#wistful sigh their platonic relationship is so fucking good because it reminds me so much of ben and sammy kfam

[lucifer-kane]

I truly do love writing Gordon and Warren's in canon dynamic because it's just so. Suspicion then utter devotion. Snarky jabs aimed at the other and utter comfort in the only friend that they have.

[jzixuans]

hang tight, little brother

summary: Virgil’s never had a successful quest in the Imagination before and he’s determined to make this his first. 

word count: 3991

pairing: platonic brotherly prinxiety, background platonic lamp

tw: roman and virgil swear a lot, non-bloody injuries, heights, falling from said heights, virgil and roman climb a mountain without any proper hiking gear bc they’re dumb, passing mention of anxiety attacks, and please tell me if there’s anything i need to add

a/n: my relationship with my brother honestly resembles the prinxiety dynamic so much that it’s probably why i prefer them to be platonic, though i’m still working to improve things with my brother. so this may or may not be me self-projecting

~

  “C’mon, slowpoke! Pick up the pace!” Roman calls over his shoulder, pushing yet another branch out of the way. The branch snaps back into place, and had Virgil been half a foot closer, it would have knocked him right in the nose.

  “Your legs— fuck— are so— fuck— fucking short. How the fuck do you move that fast?” Virgil wheezes, clutching at his probably-very-bruised ribs. Up ahead, Roman scales the mountain ledge with ease. There’s not a speck of dirt on his white prince uniform, despite their rocky forest surroundings, whereas Virgil’s shirt is splattered in mud from their latest run-in with a wild tribe of centaurs. He decides that Roman is most definitely abusing his control over the Imagination.

  “Years of practice, Virgil dearest. And in heels, no less.” Roman says with a grin. He is indeed wearing two-inch high heeled boots, and Virgil supposes that practicality doesn't matter that much in the Imagination. “Besides, what's a couple of inches? What matters most is that I’m still taller than Logan.”

  “I dare you to bring that up to him again.” Virgil tries to ignore the pain flaring in his chest as he laughs and pretends that the world doesn’t spin with every step he takes. It takes much longer than it should for him to haul himself up next to Roman. He lets himself lie on the cold stone, chest heaving. The twin knives strapped to his back rest uncomfortably beneath him, but Virgil can’t really care to do anything about them right now.

  Roman's face appears over his, mirth glinting in his eyes.

  “Are you good?”

  Virgil makes to flip him off, only to be interrupted by a coughing fit.

  “Just— mother fuck— peachy.” Virgil mutters, resting his head back down.

  “Virgil that’s your…” Roman takes a second to count them out on his fingers, “…twenty-seventh ‘fuck’ in the last ten minutes.”

  “That long? Wow, new record.” Virgil closes his eyes in the hope that the two Romans above him would merge back into one. In retrospect, he really should have run from the manticore, rather than take it head-on. Though being thrown at a boulder doesn’t hurt nearly as much as the fact that Roman hadn’t even noticed that he’d been hurt in the first place.

  “Come on. We’ve still got a whole mountain to climb.” Yeah, no shit. Virgil drew the short straw when Roman proposed they go on another quest. Meanwhile, Logan and Patton get to sit back in the commons, not hiking up a mountain in the cold autumn air. He wishes he brought more to wear than a normal cloak and scarf. Roman had insisted that they dress according to ‘set the mood.’ And while Virgil can appreciate a good aesthetic, he desperately misses the comfort of his hoodie because cloaks have no fucking pockets goddammit.

  “Why the hell is it on top of a mountain?” He grabs Roman’s hand and pulls himself up, only to sink back down, head hitting the ground with a hollow thud. Roman prods his side with a stick.

  “For the adventure!” Roman exclaims. Of course it is.

  “Can we adventure after I catch my breath?”

  Roman sighs and plops down on a rock next to Virgil’s head. “You get five minutes.”

  “Ten.”

  “Four.”

  “Fuck you.”

  “Two, then.”

  “I could technically just take as long as I want.”

  “And you would technically be left for the harpies to find, given how dead you look right now.”

  Virgil hates when he pulls the ‘I’ll just leave you to die’ card. He’s been using it since they were kids.

  “Fine, five.”

  “Mm, too bad you just took a whole precious minute to argue with me.” Roman hums, delicately examining his nails. Virgil scrapes up a handful of leaves from the ground and chucks it at him. Roman just arches an eyebrow as a cool breeze blows them away from him.

  “Patton said you’re not allowed cheating in the Imagination,” Virgil complains, picking a particularly dusty leaf out of his mouth.

  “Patton’s not here.”

  “I’ll tell him, then.”

  “Oh, so you’re gonna snitch on me?”

  “If you keep being a dick.”

  “You don’t have any proof.”

  “It’s literally so obvious!”

  “Really? We’re in the middle of a forest in November, Virgil. A little wind is bound to happen.” Roman says, propping his chin up on his fist, knowing full well that he’s won. He smirks at him. “Two minutes, by the way.”

  Virgil decides to let it drop. He’s yet to win that particular argument, and he’s far too exhausted to keep it going. The ache in his chest has dulled to a quiet throb, though he knows it’ll flare up once he starts moving again.

  For a split second, he debates telling him. If he does, Roman would drop the whole quest and force him back to the mindscape. Which would be fine, except that Virgil can’t seem to go one quest without ending it early. And Roman has been hyping this quest up all week. There’s no way in hell that he’s ruining this for him again.

  Besides, they’re not even real. What kind of baby is he if he can’t handle imaginary pain?

  Virgil hears Roman stand up with a content sigh. There’s a sharp kick at his feet and Virgil swears that he’s about to push Roman down the mountainside.

  “I’m going,” Roman sings, and he can already hear his retreating footsteps when he sits up. Virgil reaches out for the nearest tree branch to pull himself up, which turns out to be a grand mistake because sharp twig ends pierce his palm and scrape at his arm.

  He really doesn't have time for this.

  “You're not gonna wait for me?” Virgil calls half-heartedly. Up ahead, Roman pauses to shrug.

  “Use those long legs of yours!” Comes the reply.

  Asshole.

  By the time he catches up to Roman, the prince is sat on a cliffside, looking over the expanse of forest below them. In the distance, the pristine white turrets of the Mind Palace stand proud like a beacon amidst the many surrounding villages of the Imagination.

  Roman casts him a lazy glance.

  “Your face is nearly as red as my sash,” he says with an irritating air of nonchalance.

  “Wouldn't be if you’d just slow down,” Virgil shoots back, punching him lightly on the arm. If it hurts, Roman certainly doesn't show it.

  “I missed coming up here. Hiking with Logan is so much slower than hiking with you.” Roman grins the secret smile that he saved for when he makes fun of Logan behind his and Patton's backs. The one he really only used around Virgil.

  “So why don't you just come up here by yourself?” Virgil grumbles, because he is most definitely still bitter about being left behind. His whole body hurts, but it's reached the consistent kind of pain where he can ignore it. Doesn't mean it isn't there, though.

  “Not the same. I built this place. None of it is new to me.” His gaze turns wistful, and Virgil knows that it's because he spent years exploring the land here with Logan and Patton. Virgil never usually made it that far.

  That was back when they were kids. Back when the most Thomas had to worry about were the shadow demons in his closet and being caught skipping recess. Before Virgil grew and started encroaching in on Roman’s territory. Before Roman decided that he hated Virgil, and in return, Virgil decided to tear down each and every single one of his creations. Roman stopped taking Virgil to the Imagination for a while.

  Virgil shifts next to Roman. His head is pounding and his vision is starting to blur and he really just wants to get this over with so he can go back to his room and sleep.

  “Are we gonna go?” He asks with a poke to Roman’s cheek. If he wasn’t going to give Virgil a break, Virgil wouldn’t give him one, either.

  “Hm? Yeah, let’s go.” Roman says. They start back on the winding path that curls its way up the mountain. Virgil’s anxiety decides that now is a good time to remind him of his fear of heights.

  “Are you sure that the treasure is at the top of the mountain?” He asks, shuffling away from the edge. Because he doesn’t trust himself not to fall with this headache, he tells himself. No other reason at all.

  “Of course! There’s no excitement in a treasure hidden halfway up a mountain! That’s for the players who settle for two stars, but us, no, we go for the perfect three!” Roman pumps his fist in the air.

  “I mean, I’d settle for two.”

  “Nope! Sorry Virge, this is the only treasure!” There’s a small hint of sincerity in Roman’s words, but the gleam in his eyes tells Virgil that he has no regrets.

