Chapter Text
“—so the discriminant b2 − 4ac gives information concerning the nature of the roots. If, instead of equating the above to zero, the curve ax2 + bx + c = y is plotted, it is seen that the real roots are the x coordinates of the points at which the curve crosses the x-axis. The shape of this curve in Euclidean two-dimensional space is a parabola; in Euclidean three-dimensional space it is a parabolic cylindrical surface, or paraboloid—”
Finney chances a look at the clock; ten minutes until the end of the class.
He sighs internally, fighting off the fatigue dragging his eyelids shut. He can’t afford to fall asleep now. If Mr. Johnson catches him snoozing during his lecture again, Finney’s absolutely sure there’ll be Hell to pay.
He grabs the pen he had set aside next to his abandoned textbook in favour of staring off into space, and rolls up his sleeves. Exhaling deeply, he presses the metal tip to his arm, applying the tiniest bit of pressure.
Blue ink flows onto his skin in practiced lines, marbling his light exterior in an imitation of a hellenistic sculpture. Focusing all of his attention on mindless doodling, Finney allows the teacher’s voice to become background white noise—it’s all just information about a subject he knows already, so really, there’s no point in listening to the older man rattle on.
Robin is going to need his help with it, though. His mind conjures up an image of his boyfriend sitting in the very same seat, frowning at the blackboard filled with mathematical equations like it’s personally offended him.
His lips tug up into a smile before he catches himself. As subtly as he can manage, he sneaks a stealthy glance at his classmates, praying no one saw him grinning to himself like a lunatic— They all have their heads either turned to the teacher in front of the class, or buried in their notebooks, putting very little effort into looking like they’re not bored out of their minds.
He turns his attention back to his own desk. Alright, good. His reputation won’t be taking another blow today... or rather, whatever’s left of it, at least.
It’s only then he notices the shape marring his wrist, the dark shade of blue stark against his pale complexion. Standing out proudly, Ursa Minor greets him like a shameless reminder of what he’d rather be doing. Or, well, who.
Finney blushes, memories of Robin’s lips on his throat like a branding seal rushing to the forefront of his mind. His hand almost instantly shoots up to cover the spot where he knows the marks are, faded but no less present. Robin had made sure they’d be staying for a while.
...He really shouldn’t be thinking about that in class.
Hurriedly, Finney rolls his sleeves back down, pulling them over his fingers. The sound of the bell’s shrill ringing saves him from further personal torment, but not from a certain quick-tempered blond who crashes right into him as he rushes to exit the classroom. The impact makes him let out an oof, bouncing away from the solid wall of muscle.
“What’s the hurry? You planning on doing the fire drill all by yourself? ” snarks a deep voice. Strong arms grip Finney's shoulders, keeping both him and the person he collided with from ending up sprawled on their backs.
Finney levels Vance with an unimpressed look. “Did you just come to nag at me for being punctual or did you actually need something?”
“Like I'd ever pass up the opportunity to do both.”
Shrugging out of the other blond's hold, Finney huffs. "State your intentions and leave, Hopper; unless you haven't noticed, I gotta get to my next class."
"Relax, I don't wanna be here either," Vance says, rolling his eyes. They slowly make their way through the corridors, narrowly avoiding bumping into other people.
"Then what brings you here?"
"One could say it's mutual interests."
"We have those?"
"Apparently," Vance grumbles. "Bruce wants us to go on a double date."
Oh.
"Oh." Well, it's not like he had anything else planned for today. "And you agreed?"
"Didn't really have any other choice." Vance pushes himself in front of Finney when he's nearly bumped into again. The crowd parts like the Red Sea before Moses.
Finney hums, "He batted his eyelashes at you, didn't he."
"Fucker knows I can't say no to him," Vance wipes a hand down his face. "Seriously, at this point it's just overkill. He didn’t even have to try."
"You know, you guys always make fun of me for having mushy feelings for Robin, but you're actually just as bad." Finney watches out of the corner of his eye as Vance flushes, fingers twitching at his sides.
The first time he saw his friend blush was not too long into their newfound camaraderie. Vance had come to pick him and Bruce up from one of their baseball matches — the golden boy had lived up to his name then, face brightening at the mere sight of his partner standing by the bleachers.
Finney had found it sweet, especially after Bruce leaned in to plant a big, loud smooch on the other blond’s cheek, rendering it neon scarlet for the rest of their trip home.
It’s not as bright now, Finney observers, but the shade is pretty much the same.
He slows to a stop when they arrive at the entrance of his next class.
“Well, this is me.” He readjusts the shoulder straps of his bag, right foot tapping a fast rhythm into the vinyl floor.
Vance gives him a curt nod, glancing around the buzzing classroom. Finney suspects the other has never been in this part of the school. It’s mainly filled with biology classes, occasionally used to dissect dead frogs; which, without a doubt, is one of Finney’s least favourite activities.
