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"You seem happier these days," Myra says.
Her voice is soft and worn thin by the past couple of months spent in bed, yet still laced with that same familiar warmth—the one that used to sing lullabies to Chase into the dark, and the one that still wraps around him like a blanket in the depths of winter.
She sits propped up against the pillows, skin pale and etched with lines of fatigue, her eyes dulled by the quiet battle she’s fighting on the inside.
Chase blinks, caught off guard. "I do?"
He leans in, lifting a small mug of tea to her lips with careful hands.
"Mm," she hums in confirmation into the rim of the mug as she takes a slow sip.
Gently, Chase sets the mug back on the nightstand, the surface scattered with a Kindle, a pair of reading glasses, and a small vase of wilted wildflowers.
"You’ve got a sparkle in your eyes," she observes, lips curling into a weak little smile as Chase helps ease her back into the nest of soft pillows. "I can see it."
He grins, reaching forward and wiping away a stray droplet of tea clinging to the corner of her mouth. "Guess my adorable star quality is just getting harder to hide."
Myra chuckles. "No, no. It’s more than that."
"More than my star quality?" Chase wiggles his brows playfully. "Impossible, Mom."
She hums softly, watching him silently for a moment—gaze clouded in thought.
"Every time I think you couldn’t possibly be more like him…" she murmurs, almost to herself.
Chase’s brow twitches into a tiny frown, curiosity working its way into his smile. "Like who?"
"Your dad," she clarifies, her voice a little stronger this time. "I’ve seen the exact same look in his eyes before. Many years ago."
Chase’s smile wavers—partly from confusion, partly weighted down by that familiar blue ache in his chest that always seems to come whenever his dad is mentioned.
"I saw it throughout our marriage, of course," Myra continues. "But this specific light in your eyes… It’s just like the one your dad had when we first fell in love. That bright, excited sparkle."
"What are you talking about?" Chase asks amusedly.
Myra’s smile deepens, morphing into something more teasing. "Are you in love, Charlie?"
Chase splutters. "Mom."
"Sorry, sorry," Myra chuckles. "Chase. Are you in love, Chase?"
"No, that’s not what I was—" He cuts himself off with a half-hearted huff, pale pink dusting his cheeks. "Just—Here. Drink your tea."
He moves to bring the warm mug to her lips, but she quickly stops him—fingers lightly brushing his wrists and lowering his arms with a sly, knowing smile.
"I’ll take that as a firm yes."
Chase shakes his head, laughing despite himself. "Wh—I didn’t say that!"
"Well?" she presses. "What’s her name?"
Chase lifts a silent, judging brow as he drops the mug to his lap.
"I’m kidding." She giggles quietly, a glint of mischief in her expression as Chase rolls his eyes. "What’s his name?"
"His name is Chase Hollow Like and Follow, and he’s a Grammy-winning superstar," he quips. "That’s the only man I’ve got my eye on. And I will get him."
Myra merely regards him with a long, funny look. "If you say so."
"I do say so."
"There’s nothing to be embarrassed about, Chase," she says with a shrug. "Love isn’t embarrassing."
"I’m not embarrassed," he insists. "I don’t get embarrassed."
"Oh, really?" Her eyes narrow with mock skepticism. "Since when? Yesterday?"
"What are you talking about? When have I ever been embarrassed?"
"Mm, I don’t know—maybe that Fourth of July at the old lake house, when you tried to do a backflip off the dock, missed the water completely, and smacked your back on the boards?"
Chase grumbles, arms folding across his chest as he slumps stubbornly back in his seat beside the bed. "I wasn’t embarrassed. I meant to do that. I was creating a distraction so Deacon could sneak off from Aunt Beth to flirt with that neighbor girl."
Myra arches a brow. "Did he?"
"...No," Chase mumbles. "Turns out he just wanted to sneak off to read a stupid book. Tsk—should’ve known. No way would Deacon make a move on a girl first."
"Alright, you don’t get embarrassed," Myra says. "So why are you getting embarrassed now?"
"I’m not," he maintains firmly, the words leaving his lips perhaps a tad bit too fast.
