#pre-poly

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Kråksjö museum låg bedrägligt tyst och till synes öde. Sedan invigningen snart ett halvår tidigare hade det ursprungliga, högljudda larmet bytts ut mot ett tyst dito, eftersom grannarna klagat på de återkommande ”falsklarmen”.

Vad varken grannarna eller Erland och Sirpa visste var att Moa med hjälp av Mårten hade installerat en egen liten utbyggnad av larmsystemet. I de många strategiskt utplacerade speglarna i och runt skattkammaren satt det sensorer som med hjälp av AI kunde registrera när en viss person hade stått och stirrat i dem för länge. När så skedde gick en signal direkt till larmcentralen – och direkt till Moas mobil.

Eftersom både det lokala vaktbolaget och polisen hade sitt närmaste kontor i Överhult hade Moa än så länge alltid hunnit fram före dem, och hade alltid mötts av precis samma syn som nu, när hon med Pontus i släptåg låste upp ytterdörren och marscherade in i den mörklagda byggnaden:

Bildsköne Bengtsson, så djupt försjunken i sin egen spegelbild att han inte reagerade med mer än ett frånvarande hummande vare sig när porten slog igen med en dov duns eller när Moa fräste hans namn. Det var inte förrän Moa gav honom en ganska hård mycket lätt och museichefsmässig knuff som han faktiskt tyckes inse att han inte längre var ensam med skatten.

”Det var inte jag!” sade han snabbt, och lyfte händerna som för att visa att de var tomma. Sedan kände han igen Moa och Pontus. ”Jaha. Det var ni.” Han slog på ett brett leende, som säkert var tänkt att vara charmigt. ”Och vilken trevlig syn det är. God afton, fru museichef. God afton, herr museichefs…man. Fint museum ni har här. Och det är ju bara vad man kan vänta sig, när det är så fina människor som sköter det.”

Leendet var rätt charmigt, det måste Moa motvilligt medge.

Det verkade som om Pontus kände detsamma, för han log tillbaka mot den självutnämnde mästertjuven. ”Vi måste sluta träffas på det här sättet, Bengtsson”, sade han, och lät i det närmaste roat.

Moa sneglade på sin man, för riktigt så trevliga behövde de kanske inte vara när de just jagats upp ur sängen ännu en gång av världens mest irriterande wannabe-tjuv.

Pontus fångade hennes blick och ryckte lätt på axlarna. Det är ju Bengtsson. Vad hjälper det att skälla?

Alldeles för lite, hittills, men det brukade åtminstone få Moa att känna sig lite bättre. Hon vänder sig åter mot Bengtsson och fixerade honom med fast blick. ”Jaha. Så du är ute på rövarstråt igen.”

”Eh, va? Nä, jag hade, eh, vägarna förbi bara.”

Moa lade armarna i kors. ”Du hade ’vägarna förbi’ flera låsta och larmade dörrar och in på ett stängt museum. Mitt i natten. Igen.”

”Det är ju så mycket folk här på dan. Man ser ju knappt någonting, när alla står i vägen. Så jag tänkte att jag kunde passa på när det var lite lugnare.”

”Det är sjunde gången på två månader.”

”Jo, men skatten är ju så fin.” Bengtssons blick gled tillbaka mot bilden av sitt ansikte i spegeln. ”Men så fick jag syn på något annat väldigt vackert… ”

”Mmm. Det är också sjunde gången på två månader.” Moa skakade på huvudet, plötsligt mer trött än arg. ”Jag fattar inte varför du inte bara ger upp. Det blir så här varenda gång. Du fastnar framför spegeln och så åker du fast.”

Bengtsson rätade förnärmat på sig. ”Vadå åker fast? Jag har väl inte åkt fast! Och så har jag inte gjort något, heller. Jag hamnade lite fel, bara, när jag var ute och reste. Det är sånt som händer.”

”Just det”, sköt Pontus plötsligt in, till synes mest för sig själv. ”Det är sånt som händer. Ibland går saker snett och folk hamnar fel, men det är ju inget du kan hjälpa.”

Bengtsson var kanske inte riktigt så dum som Moa brukade påstå, för han gav Pontus en hastig blick och såg för ett ögonblick faktiskt nästan skamsen ut—men han samlade sig snabbt. ”Ehm, precis. Så alltså, jag var på trettonhundratalet och sno-… eh, tog en promenad och så skulle jag tillbaka hit och då råkade jag hamna här, mitt i natten. Och det ska man ju inte vara, så jag skulle precis åka härifrån, när ni dök upp. Men, eh, bra, då är det uträtt, så då jag ska väl—”

Han börja fippla med tidskikaren, och Moa tog ett snabbt kliv framåt och lade handen på den.

”Försök inte”, varnade hon. ”Vi följer dig hem. Så att du inte råkar hamna här igen, säg tio minuter in i framtiden.”

Det misstaget hade Moa bara gjort en gång.

Bengtsson anlade en sårad min. ”Det är så trist när folk inte litar på en, tycker jag”, sade han misslynt.

”Det är så trist när det inte går att lita på folk, tycker jag”, kontrade Moa oberört, samtidig som hon ledde tidsresenären mot dörren med ett fast grepp om hans arm. ”Låser och larmar du på, Pontus? Jag måste ringa vaktbolaget och säga att det var ’falsklarm’ den här gången också.”

”Det är ett besvärligt larm ni har”, kommenterade Bengtsson, som världens största och mest enerverande idiot. ”Det borde ni göra något åt.”

”Ja”, svarade Moa mörkt medan hon väntade på att larmcentralen skulle svara. ”Något måste definitivt göras.”

Bengtsson sneglade på henne. ”Eh, eller så behövs inte det, nu när jag tänker efter. Det är ju ingen skada skedd, egentligen.”

Hade inte operatören valt just det tillfället att svara hade Moa definitivt sagt något så smart och så dräpande att Bengsson hade blivit tillintetgjord och avlidit på fläcken. Där hade han en jävla tur, tänkte Moa, samtidig som hon förklarade situationen – så gott det nu gick – för den sävliga kvinnan i andra änden.

Tur var också att vaktbolaget inte hade hunnit skicka någon bil—vilket å ena sidan gjorde Moa sur, för det var så typiskt Överhult att släpa fötterna efter sig när det hände något i Kråksjö, men å andra sidan var det bra, eftersom en utryckning hade kostat muséet en rejäl slant, och då skulle hon faktiskt ha varit tvungen att mörda Bengtsson, och då skulle Pontus ha klagat på att det var jobbigt att gömma kroppen, och Clint skulle ha blivit ledsen, och Vida skulle antagligen ha tyckt att det hela var pinsamt.

Det var bättre så här, trots allt.

”Nu går vi”, sade Moa när hon avslutat samtalet. ”Bengtsson, om jag ser dig så mycket som snudda vid kikaren så kommer jag… ”

Hon gjorde en paus medan hon försökte tänka ut ett rimligt hot, och Pontus fyllde hjälpsamt i: ”Rufsa till ditt hår.”

Bengtsson såg så genuint förskräckt ut att Moa hade svårt att hålla sig för skratt. ”Hemska tanke”, muttrade han och rättade till (de perfekta) lockarna innan han demonstrativt knäppte händerna på ryggen.

De gick i maklig takt längs de tysta gatorna mot Kråksjö ruin. Egentligen borde de väl skynda på, tänkte Moa, för att bli av med Bengtsson och komma tillbaka till sin sköna säng så fort som möjligt, men majnatten var ljum och skön att promenera i. Doften av tulpaner och äppelblom hängde i luften tillsammans med det annalkande gryningsljuset, och fåglarna hade börjat kvittra.

Ett tag var de tysta, men till slut kunde Moa inte låta bli att fråga: ”Hann du se någonting av den nya uppställningen – innan du fick syn på dig själv, menar jag?”

”Mjo, en liten glimt fick jag.”

”Vad tyckte du?” Moa ansträngde sig för att låta som att svaret egentligen var henne helt likgiltigt.

Det var ett olyckligt faktum att Bildsköne Bengtsson inte bara var den i Kråksjö som visste allra mest om skatter rent generellt, utan också satt på oerhört mycket och unik kunskap om stadens historia. Hans oräkneliga tidsresor hade gjort honom till något av en expert på nästan allt av vikt som hänt i Kråksjö de senaste 3000 åren, och hur illa Moa än tyckte om att medge det så var han en enorm tillgång i arbetet med museet och utställningarna.

Eller skulle ha varit, åtminstone, om han inte var besatt av att råna muséet, och av att vara en allmänt besvärlig person.

Den andra gången de eskorterade Bengtsson hem efter ett misslyckat inbrottsförsök hade han i förbifarten noterat att ett par tennstop som påstods vara från 1810-talet i själva verket hade varit i bruk redan 1752. Det visste han säkert eftersom han hade fått dem kastade efter sig när han helt oskyldigt och fredligt lämnade Kråksjö värdshus en sen kväll i april just det året.

”Helt oskyldigt, alltså”, hade Moa sagt, men hon hade inte kunnat låta bli att le lite (tanken på att någon kastade tennstop efter Bengtsson hade definitivt något) – och nästa dag hade hon justerat utställningstexterna.

En annan gång hade han synpunkter på en av de utställda dräkterna, och för ett par veckor sedan på en nymålad tavla som skulle föreställa Kråksjö torg 1903. (”Nej, det stämmer inte. Modins skor öppnade inte förrän två år senare. 1903 var det fortfarande ett slakteri, med hutlösa priser. Ja, för de som betalar för sig alltså.”) Senast – det vill säga i tisdags – hade han pratat om hur man med enkla medel skulle kunna justera belysningen så att skattens glans kommer till sin rätt.

Moa och Ingo hade tillbringat större delen av gårdagen med att sätta upp de nya lamporna, och Moa kunde inte låta bli att undra om Bengtsson lagt märke till förändringen.

”Det såg bra ut”, försäkrade Bengtsson henne nu. ”En stor förbättring. Strålande, skulle man kunna säga.” Han skrockade åt sitt eget skämt, och Moa himlade med ögonen, men kände ändå hur hon blev glad.

”Ja, det är väl det minsta man kan förvänta sig av en skatt”, inflikade Pontus, som ogenerat skrattat till åt det klena ordvitsförsöket.

”Precis.” Bengtsson nickade gillande. ”Jag minns en gång—” Han kastade sig in i en historia om hur han en gång fastnat på fjortonhundratalet och tvingats leva förklädd till munk i nästan två veckors tid i jakten på en romersk guldskatt som i slutändan visat sig bestå av målade stenar, trist färg var det också, någon sorts gulbrun, de glänste inte alls.

