Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“You know who you are,” Ken said, the accusatory whine plenty audible in spite of his very best intentions. “Your life is already perfect.”

Because it was, obviously. Allan didn’t waste his days wishing for his special someone to simply glance in his direction. Allan didn’t spend his nights panicking that some other Ken might waltz right in and steal the place in their heart he had so painstakingly carved out for himself. 

All of Ken’s clothes fit him, flawlessly, and still Allan stubbornly chose his own wardrobe.

Turned down his silver lamé tux on dance night, though Ken was always frustratedly jealous of the way it looked on him, and whenever they went hiking had to be coaxed into changing into his lederhosen with red ribbon suspenders, like Ken wasn’t making a really generous sacrifice, letting Allan take the spotlight when his hair already glinted so prettily in the sunlight.

In the early days of the patriarchy, the good times back when it was all horses and picking out the coolest wristwatch collection, Ken had offered his buddy his very own cowboy outfit. The black one with the fringing and the embroidery and the highly fashionable contrasting pink neckerchief, the one he had known would look absolutely awesome set against the pale length of Allan’s neck.

Who wouldn’t be blown away by that?

Allan, apparently. 

The horses patch he had eventually settled on, while undeniably cool, hadn’t even been designed to match with anything of Ken’s.

He had had to search the length and breadth of Barbieland to find a passable facsimile for the lining of his fur patriarchy coat.

In the present Allan didn’t quite meet his eye, long fingers plucking at the hem of his striped shirt.

“Yeah, I’m sure it looks that way.”

The Ken he had been before wouldn’t have picked up on the subtle undertones of that. He would have been too busy thinking about how nicely Allan’s hair fell over his forehead, and how supremely unfair it was that his own failed to do likewise, because there was no way Barbie couldn’t be impressed by it. 

The Ken he was now had been to the Real World. He had seen things. Done things. He had been asked the time, right there in public, and he had almost torn apart the fabric of society, just before weeping a river of tears into the bed he had always believed he would one day share with his Barbie.

He was on a journey of self-enlightenment, that was what Weird Barbie had told him, amongst a whole raft of other words he had no hope of spelling, and though he was still thinking about how nice Allan’s hair looked, he was also thinking about what Allan might have meant with that statement. 

This Ken was a multitasker.

He pondered Allan’s words later that same afternoon, while he strolled along a particularly fine patch of sand in what he knew to be Allan’s favourite part of the beach, and he considered them the following morning while he lounged attractively in the vicinity of the ice cream stand, in the spot he had long ago determined showcased his six pack most attractively. 

They played over in his head, right through the critical plot beats of movie night, and they were still there when Allan patiently explained the bits he had missed, the same way he had when Ken had spent his evenings wondering if Barbie might like him better, if the sun painted freckles across the bridge of his nose like it did with Allan’s.

He was kind of distracted by that thought, when he waved hello to Trainee Nurse and Junior Lab Technician Kens a few days later, so that they had already turned the corner before he realised he should have laid all his half formed conclusions out before them and reaped the rewards of their greater wisdom. 

Multitasking was exhausting, was what it boiled down to, and though Theoretical Physicist Barbie and Tennis Coach Ken were planning the most outrageous blow out summer party, all the mental wrangling had left Ken with no energy for anything but yet another night of attempting to come to terms with the fact the doll he had been created for was never going to be interested. 

Barbie didn’t want him. She hadn’t ever wanted him.

All those days he had spent, desperate to catch her attention, and all those nights he had endured, clinging to the hope that the next day would have to be better - well, all of that was over now.

Weird Barbie said he could be anything he wanted to be.

(Anything, at least, outside of the patriarchy.)

Sugar’s Daddy had patted him on the head, much the same way he did his beloved West Highland Terrier, and told him he was free to do anything he had ever wanted to do.

(Anything, again, that did not involve reinstating the patriarchy.)

Allan, by contrast, had simply sat beside him in his newly legitimised Mojo Dojo Casa House, and said that he was there for him, should he want to talk about things.

Had let Ken rest his head against the solidity of his shoulder, the way Ken liked to do when it was just the two of them and there were no other Kens around to comment on it.

Nobody to question whether or not Allan was really his best buddy, when he could just as easily be theirs.

Sometimes he talked about horses or stars or the lyrical genius of Matchbox Twenty when they sat like that. Most of the time he talked about Barbie. The way she smiled, and the way she smelled. The way they were destined to be together, surely, if only he could convince her to take a chance on him, hands punctuating each and every word while Allan occasionally made soothing sounds of agreement.

He finally fell asleep to the memory of that, beneath his horse patterned bedsheets, only to be presented with another unwanted gift from his time in the Real World.

To twist and turn and fall from one unsettling nightmare to another, a technicolor warning missive on why the trip was so discouraged in the first place. Showing him life as it could have been, as perhaps one day it would have been, with Barbie forever uneasy and himself guiltily miserable, and Allan too busy with his other buddies to offer him more than an occasional casual greeting.

