#mantis fic

As if the plastering on the wall alongside the apartment corridor wasn’t porous enough— the hammering bass from flat #89 made it seem like the entire house was bound to corrode in a song or two.

“Hey, you! Turn the damn music down!”

Knocking at the plain door sporting a scraggly ‘Holland, T.’ sign only elicits a faint reply between beats. The voice sounds entirely out of breath. Its pitch is surprisingly high, too.

“Hello? Is this Mister Stank?”

“Who?!”

Almost an eternity passes. Footsteps follow. The door first clicks, then buckles. One second later, a babyface framed by curls peeks through the opening. Slathered in what appears to be a layer of sweat and— oddly, a white layer of powder.

Cocaine?

You’re completely stiff at the sight. So that’s Mister ‘Holland, T.’, then.

“Tony Stank! He’s been knocking here earlier. You’re not Tony, though?”

The babyface looks even more innocent than it already was by now. If he wouldn’t be all drenched and smelling like a crowded Olympic hall, the gaze would be easy to fall for. All big and hazel.

But you remain solid in your spot and feel no less irritated.

“He’s called Stark! Not Stank!”

Babyface looks confused.

“Stark? I just heard him mumbling something and things. Was busy with the weights so I couldn’t open the door.”

You place your arms akimbo.

“Tony lives in apartment #90! You know what that means?”

He shakes his head, which loosens some curls into his face.

“Um, no idea?”

You point down the corner of the hallway with more insistence.

“He lives right next you!”

“And?”

The guy’s voice goes up in pitch once again. Clearly, he didn’t catch his breath so far either. Lifting weights, he said. Poor Tony. 

In fact, poor everyone in the radius of ten miles. 

At least you know that whatever white powder is on his face—

Has to be magnesium carbonate powder.

He’s not even on drugs and acting like that.

How much worse can it get.

“Your music was so loud this morning that Tony did the same thing I’m doing right now, bloody idiot!”

“N—no need to be rude!”

“You’re the rude one! I’m from apartment #88!”

“Oh?”

Sweaty Holland gazes toward the other side of the corridor, seemingly surprised realizing that there looms the precise door you just came from. Apartment #88 in its full actual lack of splendour.

You feel like you’re about to burst any second.

“Yes?! I’m studying for exams and you’re blasting Rihanna! Since 10:30!”

Blank face. The guy really got you to a point where you roll your eyes like a preschooler. He looks disoriented more than anything, rubbing his powdery hands through his hair making it almost look strangely grey for his age. Something does seem to sway his confused features.

“Damn, shit... Wait a minute,” he says. “Tom, by the way. Sorry.”

The curly head disappears before you can say anything else. While you hear him walking away, the door ever so slowly falls open, revealing an almost loft-like building. You’d be very much at home in your casual clothing right now, but the thought of magnesium and the repugnant smell of athleticism has already ruined the sight.

Umbrella just keeps playing in the other part of the flat. Tom audibly rummages with some sort of dumbbells around the corner. They land and roll on the floor dull, making Tony’s words from yesterday all too present in your mind once more.

‘Bloke’s a gym rat! 20-fucking-something, sexually frustrated, IQ of a toast! Walking, cocky mess’, furious Stark in his blue designer shades had ranted meeting you on the way down in the elevator, recalling how he saw Tom moving in the other day.

Given how babyface still seems to be busy with his makeshift gym, you wish he never did.

This was one of the most crowded neighbourhoods.

“Will you please shut the goddamn stereo down!” you tap your foot more than once, still having to put up with Jay-Z’s intro rap droning from the speakers in the flat.

“Um! Searching for the remote!” Tom replies, but you’re already stepping into his training room, ready to either phone the police or take the bumping stereo out of service yourself.

But you can hardly believe your eyes. Looking into the area, framed by high shelves where towels and isotonic drinks are stacked.

Tom stands there without a single piece of clothing covering him.

No tank top. No boxers, not even socks. His arms serve as a less than adequate shield for his front.

“Shit!”

Looking all browbeaten head to toe, Tom mumbles something all panicked that gets drowned out by Rihanna’s catchy chorus. By now, the entire city of London probably knows his taste in music. And you: Just about every buff inch of him.

Fuck.

Time to get out of here.

You stumble backwards. Then, almost fall over, stepping on something squarish on the ground. Out of nowhere, the music stalls.

Silence.

You look down and realize that you’re standing on the tiny remote.

“Was getting ready for the shower! I’m sorry!” Tom repeats now that the stereo is off, covering himself with a scruffy towel in the meantime. Thank god that there are shelves around. But you have hardly gathered yourself by now.

“And... that’s how you opened the door?”

You know the answer given how Tom’s face changes from pale to crimson red, even visible through the layer of magnesium that not just his face is plastered into. It makes you wonder which odd parts of a body one can work out with.

“Was only peeking my head out! I didn’t know someone would come at this time of the day.”

Tom hurriedly tries to wrap the towel around his hips properly by now, but realizes it won’t cover enough of his backside. He hunches before you more frozen than ever. 

You sigh out. This lad indeed is akin to a toast.

“But it’s the afternoon?”