  Every passing minute on that mountain is torturous. Virgil’s legs burn and his breaths come in shallow pants. The air around them thins as they go higher, which is certainly not helping his case. Sooner or later, he’ll pass out, he thinks, and if he’s not careful, he’ll fall off the path and he’ll land amongst the trees and he could die—

  “Oh, hey, look at this! I rescued a bird’s nest up here a couple years ago! One minute, Virgil, I want to go check and see if it’s still there.” Roman says, and he’s off around the corner before Virgil can even respond. And perhaps if he weren’t so lightheaded, he would have caught the fleeting look of concern that crossed Roman’s face.

  Virgil slumps down against the nearest tree and closes his eyes. The treasure is only another twenty minutes up. He can do this.

  Roman comes back all too soon, looking rather dejected. Virgil opens one eye at the crunching of the leaves under his feet.

  “I couldn’t find the nest,” Roman says. Virgil rolls his eyes at his expression.

  “It’s been how long, Princey? I don’t think it was meant to be.” He mutters, and even speaking makes him want to cry out.

  “Well gee, Virge, don’t look so down on my behalf.” He opens his eyes again to see Roman offering him a hand. When Virgil doesn’t take it, his joking tone drops and he crouches down to get a proper look at Virgil. “Hey, are you okay? We can take a break.”

  “Bold of you to assume I’ve ever been okay. I’m just a little dizzy, that’s all. You know I don’t like heights.” Virgil doesn’t miss how Roman winces at his words. They’d all had a talk after they’d accepted Virgil into their family and discussed Virgil’s list of boundaries. Heights happened to be quite high on that list.

  “Did you want to go back down? I can sink us out,” Roman offers. He’s trying. Virgil appreciates that, he really does, but he’s come too far for them to quit. He’s determined to make this the first quest he’s ever completed. To this caliber, at least. The ones from when they were kids weren’t exactly difficult.

  “No, no, we can keep going. We’re almost there, right?” Please, God, let them be almost there.

  “Yeah. Maybe another half hour, if you can make it.” Thank fuck.

  “If I pass out on the way, you’re carrying me.”

  “In your dreams.”

  With a satisfied hum, Roman rocks back and stands, one hand on his sword, looking like a true Disney prince. He grabs Virgil’s wrist and hauls him up, steadying him with practiced ease. Virgil lifts his gaze to match the determined look in his eye.

  “Let’s go.”

-

  Cold air bites at their skin as they climb, prickling like a thousand needles that burn his hands and face. Half an hour in Virgil’s state is bad enough without the fucking weather out to get him, too. It’s too late to back out now, though. He’s not about to swallow his pride and go back on his word. Not today.

  It’s not long until he sees the treasure. It’s locked in an ornate silver chest underneath a golden-leafed tree, and Virgil, in his delirious, near-unconscious mind, can’t help but be reminded of the island in Lion’s mane from Steven Universe.

  The tree is within reach, some ten or twenty metres ahead, and Virgil can taste victory.

  And then his foot slips.

  He barely registers that he’s falling when a hand snaps out to grab his arm. As Roman pulls him back to safety, Virgil is suddenly very grateful for all the time Roman’s spent running around the mindscape, sparring in the Imagination, and working out in the commons because Virgil is pretty much dead weight and Roman is far stronger than he looks holy shit.

  They tumble to the ground in a heap, a messy tangle of arms and legs. It’s another second before Virgil notices the pair of arms wrapped around him, holding him tight against a warm chest. Roman presses his face into his hair and murmurs something inaudible.

  “What?” Virgil mumbles, and he’s not entirely sure that he isn’t dreaming.

  “I was so scared,” Roman whispers. Virgil laughs at this.

  “You? You ain’t scared o’ a lil’ falling,” he slurs. His head rests against Roman’s shoulder and he can’t remember the last he’s done this— if he ever did it at all. It’s… nice.

  “I’m scared of you falling, dummy,” Roman rolls his eyes, though his hands still shake. “What happens in here is my responsibility. Even your stubborn ass.”

  “S’not like we can die or anything,” Virgil says, trying to play it off like he wasn’t just worrying about dying in the Imagination half an hour ago. He hasn’t seen Roman this worried since they brought Thomas to his room, and even then, the concern wasn’t necessarily for Virgil.

  “We can get hurt. We can get hurt pretty bad.”

  Virgil wonders when any of them have ever gotten hurt bad enough to worry Roman this badly.

  “You were still in your brooding solitude when I fell out of a tree and got my ass handed to me by a hellhound.” Roman answers. Virgil blinks and he realizes that he was speaking out loud. “You could have told me that you were hurt, y’know. There’s no shame in stopping.”

  “We stop every time,” Virgil argues. He flinches at the disappointed crack in his voice. “This was s’posed to be the first.”

  “If you wanted to make it, then you shouldn’t have taken on that manticore,” Roman scolds, giving Virgil’s ear a sharp tug. So he did notice. Virgil bats his hand away from his face.

  “If I didn’t distract it, it would’ve gone for you. I killed it, though,” he protests, albeit weakly. Roman doesn’t tense or get annoyed like he usually does. Instead, he runs a gentle hand through Virgil’s hair, the way Patton sometimes does.

  “I can handle myself, Virge. This is my realm. This is where I get to protect you. You’re not the only protector in the mindscape, y’know.”

  There’s a flash in Virgil’s mind and he remembers all the times Roman has stood between him and a monster, sword out and ready to attack. All the times Roman has pushed or pulled Virgil out of the way of the teeth of enormous beasts, right before he dashed off to tackle the creature. All the times Roman came back to find Virgil curled up in a secluded nook hidden from view, asking if he was okay, walking him through anxiety attacks.

  “I know, I just wanted to be the one to save you this time. To like… pay you back, for all the other times.” Virgil’s voice trails off at the end because dammit, he sounds so stupid, what was he thinking?

  To his surprise, Roman actually laughs.

  “You don't owe me anything, baby brother. Except for that Art of Moana book. I know you lost my copy.” He says with a fond chuckle.

  “Did not.”

  “Mhmm, sure.”

  “Roman?”

  “Yeah, what's up?”

  “You know you're still hugging me, right?”

  “Yep.”

  “...you gonna let go?”

  “Absolutely not. You haven't let me hug you in years.”

  “It's been two weeks.”

  “Too long.”

  They sit in silence for a couple minutes. Virgil finds that he doesn't mind Roman holding him. It's a far more welcome sensation than the pain flaring in his chest—

  Right.

  “Uhh, Roman?”

  “Mm?”

  “Is breathing supposed to be hard up here?”

  “Uh, no. No, your lungs are just severely fucked up from that manticore fight that you didn't need to engage in. Were the centaurs not enough of a challenge for you?” Roman wags a finger in his face.

  “It was me or you!”

  “And in this realm, that decision will always be me. You are not to go running into danger because that is my job and I’d rather keep it that way. Can you stand?”

  Virgil nods, and with Roman's help, he manages to get to his feet.

  “What do you say we grab the treasure and then head home?” Roman says. Virgil can only nod. He has a sneaking suspicion that Roman is mad at him, and he's just a little terrified to see what happens when Roman really chews him out.

   Roman drapes one of Virgil's arms across his neck and together they limp over to the chest under the tree.

  “Honour’s all yours, Virge.” Roman bows and helps Virgil kneel down in front of the chest. The latches open easily, like they've been well-oiled, and inside is… a book.

  “Isn’t this more Logan’s type?” Virgil asks, a little confused. Roman's favourite part of these quests was always personalizing gifts for whichever side was picked to go along with him.

  “Well you gotta take a better look at it, Virgil,” Roman says. Virgil can already see the excited gleam in his eyes.

  The book is a simple black leather-bound. He opens it to the first page and—

  “You fucking didn't.”

  “Oh, but I did.”

  “Please tell me I’m hallucinating.”

  “Nope.”

  “Roman—”

  “All your poetry and writing, all the stuff we worked on together. It's all in there. And all of your original art.”

  “You leave me and my edgy hatching alone.” Virgil warns, though there's a smile tugging at his lips. “This is great, Roman. Thanks.”

  “Anytime, Virge. It had to be perfect for your first quest. Lo and Pat already have their first quest treasures.” Roman says, ruffling Virgil's hair affectionately. He points at a page from Thomas’ teenage years. “We may have been assholes, but we still made some pretty great masterpieces.”

