Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

7:03 AM.

Bluudud wakes up to sunlight poking through the gaps in his curtains, a reminder that he's already late.

Not that it matters.

His alarm’s dead. His phone’s at 12%. His sketchbook is open to a half-finished drawing of a girl with tied-up hair and a clipboard in her hand.

He flips it shut immediately.

She doesn’t even like him. It’s not like he likes her, either.

(But he still remembers what she wore last Tuesday. And the Tuesday before that. And the time she yelled at c00lkidd so hard her voice cracked, but she didn’t back down. She never does.)

He drags himself upright, rubs the sleep from his face, and stands by the window.

Builderman High is only eight blocks away. He could walk there blindfolded. He knows the back alleys, the shortcuts, the narrow path between the faculty lounge and the storage room with the broken door. He knows where the vending machine eats your money and which hallways creak under his footsteps.

He also knows exactly when she shows up.

7:15 AM.

Like clockwork.

By 7:26, pr3typriincess is standing in front of Class 2-B. Clipboard in one hand, keys in the other. She opens the door with the grace of someone who treats authority like armor—sharp, polished, impenetrable.

The room smells like dust and pencil shavings. She likes it that way. Clean, untouched, hers.

She breathes in.

Behind her, Charlotte enters quietly and bows with a soft “good morning, president.”

c00lkidd follows like a dog on a leash, hoodie halfway down his face, muttering something about falling asleep in his locker.

He’s followed by a trio of boys, half-awake and already fighting over a seat beside the window. The classroom begins to fill, desk legs scraping the floor like a warning bell.

At 7:40 on the dot, she starts roll call.

Bluudud, meanwhile, is standing behind the chain-link fence behind the gym.

The first bell rings.

He doesn’t flinch. He just watches.

From here, he can see the second-floor window of Class 2-B. He watches silhouettes move behind the curtains. He doesn’t need to guess which one is her. Her posture gives her away—always standing, always moving, always doing something.

He’s not close enough to hear her voice, but he knows she’s calling names in alphabetical order.

She always does.

"Valex."

"Charlotte."

"c00lkidd."

(“Present,” “Here,” “Huh? Oh yeah. Here.”)

And then: his name.

He imagines her saying it. Coldly. Efficiently. That tone she always uses when she talks to him, like she’s filing him under ‘nuisance’ in a folder color-coded red.

She checks a box beside his name.

Absent.

Again.

She doesn’t care that he’s not there. She’s probably glad. One less headache for the day. One less detention slip to file. One less argument to risk during lunch when the SSC gathers and bluudud finds a way to show up just to piss her off.

So why is it that when she was absent—last week, just once, just for a fever—he didn’t come to school at all?

Not even to loiter. Not even to skate across the courtyard. Not even to hide in the third-floor supply closet and doodle on the walls with sharpie.

He didn’t realize it until later, but it was almost embarrassing.

He came all that way, stood at the gate, and turned back around the moment he saw she wasn’t there.

No clipboard. No red ribbon. No one to glare at him through her glasses and say, “Try coming in on time for once, maybe?”

That morning, the school felt like a blank page.

And bluudud hated blank pages.

Back inside Class 2-B, pr3typriincess’s pen hovers.

“bluudud,” she says.

No answer.

She doesn’t even pause.

“Absent,” she mutters, ticking the box with the flick of a wrist.

Charlotte glances over at her from the next row. "He hasn’t shown up since... Monday, right?"

“Monday was detention,” she replies flatly.

“Oh.”

c00lkidd snorts from the back. “He showed up for detention but not for class? That’s so him.”

She doesn’t respond. Just flips the clipboard page, adjusts her glasses, and files it away into her perfectly alphabetized folder labeled: “2-B — Attendance (Q3)”

Still. Her eyes flick toward the window.

Across the fence, bluudud exhales. Cold morning breath vanishes into the air. He shoves his hands into his pockets and walks.

He doesn’t know where he’s going—he never does.

Sometimes he ends up at the old bridge near the drainage canal. Sometimes he rides his board along the river path, tracing her bus route in reverse. Once, he accidentally showed up outside her neighborhood.

He told himself it was a coincidence.

It wasn’t.

His mom (118o8) isn’t home when he gets back. She’s already at work, probably running late to another shift she picked up just to keep the lights on. He toes his shoes off, throws his bag on the couch, and beelines for his room.

His sketchbook is still there. Open to her face.

He tells himself it’s not weird. It’s just practice. She’s symmetrical. Neat. Easy to draw.

But then why does he always sketch her from memory?

Why does he remember the way her eyes twitch when someone breaks a rule? Why does he remember the ink smudge on her left hand after a long meeting? Why does he draw her smile like it’s something he’s never actually seen, just imagined?

It’s stupid.

He flips the page. Another one. Her again. Different angle. Scribbled in red ink: “she looked tired today.”

He shuts the notebook and throws it into his drawer.

It lands on top of the first detention slip she ever gave him.

He kept it.

Later that night, she’s reviewing club reports in her bedroom when her phone buzzes.

Group chat: SSC HELLHOLE

c00lkidd: “sooo like bluudud was totally at school this morninggggg. 😇”

Her heart skips. She doesn’t know why.

She types:

“he wasn’t in class.”

c00lkidd replies:

“ye but valex said he saw him behind the gym at like 7:30?? idk”

She doesn’t respond.

She stares at her clipboard, at the perfect little checkmark beside his name.

She replays her morning. Her walk. Her steps.

She wonders if she looked behind her.

She wonders if he was there.

Meanwhile, bluudud lies in bed with his phone above his face, screen cracked at the corner. His battery’s at 4%.

He’s staring at her profile picture in the group chat.

She’s smiling in it—barely. Just enough to look like she didn’t mean to.

He taps on it. Zooms in. Then turns his phone over and shuts his eyes.

He’s not coming to school tomorrow.

But he probably will.

He always does.

Chapter Text

The first thing pr3typriincess sees on her desk that morning is a math exam.

The second thing she sees is bluudud’s name on top of it.

And the third?

A perfect score.

“What the hell,” she mutters under her breath, flipping the paper over like it might have cheated on its own.

There’s no way. Absolutely no way. bluudud hasn’t been to class in weeks. He misses every review session. He didn’t even bring a calculator the last time she saw him, which—now that she thinks about it—was during detention when he was using a ruler to catapult jellybeans at c00lkidd.

So why does this exam look… correct?

No doodles in the margins. No slurs disguised as math symbols. Just clean, sharp answers—one of which was solved using her exact shortcut formula.

She blinks.

Then she flips open her logbook and furiously scribbles:

> investigate: bluudud academic anomaly. possible fraud??

Meanwhile, bluudud is in the art room again.

He’s skipping P.E. to paint a brick.

No one bothers him here. Not even Mr. Shedletsky, who just walked past with a cup of cold coffee and muttered, “as long as no one dies, I don’t care.” Bluudud thinks that’s fair.

He adds a thin line of red to the edge of the brick. It’s supposed to look like a heart.

It ends up looking like a splatter.

He doesn't fix it.

