Archive of Our Own

Eli dunked his head under the faucet again, grimacing when more of the cold water splashed down the back of his neck and soaked into his shirt. He scrubbed a hand roughly through his hair, wincing a little as the bleached strands tangled and pulled against his scalp, but he didn’t slow down. If he didn’t get all the extra dye out, it was going to drip green for the next three days — and no matter how committed he was to the Joker bit, he wasn’t about to walk around with stained pillowcases like an idiot.

The cheap, minty shampoo he’d grabbed from Miguel’s bathroom earlier wasn’t doing much except make his fingers slip through his hair a little easier, but it was better than nothing. He shoved his head under the stream again and squinted up into it, water pricking his eyes and running hot down his face, and tried not to think too hard about how ridiculous he must look right now. Bent awkwardly over Miguel’s bathroom sink, shirt clinging damp to his back, arms going numb from being held up for so long.

The things he did for Halloween.

He turned off the tap with a clumsy elbow nudge, blinking water out of his eyes as he straightened up and grabbed the towel Miguel had tossed at him earlier. It was softer than he expected, thick and fluffy, and smelled faintly like the detergent Miguel’s family used, something clean and citrusy that made Eli’s heart race for no good reason. He scrubbed the towel over his head, rough and fast, not really caring about the damage. His hair was fried already; one more rough dry wasn’t going to kill it.

When he finally dragged the towel off and looked up, the mirror was too fogged to see much of anything except the vague shape of his reflection, hair sticking up at awkward angles and dripping onto the floor. He wiped the glass half-heartedly with his sleeve, clearing enough to see the color properly for the first time.

Bright, neon green. Perfect.

Eli grinned despite himself. The Joker costume was gonna look sick. Even if the bleach smell was still hanging stubbornly around his head like a cloud and his scalp felt kind of raw, it was worth it. He raked his fingers through the mess of damp hair, trying to get it to lay in some kind of order, but it only made it stick up worse.

Whatever. Joker hair wasn’t supposed to look neat anyway.

He tossed the towel onto the counter and grabbed the bottle of moisturizer he’d seen Miguel use once after shaving — lightweight, unscented, something he was pretty sure his own skin wouldn’t immediately hate — and slapped some onto his face, hoping it would help with the inevitable dryness from the makeup. As he rubbed it in, he caught himself glancing toward the door.

Miguel was still in his room, probably setting up the stupid little makeup station he’d insisted on. He had this whole kit — brushes, powders, sponges — like he was prepping for a full photo shoot, not just a Halloween party. Eli didn’t get it, but he wasn’t complaining. If Miguel wanted to do all the hard parts for him, he was more than happy to sit there and let it happen.

Especially if it meant Miguel’s hands on his face.

It was stupid, really. Eli knew it was stupid, this thing, this crush he couldn’t seem to shake no matter how hard he tried to shove it down. Miguel was his friend. His best friend. They’d been through too much together, seen each other at their worst and stuck around anyway. There wasn’t supposed to be anything weird about that. Friends were allowed to be close. They were allowed to care about each other. They were allowed to sit too close on the couch sometimes, or trade hoodies back and forth like it didn’t mean anything, or touch without thinking — an arm slung over a shoulder, a hand clasped too long on a knee. Normal friend stuff. Normal.

Except it wasn’t, not for him. Not with Miguel.

Not when Miguel smiled at him like that, soft and crinkly around the eyes, like Eli was something good. Not when Miguel brushed his hand against his by accident and Eli had to grit his teeth to keep from flinching — not from discomfort, but from the way it lit his nerves up like a goddamn Christmas tree. Not when he thought about stupid things, things like how Miguel’s hair curled at the nape of his neck when it got too long, or how his laugh hit this low, raspy note when he found something really funny.

Not when Eli caught himself looking for excuses to touch him back.

He scrubbed harder at his face, like he could wipe the thoughts away with the moisturizer, force them out of his skin if he just pressed hard enough. It didn’t work, obviously. It never worked. He was in too deep. Had been for a long time, if he was being honest with himself — which he wasn’t. Not often, anyway. It was easier to ignore it.

Easier to act like tonight was just about Halloween. About dressing up stupid and letting Miguel fuss over him like he wasn’t some twitchy idiot vibrating out of his own skin.

Eli blew out a slow breath and shoved the bottle back onto the counter with a little more force than necessary.

When he glanced down, he noticed the state of his shirt — damp, clinging awkwardly to his back and shoulders, patches of pale green smeared along the collar where the dye hadn’t rinsed out completely. Frankly, it was gross, and Eli knew the longer he sat in it, the more of a sensory nightmare it was going to be.

Without really thinking about it, he grabbed the hem and yanked the shirt over his head, the fabric sticking stubbornly to his skin before peeling away with a wet shuck. The cooler air hit him all at once, raising goosebumps along his arms and making the raw parts of his scalp prickle worse. Eli tossed the ruined shirt onto the counter next to the towel and ran a hand through his hair again, shaking out the worst of the water.

There. Better.

Somewhere behind him, he could hear the rhythmic footfalls on the padded carpet. Of course. Miguel was pacing. Again.

“You said you were almost done, like, twenty minutes ago,” Miguel called from his bedroom, voice tight.

Eli didn’t look up. “I said I was rinsing. Which I’m done with by the way. So calm down.”

“Yasmine’s gonna kill us.”

“She’s not even gonna remember what time we show up. It's an excuse to get shitfaced, not a job interview.”

“She specifically said—”

“Dude, it’s Yasmine. The party starts when we get there.”

Miguel didn’t end up dignifying him with a response so Eli gave himself a quick once-over in the mirror — bare chest, damp hair sticking up at every wrong angle. Not a chance he was gonna look good like this, but whatever. He’d been shirtless around Miguel enough times that it was barely an odd occurrence. 

In fact, it would probably be weirder if he was wearing a shirt.

Cracking the bathroom door open and stepping out into the hallway, the cooler air hit him immediately, pulling another full-body shiver from him. He rubbed a hand absently along his arm as he padded barefoot toward Miguel’s room, towel still looped around his neck, trying not to think too hard about how Miguel’s hands were supposed to be on his face within the next few minutes. 

The door to Miguel’s bedroom was half-shut, light spilling out into the hallway in a thin, warm line. Eli didn’t bother knocking. He just nudged the door open with his elbow and stepped inside.

