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It's kind of been their routine for the past while—or, um, three or four months or so, rather. Give Dark Choco a chance to work out whatever issues he has over Super Smash Bros Brawl instead of—instead of whatever he does instead, give Madeleine a chance to bond with him. Give all his friends a chance to get rid of their crummy old Gamecube controllers. Give his Tik Tok followers new content in the form of Dark Choco's mid-life-crisis (or however old he is?) gamer rage.
It's a fun routine. After Madeleine gets done with his modeling job and Dark Choco gets done with, um, whatever his day job is, a few times a week, Dark Choco comes over. And they play video games, like two teenage boys, pressed shoulder to shoulder on Madeleine's genuine antique leather couch, except Madeleine is getting into his thirties soon and it's hard to pin down much of anything about Dark Choco.
Milk comes by sometimes, and Purple Yam comes by to commentate kind of weirdly then too? Not often, though. He doesn't like Dark Choco. Madeleine supposes he gets it, understands how most people theoretically wouldn't like a guy who gets set off so easily, but it's not that bad. Not half as bad as people like to say. They probably don't see how Dark Choco always smiles so gently for him at his doorstep, seems almost embarrassed when he brings food and Madeleine thanks him vigorously, every single time—definitely not how he nods and looks so soft when he thanks him at the end of every night, too. How, despite mental issues innumerable, he has been so careful to never get violent towards Madeleine.
Something underneath the anger that Dark Choco calls a curse, like a peaceful serpent beneath a tumultuous storm, beneath a choppy ocean slamming onto land. It's something kind and gentle—and Madeleine sort of sounds like a girl defending a cruel boyfriend. But it's different, because, as a completely theoretical happening—something that never could ever occur—Dark Choco would be too careful to ever hurt him. If they were. Ahem. Boyfriends. Theoretically speaking.
But he smiles, and thanks him, always, at the end of every night together. And insists on cleaning up the Baja Blasts and other evidence of his Taco Bell runs, his fingers twitch on the doorframe, and Madeleine smiles and says bye, but, um. And, um.
And Madeleine wishes they didn't have to. Didn't have to say goodbye.
Dark Choco is different. From everything he knows—different than the citizens in his home country halfheartedly praising him for how commendable he is on his quest for a halfhearted business degree; something different than many other inhabitants of the apartment complex they occupy, too, who mock him for being a ‘himbo’, whatever that is. Something bold and fresh and beautiful and yet so brooding, unlike that little boy who crows about his own eventual kingdom or Red Velvet, who follows Dark Choco around with an iron gaze, or—
Dark Choco is fragile, really. Madeleine's started to notice, in the way he folds his taco wrappers instead of balling them up. Or perhaps that time, to get his attention, Dark Choco so carefully put a wide palm on his knee, spoke so softly. Sure, he's getting in his thirties or forties, and one of his thighs is probably equivalent to the entirety of Madeleine's strength (and he better not think of his thighs again, oh the Divine above) and he's resisted Pomegranate's terrible comments for years, and he's so strong, all around, but he's still fragile. Perfect for Madeleine, who's ready to catch him when he falls, because that's just how great Madeleine is. He's great enough to have overlooked the devout glory of Pastry, or ignored outright the gentleness of Cotton, and settle his sights on a—
On a—
Completely unreceptive man who's like a decade or two older than him, give or take. It's kind of embarrassing.
But nobody knows. At least.
Definitely not Dark Choco, next to him, who just lost the first stock of the game because he wasn't paying attention and sent the little pink puffball he likes to play as down the edge. Dark Choco likes pastels a lot, Madeleine thinks; he doesn't like playing as anything that isn't squishy and cute.
It still kind of amazes Madeleine. How easily Dark Choco breaks controllers. It makes him flush, and Dark Choco has gotten better about it, and Madeleine finds himself something akin to entranced. Further entranced when Dark Choco starts talking.
