Chapter Text
“What’re you doing up here?” Coy was trying to sound confident, normal, Anthony thought, but he wasn't quite succeeding. His voice broke a little.
“...I, uh. Needed some air.”
“So you went to the roof? Hanbon had me looking all over for you.” Coy walked further onto the roof, closing the gap. He sat next to Anthony, not looking at him, holding himself up with his arms. Anthony was still lying on his back.
“I didn't… I’m sorry. I just– I felt… sick.”
Coy scoffed. “Yeah, binge drinking two days in a row will do that to you, Anthony.”
“Wha– huh? I didn't– what?”
“...Are you not drunk? You– when are you not drunk?”
“Now,” said Anthony, slightly exasperated. He had hoped that maybe Coy had paid attention, noticed that Anthony wasn't chugging alcohol like his life depended on it. It seemed like Coy never noticed when Anthony did try. Perhaps when the occurrences are few and far between, you simply stop looking for them. “I’ve barely drank. I– I didn't… I was hoping that–...”
“What, Anthony? What were you hoping?”
“I don’t–” Anthony was frustrated, now, “I don’t know, I–” he sat up, “I just– I wanted… it to… go– no, to be different.” He was staring into Coy’s eyes now, and Coy looked– like, maybe he didn't buy it. And Anthony didn't blame him.
“I can’t do this again. I can’t keep giving you the benefit of the doubt when– when it’s never been different. Every single time I put my trust in you, my energy into helping you, it’s back to only hearing from you when you’re intoxicated, or we have a recording. How do you think that feels? I don’t want to be your coworker, Anthony. Your– your coworker that you spill your guts to drunk, for some reason.”
Anthony dragged his eyes away from Coy, hanging his head with his face in his hands. Coy was right. Anthony was wasting Coy’s attention, Coy’s energy. He didn't deserve it. “You– I don’t need your help. It’s fine. Go back to the party. Go back to… whoever that was.”
“What?”
Anthony flushed red. Fuck. “The– guy that– you, you kissed.” His voice sounded so pitiful. This wasn’t like him.
“...Oh. I forgot about that.”
Anthony made a miserable sound into his hands. He wanted to crawl into the air vents. Or something. Anything to get away from whatever this was.
“What? Am I– not allowed…? To do that…?”
“No,” Anthony was really usually more tactful than this. Truly. “That’s not what I– no, I just– go back to… people who try, I guess.”
Coy snorted. He leaned back, looking up. From this angle, Anthony could see the curve of his nose, the glittery, watercolor splotches shining on his face, his thin lips. “That guy doesn't try, either. Not that I gave him the chance to. I’m noticing a pattern in my taste in men.”
Anthony swallowed. He chose not to read too far into that. “Coy, I– I want to try. I really, really do. I don’t know why I can’t. It feels like– like, with you, I can’t think. About it.”
“About what?”
“It. I don’t– I don’t know.”
“What about me makes you physically incapable of being a reliable person?”
Anthony tightened his hands into fists. Coy had no idea how much that hurt. Things– things changed, sometimes, got worse, got better, and– and Anthony was a reliable person. He was. He didn’t know what was wrong with him. Something, clearly. But what?
“I don’t know.”
“Do you know anything?”
Fuck. Every word that Coy said seemed to make Anthony feel infinitely worse. Coy was good at that lately. He didn’t want to, well, make it about himself again, or whatever, but–
“Coy, I want to try.” It felt like those words meant more than he meant them to.
“I know you do. But will you?”
“Yes.”
“What are you going to do about it?” Coy looked at him earnestly, like… this was it, Anthony thought, this was his chance, right? To put words to it, to proclaim it, what he was going to do. How he was going to change.
“I’ll– stop drinking, for starters. And I’ll stop sleeping in. And, uh, I’ll reach out, and show up on time, and answer your calls, and invite you over, and buy you things, and do your chores, and, I mean– honestly, if you wanted me to, I could– uh, I don’t– I don’t–”
Coy was failing to bite back laughter. It was comforting after watching him fight tears for so long. “Okay. I get it. You don’t have to… do my laundry, or whatever. Just, um… be there, I guess. But if you want to do my laundry–”
“Sure,” breathed Anthony, his smile almost manic.
