#scene post

They push back from their desk, getting up with a shaky sigh. Kent groans as they stretch, heading toward the kitchen of the house they share with Jeff and Parker. From the cat tree in the living room, Kit meows at them in greeting. 

Goose and Perry are over, cuddling on the couch. Parker’s half asleep on Jeff. Kent smirks softly. It’s good to their friends happy and in love. Johnny’s sitting at the breakfast table, typing furiously. 

“It’s Saturday night and we’re not working,” Kent says poignantly. “What the fuck are you up to?” 

Johnny hums. “Working on my dissertation.”

Kent winces. “I wish you were joking.” 

“Soft same,” Johnny says. He looks up from his laptop. “I thought you were ‘decompressing’ or something?”

They shrug, opening the fridge to avoid eye contact. “Needed a break, human interaction and shit.”

“What happened?” Perry asks knowingly. 

“Nothing,” Kent lies. 

“Kent,” Goose says in a very even tone. 

Which, since Kent is literally incapable of saying no to him, they cave. “My friend is a drunken dipshit and he’s in love with me--apparently.” 

“Apparently,” Johnny chirps. “Isn’t this the guy who stays up all night just to talk to you?” 

“Yea but he’s not into me,” Kent grumbles. “He’s into Kent fucking Parson.” 

“So tell him to fuck off,” Parker mumbles. 

“I can’t,” they say. 

“Because...” Goose asks. 

“Because maybe I don’t want to tell him to fuck off?” 

Perry sits up, they stare at Goose and then at Kent. 

Kent balks. “What?”

“What makes him so special?” 

“I don’t know, ok? He’s just--funny and stubborn. He knows what he likes and tells everyone else to fuck off.” Kent sighs, slamming the fridge door close. They scrub their face. “I’m fucked. I’ve seen one picture of this guy in six years, and it was of his fucking huge teeth.” 

“Huge teeth?” Goose “Do I want to know?”

“We weren’t like--flirting or anything. He was just telling me about his ex and how much they liked getting hickeys next to their ear.” 

Perry makes a sound that’s a cross between an indignant scream and a yelp. Kent frowns. 

“And this guy goes to Samwell?” Perry asks. 

“Yea, so?” 

“You have no idea who he is?”

“Um, I might have an idea,” Kent admits. 

“Who?”

“This guy, Adam? He’s on the hockey team.” 

“Oh, Holster,” Johnny says. “Alright, I can see it.” 

Perry looks at Goose, and then back at Kent. They groan. 

“You should...talk to him,” Perry says. “When he’s sober.”

Kent glares. “Why?”

“Just...do it, please?” 

Kent bites their lip, pulling their phone out. “Maybe,” they grumble.

“That’s a no,” Johnny declares. 

Kent flips him off. They’d rather not think about the fact that they could’ve been hanging out with Holtzy in real life all this time. They scroll through Twitter until they get to something from over a year ago. It’s a picture of him with two d-men at Samwell. They stop theirself from tracing over Holster’s face with their thumb. 

This isn’t love or a crush or--anything. It’s two friends getting too close and too hung up on things that don’t exist. Whatever Kent Parson Holster’s conjured up in his mind doesn’t exist. He’s a figment of the media’s imagination. 

Holster closed mouth screams. Because he wasn’t ready for this next shit. He was expecting maybe rejection or some casual chirp about coming off anon. Not that Holster would’ve fessed up if Sweetie (Kent?) hadn’t figured out it was him on their own. 

Slowly, he gets out of bed. He paces the room, wringing his hands nervously. What is he even supposed to do with this information? What was there to do about finding out that one of his best friends could want him back? And that maybe whatever complex feelings he has for Sweetie’s interpretation of Kent aren’t misplaced affection because Sweetie IS Kent. 

Holster sighs. Well, at least he knows for sure that’s he’s liked a grand total of three people in his life: Perry, Ransom...and now Sweetie. He keeps pacing. He glances up at Ransom’s bed, which is vacant because he’s staying at March’s tonight. 

He needs advice, and he sure as fuck can’t ask Perry right now. He heads downstairs, hopping someone’s home. Maybe not Bitty; who knows what he might say about Holster having a multi-year crush on a person he MAY have met previously in real life? 

