#the ‘bitch’ was affectionate and satirical don’t worry.

[a-hypnos-v]

I have no idea when the full body design’ll be finished but here: have an appetizer before the mane meal

So little info dump: so in my au head-canon thing the narrarator has a physical form, but the thing is is that it’s invisible, specifically his “3d model” in the game is textured with a type of a transparent glass that doesn’t reflect much light.

He can remove the texture or swap it out to whatever his pleasing, but he can also turn on like…the reflection/shiny mode thingy to make it look like normal glass… he turns it on during the staircase ending in the color room, the concept is that he looks ethereal when the colored light reflects off of him and shines through him, kinda like this:

And for the little “human form” thing, it’s my design for when he turns on like the ‘normal’ textures on to his in-game 3d model, but also for my little “human/there is no parable au” where the parable doesn’t exist and Stanley and him are just..two random dudes that meet in an office, in that au the narrarator is slightly colorblind and wears the yellow tinted glasses to help with it, since..I wanted him to Ig lol

[margridarnauds]

3, 4, 12, and 27 for any Celtic or Arthurian ship (go wild with 'em!)

It is a fact universally acknowledged that I am A Soft Bitch. Also it has been SO LONG since I’ve dipped my toes into Arthuriana.  

(Sorry it took me so long; I had a Fourth of July dinner to go to and then afterwards I was so exhausted by people asking me about the drinking opportunities available in Ireland because obviously that’s why I’ve spent five years of my life dedicated to the field, amiright? + getting stung by fire ants because fuck Florida that I had to take a long freaking nap.) 

3. Who is the most romantic?

Bres/Sreng

I think that they actually both are, it’s just...how they express it. 

Sreng tends to be slightly blunter as far as he feels, he tends to show his affection for Bres via being a rock for him when he needs it most. He helps Bres with the children, he distracts him when the pressures of being with the Fomorians and the diplomatic hot potato get to be too much for him, he’s the one who Bres vents to when his father is being difficult on something, he tries to find ways to visit Bres whenever he can. He was the one in the tent with Bres when the news about Ruadan’s death came, he was the one who held Bres throughout the night as he SOBBED into Sreng’s last good cloak. 

Bres on the other hand is slightly less big on ACTIONS; it would be really, really easy for an outside observer to think that he’s less invested in the relationship. The truth is that he’s just as invested as Sreng is, if not more. He just tends to show it via, for example, curling up with Sreng’s cloak when he’s not there or being the one to take his hand when they’re in bed together, running his fingers along Sreng’s knuckles. 

Bres’ private space is very important to him, it’s part of why the Tuatha dé and he never really CLICKED, because the king of the Tuatha dé needed to be...well...an extrovert, someone who can host lavish feasts, someone who can humor everyone in the hall while maintaining the social order, and the longer that Bres stood in the kingship, the more he grew to despise everyone there. But Sreng is allowed IN there, he can go to Bres’ quarters with no problem, he can dine with Bres privately and Bres is perfectly at ease with him, he can share Bres’ living space to the extent that Bres tends to use him as a pillow. Also: Bres totally dotes on him and occasionally slips him a new gold neck-ring when he’s not looking. Because Sreng would be too proud for it normally but Bres can’t stand to see his decline. Which is big for Bres, given how we KNOW how stingy he was with the Tuatha dé. 

You know that if he’d won he would have totally spoiled Sreng. If that Fir Bolg wanted ANYTHING, he would have had it. It’s hard to use the term “consort” because the Medieval Irish were so BIG on marriage = children as a concept, but...Sreng would have been Bres’ nearest, dearest companion that he lavished attention on. Which would have rubbed salt on the Tuatha dé’s wounds even more. 

Mordred/Galahad 

Galahad. He has VERY high ideals of love and how it should be expressed, and so he’s constantly trying to court Mordred in the most courtly way he possibly can. Which is massively confusing to Mordred because he has no idea what to DO but...well...it’s nice. At least, once he realizes that Galahad id 100% serious. At first, he laughs about it with his brothers, but then as time goes on, he realizes that he LIKES it. (Namely when Galahad’s away on a quest at one point and suddenly Mordred doesn’t have that attention anymore.) Mordred is more the “I happened to find this by the side of the road, but don’t think that I LIKE you” type. 