Miguel looked up immediately from where he was crouched at the desk, arranging his little arsenal of makeup tools with the kind of careful attention he usually reserved for stuff that mattered — sparring gear, new sketchbooks, the wheels on his skateboard. His hand paused midair, hovering over a jar of white face paint, and for a second — a weird, slow second — he just stared.

Eli froze a little under the sudden attention, the weight of Miguel’s gaze heavy in a way he didn’t know how to name.

For a second, his stomach lurched hard, all hot panic crawling up his spine. Some dumb part of him thought maybe Miguel’s mom was home early, that she’d walk in and see the giant fucking tattoo stamped across his back, the one he mostly forgot about until someone stared too long. She’d freak, call his mom, and start that whole mess. He almost flinched, but then his brain caught up. 

She wasn’t even here. Out with Sensei Lawrence. No one to tattle, no one to ruin it. Just Miguel. Just him, standing there like an idiot.

Still, Miguel’s eyes flicked down, quick and automatic, tracing the line of Eli’s bare shoulders, the damp hair curling against his temples, the towel slung low and uneven around his neck. His mouth parted slightly, like maybe he was about to say something — but then he didn’t.

What was that?

Shifting awkwardly, Eli resisted the urge to fold his arms over his chest. He didn’t get it. Miguel was looking at him weird: not bad, not gross or judgmental, just…weird. Like he was trying to memorize something.

Miguel had been looking at him like that a lot lately. It wasn’t like Eli noticed that kind of shit much, but with Miguel he noticed a lot. And this? This was something he was noticing. Sure, he couldn’t really understand it, but he knew it was there.

Clearing his throat awkwardly, Eli tossed the towel onto the bed as casually as he could manage, deliberately breaking whatever strange thing was happening. “Shirt was all wet,” he muttered, not sure why he felt the need to explain himself. “Didn’t wanna ruin the costume.”

Miguel blinked like he’d just snapped back into the room, a quick, jerky motion that almost looked like it hurt. Then he nodded once. “Yeah. Makes sense.” 

His voice sounded steady, normal enough that Eli almost believed it, though there was a tightness under the edges he couldn’t quite place. But he told himself it was fine. He was probably imagining it, picking at things that weren’t even there. He did that too often, seeing ghosts in half-smiles and harmless pauses, building up stories in his head he didn’t know better than to believe.

He still remembered that one time in freshman year, standing by the lockers when some kid told him he had an “interesting kind of face,” smiling as they said it. Eli had actually felt good for a second because maybe it was the first real compliment he’d gotten at school. He’d gone home grinning like an idiot, stomach flipping with something close to pride, until Demetri pulled him aside the next day, explaining it slowly, almost gentle, like he was breaking bad news to a little kid. Eli had thought that was cruel, wanted to shove him or tell him to shut up, but looking back now, it made sense.

That was just Demetri, though. Always seeing things exactly as they were, or sometimes even worse, never letting Eli hold onto the nicer version of the story for long. A lot of that old resentment had started there, tucked away in moments he didn’t really want to unpack, and tonight wasn’t the night to start digging around in that mess.

Dropping down into the chair Miguel had pulled out for him, Eli ignored the way it wobbled a little under his weight. Leaning back, he spread his knees for balance and reached into his pocket, pulling out his phone in a move so casual it almost didn’t even feel like a defense mechanism anymore.

He flicked the screen on and started pretending to scroll through his notifications, thumb swiping over the blank lock screen like he was checking something important, even though the only notification was a text from Demetri to the group chat, sent an hour ago — a reminder that the party started at seven but seven really meant nine. Eli didn’t open it, though he did want to remind Miguel again that it was okay if they were late. He just kept his eyes locked on his phone, giving himself a second to breathe and settle the weird pulse of tension still crawling under his skin from Miguel’s stare.

He was glad he didn’t really think about that old stuff much anymore. The insecurities and all the ways his head used to twist things up had mostly faded into the background. Not gone, not really — they’d probably never actually go away — but quiet enough that he didn’t trip over them every time he looked in a mirror. It helped when most people were too busy being scared to say anything at all, more focused on the mohawk or the ink or the glare than anything else he might have once worried about. 

And it helped even more that Miguel kept tossing out these casual compliments, the kind that felt real. The ones about how his hair looked sick, or how fast he moved, or that he was actually funny when he wasn’t even trying. Eli always acted like it didn’t matter, rolled his eyes or shoved Miguel’s arm or shot back some half-assed insult, but it did matter. It stuck somewhere deep, settled there warm and dangerous, like if he let himself think about it too long he might end up saying something so stupid he’d want to crawl out of his own skin.

He could hear Miguel moving around, the scrape of the chair wheels on the floor and the soft clink of makeup jars bumping against each other, all of it sharp and loud in the quiet room. Eli glanced up quickly, catching the shape of Miguel’s back as he bent to grab something from the lower shelf — a plastic bag that looked like it was ready to explode with even more random makeup crap.

There was something weirdly calming about it. Watching Miguel get so focused, so careful, like Eli wasn’t even there sitting on the edge of a meltdown.

He flicked his thumb against the edge of his phone again, trying to distract himself. “Where’d you get all this crap, anyway?” he asked, letting it slip out mostly just to fill the space.

Miguel looked over his shoulder, a small smile twitching at his mouth like he actually found the question funny. “Moon,” he said, tugging the bag open and starting to unpack more of it one handful at a time. “She let me borrow it.”

Of course. Moon. 

Eli nodded automatically, not really sure what else to say. She was like that, weirdly soft and too sweet sometimes, the kind of person who made everything sound like a compliment even when it wasn’t meant that way. And despite everything that had happened, it hadn’t been messy. No big fights, no slammed doors, no picking sides.

He’d gotten lucky there. Moon still waved when she saw him, still smiled like she hadn’t once kissed his cheek in the middle of the mall or called him sweet in front of everyone. It wasn’t weird between them now. They’d just… ended. Quiet. Like they both knew it wasn’t going to last and decided to step away before it got ugly. It was nice. Especially since it was senior year and Moon had insisted that she didn’t want to go to college with any bad blood.

Miguel though — Miguel hadn’t been that lucky.

