Archive of Our Own

The digital clock on the television stand flickered from 2:47 AM to 2:48 AM, casting a faint blue glow across the scattered remnants of a late-night convenience store run. The living room smelled faintly of stale sour-cream-and-onion seasoning, cold green tea, and the distinct, air-conditioned chill of an aprtment whose occupants had long since run out of productive things to do. Sprawled out across the rug, Auau was aggressively tossing empty chip bags into the vicinity of the trash can, missing three out of four times with absolute indifference.

Por sat propped up against the front of his sofa, his ankles crossed and his laptop resting heavy on his thighs. He had been staring at the same unblinking cursor for twenty minutes, his brain thoroughly cooked by a mix of sleep deprivation and the sheer monotony of his weekend. He reached for his mug, took a sip of water that had long gone lukewarm, and let out a quiet, heavy sigh that he hadn't intended to sound so pathetic.

Auau didn't miss it. He paused mid-chew, leaning back on his elbows to look up at Por with a look of pure, predatory amusement.

That's the third sigh in ten minutes, Auau announced, tapping his fingers against his knee. Are you dying of boredom, or are you finally feeling the soul-crushing weight of being utterly, hopelessly, unforgivably single?

Por didn't even lift his eyes from the screen. I am not hopelessly single. I am intentionally unbothered. There is a vast, structural difference that you fail to grasp.

Right, right. Intentionally unbothered, Auau repeated, making lazy quotation marks in the air. Which is the formal, academic way of saying you haven't held another human being's hand since the ninth grade when we were forced to do that stupid square-dancing unit in Physical Education.

That was high school gym class, and it doesn't count as a romantic standard, Por corrected calmly, adjusting his glasses with the back of his index finger. Besides, dating requires an investment of emotional capital, time, and logistical coordination that I simply do not have space for now. I like my routine. My routine works. It is predictable, low-maintenance, and entirely free of unnecessary drama.

Auau rolled onto his side, propping his head up on his palm like an armchair psychologist preparing to ruin someone's day. Por, my sweet, painfully boring friend. You don't have a routine. You have a fortress. You treat the idea of flirting like a tax audit. It's tragic. Honestly, if someone handed you a bouquet of roses right now, you'd probably check them for aphids and ask of a receipt.

If someone handed me roses, I'd ask why they're spending money on dying flora, Por muttered, finally closing his laptop with a quiet click. I am fine. I don't need a relationship to feel complete.

I didn't say a relationship. I said a date, Auau clarified, sitting up straight as his eyes suddenly lit up with the kind of reckless, unhinged energy that usually preceded terrible decisions. He reached into his pocket, whipped out his phone, and began furiously tapping on the screen. You know what your problem is? You think too much. You analyze everything until it dies of suffocation. You need exposure therapy. Unfiltered, chaotic, real-world field data.

Por narrowed his eyes, instinctively pulling his knees closer to his chest. Why do you sound like a mad scientist right now?

Because I just had the most brilliant idea of my entire life, Auau said, holding his phone up like a holy relic. The screen was displaying a brightly colored graphic of a glowing star chart with dramatic, sparkling fonts. Look at this. My cousin sent me this absurd compatibility test earlier. She said her boyfriend acted 'so typical for a Scorpio' because he forgot her half-birthday or whatever. And it got me thinking.

I am not letting you read my horoscope, Auau.

No, no, listen to me, Auau insisted, crawling forward across the rug until he was sitting cross-legged directly in front of Por, leaning in close with a manic grin. You claim you don't date because people are unpredictable and unpredictable things are stressful. But astrology? Astrology gives people neat little boxes. The fire signs are crazy, the earth signs are boring, the air signs are weird, and the water signs cry a lot. It's a pre-packaged taxonomy of disaster!

Por stared at his best friend with absolute, flat silence. That is the most scientifically bankrupt sentence you have ever uttered.

Exactly! Which makes it the perfect social experiment, Auau declared, slapping his hands against his thighs. I dare you. I double-dog dare you, Por. Date twelve men. One man for every single sign of the zodiac. A full, complete, twelve-part romantic tour of the astrological calendar.

The room fell quiet again, save for the hum of the fridge. Por blinked once. Then twice.

That is, without a doubt, the stupidest thing I have ever heard, Por said plainly. First of all, I am a human being, not a research laboratory. Second of all, where would I even find twelve distinct men willing to go out with me, let alone men who neatly line up with twelve specific birth months? Third of all, I have no desire to spend my limited free time being dragged around by strangers.

