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English
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Published:
2020-05-31
Completed:
2020-06-01
Words:
2,232
Chapters:
2/2
Comments:
33
Kudos:
295
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24
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2,412

The Pros and Cons of Anti-Capitalist Propaganda

Anonymous

Summary:

Tango and Impulse have been close friends for as long as anyone can remember, but a bizarre one-off encounter involving political ideology, cartoons, and psychoactive mushrooms leaves both of them wondering if they could be something more.

Notes:

bro its not cuddling im holding you down so you dont run off to proselytize the evils of capitalism dude its not gay

(See the end of the work for more notes.)

Chapter 1

Chapter Text

“Tango. Tango, wake up.”

His eyes cracked open, promising a swift and fiery retribution to the intruder. The clock on the wall read approximately 3:00 A.M.

Tango groaned and wiggled himself into a vaguely sitting position. “Impy, what the fuck.”

Impulse’s eyes were huge, with moonlight spilling across dilated pupils. “Coyotes are faster than roadrunners. The only reason that Wile E. Coyote never catches the Roadrunner is because he consistently relies on ACME products instead of his own labor.”

“Why are you here,” Tango asked instead of the million and one questions rattling around in his head, like ‘what drugs are you on’ and ‘could this not have waited til morning’.

“Can't you see?” Impulse demanded. “Wile E. Coyote is a victim of capitalism! I was talking to Joe earlier and--”

“Oh boy,” Tango interjected with a heavy sigh.

“--Now I finally understand! Wile E. Coyote’s pursuit of the Roadrunner is an allegory for the proletariat masses and their pursuit of happiness through material goods, because as long as Wile E. Coyote depends on his corporate overlords and a corrupt system, he will never attain satisfaction.” Impulse finished proudly.

Tango eyed him wearily. “...Have you eaten any weird mushrooms lately?”

Impulse’s pupils abruptly shrunk from the size of dinner plates to pinpricks of black. “Just the one, why?”

He's not gonna shut up and let me go back to sleep, is he? Tango thought. His body, seemingly independent of his brain in its sleep-haze stupor, yanked Impulse into bed next to him.

“Shut up and go to sleep,” Tango grumbled. His eyes slid shut, and he desperately hoped that it was too dark for Impulse to see how red his face was.

Impulse jolted. “But I--”

“No.”

“I have to tell the other hermits--”

“No.” Tango wrapped an arm around Impulse's chest and threw his leg, tangled in the sheets as it was, over Impulse's limbs. Impulse squirmed, but with Tango just about laying on top of him, he was effectively pinned.

“... Good night,” Impulse said. Tango was already passed out.

Moonlight filtered through the windows of Toon Towers, barely illuminating Tango’s warm golden curls and peaceful face. The man in question, Impulse found, was apparently a massive cuddler. Maybe it's because he's used to sleeping in the Nether where it's warm, and body heat is a substitute? Impulse tried to reason away the illegal information. He grimaced, gently running his fingers through Tango’s hair. (He wouldn't admit it under pain of death, but he might have had a not-so-small thing for blonds. Or maybe just the one blond.)

Tango made a soft noise, and Impulse quickly withdrew his hand from his friend's hair, thinking the sweet touch might have woken him. Impulse certainly didn't want to get caught overstepping the boundaries of friendship, no matter how much he longed to card his fingers through the other man's impossibly soft fringe.

Tango settled down with a quiet sigh, burying his face in the side of Impulse’s neck. Impulse almost died on the spot. Every muscle in his body went stiff, and a sudden tsunami of yearning washed over him so roughly that he felt like crying. One of the many flying anvils of Toon Towers fell through the roof, crushing Impulse’s skull and killing him instantly.

God, I wish.

He stared at the ceiling. This was going to be a long night.

Awareness slowly seeped back into Tango’s skull as pesky rays of sunlight danced across his eyelids. He shifted lethargically, staring into the middle distance with half-lidded eyes. There were things that needed doing, he knew, and basking in the warmth of his bed wasn’t going to get any of them done.

“Rise and shine, sleepyhead!” Impulse said. Tango’s pillow vibrated with the noise-- oh God Impulse was Tango’s pillow-- He jerked into a seated position, nearly falling off the bed in his attempt to distance himself from Impulse.