Eli shifted in the chair, feeling it creak under him, and dropped his eyes back to his phone. He wasn’t actually looking at anything now, just tapping it against his leg because sitting there with nothing to do felt like being pinned under a spotlight.

Miguel and Sam were still doing that awkward avoidance dance, like they might set each other off just by breathing the same air, even though it had been more than a month since they split. They couldn’t last ten minutes in the same room without someone — usually Miguel — coming up with an excuse to disappear.

Not that Eli minded.

Less Sam meant more Miguel.

More movie nights that ended with them half passed out on the couch under the same blanket, sharing a bowl of popcorn, Eli pretending not to track every tiny shift in Miguel’s expression. More study nights that turned into dumb doodle wars and shoving matches that left Eli breathless and laughing so hard his chest hurt in a good way.

More of Miguel’s attention, all of it, like Eli was the only thing worth looking at.

Sometimes, in the middle of those late nights, he’d catch himself wondering stupid shit — like what Miguel’s hair would feel like if he just buried his hands in it, or if Miguel would taste like the cheap popcorn butter they always fought over, or if he’d make that same soft laugh against Eli’s mouth—

God, he needed to get it together.

Eli swallowed and glanced up again just in time to see Miguel unscrewing the lid off a little jar of white face paint, inspecting it critically before setting it down and grabbing a clean sponge.

Miguel looked up, catching Eli’s eye for half a second before flashing a grin. “She’s got the good stuff,” he said, a small huff of amusement in his voice as he gestured to the mess he’d made on the desk. “Moon’s, like, obsessed with this brand. Swears by it. She even labeled the brushes.” He held one up — a tiny, delicate thing — and sure enough, there was a little strip of tape wrapped around the handle with Moon’s name written in perfect, curling script.

“Anyway, we really should hurry up,” Miguel said, shifting forward in his chair, sponge in hand, already looking dangerously like he was about to get to work whether Eli was ready or not. “I mean, if we’re late—”

Eli rolled his eyes, cutting him off before he could even finish. “How are you gonna rush me when you’re still a civilian?” he said, dragging the word out with mock seriousness, jerking his chin at Miguel’s sweatpants and plain black t-shirt like it was proof.

Not that Miguel didn’t look good like that. In fact, it was kind of a problem.

The plain black t-shirt stretched just enough across Miguel’s shoulders to hint at the muscle underneath, clinging in places Eli tried not to stare at for too long. His sweatpants were faded at the knees and a little loose at the waist. Eli recognized them immediately; they were his, technically, or had been, before Miguel borrowed them forever ago. He’d never asked for them back, mostly because the idea of Miguel wrapped up in his clothes was doing something dangerous to his brain.

And then there was that little gold chain around his neck, the one Sam had given him forever ago. Miguel probably didn’t even remember where it came from anymore, or maybe he just didn’t care, but Eli hated that it was from her. Hated it and, at the same time, couldn’t stop staring at it. It probably wasn’t even real but it looked stupidly good on him, catching the light every time he turned, hanging there against his throat like it belonged.

Eli tore his gaze away before he got caught staring, shifting in his chair and tapping the edge of his phone against his thigh in a restless rhythm. 

Miguel wasn’t even in fucking the costume yet and he was already acting this pathetic. 

The Batman suit was laid out across the bed, freshly washed by his mother who had insisted he couldn’t wear it straight out of the thrift, which Eli wholeheartedly agreed with. Honestly though, it looked expensive. Even if it was a lowkey and toned down version of the outfit, Eli would’ve never known he’d gotten the miscellaneous pieces out of the bins at Goodwill if he hadn’t been there himself.

And Miguel in it? Eli swallowed against the dry scrape of his throat. 

Yeah, he was screwed.

It was stupid — embarrassingly stupid — but he’d had a thing for Batman ever since he was a kid. Not Batman, exactly. Christian Bale Batman. Eli had worn out his Dark Knight DVD to the point it skipped in the middle of the Joker interrogation scene, and could practically quote it line for line. Back then, he hadn’t understood why he kept rewatching it, why he cared more about Bruce Wayne standing there in the suit, bloodied and stubborn and way too intense, than he did about the explosions or the gadgets.

He understood now. Unfortunately.

It was worse now that he remembered that this — Joker and Batman — could technically count as a couples costume. Not that anyone would ever say that out loud, but come on. They were obviously supposed to be partners. Eli had been silently thrilled ever since they landed on it, barely holding back a grin when Miguel called them a duo. He distinctly remembered being thirteen and so quietly obsessed with the Dark Night that after spending a whole night scanning fan theories, he ended up on some niche blog reading a fanfic far too explicit for a kid that age, the kind that still made his face flush if he thought about it for too long. But still, it was there. In that weird, unexplainable way he would never, ever say out loud, mostly because it made him giddy in a way that felt completely unmanageable.

Dragging a hand through his damp hair, he forced himself to focus on Miguel’s hands instead, not that it was much safer. Miguel was fiddling with the cap of a small bottle now, squeezing a little puddle of white paint onto a palette and swirling the sponge into it, all easy, methodical motions. He worked the sponge like he’d done it a thousand times before, which — knowing him — he probably had. Miguel was one of those people who learned a skill just to see if he could, and then got weirdly good at it without ever making a big deal out of it.

Eli shoved his phone into his pocket, feeling restlessly exposed without it. “You sure you know what you’re doing?” he muttered, fully teasing because he had never once doubted Miguel’s abilities in anything. In fact, when he had offered to do his makeup, Eli jumped at the opportunity. Partly because he was sure he would fuck it up by himself and mostly because he wanted Miguel to touch him.

Miguel huffed under his breath, a sound loud enough to break Eli out of his increasingly concerning thoughts. His breath was riddled with the kind of fake annoyance he pulled when he was concentrating and someone (usually Eli) was needling at him. He didn’t bother answering right away. Instead, he shifted closer, bending over slightly so he could lean over Eli, one hand braced lightly against the back of the chair for balance, the other still holding the sponge. Eli barely stopped himself from shrinking back. Not because he didn’t want it — God, he wanted it — but because Miguel’s sudden nearness short-circuited whatever part of his brain handled normal social interactions.

“You’re lucky I like you,” Miguel muttered finally, the words low and a little too close to Eli’s ear as he angled the sponge toward his face.

Eli snorted, tilting his chin up obediently, silently wishing Miguel had said that in a different context. “Don’t act like this isn’t the highlight of your week.”

