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There was an itch in Roblox’s chest, deep and guttural, like a cough but too deep into his lungs. Roblox didn’t like to cough; it was unnecessarily loud and crude, intrusive and disruptive. He tried to find alternatives instead—tightening the muscles of his throat as if he could scratch the itch manually, swallowing repetitively, clicking his tongue—any silent alternative to something so brash.
In the silence of his room, however, while Builderman was out of the house, he let himself hack up a lung. Maybe it was because he had suppressed coughing for too long, and he had simply forgotten the feeling, but his eyes watered, and his hand, instinctively, flew up in front of his mouth; his lungs burned, it felt like he was drowning in his own inability to breathe, like a fresh-born babe that hadn't yet adjusted to Robloxia’s air until their face turned red and purple with its deprivation until it was forced to learn to breathe.
There was a dislodge, and for a moment, Roblox was scared he had somehow damaged something in his throat, until he felt something soft and wet on his palm, and a sour, almost floral taste invaded his mouth. Roblox closed his eyes, taking a deep breath to try to encourage his stomach to rise and settle, mouth pulling into a thin, straight line.
When he finally opened his eyes, he saw, just resting there in his palm, a small bloom, with five pointed petals—the shape almost resembled that of a star—several curled stamens blossoming from its center. Roblox sighed before standing, walking out of his room to put the thing on a paper towel, and search what kind of flower it was online.
A Rhododendron. Native to northern temperate regions, toxic, and often regarded as a warning. A warning.
Roblox almost wanted to laugh. He wasn’t the one who needed a warning; he knew perfectly well what he was, what he did—he was not the one who needed to be warned.
His fist clenched around the torn petals of the blossom, nectar and spit and blood juicing out of it to absorb into the paper towel. He wanted to throw it on the floor, spit on its lifeless corpse, curse it to the Banlands for daring to send its message to anyone other than who deserved it. But, Builderman would be mad if he made a mess on the floor, so he just put it in the kitchen garbage can, covering it with a few more stray paper towels.
When Builderman got home later that day, Roblox acted like nothing was wrong, as usual. They had pasta for dinner, and Builderman didn’t bat an eye when Roblox got up to refill his water an additional three times.
Roblox knew what Hanahaki was; he knew almost everything about this world. He had been one of the first things to exist, of course, he knew. There was no denial, no internal fight—he was far past that point.
He knew he was in love with Builderman. He knew Builderman would never be in love with him.
And he knew, he knew that his love would kill him one day. He just didn’t know that day would come so soon.
‘Oh, but Ro’, all you have to do is confess your feelin’s for Builderman!’ Some useless part of his brain, the part that wanted to live, likely, supplied. But that was, not true, some hope-fueled half-truth, and to Roblox, it was just a straight-up lie; to be “cured” of this strange disease, almost fantastical in nature, you didn't just need to “confess” (what a juvenile word, Roblox thought, innocent and carefree—like something you’d hear on a school playground); you needed to be accepted, loved in return wholly and sincerely, something that Roblox would never be.
Roblox wanted to believe that Builderman could love him, but he knew any evidence towards that fact was just him forcing different shapes into the square hole. Builderman was perfect, the living manifestation of everything Roblox wasn’t—everything Roblox should be, could’ve been. He was the embodiment of everything Robloxia represented: creativity, friendship, community, love, peace. Builderman was perfect; Builderman spoke no falsities. But when Builderman said he loved him, Roblox couldn’t bring himself to believe it. Because Roblox was not deserving of love, so, how could Builderman love him? But, if Builderman never lied—if Builderman was never wrong, then which was true?
Roblox couldn’t stop himself from thinking wishful thoughts, from remembering rapturous thoughts. How dirtying of him to do that, imagine what he shouldn't, imagine resting his head on Builderman’s bare chest, Builderman’s hand in his hair, just the two of them laying there with content smiles etched onto their faces; imagine Builderman kissing up his spine before resting his head between Roblox’s shoulderblades, warm breath tickling the sensitive skin of the most vulnerable side of his body, and Roblox would have his face buried in a pillow hugged to his chest, still too embarrassed of himself to show his affection outwardly even in his own mind; imagine for only the most fleeting of moments, something Roblox almost regarded as intrusive for the guilt afterward, Builderman’s arms folded over Roblox’s pyramidalis, cheeks resting on his forearms as he looked up with some foreign combination of adoration and love and sensuality that ended up manifesting as some sort of half-blurred obscuration of his face in Roblox’s minds eye.
