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liannyeong · 4 years

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promises are meant to be broken

Summary: "promise?" she asks, her fingers wrapped around the crystal.

jaebum's eyes flick down to her hand. he reaches out and presses his index finger and thumb on hers. "promise."

(or a mafia au in which jaebum breaks his promise and the events that happen afterwards)

Word count: 3198

Pairing: Jaebum X OC

Warning(s): a little bit of angst or tension ^^, lapslock

A/N: here’s a new fic after 2 months... hopefully all of you enjoy this, because it was written on a whim... i’ve been trying to write more since ideas keep coming but i keep getting distracted and so, none of my WIPs are finished lol send help

when she wakes, she finds her limbs tied to the chair, her mouth gagged with a cloth. there's no way she can escape. there's no way anyone from the family can even find her.

"he won't come for me," she spits at her captor. "you think he cares?"

even so, her heart races, blood pounding in her ears. what if jaebum really doesn't come? what if he doesn't care? god, she knew him since they were children. there's no way he would turn his back on his longtime friend... right?

her captors have no mercy. they torture her endlessly, but she bears it all. they want jaebum's secrets, but there's no way she would give it to them. they plunge the blade into her thighs, demanding answers. she lets her tears and blood spill endlessly, but never her words. she will never betray jaebum.

gunshots in the distance break their aggressive interrogation. she lets out a cry of relief, thankful when the yells of men are heard. and she's even more grateful when jaebum barges into the room, eyebrows furrowed, face red in anger. he strides over to her and breaks her free.

she can barely stand on her own, what with her bleeding thighs. so jaebum carries her on his back.

"i thought you wouldn't come," she says faintly.

"i won't leave you behind," jaebum replies between his pants.

it feels nice, to be carried like this. to have a person like this. she smiles, nuzzling closer to his neck. her worries from earlier are nothing but plain worries. jaebum would never break his promise.

"hey, hang in there. keep talking to me," jaebum says.

"feels nice," she murmurs.

"what does?"

"you. carrying me like this. it feels nice."

her eyes start to get heavy, the fatigue slowly creeping in. how long has it been since she last rested properly? even if it's not the most comfortable position, jaebum's broad back provides the warmth she has long craved for. so she wraps her arms around his shoulder, burying her face into the junction between his neck and shoulder.

"jaebum-ah, i'm sleepy..."

"hey, don't go silent on me-- keep talkin--" but she can barely hear him anymore.

---

ii.

jaebum doesn't visit her at the hospital. He doesn't pop by at all. instead, all she ever hears from him is through her fellow members. it isn't uncommon for the don toe be busy, but it is unusual that he is too busy to even visit her. when she had minor bruises and injuries, jaebum would come barging into the room as if there were news of death. something is off, she feels it. but she doesn't question. perhaps jaebum is really occupied with work.

she discards her thoughts and focuses on recovery. she trains hard, doing her best to gain back her strength and control. it isn't easy with her injuries but she manages. her agility is reduced but she doesn't rest. jaebum still hasn't approached her even after she was discharged and considered fit for work. jaebum doesn't summon her to his office either. so she practices harder. after all, she only wishes to meet jaebum when she's fully prepared for her duty.

when jaebum finally calls her into his office, she keeps her chin up. confident to prove her worth again. jaebum has his back turned on her, his hands clasped behind his back as he looks out of the window through the blinds.

"i don't need you anymore," he starts.

she freezes. no way. there's no way she heard that right--

"you're done here," jaebum states plainly.

"jaebum, you don't mean--"

the don turns, his eyes are unrelenting when it meets hers. "i mean: you're fired," he spells out.

no. there's no way-- she couldn't bear the swell in her chest, the lump in her throat at the implications of his words.

"why?" her voice comes out soft, timid.

jaebum's stare doesn't soften. his expression is taut, tensed like a taut string on the verge of snapping.

"what is the use of a crippled member to me?" the don shoots back.

those words stung. but it doesn't hurt as much as the reply he gives later.

"you don't need me at all? even though i know you the best?"

jaebum deadpans. no hint of recollection or whatsoever. "what does that got to do with anything?"

it strikes her then. jaebum has forgotten his promise. if not, he has been nothing but a liar for all the time she has known him.

she swallows the lump in her throat, along with her sorrow and disappointment. she reaches for the crystal around her neck. she hesitates, but the emotions in her drives her to pull it off. she doesn't care about the bruise that will bloom later, nor does she care about the broken chain. she collects them into the palm of her hand, and caresses it for the last time before placing it on the don's table. she doesn't look up to see jaebum's reaction. she takes a step back and bows politely. she tries to maintain a stable voice as she says, "as you wish, mr im."

she stands straight, can no longer bear to look at her friend before leaving the office.

---

iii.

it's the day jaebum gets appointed as the new don of the im family. she stays close, keeps an eye for him. her parents were invited to the party, but she kindly requested that jaebum keep them out of the mafia business. a few hours into the event, she watches the new don heading to the balcony of the mansion. through the massive crowd, jaebum manages to find her and look at her directly in the eyes. he beckons her over.

"i have a gift for you," jaebum says when she comes close. the wind that blows across their faces is cooling to the warmth on her cheeks. he pulls out an object from his pocket, presents it to her.

she gasps. "what--"

sitting on his palm is a crystal encased in silver-plated rods, a silver chain attached to it. she picks it up and examines it. it's beautiful to her eyes that she's mesmerized by it.

"i doubt you'll wear it but i had it crafted for you," jaebum comments.

"why then?" she asks.

jaebum shrugs. "i didn't know a better birthday gift."

she laughs. "maybe a weapon? that would be very useful, you know. especially for my job."

jaebum seems to think about it. but then he shakes his head, "it's too risky for you. you'd probably do whatever it takes to get the weapon back should our enemies snatch them."

she just smiles. "you know me too well."

she glances down at her new accessory, then flicks her eyes back at her friend. she holds it out to him, cheeks warming up from her own request. "can you put this on for me?"

jaebum doesn't refuse. he takes the jewellery willingly. she turns around, letting the male's arms go over her head. she feels the cool metal chain on her neck, the crystal resting on her chest.

she faces jaebum once more, fingers fiddling with the new object around her neck. she must have been wearing a certain kind of expression for the don asks, "what's wrong?"

she lets out a breath. "will you keep me by your side forever?"

jaebum looks at her, amused. "of course."

she keeps her eyes trained on the crystal of her necklace. "even when i can no longer serve you as your right-hand woman?"

jaebum doesn't laugh. it takes him a while to respond, that she nearly thought he didn't hear her question. but when she looks up, he already has his gaze on her, watching the way she fiddles with the new accessory. he shows her the softest smile, the warmest eyes when he says, "always. even if you're no longer able, i will always have you next to me. because you know me the best."

"promise?" she asks, her fingers wrapped around the crystal.

jaebum's eyes flick down to her hand. he reaches out and presses his index finger and thumb on hers. "promise."

---

iv.

it's been three whole years since she left jaebum's side. she goes to her hometown, at the outskirts of the city that jaebum controls. from time to time, she hears news of him but it's always something grueling. recently, there has been news of the don being in danger. still, she hopes jaebum would be safe somewhere. even if she doesn't know the new jaebum, she's certain that her jaebum is in there somewhere. subconsciously, her fingers go to her neck, searching for that familiar crystal. it's a habit she has adopted throughout the years of wearing the jewellery. even though she returned it, she still can't fix the habit.

"noona! it's your turn to take out the trash!" yugyeom shouts from the kitchen.

she obliges, coming out of the laundry room from where she was folding clothes. she drags the trash bag out of the kitchen, through the backdoor and into the bin. she hears a soft rustling and she stays alert. an intruder? a robber? or could it be that someone found her linked to jaebum? she grabs yugyeom's baseball bat left abandoned against the wall and sneaks closer to the source of the sound.

she prepares herself, raises the bat when she pushes the leaves aside. but she finds jaebum, leaning against the brick wall, covered by the shadows of the trees and the piling wood. immediately, she drops the bat to the ground and moves swiftly to tend to the male, bringing him into the house.

"gyeom-ah, help--"

the boy cries out in horror but lends a helping hand. they bring him to the guest room, and yugyeom doesn't object when told to take care of the man. the boy has seen enough injuries on his sister's body to know what to do.

"has he waken yet?" she asks when yugyeom exits the room. the boy shakes his head. "i'll stay with him. go and rest."

she quietly enters the room. it's a mismatch. how can a don like jaebum sleep on a cheap bed of their guestroom? nevertheless, he sleeps soundly and peacefully as if it's the most comfortable bed. she takes a seat next to the bed. she brushes his hair aside, a little too long, a little unkempt from what she remembers. why, she wonders, did jaebum come to this house? perhaps all questions will be answered when he wakes.

---

when she wakes jaebum holds the tip of her hair. she has fallen asleep by his bedside, waiting for him to wake up. alarmed, she sits up straight, and jaebum just lets her hair slip through his fingers.

"you grew it out," jaebum comments. he's definitely stronger than the night before, his skin fuller in color.

"i always thought you didn't like long hair," he says again, eyes warm and soft on her.

"it's a hassle on the field," she replies. "easy for our enemies to grab me too."

jaebum hums, shifting his attention to his lap instead. if the possessive word she used bothers him, he doesn't speak about it.

"you stayed," he comments.

"why did you come here?" she asks, ignoring him.

"i had nowhere to go."

"what happened?"

jaebum sighs, sadness evident in his eyes. he pours everything out: "there was an uproar. the wang family waged war on us. it was well-planned that i--" jaebum pauses, eyes downcast. she reaches out, placing her hand atop of his, hoping it would bring comfort. "i let everyone down. i didn't protect the family."

"it's not your fault. you didn't know," she tries.

"but i'm the head of the family! i-- it's my job to protect them--"

impulsively, she surges forward, climbing onto the bed. she kneels next to jaebum and throws her arms around the male, pressing his head close to her body. "it's not your fault, jaebum-ah. don't blame yourself for the inevitable."

jaebum must have been comforted by those words for he relaxes in her hold. she feels his hands creeping up the back of her shirt, feels him nuzzling into her. then she hears the sharp intake of breath, followed by a slow shaky exhale. she shifts her position so that she rests comfortably on the bed; jaebum adjusts accordingly. she runs her hand through his hair in slow but constant tempo.

in this moment, it feels like nothing has changed. as if the three years didn't exist.

---

vi.

she wakes to the sound of water in the bathroom. she's all alone in the bed, flustered at the realization that she had shared the same bed as jaebum. she jumps out of bed, grabs some of her late father's clothes from another room. she comes back to the guestroom, knocking before pushing the door open.

"i brought some clothes to change into--"

jaebum stands by the bed, a towel wrapped around his waist. flustered at the sight of his half-naked body, she looks away. but there is a glimmer on his chest that she can't avoid. she glances at it and realization hits her.

her crystal necklace that she pulled off hangs around his neck, pressed against his skin. the silver chain is gone, replaced by a black cord instead. her feet takes her closer, until all it needs is a stretch of her hand to touch the object. jaebum doesn't budge, doesn't flinch; he just lets her.

"i've been wearing it since the day i fired you," he says softly, almost like a whisper.

"why--"

"it's the only thing that reminds me of you."

she frowns. "then why didn't you let me stay--"

"and what? see you die? see you hurt? i couldn't bear it. you were on the brink of death! how do you think i felt? i was so scared-- i thought i would lose you..." his face crumples in sadness. he lets out a deep exhale. "i lied. i remembered our promise when you mentioned it that day. but i had to. i had to pretend--"

she retracts her hand swiftly, in anger. "and betray me instead? you broke your promise and you're justifying it?" she shakes her head, backing away from the male. her disappointment in him only increases. she pauses at the door, face slightly turned to say, "even if my life is at risk, i rather fight with you than let you do it all alone."

---

vii.

the fifth day when jaebum stays at her place, he learns new things. her parents died a year after she left the mafia service, leaving her to take care of yugyeom, her ten-year-old brother. she becomes a farmer; spends most of her time on the farm for sustenance. additionally, jaebum learns that there's a potential suitor on her tail. the man -- named jinyoung -- is charming, jaebum must admit. he has a deep voice that is soothing to the ears. his body is lean and fit; suitable for farming. he's good with kids too, with the way yugyeom is all smiles and laughter as they play around on the field.

jaebum watches them from the ranch. out of earshot, he asks, "do you like him?" it comes out a little timidly. funny, he has always been brave, cruel and daring in his orders as a don. to sound so small and weak makes him feel incompetent.

she hums. "he's a nice guy. he doesn't judge me for my past."

"do you like him?" he presses, turning his head to look at his friend.

she meets his eyes. "as a friend, yes."

"you don't-- you don't like him more than that?"

she pauses, stares at him. she holds her gaze steady, never faltering. there's something about it that takes his breath away. yet, it makes him quiver. what has the mafia don become?

she lets out a flat "no."

"why?"

she moves, averts her eyes as she answers, "i gave my heart away."

