#hijinks and shenanigans

[mediumgayitalian]

“Piper?”

“Here.”

“Damien?”

“Here.”

“Clovis?”

No answer. Nico reaches over and pokes him, hard, and the son of Hypnos startles awake long enough to manage a garbled, “Present!” before nodding off again. At Chiron’s nodded permission, Connor procures an airhorn from what appears to be thin air, grins, and blares it right next to Clovis’ face. He shrieks, flailing off the chair, and would have slammed his face in the ground if Nico hadn’t caught him by the back of the shirt.

“Thanks, man,” he says, yawning.

Nico hauls him back upright, patting him on the shoulder. “No problem. I’m gonna let you fall next time.”

Clovis eyes him warily, shifting at Nico’s too-wide, sharklike grin.

“Noted,” he mutters, sitting straight to try and stay awake. “Jerk.”

Nico pats him on the shoulder again. “There, there.”

Chiron continues with the attendance.

“Butch?”

“Here.”

“Miranda?”

“Yep.”

“And…” Chiron sighs, peering through his reading glasses. “Nineteen, twenty, twenty-one…” He glances down at his clipboard, slowly tapping his pen on the edge of it. “Where is Will?”

A groan ripples through the gathered campers.

“Just start without him!” someone shouts, sinking into their chair.

“He always takes forever!” another person agrees.

“Almost like he’s busy running the infirmary that keeps us all alive,” Lou Ellen says drily, but her one vote of confidence is drowned out by several dozen other voices, all complaining.

Before Chiron has to deal with too much of a coup d’état, the rec room door creaks open, and Will comes strolling in after it, ignoring the heaps of boos and launched ping-pong balls at his tardiness. The beam of sunlight from the one dusty window seems, suddenly, to become a great deal stronger, highlighting the blonde of Will’s hair and strengthening the gleam of his easy grin.

“Perforated artery,” he explains cheerfully, settling down in the one empty chair. “Rogue Ares cabin mine went off. Had to do emergency surgery.”

No sooner are the words out of his mouth does he kick off his flip-flops, curl up in the rickety wooden chair, place his head on the nearest shoulder — Pollux, this time, who rolls his eyes affectionately and shifts to be more comfortable — and immediately starts snoring.

“Well,” says Chiron after a moment. “Let’s begin.”

“Wait,” Clovis complains, “how come he gets to sleep?”

Instead of answering, because there is no delicate way to say because he’s my favourite and I am a giant hypocrite, the centaur moves on. He gracefully avoids the various mutterings and calls for mutiny, instead running through the usual cabin check-ins at the speed of light to delve into the more interesting — and therefore distracting — things, such as Personal Grievances. This portion of monthly head counsellor meetings is Nico’s favourite, because he gets to sit back, be silent, and watch a bunch of teenagers yell at each other for his own personal amusement. On especially great days, he communicates with Connor through a series of complicated hand gestures to coordinate betting pools. Today, he is up seventy-two dollars. (Did he throw the pool by betting against himself and then inventing a fight with Chiara? Yeah. Did he cut her a deal for halfsies beforehand, making this technically fraud on two counts? Yeah. Can anyone prove it? Absolutely not. Suck on that, Stoll. You wanna be beat at your own game any day of the week? Nico’ll beat you at your own game any day of the week.)

As he’s accepting three dollars from a huffy Nysa (obviously the physical altercation count was going to reach six, c’mon, doesn’t she pay attention to these things), a hoof stamping the ground makes Nico jump.

“Boys,” Chiron says tiredly, pinching the bridge of his nose, “that’s quite enough.”

Both campers immediately burst into louder arguments, continuing to flail and smack at each other as their voices get more and more raised and illegible.

“Boys!” Chiron stamps his hoof again. This time, they fall silent, staring at the old centaur with flushed, guilty faces. “Sherman, get Malcom out of that headlock. Malcolm, we are not building a pig pen in the dining pavilion so the Ares cabin can ‘eat in an environment more suited to their mannerisms’.” He pauses, nodding in acknowledgement. “As funny as that was, it was entirely inappropriate to say. Apologise at once.”

“My throat is too bruised to do so,” Malcom grumbles.

“My throat is too bruised to do so,” Sherman repeats, mockingly. “Gods, it’s like you’re asking for me to jump you.” At the immediate catcalls and jeers that follow, he reddens, hastily shouting, “Like mug! Jump like mug him, guys, like beat him up! Shut up! Shut up, or I swear I’ll —”

“Sit down, boys,” Chiron says, banging his hoof again. “For Hera’s sake. It’s like you want to embarrass yourselves further.”

Nico snickers with the rest of the counsellors as Sherman and Malcolm return to their seats. In their desperate attempt to separate from each other to assure their status as Heterosexual, Guys, Please, they manage to bump into each other, losing their balance and collapsing on a heap on the floor, more tangled than before. Predictably, this makes the flailing worse, which is unfortunate for them and their misery but a source of great entertainment for everyone else. Among the hooting and hollering and camera flashes, Chiron sighs, putting his head in his hands and muttering something about teenagers and being too old for this shit. Or something.

“If everyone’s quite done,” he says finally, ignoring Connor’s quip about how he could watch a few more minutes, actually, “I would love for this meeting to end. I have to do something that doesn’t involve teenagers for several hours. All of you exhaust me.”

“Except Will,” Sherman says petulantly, scowling at the still-sleeping medic. Pollux, who by close proximity has become endeared to the human disaster (Nico knows the feeling; he’s still convinced Will has weird powers that mess with one’s oxytocin levels by virtue of smiling as there is no way that someone so annoying can be so simultaneously endearing), glares somewhat protectively.

“Sh,” he hisses, at the same time Chiron says, “If the rest of you spent less time trying to kill each other and more time trying to fix the consequences of said attempted murder, I would be more lenient.”

Lou Ellen speaks up. “Also, Will has that whole cute, can’t-stay-mad-at-me thing.”

Various campers nod and mutter in agreement.

(Nico knew he wasn’t the only one.)

Nyssa clears her throat. “If we’re ready to return back to the actual meeting, I have a point of discussion.”

Chiron nods, gesturing for her to continue.

“The vans are breaking down,” she says bluntly. “Again. Because they’re, you know, older than everyone in the room.” She glances at Nico, frowning. “Well, except for him.”

Nico sniffs haughtily. “Youngin’s, these days,” he says, shaking his head disdainfully. “No respect for their elders.”

Chiron raises a bemused eyebrow. “…Indeed. Nyssa?”

“I need parts again. Preferably from that place in Virginia? They don’t ask questions and price fairly. That would be best. Only I need the van to go get the parts, so. You can see the conundrum I’m in.”

“Easy fix with the chariot,” Chiron decides. “Can someone wake Will?”

“Gladly.”

“Without the airhorn, Connor.”

“Aw. I’m not doing it, then.”

“How tragic. Pollux?”

Gently, the son of Dionysus taps Will’s cheek, shaking him until he blinks awake.

“I was totally paying attention and I think we should go with the second option,” he says, yawning.

“Not asking you to settle a debate, but nice try,” Pollux says.

“Well, shit. That one usually works.” He flicks still-tired eyes around the room, smiling when his gaze rests on Nico. Nico rolls his eyes, willing down the heat to his cheeks. Judging by the teasing edge Will’s grin takes, it does not work. “Whattaya need, then?

“The chariot,” Nyssa says. “Vans are breaking down again. I need a part from a shop in Roanoke.”

Will straightens. “Like, now?”

“In the next day or so, yeah.”

“There’s a strawberry delivery on Saturday,” Miranda pipes up. “So sooner rather than later.”

Will nods. “Yeah, that works. Hell, I can probably be back by —” he checks his watch — “late tonight, honestly. Just gimme the part number and —”

“I kind of meant that I could go,” Nyssa interrupts, looking at him strangely. “I know what the part looks like. I just need to borrow the chariot.”

Will presses his clasped hands to his face, inhaling deeply.

“I would absolutely love to lend you the chariot blessed by my father who has gone totally silent,” he begins, in a tone that makes Nico think that he would not, actually, absolutely love to lend out the chariot blessed by his father who has gone totally silent, “only that the last time I lent someone this super important chariot it came back in pieces.”

“I remember.” Nyssa levels him with a look. “I fixed it.”

“Exactly! So you appreciate how much I would like it to not be broken. In fact —”

“Alright,” Chiron interrupts, holding up a hand. “You’ve made your point, Will, the errand is yours. Choose a buddy to lower the chances of you dying and check in before you leave.”

Predictably, this choice is not well-recieved. Because why would things be easy?

“Totally not fair,” Sherman protests, the loudest of all complainers. “Will’s no less likely to break it just because his cabin thinks they own it —”

“Finish that thought and I will curse you in twelve different ways for the next eight months, Sherman.”

The Ares counsellor snaps his mouth shut, sensing the new, hardened edge in Will’s voice. “Noted.”

“He’s got a point, though,” Damien hedges. At Will’s glare — boy, is that chariot a sensitive topic, Nico is noticing — he holds his hands up, shrugging his shoulders. “We draw straws for small errand-quests, Will, you know that. It’s not fair that you just get to call dibs.”

Will takes a long, slow breath, fingers pressed to his temples. When he looks back up, his expression is flatter than the entirety of the Midwest, jaw set and eyebrow raised. He narrows his eyes, contemplating, then clearly comes to a decision, nodding to himself. Everyone watches with bated breath as he climbs up to stand on his chair, folds his hands together, clears his throat, and says, voice carefully controlled, “Who can guess how many surgeries I’ve done in the last week?”

For a long moment it’s so silent that Nico can hear every rustled shirt as people fidget, every aborted cough and uncomfortable swallow. Will’s eyes are piercing, and he takes the time to stare at every individual counsellor until they meet his eyes, squirming, and look immediately away.

Nico’s impressed. Sometimes he forgets how godsdamn rigid Will’s backbone is.

Finally, someone offers a guess.

“One?”

“Try four,” Will corrects, smile more like a bare of teeth. “I have not had a circadian rhythm since I was thirteen years old. I sleep when I can. And yet, somehow, you clumsy fucks manage to near kill yourself at the exact moment my subconscious even considers approaching REM sleep, every single time, and then I get to spend my next several hours piecing your sorry ass back together by hand, since hymns barely work right now. If I have to see another surgical pin I am going to stab it through someone’s eye. Am I making a point?”

No one answers.

“‘Cause I can make it clearer,” Will drawls.

“No need,” Chiron says hastily. “The quest remains yours, so long as there are no further objections.”

Wisely, no one speaks up.

“Perfect. Nyssa, if you’ll stay behind with me to iron out some details, everyone else — dismissed.”

The tense air immediately evaporates as people practically spring out of their seats, sprinting for the door. Nico is among the last to leave, having to stay and stop several fleeing demigods to collect his wares. On his way out, a heavy arm slings over his shoulders, and he’s suddenly enveloped by the intoxicating scent of lavender body wash and pure sunshine.

“Get off me, Solace,” he complains immediately, coming up to wrap his hand around Will’s forearm in the guise of shoving him off. Will is entirely unfazed, holding him tighter.

“But I have a proposal.”

