Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

BadBoyHalo and Quackity had been talking about meeting up for the past few days. Skeppy didn’t know about it yet. Bad wanted to surprise him. The plan was to call Skeppy together and reveal that they had already met.

Quackity, however, felt unsure about the whole thing. He knew Skeppy could get jealous easily. He tried to warn Bad, but Bad didn’t listen.

“Sigh… alright, Bad. Don’t blame me if he gets mad or something… and you better save my ass!” Quackity said.

“LANGUAGE SKEP—Oh! I mean, Quackity! I’ll make su—”

Quackity cut him off with a laugh. “The hell, Bad. You should just meet up with Skeppy instead!”

“Oh my gosh… Quackity. Anyway, don’t worry about it too much. I know how to handle him, okay?”

“Oh yeah, yeah, sure, Bad. You know how to handle your jealous boyfriend~” he teased.

“Mhm! I know I can,” Bad replied proudly.

“Alright, Bad. Gonna go now, see you tomorrow!”

“Okay, see you, Quackity!”

Bad hung up and flopped onto his bed with a soft thud. He sighed and opened his phone’s gallery, scrolling through pictures and videos. With each swipe, he giggled and smiled. He missed Skeppy so much, but he couldn’t call or message him—Skeppy was asleep. Bad didn’t want to disturb him. He just wanted to make sure Skeppy got his beauty sleep.

It was night. His room was cold, with a faint silver glow from the moon peeking through the curtains. The scent of Skeppy’s perfume lingered in the air—Bad had a habit of spraying it around before bed. It made him feel like Skeppy was right there with him. Surrounded by the warmth of old memories and the comfort of his room, Bad slowly drifted off to sleep.

Morning came quickly.

Bad woke to the soft buzz of his phone vibrating beneath his pillow. He yawned, blinking the sleep from his eyes, and reached for it. His heart fluttered when he saw Skeppy’s name on the screen—he was calling.

He sat up quickly, ran a hand through his messy hair, and answered the call.

“BADDDDDDD! I miss youuuu~!” Skeppy’s voice rang out, bright and full of joy.

“Skeppy~! I miss you toooooo!” Bad replied, his voice a little raspy from sleep.

Skeppy caught on instantly. He could hear it in Bad’s voice—the way he tried to sound more awake than he was. A smile tugged at Skeppy’s lips. He could already picture Bad with sleepy eyes, messy hair, and that soft pout he always had in the mornings.

“Oh, Bad. You’re adorable.”

“W-What? That’s random, Skeppy! I don’t look adorable right now!” Bad stammered, clearly flustered. He tried to hide how much he loved hearing things like that.

Skeppy laughed softly. “You always say that, but I know when you’re smiling.”

“I’m not smiling,” Bad muttered, though his cheeks were already warm, lips twitching into a smile he couldn’t fight.

“You so are,” Skeppy teased.

“No, I’m not,” Bad insisted weakly.

“Uh-huh. Sure.” Skeppy’s tone was full of fondness. “Anyway, I just wanted to hear your voice. I couldn’t sleep last night.”

“Really?” Bad’s tone softened. “You should’ve called…”

“I didn’t wanna wake you. I figured you needed rest.”

Bad sighed. “I always wanna be there when you need me, though.”

“I know,” Skeppy said quietly. “Same here.”

There was a warm silence between them—no rush, no pressure. Just two people, missing each other a little too much.

[Timeskip]

BadBoyHalo was sitting at the edge of his bed, phone pressed to his ear, legs bouncing with anticipation.

“Come on, Quackity…” he muttered, waiting for the call to connect.

Finally, Quackity picked up. “Hey, Bad.”

“There you are! Are you close? I’ve been fixing up everything—snacks, clean room, extra blanket—”

“Bad, wait,” Quackity cut in, his voice a little rushed. “Something urgent came up. I can’t come today.”

Bad froze. “Oh… is everything okay?”

“Yeah, yeah. Just something I really have to deal with. Nothing serious, but I’m really sorry,” Quackity said. “We’ll meet up tomorrow, I promise.”

Bad let out a small sigh, trying not to sound too disappointed. “Okay. Tomorrow, then. Don’t worry about it.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah,” Bad said, forcing a small smile. “Go do what you need to do.”

“Thanks, Bad. You’re the best.”

Once the call ended, Bad sighed and tossed his phone gently onto the bed. He sat there for a moment, eyes flicking over to a framed photo of him and Skeppy on his desk.

“Well…” he murmured, a small smile forming. “Might as well spend the day with someone who always makes me smile.”

He picked up his phone and tapped Skeppy’s name.

The call rang once.

“BADDDDDDD!” Skeppy practically yelled through the speaker, voice full of joy.

Bad laughed immediately. “Skeppy~! You always answer like that.”

“That’s because I’m always happy to hear from you,” Skeppy said proudly.

Bad chuckled, cheeks warm. “Well… guess what?”

“What?”

“You’re stuck with me all day.”

“Oh no,” Skeppy teased, “my worst nightmare—spending a whole day with my adorable boyfriend~”

Bad giggled. “Shut up, you love it.”

[Lunch Time]

Bad sat on the floor by his coffee table, phone leaned against a cup. Skeppy was propped up on his pillow, camera on.

“You made grilled cheese again?” Skeppy asked.

“Hey! It’s simple and delicious,” Bad defended, holding it up proudly.

“I’m not judging. You just make it look really… soft.”

“What does that even mean?” Bad laughed.

“I dunno. It just looks like something you’d make while humming to yourself.”

“I was humming.”

“Knew it.”

[Afternoon]

They played minecraft for a bit, but eventually both drifted into conversation.

"I was thinking about our virtual beach trip last year—when we were on that video call at the beach," Skeppy said. "Remember when you tried to build a sandcastle and it kept collapsing?"

“It was the wind!” Bad argued.

“You literally screamed, ‘MY KINGDOM!’ when it fell apart.”

“I stand by it.”

They both burst into laughter, the sound warm and familiar.

[Dinner]

Bad had the camera turned off now but kept Skeppy on speaker while he ate at his desk.

Skeppy munched chips on his end. “You always eat so quietly.”

“That’s because I chew like a civilized muffin,” Bad said, voice playful.

Skeppy laughed. “That’s a new one.”

“You’re the one crunching like a cartoon.”

“Excuse me, these are elite crunches.”

[Night]

They were both in bed now, screens dimmed, voices softer.

“You sound tired,” Skeppy whispered.

“I am,” Bad admitted. “But… this day felt really nice.”

“Yeah,” Skeppy said. “It always is, with you.”

Bad pulled his blanket up to his chin, eyes fluttering shut. “Thanks for spending the day with me.”

“Always,” Skeppy replied. “Goodnight, Bad. I love you..”

“Night, Skeppy. I love you more.”

And just like that, they drifted off together—miles apart but hearts full, their voices the last thing they heard before sleep took over.

Chapter Text

BadBoyHalo couldn’t stop smiling. His heart thudded as he opened the door—there stood Quackity, real and grinning like he owned the world.

“Quackity…” Bad breathed out, stunned. “You’re actually here.”

Quackity gave him a half-smile and opened his arms. “First time for everything, huh?”

Bad pulled him into a quick hug, both of them laughing like old friends meeting for the first time in real life. The energy was giddy, like the moment was too big to really hold onto.

They settled inside, catching up over cookies and milk. The air was warm, the kitchen smelled like cinnamon, and the silence between jokes was filled with comfortable glances. A surreal kind of peace.

“This is weird,” Quackity said suddenly, sipping his drink.

“Weird good or weird bad?”

“Weird good. I don’t usually… do this.” He smiled faintly. “But I’m glad we did.”

They took pictures—funny ones, some a bit blurry—and then set up a short two-hour Twitch stream. Their chemistry clicked instantly, bouncing off each other’s jokes, playing games, making fans scream in chat. It felt like a win.

Earlier that day…

Around noon, Bad glanced at the clock.

“Hold on, I’m gonna call Skeppy. He’s probably awake by now.”

Quackity looked unsure. “You sure? He sleeps late, man…”

But Bad was already calling. “It’s fine. He won’t mind.”

The call rang, then clicked.

“You just woke me up…”

The voice that came through was sleepy, low, and soft—barely a whisper, but it hit Bad like a truck. Skeppy’s morning voice always made his heart ache in the gentlest way.

“Oh muffin… I’m sorry,” Bad whispered, guilt slipping into his tone. “I thought you were already up…”

Skeppy hummed. He wasn’t mad, just drowsy. “It’s okay…”

“I’ll call later, alright? Go back to sleep.”

Skeppy mumbled something that sounded like “mhm,” and Bad bit his lip.

“You’re adorable,” he added quietly, but Skeppy had already fallen back asleep.

Hours later…

Skeppy blinked awake. His hair was messy, his throat dry. He reached for his phone with a groan, still in bed. As usual, he opened Twitter to shake the sleep off.

His eyes landed on a post.

@BadBoyHalo
Had a great day with this muffin! AND I’M TALLER THAN @Quackity >:D

Attached were three photos. One with Quackity carrying Bad.

Skeppy stared.

His stomach twisted.

He scrolled down. Thousands of likes. Comments flooding in. Everyone loving the duo.

Everyone except him.

I thought he was gonna spend today alone. I thought I was gonna be the first to visit.

He didn’t think. He just typed.

@BadBoyHalo wow??? love finding out on twitter that I wasn't “first” after all. nice.

Sent.

Still not enough.

He clicked Twitch.
Streamed 2 hours ago — badboyhalo & quackity LIVE.

He watched for a minute. Quackity laughing. Bad grinning beside him.

And then he closed it.

Back at Bad’s house…

Bad and Quackity were finishing snacks when Bad’s phone lit up.

“Skeppy’s calling!” he said cheerfully, mouth still half full.

Quackity’s face shifted. “Bad…”

BadBoyHalo picked up the call instantly.
“Skeppy~! Hey muffin! Feeling more awake now?”

Bad was clueless. Completely unaware of the storm he just walked into.

Skeppy didn’t answer right away. His silence stretched for a second too long.

“…Yeah,” Skeppy finally said. His voice was flat. Not angry—yet. But empty, like something had shifted.

Bad smiled, completely missing it. “I’m so glad! Sorry again for waking you earlier—I thought you were already up! I wanted to hear your voice.”

Quackity sat quietly beside Bad, suddenly feeling like he should not be there.

Skeppy took a breath.
“So… what’ve you been up to today?”

“Oh! Just the usual,” Bad chirped. “Hanging out, chilling, nothing too crazy.”

Skeppy stared at the ceiling.
“Really.”

“Yeah!” Bad stood up to grab a cookie from the counter. “I had a really good morning actually. It’s been super fun!”

Skeppy’s jaw tightened. “That’s cool.”

Bad giggled. “You sound weird. Are you still sleepy? You’re not mad I woke you up, right?”

Skeppy let out a soft laugh, but there was no warmth in it.
“Nah. I mean… I wasn’t gonna be mad. Until I saw your post.”

Bad blinked, still smiling but confused. “Huh? What post?”

“On Twitter.” Skeppy’s voice sharpened just slightly. “The one with you and Quackity.”

Bad froze for half a second… then laughed like it was no big deal. “Ohhh! That! Yeah, he came over. Kinda a last-minute thing.”

Quackity sank a little in his seat.

Skeppy let out a low breath through his nose. “So you just… didn’t think to mention that when you called?”

Bad blinked again. “Well… it was supposed to be a surprise, you know? We were gonna call you later and tell you together!”

There was a pause. Then Skeppy’s voice came through, quiet but cutting:
“We agreed to meet each other first. Before anyone else. Remember that?”

Bad opened his mouth, then closed it. “I… yeah, I remember, but—”

“But what, Bad?” Skeppy said. “You forgot? Or you just didn’t care?”

Bad frowned, still not entirely getting it. “Muffin, it’s not that serious. It’s not like I meant anything by it. I just—”

“You know how I feel about Quackity.”

At that, Quackity stood up. “I’ll give you guys space,” he mumbled.

Bad barely noticed him leaving the room. “Skeppy, come on. Why are you acting like this? You’re overthinking.”

“I’m not overthinking,” Skeppy said flatly. “I’m just realizing I’m not as important to you as I thought.”

That… finally made Bad pause.

“Skeppy…”

“I’ll call you later,” Skeppy said before hanging up.

Click.
Bad sat there in stunned silence, phone still to his ear.

Chapter Text

Bad sat still for a while, phone screen dark, Skeppy’s voice echoing in his head:

“I’m just realizing I’m not as important to you as I thought.”

The words stung—quietly, slowly. Not like a slap, but like a cold wind creeping in. Bad set his phone down, blinking. He wasn’t smiling anymore.

From the hallway, Quackity peeked in.
“…Everything okay?”

Bad didn’t answer right away. He stared at the table where their snacks were still laid out. “I think I messed up.”

Quackity stepped inside cautiously. “He’s mad, huh?”

“I didn’t think he would be.” Bad rubbed the back of his neck, looking unusually small. “I just wanted it to be a fun surprise.”

Quackity sat down across from him. “He doesn’t see it as a surprise, Bad. He sees it as you breaking a promise.”

Bad frowned. “But it’s not like I love him any less—”

“That’s not what he sees.” Quackity said gently. “He sees you choosing me. First.”

Bad’s chest sank. The realization finally started clicking: Skeppy wasn’t just jealous—he was hurt.

“…I should’ve called him first. I should’ve told him.”

Quackity nodded slowly. “You still can. But he’s not gonna pretend he’s fine this time.”

Skeppy sat back in his gaming chair, spinning slightly as the Twitch stream replayed in the background. He had muted it long ago—he couldn’t take hearing Bad laugh like that with someone else. With him.

His eyes burned, but he didn’t cry.

He couldn’t.

Instead, he whispered to himself, voice bitter and soft:

“Why Quackity? Why now?”

He looked down at the promise ring on his finger. It wasn’t about jealousy anymore. Not entirely.

Bad promised.

They had always said they’d be each other’s firsts. First in everything. First real meetup. First hug. First time to just be together outside a screen.

They planned it for months. They even marked a date on their calendars, circled it together in a call. He remembers.

“We’ll wait,” Bad had said, smiling. “I want the first hug to be yours.”

So why didn’t he wait?

Why did Quackity get what was supposed to be his?

Skeppy squeezed his eyes shut, his voice shaky now:

“Was it that easy to forget?”

The sunlight bleeding through Skeppy’s blinds felt fake.

He turned away from it, dragging the blanket up over his shoulder as if it could protect him from the world outside. From them. From the post. From the stream. From the voice that had always felt like home—now tangled with someone else’s laugh.

He stared at the phone again. No messages.

Bad always messaged after a call. Always. A “love you” or “talk later muffin.” But this time? Nothing.

Maybe he really didn’t think it was that serious.

Skeppy’s chest ached—dull and cold.

He scrolled back up to the post again. The photo of them. Bad and Quackity, smiling, bodies touching, captioned with something stupid and cute.
Like it belonged to a memory that wasn’t his.

“It should’ve been me.”

He whispered it to the quiet room, but the silence didn’t answer. Just the hollow weight in his chest.

They had always talked about what it would be like. Meeting in person. Bad said he’d cry. Skeppy said he’d tease him for it. They imagined the hug, the awkward laugh, the way it would feel to stand next to each other with nothing in between. No screen. No distance. Just them.

But instead, Skeppy was left behind.

Bad sat alone now, the leftover snacks untouched. His phone lay beside him on the table like it was taunting him.

He didn’t mean for any of this to happen.

He thought Skeppy would laugh. He thought it would be cute, even if surprising. He thought Skeppy would call and tease him and say “you’re lucky I love you,” and everything would be okay.

But he was wrong.

He leaned back, fingers interlocked, eyes on the ceiling.

He kept replaying Skeppy’s voice—that quiet, hurt voice.

“I’m just realizing I’m not as important to you as I thought.”

It wasn’t like Skeppy to say things like that. Which made it worse. Because when he did say something that raw, it meant he was already past hiding it.

Bad finally stood up, walking to the window. He opened his phone, hovering over Skeppy’s contact.

He typed. Erased.

Typed again.

Then he finally sent something:

“I didn’t realize how much I hurt you. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to break what we had.”

Three dots.

They disappeared.

Skeppy didn’t reply.

Bad’s chest tightened.

He’d messed up. And this time, it wouldn’t just take muffins and apologies to fix. Bad is leaning on the window, his phone in his hands, screen lit up with Skeppy’s chat.

Still no reply.

He tried again—short and light, hoping it would soften the air:

“Hey muffin… are you there?”

Delivered.

Seen.

But no typing.

No reply.

He frowned, fingers twitching.

“Skeppy… talk to me.”

Nothing.

He could see Skeppy was online. He was there, just… quiet. On purpose.

Bad’s heart sank. Skeppy never ignored him. Not like this. Not even after arguments.

Skeppy saw the messages.

He watched them come in one by one— mall, desperate pings that reminded him of how many times he used to be the one waiting for a response.

He didn’t block Bad.

He didn’t even mute the chat.

He just… didn’t answer.

He laid on his side, phone resting loosely in his hand.

He read the messages. Then reread them. Each one chipped at him, but he didn’t move.

He missed Bad. God, he missed him.

But the hurt sat louder than the ache.

Not rage. Not spite.

Just the kind of silence that came when you didn’t know if trusting someone would hurt more than missing them.

He locked the screen—not to punish Bad, but to protect himself.

Because deep down, he knew:
If he answered now, he might forgive too fast.
And he wasn’t ready to do that.

Chapter Text

Bad stared at the screen a little longer, thumb hovering, heart heavier with each second of nothing.

He wanted to call. Just hear Skeppy’s voice again—even if it was tired, or angry, or distant. Anything was better than being stuck in this quietness.

But he didn’t. Because something told him that this time… he wasn’t the one who needed to talk.

He needed to listen.

He locked his phone and slid it into his pocket, breathing out slowly. Then he turned away from the window, the sun now low, shadows stretching across the room.

Behind him, Quackity stood in the doorway.

“…You okay now?” he asked softly.

Bad didn’t look at him right away. “No.”

Quackity nodded. “You think he’ll forgive you?”

“I don’t know.” Bad’s voice cracked, just barely. “But I’m scared that if I push too hard right now… he won’t want to anymore.”

Quackity crossed the room, quiet. “Then maybe give him space. Let him come back when he’s ready.”

Bad gave a small nod, shoulders sinking.

He’d never meant to choose someone else first.

It was supposed to be practice. So he’d be ready. So it would be perfect when it was Skeppy.

But all he’d done was make it worse.

Quackity stepped forward quietly, his tone gentle but firm.
“C’mon. You need a break from sulking.”

Bad glanced at him, unsure. “…A break?”

“Ice cream, dude,” Quackity said with a small smile. “Kitchen. Let’s go.”

Bad let out the smallest chuckle, tired but grateful. “You’re such a bad influence.”

“Only the best kind,” Quackity quipped, nudging him.

They sat at the table again, a tub of vanilla-mint ice cream between them, spoons clinking softly as they ate in silence for a few minutes.

Eventually, Quackity spoke up. “You’re not a bad person, y’know.”

Bad blinked. “You sure about that?”

“Positive. You just… messed up. And you’re trying to fix it. That counts for something.”

Bad looked down at his spoon. “What if trying isn’t enough this time?”

“Then you keep trying anyway,” Quackity said, sincere now. “Because if he means that much to you… you don’t stop just ‘cause it got hard.”

Bad smiled, weak but real. “Thanks, Quackity.”

Quackity shrugged, then stood up. “I should head out. Don’t wanna overstay.”

They walked to the door together.

“You’ll be okay,” Quackity said before leaving. “But call him. Like, really call him. You’re good at talking. Just… be real.”

“I will,” Bad nodded. “Thanks for coming today.”

Quackity grinned. “Anytime.”

They waved goodbye, and the door closed.

The house was quiet again.

Bad turned back inside. He slowly picked up the dishes, folded the blanket they used on the couch, took his time cleaning up the mess—external and internal.

He needed a clear space. A clear head.

After tidying everything, he stepped into the shower, letting the water wash away what it could.

When he came out, towel draped over his head, he stared at his reflection. His eyes were tired. But steadier now.

He dried off, slipped into a hoodie Skeppy once picked out for him, and climbed into bed. He picked up his phone, heart thudding.

He didn’t want to overwhelm Skeppy.

But he couldn’t stay quiet anymore, either.

He opened the chat.

And this time, he didn’t just say “are you there?”

He typed, slowly, carefully, honestly:

“I know I broke a promise. I thought I was doing something harmless… but I forgot what it meant to you. That was selfish. I’m sorry.”

“If you still want space, I’ll give it. But I just need you to know that you’re the first person I want to make things right with. Always.”

He stared at the message.

The message sent with a soft whoosh, and Bad stared at it like it might disappear.

No reply.

Not yet.

He sighed and set the phone down beside his pillow, fingers curled against the fabric of Skeppy’s hoodie. His heart beat fast—not out of panic, but from the rawness of it all.

Minutes passed. The kind that felt like hours.

And then…

Three dots.

Bad sat up slowly.

They blinked in and out—pausing, starting again, as if Skeppy was typing, deleting, thinking.

Bad held his breath.

Then finally:

“You hurt me.”

That was all.

But it was a reply. It was something.

Bad’s thumbs hovered over the screen. He didn’t rush this time.

“I know. I’m so sorry, Skeppy. I never meant to.”

A few seconds later, Skeppy responded:

“It felt like you didn’t choose me.”

Bad swallowed hard.

“I did. I always choose you. That’s why it hurts so much knowing I made you feel like I didn’t.”

Silence again.

Bad waited, unsure if that was it for the night.

Until Skeppy replied:

“I want to believe you. I just don’t know if I can yet.”

Bad blinked, eyes stinging a little.

“Then let me show you. However long it takes.”

Skeppy didn’t respond right away. But this time, he didn’t disappear either.

Bad laid back down, phone still in hand, screen still open on their chat. The air between them was no longer silent—just tender, cracked, and trying.

Time passed, but neither of them had said a word. Still, the weight of what lingered felt louder than anything they could type.

The room was dark, lit only by the dim yellow glow of Bad’s lamp. He was curled up on his bed, damp hair from his shower falling over his forehead, blanket wrapped around his shoulders. His phone rested in his palm—open to the chat with Skeppy.

He stared at the screen, rereading everything.

Then, slowly, he tapped the call button.

It rang once.

Twice.

Then…

Click.

“…Hi.”

Bad sat up straighter. “Skeppy?”

“Yeah,” Skeppy’s voice came through, soft. Raspy, like he’d been quiet all day. But he picked up. And that meant everything.

Bad exhaled, relief slipping out like a breath he didn’t know he was holding. “You answered…”

“I didn’t want to,” Skeppy admitted.

Bad’s smile faded, but he nodded to himself. “I get it.”

A pause.

“I just… I didn’t want to keep ignoring you either,” Skeppy added. “That’s not me.”

Bad swallowed. “I’m sorry.”

“I know.”

“I didn’t mean to break the promise. I really didn’t.” His voice cracked a little. “I thought— I thought if I practiced with Quackity first, I wouldn’t mess it up with you. Because… you matter more.”

Silence. Then a faint, wobbly laugh from Skeppy.

“You’re such an idiot.”

Bad blinked. “Huh?”

Skeppy sniffed. “That’s such a you reason. You thought messing up with me would hurt more… so you tried to be perfect for me by not choosing me first?”

Bad winced. “When you say it like that, it sounds worse…”

“It is worse.” Skeppy paused. “But I kinda get it now.”

Bad clutched his blanket tighter. “You do?”

“I’m still mad,” Skeppy said honestly. “Still hurt. But… I don’t want to stay mad.”

Another long, heavy silence.

Then Skeppy whispered, “I missed you so much, Bad.”

Bad felt everything tighten in his chest. “I missed you too, muffin.”

They stayed like that for a while. Just breathing, not saying much. Letting the quiet exist without tension for the first time in hours.

“…Do you want to stay on the call?” Bad asked eventually.