4. Who can’t keep their hands to themselves?

Bres/Sreng

...Bres. Bres is just...Bres. He can’t keep his hands to himself and he will make bad jokes the entire time in his attempt to be smooth. He deeply enjoys trying to find excuses to touch Sreng whenever they are at a feast together. This drives Sreng absolutely batty since there’s really nothing that he can do to reciprocate when they’re in front of some of THE MOST POWERFUL FOMORIAN NOBILITY TO EXIST and Bres is behaving very casually, making pleasant conversation and Oh, Queen Cethlenn, is that a new silk dress? I hadn’t noticed it before while he raises his goblet at Sreng. Sreng always takes his revenge in the end, waiting until they have at least a sliver of privacy before pinning Bres against the nearest hard surface and kissing him absolutely senseless. Which was totally Bres’s intended purpose.

Mordred/Galahad

In general, Mordred, despite often seeming aloof. Mordred is very, very handsy with his boyfriend because, even though he won’t ADMIT it, the boy’s touch starved, and Galahad is endlessly compassionate when it comes to that. Though Galahad DID get tipsy once and was, as it turns out, a very affectionate drunk, which gave Mordred fuel to tease him for WEEKS. (And the rest of Camelot tbh. Given that we know that they are not above roasting someone given Sir Gawain and the Green Knight.) Galahad can’t enter the Great Hall without blushing for ages. Mordred tells him that his father’s done far, far worse in his time. 

12. What first changes when it starts getting serious?

It’s odd with them because their bond’s been intense since the first time they met. They just had one of those instant connections, so in some ways them finally going from friends to lovers...wasn’t THAT big of a step, because they always were serious. Their meeting is actually really, really unusual in terms of how two champions from opposite sides GENERALLY interact in-text, given that they both are on such good terms with one another and they STAY on good terms with one another even after everything happens. No, this did not feature in my undergrad Capstone in any way, what would give you that idea? 

I think that Bres is really, really surprised that Sreng stays by his side after their reunion. He puts on this very confident front, but privately, he puts a lot of his self identity on his looks. And when they went with Cairpre’s satire, that was a HUGE blow mentally and physically, even before it touches how it affects his kingship. He knew on some level that Sreng was interested in him, but they’d left things at a confusing place. So, he didn’t think that Sreng would keep an interest in him when his looks were marred, Sreng didn’t think that he had ANY interest in him...it’s a mess. And both of them still kind of think that the other’s going to change their mind at any given time even after they begin the process of clearing things up, not the least because neither one of them have really ever been in a place of stability in their lives. 

But then, it’s a month onwards, then it’s a year, then it’s two years, and both of them are still there, and it’s just like “Oh. This is a Thing” and there’s just this general feeling of security that starts to creep in. And, gradually, their lives just kind of naturally intersect. Both of them interact with one another regularly, both of them know each other’s families (regrettably, in Sreng’s case, given that he is the founding member of the Elatha Hate Club, even though he does love Bres’ children dearly), both of them have stuff over at the other one’s place. In the modern day, it would be painfully obvious that they were a couple, but since it IS this time, everyone else thinks They’re Just Good Friends, because that’s how good friends ARE at this point in time. Except for Lugh, who post-Cath Maige Tuired firmly believes that Bres is The Actual Devil and that Sreng and he have some sort of devious plan to take Ireland back. 

Mordred/Galahad

For once, they stop thinking about their respective destinies as much. 

Like, don’t get me wrong, in Galahad’s case in PARTICULAR, his eventual destiny is something that’s ALWAYS at the back of his mind, because he’s spent literally his ENTIRE CHILDHOOD being told that. We do not discuss the truly endless depth of my hatred for his mother and grandfather for THAT ONE + their treatment of Lancelot. 

And for Mordred, I think that on some level, there’s just this resignation that he’s going to be the villain, he’s going to kill Arthur one day, he’s going to be Evil™. He’s known that since he got the prophecy, and I tend to see him as having this “Then let me BE evil” moment after he murders the old priest and then Lancelot, the knight who he’d IDOLIZED and probably had a little bit of a crush on, tries to kill him. And that’s why he tends to see all the bad in Camelot, because it makes it that much easier to bring it all down. 

But, for a little while, there’s this period of time where they have the luxury of thinking about something outside of their fates, they can have a LIFE that’s theirs, without worrying about the future. It’s one of those things that they don’t even really NOTICE until it’s like “Wait, I haven’t thought about my tragic but inevitable death for a month now, where’s the time gone?” 

