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Sometimes, Roier hated having friends.
He loved them, so deeply, so genuinely, always loyal, but sometimes, he couldn’t keep up with what they expected of him.
How did Mariana expect him to become a lawyer in a day?
He ran a hand through his hair, somehow managing to mess it up more than it already was. A hole in his chest, a kid, buildings to attend to, and a court case. Could he not just relax for a second?
As much as he adored Bobby, spending time with the others, and continuing with his builds, he felt so stretched thin. It felt like his skin had run dry and his mind ached to be empty for once.
Sighing, he stood up from the bed he was sitting on and approached his closet. He should probably check if he has anything formal to wear.
Sifting through all of his clothes, all Roier can find are his sweaters and t-shirts, jeans and basketball shorts. Nothing fancy enough. He could have sworn he brought something nice to wear in case they had a party on the island, but he was starting to doubt himself. That is, until his fingers found the fabric of a blazer.
It was plain black and hung on a wire clothing hanger, draped over a white dress shirt with a limp, black tie around its collar.
Roier’s blood froze.
He had only ever worn this suit once, the first and last time he had felt hope in the miserable year of nineteen.
His outstretched hand fell to his side, gaze unable to tear away from the horror of nostalgia. Was he really so stupid to have packed this suit?
Did he really think he was over it?
Roier sat back down on the bed, letting his head fall into his hands. God, he was pathetic. A simple suit and he’s suddenly a wreck.
He looks down at his left hand and touches his ring finger. He misses having something on it, even if it was fake. All of it. Every second. Even if his attempts at caresses were never soft and he didn’t know how to kiss without his teeth, it was contact, and that’s all that mattered.
Fuck.
He misses him. Roier never thought he’d say it again, not with a new life ahead of him and opportunities that awaited a happier brilliance, but here he was: despairing at the absence of his brusqueness and curt replies, his cold-fire eyes and passionate hate.
His last ever proposal replays on repeat in some sacred, hidden spot in his mind.
Natalan had never looked so weak. So exhausted.
Roier knelt before him like he had done so many times before, smiling like everything between them was alright, confident that it could be fixed if Natalan just accepted him for once.
He made some pun about ice cream as Natalan quietly begged him not to do this again. His words were filled with the breaths of a man who was drowning. Roier only wanted to be his anchor.
“Would you like to marry me, Natalan?”
The silence afterwards killed him. Natalan looked at the setting sky instead of him, but when he looked back down, there was nothing in his gaze.
“No.”
There was nothing in his voice, but when he shoved Roier, he knew that he was angry. Disgusted. Disappointed.
He replied too quickly to be normal, eager to seek forgiveness, but he had a feeling Natalan wouldn’t grant him it for a while.
So, he went home. What else could he do, really?
He tugged at his tie once he entered his house, ready to get out of the stiff, formal clothing, but a knock at his door stopped him before he could get any further.
When he opened the door, the person he least expected to find was Natalan. He figured that the other would start avoiding him again.
“Nat?”
A tug at his shirt collar brought the other’s lips to his ear. “Do you love me?”
“Y-Yeah,” Roier answered without hesitation. “Why do you think I do what I do?”
“Show me.”
“What?” Roier thought he had heard wrong. Since when did Natalan ever want this? Want.. him?
“Show me that you love me, Ro,” he rasped.
And Roier felt his knees go weak at the pure desperation that haunted Natalan’s voice. It was so even and calm, but on the brink of shattering. Roier wanted nothing more than to finish the job.
It was hot that night, he remembers. In the midst of July and their own body heat, he knows they must have sweat through their clothes and the sheets.
The neighbors had heard. It would explain the complaints he received from Cry the next morning, but in the moment, he didn’t care how loud he was.
How could he when all he was focused on was that Natalan finally, for gods, needed him again?
It was truly pitiful how far he leaned in when Natalan touched him, how he sobbed at his every word, whether it be an insult or a compliment, how the fire his in stomach turned into a fountain of youth that captured their bodies in the moment for eternity— tender in their inexperience.
Roier gasped for air when it was all over, chest and head burning with the fever of love.
Natalan was too tired to protest when Roier curled into his side, arms thrown around his waist.
His suit was still on.
He shed it in the morning when he went to shower, and he had forgotten about it since.
Now, it was back again.
He’s probably just being delusional, but it still smells like sex and Natalan’s cologne. And he doesn’t want to wear it. He doesn’t want to slip back into the person he was at stupid, forlorn nineteen, but looking around at the rest of his closet, he really doesn’t own anything else formal.
He sighs heavily, slipping off his shirt.
Hopefully it still fits after all these years.