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Kimi Antonelli is currently in a predicament.
To understand the gravity of this predicament, one must first understand Kimi: he suffers from a chronic, incurable case of ick-itis.
The "ick" is a dangerous phenomenon. It can strike at any moment, completely obliterating any romantic or physical attraction Kimi might have for A Man. A guy winking on purpose? Immediate ick. A guy casually adjusting his watch so his forearm flexes? Disgusting. A guy who bites his lower lip while deep in thought because he knows it looks brooding and cinematic? Life sentence.
Kimi had ridden a train of research, saw plenty (pleasing and unpleasing) sceneries, and arrived at Conclusion Station: handsome men who know they are handsome are unbearable. They operate with a disgusting, insufferable aura that makes him want to claw his own eyes out. Self-awareness in an attractive man is a tragic flaw. It turns them into a walking cringe compilations. Bane of his existence.
Which brings us to Oliver Bearman.
One of Ollie's best qualities is, shockingly, not his height. Not his face either, despite looking like that.
No. Oliver Bearman’s absolute best quality is his medically concerning obliviousness to his own attractiveness.
Ollie does not act like god's gift to the earth, despite looking suspiciously like a man who would listen to your childhood trauma and embrace you deeply after.
Hell, the man has the audacity to be genuinely shocked and actually blush whenever someone compliments him. It is the singular reason Kimi has not succumbed to the ick.
But right now, on a crisp Tuesday morning at 8:45 AM, it has become apparent (to Kimi) that this obliviousness is a double edged sword. It is a public safety hazard. And Kimi is staring at it from across their tiny kitchen island, nursing a cup of warm milk (can't a guy enjoy some warm choccy milk in the morning?) and paralyzed by his own ego.
Ollie is getting ready for his lecture.
First, there are The Uniqlo Trousers. Kimi knows them damn well because Ollie, the absolute dork, had discovered them two months ago, excitedly declared them as "the most comfortable pants on earth," and proceeded to buy three identical pairs in olive, deep brown, and beige that he wears on rotation. Today, it’s the deep brown. They sit perfectly on his hips, tailoring down his long legs.
Then, there is the cream-colored half-zip sweater. It makes his shoulders look incredibly broad while simultaneously making him look incredibly soft.
And finally, the pièce de résistance of Kimi’s current suffering: the glasses.
Ollie rarely wears them, usually opting for clear contacts. But today, a pair of slightly thick, wire-rimmed glasses are resting on the bridge of his nose, framing his dark eyes and catching the soft morning light filtering through their dusty flat window.
He looks devastating. Even worse, he looks approachable. Nobody talks to intimidatingly hot people. They exist in a bubble of their own superiority. But approachably hot people? They invite conversation. They invite requests for directions. They invite predators.
Kimi knows exactly what happens when Ollie looks approachable. The trauma is still fresh.
[Three weeks earlier]
It had been a Thursday. The campus cafeteria was packed, smelling faintly of grease, chlorinated floor cleaner, and the desperation of students facing deadlines. Kimi was aggressively stabbing a sad looking flop of a salad, while Ollie, having just come from a two-hour workout, was demolishing a plate piled high with enough carbohydrates to feed a small village.
Ollie had been wearing his grey sweatpants and a faded, slightly tight university shirt. His hair was damp and curling at the ends. He looked effortlessly, approachably good.
Kimi had just taken a bite of a sad soggy crouton when they approached.
Two girls. They looked like they had stepped out of a Pinterest board with perfectly styled hair, oversized tote bags and water bottles, smiling with the ease of people who were used to getting what they wanted.
"Hi," the blonde one had said, stopping at the edge of their small table.
Ollie, mid-bite of a piece of chicken, had looked up. He swallowed hastily, his manners hardwired into his brain. "Oh. Hi."
"Is anyone sitting here?" she asked, gesturing to the empty chair next to Ollie. It was a lie. There were at least three empty tables by the window. Kimi knew it. The girl knew it.
They didn't even spare Kimi a glance.
Ollie, bless his sweet stupid heart, did not know it.
"No, not at all! Go ahead!"
The girl didn't sit. Instead, she dropped her massive tank of a water bottle onto the chair and went, "Thanks. I'm Chloe, by the way. You look really familiar. Are you in Professor Williams' Kinesiology 201?"
Kimi stopped chewing. He laid his fork down. He leaned back, settling in to watch the trainwreck unfold in real-time. Classic opening.
"Oh, no," Ollie said earnestly, his face brightening with the opportunity to be helpful. "I'm Sports Science, actually. But I know the Kinesiology building! Took me two weeks to find the right lecture hall my first year."