“Yeah,” Skeppy replied.

And this time, they didn’t need to say anything else.
They were still healing. But they were together.

And that was enough to start.

An hour later…

The call was still on.

Neither of them had said goodbye.

Bad lay curled on his side, blanket pulled up to his chin, his phone resting beside him on the pillow. Skeppy’s soft breathing filled the speaker, a gentle, steady rhythm that calmed the noise in Bad’s head.

“You still awake?” Bad asked softly.

“Barely,” Skeppy murmured. His voice was tired, but it wasn’t distant anymore. “You?”

Bad smiled faintly. “Didn’t want to sleep without hearing you first.”

There was a pause, and when Skeppy spoke again, his tone was quieter—like he was afraid of breaking something fragile.
“I didn’t mean it. What I said earlier. About not being important to you.”

Bad shifted slightly, guilt curling in his chest. “But I made you feel that way. And that’s on me.”

Skeppy didn’t argue. Just let the silence sit for a moment before replying, “Yeah… but you’re trying. I can tell. That’s why I didn’t hang up.”

Bad blinked at the ceiling, his heart aching in that soft, vulnerable way. “Thank you. For staying.”

“I didn’t want to sleep mad,” Skeppy admitted. “Didn’t want to end the day like that with you.”

A gentle smile tugged at Bad’s lips. “I’ll do better. I mean it.”

A yawn crackled through the speaker—long, muffled.

Bad laughed quietly. “You sound like a baby panda.”

“You sound like an idiot,” Skeppy mumbled.

“Maybe. But I’m your idiot.”

Skeppy didn’t reply at first, and Bad almost thought he’d fallen asleep—until he heard, quietly:

“Yeah. You are.”

A pause. Not awkward. Just… full of unspoken warmth.

Then Skeppy’s voice, soft and slow with sleep:
“Bad?”

“Yeah?”

“…Don’t promise stuff unless you really mean it.”

Bad’s voice dropped to a whisper. “I won’t. I promise.”

“Okay,” Skeppy said, already fading. “I believe you.”

Another long silence stretched—peaceful this time. Then, right before sleep finally took him, Skeppy mumbled one last thing:

“Next time… save the first hug for me.”

Bad closed his eyes, a tear slipping out—not from pain, but from something gentler. Something whole.

“It was always yours,” he whispered.

The call stayed on.

Two boys.
Two hearts.

Still healing.
Still loving.
Still choosing each other—

Even in silence.

Chapter Text

Bad woke with his phone still in hand, heart heavy but no longer sharp. Like the worst of the storm had passed and left him waterlogged.

He unlocked the screen.

Skeppy:
Good morning. I’m not over it. But I don’t want to be away from you.

Bad let out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding.

BadBoyHalo:
Take all the time you need. I’m not going anywhere.

But even after sending it, he couldn’t sit still.

Because not going anywhere felt too much like staying silent. Too much like waiting for things to rot again.

So he moved.

Keys in hand, jacket half-zipped, he drove.

Not to fix everything. Not to ask for forgiveness too soon.
Just to show up. To be real. To meet the moment halfway.

The ride was quiet. No music. Just him and the road and a pulse that wouldn’t settle.

He parked outside Skeppy’s place and stood by the door longer than necessary, knuckles hovering mid-air before finally knocking.

Three soft taps. Then one loud one.

The door opened slowly.

Skeppy stood there—hoodie half-on, hair tousled, sleep still in his eyes. “…Bad?”

Bad gave a small, sheepish smile. “Hi.”

“You really came.”

“I didn’t want to risk waiting again,” Bad said, voice soft. “Didn’t want silence to win.”

Skeppy hesitated, then stepped aside.

Bad entered quietly, like he might break something if he moved too fast. The house was still and warm.

Neither of them said much as they settled into the living room. Bad took the edge of the couch while Skeppy curled up on the other end, knees pulled close, eyes not quite meeting his.

After a moment, Skeppy spoke. “This isn’t how I pictured our first time meeting.”

Bad smiled faintly. “Me neither. I thought it’d be lighter. Louder. Probably somewhere stupid. Theme park, maybe.”

“Yeah. Or a hotel room with both of us too tired to unpack but still making fun of everything.”

They both gave a soft breath of laughter—quiet, but real.

“It sucks that it’s like this,” Skeppy admitted, voice low. “But I guess… I’m glad it’s real. Even if it’s messy.”

“I’m glad too,” Bad said. “I’d rather it be messy and honest than perfect and fake.”

The silence that followed wasn’t tense—just full. Full of everything they didn’t have to say yet.

After a while, Skeppy shifted closer. Not much—just enough that their shoulders almost brushed.

Bad didn’t push it. Just sat there, breathing beside him.

Then, unexpectedly, Skeppy reached out. His fingers grazed Bad’s sleeve before resting lightly on his wrist. Not gripping—just touching. A quiet I’m still here too.

Bad’s breath caught, and he gently turned his hand over, letting their fingers meet—just barely interlaced.

It was enough.

No big speeches. No dramatic apologies.

Just two people who had been far apart, quietly knowing what it felt like to sit close.
It felt like something healing and comforting.

Bad held his breath like the moment might shatter if he moved too fast. But Skeppy didn’t pull away. His fingers, curled lightly into Bad’s, stayed there—warm, steady.

Bad glanced at him, his voice barely above a whisper. “I missed you.”

Skeppy looked at him then—not past him, not through him. At him. And for the first time since everything cracked, there was no distance in his eyes.

“I missed you too,” Skeppy said softly. “Even when I was angry. Maybe especially then.”

A beat of silence passed. Then Bad smiled, a little lopsided. “We’re a mess, huh?”

“Yeah,” Skeppy said. But then his lips curved upward too. “But we’re our mess.”

Bad let out a breathy laugh. “Can I—?” He gestured faintly, unsure whether to close the gap fully.

But Skeppy didn’t make him wait.

He leaned in, forehead brushing against Bad’s, their noses bumping slightly in a way that made them both snort under their breath. Still awkward. Still real.

And then, Skeppy kissed him.

it didn’t need to be dramatic. just warmth, breath, and the kind of relief that says finally. That's how they shared their first kiss.

When they pulled apart, Skeppy rested his head on Bad’s shoulder. “This still doesn’t feel real.”

Bad leaned his cheek against Skeppy’s hair. “It is.”

“Even after the fight?”

“Especially after,” Bad murmured. “Because we’re still here. We’re still choosing each other.”

Skeppy hummed. “This is stupid.”

“Yeah,” Bad giggled. “But I think… I kinda like this version better, the sudden meet up and kiss. It totally didn’t go as we planned it to be.”

They stayed like that—folded into each other on a slightly too-small couch, hearts still a little bruised, but beating in sync again.

Not perfect. Not polished.
But honest.
And together.

Chapter Text

They didn’t talk about it right away.

Not about the fight, or how heavy things had gotten.

Instead, after they finished their cereal and cleaned up the bowls, Skeppy stood by the sink, fidgeting with a dish towel before turning to Bad.

“You should stay,” he said, quiet but sure. “Like… for a while. Maybe a week.”

Bad blinked. “A whole week?”

Skeppy shrugged, suddenly shy. “Yeah. I mean… I don’t want to go back to texting again. Not right now. I want to spend time with you—real time. We didn’t get the first meeting we planned, but we can still have this. I wanna make up for it.”

Bad’s heart softened instantly. “Aww, sure, Skeppy! I’d love that.”

And just like that, they let the quiet bloom around them again—but this time, it was warm.

Not heavy.

The next morning arrived slower than usual.

Bad stirred first, barely.

He blinked groggily, taking in the dim morning light and the steady sound of breathing near his ear. It was warm—he was warm—and the scent of Skeppy’s hoodie and skin wrapped around him like another blanket.

It took him a second to realize just how tangled they were.

His arms were looped around Skeppy’s chest, face tucked into his boyfriend’s collarbone like it was made for him. One leg had somehow ended up draped across Skeppy’s hip. Meanwhile, Skeppy’s arms were wrapped around Bad’s head like a pillow, one hand buried gently in his hair, his chin resting softly on top.

Bad didn’t move.

Didn’t want to.

“...You’re breathing on my neck,” Skeppy mumbled sleepily, voice hoarse with morning.

“You’re crushing my skull,” Bad whispered back, voice thick with sleep.

Skeppy smiled against his hair. “Feels fair.”

They both chuckled, breath mixing lazily between them.

Neither boy moved to untangle themselves.

Bad nuzzled closer, pressing a soft kiss against Skeppy’s chest through the shirt. “Mm. Warm.”

“You’re clingy in the morning,” Skeppy teased, but his arms only tightened.

“You like it.”

“I never said I didn’t.”

Bad grinned. His hand, still resting on Skeppy’s chest, slowly moved—fingers splaying slightly as they brushed over the thin fabric, light and teasing.

Skeppy’s breath hitched.

“Don’t start something you can’t finish,” he murmured.

“Who says I won’t finish it?” Bad replied, voice low now, a little smug.

Skeppy groaned into his hair. “Gosh… you’re evil.”

“You’re stuck with me.”

Skeppy leaned down, brushing his lips against Bad’s forehead. “Guess I’ll suffer.”

Bad tilted his head up, caught Skeppy’s lips in a soft kiss—more curious than desperate. Their hands moved gently, nowhere rushed, just skin and cotton and the buzz of closeness. It didn’t go further. Didn’t need to.

Just a sleepy make-up session, warm and half-lazy, like two people relearning each other’s touch after almost losing it.

Eventually, Bad pulled away just enough to breathe, their foreheads still resting together. “Okay… now I’m actually hungry,” he murmured with a sleepy pout.

Skeppy gave a quiet laugh. “You’re always hungry.”

“I almost died emotionally,” Bad whispered dramatically.

“I deserve waffles.”

Skeppy rolled his eyes fondly. “You’re lucky you’re cute.”

Bad grinned and finally rolled out of bed, limbs stretching with the kind of peace he hadn’t felt in days. “Let’s go, chef. I’ll help~”

Skeppy groaned playfully and flopped onto the bed for a second longer before dragging himself up after him. “If by help you mean eat half the ingredients while I cook…”

“I mean moral support,” Bad said with a wink.

They padded into the kitchen, hair messy and still in their sleep clothes. Bad had stolen one of Skeppy’s hoodies—an oversized black one with a faint bleach stain near the hem—and Skeppy didn’t even mention it.

He just plugged in the waffle maker and turned toward the pantry. “Okay. Mission waffles begins now.”

Bad sat on one of the bar stools, legs swinging like a kid’s. “Are we adding chocolate chips or are you heartless?”

“I literally already got them out,” Skeppy said, holding up the bag like a prize. “What kind of monster do you take me for?”

“The kind that forgets whipped cream,” Bad said, raising a brow.

Skeppy opened the fridge without breaking eye contact and slowly pulled out a full can of whipped cream, setting it on the counter with dramatic flair. “I’m not that much of a disappointment.”

Bad grinned. “You really are making it up to me.”

“I’m trying,” Skeppy said, quieter now, cracking eggs
into a bowl. “I want this week to feel good. Not just like… damage control.”

Bad leaned his chin on his hand, watching him work. “You’re doing great so far. I’m not crying or spiraling. That’s progress.”

“Only because you’re distracted by food.”

“Exactly. Keep me fed and emotionally stable. That’s the key.”

Skeppy snorted and added flour to the bowl. “Noted.”

Bad hopped down from the stool and moved beside him, nudging him gently with his hip. “Need help?”

Skeppy looked him up and down, then back at the already missing strawberries from the counter. “Help as in actual help or emotional support while you snack through the ingredients?”

“Definitely the second one,” Bad said, popping another strawberry into his mouth.

“I knew it.” Skeppy shook his head fondly. “Just stir the batter.”

Bad picked up the whisk and pretended to take the job seriously, despite stirring in lazy, slow circles. “You know, I like this.”

“Waffles?”

“No—this. Waking up next to you. Cooking in your kitchen. It feels… soft. Like I didn’t realize how nice this feels.”

Skeppy stilled for a second, then bumped their shoulders together. “We can have more of this. Not just this week. If you want.”

Bad blinked. “You’re talking long term?”

“I mean… yeah. If we survive the waffle war.”

Bad grinned. “You’re such a tease.”

“You started it.”

“I like it when you get all soft on me.”

Skeppy turned away with a faint pink brushing his cheeks. “Stir the damn batter.”

Bad laughed and did exactly that. When the batter was ready, they poured it into the waffle maker together—arguing over the “perfect amount” and somehow both getting batter on their hands.

“Seriously?” Skeppy said, wiping flour off Bad’s cheek with his thumb.

Bad looked innocent. “I’m a baker now, hehe~”

“You’re a walking disaster.”

“But a cute one.”

“You keep saying that like it’s a shield.”

“Isn’t it?”

Skeppy didn’t answer, but he leaned in and pressed a quick kiss to Bad’s cheek before turning away to plate the finished waffle.

Bad blinked, stunned for a second. “Okay, maybe I deserved that.”

“You absolutely did.” Skeppy giggled.

They set the table with mismatched plates, syrup bottles, and the whipped cream can. Bad immediately sprayed a mountain of it on his waffle.

Skeppy stared. “Are you okay?”

“I’m making a whipped cream dam.”

“…A what.”

“To protect the syrup moat!”

“You’re a menace.”

“You’re dating me.”

Skeppy sighed, grabbing the whipped cream. “God help me.”

They dug in, the waffles warm and fluffy and a little too sweet thanks to Bad’s invention of “emotional syrup dosing.” Every few bites, they’d trade plates or steal from each other’s stack.

At one point, Bad held up a bite of waffle on his fork and leaned across the table. “Here. Try mine.”

Skeppy raised an eyebrow but leaned in. Bad fed it to him with a dumb grin.

“Okay,” Skeppy admitted as he chewed, “yours might be better.”

“Ha! Victory is mine.”

“I said might.”

“Too late. I’m telling the waffle gods.”

They kept eating, softer now. The kind of quiet where everything settled. Where the tension that used to live between them had loosened just enough to breathe.

Skeppy sat back in his chair, finishing the last bite. “I didn’t realize how nice this would feel. Just… eating together. For real.”

Bad nodded. “We didn’t get much of that online. Not like this.”

“You think it’ll be weird going back to texting again after this week?”

Bad was quiet for a second. Then he smiled. “Maybe.
But I think we’ll be okay. Because we’ll know this happened. That it wasn’t just something we imagined.”

“You’re really mushy this morning.”

“You’re rubbing off on me.”

“Yeah,” Skeppy smirked. “I better keep doing that before you turn back into a grump.”

Bad nudged Skeppy’s leg with his own under the table.
“You’ve got a long way to go, mister.”

They didn’t rush to clean up.

Just let the warmth stretch between them, like even the morning didn’t want to end.

And honestly?

Neither did they.

After breakfast, they stayed at the table, the last bits of waffle syrup drying on their plates. Skeppy leaned his chin on his hand, staring at Bad with a half-smile.

“What?” Bad asked, tilting his head.

Skeppy shrugged. “Just thinking about how this all started.”

Bad raised an eyebrow. “Breakfast?”

“No,” Skeppy laughed. “Us. You know. That dumb video I made.”

Bad blinked, then chuckled. “Oh—that one. The staff application video?”

“Yeah. I was literally just trolling every server I could find on that list,” Skeppy said, shaking his head. “I didn’t think I’d actually meet anyone cool. I definitely didn’t think I’d end up here.”

Bad smiled fondly. “You were so annoying.”

Skeppy grinned. “You banned me.”

“You deserved it,” Bad said without missing a beat. “You answered every question with ‘ping spoofing.’”

“I was being efficient!”

“You were being annoying.”

Skeppy leaned back in his chair, eyes still on him. “And yet… you still messaged me after.”

Bad shrugged, a playful glint in his eyes. “I thought you’d be good content.”

“You liar.”

“Okay, fine,” Bad admitted, laughing. “I thought you

were funny.”

“And now you’re stuck with me,” Skeppy said with a stupid smile that Bad loves.

Bad rolled his eyes. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
Skeppy was quiet for a moment. “It’s not. Not even close.”

Bad smiled, softer now. “Yeah. I know.”

Eventually, Skeppy stood and stretched, shirt riding up just a bit, revealing a glimpse of skin. Bad notices. Bad definitely noticed.

Skeppy caught him looking and raised a brow. “Eyes up, halo boy.”

“No promises,” Bad said innocently.

Skeppy tossed a dish towel at him, which Bad batted away with a laugh.

“C’mon,” Skeppy said. “Let’s go sit outside. It’s nice out.”

They shifted to lie back on the comfy porch bench, the blanket bunching over their legs. Bad’s legs stretched out while Skeppy somehow took up twice the space, smugly using the armrest as a pillow.

Bad raised an eyebrow. “Cherry Coke in a mug?”

“It’s about the vibe,” Skeppy said, sipping smugly.

They sat shoulder to shoulder, watching the wind stir through the trees, feet occasionally brushing under the blanket.

Bad looked out over the yard and let out a small breath. “You know… I used to think this kind of thing only happened in stories.”

“What, blanket dates and soda in mugs?” Skeppy grinned.

Bad rolled his eyes. “What? No—this. Sitting next to you. Not needing to talk constantly because... being here is already enough.”

Skeppy bumped their shoulders. “Well... we are living the story. It's just our very cursed, slightly chaotic, waffle-filled version.”

“Cheesy.”

“You love it.”

Bad tried not to smile. Failed. “Shut up.”

They sipped in silence for a while—comfortable, easy.

Then Skeppy spoke up, eyes still on the sky. “Can I ask you something kinda random?”

Bad humming. “Always.”

“What did you think I’d be like? You know… in real life.”
Bad turned toward him, mock-serious. “I thought you’d be shorter.”

Skeppy gasped. “Rude.”

“And more annoying.”

“Ruder!”

Bad grinned. “But also warmer. And... yeah. You are.”

Skeppy squinted suspiciously. “That better be about my personality.”

Bad took another sip of apple juice, eyes twinkling. “Wouldn’t you like to know.”

“Ugh, why do I love you?” Skeppy muttered, ducking behind his mug like it was a shield.

Bad chuckled. “Because I’m adorable~”

They were sprawled on the porch bench, Bad’s legs tucked under a blanket and Skeppy hogging the throw pillow like it was his crown.

“You snore,” Skeppy said suddenly.

Bad turned his head, mildly offended. “I do not.”

“You do,” Skeppy insisted. “It’s like—this little demon gargling.”

“That’s rich coming from you. You talk in your sleep.”

“I do not—!”

“You said ‘I AM the lava!’ and kicked me.”

Skeppy blinked. “Okay, maybe a little.”

“A little?!”

“I was dreaming about Skywars, alright?”

Bad snorted. “You’re ridiculous.”

“And you drool.”

“I do not!” Bad sat up, horrified.

Skeppy just grinned, smug. “Check the pillow.”

Bad grabbed it, inspected it—then threw it at Skeppy. “You’re lying!”

Skeppy ducked, laughing. “Maybe. Maybe not.”

Bad narrowed his eyes. “You better sleep with one eye open.”

Skeppy grinned wider. “I already do. You hog all the blankets.”

“Oh, here we go again.”

“You’re like a sleepy tornado with limbs.”

Bad tried to look offended, but he was already giggling. “You’re the worst.”

“You love me.”

“I don’t.” Bad rolled his eyes.

Skeppy leaned back against the porch bench, letting his arm fall lazily over Bad’s shoulders. “Wanna nap?”

Bad pretended to think. “Only if I get the good side.”

“There is no good side. This is my porch bench.”

“It’s mine now.”

Skeppy rolled his eyes but tucked the blanket over both of them. “Fine. But no snoring this time.”

“No kicking.”

“No drooling.”

They settled in, warm and tangled under the blanket. Bad’s head found its way to Skeppy’s shoulder. Skeppy’s fingers fidgeted lightly against Bad’s sleeve, like he wasn’t quite ready to let go yet.

“I like this,” Bad mumbled.

“Me too,” Skeppy whispered.

And then they both drifted off—smiling, limbs a little

tangled, hearts a little lighter.

Just soft. Just them. Just home.

Chapter Text

The morning sunlight filtered through Skeppy’s bedroom window, painting soft stripes across the floor.

Bad stretched under the covers, hair sticking up in every direction, and yawned like he hadn’t just slept like a blanket-hogging menace.

Skeppy was already sitting at the edge of the bed, tugging on socks and pretending not to notice Bad stealing one of his hoodies again.

“You’re not slick,” Skeppy said, glancing over his shoulder.

Bad flopped dramatically back onto the pillows. “It smells like you. It’s comforting.”

Skeppy rolled his eyes but didn’t argue. “Come on. Let’s go. I’m not letting you survive on cereal again.”

They headed out on foot, the morning air cool but not cold. Bad kept bumping into Skeppy as they walked—accidentally-on-purpose—until Skeppy elbowed him with a quiet, “Behave, demon.”

The café was quiet this early. Inside, it smelled like sugar and espresso. Bad slid into a booth by the window while Skeppy smiled at the barista, who gave them a curious double-take but said nothing.

They ordered quickly. Skeppy got a sausage croissant and a matcha latte. Bad went for chocolate chip pancakes, hash browns, and an iced coffee that was basically dessert.

“You’re going to crash halfway through the day,” Skeppy muttered when their food arrived.

“Then carry me,” Bad replied, syrup already on his cheek.

Skeppy reached out with a napkin and wiped it away, shaking his head fondly. “You’re impossible.”

“You love me.”

“Don’t remind me,” he said—quietly, with a smile.

They lingered longer than necessary, sipping drinks and watching the street outside fill with more people. When Bad started poking Skeppy’s knee under the table, Skeppy just kicked his foot lightly in return and stole a bite of pancake without asking.

Bad gasped like it was betrayal. “You just—”

“I warned you.”

After breakfast, they walked to the mall—Bad practically dragging Skeppy toward the escalators like a kid on a mission.

They stopped by a small department store where Bad grabbed a basket and started tossing in essentials.

“You’re only staying a week, not moving in,” Skeppy said, raising an eyebrow at the growing pile: hoodie, toothpaste, socks, and a dog plush for some reason.

“I like comfort,” Bad said with zero shame. “And the dog plush is emotional support.”

“You already have me.”

Bad grinned. “Exactly. Now I have two.”

They ended up arguing over snacks in the grocery section. Bad wanted pickled chips. Skeppy wanted popcorn. They settled it like adults—with rock, paper, scissors in the middle of the aisle. Bad won. Skeppy claimed it was rigged.

By the time they finished and dumped everything into the trunk, it was well past noon. They headed back into the mall and stopped at a fast-food place—something simple, quiet, tucked in the corner.

They got burgers and fries and shared a milkshake, which neither of them acknowledged but both leaned toward like it was the most normal thing in the world.

“You’re doing the thing again,” Skeppy said through a mouthful of fries.

Bad blinked. “What thing?”

“The stupid smile thing. You’ve been doing it all day.”

“I’m happy,” Bad said simply. “It’s weird. But I am.”

Skeppy didn’t say anything to that—just looked at him for a bit too long, like he wasn’t quite used to seeing Bad like this either.

When they got home, it was late afternoon. Skeppy dropped onto the couch while Bad wandered the kitchen with leftover fries, already scrolling through his phone.

“…Wanna stream?” Skeppy asked suddenly.

Bad looked up. “Now?”

“Yeah. Why not? We’re both here. Might as well make the internet scream.”

Bad laughed. “They’ll lose it.”

“Exactly.”

They set up a quick Twitch stream on Skeppy’s PC, no fancy overlay—just the two of them sitting close, trying not to look awkward while the chat exploded.

Bad waved at the camera. “Hi. Yes, this is real. Yes, I’m alive. Yes, he’s shorter in person.”

Skeppy elbowed him. “Guys, don’t listen to him. He’s just mad that I’m even cuter in person and he can’t handle it.”

The chat was chaotic. Heart emojis, crying emojis, someone asking if this was a prank, and about five different people begging them to play Bedwars.

