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necrotic-nephilim · 2 months

Note

this is an invitation to ramble about slade/batboy ships: sladick, sladejay, sladetim, sladedami, and other batfam member/villain ships, especially jayroman and ra'stim :)

AAAAAA this is so delightful oh my god thank you. adding a read more just because this one is going to get Long to cover all the ships and all my opinions. because my god do i love Slade.

firstly, the original Robin/villain ship, SlaDick. Slade Wilson, literally created to be a Teen Titans villains, with the original Robin he cannot be normal about ever. i'm so sad there's not much interest in Slade aside from making him a generic Evil Guy who canonically likes teenagers because i think to just boil down his complex with Dick to 'weird attraction' robs them of SUCH nuance. Slade *trusts* Dick, he trusts Dick enough to ask Dick to train his own daughter Rose. and initially Slade's complex over Dick isn't sexual, it's seeing Dick as a replacement for his dead son, Grant. that's messy as hell and i love them for it. i don't think there's a single villain that has the respect for Dick that Slade has. i'm always of the opinion Dick's attraction to Slade is rooted in daddy issues and Slade's attraction to Dick is rooted in dead son issues. do i think they could end up as an old married couple? yes but only in a world where Dick is completely broken and feels alone. my favorite SlaDick flavor is post-Jason's death. Dick and Bruce are arguably at their worst during that era to begin with so Dick is pretty isolated and emotionally unstable. and Slade would take such advantage of that, swooping in to offer Dick emotional stability and fucked up sex to get out pent up emotions. (i'm big a big fan of Dick fucking out his feelings tbh) and Slade is just. this sort of bad habit Dick will kick for a year or two then come crawling back to. you can directly track how well Bruce and Dick are getting along based on how many times Dick has slept with Slade recently. and that's the prize, for Slade. knowing Dick will come back to him, eventually. it's all about patience. and if something really extreme happened to Dick (like Bruce's fake death) i think they'd even date briefly. it's not entirely impossible for Dick to date someone he disagrees with morally (see: his flings with Helena) and i think Dick would keep trying to 'save' Slade, using the upper hand he has of filling in this role of Slade's dead son to try to domesticate him. would it work? who knows but if anyone is going to try over and over, it's going to be Dick. it's practically self-harm for Dick yet the only thing keeping him sane. i love them.

SladeJay is... an interesting one for me. because i like the *potential*. but they have no significant interactions pre-Flashpoint. and while usually i can forgive New-52 and Rebirth for their grievances if it has ship fodder i just... can't do that for Jason. Judd Winick's Jason is the only Jason that exists to me so even Slade and Jason's canon interactions matter little to me because it's not the version of Jason i care for. the upside of that though, is it's more of a sandbox to explore what they could be and there are no limitations. i can just run wild. which is fun bc. you're telling me Slade wouldn't be so drawn in by the idea of a dead Robin who's come back and is now the antithesis of Bruce's morality? i think at some point Slade would want to poke the bear, really see what Red Hood is made of. do i see them working long-term? no but i do think Jason would have zero qualms working with Slade if he got something out of it. and if he could fuck with Bruce or Dick by having a short, fucked up relationship with Slade? that's even better. i don't think Slade could ever truly respect Jason, at the end of the day the Dick Grayson standard is too high and Slade would sneer at the idea of a legacy who fucked it up so bad he got blown up. but, he'd see that as Bruce's failure more than Jason's. and for Jason to have someone look him in the eye and say that Bruce *failed* him? i think that'd just *do* something to Jason. and Slade has lost a son, he knows what that loss feels like, how you feel you failed as a father. would he have interest in being fatherly to Jason? no but i think he'd have fun momentarily manipulating Jason and seeing what reactions he gets out of what jeers. Jason's been calling himself a failure this whole time, so to have someone else say it is no real big deal, but to have someone else say it's Bruce's fault and voice Jason's feelings? they'd have the most fucked up sex with the most unhealthy dirty talk that's both gentle and degrading. i don't think Jason would ever let himself get too close, he's far too emotionally guarded. but for a second, i think he'd fantasize about having even *half* the amount of attention that Slade gives Dick. bc what has Jason always been, but in Dick's shadow.

