Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Turntapp doesn’t need to check the clock to know it’s well past midnight by the time he gets back home. Every window in every building of his calm little neighbourhood is dark. The streets are empty too; even the paparazzi that have been camped outside Turntapp’s apartment for the past week appear to have finally called it a night. 

The peace is almost startling. For a moment, Turntapp simply stands in the middle of the sidewalk and enjoys the distant hum of the streetlights and the feeling of cold winter air in his lungs. For a moment, he is no one again. He has almost forgotten what it feels like– how pleasant it is. He wishes he had the brainpower to appreciate it. As it is, the second he’s back into his apartment, the last of his energy gives out entirely. He barely manages to make it to his bedroom before he’s collapsing face-first onto the bed. He can’t recall a time he’s ever been this exhausted– physically and emotionally both. 

He’s grateful for it. The exhaustion drags him under quickly and pulls him into a sleep so heavy it might as well clubbed him over the head. It's blessedly dreamless, where it might otherwise have been haunted by memories of starry black eyes and feathers beneath his fingers– and by the thoughts that have tried to claw their way up to the surface all evening.

It’s a reprieve. Unfortunately, it’s only a temporary one. 

***

Wakefulness creeps in slowly. At first Turntapp feels only a vague sense of wrongness; a pit in his stomach and something like dread sitting heavy on his chest. And… excitement? Static energy beneath his skin. The memories of yesterday follow close behind. 

That goddamn phone call. Saparata’s voice, raw and breathy and gentler than Turntapp has ever heard it, even as the other mercilessly drove in the knife and carved long-buried truths out of Turntapp. It had been effortless, too– no pressure was required to make him crack. He can’t help but think that maybe all Saparata ever has to do is ask. 

Somehow, that still isn’t the worst part. 

I need to know if it’s just me, Saparata had said, or if you think about it too.

Too.

Turntapp grabs a pillow and presses it over his face. He wonders if he could smother himself like this. Probably not. But maybe if he rolls around onto his stomach and instead presses his face down into the pillow and–

Okay, no. Now he’s just being dramatic. 

With a deep sigh, Turntapp resigns himself to life. He rolls out of bed and shelves any dreams of self-suffocation for now. 

Still, he delays facing his problems for as long as he can. He actively puts off making his morning cup of coffee in favor of lingering in the fog of grogginess a little longer; postponing his return to objective reasoning and sound judgement. Instead he habitually assembles his protein-shake-slash-breakfast while scrolling through his conversations with Saparata– not the one from this week, but from back when it was all smileys and heart emoticons. Turntapp stares at the figures forlornly. He should have appreciated it more in the moment, he thinks. It had been so much easier back then– when the forces working against them were not internal and external both. 

Eventually, though, reality catches up to him, and he is forced to face the truth he arrived at yesterday. If he wants to keep his relationship with Saparata– if he wants to protect what frail thing they have managed to salvage from all this mess– then he cannot allow himself to go through with this date. He needs to do what he couldn’t bring himself to do yesterday; pull himself together and cancel it.

He clicks the empty text field of their conversation and watches the cursor patiently blink back at him. 

His head is at a standstill. 

Makes sense, since he hasn’t had his coffee. Turntapp puts the phone aside and goes to make himself a cup. Only his favorite cup is still in the dishwasher, so Turntapp has to go grab it from there. And while he’s there, he might as well empty the whole thing. Put in the dirty dishes as well. Yesterday’s cup leaves a ring of coffee on the counter when Turntapp lifts it, so he should probably clean that up as well–

An hour later, Turntapp’s kitchen is the cleanest it has ever been. He is also one hour closer to the date he still hasn’t found a way to cancel, and really starting to panic. He’s running out of time, and he knows it.

That's why he is stalling. That's why he will continue to stall, until it’s too late to back out. Because along with the first truth sits another;

Turntapp wants to see Saparata so badly. Badly enough, in fact, that there is simply no version of reality in which he cancels this date by his own choice.

Which leaves him with only one logical solution. If he cannot make the responsible decision, then someone more reasonable will simply have to make it for him. Unfortunately Turntapp doesn’t exactly have an abundance of voices of reason in his life, but he does have four people he promised he would call whenever he feels like he’s spiraling. So it’s with that promise in mind– and a desperate wish for distraction from his current panic-laden thoughts– Turntapp sits himself down by the kitchen table, protein shake in hand, and calls up his friends. 

The first thing he’s met with as the call connects is Schpood’s frowning face, reading glasses perched low on his nose as he glares into the phone.

“Huh,” he says. “Look who finally figured out how to make a video call.”

Turntapp ignores the jab. He doesn’t have the time– or the mental fortitude– to pick this fight right now. Especially not with a man who can’t even figure out how to turn off voice dictation.

“Are you busy?” Turntapp asks.

“Obviously,” Schpood snarks. “We’re doing the crossword.”

He sets his phone down onto the table, angling it so the camera gets a view of the kitchen table in front of him. Spyder comes into frame, waving politely. Both roommates are still in matching pajamas, and the Sunday newspaper is spread open between them. 

Turntapp surpresses the urge to roll his eyes. “Okay, well, can I interrupt you? I need–”

Before Turntapp can even start to explain, Zynn joins the call from the driver’s seat of her car. She’s wearing gym clothes and is in the middle of demolishing a burger.

“Hey losers,” she says around a mouthful of food.

“Wassup!” Owo greets as he connects too– also in a car, though the hand on the steering wheel suggests his is moving. He has his cap on backwards and is wearing an egregiously patterned fuzzy fleece that no one but him could pull off. “Sorry about the noise,” he adds. “Just got in the car.”

“It’s fine,” Turntapp starts. “I need some–”

Owo glances towards his phone, then does a double take.

“Wait, what the hell?” he exclaims, pointing at the screen. “I thought you guys were busy!”

“We are busy,” Schpood replies irritably, tapping the newspaper for emphasis. ”We are doing the crossword.”

“You’re skipping brunch at Remy’s new place to do crosswords?!”

“It’s not my fault they scheduled brunch on crossword time,” Schpood sniffs. “I take no appointments before noon on Sundays.”

“Sorry, Owo,” Spyder says, looking at least somewhat apologetic. “I did try to convince him to go. But he’s still upset that Artie was invited.”

“Oh please.” Schpood nudges Spyder with an elbow. “Don’t pretend like you’re fine with it just to save face in front of Owo.”

“I have no issue with Arcturus-“

“What was it you called him? A balding bleach-blond–”

“Can you people be quiet for a second?!” Turntapp snaps.

Schpood and Spyder‘s giggling ceases immediately.

“I didn’t call you just to listen to you argue about brunch," he swallows, voice strained. "I have– I need some advice.”

The call goes obediently quiet, and Turntapp suddenly feels strangely self-conscious. The lack of caffeine is fraying the last threads of his resolve, and he knows he needs to start talking now if he’s ever going to get himself out of this situation.

“Me and Saparata talked yesterday,” he begins. It’s an effective opening– the four faces in his phone snap to attention immediately. “And now we’re supposed to meet for dinner in a few hours. I need help.”

The silence lasts another second. Then the call erupts into sounds that can only be described as pure noise pollution, the volume spiking to the degree it’s just noise out the speaker of Turntapp’s phone. Everyone is talking– screaming, really– at the same time, and it isn't in panic, but excitement. 

“Turnsaps lives, baby!” Owo whoops, punching the air in the cramped space of his car. “We’re so fucking back!” 

“A dinner or a dinner?” clamors Schpood, eyes wide.

“A date!” Owo sings. 

“Okay, wait, I wasn’t– It’s not a date,” Turntapp protests, because it really isn’t. It’s dinner with a friend – a colleague, actually– who Turntapp just so happens to be desperately in love with. A colleague who he often fantasizes about kissing. A colleague who, just yesterday, admitted he fantasizes about kissing Turntapp too. So really, calling it a date doesn’t quite capture the scale of the disaster. It’s like describing a tornado as ‘a bit windy’. “And I’m not going. I need to find a way to cancel.”

The call erupts again.

“What?” Owo blurts. “Why the hell wouldn’t you go?”

“Why the hell would I? Have you missed the rumors of us dating? In what world would this be appropriate timing to show up together to some restaurant? I’m already on thin ice with Ish after–”

“Wait, pause,” Zynn rubs her temple. “I thought you and Saparata weren’t speaking?”

“We weren’t. But I– we are now.”

“What was it you two were even fighting about?” Schpood asks. Spyder nods beside him, clearly wondering the same thing.