"to who?" jaebum dares himself to ask.

she stops at the steps of the ranch. she turns a little, just enough for their eyes to meet. there's sorrow in her eyes. but the reply she gives has his heart torn into pieces.

"to someone who doesn't need me."

---

viii.

the seventh day is the last day jaebum stays. he's much stronger than the first night she found him at the backyard. she hears the familiar creaking of the front door at the wee hours of morning. she rises up from her bed, looks through the folds of curtain in her room. jaebum is already crossing the grassy field. she draws the curtains apart, slides the window open and climbs out of her room, quick and quiet. she runs after the male barefooted, the morning dew makes it uncomfortable but she bears it no mind.

"stay," she pants when she catches up to the male.

jaebum looks at her sadly. the decision to leave must have pained him.

"i can't," he says weakly. "i shouldn't--"

"my skills are rusty, but i can help you--"

jaebum shakes his head. "yugyeom needs you more than i do."

words die on her tongue. she has no way to argue. no matter how much she desires to follow jaebum, to stay by his side, the circumstances are different now. there's no way she can make a decision selfishly. she has to consider her responsibility for her younger brother.

she resigns. but she takes a step forward, reaching out for his face. her fingertips touch his cheek, and she sees jaebum slightly flinching. she almost retracts her hand but he mimics her action, brushing his knuckles against her cheek.

"where will you go?" her voice is so soft when she asks, almost like a whisper.

jaebum shrugs, smiling weakly as he drags a thumb across her skin. he drops his hand afterwards, stuffing into the pocket of his jacket. "i'll figure it out soon."

she nods. jaebum makes a move, but she stops him by grabbing his elbow. before the man can even react, she places the other hand on his shoulder and then tiptoes. she presses a light kiss onto the corner of his mouth.

"be safe, jaebum-ah," she says after pulling away. she lets their eyes meet, drinking in the sight of jaebum's expression. a mixture of surprise and longing. she smiles weakly. "you're always welcomed here."

she proceeds to take a step back, but jaebum winds an arm around her waist, trapping her. then he cups her face with a hand, gazes into her eyes so softly. he leans forward, eyes closing, as he presses his lips to her forehead. but it's all too fast for her to revel in, for jaebum pulls away after a second, taking all the warmth away. she watches his retreating figure. not once did he look back. it's as if he has already let go of everything. but perhaps this is for the best. if they had given themselves to the temptation, to their hearts, nothing would have worked out.

she could only hope that jaebum will come home, safe and sound.

#got7 #got7 jaebum #got7 im jaebum #got7 scenarios #got7 jaebum scenarios #got7 im jaebum scenarios #jaebum #im jaebum #im jaebum scenarios #jaebum scenarios

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cornfedcryptid-archive · 4 years

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2019 Writer’s Round-Up

I got tagged by so many wonderful people the past couple of days. Thank you @pikapeppa, @kita-lavellan, @in-arlathan, @elveny, and @serial-chillr. I hope 2020 is even better for you!

Writing wise, I don’t have much to show for this year. Depression and school sucked up most of my time(so close to graduating I could cry lol). It wasn’t until recently that I really got back into the fandom and writing again because I made myself join the @the-solavellan-archive. Without it, I wouldn’t have found the amazing people I have and gotten the amount of support/helpful feedback for my writing.

BUT! Next year is gonna be the year!

I’m ending 2019 with 10k written/published in my fic ‘Begin Again’ ,and a little over 3.4k in my one-shot ‘A Question of Faith’...which is honestly 10k more than I ever thought I’d write. I owe a part of it to @ranawaytothedas, whose mind goes down the same rabbit hole as mine. But is much more put together. In the short time I’ve known her my writing went from something I was hesitant to publish, to something I am dammed proud of! lol

Goals for 2020:

1. Continue writing ‘Begin Again.’ It is the first long fic I have written that I truly want to finish(the ones hidden away in my massive pile of WIPs we aren’t going to talk about lmao)

2. Learn how to write smut. I’ve only attempted it once, and while it’s not terrible I know I can do better. I’ve never been comfortable writing it, and I do want to be able to write something that has people say ‘oh my’ lol

3. Read more fanfiction. I know so many people from the archive and the ‘Too Old For This Sh*t’ discord server I created who have all published amazing things. All the WIP Wednesdays and Six Sentence Sundays they’ve all tagged me in have me chomping at the bit to get done with school and pass my board exam so I’ll have plenty of free time to read them...the end of March can’t come soon enough lol

4. Do lore deep dives in Dragon Age and Destiny lore. I haven’t really been able to write much for the latter fandom because I don’t know as much of the lore as I want...even though it’s one of my favorite games.

I’m going to pass the tag onto @schoute, @ranawaytothedas, @dirthenera, @lyrium-lavellan, @rivainisomniari, @dharma-writes, @solas-disapproves, @bionicpaladin, @jacklyn-flynn, @ungforevigt, and whoever else wants to do it. Tag me so I can be nosy and look lol

I hope y’all have an amazing 2020!

#2019 writer's roundup #My writing #seriously this has been such a year in the past couple of months

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johnandrasjaqobis · 4 years

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1-10!

ahhh thank u friend !! real glad I had my little keyboard today bc this would've been a Time otherwise, but it was funn

1. If you’re an author, how many WIPs do you currently have? (Be honest!)

lord uh….is “Too Many” a proper answer, because it is a truthful one. I’ve got a good 4 or so really old ones that I intend to go back to eventually. I’ve got at least 2 with my Fallout 4 timeline, 3 for Critical Role, 2 or 3 for The Lucky Die, PROBABLY MORE that I’ve done a couple of paragraphs on and never got further. The answer is I have Zero Chill and constantly a new fic idea.

2. What’s next on your ‘to-read’ list? (Fan fiction or otherwise)

I need to read the most recent CR fics that Crunchy has, I’ve been meaning to get on that. A lot of Widomauk recs piled up from the server I’m on. Tiamat’s Wrath bc reading ACTUAL BOOKS is a lost artform for me and I really need to catch up on that series before the last one releases. My ‘to read’ pile is massive, technically, but I never fully remember what’s on it.

3. Do you prefer canonverse or AUs?

It depends on the fandom, usually;; It seems that with the actual-plays I’ve been into lately, AUs work best for most things just because sticking to canon is HARD. I know as an author, I tend to lean more into AUs than anything else. A couple of missing scenes, but then dive immediately into the obscure Syfy show AUs

4. What fandom’s/ship’s fan fiction do you read the most?

That REALLY varies and fluctuates with whatever I’m currently into. Right now it’s Critical Role, only because TLD doesn’t have any fics but the one that I just put up. Before that it was Fallout 4. I’ve got a Harry Potter longfic I’m keeping up with.

I have my favorite ships (give me all the Widomauk fluff, pls) but honestly, especially with the likes of CR and Fallout, if the author writes it well I’ll probably be into it.

5. What’s a crackship you love?

Nick/Deacon might not count anymore, it feels more rarepair than crackship these days. D’avin/Alvis was the same way, and listen, Caduceus/Bryce might have like, no content, but there were very blatant heart-eyes when they met, okay, it’s backed up

6. What’s the last thing you read that made you laugh?

I reread a Helix au that Christine wrote years ago specifically because it’s still absolutely Hilarious. Also the aforementioned HP fic, The Mapmakers, is really funny sometimes and wonderful overall.

7. What’s the last thing you read that made you cry?

Twine. good lord Crunchy, pulls the heartstrings.

8. Bed sharing or roommates AU?

Roommates, probably, my TLD modern au idea is 100% “oh my god they were roommates”

9. Fake dating or arranged marriage?

Fake dating. I can enjoy the arranged marriage if it’s done well but tbh just haven’t ready many in general.

10. Mutual pining or enemies to friends to lovers?

give me. both. at once. please. i thrive off of both.

(mutual pining might win out just a little tho)

#it me

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ferryboatpeak · 5 years

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tom/harry/ben/meri ch. 4

massive thanks to @lunarrua for sticking with this beta and catching all my continuity errors, and to @1000-directions for providing the necessary marvel background.

previous installments of this WIP are collected here.

***

The angle of the light is all wrong when Tom wakes up. He's used to it coming at him straight on, glowing through the blinds on the windows across from the foot of his bed. The carriage house is a confusing product of modernity, either a new addition to the property or a complete reconstruction of some ancient structure. Whatever the mechanism, the modern era has brought Tom’s room a broad swath of eastern-facing windows. But in Harry’s room, the morning light filters in from one side, through a narrow set of paned windows that were probably framed in the stone wall centuries ago. The windows are so dimmed by the ivy clustering around the edges that it takes Tom a few minutes to realize it’s properly daylight, not the muted dawn he wakes to in the master suite when Ben’s the first out of bed. With a pang, he realizes he must have missed Ben leaving for the day.

He tilts his head cautiously to the side. Harry’s still on his stomach, face half-buried in the pillow he’s clutching beneath him. The flashes of red on his skeleton tattoo are the brightest thing in the room. Tom watches the gentle rise and fall of his unmarked back until he’s satisfied that Harry’s sleeping. Then he parses the tattoos visible on the back of his arm, puzzling over the Hebrew lettering and trying to decipher the fuzzy script. On Harry’s shoulder, just above the hem of the duvet, there’s something that looks like a pear, or a peanut. None of it makes any sense, individually or collectively.

Looking away from the untranslatable scrawl of Harry’s skin, Tom stretches his legs out as imperceptibly as possible. The sheets are cooler at the foot of the bed, further from Harry’s radiating warmth. It feels like he’s slept for a long time. Like he’s a plant that’s stretched tentative overnight roots down into whatever very expensive fibers this mattress is made of.

There’s no clock in view. No way to tell how long he’s got until he’s supposed to be at work. He holds his breath, straining to catch any sounds that might be coming from the rest of the house. Meredith and Ruby are probably awake. What if it’s late enough that Ruby’s already back down for her morning nap? Meredith could be waiting to hand the baby monitor off to him. He’s got to get up.

He wonders if it’s possible to slip out of bed without disturbing Harry. He could grab his clothes, dress in the hallway. That might work, if only Harry hadn’t closed the door last night. Surely he’s going to wake up at the sound of his bedroom door opening. What’s Tom supposed to say if he does? Staring at the ceiling, he tries to think of something that’s casual or witty or cool enough. He can’t get out of bed unprepared.

Next to him, Harry stirs.

Tom’s eyes snap shut reflexively. It’s hard to keep his breathing sleep-steady when his heart’s pounding. But pretending to wake up seems harder than pretending to be asleep. The sheets tug against him as Harry turns, or stretches. Then, a long silence. Maybe Harry’s fallen back asleep. Or else he’s awake, silently watching Tom. Tom resists the impulse to squirm down under the covers and hide.

A minute ticks by. Maybe two, maybe more, each second interminable. Tom breathes in and out, slow and even, modeling it after what he just observed of Harry sleeping. What if Harry tries to wake him? Maybe Harry knows he’s faking and he’s waiting to catch him. Harry’s in no hurry. He doesn’t have to go to work. He can stake Tom out until he cracks. He listens for Harry’s breathing, trying to determine whether it’s unconscious.

Finally, the mattress shifts and Tom understands that he’s alone in bed, sensing Harry’s absence even before the floorboards creak under the rug as Harry’s feet hit the ground. Tom holds himself carefully still, listening to a muted popping of joints that makes him think of bony knees, knobbly vertebrae, Harry linking his hands above his head and stretching his body into a long naked line. It would be a nice view to wake up to.

He rolls onto his side and blinks with what he hopes is convincing bleariness. But Harry’s muffled footsteps recede across the rug, outpacing Tom’s convincingly slow awakening. He focuses just in time to see Harry’s arse disappearing into the en suite.

Tom exhales with relief and slumps momentarily back into his pillow. Then he scrambles out of bed, dressing quickly and quietly and slipping out the door before the recognizable echo of a morning piss fades from the bathroom.

As he shuts the bedroom door gently behind him, he can hear Ruby’s chatter in the main room below. He looks back at the window at the opposite end of the hall. The ivy might be sturdy enough to climb down. He could reemerge at ten o’clock, strolling back into the house to start his workday, like he used to. Skulking through the kitchen and up to his room at dawn while Meredith slept and Ben worked out was so much better than this. Waking up late, with Harry, and having to exchange morning chit chat with Meredith is painfully visible. Messier.

But probably not as messy as detaching a clump of ivy and landing on the lawn with a broken leg. Tom squares his shoulders and heads downstairs. It’s not a walk of shame if he didn’t have sex. Except he did. Just not with Harry. Or not only with Harry. Maybe it’s not a walk of shame if the only witness is somebody else you sort of had sex with.

Meredith’s kneeling at the coffee table in the main room. The freckles on her shoulders are visible through the criss-crossed straps of her yoga top. An assortment of doll-sized furniture is arranged on the tabletop between her and Ruby. Ruby, concentrating on tipping a small teacup toward a doll’s immobile mouth, doesn’t look up when Tom reaches the bottom of the stairs. For a moment, he thinks he might be able to pass through the room before Meredith turns around.

