Chapter Text
Octavio hated being awoken by nightmares, but there was something particularly unbearable about waking up with a dry throat. He didn't have anything to drink in his room, which was how he found himself in the kitchen at three in the morning, chugging something that wasn't his like a man dying of thirst.
“Good evening," a cool voice said, and Octavio froze in place. One hand was holding the fridge door open, and the other was gripping a jug of chocolate milk labeled with Makoa’s name.
Fuck.
He wasn't alarmed because he had been caught stealing someone else's food, but because of who had chosen to walk in at this time. Great. Just who he wanted to see right now.
Feeling a thin milk mustache resting above his top lip, he raised his hand to his face to try and wipe it away as inconspicuously as possible, before turning to face the unwelcome intruder.
“What’re you doing here,” Octavio said, much too flat to be a question. Because it was a stupid question to ask, to be honest—this was a common kitchen, and Obi wasn’t exactly banned from it. He could still feel unhappy about his presence, though. Especially since he had been caught stealing chocolate milk.
“My hunger is beginning to overpower me,” Obi responded, slinking into the room gracefully, like the fucking dancer he was. Stupid elegant Obi. “And pistachios are no longer enough to satiate my appetite.”
Octavio placed the milk back in the fridge, rolling his eyes harder than he thought possible. He slammed the door shut with more force than necessary as he said,
“Y'know, you could’ve just said you were hungry, like a normal person.”
Judging by Obi’s self-satisfied smirk, he’d said it like that just to annoy him. “You understood my meaning, no?”
“Yeah, okay, Edward Cullen. What do you want?"
"A drink." Obi extended one long limb to open a cabinet door, taking out a bag of seaweed chips. "And these."
Maybe if he got Obi out of here quicker, he could have more, er, unsolicited time with Makoa’s off-limits chocolate milk. Opening the fridge up again, he reached for one of Natalie’s little yogurt drinks, before shoving it unceremoniously into Obi’s chest. “Here.”
The taller man looked momentarily surprised, eyebrows raising as his blue eyes met Octavio's. He hated it when he looked at him like that. Obi saw things, and contrary to what most people thought, sometimes, Octavio didn’t like to be seen.
The silence between them went on for a couple of seconds too long, so Octavio snapped, almost defensively, “What?”
Normally, he tried not to be in this poor of a mood, but there was a lot on his mind right now. Things he was actively trying to ignore. Like the issue of his father, and honestly, Obi himself was also a fucking issue, but he was trying not to think of that either.
After what felt like an eternity (but was maybe five seconds, max), Obi said, “Just surprised, is all. I didn’t think you took notice of the things I liked. Thank you.”
Distantly, he realized that Obi had never actually told him that he liked these stupid fruity yogurt things, and that it was just something he’d observed after their underground matches—and, more importantly, the way Obi’s Adam’s apple had bobbed as he chugged them down. Well, chugged felt too ungraceful a word to describe the actual action, but...anyways, point was, it was kind of embarrassing to accidentally admit, without words, that he remembered the type of drink Obi liked. Fucking lame.
“What’re you talking about?” Octavio sneered, but he knew it was no good; Obi would see straight through him. He could try, though. For his pride. “I’m drinking the milk, and Anita would kill me if I went through her Gatorades. So take Nat’s shit. Or Anita’s, I don’t care. See how you like a boot up your ass, amigo.”
Obi rolled his eyes, taking a couple of steps back, towards the door. “A ‘you’re welcome’ would have sufficed just fine, Silva. Stop acting like a child.”
“I’m not,” was his petulant response.
“If you say so.” Obi’s eyes flickered from his face to the fridge. “Enjoy your chocolate milk, then. Ka chi foo.”
Octavio didn’t say anything, staring hard at the spot where the older man had disappeared. After taking a moment to regain himself, he spun on his heel and opened the fridge once again, reaching for Makoa’s milk. He couldn’t let Obi get under his skin—he should be way, way better at acting more chill about the whole thing.
Even though right now, a lot of the things Obi had said when they’d ‘broken up’ stung even deeper than they had before, what with everything going on with his father. He tried not to think about those things, though. He wanted to move on—but like an annoying, catchy tune, one of those things replayed in his mind, paying no mind to his wants.
“You do not need me, Octavio.” Those words had seemed like a slap in the face at the time, because Octavio had honestly thought they were going good. Great, even. “You need a therapist.”
