Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Cordelia didn’t like surprises.

She especially didn’t like drunken surprises at 2:17 AM on a Thursday night, especially not the kind that involved some disheveled man banging on her front door like he was being chased by demons—or heartbreak.

She jumped, nearly dropping her glass of chamomile tea.

“Who the hell…?” she whispered, creeping to the window.

There he was: tall, messy, clearly intoxicated, and swaying with the wind like a sad tree in a winter storm. His button-down shirt was wrinkled, one shoe was missing, and he had the tragic air of a man who thought singing to himself might ward off loneliness.

Cordelia fumbled for her phone. First instinct: call Charlotte.

Second instinct: grab the nearest blunt object—her mop.

“Char,” she whispered urgently as the call rang. “There’s a man on my porch. Alone. Drunk. Weirdly… poetic-looking.”

“You called me for a drunk porch poet?” came Charlotte’s groggy voice. “Cordelia, I’m not the police.”

“He asked if this was someone named Whizzer’s house.”

Pause. “Whizzer?”

“That’s what he said!”

Then came the knock. Loud. Persistent. A little pathetic.

Cordelia flinched. “Oh God, he’s doing it again. What if he’s bleeding? Or having a breakdown? Or both?”

“Don’t open the door.”

“I already cracked it a little!”

“Cordelia!”

But it was too late.

The man slumped forward the moment the door opened, nearly landing in her hallway with a groan.

“Whizzer?” he mumbled, eyes blinking out of sync. “I—I miss you, I’m sorry, please—”

“You’re… not where you think you are,” Cordelia said, catching him awkwardly. “You’re in Brooklyn. In a house full of throw pillows and disappointment.”

“I don’t feel good,” the man murmured. “Everything’s sideways.”

And with that, he passed out on her rug.

Cordelia screamed. And Charlotte, over the phone, sighed.

When Charlotte arrived 20 minutes later with a portable breathalyzer and her “emergency men-are-a-mess” kit, she found Cordelia pacing while the stranger snored like an apologetic walrus on the couch.

“So,” Charlotte said, kneeling beside the guy. “What’s the story?”

“No ID, no phone—just a crumpled photo of a man in sunglasses. He kept muttering, ‘Whizzer.’ Like ten times.”

Charlotte frowned. “Whizzer. Who names their kid Whizzer?”

“Someone theatrical, probably.”

“He doesn’t look theatrical. He looks like a tax accountant who’s been emotionally eviscerated.”

Cordelia sat down beside her. “He kept saying things like, ‘I ruined it. I let him go. I was scared.’ He looked… wrecked, Char. Like whatever happened, it wasn’t just a breakup.”

They watched the man sleep. He twitched every so often, like he was dreaming something he couldn’t escape.

“We’ll let him stay for the night,” Charlotte finally said. “But the moment he tries to steal a lamp, I’m calling the cops.”

The next morning, Marvin woke up with a groan and a very fuzzy understanding of where he was.

The couch. A throw blanket. A cactus pillow. And a faint smell of lavender and burned toast.

Cordelia appeared in the doorway, holding a cup of black coffee.

“Morning, Stranger Danger.”

He squinted. “Where am I?”

“My house. You nearly cried on my rug.”

Marvin sat up, wincing. “I didn’t mean to… I’m sorry. I was—I don’t know what I was doing.”

“You asked for Whizzer.”

His expression tightened immediately. His voice dropped. “Did I say anything else?”

“Something about being scared. About ruining something. About… kissing him like it meant more than you could say.”

He groaned. “God.”

Charlotte joined them, crossing her arms. “You’re not exactly subtle when you’re blackout drunk.”

He hesitated, gaze falling to the floor. “Sorry for… whatever that was.”

“Are you gay?” Cordelia asked bluntly.

He blinked. “What?”

“I mean, no judgment. Just—you were muttering about a man like your world ended. That sounds pretty gay.”

“I am gay,” Marvin said quietly.

Charlotte and Cordelia exchanged a glance.

“Okay,” Charlotte said slowly. “Cool.”

“Cool,” Cordelia echoed. “Welcome to the club.”

He looked surprised. “You two are…?”

Charlotte snorted. “What gave it away? The coordinated flannel or the fact that we haven’t killed each other in five years?”

Cordelia leaned in. “We have a policy: no homophobes, no weird vibes, and no sad gay men crying on our sofa without context. But you… you look like someone who lost something big.”

Marvin looked away. His voice was barely above a whisper.

“I loved him. And I didn’t say it. Not when it mattered.”

The three sat in silence for a long time.

Cordelia finally passed him the coffee. “You’re gonna need this.”

A few days later, Jason rang the doorbell with his backpack slung over one shoulder and an expression that already screamed teenager with dad problems.

Cordelia answered the door. “Hey, kid. Your dad’s inside.”

Jason stepped in and immediately noticed the vibe: soft music playing, Marvin nowhere in sight, and Charlotte pacing with a frown.

“What’s wrong now?” he asked.

“Your dad’s not eating,” Charlotte said bluntly. “He’s sleeping weird hours. Still asking about Whizzer when he thinks no one’s listening.”

Jason dropped his bag. “He does that at home, too. Keeps walking past Whizzer’s old letters. Won’t touch them. Just… looks.”

Cordelia sat down beside him. “He told us, the night he showed up drunk, that he ruined it. That he didn’t come out until it was too late.”

Jason’s face darkened. “He said Whizzer wanted someone honest. Someone who wouldn’t hide. But Dad… he’s scared of being seen.”

Charlotte added, “He keeps saying Whizzer doesn’t want him anymore.”

Jason shook his head. “He’s wrong.”

They all sat quietly, letting the weight of Marvin’s pain fill the room like fog.

Then Cordelia, ever the spark, perked up. “You know… I don’t think Whizzer’s entirely out of the picture.”

Jason tilted his head. “What do you mean?”

Charlotte leaned forward. “What if—hypothetically—he’s just waiting? Waiting for Marvin to try. Like really try.”

Cordelia nodded. “Not just wallow. Not just regret. Act.”

Jason’s eyes lit up. “You think… there’s a chance?”

Charlotte smiled slowly. “If there is, we’re taking it.”

Cordelia grinned. “But no moves yet. We need a plan. A real one.”

Jason looked up toward the stairs, where his dad was likely staring at the ceiling and trying not to feel anything.

“Okay,” he said. “Let’s bring Whizzer back.”

Chapter Text

Marvin didn’t mean to eavesdrop.
He told himself that again as he pressed his ear just a little closer to the guest room door.

The problem was, his son had a voice that could cut through walls, especially when Jason got passionate—or annoyed, which often felt like the same thing.

“…He won’t even try ,” Jason was saying downstairs, clearly frustrated. “It’s like he thinks suffering makes him noble.”

“I mean, it is a classic gay coping mechanism,” Charlotte replied.

“I’m right here, you know,” Marvin muttered to no one, leaning against the wall.

Cordelia’s voice came next, warmer, more careful. “Jason, maybe he’s just afraid. Guilt does that. Especially when someone’s convinced they ruined everything.”

Jason sighed. “He did ruin a lot. But he’s still my dad.”

That stung, not because it wasn’t true, but because Marvin knew it was.

He stepped away from the door, guilt settling in again like an old ache. He thought staying here would help clear his head, but instead, it had turned into a mirror. And every time he looked in it, all he saw was the man Whizzer left behind.

“Hey,” Jason said later, plopping onto the couch beside Charlotte and Cordelia. Marvin had retreated to the guest room again, headphones in, eyes glazed. “Do you think Whizzer… still cares?”

Charlotte looked at Cordelia. Cordelia looked at Charlotte. Then back at Jason.

“Well,” Charlotte said, “love doesn’t just vanish. Especially not when there was that much of it.”

“And from what your dad said,” Cordelia added gently, “he didn’t stop loving Whizzer. He just… didn’t know how to say it while it mattered.”

Jason chewed on his sleeve. “Whizzer used to come to my games. Even after the breakup. He never stopped asking how Dad was, even when he acted like he didn’t care.”

“He probably does care,” Charlotte said. “But caring isn’t always enough when someone’s hurt you.”

“Which is why,” Cordelia said, “if Marvin wants another chance, it has to be earned. ”

Jason sat up straighter. “So… we help him earn it.”

Charlotte blinked. “You’re serious.”

“He’s my dad,” Jason said. “And I know he’s a mess, but he’s trying. Slowly. Quietly. Pathetically. But he wants to be better. I can see it.”

Cordelia leaned back, eyebrows raised. “Okay. Let’s say we do help. What’s the first step?”

Jason’s eyes lit up. “We make a list.”

Charlotte laughed. “A list ?”

“A plan,” Jason corrected. “Like steps to fix things. We figure out what Marvin needs to do to win Whizzer back, and we help him check each box.”

Cordelia pulled out a notepad. “Alright, Jason. Let’s hear it.”

Jason paused, tapping his chin. “Okay… Step One: Apologize. For real this time. Not the vague, ‘I’m sorry you were hurt’ stuff. I mean a full, honest, heartfelt apology.”

