Work Text:
Wifies is rushing out of his door again. His keys are ripped from where they hang next to the door, and the tote bag he keeps filled with things is picked up from the shoe rack.
It’s got dark squiggles and blots of black paint on it, courtesy of Squiddo in remembrance of the haunted houses they go to every year. There’s a box of tissues, a few fidget toys from the dollar store, and a pack of candy, all refilled when he goes to pick up groceries. He tosses his laptop in it too, just in case.
The reason why he has such a thing is… unfortunate. He loves the bag, but every time he looks at it, his chest tightens as do his fists. He really should change bags before he stops associating the thing with Squiddo, and instead, Derapchu’s failed relationships.
The radio does not turn on like it does when he has company, instead, the car is soundless except for the wheels bumping over pavement and the occasional shift of clothing. He’s too tired for music right now.
In the past seven months, Derapchu has cycled through five different relationships. That’s not to mention the amount of first dates he’s been to and been stood up on. And every time, Wifies has shown up to pick him up.
It should make sense that the author is the one helping the most, after all, he has the most flexible work hours. Parrot’s busy filming in Unstable, Jumper’s a therapist, and Pangi only really gets a break on the weekends because he’s a radio host. They try, but they still have their own lives.
Wifies really doesn’t. He’s not some sort of insecure child, he’s mature enough to recognise that this is not normal. No person drops everything for someone they don’t even live with unless they’re important. Unfortunately for Wifies, his feelings won’t stop interfering with his rational.
The parking garage echoes with every one of his steps, but he doesn’t care. A wave comes from the old man behind the reception counter who’s seen him enough to know his name, and an old song plays while he’s in the elevator. Today is one of those days where no one can make it to Derap’s but him.
Red rimmed eyes greet him after he knocks three times, a beat after the first. It’s now normal for Wifies to look through the fridge after he sets down his things, heating up leftovers or making something comforting to eat.
It’s awfully pointless to try to talk him out of this destructive cycle. Jumper tried first after the second, telling him he was rushing in. She stopped and just told Pangi to not, since he would do better when he was ready. Parrot still tries to get him to take a break and stop switching from guy to guy. It doesn’t work.
And Wifies? He has no say to convince the other out of such habits. How could he, when every time he received a text or a voice message asking him to pick him up, his documents were left untouched for hours?
There’s a loaf of bread on the counter, so Wifies stands on gray tiles and watches the pan start to heat. Derapchu slumps on the counter and blows his nose with the napkins that he brought, on the chair with the blue cushion because it’s his favorite color.
They say nothing at the start like they always do. Wifies will wait for an answer until he finishes cooking, or until the plates are delicately slid into the dishwasher, or until they’re curled up next to each other on the couch watching a movie. Sometimes, it’s through a text long after Wifies has left, and on days like today, it’s only minutes after he arrives.
Derapchu’s voice is snotty. “I broke up with him.”
“Really? I thought he was nice,” he replies while cracking an egg. The shell gets thrown down into the trash and he washes his hands. He spends more effort than usual scrubbing short, clipped nails and trying to spend as much time as possible with his eyes on them.
The last guy was nice. Wifies doesn’t remember his name, but he remembers him being kind. He heard of homegrown flowers and vegetables, and fancy dates at restaurants, and tall, muscular builds.
Wifies barely remembers to take care of the cactus Kenadian gifted him a few months ago, and he doesn’t have enough space in his apartment for a garden. Wifies does not like fancy restaurants, when he goes out it’s at the quaint little pho shop down the street run by an old interracial couple. Wifies is far taller than Derapchu and stands over six feet, but he’s lanky and weak and can barely run twenty meters without giving up.
He’s a mean, rotten, disgusting person who shuts people like Derapchu down with manipulative, passive-aggressive quips when he gets jealous.
“I don’t know.” He mumbles. “He’s just like, not right.”