They meet in the hallway after class like magnets. Violently.

She storms up to him, waving the test in his face. He’s mid-bite into a red lollipop (probably stolen), and just raises an eyebrow.

“You cheated.”

“No, I didn’t.”

“You’re failing. You never even show up.”

“I do when you’re around.”

She pauses.

Then immediately glares. “That’s not a compliment.”

“I didn’t say it was.”

“Then why say it at all?!”

He shrugs.

She hates that shrug. That cocky, effortless, shrugged-in-my-direction kind of shrug. The same one he used when he graffiti’d “POOPYHEAD PRESIDENT” on the blackboard in glitter glue and somehow got extra credit for “expressive typography.”

She takes a breath. Collects herself.

“If you’re not cheating,” she says sharply, “then explain how you got this.”

She holds up the paper like it’s damning evidence. Her fingers are trembling. He notices.

“I studied,” he says flatly.

“You studied.”

“Yup.”

“With who? c00lkidd?!”

He snorts. “Hell no.”

“Then who??”

He stares at her.

She stares back.

And then she gets it. A memory hits: that one rainy day two months ago. She stayed late after club meetings and saw him in the library. Alone. Earbuds in. Hoodie pulled low. His notebook was covered in messy formulas—and her handwriting.

From her old tutoring guide.

She’d left it in the detention room by accident.

He must’ve taken it.

“You used my notes?”

He shrugs again. “You’re smart.”

“You’re insane.”

“Still passed though.”

She hates this. She hates that she feels something hot twist in her stomach whenever he says things like that. It’s not even the words—it’s the way he says them, like they’re normal, like it’s normal for him to notice how she writes her eights or how she dots her i’s with tiny circles instead of slashes.

“You’re still failing three other subjects,” she snaps.

He holds up three fingers. “One: History is boring. Two: I don’t believe in Biology. Three: the Filipino teacher said I have ‘unruly spirit.’ What does that even mean?”

“It means you’re failing,” she hisses, “and I’m not letting my year-end report show a single drop of red ink because of you, so—”

“So?”

“So now I’m tutoring you.”

Dead silence.

He blinks.

She blinks back.

And then he grins.

“Oh my god, you like me.”

“I hate you,” she growls.

“You’re blushing.”

“I’m overheating from rage.”

“You know what’s hotter than rage? Love.”

“I’m going to set your desk on fire.”

“With passion?”

“With gasoline.”

She ends up setting the study schedule anyway.

Against her will.

Kind of.

They meet on Mondays and Fridays after class. It’s school-mandated, obviously. For his academic recovery. Not because she wants to. Not because she keeps sneaking glances at him when he’s not looking. Not because his handwriting is surprisingly neat when he tries. Not because his lashes are long and dark and stupidly unfair.

And definitely not because of the way he looks at her when she leans in to correct his mistakes—like she’s speaking a language only he understands.

She’s just doing her job.

Really.

He shows up five minutes late to their first session.

She throws a pencil at him.

He catches it.

She hates that, too.

Chapter Text

It starts with a noise.

Not a big one—just the soft, muffled meow that comes from somewhere down the corridor. It’s the kind of sound only pr3ttyprincess notices, because she’s trying very hard to pretend she’s not watching bluudud with her whole heart as he kicks a vending machine.

And she was doing so well today, too. She gave out three demerits before lunch, only screamed once when she saw c00lkidd grinding his skateboard down the third-floor handrails, and didn’t even look at bluudud during morning assembly. She was composed. Presidential. Untouchable.

But now she’s crouched behind the janitor’s closet door. With him. And a cat.

“…So,” bluudud whispers. His hoodie is zipped halfway, and the kitten is crawling over his chest like it owns him. “You gonna report me?”

“You stole from the faculty lounge.”

“It was starving.”

“It was eating a sandwich when you grabbed it.”

“It was a sad sandwich. It looked depressed.”

pr3typriincess exhales. She wants to throw the cat at his face. She wants to punch him in the chest. She wants to know why he always looks at her like she’s some unsolvable riddle he already likes not understanding.

“You’re insane,” she mutters, not moving away.

“Technically you’re aiding a crime, y’know.”

“I’m not. I’m…” she trails off. The cat purrs against her leg, and bluudud’s eyes sparkle in the dark.

She’s never liked this feeling — the way her stomach flips when he smiles at her, the way his jokes make her laugh when she’s supposed to write incident reports, the way he makes her feel seventeen different kinds of alive even when he’s being the most irritating boy on campus.

“You’re lucky I didn’t call a teacher,” she says, crossing her arms, pretending her heartbeat isn’t way too loud. “You’re lucky I’m the one who caught you.”

“Yeah?” bluudud leans closer. He’s half-lit by the closet light now, shadows stretched across his jaw. “Guess I am lucky.”

Her mouth opens. Shuts. Opens again.

Then the closet door bursts open.

“GUYS,” c00lkidd yells. “THE CAT IS NOT A FACULTY CAT. IT’S MR. DOE’S. WE’RE GONNA D—”

The cat hisses, pr3ttyprincess screams, and bluudud shoves all three of them back inside before they get seen. The door slams. The cat claws his hoodie. c00lkidd knocks into a mop bucket and crashes headfirst into the corner.

Somehow, despite everything, bluudud starts laughing. pr3ttyprincess doesn’t.

…Until he pokes her in the cheek and says, “Heart rate’s kinda loud, Prez. Are you sure you’re not in love with me?”

“SHUT. UP.”

But she’s smiling.

God help her. She’s smiling.

The laughter dies down slowly.

pr3ttyprincess leans her head back against the wall, cheeks hot, trying very hard to remember she is still class president. That she has standards. That she is not — under any circumstances — about to let this boy make her feel like her heart’s doing gymnastics.

bluudud wipes at a scratch on his hoodie, then glances sideways. His voice drops, quieter now. Almost serious.

“You really didn’t report me,” he says.

She tenses.

“…Because it’s not worth the paperwork.”

He hums. “Sure. Totally just that.”

The kitten curls between them. His knee barely brushes hers.

It shouldn’t feel like anything.

But it does.

And maybe he senses that too, because suddenly he’s not smiling anymore. He’s just… watching her. Not teasing. Not cocky. Just quiet.

Like he wants to say something but doesn’t know if she’s ready to hear it.

“You know,” he says eventually, tugging a thread from his sleeve. “You used to like cats.”

“What?”

“You were obsessed with that stray in our old neighborhood. The gray one that hung around the recycling bins.”

Her breath catches.

That was years ago. Back when she used to live across from his family. Back when they were both just awkward kids who never spoke much but still walked home on the same sidewalk.

“You remember that?”

“Of course I do.” He shrugs, but his voice softens. “You used to feed it every Thursday. Rice crackers. You said it liked the sesame kind.”

She stares at him, stunned.

He’s not supposed to remember that. No one else does. Not even her mom.

For a second, the air in the closet shifts. Like something long buried just surfaced. And now it’s sitting between them, warm and impossible to ignore.

“I’m not in love with you,” she blurts.

His lips twitch.

“…Okay.”

