Work Text:
1: the umbrella
It was sunny in Los Angeles. Unforgivably, blindingly, uselessly sunny.
Hax glared up at the cloudless blue sky outside the venue, adjusting his backpack with a dissatisfied hum. This weather was a logistical disaster for him. According to the Reddit threads he’d spent hours reading at one in the morning—“10 Foolproof Ways to Create Romantic Tension with Your Male Friend (Works 100%)”—a shared umbrella during a sudden downpour was the single most effective way to force proximity, create a shared sense of refuge, and subtly signal romantic intent.
However… a good speedrunner must adapt to bad RNG. He wasn't going to let the lack of precipitation get in the way of what was about to be a really good run—he would simply have to play thunderless.
"What are you staring at?"
Hax turned. Infume was standing beside him, squinting through his glasses, his hair slightly tussled by the hot California breeze. He was wearing his grey hoodie despite the thirty-degree heat, his arms crossed tightly over his chest in his usual defensive posture. He looked adorable. He also looked like he would rather be anywhere else on Earth.
Phase One: Initiate Forced Proximity.
"It's sunny," Hax declared, unzipping the side pocket of his bag with a flourish and pulling out a compact umbrella.
Infume blinked. "Yeah, Hax. It's LA—it's summer."
"Yeah, but y'know, UV rays cause skin aging and like, skin cancer or whatever," Hax said with authority, popping the umbrella open with a sharp thwack. "In China, people use umbrellas for the sun all the time. It’s called a parasol. It’s basically standard practice." He stepped closer, raising the umbrella over both of their heads. "Come on. We have to walk back to the hotel."
Infume stared at the stretched nylon canopy, then at Hax, his jaw slightly slack. "Dude. We're walking three blocks down a sidewalk for only like, 10 minutes. And—and you're insisting on holding an umbrella over us."
"We are preserving our skin," Hax explained. "Now walk."
They began strolling down the pavement. Hax kept them pressed shoulder-to-shoulder, internally celebrating his tactical brilliance. Look at this, he thought, suppressed giggles bubbling in his chest. We're practically touching. The romantic tension must be palpable.
There was just one flaw in the execution of his plan: Infume was four inches taller than him. To keep the umbrella over Infume’s head, Hax had to hold his arm up at an awkward angle, his biceps trembling slightly from the strain after only thirty seconds.
Infume glanced down at him. "Hax, are you okay?"
"It's fine," Hax forced out, his elbow locking up. "I am... strong. My arm's mechs are peak."
"You look like a little kid holding a balloon," Infume muttered, though his voice sounded oddly breathless. Suddenly, Infume reached out, his hand completely wrapping over Hax’s smaller fingers on the umbrella handle.
Hax’s brain instantly short-circuited. His hand. His actual hand is on MY hand.
"Give it here, you brick," Infume grumbled, tugging the handle away. Their skin brushed as Hax released his grip, his palm tingling from the heat of Infume’s touch. Infume held the umbrella smoothly over them both, his eyes fixed ahead on the concrete.
Hax peered sideways at him. Infume’s neck was turning pink, extending all the way up beneath his beard to the tips of his ears. He was gripping the umbrella handle so tightly his knuckles were turning white.
Fuck, Hax realized, his heart sinking into his stomach. He’s uncomfortable. He’s so weirded out by me touching him that he’s basically having a physical reaction from stress.
The second they reached the glass doors of their hotel lobby, Infume frantically collapsed the umbrella as if he was trying to get the world record in putawayumbrella%. He then shoved it back into Hax’s chest, and practically sprinted toward the elevators without making eye contact once.
"Bye, Infume! See you tomorrow!" Hax called out weakly.
Infume didn't reply, disappearing into the closing elevator doors like a man escaping a burning building. Hax sighed, clutching his umbrella. Damn… he's too heterosexual.
2: the hand measuring
Infume was going to die in Los Angeles. He was going to end up in a body bag, and on the death certificate, the coroner would write: Cause of Death: Hax Hackingnoises being an oblivious, dense, unbearable menace that I hate.