“I was only trying to prepare for the shower!” he repeats, wilding pointing about. “I’m so sorry, I—”

You pick up the remote and lay it down on the shelf to your right hoping your glare would suffice for him not to lay a finger on it anytime soon.

All this shower talk.

“Exactly where you’ll go now. Fucking twat.”

“T-twat?”

Tom’s jaw hangs loose. He’s still flushed like a ripe tomato.

“The entire corridor smells like gym. And get yourself some headphones for Rihanna, thanks.”

Enough seen, enough talk. Nobody down this very avenue could be grumpier. You bury either hand in your hoodie’s muff and turn. But Tom doesn’t look like he’s heading for the bathroom.

“Hey, wait! We didn’t even finish to introduce ourselves!”

“Do I look like I care? You’re wearing a towel! That’s past introductions. Fuck your politeness. Dickhead.”

For the sake of the other apartments and the plastering on the walls, you don’t opt for the now-you-know-how-it-feels-door-slam, but make sure to shut your own flat off from the sweaty stench in the corridor lightning fast.

Hoping that the barricade would at least block out that, if Tom wouldn’t put on Unapologetic the next hour. Who knows, you already see it coming. ‘Holland, T.’ arguably was the rudest neighbour you could possibly have. You regret doing as much as step one foot into his reeking apartment.

The silver kettle bleeps— you pour up your tea. Needs to sit for eight minutes, the fancy ‘Ayurvedic Relaxation‘ label of the bag says.

You close down the window of your unloved study notes on the laptop, alongside some other worksheets, digital drafts, presentations, and forms that need signatures from what seems to be the entire university. And then— sigh out, click the Youtube icon in the bookmarked pages. Eventually, you get comfortable in your hammock chair.

Perfect.

While the tea steams off, a soothing voice starts to play in a colourful intro. You alter the volume by three bars for better tingles. Finally: Your favourite. Mantis Chiropractic Medicine. Emotional Relief, ASMR, and life advice. Only the best cracks! And good-looking clients, too. What a dream. Atmospheric music with flutes and harps begins to chime after the intro jingle right away, making you sink into the hammock all slack.

Soft-spoken and polite as ever, Doctor Mantis begins to explain common side effects of sitting too much and how to remedy them that you stir in your tea, checking the watch: Only six minutes left of Ayurvedic Relaxation. Fair enough.

In the hallway, you hear a door closing while Mantis demonstrates a few carpal tunnel exercises. It’s from the direction of apartment #85. Likely Mister Rhodes returning from the Met Office. It’s 7PM. Punctual as ever. 

Mantis keeps on speaking gently on your laptop, showing her client how to correct his posture while typing.

You have to remind yourself not to get distracted because the notes and presentation are nowhere near finished. One video and you promise yourself to return to at least the mock exam questions. Again, you lean back into the hammock’s sturdy fabric and let the flutes carry you to another place and time.

Mantis, with her flowing black hair tied neatly into a ponytail, situated in the office with her immaculate white gown, already proceeds to diagnose a client on the screen with careful spine taps that a fast knock makes you jerk up. It’s not a sound coming from the video.

“Uh— Hello? Are you there?”

More knocks follow.

It’s Tom’s annoying voice.

“Please go away! I’m busy studying!” you shout, closing down the diagnosis video to remedy not your back, but conscience.

“Aren’t you watching a vlog or something?”

Too late.

Three bars on the volume button were a bit too loud. Damn it. Your entire Ayurvedic Relaxation is ruined.

“That’s a, a lecture video!”

You even catch yourself stuttering.

“Are you a med student or something?”

The voice remains persistent at the door.

“Tom. Fuck off into your gym, will you.”

To your anger, he actually knocks again.

“Please! At least come to the door! I don’t want to yell. You don’t have to open. Please. Please...”

You rub your eyes.

He has a point. Tony is still working during that time of the day anyways. Not to mention Rhodes. Yeah, Rhodes for sure. You close your laptop fast, slip out of the hammock, grab your teacup for emotional backing— and trot out of the bedroom with a grim feeling in your stomach.

“So what is it?” you grit, now inches away from Tom, but somewhat gladly, with the odour barricade still in place. Ten elephants and a pack of lions couldn’t move you to open that door.

“Y/N. I’m sorry for the music today,” Tom half whispers, half murmurs, now much more deferential.

He’s read your name on the door label. You sigh.

“The better apology’s leaving me alone. Can’t concentrate.”

A deep sip from your tea won’t make your annoyance go away either, but you still try and almost burn your tongue.

“With all due respect. If I would listen to lecture videos that loud my ears would be reeling, too...”

You could stomp the parquet below you to pieces on this very spot. Mister Stark was more than right about Tom. He was the cockiest mess.

“Look who’s talking! Rihanna’s bass line was peeling off our carpets this morning!”

You don’t want to know what janitor Rogers thinks about that.

“Y/N, please don’t yell,” Tom muffles from the other side repeatedly, tone more sympathetic. “I made enough noise myself today.”

“Oh, really? Never knew.”