He shudders at the idea of going through that again. No thanks; he’ll much rather take a boring lesson on aquatic plants, kelp included.
“Make sure to drag your boyfriend’s useless ass over to my place when you’re done with practice. Knowing him, he’ll probably try to bail.”
“Oh, you mean because of what happened the last time—?”
“Damn right! Fucker almost blew my kitchen up!”
"Don't act like you didn't have a part in it too. It took four hands to put the pasta in the pot and two idiots to somehow set it on fire," Finney scolds.
His companion scoffs, mouth pressing into a thin line. There is a good reason for why both him and Robin are banned from entering people's kitchens, especially when the two of them are together.
The bell rings again, cutting off any possible scathing remark the other could have come up with. People start filtering in through the doorway, desperate to make it somewhat on time.
Finney should really be joining them, but still, he waits.
Vance huffs before leaning into Finney's personal space in a well practiced routine. Their heads nudge against each other, rough and playful and endlessly affectionate, and Finney promises to come by later with his other half in tow before slipping into the class.
Thanks to Bruce’s insistent request and Vance’s reluctant compliance, the two couples finally get together to enjoy a nice, peaceful double date.
For some reason, that also includes Billy and Griffin.
“Why are they here.”
The small assembly is greeted by Vance’s deadpan expression upon their arrival. He’s staring the two aforementioned boys down like they’ve come to egg his house.
Seems like he still hasn’t gotten over that.
Finney at least has the grace to look sheepish. “We kind of ran into each other on our way here?”
“Seemed rude not to invite them over if the four of us were already going to be hanging out,” chimes Robin, ever so helpful.
“Yeah, bitch, you hear that?” If Finney looks really closely, he might be able to see Vance’s eye twitch. Unlike him, Griffin doesn’t seem to notice or care that he’s evidently poking the very agitated bear with a proverbial stick.
With a confident pep in his step, he brushes past Vance’s imposing figure and strides into the house. “This is what you get for not involving us in your group plans!”
“What he said.” Billy doesn’t enter with quite as much flamboyance as his counterpart, but he does throw a rather smug smirk in Vance’s direction. “Sorry for the intrusion, by the way. Hope you don’t mind.”
“We brought beer, in case that cheers you up,” Robin remarks, holding up two plastic bags. One of them was originally carried by Finney, but somewhere along the way it must have travelled over to Robin’s grasp, his empty hand now laced with Finney’s. “You gonna let us in now?”
Vance sighs, stepping aside to allow the boys free entry.
The first thing Finney notices is that the house smells heavenly; like cinnamon and pumpkin spice, the very epitome of the slowly upcoming autumn months.
The next thing that doesn’t escape Finney’s acute observational skills is how hot it is inside.
Warm air hits him like a brick, and he immediately sheds the scarf he’d taken to wearing around. It’s chunky, loose threads sticking out in some places and not looping around each other properly in others, but it’s good at keeping him insulated and it makes Gwen's eyes light up whenever she sees it on him.
He has to remember to get her something as equally thoughtful for her birthday next year.
"Finney!"
The boy whirls around at the sound of a voice calling his name. There he stands; the reason behind the house's tropical temperatures, unapologetic and comfortable, like he belongs. Finney supposes he does.
Bruce grins at him, looking small and cozy in a sweater that's a size too big on him. Finney recognizes it as one of Vance's.
"I was wondering if I just imagined all the voices, but no. Seems like you guys brought some additional company to the party."
He doesn't seem angry, thank God. That must mean that whatever plans he had, the sudden appearance of two more people didn't ruin them.
"Hey, Bruce. Sorry about that," Finney offers the other a meek wave. "They're apparently a part of the package deal? Ask for one and you'll get the others for free and all that."
"Or so I'm told," Bruce shakes his head with a smile. "I'll try to keep that in mind for the next time." He takes Finney's jacket and shoos him deeper into the house.
The rest of the group has already settled in when he and Bruce enter, everyone in their respective seats. Excited chatter fills the room, mostly intercepted by the sound of beer cans opening and the TV playing in the background.
Finney moves to take a seat on the couch next to Griffin, but he's stopped by a hand on his wrist.
"Where are you going?" Robin looks at him expectantly.
"To sit down?" Finney points at the only empty space left rather matter-of-factly. He doesn’t even get to take another step towards it before he’s wordlessly pulled back.
"Seriously?"
"You can just sit here. There’s enough room for both of us."
Robin’s reclined in one of the love seats, looking for all the world like the most comfortable person on the planet. It doesn't take a genius to observe that the armchair is distinctly designed for only one person to sit in.
As if on cue, his devil of a boyfriend spreads his legs out in invitation. Finney gulps audibly, mouth abruptly dry.
