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“Eh? What are you reading, Dib-thing?”
Dib does not startle and most certainly does not nearly drop his phone. He glares over his shoulder at Zim. “It’s called tumblr.” He looks back at the screen, thumbs over the dashboard and watches a few posts scroll by. “It’s a blogging site.”
Zim scoffs. “Zim knows what tumblr is. I have over three thousand puny, pathetic followers.” He drops his lunch tray unceremoniously on the table before taking a seat. Meeting Dib’s eye, he beams smugly. “How many follows do you have, Dib-thing?”
Dib gapes for only a moment before answering. “Uh, couple hundred.” His eyebrows draw together curiously. “What do you even post about it?” He locks his phone, tucks it back into his pocket, and pins Zim with an expectant stare.
Zim opens his mouth to answer, but Dib watches him falter. A familiar look of unease washes over the alien’s face; a slightly-less familiar blush accompanies the discomfort, dark green just under his eyes. Eyes that are suddenly wide, frightened, nervous. “Ah, nothing important.”
“But you have so many followers—?”
“I said it was nothing!” Zim snaps, shaking a fist at Dib. The color still staining his cheeks makes the gesture less threatening, something he seems to realize as he snatches his tray up and leaves in a hurry.
Dib looks at the spot where Zim previously sat, looks over where the mess hall doors swing shut. “Huh.”
“What’s your username?”
“What?” Zim shoots him a glare.
Dib leans closer, voice low. “What’s your username? On tumblr?”
Zim’s glare darkens. “None of your business, Dib-thing.”
“C’mon, I’ll tell you mine.” Not to mention most of Dib’s post are alien- (and therefore Zim-) related anyway. There’s no harm in Zim seeing his blog.
“Yours is agent-mothman, except instead of ‘a’s you have ‘x’s.” Zim observes plainly while continuing to scribble away in his notebook. “Zim looked you up last week.”
A faint heat is back on his cheeks, dim green and eye-catching.
“Uh. Okay. You should tell me yours, then.” Dib stammers out around his curiosity about the blush.
Zim scowls. “No.”
“I’ll just look you up.”
“You think I would be so stupid as to include identifying information on the blog-thing?” Zim laughs. “Only you and your fellow humans are so stupid.” Zim makes a point of pulling a book from his bag and raises it to cover his eyes, effectively putting an end to the conversation.
“You know your book is upside-down, right?”
Zim’s only answer is a swift kick to Dib’s shins under the table.
“He’s probably posting his plans for world domination on there!”
Gaz looks over, bored. “You’re stupid.”
“He’s probably posting ways to kill me!”
Gaz returns to her game, sighing. “Just shut up, already.”
“Gaz, this is serious!”
“If it’s so serious, then do something about it.”
Dib frowns at his sister. “I’m trying.”
“Not really.”
“I am!”
“You’re just sitting there.”
“I’m researching!” Dib gestures frantically to his computer. “I’m trying to find his username!”
Gaz rolls her eyes. “You’re not trying very hard then.”
Dib groans. “Whatever.” Despite the money it saved him, there were moments—like these—that Dib regretted sharing a home with his sister still.
“Why won’t you tell me?” Dib asks, upside down on his couch.
Zim sits beside him looking bored as ever while channel-surfing. Their project for their shared advanced chemistry class rests on the coffee table, momentarily abandoned. Community college is a joke (at least, if you ask Zim or Dib) and the project is hardly worth their time. Their break from the work has nothing to do with the fact they can’t agree on what color scheme to use for their presentation. Not in the least.
“It is none of your business.” Zim answers swiftly. He pauses for a bit on one channel, then shakes his head minutely.
“But you know mine!”
“I didn’t ask to know yours.”
Dib opens his mouth, but pauses. “Okay, but still. What are you hiding?”
Zim scoffs. “I am not hiding anything, it is just none of your business.”
Dib rolls, trying to sit proper on the couch, and ends up toppling off the edge. Zim doesn’t even laugh, which only unsettles Dib more.