“Take it elsewhere.” He ducks out of Will’s hold and sweeps his legs out from under him, sending him sprawling with an oof. Unfortunately, he doesn’t look any less sunny and smiley from the ground, somehow making it work for him, actually. He settles against the soft grass, sighing, hair fanning out like a golden halo. He pats the spot next to him, eyes fluttering shut as he basks in the late morning sun, and Nico swallows roughly, joining him.

“You wanna come with me to Roanoke?”

“Yes,” Nico says automatically. Will grins, and he flushes. “I mean, I guess if I have to. Loser.”

“Ever so grateful, Neeks.”

“You should be.”

He keeps his voice prim and superior, attempting to uphold his image, and since he is delusional he convinces himself he’s successful. Will, though, is entirely undeterred, lazy smile still on his face and arms stretched above his head, the picture of unbothered. A sliver of skin shows where the hem of his shirt rises and Nico ignores it. He doesn’t even glance at it, or the glint of Will’s belly-button piercing, at all. Nor is he aware of Will’s shorts riding up, or the curve of his calves as he crosses his legs. All of these things go unnoticed. Obviously.

“I have a proposal for you, if you’re done checking me out.”

Nico shoves his flaming face in his knees. “Did you know that in all the corners of the Earth I have been to, I’ve only encountered three things uglier than you?”

Will’s grin only gets wider. His eyes, even, start to get squinty as the force of his smile squishes his cheeks. Entirely unsubtly, because Will is the least subtle person alive, he reaches out and sends a wave of calming energy into Nico’s body, slowing his rapid heart rate.

“…Right.”

“Three things, Solace.”

“Of course, of course.” He removes his hand, graciously allowing Nico the space to breathe and remind his lungs that their job is not voluntary. “I’ll come pick you up in a half hour? Wear a jacket.”

“Don’t tell me what to do.” Nico pauses. “Yes.”

“Stellar.”

“God, you say such nerdy things unironically. How do you have friends?”

“I dunno.” He gets to his feet, brushing the dirt and grass from his shorts. “You tell me.” He leans down and presses a smacking kiss to Nico’s hair. Nico presses his fingers into his eyeballs until they hurt, screaming silently into his palms.

He waits until the smacking sounds of Will’s stupid flip-flops retreat before braving the world outside his little ball of misery, squinting at his retreating form.

“I think I should get a lobotomy,” he says out loud to himself, because, realistically, if his braincells are already spilling out of his ears like loose quarters every time Solace so much as smiles at him then there’s not much to lose, is there? and stomps off to his own cabin.

Out of spite, he chooses the New York Giants jacket he got from Percy, just because he knows Will hates it.

That’ll show him who’s bossing who around.

Totally.

———

next

[autisticlancemcclain]

Keith is acting suspicious.

Lance is sure of it. Beyond his usual shiftiness, his awkwardness, his tendency towards privacy. Lance knows his boyfriend, and he knows him well, and as such he knows enough to realise that his boyfriend is acting fuckin’ dubious.

Lance is going to snoop. (Yeah, yeah, ethical schmethical. Snooping fosters distrust in relationships and makes things tense blah blah blah. Lance recognises that. He also grew up with fucking Hunk Garrett and His Entire Family, so he also recognises that snooping is simply the best way to gather information. Fair’s fair.)

He waits until his boyfriend’s snores start to kick up, making the bedroom sound like an illegal motorized lawnmower race, and then carefully starts scooching out of his arms.

It takes a while — Keith likes to hold him. (Lance has to take a moment to calm himself down after the thought, lest he start to giggle giddily to himself, reminded that Keith loves him so much that at his most unguarded, his first instinct is to crush Lance in his arms. It’s exhilarating.) But slowly and steadily he manages to slide out of the arms around his waist, filling the newly hollow space with a pillow, and tumbles to the floor. He takes a moment, crossing his legs and sitting next to the bed, to look up at Keith, at the ratty mess of his bedhead and wide open snoring mouth and the tank top skewed across his torso, the hickeys Lance left all across his chest and collarbones peeking out.

“You are such a shit,” he whispers fondly. “I love you so bad it makes me want to, like, bite you or something. You make me weird.”

He watches Keith’s chest rise and fall until his legs fall asleep, wherein he flops onto the hardwood, wiggling his legs through the pins and needles and screeching silently into his arm (worst feeling in the WORLD) until his legs no longer feel like they’re on fire, and then he inches himself towards the right corner of the room like an inchworm.

(It’s three in the morning. No one is awake to judge him to give him shit or laugh at him or anything. He can do what he likes.)

He pulls himself up to his knees when he finally makes it to the corner, loosening his shoulders in preparation. The room is dark, so it’ll be a challenge, but this is not the first time he’s done this. Hell, it isn’t even the fiftieth. He’s a nosy person. He could do this in his sleep, probably, so in the dark is no problem.

As slowly as he can manage, to make sure it’s silent, he pries off the metal grate covering of the air vent, setting it down gently beside him. Laying down on his stomach again to get a better angle, he reaches down into the wide tube, following the curve of the cool metal, arm buried up to his shoulder, until he’s reached as far as he physically can. He carefully starts brushing his hands along the air vent, searching, feeling. It shouldn’t be too far down since his arms are way longer than Keith’s (Lance enjoys calling him T-Rex, which Keith hates and literally everyone else who knows them loves. It’s great).

Finally, his fingers brush on something small, compact, sturdy, and soft. He wraps his fist around it and slowly drags it out of the vent, keeping it in his fist as he crawls out of the bedroom and down the hall, somersaulting into the kitchen. He heads over to the fridge, figuring that if he uses the fridge light and Keith walks in, he can just pretend he’s getting a snack or something, shoving the thing he found into his pants. Keith’ll be too out of it to question it, anyway.

Laughing quietly and evilly to himself as he pulls open the fridge door, he brings his closed fist up to the light, examining the treasure he found. It takes a moment for his eyes to adjust to the light, to take in what’s in front of him.

He gasps sharply when he processes, and the treasure slips out of his hands, clattering loudly to the floor.

He freezes immediately, listening for the telltale signs of his boyfriend snorting awake, noticing Lance’s side of the bed is empty, then the sound of his footsteps as he comes to look for him.

But, fortunately, there’s nothing. The only thing Lance hears are Keith’s continued snores.

Rapidly, Lance scoops up the box and brings it back to the light. It’s unmistakable — there’s only one thing that houses in a small hinged velvet box. It explains the shiftiness over the last few weeks, too, the nervousness that Keith has been disgusting as mysterious intrigue.

Keith is going to propose. Keith is going to propose!

Smiling so widely his face hurts, Lance flicks open the box, bringing his face closer to carefully inspect the ring inside.

It’s difficult to see in the dull blue light of the fridge, but Lance starts to cry when he sees it, because he recognises this ring. This is Keith’s dad’s ring; old, heavy gold, classic princess cut diamond, simple and polished and elegant. This is the ring Keith often wears around his neck, although he rarely has as of late, for now obvious reasons. This is the ring Keith has carried with him for almost two decades. This is, without a doubt, Keith’s most prized Earthly possession, and his intent is to gift it to Lance, as a promise of his love and trust and faithfulness.

Lance has to sit down so he doesn’t pass out. He grabs a dishtowel on the way to the floor, pressing it to his face to muffle his absolutely wailing sobs, the most ugly crying he’s literally ever done in his life.

He’s so glad he snooped. If he had this reaction when Keith finally summoned the balls to ask him, his engagement photos would be so embarrassing.

He paused mid-sniffle.

Actually.

A little embarrassed of himself, he slides up his phone, holding the ring box up to his tear-swollen and smiling face to snap a picture. He looks like a mess, but it’s important to him to have a physical memory of the moment he first learned Keith planned to marry him. He’s sure he’ll cry more over it the next time he’s feeling sappy and emotional.

He doesn’t realise how long he sits, fridge wide open, back to the cabinet doors of the kitchen island, staring in awe at the ring, until his watch starts to beep.

“Fuck,” he curses, scrambling to his feet. It’s six o’clock. Keith’ll be up in fifteen minutes to go on his morning run, Lance has literally been mooning over his ring for two and a half hours.

He runs back to the bedroom, barely remembering at the last second time muffle his footsteps, shoving the ring back into the vent and pressing the grate back onto the hole. Keith stirs slightly at the noise, so Lance abandons any thought of whether or not the ring box is positioned back exactly where he found it and fuckin’ dives for the bed, reburying himself in his boyfriend’s arms and hoping he can pass it off as just having shifted around in his sleep or something. Apparently he squirms and kicks a lot (which is a lie that Keith perpetuates to take attention away from the severity of his snores), so it should be fine. Probably.

“Wh—L’nce?” Keith mumbles, stirring from behind him. He inhales deeply, arms pulling away from Lance’s and stretching out above him. Lance’s heart pounds. He forces himself to stay relaxed, to avoid squeezing his eyes shut. He prays that Keith doesn’t notice how sweaty he is.

Keith leans over to press a lingering kiss to his neck, then chuckles. Lance can feel the imprint of his smile on his skin, and tamping down his own reflexive smile is literally the hardest thing he has ever had to do in his entire life.

“You’re warm as hell,” Keith murmurs, dragging his lips down his neck, across his shoulders. His hand comes to rest in his hip, curling into the hollow there. “Betcha you were squrimin’ around in y’re sleep last night, ya worm. Betcha I’ve got bruises on my shins.” His shoulders, pressed against Lance’s back, shake with his laughter, because he is a shithead who is so lucky that Lance loves him. He presses one final kiss to Lance’s skin and then rolls out of bed. Lance listens carefully as he gets dressed in his jogging clothes and runs a brush through his hair. He falls half asleep listening to the familiar sounds, rousing slightly again when Keith ducks back in to kiss Lance’s head one last time before heading out.

Lance smiles as he falls asleep for real, after the sound of the front door opening and closing.

He’s gonna clown that dumbass so goddamn badly.

———

Lance has a love-hate relationship with pranks. On one hand, the one and only time he was sent into an asthma attack so bad he had to go to the hospital was after he and Hunk wrapped every single thing in Veronica’s room with aluminum foil while she was away on a trip, and upon seeing her reaction laughed so hard his lungs basically collapsed. He still can’t think of that without laughing. On the other hand, he’s had more than enough cruel pranks shoved his way, and never in his life wants anyone to feel humiliated because of something he did.

He can’t not prank Keith, though. He’s literally beat Keith to his own proposal. A prank is in order.

Usually, he’d call Hunk for something like that. They’ve been partners in crimes for most of their lives, after all. Pidge too, honestly. He knows they’d both get a kick out of this whole situation as well.

But…even if those dunderheads were capable of keeping their mouths shut, which they’re not, Lance kind of wants to…well, he wants to keep his proposal to himself. He likes being in on it. He likes being to only one in on it, actually. Honestly, the only thing he wants to do is brag to Keith that he knows, which defeats the whole purpose.

He straightens abruptly. A smirk spreads across his face.

He has an idea.

———

The first step is recon. He needs access to the ring, regularly and long-term, but all will be for naught if Keith realises it’s missing. He needs to know if Keith stashed the ring when he decided to propose and avoided thinking about it, or if he checks on it frequently and stresses himself out about when he’s finally going to go through with it. Both are very Keith options. In fact Lance wouldn’t be surprised if he somehow managed both at the same time, as impossible as that seems.