SladeTim. my two blorbos. in one place. somewhere in my drafts i have a half-started longfic about SladeTim that's one half really fucked up porn and one half slowburn feelings. arguably Tim and Slade don't have many canon interactions, but it's fun to me that when they do, Slade always seems sort of startled by how well Tim fights back and Tim's willingness to fight dirty in a way even Dick doesn't. and to me, that's the crux of this ship. as far as Robins go, Tim should sort of slip under the radar for Slade. he's not the dead one turned villain, he's not the grandson of Ra's al Ghul, hell he's not even the child of a second-rate villain like Steph, he's not *the* Dick Grayson, he's just... the other one. grew up pretty rich and normal and fell for all of Bruce's wax poetic nonsense. so when Tim puts himself on the map as a hero, makes himself a worthy opponent against Slade that's interesting. even to Tim, Slade isn't a particularly remarkable villain since Slade cares to stay more on Dick's radar. so when they cross paths there's a lot of unexpected. neither of them have thought about the other too hard. so there's this interest and intrigue about it i love. i'm a big fan of the idea Tim is a massive masochist, both physically and emotionally and Slade is The Sadist Ever so. i like them falling into bed together and having the most fucked up sex. like Tim just being a Weird Little Freak so fucked up even Slade raises an eyebrow. because this isn't what you *expect* of a kid like Tim, who's had a pretty easy life before tangling with vigilantes. he should be like a fish out of water, but instead he's matching Slade's energy in ways even Dick doesn't. and of course, how smart he is, that's an asset. it takes a special kind of kid to have the audacity to poison Lady Shiva with hotel chocolates and pull it *off* no less. it earns a begrudging respect, and it's rare to get Slade to respect someone. i really like the idea of Tim seeking Slade out only for fucked up sex and somehow Slade falls for this weird little freak who's cold and clinical outside of sex and keeps him guessing.

i'll be honest i've only considered SladeDami in the context of seeing antis say 'omg Slade has been predatory toward Damian ewww' and going 'no the fuck he hasn't but if you want that so bad i'll ship it just to spite you all' but their canon interactions do fascinate me. a lot of how they interact is predicated on Slade as a father, even more so than SlaDick. like Slade will fight Damian and then be like 'hey be good to your old man fathers need their sons' and fucking dip. and then with the whole Respawn thing and Shadow War? that was extra crunchy. for a brief moment Slade had a son who was a brother to Damian and then he goes and *dies*? talk about the complex that would give him with Damian, the spitting image of Respawn. Make Slade Weird About Batkids That Remind Him of His Son 2024. Damian holds an utter contempt for Slade that is simply unmatched. so Slade not leaving that kid alone because of his weird issues, making sure that Bruce doesn't screw up with Damian the way he screwed up with Respawn is very fun. and Damian slowly building up a tolerance to Slade's annoying antics could be fun. Damian is, at his core, still just a kid who needs the approval of something father-shaped and he will Take What He Can Get. are they ever healthy or long lasting? no but i do think Damian would cling to Slade during his teen years for something incredibly fucked up and codependent until either Slade dumped him or he forced himself to get over it.

JayRoman. i will not lie love these two but i don't think i've read many Black Mask comics when he's not interacting with Jason. which is funny because my entire conception of Roman is him just getting humiliated by Jason and really what more is there to know about the man. Jason is so unserious in how he handles Roman and the best part is you can tell it's truly because he doesn't see Roman as a threat. Roman's just a pawn in the game of getting Bruce's attention and sure, Jason is aiming to kill Roman by the end of it, but he'll always have bigger fish to fry. and that's so *infuriating* for Roman. this new guy who's *clearly* a fucking teenager shows up, owns you so badly it shatters your empire, and then you only live bc he seems to have gotten bored of you. JayRoman is my particular favorite ship for the flavor of 'the sub in bed is in control of every other aspect of their relationship and their submission is a gift that can be revoked at any time' which we don't get enough. fucked up power dynamics always have the sub being the one lacking control. and whilst i enjoy when Roman is able to absolutely control and manipulate Jason through various means, i think in canon, it makes far more sense he's pathetic and begging Jason for even a *chance*. and Jason very specifically picking who he subs for based on someone who he could kill or destroy at the drop of the hat if he needed to is a very Jason thing to do. there will never be trust between these two. they will fuck nasty and Roman will be in love with Jason. but they are both carrying a gun during sex. the gun is probably involved during the sex.