There was a grin in Miguel’s voice when he replied, “Yeah, torturing you is my favorite hobby.”

The first dab of the sponge caught Eli off guard. The sudden coolness of the paint and the faint drag of texture across his cheekbone. He hissed through his teeth before he could stop himself, jerking slightly in the seat.

Miguel stilled instantly, pulling back a fraction. “Chill,” he said, laughing. “It’s not acid.”

“Feels like it,” Eli grumbled, even though it didn’t. It was just cold and unexpected, and paired with Miguel’s warm body leaning in close, it felt a hell of a lot more intense than it should.

Eli clenched his hands into fists where they rested uselessly against his knees, knuckles tight and white, then slowly forced them to unfurl. Open, close. Open, close. A stupid trick, something Sensei Larusso had chanted once — aggression’s a waste of energy, breathe through it, keep your hands loose. Not that it helped much now.

It was probably because it was meant for mid-fight, not mid-meltdown over his massive crush spreading white paint on his face.

He could still feel Miguel, warm and steady, the faintest ghost of contact along his jaw and the paint cooling against his skin, tightening slightly as it dried. He squeezed his hands closed again, nails biting into his palms, trying to will his heart rate down to something that wouldn’t get him laughed out of the room if Miguel somehow heard it.

Another breath. He cracked his eyes open, cautiously, just to orient himself again, and immediately regretted it.

Miguel’s face was right there, barely a few inches away, bent close in his concentration. His brow was furrowed slightly, the crease between his eyebrows deepening the way it always did when he was focused, his lashes casting faint shadows under his eyes. His mouth was pulled into a tight line, not upset, just serious, like he was trying to get this exactly right and wouldn’t accept anything less.

Eli kept staring, helpless against it. His eyes caught on the small cut on Miguel’s bottom lip: a thin, faint line, almost healed, but still raw around the edges. He recognized it immediately. Sparring injury, probably from that last round yesterday when they’d gone too hard without pads, too stubborn to tap out. Miguel always chewed at his lip when he was thinking, even if it stung. Eli wanted — absurdly, irrationally — to reach out and smooth his thumb over it. See if it would stop hurting.

He dropped his gaze before he could do anything stupid, but it didn’t help much. If anything, it just made it worse. His eyes landed on that gold chain again, glinting against his skin every time he shifted. Again, he should have hated it on principle but it looked so damn good. 

Stupidly, just for a second, he caught himself wondering what it’d feel like to tug on it, to lean in and just… suck at the skin right above it. 

Wow, he really needed to stop thinking right now.

But… he couldn’t. Because stopping meant breaking the silence, and breaking the silence meant actually saying something out loud, and to start talking would mean Miguel slapping him for interrupting his flow state or whatever bullshit he called that point in his art process where he stopped smiling and was just silently stoic. 

Miguel shifted slightly, leaning in to angle the sponge toward Eli’s mouth, thumb brushing carefully along the edge of his jaw. The touch was so light it barely registered, but it made Eli’s pulse jump all the same.

“Almost done with the base,” Miguel murmured, voice low, as he dabbed the last bits of white around the perimeter of Eli’s face.

He finally stepped back, leaving Eli feeling weirdly cold without Miguel’s steadying hand on his jaw. Eli swallowed against the sudden dryness in his throat, trying to ignore the stupid, disappointing little tug in his stomach now that Miguel wasn’t touching him anymore.

Miguel turned toward the table, leaning forward to set the sponge down carefully next to the little jars and brushes he’d laid out earlier, and Eli’s gaze caught helplessly on the thin strip of bare skin that appeared at Miguel’s lower back, where his shirt had ridden up just enough to expose a sliver of smooth, warm-toned skin.

Fuck.

He really, really didn’t need to see that right now. Especially not when Miguel was leaning even further over, opening the drawer beneath the desk and bending at just the perfect angle to make Eli’s brain misfire again. Eli bit the inside of his cheek hard, forcing his head to turn away like some kind of frantic self-preservation reflex, eyes staring determinedly at the blank wall instead.

He tried to think about literally anything else—the sting of his bleached scalp, the scent of paint drying sticky and weird on his face—but nothing could drown out the image now burned into his mind: Miguel’s back, smooth and solid, that dumb little curve of muscle right above his waistband, the dip of his spine disappearing beneath fabric, skin Eli was suddenly dying to touch, or maybe press his mouth to—

Yeah, no. He was definitely not going there. Not tonight. Not ever, if he wanted to make it out of this room alive and without embarrassing himself into an early grave.

Blowing out a breath, slow and careful, Eli waited until he heard Miguel shifting again, the quiet click of the drawer sliding shut. Only then did he risk glancing back up, praying his face wasn’t betraying every inappropriate thought racing through his mind.

When Miguel finally straightened up, he was turning back around to face Eli, with what looked like a fistful of tiny brushes. Eli only recognized them because he had bought them for Miguel while they were walking around the mall and Miguel kept circling around the outlet just to stare at them and walk away. Miguel claimed he didn’t want it but Eli knew. He knew Miguel’s mom had been working more to cover all of his physical therapy bills and he knew jrboia;jei So he bought them 

When Miguel finally straightened up, he turned back around holding a fistful of tiny brushes. Eli recognized them instantly, because he was the one who’d bought them.

They’d been at the mall a few weeks back, killing time, when Miguel stopped in front of one of those overpriced art outlets. He didn’t say anything at first, just circled the display a few times like he wasn’t really looking. But Eli noticed the way his fingers lingered on the labels, the way he kept drifting back even after they’d walked away.

Eli also knew Miguel’s mom had been picking up extra shifts lately, trying to cover what insurance didn’t after his physical therapy bills started stacking up. Miguel never talked about it, but Eli could see the way it weighed on him, the way he hesitated before buying anything that wasn’t a necessity or when his mom mentioned work. 

So when Miguel got distracted by a skate shop, Eli doubled back and bought the brushes himself. No receipt, no explanation, just tossed the bag at Miguel’s chest in the parking lot like it was no big deal. Miguel had looked down at it, then back at him, eyes tight, mouth working like he wanted to protest.

Eli had just rolled his eyes and said, “Don’t make it a thing,” before Miguel could get a word out.