“Uh…” Turntapp hesitates, not too keen on opening that particular can of worms back up. The memory of it is still somewhat sore. “Saparata’s PR team asked him not to spend time with me in public. For the sake of his, uh, brand.”

Four pairs of eyes blink back at him.

“Okay,” Zynn says slowly. “And your first response to this is to… go spend time together in public? Do you really need us to tell you that’s is a bad idea?”

“I know it’s a bad idea,” Turntapp grinds out, “which is why I need help cancelling it.”

“Does Saparata not know it’s a bad idea?” Spyder asks– a fair question, really.

“He doesn’t seem to care.” In fact, Saparata seems eager to defy his team. Turntapp tries not to think too hard about what that might mean– the idea that he might be used as a pawn in some sort of act of rebellion doesn’t sit right with him. 

“Easy for him,” Zynn scoffs. “You’ll get fired before he will.”

Turntapp knows that, but that doesn’t make hearing it sting any less. “Yes, I’m fucking aware, Zynn,” he snaps, feeling that tightness over his chest creeping back.

“Then why the fuck are you calling us, whining, instead of cancelling it?”

“Okay, let’s remember we’re all on the same team here,” Spyder cuts in, gently.

“You’re friends, aren’t you?” Schpood says, not looking up from the crossword. “Friends can go out for dinner. I don’t see the issue.”

“Well, I don’t see why you don’t just date!” Owo cries. “You’re into him, he’s into you! Saparata literally employs his PR team– can’t he just tell them to chill?”

“They’re probably against it for a reason,” Zynn argues. “And it’s against company policy.”

“Okay, whose team are you on?” Owo snaps at her. “Because it doesn’t feel like you’re on Team Turnsaps.”

“I’m on Team Turntapp,” Zynn snaps back. “I want this to work out as much as the rest of you, but given the choice I’d rather he keep the career he spent years building than risk it just because he has fallen in love."

The call goes quiet. No one seems to find anything to put up against that– reasonably so, considering Zynn is objectively right.

Eventually, Spyder clears his throat.

“I think this whole situation has been blown out of proportion,” he ventures, carefully. “It really wouldn’t be the first time a pair of colleagues has gotten together.”

“Yeah,” Owo agrees. “Madz met her guy on set– their characters even got married!”

“Right. And besides, I think Ish has seen worse breaches of HR policy.”

Schpood looks up from the crosswords to find his roommate giving him a pointed look. “...Why are you looking at me?”

“I'm just saying. If you can remain employed, even after getting into a fistfight with Sitz and sending Arcturus multiple death threats in Latin–”

“–a momentary lapse in judgement. Errare humanum est.” 

“–sed perseverare diabolicum. Isn’t that how it goes?”

“Ita vero. Very good,” Schpood grins, and Spyder flushes under the praise.

“Okay, as much as I’d love to stay and listen to you two flirt in Latin, I’m starting to feel my lunch coming back up,” Zynn says. “Are we done here?”

Turntapp makes a noise of protest. “What– No, we’re not! We haven’t even decided on what I should do!”

Zynn scoffs.

“Don’t be dense,” she says, as she sips loudly from the straw of her drink. “We all know exactly what you’re going to do”

“And what is that, then?”

She rolls her eyes. “Well, you’ve spent this entire call explaining why this dinner is a terrible idea. So what are the arguments for going?”

Turntapp hesitates. There’s only one, really. ”Well, I want to.”

Zynn shrugs. 

“Sounds like you have your answer, then,” she says. 

Turntapp ends up going, of course. 

He knows he shouldn’t, but that knowledge coexists with the simple fact that this was always how it was going to end. There’s not a world where he could turn the invitation down– not when it meant seeing Saparata again, after weeks of wanting to.

That isn’t to say he regrets his decision. Now more than ever, parked a few blocks away from Saparata’s house, sitting waiting in the far-too fancy outfit Schpood picked out for him, He feels stuffy and awkward and hyperaware of how the suit jacket is a little too tight around the arms short in the sleeves.

He hasn’t worn something so proper outside work in a long time, maybe even ever, and it isn’t helpful in convincing himself that a dinner between two friends is all this night is. Knowing that nothing can happen at least helps him manage his expectations somewhat. Getting to see Saparata, spending some time together, will be more than enough for him. 

That’s what he tells himself, at least. 

Turntapp drums his fingers against the steering wheel. He considers putting on some music, even though he rarely does so– silence usually doesn’t grate on his nerves the way it’s doing now. Probably because he is more nervous than he’s ever been before. His pulse hasn’t slowed since he parked. While he has somehow managed to keep himself from spiraling all afternoon, his thoughts keep circling back to the same place now that the moment is actually here.

You’re a good kisser, Turntapp, Saparata had said. Do you still think about it?

If he only knew.

Turntapp shoves the memory aside and, for what has to be the tenth time in the course of half as many minutes, scans the street again.

The knowledge that they’re doing something they shouldn’t makes the whole thing feel awfully illicit. While Turntapp would never consider having an affair, he now knows for sure that he could never manage one. Despite having yet to encounter even a passerby, Turntapp can’t shake the feeling that there’s someone lurking around every corner. Paparazzi, fans, Ish, maybe Saparata’s publicist– Turntapp isn’t sure who he fears the most.

That’s a lie. Turntapp knows exactly who he fears the most. The person in question has white hair and a white scarf and a big puffy jacket and appears suddenly around the corner of the building Turntapp’s parked beside. The moment their eyes meet, Saparata lights up into a smile so bright it could probably split the dark clouds overhead.

Any remaining hopes Turntapp had of keeping this casual goes out the window immediately. His heart stutters, stalls entirely for a full beat, and then kicks back into an even faster rhythm.

Good to know that a month apart hasn’t changed a thing. 

Instinctively, Turntapp glances around the street again. It isn’t impossible that someone might have trailed Saparata from his apartment, so he watches the corner carefully– half-expecting someone to appear behind from behind it. He’s still scanning the sidewalks when the passenger door suddenly opens. 

Turntapp nearly jumps out of his skin. Then, he finds himself with an armful of Saparata. 

The hug catches him completely off guard. One moment the seat beside him is empty, and in the next Saparata is leaning across the console, laughing as he throws his arms around Turntapp’s neck. Turntapp goes stiff. They’re parked on a public street, and he’s painfully aware of the fact that the private bubble of his car is just an illusion. 

They really shouldn’t be this touchy in public. 

But since Saparata is already curled up against him, arms looped around Turntapp’s neck, the damage is already done. Turntapp can’t quite bring himself to pull away either way. Instead, he angles his face down into Saparata’s white mop of hair and finally draws in the familiar smell of wool and– …something citrusy?

Huh. 

Guess Saparata changed perfumes.

And since feeling disappointed by minute changes in his friend’s perfume is definitely weird, Turntapp quickly reminds himself to be normal, act normal.

“Hey,” he mumbles, attempting exactly that.

His heart is racing again, even more so as Saparata pulls back and smiles up at him. “Hi,” the other replies. 

He doesn’t look the way Turntapp remembers him. He’s not nearly as gaunt as he was a month ago, for one, and the nervosity that colors his features is new as well. But the most striking difference is his eyes. He’s wearing glasses– the pair Turntapp helped pick out, all these weeks ago– but behind the frames is not the star-studded charcoal black eyes Turntapp has been dreaming of all these weeks. Saparata’s eyes have somehow changed color; transformed into a pale shade of blue, almost bordering on violet. 

Turntapp forgets not to stare and Saparata surely notices– he reaches up and adjusts the glasses on his face nervously.

“Do I– Do they look weird?” he asks. “I’m still getting used to wearing them.”

“Your eyes,” Turntapp says, dumbfounded. “They’re– not black." 

Saparata blinks at him. 

“Oh.” he laughs, a little sheepishly. “Right. I guess you’ve never actually seen me without my contacts before.”

He slips the glasses off, allowing Turntapp to see his eyes properly. The color is even clearer now– but Turntapp doesn’t have the words to describe the hue. They’re beautiful, if unfamiliar.

“I like the look of dark eyes, but… well,” Saparata gestures vaguely at himself. “No pigment, you know. I usually wear colored contacts.”

Turntapp doesn’t trust himself to say anything. Even now, just looking at the other, he feels like he’s giving too much away. His gaze can’t seem to decide on what part of Saparata’s face to focus on– jumping between his eyes, the slope of his nose, the curve of his mouth. Lips that Turntapp has kissed once, that he could lean over and kiss again, right now. 