27. Why do their friends get annoyed with them?

Bres has FRIENDS? 

Alright, alright, that’s probably a little cruel, but...Well, he doesn’t really HAVE anyone. I tend to HC that Sreng’s brothers don’t really understand the relationship AT ALL and tend to view Bres as The Tuath Dé Who Shamelessly Seduced Their Brother (If you ask Bres, HE’LL say that it was the other way around, if you ask Sreng, he’ll just shrug because honestly to this day he has no idea how he scored Bres.)  

Tailtiu thinks that Sreng is essentially tying himself to a sinking ship. (Which...is she WRONG?) And Bres’ presence is basically a gigantic wedge between Sreng and Lugh being Bros™, which would obviously be Tailtiu’s endgame of choice. That, and Bres did. Kind of. Try to kill her former husband. Even though he had a Very, Very Good Reason for it at the time. Still. That has to sting a little. 

Elatha REALLY doesn’t like Sreng or the relationship, because he views it as a Distraction™ (that, and he doesn’t understand the appeal. If his son’s going to throw everything out on the line for someone, couldn’t it have been someone better, more attractive, more witty, less blunt? Someone that he could bend to his own ends), but he also knows that he has to tacitly allow it to continue, because he does NOT want to deal with the fallout. (Not even from Bres. Oh no, there’s a bigger threat to be considered. Eriu. Who is Very Happy That Her Boy’s Found Someone To Make Him Happy and won’t hear a bad word against Sreng, who she considers to be A Very Nice Boy. If she were a modern mom, she totally would be knitting Sreng a Christmas sweater while they speak and asking them when the wedding was even before either one of them had really THOUGHT of proposing.) 

Bríg does NOT like Sreng at all, not necessarily because of personal jealousy (she never really loved Bres, he never really loved her, even though there was a definite possibility that they could have loved one another in the early days), but because of the Nuada Incident. She doesn’t really understand why Bres would spend so much time with him when he’s The Enemy, and he’s a Fir Bolg so he’s inherently lesser than the Tuatha dé anyway. 

Bres’ brothers don’t really understand it either. Over 3000 years in and the Dagda STILL thinks that Bres’ problem is that he doesn’t get laid enough and that if Bres would just get away from That Fir Bolg... (If only he knew, if only he knew.)

Meanwhile, the Fomorian lords, sans Elatha, are more or less completely oblivious. Tethra might have a better idea than the others, but does he care? Nope. He’s not overly invested in this whole thing anyway. He’s got his own issues at home to take care of, thank you VERY much. He participates in the raids because he has to dole out the loot to his men the same as anyone else, but he’s not INVESTED in it. It’s a necessary part of maintaining his kingship, nothing more. Sreng isn’t overly fond of them because he considers them to be essentially a snakepit of intrigue and corruption that will stab the two of them in the back at their earliest opportunity and he’s not wrong for the most part, though the one thing I WILL emphasize is that it’s not because they’re Fomorians, it’s that they’re...well, medieval kings, but they have a decent enough working relationship because they both hate the Tuatha dé’s guts. 

Mordred/Galahad 

Agrap-Agravaine tends to be annoyed that his brother’s spending all his time with someone who’s such a goody two shoes. Mordred and he have always been the closest in terms of age and personality, and suddenly he’s no longer Mordred’s Favorite. 

I actually think that Morgause would like Galahad? She’s definitely very, very pro-her sons being happy in Le Morte d’Arthur and Good Mom Morgause is a hill that I’m willing to die on. Because fuck T.H White. I do think it would be a little strange, to say the least, given that obviously Galahad is staunchly religious whereas I don’t REALLY see Morgause having that same bent. Morgause just...lives her own life, regardless of what society says, and I think she would have some trouble understanding why her son would go for someone like that when he’s HIM. But I do think that for the most part, she would just be thrilled that Mordred has someone who he’s devoted to given that he’s REALLY not been OK since That One Quest With Lancelot. 

ANY of Galahad’s friends tend to be annoyed at Mordred simply for the fact that Mordred is...Mordred. He doesn’t have the best reputation for a REASON, and it’s very, very dissonance inducing to see the two of them constantly in one another’s presence, even though they try to frame it in terms of Mordred being a charity case of Galahad's.

And Lancelot obviously hates Mordred because he knows of The Prophecy™. He is NOT pleased by this turn of events, and it goes way beyond “annoyance.” 