  “Shut up, I know you put this one in here because I hate it.” Virgil laughs. He moves to stand, but the action sends him falling back on his butt. “Can we go back home now?”

  “Yeah, c'mon.” Virgil doesn't have any time to process before Roman sweeps him up princess-style.

  “You're carrying me,” Virgil smirks, and he's already feeling the fatigue set in.

  “You're dreaming,” Roman replies with a snort. “You can sleep, Virgil. I’ve got you, little brother.”

-

  When Virgil wakes up, he’s lying on a bed in the Mind Palace. Logan, Roman, and Patton are all crammed on the other bed beside him in a snoring heap. Sunlight streams lazily through the window, dancing lightly over the black book on the nightstand next to him. Virgil smiles. If he didn't know better, he'd say that Roman was even more of a nostalgic than Patton.

  There are at least four blankets tucked firmly into the bed, effectively pinning him against the mattress. By his head, there's a ratty old stuffed rabbit, and Virgil knows that that one's from Roman.

  “Hey,” Roman says, off to his left. He's on top of his cuddle pile and the least squished, so he carefully extracts himself and goes to sit on Virgil's bed.

  “Hey.” Virgil croaks and wow, he sounds like shit. His headache is just a gentle throb in the back of his mind, his breaths even, if a little shallow. At least the rest of him is less shitty than yesterday.

  “So, now that you're on safe, solid ground, I get to properly scold you for fighting a fucking manticore. You are so fucking lucky that it didn't sting you,” Roman huffs. He grabs the rabbit and hits Virgil's head at every word. “You gave me a real scare, y’know.”

  Virgil feels a spike of irritation in his stomach.

  “So if you noticed that I got hurt, why didn't you do anything?” He snaps. The bitterness from yesterday is still fresh in his mind, and now that he's rested, he can properly focus on it. Roman has the decency to look ashamed.

  “You always hated it when we fussed over you. I didn't know how bad it was, but I thought you didn't want to make a big deal out of it.” He says, eyes downcast. “I should've, though.”

  “Oh,” is all Virgil has to say in reply.

  “Of course I noticed, though. Why do you think I kept stopping to check out the scenery? There wasn't actually a bird's nest that I rescued.” Roman continues, waving his hand animatedly as he babbles.

  “Oh.”

  “Yeah, you were too busy spiralling to notice that I noticed.”

  “That sounds dumb.”

  “You're dumb.”

  “Not as dumb as you.”

  “Keep telling yourself that, Virge.”

  The two lock eyes for a second and then burst into laughter. To an outsider, there's nothing particularly funny about the scene. To Roman and Virgil, it's the most hilarious thing to ever happen to them.

  “Oh good, you're awake,” says Logan's tired rasp. He stirs Patton, who mumbles something indistinct. Patton sits up and stretches, narrowly missing Logan's face.

  “Hm?” Patton hums, still wiping the sleep from his eyes.

  “Virgil's awake,” Logan says, and Patton's eyes snap open, suddenly full of energy.

  “Virgil!” He exclaims, leaping off of his bed and onto Virgil’s lap.

  “Hey, Pat,” Virgil grins. Patton grabs his face between his hands, pulling him in for closer inspection.

  “How are you feeling? Any headache? Stomach ache? You're breathing okay?” He demands.

  “‘m finph,” Virgil says through squished cheeks.

  “Patton, don't you think this would be better conducted with your glasses?” Logan says, coming up behind him with Patton's glasses in hand.

  “Oh, right. Thanks, Lo,” Patton smiles sheepishly. He slides them on and turns back to Virgil. “You took a pretty big hit there, kiddo.”

  “Yeah, Pat, I know. Roman already chewed me out.” Virgil glares playfully at Roman, who just shrugs.

  “Rightfully so. I take it that we don't have to discuss the rashness of your actions, then?” Logan muses. He fixes Virgil with a pointed look.

  “Nope, I got the yelling rights. So you two can back off,” Roman says, making a shooing motion with his hands. “Now leave us alone so I can harass him some more.”

  “Roman, play nice,” Patton chides, but there's no real threat in his voice. “I’m glad you're okay, Virge.”

  He throws his arms around him one more time before hopping off the bed.

  “We’ll go prepare some breakfast. I’m glad that you're safe, too, Virgil.” Logan says, and with a nod, he leads Patton out of the room.

  Roman and Virgil sit in silence for a minute, hands in their laps, not knowing what to say.

  “Thanks,” Roman says after a bit. Virgil lifts his head.

  “For what?”

  “For taking the manticore for me. That was pretty brave of you.” Roman's voice is quiet, and Virgil knows that that's a pretty big compliment coming from him..

  “Yeah, well, protecting people is kind of what I'm supposed to do.” Virgil offers him what he hopes is a reassuring smile. He's working on it. “So you’re not mad?”

  “Of course not! I’m proud of you, Virge. My ickle baby Virgil, all grown up now.” Roman sniffs and pretends to wipe away a tear.

  “Shut up.”

  “Never.”

[moreracquetball]

Excerpts from “I’d like to believe that I’d do it again”

Hey, so I wrote this Whizzvin College AU (which clocks at about +60k words), and I thought that maybe I could share some of my fave excerpts from this behemoth. It’s a little long, so apologies for that. BUT HEY, JUST WANNA THANK EVERYONE AGAIN FOR SUPPORTING THIS STORY AS SO MANY PEOPLE DID. IT MAKES ME HAPPY.

See, right now, Whizzer's supposed to be the nice guy—tell him that while he's flattered and all, getting into any sort of sexual relationship with him would be wrong and irresponsible. You have a girlfriend, he'd remind him, grasping his shoulder and giving him a significant look, after everything you've been through together, you can't do this to her. He's supposed to help him along this journey of sexual identity by being a simply platonic mentor who watches out for him and lets him discover his own sexuality in his own way and time. Whizzer's supposed to not take advantage of a sad, lonely man who has no idea what he wants.

But Whizzer is not a nice guy, which is why he disregards all these supposed-to’s and leans in, tightening his grip on Marvin’s thigh and giving him a wicked smile, “You and I are going to have so much fun together, Marvin."

“So I’m a game to you?” Marvin asks, his voice carefully neutral.

“Don’t beat yourself up. Everything’s a game to me.” Whizzer sighs and repositions his head, right over Marvin’s heart, “I’ve always sorta liked you, you know. You never backed down from me, even when I made you look like an idiot. You’ve caused me a lot of grief over the years, not gonna lie, but you’ve never bored me. Not yet, anyway.”

Marvin pauses, “I guess you want me to be flattered by that.”

“Feel however you want about it; it’s the truth,” Whizzer draws back and untangles himself from Marvin, prompting, “So same question about me then.”

Marvin stares hard at him for a moment too long, vague emotions flitting across his gaze. He seems conflicted as to what to say, what to admit. Finally, he settles on, “You’ve never bored me either.”

Not even thinking about it, Whizzer takes Marvin in his arms, burying a hand in the man's hair and letting his breathing even out. As he comes back to his senses, he begins to hear the faint hum of traffic from outside, a faint but constant reminder of the world around them.

Whizzer doesn't know what to do with this information, so he stays silent and lets Marvin lament. Instead, he simply watches as the man restlessly rolls his shoulders, the fluorescent lighting above making the sweat glisten on his toned skin. He's alluring in an abstract, unattainable way. No one has really caught him, Whizzer believes. Marvin has always held everyone at arm's reach, closing the shudders within his eyes every time that something becomes too close to home, too real. Whizzer used to contribute the distance as another sign of the man's pretension, as if he believed himself to be too high above everyone to give anyone leverage on him. But now that he's actually spent time with him—has gotten to know Marvin intimately in the dim lighting and tangled bedsheets—Whizzer thinks that maybe Marvin is just scared.

Scared of being vulnerable. Scared of giving someone a map of his weaknesses and trusting them to not destroy him in the end.

No one has really gotten to know the real Marvin. To his friends, Marvin is just the snobbish but harmless kid whose bark is bigger than his huge. To his teachers, Marvin is just a try-hard with so much potential that it seems to choke him at times. To his girlfriend, Marvin is the fulfillment of some unrealistic, romanticized fantasy. But to Whizzer, he's...

Whizzer isn't saying that he himself knows the real Marvin, but he thinks that maybe he's gotten the closest.

"Fuck off. Beyoncé is in Dreamgirls."

