bella was lucky she didn’t have a cell phone of any kind because you know ya boi edward would be blowing up that phone 24-7 going “saw a snail today…. effervescent” or some shit equivalent
You’re in a car with a beautiful boy, and he won’t tell you that he loves you, but he loves you. And you feel like you’ve done something terrible, like robbed a liquor store, or swallowed pills, or shoveled yourself a grave in the dirt, and you’re tired. You’re in a car with a beautiful boy, and you’re trying not to tell him that you love him, and you’re trying to choke down the feeling, and you’re trembling, but he reaches over and he touches you, like a prayer for which no words exist, and you feel your heart taking root in your body, like you’ve discovered something you don’t even have a name for.
Hey, Mom, did you feel emotional the first time that you drove in Sacramento? I did and I wanted to tell you, but we weren’t really talking when it happened. All those bends I’ve known my whole life, and stores, and the whole thing. But I wanted to tell you I love you. Thank you, I’m… thank you.
plankton built his computer wife so he’s also the one who programmed her personality. plankton made a wife who would belittle and mock him. plankton has a humiliation fetish
He remembers what happened before – sparring with Kanda, training under the glow of the evening sun; he remembers watching Kanda, his fluid movements, the way it almost seemed like he was dancing, and although Allen was supposed to be concentrating on dodging Kanda’s blows he still couldn’t help noticing how beautiful he was – long dark hair falling across his shoulders like black water, sharp features and wiry muscle. When they paused for a break a single drop of sweat beaded on Kanda’s cheek, and Allen was suddenly seized with the inexplicable urge to lick it off.
He remembers the act itself, remembers being slammed against Kanda’s bedroom door with his wrists pinned above his head, remembers being kissed within an inch of his life, Kanda’s teeth biting into his lips. He remembers being pushed backwards onto Kanda’s bed, calloused hands tearing at his clothes, slick fingers inside of him, stretching him open. He remembers riding Kanda until his thighs were sore and there were bruises all along his sides and his hips, remembers the way Kanda looked right before he came, his mouth falling into a perfect silent O.
He just can’t seem to remember how they went from sitting under the shade of a tree, worn-out and exhausted after a training session to falling into bed with each other on a regular basis; how Allen went from wondering how the muscles of Kanda’s back would feel under his fingers to actually memorizing the sensation, mapping out his scars with his hands and lips and tongue.
In short – if he were to summarize – Allen still isn’t quite sure how they got here at all, but it’s not like it matters anyway.
That is his first mistake.
-
His second mistake happens the first time he spends the night in Kanda’s bed.
They’re on a mission, separate room in an inn in the quiet part of the town. They know where the Innocence is, it’s just fucking annoying because it’s already managed to slip from their grasp more than once, and they’re both tired and frustrated and so naturally they end up in bed together, Allen biting a pillow to smother his moans as Kanda fucks into him frantically.
He doesn’t remember falling asleep, but when he wakes up in the morning it’s to the familiar scent of musk and rain. It takes a second before his brain kicks in and he realizes that his face is pressed into the slope of Kanda’s neck and that Kanda’s arms are wound around his waist. He shifts, blinking, but Kanda remains fast asleep; this close Allen can see the lines of exhaustion around his eyes, the shallowness of his breath, the way his lips are pulled downwards into a slight frown. The first rays of the sun catch on Kanda’s hair, Kanda’s cheekbones, and Allen is suddenly made aware of just how delicate this moment is.
Without thinking he reaches out, traces the lines of Kanda’s tattoo with his fingertip, and Kanda begins to stir. Allen holds his breath.
“Kanda?” he whispers, but Kanda’s already fallen back asleep.
Wordlessly, Allen slips out of bed, pulling the blanket back over Kanda’s body, and then quietly tiptoes back to his own room.
-
His third mistake is asking Kanda to tie him up.
“What?” Kanda says.
“I want you to tie me up,” Allen repeats. He pauses, considering. “During sex,” he clarifies.
“You’re a freak.”
“Please. You can blindfold me too, if you want to.”
“If I want to—”
Slowly, Allen unknots his tie, pulls it from around his neck, presses it into Kanda’s hands.
“Please,” he says, and he knows he’s won.
He can tell – he can tell from the way Kanda’s posture relaxes, from the way his eyes go dark, and Allen responds almost instinctively, feeling anticipation course through his veins.
“On the bed,” Kanda says, his voice very low.
“Why not right here?” Allen says, if only to see the way Kanda’s expression turns hard. Kanda steps closer, eyes flashing, and Allen thinks, yes.