But Colin scrambles up from his dog bed and bounds past the coffee table toward Tom. As he darts around Meredith and Ruby, his plumy tail knocks over a doll’s chair and sweeps several pieces of the tea set onto the floor. Ruby howls in despair.

“Goddaaaa....” Meredith extinguishes the curse halfway and shoves Colin’s hindquarters away from the table. “Dog!” She kisses Ruby on the temple and perches the toppled doll back on its chair. “It’s all right, sweetie, we can put it all back, see? Colin didn’t hurt her.”

“Hey, doggo.” Tom bends down to encourage Colin in his direction. “Want me to take him out for a bit?”

“Please, yes.” Meredith looks up from the scattered toys and crying toddler. “If you don’t mind,” she adds, an afterthought.

“Happy to.” Colin props his paws on Tom’s thighs, and Tom scratches his ears. “Who’s a good boy?” He generally restrains himself from offering to walk the dog because it’s such a transparent act of self-interest. Dogs make him happy -- their uncomplicated adoration, their ready enthusiasm, their pure delight with nothing but food and affection and a cushion to claim -- and it’s been a treat to have a dog in his life this summer. It’s obvious that Colin’s one true love is Ben, but in Ben’s absence he’s been more than willing to curl up on the sofa with Tom instead. As Colin pants happily up at him, tags jingling with the vigor of Tom’s ear-scratching, Tom’s heart rate calms.

Meredith balances a upside-down teacup on Ruby’s head, and Ruby’s tears end with a hiccup. “Ben walked him this morning, but he’s been going crazy.” She catches the teacup as it slides off. “Thanks for taking him out.”

“My pleasure,” Tom says, with sincerity, clipping the lead from the table by the door onto Colin’s collar. Upon the joyful realization that a bonus walk is in the offing, the dog jumps around Tom in circles of delight.

Outside, Tom passes the lead from hand to hand, keeping it untangled as Colin does his best to trip them both. “Quick stop upstairs, all right lad?” He unclips the lead once they’re inside the door, and Colin bounds up the stairs, needing no further invitation. The stairway runs along the back of the carriage house, under the eastern windows, straight into Tom’s room. When Tom rounds the end of the stairwell wall at the top of the stairs, Colin’s already established himself on Tom’s unmade bed. He looks at Tom with an expression of entitlement, which Tom does nothing to disabuse him of. There’s a proprietary pleasure in seeing the dog make himself at home in his room.

Colin’s the only visitor he’s had this summer. Ben and Meredith don’t come to his room, and he’s never brought Ruby up here. The cleaners - never seen, their presence every Tuesday marked only by the faint scent of lemon and bleach, the neatly made bed, and the even pile of the hoovered carpet - hardly count.

He kicks off his sandals. “Make yourself at home, then.” Colin rolls onto his side, tongue lolling. Tom scratches the dog’s belly. “Can you hang out while I have a shower?” Colin shows no inclination to move. Tom strips off last night’s clothes and leaves the bathroom door open so he can see Colin on the bed if he wipes a portal through the steam on the shower door. But as soon as he steps under the hot water, Colin jumps down from the bed and trots into the bathroom, sitting at attention on the bathmat, watching Tom. “What a good boy,” Tom tells him through the shower door, closing his eyes and sudsing his hair. “The best guard dog.” His voice echos off the glass. It’s strangely comforting that Colin wants to keep an eye on him.

He hurries through rinsing himself off, not wanting to keep the dog waiting. The shower doesn’t feel like the fresh start it usually does, as if he’s carrying something today that won’t rinse down the drain. It drives him across the field behind the house and up the gradual rise of vineyards on the other side, calves burning. Trying to walk it out, whatever it is. The morning sun dries his hair and then dampens it with sweat. Following a cowpath up a rocky hill, he pushes his pace faster. Colin gamely trots along beside him.

At the wind-scrubbed top of the hill, he sinks down to sit on the lone patch of weedy grass. The valley spreads out below him. The house is tiny in the distance, the pool a blue shard glinting between the poplars. He puts an arm around Colin and lets the dog lick his face. The strange settled ache of waking up next to Harry feels as distant as the house, and he’s glad to have walked it out, sweated it clean from his pores, baked it off in the sun. It wasn’t something meant to take root. He tries not to think about the kind of space it could take up, the other things it could choke out.

The pool is calm and unoccupied when Tom and Colin return through the gate at the bottom of the garden. The too-smooth surface of the water seems as if it’s holding its breath, waiting for something. Tom veers away from the edge as he leads Colin to the kitchen door, shying from the possibility that one of them might disturb the surface with a stray pebble.

He unclips Colin’s lead and nudges him into the empty kitchen before retreating to his room. The second shower is lonelier without Colin happily hanging out on the bathmat, but it’s longer and colder and reorients him more effectively than the first one did. By ten o’clock, he’s ready to go to work. Another day at his summer job, that’s all. Easy. Downstairs, across the terrace, and into the house to find Meredith in the office and take custody of the baby monitor. Just like every other day.

In the kitchen, he flicks on the kettle and measures beans into the coffee grinder. He leans his elbows on the countertop, looking out the window at the undisturbed surface of the pool. As he crossed the terrace, he could see Harry’s car still sitting in the drive like a preening cat. The knowledge that Harry’s likely in the house makes Tom conscious of every move. He tucks a stray plate from breakfast into the dishwasher, wipes toast crumbs off the countertop into the sink, his hands skimming over surfaces looking for something to do. Despite his heightened awareness, a yelp of laughter coming from the direction of the office makes him jump as he’s pouring the kettle, splashing water out of the filter and onto the granite.

He wipes down the counter again and bins his coffee grounds. It’s almost ten, time to find Meredith. He walks toward the office with both hands wrapped around his mug, as if it’s a talisman protecting him against the unexpected. Meredith’s at her computer with Colin sprawled next to her desk as usual. Harry’s set up at the table behind her, facing the opposite wall, his phone pressed to his ear. A pink MacBook is open in front of him. He’s leaning back in the office chair at an angle Tom didn’t know office chairs could extend to, one ankle propped on his other knee.

“It’s only a couple of weeks,” Harry says as Tom hovers in the doorway, uncertain whether checking in with Meredith would interrupt Harry’s phone call. “Change my ticket and I can meet you in Italy. Wait...” Harry cranes his neck around, rotating his chair halfway to look at Meredith, and angles the base of his phone away from his mouth. “Is Ben going straight to the Google thing from here?” He tilts the phone back to his mouth. “I could go with Ben,” he says into the phone.

“That’s the plan…” Meredith starts, turning around in her chair. She catches sight of Tom in the doorway and waves a silent greeting.

Harry’s attention is back on his phone. “Ah, forgot about that fucker,” he says, and then, to Meredith, “Never mind, won’t work...”

Tom points at the monitor sitting on Meredith’s desk and raises his eyebrows. Can I take it? Meredith holds up a finger: just a sec. Tom crouches down next to Colin to wait for the handoff, scratching gently between the dog’s ears. Colin gets to his feet, shakes himself, and rests his chin on Tom’s knee. “Good boy,” Tom mouths at him, as if Colin can read his lips. He sinks to the floor and lets Colin climb halfway into his lap.

Above his head, Harry’s conversation is still going on. “Right here, want to say hello?” Without waiting for a response, Harry taps at the phone and holds it out toward Meredith. “You’re on speaker.” He focuses on Tom for the first time, waving a cheery good morning at him.

“Hello, Jeff,” Meredith calls over her shoulder, a smile in her voice. “We’d love for Harry to stay if he can.” She grins conspiratorially at Harry. Harry flashes her a thumbs up.

“Hi, Mer.” The voice on the other end of the line has the unmistakable tone of one who has suffered long. “Don’t encourage him.”

Jeff. Tom files the name away. He smooths his hand along Colin’s side.

“But it’s so nice here.” Meredith stands up to take the phone from Harry, turning off the speaker and putting it to her ear, and leans back against her desk to talk. Tom focuses on her feet, bare and tanned. “You should come for a couple of days before Harry leaves.” Her toenail polish is chipless and glossy. It matches the red poppies in the pattern of the rug. “Is Glenne going to Italy?” She listens, and makes a disappointed noise. “Have to see you when we’re back in LA, then.” She points and flexes one foot, stretching her calf. “Tell Glenne I said hi.”

Meredith hands the phone back to Harry and returns to her seat. She passes the baby monitor down to Tom, the ritual changing of the guard. “Thanks,” she mouths. She pauses open-mouthed while Harry says something into his phone, waiting for an opportunity to say something else to Tom, but closes it as Harry works his way through a sentence that doesn’t seem to be going anywhere fast.

The monitor hisses evenly. Ruby’s still napping. Tom ought to head out to the kitchen, start fixing a snack for when she wakes up. He can come back later to find out whatever it is that Meredith needs to tell him. There’s no good reason for him to wait here, listening to Harry’s conversation.

“It’s just two weeks,” Harry repeats into the phone, turning back toward his laptop. The cursor skates aimlessly around the screen as Harry runs a fingertip over the touchpad. Going by the colored blocks unevenly checkerboarding the image, it looks like his calendar.

Tom squints at the far-away text on the screen. He places the monitor on the floor next to his coffee mug and takes hold of one of Colin’s hind paws, stroking his thumb along the narrow bones. Colin lets him, just like Neesha always does at home. There’s something comforting about a dog trusting him.

“I can skype in for that,’ Harry says. Tom can’t hear the words on the other end of the line, but the tone doesn’t sound like Jeff’s agreeing. Harry highlights one appointment on his calendar, then another. It’s not the calendar of someone who’s on vacation.

Tom’s been wondering about this since the day Harry arrived and cracked open his summer like a geological event, shifting the plates of the earth underneath his feet. But there’s been no good way to ask. He can’t trust the tone of his voice. A matter-of-fact “How long’s Harry here for?” might come out petulant; a casual “How long are you in town?” might reveal that he cares about the answer.

“That doesn’t have to happen this month,” Harry says, drumming his fingers on the tabletop. “Reschedule it.” He leans further back in his chair, tipping his head over the top of the seat. The voice on the other end of the line is insistent. Harry lets his chair spring back to an upright position. “Have them send the samples here.”

Tom waits silently on the floor. Why’s Harry’s going to Italy, and what does Ben has to do with it? Maybe it’s about their television show. Italy doesn’t sound like the kind of place you go to make a television show, but what does Tom know. Harry stands up and paces toward the office door. As he passes Tom and Colin, he pokes Tom with his foot and grins at him. Tom nods, not knowing what else to do that won’t interrupt Harry’s conversation.

“I know.” Harry stops by his chair and scrapes a hand through his hair, sighing. After a pause, he adds, “I want to write a little.”

The tone on the other end of the line shifts. It sounds like Harry’s played some kind of trump card. Harry’s posture relaxes. “Thank you,” he says. “I appreciate it.” He leans back against the table and thumbs the phone to speaker again. “Mer, do you know the address here?”

Meredith pulls a sticky note off the wall behind her computer and turns to read aloud from it. The voice on the other end of Harry’s phone repeats it back to her, spelling out the name of the village. Tom immediately feels dumb for never having considered that the country house must have an address, a physical location in the real world. He arrived in the backseat of the Range Rover, passing a rotating series of toys toward Ruby’s car seat next to him. There was never any need to know the address. But of course there is one. It’s not just some summer kingdom that exists only in his head, a fairy tale he’ll emerge from in September to learn that centuries have gone by.

Harry settles back in his office chair as the conversation turns to logistics. Tom gleans what he can from Harry’s end of the conversation. The car is getting taken care of. Someone named Luis is packing up something in London. A guitar is being messengered. Plane tickets are being changed. He catches the flight date, and realizes it’s two days before he and Meredith and Ruby travel back to London. Barely two weeks until the end of the summer, until the drawbridge is lowered and Tom trudges back to a reality where there’s no freshly ground coffee, no wine he can’t pronounce, no pool out back, no Ben and Meredith. No dog. No Harry Styles.

He’s got to leave the room before the call ends. But as he’s shifting Colin off his lap, Harry hangs up. “Done,” he announces, standing up. He links his fingers together and stretches his arms above his head, as if he’s cooling down from a run. The hem of his t-shirt exposes the leafy tattoos slashing across his tanned stomach above the waistband of his track bottoms. Tom looks down at the dog and shifts his legs experimentally, trying to determine how firmly Colin’s entrenched. He can’t get up and leave now, or it’ll be obvious he was only lingering to eavesdrop of Harry’s phone call.

“All sorted?” Meredith asks. She holds a hand up toward Harry for a high five. Harry links his fingers through hers instead and waves their clasped hands back and forth in something like a victory celebration.

Meredith smiles up at him. “I thought I was going to have a boring summer, just me and Ruby knocking around this place.”