Myra doesn’t press—just flashes him that knowing little smile only a mother can wield. "Denying the embarrassment," she sings teasingly, "but not denying being in love…"
"Mom." He draws the word out in a low groan, slouching further into the chair.
"Alright, alright," Myra laughs before softening her voice. "All I’ll say is this—"
Another dramatic groan from Chase.
"—I know you have a good heart, Chase," she continues anyway, fingers absently brushing the edge of the bedsheets. "And I’m sure… whoever it is, they must have one, too. And I’m happy they’re making you happy."
Her gaze lingers on him for a moment longer. "So, if they ever end up at the door one day… I’d be happy to say hi. That’s all."
Chase swallows.
He looks down at his hands, wringing them together nervously. "I—" he starts, then stops, unsure if the words are ready to leave.
Myra waits patiently, her loving stare holding him in silence. After a second, she slowly reaches out, palm turning upward—still, open, inviting.
Chase’s eyes shift to her hand, and when his fingers close around hers, the coolness of her skin is a quiet weight, and a soft reminder of how fragile she is—of how fragile this moment is.
How fragile time is.
He finally looks up, meeting her eyes with a slow, tentative smile.
"Thanks, Mom."
✩ ₊ ˚.⋆ ☾ ⋆⁺ ₊ ✩
Chase knows he’ll save her. There’s no doubt in his mind.
He will get that wish, and he will cure her.
Still—the thought of not managing to do so often permeates Chase’s consciousness. Running out of time, letting her slip out of existence and having absolutely nothing left but a useless half empty jar of narratonin.
Doing all of this for nothing.
Now, a few days have passed since his last visit with his mom, and he sits on the edge of his bed, moonlight washing his silent room a cool silver, a new thought plagues his mind.
He’d never thought about Buddy meeting his mom before. He’d never pictured them in the same frame, breathing the same air, sharing the same space.
To Chase, Buddy and Myra have always existed in two separate planes—the magical storybook world, and the real world.
Listening to his mom talk about Buddy today—even if she hadn’t known who she was talking about—has left something stirring in Chase.
It started small.
Just the passing thought of what it would be like if Buddy got to somehow meet her. If she could see him the way Chase sees him—smart, teasing, always just a little too snarky for his own good, caring beneath it all.
The thought doesn’t stop there. No—It spreads, consumes him whole before taking the form of something else entirely.
Now he’s imagining Buddy not just in the same room as his mom, but in the same world as her. In the real world. Not in the fantasy kingdom of whatever story Deacon picks out for them—but here, with him.
It’s not long before Buddy has managed to worm his way into all of Chase’s thoughts. He can’t do a single normal, mundane thing without cerulean eyes flashing across his mind.
He’s lounging on the sofa in a hoodie and sweatpants, and he imagines Buddy doing the same thing.
He burns a slice of toast in the kitchen, and he imagines Buddy doing the same thing.
Buddy kicking off his shoes at the door after a long day.
Buddy leaving his wet towel on the floor.
Buddy walking to the shop to get bread.
Buddy filling up the gas tank.
Buddy feeding a cat.
Buddy stuck in traffic.
Buddy scrolling through his phone.
Buddy laughing at a stupid meme.
Buddy living.
Buddy being human, doing normal, human things.
To Chase, he has only ever existed inside the walls of a story—always in costume, always in character. He’s the girl with poison in her smile, the noblewoman with a dagger under her gown, the villainess in silk and spite. Chase knows those versions of him by heart.
But that’s not to say he doesn’t know the boy behind it all.
He does know him, he’s sure of it. He knows his sharp wit, his quiet sensitivity, his relentless refusal to reveal even a scrap of himself beyond the lines of whatever narrative they find themselves inside.
He still wonders—still thinks about knowing more of him.
He wonders what Buddy was like as a kid. Was he shy? The quiet one in class who always knew the answer but never raised his hand? Would they have been friends? Would they have even looked each other’s way? Would they have sat together on the bus? Would he have let Chase copy off his spelling test?
Would Chase have fallen in love with him just the same?
He doesn’t know, and he’ll probably never know. Buddy keeps his real life locked behind a thousand unspoken rules. But Chase can’t help wanting it anyway—that other life, the one where they’re just two boys who happen to meet, without a plot to follow and a secret magical cult to keep an eye out for.
