#just a very self indulgent thought

[shegetsburned]

archeology teacher w. kento nanami *ੈ✩‧₊˚

.nsfw. ⁀➷ part II

₊˚ପ⊹ archeology teacher!kento who’s your first-semester teacher for your anthropology major.

₊˚ପ⊹ archeology teacher!kento who was recommended by one of your friends so you took his archeology class.

₊˚ପ⊹ archeology teacher!kento who’s considerate and kind towards his students, and has an inspiring passion for history although he comes off as stoic and aloof.

₊˚ପ⊹ archeology teacher!kento who laid his eyes on you the first time when you came after class to his desk to ask questions, leaving a permanent impression on him with your cute demeanour and bright smile. your interest made him question his.

₊˚ପ⊹ archeology teacher!kento whose athletic build molded by his tight blue shirt attracted your gaze more than once while he explained roman architecture with his back turned toward the class.

₊˚ପ⊹ archeology teacher!kento whose subtle eye contact makes your heart flutter and your thighs clench together. he’ll always find your gaze whether you’re at the back of the class or on the sides.

₊˚ପ⊹ archeology teacher!kento who won’t hesitate to take overtime if it means being able to deepen the subject with you and help you in any way he can.

₊˚ପ⊹ archeology teacher!kento who shifts closer to you while showing you slides of ancient artifacts, occasionally brushing your elbow with his.

₊˚ପ⊹ archeology teacher!kento who’s normally capable of separating sentimentalism from service, but can’t get you out of his head. thinking of you in ways he shouldn’t be thinking about when it comes to his students.

₊˚ପ⊹ archeology teacher!kento whose hunger becomes more and more insatiable the more time he spends with you. his focus failing him every time you look into his eyes while he speaks or when you touch his elbow as you get up from your seat at the end of the studying session.

₊˚ପ⊹ archeology teacher!kento who closes the door behind the last student after a two-hour long class on a friday evening, leaving you two alone. despite his tired figure, he insists that he can still work on some subjects with you.

₊˚ପ⊹ archeology teacher!kento whose explanations are unusually incomprehensible and languorous. you ask if you should call it a day but his demanding eyes tell you otherwise.

₊˚ପ⊹ archeology teacher!kento who leans on his desk, inattentively misplacing his stuff and shifting his weight closer to you, his cologne blesses your nostrils when his neck is to your height, forcing you to look up.

₊˚ପ⊹ archeology teacher!kento whose heavy breath lends on your forehead when his hands grab the sides of your chair, pulling you closer, his thumb just slightly caresses your thighs sending shivers down your spine.

₊˚ପ⊹ archeology teacher!kento who gives up any kind of restraint and self-control that inevitably comes with the job when he lifts you up on the desk, placing a ravenous kiss upon your lips, his hands tracing your curves up and down.

₊˚ପ⊹ archeology teacher!kento who hurries his movements, skillfully undressing you with little to no regard for anyone that might enter and watch him fuck his student.

“n-nanami. is it okay?” you ask against his lips, already melting into his touch. you were certainly more concerned than him for the consequences.

but he had watched you for weeks, rubbing yourself against your chair, nervously biting your lips and nibbling at your pen while he taught the class. he had enough of your subtle grins and teasing smiles.

“i don’t care.”

₊˚ପ⊹ archeology teacher!kento who gets off on your shy moans that echo through the whole amphitheatre. your hesitant whines are blocked by one of your hands until he grabs your wrist, pulling it down against the desk.

“let me hear you, sweetheart. let the whole school hear you.”

₊˚ପ⊹ archeology teacher!kento who lowers your pants and underwear before unbuckling his belt and steadying himself right in front of your entrance, a grin on his lips when you ask for him by pulling his tie down.

₊˚ପ⊹ archeology teacher!kento who mercilessly pounds into you, holding your hands down behind you and bending your body so your back arches against the wooden desk.

you wrapped your legs around him, pushing his weight forward, asking for him deeper, but the sheer size of his member was already enough to completely fill you. whenever he moved, it bruised your tight pussy, completely covering him with your seed.

₊˚ପ⊹ archeology teacher!kento who places gentle kisses upon your ear and neck despite how greedily he fucks you. your nails dig into the desk to maintain yourself, every time he thrusts in.

₊˚ପ⊹ archeology teacher!kento who easily but patiently leads you to multiple orgasms, keeping you in his class for more than one hour of overtime.

₊˚ପ⊹ archeology teacher!kento who lets no part of your body undiscovered, leaving no place for the imagination when you end up completely naked as he eats your pulsating cunt just like you expected he would.

₊˚ପ⊹ archeology teacher!kento who watches you leave his class for the tenth time, but this time satisfied. you left a delicious imprint on his lips and his hands that he’d think about for the whole weekend. he knew he needed to have you all to himself now and promised he’d ask you out for a proper date next time, hoping you wouldn’t say no to a teacher who had taught you so much already.

© shegetsburned 2024 please do not repost/edit/or claim my writing as your own.

[poorly-drawn-mdzs]

MDZS x ISAT part 1: In Stars and Necromancy.

(Part 2)

[artistmarchalius]

I wanted to design my own female Alastor for funsies and put her in clothes she might have worn in the mid 1930s. Once I’d drawn one outfit it was hard to stop. Of course I had to turn them into a catalog page!

[daily-odile]

everything is the same except Odile is the one looping

oh. heheheheh. muahahahaha. hold on *digs through my pile of disorganized sketches*

Odile loops au; a sketch compilation!!

Some old fic drabbles + associated sketches under cut (a6 secret spoilers):

hc: Since equipment carries over, as long as Odile uses her book in a fight, she can write down notes and have it carry over loops

toxic doomed yuri (for a more fleshed out fic I highly recommend The Sweetest Thing by soreimoon, it's amazing)

[lavenoon]

@naffeclipse realized it's criminal I haven't drawn him with claws so far, since I love inflicting retractable claws on any version of the dca I touch

*self insert is not a girl (he/she)

og detective au by sunnys-aesthetic!

[rivalmelty]

they are fukuzawa’s boys, adopted twins, and menaces to the yokohama police

(pls do not tag as beast)

[beanghostprincess]

I wanna write a Lawsan fic in which Law won't stop being annoying about Germa and info-dumping about it and, even if he says he hates it, talking about it all. The. Damn. Time. And Sanji snapping at him furiously and telling him something like "Could you shut the fuck up already?! You keep saying you hate Germa but as far as I know, you'd be on your knees to suck my brothers' cocks like the fanboy you are. Do you happen to lack hearing comprehension? I don't give a fuck what you say because your dumb comics were my whole fucking childhood, and I don't know how yours was, but mine wasn't pretty. I- Fuck. Look. Fuck you. You don't understand and you're not willing to understand and I'm sure you've never had to tell your own family to fuck off but it does a fucking number on you, so. Don't- Just- Just don't, okay? I need- I need a moment away from you" and he leaves Law feeling absolutely like shit because he didn't notice he was being so heartless to him. Sanji goes away and, since this happens in front of everyone, Zoro's like "Well done, man" and Law's just like "Shut the fuck up". Then there's a whole scene with Law apologizing but I'm saving that for the fic ngl.

[wishluc]

˗ˏ IN THE FACE OF ADVERSITY...

On a scale of 1 - 10 I think the yandere here is around 4? 5? But I find Childe to be terrifying regardless. Set in Sumeru, during the archon quest.

✧ CW: yandere character, abuse of authority, power imbalance, mentions of Harbinger-typical violence

✧ PAIRING: Childe x Fem! reader

You can't help but be mesmerized by the twinkling stars, shining so brightly against the blanket of darkness. A peaceful night like tonight is a luxury you can't usually afford.

"Beautiful night, isn't it?"

Your mood is soured almost as quickly as it was lifted as you hear the careful emphasis on your name, almost as if he was testing it out for the first time

Regardless, you aren't surprised to see that Childe is here again.

Despite his position, he didn't seem to have much to do—except, of course, spend every possible moment hounding you. Unlike the frightening rumors that lurked around the Harbingers, Childe appeared only as a man who was extremely proficient with his weapons, full of boyish charm and towering ambition. At first, you considered that he may be putting on a front—one that relied on a disarming smile and easygoing words—but after your actual meeting with him, you realized he was not full of tricks and traps. Childe was a blatant, proud challenge. The lack of deceit on his part, the plain truth he laid out to you when he introduced himself to you as "Number Eleven of the Fatui Harbingers," was because he wanted you to know. He wanted to exude his power over you, while simultaneously, extending an invitation to you, one that read loud and clear; Try and cross me, if you dare.

Even if he wasn't with the Doctor, on official business, Childe was still a Harbinger, and it was made very clear to you already. You had never seen a man so thrilled by violence, so exhilarated at the sight of blood and pain. He wielded his weapons with frighteningly natural ease, swiftly cutting through air and flesh alike with the same fluid motion. And when he stood, yearning for yet another rush after yet another battle won, it looked as though he was born to do this. You still remembered the blood-splattered figure, the glowering blue gaze, and the mad expression on his face, and you remember thinking that somehow, you believed nothing would suit him better.