Then Kanda curls one hand in Allen’s collar, drags him in until their faces are barely touching
-
one day allen is dumb and blurts out “are we dating?” after they’ve just had sex and kanda gets really angry and leaves the room and allen immediately knows he’s fucked up
he tries to reconcile with kanda but he’s been completely shut out
he goes to Lenalee and asks her, “were me and kanda dating?” she says, “were?” he says, “just answer the question” she says, “allen, you two went everywhere together, got really prissy whenever you weren’t paired together for missions—“ “I wasn’t prissy” “—stole food from each other, had fights over the dumbest of things, and he actually smiles when he’s around you, allen” and allen is just so shocked and he’s like, “I’m an idiot” and lenalee is just, “yeah”
Inigo is late because he’s stupid and forgot that he lives with the piece of shit known as the New York City Subway, and he didn’t realize the C train was diverted until he’d somehow managed to end up in the Upper East Side of all places, which is how he found himself on the A train instead, heading back down to Times Square while frantically texting his cast mates to please don’t let a swing go on in my place, please, I’m almost there, I swear.
His only consolation, at least, is that there’s some eye candy to tide him through the arduous journey. There’s a man sitting across him on the train, tall and blonde and broad-shouldered. Probably some Wall Street type, judging by the expensive-looking suit and even more expensive-looking watch and the fact that he’s dressed for work even though it’s a bright and early Sunday afternoon. But it’s okay, because he has a chiseled jaw and pretty hair and nice eyes, and Inigo lets himself stare openly, because he’s having a shitty day and he deserves this much at the very least, god dammit.
Except without warning Hot-Guy-In-Suit suddenly looks up, and Inigo doesn’t look away in time, and so there’s an awkward moment of sustained eye contact before Inigo finally regains enough presence of mind to drop his gaze. God, that’s embarrassing. He hopes he isn’t blushing. He keeps his eyes fixed to the floor for the rest of the train ride, refuses to look up even when he can see in his peripheral vision that Hot-Guy-In-Suit is looking back at him curiously.
And so when the train finally pulls into 42nd street Inigo doesn’t even hesitate before he grabs his bag and runs, out the train and up the stairs without even a single backward glance. After all, he has a show to catch.
He makes it in time, just barely, signs his name on the cast sheet with one hand holding onto the pen and his other hand braced against the wall while he tries to catch his breath. He receives his fair share of amused looks as he makes his way to his dressing room, and when he opens the door all he can think about is wiping the sweat off his face and getting into costume. Which is why when Owain unexpectedly claps him on the back he nearly jumps right out of his own skin.
“Owain!” Inigo yells. “What the fuck?”
“That should be my line,” Owain replies, slinging his arm over Inigo’s shoulder. “What’s the matter with you? Are you a Broadway star or not?”
“I’m not,” Inigo responds flatly, disentangling himself before dropping his bag soundly on his dressing room table. Owain follows closely behind as he shucks off his jacket and moves over to the costume rack to get dressed.
“Still,” Owain persists. “I can’t believe you actually made it. I thought our production manager was going to burst a blood vessel when she found out you were running late.”
“Yeah, well,” Inigo says absently as he grabs his costume from the rack. “Wouldn’t want to get the swings’s hopes up.” He starts pulling his shirt over his head, any semblance of dignity be damned, because when you’ve been dancing since the age of five, you kind of become desensitized to the idea of seeing your fellow cast mates naked in dressing rooms.
“You live life on the edge, my friend,” Owain says, sighing dramatically. Inigo isn’t looking at him, but he images Owain’s probably clutching his head for dramatic effect. “Fine, fine, I’ll let you change. You’d better hurry up, it’s places soon.”
“Thanks,” Inigo mutters, “I totally needed that reminder.”
Owain snorts before leaving the dressing room, probably to find someone else to bother, shutting the door behind him as he goes. Inigo’s left alone to try and shove himself into a stupid suit and squeeze his feet into a pair of tap shoes as quickly as possible. When he’s done, he looks up and finds himself staring at his reflection in the mirror. He’s still flushed from sprinting to the theater from the train station, and his hair is a mess, and he hasn’t put on any of his stage makeup yet so he looks like an absolute train wreck—but then he reminds himself, I’m on Broadway. I’m in a Broadway show. That’s all I’ve ever wanted since the age of eleven, and here I am now.
And then he straightens up, dusts his shirt off, and smiles.
-
Inigo has been in three Broadway shows, and counting.
He knows he’s lucky—it’s nothing short of a miracle that he’d managed to land a role on Broadway right after graduation. It’s even more of a miracle that he managed to get cast again in another show. And then another one. Sometimes Inigo finds himself struck anew by the magic of it all. He’ll be in the middle of a quick change, or standing in the wings waiting for his entrance, or scrubbing his makeup off at the end of a grueling two-show day, and it’ll hit him all over again just how fucking lucky he is.