Well, it couldn’t hurt, right? It’s just more practical; after all, the couch is quite crowded, and personally, Finney would rather not have to squeeze himself in between Griffin, who tends to be a danger to the public with his habit of overly gesticulating, and the slightly musty cushions.
Robin cheers under his breath when Finney settles on his lap. His face immediately gravitates towards Finney's neck, nose pressed against the curve of his jaw.
Possessive bastard.
Finney ignores the fluttery feeling in his stomach in favour of mock-scowling. Of course, he's not the only one who takes note of Robin's obsession with his marks.
"He really went to town on you, didn't he?" Billy comments, pointedly eyeing Finney's neck.
The blond flushes under his friend's scrutinizing gaze. He tugs at the collar of his shirt, attempting to cover the minefield that his throat has become. It’s no use. He feels Robin huff in amusement, hot air tickling the hair on his nape.
"You do look like you got mauled by a bear, Finney," Griffin pipes up. "Want to borrow some of my mom's makeup? She won't mind."
Finney hums, contemplating the idea. The offer doesn’t sound half too bad. It’s either that, or he’ll have to invest in some turtlenecks—
"Really, Griffin? I worked hard on that, you know," Robin gripes, humor filing away the rougher edges of his voice. "And here you go, not even taking a second to appreciate the art before you offer to destroy it."
"You be quiet, Robin. Most people at school think you got into a scuffle with a vampire."
Not a vampire — Finney. But hey, close enough.
“It’s worse ‘cause he’s not even trying to cover it up,” Vance sneers, lifting his beer to his lips. The foam doesn’t exactly hide his smirk, but it does make him look like an old turd in Finney’s humble opinion.
Bruce shakes his head. “Kids these days.”
Finney feels his cheeks prickle with heat. This whole conversation and the position he’s in reminds him all too much of... that time, and while he doesn’t think anything would happen with their friends present, it could potentially become a problem.
The others have thankfully moved onto a different topic. Vance is trying to fight off Griffin— the younger boy is flailing his arms about in an effort to steal his beer, rather unsuccessfully.
It doesn’t stop him from trying harder.
Finney tunes out the conversation in favour of focusing on his own predicament. He wriggles around, hoping to create a better arrangement for his and Robin’s limbs.
"You better not be trying to start anything, Finn."
He stills when he feels fingers digging into his side. The touch is barely there, almost unnoticeable through the multiple layers he’s wearing, but it hardly matters. Finney’s always been admittedly hyper focused when it came to Robin.
"I'm just trying to get more comfortable."
"If this position doesn't suit you,” it does, it really does, that’s the problem, “I could think of a few others."
To his utter misery, Finney's blush deepens. He can’t believe he’s getting winded just from a bit of dirty talk. With company, nevertheless—!
He suspects it’s mostly because of the knowledge that Robin will follow through on his word.
"Knock it off, you perv."
"I will, if you settle down."
Not wanting to try his luck, Finney listens. Certainly not because he found some basic part of his brain yielding to Robin’s command all too eagerly, like it’s been waiting to do that his entire life.
It turns out that spending time with all six of them was something Finney’s missed dearly, without ever realizing it. He laughs when Bruce shamelessly plucks the beer can from Vance’s grip, taking a sip from it despite his partner’s half-hearted protests, and nearly dies when Billy hands Griffin a glass of orange juice, the other accepting it begrudgingly.
Finney’s in fact enjoying himself so much, he forgets about his earlier worries.
"If you don't want us to get in trouble, you'll stop wriggling around, cariño."
He freezes. Fuck, he forgot he was still in Robin’s lap.
Robin, it appears, did not. On second thought, he does sound a bit short of breath.
Testing the waters, the blond squirms again, this time with purpose.
"Stop it," Robin admonishes.
"Stop what?"
“Don’t fuck with me, Finn. You know what.”
Oh, so he is affected.
“You know you have no one to blame but yourself, right?” Finney points out, absolutely delighted by his new findings. “I was completely fine with taking the couch.”
“If I knew you were going to be such a pain in the ass, I would have just let you take the floor.”
“You wouldn’t,” Finney counters. “My knees would be fucked up by the end of the night.”
“At this rate? They will be.”
Finney fights down the blush creeping on his cheeks, only to fail miserably when he catches Bruce staring at him. The star baseball player shoots him a wink, not at all bothered by the sight of two of his friends necking in broad daylight.
Alright— it’s official. Finney’s friends are weird. All of them. Even the most normal-looking ones are secretly drama loving, chaos inducing gargoyles.
Maybe except for Billy. Billy is too reasonable and above things to gain any joy from messing with other people.
“Oi! You two,” Vance barks, just as Robin’s fingers slip underneath Finney’s sweatshirt. “Hands above the belt where I can see them!”
“Yeah,” Billy drawls. Finney regrets ever having considered him a good friend. He’s clearly awful, just the worst. A total backstabber. “Try to reign in those carnal desires of yours whilst we’re still here, will you? I‘m not really itching for that kind of show tonight.”