“And I don’t like you.”

“Sure.”

“And I’m not going to write a statement excusing your behavior again just because you have—”

“Pretty eyes?”

“—a death wish!”

He grins.

She throws a glove at his face. The kitten sneezes.

Outside, a bell rings. Afternoon dismissal.

Inside, her head spins.

She doesn’t like him. She doesn’t. He’s chaotic and smug and allergic to rules. He’s a thousand kinds of annoying.

But she also can’t stop thinking about how he remembered her cat crackers. And the look on his face when he asked why she didn’t report him.

Like he actually thought she might’ve.

Like her opinion of him mattered.

Chapter Text

The school community service day is, in pr3ttyprincess’s opinion, a disaster waiting to happen.

Each class is supposed to send volunteers to repaint walls, clean out old closets, and help maintain the dusty staff storerooms in the east wing. She signed up out of responsibility. She stayed because no one else brought pens. She became the organizer because—according to Sir Jason—“no one else scares the troublemakers enough.”

So now she’s standing in front of the supply board, clipboard in hand, furiously reassigning partner groups because guess who forgot to show up again.

“c00lkidd is in a locker again,” Charlotte says helpfully.

“Great,” pr3ttyprincess mutters. “That’s the third time this week.”

Charlotte points her pen. “Also, uh. He showed up.”

She freezes.

Slowly, she turns.

bluudud is slouched in the doorway, half-lidded, hands in his hoodie pocket. His board dangles from one hand. He looks like he woke up five minutes ago and got dressed in the dark.

But he’s here.

And he’s smirking at her like he knows that messes up everything.

“Morning, prez,” he drawls.

She glares. “You weren’t on the sign-up list.”

“Spontaneous civic duty,” he says. “Call it character growth.”

“Call it detention dodging.”

“Call it fate.”

She refuses to answer. She goes back to the list. Checks the boxes. Counts the groups.

And then realizes the worst part of all:

They’re short one volunteer.

She doesn’t have a choice.

“You’re with me,” she snaps.

He grins wider.

“I knew this day would come.”

They get assigned the east storage hall: one long corridor of forgotten rooms filled with old books, moldy bulletin boards, and desks missing legs. Their job is to clean, repaint, and reorganize supplies.

Bluudud picks up a paintbrush. Twirls it between his fingers like it’s a weapon.

“Don’t break anything,” she warns.

“I’ll break everything,” he says cheerfully, “starting with your emotional walls.”

“First of all—”

He flicks a droplet of paint at her.

It lands on her sleeve.

Her jaw drops. “You. Menace.”

“You like me messy,” he says, winking.

She almost throws the entire can at him.

It takes fifteen minutes before they start working normally.

Sort of.

He climbs the ladder and paints the top of the wall. She does the corners and the edges. They work in near silence, save for the occasional argument about whether or not paint rollers are “a scam.”

But at some point, she stops glancing at the clock.

Because for some reason, the rhythm settles. It’s strangely calm.

Until he slips.

It’s small. A missed step on the ladder. His heel knocks against a rung and he stumbles, one hand smacking the edge of the ladder hard.

She gasps. “Are you okay?!”

He lands mostly upright. But he cradles his wrist, biting the inside of his cheek.

She’s beside him in seconds, pulling off her gloves, grabbing his hand without thinking.

“Let me see—don’t move—I said don’t move—”

His skin is warm.

His wrist is flushed, not swollen, but red where it hit the metal. She checks for tenderness, for bruising, for anything fractured.

He watches her the whole time.

She doesn’t notice at first. She’s too focused. Too worried.

“You’re lucky,” she mutters. “No swelling. It’s just gonna bruise.”

“I’ve had worse,” he says.

“You shouldn’t have anything,” she snaps. “That’s what helmets are for. And gloves. And following directions.”

He raises an eyebrow. “You’re mad.”

“I should be mad.”

“But you’re worried.”

“I’m the class president! I’m supposed to care if someone dies during a school event!”

He grins. “So you do care.”

Her heart lurches.

She yanks her hand away. “You’re impossible.”

He leans in, just a little. Smiling still, but gentler now.

“You’re cute when you panic.”

She throws a towel at his face.

They finish painting in near silence after that.

Except now the silence feels charged. Like something unsaid is hanging between them. Something soft and heavy and… real.

She finds herself glancing at his wrist again. She notices the way he uses his left hand for the roller, awkward but determined. She wants to tell him to sit down. To stop being stupid.

She wants to say something nice.

She doesn’t.

She just tosses him a bottle of cold Yakult from the volunteer cooler and pretends her cheeks aren’t burning.

He catches it one-handed.

Grins.

“Thanks, prez.”

She turns away.

“Shut up.”

But her smile doesn’t fade.

She thinks the moment’s passed.

But later—when the wall’s dry and the clock hits 4:12 PM—they’re both still lingering near the supply sink, rinsing paint trays and trying not to look at each other for too long.

“Do you always finish late?” he asks casually, flicking a little water at her sleeve.

She glares. “Do you always sabotage cleaning duties?”

“Wouldn’t call it sabotage.”

“You nearly broke your wrist.”

“But you held it,” he says under his breath, too quiet to be anything but intentional.

She drops the sponge.

He watches her bend down to grab it, ponytail swaying over her shoulder. His smile fades just a little—more thoughtful now. When she stands again, she’s scrubbing the plastic tray like it offended her bloodline.

He steps closer.

“Your sleeve’s stained,” he says, pointing.

She doesn’t even get a chance to argue.

Before she can stop him, he’s dipping a rag in clean water, reaching over, and carefully—carefully—pressing it to the dried streak of blue on her arm.

His fingers don’t touch her skin.

But they’re close enough to feel.

She freezes.

“You’re doing it wrong,” she says weakly, voice trembling just enough to betray her.

“I know,” he murmurs. “Just wanted an excuse.”

She blinks. Her heart trips.

“You’re unbelievable.”

“You keep saying that.”

“Because it keeps being true.”

“Still doesn’t stop you from standing here.”

She finally snatches the rag from him. “Because if I leave you alone, you’ll drink paint.”

“I drank one sip—”

“One sip??”

He grins. “It was labeled 'berry'.”

She groans into her hands.

They finish around 4:30. The hallway is clean, supplies stacked, and no teachers have scolded them. A miracle.

Still, she feels… itchy. Not physically, but inside. Like there’s something she didn’t say. Something she shouldn’t be thinking.

He flops onto the low bench outside the storage room, stretching out like a cat in the sun. The light’s golden now, dust swimming in the air around them.

She doesn’t mean to sit beside him.

But she does.

Neither of them speaks for a while.

Then:

“I saw your notes,” she says suddenly. “The ones you wrote next to my math guide.”

He doesn’t look at her. Just closes one eye against the light. “Yeah?”

“They were good.”

“Yours were better.”

“I’m serious.”

“So am I.”

She hesitates. “Why’d you even keep them?”

A pause.

Then: “They made sense.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“They made sense,” he repeats. “And they were yours.”

Her heart squeezes.

“Oh.”

A beat passes.