To spare him more than a rare, disappointed glance, the weight of that still heavier than it had been during the patriarchy, without even the dim hope of Barbie one day seeing past his tan to the man he was on the inside flickering wanly in the distance.

He startled awake in a tangled bundle of blankets on the floor, a cold clammy sickness chilling his fingers, like the sun wasn’t shining brightly throughout Barbie’s former Dreamhouse.

Like the metaphorical lightbulb of sudden awareness above his head wasn’t threatening to burn out his retinas. 

Because perhaps he couldn’t undo all of it in a single morning. Maybe, understandably, he didn’t have a whole crowd of the best and brightest Barbies ready to fight in his corner.

He could make a start though.

He was Kenough. He was good at doing stuff.

All but fell through the door of Allan’s house when he answered his knock, eyebrows raised as Ken did his best to look controlled and composed and cool in front of his buddy.

Smiled, kind of nervously, when he gave it up as a bad show, and asked instead if he’d like to go rollerblading, with him, plastic heart hammering in his chest as he waited for Allan’s verdict.

To find out if he gone too far, pushed too fast, his palms sweating around his too tight hold on the skate date sweater he had always imagined Allan wearing, when he was thinking about how the other man wouldn’t make a total fool of himself, like Ken inevitably did in front of Barbie.

“You don’t have to wear it,” Ken said in a rush, feeling dangerously close to breaking point, because once again he was doing everything wrong.

Once again he wanted too much, was asking for something he had no right to, and when Allan told him so - well, this time he would be left truly, crushingly, alone.

This time he didn’t think he could bear it, the cold from that morning washing over the entirety of his body.

Except Allan was already taking the fabric from his numb fingers. Was tracing one elegant finger along the messy script he had etched onto the tag in case he couldn’t get his words to co-operate. 

The way Allan himself had advised him once to do, one quiet night on the far corner of the beach when he’d laid his head against his buddy’s shoulder and complained that his mouth never said the things he wanted it to, not when Barbie was near.

“Ken and Allan,” Allan read aloud, the question mark in his tone evident.

“Allan and Ken,” Ken corrected, because it was super important Allan got what he was getting at.

Because it didn’t matter if it was fate, or destiny, or whatever else anyone wanted to call it. This was a choice he was making.

A choice he really really hoped Allan was going to choose to make with him.

“I’m not sure I understand what you’re saying,” Allan offered finally, truthfully, and Ken supposed this was what Weird Barbie had meant about being prepared to leave himself vulnerable.

“What I’m saying,” he managed, strangely shy for all that Allan knew him better than anyone, “is that I’m sorry I took you for granted.”

Chapter Text

“I had so many awesome dates planned. Like, so many. I’d spend every night dreaming how perfect they would be.”

Ken heaved a despondent sigh, head lolling against Allan’s shoulder, the sympathetic clench of his own heart searingly painful.

Because sometimes he was almost certain he was over it. 

Six hours into a Matchbox Twenty marathon, or watching his entire world teeter on the brink of destruction at the hands of a man he had literally been created to enable.

Other times, times disturbingly akin to this very moment, the reality of his existence was blindingly obvious.

There was no getting over Ken Carson.

Allan had loved this guy forever. Before then, even. And, okay, he wasn’t unaware of the man’s flaws. He was intimately, excruciatingly familiar with the carnage this Ken was capable of. 

He knew too that what he was about to do would only result in yet more heartache. 

Every atom of his being was screaming at him that it was an absolutely terrible idea.

Ken looked so lost though, so alone, and no matter how much Allan might have hated himself for it in the aftermath, if Ken had actually asked him, if this Ken had fixed his big blue eyes upon him and cared enough to question his hesitation, well.

He would have been more than happy to rub Ken’s feet all evening. 

In the present he heard his own voice break the maudlin silence. Winced even as the words tumbled from his mouth, one after the other, backing him further and further into a corner he knew there would be no breaking free of.

Because Ken had been making great strides along his journey of self-discovery. Allan was supposed to be helping his buddy find himself, not going out of his way to hinder him.

“You’re saying you and me should go on a date? Like a best buddy date night?”

Put like that it sounded even worse than he had imagined. Put like that it made him want to crawl into a deep hole and have the earth close up over him.

Ken just sat up and looked him full in the face.

“Allan, you’re literally a genius!”

--

And just like that he and Ken were dating. 

Kind of.

They had been hanging out most days since Barbie left, spending time at his place, or Ken’s Mojo Dojo Casa House, or simply enjoying the sun at the beach, the way they always had even way back in the beginning. But when he answered Ken’s distinctive knock the following day, Ken thrust a bouquet of daffodils into his hand and told him he was ready for the date.

Their date, in case Allan had forgotten.

Allan had spent the morning trying on every single combination of clothing in his closet, in between hyperventilating through a string of increasingly vicious panic attacks, but it felt like the more sensible option not to mention it.

Instead he put the flowers in water - for all he was certain that Barbie had preferred roses - and tried not to let on that this was the greatest day of his life.