“Is it like a diary?”
Zim bears his teeth; thin green lips pull back and expose the sharp squares of his teeth and the faint pink of his gums. Rather than replying, Zim stands suddenly. He barely takes the time to sling his bag over one shoulder before walking out without another word.
Dib, still on the floor, watches him go. In the grand scheme of his time knowing Zim, this is hardly the strangest thing that’s happened. Downright normal, almost. If anything, it only strengthens Dib’s resolve to figure out just what is on Zim’s blog.
It takes him two weeks—he is trying, very hard, no matter what Gaz says—but he eventually finds it. In retrospect, a username like ‘urfutureoverlord’ probably should’ve been an obvious first choice. Not to mention a color scheme of pinks and purples and reds. Zim’s name isn’t anywhere on the blog, not even a mention of Irk itself, but there’s no mistaking the blog.
There’s also no mistaking that green skin, despite the soft filters overlain the photos and the even softer pink lingerie clinging to Zim’s body.
Dib looks around, even though he’s alone in his room and it’s just past two in the morning; he can’t help but feel guilty, looking at these pictures. After another cautious glance around, he starts to scroll.
The pictures are well-done. Artistic, even. Zim never shows his face, never more than the curve of his jaw or the bottom of a lip. He seems to have no qualms about showing off… everything else. Shoulders, collarbones, stomach and legs. Everything else.
The skin that’s not bare is scantily covered by a variety of lingerie. Most of it matches Zim’s typical color schemes: pinks, purples, reds. All different shades, ranging from soft pastel to neon bright. Some photos feature black lacy numbers. Dib can’t resist applying the word striking to those pictures. The contrast of Zim’s skin and the dark fabric is stark, almost jarring.
Dib can’t help it. He looks around again, nervous. He doesn’t know what he expects to find, whether it’s Gaz at his bedroom door or Zim lurking by his window. But he’s expecting something. And when there’s nothing, no other eyes on him that he can see, he only feels more uneasy.
He keeps scrolling well into the morning; he resolutely holds himself back from right-clicking any of the pictures. He doesn’t need to save these pictures, that’d just be ridiculous. The fact he even considers it—or how many times he considers it—is also plain ridiculous.
He manages to hold out until he hits an older post. It’s got less notes than the others he’s seen so far, probably because Zim isn’t wrapped in scraps of lingerie. It’s still a revealing photo, still showing a decent amount of skin. But it’s not scandalous in the same way as the others. The shirt is overlarge, hangs off one of Zim’s shoulders and pools in his lap. His thighs look as soft as the fabric of the tee; the coy, shy draw of Zim’s knees is enticing and alarming all at once.
Mouth dry, Dib drops his gaze to read the caption on the photo.
‘stole this shirt, better give it back soon before he notices’
Dib swallows. Hand shaking, he right clicks the image.
“What are you doing?”
Dib looks up to see Gaz in the doorway, watching him shove a threadbare shirt into his messenger bag.
Gaz glares. “Whatever.” Before Dib can answer, she stalks off again.
Dib exhales slowly. He finishes packing the shirt into his bag before slinging it over his shoulder. He steps out of his room, unsurprised to see Gaz standing in the hallway.
“Tell Zim I said hi,” she says, mockingly.
Dib doesn’t even bother denying it. “Okay,” he replies. He nods, awkward, before making for the stairs. He takes them two at a time, and calls out behind him. “Don’t wait up!”
“Gross.” Gaz’s voice follows him out the door, stopping only after it slams shut.
“Eh?” Zim narrows his eyes at Dib. “What are you doing here, Dib-thing? Zim is busy.”
Dib’s mouth is dry again. Zim is wrapped in a robe, and Dib could hazard a guess as to what the alien has on underneath it. A million and one replies run through his head (need a cameraman? What’s the color of the day? Can I come in?). He disregards them all. He raises a hand, a single finger, to give Zim pause.
Then he digs around in his bag and pulls the shirt out carefully. He holds it out for Zim to take.