“Don’t get sappy,” she mutters.

“You sat next to me,” he replies. “You started it.”

She shoves his shoulder lightly. “Whatever.”

But she stays seated.

Even when the shadows get long and the hallway cools.

Even when her fingers brush his jacket on the bench between them.

Even when his knee bumps hers and neither of them move away.

Chapter Text

It starts on a Sunday morning.

The kind where laundry hangs outside, the rice cooker’s still warm, and the entire neighborhood sounds like barking dogs and tricycle engines. 118o8 is half-dressed in an old hoodie, humming a forgotten song while washing the dishes—when her son stumbles into the kitchen, hair messy, socks mismatched, and very much avoiding eye contact.

“Morning,” he mumbles, grabbing a mug.

“Mmm,” she replies, not looking up. “What happened to your face?”

He freezes. “What?”

“Your face, baby. You’re smiling like someone just told you she likes your shoelaces.”

His mug clinks.

“I’m not.”

“You are.”

“I’m literally not smiling.”

“Oh, excuse me. You’re radiating smug teenage affection from your ears, then.”

Bluudud groans. Loud. Dramatic. Pours water into the mug like it personally offended him. “I’m not in love.”

“I didn’t say anything about love.”

“I didn’t say her.”

118o8 pauses.

Oh.

Oh, oh, oh.

She wipes her hands and turns around slowly. “You like someone,” she says, pointing. “And you’ve never told me who.”

“Nope,” he mutters. “Not happening.”

But she’s already grinning.

“Oh, come on, I’m your mom! I kept your sketchbook secret when you drew boobs on Sonic characters! I earned this!”

“OH MY GOD—”

“Tell me,” she says, poking his forehead. “Is it that girl with the spiky ponytail? The volleyball girl? Or the one who draws hearts in her notebook during lunch? Is she mean? I feel like you’d like someone mean.”

“She’s not mean.”

118o8 pauses.

Wait.

Wait wait wait.

A light goes ding in her brain.

Clipboard.

Rules.

Smart.

Scary.

Cute handwriting.

And suddenly, a memory rushes in—years old, buried under school reports and adult errands. A girl. Little. Tiny. Bow in her hair. Always serious. Always dragging Bluudud around by the wrist and saying things like, “you can’t eat ants, dodo.”

A girl who used to live three doors down.

“Wait,” 118o8 says aloud, slowly. Her voice drops.

She turns to Bluudud, eyes wide. “It’s not her, right?”

“The little girl with pink hair? The girl i introduced you to and she hugged you the moment she saw you?” she raises an eyebrow.

Bluudud goes red.

“OH MY GOD,” she shrieks. “IT’S HER. IT’S HER!!”

“MOM.”

“YOU’RE IN LOVE WITH PRINCESS—”

“OH MY GOD STOP CALLING HER THAT—”

“I HELD HER WHEN SHE WAS STILL IN DIAPERS. YOU GUYS USED TO SHARE LOLLIPOPS. THIS IS A GOOD NEWS I KNOW WHO MY SON IS GOING TO MARRY!!”

“MOM PLEASE—”

“I’M TEXTING AUNTIE—”

Bluudud grabs her phone midair and throws himself across the couch.

Ten minutes later, he’s hiding under a pillow, and she’s still standing in the kitchen like she just saw God.

“I thought you forgot about her,” 118o8 says softly. “You two were so close.”

He doesn’t respond.

She walks over, sits on the edge of the couch, and gently pats his back through the pillow.

“She used to call you ‘bluu-doo,’ remember?”

“Please kill me.”

“She made you that friendship bracelet with the beads. You cried when it broke.”

“I was six.”

118o8 smiles. “You were so attached to her.”

“I didn’t remember,” he says, voice muffled. “Not until recently.”

She leans back. “When?”

“…Dunno. Maybe when she yelled at me.”

“That could be any day.”

Bluudud shifts. His voice turns quiet.

“She called my name. During attendance.”

118o8 raises a brow.

“It just… clicked,” he mutters. “Her voice. The way she holds her pen. The exact way she says my name like she’s mad but also not.”

He breathes out.

“And then I couldn’t stop remembering.”

118o8 doesn’t laugh this time.

She just watches him.

The way he curls into the couch, cheeks flushed, fingers fidgeting with the hem of his hoodie. She sees the little boy who used to cry when his toy broke. The one who used to draw stars beside her name on his class sheets. The one who used to run to the gate every time the neighbors’ door creaked open.

“You really like her,” she says gently.

“…Yeah.”

“And she’s still scary?”

“She’s terrifying.”

“But you still like her?”

“…Yeah.”

118o8 smiles. “That’s my boy.”

Later that night, she pulls out an old photo album.

On one page, there’s a photo of a tiny pr3typriincess wearing oversized pink ribbon and a school ID she made herself out of cardboard. She’s holding a tea cup. Beside her: a very messy Bluudud in a cape made of a pillowcase and a crown.

They’re holding hands.

Behind her, 118o8 laughs to herself.

She’s definitely texting Auntie now.

Chapter Text

The door opens with a click.

“Dad, she’s here!” Charlotte calls, bouncing on her toes.

pr3typriincess stands on the doormat in her cleanest school uniform, clutching a folder of quiz reviewers, a box of cookies, and the crushing weight of expectation.

She’s faced delinquents. Rulebreakers. Even bluudud.

But nothing—nothing—prepared her for the man standing at the hallway’s end.

Guest 1337. Charlotte’s father.

Robloxias legendary war veteran.

The man whose name is literally whispered in history class when they talk about The Guest War. The man who’s never smiled. The man with the black coat, the thick scar, and the posture of a final boss.

He’s standing there with his arms crossed. Silent. Like judgment itself.

Help, she thinks.

Charlotte beams. “Come in, come in!”

Daisy appears from the kitchen wearing a soft blue hoodie with the word “NIKEA” stitched in tiny white letters. Her smile is sunshine. She rushes forward, takes the cookies, and kisses pr3typriincess on the cheek like she’s been part of the family since birth.

“You’re even prettier than Lottie described!” Daisy says sweetly. “And you brought snacks! Agh, such a good girl.”

“I—It’s nothing, Ma’am, I just thought—”

“She’s nervous,” Daisy giggles. “It’s the Guest stare.”

“I’m not nervous,” pr3typrincess lies. looking everywhere

Guest1337 is still watching her.

Still hasn’t blinked.

Still looks like he’s planning a stealth raid.

They sit.

Or rather—Daisy and Charlotte sit. pr3typrincess sort of folds into the chair. Guest1337 remains standing for a moment longer, before slowly moving to the armchair across her.

He sits like a soldier.

Heavy. Still. Controlled.

“So,” he says.

His voice is gravel.

pr3typrincess immediately forgets what year it is.

“So,” Daisy cuts in, sitting beside him with a gentle pat on his arm, “this is the one Lottie always talks about.”

Guest1337 raises an eyebrow.

pr3typrincess wants to melt into the floor.

“You’re student council president, aren’t you?” he asks, finally.

Her back straightens. “Y-yes, sir!”