[iphoenixrising]

Tiny!Tim and the Fever

Another one I found. Ah, my soulmate @satire-please was sick a while ago and asked for a young Timmy all sick and the Bats find him in Drake Manor. It’s Nightwing in from the Haven with a little Jason!Robin :D

**

When the only people out in Gotham after nightfall are the vigilantes, you know it’s time to go. N and Robin had hit mid-town before their legs were completely numb to all sensation and the clench of his stomach, the almost oops with his zip line was countered by Nightwing’s uncanny sixth sense.

The second time his predecessor caught him by the back of his cape before an epic fail on the roof of the Wallstone (even through the gloves he can’t feel his hands well enough to hold the zip line), they agree wholeheartedly it’s time to call it a night.  Like he’s reading their minds (or he just knows his boys), B already sent the big car down to an alleyway for their pick-up. The heater is blasting when they duck inside, limbs tingling back to life before N revs the engine and they take off into the night.

**

The next afternoon, Alfred Pennyworth hangs-up the Manor telephone and returns to the kitchen, his back a little stiffer than normal.

Looking up from the incredibly stupid “Arctic Academy” assignments for snow days, Jay’s eyebrow cocks up while Dick manages to stir from huddled around his bowl of cereal. Reading the paper and drinking his coffee, B lets the butler go through his own particular set of motions before deciding to intervene. He still taps his cane a little on his walking cast, just so Alfred knows.

The offended muttering while the butler moves around the kitchen, putting sundries away, removing his apron, going for his coat, hat, and scarf.

“It seems,” the butler finally speaks loud enough to be to them, “young Timothy has been left to his own devices and has not answered any phone calls from his parents.” Sliding on his driving gloves, the calm, cool, and collected is just the tiniest bit askew, “they have requested I go check on the boy, just to be certain he hasn’t run against any difficulties.”

Timothy?

Timothy.

“Timmy from down the road?” Jason’s brows furrow, “he’s only a fucking kid. You ain’t telling me they left him alone, right?”

The silence answers that.

B’s already ninja folded the newspaper in perfect lines, standing to retrieve his own coat from the mudroom, hobbling quickly for someone with a broken leg.  “It’s literally six outside, Alfred. I’ll go. Do me a favor and check the scans running in the Cave on the last file Question sent. I’d like to know what he’s gotten into now.”

“I shall, Sir,” Alfred hums back, watching Master Bruce turn into concerned parent while he bundles up against the frigid cold.

B only has to say one word.

“Boys?”

Dick is downing his milk with more wake-up than five minutes ago. He’s due back in the Haven by tomorrow night to start his next round of Officer Grayson Solves Them All, so that gives him plenty of time to check on Timmy before heading back.

Jason scribbles a few more notes, rising from his chair to bend over for the last few lines of the book review.

The heat works double-time, all three frozen to the bone without ever leaving the garage.

Even more disturbing is the complete serenity of Drake Manor when they start to fight through the snow to get up the drive.

(Damn. Should have brought the big car.)

The scene is unmarked, pristine, just a little tell on how long it had been since someone had been in...or out.

Leaving the car running warm, Bruce is out and taking the foot-deep drifts like he takes on criminals as Batman– without a pause.

Dick and Jason are hot on his heels, eyes taking in the surroundings, the contingencies, the environment they might be following him into–

(Robin’s instinct)

The porch is finally somewhat free of snow’s terrible grip where B knocks with a gloved hand, ready to shout in case the young boy was upstairs.

The front door, however, pops softly, heavily, open under his knuckles.

All three of them stop, step back, and prep.

The motion is subtle, a flick of two fingers with the hand not holding on to his cane, and Jason is vaulting off the porch like he’s not a bit freezin’ his nuts off, rounding the house to look for any clues there might be a–

Jackpot.

One window is cracked open upstairs, and he’s already wrapped a hand around the drain pipe to scurry up.

Dick is going around the other side, still seeing no other tracks, no broken anything. Nothing through the windows except a pristine sitting room, an elaborate formal dining room, and the kitchen as he rounds to the back of the house.

The light makes his stop immediately to peer in, already trying to jimmie the window open. On the floor, wrapped up in a blanket, is a tiny bundle of a boy, every muscle drooping, face buried in his upraised arms.

From this vantage, Dick can’t tell if he’s even breathing.

“Get inside!” He yells out, knocking on the glass to see if the kid moves.

(He doesn’t.)