Pontus lyssnade intresserat och ställde följdfrågor som Bengtsson smickrat besvarade, och Moa kunde inte låta bli att lite grann ryckas med av deras prat och skratt, och fnissade då och då till åt Bengtssons korthuggna med levande beskrivningar av sina strapatser.

Det var nämligen ett annat olyckligt faktum att Bengtsson—när han inte var upptagen med att stjäla saker, skicka iväg hennes man till vikingatiden eller vara odräglig—kunde vara rätt rolig, ja, nästan riktigt trevlig. Ibland, som till exempel när han och Moa råkade förlora sig i vilda spekulationer om vad som egentligen blivit sagt under det beryktade Rådshusmötet 1932, hände det rentav att Moa glömde bort att han var den jobbigaste personen i hela världen (näst Cindy).

Det kändes som att det inte gått mer än någon minut när de kom fram till ruinen, trots att det var nästan en halvtimmes gångväg från museet. Det hade hunnit bli nästan helt ljust.

Bengtsson sträckte på sig. ”Jaha”, sade han. ”Då var vi framme då. God kväll. Eller god morgon, kanske man ska säga.”

God morgon var faktiskt betydligt närmare sanningen, och en blick på mobilen fick Moa att inse att hon skulle vara tvungen att gå till jobbet om mindre än två timmar. Som genom ett trollslag förbyttes hennes goda humör i vredesmod.

Fy fan. Ännu en natts sömn förstörd, bara för att Bengtsson inte kan få in i sin tjocka skalle att han aldrig kommer lyckas ta sig förbi min geniala fälla.

Det kunde inte fortsätta så här.

Moa tog ett steg närmare Bengtsson. ”Du. Ge mig kikaren.”

Bengtsson gav henne en vaksam blick, och lade händer beskyddande över tidskikaren. ”Eeh, varför då? Jag trodde inte du var intresserad av att resa i tiden.”

”Nej, men jag är väldigt intresserad av att du inte ska göra det heller på ett tag.” Hon skakade långsamt på huvudet. ”Sju gånger på två månader, Bengtsson. Tre gånger bara de senaste veckorna.”

”Jo, men jag sade ju att det var ett misstag. Det kommer inte hända igen.”

”Nej, det kommer det inte, för du ska ge mig kikaren nu. Så får du tillbaka den om en månad eller så, om du sköter dig.” Det bästa hade förstås varit att ta den från honom för alltid, men Moa hyste inga illusioner: ställd inför ett sådant ultimatum skulle Bengtsson definitivt ta till drastiska metoder för att få behålla kikaren, och vem visste hur det skulle sluta. Eller när.

En månad var inte så lång tid att Bengtsson skulle vara beredd att offra vad som helst – till exempel sin vänskap med Clint – genom att vägra, men tillräckligt lång för att ge honom en välbehövlig tankeställare. Och tillräcklig lång för att Moa skulle kunna ta igen lite av sin förlorade nattsömn.

Bengtsson stirrade klentroget på henne. Den avslappnade charmen från deras promenad var som bortblåst. ”Nä”, sade han kort. ”Jag tänker inte ge dig min kikare.”

”Nähä. Okej.” Moa ryckte demonstrativt på axlarna. ”Då ringer jag vaktbolaget igen och säger att det nog var inbrott trots allt. Och att en misstänkt man sågs smita iväg mot ruinen.” Hon vände sig mot sin man. ”Vad tror du, Pontus? Om du hade världens största stulna skatt gömd under marken, skulle inte du tycka att det var väldig, väldigt jobbigt om det började springa runt en massa poliser och letade just där?”

”Jo.” Pontus spelade omedelbart med. ”Det skulle vara väldigt, väldigt jobbigt.”

Bengtsson såg förebrående på honom. Han hade tydligen väntat sig mer stöd av den andre mannen, efter att de hade haft så trevligt på vägen mot ruinen. Men då underskattade han Pontus, och Pontus kärlek och lojalitet till Moa.

”Jaha, men då flyttar jag ju bara skatten, och mig själv”, försökte Bengtsson. ”Till en annan tid. Det är inga problem. Men vad skulle Clint säga? Han tog det ju rätt hårt, när han trodde att jag var död.”

Moa ryckte på axlarna. ”Han kommer över det.”

Hon var inte alls så oberörd inför Clints sorg som hon låtsades, men hon räknade iskallt med att Bengtsson bluffade. Hon trodde inte att han frivilligt skulle lämna Clint igen, inte bara för en månad utan kikaren. Det faktum att den gamle skurken så uppenbart älskade hennes son och var beredd att göra vad som helst för att skydda honom var faktiskt det enda skälet till att Moa alls hade gått med på låta Bengtsson stanna kvar i den här tiden och vara en del av Clints liv.

”Men… ” Bengtsson tystnade. Han tycktes inse att han satt utan trumf på hand. ”Nej, det går inte. Hur ska jag ens tvätta min kläder? Va? Tvätteriet lade ned 1964. Utan kikaren kan jag inte åka dit.”

”Du får väl vara smutsig. Eller gå ned till sjön och tvätta för hand”, föreslog Moa. ”Då har du något att sysselsätta dig med också.” Kanske borde hon ansträngt sig för att låta aningen mindre skadeglad, men den uteblivna nattsömnen gjorde henne retlig och det var extremt tillfredställande att se den vanligen så vältalige Bengtsson stå och gapa och stamma.

Pontus gav Moa en hastig blick som hon för en gångs skulle inte kunde tyda, och sedan tog han ett steg närmare Bengtsson och lade en hand på hans arm. ”Du kan komma förbi och låna vår tvättmaskin”, sade han vänligt.

Moa gapade. Vad tog det åt Pontus?

”Jag vet inte—”, började hon, men Pontus fångade hennes blick och skakade avvärjande på huvudet. Lita på mig, mimade han.

I ärlighetens namn var Moa inte hundra procent säker på att hon faktiskt litade fullt ut på sin man när det kom till just Bengtsson och tidskikaren – han hade inte direkt ett bra track record– men hon höll tyst i alla fall. Pontus tycktes ha en plan.

Och kanske var han inte helt ute och cyklade, för Bengtsson, som hade börjat se riktigt upprörd ut, verkade stilla sig något.

”Jamen, det är ju annat också”, muttrade han. ”Tänk om skorna går sönder, till exempel. och så kan jag inte åka till skomakaren. Och, eh, min hudkräm. Den är nästan slut. Den börjar inte tillverkas förrän om tio år. Hur ska jag få tag på den? Ni fattar inte, när man byggt upp sitt liv i olika tider—”

”Det finns en skomakare i Överhult”, avbröt Pontus, fortfarande vänligt, och fortfarande med handen på Bengtssons arm. ”Vi kan åka dit, om dina skor skulle råka gå sönder.”

”Jaha.” Bengtsson såg ut som om han inte visste hur han skulle reagera på det. ”Men jag, eh, trodde att ni, eh, hatade Överhult.”

”Ja, jo, men vi kan ju inte låta dig gå barfota, eller hur?”

Moa skulle personligen inte haft något som helst problem med att låta Bengtsson gå barfota—kanske över ett nässelfält, det hade varit rätt festligt—men hon valde att inte säga något.

”Nej, det förstås”, sade Bengtsson. ”Man vill inte ha in stickor i de här fötterna. De är lena som babyrumpor. Fotbad och peeling vare vecka är hemligheten.”

Pontus nickade, som om Bengtsson uttalande var helt rimligt. ”Och i ärlighetens namn borde väl du också sova om nätterna, inte springa runt på museum”, sade han. ”Jag trodde du skulle vara mer noggrann med din skönhetssömn, faktiskt. Inte för att det behövs”, tillade han hastigt. ”Du ser jättebra ut. Men i alla fall.”

Okej, det där var verkligen att bre på alldeles för mycket, men det verkade onekligen som att Pontus ord hade avsedd effekt, för Bengtsson såg definitivt blidkad ut. ”Jo, jag har kanske slarvat lite med sömnen på sista tiden”, erkände han.

Pontus hummade medkännande. ”Det kanske vore skönt för dig med, med en liten paus. Och en månad går fort, vet du.”

”En månad.” Man kunde riktigt se hur Bengtsson små, små hjärnceller arbetade för högtryck med att väga för- och nackdelarna med att gå med på Moas krav. Nackdelar: ovärdigt att falla offer för utpressning; inga tidsresor; ingen skatt; måste tvätta själv; eventuellt lida brist på hudkräm. Fördelar: inte behöva flytta skatten; fortsätta träffa Clint; skönhetssömn.

Som Moa gissat vann Bengtssons kärlek till Clint över hudkrämen den här gången också. ”Ja, låt gå då”, sade Bengtsson till slut. ”Men sen lämnar ni tillbaka den.”

”Absolut”, sade Pontus.

”Kanske”, sade Moa. ”Ja, ja”, tillade hon när Bengtsson började protestera och Pontus såg förebrående på henne. ”Så länge du har hållit dig något så när i skinnet och jag har fått sova ostört varenda natt.”

”Hmpf. Du skulle ju kunna stänga av larmet, om det är så jobbigt”, föreslog Bengtsson, samtidigt som han långsamt och med uppenbar motvilja tog av sig kikaren och höll fram den mot Moa.

”Du skulle kunna sluta använda tidskikaren för att stjäla saker”, kontrade Moa, och tog snabbt kikaren från honom, innan han hann ändra sig. ”Tack.”

Bengtsson såg långt efter sin kikare och för ett ögonblick trodde Moa att han verkligen skulle ångra sig och försöka slita den ur hennes grepp, som han hade gjort den där gången hemma i deras kök före jul. Men så slog han ned blicken, och tycktes sjunka ihop lite. ”Det är inget att tacka för. Det är inte som att jag hade något val.”

Han såg så nedslagen ut att Moa höll tillbaka en syrlig kommentar om att han faktiskt bara hade sig själv att skylla. Hon sneglade på Pontus, lite osäker på hur man borde hantera en så okaraktäristiskt dämpad Bengtsson, och hennes man tog omedelbart ett steg framåt.

”Men ska vi säga att du kommer förbi på lunch på söndag då? Så kan du tvätta samtidigt om du behöver,” sade han. ”Och så får du höra av dig om dina skor går sönder innan dess. Eller om du vill låna hudkräm eller så.”

