Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

hi! back again with more 1xdoe for my little 1xdoelings ❤️‍🔥 but this time—its up to you! u give me prompt, i write and make us both happy

so uh lets start it off with a bang and talk abouttt

DONT REQUEST!!!

age play

making characters related so it is incest

aging character(s) down so it is pedophilia

anything with bodily fluids besides like spit, cum, or blood | {ex - no piss, diarrhea, ect // i might be fine with puke depending on the context but will prob decline / ask if somethings not listed and u want it}

sexual/suggestive things with feet | {ex - footjobs, foot/toe sucking, ect} or heavy focus on feet

scat, farts, that sorta stuff

force feeding/feeding kinks

omegaverse type stuff {ask}

heavy focus on bugs/insects/parasites {srry but bugs gross me out}

vore

somno/necro

anything where the main focus isnt 1xdoe!!

WHAT I ACCEPT!!

anything that is not listed above has a 97% chance to be accepted!! aka—basically anything that is not said that i dont want

also, you can bring up other characters, but i would like if it was only 1x and john tbh

i accept nsfw and angst, but i would prefer more sfw and fluff prompts since idk i wanna write them being cuddly and stuffs whatever

HOW DO I REQUEST OH NOO!?!?!(&:

yeah so uhm i dont rlly care tbh, just please give me more info than something like “have them kiss” because i have ZERO clue what to do with that…….. the more info, the better for the both of us—i write ur request better

PLEASEEEE!!! give me any HCs you have since mine r prob way different than urs. if you don't specify, i will prob use my own/base it off of your req. basic hcs you could add could be something like—sexuality, gender, personality, appearance, body language, types of affection…. ect…. 

also if u do indeed request nsfw—pls give me some sort of sex position maybe (dont need to find like a specific name cuz idk all the names either) but lowkey im too lazy sometimes to thibk of all these positions so uhm i would like that. also list whos top, bottom, or if its switch

also preferably shorter requests… (like 1—5k) we r not getting a 1xdoe marriage 2.0 with like 15k words agaib….sigh

UHM WHAT ARE UR HCS!?!?!?

so basic ones i kinda have that will probably appear in ur req if u dont specify anything are—

1x: he/him, pretty genderfluid, gay boy, more of a feminine body type (but flat), long hair either down or in ponytail, side swept bangs, usually shirtless, pretty caring to john but sometimes doesnt know how to express himself, either or genitalia cuz idk i see him with any tbh kinda depends, somewhat introverted, more of a top in nsfw, gets flustered somewhat easily, either has nothing (most common) or sometimes the most random thing in his pant pockets, likes sour stuff

john: he/him, cis male, bi with male preference, corruption signs no more grrr (can control corruption—aka an excuse to have him speak and have no physical signs like having the ability to use both arms normally), pretty extraverted, poof jane is gone (aka not married in forsaken terms), loves receiving and giving physical touch, cuddly, sometimes has glasses/gold crown thingy depending on my mood, sometimes a bit oblivious, doesnt wake up easily/is tired easily, not a good cook, like adores 1x’s hair and loves doing things like brushing/braiding it, wears yellow vest+white undershirt+blue tie+jeans, big sock wearer and wears them like 24/7, more of a bottom in nsfw, pretty much glued to 1x if theyre near eachother, gets cold easily, likes sweets and coffee

BLAH OTHER STUFF ABT MY WORKS

pls dont ask rlly abt when stuff will come out in them. idk its based on my motivation. 

so uh for dead or alive yeah uhm basically that fic is my priority rn cuz i love it and a lot of yall love it too so uhm yeah…

nsfw reqs r kinda indefinitely on hold rn cuz idk why but i couldnt sit down and write anything with it anymore so uhm yeah im sorry. i grew tired of writing only nsfw for a while so uhm yeah i know i have a lot of reqs i accepted but uhm im sorry

emergency is also kinda indefinitely on hold bc i would force myself to write chapters and i feel like it had a major drop on quality. kinda just grew a bit detached from the game and its ao3 fandom (srry to all u emergency fans. esp that one who said they check it twice a day….)

oh yeah uhm i think ima cancel the eunash thing i was working on cuz i just havent worked on it in like 2 months uhhh… yeah wasnt too big on it in the first place

FUTURE OF THIS WOWWW

yeah… do not expect ur reqs to be written fast. this isnt my priority and i will do some stuff in my free time when i wanna write but im too lazy to work on dead or alive… i will prob prioritize stuff i love the most and shorter things, so dont expect any sort of queue

i probably wont respond to comments like i usually do since idk why but my social battery kinda just plummeted, so im sorry if i sound awkward or weird or dry or whatever…

i check ao3 at least like once a day usually, so hit me up with any comments or questions and what not

….uhm so yeah if u like 1xdoe i may make ur dream come true….

anyways love u guys and thanks for the support on my 1xdoe things cuz ive been hyperfixated on the ship for months and love them sm… 

Chapter Text

John wasn’t expecting to spend his morning in the kitchen, but with the rare pocket of free time opening up in his day, he’d decided it was as good a moment as any to tend to a few things around the house that had long gone ignored. The kitchen windows, in particular, had become a hazy film of dust and fingerprints. With the curtains drawn wide to welcome the morning light, every smudge and speck stood out in glaring detail, making it impossible for John to ignore them any longer.

A gentle breeze filtered in through the screen of the open window, bringing with it the faint scent of the flowers from the bush just outside and the earthy undertone of soil. The sunlight slanted low, golden and rich, pouring in across the tile floor in elongated bands that made the whole kitchen feel warmer, softer, more alive. It was the kind of morning that made the quiet hum of daily life feel sacred.

Each pane, once clouded and dulled, grew clearer under his cleaning, and soon the entire kitchen was filled with the crystalline glow of undiluted sunlight. He squinted slightly as the brightness caught his eyes directly, making him pause with a soft grunt. He reached up, shielding his gaze with the back of his hand for a moment, and then leaned back on his heels to admire his handiwork. It wasn’t perfect, maybe, but there was something deeply satisfying about restoring clarity to something.

Just as he was finishing the last pane, setting aside the damp cloth he was using on the edge of the counter with a quiet sigh of accomplishment, a familiar voice drifted down the hallway.

“John? Do you mind coming here?”

It was 1x1’s voice—calm, soft, and tinged with the slightest note of polite expectancy. It came from their bedroom, and though the tone suggested it was a question, John knew better. It wasn’t that 1x1 needed to ask. He probably already knew John would come, just as he always did. But he asked anyway, because that was how he was around him.

John smiled faintly to himself, the corner of his mouth quirking up with fondness. He wiped his damp hands on a towel nearby, set it beside the sink, and gave the windows one last glance. Then, without hurry, he turned and made his way down the hall.

He reached the door, which stood slightly ajar, and leaned just enough to peek around the frame. The room inside was flooded with gentle light, diffused through sheer curtains that billowed lazily with the breeze. And there, nestled amid the soft tangle of pillows and blankets, was 1x1.

He was sitting atop the bed, legs folded beneath him with casual grace, the light casting a soft halo along the edge of his form. His wings arched slightly at his back, partially fluffed, the feathered edges catching the light like delicate fans. They looked both majestic and fragile—luxurious in texture, but clearly in need of care.

John stepped quietly into the room, the familiar creak of the floorboard sounding beneath his feet. He approached slowly, his gaze lingering on 1x1’s face. There was a small crease between his brows, the kind of thing most wouldn’t notice, but John had come to recognize it. A tension. A quiet discomfort.

He sat on the edge of the bed beside him, the mattress dipping slightly beneath his weight. Their eyes met—1x1’s gaze soft but just slightly uncertain. His wings gave a small, involuntary puff, the feathers ruffling as if in instinctive response to being observed so closely.

“What do you need, love?” John asked gently, his voice low, warm, and full of affection.

1x1’s wings twitched at the name, and he glanced away for a moment. Then, with a slightly hesitant motion, he lifted a hand and pointed toward his back, toward the center where the feathers grew thickest.

“Would you help me preen the middle of my back…?” he asked softly. “I’m molting, and I can’t really reach that well back there.”

His voice carried a trace of vulnerability, one that John never took for granted. From what John had gathered from 1x1 before—the feathers along the spine were the hardest to reach, and when new growth pushed through, it was often uncomfortable—an ache that could become irritating if left unattended.

John leaned in and pressed a gentle kiss to his cheek—just a brush of lips against warm skin. “Of course I will,” he murmured.

1x1’s cheeks flushed slightly, and he looked down, but didn’t protest as John moved behind him on the bed, positioning himself carefully so that his legs straddled either side, giving him full access to his wings. The mattress dipped and shifted with his weight, but 1x1 adjusted smoothly, leaning slightly forward to give John better access.

His wings unfurled with a graceful rustle, feathers shivering out as though reacting to the touch of air. John took a moment just to look—really look—at the way each feather laud, the way they layered over one another in perfect design. He reached out, fingers reverent, and gently combed them through the feathers at the center of 1x1’s back. 1x1’s shoulders relaxed, wings lowering slightly as if to invite the contact further.

John worked carefully, fingertips pressing along the shaft of each pin feather, finding the sheaths still intact. One by one, he twisted them gently between his fingers, coaxing the keratin away without pulling or snagging. It was a slow process, and he didn’t rush it. Each time a sheath fell free, it dropped silently into a small pile on the blanket beside them.

1x1 shifted, leaning into the touch, the muscles along his back practically growing less tense with each pass. John smiled softly at the reaction, and though he said nothing, his hands spoke for him—steady, tender, endlessly patient. 

His thumb traced the edge of a long plume, smoothing it carefully, checking for breaks or tangles. “Finished one,” he whispered, resting his chin momentarily on 1x1’s shoulder, his cheek brushing against his skin. He reached forward, fingers trailing lightly down the length of the outstretched wing.

1x1 gave his wing a stretch, testing it. His eyes fluttered half-shut as he felt the smooth alignment, the ease of movement returned to the feathers. He folded it back carefully, and John shifted to begin on his other wing.

This time, he worked faster—not because he was rushing, but because the rhythm had settled into something confident, natural. He stripped away the keratin sheaths with practiced ease, occasionally flicking his thumb to clear a flake from beneath his nail.

“All done,” John said finally, cheerful but still quiet, his voice a gentle contrast to the near-sacred silence that had filled the room during their time together.

He gathered up the discarded keratin, brushing it into his palm, and rose from the bed. He crossed the room, dropping the bundle into the small trash bin tucked in the corner beside the dresser. When he turned back, 1x1 was still seated on the bed, but now his feathers were in motion, ruffling gently, a sign of comfort and satisfaction.

John returned to his place beside him, lowering himself slowly, his hand brushing against 1x1’s knee as he settled.

1x1 turned to him, his expression soft and quiet. He reached out with one hand, fingers cool and gentle as he cupped John’s cheek. Then, without a word, he leaned in and pressed a kiss to John’s cheek—a mirrored gesture.

“Thank you, dear,” he said quietly, letting his forehead rest against John’s temple.

John responded by sliding an arm around his waist, pulling him in with slow reassurance. He rested his head against 1x1’s, exhaling deeply, their breaths mingling in the quiet. “As always, love,” John murmured.

And for a while, they just sat there—bathed in the morning light, wrapped in the warmth of each other's touch, and something deeper than words.

Chapter Text

Most people didn’t realize—couldn’t even begin to fathom—just how utterly exhausting it was to deal with a pack of overeager, self-righteous wannabe heroes every single day. The kind who seemed to wake up with a mission stamped on their foreheads: Make 1x1’s life as difficult as humanly possible. It was a thankless, maddening cycle—one that didn’t just wear on the body but scraped away at the mind like sandpaper across soft wood. Draining didn’t even begin to cover it. No, this was something deeper. A bone-deep, marrow-soaking weariness that clung to 1x1 like damp clothes after a storm. It was awful. It was relentless. And it was so—so—tiring.

His boots crunched through the brittle detritus of the forest wasteland, a place that looked like it had been painted in dying hues of gray and brown. The ground was hard-packed and cracked in places, threaded with the pale skeletons of roots that had once supported trees far taller than some of the stumps that remained now. It was where they—the killers—were dumped to wait in limbo between rounds. Sentenced to the lull. No glory, no bloodshed. Just aching, simmering solitude.

Their cabin stood crookedly ahead, half-sunken into the twisted earth like it had grown tired of holding itself upright. The structure leaned slightly to the left, its roof bowed under the weight of pine needles and neglect. It wasn’t much—Four walls, a roof that only sometimes leaked, and insulation that had long ago given up the fight against cold drafts—But it worked.

The porch steps groaned under his weight as he ascended them, each foot step thudding like a hammer against old nails. It was strange how something so simple could feel so impossibly difficult—like gravity had been dialed up just for him. Maybe it was the weight of his swords he slung countless times catching up to him, or maybe it was the fatigue that came from having your skull rattled every three seconds by some new flavor of pain. Sword slashes, bullets, tripmines… even fists. Someone had the audacity to punch him today—With their bare hands. Who did that?

He exhaled slowly through his nose, a breath that carried the invisible tremor of a man past his limit. Still, a faint, private smile tugged at one corner of his mouth. It wasn’t triumphant—no, it was subtler than that. It was the ghost of satisfaction. The quiet pride of someone who had made it through hell and come out standing. He had sent them all packing—left them flat on their backs in a pile of embarrassment, broken egos, and blood. Served them right.

The cabin door was unlocked, as it always was. There wasn’t much point in locking anything out here anyways. 

Twisting the handle, he stepped inside and shut the door with a muted click, the world outside dulling instantly, leaving only the stale, musty scent of wood, ash, and worn-in leather. He didn’t hesitate or waste a single breath, his body already knew the route. It carried him to the middle of the living room, where a battered couch waited like a tired old friend.

He collapsed onto it with the full, ungraceful weight of a man who had nothing left to give. The cushions wheezed beneath him as he sprawled out across its length, his limbs sprawling like they’d been poured into place. He managed to claim about three-quarters of the couch, which was typical for him. The idea of making it upstairs to his room, to his actual bed, felt laughably out of reach. That climb might as well have been Everest. No—this was it, the couch was good enough.

The upholstery smelled faintly of smoke and old sweat, the sort of scent you eventually grew used to. He let his head loll back, neck tilted uncomfortably against the couch’s hard edge, eyes open but unfocused. The ceiling stared down at him—its wooden panels dark with age, cracked slightly at the seams. He was too tired to shut his eyes. Too wired from the residual adrenaline, too sore in too many places. Every part of his body hummed with a dull ache that felt like it had been stitched into his bones.

