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The humidity clings to Biggs’ exposed skin like plastic film. Makes him feel sticky, suffocated all over. But he’s been on the underside of the plate long enough, his whole life, really, to know that it isn’t worth wishing for the oppressive heat to end. It’s not like it’s going to rain. There’s no refreshment or relief on the other end of this. They’ve all just gotta wait it out until the fever breaks.
So, instead of wishing, he does what he can to try and mitigate his discomfort. As soon as he’s through the front door, he grabs the back of his shirt by the collar, pulling it up and over his head to strip down. His bandana topples off his head but he doesn’t care. It’s soaked through with sweat anyway. Shit, that feels better. He’s been thinking about getting out of his clothes all day. Would’ve done it too, but Jessie would’ve teased him to death, accusing him of showing off or something. He loves the girl, really. But in the handful of months they’ve been working together, she’s only ever been dialed up to eleven, no matter the occasion.
As much as stripping down gets him a little relief, it’s short-lived. The air inside his two-room ‘house’ is stale, and not much drier than outside. At least he’s out of the sun-lamps. Small mercies.
Biggs gets down on all fours to fish around for the cord attached to the desk fan perched on the off-kilter table next to his bed. Plugging it in, Biggs gets it going, the blades starting to spin and the head rotating from side to side with an audible click. He feels a little guilty about it. Like everything else, it draws power from the reactors. Well, he just won’t turn on the overhead lights. Kind of nice, to sit in the dark with the curtains drawn.
Sitting down on the threadbare rug covering part of the poured concrete floor, Biggs leans back a bit against the edge of the mattress. He’d left his only chair in the bathroom this morning. There’s no counter space to speak of and he had to shave. He’d used the chair to have at least somewhere to put down his soap and razor.
The fan keeps on with its irregular clicking and the near-constant spinning hum. Biggs focuses in on the noise, trying to blot out the sounds of everything still going on outside. The lamps will be on for an hour or so more, and the residents of Sector 7 are still going about their lives. It’s not that Biggs dislikes the sounds they make. Just...he needs a moment to himself. Some time for his thoughts to settle down, breathe in, breathe out. Stop calculating all the ways in which everything could go sideways tomorrow. Or the next day. Or the next minute. Just, be calm.
Except just then the fan makes a particularly loud crunching sound that breaks Biggs’ concentration. His eyes shoot open and the second time he hears it, he realizes it wasn’t the fan at all, but someone knocking at the door.
Groaning, he reaches blindly across the floor to try and find his shirt, “come in, it’s unlocked.” Because what does he even own worth stealing?
“Heya, bro,” Wedge steps inside, gently closing the door behind him. He’s always careful like that. With his cats, with other people’s belongings, with the way he enters and exits rooms.
“Hey,” Biggs relaxes back against the mattress again. He never did find his shirt, but if it’s just Wedge, it doesn’t really matter.
Wedge lifts his hand, if going for the light switch on the wall. But he stops himself. Stepping out of his shoes, he hums a little to himself, not saying anything more to Biggs. Instead, he crosses the handful of feet across the main room to Biggs’ little kitchenette. There’s a sink there, a single burner, and the reusable filter Biggs uses to make coffee in the mornings. Not much else. Biggs doesn’t cook.
He does have a couple of plates stashed in the cabinet above the sink, though, and some mismatched silverware. That much is useful to have around when Tifa sends him home with leftovers from the bar, or, times like this when Wedge comes bearing gifts.
Wedge unties the knot on the cloth parcel he’s brought with him, tugging out three containers of already cooked delights. Smells spicy and slightly acidic, and the little puff of warm air let out into the room as Wedge peels back the lid is almost tolerable, given how good everything smells. Wedge isn’t a great cook or anything, but the handful of dishes he can make are….comforting.
The truth is, Biggs knows what this is about. And he should feel more guilty about accepting Wedge’s hospitality. He should tell Wedge to stop.
They’ve been sharing meals for a while now, ever since Biggs came to Sector 7 three years ago to join Barret’s cell full-time. Back then, shit, Wedge was just a kid, and Wedge’s mom had done all the cooking, eager to welcome Biggs to the neighborhood. It was just an occasional thing back then. Biggs can cook for himself, he swears, it’s the state of his kitchen that gets in the way.
The last month has been different, though. Wedge comes more often. Not every day, but close.
Biggs gets up off the floor to find his shirt.