And the window is finally shoved up once he can get his fingers into the right places to trip the locks, and Dick Grayson is through the window fast, just in time for B to come through the kitchen door, and Jay to drop down from a vent overhead.

“Tim? Tim!”

The converge around the bundled boy, just a messy mop of dark hair peeping through the canary yellow fuzzy blanket.

It’s not until B automatically reaches out that the head flops to the side and dull blue eyes blink up at them hazily.

“Mister...Mister Wayne?” Nasilly and hoarse, Tim Drake is pale in the face with only dark rose to his cheeks, tip of his runny nose, and forehead. “What are...what are you doing here?”

“How long have you been by yourself?!” Dick demands gently, pulling a glove off to put a hand on the kid’s forehead, his pounding heart finally easing down slightly now that Tim has actually moved.

“Mrs. Mac couldn’t get through the weather,” the young boy yawns, letting his head drop forward a little into Dick’s cool palm. “S’ okay. I’ve got plenty of stuff to eat and–”

A hard cough rattles his chest a little, and he ducks his head out from under Dick’s hand to bury his face in his blanket.

Jay goes around to close the window Dick left open, noting the thermostat is set at 61 degrees, and nudges B’s shoulder just slightly.

The exchanged look is the very same nope, not okay while Dick just gives in to his instinct and eases the coughing boy into his lap to cuddle.

Tim was too sick, too tired, too everything to really notice the cool outer material of Dick’s coat was against his cheek, and the hand moving in soothing circles on his back felt nice, so nice.

“What’s the plan, Boss?”

B is already pulling out his phone, making a quick call. Jay gives a brusk nod and affectionately ruffles Tim’s messy hair. The big, watery eyes look back up at him blearily around Dick’s coat, and Tim smiles gently.

“Hi Jay. Did you come to play video games with me?”

At the hopeful note in the kid’s tone, Jay completely pretends his heart isn’t breaking open wide. Instead, he crouches down (just like he’s Robin) and tries to make himself smirk so he don’t let Timmy know how ungodly pissed off he is.

“Can’t stay, Baby Bird, but howz ‘bout ya come back ta the Manor with me n’ B n’ Dickie, yeah? We’ll play some games there n’ get some good eats, you feel me?”

That seem to perk Tim up a little, enough to get the boy to at least sit up in Dick’s lap on his own, “can I? I mean, I can? I mean, is that okay?”

His eyes go to B, who is moving smoothly instead of limping heavily when the other line finally picks up. Tim buries himself a little deeper in Dick’s coat when Mister Wayne crosses the room to talk in a very low, deep tone.

Almost a growl.

“It’s totally fine, Timmers,” Jay tries to grin, laugh it off a little so the kid doesn’t think anything is wrong (even though it is, all of this fuckery is), “Alfred was gonna come getcha ta hang out since it’s a snow day.”

“Mister...Mister Pennyworth is so...nice,” Tim replies with another puppy yawn that completely entrances Dick since it’s just too adorable for words.

“Yes, he is, Timmy. And he very, very much would like it if you would come to stay with us for a few days, okay? Jay will go upstairs and pack you some clothes, we’ll wrap a few more blankets around you, and we’ll go have some nice soup and watch some awesome movies between video game rounds.”

“I would love that, thank-you, Dick.” He tries to be enthusiastic, tries to be happy, but he’s so achy and sore and tired. His throat is scratchy and his belly rumbling with hunger under the blanket. “But...but could I get up and get my soup out of the microwave? I’m not sure how long it’s been in there, and I should put it in the fridge for next time.”

And, well, no Timmy, you’re probably not going to escape that hold.

Ever.

Jay grins wider when he sees Dick reflexively tighten down for the long haul.

“Don’t gotta worry ‘bout it, Timmers. Just let Dickie getcha ready ta go outside. ‘S cold as a motherfucking bitch, lemme tell ya, and we don’t wanna letcha get any sicker, you feel me?”

“Little Wing! Language!”

“Aw, hell with it, Dickie. He’s a smartie, didn’t cha know?”

“It’s...I’m not, I mean, I’m okay, really. I can take care of myself.” The boy looks a slightly panicky, his small hands peeping through his blanket burrito to tighten down on the edges. “You don’t have to do anything at all! I promise. I won’t be any trouble–”

“You are never trouble,” B interrupts darkly, finally finishing his conversation, and has returned to the trio without a sound. “And we’re glad to have you stay with us.”