He didn’t notice, at first, that he wasn’t alone. It started with the faintest creak of a floorboard. Soft and hesitant, a weight too careful to be accidental. The sound of someone trying not to be heard, or at least, not wanting to draw attention. He didn’t move, didn’t even flick his eyes toward the source since it wasn’t the kind of noise that really signaled danger.

Then the couch shifted. A subtle dip in the narrow sliver of space he hadn’t taken. The cushions groaned ever so slightly under the added weight. Only then did 1x1 lift his head—not all the way, just enough to glance with mild curiosity at whoever had joined him.

John. Of course it was John.

Awkwardly wedged between 1x1’s outstretched legs and the far armrest, his back hunched like he was trying to make himself smaller. His clawed hands were tangled together in his lap, fidgeting with invisible threads as his thumbs circled one another in slow, uncertain patterns. His gaze darted between 1x1’s face and the floor, the wall, the ceiling—anywhere that might save him from the weight of direct eye contact.

1x1 stared at him for a moment, too tired to feel surprised, too used to this sort of thing. John had a habit of following him—silent and persistent, like a shadow with opinions. Sometimes he’d sit beside him without saying a word, sometimes he’d talk, sometimes he just… existed nearby. It wasn’t threatening. It wasn’t particularly comforting either. It was just John.

The silence hung between them, heavy and awkward, until John finally spoke—his voice a shaky thread of sound that tried too hard to be casual.

“So… rough day again…?”

He winced as soon as the words left his mouth, like he wished he could take them back midair. Even his voice sounded unsure—like it hadn’t quite received clearance from his brain before taking off. There was a nervousness to it. Not fear, exactly. Just… hesitation. Like John didn’t know whether he was crossing a line, or walking one.

1x1’s eyes lingered on John’s for a long, quiet moment—long enough for it to feel like time slowed between them, the rest of the world receding into a distant blur. Eventually, and with a slowness that betrayed just how heavy he felt, 1x1 turned onto his side with the rustle of skin against fabric, pressing his cheek into the cracked leather of the couch back. He didn’t say much—just a low, tired sound, soft and barely there.

“Mn."

It was a quiet acknowledgment. Not quite an answer. Not quite a rejection either. Just… a sound. Just enough.

John shifted beside him, the cushion beneath them groaning faintly. His fingers tightened around themselves, his whole posture tense with hesitation. Then, after a few seconds—hesitant, like he had rehearsed it too many times in his head and still wasn’t sure if it would land—John spoke, his voice almost as quiet as 1x1’s sigh.

“Well… If it, uhm, makes you feel any better…” he began, the words tumbling out in fits and starts, “We could, uh… cuddle or something—if you want to, of course…”

Each syllable felt like it was wading through thick water, weighed down by nerves. The sentence ended on a breath that seemed to curl inward, embarrassed at its own existence.

For a moment, there was no response.

Then, slowly, 1x1 lifted his head off the couch. His movements were sluggish, as if he were underwater—everything dulled by fatigue, the kind that wrapped around your limbs like sandbags. He didn’t speak. He didn’t need to. His body moved of its own volition, half-turning toward John with an unreadable look in his eyes.

John, already tense, immediately dropped his gaze the moment their eyes locked. His face flushed, a visible bloom of color that spread quickly across his cheeks and down the length of his neck. It clashed against the deeper red that already marbled his skin in splotches of corruption, creating a strange, almost lovely contrast. He looked—despite himself—bashful. Embarrassed. Soft.

1x1 blinked slowly, his mind still fogged, steeped in the dull ache of exhaustion. There wasn’t room for annoyance, no energy for suspicion. Honestly, the thought of being close to someone—feeling a warm presence against his skin, grounding him, maybe even lulling him to sleep with soft, slow movements—sounded like bliss. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been held without blood smeared between bodies. The idea of just being near someone, no judgment, no tension, no demands…

It sounded wonderful.

John still wasn’t looking at him. He sat rigid and still, like if he moved too much he’d ruin the moment. 1x1 didn’t feel like talking. Talking took effort. 

Instead, with a breath that barely stirred the air, he shifted his body and laid his head gently across John’s lap.

John froze, his breath hitched so subtly that it might’ve gone unnoticed, if not for how stiff his posture had suddenly become. Their eyes met again—an unintentional clash of gazes as 1x1 found himself staring up at the man who’d been nervously watching his own knees. John’s blush deepened almost instantly, his expression a mix of surprise, panic, and something warmer, something softer that trembled on the edge of a smile.

1x1’s head was heavy against his thighs, but John didn’t seem to mind. The man sat perfectly still, as though any sudden move might shatter the fragile intimacy of the moment. And to 1x1’s surprise—his thighs were… comfortable, surprisingly so. He would have expected something angular, awkward, but instead, they were firm and warm beneath him, enough to cradle his skull with gentle pressure. The kind of warmth that made his bones ache less.

His eyelids fluttered shut for a moment, but he wasn’t finished. Without saying a word, he burrowed his face deeper—not into John’s thighs now, but into the soft curve of his lower stomach, seeking out the steady heat there, the rise and fall of breath beneath his cheek. The faint smell of worn fabric and John’s skin, faintly sweet, faintly metallic, wrapped around him. The contact made something in him settle. He was so tired—Bone-tired, soul-tired.

There was a long pause, a breathless span of stillness where nothing happened.

A hand rose slowly—very slowly—until John’s claws hovered over 1x1’s head, uncertain. He seemed to hesitate for a full beat, as though afraid to touch. As though asking permission in the silence. Then, with a cautious breath, he let his claws drag lightly through 1x1’s hair—Testing, gentle, curious.

1x1 sighed, soft, low, and pleased. He pressed himself deeper into John’s body, letting the dull warmth of fabric and flesh muffle the edges of his awareness. His hands, previously limp at his sides, curled slightly against John’s leg. He breathed in the warmth. Let it fill the aching hollows. He felt a hand settle at his waist—tentative, barely gripping him. But it was there, and that was enough, for now. 

Or maybe not.

A greedy desire stirred in him—not born of lust or hunger, but comfort. A need to be closer, touched again, grounded again. He shifted, pushed himself upright in a sluggish, sleepy movement, and repositioned himself to sit directly on John’s lap. His limbs folded around him with the laziness of someone not fully awake. John blinked, clearly confused at the sudden shift, but made no move to push him away. His hand remained at 1x1’s waist, while the other, which had once been threading through his hair, slid automatically down his back as he moved.

1x1 frowned faintly at the loss of contact to his hair, and let out a quiet, breathy huff—more to himself than anything.

He leaned in, closing the distance between them fully, and slotted his head into the crook of John’s neck. The hollow there was warm, sheltering. He pressed into it and wrapped his arms around the other man’s body, breathing him in like something sacred.

Then, his voice came—barely more than a whisper. A soft brush of sound against skin.

“…Attention…”

The word was fragile, raw, and vulnerable in a way 1x1 didn’t often allow himself to be. But tonight, he didn’t care. He was too tired to pretend he didn’t want to be held. Too exhausted to keep playing strong.

He just… wanted.

And John heard it.

He didn’t respond with words, but his hands trembled slightly, and 1x1 felt the breath catch in his throat again, followed by the audible sound of a swallow—loud in the quiet space between them. He was flustered, clearly, but that didn’t stop him from responding.

The hand at his back stayed firm, curling with purpose now. The other rose once more to his hair, returning to its task with slow, deliberate strokes. His claws traced through the dark strands like he was memorizing their texture, letting the silken weight slip between his fingers. The hand at 1x1’s back began to move too, rubbing soft, grounding circles between his shoulder blades.

The combination made 1x1 melt just a little further into his lap, his arms tightening slightly in return. He let his eyes fall shut again, this time willingly, the sensation of being touched pulling him closer to sleep. Each circle on his back, each lazy pass through his hair, each warm breath on the side of his head was soothing.

John was awkward, shaky, not confident in any of this, but he was trying.

There was a pause. A quiet stillness, like the space between heartbeats.

1x1 moved, it wasn’t a grand movement, nothing loud or dramatic. Just a soft tilt of his head, his cheek brushing against John’s collarbone before he craned his neck back slowly—so slowly—to look up at the man who still held him. His tired eyes were half-lidded, but their gaze was sharp and watchful, studying the features above him, and John was already looking down.

Their eyes locked again, and it was different this time—no longer a moment of surprise or accidental embarrassment. It was lingering. The weight of John’s attention settled on him like a warm blanket, thick with unspoken emotion. And for a few seconds, neither of them moved, just breathed in the quiet, the soft crackle of the old cabin settling around them.

Then 1x1 reached up with one hand—his fingers still half-curled from holding onto John’s back—and gently tugged a small strand of John’s hair between his fingertips. It was a singular motion, slow and almost playful, as he twisted the lock around his fingers, feeling the soft give of it with absent-minded focus. John’s hair, despite its sometimes messy appearance, was soft in a way that felt too delicate for someone like him. It was almost ironic—this overall tough, blushing, awkward man with hair like downy dusk.

1x1 didn’t play with it for long. After a few seconds, his hand slid down, gliding across John’s cheek, before coming to rest with featherlight care against the side of his face. His thumb, slightly calloused but careful, brushed a slow arc across John’s jaw, tracing the curve like it was something sacred. John leaned into the touch immediately, the movement unthinking—his head tilting slightly toward the palm, his eyes fluttering shut for a brief moment, as though soaking in the contact like it was sunlight.

When he looked again, his gaze had softened to something deep and unreadable. Their eyes met once more, and neither blinked, neither looked away. It was only then that 1x1 realized how close they had drawn—how the air between them had thinned, becoming something charged and fragile.

And in that space, the hand in his hair stilled, claws still tangled among strands, but no longer moving—just resting there, holding.

1x1 blinked, slowly, once—then twice—trying to shake off the haze of warmth tugging at his chest. That’s when he noticed it again: John’s face flushing, a deep, blooming red rising along his cheeks and down the line of his throat like fire spreading through dry grass.

“1x…” John’s voice came at last, soft and almost hoarse, like it had taken everything in him to speak. “You’re so… beautiful…”

The words were barely above a whisper. And as soon as he said them, John’s face turned away in embarrassment, his eyes darting down like he regretted letting the words escape.

1x1’s hand remained on his cheek. With a soft smile—subtle, almost sleepy—he guided John’s face back toward his own with a gentle pressure, thumb brushing once more along the line of his jaw. Their eyes met again, this time with quiet affection brimming in the silence between them.

“Have you looked at yourself, John?” 1x1 murmured, his voice low and laced with drowsiness. He sounded like someone caught in the edge of sleep but unwilling to let go of the moment. “You’re…”

He trailed off. He didn’t finish the sentence, didn’t need to. Because the truth of it hung thick in the space between them.

1x1 had never really let himself think about it before—not deeply. John had always been good-looking, sure. But 1x1 had brushed it off. He couldn’t afford to notice things like that. He couldn’t afford to dwell on warm eyes or soft hair or the way John’s nervous laughter made something in him tighten. But now—now—it all hit him at once. The way John’s skin flushed when he was embarrassed. The way his voice stammered around kindness. The way he had asked, so awkwardly, to cuddle…

God.

He wanted to kiss this man so badly it made his heart ache.

Then, as if summoned by some invisible current of feeling, they both opened their mouths at the same moment.

“Can I… kiss you?” they asked, the words overlapping like two hands reaching out at once.

A beat of stunned silence followed, broken only by the shared exhale that escaped them both.

1x1 felt something soft unfold inside him at the realization—John wanted this. Just like he did. He nodded before John could retreat into embarrassment, hoping the motion would bridge the gap his voice couldn’t.

John’s grip in his hair tightened ever so slightly, a careful tug—not forceful, just enough to guide him forward. 1x1 allowed it, eyes half-lidded, heart in his throat. They leaned in together, closing the gap inch by inch, breath mingling in the last sliver of distance.

Then… stillness.

They hovered, just half an inch apart. Close enough to feel the warmth of the other’s lips, to see the way eyelashes fluttered with anticipation. But neither moved, neither dared to be the first.

1x1 had never kissed anyone before. Not really, not like this.

He assumed John had, but one glance at his wide, trembling eyes and parted lips made him rethink that assumption.

It didn’t matter.

Growing impatient, emboldened by the flush in John’s cheeks and the thrum of want in his own chest, 1x1 closed the final inch himself. His hand slipped along John’s cheek, cupping the side of his face with more certainty now, and he pulled him forward gently—bringing their lips together in a kiss that was soft, tentative, and achingly warm.

John’s lips were softer than he expected. They didn’t press hard or fast, just there—present and pliant and surprisingly perfect. He kissed like he meant it. Like he was feeling everything all at once and didn’t know how to say it with words.

1x1 sighed into the kiss, the sound escaping unbidden, his body relaxing further into John’s lap. His head tilted slightly to the side as John deepened the kiss with a careful press, the hand at 1x1’s back sliding just slightly lower—not with intent, just instinct.

The kiss was gentle. No rush. No hunger. Just slow and searching.

It had been only a few seconds—maybe five, maybe ten—but when their lips parted, it felt as if entire minutes had passed in silence between heartbeats. Time didn’t move in the ordinary way when they were like this—when the world had shrunk down to just skin, breath, and the smallest motions of mouths meeting. In the aftermath, a quiet settled over them, a gentle kind of hush that wasn’t empty but full, like the lull of a summer night thick with warmth and the low hum of insects in the grass.

1x1’s lungs dragged in air slowly, as if his body had forgotten how to breathe while caught in that moment. He blinked, then blinked again. His lips still tingled—soft, warm, and strange—almost like they’d been dusted with something electric. He couldn’t tell if the sensation was natural, some byproduct of nerves and closeness and warmth, or if John’s corruption had somehow left a trace behind, clinging subtly to him.

1x1 leaned forward again, closing the tiny space between them without hesitation. His movement was instinctual—unthinking but utterly deliberate—and he pressed another kiss to John’s mouth. It was smaller this time, briefer, almost featherlight, as if he was testing the texture of affection, trying to commit it to memory. When he pulled away, his lips curved into a soft, crooked smile that he didn’t even try to hide.

“I think I may like you, John,” he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper, but threaded with amusement and sincerity both.

John laughed—and oh, what a sound it was.

It wasn’t a loud, raucous thing, but something soft and warm and deep, like water trickling over stones. 1x1 felt it reverberate through John’s body where he was still touching him, and the sound brought a subtle warmth to his own face, coloring his ears faintly.