They didn’t. They just talked, told dumb stories, teased each other relentlessly. At one point, Bad reached off-camera and tugged Skeppy’s chair closer so their shoulders bumped on-screen.

Twitter wasn’t spared either. Skeppy posted a selfie of them mid-laugh with the caption:

@Skeppy
he showed up irl and still stole my popcorn :(

Bad replied with a photo of Skeppy holding the whipped cream from earlier and wrote:

@Badboyhalo
This man tried to gaslight me over breakfast. I have proof! >:0

They spent the rest of the night giggling at replies, trading their phones back and forth, half-curled up together on the couch with the lights dim and the windows open.

By the time they finally shut off their phones and trudged back to the bedroom, the mood had shifted—quieter, softer. Still full of laughter, but something underneath it warmer. Closer.

Bad flopped onto the bed first and stretched with a loud, dramatic sigh. “I’m never moving again.”

Skeppy tossed a pillow at him. “We literally walked like twenty steps today.”

“I’m emotionally tired.”

“Emotional my ass.”

“Language!” Bad laughed, then fell quiet. Skeppy hovered beside the bed for a second, just looking at him.

“You know…” Skeppy said, softer now. “I think I’ve said ‘I love you’ in calls before. And chats. And texts. But it didn’t really hit me until now.”

Bad looked up, eyes suddenly wide, heart suddenly stupid. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Skeppy said, crawling in beside him. “It’s different. Seeing you. Touching you. It’s stupid, but—feels real.”

Bad turned to him, brushing his hand along Skeppy’s jaw, thumb lingering just under his cheek. “It’s not stupid. I feel it too.”

Their kiss was slow, deep and steady. Like something unspoken that had been simmering for days, finally unraveling gently in the dark.

Bad’s hands found their way into Skeppy’s hair, combing gently through it like he’d done it a hundred times before. Skeppy shivered at the touch, his fingers sliding under the hem of Bad’s hoodie, palm pressing against the small of his back like he needed to anchor himself there.

They moved together without urgency, like they weren’t chasing something—just sinking into it. Into each other. Each kiss was a sentence unsaid, each touch a memory being written.

Skeppy exhaled shakily against Bad’s mouth. “I love you,” he murmured—soft, but sure, like it had lived on the tip of his tongue forever.

Bad’s breath caught, his heart tripping over itself. He leaned in again, lips brushing over Skeppy’s with a tenderness that made his chest ache. “I love you more,” he whispered, thumb tracing along Skeppy’s cheekbone.

The air between them pulsed warm and heavy. Their touches grew bolder—Skeppy’s hand roaming up Bad’s spine beneath the hoodie, fingertips skating over skin like it was sacred. Bad tilted his head, kissing him again, slower now, savoring it.

Fingers tangled in hair. Thumbs grazed jawlines. Breath hitched quietly between them.

It didn’t spiral out of control. It didn’t have to. They didn’t need more than this.

Just soft gasps muffled against each other’s skin. Just the way Bad’s hand curled over Skeppy’s side, pulling him impossibly close. Just Skeppy pressing kisses along Bad’s jaw, slow and open-mouthed, until Bad’s lips found his again.

When they finally broke apart, foreheads resting together, neither moved away. Their breathing was uneven, their cheeks flushed, hands still exploring lazily—fingers dragging along ribs, down arms, up the back of the neck like it was muscle memory.

Bad’s voice came out barely a whisper. “You make it feel safe.”

Skeppy kissed his forehead, his thumb brushing lightly under Bad’s shirt as if to say I’m here. “You make it feel like home.”

They didn’t need to laugh or tease now. No one said anything else.
Because the silence between them wasn’t empty anymore, it was full—and that was enough.

Chapter Text

The morning light hadn’t even fully settled across the room when Skeppy slipped out of bed.

Bad was still curled beneath the blankets, breathing soft and even. One arm clutched a pillow, the other lay outstretched where Skeppy had been, like it was still reaching for him. Skeppy paused in the doorway for a second, biting back a smile.

“Stay asleep, sleepy demon,” he whispered, then padded out toward the kitchen.

His mission? Make breakfast. From scratch. For Bad. Because he deserved that. Because Skeppy wanted to do something stupidly soft. He rolled up the sleeves of his hoodie, stared down the counter, and mumbled, “Okay. How hard can this be?”

Very hard, apparently.

He tried pancakes first. The batter came out lumpy. Then soupy. Then somehow both. When he poured it into the pan, it hissed like it was angry at him. The edges burned instantly.

“Okay, maybe it’s a little hard,” he muttered, waving a spatula around like it might fix things.

Then came the toast. He misjudged the heat settings. Smoke started curling out of the toaster.

By the time a sharp burnt smell filled the air, Bad was already stirring. He blinked up at the ceiling, frowned, and reached for the other side of the bed.

“…Skeppy?”

Nothing.

He sat up fast. The smell was unmistakable. Burnt. Smoky. Suspicious.

“Oh no. No, no, no.”

Bad rushed to the kitchen and found Skeppy standing in the middle of chaos, wielding a towel like a sword, the smoke alarm threatening to go off.

Bad blinked.

Skeppy turned. “Don’t say anything.”

Bad opened his mouth.

“Not. One. Word.”

Bad closed his mouth and stared, lips twitching with suppressed laughter. Skeppy looked mildly offended and very flustered, a smear of batter on his hoodie.

“…You tried to cook?” Bad finally said, trying to keep his tone neutral.

“I was cooking,” Skeppy huffed. “Keyword: was. Now I’m… failing. But it’s the thought that counts?”

Bad tilted his head, a smile spreading. “You look like a blueberry muffin chef who got caught in an oil fire.”

Skeppy gave him a flat stare. “I woke up early for you, idiot.”

“And you almost destroyed your kitchen for me,” Bad teased, stepping closer. “That’s love.”

Skeppy threw the towel down in defeat. “Fine. You win. Help me before I burn water.”

Bad laughed and slid behind the counter. “Step aside, disaster. Let a real demon handle it.”

“Excuse me? I’m adorable and trying.”

“You’re adorable and hopeless.”

Despite the teasing, Skeppy stood beside Bad while he cooked, occasionally trying to stir or flip things—Bad gently swatted his hand away every time.

“No, you’re going to break the yolks again.”

“That was one time.”

“That was this morning.”

Twenty minutes later, they had a real meal. Pancakes golden, eggs fluffy, toast perfectly done. They ate on the couch, sharing bites, Skeppy leaning lazily on Bad’s shoulder.

Skeppy chewed thoughtfully. “Okay. I admit it. I suck in the kitchen.”

“You set toast on fire. How do you even do that?”

“I’m talented in the wrong ways.”

“You love me,” Bad said between sips of iced coffee.

Skeppy grinned. “I hate that I do.”

Bad giggled. 

Later, as the afternoon sun lit the living room, Skeppy perked up. “Let’s go out.”

Bad blinked. “Go where?”

Skeppy held up his phone. “That amusement park we kept saying we’d visit? Let’s do it. I’m calling everyone.”

“…You mean today?”

“Why not?”

Bad’s brows lifted. “Okay. Let’s cause some chaos.”

The amusement park was already buzzing when they arrived, laughter and music spilling through the gates. The scent of fried food and spun sugar hung thick in the air. Colorful banners flapped in the breeze.

Bad and Skeppy arrived first. They wore coordinating hoodies—Skeppy’s was powder blue, Bad’s was lavender, and both had tiny pixelated hearts stitched near the cuffs. Completely accidental, they claimed.

Skeppy reached for Bad’s hand without even thinking, weaving their fingers together as they waited for the others.

“Are you nervous?” Bad asked.

Skeppy raised an eyebrow. “About what?”

“I don’t know,” Bad said with a small grin. “Being this… public.”

Skeppy shrugged. “They already think we’re married. May as well give them a show.”

Bad snorted, cheeks faintly pink.

George, Sapnap, Hannah, Velvet, and Antfrost showed up a few minutes later, arguing about who walked the farthest from the parking lot.

“There’s no way you burned more calories than me,” Sapnap said. “I was carrying snacks.”

“You ate them,” George replied flatly.

When they saw Skeppy and Bad holding hands, Velvet dramatically clutched his chest.

“Oh my God, it’s real. They’re real.”

Hannah grinned and nudged Bad. “So when’s the wedding?”

“Oh my goodness,” Bad mumbled, face already pink.

“Relax,” Skeppy said, squeezing his hand. “They’re just jealous.”

Their first stop was the bumper cars.

As soon as they stepped inside the arena, chaos was guaranteed. Bad climbed into one with a dangerous glint in his eyes. Skeppy glanced at him across the floor and immediately narrowed his eyes.

“Nope. I know that look,” Skeppy muttered. “Stay in your lane, demon.”

Bad just grinned and floored the pedal.

He made it his life’s mission to chase Skeppy around the entire bumper car ring like a man possessed. Skeppy was screaming-laughing half the time, ramming into anyone in his path just to escape.

“You’re insane!” Sapnap yelled as Bad slammed into him, veering off course like a cartoon villain.

“It’s for the thrill!” Bad shouted back, spinning around and aiming directly for Skeppy again.

George, meanwhile, was doing everything in his power to stay out of the chaos, muttering something about protecting his fragile bones. “I swear, if someone hits me while I’m adjusting the seat—HEY!”

Hannah crashed into him gently from the side, laughing. “Oops. My bad. You looked too peaceful.”

“YOU GUYS ARE VIOLENT,” George yelled, gripping the wheel like a pensioner in traffic.

Velvet, who had somehow figured out how to reverse his bumper car, was driving backward just to taunt people. “Fear me. I drive with spite and no regard for traffic laws.”

“GET OUT OF THE WAY!” Skeppy screeched, veering into a corner as Bad came tearing after him like a bat out of hell.

“YOU CAN’T ESCAPE SKEPPY!” Bad yelled dramatically.

Skeppy shrieked, accidentally ramming full-speed into Ant. “SORRY!”

“BRO—MY SPINE,” Antfrost groaned, slumped in his seat.

Velvet doubled over laughing. “This is the worst best day ever.”

“WHERE IS THE BRAKE?” Hannah yelled, spinning in a full circle before crashing into Sapnap, who cackled maniacally and threw his hands up like he won something.

Bad finally caught Skeppy in the middle of the arena. Their cars collided with a loud CLUNK, sending both of them bouncing back slightly.

“Caught you,” Bad said with a grin, completely satisfied.

Skeppy slumped forward against the steering wheel, laughing breathlessly. “You menace. You absolute feral muffin.”

Bad winked. “I only hit you because I love you.”

“That’s not how driving works!”

“Debatable,” Velvet called from across the ring, spinning in place and blowing kisses at everyone he passed.

“Guys,” George whined. “Can we please do something less life-threatening next?”

“We’re literally in padded cars on a padded floor,” Sapnap said. “You’ll live.”

“I’m emotionally bruised,” George muttered.

Eventually, the ride ended—mostly because the attendant realized they were those kinds of people and wanted them out before they started a bumper car war.

They stumbled out of their cars, laughing, out of breath, and thoroughly battered in the best way.

Skeppy leaned into Bad, still chuckling. “If I wake up sore tomorrow, I’m blaming you.”

Bad smirked, nudging his shoulder. “Worth it. You had fun.”

Skeppy rolled his eyes but didn’t move away. “Yeah, yeah. Just don’t expect me to let you win next time..”

Bad bumped his hip lightly. “You never stood a chance.”

“You wish.”

They wandered off with the rest of the group, still bumping shoulders like they weren’t completely obsessed with each other. The group was loud, chaotic, and impossible to herd—all talking over each other about which ride to do next.

“I swear, if I don’t get cotton candy in the next five minutes, I’m throwing someone into the fountain,” Velvet announced.

“Not it,” George said instantly, stepping behind Hannah for cover.

“Coward,” she muttered, but she was smiling.

They finally stopped at a food stall. After a bit of bickering and a lot of pointing at random menu items, they all walked off with churros, drinks, and an ungodly amount of cotton candy. Skeppy sneakily tugged off a tuft of spun sugar and shoved it in Bad’s mouth before he could protest.

“Mmrph—Skeppy!” Bad tried to talk through it, face already heating up. “You’re going to rot my teeth.”

“They’re already sweet,” Skeppy replied with a wink, taking an obnoxiously large bite of his churro.

“Idiot,” Bad whispered, glancing around frantically like one of the kids in line might tweet it. “People can see us.”

“And? what are they gonna do about it?,” Skeppy said with no shame at all. “We look cute.”

The day stretched on like a montage. They rode everything. The Ferris wheel, where George pretends not to be afraid of heights while gripping the seat like it was his lifeline. The log flume, where Velvet screamed louder than anyone and soaked Hannah on purpose. Bad tried to shield himself with his arms and ended up soaked anyway, his hoodie sticking to him for the next hour.

“Worth it?” Skeppy asked smugly, wringing out his sleeve.

“I will get revenge,” Bad declared.

“You say that like it’s not hot when you’re soaked.”

“Language!”

The spinning teacups were next. Skeppy and Bad shared one with Antfrost and Velvet, and they all spun it like they had a death wish. Bad was giggling one second and clinging to Skeppy’s sleeve the next, dizzy and light-headed.

“I can’t feel my stomach,” Bad mumbled as he stumbled out.

“I’ll hold it for you,” Skeppy offered, wrapping an arm around him. “What are boyfriends for?”

Then came the haunted house.

Skeppy led the charge like he had something to prove, which meant Bad got shoved in the middle with Velvet and George bickering behind them.

Halfway through the maze, a fake ghost on a pulley dropped from the ceiling, screaming with a distorted audio clip.

Bad let out a full, high-pitched yelp that echoed through the dark.

The group froze.

Skeppy turned around slowly, wide-eyed. “…Did you just scream louder than Velvet?”

“I was startled!” Bad shouted, using Skeppy as a shield. “And it was close! You saw that!”

Hannah, unfazed, was already cackling. “That ghost was literally on a stick.”

“It’s still scary!” Bad shout back, red in the face. “It was a very fast stick.”

Antfrost leaned over to Skeppy, voice loud and smug. “So, who’s the brave one now?”

Skeppy grinned, slipping an arm around Bad’s waist. “Still me. But I love him anyway.”

Bad swatted him lightly but didn’t move away.

At one point, they all split up—Hannah, Velvet and Antfrost went to try the spinning coaster, George and Sapnap made a beeline for funnel cake, and Skeppy dragged Bad toward the carnival games.

“I’m winning you something,” he declared like it was a life mission.

“You’re going to lose,” Bad replied flatly, arms crossed.

“Shut your mouth, demon. I have vengeance and pride on my side.”

He lost the first two tries at the ring toss, nearly knocking over the display out of sheer spite. Bad leaned in on the third try and whispered, “Use your wrist more than your arm.”

Skeppy froze. Turned to him slowly. “That sounded really dirty.”

“It wasn’t!” Bad protested, already flustered. “It was genuine advice!”

“Still hot.”

Bad groaned into his hands.

But—he used the advice. And on the third try, the ring landed perfectly.

“Boom,” Skeppy said proudly, accepting the prize like he had just saved the world. “Behold: our new child.”

He handed Bad a giant plush frog, about the size of a toddler.

Bad clutched it to his chest dramatically. “I shall name him Froggy. He will rule beside me. Fear him.”

“Fear you,” Skeppy muttered, but he was smiling when he leaned over and kissed Bad’s cheek right there in public.

Bad froze like someone had paused his entire game. His face turned a shade of red usually only seen in cartoons.

“Skeppy, I said stop that—!!” he whisper-yelled, glancing around.

“You’re so cute,” Skeppy said. “They probably ship us.”

“They definitely do,” said a passing fan, holding up their phone.

Bad covered his face with Froggy.

They rejoined the group a while later, hands still sticky from cotton candy and games. George had powdered sugar on his shirt, Velvet was threatening to go on the loop-de-loop again, and Sapnap had somehow ended up with a plastic crown.

It was chaos. And it was perfect.

Later, they stumbled across a photo booth tucked between two food stalls—half-hidden behind a row of game machines and a suspiciously large cotton candy stand. Velvet spotted it first.

“Oh we’re doing this,” they said, already dragging Antfrost by the wrist.

“No, no—wait, my hair’s a mess—” Ant protested, but the booth curtain had already closed behind them.

The next picture strip printed thirty seconds later: the first frame showed Ant barely ready, blinking mid-blink; the second had Velvet throwing up peace signs. The third? Velvet kissed Ant on the cheek while Ant tried to act indifferent but clearly smiled. The last one was a blur of movement and laughter—unusable, but perfect.

“Aww, you guys are adorable,” Bad said, holding up the strip and beaming.

Velvet just winked. “Try and top that.”

Bad and Skeppy exchanged a look.

“Challenge accepted,” Skeppy said.

They ducked into the booth next. The curtain swayed behind them.

First shot: a cute, posed photo—Bad giving a soft smile, Skeppy side-eyeing the camera like it owed him money.

Second shot: Skeppy stuck his tongue out and tried to bite Bad’s shoulder mid-click.

Third shot: Bad, flustered and laughing, kissed Skeppy’s nose without thinking.

Fourth shot: Skeppy let out a, “Screw it,” yanked Bad onto his lap, and the flash went off while Bad was halfway into a scandalized yelp.

The strip printed with a loud whir.

Bad stared down at it, red-faced. “I can’t post this. That last one looks illegal.”

Skeppy took the strip, already pulling out his phone. “I’m posting all of it.”

“No, Skeppy—”

He did.

@Skeppy

He thinks I won’t post this but he underestimated my thirst for chaos.

@BadBoyHalo

SKEPPYYYY!! You’re such a muffinhead >:(

The internet broke. Again.

Within minutes, fans were making collages, edits, memes. Someone turned the picture strip into a keychain design.

“See?” Skeppy said smugly. “We’re art now.”

“You’re going to make me combust.”

“You’ll look stupidly cute doing it.”

As the sky softened into orange and gold, the group found a grassy patch near the central fountain and collapsed there with paper trays of fried noodles, lemonade, and random snacks. Everything was warm and loud and messy—Velvet had chopsticks in his hair, Sapnap was trying to keep George from stealing his dumplings, and Skeppy somehow managed to spill lemonade twice.

Bad was sitting cross-legged beside him, holding a cup with both hands and using Skeppy’s leg as a backrest like it was second nature.

“Alright,” Velvet said through a mouthful of noodles, “important question: who’s the big spoon?”

“Me,” Skeppy answered immediately, not even looking up. “Bad’s warm and clingy. Like sleeping next to a heated stuffed animal.”

Bad let out a horrified groan. “Skeppy, language!”

“That’s not even language,” Ant said, laughing. “That’s just a fact.”

Bad covered his face with both hands. “Why do I hang out with any of you?”

“Because we love you,” Hannah said sweetly.

“And because no one else will put up with Skeppy,” Sapnap added.

“Rude,” Skeppy said. “I’m great. Ask my boyfriend.”

“No comment,” Bad muttered, still hiding his face.

They stayed like that as the sun dipped lower, music from the nearby rides floating in the background, voices mellowing. Some fans still passed by and waved, but none of them minded anymore.

It wasn’t perfect—but it was theirs. And that was more than enough.

When the fireworks started, everyone stopped to watch. Skeppy leaned into Bad’s side, quiet now. The sky bloomed with color above them, casting their faces in red and gold and violet.

“This is nice,” Bad said quietly.

Skeppy glanced at him. “Yeah. It really is.”

They stayed there until the crowds thinned and the lights started turning off, then made their way to the parking lot, sleepy and full and content.

Before leaving the park, Sapnap clapped his hands together. “Group selfie. Right now. No one leaves until this memory is burned into our retinas.”

“You just want people to know you lost at bumper cars,” George teased as he stepped into place.

“Shut up and pose,” Sapnap said, already angling his phone.

Bad ended up wedged in the center, with Skeppy pressed tightly against his right side, George to his left, and Hannah squeezing in beside them with a peace sign already up. Velvet had somehow climbed onto Antfrost’s knee, arms looped loosely around his shoulders.

“This is gonna be chaotic,” Hannah muttered, smiling anyway.

“Smile, you degenerates,” Sapnap ordered, counting down.

Just before the flash went off, Skeppy turned and kissed Bad on the cheek—quick, deliberate, soft.

Click.

Bad blinked, stunned. “Did you just—?”

“Yes,” Skeppy said casually, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “And I’m posting it.”

Velvet screamed into Ant’s shoulder. “I KNEW IT.”

Ant just laughed. “This is going to destroy the timeline.”

Hannah was already scrolling through the photo preview. “Oh yeah. This is the one. You’re done for.”

Ten minutes later, the tweet went up:

@Skeppy

best day with the dumbest people (except one)

[Insert group photo]

It was the most blatantly affectionate photo Skeppy had posted all day—no filter, no dodging the truth, no hiding behind jokes. Just him kissing Bad in broad daylight while all their friends smiled around them like it was completely normal.

Bad stared at the screen. “Skeppy, wha—”

“Yep,” Skeppy said. “Let them know.”

@BadBoyHalo

I’m literally sandwiched between chaos o_O (also, the frog is named Froggy :D)

@Hannahxxrose

I’m honored to witness this IRL. Also I looked cute so thank you <3

@VelvetIsCake

they’re SO SOFT IN PUBLIC NOW???? I’m gonna sob. Ant hold me.

@Antfrost

Velvet’s already making fan edits with sparkles

@GeorgeNotFound

This confirms I am NOT the softest in this group and I’m okay with that

@Sapnap 

The bumper car revenge arc starts tomorrow. watch your backs.

Then came the fan replies—chaotic, unfiltered, completely unhinged.

@Fyonyao_o

BADKSKSKS THE KISS ON THE CHEEK I’M GONNA VOMIT /POS THEY’RE SO REAL 😭😭😭

@KreamyKimcheese

HOW MANY TIMES HAVE THEY MADE US CRAZY??? I HAVEN’T EVEN RECOVERED FROM THE PHOTO STRIP POST AND NOW THIS??? I’M GONNA DIE. STAY APART FOR FIVE SECONDS.

@leftsockmissing

badboyhalo looks like he just witnessed a war crime but the war crime was friendship xD

@pickleprincess_69

VELVET IS POSING LIKE IT’S A VOGUE COVER. ANT IS HIS CHAIR. THIS IS CINEMA. 🔥😍

@Derbear_

George looks held hostage, sapnap is glowing with rage, skeppy is kissing bad. This is peak modern art. 🙏

@BlobTheFish

I WAS JUST SITTING HERE EATING CORN CHIPS AND THEN THIS??? WHIPLASH. 

@SkephaloUpdates

I know for a FACT skeppy posted this and giggled while doing it. you can feel the smugness radiating off the pixels! :p

@scarfsonfire

Why does this picture feel like it cost $10M to produce but was taken with an iphone 6 

@gummycatastrophe

this is what it looks like when the group project actually works

@Meowmintbrainrot

i paused my comfort show to see this and now THAT’S my comfort show 💝

The notifications exploded. Quote tweets ranged from all-caps sobbing to blurry memes of people fainting. Cropped versions of the kiss were already circling fan accounts, some turning it into wallpapers, others photoshopping crowns on them.

Bad, of course, turned his notifications off with a groan. “I can’t believe you did that…”

Skeppy just shrugged and laced their fingers together. “It was the best one.”

And deep down, Bad didn’t actually mind.

The drive home was quiet, but not in a lonely way. The kind of quiet that came after laughter, after full stomachs and sore legs and the best kind of exhaustion.

Skeppy drove, one hand lazily on the wheel, the other fiddling with the car’s volume knob. The radio played soft pop songs in the background, low enough that the lyrics just blended into the night.

Bad had fallen asleep about twenty minutes into the ride.

He was curled up in the passenger seat, face turned toward the window, arms wrapped around the giant frog plush. His cheek was squished against the glass, and his hair was all messed up from the wind earlier.

Skeppy glanced over at him at a red light and just stared.

The streetlights bathed Bad in gold, catching on the soft curve of his lashes, the faint smile on his lips. He looked peaceful. Vulnerable in the gentlest way.