What vile thoughts, wicked, depraved, iniquitous thoughts. So vile that Roblox, once again, began to cough. He could feel the thin stems forcing themselves from his lungs, their leaves dragging his throat on the way up. This was sick, this was disgusting. He wanted to vomit at the feeling, at the thoughts; he could feel what felt like thousands of little insects making their way up from deep inside of him, vile little crawling things sticking to the inside of him; he needed to sit up, so he did, shooting out from under his sheets, squeezing his mouth closed before another cough tried to force itself out of him, and he choked, instinctively spitting up the petals everywhere—these ones were small ones, small little indigo-purple blooms that grew together from several little stems—they scattered across his bedspread, frail stems cracking and sending their flowers flying in every which way.
And Roblox, tired, emotional Roblox, just looked down at his hands, looking at the few, stray blossoms spit-glued to his sweaty palms. Heliotropes. Eternal love, and wasn’t that the truth? Was Roblox not cursed to be like this forever—to live his life just as these small, worthless little flowers did, facing the sun for the rest of their lives, just trying to feel his warmth, his love?
Roblox didn’t care about the wetness on his hands, the slick spit and mucus soaked into the plants, as he let his head fall into them. He couldn't breathe, and he didn't really want to at that moment, maybe it was from the likely several species of flower growing inside of him, or maybe he was just being emotional again, but his chest hurt.
He wanted Builderman—he always wanted Builderman—he didn't really know what he wanted him to do, hold him, comfort him, maybe. He would feel guilty, regardless, taking advantage of his kindness like that, taking advantage of him for something as silly as reassurance, as comfort, as love. Roblox was a grown man—a CEO, in some capacity, at least— there was no reason he should be crying in bed over wanting a hug from his roommate.
Foolish, stupid, childish, moronic, how could he even think of deluding himself into believing that Builderman would love a man as pansy-like as himself?
He didn’t bother getting up to wash his hands or rinse his mouth; he just rolled over, pulling his bedding to his chest, wiping his chin against some sort of fabric—a blanket or a pillow, he couldn't tell, and he didn't care—gripping, white knuckled into the softness, the warmth, almost pretending that it was another person, that it was Builderman.
°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･
Roblox regretted waking up that morning. It was early in the morning, before the sun even rose, much earlier than Builderman woke up. He came to consciousness wet with sweat, breathing heavily, heart palpitations rapid; he must have had a nightmare, or maybe he had just needed to cough up his gross mixture of rhododendrons and Heliotropes—their petals fanned out across the moistened blankets as he spat them up. Disgusting; he felt like a bucket of spit and sweat had been poured on him in his sleep; he felt like a baby throwing milk up all over itself. How infantile, how impotent.
He, slowly, gathered himself, sitting up in bed and throwing his legs over the side of the mattress. He had fallen asleep fully dressed, which was not something he usually did, due to getting too hot while he slept—evidently, that had been a bad thing to do last night.
Finally standing up, Roblox’s head swam, vision fading to black around the corners like a photograph’s vignette, and he tilted to the side to steady himself against his bedside table. He didn’t cough this time, though the urge was there; he could almost feel the stems slithering through his bronchi, leaves tickling his flesh from the inside.
‘Fuck’ He thought, ‘Why did I have to do this to myself?’
Breathing deeply through his nose, the static pulled back enough to where Roblox was comfortable with standing back up, breathing shaky and shallow. He pressed his hand to his chest, fingers spread, thumb brushing his collarbone when he inhaled.
In, out, in, out.
He separated from hovering over his bedside table like the booster of a rocket, using its momentum to bring himself falling against his bathroom door. He hung off the doorknob for what was probably only a few seconds, catching his breath, before turning the brass; the door opened without any additional movements, bodyweight pressed into it, forcing it to open the second the latch was open. He stumbled for a second, still dizzy, but quickly regained enough composure to throw his outermost leg out, catching himself on the tile.
He was being so loud—Builderman was just a little over a door away, and he was here thumping around like he was the only thing in the world. He really hoped that Builderman couldn’t hear this, or, at least, if he did, he ignored him. Please just let Builderman ignore him.