“I’m pretty boring.” Harry drops Meredith’s hand and returns to his chair, leaning back at an exaggerated angle and using his feet to rotate himself back to his laptop. He pauses just before Meredith’s out of his view, his head lolling back on the chair so he’s looking at her sideways. “I can bore you later if you’d like.”

Tom grabs his coffee mug and stands up too fast, displacing Colin and almost sloshing coffee onto his hand. This feels too much like nighttime seeping into the sunshiny morning of his workday. He can’t tell if Harry’s voice is lower and slower than usual, or if Harry’s voice just naturally makes everything sound like sex.

“I’m sure you will,” Meredith says, laughing. She turns back to her own desk.

“Anything I need to know?” Tom curls his fingers tightly around the baby monitor.

Meredith looks up. “Oh…” Her brow furrows. “There was something…” She brushes it off, shrugging. “I’ll let you know if I remember. She went down at the usual time. No diaper yet today, watch out.”

“Got it.” Tom retreats to the kitchen, trying not to draw any comparisons between Harry’s job and his own.

***

Harry delivers that night, or so Tom would assume, if he was paying any attention. Meredith’s at the far edges of his consciousness, nothing but soft noises pressed into Harry’s neck and the shadow of the leg she’s canted upward for Harry’s fingers. They’re wrapped up in each other, and he’s got Ben underneath him, Ben all to himself, his legs spread apart over Ben’s hips and his body carefully stretching around Ben’s cock. He breathes in Ben’s attention like it’s a drug twining smoky tendrils through his nervous system, turning his skin raw and receptive. The purest form of a substance he hasn’t tasted undiluted since Harry arrived.

“Good boy,” Ben murmurs as Tom settles against him, sinking downward until the backs of his thighs press against the ridges of Ben’s hipbones.

He exhales slowly and thoroughly, pressing all the air out of his body. As he inhales, he reorients himself around Ben inside him, better than oxygen. Ben’s eyes gleam in the candlelight as he flexes his hips up once, slowly, against Tom’s weight pinning him down. Tom’s body opens, tightens, molding itself to Ben. Tom shifts his weight to his knees so Ben can move inside him. His body hums with the satisfaction of Ben’s gaze.

He straightens so he can brace his hands on Ben’s chest, spreading his fingers and digging the heels of his palms into his ribcage. “More,” Tom breathes. For a moment he thinks Ben hasn’t heard, but then Ben thrusts up hard and tightens his hands on Tom’s hips, and this time his breath comes out as a moan. “Yeah, more.” He leans closer and follows Ben’s rhythm, bearing down to meet each thrust as Ben fucks him harder.

The scant friction of his cock against Ben’s stomach isn’t going to get him off, but that’s a distant concern. Right now it’s enough to have all of Ben, all of his attention pouring warm and liquid over his charged skin. Tom wants to bathe in it, drown in it, be good enough and pretty enough and wanton enough to keep it.

He doesn’t register the mattress shifting underneath them, or realize that the redistribution of weight is what’s knocked them out of sync. Tom whines, squirming on his knees to find the place where Ben was meeting him just right. Ben overcorrects, almost slipping out. Tom tenses and leans back to drive his hips down against Ben’s, greedy and frantic.

He doesn’t clock Harry behind him until the shock of Harry’s mouth at the curve of his neck. Tom arches into the sensation instinctively, shuddering at the light trace of Harry’s tongue and then the sting of his teeth.

His reaction -- lips parted in a gasp, head lolling to the side to open his neck to Harry -- must tell Ben something. “Good, H,” Ben says, his voice rough, and Tom’s eyes fly open. For a moment, an elemental rage flickers at the edges of his pleasure. He should have known nothing is safe, nothing is sacred. There’s no power stronger than Harry’s need to be the center of attention.

Ben tightens his hands on Tom’s hips and holds him in place, shifting under him to make space as Harry knees his way into the array of their legs. Ben realigns himself with Tom before Harry’s finished making himself comfortable, and Tom’s lost to anything except the blistering buzz of Ben deep inside him, over and over.

It takes a moment for him to realize that Harry’s fitted himself against his back, moving so seamlessly with him and Ben that Tom might not have noticed if not for the unmistakable drag of Harry’s cock across the base of his spine. Harry spreads a hand flat over Tom’s breastbone to press their bodies together, and Tom’s skin lights up with the intensity of it, a conflagration that dwarfs the small flame of anger he’d felt at Harry imposing himself. A campfire rendered irrelevant by a wildfire taking down the forest.

Ben’s hands slide up from his hips, supporting him, keeping Harry’s weight from pushing him forward. Tom’s caught between them, Harry leaning heavy on his back and Ben’s hands on his chest, Ben inside him and finally a hand -- Harry’s hand? -- on his cock in the close space between Tom and Ben. Everything is skin against his and hands on his body. Every bit of him is made to be touched.

Tom thinks of surfing, of aligning his body with a force he can’t control. The tension between the full-body engagement required to keep pace with the wave, and the complete submission required to let the wave take him where it’s going. It never seems possible, until the moment when suddenly, euphorically, it does. The swell propels him impossibly forward and forward until it overcomes him, throws him into the water breathless and exhilarated.

Tom slumps forward, panting. His hands are still braced against Ben’s chest, but they’re useless to support him. He lets Ben and Harry hold him up, melting in between them, until Ben comes with a noise that’s almost a growl. Harry stills behind him as Ben thrusts upward for the last time, deep inside Tom as he finishes. The line of Harry’s cock presses thickly along his spine. Tom wonders what Harry’s going to do about that, and then wonders if Harry’s going to push him forward onto his hands and knees, fuck him right there on top of Ben. The idea is potent and a little bit frightening. He’s still hovering his hand over the thought, like an electric wire he can’t quite bring himself to touch, when Harry scrambles away. His knee digs into the back of Tom’s calf, and the sweat starts to cool on Tom’s back without Harry weight pressed against him.

Ben draws his hands down Tom’s body. He moves Tom upward with a light touch at his hips, and slips out of him. With nothing else to keep him upright, Tom wilts into the space Ben leaves behind when he goes to bin the condom.

Meredith turns onto her side and cranes her neck to kiss the edge of Tom’s mouth. She lingers nose to nose with him, their faces sliding toward each other in the valley between the pillows. “God, that was hot,” she murmurs.

It feels like praise just for him. “Mmmm,” Tom manages, affirmatively. God, but it was.

Meredith settles onto her back. “Harry?” Her tone makes it more of a directive than a question.

Harry’s pawing through the duvet mounded at the end of the bed, looking for something. Tom watches the angles of his legs as he kneels, the hurried motions of his hands. He doesn’t get tired of watching Harry, now that he can. Now that he’s supposed to, even. He’s stopped mourning the balance he felt with Ben and Meri, as if he was a missing piece sliding into place in their bed, in their life. Harry doesn’t balance. He’s a source of gravity all his own, pulling everyone and everything into orbit. Harry’s need to be the center of attention has become more a source of fascination, less a source of resentment. There’s no point in resenting a law of nature.

Harry pulls a misplaced foil packet from a fold of the duvet and brandishes it triumphantly. Tom’s sated, his body gone pleasantly syrupy from overstimulation, but his tongue still flexes in his mouth as he watches Harry rolls on the condom. He imagines Harry kneeling on top of him, feeding his cock into Tom’s mouth instead of tracing two fingers over Meredith’s cunt to line himself up before he slides inside her in one smooth sudden motion.

“Oh,” Meredith breathes out, and Harry pauses, the curve of his arse tight, holding himself at the apex. Meredith’s toes dig under Tom’s shin as she spreads her legs and rolls her hips upward to let Harry in deeper. She wraps one leg around his waist. “Come on.”

Harry glances over his shoulder to confirm Ben’s whereabouts. Tom can’t see Ben’s side of their wordless exchange, but he returns to bed as Harry starts to fuck Meredith in earnest. The mattress dips as Ben stretches out behind Tom, propping himself on one elbow and draping his other arm over Tom. Tom presses his shoulderblades into the comforting backstop of Ben’s chest. He can feel Ben’s spent cock against him, where the tops of his legs are still smeared slick.

The motion next to them jostles him closer to Harry and Meredith, close enough to breathe in the tang of sweat and sex between their bodies. Close enough to feel more like a participant than a spectator. Ben inches forward with him, not letting any space open up. He reaches over Tom to take Meredith’s hand. Tom’s tucked between them like a handkerchief in a drawer, feeling just the right size.

He rests his cheek against the edge of Meredith’s shoulder and looks up at Harry. His eyes are closed and his head is tilted away from Tom, neck craning toward the place where Meredith’s other hand is twisted in his hair. The line of his jaw sharpens in the candlelight. He holds himself above Meredith on both arms, muscles working as he thrusts into her, hard enough to hear the smack of their skin.

As if he intuits Tom’s attention, Harry opens his eyes and locks them on Tom. A queasy thrill heats Tom’s stomach. He fights the instinct to duck his head against the intensity. Harry doesn’t look away, even as his pace increases with clumsy urgency, even as Meredith’s pitch keens upward. Tom holds Harry’s gaze as his body tenses and releases with each of Harry’s thrusts, responding without Harry even touching him, responding as if he’s the one Harry’s fucking.

***

At first, Tom doesn’t recognize the two-toned chime that sounds as he’s coming downstairs. His first instinct is to find the source and make sure it doesn’t wake Ruby from her nap. A second later, he realizes: doorbell. Nobody’s come to the door all summer. Tom hadn’t even realized the house had a doorbell. He leaves the hissing baby monitor on the entryway table and goes to answer.

There’s a DHL van in the driveway, bright and blocky behind Harry’s black-windowed car. The uniformed driver waits on the doorstep with a rectangular box tucked under his arm. Tom opens the door with a smile, hoping he won’t have to say bonjour and reveal his unpracticed accent. His strategy backfires when the driver says something in French and holds out a tablet toward Tom.

“Oui,” Tom says, exhausting at least a quarter of his French vocabulary. Fortunately, it doesn’t require any fluency to take the stylus and sign in the empty box on the screen. The driver says something else in French and hands over the package.

“Merci,” Tom mumbles, and waves awkwardly as the driver jogs back toward his truck.

Tom glances at the shipping label, expecting to see Ben or Meredith’s name. When nothing pops out, he searches the French-labeled form, wondering what term identifies the addressee. The only printing he can see that looks anything like a name says “Hershel Azoff.”

He swears under his breath and looks up, just as the delivery van disappears around the end of the hedge. He’s got somebody else’s package, and he has no idea what to do with it. He searches the label again, as if the French fine print is going to help. The address of the country house is correct, though. He could just leave the box in the office and hope that Ben or Meredith will find it and take care of the problem. But if they don’t, somebody’s going to miss their package. He walks through the house and out to the pool.

Meredith and Harry are in the shade under the trellis. She’s reading on a lounge chair, legs stretched out and ankles crossed. Harry’s next to her on another lounge, shirtless, with sunglasses tucked up in his hair. His laptop’s open on his lap.

He looks up as Tom crosses the terrace toward them. “Is that mine?” Harry asks, spotting the box in Tom’s hand.

Tom stops at the end of Harry’s lounge and looks at the label again. “Only if you’re Hershel Azoff.”

Harry and Meredith laugh, to Tom’s bemusement. Harry gestures for Tom to hand the box over. “That’s me.”

“Really?” Tom hesitates, an odd instinct to protect the mystery recipient’s package.

“Yup.” Harry claps his laptop closed and slides it onto the side table next to him. “Give it here.”

Tom hands over the package. “Why Hershel Azoff?”

“My manager’s family.” Harry rips the tab off the end of the box. “Easier not to ship stuff under my name.”

Tom suddenly remembers the conversation in July when Meredith had told him a friend of theirs was coming to stay. “It’s Harry Styles,” she’d said, and paused, waiting for Tom’s response. The name hadn’t meant anything to him, but he hadn’t let on, just asked if she needed him to do anything differently while their guest was in town. Just don’t post anything on social media, she’d said, nothing that might indicate he’s here. Tom agreed without thinking anything of it. It didn’t seem much different from her instructions when he’d started babysitting for them last spring: no photos of Ruby on the internet, ever. But this time, Meredith had emphasized: “Not even in the background, or a hand or a shoe or anything like that.”

The instructions turned out to be unnecessary. Tom hasn’t posted anything this summer anyway. He supposes he could have posted pictures of the house or the pool or the sunset light over the rolling hills in the distance, but what would be the point? This summer is something so separate, so special, not to be cheapened by reducing it to a couple of rows of incongruous sun-soaked photos on his Instagram

Harry upends the yellow box and slides out a stack of bound documents.

“Scripts?” Meredith asks, watching him.

Harry nods. “A little light vacation reading,” he says, wryly.

“You’ll find a good one,” Meredith says. “Is that Elvis one in there?”

Harry grimaces. “Nah, I read that one already.”

Her eyebrows rise above her sunglasses. “Not interested?”

“Absolutely not.” He stands the bundle of scripts in his lap and flips them down onto his stomach one by one, looking at the cover pages.

“You’re not an Elvis fan?” Tom asks, his curiosity piqued.