Skeppy didn’t say anything. Just slowly reached for his phone, tilted it just right, and took a quiet photo.

He stared at it for a moment, then locked his phone again and put it away.

He wasn’t going to post it. Wasn’t even going to tell Bad he took it.

He just… wanted to keep it.

When they pulled into the driveway, Skeppy shut off the engine and sat there for a second, watching Bad sleep. He didn’t want to wake him. Didn’t want to ruin the soft quiet of the moment.

So instead, he got out of the car, walked around to the passenger side, and opened the door as gently as he could. He hesitated a beat—then leaned in and carefully scooped Bad up into his arms.

Bad mumbled something against Skeppy’s chest, still mostly asleep.

“Shh, I got you,” Skeppy whispered, adjusting his hold and nudging the door shut with his hip.

He carried Bad inside, bypassing the lights, moving through the familiar hallway in the dark. His arms ached a little by the time he got to the bedroom, but he didn’t complain. He just set Bad down on the edge of the bed like he was made of something delicate.

Bad shifted, barely waking, murmuring something unintelligible as Skeppy knelt to untie his shoes.

“Just sleep,” Skeppy whispered, smiling. “You’re good.”

He grabbed some comfy clothes from his drawer—soft sweatpants and one of his oversized hoodies—then gently, carefully helped change Bad into them. There were a few sleepy protests, some half-mumbled grumbles about “I could’ve done that,” but Skeppy just shushed him through it.

Once Bad was tucked in again, hair messy against the pillow and face soft in sleep, Skeppy paused.

He leaned in and kissed Bad’s forehead. Then his nose. Then his cheek.

“Sweet dreams, muffin,” he whispered with a small smile.

He went to the bathroom, quickly changed and washed up, and returned with a quiet yawn. The room was dark now, save for the faint light from outside spilling through the curtains.

He crawled into bed slowly, slipping under the covers beside Bad. His hand found Bad’s waist automatically. Like instinct. Like home.

He pressed a soft kiss to the back of Bad’s neck, buried his face in his hair, and whispered against his skin.

“I love you.”

Bad didn’t answer—just shifted closer in his sleep, like his body had heard it anyway.

And Skeppy smiled, because even in the silence, he knew he was heard.

Chapter Text

Bad woke up first.

Everything was still—the kind of stillness that wraps around you like a second blanket. Morning light filtered lazily through the curtains, casting pale stripes across the bed. Outside, the world was soft: faint birdsong, the rustle of leaves, the gentle hush of a world not fully awake. The air smelled like cotton, sunlight… and Skeppy’s sheets.

Bad blinked up at the ceiling, dazed from sleep, and stretched.

That’s when he noticed the fabric brushing against his skin.

Wait.

He sat up slowly, cautiously, like any sudden movement might cause the room to glitch.

And stared down at himself.

“…What.”

The hoodie was gone. So were his jeans. In their place: one of Skeppy’s oversized shirts—worn, soft, and very much his. It hung loose off one shoulder, nearly reaching his knees.

Definitely not what he fell asleep in.

Bad’s sleep-fogged brain tried to process.

“Okay. Maybe I just—nope. I did not change into this.”

He turned slowly, eyes drifting toward the other side of the bed.

And froze.

Skeppy laying on his stomach, arm draped over the edge of the mattress, hair a mess. Shirtless. Sheets low on his back. He looked like a chaotic angel who lost a pillow fight in his sleep. Lit golden by the morning light.

Bad’s brain shut down. Then restarted.

“WHAT.”

He looked at the shirt. Then at Skeppy. Then back at the shirt.

His thoughts started spiraling.

“Wait. We passed out after the amusement park, right? I don’t remember changing. I would’ve remembered his back. I would’ve died right then and there.”

His pulse spiked.

“Were we drugged?? Did someone spike the lemonade? George did squint at the label—NO, no, I literally made fun of him for checking. That drink was clean.”

Bad gasped softly.

“What if we blacked out from exhaustion and—NO. No no no. I would’ve felt different. Right? Right???”

He glanced back at Skeppy. Still sleeping. Still bare-skinned and tranquil.

Bad covered his face with both hands.

“Did I just miss my own first time?! Is this how I find out? In his shirt? No memories? Him sleeping like a Greek tragedy?”

He pulled the blanket over his head, only to fling it off a second later, overwhelmed. His whole face burned. The quiet of the room felt louder somehow.

Skeppy snored gently into his pillow.

Bad glared at him. “How are you so peaceful. You ruined me.”

Skeppy stirred.

He mumbled something and rolled onto his side, reaching across the bed toward Bad’s side, then blinked sleepily. “…Bad?”

Bad froze like he’d been caught stealing.

Skeppy rubbed his eyes. “Why’re you staring at me like I just committed a war crime?”

Bad opened his mouth. Closed it. Then pointed accusingly at the shirt. “Did we… do something?”

Skeppy squinted. “Do what?”

“You know!” Bad flailed both hands. “Something—inappropriate!”

Skeppy raised an eyebrow. “Define ‘inappropriate’.”

Bad made a gesture that looked like jazz hands fused with… hip movement.

There was a pause.

Then Skeppy burst into laughter.

He flopped onto his back, wheezing. “OH MY GOD. BAD.”

“Don’t laugh!” Bad cried, mortified. “You changed my clothes!”

“Because you passed out fully dressed like a weirdo,” Skeppy said, gasping. “You were curled up in jeans like we were camping.”

“I don’t remember!”

“You were drooling on my pillow and muttering about frogs,” Skeppy added, still cracking up. “You were gone.”

Bad turned away and sat at the edge of the bed, face red. “I hate you.”

“No you don’t.” Skeppy propped himself up on one elbow. “You’re just mad your dreams weren’t spicy enough.”

Bad groaned. “I swear—”

Skeppy crawled over, wrapped his arms around Bad’s waist, and kissed just under his ear.

“Why? Wanna do it now?”

Bad yelped like he’d been electrocuted and nearly fell off the bed. “NO!!”

Skeppy wheezed and collapsed back onto the mattress, shaking with laughter.

“I’M KIDDING,” he managed through gasps.

Then, because he’s awful, he leaned in again, lips brushing Bad’s ear, and whispered, “Unless you want to…”

WHUMP.

Pillow to the face.

“LANGUAGE!”

Skeppy groaned dramatically. “You hit me. That’s domestic abuse.”

“It was a pillow, you dirty muffin.”

Skeppy rolled like a dying Victorian poet. “You wound me. Deeply.”

“I should’ve left you in the haunted house.”

“You would’ve missed me. Admit it.”

Bad didn’t answer. Just turned a deeper shade of red.

Skeppy grinned. “That’s what I thought.”

Eventually, they tucked themselves back under the blankets. Limbs tangled. Cold feet. Bad’s head rested on Skeppy’s shoulder. Skeppy idly ran his fingers up and down Bad’s arm.

“…Hey,” Skeppy mumbled. “We’re not going anywhere today, right?”

Bad shook his head. “Too tired. My legs hate me.”

“Good.” Skeppy kissed his temple. “Movie day?”

“Movie day.”

The rest of the day crawled by in a blur of yawns and soft laughter.

After dragging themselves out of bed and sharing a half-hearted breakfast (toast and leftover snacks, mostly air), they migrated to the couch. Neither of them had the willpower to cook. By the time lunch rolled around, takeout was already a done deal.

Around early afternoon, Skeppy stretched and stood.

“I’m showering. I feel like a walking funnel cake.”

Bad, still bundled in a blanket on the couch, peeked up. “You kinda smell like one.”

“Wow. Harsh.”

Skeppy blow him a kiss over his shoulder as he disappeared into the bedroom—and straight into the en suite bathroom.

Bad stayed on the couch… for a while.

There was another bathroom. But eventually, he stood, shuffled into the bedroom, and sat quietly on the bed.

He didn’t even question it. Just waited.

He pulled out fresh clothes (well, technically Skeppy’s) and laid them on the bed beside him. The sound of water running echoed faintly through the door. Steam curled under the crack. And through it: off-key humming. Classic Skeppy.

Bad fiddled with the drawstring of the shorts in his lap.

A few minutes later, the door opened.

Skeppy stepped out, towel low on his hips, skin dewy from heat, hair dripping.

Bad blinked. Stared. Brain stopped.

“Put on clothes,” he managed, snapping his eyes away.

Skeppy grinned. “Could’ve said ‘thank you’ for the show.”

“I didn’t ask for a show!”

“But you sat through it,” Skeppy teased, strolling to the dresser.

Bad groaned, buried his face in his hands, and darted into the bathroom, desperate to reset his brain.

Skeppy watched him go, smirking to himself.

Halfway through pulling on a shirt, he patted his neck. “Ah—forgot my necklace.”

He padded back to the bathroom… then paused.

The door wasn’t fully shut.

Steam spilled into the hallway. Inside: the sound of running water… and Bad’s humming.

Skeppy tilted his head.

Then smiled.

He angled his phone—just enough to catch his damp hair, towel-wrapped torso, and the soft, steamy blur of the cracked door behind him. Suggestive. Not revealing.

Click.

@Skeppy

he forgot to lock the door. again :P

[photo attached]

Chaos followed:

@Cryptidcoven

YOU POSTED THIS WHILE HE WAS STILL IN THERE??? o_O

@yeehawfrogg

not the towel, the bicep, AND the cracked door. sir.

@milk_train

he’s gonna murder you :D

@Fyonyao_o

Skeppy really said “implied thirst trap” and HIT POST

Skeppy tossed the phone aside and flopped onto the bed.

A few minutes later, Bad stepped out of the bathroom, towel over his shoulders, hair wet, hoodie already on. He stopped at the sight of Skeppy’s grin.

“…What.”

“Hi,” Skeppy said, all false innocence.

Bad narrowed his eyes. “What did you do.”

Skeppy stretched. “Nothing. Just admiring your post-shower glow.”

“You’re lying.”

Bad snatched his phone and opened Twitter.

His jaw dropped.

“SKEPPY.”

“You’re welcome.”

“You are a menace to society.”

“The lighting was perfect.”

Bad flushed bright red and typed furiously.

@BadBoyHalo

He’s a muffinhead. I’m pressing charges. also: he sings in the shower and it’s a crime to ears.

Replies came in fast:

@KreamyKimCheese

this is peak “we share a toothbrush” energy and i’m crying 🙏😭

@burnttoecookie

he says pressing charges while wearing the guy’s hoodie xD

@packetofketchup

this is my comfort show. they don’t even know they’re in it.

@SkephaloUpdates

Remember when they used to watch movies on Discord and now they’re teasing each other from the same bathroom? we’ve won. 🩵❤️

Skeppy peeked over Bad’s shoulder. “I was singing Beyoncé.”

“You were butchering Beyoncé.”

“You’re just mad because I’m photogenic.”

“You’re photogenic like a raccoon in a puddle—chaotic and slightly wet.”

Skeppy cackled and yanked the towel off Bad’s shoulders to messily dry his hair.

[Timeskip]

They ended up on the couch sometime after two—post-shower, post-chaos—wrapped in one too-small blanket that neither of them wanted to admit they were passive-aggressively tugging from opposite ends.

Skeppy’s legs sprawled across the cushions—bare, warm, unapologetically taking up space—while Bad sat cross-legged, balancing a bowl of popcorn on his lap like it was sacred. The TV glowed in front of them, casting soft flickers of color. Curtains drawn. AC humming. The kind of quiet that buzzed in the most comfortable way.

Movie day, finally.

“You’re not picking,” Bad said flatly for the third time, eyes on the remote like it might self-destruct.

“Why not?” Skeppy shot back, genuinely offended.

“Because you can’t be trusted.”

“That’s character defamation.”

“You made me watch Smile during a Discord call and then abandoned me during the mirror scene,” Bad accused, voice sharp with betrayal. “You left for snacks.”

“I came back!”

“To me psychologically scarred!”

Skeppy had the audacity to grin. “Surviving trauma builds character. You’re welcome.”

Bad swatted at his hand. “I’m choosing first. Then you can mentally destroy me.”

Skeppy collapsed against the couch like he’d been mortally wounded. “Fine. What cinematic masterpiece are we indulging in? A soulful indie film with lingering stares and unresolved emotions?”

“No,” Bad said primly. “We’re watching The McKenzies vs. the Overlords.”

Skeppy blinked. “The animated one? With the robot uprising and that weird bug-eyed dog?”

“His name is Moncho,” Bad replied, already hitting play. “And he’s vital to the plot.”

Skeppy squinted. “Didn’t that come out, like, five years ago?”

“We never watched it together,” Bad shrugged. “You said you wanted something new.”

“I meant new to the world, not just new to us,” Skeppy mumbled, already sinking deeper into the couch. “Whatever. Let the animated apocalypse begin.”

Fifteen minutes in, Skeppy was fully invested—snorting popcorn, quoting lines, flinching during chase scenes. He shouted “MOOD” when the teen protagonist ranted about her family and declared, “Why is the dad literally me?” right before Bad laughed so hard he dropped the entire bowl of popcorn.

By the time the “I believe in you” montage hit—complete with flickering home videos, robot redemption arcs, and Moncho confusing the AI into crashing—Skeppy fell suspiciously quiet.

Bad peeked over.

Skeppy’s jaw was tight, arms crossed like he was bracing for impact, eyes locked on the screen.

“You’re crying,” Bad whispered.

“I am NOT crying.”

“You’re doing the man-blink.”

“I have emotional pollen in my eye.”

Bad grinned. “Moncho lived. That’s what got you.”

“I’m allowed to care about fictional dogs,” Skeppy snapped, pulling the blanket up. “It’s literally what the internet runs on.”

The credits rolled, the music softened, and the TV dimmed to a soft blue haze.

“See?” Bad nudged his leg. “That’s the kind of movie that restores your soul.”

There was a dangerous pause.

Then Skeppy sat up. “That was a cinematic ambush. My turn.”

Bad’s face dropped. “Oh no.”

“You had your wholesome therapy film,” Skeppy said, voice dangerously sweet. “Now it’s time for chaos.”

“I regret everything.”

“You should,” Skeppy said, already scrolling. “We’re watching Fatal Path: Red Threads.”

Bad recoiled. “No. That’s just an hour and a half of death traps and suffering. I’ve seen the TikToks.”

“One wholesome, one horror,” Skeppy reminded him. “It’s the Circle of Screams.”

Bad made a distressed noise and sank deeper into the blanket.

The screen darkened.

Low, ominous music rumbled through the speakers.

“Turn it off. Turn it off right now,” Bad whispered.

“Nope,” Skeppy said cheerfully, already munching popcorn like it was sport.

And then it started.

The cold open was merciless—a runaway construction truck, a collapsing scaffold, and one poorly timed sneeze that ended with a character getting impaled with wild precision.

Bad yelped. “WHAT IS WRONG WITH THE WRITERS?!”

“This is the franchise,” Skeppy said like a commentator. “Stylized death and creative suffering.”

Bad clutched the pillow tighter, sleeves of Skeppy’s hoodie bunched at his wrists. “I hate you.”

“You’re literally wrapped in my hoodie right now,” Skeppy said.

“You’re the only stable object in this death house.”

Two deaths later, Bad had reached his limit.

He wasn’t exactly scared—just… over it. Tense. His hands had been clenched in the blanket for a full ten minutes, and every suspenseful build up made him sit up straighter, bracing like he was in the splash zone of horror.

Then came the laser scene.

As the camera lingered on a suspiciously sharp machine, Bad let out a sound of pure frustration, kicked off the blanket, and slid across the couch.

Skeppy blinked in surprise as Bad—very pointedly—not looking at him—climbed into his lap like a grumpy housecat demanding warmth and safety.

“Wow,” Skeppy said, raising an eyebrow. “Didn’t know I came with deluxe seating.”

“You’re annoying,” Bad muttered, arms crossed as he adjusted sideways. “And your movie has zero chill.”

“So naturally, you decided my lap was the safest place to judge it from?”

“I’m only here because this blanket sucks,” Bad grumbled, tugging it back over both of them. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

“No flattery. Just facts,” Skeppy said, hands coming to rest comfortably at Bad’s waist. “So you’re not scared?”

“Of course not,” Bad sniffed. “Unlike that guy who just willingly stuck his hand in a vent.”

“Totally tactical lap-sitting, then?”

“Obviously.”

“Not because you nearly flinched off the couch earlier?”

Bad elbowed him lightly. “Keep talking and I’m bringing back Dog Odyssey next time.”

“You mean the one with the animated beagle and the found family road trip?” Skeppy teased. “A horror of its own kind.”

Bad said nothing. He just tightened his grip on Skeppy’s hoodie.

Skeppy leaned in. “You know, for someone not scared, you’re awfully curled up.”

“It’s called anchoring, stupid.”

“Do I look like an anchor?”

“You look like a walking jump scare.”

“Rude.”

“I’m being honest.”

And then—

A jump scare hit. Sudden. Loud. Brutal.

Bad jerked, one hand flying up on reflex.

There was a pause.

Then Skeppy whispered, “Want me to fetch your emotional support helmet?”

“Say one more word and I’m queuing up another animated film with a crying montage.”

“Not Tails of Courage again—”

“Try me.”

Skeppy went quiet. But not before tightening the blanket around them both like he was smugly victorious.

Bad didn’t move from his lap for the rest of the film.

Not because he was scared, obviously.

It was just comfortable.

Tactical.

Strategic, even.

Totally not about the way Skeppy kept absentmindedly rubbing circles on his back the whole time.

The credits of Fatal Path: Red Threads finally rolled, drenched in blood-red lighting and ominous string music.

“Never again,” he mumbled.

Bad had shifted again, this time leaning sideways into Skeppy’s chest, legs folded up on the couch, head resting just beneath Skeppy’s collarbone. Skeppy had one arm looped around him lazily, fingers absentmindedly brushing along Bad’s hoodie sleeve.

“My turn,” Bad murmured.

Skeppy groaned. “If this is another animated healing journey, I’m hiding the remote.”

Bad smirked. “It’s Before Sunrise Gets Cold.”

“That sounds like emotional damage waiting to happen.”

“Exactly,” Bad said sweetly, hitting play.

The movie moved slowly—wistful looks, missed trains, long pauses in cafés. Somewhere halfway through, the two leads finally collided in a dramatic rain-soaked kiss that went on just a little too long. The kind of kiss that came with movie-score swelling and two lifetimes of tension behind it.

Skeppy glanced down at Bad.

Then raised his eyebrows.

Wiggled them.

Bad turned his head and gave him the flattest stare imaginable. “Don’t.”

“What?” Skeppy grinned, eyes sparkling with the worst kind of mischief.

“You’re being weird.”

Skeppy leaned in, voice low and smug. “Just wondering if this scene feels familiar.”

Bad blinked, confused. “…Huh?”

“You know,” Skeppy said, nudging him. “Like that moment this morning when you woke up in my shirt, saw my bare back, and thought we’d—how did you put it—‘done something inappropriate’?”

Bad’s face turned bright red. “SKEPPY.”

“I’m just saying,” he said, laughing now. “If that kiss had played ten hours earlier, you might’ve had a full breakdown.”

“I already did have a breakdown!”

Skeppy tugged him closer, arm tightening around Bad’s shoulders. “You thought I ruined you.”

“You did ruin me!”

Skeppy huffed a laugh against Bad’s hair. “You’re so dramatic. All I did was change your clothes.”

“You did it without asking!”

“You were unconscious and drooling on my pillow.”

“I could’ve woken up!”

Skeppy grinned. “Then you’d have seen me shirtless and heroic.”

“You’d have gotten a lawsuit.”

“I’d countersue for emotional damage. You were muttering about frogs.”

Bad elbowed him lightly. “That doesn’t count as a defense.”

Skeppy just pressed a kiss to the side of his head. “You’re lucky I’m a respectful man.”

“You’re lucky I didn’t scream bloody murder.”

The conversation faded into soft silence, the movie continuing in front of them. Onscreen, the leads stood close in the rain—foreheads pressed together, one of those heartbreakingly slow, cinematic moments where time seemed to stop.

Bad blinked, then side-eyed Skeppy suspiciously. “…You’re not thinking anything dumb right now, are you?”

Skeppy gave a noncommittal shrug. “Define dumb.”

“Skeppy.”

“Would you throw something at me if I said yes?”

Bad didn’t answer. He just narrowed his eyes.

Skeppy didn’t even have to say it. Bad could feel the mischief radiating off him.

He turned just in time to catch the slow, wiggling eyebrows.

“No,” Bad warned.

Skeppy’s grin widened. “What? I didn’t even open my mouth.”

“You didn’t need to. I saw the thought form in real time.”

“You always assume the worst,” Skeppy said, mock-offended. “Maybe I was thinking about… the rain. Very romantic. Very tasteful.”

“You were one second away from saying something unholy,” Bad muttered, grabbing a pillow and pressing it firmly into Skeppy’s face—not with force, just with enough judgment.

Skeppy laughed beneath it. “This is abuse.”

“It’s self-defense.”

He removed the pillow just enough to see Skeppy’s eyes—still crinkled at the corners, smug and stupidly soft.

Bad groaned, half-exasperated, half-fond, and buried his face in Skeppy’s hoodie instead.

“You’re a muffinhead.”

“And yet,” Skeppy murmured, draping an arm lazily over Bad’s back, “you keep ending up right here.”

Chapter Text

Bad has only one thing on his mind. Revenge.

But he didn’t show it—not yet. Beneath the relaxed posture and the nose tucked into Skeppy’s hoodie, his brain was whirring. He was going to get him back. For the eyebrow waggling. For the smug lap comment. For the unnecessarily traumatic movie. All of it.

He didn’t need an elaborate plan.

He didn’t even need words.

He just needed his cold hands.

With the quiet mischief of someone who absolutely knew what he was doing, Bad slipped his fingers under the blanket and pressed them—ice-cold from holding his drink earlier—right against the warm skin just above Skeppy’s waistband.

“BAD—!” Skeppy practically jumped, smacking the blanket down. “Are you kidding me?!”

Bad, completely unfazed, blinked innocently. “Huh. Guess you’re sensitive.”

“You are evil.”

Skeppy narrowed his eyes and shifted back, trying to tug the blanket tighter around himself.

Bad’s hand followed like a curse.

“This is for the eyebrow thing,” Bad said, voice low and smug. “You were asking for it.”

“I was flirting!”

“You were being smug.”

Skeppy yanked the blanket up to his chin, grumbling. “This is betrayal, Bad. Betrayal.”

“Oh please,” Bad said, slipping his other hand under Skeppy’s hoodie, both icy hands pressing against his skin. “You declared horror movie day like it wouldn’t come with consequences.”

“You’re deranged.” Skeppy tensed again but didn’t try to fight him this time. His voice dropped into a dry mutter. “I hate how cold your hands are.”

“That’s what makes it effective.”

“You’re ruining the cuddles.”

“You ruined my emotional stability with screaming jumpscares and flashing lights.”

“You liked the movie!”

“I liked the popcorn!”

Skeppy tried scooting away, but Bad followed, completely committed.

Skeppy slumped back with a dramatic sigh, muttering, “I can’t believe I’m dating you.”

“You love dating me.”

“I tolerate you.”

Bad finally pulled away, satisfied, and leaned back with his arms crossed like he’d just executed a flawless plan. Skeppy flopped onto the cushions with a scowl, hoodie bunched at his waist, dignity somewhere on the floor with the spilled popcorn.

And then Skeppy sat up slowly, giving him a long, unreadable stare.

Bad narrowed his eyes. “What.”

Skeppy tilted his head and smiled, too calm now. “That was cold. Bold. Honestly? A little impressive.”

Bad’s smugness faltered. “You’re being way too calm.”

Skeppy shrugged. “I’m just letting you think you got me.”

“You’re bluffing.”

Skeppy raised a brow. “You wish I was bluffing.”

“That was a flawless ambush.”

“That was a beginner-level prank.”

Bad blinked. “Excuse me?”