“I hope so,” John replied with a playful smile, still breathless. Then, as if mimicking 1x1’s motion, he leaned forward and planted a kiss of his own—just as brief, just as gentle—onto 1x1’s lips. But when he pulled back, his eyes were glassy with something deeper.

“I like—actually, no,” he said, correcting himself, his voice faltering just a little. Then, more firmly: “I love you. I love you, 1x…”

For a moment, 1x1 didn’t know what to say. The words hung in the air between them like the last echo of a bell, resonating in the hollow parts of his chest that he hadn’t realized were there. He blinked slowly, eyes wide with something unreadable. Then, with a small, almost incredulous huff of breath, he buried his face into the crook of John’s neck once more.

“You’re stupid,” he mumbled, voice muffled but unmistakably fond. “But… I believe I love you too.”

The words were cautious, careful, as if he were turning over the shape of them in his mouth for the first time. And in a way, he was.

“Though…” he added, voice quieter now, “the feeling is foreign to me. I’m not quite sure what it’s supposed to feel like… to be ‘in love.’”

John didn’t laugh this time, he didn’t tease. He only wrapped his arms tighter around 1x1, hands gentle but firm, fingers splaying across his back in a gesture that was all-encompassing, protective, loving.

“That’s alright,” John murmured, his voice low and close to 1x1’s ear. “We can figure it out together.”

1x1 didn’t respond with words. He just let himself sink deeper into the warmth, the comfort, the safety. He felt John shift, pulling gently at him until they both laid back fully onto the couch. The cushions gave beneath their combined weight with a soft sigh, and 1x1 let himself be guided easily, resting his body across John’s chest with a surprising lack of hesitation.

John laid on his back, arms still wrapped around him, while 1x1 stretched himself out carefully atop him, the weight of their closeness both grounding and dizzying. His cheek found the curve of John’s neck again, and he tucked himself there with an almost embarrassed softness, nuzzling in a little deeper to hide the heat that had made its way onto to his face.

It was oddly domestic, this position—like something they’d done a hundred times before, but never have. As if their bodies already knew how to fit together like puzzle pieces, even if their minds were still trying to catch up.

1x1 shifted slightly, wrapping his arm back around John’s middle and letting his fingers settle there. His eyelids fluttered shut, not quite sleeping, but letting the warmth wash over him. He felt John twitch just slightly beneath him—something ticklish, involuntary—and realized it was his eyelashes brushing against the sensitive skin of his throat.

He smiled. Just a little.

John’s voice was the last thing he heard before sleep began to creep into the corners of his mind.

“We can figure it out together…”

He liked that answer.

The room fell into stillness, the only sound the gentle rhythm of breathing, one heart pressed against another.

1x1 didn’t know how this had happened—how he’d gone from dragging himself home in a haze of exhaustion to being cradled in the arms of someone who loved him—but for once, he didn’t overthink it. He didn’t question or analyze, he just let it happen.

He was glad he’d been tired enough to collapse on the couch.

He was glad John had been the one to catch him.

He was glad—unbelievably, quietly, soul-deep glad—that they had found each other like this, tangled together in the soft glow of something new.

And as they both drifted off, wrapped in each other’s arms beneath the low hum of the lights and the soft creak of the old cabin’s wood, there was peace. Undeniable peace.

...

From the top of the stairs, Jason descended with the slow, cautious tread of someone who’d just been woken from a half-decent sleep. His bare feet padded lightly against the worn wood, the old stairs groaning faintly under each step. Behind him, smaller steps followed—the rapid patter of Coolkidd, wide awake and chipper despite the late hour.

The kid had claimed to be “starving,” and Jason, ever the reluctant guardian, had sighed and dragged himself down with as little grace as possible. He rubbed one masked eye with a knuckle as they reached the bottom of the stairs.

The living room light was still on, flooding the open space with soft yellow glow that seemed far too bright to eyes that had adjusted to darkness. Jason winced, squinting as the sudden light pierced his vision, but was grateful at least that he didn’t have to stumble around in the dark.

He crossed to the kitchen, yawning behind one hand, and then—just as his fingers brushed against the cabinet door—he paused.

He glanced toward the couch, something catching in the corner of his eye. A leg, a foot, poking out over the armrest.

Jason stopped moving. He stood perfectly still for a moment, eyes narrowing as he took in the scene. There they were—John and 1x1—curled into one another in a tangled heap of limbs, breaths synchronized in sleep. One had an arm draped over the other, and the other had burrowed so deeply into the first’s chest it was hard to tell where one ended and the other began.

Jason blinked once, twice, slowly.

He hadn’t known they felt anything for each other. Hadn’t suspected a thing, though now—looking at them like this—it made a strange kind of sense. He sighed, then turned back toward the pantry.

Behind him, Coolkidd spoke up, eyes wide and curious. “Why are they holding each other like that? Isn’t that what couples do?”

Jason didn’t answer for a long second.

“Ki ki ma…” was his brilliant reply.

He grabbed a granola bar and an apple from the cabinet, handed them off wordlessly to Coolkidd, and began ushering the kid gently back toward the stairs. But before he did, he paused beside the couch just long enough to pluck a spare blanket from the chair nearby. With a soft grunt, he draped it carefully over the two of them—tucking it in a little around 1x1’s shoulders without waking him—then flicked the lights off with a quiet click.

Darkness returned to the room, broken only by the faint glow of the moon through the window.

As Jason climbed the stairs once more, he didn’t bother to look back. He only wondered what else was going to come with those two.

And with that, he disappeared upstairs, the floorboards sighing gently behind him.

Chapter Text

Prom. That word alone had carried a certain weight since the beginning of senior year—a shimmering, slow-burning promise of magic for some, and a lurking pressure for others. 

For John, it was both. Everyone said prom was the crown jewel of high school, the event that sat at the summit of the teenage experience like a glinting glass slipper waiting to be claimed. And now, with the school year teetering on the edge of its final chapter, the countdown had begun.

He should’ve had it figured out by now. Everyone thought he would. After all, John was popular. Not the movie-star quarterback kind of popular, but the effortlessly charismatic type—the guy who could walk into any room and be greeted with a chorus of voices calling his name, who always had a seat at every lunch table, and who never seemed to be alone in the halls unless he wanted to be. People liked him. He knew that. So then why, two weeks out from prom night, was he still very, very single?

It wasn’t that he lacked options. No, if he wanted to, he could’ve probably picked a name from his inbox—there were a few offers, some subtle and some embarrassingly direct. But none of them felt right. None of them were… him.

John didn’t want to go with just anyone, and he especially didn’t want to go with a group of friends who barely knew the parts of him that mattered. The idea of spending that kind of night—one made of slow songs, late-night drives, and the surreal sweetness of final memories—surrounded by half-friends and acquaintances felt hollow. It felt like showing up to a movie you didn’t care about, just for the popcorn.

No, if he was going to go, it had to be with someone who meant something to him.

That someone sat three rows ahead and two seats to the left, framed perfectly in the late afternoon light streaming through the classroom blinds. His name was 1x1.

John had been looking at him for the better part of ten minutes, chin resting heavily in his hand, elbow planted on his desk like it was the only thing keeping him tethered to the real world. The teacher’s voice was a dull murmur in the background, just barely audible over the soft scribble of pencils and the hum of the overhead lights.

“Okay, so for this problem… it’s asking for the integral of six-x squared, minus four-x, minus twenty-five, over x minus two…”

Blah, blah, whatever. Math had long since taken a backseat to the gentle, mesmerizing rhythm of watching 1x1 write—his fingers curled neatly around his pencil, knuckles brushing against his loose-leaf notebook as he moved with fluid, almost mechanical precision. John’s gaze trailed lazily from the back of 1x1’s neck, where his long strands of hair curled slightly against his skin where it grew, down to his back, which was hunched slightly in casual focus beneath his usual green shirt.

The shirt, of course, had a bizarre black ribcage design stretched across the front—equal parts edgy and oddly specific. It fit his aesthetic though, an odd blend of a sort of grunge and “I-don’t-care.”

Below that were his signature baggy black jeans, artfully frayed at the knees, and perched beside his notebook sat the green hat-crown thingy he liked wearing. John smiled faintly. It was stupid, objectively speaking, since it looked rather ugly. But it was also… endearing.

He should’ve been taking notes. Should’ve been paying attention. Should’ve been solving equations instead of hopelessly watching the way 1x1 tilted his head when he paused to think or bit the end of his pencil in absent concentration. 

Most people asked their crushes to prom, right? Wasn’t that the thing? The classic, risky, butterflies-in-the-stomach gesture? So why couldn’t he just do it?

He flinched slightly as an elbow nudged his ribs. He turned to find Guest slouched beside him in his usual awkward energy. He stared down at his blank paper like it had personally offended him, then flicked his eyes up to John’s dreamy expression.

“Dude… you kinda gotta lock in,” Guest muttered under his breath, just loud enough for John to hear. “The test is in two days.”

John waved him off, his grin easy and unconcerned. “I’ll be fine.”

Guest didn’t look convinced. He never was.

“Oh, by the way—I got this awesome idea,” John whispered, voice lowering conspiratorially. The grin was still there, crooked and mischievous.

Guest sighed, already bracing himself. “Not sure if I wanna hear it, but go on.”

John leaned in like he was about to reveal a government secret, one hand sliding onto Guest’s shoulder with mock seriousness. “So, I wanna ask this guy out—to prom, y’know? What if like, you stand behind him, and if he rejects me, I just walk over to you and pretend I was asking you out instead? Like, ‘Haha, just kidding, I meant him.’ It’s genius.”

Guest turned slowly, giving him the flat, deadpan stare of someone whose patience had just been insulted. “First of all,” he hissed, “I don’t even know when or where you’re planning this theatrical disaster—or who it is exactly, though I’m pretty sure I do know. Second, I don’t want people thinking we’re a thing if you get rejected. And third, I have rehearsal after school. And work. Like a functioning person to society.”

John pouted, pulling his hand back dramatically before dropping his head onto his desk with a soft thud. “…Surprised the band hasn’t kicked you out yet…”

Guest narrowed his eyes. “What?”

“I said I’m surprised McDonald’s hasn’t given you a raise yet,” John said with a lazy grin, stretching his arms above his head.

“At least I have a job—and something to do after school. Unlike you,” Guest snapped, a little louder than he meant to.

“In the back—quiet!” the teacher barked, not even glancing up from the whiteboard.

All heads turned, a few snickers rippled across the classroom, but John barely noticed them. Because among the crowd of turning heads, one pair of eyes found his.

Red.

They were red. Not bright, cartoon red exactly, but a deep, almost maroon hue that always caught John off guard. 1x1’s gaze locked with his for the briefest second, his expression unreadable, calm as ever. Then, just as quickly, he turned back to his notes.

John’s heart jumped—just once, a little flutter like a bird rustling its wings. It was nothing, just a glance.

And yet, as he propped his head back into his hand and watched the boy again from behind lidded eyes, it felt like something had changed. Something small. Something fragile. Something maybe—just maybe—worth chasing.

…

The clock on the wall ticked with a kind of arrogant slowness, each second dragging its feet like it had nowhere else to be. For John, every moment felt stretched thin, like time itself was taunting him—mocking the way his heart thudded behind his ribs, how his thoughts tripped and tangled around one another in an ever-tightening knot. The teacher was still droning about random math stuff, his voice the equivalent of white noise, utterly drowned out by the buzzing static in John’s ears.

He hadn’t looked away from 1x1 since the moment their eyes met. That flicker of contact, the faint twist in 1x1’s brow—had been enough to completely derail any attempt at focus. The classroom may as well have emptied around him, a fading backdrop of voices and motion he no longer registered. His pen sat unused beside his notebook, he hadn’t written a single thing.

Then, at long last, the bell rang.

It started as a high-pitched metallic trill, then cracked through the air like a bullet—sudden, sharp, liberating. Chairs scraped against the floor. Backpacks rustled. The familiar chaos of the end of the day bloomed like wildfire across the room. Students moved with the kind of frenzied energy that came with knowing freedom was just outside those double doors, their conversations rising in volume, interweaving in a tapestry of laughter, complaints, and plans shouted over each other.

John barely heard it. His eyes snapped to the figure standing up a few rows away, silhouetted against the chalk-dusted light coming from the windows.

There was nothing particularly graceful about the way 1x1 moved—he didn’t float or glide or walk like a prince out of some teen drama. No, his movements were simple, ordinary. He stood slowly, adjusted the strap of his beat-up backpack, and slung it over his shoulders with casual indifference. His green shirt was rumpled, and the ridiculous crown-hat-thing was once again stuffed into the side pocket of his bag, clearly rescued before a teacher could confiscate it.

Still, somehow, even in his simplicity, he was captivating.

John jolted into motion, yanking his forgotten papers off his desk and haphazardly stuffing them into the maw of his wide-open bag. Some of them crumpled; he didn’t care. His heartbeat was in his ears now, growing faster with every second that passed. There wasn’t a plan. Not really. Just an impulse—pure and unfiltered—that propelled him up from his chair and out the door like he was tied to a string being pulled forward by fate itself.

He kept a distance as he followed, weaving around slower students in the hallway, the buzz of post-class chatter bouncing off the metal lockers and tiled floors. The scent of cheap perfume, cafeteria grease, and dry-erase markers hung in the air—a signature blend of high school afternoons.

John’s fingers tightened around the strap of his backpack, knuckles whitening as he caught sight of 1x1 slipping through the side exit and stepping into the gray-washed afternoon.

Outside, the air was colder than he expected. A biting wind skimmed along the concrete, sweeping up stray leaves and bits of trash from the lawn and sending them skittering across the pavement. The sky was smeared with clouds, pale and thick like stretched cotton, and the fading sun cast a diffused silver over the school grounds.

John tugged the sleeves of his varsity jacket down over his hands, trying to ignore the way the chill was crawling up his arms. He swallowed, his throat dry. It wasn’t just the cold—it was everything. The realization that he was about to actually go through with this, that he was really going to walk up to him and speak. He could feel his pulse in his cheeks, his face growing warm despite the wind. His palms were damp. His legs felt like rubber.

But still, he walked.

1x1 didn’t notice at first. He moved like he always did, unbothered, unhurried, the back of his green shirt lifting slightly as he reached one hand into his pockets. His bag sagged low on one side, the zipper half undone. He headed toward the senior parking lot behind the school, where long rows of cars stretched out across the cracked asphalt—some rusted and mismatched, others sleek and polished with waxed hoods and tinted windows.