That night, Whizzer comes home early from a disappointing fuck and can't sleep, tossing and turning on his shitty mattress and kinda wishing he was in Marvin's comfortable bed. However, he imagines Trina to be in his place right now, tangled in his bedsheets and threading her fingers through his lover's hair. Wildly, he wonders if she could smell his cologne on the pillow just as he sometimes breathes in and gets a faint whiff of her perfume.

And Jesus Christ, Whizzer cannot be pining right now. He refuses to let himself. It's ridiculous. Whizzer does not chase after men—especially not closeted ones with pretty girlfriends and psychological complexes.

"Whizzer, I don't hate you because you're gay," Marvin declares incredulously, like the sheer thought of it baffles him, "I hate you because you're a pain in my ass. I mean, come on, I know I'm a dick, but give me a little credit here."

At his surprising response, Whizzer laughs. He laughs and laughs until his sides start hurting and he's panting for air. He looks over at Marvin and finds the man watching him, his face desperate and hungry—but for what, Whizzer's too drunk and upset to try to figure out.

Whizzer slaps the man on the back, breaking Marvin from his spell, "You're alright, Marvin. Fuck, sober me will hate me for saying it, but you're damn alright." And they stay like that for a little while longer, staring up at the stars in the night sky.

"Passion dies eventually," Whizzer tells him as they lay breathless in the aftermath, "Just because it's not today doesn't mean it can't be tomorrow."

Marvin shrugs, pulling Whizzer into his arms, "We'll deal with it tomorrow then." And it seems so simple right now between the two of them, but Charlotte's words of warning still echo in the back of his mind.

Whizzer admits quietly, "Marvin, that night...I think I wanted to kiss you, too." Marvin’s hold on him tightens, and his smile is blinding in the pale lighting of the room. And Whizzer knows that he is devouring this man and his bleeding heart, but he doesn’t think he could stop even if he tried.

He wonders if this is what love feels like.

“Oh well, I’m sorry that I disgust you so much,” Marvin grits out, mimicking his tone, “You know, for someone who fucks any guy that buys him a drink, you sure act like you have standards!”

Whizzer scoffs, his anger radiating off him like waves, “For someone who swears he’s not a fag, you sure take it up the ass like one!” The heat off of that barb seems to fly across the room and slap him in the face, causing Marvin to redden even further and throw his shoulders back. Whizzer feels dizzy with the satisfaction, can practically taste the blood in his mouth and wants more.

“For someone who likes to brag that he’s nothing like Trina,” Marvin says, his voice softer but no less cruel, “You sure bitch and whine like her.” 

It’s the way that she talks that unsettles Whizzer—the knowing lilt in her voice when she talks about Marvin. Whizzer has always liked to trivialize their relationship—to pretend that Trina is a nameless, robotic mannequin that Marvin simply dresses up and shows off—but it’s ignorant to believe that they aren’t close in at least some ways. Marvin hasn’t shared all of himself with Trina, but he’s given her breadcrumbs of himself—his past, his insecurities—to soothe her desire for any intimacy at all.

They’re sitting at a park bench and absently watching kids play on a swing set and dogs shitting in the bushes. They talk and talk about nothing that really matters, but the hum of organic conversation is soothing. Whizzer has almost lost in the chill that he’d developed earlier when Trina randomly blurts out, “Marvin doesn’t want kids.” It doesn’t take long to connect this line of thinking to the way her gaze has followed the children playing in the park.

Whizzer doesn’t find that hard to believe, “What about you?”

Trina hesitates, “I don’t know. I think I would be a terrible mother. But. Sometimes I think I would really love it, you know?”

Whizzer finds himself shrugging, “I think you’d be a good mom.”

Trina smiles, “Thank you. That means—a lot.”

“Marvin doesn’t like the thought of sharing,” Whizzer tells her, as if she doesn’t already know, “That’s why he doesn’t want kids. He’s very needy—of everyone.”

Trina scoffs, “Trust me, I know. You think being friends with him is bad? Just try dating the bastard.”

Whizzer is thankful that she’s too busy looking at a little toddler in pigtails to gauge his expression. He responds after a beat, his voice sounding stilted even to himself, “No, I don’t think I ever wanna do that.”

Her eyes mist over, a fond sense of wistfulness coating her voice, "We ended up talking for like four of five hours after that, even went to this shitty twenty-four hour diner when the library closed. He talked more, of course. I just listened, mesmerized by how he seemed to command every room he stepped in and the way he talked with his hands." She pauses and adds quietly, "And I wanted him to love me—desperately—so I changed my personality a little just so we could fit perfectly together." She lets out a self-deprecating laugh, "It sounds so stupid to admit it out loud. But I tend to always do that; I warp my own qualities so I can be whoever the other person wants me to be."

“What do you want me to say?” Marvin demands, pulling Whizzer closer and rubbing calming circles into his skin, “Why are you so mad at me, huh? You already know that she means nothing to me. I’ve always been honest with you, Whizzer—more than I have been with anyone. Ever.”

“He’s actually quite good at that,” Trina’s words suddenly come back to haunt him, “At making you believe that you’re the only one who understands him. It’s part of his charm.”

Whizzer is a terrible person. He’s always known this, deep down, but sometimes it hurts to be reminded of the fact.

He doesn’t really know what he was planning to accomplish by coming here. To give Trina some justice? To prove his own decency somehow? But that would require Whizzer to be selfless.

Whizzer kisses Marvin then, ending wherever that conversation was heading. He pushes Marvin back onto the couch and devours him, turning the man into a quivering puddle of shuddering sighs and moans.

Whizzer keeps having to make a choice. But, time and time again, he refuses to make the right one.

Marvin soon appears, hopping off the stage and walking over to him. Whizzer smirks and begins to offer him a harmless taunt about the tights that he wore, but then Marvin seizes his collar and pulls him into a kiss.

In public. With people still around.

Jesus Christ, has he lost his fucking mind?

"No one knows us around here," Marvin whispers against Whizzer's mouth, noticing that the other has been too stunned to reciprocate, "Relax." As if that broke the spell, Whizzer loops his arms around his waist and pulls him closer, deepening the kiss. 

It's incredible, really. Whizzer had forgotten that he'd had pressure wedged in his chest until Marvin kisses him and suddenly releases it.

"What?" Marvin asks when they eventually pull away, eyeing his dazed expression.

Whizzer thinks about blowing it off, but the quiet words tumble out of his mouth anyway, "I think I'm happy."

Marvin smiles, suddenly looking as shy as the day that Whizzer had first introduced himself, "Me too." 

In bed that night, Marvin pushes him to lie flat on his stomach and starts pressing chaste kisses along his spine, mumbling words into his skin that Whizzer can't make out. It's so easy, Whizzer thinks amazedly, to be with him. How can it feel so complicated and fucked up one moment and then feel like this the next?

Whizzer tries not to think about it. He presses his face into the pillow and just enjoys the ride.

Marvin stiffens, "You didn't have to say it."

"Does it still bother you?"

"Of course it bothers me," He snaps, suddenly defensive, "I'm not like—that. I'm not like you."

Whizzer narrows his eyes, pushing out of Marvin's arms, "What's that supposed to mean?"

"I'm not gay," Marvin declares, "Whizzer, you know that." Whizzer knows that that's what Marvin likes to tell himself. It's never stung to hear him say it before though. Until right now.

Maybe because of last night. Maybe because Whizzer had thought that something—anything had changed.

But the air between them has shifted. It took Marvin essentially showing his hand to him to clear the dust from Whizzer’s eyes, but he gets it now. He understands the game that they’ve been playing has been revised; it’s become dirtier, more calculated.

He’s more aware of Marvin now—of the mind games that transcend verbal arguments and offhanded gestures. As if things weren’t already complicated before, both men have now gone straight-up nuclear—so much so that they’ve convinced each other that every word and gesture is a tool to work against the other, is a ploy for domination, is a zero-sum game with nothing off-limits and everything to lose.

It’s fucked up. Whizzer loves in a sick sort of way that has his heart breaking but his mouth begging for more.

Whizzer doesn’t want a fairytale. He doesn’t want glass slippers or talking horses or handsome princes telling him what to do. Whizzer wants passion and bitter fights and rough sex and the taste of heartbreak and loneliness on his tongue. He wants as little as possible, just enough to get his rocks off.

Marvin doesn’t want a trainwreck. He doesn’t want the harsh collision and crushing of bones and shrapnel to the heart. Marvin wants romance and submission and doe-eyed devotion and the cult of domesticity. He wants more, enough to make him choke on it.