Skeppy patted his own chest. “No props. No misdirection. Just ‘cold hands go brrr.’ That’s not a plan, Bad. That’s a cry for help.”

“You’re mocking me.”

“Affectionately,” Skeppy said, then added with a small smirk, “but yeah.”

Bad stood up without another word.

Skeppy blinked. “Where are you going?”

Bad didn’t turn. “Getting more supplies.”

“That sounds—”

Bad turned slightly, deadpan. “GOOD.”

Skeppy watched him disappear, then grabbed a throw pillow and muttered under his breath, “He’s gonna freeze my soul next.”

But he still smiled.

Five minutes later, Bad returned—glass of cold water in one hand, towel in the other. Folded. Perfectly neat. Too neat.

Skeppy squinted. “What’s that?”

“Hydration,” Bad said innocently, handing him the glass. “You screamed a lot. You’re probably dehydrated.”

Skeppy took it slowly, eyes still on him. “You got this from the fridge?”

Bad blinked. “Yes?”

“Could’ve gone with room temp,” Skeppy muttered. He sipped anyway. Bad sat beside him.

He waited.

And then—strike.

With casual precision, Bad whipped the towel up and slapped it against the side of Skeppy’s neck.

Skeppy flinched, jolting like the cold had zapped straight through him. His eyes snapped to Bad’s face, mouth parting in disbelief.

“Seriously, Bad?” he said, setting the glass down fast.

Bad smiled. “Just doing skincare. Can’t have my boyfriend overheating.”

“That’s not how towels work!”

“It’s working fine for me.”

Skeppy tried to lean away as Bad dabbed his other cheek, then under his jaw.

“You’ve got too much smug,” Bad said. “I’m cleansing it.”

Skeppy narrowed his eyes, huffing a breath through his nose like a kid trying not to laugh. “This is weird behavior.”

“You asked for this,” Bad replied, rising to his feet like a final boss. “Horror movie? This is your post-credit scene.”

Skeppy grabbed a pillow and gently tossed it at him. “You’re such a muffinhead.”

“You’re a muffinhead who started it.”

Finally, Bad tossed the damp towel onto Skeppy’s chest with a wet plop.

“Truce?”

Skeppy sat there, stunned for a second. The towel slid into his lap.

“You’re gonna pay for that,” he muttered, almost impressed.

Bad leaned in. “What’re you gonna do? Smirk me to death?”

Skeppy blinked at him. Then slowly, deliberately, smiled.

“You know what?” he said. “Didn’t know you had that level of petty in you. I’m impressed.”

Bad shifts, suspicious. “You’re being weirdly calm again.”

“I’m just reflecting,” Skeppy said. “Processing the fact that you just escalated to cold warfare.”

Bad narrowed his eyes. “I won.”

Skeppy tilted his head. “You think you did.”

“You’re planning something.”

“I dunno,” Skeppy said, already standing. “But go ahead. Enjoy your victory, halo boy.”

Bad watched him stroll to the kitchen, towel slung over his shoulder like it meant nothing, unnervingly casual.

And just like that, the warm glow of revenge started to dim.

Because deep down, Bad knew:

This wasn’t a win.

And the real chaos was still coming.

Skeppy was in the kitchen, humming under his breath as he dug around in the fridge for something cold to drink. His sleeves were rolled up to the elbows, showing off the faint impressions left from where he’d been leaning on the counter earlier. His hair was slightly tousled—half from the lingering effects of the hoodie he’d thrown off, half from running a hand through it every time Bad had said or done something annoying that afternoon. The sunlight filtering through the window caught in the strands, making him look unfairly good for someone who’d just survived a movie marathon and multiple acts of petty war.

He moved easily in the space—hip bumping the cabinet door closed, one foot nudging a cereal box out of the way, fingers trailing absently along the countertop as he glanced around. It was casual and warm in a way that made Bad’s heart stutter in his chest before he quickly shoved that aside in favor of more important things.

Like mischief.

Bad lay on the couch, nestled under the leftover warmth of their shared blanket, one leg lazily propped over the armrest. He had a half-finished apple juice on the table, a smug look on his face, and all the time in the world. Skeppy was humming some song he probably didn’t even realize he was humming, and Bad could hear the faint clink of bottles being shuffled in the fridge. Perfect.

He glanced toward the kitchen, just to make sure Skeppy’s back was still turned.

It was.

With the smooth, practiced motion of a man who had committed to his bit, Bad reached for the remote. His fingers closed around it with practiced ease, and without a single rustle of the blanket, he tucked it behind his back.

Then came the real art.

He tapped the buttons quickly, brows furrowed in concentration as he scrolled through the options until he found it—Island Temptation: Season 12, Episode 1. Bad nearly gagged just reading the title, but that was what made it perfect. Overdone camera zooms, dramatic voiceovers, slow-motion wine glass throws—it had every ingredient to drive Skeppy up the wall.

He clicked play.

The opening music started—a slow, sultry pop beat that sounded like it had been recycled from a 2014 nightclub commercial. Onscreen, a group of overly tanned twenty-somethings dramatically entered a beach resort while a narrator whispered things like “Will their love survive… or shatter like a broken margarita glass?”

Bad bit the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing.

He casually leaned back into the couch, repositioning the blanket to look as untouched as before, legs crossed at the ankle. His expression settled into the image of perfect innocence, as if he’d been watching this garbage show the entire time like a totally normal, chaos-free boyfriend.

In the kitchen, Skeppy shut the fridge door with a soft thunk and padded back into the living room, cherry coke in hand. He took a sip, then froze mid-step.

“What the hell is this?” he asked flatly.

Bad turned his head, blinking slowly like a confused old man who had just woken from a nap. “Hm?”

Skeppy pointed at the TV, mouth already forming a grimace. “No. Absolutely not. Why is that on.”

Bad tilted his head. “You don’t like it? I thought we were trying new genres.”

“This isn’t a genre. This is a crime against media.”

Bad shrugged. “I was curious.”

“You hate reality shows.”

“I’ve been growing,” Bad said, gesturing vaguely to the screen where a guy named Chad was now trying to emotionally process being cheated on after two dates. “Expanding my horizons.”

Skeppy set his drink down with a thunk and started looking around. “Where’s the remote.”

Bad gave him the most innocent face he could manage. “You had it last.”

“I literally just came from the kitchen.”

“Maybe it’s in the kitchen.”

Skeppy glared at him. “You touched it. I can tell. You’ve got that face.”

“What face?”

“The face you make when you’re fake-blinking.”

“I don’t fake-blink.”

“You fake-blink when you’re hiding something.”

Bad offered his most angelic smile. “Must be your imagination.”

Skeppy narrowed his eyes, scanning the couch. Bad sat absolutely still, a picture of composed chaos. His hands were tucked under the blanket, remote expertly hidden.

Skeppy was muttering under his breath, half-crawled over the couch as he flipped through throw pillows like they’d personally offended him. “Where did it go? It was right here.”

Cushions were yanked and tossed aside, and the couch creaked in protest. Skeppy huffed and leaned forward to check under the coffee table, strands of hair falling in front of his face. “Swear to god, if this is another one of your dumb pranks—”

Bad, seated peacefully at the far end of the couch, barely moved. He had the blanket draped over his lap, one arm resting lazily along the backrest like he hadn’t just committed multiple crimes in the last fifteen minutes. His expression was calm, smug in the quietest way possible.

He watched Skeppy search with the kind of patience that only someone with a secret could manage.

Then, while Skeppy was halfway through lifting the couch skirt with one hand and shaking the remote out of a throw pillow with the other, Bad made his move.

Skeppy’s phone was sitting face-down on the coffee table. Unlocked? No. But Bad didn’t need it to be.

He picked it up, tapped the screen, and entered the passcode.

Of course he remembered the code. Skeppy had told it to him casually once while they were still long-distance. Bad, being the type to store everything for later use, had remembered it instantly.

He opened Pinterest.

He didn’t have anything saved for this moment, so he started from scratch. With practiced fingers, Bad typed in a cursed phrase: Skephalo fanart kiss.

And immediately regretted it.

The results were wild. Some were fluffy, others dramatic, and a few were completely unhinged. He paused at one where Skeppy had angel wings and he was clutching Bad like they were about to fly off into the sunset. Another had them mid-kiss with fireworks in the background. A third had glowing eyes and sparkles in every corner of the frame.

It was terrible. It was perfect.

Bad chose the most dramatic one he could find. It had soft shading, overly romantic lighting, sparkles, and their faces way too close. Skeppy had his hand on Bad’s cheek. Bad’s hoodie was falling off one shoulder. Whoever made it clearly had no shame—and neither did Bad.

He saved it.

Then he changed Skeppy’s phone wallpaper to the cursed fanart. The lock screen now looked like a scene from a dramatic romance anime. Bad tried not to laugh.

But he wasn’t done.

Next, he opened Twitter. Still logged in.

He tapped Skeppy’s profile, changed the profile picture to the same ridiculous art, and typed out a tweet.

@Skeppy 

Just finished reading another 10k-word Skephalo fic on AO3. Real art speaks to the soul.

He hit post.

Then he locked the phone and placed it back down on the coffee table, screen facing down like nothing had happened. His hands folded back in his lap, and he leaned into the couch again like he hadn’t just destroyed someone’s dignity in three easy steps.

Skeppy, still pacing in frustration, turned with a scowl. “How does it always disappear when I need it? It’s like the remote’s hiding on purpose.”

Bad didn’t blink. “Maybe the universe just wants you to watch good TV for once.”

Skeppy turned slowly toward the screen and squinted at the dating show now playing. “We are not watching this stupid show.”

“It’s compelling. There’s betrayal, hot tubs, and a guy named Chad sobbing on a balcony. That’s art.”

“I’m going to throw your halo out the window.”

“I’ll make another one.”

“I’ll melt that one too.”

“I’ll craft the next with glitter and stubbornness.”

Skeppy frowned his eyebrows but let it go—at least, that’s how it looked. He crouched again to check under the couch, moving just enough to keep the act going. In truth, he’d seen everything: the way Bad slipped the remote behind his back, the sneaky button presses, the not-so-innocent glance at his phone.

He just didn’t say anything.

Yet.

Bad, humming quietly to himself, looked smug and far too pleased. He settled deeper into the cushions, clearly thinking he’d gotten away with all of it.

He hadn’t.

But Skeppy kept his face neutral, even a little annoyed. Let Bad enjoy his little victory.

He had no idea what was coming.

Skeppy finally gave up on the cushions with a sigh, tossing the last pillow aside and collapsing onto the couch. “Okay, either the remote’s gone forever or the couch ate it. I give up.”

Bad, still lounged across the other side with a blanket half-draped over his lap and the faintest smugness on his face, didn’t say a word. He looked entirely at peace, like a man who hadn’t done a single mischievous thing in his life.

Muttering something under his breath, Skeppy reached for his phone.

The moment the screen lit up, he stopped.

His fingers froze just above it. His face didn’t move for a few seconds. Then, very slowly, he tilted the phone toward himself.

There it was. A new wallpaper. Definitely not the one he left it on.

It was fanart. High-quality, embarrassingly soft, sparkly, and dramatic. Him and Bad. Making out. The kind of image you only stumble across in the deepest corners of fandom Pinterest. He didn’t even want to know what search terms were used to find it.

Bad didn’t say anything at first, just hummed quietly, clearly watching him out of the corner of his eye.

Skeppy locked the screen. Then unlocked it again. Still there.

“You should check your Twitter.” Bad giggled. 

He didn’t say a word as he opened Twitter. 

And that was when he saw it.

His profile picture had been changed to the same image. And sitting at the top of his feed, posted for the world to see, was a tweet that read:

@Skeppy 

Just finished reading another 10k-word Skephalo fic on AO3. Real art speaks to the soul.

He stared at the tweet, blinking slowly.

Bad didn’t even try to hide his grin anymore. “You like it?” he asked.

“You hacked my soul.”

“You left your phone unlocked.”

“You searched for that.”

“And I succeeded,” Bad said, folding his arms proudly.

Skeppy didn’t say anything, just to make Bad think he really went too far. He turned his phone off then he put it face-down on the coffee table.

Bad leaned further back on the couch, still pleased with himself at first. But when Skeppy didn’t say a word—no glare, no grumble, no comeback—the smile slowly slipped from his face.

He shifted slightly, uncertainty creeping in.

“…Hey,” Bad said, voice softer now. “Did I actually piss you off? I was just messing around—sorry if I went too far.”

But before he could say more, Skeppy stood up, he didn’t say a word as he made his way over to the other side of the couch.

Bad blinked, watching him. “Skep—”

Skeppy didn’t let him finish.

He stepped over the pillow he had carelessly kicked aside earlier, grabbed the back of the couch for balance—and climbed on.

Right onto Bad’s lap.

Bad froze like he’d been hit with a lag spike.

Skeppy straddled him with practiced ease, one knee on each side, body settling in like he’d done this a thousand times before—which, in some form, he had. His palms pressed into the cushions beside Bad’s shoulders, boxing him in completely. His face hovered just inches from Bad’s, his hair slightly messy from earlier, and his skin still faintly warm from standing in the kitchen sunlight.

Bad’s hands twitched uselessly on either side of Skeppy’s thighs. “What are you… doing?”

Skeppy tilted his head slightly, his eyes soft but calculating, like he was studying him. He didn’t respond. Instead, he let the silence stretch—like he was waiting for something. Testing something. His mouth was close enough for Bad to feel every breath. He wasn’t touching him beyond the weight in his lap, but it was still overwhelming. Intimate in a way that made Bad’s brain buffer.

Bad’s gaze flicked down without meaning to—lips. Then back up.

Skeppy smiled, just barely. “You look nervous.”

“I’m not nervous,” Bad lied, voice half a breath.

Skeppy leaned in a little more, his nose brushing against Bad’s, close enough to kiss—closer than close. Bad’s eyes fluttered halfway shut. His lips parted. A shaky inhale.

But instead of kissing him, Skeppy reached around—slowly, smoothly—past Bad’s side, feeling around behind him. His hand brushed over the couch cushion, then dipped lower until—

Click.

He pulled back holding the missing remote in one hand like it was a trophy.

Bad’s eyes flew open. “You—?!”

Skeppy leaned back on Bad’s lap and smugly tapped the remote against his nose.

“Gotcha.”

Bad just sat there, blinking. Stunned. His brain took a full three seconds to catch up.

Skeppy slid off his lap with all the grace of a smug little gremlin and dropped himself onto the other side of the couch. He propped his feet up, flipped the channel back with a flourish, and didn’t even look at him as he added, “Nice try, though. But I’ve been watching you since the fridge door opened.”

Bad stared, cheeks a little too red, posture collapsed like a Jenga tower after a bad move.

Skeppy pointed toward the coffee table. “Also~ Change my phone back.”

Bad, still recovering from the remote ambush, blinked. “What?”

“My wallpaper. My profile picture. And delete that tweet.”

Bad hesitated. “Why? You don’t like it?”

Skeppy raised a single eyebrow, unimpressed. “It’s cursed fanart, Bad. Glowing eyes. Petals. Tongue.”

“It’s high-quality cursed fanart,” Bad corrected, lifting his chin. “And kind of iconic.”

“You tweeted from my account.”

“I was helping your brand.”

“You used sparkles.”

Bad shrugged, folding his arms like a child refusing to eat vegetables. “I stand by it.”

Skeppy gave him a flat look. “So you’re not gonna change it.”

“Nope.”

A long pause. Skeppy exhaled through his nose, then reached forward with the dramatic flair of someone retrieving a stolen artifact. He picked up his phone, unlocked it with a single swipe, and began undoing every trace of Bad’s meddling.

Bad watched from the other side of the couch, defiant at first—but as Skeppy reset the profile picture and replaced the wallpaper with something boring and default, his confidence faltered.

“You didn’t even laugh,” Bad muttered.

“I laughed internally,” Skeppy replied, scrolling with one hand. “While also planning how to destroy you.”

Bad flopped back into the cushions, letting out a long, defeated sigh. “You’re impossible.”

“You’re just predictable.”

“I’ve been out-trolled!”

“Years late to that realization,” Skeppy muttered, eyes still on his phone.

Bad buried his face in the nearest throw pillow and groaned. “I hate losing.”

Skeppy tossed his phone aside and leaned back, arms behind his head, relaxed and victorious. “Then stop playing with the troll master.”

Bad peeked at him through his hair, eyes narrowed. 

“What, are you also disappointed that I didn’t kiss you?” Skeppy said, grinning.

Bad didn’t reply. He just rolled to his side dramatically, pulling the blanket over his head with a groan. Skeppy reached over and tugged it down just enough to see his eyes.

“No more pranks?” Skeppy asked.

Bad huffed. “No more pranks.”

Skeppy tilted his head, eyes squinting like he didn’t quite believe him.

“I mean it,” Bad added. “You win.”

Skeppy smiled. Not smug this time—just warm.

“Good,” he said, settling in beside him.

The show played quietly in the background, forgotten. The couch stilled. Peace, at last.

This time, the war really was over.

Probably.

Chapter Text

The sun had begun its descent, casting long shadows across the kitchen tiles and painting the walls with golden light. Dust specks floated lazily in the air, catching the warm hue as they drifted. The room smelled like garlic and basil, layered with the earthy scent of roasted vegetables and something faintly buttery sizzling in a pan. The stovetop hissed, steam rising gently.

Bad moved around the counter like he belonged there. His sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, exposing his forearms as he carefully stirred the pan with practiced ease. His apron—tied in a loose, slightly crooked knot behind him—had a tiny oil stain near the hem, and a few strands of hair had curled at his forehead from the kitchen heat.

He didn’t look stressed. In fact, he looked in his element—calm, focused, and effortlessly at home.

Skeppy leaned in the doorway, arms crossed, one bare foot tapping against the tile floor. His hair was still a little messy from lounging earlier, and the oversized hoodie he wore had “BADBOYHALO” printed across the chest in faded white. He watched the scene with a fond smirk tugging at his lips.

“You look like someone’s suburban husband right now,” he said, voice teasing.

Bad didn’t even flinch. “Good! That means I’m winning.”

“Winning what, exactly?”

Bad finally turned his head, raising an eyebrow. “Your stomach. Obviously.”

Skeppy huffed a laugh and pushed off the doorframe. “Well, you better move fast, chef. Your opponent’s patience is running thin.”

He opened the cabinet, grabbed two mismatched plates—one plain white, the other with a faint cartoon frog design—and brought them over. Bad plated the pasta like he was auditioning for a cooking show, garnishing with a sprinkle of something green and entirely unnecessary.

“Bon appétit,” he said, sliding a plate across the counter.

They sat at the small dining table a minute later. Skeppy dropped into his chair like gravity had personally beef with him, tucking one leg under the other. His sock had a hole in the toe. He didn’t care. He stabbed a fork into the food and took a bite.

He paused.

Chewed.

Swallowed slowly.

“…Okay, why is this so good?”

Bad sipped from his glass with a smirk. “Because I made it.”

“Exactly. How?”

“Skill. And love.”

“Gross,” Skeppy said reflexively, but his grin betrayed him. He twirled more pasta onto his fork. “God, this is so good, you’re staying here forever.”

Bad tilted his head. “So I’m staying here as your personal chef?”

“Yeah and as my cute demon,” Skeppy said, then mumbled, “also, you look so hot in that apron.”

Bad cackled. “Language!”

They ate in no real rush, the conversation flowing in fits of easy chatter. Bad launched into a story about a failed baking experiment where he’d mistaken powdered sugar for flour and ended up with cookie-shaped glue.

“Good thing you weren’t there. You would’ve been my first victim,” he said, leaning back.

Skeppy snorted. “You’re lucky I wasn’t there. I would’ve recorded that mess.”

“Oh, I recorded it myself. It lives forever on my old hard drive.”

“That’s blackmail material.”

“Only if you’re afraid of cookies.”

Skeppy shot him a look. “You should be. That sounded like biohazard.”

Bad countered with a raised eyebrow. “Like that time you tried to dox someone mid-Discord prank and accidentally leaked your own alt?”

Skeppy slapped the table. “Hey! That was years ago!”

“You called yourself ‘AnonymousBeast69420.’ What did you expect?!”

They laughed until they were breathless, hands curled against their sides from grinning too hard.

The table slowly quieted, plates half-cleared, glasses catching the orange tint of the setting sun. Outside, the light shifted from gold to amber, a hush falling over the neighborhood like it, too, was settling down after a long day.

Bad reached across the table and flicked Skeppy’s wrist gently. “I love you.”

Skeppy shrugged, but his expression was soft. “You say that like I’m going to disappear from my own house.”

“You look like the type to disappear in your own house.” 

“You’re an idiot, but I love you too,” Skeppy giggled, glancing at his plate, then back at him. “I still can’t believe you actually made something this good.”

He ducked his head, cheeks warming, as Skeppy complimented his cooking again.

When they finished eating, Skeppy pushed his chair back with a quiet scrape of wood on tile. “I’ll wash.”

Bad blinked, surprised. “Really?”

Skeppy was already stacking the plates, grabbing utensils with a kind of casual confidence. “Let me do something nice for once.”

Bad smiled softly, walking over to take the cups. “You’re always nice. Just… in weird, chaotic ways.”

“That’s slander,” Skeppy muttered, not looking up.

Once the dishes were loaded in his arms, Bad leaned in, close enough to brush their shoulders, and pressed a quick kiss to Skeppy’s cheek.

Skeppy stopped mid-step.

The clink of utensils shifted in his grip, and his entire posture stiffened just slightly. Not because he didn’t like it—but because it caught him off guard. His ears turned a visible shade of pink as he glanced sideways.

“…Shut up,” he mumbled.

Bad was already walking away, grinning over his shoulder. “Didn’t say anything.”

Skeppy turned to the sink, setting everything down a little too carefully, like he needed to focus on something else before the blush spread further. The faucet squeaked softly as he twisted the handle, warm water flowing over his hands. He reached for the soap, the sponge, anything to keep them moving.

In the living room, Bad flopped onto the couch, one leg tucked under him, phone balanced against his knee as he scrolled through notifications and half-answered messages.

Then the screen lit up with a call.

Quackity.

Bad paused.

It wasn’t hesitation from guilt—just a brief flicker of thought. Then he tapped the green button and lifted the phone.

“Hey.”

His voice carried easily into the kitchen. Skeppy didn’t need to hear the name to know who it was.

He froze, sponge in hand, fingers tightening around the handle as the first few seconds of Quackity’s voice drifted in—playful, energetic, unmistakably him.

It felt like a wave he hadn’t prepared for.

Skeppy stayed exactly where he was, hunched over the sink, hands under warm running water that had long since turned too hot. The dishes were already rinsed. The pan had been scrubbed twice. The silverware gleamed.

Still, he didn’t move.

Quackity’s laugh echoed faintly from the next room, mixed with the familiar rhythm of old inside jokes. He couldn’t make out the words, not clearly, but it didn’t matter. He remembered the last time he saw Quackity’s name on Bad’s screen. The last time they talked about it. The fight. The sting in his chest when Bad didn’t tell him until afterward. The empty feeling of not being included. The spiral.

He stared at the soap bubbles sliding over his knuckles. The water blurred them, broke them apart. Just like that day.

His mind wandered. How long had the call been going? Why hadn’t Bad mentioned it? Was it planned? Was it casual? Was it… more important?

He hated these thoughts.

He knew they were loud, irrational, made worse by everything he tried to forget—but he couldn’t turn them off. They circled, pressing in at the edges like shadows creeping in from under the door.

He exhaled slowly, still frozen there, letting the heat of the water bite into his skin.

He stayed at the sink until the voices in the other room quieted, until Quackity’s laugh faded and the silence returned.

Only then did he dry his hands and turn off the tap, face unreadable.

Then he walked slowly toward the living room, calm on the outside—but his thoughts still twisting beneath his ribs.

Bad was sitting on the couch, phone tossed beside him now, legs stretched out, completely relaxed. He looked up when Skeppy entered, smiling like nothing was wrong.

Skeppy said nothing.