To get around the issue, Lance goes Spy Barbie. He waits until Keith goes out for his weekly coffee date with Shiro and Adam and then digs through his makeup kit, setting aside what he needs and sitting next to the air vent grate. He spends a good amount of time polishing the metal, making sure it’s as fresh and untouched as it was when it was first put in its package, and then he uses a wide end brush to apply a thin layer of highlighter to the white metal. He takes great care to ensure that no colour is visible, only a slight sheen if one were to look closely. And Keith doesn’t have any reason to look closely, and since Lance knows the universe loves him, he won’t.

The next step is waiting. Lance acts completely normally when Keith gets home, if a little giddy. Keith most certainly notices Lance’s giggles and affection and the way he can’t seem to keep his hands to himself, but he doesn’t seem to mind or question it. Lance does sometimes get like this, after all.

He scored a hot as hell boyfriend. He’s allowed to be a little awed sometimes. He doesn’t feel weird about it.

He does, however, mellow out in the next few days. Keith takes him to a car show, which is fucking wicked, and somehow manages to get himself and Lance behind the wheels of two 200 horsepower Mustangs for them to race, which is so exhilarating that Lance doesn’t have words for it. He just yells and jumps around about it a lot. He doesn’t actually manage to find words for a couple hours after he totally smokes Keith’s ass, but whatever. It’s cool. Keith tried his best and everything, Lance is sure.

A week later, when Keith is out on his coffee date again, Lance gets to work. He cuts a large square of parchment paper and covers it with clear packing tape, careful not to touch the sticky side, overlapping strips so they make one giant tape sheet.

Once the parchment sheet is covered, he peels off the tape, and as planned it comes off in one large sheet, slightly bigger than the air vent grate. Again careful to steer clear of the sticky part, he places the tape sheet sticky side down onto the grate, pressing down hard and rubbing to smooth it out completely flat. Once he’s sure it’s totally stuck down, he picks at one corner until it’s loose, then slowly and meticulously peels the whole sheet back. He holds the tape, now showcasing the concealer-print of the grate, up to the light, examining it with the utmost scrutiny.

Not one single fingerprint in sight. Keith has not touched the grate at all, hasn’t dug into his secret hiding spot. He is taking the refusing to think about it route, then.

Lance smirks. He reaches down and scoops up the ring, placing the grate back where it belongs and skipping out to the living room, humming jovially to himself.

Excellent.

———

The first picture Lance snaps, while biting his lip so hard to keep back his laughter it bleeds, is once again in the dead of night, two weeks after Lance first discovered the ring. Keith is sprawled out on his back this time, arms and legs askew, sheets tangled somewhere around his legs. Lance shifts so they’re both facing the same direction, then holds up his phone camera, trying to figure out how to artfully position himself for utmost devastation upon discovery. He decides eventually on a classic.

He heads over to the dresser to pick out his cutest pajamas, settling on the red spaghetti strap top with lace and short-shorts, debating on accessorizing and deciding at the last minute not to bother except for lip gloss, which is always appropriate. He climbs into bed next to Keith, gently laying his head on his chest and maneuvering one arm to wrap around Lance’s hips. The other he leaves flopped on top of the pillows. He leaves Keith’s mouth wide open because it’s funny, and goes the extra mile to mess up Keith’s hair worse than it already is, because that’s funnier. Finally he flicks open the ring case with his left hand and holds it to his face, grinning widely, and uses his right to snap a picture of the two of them. Once he’s satisfied with it, he untangles himself from the bed again, puts the ring away, presses a sticky lip gloss kiss to Keith’s cheek for funsies, and crawls back into bed for real. His sleep is sound as a baby’s.

———

The next photo doesn’t actually happen for another month. Lance fears overdoing it, and also kind of fears getting caught with the ring, so he leaves it in its hiding spot until the opportunity for another cheeky photo presents itself.

The opportunity in question arrives when Keith announces that he has arranged to drive down to the secluded beach that Lance took him too early in their relationship to spend the day. At first Lance thinks he’s proposing for real, and to check he waits until Keith has the car all packed up and ready to go and then pretends to run inside to go to the washroom. Instead he ducks into their room and tears into the air vent, grasping around until his fingers close around the box.

He scoffs to himself. Wimp.

He quickly shoves the box into his fanny pack (fanny packs are COOL and CONVENIENT and Lance will not hear a word of controversy on the subject, they are absolutely nothing like Keith’s dweeb utility belt) and sprints back to the car. When Keith asks him why he’s smirking, Lance manages to convince him that he’s just excited for the beach.

Lance should have been an actor, honestly.

He mostly forgets about the ring while they’re there. He has enough sense to keep it in the car instead of on the beach so it doesn’t get stolen, unlikely as it is, and just enjoys the day with his boyfriend. He convinces Keith to go jet skiing with him and cackles to himself as he purposely sends Keith flying off the back of it. He screeches at the top of his lungs later when Keith scoops him up from his nap and literally chucks him into the ice cold water. The two of them make really garbage sculptures of their friends in the sand to amuse themselves. They gather ugly seashells and send pictures to their friends asking them if they’ve been turned into mollusks, since there is a resemblance. The whole day was a blast. Lance firmly slots it in his top ten days of all time.

When they go for a long walk to watch the sunset, Lance snaps a picture with the ring and a very teasing grin the second Keith has his back turned. He will bring up how this was a perfect moment to propose, and he will pat Keith’s head condescendingly about it. He can’t wait.

———

The third photo is another dead-of-night-situation. Lance knows it’s repetitive, but it’s easy and it’s funny and Lance can’t resist.

To change things up a bit, he decides not to be in the photo, and also to see just how much he can get away with.

Keith is on his side, this time, one hand tucked under the pillow, one hand held loose and open on top of it. He’s been tired, lately, and when Lance says he fell asleep the second his head hit the pillow, he is not exaggerating. In fact Lance is reasonably certain he passed out in the way down. He is KOed. He’s unconscious. He is absolutely dogged out.

The timing is perfect.

Carefully, aware of the consequences should Lance make a mistake, he removes the ring from its box. He realizes abruptly that it’s the first time he’s ever done that, despite his ridiculous quest, and he finds that he can’t quite let go of the ring just yet. The metal feels cool and smooth on his finger tips; worn, even. It’s shinier than it used to be, which means Keith has probably had it professionally retouched. Resized too, probably, although Lance can’t quite bring himself to check. The diamond catches the minimal light in the room and refracts into rainbows that fall softly on Keith’s lax face, highlighting his sharp jawline, his softly squished cheek, his relaxed brow. He looks so dorky when he sleeps, completely free of the furrow of concentration that usually resides in between his eyebrows, his resting frown. His mouth is always wide open when he’s out, and the echoing of his snores is so comically loud and ridiculous but absolutely something that Lance can’t live without. He has them recorded, actually, for the rare nights they’re not home together, on the rare night Lance has to sleep alone.

Smiling softly to himself, Lance places the ring in Keith’s open palm. He rests his hand on top of Keith’s for a moment, just because he can, just to relish in the scratch of Keith’s callouses on his skin, before pulling back and steadying his phone to snap a picture. He catches it right as Keith inhales heavily, right as his nose scrunches up.

It’s goofy as hell. It’s perfect.

———

The fourth picture is the riskiest, Lance thinks. He’s taken to carrying the ring around with him everywhere, almost as if he is the one planning to propose, just in case he has a moment when Keith’s back is turned. (There really aren’t that many. Keith faces him a lot. He likes to hold Lance hand and kiss his face, neither of which you can do from behind. Lance fucking loves his boyfriend so much.)

They’re at a Thing. Lance’s parents are celebrating their fortieth anniversary, and obviously Lance is bringing Keith, and since Keith is his mother’s favourite he is encouraged to bring his family as well, which means Shiro and Adam are coming, and if Hunk and Pidge weren’t invited then someone would cry and nothing would be right in the world, and of course Veronica is bringing Allura, and Coran comes because Lance’s dad thinks he’s the funniest man to walk the Earth. And of course all Lance’s relatives are there.

The point is that it’s a full house. A couple full houses, actually, since their neighbours are also involved. It’s a lot of people in one place.

As is protocol in crowded places, Keith is essentially glued to Lance’s side. Lance is quite happy with this arrangement, because he gets to show his boyfriend off like the hot piece of ass he is, especially to his rude ass great aunties and uncles who always had something to say about Lance and his single-ness when he was still rocking braces. So.

One thing about Keith, though, is that everyone who meets him is doomed to fall in love with him forever and ever, or so Lance has noticed. His niece and nephew are no exception, and immediately upon catching sight of their uncle — Keith, that is, Lance may as well be dead meat when Tio Keith is available, which, rude — they descend upon him not unlike a vulture may descend upon a recently deceased armadillo. Or whatever. Lance didn’t grow up in the desert, he doesn’t know what happens there.

Occupied as he is, one child hanging off each arm, Keith cannot keep his vice grip on Lance’s hand. Occupied as he is, two children talking at him in a mix of Spanish and English so rapid that Lance himself cannot keep up, which is saying something because his nickname for many years was and aptly so Motormouth, Keith cannot have his full attention on Lance. In fact, even, his back is delightfully turned.

Lance doesn’t hesitate. He flicks open the ring box and snaps a picture. His grin is nothing short of gleeful and he is entirely unapologetic.

When he turns back around, ring box stuffed back into his pocket, he realizes Nadia is staring at him with wide eyes.

“You, shush,” Lance says, and then switches to Spanish so Keith, who is still learning, will miss it, “or I’ll choose a random child to be my flower girl. I swear.”

She glares at him. “This is why Tio Keith is my favourite,” she mutters, because she is a snot who acts as if Lance does not and has not for her whole life taken her on all sorts of cool awesome amazing trips and bought her cool awesome amazing presents. Who was it who bought them recorders when they were seven to terrorize Luis with? Lance. Who was it to take them to a live rocket taking off the summer they turned nine? Lance.

“You’re a brat,” he informs her.

She sticks her tongue out at him, snickering. “Side genes.”

Lance unfortunately has nothing to say to that and also refuses to be roasted by an eleven year old, so he yanks Keith away as penance and takes him to a corner somewhere to make out. He feels very smug about it.

———

The fifth time doesn’t happen.

The fifth time is a clusterfuck.

The fifth time, it’s night again, and Lance honestly doesn’t even plan on taking another picture. He’s just next to the vent, lying on his belly, legs kicking in the air as he inspects the ring for the billionth time. He’s so excited. He can’t wait to wear this on his finger. He can’t wait for Keith to put it there. He’s can’t wait to be Keith’s husband, is the crux of it all. It’s like groundhog day except with literal euphoria. Lance is the luckiest man literally alive, and Keith hasn’t even hinted towards a plan to pop the question yet.

“You are the nosiest motherfucker in the planet, you shithead.”

Lance yelps, startling so bad he almost brains himself on the floor and nearly drops the ring. He manages to catch himself with the grace of God and also probably luck, or neither of those things, but either way Lance heart nearly pounds out of his chest.

“You scared me, you butthead!”

Keith chuckles. His voice is low and raspy from sleep, vowels still rounded from the accent that only comes out when he’s mad or drunk or tired. Lance’s belly swoops. Keith grabs Lance’s ankle and tugs, dragging him over to him, pulling him upright when he’s close enough. Lance goes into him fully, curling up into him, head tucked under his chin. Keith’s hands come to rest on top of his, sliding the ring box from him.