Marvin kisses him deliberately, making it clear that this conversation is over.

But the tension hasn’t left his body, so Whizzer pulls back and clarifies, “You sure you don’t want to talk about it?”

Marvin shakes his head, pulling at Whizzer’s shirt, “Help me forget.”

Whizzer doesn’t fight him on this. He knows when to pick his battles.

“What can I say? I have a way with men,” Whizzer says jovially, tasting acid in his mouth when he adds pointedly, “Even the straight ones.” Trina and Whizzer make eye contact, and he sees the real question she desperately wants to ask in her eyes. Why you? What makes you better than me?

Everything, he wants to tell her, an obnoxious sense of pride rising in his throat, everything.

At times like these, their afternoon together seems like such a distant memory. After all, they do share a bed with the same man, and nothing is more polarizing than the desire for attention and the yearning for…for an unspeakable thing. For a four letter word that Whizzer refuses to name.

Marvin tilts his head back and ignores the rising resentments, seemingly tired of more than just his parents at the moment.

"And hey," Whizzer prompts before the other man can hang up, "I just want to remind you...You don't have to change for them, you know? If they don't like you—the real you, they can piss off. You shouldn't have to—you know, wear this mask all the time and put up this huge wall around yourself. It'll get lonely; trust me. I mean, it already is, isn't it?"

There's a pause of silence before Marvin says quietly, "I told you. It's not that easy."

Whizzer sighs, resigned, "Goodnight, Marvin." After he hangs up, he stretches out on his shitty mattress and looks up at his ceiling fan, letting the blur of motion lull him into sleep.

"He seems to know his way around here quite well." Marvin's mother makes the offhanded comment, and it seems harmless enough but Marvin flinches like she's just slapped him.

"We're friends." Marvin explains tightly as he and Whizzer finally make eye contact. Taking one look at the man, Whizzer knows that he didn't take his advice to heart. Marvin has transformed back into his former shell of a self, stapled this ill-fitted persona to his skin as he continually tries to hide the cracks in the façade. Whizzer has spent the last several months mapping each nook and crevice on this man's body, but at this very moment, Marvin might as well be a stranger to him.

Whizzer adopts a chill he just can't shake throughout the entire meal.

Whizzer feels like a passive observer as he watches the dynamics of those around him. Marvin's parents dote on Trina, every word directed in her direction being some form of glowing compliment. By contrast, they are curt and strangely formal with their own son. His mother makes mere small talk with him that reminds Whizzer of how one talks to a stranger. Meanwhile, his father simply stares down at his untouched plate more often than not, his mind far away from here.

Marvin smiles and charms and lies his way throughout the meal, readily putting on this mask that his parents have forged for him. He pretends to be enraptured by Trina and plays along with his mother's unrealistic envision of his future. And he fits into this role of obedient son and charming boyfriend so effortlessly, Whizzer starts to wonder if Marvin could theoretically put up this act for the rest of his life. But then he notices the bags under Marvin's eyes, the edge in every single one of his easy smiles, the tension in his squared shoulders. How exhausting it must be, he quietly marvels, to be so aware and calculated in your every word and movement.

Sensing he's crossed a line, Marvin softens, but he doesn't apologize. He never apologizes. Even when he knows he’s wrong.

It takes a few seconds for Whizzer to regain control of his voice, but when he does, he makes sure it sounds as cold and brittle as ice, "You think you're so much better than me, don't you? You're so much smarter than me, Marvin. You're so much more successful than me, Marvin. You're so superior at everything," He takes a step closer, bring their chests close together, "But you get on your knees for me again and again. You beg for it time after time—why is that, I wonder?” Marvin’s muscles clench tighter and tighter, but he holds his tongue. Whizzer presses on, wanting something—anything at all that proves he’s gotten under his skin, “And how would Mommy and Daddy react if they saw you like that, huh? Do you think they’d believe me if I told them all about it?" He raises his voice to a yell, "Hey Everybody, Marvin is a fa—"

Finally, Marvin shoves Whizzer against the wall, slapping a firm hand over his mouth. Pain erupts in Whizzer's back, but he barely registers the sting through his fury. He removes the hand as soon as Whizzer cuts off, but he keeps their bodies pinned together. With a pang, he’s reminded of that first time in the small closet at a stranger’s house. It seems like that happened an entire lifetime ago, though he knows it hasn’t even been a year.

Marvin's face is still just inches away from his, and Whizzer feels fear beginning to coil in his stomach, "Enough." 

"Or what?" Whizzer taunts in a low voice, and he wants him to hit him. He wants the sting of a busted lip, needs the distraction to the turmoil brewing in his chest. But Marvin doesn't look as angry as Whizzer feels; he seems heartbroken at Whizzer's words, as if something actually brought the High and Mighty Marvin down a peg. And so Whizzer breaks their silent truce on to never speak of what’s going on between them, but he makes a pointed decision. He lies.

"You think I give a damn about you?" Whizzer whispers, and Marvin takes his words like a punch in the gut, "You're just an easy fuck, Marvin. That's all you are to me. We aren't boyfriends. We aren't even close."

"You mean nothing to me." 

Marvin nods, letting the words wash over him. He straightens his posture, all previous emotions of fury and heartbreak wiped from his face. He's slipped the mask back on. Good, Whizzer thinks to himself, it suits him.

“Stop being petty,” Whizzer snaps, walking towards him and crowding him against the wall of the hallway, “You know that I—“ The words get caught in his throat, so he settles for something easier, “You know that you mean something to me.” He doesn’t say it, but Marvin hears it all the same.

A few hours later, as they lie cramped and entangled on Marvin's shitty couch, naked and sated, they don't talk about what happened before or what will happen later. Maybe they should—after all, several wounds are currently left untreated, exposed to viscous infection that could occur any time in the form of a careless word or barbed insinuation—but they're young and mean and they don't give a flying fuck about the problems that lie just on the horizon. Marvin keeps trying to make him laugh—desperately—and Whizzer refuses to give him the satisfaction, biting his lip to keep the treacherous snickers at bay.

And it isn't perfect, Whizzer thinks as he tries to smother his laughter into Marvin's mussed hair, but right now, it's enough.

Whizzer notices that Trina's hand has entangled in Marvin's hair.

"Yeah," Whizzer agrees faintly, the jealousy choking him, "Let's enjoy it while it lasts."

I love you.

It means nothing to Marvin. It means everything to Trina. 

I love you.

To Whizzer, those words have always been an excuse for mistreatment or a ploy for sex. It's always been his parents' "I'm justifying being the cause of your unhappiness" or one of his lover's "Please give me head later." It's never just I love you. It's always had a double meaning. It's always had strings attached.

The words are never meaningless per se, Whizzer rationalizes; they just never only carry the surface implication.

I love you.

Marvin tells Trina this, but what he’s really saying is a plea for submission, for her to stick her head in the sand and never question him. It's a ploy. It's a deceit. It's a breadcrumb.

I love you.

Sometimes Whizzer imagines Marvin saying those words to him—perhaps mid-sex, or huddled beneath the covers and trying to ignore the rising sun, or in the middle of an argument when Marvin needs a trump card.

Whizzer ponders just what his reaction would be. Would it mean anything to Whizzer? Would Marvin ever mean it in the first place?

"I love you." Whizzer whispers once, alone in his apartment.

The words still feel hollow to him—be it in his mind or mouth.

"Jesus Christ, I can't believe I fell in love with someone like you." As soon as the exasperated words fly out of Marvin's mouth, the man stiffens in shock and horror (Whizzer can't tell if it's being feigned, if this is just one of those theatre workshop activities that he's been obnoxiously doing all the time).

Up until that point, Whizzer had been pretty sure that he knew just how those words would affect him. They would hardly even register, he had reasoned. Whizzer would be mindful of the mind games that Marvin plays, and he would be reminded of the ease that Marvin spouts off those words to Trina, and he would be able to rationally see it as the bullshit that it is. He would be calm and indifferent and unwavering, he had imagined.

He was wrong.

Whizzer's eyes widen, and his mouth goes dry, and his chest does something a little funny that makes his breathing turn stilted. And he feels like his heart is devouring every sense of rational thought. 

"...Whizzer, I love you." Whizzer rips off Marvin's belt and tears open his shirt.

"Don't say it," Whizzer whispers harshly, threading his hands through Marvin's hair and pulling Marvin's head so their mouths are two little words apart, "Prove it."