Ra'sTim. my everything. Red Robin (2009) you will always be famous to me. what *don't* they have. forced proximity. enemies to lovers. forced partnership. one-sided obsession. ridiculously large age gap. deep unforgivable betrayal. i will never evacuate these two from my brain dear god. Ra's is another one of those villains who gets painted with one broad stroke of being cartoonishly evil with no exploration of his interesting nuance. making him nothing but a villain is boring. where is the Ra's who loves so deeply and fully and has to lose his loved ones over and over and will not let that happen to Tim. he wants to consume Tim in a 'cannibalism as a metaphor for love but also probably literal cannibalism' way. the amount of trust put in Ra's in order for Tim to be able to betray him as spectacularly as he did? that's glorious. Tim had full unfiltered access to Ra's' computers even when he was advised against trusting Tim so much. and then Tim wins against Ra's and willingly lets Ra's kill him. (obviously Dick saves him, but I'm of the opinion Tim was just committed to dying in that moment and he was Okay With That) 'i will betray you if it's the last thing i do' as an act of love. Tim is to Ra's what Dick is to Slade. you will never convince me Tim and Ra's didn't hatefuck at least once during RR (2009) with a questionable level of consent. i'm so serious i will never shut up about them. the way Tim talks about working with Ra's as if he's making a deal with the devil and Ra's talks about Tim like he's the precious, once in a life time thing, one of the only people worthy to produce an heir for Ra's. how's that not gay. what other ship involved one of them literally trying to have the other's baby to raise as an heir. Ra's would probably carry the baby himself if he could. memes aside they're just so. they're so it. i love when Tim is forced into a Situation where he has to work with Ra's and confronts the darker aspects of himself that Ra's wants to bring out but Tim wants to squash. it is The corruption kink. whether Ra's succeeds or not in corrupting Tim doesn't even matter because the real crux of this ship is the chase. it's the way the heart pounds when they reach out for each other and you don't know if it's for a kiss or a killing blow. it's very Hannigram to me, in that i don't even need or want them to kiss to know they're in love. love to them is not true love's kiss, it's the thoughtful place they decide to stab the other in. be the sheath to my dagger type ship. hold all this bloody violence i know you're capable of inside of you. let me cut the violence out of you ship. what more can you ask for from a ship. Ra's would tie Tim down and torture him both as foreplay and as a love language and Tim would be too fucked up and self-sacrificial to stop him. always playing the dangerous game of how far will the other let them go until someone tries to die or kill. listen i think i lost the plot here but my point is they're unwell about each other. Tim will make Ra's regret the day he met Tim Drake not just for the betrayal but because Ra's can never go back to a time Before Tim. before knowing what the chase felt like. they're so. them.

#necrotic answerings #sladick #sladejay #sladetim #sladedami #jayroman #ra'stim #i was going to include timlonnie for my own indulgent reasons but this already got so long.#also i've been having some timulysses thoughts as of recent.#aghhhh #sorry this took me a second to answer #i was writing a fic for omega dick week #it ended up 11k words long god somebody help me.#seriously thank you so much for this ask this just makes me so soft ppl wanna ask my opinions on ships #like oh my god ppl care about my weird thoughts. wtf /pos #i was worried when i started this blog that like. no one would care.#but i'm thriving.#yeah in case you can't tell i'm a big fan of tim.#he's just so.#rastim will be like. the peak of peak for me.#but i love all the others just as much #slade wilson deserves more nuance than ppl just calling him a predator/loser. bc yeah he is duh but he's also complicated as hell.#also i'm so serious i saw someone say damian was a 'victim' of slade's #and their proof was a single cover where damian is chained up upsidedown and happens to stick his tongue out at slade.#like. oh my god read their actual interactions you walnuts.#this is a common sentiment on tiktok. the idea damian and dick are victims of slade on the level terra was #which. like blatantly no. they fucking were not.#also the judas contract is just a complicated ass storyline that deserves more nuance than it gets #btw for sladejay i know there's some interactions in the arkhamverse that seem pretty interesting #but i don't know the arkhamverse all too well so i didn't comment

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suddencolds · 10 months

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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 them, 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.

#snz fic #sneeze fic #snz kink #sneeze kink #parts of this are very self indulgent and familiar but also #this took me 3 weeks of writing every day after i came home from work to finish T.T #the number of hours i sat there just deleting and rewriting a few sentences #but it's done! at last! (and i will not look at it for the next 24 hrs)#thank you to everyone who read foreign home and left their thoughts on it!!#reading your tags makes me really happy 🥹 thank you #my fic #me writing vincent's part: just a slight cold :) not miserable at all #me writing yves's part: ...okay. maybe a little miserable #yvverse

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tennessoui · 2 years

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(cradles your face gently in my hands) your productivity, especially in fandom spaces, is not a reflection of your worth or measure of your talent we should leave those thoughts in 2022

#been seeing so much fan art and fanfic lately #where people are apologizing for how long it took them to update #or finish a drawing #or people saying they should be writing more and posting more #you could not post at all ever again and still have a spot in a fandom ok #dont feel bad for lurking or not uploading every week or taking ages for a fic update #its enough that youre here #and creating things #and having fun doing it #me holding my own face and glaring nto the mirror)

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elizaditton · 8 months

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Too Small To Be Afraid (Chapter 13)

Links:

Cover / Master Post / Previous Chapter / Next Chapter

- - - - - - - - - -

I hardly absorbed any information at all during seventh period Koronian since I was so fixated on Derrick knowing about my fear. How long has he known about it? What does 'helping' me mean? What does he have planned for when we meet behind the school? Questions like these continue to bounce around in my mind as I stand on the balcony beside Brittney, not at all engaged in the conversation she's having with our deskmates.

