god, what all did you eat? look at how fat you've gotten. can you even fit in your old clothes anymore? you look huge, i bet you have no room left in that belly. how long did it take you to have to unbutton your pants, or did you have them unbuttoned before you even started eating? did you even realize how full you were, or did you just keep eating and eating until you couldn’t even get to your plate because of how stuffed you were? or did you enjoy knowing you were already full, and you purposely pushed yourself to get completely overstuffed. you look like you swallowed a ball, you’re so round, can you even sit up? oh, do you want me to rub your belly? no, i don’t think i will. i think i’ll sit right here and watch you squirm, you're so big and round right now, i think i’ll let you feel the consequences of your actions.
written for week one of @archivalpride for the prompts pre-canon, self-expression, affirmation, and sharing clothes jewelry!
cw for mild internalized acephobia, teasing
also on ao3! (link in source)
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“Do you like earrings?”
Jon lowers the book he’s reading and frowns at Tim. “Sorry?”
Tim’s laptop is propped on top of Jon’s shins where they’re resting atop Tim's lap, and he’s scrolling through some website that Jon can’t quite make out. “Earrings,” he repeats, pulling up a pair and swiveling the laptop so Jon can see. “I’ve got a coupon. Buy one get one free jewelry.”
“Not like that,” Jon says, wrinkling his nose at the gaudy dinosaur dangle earrings on the screen in front of him. He tugs at one of the small silver hoops in his earlobes and says, “I don’t really change mine. I’d take them out and let the holes close up, but keeping them in is honestly less work.”
Tim hums and turns back to the screen, clicking away from the earrings and continuing to scroll. “What about rings?” He types a few things on the keyboard. “You’ve got that black one you always wear.”
“Hm?” Jon’s hand automatically goes to the thin black band on his right middle finger, twisting it absently a few times. “Oh, that’s my ace ring.”
Tim looks at the ring, forehead creased. “Those are a thing?”
“I- I mean… yeah? I guess?” Jon hesitates a moment, then takes the ring off his finger and offers it to Tim. “I got one my last year in uni. It- it’s really just for me, I don’t wear it to, er… communicate that I’m ace to other people, necessarily, though it can serve that purpose, I suppose. I just… I like it.”
Tim takes the ring and turns it over a few times in his hand. “Huh. Is this, um. Is this something that all ace people know about and… and I just missed the memo?”
“I mean, I- I don’t…” Jon trails off. He closes his book and sets it on the floor next to the couch, watching Tim fiddle with the ring. “Wait, you- you’re ace? I… I didn’t know that.”
“It’s- well, it’s not a new development,” Tim says with a small laugh, “but I never really had the word until I met you? I never minded sex, and I just thought it was normal that I never really wanted it with any particular person. I honestly thought that whole ‘look across the room and see somebody you want to take to bed’ trope was a thing that just happened in movies. Hearing you talk about being ace, even though you’re a different, uh… subtype? Than me? I don’t know, it- it made a lot of sense to me. I still had a bit of doubt, you know, since I do still like sex, but then you said that some people are sex-favorable, and… yep. Pretty sure that’s me. I did a bit of research of my own just to make sure, but I, uh, I never saw anything about ace rings, I guess.”
“Oh.” Jon watches Tim pass the ring from finger to finger, flipping it back and forth between his thumb and middle finger on his right hand. “I, er… thank you, I- I suppose. For telling me, that is.”
Tim hums. “Would have told you earlier, it just… never really came up, I suppose. Always meant to, though. You’re my best friend, and it’s not like I was afraid you’d react poorly or anything.” He flashes Jon a toothy-white smile and holds out his hand, the ring sat in the center of his palm. “The ring’s cool, though. I might get one for myself.”
Jon stares at Tim’s outstretched hand, something warm curling in the pit of his stomach. He’s not sure what, exactly, compels him to say, “Why don’t you, um. Why don’t you wear that one? At- at least until you find one that you, um. That you like.”
Tim looks surprised. “Jon, I’m not stealing your ring.”
“It’s not stealing if I give it to you,” Jon says, crossing his arms across his chest. “I want you to take it. For- for now, that is.”