Oh, come on! Auau groaned, flinging his arms out dramatically. You're twenty-four years old and your most thrilling weekend activity is alphabetizing your bookshelf! You need chaos! You need spice! You need to go on a terrible coffee date with a Leo who talks about his gym routine for three hours so you can come home and complain to me about it!

That sounds like torture, Por said.

It's life! Auau countered passionately. Look, you love projects. You love spreadsheets. You love taking arbitrary data and organizing it into neat little categories because it gives you a false sense of control over the terrifying void of human existence! Treat it like a project! Go on the dates, observe the subjects, see if th stereotypes actually mean anything, and then walk away with a great story.

Por opened his mouth to deliver a scathing, logical rebuttal. He was going to point out the flawed methodology, the ethical ambiguity of using people as data points, and the sheer inefficiency of dating twelve different men just to satisfy a midnight joke.

But as the silence settled back over the apartment, the strangest thing happened.

The idea didn't die.

It lingered in the warm air of the living room, bouncing around the corners of Por's neatly structured mind. Twelve signs. Twelve dates, or maybe a few dates per sign to get a proper sample size. A comparison of behavioral traits against established astrological tropes. A systematic examination of romantic chemistry, emotional availability, and date quality.

It was absurd. It was completely ridiculous, wildly impractical, and totally out of character for someone who preferred spending his Friday nights reading articles on his laptop.

And yet, for the first time in months, a small, quiet spark of genuine curiosity flickered in Por's chest.

A project... Por murmured under his breath, his eyes drifting away from Auau and toward the empty space on his coffee table.

Wait... Auau said, his manic expressioon suddenly shifting into one of mild concern as he watched Por's face change. Wait, no. Don't give me that look. Why are you making your 'I'm calculating something' face?

Por slowly leaned back against the sofa, crossing his arms over his chest. If I were to hypothetically entertain this foolishness, it couldn't just be random hanging out. It would need structure. Standardized criteria. A control goup, or at least a consistent scoring rubric.

Auau stared at him, his mouth slightly open. Por... I was joking. I mean, I was mostly joking. You're not actually considering this, are you?

You are the one who brought it up, Por said, a small, subtle smirk tugging at the edge of his lips as he looked at his best friend. You said I needed field data. You said I treat romance like an audit. So why shouldn't I conduct one?

Auau let out a nervous laugh, suddenly looking like a man who had accidentally pulled the pin on a grenade he thought was a toy. Por, please tell me you are not about to make a spreadsheet about men.

I am not making a spreadsheet tonight, Por said smoothly, standing up from the floor and brushing off his sweatpants. He walked over to his desk, picked up a fresh, bound notebook that had been sitting unused in his drawer, and brought it back to the couch. He set it down on the coffee table with a soft, decisive thud. I'm going to set the rules tomorrow.

Auau stared at the blank notebook, then back up at Por, looking genuinely horrified by the monster he had just unleashed. What have I done?

Por picked up his empty water mug and headed toward the kitchen, his mind already spinning with categories, variables, and hypotheses. You challenged my lack of dating experience, Au. Now you get to watch me analyze it.

The morning sun crept through the thin white curtains, casting sharp, angled strips of golden light across the hardwood floor of the living room. It was barely eight o'clock, but the ambient temperature in the apartment was already rising, accompanied by the gentle, rhythmic humming of the refrigerator and the distant whistle of a boiling kettle in the kitchen. The cozy, chaotic haze of late-night junk food and uninhibited banter had evaporated with the darkness, leaving behind the crisp, uncompromising reality of a Sunday morning.

Auau emerged from the guest bedroom dragging his feet like a condemned prisoner, his hair sticking up in three different directions and a sheet crease pressed deeply into the left side of his face. He squinted against the brightness, rubbing his eyes with the back of his fist as he shuffled toward the kitchen in search of water, aspirin, or any liquid that might wash away the lingering dryness in his throat.

He stopped dead in his tracks at the edge of the dining nook.

Por was sitting at the wooden table, fully dressed in a neatly pressed polo shirt, looking like he had been awake and functioning for hours. Spread out in front of him was an array of stationery so extensive it looked like a pop-up display at an office supply store. There were four different colored fine-point pens, two mechanical pencils, a clear plastic ruler, three pads of sticky notes in pastel hues, and the thick, leather-bound notebook from the night before, laying wide open to its very first page.