Naturally, Robin doesn’t let the slander slide. “You’re just saying that because you’re jealous, Showalter.”
“How dare you accuse me of harvesting such feelings for one of my closest friends, Arellano?” Billy gasps in mock shock, eyes comically wide.
Griffin pointedly elbows his seatmate in the ribs, receiving a painful sounding grunt from the older boy. “Guys, shut up. The movie is gonna start soon.”
“—And that’s my cue,” Bruce gets up to move in the direction of the kitchen. Without a word, Vance follows him. “I’ll go get our food ready. You guys make sure to behave!”
“Yeah. No fucking in the Hopper household, you dipshits,” Vance hollers from the doorway, sending a pointed glare in Finney and Robin’s direction. He kind of looks like an angry chihuahua, not that Finney would ever say that out loud. “As long as you’re under my roof, there will be no sexual intercourse! None!”
The responses he receives vary from impassive hums of acknowledgement, Griffin yelling “Yes, dad!” and a distinctly defiant middle finger. Finney flicks Robin’s wrist for that one.
His lover catches the offending hand easily, tangling their fingers together.
“We’re not done yet, amor.”
Right. Because Finney’s life can never be easy.
In an attempt to placate the older boy, Finney brings their entwined hands to his lips, pressing a kiss to his partner’s knuckles. His sleeve slips down in the process, revealing a flash of blue dots and lines. Finney can tell Robin notices if the way he freezes in recognition is anything to go by.
To his credit, he doesn’t say anything. Finney’s stomach still erupts into a swarm of butterflies when he catches a glimpse of an obnoxious smirk.
“Later.”
Humming, Robin places a chaste kiss on the side of Finney’s neck, sealing the deal.
“Later.”
"Is this what you had in mind when you proposed the date?" Vance mutters, staring morosely at the rest of the group from the doorway. He’s not lurking. No, no, what he’s doing is much more significant than that.
He’s keeping an eye on a bunch of well disguised, unwaveringly ticking time-bombs, all the more deadly for their unpredictability. Vance wouldn’t go as far as to call himself a trouble connoisseur, but this setup right here has caused him more gray hairs than it’s worth and he’ll be damned if he allows himself to let his guard down—
A loud clattering noise reverberates through the air like a gunshot. From the corner of his eye, Vance can make out a bunch of unopened beer cans rolling away from their designated spot on the floor.
“Sorry! Sorry, my bad,” a head full of curly, dirty blond hair leans over the back of the couch to shoot him an apologetic smile. The only thing sincere about it is the mischievous glint in Griffin’s eyes.
Fucker. He can try as many times as he wants. There’s not a single chance in the world he’ll be anywhere near tipsy in Vance’s house.
He’s learned from the last time, thank you very much.
“You’re on thin fucking ice, Stagg. If you try to pull anything funny I will not hesitate to feed you to the dogs.”
“You don’t have any dogs...?”
“Billy will lend me his.”
“Sure thing,” Billy agrees. “Not sure if she’ll want to eat him, though. He’s all bones and no meat.”
“The bones are the best part, asshat,” Robin snorts. “You’re acting as if you’ve never seen a dog chew on one before.”
“Listen, it’s not my fault she’s so particular about her diet—”
Vance tunes out the rest of the conversation. He turns to Bruce with every intention of letting him know just how much he had aged in the past ten minutes.
“If this is your idea of fun, then you can buckle up, sweetheart. It’s the last time I’m ever letting you decide on anything,” he huffs, crossing his arms petulantly.
Unfazed, Bruce continues scavenging for dinner-appropriate Tupperware, which just happens to be stored on the higher shelves of the kitchen cabinets. Funny. It's rarely ever used by the permanent residents of the Hopper household, only ever seeing the light of day when their honorary member comes over—and yet, each time after being washed and dried, it never fails to find its way into the barely reachable cupboards whether Bruce puts it there or not.
Vance could help him, but he’s also rather content staying back and watching his menace of a boyfriend struggle. Serves him right for making jokes about Vance’s height, the fucker.
It also doesn’t hurt that the view is... not bad. Each time Bruce stands on his tiptoes to reach for a plate, the sweater he’s wearing rides up just enough to reveal a sliver of smooth, tan skin.
His fingers itch with the desire to touch. He distracts himself by piecing together why the article of clothing hanging off of Bruce's frame looks so familiar...
His pondering comes to an end when he catches sight of a familiar stain.
It's his– of course it's his. Vance had probably only worn it once before, the colour too bright and the sleeves too long to be anything but impractical—not to mention that it made him look like a dumbass. He remembers regretting the purchase the moment the cashier rang it up, but his mother had said it was “lovely” and Vance had never been able to say no to her.
All in all, Vance had never liked the sweater on himself.
He really, really likes it on Bruce.