John saw him slow as he approached a black car parked near the far edge. It was surprisingly nice—clean, shiny, with that unmistakable gleam of something well-maintained. John didn’t know car models, couldn’t tell a Mustang from a Mazda, but this one stood out. It looked fast, sharp, confident. Just like its owner.

1x1 stopped at the driver’s side door, patting down his pockets, one hand swiping across his hip in search of keys. John could see the subtle tension in his back, the slight sway in his stance as he balanced his weight from one foot to the other.

‘This is it,’ John thought, breath catching in his throat.

He forced himself forward, each step feeling louder than it should. His heartbeat was a drum, fast and relentless, and by the time he reached speaking distance, his voice nearly died in his throat.

He cleared it instead. “Hey, 1x.”

1x1 startled. His hand had just pulled the lanyard from his pocket—black with some kind of silver lettering that John couldn’t make out—and it slipped from his fingers, the keys clattering against the asphalt with a sharp, metallic rattle. For a second, he stood frozen. Then he stooped quickly, snatched them up, and turned around, eyes narrowing as they met John’s.

“What do you want?” His tone was curt—gravelly, low, and cold.

But to John, it sounded like honey laced with fire. Even when 1x1 was gruff, even when he sounded like he couldn’t care less, it lit something in John’s stomach. He felt like he was about to unravel. Like every fiber of his body had gone tight with static and he’d forgotten how to speak.

“I… uh…” he stammered, hand reaching to scratch the back of his neck. His voice caught, then steadied. “Prom is coming up, and I wondered if maybe… you’d wanna be my date?”

There. It was out.

And the silence that followed was crushing.

John could’ve sworn the wind died down just to let the stillness stretch longer. His own breath sounded impossibly loud in his ears. The seconds ticked by, slow and agonizing, as 1x1 stared at him like he’d grown a second head.

“You want me to be your prom date?” 1x1 repeated slowly, as if he was trying to determine whether or not John was joking.

John nodded, unable to speak past the dry, aching tightness in his throat. He felt like his ribcage was closing in, like his lungs were shrinking. He was going to die. He was sure of it. He wanted to crawl into a hole, vanish into the cracks in the pavement.

But 1x1 didn’t laugh, he didn’t sneer or scoff. He just… stared. Then tilted his head to the side, just slightly, his bangs falling with the motion.

That one small gesture—innocent, probably absentminded—was enough to make John’s heart leap again. It was unfair how effortlessly charming he was.

“I always imagined there’d be a sign,” 1x1 said at last, gaze flicking over John’s jacket and jeans with vague disapproval. “Maybe flowers. Or a gift. At the minimum.”

His tone wasn’t mocking exactly, but it wasn’t impressed either.

John swallowed hard, the embarrassment sinking in all at once like a stone. He hadn’t thought this through. There were rules—expectations. This was prom, the grand gesture mattered. And he’d just… blurted it out. No flowers. No sign. No planning. Just nerves and adrenaline and a dumb, hopeful question.

And worst of all—he didn’t even know if 1x1 liked guys.

His thoughts spiraled. Was this offensive? Was he being presumptuous? Did he just ruin any chance of friendship, let alone a date? The ground felt unsteady beneath his feet.

Still, he hadn’t been rejected yet. Not officially. There was still a chance. Maybe.

John shoved his hands deep into the worn pockets of his letterman jacket, fingers curling into loose fists as his sneakers scraped against the uneven asphalt. The wind had picked up again, skimming across the open parking lot and rustling the edges of his jacket, carrying with it the dry scent of dust, grass, and faint engine oil. His breath fogged lightly in the cool afternoon air, swirling in front of his lips before vanishing like smoke.

His mind raced for something—anything—to save this. To explain why he hadn’t brought flowers or written some poetic sign or orchestrated a dramatic hallway scene with balloons and music. But all he had done was walk up and ask. Just asked. Was that enough?

Then, a memory bloomed in his head, surfacing like a flashlight beam cutting through the murky panic. There’d been a school assembly just a few months ago—something about scholarships and sports scores. The principal had called 1x1’s name out over the loudspeaker, congratulating him for some award John barely remembered. What stuck, though, was the way 1x1 had reacted: he had visibly flinched, his expression darkening as murmurs and glances rolled through the crowd. He’d sunk lower into his seat, face flat with irritation, clearly hating every second of attention.

John blinked. That could work—That could actually work.

He lifted his head, trying to soften the tight line of tension in his shoulders. “You wouldn’t have liked that,” he said, voice quiet but steady. “Getting attention drawn to you, I mean. I know if I saw someone pulling out something big to ask someone to prom, I’d definitely look. Everyone would.”

He gave a small, crooked smile, one that didn’t quite reach his eyes, but tried. “This way was… just us. Private. No stares—No pressure.”

The silence that followed wasn’t harsh. It was weighty, yes—but not cold. Not anymore. The wind whistled softly past them, rustling the leaves stuck in the chain-link fence along the back of the lot, and a car door slammed in the distance. 

1x1 stared at him, arms slowly crossing over his chest, his lanyard now clutched in one hand as the keys dangled with a faint metallic jingle. His expression was unreadable, carved from stone, but his eyes were sharp—burning holes into John’s nervous little shield. They didn’t flicker. They didn’t blink. They stayed trained on his face like they were reading more than just words. Like they could hear the quick thud of John’s heartbeat, see the pink rising in his cheeks.

“I always thought people going to prom were already dating,” 1x1 said, his voice low yet calm. “Hence the name ‘prom date.’”

John felt the words hit like an unexpected curveball, but not in a bad way. More like a perfect setup, a doorway flung wide open by accident, a once-in-a-lifetime lob.

He had to shoot his shot like Devin Booker here and get that bag.

He grinned—small at first, then growing with sudden confidence. The nerves were still there, fluttering in his chest, but he rode the wave of momentum. 

“Well, then we should date,” he said, smirking with more bravado than he felt. He winked—a little exaggerated, maybe, but sincere—and watched as 1x1’s face faltered.

There it was. That tiny flicker, that crack in his swagger.

1x1’s dark eyes widened, not dramatically, but just enough, barely enough. The surprise was there, nestled behind his calm exterior like a sudden ripple across still water. He didn’t say anything right away. Didn’t scoff or roll his eyes. Instead, his gaze dropped—to the asphalt, to the scuffed toe of his boot, to nothing in particular.

And John, watching like a hawk, caught it.

The faintest blush, awash of color, subtle and delicate, brushing along 1x1’s cheekbones. It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t obvious. But it was there.

John’s heart swelled.

“Then we can go to prom together and make it an actual date,” he added softly, “you and me.”

That part wasn’t loud either, it didn’t have to be.

1x1 looked back up, slowly. His eyes narrowed, but not in anger—more like wariness, hesitation, maybe even something like disbelief. He stared at John like he was trying to find the lie, waiting for the joke to land, but it didn’t. There was only John’s crooked grin and warm eyes and the faint rise and fall of his chest as he stood there, every inch of him trying not to explode from the sheer pressure of the moment.

“You’re stupid,” 1x1 said at last, voice quiet and a little hoarse.

John didn’t flinch. If anything, the words sounded oddly affectionate.

“But,” 1x1 continued, his gaze softening just a bit, “I suppose I’ll go to prom with you.”

The words hit like a bolt of lightning to the chest and John nearly lost his balance. Every ounce of restraint in his body screamed at him not to do something ridiculous—like cheer, or fist-pump, or launch himself into a hug. But it was hard. So hard. His grin widened, stretching so far his cheeks began to ache. He could barely hold it in.

“So… are we dating?” he asked, half-joking, half-serious, all hopeful.

1x1 turned without answering, his expression unreadable again as he popped open the driver’s side door of his sleek black car. The hinge creaked faintly, and he slid inside with practiced ease, setting his bag in the passenger seat. He inserted the key into the ignition, but paused before turning it, glancing at John through the open frame of the door.

“Don’t push your luck with me,” he muttered, though his voice didn’t have much bite to it anymore.

The ignition clicked and the car rumbled to life with a low, purring growl, headlights flaring dimly against the gray daylight. But 1x1 didn’t pull away—not yet.

He leaned back in the driver’s seat and looked up at John through the window, eyes half-lidded, expression unreadable.

“If you wish to take it that way… then sure,” he said quietly. “Don’t make me change that decision.”

John opened his mouth to respond—maybe to ask again if he meant it, maybe to joke—but he was cut off by the sharp thunk of the door closing. The glass was tinted, but not dark enough to completely hide 1x1’s face. Through the haze, John could still see him—calm, collected, staring straight ahead.

And then—just barely—a subtle motion. 1x1 lifted his fingers from the steering wheel and gave the most minute of waves. Small. Reserved. Like he didn’t want anyone but John to see it.

John’s heart did a backflip.

He waved back, much more eagerly, hand flying up in a messy motion that probably looked ridiculous, but he didn’t care. He wasn’t sure if 1x1 saw it—he didn’t wave again, but John hoped he did.

The black car slowly rolled backward, taillights glowing red as it backed out of the spot and began to ease down the row. John watched it the entire time, hands in his pockets, a goofy grin still painted across his face like permanent ink.

It wasn’t until the car turned the corner and disappeared behind the main building that he let out the breath he’d been holding.

He stood there for a long moment, alone in the stillness of the lot, his shadow stretching out in the lengthening light. His thoughts were spinning too fast. He’d done it. He’d actually done it. Somehow, impossibly, he had a prom date.

And not just any prom date.

1x1.

John exhaled slowly, a dreamy sort of sigh. A warm flush crept up his neck as he thought back to those words—“then sure”—and the not-quite-rejection, the door left just barely open. He technically hadn’t been told they weren’t dating. And that meant, at least in his book, that they were.

Boyfriend. The word danced at the edge of his mind, teasing him.

John smiled to himself, gaze drifting toward the fading streaks of sunlight breaking through the clouds. His hands tightened into the fabric of his pockets, clutching the memory of 1x1’s voice, his blush, that tiny wave behind the glass.

Today had been better than he imagined. And two weeks from now—when they stepped onto the dance floor, maybe holding hands, maybe something more—well…

Two weeks from now might be perfect.

…

Two weeks passed far faster than John had expected—too fast, really, as if time had slipped through his fingers like water he was never quite holding onto in the first place.

He thought the days would crawl, that the calendar would drag its feet until prom night finally arrived, but instead, everything sped up like a film reel spinning faster and faster until it blurred together. What should’ve been a slow build toward the biggest night of his teenage life passed in snapshots: sleepy early mornings where he’d catch glimpses of 1x1 leaning against his locker; lunches that melted into conversations about everything and nothing; walks to class that ended with awkward goodbyes neither of them seemed to want to say. And through it all, John clung to him—his presence, his voice, his calm, unreadable face that he’d started learning how to read in small, meaningful ways.

That first week, John made sure he sat next to him at lunch every day, even if it meant awkwardly squeezing himself into the edge of a crowded table or pretending not to hear the quiet whispers and jokes from people watching them. He’d plop down beside 1x1 with a tray in hand, usually carrying something he wouldn’t finish eating, too focused on trying to make 1x1 laugh or at least smile with whatever random topic he brought up that day.

Sometimes they talked about mundane things—games, strange dreams they had, music. Other times, they drifted into quieter, heavier territory. The conversations would slow, become tinged with a softness John hadn’t expected. There were pauses that stretched like taffy, heavy with meaning, filled with shared looks and the quiet hum of understanding. John felt himself learning pieces of 1x1 like puzzle fragments—his likes, his dislikes, how he bit the inside of his cheek when he was thinking, how he always walked like he had somewhere important to be, even when he didn’t.

By the second week, something subtle had shifted between them. It wasn’t that 1x1 was more affectionate—he wasn’t. Not outwardly. But he didn’t pull away when John leaned close. He didn’t flinch when their shoulders brushed. He didn’t scoff as often, or roll his eyes as dramatically. And when John joked about the two of them “officially” dating, 1x1 didn’t say no. That alone was a win in John’s book.

They’d made plans, simple ones. 1x1 would pick him up at exactly six-forty the night of prom—Mainly since John didn’t have a license yet, he failed his road test by forgetting his turn signal twice and nearly clipping a cone, so it was up to 1x1 to be the chauffeur. Then they’d eat somewhere, maybe not anywhere fancy, and afterward hang out at 1x1’s place for the night. John had pretended to be casual about that part, but inside, he buzzed with excitement. A whole night—just the two of them. He didn’t even care if he had to sleep on the floor or share a too-small couch. Just being there, in his space, breathing the same air, felt like the best first date he could imagine.

Now, it was the night of. The moment had finally arrived.

John stood in front of his full-length mirror, fingers fidgeting with the edge of his black blazer. The suit had taken him three separate mall trips to decide on, but he had finally settled on something sleek but simple—a fitted black jacket with subtle silver pinstriping that caught the light just enough, paired with a deep charcoal shirt underneath and a narrow tie knotted carefully around his throat. He’d spent the last twenty minutes smoothing out imaginary wrinkles and obsessing over the cuffs of his sleeves, unsure if they were supposed to show or not.

His dress shoes, polished to a shine that bordered on obsessive, reflected the bedroom ceiling light in a warped little crescent. He bent down one more time to brush off a speck of dust that probably wasn’t even there, then stood again, assessing himself with a mixture of anxiety and pride. He looked good. Not runway-model good, not movie-star good—but good for him. And tonight, that was enough.

Still, his nerves were a storm. His heart tapped anxiously behind his ribs like it was trying to punch its way out. He glanced at his alarm clock: 6:37 PM.

Three minutes. Three minutes.

Or maybe less. Or more. Or maybe 1x1 would change his mind and not show up at all.

The thought made John’s stomach twist unpleasantly. He had never asked if 1x1 was really excited about prom. Maybe he was just doing it because he thought he had to. Maybe—

Stop it.

John shook his head, trying to banish the spiral before it started. He needed air, distraction.

He padded out of his bedroom and into the living room, shoes clicking softly against the wood flooring. The space was dim, the sunset filtering through the curtains in lazy streaks of gold. He dropped onto the couch, fingers drumming an erratic beat against his knee as he stared blankly at the TV, which was off. The room smelled faintly of the cologne he’d took as a sample from the mall he went to that seemed popular among the other guys—a scent he barely liked but had used anyway because it felt like what people liked for prom.

His eyes drifted to the window.