“Love him.” Harry looks up. “It’s just not the right time.”

“Why not?”

Harry taps his fingers on the back of the stack of scripts. “He’s just so…” He stares into the middle distance over Tom’s shoulder, searching for the right word. “He’s Elvis.” He refocuses on Tom. “It just feels kind of like, if I’m going to play Elvis, in a biopic, he deserves something good, and I don’t think I can do it right, at least not right now, and if I do it wrong…” Harry winces.

“So what if you do? At least you’re in a film.” It must pay a lot, starring in a film. Being Elvis Presley. It’s hard to see how anyone could turn that down.

“I can’t afford to mess up a film.” Harry holds up the scripts. “There’s plenty of other options, anyway.”

“Like what?” Tom can’t help but ask. What could be better than being Elvis?

“Come and see.” Harry swings his legs over the side of the lounge chair, making room for Tom to sit at the end. He fans out the scripts like a hand of cards and grins at Meredith. “Jeff says one’s a psychosexual thriller.” Harry says it with relish, rolling the word “psychosexual” around in his mouth.

Tom laughs. “Basic Instinct style? Are you going to be Sharon Stone?”

“Think I could?” Harry sets the scripts to the side and shifts to face Tom. He flips his hand over his shoulder, tossing back an imaginary mane of hair. He leans slightly toward Tom and fixes him with an unnerving stare. Tom wants desperately to break Harry’s intense eye contact, but he can’t look away. Slowly and ostentatiously, Harry crosses and uncrosses his legs, spreading them open.

“Shut up.” Tom kicks at Harry’s ankles. His face feels hot. Harry might actually be a good actor.

Harry cackles and suddenly he’s just some lazy guy by the pool again. “I haven’t read it yet. I’m probably not Sharon Stone.”

“What else, then?”

Harry hands him the stack. “Pick me a winner.” He tucks his feet up and settles back against the lounge, watching Tom page through the scripts.

One with a red cover catches his eye at the back of the stack. A square of notepaper with a black circle logo is paper-clipped to it. In spiky handwriting, the note says, “H- This is the Marvel one. Read for Wiccan.” Tom looks down at the typewritten cover. UNTITLED PROJECT. “Hey, you could be a superhero?”

“Is that the Marvel one? Does it say which character?”

Tom tips the cover with the note toward him. “Wiccan.”

“Oh, yeah.” Harry looks smug. “Jeff said something about that. He can manipulate reality. And he has a shapeshifting alien boyfriend.”

“Alien boyfriend?” Meredith looks up from her book. “That sounds more like the role for you, love.”

‘Heyyyyy.” Harry leans his head against the lounge, looking dolefully at Meredith. “Don’t I deserve an alien boyfriend?”

“Pity the poor alien,” Meredith says. “How’s he going to adjust to Earth if you’re his role model?”

“I’d be a great boyfriend,” Harry says. “He could wear my spaceboy sweater. Maybe he’d come on tour, in his spaceship.”

Tom pages idly through the script, ignoring the dialogue on the page as he listens to Harry riff on the possibilities presented by an alien boyfriend. Maybe Harry doesn’t only date French girls. Which is interesting, in a useless trivia kind of way. Like knowing duckbilled platypuses exist. Not very relevant to Tom, but all the same, it’s nice to know the world contains such things.

#french countryside tomrry #definitely going to hell #sorry the emotional arc is totally a wreck but the only way out of this one is to write it straight through #and then fix it later

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punmasterkentparson · 6 years

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Hooked on Feelings

kicking this out of my WIP folder ‘cause it’s been there for almost a month.

(ao3, part of the Parswoops Neighbors AU)

It’s not even halfway through January when Jeff’s life takes a turn for the worst.

It happens like this: he’s walking through the parking lot of his company office when he hears a soft, sad sound. He stops dead and turns his head slowly, listening. He hears the air conditioning units on the other side of the building, and distant drone of cars on the highway. Nothing out of the ordinary. But through that, Jeff hears the sound again.

He takes a few steps towards it, stops, and listens.

There, again.

He carefully follows the noise across the parking lot, all the way to the hedges that line the building. The noise is coming from behind them, so he has to lean over them to see the source. He doesn’t know what he’s expecting. To be honest, he isn’t giving it much thought; he follows out of curiosity more than anything else.

He only realizes his mistake when he catches sight of what’s behind the bushes, curled up and shivering on the wet mulch.

“…Oh, fuck.”

–

When Jeff gets home, he puts his foundling in the bathtub, nestled among a pile of towels. The wet thing cries for an hour before going to sleep.

Jeff’s second order of business is to text Kent frantically. There’s no reply for hours.

When Kent finally does get off work, he doesn’t text to say he’s coming; he just shows up at Jeff’s front door, already grinning like a smug loon.

“Shut up,” Jeff says. Left alone to his own devices, he has lost all sense of composure. He barely managed to scrounge up dinner with a side of beer to calm his nerves. Ten minutes ago he realized he was still in his work suit and finally changed for bed, which means the rattiest clothes he owns. Meanwhile, Kent is wearing the sleek, expensive-looking active wear that’s basically his work uniform and makes him look like a fitness god. Kent looks calm and capable. Jeff feels like a helpless hot mess.

Kent comes in, still grinning. “Where is it?”

The “it” has started making noise in the bathroom again, so Jeff doesn’t even bother with an answer, just waves a hand. Kent goes right in.

As soon as Kent sees what’s in the tub, he lets out the softest gasp that Jeff has ever heard out of a grown man.

“Oh, honey,” Kent sighs, and reaches into the tub to pry a meowing, squirming little gray-and-white cat off the towels. He gathers it in his arms, heedless of its claws, and cuddles it to his chest. “Aren’t you just the saddest thing I’ve ever seen.”

Jeff can absolutely agree with that. The cat (or kitten? It’s medium-sized, at least.) is drier than when he brought it in, but it still has matted fur in odd places and a bite out of one ear. The worst thing, however, is its tail, which is hanging on by a literal thread with the tip dragging along like a sad, lifeless caterpillar. Jeff honestly had been afraid to touch it when he found the cat outside, and had gone back to his car for a reusable shopping bag. (Which he is absolutely going to throw away or burn, now.)

Kent is cooing at the gross monstrosity and gently petting its ears. The cat has settled right in, which is annoying because Kent hasn’t even done anything yet, whereas Jeff rescued the damn thing and it squirmed the whole way into the apartment. There are red lines all over his arms from overgrown claws.

“It was outside my office,” Jeff says. “I found it in a bush. It was pretty cold, though, so it didn’t really wake up and start making a racket until I got it home.”

“And you just couldn’t leave him out there, huh?”

“How do you know it’s a he?”

“Magical cat-owner sense,” Kent replies, deadpan. “Also, I checked when I picked him up just now. He’s got massive cat balls.”

Jeff looks to the heavens for deliverance. “Look, obviously I don’t know a damn thing about cats. Can you take it for the night? I’ll pick it up tomorrow afternoon and take it to the vet, or the shelter, or whatever. Or, hell, you can keep it if you want.”

Kent’s shit-eating grin doesn’t bode well for Jeff. “Bro, I’ve got a house cat with a delicate constitution in my apartment. She’s vaccinated and shit, but who knows if this guy has fleas or ringworm or something. When I go home, I’m not even gonna touch anything until I’ve dumped all my clothes in the wash.”

“Ringworm? Fleas?” Jeff feels ill.

“Well, I take it back on the fleas,” Kent says, his fingers carefully searching through the cat’s fur. “I don’t see any flea dirt, so you’re probably in the clear. Still, better safe than sorry, those suckers are a pain in the ass to get rid of.”

This is officially the worst day of Jeff’s life. He is never going to do a good deed ever again. “So you’re telling me I’m stuck with a possibly flea and worm-infested cat for the night?”

Kent’s smile quirks in a way that’s almost fond. “I’ll hook you up with some cat food, and the name of Kit’s vet. They open at eight, so if you take some time off in the morning, you can probably take him in right away.”

“Where the fuck am I supposed to shower?”

Kent straight-up laughs, the dick. He has to see that Jeff is losing his shit. “Chill, bro. You can use mine. I’ll give you a key, you can just come right in whenever.”

So that’s that, apparently. Kent puts the cat back in Jeff’s bathtub—which Jeff definitely needs to sanitize the hell out of now, Christ, fuck everything—and leads Jeff upstairs. Before going into his apartment, Kent strips off his sweatshirt and shoes, and the moment they’re in the door he starts pulling off the rest of his clothes, too.

Despite knowing why Kent is getting naked, Jeff feels himself getting warm under the collar. And everywhere else. “Um.”

“Don’t touch anything,” Kent says as he pulls down his shorts and then shimmies out of his leggings. His ass is like marble and watching it move is making Jeff’s stomach flip. For better or worse, Kent is wearing skin-tight briefs underneath. “I’ll get the cat food, hold on.” Kit chooses that moment to run up, but Kent hops backwards, saying, “No, Kit—baby, just give daddy a sec, okay?” Then he scampers off to his bathroom, leaving a confused cat standing near Jeff, who hasn’t moved from the door except to close it behind him.

Kit sits on the floor and regards him.

“Hey,” he says. “Don’t mind me.”

Kit gives him a slow blink and a tail twitch. From Kent’s bathroom comes the sound of rummaging, and then Kent emerges wearing only a towel. He’s dry, so clearly he didn’t wash off, he just…stripped.

“Aren’t you going a little overboard?” Jeff asks. His heart feels like a locomotive picking up steam.

“Nope,” Kent replies, and disappears into the bedroom. He doesn’t close the door, so Jeff has to pretend he doesn’t see the towel getting flung onto the bed, or a flash of Kent’s bare ass as he crosses the room to his closet.

“God, I hate you, you sexy motherfucker,” Jeff mutters under his breath.

Kent comes out a few minutes later, wearing sweatpants and a clean hoodie over a ratty t-shirt. He’s got his key ring in one hand and is twisting something off it. “Here. Spare house key.” He holds it out to Jeff, who takes it.

“You sure?”

“Yeah, I’m sure.” Kent looks amused by Jeff’s befuddlement. “I sleep like a rock, so even if you come in at the asscrack of dawn, you’re not gonna wake me up.”

Waking Kent up was not the basis for Jeff’s objection. Clearly the issue of trust never crossed Kent’s mind. Jeff vows to guard the key like it’s his own deposit. “Okay. Thanks.”

After that, Kent pulls half a dozen cans of wet cat food out of his kitchen pantry and puts it in a bag for Jeff. Then he borrows Jeff’s phone and programs in the number of Kit’s vet. Jeff would chirp him for having the number memorized, if he wasn’t still vaguely haunted by the memory of Kent breaking a glass and crying in his apartment when Kit was sick.

Too soon, Jeff is back in his apartment, alone, with the yowls of a gross street cat echoing in his bathroom.

He groans, sighs, and heads for his kitchen to dig out a make-shift food bowl.

–

The next morning, Jeff wakes up at his usual time of five-thirty and hauls himself out of bed. The cat stopped crying at around one a.m., so that’s about when Jeff fell asleep. He feels like shit. He needs coffee, breakfast, and a shower. So, after starting the coffee maker, he grabs a towel and heads upstairs to Kent’s place.

Unlocking the door and sneaking inside when the lights are all off makes him feel like an intruder. He bumps into a few things on his way to the bathroom and finds out that Kent’s shower is noisy as hell. When he comes out ten minutes later, damp and wearing the clothes he arrived in, he’s amazed to see that Kent hasn’t stirred. The door to Kent’s bedroom is open and Jeff catches sight of him passed out under the layers of bed sheets.

Jeff sneaks back to his apartment. The mangy monster in his bathroom is awake and starting to meow.

“Yeah, yeah, I’ll get your damn breakfast,” he tells it when he goes in to retrieve its bowl. By the time he has fed the creature and gotten coffee for himself, it’s nearly six-thirty. How does time go so fast?!

“Yeah, hi,” he says when he calls his department head. “Sorry, Ted, I know it’s early—Just needed to let you know I’ll be late getting in today. …Maybe noon? Yes, of course. I’ll email it to you, and look over your notes when I come in. …No, nothing like that. Just a little situation at home. Yeah, see you. Thanks.”

Thank god for Jeff’s infamous work ethic. He hasn’t taken unplanned time off in almost a year. People will notice he’s gone, but nobody will side-eye him for it.

It’s not until Jeff has googled the address of Kent’s vet, gotten dressed, and mentally prepared himself to head out that he realizes something vital: he has no fucking idea how he’s going to transport the furry goblin from his apartment to his car.

“Jesus H Christ.”

Last night, when Jeff wrapped it up in the cloth shopping bag, the cat had been too cold and hungry to protest. Now, having warmed up and slept and eaten, the thing is scratching at Jeff’s bathroom door and crying to be let out. Just because it didn’t scratch Kent up last night doesn’t mean it won’t tear into Jeff if he tries to move it somewhere this morning.

