#i maybe thought too hard about this

[mx-lamour]

Well go on, how are you gonna lore your Argynvostholt? oO

You're right, I should have followed this up. Get some water and strap yourselves in, ok? I saved my initial brainstormy post in my drafts, so... I guess I'm prepared for this. Are you? (dun dun dun...)

First thing: I want to use I, Strahd as the Tome, as-is, full stop. And I want it to be accurate (accurate to what Strahd thinks/believes happened, anyway--not propaganda, not a mislead). This has been my biggest hurdle, re: Argynvostholt.

I, Strahd sets up the von Zarovich army and the valley it conquers as incredibly low-magic. There is magic, yes. However:

The majority of people are suitably spooked by it. The Ba'al Verzi dagger having weird runes on it and the idea that it must draw blood before it can be sheathed are very freaky. When Strahd stands stoic in the face of this weird cult object and reenacts the rite of binding himself to the land again, everybody present (even Alek, "the least pious and most hedonistic of the lot") make signs of the faith. Which of the elements in that event are even by-definition actual magic or just mundane ritual and superstition is mostly left up to interpretation. Strahd did discern some arcane power in the dagger.

Aside from the use of this particular item, the only people who ever perform what seems to be by-the-book, honest-to-god Magic is Ilona (a high-ranking cleric), and Strahd himself (who admits to having limited ability when he's still human, and describes the use of material components in a legit spell almost fifty years thereafter). Leo Dilisnya also uses a number of magical protections that he's scrounged together over the same fifty years, but his use of magic seems to be limited to the traps he had lain for Strahd (which were really solid, but ultimately not enough to defeat a vampire).

Ilona was pretty high up there as far as clerics go. The one cleric more powerful than her was their high preist Kir. The book doesn't say what his abilities were, but we know some of Ilona's abilities. She can tell if someone is telling the truth (Zone of Truth or good insight?). She can Speak With Dead, but she can't always successfully prevent someone from dying or bring them back. There's no way to tell for sure how strong she really is, or what level of life-giving necromacy she could have attempted--especially because she has an army to look out for and might be spreading her resources a little thin at any given time--but from my experiences having played clerics, I'd cast my suspicions around 6th level.

Which is nothing to sneeze at. But. If she is the most powerful spellcaster in Strahd's army (and one of, presumably, very few)...

Would they have defeated a dragon?

Sure, Strahd's army could take out a dragon. I have no doubt. It's probably a pretty sizeable force. Strahd is an effective general. Would there be a lot of casualties? Yes. It is war. That's a thing.

But it would be kind of weird if no one ever referenced the dragon. There again, whatever, I, Strahd is from Strahd's point of view, during a time immediately after the wars are over, and he is not exactly the kind of person who would boast about his victory against a dragon. It probably doesn't even phase him that much. He's probably just like, yes, of course my army subdued a dragon. It is expected. I do not fail.

But what about the revenants?

The module has this very actiony little blurb about how Strahd's army fought the Order of the Silver Dragon and the knights died horribly, and Vladimir was so enraged that he got back up as a revenant and brought a lot of other knights back with him. It's cinematic. It's cool.

But this is where it gets dicey, in relation to I, Strahd. Would Strahd's soldiers have thought twice about fighting an opposing force that will just keep getting back up again? They don't have anything for this, aside from possibly whatever Ilona was prepared for. Even ignoring the argument about which force the army fears more--their fierce human general or the walking dead--would Strahd's army have been able to win?

Against undead? Okay, sure, why not. Maybe Strahd's soldiers don't even realize they are undead, since the bodies are so fresh at that point and covered in armor anyway. Maybe they just don't notice they're fighting the same guys again. They simply don't register that as a possibility; they're just trying to stay alive in the fight. Ilona, who could probably have sensed they were undead, wouldn't have gotten close enough to them to discover it.

Okay, so Strahd's forces could possibly take down Argynvost. They could unwittingly fight a bunch of the recently-undeceased. Fine. That solves my conundrum about the setting's descrepancies in the frequency of magic and supernatural forces.

That's about where I had left it when I was going to ask ye other Curse of Strahd DMs for ideas.

I've encountered more conundrums since then.

Point One being: I think I read that revenants usually have a one-year timer on their revenge before their spirit passes on, heedless of success. But if I'm using I, Strahd as gospel, there would have been at least three years between the Fall of Argynvostholt and the start of the curse. Which means... no revenants in cursed Barovia. Their souls would only have been trapped there in perpetuity if they had still been around when the mists closed in. If they had become revenants at the initial battle, their timers would have long run out already.

I also realized that, if they had turned at the initial battle and kept fighting... Strahd's army would have just killed them again. Like.

I tried to give them the benefit of the doubt. If they don't die again, what do the revenants do? Strahd's not just going to let these guys wander around, right? And it's pretty vital to the plot that Strahd's army did, in fact, win. They could not be locked in combat forever.

Do they play dead? That seems absurd for a revenant bent on revenge. If nothing else, the consensus on medieval battles seems to be that the living would loot the field of anything valuable (armor, weapens, clothing, even the raw metal of broken eqipment) and then pile the bodies into a large burial pit. I could not be convinced that a revenant would just lay down through all that.

So this is what I came up with for them, because I read that thing about the burial pit and went OH MY GOD...

It took about 24 hours for Strahd to fully become a vampire (you could say it took that long because he hadn't killed Sergei yet, but he had already been spared from death by consuming Alek's blood and was already well on his way to full-fledged vampirism by the time he enacted that part of the plan).

If we use that as a precedent for the turning process, revenants could take that long (or longer; as long as we need it to) to return to their bodies and become fully-realized revenants. It could take a long time for their spirits to be shunted toward the astral plane, break free, and return to animate their corpses.

Anyway. Do you see where I'm going with this? It's not good.

Argynvost has fallen. The knights of the Order are dead. Vladimir's vengeful spirit rages against the natural forces pulling him toward the Astral Plane, and he finally breaks free with such a force that other knights are able to follow him back through the tear in the veil to return to their bodies.

But in the meantime, the battlefield has been stripped. Equipment and other valuables gone. Half-dressed bodies thrown into a deep pit, tangled together, tens deep, heavy earth piled atop them. Rain beating it down into mud, packed tight into the crevices between them.

The revenants awake in this mass grave.

They have to dig themselves out. Gather new resources. Make plans.

Having fudged how long it takes for them to become revenants, and possibly when the timer on their revenge actually begins (after they finally claw their way to the surface?)—and maybe they're a fringe case anyway, I realized later, due to either dragon magic or shenanigans from being so near to the Amber Temple or some combination thereof?—and maybe the one-year thing doesn't even matter? Throw it out the window; I just need them to not get slaughtered by Strahd's guys before—By the time they are ready, the mists have finally closed around Barovia, three years after the Fall.

Madam Eva (who I have other ideas for, too—why? why make her Strahd's half-sister? what is that? stop giving him more siblings) meets the Order on their long-awaited march toward Castle Ravenloft, and tells them that Strahd is now trapped in a hell of his own making. Satisfied that Strahd will suffer in his new situation, Vladimir is determined to keep Strahd alive to experience all of the worst this new domain has to offer.

So. That's what I have.

TL;DR - It's the same but different.

[harundraws]

Tai and Van falling through time and space on your dashboard ･ ｡

☆∴｡　*

　･ﾟ*｡★･

　　･ *ﾟ｡　　 *

　 ･ ﾟ*｡･ﾟ★｡

　　　　 ‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎* ☆ ｡･ﾟ*.｡ 　

yay i finally have something to post ! sharing a commission i finished for @amygobrrr ✨

"taivan being cute after rescue" but i put them in a ... fantastical setting?

