Chapter Text
Tango has been living with Zedaph for a few months now. After many years of friendship, in which multiple had been long distance, and too many discussions of sharing a place, they’ve finally gotten their apartment. The exact one that they never thought would make it out of their dreams. And this life felt like a dream. Tango was yet to experience anything that would give him the impression that any of this could be a bad idea and he doesn’t think he’ll ever get it.
Falling into a general routine was almost too easy. Tango would come home from work, and either Zedaph was already there taking over the couch or he wasn’t yet and Tango would busy himself with whatever snacks were in the fridge before the other came home and then they’d take care of dinner together. Even if occasionally, that taking care of in question was just ordering, or one of them cooking while the other sat at the dinner table. And they’d watch movies or catch up till far too late in the evening before they’d depart into their own room for the night. In the morning they may quickly pass by each other or Tango would wake up to a cup of hot tea waiting for him. And they’d repeat.
Living with Zedaph was easy, a breath of air in contrast to his former home that was just slightly too small for the amount of people inhabiting it. This was freeing.
And sometimes, when Tango sits at the corner of the couch while Zedaph sits at the other side, a nearly human sized distance between them, he wonders if he perhaps finds it too freeing.
It’s nice to not constantly be bumping into people or to constantly have someone screaming somewhere in the house. But it’s weird, cold almost—that is if Zedaph hasn’t completely turned up the thermostat.
He grew up in a household where everyone was touchy. Whether it’s a kiss on the forehead, or a high five or a pat on the back, or someone squished all the way up against you as you all try to fit on the couch. Which was fun! If not too much at times. And because of that Tango was a touchy person, which often meant he had touchy friends. Always hugging and pushing and wrestling. Tango had spent his whole life being touched and being around people that are affectionate in that exact manner.
Zedaph had always been the outlier to that statement. As long as Tango had known Zedaph, the other was not at all a touchy person. With Zedaph having a general emphasis on a personal space that no one ever entered, and giving an air fist bump rather than an actual one, Tango isn’t even sure he and Zedaph have ever had physical contact. He’d been told by old friends that Zedaph was not a touchy person in the slightest, that he'd freeze up if you even tried. And that part Tango had seen for himself: He watched Zedaph get pat on the back once and freeze up completely in response and to then seem almost out of it for the hour that followed. No one ever touched Zedaph, and Tango was no exception to that rule. The other never asked for it, and everything seemed to make it clear that that wasn’t something he should pursue, even if Tango sometimes wanted to wrap his arms around the other in joy.
And for the longest time, following that boundary had been completely no problem, and truly it still wasn’t. But in the past, if Tango had felt that buzz underneath his skin for physical touch, he could go to any other friend they were hanging out with, or even wait until he went home. And with a small question he would receive it no problem.
Now that he and Zedaph were living together, that wasn’t as much as an option.
And it’s not as horrible as he can make it out to be, but still he feels a bit cold sometimes. A bit alone. When he’s already on his own when the other isn’t home, and then still has to keep his distance when the other is. It really is something Tango needs to get used to. And he hopes he does. Because the change starts to feel more stark by the second.
He’s even found himself wondering how Zedaph does it at times. He can conceptualize the idea but he’s already struggling to understand it, less so than before they moved in together.
At least he’s visiting his parents the upcoming weekend. He’s already sure his little brother will jump on his back the first chance he gets.
The door clicks shut and it scares him out of his thoughts. He’d completely forgotten that Zedaph was supposed to come home around this time. He bends to the side from where he’s sitting at the kitchen table so he can peer at the front door.
“Zed?”
He watches Zedaph lock the door before turning up the thermostat and dropping his jacket on the coat hanger. He’d usually get happily greeted back by this time, but instead the other stays silent. He can see the way Zedaph slouches as he lets out a heavy breath, standing still for a second before finally turning and walking to the kitchen with a deep exhaustion in his bones.
Tango grimaces.
“Bad day?” He asks, already pulling out a seat next to him.
Zedaph lets out a groan, before collapsing into the chair that Tango had pulled out for him. He lays his arms on the table and his head in them.
“I told you about this new coworker, right?”
Tango raises an eyebrow. “The one that kept messing things up?”
“Yeah… and remember when I said that I still believed he had potential and was maybe just anxious.”
“Yes?”
“I take it back.”
Tango had to put in actual effort to stop himself from letting out a laugh at that.
“Taking back something positive you said about someone? Who are you and what did you do to Zedaph?”
Anyone else he would’ve jokingly poked, but for Zedaph he settled for accusefully pointing at the other. Zedaph let out a groan, sitting up and dragging his hands down his face.
“I don’t want to! But he’s so awful to work with that I have to wonder whether he’s doing it on purpose! I can barely get anything done when I work together with him and when I do it’s almost like he’s turning it back.”
Tango’s eyebrows furrow. It’s become more often as of late that Zedaph comes home exhausted from work, like something there was slowly chipping away at the joy Zedaph actually had for his job. Tango prays that whatever seems to be trending at Zedaph’s workplace goes over soon. Before it gets to the point that Zedaph dreads going to the job he’d been so excited to tell Tango about a few weeks ago.
“Sorry that’s happening, Zed,” is all Tango can say to help.
