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At first, it was just fake dating. Nothing serious. No feelings. No strings. Dean knew what Moth was like, cold, distant, slipping in and out of people’s lives without any notice. Never caring who he had hurt in process. Being ghosted by Moth was practically expected. Dean told himself he wouldn’t care when it happened.
For a while, he didn’t.
But after a month of playing pretend, shared looks, accidental softness, almost natural touches, something in Dean started shifting. The act stopped being an act. That terrified him.
So, he did the only thong he knew how to do when things got too real. He vanished first. Moth wasn’t the only one who knew how to ghost. Dean only ever had flings, short meaningless talking stages that led to nowhere. Now things felt more real than ever, in a scenario where everything was supposed to be fake.
No texts. No calls. No explanations.
Silence.
At first, Moth barely noticed. He was used to people drifting away. He was used to letting them.
Then two days passed.
Then three.
The absence wasn’t convenient. It was wrong. It was loud. It was everywhere. Deans’ laughter wasn’t in the room. His stupid flirting wasn’t filling the air. His warmth wasn’t there to contrast Moth’s cold edges.
For the first time, Moth felt the sting of being ghosted.
For the first time, he cared.
With every hour Dean stayed silent, Moth realised something he had spent his whole life avoiding. He didn’t want Dean to be the one who got away. Not this time. Not like this.
Unless Moth did something about it.
Moth hadn’t planned on coming. He didn’t even realise he was walking to Dean’s place until he was standing in front of the door, staring at the metal numbers like they were accusing him of something.
He shouldn’t care. He never cared. People disappeared all the time and Moth didn’t blink.
Dean’s silence was different. Sharp. Loud. Wrong.
It gnawed him in a way he didn’t have a name for.
He knocked once. Short. Stiff.
No answer.
He waited. Too long. He knocked again, harder this time.
Still nothing.
Tension coiled in his chest, uncomfortable and foreign, He wasn’t used to it. He didn’t want to get used to it. “Dean,” he said quietly, but the name sounded strange on his tongue. Too soft. Too vulnerable for his comfort. “Open the door.”
No movement. No footsteps. Just more silence.
He knocked a third time, then added sharper, “I know you’re there.”
Dean hesitated before opening the door just a few inches, enough for Moth to see his face, his eyes – tired, wary, guarded in a way Dean never was around him.
“Moth.” Dean’s voice was rough, not warmly teasing like usual. No smile. No flirtation. Nothing.
Moth didn’t like it. He didn’t know why he didn’t like it, but he didn’t.
“You’ve been ignoring me.” Moth said. The words came out flat but not calm. There was heat under them.
“Yeah.”
“Why?”
Dean huffed a humourless breath. “You really got to ask that?”
Moth tensed. “If I didn’t have to, I wouldn’t”
Dean looked away, jaw clenching. “I needed space.”
A beat of silence.
Moth’s voice dropped even lower. “From me.”
Dean didn’t confirm it or deny it, but the answer was obvious in his silence.
Moth felt something flare in his chest - annoyance, confusion, something else he didn’t want to name. He shifted his weight, fingers tapping against his leg like he needed to keep his hands busy.
“You end things by disappearing?” Moth asked, not harshly. Just factual, almost cold.
Dean’s eyes snapped up. He almost wanted to ridicule Moth for having the audacity to ask that as if he wasn’t a chronic ghoster. Instead, he just asked, “End what?”
Moth didn’t respond. Because he didn’t know. He didn’t know what they were doing or what they were pretending or why this suddenly mattered.
Dean let out a shaky breath. “It was fake, Moth. The whole thing. You didn’t care, and I didn’t want to keep being an idiot who pretended none of this was messing with him.”
Moth froze – not because of what Dean said, but because of how he said it. Quiet. Defeated. Worn down in a way had never seen from him. Moth opened his mouth like he might say something, an explanation, a denial, anything. Nothing came out. His throat locked.
Dean gave a bitter half-smile. “Yeah. That’s what I thought.”
Moth felt that like a blow. The wrongness twisted even deeper, scraping against something he’d rather keep buried.
Dean didn’t shut the door, but he didn’t invite him in either. They stood there, not speaking. Not looking at each other. Finally, Moth said, quietly but pointedly, “You didn’t tell me you were leaving.”
“I didn’t think you’d notice” Dean whispered.
Moth’s fingers curled at his side. He hated how much that sentence bothered him. He hated how much it made his chest feel tight. But he didn’t know how to fix it. He didn’t know how to say anything that wouldn’t make things worse.
So, he said nothing.
Dean’s gaze dimmed just a little at the silence, and he stepped back, as if giving Moth the chance to walk away.
Moth did.