Please tell me you didn't sleep in that shirt, Auau rasped, his voice gravelly from sleep.

I slept four hours, woke up at six-fifty, showered, made coffee, and began structuring, Por replied without looking up. He was carefully drawing a crisp horizontal line across the page using his ruler, his grip precise and steady. You look terrible. There is cold barely tea in the pitcher.

Auau blindly reached into the fridge, grabbed the glass pitcher, and poured himself a cup, taking three deep gulps before leaning his hip against the counter. He stared at the colorful battlefield on the table with a slow, creeping sense of dread. Structuring what, exactly? Are you re-organizing your tax receipts again?

No, Por said, capping his back pen with an audible click and finally lifting his head. His eyes behind his rimless glasses were bright, clear, and thoroughly terrifying. I am setting up the parameters for the project. If I am going to date twelve different men represeting twelve distinct astrological signs, I cannot simply rely on subjective memory. Human memory is notoriously flawed, heavily biased by recent emotional states and physical exhaustion. I need a standardized framework.

Auau froze mid-sip. His jaw went slack. Por. You... you were serious? About the zodiac thing?

You were the one who proposed it with such passionate intensity at two in the morning, Por noted, turning the notebook slightly so Auau cold see the grid drawn across the heavy paper. And after careful consideration, I realized you were correct about one thing. I have avoided romantic situations because I dislike unpredictability. However, by turning the experience into an empirical observational study, I eliminate the anxiety of the unknown. I am not stepping into a void, I am conducting field research.

I was drunk on sour cream chips and cheap green tea! Auau squeaked, his voice cracking as he took a step toward the table. It was a joke! A silly piece of banter to make you stop sighing like a Victorian ghost!

A dare is a dare, Au, Por said evenly, tapping the blunt end of his pencil against the table. You challenged my courage and my lifestyle. Backing out now would imply that I am afraid of a simple social exercise. I am not afraid. I am prepared.

Auau buried his face in his hands, letting out a long, agonized groan that sounded like a dying vacuum cleaner. Oh god. What have I done? I've unleashed a statistical monster upon the local single male population.

Sit down, Por commanded softly, pulling out the chair opposite him. As my chief instigator and primary consultant, you need to review the evaluation metrics to ensure there are no glaring oversights.

Reluctantly, as if approaching a sleeping predator, Auau dragged himself over and dropped into the wooden chair. He leaned over the table, staring down at the neat rows of handdrawn boxes and carefully labeled headers written in Por's precise, architectural handwriting.

There are five primary evaluation categories, Por explained, pointing with his mechanical pencil to the top of the columns. Each subject will be evaluated on a scale from one to ten across every category after the conclusion of our primary interaction.

Primary interaction, Auau muttered under his breath, shaking his head. You mean a date. You are going on a date, not inspecting an engine.

Categoy 1, Por continued, completely ignoring the interruption. Chemistry. This measures immediate interpersonal resonance. Is the conversation fluid? Are there awkward silences? Do we possess a baseline conversational cadence, or does every sentence feel like pulling teeth from a stubborn animal?

Fair enough, Auau admitted grudgingly. That's basic dating stuff.

Category 2, Por said, moving his pencil to the next column. Emotional Compatibility. This is distinct from initial chemistry. Chemistry is superficial speed; compatibility is depth. Does this individual possess the capacity for empathy? How do they handle minor inconveniences? Do they listen, or are they simply waiting for their turn to speak?

Category 3, Por proceeded without pausing. Attractiveness. A purely aesthetic assessment based on personal visual preference, presentation, grooming, and overall physical presence. It is important to separate physical attraction from emotional resonance to avoid halo-effect skewing.

Auau raised an eyebrow. You are going to rate human beings on a ten-point scale to their face?

Not to their face, Por corrected, looking offended by the suggestion. I am a researcher, not a sociopath. These notes remain strictly confidential between this notebook and my private files.

Right. Confidential until you accidentally drop it in a coffee shop and get sued for emotional damages, Auau snorted. What are the last two?

Por's expression grew remarkably severe, his eyes narrowing as he tapped the paper twice. Category 4 is Zodiac Accuracy. This is the core hypothesis of your stupid joke. We must determine if pop-astrology stereotypes hold any statistical weght in real-world scenarios. If an Aries is supposed to be reckless and aggressive, does the subject display those specific traits during our encounter? If a Taurus is supposed to be stubborn and obsessed with food, does he hoard the bread basket? We are testing the validity of the premise.