He imagined what 1x1 might look like tonight. John had totally forgotten to coordinate outfits, a realization that had hit him earlier that morning like a truck. Most couples matched, didn’t they? But he hadn’t asked, hadn’t even thought to. Whatever. It didn’t matter. 1x1 could wear a garbage bag and still look—

The crunch of tires on gravel.

John bolted upright.

The sound was subtle, barely loud enough to register through the walls of his house, but it sliced clean through the quiet, suburban evening like a bell—he’s here.

Head snapping toward the window, he scrambled off the couch and moved toward the glass, heart pounding like a drum. He pushed aside the curtain, fingers gripping the fabric tightly as he pressed closer to the glass. His breath hitched.

There it was—1x1’s car. Sleek. Familiar. Black with just a hint of dust clinging to the lower panels, like it had come from somewhere farther than just across town. The vehicle glided smoothly into the driveway with a practiced ease, not too fast, not too slow, and came to a gentle stop as the engine gave a soft, even purr before falling silent. The silence after felt heavier than the noise—anticipatory, breathless.

The driver’s side door opened with a deliberate click, and out stepped 1x1.

John forgot how to think.

For a long moment, he simply stood there, staring through the window like he was watching a scene in a movie—one where the romantic lead arrives, backlit by sunset, dressed in something devastatingly elegant.

1x1 rose from the car like he had all the time in the world, moving with an effortless confidence that made the air seem to still around him. The faint golden glow of the sinking sun laced itself around his figure, catching on the smooth lines of his suit and the slope of his shoulders. He closed the car door behind him with a soft thunk, then turned toward John’s house with calm purpose, his hands slipping into his pockets as he made his way toward the front steps.

Gorgeous. That was the only word John’s brain managed to land on, and even that felt like an insult to what he was seeing.

Most people tried to coordinate prom outfits with their dates—John had read that online, seen it in movies, heard it from friends. It was supposed to be a shared effort, a subtle way to say “we go together.” But John, in his whirlwind of nerves and daydreaming and awkward excitement, had completely forgotten to bring it up, he hadn’t even asked 1x1 what he’d be wearing. And now, here he was, seeing it for the first time not in person, but through the blinds of his own living room.

The suit was black, yes, but not in a boring, ordinary way. This was black like obsidian, like the surface of still water at night. It shimmered faintly with a cool undercurrent of green—just enough to catch the light and hint at depth. The green wasn’t garish or loud. It was elegant, purposeful—woven into the lapels, the inner lining, and the sleek pocket square peeking from the chest pocket. The detailing was subtle, yet impossibly sharp. Every seam, every line, every fold was precise, like the suit had been made for him, and only him.

It hugged his frame perfectly, tailored in a way that defied logic. It was the kind of fit that didn’t just drape—it sculpted, outlining the quiet power of his build without shouting about it. His shoulders looked broader, his waist narrower. The trousers fell in a clean line over polished black shoes that seemed to shine with their own internal light. And where his usual crown-like accessory might’ve rested before—tonight, it was absent. His dark, long hair was left bare to the evening light, and the sun caught at it just enough to create a faint, radiant halo effect that danced along the top of his head.

He looked divine. Mythical. Like something carved out of dusk and dignity.

John felt dizzy.

His stomach flipped itself inside out in the most irrationally lovesick way imaginable, and for a terrifying moment, he wondered if he might actually faint. Right there, in his own home, just from looking at this boy—the boy who was somehow real, and his date tonight.

The doorbell rang.

The sound snapped him out of his daze, and he stumbled toward the door with the clumsy urgency of someone trying not to trip over his own shoes, and he barely remembered to breathe. The moment his hand landed on the doorknob, he wrenched it open—just in time to see 1x1’s hand lowering from the bell.

There he was. No glass between them this time. No curtains. No illusions.

Up close, 1x1 was even more stunning.

His skin caught the last warm hues of daylight and glowed with a richness that made John feel like he was looking at something sacred. His posture was relaxed, his eyes steady. He didn’t fidget. He didn’t second guess. He just stood there, effortlessly composed.

John stared. Just—stared.

God, he looked gorgeous… Did he say that already?

His mind was short-circuiting. Words scrambled for purchase. He had practiced a dozen different greetings in the mirror earlier that afternoon, but now all of them scattered like birds at a gunshot. He swallowed hard, trying to at least say something.

“You look nice tonight,” he finally managed, his voice softer than he’d intended. His hand twitched slightly on the edge of the doorframe.

1x1 tilted his head at him, that same subtle, curious motion he’d done once before weeks ago when John had first said something unexpected. His expression was unreadable, but not cold. Just thoughtful. A quiet assessment.

“Are you going to stand there,” he said evenly, “or get in the car?”

His voice wasn’t harsh. If anything, it was smooth, faintly amused. But there was something in the way he delivered the line—as if the moment wasn’t quite that serious, even though it felt that way to John.

Then, as he turned back toward the driveway, his head tilted again—just slightly—glancing over his shoulder.

“…And thank you,” he added, almost like an afterthought.

John blinked, his brain taking a second to catch up.

He quickly shut the front door behind him, heart hammering as he hurried down the steps to catch up. His shoes clicked loudly on the path, and he reached 1x1’s side just as they neared the car.

For a heartbeat, they walked in silence.

Then—quietly, just above the hum of the wind—1x1 spoke again.

“You look quite nice as well.”

It was quiet. Nearly swallowed by the breeze. Like something he hadn’t meant to say out loud.

But John heard it. And those words sent a fresh jolt of adrenaline straight to his chest, warmth blooming all the way to his ears.

He pretended not to hear.

“…What’d you say, 1x?” he asked, turning his head with the most innocent look he could muster, knowing full well what had been said.

1x1 exhaled through his nose. His shoulders rose and fell with something between embarrassment and practiced denial.

“Nothing,” he muttered, opening the driver’s side door. “I believe you’re hearing things.”

John’s grin split wide across his face, despite himself.

He opened the passenger door and slid into the seat, the leather cool and supple beneath him. The car’s interior smelled faintly like cedar and something crisp—like mint or new car polish. The dashboard gleamed, every button and dial looked sleek, expensive. The seats adjusted with a smooth hum, and even the seatbelt clicked in place with a satisfying snap. It was all so… him. Clean. Efficient. Comfortable, but not flashy.

John rubbed at his face with his hands, suddenly aware of how hot he felt. He was blushing—he could feel it. His skin tingled with it.

The driver’s door opened, and 1x1 climbed in with effortless grace, shutting it behind him and adjusting the mirror with one hand. He glanced over at John briefly.

“You can change whatever you want to get comfortable,” he said, voice calm as ever. “The air vents, your seat position, the music—I don’t care.”

John nodded, though he didn’t touch a thing. Everything was fine. Perfect, even.

As the car backed out of the driveway with smooth precision, 1x1’s eyes flicked to the rearview mirror, his jaw steady as he turned the wheel.

John’s gaze stayed fixed on him.

It always seemed to land there—no matter what. There was a gravitational pull between them that John had stopped trying to fight. The sun was nearly down now, casting the world in soft oranges and purples. The neighborhood drifted by slowly as they turned onto the main road, heading toward their destination. John didn’t even care where they went. They could’ve gone to a gas station and he would’ve been happy, as long as 1x1 was there beside him.

He felt giddy. Stupid, awkward, glowing-from-the-inside-out giddy.

And underneath all the nerves and fumbling and blushing, there was this quiet, fierce sense of rightness that settled deep in his chest.

He was happy.

Truly, deeply happy—for the first time in what felt like forever.

…

By the time they pulled into the school parking lot, the sun had all but vanished from the sky, leaving the world awash in bluish dusk and the flicker of overhead parking lights that buzzed softly against the deepening quiet. Laughter and chatter floated faintly in the air—some distant, some close—as groups of students in tuxes and gowns made their way toward the back entrance of the gym, their silhouettes framed against the school’s facade.

John wasn’t sure how long he’d been idly staring at 1x1 during the drive. He hadn’t meant to. In fact, he’d made an effort not to. He’d started a few conversations—short things, light-hearted—but between them, in those moments of companionable silence, his eyes always drifted back. Like a magnet. Like muscle memory.

There was something about the way 1x1 drove. Something effortless. He had one hand on the wheel, the other relaxed at his side, posture perfectly upright but loose at the same time—like he didn’t need to try to be composed, he just was. Every so often he’d glance to the mirrors, check the road, adjust the volume of the music just a notch—but John never missed the way the city lights would cast faint glimmers over his skin, outlining the curve of his jaw or the calm set of his mouth. It was hypnotizing. Not in some over-the-top, cinematic way—but in the quiet, personal way that made John’s pulse tick up in his throat and stay there.

The car slowed, wheels turning smoothly into a familiar parking spot near the end of the lot. The moment the gearshift clicked into place, 1x1’s head turned toward John.

His gaze was soft but steady. Focused.

John snapped out of his trance with a jolt so subtle it barely made it to his face, but his fingers tightened slightly around the seatbelt. 1x1 didn’t say anything. He just opened his door and stepped out into the cool night air, the door shutting behind him with a soft, final thud.

John inhaled slowly and followed suit after unbuckling, the door groaning open as he stepped out into the open air. His shoes crunched lightly on the pavement as he rounded the front of the car.

1x1 was already standing there, hands tucked into the pockets of his sleek black slacks, the faint wind ruffling the hem of his jacket ever so slightly. His gaze drifted up as John approached, and for a moment, they just stood there—two figures lit by pale gold parking light and the shimmering dusk of an early spring night.

John offered him a smile. Not a huge one. Not that big, stupid grin he gave when he was flustered. Just a simple, quiet smile. One that was more about presence than performance.

1x1 glanced away, just for a moment—like he couldn’t quite hold the look. Then, without a word, he turned and began walking in the direction of the gym lobby, the sharp lines of his suit cutting clean shadows beneath the light.

John quickly fell into step beside him, matching his pace with ease. The gravel underfoot gave way to concrete, the path lit by warm yellow sconces along the back of the school building. The air was cool, not cold—just brisk enough to carry the scent of grass, pavement, and faint cologne or perfume from passing students.

“I’m excited,” John said suddenly, his voice a little brighter than he meant it to be. He turned his head, watching for a reaction.

1x1 nodded once in acknowledgment, though he didn’t speak. Instead, he shifted just slightly in his stride, drifting the smallest bit closer to John. It was subtle—almost imperceptible—but the space between them shrank until their arms brushed, skin to fabric, with the occasional bump of a shoulder or the swish of cloth.

He didn’t move away.

John swallowed, heart doing a little flip. The brush of their arms was electric in the smallest way—not explosive, not overwhelming, just alive. A simple, human closeness that made John’s chest feel warm and full.

As they neared the back entrance to the gym, the murmurs of students grew louder—doors creaking open, laughter echoing faintly, music thumping softly from inside. The back door was propped shut but unlocked, a set of metal-framed glass doors that led into the gym lobby where folding tables and old plastic chairs had been arranged for ticket sales.

John picked up his pace instinctively, eager to be useful, and reached the door first. He swung it open with a small flourish, standing back to let 1x1 enter first.

1x1 paused at the threshold, just for a second. Then he stepped through, his silhouette briefly framed by the warm light spilling from the gym lobby. He didn’t say anything, but once inside, he turned slightly—waiting.

John noticed it right away. A lot of people would’ve kept walking, joined the crowd, disappeared into the flow. But 1x1 stood still, just a few feet ahead, head angled back toward him in a way that told John he noticed. That he was still with him, in all the quiet ways that mattered.

John didn’t say anything about it, though he felt something flutter in his chest. He walked quickly to catch up.

The ticket table was manned by a bored-looking student wearing a T-shirt with the school’s mascot on it and a lanyard around his neck. There were sheets of paper, rolls of pastel-colored wristbands, and a small cash box sitting open beside a calculator.

As they stepped up, 1x1 was already speaking.

“Two tickets,” he said simply, his voice low and even. He glanced sideways at John, his hand moving to his pocket—but he paused as he saw John doing the same.

“One-oh-six,” the student mumbled, clearly not expecting either of them to bat an eye.

John had already tugged his wallet from his back pocket. The leather was a little worn, edges fraying, but he flipped it open with practiced ease and thumbed out the cash, handing them over without hesitation.

1x1 didn’t argue. He simply took the two wristbands being offered and stepped aside with John, drifting a few feet behind the ticket tables but remaining close enough to the edge that they weren’t fully swallowed by the crowd.

John slid his wallet back into his pocket and adjusted the hem of his jacket. His fingers were just leaving the fabric when he heard 1x1’s voice again—this time, directed at him.

“Thank you for paying,” he said. “I’ll pay for dinner later.”

His tone was even, matter-of-fact—but as he spoke, he extended one of the wristbands toward John, ready to be fitted. There was a quiet kind of assumption in the gesture. Not arrogant. Not overconfident. Just… considerate. John blinked at it, then smiled.

He waved one hand vaguely, brushing off the comment. “No big deal—I can pay later too. I don’t mind.”

But as he held out his arm for the wristband, a flicker of gratitude passed through him. Not for the wristband itself, but for the fact that 1x1 had assumed he might need help with it—because he did. He always struggled with those things—never quite able to hold them down and tighten them properly at the same time.

1x1’s fingers moved with a deliberate slowness as he brought the paper armband around John’s wrist. The thin strip of colored paper rustled softly, barely audible over the ambient chatter and distant thrum of bass from inside the gym. But John wasn’t paying attention to that.

He was paying attention to him.

As 1x1 wrapped it snugly around the narrowest part of his wrist, John felt the subtle graze of fingertips—light and brief, but startlingly tender. The warmth of his touch lingered, as if his skin had been made to remember it. 1x1’s skin was incredibly soft—so much softer than John had ever expected. There was a kind of understated gentleness in the way he worked, his fingers steady, careful, as though he wasn’t just putting on an armband, but doing something that required far more care. John’s breath hitched faintly at the sensation, his arm instinctively still, like he didn’t dare move.

Why is his skin so soft? Actually—why was he even surprised?

He didn’t know what he had expected, truthfully. Maybe callouses, a roughness in his palm that mirrored the reserved edge of his personality. But no—there was nothing rough about him in that moment. Just warmth, closeness, and the soft friction of his touch against skin.

And, if John was being honest with himself, he wanted to feel it longer. A lot longer.

With quiet focus, 1x1 bonded the two ends of the wristband together, pressing the sticky flap down with his thumb. He gave it one final pat of assurance before straightening slightly. Then, without a word, he handed John the second armband—the one meant for him—and extended his hand, wrist tilted upward in quiet expectation.

There was no hesitation in his movement. It was like he knew John would help him. Like he trusted him to.

