Chapter Text
The field of flowers engulfed me as I fell into the soft grass. My mind is running all over the place. I take a long breath calming down. Siting up to be able to look up at the sun that started set. The different colors blending together in a way that you don’t get to see in most places like the city. The baby blue mixing with the pink and orange. Forming a sort of sherbet type of coloring.
The only reason I’m even out here is to “relax”. it’s not exactly helping me that much. My mind keeps going back to the most recent punishment that I had to experience.
`Having to make a random person believe that you’re in love with someone on set.`
They knew that I would just pick a random cameraman. So they spun a wheel landing on the same person I have had a crush on for years. My best friend Q. Any normal person would have just done the punishment and joke about it afterwards. Not this time. Anyone else I would been maybe happy? Doing an embarrassing punishment with your best friend, and not a random person who you don’t know the first thing of. Joe and Murr keep looking back at me and Q after all of it. It’s like they know I like him. They were laughing so much in the mic. It also seemed I only have. Making sense because I was the one having the punishment.
Looking at it as an outsider point of view. It was a funny punishment ment for friends. And it looked like it was. Despite the part that I looked out of it the entire time.
I went up to a cashier and make her believe that me and Q are madly in love. He played his part perfectly. Calling me little nicknames here and there and holding my hand. Even though he did all of that I keep messing up. Looking like a lost puppy for my own punishment. My face was redder than a tomato the entire time. Then he. He went and kissed me! It was just a little peck on my cheek. Knowing it was for the Punishment makes it even worse.
I have known him for years. We’re the closest out of all of the group. Kinda being the worst person to have a tiny little crush. Ok maybe not tiny or little. Maybe it’s a huge crush. That’s not the point right now. We do everything together. For god sake we live in the same house?!
The end of that punishment was hell. They seemed to have Edited it out. Now realizing why they did it makes sense but it would have made for good entertainment. Only i’m happy that it’s not in it was because of that kiss. I would have been made fun of for so long by our fans. Realistically, probably also being Joe, Murr, and obviously Q..
God, why did he have to be so handsome? It feels like the years we have been friends would have made me realize that he’s a stupid person to have a crush on. Like His stupid laughter.. the way he knows how to make every uncomfortable situation a comfortable experience; that you would laugh about for years after. his hand that are covered in calluses from years of working as a firefighter. The way his stupid hair looks perfect without even trying , the way it raps around his perfect face.. it’s annoying actually.
…annoying because every time he smiles at me, I forget how to breathe. And now, sitting in this field like I’m in the world’s saddest perfume commercial, all I can think about is that dumb little kiss on my cheek. The way it burned. The way it still burns, like his lips left a mark even though I know—I know—it was just for the punishment.
Just for the cameras.
Just for the bit.
Just because Joe and Murr were in his ear, telling him to “sell it.”
But I keep replaying the moment in my head and something about it felt… different. Like he hesitated for a second. And that’s the part that sends my brain spiraling straight off a cliff.
I lean back into the grass again, closing my eyes. The wind brushes against my face, almost like it’s trying to cool me down from the embarrassment of thinking Q. Q could ever like me back. My best friend. My roommate. The guy who’s seen me at my absolute worst. The guy who once held my hair back while I puked after eating expired yogurt because “it didn’t smell that bad.”
Yeah. Real romantic foundation there.
I sigh, dragging a hand over my face. Maybe I’m just tired. Maybe the sunset is making me dramatic. Or maybe that punishment dug up feelings I’ve spent years burying under jokes and pranks and late-night takeout runs.
My phone buzzes beside me. I don’t want to look. I already know who it is before I even touch it.
Q: Where’d you disappear to? Joe says you’re moping. I say he’s dramatic. You good?
I stare at the screen, heart pounding way too fast for someone who’s supposedly fine.
Before I can overthink it, another text pops up.
Q: Also, come home?? I made dinner. And I may or may not have burned something. It’s smoking a little bit. Just a little.
A laugh slips out before I can stop it. Of course he’s burning dinner. Of course he’s texting me like nothing happened, like he didn’t just ignite a nuclear explosion in my chest earlier today.
I sit up, brushing grass off my clothes. The sky has shifted to deeper pinks and purples now, the colors melting together like they’re too tired to stay separate.
Maybe I should just go home.