Charlotte nodded, scribbling it down. “Own up. Got it.”

“Step Two,” Jason continued, “He has to come out. Like really come out. To his friends. To his coworkers. No more shame.”

Cordelia raised an eyebrow. “That’s a big ask.”

“He already is out to most people,” Jason said. “But he doesn’t live it. He still acts like he’s hiding. If he wants Whizzer back, he can’t do it half-closeted.”

“Fair,” Charlotte agreed, writing: Live openly.

“Step Three…” Jason hesitated. “He needs to show he’s changed. That he’s not just saying things, but actually becoming the man Whizzer always saw in him.”

Cordelia smiled. “Growth. Emotional evolution. Therapy, maybe?”

“Step Four,” Jason added, “He needs to do something big. Like… a gesture. Something that says, ‘I still love you. And I’m not afraid anymore.’”

“Ooooh, I love a grand romantic gesture,” Cordelia grinned. “Can we have balloons? A string quartet?”

“Maybe a public apology?” Charlotte said. “Or an old letter, re-read in person?”

Jason shrugged. “We’ll figure that part out later.”

Charlotte tapped her pen. “This is starting to sound like a queer romcom.”

“Exactly,” Jason said. “Except it’s real. And messy. And kinda tragic.”

“Gay romcoms usually are.”

They stared at the list for a moment, reading it over:

1. Apologize for real
   
   
2. Come out, fully
   
   
3. Show real change
   
   
4. Do something big
   
   

Cordelia tore the page from her notebook and pinned it to the fridge with a cat-shaped magnet.

“So,” Charlotte said, “how do we start this?”

Jason thought for a moment. “I don’t know. I guess we wait until he’s ready.”

Charlotte frowned. “He’s never going to be ready .”

Cordelia glanced toward the stairs. “Then maybe… we help him get ready. One little push at a time.”

Jason nodded. “We don’t tell him the plan. Not yet. We just… guide him.”

“Gay whisperers,” Cordelia said, placing her hand over her heart. “It’s our sacred duty.”

Jason looked at the fridge one more time and smiled, small but hopeful.

“Let’s bring my dad back to life.”

And somewhere upstairs, behind a closed door, Marvin stared at the ceiling and wondered why he suddenly felt like something was about to begin.

Meanwhile, across the city, in a cramped studio that smelled like darkroom chemicals and too much jasmine incense, Whizzer Browne stared down the lens of his camera, trying not to feel anything.

The man in front of him—a model in a silk button-down and gold eyeliner—pouted dramatically into the light. He was objectively beautiful, but Whizzer’s finger hovered over the shutter too long.

“Do I blink too much?” the model asked.

“No,” Whizzer said. “You’re fine. Just… hold still.”

Click.
Click.
Click.

Each photo felt like trying to capture something he used to believe in but had forgotten the shape of.

He sat back, reviewing the shots. Good composition. Strong lighting. Excellent framing. The kind of thing that would end up in some gallery with cheese cubes and strangers pretending to get it.

But all Whizzer could think was, This isn’t him.

He hadn’t slept with anyone in over a year.

Not because he didn’t want to. Not because no one asked. But because every time things got close—really close—he’d catch himself waiting for a voice that wouldn’t come. One with that stupid balance of anxiety and arrogance. One that called him ridiculous and beautiful in the same breath.

Marvin.

He hated that name sometimes. Not out of anger, but because it still lived in the corners of his room like a shadow he couldn’t scrub off.

After the breakup, Whizzer stopped going to gay bars. He stopped answering texts with eggplant emojis. He stopped pretending he was okay with how things ended.

Instead, he picked up a camera.

It started as something to do. Then it became something he was good at. But even now, as he reviewed the photos on his laptop, he realized—most of them had the same look: yearning, distance, quiet ache. Even when he wasn’t photographing Marvin, somehow he always was.

“Goddammit,” he muttered, rubbing his eyes.

He closed the file, tossed the camera onto the couch, and stood by the window. The evening light cast long shadows across the hardwood floor. Somewhere far off, a dog barked. Sirens wailed like city ghosts.

He thought of Jason, of how the kid always asked if he was coming to dinner—even after Marvin stopped showing up. He thought of Marvin's voice on their last phone call: flat, apologetic, trying too hard not to cry.

“Maybe,” Whizzer whispered to the window, “you’re ready now.”

But he didn’t know if he was.

Back in Brooklyn, chaos was unfolding.

Cordelia had taken the original list and rewritten it in colorful markers, complete with doodles and arrows. Jason had insisted on sticky notes. Charlotte brought out a corkboard.

The living room now looked like the planning scene of a heist movie—except instead of robbing a bank, they were trying to rebuild a broken man.

Jason was pointing at the fridge. “Okay, so Step Four: Big Romantic Gesture, right?”

“Yes,” Charlotte nodded. “But make it wild. Not just flowers and a speech. We need drama. Flair. Theatricality. ”

Cordelia lit up. “What if he serenaded him? Like, publicly. In a park. With a band.”

Charlotte smirked. “Marvin can’t sing.”

Jason frowned. “Also he’d implode from anxiety.”

“Flash mob?” Cordelia suggested.

“I’d rather die,” Jason said.

“We’re spitballing!”

Charlotte leaned forward. “Okay. What does Whizzer love?”

Jason tilted his head. “Photography. Hot people. Dogs. Men with emotional honesty.”

“So we combine those things,” Cordelia grinned. “We make Marvin the center of a live photo shoot. Like, we stage something Whizzer can’t ignore. Emotionally raw. Symbolic. Very gay.”

“We could fake a gallery opening,” Charlotte added, snapping her fingers. “And trick Whizzer into showing up. Then Marvin walks in. Boom. Feelings. Tears. Romantic confrontation surrounded by wine and bad art critics.”

Jason’s eyes widened. “That’s… kind of genius.”

“Of course it is,” Charlotte said smugly.

Cordelia laughed. “Operation: Emotional Ambush.”

They scribbled the new plan onto the board.

Revised List:

1. Apologize (real words, not vague sad man stuff)
   
   
2. Come out loud & proud (no more shame closet)
   
   
3. Show actual change (therapy, effort, vulnerable convos)
   
   
4. Wild Gesture – fake gallery? surprise serenade? speech with slideshow?
   
   

Jason tapped the corkboard. “So now what?”

Cordelia folded her arms. “Now… we light the match.”

Charlotte handed him a phone. “You’re closest to Whizzer. You text him.”

“What do I say?”

“Something casual,” Charlotte said. “Like, ‘Hey, Whizz, what’s up? Want to attend a mysterious, emotionally manipulative event soon?’”

Jason blinked. “What’s wrong with you?”

Cordelia laughed. “Just say hi. Ease him in. We’ll work out the gallery angle. Marvin doesn’t have to know yet.”

“Yet,” Charlotte added ominously.

They stood around the board, eyes gleaming with chaotic hope.

Marvin wandered downstairs moments later, eyes puffy, hair a mess, and holding a half-eaten bagel.

“What… are you doing?”

“Nothing!” they all said in unison.

Marvin narrowed his eyes.

Cordelia smiled too widely. “How’s that bagel?”

“…It’s fine,” he mumbled. “I think it’s moldy.”

“We’re proud of you,” Jason blurted.

Marvin blinked. “…Why?”

Charlotte threw an arm around him. “No reason. Just… keep doing you. You’re on the right path.”

“I am?”

“Totally,” Cordelia said, grinning like a woman with secrets. “You’re gonna crush it.”

Marvin walked away slowly, deeply suspicious, but too tired to ask questions.

As soon as he was out of earshot, Jason looked at the group.

“Okay,” he whispered. “Let’s bring them home.”

Chapter Text

Cordelia made tea. Not because anyone asked for it, but because emotional manipulation always goes down better with chamomile.

Jason sat at the kitchen table, drumming his fingers on a mug. “Are you sure this isn’t, like, illegal?”

“No,” Charlotte replied, “because unfortunately, it’s not illegal to make your emotionally repressed father confront his mistakes.”

Cordelia handed Jason a cookie. “Besides, it’s not a trap. It’s a... growth opportunity. ”

Jason raised an eyebrow. “Right. A growth opportunity disguised as brunch.”

They had all agreed Marvin wasn’t ready for Step Four or even Step Two yet—but Step One ? The apology? That could be finessed. Especially if Marvin didn’t realize that’s what they were pushing for.

The plan was simple: get Marvin to talk. Get him thinking about Whizzer, about why things fell apart. Then gently lead him to write it all down. No pressure, no audience. Just words on a page. Maybe a letter. Maybe something deeper.

And if that letter somehow ended up in Whizzer’s hands?

Well. That’d be fate.

Marvin shuffled into the kitchen still wearing yesterday’s shirt, his hair only halfway tamed. “Why does it smell like lemon and scheming in here?”

“It’s called ambience,” Cordelia chirped.