Bengtsson gav honom en snabb blick. ”Hmm. Ja, kanske det”, sade han. ”Vi får se. Jag kanske är upptagen.”

Men han såg genast lite gladare ut, och när han gick därifrån var det med sin vanliga självsäkra schvung i steget.

Moa skakade på huvudet. Den mannan var onekligen bra på att återhämta sig från motgångar.  Antagligen för att han var så van vid dem.

Hon väntade otåligt tills hon var helt säker på att Bengtsson var utom hörhåll innan hon vände sig till Pontus: ”Varför sade du att han kunde låna vår tvättmaskin? Och att vi skulle köra honom till Överhult om hans skor gick sönder?! Hela poängen med att ta kikaren var ju att vi skulle slippa honom i en månad! Ja, och skydda skatten förstås.”

Pontus svarade inte direkt, utan lade ena armen om hennes axlar. Sakta började de gå hemåt.

”Skulle det vara så hemskt att umgås med honom”, frågade han efter en stund, ”om det inte var mitt i natten och när han försöker bryta sig in på ditt jobb?”

Det var en möjlighet som Moa aldrig någonsin ägnat en tanke.

“Vi har ju rätt trevligt på våra promenader från museet”, fortsatte Pontus utan att bry sig om hennes förbluffade ansiktsuttryck. ”Och du gillar att han kan berätta om hur det var Kråksjö förr i tiden, eller hur?”

Okej, jo, kanske det, men… ”När man kan få honom att berätta något, ja. För det mesta ägnar han åtminstone hälften av tiden åt att prata om hur snygg han är!”

”Han är rätt snygg.” Pontus skrattade till när Moa blängde på honom, och rufsade om hennes hår. ”Du vet att jag är svag för lockiga rödtottar med stor personlighet.”

Det visste och uppskattade Moa. ”Okej, han kanske är rätt snygg”, medgav hon. ”Men han är inte så snygg som han tycker att han är.”

”Nej”, höll Pontus allvarligt med. ”Det är nog inte möjligt.”

Det gick tysta ett tag. Sedan puffade Moa sin man lätt i sidan. ”Var det därför du bjöd hem honom till oss? För att du tycker han ser bra ut?”

Pontus hummade. ”Kanske lite. Men… har du inte undrat varför han fortsätter? Bryta sig in på museet, menar jag. Du har ju rätt, han åker fast varenda gång och har aldrig ens varit i närheten av att få med sig skatten. Så, varför fortsätter han göra samma sak om och om igen fast han vet att det inte kommer att lyckas? Han är ju inte dum.”

Moa fnös. ”Är han inte?” Hon tyckte att det mesta av Bengtssons beteende kunde förklaras med att karln var helt från vettet.

Men hon tvungen att erkänna att Pontus hade en poäng. Det var lite väl korkat, till och med för Bengtsson, att så ihärdigt upprepa samma misstag om och om igen, och dessutom med allt tätare intervaller.

”Okej, varför gör han det då?”

”Jag är inte säker, men… vad händer, varje gång han bryter sig in?”

”Ja, han… fastnar vid en spegel, och så går larmet. Det helt otroligt att han inte fattat att de grejerna hänger ihop.”

”Mm. Och vad händer sen?”

”Sen kommer vi dit. Och ser till att han kommer därifrån utan att sno något.”

”Hur gör vi det?”

”Vi eskorterar honom hem… ” Moa stannade till och stirrade på sin man, slagen av en plötslig misstanke. ”Seriöst? Tror du att han bryter sig in för att vi ska följa honom hem? För att han vill ha sällskap? Av oss?”

Pontus ryckte lätt på axlarna. ”Kanske, kanske inte. Och kanske inte medvetet, men han skulle ju knappast fortsätta om han inte fick ut något av det, eller hur? Och han får ju inte tag på skatten, så det måste vara något annat. Han gick med på att lämna ifrån sig kikaren väldigt lätt.”

Moa började gå igen, samtidigt som hon försökte smälta denna nya och omtumlande idé. Det lät vansinnigt, men det var i och för sig var helt i linje med vad hon förväntade sig av Bengtsson. Och hon kunde inte förneka att det låg något i det Pontus sade… de brukade ha trevligt under promenaderna, åtminstone under den korta perioden mellan att Moa slutade vara arg för att Bengtsson försökt stjäla skatten igen och började vara arg för att hon snart skulle vara tvungen att gå upp på riktigt.

”Så du tror att om vi… umgås med honom frivilligt så kommer han att sluta försöka stjäla skatten?”

Pontus funderade. ”Nja, kanske inte sluta helt, men bara försöka någon gång i kvartalet eller så.”

Moa var nästan säker på att han skojade.

”Ja, Clint skulle ju bli glad i alla fall”, muttrade hon. ”Om Bengtsson började tillbringa mer tid hemma hos oss, alltså.”

Nu var det Pontus som stannade till och vände sig mot henne så att de såg varandra i ögonen. ”Och du då?” frågade han, plötsligt helt allvarlig. ”Hur skulle du känna?”

Moa svarade inte omedelbart. Hon kände efter; vägde sin misstro mot den mustaschprydde tjuven mot den värme som oväntat kunde välla upp inom henne då och då, när Bengtsson glömde bort att vara en åsna och pratade på om Kråksjö eller om Clint, eller när han gav henne en till synes uppriktig komplimang, eller skrattade åt ett av Pontus dåliga skämt.

”Vi testar”, sade hon till slut. ”Vi testar, så får vi se.”

Svaret tycktes göra Pontus nöjd, för han lutade sig fram och kysste henne på huvudet. ”Men först går vi och lägger oss, va.”

Moa nickade.

När de till slut låg bredvid varandra under täcket igen, Moa med ansiktet i Pontus halsgrop och han med armen om henne, sade Pontus: ”Nu när vi har kikaren så kanske du och jag—”

”Nej.” Moa lät honom inte tala till punkt. ”Ingen reser någonstans med den här kikaren den kommande månaden.”

Pontus sade inte emot, men Moa anade att det inte var sista gången de skulle ha den här diskussionen under de närmaste trettio dagarna. Hon skulle bli tvungen att gömma kikaren på ett mycket säkert ställe för att hindra såväl Bengtsson som Pontus från att få tag på den.

Men trots detta, och trots att hennes väckarklocka skulle ringa igen om en timme, så kände Moa en oväntad liten ilning av förväntan dra igenom kroppen. För ett kort ögonblick föreställde hon sig att det inte bara var hon och Pontus i sängen, utan också—

Nej. Hon slog undan tanken. Var kom det där ifrån? Hon behövde tydligen verkligen sova.   

Billy’s not sure if Steve and him are still dating. He did get possessed and die before they could get back together after his last huff with Steve. It’s the only reason he bothered flirting with Mrs Wheeler. He hadn’t even planned on going to the motel, just to drive past to see if she came so he could rub the fact in Steve’s face when he grovelled back to him (it felt more like an inside joke at this point and after dying, well…he’s not sure he likes the joke anymore. He wishes he had just trusted that Steve was gonna stay even with Billy’s issues and flaws).

Steve seems to act like they never broke up, hugging him so tight it hurt, kissing his face and his lips, and Billy feels extremely awkward doing this in front of his ex. Argyle was his friend for years before they even dated.

Except he seems to have his hands full with the eldest Byers, talking to him lowly with a smile, probably filling him in on who Billy was to him.

Billy shouldn’t be jealous. His feelings for Argyle were something he gave up when he moved to Hawkins. When he dumped him and started dating Steve a few months later.

(But maybe that was a lie. Maybe he never let go of that first love. An easy, kind love. The only one he never dumped for any reason other than leaving.)

He loves Steve. Yet he still loves Argyle. And Billy is nothing but possessive; so maybe he glares at Byers more than necessary, can’t help it really.

“Do you have a problem with me?” Jonathan snaps one day. “Seriously, man, stop giving me the stink eye. I don’t even know you.”

“Why is Argyle dating you?”

“What? I…I don’t know. Because he likes me, I guess. We’re best friends.”

“We were best friends.” Billy mutters, burning with jealousy and it’s so obvious even Jonathan can see it.

“You’re dating Steve, Billy. If you break his heart because of some ex boyfriend, I’ll kick your ass like I did to him.”

Maybe it’s because Jonathan has an instinctive motherly tone, but his sharp scold makes Billy feel small, hunched in and trying not to pout like a child.

“I care about Steve. I wouldn’t hurt him on purpose.”

“Well, you’re going to hurt him if you don’t get over my boyfriend, okay? I don’t—“ Jonathan sighs like he’s exhausted. He looks it all the time. “I don’t dislike you, Billy. You protected my sister, and you helped save Hawkins. I don’t even care that you like my boyfriend. Argyle…he talked about you. I know he loved you a lot. He probably still does, he’s that kind of guy.” Jonathan doesn’t seem upset by this, simply smiling fondly. “I want us to be friends, Billy. But if you hurt Steve or Argyle, I don’t think we can be.”

Most of Billy’s friendships have been accidental. But Jonathan is offering his, plain as day, with little conditions.

…Billy kind of wants it.

So he tries to get over Argyle and focus on Steve. But it’s hard when Argyle still treats him like he used to. Still touches him casually, gently, praises him for merely existing. Smiles at him with softness in his eyes.

He’s high when he whispers it to him.

“I don’t think I ever stopped loving you.” There’s guilt in the words, and he’s aware of Steve who’s across from them, talking lowly with Jonathan as they pass a joint back and forth. Jonathan looks mildly amused but Steve looks near tears with his giggling. They’d become closer since the Byers moved back to Hawkins.

“I love you too, man.” Argyle whispers it easily, eyes hazy and warm as he looks down at him, petting his head.

“But not like that.” Billy filled in and Argyle frowns.

“No, I totally love you like that.” He takes another hit. “Like Jonathan, man. Little dude says I gotta lotta love to give, y’know?”

“…I love Steve. A lot.” It’s hard to admit out loud, even after dying. Steve still felt like a raw nerve when they were alone, trapped in tender moments that enticed an emotion too large for his chest. He fears Steve will leave one day, but the brunet clings to him, drowning him in gestures and words and love. He can’t ignore that. Can’t ignore how his heart races when Steve enters a room, how his stomach flips when Steve looks at him with nothing short of adoration.

“He’s pretty cool.” Argyle agrees. “He’s got a good heart, man. Jonathan insisted before we met but he’s proven it.” Billy nods his agreement.