And now, you're forced to regard this bloodlust-driven creatur, as the esteemed diplomat he makes himself out to be. You have to smile at his jokes and agree with his demands, forcing yourself to ignore just how swiftly he can pull a blade out and press it against your neck, and how it would only take a moment, a single command, to get his loyal soldiers to rip your heart out for him—since you clearly won't do it yourself. You have to pretend his sly remarks and coquettish grins fluster you, and not disgust you. You have to ignore the reminder that the callouses on the hand that was often placed on your shoulder were from training with numerous weapons and what exactly the mask at the side of his head symbolized.

And you have to do it all pretending like you're honored to be serving him.

"Master Tartaglia," a polite smile found its place on your face, "I hope your night is going well."

He grins, a playful quirk on his lips, "seeing that you are here, comrade, I can confidently say that it's going splendidly."

Childe gently turns you around, a hand finding purchase on the small of your back, to face the masked Fatuus who had been silently following him, "I'll be with my friend here, so you lot can go make yourself busy, hm?"

They immediately scatter away at his words, and he turns to face you again, the lopsided smile still playing on his lips, "sorry about that. They take their jobs quite seriously."

You nod in understanding, as he looks over the railing with you. You see his eyes linger on the many food carts stationed by the streets, a soft glow of light embracing each one. He looks at you with a knowing look, that excited glint in his eyes dancing wildly, and puts out a hand for you to take. You bite back any protests and take the gloved hand offered to you, praying the night would pass quickly.

The food is as good as you remember, hot, savory, and bursting with flavor. But it's hard to enjoy yourself when you're standing next to a man who is obviously a soldier of some sort, earning you both wary looks from all around.

"What's wrong, pretty girl?"

You've always hated when he called you that. At least, with 'comrade' you could believe it came from a place of equal respect, him recognizing the role you played as his guide, and the dangers you had exposed yourself to by doing so. That, and anyone could tell that you worked with him. But when he was flirting, it made it so much harder to deal with him. He wasn't stupid. He knew that there were others listening. He knew exactly how much harder it was coming up with excuses about why you were walking around with a Fatuus glued to your side when said Fatuus was sweet talking you, face pressed close to yours, instead of marching ahead of you with no concern for how you struggle to keep up.

"Nothing," you reply, "it's just been a while since I've come out here."

He chuckles, "I must have kept you quite busy."

Your laugh is awkward at best and forced at worst, but by now, he's used to your pathetic attempts at avoiding conversation. It doesn't perturb him—not that anything you do does, anymore. Childe only hums, seemingly lost in thought as his eyes gloss over the scenic view.

The streets suddenly fell silent, except for the rustling of paper and hushed whispers. It felt as though everyone was holding their breath, waiting to see what the Harbinger would command. You weren't sure if other Fatuus had already come around here and wreaked some havoc, or if they were just unsettled because of the way Childe's smile never met his eyes.

Then, at last, he walks some ways out to a more secluded spot. The lights here are dimmer and the silence even more deafening. You find your eyes searching around for any other signs of life, despite knowing that Childe did not bring you here to have you killed. Not yet, at least.

"I was thinking," he says, eyes closely gauging your reaction, "of extending my stay."

He's not asking for your input, that much you can tell.

"There's still a lot I'd like to see around here. So, what do you say?" The warm smile is everything but inviting, now. It feels like you're about to sign a deal with the devil.

"I'll have to see if the Akademiya—"

He sighs, "The Akademiya works for us. That wasn't what I was asking." Almost as quickly as it dropped, the all too familiar grin is back on his face, "what about it, then?"

You think back to the calloused hands stained red and the blades concealed on his person. It would take less than a moment for him to pounce. How many of his subordinates are waiting for his orders, hidden in the dark and ready to attack? You remember the bloodstained Harbinger you were introduced to all those days ago, that look of uninhibited delight clear in his eyes. Childe—Tartaglia—was not asking for your opinion. He did not have to go through the pleasantries of pretending to do so, because there was clearly only one answer you could give him.

"It would be my pleasure, Master Tartaglia."

all works © wishluc. do not copy, steal or repost my works on other platforms. (including translations)

[mumblesplash]

thought about the expression “big fish in a small pond” too hard and accidentally invented new ocs

[toiletwipes]

oh, darling (make it go away) | c!wilbur

Give me these moments back Give them back to me Give me that little kiss Give me your hand

— "This Woman's Work" by Kate Bush

~2k words / I'm not sure what this is but it's the only thing I could write. Sorry for the shit quality [Winter comes and brings your depression. Wilbur, your roommate, your... something, is there to help.]

For the nth time, you’ve sat and stared at the wall instead of the monitor. It’s not easy anymore, it doesn’t feel like breathing… it just doesn’t feel. It’s not coming to you anymore. You know why, breathing out, you move from out of the desk chair and take the three steps from your desk to your bed. The blankets have a stale smell to them but you breathe it in all the more, your limbs full of lead and weighing you down to the mattress. You know why, it just doesn’t make it any easier.

You lost count of the days, the weeks— months you’ve spent like this. Everything is too much. Even something you loved doing, you couldn’t even muster the energy to turn the damn monitor on. It would send you to tears if you hadn’t already cried in the morning. Wait, you lift a hand to brush your cheek. Damn, guess you could still cry after all. After doing nothing but crying and staring at the wall for hours, all you can do is waste in bed and cry again.

The door swings open with a loud croak, “— sorry I’m late, I went to pick up dinner and then some fucker cut me off and it was a whole thing—” and it shuts as he continues to walk and talk aloud in the silent apartment. You let out a benign hum, blinking slowly. When did you last eat? Today… today was a waste and weirdly enough, you find you haven't had anything since the big lunch from yesterday. You should probably put something into your system. By the time you try to convince yourself to sit up, your roommate is already walking into your room. “Come on, food is on the table and the TV is on, it’s your favorite soap.”

You had barely turned onto your side and you could only blink up at him as he kicked his shoes off, sitting on your bed. His hair curls into his face as he peers down at you, one of his hands coming up and patting your blanketed side. “Bad day?” He asks, quiet and with that beautiful smile of his. You blink your teary eyes at him as you give him a sluggish nod.

“That’s alright, you can finish it out with a bang. Want a shower before you eat?” That raises the question when you last had a shower and when you can’t immediately find the answer, you frown. You nod. “Want help getting up?” You mumble an affirmative. His smile doesn’t diminish and he doesn’t scold you, all he does is move to his feet and pull your covers back, taking your left hand into his and gently pulling you to your feet.

“There we go, see, you’re nearly in the shower.” You huff, almost laughing as he drapes an arm around your shoulder and guides you to the shared bathroom. He lets you shower by yourself, saying nothing of how long you stand underneath the hot spray, only hands you your plate, and scoots over to his side of the couch.

Your soap is dramatic as it always is, something you can count on. And when it’s over, Wilbur has no problem taking your plate and washing it alongside his. The couch is comfortable enough to sit with your legs tucked close to your body, a blanket pulled from the top of the couch to cover you.

“Dishes are done, I threw out the trash last night, think that’s it, is there anything we need to do before bed?” You shake your head numbly, you can’t think of anything. (Can’t really think, why is your head so heavy, so empty, so useless?)

He doesn’t say anything for a second before the couch dips beside you and he’s pulling your legs into his lap, the two of you staring at the blank screen of the TV.

“I think I’m getting worse.” Your voice croaks after its first use in a while.

“Yeah?” He says, just as quietly as you did. You risk a glance at him but his stare is fixated straight ahead, his fingers picking at a stray string from the blanket.

“I’m going to fail this semester. I can’t even play any games. I’m just-” tears prick your eyes again, it’s been so difficult for no fucking reason. There’s nothing wrong at all. You decided on one class this semester so it would be easier, so you couldn’t fail something if it was the only thing you had to focus on. And then October came and went, November quickly followed and somehow you’re behind on weeks of homework and material. It takes you and Wilbur to understand your professor despite being the one you requested because of his teaching style.

Your games had previously helped you cope until it wasn’t about coping and more about having fun. Until that died out— scratch that, until your energy died out.

“Why can’t it be July again?” July had been the best you had ever felt, the sun beaming down your face and the wind tickling your sides between your shirt and skin, at the beach and on your balcony, in the streets in the middle of the night- this summer had been an absolute dream. So why now- why after such a good summer, the best one you had in a while, why can’t you be happier? Why can’t you just get up and do your work and be normal? Hold his hand again, smile his way? Why can’t you do things for him again? Why does he have to do everything for you every December?

He meets your eyes and you can see it there, he’s tired too. He needs rest too. You feel the guilt eat your insides, tearing down your rib-cage and you almost wail with the heartache. “I’m a terrible roommate.” You say and the tears drip down your cheek.

“You’re not.” The scoff is wet when it leaves your throat, and you have to look away, nearly choking on the air as you try to hold the sobs back. “What? You think I’m lying?” He asks, patting your knee and you look back at him. Looking at him. Seeing his own glossy eyes and thinking what a pair you must make right now. Crying, together.

“I think you’re full of shit if you genuinely think that.” It’s more bark than bite but you want it to hurt, you want him to leave you behind and live his life again. Why does he have to do everything for you just to get by, just to fail again and again.

“That’s not fair,” he starts, “to you or me. But I see what you’re doing, you can’t get rid of me that easily.”

“You should be out there,” it’s his turn scoffing at the words you say, “having fun, living your life, with your friends. It’s not fair to you.” He picks your legs off of his lap and he takes your hand, pulling you to your feet, even when you protest.