“And, I’ve been using my earphones. Or did you hear anything Rihanna play?“

Mentally and physically, you give up your Ayurvedic Relaxation once for all and put the mug down on the next best birchwood cupboard. He does have not one, but two points. Maybe he’s not a toast, at least that. Still a bloody idiot, but you have to begrudgingly admit that he makes sense and didn’t touch the remote. 

Just in case— You peep through the fish-eye of the door and see Tom wandering about, not topless as far as you can trust your tired eyes. When he turns to the door, you try to read his face. He looks innocent. Sad, even.

“Please, Y/N. I just wanted to apologize for being rude. I’m still new here. And now that you’re playing something loud yourse—”

Ugh.

It’s a tie.

Click goes the door. And there you see him stand, in his striped Hello Kitty PJs that are way too tight at the arms, with tiny hearts printed all over them. He’s visibly scrubbed down, smelling like he’s used four shampoos at once. His curly hair looks kind of bouncy in the brutal light of the hallway.

“Nice to see you dressed for once, Holland.”

“Sorry, I probably look ridiculous.”

You open the door wider.

“Come on in rascal, still have some water in the kettle.”

It’s not terrible, really, it just isn’t great. Most people are friendly enough — sometimes overly friendly to appear woke, or some shit like that — but that’s fine, and mostly makes up for those who aren’t so nice. But Nebula’s lost an arm, not her hearing, so she doesn’t miss it when people look at her pointedly and go “that’s the girl I was telling you about.” And even though it’s not unkind, usually, it’s not exactly comfortable.

The door chimes as it opens, letting a gust of icy air into the stilted warmth of the shop. Nebula puts down the trays she’s holding before settling back at the counter and turning to face the new customer. And — oh thank fuck.

“Good evening!” says Mantis, somehow cheerfully bright as always. “My class finished early so I came to visit you.”

Nebula lets a small smile slip onto her face and busies herself with the cash register, trying not to look up or blush too obviously. “Thanks,” she replies shortly, because she doesn’t want to look like an idiot. She clears her throat. “What can I get for you?”

Mantis pauses, looking up at the menu boards and then down to the muffin display. It’s cute how much effort she puts into deciding, not that Nebula would ever admit it, as though one coffee might be slightly more sub-par than the rest. The girl always ends up getting the same thing anyway.

“I think I’ll have the hot chocolate again, if that’s okay, and… what would you recommend?” she asks, eyes looking at her earnestly.

Truthfully, Nebula already has the cherry chocolate muffin, and the hot chocolate powder out, but she takes another few seconds to hum as though she’s thinking deeply about this, and to just stand across the counter with Mantis here.

“I don’t know,” says Nebula, as she does every week, as though she does not know Mantis’ sweet tooth by now. “How about this?”

Mantis seats herself by the table closest, sipping her drink and eating her muffin, smiling and waving at her every now and then just because, and Nebula smiles and waves back, because her heart is a damn traitor and also a moron.

“Hey, careful there,” says a voice from behind her. “Need an extra, uh, hand carrying all those trays?” Nebula stifles the urge to groan and pummel his skull in with her metal fist — see how much of an invalid he thinks she is then — because she does get paid to put up with this shit. She allows herself a quiet sigh, however.

“No thank you,” she replies evenly.

The kitchen is five steps away from where she is now, so Nebula forces herself to keep walking straight.

“Hey I was talking to you,” says the man again, and she can practically hear the smugness lilting the bastard’s voice. “Are all the servers here this rude?”

Nebula’s always had problems with her temper, even Father knew that. She feels her fists clench and her pulse beginning to pound loudly in her ears and the momentum already building up in her muscles and —

“Wow,” says Mantis suddenly, her voice still somehow sunny, but there’s something else. “You are an asshole.”

Apparently, this is startling for the man also, because he rears back and just says “excuse me?”

“I said you are an asshole,” Mantis repeats. “You were being the rude one, not Nebula.”

Nebula holds her breath, ready to jump in at any moment (and totally not paying attention to the fact Mantis remembers her name — she’s wearing a nametag for christ’s sake.)

The man stands up, suddenly, red-faced and looking defensive. “Look, lady, I was just offering my help. It’s not my fault she decided to be such a damn bitch about it— “

“Do not call her a bitch. You were not offering to help, you were trying to make a cruel joke about the fact that Nebula has a prosthetic arm because you are close-minded and also an asshole.”

The rest of the shop is looking at them, wide-eyed. Because mostly, people just try to turn a blind eye. And it’s a family business, so Nebula’s boss certainly doesn’t care. Nebula herself isn’t quite sure what to do in this situation, though, to be honest, the calm in Mantis’ voice right now is kind of badass. She can see how the other girl might be intimidating, even sitting down, sipping luke-warm hot chocolate.

“You should leave,” says Mantis, as softly as ever, and levels a final, bright glare at the man.

The man leaves.

“Thank you,” says Nebula, and this time she doesn’t try to keep the tremor out of her voice. “I think you just stopped me from doing something that would’ve gotten me in a lot of trouble.”

“Don’t worry about it,” replies Mantis, nibbling once more on her muffin. “He was truly an asshole, and I’ve really had enough of those.”

“Me too,” she says and takes a deep breath. “You’re sweet.”