Charlotte slid a notebook toward him. “Sit. Drink. Write.”

Marvin blinked at the notebook like it was a bomb. “What is this?”

“A journal,” Jason said too casually. “Helps with anxiety. You said you were gonna try new things.”

“I meant like… yoga or a haircut.”

Charlotte crossed her arms. “You want to be better, don’t you? Writing’s cheaper than therapy.”

“Debatable,” Marvin muttered, but sat anyway.

He stared at the notebook. Blank pages. Too many of them.

Charlotte nodded at it. “Start with something easy. Maybe just talk about how you feel.”

“How I feel ,” Marvin repeated, like she’d asked him to recite the Iliad in Sanskrit.

“Feelings are like taxes,” Cordelia said wisely. “Horrible, but inevitable.”

Marvin cracked the spine of the notebook with a sigh. “This is stupid.”

He stared at the notebook for a long time before writing anything. The pen in his hand felt heavier than it should have.

Then, slowly, Marvin began.

I miss you.

He paused. It felt too simple. But it was true, and he didn’t want to lie here.

I miss the way you challenged me. I miss the way you made me feel seen, even when I didn’t want to be.

I miss your laugh. That annoying, too-loud, smug little laugh that you always let out when I said something idiotic.

You were right. A lot. You were right about me being scared. You were right that I wasn’t ready.

You were right when you left.

He swallowed. The room felt too quiet.

I hated how much you understood me. I hated that you could read me like a damn book I didn’t want anyone to check out.

I hated that you could love me through all that mess, through all the sharp, ugly parts I tried to keep hidden.

You made me feel like maybe it was okay to be myself. And I made you feel like it wasn’t.

His hand trembled a little as he continued.

I wanted to love you out loud, but I was too full of shame. I thought hiding you meant I could keep the parts of my life that felt safe.

But there was never safety in pretending. There was only loneliness.

And I was cruel. Not in words, though maybe sometimes that too, but in silence. In what I didn't say.
You wanted a partner, and I gave you excuses. You gave me your heart, and I gave you my fear.

I thought if I just held out long enough, maybe I could have both: the life I’d built and the love I found in you.
 

But life doesn’t work like that.
And love doesn’t wait forever.

He blinked, and one tear slipped down onto the page.

I see it now, Whizzer. Too late, probably. But I do.

I’ve been carrying this weight, this silence, this guilt—like a second skin. And I’m tired. I’m so tired of pretending I don’t still feel everything.

I think I always loved you. I just didn’t know how to say it in a way that didn’t destroy everything else.
But by not saying it at all, I destroyed us anyway.

He paused, eyes closed, before writing the last few lines.

So here it is. The words I should’ve said a thousand times before you walked out the door:

I’m sorry. I’m sorry for the pain I caused. I’m sorry I made you doubt your worth.
I’m sorry I wasted time.

And I love you still.

Probably always.

Back at the house, Charlotte was on the phone.

“Yep,” she said, pacing. “He wrote it. Folded it up like it was sacred scripture. Looked like he’d been hit by a truck made of feelings.”

Jason grinned. “So… Step One?”

Cordelia raised her mug. “Complete.”

Charlotte smirked. “Now we just need to get it to Whizzer.”

Jason frowned. “Do we just mail it?”

Cordelia shook her head. “Too boring. Too easy. He’ll think it’s a bill.”

“Pigeon delivery?” Charlotte offered.

Jason rolled his eyes. “We need a moment. Something memorable.”

Cordelia grinned. “Then it’s time for Phase Two. ”

Jason raised an eyebrow. “What’s Phase Two?”

Charlotte’s smile turned wicked. “Let’s just say… we’re going to need a photographer.”

The letter arrived two days later.

It was hand-delivered in a battered manila envelope—no name, no return address. Just a note scrawled on the front in someone else's handwriting:

"Please read this. - J."

Whizzer almost threw it out.

It had been a long day—shooting an ad campaign with models who didn’t know how to hold eye contact and clients who thought they knew more about lighting than he did. His shoulders ached, and his hands were still slightly cold from the studio's broken heater.

He tossed his keys onto the kitchen counter, dropped his bag, and was about to shove the envelope aside with the rest of the mail when he saw the paper inside.

Not typed. Handwritten.

He pulled it out. His breath caught halfway through the first sentence.

I miss you.

He sat down slowly.

By the third paragraph, he had stopped breathing.

By the seventh, he was gripping the edge of the table like it might keep him from floating away.

Marvin’s words weren’t perfect. They weren’t poetic. But they were raw . Honest. Scared, still—but stripped of the usual arrogance. Like he'd finally stopped running and looked his own reflection in the eye.

And Whizzer couldn’t help but feel it.

Because for a long time, he had wondered if he imagined all of it. If Marvin ever really felt as deeply as he did. Or if Whizzer had just poured himself into a cracked glass, hoping love might hold.

But here it was. The proof. The ache. The apology.

The "I love you," he thought he'd never hear.

Whizzer folded the letter neatly and set it on the table.

Then he stood. Pacing. Restless.

He hadn’t cried in months. Not about Marvin. Not directly. Not in ways he could admit to.

But now?

Now it came back in waves—memories, regrets, moments he thought he’d buried:

• Marvin was falling asleep on his shoulder after a long day.
  
  
• The way he used to argue about trivial things just to feel something.
  
  
• That one night when Whizzer asked, “Are you ashamed of me?” and Marvin couldn’t answer.
  
  

“I’m sorry,” Whizzer whispered, almost laughing bitterly. “ Now you’re sorry.”

He wanted to scream. He wanted to throw the letter. He wanted to call Marvin and yell or cry or— something .

But mostly, he just wanted to touch him. To see if Marvin’s eyes still carried that tired, anxious softness when he was trying not to fall apart.

Whizzer walked to the window. The city outside was loud and uncaring, but his apartment suddenly felt too quiet.

He reached for his phone.

Paused.

Put it down.

Instead, he picked up the letter again. Read it once more. Slower this time.

He ran his fingers over the words “I love you. Still.”

Then, without even realizing it, he said aloud:
“Goddammit, Marvin.”

A knock sounded at the door.

He blinked, startled. Not expecting anyone.

He opened it to find a delivery boy standing awkwardly, holding a small package.

“For… Whizzer Brown?” the guy asked.

“Yeah,” Whizzer said, suspicious. “From who?”

“Dunno. Some woman with blonde curls said, ‘You’ll know what to do with it.’ Then told me to run.”

Whizzer frowned. “That… sounds like her.”

He took the package.

Inside was a single Polaroid camera. No note. No explanation.

Taped to the front, in looping, chaotic handwriting:

“Phase Two. Snap wisely. – CA ”

Whizzer stared at it.

Then, slowly—against his better judgment, and with the weight of an old ache curled around his ribs—he smiled.

Chapter Text

It started with Jason’s silence.

He didn’t say anything when Marvin picked him up for the weekend, even though Marvin looked unusually sharp — blazer, decent cologne, a haircut that screamed “trying too hard.” He didn’t say anything when Marvin nervously adjusted the car mirrors three times before they even pulled out of the driveway.

But when they got to Charlotte and Cordelia’s apartment and Marvin hesitated at the door like it might bite him — then Jason spoke.

“You don’t have to be scared of them, Dad.”

Marvin blinked. “I’m not.”

“You’re scared of what you’re gonna say to them.”

Jason, being fifteen, said it without judgment. Just truth. Like it was math.

And Marvin had no comeback.

Inside, Cordelia had lit every candle she owned. It smelled like three different apothecaries were fighting for dominance in the living room.

Charlotte wore her “doctor off-duty” hoodie — gray, oversized, ironically stitched with Feelings Are Cool in pastel. She handed Marvin a glass of lemonade that tasted suspiciously like gin.

“Sit,” she said, and Marvin sat.

Jason dropped his backpack by the couch, then joined them with the solemn air of someone who knew he was part of an intervention.

Marvin stared at them, then gave a weak chuckle. “Is this about the time I drunkenly showed up and cried about my tragic man love?”

Cordelia leaned in, elbows on knees. “It’s about the closet.”

Marvin tensed. “What—”

“The emotional one,” Charlotte clarified, though her voice was gentler than usual. “You’re out to yourself. Maybe even to us. But the world? Jason? Whizzer? Not really.”

“I’m not hiding,” Marvin said.

“You’re not saying either,” Jason countered. “There’s a difference.”

And then, silence.

Charlotte didn’t press. Cordelia didn’t joke. Jason didn’t fidget.

They just let it settle.

Marvin stared into his lemonade. The ice cubes were melting fast.

“I was supposed to be a straight guy with a nice little family,” he finally said, voice low. “I built a life around that. I hurt a lot of people because of it.”

Jason tilted his head. “You think staying quiet is helping them now?”

That stung more than Marvin expected. Because no, it wasn’t.

“I just…” Marvin exhaled. “I’ve spent so long feeling like I don’t deserve to call myself anything but a mistake.”

Charlotte stood slowly. “Then it’s time to unlearn that.”