Because if he didn’t, then he would come in, beautiful, sunny face tarnished with concern for a man who didn’t deserve it, and Roblox wouldn’t be able to stop him from coming, either, mouth too occupied with the physical evidence of his sin forcing itself out of the place he spent so long forcing it into. And maybe Builderman would brush the tears from his face before forcing him to speak, or maybe he would coo as he cradled Roblox to his chest, uncaring of the grime that would then stain his shirt. And he would pull Roblox’s chin, making him look up at that tarnished face, and he would ask him—because of course, Builderman would have noticed the flowers that littered the room, he was just perfect like that, observant; he noticed everything even when Roblox didn't want him to—he would ask Roblox:
“Who is it?” Simple, three words, and Roblox wouldn't be able to lie to him, not with that expression on his face, not with him looking at him like someone had committed a heinous crime of simply not wanting Roblox back.
And Roblox, similarly, would respond simply, with only one word, and he would tear up tasting the first letter in his mouth, tongue tracing a familiar pattern almost subconsciously, before he could stop himself.
But Roblox didn't want Builderman to know, and he didn't even know why. Was he worried about Builderman rejecting him? Yes, of course, but he knew that Builderman was too perfect, too kindhearted and sociable to allow that to get in between them; the status quo would return in nothing but a few hours, and maybe they would forget about Roblox’s silly feelings in a few weeks. But that wasn’t why. That wasn’t—
Roblox coughed again, deeply inhaling before doing it a second time, and his airways clogged. He tried breathing through his nose as he continued, muttering to himself in his head that this, too, would pass, just like the others, and it did after a few agonizing seconds of struggling to cough with increasingly dwindling oxygen.
Out of Roblox’s mouth came a blossom that looked as spicy as it tasted, crimson petals that formed together in a matter almost akin to a puff ball. Roblox recognized these ones instantly—carnations. He would’ve laughed if he hadn't been so focused on catching his breath. He spat the saliva that had been pooling in his mouth into the toilet bowl alongside the flower, not looking to see if there were any unnatural hues within it, before he pushed himself up from the floor and hobbled over to the sink to wash out his mouth. He hadn’t known carnations were spicy before this.
After he had fixed himself into something that almost resembled presentable—Roblox was never really fully "presentable" and he hadn’t been in a long time—he exited the bathroom, making sure to return it to its former, clean, flowerless glory, and removed all his sheets, balling them up and forcing the globe into his hamper; he could deal with that later, after work.
At work, Roblox, as always, retired to his office at the highest peak of HQ, a good office, secluded, quiet. Builderman, today, was going to be helping oversee the next event’s building. He was always so good at it—it was Roblox who ruined them.
Speaking of Roblox, he had emails to respond to. He didn’t really mind doing this much, glorified brainless work; it was much preferred to meeting, which Roblox had personally requested only happen monthly, as majority of information could quite literally be an email, but people wanted to “speak to him face-to-face” and “hear his voice once in a while.”
It was useless, but a necessary sacrifice, Roblox reasoned.
At least, now, with his workload mostly able to be done in the safety of his office—albeit massively multiplied—he had the time, the privacy, to think to himself without worry. Even now, he would let his mind wander, responding to emails before it felt like his brain was about to melt, only to let his hands fall off his keyboard and let himself think about what he really wanted to be thinking about—who he really wanted to be thinking about.
It was safer to think when he was alone, about Builderman, about himself, just in general. Roblox wouldn’t really describe himself as a reserved person; he used to be quite outgoing, in fact. Back before Builderman—before… “it,” had started happening—Roblox had been thrilled to talk to his admins, his players; they looked up to him, and he relished in it.
He had relished in it, anyway.
But then, it had happened, and Builderman had been created—everything Roblox was, everything he should've been.
Builderman, oh, Builderman; Roblox had just begun to find his footing in the world. Roblox would miss him. Roblox missed him even now, when he knew that the work day would end and they would be sleeping under the same roof. But even then, he wouldn't be able to love Builderman properly, the way he wanted to, the way he could in the safety of his mind, his room, his office. Because Builderman wasn’t his, not romantically, or platonically, or spiritually, or eternally—Builderman belonged to his people, to the community, to Robloxia, not Roblox.
By now, Roblox was used to the pressure in his throat, the restricting of his lungs, so when he felt that building again he simply locked the door—he didn't expect anyone to barge in, but it was for his peace of mind—and slid the nearby accent table in front of it with the wave of his hand—once again, simply for peace of mind; the last thing he wanted was anyone coming in to see him like this.