They were sitting in a quiet corner booth in a Raising Cane’s near the venue, waiting for their food. Infume was desperately trying to calm his heart rate by pretending to casually scroll Twitter when Hax suddenly placed his left hand flat on the laminate table, palm up.
“Infume,” Hax said, his voice completely serious. “Look at this.”
Infume looked at Hax's perfectly normal hand. “What? Did you get a splinter?”
“No,” Hax said smoothly. “My fingers are so short. People in chat were saying I have tiny hands for such a mechanical runner or whatever. Look.” He gestured to Infume’s hand resting on his knee. “Put your hand against mine. For science... y'know, for the mechs.”
Infume froze.
Put my hand against Hax’s? Spread his fingers out and press his bare skin directly onto Hax’s palm? In broad daylight? In a fucking Cane’s?
“No,” Infume rasped, his voice dropping an octave as his flight-or-fight response kicked in.
“Why not?” Hax pouted, his eyes widening into one of those awful, unfairly pretty expressions that made Infume want to bite a broomstick in half. “Are you, like, scared your hands are smaller than mine? It’s okay if you have baby hands, Infume.”
“I don’t have baby hands!” Infume snapped defensively.
To prove his point—because his pride was the only thing slightly larger than his overwhelming, agonizing crush on this boy—Infume lifted his hand and slapped his palm against Hax’s.
The contrast was extremely clear. Infume’s hand was obviously larger, his skin warm, his fingers longer. Hax’s hand was smaller, soft, and cool. But instead of just measuring, Hax slid his fingers slightly between Infume’s, lacing them together for a split second to “check the knuckle alignment.”
Jesus Christ, what is he thinking? Infume’s heart was hammering against his ribs. A loud, high-pitched ringing sound filled his ears, and the air completely left his lungs. He violently yanked his hand back as if he had touched a stove burner, slamming his elbow into the napkin dispenser and sending it clattering to the floor.
“I’m—I, uh—I’m… going to the bathroom,” Infume wheezed, scrambling out of the booth so fast he nearly tripped over himself.
He locked himself in the single-stall bathroom, gripped the edges of the porcelain sink, and stared at his own terrified, flushed face in the mirror. He hates me, Infume thought, clutching his chest where his heart was beating at approximately 200 beats per minute. He knows I like him and he’s doing this to bully me into admitting it so he can laugh at me. Well, Hax wouldn’t do that… but how else am I supposed to take whatever the fuck he’s doing?!
Infume splashed cold water onto his face, turning the tap until the ice-cold water numbed his burning cheeks. He took several deep, shaky breaths, pressing his wet paper towel against the back of his neck.
Get a grip, he told his reflection sternly. You're an adult. You can handle sitting across a pretty guy without having a minor stroke.
He dried his hands, smoothed down his hair, pulled his hood back over his head, and forced his legs to march back out into the dining room.
When he slid back into the booth, Hax didn't even mention the napkin dispenser he had knocked over. He was happily munching on a french fry, staring at his phone screen.
"Look at this clip," Hax chattered as soon as Infume sat down, turning the screen around to show a video of a golden retriever falling over its own oversized paws while trying to chase a tennis ball. "It kinda reminded me of you."
Infume frowned, taking a cautious bite of a chicken tender. "How the hell does a golden retriever falling over a tennis ball remind you of me?"
"It's like the time you tried to assemble an chair and dropped it on yourself," Hax laughed, kicking Infume's sneaker lightly under the table. "It has the same aura as you."
Infume let out a weak snort before kicking Hax back, rolling his eyes into his food. The normal, silly mundanity of Hax’s voice washed over him, slowly bringing his pulse back down to a survivable level. Okay. He was just being weird about mechs. He doesn't know. I'm safe.
3: the hoodie
Hax sat on a bench backstage, drumming his fingers against his knees in quiet frustration. The umbrella had failed. The hand measuring had caused Infume to flee to the restroom for ten minutes. Hax was beginning to think he was entirely unromantic—or worse, that Infume’s heterosexuality was completely impenetrable, and that he had no chance, regardless of how romantically skilled he was.
"Here," a soft voice grumbled.
Hax looked up to see Infume standing over him, holding out a plastic cup filled with iced lemonade. Infume wasn't looking at him—his eyes were fixed firmly on a fire extinguisher on the wall, but he had a timid, awkwardly hopeful grin tucked into the corner of his mouth.