He dropped onto the couch beside him and leaned in close—maybe closer than usual—resting his head lightly on Bad’s shoulder.

Bad welcomed him without question, shifting just enough to make space and pressing a kiss to the top of Skeppy’s hair.

But Skeppy didn’t smile.

He closed his eyes, breathing in the faint scent of Bad’s hoodie. And for a moment, he told himself this was fine. That the weight in his chest would lift if he just stayed here long enough.

It didn’t.

So, he pulled back a little, looking at Bad’s profile, then said casually, “Wanna go for a walk?”

Bad looked surprised, but nodded. “Sure. Sun’s almost down anyway. Might be nice.”

“Yeah,” Skeppy said, standing up quickly as he slipped on his Crocs. “Fresh air.”

Bad also stood up, slipping on his shoes and giving one last glance toward his phone on the coffee table, before picking it up—unaware of how much that glowing screen had impacted the silence in the room.

They stepped outside together.

And the evening air felt like both a distraction and an escape.

The sun was low in the sky, draping everything in soft amber light. Shadows stretched long across the sidewalk as Skeppy and Bad walked side by side, their steps unhurried, the air around them cooling with the approach of evening. A soft breeze carried the faint scent of nearby flowers and distant cooking, the kind that made the entire neighborhood feel slower, sleepier.

They didn’t say much at first.

Their arms brushed now and then as they walked—not enough to seem intentional, but too often to be purely accidental. Bad’s hoodie sleeves were slightly pushed up, revealing his wrist every time he swung his hand. Skeppy glanced at it once, thought about grabbing it, then didn’t. Instead, he looked ahead, watching as the last sliver of sun dipped behind the rooftops.

“You know I used to sneak cookies before dinner,” Bad said suddenly, as if they hadn’t been walking in silence for several minutes.

Skeppy turned to him. “Of course you did.”

“I wasn’t even good at it,” Bad continued, smiling faintly at the memory. “I’d take, like, one and try to rearrange the others in the jar to hide it, but it was always obvious.”

Skeppy chuckled. “My mom used to do that with chocolate bars. You’d open the fridge and suddenly one of them would be cut in half. Diagonal.”

“See, that’s classy. Mine was pure chaos.”

“Well,” Skeppy said, tilting his head, “you are chaotic.”

Bad huffed. “Rude.”

They turned the corner, stepping into a quieter street. Their shoes scuffed gently against the pavement. The light from the setting sun stretched across the houses, casting soft glows against the windows and catching in the leaves above them. Everything felt golden, like a still from a movie.

Skeppy took a breath and spoke. “I microwaved a spoon once.”

Bad blinked. “You what?”

“I was, like, eight, and didn’t want to stir my oatmeal by hand, so I put the spoon in the microwave.”

Bad snorted. “That’s not how physics works.”

“It is now,” Skeppy said dryly. “Anyway, the microwave made a noise like it was going to explode, and I ran out of the kitchen and screamed, ‘THE OATMEAL IS ANGRY.’”

Bad was wheezing. “Oh my god.”

They laughed together, the kind of laugh that left them smiling long after the sound faded.

A comfortable silence followed—no pressure to talk, no awkwardness. Just the shared rhythm of steps and the wind curling around them.

Then Bad said it, so casually it might’ve gotten lost in the breeze:

“I wanna keep doing stuff like this with you.”

Skeppy glanced at him. “Like walking?”

“Like…” Bad trailed off for a second. “This. The quiet stuff. The nothing-special things. Just… being next to you. It’s good.”

Skeppy didn’t respond right away. His heart did a little shift in his chest, like it had moved closer to the surface.

“Yeah,” he said after a beat, his voice softer than before. “Me too.”

The sidewalk eventually opened up into a small neighborhood park. It wasn’t anything fancy—just a few benches, a short trail lined with lamp posts, and a tired old playground that creaked in the wind—but it was quiet. Peaceful. The kind of place that didn’t ask much of the people who passed through it.

They veered off the path and toward a bench under a tree, the leaves rustling softly above them.

The sky had deepened to lavender, streaks of pink and blue stretching across the clouds like watercolor. The streetlights blinked on one by one, casting soft yellow halos on the pavement.

Bad sat first, hands resting on his knees, eyes fixed on the horizon.

Skeppy joined him a second later.

For a long moment, they didn’t speak. They just watched the light fade from the sky, listening to the wind, the quiet hum of distant cars, the occasional rustle of leaves.

And it felt like the world had slowed down just for them.

The breeze was cooler now, tinged with the kind of chill that hinted at evening. It rustled softly through the trees, sending scattered leaves skittering across the path. The air smelled faintly of grass, pavement, and something sweet wafting in from a nearby bakery. Skeppy leaned back against the park bench, one leg lazily crossed over the other, his fingers idly tugging at the edge of his hoodie sleeve. Bad sat beside him, close enough that their shoulders brushed every now and then—neither of them shifting away when it happened.

They’d been walking for a while. The soft rhythm of their steps had eventually led them here: a small park tucked between quiet streets, nearly empty except for a few lingering families and couples. Somewhere ahead, a father knelt to tie his daughter’s shoelaces while their dog spun in a circle, leash tangled around the bench leg. Farther down the path, an elderly couple wandered past a row of flower beds, walking so slowly it almost looked like time had forgotten them.

The world around them was hushed, dimming gently as the last of the sunlight sank behind the rooftops. A streetlamp flickered to life above their bench, casting a soft, warm circle of yellow across the pavement at their feet.

Bad’s voice broke the quiet.

“I used to think I needed big moments to feel something,” he said, his tone low and thoughtful. “Like, something flashy or dramatic just to feel close to someone. Something that felt… big enough to matter.”

He paused, leaning forward slightly with his elbows resting on his thighs. “But this? Just sitting here with you—no pressure, no cameras, no expectations—it’s better than any grand moment.”

Skeppy turned his head, catching the way Bad stared out at the fading sky like it meant something. “That’s because you’re finally realizing I’m the main event,” he said, lips twitching.

Bad huffed a laugh. “Main event of what? A sitcom?”

Skeppy smirked. “Of your life. Obviously.”

Bad rolled his eyes, but his smile lingered, tugging at the corners of his mouth like it belonged there. “You’re unbelievable.”

They slipped into silence again. Not awkward—never awkward. Just easy. The kind that wrapped around them like a second hoodie. Skeppy pulled his sleeves over his hands, fidgeting with the fabric. Bad absently twisted the drawstring of his hoodie around his finger, his mind still half-lost in the sky.

Then Bad’s phone buzzed softly on his lap.

It was face-up. The screen lit up in the dimness, a soft rectangle of light cutting through the settling dusk.

Skeppy’s gaze flicked down without meaning to.

Just a glance.

But it was enough.

A notification banner glowed for a moment, unmistakable.

Quackity: “yo, we still good for this week or are you ghosting me again 😂”

There was no warning. No lead-up.

Just a name—and the weight that came with it.

Skeppy didn’t move. Didn’t blink. His jaw clenched, just barely, like his muscles had turned to stone.

It wasn’t jealousy. Not exactly.

But it hit him in the chest like cold water.

He looked away quickly, focusing on a lamppost across the path. On the sound of a dog’s collar jingling nearby. On anything but the phone glowing on Bad’s lap like it had opened a window to something he wasn’t supposed to see.

His thoughts picked up like wind against a screen.

Are they meeting up again? Is that what “this week” means?

But, Bad will be staying at my house for a week?

Why didn’t he mention it at dinner? Are they hiding something from me?

The spiral started quietly—like it always did. Just a few uncomfortable thoughts that grew legs and teeth the longer they went unchecked.

Bad kept talking beside him, his voice light and distracted. Something about how the sky looked like lavender tea tonight. How he’d never seen this particular shade before. But Skeppy couldn’t focus on the words. They blurred, fuzzy around the edges, like listening through a thick glass wall.

His stomach tightened. His shoulders crept higher. Even his fingers stopped fidgeting, frozen in the sleeves of his hoodie.

He knew it wasn’t fair.

It was just a text. It wasn’t even private—Bad hadn’t hidden it. But the ache was too familiar. That feeling of being a step behind. Of finding things out in the silence instead of through trust. He hated that it still got to him.

And Bad didn’t even notice.

Still talking, voice warm and cheerful. Still rambling about the sky, about how peaceful everything was tonight.

Skeppy stared straight ahead.

Not at the phone. Not at Bad. Just at the blur of golden light spilling across the park path. His breathing had gone shallow without him realizing. His throat felt tight.

Then, finally, the silence fell.

Bad must’ve finished his thought. He glanced over, expecting a laugh or a comment—but instead saw Skeppy sitting rigid and quiet, eyes glazed with a thousand-yard stare.

Bad’s whole face shifted.

His brows drew in. His voice softened. “Hey… are you okay?”

Skeppy blinked. The sound of Bad’s voice pulled him partway back to the surface.

He turned his head a little too quickly. “I’m fine.”

But the last word cracked—barely, like glass beneath a shoe.

Bad didn’t flinch. He didn’t push. He just angled himself on the bench, turning to face Skeppy more fully. His hands stayed loose in his lap. His expression didn’t change.

“If there’s something on your mind,” he said gently, “you can tell me. I’ll listen. Always.”

That pause lingered.

Not demanding. Not loaded with expectation.

Just… quiet.

Skeppy didn’t answer—not yet. But the way his shoulders finally dropped a fraction said more than words.

And Bad waited.

He always did.

Finally, after what felt like an hour—but couldn’t have been more than a few minutes—Skeppy let out a shaky breath.

His leg bounced once. Then again. His fingers twitched, knotted loosely in his lap like he didn’t trust them not to give something away.

Bad waited patiently, sensing it. The pause wasn’t empty—it was full. Full of something Skeppy didn’t know how to say yet.

And then, barely above a whisper:

“I saw the message.”

Bad blinked. “What message?”

Skeppy still didn’t look at him. His jaw was tight, eyes trained on the sidewalk, watching a single leaf tumble across the pavement like it had somewhere to be.

“From Quackity. Just now. On your phone.”

Bad’s stomach dropped.

He didn’t speak, not immediately. But the shift in his posture said enough.

“I wasn’t trying to look,” Skeppy added quickly, his voice rising, too defensive too fast. “It was just… there. On your lap. And I know I shouldn’t care—I know it’s dumb—but the second I saw it, it just—” He cut himself off with a frustrated noise and leaned forward, pressing the heels of his palms into his eyes. “It hit me all over again.”

Bad stayed still. Quiet. Present.

Skeppy dragged his hands down his face and gave a bitter little laugh. “God, I thought I was over it. I really did.”

His voice wavered. Not broken—but deeply tired.

“I thought I moved past it. That whole fight. That whole mess. But the moment I saw his name, it was like being thrown right back into it.”

Bad’s chest tightened. “Skeppy…”

“I woke up that day, and you were the first thing I heard,” Skeppy said, eyes still on the ground. “Your voice. You told me to go back to sleep. And I did. Because I trusted you.”

Bad’s chest tightened.

Skeppy gave a quiet, bitter laugh. “I thought everything was fine. I thought I was safe. Then I opened Twitter, just trying to wake myself up,” Skeppy’s voice cracked just slightly. “And there it was. You. With him. Your first meet. Like a slap in the face.”

The ache in his voice wasn’t loud—it was quiet and restrained. And that somehow made it worse.

Bad opened his mouth. “I was trying—”

“I know what you were trying to do,” Skeppy cut in. “You wanted to surprise me. I get that now. You were nervous. You wanted to practice. But it still felt like I got left behind.”

He looked up finally, and Bad nearly recoiled at how raw he looked. Not angry. Just hurt.

“You promised me. We promised each other we’d be the first. That it would be ours. That it would be special. And you gave that moment to someone else.”

Bad’s lips parted, but nothing came out.

“I didn’t care that it was Quackity. I cared that it wasn’t me.” Skeppy’s voice lowered. “I kept thinking, if you could change that promise without telling me… what else could you let go of?”

“I didn’t want to lose you,” Bad whispered.

Skeppy gave a small, broken laugh. “I was afraid of the same thing.”

The space between them felt different now—heavier, but more honest.

Bad finally reached out, his hand resting gently on Skeppy’s. “You haven’t lost me.”

“I know,” Skeppy said. “Logically, I know that. But my heart’s slower to catch up.”

Bad’s thumb brushed his knuckles. “I should’ve told you he messaged me today. I didn’t reply. I wasn’t hiding it. But I didn’t think. And that’s on me.”

Skeppy didn’t pull away, but his hand stayed still under Bad’s touch.

“I just…” Skeppy exhaled. “I don’t want to be scared all the time that one day you’ll pick someone else again. Not because you don’t love me. But because I didn’t say anything.”

“You don’t have to earn your place with me,” Bad said quietly. “You already have it.”

They sat like that for a moment. The breeze brushing past. The sky deepening into night. The streetlight above them flickering softly on.

And then Bad leaned in, just a little closer, and said: “I love you.”

Skeppy turned to him slowly.

And this time, there was no hesitation when he said it back.

“I love you too.”

It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t perfect. It trembled around the edges.

But it was real.

Skeppy leaned in and rested his forehead against Bad’s shoulder—not asking for answers or apologies. Just closeness. Just quiet.

Bad let him.

He pressed a hand lightly to Skeppy’s back, grounding him. Neither of them moved for a long time.

And even though the ache inside Skeppy hadn’t completely gone away, it had softened.

Because he wasn’t carrying it alone anymore.

They sat quietly a little longer, the sky above already dark, stars just beginning to blink awake.

The weight between them didn’t vanish—it simply settled. Like mist in the quiet of night. Still there, but no longer suffocating.

Bad glanced at Skeppy.

He hadn’t moved much. His head was still lowered, one hand resting limply in his lap, the other picking at the seam of his hoodie sleeve. But his shoulders—tight and guarded earlier—had loosened. Not entirely. Not completely. But enough to tell Bad it was okay to breathe again.

“Wanna head back inside?” Bad asked gently, voice barely above the hum of the wind.

Skeppy nodded after a second, the motion small. “Yeah,” he murmured. “Okay.”

They stood together, quiet footsteps brushing over gravel and grass. No hands held, no eyes met. Just the hush of shared stillness between them. They passed beneath the streetlight, where the glow made their shadows stretch and blur, long and overlapping on the sidewalk. A soft breeze tugged at Skeppy’s sleeve, and he glanced sideways at Bad—not a look for words, but for presence. For confirmation.

Bad gave him the tiniest smile.

Inside, the house welcomed them with dim light and familiar silence. No noise. No expectation.

Bad moved to the couch, pulled down the throw blanket, and settled into the cushions with a soft exhale. He gestured for Skeppy to join him, and Skeppy did—no hesitation this time. He sank down beside Bad, close enough for their legs to touch, their shoulders to meet.

He sighed—tired, but looser now. More grounded.

Bad reached for his phone and opened Spotify, thumb hovering uncertainly over the screen.

Skeppy noticed.

“What?” he asked, tone gentler now.

Bad gave a soft, crooked smile. “Just wondering if I can play something without getting made fun of.”

Skeppy raised an eyebrow. “You made fun of me for my playlists.”

“That’s different,” Bad said, scrolling. “Yours are a threat to national peace. You played Mining Diamonds in a Discord call at full volume and called it ‘mood music.’”

Skeppy smirked, a spark of life creeping back into his face. “It was a banger.”

“You traumatized the entire VC.”

“I stand by it.”

Bad snorted but didn’t argue. A moment later, he tapped on a familiar album cover and flipped the phone screen down on the coffee table.

Then the opening notes of Tongue Tied by Grouplove played softly into the room.

Skeppy’s head tilted slightly. Recognition bloomed in his eyes.

“You remembered.”

Bad’s voice was quieter now. “You said it reminded you of us.”

Skeppy didn’t answer right away. He looked down again, but it wasn’t guarded this time. Just full. Full of memory.

“I used to play it on loop,” he admitted. “When we weren’t talking. When I didn’t know if we ever would again.”

Bad didn’t say anything. He simply leaned over and rested his head against Skeppy’s, temple to temple, their breath slowly syncing up in the quiet.

The chorus hit—loud and messy and honest.

Take me to your best friend’s house

I loved you then and I love you now…

The song wrapped around them like something familiar and warm. Like a shared heartbeat.

Bad shifted slightly, voice low near Skeppy’s ear. “You ever gonna let me make a playlist for us?”

“Only if it doesn’t include Nickelback,” Skeppy muttered.

Bad gasped. “Wow. Judgmental.”

Skeppy groaned. “Just—please don’t add Casual by Chappell Roan. I’ve seen like a dozen edits of us with that song on TikTok. And they were all before we were even a thing.”

Bad blinked, amused. “You were on TikTok?”

“I wasn’t looking for them. They just—showed up. Constantly.” Skeppy leaned back against the couch with a sigh. “Pink filters, slow zooms, one of them had a fake text convo where I confessed first—”

Bad laughed quietly. “Bold of them.”

“I had to mute the sound. It was too real.”

Bad was still smiling, but his voice softened. “I wasn’t going to put that one.”

Skeppy glanced over. “Then what?”

Bad hesitated. His thumb brushed against his phone, then tapped the screen once.

“I was thinking… Eyedress.”

Skeppy tilted his head. “What song?”

“Something About You.” Bad’s voice was quiet now, almost hesitant. “It reminds me of you.”

Skeppy’s brows drew in a little, caught off guard.

“Really?”

Bad nodded. “I don’t know. It just does. The softness. The weirdness. The part where it feels like you don’t even know why you care so much—but you do anyway.”

Skeppy went quiet for a second. His eyes flicked to the phone, then back to Bad.

“…That’s fair.”

Bad gave a small smile, then added, “So… playlist permission granted?”

Skeppy leaned in, bumping their shoulders. “Sure. Just don’t sneak Casual in there.”

“You’d cry.”

“Out of pain.”

They both snorted softly, and for a second, everything felt light again.

When the song began to fade, neither of them moved. They just let it play, let it echo through the walls. The outside lights spilled in through the windows in soft, golden ribbons. Somewhere in the background, the world kept turning—but in here, it had paused for them.

Skeppy leaned further into Bad, resting his head on his chest now, his breath evening out. Bad wrapped the blanket around both of them and let one hand rest gently over Skeppy’s arm, thumb brushing slow circles over the fabric.

They didn’t speak.

They didn’t have to.

The music looped again, playing faintly in the background.

And somewhere between the gentle thrum of the song, the warmth between them, and the quiet that no longer hurt, they both drifted off—curled together on the couch, peaceful in a way that hadn’t felt reachable before.

The space between them wasn’t perfect. But it was soft. Real. Healing.

And for the first time in a long while, neither of them felt alone in it.

Not this time.

Chapter Text

They woke up at the same time.

The morning light wasn’t bright—just a soft gray leaking in through the curtains, casting the room in a muted hush. It felt like the kind of day that already knew it was going to be hard.

Bad’s face was pressed into Skeppy’s shoulder, his breath warm against the curve of his neck. One arm was loosely draped around Skeppy’s waist, the other folded beneath them both. Their legs were a mess—tangled, uneven, close in the way that only sleep could arrange.

The blanket had been kicked halfway off during the night, exposing their feet to the chill of the air. But the rest of them were warm. Too warm. Not because of the temperature, but because of the closeness.

Bad had somehow ended up on top of Skeppy—not completely, but enough that his weight was there. Solid. Present. Something to feel. Something that made it harder to pretend this wasn’t the last time they’d wake up like this.

Skeppy stared up at the ceiling, blinking slowly. His body hadn’t caught up yet, but his chest already ached.

He turned his head.

Bad was already awake.

Their eyes met.

Bad’s hair was a mess. His cheeks were still slightly flushed from sleep. His expression was unreadable at first—still halfway caught in the dream, or maybe unwilling to let go of it. He looked at Skeppy like he wanted to stay exactly where he was.

Skeppy didn’t say anything. Neither did Bad.

They didn’t need to.

They both knew what today was.

Their last day.

Bad shifted first, his voice barely a whisper. “Good morning.”

Skeppy answered after a second. “Morning.” His voice came out rough, quieter than usual.

But neither of them moved.

They lay there a little longer, hearts slow, breaths steady. The room around them was still, like it was trying not to interrupt. No birds. No cars. Just the two of them and the weight of what was coming.

Skeppy’s hand lifted slightly, fingertips brushing along the fabric of Bad’s shirt. It wasn’t much, just a touch, but it was something.

Bad closed his eyes at the contact.

Neither of them said it out loud, but they both felt it—the ache of knowing the moment was slipping, even as they tried to hold onto it.

Eventually, Bad shifted again, more deliberately this time. He rolled to the side and sat up slowly, rubbing at his face with one hand like it would help clear the heaviness behind his eyes.

Skeppy followed, pushing himself upright with a quiet sigh. The blanket slipped off his lap and pooled at his feet.

The room began to feel cold now that their bodies were no longer close. And even without touching, the space between them stayed full—with everything left unsaid.

In the kitchen, they made breakfast together without saying much.

Bad moved toward the cabinet, pulling down two matching plates. Skeppy went to the fridge without being asked, taking out eggs, butter, and a carton of juice they had barely touched the day before. The movements were slow, careful—like they were both trying not to disturb the quiet that had settled over the house.

They didn’t speak. Not because there was nothing to say, but because everything felt like too much.

Bad cracked the eggs into a bowl. Skeppy grabbed a fork to whisk them, their hands brushing once at the edge of the counter. Neither of them pulled away, but neither of them acknowledged it, either.

The stove clicked. The pan sizzled. Butter melted into soft golden bubbles.

Skeppy leaned against the counter while Bad cooked. He crossed his arms, not looking at the food—just staring somewhere past it. The ceiling. The fridge magnets. The clock above the sink. Anywhere but at Bad for too long, because looking at him made it harder to pretend they were okay with this.

Bad flipped the eggs gently, his lips pressed into a line. He didn’t hum like he usually did. He didn’t make any sarcastic comments about Skeppy’s night hair or complain about anything. He just moved through the motions, quietly focused, like cooking was the only thing keeping his hands from shaking.

They set the table without a word.

Two plates. Two forks. One glass of juice they ended up sharing because neither had the energy to pour another.

When they sat down, their chairs scraped softly against the floor. The light from the window cut across the table in uneven stripes, warming the wood but not the room.

They ate slowly.

No teasing. No jokes.

Just the occasional clink of a fork, the low creak of a chair shifting, and the sound of someone swallowing a little too hard.

Once or twice, Skeppy looked up and caught Bad already looking at him. Their eyes met—briefly—then dropped again. Not out of embarrassment. But because holding the gaze too long might’ve made everything inside spill out.

Skeppy finally broke the silence, voice low. “You always make it taste the same.”

Bad blinked, unsure for a moment. “Is that a compliment?”

“It is,” Skeppy said. “I don’t know how you do it. Feels like… routine. Safe.”

Bad gave a quiet smile. “Glad I didn’t mess it up today.”

“You never mess it up.”

Bad paused, then looked down at his plate. “Still. I wanted it to be right.”

Skeppy didn’t answer that. He didn’t have to.

A few more bites passed in silence. Slow, careful. Like the food wasn’t the point—it was the time spent over it.

Skeppy spoke again, barely above a whisper. “This is the last breakfast.”

Bad’s hand paused around his glass. He nodded once. “Yeah.”

The silence that followed wasn’t awkward.

It was full.

Full of things neither of them could say without making the moment collapse in on itself. Full of “I’m going to miss this” and “I don’t want to go” and “please don’t let this be the last time.”

But instead of saying any of it, they just kept eating—quiet, steady, present..

As if the act of sharing breakfast might slow the day down.

As if maybe, if they stayed in the kitchen long enough, the goodbye wouldn’t come.

[Timeskip – after breakfast.]

They didn’t do anything after. Just sat in the quiet together. No chores. No distractions. They weren’t avoiding anything anymore. They just… stayed. Let the stillness stretch.

By noon, Bad asked if Skeppy wanted to cook.

Skeppy shook his head. “Not really.”

“Me neither.”