Maybe I should act normal.
Maybe I should keep pretending.
But as I stand, I feel that tiny spark of something—hope or dread or whatever cursed emotion I’m stuck with pulse in my chest.
Because part of me can’t stop wondering…
`What if that kiss wasn’t just for the punishment?`
It’s stupid to think that maybe it was ever not for the punishment. It’s really stupid to think about. Yet I still am.
As it go to grab my phone it starts to ring. The name "Q Brian" flashing waiting for me to answer.
I let it ring not sure wether not to answer. Slowly the screen goes black. I can hear his voice mail start to play.
`Hey Sal? You’re not the type of person to lead me on read. Is everything alright? Joe and Murr are worried about you. I told them that you’re taking a day off but you’re kinda freaking me out here, man. Just… call me back, okay? Or at least text. Please.`
The voicemail ends with a soft click. I stare at my phone like it personally offended me.
Great. Now I’ve managed to worry him. As if I wasn’t already drowning in feelings, now there’s guilt on top of it.
I flop backward again, groaning into my hands.
Why does he have to say “please” like that?
Quiet. Warm. Like he actually cares.
I shouldn’t be surprised—he does care. He’s my best friend.
But sometimes… sometimes it feels like more.
Or maybe that’s just my hopeless brain twisting everything he says into something it’s not.
Before I can spiral further, my phone lights up again—this time with a text, short and painfully Q-like:
Q: Sal, if you died in a field somewhere I’m gonna be so mad at you.
Another one follows immediately:
Q: Not even a funny field. Just grass. At least disappear in a corn maze or something. Something with story potential.
I snort despite myself. He would turn my emotional breakdown into a pitch for better comedic value.
I type, then erase. Type, then erase again. Everything feels too heavy or too obvious or too pathetic.
Finally, I settle on something that feels safe:
Sal: I’m fine. Just needed air. I’ll be home soon.
The typing bubble pops up instantly, like he was waiting with his phone in his hands.
Q: Good. Because the smoke alarm won’t shut up and I need your help.
I shake my head. Of course he does.
Of course that’s the reason he’s blowing up my phone—because he set our kitchen on fire.
Again.
I start walking toward the house, the grass brushing against my legs as the last light of the sunset sinks behind me.
As I get closer to the street, the noises of the city start creeping in—cars, distant chatter, someone’s dog barking like it’s fighting a ghost.
But under all of it, my heart is still hammering the same way it did during the punishment.
That kiss.
That stupid, innocent, world-ending kiss.
I shove my hands into my pockets, trying to steady my breathing.
It was for the bit.
It was for the show.
It was for the punishment.
That’s the truth.
That’s the logical, obvious truth.
But the way he texted me…
The way he sounded in the voicemail…
The way he hesitated before leaning in…
My steps slow as doubt—and something dangerously close to hope—starts pushing up through my ribs again.
What if—just what if—
it wasn’t only for the bit?
I shake the thought away. I can’t go home with that tornado in my head. Not when Q is in the kitchen waiting for me with smoke in his hair and probably the dumbest proud smile because he “made dinner.”
I stop at the edge of our street, staring at the warm glow of our living room window.
Maybe I should tell him.
Maybe I should just get it out.
Maybe it’s time.
…
Or maybe I’ll walk in, fan the smoke alarm, eat charred spaghetti, and pretend nothing is wrong like the coward I am.
I take a deep breath and start toward the house.
One step at a time.
One breath at a time.
And maybe—just maybe— tonight will give me an answer I’m not ready to face.
I take a deep breath and start toward the house.
One step at a time.
One breath at a time.
And maybe—just maybe—tonight will give me an answer I’m not ready to face.
As I walk, my stomach is doing this weird flipping thing that feels like I ate bad seafood. Which, honestly, wouldn’t be surprising in my life. But no—this is worse. This is emotional nausea. That’s so much worse.
The lights of the house come into view, glowing warm and yellow like some corny postcard. It should be comforting, but right now it feels like I’m walking into a confession booth I didn’t sign up for.
When I hit the porch steps, I hesitate. My hand’s on the doorknob, but… I don’t turn it. I just stand there like an idiot.
Great. This is my life now. Frozen on a porch like a sad little statue of regret.
I finally push the door open, and immediately—
BEEP. BEEP. BEEEEEP.