“How long have you known, you snoop?”

“Six months,” Lance answers. “In my defense, you were acting suspicious as all hell.”

Keith kisses his head. “Fair.”

“I need to know everything about everything or I’ll die. You know this.”

Keith snorts. He takes Lance’s left hand and smooths it flat, spreading out his fingers. “Yeah. Ruined my plans, though.”

“Oh, please. You and I both know there were no plans involved. You walked by a shop advertising ring retouching and walked in before you even thought about it.”

Keith says nothing. Lance grins and presses on.

“I bet you cried the whole time, too.”

“Shut up. I’m gonna keep the ring.”

Lance kisses him on the chest, the closest place he can reach, through his sleep shirt. “No, you’re not.”

“Mhm.” Keith plucks the ring out of the box with one hand, setting it on the ground beside them and grabbing Lance’s hand with his other. “You’re right. I’m not.”

He doesn’t move for a while, except to stroke his thumb over the palm of Lance’s hand, over and over again. Lance likes the feeling. He’s always likes the feeling of Keith’s hands in him.

“I know this isn’t a fancy dinner or sunset on the beach or with your whole family present,” he murmurs. “But I’m tired of waiting, if you don’t mind me jumping the gun.”

Lance smiles widely. A tear leaks out of his eye, dripping down his face and onto Keith’s hand.

“I don’t.”

“Good.” Keith holds the ring just above Lance’s finger, poised, ready to slide it on but waiting for permission. “Lance Sanchez, will you marry me?”

“Keith Gyeong, I would want nothing more.”

Unhesitant at last, Keith slides his father’s ring onto Lance’s finger, centring it so the diamond shines brightly in the middle. It fits perfectly.

The tears stream down Lance’s face, and he can’t for the life of him pretend that they’re not, not that he’d bother. He buries his face in his fiancé’s neck and feels Keith’s own tears soaking his hair.

“I took a bunch of sneaky pictures of me holding the ring in front of you,” Lance admits.

Keith laughs. “Of course you did.”

“I carried the ring around for months.”

“Checks out.”

“I love you.”

“I love you too, Lance.”

“I can’t wait to marry you.”

Keith hums, tilting his head up and kissing him properly, entwining their hands so they can both feel the ring press against skin. “No more waiting for you, sweetheart.”

———

based on this post

[call-me-strega]

Dc x Dp Prompt #5: Way of the House Husband AU

I was struck with inspiration: Way of the House Husband but make it Dead on Main (or any other ship you feel like you can make work). One partner is a highly dangerous and powerful figure and the other is just some guy and they’re in love and living a beautiful domestic life even if past annoyances pop up to bother them. The best part is it works both ways for these two. Like imagine Jason’s at the grocery store and runs into a rouge or a gang member or someone from the BatFam but just ignores them. Or Danny wakes up to find one of his rouges at his doorstep for whatever reason and just closes his door and sends them packing. Their both uninterested in returning to a life of crime/crime fighting and just want to live as a happy, peaceful, “normal” couple.

[eyenkss]

crungus crungus crungus crungus cr-

[kjack89]

The Wikipedia Page

For the Hoeshold <3

E/R, modern AU, developing relationship, all shenanigans.

“Can you fucking believe this?” Enjolras said, incredulous, staring down at his phone.

Combeferre sighed the long-suffering sigh of a man who was about to enter into a conversation he knew he would deeply regret. “For the billionth time,” he said, with the patience of a saint, “when you’re looking at your phone, I can’t see what you’re looking at.”

Enjolras scowled and thrust his phone at Combeferre. “Here,” he said shortly. “Look at this shit.”

Combeferre glanced down at the phone, his brow furrowing. “It’s a Wikipedia page for – oh.”

Enjolras nodded grimly. “Yeah,” he said. “Exactly. Someone made a fucking Wikipedia page for me.”

“Of you, more like,” Combeferre murmured, scanning the page with an almost academic interest. “And not a very good one. Some facts are wrong.”

Enjolras’s scowl deepened and he yanked his phone back. “So now they’re just making up lies about me?” he seethed as he scanned the article. His own brow furrowed and he glanced up at Combeferre. “I don’t see anything inaccurate here.”

Combeferre frowned and took Enjolras’s phone back. “Well, for starters, it says you’ve been brought up on charges of domestic terrorism—“

“Which is true,” Enjolras interjected.

“You’ve been accused of domestic terrorism, but never indicted,” Combeferre corrected. “Thankfully for everyone involved, there’s a bit of a difference.”

Enjolras smirked. “You and the US Attorney’s office would probably disagree on that.”

“Secondly,” Combeferre continued, the long-suffering tone of regret back in his voice, “it says that you graduated from Harvard in 2016.”

Enjolras suddenly seemed unable to meet Combeferre’s eyes. “Oh,” he said. “Right.”

Combeferre’s eyes narrowed. “And of course,” he said, “you were kicked out of Harvard your senior year.” He paused before adding pointedly, “Right?”

“About that,” Enjolras started, and Combeferre gave him a look.

“You really lied about getting kicked out of Harvard?”

Enjolras’s face was roughly the same color as his usual hoodie. “I mean, I did get in trouble,” he mumbled, “and I wasn’t allowed to attend graduation.”

Combeferre rolled his eyes. “Because that’s even remotely the same thing.”

Enjolras’s flush deepened, and he quickly attempted to change the subject. “At least that narrows it down somewhat as to who created this asinine Wikipedia page,” he said, “since very few people know about Harvard.”

“Pretty sure it doesn’t take a genius to contact the alumni office and put two and two together,” Combeferre said dryly.

“But that would require someone to know my full legal name,” Enjolras countered. “And that list is even smaller.”

“Well, while you obsess over who put this page together, I’m going to be over here reconciling the fact that you’ve been lying to me for the past nine years,” Combeferre muttered.

Enjolras looked shame-faced before he paused, his own eyes narrowing. “Hang on,” he said. “You’ve done background checks on every single one of us, myself included, and this absolutely would’ve shown up.”

“So?”

“So what are you actually mad about, since you’ve known all along?” Enjolras didn’t even wait for Combeferre to answer. “You had a bet going for how long it would be before I came clean.”

He didn’t pitch it as a question, and Combeferre didn’t bother with a denial. “Yeah, and if you’d have held it together for another year, I’d’ve won,” he said sourly. “I took the over on a decade.”

“Do I even want to know how many of you were in on this bet?” Wisely, Combeferre stayed silent and Enjolras groaned and put his head in his hands. “Maybe no one will see it?” he said, a little desperately. “After all, our friends have lives, or at least better things to do than stalk Wikipedia.”

Combeferre made a small noise of dissent. “Has our conversation taught you nothing about underestimating our friends?”

Enjolras just sighed heavily. “Then maybe they’ll go gentle on me.”

“And now I think you’re overestimating our friends.”

— — — — —

By the time of the meeting that night, everyone had seen the Wikipedia page. And seemingly, it was all any of them could talk about.

“Can we all just agree,” Courfeyrac said, with actual tears of mirth running down his face, “that it was a stroke of absolute genius to title a section, ‘Personal Life’ and then leave it as ‘This section is being created, or is in the process of extensive expansion or major restructuring’?”

“Personally, I’m a huge fan of the blind quote they used in the section on his politics,” Bossuet said, grinning.

“Where Enjolras is described as, and I quote, ‘so far left that he’s basically circled back around to authoritarianism’?”

Joly sounded positively gleeful, and Bahorel guffawed loudly. “Isn’t that what that idiot wrote about Enjolras in The Epoch Times?”

“That’s how it made it on the page,” Jehan said helpfully. “There was a news story a few years back about an author who couldn’t get her Wikipedia page updated to reflect her divorce until she stated it in an interview.” Bahorel gave him a look of surprise and Jehan shrugged. “I did some amateur Wikipedia editing back in college.”

Enjolras sighed heavily, staring determinedly at the ceiling. “Can we please,” he said through clenched teeth, “talk about literally anything else?”

Naturally, everyone ignored him. 

“I really feel like we’re overlooking the best part,” Feuilly said. “Which, of course, is the bit where his personality is described as, quote, ‘has many red flags’.”

“The question, of course,” Combeferre interjected for the first time, “is if the page is referring to Enjolras’s collection of physical flags that are red, or his many charming personality traits that many could consider red flags.”

“Traitor,” Enjolras said through clenched teeth.

“I think the real question is whether someone—” Joly didn’t bother with subtlety as he nudged Grantaire while emphasizing the word ‘someone’. “—would consider the amount of red flags to be a red flag.”

Grantaire pretended to consider it. “I can only speak for myself, but I’d call it a beige flag.”

Enjolras ground his teeth together hard enough to make his dentist weep, glaring at Grantaire. “You’ve been awfully quiet until that little quip.” 

Grantaired leaned back in his seat in a somewhat self-satisfied way, raising his beer bottle in a mock toast. “There is such a thing as gilding the lily, and frankly, I’m not sure I could top this.”

“That has literally never stopped you before.”

Grantaire just winked at him, and Enjolras sighed. “Very well,” he said, resignedly, aiming for dignified and falling drastically short. “You all keep having fun at my expense, but if we’re not going to get any work done, I’m going home.”

He gathered his stuff in a huff and marched out with his head held high. At least, that’s what he told himself, though in reality, he probably looked more like a petulant child stomping away from the playground to take his ball and go home.

He had sulked his way about half a block away from the Musain when Grantaire called, “Hey, wait up.”

Enjolras glanced over his shoulder, scowling. “Come to mock me some more?”

“Arguably speaking, we’re all making fun of the Wikipedia page,” Grantaire reasoned as he fell into step next to Enjolras.

Enjolras’s scowl deepened. “Which is clearly making fun of me.”

Grantaire cleared his throat delicately. “If you’d like to count yourself amongst those who take offense to the truth…”

“Asshole,” Enjolras said, but for some reason, his foul mood was lifted, at least slightly.

Grantaire glanced sideways at him. “So, uh, dare I ask why, exactly, a Wikipedia page posting mostly accurate information about you has got a stick so far up your ass you can taste wood?”

Enjolras snorted. “Poetic.”

“I try,” Grantaire said. “But seriously, the reaction does seem a bit over the top. If it was Courf, sure, I’d expect this level of histrionics, but you’re normally a better sport about this sort of thing.”

“That may be the nicest thing you’ve ever said about me,” Enjolras said mildly.

“Probably because I’m lying, you’re a notorious drama queen and frankly, I’m surprised that little detail didn’t make your Wikipedia page,” Grantaire said cheerfully, and Enjolras couldn’t quite stop his bark of surprised laughter. “That being said, clearly something about it is bothering you, and I figured buttering you up might help.”

Enjolras’s smile faded. “Honestly?” he said. “What I’m most upset about is that it’s about me, with barely a footnote about our work.”

“Right,” Grantaire said. He glanced at Enjolras again. “And naturally, that upsets you because…?”

“Because it’s not about me!” Enjolras burst, his frustration spilling over. “Because it’s never been about me. The whole point of quasi-anonymity is that anyone could be me. Anyone could step into this role and try to change the world.”