“Okay, no, that’s gross. Don’t act like that about doing my laundry. Are you gonna fucking smell my socks or something?”
Anthony chuckled. “I just want to make it up to you.”
“Okay. Well. Do that, then.”
“I will.”
There was a beat of silence. Anthony took special note of the small smile on Coy’s face, kind of shy, kind of– affectionate, maybe, and Anthony wanted to– to–
Coy’s lips were soft, not chapped. That was the only thing Anthony let himself focus on at first, because he didn't really know what he was doing, why he had lurched forward and captured Coy in a sudden kiss, but he had, and Coy’s lips were soft, not chapped.
Coy’s arms found their home draped across Anthony’s shoulders, hands connected at the back of his neck, gently pulling him in like Coy just had to get him closer, and, and, Anthony wanted that, fuck, Anthony wanted that.
He ran his hands all over Coy, touching anything, everything, until his wandering hands settled somewhere around Coy’s waist, holding tightly as the wind blew around them.
Anthony didn't want to– think, about this, at all, and his mind was kind of empty in that calming way but also it was screaming at him, yowling and hissing like a scared cat because fuck, fuck, fuck, this wasn't right, this was wrong, wrong like Coy kissing a different boy, because even if Anthony wanted to be the boy that Coy was kissing, it was wrong.
And Anthony went back and forth– loving every second, fearing for his life, indulging in his feelings, pushing it all down– until he just couldn't anymore. Like dragging his eyes off Coy every single day since they’d met, Anthony had to force himself to back off, breathing heavily, staring at Coy, who looked overjoyed.
“Why do you look scared?” Coy said, a stupid smile on his face. It quickly dissipated as he realized that… Anthony looked very scared. Terrified, maybe, like this was bad.
Anthony stood, suddenly, so fast he nearly fell, so fast his vision went blurry, and he didn't even look at Coy, for once, he just ran. Booked it to the door, ran down the stairs, and before he knew it, his car was starting and he was driving home tipsy.
Fuck.
-
Coy was sobbing on a rooftop on his birthday. Because why wouldn't he be? Why wouldn't Anthony show real, honest desire to get better– just to fuck with Coy’s feelings in the worst of ways?
It was like he knew. Knew that Coy was desperately pining, that he had been, and decided that Coy needed to have an even worse birthday about it. Fucking– Coy had barely admitted that he was pining. What, did Anthony want to fast-track their inevitable demise? Coy didn't even know if Anthony liked boys.
Coy unlocked his phone– face ID didn't recognize his puffy eyes and runny makeup– and blocked Anthony’s number. Getting ahead of the game on this one, he decided. Anthony was probably going to go home and drink everything in his apartment, right? So that meant he’d try to text Coy.
And Coy was actively trying to figure out how he’d tell Hanbon and Will that Bunch of Friends was essentially over. It was a stupid thing to be focusing on, but Coy loved creating. Loved creating with Anthony. But after this–? God, no. Coy was having a hard time imagining ever talking to Anthony again after this. It was mortifying. Coy was so happy and content for a whole two seconds, and then Anthony ripped it away, and made Coy feel stupid. And small. It was like everything clicked into place, the final piece of the puzzle, until the puzzle was shoved off the table and run over with Anthony’s stupid fucking car over and over until it wasn't recognizable. Or something.
Coy texted Hanbon a quick “Anthony’s fine,” because he frankly didn’t have the energy for anything else. He stood up. This was maybe the worst night of his entire life. Or, at least, it felt like it, and that was what mattered. By the time he got back to the party, almost everyone had left. A few people were waiting for him to get back to say goodbye– worried, when they saw him, but he simply told them he was being all… sappy and drunk, or something.
Hanbon and Will were the only ones left. They were sitting on the couch, Will with an awkward hand on Hanbon’s back as she cried. Coy hadn't really considered how the rest of the world was doing.
“Coy!” she yelled. “What the hell? You– You can’t just– what happened?” She stood from the couch, absolutely hysterical.
“Anthony kissed me.”
“...Oh.”
Will blinked. “And that, um, went…?”