They ordered takeout. Rice bowls, something warm. Something soft enough to fill the silence.

They ate slowly on the couch, side by side. The occasional clink of a spoon, muted voices from the TV, a shared bottle of water passed between them. Bad barely finished half. Skeppy picked at his food, then pushed the container aside.

When they were done, they didn’t clean up right away. Just stayed there, listening to time move without them.

And then Bad stood up.

There wasn’t an announcement. No dramatic sigh. No “I guess I should pack now.” He just rose quietly, his fingers brushing the edge of the couch cushion like they didn’t want to let go.

Skeppy looked up, only slightly. “You’re gonna pack?”

Bad nodded. “Yeah.”

“You have time.”

“I know.”

A pause. Then, a little softer: “I don’t wanna wait ‘til I’m rushed.”

Skeppy didn’t argue. He just nodded. “Okay.”

Bad gave him a small look—one that hovered on the edge of something heavier. Then turned and made his way upstairs.

Skeppy didn’t follow.

He reached for the remote and turned the TV volume down to a soft hum. The show didn’t matter. He wasn’t watching anyway.

Upstairs, Bad moved slowly.

He opened the closet and began folding the hoodie he’d worn when he first arrived at Skeppy’s house. Then his socks. His charger. The shirt Skeppy had given him a few nights ago to sleep in—too loose, faded at the collar. He held it longer than the others.

Everything went into the bag with care. Not rushed. Not delayed. Just… measured. Like he wanted to memorize where each thing had been, in case he forgot the shape of it later.

Then Bad turned toward the shelf above the bed. Froggy sat there—his green arms stretched wide, his little thread smile slightly crooked now. The plushie Skeppy had won for him at the amusement park. Bad reached up and gently pulled it down, cradling it in his arms for a second.

“I’m taking you,” he murmured under his breath, like a promise. “Can’t leave you here.”

He placed Froggy gently into the bag, between two shirts, face-up.

Then his eyes caught something else—on the side table near Skeppy’s bed.

The dog plush.

It was smaller than Froggy. Golden-brown with floppy ears and a tiny fabric tongue. The one Bad had picked up from that mall kiosk weeks ago—said it reminded him of Skeppy because it was "stubborn-looking but weirdly sweet." He hadn’t meant to leave it. But he also hadn’t taken it back.

And now, somehow, it felt like it belonged here.

Bad walked over, picked it up carefully, then sat down on the edge of the bed with it resting in his lap. He looked at it for a long moment. Thumb brushing over its tiny stitched paws.

“You’re staying,” he said softly. “He needs something to hold onto.”

He stood again and set the plushie back in its spot—exactly how he found it.

Then he reached into his pocket and pulled out the bracelet.

He stared at it in his hand—the silver cool against his skin. Familiar weight. Etched on the inside. His. But not anymore.

He walked to the dresser. Opened the second drawer.

Soft t-shirts. The ones Skeppy wore on lazy days. The drawer that smelled faintly like laundry and cologne and something only Skeppy could make smell like home.

Bad slipped the bracelet beneath one of the pale blue shirts.

Small. Quiet. Still.

It would be found eventually. When Skeppy needed it.

He closed the drawer carefully, as if any sudden noise might undo everything he was trying to hold together.

He took one last look at the room.

The bed was neat again, the pillow still faintly indented. Froggy peeked from the half-zipped edge of his bag. The dog plush sat quietly on Skeppy’s nightstand, ears tilted, as if listening for the silence Bad was leaving behind.

The drawer was closed. The bracelet was tucked away. Still.

Bad stood there for a moment longer, just breathing, then turned and made his way downstairs.

Each step felt quieter than it should’ve. The house held its breath.

At the bottom of the stairs, he slowed.

Skeppy was curled up on the couch, knees drawn to his chest, blanket slipping from his shoulder. One arm rested lazily along the cushion, the other tucked beneath his chin. The TV was on this time—not too loud, but not muted either.

Bad paused.

Because he recognized the song.

Something About You by Eyedress.

Not a coincidence.

It wasn’t just playing—Skeppy had put it on.

The same song Bad had told him, just the night before, reminded him of him. He’d said it quietly, almost as a throwaway. But Skeppy had remembered.

And now here he was—curled up, silent, letting it fill the room.

The sound wasn’t overwhelming. Just soft, steady, dreamy.

There was something bittersweet about it. The warm haze of the chords, the way the vocals drifted lazily like a memory. It didn’t demand anything. It just... stayed. Hovering in the air like the things they weren’t saying.

Skeppy wasn’t watching the TV.

His eyes were trained somewhere else—half-lidded, unfocused. Lost in the sound. Maybe in the moment Bad had spoken those words. Maybe in the fact that Bad was still standing behind him, quietly watching.

Bad stayed at the foot of the stairs for a second longer, taking it in.

The song wasn’t about heartbreak.

But it felt like it knew what goodbye tasted like.

And Skeppy… wasn’t avoiding it.

He was sitting in it.

Letting it play.

Letting it mean something.

Bad stood there for a while, letting the song finish its verse, the dreamy melody curling through the room like a memory being replayed.

Then he moved—slowly, quietly—walking over to the couch.

He didn’t ask if he could sit. Didn’t clear his throat or make a sound. Just eased himself down beside Skeppy, lowering onto the cushion with the kind of care you only show when you know a moment could shatter if you shift it wrong.

He left a bit of space between them—not much, but enough that neither of them felt boxed in. But close enough that the silence didn’t stretch too far. Close enough that his presence was felt without needing to be announced.

Bad didn’t say anything.

Skeppy didn’t look at him right away. His eyes stayed on the TV screen, even though it was obvious he wasn’t watching. The music filled the space between them—Something About You looping through its last minute like it didn’t want to end either.

The warmth of Bad’s shoulder just being there was quiet comfort.

And then—without a word—Skeppy shifted.

Just slightly at first.

Then, slowly, he leaned in.

His head rested against Bad’s shoulder, heavy and warm. He didn’t sigh. He didn’t speak. He just… let himself be there. Like maybe this, right here, was the only safe place left in the world.

Bad glanced at him, eyes soft.

He didn’t move. Didn’t tease. Just stayed still—so Skeppy didn’t have to.

And in the hush of the moment, Bad spoke, voice low.

“Wanna go on one last date?”

Skeppy opened his eyes, but didn’t move his head. “Where?”

“Nowhere far,” Bad said. “Just… out. With you.”

Skeppy paused, then nodded into his shoulder. “Okay.”

Neither of them moved right away.

The song faded into silence, but the feeling it left behind stayed.

Bad turned slightly so that his arm could rest behind Skeppy, not pulling him in—just holding the space there.

They didn’t rush to get up.

Because sometimes, okay was enough.

And this moment—quiet, tired, and soft—felt like a kind of goodbye they could handle.

[Timeskip]

The drive started in silence.

Bad had turned the key with barely a word, the soft rumble of the engine filling the space between them. Skeppy leaned his elbow against the window, fingers lightly tapping against his leg, gaze out toward the fading light. The sky had deepened to a hazy gold, and the air through the open windows carried a mild breeze that smelled faintly of the evening.

Neither of them spoke for the first few minutes.

Then Bad reached forward and turned on the stereo—not loudly, just enough to keep them from drowning in the quiet. The first song that played was slow, soft, familiar.

Meteor Shower by Cavetown.

It poured gently into the car like something fragile, like light filtered through water. A slow pulse, steady and calm.

Skeppy didn’t say anything, but his shoulders dropped a little.

Bad kept one hand on the wheel, the other resting loosely in his lap. His eyes stayed on the road, but the corners of his mouth twitched—just a little—like he felt the shift in the air too.

Neither of them sang. They just let the song fill the space.

A few minutes passed like that.

Eventually, Skeppy spoke, his voice low. “You used to play this one a lot.”

Bad nodded. “Still do.”

“It feels… comforting.”

“It’s supposed to.”

The conversation didn’t go further, but something in it loosened the tension that had been clinging to them since the morning.

When the song faded into silence, the next one started up without warning.

A brighter tone. Bouncier.

Mystical Magical by Benson Boone.

The change in energy was immediate.

Bad’s lips curved before the vocals even started. He turned the volume up a notch—just enough to let it wrap around them—and shot a glance at Skeppy.

Skeppy raised an eyebrow. “Seriously?”

Bad didn’t answer. He just started mouthing the words, dramatically bobbing his head to the rhythm. It didn’t take long before he was actually singing—offbeat, louder than necessary, clearly not taking it seriously.

Skeppy covered his face with one hand, but the laugh escaped anyway.

“You’re so dumb.”

“You love it,” Bad said, still singing.

“Absolutely not.”

Bad kept going.

Skeppy shook his head, but he didn’t turn away this time. He let the beat carry him a little, foot tapping lightly on the floor. When the chorus came around again, he gave in—quietly at first, then louder.

They sang together through the chorus, voices clashing and blending, hitting notes they had no business reaching. It was ridiculous. But it was fun. And for a few minutes, it felt like the weight pressing on both their chests had been set down on the side of the road.

When the song ended, Skeppy reached for the volume knob. “One more,” he said.

Bad grinned.

Toothbrush by DNCE came on next.

It started strong, upbeat and familiar, and they didn’t even hesitate. Both of them sang—Bad leaning into it with theatrical flair, Skeppy trying to keep up and failing halfway through the verse. They threw words at each other between lines, laughing harder than they had in days.

“You sound like you’re in pain,” Skeppy said between breaths.

“Passion,” Bad shot back. “It’s called passion.”

The chorus hit, and they shouted it more than sang it. It didn’t matter. Nothing about it needed to be perfect. It was just theirs.

As the chorus faded out, the next few songs rolled in—shuffled, unplanned, a mix of whatever they had saved or shared over time.

Something fast. Something mellow. A song from a game they used to play together. An old track that neither of them remembered adding.

And through it all, the laughter stayed.

The singing slowed. The smiles lingered.

Sometimes they said nothing at all—just shared glances, or leaned their heads back and let the wind and the music carry them.

They reached the spot just as the last threads of sunlight dipped below the horizon.

Bad slowed the car to a stop beside a small, empty overlook—a low hill that curved around the edge of the neighborhood. It wasn’t a grand view. Just rooftops, trees, and the soft silhouette of the sky folding into deeper blue. But it was quiet. Uncrowded. The kind of place that didn’t ask anything from them.

Bad turned off the engine. The low hum faded. The speakers gave one last, soft buzz before the silence returned.

For a few seconds, neither of them moved.

The car ticked gently as the heat began to release from the engine. Outside, the wind rustled the grass. The sky wasn’t dark yet, but it was definitely no longer day.

Bad glanced over at Skeppy, who hadn’t taken his eyes off the window.

“Wanna get out?” Bad asked, voice low.

Skeppy didn’t answer immediately, but after a second he nodded. “Yeah.”

They stepped out of the car slowly. The air outside was cooler than it had been before—not cold, but enough to make Bad roll down his sleeves and Skeppy pull up the hood of his jacket.

The ground crunched faintly beneath their shoes as they walked to the front of the car. Bad slid up onto the hood first, bracing one hand on the metal and lifting himself with practiced ease. Skeppy followed, a little slower, settling beside him with his arms loosely crossed and his knees drawn up slightly.

They sat shoulder to shoulder, not touching, but close.

The world around them was still. No cars. No chatter. Just wind, grass, and the faintest hum of the town breathing quietly in the distance.

Bad tilted his head back, eyes on the deepening sky.
“It’s weird,” he said softly. “We’ve never been here before, but it already feels… changed.”

Skeppy gave a small shrug. “Maybe it’s us that changed.”

Bad hummed in agreement, then let the silence stretch again.

An hour passed.

They watched as the first star appeared, faint and flickering.

“You ever wonder,” Skeppy said suddenly, “if we’d still be doing this if things were normal?”

Bad glanced over at him. “What do you mean?”

“I don’t know. If we didn’t meet the way we did. If none of this internet stuff existed. If we had to learn each other face to face from the start.”

Bad thought for a second. “I think I still would’ve noticed you.”

Skeppy looked at him, just a little. “Even if I wasn’t loud or annoying?”

“You’re not annoying.”

Skeppy huffed out a half-laugh. “You used to mute me.”

“That was flirting,” Bad said, smirking.

Skeppy snorted and shook his head. “You’re such a muffinhead.”

Bad leaned back, hands braced behind him on the car hood. “I’m serious, though. I think I would’ve liked you no matter how we met.”

There was a pause.

Then Skeppy shifted slightly—just enough for their shoulders to touch.

“Yeah,” he said. “Me too.”

The breeze picked up. It tugged gently at their sleeves and hair. They stayed exactly where they were, the silence folding in around them like a second skin. 

“I wanna keep doing stuff like this,” Bad said, quieter now. “Even if it’s through a screen. Even if it’s a call at 3 a.m. I just… want to keep showing up.”

Skeppy didn’t answer right away. His gaze stayed on the darkening sky.

Then he said, “You better.”

Bad turned to him, eyes soft.

Skeppy was still facing forward, but the corner of his mouth had curved up into the smallest smile.

“I will,” Bad said.

The wind quieted again. The crickets started up. One star became three. Then five. The sky slowly transformed above them, layer by layer, like it was giving them more time to let the night in gently.

Bad let his arm fall behind Skeppy, resting his hand lightly against the hood. He didn’t pull him in—just made the space open.

Skeppy leaned into him.

Not completely, just enough. His weight shifted toward Bad like it had all day—without words, without pressure. Just quiet trust.

They sat like that for a long time.

Not talking. Not rushing. Just… being there.

Side by side, under the slow bloom of stars.

And for a little while, it didn’t feel like the end of something.

It felt like the middle of something still going.

[Timeskip]

The drive back was quieter than before.

The last song had faded out a minute ago, and neither of them reached to play another. The air from the cracked window brushed against Bad’s cheek as he turned onto Skeppy’s street. Porch lights flickered on. The neighborhood had gone still.

Bad parked by the curb and let his hands rest on the wheel.

Skeppy didn’t move. He just looked out the window, arms crossed loosely, legs drawn in slightly like he was bracing for something.

Bad shut off the engine. The silence that followed felt thick but strangely calm.

They got out at the same time, the car doors closing with two soft clicks behind them. His bag stayed in the backseat—zipped, waiting, Froggy barely visible at the top.

Skeppy met him by the front of the car. Neither of them spoke right away. The porch light spilled across the sidewalk, stretching long shadows behind them.

After a pause, Skeppy glanced up. “So... that’s it?”

Bad nodded, hands still in his jacket pockets. “Yeah.”

A beat passed.

“I don’t want it to be.”

“I know,” Bad said. “I don’t either.”

Skeppy shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “Feels stupid that we can’t just… rewind.”

Bad looked at him, quiet for a moment. “If I could, I would. Over and over.”

“You’d hate living that day on a loop,” Skeppy said with a tiny huff.

“Not if it’s with you.”

That made Skeppy laugh under his breath—but it was faint, pulled tight around the edges.

Bad stepped forward.

His voice was lower now. “Come here.”

Skeppy didn’t hesitate.

He stepped into Bad’s arms, resting his head against his shoulder, his hands fisting gently into the back of Bad’s hoodie. Bad wrapped his arms around him, slow and secure, holding him close—like if he held still long enough, the moment might stretch out just a little more.

Neither of them said anything for a while.

Bad's hand moved gently along Skeppy’s back. “I wish we had more time.”

“You’ll text me, right?” Skeppy said, voice quiet near his ear.

“I will. First thing when I get home.”

Skeppy nodded but didn’t pull back. “Don’t fall asleep and forget.”

“I won’t.”

They stayed like that for another long moment. No rush. No cars passing. Just the two of them, grounded in the quiet, surrounded by night.

Eventually, Bad leaned back just enough to see him.

Skeppy looked up, not quite blinking.

Bad hesitated for half a second.

Then leaned in and kissed him.

It wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t goodbye. Just something full. Something real. 

When they pulled apart, Skeppy’s lips parted like he wanted to say something—but for a second, nothing came.

Then, gently—quiet like a secret—he said it.

“I love you.”

Bad looked at him, like his chest had tightened around the words in the best way.

And he said it back.

“I love you too.”

Not rushed. Not fragile. Just true.

Then Bad gave a small nod, his eyes lingering a second longer before he turned and opened the door.

He slid back into the car, not looking at the backseat. His bag stayed there, untouched, like it knew it didn’t matter right now.

Skeppy stood on the sidewalk, arms wrapped around himself, watching him.

Bad gave one last look—no wave, no words. Just him.

And then he drove away.

Somewhere down the block, a porch light flickered. A car door slammed in the distance. But here everything stayed quiet. 

Skeppy didn’t move. He felt the air felt still again. But not empty.

Just full in a different way.

The house was dark when Skeppy walked back inside.

He didn’t turn on the lights. The glow from the hallway nightlight was enough. The door clicked shut behind him with a softness that echoed in the quiet.

The couch still had the blanket tossed across it. The air felt still—like something had just left but hadn’t fully gone.

Skeppy didn’t move for a while.

Then he sat down where Bad had been just hours ago. The seat was cold now. His fingers curled loosely against his knees. His phone lay face-down on the table in front of him, like it knew it shouldn’t speak yet.

Upstairs, everything was untouched. Nothing obvious was left behind.

But not everything was gone.

And Skeppy wasn’t ready to go up just yet.

Across town, Bad sat in his parked car. Engine off. His hand rested on the keys, but he hadn’t moved since pulling into the driveway.

The bag sat in the backseat, quiet.

He didn’t look at it.

He didn’t need to.

The night was still, the porch light spilling a soft halo onto the pavement in front of him. His phone buzzed once in the cupholder.

But he didn’t check it yet.

He picked it up slowly.

Thumb hovering.

And then—

At the exact same moment, miles apart but still in sync—

They both hit send.

Bad: Home safe. I miss you already.

Skeppy: You’re home, right? I miss you.

The timestamps matched.

And for a moment, the distance between them didn’t feel as wide.

They didn’t text again after that—not yet. One message each. Simple. True.

Chapter Text

Bad woke up with Froggy in his arms.

The sun wasn’t all the way up yet. Pale morning light leaked through the curtain seams, casting a soft glow on the wall. His bed felt too big, too quiet. He didn’t move right away. Just breathed in slowly, one arm tucked beneath the pillow, the other resting across his chest where Froggy sat snug and unmoving.

He looked down at the plush, squished gently against him, and exhaled through his nose.

Then he reached for his phone.

The screen lit up as he unlocked it, the brightness briefly stinging his eyes. He blinked past it, angled the camera low, and took a picture—his t-shirt showing, blanket wrinkled around him, Froggy pressed to his shoulder like he belonged there. He looked at the photo for a moment, then attached it to a message and typed:

Bad: Good morning !! :D

Then hit send.

Across town, Skeppy had already been up for a while. His sleep had been light—patchy, like his body couldn’t quite settle without that familiar warmth beside him. Still, he moved through the morning like it was normal.

He padded into the kitchen in socks, his hair a little messy, and reached automatically for the mug Bad had used the morning before he left. It sat at the front of the rack, clean, ready, like it had waited for him.

He grabbed it without thinking.

The ceramic was cool in his hands, but something about the shape of the handle, the way it fit his fingers—made him pause. It wasn’t just a mug anymore. It was a memory. One of those small, quiet things that didn’t say much out loud but still said everything.

He poured his coffee and stirred in some vanilla creamer, just like they had the day before. Then he made his way to the living room and dropped onto the couch. One leg tucked under him, the other stretched out. He sipped slowly. The house around him stayed still.

When Bad’s message came through, Skeppy felt it vibrate against his leg. He set the mug down and picked up his phone. One tap, and the photo filled the screen.

Froggy. The blanket. Bad’s stupid dog t-shirt. All wrapped in sleepy light.

Skeppy stared for a moment longer than necessary, then typed back without even needing to think:

Skeppy: that should’ve been me in your arms lol 

Bad replied within seconds. And just like that, something softened in Skeppy’s chest.

They texted for a while—nothing deep, just enough to feel close. Bad said Froggy kicked him in the ribs. Skeppy said Froggy had always been a menace. Bad sent a blurry photo of his hair sticking up. Skeppy threatened to post it. Bad dared him.

It was stupid. It was easy.

It was exactly what they both needed.

Eventually, Skeppy finished the last of his coffee and pushed himself off the couch with a soft grunt. He wandered back into the kitchen, opened the fridge, and stared at it for way too long before pulling out some eggs and vegetables.

He set them on the counter and took a deep breath.

He was going to try to cook what Bad had made for him the other day. It wasn’t even that complicated—just a skillet hash with some eggs and peppers. But standing there, alone in the kitchen, it felt harder than it should have.

He fumbled the heat settings. Chopped unevenly. Burned one edge of the toast. The eggs stuck to the pan again like they had something to prove.

By the time he was done, it looked nothing like what Bad had made. Skeppy sighed, dumped everything into the sink, and grabbed a box of cereal instead.

He poured it into a bowl without measuring. Just enough to not feel annoyed.

As he leaned against the counter and took the first few bites, he pulled out his phone again. He thought about snapping a photo of the cereal and sending it with a “you win.”

But he didn’t.

He looked at the screen, then turned it off and set it aside.

It wasn’t the same. Not even close.

But it would have to be enough.

For now.

Across town, Bad stood over the stove, brow furrowed in quiet focus.

The kitchen smelled warm—eggs, toast, something slightly garlicky—and the air around him was thick with steam from the pan. He moved carefully, more thoughtful than usual, like he was trying to get it just right.

At first, he’d cracked two eggs, then added another. Then he chopped more than he meant to. The pan felt too empty, so he kept going. A little more bread. A little more heat.

He hadn’t meant to cook this much.

It had just… happened.

Now there were two full plates on the counter.

He only noticed when he reached for a second fork.

His hands slowed. He blinked, then looked down at the spread. Two plates. Two glasses. A pair of napkins placed side by side.

It wasn't a habit. It wasn’t a routine.

It was just something his hands had done before his heart had caught up.

Bad stared at the setup for a while. The food is still steaming. The chair across from him still pulled out. Everything is too quiet.

Then he sighed.

He took one of the plates and gently scraped the food into a container. He sealed it with a soft click, set it aside, and grabbed a sweater from the back of the chair. Slippers next. Then he was out the door.

The morning air greeted him with a light breeze. It wasn’t cold, just brisk enough to remind him he was alone.

He walked across the narrow path to his neighbor’s house, clutching the warm container in both hands. When he knocked, it was soft—almost hesitant.

A few seconds passed before the door opened.

His neighbor—an older woman with soft eyes and a cardigan draped over her shoulders—smiled the moment she saw him.

“Well now,” she said. “This is a surprise.”

Bad gave her a small smile. “I accidentally cooked enough for two.”

She raised an eyebrow but didn’t question it. She just reached forward and took the container gently from his hands.

“You always know how to feed people,” she said.

Bad rubbed the back of his neck. “This is the first time I’ve done it by accident.”

She looked at him for a moment, then nodded like she understood more than she let on.

They talked for a few minutes on the porch. She asked if he was adjusting to the quiet again. He gave a vague nod. She mentioned her cat had dragged a sock into the living room again. He said the cat had good taste.

Then she stepped back inside for a moment and returned with a small basket—some oranges, two apples, and a jar of something homemade.

“For you,” she said, tucking it into his hands before he could argue.

“You really don’t have to—”

“I know,” she said simply. “But neither did you.”

He smiled, a little tired, and held the basket against his chest like it was heavier than it was.

“Thank you,” he murmured.

“Anytime, sweetheart,” she said. “Take care.”

He walked back slowly, the breeze curling at the edge of his sleeves.

Inside, the house was still the same—quiet, still, untouched.

He placed the basket down on the counter and looked around the kitchen.

It felt like the leftovers of something that had only just ended.

He sat down with his plate and ate quietly. No music. No distraction. Just the soft sound of a fork against ceramic and the warmth of something that was supposed to be shared.

And when he finished, he looked at the empty seat across from him for a while, before getting up to wash the dishes in silence.