“I only ever went out when you did, you know that right?” You open your mouth to say something but he just shakes his head, guiding you by the shoulders back to your room. “And it’s not to say I don’t have fun when you’re not around, but I don’t think it’s worth going out and enjoying myself when I know you’re at home and miserable.”

“You shouldn’t have to take care of me because you feel guilty.”

“I don’t. I take care of you because you are single-handedly one of the most important people to me. I take care of you because I want to. I’m here because I want to be here.” By the time he’s finished talking, you’re sitting on your bed while he digs through your drawers. “Do you want the matching set?” He pulls out the one you bought, the set that matches his own pajamas right now. You sniffle, wiping your snot as you nod.

“Get changed, I’ll be there in a few, okay?” And he nudges you to the bathroom.

When you’ve managed to switch clothes, you can hear the distant ambience on your TV, and he comes into the bathroom, sets the timer as he pulls out the raspberry toothpaste. Five minutes later, when the paste has been spat out and the mouth wash gets everything else, and you’re sitting in your bed while he fusses about. Coming up with plans to save your credits and schedules and the likes while you thumb the fabric at the bottom of your sleep shirt.

“Can you-” you interrupt his thinking-out-loud process and catch his attention, “can you sleep here tonight?” As if you hadn’t asked the same thing of him yesterday or the day before. He doesn’t say anything mean. Only let a brief smile pass through his face before turning the brighter lights off while plugging in the lava lamp in the corner, just like how you liked it.

Once he’s settled next to you, the ache in your chest and head increase tenfold. The guilt builds again and like an oracle, his eyes blink open slowly and he reaches to hold your hand in his.

“Do you remember that day in July,” he says, wetting his lips before meeting your eyes again, “when you kissed me?” You nod.

“Would you be okay if I did it? If I kissed you?” His eyes search for something in yours, nervous for your response. Tears pool back in your eyes, falling past your nose and cheek and sinking into your pillowcase, you whisper a broken yes.

Your eyes flutter shut, squeezing them as you feel the bed shift under his weight, as he leans closer to you, and you can feel his breath fan across your mouth. You couldn’t breathe, it felt so unreal.. And when you couldn’t feel his breath or smell the faint raspberry from it, you wonder if you disgusted him until he brushed his lips against your cheek, just on the corner of your mouth.

Your eyes open meeting him, especially when he’s still so close to your face, “you missed back then, too.” That day, that beautiful, warm day that reminds you so much of the boy in front of you that it hurts. It was perfect that day. It felt like a dream. And despite it being so cold outside, it felt warm here too. And suddenly, it felt like July all over again. Like you could be normal again, like you could be happy.

He moves his face away, shifting until his arms are wrapped around your shoulders and waist, pulling you into his body closer and closer, as if you’d sink into him and all of your woes would become his to bear too. Legs entangle naturally and you can’t help the sob that wracks through you again.

“I know, I know.” He whispers, tightening his hold on you and letting you soak his shirt with your tears and snot. “I know.”

It won’t be easy for a long time, maybe not even until July has long since passed again, the future is unclear and your head and heart is heavy with ache and guilt and love.

But you won’t have to bear it alone. You never have to bear it alone again, not as long as he’s there. You can almost hear the promise in the way his hands squeeze at the fabric and skin they find, the way he sleeps easier in your bed, holding you.

You sink into his embrace now, letting the scent of his soap wash over you, the sounds of a gentle rain pattering on the ceiling from the television and the warmth of his skin… they lure you under the blanket of sleep.

And for the first time in a while, you’re back in July, staring at a boy you’ve lived and loved with, remembering the sun on your skin while you smiled at him, holding his hand.

It never seemed so close, before.

[suddencolds]

Small Price to Pay | [1/1]

you know all those posts about making out with someone with a cold and the associated consequences? This is that in fic form, ~8.8k words. I'm embarrassing myself typing this, so here it is.

This is an OC fic ft. Vincent and Yves - you can read more of these two here! :)

Summary:

“So,” Brendon says. “You’re still dating him.” Something about the way he inflects the word still makes something sour in Yves’s chest. Yves frowns at him. “Is that supposed to be surprising?”

Yves has a birthday party to attend and a fake relationship to prove. Vincent is nothing if not adaptable. (ft. fake dating, an argument, contagion)

—

Here’s the problem:

Francesca throws a party.

It’s a birthday party, strictly speaking, but functionally it’s more of a college reunion—Francesca invites everyone from their year who rowed crew, which means that one: Yves will be surrounded by some of his best friends from college, and two: Erika will be there.

He thinks up an entire contingency plan—if Vincent can’t make it that weekend, for one reason or another, Yves will show up, hand Francesca his gift, spend the rest of the hour avoiding Erika and Brendon, and leave early, citing some excuse or other. It’s not that he doesn’t think he could handle talking to Erika—it’s just seeing her feels like reopening a wound. A part of him is scared that he’ll see her, and feel the loss intensely all over again—or, worse, he’ll get ideas about forgiving her, about letting her into his life again, about accepting her explanations.

And Brendon, too—seeing Erika means seeing Brendon, most likely, and Yves doesn’t want to justify himself to him any more than he already has. 

The point is: the less of the both of them that he has to deal with, the better.

When he asks Vincent a week before the event, though, Vincent’s response is immediate.

V: You can fill me in on the details later. I’ll be there.

It’s a little strange, he thinks, that Vincent always agrees so readily. Vincent isn’t a fan of parties—he’d been clear about that. He doesn’t seem interested in talking much about himself, either—he’s just the kind of person, Yves is realizing, who likes to keep his personal details close unless they offer some sort of utility.

Perhaps there’s something else that Vincent is getting out of this, then.

But when Yves asks, he’s met with the same cryptic answer:

“I don’t mind it,” Vincent says. “And you have something you want to prove to your ex. Ultimately, it’s a net positive.”

“While that’s technically true,” Yves says, “this seems like an unfair arrangement. I mean, you’re only doing this because I dragged you into it.”

“If I didn’t want to be dragged into it,” Vincent says, “I would say so.” as if it’s really that simple.

It can’t be that simple, Yves thinks—there must be more to his reasoning that he’s omitting—but he doesn’t press. Vincent is right. Vincent is the kind of person who knows precisely what he wants. If he really had a problem with this arrangement, he would’ve said so.

And, besides—a little selfishly, perhaps—Yves has started looking forward to their outings as of late.

—

Nevertheless, he doesn’t think about the party again until the Friday before it, when Vincent shows up at his desk.

“Do you have a moment?” he says.

“Yes,” Yves says, saving the spreadsheet he’s been working on and shutting his laptop. “What’s up?”

When he looks up, Vincent looks a little tired, though that’s not unusual—it’s been a long week, and busy season always means long hours and little sleep. 

“We can talk later if you’re busy,” Vincent says.

“I’m very free,” Yves says. He’s decisively not—and he’s sure that Vincent knows this, too, so whatever Vincent is approaching him with now must be important. 

“Regarding Francesca’s party tomorrow,” Vincent starts. He looks a little sheepish—as if he doesn’t quite want to be the deliverer of bad news. “I can still go. But I’m…”

“If something came up,” Yves says immediately, “you don’t have to come.” “It’s not that,” Vincent says.

“Or even if nothing’s come up,” Yves backtracks, “and you’re just not feeling it anymore? Also totally fine. Seriously. I can always just go by myself.”

Vincent seems to consider this. Yves is starting to get worried that something might actually be very wrong—something that Vincent is hesitant to even bring up—when Vincent takes a generous step backwards, raising his elbow to his face as his eyes squeeze shut.

“hhih’nGKTsHuhh-!”

The sneeze sounds harsh, even muffled into the fabric of his sleeve; it tears through him with little warning, loud enough to echo slightly in the confines of the office space.

That’s when it all clicks into place: the tiredness. The slight off-ness to his complexion, the tension to the way he’s holding himself, the fact that Yves hasn’t caught him in the break room at all over the past couple days. The fact that he’s currently standing so far away from Yves’s desk.

“You’re ill,” Yves says, comprehending.

“Yes,” Vincent says. His voice sounds a little off, too, now that Yves knows what to look for; it has that quality it often takes on after a long day of discussions with clients—not quite hoarse, but getting there. “I’m positive it’s just a cold. I just wanted to give you a heads up.”

“Don’t worry about it at all, seriously,” Yves says. He feels guilty, suddenly—here he is, asking Vincent to spend his already-limited free time at a party, when Vincent probably has a high volume of important clients—and a burgeoning head cold—to deal with. “If you want to take a rain check, you should. I’m sure this week has already been rough for you as it is.”

“When is the next time you’ll be going to an event where Erika’s going to be there?”

That question makes him pause. “I don’t know. In another month, or so, if I had to guess?”

“So this event is important,” Vincent says, sniffling. It’s the kind of light, liquid sniffle that implies that whatever he’s caught, he’s just at the start of it. “In that case, I’ll go.”

“Wait,” Yves says. “That’s not what I—your health is more important than any event. You shouldn’t push yourself.”

“I feel fine,” Vincent says. “No headache, no fever. It’s just a slight cold. I will be fine tomorrow if I make it a point to sleep early.” he sniffles again, his expression growing hazy for a brief moment before he blinks, rubbing his nose on one knuckle. “I just wanted to make sure you were fine with it.”