The other boy grunts, “You said the same thing last time I suggested trying couples yoga, and look how that turned out.”
Right. Vance calls bullshit on that. “Did you forget about the part where you bitched about being sore for a whole week after?"
Bruce ducks his head, huffs. He shoves a bag of popcorn into the microwave, setting the timer. Vance is pleased to note that his ears are red.
“That’s unfortunately a side effect that comes with learning the limits of your own flexibility,” he fiddles with a bottle of soy sauce as he waits for the snack to be done, “especially when the one helping you has yet to figure out how to control their own strength.”
Vance splutters, “I told you we didn’t have to do that last move in the end, you asked me to—”
“I didn’t expect to have my back nearly broken in two when I was asking!”
“I didn’t hear you complain when you were begging me to go harder.”
Bruce blushes a deep scarlet. Vance smirks. Self-satisfaction is best served on your boyfriend’s piping hot face, as it seems.
“Now, care to tell me why we’re turning my house into a glorified brothel when we could have been doing anything else that didn’t raise my blood pressure through the roof?”
“Vance—”
“Spill, Bruce.”
The other boy sighs ruefully, setting aside a bowl filled with chips. "I just thought it would be a good idea to get the gang back together for once. Robin and Finney have been spending a lot of time together, and frankly, it’s been a while since we’ve hung out like this,” turning around, Bruce opens another cupboard and starts rummaging through it. “I know you missed them, too.”
Vance hovers nearby, just in case his airhead of a boyfriend accidentally flips the contents of the entire pantry on his head. The proximity brings him close enough to hook his chin on Bruce’s shoulder.
His next inhale is filled with the scent of his partner's body-wash. Bruce insists he doesn't use one, the lying fuck, but Vance isn't an idiot. He knows there's simply no way anyone could smell like sunshine and mangos naturally.
And no. He will not elaborate on what sunshine smells like. (Bruce, obviously.)
“If it was for my sake then you shouldn’t have bothered. The last thing I wanted was to have them all over each other in my living room.”
"And here I thought it was my boyfriend who kept complaining about how Finney's been ditching their weekly gossip sessions for his new playmate," Bruce jokes, tilting his head so he can throw Vance a teasing look. "Must have been someone else."
"Must have been," Vance nuzzles the back of Bruce's head. The smell of exotic fruit is even stronger here, and Vance wants to do something stupid, like roll around in the scent until he’s covered in it. "Your boyfriend talking about anyone else but you? Impossible."
"What, you haven't gotten sick of my company yet?"
"Never," landing a peck behind Bruce's ear, Vance grumbles, "could have done without the other four. You remember what they did to my house? Egging it is one thing, but using rotten eggs? That’s a sure-fire way to get on my hit list with no chance of redemption. Ever."
“If I remember correctly, then it wasn’t all four of them, just the two,” Bruce spins around in Vance’s arms, a newly acquired bowl of candy held between their chests. He’d probably never admit he put it there on purpose, but Vance knows better. “And in their defense; they didn’t know the eggs were rotten.”
“You’re only defending them because you didn’t have to clean up the mess.”
“Yes. That’s because you forced them to.”
“They had it coming.” Vance leans in, nuzzling Bruce’s cheek. His heart leaps with joy at the contact with his beloved’s soft skin. “You know they did.”
“I’m just glad neither of us smelled like death and vomit after they were done,” Bruce tuts. “It would have sucked not to be able to kiss you.”
“What, you wouldn't kiss me if I reeked of death and vomit?”
“Why’d you think I kept on insisting we hang out at my place for the next three weeks?”
Vance furrows his brows in thought before leveling Bruce with a suspicious look. “Is that why you sprayed me with the hose when I came over?”
“It was for the greater good, love.”
“You told me it was an accident!”
“Yeah. Wait until I tell you about Santa Claus and the Easter Bunny. You’re gonna shit your pants,” Bruce grins.
The blond stifles his chuckles into the corner of Bruce’s mouth. “You’re unbelievable.”
“I’m your personal hygiene fairy—Keep up.”
Vance snorts. He buries his head in Bruce’s neck, nipping at the long expanse of sun-kissed skin. He absolutely refuses to feel enamored by someone treating him like a child. If it were anyone else, he’d have bashed their skulls in already, but he figures that kind of treatment wouldn’t fly well with the young Yamada. It’s one of the things Vance has always liked about him.
As a cherry on top, Bruce lifts a hand to card through Vance’s hair, effectively petting him. He leans into the touch.
Standing in the middle of the kitchen like this, his back is turned to the living room. Vance feels a prickling feeling in the back of his head. “Are those two committing adultery on my mother’s sofa? Be honest.”
Bruce peeks over his shoulder. “Do you really want to know?”
“...Not really.”
Hot breath tickles Vance’s ear when Bruce lets out a chuckle. “They’re being PG-16. Nothing too bad.”