I've only known Derrick for about a week, and he's already found out about my fear. I feel like an idiot. If my fear was this obvious to him, how obvious has it been to other pertheans?

What about the receptionist in the perthean lobby at the apartment? Did evading nearly all her questions make it obvious that I have a fear?

What about Mrs. Hudson, the perthean co-principal? Could she tell how frightened I was when I entered her office for the first time? Then again, I wouldn't be surprised if Dad told her about my fear, since they've been friends since they were deskmates in high school.

What about Kevin? I haven't been able to stop myself from shaking whenever he's around! And the way he looks at me... it's always like he's staring straight into my soul! Does he know I have a fear? Does he resent me for it? And not only is he Brittney's boyfriend—he's friends with Derrick, too... would either Brittney or Derrick tell him about my fear?

Kevin looks up from his phone, and his narrowed brown eyes pierce right through me. I'm unable to tear my eyes away from his as my whole nervous system is overtaken by relentless shuddering. What's he going to think now?

A hand rests on my shoulder, catching me completely off guard and causing me to flinch. I gasp and turn to the side to find an irritated looking Brittney.

"Hello?!" She says. "Earth to Kaylin!"

I blink a few times, trying to wrap my head around what she just said. "...Earth?" I finally ask.

"Well, I guess here it would be 'Perthea to Kaylin,' but you know what I mean!"

I slowly shake my head, not having the slightest clue as to what Brittney means at all. I look to Derrick to see if he has any idea what she's talking about. He shrugs.

Kevin sighs. "You and your Earthling vernacular."

"Hey!" Brittney says, stomping, "it's not my fault that I don't know which planet to use which phrases on!"

"You should still be careful with phrases like that, especially on Earth," Kevin says. "If a fed on Earth heard you say something was 'as red as a rotizelle,' they'd be all over you."

"Yeah, well... at least that won't be a problem soon," Brittney says with a sorrowful look in her eye as she crosses her arms.

Brittney, Kevin, and Derrick share a knowing look. I remember Brittney telling me back in stage two that she was from Earth, but aside from that, I have no idea what anyone's talking about.

"Um..." I pipe up, awkwardly breaking the silence between the four of us. "What are you guys talking about?"

"Oh! Well, it's a long story... I can fill you in later," Brittney says, pulling out her phone. "Great Barrier Reef! It's already 3:17! I better get going! Bye, you guys!"

Brittney waves at Kevin, Derrick and I briefly before speeding off.

"Brittney!" I call out to no avail. "What's a barrier reef?!"

"Well," Kevin says, eyes glued to his phone again, "I better get going, too. You know how my mom gets."

He fist bumps Derrick and turns away, not even sparing me a passing glance as I stand on the balcony wondering how it is his mom gets.

Once Kevin and Brittney are gone, Derrick turns to me and smiles. "I'll see you out back," he says with a wink before turning and walking away from the balcony.

I gulp, shivers running down my spine. What is it I signed up for?

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

I glance at myself in the mirror I hung inside my locker. I don't look that nervous, do I? My twitching eyes and trembling lip say otherwise. I heave a shuddering sigh and close my locker door. It's useless. I don't know how I'll ever get over this stupid fear. I don't know what Derrick had in mind when he said he wanted to help me, but whatever it is, what good could it possibly do? After years upon years of journaling, meditation, and not to mention therapy, I've found that nothing has helped to cure me of my fear. So whatever Derrick has in mind, I'm almost certain it won't do me any good. I'm going to be afraid of pertheans forever!

With every step I take on the path to my destination, I grow more and more faint. My legs wobble like jelly, and my insides reduce to mush. My mind swarms with questions and anxieties about this meeting. Is it really safe for a human to be meeting with a perthean alone? Does Derrick really want to help me, or does he have it in for me? Am I going to make it out of this meeting alive?

I shake my head. Of course I'm going to make it out of this meeting alive! Derrick and I are friends after all, and I'm sure he has no intent to hurt me. He probably just wants to help, like he said.

As I'm thinking through these things, the image of that twisted grin plastered across my deskmate's face comes to my mind.