“Bad.”
“Where is he?” Hanbon asked. “Did he– is he–”
“I don’t know. He left. He just ran off. He seemed so genuine, I– I really thought it’d be different this time.”
“...Well, it was, wasn't it? He’s never kissed you before. I’m… assuming.” Will looked a little out of his element.
“The end result’s still the same. Well, worse, I guess. I’m not recording with him anymore. Or talking to him. I’m done. For real.”
“Coy–”
“Bon, I genuinely do not want to hear it. Okay? The guy that I’ve wanted for what feels like literally forever kissed me and then fucking ran off. I can’t deal with that right now.”
“I’m not asking you to track him down and beg and grovel for his attention. I’m just–... Coy, Anthony isn’t… comfortable, with his sexuality. And– I think that might be part of why all of this is even happening in the first place.”
“That’s not fair.”
“Wha–”
“I don’t want to feel bad for him. I want to be pissed. I want to be so fucking pissed.”
“Okay. Go be pissed. But don’t write off talking to him ever again. Coy–” and Hanbon grabbed his shoulders, staring into his bloodshot eyes. “I know more than anybody that Anthony can be annoying as shit. You don't have to be the one to fix him. But he does love you, whether he wants to admit it or not. Let it play out.”
He broke Hanbon’s hold on his shoulders, taking a step back. “...We’ll see.”
Will looked between them both. “Does anyone know where Anthony is?”
-
It was honestly a miracle Anthony made it home. Not because he was too drunk to be driving– shamefully, he’d driven more drunk and been fine– but because he was distraught. He wasn't thinking straight; there was no logic to anything he did. Anthony liked to think he was logical, most of the time. Now was not most of the time.
Anthony was– deranged, was a good word, maybe? His entire body felt tense, his mind was racing, and– and, ever-so regretfully, the only thing on his mind was the, the softness, of Coy’s lips, and the way Coy’s hands felt on the back of his neck, and– and he wanted nothing more than to rid himself of the memory. This wasn’t– he couldn’t. He was going to ruin everything, or something, he– he didn’t know what he was afraid of, but something inside of him was screaming–
You aren’t gay. He just wasn’t. There was nothing wrong with being gay; he just wasn’t. Yeah, sure, maybe he jumped at every opportunity for a stupid bit that included him kissing a man. Maybe he had a slight penchant for the feminine things. Maybe the idea of being attractive to a man was the most exciting thing he’d ever experienced. Maybe– just– just maybe, there was something to be said about the fact that he’d maybe never particularly enjoyed his time with women in any way that wasn’t strictly platonic, and the fact that his past relationships had frequently ended in them telling him he didn’t seem like he saw them right.
Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck. Anthony felt almost stir crazy about it, like he needed to do something about it, but like, what could he do? He’d plugged his phone in– he’d barely realized it was dead– and now he was just… waiting.
But Anthony blinked, and suddenly he was rustling through cabinets, pulling everything out, it had to be here, it simply–
In the very back of the snack cabinet was a half-empty bottle of Anthony’s personal poison– vodka. Usually, he used a mixer– like, truly, 99% of the time– but he was so– so frazzled, so freaked out, so whatever, he just– just started drinking it. Like an idiot. Popped the lid and started downing it. It burned a little, at first, but he got used to it. It felt like home.
And his brain was buzzing, a constant noise as the liquor spilled down his throat, you promised, you promised, you promised, but he’d already run off, he’d broken one promise– all or nothing, right? All or nothing, all or nothing, this was both all and nothing. God, Anthony had to stop making promises.
Time passed like melting butter, slipping away from him so quickly, and he was on the couch. Lying across it, taking occasional sips from his quarter-full bottle of vodka. Everything was fuzzy. He was tired. He felt a little like he was moving through molasses. His mind was so much quieter than before; it was so nice.
“Anthony?” …She sounded angry. Anthony hadn’t even heard the door open.
“Mmph?” His face was shoved into a couch cushion.
“Anthony, oh my god. What the fuck?”
He didn’t want to try to talk again, so he didn’t.
“Alright. Whatever. But you’re apologizing to Coy first thing tomorrow. For real. Maybe get him some flowers or something.”