"Gah, the—damned thing—" and one of the legs of the cheap controller snaps and crunches in his massive fist. Madeleine watches, captivated as he always is, hands tightening around his own, more well-made controller, as Dark Choco growls and squints at the screen.
He doesn't—he's thought about it. He wouldn't really want Dark Choco to be gentle, he thinks. Nobody's been genuine enough to sit on his couch and yell and snarl at his TV before. He'd want Dark Choco to—to hurt him, he thinks, and then apologize so gently with that smile. It's maddening. Sometimes, Madeleine thinks he almost understands the depths of Dark Choco's anger issues, when he thinks of the taller, broader, perfect man's wretchedly perfectly soft smile. It twists him up, confuses him so much. To feel something so deeply.
Oh. Right. They're playing, um, Brawl. The controller's gray stick thingy got stuck. Right. He's almost disappointed. Wonders if Dark Choco feels passionate about anything other than this random video game that was inside the console when Madeleine bought it. "Yeah, that is just terrible. You can have one of my stocks, if you want."
Dark Choco grunts. The guy is terrible at video games, and Madeleine isn't much better, to be honest; he got the Wii on a whim from an estate sale because he saw a great year of wine but they couldn't just sell the alcohol to him outright legally in this country. Madeleine has never played one before, and he was curious about Fortnite. There was a commercial for Fortnite on TV, actually, and sometimes people talk about it on Tik Tok. He was wondering what it's all about. It's weird that there isn't Fortnite for the Wii, actually, but before he knew that, he got wine-drunk off the vintage, set up the darned thing somehow, and tried to call—um, somebody, he can't remember who—to play a game with him so he wouldn't be playing a video game alone like some kind of pathetic loser. And he had accidentally called Dark Choco without even realizing it, and after rambling about video games and discs and Fortnite and a dozen other things, Dark Choco murmured into the phone in his ridiculously stupidly perfectly deep soft voice, ' Why not. I shall be over soon.'
It was so embarrassing. The next day. When Madeleine saw, and realized, but Dark Choco said he had fun, and—wait— "Hey, you didn't break the controller all the way! Nice!"
"...I got a new therapist a few weeks ago." Dark Choco doesn't talk about himself a lot, which sucks , in essence. Because Madeleine might give up the entire Republic, his crummy business degree, and even his Wii if it'll keep Dark Choco talking about anything at all.
Even if it's just to tell him that he's stupid, a lovesick fool.
Anything at all.
"Did you?" Keep it going. Just—just hold steady. Ask questions, be polite, respectful, whatever Dark Choco wants and needs, he's never done this in his life.
The end-battle scene shows on the TV, Madeleine's Marth won against Dark Choco's Kirby, but the victory doesn't really register. Sometimes, Madeleine crows, after Dark Choco gets his anger out for the night, and then the man sometimes nudges his shoulder and Madeleine wishes they could have some kind of physical contact that lasts just, just a bit longer, and Dark Choco derails his thoughts and says in the here and now, softly, "Yes. This one says that... I should redirect my anger."
"That sounds reasonable." Madeleine's never been to therapy.
"I talked with them about—this. Us. Playing. Games."
"What did they say?"
"That it is... good."
"Okay, good."
"Press green so we can continue."
"Right." Madeleine taps the big green button on the controller with his pinky finger, the rest of his hand splayed over the device, thumb over the yellow thingy, index finger over the grey one. He only holds it like this to be different, one handed, clutched in between his socked feet.
It's quiet, except for the little cry from the screen when Dark Choco selects Peach, and Madeleine's little murmur asking about CPUs, and then they fight again.
The CPUs are at their maximum difficulty of one (1), and it's an unspoken agreement to take them out before the robot people can take Dark Choco and he instead. Because they have, in previous months, but now Dark Choco and he are better now! So much better. Madeleine wonders if there's some kind of professional Super Smash Bros Brawl sports or something, because if Dark Choco stopped throwing controllers at the tile floor when he lost, they'd be a great team. They would win for sure.
