Chapter Text
The camera opened on familiar chaos—wide-angle lens angled slightly off-center, catching the four red couch chairs shoved around a low black table that had seen much better nights. The table was already cluttered with energy drink cans, crumpled napkins, a precariously full bottle of vodka, and a deck of cards someone had tossed haphazardly into the middle like forgotten props.
Someone—Ie, probably Deny—had decorated the background with string lights that stubbornly refused to stay straight. They blinked uneven across the wall, half cheerful, half deranged horror movie. The caption in bold white block letters blared across the screen:
“Who’s the Imposter? (You Lose, You Drink) 🍻”
“Okay, okay—ground rules, pay attention,” Deny announced immediately, leaning toward the camera with the energy of a late-night talk show host despite being the only semi-sober one of the group. His cap cast familiar shade over his brow. “Channel favorite. We’re doing imposter guessing. One liar, three guessers. If we vote wrong? We drink. Imposter caught? Imposter drinks. Losing side doubles it. See short ‘n sweet. ”
George made a face like this was complicated math. “So basically… drink?”
“Exactly,” Deny said flatly. “Drink.”
The chat spam in the corner rolled fast—little hearts, skull emojis, someone typing “George first out lmao.”
George tipped his head back like he’d read that one specifically. “Hey! Show some faith in me, man. I—” He cracked the can in his hand and immediately spilled foam down his sleeve. “...I’m winning this.”
Classy, perched in the far right seat like he’d rather be anywhere else but still showed up, leaned one elbow across the armrest, expression unimpressed. “Can’t wait to watch this man lie through his teeth about being the imposter.”
“Excuse me, I’m a fantastic liar,” George said.
“You say that with the exact tone of someone not fantastic at all,” Classy deadpanned.
Round One: George’s Fall
The first card draw was quick. Cards flipped. Classy raised brows at his. George immediately snorted at his own, high and nervous.
“Oh my god,” Deny groaned, pointing immediately. “It’s him. It’s George. Don’t even need to play.”
“N-no…” George waved dramatically. “You’re profiling! You can’t—you can’t just—”
“Profiling? It’s been thirty seconds and you’re sweating.”
George tugged his blanket up higher as if that would cure the flush sneaking across his face. “It’s warm in here.”
“You literally just opened a cider,” Froste said, grin spreading. “You’re cooked already.”
Gameplay devolved in seconds. George fumbled excuses, squeaked denials, tried weakly to accuse Classy who only raised a brow and said nothing. Deny took one slow sip of water like a man sitting through peak comedy.
By the time votes got held up, the result was undeniable. Three votes for George. Zero arguments strong enough to defend him.
“Crew wins,” Deny announced. “George—down the hatch.”
“Wait—I can’t even—are you supposed to chug?”
“Chug,” Froste chanted gleefully. Chat echoed instantly with “CHUG CHUG CHUG” in a tidal wave of text.
George tried valiantly. He got two-thirds through before spluttering, eyes watering. “This is fixed. Rigged. Discrimination.”
“Nap cozy?” Froste teased, poking him in the arm.
George leaned back heavily, blanket cocooned. “This is good… real cozy. Like a nap.”
Not ten minutes into the video, George was listing sideways with heavy eyelids, muttering sleepily about pizza with chocolate crust. His round two suspicion lasted all of one hiccupped denial before he mumbled into the mic, “Pepperoni… marshmallow… ohh nap pizza…” and slipped into snores.
Round Two: Froste Takes Center Stage
Deny turned to camera deadpan. “One out after one cider and a half. Peak content, George.”
The other two still awake didn’t fare much better for professionalism.
Froste cheered like a man thriving, cracking the bottle, pouring too generous for the next setup. “Alright—training wheels are OFF,” he declared, slamming his drink down.
His first card draw went smooth—too smooth. He exaggerated disinterest, leaned one elbow casually on the couch, raised his brows so high it was practically cartoonish.
Classy narrowed his gaze instantly. “It’s him.”
“No, no no no no,” Froste laughed, hands wide. “No, look at this face. This is the face of innocence.”