He digs a jean jacket and a pair of thick winter gloves out of his closet for protection. Then he steels himself for disaster and opens the bathroom door a crack to squeeze inside.

The cat doesn’t escape. Instead, it flees to the other side of the small bathroom, hiding behind the toilet and continuing to yell.

“Okay, buddy,” Jeff says. “Come quietly and please don’t send me to the hospital, yeah?”

By some miracle, Jeff gets the cat in the bag, out to his car, and halfway across town to the vet’s. He arrives about five minutes after they open, so they’re able to see him immediately. With far more visible comfort than Jeff had displayed carrying the cat in, the vet carefully takes the animal out and examines it.

“We’ll need to run some tests for parasites,” she says. “I’d also recommend an FiV test.”

“FiV?”

“Feline HIV.”

Jeff nods. “Okay. Yeah.”

“As for the tail,” she adds, carefully touching the sad, stringy thing with gloved hands, “I probably don’t have to tell you that it needs to be amputated.”

“I figured. How much will all that cost?”

She gives him a rough estimate. Jeff sighs and says, “Sure. Let’s do all the things you said.”

The tests come back in twenty minutes. It turns out that the cat does not have fleas, but it does have intestinal parasites that will require twice-a-day meds for the next week. They still need to take care of the tail, so after getting the results and paying for it all at the front desk, Jeff leaves, heading home for a change of clothes before he goes to work.

Around noon, Kent texts him.

just got up, how’s ur cat?

Jeff sighs, puts down his sandwich, and sends back,

Not my cat, and it has intestinal parasites. They’re gonna amputate the tail. I have to go back tonight to pick the cat up.

Kent sends a smilie face.

Jeff leaves work at his usual time and drives to the vet. He hadn’t told anyone at his office the reason for his morning lateness. He doesn’t want to spend a week fielding inquiries about the cat’s condition.

The cat is subdued from its experience at the vet. It has seventy-five percent less tail, the end of which is wrapped up in bandages that the cat is not allowed to lick or bite under any circumstances. A Victorian-style plastic collar has been included for the purpose of preventing this. Jeff goes home with a bag of medications, a cat carrier, and a cat brush. He’d been strongly advised to brush the cat out and get rid of the matting as soon as possible, before the clumps of fur become hazardous to the cat’s health or invite—of course—fleas.

Once home, Jeff gets the cat settled in his bathtub, giving it dinner and a bowl of water. He also brings in a few more hand towels for extra comfort, because he’s animal-inept but he’s not heartless. Now that the worst of the situation has been dealt with, he can take a moment to sit on the edge of the tub and just observe.

It’s not an ugly cat, he decides. It won’t be winning any beauty contests, not with that knobby tail stub and half-bitten ear, but its fur markings are okay. He dares to pat the cat while it eats. It ignores him.

Five minutes later, Kent shows up. “How’s the patient?” he asks, still standing at Jeff’s front door.

“You didn’t even call to see if I was home. Have you seriously been listening for me, just so you could see this damn cat?” Jeff demands.

Kent doesn’t deny it; he just waits for Jeff to roll his eyes and show him to the bathroom.

“I have two different types of meds I have to make it eat twice a day this week,” Jeff bemoans while Kent sits on the edge of the tub and coos over the cat. “I think they’re pills. How do you make cats eat pills?”

“Mix them with the food,” Kent replies. “Or find a treat the cat really loves and put it in that.”

Jeff nods. “I have to brush it out, too, apparently.” He’s a little scared to do it. What if he does it wrong and the cat bites him? What if he pulls out fur or skin?

His fear must show on his face because Kent just smiles, shakes his head, and says, “I can show you. D’you have a brush?”

And it turns out that brushes are some kind of cat cheat code. Within minutes, Kent has the cat flopped out in the tub and purring like a motor while he carefully scrapes through a thick matt near its tail. “It just takes patience,” he says. “You wanna give it a shot?”

Jeff does not. Kent gives him the brush anyway. Jeff switches spots with Kent at the tub and tries to mimic his movements with the brush. He knows he’s a bit stiff, but he’s still worried that he’s one fuckup away from a bleeding hand.

Kent, however, settles down on the tile to watch. “It’s just a cat,” he says, the lit to his voice definitely teasing. “Not a bomb. If you relax, the cat will relax.”

Jeff shakes his head. “I suck at handling animals, Parse. It’s just fact.”

Chuckling, Kent gives him a light smack on the thigh. “Good thing you’re cute, then.”

Jeff’s heart skips a beat. Kent has averted his gaze to the floor. There might be a blush on his cheeks, but Jeff doesn’t know what it means—if it’s, ‘oops, I said too much,’ or ‘oops, no homo.’ He likes Kent too much to risk being wrong. “I really doubt the cat cares,” he replies, and after the silence stretches a few safe seconds, he adds, “Thanks for helping me with this.”

Kent’s cheeks are still rosy when he looks up and grins. “No problem, man. Trust me, you’ve got this.”

–

The week drags on and Jeff doesn’t feel like he’s ‘got this’. He keeps the cat in his bathroom out of paranoia of parasites and having all his furniture clawed up while he’s gone. (After all, his apartment is not remotely cat-proofed.) Not that it matters. For the first week, he comes home daily to find shredded bath towels and teeth marks on the cabinet door corners and puddles of urine next to a perfectly good litter box that Kent helps him buy. He goes through endless paper towels and does a shit-ton of laundry and learns to dab hot sauce on anything the cat might deem edible.

He scoops so. Much. Cat poop.

But life continues, taking him to work and home again and back, and somehow he manages to feed, water, and medicate the cat without causing it any harm. He even brushes out all the matted fur, leaving bald spots and dander. Then, once the parasites are gone and the tail is healed up, he takes the cat back to the vet to be neutered. The cat strongly objects to the return of the plastic collar. Jeff figures it’s just as well he’s keeping the cat in his bathroom, since he can’t imagine what the cat might knock over with its cone head.

This means he also continues showering at Kent’s place. It feels weird. In part because he uses Kent’s shampoo since it’s easier than bringing his own every time—and because Kent insisted—but also because catching glimpses of Kent still asleep in his bed makes Jeff feel domestic. Like he actually lives with Kent, instead of just borrowing his bathroom. “Good thing you’re cute, then,” keeps echoing in his head like a broken record.

Dealing with the cat is bad enough, so Jeff pushes those heart-pang feelings to the back of his mind until he can ignore the fact that he has them.

The weekend following the cat’s neutering, there’s another hockey game with the league—and this time it’s against another team. A co-ed club from a community college the next city over takes the bus into Vegas, gear and sticks and all.

Jeff really enjoys playing that night. There’s an acute sense of competition, of “us versus them,” and although there are no refs to call penalties and therefore a standing agreement that they all play fair, Jeff wouldn’t say they’re all necessarily polite. Nobody is hooking or tripping or cross-checking, but they’re also not above bodily shoving each other out of the way to get at the puck.

The co-ed team wins.

“Isn’t it past your bedtime?!” Rabs hollers at them as they celebrate, which gets him some laughter from both teams and a brazen middle finger from one of the college kids.

“I’m surprised your knee held out two full periods, old man!” yells back a girl who’s probably barely eighteen, and she high-fives her teammates when the beer league guys just laugh at Rabs.

Half the beer league and most of the college kids go out for drinks after. As they commandeer a couple of tables, Bommer yells over the fuss, “If I catch any of you kids drinking underage or using a fake I.D., I’ll arrest your ass. Got it?” Then he heads for the bar.

One of the college kids leans close to Jeff. “He’s not serious, is he?”

Jeff knows for a fact that Bommer isn’t, because Bommer arrests drug dealers and vandals and rapists but not idiot college kids trying to sneak a beer—he just lectures them into next week. But Jeff looks the college kid dead in the eye and lies, “He once arrested his own daughter.”

It’s really fun to watch that little story get passed around in hushed whispers.

It’s also surprisingly fun to hang out with the college kids. Sure, they’re obnoxiously cocky and self-assured, but it’s just a product of their age. They chat about school, careers, reality TV, celeb gossip—and hockey, of course hockey. Some of the college kids are shooting for the big leagues, others content to leave hockey on the sidelines while they pursue other dreams. The college kids who are legal get drunk faster than the league guys. Most of them proceed to make fools of themselves, while their underage friends take pictures and videos to blackmail them with later.

It’s good. Kent is two seats down, close enough for Jeff to yell-talk at him but far enough away that after Jeff’s hands won’t get stupid after he’s had a few beers. Kent is loose and relaxed tonight, his smiles a dime a dozen, and every time Jeff catches one directed at him, his stomach swoops.

The college kids nearby manage to drag him into a conversation about Survivor, and then Lost. This leads to him getting into an argument with two of the girls about which season of Lost was the best (Jeff says the first, they’re adamant it’s the last). One of the girls is laughing a little too much at his lame-ass jokes and almost falling over her friend as she leans in to yell over the music. At one point, she catches herself from swaying with a hand on Jeff’s thigh and she leaves it there, and—okay, Jeff knows what this is.

He laughs and says, “I think you’ve had enough for the evening, huh?” He takes her hand off his leg and politely pushes it back to her. She’s drunk enough that her embarrassment just makes her laugh, and her friends laugh, too.

“Are you gay?” asks the drunk girl. It’s not an accusation, just a loose tongue brought on by alcohol. “’Cause, like, that’s cool, just I’m sorry if I’m making you uncomfortable, you know?”

“I am, actually,” Jeff says, and winks. “But even if I wasn’t, you’re a little young for me, honey.”

“But college boys are so lame!” the drunk girl hollers, and a couple of the guys around her immediately jump in to refute this assertion.

The conversations splinter and roll on. Jeff’s attention shifts away from the college kids and back to his own friends, where a few seats are already empty due to the guys in question having babysitters to relieve, spouses to see, or weekend shifts to get ready for. Kent, for once, isn’t heading home early, although he does keep checking his phone.

When he catches Jeff looking, he grins and shows him a livestream feed of his living room. In it, Kit is curled up on the sofa.

“That’s adorable,” Jeff says, and he really means it.

Kent grins and takes his phone back. “What about your monster?”

Jeff is not thankful for the reminder. “I fed him and made him take his pills before I left. I also scooped his gross litter box and changed the towels in the tub. He won’t stop peeing on them,” he complains.

Mike leans in. “Swoops, are you holding a kid hostage in your bathroom?”

Kent’s grin takes on epic proportions. “Jeff got a cat.”

“I did not get a cat,” Jeff corrects. “I found a dirty stray in a bush outside my office, and now it lives in my bathroom. I haven’t showered in my own apartment in weeks.”

Mike makes a point of sniffing Jeff until Jeff shoves him away. “Funny, you don’t smell any worse than usual.”

“Haha, you’re hilarious. I’m showering—somewhere else.” Jeff catches himself before he confesses to both having Kent’s apartment key and free access to his shower. Mike looks skeptical, so Jeff adds, “At a neighbor’s.”

“Generous neighbor,” Mike says, at exactly the same time as Kent stands up and says, “Last round, any takers? I mean orders, you moochers, I’m not paying!” All the previous requests for booze are waived off, which make Jeff laugh.

Once Kent is gone, Mike raises an eyebrow at him and says, “Kent lives in your building, doesn’t he?”

“Sure does,” Jeff replies, and chugs half his beer to avoid furthering that line of inquiry.

Mercifully, Mike lets it go, and they talk about other things. Until Mike is checking over his shoulder at the bar and lets out a low whistle. “Well, that’s ballsy.”

Jeff knows he shouldn’t look. He looks.

Kent is leaning on the bar, drink in hand, talking to one of the college guys. They must have met up at the bar, getting drinks at the same time. Except they’re standing close, and College Boy has a hand on Kent’s arm, and as Jeff watches, College Boy leans in to say something into Kent’s ear. Something that makes Kent laugh.

College Boy is flirting and Kent…doesn’t mind.

Jeff turns back around. He feels like his face is on fire. Guess that answers the question of homo or no homo, he thinks, mildly hysterical.

Next to him, Mike says, “The kid’s got balls going for Parson, I’ll give him that. He’s a little on the young side.”

“They’re both adults,” Jeff replies, mouth on autopilot. Now that the surprise is wearing off, he’s starting to simmer with resentment. How the fuck is a college kid managing the balls to flirt with Kent when Jeff has been sitting on his own hands since fall?

Mike snorts, and takes another look back over his shoulder. “Well, you can chill. Parson’s coming back.”

A few seconds later, Kent drops into his seat and then asks, utterly sans segue, “If Darth Vader and Voldemort faced off, who would win?”

“Voldemort,” says Mike without hesitation.

Kent gestures so hard with his free hand that he almost spills his drink in the other. “That’s what I said!” he exclaims, and then shouts down the table, “Because you can’t use the force if you’re Avada Kedavera’d to death, Peter!”

Jeff looks down the table and recognizes “Peter” as the flirt. He’d been on the brink of voting for Vader, just to be contrary, but now the retort dies in his throat.