It’s just him and Wedge. But it’s different now, isn’t it?
Because the last time Wedge kissed him, Wedge was sixteen, bright eyed and face flushed on the Seventh Heaven roof after Barret had sent Biggs up there to fix one of the lights. Wedge had followed him up the ladder, insisting he could be of help.
They’d sat up on the roof together, even after the job was done, watching the people below winding down at the end of the day. It was only when they stood back up to leave that Wedge, a good few centimeters shorter then than he is now, came up on his toes to press his lips hesitantly against the corner of Biggs mouth.
Biggs told him to stop, his hand wrapped tightly around Wedge’s wrist.
Wedge turned eighteen last week. Biggs was there, at the party. He’d stepped behind the bar, despite Tifa’s scoffing, to mix Wedge’s first drink and toast the occasion.
A birthday isn’t a magic spell that suddenly makes Wedge an adult, Biggs knows that. He’s still five years older and, he has to assume, more experienced than Wedge. Even if this is what Wedge thinks he wants. No, Wedge should have those experiences with someone else. That would be better. Biggs should stop taking advantage of the free food and good company.
“Here you go,” Wedge smiles, passing Biggs his plate. He has his own serving in his other hand. Biggs doesn’t have a table. They usually sit on the floor to eat.
It’s surreal, sitting crosslegged on the floor of Biggs’ tiny shack of a house, in the dark, no less, when Wedge could be at home with his mom and siblings, enjoying a meal in relative comfort. Yeah, sure, like everyone in the slums, Wedge’s situation is modest at best, but it’s about ten levels above the circumstances Biggs has chosen for himself.
“Stop thinking so much,” Wedge teases. He’s got his fork still between his teeth, smiling around the metal prongs. “You can’t be enjoying your food like that.”
Biggs can’t help but feel guilty. He’d been eating, but without paying any attention at all to how warm and good the food actually is as it settles in his stomach.
“Sorry,” he mumbles, resolving to do better.
“Aw, don’t be sorry,” Wedge shoves another forkful in his mouth, chewing thoroughly before continuing. “You know, Barret said I could go tomorrow. Up onto the plate with you and Jessie. I promise I won’t get in the way or nothing.”
Biggs nods. It was only a matter of time, after all. Wedge has been working with Avalanche almost as long as Biggs. Only Barret kept him to the underside as much as possible. Mostly running communications with other cells or shuffling supplies around. Safe stuff, suitable for a kid.
Wedge has been as dedicated to the cause as any of them. And Biggs knows, logically, that tomorrow’s scouting mission is a good one for Wedge to cut his teeth. That doesn’t stop Biggs’ hurried thoughts from scattering in an instant, running through every possible scenario again, this time accounting for what might happen to Wedge if things go south.
“That’s good,” Biggs replies, “I’m glad.” He’s finished off his meal without even noticing.
Wedge sticks out his hand to take Biggs’ plate. But at the very least Biggs should do his own dishes, so he reaches for Wedge’s empty plate instead. Wedge stays on the floor while Biggs sees to the cleanup. He takes the time to wash the containers Wedge brought the food over in too. Otherwise, they’d just be making extra work for Wedge’s mom.
“So, uh,” Wedge starts.
Biggs turns away from the sink, still drying his hands with an off-white rag.
Wedge is still cross legged on the floor, his head hung low and hands resting on his knees. “Guess this means, you know.” His voice goes soft, “....you know.”
Swallowing hard, Biggs knows he has to be a man about this. Wedge is so...dear to him. Important. One of the best friends Biggs could ever ask for. And he knows, he really knows, that there’s still so much ahead for both of them. If he’s a coward now, Biggs could ruin all the beautiful things yet to come in their lives together.
“Wedge...I….”
Wedge huffs, lifting his chin to look up at Biggs. “I know. It wasn’t really about me being sixteen back then, was it? I just want you to say it. I think it’ll help. You know? It’ll hurt. But that’s okay. It’s silly, right? I’m being silly and if you just say it, I’ll move on.”
The noble part of Biggs tells him to lie. To tell Wedge that he’s right. It’s got nothing to do with the difference in their ages. Shit, five years isn’t even that much. He should break Wedge’s heart now so that he finds it in himself to move past this infatuation.
“I knew it from the start,” Wedge hangs his head again, “you came to Sector 7 and just, you’re so cool and handsome,” Wedge laughs. “I bet you like Jessie, right? She’s the type for you.”