"It really is," Chloe giggled. It was a high, tinkling sound. Her friend, a brunette with perfect slicked back bun (looks painful), chimed in. "We're struggling with the mid-term prep. You wouldn't happen to know anyone who tutors, would you?"
"Tutors?" Ollie frowned, genuinely racking his brain, missing the fact that Chloe was eyeing him like a piece of meat.
"Let me think. I know some of the third-years run a study group on Thursdays in the library. I could probably find the schedule for you?"
"That would be amazing," Chloe beamed, leaning in just a fraction closer. "You're so sweet. What did you say your name was?"
"Oliver. Ollie."
"Well, Ollie," Chloe said, pulling her phone out of her pocket, screen glowing with a new contact page. "Why don't I give you my number for that schedule? Or we could just study together sometime. I'd love to buy you a coffee."
It was as if time slowed down in the cafeteria. Kimi watched the exact second the data finally reached Ollie's brain, processed through the thick layer of his good martians soul, and hit the Realization Center.
Ollie's eyes widened behind his lashes. He looked at the phone, Chloe, the friend.
And then, in a movement so frantic it nearly knocked over his tray of food, Ollie's head snapped toward Kimi. His face drained of all color, immediately followed by a violently flushed, panicked red.
"I have a boyfriend," Ollie blurted out. It was too loud. Several people at the next table turned to look.
Chloe blinked, her phone hovering in the air. "Oh. I-"
"I'm gay," Ollie continued, his volume not decreasing in the slightest. "Well, bi. But taken. Very taken. Extremely taken."
To Kimi's absolute horror, Ollie reached across the table, grabbed Kimi’s wrist with a death grip and practically shoved Kimi’s hand into the air.
"This is him!" Ollie announced wildly to the girls, to the cafeteria, and possibly to God. "This is Kimi! We live together! We share a grocery budget!"
He's not even mad at Ollie. He's just mortified.
"Oh," Chloe said again, her smile freezing into a tight, awkward grimace, looking back and forth between them. She slowly lowered her phone. "Right. Okay. Nice to... meet you, Kimi."
"He's very handsome, isn't he?" Ollie added, still holding Kimi's wrist hostage, completely unhinged by his own failure to read social cues. A nervous wide smile on his face, "I'm very lucky!"
The girls practically sprinted away. Kimi had slowly dragged his hand out of Ollie's grip, buried his face in his palms, and refused to speak to him for a full three hours.
Despite Ollie trailing behind him like a kicked puppy apologizing profusely for "accidentally engaging in a flirtatious exchange."
[Present Time]
The memory of the cafeteria incident is burned into Kimi's retinas. And today, standing in the kitchen in his stupid Uniqlo trousers and stupid half-zip and stupid Clark Kent glasses, Ollie looks ten times more approachable than he did that day. He is a walking target. He is a beacon for every lost, study-group-seeking undergraduate on campus.
And Kimi's ego is too big to just say it.
He cannot look his boyfriend in the eyes and say, 'Take those clothes off, you look too devastatingly handsome and it makes me insecure and territorial like an aggressive betta fish.'
Absolutely not.
So, he has to employ tactics.
"Ollie," Kimi begins, his voice perfectly casual as he takes a slow sip of his milk.
Ollie looks up from the counter, where he is meticulously buttering a piece of toast. "Yeah, love?"
"Are you... sure about the sweater?"
Ollie looks down at his chest, brushing an imaginary crumb off the cream fleece. "Yeah, why? Is there a stain on it?"
"No," Kimi says, leaning his elbows on the island. He narrows his eyes. "It just seems... impractical. Isn't it a bit warm today? You're going to sweat. You're going to get a heatstroke and pass out."
Ollie blinks. He reaches into his pocket, pulls out his phone, and taps the screen. "Kimi, it's eleven degrees outside. The widget says 'brisk'."
"Global warming, Ollie. Very unpredictable climate nowadays. You should probably wear your grey hoodie, especially the one with the hole in the sleeve. Good ventilation."
"I have a seminar presentation today," Ollie says, sounding entirely confused. "Professor Davies takes points off if we don't look kept together. Plus, this sweater is really soft."
He walks around the island and wraps his arms around Kimi from behind, easily enveloping Kimi's midriff, pressing a kiss to the top of Kimi's messy morning hair. "Feel it. It's like wearing a cloud."
Kimi refuses to admit that it does, indeed, feel like a cloud. He melts into the embrace. Fuck his boyfriend does give good hugs. He scowls into his cup. Strike one.