He wonders if Saparata would mind. You’re a good kisser, Turntapp, he had said. 

The creeping feeling is back across his neck– embarrassment, along with something else.

Turntapp quickly looks away, scanning the streets around them again.

Still empty. The only eyes that are on him are Saparata’s– the pale blue still looking out of place on the other’s face.

“We should go,” he says, “I’ve already made us late.”

“Right,” Turntapp mumbles. He starts the car, and desperately wills himself to focus back on the road. 

The ride there is awkward.

Saparata is nervous, suddenly– Turntapp can tell as much simply because the other is being uncharacteristically silent. Where he would normally be filling the silence with questions, stories, observations about whatever they pass on the street, Saparata now sits quietly in the passenger seat with his hands folded in his lap.

The burden of conversation falls onto Turntapp. A terrible realization– considering he’s currently something of a nervous wreck himself.

As he brings the car to a stop at a red light, he drums his fingers against the steering wheel and watches the glow of brake lights stretch down the street ahead of them.

“It’s warm outside, today,” he says. 

“It is,” Saparata agrees. “I hope the snow doesn’t smelt before Christmas. I really, um, like the snow. So it would be nice if… nice if it remained.”

Turntapp nods. “I heard it’s supposed to get colder tomorrow.”

“That’s good,” Saparata says. “I’m glad to hear that.”

Turntapp tries to think of a response, but finds his brain unhelpfully blank. 

He won’t be able to get through an entire night of this– he can barely last the drive there. He’ll die, he thinks, if he doesn’t turn this car back around and drive them back home this minute.

The light turns green. Turntapp presses the gas and the car rolls forward again.

As they step out of the elevator that has taken them up to the restaurant, Turntapp is suddenly very glad Schpood made him dress up.

Maybe he shouldn’t have opted out of the tie, though. Even clad in his somewhat fancy suit he feels awfully underdressed. Or maybe it’s more that he feels out of place– like he has stepped into an alternate universe, a world that isn’t his.

He expected the restaurant to be grandiose, but entering the dining room feels less like entering a restaurant and more like stepping onto a stage. The room somewhat resembles a theatre, with how the ceiling rises high above them, decorated with elaborate moldings and delicate trimmings that catch the warm strip-lighting running along its edges. Olive trees are scattered throughout the room, their thin branches stretching upward, nearly reaching the ceiling. They cast long, intricate shadows across the walls and tables below, where the stage has been arranged for an evening performance.

The tables are dressed in crisp white cloth, scattered like little islands among deep red velvet booths. Every single seat is taken, lined with guests dining from the decorated plates and silver cutlery. The few tables make it a rather intimate setting, but it’s obviously fully booked. 

Turntapp keeps his head down as he and Saparata follow the hostess through the maze of tables, but it’s difficult when he can feel every glance in his direction like a physical touch. A lady at a table they pass lifts her phone and Turntapp’s pulse spikes before he even realizes why. Is she texting someone, or taking a photo? He can’t tell. 

They eventually reach their table and sit down. Turntapp is still scanning the room, eyes flicking from face to face, phone to phone. Every movement, every glance, is suspicious to his increasingly paranoid mind.  

“Are you okay?”

Turntapp blinks, then snaps his attention back to the actor across from him. He clears his throat and rolls his shoulders in a futile attempt to loosen them– to force the tension out of his posture.

“Uh, yeah. Great,” he says, gesturing vaguely around the room, at the extravagance of it all. “This is great. Uh. Beautiful place.”

Saparata smiles faintly and nods, though he doesn’t look entirely convinced. 

Warm light from the table lamp glints across the glasses perched on his nose. The sight of them is strangely natural; probably because Turntapp has spent more than a little time looking at the photos Saparata sent while trying them on. The blue eyes are harder to get used to, but if they keep looking at him like that, Turntapp couldn’t really care less about what color they are. 

Remembering where they are, Turntapp forces his gaze back down into the menu. He can still feel Saparata watching him. If Turntapp were a better actor, he might have been able to relax instead of just stiffening further. As it is, his ego aches with the suspicion that he probably looks just as out of his depth as he feels. He tries to project confidence anyways– for Saparata’s sake as much as his own.

“This all sounds very good,” he says, because it sounds like the sort of thing one is supposed to say when perusing a menu that’s exclusively in Italian. Unfortunately, what little Italian he has picked up from Schpood consists mostly of greetings and expletives, neither of which helps him figure out what cardoncelli or pugliesi are supposed to be.

The next time he looks back up, he finds Saparata looking at him, expression drawn tight. 

“Listen, Turntapp–” the other leans forward, lowering his voice. The movement triggers two competing instincts in Turntapp: the urge to lean away, and the much stronger urge to lean closer. “–if this is about what I said yesterday. About the… um. About the kiss–”

Reality snaps back into focus sharply. Turntapp stiffens, and his eyes instinctively dart to the neighbouring tables. A man nearby is sampling a glass of wine. A waiter is clearing plates from another table. A woman seated by the bar meets Turntapp’s gaze and passes him a smile.

Turntapp turns back to Saparata and leans forward slightly, lowering his own voice.

“This is a public place,” he says, voice tight. “We shouldn’t–”

“Right.” Saparata says, quickly. “Yeah. Forget I asked.”

***

Saparata withdraws back into silence after that, but thankfully a waiter appears not long after. She launches into a practiced explanation of the restaurant’s concept– something something rivisitata– followed by a painfully detailed explanation of their menu; of what is regional, what is seasonal, and what wine pairs with what. While Turntapp tries to listen along, he nevertheless just ends up ordering the one thing he feels comfortable pronouncing. Saparata, who would normally jump at the opportunity to ask questions and charm the waitstaff, seems entirely spaced out. When the waiter turns to him, he points at things on the menu seemingly at random, and lapses back into silence as soon as she leaves. 

Turntapp likes to think of himself as a master of comfortable silences– he and Zynn have shared entire dinners without exchanging a word, and he never minded those– but that is clearly not what this is. The quiet that stretches between him and Saparata has long since stopped being a comfortable one. Turntapp can’t recall if he’s ever seen the other stay silent for this long, and he has decided that he hates it. So Turntapp racks his increasingly panicked brain for any in he can grasp onto.

“How was your flight?” is what he eventually lands on. 

Saparata glances up at him before returning to the meticulous task of straightening– and then immediately unstraightening– his cutlery.

“It was fine,” he says. “Early.”

“Right.” Turntapp nods. “Well. Good thing you’re used to it. Early mornings, I mean.”

Saparata nods, too.

The silence that follows makes it clear he doesn’t intend to continue. 

Turntapp clears his throat and reaches for his glass of water, mostly to stall for time.

“You’re a morning person,” he says. It was meant to be a question, but it comes out more like a statement. Makes sense, given that it’s a question Turntapp already knows the answer to.

“Yeah, I guess so,” Saparata replies. 

Turntapp nods, sagely. 

“I’ve been–” he starts, scrambling for a way to finish the thought. “–sleeping in. Lately.”

Saparata blinks at him. Then he snorts, clearly fighting a smile.

“Must be nice,” he says. 

Their waiter returns with their drinks, and Turntapp has never been more grateful for an interruption.

***

The conversation limps along like that for the next hour. Turntapp throws out every question he can think of, but Saparata’s answers are short and stripped of their usual enthusiasm. It’s like talking to a dimmer version of the pure-sunlight person he has come to know.

Turntapp can’t help but wonder what’s going on inside that head of his. If it’s nerves, or if he’s embarrassed by Turntapp’s nerves, or if he is worrying about appearances in the same way Turntapp is. Or maybe he has come to the same conclusion Turntapp reached yesterday– that this whole thing was a mistake, a bad idea, and that they should have found a way to cancel. Saparata has always been difficult to read, but one thing is obvious: he is tense, or maybe even upset. Turnapp distantly wishes they were somewhere else, somewhere private, so that they could talk about whatever this is without worrying about what the consequences of doing so would be. 

The food is good, at least. When the starter arrives, Turntapp hurries to stuff his mouth full in order to have an excuse to not even try talking. Saparata, by contrast, barely eats at all. He pokes and prods at his singular piece of ravioli until it bursts open and spills egg yolk across his plate. Then he reaches for his wine.  

Turntapp doesn’t drink– he’s driving them home, after all– but Saparata orders a glass of whatever paired with his starter, then another, and finally one more, to have along with his entrée. The alcohol seems to loosen something in his shoulders, if only a little. He sips from the glass during the stretches of quiet that are starting to draw out as Turntapp finds himself exhausting the usual questions and topics. 