“I am completely fine with it,” Yves says, reaching for the box of tissues that’s perched on his desk. He holds it out. “I just feel bad about making you go if you’re sick.”

Vincent takes a handful of tissues out of the box, brings them up to cover his nose, just in time for—

“hh- hH’nGKT-! snf-! hH-Hhih… hh’hiHhh’iiZSCHHh-uhh!”

“Bless you,” Yves says, with emphasis, pushing the entire tissue box towards him. “Times two. Seriously. I think you could use the weekend off—you know, to catch up on sleep.”

“Assuming that things haven’t changed from the event details you forwarded me, the party will be in the evening,” Vincent says, taking the tissue box from him, a little hesitantly, and tucking it under his arm. “I’ll have plenty of time to sleep in.”

Yves opens his mouth to protest.

Vincent says, “I’m fine. I’ll call a rain check if I wake up with a fever.” He turns on his heels. “Otherwise, see you tomorrow.” 

—

Vincent, as Yves is coming to realize, is very good at appearing presentable, even when he’s under the weather.

“You made it,” he says. This time, they’d driven here separately. Yves had thought, initially, that it’d be easier to just drive Vincent places, so that the only thing he’d had to account for was his actual presence—but Francesca lives between them. I don’t mind driving, Vincent had said. You’d be going out of your way to pick me up, but he’d coordinated a spot a couple blocks down to meet up, so that it would look like they’d come together.

It’s cold outside still—it’s the sort of indecisive weather that seems to periodically hint at spring: a cold front, then a few warm days when all the ice thaws, a few flowers lining the grass along the road where the snow’s melted, and then another snowstorm. It’s easy enough, then, to chalk up the slight redness of his cheeks, the redness at the tip of his nose, as another effect of the not-quite-spring weather.

Yves is carrying his present for Francesca under one arm—a hardcover book—a sequel to one she’d read last year and gushed to him about liking; a couple fridge magnets, which she likes to collect; film for the polaroid camera her sister got her last year; and a letter, all wrapped up in a brown paper parcel. 

It’s nice to have an excuse to see everyone again, especially some of the members from crew whom he’s not close enough to invite to parties personally, that he knows Francesca was closer to. 

“It was a pain to find parking,” Vincent says. He’s wearing a red scarf today, and a white overcoat with black buttons and a sharply cut collar. Personally, Yves thinks it’s unfair that someone can be down with an irritating head cold and still look so good.

“No kidding,” Yves says. “You would’ve thought there’d be more than one tiny parking lot for all those shops.”

Yves asks how he is (fine, Vincent says—perfectly capable of spending a few hours at a party. Yves says, I feel like you would say that even if you were like, dead on your feet with a high fever, to which Vincent laughs, but doesn’t explicitly deny.)

Yves supposes he isn’t one to talk—he’d showed up to a crew event, near the end of the season, with the flu, just because it had been their then-captain’s last big event, and he’d been planning to give him a farewell speech. The speech had gone fine—and so had the first few hours—but then all his symptoms had hit at once—fever chills, exhaustion, a pounding headache, the likes—and Francesca and Erika had practically had to drag him home.

But that had been an important event—a once in a lifetime thing—and he’d drafted that speech for two weeks. This is so much less high-stakes. 

“I prombise I’m fine,” Vincent tells him, lifting up the side of his scarf to muffle a cough into it. “It’s just all the - hHIh-! all the annoyidg symptoms. I dod’t - snf-! - feel any worse than I did yesterday.” “Any worse?” Yves says. “Does that mean you were already feeling pretty badly off yesterday?”

“I barely even feel udwell at all,” Vincent says. “It’s just— I keep havidg to— hHih-! hihH’IIITshHHh-uuH!”

He sniffles, raising a sleeve to his face to cover the next, resounding, 

“hHih’iITTSshh’Uhh! snf-!” He buries his face deeper into his sleeve, his shoulders trembling with another gasp. “Hhih…. HIih’nNGKT—SHhuh!”

“Bless you,” Yves says, laughing. “Okay. Point taken.”

Vincent lowers his arm slowly with a curt sniffle. “Are Erika and Francesca close?”

“Yeah,” Yves says. “I think they still keep in touch pretty frequently.” it’s one of the reasons why he hasn’t told Francesca—or anyone else in the friend group—about the specifics of their breakup.

It feels wrong, somehow, to paint her in a bad light, to give people reason to take sides, when it’s always been all of them together as a group. 5am practice was a hell of a bonding experience, she was part of all of that, too. He has no right to take that from her. 

“How about Brendon?”

“Brendon’s sort of an odd one out,” Yves says. “I don’t think most of us had met him until he started dating Erika during our senior year. He usually hangs out with a different crowd, so he’s only really around when Erika is.”

Perhaps that’s better, too—more merciful—that when Erika had left him for someone new, it hadn’t been one of the people he knew and deeply trusted. If Brendon had been there too, at all those 5am practices, at all those oddly timed meetings—if Yves had had that much time to look back on, to wonder when Erika’s feelings for Brendon had materialized, to watch her fall for him firsthand, to look back and know that he was losing her…

It’s better, this way, he thinks, that at least he can look back on his time rowing crew as he’d always wanted to—not like the way he feels when he looks at Erika: heartbroken, and a little betrayed.

“I guess I’m in that positiod now,” Vincent says.

“In the sense that you didn’t meet everyone through crew?”

“In the sedse that I’m an outsider.”

Yves considers this. “My friends really like you, though,” he says. “I don’t think they think of you that way.” It’s a short walk to Francesca’s doorstep. Vincent really does seem to be okay, Yves notes—aside from the frequent sniffling, and the sneezes he turns away to direct into his sleeve, he isn’t shivering under his coat, and he doesn’t look more tired than usual.

Despite everything, Yves finds himself feeling cautiously hopeful. Something about Vincent’s presence has that effect on him. Vincent is always so sure of himself, even in situations Yves thinks he can’t possibly be certain will go well.

It makes Yves want to have faith in this too. Yves will see Francesca and his friends from crew, and he won’t have to say anything to Erika and Brendon, his friends will like Vincent very much, and everything will be just fine.

“Wait,” Vincent says, right after Francesca’s let them in through the apartment buzzer. “We should look like we actually like each other.” He holds his hand out, expectant.

“Good point.” Yves takes it. Vincent’s hand is warm, and a little calloused—when Yves tugs his hand a little closer, Vincent’s fingers interlace nicely with his.

“For the record, I do like you,” he adds.

Vincent laughs. “You kdow what I meant.”

—

It’s almost a relief, seeing everyone again. Yves used to feel a little apprehensive about reunions—around the possibility for the people that he’d known and loved to have changed past recognition, to have internalized everything some way but to come back and see that everyone’s moved on in their own ways, grown a little more into themselves—and a little further from him—than he remembers them to be. 

But when he sees Francesca, she still greets him with the same hug — one arm looped around his shoulders, for a firm squeeze. He hands her her gift, and wishes her a happy birthday, and she laughs and says the only good part about getting old is having an excuse to have everyone back in her living room.

“And Vincent’s here too,” Francesca says, turning to Vincent, who—after looking caught off guard for a second—smiles back at her. “I’m so glad you were able to come!”

“It’s good to see you agaid,” Vincent says. “And happy birthday. You look great, by the way.”

“Thank you!” she says, beaming. She’s wearing a cocktail party dress which slips elegantly over her still-bare shoulders. “I needed to pick something out for the occasion. I swear, these days, half my closet is just business formal attire. It’s depressing.”

“If that mbeans that the other half of your closet is filled out with idteresting clothes,” Vincent says, with a quiet sniffle, “you’re doing a lot better than I am.” 

Francesca laughs. “It’s just for my sanity,” she says. “Can’t let the clients dictate everything I wear.”

“It’s ndice that you’re celebrating your birthday, though,” Vincent says. He lifts a hand to rub his slightly-reddening nose with one knuckle. “My coworkers are always sayidg that they’re too old to want to ackdowledge it anymore.”

“It definitely feels that way sometimes,” Francesca says. “But it’s a good excuse to have everyone here, while we still can. Speaking of which—Yves is the worst at planning things for himself, which is ironic, because he’s always the one planning things for everyone else.”

“That is not true,” Yves says.

Francesca gives him a pointed look. “Last year, you were practically banking on having everyone forget your birthday.”

That is an exaggeration. “I’m pretty sure you wouldn’t let that happen, even if I wanted it to,” Yves says.

“You’re damn right.”

“The ndext time you’re planning a birthday for him,” Vincent says, clearing his throat with a quiet cough, “I’ll pitch in.”

Francesca brightens, at this. “Finally another soldier on the right side of the war,” she says. “You can definitely be part of the secret planning council.”

“Thadk god,” Vincent says, playing along. “I was starting to thidk I was going to have to do it all alone.”

“It’s not a secret if I’m right here,” Yves says. Francesca ignores him in favor of having Vincent type his number into her phone.

—

Halfway through the evening, Vincent disappears into the kitchen for a moment. When he comes back, it’s with two drinks in hand—canned cocktails, Yves realizes, judging by the cans. He hands one over to Yves.

“I actually don’t think I’ve ever seen you drink before,” Yves says to him. “Even at happy hours.”

“I don’t drink very often,” Vincent says.

“Does this mean that I get to see you tipsy? I’m sure our coworkers will be jealous.” 

