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It’s the D.A.M.N. faculty Christmas party and Lasko is actually pretty full of the festive spirit despite his general terror in the face of large social events. That probably has more to do with the after-party plans he has with Dear, taking them back to his place to finish off the evening together, than any kind of seasonal cheer.
He’s lost sight of them, unfortunately—last he saw they were being dragged away by a co-worker to come and meet her water elemental partner who she just knew they’d have so much in common with.
Lasko strives to avoid a similar fate, clinging to the edges of the room and avoiding eye contact wherever he can. Yet his thoughts are oddly calm, preoccupied somewhat with the memory of Dear driving them here—the soft Christmas tunes on the radio, their hand reaching over to squeeze his knee at every red light, and the kiss they pressed onto his lips just before getting out of the car.
Things are going so well. Lots of dates, lots of sex, and lots of…well, lots of everything. Yesterday Lasko had spent the night at their place and they had stayed up until sunrise just talking. Well. Mostly Lasko was talking—but they listened and laughed a lot and smiled and ran their fingers through his hair and made a lot of incisive and thoughtful points in their usual placid way.
They’re perfect, Lasko marvels for the thousandth time. My perfect match.
Truthfully, he’d always believed such a thing didn’t exist for someone like him. He is so consumed by his anxiety and his very worst impulses—who’d want to hitch their wagon to a mess like that? Turns out he was just waiting for a natural listener with the patience of a monk and the tranquility of the ocean.
They’re so good for him—so good to him—and Lasko would crawl through broken glass to spend tonight with them, so a couple more hours at a dire work party is really nothing.
Eventually he finds them again, now part of a larger group of instructors and admin, the conversation loud enough that Lasko can hear parts of it even over Mariah Carey. There is alcohol being served so the gregariousness of the group doesn’t surprise him—what does is that it is Dear who seems to be doing most of the talking.
“No word of a lie. Bob, come on. Bob, look at me. Would I lie to you?” They jostle Bob Blunden, the head of Fire Elemental Studies, with their elbow while the rest of the crowd titters.
Lasko edges closer, curious beyond belief at this hitherto unknown side to his lover.
“I don’t know,” Bob replies with a good-natured humor that Lasko has literally never seen before from the old grump. “One year in and you’re still quite the enigma. Don’t know if I can trust you.”
“You can!” Dear grins. “I’m telling you, there I was, nearly an hour after class, still waiting for Sasha Mills to finish her written test, and she’s got her head down and her eyes closed and I’m thinking—damn, she’s really thinking hard, when she finally looks up at me and says: ‘Oops. Sorry, dude. I fell asleep. Coach has been running me ragged at practice.’”
Everyone laughs. Lasko remembers Dear telling him about the Sasha Mills incident last week, but with far fewer words.
“Hey, the playoffs are coming up.” The coach in question holds up his hands and chuckles. “She’s my star player.”
“She’s not a bad student either usually—eh, Bob?” Dear turns their charming smile back to Bob Blunden.
“Well, I guess not. Not exactly valedictorian material, but she’s usually got a decent head on her shoulders.”
“And with her parents’ divorce earlier in the year.” Dear shakes their head. “Poor kid’s going through it.”
Some sympathetic murmurs rise from the group, including Bob. Lasko is stunned—since when does Dear engage in gossip?
“Ooh!” One of the admins interrupts the conversation. “I just remembered—it’s Jenny’s birthday in January. Did we decide on a restaurant for the surprise?”
“I vote Indian,” Dear says with an enthusiasm that knocks Lasko for six.
He doesn’t think they’ve ever put forward an opinion that strongly with him in all the months they’ve been dating. He hadn’t even known they particularly like Indian food—or joining co-workers’ birthday events for that matter.
“Damn, if they say they want Indian we’d better do Indian,” someone else says with a giggle. “Not every day the reclusive professor climbs down from their tower to join us.”
“Aw, don’t be like that,” Dear says with exaggerated sadness that makes the group laugh once more.
Lasko lasts until the Christmas cracker-level jokes start making the rounds and Dear launches into, “What do you call a penguin in the Sahara Desert?” before turning and taking himself far, far away from the situation.