This time, it tasted sweet—much better than the spice of carnations earlier that day—maybe a bit bitter, but sweet and distinctly floral, like how he imagined a flower should taste. The petals were smooth coming up, soft, even, which Roblox was particularly grateful for, as this felt like a moderately large blossom.
It was white, with rounded petals, and almost resembled a rose. Roblox would have, falsely, assumed it was a rose if not for the smell—something that Roblox couldn't quite put into words, but knew very distinctly what it was; it reminded him of the concept of a grandmother, since Roblox did not have parents, and consequently, did not have grandparents. Gardenias. So sweet, so pure, so unlike Roblox that he was almost confused why they had come out of him.
Roblox was not pure. But then, Roblox remembered what else they meant, and something almost resembling a laugh formed in his raw throat before he clenched his teeth, eyebrows furrowed as he crushed the thing in his palm. The scent permeated the room, spreading as he brutalized the pristine, white petals.
He must have looked crazy, with dark blinds and curtains blocking out any inch of sunlight in the room, such an anguished expression, almost drawn to tears, over something so small, so pure, so innocent. He pushed his fingernails into the petals, watching the dents form before he tore the petals, which, in turn, forced more of the smell into the room. By the time Roblox had finished, there was nothing left of the petals to dispose of but the slick juice of their nectar on his hands—hands that Roblox just looked down at, face now blank, breathing now something almost resembling steady, broken up by occasional hicks at random intervals.
There were no tears cried; whatever was dripping down his face was not tears, perhaps it, too, was gardenia nectar.
Regardless, Roblox’s workday wasn't over for another three hours.
°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･
Roblox used to think spring was beautiful until a few weeks ago, when this hanahaki business started. Builderman liked to drag him along on walks around the neighborhood to look at the freshly bloomed flowers, and Roblox had thought it was just the cutest thing in the world. For a man so strong, so “masculine,” Builderman really was just the softest. He loved flowers, and bows, and everything he thought was “cute,” which Roblox found was most everything in some capacity.
The word “cute” was permanently on Builderman’s tongue, it seemed. Roblox often had to hold himself back from saying it as well. Builderman’s mannerisms always tried to sneak their way into Roblox as well. What a simple thing that was, to mimic those you love.
Roblox wondered, sometimes, how Builderman would have dressed his house had Roblox just given in and given him his own home. Surely his garden would still be as lush and colorful as this one, if not more so—speaking of which, the springtime crops that Builderman had planted were due to blossom soon, Roblox should remind him of that fact, perhaps. Roblox couldn’t quite remember what exactly Builderman had planted, but he remembered that there was at least a small variety of fruits included, since Roblox had complained, offhandedly of course, that flowers were not as productive a crop as fruits and vegetables. Builderman, who Roblox had expected to be at least a small amount upset with him, had agreed, almost instantly plotting for what his spring rotation should be—Roblox could imagine it now, lush flowers of all colors, trellises from fencepost to fencepost, like an ever-present rainbow, Builderman would probably paint the exterior—and interior, now that Roblox thought about it—walls some unorthodox color, because Builderman loved color more than anything in the world, and the interior would likely be just as nice; Builderman had been responsible for majority of the interior decor even now, so of course, his house, giving him free reign, would be just as, if not more, decorated. Maybe then, Builderman wouldn't have that seemingly pervasive crick in his neck from sleeping on the couch; he would have the softest king bed that he deserved, perhaps with a canopy, so he could look as ethereal as Roblox imagined him when he slept.
What would have become of Roblox’s home, in that case? Grey, with dying grass and an unused kitchen? It mattered little to him whether or not there was a blanket draped over the couch, if there were throw pillows resting on the loveseat, if the dust was cleaned off the top of the fridge; Roblox didn't care about that stuff.
Still… the idea of it was… dull, lifeless, a home without Builderman was no home at all.
Perhaps, in some other universe, some mangled, distorted universe, Roblox would be the one on the couch.
The hydrangeas were still dormant from the winter; Builderman said they were due to be unwrapped a few weeks after the last frost, something about “snapback frosts,” or something akin to that. He was so nurturing when it came to that kind of stuff. Roblox was sure that his hydrangeas would bloom beautifully when they were ready.