Later that morning, Skeppy grabbed his keys and slipped on a hoodie that still faintly smelled like yesterday—like car rides, air conditioning, and warmth he hadn’t quite shaken off. His shoes scuffed lightly against the floor as he walked toward the front door, one hand already checking for his phone in his pocket.

The house was quiet. Still early enough that the streets outside hadn’t fully woken up yet.

He stepped out into the sunlight without really thinking about where he was going. He needed food. Something to restock the fridge, refill the snacks. Maybe just something to fill the space.

The drive to the grocery store wasn’t long. His playlist shuffled to a song they used to mock together—one of those throwback tracks Bad had added as a joke but secretly liked more than he let on.

When he pulled into the parking lot, he sat in the car for an extra minute. Not thinking hard. Just… not rushing.

Inside, the store felt colder than expected.

The overhead lights buzzed quietly. The floor reflected the shelves back in dull streaks. Skeppy grabbed a basket at first, then circled back for a cart when it became clear he was going to be there longer than five minutes.

He moved through the aisles slowly.

A box of cereal. Two bags of chips. Microwaveable rice bowls. A frozen pizza he hadn’t bought in months.

He didn’t really have a list, just vague memories of what was missing from the pantry. His cart filled up unevenly—half junk, half things he wasn’t sure he’d eat but grabbed anyway. He paused longer at the pasta aisle, staring at the rows of boxes like one of them might give him a reason to care about cooking tonight.

In the produce section, he picked up a bell pepper and turned it over in his hand before placing it gently into a bag. Then grabbed another. A small effort. Something that would look impressive in a text—just in case Bad asked what he bought.

He turned down the snack aisle without thinking and then paused halfway through.

His cart looked ridiculous. A mix of impulse and laziness, chaos and control.

He reached into his pocket, pulled out his phone, and angled it above the cart. Snap.

No caption.

He hit send.

Gotta keep his boyfriend updated.

He tucked the phone back into his hoodie and kept walking.

Across town, Bad was elbow-deep in dishes. The warm water steamed slightly, fogging the lower half of the window above the sink. He scrubbed a plate with his sleeve rolled up, moving slowly—not because he was tired, just because he didn’t have anywhere else to be.

The phone buzzed across the counter.

He glanced over, then turned off the faucet, wiped his hands, and padded across the kitchen to pick it up.

The photo filled the screen—Skeppy’s cart, chaotic as ever. Bad laughed under his breath, small and genuine.

He flipped the camera to snap a photo of his own. One hand still damp, bubbles clinging to his knuckles, a plate halfway rinsed. He typed:

Bad: Take care and don’t forget to buy me muffins!

Then sent it.

Back at the grocery store, Skeppy had just reached the checkout line. He pulled his phone again to check for a reply.

Bad’s message lit up on the screen. Simple. Familiar.

Skeppy smiled, thumb already moving to type—

But then he stopped.

His head turned slightly.

Just off to the side, near the end of the row of self-checkout kiosks—someone passed by. Fast. Not enough to focus on. Not enough to catch the face. Just a blur of motion. But something about the figure—the rhythm of their walk, the curve of their jaw, the way the fabric hung on their shoulders—struck too familiar. 

His smile faltered, thinned at the edges.

He stepped slightly to the side, eyes narrowing as he looked toward the edge of the aisle.

No one was there.

The space was empty again. Just someone else scanning groceries, a kid complaining about snacks, someone restocking water bottles by the door.

He blinked. His hands were still holding the phone, but he hadn’t typed anything.

That couldn’t be them, he thought. No way.

But the feeling didn’t let go. His heart beat just a little faster, not from panic—just a quiet kind of unease. Something distant. Old.

He looked down at Bad’s message again. Read it twice.

Then glanced at the muffins near the register and took a picture. This time, he sent it with a small, steady breath.

Skeppy: I didn’t forget, muffinhead.

He pocketed the phone and turned to unload his cart onto the conveyor belt, hands moving automatically.

But his mind was somewhere else.

Even after the receipt was printed and the bags were packed and the cashier smiled at him in that polite, practiced way—Skeppy kept seeing that glimpse in his head.

Too fast to catch.

Too familiar to ignore.

[Timeskip]

The afternoon settled in quietly.

No rush. No urgency. Just a stretch of time that felt slower without really being still. The kind of hours where the world doesn’t ask for much—just lets you exist in it.

They texted each other almost at the same time.

Bad: KFC?

Bad had sent it first, but Skeppy was already scrolling through the food delivery app, debating between the usual and something new. When he saw Bad’s message, he smiled a little.

Skeppy: you read my mind

So they decided. Same meal. Same side. Same time. Not because they needed to—but because it felt nice to eat the same thing, miles apart, like they were still in sync somehow.

When the food arrived, Skeppy set his bag down on the table, unwrapping each item slowly, like the process itself gave him something to do. On the other side of the screen, Bad angled his camera just slightly too close to the food before sitting down with his own tray.

Skeppy propped up his phone against a glass and leaned forward.

Bad was already peeling open a ketchup packet with his teeth.

“Okay,” Bad said, dragging the word out like it was the start of a grand plan. “Let’s settle this once and for all. Best part of the chicken?”

“Drumstick,” Skeppy replied instantly, reaching for one.

Bad scoffed. “Wrong. It’s the thigh. Juicy, rich, symmetrical—”

“It’s literally the messiest.”

“That’s part of the experience.”

Skeppy just raised an eyebrow and bit into his drumstick.

They ate in a companionable quiet for a moment, chewing, sipping from their drinks. The wrappers crackled lightly every time someone reached for something.

Then Bad paused mid-bite and pointed at the screen. “Wait. You’re going too fast.”

“I’m eating,” Skeppy said flatly.

“We’re supposed to be eating together.”

“We are.”

“No—bite when I bite. It's a synchronized lunch or nothing.”

Skeppy blinked. “You’re joking.”

“Dead serious.” Bad raised his piece of chicken like a knight brandishing a weapon. “We feast in unison.”

Skeppy exhaled a slow breath and muttered, “You’re the worst,” but he tilted his head and held up a fry in mock salute anyway.

“Three,” Bad started. “Two… one—bite!”

They both bit, chewing in exaggerated silence.

It went on like that for a few more rounds. Bad kept the count. Skeppy humored him—for a while. But once Bad got distracted rambling about the superiority of their local gravy compared to anywhere else in the country, Skeppy seized the opportunity to sneak a few bites ahead.

He stuffed a piece of chicken into his mouth quickly and downed half his drink while Bad continued his passionate rant, completely unaware.

Eventually, Bad looked up again.

His face twisted. “Wait a second. Where did some of your food go?”

Skeppy raised both brows, very much not sorry. “You were talking.”

“You cheated.”

Skeppy smirked. “You talk too much.”

Bad pointed a ketchup packet at the screen again like it was a weapon. “This is a betrayal.”

“You declared food law first. I’m just defending myself.”

Bad tried to look offended, but he couldn’t hold it. The edges of his mouth curved into a grin, and Skeppy laughed—genuine, belly-deep, like he hadn't in a few days.

The sound of it made something inside Bad soften. Just a little.

For a moment, it felt like nothing had changed.

Like Bad was still sitting next to him, stealing from his plate. Like Skeppy would nudge his shoulder, call him annoying, and hand over his biscuit anyway.

They talked as they ate. Not about anything deep. Just… things.

Bad told Skeppy about the fruit basket his neighbor gave him. Skeppy said, “Wait, you accepted fruit from your neighbor?” Bad explained that she does it often and that he even tried to convince her earlier that she didn’t have to keep doing it. Skeppy replied that she sounded like a sweet old lady and said he wanted to meet her next time.

Then Bad said Froggy had tried to trip him earlier.

“He was right by the bedroom door,” Bad said, mouth full. “I nearly died.”

“Maybe he’s grieving,” Skeppy replied.

“Maybe he’s plotting.”

“Well, he did witness a lot.”

They laughed again. Softer this time.

As they reached the end of their meal, the wrappers were crumpled and the drinks half-empty. Skeppy leaned back in his chair, the phone still angled toward him, but he wasn’t really looking at it anymore.

He rubbed a hand through his hair and glanced toward the window.

“I might go out later,” he said.

Bad looked up from wiping his hands. “Where to?”

“Nowhere, really. Just don’t feel like staying in.”

Bad nodded, quiet for a moment. “That makes sense.”

Skeppy reached for the last sip of his drink.

Bad leaned in a little closer to the screen. “Text me when you get there?”

Skeppy gave a small smile. “Of course.”

They didn’t say anything else for a few seconds. Just stared at the screen like maybe something else would rise up between the silence and fill it for them.

But it didn’t.

So they said goodbye.

Bad lingered a little longer, fingers resting on the edge of his cup. The screen dimmed to black, reflecting his face back at him.

Skeppy sat in his kitchen a few seconds longer, picking at the edge of a napkin.

The silence that followed wasn’t harsh.

Later in the afternoon, Skeppy pulled out of the driveway with music already playing through the speakers. He didn’t overthink the playlist—just hit shuffle and let the songs pick themselves. Some were familiar. Some were from the playlist Bad had once curated and labeled “songs to scream on long drives.” Others just reminded him of things they’d done together—car rides, going to places, off-key karaoke through the Bluetooth speaker.

He sang along half-heartedly. Some lyrics stuck, others didn’t. One of the songs Bad always got wrong came on halfway through the drive. The one where he used to yell the chorus in a ridiculous accent and ruin the timing completely.

Skeppy chuckled to himself. Didn’t skip it.

The drive took nearly an hour. The farther he went, the louder the city got—horns, chatter, the layered hum of people living their lives.

When he pulled into the parking lot, the neon sign of the bowling alley blinked like it had been doing the same job for too many years. A soft electric buzzing greeted him before he even opened the door.

Sapnap’s car was already parked. Skeppy pulled in beside it and sat for a moment with the engine still running, fingers tapping the wheel. Then he cut the ignition, grabbed his phone, and headed inside.

The moment he stepped through the doors, the air changed.

The place was alive with color—flashing lights, glowing signs, the clatter of pins falling in quick succession. Music blared from the overhead speakers. The scent of cheap fries and overused shoe spray hit him all at once.

It was chaos—but the good kind.

He spotted Sapnap and George near Lane 6. Sapnap was mid-throw, launching a neon green ball like it owed him something. It slammed into the pins, and all but one toppled.

“Dude!” he shouted. “You’re late!”

“Only like ten minutes,” Skeppy replied, already laughing. “Calm down.”

“George lost two frames waiting for you.”

“I lost them because your aim is terrifying,” George muttered, holding a drink and looking very done.

Skeppy grabbed a pair of rental shoes that were slightly too big, sat down to lace them up, and then joined them at the lane. He scanned the selection of balls, picked the least horrifying one—a chipped red one that felt too light—and stepped up.

“Watch this,” he said, grinning.

He launched the ball. It swerved dramatically.

Straight into the gutter.

“Wooooow,” Sapnap howled. “Absolutely pathetic.”

“Give it a second chance,” Skeppy muttered.

“You aimed for the wall!”

“I was testing the wind.”

“It’s a bowling alley!”

George was already cackling. “You’re worse than me.”

The game rolled on.

They were loud, rowdy, and very, very bad at bowling—except Sapnap, who either got lucky or had been secretly practicing in another life. George somehow managed to miss all but two pins every round, which he blamed on everything from slippery socks to “suspicious ball curvature.”

Skeppy mostly guttered. Once, he got a strike by accident, didn’t notice, and was too busy talking over his shoulder to even celebrate.

“You just got a strike!” George shouted, almost offended.

“Huh?”

Sapnap chucked a fry at him.

They ordered food and drinks halfway through. Fries. Mozzarella sticks. Sliders that were a little too greasy. Sapnap got a beer. George ordered a soda and sipped it like he was at a wine tasting. Skeppy went for a rum and coke but nursed it slowly.

“Why do you drink like an old man?” Sapnap asked at one point.

“Why do you exist?” Skeppy replied.

“Touché.”

The next round was chaos.

George tripped slightly on his way to the lane and nearly yeeted the ball backward. Sapnap screamed like he was being chased. Skeppy, wheezing, dropped his phone trying to record it.

“You’re banned,” Skeppy told George between gasps.

“From bowling?”

“From existing in lanes.”

“Unbelievable,” George muttered, cheeks red from laughter. “I was framed.”

“Framed for what? Attempted murder?”

More laughter. It echoed in the high ceilings, got swallowed by the music, and folded into the rhythm of pins falling and people yelling across lanes.

Skeppy found himself leaning back in his chair at one point, eyes scanning the lights above. He felt the coldness of the drink in his hand, the ache in his cheek from smiling too hard, the thrum of bass vibrating through the floor.

And still, somewhere in all of that, he drifted.

He drifted back to the car ride the day before. To Bad behind the wheel, eyes flicking between the road and Skeppy with that soft kind of focus. The first song had been slow—Meteor Shower, quiet and comforting—and for a moment they’d just sat there, watching the world go by. Then Mystical Magical came on, and Bad had perked up instantly, tapping the beat on the steering wheel and singing with too much enthusiasm. Skeppy ended up laughing. Bad only got louder. By the time Toothbrush started playing, they were both yelling the lyrics, completely off-key, 

He missed that version of noise.

The one that sounded like home.

The strike Sapnap threw knocked him out of it.

“You alive over there?” Sapnap asked, grabbing another fry.

“Yeah,” Skeppy said quietly, blinking.

He pulled out his phone, glanced at the scoreboard, and snapped a picture of his tragically low score—40-something and proud. He sent it to Bad without thinking. No caption. Just the image.

Then he put the phone down.

The game continued. George tripped again. Sapnap did a stupid dance after a strike. Skeppy almost fell over laughing. They ordered another plate of fries and sat on the floor for a while when their lane glitched and reset mid-turn.

It was loud. It was messy. It was fun.

But even in the middle of all that—

Skeppy knew exactly what was missing.

[Bad’s perspective]

After they ended the call, Bad stayed in his seat longer than he needed to.

The food was gone—chicken bones scattered neatly on the tray, wrappers folded into tidy squares, drink half-finished. The screen of his phone had already gone dark, but he kept it face-up on the table, as if it might light up again if he waited long enough.

It didn’t.

So he just sat there, hunched slightly, his fingers curled lightly around the edge of his paper cup. The quiet felt louder after the call ended. Not the good kind of quiet, like peaceful background noise. The kind that made the house feel too big for just one person.

Bad reached for his phone and opened Twitter. If nothing else, the timeline was always moving, always loud.

Fanart filled the feed—some new, some familiar. A few showed Froggy wearing a tiny cape. Others were full of sparkles and over-the-top lighting, dramatic depictions of him and Skeppy drawn like fantasy heroes or tragic lovers from a storybook. One had them holding hands in the rain with ridiculous, too-big eyes. He snorted and liked it anyway.

There was one that got him though.

Just a simple sketch. Pencil on paper. Skeppy leaning into his side, both of them sitting on a park bench, eyes closed like they’d fallen asleep mid-conversation. There were no stars, no sparkles, no magical light. Just the bench. Just them.

He stared at it longer than he meant to.

Then he clicked the heart, and typed out a comment without overthinking:

@Badboyhalo

“This feels like a memory I forgot I had.”

He meant it.

The ache that rose in his chest wasn’t sharp. It was gentle. Slow. Like realizing you’re homesick only after someone points it out.

After scrolling a little more, he liked a few more posts. Left a ":D" here and a soft comment there. He wasn’t replying as a creator. Not even as a streamer.

Just as someone who wanted to feel close to something.

Eventually, he stood.

The kitchen was too quiet now, the air still warm from earlier. He wiped down the table, threw out the wrappers, and washed his hands in the sink. His fingers moved without much thought. He dried his hands slowly.

He stared at the sponge for a few seconds longer than normal.

Then he went to the bathroom and started the shower.

Steam filled the space almost instantly. The mirror fogged over. The floor felt warm under his feet. He stepped under the spray and let the water run over him.

He wasn’t thinking about anything in particular—until he was.

That stupid Twitter post Skeppy made weeks ago floated into his brain without warning. The one where he’d taken a selfie fresh out of the shower. Hair damp, sticking slightly to his forehead. A towel slung loosely around his waist. The bathroom door cracked open just enough to catch the edge of a foggy light.

Bad covered his face with both hands.

“Oh my god,” he muttered, voice echoing off the tile. “Seriously?”

The memory wouldn’t leave. His face went red—part from the heat, part from something else.

He reached for the cold water knob and let it cool things down a little.

By the time he got out, he was damp, flustered, and annoyed at himself for letting his brain win. He threw on a shirt that hung slightly off one shoulder and a pair of old sweatpants. He towel-dried his hair while walking back into the bedroom, Froggy staring at him from the pillow like he knew everything.

“Don’t judge me,” Bad muttered, pointing at the plush.

He sat down on the edge of the bed and picked up his phone again. Scrolled. Checked a few texts. Then, without much thought, he tapped Puffy’s name and hit call.

She picked up almost immediately.

“Well, well, well. If it isn’t the frog dad himself.”

Bad laughed. “Hey.”

They talked for a while. About nothing in particular. Just the kind of comfortable nonsense that didn’t require effort. Puffy told him about a build someone griefed on her server and how she nearly banned herself by accident. Bad told her about the fruit basket he got from his neighbor. Puffy claimed he was being recruited into an underground fruit mafia.

He laughed more than he expected to. It felt good. Easy.

And then, without thinking, somewhere between her rant about melon textures and his theory about Froggy developing sentience, he said it.

“I miss Skeppy.”

The words left his mouth before he realized they were forming.

He blinked. Froze. And slapped a hand over his face.

“I—I didn’t mean to say that.”

Puffy snorted. “So you don’t miss your boyfriend. Noted. I’m letting him know this.”

“What?! No! I do miss him! I just—ugh.” He sank into the bed. “I didn’t mean to say it out loud.”

“You’re such a loser,” she teased. “You said it like a confession. Like it’s a crime.”

Bad groaned into his sleeve. “Shut up.”

“You shut up.”

They both laughed. Then the noise softened.

And in the pause that followed, Puffy added, voice quieter, “He misses you too.”

Bad didn’t say anything for a second. He stared at the ceiling.

“I know,” he said finally.

They wrapped up the call soon after. More teasing. A soft goodbye. A promise to talk again soon.

When the call ended, Bad set the phone down and turned off the lamp. The shadows stretched long across the walls now. The only light came from the hallway, faint and golden at the edges of the door.

He crawled under the blanket and reached for Froggy, tucking the frog plush under his arm and curling toward it like he had a heartbeat.

His chest ached—but it didn’t hurt. Not exactly. It was just... there.

Bad closed his eyes.

“If you were here,” he whispered into the dark, “I’d make you brush your teeth before cuddling.”

Silence.

He smiled faintly.

“Idiot.”

The room didn’t answer. But it felt a little less quiet.

Still holding Froggy, Bad stayed there for a long time. Not asleep. Just resting.

Until finally, he sat up again.

The air in the room felt too still.

He stood, slipped on his shoes, and pulled a hoodie over his head.

He wasn’t really craving anything.

He just needed something cold. A reason to walk. An excuse to breathe.

And maybe—if he was lucky—he’d find a little piece of the noon to hold onto.

Back at the bowling + bar place, the noise never stopped.

Laughter echoed from the far lanes as pins clattered like distant fireworks. The glow of neon signs painted the walls in shifting blues and reds. Music thudded overhead—something upbeat and vaguely familiar, though no one seemed to know the lyrics. Between games, groups moved around, trading places, cheering, slamming high-fives.

Skeppy sat tucked into a booth with Sapnap and George, a half-empty basket of fries between them. The place smelled like oil, old rubber, and the faint tang of citrus-scented cleaner. The vinyl seat creaked whenever someone leaned back too far.

Sapnap was mid-rant about how the scoring system was broken.

George, unimpressed, stirred the ice in his drink and interrupted with, “You just suck.”

“You’re literally in last place!”

“I have a technique.”

Skeppy let himself laugh. It was easy enough at the moment. He leaned back, drink in hand, nodding along, eyes flicking between them as they argued like brothers. But beneath the smile—just under the skin—something didn’t settle right.

And then he saw it.

Again.

A flicker.

A movement, far across the room. Just beyond the rows of arcade machines, near the far entrance. A figure—quick, familiar, just a blur of motion and shape. Not enough to name. Not enough to confirm.

But enough to freeze him.

His laugh cut off midsound. His breath caught.

No way.

No way it was them.

Again?

He blinked, shifted slightly, leaning for a better look—but by the time he focused, the space was empty. Just a couple at the claw machine, someone plugging tokens into a skee-ball lane, a group of teenagers shouting over Dance Dance Revolution.

But not the figure.

Not who he thought he saw.

His stomach twisted—not hard, not painful. Just… cold.

“Skeppy?” Sapnap nudged his arm.

He turned. “Yeah?”

“You good?”

“Yeah,” he lied. “Just… bathroom. Be right back.”

He stood too fast. The vinyl squeaked under him, the glass on the table rattling slightly. Sapnap raised an eyebrow but didn’t say anything.

Skeppy made his way across the noise, weaving between people, lights shifting overhead like slow strobe pulses. The air buzzed louder the closer he got to the back hallway—the one with the flickering exit sign and duller colors.

Inside the bathroom, the door swung closed behind him with a muted thud.

The shift was immediate.

Quieter. Sharper.

The overhead lights were harsh, buzzing faintly. One in the corner blinked inconsistently. There was a dull drip from one of the sinks, and the smell of cheap lemon soap clung to the air like it was trying too hard.

He stepped up to the sink and turned the cold water on full blast. Let it run.

His hands hovered under the stream for a moment before finally dipping in.

Then he pressed his palms together and bent forward, splashing his face once, twice—hard enough to sting a little.

Droplets clung to his chin. A few caught in his lashes.

He looked up at the mirror.

And just stared.

Not fixing his hair. Not wiping his face.

Just looking.

His reflection blinked back at him, tired around the eyes. Not messy, not unhinged. Just… quiet.

That was twice now.

Once in the grocery store. Now here. The same shape. The same presence.

That feeling—like someone had tapped a part of him he’d sealed off and thought he’d forgotten about. Like a cold finger running down his spine. Not dangerous. Just… known. Uncomfortably known.

Was it really them?

He didn’t want it to be.

His heart hadn’t pounded like this for a long time. Not even during the fight with Bad. That was loud and painful and honest.

This?

This was quiet. Creeping. Unspoken.

And that made it worse.

He reached for a paper towel and dried his face slowly, dragging it down his jaw, his neck. His fingers were trembling just enough to notice.

Should he tell Bad?

The thought came sharp.

Tell him what?

That you maybe saw someone twice in the same day?

No. No, he couldn’t.

Not yet.

He didn’t want to stir anything. Didn’t want to make Bad worry. Didn’t want to say something that might not even be real.

But it felt real.

He looked at himself one more time in the mirror—face half-shadowed by the bad light, eyes darker than he remembered. He looked like someone holding a truth he wasn’t ready to say.

He hated that.

So he exhaled slowly, threw the towel in the bin, and turned to leave.

Back outside, the noise slammed into him again. Lights. Sound. Voices. Pins crashing. Music thumping. Laughter breaking like waves across the room.

He spotted their booth. Sapnap was eating fries straight from the basket. George was mid-story about something involving a hotel, a broken sink, and two very angry hotel staff members.

Skeppy slid back into the seat like nothing had happened.

He picked up his drink. Took a sip. Too cold. Too sweet.

Sapnap shot him a look. “Everything good?”

Skeppy smiled—tight, but not fake.

“Yeah. Just needed to rinse off.”

He didn’t mention the figure.

Didn’t mention the way it made his hands cold or his jaw clench.

Didn’t mention how badly he wanted to be wrong.

He just laughed when George said something dumb, nodded along when Sapnap made fun of his bowling score, and reached for another fry.

But the question burned at the edges of his thoughts, refusing to leave.

Who was that?

And why now?

He didn’t know if he wanted to be right—but part of him already knew he was.