The culmination of every agonising moment of heartache. Every long night spent sobbing into his pillow.

This was the nearest he was ever going to get, the closest thing to a date with the man he loved he was ever going to experience, and when Ken took hold of his hand the helpless squeak of a sound he made in response was nothing short of embarrassing.

Ken, thankfully, didn’t seem to notice. 

Pulled him along the sun drenched sidewalk, the happy smile painted across his face only making him impossibly more handsome, and assured him that the day was going to be awesome - all he had to do was trust him.

Allan’s mind raced through a swirl of potential possibilities. Ken loved the beach. Barbie had always loved choreographed dancing. The pair of them were great at rollerblading. At all kinds of sports, when it came down to it. Allan wasn’t made for any of it, not really, but he’d give it his best attempt.

He had already resigned himself to the shameful truth that today he would do absolutely anything Ken wanted him to.

Except they didn’t turn off to the tennis courts, and they passed right by the posters advertising Barbie’s favourite movie outside the cinema. There were no rollerblades, and Ken didn’t even look twice at the new western themed hangout that had recently opened on Main Street. 

They went for shakes instead at Barbie and the Rockers’ Dance Cafe, like Ken could see right through all the assurances he had ever given Singer Barbie that the Sensations were truly her better work. Chatted, and laughed, and found themselves gazing deep into each other’s eyes as they finished off their glass, the flush blazing across Allan’s cheeks so hot he was distantly worried for the integrity of his plastic. 

It was perfect, simply everything he could ever have dreamed of it being, and when Ken walked him home and thanked him earnestly for a lovely evening before waving good night, Allan was capable of nothing beyond collapsing fully clothed atop his bed, hugging his pillow tight to his chest and grinning so hard at the ceiling his cheeks hurt.

Was he going to regret this tomorrow? Probably.

Was he going to pine longingly for a shadow of this floaty feeling of happiness for the rest of his miserable existence? Almost certainly.

Had it been worth it?

The answer was so obvious it didn’t even need voicing.

--

What Allan hadn’t imagined when he first suggested the arrangement, what he could never have even begun to envision, was that Ken wouldn’t be content to leave it at a single example of his date organising abilities.

It became kind of their thing, one of the highlights of their buddydom, and sometimes Allan had to pinch himself viciously in the soft flesh of his forearm, just as a reminder that none of it was actually real.

Not the toned arm Ken slipped around his shoulders in the darkness of the cinema, and not the beaming smile of contented pride Ken shot him, when Allan confirmed his picnic sandwich selections had been truly inspired. 

Not even the way the starlight twinkled so beautifully in Ken’s big blue eyes when he walked him to his door after a long stroll along the beach, Allan’s heart hammering frantically in his chest as Ken puckered his lips hopefully, just as he must have imagined this night unfolding if he were sharing it with Barbie. 

Barbie would have waited politely for him to stop, or so Allan had been given to understand from past conversations. Perhaps she had never really understood what it was Ken was attempting to ask of her.

Allan, on the other hand, was finding it increasingly difficult to remember why he couldn’t close the gap between them - just the way he had always wanted. 

The way he had been dreaming of for as long as he could remember, his chest aching with all the unrequited love he felt for the man in front of him. This man who had made him so happy, so much happier than he had ever believed possible, and maybe it wasn’t real.

Perhaps Ken would never see it as anything more than a symbol of his friendly - manly - gratitude. 

In that moment Allan threw all caution to the wind and pressed forward carefully, brushing his lips against the smooth tanned skin of Ken’s left cheek.

“Thank you,” he murmured, heart so full he felt like it might burst out of him, “I had a wonderful evening.”

Ken blinked at him, bewildered, and for one awful moment Allan was sure he had ruined everything.

That Ken would stagger backwards, disgusted, and demand to know what it was he thought he was doing. 

That, in future, he stay the hell away from him. 

In reality all Ken did was beam at him, the sight of it so very breathtakingly beautiful, and said solemnly,

“I had the best evening ever!”

--

Weeks passed, and still they continued playing out Ken’s carefully curated list of totally not romantic buddy date activities.

They went hiking, and rowing, and out for dinner, Ken so dashing in formal wear Allan struggled to take his eyes off him. They rode horses, more or less successfully, under the careful instruction of Rancher Barbie, and produced a misshapen lump of clay that could, at a certain angle, pass for a pot, at one of Weird Barbie’s ever popular horizon-widening hobby taster sessions.

She caught his eye during the class, her too knowing gaze taking in the bronzed hands Ken had cupped around his own on the potter’s wheel, and though his cheeks flamed - though the guilt of what he was doing settled like a leaden weight in his stomach - it wasn’t enough for him to put an end to the deception. 

Ken was enjoying himself, he reasoned. Ken told him so frequently.

And he - well, he was having the time of his life.

Spending this much time with Ken, basking in this much of Ken’s attention… What more could he possibly ask for?