“If you’re expecting my personality to change,” Vincent says, “you will be disappointed.” he says it with such certainty that Yves pays closer attention to him after that. 

Vincent does hold his alcohol well, as it turns out, with the exception of the slight flush to his cheeks a few drinks later—though even then, Yves can’t be entirely sure it can’t be entirely attributed to his cold. He listens intently as Yves talks to Diane—who’s a couple years younger than Yves—about how Crew has been ever since Yves graduated (mostly the same; the new underclassmen are good at showing up to practices on time, but that’s partially because their captain this year is a little intimidating). He gives several of the crew members a candid summary of his relationship with Yves, when asked. He tells Marin how they first met and he tells Kenneth what it’s like keeping their relationship secret at work and he laughs—a little sheepishly—when Sasha says they make a cute couple. If lying so openly is difficult for him, it doesn’t show.

If there’s anything that’s off, it’s subtle. It takes some time for Yves to notice—

The next time Vincent sneezes, his breath hitches with a sharp, desperate, — “hHhiH—!” Then he turns away, craning his neck over his shoulder for an uncovered, “HIiiIKTshH-uh-!”

He blinks in the wake of it, as if a little dazed, before he seems to straighten, lifting a hand to wipe his nose on one knuckle. It’s not stifled, as it usually is, nor is it neatly pinched off into his fingers, which is unexpected.

It’s as if the sneeze has fully caught him off guard—as if all the systems he has in place to sneeze as quietly and as unobtrusively as possible are just slightly impaired by the alcohol. Not that it matters much—Francesca has put some music on, and it sits in the background now, a low thrum, all but the percussive elements muted by the chatter of conversation.

“Bless you,” Yves says, leaning over to grab a cocktail napkin from one of the neighboring tables. He hands it to Vincent, who blows his nose and emerges with a small cough. “How’s the cold?” 

“Fide,” Vincent says, with a sniffle. “Ndo worse than before.”

“Are you just saying that to get me to drop the subject?”

“I’m sayidg it because I actually mean it. It’s a very tolerable cold.”

Yves laughs, and reaches for his drink. He’s about to take a sip when he feels Vincent’s fingers close around his wrist

 It’s only a brief moment of contact, but the warmth it leaves around his wrist stays, even when Vincent lets go.

“Sorry,” Vincent says, a little panicked. He withdraws his hand. “That’s mine.”

“What?”

“The cocktail.”

“Oh.” Yves looks down to the can in his hands. He supposes Vincent might be right—they’ve both had a few drinks, so he’d lost track awhile ago. A lot of the canned cocktails taste roughly the same to him, anyways. “Is it? I can get you another one if you want.”

“No,” Vincent says. “I drank from it.” As if that explains everything. And then—a little quieter, as if he’s embarrassed to say it: “I don’t wadt you to catch this.”

Truthfully, the possibility hadn’t crossed his mind until Vincent mentioned it. It seems a little endearing that Vincent would be worried about it in the first place—Yves has certainly shared food and drinks with friends who were worse off. “I’m not worried about that,” he says. “It’s just a cold. Didn’t you say it was very tolerable?”

“It’s still…” Vincent trails off, averting his glance with a sniffle. “...an annoyance.” 

He looks like he’s about to say more when his expression goes distant, his eyebrows furrowing.

“HHih’IIIzSCH-uhh!”  It sounds so thoroughly unsatisfying, half-shielded by a hand raised a few moments too late. “hh-HIh-! Hh…” He pauses, his eyes watering, his breath still wavering, and—after a few seconds of nothing—sniffles; a forceful, liquid sniffle that practically emanates frustration. “hIiIIh’kSHhhhh! snf-!”

“Bless you!”

Vincent emerges, teary-eyed, still sniffling. “Case in point,” he says. 

—

He doesn’t see Erika when she gets there. It isn’t until she passes him in the living room, halfway in a conversation, that she makes her presence known to him.

“Hi Yves,” she says, and he looks up. Today she’s wearing a pink dress which cuts off at her knees—a strapless dress, save for a pink rose over her left shoulder which blooms into a sleeve. She is every inch as beautiful as she always is.

He smiles at her, cordial, tight-lipped. “You made it,” he says. She looks at him expectantly, waiting for him to say more, and he realizes—with a flash of panic—that he doesn’t know what more to say to her. He hasn’t kept up with her over the past few months. He knows that she’s working as a quantitative analyst, at a company she’d been hired at a couple months after they’d broken up, but he doesn’t know if she likes her work, if she likes her coworkers, if it’s been busy as of late. If she works long hours, if she’s taken up any new projects. “Glad you found time. I assume work’s been keeping you busy,” he says,  

“Are you kidding? It’s Francesca,” Erika says. “I wouldn’t miss this for the world.”

And there it is—that decisiveness. That same resolve that, back then, made everything with her seem so easy. Erika and Francesca have always been close—through college, back when they met during crew, and even after, when all of them had been still settling into their jobs or going off to grad school or moving halfway across the country; when seeing each other no longer meant just a fifteen minute walk across campus. 

“Yeah,” Yves says. “I know.”

They don’t speak, after that. Yves thinks it’s probably for the best—he doesn’t have anything to say to Erika right now. Back then, he could talk to her about anything, even if it was pointless or insignificant or of no real importance, and she’d make the conversation fun. 

These days, he only tells her things on a strict need-to-know basis, and—given that the only times he sees her these days is at events like this—there’s not really all that much to talk about. 

It had been difficult, at first. He’d wanted to share everything with her, still, back when his work schedule had settled enough for him to take long walks downtown, to start to go to concerts and bars again; when he’d redecorated his apartment, when he’d gotten someone to mentor at work, when he’d gotten back into cooking. For some time after the breakup, it still felt instinctual to turn to her, to text her about something interesting that’d happened, to ask her to try out something new that he’d found. 

But he hadn’t. Something about feigning normalcy seemed worse, even then, than accepting that she was really gone.

Perhaps her avoidance of him tonight is merciful. It’s easier, when he’s not thinking about her, to slip into the familiarity of talking to everyone, to enjoy all of it just as himself. 

It’s only when he excuses himself to get another drink that he runs into Brendon.

Yves has always been civil with Brendon. 

Brendon is—well, to say that Brendon isn’t someone he considers a friend is a vast understatement. The less of Brendon Yves sees, the better. Yves avoids him when he can, but he is good at holding up small talk, when it’s necessary, and on most days, Brendon has enough good sense to not start a fight.

Today, it seems, is not one of those days.

“So,” Brendon says. “You’re still dating him.” Something about the way he inflects the word still makes something sour in Yves’s chest.

Yves frowns at him. “Is that supposed to be surprising?”

“I guess I’m surprised,” Brendon says. “I have to say, I wasn’t expecting it to last.”

“Well, I’m happy to have exceeded your expectations,” Yves says. “Though it doesn’t sound like they were very high.”

“I don’t mean it like that,” Brendon says, waving a hand. “It’s just—new relationships can be fairly unreliable. Especially when you’re dating around.”

“Maybe in your experience, that’s the case,” Yves says. “But personally, I tend to date people I can see myself with long term.”

“That’s the thing,” Brendon says. “I’m surprised you can see yourself with him.”

Yves sets the drink he’s holding down and turns to face him properly. “I’m not sure what you mean by that.”

Brendon scoffs. “It doesn’t take a genius to see that you two are very different people.”

“So people can only date their clones,” Yves says flatly. He’s already tired of this conversation. “My bad. I must’ve missed that rule somewhere in dating 101.”

“Obviously, I don’t mean it to that extent. You’re blowing it out of proportion. I just mean that you can only be so different from someone before you’re incompatible. ”

“I agree,” Yves says. “And I don’t think we’re incompatible.”

“Are you sure?” Brendon crosses his arms. “This isn’t his scene, is it? Cocktail parties? I mean, he’s practically married to his work. Does he even like parties?”

Vincent doesn’t like parties—Brendon is right about that point. But hadn’t Vincent been the one who’d agreed to come here in the first place? To imply that he’s only here because Yves has dragged him along seems somewhat disingenuous.

Yves says, “If Vincent didn’t want to be here, he wouldn’t be here.”

“Sure, but from what I’ve heard from Erika—” Yves doesn’t like this implication that Brendon and Erika talk about them behind their back, but he supposes it’s to be expected. “—he’s not exactly the type of person you’ve tended to go for in the past.”

That sounds awfully like an accusation.

“What exactly are you getting at, here?”

“I’m saying that it sort of looks like you just picked the most convenient rebound you could find,” Brendon says, quiet. “But usually people are honest with themselves when that’s the case.”

That startles a short, indignant laugh out of Yves. “You have no idea what you’re talking about,” he says.

“Do you really not think that’s the case? Wouldn’t you say you’d usually go for someone more personable?”

“Personable?” Yves repeats. “Personable? Don’t make me laugh. Do you know how many clients I’ve seen Vincent talk down to a pleasant resolution because he’s so good at negotiating? Do you know how many conferences I’ve been in where Vincent is the one people come to after to privately compliment, because he’s so good at knowing how to talk to people?” he thinks to Joel’s housewarming party—to how compellingly Vincent had lied for him, then; to how good he had been at conjuring up a sense of history between them, of warmth. “His ability to answer difficult questions on the spot, with virtually no preparation at all, is something I can’t even begin to comprehend.”