[marshmallowgoop]

no thoughts just Heiji Hattori (HD)

[notbecauseofvictories]

it takes years for terry pratchett's books to get consistently good. I would argue that the series doesn't really hit its stride until Feet of Clay, which means that pratchett was writing and being published for 12 years before he found his groove.

and I genuinely can't imagine that. in part because I do think that pratchett's publication calendar looks different than what's expected of writers today---he had about 2 books published per year for his entire career. he must have been writing furiously, and the publisher must have relatively quickly gotten these to press.

but also....I just can't imagine any modern-day publisher keeping an author on their list for twelve years, unless that author is a prestige get or a constant presence on the bestseller list. And what does it say about the state of publishing that you can't go on publishing someone's good-but-not-revelatory books until they figure out what story they're trying to tell?

[wavesoutbeingtossed]

I was thinking last night about Midnights and how it’s conceived as these collection of sleepless nights and things that keep someone up until morning, and it hit me that it’s kind of like a collection of questions you’d ask yourself going through it. Like a series of “what ifs”, as we know is such an important theme in her discography in general (thanks @taylortruther for the regular reminders). So I kept thinking about what the overarching question would be throughout the album, and I feel like it makes Midnights even clearer as a concept to me.

(Disclaimer: I’m not saying these are the theses of the songs or anything. Just the things that stuck out to me.)

Lavender Haze: What if we stayed in this bubble?

Maroon: What if you hadn’t changed me forever?

Anti-Hero: What if my demons are who I am?

Snow on the Beach: What if this were real?

You’re On Your Own Kid: What if everything had been worth it for this?

Midnight Rain: What if I’d stayed?

Question…?: What if you’d stayed?

Vigilante Shit: What if they got what they deserved? (Derogatory)

Bejeweled: What if I know?

Labyrinth: What if it worked this time?

Karma: What if I got what I deserve? (affectionate)

Sweet Nothing: What if this is all I need?

Mastermind: What if I’m all we need?

The Great War: What if we actually made it?

Bigger than the Whole Sky: What if I hadn’t lost you?

Paris: What if we escaped the world?

High Infidelity: What if I hadn’t fled?

Glitch: What if we beat the odds and stick together after all?

Would’ve, Could’ve Should’ve: What if I’d never let you have me?

Dear Reader: What if you saw me for who I really am?

[surreal-duck]

live drama adaptations part 2 (prev)

cast reveal and girls movie night 🔥

[buttercupshands]

rewatched Kurogiri's holiday story from ultra impact (not related to sketch at all)

(but it did inspire me)

on another note

finally!!

[hyewka]

hii !! this is my first question thing .. can u maybe do a perv!yeonjun?

warnings: perv bestfriend!yeonjun, jealousy, corruption kink, stealing clothes, sniffing underwear/yeonjun has a thing for scent in general, obsessive behavior, switch!yeonjun, not proofread

"you save yourself?" he breathes, blinking rapidly like he was trying to piece this sacred information together.

"yeah, i mean, i just sort of ...grew up with the expectation." you say shrugging. it wasn't a big deal, you've always just went through it, not having the desire to be sexually active during your teenage years anyway.

yeonjun stares at you mind boggled, lips slightly parted before he just lets out a light scoff, brows slowly knitting together.

you shift awkwardly at his reaction- you're not sure what you expected but it wasn't whatever ...that was. yeonjun was the most open minded person you've met and know. exact reason why it's a breeze for you to confide in him about anything and everything.

you've never told him about your stupid virginity pact assuming he'd never live the information down-- a sophomore at college was a virgin? it didn't help that yeonjun's reputation included a lot of...well, the opposite of a virgin.

but the more you got to know him, the more you let the worry go-- he never seemed the type. until now, the regret slowly creeping up of ever mentioning it.

yeonjun suddenly takes a swig of his drink, still dazed.

"i mean i get it, it's not very feminist of me is it?" you try lightening up the mood, laughing at your own joke.

yeonjun's not on the same thought train. whatsoever. your earlier statement about finally 'trying it out' sticking out sorely in his head now knowing you were a virgin. "and...and you're going to give it up to fucking wooyoung?" he spits out with a mocking sneer.

okay, now you're confused. you turn your body on the couch to yeonjun, who had his forearms laid on his knees, posture bent with a strong grip on his red cup eyes focused on the crowd dancing to the blasting music. "what's wrong with wooyoung? i mean he's my boyfriend. and you guys are friends...did he do something wrong?"

yeonjun's venomous smile withers, practically evaporates as he throws an arm around your shoulder- if you hadn't spent hours doing your hair, he would've normally ruffled it, but his hands avoid it, his trademark teasing smirk that you could probably draw from memory showing up, "nothing, nothing's wrong. i was just messing with you. i got you, didn't i?"

you blink dumbfounded, but before you could question the sudden transition he had already switched topics and you reluctantly let it go.

yeonjun who goes home that night, far from his original plan to get trashed, opening his closet in desperate search of the cardigan you forgot on his couch a few days ago. when he spots it, he gulps, grabbing it and looking down at the baby blue in his hand for a second.

when he originally recognized it as yours, thoughts of calling you to pick it up weren't lasting. see, yeonjun has recently been hit by a sudden infatuation with you the past year, even after you started going out seriously with wooyoung. he wasn't too concerned, afterall, it was natural-- you were attractive, of course in the way of your friendship he'd eventually feel something more. it happened with more than half of his female friends, it always proved to be fleeting.

but the longer he caught his eyes trailing down your ass, subconsciously licking his lips, before snapping out of it and stuffing his perverted hands in his pockets to stop himself from losing control, the harder he felt he had to have you. it was so bad that his occasional flings mortifyingly started sounding a lot more like you...and looked a carbon copy.

so what if had a sickenly desire of touching, ruining every inch of your body? what could he do with your silly cardigan anyway?

yeonjun who finds it almost bothersome as he approaches his bed, grip tight on the fabric, wrinkling it in his hand. the fabric that's responsible to the haven that was your scent, stenched with you, everything you. you've always worn it out, to the point he thought it was your only jacket (to which he tried suggesting to gift you a new one), but you told him it was because the fabric was breathable, comfortable compared to most things in your closet.

he guessed it was your favorite.

so what would you think of him now? staining your favorite piece of clothing, hand shaking as he immediately shoves his nose in the line of the cardigan, his control breaking as he takes a deep exhale in, flickering his eyes shut, his lungs filled with you. the power of smell, it felt like you were right next to him when he had his eyes closed, taking another whiff before frantically trying to smell every inch of the fabric. his head light with ecstasy, his hand drive themselves over his bulge, feeling his hard on through his loose sweats, before his pace picks up, palming his dick, his breathing heavy and unrhythmic -- the mere scent of you making him go mad.

perv!yeonjun who gets dangerously fast to his climax, his hand faltering as he takes another whiff, groans easily slipping out of his mouth with the way they shamefully hung open-- so addicted he thinks he might go insane, his drool trickling down under his chin, some wiped on your cardigan because he was a dog with a bone. a crazed animal he realizes when he finally shudders, soiling his boxers, watching a large wet path spreading rapidly with growth on the area of his crotch.

who knew he could fucking get off of a cardigan? that's when the panic settled in as his hand shake in realization of what the fuck he just did.

he ruined his pants...because of your cardigan.

perv!yeonjun who feels like such a freak when he bumps into you at campus, yet continues to use your cardigan to his free will, hips canting against his bed with his head buried in the fabric, "f-fuck, y/n, you do this to me..." his babbles are so shameful to the way he carries himself, strong, masculine--anything but weak to a scent of a mere girl.