That small, silent gesture—so ordinary, so mundane—sent a bolt of emotion straight through John’s chest. It wasn’t grand or romantic. It wasn’t loaded with meaning in the eyes of anyone watching. But to John, it might as well have been. There was something about the way 1x1 had held out his hand, not demanding, not instructing—just offering—that struck something deep and wordless within him.

John reached out and took the band, and as he did, he felt the heat rise up his neck. A flush touched his cheeks, unwelcome but impossible to ignore.

God, blushing over a wristband… Really?

He probably looked like an idiot. Cheeks pink, hands fumbling slightly with the flimsy strip of paper. But he couldn’t help it. That one gesture—that unspoken, “do this for me”—made him feel seen in a way that twisted something sweet and sharp in his chest.

He tried to mimic 1x1’s earlier actions, folding the band around his wrist, pressing it into place. His fingers weren’t as precise, the band didn’t line up quite as perfectly, but 1x1 didn’t complain—he didn’t even seem to notice. Or if he did, he didn’t care.

As soon as it was secured, 1x1 lowered his hand and turned, already beginning to make his way toward the gym without a second thought. There was no glance back, no prompting—just the silent, familiar rhythm of movement, as if he already knew John would follow.

And, of course, he did.

The gym loomed ahead of them like some buzzing, electric cavern, light and sound pouring from its open doors. The music hit them like a wall the moment they crossed the threshold—deep bass vibrations that shook the floor, mingling with the shouts and laughter of students packed together in a chaotic ocean of color and sound. The overhead lights were dimmed low, replaced with string lights and rotating colored beams that danced across the polished gym floor and painted moving shadows across the walls. Everything shimmered in motion—dresses spinning, sneakers scuffing, tux jackets thrown over chairs, glitter stuck to skin.

John instinctively stuck close to 1x1, the crowd immediately enveloping them in shifting bodies and noise. Arms bumped, shoulders brushed, and somewhere nearby someone let out a too-loud laugh, already a little too drunk from whatever they’d smuggled in. The air was thick with perfume and sweat and the synthetic smell of too many glow sticks cracked open too early.

Their arms collided again—just a light brush, elbow to elbow—but it made John feel grounded. Like he had a tether in the chaos.

He leaned closer, raising his voice over the pulsing beat. “Let’s find somewhere in the back—or by the sides. Somewhere that’s not a mosh pit.”

1x1 gave a short nod, his expression neutral but his eyes scanning the crowd. He let John take the lead as he veered toward the back wall, weaving between clusters of dancers. But the back, unsurprisingly, was just as packed—everyone with the same idea, retreating from the intensity of the center.

So they shifted left instead, navigating toward a quieter edge of the gym court where only a handful of people lingered—talking, watching, resting. The difference in atmosphere was immediate. The volume dipped slightly, no longer suffocating. There was space to breathe.

John exhaled, relieved, and turned to 1x1 with a smile. The kind that was a little more real, now that he wasn’t being jostled on all sides.

“This fine with you?”

1x1 nodded again, glancing out toward the center of the floor where a dance circle had begun to form. His gaze lingered, thoughtful. “Mn.”

That little noise—barely even a syllable—made John’s smile tug wider. It wasn’t much, but it was something. It always was with him.

John shifted a little closer, their shoulders nearly brushing again. His voice lowered, just enough to make the offer sound like something personal, not shouted over the music. “Let me know if you want anything to drink—or eat. I’ll grab it for you.”

1x1 shook his head gently. “I’m fine right now.”

John opened his mouth to say something else—something teasing or light or maybe even grateful—but just then, a new song crashed in, loud and frenetic. The crowd roared in response, and the dance circle began to truly form now, with people jumping in, clapping, cheering others on.

As if on cue, John’s throat caught—dry from the heat, the nerves, the closeness. Whether from dehydration or the simple thrum of anticipation pulsing through his body, he wasn’t sure.

“I’m a bit thirsty myself,” he said, glancing toward the exit. “Wanna grab something for later? I’ll get us both drinks.”

1x1 nodded, unbothered, and followed John as they slipped back out of the gym, the air outside instantly cooler. Quieter. The low hum of fluorescent lights filled the space around the vending machines, tucked against the hallway wall.

John stepped up first, scanning the rows of glowing cans behind the plexiglass. His fingers reached into his pocket again, pulling out his wallet as he studied the little codes printed beneath each row. The smell of floor wax and distant popcorn hung faintly in the air, oddly grounding.

“I should’ve just gotten something before we went in,” he said with a small, self-deprecating laugh. “But at least we’ve got a spot now. Kinda like our own little corner.”

John pushed the button for the soda as the vending machine whirred to life. His fingers still lingered on the plastic buttons as the can clattered into the tray below with a dull thunk, the sound echoing faintly in the corridor’s emptiness. He crouched, scooped it up with a practiced ease, and straightened his posture with a quiet exhale, the air already cooler out here, dimmer, less oppressive than the thumping chaos inside.

Sliding his wallet back into his back pocket, he turned and grinned at 1x1, the glow from the vending machine casting a soft light across his features. “You gonna get anything?”

1x1 shook his head, his expression faintly sheepish. “I didn’t want to stand alone in there.”

There was something quiet in his voice—not hesitant, not afraid, just… honest. Honest in a way that slipped beneath John’s skin. The words came out flat, but they lingered in the air, heavy in the way that meant something.

John chuckled, the soda cool in his hand as he cracked open the tab with a sharp hiss. The scent of citrus and sugar rose up, familiar and oddly comforting.

“You should’ve just told me,” John said, his voice soft as he raised the can to his lips. “I wouldn’t have come out here if you wanted me to stay.”

The faintest red began to bloom across 1x1’s cheeks as he ducked his head, dark hair catching in the pale light. He looked at John through his lashes, eyes flicking between the can and the boy holding it. “Can I have a sip, actually?”

John found himself smiling again, unable not to. The words weren’t shy, not really—but there was something endearing in the way he asked. Like it was a little more intimate than it should be.

Without hesitation, he handed the can over, his fingers grazing 1x1’s in the exchange. The contact was brief—so light it barely registered as touch—but it sent a strange pulse through John’s chest all the same.

“Drink as much as you like,” he said, meaning it.

1x1 didn’t hesitate. He lifted the can to his lips and drank. One sip. Then two. And then, after a pause, he kept drinking. John watched him tilt the can higher until it was nearly empty, the silver reflecting the corridor lights in glints along his jaw and cheekbone. When he finally pulled it away, the faint sound of an empty slosh rang out. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and glanced at John, looking almost guilty.

“Sorry…” 1x1 murmured, stepping to the trash can a few feet away and dropping the can in with a soft metallic clatter.

But John only laughed, shaking his head, unconcerned. “No—It’s fine, really. I doubt I would’ve finished it all anyway.”

He was looking at 1x1 again, really looking. In the quiet of the hall, his eyes searched the shape of his face, the way his lips had touched the can, the way his hand still hung by his side after brushing his mouth. Something stirred in his chest. Soft and sudden. An ache, almost.

That was… an indirect kiss, right?

It was ridiculous, but the thought rooted itself in his mind. It felt stupid to entertain—like a middle school fantasy—but it still made his cheeks flush warm. 

Did he just kiss him?

His face was on fire.

1x1 tilted his head, clearly noticing the shift. His brow arched, the corner of his mouth twitching as if about to ask something, but John spoke first—his voice a little too quick, like a defense against the heat in his cheeks.

“Let’s get back, shall we? Don’t wanna miss too much.”

He turned before he could register the way 1x1’s eyes lingered on him, walking with brisk steps toward the gym where the pulsing bass still radiated from the open doors like a heartbeat.

1x1 followed without a word.

They slipped back into the darkness, the glow of string lights overhead catching briefly in 1x1’s hair. The air hit them thick and humid once more, a miasma of perfume, sweat, and the sticky sweetness of spilled punch. They made their way back to the spot they’d claimed earlier, on the side of the gym floor, tucked just enough out of the way that they could breathe.

A low hum rose from the speakers first—velvety and slow—like the opening line of a secret. The gym’s overhead lights, once strobing and frantic, softened into a dim, romantic glow, washed in dusky purples and faint candlelight tones cast from artificial bulbs strung in rows across the ceiling like stars caught in nets. The change in tone was almost immediate. Laughter died down. Movements slowed. The crowd that had once jumped and screamed and swayed in chaos now hushed, drawing inward, couples pairing off with something tender in their expressions. The DJ’s voice crackled into the moment: “Alright, couples… this one’s for you.”

John glanced sideways at 1x1, heart knocking gently in his chest like it hadn’t quite made up its mind whether to race or not. The boy beside him was watching the crowd, or perhaps looking through it, eyes catching the faint movement of dresses swirling and ties swinging as partners hesitantly came together on the floor. His expression was unreadable—part curiosity, part caution—but it softened when he turned and met John’s eyes.

And John, smiling just barely, tilted his head.

“Wanna dance?”

There was a beat. One second. Two.

1x1 didn’t speak, not immediately. He looked at John like he was weighing something unspoken, like his answer held more weight than the question had suggested. Then, quietly, without ceremony, he extended his hand. His fingers opened, waiting.

“I would like to,” he said.

John’s stomach did a quiet flip. He reached out and took 1x1’s hand into his own, warm and soft and cool at once. Their fingers slid together with a strange, perfect ease, the lines of their palms meeting like they’d practiced this a hundred times before. John tugged him gently closer with a step forward, and suddenly they were standing just inches apart, the distant echo of music settling around them like fog.

1x1’s breath ghosted across John’s jaw—warm, even, a little quick. The closeness hit John all at once. It wasn’t just standing near someone. It was feeling them—how their chest rose and fell, how their weight shifted from one foot to the other, how the space between them buzzed like a live wire. He reached out with his other hand, carefully, deliberately, and rested it just at the small of 1x1’s back. Through the fabric of his dress shirt, he could feel the delicate ridge of his spine, the subtle tension in his posture that slowly began to ebb.

“Probably a bad time to tell you I’m not a good dancer,” John murmured, a breath of humor under his words.

1x1 gave a small glance away, his fingers curling just slightly more around John’s hand. “I’m no better.”

They began to move, cautiously at first, a slow sway. John mirrored the rhythm of the music, letting the soft drumline guide his steps. He moved left, then right, adjusting with each beat, eyes flicking down to make sure he wasn’t stepping on 1x1’s shoes as he followed. They fell into pace like two halves of a thought—tentative at first, then smoother as confidence slowly replaced hesitation.

All around them, other couples danced. Some laughed, spinning in loose, exaggerated circles. Some clung to each other with quiet reverence, lost in the intimacy. The gym lights spun overhead like twilight constellations, throwing moving shadows that swayed across the walls and bleachers. But John barely registered any of it. His world had narrowed. It was just him and 1x1.

The way 1x1’s thumb absently rubbed against the back of John’s hand—gentle, barely there, but constant—was enough to send a subtle tremor through John’s spine. He leaned in just a bit closer, and 1x1 didn’t pull away. If anything, he leaned closer too. Their foreheads nearly brushed. Their shoulders touched completely now, their movements smaller, more precise, like they were learning a new language spoken only in glances and pressure.

For a while, neither spoke. They just… danced. The soft hush of lyrics wrapping around them like a blanket.

John exhaled slowly, eyes half-lidded. His heart felt oddly full. Heavy with warmth. And maybe something more. He let his gaze drop to 1x1’s lips for a moment before looking away again, immediately self-conscious. 

Then 1x1 let out a quiet laugh—barely more than breath. “I assumed prom would be better than this,” he murmured, close enough for the words to slip right past John’s collar and rest on the base of his neck. “It’s rather boring, no?”

John grinned, the corners of his mouth lifting as his cheek brushed gently against 1x1’s temple. “We don’t have to stay,” he replied, voice low, confidential. The music covered them like a curtain, and in its cover, he leaned closer, tilting his head to whisper. “To be quite fair… I’m not understanding what all the hype was about anyway…”

That made 1x1 smile. A real one. One of those rare, small, lopsided things that lit up his eyes more than his lips. It was brief, but it was genuine, and John felt it like sunlight breaking through cloud.

“I would like to get food instead of this,” 1x1 said, his tone thoughtful but sure. “Then we can properly talk to each other without having to yell over music.”

John chuckled and paused their swaying just enough to shift their position slightly. “Then let’s do that.”

He hesitated for half a breath—just long enough to decide to be bold—then gently spun 1x1 beneath their clasped hands. 1x1 gave a small, startled laugh, more a soft exhale than anything else, and John’s heart leapt. When he caught him again, his arm curved back around his waist instinctively, the contact surer now, more natural.

They stood there for another few seconds after the spin ended, still swaying slowly even though the song was nearing its final chords. The space between them had evaporated. They weren’t just dancing anymore—they were holding each other. Sharing something wordless. And for once, the world didn’t demand they name it.

As the final notes of the song drifted off and the crowd clapped, signaling a return to louder, wilder music, John didn’t move immediately, neither did 1x1.

And maybe that was the point.

…

John watched as 1x1 took a bite of the burger in his hands, his expression unreadable save for a small, near-imperceptible lift in his brow—either from satisfaction or surprise at the temperature or taste. The golden paper wrapper crinkled softly as he adjusted his grip, the fluorescent lights above catching the gleam of ketchup that now sat just at the corner of his mouth, stubborn and bright red against the dark of his skin. Without a word, 1x1 raised a napkin with his free hand, wiped the sauce away in one clean motion, and resumed chewing slowly, thoughtfully.

John, on the other hand, wasn’t even pretending to be invested in his meal anymore. The cardboard box his food had come in sat crumpled and empty, pushed off to the side, his fries half-finished. His soda was lukewarm. But his eyes were sharp and directed—not at the food, nor even at 1x1, but across the counter of the McDonald’s they’d picked for its blessed trifecta: cheap, fast, and open past midnight.

And more importantly? Staffed.

Because one certain man was working tonight.

Guest.

And now here he was, uniform hat askew, standing behind the register with a bitter scowl that deepened each time John made eye contact.

John smiled to himself, resting his chin in his palm, elbow propped against the table lazily. He wasn’t here for the food. He was here for the spectacle. He was here, after all, to show off—just a little. Nothing outrageous. Just enough for Guest to clock the black button-down shirt John still wore unbuttoned at the collar, the stylish dishevelment of his tie now hanging loose around his neck like a ribbon from a night worth remembering. Just enough for Guest to see the boy sitting across from him—1x1—eating calmly, quietly, obliviously beautiful under the flat, unforgiving lights.