Tim looks at Jon a moment more before laughing, his eyes crinkling near the corners. “Jon,” he says, closing his hand around the ring and reaching for one of Jon’s hands with the other. Jon allows his hand to be guided away from his chest, and Tim flattens his palm against Jon’s. Jon frowns at the way Tim’s hand dwarfs his by a centimeter or two, trying to ignore the way his skin tingles where it’s pressed up against Tim’s. “I really don’t think it’s going to fit.”
“You haven’t even tried it on yet,” Jon counters stubbornly.
Tim holds the hand holding the ring up in defeat, his fingers still curled into a fist around it. “All right, all right,” he says, taking his hand away from Jon’s and uncurling his fingers from around the ring. Jon ignores the way his skin grows colder at the lack of contact and watches Tim slip the black ring onto the middle finger of his right hand. It goes on until the second knuckle where it sticks, and Tim holds his hand up in the air with a smirk. “See? It’s stuck. You’ve got twiggy fingers, Jon.”
“I- I do not!” Jon sputters, ignoring the evidence in front of him that clearly indicates otherwise. “Besides, I think it looks… fine.”
“Fine,” Tim echoes, amused. He slips the ring off his finger and holds it back out toward Jon. “I’m not taking your ring if it doesn’t even fit, Jon. But thanks.”
“That’s not—” Jon cuts off with a frustrated noise. He moves his legs off Tim’s and stands, leaving Tim holding the ring with a small confused furrow between his eyebrows. “Wait here. I- I’ll be back.”
“Okay?” Tim says, and Jon nods once decisively before retreating to his bedroom. He pulls a few boxes out from his closet and rifles through them, his heartbeat nestling high in his throat and his face growing steadily warmer. This is stupid, he thinks, even as he finds what he's looking for and grips it tightly in one hand, feeling the soft give of it beneath his fingers. Tim’s going to think it’s stupid.
Taking a deep breath, Jon stands and makes his way back to the living room where Tim’s still sat, worrying the ring back and forth between his fingers and watching Jon with a fond, mildly confused smile as Jon sits back on the couch beside him.
Jon sets the ball of black yarn and pair of scissors on his lap, looks at Tim, and says as confidently as he can muster, “Hold out your hand.”
Tim raises an eyebrow. “What?”
“Don’t laugh at me,” Jon says sharply, his cheeks burning as he looks at Tim expectantly. “Just- just hold out your hand.”
“I’m not laughing,” Tim says softly as he passes Jon’s ring to his left hand and holds out his right, fingers splayed wide and waiting. “Promise.”
If anything, Jon’s face gets hotter at that. He clips a short length of yarn from the ball on his lap, sets the scissors down, and says, “I- I know.” He hesitates, just a moment, before wrapping the bit of yarn around the base of Tim’s middle finger and tying a crisp double knot, cutting off the ends so they’re short and uniform. He pulls his hands back from Tim’s and settles them nervously on his lap, one hand going absently to the ball of yarn and tugging at a few of the loose strands. “Just, um. U- until you can get a real ring.”
Tim looks at him, expression unreadable, and Jon looks away, embarrassment curling hotly in his stomach. “S- sorry,” he says, worrying the hem of his shirt between his fingers. “It- it was a stupid idea.” He takes the scissors in hand and holds them out toward Tim, still staring intently at his lap. “You- you can cut it off if you want.”
Tim’s fingers brush against Jon’s as he pushes the scissors gently back toward Jon. “I haven’t even said anything yet,” he says, the amusement in his voice mixed with something else that Jon can’t quite place. (Not that he’s ever been great at parsing tone in general.) “What makes you think I don’t like it?”
Jon opens and closes his mouth a few times before making an I-don’t-know noise.
“Well, I do,” Tim says matter-of-factly. “In fact, I’m never taking it off, I’ve decided. I’m taking it with me to the grave. Till-death-do-us-part.”
Jon makes a series of sputtering noises before finally landing on, “Well, I, er. I- I’m glad.”
Tim grins at him and then takes Jon’s hand in his own and slips Jon’s ring back onto his finger. Jon’s mind goes blank of all thoughts other than Tim’s hand is touching mine and Tim is very warm and Tim just put a ring on my finger.
“See?” Tim says, squeezing Jon’s hand in his for just a moment before slipping his hand down to Jon’s wrist and holding Jon’s hand up for display. “Twiggy fingers.”