He was glad Miguel was actually using them, especially since they’d been more expensive than he’d ever admit. But he really didn’t get why. The Joker makeup wasn’t exactly high art. It looked like it had been slapped on with a pancake and three colors. You didn’t need a labeled brush set to pull off mentally ill clown.

“Uh. What’re those for?”

Miguel hummed under his breath offhandedly as he sorted through more pots of face paint. “The face tattoos.”

Eli blinked. “The what?”

“The Joker tattoos. Y’know. Suicide Squad?”

Jerking back, albeit a bit dramatically, Eli’s back hit the chair with a thunk that momentarily unbalanced him. He stared at Miguel’s face, trying to figure out if he was serious or just screwing with him, but Miguel looked deadpan, like this wasn’t the most insane thing he’d said all night. 

“Jared Leto?” Eli asked, voice full of betrayal. "That Joker?"

Eli let out a breath that was somewhere between a scoff and a groan, trying to tamp his increasingly bothered feelings. That version of the Joker had been so embarrassingly try-hard it made his skin itch just thinking about it: all grills and that fake psychotic energy, like he thought being unsettling was just a matter of doing enough weird shit and calling it art. Eli remembered sitting through that movie in theaters, sinking lower and lower into his seat every time he opened his mouth. It was nearly sacrilegious. 

And now here he was, years later, still pissed about it. Still thinking about it. Thinking about it way too hard for a dumb Halloween costume. Which meant, yeah, he was probably losing it. He was halfway through mentally rewriting the entire movie when Miguel cut in again, voice going high and ridiculous with that tone he only used when he wanted something.

“Pleaaaase,” Miguel whined, dragging out the word like a threat. “You don’t have to like the movie, face tattoos are just so hot.”

Hot?

Eli paused. His first instinct was to scoff, say something about Miguel needing better standards than fake tryhard clowns, but the words didn’t make it past his throat. Because what the hell did that even mean? Miguel thought tattoos were hot? Since when? He’d dated Sam for, like, ever, and she was about as clean-cut as it got. No ink, no bleach, no edge. Just... neat and smart and good.

But if Miguel was into tattoos, if that was a thing he liked, then maybe…

No. Nope. Absolutely not. He was not going down that path.

He forced himself to look away, jaw tight, trying to will the heat out of his face. He was overanalyzing again. Reading into nothing. A dumb throwaway comment. That was all.

Still, he couldn’t shake the thought. And really, would it be that bad?

Against all prior judgment, Eli made the stupid mistake of looking up. Right into Miguel’s stupid round eyes, the ones he used to beg for everything, from skipping warm-ups to getting the last slice of pizza, and just like every other time, Eli immediately lost whatever weak resolve he’d been clinging to.

He exhaled through his nose, already regretting the decision he hadn’t technically made yet.

Crossing his arms across his bare chest, Eli finally grumbled, “Fine,” like it was being dragged out of him under duress.

Miguel lit up instantly. “Yay!” he said, way too loud and way too pleased with himself, already turning back to his little arsenal of brushes like Eli’s opinion had been a formality and not something he was ever going to take seriously in the first place.

He picked up a small brush, and dipped it carefully into the little cap of water, swirling the bristles gently in something dark, mixing the paint slower than he needed to. But then Miguel glanced back at him, just once, something unreadable flickering behind his eyes. A quick look, almost questioning, as if he was checking Eli’s expression or bracing for an objection that Eli didn’t have ready. And before Eli could puzzle out what the hell that meant, Miguel was already looking away again.

“Anyway,” Miguel continued, voice normally pitched, but now deliberately casual. “I saw this guy at McDonald’s last week, he had a face tattoo. It was really small, like a star or something near his eye. But it actually looked... good. Like, really good.”

His voice was careful now, almost testing, like he was laying something fragile out between them, waiting for Eli’s reaction before he decided what to do next.

A guy.

Miguel thought a guy looked good. 

And sure, fine, maybe it didn’t really mean what Eli was making it mean. Maybe it was just one of those passing observations straight guys sometimes made, like when they said another dude had good hair or was built or whatever — always said with that detached, no-homo confidence like admiring someone didn’t mean anything. And Miguel had always been weirdly observant. 

Except he hadn't said it like that.

He said it apprehensively. Almost like he was scared?

And Eli couldn’t figure out why.

It wasn’t like he’d been weird about that stuff, not in a while at least. 

Yeah, okay, once upon a time he’d been deep in that alpha bullshit, back when Cobra Kai was still half a cult and he didn’t know who he was without someone else telling him. He used to puff up at everything, try to crush softness before it could get close. But that version of him was long gone. Stripped away and left behind with all the other shit he didn't want to carry anymore. He wasn’t that guy now. Not to Miguel.

Did he not trust him?

Eli gulped, wringing his hands in his shorts to try and calm himself. The fabric was still damp against his palms, clinging awkwardly to his skin. Because that wasn’t even that wasn’t the worst part.

Because if Miguel was into guys—and apparently he might be—then Eli didn’t have the excuse anymore. He couldn’t tell himself it was just bad luck, wrong orientation, doomed from the start. 

It wasn’t that Miguel couldn’t want him. 

He just didn’t.

He fought the urge to drag his hands over his face, to do something with the restlessness building under his skin, but stopped himself just in time. He didn’t want to mess up whatever Miguel had already done. Anyways, it would’ve felt stupid, smearing white paint everywhere just because he couldn’t keep it together over a casual comment and a two-second glance.

So he sat there instead, fists curling tight in the damp fabric of his shorts, like that might be enough to hold everything else in place.

Maybe he should just get the damn face tattoo. Couldn’t hurt his odds any worse than whatever he was already doing.

Finally, after what seemed like hours, Miguel turned around. He was holding the now thoroughly mixed paint in one hand and a thin brush in the other, his expression just a little too pleased with himself. The corners of his mouth twitched like he was trying not to grin, but failing miserably.

At least Miguel was enjoying himself. That made Eli feel marginally better.

“Alright,” Miguel said, moving in close, too close, stepping into Eli’s space like it didn’t mean anything. “This part’s tricky. I need a steady surface.”

Eli sat up a little straighter, already trying to angle his face in a way that might help, but Miguel was still frowning a bit, tilting his head like he was lining up a shot.

“Actually,” he said after a second, tapping the end of the brush against his own palm, “it might be easier if you sit on the floor.”