"And she deserves more," Marvin continues after a pause, "She deserves someone who doesn't tune her out when she starts talking for more than five minutes and likes sleeping next to her and holds her hand when she's sad—"

Whizzer interjects, supplying, "Someone who loves her."

"I do love her." Marvin protests sharply, his gaze snapping into focus. He's on the defensive now, as if he's still trying to cling to that lie as much as Trina. But Whizzer gives him a pointed, knowing look, and after a beat, Marvin softens.

He amends roughly, "Well, I care about her."

"You know that's not the same thing."

"Yeah," Marvin looks at Whizzer, echoing faintly, "I think I’ve realized that now."

Whizzer snorts, "Always the idealist."

"There's nothing wrong with wanting it all," Marvin tells him, leaning in for a kiss, "As long as you can actually achieve it. And I can."

"He told me he loves me last night," Whizzer confesses to her, the words buzzing on his tongue, "He's breaking up with Trina today."

Cordelia watches him, "And how do you feel about all of that?"

Whizzer keeps his eyes on the endless blue above him, smiling in a way that hurts his face, "Happy."

"She's pregnant." Marvin says, measured and neutral.

A lot of things happen at once.

Charlotte sucks in a surprised breath, and Mendel drops the beer that he’d been holding, and Cordelia beams at Trina but squeezes Whizzer's hand tightly, and Whizzer—

For Whizzer, the entire room is spinning. He's surprised that he doesn't throw up.

"Oh." He exclaims faintly, more breath than word.

At that moment, Whizzer and Trina make eye contact, and he wildly expects a gloating expression on her face. After all, she's won, hasn't she? It's over. She's got him beat.

But there is no pride or boast in her gaze. Trina looks at him, and she smiles, and she just looks so genuinely happy. And it makes Whizzer feel disgusted with himself—for that day in the park, for sleeping with her boyfriend, for hating her.

"I'm happy for you." Whizzer tells her, holding her gaze. He doesn't mean it. From the way her smile dims, Whizzer thinks that she kinda knows that.

"You're going to have a family," Whizzer rationalizes, "I don't exist in that world."

"You exist in my world," Marvin says tightly, "That will never change."

In his dream, nothing is awful. He's in a crowded ballroom, feeling tipsy and happy and in love. Across the room, he spies Cordelia and Charlotte, getting drunk on champagne and giggling into each others’ ears. A few feet away from the two girls are Trina and Mendel, holding each other tight as they dance to the melodic melody echoing throughout the hall. Trina looks beautiful and happy in the arms of a man who loves her. Whizzer watches his friends laugh and fall in love, and he's struck with a sense of deep contentment. In his dream, he's happy.

Sturdy arms wrap around his torso, pulling him into an embrace from behind. Whizzer relaxes against Marvin, turning his head so the man can see the unadulterated adoration on his face.

"I love you." Marvin says, and it is beautiful in its offhanded nature. It means nothing and everything all at once.

"I love you, too." Whizzer admits finally, his voice aching with the honesty of it.

When he wakes up, Whizzer is alone in a cold bed.

"You know you can go to somebody whose actual job that is, right?" Whizzer says bluntly, looking down to fiddle with his camera so he won't see Trina's smile dim.

"Well, yes, I know," She admits slowly, caught off guard by his defensiveness, "But I just thought that it would be more special. You know, to be taken by a friend."

Friend. She thinks that they're friends. Well, that’s just—spectacular.

Whizzer nods, swallowing down the lump in his throat, "You're going to marry him." It isn't a question, so he doesn't phrase it like one. Of course Trina will say yes—because she's young and she wants so desperately to pretend that he loves her and she's always wanted the All-American, tight-knit family. 

No, if he were to ask a question, it would be: He's going to marry you?

But that shouldn't be a surprise either. Of course Marvin will propose—because he's gay and he wants so desperately to pretend that he isn't and he's always wanted the All-American, tight-knit family.

Maybe they are perfectly suited together; they're both so willing to play into delusions and pretend that they're happy and everything happens for a reason and a marriage will somehow make things better.

At this point, Marvin and Trina have almost finished digging their own graves, but Whizzer himself still hasn’t broken the ground yet. Right now, he's still holding the shovel, trying to decide if it's all worth it, if he's all worth it.

"Okay." Whizzer says faintly, "I'll take the picture."

Trina hugs him, and even though her grip is light and her body is soft, Whizzer feels like he's being crushed.

This picture is a lot better, though Marvin looks into the camera with a pained smile and Trina is smiling like she does realize that she's delivering herself into a devouring mouth but just can't seem to help herself.

Whizzer makes sure to give her a look of solidarity; he knows the feeling.

Marvin huffs as he walks in, his back facing Whizzer, "It's never meaningless when we do it."

"Speak for yourself."

The muscles in Marvin's back tense, but he doesn't take the bait, "Why didn't you answer me?"

"Because I didn't want to," Whizzer says as he closes the door, sneering, "Is that alright with you? After all, my needs are always subservient to yours, aren’t they?”

"Stop it," Marvin commands, like Whizzer's some lapdog, "I don't want to fight right now."

"Why is it always about what you want, huh?" Whizzer demands, "I'm not just some mindless sex doll, Marvin. I have wants and needs, too."

"I know that," Marvin snaps, turning around to face him, "Of course I know that. You're Whizzer. I love you."

"You're Trina," The memory of Marvin's words hits him like a truck, "I love you."

"Trina was right,” Whizzer says coldly, “You really need to get new material." And the words are so meaningless to Marvin, he doesn't even seem to know what Whizzer is referring to.

"You're ruining her life. You're ruining your life." And once Whizzer has started, he just can't stop. Anger and frustration leak into his calculated voice, thickening it to the point of almost incoherency, "You're ruining the baby's life. You're ruining my life.” He hates pretending that it doesn’t bother him, that nothing has changed, that Whizzer can somehow fit into that family portrait. Because it does bother him and everything has changed and Whizzer doesn’t want to waste his life shadowing somebody else’s family and being fed breadcrumbs by a man too cowardly to be honest about what he wants.

Whizzer is trembling now, admissions and anxieties rising in his throat and gagging him.

But Marvin is perfectly composed, his eyes narrowed and mouth fixed in a sneer.

"How am I ruining your life," He asks sharply, "When apparently you don't love me anyway?" Whizzer doesn't answer. He can't.

"What, you want me to feel sorry for you?" Whizzer scoffs, his voice cold, brittle, ”Fuck you, Marvin. That's just another bullshit excuse. Everyone always has a choice. You're just making the wrong one and trying to blame it on the invisible gun to your head." 

Marvin shrugs, Whizzer’s justifications lost on him, “I only play games that I know I'll win.”

“We both know that that’s not true.” Whizzer points out, smiling, “You’re playing one with me right now.” 

“I said that you mean something to me because it’s the truth,” He scoffs, overwhelming disgusted with the both of them, “But that isn’t good enough for you, is it? You want to mean everything to me. But that will never happen.”

“I did all those things because I’m in love with you,” Marvin says after a long, agonizing pause, unflinching, “And you’re trying to fault me for that? For being nice to you and hoping against hope that you could ever learn to love me back? You call me selfish? You’re the one who’s been using how I feel to get yourself off. You’re the one who constantly reminds me that I am one of a dozen others. You’re the one who took advantage of a closeted guy who had his entire life figured out and ruined everything because you could—because you were bored.

“And now you get pissed at me for trying to get my shit together and be there for the woman who is having my child. What did you expect for me to do? Break up with her anyway so I could still just be one of your many booty-calls?” He scoffs, shrugging, “Maybe I am selfish, but at least I’m honest about it. You want to crucify me for wanting to have it all while you’re trying to pull the same shit by wanting me to abandon my kid and girlfriend when you won’t even tell me that you love me!”

“So, if I did choose you,” Marvin challenges, “Would you choose me? Would you stop fucking other guys and make me dinner and kiss me goodnight and tell me that you love me?”

“No.” It’s honest—brutally so. And it makes Whizzer so shocked at himself, has him forgetting his plan and looking up at Marvin.

Marvin nods like he expected that answer, but he looks like Whizzer broke his heart by confirming it.

“Trina does all those things for me,” He says tightly, “Because she loves me.”

Whizzer does things for him, too. He cooks for him and always gives him his honest opinion and calls Marvin out on his bullshit and challenges him to be better and encourages him to follow his stupid dream of theater and tries to get him to accept himself for who he is.