“You manage twenty-eight students, seven teachers, two volunteer clubs, and a disciplinary file full of skateboarding violations.”

“…Yes, sir.”

“Impressive,” he says.

She stares.

He softens.

Then—actually smiles. Just a little. Just a hint.

Daisy beams. “She’s polite too. Look at her posture. Isn’t she lovely?”

Guest1337 glances at pr3typriincess again. There’s something new in his expression—familiarity. Warmth.

“You used to live down the street,” he says. “You were the one who gave Charlotte that red bow when she was five.”

pr3typrincess blinks. “You… remember?”

“She wore it for weeks.”

And then—like a dam breaking—Daisy starts listing childhood memories.

“She used to line up the juice boxes by color!”

“Lottie used to say you were her ‘lawyer’ every time she got in trouble!”

“Remember the sidewalk lemonade stand you two made??”

Charlotte groans, “Mooooooom—!”

Guest1337 chuckles. Chuckles.

And just like that, the tension melts.

By the end of the visit, pr3typriincess is sipping warm tea beside Charlotte, Daisy is offering to pack leftovers, and Guest1337 is nodding approvingly at a printed quiz reviewer titled “MATH: WAR STRATEGY EDITION.”

“You’re always welcome here,” he says, just before she leaves.

“Thank you, sir,” she replies.

Then he adds, quietly, almost like a secret:

“…You’d make a great soldier.”

Chapter Text

Saturday, 12:05 PM.

Charlotte’s house smells like butter.

The kind of warm, golden scent that wraps around your hair and makes your uniform stick to your back, even though you’re technically not supposed to be in uniform. But pr3typriincess wears hers anyway, because it’s regulation. Because it’s structure. Because it helps her remember who she is when her brain starts turning into emotional egg soup.

She clutches her TLE binder like a lifeline and adjusts her glasses.

They can do this.

They have a plan: scrambled, sunny-side up, omelette, tamagoyaki, poached, plus a bonus egg sandwich for extra credit.

She triple-checked the rubrics. She brought three spatulas. She’s not even going to make eye contact with bluudud if she can help it.

He walks in three minutes later.

Wearing an apron and it says: “KISS THE COOK” (classic lmao) matching with egg printed socks.

She wants to throw the spatula at his head.

"Hey, Prez," he greets with a lopsided grin, catching the tension like it’s a ball he wants to hold. "Ready to get scrambled?"

"You’re on prep duty," she replies flatly. "Do not speak."

c00lkidd skates in behind him holding a pan over his head like a helmet. Clarence and Blaire follow next, arms full of ingredients. Charlotte is already measuring flour with scary precision.

They’re supposed to be cooking eggs. They’re definitely going to cause an incident.

12:30 PM — THE COOKING COMMENCES

Charlotte has claimed the main stove. Her station looks like a science lab. Blaire is calmly slicing herbs like she’s on a cooking show. Clarence is reading the printed rubric aloud like it’s a prayer.

c00lkidd has somehow made powdered eggs and is trying to convince everyone to snort them for science.

And bluudud? He’s standing too close to pr3typriincess. He smells like vanilla shampoo and smugness.

“You’re staring at me,” he says without looking.

“You’re using the wrong pan,” she replies, furiously slicing chives.

“So you’re watching me.”

“I’m supervising you.”

He hums. “Same thing when you say it.”

She throws a dishrag at him.

He catches it.

She hates that he keeps catching things.

1:07 PM — OMELETTE DISASTER

The first batch is burned. Blaire saves it with garnish. Charlotte frowns. Clarence documents everything. c00lkidd adds ketchup smiley faces.

pr3typriincess and bluudud are now side by side at the counter, attempting tamagoyaki. She’s explaining the folding technique. He’s not listening.

“You’re holding the chopsticks wrong,” she mutters.

“Maybe you should hold my hands and guide me,” he replies.

Her hands freeze.

“I mean,” he adds, trying not to laugh, “you’re the president. It’s your job, right? Educational guidance and all.”

She rolls her eyes so hard she nearly falls over.

But her fingers are trembling.

She folds the egg anyway.

1:42 PM — THEY ARE OBSERVED

Guest1337 enters the kitchen like a general entering enemy territory.

He surveys the scene: sizzling pans, scattered utensils, c00lkidd trapped inside a cabinet.

Then he looks at pr3typriincess.

She freezes.

He squints.

"You," he says slowly, like recognizing a faraway shadow.

She gulps. "Sir?"

He walks closer. Studies her face. Then turns to Charlotte.

"Wasn't she here just a week ago? It's nice to see you again."

Charlotte grins. "That’s her."

Guest1337 nods once.

Then takes a bite of tamagoyaki.

Everyone watches him chew.

"This is good," he says. Then he turns to bluudud. "You made this?"

Bluudud nods.

“With her.”

Guest1337 hums thoughtfully. Then something changes in his face—a soft surprise, like a puzzle piece sliding into place.

"Wait," he says. "You’re the kid who asked about her, aren’t you? The one with the crush?"

Bluudud chokes on air.

pr3typriincess drops the spatula.

Charlotte bursts into laughter.

Guest1337 turns to his daughter. "You remember? When I asked why that boy was sketching someone in his notebook during dinner?"

“DAD.”

“You said he kept muttering about someone with glasses and a hairclip who used to yell at him over broken windows.”

pr3typriincess wants to dig a hole and die in it.

Bluudud has never looked so red.

Daisy walks in. "Oh, it’s her again! Welcome back sweetheart, And oh bluudud!! hello, how's your mom doing? do you remember when you were also next door neighbors with pr3ttypriincess?"

Bluudud is whimpering. Pr3ttypriincess tenses.

Guest1337 pats him on the shoulder. "Good taste, son. I approve."

Bluudud collapses face-first into a pillow.

2:15 PM — CLEAN-UP

Charlotte handles the dishes. Clarence handles the report. Blaire is cleaning up the plates.

c00lkidd is still half-stuck in a cabinet.

pr3typriincess is sitting on the porch, holding a cup of tea.

Bluudud sits beside her.

They don’t talk for a minute.

Then he mumbles, "I didn’t tell him your name. Just that I liked someone who used to scold me a lot."

She sips her tea. "That could be anyone."

“But it was you.”

She doesn’t say anything.

She doesn’t have to.

She just blushes, rolling her eyes.

And he smiles.

Chapter Text

The tea party was scheduled for exactly three o’clock in Charlotte’s backyard.

The invitations were handwritten by pr3typriincess herself, in red crayon, with instructions like:

“Wear something royal.”

“Don’t eat the cake before the ceremony.”

“NO KICKING DURING TEA TIME (c00lkidd this means YOU).”

She wore a pink frilly dress with glitter on the sleeves, a sparkly crown slightly too big for her head, and a plastic pearl necklace that clacked every time she moved. Her clipboard (yes, she had one even then) was tucked beside the teapot. She took her role as “Queen of the Backyard Kingdom” extremely seriously.

Charlotte sat across from her in a lavender dress, her posture perfect, her voice soft. She lifted her teacup and said, “Thank you, Your Majesty,” like she’d been practicing it in the mirror.