Wifies nods. “Okay.” A cut-up slice of bread is soaked in a mixture of milk, eggs, and sugar with chopsticks. “What would be right?”
He bites his lip in the reflection of the microwave hanging above the stove, which sizzles with oil. “I don't know what to say. I don’t know what to do. I’m messed up, aren’t I?”
“If you are, then I am too.” He hums with such certainty, that if he were to swear on God, they surely would appear. “If a person isn’t the right fit for you, then leave.”
“Yeah, but he was basically perfect. I don’t know why I can’t just get rid of my stupid brain already.”
“Hey.” His tone steels a little, but it should be unnoticeable to a frazzled and despairing Derapchu. “You’re not stupid. Don’t say that.” Typically, he doesn’t care if he insults himself or not because it’s all said in good faith, but the brunet is awfully… fragile, as of current.
“Okay. I still hate it though.” He can’t explain the look on his face. Wifies has always been good at reading people, it’s why he goes to cafes and playgrounds when he wonders how to write a certain character. It’s not often that words don’t appear in his head like printed scraps of magazines burned to cinders.
He brushes the anomaly off and continues making french toast. Three pieces have already been set aside on a plate to share.
“It’s okay to not have a boyfriend, y’know.” It’s good advice, but with the wrong motive. He just can’t stand the thought of someone else getting to wake up and see his face. Wifies feels as dirty as the laundry he knows is on the floor of his own home.
“I know. It’s just… look.” His fists tighten. “I can’t keep doing this, I’m sorry.”
His feet adjust to stand closer. It's dangerous to have a knife when you’re in a bad mood, he notes, and continues cutting the calyxes out of strawberries. “I don’t know why you’re apologising?” The jam he mixes with mashed fruits is overly sweet in his opinion, but Derapchu likes it, so Wifies just puts less of the combination in his cup.
Derapchu picks at the skin around his dark sharpie-colored nails. The slip of skin between keratin and the flesh of his index finger has dots of red on it. “I’ve been really scared to say this. Wifies, I… I’m in love with you.”
He pauses, which is a stupid thing to do when he’s got slices of toast on the stove.
The thought of his feelings being reciprocated is a scary possibility that’s being confirmed, and he hates how his heart flutters in joy, because Derapchu doesn’t deserve him. Wifies is cold, he’s an author and not a doctor like his parents wanted him to be, and he gets ugly, jealous thoughts that no one else understands the man in front of him like he does.
Derapchu continues professing his affections, eyes focused on the counter below his hands, too ashamed to look at him. “I was trying to get it to go away, because I don’t want to ruin our friendship, but it didn't work. That’s why I’ve been, well… like this. Dating.”
Wifies realises he should probably check on the food, which has slightly charred at this point. It goes on a plate, and he continues mulling over his own hesitations and their desires. It’s so confusing, on what he should do. Is someone like him really allowed to be so selfish?
“At least give me an answer.” Derapchu mumbles, and he wipes at his face. Wifies feels his chest squeeze painfully. “Or you can get the fuck out.”
“I don’t know what to say.” he states, as composed as can be. Does this hurt Derapchu more now or will it hurt him more later? It’s a hard calculation, and his stomach writhes the more he thinks about it. He can’t make the wrong decision. He loves him, but not enough to let it destroy them.
“Do you like me back or not?” He looks more miserable than angry. “Just tell me, and don’t even try to think and not tell me anything. I need more than just “I don’t know”. Please.”
Is Wifies really able to lie directly to his face? He’s not a very kind person, or a sentimental one at that, but he does care for others. Just as he understands that if he lies to Derapchu now, then any hope he has of a future with him is laced in throat-tearing thorns.
“I… do like you back,” he starts, slow and unsteady like a newborn bunny taking its first steps, “but I don’t know if that’s good for us. I don’t want to end up hurting you, or me, all because we wanted to try kissing for a while.”