“He really does.” He knocks his head against the side of the van, staring at his boyfriend who’s grinning dopily and leaning into Jonathan’s ear, trying to say something that gets waved off every time he starts because Jonathan is apparently ticklish on his ear, wheezing a soft laugh and covering it.

“Plus, he has a nice butt.” That makes Billy laugh, smacking Argyle’s chest.

“Eyes off, Wipeout.” Argyle takes his palm and Billy can feel the hitches of his own laughter against the back of his hand as Argyle leans in to whisper in his ear.

“I complimented your boyfriend, compliment mine, Riptide.” He rolled his eyes and let his eyes drift to Jonathan. His hair looks softer today. Steve’s been teasing him about it’s lack of volume and greasiness so the jock passed on some of his own products for Jonathan to test out. It’s worked wonders.

Billy let his eyes wonder lower, trying to see the appeal that captured Argyle. He seems too pale, too lanky, dark undereyes and jaw shadowed with stubble, clothes ill-fitting. But there is a certain charm to his overall appearance. He looks strangely homely with his dark eyes and messy hair, flannel falling off his shoulder as he snickers. There’s a dark hickey at the base of his neck that Billy hadn’t noticed earlier and it makes his eyes focus on the expanse of his neck, slim and unblemished besides the singular hickey.

“He looks biteable.” Is the only thought that came to mind and it sends Argyle into a fit of laughter, curling down into his shoulder to rest his head there, hand still in his.

“Dude, he is.” Billy’s lips split into a grin. He’s way too high for this conversation. It’s too open, too honest, and all kinds of weird.

“Billy.” Billy squinted at his boyfriend and smirked.

“Hiya Stevie.” Steve looks tasty too, with his star-like moles and soft tan, his usually artfully tousled hair is simply messy now, falling into his eyes as his shoulder bumps into Jonathan’s, giggling as he tips his head back against his shoulder. Jonathan looks sleepy and soft, his hand petting Steve’s throat clumsily as he tilts his head to knock against his.

Billy’s pretty sure he should be jealous. He mostly just wants to pull them both against his chest and cuddle them.

“Comfy.” Steve hums, looking at Billy who’s got Argyle half draped over him, his glossy black hair falling against his shirt and tickling his jeans. It’s so long, and Billy kind of loves it. Billy’s not entirely sure if Steve means he’s comfortable or that Billy looks comfortable.

He just hums in return.

He’s pretty sure they’re supposed to be swapped. Argyle should be draped over Jonathan and Steve should be laying his head on Billy’s shoulder, but it feels good. Feels right.

He likes seeing Steve melt as Jonathan scratches at his scalp. Likes how warm Argyle is, solid and grounding. He even likes the look Jonathan gives him, sleepy but content. Like he doesn’t care that his boyfriend is snuggling his ex. That he might even find it nice.

He had dumped plenty of folks on a whim and dipped, not regretting a thing. He moved on with ease because he never let his heart be invested long enough to get attached.

Argyle had been someone he never wanted to dump, had been easy to love. Been a familiar face when he got back to Hawkins. Steve had been the guy to chase after him, prove he wasn’t leaving, that he wanted Billy despite it all. Had essentially been waiting for him with his heart on a platter once he crossed the veil back to the living.

Billy was certain no matter who he chose, he’d feel the others absence. He didn’t want or get to chose. The choice had been made for him when Argyle returned to his life with a new boyfriend and Steve had showered him with love like he never left.

He loved Steve and he loved Argyle.

And Billy understood why Argyle loved Jonathan.

To say that everything had changed since that night would’ve been an understatement. Steve and Bucky had always been fairly affectionate with each other, more than the majority of men who are (mostly) friends, but those displays of affection had increased and you knew it was because both of them felt more comfortable expressing themselves in front of you. There were more hugs, more kisses, more cuddles on the couch. It wasn’t uncommon for you to turn up at Steve’s to find the two of them tangled on the sofa together, Bucky with a book, Steve with a sketch pad, just passing the time in each other’s company.

Steve was happier and more content. His artists block was well and truly gone, and he spent hours in his studio, churning out work after work, half way to the creation of a new exhibition if things kept on in this manner.

But it wasn’t just between the two of them. There was more affection between you and Bucky as well. He’d come up behind you and wrap his arms around you whilst you cooked or washed up. He’d cuddle up on the other side of you when you and Steve were on the sofa, his feet tangling with yours. When he left of an evening, leaving you and Steve alone, he would cup your cheek in his hand and drop a soft kiss to your forehead.

There was always a look of longing in his eyes when he left. An undercurrent of tension between the three of you. You thought back to your brief conversation with him as Steve lay asleep, sated on the bed before you both settled either side of him.

“Thank you for being here.”

“Any time darlin’. I’m always available for my best guy and his gal. You’re pretty special, you know that? Not many women would be happy to share their man.”

“Aahh, but he needs both us, I think?”

“And what about you, sweetheart?”

“Oh, Buck, yeah, I’m starting to think I need both of you too. Let me sleep on it with my two guys, okay?”

“Okay, yeah, I can get behind that.”

Was it possible that you were starting to fall in love with Bucky? And what would that mean for the three of you. You knew that Steve loved you, and you knew that he loved Bucky. But did he love you both in the same way? And how did Bucky really feel? God, it was all so confusing.

It was two weeks after ‘that night’ when you let yourself into Steve’s apartment and was surprised to find your boyfriend on his own.

“Hey, Steve. No Buck tonight?”

He pulled you to him, pressing a kiss to your lips, before sitting on the couch and drawing you to sit sideways on his lap.

“No, it’s just you and me tonight, Cali. Needed some one-on-one time with my favourite girl.”

His nose was pressed into your neck, just below your ear and you felt his lips moving against your skin as he talked. He was holding you firmly, as though worried you were going to slip away and you could feel his nervous energy. You leant back, cupping his face in your hands and tipping up his chin so you could look him in the eye.

“What’s wrong lover?”

You searched his face, trying to read every micro-expression. Whilst he was an extremely passionate man, you knew that he found it difficult to truly open up.

“I just love you so much, sweetheart. And I never wanna cause you any pain...and…”

You could see tears in his eyes, something you’d never seen before, at least in this context.

“Shhhhhh…. I know you love me Stevie. What is it?”

“I love him, Cali! I love Bucky. I…I think I always have, but never wanted to acknowledge it. And I’m so confused, because I also love you and I don’t want to lose you. I need you so much. I’m not me without you. But, I don’t think I can be without him either. I mean, we’ve always been there for each other, but I want more. I want him in my life, the way you are in my life.”

He took a deep breath and forced himself to make eye contact with you.

“You want to be with both of us, don’t you?”

“With everything that I am.”

You kissed him then. A kiss to let him know you weren’t hurt, that you loved him still. You relaxed into his arms, feeling warm and content in his arms, fingers plucking at the slight bobbling on the sleeve of his sweater.

“Have you spoken to him?”

“Yes…. He…he says he loves me too, but he doesn’t want to get between us. He doesn’t want to hurt you either. But he did tell me that you didn’t seem adverse to the idea, you know, of the three of us.”

You respond with a hum, letting your thoughts run around your head as you processed everything you’d been told. Night fell outside, but you stayed there, just thinking. Steve didn’t probe you, allowing you the mental space. After a while he put the television on, re-runs of old CSI episodes that didn’t really take much brain power to watch. He shifted you off his lap to sort out a plate of nibbles for you both, plus some drinks, drawing you into his side on his return, the plate balanced on one of his broad thighs and the mugs of chamomile tea on the coffee table in front of you.

You both finished the food and drinks as an episode was coming to an end. It wasn’t late by any means, but you turned in his embrace and pulled him down by his collar to kiss you. He let you take the lead, until the moment you sighed into his mouth….

“Take me to bed Stevie, I need you……”

He swept you up into his arms and did just that.

The next morning, as you lay entwined in each other, you turned to him carefully.

“I think I need to talk to Bucky. Just me and him.”

Steve dropped a tentative kiss on your forehead.

“Well, I’ve got to fly to Boston this weekend to do some of the ground work for the next leg of my exhibition. Would that give you the time you need?”

“I think so. But when I say talk, I don’t just mean that. Buck and I need to see if, you know, if he and I…”

You could feel yourself going red. But then again, you’d never in your life expected to be talking to your boyfriend about finding out if you and his best friend were sexually compatible before you defined the structure of your potential three-way relationship…..

“You two do what you gotta. I won’t be jealous, promise. I just want you to be happy, and him to be happy. For all of us to be happy. Whatever shape that takes.”

The rest of the week was busy, work wise. Thursday night Steve came over to your apartment, in a change from the norm, as you were working flat out. He was heading off to Boston in the morning, and wanted to say good bye properly, despite the fact that you’d see him again on Monday. He made love to you gently and tenderly, in a break from your standard routine of hot passionate, and quite often kinky, sex.

You’d arranged with Bucky for him to come to yours for dinner on Friday evening. That way you could get bits and pieces for it organised in and amongst your work. As 8pm neared you started to feel nervous, like you were going on a first date. You’d told Bucky that it would be casual so you had on jeans and baggy sweater, needing to be comfortable after a day of corporate Zoom meetings.

You’d made up some pizza dough, and it was portioned out, proving in a warm place, and a selection of toppings lay prepped in containers on the kitchen counter. The red wine was breathing, and you’d made the lighting a bit more intimate. This had been the worst bit. You wanted to set the right tone, but didn’t want it to all go straight to seduction mode. He might not want to have a physical relationship with you, at least regularly. He might only want to be with you ‘like that’ when Steve was present as a catalyst.

When he finally knocked on the door, you were so wound up, that you jumped, but when you opened it up, you found him standing there, a slightly shy smile on his face and bunch of flowers in his hand.

“Hey Buck, come in.”

You stood to the side and he walked into your small apartment. He’d never been there before and you could see him trying to take it all in without seeming nosy.

“Hey darlin’.”

He bent down to press a kiss to your cheek and then pressed the bouquet into your arms. You thanked him for them, and directed him to sit on your couch, as you went and fished a vase out from the back of a kitchen cupboard. He sat on the edge of the cushions, thumbs twiddling as you unwrapped the flowers and trimmed their stems. There was no denying that the silence was awkward.

Once the flowers were sorted to your satisfaction and the remains cleared away, you poured out two large glasses of the wine and walked over to the sofa with them. You passed one to Bucky before settling back into the corner opposite him, one leg tucked beneath you.

“Cheers!”

You raised your glass at him.

“To the weirdest conversation of my life.”