Not because he wanted to; he didn’t know what he wanted; but because staying felt impossible, and talking felt dangerous.
He didn’t look back, but his steps were uneven, too fast, as if distance would quiet the ache.
It didn’t.
For the first time, Moth realised Dean’s silence hurt more than any goodbye he’d ever gotten.
A week passed. A full week. Worst part was that Moth still felt it. That tight, unfamiliar pressure under his ribs hadn’t eased, no matter how much he tried to shut it out, ignore it, drown it, He had tried working. He had tried sleeping. He had tried pretending Dean’s silence didn’t matter. Nothing worked.
So, he ended up at his usual bar – loud, familiar enough that he could go numb if he tried hard enough. This was where he had met Dean a roughly a month ago. This was where the fake dating started. Where the pretending had been easy.
Moth pushed through the crowd, heading towards the same table he always took, the one that faced the bar so he could watch people without being watched. Except tonight he didn’t have to search the room. Because Dean was right there. Standing at the bar. Leaning close to someone, some stranger with bright eyes and laugh. Dean’s smile was wide, charming, practiced. His hand brushed the stranger’s arm in that casual, flirty way Moth knew too well.
Moth froze.
It was like his body locked up all at once. His chest went hot, then cold. Something electric and ugly surged through him, sharp enough to make his fingers curl into fists.
Dean was flirting.
Dean was fine. Fine without him. Fine enough to laugh, to touch someone else, to look at someone else the way he used to look at Moth during the act. Like nothing had happened. Like Moth didn’t matter. Like Moth had been replaced without a second thought.
A heavy, nauseating anger rolled through him, jealousy, but deeper. Possessive. Raw. Unwanted.
Uncontrollable.
Before he even realised, he was moving, Moth was crossing the room, weaving through people with a single, singular focus: Dean.
Dean didn’t notice him at first, he was too busy charming the stranger. Moth stopped behind him, close enough to hear Dean laugh as some stupid joke the stranger had said.
That laugh snapped something in him.
Moth reached out and grabbed Dean’s wrist – not gentle, not rough, just firm. Enough to make Dean turn, startled.
Dean’s smile dropped instantly when he saw him. “Moth?”
Moth didn’t answer. He just stared. Hard. Unblinking. Jaw tight. Eyes dark with something Dean had never seen in him before.
The stranger looked between them. “Uh…is everything okay?”
Dean opened his mouth, maybe to brush it off, maybe to joke, maybe to flirt his way out of the tension. Moth didn’t let him. He stepped closer, too close, crowding Dean against the bar. Dean sucked in a breath, confused.
“Moth.” Dean said quietly, trying to read him. “What-?”
“Stop.”
One sharp word. Low. Controlled. Dangerous in a way only jealousy can be.
Dean froze.
The stranger awkwardly excused himself and disappeared into the crowd, sensing the tension.
Moth didn’t look away from Dean once.
“You’re mad.” Dean said, voice soft, almost cautious.
Moth didn’t answer. His hand was still around Dean’s wrist. Dean’s pulse was racing under Moth’s fingers, fast and uneven.
Dean swallowed. “You don’t get to be jealous. You walked away that day.”
Moth’s jaw flexed. “You didn’t answer.”
“You didn’t give me space.”
“You didn’t say you needed it.”
Moth’s head tilted slightly, eyes narrowing. He still didn’t step back. Dean didn’t push him away. The air between them was thick enough to choke on.
Dean gave a small, humourless smile. “So, what is this, huh? Showing up and dragging me away from someone else? What are we doing now? Territorial games?”
Moth didn’t blink. “I don’t want to see you with anyone else.”
Dean’s breath caught. “Why?”
Moth’s jaw tightened. His voice was low, frigid, but shaking underneath. “I don’t know.”
Dean looked at him, really looked, and something inside twisted painfully.
“Moth,” he whispered, “that’s not enough.”
“I know.”
“But you still came over.”
“Yes”
“You still grabbed me.
Moth didn’t deny it. There was nothing to deny.
“You still don’t want me with anyone else.”
Moth’s grip tightened a fraction. “No.”
Dean’s chest rose and fell, shallow breaths as he tried not to feel everything that came with that admission.
“Moth…” he said again, but he didn’t finish the sentence, because he didn’t know what the hell came next.
Moth finally let go of his wrist but didn’t step away. Instead, he leaned in slightly, his voice barely audible. “I don’t know what this is, but I know I don’t want you gone.”
Dean’s expression cracked; hurt, longing, confusion; but before he could answer, Moth turned and walked out of the bar. Leaving Dean breathless. Leaving the night spinning. Leaving everything worse, messier, heavier. Nothing resolved. Not even close.