"Let me help you, Kaylin," I imagine Derrick saying. "When I'm through with you, you won't feel a thing ever again!"

My head quickly twists from side to side. I can't go through with this! I can't go out there and let him do whatever he wants to me! I have to get away now while I still can! I stop dead in my tracks, turning away from the hallway that leads to behind the school and run as fast as I can to the elevators that go down to the lobby.

After a moment of standing around, a mechanical whirr reaches my ears. A tone sounds on the overhead speaker, and the door in front of me slides open. Keeping my head down, I board the elevator with some other students.

My heart sinks as I step into the cabin. I'm running away. Again. Is this all I know how to do?

The image of Derrick smiling flashes in my mind. This time, it's the smile he gave me when he told me he wanted to help me. There was compassion in his eyes. I could see it. I could feel it. I think back to his words. 'Let me help you...'

I place a hand on the elevator door as it begins to shut, to the surprise of the other students.

"Sorry," I say. "I... forgot something."

I exit the elevator, turn the corner, and head straight down the hall until I happen upon a set of doors. Doors like these that lead outside of buildings are usually marked as emergency exits, since humans usually dwell in the undercity unless they leave through a proper exit. These doors, however, don't share any markings with the emergency exits I've seen around this school. So, if I'm right, they shouldn't sound an alarm.

I take a deep breath and exhale. This is it. No more running away. I crack open one of the doors and peer into the outside world, wondering what awaits me on the other side.

I immediately shield my eyes. It's so bright out here! Right when I think I'm adjusted to this foreign place, a wind carrying the early spring chill blows right through me, leaving me covered in goosebumps. I wince, rubbing my arms forcefully. I didn't miss being above ground.

"I was starting to think you wouldn't come," Derrick says.

My heartbeat quickens as I look up at my deskmate. He's standing a few perthean yards away from the balcony, which I find a bit strange. His hands are tucked away in his pockets, and his gaze is fixed on the ground.

"I-I..." I cough, hoping it'll stop my stuttering. "I had some trouble finding the exit."

"I see," Derrick says.

He keeps his eyes fixated on the ground, and only looks up at me for a brief moment before turning his eyes back to the concrete. He takes a deep breath and holds it in briefly before exhaling.

"Um," he finally says, breaking the silence between us. "I already asked you this before, but... I want to hear your answer."

Derrick shifts in place before locking eyes with me. I already know what he's going to ask, yet I can't stop my heart from pounding and pounding! And I don't know if it's because of the cold Carmen air or just because I'm so nervous, but I can't stop shivering!

"Kaylin," Derrick asks, "are you afraid of me?"

My insides contort into a knot. Why am I so nervous? I already told him earlier! Maybe it's just that I don't want to tell a perthean about my fear directly. Whatever the case, I have to tell him. I can't go back now.

I look down at the balcony floor, unsure of how I should go about confessing my fear. Should I apologize? I already did that before, so maybe I shouldn't do it again. Should I try to justify it? He's just so tall, after all! Then again, I don't want to make him angry. Maybe I should just come out and say it. But standing here with my legs wobbling, my shoulders shuddering, and my throat drier than a desert, how can I?

"Kaylin?" Derrick says.

"I-I—" I stutter helplessly under my deskmate's gaze. I hold my breath, only for my lungs to scream at me to let the air go so they can take in more oxygen at an ever-accelerating pace. My heart skips a beat. I release the breath I was holding in and try to look my deskmate in the eyes.

Derrick looks at me blankly. I can't help but wonder what's going through his mind.

Unable to keep eye contact, I tear my gaze away from Derrick's and settle it back on the balcony floor. "Yes," I say.

There's a silence between us. The wind rustles through the nearby trees and blows through the grass that surrounds our empty portion of the school grounds. I'm relieved to have gotten my answer out, but I'm worried about what's on Derrick's mind as a result. Did he really mean what he said about helping me? Is he really sensitive like Brittney said? Did I hurt him by telling him I'm afraid? Does he want to hurt me?

I look back up at Derrick. His lips are pursed and his eyes, fixed on the ground, move back and forth as if he's deep in contemplation.

"When did this start?" he asks.

I gulp. Visuals I don't want to remember come flooding back to my mind. A short walk past the undercity exit through an enormous city above ground. A dark, unsuspecting alleyway. A tall perthean man with narrowed brown eyes.

I shake the thoughts away. I'm not going back there. "It's... always been this way, ever since I was little."

"But can you pinpoint a specific memory?" Derrick asks.

"I-I...!" I stutter again as I fall victim to my own thoughts.

