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Froste was positive the balcony was plotting against them.
“Do you hear that?” he asked, voice low like sharing a secret with the air. “That *creak*? It’s not a balcony noise. It’s the sound before disaster. I swear, one day, when we’re streaming or—God forbid—sleeping, it’s gonna collapse. Right under our feet.” His fingers gripped the rickety neon-green lawn chair arms as though the chair’s survival depended on his will alone.
Classy, sitting in his own equally battered chair, had learned to smile at Froste’s dramatics. He focussed on his phone, framing the fading sunset like he was making a masterpiece out of their imperfect world. “You’ve been saying this since May.”
“And it’s gotten worse.” Froste shifted nervously. “One of these days we’re gonna be live on the news as 'Balcony Collapse Victims.' I refuse to go like that.”
Classy smirked and looked up briefly. “A noble death on a $9 plastic chair—very epic.”
Froste threw a glare that didn’t reach his smirking eyes. The balcony groaned quietly under the weight of two tired roommates and a sky turning from pink to deep purple.
Night after night, they sat there, side by side but worlds apart online, talking about everything from streaming mishaps to dumb jokes that only they found hilarious. The rest of the world with its chaos felt distant from their tiny balcony kingdom.
Then there was the mattress.
The air mattress had slowly betrayed them. First, it was just one corner sagging. Then it became a slow, insidious slide towards sleeping on what felt like the floor, lumpy and uneven.
One morning, Froste woke up abruptly, hip hitting the floorboards with a solid *thunk*. “Classy, we’re sinking. Like Titanic sinking, except less glamorous and more… vinyl.”
“Go back to sleep.” Classy’s voice was a mixture of worn-out patience and affection.
“No! This is serious. Violins and everything.” Froste flailed dramatically, half awake, half desperate for justice against the offending mattress.
“You volunteered for the mattress.”
He sighed. “You said it was temporary!”
“It is. Kind of.” Classy turned onto his side, too awake now to sleep flat. “Mostly temporary.”
So every night the mattress deflated just a little more. Neither of them fixed it. Neither had the heart to wreck the routine—tangled limbs and shared blankets, familiarity in worn vinyl valleys. Froste complained, loudly and often, promising a new mattress someday but never ordering one.
They both liked this half-made home, the permanent imperfection that somehow felt perfect.
One night, the warm glow of the broken balcony light flickered softly as Classy leaned his head back and murmured, “This… this actually feels like home.”
Froste poked him playfully. “The all-time sad balcony and a mattress that’s basically a trap?”
“Yeah. But with you.” Classy’s voice was softer than the night around them.
A hush settled, not empty but full—full of all the unspoken things that made two roommates more than roommates.
Froste looked over, his grin quieter now, less dramatic and more something steady. “You ever thought about sharing, like, a real bed?”
Classy’s laugh was warm, low. “As long as I get a chair on the balcony, I’m good.”
They laughed and sat back, the creaking chairs holding them steady as the city breathed below.
The balcony creaked again. Froste narrowed his eyes at the two mismatched lawn chairs as if they’d betrayed him personally. “I swear, Classy, one wrong move and it’s over for us. The landlord said the whole thing would get redone, but we’ve been living here six months. What do you think the odds of this place surviving our combined weight are?”
Classy took a slow sip of his iced coffee, the corners of his mouth twitching into a lazy grin. “Let’s see. You’re about as dramatic as the last three games we lost in a row, and I’m confident this balcony only fears your screams, specifically.”
Froste swatted at the air suddenly. “Hey now, I have excellent aim and zero screams.”
“You called that three-hour lost streak an ‘art form in suffering,’” Classy reminded, gestures elegant even while seated on peeling plastic.
Froste snorted. “Pot, meet kettle.”
They sat side by side, thin plastic chairs creaking in sympathy as the sunset bled across the sky. Their apartment was small, sometimes frustrating, and never quite homey, but somehow the nights on the balcony were the best part. The city hum and creaky floorboards and mismatched furniture made for an imperfect kingdom. Their kingdom.
It was an unspoken tradition by now—this time every evening was balcony time. Complaints volleyed back and forth while watching the sun dip behind the faded rooftops. Tonight was no exception.
“So, about that mattress…” Froste said while stretching his leg out just enough to brush Classy’s. “I’m not saying it’s a death trap, but it’s definitely more ‘soggy pancake’ than ‘comfy bed’.”
Classy raised an eyebrow, clearly unimpressed. “I checked your side this morning—it’s basically a small pool. Did your hip summon the floor when you toppled off again?”
Froste groaned dramatically. “Yeah, yeah, poopy mattress. Maybe once it sags enough it’ll create a gravity well and I’ll never have to move in the mornings.”
Classy chuckled and flicked Froste’s ankle with his finger. “Stop dreaming and help me convince the landlord to get a new one. It’s basically charity if you think about it.”
Froste gave him a mock theatrical look of horror. “Charity? You try that, and I’m out. I’m a proud man who camp-outs on his deflating mattress like a warrior.”
The banter was warm but casual, the kind that grew from shared routines and comfort.
A comfortable silence fell as the sky deepened and the first stars blinked awake. There was a softness in Froste’s eyes when he glanced sideways at Classy that made the world slow down a little.
“You know,” Froste began, voice quieter now, “it’s weird. This shitty mattress, these broken lawn chairs, this whole mess feels… alright. Better than alright, actually.”
Classy shifted, meeting that glance without hesitation. “It’s the company, not the furniture.”
Froste smiled then, slow and genuine, the kind of smile that made hearts skip if you weren’t careful. “You’re a real sap, you know that?”
Classy’s lips twitched upward. “Says the guy who sleeps on an air mattress that’s basically a trampoline for ants.”
Leaning closer until their shoulders touched, Froste’s voice dropped into a teasing whisper. “Maybe you should try it sometime. I’ll save you a spot in the valley of slow deflation, Classify.”
Classy laughed softly, heart quietly fluttering in that low light. “As long as you don’t hog the chair on the balcony, I’ll consider it.”
“Deal. But you have to admit, these creaky chairs are pretty great for late-night talks.”
“Agreed. They’re like the thrones of our little kingdom.”
The balcony groaned again — but this time, Froste and Classy just smiled, finding their balance in the imperfect, shared spaces and in each other.
“Think we’ll make it a year before the landlord fixes this place, or before the mattress finally wins?” Classy asked with a smirk.
Froste grinned back, tugging a blanket tighter around them. “As long as we’re together, I’m pretty sure we can survive anything.”