“It looks better on you, anyway.”
Zim unfolds the shirt and holds it up. It’s well-worn by now, more faded than true blue, but it’s unmistakable. The same apathetic face is on the front, even if the design is harder to make out. The fabric is softer, and Dib watches Zim fiddle with it, almost reverently.
“I had wondered where it went. You kept it for like, a week.” Dib tells him. It had been sometime last year. Dib hadn’t paid it too much mind. At the time, he’d just assumed it had gotten sucked into the void that is his closet.
Zim’s blush worsens.
“You can keep it, now, though.”
The corners of Zim’s mouth twitch upward just slightly. “Perhaps Zim can make some time for you.” Zim takes a single step back into his house, as an invitation.
“Wouldn’t want to take you away from your, what was it? Puny, pathetic followers?” Despite his words, Dib follows Zim over the threshold.
Zim waves off the concern. “They are worthless voyeurs.”
Dib laughs quietly. “So why post so much?” He follows at Zim’s heels. He doesn’t voice his surprise when Zim takes a right turn instead of heading toward the kitchen like usual. A door opens off to the side and Zim motions for Dib to follow him upstairs.
“It is fun.” Zim says simply. “But Zim doesn’t do it for his follows or because of his followers. Zim does it for Zim.”
“Right…” Dib pauses at the doorway of what is clearly Zim’s room. “I didn’t know you had a bedroom.”
Zim snorts derisively. “It is purely for the photos. Couldn’t take them in the base, hm? That would be ridiculous.”
Dib doesn’t say it, but Zim’s right. Cautiously, he takes in the room’s décor. It’s minimal, mostly whites and grays. The bed in the center of the room is luscious and Dib recognizes the sheets from the photos. He stills feels awkward, out of place, even more so when Zim sets the shirt down on a barren bedside table and starts to draw the robe down his shoulders.
“Uh, Zim?”
“Hm?” He pauses, but doesn’t look back at Dib.
“What… what’re you doing?”
“Changing.”
Dib nods. “Right. Uh, I’m gonna just… turn around.”
Zim laughs. “Whatever you think is necessary, Dib-thing.” He does wait though, waits long enough for Dib to turn around before continuing to undress.
Dib doesn’t purposefully strain his ears, but with neither of them talking, the slip and slide of fabric seems impossibly loud. First is the heavy thud of the plush robe hitting the floor. There’s a muffled scraping noise that Dib assumes is Zim kicking the robe away.
“Sure you don’t want a look?” Zim asks casually; his words are laced with the softer sounds of more clothes slipping off—the lingerie, Dib figures.
“Uh,” Dib’s throat clicks uncomfortably, dry and choked up. “I mean.”
Zim laughs again. “Fine, fine.” There’s another whoosh, another slip-and-slide of cloth on skin. “Finished.”
Dib faces him slowly and his blush worsens the more he looks. Zim is dressed… sort of. He’s got Dib’s old shirt on, and it’s just as big on him as it was last year, in the picture. It slips off one shoulder again, falls past his thighs and hangs loose.
“No pants?”
Zim sighs. “If you insist.”
“I’m not insisting anything!” Dib shouts before wincing. “I just mean—you, me. Fast.”
One of Zim’s antennae twitches in amusement. “Ah,” he replies in mock-understanding. “Right.”
Dib groans and runs his hands through his hair. “Okay, I get it. You like me, or whatever. And I like you too! And that’s—that’s cool! But… You’re…” Dib laughs, mostly to himself. “I don’t even know why I’m surprised by this. Of course you’re coming on a little strong.”
Zim’s lips curl downward ever slightly.
Dib catches the slight movement and groans again. “I’m not saying that’s a bad thing, Zim. Just that, it’s a little much.”
“You liked the pictures, didn’t you?” Zim asks quietly.
“Jesus, Zim, yes. I did, okay? You know I did.” Dib runs a haphazard hand through his hair. What part of him thought this was a good idea again?