What the fuck did Obi know? Last shrink he had gone to ended up being his father’s fifth wife and didn’t actually help with shit. Just wanted to give him a lot of medication and counseling, and wanted to change him.
Octavio didn’t need to be changed, despite how obsessed Obi was with the concept. He was fine just the way he was.
Ever since that night (early morning?) in the kitchen, Octavio had become extremely self-aware of every little fact that he remembered about Obi—things he hadn’t even noticed he’d noticed. Like the fact that Obi had this annoying habit of clicking his tongue when he was counting things in his head, or that he fiddled with his hair when anxious.
Not that he often let his anxiety show (“Even the greatest of actors get stage fright,” he’d once said) but Octavio knew him enough to pick up on it, and he hated that. It was a stupid thing to get worked up over, but Ajay did often say that when he finally got to thinking about things, his brain went into overdrive over the stupidest shit. Right now, the Stupid Shit was him perceiving his ex.
Y'know. Normal people things to get upset over. Totally.
There were tons of other tiny things that Octavio remembered the more he thought about it: Obi only drinks three-fourths of his water if it's in a cup and dumps the rest in the sink, Obi rolls his toothpaste from the bottom instead of squeezing it, Obi this, Obi that. He didn’t even know why he remembered so much about the guy. Maybe it was because Obi had been one of the few boyfriends he’d actually liked.
Well. They hadn’t been boyfriends, exactly. A fling was perhaps more accurate. Casual hook-ups, and heated kissing before an Arenas match where they were either paired together or pitted against each other. Some of that had been really fun—Octavio was still determined to hate the memory, though, ex-'boyfriend' or not.
They’d broken up before they got that far. Broken up right as Octavio began to think to himself hey, I actually like this guy, because back then Obi’s Theater Kid Act and dramatic flair had been endearing to him instead of annoying.
Once Obi had broken it off, though, it was like a switch had been flipped in Octavio's head; actually, the way Obi spoke wasn’t funny, it was annoying to translate into regular human language. Actually, the way Obi dressed wasn’t sleek, it was corny. Actually—
Ugh.
Half of Obi's appeal was definitely his hair. Stupid sexy Obi. Everything else about him was boring and obnoxious, and Octavio couldn’t believe that it had taken him so long to notice that, and he was most definitely over him. Had to be. So over him that he found himself bitching about Obi more than he cared to admit.
He was being petty, of course, but it made him feel better to make snide comments to Ajay and mock the way Obi constantly talked about change. Soon though, it got to the point where Ajay finally snapped, annoyed,
“If I didn’t know any better, I’d think he’s one of your boy-toys.”
He was unmasked, so unfortunately, she saw the color rising to his cheeks and his reddening ears. Mouth dropped open in a perfect 'O' shape, she stared at him in disbelief, before lowering her voice.
“Him? Are you serious?”
“...Yeah,” he admitted reluctantly, ducking his head. He began to take his leg apart on her bed so that he wouldn’t have to look at her. He’d never told her about him, because honestly, what had there been to tell? So there was this guy that I kissed a lot and I think I was starting to actually like him and then he dumped me because he thought I was unbearable and now—
“He’s just so...not you,” Ajay finished her sentence lamely, as if she were struggling to think of a kinder way to phrase it. “He’s...put together. And you’re—”
God, it was like salt in a wound. “Hey, Che? Shut up.”
“You’re a mess, Silva.” She kept going, leaning back in her chair, drumsticks in hand. She tapped a rhythm on the edge of her desk, eyebrows furrowed in thought. “Your ex..well, this explains a lot, actually. Huh.”
“He’s not my ex,” Octavio said, more defensively than he would've liked.
Ajay raised a questioning brow. “Thought you just said—”
“We didn’t actually date. Just fooled around.”
“Oh, cool. I wanted that image in my head.”
He had to think of a way to flip this conversation back to her. Pulling a spring from behind his knee, he suddenly remembered her first boyfriend:
“Hey, remember Duke MacDonald? Also, who dates a dude named Duke? Anyways, remember when he—”
“Okay, okay,” she said loudly, pointing one drumstick at him threateningly. “Shut up, I get it.”
They didn’t talk about it after that, but now Octavio had lost the only person he could bitch to about Obi because she knew. He already got raised eyebrows from Anita and Loba whenever he and Obi snarked at each other—he didn’t want to add more fuel to the fire by complaining about his everything to anyone else.