He continues because Derapchu does not. “I… I’m not really a good person. And you and I, I just… I don’t know what to do. I’m sorry.” He trails off, and his voice sinks deep down his throat and hides behind layers of tissue and muscle. He can’t bring himself to keep speaking anymore, and his eyes slink down and away from the other’s face.
Derapchu’s hands are curled in on themselves. Wifies is pretty sure that his palm will have indents from the uncut fingernails that dig into them, but he doesn’t dare speak. He’s been stripped bare of skin, and all his insecurities and jealousy and affection drip from his corpse.
“And that’s it, you’re just going to give up?” His voice is sharp and quipped, the words do not drip to a slow halt and fade out of the world. Instead, they’re like the staccatos that turn a flowy piece of rhythm into something more furious.
“I’m sorry.” He’s a very logical man. That does not mean anything when this is anything but a logical matter. After all, who can claim to be of sound mind when faced with a loved one hurting? Certainly not Wifies, who has had his shield penetrated at the cracks and bleeds from a hole through his neck.
Derapchu is furious. “Don’t be fucking sorry! Just… God.” He slumps on the counter. “I’m already fucking hurting now because of you.”
It's very valid, and very true, but Wifies does not want to be here anymore even though the one whose name he writes when he tests out pens is right in front of him. It’s so cruel, how feelings will drown even the best of the best.
He keeps his head down.“I don’t want you to hurt more than you do already.”
“Why are you so scared? Please, just… I don’t know, just try.” Derapchu is crying again, Wifies knows because his voice is too loud. “We’re going to be hurt either way, so let me be happy too.”
Wifies steps closer, because Derapchu has untangled part of the madness inside his head. “I’m not a good person.” Not in the slightest, not when he adds nothing to society and his wrists crack with overuse. His hands are right in front of Derapchu’s.
“Then do better.” His fingers are grabbed tightly, as if he has any place to go other than an empty apartment. Derapchu does not let go of him, and Wifies slides closer, and the brunet leans on his chest while he cries.
“Okay.” It comes out steady because he needs to be while the other can’t, and his next words are a whisper for himself and himself alone, chin held high and voice as soft and faint as the air whirring in the fan above them. Derapchu does not need to understand how important he is to Wifies, because he has revealed far too much already. He will one day, when Wifies can organise the thoughts in his head long enough to form a coherent sentence, but that is one day and not right now.
“I vow, I will be a good enough person for you to love, and to love you back properly, and that I will only marry you once I do.” His breaths are louder than the words, but the fact he isn’t ready to speak them out loud does not prevent him from knowing they are true.
“Huh?” Derapchu looks up. His face is red and splotchy.
Wifies looks away, his as impassive as the cold unfeeling winter. “The toast is getting cold.”
Derapchu lets go and sits, taking nibbles of the food and large gulps of the strawberry milk while Wifies presses a wet towel to his cheeks to bring them back to its normal color.
“Can you stay? Like, for the night.” He mumbles while his eyes are covered in damp cloth.
“Yeah, I will. I don’t have a toothbrush.” He agrees without thought, and backtracks as soon as he realises what he’s done.
Derapchu sticks a fork upwards, the bread grazing against his chin and Wifies coming to the slow realisation that Derapchu wants him to eat. He’s had too many emotions to feel hungry, but he takes a small bite anyway. The other coughs. “It’s fine. So… Does this mean we’re dating?”
“It does.” At least, I want it to. Wifies, albeit tentatively, brings the towel down from his gaze and leaves it on the counter, his hands cupping wet skin.
This story does not have an ending, at least not while they hover in the kitchen slowly eating. It will one day, long after Wifies confesses his truth clad in white lilies and a red cape draping down his suit. Maybe it’ll be in a car crash, or one of them will pass away in a hospital slowly holding the other’s hand. Wifies does not know.
He knows that day is not today, and that he will worry about that day when he needs to. He does not now, as currently all he needs to figure out is if he’s taking the couch or sharing a bed with Derapchu.