Cordelia, with her usual over-the-top flair, whipped out a whiteboard she’d been hiding under the couch.

It read: “Coming Out: But Make It Slay” with glitter pen stars and a crude drawing of a rainbow.

“Here’s the deal,” she said, pacing like a TED Talker on caffeine. “We’ve invited you to speak at a local LGBTQ+ community event. Low-stakes. Supportive. Mostly artists and weirdos. You’re not giving a TED Talk, you’re just sharing.”

Marvin looked panicked. “Sharing what?”

“Your story,” Charlotte said, “and your truth. Loudly. With the people who’ve got your back.”

“You mean lie about being proud?”

“No,” Jason said. “Mean it. Or try to.”

Marvin looked down at the floor. Then to Jason. Then to Charlotte and Cordelia.

He didn’t say yes.

But he didn’t say no either.

One Week Later

The room was small — a rented co-op space lined with folding chairs and string lights. A hand-painted banner in front read: “Queer Stories Night.”

Marvin stood behind a microphone that felt too tall and too loud.

Jason sat in the second row, arms crossed, eyes narrowed but kind.

Charlotte and Cordelia sat in the front, both doing thumbs-ups. Cordelia wore rainbow earrings the size of oranges. Charlotte brought tissues.

The host introduced him with: “Next up is Marvin, here to share his journey.”

Marvin’s mouth went dry.

He stepped up. Hands shaking. Voice caught.

And then—

He looked at Jason.

And he started.

“Hi. Um… I’m Marvin. I’m forty-two. And I’m gay.”

The room was quiet.

No one laughed. No one gasped.

So he went on.

“For a long time, I thought I wasn’t. I thought maybe I was just sad. Or confused. Or—lonely enough to make bad choices and then walk away from them before they became real.”

He paused. Swallowed.

“I had a partner. His name is Whizzer. And I loved him. Still love him. But I hurt him. A lot. Because I couldn’t love him out loud.”

He glanced at Jason.

“I didn’t know how to tell my son that the version of ‘Dad’ he grew up with wasn’t the whole picture.”

Jason didn’t blink. Didn’t flinch.

Marvin continued, voice steadier.

“I built a life out of fear. Of being seen. Of being called something. Of being wrong. And I lost things because of that — people, trust, myself.”

Another pause.

“I’m not here because I’ve figured it all out. I’m here because I’m tired of hiding. And because I want to be better.”

The room was silent.

Then someone in the back clapped.

Then more people.

Then the whole room.

Marvin stepped back from the mic. Cordelia was already sobbing into Charlotte’s shoulder.

Jason stood up. Walked over. Hugged him.

Not awkwardly.

Not coldly.

Just a real, firm, fifteen-year-old hug.

“I knew,” Jason said softly. “I was just waiting for you to say it first.”

That night, when they got home, Marvin found a small envelope in his mailbox.

No return name.

Inside, one photograph.

It was him — onstage, behind the mic, face lit by string lights and a little courage.

On the back, in clean handwriting:

“You looked proud. – W”

He panicked like a high school girl, and Jason just facepalmed.

Chapter Text

Marvin was twenty minutes early to therapy.

Not because he was excited, not because he trusted the process — but because he had no idea what else to do with himself. Sitting in the waiting room, legs jittering, he stared at the motivational posters on the wall like they might lunge at him. “Healing isn’t linear.” “Speak your truth.” “Progress over perfection.”

He hated all of them. But he was still there.

Two weeks earlier.

After the “Queer Stories” night, Marvin had felt… not relief, exactly, but lighter. Like some part of him had cracked open and the air was finally reaching the inside.

He thought coming out publicly would fix everything.

It didn’t.

Whizzer didn’t call.

Trina didn’t text.

Jason, bless him, was supportive but blunt: “It’s not just about saying it, Dad. You have to live like it.”

And Marvin had replied — for the first time — “Okay. Then I will.”

The therapist was young. Too young. Probably fresh out of grad school with a degree in "Let’s Explore That."

Her name was Dani, and she wore chunky rings and said things like “I’m hearing a lot of shame behind that sentence” and “What does your inner child need right now?”

Marvin hated her immediately. But he kept showing up.

In session three, he admitted the thing he’d never told anyone—not even Whizzer:

“I spent years pretending to be straight, not because I didn’t know I was gay. I knew. I just thought it would ruin me.”

Dani just nodded. “And did it?”

He didn’t answer. He just cried for the first time in months.

They met in a corner café she liked — the kind that served overpriced tea and had acoustic guitar covers of ABBA playing faintly in the background.

Trina arrived wearing her usual armor: perfect hair, high-neck blouse, arms crossed like a gate.

“I heard about your little coming-out thing,” she said, stirring her drink too fast.

Marvin nodded. “Jason told you?”

“No. Cordelia did. She sends voice memos now. Like a gay war general.”

They were quiet for a while.

Then Marvin swallowed hard. “I’m sorry I made you doubt yourself. And us. And love.”

Trina blinked.

“I didn’t lie because I didn’t love you. I lied because I didn’t think I was allowed to love anyone the way I wanted to. And that cost you a real marriage. A real partner.”

She stared at him, speechless.

“I’m in therapy now,” he added. “Not because I want Whizzer back. I mean, I do, but… I’m doing this because I don’t want to be the man who hurts people just because he’s hurting.”

She looked down at her tea, lips trembling. Then, almost imperceptibly, she reached across the table and touched his hand.

“You owe me a lot of years,” she whispered.

“I know,” he said. “But I’d like to start giving them back. In pieces. If you’ll let me.”

Marvin cooked dinner.

Like — really cooked. Vegetables. Seasoning. He even used a recipe.

Jason blinked at the plate like it might explode.

“No grilled cheese?” he said.

“Nope,” Marvin replied, setting the table. “Tonight we’re having ‘Therapy Dad Tries His Best Stir Fry.’”

Jason snorted. “You really are changing.”

They ate in relative silence until Jason spoke up.

“I read a book about coming out,” he said suddenly.

Marvin paused. “Yeah?”

“It said that being proud doesn’t mean you’re done being scared. It means you’re doing it anyway.”

Marvin felt his throat tighten. “That’s a good one.”

“Yeah. I think you’re doing okay.”

“…Thanks.”

Jason shrugged, but there was a softness in his eyes. “Still rooting for you. And Whizzer. Just saying.”

He showed up unexpectedly.

Not in person — but in a photo.

A new envelope. No note this time.

Inside was a print: Jason and Marvin at the café, laughing. The lighting was golden. The joy looked real.

Marvin stared at it for a long time.

Then he flipped it over.

In tiny handwriting on the back: “Keep going.”

Charlotte stuck a sticky note on Marvin’s fridge the next day. It read:

✅ Apology
✅ Coming Out
☑️ Making Changes
🔜 Wild Gesture

Cordelia added doodles of fireworks.

Jason drew a stick figure of Marvin holding a rainbow sword.

And Marvin?

He didn’t take the note down.

For once, he kind of liked it there.

Whizzer wasn’t thinking of Marvin that day.

He was walking off a headache, camera slung across his shoulder, city breeze tugging at his sleeves. It was late afternoon — golden hour — the kind of light that made cracked sidewalks look like poetry. He wasn’t looking for anything. Not consciously.

Then he passed that café.

The one with the too-expensive tea and the guitars on loop. He barely glanced in — just a reflex, scanning for light, texture, color.

But he stopped.

Marvin was there.

Inside. At a table near the window.

Laughing.

Jason sat across from him, holding a straw wrapper like a fake mustache. Marvin had one hand over his eyes, the other slapping the table as he laughed like he hadn’t laughed in years — loud, unguarded, real. Not trying to impress. Not trying to hide.

Just there. Just himself.

And for a moment, Whizzer forgot how to move.

He hadn’t seen Marvin in person since before. Since the fall-apart. Since the tears and the yelling and the silence that followed. And here he was — older, yes. A little more tired. But alive.

And happy.

Whizzer felt something sharp and soft crack open in his chest.

He lifted his camera — slow, instinctive.

Framed the shot through the glass, the light catching Jason’s face just right. Marvin mid-laugh. Nothing posed. Nothing false.

Click.

He didn’t linger.

Didn’t knock on the glass.

Didn’t go inside.

He just looked one last time — like someone pressing a finger to an old scar — and walked away before he could think better of it.

That night, he printed the photo.

It sat on his desk for hours.

Then, finally, he flipped it over, wrote two words on the back.

“Keep going.”

And the next day, he slipped it in an envelope, unsigned, and mailed it to an address he remembered too well.

Chapter Text

Scene One: “We Need to Talk” (a.k.a. Ambush Brunch)

Trina didn’t know what she was walking into.

Cordelia had texted her — “Come to brunch, no questions. Jason and I are cooking. It’s important.”

Trina, suspicious but hungry, arrived in a sundress and her judgmental face.

Mendel tagged along uninvited. Jason didn’t mind — he liked it when Mendel was around now. It was less weird than it used to be. Trauma had a way of sorting priorities.

