#schevarts

i must ofc preface this w their intricate twt flirting rituals:

< valid reaction from trevor. josh explain yourself

exhibit a: josh 'i don't like physical touch' scherer

also josh 'i don't like physical touch' scherer:

exhibit b: the look of love

ending off with an insane thing trevor evarts once said about his boss josh scherer:

"A lot of things that were once in Josh's mouth, exited his mouth and ended up on the floor. I mean if you really think about it, Josh and I kinda just kissed. Kinda cute if you ask me. Is it hot in here? Is it hot?"

??? verbatim btw

They’d put together a makeshift lie detector from whatever they’d had lying around – a blood pressure machine, a random cord coiled clumsily around his chest. It isn’t real, Trevor reminds himself. Still, he feels the scrutiny, can’t help but wonder if it’ll pick up on the vicious palpitating of his heart anyway, how he’s almost lightheaded with it. 

He’s all too aware of the solid implication of Josh’s fingertips pinned to the inside of his wrist, over his pulsepoint, all too aware of how, if Josh slid his hand even an infinitesimal fracture down, Trevor would feel the familiar knob of hardened skin on the base of his index finger, the once-supple flesh raised at the contact point of skin and the knife’s handle.

It was a flimsy excuse from Josh’s end, anyway, Trevor thinks, a touch under the guise of getting his heart rate. They’d run out of excuses long ago. His throat still feels scraped raw from him and Josh's disagreement a mere matter of minutes ago. He doesn't want to be home, even, he thinks, just as far removed from all this as he could possibly, humanely be.  

“Do you have more fun shooting with Smosh than us?”

It shocks a laugh out of him, surprised and clipped. Josh is watching him, blatant in his periphery. “No,” Trevor says, with as much certainty as he can muster. 

“He’s lying.” 

Josh doesn’t have the right to be jealous, not after he’d picked an argument with Trevor on camera just moments ago over the pop tarts, of all things. It hasn’t been easy, being here, in a long time, their chemistry from before fading a little with distance. Among other things.

“That’s a lie,” Lucas confirms. Trevor doesn’t want to imagine the incriminating display on the screen, the vitals trickling upward. 

He doesn't miss the way Josh pries his fingertips away like he's been burnt once no one’s watching. Trevor has watched Josh stick his fingers into boiling water and touch them to a pan on high heat on numerous occasions. Those same fingers of steel pull away from him, surreptitiously, now. 

“Is your virginity true,” Vi asks. 

“Answer the question,” comes from behind him.

Trevor isn’t a virgin, hasn't been since he was 16, fumbling artlessly in an anonymous bedroom he can't remember, except for how he'd snuck into it: through the window, once it was dark outside. Josh knows this, maybe, barring the particulars. 

Or perhaps- it'd been lost to the events which had closely followed it. The memory returns to him with a vertiginous rush, a thin flare of want wisping up his gut, touch under the guise of tutelage, the tough callus bearing into his nape, want excused as inexperience. 

“I don’t know,” is all Trevor says. 

“I’ve got a good one.” Trevor tips his head back to look at Josh, but it’s a mistake: they’re only inches apart. His lips feel dry, and he goes to wet his mouth on instinct. Josh is staring right at him. He has to tear his eyes away. 

“Do you have a crush,” Trevor’s heart drops, to the pit of his stomach, keeps on falling, through his body, through the floor, into the earth, “on any of us standing up here?”

Trevor braves a glance at the screen. He feels- like a piece of origami, turned around to bare the wild creases and clumsy folds spilling out messily behind the illusion of a clean shape. 

He wonders if Lucas can see it, his vitals replaced with want, ugly want pushing against the walls of his arteries. 

“No.” 

He isn't convinced by the voice which leaves his own mouth. It’s a lie, and Josh knows. Trevor knows he does. Josh has always been his most poorly kept secret to date.

“It’s showing a name, but I’m not going to tell,” Lucas jokes, but it’s probably nearer to the truth than anything else. It must be written all over his face, his vitals, by now. The room bursts out in oohs, mainly Josh’s, and laughter, and that’s all it’s ever been. The ill-concealed truth of his wanting, hidden behind jokes. 

“Guys, it’s Lucas,” Trevor blurts, in a last-ditch attempt to keep it hidden. His face feels hot, capillaries under skin widening like chasms, like a gaping want. Lucas nods. He must know it too, by now. They all do.