but it was you. the girl he felt he could spend eternity laying his head on, eternity hearing just a laugh, a snappy retort, a stupid dumb joke-- anything, he could do anything for you, with you, anything and he would find no use with anyone else.

he tries to get rid of his concerningly growing infatuation, deciding that he was acting out because of his lack of pussy-- going to every frat party on thursday, taking a pretty girl to a secluded enough space, have a pretty good fuck, feeling pretty fucking good on his way home-- until he's on his toilet again, left hand jerking off his swollen cock, his tip leaking precum, gawking down at your new post, biting his lips so painful at the shot of your ass in skinny jeans. "fuck!" he yells, strings of his cum spurting all over his screen, so frustrated with the hold you had on him, especially when you spared him zero romantic attention.

you had your heart reserved for someone else, and it was never not shoved in his face. it was the main drive for him-- when he spots wooyoungs hand sneakily going dangerously under your waist, his lips too close to your ears, body pressed against your ass a little too much for his comfort-- the occasional eye rolls were impossible to control in the first place, but these days, rage got to the best of him.

as far as he knew, based on your rambles lately, you haven't slept with wooyoung yet. you were still a virgin. and the scent of you was wearing off the cardigan, not able to get himself off properly.

he couldn't return it, the fabric was ruined with stains of his cum not washed off even after the third circle in the washing machine-- he impulsively opted to buy an identical, praying to god you wouldn't notice the difference.

perv!yeonjun who has a habit of lingering in an embrace with you, nose buried in your hair, discreetly trying to inhale your smell, before you awkwardly try to pull out of his suffocating grasp. "yeonjun, you're acting like you haven't seen me in years." you say, finally breaking the embrace with yeonjun's hands defeatedly falling to his side, staring at you with such intensity you don't notice.

its so so full of pity, his eyes, hidden with all the perverted things he would do to you- hes' thought of doing to you. his mind was rotten, if you let him, he'd take you right then and now. slamming his hips into his best friend's tight pussy, breaking your hymen, mixture of his seed and proof of your virginity taken-- a sight to be imprinted in his memory foreer.

hes dreamt of it even more vividly, being the one to take your virginity, in his fantasies- the one you've reserved for him. it's why you haven't fucked wooyoung yet, right? you wanted him just as much as he wanted you.

yeonjun who has built a pile, a haven of all the guilty stolen treasures. clumsy with the elastic bands of his boxers, quick as he flings out his dick from the restriction of his pants, his hand slow on his shaft, dragging up and down with the stickiness of his precum, burying his nose into h like the fabric would evaporate into thin air at any time, like this was his last shot at getting something remotely reminiscent of you, deep groans of your name that sometimes get out of his control, turning to loud moans, the family next door unappreciative.

perv!yeonjun who's addicted to taking your things, stuffing it in either his pockets or bag, ruining it back at home the same day with his filthy thick load, your suspicions rising only making it more thrilling with each trashed item.

yeonjun who loses his last bits of restraints when you're jokingly pushed directly on his lap, floors of the living room being occupied by most of your friends invited for the group watch, the couches all full, chairs all used, of course they thought it'd be funny if you sat on yeonjun. you didn't mind it all too much, finding no issue with sitting on your best friend-- you've done it a few times before, skinship was normal between the both of you. but you still wanted to make sure he was comfortable.

you lean your head back to whisper in his ear, noticing the way his pronounced adam apple bopped up and down, which was odd-- yeonjun being nervous? but you ignore it, "i can stand if you're not comfortable."

his eyes tear from the premier that has the entire living room roaring with excitement, "n-no, it's okay, you're alright. i'm alright."

"...you sure? you don't look like you're alright."

"i'm seriously good y/n, let's focus on the show, we've been waiting for a whole year."

hesitantly you nod, it's true, the cliff hanger last season was a bite in the ass, so you ignore your gut, tuning in with the rest of your friends.

yeonjun who can't help the soft whimpers escaping his lips the more you jump at a scene then fall back down, his boner growing harder and harder, trying to go to the bathroom, but you're too focused on the show he's stuck under you as you adjust your position every few minutes, your ass with no knowledge, getting him off. his breathing gets heavier, nose flaring, so thankful the lights were off and it was night, too crowded for anybody to catch onto the way he was bucking his hip up into you, making the friction enough to get his head dizzy, arms snaking around your waist, tightening the closer he gets, the way you're so clueless spurring him on-- his face dipping into the crook of your neck, sweat dripping down his forehead, taking a deep breath before muffles his moan with a bite down his lip, whimpers as he finally releases.

he throws his head back on the couch, trying to calmly catch his breath, a grin spreading across his face letting his mind drift to how heavenly itd feel being inside you if grinding against you felt this good.

you turn your head back, voice hoarse and quiet, "...yeonjun?"

"yeah?"

your eyes trail down, and it takes the perv a few seconds to realize before his forehead crease flatten.

oh shit.

yeonjun just stained your leggings.

----

[medi-bee]

isat pokemon au, my liege?

my rambling in tags

[only-lonely-www]

So basically ATLA brain rot has hit me like a truck

[suddencolds]

Atypical Occurrence [2/?]

hello!! 10 drafts and (exactly) 3 months later, I am finally back with part 2 of Atypical Occurrence 😭 You can read part 1 here!

This chapter is a little personal to me. I don't tend to linger on writing scenes like this (in part because they are a little difficult for me), so it took awhile to hammer out the dynamic I wanted. That said, here it is at long last!!

This is an OC fic ft. Vincent and Yves. Here is a list of everything I’ve written for these two! :)

—

Summary: Vincent shows up late to a meeting. It just goes downhill from there. (ft. fake dating, the flu, a house visit, and certain revelations)

—

There’s a grocery store that’s a ten minute drive from Vincent’s apartment. Yves picks out ingredients for chicken soup, two different kinds of cold and flu medicine, a new pack of cough drops, a few boxes of tissues, a small thermometer. All in all, it’s less than a thirty minute excursion—something he’s done many times before in uni, where everyone seemed to catch something in the middle of exam season, and a house visit was just a short walk away.

Chicken noodle soup isn’t difficult. He’s made it a hundred times—he’s experimented with a dozen different variations of it. He puts the groceries in the fridge, washes the vegetables, and gets to work.

While the soup cooks, he half watches it, half busies himself with cleaning the apartment—loading up the dishwasher and hand washing everything that doesn’t fit, stocking the fridge and the medicine cabinet with the groceries he’s gotten, vacuuming the floors with a vacuum cleaner he finds tucked behind the fridge.

Then he shreds the chicken, chops a round of fresh vegetables to add to the broth, and waits.

 It’s comfortably quiet. Outside, rain drums steadily on the windowpane. It shows no signs of stopping soon. It’s dark enough outside—the sun fully set, the clouds heavy overhead—that the lit interior of the apartment kitchen feels like a warm reprieve.

Yves likes cooking. He doesn’t actively enjoy doing chores, but there’s something comforting to how mindless they are. It’s an appreciated distraction. 

The rain outside is loud enough that he doesn’t hear the footsteps, approaching, until Vincent clears his throat from behind him.

Yves jumps.

“You’re up,” he says, spinning on his heels to face him. Vincent looks a little worse for the wear—his hair a little messy, his shirt slightly rumpled from sleep, his glasses perched haphazardly in place.

Yves watches him take everything in—the pot on the stove, the chopping board set out on the counter, the empty paper bags from the grocery run flattened and stacked into neat rectangles.

