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“What. The actual. Fuck.” Eve gapes at his shockingly attractive roommate as he struts in the door, new bling on full display, and is beyond relieved that he has his laptop table on his lap. Talk about small mercies. “Since- what- when-”
Roman takes pity on him and manages to somehow translate his strangled babbling, fists on his hips as he proudly turns this way and that in order to fully show off the brand spanking new eyebrow piercing he’s come home with. “You like it? I kinda fancied a change, and V got one like, a month ago so I’ve been thinking about it for a while since then!”
Yeah, see, Eve definitely likes it. Problem is he kinda really likes it, if you catch his drift. It’s been a bit of a recurring problem with basically everything about Roman ever since one apparently-forgotten drunk night in on the couch that had ended in one tantalisingly sweet kiss and two hammered idiots falling asleep together. Eve hates that he’s never brought it up again, but it had just never been the right time, and besides- it wasn’t a big deal, it was just a little tiny crush.
The piercing was testing the strength of that little self-deception though.
“Yeah,” Eve manages to croak, rubbing at his undercut, a nervous habit. “Looks cool as fuck, did it hurt?”
Roman lights up with the chance to tell a story, perching on the arm of the couch and nearly toppling off every time he gesticulates too wildly. Ah, so, Eve might just give up entirely on the self-deception. He endures all fifteen minutes of conversation before he can escape upstairs to deal with his current situation. It’s exquisite torture the way Roman absently plays with the metal bar while he talks, fingers drawing Eve’s eyes back every few seconds.
He’s going to have to re-evaluate his tactics; denial is failing hard. And not necessarily just metaphorically.