What was weird was that when Trina and Mendel arrived, they were greeted by:

• Jason is in an apron, flipping pancakes. He learned well from Cordelia.

• Charlotte on a whiteboard, drawing a very bad flowchart labeled:
  “OPERATION: GET MARVIN HIS MAN BACK”

• Cordelia holding a color-coded notebook labeled “Gay Love Crimes (Working Title)”

Trina froze. “What—?”

“Welcome to the mission,” Jason said, tossing her a pancake like a Frisbee.

Scene Two: The Chaos Table

Cordelia explained it all.
Whizzer and Marvin.
The heartbreak.
The lesbians are taking Marvin in.
The apology. The coming out. The effort.

Then she said, “So now we’re in Phase Four: Fake Gallery Wild Gesture. But we need backup. Moral and logistical.”

“And parental,” Jason added.

Mendel blinked. “You want us to… help Marvin get back with Whizzer?”

“Yes,” said Charlotte, “because we believe in growth and second chances and also because Marvin is a melodramatic disaster who will probably ruin it without adult supervision.”

Trina sipped her mimosa. “Why should I help the man who lied to me for a decade and fled into the gay wilderness like a Shakespearean antihero?”

Jason put down his fork.

“Because he’s trying. For once in his life, he’s really, really trying. And I think if he gets this second chance, he won’t waste it.”

Silence.

Trina sighed. “Damn it. That speech was good.”

“I helped write it,” said Cordelia.

“Figures.”

Scene Three: Montage: The Gay Heist Begins

Cue music: “You Make My Dreams (Come True)” by Hall & Oates

☑ Brainstorming Scene #1
Charlotte is drawing stick figures of Marvin and Whizzer kissing under a gallery spotlight. Trina critiques the lighting. Mendel adjusts it. Cordelia takes over and draws fireworks.

☑ Scene #2 – The Fake Gallery Space
Charlotte calls in a favor with a friend-of-a-friend named Julian who owns a failing performance art space. Julian is bisexual and owes her money. He agrees after five minutes and a bribe of vegan cupcakes.

☑ Scene #3 – Fake Event Planning
Cordelia designs an invite called “Unspoken: A One-Night-Only Exhibit on Love, Loss, and Loud Gays” and sends it anonymously to Whizzer.

☑ Scene #4 – Creating the “Art”
They start secretly compiling moments Marvin doesn’t know were documented:
– the photos Whizzer took
– one of Marvin at Queer Stories, smiling nervously
– Jason’s drawing of their old apartment labeled “Before Dad Got Honest”
– A therapy worksheet Marvin left on the kitchen table

Trina donates an old wedding photo, edited to include a caption: “Sometimes love begins in the wrong story.”

Mendel writes a tiny monologue:
“What if healing isn’t fixing the past, but finally telling the truth in the present?”

☑ Scene #5 – Rehearsal
Charlotte pretends to be Marvin. Jason pretends to be Whizzer. Mendel critiques everyone’s acting.

“You’re too soft!” he shouts.
“He’s right,” says Trina. “Marvin’s more emotionally constipated than that.”

☑ Scene #6 – Distraction Team
Trina volunteers to keep Marvin busy on the night of the event. “I’ll just say there’s a game night. He’ll fall for it. He’s tragic like that.”

Jason nods solemnly. “He still thinks Cards Against Humanity is cutting-edge humor.”

Scene Seven: A Quiet Pause Before the Storm

After the madness settles, Jason sits with Charlotte on the fire escape, eating leftover pancakes.

“Do you really think this’ll work?” he asks.

Charlotte exhales. “I think if it doesn’t, at least he’ll know we believed in him enough to try.”

Jason thinks for a long time. Then:

“Good. Because I think Marvin’s finally starting to believe in himself, too.”

Chapter Text

Marvin didn’t want to be paranoid.

But something was weird.

Charlotte and Cordelia kept whispering and texting in corners. Jason had been humming musicals he hated. Trina had invited him to a board game night and told him to “wear something nice—y’know, just in case.”

“In case of what?” he asked.

She blinked. “You know. Casual dignity.”

Casual dignity?

Even Mendel was acting strange. At brunch, he’d said, “You seem… brighter lately, Marvin.”

“Brighter?” Marvin squinted. “What does that mean? Like, emotionally or fluorescently?”

Mendel just patted his shoulder. “Therapy’s working. Be proud of that.”

And then there was Jason — staring at him too long over toast, then scribbling something in a notebook when he thought Marvin wasn’t looking.

They were up to something.

Definitely.

Marvin was walking home from therapy, cutting through a narrow street by the park. He was replaying an imaginary confrontation with Trina that may or may not have involved the words “cabal of queers,” when it happened.

A man turned the corner fast, head down, looking at something in his hand — a glossy piece of paper.

Neither of them looked up in time.

CRASH.

It was bodies, limbs, a curse word, and then:

Marvin was on top of someone.

Flat on their chest.

Warm hands instinctively caught his waist to steady him. His knee was between someone’s legs. The scent of woodsy cologne and something expensive filled his nose.

“Shit—sorry—” Marvin started, then looked down.

Whizzer.

Whizzer looked up.

Blue eyes. Slightly stunned. Slightly smug.

“Hey,” he said.

Marvin’s brain: empty file folder noises.

He blinked. Words failed. Muscles froze. Every cell in his body lit up like faulty Christmas lights.

This is Whizzer. You're straddling Whizzer. Like some deranged romcom. Get off Whizzer. Oh god, your hand is on his chest. Is that his heartbeat or yours?

Marvin yelped, rolled off, and scrambled to his feet like he was escaping a war zone.

“I—I didn’t—”

“It’s okay,” Whizzer said, standing smoothly, brushing dirt off his jacket. “I wasn’t looking where I was going.”

He glanced at the paper still clutched in his hand — the gallery invite.

Marvin clocked it instantly.

He narrowed his eyes. “What’s that?”

Whizzer tucked it in his coat. “Nothing.”

They stared.

Too long.

Marvin’s voice cracked. “Okay! Bye!”

And he ran.

Just ran.

Charlotte was cooking when Marvin stormed in.

“I need alcohol and possibly divine intervention.”

She raised an eyebrow. “You’re not drinking again. What happened?”

“I BODY-SLAMMED MY EX IN PUBLIC.”

She turned off the burner. “Okay, that’s dramatic even for you. Try again.”

Marvin paced the kitchen like a cat in an existential crisis.

“He was holding something. A fancy paper. I think he was invited to some weird event, and I ran into him. I—no, not ran. COLLIDED. Like a human avalanche.”

“You what?”

“I was ON TOP OF HIM, CHARLOTTE. LIKE, LITERALLY. And he smelled really good and his hands were—god, his hands—and I had a whole internal monologue about his chest and knees and I think I short-circuited—”

Charlotte tried not to laugh. “Did you talk?”

Marvin stopped.

Looked at her.

Then sighed dramatically. “I said ‘Bye’ and ran like a roadrunner on meth.”

Charlotte laughed very hard.

“Don’t. You weren’t there. It was so much worse in real time. It was cinematic. It was like a gay Pride and Prejudice meets Looney Tunes.”

She wiped her eyes. “You’re doing amazing, sweetie.”

He groaned into his hands.

“What if he thinks I did it on purpose? What if he thinks I was stalking him? What if I was?!”

“Were you?”

“…No. But what if I was subconsciously emotionally drawn to him like a moth to a regret-flavored flame?”

Charlotte handed him tea. “Then, congrats. You’re in love. Again.”

Chapter Text

“This is kidnapping,” Marvin muttered as Trina dragged him out of the apartment by the wrist.

“Correction,” Trina snapped. “This is aesthetic intervention.”

“I didn’t agree to this.”

“You didn’t not agree either.”

“Because I didn’t know what this was!”

Jason walked behind them, carrying a suit bag. “You’ll look great in this. It’s artsy but casual.”

“I don’t do artsy casual,” Marvin hissed. “I do anxious and overdressed.”

Too late. Cordelia and Charlotte were waiting in a borrowed car, both wearing smug grins and too much perfume.

“Get in, loser,” Cordelia said. “We’re going to gay art heaven.”

Marvin sighed like a man walking to his own funeral. But he got in.

The gallery was in a repurposed warehouse. String lights twinkled overhead. Jazz played softly from hidden speakers.

It was supposed to be intimate.

But by the time they arrived…

It was packed.

Dozens of people. Friends of friends. Queer artists. Old neighbors. Strangers from Instagram. Theater kids. Men in suspenders. Women with shaved heads. A man with a falcon on his shoulder for some reason.

Marvin’s jaw dropped. “What the hell is happening?”

Charlotte blinked. “We sent out, like… fifteen invites.”

Cordelia was staring at her phone. “Someone posted it online. It’s trending under #UnspokenGallery.”

Marvin turned pale. “Oh my God, I’m going to die.”

“No, you’re going to trend,” said Jason.

Whizzer arrived ten minutes later.