The tall perthean man in the alleyway turns to me with a devilish grin. He's approaching me! His hands are coming for me, and I'm glued to the ground! I can't move! My heart slams against my ribcage, and my lungs gasp for air as I stand in place, unable to snap out of the trance I'm in!

"Anything at all?" my deskmate asks.

I grip the railing in front of me tightly, my brows furrowed in anger as I blink back the tears that threaten to fall from my eyes. "You... you need to mind your own business," I say through gritted teeth.

"What?" Derrick asks, confused.

"Mind your own business!" I shout, the tears I so desperately tried to blink back now streaming down my face one by one. I grip the railing in front of me even tighter than before, it being the only thing keeping me grounded in reality and away from the memories my mind wants to force on me so desperately.

"I'm... sorry I upset you," Derrick says, taking a step backward. "I... I should go," he says, turning around and hurrying away.

I look up to see Derrick walking away, his head down and his hands hidden away in his pockets. A burning guilt builds in my chest. What have I done? My friend offers to help me with my fear, and I chase him away? I look at my hands. What kind of monster am I? What's he going to think of me now?

"Derrick, wait! Please!" I call out. I just hope he can hear me!

My deskmate stops only a few more perthean yards from where he once stood. My heartbeat rings in my ears. I have his attention? What do I say now?!

"I...! I'm sorry! I didn't mean to snap at you like that!" I shout.

Derrick remains motionless. What I said must have really gotten to him. I feel horrible!

I breathe in and out. "When you told me you wanted to help me, I didn't know what to think. I thought maybe it was a joke, or maybe you wanted to give me a piece of your mind for being afraid of your people, but... I've been scared for so long."

I shift in place, not really sure what I'm saying or where I'm going with this. Derrick stays in place, only turning his head back towards me slightly.

"I... I don't know where else to turn," I say, gripping the railing in front of me again. "I could never ask this of anyone else, so...!"

I lean over the balcony as far as I'm able to, eyes fixated on Derrick's distant figure. Yes, I'm terrified of pertheans. No, I'd rather not be attending a deskmate school. But this one awkward perthean boy... he's somehow managed to sneak his way into my heart in spite of those things, and I'm finding that I don't want to lose him. Not over something as stupid as this!

"I need your help, Derrick!" I shout. "Please, help me!"

I stare onward at my deskmate, who is still glued to the same spot as before. Nothing. I guess he's not going to forgive me this time. I look down to the balcony floor in defeat. I knew this was too good to be true. An opportunity like Derrick offered me only comes once in a lifetime, and I crushed it. My fear became too much to handle in the moment, and in front of a perthean? Forget it. It was only a matter of time before I lashed out like this. I'll be lucky if Derrick ever talks to me again after this.

Footsteps, one by one, make their way towards the balcony. Anxiety swelling in my gut, I keep my head down as a massive shadow overtakes my little frame.

"Kaylin..." Derrick says, his voice trailing off.

I look up at him, not sure what to expect but fearing the worst. His eyes are full of wonder, and his mouth is left agape. He blinks at me a few times and smiles.

"I'll do it," he says, "I'll help you overcome your fear!"

I gasp. Maybe it's the chill of the cooler surface world air. Maybe it's the cold early spring wind blowing through my hair. Maybe it's the slightest bit of warmth from the sun peaking through the clouds. Whatever it is, it washes over me, relieving my anxiety.

"Th-thank you," I say, wiping my tears away. "Really."

"Don't mention it," Derrick says. "Now, getting back to the matter at hand..."

He lifts his hand and moves it towards me. What's he doing?! I stumble backward, almost tripping over my own two feet in the process. Derrick rests his hand over the balcony railing in front of me, his palm facing upwards. Shivering and shielding myself with my arms, I struggle to catch my breath after such an unexpected movement. I look at his hand, confused, and then look at him. This isn't balcony etiquette. Why is he offering me his whole hand?

"Shall we get started?" my deskmate says with a smile.

#too small to be afraid #tstba #perthea #g/t #giant/tiny #g/t writing #sorry this took so long and that ive been absent aaaaaaaaAAA a lot has been going on for me recently asdefgfdjhdkhn #anyway i hope you all enjoy this new chapter and i will *hopefully* have a new one for you next week!!!#also... in other news im making a new cover for the book :0 #idk if ill reveal it until the book gets printed or not but i might just reveal it bc im proud of it so farrrrrr

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blorbingqls · 1 year

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"We accept the love we think we deserve" - seeing this quote in terms of love and control as subjects in Only Friends

With @tomatoland 's brilliant post on TopMew on the above quote here , i think that with 7 eps in, we have understood that love and control are very well linked with ephemerality as a subject.