And sure, he’s no star. He’s no leading man. But it’s okay. He gets to dance on Broadway eight times a week. And sure, it’d be nice to be a star. But he’s not. He’s a dancer.
And he gets to dance. And that’s more than enough for him.
-
The only thing Inigo loves more than dancing is meeting fans at stage door after a show. No matter how tired he gets he always makes sure to put on his best face afterwards, maneuver his way through selfies with teenage girls and smile while signing Playbills. There are always different types of fans: the seasoned veterans who come bearing vintage merchandise from the original 1954 production, the badly-dressed tourists who look far too excited about everything, the starry-eyed, slack-jawed theatre kids with big dreams and even bigger potential.
Even if the fans aren’t necessarily there for Inigo specifically, even if they don’t know his name, Inigo still loves being able to talk to them, look at their faces, listen to them enthuse about the show. It’s humanizing, in a way—being able to interact directly with audience members. It’s a reminder as to why exactly Inigo does this: the electricity of living in the moment, of knowing that there really is nothing more special than a night at the theatre. And. Well. Inigo also really likes flirting with people at the stage door. It’s fun. He doesn’t care if it’s earned him a bit of a reputation in the Broadway community. It’s harmless, and all the better to make himself memorable, he thinks.
Sometimes, though, there are really awkward stage door encounters.
Stage door starts off perfectly normal that day. Despite almost being late Inigo hadn’t faltered at all throughout the entire show, so he thinks he’s allowed to feel a little bit proud of himself for that. That’s probably why he’s in a particularly good mood as he makes his way down the line, smiles for photos, signs Playbills, says thank you for coming at least fifty different times.
And then he reaches the end of the line, and Hot-Guy-In-Suit is standing right there.
“Oh,” he says.
“Oh,” Hot-Guy-In-Suit says.
“Are the two of you acquainted?” a woman standing next to Hot-Guy-In-Suit asks, looking amused. “I didn’t know you knew anyone in this show, Xander.”
Hot-Guy-In-Suit (Xander? That’s probably his name, right?) turns to her, frowning. “We, ah. Met briefly,” he says.
The woman smiles like she’s just heard a joke no one else understands. Xander’s frown deepens. She turns to Inigo, presses her Playbill into his hands.
“It was a wonderful show,” she says earnestly. “My brother here and I really enjoyed it.”
“Your brother?” Inigo asks, smiling back. He uncaps his sharpie, signs his name on the corner of her Playbill. “And for a moment I wondered if you were already spoken for,” he adds, because he can’t help it.
“Oh, no,” she says, throwing her hair behind her and laughing. “And neither is my brother, just in case you were wondering.”
“Camilla,” Xander hisses under his breath. The tips of his ears are faintly red. It is actually ridiculously endearing. Inigo turns to him, smiles, extends his hand.
“Would you like me to sign your Playbill too?” he asks.
The glare Xander’s been throwing at his sister softens as he turns to look at Inigo. There’s a beat of silence where the both of them just look at each other; then Xander hands his Playbill to Inigo, and Inigo drops his gaze, dutifully signs it. He pauses, considering, and then adds the words for Xander right underneath his autograph for good measure.
“Thank you for coming to the show,” he says, handing the Playbill back to Xander. “I really appreciate it.”
Xander’s eyes widen as he looks at Inigo’s inscription. He looks up again, meets Inigo’s gaze.
“Thank you,” he says. “It really was an incredible show.”
And Inigo gets compliments like that all the time, but somehow he finds himself faintly embarrassed. He hopes he’s not blushing.
“Thank you,” Inigo manages to get out, smiling at Xander and Camilla. “It was nice meeting the both of you,” he says, waving awkwardly, and then excuses himself.
It’s only when he’s halfway through the long train ride home that he says, out loud, “Why the fuck did I do that?”
The girl sitting next to him gives him a weird look. Inigo ignores her.
This is all the New York City Subway’s fault. Fuck hot guys in suits, but most of all, fuck the New York City Subway.
-
Inigo resolves to forget about the whole thing. After all, he’ll probably never see Xander or Camilla ever again unless they come to see the show a second time, which probably isn’t going to happen anyway, so it’s fine. He’ll just never speak or think about it ever again, and it’ll be fine.
Which is why the first thing he does is to tell Severa all about it.
“He was so hot,” Inigo moans, lying down on the floor of the dance studio they’ve rented out for the day. Severa towers over him, looking down at him with her hands on her hips and a look of unmistakable disdain fixed on her face.