He didn’t make an entrance. He just was. Casual black shirt, sleeves rolled, that signature ease in his walk.

Polaroid camera around his neck.

Cordelia’s gift.

He spotted Marvin across the room, standing under a photograph of his own handwriting on a napkin. The caption read: “I was scared, not cruel. I didn’t know the difference yet.”

Whizzer stared.

Marvin looked up.

And for a moment, the gallery dissolved.

Marvin’s breath caught.

He looked so good. The sleeves rolled just right. That messy hair. Those eyes. And the camera — God, the camera — made him look like something from a movie. Confident. Cool. Devastating.

Whizzer had the same thought. Holy hell, Marvin.

The way Marvin was dressed — clean lines, charcoal blazer, the tiniest pin on his lapel (a rainbow triangle) — like he was trying not to look good and absolutely failing.

Their eyes locked.

Whizzer blinked.

Marvin blinked.

Their expressions were identical: Oh no, he’s hot.

The gallery, to everyone’s surprise, worked.

People cried. Took pictures. Left notes. Asked Marvin questions about identity, grief, healing, queer love. He answered them. Shaky, quiet, honest.

Whizzer watched from a corner, taking candid shots.

He didn’t interrupt.

Not yet.

But when Marvin saw the flash of a camera and turned — really turned — and met Whizzer’s eyes again…

He smiled.

Not nervously.

Not guiltily.

Just… warmly.

Whizzer’s heart squeezed. He snapped the photo.

The next day, the gallery was written up in a queer art zine. Then a local paper. Then reposted on a major LGBTQ+ Instagram account.

Charlotte’s phone exploded.

Jason’s drawing was featured in the carousel.

Marvin’s handwriting became an online quote.

Whizzer’s Polaroids were called “achingly intimate.”

And Marvin, for the first time in his life, didn’t hide.

He read the comments.

He looked at the photos.

And he didn’t hate what he saw.

Whizzer wandered slowly, weaving through clusters of art enthusiasts with a calm that was only partly genuine. The buzz of voices and camera clicks filled the air, but he was focused. Watching.

Marvin kept floating between exhibits and conversation. He was smiling—awkwardly, sure—but genuinely. Still, Whizzer could see the tension under his skin, the way his fingers fidgeted with the seam of his jacket whenever someone complimented the exhibit.

He looked proud. Uncomfortable. Beautiful.

Whizzer was still staring when Cordelia slid in beside him, like a shark with glitter lip gloss.

“So,” she purred. “Do you like the show?”

Whizzer didn’t even look at her. “He’s amazing.”

Jason and Charlotte flanked him from the other side. Jason nudged him with an elbow. “You should tell him.”

Whizzer raised an eyebrow. “That’s subtle.”

“Subtle’s for boring people,” Charlotte said, swirling her wine.

Cordelia grinned. “He’s over there by the mirror piece. Go.”

Whizzer hesitated. “I haven’t spoken to him in months.”

Jason leaned in. “Then maybe it’s time.”

The trio didn’t wait for his answer. Like trained secret agents, they swept through the crowd in opposite directions—casually bumping Marvin’s conversation to an end, guiding the space between him and Whizzer smaller and smaller, until suddenly—

They were standing face to face.

Again.

Up close.

The rest of the gallery seemed to fall away. The buzz turned into static. The lights dimmed (or maybe that was just Marvin’s nervous system preparing to shut down).

“Hi,” Whizzer said softly.

Marvin blinked. “Hi.”

There was a pause. A breath.

“You did this?” Whizzer asked, gesturing vaguely at the room.

Marvin nodded, eyes flickering everywhere but Whizzer’s face. “Apparently.”

Whizzer tilted his head. “It’s… incredible.”

“…Thanks.”

Marvin’s fingers twitched.

“You don’t have to be afraid of me,” Whizzer added.

That made Marvin meet his gaze—briefly.

“I’m not,” Marvin lied. He glanced down. His voice dropped. “I’m afraid of me.”

That hung between them.

Charlotte was watching from across the room, visibly mouthing, talk to him, Marvin, come on.

Cordelia was giving thumbs-up signals like a frantic sports coach.

Jason was hiding behind a display pretending not to care but clearly watching through a reflection.

Whizzer stepped forward—just enough. Just close enough to break Marvin’s shaky composure.

He reached out, gently, and laid a hand on Marvin’s shoulder.

Just the touch.

Familiar.

Warm.

Safe.

It hit Marvin like a lightning strike.

He sucked in a breath, his whole posture stiffening. Something raw and reflexive surfaced in his chest—panic, grief, longing, regret, want—and he couldn’t stay still.

“I—I can’t—” he whispered, and then turned on his heel and bolted out the side exit, jacket flapping behind him.

Whizzer stood frozen, hand still in the air.

The others all stared.

Jason slowly turned to Charlotte. “That went well.”

Charlotte sighed. “Better than I expected, honestly.”

Cordelia grabbed her phone. “I give it a six out of ten. Points deducted for fleeing.”

Whizzer stared at the door Marvin had just sprinted through, then lowered his hand. Despite everything, he smiled to himself.

“He still feels something,” he murmured.

And he walked toward the nearest Polaroid of Marvin, already knowing which photo he’d take next.

Chapter Text

“Okay, I just—NO. Absolutely not. That was NOT supposed to happen!” Marvin hissed, pacing frantically around what looked like the back hallway of the gallery. He ran both hands through his hair for the fifth time in three minutes, spiraling at lightspeed.

Charlotte leaned against a wall, arms crossed, sipping from a paper cup of sparkling wine. “Well, it was supposed to happen. Just not like that.”

“I ran away!” Marvin gasped. “I ran. Like a raccoon from a porch light. I bolted! In front of people. At an art event. That’s basically social death.”

“You fled your almost-boyfriend like he was holding a subpoena,” Charlotte agreed. “Iconic.”

“Oh my GOD—”

“You’re being a little dramatic—”

“Charlotte, I think I disassociated! I blacked out for, like, a second—”

“You turned into a Victorian heroine, Marvin. It was beautiful.”

Marvin threw his hands up. “You don’t understand! He touched me, and—and it was like—like my nervous system just went, ‘oh no, feelings!’ and shut down! And his eyes, Charlotte, they were so—ugh! And his voice, it was the same voice but softer, and when I say I felt that in my teeth, I mean I—!”

“You mean he makes you gay in 4K, yes, we’ve been knowing.”

“I looked so STUPID!”

Charlotte opened her mouth to respond—

—and then her eyes flicked behind Marvin.

“Oh,” she said, voice a little too calm, “how long have you been standing there?”

Marvin froze mid-rant.

He turned.

Whizzer stood there, holding a paper cup, eyebrows raised and biting back the most smug little smile.

“…Oh no,” Marvin whispered.

He turned ghost-white.

Then promptly fainted.

Everything was warm.

Which was weird, because he definitely should’ve been on the cold gallery floor in a puddle of his own gay panic.

But instead, Marvin blinked awake and realized two things immediately.

One: he was in some kind of staff break room with dim lights, soft music, and an electric kettle humming on a counter.

Two: someone was holding his hand.

Marvin’s eyes trailed down to see Whizzer, seated beside the little couch Marvin had been laid out on, one of Marvin’s hands resting in both of his. Gently. Like he’d been holding it the whole time.

Marvin flushed so hard he thought his soul might combust.

Whizzer looked up. “Hey. You okay?”

Marvin made a small choking sound and tried to sit up too fast. The result was a dazed stumble backward into the couch arm, knocking over a tissue box in the process.

“Relax,” Whizzer said gently, reaching to steady him again. “No sudden movements. You’re still in the mortal realm, don’t worry.”

“Did I—faint?”

“Like a debutante.”

“Oh my God.”

“It was actually kind of flattering,” Whizzer added. “Can’t remember the last time someone passed out from talking about me.”

“I hate everything.”

“You were yelling about my eyes. That was cute.”

Marvin groaned into his hands. “This is my Joker origin story.”

Whizzer gave a soft laugh. “You’re fine, Marvin.”

There was a pause. Marvin didn’t dare look up.

Then: “I meant what I said earlier.”

Marvin peeked up through his fingers. “About what?”

“About not wanting you to be afraid of me. About thinking, what you made here is incredible. About still—” he hesitated, then softened—“still feeling something.”

That got Marvin’s attention.

Whizzer took a breath. “I stopped sleeping around, you know. Not because I suddenly got virtuous or whatever. It’s just—every time it happened, it reminded me of you. Of how I felt with you. And I couldn’t… I didn’t want to forget that.”

Marvin’s heart was loud in his ears.

“I thought the whole point of breaking up was to stop hurting,” Whizzer continued. “But I didn’t stop. I just started missing you in quieter ways. In familiar songs. In stupid things like finding your favorite soup in a store. And I hated how much I still remembered.”

Marvin’s throat felt tight. “I never stopped thinking about you either.”

“I know,” Whizzer said softly. “Your gallery screamed it.”