“I just don’t want to see you get hurt,” Weird Barbie told him honestly, hand patting heavily at his back, and that night Allan stared at his not-reflection in the mirror for a long time as he went through the motions of washing his face and cleaning his teeth.

He needed to start preparing himself for what he was going to do when it was all over.

He had to find some way to cope when Ken inevitably found some new Barbie to love, and their relationship - what there was of it - returned to normal. 

All he succeeded in was determining to make the most of every single moment, snapping dozens of photographs of Ken amongst piles of orange hued leaves as summer gave way to the short winter season. 

Clung tight to Ken’s strong hand when the blond took him skating at the ice rink, and gazed besottedly at the pretty contrast between Ken’s chill pinked cheeks and big blue eyes as they drank hot chocolate afterwards, wishing desperately for the right to actually reach out and touch him.

To kiss him and hug him and tell him in plain and simple terms how very much he loved him.

He wanted more than he had, that was the real problem, and when Christmas rolled around it was all Allan could do to swallow back the ugly sobs filling his throat, when Ken handed him a brightly giftwrapped package and stuck both his thumbs up in encouragement. 

The horse patterned paper fell away, the uneven bow only adding to its charm, and Ken eagerly reached for the braided band, tying it around his wrist and twisting it into place so Allan could read the word threaded into it. 

Blinked back the threatening spill of tears as Ken held his own wrist up, guileless smile pulling at his lips, and wondered how he had painted himself into this position, even as Ken posed them for a photo with the message prominently showing.

‘Buddies 4eva.’

--

Something had to give, Allan knew. He was in way over his head this time.

Made his decision, promised himself he was going to stick to it, then crumpled the instant Ken turned up at his door with a wrist corsage and tickets for the opening night of the Barbieland Ballet Company’s latest production of Swan Lake. 

What should have been fun had him morose and tearful. What ought to have been thoughtful and sweet left him weighed down with guilt and self-recrimination. 

“You ever think of asking a Barbie to an event like this?” He heard himself ask during the intermission, feeling like the worst kind of fraud in one of Ken’s borrowed cummerbunds, “I bet you’d have a really great time together.”

Ken only frowned at him, confused, and said, “But not as good a time as I’m having with my best buddy.”

Allan dredged up a brittle smile but his heart wasn’t in it. That night he didn’t let himself kiss Ken good night, not on the cheek and not on the very corner of his mouth, like the time when he had drank a flute or two too much champagne at Author Barbie’s recent Book Launch. 

That night he collapsed atop his bed, fully dressed but face down, and wept until his entire body ached.

Because his intentions had been good. Still were, in the cold light of the morning. Fell apart whenever he was faced with the reality of Ken’s presence, and so he resorted to making up excuses for things he needed to do and places he absolutely had to be. 

Tried not to think of the disappointed confusion on Ken’s handsome face, not when he couldn’t remember the last time he had realigned the sticker decor on his living room walls, and resolutely refused to dwell upon what it meant, that Ken was spending the entire week of Valentine’s Day in the Real World, visiting with Barbie.

They had been corresponding regularly ever since Barbie had left. More than once Ken had asked him to read through his messily cramped handwriting before he folded it into an envelope and entrusted it to the internal workings of the postal service.

Now their continued friendship felt like his rightful punishment. The bleak possibility of Barbie seeing in the changed man Ken had become someone she could one day grow to love so painful it was as if it was crushing the life from him.

Left him solemn and subdued, and though he couldn’t avoid the heart festooned sentimentality of the day itself, that didn’t mean he hadn’t put his all into the effort, pinning the postcard Ken had sent to the front of his fridge before bracing himself to face the music.

There were Barbies and Kens who had always been fated to be together. Other couples who were smashing convention to share a love that was no less beautiful. 

Earring Magic Ken asked him where his Ken was taking him, like it was simply the done thing to do, and Allan could barely speak through the richtus of a grin he forced across his face, nodding stupidly as this Ken happily related how Sugar’s Daddy had woken him with breakfast in bed.

The worst of it, Allan conceded, was that he had brought the entire situation upon himself.

Had he kept his big mouth shut, none of this would be happening.

--

“Did you get my card?” was the first thing Ken asked upon his return and, when Allan assured him he had, mind flickering to the LA beachscape currently next to the grocery list in his kitchen, Ken told him in a rush, “That’s cool. Really cool, because I was thinking about you.”

That was what the generic postcard message had said, at any rate, and Allan watched as Ken twisted his fingers together and glanced up at him uncertainly through his lashes.

“Did you like - I mean, what did you think of it?”

‘It was a nice gesture,’ was the kind of thing he ought to say, what with his new-found commitment to putting distance between them. Maybe some joking statement about not completely forgetting his buddy while on holiday, as a first step towards re-establishing the friendship they were meant to share.

“I loved it,” was what Allan actually said, far too sincere, because it didn’t matter how generic the image or how impersonal the message, the fact Ken had taken the time to send it was always going to mean more to him than he had hope of adequately expressing.

Ken smiled widely at him, like he had been genuinely invested in Allan’s opinion of something so incredibly unimportant in the wider scheme of things. 