Grantaire let out a low whistle. “And you called me poetic,” he said. Enjolras didn’t smile and Grantaire nudged him gently with his elbow. “I think you’re forgetting that while you may have been aiming for anonymity, you’re still an incredibly recognizable figure who hasn’t exactly been camera-shy.”

“Sure, my face may be well known, but not my name, and certainly not my face and my name together,” Enjolras said hotly.

Grantaire was quiet for so long that Enjolras had to look over at him to make sure he was still there. Then, Grantaire shook his head. “The rare valid point,” he said, more to himself than Enjolras.

Enjolras just sighed. As much as he had planned on sulking for the rest of the night, he was finding it more and more difficult with each passing step, as if just venting about it had made it slightly better.

Or maybe that was more about who he’d been venting to.

“Anyway,” he said bracingly, “I’ll get over it, I just need to, you know, feel my feelings.”

“And you’re being very brave about it,” Grantaire assured him. 

Enjolras laughed again. “Well, you can head back to the Musain.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t dare,” Grantaire said solemnly. “You’re in a fragile state of mind. I better make sure you get home safely.”

Even though Enjolras rolled his eyes, he couldn’t help but smile, just slightly. “You’re missing out on some prime comedy.”

Grantaire winked at him. “You forget,” he said smugly, “I’ve got a phone with 5G and an entire walk to do a dramatic reading.”

Enjolras groaned. “You wouldn’t dare.”

“That’s for me to know and you to spend the rest of your walk worrying about.”

“Asshole,” Enjolras repeated, but he was laughing.

And besides, he suspected Grantaire wasn’t serious.

— — — — —

Over the next few weeks, things with Enjolras’s Wikipedia page took a turn – for the weird.

Despite Enjolras’s multiple attempts to get the page shut down, it continued on its merry way. And worse, it kept being added to by the same anonymous Wikipedia editor who had created it. But bizarrely, while it had originally been mostly accurate, it was quickly becoming flooded with complete bullshit.

Each new edit brought with it a different fabricated detail about Enjolras, some of which were close to the truth (“Enjolras came out publicly via instagram post in the lead-up to the Obergefell ruling” – Enjolras had come out publicly in the tenth grade via Facebook, or, if he was being truly specific, in 2nd Grade when Kaitlyn H. had tried to kiss him and Enjolras had screamed and hidden in the classroom closet), and some of which were just completely wrong (“He wrestled in high school as a heavyweight, weighing in at 250 pounds” and “Described as shorter than average (5’6”) with shoulder-length brown hair, police have been actively searching for Enjolras and his associates for almost a decade”).

Well, that last bit was true, but not so much the description.

Which, based on Enjolras’s now extensive knowledge of Wikipedia’s editing rules, was how whoever was editing his page was getting away with it: by linking to news sources that were also incorrect. For instance, his instagram post had been falsely called his coming out by The Advocate’s round up of notable activists. The story about wrestling was a hilarious mix-up of a picture of Enjolras from a riot with a caption about a high school wrestler in the local paper. 

And so on and so forth – each edit was painstaking in being both false and, somehow, verifiable. Which would have been brilliant if it hadn’t given away the entire game.

Because a few days later, one final falsehood was posted. 

And there was only one other person in the entire world who knew this one.

“Enjolras’s first brush with the law came in high school, when he was charged as a minor in possession of alcohol, but his father allegedly asked the local authorities to drop the charges,” Enjolras said without preamble, brushing past Grantaire into his apartment.

“Normally I’m really good at keeping up with your trains of thought,” Grantaire said mildly, closing the front door. “But I will need some additional context.”

“My MIP,” Enjolras said, glowering at Grantaire. “The one that I told you about in confidence because you had confided in me about your struggles with drugs and alcohol—”

“That’s a very polite way of putting it,” Grantaire said.

Enjolras ignored him. “The one that only you knew about. Somehow it ended up on my Wikipedia page.”

Grantaire looked a little bit like he wanted to bolt out the door he’d just closed. “Combeferre might have found it in your background check,” he said weakly.

“No, because the charges were dismissed, but not because of my father,” Enjolras said impatiently. “Which means the only person it could’ve been was you.”

Grantaire paled but didn’t try to deny it, and Enjolras took a deep breath before saying, “And which means the only question that I have is why.”

“It wasn’t supposed to go live,” Grantaire blurted.

“What?”

Grantaire worried his lower lip between his teeth. “The Wikipedia page. It wasn’t supposed to be published.”

Enjolras blinked. “So it was you.”

Even though he had known it, he hadn’t really reconciled himself with it until hearing it more or less confirmed. Grantaire nodded. “It started as a joke,” he said. “We’d had a fight, I don’t even remember what about, and you said my sources were one rung below Wikipedia. So I figured, y’know, I’d show you what Wikipedia’s sources are like.”

Enjolras opened his mouth to say something, anything, but nothing came out. Which was for the best, since Grantaire barreled onward. “I never actually intended on publishing it, but I clicked the wrong button and didn’t even notice until, well, you did. And at that point, putting the genie back in the bottle was pretty much out of the question.”

“But then—” Enjolras broke off, still struggling to put his thoughts into anything resembling coherence. Of the million questions he had, the only one he could manage was, “Why all the edits?”

Grantaire shrugged. “It occurred to me that I could at least use this accidental platform for some good.”

“And there’s some good in telling the whole world that I’m 5 foot 6, 250 pounds and have shoulder-length brown hair?” Enjolras said dryly.

“I mean…” Grantaire shrugged again. “I figured it may help the FBI in their search for you.”

He said it innocently, and Enjolras’s eyes narrowed. “And why the hell would they believe that description?”

“Why wouldn’t they?” Grantaire said, a smile twitching at the corners of his mouth. “After all, it’s on Wikipedia.”

Enjolras couldn’t quite stop his own smile as realization hit. “You laid quite the convincing trail of inaccuracies for them.”

Grantaire ducked his head. “Well,” he said, “never let it be said I did nothing for the Cause.”

“For the Cause?”

Grantaire met his eyes, his smile crooked. “For the only cause I believe in, anyway.”

There were a great number of things that Enjolras could say to that, but there was only one thing he wanted to do.

And so he did, closing the space between him and Grantaire, reaching out to tip Grantaire’s chin just slightly upward to kiss him. Grantaire’s hand closed in his shirt, pulling him even closer as his mouth opened against Enjolras’s with a sigh.

Suddenly, Grantaire laughed, his lips curving into a grin against Enjolras’s. “Who knew a fucking Wikipedia page was all it would take,” he said, with something like wonder.

“Please,” Enjolras murmured, kissing the corner of his mouth. “If you’d’ve tried this even six months ago, I would’ve just kicked your ass.”

“So what’s changed?”

So much more than Enjolras could ever articulate, the least of which was that he finally had tangible evidence of just how dedicated Grantaire could be – when it was something he cared about, at least.

But he settled for saying, after kissing Grantaire’s once more, “My height and weight, apparently.”

Grantaire laughed. “Yeah,” he said, “I suppose there is that.”

“By the way?”

“Yeah?” Grantaire said, his voice barely a whisper.

“If I see anything about this on Wikipedia, I really will kick your ass.”

Grantaire just laughed again. “Deal.”

— — — — —

The next day, there was a single addition to the Wikipedia page:

Spouse: Patria (m. 2023)

[fromxxthexxashes]

Don't Play Games (Come My Way) (43108 words) by letmetellyouaboutmyfeels Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: 9-1-1 (TV) Rating: Explicit Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Evan "Buck" Buckley/Eddie Diaz (9-1-1 TV) Characters: Maddie Buckley, Bobby Nash, Athena Grant, Christopher Diaz (9-1-1 TV), Sophia Diaz (9-1-1 TV), Adriana Diaz, Ramon Diaz (9-1-1 TV), Helena Diaz (9-1-1 TV), Ravi Panikkar, Henrietta "Hen" Wilson, Karen Wilson, Howie "Chimney" Han Additional Tags: Inspired by The Hating Game - Sally Thorne, Enemies to Lovers, Rivals to Lovers, (Entirely One-Sided), Shameless Smut, Eventual Smut, Evan "Buck" Buckley and Eddie Diaz Being Idiots, Oh Hey That's Already a Tag (Of Course It Is), Hijinks & Shenanigans, With a Dash of Tomfoolery, Misunderstandings, Emotional Constipation, Olympic-Level Obliviousness, Fluff and Humor, Light Angst Summary:

Buck hates Eddie Diaz.

Ever since his publishing company and Eddie's merged, the man has been nothing but a pain in Buck's ass. The way he nitpicks all of Buck's company emails, the way he spends half his day bickering with Buck, the way he makes Buck's stomach flip and the way he's started haunting Buck's dreams... yeah, it's one hundred percent hate. Definitely. Buck's sure of it.

Because what the hell else could it be?

Notes: I really love this one. It kinda has the vibes of “The Proposal”- the plot is very different, but it has that same office rivalry that movie has (tags say it’s inspired by “The Hating Game”, but I haven’t watched it, so It’s probably closer to that, but I’m just comparing what I know lol). Anyway, it features a lot bantering and some massive miscommunication. Not to mention the author does a phenomenal job of depicting the tension between Buck and Eddie then beautifully developing their relationship. 

[bisexualbard-writes]

I am so excited to introduce my entry for @kinnporschebigbang, done in collaboration with the wonderful and delightful @shubaka!

Summary:

"Are you a ghost?" Chay blurts out. "Are you..." He can't bring himself to say dead.

"I'm not a ghost," Kim snips, halfway between disgusted and disgruntled. "I'm just... a little incorporeal at the moment." He crosses his arms and won't meet Chay's eyes as he says it.

Fic on AO3

Podfic on AO3

[beautyofattolia]

Avatar Incorrect Quote

Jake: People ask me how I manage to keep my kids in order.

Jake: I don’t. This morning Neteyam called me into the other room and when I walked in, Lo’ak shot me in the throat with a nerf gun.

Jake: I’ve never been more proud. 

[cao-the-dreamer]

Emily: When I told a Decepticon to eat shit, I didn't mean it literally

Reader, who made a Cybertronian bong out of feces: You told them to WHAT

Inside joke I made because of my friend, who after reading Breaking Bread by @ss-shitstorm and Eat Shit And Live, Blitzwing by @iliterallydecepticanteven , remarked "if I had a nickel for every time a human had a hilarious relationship with Decepticons and it all started with shit, I'd have two nickels. Which isn't a lot, but it’s weird that it happened twice."

I mean. They're not wrong 😂

Seriously, go read their fics, they're pure delight and never fail to make me laugh ^^

[sudriantraveler]

Dear Friends, Long ago, the Fat Controller was not quite how you might know him. He was young and slim, and wouldn’t be a controller for some time, so he was simply called Mr. Hatt. Even so, he already knew his way around engines. He had even built a few himself. They were small, odd looking things called Coffee Pots, and though they didn’t look at all like the engines you know now, they did their job well, often with Mr. Hatt himself as driver. This is a story from that time long ago, when steam engines were still new, and when the Fat Controller wasn’t the Fat Controller yet, and though he wouldn’t admit it, still had much to learn. The Author

Well this took a while to write, but I'm really happy with the result. Sodor's early railways are always neat to explore. I hope you all enjoyed.