He knew it. He knew it. He knew he had been monopolizing every conversation they ever had because that Dear—that effusive, convivial life of the party over there—is not the Dear that he knows. Lasko talks so much that they never get the chance to say anything; to show that side of themself to him. And they say it’s fine and they promise they’d tell him if he ever went too far, but look at them over there—holding the attention of the group so effortlessly, leading the conversation, in their element (excuse the pun) in the sort of social setting that Lasko would’ve assumed they hated.
You idiot. You don’t know anything about them. He heads for the bathroom, rubbing at his eyes. Maybe if you let them get a fucking word in every now and again and didn’t make them feel like they had to be your— your captive fucking audience all the time.
Nine million hours later the party finally starts winding down and Lasko is free to leave. He and Dear walk together through the parking lot to Dear’s car. They hadn’t touched a drop of alcohol all night—so no hope that maybe they had been drunk.
They don’t turn the radio on this time so the drive back is unsettlingly silent. For once, Lasko doesn’t even have to try to be quiet.
“Hey, you okay?” Dear glances over at him then back to the road.
“Yeah, I’m fine,” Lasko answers.
Another stretch of silence before they clear their throat and say, “We kind of got separated back there, huh?”
“I guess so.”
More silence, and then: “Did you have a good time?”
“Sure.”
At the next red light Dear turns to face him and says, “Lasko, are you okay?”
“I’m fine. I told you.”
Every word out of Lasko’s mouth makes him feel sick. He wants to never talk again. He wants to take a vow of silence and go live up in a remote mountain monastery where he can never bother another person with his incessant prattling.
“Are you sure? Because—”
“Green light.”
“Oh.” Dear looks back ahead and puts their foot on the gas, but it isn’t long before they chance another glance. “Please, tell me what’s wrong.”
Something inside Lasko snaps.
“Nothing’s wrong! Jesus Christ, how many times do you want me to say it?”
Dear doesn’t ask again. The drive continues in total silence until they are pulling up outside Lasko’s apartment building. His stomach is a tight knot of guilt but he doesn’t even know how to apologize for his outburst when there is so much more than that to apologize for.
They walk together to the front door. Lasko makes a game plan in his head—a real, comprehensive apology over a cup of tea or something. He can think up the right words while the water boils.
But Dear hesitates at the door and says, “I think I’d better head home for the night.”
The knot in Lasko’s stomach plummets to his knees, but he replies, “Oh. Uh, okay. Yeah, okay, if you— I mean, if you— if that’s— yeah, okay.”
“It’s been a long night,” they say by way of explanation.
Lasko supposes it’s a kinder excuse than the truth—that they can’t bear to be around him a second longer tonight.
They don’t kiss him goodbye but they do reach in to squeeze his arm and smile in that way that pulls at his heart. Then they turn to go and Lasko’s hand shoots out faster than he can think to pull them back.
“What is it?” They’re startled but open and patient in that beautiful way they always are.
Fuck. Lasko is so selfish. But if he doesn’t do this now he’s scared he’ll be a coward in the morning and then things will just continue on the way they have been and he’ll just keep sapping more and more of them away until this thing between the two of them breaks.
“Please come in,” he implores. “Just for a few minutes.”
They press their lips together and consider for a moment before hesitantly agreeing.
“Okay.” Their face is drawn but even still there is the tiniest hint of a smirk at the edge of their lips—no doubt at the concept of anything with Lasko being as quick as “a few minutes.”
Once inside the apartment Dear sits down beside Lasko on the couch, waiting for whatever comes next.
“I’m so sorry.” Lasko instantly forgets the speech he was writing in his head and decides to just wing it in a stream of consciousness. “I can’t believe I never knew…that I never saw…and you’ve been so…and I never meant to take advantage…you could’ve told me…or, god, maybe…did you try and I just…I’m so selfish…never seen that side of you…never let you show me…fuck, I’m so, so fucking sorry…I can do better…please don’t break up with me…”
“Lasko.”
The word is sharp and Lasko suddenly realizes that they must’ve been saying his name for a while. They have been actively trying to interrupt him—something that they almost never do—for how long now? He hides his face in his hands, so frustrated with himself he could cry, and makes a new resolution.