Jon cuts off his thought of Tim is sitting just close enough to kiss with a scowl and wriggles his hand out of Tim’s grip, ignoring the way that Tim’s grin only widens as he does so. “They are perfectly normal-sized fingers for a man of my stature, I’ll have you know.”
“Mm, yes, I suppose you’re right,” Tim says with a put-upon sigh. “I conceded! The rest of you is twiggy as well.”
“Tim.”
“Absolutely no meat on your bones, Jonathan. Positively scrawny.”
Jon crosses his arms across his chest and frowns. He certainly doesn’t pout, and anybody who says anything different is lying. “Timothy Stoker.”
Tim laughs, his expression softening as he reaches over and takes one of Jon’s hands in his own, squeezing gently. “Oh, full-name basis. I must be in trouble.” He turns Jon’s hand over in his and looks at Jon’s ring, rubbing a thumb over it in consideration. Jon definitely doesn’t blush when he does so. “Really, though. Thanks. It… it means a lot.”
Jon looks down at their joined hands, something fluttering and light curling within his stomach. “It- it’s just yarn,” he says quietly, brushing against the knot of yarn with the tip of his finger.
Tim shrugs. “Yeah, but that’s not the point. The point is that you gave it to me, and you listened, and you cared.”
“Oh,” Jon says softly. He swallows around the lump in his throat before offering Tim a small smile that he hopes doesn’t betray the overwhelming affection blooming deep within him. “Well, you- you’re welcome, I suppose.”
Tim hums. He looks down at their hands, flexes his fingers, and says cheerily, “The yarn is nice too, though. Very soft. Definitely has some friendship-bracelet vibes.”
“Ha ha,” Jon says dryly. He leans across Tim’s lap and retrieves the computer, resolutely not thinking about the heat he can feel radiating off Tim with the proximity. Christ, he’s practically a furnace. “You said it’s buy one get one free? I’m sure you can find something.”
Tim orders a ring in the end, a thick black tungsten band, and he tacks a pair of ostentatious cat earrings onto the order despite Jon’s protests that I’m absolutely never going to wear those, Tim and yes, I like cats, but not dangling from my ears and fine, but I’m wearing them once and that’s it. And when Tim arrives at work two weeks later with the ring on his finger, the thin piece of yarn still tied alongside it as he holds his hand up proudly for Jon to see, Jon’s heart skips a beat before picking back up double time.
Oh, Jon thinks as Tim prattles on about shipping times and little silver cats with green gemstone eyes and heart-shaped ace pins, pressing one of the aforementioned pins into Jon’s hand with a grin. Oh.
Jon holds the small metal heart in his hand and looks at the yarn on Tim’s finger and knows, with absolute certainty, that he’s falling in love with Timothy Stoker. His face gets hot and he focuses on Tim’s hands, trying not to give away the fact that his heart is practically beating out of his chest like a cartoon character.
“Jon?” Tim says, placing a hand on one of Jon’s and startling him free from his thoughts. His hand is warm, Jon thinks. I’d love to hold it. “Everything good?”
“Yes,” Jon says quickly, his eyes snapping up to Tim’s face. Tim is smiling at him warmly, and Jon feels a part of himself melt. “Yes,” he repeats, his mouth curling into a small smile to match. “Everything’s great.”
“Great,” Tim echoes, squeezing Jon’s hand once before letting go. His smile turns a bit teasing at the edges, and Jon braces himself. “Now.” He pulls the earrings out of his pocket and dangles them in front of Jon. “As I recall, you did promise at least once.”
Jon is, unfortunately, falling in love with Timothy Stoker. God help him.
“Fine,” Jon grumbles, taking the earrings out of Tim’s hand and giving him a withering look. “Just once.”
Jon does, in fact, end up wearing the earrings more than once, fiddling absentmindedly with the small cats as he walks through the supermarket and stands on the tube and sits on his couch, flipping through a book. But that’s nobody’s business but his own.
Rhenbraen kept their eyes on their work, hammer sending sparks flying into the frigid air. "Why?"
"Swivin' crane is misbehaving again." The hyur stood there expectantly.
Rhenbraen looked up, brow furrowed in confusion. "And you're comin' to me about it?"