Not as a heroine and a villainess. Not as two girls in a fictional world. Not as anything but themselves.
Just them.
He’d seen his friends today—Simon, Ross, and Danielle.
Danielle had shared the news over coffee, her voice light and brimming when she announced, "I have a girlfriend."
And just like that, the table positively came alive with laughter and teasing and a flurry of incessantly personal questions. Chase had grabbed her arm, eyes alight when he demanded, "Show me a picture of her, now."
She had, with no hesitation. And she’d beamed as she talked about her, this girl who made her so happy. This girl who clearly meant a lot to her.
Chase had been happy for her—truly. Why wouldn’t he be?
Still, he couldn’t help the sour feeling that had swirled to life in the pit of his stomach. Because he knew that feeling too. That unbearable fondness for someone who’d wormed his way into every corner of his heart.
He wanted to talk about Buddy like that to them. He wanted to share him with them—because Buddy is something precious and real inside him, and the weight of carrying it alone was beginning to bruise.
But he couldn’t. He can’t.
He can’t so much as speak Buddy’s name to them, because he doesn’t even know that much.
Chase exhales, shoulders aching as warm breath spills from his nostrils.
He misses him.
Maybe that’s not quite the right word—because how can he miss someone he’s never truly met? He doesn’t know.
Still, he misses him. He misses him like silence missing a voice.
Chase stares at the moonlight stretching across the floorboards, pale and sharp, lidded eyes trailing after the silver streak where it climbs the ladder to the tower room like it’s guiding the way.
Slowly, he rises.
✩ ₊ ˚.⋆ ☾ ⋆⁺ ₊ ✩
Chase grabs the first book his eyes land on and flips it open, thumbing through the pages with urgency thrumming in his chest. He skims the book for about three minutes until something around the middle catches his eye: a scene between the princess and the evil queen.
Perfect.
He slides a bookmark between the pages and snaps the book shut.
When he's whisked away into the pages, the princess’s bedroom is lush and over-decorated, all soft, creamy pinks and heavy velvet curtains. Moonlight, brighter and a little more exaggerated than the one at home, spills across the polished floor. Chase barely has time to take his surroundings in before—
Knock knock.
He jumps.
He crosses the room and opens it, expecting to find Buddy, maybe with a half-grin and a sarcastic remark about the book choice. Instead, the evil queen stands in the doorway, tall and domineering, her eyes sharp like cut glass.
Then, in a blink of violent light, she vanishes.
Chase squeezes his eyes shut, flinching away momentarily before looking back.
In her place stands someone else.
Buddy.
Chase’s breath catches. He always forgets how stupidly beautiful he is up close.
Tall, elegant, impossible to overlook. Alabaster skin almost ethereal in the moonlight, those piercing blue eyes that seem to glow in the dark. He’s dressed in Violet’s usual effortless glamour: black slacks and a sheer black blouse, laced at the collar and cuffs with deep purple ribbon—regal and minimal.
"Chase?" His voice is soft—his name rolling off his cherry flavoured tongue like a melody. It pulls Chase back into himself.
"Hi," Chase answers quietly.
Buddy glances over his head at the ornate room, brows pinching together in slight confusion. "What did I say about bookmarks?" His gaze sharpens on Chase, tone dripping with mild irritation. "It’s cheating. Why are we already in the middle of the story?"
"I—"
Buddy brushes past him, stepping into the room like he owns it, and his presence is immediate—so impossible to ignore. "Nevermind. Better question: why are we in a book at all? Do you have any idea what time it is?"
Chase closes the door behind him with a quiet click, turning to follow him instinctively. "It’s not that late."
Buddy glances at him over his shoulder, eyes raking over Chase in the kind of slow, deliberate way that makes his heart rate increase. "You look like you just rolled out of bed."
Chase glances down. He had just rolled out of bed—he’s still in his pajamas. Plaid cotton pants and an oversized shirt faded from too many washes. He doesn’t want to know what his hair might look like right now, but it must not look too bad considering Buddy hasn’t made fun of it yet.
"I’m assuming those are your own clothes," Buddy drawls. "I refuse to believe your key dressed you like that."
