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Shake hated the aftermath of fights more than he hated the fights themselves.
As per usual, Shake was the instigator, so he had no one to blame but himself if he felt unhappy now. He'd forgotten how they had even escalated to such a bitter argument in the first place. Maybe Frylock was reaching the end of his tolerance for him after all these years. Served him right.
He glanced over at the other. Frylock was rubbing his hands over his face as if he could erase the ordeal from his memory with physical force.
He felt the need to scrutinize Frylock's every breath and movement, like he would be able to decipher his exact thoughts if he focused hard enough. He wasn't sure what he was waiting for; maybe it was for Frylock to snap and call him a fucking failure, like he deserved.
Shake just sat on the edge of Frylock's bed, picking at his own nails, slumping in on himself like a wilted daisy.
"Maybe I shouldn't be here anymore,” he said finally.
“Alright, then go.”
Shake didn't move.
“What… Do you want to move out?”
“No, I mean -” Shake drew in a breath tiredly. “I probably shouldn't even be alive at this point. All I do is piss you off.”
Frylock's heart jolted as if he'd been stabbed.
“God, don't say things like that, Shake,” he answered uneasily. “You're wrong, again. You're supposed to be here. With me.”
The man huffed out a laugh.
“Sure… it's a nice thought.”
Silence returned to the bedroom like a cold fog.
Frylock didn't know what to say anymore, so he sat down beside him, reached for his hand and gently placed a kiss on the back of it. Shake's expression suddenly softened.
"I make you miserable, don't I." He spoke with a voice not quite his own. It was unfiltered, almost ashamed, if he could still feel such a thing.
Frylock's eyes flashed open and he looked intensely at Shake with furrowed brows. The other wouldn't make eye contact. He pulled his bare hand away, rubbing at it like he missed the feeling of his gloves. Frylock was once again at a total loss for what to say. The words echoed in his head. I make you miserable, don't I.
He despised hearing it, because it was true; Shake did make him miserable, almost as consistently as he made Frylock happy. The highs of their relationship made his heart soar with adoration for Shake. The lows made him reconsider everything about the life they had built together.
The man was a mess, his past was a mess, and Frylock had enough experience with therapy to know that those were reasons for mistreating other people, not justifications, nor excuses. There was a dividing line between a naturally combative personality and unjustified cruelty.
But he loved him. He loved him too much to even consider the alternative of being miserable with him.
"...No. Not miserable," Frylock said, breaking the uncomfortable silence. "You make me frustrated, you make me nervous, you make me feel, I don't know, unlikable sometimes -"
"You're likable," Shake corrected him instantly. "You are so likable that I hate you. Do you know what I mean?”
“...Don't hate me.”
“I don't,” he replied simply, staring at the floor. “I don't think I ever will.”
Frylock's throat tightened with the urge to cry. He instinctively longed to wrap his arms around Shake and cover them both with a blanket, as if it could shield them from the hurt that bled from inside him. But it couldn't. He thought of Meatwad, his wonderful boy, who was probably dreaming in the next room over, and he made a silent, desperate prayer that he'd never know this feeling.
Shake slowly pulled himself off the bed like he was sleepwalking, and left Frylock's room. He had nothing more to say. It was a lonely night for both of them after that.
Somehow, they were still learning how not to hurt one another after a decade of their lives spent together. Maybe the work would never truly be finished, because every tear they shed just seemed to wet the knot.