As i have previously linked epheremality with control here, i would like to talk about how love also makes us lose control with the impermanence of life. This is a long overdue post for 4 eps now.

linking the ephemerality squad here so that you can also share your opinions on this @waitmyturtles @lurkingshan @slayerkitty @respectthepetty @ranchthoughts (anyone else i am missing, pls tag, i really appreciate it)

TopMew

As Tomato (@tomatoland i hope you're okay with that nickname; i really tried to find a name on your blog for you) has referred in their post, Mew left his bubble of insecurities and got his heart broken. Completely legible and correct on his point. Top really loves Mew but now Mew has no reason to believe him anymore. With the play in their power dynamics, both of them loved each other and lost control of the way they wanted the relationship. Yes, if Top and Mew has stuck to their original plans - just reaching to the point of ideality and sex, then, this relationship should have ended after they got their goals. I dont think that sex was a goal for Mew as much as it was for Top, but, we can say it was in the secondary.

But as they fell in love, they, especially Top understood how the love he received from Mew is so much more than he thought he deserves (taking into account his trauma and past experiences). So , even though Mew is projecting his hurt by doing things that literally are asshole-ish as fuck on his accord, Top is willing to let go all of that since even he knows he is in the wrong this time and he is willing to lose all control he has on his life - of fame, money and insecurities in order to have Mew back. Top is willing to be as obsessive as Mew said he would be in a relationship in order to get and accept the love he think he deserves from Mew, even if it won't be good.

But, I also feel, the concept of love as explored in the series so far, not just runs along with TopMew because of the books, but also with all the remaining couples in the show. I won't discuss P'Yo and her partner, CheumApril in this segment, because I want more angles on this from the coming episodes in order to validate my point. But, I'll discuss this point with our other views on the couples: RayMew, TopBoston, SandRay, and BostonNick.

RayMew

Now, RayMew is a pairing that is being enforced on the viewers for the past 3 episodes now and the last episode shows a pretty good view of how as characters, Mew and Ray view each other.

For Ray, his love is unconditional for Mew because it correlates with that fact that Mew was the only reason who made him stay in this world - who made him believe that he deserves the love from his friends, the love which he didn't get from his parents or any potential partners. But potential partners were never in the scene because Mew was Ray's emergency contact. Their relationship runs deep and however much you may think, even if Ray thinks Mew's love for him could be more as a friend, he also believes that because as he is so damn shitty and a fucking burden to society, he can't ask for more from Mew for the sake of their friendship and his esteem. He keeps entertaining the idea of them as partners several times, but, until ep 7, Mew has never entertained the idea that his love for Ray will be any worthy of more than a friend. Because, Mew wants to continue making the boundary and keep the control, according to me.

Now, as Mew has entertained the idea, i am interested how it pans out in the next episode (not very promising tho). just linking this out here because its so fucking interesting.

TopBoston

We will mainly take here Boston's viewpoint since Top gave up on this since the very beginning and became firm with it post ep 3. He gives no flying fucks about the possiblity of it. Top considers Boston to be a one night stand and a one night stand only.

Boston, as has mentioned so many times, considers Top to be top tier; the person who gives him something as close to love because as an Machiavellian prince (refer here) Boston considers Top to be the only worthy competitor in his reign. And he really doesn't care if he hurt others feeling. Mind you, Boston has been the most truthful to himself, maybe not to others. And as a prince, his love speaks volume through keeping them in their reign because ultimately Boston wants power and control in his arena. That's the fucking politics of it. And Top is the only worthy contender who can damage his reign. Hence, he wants the top tier power as much as possible, and only Top can give him that. Him fucking off to America, that can easily happen through Top, because he is a very well known hotel chain owner/manager. So, Boston wants his loves, because he very well thinks he deserves it and he accepts it as much as he can. But, he also knows that for him, he can't make this love into a weakness, because that will be out of his control.

Boston however, as Mew so incredibly pointed out, is gullible. Ray couldn't see through him, but, MEW FUCKING DID. That is why even though Boston didn't consider Mew as his competitor, he was fucking jealous of him because Mew got Top and was chosen over eventually by Top. Mew has the power that Boston didn't think he had, till now. And tbh, Mew is now winning the game, despite his insecurities with his relationship with Top.

THE WAR HAS BEGUN, MY FRIENDS.

SandRay

God, I have so many feeling for these babies. Where to start? Okay so, you know in second episode, Sand built that boundary with Ray regarding friends with benefits? Well, it has backfired on him. COMPLETELY.

As ep 8 preview says, I love how Sand realised the fact that they were never friends to begin with, for even to have made that boundary to make sense. Sand is a pathetic little man, as so many of you have pointed out, but, why is he the way he is?