That’s easy enough for Biggs to brush off, “No, I don’t like Jessie. Well, er, I like her, but not like that.” Actually the idea of Jessie as a romantic prospect makes his stomach churn. He could never handle the stress that comes with a person like her. All that drama, all the double-talk and misdirection for the sake of flirtatious teasing. Jessie is exhausting.
The excess heat that’s built up in Biggs’ house from the two of them being cramped inside is making it hard for him to think. Making it hard for the words to come out right. “Hey, let’s go for a walk, okay?” In the time it’s taken for them to eat and clean up, the lamps have been shut off.
Wedge shrugs his shoulders, but doesn’t protest, pushing himself to his feet. At first, he goes to collect his containers, but Biggs tells him to leave it. He can bring them by tomorrow, if anything.
Biggs locks the door behind them before shoving his hands into his pants pockets. While there’s still water hanging in the air, the darkness makes things a bit more bearable than earlier in the day. The streets are far from empty, even little kids are still about, rushing out to meet their parents on their way home from work in the nearby factories. Lots of young adults too, ready to head to the slum bars or take the train to one of the other sectors for a good time.
Biggs doesn’t even know where they’re headed. He’d just hoped to come up with a plan on their stroll.
Wedge, for his part, starts to fill up the silence, changing topics with practiced ease. He’s good at that. Good at making people feel safe, and happy. It’s always worked on Biggs.
They head in the direction of the train station, if only because the walk is less dense with people than the slum alleyways. There’s a pair of couples walking up ahead of them, hanging off of each other and laughing loudly, ready to tear things up this evening.
Okay, Biggs thinks he has a plan. A few plans, really. Enough that he’s not going to make a fool out of himself. And if he does make a fool of himself, he’s got another plan to get out of that. And another one, if that doesn’t work.
He turns off the main path, cutting towards one of the factories. They’re not going to jump the fence or anything, but the alcove leading into the gate gives them at least a little privacy. Biggs turns his back towards the metal wall, giving Wedge the advantage of being able to be the first to leave if things go south. He leans back, leaving his hands down at his sides, as much as he wants to cross them over his chest to protect himself, somehow.
“Barret might kill me, you know, if I break your heart,” Biggs starts.
Wedge smiles back at him, “Won’t tell him, I promise. I’ll stay real quiet until I’m better.”
“That’s not what I meant,” Wedge is still thinking only of rejection, while Biggs is trying to convey something different. “You haven’t dated anyone, have you?”
Frowning, Wedge strokes his chin. Even now, he can’t grow much in terms of facial hair, “When I was ten I kissed Chrissy behind the scrap pile…”
That’s enough to make Biggs laugh at least, “See, then, it is, and isn’t about your age, Wedge. Everyone here, everyone here that knows you, loves you. Can’t you see that?”
“I try to get along with everybody,” he responds if on autopilot.
Biggs nods, “they’ve known you since you were a kid, Wedge. They know you and care about you. So, so much. Trust me when I say this, there are plenty of people who’d fall for you. It doesn’t...have to be me.”
“It can’t be you, is what you’re saying. You’ll never feel that way, about me.” Wedge is clearly bent on making a liar out of Biggs, no matter how he tries to avoid it.
“That’s...not what I’m saying at all.”
WIth a sort of sinking pride, Biggs can admit, he also planned for Wedge to force the issue. What he didn’t anticipate was the soft, broken way that Wedge would ask, “And if I kissed you again, now?”
Biggs lets out a puff of warm air, his lungs feeling constricted, empty. ‘I’d tell you that you deserve someone better,’ is what he should have said. Instead of, “yeah.”
It’s not all that different than it was two years ago. Wedge is still a little shy, a bit unsure. Biggs is still tense, his heart hammering in his chest and palms starting to sweat. Though Wedge is taller now, he’s still shorter than Biggs, but it’s a tilt of his head now, instead of coming up on his toes.
Biggs wraps his hands around Wedge’s wrists in an effort to keep from shaking as the kiss goes on another second, then two seconds. Then it’s over. Chaste. Wedge is smiling up at him, though he still looks tense, uncertain of where they go from here. Maybe still expecting Biggs to tell him to stop, to finally reject him fully.
“Yeah,” Biggs repeats, before dipping his head down to meet Wedge this time.