Folio’s still unbelievably nervous. He can’t believe he let Noah talk him into this (he can, actually — Noah pestered him about it when he’d attempted to shoot Noah down). It’s not that Folio doesn’t like dating, and it’s not for a lack of interest in romance, but speed dating specifically feels so weird.

He’s only three “dates” in (they don’t feel authentic or like they qualify as actual dates, really) when you sit down.

Same as the first two times, Folio tries to casually catch your scent. Werewolves aren’t unheard of, but he still doesn’t want to out himself to a total stranger — or strangers, plural. Besides, even when people know, most think it’s weird for someone to sniff them. Folio gets where they’re coming from, he does, but he also can’t help it.

The problem is that, when Folio inhales your unique scent, his brain short-circuits. It’s like when he smells someone baking cookies, or when a raw steak is being slapped on a grill, except it has a completely different degree of effect on him.

Embarrassingly, Folio’s mouth still waters. He wants to curl up in a hole and die as he swallows quickly, licks his lips, stammers out a weak little greeting. His shyness has yet to wear off, and now he’s also fighting the fully animal instinct to pounce you, to rub his face into your neck, to inhale your scent until he can’t comprehend anything else.

Folio fists his jeans in his hands, tries to look as normal as he possibly can. You just give a smile of your own, and it seems to come easier to you than it does him; you introduce yourself, and Folio manages to get his own name out without it sounding too odd and garbled in his own ears.

How do other wolves do this? You lean in, lower your voice politely as you ask if Folio’s doing okay, and the wave of stimuli — the fragrance you’re wearing, your laundry detergent, something indisputably you beneath it all — threatens to scatter the few thoughts he’s managed to hold on to.

“Y-Yeah, I’m—” Folio coughs into his fists, uses it as an excuse to lean back a bit.

Something in your expression shifts, and your eyes widen as you sit back. “Oh my god, are you— Do I smell bad? I tried to make sure— Is it just too much fragrance? I didn’t think about a werewolf being here, I just—”

Folio shakes his head quickly, reaches out a hand to brush your fingers with his own. It’s far too familiar of a thing to do, but you seem to settle regardless. “No, it’s not bad. It’s just . . .” God, does he admit this out loud? “It’s really nice,” he finishes, meekly.

You blink. “Oh.” Another blink. “Oh.” You laugh and then lean in again. “That’s a good sign, though? That I smell so good to you?” Folio can’t tell if you’re teasing, but he knows that he loves the light in your eyes. It’s distracting, really, and then his eyes drift to your lips, curled into something pleased and amused, and, god, does he have to sit here the whole time?

Wait. You probably want an answer. “Yeah, it’s—” Folio needs to stop stuttering. He probably looks ridiculous. “It’s a good thing. It means my wolf likes you.” He glances at the timer, rubs the back of his neck. “We don’t really have a lot of time. I spent most of this staring but, uh, would you want to maybe trade numbers?” he attempts, and maybe he pulls out the puppy dog eyes Noah accuses him of exploiting sometimes.

Folio only uses them because they work, though. You beam and nod, pull out your phone and then pause. “Or,” you start, “we could go out for a proper date. You don’t have to stay the whole time.” Before he can answer, you hit the timer, stop the countdown.

The wolf inside Folio is currently so excited his body threatens to physically wiggle back and forth. He takes a breath, stands up, smiles a little easier now that he knows he’s not going to lose you in a blur of faces today. “I mean, there’s sushi down the street. Do you like sushi?”

You nod and jump up as well, and Folio looks for someone to apologize to — but, instead, you take his hand and pull him toward the door. “Table’s free!” you call out, seemingly to no one in particular, and then he’s being hauled outside and into the sunshine.

You were already a rather avid knitter when you met Noah. He had attempted it twice — and promptly thrown in the towel within ten minutes of starting the first time, half an hour into the second effort. He insisted it was because of how long his fingers were, how large his hands were in general; the needles felt uneven, awkwardly sized, impossible to use.

So he would settle for watching you instead. Noah clearly found it fascinating, or maybe it was the faces you made as you worked. He occasionally laughed or snickered, sometimes even stopped you to give you a fond kiss. He would often sit, quiet and captivated, as you worked a complicated cable pattern or did stranded colorwork, mumbling in awe and slight disbelief at the precision that came so effortlessly to you by this point.

When the weather started to get a bit crisp, when the air finally started to bite at noses and fingertips and cheeks, you brought Noah into a local yarn store. You refused to give much context but insisted on help finding the best yarn possible for a project. After you explained how to read the labels and identify if a specific yarn would work for the project, the two of you wandered the shop, one or the other finding a skein and offering it for the other to feel.