It’s not a problem the two of them have ever run into before– it’s rarely ever quiet between them. But it is now, and it’s not helping Turntapp’s nerves. The silence amplifies everything going on around them and makes Turntapp agonizingly aware of how exposed they are. 

Still, when he lets his gaze sweep across the restaurant, he finds no obvious gossiping, no phones pointed in their direction. No one is even looking at him– including Saparata. The actor is pushing his food around his plate, staring down at it with a rather miserable expression on his face. 

The sight has Turntapp’s stomach coiling with guilt.

He stretches his leg beneath the table and gently nudges Saparata’s foot with his.

“Hey,” he ventures.

Saparata looks up. His expression is tight – guarded, almost – and his pale blue eyes look suspiciously glassy in the light of the table lamp. Turntapp has to swallow against the wave of nausea that rises in his throat.

“Sorry,” he says. “I know I’m… being weird. I think I’m still on edge after the paparazzi ordeal.” 

An understatement, and they both know it, but Turntapp doesn’t really want to pile the guilt of that on top of everything else. 

“I’m a little out of my element,” he admits. Biting down into his ego isn’t pleasant, but it’s a sacrifice he’s willing to make if it could make Saparata relax just a little. Indeed, the frown on the other’s face softens slightly as Turntapp awkwardly gestures for the room around them. “This is… not really my usual scene.”

Saparata’s brows draw together as if he considers staying upset, but the wrinkle between them eventually smooths out. “It really isn’t mine either,” he confesses. 

“No? Because I was hoping you could explain to me what that rivisitata thing meant.”

Saparata snorts. “All I know is that Schpood would not let you get away with that pronunciation,” he says. A smile is finally making its way back onto his face, and Turntapp can’t help but mirror it.

“Schpood gave up on my Italian a long time ago,” he admits. “But, uh– yeah. I just… I know this is probably pretty normal for you, but if I look a little awkward–”

“I get it,” Saparata says. “Honestly, I usually stay clear of these kinds of places when I can.”

“Really? You suggested it,” Turntapp says, and the reminder has Saparata looking a little sheepish.

“I know. It just… seemed proper, I guess. Like the kind of place you should go to,” he admits. “And I… well. To tell the truth, I don’t really know a lot of places. I don’t, um, get out much.”

That, Turntapp would argue, is a lie. He knows intimately just how packed Saparata’s schedule is. “You get out all the time,” he insists. 

“For work. Never for pleasure.” Saparata is flushing, fiddling anxiously with the stem of his wine glass. “So I usually don’t really have a say in where to go. I would like to, though. I like trying cafes and coffeeshops and things like that, so it would be nice to do the same with restaurants too. But…” He trails off. “I guess I never really find the time.”

Turntapp nods, slowly. 

“Fame doesn’t really leave a lot of room for a normal life.”

“No,” Saparata agrees softly. “It doesn’t.”

Turntapp studies him for a moment. It isn’t often he hears the other express something so explicitly negative about his life; up until now, he’s usually given off the impression of being completely unbothered by his level of fame. 

“What about before all of this? Did you do it back then?”

Saparata sighs. “Not really.”

“Why?”

“Well, you know how Jophie is. It might surprise you to learn that she’s chill now, compared to how she was back when I was younger.”

“Overprotective, you mean?” 

Saparata snorts, indicating that might be an understatement, but nods nonetheless.

Turntapp thinks of Jophie, and recalls the conversation he had with her outside the studio where she had cried just thinking about Saparata. She loves him dearly, that much is clear. Turntapp wants to ask if the two of them have made up since then, but figures they must have. They will probably have to, since they’re spending the holidays together. 

Still, Turntapp can’t help but sympathize with her. “It is kind of her job, to be,” he argues, echoing her own words.

“I know,” Saparata reassures, softly. “And don’t get me wrong, I love her so much, and I’m really grateful to have her in my life but…” 

His eyes trail off, sweeping over the restaurant. Not at the people, but up into the ceiling. 

“It was a little lonely, being so sheltered,” he says, eventually. “I didn’t really start making friends until I was an adult.”

“You had Flux and Thomas, though, right?” Privately. Turntapp feels a little proud of how he manages to keep the disgust from his voice as he says it.

“Yeah, of course. But it’s…” Saparata trails off again, and Turntapp watches the other’s brain work as he tries to put it into words. “My relationship with them is in a good place right now. But it hasn’t always been. I guess at times it has felt more like we are friends because we have to be, rather than because we want to be. It’s– I don’t know.”

“Complicated?”

“Uh-huh.” Saparata smiles as he takes another sip of his wine. “To say the least.”

The alcohol has given him a slight flush by now. Turntapp finds that he quite likes the look of it– likes how lively it makes the other look. 

Saparata notices him staring and meets his gaze. His expression softens. Then, beneath this table, he nudges Turntapp’s leg back. Only he doesn’t pull away, afterwards. He instead leaves it there, pressed flush against Turntapp’s. After a moment his shin brushes over Turntapp’s, the way one might stroke a thumb over the back of another’s hand. 

It’s– fine. Hidden by the long tablecloth, it’s invisible to anyone else in the room. Saparata does it so casually it’s almost disarming– as if the physical touch alone isn’t enough to send Turntapp’s heart rate climbing up into worrisome numbers. 

“You know, I envy you, sometimes,” Saparata murmurs, snapping Turntapp back to reality. It takes him a while to remember what they were discussing– it’s hard to focus on anything with the way his attention keeps drifting back to the point where their legs are touching. 

“Uh,” Turntapp says, intelligently. Envy. Right. “How so?” 

“The relationship you have with your friends. Zynn and the Westhelm guys, I mean.” Saparata sighs wistfully. “The way you all are together. It looks so… uncomplicated. Easy. You’re all so different, but you’re still close.”

The comment catches Turntapp off guard. He hasn’t really reflected much on the matter himself. Truthfully, he can barely recall how the five of them ended up becoming what could be considered his group of friends. Zynn appeared in his life as suddenly as Owo and Spyder appeared in Schpood’s, and from there the group just fell into place by happenstance more than anything.

“I haven’t really thought about it like that,” Turntapp admits. “Maybe.”

“Maybe?” 

Turntapp shrugs. “For most of my life it’s only ever been me and Schpood. I wasn’t sheltered or anything, just… a loner.” Another slight understatement, considering just how much of his younger years Turntapp put into avoiding having to socialize with anyone who wasn’t Schpood. “It really wasn’t until this show that I… I don’t know.”

“Started making friends?” Saparata suggests, smiling as his ankle ghosts over Turntapp’s.  

“Just… being social, in general.”

“Well. I’m glad they could draw you out of your shell a little.”

“You do, too,” he grumbles, inexplicably shyly. Saparata looks very pleased by the confession.

“I do?”

Turntapp rolls his eyes. Obviously, he wants to say. “I meant what I said earlier,” he grunts instead. “I don’t exactly dine out all that much. I don’t think I’ve ever been somewhere like this.”

“Not even on date nights?”

“I don’t do a lot of those either,” Turntapp says, as if Saparata doesn’t already know just how many of his evenings are spent in the gym. “Believe it or not.”

“Maybe not now, but before?” 

Turntapp shrugs, noncommittal. “Not really. I’ve never really dated much.”

“Oh?” Saparata blinks, looking genuinely taken aback by the information. Which, Turntapp has to admit, is very sweet of him. 

“What?” Turntapp teases. “Did my Wikipedia page not tell you?”

“Oh my god, it was one time,” Saparata flushes, much to Turntapp’s delight. “And no, it actually didn’t. It actually didn’t say anything about past relationships.”

Turntapp is kind enough to suppress his smile. “Makes sense,” he says. “There’s not much to say. I’ve never really been in one.”

“Wha– never?”

Turntapp lifts a shoulder, actively fighting the voice in his head that insists he should be embarrassed about admitting that. He’s never felt that way before, so he isn’t sure why the ugly emotion is trying to rear its head now. 

“No. Not one that’s Wikipedia-worthy, at least,” he admits. “Just… hasn’t happened.”

“Would you want to?”

“With the right person,” Turntapp says, “sure.”

Saparata nods slowly, fingers tracing the rim of his glass.

“I guess I can relate to that,” he says, after a moment. “I’ve never, either.”

“Really?” Turntapp says, surprised. “I would have guessed– with all the, uh… dating rumors, and everything– that at least one of them had to be true.”