His incredible nature to be so caring of others around him has made him feel like its his responsibility to take care of everything. His mother, his business, his money and job, his style and even his fucking roommate. Now, Sand is so emotionally attached to this damsel in distress, pathetic burden to society (affectionate) Ray, that even before they became friends, he made Ray his responsibility. Sand has no right to ask for love from Ray, because they are not friends, lest friends with benefits to ask for any care towards himself. But he selfishly asks, for the first time.

Because, as a person who keeps on taking care of others endlessly, it is harder for them to ask for the care and love they expect and deserve from whom they love while keeping their self esteem intact. And for Ray to completely shut him down at that time, and him still following Ray while he was drunk, makes him so much real because you feel responsible for that person. You are their emergency staff, even if they don't consider you to be.

While Ray comes from another perspective itself. He initially wanted to know Sand more as a person, because he is a person who wanted to explore the life beyond what has been given to him. He is a spoilt brat, and when he realised that he can't buy Sand's love, he explored it with him.

But because I think Ray believes that Sand will always be for him, even when he does asshole-ish behaviour (because thats where everyone leaves) he has taken Sand for granted. The backup option. Anything goes wrong with his ideal relationship, he can always go running back to Sand, because Sand has become his addiction.

Apart from drugs and alcohol, Mew and Sand are the only people he can keep coming back to. For Mew, it is only at a cost. At some conditions, only for something personal. While maybe Ray wants explore that possibility with Sand, but he is afraid. He is afraid that Sand will go away. just as Mew did. A person who can only consider him a friend and nothing more. Even if he wants to explore that possibility with both of them, loving them at the same time, he can't make people his priority, because he doesn't know how to do that. Nor does he think he's worthy of it. So, he accepts whatever he thinks he deserves off Sand's love and care.

I am interested to see how it pans out for these idiots once his relationship with Mew falls out. I am concerned for Ray so much. Give him access to therapy and rehab soon pls. Sand and Ray's father I think are going in that direction, with this speculation by @prapaiwife.

BostonNick

Now, our final pair has been the most interesting couple in this show so far. Why do I say that?

Well, for Nick, Boston is one of the top-tier gays. As pointed out by Boston, he likes bad guys. And lets be honest, Boston, most dishonest, cunning bastard out there. So, Nick believes that he will be that gay who lands the top tier dick and fix this problem. Right?

Wrong. Nick very well knows this won't happen. Still he keeps hoping for more as Boston doesn't know how to not be a hypocrite as a prince. He keeps giving some here and there false hope through his actions, not words which makes Nick believe he's special, but he's not. He takes whatever love he thinks Boston gives him, despite him not being his number one, despite Boston cheats on him over and over again. He just wants whatever of love as actions that Boston can give to him because that proves wrong all of his low self esteem. So he accepts whatever he thinks he deserves because he can't ask for more in a bed friend relationship. With Boston's guard so up and his will to leave the country, Nick knows he can't do anything but try to make him stay. Even if that's a 99% chance of not happening. He tries because he doesn't want Boston to hate him. He only wants him to love him. Because for him, thats enough.

The sadness keeps on piling up for these outsider, hard working roommates, doesn't it?

While, for Boston, he is nothing but a rebound from the angst of not getting Top. He wants a serious relationship, and maybe, he does look for it in Nick, maybe not, but he doesn't love Nick. He doesn't love Top either. For Boston, Nick is a toy he wanted to play with.

Because he cares about his reign, his reputation. And, Nick realised that. Hence, Mew contacted him and Nick gave that information to Mew. They will bring Boston down together because Nick somewhere believes he can get him back.

But Nick babygirl, he doesn't love you bub. He doesn't. And, it hurts so much. Because Boston keeps on taking from you, whatever he deserves. And that is your care for him, for granted. He is a leech bub. He is.

Now, how does it all link to ephemerality and control?

Well, love itself is impermanent. It doesn't stay.

The world knows this and still we chase it. And at an age as our characters, we chase love and freedom like anything. In order to gain control. We take up jobs, more courses to learn, experiment with love and relationships, with people because the time is ticking and people say now is the age. We break hearts and get it broken.

As P'Jojo says "This show is Hurt People Hurt People", tell me who hasn't been hurt by love, by control and by living at its time? And also by missing out each of these experiences because you were lonely with your own life and burdens?

We accept the hate and love the life gives us, because this is what we think we deserve out of this. And tbh, these feelings, are never permanent. They keep changing with time, and that's the only thing thats permanent.

Change is the only thing that remains permanent.

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