Really, though, you were more concerned with how Noah liked the texture than anything. He was oddly picky about the way fabric felt, and a lot of the yarn he brushed his fingers over earned a crinkled nose. Finally, though, you found something he liked, a little coarse but still soft enough that it passed Noah’s inspection. He obediently let you load his arms up with various colors, carried it to the cash register, shot you a curious look as you paid.

Noah would occasionally pester you over the next few weeks about what you were working on. When it started to shape itself into something resembling the final piece, he switched to asking who the sweater was for. You just smiled, shrugged, ignored the question entirely otherwise. 

It should have been obvious, you thought, that it was for Noah, but he still blinked at you when he pulled it out of the gift bag like he’d had no idea he would be receiving it. The sweater had a neckline that sat a little lower, wouldn’t crowd his neck; the sleeves had been customized, lengthened a bit to fit Noah properly; and the design was a simple skull that he’d still been amazed by you creating in the moment.

“You should help me put it on,” Noah told you, passing the bag and sweater over without warning. Off came his shirt, and you tried to focus on the task at hand rather than the skin bared; he had to squat for you to reach, but you managed to pull the sweater on him, and he straightened and grinned. “It feels nice.” He took a few selfies in it, sent the photos to his bandmates, and then pulled you in for a warm hug.

You nestled in close, finding you liked the feeling of the finished piece too. “You like it?” you asked, a little shyly, and glanced up at Noah.

Ricky was not having a good day. As much as it embarrassed him to admit, in the time spent between tours, he didn’t have very many good days if he was alone. He always told himself he should have been grateful for space and privacy, should have enjoyed not having to sleep in a bunk or listen to Vinny flirt something sickly-sweet and lewd with Ryan.

But, no, everything was quiet, and his house was so much bigger than a tour bus. It was big enough that the empty space felt haunted, and he’d shiver if he looked at himself too long in the mirror. Ricky never fell apart too badly in the space between tours; he was always able to put himself back together in time for another run.

Maybe part of it was that Chris was on a short little vacation this time. They lived close enough together that crashing at Chris’s place was always an option, when the thoughts got loud or his emotions got heavy and ice-cold, but right now Chris’s house would just mean another place with only himself (and his dog) for company.

It was hard to keep track of the days like this. Ricky had a countdown going until Chris was back from his trip, but the time between waking up and falling asleep was nebulous and free-flowing; the hours slipped between his fingers, and he often didn’t sleep until three or four in the morning, could never name what time it was when he woke up.

Food was also hard like this. That was why, when Chris texted him, Ricky had to really stop and think.

Did you eat?

Had Ricky eaten today? He thought about it for a bit, frowning at his phone, and then texted back a shrug emoji. Only a year prior, he would have lied through his teeth; now, he was honest about it, even if he knew it would make Chris frown.

Chris never really fussed, though, and that helped. He was always reasonable, practical — tried to find a way to make eating as easy as possible for Ricky, even if Ricky himself would kick his feet and scream about it (usually just metaphorically).

So it wasn’t really surprising when Chris sent a screenshot a few minutes later for a DoorDash delivery: Ricky’s favorite meal from a place about ten minutes away, order already in progress. And then he got a selfie of Chris eating some french fries, eyes all crinkled like his smile was real.

Dinner date on me when I get home, too. Love you, Rick.

And despite knowing it wasn’t that kind of date or that kind of love, Ricky hesitated, heart fluttering, before texting back: Love you too. Thanks for lunch.

It’s dinnertime.

Noah (SFW): I headcanon this man as at least a little neurodivergent. I don't have a long list of reasons, but just projecting some of my neurodivergent traits/tendencies on him is really soothing.

Noah (NSFW): He's a switch through and through, and which way he leans (if he leans in any particular "direction" at all) depends on his partner. I feel like he's evenly balanced in tendencies with Nicholas; dom leaning with Folio; and basically fully sub with Jolly.

Nicholas (SFW): Don't ask me why, but he feels like the Bomens guy most inclined toward polyamory. I think it's because he's so sweet; he just seems like he has a lot of love to give and the capacity to have multiple relationships that are all full and satisfying (even if not necessarily objectively "equal," but I have a lot of thoughts about polyamory that I'm not going to get into here).

Nicholas (NSFW): He is usually pretty calm and normal-presenting, but I think he'd go pretty feral for marking his partner(s), whether that be with hickeys, bites, welts from spankings, etc., or more intense things. And don't get me started on his service kink.