Surveying the suggestion for a second, Eli finally nodded once before sliding down off the chair. It seemed normal enough so he settled down onto the carpet in the middle of Miguel’s room. It wasn’t exactly comfortable, and it was doing nothing for his posture but he didn’t really care.

Miguel followed a second later, settling into a kneel right in front of him, one leg tucked beneath him, the other bent just enough to keep steady as he adjusted his angle. His knee brushed against Eli’s thigh as he leaned in, one hand braced carefully on the floor beside Eli’s hip for balance. The brush was poised in the other hand, held delicately between fingers Eli had wished more than once would hold his.

Reaching out again, Miguel wordlessly brought the brush up while sliding his other hand to the back to Eli’s jaw, fingers curling there like it was the most casual thing in the world. His thumb angled Eli’s chin slightly, guiding it without force, just a firm, practiced kind of gentleness that made Eli want to scream into the carpet.

He could feel Miguel’s skin against his, warm and steady, his palm resting just below Eli’s ear like it belonged there. It didn’t. Obviously. But try telling his brain that.

Eli swallowed, but didn’t move otherwise, sitting stiff as a board while Miguel adjusted his grip and leaned in, brows drawn in quiet concentration. He could feel his breath starting to go uneven, heart thudding louder in his ears than whatever throwback slow jam was floating in from the hallway. He needed something to look at. Anything that wasn’t Miguel’s face, which was currently hovering way too close, all soft lips and impossibly dark eyes.

Yeah. No. Eli couldn’t do that.

He looked anywhere else — at the ceiling, the lamp in the corner, the stupid crumpled hoodie Miguel had left on the floor behind him — but his eyes kept drifting back before he could stop them. Drawn in like gravity. And every time he accidentally made eye contact, it was like someone struck a match inside his ribcage.

Miguel didn’t seem to notice. Or maybe he did and was just better at pretending.

The sudden contact of the featherweight brush on his forehead almost alarmed Eli until he remembered why they were even sitting in such close proximity in the first place. Exhaling shakily, he reminded himself: Halloween. Joker makeup. That was it. That was the only reason Miguel was kneeling between his legs with one hand cradling his face like something fragile and the other lightly dragging a brush over his forehead like he was painting fine china.

Totally normal friend stuff.

The brush lifted for a second, long enough for Eli to crack an eye open and instantly regret it. Miguel was frowning, not at him, but at the paint, at the angle, at some invisible detail not living up to his standards.

“Ugh—just—wait, let me—” Miguel muttered, voice tight with frustration, and Eli didn’t even have time to ask what that meant before Miguel moved.

That was really all the heads up he got before Miguel shifted his weight and shuffled impossibly closer. Grumbling a bit more, Miguel somehow decided that it wasn’t close enough. 

Suddenly, with zero hesitation, Miguel lifted one leg and swung it over Eli’s, planting his knee on the carpet beside Eli’s hip. He adjusted his balance, then brought the other leg over, settling both knees to either side. His weight shifted as he sank down carefully, thighs bracketing Eli’s, until he was fully seated in Eli’s lap, chest close, hands bracing lightly against Eli’s shoulders for balance.

And for a second, just a full, brain-stopping second, Eli forgot how to be a person. Not in the poetic sense, but in the very literal, physical, muscle-memory sense. His arms didn’t move. His mouth didn’t work. His spine locked up like he’d taken one of Tory’s hits straight to the solar plexus.

Which at this point would have probably felt more real than whatever this was. 

Eli did not breathe. Breathing felt like it might draw attention to the situation, and acknowledging the situation was officially the most dangerous thing he could do. 

What the fuck.

It wasn’t like he’d never been close to Miguel before. They’d shared a bed. Changed in locker rooms. Play fought until hands lingered in a way Eli tried not to over think about. Hell, they’d inadvertently held hands more times then Eli could count. But this was different. There was no momentum, no excuse, no movement to hide behind. Just stillness. Deliberate, casual stillness.

And okay, yes, the intelligent part of his brain tried to rationalize it immediately: Miguel was clearly just trying to get the angle right. It made sense. Technically. In the most practical, infuriating way. But that didn’t change the fact that Eli could now catalog exactly how much Miguel weighed. Or that his best friend’s ass was in his lap. Or that there was definitely skin-to-skin contact happening somewhere through the layers and Eli wasn’t sure if he should think about it or detach from his body entirely.

He wasn’t thinking clearly. That much was obvious. He could barely feel clearly. His thighs were too aware of the pressure. The heat. The fact that this was definitely not normal for them—not even in the loose, rule-breaking way that their friendship had always functioned. There were hugs and slaps and full-body tackles during sparring, sure, but none of it felt like this.

His hands, traitorous and stupid, hovered for a second like they were waiting for instructions. Rest on his thighs? 

Jesus Christ, no. 

Settle on Miguel’s hips? 

Even worse.

Keep floating uselessly like he was waiting for a ghost to high-five him? 

Somehow that won.

Miguel didn’t say anything. Just started working again, brush in hand, face close, completely unaffected. His thumb pressed lightly under Eli’s chin to tilt it up, like that was just something he did now. Like this whole lap situation wasn’t short-circuiting everything Eli had ever understood about boundaries or the laws of physics or how not to die of secondhand attraction.

Gritting his teeth, Eli stared over his shoulder at a crooked movie poster pinned to the wall, some faded vintage reprint Miguel had found at the thrift when they were looking for his costume and insisted on hanging despite the crease down the middle, and focused hard on the corner where the tape had started to peel. It was something to anchor him, something that didn’t have a pulse or warm thighs or fingers currently cradling his jaw with a level of gentleness that was honestly criminal.

The brush finally resumed its movement. Soft little strokes tracing the outline of what Eli could only assume was some awful, cringey Joker font. But all he could think about was how easily he could tip forward right now. Just a few inches. Just enough to close the gap and—

Nope. No. Absolutely not.

Eli clenched his fists against his knees and willed his brain to evacuate that particular line of thought before it did any more damage. The brush was back in motion, gliding light and deliberate across his skin, but the actual sensation of it had become more background noise than anything.

Just as he was managing to reorient his focus back onto the shitty poster, Miguel shifted again—barely—but it was enough to remind Eli of the full, inescapable weight currently draped across his thighs. Not that he’d forgotten, exactly. He probably would never forget this.