Mike says, “I was thinking more along the lines that he’d be faster. Is magic even legal during a game?”

Peter is shaking his head. “If it’s not legal in Quidditch, it’s not legal in hockey.”

“Do wizards even have hockey?” asks a girl next to Peter.

“Darth Vader probably sucks at hockey,” Kent says. “He grew up on a freaking desert planet, come on.”

Somehow, the argument continues for another half hour. Jeff thinks the only reason they eventually leave is because the bar makes its last call, and the fact that all the college kids still have to get to their motel.

Outside the bar, while they wait for taxis, Jeff sees Peter sidle up to Kent again and murmur into his ear. Kent giggles, shakes his head, and gently pushes Peter away towards his friends, who pull him towards a cab. Jeff shouldn’t feel as relieved as he does.

Kent catches Jeff watching. Jeff instantly looks away.

After Peter is gone, Kent joins Jeff on the sidewalk. “That bother you?”

Jeff’s heart jack-knifes in his chest. “No,” he manages. “Why—why would it bother me?” As smooth as a rockslide. Fantastic.

Kent shrugs and puts his hands in his pockets. “I dunno. Some guys have a thing about it. And, you know, I never mentioned I’m bi, so…” Another shrug.

Oh. Oh. They’re having a totally different conversation than Jeff thought. He’s not being called out on his pining; Kent thinks Jeff might be a shade homophobic. Clearly he didn’t catch the exchange Jeff had with that college girl in the bar. He needs a moment to re-orient himself. Then he blurts, “I’m super gay. Just—unbelievably gay. My horoscope sign is a rainbow unicorn.”

Kent doubles over laughing. When he can speak again, he wheezes, “Wow. Okay. Crisis averted. Jesus, that’s the funniest thing you’ve ever said.”

“It was definitely not,” Jeff argues. “I’ve said way funnier.”

“Way dumber, too.”

“You’ve said way dumber, today.”

Kent laughs again and slings an arm around Jeff. It feels hot and strong and Jeff’s whole body is tingling. Kent leans in and declares, grinning, “Yeah, but I’m drunk, ripped, and hot. Nobody gives a shit what I say.”

Jeff picks a perfect time to glance sideways and drop his gaze to Kent’s mouth. Christ, it looks wet and soft.

“See, you’re not listening to me at all, are you?”

“Am too,” Jeff retorts, strained, and drags his gaze back up. There’s a shadow on Kent’s jaw, the blond beard just dark enough to betray a missed morning shave, and Jeff is having the insane urge to just lean in and find out what that feels like under his tongue.

Rabs startles him half to death by yelling, “We got you guys a cab, get in!”

They’re sharing with Cash, which is a blessing and a curse. Jeff gets squished between them, and when Cash starts pulling up pics of his kids that his babysitter sent, Kent leans over to see. He smells like beer and fried cheese and hours-old cologne, and his warm, solid body is plastered all up along Jeff’s side. Kent puts his arm back around Jeff and it feels so good to be tucked against him that Jeff’s chest feels like it’s caving in with the force of his heartache.

God, how he wants.

Kent’s and his apartment comes first. They clamor out and wave after the disappearing taxi until it’s gone. Then they head into the building, where they find an Out Of Order sign on the elevator.

“Goddammit,” Jeff grumbles. “I hate taking the stairs. So much fucking exercise.”

Kent grabs his hand and tugs him towards the exit door. “It’s just five flights. Come on, you baby.”

“I’ve got four flights to climb,” Jeff complains, though he’s mostly distracted by the firm surety of Kent’s grip to really protest. “Why are you dragging me up to your floor?”

Kent holds his hand up the whole three flights. Jeff’s heart is pounding by the time they reach Kent’s apartment. He knows it’s not from the climb.

“You wanna come in for a bit?” Kent asks. “Say hi to Kit?” His smile is lopsided and so openly fond that Jeff knows, intuitively and like a vise on his ribs, that if he says ‘yes’ to that offer, he might actually get what he’s longing for.

He didn’t know until now that he’s a coward.

“I gotta check on the monster,” he says, carefully letting go of Kent’s hand. “You know, food and shit.”

“Right, right.” Kent’s hands go into his pockets, out of reach. Jeff wants them back in his more than he can say; which is probably why he doesn’t.

“Night, Parser.”

“Night, Jeff.”

It’s a lonely walk up to his apartment. As soon as he’s inside, he clenches his jaw, then his fists, and after a second of internally fuming, he kicks the door. “Goddammit!” he hisses. “Fuck. Fuck me.”

From his bathroom, the stray cat yowls. Jeff waits until he has taken a few calming breaths before going to feed it.

He finds broken glass and the stench of cologne. The cat is cowering in a corner to hide from the smell.

“I hate you,” Jeff groans, and retreats to the kitchen for a roll of paper towels.

–

Nothing changes between Jeff and Kent. Jeff remembers everything from that night and he knows Kent remembers everything too, but nothing about their friendship changes. Jeff wouldn’t have minded that if he didn’t get the feeling he’d blown his chance for more.

At the next hockey game, there are two scouts in the stands, and Kent chats with them both. He also chats with the scouts who show up to the game after that.

It’s impossible for the rest of the guys to miss.

“They’re like flies on shit all of a sudden,” Rabs says after a day of three scouts. “Parser, you getting any offers?”

“Did you just call me dogshit?” Kent demands, and then shrugs noncommittally. “Not really offers, just talks.”

“Yeah, but. You gonna sign, if you get something good?”

And Kent replies to that like he always does—laughs it off, shakes his head, says something about how nobody’s really looking to sign him, they’re just checking him off a list of known free agents. None of it means anything.

Jeff believes that, right up until he sees the contracts.

It’s by accident; he goes into Kent’s apartment at the ass-crack of dawn, like always, ready to shower. He finds Kent passed out on the sofa. Jeff pauses in the living room, curious, because Kent is wearing his sleeping clothes but clearly drifted off before he made it to bed. The lamp next to him is still on.

What catches Jeff’s eye are the contracts spilled out over Kent’s coffee table. There are three, as far as he can tell, and each one has a piece of notepaper next to it covered in notes.

It’s what Jeff wanted for Kent, and what Kent has worked for. But it makes Jeff feel so sick at heart that he almost leaves without his shower. Almost.

Kent is awake when Jeff comes out of the bathroom, damp and clean. The contracts are stacked up, not gone. Kent is sitting upright on the sofa, rubbing his eyes.

“Good offers?” Jeff asks, like a jackass, because if Kent hasn’t ever mentioned it before then it’s obviously not something he wanted to discuss.

Kent sighs, sounding exhausted, and shrugs. “Bunch of zeroes. No-trade clauses, two- and three-year deals. So. Objectively, sure.”

Jesus. That’s the real deal. “Are you going to sign?”

Kent sighs again. “I don’t fucking know, Jeff.”

That’s not a “no.”

Jeff leaves and doesn’t bring it up again. He doesn’t mention it to the guys, not even Mike. Kent acts like it didn’t happen, still coming to games and texting Jeff at work and dropping by Jeff’s apartment to visit the monster cat that still lives in Jeff’s bathroom. The cat has monopolized the space for almost two months, now, because Jeff is too afraid of the potential destruction to let it wander free.

“I can help you cat-proof your place, you know,” Kent offers—again—one night when he comes over. He’s crammed into the bathroom with Jeff and the cat. Somehow, Kent has managed to entrance the cat with just a shoelace, dangling it and pulling it along the tiles and laughing when the cat tries and fails to pounce on it. “You can’t keep him in your bathroom forever. Have you even named him?”

Jeff calls the cat “the monster” or “Monster,” but Kent continues to insist that Jeff pick something better. Kent also brings new cat toys and treats every week, like the animal is a nephew he’s trying to spoil. Jeff has repeatedly asked Kent if he wants to keep the cat, but Kent keeps saying no. Jeff gets the impression that Kent expects him to keep Monster, so Kent can continue to dote on it.

Honestly, Jeff has thought about it. But he keeps coming to the conclusion that it’s not in the cards. He likes his life how it is and he doesn’t want the complication. So he says, “It doesn’t matter what I name him. The new owner will probably change it. I’ve got someone at the office who’s seen pics and she says she’s interested.”

Kent goes still. “Wait, you’re seriously giving him away?”

Jeff internally squirms under Kent’s wide-eyed look of betrayal, turning his gaze to Monster instead. “I’m not a cat person, Parse, I told you. It was okay playing the good Samaritan for a bit, but this isn’t me. I can’t see myself having a cat long-term.”

“Oh.” Kent is quiet for a long moment. Monster jumps on the shoelace and tugs it away; Kent doesn’t resist. “I guess you should do what’s best for you.”

“That’s all it is, Parse. I’m just not a cat person.”

Soon after that conversation, Kent leaves. He smiles as he goes, acting casual, but there’s a shadow in his eyes like something’s gone wrong. And, look, Jeff doesn’t always catch on quick, but he’s not an idiot. Even if he’s not sure what specific sentence was the wrong one, he knows he fucked up somehow. Rather than go upstairs and ask Kent to clarify, however, he just curses himself and kicks his door. Again. It’s becoming a pattern.

Why is he such a coward when it comes to Kent? Even back when Kent was a noisy menace, the only time Jeff didn’t go upstairs to confront him about it was the one time it had sounded like Kent really needed company. Now that he knows Kent personally, would he do differently? He hopes so. But, god—he also never pegged himself as a guy who’d avoid so many important conversations just because he was afraid of the outcome, even a potentially good one. He’d always thought that if he ever cared about someone like he cares about Kent, he’d bare his heart and put it all on the line.

He never expected to find himself approaching Valentine’s Day wondering if Kent was already finding someone else.

It’s desperation for reassurance, not courage, that makes him text Kent about coming over for pizza and beer.

“Dude, about time you had me over again,” Kent says when he arrives.

Jeff rolls his eyes and waves him in. “The fuck do you mean ‘about time,’ you’ve been over here doting on the cat every day.”

“Your cat is better looking, is why,” Kent replies. He heads for the sofa, only to stop short when he sees Monster curled up on it.

“Oh, yeah,” Jeff says. “My co-worker is picking him up tomorrow. I thought I’d give him a night to live it up before he moves out. How much damage can he do, right?”

Kent snorts. The look on his face is one of jumbled emotions, confusion and fondness and resignation.

“You can move him,” Jeff says. “He’s pretty chill suddenly, doesn’t really care if you pick him up or touch his feet and shit. Which is a goddamn turnaround, considering how nuts he always acted in the bathroom.”

“He just needed to feel at home, that’s all.” Kent crouches by Monster and pets him until he purrs and shows his belly. “Nobody feels at home in just a bathroom.”

Jeff feels awkward and he’s not sure why. “You know you could still keep him, if you really wanted. I’ll tell my co-worker there was a change of plans. She’ll understand.” She won’t. But Jeff would face Sarah’s sour disappointment for a year if it meant keeping Kent happy.

Except the offer just makes Kent look more unhappy. “No, it’s—fine. You promised.” Kent sits on the sofa arm, still petting Monster. “Come on, gimme pizza.”

Kent acts normally from then on, talking shit through the movie and criticizing Jeff’s choice in beer. But there’s a sadness weighing on him that comes out in the silences, and makes his fingers drift to Monster’s fur whenever he’s lost in thought. Monster attaches himself to Kent, nuzzling and purring, like he thinks Kent needs it.

Jeff hates it because it feels like his fault. Which it can’t be, because if Kent won’t keep the cat and Jeff can’t, there’s nothing else to fucking do.

The night concludes as it always does, with Kent smiling and giving him a half-hug before going home, and Jeff still sitting on a crush that he hasn’t yet dared to air out. In the living room, Monster is stalking the empty pizza boxes. When Jeff walks over and shoos him away from a stray piece of crust, Monster meows indignantly.

“You’re a weird-ass cat, you know that?” Jeff grumbles, and wiggles the boxes until Monster hops out.

Jeff crosses his fingers for no overnight disasters and goes to bed early. He wakes up on Sunday morning to find Monster sprawled out on his bed, whiskers twitching in his sleep. Jeff stares for a while. Monster still isn’t a beauty; he’s got half an ear on one side, almost no tail, and even without his balls he has a throaty, tomcat yowl. All of these disclaimers were made clear to Sarah before she agreed to take him. Jeff supposes that if you’re into cats, the little imperfections don’t matter.

Monster blinks awake and sees Jeff already looking. Without prompt, Monster starts to purr.

“You’re a terrible cat,” Jeff tells him. “I can’t wait until you’re gone and I can have my own life again.”

Monster closes his eyes and purrs louder.

“Shut up.” Jeff gets out of bed. Monster, sensing breakfast, follows. Once there’s food in front of Monster, Jeff escapes to his bathroom. He gets his towel and clothes and is halfway out his door before he remembers that he doesn’t need Kent’s shower anymore.

Well. That’s how it should be.