“Christ.”
“They won’t do anything. Billy and Griffin are right there.”
How very not reassuring.
“It’s baffling to think you were going to make us put up with those newlyweds without any sort of buffer. Who knows what would have happened if the midgets weren’t there, acting like cockblockers?”
“In my defense, I was going to have a private talk with Finney.”
A pause. “...You don’t mean The Talk, do you?”
Bruce shrugs. “Figured he could use the advice. He cornered me about it yesterday.”
“Fuck,” Vance says, with feeling. “They grow up too fast.”
“They’re barely a year younger than us, babe.”
“Tell them to use protection and not to jump each other’s bones in public and send them on their way,” he grunts.
“I did!” Bruce hurries to reassure him. Then, he thinks better of it. “Well, the first part, at least. Pretty sure they know better than to be that careless.”
“You have too much faith in them.”
“And you too little.”
They lock gazes, neither of them willing to back down. Bruce’s stare is unflinching, steady. Vance eventually yields with a mouthful of candy. If he’s going to participate in any of this, he better be damn well compensated.
“They’re going to be absolutely terrible.”
“I don’t see how that would be a change from how they behave normally.” Bruce quirks an annoyingly perfect eyebrow at him. “Think they're going to be fine?”
Vance huffs out a laugh. “It’s Finney and Robin. One of them is going to kill for the other sooner or later. It’s just a matter of time.”
“I better get the bail-out money ready, then.”
“Thought you’d used all of it on me?”
Bruce purses his lips, unimpressed. “Our friends are a bunch of rabid dogs, Vance. I have a savings account dedicated to getting you lot out of jail one day.”
“You’re such a scout,” Vance swoons, peppering Bruce’s cheeks with purposefully wet kisses. He grins when the other pushes at his chest weakly, laughing all the while. “So reliable. Husband material, really."
“There’s no way you’re going to be putting a ring on this if you don’t let me finish making the food.”
Right. That’s why they’re in the kitchen. Not because Vance wanted to have some alone-time with his significant other and could only do so by breaking one of their few house rules and entering the forbidden land.
“You sure you don’t want me to go out and buy something instead? Those guys won’t even recognize the difference between a home-cooked meal and a store-bought mac and cheese. We both know they’re going to complain either way.”
Snickering softly, Bruce shakes his head. “Yes, Vance. I’m sure.” He gives him one of his signature blinding smiles. Even after all this time, Vance is unable to say he’s become any more accustomed to it than he has in the past. "Billy and Griff may not have been a part of the initial plan, but hey, I can easily turn dinner for four into dinner for six, why not?"
Inclining his head to the side, he shoots Vance a teasing smile. "Mind being my sous-chef?"
"Thought I wasn't allowed in the kitchen."
"No, you and Robin aren't allowed in the kitchen. But when I ask you, it's fine– You're going to be under my supervision, after all." Bruce blinks at him coyly, as if not at all intentional. "And if I'm supposed to whip up a sufficient feast for all these wannabe arsonists, then I could really use a hand."
Vance smirks. "Mhm. I'm sure you could."
Bruce licks his lips. Vance’s eyes slip down, easily fixating on the sight of what he knows is a pretty, pillowy mouth, ripe for the taking. He smooths a hand down Bruce’s hair, relishing the way Bruce’s eyelids flutter when he thumbs at his bottom lip.
By all means, Vance could kiss him. Could close the short distance, join their mouths together in a familiar press they have quickly perfected over the course of this thing between them. But a part of him, the one that’s quiet most days and hunkered in the back of his mind, can’t help but find immeasurable pleasure in just... looking at Bruce.
His boyfriend is easy on the eyes, no doubt, but most of all, his obsession might have something to do with the fact that Bruce lets him. Lets him see him, know him, be with him. Something about being Bruce’s favourite person makes Vance turn to putty.
He nearly giggles when Bruce leans in.
(Vance needs to work on that— no way can he have all of his masculinity leave him the moment Bruce so much as looks at him a certain way.)
His only saving grace is that the door-frame should block them from any prying eyes in the living room, saving him from the potential embarrassment of being seen—
"Eugh! Get a room you two!" the voice of their youngest exclaims, loudly.
Bruce whirls around without missing a beat, "We can't! You're hogging it!"
Vance laughs. He can’t help it. Bruce looks so put-off by Griffin interrupting them, huffing and puffing like he’s considering smacking the younger over the head with a pan. Or, quite possibly, a knife.
So, like the good boyfriend and aspiring pacifist that he is, Vance presses a chaste kiss against Bruce’s temple and offers to cut the tomatoes for a quickly put together spaghetti dish. And if he puts some extra pepper on Griffin’s plate? Well, that’s solely between him and God.
“You’re really going to get yourself killed one day.”
“You think?” Griffin grins, settling back into the cushions. He can hear Bruce fuming from the other room, a sound he had quickly grown accustomed to.