"What about the glasses?" Kimi tries, pivoting his strategy. "Did you lose your contacts again? Because I can help you look for them. We can tear the bathroom apart. I have time."
Ollie sighs, resting his chin on the top of Kimi's head. "No, I didn't lose them. My eyes are just really dry today from staring at my laptop all night. The contacts were stinging. Do the glasses look weird?"
Ollie turns Kimi around and pulls back slightly, looking down at Kimi with wide, anxious eyes behind the lenses. He looks so genuinely uncertain, so incredibly unaware of his own lethal appeal, that Kimi feels a physical ache in his chest.
No, you idiot, Kimi wants to scream. They don't look weird. They make you look like you read poetry in your spare time and ponder upon the mechanics of a good spooning. They make you look well-read and emotionally available! That is dangerous! University is the breeding ground for young adults with daddy issues!
"They don't look weird," Kimi forces out, the words tasting like ash in his mouth. "They're fine. Very... normal."
"Thanks," Ollie smiles, a bright, blinding thing that makes the little crinkles appear by his eyes. Kimi calls his glasses normal and he's saying thanks. He checks his watch. "Shit, I really need to go."
Ollie grabs his backpack from the floor, slinging it over one broad shoulder. He steps back, adjusting the collar of the half-zip, pulling it up just slightly so it frames his throat. He pushes the glasses up the bridge of his nose.
Kimi stares at him. His left eye twitches.
Ollie leans in, pressing a quick, warm kiss to Kimi’s forehead, and then another to his lips. It tastes faintly of butter and mint toothpaste.
"Love you," Ollie murmurs, smiling softly "Have a good morning with your choccy milk. I'll see you at four."
"Yeah. Four. Be safe," Kimi mutters, clutching his cup like a lifeline. He narrows his eyes, unable to stop himself from adding, "Don't... don't make eye contact with anyone in the humanities department."
"What?" Ollie laughs, a rich, booming sound that echoes in the small hallway. He is already half out the door. "Okay, darling. Bye!"
The door clicks shut. The flat falls silent.
Kimi stands there for a full minute.
Before going beast mode.
He abandons his milk on the counter and scrambles for his phone.
Desperate times call for desperate measures. If his pride absolutely forbids him from telling his boyfriend to dress uglier, he will simply have to outsource his territorial instincts to a third party.
He opens his chat with Bia. She shares this 9AM lecture with Ollie, and honestly, despite their ahem rocky relationship (many ups and downs with them), she is exactly who he needs.
[8:52 AM] Kimi: code red very urgent
[8:52 AM] Kimi: i need eyes on the target immediately
It takes three minutes for Bia to reply. She is presumably already sitting in the lecture hall, punctual like that.
[8:55 AM] Bia: it is not even 9, babes
[8:55 AM] Bia: what target
[8:56 AM] Kimi: ur classmate aka my boyfriend
[8:56 AM] Kimi: he left in The Trousers
[8:56 AM] Kimi: AND a half-zip, cream
[8:57 AM] Kimi: AND THE GLASSES BIA HE IS WEARING THE WIRE-RIMMED GLASSES
[8:58 AM] Bia: ok?
[8:59 AM] Kimi: he looks Approachable. he looks like he listens to hozier or worse MITSKI and respects women. he is going to be ambushed n climbed like a tree
[9:00 AM] Bia: ??? kimi this is concerning
[9:00 AM] Bia: u are genuinely unhinged he is js sitting down getting his laptop out
[9:00 AM] Bia: he is literally chewing on the end of a pen looking at the syllabus, nobody is ambushing him
[9:01 AM] Bia: you need a psychiatric evaluation
[9:01 AM] Kimi: thats exactly how it starts i need you on high alert
[9:02 AM] Kimi: if anyone approaches him asking for a pencil, or notes, or the time, i need you to intervene
[9:02 AM] Kimi: bark at them if you have to
[9:03 AM] Bia: i am not barking at a girl in lululemons for u kimi
[9:03 AM] Bia: u need to be studied in a lab like a rat
[9:04 AM] Kimi: bia pls i will pay for your iced matcha for a week
[9:05 AM] Bia: ...
[9:05 AM] Bia: make it two weeks and a pastry
[9:06 AM] Bia:a girl js sat two seats down n is looking at his sweater im cocking my imaginary shotgun rn
[9:06 AM] Kimi: god bless you
Kimi locks his phone, letting out a long, heavy exhale. He picks up his cup again, finally taking a proper, relaxing sip. It's lukewarm now, but it tastes like victory.
His ego is intact. His boyfriend is looking devastating. But the perimeter is secured.
Betta fish behavior.