“And you’re still here,” Vincent says.

“I made soup,” Yves says, by way of explanation. “It’s chicken noodle. I wasn’t sure if you’d be up for trying something new.” He reaches over to lift the lid off of the pot of soup. Steam wafts up from it, carrying with it the faint scent of the aromatics he’d added—thyme, bay leaf, garlic, peppercorns. “Actually, you picked a good time to wake up. I just added in the noodles, so it’s almost done.”

Vincent eyes the pot, his expression unreadable. “Did you leave to get groceries?”

“Earlier, yeah. You weren’t kidding about your fridge being empty.”

Vincent frowns. “I can pay you back. Did you keep the receipt?”

In truth, the price of the groceries is the last thing on Yves’s mind right now. He waves a hand. “Don’t worry about it.”

“It must have taken a long time.”

“Soup is pretty forgiving. You just toss everything into a pot of boiling water and wait. It’s barely any work at all.”

Vincent stares at him for a moment longer. Then he says: “That’s an oversimplification.”

“Not really. Besides, I enjoy cooking,” Yves says. “Thanks for letting me use your kitchen—though, technically, I guess I’m asking forgiveness instead of permission. I’ll clean everything up, by the way.” He’s done dishes along the way, so there isn’t really much to do besides rinse off whatever’s left, load up the dishwasher, and store whatever’s left of the soup in the fridge.

“You don’t have to,” Vincent says, before turning into his elbow with a few harsh, grating coughs. “I can clean up. It’s my apartment.”

“If you think I’m letting you do household chores while you have a fever—”

“It’s not that high,” Vincent interrupts, perhaps a little stubbornly. Yves lets out a disbelieving laugh. He leans over the counter, shifts his weight forwards on his feet to press the back of his hand to Vincent’s forehead.

It’s concerningly hot, still, which isn’t a surprise. Though perhaps the way Vincent blinks, a little tiredly, and leans forward into Yves’s hand is a giveaway on its own.

“It’s definitely over a hundred,” Yves says, withdrawing his hand. “If you don’t believe me, I’ll have you know that I bought a thermometer.”

For a moment, Vincent looks surprised. Then he sighs. “That was an unnecessary purchase.”

“Are you admitting that I’m right?”

Vincent just frowns at him, which—Yves notes—isn’t exactly a denial. “Fever or not, there’s not much I can do except sleep it off.”

“You can go back to sleep after you’ve had something to eat,” Yves says. “What was it that you said? That you haven’t had anything to eat since yesterday?”

“...You won’t leave unless I eat, then,” Vincent says. He says it evenly enough that it barely registers as a question.

Yves smiles at him. It’s not a wrong conclusion. “Exactly,” he says.

—

In between the hallway and Vincent’s kitchen is a small dining area, furnished with a high table and two high chairs. Yves waits until the noodles are cooked just enough. Then he turns off the stove, unrolls a placemat to lay out on the dining table, and carries the pot over.

He gets everything he needs: two bowls, two spoons, some of the fresh parsley he’d chopped earlier, for garnish—and lays it all out.

“I can help,” Vincent says, for maybe the third time. 

He’s seated on one of the chairs, which Yves had pointedly pulled out for him, looking like he’s perhaps a few seconds away from getting out of his seat and doing everything himself. It’s just like Vincent, Yves thinks, to offer to help—even at work, aside from all the work he takes on, it feels like he’s always finding some way or other to be useful. 

Yves says, “When you’re not running a fever, you can ask me again.”

When everything is laid out, he pulls up a chair for himself, so he can sit across from Vincent—who is still perched on his seat, though he looks a little less like he wants to get out of it. “You didn’t have to wait for me,” Yves says.

Vincent blinks at him. “It would have been rude to get started on my own.”

“Nonsense,” Yves says. “I made it for you.”

He takes a bite. The soup tastes fine. That is, it tastes the same as every other time he’s made it—light and comforting. It’s just one of those recipes Yves thinks he can make in his sleep. Nothing about it is particularly inventive. Still, he hasn’t cooked for Vincent before—not formally, at least, other than the dish he’d bought to Joel’s potluck—so it’s a little nerve-wracking to watch Vincent take a bite. 

It’s worse, still, to watch his eyes widen by a fraction. For a moment, Yves wonders if he’s done something wrong—if perhaps, it isn’t to Vincent’s taste, after all. He sets his spoon down. “Is it okay?”

“It’s really good,” Vincent says. “I can see why Mikhail said what he said.” 

“What?”

“That your cooking was half the reason why he roomed with you.”

Yves laughs. “So does that mean you’ll forgive me for trespassing?” 

Vincent smiles back at him. “I’ll consider it.” Now, with his glasses off, Yves can see his eyes a little more clearly—they’re slightly red-rimmed, his eyelashes long and dark, his cheeks flushed brighter with fever. There’s a little crease at the edge of his eyes which shows up when he smiles.

Yves is caught off guard, for a moment. The tightness in his chest is nothing, he tells himself. Certainly not a crush that he shouldn’t be allowed to have. 

A crush. That’s new, too. It’s ironic, considering the terms of their fake relationship. He thinks it’s probably supposed to make him better at this—what better way to feign romantic interest than to not have his feelings be so fake, after all?—but instead, he finds himself at an uncharacteristic loss for words, finds himself stumbling over the most basic of pleasantries. 

Of course, he has no intention of acting on his feelings. Vincent is attractive, yes—but he’s also considerate, and attentive, and hardworking enough to go early and stay late, to take on work he doesn’t get credit for. He’s thoughtful enough to entertain Yves’s friends, to have lunch with Yves’s siblings, to fly all the way to france to meet Yves’s family.

But all of that is inconsequential. None of it is going to amount to anything, because Yves knows how to keep his distance. Because Yves needs this—the perks of their fake relationship—more than he needs to indulge in any inconvenient crush. Because he knows enough to know how things would turn out if he were to say something.

That’s the thing. Vincent isn’t cruel. It’s for that reason, precisely, that Yves knows that he’d drop this arrangement immediately if he knew. Vincent would never string him along knowingly, and that’s what makes this so much worse—Yves has gone and gotten himself stupidly attached. 

Now that they’re sitting across from each other, in Vincent’s apartment, having dinner, Yves thinks—a little selfishly, perhaps—that this is the best that he can ask for. It is all that he can ask for. Far better to keep up the pretense entirely, far better to pretend that this is all just for show. When they put an end to this arrangement—someday, inevitably—Yves will thank Vincent for everything, and then they’ll go their separate ways. He already knows how it will go. There is no need to complicate things.

It’s quiet, for some time. Yves finishes his bowl first, heads over to the sink to rinse it off, and positions it neatly in the lowest compartment of the dishwasher. When he gets back, Vincent is spooning more soup into his bowl. Yves allows himself to feel a little relieved to see that he has an appetite.

“It’s been awhile,” Vincent says, after some time. “Since anyone’s done this for me.”

“Made you chicken soup?” Yves says, a little puzzled. “If you want the recipe, I can give it to you. I make it all the time.”

“No,” Vincent says. His expression is unparseable. “Just— since anyone’s looked after me, in general.”

“Oh.” Yves finds his mind is spinning. “How long have you been living alone?”

“Since university. I had suitemates, in my second year. Then I got an apartment of my own.”

“Because you like the privacy?”

“It was just simplest.”

Yves thinks back to his years, rooming with Mikhail—the conversations they’d have to have to figure out groceries, to alternate cooking dinner and doing dishes, to manage transportation. He has a studio apartment now, too, but he’s over at his neighbors’ house frequently enough, or otherwise at home with Leon and Victoire for dinner, so it doesn’t really get lonely.

