“Don’ start complaining, your bed is comfy…”

Mikkel would agree. However: “You’re lying on me right now.”

“Yeah, well… You’re comfy, too…”

And just like that, Mikkel lost the willpower to argue. Antonio had made himself at home, holding onto him as though they were more than friends (which was, ha, which was uhh… totally a ridiculous thought, Mikkel knew that!), legs tangled with legs and hands tucked underneath the blonde just to make sure he couldn’t escape.

This was not a situation that Mikkel had ever expected to find himself in. Yet, he didn’t really… he didn’t hate it, or hate Antonio for it. It wasn’t not nice. It wasn’t bad, or gross. He just… hadn’t thought that this would be how the night would end.

Antonio was breathing gently, lightly. His eyes were firmly closed and he genuinely seemed to be trying to sleep. He was also frowning ever so slightly—the residue of the half-conscious arguing he had done—but that only made him look more cu—

No. No. They were friends. Friends were… off-limits. Thoughts like that could cause trouble.  

(Mikkel said, as if it were a rule they all abided by, when in fact, only he and Alfred were the only ones who hadn’t slept with someone else in the sextet. Probably. Well…).

But even so, it was… hard to look away, to not notice the steady relaxing of the brows, the squished cheek, the light nuzzling, the rub of leg against leg, body against body. Was it weird to focus on those things? Was it weird for him to look at Antonio, who he’d only really known for half a year or so, and think, the tired grumpy thing is kinda… cute…?

It was more than that, though. It was more than the grumpiness, or the fact that they were both just very, very drunk.

Mikkel and Antonio, as the previous few months had demonstrated, got on like a house of fire. Both were deemed the ‘idiots’ of the friendship group. They were the ones with good intentions, the kind words, the thoughtful actions, the ‘simultaneously childish but also incredibly adult-rated’ senses of humour, the adventurous tastes. They were the first ones to say ‘yes’. They were the first ones to turn up at an event. They were the loyal ones, the goofy ones, the ones who, when the six of them had formed their group, the others all thought were either taking something or trying way too hard to deflect from some imaginary traumatic backstory. The cheek of it!

In essence, they were… quite alike. Mikkel would be lying if he said he didn’t like that about Antonio. Because he liked the other’s energy, the unyielding enthusiasm, the way he would happily sit and listen to you talk about literally any random topic even if he was clueless (because he enjoyed learning), and the way he smiled in the meantime…

Okay, so, maybe Mikkel was already familiar with those pesky thoughts—the ones that made him wonder what the rules of friendship—their friendship, as a group of six—truly entailed. Of all the others in the group, he seemed to click with Antonio in a more specific way. They would go on early morning walks before lessons had even started. Or they would stay up late in the library in a two-person study group long after the others had gone back to their flats. Antonio would supply the caffeine, and Mikkel would bring the food. It had become a sort of… unspoken agreement.

What else is unspoken between us…?

“Mm… Mik…?”

Mikkel glanced back down at Antonio, caught off-guard. “Y-Yeah?”

“‘M gonna… throw up…”

That was not good. “You feel sick?” Mikkel pressed, now carefully trying to lift Antonio off of him without accidentally making him feel worse, with the intention of helping him get to the en-suite so that, if he really did vomit, he did so into the toilet and not over his nice clean bed. “C’mon,” he urged, “let’s go to the bathroom.”

A groan came from Antonio, as was expected, but he did surprisingly actually move again and sit up. He looked rough. Mikkel had a feeling that it wouldn’t get better any time soon.

Getting him from the bed to the bathroom was a bit of an effort, even if it was only a couple metres away (the beauty of small dorm rooms). Antonio was nowhere near steady on his feet (perhaps a side effect of both the drink, but also how tired he seemed) and Mikkel, magically still not sober, did not really enjoy the struggle of making sure no one tripped or fell or hit themselves on a wall or door as the went from linoleum to tile.

Luckily for him, then, they made it without incident. Antonio was still feeling sick—he made that quite clear—but he made it to the toilet bowl without actually throwing up. And even then, as he sort of plonked down onto the floor and leaned on the toilet, there was no immediate action—no immediate sign that he would indeed throw up. Mikkel was counting his blessings.

“I can, uh… get you some water,” he offered, unsure of what else to do in the meantime. He might as well then grab a glass for himself as well; his future self would thank him. 