Those eyes get more moist, his nose nudges down into the blanket, his forehead turning into Dick’s jacket.

“After you’re feeling better, I’m going to give you the phone number to the Manor to keep in your room at all times.” B crouches down strangely with the cast, trading places with Jason, who is already moving out of the kitchen and strafing up the massive staircase to start packing their sick Baby Bird a bag.

“O-...Okay,” the boy finally looks up at B’s dark eyes.

“If you’re ever here alone and you need someone for any reason, you need to call me. From now on, Tim, do you understand?”

“Yes, Mister Wayne.”

“Bruce.”

“Yes, Bruce.”

“That’s a good boy,” and the ruffle to his hair is absurdly gentle, making Tim ease down on his death-grip and raise his head up enough to smile.

And later, once he’s in the sitting room of the Manor with old X-Men cartoon reruns on the television, snuggled down in Dick’s lap with fresh pjs, a belly full of Mister Alfred’s soup, and already riding the train to sleep with fever-reducers and a thick blanket to keep him warm, his eyes go from Dick’s easy smile and affectionate eyes, to the absent hand Jay has on his ankle while he works through more of the problems on his Artic Academy paperwork, to B working quietly on a tablet while he sips at his coffee and occasionally looks up to make sure his boy are all right, Tim thinks how nice it would be…

To be part of their family.

[little-murmaider]

Fic: Caught in a Bad Showmance

This is @cynicalginger​‘s fault. They tricked me (or I tricked myself...the point being I was tricked) into writing a “fake relationship that turns into a real relationship” fic and now I sTARTED ONE on top of the other 10,000 FICS I STARTED AND HAVE YET TO FINISH. The plot is Toki and Skwisgaar are forced to fake a showmance for Reasons as a PR stunt, with plans to Consciously Uncouple after a set period of time. It’ll be a satire of voyeuristic celebrity couple culture a la Kimye and Taylor Swift (mostly T Swift God why have I retained so much information about T Swift and yet I cannot remember basic math). It’s needlessly elaborate, and so I have my doubts I will ever complete this. But I did finish this scene, and that...is something. Also see if you can guess what series I mainlined this weekend I BET YOU’LL KNOW.

“Okays, so, ifs I understandings rights, dis show ams abouts alives, gay rocks?”

“Dat’s oversimplifyings. It ams also abouts family, and friendship, and discoverings you place ins de world as you grows into de best yous you cans be!”

“But dat blue rocks and dat green rocks ams totally goingks to make outs, right?”

The pair lounged on Skwisgaar’s bed; Toki upright and cross-legged, Skwisgaar supine on his side. Initially he’d sprawled out, hands hooked behind his neck to better view the screen, but the angle put undue strain on his upper back. When Toki flipped to the next episode Skwisgaar shifted sideways, feet dangling over the edge of the bed, propping his cheek on Toki’s thigh like a makeshift pillow. Toki’s hand landed on the crown of Skwisgaar’s head, kneading gently into his scalp. Neither had questioned the phenomenon of their new, unconscious ease in physicality. Skwisgaar theorized it was a side effect for their demonstrative affection in public--the press nitpicked every miniscule touch, treating each as a symbol of their undying devotion or a crack in their blissful facade, whichever narrative was selling more that week. Even in private, Skwisgaar found himself putting a hand on Toki’s back to guide him out of a room; unbothered whenever Toki plucked stray hairs off Skwisgaar’s clothes. He assumed would blow over once their contract was up next month. For now, whatever. The light scrape of nails presented itself in the contact, and Skwisgaar let out a contented sigh. Toki laughed.

“I didn’ts know scratching your head mades you such a softy.”

“Hah, ja. My moms used to does it whens I was little. Sort of likes a Pavlovian responses now. Anytimes I gets any attention to my heads I mellow outs.”

“I’ll keeps dat in minds next time you’re havings a meltdown in the studios.” Skwisgaar felt himself go boneless as Toki fanned out his fingers to full length, then withdrew them into a pinched claw. “You don’ts talk abouts your moms a lot.”

His calm spiked with anxiety, nausea rising like a tide. “Eh. Don’ts gots much to talks about.”

Toki finger combed at Skwisgaar’s roots, breaking apart the small knots and tangles he’d created.

“Can I says somet’ing?”

“Shores.”

“Your relationships wif your moms...confuses me.”

“How you means?”