John took a sip of soda he didn’t like and made eye contact with Guest again. This time, Guest didn’t bother hiding his annoyance. He side-eyed him like John had just walked into his house uninvited, then wordlessly turned and disappeared behind the swinging doors to the back.

John chuckled to himself, biting the inside of his cheek to keep it quiet.

From across the table, 1x1 blinked slowly at him, chewing his last bite as he looked between John and the register. His tone was blunt but curious.

“That’s the guy in our math class, right? Is that why you keep looking at him?”

John leaned back in his seat, arms crossing behind his head with mock innocence. “I don’t know him.”

1x1 stared, unblinking. Then, without calling out the obvious lie, he stood, dusted his hands together once, and gathered their trash with the same quiet precision he did everything. He tossed their wrappers and cups into the bin, wiped his hands on a napkin, and turned back to John with a calm patience in his voice.

“Ready to go?”

John nodded, standing slowly. The moment faded as they stepped out of the garish, golden glow of McDonald’s and into the soft hush of the night.

…

1x1’s house was nice.

Not extravagant. Not polished to perfection. But lived in, in a way that made John feel strangely comfortable the second he stepped through the front door. The walls were painted in soft, desaturated tones and the scent of laundry and distant vanilla hung faintly in the air.

His room was the best part, though. A little sanctuary tucked away at the end of the hall.

John sat on the edge of the bed, his suit jacket folded neatly beside him. The mattress dipped softly beneath his weight, the blanket plush and worn, and there was a window cracked slightly, letting in the night air and the distant sound of crickets chirping. A desk against one wall had a small reading lamp still on, casting golden light across stacked notebooks and scattered pencils.

Across the room, 1x1 stood with a small bundle of clothes in hand, looking through drawers with a casual air. Then, without warning, he turned and lightly tossed a shirt and pants at John.

The fabric hit him square in the face.

John blinked, momentarily stunned, before peeling the soft black t-shirt off his head. “Thanks,” he said with mock deadpan, eyeing the pants. Dark flannel. Cozy. Very not prom—But it was over for them anyways.

“I’m going into the bathroom to change,” 1x1 said, already heading for the door. “I’ll knock when I’m back.”

“Got it.”

John began undressing, swapping stiff, formal layers for soft cotton and flannel. It was like exhaling after holding your breath all night. He folded his clothes up carefully, setting them in a neat pile. When he heard the gentle knock a few minutes later, he responded without missing a beat.

“Come in.”

1x1 entered in a plain green shirt and shorts, the simple outfit somehow more disarming than anything he’d worn earlier. There was something intimate about it—not in a romantic way exactly, but in a domestic one. Like they’d done this a hundred times already.

John gestured toward his folded clothes. “Where should I put these?”

John watched as 1x1 took them and crossed the room, setting them on top of the dresser, the soft rustle of fabric filled the quiet.

Then, 1x1 walked back over and sat beside John on the bed, his voice soft and faintly heavy. “I’m tired.”

John smiled, instinct moving faster than thought. He reached out and wrapped an arm around his shoulders, tugging him in gently until 1x1’s head came to rest on his shoulder.

“Get in bed then,” John said, voice low, coaxing. “I’ll turn off the lights.”

1x1 gave a soft sigh, nodding against him as John stood, padding quietly across the room to flick off the single lamp that was on.

Darkness bloomed slowly, the glow from the hallway seeping in beneath the door and casting thin silver stripes across the floor. John turned and saw the silhouette of 1x1 already curled beneath the blanket, a gentle rise and fall to his breathing.

The sight made his chest ache in a soft, unfamiliar way.

He padded back to the bed, lifted the blankets, and slid beneath them carefully. It was warm under there, almost startlingly so, and the scent of 1x1’s laundry detergent—something light and earthy—immediately filled his lungs.

He shifted until he found the shape of 1x1 beside him, and without hesitation, reached out and pulled him close again. His arm slipped around his waist this time, fingers resting against the dip of his back.

“I’m glad you asked me out,” 1x1 said quietly, his voice barely above a whisper in the hush of the room.

John smiled in the dark, his own forehead pressing gently to 1x1’s. “Me too…”

There was no rush. No need to speak more. The quiet between them was full—not empty. Full of the day they’d just shared. Full of things unsaid but understood. Full of the soft rhythm of two people daring to exist next to each other with nothing between them.

1x1’s eyes, barely visible, seemed to glow faintly in the low light. John stared into them, searching every small glint, every change in breath, until he saw 1x1 lean in slightly.

The kiss wasn’t dramatic. It wasn’t intense or sharp or full of desperate hunger.

It was feather-light.

A brush of lips against his cheek, warm and delicate, like a thought made physical. Like someone thanking him without words.

When 1x1 pulled back, he didn’t speak. He just tucked himself closer, head nestling against John’s shoulder.

John’s heart thundered in his chest, fast and loud. He was sure it was audible—palpable even—and that suspicion was confirmed when he felt 1x1’s hand trail upward under the blankets, fingers resting lightly right where his heartbeat pulsed strong beneath his skin.

He didn’t move the hand away.

He didn’t want to.

His hold on 1x1 tightened just a little, enough to say “I’m here” without needing to say anything. He lowered his head until their temples brushed, his breathing finally beginning to match the soft rhythm of the one beside him.

He liked how tonight ended up.

Even if it had been simple. Even if it hadn’t gone exactly according to plan.

He liked 1x1.

And nothing—not distance, not doubt, not a glare—was going to change that.

Chapter Text

It was always a special kind of misery when the Spectre got bored.

Boredom, in their world, rarely meant idleness. No—it meant invention. Additions. Variations. Elaborations. The kinds of little cruel twists only a bored overseer of purgatory could devise. And today, 1x1 had the misfortune of being caught in one of those whims, selected for an exhausting sequence of extra rounds that felt less like labor and more like slow erosion—of time, of patience, of hope.

By the time he was finally released, it was late. Later than late.

Pitch black had settled over the world, the way a heavy blanket settles over a weary body, and the stars above had long since taken up their vigil. The only lights were the dull flickers of distant lamps and the occasional breath of a passing car. Everything was hushed, subdued—as though the world had tucked itself away in a sigh.

And 1x1 felt all of it. In his legs, in the sluggish ache of his back, in the dull throb behind his eyes. He felt it most in his chest, though—that low, hollow stretch of absence.

He missed John—Both literally and metaphorically.

The two of them usually managed to catch each other during the in-between hours—moments of overlap when neither of them were fully swallowed by the Spectre’s demands. Sometimes it was brief. Sometimes only a glance, a shared breath, a brush of fingers. But even those passing encounters were something—They fed him, gave him just enough light to get through the rest.

But today? Today there had been nothing. John hadn’t been selected at all—left in the house, untouched by the endless summons—and 1x1 had been alone through it all.

So now, as he stood at their doorstep with his key in hand, the quiet weight of fatigue settled in his shoulders like accumulated dust. His fingers twisted the key into the old brass lock, feeling each familiar catch and turn of the mechanism beneath his palm. The door creaked softly as it opened, hinges sighing with a kind of tired familiarity, and he stepped inside.

The darkness met him like a blanket, cool and unintrusive. Not oppressive, but calm. He paused for a moment in the entryway, letting the quiet settle around him, his senses adjusting to the stillness. It was dark—truly dark—save for a faint halo of moonlight bleeding through the slats of the blinds in the living room. Shadows painted gentle stripes across the wooden floor, like ghostly fingers brushing the space they had made their home.

John was likely already asleep. He always tried to stay awake for 1x1 when he knew it was going to be late for him, but his body rarely allowed it. It was one of those little habits 1x1 had grown to love about him—this quiet, stubborn insistence on greeting him at the door, even when his eyelids drooped and his head lolled to the side from exhaustion.

1x1 smiled faintly to himself at the thought.

He bent down to untie his boots, fingers working quietly, methodically. He slid them off and left them by the door with a practiced motion, pressing them neatly against the wall, as though minimizing their presence would somehow lessen the day’s burdens. Padding silently across the hardwood floor, his steps softened by thick socks and worn muscle memory, he made his way down the hall.

The door to their bedroom was slightly ajar—a sliver of shadowed space just wide enough to let the moonlight peek in. The familiar grain of the doorframe caught the light like old silver, and 1x1 pushed the door open with gentle care, the movement slow.

Inside, the room was dark, but not empty.

The bed came into view first, its outlines softened by the glow filtering through the blinds. The plush blanket was pulled up in uneven folds, gathered around the figure seated on the edge of the mattress—John.

1x1 paused, breath catching just a little at the sight of him.

He was perched where he always insisted on sleeping—the left side, nearest the wall, claiming it gave him “a strategic advantage against intruders,” which 1x1 knew was code for "I like having you closer to the door so I can watch you come in.” 

John’s silhouette was barely outlined in the moonlight, but his posture was unmistakable—slightly slouched, curled inward with a kind of drowsy vulnerability.

And then, subtly, 1x1 noticed movement.

John’s hand came up to his face. There was a softness to the motion, the kind of absentminded gesture made when wiping away the haze of half-dreams or drying tired eyes. His shoulders lifted and fell with a small sigh.

“…1x?” John’s voice broke through the stillness, quiet and slightly hoarse from sleep. His eyes blinked open—barely, just enough to register the shape in the doorway.

“I—ah. Sorry…” he murmured, his voice muffled slightly by the blanket pooled around him. “I tried to stay awake until you came back, but it seems I’m losing that battle…”

1x1 felt his chest tighten at the sound. There was something so endearing about the way John spoke—groggy and warm, like a fire trying to stay lit.

“You don’t have to apologize, dear,” 1x1 replied softly, his voice laced with quiet affection.

He stepped further into the room, letting the door click gently shut behind him. His eyes adjusted further to the dimness, allowing him to take in the details of John’s figure—his tousled hair, the faint shine of his eyes, the way the blanket had been haphazardly pulled up over his knees. A sleepy smile pulled at John’s lips, as if the sound of 1x1’s voice alone was enough to breathe some light back into him.

“…You should come to bed, y’know?” he mumbled, stretching slowly under the covers. His arms reached above his head for a moment before he let them fall, one hand patting the space beside him. “As much as I wouldn’t mind staring at you all night, I fear I might go to sleep before you even take another step.”

1x1 let out a soft chuckle, the sound small but sincere.

He approached the bed slowly, savoring the calm, the peace that had taken root in this room—so different from the sterile, echoing spaces of the Spectre’s domain. He lifted the edge of the covers and slid beneath them, letting the blanket fall back into place like a quiet waterfall.

1x1 didn’t just lie beside John—He practically collapsed onto him, sighing like a man who’d been trudging through a storm and had finally, finally stepped into shelter.

He stretched out across John’s chest without reservation, draping himself there as if the other man were a living mattress—solid and warm and utterly his. His legs tangled carelessly with John’s beneath the blanket, and he nestled the side of his face into the soft give of John’s shirt-covered chest, just over his heart.

It beat with a slow, steady rhythm, a gentle lullaby played just for him.

John let out a tiny, affectionate grunt as his arms curled more securely around 1x1, adjusting beneath the unexpected but welcome weight. His fingers instinctively found their way into 1x1’s hair, slowly carding through the strands, dragging the pads of his fingers along the scalp in gentle, deliberate sweeps. It was lazy, sleepy affection—half-instinct, half-devotion. He didn’t even have to think about it.

“Mm… you’re using me like a damn throw pillow,” John murmured, voice heavy with fatigue but laced with unmistakable fondness. His words came slow and slurred, the edges softened by drowsiness.

“And you’re a damn good one,” 1x1 replied, the vibration of John’s chuckle traveling up through his cheek, a private little tremor that made the corner of his lips twitch up.

Truth be told, 1x1 always slept like this—if you could call it sleep at all. He’d never been one for surrendering to rest easily. It didn’t matter how long the day had dragged him around or how heavy his limbs felt. The moment his body stilled, his mind would keep moving. Circling. Whispering. Drifting from thought to thought like leaves caught in a lazy current. His body could beg for sleep, and still his brain would act like the night was young and filled with riddles to solve.

But John… John was different.

Sleep clung to him like a lover. It courted him. Soothed him. Pulled him down at the gentlest invitation. There were nights where John would doze off while still holding a conversation, his words growing soft and syrupy before trailing into hums and then into nothingness. He didn’t fight it. He never had.

And 1x1… well, he liked to think he guarded those moments. Protected them. If John was always fighting to stay awake long enough to greet him, then 1x1 made it his quiet mission to watch over him when he inevitably failed.

Even now, he could feel it. The way John’s body had already begun to melt into the mattress beneath them. The subtle slackening of his muscles, the slowing of his breath. His hand in 1x1’s hair slowed, fingertips now simply resting there, buried in the strands like he didn’t want to let go even in sleep.

1x1 stayed still, listening. He traced faint shapes into the side of John’s ribs with a finger—slow loops and gentle lines, nonsense patterns that mapped out the places he already knew by heart. He let his fingers wander the cotton fabric of John’s shirt, then dipped underneath it to press a hand lightly to warm skin.

John shifted slightly, one of his legs brushing along 1x1’s in response. And then, in the most gravel-soft voice imaginable, he mumbled, “That feels nice… you’ve got cold hands though.”

“Sorry,” 1x1 said softly, but he didn’t pull away. Instead, he pressed his palm a little flatter to John’s stomach, soaking in the heat there, letting the gentle rise and fall of breath beneath his hand soothe his own nerves.

“You’re always cold,” John murmured, dragging his other hand from where it rested on the blanket and pulling the edge up a bit higher around 1x1’s shoulders.

His thumb brushed the edge of 1x1’s neck as he tucked it in, and his lips pressed to his forehead in a motion so automatic it was almost unconscious. 1x1 adjusted his head just slightly, letting his nose press to the warm hollow of John’s throat.

“…I missed you today,” he murmured suddenly.

John didn’t answer right away. His fingers had drifted again, returning to the gentle tangle of 1x1’s hair, nails lightly scratching along his scalp in slow, rhythmic strokes.

“I missed you too,” he said after a beat, his voice heavy with sleep but sincere, every word warm and real. “It’s not the same without you.”

1x1 closed his eyes, letting the soft hum of praise settle over him like a second blanket. He didn’t crave it outwardly, didn’t beg for compliments or soak in adoration the way others might—but something in him always responded to John’s words like a flower turning toward light. A subtle, quiet leaning. He didn’t need praise to function, but in John’s voice, it became a kind of permission. A kindness.