He’s not sure why the accusation from Brendon makes him so upset, only that it does. Only that he wants to do nothing but tell Brendon just how wrong he is. “If you’re trying to imply that I’m settling for him, don’t patronize me,” he says. “Vincent is one of the smartest and most thoughtful people I know. Do you seriously believe I’d be dissatisfied with someone who holds himself to such a high standard?”

“I’m happier than I’ve been in months,” he says, resolute. “Because of him.”

Through the adrenaline, Yves realizes, faintly, that he hasn’t lied about any of it. He certainly could have—after all, Brendon would be none the wiser—but everything he’s said about Vincent is something he really, genuinely believes.

“Ah,” Brendon says, knowingly, as if he has it all figured out. “I got it wrong. This whole time I thought you were the one that felt lukewarm about him. But it’s the other way around, isn’t it?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You’re so sure he’s the one that you’re willing to overlook all of your obvious differences,” Brendon says. “Have you ever stopped to consider whether he feels the same way?”

“Presumably, he does,” Yves says. “Otherwise, we wouldn’t be in a relationship.”

“That doesn’t necessarily mean anything,” Brendon says, as if Yves should already know this from past experience, which—if Yves is being really honest—makes him want to punch him.

Instead, he takes in a deep breath, schools his expression into a smile. “Usually, people in relationships aren’t still looking for other options.”

“Yes,” Brendon says. “Unless they’re unhappy.”

“Yves!” 

When Yves turns to look, Vincent is standing in the doorway. How long has he been here? Just how much of the conversation has he overheard?

“Sorry for the wait,” Yves says sheepishly. “I was getting us drinks.” Evidently, he’s been away long enough for Vincent to come check up on him, so he’s already spent unreasonably long getting drinks, and now he doesn’t even have the drinks to show for it. “Or, I guess I got a little sidetracked, but I swear that drinks are on the w—”

Vincent leans in, unprompted, and kisses him. 

Yves’s brain grinds to a complete halt.

It’s only a moment later that Vincent pulls away, but the decisiveness with which he’s carried it out, the broad confidence on his face as he smiles, unwavering, is—

Fuck.

“Oh,” Yves all but stammers. His face is most certainly red right now, and he can’t even blame it on the alcohol. “Um. Did you need anything?”

“No,” Vincent says. There’s something telling to his expression, some sort of quiet acknowledgement. “Just wanted to see what was takidg you so long.”

Suddenly, it makes sense.

Vincent must have heard. Everything Brendon said—or at least, the last part of it; the implication that Vincent isn’t as invested in this relationship as Yves is; the implication that their attraction towards each other is somehow one-sided. Vincent is doing this to cover for him, because he wants to make it excruciatingly obvious that Brendon is wrong.

The fact that he would go to such lengths to make a point makes something settle in Yves’s chest.

“It’s actually good that you showed up,” he says, playing along. “I don’t know what kind of drink you want. I was just going to get you something generic.”

He heads over to the ice box on the other side of the kitchen, and Vincent follows.

They’re far enough that they’re separated from Brendon by the granite island—and, beyond that, the cushioned high stools lined up next to it, but not so far that Brendon can’t still see them. 

So he certainly can see, Yves thinks, this:

Yves leans in, reaching up a hand to cup Vincent’s jaw, and closes the distance between them.

It’s nothing like the kiss at the New Year’s party.

That one had been all nerves—brief, impulsive, all adrenaline. This kiss is much more involved—Yves presses in closer, so close that he can feel the heat radiating from Vincent’s skin, so close that he can smell the faint, not unpleasant smell of laundry detergent on Vincent’s shirt collar. So close that he can feel the breath that Vincent exhales, warm on his cheek; can feel the softness of Vincent’s hair as he shifts. He feels Vincent’s hand settle on his chest, feels his fingers curl inwards to rest on the fabric of his shirt, and—

On the other side of the kitchen, Brendon is watching, and Vincent is here—here, present, in the flesh, looking as put together as always, looking like someone out of a goddamn magazine—so Yves kisses him like he’s used to kissing—greedily, as if he’s been wanting this for ages. It’s been awhile since he’s kissed someone like this. Back then, there was university—the people at parties who he’d met and kissed out of momentary attraction, or out of alcohol-induced courage—though of course back then, neither party had harbored any delusions about how impermanent that connection was, or how little it meant. And then there was Erika, who, for the longest time, he thought was going to be the last person he’d ever kiss like this.

For months after they’d broken up, he hadn’t looked for anything. It felt wrong to subject others—even strangers, to which he had no allegiance—to the messy remnants of his feelings, to attempt to get into something he knew could only be half-hearted, at best, when there was a person in his mind who lingered so sharply.

But Vincent crowds up every corner of his mind, as if to say, pay attention, and Yves finds that for once, he’s not thinking about Erika at all.

When he feels the small hitch in Vincent’s breath, he thinks nothing of it.

Except, then—abruptly, and with barely any warning—Vincent is wrenching away, craning his head over Yves’s shoulder to let out a sudden, uncovered—

“hh-hIIIH’hH-IIKTshHuh!”

Their proximity to each other means he feels the way Vincent’s body jerks forward under his hands, his chest tensing. For a moment after, the rigidness of his posture doesn’t dissipate, tension still strung through the line of his shoulders.

“Bless you,” Yves says, surprised.

Then Vincent curses under his breath, drawing away with a sniffle. “I’mb sorry,” he says, sounding really, honestly panicked—a reaction which Yves finds both disproportionate to the situation and a little endearing. “That was— sorry, I should’ve—”

“Don’t worry about it,” Yves says, with a laugh; “I honestly couldn’t care less.” Impulsively—and maybe to prove just how little it bothers him—he leans back in.

Vincent is less hesitant, this time around, when it seems to register to him that Yves really doesn’t mind. He’s a surprisingly good kisser—Yves probably isn’t the first person he’s kissed, and he probably won’t be the last, but the second Vincent’s mouth works around his, Yves feels himself nearly go weak in the knees.

Fuck. Yves can’t say he expected to spend this evening making out with his very attractive coworker-slash-fake-boyfriend, but at the same time, he isn’t complaining. Yves thinks he could do this for hours, given the chance. He kisses Vincent as if to say, thank you—for the New Year’s party, for going along with this, for lying on my behalf—and Vincent kisses him back as if he wants this just as much.

It registers to him, faintly—as Vincent pulls away with a sharp gasp before he pitches forward, smothering another abrupt, wrenching sneeze into the palm of his hand—that he’s probably dooming himself to Vincent’s cold ten times over. But it occurs to him, too, that if he were really dating Vincent—if, after the party, they’d head back to Vincent’s place together; if they were really close enough to share car rides and food and drinks on the regular, to see each other frequently both in the office and outside of it—he would’ve almost certainly caught this anyways.

Something about the intimacy of it, the false closeness it seems to imply, is a little intoxicating. 

When he finally pulls away, Vincent is breathing a little heavily, his glasses askew, his hair slightly unkempt from where Yves had—mid-kiss—run his fingers through it. Yves looks over his shoulder to see that Brendon has, at some point over the last few minutes, slipped off. Presumably, he’s gotten the point, then.

It’s a relief. Yves is glad to not have to talk with him for any longer than he has to. 

“God,” Yves says, with a laugh. “Where did you learn to kiss like that, anyways?”

Vincent smiles. “I’ve had some practice,” he says, which Yves thinks must be a massive understatement. “Do you think it was convincidg?”

“I don’t know what kinds of standards Brendon has,” Yves says, lowering his voice so that he’s certain no one outside of the kitchen will be able to hear. “But I’d definitely be convinced.”

“He seems strangely idvested in our relationship,” Vincent says.

Yves sighs. “I think he was just trying to make trouble. How much of our conversation did you hear?”

“Just the tail end of it,” Vincent says. “I—”

His gaze goes distant, which is the only warning Yves gets before he’s turning away, steepling his hands over his nose and mouth with a forceful:

“hH-! hhH-hH’iiKTsSHH-uhh! Hh-! Hih… HIIh’IzsSCCHh’hhh!”

“Bless you,” Yves says.

Vincent is quiet for a moment, his expression still hazy, the irritation evident on his features, before he’s ducking away again.

“hIiih’GKTTSHh-uhHh!”

The sneeze is loud enough to scrape against his throat. It leaves him coughing a little, his eyes watering.  

“Bless you,” Yves says, with emphasis. He takes a small stack of napkins off of the kitchen counter and hands it over to Vincent, who eyes it for a moment. There’s a slight flush to his complexion—whether it’s from the alcohol, or from embarrassment, or from slight fever, Yves can’t tell.

“I hope you dod’t regret this in a few days,” Vincent says, carefully extricating one napkin from the stack to blow his nose softly into it. “You—” His breath hitches, sharply, and then he’s pitching forward into the handful of napkins with a muffled, “hiiHh’IZSSCHh-uhh!”

He emerges, sniffling, looking a little apologetic. “You’ll almost certaidly catch this.”

Yves laughs. “It’s fine. I know what I signed up for. Besides, I’m glad you stepped in.” He kneels down, at last, to procure two drinks from the long-neglected icebox. “A cold was a small price to pay for getting out of that conversation.”

He hands Vincent a drink. “Can I have a sip of yours? Now that I’ve doomed myself to it already, I suppose you don’t have to try so hard to keep me from catching it.”