"I talked with them—the therapist—about you," Dark Choco announces, voice echoing. Sometimes, his voice comes out as a bit too loud in Madeleine’s living room at night, but it's fine. He always quiets down quick.
Madeleine nods, realizes Dark Choco can't see him because they're both fixated on the screen, realizes double that Dark Choco has Madeleine on his blind side so he really can't see him at all. One of Madeleine's hands threads through his platinum hair, combing the same lock over and over again. He hums in affirmation, steadies the other hand on his controller.
"We talked about you for a while." Dark Choco launches and removes one of the evil robots from the stage, leaving one CPU left.
Another hum? Madeleine doesn't want to come across like how Mother always did him, humming, not listening to her son's rambles whatsoever. The first time he realized just how little she cared, he sobbed in his pillow. Madeleine opens one of those red and white spheres in-game, and two dragons zip around the stage, causing Dark Choco to lose a stock. Madeleine doesn't like being the first one to take a stock, because Dark Choco might get mad, and then he feels bad, but Dark Choco doesn't seem to mind that much this time.
"It was good. I have never talked about you before. To anyone."
"Really?" Madeleine gets launched by the CPU, but he figured out last week that if he does it just right, there's this difficult thing of pressing straight up and pressing the red button that makes his little sword fighter man jerk straight up and return to the stage where they're fighting. Dark Choco hasn't figured out the technique yet. Madeleine knows he’s jealous of how cool and smart and handsome and everything Madeleine is, even though he’s kind of, um, the same. Evenly matched.
"Milk is... he'd rather hear of my previous fights. And I have no other friends."
"...Right." Madeleine secretly, super privately, kind of likes being Dark Choco's only friend. His confidant. His everything?
"They said that our friendship," a breath, and Dark Choco continues, "does not particularly sound like one."
That makes him recoil. "Are—are we not friends?"
"I... considered you my first in a long time." Despite ages and Dark Choco's plethora of issues at the surface and Madeleine's own laundry list, deep down, they are. Um. Friends. Were friends? Maybe?
"Oh. O-okay."
"After careful reflection, however," and how Dark Choco can fling him off the stage and talk at the same time, Madeleine might never know, "I think it might be... prudent... to seek out other possible labels."
Madeleine hums, since he really doesn't know how else to respond, how to think around the huge lump in his throat.
"I was thinking it over. And listening to—to a song. On the radio, in my vehicle. About how some of the best times are when I'm alone, with you."
Dark Choco listens to cheesy love songs? Madeleine presses his knees together, adjusts his grip on his controller. That's—that's so cute.
"And, I do believe you hold romantic feelings for me."
Madeleine’s controller slips through his feet to clatter on the floor. His hands shake far too much to pick the sweat-slick thing back up. He's so scared to even think; it feels like Dark Choco, somehow, abruptly, is going to lead him astray, make fun of him like so many people here do nowadays. For something so stupid as falling in love. "I—I do. Yeah."
"I find myself," Dark Choco clears his throat, swallows, clears his throat again, "In agreement."
Huh? Madeleine's vocal chords are barely operational as he whispers, "Y—you love me? Back?"
"Yes," Dark Choco declares, and, with both of them at one stock and all CPUs dispatched, flings himself offstage, letting Madeleine win without even picking up his controller again.
Two strong fingers tug at his chin—turns him to the perfect man next to him—a warm, calloused hand slides along his jawline—cups it perfectly—and Dark Choco presses his lips against Madeleine's so incredibly gently, just a little brush.
Madeleine's hands ball up, he kisses back, his entire body is so sweaty, and when they pull back, Dark Choco smiles that perfect little smile and Madeleine wants the world to end, everything to cease ebbing and flowing, just to make the thing of absolute sterling beauty before him last the rest of forever.
Another kiss, and Dark Choco's smile feels perfect against his own.
And another. And another, until Madeleine can no longer wax poetic or anything, until he's swept up in that gentle, perfect passion.