"Aye, Helbsyn, who else are we gonna bloody go to?" he said, grinning despite Rhenbraen's suspicious stare. "You're the crane whisperer, mate. Foreman sent me for you specifically."
"Fine," they said. "But let me finish 'fore this piece gets cold and cracks. I ain't the finial whisperer."
"Sure, whatever you need to do."
-----
"There." Rhenbraen let the access panel fall shut with a soft clang and dusted ice chips from their gloves. "Try now."
The operator tugged at a lever, and the winch started to turn, reeling in the slack cable. Someone in the knot of workers whooped.
"Alright, back to work!" the foreman shouted, and Rhenbraen turned to go back to the forge.
"You sell yourself short, Helbsyn." Rhenbraen looked down to see the messenger from earlier at their elbow. He was grinning -- up at the crane now swinging into motion, not at them. "Good work."
They gave an uncomfortable grunt, crossing their arms. They returned to their smithing and did their best to ignore the swell of... something... that buoyed their heart in their chest.
-----
"Still impressed that you knew it was ice inside the mechanism. You've got a real knack for this kind of -- urgh -- work," their bunkmate said as he wrestled off his boots. "Especially for someone who hasn't seen snow before this year. Have you ever considered joining that new mechanics’ workshop-- or something like it?" He was almost shouting to be heard over the evening chatter in the barracks.
"And stay up here freezin' my arse off?" Rhenbraen grumbled, burrowing further into their pile of blankets.
"Maybe not in Ishgard, then."
"I don't know. Liked the foundry work better." It was true - work in the foundry was intuitive, simple, repetitive.
Still, Rhenbraen found themselves lying awake and thinking about the suggestion - or maybe just the compliment - for longer than they expected.
-----
Of course they came down with a bad cold the next sun. Rhenbraen blamed the lack of sleep. When their already-rough voice started turning into an inaudible croak, they were sent to bed with strict orders to rest -- followed up with a bowl of noodle soup from Orrin's stall.
The two suns following were a blur of soup, tonic, and feverish sleep. On the second, they awoke to an empty barracks and jumped down from their bunk in a panic, throwing on on their sweater and cap and toolbelt -- only to be sent right back the moment they entered the common room.
"We need ye healthy, Helbsyn - go rest up." The foreman carefully did not touch them, but he all but nipped at their heels until they were herded back under the covers.
They passed back out almost instantly, but not before they had spent a few seconds puzzling to themselves over why it had felt kind of nice.
-----
On the third sun, they started to grow restless. On the fourth, they finally passed muster with the chirurgeons and were sent back to the Firmament.
"Oh, thank the Fury, you're back! Are you feeling all right now?"
Rhenbraen snorted, as much to clear the lingering congestion from their nasal passages as to express confusion. "It ain't like I was gone for a moon."
"Aye, but we missed yer grumpy mug!" A broad grin accompanied the words.
A canvas-wrapped package was shoved into their hands. "What in the hells is this?" Rhenbraen rasped.
"Open it."
They pulled open the sack to find... a set of clothes. Two linen shirts, a woolen tunic lined with... hells, was this silk? and a coat in quilted corduroy to go over it. Gloves - thicker ones. Trousers, in wool to match the coat, and leggings to line them. Socks, again in heavy wool, knee-length.
And, at the bottom, a pair of tall boots with rugged soles.
"What in the hells is all this?" they repeated. Their voice was choked with emotion, and at the sound of it, their ears started to burn.
"Ain't you ever seen clothes before, Helbsyn?" A chorus of good-natured laughter accompanied the grinning jibe.
"Ignore him, mate. It's warm clothes. Had to take our best guesses on the sizing, but everything's got laces to adjust the fit. If something doesn't sit the way you want, we'll try again."
Rhenbraen opened their mouth to retort, but nothing came out. They shut it again, looking down, bewildered, at the clothing spread over the workbench. Equally bewildering was the way their eyes stung, pricked by tears.
"...lemme guess," they managed to croak out, unable to fully summon their usual irritation, "the bloody crane is frozen solid again?"
--------
Needless to say, “happiness” is a pretty foreign emotion for Rhenbraen, and it tends to be a little overwhelming. They tend to react by fleeing into their usual anger and irritation out of embarrassment.