He received, to his relief, a feeble nod. Mikkel assured Antonio that he’d be back in a moment, patting the other’s shoulder and rising to his feet to head to the kitchen—only, as soon as he reached the door, the vomiting began. Fuck, fuck, fuck. Instantly turning on his heel, Mikkel knelt back down next to Antonio and did the only thing that came to mind for this sort of situation: he set his hand to the other’s back, and rubbed in those gentle, slow circles. He wasn’t sure how much it would help, but… it was the best he could think to do. He hardly wanted to walk out on him…

Yet, just as Mikkel was debating doing exactly that, as the wretching paused and Antonio was trying (poorly) to compose himself, so he could grab the other some water, footsteps appeared from the corridor. The next thing he knew, Gilbert was standing in the bathroom doorway. Sleep clung to him, too, the German rubbing his eye while trying to assess the scene—not that it took long for him to understand what was going on. 

“I didn’t realise he was still here, the idiot,” Gilbert tutted, before asking Mikkel: “D’you need a hand?”

“Uhh, yeah, actually,” Mikkel replied with a nod. Next to him, Antonio shuffled and shifted, propping himself up more on the toilet bowl as though readying for a second round. “Can you get some water?” he pressed. “He’ll thank us tomorrow.”

Gilbert concurred and went off to the kitchen, allowing Mikkel to stay behind and keep an eye on Antonio, lest he pass out and hit his head or something like that. Too many bad scenarios, too many bad possibilities. God forbid he go to bed later on and end up choking on his own vo—

It wasn’t even worth thinking about.

Mikkel continued to rub the other’s back, waiting to see if he would start throwing up again. In the meantime, Gilbert promptly returned and the cup of water was set aside for Antonio when he needed it—a moment that came maybe ten minutes later, when, after that second round did eventually come, Antonio was a bit more coherent and awake. He drank slowly. He drank begrudgingly (and at one point, even seemed ready to throw up again just from the water, so Gilbert took the cup away again). And all the while, Mikkel did not stop his ministrations—did not stop trying to comfort him.

“I think,” Gilbert eventually said, breaking the silence that had befallen them, “that maybe he should come back to my room with me.”

Mikkel was somewhat reluctant. “I don’t see why,” he returned (not sure why he was even protesting). “He’s okay, he just needs some rest.”

“Yeah, exactly. My room has that little sofa thing in it,” his friend reasoned, however, “so I can sleep on that, and Toni can have the bed. That way, everyone has a good chance at getting some actual sleep tonight.”

It made sense. If Antonio stayed, he and Mikkel would have to cram onto his bed again, and that may not have been comfortable (was it uncomfortable earlier on, though…?). Meanwhile, if Gilbert had the space, and was willing to keep an eye on Antonio (they are kinda closer than you and Antonio are…) then perhaps it was for the best. 

In the end, it was what they all agreed to do.

With Antonio more or less okay, the tear stains on his face aside, both Mikkel and Gilbert helped him back up onto his feet. He felt awful—kept on apologising, because some sobriety had finally hit him, and he apparently hated that he had invaded Mikkel’s space like that—but they assured him that it was fine. What mattered was that he was feeling better. It put a meek smile on Antonio’s face to hear it, and with that, Gilbert suggested that they leave Mikkel to it so he could get some sleep.

“Yeah,” Antonio agreed, “yeah, I just…” He paused, and looked back at Mikkel. His smile eased. “Thanks. For… putting up with me.”

Mikkel gave a weak smile back. “No problem,” he replied. “Any, uh… Any time…”

The exchange of smiles and unspoken words lasted only a few seconds beyond that. Watching him leave with Gilbert, even if they were only going to the room right next door, was not such an easy task as he had expected it to be. Mikkel couldn’t keep an eye on him, now. He didn’t have the reassurance that Antonio would indeed wake up feeling okay, or better, or hungover, or if he would continue to suffer through the night. He has Gilbert, though, he also tried to remind himself, and Gilbert was one of the ‘mum friends’ (as much as he denied it), so he knew what he was doing. Mikkel would not interfere. He couldn’t.

After a quick clean up, flushing and then bleaching the toilet thrice over (just in case), Mikkel was finally able to lie down in bed. As soon as he hit the mattress, all of his energy seemed to vanish, and he was glad, in a way, that there was no one there clinging to him, keeping him warm, keeping him company, keeping him…