Folio (SFW): He is the biggest sap for his partner. Blatantly smitten. Is the epitome of a gentleman -- holds doors, pays for everything (if you'll let him), remembers anniversaries. I have told Dodger that he is the most boyfriend-coded man in the world, and I stand by that. Lots of casual touches, kisses, "babe" and "honey," etc.

Folio (NSFW): Folio has two modes in bed. He is either sweet and giggly, or he is absolutely bonkers feral. He loves biting inner thighs and leaving bruises; if he sees you limping or waddling or wincing the next day, he gives you that sunshine smile of his.

Jolly (SFW): With the way this man sits, I feel like he is simultaneously loudly and casually bisexual. Being bi is just so chill and Not A Big Deal to him, but he also will not hesitate to flirt with literally anyone. He'll flirt respectfully, but it'll be pretty obvious.

You know these two are smoking buddies. They're both high and a little (a lot) giggly when they kiss the first time. It's a bro kiss, though. They make-out kiss when high as bros. Surely neither of them have a crush. That'd be silly.

That being said, they're both struck by tour crush syndrome real bad. It's obvious with both of them. Bandmates give them hell but do nothing to help either, like, get their shit together.

Will does manage to out-yap Vinny somehow -- and more than once!

Both of them try to fit on Will's silly little fold-up scooter (and eat shit). They do this more than once. They do this more than once in public.

The first time they "fuck," it's literally just them frotting and cumming in their pants. Fully clothed like hormonal teens. And since Will is, well, Will, he keeps going (with Vinny "trapped" beneath him) until Vinny's a whining, writhing mess.

It costs so much when these two get takeout. They put away food like no one's business. Like, everyone complains when they add to the group orders.

Trans man!Vinny! Will's the chillest dude about it. In fact, he loves that Vinny's dick (strap) can be customized. When he wants a small dick for a quickie with little prep, that's an option. When the size queen in him comes out and he wants stretched? Vinny's got him covered. (Will doesn't even think to ask why Vinny brings multiple dicks on tour.)

The dirty talk gets so stupid sometimes. Will's often loudly cackling when they have sex. "God, Vin, just fuck me already." "Hold on. Chat, is this gay?"

The internet goes crazy shipping them. It's so hard for Vinny specifically to behave and not tongue Will in public. He doesn't want to give any fans heart failure, after all. (Chris makes him refrain because if Vinny's gonna be doing that, he needs to realize he likes Will first. C'mon, man.)

Anyways! Thank you for letting me yap! I hope you enjoyed, and anyone and everyone is free to riff on any of this!

A hum and a click of Jolly’s tongue; Jolly tugged on his hair and Folio obediently sat up, moving how Jolly wanted him without resistance until he was kneeling on the bed. (He didn’t know what to do with his hands, so he just grabbed two fistfuls of his own pajama shirt.) “I’m not sure I should give you a treat now,” Jolly mused.

Noah knew that Folio wasn’t straight. Sure, he’d made moon eyes and giggled at a couple women during their time in the band, but he’d also bat his lashes at men — and there was the nonbinary merch employee that he’d scampered after an entire tour, all lost puppy desperate for affection. (Noah was fairly certain Folio had never gotten up the nerve to ask them on a date.)

So the concern wasn’t that Folio wouldn’t be interested because Noah was a guy. The worry was that it had always been obvious when Folio liked someone, and Noah had picked up zero signs that Folio was at all interested in him. None. Folio might have laughed really hard at some of his less clever jokes, but Noah noticed he did that with all of the band members. And Matt, and if Matt counted for something, did it really hold any weight at all?

The problem was that Noah was tired of pining. He was a grown man, and he was more than capable of standing on stage night after night in front of so many people that looking out into the crowd now almost made his eyes cross. He should have been able to tell a guy he’d known for years that he had a crush on him. The length of time he’d harbored the crush wasn’t important.

It would have been smart to prepare a speech beforehand. Noah tried to, he did, but everything he’d rehearsed in his head evaporated the second he decided to broach the subject. He was hanging out with Folio on the tour bus, Nicholas and Jolly having left to do something (he hadn’t paid that much attention, honestly), and it just felt like the moment.

Which meant Noah opened his mouth and words poured out, and every bit of beautiful, masterful word crafting he could harness for his music was painfully, blatantly absent from all of it.

“So, uh, I was thinking, right, and we don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to, but I wanted to at least say it, you know, because it’s getting kind of embarrassing, not that I’m not always a little embarrased, but—“

Folio glanced at Noah then, eyes wide and vaguely concerned, and every cell in Noah’s brain shut down. God, he was so fucking pretty. “What’s up?” he asked when awkward, stiff silence fell.