Roblox was on the couch now, and Builderman was in the kitchen making brunch. It was their day off, and Builderman had said he missed him, though Roblox wasn't really sure if he knew what he had done recently to warrant being missed. But he had conceded, regardless, letting himself relax for once as he listened to the sound of Builderman slaving away for him in the kitchen.
Honestly, he didn't know why Builderman seemed to worry so much about him, making him meals, making him sit outside so “get sun,” making sure he had something to drink other than water; none of that stuff would affect Builderman, surely. But who was Roblox to deny him? So he, selfishly, let Builderman dote on him sometimes, because Roblox was inherently selfish, and he always would be.
Builderman swore—not an actual swear, one of those childish substitutions—under his breath when he dropped a pan from too high and it made a clattering bang against the counter, and Roblox fought back a smile at the scene.
But, shit.
Roblox’s legs tensed when he felt it, the itch large and swelling in the base of his throat, and he stood with a robotic sort of intensity, like a sleeper agent hearing its activation word.
“Ro’?” Roblox heard Builderman call out as he very elegantly sped-walked into his bedroom, but Roblox didn’t answer.
He didn't even manage to lock the door behind him before he collapsed, unable to inhale completely as his throat constricted around the blossom inside of him. His knees scraped the carpet below him; maybe they would bleed. Roblox wouldn't care at all, and he gripped the collar of his t-shirt as he choked.
He couldn't breathe.
He couldn’t breathe.
Was this it? The end that Roblox had come to accept? Was the sight of Builderman, so domestically, so beautiful, just too much for him to bear? Surely it was, surely this would finally be his martyrdom, for the sake of Robloxia as a whole. Surely, surely—
“Roblox…?” Surely not.
Fuck, fuck—! This can't be happening. Roblox had tried so hard, he had tried so hard. Why was nothing he did ever good enough? Not for himself, not for Robloxia, not for Builderman; please just let him die here, for the greater good.
The large bomb-like explosion of flowers were of a kind that Roblox had both been expecting and dreading, flowers that as of late seemed to haunt his every waking moment and sleeping night. Because of course, of course, now would be the time he decided to spew out hydrangeas, purple hydrangeas, of all the flowers in existence. He would laugh at the irony if he wasn't still actively coughing them up, the smaller flowers that made up the whole all snapping off of each other and coming out in puffs like some grotesque waterfall.
And Builderman, blessed be his heart, placed a heavy hand on Roblox’s back, sliding his knees under Roblox from the side as if it would support him through this any better just having them touching. It did.
Roblox barely had time to catch his breath when it was over. He must’ve looked a mess; he didn't even want to imagine what Builderman saw right now as he rubbed soothing circles into Roblox’s back. Builderman didn’t speak, not for a while, maybe to gather his thoughts, maybe to allow room for Roblox to catch his breath, but regardless, it took perhaps a few minutes of him just running his hand up and down the length of Roblox’s spine before Builderman spoke.
“Ro’, dear…” Builderman sounded worried, maybe, voice quiet and low like speaking too loudly would hurt Roblox more than he already was.
“Don’t,” Roblox replied. He tried to keep his voice firm, unmoving, but his throat was raw from that episode, and his voice always wavered when he was talking to Builderman, “Please…”
And Builderman had just sighed, pulling Roblox into his chest, Roblox’s shoulder crashing into his torso, face in bicep. It would've been perfect in any other scenario—if it were real. Roblox could feel the skin, slick with not-tears as his eye pressed into the muscle there.
No, no! He couldn’t let himself do this again; he couldn't force this unknown affection upon Builderman’s shoulders. He couldn't let Builderman pretend any longer. So he sat up, Builderman let him go without a word, and pushed himself out of Builderman’s gentle hold until he was sitting on the carpet, with no skin touching.
“Who, Ro’?” Builderman asked, almost a whisper. Roblox wasn’t sure he even actually said it before Builderman repeated, louder, “Who’s it?”
Roblox kept his mouth shut, teeth grinding together so hard his jaw hurt; he refused to even look at the man behind him, because he knew that looking into the deep blue of Builderman’s eyes would be too much.
“Roblox.” Builderman repeated, firmer, “We can fix this darlin’, you just gotta talk to me, please. Y’know I won't be mad, or judge you, or whatever you’re afraid of.”
And Roblox almost slipped up, almost let himself respond; he opened his mouth, inhaling a breath to let the words come out, but was interrupted by another tremor wracking his body.