"I... uh, got two," Infume muttered. "They—they had a deal. Buy one, get one free. So. Here."
Hax took the lemonade, his heart doing a small fluttering flip. He knew for a fact the venue concessions did not have a buy-one-get-one deal, since he'd walked past the stand like nine times today, but he didn't call Infume out. Infume’s smile was so soft, so painfully charming, that Hax just took a sip and slid over on the wooden bench.
"Sit," Hax instructed.
Infume sat. Because they were both grown guys sitting on a short venue bench, their knees pressed tightly together. Hax waited for Infume to shift away, but Infume stayed completely still, staring at the ground, his chest rising and falling in shallow breaths.
Okay, Hax thought, a surge of renewed confidence filling him. He didn't move away. Progress! Time to try Phase Three.
Hax let out a dramatic, shivering sigh. He pulled the collar of his fleece sweatshirt further up his neck and wrapped his arms around himself.
"Brrrr," Hax said out loud, making his voice sound as pitifully small as possible. "It's so cold in here. American AC is an instrument of torture, Infume. And this lemonade is making me even colder. Brrrrrr."
Infume glanced sideways at him, his brow furrowing in confusion. "You—Hax. You're… literally wearing a fleece sweatshirt and sweatpants."
"It's not enough," Hax whined, leaning his shoulder heavily into Infume's arm. "I am a delicate creature from Hong Kong—it's kinda tropical, y'know? I am freezing to death. Give me your extra hoodie. The blue one in your backpack."
Infume paused, staring down at him in disbelief. "My... extra hoodie?"
"Yes. Please, Infume. I am going to turn into an ice cube."
Infume groaned, but he didn't refuse. With trembling hands, he unzipped his backpack, pulled out a thick, oversized blue hoodie, and handed it over.
Hax eagerly pulled it over his head. It was massive on his frame, completely swallowing his hands and almost falling to his thighs. More importantly, it smelled strongly of Infume—like whatever laundry detergent he used, and a hint of some kind of cheap men's deodorant. Hax sank into the fabric with a content hum that almost sounded like a purr, resting his chin inside the oversized collar. It was so cozy he felt like a cat curling into a sunbeam.
He looked over at Infume, expecting to see some kind of fond, or maybe amused, expression.
Instead, Infume looked like he was suffering a neurological breakdown. He was staring straight at the concrete wall, his knuckles clenched so tightly around his lemonade cup that if he squeezed it anymore, his beverage threatened to spill out. His face was pink, and he looked kinda miserable, his breathing ragged.
Hax’s heart sank into his stomach. Oh no.
"Infume?" Hax asked carefully, pulling the hoodie sleeve over his mouth. "Are... are you okay? Is something wrong?"
"No!" Infume squeaked out, his voice a full octave higher than normal. He didn't turn his head. "I'm fine! Fine. Everything's fine."
Hax slumped back against the bench, swallowed by the hoodie. He hates me wearing his clothes, Hax realized with a crushing wave of despair. He thinks I'm annoying, and he doesn't even want to look at me. He's still completely straight.
4: the broom closet
Infume was going to lose his sanity.
Hax was currently wandering around the venue hallway wearing Infume’s hoodie. The sleeves completely covered Hax’s hands, so only his hair and face poked out of the collar. Every few minutes, Hax would lift the cuff of the sleeve to his nose, inhale deeply, and then swing his arms around while giggling.
It was an attack. It was a targeted, military-grade psychological operation designed to torture Infume.
"Hey, Infume?"
Infume turned to see Couriway walking up to him, holding a bag of pretzels. Couri glanced at Hax, then looked back at Infume with a vaguely baffled expression.
"Why is Hax wearing your hoodie?" Couri asked flatly. "And why is he swinging the sleeves around like a little kid and... why is he smelling it?"
Infume felt his soul leave his body, floating up toward the venue rafters. "He said he was cold," Infume whispered weakly.
Couri raised an eyebrow. "It's seventy-two degrees in here. Also, he's wearing sweatpants." Couri paused, looking closely at Infume’s pale, panicked face. "Is there... something else going on with you two?"