“That’s not very reassuring,” Vincent says, but he lets Yves try some, nonetheless.

Brendon is suspiciously quiet for the rest of the evening. Neither he nor Erika so much as look Yves’s way, which Yves thinks is better than another confrontation. Vincent looks happy—a little tired, a little tipsy, but happy. At some point into the evening he resorts to crossing his arms as a means to keep warm (“Is it too cold in here?” Francesca asks, passing him from where he’s sitting on the couch, to which Vincent shakes his head quickly, his face flushing red. “I’mb just slightly under the weather,” he says. “The temperature’s perfect.” to this, Francesca brings over a quilt from one of the closets and drapes it over his shoulders. “Your friends are very nice,” Vincent says, pinning the quilt in place with one hand, and Yves laughs).

At some point, Francesca brings out a cake (“earl gray with buttercream,” she says, “Erika and I made a smaller one as a test run last week, and it was a little too dense, so we’ll have to see how this one turned out.” which Yves thinks is very impressive—he’s certainly better than average at cooking, but that expertise does not transfer well to baking—truly, he’s not sure he’d be confident in his ability to pipe frosting in a straight line. When he tells Vincent this, Vincent laughs and says, “I’m sure people would forgive you as long as it tasted good,” to which Yves says, “I think you’re underestimating how bad I am at decorating.”) She’s piped small blue flowers around the periphery of it, and leaves that curl around the edges of the cake. Diane says, “this is way too pretty to eat,” and “are you sure you want us to destroy it,” while Kenneth—their year’s Crew captain—helps Francesca with setting up the candles around the periphery of the cake and lighting them one by one.

Francesca laughs when Erika tells a story about a series of errors pertaining to their last grocery store run and tears up when Marin gives a speech about how Francesca is the main reason she stayed in Crew. After that, everyone sings—for a brief moment, the clamor in the living room becomes strictly unified. Then she blows out all the candles in one go, and everyone claps.

All in all, it’s a good evening.

—

It’s really not a surprise when Yves wakes up a few days later with a sore throat.

It’s not a surprise, either, when his nose starts running shortly after, or when—a couple hours later—a harsh, wrenching sneeze catches him off guard at work.

It’s as if that first sneeze has opened the floodgates. After that, he finds himself muffling sneezes into his elbow, scrambling for tissues from the rapidly depleting stash—a travel sized tissue pack that he keeps in his briefcase, just in case. The persistent tickle that settles in his nose seems impossible to appease, no matter how many times he sneezes, or how diligently he tries to ignore it. Worse, the sneezes are forceful enough to leave his throat feeling tender and painful, and violent enough that he finds himself coughing a little after.

Vincent was right. The cold isn’t particularly miserable—aside from the sore throat, he’s a little tired, but he doesn’t feel strictly worse than usual. It is irritating, though, to deal with—and irritating, too, to be at the office as it settles in.

It’s probably not worth taking a sick day for. It’s more an annoyance than a tangible inconvenience. Besides, he has only a couple days left of work before it’s the weekend, when he can catch up on sleep.

He’s scheduled himself for a morning’s worth of back to back meetings—two meetings with clients, one with a coworker he’s been working with to go over her findings, another status update meeting to review the work they’ve all done over the past few weeks.

Yves is prone to losing his voice when he’s ill. It’s one of his most embarrassing tells—it’d certainly garnered more attention than he’d wanted in college whenever he was under the weather—but in a work setting where his participation in meetings is non-negotiable, with every meeting he takes, he can feel his voice get closer and closer to unusable.

His second meeting ends a few minutes early, which is a relief. But when he heads to the break room to make himself a cup of much-needed tea, he finds that the hot water machine is out of order.

Just his luck.

He pours himself a cup of cold water and looks through some of the storage cabinets for tissues, though he has no luck with that, either.

The office is always turned a notch too cool—air conditioned to keep everyone awake in the afternoons—but today, it feels brutally, unnecessarily cold. He really should’ve dressed warmer. Yves heads to the conference room his next meeting is booked in, speaks on the material he’s prepared, and tries his best not to shiver too visibly. His meeting before lunch runs over, too, which is not uncommon, but today it just feels like insult to injury.

All in all, he’s exhausted. He eats a quick lunch in the cafeteria, downs two glasses of water, and goes through an embarrassing number of cafeteria napkins.

“Coming down with something?” Stanley, one of his coworkers, asks him.

Yves smiles at him sheepishly. “I wish it wasd’t so obvious,” he says.

“It’s just the season for it, I think. Vincent was just sick last week.”

“Oh, was he?” Yves says, feigning ignorance. His cold is definitely, most certainly not related to Vincent’s. “I was just goidg to grab a bottle of hand saditizer to keep at my desk,” he says, with a small cough. “I thidk there’s somethidg going around.”

Thankfully, the afternoon is—for the most part—just occupied with work. Still, it’s becoming increasingly more difficult to focus on the financial statements in front of him, the slew of emails he has pulled up.

His nose is running fiercely, the trash can at the foot of his desk is close to overflowing, and the stack of napkins he’d taken from the cafeteria—certainly not an ideal solution, but it’s the best one he can come up with at the moment—is almost entirely gone.

He grabs one off the top of the stack—he’s only able to unfold it partially before he’s jerking forward with a wet, spraying, “hhEHh’iiiZZSCHh’EW!” 

Fuck. The napkins, while infinitely better than nothing, are not as soft as tissues would have been. Given the frequency with which he’s been using him, he’s almost positive that his nose is redder than usual.

The next sneeze nearly catches him off guard. He barely has time to lift the napkin up to his face again before his breath hitches again, sharply.

“Hhehh… HEHh—’IIDDSCHhiew! hEHH’iITSSHh’Yyew!” 

His nose is still running fiercely, and worse, the sneezes are loud enough to scrape against his throat. He thinks his voice is never going to recover if he keeps this up.

From behind him, he hears someone clear their throat.

Yves freezes. His first thought is that he’s probably being disruptive. His second thought is that even if he isn’t, whoever’s behind him must have been waiting to speak to him for some time—he’d just been too caught up with sneezing to realize, which is a little embarrassing.

His third thought is—whoever it is, he wants to face them looking at least marginally presentable. He’s almost certain that right now, he doesn’t.

He blows his nose into the napkins he’s holding, runs a hand through his hair, and pivots around in his office chair with a smile that is admittedly a little forced. “What’s up?”

He expects to see Cara, who he’s been working more with, or perhaps Laurent, who he’s been shadowing. But standing there, looking every inch as formal and as put together as he always does, is Vincent.

For a moment, Vincent just stares at him, as if he’s cataloging Yves’s appearance in silence.

Yves tries not to fidget under his scrutiny. “Did you ndeed anythidg?” 

In lieu of responding, Vincent steps past him to set a box of tissues down at the edge of his desk. 

“I figured you’d want this back,” Vincent says.

It’s the same tissue box he’d handed off to Vincent last week, he realizes, when Vincent was the one who had a use for it. Vincent has taken care to set it down at the same spot where it was initially: at the right edge, next to his monitor.

“Thadk you,” Yves says. “I’ll treasure it.”

“This, too,” Vincent says, setting a mug down in front of him. Whatever’s in there is hot enough to be steaming.

Yves muffles a cough into his hand. “What?”

“Tea,” Vincent says, as if that explains everything. “Chamomile, if it matters. I didn’t know if caffeine would keep you up.”

“Oh.” Yves stares at it. “You got the hot water machide workidg. It was broken this morning. Or maybe I’mb just really bad at using it.”

“Actually, no,” Vincent says. “I got this from the third floor.”

“You walked all the way up here from the third floor?” Yves says, a little surprised.  He’s about to say more, but then—in a progression that he should probably be used to by now—he finds himself succumbing, with little warning, to another sneeze, which he muffles into a perhaps-too-generous handful of tissues. At this rate, he might run out of them, even given Vincent’s generous contribution.

“It was just two flights of stairs,” Vincent says. 

“Still,” Yves says, lowering the tissues from his face so he can take a sip. The thought of Vincent precariously taking the tea up two flights of stairs, careful to not let it spill, just to get it to his desk is so endearing that he finds himself smiling. “Thank you.”

Vincent blinks at him, as if he wasn’t expecting to be thanked. “I don’t think it will keep you from losing your voice,” he says, at last. “But it might help with your sore throat.” 

Yves doesn’t remember mentioning that. “How did you kdow I had a sore throat?”

“How do you think?” Vincent says. “I had the same cold a week ago.”

Even so, the idea that Vincent already probably knows, and knows intimately, how he’s feeling right now, even though Yves hasn’t said anything about it, feels a little incriminating. Yves is under no illusion that his current affliction is subtle, by any means, but at the very least he’d thought that the less visible parts of it—his sore throat, the growing exhaustion, the pressure he feels building at his temples—were things that no one else would have to think about.

“Was it this bad for you?” he says. “I’d feel terrible if I mbade you talk to all my friends if your throat was already— Hh- heHh-! hHEH-heHh’iSSSchh-Iiew!”

It’s a good thing, Yves thinks, hazily, that he’s still holding onto the tissues from earlier. His nose is running again, and the tissues feel traitorously soft as compared to the napkins he’s been using all day.

“No,” Vincent says, frowning. “I think you just wore your voice out at work.”