“I literally do not care,” Severa says. “At all.”
Inigo sighs. “Why am I even friends with you?”
“I ask myself that question every single day.”
Actually, the real answer to that question is that Inigo, Severa and Owain had all been in the same dance program in college, and they’d been the only tolerable people in a sea of pretentious assholes. They’d stuck together purely out of necessity at first, and then somehow managed to become actual, proper friends, and now here they are today.
Both Owain and Inigo ventured into musical theatre right after graduation. Severa was the only one who ended up applying to dance companies. She’s been with the same one for three years now, some avant-garde up-and-coming modern dance company. It’s small and fairly new, but that has its perks too, because Severa’s been able to choreograph a few pieces of her own and land herself some really impressive solos in the short span of a few years. Honestly, she’s probably the most successful of the three of them. Inigo’s really proud of her, although he’d rather die than admit it out loud.
Which is how they’ve ended up here today, bumming around in a rented studio space in the middle of SoHo on a Monday afternoon. She’d dragged him over to help her out with a new dance she’s choreographing, and Inigo agreed because he’s a good friend, but. Well. There are more pressing matters on his mind right now.
“You don’t understand, Severa,” he groans. “He was… he’s so…”
“And so your instinctive response was to flirt with his sister?”
“Look, I never said I make good decisions when it comes to matters of romance—”
“Good, because if you ever said that, it would be an outrageous fucking lie.”
“Okay, now that’s a little bit harsh—”
“Do I need to bring up your latest ex again?”
“Listen, Peri wasn’t that bad—”
“She had hair like a Harley Quinn cosplay attempt gone wrong and ran a blog on Tumblr where she photoshopped flower crowns onto serial killers.”
Inigo opens his mouth, and then shuts it again.
“Point,” he says at last. Severa just rolls her eyes at him.
“Inigo,” she says, using her patented I’m-trying-to-be-patient-here-but-you’re-a-complete-fucking-idiot voice. “You made a fool out of yourself in front of one hot guy that you’re never going to see again. Big deal. Just move on. They invented Tinder for a reason.”
“I just want to add that I met Peri through Tinder.”
Severa kicks the back of Inigo’s head. He whines, sitting up and rubbing at the bruised spot while putting on the most betrayed look he can muster.
“Look,” she says. “I didn’t call you here so you could complain to me about how single you are, okay? Are we going to dance or not?”
Inigo thinks he could probably argue, but then decides it’s not worth it. He gets up, dusting off his clothes and turning to Severa with a grin.
“After you,” he says. Severa shoots him a glare, but slowly, it softens into a smile.
“Alright,” she begins, already turning towards the mirrors. “So I was thinking…”
-
Inigo walks out of that dance session with Severa feeling a lot better than before. In the following week he recklessly swipes right on Tinder, does a full eight shows with only very minor hiccups, signs a bunch of Playbills, and goes on a date that doesn’t end with his dismembered body being flung into the Hudson River. All in all, it’s a pretty good week.
So on Tuesday afternoon he finds himself running to the nearby Starbucks after a matinee show, ready to grab a cup of coffee. He has a couple of errands to run before heading back for the evening show, and he’s preoccupied with thinking about how long it’ll take for him to get back to his apartment and whether or not he’ll have to time to drop by SoHo and say hello to Severa for a bit. Which is probably why he doesn’t notice he’s about to walk into someone until he quite literally runs into them headfirst.
“Shit,” he says. “I’m so sorry—”
And then he looks up and sees Xander staring right back down at him.
Severa’s voice echoes in his head. You’re never going to see him again, she said.
Clearly, Severa is a complete fucking liar.
What are the odds? he thinks. This is quite literally the worst day of his entire life.
“Are you okay?” Xander says, breaking the silence.
“What? Oh.” Inigo realizes he’s still standing way too close. He takes a step back, blinks rapidly until he feels like he’s at least somewhat capable of rational thought again. “Yeah, I’m okay. I’m fine! Are you okay? I’m sorry, I should’ve looked where I was going—”
“You don’t have to apologize,” Xander says.
More silence.
Shit.
“So what are you doing in the area?” Inigo asks, and then winces. Smooth, Inigo, he thinks. Real smooth.
“I had a meeting nearby,” Xander replies, and well. He’s still standing there, holding a cup in one hand and a suitcase in the other. And he’s not running away in the opposite direction, which is. A good sign, right?
“Sounds riveting,” Inigo says, and Xander smiles. Inigo’s heart does not flutter at the sight of it. It does not.
“As riveting as a business meeting can possibly be, I suppose,” Xander says.
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