"I wish there was," Infume blurted out before his brain could filter himself. He instantly clamped a hand over his mouth, turning pale. "I mean—no! It's, um, it's nothing! He just views me platonically and he's... I think he's trying to kill me, Couri. I think he's doing this to torture me."
Couri stared at him for three long, agonizing seconds. "Are you blind?"
Infume blinked. "What? What do you mean—"
"Infume, are you genuinely—" Couri opened his mouth to explain, but before he could finish, Feinberg walked past, grabbed Couriway by the shoulder, and pulled him toward the main stage.
"Come on Couri, we need to set up for the media segment," Feinberg grunted.
Couriway mouthed a pitying "I'm sorry" over his shoulder as he was dragged away, leaving Infume standing completely alone in the corridor.
"Infume!"
Infume turned. Hax was jogging up to him, still wearing his hoodie.
"Come with me," Hax said, grabbing Infume’s forearm. "I need to find a quiet place to check our schedule. There's too many people in the main hall."
Infume followed Hax down a side hallway. Hax pushed open a heavy wooden door that said STAFF ONLY and stepped inside. Infume hesitantly shuffled in right behind him.
Click.
The door swung shut, and the room plunged into pitch-black darkness.
"Oops," Hax's voice echoed in the space. "I think the door locked."
Infume's heart dropped. "Hax. W-Where are we?"
"Uhhh... a supply closet?" Hax’s hands shuffled around in the dark. "Hold on, let me find the light switch."
Instead of finding a light switch, Hax’s hands bumped directly into Infume’s chest. Hax didn't back away. In fact, he pressed his entire body up against Infume, and he started to blindly pat Infume’s sides.
"Sorry," Hax murmured, his breath warm against Infume's neck. "This closet is small as fuck. Don't worry, that means the switch has to be close."
Infume’s legs completely gave out. His knees buckled, and he slid straight down the wall, collapsing onto the tile floor with a pitiful, pathetic whine. He wrapped his arms around his knees, hid his burning face in his lap, and began hyperventilating in the dark.
"Infume?!" Hax gasped, dropping to his knees beside him. "What's wrong?! Are you hurt?!" Hax began awkwardly, frantically patting Infume’s back. "Please don't cry! I'm sorry!"
Five minutes later, a venue janitor unlocked the door, flipping on the overhead fluorescent light.
The janitor stared, bewildered.
Infume was huddled in a ball on the floor, whimpering into his knees. Hax was squatting beside him, wearing an absurdly oversized hoodie, sheepishly patting Infume's shoulder with a look of horror on his face.
And, most notably: the supply closet was actually a fairly large, twenty-foot storage room filled with neatly stacked folding chairs around the perimeter, leaving at least ten feet of open space around them. They hadn't needed to be squished together at all.
"Are you guys... alright?" the janitor asked slowly.
Infume lifted his head, caught a glimpse of the vast, open room, and buried his face right back into his hands.
5: the cafe
This was it. The final attempt.
Hax sat across from Infume at a cozy breakfast cafe near the venue, staring glumly down at a shared slice of strawberry sponge cake. His previous four plans had been complete disasters. He had made Infume panic, run away, freeze up, and nearly suffer a nervous breakdown in a storage room.
He really is straight, Hax thought mournfully. He just views me as a weird, mean friend. I'm going to stop after today. I won't make him uncomfortable anymore.
Across the table, Infume was acting oddly. When the bill had arrived earlier, Infume had quietly slid his credit card to the waiter before Hax could even reach for his wallet, muttering something about "handling it." It was the third time this weekend Infume had paid for Hax's food. Hax didn't understand why Infume kept doing it—maybe it was an American chivalry thing—but it only made Hax's heart ache more.
One last try before I forfeit, Hax decided selfishly. Just to be completely sure.
Hax acted with lightning speed. As Infume reached for their utensils, Hax "accidentally" swept his arm across the small wooden table, striking Infume’s silver spoon and sending it flying onto the dusty tile floor.
Clatter.
"Oh no!" Hax gasped, putting a hand over his mouth in theatrical shock. "Infume! I knocked your spoon on the floor!"