Who the fuck was he kidding? How else would Sweetie know Johnson? 

He creeps down the attic staircase gently. Cautious of waking up anyone already asleep. He spots Lardo’s door, half open with light flooding outward. He approaches slowly, knocking the door a few times before pushing it further open. 

Lardo’s sitting in her beanbag chair, typing. “What’s up?” she asks absent minded. 

“I think I fucked up,” he says. 

“How?”

“I think I’m in love? Maybe?”

“With who?” 

“Kent Parson,” he confesses. 

Lardo’s back tenses. Her head snaps up. “What?”

Holster runs a hand through his hair, he starts pacing. “I don’t know. It’s fucking confusing but we don’t talk like friends ok? We’re fucking domestic and supportive of each other. And maybe that’s just what friends fucking do. But I’ve never seen you and thought ‘I would spend the rest of my life doing whatever to just be around her.’ No offense.” 

“None taken,” “but maybe back up a little? How are you friends with him?”

“Them,” Holster corrects without thinking. He opens his mouth to take it back because the last thing he needs is to out-- 

“Ok cool,” Lardo says nuetrally. “Duly noted. Now spill.” 

She gestures to the desk chair to her right. Holster reluctantly sits, knowing it’s more for Lardo’s sanity than anything. He starts from the beginning: being bored, his tbi and how he wanted somewhere to get his frustration out once he was cleared for screens, his unlikely friendship with a bnf who acted so completely different than what Holster was expecting, their closeness and the only times they’ve gotten into arguments (which has mostly been lately). He suck in a huge breath once he’s done. 

Lardo nods thoughtfully the entire time, resting her chin in her hands. 

“So are you gonna call them?”

“I don’t know,” he says. 

“Why not?” 

“It’s not the same when Sweetie’s more than just a url. It’s real.”

“They were always a real person,” Lardo reasons. 

“You know what I mean,” Holster grumbles. 

Lardo sighs. “Holster, you wanted your ex? Well they’re taken. You wanted Ransom? Well he’s taken. You wanted Kent Parson and Sweetie AND they happen to be the same person and want you back? Bro.” 

“Yea, yea,” he says with resignation. “Don’t get in the way of my own happiness. Got it.” 

“Not just that,” she says. 

“Then what?”

“Don’t chicken out because you’re scared.” 

Holster snorts. “Scared of what?”

“You tell me,” she says neutrally. 

Holster stares at his hands. He remembers the first time he ever talked to Sweetie. They were arguing because Sweetie told them to stop being a dick with all the anon messages he’d been sending them. It wasn’t the first time he’s hurt Sweetie without meaning to. He can’t do that anymore, not to them. 

“You ever hear two sides of the same story?” he asks instead of answering. 

“Chyeah,” Lardo agrees. 

“You ever hear the second story and think ‘fuck, I had no clue. what the fuck am I supposed to do now?’” 

“What are you saying?” 

“I’m scarred that I’ll disappoint them at best,” he admits. “Maybe I’ll fuck them up more. I don’t think--”

“Holster,” Lardo interupts. “You’re getting worked up about shit that might not happen.”

“But what if it does?” he demands. 

“What if it doesn’t?” 

His jaw goes slack. If he doesn’t fuck Kent up--if he and Kent could just be happy? He sees Kent’s face, maybe it’s tomorrow or next month or five years from now, just smiling back at him. 

That’s worth everything, he thinks. 

Holster gets up, pulling his phone out of his back pocket. “I’ll be back.”

“Where are you going?” Lardo calls after him. 

“I need to see a man about a sweetie,” Holster yells as he heads downstairs. He puts on a hoodie and pair of sneakers. He runs until he gets to the pond, finding a dry patch of grass to sit down on. 

He stares at his phone again, the clock reads just after midnight. He might be too late...for talking tonight at least. But he has to try. He scrolls through his contacts, clicking on a J with a goalpost next to it. 

Holster wheezes, wondering if excitement smells like sweat or maybe something soft and sweet. He wonders what water smells like, or Kent for that matter. He grins to himself as he clicks call. Maybe he’ll have time to figure that out. 

“Hey Holtzy,” Johnson says after the second ring. “Took you long enough, man.”