[autisticlancemcclain]

Lance sighs. “Dude, this isn’t going to work if you’re awkward about it.”

“I’m not being awkward,” Keith says, lying like a liar. He crosses his arms, setting his jaw like the stubborn ass he is. “I’m being normal.”

“Right,” Lance says, raising an eyebrow. “That’s why you keep looking at me and getting all flustered and looking away again. That’s certainly going to sell it for us.”

“It’s going to be fine! I’m not being awkward. You’re being picky.”

“Keith, the Ernlea are not going to believe that I’m your concubine if you go redder than a virgin every time you look at me. Come on, dude. You have to make it at least a little believable.”

Keith goes bright red. “I’m not a virgin! And don’t — it’s believable!”

Lance grins, brown eyes narrowed and teasing. “Could’ve fooled me.” He pulls at the red lace top (lingerie. It’s lingerie) and adjusts the see-through gauze harem pants the Ernlea attendants have set out for him to wear to the audience with the queen. “What, am I distracting you?”

“They didn’t even get you a sweater or anything. You’re going to freeze,” Keith says instead of answering, pointedly looking at Lance’s face and face alone. “It’s — it’s ridiculous. They gave me three shirts to choose from, and each of them goes to my wrist.”

“Because the queen thinks I’m your concubine,” Lance explains patiently. Again. “And this makes her trust you more, remember? You just have to play it off for the next couple hours. If they find out I’m not actually your concubine, they’ll feel all scorned, and then we’ll be in real trouble.”

“It’s disrespectful,” Keith insists.

Lance inclines his head. “A little.”

“Why are you so fine with it, then?”

“Because I don’t care what this queen thinks, Keith. I care what you think. I care what the team thinks. I care what my mom thinks. But this random queen who we’re going to meet for two hours and then maybe see again, like, twice in our lives? She can think whatever the hell she wants of it’ll get her signature on the Coalition papers. She has four thousand fleets to offer us, Red. I’d pretend to be the team’s jester if that’s what she fuckin’ wanted. That one might hurt my feelings, though. The concubine thing is hilarious. She thinks I’m too pretty to be a soldier. That is a compliment to the highest degree.”

“Yeah, well, it’s still dumb,” Keith mutters petulantly. “And I hate it and her.”

Lance tilts his head. He stares at Keith for a few moments, scrutinizing him. Keith shifts uncomfortably. He hates it when Lance tries to beam through his skull and read his thoughts.

(It’s very annoying, because he often sees right through Keith’s shit, and how dare he do that? Who gave him permission?)

Finally, Lance snaps his fingers, eyes bright with an idea.

“Kiss me.”

“What?” Keith exclaims, startling. “No!”

“Yes. Kiss me. It’ll make it less awkward, give us more chemistry.”

“No! That’s not going to — no!”

“Kiss me kiss me kiss me kiss me kiss me kiss me —”

“No! I’m not going to do it like this!”

“Kiss me kiss me —” Lance blinks, cutting himself off. “What does that mean?”

Keith clamps his mouth shut. “Nevermind.”

“No, no, tell me. What do you mean, ‘not like this’?”

“Nothing. I didn’t — it didn’t mean anything. I just mean I’m not kissing you.” Keith glances down at his wrist, face burning. “We’ve got to — we’re almost late. Let’s go.” He hurries for the door, brushing by Lance and speedwalking away.

“Keith, you’re not wearing a watch! Hey! Wait for your concubine, you douchebag! God, what kind of leader doesn’t wait for his concubine?”

———

“Good job, team,” Shiro says, smiling softly at them. “The queen signed. Lance and Keith — good job on you two, specifically. I don’t know why she needed you two to play couple so badly, but you rolled with it, and I’m proud of you.”

“I’m just that pretty,” Lance preens, just as Keith mutters: “Define ‘rolled with it’.”

Lance rolls his eyes. “Oh, you big baby. So what I had to sit on your lap? I’m not that heavy.”

Keith harrumphs. “Whatever. I still don’t understand why she was so convinced that we’re — a thing, or whatever.”

“Maybe because on that call with her, after we saved her planet, you looked at Lance with the softest look in the world and said you ‘couldn’t have done it without your right hand man’?” Pidge suggests.

“Fuck right off,” Keith says hotly, ears going red as the rest of the team giggles. Only Lance is on Keith’s side, looking at Pidge in confusion.

“He says that all the time. How was that weird?” he asks.

Pidge stops laughing abruptly, blinking at him in shock. “You’re — you’re fucking with me, right?”

Lance continues to look at her oddly. Pidge exchanges a look with Hunk and Allura, and all three of them sigh.

“Alright, guys,” Shiro says, clapping their hands to get back their attention. His mouth is twitching. “I can tell you’re all done for today. Good job, again. Wind down for the evening, meet me in the common room at nine if you want to watch a movie. I think it’s Coran’s turn to pick — he said something about a home movie?”

He dismisses them to loud, half-playful groaning.

“Those are so embarrassing,” Allura complains.

“The embarrassment is the best part,” Hunk argues, because if nothing else then he lives for drama. “The issue is the length.”

“Nuh-uh. The issue is the camera quality! It’s, like, one pixel!”

Keith takes the opportunity to slip away as the team argues, walking quietly back to his room. Today was a — day, that’s for sure. He might skip movie night, just because Lance always sits next to him at movie night, and if he has to spend any longer pressed close to Lance and smelling his floral shampoo he might collapse into nothing.

“Hey, Keith, wait up.”

Oh, for fuck’s sake. Who is writing his life? When are they going to give him a fucking break?

“Hey, Lance,” Keith says, trying to keep the weariness out of his voice. It doesn’t work, but luckily Lance doesn’t think it’s about him.

Lance grins wryly. “All that politics wear you out, Oh Introvert Of All Introverts?”

Keith huffs a laugh. He is so grateful that for all Lance’s observational skills, sometimes he’s as dense as a brick wall.

“Something like that.”

“You gonna skip movie night, then?”

“Yeah. I need to sleep and contemplate what I did to deserve this life.”

Lance laughs, bright and high-pitched, and Keith has to physically fight the besotted smile that’s begging to force itself on his face.

Fuck. Why can’t he go back to being annoyed by that sound? Huh? This whole whipped-for-Lance business is getting out of hand.

“Dork. I’ll walk you to your room, then. Gotta get my Keith fill of the day.”

Keith firmly tells his brain to shut the fuck up and not make the dirty joke it wants to make. Lance is a horrible influence on him. He never used to make that’s-what-she-said jokes before they started hanging out, and now his brain thinks them on reflex.

“I think past you would shoot you in the head if he heard you say that.”

“You got me,” Lance teases back, grinning. They come to a stop at Keith’s door, and his smile gets softer around the edges. He looks up at Keith, and squints, because one of the sunlight-simulator lights is on right behind Keith’s head, shining right into his eyes. It makes the brown in his irises glow into something almost amber, like drizzled honey.

“Night, Fearless Leader.”

Keith can barely make his tongue work, mouth suddenly drier than the desert.

“Night, Lance.”

Lance reaches out and pats Keith’s bicep, turning slightly and stepping away. And Keith —

Something in Keith goes absolutely rigid, and then snaps.

He grabs Lance’s forearm, pulling him back towards Keith, then leans down and presses their mouths together so hard their teeth clank. His other hand cups Lance face, tilting it so their noses aren’t smushed together.

For a split second, Lance is tense, unmoving. Then he lets out the faintest “oh” noise, like it’s involuntary, like it came up from his chest without his permission. And then, faster than Keith can register, he moves his arm from Keith’s grip and wraps both of them around Keith’s shoulders, yanking him closer and kissing him harder. Keith curls his newly freed hand around Lance’s waist, squeezing tightly as he tilts his head again and opens his mouth to lick against the seam of Lance’s lips. He responds immediately, gasping on his next breath as Keith runs his tongue along Lance’s teeth, the roof of his mouth, just — anywhere he can reach. Tasting him. Devouring him.

Keith pulls back with a shuddering sigh, closing his eyes and resting his forehead on Lance’s. Lance’s hand shakes slightly from it’s place on the back of Keith’s neck, fingers smoothing out constant motions on the heated skin. He’s panting. He’s close enough that Keith can smell that damn floral shampoo, sweet and soft and intoxicating. He presses another kiss to Lance’s lips, close-mouthed and soft, because the scent makes him heady.

“I meant something like that,” he whispers. When he opens his eyes again, Lance’s are still closed, and his chest moves rapidly as he pants. Keith takes another moment to burn the image of Lance’s flushed face and wet mouth into his memory.

“Goodnight, Lance.” Carefully he pulls away, slipping into his room and closing the door behind him. He gets ready for bed without letting himself think of anything, just forcing his mind to be blank. When he finally crawls under the covers and shoves his pillow over his head, he realizes that the hand that was cradling Lance’s head still smells like him.

———

Outside Keith’s door, Lance is standing, frozen, brown eyes wide and mouth dropped open. Slowly, he brings his hand up to his lips, letting his head sag forward.

A small smile upturns the corners of his mouth.

———

based off this video

[jmrothwell]

"Where did you even find this much glitter?"

"Where did you even find this much glitter?" Carlos looks around the studio, cautiously eyeing all the banisters and chairs above them, clearly trying to avoid ending up looking like Luke. 

“The craft store?” Reggie replies, an incredulous edge that doesn’t belong amongst his giggling and Alex groans, his head falling forward against his chest. Luke continues his chase, trying to cover Reggie in as much glitter as Reggie managed to cover him in.

“Right,” Carlos’ tone is shifting again, a layer of smug confidence taking over his voice and the smile splitting his face, “well, I just came out here to let you guys know Julie called to say she was going to be back early.”

“What?” Luke and Reggie cry out over Alex’s hysteric cackles, freezing where they stand, Luke’s eyes trail around the studio, more specifically all of Julie’s things spread out throughout the studio.

[kjack89]

Clothes Make the Man

For my 10 year anniversary/4k giveaway, for @ionlyrunfromshame, who requested "modern au, established relationship, soft, fluffy", and well...you'll just have to wait and see.

“You’re here early,” Courfeyrac said in lieu of a greeting, standing back to let Enjolras into his apartment. 

Enjolras managed a weak smile. “I brought coffee,” he said, handing one of the coffees he was holding to Courfeyrac. “And I have a somewhat time-sensitive favor to ask.”

Courfeyrac arched an eyebrow and gestured for Enjolras to sit down. “Well color me intrigued,” he said lightly, plopping down in the armchair as Enjolras perched on the couch. “So what can I do for you?”

Enjolras hesitated for only a moment before sighing and saying, almost as if he couldn’t believe the words he was about to say, “You know how you’ve always wanted to treat me like a life-size Ken doll and dress me up to suit your whims?”

“Barbie.”

Enjolras blinked. “Pardon?”

“I’ve always wanted to dress you up like a Barbie doll,” Courfeyrac said sweetly. “You’re too pretty to be Ken.” His smile sharpened into a smirk, and he leered at Enjolras as he added, “And besides, I know what you’re packing down there and it sure as shit ain’t plastic.”

Enjolras scowled. “If I could go back in time and undo one thing from my past, do you know what it would be?”

Courfeyrac considered it for a moment. “Getting frosted tips in the year of our lord 2006?” he suggested blithely.