He chuckled at your joke and almost immediately the tension was broken. You both took long swigs from your glasses, before Bucky placed his on the table, and plucked yours out of you hand to join it.

“Come here….”

His voice was gruff, but jokey, as he pulled you across into his embrace, almost a mirror of the one you’d had with Steve earlier in the week.

“What about we put a movie on, have our dinner and save the heavy stuff for once we’ve got down this bottle and started the next?”

“Sounds like a plan, sweetheart. What are we having?”

“Create your own pizza. But I tell you now, if you tell me off for putting pineapple on mine we’re going to have to tell Steve that this isn’t going to work out.”

“How can you do this to me, darling! You really making me choose between Stevie and a crime against pizza?”

“Yup! Deal with it Buck-o!”

“What have I got myself into?”

You laughed and dragged him by his tattooed arm into your kitchen area.

Two hours later and you were both pleasantly full, the wine bottle was empty and the pair of you had been good-naturedly bickering about the film you had been watching. As the credits began to roll you pulled yourself up towards your kitchen, returning with another bottle of wine and the opener.

“So…..”

“Yeah……um…Stevie never did like to do anything the easy way.”

You snorted, amused by his tone.

“I suppose, my question is really how do we want this to work? Like is it that Steve is with me and also with you and we sort out some kind of rota. Or is it the three of us, sometimes alone, sometimes paired and sometimes all three? I mean, do you actually want to be with me, or have me involved. I mean this is really the first time we’ve spent together where Steve isn’t involved in some way or another.”

“I think, sweetheart, we should try to forget about Steve for the weekend. Maybe treat this like a first date, just us.”

He moved closer to you, cupping your face with his palm.

“There’s one problem with that Buck….”

You placed a hand over his chest.

“I don’t put out on a first date.”

“That’s not what Steve said.”

“I thought we weren’t talking about Steve?”

His face was close to yours now. You could feel his breath on your face, saw the desire in his eyes. You were having trouble breathing. You knew he was charismatic, but had never been on the receiving end of him at full force before. Your tongue snuck out of your mouth to wet your lips, now feeling suddenly dry.

“I suppose, with everything, we could probably consider this our third or fourth date.”

“Do you put out on those?”

“Sometimes? Depends if the guy can convince me it’s gonna be worth it.”

“Is that a challenge, darlin’?”

His free hand came up to smooth your hair back off your face, tucking a lock behind your ear.

“Bucky……”

His name came out of your mouth on a whisper.

“Yeah?”

“I know you’ve done it before, but please, kiss me…..”

His mouth descended gently onto yours, his plush lips moving, tasting you almost timidly. You gripped his large biceps, steadying yourself. He’d barely touched you and you were dizzy. You pressed into him harder, opening his lips with yours, deepening the kiss. He moaned as your tongue slid into his mouth, and you moved to straddle his lap, suddenly feeling the need to devour him, to own him. You could feel him start to harden in his jeans, and one of his hands moved from your face to your lower back, just above your ass, to encourage you to grind against him.

When did you last spend this long just making out and grinding? You felt like a teenager again, but you were so turned on you didn't care. Then Bucky moved both his hands to your hips, using his superior strength to manhandle and flip you, so you were pressed onto the cushions of the couch, with him above you. He pulled his mouth away from yours, kissing and nibbling at your neck, as his hands slid up your shirt, pushing it up and off. His lips then trailed over your collar bone and over the swell of your breasts encased in your comfy cotton bra.

Your fingers tangled in his hair, clutching him to your breasts as he sucked at each peak in turn through the thin fabric. You whined, you think it was supposed to be his name, but you couldn’t focus. His fingers worked the button and zip of your jeans and he tugged them down, his body sliding along yours, leaving a trail of sensation in his wake, as his scruff rubbed against your delicate flesh.

His nose pressed into the crotch of your plain cotton panties, and he inhaled deeply.

“Been dreaming about this pussy, darlin’. Almost died when you an’ Stevie let me at it that night we met. And then when I got my hand on it….in it….so tight sweetheart, so gorgeous. Can I make you feel good? Can I touch you here, kiss you?”

“Please, oh god, please, Buck.”

He yanked your jeans fully off, throwing them across the room, before scooping you up in his arms.

“Bedroom sweetheart?”

You flailed your arm out to direct him and he moved across your small apartment in half a dozen strides. He shoulder barged your door open and practically tossed you down onto your mattress, making you laugh as you bounced across the sheet. He pulled his own t-shirt off and your eyes re-familiarised themselves with his toned body, the full sleeve tattoo on his left arm, the dark hair that trailed down from his belly button.

Bucky’s hands gripped your panties and dragged them off your body, looking down at your glistening pussy, and then up into your eyes as he licked his lips. He dropped to his knees at the end of your bed, and pulled you down towards him before tossing your legs over his shoulders. He let out a noise akin to a growl just before his mouth descended to connect with you.

The first time he’d done this you were delirious from the orgasms that Steve had pulled out of you, and dripping with his cum. It had felt fantastic, but later you’d put it down to all the other contributing factors. However, now you were experiencing it for the second time you knew one thing. It was ALL Bucky. He was just that talented. It was like he was making out with your cunt, his tongue curling into your entrance like he wanted to get every trace of your essence.

And then he started with his fingers. Those wide calloused fingers, so different to Steve’s don’t think about Steve. One at first, as his tongue moved up to play with your clit. Then two, stretching you, oh-so-good. You rolled your hips up, fingers gripping his hair again, tugging at it making him moan into your core. He retaliated, using his tongue to trace the letters of his name right against your bundle of nerves.

“Bucky! Fuck!”

He chuckled against your folds and slowly pushed in his third finger, forcing air out of your lung with the pleasurable burn. Then he crooked his fingers and your eyes rolled into the back of your head. You could feel the roughness of the pads of his fingers and your channel clenched around the intruding digits.

He sucked on your clit and massaged your g-spot and your legs trembled around his head.

“Oh god, fuck, shitshitshitshit!”

Your orgasm washed over you and through it all you could hear the vulgar sounds of Bucky feasting on you, the squelch as his fingers moved in and out, fucking you through the waves of pleasure, and drawing it out until you were mewling in overstimulation.

Bucky crawled back up your body, kissing your glistening skin all the while, then propped his elbows either side of your head and rested his chin on his fists. You looked up at him and rolled your eyes at his shit-eating grin. He looked completely debauched, hair all over the place and his face still bearing the evidence of your release.

“You’re incorrigible…..”

He just smiled all the more, before grinding his hips, and his erection, against you, making you gasp as the rough denim ground against your still sensitive clit.

“Convinced you it’s gonna be worth it yet? Or do I need to ‘convince’ you again?”

You pursed your lips, making a joke of being deep in consideration, when he ground his hips again. All pretence flew out the window, as your hands scrabbled at the fasting of his jeans.

“Off, now, fuck….”

He just continued to grin as he rolled away and kicked off his jeans and briefs, before grabbing and pulling you over, to straddle his hips.

“Do what you want darlin’, I’m just here to make sure you have a good time.”

You smiled at him and traced the patterns of flowers on his arm.

“You want me to use you, Buck? Just take my pleasure from your body? Make myself come on your cock?”

His eyes closed and he bit his lower lip, trying, and failing, to hold back a moan. You shifted, so your wet pussy was pressed against his cock, and teased him with your warmth and your wetness, rocking slightly so your still engorged clit rubbed against his flared head.

“Sweetheart, please, you’re killing me…”

“You begging Bucky?” “If it will make you fuck me already, then yes! Please darlin’, Cali, babydoll!”

You took pity on him, and yourself, by lifting yourself up, taking hold of his length and slowly letting your pussy engulf the tip.

You’d been dreaming about this cock from the first time your seen it, imagining how it would feel as it entered you, but those dreams didn’t compare to reality. You couldn’t help it, you just had to tease yourself with it, dipping up and down, just letting the wide mushroom head move back and forth through your sensitive entrance.

“God, Bucky, you feel so good, fuck……..”

He whined beneath you, struggling to control himself, so you finally sank all the way down, feeling him fill you and rub against your g-spot.

“Oh fuck!”

His shout was loud in your small apartment.

You leant back slightly, your arms behind you, bracing on his thighs as you lifted your began to fuck yourself on him. His hands held onto your hips, to steady you, doing nothing to change your pace.

“You look so good up there sweetheart, so fucking sexy. Can’t wait for you to cream all over me, fuck.”

You were panting, concentrating on you pleasure, the feel of him inside you, the tightening of that coil in you abdomen.

“Touch me Bucky, please, so close!”

He lifted his left hand to his face, sucking his thumb into his mouth, before pressing it between your folds, rubbing circles on your bud. His right hand trailed up to palm at your breast, tweaking and pulling your nipple.

“Ah… ah… ah… shit!”

“That’s it darlin’, fuck…feel so good squeezing my dick.”

The wave started in your core, travelling up and down your body to the tips of your toes and the ends of your hair, and you cried out at the feeling. You were still riding your high when he pulled you up and flipped the pair of you, hands braced on the mattress, and started to rail you.

All you could do was hold on, legs tight round his waist, nails digging crescent shaped dents into his muscular shoulders. You were still sensitive and the way he was thrusting and grinding against you, his public hair crushed against your clit, had you right on the edge again.

“BuckyBuckyBucky!”

“I know, doll, I know, gonna cum soon, fuck, but you got one more for me?”

This third orgasm slammed into you due to the overstimulation, and you were screaming, your body arching underneath Bucky’s. You hear him groan into your ear, his hips stuttering against yours, his cock pulsing inside you as he came.

You were both quiet for a few minutes after, slightly dazed. Bucky rolled off you, but took hold of one of your hands, either grounding himself or ensuring you didn’t run away or a bit of both. But it was him who broke the silence.

“So... worth it?”

You laughed and punched him lightly in the shoulder.

It… sex… was different with Bucky than with Steve. Steve was brooding and intense. Bucky was silly and fun. Not to say that Steve wasn’t fun, he definitely had his moments, but Bucky was so light-hearted. Maybe it would be good for Steve, to finally have this with Bucky. If he’d been denying himself for so long, it was no wonder he was slightly emotionally constipated. Not that you wanted him to change, you loved his intense side, the way he loved you as if the world could end any moment.

There were other, practical considerations to work out, conversations and negotiations, but lying here, next to Bucky, and thinking about Steve and how happy you could all be together, made you think that this really could work, the three of you.

You turned to look at Bucky, your smile in your eyes.

“Yeah, it was worth it. But don’t let it go to your head…..”