Impulse raised a single eyebrow while watching Tango make a fool of himself. He asked with amusement, “Do you happen to recall why we were... snuggling? I don’t quite remember what happened last night.”

Flustered, Tango groped blindly for the right words. “I don’t know, man, you showed up at, like, three in the morning talking about Roadrunner and capitalism and-- symbolism in children’s cartoons??”

“Huh. And that led to me being in your bed, how exactly? I wonder, did we..?” Impulse peeked under the sheets. “I guess we didn’t, I’m still wearing pants.”

“You don't have to sound so disappointed!” Tango screeched. Why oh why had he dragged Impulse into his bed?! He was never going to sleep again in the history of ever, not after how comforting last night had been! Would he end up stooping so low as to making excuses to sleep in the same bed as his best friend? Would Impulse think he was weird for it, and not want to be his friend anymore?

Impulse regarded Tango, for once (mostly) bypassing his beautiful fluffy curls, luminous rose-colored eyes, strong steady shoulders, and the adorable crinkle of his nose. Tango’s face was nearly the same hue as his eyes; if it was half as warm as it looked he must feel like a blast furnace. 

Oh. Oh. Hope like a thousand roses bloomed in his chest. Experimentally, he ran a hand through his hair, surreptitiously watching Tango's gaze track the motion. He hopped out of the bed and stretched his arms above his head. As his hands nearly hit the ceiling, Tango swallowed thickly and how had Impulse missed this?! If he… if he confessed--

Tango would probably reciprocate.

Impulse opened his mouth to say something, anything, he didn't know what, and found that the words were gone. His head was a jumbled mess of joy and nerves and doubt.

“S-sorry about that,” he laughed awkwardly. “I'll just, uh, go home.” He winced at how lame he sounded.

Tango took in a breath to-- say what, exactly? To apologize, to tell him that he didn't mind, to ask him to stay? But the words died on his tongue as soon as Impulse strapped on his elytra and scarpered.

He pulled his legs close to his chest, resting his head on one knee. The sheet clinging to his body fell off the bed when his shoulders hunched inward. He couldn't bring himself to care.

“Nice going,” he muttered, “absolutely great. You scared him off and now he probably thinks you're a creep. Good job, Tango.”

The sun rose and set that day, and nothing got done.

Stupid, stupid, stupid! Impulse berated himself as he flew back to his base. You had him right there, blushing up a storm after you woke up in bed with him! Confessing after that would have been so romantic, and you wasted the chance!

Landing on the bottom floor, he took a deep breath and let his upset feelings go. Self-flagellation wasn't going to restore the moment. Obviously, he was too much of a coward to actually confess , God forbid, but if he made it really obvious that his heart had a massive mega-boner of romantic feelings for his best friend, then surely Tango would ask him out first! The plan was foolproof. 

“To the drawing board!” he exclaimed. “I've got to plan some things…”

Chapter 2

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

First it was the small things, easily dismissable. Impulse came around Tango’s base to steal some gunpowder, pretending that nothing had ever happened between the two. He dropped by to borrow some iron, or to return a shulker box, or to mess with the zombie pigman greeter. Tango wasn't sure why Impulse was acting the way he was, but he was grateful enough that Impulse still liked him that he didn't question it.

Then it was the random acts of kindness. For no reason, he would do things like bake cookies for Tango, compliment him on his unorthodox architecture, and tinker away at some finicky bit of redstone for him. (The last one, Impulse always did while shirtless and sweaty, given how warm Tango kept his living spaces. Most of the time Tango enjoyed it enough that he didn't even feel too guilty about staring. Most of the time.)

By the time Tango noticed this escalation, Impulse had already kicked it up a notch once more. This was, by far, the worst thing Impulse had ever done to him, in Tango’s opinion. Constantly, Impulse was showering him in small affections in a way he didn't do for anyone else. He brushed Tango’s bangs out of his eyes, worked the knots out of Tango’s back with sinful hands that unfortunately never wandered, threw his arm around Tango’s shoulders every time he beat Impulse at Uno, the list went on and on! Tango just couldn't figure out why Impulse was being so nice to him, and it hurt. Was Impulse taking pity on him? Was his crush that obvious? Or was he just trying to reiterate that they were just good friends? It made his head hurt, trying to figure it all out.

“You look like you’re thinkin’ hard,” Impulse said, flying into Tango’s main storage room. Speak of the devil and he shall appear.