Coy. Coy, Coy, Anthony jumped up from the couch, grabbed his phone–
“Not gonna work this time, bud. I highly doubt you’re not blocked.”
“What?” Anthony instantly felt like he was going to cry.
“Jesus, Anthony, what did you expect?”
“I don’t– I didn’t–... is he… okay?”
“Probably not. You fucked up, Anthony. I’d argue worse than usual.”
Without warning, Anthony burst into tears, cradling his head in his hands while he sobbed. He’d ruined it. Coy would never want to speak with him again. Let alone kiss him, and that– that was maybe the highlight of Anthony’s entire life, he thought, maybe that– maybe that was his favorite thing that had happened like, ever. And he ruined it. Why did he do that? Why would he ever do that?
“Oh– Anthony, I don’t– I can’t– it’s– it’ll be fine, okay. Just– just–” She tiptoed over like the sudden movement would scare him off, and quickly swiped the bottle of vodka. “Okay. Um. Alright. So, we’re going to play a fun little game called how many cups of water can I drink in five minutes! How does that sound?”
“I’m not stupid, Hanbon,” he said through tears.
“Okay. Coy would want you to drink water.”
That worked embarrassingly well, because it was definitely true. Anthony drank so much water that Hanbon had to add a– “but Coy wouldn’t like it if you got water intoxication, so stop,” to get him to quit it. Even as drunk as he was, Anthony felt… ashamed at how easily that got him.
“You know,” started Hanbon. “It might take some time before Coy is ready to talk to you again. Like, at all. You sort of supremely fucked with his feelings. Like… somehow, you’ve managed to recontextualize all the other times you kinda fucked with his feelings. So now it’s all worse.”
“Well, I– I can’t text him, ‘cause–”
“Anthony.” Hanbon put her hands on his cheeks, holding his face in place and forcing him to look at her. “Where has drunk texting gotten you before?”
“...Nowhere,” he said, slightly whiny.
Hanbon smiled and tapped the side of her head. “Now we’re cooking. Let’s go to sleep and deal with this tomorrow.”
Anthony didn’t have it in him to argue. He was covered in sweat and booze, still in his clothes from last night's party, and yet, the only thing he could even begin to consider doing was sleep. He’d figure it out tomorrow.
-
Tomorrow came way too fast for Anthony’s liking. Before he had a single cognitive thought, he was rushing to the bathroom with vomit rising in his throat. Still all liquid, he noted as he wretched– had he– eaten anything? Shit. That explained a lot about his current state. He felt like he was dying a little, crouched in front of the toilet, and yet his mind drifted to Coy before anything else.
He stood on wobbly feet and squinted as his head pounded, god, the bathroom light was bright today. He somehow managed to make his way to the kitchen and grabbed the very first thing he saw on the counter– an apple. Worked for him, for now. Maybe Hanbon would want to order breakfast.
Coy, his brain reminded. He bit his cheek as he vaguely recounted the night prior. He kissed Coy. He initiated it, he wanted it, and he finally let himself do something about it. And then he ran off. God, he wasn’t even drunk when he did that. Halfway through his apple, he realized that he was absolutely parched, so he drank enough water to send a small village into a drought and took four Ibuprofen. He remembered pouring more.
“Bon?” Anthony called.
“Oh, you’re up?” she said, emerging from the living room. She looked him up and down. “...Holy shit, Anthony. You need to shower.”
“Hey,” he crossed his arms, pretending to be more hurt than he was. “I’ve had a rough two days, okay?”
“Okay. You look and smell like it. If you’re going to talk to Coy today–”
“Who said I was doing that?”
“Anthony, holy shit.” Her eye twitched.
“Y’know what, yeah, fair, um–”
“When you talk to Coy today, you don’t want to smell like vodka. That wouldn’t help.”
“Can we order breakfast?”
Hanbon sighed. “Sure.”
Anthony was coming to terms with some things, he thought. Maybe he was… a little gay. Just a little. Maybe just for Coy? He’d have to work out the specifics. Or not. He could just be… gay for Coy. Right?