“Exactly,” Classy said dryly. “You’re over-selling it.”
Deny leaned back, sipping water, already hiding his grin. “He’s cooked. I vote Froste.”
“Y’all are sheep,” Froste insisted, pointing at them with mock indignation. “Sheep! Following the loudest voice—”
“Okay, imposter.”
Votes tallied. Imposter revealed. Froste.
Chat absolutely exploded. LMAOs, 👀 emojis, cheering hearts.
“Down it,” Deny said, smug.
Froste did not hesitate. He poured the shot, knocked it back one-handed, slammed the cup, wiped his mouth with his sleeve, and grinned.
“Again.”
The next round spiraled quicker. Froste lost again, doubled down again. By the third round in a row where his card betrayed him, his laugh was half stutter, half shout.
“I swear I’m not—! You all suck. Suck! Alright—fine.” He slammed another shot, already flushed red.
“Not the only thing that sucks—”
By now Froste’s logic was gone. He forgot the rules mid-round and accused George—still audibly snoring. Then, squinting suspiciously, he accused the camera.
“No because listen—LISTEN—it’s not me, you degenerates. It’s probably the tripod. LOOK at it. Shifty little bastard.”
Deny leaned back, wheezing into his sleeve. “Bro. You’re cooked. Tripod imposter, huh? Peak braincells.”
Classy had his face buried into his palm, dragging down his skin until his expression reappeared flat as stone. He adjusted Froste upright on instinct when he slumped forward, hand pressing along his side to keep him steady.
“You’re lucky you’re pretty or we’d have left you on the floor already,” Classy muttered low, mostly shaded off-mic.
Froste’s head snapped up—or as much as it could, loose on his neck. His grin sharpened instantly. “Ex-cuse me? Did Daddy Classy just call me pretty?”
The camera caught the exact second Classy realized he’d said it out loud. His ears burned a sharp pink, mouth pressing thin. He reached for his bottle purely to buy a second.
“Don’t start.”
“Ohhh noooo,” Froste crooned, voice slurred but alive with smugness. He clutched shamelessly at Classy’s arm, leaning in closer. “Don’t think you get to toss out pretty boy and then just sip like nothing happened. That’s a confession, guys. Clip it. CLIP. IT.”
Chat spammed instantly, hearts and 👀 flooding the side-scroll. Deny dissolved faster, cackling into his mic. “I KNEW IT—CLASSY SLIPPED—mark the timestamp, boys!”
Froste wiggled even closer, weight half in Classy’s lap, grin wolfish. “So what is it then, huh? You into the content face?” He tapped his own cheek twice, exaggerating. “Can’t stop staring? You like pretty boys taking shots in your lap?”
“That’s not what I—”
“Didn’t stop you from starin’ though, huh, Classy?” Froste cut him off with a giggle that curved halfway filthy, despite how washed-out drunk he was.
Rounds couldn’t be wrangled anymore. George was full-sacked into his cocoon, out. Deny was half-crying from laughter. Classy was still upright but rattled. And Froste—Froste was leaning heavier, slipping further down until his cheek pressed against Classy’s shoulder, grin messy, eyes half-closed.
And that was when the words dipped quieter. Not shouted. Not played for laughs.
“You’re actually cute yourself, y’know?” Froste slurred, voice messy but softened. “Like… the way you take care of us. I like it. Like you.”
For a second, Classy didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. Controller slipped soundless from his lap onto the rug.
Deny caught the moment instantly, gasped so hard it turned into hysterical wheezing. “No. NO. We are not—are you seeing this? Chat? No way—”
Froste half-smiled against Classy’s arm. “Not live. Jus’ you. Don’t tell.”
The camera caught only the surface—Classy smoothing his face clean, pushing a mask of irritation over heat rising sharp to his ears.
By round five, Froste had abandoned any semblance of strategy. He accused ghosts, the deck of cards, the empty soda can Deny flicked at him. He was laughing so hard he nearly rolled off the couch before Classy caught him by the back of his hoodie to prop him upright again.
And maybe that’s why the slip happened.
“You're too cocky for your own self, Frost.”
The room stilled for two beats.