It was moments like this that never failed to destroy him. To twist his heart inside out and upside down, because what he felt for Ken wasn’t just about his pretty face and his bulging biceps. The tanned toned length of his torso, or even the sparkle in his beautiful blue eyes.

What he loved about Ken was how hard he tried. His dedication and his perseverance, even when he would be far better served by channelling his energy into another avenue entirely. 

“I think -” Allan started, ready - if not exactly willing - to finally do the right thing.

“The fair’s in town,” was what Ken said, so eagerly Allan’s own words were buried, “I was hoping you’d like to go with me.”

That was all it took for Allan to crumble. He wasn’t brave like Ken. He was never going to be as selfless.

Lost himself in the thrill of Ken’s company, Ken’s attention, and quietened his conscience with promises of just one last time, even as they crushed too close in the ride carts and shared the same sugary cloud of cotton candy. 

As they talked and laughed and took turns at the surrounding game stalls, his heart feeling three sizes too large as Ken shot him a sly grin before landing the entire collection of colourful rings at the Hoopla stand and handing him an oversized plush rainbow bear in victory.

“It matches your shirt,” Ken said, like that made sense of everything, and Allan was still attempting to come up with a reply that wasn’t a gushing love confession when they found themselves standing outside the fortune teller’s tent. 

Being ushered inside, blinking against the sudden dim light and the thick incense smoke that hung in the air. It made Allan uneasy. Had him wanting to push back out in the uncomplicated sunshine, out where he could better lie to himself that he had some idea of what he was doing.

That he wasn’t facing down the most depressing stretch of lonely misery he had ever imagined.

Ken took hold of his hand, the movement familiar from repeated experience. The sensation still every bit as thrillingly wonderful as it had been the very first time. 

The Barbie sat behind the table smiled at both of them. Waved her hand over the crystal ball, murmuring something no doubt mystical and magical, Allan too aware of Ken’s palpable excitement to focus.

Too fixated on the tight squeeze of Ken’s fingers to think clearly. 

Too devastated by what came next to make more than a half-hearted attempt at damage limitation, some lame excuse falling from his lips even as he wrenched his hand free and stumbled blindly out into the sunlight.

Through the fairground, past his friends, everyone who had ever mattered, until the door was finally closed behind him and it was just himself, all alone, the way it was always meant to be.

The way it was always destined to be.

Fortune Teller Barbie had seen wedding bells and Allan wasn’t an idiot. He knew what that meant.

Ken was getting married.

--

A better doll would have dealt with things differently. A decent buddy would never have found himself in this situation.

Allan only stared bleakly around the familiar four walls of his house and wondered if the Allans who had escaped to form *NSYNC would put him up out of some distant sense of loyalty, of if they’d simply tell him to get lost, like the loser he was. 

He’d have a better chance with Barbie, with Sasha and Gloria, but Allan didn’t think he could bear it. 

Even if Ken hadn’t been about to confirm all his worst nightmares, even if by some miracle it wasn’t Stereotypical Barbie who was going to walk up the aisle, Allan still wouldn’t be able to take her kindness and her sympathy.

He didn’t deserve it. 

Had earned every last scrap of emotional agony he was currently experiencing, and though it wasn’t going to help, though it wasn’t going to make anything better, he ignored the sounds of the outside world - the concern of the well meaning and the kind hearted - and went to bed where he pulled the duvet up and over his head.

Perhaps in the morning things wouldn’t look so awful.

Maybe in the morning he would be ready to at least attempt to play at being happy for his buddy.

For now he clutched the bracelet Ken had given him for Christmas in his fist and sobbed for all the dreams that were never going to make it to reality. The kisses he and Ken were never going to share, and the mornings they were never going to wake up to face together. 

The quiet moments of contentment they weren’t going to spend in each other’s company, and the breathtakingly beautiful smiles he was never going to be the cause of.

He guessed he must have cried himself to sleep, eventually, waking to find his face a salt streaked mess and his hair sticking up in every direction. He did nothing more than run a hand through it. Didn’t shower or shave or change his clothes, instead blearily making his way downstairs where he nearly jumped clean out of his skin, not quite convinced he wasn’t still asleep, dreaming up the impossible sight of a dejected looking Ken sitting in his kitchen. 

A Ken whose dark shades laid forgotten on the table, his deep blue gaze rimmed red where it met Allan’s own, the guilt of it all squirming uncomfortably in his stomach.

“You said you loved my card,” Ken said, words quiet but tone determined, “but you didn’t even open it.”

Allan opened his mouth to argue the point. Was beyond glad simply to be posed a question he actually had a hope of answering.

Because postcards couldn’t be opened, obviously, and - and, he took in the crumpled red envelope Ken was fidgeting with, the inked address smudged across the front and the untidily placed postage stamps peeling up from the paper.

“I never meant to upset you, ever. I just - I thought - I wanted it to be romantic.”