Impulse snapped his fingers in front of Tango’s face. He jumped, blushing a little bit. He seemed to be doing that a lot, lately. 

“I know what’ll cheer you up!” Impulse declared.

Tango smirked. “Oh, really? Lay it on me, shovel-boy.”

Impulse reached into his inventory and pulled out a slice of vanilla cake. Wasting no time, he stuffed a forkful into his mouth. “Stress made it,” he said. “Want some?”

“Stress made cake? How the hell did you manage to snag a piece before the others got to it?” Tango asked incredulously.

Impulse laughed. “You don’t even wanna know. Aaah.”

Tango opened his mouth to ask what that noise was for, and ended up with a mouthful of cake. “Mmph!” He went cross-eyed trying to look at the fork in his mouth, then his cheeks pinked as he realized it was the same one that Impulse had just used. You’re not a twelve-year-old girl, Tango, he thought to himself, you should know better than to get all embarrassed over an indirect kiss-- wait a minute, did he just fucking spoon-feed me?! Fork-feed? Gah!

As quickly as it came, the fork was taken back by Impulse, who used it for another bite. “You’ve got something here,” he gestured at the side of his face, “let me get it for you.”

The cake was set aside; Impulse’s full attention was on Tango. He couldn’t move, locked into place under Impulse’s gaze as he placed a hand on the side of Tango’s jaw, gently wiping away a bit of frosting with his thumb. The warm hand stayed there for a few moments longer than necessary. It pulled away reluctantly, Impulse was smiling, the air was filled with a tension Tango couldn’t name…

Tango grabbed Impulse’s wrist less than half a foot from his face. “Why are you doing this?” he asked softly.

Impulse’s smile faltered. “Doing what?”

“You’re, you’re playing games with me. It’s cruel,” he said, and was mortified by the tears welling in his eyes.

“What? No, I would never-- I--” Impulse stammered. His troubled eyes searched Tango’s face. With a very small voice, he asked, “Have I been hurting you this whole time?”

“Yes!” Tango exploded. “You keep doing things for me, and giving me stuff, and being so nice, and it’s like you’re dangling the thing I want most in front of my face, knowing I can’t have it! Can’t you tell I like you, idiot?! God, it hurts so fucking much every time you smile at me, ‘cause I know I can’t have you. I--” He cut himself off, letting go of Impulse’s wrist and running his hand through his hair.

Impulse held the wrist Tango had let go of to his chest. He couldn’t even look at Tango, not when he was crying over something Impulse had done to him. “This whole time,” he said, “I was being selfish. I didn’t realize how much you were hurting, all because I was too much of a coward to tell you how I felt. Tango, I’m so sorry.”

Tango crushed a tiny spark of hope beneath his heel. “...Tell me how you felt?”

Impulse suddenly found the spot three inches to the left of Tango’s head very interesting, and looked at it instead of Tango. “After how awful I made you feel, I don’t deserve to kiss you,” he said, “but if you’ll still have me--”

Impulse’s back crashed into the wall, though he barely noticed. All his senses were concentrated into one little morsel of heaven, a soul-stealing kiss unlike any other. The breathless joy he felt threatened to burst out of his chest. His knees felt weak. Holy shit, he’d been missing out on this?

Tango pulled back scant inches, panting lightly. Impulse reached up to wipe a tear from Tango’s face.

“You’re beautiful,” Impulse began. “I love your laugh. I love your hair. I love how you can always find humor in a situation, and I love your confidence, and I love how smart you are. I…” He choked up.

“I love you too,” Tango finished the statement. “Shut up and kiss me, nerd.”

“Always,” Impulse said breathlessly, and obeyed.

.

.

.

Does this mean that, technically, my plan worked?

Notes:

meh. is there smth yall would like to see me write?

Notes:

this was supposed to be less than 1000 words, then i asked Apocalyptic_Alpaca for tips and this happened. and this is only the first chapter! f in chat? also fang (PawPunk) wrote the original prompt about tango and bdubs but i just completely derailed that so. sorry?? rip
thank u hollie for reading my dumpster fire fics when i send them to u at 1am. i appreciatge it
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EDIT: hermitshippers/antishippers can be mean and scary so to keep them from memeing me on my non-ship content im making this fic anonymous