Chapter Text
Perhaps the most scorned sound in the morning is the incessant and annoying ringing of the alarm, set to vibrate away at one's bedside table to cut whatever peace and tranquility sleep has offered. It grates at the nerves of someone farthest from being a morning person, is bound to either receive multiple violent slaps or be subjected to harsh taps just so they could shut the fuck up.
Stell is not not a morning person; he gets along just fine with mornings, but anyone, no matter whichever time of the day they prefer getting up at, would be mad at being tugged away from sleep they always think they deserve but get too little of. Granted, it was these people that set their alarm in the first place, practically starting what would cause them madness, and if alarms were sentient, they'd probably be crying this point out to everyone who abuses them in the morning. Stell, though, is thankful that alarms, in fact, are not sentient and couldn't actually defend themselves, so he would not feel the inclination to defend himself to his fucking clock and explain just why Adulthood and Having A Job entailed blasting Boombayah at five fucking o'clock and how the society is forcing him into this daily grind that ensures he'd have to hear the most explosive sound first thing in the morning and deprive himself of sleep that is always, always too short.
Fuck adult life, honestly.
Later, when he's Refreshed and Awake and not floating from one world to another, Stell would cringe at the amount of times he'd sworn mentally, would bury the thought of hating how he'd have to work very hard every day of his life to the darkest corner of his mind, because while he's not exactly the most optimistic, he doesn't let all the cold cruelty of life get in the way of him living his own when he could pour his all in making some good out of it for himself. There's no use in mourning over how things were for him when it doesn't change shit and only wastes precious time.
But now is not later, and Stell is anything but awake; he is tired and still needs his sleep, damn it. He isn't a fan of negativity, but no optimist is safe from whatever thoughts their minds supply after interrupted sleep, even if said thoughts reek of all things rotten.
So, honestly, fuck adulthood. And fuck his non-sentient alarm.
Slowly and, sadly, almost painstakingly, some of his more hard-working brain cells awake and form enough sense for him to realize that, no, he is not hearing Lisa claim that she's been a bad girl and she knows it. Still hardly awake, he almost misses coming to the conclusion that he has awoken ahead of time and that his alarm had not sounded yet, if not for the underlying promise of more sleep for him, yey.
So he promptly closes his eyes and waits for whoever is in charge of making people fall asleep to take him again. Please.
And then his eyes snap open. He feels himself stiffen, his breath automatically catching in his throat, his exhale sitting at the back and waiting to be freed.
He feels more than he hears it, short and warm puffs of air hitting his nape and ear, silent yet constant. Fuck. He recognizes, horrified, as he slowly and tearfully looks down, two strong arms wrapped around his belly. Fuck.
It wakes him up more quickly and more efficiently than his alarm ever could.
Now, normally, many would revel in this comfort, this kind of warmth and security wrapped around one's person as they sleep in the arms of their loved ones, peaceful in their rest.
But, what the hell, this isn't Stell's normal. This is far from his damned normal. All his loved ones are on the other side of the country, the Earth, he doesn't remember, he doesn't give a flying shit - because there is someone - there's fucking someone in bed with him and fuck if that's not the craziest, longest shot from his fucking normal.
Stell doesn't care that you think him an edgy adult that lies about his proclaimed positivity and contains not a single sense to filter curses from his internal monologue. He doesn't care because you'd be shitty to think that, alright? He's in a situation where he is too speechless and, at the same time, too full with words he doesn't even know how to start, and saying he's shocked and caught off-guard and plain horrified would not even cut it the slightest bit. You'd be crazy horrible to judge him when he's not in control, can't even sense or grasp his thoughts properly, his emotions in overdrive and his mind racing like crazy. He's in a situation that he has encountered not even once, he is thrown off his balance, and he is fucking paranoid he's sure he's bound to get crazy before he even confronts this stranger. In bed. With him. Holding him.
Oh, my fuck. Son of a fucker fucking fuck.
There is a fucking stranger in his bed and he's got to confront him. Why the fuck is this happening to him? How would he even go about this confronting shit when they're lying on the most intimate and private part of his hellhole? Is he even sure this someone is a stranger? What if it's a serial killer? Worse, what if it's a kidnapper that sets too large ransoms for his captees? Stell does not own shit that could secure his release. Fuck, he barely gets by, he can't save his life using wealth he doesn't have.
Fuckfuckfuckfuckinghell--
Stell knows he needs to calm down before he could even begin to imagine the most brutal scenario of his death. Or extortion of his nonexistent money.
He still doesn't know who this person behind him is but, at least, for now, he can't say it's a criminal for sure. Only one way to find out, yet he's not sure if he wants to do it. That was a lie - he is sure he doesn't want to do it, confirm the identity of this someone and risk waking this someone up before he could even gather enough courage to talk to them.
He does it, anyway, crossing his fingers and praying to everything he believes in that this is Josh crashing at his place and being too tired and unwilling to take the couch.
The stranger is not Josh.
Stell physically refrains himself from screaming, digging his fingernails into his palms. Great, just when Stell actually needed his unsolicited visits, the bastard just had to be shit knows where.
But the stranger is not a stranger either. Stell knows him, shares the same classes with him, but they're not close, aren't even friends. This is somehow even worse. While he'd really rather take having a friend here over a stranger, it would be a small relief that, if this was just somehow a misunderstanding (pleasepleaseplease) and once whatever this is is over, he wouldn't have to face them again. But, fuck, here lies someone he knows and interacts with on some days without them being the closest to acquaintances. How would he even bring himself to face this guy everyday?