The smoke alarm is going absolutely feral.
And then—
“SAL?!”
Q appears in the doorway like he just got summoned. His hair’s sticking up like he fought a tornado. There’s smoke behind him. He looks like a firefighter who gave up halfway through fighting the fire he started.
He freezes when he sees me.
His shoulders drop, and the relief on his face is… a lot. Like too much. Like he thought I got kidnapped by the field.
“Oh thank God,” he breathes out. “Dude, you weren’t answering, and I—I don’t know, man, I thought something happened. Joe was already planning a search party. Murr said you probably got eaten by a deer.”
I snort. “A deer?”
“He said they’re more aggressive than people think.”
“Okay, he needs help.”
Q cracks a smile but steps forward, wiping his hands on a towel that looks like it’s been through war.
“You good? Seriously?” he asks, softer this time.
My throat does that tight feeling thing again, and I hate it. I swallow it down.
“Yeah,” I say, shrugging way too casually. “Just… needed some air.”
He raises an eyebrow like he knows I’m full of crap but decides not to call me out in the doorway.
“Well,” he sighs, “come help me with the kitchen before the neighbors think we’ve died.”
He turns around.
I follow him, because what else am I gonna do? Run back to the field and become a flower cryptid?
We step into the kitchen, and holy shit—
It looks like a crime scene.
Smoke everywhere. A pot that’s literally welded to the stove. Something black and unidentifiable that used to be food. Maybe. Probably.
“Q,” I say slowly, “what did you do?”
He holds up his hands defensively. “Okay, first of all, it was fine until I looked away for, like, a second.”
“A second?”
“Okay, maybe two.”
“You set pasta on fire, man! PASTA!”
He throws the towel at me. “Don’t judge me! I was worried about you!”
And that shuts me right up.
Like… immediately.
He doesn’t even realize what he said. He’s just busy opening windows and fanning smoke with a cookie sheet like that will do anything.
My heart does this stupid flutter thing. Fantastic. Love that for me.
I grab a chair and climb on it to disable the alarm—because Sal being the one to handle the smoke alarm is the most on-brand thing ever.
As I’m reaching up, Q stands below me, watching like I’m going to fall and crack my head open. His hand’s kinda hovering near my back, almost touching. Almost.
The alarm finally shuts up, and I exhale.
“Thank God,” I say. “My ears were about to file a complaint.”
Q laughs, and it’s soft. Real.
Then he says, “You sure you’re okay? You left kinda fast after the punishment.”
My stomach drops straight through the floor.
I hop off the chair too quickly. “Yeah, yeah, punishment was… you know. Punishment-y.”
“Punishment-y,” he repeats, smirking. “That’s a word now?”
“Shut up.”
He grins wider. Then—his expression shifts. More serious. More careful.
“That kiss didn’t freak you out, did it?”
My heart stops.
My brain stops.
Everything stops.
“I mean—it was part of the bit,” he continues quickly. “They told me to sell it. But you kinda… bolted.”
He scratches the back of his neck, eyes flicking away, suddenly nervous.
“I just wanna make sure I didn’t screw anything up.”
And for a second—just a second—I see
something in his face.
Something unsure.
Something hopeful.
Something terrifying.
I swallow hard.
“I didn’t bolt,” I say quietly. “I just… needed to think.”
He nods slowly, absorbing that.
“Okay. Thinking’s good. Thinking’s… very you.”
“Are you saying I overthink?”
“I would never say that,” he says, hands up. “Mostly ‘cause you’d yell at me.”
I shove his shoulder lightly. He laughs.
And the laugh warms the whole damn room.
But under all the joking, all the
awkwardness, something sits between us like a loaded question neither of us has the guts to ask.
My chest tightens again.
Today.
The kiss.
The texts.
The voicemail.
Now this.
All of it swirling around in my head, messing with me, making everything feel too loud, too heavy, too real.
And even while I stand there in a smoke-filled kitchen with him looking at me like he cares more than he should…
I can’t help thinking it again.
What if that kiss wasn’t just for the punishment?
And for the first time all day…
I’m starting to think I might not be wrong.
I shove his shoulder again, a little harder this time, trying to knock that stupid, hopeful look right off his face. "Yeah, well, thinking's overrated," I mumble, turning away to grab the charred pot with a hot pad. "Especially when I have to think about how to dispose of whatever this is supposed to be."