He does those things for him. Because he loves him.

"I'd love to meet them," Mr. Total-Dick-Face looks at the picture again, "To hear the rest of their story—the things that not even images can show." No, you really don't want to know. 

Because it's a sad story—the kind that keeps getting bad and never gets any better; the kind that only has a few moments of happiness and lightheartedness but is overall fucking awful; the kind that no one really gets a happy ending.

And Whizzer wants to go back to how things were before—when it was just fun, with mouths pressed against inner thighs and secret glances when out with friends and arguing for the sake of getting the other to take his pants off. 

But no, no, no, Whizzer wants to go back to how things were before even that—when they hated each other and it seemed like it would always stay that way, with mouths shooting off snappy retorts and pointed glares when out with friends and arguing just for the sake of hearing themselves talk.

Whizzer wishes that Marvin had never kissed him that day. He wishes that he himself could have been smart and kind enough to not kiss Marvin back.

But Whizzer doesn't dwell on past decisions and wrong choices. He refuses to lament on the past and instead keeps his eyes fixed on the horizon ahead.

Because he'll never be able to fix his mistakes but he can always run away from them.

Whizzer always walks away. And he never looks back.

"Look, I just don't care anymore." Whizzer tells them lowly, keeping his gaze trained on his beer bottle, "About any of it." He says those words with a strange amount of confidence for a man who had to drag himself out of bed and then had a full-fledged break down in the shower this morning.

"Did he cry?" Whizzer blurts out, "Over me?"

"Yes. And it was not a pretty sight," Charlotte hits his arm, "Stop smiling."

"I'm not." He lies stubbornly, turning away from her.

Though Marvin looks away immediately, Trina doesn't stop staring at it for a long time.

"That's not the picture you gave us." She says faintly, her tone and face unreadable. Her eyes are glued to the photograph, flickering from her own terrified face to Marvin's lovesick gaze directed at someone else.

"I took two, remember?" Whizzer says, trying to pawn off any of the tension, "I hope you don't mind." Trina finally looks at him then, and she knows. She finally knows. Whizzer can see it in her face.

Every single one of them wait for her reaction with baited breath.

"Of course I don't," Trina says, steeling her face and voice as her grip on Marvin's arm tightens, "It's beautiful. It shows the beginning of our family. Wouldn't you agree, Marv?" She takes the easy way out, pleading ignorance. For the sake of her relationship. For the sake of her kid. For the sake of her future.

Whizzer is disappointed in her.

"Yes," Marvin is stunned, looking as if he was gearing up to be defensive, “Baby, you look, uh, very beautiful in it. Glowing, even." At the compliment, Trina looks like she's trying very hard not to cry. She kisses Marvin then, slow and sweet and not letting him pull away. And Whizzer watches the two of them, like always. He's the dark cloud over them, the shadow, the observer, the open secret.

"Passion dies and love fades," Whizzer tells him roughly, "It's all just chemicals, isn't it? Come on; Don't be such a fucking romantic."

"You know, I always thought we had nothing in common," Mendel muses bitterly, smiling sadly at him, "But you're pathetic. Just like me."

The insult surprises him, coming from Mendel. Rather than lashing out, Whizzer just looks at him and doesn't say anything for a long time.

"Why did you come out here?" Whizzer asks, "Hoping for a quick screw in the back of an alley?”

"I don't know," Marvin admits quietly, dropping the coyness, "I don't know what I want."

"Stop it. You know what you want," Whizzer scoffs, "You want it all."

Marvin looks away, doesn't deny it. 

He's giving Whizzer a choice, like he always does. Because Whizzer has always said yes. Because Whizzer has always put himself before anyone else. Because Marvin thinks that Whizzer never changes either.

And before this very moment, Whizzer had thought all those things too.

Right now, Whizzer has a choice. And for the first time, he makes the right one.

When Whizzer turns around, he reflexively snaps a picture of him, desperate to suspend this moment in time.

And Whizzer wants to kiss him—one last time. He wants to close his eyes and lick his lips and sigh into his mouth and breathe him in. He wants to memorize the feeling that this man has given him, the love and ache of it all.

He doesn't kiss him. He just sticks out his hand for him to shake.

And he keeps his gaze on the horizon. And he doesn't look back.

His gaze lingers when he gets to one of the nicer apartment buildings, a faint echo of pain igniting in his chest. All of a sudden, he's reminded of slamming doors and yelling in elevators and giggling in the soft glow of the refrigerator light and whispering half-hearted promises in between ragged breaths and moans.

Whizzer wonders if Marvin's old apartment is the same as he remembers it—spacious and messy; a safe haven and a battleground.

Shaking himself, Whizzer continues walking, keeping his gaze stubbornly fixed on the horizon. He doesn't look back at the building. 

But there's a part of him that wants too. Maybe there always will be.

Youth. Ignorance. Selfishness. Whizzer doesn't miss any of it as much as he once believed he would.

"Take a breath and let it out, and swing." Jason finishes, smiling a little, "Thanks, Whizzer." And there's something about that lopsided smile and tilt of the head in that very moment—something that knocks all the air of Whizzer's lungs.

Jason's smile fades, "What's wrong?"

"Nothing," Whizzer says quickly, looking away, "You just, uh, reminded me of someone." And now that he sees it, he can't unsee it. The wavy hair, the brown eyes, the crooked smile...

“And you didn’t have another job lined up before you quit?” Charlotte asks, ever the practical one.

Whizzer shrugs, “It was kinda like an impulse decision. Like, I was in Ohio and it sucked, and I just didn’t want to be there anymore.”

Cordelia hits him on the arm, “Don’t blame this on Ohio.”

Whizzer rolls his eyes, exclaiming to get a rise out of her, “Fuck Ohio.”

New York hasn’t changed, but Marvin has.

“I divorced her.”

Whizzer stares at him, bewildered at the stranger before him, “Why would you do that?”

“Whizzer, I don’t know if you know this,” Marvin says calmly, straight-faced with zero inflection, “But I’m really fucking gay.”

Marvin reaches out again, threading his hand through Whizzer’s hair and messing up the hour worth of hair products that Whizzer dedicated to make it look just right. Whizzer tries to scold him and push him away, but right now the only thing he’s accomplishing is maintaining measured breathing. As Whizzer and Marvin lock eyes, he knows that they’re both thinking of the same thing—of Marvin pulling Whizzer’s hair all those times during sex, of holding him in place by his hair so Marvin can press tender, hurried kisses to his exposed neck and jawline.

Marvin pulls a little, and Whizzer bites his lip.

“Not wearing a wig, either,” Marvin comments lowly, smiling filthily, “Jesus, Whizzer, would it have killed you to gain a few pounds or lose some hair? You make the rest of us look so old.”

“Jesus, Marv, you’re at a little league game,” Trina scolds, snapping the two men out of their daze, “Keep it in your pants.”

Whizzer looks over at Marvin, who’s watching Whizzer with stars in his eyes.

“What?” He demands, defensive.

“You’re incredible,” He murmurs, almost absently to himself, “You know that?”

At least one thing hasn’t changed about Marvin.

He’s still very, very charming.

It’s like the universe is trying to get him laid. And Whizzer can’t just not do what the universe so clearly wants him to do:

Bone Marvin. The universe totally wants Whizzer to bone Marvin.

“I knew your dad,” Whizzer elaborates, not missing the slight trace of panic on Marvin’s face at the mention of the past, “We went to college together, actually.”

Jason just makes a lighthearted Hmpf, the significance of that time lost on him.

When Marvin finally comes back, Whizzer wastes no time, crowding him against the door and kissing him.

Marvin’s mouth is soft and warm, and just one kiss drives a chill from Whizzer’s bones that’s been there since he walked out of his boss’s office with his head held high and heart racing.

Whizzer kisses him once, chastely, before backing away.

Marvin’s eyes have already fallen shut, and his lips try to chase after Whizzer’s as he pulls away.

“What?” Marvin demands softly, opening his eyes again to stare mystically at him, “What’s wrong?”

It all feels so familiar, so second-nature. Whizzer remembers kissing him like that dozens of times before, whether to shut up his latest arrogant rant or to communicate feelings that he couldn’t with words.

He thought that it’d feel different—that it’d be different. But it’s not. It’s the exact same.

Whizzer doesn’t know whether to find that relieving or troubling.