You couldn’t wait for Monday, and Steve’s return.

Norville "shaggy" Rogers had thought he was done with moments like these. He lived the life of a mystery solver now, with constant terror and jump scares, he thought he'd been desensitized enough to grow past... this.

He'd had his first one when he was a child, in front of a large audience of classmates and their families. Had fallen apart on stage and scared his teacher, he'd looked for a familiar face in the audience but his fathers back was all he found. He'd been "dissappointed" in 'Norville' and Shaggys world turned for the worse. Expectations ever higher, and rules ever stricter.

Things had gotten better when he met Daphne Blake. Who was sharp, a little aggresive, and competitive, but had a way of sucking up all the energy in a room so he felt he had enough room to breathe. She punched a bully for him in elementary school, and he made her laugh and suddenly they were inseperable and hed have it no other way. Plus she didnt mind Scooby- his anxious but helpful rescue/emotional support dog.

Fred and Velma had come later, he'd seen them around but Shaggy wasnt one to instigate anything. But he'd admired Fred, a leader, ambitious, smart and nice in a way not many of the jocks and stuff were. He'd shared a class with Velma, shed always seemed a little blunt, she was smarter than anyone but alone a lot, she had an attitude like she didnt care but Shaggy could see that she did. They were both weird in different ways, but Shaggy could never find the guts to think about them more than that. And Daphne seemed fine to be a duo, Until they all collided.

It was a ghost at their towns fair- in actuality it was an interested buyer of the land- that brought them together and had them forming this... Mystery Inc. Business. And with Protective Daphne, Brave Fred, and No nonsense Velma, Shaggy was never bored and he found himself happier than he'd ever been when he was with them.

So why after all this time, after all the crimes they've solved, is Shaggy sitting in a corner unable to just freakin breathe!?

He had been walking with Scooby and Velma, another haunted place in another spooky town. Everything was pretty normal- considering their lives- and Velma had been a steady stream of history and facts that was calming even in the face of his and Scoobs terror. So imagine his luck, when a chandelier falls between him and the others. He falls backwards, hard, into the stone wall, he cant make out where Scoob and Velma ended up, not before he falls through said wall.

Now he's had his fair share of hidden doorways and the like, but usually there wasnt someone there to knock him out immediately. The headache he wakes up with has his sight spinning when he tries to look around. It has his heart trying to thump out of his chest, but he pushes the feeling away, in the past the way out was pretty easy to find, he just had to calm down.

Hes in a small room, stone walls and a single oil lamp for light sitting on a desk in the corner, the room is bare of anything else and with no obvious signs of exit. Logically he knows he got put in here, so he can get out, but logic is not at the forefront of his mind. Not when the 'ghost' they've been investigating is sitting at the desk the next moment he looks. Not when said ghost is holding a large knife and staring directly at him.

But even in the face of this, Shaggy tries to stay in control of himself, if for no other reason than to panic in privacy and not in front of this dude. Besides, he had to have been gone for awhile now, and that meant the others would be looking for him and burst in any minute... any minute.

The ghosts hand moves and Shaggy is only able to dodge from years of experience, the knife bouncing off the wall where his head had been and clatters across the floor back towards the ghost. His pale hand picks it up, moves towards Shaggy, who flinches and curls into himself to shield anything important. When nothing more comes, he looks up to find the room as empty as when he awoke.

And an old panic, one familair and terrible, grips his heart-each beat quick and stuttering- has his lungs too big to fill, no breath fuffiling and simply leaving him longing for more. He pushes himself as far into the corner as he can, curled into himself and trembling hard enough his teeth start to chatter, which he halts as he clenches his jaw, he has to be quiet. He doesnt want attention, please he promises he doesnt want attention hes not doing it on purpose, make it stop makeitstoppleasestopstopstop!

Tears have come unbidden, and a shaky hand swipes at them quickly. Weakness cant be shown. Hes an adult now, however just barely, and he has had worse than a close call with a knife, he should not be crying and trembling and gasping in a corner.

But he was alone, alone for the first time in... in who knows how long. He was alone and no one was coming for him, the ghost was probably causing them trouble, and he wasnt there to draw it away. He was being useless in a corner and no one was coming for him because he didnt deserve it. Daphne deserved a best friend who wasnt scared, Fred deserved a team full of members who wouldnt run scared, Velma deserved someone who understood without having to dumb things down. And Scooby deserved a human that could protect him.

They didnt deserve a sniveling mess who falls apart at the smallest scare, who ran and held them back. Its no wonder he was alone here, he cant do anything right.

Tears continue to replace the ones he wipes away so he gives up in favor of trying to find the breath that continues to fail him. Falling on his side and curling up further doesnt neccasarily help, but its cool against his face and his eyes can trace the cracks of the floor.

...

Velma doesnt know whos feeling worse between the four of them. Scoobys practically a mess of course, but hes turned into a determined little slueth. Daph is on a war path, had been the moment they met up without Shaggy. Fred has gone full leader mode, using every skill he learned at forensics camp to find Shaggy. And Velma, shes gone quiet. Taking in everything, and watching for that 'ghost', to give him a piece of her mind.

It was weird, not having Shaggy around. Velma was used to it being just her and Fred, but when Daph, Shaggy and Scooby had joined, she found spaces filled she hadnt considered before. Missing peices to an equation she hadnt realized she wanted to solve. And now they were in disarray, and she didnt like it. She didnt want to speak and say the wrong thing, not without Shaggy there to soften any unintential blows. She trusted them, she liked them, and without Shaggy she didnt know how to get things like that across. He had a way of listening to what they all had to say, and figuring out what they meant, the unsaid words, the feelings behind them. (At least most of the time.)

They set up a trap faster than ever, Velma couldnt care less about who the damn guy was or his motive. She wanted Shaggy back and that was all that mattered at this point. Fred and Scooby are the bait this time, and Velma thinks they should mix it up in the future as well so Shaggy doesnt have to do so much running. (Does he like running?)

Theyre effecient, in a way theyre 'ghost' obviously wasnt expecting. He falls into the trap like a leaf in fall, left hanging upside down and unable to so much as move a finger.

"Wheres our friend?" Daphne steps forward, a deadly grace in every step, a blank face, but eyes promising a slow death.

His mask is removed, his face resembling a wanted man from town, a dangerous man.

"The 'ittle whimps prah'ly dead by now. Scared itless he was." The accent is thick and nothing like the silent creep of a ghost he played, "played a ittle game wit 'em, made fer a poor targeht."

Daphnes heard enough, punching the guy right in the mouth, so hard a tooth flies from it. Fred and Velma have no sympathy, and Scooby has already lost interest, sniffing around to find Shaggy himself. Fred makes sure their trap is secure, before they follow the dane, all the way back to the fallen chandelier. Velmas side still smarts from where shed fallen, small cuts littering exposed skin hit by shards of debri.

They search the walls and floor for any clue, and Velma finally feels useful as she discovers a suspicious crease in the stone wall. She calls the others over, and they all press every rock and line, before one gives. The wall flips them quickly and silently, revealing a small room with a desk and lamp. But there in the corner, lies a trembling figure, body shaking with each inhale, but quiet in an eery way, like a horror movie on mute.

Daphne moves forward, Scoob shuffling low on the floor, they'd dealt with this before, she and Fred however are frozen by the wall, scared to make a wrong move, to make it worse.

"Hey, shh, look at me Gee, Im here, lets breathe yeah?"

Shaggys eyes are blank, but they move ever so slightly to Daphnes hand where it rests on the ground, holding her weight. The knuckles are split and bleeding a bit, bruises already trying to form.

"Like, wow, you hit like a girl." His voice croaks, but he speaks, and when Daph huffs a laugh, his own lips quirk just a bit.

Scoob moves in close to provide whatever comfort he can, while Daphne demonstrates breathing. But Shaggy still seems out of it, even as his eyes roam the room, until they land on the two lingering away from them.

"Was it, like, a real ghost?" He asks quietly, and Velma is reminded of their captives words, she wondered what the game was, but it didnt matter right now.

"No, it was Sirus Duugan. The guy from the wanted poster in town." Velma answers.

"Hes tied up nice and tight, and missing a tooth." Fred adds.

They may be imagining it, but Shaggys shaking seems to have lessened.

"How'd you do it?"

And the two dont hesitate to lay out everything they did. The plan, the trap, the bait, the interregation of sorts, they say it all, sitting beside the others now as Shaggy slowly comes back to them. His head is in Daphs lap, her fingers running through his hair. Velma is using her finger to write code on his leg, Scooby laid up against him, and Fred holding his hand. They see the exhaustion creep into Shaggys face, the blood from a head wound caked in his hair and forehead, and the small cuts from the shards. Velma even notices a strand of hair near his ear, just a little shorter than it should be. Her eyes trace the wall then, to where he would have been if he was sitting up, and find a knick in the rocks. Whatever 'game' Sirus played, Velma hopes she can get in her own hit before they leave.

Banjou isn’t Misora’s boyfriend.

That’s fine.

They aren’t dating per say, they just haven’t given a name to kiss and tell they have between them. Banjou doesn’t want to give a promise, a commitment, to something that may not last as long as his first commitment did, and Misora is fine with that (he thinks), she agrees with him even. But, when all is said and done, he still cares for Misora and there is a small part of him that is overly protective of her, a part that years to call her his.

Kazumi utterly adores Misora.

And that’s fine.

Misora’s very cute and utterly irresistible, if a little scary, and Kazumi isn’t even fazed by her scowl and glare, no matter if it’s directed at him or not. Kazumi brings Misora gifts – well, more ‘trinkets’ than gifts – whenever they come back from wherever they’ve visited that day, and Misora takes them because that’s the polite thing to do; and Banjou always has the urge to go out and buy her whatever she’s been hankering after that week, whether it be a giant sheep plush or that cute skirt and blouse combo they’ve both had their eyes on for her.

Whenever Kazumi does something for Misora, Banjou wants to do something bigger for her. Every part of his mind screams at him to top whatever Kazumi did with something bigger, something better, something with more care and thought, with more lo—

No, not love. He’s not in love with her.

Banjou likes her like a crush, no matter how juvenile and pathetic that sounds. What business does he have, as a man, going around and crushing on someone? No matter how cute and amazing that someone is. In fact, now that he thinks about it, he isn’t sure what word to define his and Misora’s relationship. ‘Like’ and ‘Crush’ are too childish; ‘Infatuation’ is too serious; ‘Love’ is too extreme.