The near-unease melts away from the alien’s face. Zim smirks. “Just making sure.”
“God, I hate you,” Dib says without any true heat behind the words. “How about you throw on some pants, or shorts, or something, and we will—we’ll discuss this like adults. Real adults. Not trashy, rom-com adults.”
Zim’s eyes narrow uncertainly. “Zim is unsure what you mean by ‘trashy, rom-com adults,’ but fine.” He turns back around and strides toward the closet tucked into the corner. He starts to bend at the waist, and the blue shirt starts to ride up his back.
Dib turns away quickly, so fast he almost gets dizzy.
“There. Are you happy now, Dib-thing?”
Dib looks back to see Zim in his usual leggings. It’s better (and worse) than the previous site of his bare, green legs. The shirt still hangs off him and exposes one shoulder, and Dib knows he’s been caught staring when Zim grins.
Gritting his teeth, Dib answers. “Yes, that’s. That’s better.”
Zim motions to the bed. “Sit?” Without waiting for a reply, he walks over to it and clambers onto the plush bedding with ease. “Zim promises your virtue will remain intact.”
Blushing worse, Dib scowls. “I hate you,” he says again, only to be met with another smile. He sits on the edge of the bed and despite his best efforts not to get overly close, he can feel the bedding practically sucking him in. It doesn’t help that Zim is leaning in, too, and causing the whole bed to dip.
“Talk Dib-thing. You are the one who insisted on it.”
“I know, I know.” Dib inhales deeply before continuing. “I’ve never dated anyone.”
“Zim is aware.”
Dib glares. “Neither have you,” he retorts, only a little petulant. “So, y’know. Normally, people take it slow.”
“Yes, yes, Zim knows all this.” He waves a disinterested hand around. “If you want to ‘take it slow,’ then that is what we will do.” He shrugs.
“That’s good.” Dib lets out a long exhale of relief. “That’s good.”
“Yes, yes, that is out of the way. Can we move on?” Zim scoots closer and brings a hand to Dib’s cheek. His claws, ungloved, cup Dib’s cheek almost carefully; the sharp points barely dig in but Dib’s breath catches anyway. “I assume ‘taking it slow’ does not mean we can’t kiss, hm?” Zim tilts his head to the side. His tone is still mocking, as is the glint in his eyes—but there’s a wavering undercurrent.
“We can kiss,” Dib answers quietly. Then, before Zim makes the first move, Dib beats him to it. He surges forward clumsily and misses Zim’s mouth on the first try. He sticks with it, though, as if he meant to kiss the slightly upturned corner of Zim’s lips. Gingerly Dib adjusts and kisses Zim solidly, firmly, correctly.
The claws on his cheek tighten their grip and the sparks of pain wring a gasp from Dib. He can feel Zim’s smirk against his mouth and slips his tongue between the alien’s parted lips in retaliation. He’s rewarded with a hiss and Zim moving closer.
That’s when Dib pulls back, unable to reign in his own cocky grin.
Zim’s eyes are glazes and his lips are flushed. “Another,” Zim demands. His voice is quiet with a rough edge, the kind Dib only thought existed in bad harlequin novels, described to the point of absurdity.
“Bossy.” Dib complies all the same. He works up the nerve to trail a hand down Zim’s side—a distraction, so that Dib can lean in and kiss a sharp inhale right from Zim’s open, surprised lips. Dib secures his hand on Zim’s bony hip and revels in the warm skin he can feel, even with the shirt in the way.
Zim growls as Dib moves away again, and Dib counts himself lucky that Zim doesn’t claw his face. Instead, Zim’s touch drops to his chest and tightens in his shirt, instead. “Not finished,” Zim grinds out.
“Slow, remember?” Dib teases.
Zim groans and rolls his eyes. “Ridiculous.” All the same, he sits back and seems to breathe deeply for a few moments. “Very well. Dinner?” He looks as though the words pain him and Dib wonders if Zim even knows he’s toying with his kiss-burned lips. His tongue—just the tip, just barely a tease—flicks across the battered skin almost as an afterthought.