Great. Perfect. If his brain would just boot back up, if his operating system could stop lagging, if he could just talk like a normal fucking person. It wasn’t that difficult a task. Why was Noah making this so difficult? What was the worst thing that happened? 

A breath. “I’d rather destroy this friendship than pretend I don’t want you anymore.” It came out all at once, Noah’s lisp thicker than it had been in years, a couple of the words bumping together for the haste with which they escaped.

It was obvious that Folio was processing, so Noah made a show of fidgeting with the camera he’d brought on tour. He had plenty of footage no one else would ever get to see, fragments of time between shows, on the road, after sets. They were all for him, little kernels of joy to remind him that he wasn’t alone and he was surrounded by love, even when his thoughts got loud and dark.

Folio’s hand on his knee made Noah jolt. When Noah glanced up, Folio’s face was flushed and his eyes were even wider than before, but he also had a shy, boyish smile on his lips. “Is this you telling me that you have a crush on me, Noah?” he asked, and there was something about the way the question was phrased that made Noah frown.

“Did you know?” Noah asked, a touch incredulous — and maybe a little frustrated at the thought that they could have avoided all of this.

The question, bordering on an accusation, earned a sheepish shrug from Folio. “I mean, I thought you might have a crush on me? But you’ve never really dated in all the time I’ve known you, and the only people you’ve dated have been women. So I thought maybe I was misreading somehow. Like you were sending signals that didn’t mean anything.”

Which made enough sense that Noah deflated instantly. “Oh.” Folio was right, Noah realized. All of the crushes he’d had over the years, even the embarrassing one on Oli Sykes that had almost ended in disaster, had never reached anyone’s ears but Nicholas’s, and that was because Nick was subjected to every single thought that popped into Noah’s head. He’d always been too lost in his own inner ramblings, trapped in his head, tangled with worries that spiraled down into nothingness; he’d never had the time or energy for dating.

But things had shifted in the past year or two. Noah had done the work enough that things were finally starting to click, and it felt like aspects of life that he’d been unable to reach before were suddenly within his grasp. One of those had been romance (and sex, honestly, but he wasn’t going to admit to Folio in this moment that it’d been a hot minute since he’d gotten laid), and he realized that Folio hadn’t left his thoughts since that particular realization had registered.

Except. Wait. “You thought I was straight?” Noah clarified, as if that mattered at all in the grand scheme of things. Maybe it was a little embarrassing, perhaps he was a tad baffled. Certainly the public persona he presented didn’t give enough away for most people to confidently describe his sexuality in any particular way, but he’d assumed his friends would know.

Folio blinked. “Have you seen the way you dress?” was all he offered, as if that explained everything, and then he shook his head. “We’re not having that conversation right now. You just told me you liked me. Can we focus on that?”

Noah almost wished they wouldn’t. He squirmed a bit in his seat, nodded, realized Folio still had a hand on his knee. The weight and warmth was nice. He sat his camera aside, shoved his hair back out of his face, and frowned out at nothing because it was easier than looking at Folio. At least Folio seemed like the type to let someone down gently. He wasn’t going to take a rock to Noah’s still-beating heart.

But no rejection came. Instead, Folio leaned in, and there was suddenly a chin resting on Noah’s shoulder. Huh. “I like you too.” And once again, every train of thought Noah was conducting (the phrasing, frankly, gave him more agency than he truly possessed when it came to his own thoughts) shut down. The staff went on protest without warning, vacated the premises, left Noah staring at Folio with no lights on at all.

It must have made him look stupid, because Folio giggled and grinned up at Noah. “What? Is it that surprising? You’re handsome and kind and funny sometimes.” Why his friends refused to admit that Noah was hilarious was beyond him. It seemed like a bit that no one had bothered to explain to him.

Noah inched his hand closer to Folio’s — when Folio didn’t move, Noah took Folio’s hand and twined their fingers together loosely. Despite how much bigger Noah’s hand was, the smoother palm, the longer and paler digits, they fit together nicely. It looked right, and it was also easier to admire the sight than look Folio in the eyes when he asked, “So can I take you on a date?”

Another giggle, and this time Noah could hear fondness dripping from the notes. “Yeah, you can take me on a date. As long as I don’t have to dress up,” Folio added, which sounded like a fair enough condition to Noah.

In a bold move, Noah pressed a kiss to Folio’s cheek, and then he pulled back and made a face. “That was a lot easier than I expected it to be.” The admission came out twisted with resentment.