So he goes back to his bathroom and gets in his own shower for the first time in over a month. It feels strange. Kent’s shower setup had been the apartment’s standard, but Jeff’s is custom, and it’s like he’s completely forgotten how to use his own showerhead. He keeps twisting the knobs wrong, and twice he misplaces his shampoo. When he gets out, he shaves over the sink and frowns at himself in the mirror.

He takes Monster—and all of Monster’s accumulated shit—to his co-worker’s house that afternoon. Sarah takes Monster out of his carrier right away and coos over him. Monster squirms.

“He needs time getting used to new places,” Jeff says. “And new people.” Even as he says it, it doesn’t feel true. Monster had settled into Jeff’s bathroom and then his apartment in no time flat. And although Monster had been a matted, parasite-infested wreck when he first met Kent, he’d done nothing but knead and purr.

Sarah closes the door behind Jeff and puts Monster down. Monster slinks up to the first bit of furniture he can find—a bookshelf—and cautiously sniffs it. “We’ll make it work,” Sarah says.

Jeff nods. “Just leave him alone and keep feeding him, he loves food. He doesn’t care what happens as long as there’s food in front of him. Oh, and play with him. He’s got a ton of cat toys, courtesy of my neighbor, although for some reason he likes dumb stuff like shoelaces and towels.”

Sarah gives him a look. “Are you sure you don’t want to keep him? You sound attached.”

Jeff watches Monster take a slow swat at a book and ignores the tightness in his chest. “I’m not a cat person.”

Sarah nods. “Well, okay. Do you want to come into the kitchen, have a drink? I’ve got coke, coffee, or I can make tea. Give you a little more time to say goodbye to your cat?”

“No, thanks. I’m good.”

And just like that, Jeff is out the front door and back in his car, driving home. Alone.

–

Without Monster around, Kent has no concrete reason to drop by all the time, so he mostly stops. They don’t drift apart—they keep texting, and sometimes bump into each other in the elevator. But Jeff doesn’t fool himself; it’s not the same. He spends the next week feeling like there’s a hole in his life, and he’s self-aware enough to know that the hole is Kent-shaped. Their conversations aren’t as frequent and lack the spark they used to.

At the next hockey game, Kent doesn’t make a beeline for him the second he steps on the ice. There’s a scout waiting for Kent when the game is done, and he spends a long time talking with the guy—the longest he’s talked with any of them yet. He’s actually late to arrive at the bar, and when he takes a seat on the other end of the table from Jeff, it feels on purpose, not by chance.

Jeff is starting to feel like he gave away Kent along with Monster.

Are you mad at me? he sends from his work desk on Thursday, when he should be typing up a report. ‘Cause I didn’t keep the cat?

Kent’s reply comes instantly. And keeps coming.

Kent: what?! no!! of course not. i guess i just miss him. i got used to him being around but i’m not mad at YOU for not keeping him. its your life. and i really believe you should only get a pet if ur 110% committed. you shouldn’t make a commitment if you’re not able to, u know?

Me: Exactly. I just want what’s best for Monster.

Kent: i know. i’m never gonna be mad at u for doing what u gotta do, k? i’ll get over it.

Jeff should put his phone down and get back to work. But he feels like they’re finally communicating after almost two weeks of being lukewarm, and he’ll be hard-pressed to find this level of openness again. So he sends,

Me: You know you’re my best friend, right?

Kent’s icon shows that he’s typing for a long time; either preparing to send a wall of text, or second-guessing himself dozens of times. Neither bodes well.

Kent: i didn’t, actually. but ur mine, too.

Fuck, Jeff will die happy just from this.

Me: Right. So I want you to know that you’ll still be my best friend if you play in the NHL. Or the AHL. Or if you move to Russia and join the KHL. Or turn them all down and play in the beer league the rest of your life. You’re my best friend and nothing changes that.

Another long pause.

Kent: thanks, man.

It’s not much, but Jeff smiles in relief, anyway.

–

On Friday, as Jeff is getting ready to leave work, Sarah comes up to him. She’s been showing Jeff and everyone else in the office photos of Monster—re-named Stuart—since the day she brought him home. Jeff expects more of the same today, and mentally prepares an excuse to leave after viewing no more than five pictures.

He’s confused when, instead of pulling out her phone, Sarah asks, “Are you doing anything tomorrow?”

“No?” Jeff replies, then freezes when he remembers that tomorrow is February 14th, Valentine’s Day. Awkwardly, he says, “I’m, uh, flattered, but—”

“What?” Sarah blinks, and then her eyes go wide. “Oh—god, no! Jeff, I have a girlfriend.”

“…Oh.” Jeff takes a moment to mentally re-evaluate everything he knows about Sarah. He feels stupid for assuming that the woman in all her photos was her sister.

“Yeah,” Sarah says, like she can hear what he’s thinking. “Which is why—god, I feel terrible about this, but I can’t keep Stuart. My girlfriend is allergic. I mean really allergic.” She sighs. “We knew she had allergies, but they’ve never been so bad. She can’t come over to my place at all.”

“Oh,” Jeff repeats. “I can, uh, pick him up this evening? If you want?”

Sarah looks relieved enough that she might hug him. “Thank you so much. I’m so sorry. You were right, Stuart is a sweetheart once he warms up to you, and Jenna and I love him so much. But… well, we’d really rather just get a hypoallergenic cat than install special filters all over the house and do laundry three times a week.”

Although Jeff has never had allergy issues, he finds it easy to relate to the problem of Monster giving him too much housework. “It’s fine. I was gonna leave now, but I can hang back until you’re done.”

“Thanks so much. I’ve just got to send a couple of emails and I’ll be ready to head out.”

It’s dark when they get to the parking lot. Jeff follows Sarah’s car to her house, and comes inside with her to collect all of Monster’s belongings. Monster comes right up to him and rubs against Jeff’s shins, purring and meowing.

“Aww, he missed you.”

Jeff can feel himself blushing a little, so he just shrugs and stoops to pat Monster’s head. Monster yowls and pushes his face into Jeff’s fingers. “Yeah, yeah,” Jeff mutters while Sarah stuffs the last of Monster’s toys into a bag, and then to Monster he says, “Apocalyptic allergies, huh? Nice to see you can make a nuisance of yourself wherever you go.”

Monster is noisy on the drive home, in the elevator up to Jeff’s apartment, and then even after Jeff has brought him inside and let him out. Monster prances around rubbing against all the furniture.

Jeff drops the bag of toys next to the sofa and sinks onto the cushions. Monster trots in from the next room and hops up next to him, climbing onto Jeff’s lap and meowing at him. Jeff gets a face-full of fish-scented cat breath and coughs. “I was nearly free of you,” he complains, and submits to Monster’s demands by scratching his chin. “I don’t have anyone else lined up to take you.” He thinks for a minute. “We could put up flyers, maybe. Free cat to good home. Facebook, too, I’ve got a ton of friends all over the country who are suckers for cats.”

Monster closes his eyes and settles down on Jeff’s lap while Jeff keeps scratching his chin. The warmth and weight of Monster is kind of nice, Jeff decides. And waking up to Monster that one morning was the least lonely he’s felt at five a.m. in…well, a while.

“One of the guys might take you,” he continues, still brainstorming aloud. “Cash’s kids have been bugging him for a pet. You’d be good with kids, right? You’re chill. And you don’t have much of a tail to pull or step on.”

Monster begins to purr. It’s a deep, guttural rumble that seems to seep into Jeff’s bones.

“Oh, Christ, stop. I’m not keeping you, you goddamn noisy, ugly cat. Do you have any idea how much trouble you’ve been from start to finish? You destroyed my bathroom. You’d probably destroy my apartment. And you’re expensive, fuck, I’ve dropped so much cash on you. You had parasites, remember? Then the surgery for your tail, plus your balls, and if I keep you, I just know Parser is gonna talk me into microchipping you ‘cause he’s paranoid like that.”

He sighs, his fingers slowing. Monster tucks his face into his paws, so Jeff strokes his fur instead. Monster keeps purring. “I hate you, Monster. So much.”

He can’t fucking believe he’s considering this.

–

The next morning, Jeff wakes up to Monster curled up at his side.

“Manipulative little shit,” he accuses, to which Monster mumble-meows and bats at Jeff’s face until he gets up.

Jeff feeds Monster in the kitchen. While Monster noisily eats a can of soggy Friskies cat food, Jeff starts the coffee pot and contemplates…everything. Last night he’d gone to bed without making a firm decision about Monster. In the cold darkness of the morning, he doesn’t feel any surer. He’s still not a cat person. The whole experience of feeling outrageously sentimental about a pet is still something he can’t fully relate to. Even Monster, with his soft fur and adoring slow-blinks and motorboat purr, is still an alien entity whom Jeff regards with more confusion than unconditional love.

But as he watches Monster chomp down a fat piece of tuna, Jeff has to admit that he has grown attached.

He can’t fucking believe he’s resigning himself to this.

Kent will be ecstatic.

Kent also might sign an NHL contract and move across the country, rarely seen again, and it won’t matter that Jeff has finally given in and adopted Kent’s favorite ratty cat. Anything Jeff could have said, anything he might have wanted, will be lost in the face of Kent’s new whirlwind career.

A man can only be a coward for so long.

Fuck it, Jeff decides. If he can’t find the courage to do this shit on Valentine’s Day at the ass-crack of dawn when he has just decided to keep an utter wreck of a stray cat, he never will.

He puts on his fuzziest slippers and warmest sweatshirt and ventures upstairs. With his heart pounding in his chest, he knocks on Kent’s door.

Eventually, it opens. “Fuck, Jeff, it’s like six o’clock,” Kent complains when he answers. He’s wearing sweatpants and no shirt and he’s got terrible bedhead, plus a couple creases in his face from his pillow. He looks like he has every morning that Jeff has snuck by him sleeping in bed.

By now, Jeff’s urge to wrap himself around Kent and bury his face in Kent’s neck is mostly under control. “Just let me say this before I chicken out,” Jeff replies, and that gets him Kent’s attention. He takes a fortifying breath and says, “I like you.” Not the most eloquent, but in his defense, he hasn’t had coffee yet.

Kent blinks. He definitely hasn’t had coffee yet, either. “I like you, too?”

“No, Parser, I like you. Do you remember when I first brought Monster back from the vet, and we were sitting in my bathroom brushing him and I said that I sucked at animals, and you said it was a good thing I’m cute? I’ve been thinking about that non-stop ever since.”

Kent blinks again. “That was two months ago.”

“I know. But I’ve been thinking about it because it was the first time I really chickened out of being honest with you. Because you’re my best friend, and I don’t have best friends, so I can’t fuck this up with you. But I’ve also got a cat downstairs that I am apparently fucking keeping now, so if I can do that insane shit, I can do this insane shit.”

Kent’s eyes widen. “You’ve got—Monster?”

“Sarah, my co-worker, her girlfriend has massive allergies, so she asked me to take Monster back. I picked him up yesterday. I figure I’ll just keep him. Look, I’m sorry it’s so fucking early and I’m sorry it’s Valentine’s Day, I’m not trying to be a cliché, it’s just that I’ve been wanting to kiss you since Christmas and I kept chickening out—and for Christ’s sake, why are you always half naked? You wear shirts to bed, I’ve seen you.”

Kent’s sliver of a smile is halfway between amused and incredulous. “You’re getting off topic.”

“Not if you’re this sexy on purpose.”

“You’re really keeping Monster?”

That doesn’t answer Jeff’s totally legitimate question at all—because it is still the middle of February and damn cold. But Jeff nods seriously. “Yeah. Might as well. I’m already two months committed, what’s another ten years?”

Kent shakes his head, grins, and steps in close enough that Jeff can smell the faint remains of his body wash. It’s citrusy, familiar, and intoxicating. “I actually did take my shirt off a couple times when I saw it was you. Not always. But you always got so red, I figured it couldn’t hurt to throw you off your game.”

“I knew it—” is all Jeff gets out before Kent kisses him. It’s careful and hesitant, just the barest brush of lips in hopeful inquiry. Jeff pushes back a little to make it firm, more sure, and smiles against Kent’s mouth when Kent hums in relief. It’s good to know he’s not the only one who’s afraid of a kiss fucking everything up.

When they part, Jeff says, “Just ‘cause I’m not a cat person doesn’t mean I can’t date one.”

Kent has his hands on Jeff’s hips and he squeezes gently. “Looks like you’re a cat person now, too.”

“No, I’m not. I have a cat, Parse, I’m not a cat person.”

“Semantics.”

“Do you wanna come downstairs and see my new awful cat, or not?”

Kent’s grin widens and he wraps his arms around Jeff’s waist. It eliminates the last few breaths of distance between them and makes Jeff gulp. The visual of Kent half-naked didn’t at all prepare him for the feel of it. “Yeah,” Kent says. His smile is like the sun. “Lead the way.”

#parswoops #savvy writes #it's late and i'm tired #the cat is asleep next to me #PLEASE let me know if there are awful mistakes #i'm too tired to see them #omgcp #kent parson #troyson #swoops #jeff troy #omgcp fic #omgcp fanfic

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