Whizzer kisses him again, rougher this time—with more desperation and teeth. Marvin buckles against him, letting out a low, guttural groan like a wounded animal. He slips his hands around Whizzer’s waist and grabs his ass, and it’s good—fuck, it’s really good. Whizzer doesn’t so much as kiss him as devour him, his kisses quick and biting and prompting shaky, quivering noises to release from Marvin’s mouth.

Marvin breaks the kiss and turns his face to the crook of Whizzer’s neck, retracting one hand from the other’s ass to slip it down the front of Whizzer’s pants. When he touches him, Whizzer makes a sound so shameless and dirty, it makes Marvin flush even redder.

“Fuck. Fuck,” Marvin keeps repeating, laughing breathlessly, “I’ve missed that sound.” He rotates his wrist and makes Whizzer make it again.

“Take me to bed.” Whizzer says, pleads actually, “Marvin, come on. Take me to bed and fuck me.”

At his demand, Marvin shudders, making a gasping sort of sound almost like he’s drowning.

“Fuck yeah. Okay,” He says shakily as Whizzer impatiently starts tugging Marvin’s pants down, the hunger between them so palpable, it’s all that they can taste, “Okay.”

He hears Cordelia’s phone ring in the kitchen, followed by the blonde’s panicked voice, “It’s Marvin.”

“Answer it.” Charlotte instructs.

“Cordelia, don’t you dare!” Whizzer yells.

The two lock eyes for a split second before both bolt to the kitchen.

As they bust through the door, Cordelia already has the phone pressed to her ear, “Oh, hey, Marv. What’s up?” A pause, and then her gaze flickers to Whizzer, “You’re asking if Whizzer is here?”

Whizzer hurriedly, enthusiastically mouths the word No, No, No, No, No…

“You know,” Cordelia says nervously, biting her lip, “He actually just walked in.”

Whizzer makes an audible noise of surprise and betrayal.

Whizzer sighs, “Look, Marvin, what do you want?”

“What do I want?” Marvin repeats incredulously, “I want you, Asshole.”

It’s a sucker punch to the gut, causes Whizzer’s heart to jump to his throat.

He stutters out, “Will you settle for a cup of coffee instead?”

"During all those years,” Marvin asks suddenly, "Did you ever think of me?" It seems off-subject, but really, maybe it isn't. Because the answer seems important to Marvin, even though it won't change anything.

Whizzer pauses, biting his lip, “Sometimes.”

“All the time,” Marvin says quietly, “I thought about you all the time.”

"What else is there to do?" Marvin demands, and well, Whizzer can't say what he would rather do, right? Just friends may be able to 'compliment each other on their best features,' but they probably can't freely admit, I would really like you to fuck me so hard, I lose my voice from screaming your name.

Marvin huffs a laugh, and because he still never knows when to stop and drop something, he asks, "What's your type then?" It's a stupid, pointless question to ask, and it just seems weirdly uncalled for, given their history and all that Marvin already knows about Whizzer. Marvin knows his type already, but he still asks it. Because he's fishing for a certain answer, one that would assure him that Whizzer is just as silently miserable at being just friends as Marvin noticeably is.

And Whizzer could answer this question in many ways—the slutty any man who buys me a drink; or the coy men who have cruel smiles and nice hands; or the honest the unattainable sort of men; or the pointed the type that lets you hold them and kiss them but never keep them; the type that will always say that they love you and they may very well even mean it, but they'll never be willing to meet you halfway.

Whizzer calmly uncovers his face, calmly sits up, and uncalmly says, "Come again?"

Living with Marvin, sharing a home with Marvin, is easy. They eat breakfast and dinner together, and they watch shitty cable television in the evening, and they bicker about weird domestic things like the electricity bill (Whizzer’s fault) and the mysterious dent in the living room wall (Marvin’s fault), and they entertain Jason on the weekends, and it’s all just so—

Domestic. So disgustingly, repellently, achingly domestic.

“So, you two were good friends?” Jason suddenly asks, causing both men to remember themselves and break eye contact. Whizzer notices that Jason is paying full attention to them now, his phone laying forgotten on the table as he stares pointedly at the two men sitting across from him.

“No, I don’t think we were,” Marvin says honestly after a beat, “That’s what caused the problem.”

And this is why Whizzer has to always look toward the horizon—because looking back leads to nostalgia and sadness and the overwhelming desire to recapture the past.

“You’ve been testing me,” Marvin says, oddly sounding both sad and hateful, “You don’t think I realized that? You want me to prove this preconception in your head that you’ve built up for years. You think everyone else is capable of change except me.”

Whizzer stays silent, not answering. Marvin looks a little broken.

"Then what are you still doing here?"  He demands roughly.

Seeing him shattered like that, it takes awhile before Whizzer can find his voice, and even when he does, it’s small and broken, "Maybe I want you to prove me wrong."

"Bullshit. I've been proving you wrong," Marvin points out, "You want me to prove you right."

"Whizzer, I already told you," Marvin says, horrifyingly calm, "I’m too old to be chasing after people who only want to be chased and not caught." Whizzer belatedly places the vague look on Marvin’s face.

It is one of a man who is ready to let go.

Gripped with shock and fear and denial, Whizzer doesn't respond and walks out of the apartment, slamming the door behind him. Marvin doesn't ask him to wait, to stop, to stay. 

As he walks away, Whizzer doesn’t look at the horizon. With each step, he keeps stopping and turning his head and looking back, expecting Marvin to still—without fail—to chase after him.

But the only thing chasing him is the past, and Whizzer refuses to let that actually catch up with him.

"You've grown meaner." Whizzer notes idly, an undercurrent of appreciation for her in his voice.

"I've had to." Trina says vaguely. 

"Trina, I'm really sor—"

"Don’t. Just—don’t. I don't need your late, guilt-tripped apology." Trina scoffs, exasperation and bitterness clogging her tone, "I don't need this anymore, you know? This—This migraine that you two have always given me. I'm not a side character in the Great Opera of Whizzer and Marvin anymore. I have a child and husband who love me. I have a life where I am happy. I got my happy ending."

"I didn't." The words spill out, accusing and pitiful.

Trina doesn't look sorry for him. She gives him a cool, withering look, "Well, that was your own fault."

"It was Marvin's fault," Whizzer tells her, and he wants back that silent, subtle gaze of hers, that solidarity—he wants her to make him feel less alone, "He ruined us, Trina. He—"

"Us? There is no us. Oh my god, are you serious right now?" Trina looks at him with scathing disappointment, "Jesus, Whizzer, you want me to feel sorry for you? News flash: just because Marvin was a bigger asshole than you doesn't take away from the fact that you were an asshole, too. We are not allies in this, Whizzer—not anymore. And honestly, looking back on it all? I don't think we ever were."

They talk and listen and laugh and cry. And Whizzer wants to say that it had been everything that he thought it would be—renewal of passions, happiness only found within one another, the promise of a future together, the promise of love—but it is not everything. It is only one thing.

It is forgiveness. And Whizzer thinks that right now, that’s more than enough.

Whizzer doesn’t like to look back, to admit to any regrets, but still he needs to know, “Would you do it again? If you—If you knew then all that happened afterwards. Would you have still kissed me that night?”

Whizzer remembers his own response to that question, years ago: "It doesn't matter," Whizzer says quickly, releasing his grip on Marvin's hand, "Just let it go."

“I’d like to believe I would,” Marvin doesn’t hesitate, saying firmly, “That I’d do it again and again. That I would choose you, every time.”

Whizzer looks up at the sky, feels a warm smile spread across his face. He feels happy.

“I’d like to believe that I’d let you, every time.” Whizzer concedes.

Whizzer covers Marvin’s hand with his own, the giddiness and hope rising within him and threatening to split him open. They stare at each other for a long time—adoringly, nervously, disbelievingly—before they slowly turn their gaze to the horizon.

And they don’t look back.

[lucifer-kane]

Wistful sigh their platonic relationship is so fucking good because it reminds me so much of Ben and Sammy kfam. But a bit more harsh at times. That's what makes it so fucking good. Your best friend is a 40+ year old man you've only known a short amount of time. You can't imagine having a better friend ever again. It's why I can't personally write them as romantic. Their canon platonic bond is tenfold more compelling than fanon romance. No shame to ppl who do write it just in the 4+ years of listening to rv i don't get it. It doesn't compel me

I truly do love writing Gordon and Warren's in canon dynamic because it's just so. Suspicion then utter devotion. Snarky jabs aimed at the other and utter comfort in the only friend that they have.