He let out a quiet breath. “You’re warm,” he said, not quite teasing, just honest. “It’s like sleeping on a living heater.”

“I aim to please,” John slurred, and 1x1 could hear the tug of a smile in his voice.

“You always do.” That made John’s brow twitch, his hand in 1x1’s hair slowing slightly, and then he tilted his head just enough to nuzzle his cheek into 1x1’s temple.

The silence stretched again, this time comfortable, soft, like a well-worn sweater. 1x1 began to trace tiny circles against John’s skin again—on his side, his ribs, his collarbone. He didn’t know why, exactly. Maybe it helped ground him. Maybe it was a way to stay present in a body that still felt half-lost in the day’s harsh edges.

“Still not sleepy?” John asked suddenly, voice thin and floaty, barely clinging to wakefulness.

1x1 shook his head slowly, cheek rubbing against the soft fabric of John’s shirt.

“No. Not yet.”

“That’s okay…” John murmured, his voice fading like mist in morning light. “You’re a clingy little thing tonight.”

1x1 didn’t answer right away. His eyes were half-lidded, his cheek still pressed to John’s chest, listening.

“I like it,” John added after a moment, his thumb tracing a lazy circle between 1x1’s shoulder blades. “Makes me feel useful—loved. Heavy as you are.”

A soft scoff vibrated against John’s ribs. “I’m not heavy,” 1x1 murmured, voice muffled.

“You’re dead weight,” John replied without malice, a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Completely unmovable. Like a very affectionate boulder.”

That earned him a low hum—half amused, half indulgent. “You like it,” 1x1 said, tone teasing but quiet.

“I do,” John admitted immediately, tightening his arm ever so slightly. “Don’t stop.”

He wouldn’t have anyway.

The comfort of John’s body beneath him was unmatched—radiating a kind of steady warmth that wasn’t just physical. It was the warmth of trust, of quiet devotion, of shared breath and heartbeat. Lying like this, 1x1 could feel everything: the slow pulse beneath his cheek, the flutter of lashes against his temple when John blinked, the deep, even sound of his lungs filling and emptying.

1x1 continued to drW aimless patterns on John’s skin—tiny circles along the curve of his side, figure-eights near his hip, invisible spirals just under his ribs. The way John shivered faintly in response made 1x1 smile against his chest.

“You’re good at that,” John murmured sleepily, his voice vibrating softly beneath 1x1’s cheek. “Feels nice.”

“Hmm?”

“Touchin’ me like that,” John continued, barely awake now. “It’s like you’re writing poetry into my skin.”

1x1 was quiet for a long moment. “Maybe I am.”

John laughed once, quietly, then tilted his head enough to nuzzle into the crown of 1x1’s hair. His breath was warm where it ghosted against 1x1’s scalp. “You’re so soft when you want to be,” he whispered, his fingers finding a slow rhythm again in 1x1’s hair. “Sharp edges everywhere else—but here? You melt right into me.”

1x1 didn’t answer, but the way he shifted—curling in a bit tighter, burrowing his face a little deeper into John’s neck—was answer enough. He felt safe like this. Allowed to let go, just for a little while. Allowed to soak in the praise, to bask in the warmth like a flower turning toward the sun.

There was another stretch of silence—long, comfortable. Their breaths evened out in time with each other, the tiny noises of the world falling away until it was just them in their little pocket of darkness and cotton-soft sheets.

1x1’s fingers curled around the edge of John’s shirt again, tugging it upward just enough to press his palm flush to bare skin. His other arm slipped tighter around John’s waist. He was a tangle of limbs, of warmth, of affection made physical. Not just holding John—but holding onto him.

John let out another contented breath, already halfway into sleep, his voice thick with it. “You can use me as a pillow any time you want, y’know…”

“I already am,” 1x1 said, smirking faintly into his skin.

“No, I mean it,” John whispered, voice trailing off. “You’re perfect when you’re like this. All quiet and close… makes me feel like I matter.”

“You do.”

“You don’t say it often, but when you do…” John’s hand slid to cup the back of 1x1’s neck gently. “It means the world.”

“Sleep,” 1x1 whispered, pressing a soft kiss to his chest.

John’s eyes were starting to close again, his breathing heavier, deeper—but his hands still moved. One traced small lines up and down 1x1’s spine, the other tangled loosely in his hair, every stroke slower than the last.

1x1, usually sleepless, usually alert, felt himself sinking—bit by bit—into the warmth that surrounded him. He wasn’t falling asleep so much as being eased into it, gently unwound. 1x1 pressed his lips briefly to the skin of John’s neck in the softest ghost of a kiss. No words, just touch.

His last thought, before the haze of half-dreams stole him away, was how easy it felt to be like this. To not be useful, or alert, or sharp. To just be—held, warmed, praised, loved.

And in John’s arms, he could finally rest.

Because here, on top of the man who made a mattress of his chest and a lullaby of his heartbeat, 1x1 didn’t just sleep.

He belonged.

Chapter Text

It kinda sucked when your roommates weren’t exactly culinary prodigies. In fact, calling them even mediocre might’ve been too generous.

Most meals in that shared house boiled down—literally—to the same tired process: pour water, stir something powdery, wait sixty seconds, maybe toss it in the microwave if you were feeling fancy. The room would fill with the vague scent of salt and synthetic cheese, steam curling from styrofoam like a ghost of proper nutrition. Every now and then, someone would claim they were “making dinner,” and that phrase always carried a note of doomed optimism. Half the time it meant burning something on the stovetop and pretending it was intentional. The other half, it just meant adding an egg to instant ramen.

To be fair, there was one guy in the place who knew how to cook something that didn’t come from a foil packet or cardboard box. But his culinary talents hovered somewhere in that gray area between “edible” and “you tried.” Better than the rest, sure—but not by much. His food had a tendency to look impressive and taste like disappointment: over-seasoned, undercooked, or just confused about what it wanted to be. John respected the effort, but the truth was, no one in that place had mastered the art of feeding themselves like functioning young adults. And as much as he’d love to place himself above the chaos, he couldn’t, not really.

He wasn’t going to lie—his cooking wasn’t great either. He could follow a recipe if he focused hard enough, and once in a blue moon he even surprised himself. But when it came to satisfying his own picky standards, he always fell short. Something was always off. Too dry, too bland, too oily, too much effort. So he defaulted to what so many in his situation did: buying food that required no commitment.

Which is what led him here, to the corner convenience store just a few blocks from where he lived, shoulders slouched and hands in his pockets as he wandered aimlessly down an aisle of pre-packaged disappointment.

The place was a quiet little place of flickering fluorescents and buzzing refrigeration units. Dust shimmered faintly in the stale light above, like particles suspended in time. The floor tiles were cracked in places, scuffed in others, and the ceiling bore the telltale signs of water damage that had never quite been addressed. Nobody else was in the store at this hour, save for the disinterested cashier slouched behind the counter, face buried in their phone, the dull blue glow casting shadows across their cheeks.

John stood still in front of a shelf lined with plastic-wrapped sandwiches, slightly off-color sushi rolls, and noodles so tightly coiled in their containers they looked like they were bracing for impact. His eyes moved listlessly across the options—Chicken salad, egg and ham, mystery meat with a “spicy” sticker slapped across it like a dare. He didn’t feel particularly adventurous tonight, nor particularly hungry—but something had to fill the growing void in his stomach.

He brought a hand up, scratched absently at the back of his neck, and sighed through his nose. He’d eaten worse—Hell, he’d survived off gas station taquitos during one particularly broke winter, but something about all this made his appetite curl in on itself. The food here didn’t just look unappetizing—it looked lonely. Like even the sandwiches had given up.

A soft ding rang out from above—the chime of the entrance bell, that high-pitched metallic note that every convenience store seemed to be cursed with. It barely registered in his mind, his thoughts were stuck somewhere between resignation and irritation. 

Footsteps followed the chime, slow and steady, heels clicking dully against the floor. Whoever it was didn’t seem in any rush, and John paid them no real attention at first. Probably just someone on the same desperate errand as he was.

The path John had chosen to leave his current aisle—turning lazily toward the humming refrigerators at the back of the store—led him right into the unexpected. He hadn’t thought much about the direction he was walking in; it was more instinct than intention. But as his eyes lifted from the worn, stained floor tiles and caught sight of the glowing cooler doors, he saw a figure standing there. One of the refrigerator doors was already cracked open, misting faintly at the edges with a ghostly vapor from within, the cold spilling out in soft tendrils that curled around the figure’s form like it was reluctant to let him go.

And that figure—that man who had entered moments earlier—wasn’t just anyone, it was 1x1.

Even from a distance, there was no mistaking who it was. That long, pitch-black hair hung loose past his shoulders, dark as poured ink, catching the light in a way that made it seem nearly blue at the edges. The green shirt he wore bore that unmistakable design—a skeletal ribcage stylized across the front in a deep black as if his bones were glowing through the fabric. The shirt was just slightly too large, drooping comfortably over his frame, and his baggy black jeans looked worn at the seams, knees slightly sagged with use, like they’d been through a few late nights and too many careless tosses onto the floor.

But none of that stood out as much as his eyes.

Bright, unblinking—red, but not the dull crimson of irritation or exhaustion. These were eyes like lit coals, alive with a quiet fire. Eyes that, at this very moment, were staring directly at him.

Wait.

Was 1x1 staring at him?

John faltered mid-step, his shoes squeaking faintly against the floor as he stopped. He didn’t know what he’d expected—maybe for the guy to be absorbed in choosing between two near-identical cans of energy drinks before him, maybe for him to be oblivious to John’s approach. But instead, there he stood, perfectly still, one hand gripping the cool chrome handle of the fridge door, the other resting easily at his side, while his gaze met John’s with an intensity that stopped time cold.

For a brief second, neither of them moved. 1x1’s expression, which was usually a blank wall—flat, unreadable, impermeable—faltered just slightly. His brows drew together by the smallest fraction, a flicker of recognition or irritation ghosting across his features. It wasn’t much, but it was enough to unravel John’s composure. He realized, belatedly, that he was still staring. Hard.

The longer he held eye contact, the weirder this whole thing got. So, willing his legs to work again, John stepped forward with a forced casualness, like this was all perfectly natural, like he hadn’t just frozen like a statue two seconds ago.

As he approached, 1x1’s crimson gaze tracked him, a subtle shift in his weight suggesting mild suspicion. He wasn’t hostile, but he wasn’t exactly welcoming either. The corners of his mouth tugged into the faintest frown, a tiny furrow forming between his brows.

“Was there a reason you were staring at me?” he asked, his voice smooth but edged with that cool skepticism John had come to associate with him.

John chuckled lightly, rubbing the back of his neck in a sheepish gesture. The air between them felt too still, too loaded, like walking into a room where someone had just stopped talking about you.

He leaned on the fridge next to the one 1x1 had opened, trying to strike a pose that said ‘easygoing and not at all conflicting with your own mind about how to not look stupid,’ even though he could hear his own pulse thudding stupidly in his ears. He offered a lopsided smile.

“No, I was just trying to… uh… get a drink from the same fridge, y’know?” He gestured vaguely toward the array of vibrantly colored energy drinks, their labels screaming in neon fonts. “Those ones right there taste the best, in my opinion.”

1x1 blinked once, then, without a word, he looked away.

His expression shuttered again, returning to that neutral default as he reached into the fridge and pulled out a can—a matte black one with red designs lacing the design. He didn’t even check the label, he just grabbed it like he knew exactly what he wanted before he let the fridge door swing shut with a quiet, tired sigh of rubber seals.

“Whatever you say,” he muttered.

Then he turned, his shoes scuffing lightly against the floor as he began to walk toward the counter. Not fast, not in a hurry—Just done with the interaction, apparently.

John blinked, surprised at how fast the moment was slipping away. Before he even had time to rethink it, he pushed off from the fridge and quickly fell into step behind him. He wasn’t sure what he was doing, he wasn’t even sure if it was a good idea, but something about 1x1 made it hard to walk away.

“So… whatcha buying that for?” John asked, voice pitched a little too casual, hands stuffed into his pockets like that might anchor his nerves. He tried not to make it too obvious he just wanted to keep the conversation going.

1x1 didn’t respond right away.

The silence stretched, and for a moment John wondered if he’d be ignored entirely. But after a few steps, the dark-haired man let out a quiet breath that was not quite a sigh, and answered.

“I’m going to study,” he said simply.

The tone was flat—almost bored—but not hostile. Still, it didn’t exactly answer the question, so John raised an eyebrow but didn’t press. At least it was something.

“Oh, yeah?” he said, lips curving into a smile that was trying very hard to stay natural. “Where are you studying at—Can I come?”

He didn’t expect it to work, not really. He knew the history between them was… strange. Not bad, per se, but not exactly warm either. A shared past of unfinished conversations and awkward encounters. They weren’t friends, but they weren’t enemies. They existed in a strange liminal space between proximity and distance.

1x1 paused briefly, shoulders rising just a little in what might have been exasperation. He reached the counter and placed the can down with a soft thunk, pulling a folded bill from his pocket and sliding it across to the cashier without looking back at John.

“I was going to go to the coffee place right outside campus,” he said evenly, as the cashier handed him a receipt. “So I can get something to eat or drink if I wanted to.”

He picked up the drink and turned back toward John, eyes meeting his again with a measured calm.

“But you’re making me want to head to my dorm instead.”

It wasn’t quite a rejection—but it wasn’t an invitation either.

Still, as he stuffed the receipt into his pocket with practiced indifference, he added—almost like an afterthought, his voice quieter now, like it didn’t want to admit to itself it was being said:

“If you don’t annoy me like you’re doing now… then I guess you could come. I know I probably couldn’t stop you anyway.”

There it was—Permission wrapped in a threat, served with a side of reluctant tolerance.

But to John, it was something more—it was a door creaking open, just a little. And he wasn’t going to waste it.

He grinned before he could stop himself, that dumb, uncontrollable smile pulling at his face as he quickly followed 1x1 out of the store. The bell above the door chimed again as they stepped out into the cool evening air, side by side, the streetlights casting long shadows ahead of them.

For a while, neither of them spoke.

“You going to stare at me like that the whole time?” 1x1 asked without turning, though his voice held a dry edge, amused in its own way. When John didn’t answer immediately, he looked over, and their eyes locked again.

“You make me regret my decisions a lot,” he said, deadpan.

But he didn’t speed up.

He didn’t pull away.

He just kept walking, and John, still grinning like a fool, kept walking beside him.