“No, sleeping with you,” Enjolras said through gritted teeth.

Courfeyrac just smirked. “Liar.”

Enjolras flushed slightly. “Well, maybe if I could go back in time and undo two things,” he mumbled.

“Mmhmm,” Courfeyrac hummed, in a particularly self-satisfied way., and he leaned back against the chair to give Enjolras a measured look. “So you want me to dress you up, make it tight, you’re my dolly?”

“Under very narrow parameters only,” Enjolras said. “Specifically, I need your help buying one outfit.”

Courfeyrac’s eyes narrowed, and he took a sip of coffee. “Just one? What’s the occasion?”

Enjolras’s flush darkened. “I have a date.”

Courfeyrac gaped at him. “With a human male?” he managed.

Enjolras’s scowl returned in full force. “As opposed to who, your mom?”

“That’s a bit juvenile for you, don’t you think?” Courfeyrac asked with a snicker.

“Fuck off,” Enjolras said, without any real heat. “Are you going to help me or not?”

“Well when you ask so nicely…”

He trailed off and Enjolras rolled his eyes. “Courf,” he said impatiently. “Answer the question.”

For a moment, it looked like Courfeyrac was actually going to, but then he hesitated. “Only if you answer this first: did you tell Grantaire?”

Enjolras just stared at him, confused. “Why would I tell Grantaire?”

Courfeyrac fiddled with the lid of his coffee cup for a moment before setting it down decisively on the end table and standing. “I’m afraid Courfeyrac’s modiste is closed for business, but I would be happy to refer you elsewhere.”

It took a moment for Enjolras to follow suit, scrambling to stand as he frowned at Courfeyrac, his confusion deepening. “You mean you’re not going to help me?” he asked, a little indignantly.

“Not so much, no,” Courfeyrac said cheerfully.

“Why the fuck not?” Enjolras demanded.

Courfeyrac shrugged. “My reasons are many, and complex, and you should ask Jehan.”

If Enjolras looked confused before, now he looked downright baffled. “For your reasons?”

“No,” Courfeyrac said patiently. “To help you.” 

Enjolras’s confusion disappeared, but it was quickly replaced by hesitation. “Don’t you think Jehan’s taste in clothes is a little, uh…”

He trailed off, clearly searching for the nicest way to put whatever he was thinking, but Courfeyrac didn’t wait for him to find it. “Quite the contrary,” he said instead, his grin sharp. “I think he’s just what you need.”

— — — — —

Jehan drummed his fingers against the arm of his chair, staring at Enjolras, who had the good sense to look uncomfortable. Not that Jehan was usually intimidating, but he could pull it off when he wanted to.

And at the moment, he very much wanted to.

“So you want my help,” he said, finally breaking the silence, and Enjolras jerked a nod.

“Yes.”

“Picking out an outfit.”

Again Enjolras nodded. “That is correct.”

It was hardly the most bizarre request Jehan had ever received, but the combination of the request and requester that was giving him pause. He was half-wondering if he was on some kind of Les Amis version of Punk’d. “Why do you need a new outfit?”

Enjolras sighed before telling him reluctantly, “I have a date.”

Now Jehan was certain that he was being Punk’d. “You know, I don’t think you’ve ever asked for my help before,” he said with a note of something like warning, which he figured would at least do the job of letting Enjolras know he was on to him. 

But Enjolras just made a face. “I’m not exactly known to be the asking for help type.”

That was a true statement if ever there was one. Still, Jehan couldn’t quite resist. “The words ‘toxic masculinity’ are flashing in my mind right now,” he said sweetly.

Enjolras scowled. “Because I’m definitely known for being a paragon of masculinity.”

Jehan’s smile widened. “And now I’m seeing that Garfield meme, only instead of propaganda, it says, ‘You are not immune to toxic masculinity’.”

“Well, something more to discuss with my therapist, I guess,” Enjolras said, with just a touch of impatience. “But in case you missed what I said earlier, this is somewhat time-sensitive, so if you’re willing to help me, I kind of need an answer sooner rather than later.”

Jehan arched an eyebrow. “Never thought you’d find a date more important than dismantling the patriarchy.”

Enjolras just shrugged, looking almost a little embarrassed. “Honestly, neither did I,” he muttered, in a fond but rueful sort of way.

Something about this whole situation wasn’t quite adding up, and while under normal circumstances, Jehan probably would’ve agreed almost immediately to Enjolras’s request for help, he felt like there was a piece of the puzzle he was missing. He narrowed his eyes. “Why exactly do you want my help?” he asked, and Enjolras just raised both eyebrows before looking pointedly down at himself.

“I feel like this really speaks for itself,” he said, deadpan, but Jehan wasn’t deterred.

“No, I mean, why my help specifically.”

Enjolras flushed. “You’re…fashionable,” he said, the pause between his words speaking volumes.

“Uh-huh,” Jehan said skeptically, and Enjolras’s flush deepened.

“You’re more fashionable than I am,” he said defensively, crossing his arms in front of his chest.

Jehan gave him an almost pitying look. “So are most fourth graders.” Enjolras scowled but didn’t refute it, and Jehan decided it was time to rescue him. “So who else did you ask before you asked me?”

Enjolras’s flush had darkened to a somewhat mottled shade of fuschia. “No one,” he mumbled, though he didn’t even wait for Jehan to tell him he didn’t believe him before adding, “Just Bahorel. And Joly. And Courfeyrac.” 

Jehan really should’ve guessed as much. “And all of them said no?”

“Bahorel said he’s busy,” Enjolras huffed, clearly put out, “but he oh-so magnanimously offered to pay one thousand dollars to whomever does if they take video. Joly is out of town. And Courfeyrac told me to ask you.”

And there it was – the missing piece of the puzzle. Jehan nodded slowly, knowing that if Courfeyrac had suggested Enjolras ask him, there was a good reason for it. “I see,” he said slowly, cocking his head slightly before asking, “And you didn’t ask Grantaire for his help?”

Enjolras’s scowl came back even darker than before. “Why does everybody keep asking me if I asked Grantaire?” he said, not waiting for an answer before telling Jehan, “No, I didn’t ask him to help me pick out an outfit.”

And there was Courfeyrac’s reason. “So Courfeyrac told you to ask me,” Jehan said, trying and likely failing to tamp down his smile. “Well, I think he made a good call, and I will be more than happy to help you.”

Enjolras blinked, clearly confused by this sudden change of tenor in the conversation. “Really?” he said, somewhat skeptically.

“Of course,” Jehan assured him. “Anything for our fearless leader.”

Enjolras’s eyes narrowed. “Why do I not believe you?”

“Probably because you’re paranoid,” Jehan said cheerfully. He stood, brushing a non-existent crumb off of his shirt. “Now if memory serves, you said this is time sensitive, so we might as well get going.”

For one moment, it looked like Enjolras might argue, but then he made the wise choice to just shrug before also standing. “Alright. Let’s go.”

— — — — —

Roughly thirty minutes later, he looked very much like he regretted that decision. “Where are you taking me?” he asked, clutching the handle in Jehan’s car with both hands.

Jehan glanced over at him, amused. “You sound like you’re being kidnapped, not driven to a store.”

“At this point I’m beginning to feel like I’m being kidnapped,” Enjolras muttered.

“Who would have thought the man who has stared down the police in full riot gear would be scared of shopping,” Jehan said with a grin.

Enjolras glowered at him. “I’m not scared of it,” he snapped. “I just hate it and avoid it whenever possible. And you’re not answering my question about where you’re taking me, which is not helping me feel better.”

Jehan rolled his eyes. “I’m taking you to the thrift store,” he informed him.

Enjolras stared at him. “To the – why?”

“Because I wanted to get the Macklemore song stuck in your head all day,” Jehan said dryly. “Because I thought you would appreciate a more sustainable approach to shopping.”

For a moment, Enjolras did in fact look mollified, but then his expression shifted. “As long as it’s not run by the Salvation Army or Goodwill—”

“Locally owned and operated, don’t worry,” Jehan interrupted, having already seen this argument coming from a mile away. “Haven’t you ever shopped at a thrift store?”

Enjolras shook his head. “I honestly couldn’t tell you the last time I set foot in a clothing store,” he admitted, “what with sweatshops and non-union labor and God only knows what else.” He gestured again at his own clothing. “I mean, why do you think I basically wear seven variations of the same outfit each week?”

“I will perfectly honest with you, I don’t normally give that much thought to what you wear,” Jehan muttered, though at Enjolras’s somewhat affronted look, he quickly added, “Up until today, at least.” Thankfully, he was saved by the appearance of the thrift store, and he had never been more relieved to announce, “And here we are.”

He parked and together they walked up to the store, Enjolras eyeing it with increasing trepidation. “I feel like I’m walking to my execution.”

Jehan was deeply tempted to roll his eyes but settled for opening the door for Enjolras. “Be intrepid,” he encouraged. “I have faith in you.”

Enjolras gave him a withering look but didn’t say anything, just staring balefully at the racks of clothing stretched in front of them. “Alright,” he said resignedly, “so where do we start?”

“At the very beginning, a very good place to start,” Jehan quipped.

Enjolras scowled at him. “Getting Macklemore stuck in my head wasn’t enough for you? You had to resort to Rodgers and Hammerstein?” 

Jehan just winked. “It got you to relax, right?”

For a moment it looked like Enjolras might deny it, but then he shook his head. “I hate that it worked,” he said sourly. “But seriously, where, uh, where should we start?”

“Why don’t you tell me a little bit about what you were thinking for tonight?” Jehan suggested, eyeing the clothes thoughtfully. “I mean, are you looking for a suit, or just shirt and tie, or…”

“Um,” Enjolras managed, and Jehan arched an eyebrow at him. 

“Eloquent.”

Again Enjolras scowled. “How about a button down and pants of some sort?” he said through clenched teeth.

Jehan nodded approvingly. “See, and you were worried,” he teased, grabbing Enjolras’s arm and all but dragging him in the direction of the racks that seemed to boast the most amount of button-down shirts. “If we had time, I’d get your measurements so that we could do this properly, but we’ll have to resort to trial and error.” He nodded towards the far end of the rack. “Why don’t you start at that end, and see if there’s anything that catches your eye.”

Enjolras obediently shuffled to the end, starting to sort through the hangers. Jehan did the same on his end, though he didn’t pay much attention to what he was sorting through since he would know what he was looking for when he saw it. Instead, he decided now was as good a time as any to press for information. “So you didn’t ask Grantaire for help.”

“Is there a question in there?” Enjolras asked, not looking away from the clothes he was rummaging through.

Jehan just shrugged. “I mean, if you wanted someone who’s at least somewhat fashionable, I would have included him in your desperate pleas.”

“It’s not really something I wanted to admit to him,” Enjolras muttered, the tips of his ears burning red. “Admitting it to Courfeyrac and knowing that he will hold it over my head for the rest of my God-given life was bad enough. Grantaire would never let me live it down.”

Jehan nodded slowly. “I thought there might have been another reason.”

He said it casually, but Enjolras glanced at him, frowning. “Like what?”

“Because then you’d have to talk with Grantaire about your date.”

To his surprise, Enjolras just rolled his eyes. “Please,” he scoffed. “As if Grantaire, of all people, would care enough to talk about it.”