Allan was lost now. Cut adrift in a sea of confusion, the only thing that had ever really made sense slipping further and further through his fingers.

He just wanted Ken to know that he was sorry. He needed Ken to understand that he regretted his actions, deeply, even if it was true that he would do exactly the same things all over again, if it meant he got to experience even a sliver of what he had been granted.

Ken’s company. Ken’s friendship.

“I love you,” Ken said, like it was objective fact and not a frankly earth shattering announcement, “and I know your answer is no but I’d still like for you to have it, if it’s okay with you, because, well. Because even if we can’t be husbands, we’ll still be buddies, right?”

It was the uncertain hope on Ken’s face that broke him. The too obvious fear that he was going to refuse. The unbelievable idea that this moment - this quiet tear sodden moment, with a ringbox on his kitchen table and his unwashed dishes in the sink - wasn’t more perfect than anything Allan could have ever thought to ask for.

Because there were explanations to talk through. Miscommunication to unpick, piece by piece, until both of them understood exactly what it was that had happened.

It could wait though.

Right now he had higher priorities.

“All I’ve ever wanted,” Allan breathed, taking the box from Ken’s unresisting fingers, “is to spend the rest of my life with you.”

Then for the first time, the very first time despite more or less a year of dating, he finally pressed their lips together.

Chapter Text

He had never loved her so much as he had loved the idea of her.

That was the conclusion she had come to, at least, talking it through in depth with a therapist who - for all her protests to the contrary - Barbie could tell still wasn’t entirely convinced that Barbieland wasn’t just some kind of convoluted coping mechanism.

And though she had received regular updates from him, his words flowing easier now he no longer went to the laborious effort of copying them out again in his best handwriting, Barbie couldn’t help but worry that it was simply a case of history repeating itself.

That he had found himself a replacement, a substitute, to hinge his entire identity upon, rather than prolong the painful task of discovering himself. 

Worse, fuelled by some of the darker realities of the world in which she found herself, she feared that it was all some new ruse designed to have her lower her guard. Lull her into a false sense of complacency. 

A stepping stone into re-establishing the status quo, proof that he was more than the man she thought she had known, even as he set about unravelling each and every of her hard won steps forward. 

Perhaps that was the real issue.

Maybe it was her own failings she was afraid to see reflected. To have no choice but to hear, in his own words, what it had meant to rely upon a prop she hadn’t realised she could do without, taking another’s misguided devotion for granted.

It was with a sense of trepidation, then, that she waited for his answer. It eased a burden she hadn’t truly been aware she had been carrying to watch his expression soften, the brash artifice of an act she had once never even thought to scratch beneath the surface of falling away as he searched for the words to explain it to her.

“He’s smart and he’s strong. And his hair is really really pretty. He doesn’t need me around, but he likes my company. He’s always so much himself, even on days when just being Kenough seems like it’s impossible.”

His smile turned shy, filling her own heart to bursting with of all the best memories of the time they had spent together - and all of her best hopes for the memories he would go on to make in the future.

“I love him, and when he smiles at me I feel like, maybe some day, I’ll really love the Ken he sees too.”

Chapter Text

They hadn’t said it to be cruel, at least Allan didn’t think so.

It was just the truth, an uncontentious statement of fact, because if Barbie were here, if Barbie were interested, well. Of course Ken would prefer to be her boyfriend. 

That wasn’t to say that the knowledge didn’t hurt. That it didn’t cut him right to the core, the understanding that no matter what he said, what he did, he would never be anything other than a somewhat disappointing substitute.

There was just no point in allowing it to upset him, or to overshadow the amazing gifts he had been given. 

It would be like spending all day shouting at the sun because you knew the night was coming. It wasn’t going to change anything.

Ken, for his part, seemed strangely subdued by the whole incident. 

Allan told him that it didn’t matter. It was the way things were, the way he had long ago accepted they had to be, and it didn’t make him any less thrilled that Ken was his boyfriend right now.

All he had ever really dared hope for between them was that he could get to see Ken happy - it had always seemed utterly impossible that he should be getting any of his own selfish dreams come true, into the bargain.

Ken nodded silently at that, his beautiful blue gaze hidden behind the dark lenses of his sunglasses, and Allan resolved not to push the issue any further. 

He was pragmatic but it didn’t make him a martyr. He absolutely did not want to risk having to hear Ken explain all the many and varied ways in which Barbie was always going to be his superior.

Except when Ken finally did speak about it three days later, voice scratched up as if he had spent the last twelve hours talking, it was to ask him whether or not he really believed that.

If he had been avoiding conflict, maintaining the tenuous veneer of peace that kept the world turning as Weird Barbie sometimes put it, or if he actually thought that if Barbie snapped her fingers Ken would go running.

Allan wasn’t sure how to approach that. While they might no longer be raw and bleeding, he knew those wounds were still tender. It was only too easy to see why Barbie’s disinterest might be a sensitive subject. 

He wasn’t saying that Ken hadn’t been making great strides along the being Kenough journey, he reassured carefully. And he wasn’t saying that it was anyone’s fault that he and Barbie hadn’t been able to make a go of things together.