“You have a pretty spacious kitchen,” he says. “I hope you don’t mind that I used your pots and pans. I’ll wash them, I swear.”

Vincent takes in a small, sharp breath. Yves looks up just in time to see him twist away from the table, tenting his hands over his nose and mouth.

“hhIHh’IIKTS-HHuhh-!”

“Bless you!” Yves exclaims. Judging by the way Vincent keeps his hands raised over his face, he assumes that there are going to be more. He rises from his seat, heads back into the kitchen in search for—ah. Six boxes of tissue boxes, stacked neatly into a block. He tears off the thin plastic film around them, removes a box from the pile, and pulls off the tab.

When he gets back to the dining table, Vincent is ducking into steepled hands with another—

“hhih’GKKT-SHHh-uuUh! hh’DDZSChh-HHuh! snf-Snf-! hhh… Hh… hh-HH-hh’yIIDDzsSHH-hHUH-!!”

The sneezes seem to scrape painfully against his throat, for the way he winces in their aftermath. He twists away from Yves to cough lightly, after, into his shoulder, his eyes watering. “Bless you!” Yves pushes the tissue box towards him. “Here.”

Vincent takes a tissue from the box, blows his nose quietly. When he emerges, lowering the tissue from his face, his eyes are a little watery. He eyes the tissue box. “Did you buy these earlier, too?”

“I did,” Yves says. “I picked up some medicine, too. I didn’t know what flavor you wanted, so I got a couple different kinds. And some other stuff—your fridge was getting pretty empty, by the way—in case you needed it.”

Vincent lifts his head to study him, as if there’s something he’s trying to understand. Finally, he says, “Do you do this for all of your friends?”

“What?”

Vincent frowns, as if the subject matter should be obvious. “Cook for them. Get groceries. Clean their apartment.”

“Sometimes,” Yves says. He’s certainly no stranger to stopping by to help—sometimes with homemade soup, or tea packed tightly in a thermos, or something else. Then again, that was easier to do back in uni, when everyone lived within a twenty minute radius. “It depends on what they need.”

“So this is just a Yves thing.”

“What? Showing consideration for my friends?” 

“Showing consideration is one thing,” Vincent answers. “You could have left after dropping off the files. You would still have been showing your consideration.”

“I guess that’s true. But at that point, I was already here,” Yves says, with a shrug. “It seemed logical to check up on you.”

“Well, now you’ve checked up on me,” Vincent says. “So you can go.”

Yves supposes this is true. 

“Do you want me to go?” he asks.

Vincent says, “It’s late. I assume you have things to get home to.”

“That’s not what I asked,” Yves says.

Vincent says nothing to that.

But Yves gets the message, even without him saying it. If Vincent is the type of person who prefers to be alone when sick, Yves won’t take it personally. He doesn’t want to overstay his welcome—arguably, he’s already stayed for much longer than Vincent had invited him to.

There’s leftover soup in the fridge—enough to last Vincent a couple days, hopefully through the worst of this—and Vincent’s apartment is reasonably well-stocked now. He has something to take if his fever gets any higher; he has all the basic supplies Yves could think of off the top of his head.

And Vincent is a lot of things, but he isn’t irresponsible. He’s shown himself to be self-sufficient more times than Yves can count. There’s no reason why Yves should have to stay and look after him for any longer—no reason, perhaps, aside from the fact that seeing Vincent ill has left him more worried than he’d like to admit.

“Okay,” he says. “I’ll go. But at least let me clean up first.”

He does dishes, leaves the cutting boards and the pot out to dry on the drying rack, transfers the soup to smaller glass containers to store it in the fridge. He returns the vacuum cleaner to the storage closet he found it in. Then, as promised, he gathers his things—not much, just his phone and his car keys—and heads toward the front door.

Vincent follows him to the door, presumably to lock it after he leaves. 

Yves steps outside, lingers for just a moment on the doorstep. The car is parked close enough that he hadn’t bothered to grab his umbrella, but now it’s dark out, and it’s raining just as hard. 

“I left new cough drops on the kitchen countertop,” Yves says, biding his time under the overhang until he inevitably has to get rained on. “The medicine’s in your bathroom, behind the mirror, with the thermometer. Everything else is either on the counter or in the fridge. Don’t come back to work until your fever’s completely—”

It happens in a moment: Vincent stumbles. Yves is looking at him, which means he sees the exact moment when it happens. Yves doesn’t think, just reacts—he reaches out to grab his arm to keep him from falling entirely. 

“Woah,” he says, steadying him. “Are you—”

Vincent’s hand is concerningly warm, even through the fabric of his sleeve. For a moment, he leans into Yves’s touch, though this seems less intentional as it is inevitable. He’s breathing heavily, his eyes tightly shut, his shoulders rising and falling not as soundlessly as usual.

Yves swallows past the alarm he feels percolating in his chest. Had he been about to pass out? Just how high is his fever right now? “Vincent—”

“Sorry,” Vincent manages, through gritted teeth. He makes an effort to regain his balance, to move away. He sways on his feet, and Yves feels the panic in his chest rise anew. 

He reaches up and slings an arm around his waist. “Hey,” he says, trying for reassuring. “I’ve got you.”

Vincent doesn’t say anything, to that. He just stands there, perfectly still, his eyebrows drawn together, his shoulders a little stiff under Yves’s touch. 

Without letting go of him, Yves shuts the front door gingerly behind him, toes his shoes off at the door again. “I think it would be best if you laid down,” he says. “Do you think you can walk?”

Vincent nods, slowly. Yves tracks the bob of his throat as he swallows. 

“Sorry,” Vincent says, again. “I… didn’t expect it to be an issue.”

He’s frowning, hard, as if he’s upset with himself, though Yves can’t quite piece apart why he’d have reason to be. “Hey, no apologizing,” Yves says. “Save your energy for walking.”

Vincent seems to understand that their current arrangement will not change until he’s in bed, so he lets Yves steer him towards the bedroom. It’s a short walk—down the hallway and then off to the left—but Yves spends half of it distracted by how warm Vincent is. Like this, he practically radiates heat.

It’s not until Vincent is settled on his bed, the blankets pulled loosely over him, that Yves allows himself to let go.

Truthfully, the last thing he wants to do right now is leave. But it isn’t about what he wants, and perhaps Vincent would sleep better if he did.

“Are you warm enough?” Yves asks. The words feel heavy on his tongue.

A nod. 

“Do you need me to get you anything else?”

Vincent shakes his head.

“Okay,” Yves says. “I guess I shouldn’t overstay my welcome, then.”

Vincent will be fine, he tells himself. At the end of the day, they are only coworkers, and Vincent is one of the most independent people he knows. If Vincent doesn’t want him here, the best Yves can do is comply with his wishes. He straightens. “Text me if you need anything, I mean it.”

He lets go of the blanket, rises to his feet. Only, then—

There’s a hand on his sleeve, tugging.

Yves goes very still.

When Vincent notices what he’s done, alarm flashes through his expression, and he pulls his hand away as if he’s burned. 

“Sorry,” he murmurs, again. And just like that, he’s back to how he always is—his expression perfectly, carefully neutral, in a way that can only be constructed. “I’m sorry.” But Yves doesn’t forget what he’s seen. “You can go.”

Yves’s heart aches. He settles back at the edge of the bed, reaches out a hand, settles it gently at the edge of Vincent’s forehead. At the physical contact, Vincent’s breath catches.

And for a second, Yves wonders if he’s made a mistake—if maybe Vincent doesn’t want to be touched, right now. If he’s misread the situation; if Vincent wants him to go, after all. He opens his mouth to apologize.