He smirks. Serves the prick right for acting all lovey-dovey in front of him when he can't even get his crush to look his way.
On the other end of the couch, Billy huffs out an exasperated exhale. “Five bucks says they’re gonna poison your food.”
“They wouldn’t. I’m a baby.”
“So?”
“Vance is basically my legal guardian,” Griffin stretches his legs, angling them onto Billy’s lap. The older raises an eyebrow, but allows it nevertheless. “That would automatically make Bruce my other legal guardian. They’re pretty much my parents—if they poison me, they’ll get a bad rep for the rest of their lives.”
“I don’t think they’re all too concerned about that.” He takes a sip of his beer. Griffin watches his throat bob. He gulps, wetting his lips distractedly.
"They should be. There's no way they're adopting another kid if people find out they've killed their firstborn."
"Are you meant to be the firstborn?"
"Yep!"
A mean little smile spreads over Billy's face. "I think the people will understand."
Griffin squawks in indignation. Offended, he kicks his foot out. Billy catches it easily, trapping his ankle in a firm grip. Begrudgingly, Griffin settles.
The movie they've committed themselves to watching tonight is one Griffin can't recall ever having heard of. Some type of romcom—Bruce's pick, for sure.
He tries to entertain himself for a bit by guessing where the plot is going, but eventually gives in. Someone's bound to end up with someone else in the end anyway, and frankly, he's sick of seeing happy couples parading around without a single care in the world for the other sad, pining individuals.
He turns to one such couple in question. Finney and Robin seem to be deep in conversation, all cozied and wrapped up in each other. They make the perfect picture of a content duo.
Ew. Griffin's disgusted. And jealous. And, of course, happy, because they're still his friends. But mostly disgusted.
Robin whispers something into Finney's ear. The blond in his lap gasps before chortling, cheeks ablaze as he tries to muffle his laughter into the crook of Robin's neck.
Life really isn't fair.
For a moment, Griffin considers the pros and cons of throwing a pillow at Robin's face to wipe the smug look off of it, but a squeeze around his foot stops him.
"Leave them be," Billy says, tone just a touch admonishing. He rubs circles into Griffin's skin, casual and distracting and wonderful—
Griffin bites the inside of his cheek in order to stop himself from doing something stupid, like getting on his knees and begging Billy to give him a chance. They don't need a repeat of last year's Christmas party. Griffin blames it on the mistletoe and spiked punch. (Nevermind that he was the one who sneaked the rum in—afterwards, Vance had given him a harrowing lecture that lasted for hours.)
Instead of revealing how much of a lovestruck fool he is, Griffin reaches over to grab for Vance’s discarded beer. He’s stopped by another hand ensnaring his wrist.
“I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”
“Why? I'm old enough to drink." Griffin tugs his arm back. Billy lets him go without a fuss.
"Just because you can do something doesn't mean you should."
Griffin scowls, "Don't patronize me, asshole."
"You were the one who started with all the baby talk," Billy points out, amused despite himself, "what, you're suddenly all grown up now? Don't want us to baby you anymore?"
"Not if you're gonna be condescending about it, no."
“Suit yourself," Billy shrugs, hands up in surrender. He pushes his own beverage in Griffin's direction, eyes sparkling with a challenge.
Griffin rises to the bait—he’s a weak man, so sue him. He'd like to see other people deal with the moral dilemma of wanting to be doted on without a certain someone taking it as a green light to treat him like his personal lapdog.
Meanwhile, Billy’s smiling like he’s about to win a dare, which is just stupid—he never picks the more adventurous option when playing truth-or-dare. Griffin despises him just a bit more for that; fucker probably thinks he’s too good to eat toothpaste or draw a dick on his forehead for the game, all in the name of good fun.
Throwing the other boy one last dirty look, he snatches the half-drunk can from Billy’s grip and lifts it to his lips. The beer, as expected, tastes awful. It’s foul and bitter, and Griffin resists the urge to make a face.
Billy watches him raptly, lips quirked up. He hands him the glass of orange juice from before, snickering when Griffin promptly refuses it. He exchanges their drinks nonetheless.
“Don’t push yourself too much, babe. You might end up actually liking it if you’re not careful.”
“Isn’t that the point?” Griffin coughs, wiping his mouth with his sleeve.
“No one actually likes beer, Griff,” Billy rolls his eyes, taking a drink, “it tastes like shit.”
“Why are you drinking it then?”
“Because you can't.” Griffin lets out a disbelieving sound. His pride is taking quite the blows today. He’s not sure he should stay friends with someone whose hobby is to constantly insult him and his ego. "It means I’m better than you. Proves I have stronger taste buds.”
“You’re a dick is what it proves.”
“Awe," the older croons, cocking his head to the side, "Sorry, love. Did I offend you?”
Oh, the nerve of this man.