Then Froste’s grin bloomed slow, hungry. He leaned in, eyes half-lidded but sparkling evil. “Ohhh? Did Classify just call say that?”
Deny exploded—choking, coughing, slapping his knee. “NO WAY. Oh my god, he DID. Chat, HE FUCKING DID.”
Chat went feral, exploding in rows of caps:
“CLASSY SAID WHAT NOW” “CLIP CLIP CLIP” “I KNEW IT OMFG.”
Classy’s jaw jerked tight, ears detonating red. “I didn’t even say anythin—shut up. Drink your shot.”
Froste latched on like a dog with a bone. “Nahhh, nah nah nah—you don’t just THROW that word out like a treat. Repeat it. Say it again. ‘Froste’s cocky.’ C’mon, give the people what they want and I'll show you how cocky I can get.”
Classy gave him a shove off his shoulder. “You’re drunk.”
“And you’re into drunk pretty boys, apparently.” Froste’s grin tipped filthy, even through the slur. “What’s next, huh? Gunna tell me I look good bent over this table during round six?”
Deny screamed, rolling half off his couch with laughter. “BRO—WE’RE STILL FUCKING RECORDING.”
George snored softly in the background, oblivious.
Froste, emboldened, leaned back in against Classy’s side, cheek dragging along his bicep lazily. “C’mon, caretaker. You like taking care of your little problem child, huh? Feed me shots, call me pretty, tuck me in later—sounds like a whole kink to me.”
Classy went rigid, knuckles whitening around his untouched controller. His face was a mask, tight and unreadable—except for the way his ears burned brighter, betraying every inch of composure.
“Drink your shot,” he said, voice sharp, quiet, controlled.
Froste just giggled, laid sloppy innuendo
sugar-sweet against his sleeve: “That sounded like an order. Hot.”
Froste curled heavier against Classy’s side, giggling low, words sliding between lazy and lewd. “That sounded like an order. Hot. Didn’t know you were into telling me what to do. Guess that makes me your pretty little problem.”
Deny lost his shit, wheezing so violently he had to turn partly off-camera. “OHHH NOOO, we’re NOT POSTING THIS—actually, yes we are, clip it, CLIP IT RIGHT NOW.”
Chat detonated in a blur of spam: “SAY IT AGAIN CLASSY” “OKAY I JUST JOINED A MINUTE AGO WHAT IS THE CONTEXT”
Replies:
“CONTEXT ISN'T SAVING THIS”
“IT MAKES IT WORSE 💔💔💔”
Classy sat iron-tensed, hand braced against Froste’s hip like he was holding him together or holding himself back, hard to tell. His face was carved neutral—except for the flare at his ears, blood-hot.
“Drink,” Classy ground out again, clipped.
Froste hummed like it was foreplay. “You could just say you want me on my knees for you, y’know.”
Classy’s head jerked toward him, sharp like he’d 0been burned. His mouth opened—stalled—closed. Then, so fast and low the mic almost missed it, words slipped out unguarded:
“Don’t tempt me.”
“What ‘s wrong with ‘u all..? God this is gonna get censored…” George said, just loud enough to be caught on the mic.
The outro slammed quick and cheerful:
“Thanks for watching! Don’t drink like we do. Stay hydrated 🫡”
The outro music cut, cheerful horns clashing hard against the tension that clung to the room like static.
The stream light dimmed red, camera feed dying with a soft chime that felt too neat, too final.
It left silence behind—if you cut out George’s light snoring, and Deny still half-wheezing.
“Oh my fucking god,” Deny gasped finally, sliding boneless into his chair, one hand over his face. “Classy, you said it. That wasn’t stream delay. That wasn’t lag. That—that went live.”
Classy’s hand dragged down his face once in slow motion. “No one’s clipping that.”
“It’s already clipped. Chat had it clipped before you even FINISHED saying it,” Deny said, gleeful in his devastation. His phone already buzzed with Discord pings rattling down the timeline.
“‘Don’t tempt me’—bro. BRO. That’s burned into the VOD. Ship name trending in five minutes tops.”