Saparata smiles wistfully. “Some probably are,” he admits. “I did try to date, for a while. But the rumors are part of the problem. Me being… well, me… makes casual dating pretty much impossible. And that’s not to mention how hard it is to find time for it.”

“I can imagine,” Turntapp says. He watches Saparata’s blue eyes track the contents of his glass as he absentmindedly swirls it in his hands.

“I’ve always longed for it, though. Meeting someone who’s… well, like me, I guess.” Saparata’s voice is a murmur though. He can’t seem to meet Turntapp’s eyes as he says it. “Someone who understands what it’s like with the scrutiny and the attention, and can work around my schedule. Someone from my world, I guess.”

Turntapp’s smile drops. 

“Someone who won’t be scared away by who I am, or what my life is like.” A small smile tugs at Saparata’s mouth. “Or, Jophiel, for that matter.”

Across the table, Turntapp’s heart sinks all the way to his feet. He reaches again for his glass of water, drinking mostly to hide behind it– to give himself a moment to get his expression back under control. It’s ridiculous, he knows it is, but his frail fucking ego still hurts with the reminder that he isn’t enough. Not successful enough, not famous enough, to understand the kind of life Saparata is talking about. Despite their friendship, the past week has made it painfully clear that they live in two completely different worlds. The gap in age and experience is nothing compared to that particular divide. 

Turntapp swallows and lowers his glass. When he speaks, he makes an effort to keep his voice sound even and carefully neutral, to not betray any of his heartbreak

“You will meet someone like that,” he says, quietly. “Someday.”

Saparata doesn’t answer immediately.

Turntapp can feel his eyes on him from across the table, but he can’t bring himself to look up. His gaze stays stubbornly fixed on the tablecloth, on the bead of condensation slowly sliding down the side of his glass.

Silence settles over the table again.

After a moment, Saparata reaches for his wine and finishes the rest of the glass. He sets it down a little harder than necessary.

***

By the end of the night, Turntapp is still feeling the remnants of disappointment and hollowness playing in the confines of his chest. 

He knew, rationally, that this was how the evening was going to play out. The entire night has been one long exercise in confirming what he already suspected: that whatever it is that has been forming between them these past weeks could never last. No matter how much Turntapp– and perhaps even Saparata– might wish otherwise, they seem to be doomed to remain two bodies drifting briefly into each other’s gravity before continuing on their separate paths. 

Across the table, Saparata must be grappling with the same realization. It would explain the hard-set look on his face, and the untouched plate of dessert sitting in front of him. 

Turntapp can’t help but pity him. His own night has been terrible enough, even with the small comfort of a nice meal to soften the blow. Saparata, he supposes, has at least had the comfort of alcohol. The empty stomach might explain why the wine has hit him so quickly– though that can probably also be attributed to the three glasses he’s worked through over the course of the evening. His pale face has gone from lightly flushed to a blotchy shade of red. When he stands to excuse himself to the bathroom, he wobbles slightly on his feet as he pushes away from the table. 

Turntapp watches him go, then exhales slowly. 

Yeah. Time to wrap this up.

He takes the opportunity to pay for their meal– the bill serving as yet another reminder of why he doesn’t usually dine out– and the moment he stands from his seat, a wave of relief washes over him. Relief, and exhaustion. He’s disappointed too, sure– but mostly just with himself. Why Turntapp couldn’t have worked up the nerve to cancel and spare them both this public humiliation ritual, he can’t say.

Either way, he grabs his and Saparata’s coats, and navigates through the overly-polite waiting staff that lines every corner of the restaurant in his attempts to track down Saparata. He eventually finds the other just outside the bathrooms, where he has paused in front of a large oil painting, his entire face drawn together in what’s either intense contemplation or just slight drunkenness.

“Hey,” Turntapp says. Saparata jumps, startled. “Let’s get out of here.”

“Oh.” Saparata blinks at the jacket and scarf Turntapp is holding out for him– requiring a few moments to process that those are his own. “Did you– have you paid?”

Turntapp snorts. “Yeah. Figured it best not to commit a felony.”

“Well, yeah–” Saparata pauses to fumble with his jacket, somehow having managed to trap his arm in a strange angle is his attempt to get it on. Turntapp steps forward and helps guide his arms into the sleeves and Saparata really has no choice but to let him, despite the embarrassed look on his face. 

“–but I was supposed to pay. This was my idea,” he eventually finishes, mumbling. He sets his eyes on Turntapp’s, but what he probably intends to be a glare looks more like a pout. 

Gods above, Turntapp thinks, tiredly. I’m on my last rope with this guy.

He takes the scarf back from the other’s hands and wraps it around Saparata’s neck in a clumsy imitation of whatever intricacy it is he usually manages. It ends up looking more like a hasty mummification, and Turntapp can’t help but snort at the result. Half of Saparata’s face is covered in wooly white, yet he offers no protest– he just keeps on looking back at Turntapp from behind those damn frames. 

“Well,” Turntapp says, throat suspiciously dry. “That’s too bad.”

He gestures to the door, and waits for Saparata to go on ahead.

As soon as they make to leave, however, Turntapp suddenly becomes aware of a group of flashily-clad people that stand just a few steps away, clearly hovering in that awkward middle ground between leaving and approaching. Turntapp remembers himself, and feels ice cold mortification upon realizing he just helped his visibly tipsy colleague into his coat, and that the two of them are now standing shoulder-to-arm in the way that has long since become second nature to them. He instinctively takes a step to the side and puts some distance between them just in time for the trio of friends to have gathered enough courage to step up.

Instead of immediately looking to Saparata– which is how these interactions usually go– the three strangers look between them. 

“Oh my god, we thought it was you, but we weren’t sure!” one of them gasps. “We didn’t want to bother you while you were eating, but we just had to come say hi.”

Turntapp isn’t entirely sure what the proper response to that is. Thanks, maybe, but he doesn’t feel particularly grateful. Mostly he’s reminded of just how badly he wants to get out of here. Next to him, Saparata has returned to spacing out, eyes unfocused and far away. Not fantastic, considering how Turntapp has zero experience carrying these interactions by himself.

“Uh. Yeah,” he replies, upon realizing he will have to. “Evenin’.”

“How was your dinner?” one of them asks– a guy, standing slightly behind the other two. Turntapp fights the urge to frown. He doesn’t know these people, and he is very much not in the mood for small talk with strangers.

“Good,” he lies. “Food’s good.”

The three friends nod enthusiastically. The woman in the middle glances between the others, and Turntapp braces himself for what he already knows is coming. 

“I’m sorry, but I have to ask,” she says. “You are, like… on a date, right? You’re dating?”

This part, at least, Turntapp is used to. He doesn’t even dare to glance at Saparata– doesn’t have to, either, as the response comes automatically by now.

“No,” he says, curtly. “We’re not. Just friends eating dinner together.”

The trio exchange glances again, smiling knowingly.

They say something more after that– something about how much they love the show, and how excited they are for season two– but Turntapp only half-listens. His attention is fixed firmly on the exit. 

The moment there’s a break in the conversation, he bids them goodnight, and nudges Saparata along.

Finally, they manage to leave the restaurant behind and step into the quiet elevator lobby. The space is large and elegant, all polished marble floors and tall windows looking out over the city lights below. Like a compass, the view draws Saparata’s eyes immediately. 

The distant hum of conversation from the restaurant fades the moment the doors draw shut behind them. Neither of them says anything; whatever nervous energy that has been holding them upright all evening seems to drain out of them at once, leaving behind a bone-deep kind of exhaustion.

Turntapp rubs a hand over the back of his neck.

“I’m sorry,” he sighs. While the tension linger, the privacy of this empty lobby at least makes his words come a little easier. “I shouldn’t have agreed to this. This is just going to cause you rumors.”

Saparata doesn’t answer. He just presses the elevator button and watches the numbers on the display begin their slow crawl upward. His scarf remains pulled up over his face, the way he usually keeps it in public, but that has never stopped him from talking before. 

“Are you okay?” Turntapp presses, when Saparata’s silence draws a little too long 

“There’s gonna be rumors no matter what,” the other says, voice muffled behind his scarf. “I’m not going to let myself be dictated by what people are saying.”

Turntapp should have expected as much. It’s clear that Saparata isn’t keen on sharing any of Turntapp’s apprehension in this. 

“We could have had dinner at my place,” Turntapp offers anyway. A simple solution– one he probably should have suggested much earlier. 

“I didn’t want to have dinner at your place,” Saparata snaps. “I wanted to have dinner here.”