No, he’s not in love with her. He’s enamored—lost in the dizzying, giddying feeling of being so at peace and relaxed with someone whilst also being drunk on everything about them. Yes, ‘enamored’ works perfectly.

He should thank Sento for giving him that word, and he would now, if it wasn’t for the fact that he was waving his hand in front of Banjou’s face again, a scowl turning the corners of his lips downwards as Banjou looks right past him, glaring at the back of Kazumi’s head.

“You need to stop staring.” Sento tells him when Banjou tears his eyes away from Kazumi and turns back to whatever Sento’s trying to show him with a scowl. “If you’re really so mad about him being smitten with Misora, ask her to be your girlfriend. I promise you; she’ll be overjoyed.” Sento assures him with a roll of his eyes before he sits back down and begins to fiddle with his newest invention.

Banjou folds his arms across his chest. “Don’t fix what’s not broken.” He says and Sento peers at him from the corners of his eyes.

He points his screwdriver at Banjou. “Doesn’t mean it can’t be improved.”

“Trust me; me and Misora dating wouldn’t improve anything.” Banjou says, crouching down to rest his chin on the table. “It would just open up to a conversation that neither of us want to have and we’ll probably have a terrible, horrible breakup, and we won’t be able to look at each other.”

Sento blinks at Banjou slowly. “Are you stupid?” He asks him and Banjou frowns, his eyebrows furrowing.

“I’m sorry?” Banjou asks. “What?”

Sento sighs and rolls his eyes again. Banjou wishes he’d stop doing that, because Sento does that far too often for his liking. “You should really stop doing that.” Banjou says to him, because he’s nothing if not without a filter. “Ever heard what old ladies used to say? ‘Keep doing that and one day your eyes will get stuck like that.’”

Sento places down his screwdriver and rubs his temples. “Oh, I wait eagerly for that day.” He says dryly. “Look, are you content playing this convoluted game of cat and mouse with Misora until you die?”

Banjou blinks owlishly at him. “Die?” He repeats. “That’s a bit dramatic.”

“Every day as a Kamen Rider is a safety hazard.” Sento reminds him and, really, Banjou can’t fault that. “If you’re unhappy with something, change it. Otherwise you’ll just be miserable, and I’m so tired of you moping and sulking whenever Kazumi goes anywhere towards Misora with the intention of being all gooey and sappy with her.”

“I’m not sulking.” Banjou says with a frown, ignoring the way Sento looks at him. “And I’m not unhappy., Kazumi doesn’t annoy me and I’m fine with Misora accepting his stupid gifts and with him fawning over her.”

Sento purses his lips into a straight line and looks, for a moment, like he is about to say something, before he just sighs and dismisses Banjou with a wave of his hands. “Alright,” he says shortly. “You’re fine. While you’re here, make yourself useful and hand me that soldering tool.”

Banjou hands Sento the soldering tool and turns back to look at Misora at the same time her eyes lock with his. She smiles at him and gives him a small wave, and he waves back, a grim curling his lips.

Yeah. He’s fine.

* * *

How Banjou ended up here, with Kazumi, he didn’t quite know. Just like he didn’t quite know how one moment Sento was beside them, talking their ears off about practicing and raising their Hazard Levels before he took off somewhere into the distance without another word. He wonders how a man so loud and talkative can be so silent and secretive.

For a guy and a Rider, Kazumi’s good, Banjou has no bad blood fighting with him. As a friend, on the other hand, Banjou is violently neutral. He’s getting closer to ‘good’ in his books though; he bought Banjou a soda. And that’s where they were now, sitting on a bench in the middle of a ravaged street, drinking soda in a decidedly neutral silence. After all, what were they supposed to talk about? Silence was safer.

“So,” Kazumi begins, and Banjou looks up to see him looking down at his can. “Mii-tan.” He says.

Banjou immediately tenses up. “Her name is Misora.” He murmurs into his can.

Kazumi nods and they lapse back into silence.

“So,” Kazumi says again and Banjou has to scowl to stop his eye from twitching. “Misora.”

Banjou slams his can down onto the free space of bench between his legs and looks to Kazumi with a glare. “What about her?” He asks harshly. “What’s this about, huh? What exactly are you trying to do?”

Kazumi laughs, fucking laughs, and places his can on the ground at his feet, turning to Banjou with his hands held up in surrender. “I’m not trying to do anything, Banjou.” He assures and there’s something strange in the way that Kazumi says his family name. Banjou eyes his more carefully and lifts the can slowly to his lips “I’m just trying to find some common ground with you; you and Misora are… well… together aren’t you?”

Banjou chokes on his soda and spits it out onto the floor. “We… we’re not—we’re not together!” Banjou splutters loudly and Kazumi watches him in amusement. “We’re not dating!”

“But you are…” Kazumi trails off, giving Banjou a meaningful look while Banjou just looks at him blankly. “Y’know…” He trails off again, raising his eyebrows purposefully, trying desperately to get Banjou to catch on. He doesn’t. Kazumi sighs in exasperation. “Christ, Banjou. You’re sleeping with her, I mean."

Banjou chokes on the air, glaring at Kazumi when he chuckles, before straightening up. “Well, yes…” He says, trailing off quietly before he scowls at Kazumi. “What does that have to do with you?”

Kazumi shrugs. “Nothing,” he says before he smiles at Banjou. “You two are a cute couple.”

“We’re not a couple.” Banjou says. “We’re not dating, we’re just…”

“Sleeping together.” Kazumi add and Banjou nods, falling silent. “That’s a little casual for you.”

Banjou’s eyebrow twitches, a scowl slowly making its way on to his face. “What’s that supposed to mean?” Banjou asks through grit teeth, his free hand clenching into a fist. He has to stop himself from bursting his can.

Kazumi glances at him as he leans back on the bench, his elbow rest on the backboard. “Well you don’t do anything casually, do you? You didn’t box casually, you don’t do the Rider thing casually—I mean, it’s your job now.” Kazumi shrugs and looks away off into the sky, kicking his feet out. “Maybe it makes sense. It means you’re dedicated.”

Banjou snorts. “Of course I’m dedicated.” He says as he clasps his can with both hands, his fingers tapping the sides. “I don’t half-ass anything, and I don’t fuck around.” He says pointedly and with a smirk, Kazumi just smiles at him.

“I’m dedicated as well,” Kazumi says casually as Banjou peers at him. “I’m dedicated to my friends, to Hokuto, to Japan…” He trails off to eye Banjou. “To Misora and Mii-tan. To you and Sento. I fight for the things I’m dedicated to, so keep that in mind.”

For a moment, they eye each other, neither one wanting to be the one to look away first, in deathly silence. Banjou glares and Kazumi just smirks at him.

“Do you like her or something?” Banjou asks dryly. “I know you’re obsessed with Mii-tan, but Misora is entirely different to Mii-tan.”

“Of course I like her,” Kazumi says easily. “She’s cute and she could probably kill me if she wanted. She can defend herself, and she’s nice to talk to.”

Banjou snorts and Kazumi eyes him. “Liking someone is a little childish at your age, isn’t it?” He asks before he turns to Kazumi with a fake curious expression. “How old are you now? Forty? You’re double her age.”

Kazumi’s smirk curls downwards into a scowl, his eyes narrowing at Banjou. “I’m twenty-nine.” He growls and Banjou raises an eyebrow, whistling lowly.

“Getting on in age, are you, old man?” Banjou asks and Kazumi’s furious expression deepens.

“I’m six years older than you,” Kazumi snaps. “I’m hardly an old man. What are you, five? It seems like you are, since you’re acting like a petulant child.”

Banjou gives him a sickly-sweet smile laced with anger. “Cry about it.”

Kazumi stares at him for a moment before his eyes widen and he leans back, settling into the bench as he laughs lowly. “If that’s how it is, then so be it.” He says and Banjou doesn’t even glance at him. “It’s not like you’re her boyfriend, since you’re just sleeping together. I don’t have to get your opinion on this matter, it’s hers that matters.”

“Are you really going to do this?” Banjou says, spitting the words at Kazumi like poison. “Are you really going to woo her just to piss me off?”

“Well, now that you said it, yes!” Kazumi says with a triumphant smile, patting Banjou twice on the shoulder before he stands. “You said it yourself; you’re just sleeping with each other. It’s not like you’re going out or anything.”

Banjou growls and leaps to his feet, getting as close to Kazumi as he can manage, a stormy look on his face. “Is this a fucking game to you?” He asks.

Kazumi winks at him. “Try not to cry too hard when you lose.” He says, patting Banjou’s arm before he walks around him and back to Nascita.

Banjou squeezes the can in his hand so tight it explodes.

* * *

Banjou and Kazumi’s feud continues silently and scathingly, and with jabs and misplaced hands that leave punches in uncomfortable places, and with Sento sighing and rolling his eyes every time they scold or argue with each other.

Sento’s opinion of the feud is that it’s stupid, and, on some subconscious level, Banjou thinks so too. He doesn’t know what Kazumi thinks, and, honestly, he doesn’t want to; he’d rather not know what’s going on in Kazumi’s mind, he’s sure he’d find out something that he wouldn’t want to know. But Banjou hates losing, and he’d rather lose to Gentoku or Stalk before he ever lost to Kazumi. The thought of him losing to Kazumi makes him angry, and not because he’d be losing to Misora – she’s her own person, she’s not a prize – but because Kazumi could hold that over him for as long as they’re stuck in each other’s presence. And he’d rather turn into a Smash than have to look at Kazumi’s smug face.

Banjou is broken from his line of thought to Misora poking him in the cheek, and he glances down at her.

She looks beautiful like this, he thinks. Her hair is slightly ruffled and she looks adorably sleepy and small in his shirt, and she’s pouting up at him while she pokes at his cheeks, rubbing the top of her head against his bare shoulder.

“Why are you scowling?” Misora asks before she pouts, and Banjou smiles at the sight. “It wasn’t bad, was it?”

Banjou chuckles at that and catches her hand in his own, lifting it gently to his lips so he could kiss her fingertips. “No,” he says softly. “It wasn’t bad. It was great as always.”

“Then why were you scowling?” Misora asks him.

Banjou cups her face in his hands and leans down to press a lingering kiss to the top of her head. “Don’t worry about it.” He tells her gently as he pushes stray strands of her hair back from her face. “It’s just stupid Rider stuff. Worrying about Sento.”

Misora snorts, leaning into Banjou’s touch. “When don’t you worry about him.” She says.

“Exactly.” Banjou replies. “It’s nothing.”