As Dear gently cups his face in their hands to sooth him, Lasko says, “You should break up with me.”
They falter, then ask, “I thought you didn’t want me to break up with you?”
Oh. Yeah. Yeah, he had said that. A few times throughout his little rambling apology, he thinks. But that had just been more selfishness. Dear doesn’t deserve this—doesn’t deserve him, constantly bulldozing every conversation, even as he was actively apologizing for doing just that!
“Lasko.” They sigh. “I meant it when I said it had been a long night.”
Lasko—with great effort—says nothing and waits.
“Being on all evening is so draining. I feel like I just ran a marathon. I’m really not…at my best for this kind of talk right now, so bear with me.”
“Being ‘on’?” Lasko asks.
“For the faculty,” Dear clarifies. “The schmoozing and politicking.”
Politicking? There’d been politicking?
Seeing Lasko’s lack of comprehension, they explain: “Sasha Mills failed her Fire Elemental Command midterm. If I asked Bob to let her retake it he’d just say no to be a hardass. I was hoping I could encourage him to see things a little more sympathetically if he knew what she’s been dealing with this year.”
“Oh,” Lasko says.
“And do you really think I want to go to Jenny’s birthday thing? I’d steer clear like usual if I hadn’t got that note on my last appraisal—remember, about not being a team player?”
Lasko does remember that. He’d gotten so incensed on Dear’s behalf—D.A.M.N. manages to snag an instructor as talented and dedicated as them and then gives them an unsatisfactory performance review for not showing enough “academy spirit”, whatever that means.
“It’s all bullshit, Lasko.” They move their hands down to his shoulders and hold fast. “Telling stupid jokes so people can pretend to find them funny in the name of team bonding. It’s workplace bullshit and I hated every second of it. But, well, I’m pretty invested in sticking around in Dahlia now, so it’s the kind of thing I have to do sometimes.”
“Oh,” Lasko says again.
Dear shrugs, smiling sappily. “The price I pay for falling in love with D.A.M.N.’s sexiest instructor.”
Choking on air, Lasko retorts, “That’s— that’s not— how do you do that?”
“Do what?”
“Flip me upside down with every other sentence out of your mouth,” Lasko says, then takes a breath. “So I’m not…making you suppress yourself?”
“I really didn’t want you to see that.” Dear shakes their head, frowning. “That performing monkey isn’t me, okay? That isn’t who I am. You know who I am. You might be the only one who knows.”
“What?” Lasko’s mouth falls open as they draw him into a loose embrace.
“You know me better than anyone,” they whisper into his ear. “See me clearer than anyone. I can be myself with you. No performance, no small talk. I can just…be.”
Lasko clutches them closer and the arms around him tighten.
“I feel the same,” he says, throat thick. “Well, except for the small talk. You know I love small talk. Well, not so much love it as— I mean, you know.”
“I know,” they laugh into the crook of his neck. “And I love you for it.”
“I love you too,” Lasko manages before the sob building in his chest breaks loose, burying it in Dear’s shoulder. “God, I really thought I’d fucked everything up.”
“Never,” they promise.
“Jesus Christ, I love you.” Lasko suddenly pulls back to look them in the eye. “But you have to tell me if you ever want to speak and I’m not letting you get a word in. You’re so kind, but sometimes I worry you’re too kind to do that.”
“I did do that—tonight, when I interrupted you.” They look at him with such exasperated fondness that Lasko’s heart skips.
“Oh. Yeah. You did, didn’t you.” He laughs at himself.
“Do you mind if I stay the night after all?” They give him a hopeful smile.
Lasko wants that more than anything right now, but… “I thought you needed to, uh, recharge your battery, so to speak?”
“Yeah.” They pull him in again. “So juice me up.”
Touched, Lasko holds them close—then feels the need to clarify: “By ‘juice’ you do mean…uh…?”
Dear snorts into his neck and pulls back.
“I meant hanging out and talking, Lasko.” Then a slow, wicked smile emerges. “Unless…?”
Lasko takes them by the hand and leads them to the bedroom. Whatever they end up doing in there—it’ll all be good. They always are.