A tiny, amused exhale leaves Chase’s nostrils. "I told her not to bother," he murmurs.
Buddy raises a perfectly arched brow. "And why not?"
He hesitates, fingers digging into his arm. "Just… not here for the narratonin."
The corner of Buddy’s mouth curls. "Considering how terrible you are at collecting it, I don’t think you ever are."
Chase rolls his eyes, but there’s no real heat behind it. "Ha ha."
Buddy’s gaze lingers on him for a moment, uncertain.
"Do you want me to leave?" he asks suddenly.
"What?" Chase’s face twists as if offended he’d even ask that. "Why would I want you to leave?"
"You said you’re not here for the narratonin," Buddy says slowly. "Am I… interrupting something?"
"No." Chase shakes his head a little too vigorously. "No, I’m here for you."
The words come out way too fast—too blunt, too forward. He didn’t mean to sound so desperate.
Buddy blinks, visibly taken aback. "Oh."
"...Yep."
"Um." Buddy shifts his weight from one foot to the other, shoe scuffing against the carpet. "Okay. Alright."
Chase watches him, quiet, almost amused as he slowly moves toward the bed. "Are you okay?"
"I’m fine," Buddy replies a little too quickly, watching carefully as Chase perches himself on the edge of the bed, mattress dipping slightly under his weight. "Why? Are you?"
Chase lifts one shoulder in a half-hearted shrug, trying to pass it off like it doesn’t matter. "Meh. Been better."
Buddy’s teasing disappears like smoke in the wind. His shoulders lower—not slouched, but softer, like a weight’s been gently placed upon him.
He walks over wordlessly, and sits beside Chase, mirroring his posture. Not too close, but certainly not too far. The bed shifts deeper beneath them, and their arms brush—just barely.
"What’s wrong?" Buddy asks, quieter now, palms splaying across his thighs as if grounding himself.
The world is still for a moment, and Buddy wonders if Chase maybe didn’t hear him, somehow.
Until—
"I…" Chase exhales shakily. "I don’t know."
"That’s… quite vague," Buddy says gently.
"I know," Chase responds. "Sorry."
"Don’t—" Buddy cuts himself off, the word sharper than he meant. He drops his gaze, swallows, then tries again, quieter. "Don’t apologise." He pauses before adding, "Idiot."
That earns the faintest laugh—just a puff of breath, a twitch of Chase’s mouth, there and gone.
"I miss you," he says.
The words fall like a stone into still water, sending ripples through Buddy’s heart. His jaw tightens, eyes growing impossibly softer.
"I’m right here," he whispers, and if Violet were here, she’d be disgusted at the blatantly tender lilt in his tone.
But Chase only shakes his head. "No," he says quietly. "You’re not."
Buddy’s brows knit together. "What are you talking about?"
"You’re not really here," Chase insists, still not looking at him. "Are you?"
Buddy blinks. He doesn’t understand.
He gestures loosely to himself, a little helplessly. "I’m sitting right in front of you."
"Mm." Chase’s tone is flat—tired. "Only kind of."
Buddy twists his body toward him fully now, frown etched onto his face. His eyes scan Chase’s face like he’s trying to decipher a riddle. "What does that mean?"
Chase is quiet for a moment, tracing his thumb along the seam of his pants.
"It means," he says slowly, "I feel like I don’t really know you."
The words land with the weight of something held in for a while, and Buddy doesn’t answer right away. His mouth opens slightly, then closes again. Somewhere outside, an owl hoots distantly.
"You don’t know me," Buddy says at last, voice a low rumble.
Chase looks up at him, brows twitching. He'd kind of been expecting him to spew out some sort of a denial—an obvious lie spoken in an attempt to reassure him like, "You know me better than anyone."
"I know," Chase mumbles, glancing away. "That’s the problem."
Buddy’s hands tighten together in his lap, digits squeezing nervously against each other. He clears his throat.
"The problem," he starts quietly, "is that you want to know me. At all."
Chase looks up again, and for a second he says nothing. He watches Buddy with an unreadable expression, like he’s weighing something behind his eyes. Then, with an intake of breath—
"Are we friends?"