Jehan frowned. “He cares a lot more than you give him credit for.”

“I know that, I just meant—”

“What are you doing with that?” Jehan interrupted, and Enjolras jerked his hand back from the rack, startled.

“You told me to grab anything that caught my eye,” he said defensively.

Jehan had, but he also hadn’t thought Enjolras would actually do so. “Yes, but that’s so…”

He trailed off, trying to find the correct words, and Enjolras frowned down at the shirt in his hand. “I thought I’d look good in blue.”

Despite himself, Jehan grinned. “Who told you that?”

Enjolras flushed. “No one.”

“The same no one you’ll be seeing tonight?” Jehan guessed.

Judging by the way Enjolras’s flush darkened, he had guessed correctly. “He said blue brings out my eyes,” he mumbled.

Jehan hummed noncommittally. “Sounds like a man trying to get laid,” he said with a smirk. “Or like someone who’s watched a few too many episodes of Queer Eye.”

“Or both,” Enjolras muttered. He frowned, looking down at the shirt again. “So no blue?”

Jehan hesitated. “Maybe just not that shade of blue,” he hedged. “Besides, that shirt looks like it’s way too small for you.”

“Really?” Enjolras asked doubtfully, holding it up to himself.

“Yeah, you’re probably looking for more of a large, or an extra large,” Jehan told him.

Enjolras brow furrowed. “But I normally wear a small or medium.”

“Vintage clothes run small,” Jehan assured him.

For one long moment, Enjolras just stared at him, and Jehan held his breath. Then he shrugged and put the shirt back on the rack. “Ok,” he said, and Jehan exhaled. “So what do you suggest?”

Timing was on his side, as Jehan spotted the absolute perfect shirt right as Enjolras asked. He tried, and failed, to stop his grin. “You know, prints are really in right now,” he said casually, edging towards the shirt in question.

“Prints?” Enjolras repeated skeptically. “What, like a check? “

“I was thinking more of a polka-dot,” Jehan said, picking the shirt in question up and holding it out to Enjolras. “What do you think of this?”

Enjolras stared doubtfully at it. “I think it’s, um, yellow.”

“I’d describe it more as goldenrod,” Jehan said brightly.

Enjolras wrinkled his nose. “And are the polka dots purple?”

Jehan glanced at the shirt. “I think they’re magenta.”

Despite his clear misgivings, Enjolras took the shirt from Jehan, looking at it without anything remotely approaching enthusiasm. “And you think this will look good on me?”

“I think the only way to truly tell is for you to try it on,” Jehan told him. “But we should find you a pair of pants to accompany them.”

Enjolras looked even less enthused by that prospect. “Can’t I just wear my jeans?”

“You could, but you were the one who said button down and pants,” Jehan reminded him, before really deciding to twist the knife. “And I hate to break it to you, because I know how deeply your love for them runs, but skinny pants are out.”

Enjolras now looked something closer to despondent. “So what are my options, then?”

Jehan tapped his chin thoughtfully. “Well, there’s always khaki cargo shorts.”

Enjolras looked horrified by the prospect. “It’s a little cold for shorts, don’t you think?”

But Jehan was not so easily deterred. “How about cargo pants, then?”

Enjolras made a face. “I don’t think I’ve worn cargo pants since junior high.”

“Fashion is cyclical,” Jehan assured him. “Everything once in fashion comes in again.” Enjolras didn’t look even remotely convinced but Jehan resolutely steered him towards the pants. “C’mon, let’s see if we can find something.”

A few minutes later and they were following the same routine as with the shirt, though with a noted lack of enthusiasm from either party. Jehan cleared his throat. “So…tell me about your date.”

For the first time, Enjolras actually looked something like excited. “He wants it to be a surprise, so he won’t tell me where we’re going,” he told him. “Because clearly he doesn’t care that some of us like to be able to adequately prepare for these things.”

Despite his words, Enjolras’s tone was fond, and Jehan almost felt bad for what he was about to do to him.

Emphasis on the word almost.

“So what made you decide that now was the time?” Jehan asked, and when Enjolras threw him a sharp look, he amended, “For dating, I mean. I just know you’ve never been particularly interested in it, so it seems to have come a little out of left field.”

Enjolras’s expression turned contemplative. “I don’t know,” he admitted, but a small, half-smile lifted the corner of his mouth as he thought about it. “I didn’t go looking for it, obviously, but sometimes something just – you know, clicks. And once you realize it…” He shrugged, still smiling. “I mean, yeah, the world is ending and everything’s falling to shit, so no time like the present, right?”

“Sure,” Jehan agreed, trying to curb his own skepticism since the world had been falling apart since Reagan. “And you like him?”

Enjolras’s smile softened and he nodded. “I do. I really, really do.” He gave Jehan a measured look. “And while I normally loathe prying, I do appreciate you asking.”

Jehan jerked a nod. “Right,” he said, his tone turning brisk. “Well. These looks they’re about your size.”

He grabbed a pair of cargo pants from the rack, which looked like they were straight out of 2001. Enjolras eyed them warily, showing somehow even less enthusiasm than he had for the shirt. “Those are green.”

“I’d call them olive.”

Enjolras stared flatly at him. “You want me to wear green pants with a yellow shirt?”

As a poet, Jehan knew how to finesse a phrase, but this was a whole new level of diplomacy and tact, and for not the first time that day, Jehan wished Combeferre had a better sense of style than he did. He would be perfect to handle this. “Generally speaking, it’s good to keep things in the same section of the color spectrum,” Jehan said carefully. “That way you don’t have to worry about opposite ends of the spectrum clashing.”

This time, Enjolras didn’t bother hesitating, just shrugged in a slightly defeated way before grabbing the pants from Jehan. “Well, I trust you.”

“Great,” Jehan said cheerfully. “So go try it on, and then I want to see.”

Enjolras heaved a sigh before slumping in the direction of the fitting room. Jehan watched him go, holding his breath as if waiting for Enjolras to change his mind, to turn back around and tell him that this was a stupid idea, and these clothes were absolutely horrendous.

But he didn’t, and when the door closed after Enjolras, Jehan let out a relieved breath. He allowed himself a small, triumphant grin, and pulled out his phone to text Courfeyrac. Probably too soon to make this call but I’m gonna pull a George W. Bush and say…Mission Accomplished.

Only a moment later and his phone dinged with a text from Courfeyrac. Hero, Courfeyrac said, followed almost immediately by, Do you think you can get a pic?

Jehan’s grin sharpened. I’ll sure as shit try.

— — — — —

That night, Jehan and Courfeyrac sat together at the bar the Musain, enjoying a well-earned drink. “I still think you should’ve tried to get him to buy the plaid pants,” Courfeyrac said, clinking his beer bottle against Jehan’s.

Jehan laughed. “I think even Enjolras knew those were hideous,” he said. “Besides, the puke yellow shirt and green cargo pant combo is enough to scare off any self-respecting gay.”

Courfeyrac nodded before pausing, something contemplative in his expression. “Of course, that means we’re banking awfully hard on someone both being into Enjolras and having self-respect.”

Jehan snorted into his beer. “That is true,” he said with a chuckle, taking a swig of beer before his smile faded slightly. “I do almost feel a little bad.”

Courfeyrac glanced at him. “For the guy?” he asked. “For making him see that outfit with his own two eyes? Because I know it’s an image I’m not going to get out of my head anytime soon.”

The thought of the picture Jehan had managed to surreptitiously snap of Enjolras in his date night outfit was enough to bring his smile back, even as he told Courfeyrac, “For ruining Enjolras’s date with the world’s ugliest outfit. Obviously I know we all want him and Grantaire to end up together, but he seems to actually like this guy. And we should probably try to support him in that.”

“And not try to sabotage things?” Courfeyrac asked wryly.

“Yeah.”

Courfeyrac sighed. “Well now I feel bad,” he said, though he didn’t particularly sound it. “On the other hand, if it means Enjolras ends things with this guy before Grantaire finds out…”

Jehan shook his head. “The ends justify the means?”

“Something like that,” Courfeyrac said.

Jehan shrugged. “For what it’s worth, I asked Grantaire if he wanted to grab a drink with us tonight but he said he had plans,” he said bracingly. “So maybe he’s moving on, too.”

Courfeyrac didn’t look even remotely convinced. “Yeah, maybe.”

Jehan’s phone buzzed on the bar and he glanced down at it, brightening. “Oh, speak of the devil…Hey Grantaire.”

“What the fuck?” he squawked, borderline hysterical in Jehan’s ear, and Jehan’s smile froze.

“Grantaire, what—”

Grantaire made a sound that Jehan pretty sure was a sob, and Jehan’s heart plummeted to his knees. “Jehan, I cannot – this is – oh my God—”

“Grantaire, are you ok?” Jehan asked worriedly, trying desperately to flag down the bartender. “I don’t understand—”

“Enjolras’s outfit,” Grantaire wailed, and for the first time, Jehan realized that what he had interpreted as sobs were in facts gales of hysterical laughter. “I didn’t think it was possible to make a man this gorgeous look this ugly but holy fucking shit—”

Jehan’s forehead wrinkled in confusion. “But how did you…” He trailed off as realization hit him like a ton of bricks, as did Enjolras’s perpetual confusion about why he would ask or tell Grantaire anything about his date.

His date, assumedly, with Grantaire.

“Oh my God, I didn’t even think—”

Courfeyrac looked like he was about to yank the phone out his hand and ask him what was going on, but Jehan waved him away as Grantaire hiccuped, “This is the best thing to ever happen to me,” while in the background, he could just hear Enjolras growl, “Prouvaire, the next time I see you, I swear to fucking God—”

“Leave him alone, it’s hilarious,” Grantaire said with a chortle.

“To you!”

“Grantaire, I had no idea,” Jehan told him, a little weakly, feeling his face flush. “I thought Enjolras was going on a date with some rando, so…”

“So you decided to sabotage it,” Grantaire said, and Jehan could hear the grin in his voice. “I appreciate it, I really do, though we’ll have to revisit at some point the fact than none of you thought I might actually have scored a date with him.” Jehan winced, but Grantaire added, a little softer, “Besides, I was a bit nervous, and now I am emphatically not. In fact, for the first time, I’m beginning to believe this might just work.”

“Then it was almost worth the ass-kicking Enjolras is going to try to give me later,” Jehan said solemnly.

Grantaire just laughed. “Don’t worry, I won’t let him,” he assured him.

“Enjoy your night,” Jehan said, hanging up.

Courfeyrac waved his arms. “So what the actual fuck?” he demanded. “What the fuck is going on?”

Jehan couldn’t help himself – he laughed. “So remember what you said about the end justifying the means?” he asked. “Well, funny story about that…”

[elemental-queen-writes]

Chapter Three is now up!

Garak is dealing with the Consequences Of His Own Actions.

"That escalated quickly" about sums it up.

[generaljinjur]

A body swap episode?! Perfection 10/10 no notes.

[blueoncemoon]

Pippin accepts a call that gets him in a bit of trouble.

Read The Call Centre on AO3

Rating: G Archive Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Word count: 2,927 Chapters: 1/1

Category: Gen Relationships: Pippin & Merry, Pippin & Galadriel Tags: AU — modern setting, orcs, hijinks & shenanigans