“Sometimes that’s just the way things are, it isn’t anyone’s fault. Living is all about compromise.”

Ken made a noise of agreement, seemingly accepted his argument, then returned to the topic just a few minutes later, hand kind of unsteady where he ran it through his perfectly styled hair. 

Where he tugged free his shades, the perfect summer sky reflected in the too bright blue of his eyes, though they fixed determinedly on some point above Allan’s shoulder.

“I wouldn’t, you know. I wouldn’t want to.”

Ken’s gaze flickered to his then, fleeting like he couldn’t quite manage to get his words out while looking directly at him, as he said,

“Sometimes it’s like I can’t even believe you want to spend time with me. Because you’re you, and I’m so me, but if that’s who you think I am then - then maybe you need to get to know me better.”

The last was said in a rush, as though his resolve was already wavering, and still the shock of it was so great Allan felt winded. 

Felt like his entire world was flipping about its axis, the fundamental truths of his existence being turned on their head by Ken’s awkward declaration. 

Because the ache was so deep and so long-standing he had long since ceased to consciously acknowledge it. It was only now that it was being comforted, now that all those ragged edges were being soothed over, that he could admit just how much it meant to him.

How desperate he had always been to come first for somebody.

For it to be Ken - for Ken to be looking at him like that, hurting and vulnerable - it was almost too much to process.

“I wouldn’t want you to go either,” he admitted, words clumsy and anguished even as he reached for him, “I want to know everything about you.”

“That’s pretty cool,” Ken offered, the smile slowly spreading across his face chasing away all the lingering shadows, “because I want to know everything about you too.”

Chapter Text

He was his own Ken now. He had his own interests, his own purpose. His own house, even, with his very own horse patterned bedsheets.

Life was good, life was sublime, and if he had had to go through the most awful period of emotional turmoil to get there, well, Weird Barbie said that was entirely normal.

Told him that he had always been himself, even when he hadn’t known it, and Ken liked to take that to mean that his current obsession with the plain gold band on his finger wasn’t representing a monumental step backwards.

Because he had always dreamed of the way it would look, the way it would feel, a solid weight to ground him no matter where he was or what he was doing.

A symbol, for both himself and for anyone who so much as glanced in his direction, that he really did matter to somebody. 

Back then he had truly believed that someone would be Barbie. That some day, somehow, he would prove to her that he could be more than an imposition she tolerated. That one day, if only he tried hard enough, she would see that they were simply destined to be together.

The reality was that she had seen their situation more clearly. She had always been so much smarter than she gave herself credit for. 

‘We were playing parts we never chose to audition for,’ Barbie wrote him once, her pretty looped script flowing across the scented pink writing paper, and Ken thought that summed it up beautifully. 

Read the line aloud for Allan and wondered if - without that trip to the Real World and all the changes that had stemmed from it - he would have ever understood what it meant, the way his stomach fluttered when his friend smiled so earnestly at him.

Allan said that back then, before Ken had considered things could be any different, what he wanted had seemed too impossible to even dream about. So out of his reach that he had had no choice but to learn what it meant to be just Allan, rather than an accessory laying forever forgotten at the back of a closet. 

It was a confession that made Ken feel strange inside, whenever he took the time to think about it. The idea that those nights he had spent so lost and so alone, trying to work out what it was he had done wrong - what it was he should have done, should have said, for Barbie to want to spend time with him - Allan was thinking of him, and how he was never going to see him as anything more than a buddy.

Ken would never have known, would never have thought to guess such a thing was possible, and in the present it made him want to hold the man close, like his physical proximity could ward off all the cruel twists of fate that would have kept them apart in any other reality.

The really amazing thing, the truth that sometimes threatened to completely overwhelm him, was that Allan actually liked being near him.

Told him so, as though it was no less astounding than commenting on the weather, and, when life or Beach or all the messy thoughts that swirled around inside his head kept them apart, went to the effort to seek him out, gentle and patient until he was more or less himself again.

Held his hand, and kissed his cheek, and smiled bashfully as he told him how lucky he felt, to be at this party with the most handsome Ken in all of Barbieland. 

It wasn’t a competition, Ken knew that, but he couldn’t pretend that it wasn’t awesome to hear, just the same. That it didn’t make him feel invincible, like he really was every bit as Kenough as he had fought so hard to be, his own smile so wide it made his cheeks ache, because he was the one who got to be here with Allan.

He was the one the other Kens had gathered around that afternoon at the beach, admiring the way the gold of his wedding band had glittered in the sunlight. How wonderfully it set off his tan, and how it seemed the perfect finishing accessory to his each and every outfit. 

What they hadn’t seen, what only he could know, was how it looked when he linked his fingers with Allan’s.

How it felt to know that he could be just Ken, his very own person, even while he was part of a couple. 

That he could be somebody he liked and he respected, even as he was someone that Allan liked so much he had agreed to marry him.