Turntapp exhales slowly through his nose.

“I’m just trying to look out for you.”

“And I’ve told you, I don’t care,” Saparata says, sharper now. “I’m not nearly as bothered by it as you seem to be.”

That stings. Turntapp has to bite down on his anger in order to keep himself from saying something hurt– something akin to yes, because at least one of us has to think about the consequences. 

“Yeah,” he grinds out, instead. “I’ve noticed.”

The elevator arrives, and whatever else Turntapp was going to say dies on his tongue as another couple steps out from it. They chat eagerly amongst themselves as they enter the restaurant. Saparata and Turntapp take their place in the elevator, and both look into different walls on their way down.  

***

Outside, the sky has turned dark and the streets have gone quiet. The dinner crowd that trips out of restaurants are all quick to scatter into taxis and ride-shares, leaving the sidewalks half-empty. Although the wind blows cold, the air is warmer than it has been in a while. Whatever snow that previously carpeted the sidewalks has been trampled into grey slush and the curbside gutters all gurgle with meltwater.

Since Turntapp couldn’t find parking outside the restaurant, the two of them are forced to traverse the slushy pavement a couple of blocks. They walk in silence– Saparata’s hands shoved into the pockets of his puffer jacket and his face still mostly covered by his scarf. Still, his hunched shoulders and downcast eyes are enough clues on how he’s holding up. 

It tugs at Turntapp’s heartstrings, even though he’s trying his best to stay pissed off at the other. To little avail. His mind keeps circling back to the conversation they had on Saparata’s birthday, when Saparata had warned him that he was something of a melancholic drunk. While Turntapp suspects that the alcohol isn’t the only factor in play, it probably isn’t helping the other’s mood. 

The thought of dropping Saparata off at home– sad, drunk and alone– isn’t one he can stomach, no matter how annoyed he might be with him. 

They’ve wandered a few blocks now, away from the brighter main street and onto a quieter stretch lined with closed storefronts and dark office windows. Only the occasional car passes by. 

It’s secluded enough– dark enough, too– that they could probably have some privacy. The cold air, Turntapp thinks, might sober Saparata up a little.

Turntapp sighs and reaches into his pocket. Might as well kill two birds with one stone. 

“Would you mind a walk?” he asks, pulling out his cigarette packet. “I need a smoke.”

Saparata perks up immediately.

“I don’t mind,” he murmurs. “I mean, I could go for a walk.”

Turntapp nods and steers them off on a detour, leaving the main street in favor of a narrower pedestrian street– one of the little cut-through lanes that winds between taller buildings. Once they’re a little farther in, he taps a cigarette from the packet and lights it. 

Smoke curls upward into the cold air as he takes the first drag, and Turntapp flicks the ash into a melting pile of snow that has been shoveled off the sidewalks. 

Beside him, Saparata is watching.

The earlier sadness has faded from his face, replaced now by quiet curiosity. His eyes follow the movement of Turntapp’s hand closely as he returns the cigarette to his lips. 

Turntapp notices, of course– but decides it’s easiest to just wait Saparata out. He lets Saparata watch and, like clockwork, the other’s curiosity soon wins out. 

“Have you always smoked?” he asks, eyes trailing the cigarette as Turntapp draws in another lungful. 

Turntapp hums. He can’t even remember the first time he tried one, though he knows he must have been young. Most of the guys on base smoked, so it had always been normalized. He has a vague memory of his dad showing him how, but it might just as well have been one of the other officers. Their faces all kind of looked the same to him even back then.

“Never regularly,” he admits. “At least not until after the accident.”

The truth is, even then, Turntapp never smoked as much as many others did. The rate at which he’s been burning through his packet these past few months might actually rival the numbers he was putting in right after he was first released from the hospital. “I know it’s a bad habit, so I’m trying to cut back on it.”

“But it helps with the pain?”

“Yeah,” Turtapp admits. “Somewhat, at least.”

They pass underneath a streetlight. It makes Saparata’s hair glow gold, for a moment, before it gradually fades back into his usual white. 

“Does it hurt now?” he asks, gently. 

Turntapp rolls his shoulders, testing them. It isn’t aching in the way it sometimes does, but there is a certain stiffness in his body that he’s come to associate with early mornings and cold weather. “A little,” he admits. “It always gets worse when I’m cold, and in the mornings, for some reason.”

“And when you’re stressed.”

“Yeah.” Turntapp can’t help but smile, knowing it isn’t something Saparata has been told, but something he’s figured out on his own. “Sometimes it just becomes a habit, though. I don’t want to get too reliant on it. Once this packet runs out, I don’t think I'll get another.”

Saparata hums. The alcohol has clearly lowered his inhibitions– and his subtlety– because he’s following the ribbon of smoke coming from Turntapp’s cigarette with open fascination. He worries his lower lip between his teeth as he does so.

“Could I… Could I try one?” he asks. 

Turntapp snorts. He had a feeling the question was coming, sooner or later. “No,” he answers, still.

“What? Come on!” Saparata draws his scarf down beneath his face, as if to ease his access to arguing. “I’m serious, Tapp.”

“So am I. No.”

“Why not?”

“Because I’m saying no.”

Saparata steps over a puddle and his hand briefly comes to rest on Turntapp’s arm for balance. Turntapp mourns the touch as soon as it’s gone. 

“Yeah, but why?” Saparata continues to press, as he’s finished stumbling over the patches of water. “I’m an adult.”

“I’m aware. You are free to go get your own packet, if you want one.”

Turntapp takes another drag, pointedly ignoring the way Saparata’s eyes are boring into him. 

“So if I get my own packet, you’ll teach me how to smoke one,” he asks. 

“Well, no.”

“Why not?”

“Because you don’t smoke,” Turntapp says, “And I’m not starting you.” 

“What if I want to?”

“Then you can ask someone else to teach you.”

“I don’t want someone else to teach me.” 

“That’s too bad, then.”

He says it curtly, hoping to indicate that he isn’t open to any further arguing. He can tell Saparata is becoming more and more exasperated and truthfully he is, too. 

“But why not?” Saparata is clearly unsatisfied with Turntapp’s answers– or fishing for something specific– because he keeps pushing. 

Fine, Turntapp thinks. I’ll give you the truth. “Because I’m not looking to be a vessel for your rebellion,” he says, evenly.

“What?” Saparata frowns. “What does that mean?”

“I’m not doing something just because you want to prove a point to someone,” Turntapp challenges him now, boring his eyes into Saparata. 

“That’s not what this is.”

“Then why are you being so insistent?”

Saparata turns to face him fully now, coming to a stop just a step or so ahead of Turntapp on the sidewalk.

“Because I’m asking for a cigarette,” he says. “And you wouldn’t hesitate to give me one if you saw me as an equal.”

That pulls Turntapp to a stop too.

“What?”

“You heard me.” 

“Yes, but I have no idea where you got that from. Of course I see you as–.”

“No. You don’t,” Saparata’s voice is suddenly sharp, his eyes clear. It’s almost as if he has sobered up mid-argument. Guess Turntapp succeeded in one thing, at least. “Don’t tell me this hasn’t got anything to do with my age–”

“Of course your age is part of it,” Turntapp argues. He can feel himself growing less patient by each exchanged word. “You’re young, and– doing good. Don’t waste that.”

“See, this is exactly what I mean. You treat me as if I’m in need of protection–”

“Because I don’t want you to get cancer?”

“It’s about agency. You don’t trust me to choose for myself.” Saparata still doesn’t back down– still presses further. Turntapp just shakes his head. There might have been instances where he hasn’t treated Saparata as an equal, sure, but that’s because they aren’t. If Saparata wasn’t so naive, he would understand as much himself. 

“I told you,” Turntapp says. “You can make whatever choice you want that doesn’t involve me.”

“Yeah, but why? Where’s the cut-off?” He barrels on before Turntapp can even ask the other what that means. “You and Spyder seem close. Would you give him one, if he asked?”

“Spyder?” he gawks. “What’s Spyder got to do with anything?”

“He’s practically my age. If he asked you for a cigarette, you’d give him one, I’m sure. You wouldn’t moralize to him as you do to me.” When Turntapp’s only response is gaping back at him, Saparata’s blue eyes just darken further. “You don’t get to decide what I can handle.”

“Well, I do get to decide what I want on my conscience.”

“On your con– You’re not breaking the law, Turntapp! Why have you gotten this into your head that this is some kind of big moral failing–

“Because it is!” Turntapp snaps. “It would be. You are my ten year younger colleague, Saparata.” 

