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The blinds are drawn, the fan’s rattling in the corner, and Theo’s floor is a mess—empty water bottles, textbooks he hasn’t opened in weeks, a sock with no partner. Boris is lying sideways across the bed, head dangling off the edge like he’s melting into the carpet.
Theo’s halfway through a chapter he’s not absorbing when it happens.
“NOOOOO,” he moans, loud and dramatic, “not again.”
Boris doesn’t even flinch. Say It Ain’t So plays, fuzzed out through his half-broken earbuds.
“You’re obsessed, man,” Theo groans, rolling over like he’s being physically assaulted by Calpurnia.
“And yet,” Boris says, barely hiding a smirk, “you always do this.”
“Do what?”
Theo already knows. He's halfway to stealing the second earbud, plucking it from Boris’ ear like it’s his right, then slumps onto the bed beside him. Their shoulders press together without thinking. Boris' hair smells like smoke and sweat and cheap shampoo.
Theo doesn’t move away.
“...I hate this song,” He mutters instead. He doesn’t mean it.
They both mouth the lyrics. They both tap their fingers on their own thighs. Or was it each other's thighs? They were too high to know the difference. Theo’s foot starts bouncing without rhythm. Boris headbangs once—too hard—and the back of his skull knocks Theo’s temple.
“Ow.”
“Was your fault.”
“You moved.”
“Was vibing.”
Theo stares at the ceiling. The chorus kicks in again—Say it ain’t soooooo, your drug is a heartbreaker—and it’s loud and messy and theirs. Boris doesn’t stop mouthing the words. His knuckles brush Theo’s hand once. Maybe on purpose.
Neither of them says anything.
And neither of them takes out the earbuds.
The Pt.2 No One Asked For
It’s almost 3 a.m. when Theo realizes they never stopped the music.
His phone’s on low battery. The earbuds are still tangled somewhere between them, one draped across Boris’s chest, the other hanging uselessly by Theo’s collarbone. The room is dark, save for the dim flicker of the streetlight filtering through the blinds.
Boris is still here.
And he’s asleep.
Like—fully asleep. On Theo’s bed. On top of Theo’s arm.
His hair’s a mess, half his shirt is twisted around his ribs, and he’s breathing deep and slow with his mouth slightly open. There’s a faint bruise under his jaw from a fight Theo doesn’t know the details of. His lashes are stupidly long. He’s warm.
Theo should move.
He doesn’t.
He should unplug the earbuds and roll over and pretend this didn’t happen.
He doesn’t.
Instead, he lays there, heart crawling up his throat, arm going numb, trying not to look at the way Boris’s fingers twitch in his sleep. Trying not to feel the press of Boris’s knee resting way too close to his thigh. Trying not to think about how natural it feels, like they’ve done this before. Like they’ll do it again.
Then—Boris stirs.
Theo freezes.
Boris mumbles something incoherent. His eyes crack open, hazy and red-rimmed.
“…Thee?”
Theo panics. “What?”
Boris squints at him for a long second. Then—
“Shut up,” he says.
And he flops closer.
One arm slings lazily across Theo’s stomach. Not fully a hug, but not not a hug either. Theo forgets how to breathe.
He thinks: If I move now, he’ll wake up.
He thinks: If I stay, I might actually die.
But he doesn’t move.
The last thing he remembers before finally falling asleep—heart racing, skin burning, everything too much—is Boris’s breath soft against his collarbone.
The earbuds are still tangled between them.
The song starts over.