A part of him really wants to wrap Zedaph in a hug—hold onto him until he couldn’t even think about how awful work was anymore. It’s something he would’ve done for others. Maybe even a soft hand on the other’s shoulder. But he doesn’t, never for Zedaph. He’s gotten used to that.
(Albeit not enough, it seems.)
“It’s not your fault,” Zedaph mumbles.
“How about I make you some tea for now, hm?” Tango says, already getting up to do it before the other can actually answer.
“Make sure to—”
“Put four cubes of sugar, I know, you sugar addict.”
“It’s not even that much!” Zedaph exclaims. “I know people that would put way more.”
Tango fills the kettle with water—he might as well boil enough to make tea for himself too. THe machine, perhaps a bit old, makes a strong almost scary noise after Tango plugs it in before it settles down into something more water-boiling-machine like. He turns around, leans back against the counter. The noise quickly falls into the soft ambience of their home.
“So you sugar addicts stick together, I see how it is,” Tango says, grinning.
Zedaph sits up with a dramatic gasp, before pointing at Tango with a glare that doesn’t look nearly as threatening as Zedaph tries to make it look.
“You’ve just never had anything sweet in your life!”
“I just didn’t grow up eating straight sugar for every meal!”
Zedaph pokes out his tongue at Tango. Tango does the same.
He crosses his arms.
Zedaph, now not collapsed over their dinner table, sits back with a sigh, wrapping his arms around himself in a hug. It takes only a second before he pulls his legs up too, putting the heels of his feet on the edge of his chair and leaning his head against his knees. It’s something Tango sees Zedaph doing often—it was always a thing but now Tango truly noticed the amount at which the other does it when they live together. Every other chance Zedaph curls into himself, as if trying to form a small ball with the most contact points between himself. Tango had always assumed the other really wanted space during those moments, trying to make himself incredibly small. Tango would always give him that space when he saw it.
“It can’t be comfortable to do that against the kitchen table,” he points out. He has to imagine the wood of the table uncomfortably digging into his legs, or having to put in effort to not fall off the damn chair.
“It’s surprisingly comfortable,” Zedaph says, rubbing his cheek against his knees.
“You know what would be even more comfortable?—” Tango turns around to grab a mug from the cabinets “—getting out of your work clothes. Go change, your tea will be done when you’re back.”
“Do I have to?”
“I will just not give you your tea if you don’t.” Tango never liked the idea of wearing outside clothes, especially if they’re work clothes, inside. Not necessarily because of the dirt but because it always felt like he was mashing two spaces that were supposed to stay separate together. And Zedaph seemed like he really didn’t need everything from work seeping into their home.
He hears Zedaph get up from behind him.
“This has got to be a hostage situation,” Zedaph mutters as he walks past Tango towards his bedroom.
“The cops would never believe you!” Tango quickly calls out after him before giggling at the truly incomprehensible reply he gets back.
And then suddenly it’s silent. The water is done.
Tango lets out a sigh, leaning against the counter. Then it’s cold. Even with the heating turned up this high and the warmth traveling through the apartment like a soft cloud, Tango can’t help but feel a strange sense of cold he’s not exactly sure he can fix. Especially now with Zedaph in a completely different room.
It feels selfish, but he misses being held. He misses holding. It makes his apartment feel less like home than it should’ve. Tango really hated getting used to things. Especially this.
He drops the tea bags in the mugs now full of hot water, and makes quick work of making the drinks before the other got back, something he really couldn’t wait for.
Maybe he should invest in one of those weighted blankets. Or a weighted teddy bear. Something to mimic his former home. Something he couldn’t get here.
He pauses. That just feels mean.
“You okay?”
Tango yelps, jumping to the side from the voice beside him. He’d been too stuck in his thoughts to even notice that Zedaph had left his room to come stand next to him. Zedaph’s face only held soft concern, looking Tango up and down.
He places his hand on his chest. “Jesus Christ, Zed, give a guy a warning.”
“I was plenty loud,” Zedaph answers. He raised an eyebrow. “Are you okay?”
Yes but I would love a hug right about now.
“Yeah, I’m good, just a bit lost in thought… Are you wearing my hoodie?” Tango looks down at the bright red hoodie that Zedaph sported—just a bit too big and the words “very anxious” written on the front in a large font. Definitely his.
That’s also a thing Zedaph does that Tango would literally be blind to not notice. Zedaph keeps taking his clothing—especially the thicker ones; hoodies, sweaters, jackets. It’s almost like Tango’s closet was a communal one. Tango didn’t mind it, really. It was endearing if anything. But strange, still. Zedaph never really gave a proper explanation for why he does it. Yet Tango can’t really find it in himself to be surprised. The hoodies he’d left at Zedaph’s house also mysteriously disappeared in the past.
“It’s not yours if I’m wearing it, is it?”
“That’s not how it works.”
Zedaph comes to stand next to him, but that small sliver of space between them was still there and all too obvious to Tango. He grabbed one of the cups from Tango and started throwing sugar cubes in it.
“It is now,” Zedaph answered, not even sparing Tango a glance.
Tango was slightly taller than Zedaph—it was the exact reason he couldn’t comfortably steal Zedaph’s close back and part of the reason that Tango is actively thinking about how comfortable it’d be to lean to the side and against Zedaph’s shoulder. To sit in silence, but with contact, comfortably.
He does not. Instead he swallows. He picks up his warm mug and holds it close to his chest.
“How does pizza sound for dinner?”