And yeah, he’d thought about this before. Not like this, exactly—not with the paint and the Joker costume and the absurd intimacy disguised as practicality—but in quieter moments, usually when they were watching something half-boring on the couch and Miguel ended up tucked against his side, legs tangled, blanket slipping somewhere between them. There’d be a lull in whatever movie was playing, and Eli would get hit with this weird, restless itch under his skin to grab Miguel by the waist and pull him in, like he was allowed to. Or sometimes, even dumber, he’d want to climb into Miguel’s lap himself, fold into the curve of him like it was a seat made just for him. Not for any particular reason. Not sexual, exactly. Just to be there, to see if Miguel would let him stay. But those thoughts always felt ridiculous when they passed, like intrusive dreams or the kind of fantasy that dissolves the second you try to picture it with the lights on.

He’d never actually expected it to happen, and certainly not like this. 

Especially not with Miguel acting like this was just the most natural seating arrangement in the world. Not doing anything but a cursory glance to check if Eli was okay with it. And maybe, for Miguel, it was. Maybe it was normal to climb into your best friend's lap, to rest your hand on his face like it didn’t mean anything, to breathe warm against his cheek while adjusting a brush stroke without realizing the kind of chaos you were causing.

Eli didn’t notice the brush had stopped moving until the absence of it became louder than the sensation itself—no more soft strokes against his skin, no more quiet shifting of weight as Miguel adjusted himself.

When he blinked back to the moment, Miguel was already looking at him.

Not glancing. Not checking for symmetry or inspecting his own handiwork. Just… staring. That same quiet, too-long stare he’d thrown across the room earlier when Eli had walked out of the bathroom shirtless and damp and regrettably aware of how much skin he was showing. His eyes didn’t look confused or surprised this time, though. Just focused

Miguel tilted his head a little, subtle, but not dismissive. He was definitely still looking at him. His fingers hadn’t moved from Eli’s jaw, either, still warm against him like they belonged there. 

“You good?” he asked, voice lower than before. Still light. But now with that little edge of amusement that made Eli’s stomach do a full somersault.

Eli blinked again, belatedly realizing he’d been holding his breath. “Yeah,” he croaked, then cleared his throat and tried again, a little more convincingly. “Fine. You, uh… stopped painting.”

It felt stupid pointing out the obvious, but Miguel just shrugged, his hand finally pulling away from Eli’s face, but only so he could rest it lightly on his chest instead— which was worse —fingers drumming idly over the line of his collarbone like he couldn’t decide whether he was still working or just stalling. “Got distracted,” he said, casually.

“By what?” Eli asked, too fast, too curious, regretting it instantly.

Miguel didn’t answer right away. He looked down instead, lashes dipping low as his fingers traced a barely-there pattern against the sharp lines of the flowers on Eli’s chest, absentminded, like he didn’t realize he was doing it. And then, when he glanced back up there was a specific kind of shyness that was just so… Miguel.

Eli recognized it immediately. It was the same expression Miguel used, embarrassingly, back when they were fifteen while sitting on the dojo floor and complaining in a too-soft voice about how confusing Sam was being, asking Eli if girls always meant the opposite of what they said. That same mix of hesitation and unfiltered honesty, too earnest for its own good.

He was so caught up in that stupid look—how Miguel’s eyes were warm but uncertain, how he was glancing down and then back up like Eli might vanish if he stared too long—that he almost missed it when Miguel finally mumbled, quieter this time, barely audible over the sound of his own blood in his ears.

“You.”

“What?”

The hand on his chest wasn’t resting there anymore. Rather, it was pressing into him—lightly, but with intent, like Miguel was grounding himself or maybe just trying to see if Eli would pull away. Obviously he wouldn’t.

“Can I…” Miguel started, and then paused, brow tightening a little like he was second-guessing even as the words came out. His voice was softer than it had been all night, less teasing, like the question was fragile in a way he couldn’t cover up with a grin. “Can I kiss you?”

Eli blinked. Hard. He wasn’t sure if he was hearing this right or if the toxicity from the face paint was finally leaking into his bloodstream and screwing with his perception of reality, but Miguel was still there, still in his lap, still looking at him like he was asking a real question and expecting a real answer. No smirk. No sarcastic follow-up. Just honest-to-god nervous eyes and the faintest tremble at the corner of his mouth, like he was bracing for impact.

His brain wasn’t processing fast enough, but his mouth sure was.

“I’m white,” he blurted.

Miguel laughed, quiet and breathy, his shoulders loosening just enough for Eli to really, really wish he could stop time and scrub the damn paint off his face, because this wasn’t how it was supposed to go in his head. And now, of course, Eli could feel it — his breath, warm and ridiculously close, brushing across Eli’s lips like the kiss had already happened and this was just the echo of it.

“You say that,” Miguel murmured, barely above a whisper, “like the Joker isn’t supposed to be a little hot.”

“No one says tha—”

But he didn’t get the rest out, because Miguel’s mouth was already on his. 

It was kind of forceful in a way that made their teeth clack painfully for a second before it smoothed out. Miguel adjusted the angle, hand sliding up from Eli’s chest to the side of his neck, thumb brushing just beneath his jaw as he kissed him again, softer this time.

Eli didn’t move at first, too stunned by the fact that it was actually happening to do much of anything except not pass out. Eventually, he leaned in instinctively, one hand finally lifting from where it had been clenching uselessly against his knee to rest at Miguel’s waist, fingers tightening slightly in the worn fabric of his sweatpants.

The contact was jarring and grounding all at once. Miguel made a sound then, low and muffled, like maybe he wasn’t expecting Eli to kiss him back with quite that much force, but he didn’t pull away. If anything, he leaned in closer, tilting his head just enough to deepen it, one knee shifting forward until he was fully pressed against Eli’s body, warm and anchoring and here.

It wasn’t exactly like kissing Moon. Her lips had been soft and sticky with strawberry lipgloss. Miguel was different. Warmer, rougher. A little chapped at the edges, and Eli instinctively avoided the raw corner where Miguel had been chewing earlier.

Miguel’s mouth was soft and eager and just a little clumsy in the way that made Eli’s chest ache with how real it all felt. His breath hitched as Miguel kissed him again, just as greedy this time, like they hadn’t both been pretending none of this existed for months. It felt so good— too good, honestly—that for a full, weightless moment Eli could almost forget he was covered in white face paint and probably looked like a dying Victorian child two minutes past his final monologue. 