“Sometime when you talks about her, you sounds so bitter. But den sometime when you talks about growsings wif her you sounds almost...affectionates?” He paused. “I’s not sures what to makes of it.”

“Hggggghhhhnnnnn my relations-ips wifs my moms ams...complicates-ted.” It didn’t answer the question, but it was as succinct as he could be. “She tried. Buts she mades a lots of mistakes. I mades a lots of mistakes. I...was alones, a lots.”

“I was alones a lots too. Sucks, huh?”

“Ja.” Skwisgaar drummed on Toki’s shin bone. “I feel bads. Talkingks about dis wif you.”

“Why?”

“Because you hads it way woirse dan mes.”

“It ain’ts a misery contest. We’s just exchanging informations, findings common grounds.”

“I guess.” His hand slid down to Toki’s ankle and squeezed, once. “Still sorries dat stuff happened to yous.”

Silence enveloped them. Skwisgaar tried to distract himself with the colorful images on screen, but worry wedged its way into him.  

“It was bads,” Toki said, at last. “Buts. Toki wouldn’ts be Toki wifouts it, for betters and for worse. And I t’inks I ams pretty cools.”

Hearing the smile in Toki’s voice, Skwisgaar mirrored it. “You has your moments.”

Another silence emerged, breezier than the last. Skwisgaar readjusted to ease the pressure on his neck. Toki had found a satisfying rhythm with his fingers, and it was getting harder to keep his wits about him. Despite his best efforts, Skwisgaar felt himself easing into sleep.

Toki noticed. “I’m not used to seeings you dis relaxed, wifout a drinks or a sluts on hand.”

“I’m comfortables with yous.”

“You nots comfortable wif de other guys?”

“Eh. Yes and nos. If I’m ones-on-ones wif dem or ifs we workings on music it’s different. Sometimes whens we all pallings around, dere’s like, a performatives elements? Like, dere’s dis expected image of how everybodies t’ink I supposed to acts. So I feels obligated to lives up to dat image, evens if I don’ts t’ink it’s totally true representations of me. But I beens doings it so long I don’ts know where de image ends and I starts. Maybe dis self-absorbed moody asshole has beens de real mes dis whole times? I don’ts know. I gets rambly whens I’m tired.”

“I gets whats you mean. It’s like, everybody expect mes to be a dumb screw-ups, so what’s de points trying to convince dem otherwise? May as wells keep beings a dumb screw-ups.”

A pang of guilt knocked against Skwisgaar’s ribcage, knowing his influence was the strongest reinforcer of that insecurity. He pulled gently at the hairs peeking out from the cuff of Toki’s jeans.

“Sorries.”

“Hm?”

“Not’ings.” Skwisgaar felt a fluid, soothing motion travel up his back, looping back down into a pattern. “Whats you doings?”

Toki chuckled. “Figuring outs how fast I cans knock you outs.”

“Ha ha.”

“Den whens you ams indisposed, Toki will sweeps in and does all de guitar parts on de new records!”

Skwisgaar’s eyes fluttered shut as he snickered. “Nooooo.”

The warm, fuzziness of sleep settled over his consciousness. Sounds dipped in and out as he drifted off. “Skwisgaar?”

“Mhm?”

“I’s...like spending times wif yous like dis. It beens, really...nice.”

Skwisgaar hummed, hoping Toki understood the noise as one of agreement. Once he’d stopped his bitching about the indignity of this whole affair, Skwisgaar was surprised how easily they’d adjusted to something resembling domesticity. “Skwisgaar.”

“Mm.”

“You awakes?” Skwisgaar exhaled through his nose to signal, yes, technically still conscious. Though with his eyelids growing weightier with each moment, perhaps for not much longer. He heard Toki’s voice, but couldn’t process the words--only the wash of familiar, undulating noise. He must have nodded off for real, because suddenly he was knee deep in a conversation he had no recollection of.

“You don’ts have to says it back.”

“Says whats back?” he mumbled.

Toki’s roaming hand froze, his fingers tensing on Skwisgaar’s shoulder blade.

“Not’ings. Don’ts worry abouts it. Toki just beings dumb, as usuals.”

“Oh. Okays.” He felt himself descending into sleep again. He stretched and resettled, his shirt pulling out from the back of his jeans. “Stops sayingks you dumb. You ain’ts.”

“Dunno.” Toki’s fingers slipped beneath the fabric of Skwisgaar’s shirt, rubbing circles on the base of his spine. “Mights be.”