Does Billy think he can ruffle his feathers that easily? As if. Griffin isn't some overly sensitive young maiden in need of constant verbal validation to feel included. Furthermore, he refuses to give Billy the satisfaction of revealing how much he's affected by the pet names.
He pulls his legs to his chest, crossing his arms petulantly. If Billy wants to act like a jerk, then he can do so whilst graced by the exquisite view of Griffin’s side profile.
"Griff."
Hm. Are those new curtains? Griffin doesn't remember seeing them before. Cute pattern.
"Hey, shortstack."
His nails are getting a bit too long. He should cut them before they start getting in the way when he does his chores. That’s just a recipe for disaster.
"Griffin."
Ah, yes. The floor is made out of floor—
His eloquent thoughts are interrupted by a calloused hand seizing his jaw, turning it to face the other boy’s narrowed gaze. Griffin’s breath gets stuck in his throat from the sudden proximity.
"Don't ignore me, sweetheart. I won't be happy with you if you do," Billy snarls, threatening in a way that makes it hard to tell whether he’s being serious or not.
"Sounds like a you problem," Griffin speaks through squished cheeks. Billy's grip does not relent.
"Really?” he drawls. “I could make it an "us" problem."
"Oh, so there's an us now?"
Griffin’s mouth falls shut with an audible click. He swallows down a wave of panic, cold washing over him the longer the words sit in the air, gruesomely incriminating in their bluntness.
Billy looks at him, eyebrows raised in a disconcertingly attractive manner. Griffin curses. Now is really not the right time to be noticing how hot he is.
He hopes to God Billy stops staring at him, because he never really knows what to do with all the attention once he finally gets it. Maybe it’s karma for being so desperate for it, he wonders sullenly.
Finally, he’s saved from the impending shadow of a mental breakdown by the other’s calm voice.
“There’s always been an us, Griff.”
Griffin’s brain shuts down. It restarts, crashes again, and reboots with such vigor he’s nearly knocked off of the couch by the sheer force of it.
“There has?” he croaks. He pointedly ignores the sniggering coming from the world’s shittiest third-wheeling audience sitting just a couple of feet to the side. This isn’t about them.
Billy hums. He doesn’t offer an explanation, nor does he elaborate on what he meant by that statement any further. He makes a grab for Griffin’s legs, pulling them into his lap. Comfortable, the brunet turns his gaze back to the television, hands absentmindedly kneading at Griffin’s tense muscles.
He’s never felt so goddamn flustered by someone using him as a stress ball. What the fuck.
Griffin sips at his orange juice, silent. He keeps his eyes carefully glued to the screen, and doesn’t react when he feels an arm slide around the back of the couch, warm fingertips brushing against his shoulder—instead, he suppresses a shiver when Billy scrapes a blunt nail across his ankle during a particularly intimate scene in the movie, and doesn’t even think about acknowledging the conspiratorial/knowing looks Bruce and Vance shoot him upon walking in with their food.
After the credits roll, Billy takes it upon himself to embarrass all of them by doing a bad impression of the male love-interest’s confession scene. He makes the mistake of looking directly at Griffin when he says, “You’re the only one for me, babygirl”, for which he, naturally, gets a pillow to the face.
He howls with mirth when Griffin reaches for a fork, attempting to artfully lodge it in Billy’s left eye socket. Billy can’t see how red his face is if he doesn’t have anything to see with—it’s simple logic, really.
The room fills with thunderous laughter, almost as loud as the rain outside. At some point, Vance tries to separate them, only to end up tackled to the ground. They wrestle, and Griffin wins, looking dead into Billy’s eyes when he wheezes out a, “Never. Call me that again.”
Like the smug fucker that he is, Billy only shrugs. He smirks, immediately triggering Griffin’s suspicions.
“Whatever you say, baby-boy.”
His screams echo through the house. He doesn’t stop teasing Griffin even after he’s nearly forcefully evicted from the realm of the living, and Griffin doesn’t stop turning pink with shame each time he hears the terrible nickname, accompanied by the good-natured cackling from the rest of their group.
It’s good. Warm. Comfortable and safe in a way Griffin had never expected to feel around people, especially this particular set. He’d never admit it out loud, but privately, Griffin is glad he gets to watch as Finney traces shapes on the back of Robin’s hand, as Robin melts every time the other so much as breathes in his direction.
(Not to mention the very real struggle of witnessing the Vance Hopper fluctuate between acting tough and strong and turning into soft jelly at the sight of the resident Golden Boy's smile. Horrifyingly, he caves in when Bruce demands they reenact the famous spaghetti scene from Lady and the Tramp. Griffin is embarrassed for him.)
All in all, he’d say this was a pretty successful double-turned-triple date. Giddy from the onslaught of good company, a belly full of food and a hand resting on his knee, Griffin can’t wait to butt in on the next one.