Wait.

Shit.

The makeup.

Eli froze, the realization slamming into him like cold water. He was wearing an entire layer of cheap Halloween face paint. Not just on his cheeks—on his mouth. Which meant Miguel was currently making out with white greasepaint like it was edible.

He pulled back, hesitantly at first, trying to do it subtly enough that Miguel wouldn’t think he was having some kind of regret about this whole thing, but Miguel just chased the movement, still leaning in with parted lips and a breath that hit hot across Eli’s cheek.

When Eli finally managed to get a few inches of air between them and opened his eyes, Miguel was still close. Still smiling while catching his breath. And completely oblivious to the fact that his entire lower face was now completely white.

The bark of laughter escaped before Eli could stop it. It was loud enough to make Miguel blink in surprise, head pulling back slightly like he wasn’t sure what part of this was funny. Eli slapped a hand over his mouth, but it was no use. The laughter kept coming, bubbling up from somewhere deep and chaotic, spilling out in gasping, wheezing bursts as he tried and failed to rein it in.

Miguel’s smile faltered slightly, confusion settling slow over his features like fog rolling in. His brows knit together, lips still curved but twitching uncertainly now, like he couldn’t tell if he’d missed something or made a complete mistake. Eli almost felt bad until he looked at Miguel and started laughing all over again.

“What?” Miguel asked, soft, puzzled, the faintest edge of concern creeping in. “Why are you—what?”

“Your face —oh my god—dude, you look like you went down on a snowman.”

Blinking again, Miguel’s face was blank, clearly running that through his head before he visibly processed what Eli meant. His whole body stilled. His mouth parted, just slightly, like he was about to say something, but then he caught a glimpse of his own hand—white and streaked with smeared paint from where he’d tried to brush his lip unconsciously—and his eyes widened.

“You let me do that?” he demanded, slapping a palm against Eli’s chest, more offended than actually mad. “You knew I was kissing off half your costume and you didn’t say anything?”

He was doubled over now, arms clutched around his stomach, wheezing, as he pressed his face on Miguel’s shoulder in front of him. “I forgot!” he managed, breathless. “I forgot, I swear—”

“I look like I drank a bottle of fucking white-out, Eli!”

Eli finally started to calm down, his laughter tapering off into short, shaky breaths against Miguel’s shoulder, eyes glassy with leftover amusement. He wiped at his face with the back of his hand, probably smudging the rest of the makeup in the process, but at this point, it hardly mattered. 

Dramatically, Miguel groaned, dropping his forehead against Eli’s hair with a theatrical sigh. “Shittt,” he mumbled. “I have to do this again, don’t I?”

Grinning, Eli was still catching his breath, hands drifting a little lower as they settled on Miguel’s hips, fingers tightening without thinking because he was allowed to do this now. “Do you, though?” he murmured, tilting his head. “Because, like… maybe we could just skip to the part where I ruin it again.”

He pulled Miguel in flush with a single, easy tug, their bodies slotting together like puzzle pieces, and for a beat, Miguel didn’t resist. His hands had landed somewhere near Eli’s shoulders, palms flat, hovering like he couldn’t decide if he was going to push or hold on. His eyes flicked down to Eli’s mouth again, and Eli swore he could feel the temptation ripple through him.

Then Miguel leaned in and pressed a quick kiss to Eli’s lips. It was barely more than a peck, just a soft, fleeting press that ended almost as soon as it began. Eli didn’t even have time to react before Miguel was already pulling back, the contact gone so fast it felt like a tease more than anything.

“You totally want to see me in the Batman costume,” he murmured, lips still close enough that Eli could feel the shape of the words against his mouth, and then he pulled back with that same little smirk like he knew exactly what kind of chaos he was causing.

Eli blinked, letting his head tilt to the side like he was actually giving it real consideration, which, annoyingly, he was. Because yeah, part of him did want to see Miguel in the costume. Obviously. It was Batman. His first guy crush, probably. But then again… why the hell would he want that right now, when he already had this — Miguel in his lap, warm and real and kissable as hell, no cape required? His body was still buzzing from the contact, short as it was, his mouth practically aching from how fast it had ended. He didn’t need a fantasy when the real thing was sitting right here.

Still, he made a thoughtful hum, lips twitching. “Or,” he said slowly, “hear me out—” He shrugged, totally casual, like this actually wasn’t one of his most indulgent fantasies. “You put it on, and then we make out.”

He was close to cringing as soon as it came out, already regretting the way the words had left his mouth with so little dignity—but then Miguel dissolved into that inconsolable kind of laughter, the kind that took over his whole body. It started in his chest, rising sharp and unfiltered until he was full-on wheezing, head ducked, shoulders shaking like Eli had just told the funniest joke in the world instead of propositioned him with the subtlety of a brick to the face.

When the laughter finally died down, Miguel looked up at him, flushed and breathless, the same crooked grin still stitched across his face like he hadn’t had a single thought more important than whatever was happening now.

Sliding a hand to Eli’s cheek, Miguel dragged his fingers down in retaliation, smearing the paint further with a mock-serious shake of his head. “You are so dumb,” he muttered, but the fondness in his voice was way too loud to be taken as anything close to criticism. Then he tilted back a little, looking him over like he was assessing the full damage, and, apparently, finding it worse than expected.

“Okay,” Miguel said, still catching his breath. “I really don’t want to do this makeup again.”

He gestured vaguely at Eli’s disaster of a face, then gave him a look that was all exasperated affection and just a tiny bit smug. “Go wash your face. We’re doing your idea.”

“Wait, like actually?”

Miguel just raised an eyebrow, expression dry. “Go. Before I change my mind.”

Eli didn’t need more than that. He shoved Miguel off his lap gracelessly, scrambling to his feet so fast he almost tripped over his own towel on the way up. “On it,” he called over his shoulder, already stumbling toward the door and looking over his shoulder apologetically at the way he pushed Miguel off of him.

He didn’t seem to mind. Miguel was still laughing, head tilted back, the sound muffled by the thud of Eli nearly crashing into the doorframe.

He grinned through the sting, eyes wide, heart hammering, paint already flaking at the edges of his face.

Yeah, this was a weird Halloween.

Best one yet, actually.