It was almost perfect.

Until bluudud rolled onto the picnic blanket—cape trailing in the grass, paper crown tilted sideways—and knocked over three teacups at once.

“HELLOOOOOOOO!” he yelled, flopping down beside pr3typriincess. His knees were covered in dirt. His socks didn’t match. One of his shoes was in the flowerbed.

“Bluudud!” she shrieked. “You’re ruining the Coronation Ceremony!”

“No I’m not, I’m the DRAGON KING—RARHHHHH—” He roared and tried to bite one of the sugar cookies.

“You’re the prince!” she argued, grabbing his cape and yanking it back down. “You have a cape!”

“I stole it from a dragon!” he grinned.

“You are not stealing from dragons during my tea party!!”

Somewhere in the corner of the yard, c00lkidd was trying to fit his entire hand into the teapot. “Guys. This tastes like glitter glue. Are we allowed to drink this?”

“No,” Charlotte said politely.

“I drank it already.”

pr3typriincess let out the most high-pitched royal scream imaginable and immediately started scribbling VIOLATIONS onto a juice-stained notepad. “c00lkidd: One count of UNAUTHORIZED TEA. One count of climbing the lemon tree. One count of—BLUUDUD STOP EATING THE CUPS!!”

“I’m not eating them,” bluudud mumbled through plastic. “I’m tasting them. For poison. I’m your royal taster.”

She blinked.

Then, in the tiniest whisper, “…Oh.”

There was a long pause. Bluudud grinned. Her cheeks turned very pink.

“You’re still in trouble,” she muttered, adjusting his crown so it sat straight. “You’re the prince. You’re supposed to sit beside me and raise your cup and say, ‘Long live the Queen.’”

“Like this?” he asked, holding his empty cup upside down.

“No,” she sighed. But she poured him more (sparkle-filled) tea anyway.

And when the sun began to set and Charlotte offered everyone cupcakes, and c00lkidd got frosting on his nose, and bluudud shouted “SWORD FIGHT!” with plastic spoons in both hands—

pr3typriincess didn’t stop him.

She just smiled, kicked her shoes off, and joined the battle.

Because maybe even queens were allowed to have a little fun sometimes.

The four adults sat on mismatched lawn chairs, all lined up like an audience to a very strange, very glitter-filled opera.

“...Are they sword fighting with spoons?” 007n7 asked, blinking.

“They're re-enacting a peace treaty,” Daisy said gently, clasping her hands. “Through interpretive battle.”

“That one’s mine,” 118o8 sighed proudly as bluudud leapt from a picnic blanket, plastic cape flying, and shouted something about “royal betrayal and cookies of doom.”

Guest 1337 didn’t say a word. He simply watched, arms crossed, expression unreadable, a juice box quietly balanced in one gloved hand.

Daisy looked over. “Honey, you’re smiling.”

“I am not,” he replied flatly.

“You always do this thing with your jaw when you’re holding back a laugh.”

He stiffened.

“You’re doing it now,” she whispered, nudging him with her elbow.

“…She gave him the fancy teacup,” he muttered under his breath.

Daisy beamed. “You mean pr3typriincess?”

He didn’t answer, but his ears were slightly pink.

118o8 sipped her drink and nudged 007n7. “Your kid’s trying to climb the lemon tree again.”

“Damn. That’s like the third time this week.” 007n7 lazily stood, walked three steps toward the tree, and called out, “c00lkidd! Get down before you fall again! And no backflipping off the birdbath!”

“I WASN’T GONNA—!” c00lkidd shouts

“You were totally gonna,” bluudud chimed in from the grass.

Charlotte, still seated properly with her napkin on her lap, sipped fake tea like she was above it all. She glanced at pr3typriincess—who was now drawing “WANTED” posters for both boys in her rulebook—and whispered, “Do you think they’ll ever sit down?”

“No,” pr3typriincess replied seriously. “But I will make them.”

“Just like a queen,” Daisy whispered fondly, watching from the porch.

“She's always had that energy,” 118o8 said with a laugh. “She even used to line up everyone’s shoes when they played at our house. Had labels on everything.”

“She labeled the spoon drawer in our kitchen,” Daisy added. “At five.”

Guest 1337 gave a rare, tiny exhale of amusement. “She still does.”

007n7 plopped back into his chair and stretched. “Man. You think they’ll still be this chaotic when they’re fifteen?”

“God, I hope not,” 118o8 muttered.

“They will,” Daisy said softly, smiling as pr3typriincess dramatically slammed a sticker onto bluudud’s forehead that said “TRAITOR.”

“I mean,” 007n7 shrugged, “as long as they stay together like this, I think they’ll be fine.”

“Yeah,” 118o8 agreed, watching as her son tackled c00lkidd into a pile of pillows.

Guest 1337 didn’t say anything, but when pr3typriincess turned to help Charlotte adjust her crown and bluudud looked back at her like she’d just saved the world—

he made a mental note.

He didn’t know what their future would look like.

But he knew, without a doubt, that they’d grow up side by side.

And maybe that was enough.

The party ended with glitter in everyone’s hair and cookie crumbs in everyone’s socks.

The backyard looked like a war zone—stick-on jewels scattered across the grass, teacups overturned, and a royal decree written in crayon that simply read:

> “NO BOYS ALOUD ON THE PILLOWS UNLESS THEY APOLOGIZE TO THE QUEEN”

(It was unclear if either bluudud or c00lkidd had followed this rule. Both were currently draped over the living room couch, half-asleep and still wearing their paper crowns sideways.)

“Okay, okay,” 118o8 said, pulling off bluudud’s muddy cape as she entered with a fresh towel. “That’s enough ruling the kingdom. You smell like dirt and frosting.”

“I was protecting the realm,” bluudud mumbled into a pillow.

“You were rolling in the mud because c00lkidd dared you,” Charlotte corrected, sipping warm milk beside the couch.

“Which is very brave,” Daisy added cheerfully, passing out folded pajamas to the group. “But you’ll still need a bath.”

“Revolution,” c00lkidd declared faintly. “No baths. Ever again.”

“You’re going first,” said 007n7, already dragging his son toward the hallway like a sack of potatoes. “You got frosting in your ears, my dude.”

Charlotte had already changed into her favorite cloud-pattern pajamas and was carefully brushing pr3typriincess’s hair. “Hold still,” she murmured, “you have a gummy bear stuck in here.”

“No, I don’t,” pr3typriincess grumbled—but she did. A red one.

Guest 1337 passed through the doorway with folded blankets over his arm. His expression, as always, was unreadable, but his steps were quiet. Careful.

Daisy smiled as she helped spread the blankets out. “Thank you, love.”

He didn’t answer, but he nodded once and adjusted a pillow Charlotte had squished too hard.

One by one, the kids were cleaned, dried, and wrapped in fresh pajamas. c00lkidd’s crown had to be thrown away (it disintegrated in the tub), and bluudud’s cape had turned into a towel-cape instead, because he refused to let go of his royal duties, even while yawning.