Buddy freezes, staring into his eyes like he might find something there.
"...Friends?" he repeats, strained.
"Yes. Friends." Chase nods. "Do you think of me as your friend?"
Buddy blinks twice, blue still searching brown.
Chase wets his lips. "Because I—I do. I think you’re my friend."
Silence stretches between them. Buddy’s gaze never wavers, not even for a second, but something shifts behind it, something decisive. Then, he laughs—a soft, disbelieving sound, more amused than mocking.
"No, Chase," he answers.
Chase blinks in genuine offense, stunned. "What?"
"We are not friends."
"Wha—Why not?!"
Buddy huffs, almost laughing again, incredulous. "Because I’ve had my tongue in your mouth multiple times?"
Chase stares, hurt fading from his face, replaced with something else, followed by his face flushing bright red.
"I don’t want to just be your friend," Buddy adds when Chase’s flustered silence drags.
Chase clears his throat. "Well, that’s—I didn’t mean it like that."
Buddy cocks his head to the side. "Like what?"
"I didn’t mean ‘friends’ as in just friends," Chase says quickly. "You can still be friends with someone you’re… uh… with. It’s probably better that you are. Why would you want to go out with someone you’re not friends with?"
Buddy raises an eyebrow. "I didn’t know we were ‘going out.’"
"We’re not," Chase fumbles, voice edged with panic, eyes wide. "I mean—unless you…? No. No, not the time. This is so not what I came here for. Shut up. Stop distracting me."
"Right," Buddy says with a wry grin. "You’re here to complain at me about how I don’t tell you anything about me or my life."
Chase huffs. "It’s not complaining, it’s venting."
Buddy’s grin fades, softens into something smaller, something wistful. His eyes drop for a moment, fingers fidgeting in his lap.
"You know it’s not that I don’t want to," he says, quietly cautious now.
Chase mirrors his expression—solemn and understanding in equal parts. "I know."
"I just…" Buddy swallows. "Can’t. Right now."
"I know," Chase repeats.
A pause unfolds between them—long, quiet, but not uncomfortable.
"You’re upset with me," Buddy murmurs without looking at him.
"I’m not upset with you, " Chase corrects. "I’m upset at the situation."
Buddy nods once, mouth tightening into a grimace. "Me too."
Another pause.
When Chase speaks again, his voice is cautious. "Do you think if we’d… met under different circumstances, we’d be friends?"
Buddy stiffens immediately—shoulders tensing involuntarily, like the words hit somewhere he didn’t expect. And weirdly, it looks like he’s the one bracing for impact. Like he’s the one who asked the question and is now steeling himself for the letdown.
"Um." He pauses, chewing on the inside of his cheek, eyes flickering sideways before settling back on his hands. "I… don’t know. It depends."
"Depends on what?" Chase presses gently, leaning in a bit, trying to read him.
Buddy’s glance shifts sideways again, distracted. "What… circumstances?"
Chase shrugs, the motion casual but with a slight edge of vulnerability. "I don’t know. Normal ones." The words leave light, almost wistful. "In high school or something."
Buddy lets out a breath—soft, almost a scoff, but lacking humour. "I don’t think so."
Chase snorts, a quick, amused burst, like this is the dumbest thing he’s heard all night. "What? You don’t think you’d like me?"
Buddy shakes his head slowly, deliberately. "I don’t think you would’ve liked me."
Chase scrunches his face like he’s trying to process nonsense. Then a grin tugs at the corner of his mouth, lighting up his eyes just a bit.
"‘Course I would’ve." He sounds playful, but there’s an edge of pride too. "I was really nice to the emos at school, I’ll have you know. They actually liked me. And they hated everyone, so that’s a pretty big accomplishment."
"Wow," Buddy replies, flat and deadpan, eyes rolling.
"‘Wow’ is right." Chase nudges Buddy’s knee with his own, smiling mischievously. "Do you know how hard it is to get a group of angsty sixteen-year-old emos to like the cool, hot, popular jock?"
Buddy raises an eyebrow, skeptical but amused. "You were not a jock."
"Excuse me," Chase says, mock indignation dripping from every word. "I did track and I was on the wrestling team. I so was."