Auau stared at him, utterly dumbfounded. And Category 5?

Overall Date Quality, Por concluded smoothly. Logistics, atmosphere, venue selection, and general enjoyment factor. A great guy can take you to a terrible restaurant, or a terrible guy can take you to an amazing rooftop bar. The environmental variables must be accounted for.

Auau sank lower into his chair, staring at the neatly drawn grid as if it were written in ancient hieroglyphics. Por... this is unhinged. This is genuinely, profoundly unhinged. Normal people go out, drink a glass of wine, laugh at a bad joke, maybe kiss if the vibes are good, and go home. They don't fill out a ten-point diagnostic report.

Normal people also end up in toxic, ill-advised relationships because they let hormonal rushes dictate their long-term life decisions, Por retorted coolly, leaning back and folding his arms. My methodology ensures emotional safety through rigorous analytical distance.

Emotional safety? Auau scoffed, throwing his hands up in the air. You're building a moat made of index cards! What happens if you actually like one of them? What if some guy comes along and completely blows your stupid rubric out of the water?

Then his score will reflect that, Por said simply. That is how data works.

Auau stared at his friend for a long, silent minute, searching Por’s face for any sign of hesitation, any crack in the armor of cold, academic conviction. He found none. Por looked as calm and determined as a surgeon preparing for a routine procedure.

Okay, Auau said slowly, leaning forward and resting his elbows on the table. If we're doing this, and god help my soul for indulging you, we need ground rules. Real human rules, not just your weird math.

Por lifted a single eyebrow. I am listening.

Rule #1, Auau said, holding up a finger. No long-term commitments until the cycle is complete. You can't get three signs in, decide a Gemini is the love of your life, and quit. You finish all twelve signs, or the experiment is invalid.

Agreed, Por nodded. Consistency in the sample size is mandatory.

Rule #2, Auau raised a second finger. You have to actually try. No sitting there like an inverted statue waiting for them to entertain you. You have to participate, engage, and give every single guy a fair shot, even if he shows up wearing sandals with socks.

Por winced slightly at the visual, but nodded. Fair. Objective testing requires equal effort from the tester.

And Rule #3, Auau pointed a stern finger straight at Por’s nose. If someone genuinely hurts your feelings, or if you actually catch real, messy, terrifying feelings for someone... you don't hide behind this notebook. You talk to me. As a friend. Not as a lab partner.

The air in the quiet kitchen softened for a brief moment. Por looked at Auau, the sharp, analytical tightness around his eyes loosening just enough to reveal the slight, underlying vulnerability he had been masking with stationery all morning. He knew what Auau was trying to do. Auau was wild, irresponsible, and noisy, but he knew Por better than anyone else. He knew that Por’s hyper-fixation on rules was just a shelter built to protect a heart that had stayed carefully hidden for far too long.

Fine, Por murmured, taking his black pen and writing Rule #1, Rule #2, Rule #3 in tiny, immaculate script at the very bottom margin of the page. Agreed.

Auau let out a dramatic, sweeping sigh, flopping back into his chair and staring up at the ceiling. I cannot believe this. I came over to watch movies and eat snacks, and now I'm the executive producer of a romantic disaster zone.

You brought this upon yourself, Por said softly, capping his pen and smoothing down the edge of the leather notebook. He looked at the clean, blank grid waiting to be filled — twelve empty slots, twelve unknown men, twelve potential disasters waiting to unfold.

For a second, a tiny flutter of genuine, unanalytical nerves flickered in his stomach. But he quickly tucked it away behind his glasses, closed the cover, and looked up at his best friend with a calm, dangerous smile.

Now, Por said, where do we find an Aries?

The amber glare of a single desk lamp cut through the heavy dusk settling inside the bedroom, pools of warm light spilling across the polished oak surface of Por’s desk. Outside, the evening traffic hummed like a low, distant tide against the windowpane, punctuated by the occasional screech of bus brakes or the muted roar of a passing motorcycle. Inside, the quiet was absolute, broken only by the soft, rhythmic clicking of Por’s fingernails against the edge of his phone as he stared down at the crisp, untouched page lying before him.

Auau had finally gone home an hour ago, leaving behind a messy kitchen, half a box of stale green tea biscuits, and an ideological hurricane that had completely reorganized Por’s evening. The apartment felt strangely vast in his best friend's absence. Por had spent twenty minutes methodically washing the two used mugs, wiping down the dining table until it gleamed, and returning every pen to its designated pencil cup. It was his standard ritual whenever his structured world suffered a sudden jolt — clean the immediate perimeter until order was restored.