He laughs, but it’s quieter now, less boisterous. He leans against the counter, crossing his arms, just watching me. The silence that falls between us is thick with smoke and all the things we’re not saying. I can feel his eyes on me, and it’s making my skin prickle. It’s the same feeling I used to get in high school, right before the panic would set in, the feeling of being exposed, of everyone seeing the cracks.
My hand freezes on its way to the trash can. The air suddenly feels too thin. I can smell the burnt pasta, but underneath it, I can smell the antiseptic from a hospital hallway I haven’t set foot in for over a decade. I can hear the distant echo of laughter that wasn't friendly, that was sharp and pointed. The feeling of being cornered, of being the joke, of the walls pressing in so tightly that the only way out felt like making a different kind of escape.
"Sal?" Q's voice cuts through the haze, and it's softer now, laced with genuine concern. "You okay? You look like you're gonna be sick."
I shake my head, trying to physically dislodge the memory. I force a smile that feels like cracking glass. "I'm fine," I say, my voice too bright, too brittle. I set the pot down with a clatter that makes us both flinch. "Just the smell of your cooking, man. It's a chemical weapon."
He doesn't buy it. I can see it in his eyes. He knows me too well. The humor doesn't land; it just sinks like a stone in the smoky air between us. His arms uncross, and he takes a half-step forward, like he's ready to catch me.
"Seriously, Sal," he says, his voice dropping all pretense of joking. "What's going on? You left the set like you were running from something. You're not answering your phone. And now you're standing here looking like you've seen a ghost."
I can't do this. I can't have this conversation here, with him looking at me like that. The concern is a spotlight, and I'm already feeling exposed.
"I told you, I'm fine," I snap, and the harshness in my own voice surprises me. "It was just a long day. I'm tired. I'm gonna... I'm gonna go to my room."
I turn and leave the kitchen without another word, leaving him standing there in the wreckage of his dinner. I can feel his stare on my back all the way down the hall. I don't look back.
I shut my bedroom door behind me, leaning against it as I flick the lock. The click is final, a small, sharp sound in the quiet room. The silence rushes in, but it's not peaceful. It's heavy, pressing, filled with the echoes of the day.
The kiss. The laughter. The look on his face in the kitchen just now.
My hands are shaking. I slide down the door, sitting on the floor, pulling my knees to my chest. The antiseptic smell is stronger in here, a phantom scent from my past. I squeeze my eyes shut, but all I can see is the punishment playing on a loop behind my eyelids. Me, looking like a lost idiot. Him, playing his part perfectly. The kiss. The burn.
It's too much. The walls feel like they're closing in again, just like they did in the field. My breath catches in my throat. I need it to stop. I need the noise to stop.
My eyes snap open and land on the small box on my top shelf, tucked behind old yearbooks. I haven't opened it in years. I don't even know why I keep it. A reminder, maybe. A warning.
But right now, it feels like a promise.
I stand up on legs that feel like they're made of lead. My heart is pounding a frantic, desperate rhythm against my ribs. I reach for the box, my fingers brushing against the dusty cardboard. The old, familiar itch starts under my skin, a siren song of control, of release, of making the pain on the outside match the chaos on the inside.
This is my mess. My head. My history. I dragged it out today, and I have to deal with it alone. I can't let him see this. I can't let anyone see this part of me. It's too broken. It's too pathetic.
I pull the box down, my hands trembling so badly I almost drop it. I sit back on the floor, the box in my lap. For a long moment, I just stare at it, the weight of the decision pressing down on me, heavier than any joke, heavier than any unspoken crush.
Outside my door, I hear a soft footstep, then a pause. I hear Q's muffled voice through the wood. "Sal? You in there?"
I freeze, my breath held in my lungs.
"I, uh... I ordered pizza," he says, his voice quiet, hesitant. "Should be here in like, twenty minutes. I'm... I'm just gonna clean up out here. Just... come out when you're ready. Okay?"
I don't answer. I can't. I just sit there, in the silence of my locked room, with the box in my lap and his worried voice still echoing in my head. And I know, with a terrifying certainty, that I'm not ready. I'm not sure I'll ever be ready. And right now, I'm completely, terrifyingly alone with it.