George stirred faintly under his blanket pile, muffled groaning. “What—what are we even talking about. Pizza nap?”
“You didn’t miss anything!” Deny called brightly. “Go back to your coma.”
George flopped a hand in vague dismissal, immediately resuming snores.
Classy didn’t answer. Not to Deny, not to Froste—still nestled unhelpfully against his side, grin sloppy, half-drunk glow radiating smug and oddly soft at once.
His hand twitched against Froste’s hip like he wanted to push him off, but less and less force was behind it.
Froste tilted his chin up, slack grin curving. “You weren’t supposed to like it, Classy boy.” His words slurred at the ends, vowels dragging hazy.
“Supposed to call me annoying, punch my shoulder—whatever. Not ‘don’t tempt me.’ That’s like… god. That’s like a porno title.”
Deny wheezed fresh laughter so hard he choked.
Classy’s ears burned crimson. His voice cut out cool, sharp, control wound too tight. “You’re wasted.”
“Mmhm,” Froste agreed easily, not letting go. His cheek rubbed against Classy’s sleeve, slow, almost obscene in how casual it was. “Still means I’m right. You like me.”
Classy’s throat worked, hard swallow audible in the hush. His jaw flexed, set tight. “You’re drunk,” he repeated, lower.
Froste chuckled—the kind that rolled between wicked and too honest—then shifted, whispering lower, off mic now entirely. “Still pretty when you’re mad. S’kinda hot.”
Classy shut his eyes for one beat too long, like he was praying for patience. When they opened, the mask was back, sharp-edged. “Alright. Bed.”
“What, no afterparty?” Deny called after them as Classy heaved Froste upright. The younger man sagged into him immediately, weight boneless, arm slung heavy across Classy’s shoulders.
“Intervention,” Classy muttered darkly, ignoring the way Froste clung closer, head tipping into his shoulder.
“Intervention tomorrow!” Deny sing-songed, swiping game cards into a messy pile. His grin gleamed sharp with mischief as he added, “Tonight, I’m just the cameraman who caught the hottest mic slip of the decade.”
“Delete it.”
“Never,” Deny beamed.
“CUT THE CLIP.”
“Nah.”
George mumbled nonsense in his blanket. Something about “stuffed crust with marshmallows… safe warm pizza…” before rolling flat onto his face with a faint wheeze.
Classy shook his head, tugging Froste toward the hall, ignoring Deny’s cackles chasing after like hyenas.
Froste wasn’t silent, of course. The whole walk down the dark hall buzzed with his muttering—complaints about socks sliding down, about losing every round. His laugh hiccupped, muffled into Classy’s shoulder.
“You’re warm,” he said suddenly, voice dipping softer. It stripped down the slur, cut beneath it. “Like… safe warm. Don’t drop me, okay?”
Classy’s grip on him tightened reflexively. “I’ve got you.”
They reached the doorframe. Classy nudged it open with his foot, guided Froste inside, lowering him onto the mattress. The younger man collapsed instantly, chest rising deep and even.
Classy tugged the blanket over him without thinking, smoothing the edge without realizing his fingers lingered.
He should walk away. Join Deny still howling in the living room. Pretend tonight never happened.
Instead, his eyes caught on the mess of hair sticking every direction, the flush still lingering across Froste’s cheeks, making him look unbearably young. Softer. Vulnerable in a way he never let himself be on stream.
For someone who never shut up, Froste was dangerously quiet in sleep.
Classy shut his eyes. Drew one sharp breath in. Let it out.
Then Froste stirred, lashes heavy. His voice rasped, low, almost sober with how direct it came out:
“I wasn’t lying. When I said I like you.”
Classy froze in the doorway.
“It’s real,” Froste muttered, slipping already into gravity-thick drowsiness. “Even if you only believe me when I’m drunk.”
Classy stood there longer than necessary, shadow stretched across the bed. Jaw set, chest tight.
Nothing but the sound of Froste’s breathing and the faint thrum of Deny’s laughter echoing down the hallway.
“You idiot,” Classy whispered—so quiet it was for himself, not him.
But his ears still burned hot as he closed the door.