"Ah. Of course," Buddy replies dryly. "How could I forget all the many times you’ve tackled me to the ground?"
"That was ages ago," Chase scoffs. "And you deserved it every time."
"Mm," Buddy hums, lips twitching, not arguing.
Chase nudges him lightly with his shoulder, playful, and lets the silence stretch for a beat. It’s not uncomfortable. Not with Buddy. There’s something strangely easy about the quiet that hangs between them—even when it’s heavy. Maybe because it’s heavy.
"I think I would’ve liked being normal with you," Chase says suddenly.
Buddy’s breath catches in his throat. Chase notices right away.
"I mean, like—" Chase stumbles over the words, fingers twisting the fabric of his pajama pants, "—like, if we were just two guys who sat next to each other in class or something. And I passed you dumb notes. And we skipped classes and hid under the bleachers. You’d probably pretend to hate it, but you wouldn’t really."
Buddy exhales slowly, but says nothing. He just listens.
"You’d be the weird kid who reads books under a tree at lunch," Chase continues, smiling to himself.
Buddy snorts softly. "Please. I would never sit in the grass like some kind of woodland creature."
Chase laughs, bright and sudden. "Right. Sorry. Lemme rewind—You’d be in the library, obviously, and I’d walk by every day pretending not to notice you."
Buddy hums, amused, and also admittedly a little invested in this made-up scenario. "And then?"
"And then one day I’d come in all like, ‘Hiii, Buddy, can you help me with my homework?’ and you’d roll your eyes at me and be like, ‘No, go away, you’re an idiot and you’re wasting my time.’"
Buddy smirks faintly, the image playing easily in his mind. "That does sound like me."
Chase glances sideways at him, eyes warm. "You’d help me anyway, though. You’d give in to my charms."
"Naturally."
Chase looks down at his lap while Buddy eyes him silently, smirk faltering at the edges, eyes dipping away from him for the first time in a while. He fiddles with the edge of his sleeve, thumb worrying a loose thread like it might unravel him if he lets it.
"I really don’t think I would’ve been very nice to you in high school," he admits quietly.
Chase snorts softly. "I know, Buddy. You’re hardly nice to me now. I can only imagine how mean adolescent Buddy probably was."
That earns him a faint huff of a laugh, but it doesn’t quite reach Buddy’s eyes. He exhales through his nose, shoulders rising like he’s drawing in a shield and then lowering it just as quickly.
Chase watches him for a beat, then shifts closer—not enough to invade, just enough to bridge the final gap of space between them. He takes Buddy’s hand, and begins to trace slow, mindless circles into the skin of his palm.
"Still," he murmurs, "I would’ve liked to know you. Without all of… this."
He gestures vaguely around them, to the fake bed, the fake moon outside, the stained-glass windows that don’t belong in the world they came from—the world that they don’t belong to. Nothing here is theirs; nothing except for each other.
Buddy doesn’t move for a long moment. His expression doesn’t change, but his fingers close around Chase’s.
"You wouldn’t have liked me," he repeats.
Chase looks at him, his brows pulling together. "I do like you," he states simply. "I like you now."
I love you, is what he really wants to say. But something stops him—perhaps the seemingly unattainable possibility of having the chance to tell him in real life, in the real world. To the real him.
Buddy doesn’t look away, doesn’t dismiss it with some snarky, clever line. Instead, he just says, quiet but firm, "You don’t have to say that."
Chase frowns. "I’m not saying it because I have to."
Buddy breathes in through his nose, slow and steady, eyes drifting down to Chase’s lips, then away again.
"I know," he murmurs, tone almost playful, but with a fragile kind of affection threaded through it. "I like you, too."
Chase responds with a crooked smile, cheeks warm. "I know."
"Good," he replies gruffly. "Don’t make me say it again."
Chase laughs. "Why not? Are you embarrassed?"
Buddy rolls his eyes, looking away.
Chase is still smiling when he adds, quieter and almost thoughtfully, "Love isn’t embarrassing."
Buddy whips his head to him, blinking. "Love?"
Chase’s eyes widen. "No, that’s—I wasn’t saying you’re—Someone said that to me recently, I was just—It popped into my head."