But then Vincent shuts his eyes. The tenseness to his expression eases, almost imperceptibly, his eyebrows unfurrowing. Oh, Yves realizes. His head must hurt—Yves suspected as much—but if he’s not mistaken, the expression on Vincent’s face right now is…

Relief. Cautiously, Yves traces his fingertips lightly over the edge of Vincent’s temple, combs them slowly through his hair. Vincent’s eyes stay shut, but the furrow to his eyebrows loosens, and his jaw unclenches, just a bit. The change is minute, almost imperceptible. If Yves weren’t paying close attention, he might’ve missed it.

As if he could pay attention to anything else, right now.

Tentatively, Yves cards his fingers through Vincent’s hair, traces slow circles into his scalp, slowly, carefully.  He does it until the heartbeat he feels thrumming under his fingertips—quick and erratic—slows. Until Vincent’s breathing evens out, until the hurt in his expression dulls. Until the tension in his shoulders eases.

By the time he finally withdraws his hand, Vincent is fast asleep. Yves fetches a new glass of water for his nightstand, changes out the plastic bag lining the trash can, and lines the cough drops and medicine up at the edge of Vincent’s desk. He flips through folder 2-A, assessing.

Then he heads back out to his car to get his laptop, and gets to work.

—

He doesn’t remember falling asleep.

But when he wakes at Vincent’s desk, it’s to an unpleasant ache in his neck that spreads laterally into his shoulders—probably from sleeping with his head pillowed awkwardly against his arms. He lifts his head. 

Behind him, there’s a weak, uncertain breath, and then the sort of cough that makes Yves’s chest hurt in sympathy. It sounds wrong, somehow—too quiet, for its proximity. Muffled.

It’s dark inside, aside from the faint glow of Vincent’s digital alarm clock, the pale green digits cutting into the black. He hears the rustling of blankets, followed by another short, painful intake of breath.

The sneeze that follows is stifled into something. Even stifled, it sounds uncharacteristically harsh—all force, pinched off into a short, muffled outburst which sounds barely relieving, at best.

“hH’ih’iNNGKkk-t!”

Yves blinks. Then he leans over the desk to flick on the lamp. Dull golden light suffuses the desk, bright enough to cast Vincent in form and graying color. 

“Are you okay?”

At the light, Vincent’s eyes widen. He looks—stricken, somehow. Then his expression shutters, and he frowns. “Did i—” he stops to cough again into his fist. It sounds as though each breath he’s taking in is an effort of its own, shallow and unsatisfying. When he speaks again, his voice sounds noticeably hoarser. “—Did I wake you?”

Yves opens his mouth to respond. Before he can think up a convincing excuse, Vincent shakes his head dejectedly, as if he already knows the answer.

“Sorry,” he says. “I was - cough, cough - tryidg to be quiet.”

Quiet. As to not wake Yves, presumably. The revelation causes an ache to settle somewhere deep inside of him, heavy and inexorable. Yves is more than certain that this flu is already miserable enough on its own, even without the added challenge of having to be quiet about it. He wants to say, do you really think that’s what matters to me? He wants to ask, how long have you been up dealing with this on your own?

“You don’t have to be quiet,” is all he manages, instead.  It’s a miracle that his voice manages to come out as evenly as it does.

Vincent looks like he’s about to say something. But before he has a chance to, he twists away to cough harshly into his shoulder. Now that he doesn’t make an attempt to muffle the coughing fit, Yves can hear just how harsh it sounds. 

It’s the kind of coughing fit that just sounds exhausting—forceful enough to leave tears brimming at the edges of his eyelashes, his breaths coming in shallowly. 

“Can I get you anything?” Yves asks, when Vincent is done coughing.

Vincent just looks back at him, unmoving. In the dim light of the desk lamp, he looks perhaps more exhausted than Yves has ever seen him—really, he looks as though he hasn’t slept at all. He’s seated with his back against the headboard with a blanket pulled around his shoulders. One of his hands is clenched loosely around it, pinning the corners in place. 

“Tea?” Yves offers, because it’s better than saying nothing. “Water, cough drops. A cold compress?” Vincent doesn’t say anything, but Yves thinks, a little helplessly, that there must be something he can do. “Extra blankets? Tissues? Ibuprofen?”

“Water… would be nice,” Vincent says, as if it takes a lot out of him to admit it. Yves blinks, surprised—he had half expected no answer at all. At Yves’s split second of hesitation, Vincent’s frown deepens, his grip around the blankets tightening slightly. “...If it’s not too much trouble.”

Yves has never gotten out of his seat faster. “Of course,” he says. “I’ll be right back.” he swipes the empty glass from the nightstand and heads out into the hallway.

It’s dark. There aren’t many windows in the hallway to let in light from outside, but once he gets to the dining room, it gets easier to see. Judging by how dark it is outside, there are probably a few hours left until sunrise. It’s still early, then. Early enough that it’s quiet, around them—no traffic out on the streets, save for the original car, headed to who-knows-where; no neighbors going about their early morning routines; just the steady trickle of rain on the windowsill. Yves rinses the cup out in the sink, shakes it dry, and fills it again.

When he makes it back to the bedroom, it’s unusually quiet. Vincent is still sitting at the edge of his bed, looking like he hasn’t moved at all since Yves left the room.

Yves crosses the room to hand him the glass. Vincent blinks up at him, a little blearily.

“I got you water,” Yves says, unnecessarily.

Vincent takes the glass from him with both hands, as if he doesn’t quite trust himself to hold it with just one. Yves looks away as he drinks.  

When Vincent lowers the glass at last, Yves takes it from him and sets it back into place onto the bedside table. He straightens, turns to face Vincent again. “Any better now?”

Vincent nods. It’s quiet, for a moment. Outside, the rain has nearly stopped—the room is soundless, aside from the thin whirring of the air conditioning. “I didn’t think you’d still be here.” 

Yves hums. “To be honest, I didn’t either.” He stifles a yawn into one hand—he’s still a little tired. “I didn’t mean to fall asleep.”

“You must be tired,” Vincent frowns, looking him over. “You came right from a full day of work to check on me. Does your neck hurt?” 

“What?”

Vincent inclines his head towards his desk. “I’ve fallen asleep there before. It’s not very comfortable.”

Yves thinks he shouldn’t be surprised, at this point, that Vincent has picked up on something so subtle. “It’s not that bad,” he says, reaching up with a hand to massage his neck. “My neck would probably be sorer if I’d slept through the whole night. I should thank you for waking me.”

“You could’ve taken the couch instead,” Vincent says, a little disapprovingly. “It would probably have been wiser.”

“I wanted to be here so I could keep an eye on you,” Yves says, because it’s true. “Besides, you sat in a chair while I slept in France. That can’t have been comfortable either.”

“It’s not just about that. You—” Vincent raises a hand up to his face, ducks into his wrist for a sudden: “hh-! hhiH’GKT-sSHuh! snf-!” He sniffles, then presses the wrist closer to his face, his expression shuttering. “Hh…  hh’IIDDZshH’Uhh-!” 

“Bless you!” Yves says, startled.

Vincent blinks, a little teary-eyed, turning over his shoulder to muffle a few harsh coughs into his wrist. “You shouldn’t have slept so close to me. I really don’t want you to catch this.”

He’s frowning, as if it really is a big deal. As if even now, even shivering and feverish, it’s somehow Yves that he’s more worried about right now.