Infume blinked, staring at the spoon, then sighed. "It's fine. I'll just go ask the barista for another—"
"No!" Hax cut in loudly, reaching across the table to grab Infume’s wrist before he could stand up. "We cannot ask for another spoon!"
Infume paused, staring at him like he had grown a second head. "What? Why not?"
"Dropping your spoon is a massive aura loss," Hax explained with more gravitas than such a statement deserved. "If you walk up to the counter and admit you dropped your utensil, the employees will think we're chuds. It will ruin our reputation in this establishment."
"Hax, you're—what the fuck are you talking about?!" Infume hissed, trying to pull his wrist back, but Hax held on tight. "It's a cafe! They don't care about aura!"
"They do care," Hax insisted firmly. "It's fine, though. Look. I still have my spoon."
Hax picked up his own silver spoon, scooped a perfect bite of cake with cream and a slice of strawberry, and lifted it across the table, aiming directly for Infume’s mouth.
"Open up," Hax said, forcing a cheerful grin even as his inner heart was weeping. "I can just feed you the cake instead."
Infume went rigid. He cautiously looked around the cafe, checking to see if anyone was watching them, his cheeks slowly heating up to a familiar dusty pink. He stared at the spoon, then at Hax's wide, dark eyes.
Slowly, cautiously, Infume leaned forward... and took the bite off Hax's spoon.
"You're an asshole," Infume muttered defensively, his voice soft and entirely lacking any real bite as he chewed.
Hax stared at him, stunned. He didn't run and he didn't knock over a napkin dispenser. He ate it.
Then, a massive, giddy smile broke across Hax's face. Wait. He didn't hate it?! He quickly scooped up another bite of cake, holding it out again. "Another one?"
Infume huffed, rolling his eyes, but he leaned forward and took the second bite, too. A tiny, hesitant, terribly sweet smile tugged at the corner of Infume's lips as he looked up at Hax.
Hax felt like someone set off a confetti ball in his mind. It's finally working! It's like the old proverb… a way to a man's heart is his stomach. This probably means I need to feed him more—I'm sure he'll finally be smitten with me!
+1: the… heart attack?
Infume was going to die. Not metaphorically this time. Literally.
It was Sunday evening, the tourney was over, and they were in Hax’s hotel suite, which happened to have a small kitchenette. Hax had insisted on cooking dinner to "celebrate the successful weekend," and Infume had been thrilled—until he actually saw the process.
For nearly two hours, Infume sat on the edge of the hotel sofa, watching in paralyzed horror as Hax navigated the kitchen. Hax was wearing a ruffled, pastel blue apron he’d bought from Target that had little cats on it. He looked awfully, unfairly cute, but his culinary skills were a crime.
The process was terrifying. Hax managed to set off the smoke detector twice (which he disarmed with a broom handle), chopped chicken into aggressively unequal chunks, and dumped what were apparently half a cup of (uncrushed) Sichuan peppercorns and a full cup of chili peppers directly into the frying pan.
"It's an authentic recipe—Sichuan chicken!" Hax announced proudly, plating the dark, ominous-looking red chicken dish and placing it in front of Infume.
"Dude, you're from Hong Kong," Infume pointed out. "I'm not too familiar, but... isn't that a completely different region?"
"Food is universal, Infume! Eat!"
Infume possessed absolutely no spice tolerance. A scoop of mild salsa could make him keel over. However, Hax was standing over him, his eyes sparkling with absolute pride, wearing his ruffled apron, looking incredibly hopeful. He spent two hours cooking this just for me. If I don't eat it, I'm a terrible person.
So, of course, Infume ate it.
Infume started coughing as soon as he took the first bite. It tasted like hot gravel and battery acid. His mouth went entirely numb, followed by an immediate, agonizing fire expanding in his throat. But because Hax was watching him with wide, expectant eyes, Infume forced himself to chew, swallow, and smile.
"Yum," Infume choked out, a single tear escaping his left eye. "This is—this is good!"
Ten minutes later, the physiological consequences arrived.
Infume collapsed back onto the sofa, clutching his chest. A fiery, burning agony was tearing through his sternum. His heart was hammering, his skin was bathed in a cold sweat, and he couldn't catch his breath.