Was dancing with him right now, the two of them pulling their own moves, unconcerned that it was entirely out of time with what everyone else was doing.

He was his own Ken now, it was true. 

He was just extra lucky, he guessed, that he had found someone to share it all with.

Chapter Text

Surf Ken was kind of cool. Really cool, actually. He could surf and backflip and, ever since they shared their epic song and dance number, they had been getting along like a couple of regular Beach Bros.

The sticking point, as he had been forced to confront during the long miserable weeks of what Weird Barbie referred to as his acute depressive episode, had always been way less about Surf Ken himself and far more about his own deep rooted insecurities. 

His fears that he simply wasn’t good Kenough, and his all too justified anxiety that Barbie was only humouring him whenever she said she loved that he was her boyfriend.

He was meant to be past that now. He and Barbie were frequent pen pals, way better friends than they had ever been previously, and he had a totally cool sweatshirt to remind him that he didn’t need to compete with anyone else.

Not even when they kept muscling in on his boyfriend. 

Waving hello, at any rate, and then flaunting all the smooth tanned skin of their torso, pastel shirt laying forgotten back on Surf Ken’s sunlounger. 

Allan waved back happily and proceeded to sit there chatting to him, like they were old buddies.

They were, truthfully, but Ken wasn’t in the mood to acknowledge it.

Didn’t want to think about all the fun the pair of them had doubtless had without him, and really really could have done without the memory of seeing Surf Ken’s feet in Allan’s lap, back during his ill-fated acquaintance with the patriarchy.

He had sulked about it then, uncertain what exactly was wrong beyond the fact he had felt even more miserable than usual, and he was glad he was wearing his shades just in case he ended up giving into the urge to sulk about it now, though the sun was shining brightly in the clear blue sky and Allan was sitting right next to him. 

It made him think of the way he had startled awake that morning, gaze drawn as ever to the spot he had stood in as he threw some of her favourite items of clothing from the bedroom of Barbie’s former Dreamhouse. 

The evidential proof of the man he could be, if he gave into all his worst instincts. 

It frightened him, he supposed. Terrified him, worse than spiders, or Sharpies, or Doctor Barbie’s array of glittery pink plastic hypodermic needles, the idea that Allan might turn around one day and say that this just wasn’t working out for him.

That Ken simply wasn’t what he wanted, that nothing he could do or say would make that reality any different, and instead of accepting it - rather than being thankful for the memories - he would go and repeat the same mistakes all over again. 

Allan laughed when Ken made his best attempt at explaining the problem to him. Almost choked to death on his ice cream in the process, and it was only after Surf Ken had leapt to the rescue - the fruits of the Beach first aid sessions Doctor Barbie had been leading them through - and Ken had offered up a shirt of his own to replace Allan’s dairy spattered beach jacket, that the latter was composed enough to take it seriously. 

Patted at his arm fondly, a small but genuine smile curled across his lips, and told him that he really didn’t think it was something he needed to worry about.

“I’m not his type,” Allan said, so sincere that he clearly believed it, and Ken didn’t know how to begin to explain how very much he doubted that.

Surf Ken had impeccable taste. There was absolutely no chance he wasn’t busy wishing that Allan was smiling at him that way.

Because Ken’s situation right now was sublimely awesome. Awesomely sublime, even. All the time he had spent, all the heartache he had gone through, trying to find some way to bridge the gap between love and friendship - and now his best buddy was his boyfriend. 

He bet there wasn’t a Ken in the whole of Barbieland who didn’t wish he was in his shoes right now.

“I can’t tell if that makes me want to puke or congratulate you,” was what Weird Barbie said when he laid the whole sorry mess out for her adjudication. She tilted her head to the side for a moment, considering, then clarified “both” before slapping him hard on the shoulder and telling him that he’d navigate his way through, eventually, because it was all about the journey, not the destination.

Took pity on him, and the headache all this hard thinking was bestowing, and asked him bluntly if, true or not, it really mattered.

If he didn’t trust that Allan was plenty capable of making his own decisions.

Put like that his whole predicament looked different. 

Put like that, it felt like a whole load of weight lifted off his shoulders.

Because they had already had this conversation. He remembered entirely too well how it had felt, imagining that his buddy thought so little of his commitment, of the things he had done and the words he had said, that maybe he believed Ken was just biding his time until he got a better offer.

That had been awful. Worse even than the time he had had to be cut free from Chelsea’s playhouse, after being dared that he couldn’t fit through the window.

In the present, when their paths next crossed, Surf Ken simply offered up a greeting. Exchanged pleasantries, as though neither of them had ever once threatened to beach the other off, and when Allan raised a questioning eyebrow at him, afterwards, it was the easiest thing in the world to shrug and say that he had come to a realisation.

Squeezed gratefully at the fingers Allan had intertwined with his own, thrilling all over again at the intimacy. 

Surf Ken wanted what he had, Ken didn’t doubt it. But they were Bros now. Beach Buds. 

So he could be magnanimous: the poor guy was never going to get it.