They were quiet a moment.

Then Marvin, very slowly, let his hand inch back toward Whizzer’s.

Whizzer didn’t hesitate. He took it again.

This time, Marvin didn’t run.

“Is this—?” Marvin began.

“We can figure it out,” Whizzer said. “But if you want to—if you’re ready to—then yes. Let’s try again.”

Marvin’s voice came out small, but sure. “I want to.”

They sat like that for a moment, in a strange kind of peace. The noise of the gallery was distant. For now, all that existed was the beat of a new beginning.

Marvin leaned his head against Whizzer’s shoulder.

“I can’t believe I passed out.”

“I can’t believe you called my eyes devastating. That’s going in my bio.”

“Shut up.”

Whizzer smiled.

And somewhere outside the break room, Charlotte, Cordelia, and Jason high-fived behind the curtain like they’d just won a Tony Award for Best Matchmaking.

Marvin sat back, still processing, still pink in the face, his hand lingering in Whizzer’s like he didn’t quite believe it was allowed to be there. Every part of him felt like it was buzzing—overstimulated, underprepared, but flooded with relief and something else.

Whizzer gave his fingers a light squeeze.

And that’s when Marvin made the mistake of actually looking at him.

Up close, in this light, Whizzer looked unfairly good. Soft curls slightly messy from the wind outside. That signature crooked smirk, a little more vulnerable now. The collar of his shirt slightly askew. His eyes—God, those eyes—still devastating, still burning with something that made Marvin’s breath hitch.

Panic flickered again.

“Okay,” Marvin blurted, standing up too fast. “Okay, yes, this was good, great, healthy—very healing! Amazing. I’m just going to go scream into a wall now for maybe six years—”

He turned, already fumbling for the door, but he hadn’t made it more than two steps before—

Whizzer caught his wrist.

“Marvin.”

The sound of his name in that voice did things to him.

He turned, heart hammering. “Yeah?”

Whizzer stepped forward.

Just one step. But it was enough.

He was taller. Not by much, but enough to suddenly make Marvin feel very small, very seen, and very trapped—in a way that didn’t feel bad.

Whizzer let go of his wrist and gently placed both hands on either side of the door frame, effectively caging Marvin in. Not aggressive. Not rough. Just… firm. Present.

“You’re not running away this time,” he said softly.

Marvin swallowed. “I—I'm not running. I’m just…moving. Rapidly. Away.”

Whizzer leaned in, close enough to tilt his forehead gently to Marvin’s.

And that was it.

Whatever willpower Marvin had snapped like a cheap elastic band.

He surged forward, mouth crashing into Whizzer’s with more desperation than finesse. Whizzer barely had time to gasp before Marvin had his hands fisted in his shirt, lips frantic and clumsy and honest.

Whizzer grinned into the kiss, responding instantly—his hands slipping to Marvin’s waist, his mouth moving with a practiced sort of patience. The kind that said, I’ve waited for this. Take your time.

Marvin melted.

There was no other word for it. He practically sagged into Whizzer’s hold, letting himself be pulled flush against him. One of Whizzer’s hands slid up into his hair, and Marvin whimpered, embarrassingly.

And then—Whizzer pinned him.

Not harshly. Not to overpower. Just enough.

Marvin found himself backed against the door now, Whizzer’s body pressed into his, kiss deepening, the kind of kiss that felt like a map back home.

Time folded in on itself.

When they finally broke apart, breathless, lips kiss-swollen and wide-eyed, Marvin looked at him like he’d just remembered what joy tasted like.

Whizzer leaned in again—this time to rest their foreheads together, breathing hard, smiling like he couldn’t help it.

Marvin laughed under his breath. “Okay. That was… wow.”

“Yeah?” Whizzer murmured. “Still wanna scream into a wall?”

Marvin hummed. “Maybe, but now I want you to be there when I do.”

Whizzer snorted. “Weirdo.”

Marvin smiled. For once, unafraid of being seen.

Whizzer tasted like trouble.

Marvin knew it the second their mouths met again — this time with no space, no caution, no room to breathe between them. It was wild, a storm breaking open after years of pressure, and Marvin had never felt so utterly wanted in his life.

He didn’t know who moaned first.

It didn’t matter.

Because now he was in Whizzer’s lap, straddling him on the gallery break room’s battered old couch, hands fisting in that perfectly worn shirt, and Whizzer's grip on his hips was anything but patient.

“Fuck,” Marvin gasped, breaking the kiss just enough to breathe, “I missed your mouth—”

“Then stop running from it,” Whizzer growled, pulling him back down.

Their mouths met with bruising urgency, all teeth and tongue and the quiet whine in the back of Marvin’s throat that betrayed just how badly he wanted this — him.

Whizzer's hands slid up under Marvin’s shirt, fingertips mapping the lines of his back, nails dragging ever so lightly down his spine, and Marvin shuddered. His hips rolled forward instinctively, pressing into Whizzer’s, and the answering groan was so filthy Marvin almost sobbed.

“You’re killing me,” Whizzer breathed.

“You started it.”

“I’ll finish it if you let me.”

That line — paired with the way Whizzer bit at his neck, open-mouthed and slow, like he knew the spot that made Marvin melt — nearly ended him.

Marvin’s body moved on instinct. Years of knowing this man, years of imagining this again in secret, came crashing into him like muscle memory. He rocked forward again, harder, and Whizzer swore under his breath, grabbing Marvin’s waist with both hands to grind him down where their jeans met.

Marvin gasped. Loud.

And just outside the door—

Cordelia froze in the hallway, holding a tray of gallery snacks.

Charlotte appeared beside her, asking what was wrong.

Then they both heard it.

Marvin’s voice, muffled but distinct: “God, Whizzer, don’t stop—”

Cordelia nearly dropped the tray. “Jesus Christ.”

Charlotte blinked. “Oh. Oh. That’s happening.”

Jason walked up behind them, mid-text, chewing gum. “What’s—”

Then he paused. Listened. Blanched.

“NO.”

Another sound came from inside. Rhythmic. Soft thuds. A gasp.

Jason made a noise like a dying animal and backed up immediately.

“I’M A CHILD,” he yelled. “I’M A MINOR. I’M—TRAUMATIZED.”

Cordelia clapped a hand over his mouth, panicked. “Shhh! You’ll scar them if they hear you!”

Charlotte looked deeply amused. “They’re clearly already busy scarring each other.”

Another moan echoed — one that was definitely Marvin’s — and Jason actually ran.

Cordelia whispered, almost impressed, “He had that in him?”

Charlotte tilted her head, eyes wide. “I mean. Good for them?”

“We’ll talk about it. Later.” Cordelia turned to bolt. “Grab the boy.”

Jason was halfway down the hall yelling,

“WHY ARE GAYS SO LOUD?!”

Marvin didn’t know how they ended up like this.

All he knew was that Whizzer had backed him up against the wall, kissed him breathless, and somewhere between “I hate you” and “I missed you so much I thought I’d die,” they’d ended up half-naked, clumsily tangled on the tiny gallery break room couch.

Now Marvin was on his back, flushed head to toe, his legs hooked lazily around Whizzer’s waist, breath coming in gasps as Whizzer rocked into him, slow and thorough.

“Oh my god,” Marvin whimpered. “You’re going to kill me.”

Whizzer leaned down, smirking, and whispered against his mouth, “That’s the idea.”

Marvin let out something between a laugh and a sob, clutching Whizzer’s shoulders like a lifeline. His whole body trembled, overwhelmed by the feel of him — solid, warm, real — after so long of trying not to think about him at all.

Whizzer moved again, dragging a moan out of him so raw it echoed.

“God,” Marvin gasped, “don’t stop, please, please—”

Just outside the door, a very tragic thing was happening.

Trina, hand in hand with Mendel, was walking down the hallway humming a little tune and holding a second bottle of sangria.

“I think we deserve a date night after this,” she said, smiling up at him. “We worked hard. Everyone’s happy. Even Marvin’s weirdly glowing.”

Mendel chuckled. “Sure. Let’s go grab him and tell him he’s buying dinner.”

They reached the door.

Trina knocked once, then pushed it open without waiting.

She should’ve waited.

Because inside, her ex-husband was currently flat on his back, flushed and panting, with Whizzer slowly grinding into him while biting his neck like it owed him rent.

They were half-covered with a crumpled throw blanket. Marvin’s shirt was pushed up. Whizzer’s jeans were nowhere to be found.

Trina shrieked.

“OH MY GOD—MARVIN?!”

Whizzer looked up, perfectly unfazed. “Hey, Trina.”

Marvin screamed, tried to sit up, failed, screamed again.

Mendel made a noise like a dying goat and flung his hands over his eyes. “Nope. Nope. I’m too Jewish for this.”

Trina spun around so fast she hit the wall. “Why—why are you—like this?!”

Whizzer shrugged, still… mid-situation. “Closure?”

Marvin threw a pillow at him. “You’re not helping!”

Trina, nearly hyperventilating, choked out, “Why are you the bottom?!”