That– that wasn’t important right now. Upon opening up his messages with Coy, he was able to confirm that he was blocked. This left him with few options. Hanbon could work as a mediator, but Anthony didn’t particularly like that(and he wasn’t sure if Hanbon would like it, either). He wanted to do this himself. He’d fucked up, and he knew that now. He could fix it, for real this time, if Coy had any reason at all to trust him anymore, which he didn’t.
Second option– appealing, and spoke to Anthony’s theatrical heart– showing up at Coy’s house, appearing as well-adjusted and changed, with flowers or something, and spilling his guts in a way that was productive, helpful, and truthful. And maybe Anthony still had a-fucking-lot to figure out, but that didn’t matter to him right now. Like some form of annoyingly late clarity, Anthony wanted to fix this– for real.
But first, Anthony needed to fix himself. Not, like– well, yes, majorly, but he was mainly thinking about his appearance and physical health. Realistically, it would take a while before the hangover was… acceptably dealt with. He started with a shower while waiting for the food to arrive.
-
Coy had barely slept. Barely. He’d barely stopped crying long enough to feel any semblance of rest. He’d taken too much Ibuprofen, he’d taken melatonin to try to force himself to sleep, he’d drunk a little more alcohol before thinking too much about how that’s what Anthony would do, and that was upsetting.
He didn’t know what he wanted anymore, except maybe to go back. Clearly, Anthony wasn’t… ready for a relationship, Coy had decided, and no amount of hope and support would change that. Coy wanted to go back to before any of this started, before they’d gotten closer, started spending more time together– it was all okay then. Anthony was a tad further, sure, but they got to be in each other’s presence without it being weird, because god, had it been weird.
And he knew Anthony. He knew that Anthony would always tiptoe the edge– trying to get the best of both worlds, ending up with the worst. With each passing absence came a short period of fondness that brought such comfort. But it always ended the same, and the bar lowered each and every time. This, though, was a peak– and Coy feared what would happen next if he kept trying to keep that level of closeness with Anthony.
He had to fix this. End this entire fiasco, somehow, before it got any more tumultuous. But right now, he had to stop crying. That was step one here. Before any coherent thought could take place, Coy needed to dry his eyes. That was proving difficult.
Will came into Coy’s bedroom at one in the afternoon. “Um, hi, Coy.”
“Hey, Will.” Coy’s voice was strained, and his eyes hurt, and honestly, everything else hurt too.
“How’s it… going?”
“Not… well, Will. What do you think?”
“What’re you gonna do? Or are you gonna wait for Anthony to do something?”
“...I think I’m gonna wait for Anthony. Hopefully, he just… apologizes and leaves it alone.”
“What– don’t you want him to…?” Will trailed off, leaning on the doorframe.
“To?”
“I don’t know. Kiss you again?”
“Well, yeah. But if kissing me once sends him into a panic, I don’t think he’s at all ready to kiss me again.”
“I don’t think– I mean, I agree. You’re probably right. I guess… I think Hanbon and I were hoping this would end well for you guys.”
“It will. Just… not in the way that I think anyone wanted it to.”
“Right person, wrong time, huh?”
“...Yeah, I guess.” That was an apt description. Though Coy didn’t know if there was a right time. It felt like he drew something… negative out of Anthony.
“Do you think– you’ll ever–”
“I don’t know.”
“Yeah. That makes sense. Do you wanna… talk about it more, or?”
“I want to sleep.”
“Have you tried Benadryl? That shit knocks me out.”
“Okay. Whatever. Sure.”
-
Anthony had, for some reason, assumed Coy would open the apartment door. Coy did not open the door.
“Oh– uh, hey… Will.”
“Anthony! Um– hey.” Will scratched the back of his neck. He looked… nervous. “Did you want me to get Coy?”
Why was it awkward with him, too? God, Anthony managed to ruin everything. “If that’s okay.”
Anthony felt like a dumbass waiting outside. He was holding a bouquet and a bag of random shit that Coy would like, just… standing there, like a lovesick idiot, which he kind of was. It felt like he spent forever out there, and upon multiple occasions, he heard the two talking in the distance.