Buddy pauses, and for the briefest moment, his face falters. Not enough to be read, but enough to be felt.
Chase notices, tilting his head teasingly. "Why? You wanna confess something to me?"
Buddy scoffs, raspberry swirling across the sharp edges of his cheekbones. "I want you to shut up."
"So you do," Chase teases, giggling as he pokes him gently in the forearm.
Buddy doesn’t confirm or deny. He just watches him sideways, a tiny smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.
They fall into sweet, comfortable silence again. Chase’s knee brushes Buddy’s again, lightly this time, more conscious.
"Do you ever think about it?" Chase asks again, voice low. "If we had… like, normal lives?"
Buddy hesitates, gaze dropping to their joint hands in his lap. He runs his thumb in a slow circle over Chase’s knuckles.
"I’ve… imagined it," he admits, his voice timid, thoughtful. "Not very often. But sometimes."
"Yeah?" Chase leans in slightly, listening intently.
Buddy nods once, eyes flicking nervously away, landing on nothing in particular. He swallows a lump in his throat.
"Do you—" he starts, "do you remember that book we did a while ago? The one where we were roommates."
Chase nods, urging him to continue.
"The scene where we had to watch a movie together except the movie was really weird and made no sense, because the author clearly didn’t pick a real one—or even a genre, really."
"You mean after the scene we escaped a haunted laundromat from the demonic owner?" He wrinkles his nose. "Yeah, I remember. That movie was weird."
"...I think the book in general was. I don’t know where you found that one," Buddy mutters. "Anyway—I suppose I did find myself wondering what it would be like if we did something… normal like that, as you put it."
A slow, beautiful smile eases its way across Chase’s face as something terribly soft blooms in his chest. "You’ve thought about watching a movie with me?"
Buddy huffs.
Chase’s grin deepens. "I’d make us popcorn."
"You’d burn it," Buddy hums, quiet but certain, as if he’s thought about it before.
"And then?" Chase presses, hand sliding up to wrap around his arm like a kid begging for the next part of a bedtime story.
Buddy’s eyes soften. His lips twitch—not quite a smile, something else small, careful and meant just for Chase and Chase alone. Like he’s describing this fantasy for Chase’s sake, painting a picture, laying it out piece by piece, because he knows it’s what he wants to hear.
Buddy doesn’t mind playing along, though, really. He supposes it is nice to think about.
"And then we’d fall asleep," he continues. "With your feet digging into my ribs. Because you probably kick in your sleep, and you’re absolutely the kind of person who hogs the blanket."
Chase lets out a small, breathless laugh, eyes shining with hope. "That sounds nice," he whispers.
"It’s not," Buddy says gently. Not to dismiss it—just to keep it from meaning too much. Not because he doesn’t want it to, but because he doesn’t want Chase to believe it’s something he can have. Not yet.
Chase shifts in closer, until he’s fully pressed against Buddy’s side, arms wrapped around his bicep like he’s claiming it. His slightly squished cheek rests on Buddy’s shoulder, eyes tilted up, sleepy and half-lidded—little golden flecks like stars swirling around his irises, expectant, and completely unfair.
Buddy gazes down at him, dizzy all of a sudden. He can feel Chase’s breath against his neck like a tickling feather, can feel each and every point of contact like a lit match. It’s almost maddening how warm this boy is, how easily he fits in his side, slotted there like he belongs. Like he’s always belonged. Like the other half of his soul, the piece he didn’t even realise was missing.
He swallows hard before finally giving in, dipping his head until their lips connect in a soft, inevitable kiss.
It deepens slowly, lips pressing together firmly. Chase’s fingers curl lightly in the fabric of Buddy’s shirt, pulling him closer with a soft exhale against his mouth. Buddy’s hand reaches up and finds Chase’s wrist—not to stop him, just to hold.
Without pulling away, without breaking the kiss, he shifts his weight just enough to press Chase gently but firmly back against the bed. It’s not really standing, not fully—more like a slow, deliberate movement that has Chase melting beneath him, pliant and soft as putty.