"Infume?!" Hax dropped his fork, lunging over the coffee table. "Infume, what's wrong?!"
"My… chest..." Infume wheezed, his eyes watering. "It—it burns... Hax, my chest..."
Hax turned ghost white. "OH MY GOD! YOU'RE HAVING A HEART ATTACK! YOU'RE SEEING YOUR ANCESTORS!"
"I—I..." Infume couldn't even speak, gasping for air as the acidic fire burned behind his ribs.
"INFUME, DON'T DIE!" Hax screamed, grabbing Infume’s shoulders and shaking him frantically. "I'M SORRY! I PUT TOO MANY PEPPERS! I JUST WANTED YOU TO LIKE ME. I HAVE BEEN TRYING TO FLIRT WITH YOU ALL WEEKEND!"
Infume froze, despite the pain in his chest. "You... what?"
"I LIKE YOU!" Hax sobbed out, tears springing to his eyes. "I realized I had feelings for you three weeks ago! I did the umbrella! I did the hand measuring to hold hands! I made you give me your hoodie! I trapped us in the closet! I just wanted you to fall in love with me, but you're straight and now I've murdered you with evil chicken!"
Infume blinked through his tears. He took a deep, shaky breath, feeling the burning sensation slowly shift down toward his stomach.
"I wanted to feed you because it was the only method that worked last time! I put so many peppercorns because a thread from Reddit said that spicy food releases endorphins—similar to romantic attraction, and I thought that meant the more peppers, the more attraction! Infume, I'm so sorry. Please forgive me before you die!"
"Hax," Infume rasped, his voice as deadpan as it could get in this state. "I'm not having a heart attack."
Hax paused mid-sob. "You're... you're not?"
"No," Infume groaned, rubbing his face with both hands. "It's heartburn. I have negative spice tolerance, you idiot. You gave me—um, I think it's called acid reflux or something."
A heavy silence fell over the hotel room.
Hax’s face slowly turned the a similar shade of red as the peppers. He released Infume’s shoulders and backed away, burying his face in his hands. "Oh my god," Hax squeaked, his voice muffled. "Forget everything I just said. I am going to throw myself out the window."
Infume sat up, leaning back against the couch cushions as his breathing slowly stabilized. He stared at Hax—at the cat apron, his messy hair, and at his bright red face.
All of these—these incidents, from the umbrella to the closet to the spoon… and whatever the hell Hax just fed him.
He wasn't trying to bully me, Infume realized, the sheer absurdity of the past three days suddenly crashing over him like he failed a boat clutch. He wasn't mocking me. He's just a fucking dumbass.
"Hax," Infume said softly.
"No," Hax whimpered into his hands. "I'm jumping out the window."
"Hax, look at me."
Hax slowly parted two of his fingers, peering out with one terrified eye.
"I've been pining after you for three months," Infume said flatly.
Hax blinked. "What?"
"I'm not—I… I'm not straight," Infume gritted out, pulling his hoodie collar up to hide the bright blush returning to his face. "I've been in love with you since March. I thought you were doing all those things this weekend to bully me because you knew I liked you."
Hax lowered his hands, his mouth hanging open. "Wait... so... my plan worked? I got you to fall in love with me?!"
Infume stared at him in utter disbelief. "That is not the takeaway here! I was ALREADY in love with you! You didn't do anything except almost give me, like, four strokes and an ulcer!"
"So... it was a success!" Hax declared gleefully, a massive, radiant grin bursting across his face. He leaned in close, hovering over Infume on the couch. "Can I kiss you now?"
Infume pressed his hand against Hax’s forehead, holding him at arm's length. "You can kiss me after you go to the kitchen and get me a giant glass of milk."
"Yes, sir!" Hax chirped, scrambling off the couch instantly.
Infume leaned his head back against the sofa, watching Hax scurry to the fridge. His chest still burned faintly from the peppers, but as he watched Hax pour a glass of milk with an stupidly proud smile on his face, Infume felt a very different kind of warmth bloom in his heart.
He was still in Los Angeles. He hadn't ended up in a body bag. And despite everything, he was pretty sure he was going to be completely okay.