“Where’s the queen,” he murmured sleepily, blinking up at the ceiling.

“I’m right here,” pr3typriincess mumbled, already curled into the blanket nest beside Charlotte.

He blinked once. Then smiled.

“Cool,” he said. And fell asleep on the floor.

By 8:30, the house was quiet.

Four kids lay tangled in a sea of blankets and cartoon-themed pillows. pr3typriincess had a stuffed bear under one arm and Charlotte’s sleeve in the other. bluudud and c00lkidd were both halfway off the couch, one of them snoring lightly, the other twitching every few minutes and muttering something about frogs.

The parents sat in the kitchen, finally sipping something warm. The sun had gone down. The stars were starting to show.

“They’re really something,” Daisy said softly, watching through the doorway.

“They’re exhausting,” 118o8 corrected. “But yeah. They’re something.”

007n7 reached for another pancake. “Think they’ll remember this when they’re older?”

“I hope so,” Daisy said. “I hope this stays. Even if it’s just the feeling.”

Guest 1337 stood. Walked to the doorway. Watched the four children sleeping, limbs thrown over each other like puppies.

He stepped forward. Adjusted Charlotte’s blanket. Then gently pulled the pillow closer to pr3typriincess’s cheek.

He paused.

She stirred in her sleep. Let out a tiny sigh.

He crouched down beside her, gaze unreadable. And with a voice barely audible, he whispered:

“…Your highness.”

And then stood.

Later, when the house was dark and the parents took turns carrying their children home, bluudud’s head drooped onto 118o8’s shoulder.

“Mom,” he whispered, not fully awake. “Did I win?”

She blinked. “Win what?”

“The tea party.”

She smiled. “You didn’t even follow the rules.”

“I know,” he murmured. “But she still picked me. Right?”

118o8 glanced down at him. Then at pr3typriincess, already curled up on the next couch over, hugging her clipboard like a crown.

“…Yeah,” she whispered. “She did.”

END OF FLASHBACK.

Chapter Text

The rules were simple:

“Choose a fantasy character from a book. No horror. No sci-fi. Bonus points for historical accuracy. See you Friday!”

Naturally, the class turned it into chaos.

Charlotte wanted to go full Tolkien elf with hand-stitched runes and pointed ears. Blaire suggested a warrior princess with a plastic sword from the dollar store. Clarence didn’t even read the full instructions and came to school as Spider-Man.

But it was during lunch that Charlotte slammed her hands on the table and said, with the utmost conviction, “We should do Disney princesses.”

“I don’t think that counts,” pr3typriincess said, raising a brow.

“Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs was literally based on the Grimms' fairy tale from 1812,” Charlotte replied, voice sharp with facts. “And Beauty and the Beast was published in 1740. Historical accuracy, babe.”

“Jasmine isn’t even from a Western fairytale,” Blaire chimed in. “You’ll win by sheer diversity points.”

“Exactly,” Charlotte said, nodding. “I call Jasmine.”

“...Then I guess I’ll go as Aurora,” pr3typriincess said after a pause. Soft. Almost unsure.

Everyone stared.

Charlotte blinked. “Wait. You?”

She cleared her throat. “She’s composed. Elegant. Responsible.”

“...She’s unconscious for 80% of the movie.”

“Well, I’m tired, okay?”

Charlotte grinned. “I’m sewing the dress.”

“Fine,” she replied, cheeks pink. “But no glitter.”

“You’re getting the biggest tiara we can afford.”

On Friday morning, pr3typriincess steps into the classroom in princess aurora’s pink gown.

She’s quiet about it, chin up, pretending her entire spine isn’t about to collapse under the weight of nerves. The dress is floor-length. The sleeves are soft. Charlotte even curled her hair.

She is, objectively, radiant.

“Holy—” c00lkidd yelps, nearly dropping the sword strapped across his chest. “You look like… like… like a doll! Like one of those limited edition holiday Barbies my aunt collects and won’t let me touch!”

“Thanks?” she replies, dazed.

Then comes the sound of a textbook dropping.

Bluudud is standing by the windows, halfway into his costume, a mess of belts, black boots, and a tunic that looks like he stole it off a storybook villain. He was in the middle of adjusting his wig (for whatever fantasy character he got stuck with), but the second he sees her—

He just stares.

Blankly.

As if his brain decided to stop operating.

Charlotte is radiant beside her, glittering in her teal Jasmine two-piece with gold bangles and a matching flower in her hair. She’s striking. Confident. Sparkling.

But it’s Aurora—pr3typriincess—who silences the entire room when she walks in.

Because she doesn’t look like she’s cosplaying.

She looks like she’s become someone else.

…Or maybe she’s just become herself, in a way no one’s seen before.

“Okay,” she mutters, approaching her desk with a clipboard still tucked under her arm (of course she brought it), “everyone take your seats. I want a full list of your characters before ma’am elaine arrives—”

“You really chose Aurora?” bluudud blurts.

She freezes. “What?”

“You,” he says again, slowly. “Aurora? Pink dress. Flowers. True love’s kiss.”

“She’s a classic.”

“She’s literally asleep for the whole movie.”

“She’s symbolic,” she hisses, cheeks burning.

Bluudud raises a brow, eyes trailing from her tiara to her laced sleeves to the soft pink flush on her face.

“You look…” he starts. Then coughs. “...committed.”

She glares. “Just say ‘pretty’ like a normal person.”

He smirks. “I was gonna say ‘insane,’ but sure. Pretty.”

“Ugh.”

He’s still looking.

She’s still blushing.

In the back corner, c00lkidd has stuffed a pillow under his tunic and is yelling about being “Shrek’s hot cousin.”

Charlotte starts clapping.

“This is the best day of my life,” she announces.

They perform skits in pairs.

Charlotte and pr3typriincess go first.

It’s a dazzling 3-minute scene involving forbidden palace adventures, magical carpets, and a dramatic fainting spell.

Charlotte bows. pr3typriincess curtsies. The class erupts into cheers.

Their group gets full marks. Of course.

“You were perfect,” Charlotte whispers as they sit back down.

“I almost tripped on my skirt,” she murmurs back.

“You looked like a fairytale.”

Across the aisle, bluudud is still looking.

And when his group is called next (he ended up as Howl, reluctantly), he hesitates. Then turns to her, lowers his voice, and says—

“Hey, Prez.”

“What.”

“You’d make a good queen.”

It’s nothing. A joke. Just teasing.

She rolls her eyes.

But her hand trembles slightly when she picks up her pen.

That night, she unpins the flower from her hair and finds glitter in her scalp.

She stares at herself in the mirror.

Not the dress. Not the tiara.

Just her.

She thinks about being seven years old. A tea party crown. A gummy bear in her hair. A boy in a red cape calling her your highness and asking if she still picked him.

She never said it out loud.

But back then—when he fell asleep beside her on the floor and snored so loudly she couldn’t stop laughing—

She did.

She still does.

Chapter Text

“You’re Romeo. She’s Juliet. Balcony scene. Start.”

Ma’am Elaine claps once. Loud. Final.