So he seethed quietly, making sarcastic comebacks during the Games and back-handed insults. He still hated himself for noticing things about Obi, and it got to the point that he was berating himself for looking at the Rampage and thinking, Obi likes that.
It all came to a head when Octavio was asked to get dinner. Sometimes they all pooled money together, and designated someone to go grab food for everyone else. Today, it happened to be him, and he knew what most everyone liked on their sandwiches, including Obi.
Ugh, why do I remember everything about this prick? Was the only thought on his mind as he studied the menu, seeing the thing he knew Obi liked; avocado, mayo, and chicken. The side of him that was a little bit sane said back, Dude, it's not normal to get mad over a sandwich.
The lady behind the counter smiled and asked him what he wanted, and it was then that he ordered for everyone—Wraith’s roast beef, Elliott’s pulled pork, Ajay’s meatball sub...
And, for Obi, bacon and turkey. Because he hated both of those.
When Octavio got back, everyone crowded around him, asking for their food. He decided not to be the one to distribute, leaving that to Makoa, who also knew most everyone’s preferred sandwich. He grabbed his own (BLT, extra bacon and also a shit ton of hot sauce) and sat on the counter, eating as he watched sandwiches get handed out.
“This one’s—vegetarian, here you go, Dr. Somers—you're welcome!—and this one—”
“Teriyaki. Mine,” Valk said, making grabby hands and snatching the labeled sandwich from the big guy.
“Which means this one’s yours, brotha,” Makoa said cheerfully, handing the last carefully-wrapped ‘wich to Obi, who smiled and bowed his head in thanks. Octavio watched him in anticipation, not caring that he had a bit of hot sauce dripping down his chin. He was mostly focused on the other man's profile, and...god, he was hot. He hated to admit it, but...wait, brain, shut the fuck up.
He watched Obi's face twitch in disgust for a brief second, brow furrowing as he opened up the sandwich. The expression quickly smoothed over, and he went to sit at one of the kitchen tables like nothing was bothering him, but Octavio cackled to himself at the uncharacteristic face he had made. Priceless.
He soon left the dining area, wandering around and being a general annoyance to the others out of boredom. It mostly involved harassing a certain hacker; Crypto wouldn’t let him look at his drone, even though he had sick ideas for it. Octavio tried to guilt him into letting him use it:
“Come on, amigo, I got you dinner! I even remembered your stupid order! It was right, wasn’t it? Extra mayo, like some kind of freak!”
“Of course,” Crypto said flatly, standing up and reaching for the door to his room, which he’d left open, for some reason. Probably for Nat. “Why wouldn’t I let you use my drone?”
The door was slammed in his face.
Ugh, he was so boring.
Octavio eventually got tired of bothering the others, and found himself out on the deck after being kicked out or told off countless times. He was studying the rails and wondering how good they’d be for grinding on his board when the door behind him slid open, and he knew without turning who it must be.
“Evening, Silva.”
Octavio turned to face him, grinning with as much fake innocence as he could muster. “Yoooo, Obi, what’s up?”
The taller man had his hands on his hips, staring at him—no, through him—with his pale blue eyes. They were mesmerizing to look at, especially at night like this. The stars above had nothing on Obi’s eyes.
Quit being gay, he yelled at himself.
“I just wanted to thank you personally for dinner,” Obi said with a tilt of his head. His tone was smooth, unwavering. “And for remembering my favorite sandwich.”
Octavio’s brain seemed to malfunction at these words. “You—huh, what? That’s not your—”
His mouth snapped shut. Ah, shit.
“Of course it wasn’t,” Obi said, dangerously cool. “You got me exactly the thing I hate, on purpose, which means you must remember what I like, and for that I thank you.”
Octavio stared at him, unable to fight back to look of utter disbelief on his face, before throwing his head back dramatically. “Ugggh, you’re so annoying!”
“And you’re childish,” Obi said back, moving his hands from his hips and crossing his arms. “You ruined my dinner for what, Silva? Because you hate me?”
“No, because it was funny,” Octavio whined. He couldn’t let Obi know that it had been an act of frustration at the fact that he still remembered so much about him, despite it being nearly two years since they’d broken up. That would be stupid, and even he knew it.