“Fuck—” Roblox gasped out before he began to cough again, holding himself up with one hand, the other thrown back behind him, to stop Builderman from getting any closer, from comforting him once again. Roblox didn't need comfort; he didn't need to fix this; he had half a mind to keep his mouth shut and let himself choke on the seemingly large stem trying to make its escape.
So he tried, letting his hand fall away from Builderman to cover his mouth. This was disgusting; Roblox was disgusting. Hopefully, after seeing this, Builderman wanted nothing to do with him; Roblox didn't know how Builderman was still sitting there, just… watching.
Roblox gagged, the rest of the plant trying to come up, but he wasn't letting it, and that’s when Builderman moved, springing up from his perch on the floor like his life was on the line, seizing Roblox’s wrist with one hand, and prying open his jaw with the other.
He let Roblox struggle for a bit, but through teary eyes, Roblox could see that he looked a hair away from shoving his hand down Roblox’s throat and removing the flower himself. But Roblox, giving up, let himself cough it out; the long stem was surprisingly less painful coming up, like a thick piece of hair or an undercooked strand of spaghetti.
Through tears, the vibrant red almost looked like blood.
“Sage?” Builderman remarked. Before he could study the plant further, Roblox seized it, throwing it across the room and listening to it collide with the wall.
With that same hand, Roblox wiped his tears, breath quick and heavy as he tried to catch his breath, shoulders rolling with each breath. He could feel the heat of Builderman’s hands, hovering behind him as if he was scared to touch him.
Good; Builderman shouldn't want to touch something like him, someone who’s done the things he’s done.
Or, perhaps he was just being as kind as usual, since, when Roblox’s breath evened out, and he steeled himself to turn and look at Builderman behind him—something he almost regretted doing at that moment; he should've been strong enough to just stand, to remove himself from that situation so something like this wouldn't happen—Builderman was there, sitting back on his heels, arms crossed; Roblox could tell he was trying to keep his expression firm, but he could also tell that there was no anger there, there was no disappointment, there was only worry, and Roblox wasn't sure which was worse.
“Roblox,” Builderman said. Roblox watched his eyebrows twitch instead of looking him in the eye, ”Firstly: Are you a’right?”
Averting his eyes, Roblox nodded, crossing his arms over his chest as well as he shifted to sit criss-cross on the floor.
“None of that, Ro’.” Builderman leaned over the small gap between them, gently grasping Roblox’s chin and guiding it to look at him, “Look at me while I'm talkin’ to you.”
So Roblox did, letting his eyes glide up from his lap and look Builderman in the eye. It was torture, it was bliss.
“How long have you been hidin’ this from me?” Builderman asked, voice gentle—too gentle.
“... Almost a month,” Roblox replied, softly, almost under his breath.
“A month!” Builderman seized Roblox’s shoulders, “Why in thunderation would you wait so long to tell anyone, Ro’?”
“...”
“You were going to tell someone, right?” Roblox averted his eyes, “You weren’t, were you!”
“I wasn’t,” Roblox said, because he couldn't lie to Builderman, not when he was looking at him like that.
“Why?” The sound made Roblox’s heart squeeze; he sounded so hurt, so sorrowful. Roblox was a horrible person for this, wasn't he? How selfish of him, to let Builderman find out about this; he knew it would hurt him, he knew he should’ve been more careful. “We were doing better, Ro’, weren't we? You know I don’t like being forceful with you, dear.”
“Don’ call me that.” Roblox gripped the carpet below him, “Not r’now, please.”
“I’m sorry; I really hoped it wouldn’t come to this. I never want to push you. I can’t do this anymore—do y’know how much this hurts me, Roblox, ta make myself sit back and watch you do this to yerself? I know you don't think I'm ignorant, so what made you think I wouldn't realize? Do ya really think so lowly of yourself?”
“I do,” Roblox muttered under his breath. Builderman didn't respond. Roblox let himself get pulled into Builderman’s chest again, not quite a hug, but Builderman’s arms were around Roblox again, and Roblox wasn’t anything if not selfish.
“Who is it?”
“You know—I know you know—I’m sure you’ve known this entire time. Why do you torment me like this? Please just… stop.”
Builderman held him tighter, like it was the last time he would be able to—Roblox hoped it was.
“I need to hear you say it, Ro’.”
“It’s always been you.”