“Because I like it that way?!” Marvin shrieked.

Mendel was muttering prayers in Hebrew.

Just then, Charlotte appeared in the doorway, holding a clipboard. She blinked once. Then calmly turned on her heel.

“Cordelia,” she called down the hall, “they’re boning. On the couch.”

Cordelia called back, “We know!”

Jason’s voice piped in faintly: “I’M NOT LISTENING—I HAVE HEADPHONES—YOU CAN’T MAKE ME HEAR THIS—”

Back in the room, Marvin had successfully wrapped himself in a curtain he found on the floor and was trying to crawl under the couch.

“I don’t exist. I am a figment. I have never heard of Marvin.”

Whizzer was still smirking, fully unbothered, sprawled shirtless and smug on the couch. “Well, I feel fantastic.”

Trina threw her hands in the air. “I need therapy. More therapy.”

Mendel nodded solemnly. “I am your therapy.”

Whizzer leaned back, arms behind his head. “So… are we all having dinner after this or what?”

Marvin groaned into the couch. “I hate you. I hate everyone. Please let me die.”

Charlotte peeked back in. “Also, you might wanna know — this room has a security camera.”

Marvin’s soul left his body.

Chapter Text

The post-gallery dinner felt like a miracle.

They’d found a cozy late-night spot not far from the gallery — warm lights, quiet booths, a huge menu. Everyone was still high on adrenaline, surprise fame, and residual secondhand embarrassment from… well, earlier.

But somehow, against all odds, it worked.

Cordelia was still buzzing. “The gallery blew up on Instagram. Some influencer thought Marvin and Whizzer were actors doing ‘method gay performance art’—and they believed it!”

Charlotte grinned, sipping her wine. “To be fair, you two did put on a show.”

Marvin, stuffed into a scarf to hide the galaxy of hickeys blossoming across his throat, grumbled, “I did not consent to being performance art.”

Whizzer, lounging beside him, one arm draped lazily over the back of Marvin’s chair, smirked, “You definitely consented.”

Jason, from across the table, dramatically covered his ears. “Oh my god. I’m begging. For peace. For sanity.”

Trina and Mendel had apparently decided to move past what they saw — though Mendel was now furiously sketching diagrams on his napkin about exactly where that couch had failed to support Marvin’s lower back.

“It’s a structural flaw,” Mendel muttered.

“I am not your thesis,” Marvin hissed.

Despite all of it, laughter rolled easy around the table. The food was good. The wine better. There was teasing and storytelling and shared relief that — somehow — they’d all survived this utterly ridiculous journey together.

When dessert arrived, Whizzer leaned into Marvin’s ear and murmured something low.

Marvin turned red.

Then redder.

Then he whispered back, “You’re serious? Here?”

Whizzer raised an eyebrow, lazy and wolfish.

Marvin shifted in his seat, visibly flustered.

Jason, narrowing his eyes suspiciously: “What’s going on over there.”

“Nothing,” Marvin squeaked, far too quickly.

Two minutes later, they were both “going to the bathroom.”

Bathroom – Moments Later

The second the door clicked shut, Whizzer had Marvin backed up against the stall wall, one leg lifted and wrapped around his hip.

“I can’t believe you wore that sweater,” Whizzer whispered against his throat. “It’s criminal.”

“You said it looked good,” Marvin panted.

“I said it looked like an invitation.”

He bit Marvin’s neck — hard.

Marvin made a sound that absolutely did not belong in a restaurant bathroom.

Whizzer caught his gasp in a deep, dirty kiss. “Quiet, sweetheart. Unless you want them to hear.”

Marvin whimpered. “You’re evil.”

“And you love it.”

Whizzer’s hands were everywhere — gripping, guiding, teasing — until Marvin was putty in his arms, gasping, clinging, completely undone.

It was fast and desperate, like everything they’d held back for years was spilling out right here, right now, against a bathroom wall.

And when Marvin finally broke, shuddering with his face buried in Whizzer’s neck, all he could whisper was, “Don’t ever leave me again.”

Whizzer kissed his hair and held him through it. “Never.”

Back at the Table – Ten Minutes Later

Jason glanced up. “They’ve been gone a while.”

Cordelia smirked. “They’re probably just—”

The bathroom door creaked open.

Marvin and Whizzer emerged.

Marvin was walking like his knees had stopped functioning.

His scarf was gone. His hair was a disaster. There were new marks. A lot of new marks. His shirt was buttoned wrong and there was lipstick — lipstick?! — on his jawline.

Whizzer looked untouched. Smug. Casually adjusting his sleeves.

Jason stared. “...Oh my god.”

Charlotte blinked. “You broke him.”

Marvin sank into his seat, face flushed, clutching his wine glass like it could protect his soul.

Trina arched an eyebrow. “Did you—in the bathroom?!”

Mendel: “Again?! In every location?! Do you have a map?”

Whizzer poured himself a glass of water. “We’re efficient.”

Cordelia clapped. “Iconic. Messy. Romantic. I’m so proud.”

Marvin groaned and dropped his head on the table. “I am never showing my face in public again.”

Jason gave him a slow, proud nod. “Honestly? That’s the most alive you’ve looked in years.”

Everyone laughed.

And Marvin — still red-faced, still weak in the knees, still annoyingly in love — reached blindly for Whizzer’s hand under the table.

Whizzer squeezed it.

And Marvin smiled.

The apartment door slammed shut behind them with a loud thud, followed by a thunk as Marvin's back hit the wall — again.

Whizzer immediately pressed against him, kissing him like they hadn’t just been in a public bathroom ten minutes ago.

Marvin gasped into his mouth, laughing mid-kiss, fingers grabbing blindly at Whizzer’s jacket. “We’re—hic—we’re home,” he slurred, grinning like an idiot.

“No shit,” Whizzer muttered, trailing kisses down his jaw. “This—” kiss “—is—” kiss “—where I live now, right?”

Marvin melted. “You live here?”

Whizzer leaned back, eyebrow raised. “Do you want me to?”

Marvin grabbed his collar and pulled him back into another kiss. “I’ll kill you if you don’t.”

They both stumbled into the living room, bumping into furniture and each other, giggling like teenagers. Whizzer yanked Marvin’s scarf off entirely — again — and Marvin let out the most dramatic sigh of the night.

“You’re obsessed with my neck,” he mumbled.

“Because it’s pretty,” Whizzer said, very seriously.

Marvin flopped down onto the couch, limbs splayed, hair a mess, looking happier than he had in a decade. Whizzer followed him down, half on top of him, laughing softly.

After a few seconds of silence, Marvin blinked slowly at the ceiling and mumbled, “Hey... Whiz?”

“Hmm?”

“...We got played.”

Whizzer propped himself up on his elbow. “What?”

Marvin pointed a lazy finger at the air. “Cordelia. Charlotte. Jason. It was them. They orchestrated everything. They plotted.”

Whizzer squinted. “The... what? The gallery thing?”

Marvin sat up suddenly, almost falling off the couch. “Yes! The fake art event. The wild over-the-top plan. The way they kept shoving us near each other. Charlotte locking us in rooms!”

Whizzer stared at him.

Then blinked.

Then burst out laughing.

“Holy shit. We got matchmaking’d!”

“They made me do therapy and everything,” Marvin said dramatically. “They made me come out to strangers. Jason dragged me around like a lost cause! I was a project!”

Whizzer howled. “Oh my god. And I thought I was being mysteriously haunted by fate. But no! It was Cordelia!”

Marvin collapsed back onto the couch, laughing until he hiccuped. “I mean… I am glad it worked.”

Whizzer leaned over him again, softer now, brushing a strand of hair from his forehead. “You happy, Marv?”

Marvin looked up at him, cheeks pink from wine and affection. “Stupidly.”

They kissed again, slower this time. Less drunk. More real.

Eventually, curled up on the couch in a pile of limbs and whispers, Marvin muttered, “We should do something to get back at them.”

Whizzer grinned against his hair. “Oh, don’t worry. I’ve got plans.”

Marvin cracked an eye open. “Sexy revenge?”

“The sexiest,” Whizzer promised.

Marvin fell asleep smiling, tangled in the arms of the man he'd tried so hard not to love — set up, sabotaged, cornered into happiness — and thankful every second for it.

The warmth of Whizzer’s touch lingered as the scene shifted—

Suddenly, Marvin’s smile cracked.

His eyes opened to a pale hospital room.

Whizzer wasn’t there.

Just the steady beep of machines.

His hand, weak, rested on the sterile sheets.

The laughter. The kisses. The promises—they were memories, or maybe wishes.

The truth settled like a cold shadow:

Marvin was alone.

Ill beyond repair.

The future they dreamed of had no place here.

Tears slipped down his cheeks, quiet but heavy.

He whispered to the empty room, “I’m sorry, Whizzer... I’m sorry there was no way back.”

The echo of their laughter faded, but somewhere deep inside, that spark of love, of hope, stayed alive—fragile, but eternal.

FIN