Dean wasn’t expecting anyone when he slammed the apartment door behind him that night. He paced the small living room, buzzing from the way Moth had appeared at the bar, jealous, silent, intense enough that Dean’s heart wouldn’t slow down. He was halfway through ripping the label off a beer bottle when the door rattled with a sharp, urgent knock.
Dean froze.
No one knocked like that except…
“Moth?” he called.
The knock came again, harder.
Dean swallowed and opened the door.
Moth stood there, chest rising too fast, hair wind swept, eyes dark and unreadable. He didn’t wait for permission, he pushed past Dean into the apartment, pacing once before stopping in the middle of the room.
Dean shut the door slowly. “You want to tell me why you’re here? Again?”
Moth didn’t turn around. “You left the bar.”
“You walked out first.”
“You didn’t follow.”
Dean laughed sharply. “You can’t be serious.”
Moth turned then, eyes cold, jaw tight. “I am serious.”
Dean threw his hands up. “Why the hell should I chase you? Every time I come closer, you shut down, and when I finally step back, suddenly that’s my fault too?”
“You were flirting with someone else.”
“Od don’t pretend that matters to you,” Dean said, voice cracking at the edges. “You barely look at me most days.”
Moth took a step forward, fists clenched. “I look at you.”
“Not the way I want you to.” Dean snapped.
That seemed to hit Moth somewhere deep, because he flinched. Small, but real.
Silence. Thick. Charged.
Dean shook his head, exhausted. “Just tell me what you want, Moth.”
Moth stepped closer. Dean didn’t back away. They stood close enough to feel each other’s breath.
Dean whispered, “Say something.”
Moth didn’t. He grabbed his shirt instead – and kissed him.
Not gentle. Not soft.
It was angry, bruising, all pent-up frustration and jealousy and things neither of them knew how to say out loud. Dean made a sound. Surprised. Desperate. And kissed him back with equal force, gripping the back of Moth’s neck.
Moth pushed him against the wall. Dean dragged him closer. It was messy, heated, full of teeth and emotion.
But eventually Dean pulled back, chest heaving.
“No.” Dean said breathlessly. “This – this isn’t enough. You can’t just kiss me when you don’t want to talk. When you don’t want anything real.
Moth’s jaw flexed. “I didn’t say that.”
“You didn’t say anything!” Dean shot back. “Ever!”
Moth’s voice sharpened. “Everything I do is real.”
Dean scoffed. “You think grabbing me at a bar and kissing me against a wall counts as communication?”
Moth clenched his fists. “I don’t know how to do this. I don’t know how to say things the way you want them.”
“Then try.” Dean said, voice breaking.
“I don’t want to see you with anyone else.” Moth said quietly.
Dean’s breath halted. “That’s not an answer.”
“I came here.” Moth snapped, louder. “Is that not enough for you?”
“No.” Dean whispered. “Not if you don’t even know why.”
Moth took a step back like he’d been hit. He dragged a hand through his hair, frustrated, pacing like the floor was too small to contain the feeling boiling inside him.
Finally, he stopped.
And then it happened, sharp, unplanned, ripped straight from somewhere he never dared to look.
“I feel thing!” Moth snapped, voice harsh and too loud. “I don’t like it. I don’t know what to do with it. I don’t know what it is, but I know it’s because of you.”
Dean froze.
Moth kept going. “This is the first time someone left, and I didn’t want them to. The first time I cared who you talked to. The first time – “He broke off, breath shaking. “The first time I wanted someone to stay.”
Dean stared at him, eyes wide, mouth parted, everything inside him going very still.
Moth’s voice dropped to something raw and unguarded. “I didn’t mean to feel anything. I didn’t even realise I did until you were gone.”
Dean stepped closer, slow and cautious, like approaching something fragile. “Moth.” He whispered. “Are you saying you care about me?”
Moth swallowed hard. His voice came out quiet and raw. “Yes.”
Dean exhaled like the air had just retuned to his lungs. “You could have just said that.”
“I didn’t want to say it.” Moth admitted. “Saying it makes it real.”
Dean reached out and gently touched Moth’s jaw. “It’s been real. For a long time.”
Moth didn’t pull away. He leaned into the touch, barely, but enough.
“I don’t know how to do this.” He murmured.
Dean smiled. “Then we figure it out together.”
Moth closed his eyes, finally letting the tension leave his shoulders.
“…Okay.”
Dean stepped forward and rested his forehead against Moth’s. “Stay tonight?” Dean whispered.
Moth didn’t answer with words. He just nodded and pulled Dean into him, slow this time. Soft, not angry, not rushed.
Not fake.
Real. Finally Real.
For the first time, silence between them felt safe.