“I find that hard to believe.” Obi cocked his head to the side, looking him up and down. Analyzing him. He wanted to get out of here. “I know we do not exactly get along, but that’s why I broke it off. I thought we would be better friends this way, Silva, but it seems you are keen on making me your antagonist."
God, he's so pretentious.
“Sorry, I thought you broke up with me because I ‘need therapy’ and ‘cause a lot of property damage’.” Octavio made exaggerated air quotes with these words, contempt dripping from every vowel.
“Why do you act so bitterly over this?” He really wished that they were not having this conversation right now, where anyone could walk out and overhear the way Obi was talking to him. “I thought you would be overjoyed to not be chained to my ‘boring, melodramatic’ self.”
“Yeah, I am glad,” Octavio said, because he was. He really was. He couldn’t believe that he had ever liked this guy. “Way glad I got over you."
“It does not seem like it," the other man scoffed.
“Well, I am!”
Obi's eyes narrowed. “...You forget I can tell when you’re lying, Silva."
Octavio could feel his ears burning red, a tell Ajay had pointed out multiple times. Stupid, annoying, big-ass ears—
“I am over you, because I realized I was a fucking dumbass for ever liking you in the first place. How’s that, huh?” Octavio’s fists clenched and unclenched, nervous energy suddenly taking hold of him. God dammit, he didn’t want this to happen, why did he get him that stupid fucking sandwich? He should’ve just sucked it up and ordered him the right thing. “You talk like a fucking vampire and you’re artsy and all you blab about is change. So yes, I’m over you. Deal with it, compadre."
Obi studied him carefully when he finished his spiel, face a little pinched, like he was thinking hard about something. Octavio, feeling hot all over, stomped forward, fully intent on shoving him out of the way and going back inside because he was totally harshing his vibes—when Obi held a hand out and pressed it firmly to his chest, stopping him in his tracks.
“Octavio,” he said, the first time he had spoken his first name since he’d gotten here, and Octavio stared hard at his neck, not wanting to meet his eyes. “You cared for me.”
He stated it rather than asked it. God, this could not be happening, this was so humiliating.
“No idea what you’re talkin’ about, amigo,” he said, forcing himself to sound casual, but it was evident even to him that he was failing. Sucking in his cheeks, he glanced up at the taller man, green eyes meeting blue, before he quickly looked away. Ay, fuck. “So what if I did? I don't need you, remember?' Your words. Not mine."
“That would mean that I..." Obi swallowed, looking uncharacteristically unsure of himself for a split second, but it was replaced by another emotion. Sympathy, maybe. Or even worse, pity. "That I hurt you more than I had intended.”
“So you were cool with hurting me in the first place?” He watched Obi’s nostrils flare, in either annoyance or some other emotion he didn’t have time to think about, before switching tracks. “I thought you could read minds or some shit. You seriously saying you didn’t know this already? I think your magic eyes are failing you, dude."
He honestly didn't want that to be true, because that would suck. That would suck absolute fucking balls if it turned out that Obi actually hadn’t known the way Octavio had felt about him before he got dumped, because then that would mean at least seventy percent of Octavio’s anger had been misplaced, a lie this entire time. Like, he hated Obi because he knew that Octavio was beginning to develop real feelings like some kind of loser and then he dumped him like that and said he needed a therapist and—
“I can not read minds, Octavio. I can not see anything more than you show me.” Obi’s voice was much quieter than usual. He normally projected it, as though speaking on a stage—but now it was just barely above a whisper. “I’m just...very good at seeing. And feeling.”
“Whatever that fucking means,” was Octavio's response, but his heart was hammering in his chest, like he'd been running a marathon. Why? Why did the other man make him feel like this? He was totally over it, had to be, and besides that, he was Octane. He couldn’t be having fucking emotions. This was bullshit and he wanted it to be over with.
Obi's gold-tipped fingers brushed against his collarbones as he adjusted his hand, still placed against Octavio's chest. “It means that I am sorry. Truly."
Whatever.
Tilting his chin up in a challenging manner, he said, “I don’t need an apology, I need you to get out of my way.”
Obi let his hand drop, voice returning to its normal volume. “Fine. Continue acting like a child, then.”
“You know what?” He stepped around him, because the guy wasn’t moving fast enough. “I will.”
And with that, he slammed the sliding door shut behind him as forcefully as he could, trying not think of the fact that he definitely still had feelings, because god fucking damn it, of course he did.