Buddy slides one hand up Chase’s shirt, hand wrapping around his waist and gently squeezing the warm, bare flesh there while his other hand curls around the back of his neck, tilting his head just so to deepen the kiss, to learn the shape of him even better. Chase’s lips part willingly, breath hot and inviting against Buddy’s mouth.
They pull apart just enough to catch their breath, shallow and mingling. Buddy’s gaze drifts absently down and catches a glimpse of tanned skin where Chase’s shirt has slipped just slightly off his shoulder, revealing the soft curve beneath.
A sudden, fierce burst of affection mixed with hunger ignites inside of him, and without thinking, he leans down and presses a slow, open-mouthed kiss to that exposed shoulder, teeth soft but insistent when he nibbles lightly—a gentle bite that causes a little gasp to slip from Chase’s tongue.
He trails wet, tender kisses upward—over the swell of Chase’s shoulder, along the smooth line of his neck, where his pulse races. His sharp jaw brushes against Chase’s in a feather-light touch before their lips find each other again.
Buddy’s fingers drift thoughtlessly along Chase’s waist beneath the soft fabric of his shirt, grazing warm, sun-kissed skin. Chase squirms in response, a breathy laugh bubbling up as it starts to tickle, and he pushes at Buddy’s chest in a half-hearted attempt to escape.
"Stop," he giggles, voice light and lying through his teeth—because the last thing Chase wants is for him to stop.
Buddy answers with two quick kisses to his lips, smirking into the contact. "Stop what?"
"You know what," Chase laughs again. "You’re tickling me."
Buddy’s other hand, the one that had been nestled in Chase’s hair, slides down to join the first—slipping easily beneath the loose shirt that still smells faintly of laundry detergent and something so wonderful and distinctly Chase.
He kisses him again, slower this time, but still smiling as Chase keeps laughing against his lips, his hands wrapping around Buddy’s wrists with absolutely no conviction. Buddy’s fingers continue their slow, teasing strokes across the sensitive skin below his navel, featherlight yet torturous.
"You—jerk!" Chase cackles, the words broken between their messy, breathless kisses.
Buddy chuckles low in his throat, finally stopping the playful torture and instead wrapping his hands firmly around Chase’s waist, holding him steady. The shift in touch makes Chase still almost right away, head falling back into the pillows, chest rising and falling in soft, quick breaths.
Buddy gazes down at him warmly, lips parted as he catches his breath. He leans down and kisses him one more time—hard, brief, and close-mouthed.
Chase’s hand finds the back of his neck, fingertips brushing along the soft hair there, while the other cups his cheek, thumb stroking gently across the pink tint of his cheekbone.
"I’m sorry," Buddy mumbles suddenly, reaching up to cover the hand on his face with his own. His fingers curl around Chase as he turns his head slightly, just enough to press a soft, lingering kiss to the inside of Chase’s palm. "I know it’s not enough. I know you want more."
Chase smiles, small and tinged with reverence. "It’s okay. ’S not your fault."
The muscles in Buddy’s face tighten as he looks away, just for a second, a flicker of guilt crossing his face.
"One day we’ll have all the normalcy I could ask for," Chase says softly.
"Mm." Buddy lets out a breath and lowers himself beside him, sinking into the mattress.
Chase shifts, rolling onto his side so he’s facing him, still close enough that their knees touch. "I’m serious."
Buddy hums. "I know you are."
"I wouldn’t ask you to promise me anything," Chase says, firmer now as he shuffles a little closer. "So I’m gonna promise you."
Buddy blinks.
"I promise you, we’ll get it one day," he continues. "And we won’t have to talk about it like it’s something that could’ve been."
Buddy doesn’t say anything for a minute, just holds Chase’s unwavering, doubtless gaze. Then, a small, tired smile curves his lips—strained, but real despite it all.
"Yeah," he breathes, as Chase nestles into the crook of his neck.
Buddy wraps his arms around him, pulling him close, resting his chin against the top of Chase’s head. Moonlight pools around them, catching in the golden strands of Chase’s hair as Buddy threads his fingers through them, slow and absent.
Outside the window, the moon itself hangs low and heavy in the sky—large and cartoonishly bright. Buddy’s eyes lock onto it. He stares hard, long enough to make himself believe it’s real.
"One day," he whispers.