Yves isn’t particularly concerned about that—he has no shortage of  sick time to take off of work, in any case. If he does manage to catch this from Vincent, he’ll just stock up on essentials before the worst of it hits. It would be nothing he hasn’t done before. Still, Vincent looks so—well, so tornby the mere possibility of it that Yves wants to say something to comfort him.

“How about this?” he says. “If you’re so worried about it, you can buy me cough drops next time I come down with something, deal? Then we’ll be even.”

Vincent’s eyebrows furrow. “That’s a terrible deal for you.”

“I’ll get sick at some point in my life, anyways,” Yves says, with a shrug. “If this means I get free cough drops out of it, I’d say it’s a win.”

He moves the desk chair over so he can sit down at the edge of Vincent’s bed. Vincent watches him, uncertain. He looks like he’s resisting the urge to say something—to tell Yves to move further away, probably.

“Relax,” Yves says, reflexively. “It’ll be fine, seriously. I know what I signed up for.” 

He leans forward, presses the back of his hand against Vincent’s forehead. Vincent closes his eyes. A slight tremor passes through his shoulders at the contact, but aside from that, he stays perfectly still.

“Your fever’s worse than before,” Yves says, withdrawing his hand.

“It’s not.” Vincent’s eyes are still shut. “The temperature is just higher because it’s night time.”

The suggestion is so far from comforting that Yves almost laughs. “You know,” he says, “that’s not very reassuring.” The blanket around Vincent’s shoulders starts to slip, so Yves reaches over and snags an edge of it, fluffs the whole thing outwards to lay it neatly around Vincent’s shoulders, like a cloak. Secures it with a loose knot. “Are you feeling any better than before?”

Vincent does open his eyes, now. He looks as though he’s trying hard to figure out how acceptably he can lie. “I…”

“You can be honest.”

Vincent’s jaw clenches. He reaches up with one hand, his fingers curling around the blanket Yves set down around him.

“My head feels heavy,” he says. He screws his eyes shut, his eyebrows furrowing. “And my chest hurts.” He lets out a short, frustrated breath, as if every sentence is a new and difficult admission. “I’m… not used to getting sick like this.”

Yves’s hands still. “Like what?”

“In any way that would necessitate taking time off from work,” Vincent says, looking away. The discomfort sits, plainly and indisputably, in the way he holds himself—his shoulders stiff, his jaw clenched—everything a little too tense, despite his exhaustion.

Yves stares at him for a moment, considering. In the end, it’s the small, impulsive thought that wins out.

He takes a seat at the edge of the bed, next to Vincent. The mattress dips under his weight. 

Vincent has always been taller than him, but sitting down like this, they nearly see eye to eye. It’s a risk, of course, to offer this. He and Vincent haven’t been physically intimate outside of the times where they’ve had to prove their relationship to an audience. But when he thinks back to how Vincent reacted to Yves feeling his forehead, or Yves carding his hands through his hair—if he hasn’t misread, it almost feels like—

Yves opens his arms out in offering, tries on a smile. “I’ve been told I give good hugs. Good enough to cure all ailments, obviously.”

For a moment, Vincent stays perfectly still. Yves has five seconds to overthink all of his actions over the past twenty four hours. 

Then Vincent inches closer, ever so slightly, to lean his head on Yves’s shoulder.

Yves curls his arms around him. There’s the slightest hitch in Vincent’s breath, at the contact. Then the stiffness seeps out of his shoulders, and he presses a little closer—as if he’s allowed himself permission, at last, to let go.

His whole body is concerningly warm. “You’re burning up,” Yves says, softly. He reaches up with one hand to run his fingers through Vincent’s hair.

“...I figured,” Vincent says. The next breath he takes comes in a little shakily. “Whoever gave you the review was right. You are a good hugger.”

Yves laughs, a little surprised. “Careful. You’re going to inflate my ego if you keep talking.”

“I can’t help it if it’s true.”

Yves has hugged a fair share of people in his life. He doesn’t think he’d be able to list them all if he were asked to. It’s different, though, being so close to Vincent—so close that Yves can reach out and let his hair fall through his fingertips. He can lift up his palm and feel the rigid line of his spine, the slope of his shoulders; he could reach out and trace the dip of his wrist, the form of his hand. Vincent’s chin digs slightly into his left shoulder. His nose is turned slightly into Yves’s neck—like this, he is almost perfectly still. Yves can feel the warm brush of air against his neck whenever Vincent exhales. He is so close that Yves is afraid, for a moment, that he might hear how badly his heart is racing.

Would dating Vincent be like this? Would this kind of exchange be given and received as easily as anything? Yves wills himself not to think about it. This is nothing, he tells himself, but a simple offering of comfort between friends. To think otherwise would be disingenuous.

They stay like that for some time. Time slows, or perhaps it expands or collapses—really, Yves would be none the wiser. The whir of the ceiling fan and the light rain on the rooftop a constant. When Vincent pulls away at last, it’s to turn sharply off to the side to muffle a sneeze into his sleeve.

“Hh-! hhIH’IIDZsSHM-FF! snf-!” 

“Bless you,” Yves says, blinking. The sudden absence of warmth is a little jarring. But Vincent isn’t done.

His eyebrows draw together, and he ducks tighter into his elbow, his shoulders jerking forward. “hHIH’iiGKKTsSHH—! Sorry, I— Ihh-! hHHh’DZZSSCHh—uH-!”

“Bless you again,” Yves says, reaching past him to hand over the box of tissues on the nightstand. He holds out the box for Vincent to take.

Vincent turns away to blow his nose. When he returns, he’s a little teary eyed. The flush on the bridge of his nose hasn’t gone away.

“When I asked you to come over,” he says, “I wasn’t expecting you to stay.”

Yves blinks. “Is it so strange for me to be here?”

To that, Vincent is quiet, for a moment. Yves looks out the window, where he can see the skyline, off in the distance, the dark form of the apartment building across the streets, the street in between lit dimly with golden streetlights.

“A little,” he says. “When I was young, if I got sick, it wasn’t really a big deal.”

At Yves’s expression, he amends: “That’s not to say that my family didn’t care, because they did. No one spent too long in my room—better to not risk catching it, if they could help it—but back then, if I didn’t have much stomach room, my mom always cut fruits for me to leave on my desk. Sometimes she made ginseng tea, too.” he shuts his eyes. There’s a strange expression on his face—something a little more complicated than wistfulness.

“We had a habit of keeping the heat off, in the winters, and closing the windows. But if I was running a fever, my brother always made sure to keep the heat on.” His lip twitches, almost imperceptibly. Then: the smallest of smiles. “Sometimes he’d stay outside my door to talk about his day. He was the class lead, back when he was in high school. It was always something inconsequential, like which of his classmates he liked and which ones he held a grudge against, and why. Almost always for the smallest reasons, like someone borrowing a pencil and forgetting to give it back, or someone tossing the ball to him in gym class.”

“Were you and your brother close?” Yves asks.

“Close is relative,” Vincent says. “I never really knew how to—inhabit his world, I guess. When I moved to the states, and when I decided to stay here, part of it was out of some sort of defiance. I didn’t want to have to follow in his footsteps, because then I could only ever be focused on doing things differently.”

He shuts his eyes. “But I felt close to him, then. When he stood outside my room and told me those stories. Even if they were things I wouldn’t have cared about had they happened to me, I guess. It’s strange how that works.”

“I think I know what you mean,” Yves says. He’s always had a good relationship with Leon and Victoire, though that doesn’t mean they’ve always seen eye to eye on things. “Sometimes it’s less about what they say, and more about the fact that they’re saying it.”