“I’m glad that it’s just that.” Misora says softly as she settles down to rest her head on Banjou’s chest. “I thought you were mad at Kazumin still.”

Banjou snorts as he begins to stroke Misora’s hair, allowing his finger to comb through it. “You call him Kazumin now? That sounds so stupid.”

Misora shrugs. “He told me to.” She says before she peers up at Banjou with a small, teasing smile. “Besides, it’s just as bad as Mii-tan, don’t you think?”

Banjou does, and shakes his head. “No.” He says. “You’re cuter. Yours doesn’t matter as much.” He tells her, moving his hands to squish her cheeks, chuckling when she pouts and smacks his hands away.

“Don’t be mean!” Misora scolds, furrowing her brows in an exaggerated grumpy look.

“Or what?” Banjou asks, grinning.

Misora sits up and crosses her arms across her chest and Banjou almost has a heart attack, wondering how one person could be so damned cute at every opportunity. He wants to take her frustration seriously, he really does, but she just looks too cute pouting at him like that in his shirt.

“Or…” Misora begins, trailing off to think before she grins at him. “Or I won’t give you any more kisses.”

Banjou gasps and lays a hand over his heart, leaning closer to clasp her hand in his. “What a cruel punishment!” He says dramatically, an exaggerated look of desperation on his face. “Please, sweetheart, darling, won’t you forgive me?”

Misora looks at him and flutters her eyelashes. “Oh, I don’t know.” She sighs dramatically.

“Love,” He says. “Please? Come on, Princess.”

The final nickname makes Misora melt and she grins widely before she throws her arms around Banjou’s neck and pulls herself onto his neck as he peppers her face in kisses. She giggles as he does so.

“I guess you’re forgiven.” She tells him as she presses a hand over her mouth, trying to stifle her laughter.

Banjou grins up at her. “I’ll never hurt you again, princess.”

They hear a loud sigh from the other side of the room and they look to see Sento standing up, a tired look on his face. He turns to them. “Please,” he says. “Just date already.” The words make Banjou roll his eyes and Misora go pink.

“Leave if it’s too much for you.” Banjou tells him with a smirk and Sento raises an eyebrow.

“I’m going to find Kazumi,” he says, his eyes darting between them. “Next time go have sex somewhere else.”

Banjou flips Sento the middle finger as he walks the spiral staircase and disappears into the ceiling. Misora giggles and collapses into bed, splaying herself out like a starfish and giggling further when Banjou tickles her to get her to move over. She moves and rests her head back on Banjou’s chest when he settles back down comfortably, making a small noise of sleepy protest when Banjou grabs up her phone.

He grins when he sees the lock screen. “Aw, ‘Sora, I didn’t know you liked my face that much.” He teases, flashing the selfie of him that Misora had set as her background.

“You have a stupid face.” She grumbles into him.

“A handsome stupid face.” Banjou corrects with a smile.

Misora makes a half-hearted noise of disgruntlement. “Whatever,” She says. “Just don’t mess with my Neko Atsume.”

Banjou smiles down at her and strokes her hair. “I won’t,” he assures her, though he knows she’s already falling asleep for both exhaustion and the soothing motions that Banjou’s using to pet her head. “You just sleep.”

Misora easily settles down beside him and is asleep in minutes, her body a warm weight against his, and he looks down at her fondly for a minute, pressing a kiss to her forehead as he smiles proudly, flicking through her Snapchat friends to answer messages. Most of them were just several online friends that liked the same things that Misora did and they often chatted back and forth, Banjou pointedly ignores the ones with English names and scrolls to the bottom of her friend’s list, his eyes narrowing as he spots the username—KazuminS.

Banjou was about to put her phone down entirely and go back to cuddling Misora, his thumb hovering over the on button, before he stops and allows a mischievous grin to stretch across his lips.  He double taps the name and the camera opens to the image of his chin. He pulls the phone back until the screen shows his shit-eating grin, and a sleeping Misora on his shirtless chest, and he taps the capture button on the screen with his thumb.

It takes him less than two seconds to type the caption before he sends it off and places Misora’s phone on the bedside table before he wraps his arms around her, buries his chin in her hair and closes his eyes.

* * *

Kazumi is eating M&M’s with Sento when his phone buzzes.

He shoves the M&M packet into Sento’s hands and digs into his pocket to retrieve his phone, a small smile crossing his lips when he sees a Snapchat notification from Misora. He unlocks his phone and taps to view the notification, tapping on Misora’s name when it pops up next to a red square.

Out of the things he expected to see when he clicked on her name, he did not expect to see Misora asleep on Banjou’s chest (was that his shirt that she was wearing?) while Banjou wore a fucking annoying grin. He blinks down at the image until it disappears, the caption etched into the back of his mind.

I’m winning, Kazumi. Can you say the same? ;)

* * *

“Are you two ever going to give it a bloody rest?” Sento asks in exasperation.

Banjou and Kazumi look up from their place in the middle of the basement, where Banjou has managed to wrangle Kazumi into a headlock. They exchange a look and then look back to Sento with a straight face. Sento takes one look between them, sighs and turns back to his workbench.

“This is important, Sento,” Kazumi says seriously and Sento sighs harder.

Banjou nods in agreement. “I’m not going to lose to an old man.”

“You two are behaving like children,” Sento scolds firmly. “You are wrestling in my basement and if you continue to do so, I’m going to kick you both out. So, Banjou, let go of Kazumi.” Reluctantly, Banjou releases Kazumi from his grip and Sento lets out a relieved breath. “Thank you.”

Banjou glares at Kazumi. “Old man.” He mouths.

Kazumi flips him off. “Dumbass.” He mouths back.

Sento points between them and they both freeze. “Can one of you get me the tiny wrench that only fits in the bolts with the hole in it?” He asks and Banjou sighs as he turns in the direction that Sento is pointing.

“What?” Banjou asks as he reaches the table.

“The thingy that secures the socket screw!” Sento calls back. “The hex-key or whatever!”

Kazumi blinks at him. “You mean an Allen wrench?” He asks.

Sento frowns at him as Banjou seizes up the Allen wrench and heads over to Sento. “Probably,” he says to Kazumi, only to grin up at Banjou when he hands him the wrench. “Exactly! Thank you, Banjou; you’re useful after all.”

Kazumi looks between Sento and the wrench. “And you’re meant to be a genius.” He hums thoughtfully.

“Physicist, Kazumi,” Sento corrects, jabbing the wrench in Kazumi’s direction. “Genius Physicist.”

Banjou winces, laying a hand over his heart. “Ouch, that hurt, Sento.”

“What am I?” Kazumi asks with a frown. “Chopped liver?”

Banjou glances at him. “Yes.” He says seriously and Kazumi scowls at him.

“Stop bickering.” Sento tells them before he turns around with a bored expression. “What are you even arguing over? Does it really matter?”

“Of course it matters,” Banjou says with a scowl, jabbing a finger in Kazumi’s direction. “He wants to be a fucking snake and woo Misora just to piss me off, and then rub it in my face if I lose.”

Kazumi just snorts. “You’re just sleeping together.” He says.

Banjou practically bristles at his words. “Not the fucking point!”

Sento looks between them, several emotions flashing across his face in half a second. “Then… what is the point?” He asks and both Banjou and Kazumi groan in frustration at him. Sento blinks a few times and holds his hands up in surrender. “I’m sorry, am I missing something here?” He asks as he looks between them.

Kazumi lays his hand over his heart and looks dramatically off into the distance, Banjou groans and smacks his forehead while Sento stares at him. “You see, Sento!” Kazumi declares loudly as Banjou starts to mimicking him patronizingly. “My soul fire is burning passionately for Misora!”

Banjou rolls his eyes. “You keep saying that—What does that even fucking mean?!” He cries in frustration.

Kazumi gives Banjou a look that one would give to a small child who didn’t understand and pats his head. “Oh, Banjou,” He says with a wistful sigh. “It means that I’m love with Misora.”

“You can’t be in love with Misora because I’m in love with Misora!” Banjou yells, gesturing vigorously to himself, unable to stop the words before they fall from his lips.

The room lapses into uncomfortable silence and while Banjou looks like someone just died in front of him, Kazumi grins on brightly, seemingly pleased with Banjou’s revelation as Sento looks on, unamused.

“Banjou…” A familiar female voice comes and Banjou’s blood runs cold. “You love me?” Slowly, he turns to meet Misora’s surprised gaze and stays stock still as she approaches him slowly, taking his hands in her own. “Do you mean it?” She asks.

Banjou swallows hard, his heart thundering loudly in his chest. “Yes.” He says, and he’s more sure than he’s felt in a while. “I do mean it. I love you, Misora. So, do me a favor and become my girlfriend.”

Misora laughs at his bluntness but leans up to press her forehead against his. “It’s about time, you idiot.” She says with a small smile. “I’ve been in love with you for months. It took you long enough.”

Kazumi throws his hands into the air and looks up the ceiling. “Fucking finally!” He exclaims. Misora peers at him curiously while Banjou frowns. “It’s about fucking time!”

Sento looks between the four of them, thoroughly confused. “Can someone please explain what’s going on?”

“I’m sorry,” Banjou says, staring defiantly at Kazumi. “What the fuck?”

“The entire reason I’ve been pissing you off for the last two weeks is so that you’d confess to Misora.” Kazumi says with a roll of his eyes. “I figured getting you angry was the quickest way to get you to blurt it out to her, or in front of her. And, hey, it worked.”

Banjou blinks at him. “But I thought…” He begins, trailing off into silence as Kazumi laughs.

“I do like Misora,” Kazumi says with a grin. “But you were idiotic enough to believe that you’d stand a chance if I was trying to woo her. Either way, it worked, so now you two can get back to doing…” He looks between them. “Well, each other I guess.” Banjou splutters as Misora flushes red, giving Kazumi a half-hearted scowl as he smirks between them both and claps Banjou on the back.

“Hey,” Banjou says suddenly and Kazumi looks up at him. “Thanks.”

Kazumi smiles at him and pats his shoulder. “No problem.” He says. “And, for the record, I like you too Banjou."

Misora giggles into her hand as Banjou blinks blankly at him. “When was that ever on the table?” He asks breathlessly and Misora grins.

“It could be,” She says, and his eyes snap to hers as she smiles up at him. “What do you say? I don’t mind sharing if you don’t either.”

For a moment, the words swirl around his head, not registering until they click into place like the final piece of an intricate puzzle. Banjou’s eyes widen as he looks between Kazumi and Misora, a smile starting to curve his lips.

Oh.