“That mbight be the case,” Yves says. “I had a lot of meetidgs this morning. Ndow it’s pretty much just heads-down work, thankfully.” He muffles a yawn into one hand. Vincent is probably here for a reason—but Vincent is usually very conscientious about the work he passes onto others, so whatever he needs Yves to do for him, Yves doesn’t expect it should take too long. “Did you ndeed me to look over somethidg?” “I just wanted to see how you were feeling,” Vincent says, which is not the answer Yves expects.

Yves blinks at him. “How did you find out I was sick?”

“I heard from Cara.”

“Ah.” He probably owes Cara an apology—he’s sure that she’d probably prefer to work somewhere quiet, and his cold is certainly making that difficult. “Yeah, she would kdow. I’ve been like this all day—well, sidce this mording, I guess.”

“It came on quickly for me, too,” Vincent says. “Can I get you anything?”

“It’s just a cold,” Yves says with a laugh. “I’ll mbanage.” He means for it to be reassuring, but Vincent just frowns, looking off to the side.

He looks… strangely upset, Yves realizes.

“It’s ndot really all that bad,” Yves insists, backtracking. “And the weekend’s coming up soon. I’ll catch up on sleep when I get the chance.” Now is a really inopportune time to have to cough. He raises an elbow to his face to cough as quietly as he can, though the effort only seems to prolong the coughing fit—it leaves him slightly breathless, blinking away the tears that surface in his vision. “Seriously, don’t worry about it.”

“I’m sorry,” Vincent says, quiet.

“For what?”

“For giving you my cold.”

“I dod’t think you can even take credit for that,” Yves says. “I was the one who kissed you.”

Vincent does smile, at that—a small, almost imperceptible smile. “Even so.”

Yves wants to tell him that he would do it again, if he had the chance to. He wants to tell Vincent how easy it had felt to kiss him, how right.

How it felt to forget about Erika, and Brendon, and all of it—even if just for a moment—to feel so perfectly grounded in someone other than himself. To let himself experience the sort of closeness he’s been scared of seeking out, after the breakup, after Erika, in fear that no one would ever fit quite the same. To lean into the warmth of someone who still, even now, continues to be kind to him for reasons he can’t quite rationalize. 

How long has it been since he’s been able to place his trust into someone, blindly, in the way he trusts Vincent to keep up this act of theirs, to lie on his behalf? Vincent is nothing if not competent, but Yves hadn’t expected that competence to extend to this arrangement of theirs. How long has it been since Yves has been able to lean on someone the way he’s leaned on Vincent, to trust someone to meet him where he is?

“For the record, I dod’t regret it,” Yves says. He finds that he really means it.

[hayakawapartner]

aki with a s/o with chronic pain . . .

!!! this post is sfw, but minors/ageless blogs dni with this post/blog !!!

notes: gn!disabled!reader, this is self indulgent i tried to make this fitting for more general chronic pain! reader might come across as ehlers danlos-coded (is that a thing?? weird thing for me to type)

aki is already so sweet and caring with you, of course he would be helpful when your chronic pain flares up.

he notices that you’re moving a bit slower, taking shorter steps, taking a longer time to get up from your seat… and he’s immediately there to help

VERY quick to ask what you need, but he also tries to offer your usual solutions

“where does it hurt? do you need a heating pad? painkillers? tiger balm? do you want me to run a warm bath?”

if you have fluctuating mobility/occasionally use a mobility aid, he does his best to keep everything in a convenient spot for you. crutches near the bed so you can slide your arms in and get up with a bit more ease, rollator in a place where you don’t trip but it’s easy to access…

he was initially Overly Careful with you so he didn’t aggravate your pain further, but as he grows used to your needs, he’s still careful but he’s not scared of breaking you like he used to be

kisses the back of your neck while gently massaging your sore joints/muscles, murmuring soft “i love you”s and “you’re gonna be okay”s while he’s rubbing tiger balm onto your sorest spots

if he hears your joints pop he gets really nervous until you specify if it was a good/bad pop

if a spot is too sore, he won’t touch it in case he hurts you even more.

and if you just Can’t get out of bed for the day? he calls off from work to take care of you. brings you comfort food, helps you to the bathroom when you need it, makes sure you’re hydrated and taking your meds…

SPEAKING OF MEDS. this man is so good at reminding you

“did you forget to take your meds? maybe you should take them now, love. it’ll help you feel less sore.”

he’s very careful to make sure he doesn’t shame you for forgetting meds, for needing help, for being in pain. he just does whatever he can to make sure you’re okay and empathises with your complaints about your aches.

while he hates seeing you in pain during a flare-up, he becomes extra doting just to make sure your needs are met. cooks your fav comfort meal, makes sure all your pillows are soft and arranged to keep you comfy, refills your water bottle whenever it’s almost empty, etc.

he’s just so loving… aaauuuu

[avaetin]

Favorite Colors (Nico & Aeon + 5)

Nico: If you have to pick one, what would be your favorite color?

Percy: Mine's-

Nico: Blue. We all know, Captain Obvious.

Percy: Wow. You just couldn't wait a second before verbally attacking me.

Nico: (grinning)

Hazel: Mine's probably... white.

Nico: I honestly thought yours would be either yellow or orange.

Hazel: I like them too. But white's a versatile color, so... (shrugs)

Jason: Purple for me.

Reyna: I don't really have any.

Jason: That's bor- (sees Reyna's expression) -... not fun. But not having a favorite is fine. (quickly turns to Nico) Yours is green, right?

Nico: Yup.

(w/ the sea-green eyes) Percy: Why do I feel happy with his answer?

(w/ the chartreus-green eyes) Alabaster: Funny. So am I.

(w/ the emerald-green eyes) Aeon: (rolls his eyes, but is happy as well)

Alabaster: Anyway... mine is brown.

Percy: Brown? Like earth brown?

Jason: Earth brown? Sounds like some made-up color.

Percy: It's not made-up! And you know what I mean!

Hazel: Actually, there is a color called earth brown.

Percy: Ha! Eat that!

Alabaster: (glaring at Percy) If you don't shut up, I'll shove earth brown down your throat.

Percy: (zips his lips)

Alabaster: Not earth brown. More like... russet brown.

Reyna: (smiles knowingly) I wonder why.

Nico: (has russet-brown eyes)

Alabaster: (gives her a pointed look)

Hazel: And Aeon?

Nico: His is-

Aeon: Pink.

All six: Pink???

Nico: Wait. I thought you like gold? Why do you suddenly like pink?

Aeon: (thinking about Nico's lips and his cheeks when he's blushing) No particular reason.

Alabaster: Why do I feel irritated by his answer?

Percy: Funny. So am I.

[averlym]

ghostwriter (their grandma would tell them she'd lose half her soul)

[crybaby-bkg]

as you sit in the empty practice room, you mutter to yourself as your fingers fly over the keys of the piano. you hum the rhythm of the piece your instructor has so kindly gifted you, clicking your tongue to keep up with the melody. on the outside, you're sure you look insane, all hunched over, eyes damn near touching the sheet music, fingers flying madly over the keys.

and then - you fuck up. on the same part you always fuck up on. groaning in frustration, you rest your hands on the keys, the piano emitting a funny sound, body deflating. you perk up though when you hear a chuckle to the left of you.

"It's not that hard once you break it down," a singsongy voice carries over to you, your back straightening as your head whips over to find the culprit that snuck up on you.

lo and behold, its gojo satoru - the music departments gifted prodigal student that is miles ahead of everyone. and just your luck, his focus is the piano (alongside the harp, violin, snare drum, and a multitude of other instruments you don't care to list anymore).

"Yeah, cause nothing's ever hard for you." you sneer at him, eyes squinted in his direction. gojo feigns a pained expression, hand over his heart as his bottom lip pouts. insufferable, you think to yourself, this man is.

"You don't think I put in the work like the rest of you guys?" gojo bemoans, back straightening as he makes his way over to you. you try to take up the whole bench, but he only moves you over with his hip and a faint, "scooch."

"Why would you? You are the gifted one." your voice is airy, holds a level of sarcasm that barely conceals the truth of your words. gojo only smiles lightly, head tilted back as he rests his hands over the keys. doesn't even warm up, doesn't even look at the music before he starts playing the section of the piece you have the most difficulty with.

and gods, do you want to be mad at him, for intruding on your solo practice time, for coming in so late, for showing you how it's done. but its hard to, when his body sways with the melody, when his pink lips barely part. his fingers fly so effortlessly against the keys, long and thin and pale, and you can see the faint scratch on the back of one of them that you gave him when he wouldn't stop putting his arm around your shoulders.

you want to hate him so bad. but its hard to, when he brings your hand up to play with his, when he knocks his shoulder against your own, when he hums the harmony, when he smiles at you.

"Is this helping you understand that section?" Gojo quietly asks you, mouth turned to your hair, but his body continues playing the piece like its second nature. you try to keep up, pouting a little, face warming when his hand grabs your own to direct you to what key to hit next.

"No, you fuckin' show off." you mutter back, to which gojo only laughs heartily at you. but still, you two play together for what feels like hours. and finally - finally - do you master that section. not because of his help though, you'd never admit it. but gojo puffs his chest proudly the day you perform it in front of everybody, and look to him for reassurance.

[sunnibits]

you can decide who he’s looking at, but I like to imagine that he caught someone staring ;)