“Dinner sounds good, except it’s, like, noon.”
Another groan. “Lunch, then!” Zim throws his hands in the air as he slips off the bed. “You humans and your semantics.” As he continues to mumble under his breath he starts to dig around in the attached closet. He tosses his usual boots to the middle of the room, and a jacket onto the end of the bed.
Dib watches, unabashed, as Zim slips into the simple black coat and equally simple black boots. “Hey, Zim?”
Zim hums noncommittally as he looks himself over in the mirror.
“Are you gonna, uh. Keep posting pictures?” Dib looks away right as Zim finally looks at him.
“Would it bother you, Dib-thing?”
Dib’s throat seems to close up in protest. “Not exactly?”
Zim’s got a haunting, predatory look in his gleaming red eyes again. “Ah,” he replies. The contemplative curl of his lips can’t mean anything good, except then he’s saying, “I could use a hand, someone to operate the camera perhaps?” and Dib definitely stops breathing.
“Sure.” He manages to choke it out along with a shameful blush painting his face.
“Good. GIR is too…” Zim waves a flippant hand. “Computer refuses to refrain from commenting.” Zim smirks again. “I’m sure you’ll be a much better cameraman.”
As Zim moves toward the door, Dib finally stands again and hurries after him. His head has cleared from the haze of kissing (mostly) and questions are springing to the forefront of his mind.
While Zim slips on his usual gloves, Dib asks “did you want me to find your blog?”
Zim’s gaze snaps to him, razor sharp. “Zim made it perfectly clear that was not the case.” He mumbles something to himself, Dib thinks it almost sounds like never supposed to find that picture, but he doesn’t dwell.
As they step over the threshold of the front door, Dib continues. “Yeah, but. That’s cuz then I’d know you stole my shirt. Aside from that—?”
The flush returns to Zim’s skin, and it’s then that Dib makes a silent resolution to make him color like that as often as possible.
“Of course,” Zim says defiantly. “It isn’t as though Zim has anything to be ashamed of. My photos are excellent.”
As Dib calculates the risk of having his arm ripped off if he tries to hold Zim’s hand, Dib also says “yeah, but, you kinda wanted me to find your blog, right? Cuz somehow that’s easier than just coming out and saying ‘hey, Dib, let’s date!’”
Zim scowls. “There was never such an intent. I simply enjoy posting the pictures—for myself. You finding the blog is just a…” Zim shrugs. “A not-unwelcome outcome.”
“You sure know how to make a guy feel special,” Dib says with a laugh. When Zim’s scowl rounds on him, he takes the chance. He links his hand with Zim’s and the air around them stills.
Zim looks down at their hands and stops walking. He squeezes, as though experimenting. Whatever answer he was searching for, he finds it. He nods to himself, then at Dib, and then starts to walk again.
“All I’m saying,” Dib continues a couple minutes later as they reach the nearly derelict mall in town. “You could’ve just said something.”
“Does it matter?” Zim asks.
Dib’s the one who stops walking this time; he tugs them out of the way of the mall doors and off to the side, so they aren’t blocking the minimal crowds. “Not really,” he concedes. “But we could’ve been doing this for a lot longer, if you had.” Dib leans in and kisses Zim. He’s gratified when the alien tilts his head back to meet him part way.
With another hum, Zim murmurs against Dib’s lips. “You could have said something, you know.”
Dib knows his cheeks are pink again, albeit not as bad as before. “I mean, yeah.”
Satisfied, Zim nods again. “Let’s go. Zim is hungry. You’re buying.”
Dib doesn’t bother opening his mouth to argue. Zim’s grip is tight around his hand as he tugs Dib along to the food court. There’s a persistent uptick to the corners of Zim’s lips that’s contagious, and Dib spares a moment to wonder how ridiculous they look. It’s not all that surprising when Gaz walks by, seemingly entrenched in her game, and announces—
“Gross.”