They both pause to breathe. Turntapp rubs his forehead. He can’t tell when this conversation stopped being about cigarettes– if it ever was.

“I know this seems like a fun idea to you now, but that’s just because you aren’t thinking of the consequences,” he says. Not gently, but hopefully somewhat sympathetic. “You’ll be upset with me now, but in ten years you will thank me for it.”

Saparata looks around. Remembering where they are, Turntapp does the same. Christ, they’re being careless. A look around reveals the streets to be just as quiet as before, but Turntapp doesn’t even want to think about what the consequences would be if they were to be caught on camera in the midst of this argument. 

Saparata, of course, doesn’t pay it any mind. He simply draws closer, and looks up at him with those glassy blues.

“Just this once,” he pleads. He has to know what it is he’s doing, what effect that has on Turntapp. “Just… one time,” Saparata murmurs, “and I’ll never do it again.”

When Turntapp doesn’t answer, Saparata pulls out the big guns. 

“Please,” he begs. 

And, well. 

Turntapp has never been able to deny him anything. 

It’s a terrible idea, he’s very well aware, but that hasn’t stopped him so far. Why start now? 

“Fine,” he says, at last. Fuck it. “Just so you’ll understand that you’re not missing out on anything.”

Saparata smiles, pleased. 

“Not here, though.” 

In a rare show of sensibility, Saparata nods in agreement. 

They both survey the area– it’s blessedly dark, but exposed, even though they’ve found themselves in a rather quiet area of the city center. So after another sweep, just to make sure no one is watching them, Turntapp lets Saparata steer them into a narrow service alley, tucked behind the shops that line the street. While the brick walls on either side don't manage to block out the wind, they do get them out of the streetlight. It’s almost completely dark save for the reflected shine of the moon, and the flickering from an old light on the other side of the alley. 

Saparata ducks behind a dumpster and makes himself comfortable against a wall. 

“Cozy,” he comments, leaning his head back against the brick. His smile is sharp as he meets Turntapp’s eyes. “Is this secret enough for you?”

Turntapp just shakes his head, wondering why he had to go fall in love with someone who is quickly revealing himself to be the most infuriating person he’s ever met. After tonight, Saparata’s friendship with Fluixon suddenly makes so much more sense. “What happened to Sappyrata?” Turntapp mumbles, dryly, mostly to himself. 

Saparata must catch it, because he grins. “You get Sassyrata instead.” 

“Lucky me,” Turntapp bites out. He steps in closer, still, and pulls Saparata’s scarf up over his head like a makeshift hood. A few stray pieces of hair poke out from underneath, so Turntapp gently and painstakingly tucks each of them back under. It doesn’t hide Saparata’s face, but it at least obscures some of his more recognizable features. 

“That’s secret enough,” he murmurs, relishing in the fact that it seems to have finally shut the other up. 

Reaching into the packet, Turntapp blindly pulls out a cig from his packet and hands it to the other. 

“Hold it like this,” he says, shifting the cigarette between Saparata’s fingers, adjusting them slightly. “Relax your hand.”

Saparata is a quick study. He watches Turntapp with such concentration one could think this to be the most important lesson he’s ever received, and smiles in pride when Turntapp gives him a nod of approval. He produces his lighter and gives it a few clicks. The wind kills the flame immediately. 

So, no choice. Turntapp moves braces one arm against the wall beside them, shielding the lighter from the wind. He leans in closer– close enough that Turntapp can see the flush lingering across Saparata’s cheeks. 

“Alright,” he says into the winter night. “After I light it, pull in a little. Not with your lungs, just enough to get it going.”

Turntapp flicks the lighter again, successfully this time, and holds the flame to the end of Saparata’s cigarette. The other obediently breathes in around it and the tip flares orange– the light of it casts flickers of warm light over both of them.

Turntapp takes a moment to watch the other's breathing and he is just about to let the other know he’s as much of a natural with this as he is with everything else he attempts, when Saparata folds in on himself and begins coughing. 

“Okay,” Turntapp says, reaching out to take the cigarette from the other before he drops it. “Not bad.”

“God–” Saparata coughs again, shoulders shaking and eyes watering. “That’s– awful.”

Turntapp smiles. “Now you know,” he says. He makes to draw back when Saparata reaches out and grabs the cigarette back. 

“No, let me try again. I want to do it properly.”

Turntapp sighs, but relents. He moves back in– watches as Saparata takes the cigarette back between his lips. Saparata’s clearly a better kisser than he is a smoker, Turntapp thinks, and he would have told the other as much if they hadn’t crossed enough lines tonight. How Turntapp let it go this far, he can’t even remember. He might not be able to blame the alcohol, but perhaps he can blame the second-hand nicotine of Saparata’s smoking. 

“Try not to breathe it in right away,” he informs the other. “Just do a small pull, and keep it in your mouth first.”

Saparata nods, tries again. The ember glows. He manages to hold the smoke in his mouth this time, cheeks hollowing slightly before he lets it spill out into the cold air.

His expression lands somewhere between fascination and a disgusted grimace.

“That’s still horrible,” he croaks out. 

“I’m glad to hear,” Turntapp smiles. 

Saparata looks up at him. The panes of his glasses are fogged over– whether as a result of the smoking or the condensation of their breaths, he can’t tell. What he can tell, however, is the second the nicotine hits Saparata’s brain. His icy blue eyes haze over, and his mouth falls open in a silent ‘o’. He blinks, dazed.

“Oh,” he murmurs. “Uh, yeah. I think I’m done now.”

Turntapp would laugh, but in the next second Saparata is reaching out and putting the cigarette to Turntapp’s lips instead. Saparata’s eyes never leave his– watching him with unnerving intensity– and he nods, encouraging him to go on. Turntapp is powerless to do anything but obey. He draws in, fills his lungs, and lets the smoke it linger there. 

It doesn’t do anything in calming neither his racing mind nor heart. Especially as Saparata keeps the tips of his fingers to Turntapp’s mouth, holding the cigarette in place. Only when Turntapp breathes out, the smoke fogging the air between them, does Saparata let his hand fall back to his side. Turntapp reaches out for it, brushes his fingers over the other’s as he grabs the cigarette back. 

He draws on it again. He isn’t sure what he’s hoping will happen– if he wants the nicotine to give him clarity enough to pull back, or for it to cloud any signals from his prefrontal cortex long enough for him to lean in closer.

Saparata is still just… watching. Turntapp imagines the nicotine must have him a little cottonbrained, but even so his eyes remain sharp. Studying him, Turntapp realizes, as if waiting for his move. Putting it on him, as with everything else. 

Turntapp doesn't back down. He keeps their eyes locked, challenging. You do it, then, he thinks. And for a moment, he almost believes the other will.

Then something wet lands on Turntapp’s cheek. The spell is slower to break, this time, but eventually he lifts his eyes from Saparata’s and into the sky. 

Not that there’s much to see. It’s dark, and cloudy, and the rain has started to fall so heavy that there’s no debating what could be going on. “It’s raining,” he points out, still.

What are the odds, Turntapp thinks, It’s been snowing since October, and they get rain now– a few days before Christmas?

He turns to Saparata. The other is still watching him, even as he reaches to pull his scarf from his head. The water immediately races down to the strands of his hair and drips down into his forehead. It leaves wet tracks as it races down the bridge of his nose and over the tip of his nose only to catch between his lips. 

Saparata must be tracking a droplet of his own; his eyes fall to Turntapp’s lips, too. The pupils of his light blue eyes are needle-small.

Saparata shivers. He draws in on himself, as the rain increases. It’s freezing– Turntapp’s own body aches dully in reminder of it.

Turntapp stubs out the dying embers of the cigarette against the wet brick, and throws it onto the dumpster.

“Alright,” he mumbles. “Let’s get you home.”

If the walk back to the car didn’t succeed in sobering Saparata up, the tense car ride that follows probably does. The awkward silence of the dinner pales in comparison to the thick tension that stretches between them during the drive home, and not a word is exchanged during the entirety of the ride. The only sound that cuts through the quiet is of the rain against the windows and the metronome of the windshield wipers. 

By the time Turntapp pulls into Saparata’s garage and shifts the car into park, he feels like a rubberband ready to snap. With the absence of rain and with the engine cut, there truly isn’t a single sound that separates them. Even so, Saparata feels more distant than ever. His eyes have been fixed on the passenger window the entire ride, and he makes no move to look away even as they’re clearly reached the end of the line.