Vincent nods. “They all cared about me in their own way,” he says, at last. “I don’t think I appreciated the extent of it at the time. When you’re a kid, you tend to take everything at face value.”

“Do you regret it?” Yves asks. “What?”

“Not appreciating them more, back then.”

Vincent smiles. “I was just a kid. I suppose it’s natural that I didn’t know better.” Yves has a feeling that that statement is perhaps further reaching than Vincent is making it out to be. “I didn’t think much about it at the time.”

“Do you ever miss being part of a large household?”

“It’s peaceful on my own,” Vincent says, at last. “I usually don’t mind it. I usually have other things to worry about.”

He hasn’t asked if the information is useful to Yves, Yves realizes, a little belatedly. Back then, at Joel and Cherie’s potluck, Vincent had seemed to believe that the only way Yves could possibly be interested in him was if the information could serve their fake relationship, somehow.

The realization settles him. Perhaps Vincent has shared this because he knows Yves cares.

“Your apartment is nice,” Yves says, trying to ignore the insistent beat of his heart in his chest, which all of a sudden seems to want to make itself known. “I can see why you would like living here.”

Vincent tilts his head up towards the ceiling. “It’s not the same, of course. As home. Though that’s a given.” Yves notes the usage of the word: home. Here, instead of home, the clarifier salient, even though Vincent’s done nothing to emphasize it. Could it be that after all these years, Vincent still considers Korea to be home, for him? “When I’ve had people over, it was just for dinner. Not for…”

He looks over to Yves, now. Yves knows what he means, knows how to fill in the rest of the sentence: not for the reason you’re here, now.

“I know I’ve intruded a little,” Yves says, with a laugh.

Vincent frowns at him, his eyebrows furrowing. “I wouldn’t consider it an intrusion,” he says. “You’ve helped me a lot. I just—I’m a little embarrassed that your first time over had to be under these circumstances.”

Your first time over. Yves ignores—well, tries to ignore—the implication that this could be the first out of many. That he might have another opportunity, in the future, to swing by. Vincent hasn’t confirmed anything, and it’s not likely that their fake dating arrangement would warrant another house visit, out of the public’s eye. Yves tells himself that the warmth he feels in his chest is misplaced.

“You don’t have to worry about that. I like seeing you,” Yves says.

Vincent raises an eyebrow at him. “Even bedridden with a fever?”

Isn’t it obvious? “Of course.”

“I’ve been terrible company,” Vincent says. “And even worse of a host. I recall I fell asleep yesterday, only for you to spend two hours cleaning my apartment?”

“Vacuuming is therapeutic.”

“You said that about cooking, too,” Vincent says, narrowing his eyes. “Am I supposed to believe that you enjoy doing all household chores?”

“It’s not like you made me do them. I just wanted to be useful, and your vacuum was easy to find.”

“I’ll be sure to hide it thoroughly next time,” Vincent says, deadpan.

Yves laughs. “It’s like I said,” he says. “I like spending time with you. Even—” To steal Vincent’s words from earlier. “—bedridden with a fever.”

Vincent huffs a sigh, a little incredulously. 

“Though, I promise I won’t intrude for much longer,” Yves tells him. “I’ll probably head out in the morning.” He’s almost done with the work Vincent has on his desk—he’d fallen asleep checking over one of the income statements for discrepancies. A few hours should be enough time to make sure that everything is in order. He still has work at eight—he’ll probably be a little tired for it, considering how late he’d slept, but that’s nothing new.

“I’m sorry,” Vincent says, averting his glance. He frowns down at himself, as if he really is apologetic. “You must’ve had other evening plans.”

None as important as taking care of you, Yves catches himself thinking. He can’t say things like that if he wants to keep this—well, this unfortunate recent development, i.e., his feelings for Vincent—to himself.

“It wasn’t just for you,” he says, instead.

“What?”

“I didn’t just do it for you.”

Vincent blinks at him, a little confused. “Are you going to say you get personal gratification out of seeing my apartment clean?”

“It’s like you said,” he says. “I’ve never seen you this unwell. You said this doesn’t happen often, right? When you didn’t show up at work, I…” The next admission feels a little too honest—but there’s a small, unwise part of him that wants to get it across, regardless. “I was really worried. Even though you said you had everything covered, I wanted to make sure you were fine.”

Vincent nods. “I get it. It would be an inconvenience if I were unfit to be your fake—”

“It has nothing to do with that,” Yves interrupts him. His heart hurts a little, with it. “I wanted to see that you were fine because I care about you. To be honest, I think I would’ve spent the entire night worrying if I hadn’t come.” He laughs, a little self-deprecatingly. “It’s a little selfish, I know.”

Vincent’s eyes are very wide.

“Anyways,” Yves says, with the sinking feeling that he’s said too much, “you should try to get some more sleep.” He rearranges the blankets around Vincent, a little unnecessarily, fluffs the extra pillow that’s leaned up against the headboard, and turns away. “It’s still really early. If you’re planning to be back in office next week, it would be best to keep your sleep schedule intact.”

“Yves,” Vincent says, from behind him.

“Hmm?”

“...Thank you.” 

When Yves works up the courage to look over, Vincent is smiling, unreservedly, as if something Yves has said has made him very happy.

Yves’s heart stutters in his chest. Fuck.

(On second thought, it might not be so easy to live with these feelings, after all.)

—

At daybreak, Yves drives home to get changed, takes a quick shower while he’s at it, and heads off for work. He yawns through half his morning meetings, adds an extra espresso shot to the coffee he snags from the break room.

The text arrives halfway through the day, just before he’s intending to head downstairs for lunch.

V: When I asked you to bring folder 2-A, I didn’t mean for you to complete my work along with it.

Yves smiles. He’d emailed Vincent the completed work from yesterday’s late-night work session before he’d left. Vincent must’ve seen it.

Y: some genie i met told me your wish was to have your work done before the deadline

V: What are you talking about?

Y: he also told me you were very stubborn about not redistributing your assignments to anyone else  Y: so you can’t blame me for taking matters into my own hands

V: Yves.

Y: feel free to check it over for errors :)

[swampybogg]

[rearranging-deck-chairs]

so im listening to the potd audio commentary and jodie's talking about covid restrictions and filming flux and how the restrictions were more intense at the start of filming (was that end of 2020/start of 2021?) and she says "by the time we finished, we could hug" and damn they took that opportunity didnt they

[notmoreflippingelves]

[uncanny-tranny]

I went to a local yarn store for the first time, and while I was there, somebody was talking about getting a beginner's knitting kit, and she inquired about when lessons were, and when she was told that they'd be happy to sit down with her and teach her, she was so delighted. She talked about how excited she was and how much she wanted to learn to knit, and it just... it made me fall in love with humanity. It was this pure, unadulterated happiness coming from somebody and it was so genuine and kind, and I couldn't help but smile.

I guess all of this is to say... every moment, there are tiny little joys like this all over the world, and it makes this life worth living. I hope you witness and feel joy this simple, this pure.

[sherbetyy]

what if when duck said he “always knew he deserved to be dead” he also (maybe unknowingly) meant he excepts how their world works. like we all know he loves living in that hell hole of a home and love love loves when things go orderly and as planned. and he’s ALWAYS fucking dying so he’s sorta like . “hey. if this world wants to kill me sometimes that’s okay.” duck will just randomly out of nowhere says things like he knows too much about whats going on, but he just doesn’t care bc he believes it’s normal. and if he has any awareness of this thing specifically , i don’t think he minds as long as he gets to come back. because that’s always what happens and he’s okay with that. maybe he just thinks that that place knows what’s best for him, so he deserves what he gets. even if it means making him hurt from time to time