Yet, despite the tidy room and the pristine kitchen, the quiet hum of restless anticipation lingered in his chest.

He reached out and stroked the dark navy cover of the leather-bound notebook resting beside his laptop. He had purchased it nearly a year ago during an end-of-season sale at an import bookstore downtown, captivated by its thick, cream-colored pages and heavy, archival-quality binding. At the time, he had imagined filling it with meticulous lecture notes, research summaries, or quarterly personal goals. Instead, it had sat in the back of his desk drawer beneath stackable folders, quietly waiting for a purpose ridiculous enough to warrant its existence.

Por drew a slow breath, smoothed his palms over the cool leather, and opened the cover. The crisp scent of fresh paper and binding glue rose to meet him, clean and full of unwritten potential.

He picked up his fountain pen, unscrewed the brass cap with a deliberate twist, and held the nib poised a fraction of a millimeter above the top line of the first page. For a fleeting second, his fingers hesitated. The reality of what he was committing to hovered before him like a dare whispered in the dark. Dating was unpredictable. People were noisy, emotional, contradictory entities who rarely adhered to logical parameters. To throw himself into twelve consecutive romantic encounters was, by any rational standard, an act of sheer madness.

Unless, he reminded himself, it isn't a search for romance at all.

With a swift, fluid motion, Por began to write. The ink flowed dark and smooth across the cream paper, forming precise, angular letters that looked more like an official preface than a personal diary.

At the top of the page, he centered the title: THE ZODIAC PROJECT: AN EMPIRICAL FIELD STUDY ON ROMANTIC COMPATIBILITY AND ASTROLOGICAL STEREOTYPES.

He paused, admiring the clean alignment, before dropping down two lines to draft his manifesto.

Hypothesis, he wrote, his posture straightening automatically. Modern astrological tropes suggest that human personality traits, romantic tendencies, and interpersonal chemistry can be predicted based on one's month of birth. This project will test the validity of these claims through controlled, real-world field interactions across all twelve astrological signs.

He dipped into his formal academic tone naturally, using the familiar language of research as a protective suit of armor. If he framed this as a study, he wasn't a twenty-four-year-old with zero romantic experience putting himself out there to be judged, rejected, or overwhelmed. He was an investigator collecting field data. He was the observer behind the two-way mirror, safe, detached, and completely in control.

Methodology, he continued writing, the scratch of the steel nib against paper filling the quiet room. The investigator will engage in structured romantic dates with twelve individuals, each representing one sign of the zodiac. Observations will be recorded immediately following each encounter. To maintain scientific integrity and prevent emotional bias from distorting the results, the investigator must remain strictly objective at all times.

He underlined the words strictly objective twice.

Under no circumstances, Por added, writing slower now as if hammering a stake into the ground, shall the investigator allow temporary emotional flutters, artificial romantic atmosphere, or superficial physical attraction to interfere with the evaluation process. This is a research manuscript, not a personal quest for affection. Romance is merely the variable under observation.

He leaned back in his chair, resting his chin in his hand as he re-read the paragraph. Satisfied with the framing, he turned the page to set up the template for his first subject.

He drew a clean grid across the upper half of the second page, leaving dedicated blank fields for the subject's name, age, occupation, sun sign, and date location. Below the grid, he divided the paper into five distinct sections corresponding to the rating scale he and Auau had finalized earlier: Chemistry, Emotional Compatibility, Attractiveness, Zodiac Accuracy, and Overall Date Quality. At the bottom, he left a generous block of blank lines labeled Qualitative Field Notes & Behavioral Analysis.

Everything was structured. Everything was bounded by margins, grids, and measurable metrics.

Por closed his eyes for a moment, taking in the quiet stillness of his apartment. He knew why he was doing this, even if he would never admit it aloud to Auau. It wasn't just about winning a silly late-night argument or proving that astrology was nonsense. It was about testing his own boundaries. For years, he had built a quiet, comfortable life inside a fortress of routines and predictable outcomes. He had convinced himself that staying inside his comfort zone was a form of self-preservation. But deep down, a small, curious part of him wanted to see what lay outside those walls — even if he needed the pretense of a notebook to step through the gate.

A sharp chime sounded from his phone, breaking his line of thought. Por opened his eyes and picked up the device.