And, oh, shit. This is Ken. The same fucking Ken who's almost always brooding and only speaks to cut someone with his words, explosive in his rage. Stell remembers hearing from his classmates that the guy was the leader of a gang that beat up all the other groups that agreed to ambush them at the same time. And don't fucking judge him, okay - because the typical wattpad plot seemed so real right now and he can't do shit about it if his brain decides to malfunction this way. Because, well, what if Ken really was some sort of gangster? Stell wouldn't know for sure, unless Ken decided to demonstrate it on him (oh, fuck), and his eyes - his eyes aren't fucking helping; why the heck do does he have cat eyes? Maybe the thought of serial killers and abductors weren't so far a reach after all. Stell chokes on a sob.
He is in the deepest shit one could possibly find himself in at shit o'clock in the morning. And he's blaming Josh for his very probable and untimely death.
He feels, and knows he looks too, like shit, heavy with fear and troubled with breathing when he doesn't even know if it even is his fault they got on the same bed together. Still, that doesn't matter because he knows he'd be dead as soon as sleep filters out of Ken. Who's holding him. Shirtless.
Stell does a painfully-restrained double take, head jerking forward, mouth hanging in a silent gasp, his eyes almost bulging out of their sockets. He takes a deep breath, slowly so as not to suddenly move his body and alert the hold around his stomach. He cautiously turns his head and looks down, confirming that he was not being paranoid and imagining warm rocks against his back. He's not so sure whether he'd prefer it to be just his imagination, even if it implied he's crazy. This whole thing is crazy. This whole thing involving Ken, of all fucking people, is batshit crazy.
Why is Ken shirtless? Why is Stell not? Okay, fuck that, Stell is thankful he's not. He prays that this is just how Ken prefers to sleep: shirtless and spooning a practical stranger...
There is this overwhelming gut feeling that tells Stell that Ken, in fact, does not make it a habit to spoon a stranger while asleep. And this, by extension, tells Stell that Ken, most definitely, is going to kill him.
Ken Suson is going to murder him first thing in the morning and he wouldn't even bother hiding Stell's body.
Stell realizes that, no, he cannot stay here all day fearing for his life when he's actually risking losing it by practically waiting for Ken to wake up and throttle him dead. So, with renewed bravery (or idiocy, he's not in the right mind to even bother), Stell gingerly and tearfully grasps Ken's wrist around his waist and slowly pulls, lips trembling and forehead sweating. It stiffens - here, Stell sniffles - before relaxing and falling limp behind Stell's thighs on the mattress. The remaining arm, without the hold and support of the other, drops with a soft thud.
Biting his lower lip it almost bleeds, Stell tries to relax his rigid body, sweating as he tries not to put too much of his weight onto his move to sit up. When he finally manages to plant both feet on the ground, he pushes down the urge to cry in utmost relief. Shit, thank--
A groan.
His breath hitches, his body back to its tense state. He can taste copper but he could hardly care for his bleeding lip. Senses hyperaware and focused on the (hopefully) still sleeping guy behind him, Stell holds his breath as he waits for what feels like eternity. His shoulders slacken when he hears Ken's breathing steady into the same pattern from earlier. He allows himself to let out a short sigh before scrambling up.
A pair of arms enclose his middle before he could even stand up fully, tugging him down to sprawl diagonally on the mattress, his feet sticking out the bed. If Stell, somehow, hadn't been sure those were abs he'd seen earlier, then his head landing on very, very hard stomach has effectively erased all doubts he had.
He is not proud of the undignified shout that escaped him.
Ken grunts, tone laced with annoyance. "The fuck are you moving around for? 'S too early..." he drawls sleepily, the end sounding almost like a whine, no real heat in his words but clearly annoyed, nonetheless.
It's safe to say that Stell is frozen. Like Captain America in fucking ice. He's too overwhelmed by the urge to cry at hearing Ken that his mind doesn't even process the actual words. All he knows is that the other spoke, probably to say he's gonna kill Stell by smashing his head repeatedly against his stomach, and that he should definitely bolt right out of there before he could even begin to consider the idea of dying from six lumps of muscle.
Immediately after his body tenses in preparation for his absolutely dignified run, the arms around him wound tighter and a tsk sounds from above him.
"It's fucking ass o'clock in the morning. Let people die for a while," Ken mumbles out, sleep taking out the bite from his words. Stell looks up to see that the other still has his eyes closed.
"Uhh," was Stell's very intelligent reply.
Ken cracks an eye open-- Stell stills, caught red-handed in his staring-- and regards Stell briefly before using his arms to drag the other upwards and position him properly beside himself. He adjusts his arms so that his hands are clasping against Stell's back.
Stell is dying. Yes, that must be it. There's no other explanation as to why he's face-to-face with Ken Suson on a bed at the ass crack of dawn on a Sunday morning.
His deadness must be showing on his face because Ken just snorts, looking amusedly at him with lazy half-lidded eyes. He shuffles the slightest bit forward to fit his head under Stell's chin and nuzzle his face against the other's throat. He squeezes Stell's middle forward and presses their bodies as close as possible.
"'S cold," is the only explanation he offers before Stell hears and feels soft snores against his throat.
So it is completely rightful and justified when Stell, promptly, passes out.