It gave him a lot of time to think about how badly he needed this to work. He couldn’t live with himself if he’d actually just– ruined it, for real. Anthony had made a lot of mistakes, but they almost always cleaned up nice and pretty. Even the– the whole thing with the hospital that still came to mind every single time he woke up abruptly, every single time he handled a pill bottle, every single time–
“Anthony?”
“Fuck.”
“Oh. Uh–”
“Coy, I’m sorry.”
Silence. Complete silence, that lasted far, far longer than Anthony was comfortable with. Coy’s eyes rolled over each piece of the scene in front of him: Anthony’s neat clothes, his freshly washed hair, the flowers, the bag. Anthony had no idea how to decipher the expression on his face.
“I can’t do this right now.”
Anthony stared, waited, expecting more. Coy didn’t seem to have anything else to say. “Oh– um– yeah, uh… that’s… fair. I’m sorry. Do you, uh–”
“Just. Just– I want things to be normal. Right now. Can you give me that, at least?”
“Yeah, uh– I can– um…” Anthony stuffed the bouquet into the bag of apologies, cringing as the flowers squished and the petals flaked off. That’s fine. “What does… normal mean?”
“Not whatever this is. Just… I don’t– we can pretend like last night didn’t happen, okay? I’m fine with that. Let’s just be normal.”
Normal. Anthony didn’t know if he could stomach that. “Yeah. Okay. That’s… perfect. That’s probably best, anyway, hah– um. I didn’t… I’m sorry if this is… a lot.”
“It is.”
“Sorry.”
“It’s fine.”
This was not cleaning up nice and pretty. Anthony had, for some reason, expected it to. He really thought that… this would work. It had to. But it didn’t. It didn’t, and now Anthony could imagine rain clouds drenching him and his tidy hair and pretty, expensive flowers. But there weren’t any, because this wasn’t a movie, and this wasn’t the part where everything seemed to go wrong, but went right in the end. Not for Anthony, at least. Maybe Coy was happy with this. Maybe he’d only reciprocated because he was drunk or just wasn’t thinking. Maybe Coy was relieved when Anthony ran off, and now, now–
“Is, there… something else…?”
“Do you love me?” Fuck, why did he say that?
“I mean, yeah. Fucking, obviously, Anthony. I was so happy last night, for like, two entire minutes. And then you did it again. You took it away. I don’t know what you want from me. I can’t sit here and wait for you to make up your mind.”
“I– I did, Coy, I made up my mind, I, I–”
“You said that last night. Anthony, did you drink last night?”
Fuck.
“Anthony.”
Well, he couldn’t lie–
“Anthony.”
“Yes. I’m sorry. I’m sorry, Coy, I didn’t mean to– to do that, to you, I just, I didn’t want to– I couldn’t–”
“You said you would make a genuine effort to stop drinking. And you didn’t. Not to mention, you drove home without Hanbon, and obviously, you left me. Every single time you’ve made a promise, you’ve broken it. This is honestly record time, Anthony.”
“I don’t– I didn’t know what else to do.”
“Anything, Anthony. Anything would’ve been better than whatever the hell happened last night. On my fucking birthday. So, if you want to make up for it, you know what you can do? Stop. Stop treating me any differently. Stop trying to be closer to me. Just leave it be.”
“I love you.” Anthony’s voice was pathetic and small.
“Stop it, Anthony. Fucking– stop.”
Every time Coy said his name, it felt worse. It made his chest tighten and his eyes water. Anthony knew what the answer to this was. He knew what he was supposed to do. But god, he didn’t want to do it.
“Just– one. One more time. I won’t–”
“Oh, my god. Do you know what stop means? I’m not doing this with you. Not in the fucking hallway of my apartment building. Go home.”
And the door shut. Anthony heard quiet voices immediately. Coy sounded teary, Anthony wished that he could– help, but–
There was nothing else to be done. That was… obvious. It made Anthony’s skin crawl to feel like he’d left things unsaid, but he couldn’t say them. It took Anthony far too long to pry himself from the door to the elevator, and then he spent an uncomfortable amount of time crying in his car. He had to be normal after this. He had to record after this. He had to interact with Coy in front of people. Fuck.
Anthony had never felt this helpless in his entire life. And frankly, that was saying something.