Pr3typriincess doesn’t move.

Neither does Bluudud.

“You have five seconds before I recast you with Clarence and a mop.”

Bluudud groans. “Fine. I’m moving.”

He steps into the middle of the classroom stage—a circle of floor mats, a cardboard ‘garden’ around him, and above him, the elevated “balcony,” which is actually just two desks stacked on top of each other with a lace curtain and a tiny spotlight.

And standing up there, in full Juliet getup?

Pr3typriincess.

Hair tied back with pink ribbon. Soft blush painted on her cheeks. Plastic pearls around her neck.

She is glaring at him like she’d rather fall off the balcony than read one line of this play.

He looks up.

She looks down.

Their classmates are holding their breath.

And then Bluudud—heart pounding, paper script in his hand, soul leaving his body—opens his mouth.

“…But soft, what light through yonder window breaks?”

Oh no.

His voice cracks.

Ma’am Elaine whispers, “Beautiful.”

C00lkidd chokes on his laughter.

Charlotte kicks him in the shin.

Bluudud coughs, starts again, louder this time. “It is the east—and Juliet is the sun.”

He looks up. She’s staring at him.

And suddenly the room is too quiet.

Her hair shifts in the stage light. Her eyes are wide. And for a second, Bluudud isn’t sure if they’re acting anymore.

“Arise, fair sun,” he says, softer now. “And kill the envious moon…”

She swallows.

Her fingers tighten on the curtain.

He takes a step closer to the balcony.

“You speak,” she says finally, her voice calm but shaky. “Yet you say nothing.”

His mouth twitches. “You mad I’m Romeo?”

“I’m mad I didn’t skip class.”

“Admit it. You like being Juliet.”

“I admit nothing.”

“You wore perfume.”

“I always wear perfume—!”

“You look nice.”

She falters.

Then lowers her eyes. “…So do you.”

Silence.

Their classmates are frozen. The script is long forgotten. This isn’t Shakespeare anymore. This is them.

“You’re supposed to say the line,” she whispers.

“I forgot it,” he says honestly.

She’s still looking down at him, and he’s still standing below, one hand on the makeshift balcony. His other hand curls into a fist.

He’s sure his heart’s going to fall out of his chest.

So she says it for him.

“My bounty is as boundless as the sea…” she murmurs, voice slow, eyes soft. “My love as deep; the more I give to thee, the more I have…”

He finishes the line for her.

“…for both are infinite.”

There’s a moment.

The air shifts.

Their faces are too close.

Everyone knows what scene comes next.

Charlotte mouths, “Are they actually going to—?!”

c00lkidd grabs her arm. “There’s no way.”

Ma’am Elaine is sipping her tea. “They better.”

Bluudud places one foot on the first desk, bracing himself.

Pr3typriincess watches him rise—slowly, cautiously, like he’s afraid to break the spell—and when he reaches her height, they’re suddenly eye to eye.

“Don’t,” she whispers, “unless you mean it”

He doesn’t speak.

Instead, he leans forward.

And kisses her.

Just once.

Just gently.

The room erupts.

C00lkidd screams. Charlotte gasps so hard she drops her phone. Clarence stares like he’s been shot.

And Ma’am Elaine?

Smiling. Holding up their scorecard. “100/100. Scene complete. Next one, Charlotte and C00lkidd for Tangled.”

They’re silent after.

No one says anything.

Bluudud climbs down from the desk in slow motion. He doesn’t even look at her. His hands are shaking.

Pr3typriincess just stands still—frozen Juliet on her paper balcony—cheeks pink, hands clenched, heartbeat probably audible from across the room.

She opens her mouth.

Then smiles.

And calls out after him, teasing:

“Thank you… my prince.”

Bluudud trips on the way down.

He doesn’t recover.

It starts with a tower.

A cardboard tower, built by the SSC team with duct tape, leftover art boards, and a suspiciously tall filing cabinet. Charlotte is inside it, her long golden wig braided with pink ribbons and actual flowers. Her dress is light purple. Her eyes are terrified.

“Ma’am Elaine,” she whispers from behind the prop curtain, “I think I’m gonna throw up.”

“No throwing up on school property,” Ma’am Elaine says brightly. “At least wait until after the scene.”

“Not helping.”

But then—

“YO, TANGLED TIME!!”

C00lkidd bursts onto stage in full Flynn Rider cosplay—tight brown vest, white long-sleeve, fake sword, and his usual cocky smirk like he just skated in from the kingdom.

Charlotte peeks through her fake window. “Oh no.”

“Oh yes.” C00lkidd grins up at her. “Rapunzel, Rapunzel, let down your hair—so I can steal your snacks again.” he winks

“That’s not in the script,” Charlotte says, but she’s already giggling.

From the audience, bluudud mutters, “That’s the dumbest line ever.”

pr3typriincess slaps his arm. “You laughed.”

“…Shut up.”

The scene begins.

Charlotte climbs out of the cardboard tower with shaky grace, guided by C00lkidd’s outstretched hand. The class cheers when she lands—he even catches her with a spin.

“Welcome to the real world, Blondie,” he says, voice smooth and teasing.

“Is it… always this bright?” Charlotte murmurs, ducking her head shyly.

“Only when you’re around.”

Ma’am Elaine clutches her chest. “They rehearsed this???”

They didn’t.

It’s shockingly good.

C00lkidd drops the jokes once the “lantern scene” starts. Charlotte kneels beside him, holding a paper lantern cutout they made the night before during group prep. There's soft light cast from a phone flashlight inside it. They lift it together.

“I see the light,” Charlotte whispers, voice just trembling.

“And it’s like the fog has lifted,” c00lkidd finishes, looking straight at her.

He leans in. Not for a kiss—just close enough to say it quietly, with no smile this time:

“You were my new dream.”

Charlotte’s mouth opens. Her eyes shine.

“And you were mine,” she says.

The whole room melts.

Offstage:

pr3typriincess: “Did they just… say that??”

bluudud: “I’m gonna cry. I didn’t think I’d cry during a c00lkidd scene.”

Clarence: “I was not prepared to be emotionally humbled by these two.”

The lights dim.

The lantern floats up via string pulley (thanks to Blaire in the back pulling it dramatically), and Charlotte and c00lkidd hold hands while the class erupts into applause.

c00lkidd turns to Charlotte, quietly:

“That was really good.”

Charlotte turns bright red, stammering, “You carried the whole scene—”

“Dude, no. You nailed that dream line. You crushed it.”

“…Thanks, Flynn.”

“Anytime, Rapunzel.”

They bow. The curtains close.

Backstage, c00lkidd is immediately tackled by bluudud and Clarence.

“WHAT WAS THAT,” bluudud yells. “YOU MADE HER BLUSH ONSTAGE.”

“YOU DELIVERED A LOVE CONFESSION AND GOT AWAY WITH IT???” Clarence shrieks.

c00lkidd: “Skill.”

Charlotte hides behind pr3typriincess.

“Do you think he meant it?” she whispers.

Princess just grins.

“Maybe. But either way… you looked happy.”

Charlotte beams.