Turntapp exhales. He gets out, circles around the car, and opens the passenger door. He half expects Saparata to force him to undo the seatbelt for him, too, but that, at least, he seems to manage on his own. He slides out, and shuts the door behind him with a dull thud. 

The frown is still present on his face. Turntapp has spent the entire drive trying to think of what to say– of how to properly apologize for this whole mess– but now that they’re here, the words refuse to come. 

“Saparata,” he starts. He doesn’t get any further than that. Saparata grabs the lapel of his coat and pulls him down into a kiss. 

For a moment Turntapp just… freezes.

The garage is quiet around them and the fluorescent lights overhead cast Saparata’s face– suddenly so very close– in a pale glow. The other’s jacket is still damp from the rain earlier, and the chill of it seeps through Turntapp’s sleeve where their arms brush together.

It takes his brain a second to catch up on what is happening, and another for it to tell him he should be kissing Saparata back.

It’s not a gentle kiss. It’s messy, clumsy with urgency and their mouths meet a little off at first as Saparata tugs him closer by the front of his coat.

Turntapp distantly wonders if this qualifies as a kiss in the rain. It certainly feels like one, with how Saparata’s lips and face and hair are all still rain-wet. The chill of their wet clothes, along with the cold air of the garage, makes the warmth of his mouth feel even more welcoming.

He tastes like white wine and cigarette smoke, with a bitter aftertaste of tar. Turntapp feels like he’s drunk off it, experiencing something like a secondhand nicotine rush. His head is spinning and his hands are trembling and it clouds his judgement enough to go back for another kiss, and then one more. 

Saparata stumbles back until his back collides with Turntapp’s truck. The impact knocks a breath out of him– a small, punched out noise that Turntapp swallows greedily as he’s pulled along. He crowds Saparata against the car door and kisses him back in the way he’s been dreaming of doing for way too long, letting his brain finally go silent. For now, the world has narrowed to just the two of them; any roles or costumes or excuses laid aside. All the restraint Turntapp showed during their kiss in the tower is laid aside with it. 

Saparata doesn’t seem to mind. His hand fist in Turntapp’s coat, pulling him impossibly closer and knocking the glasses crooked on his face. When Turntapp reaches up to adjust them, Saparata intercepts his hand and moves it to the back of his head. Turntapp does what’s being asked of him, tangles his fingers through the wet locks he finds there and–

A car door slams shut somewhere across the garage. 

They come apart immediately. 

Turntapp draws back, at least, enough to lift his head and look around. He can hear footsteps somewhere in the distance, the sound echoing through the parked cars and the concrete walls.

Can they see them? That crawling feeling of eyes on him has never truly left him, making it hard to determine. 

He dares to look back at Saparata, and regrets it immediately. The actor is blinking up at him, dazed, and he looks wrecked– rain-damp hair sticking out in every direction, blue eyes blown wide behind askew glasses, cheeks flushed a bright red.

Sobriety crashes back into Turntapp all at once, along with a cold rush of clarity. What the fuck are they doing? They both know this is the one thing they cannot do. Saparata would know it too, probably, without the alcohol in his blood. Without the nicotine– the nicotine Turntapp put there. You have a responsibility to keep the boundaries clean, Ish had told him. What a great fucking job he’s done of that. 

Saparata tries to pull him down into another kiss. Turntapp gathers whatever tattered resolve this evening has left him with and pulls back.

“No. No–”

“Saps–” 

“No,” Saparata breathes, tugging weakly at the collar of Turntapp’s jacket. “Just– kiss me back. Please.”

“Saps,” he murmurs, heart in his throat and his voice rough. He presses his scar to his face– feeling conscious of how his body is hurting and his hands are shaking. “You’re– you’re drunk.”

“You know I’m not,” Saparata says immediately. “I know what I’m doing.” 

“No, you– you don’t. You shouldn’t have– we shouldn’t have done this.”

“Why not?”

“You know why.”

Saparata’s chest is rising and falling in a rapid rhythm identical to Turntapp’s– both still chasing the breaths that the kiss stole from them.

“Why does it have to matter?” Saparata begs. “Isn’t it enough that we both want this?”

Turntapp throat tightens. He looks around the garage desperately, almost wishing someone could appear and interrupt this, the way the universe always has done before. 

“You do,” Saparata insists, voice breaking. “Tell me you want this.”

Saparata must know, by now, that it’s not a matter of wanting. Turntapp wants– and the wanting itself might not be an issue, but the rest of it is. The taking, the having. It’s not a matter of what he wants, it’s a matter of what he can’t want, of what he can’t have. 

He tries to swallow around the lump in his throat, but he succeeds in little but making his whole mouth taste of frustration. Getting angry won’t help, but he can’t grasp how Saparata has yet to grasp that he wants so much that he doesn’t even dare putting it into words. Not plainly, at least. 

“I want what’s best for you–”

“I’m asking you, Turntapp,” Saparata cuts him off. “Not the General.”

Turntapp doesn’t even grasp the question– his mind can barely distinguish the two as separate entities anymore. 

“What’s the difference?” he asks.

Saparata looks at him, through him– in that manner of his that is not unlike what Jophiel always does. He must not find what he is looking for, because Turntapp can see the moment he decides to close back off, or at least attempt to. Saparata is trying to put the veil back over his face, but it’s like there are too many emotions in the way. His eyes are wet again, welling with tears the same color of his irises.

“No, hey–” Turntapp reaches out on instinct, but Saparata bats his hands away. 

“Don’t, he snaps. “Don’t do that."

Turntapp draws his hand back. He doesn’t know where to put it, what to do with himself or either of his hands, really, so he reaches up to press against his aching temples. He knew this would happen. He has to have known this was where they were heading, so why did he not plan for it? 

“Okay,” he starts, racking his brain for solution, fix– “Okay, let’s just– let’s get back in the car and we can talk about–

“I don’t want to talk!” Saparata’s voice echoes through the garage. “I want you to make up your goddamn mind! You take me out on a date, then act like you don’t want to be seen with me–”

Turntapp bristles. “That is not–” 

“You kiss me and then you reject me–”

“Saparata,” Turntapp cuts in, sharply. “You have to lower your voice.”

“Don’t tell me what to do! I’m so– so tired of people trying to tell me what I can or cannot do. Why can’t I ever just get what I want?”

Tears spill over his cheeks despite Saparata’s futile attempts to squint them away. Turntapp’s hands are by his shoulders, as if he was being kept at gunpoint. His might as well be– his heart can clearly not tell the difference. 

“Saparata, I’m not rejecting you–”

“Then what the fuck is it you are doing?” he demands. “What are we doing?” 

I don't know, Turntapp thinks, helplessly. I have no fucking clue. 

“We need to go about this responsibly,” he says, still, because that’s what his head is telling him.

Saparata laughs. It’s a small, ugly sound– one Turntapp would have preferred going his whole life without hearing. “Oh, so that’s what tonight was?” Saparata asks bitterly. “You being responsible?” 

“Don’t put this all on me.”

“I do what I want,” Saparata shoots back. 

The garage walls echo no sound but their own labored breathing. Whoever was in here before must have left, hopefully before their screaming match, but it truly doesn’t really matter. It’s all ruined, either way. 

To think that they were kissing just moments ago. Turntapp wants to take every word he’s said back into his mouth and put it back where it belongs, kiss Saparata without any worry of what doing so could entail. Even when Saparata’s ice-blue eyes are rimmed with red, Turntapp finds it impossible to look away from his lips. To think that just moments ago, he had everything he couldn’t even dare to want. 

Saparata trails Turntapp’s eyes to his mouth, reads the feelings off of his face with ease. He scoffs with disgust. “You’re such a fucking hypocrite,” Saparata mumbles, and then he’s pushing past Turntapp and disappearing out into the sea of cars.

Turntapp hears the echo of his footsteps, and soon the thud of a door closing. 

He remains by his car, clothes and hair and eyes wet. 

You knew that this is how it was going to go, he reminds himself. You knew this is how it would turn out. 

Predictably, it doesn’t make him feel any better.

Still, he wallows in the feeling for a few minutes. Then gets back into his car and drives home on autopilot. 

***

Turntapp parks a few streets away from his apartment. He can’t risk being caught on camera looking like this; one look at his frazzled self would surely give away the entire story of tonight. He spends a few moments trying to flatten his hair and breathe some calm into his body, but doesn’t particularly succeed in doing either. 

When he first steps back out into the cold night, the first thing he does is reach for a cigarette. 

The packet is empty.