Work Text:
Dave is always on his phone, thumbs always moving in the motions of texting, occasional ghosts of expressions haunting his face, but there’s no one on the other end. You didn’t mean to find out. You suspected, because he doesn’t hang out with anyone and because it’s all the time, with no room for anyone else to reply, but then his sister sat down next to you, looked you up and down and said, ‘He’s not actually texting anyone, ever, if you actually wanted to do something about that lost puppy look you’re giving him.’
There was an insinuation there, that what you’re about is something romantic, which it is, but not in the way humans really understand. “Super best friends”, you’ve heard it called here, in this very room. Not by him, but he doesn’t say much. He talks a lot, but it’s a wall of nothing, words and words that decorate the one sentence that’s relevant. You want to hold him close and listen to him when he’s not performing. You want to be the one person he doesn’t perform for.
*
Sollux is working through lunch again. He’s got a sandwich and an iced coffee next to him, but they’re untouched because he’s so wrapped up in his work. He’ll only remember that he bought them when the alarm on his watch tells him it’s time for class, at which point he’ll throw them away and have just not eaten, again. This guy is not a guy who can afford not to eat. A stack of red solo cups has more structural integrity than he does; he probably is only able to move his stick limbs by using his alien telekinesis.
It’s not that he’s not capable. You’ve got one class with him, a sociology thing you’re both taking for an elective because it’s really fucking easy, and he codes like a genius the whole way through. You sit behind him in the lecture hall and you stare at his laptop screen because it’s infinitely more interesting than whatever the teacher’s on about. It’s so much easier to get a good grade in a subject that has easily defined tests and objective essays than your film major where everything is subjective, you’d skip every lecture if it didn’t mean not seeing him.
He makes you want to cook for him, even though your cooking’s kind of shitty, and keep him away from his work for five goddamn minutes.
*
Because you walk in to the study area just outside your sociology class when Dave is showing Rose his film project, and because he sells himself as supremely confident, you get waved over to watch it as well. And it’s good, really good, but his fingers are tight on his elbows where he’s holding his arms crossed and he’s so quiet that you miss how he usually talks over every YouTube video. You fake a coughing fit when you feel a chirr building in your throat and avert your eyes from the concerned look he gives you because wow, you do not need the encouragement. Thankfully, coughing is supremely unhot in any interpretation, so your sympathy rattler settles down.
He taps you on the elbow and holds out a water bottle, half-full and with the label faded like he’s used it many times. You have to cough again, because he’s offering to share sustenance with you and he has no idea how pale a gesture that is, but it’s a big one, and you can’t help but hesitatingly accept it.
‘You okay, dude?’ he asks. ‘I’d pat you on the back or something but, you know, boundaries. Also that makes it worse for me sometimes, I dunno if I’ve got something going on there, but I’m not a fan. If you want me to pat you on the back though, just nod, my hands are right here and completely at your service—not like that! I mean, uh, you’re—I’m not coming on to you, I’m just offering a completely non-sexual thing that might possibly help your breathing happen.’
‘Smooth,’ Rose says.
Dave gives her the finger blindly, not turning away from you. You’re so soft.
‘I’m good,’ you wheeze. You take another sip from his water bottle and then hand it back. He almost grabs one of your fingers with the bottle and you both laugh awkwardly.
*
You’re not even attracted to him. Which, actually, deserves a qualifier. Because you’re absolutely drawn to him; your eyes sweep the room for him every time you think he could possibly be in there before your brain thinks to do so. But you don’t want to sleep with him. Again, a qualifier: you don’t want to fuck him, but you could see yourself talking all through the night and falling asleep together, that sounds nice as shit.
What is that?
You’re not even friends. Why are you fantasising about getting your emotional connection on with a guy who you basically only make small talk with? You can’t talk to anyone about it, because no one would understand. You want him in a really specific way and it’s kind of weirding you out.
Okay, so you think you can’t talk about it, but Rose loves talking about things you can’t talk about.
‘You can’t be this stupid,’ she says, ever the supporting sister.
‘I’m talented that way,’ you say, carelessly. But like, ouch.
She throws a notebook at your face. You catch it before it hits you and put it in your bag. You’re gonna draw so many dicks in it.
‘You’re pale for him, moron,’ she says. ‘You need more troll friends.’
‘I have troll friends,’ you say, defensively. Admittedly, you don’t talk quadrants with any of them, but that’s because you don’t talk feelings with them, not out of dismissing their culture. You’ve eaten bugs, you can count to ten and introduce yourself in Alternian, you’re not afraid of troll stuff.
‘I recommend “I'll give up my morning cereal to spoon you instead”,’ she says, helpfully. Actually, yeah, that is helpful. You repeat it in your head three times. Instead of replying, which has her looking very smug.
*
‘Hey, Sollux, wait,’ Dave says, just as you’ve hit the aisle of the lecture theatre. He’s still trapped by a couple of slower people in front of him.
‘Kinda blocking the traffic if I do,’ you point out.
‘Right,’ he says. ‘Uh, wait for me in the study area?’ he asks.
You do, not because you’d do anything he asked, just because you’re curious. He smiles when he sees you and your pusher stumbles.
‘What’s up?’ you ask, holding onto the strap of your laptop bag with two hands.
‘Uh,’ he says. He glances over his shoulder at the people still exiting, then turns back to you. His expression is weird, awkward. ‘Call me Shrek because I’m head ogre heels for you,’ he says, in a very uncertain tone. You make a “pfft” kind of noise. ‘But like, in a donkey way, not a Fiona way.’
‘What does that even mean?’ you ask.
‘Oh,’ he says. ‘Shrek’s this revolutionary movie from 2001—’
‘I know what Shrek is, assweed,’ you interrupt. ‘Are you asking me out?’
‘Paaale?’ he says, giving you fingerguns. He drops them very quickly and looks appalled with himself.
Holy shit, he is so fucking pathetic.
‘Yeah, okay,’ you say, in an unconvincingly casual tone. Like you haven’t been pining over him for like, two whole months.
‘Sweet,’ he says. He gives you a thumbs up, then shoves his hands as deep as they’ll go into his pockets, presumably to keep himself from awkward gestures.
‘Oh, hey, you dropped something,’ you say.
‘Yeah?’ he says, looking down.
‘My hand?’ you say, holding it out and wiggling your fingers a bit.
Ugh, so lame.
He grins, though, and pulls a hand from his pocket to take yours. You both stand there, and you assume your expression is at least as dopey as his, for way too long. Just, you know, facing each other and holding hands.
‘So,' he says, breaking the silence. ‘My hunger is so rude that it got sent to the principal’s office, even though we’re in college and we don’t have one, that’s just the degree to which it is rude. It’s swearing and tipping poorly and deliberately closing doors when someone with their hands full could really use someone holding them open, it’s just a complete asshole.’
‘You want to get lunch?’ you ask.
‘Yeah,’ he says, kind of brokenly. ‘Haha, no take backs just because I can’t say a direct thing even if my happiness depends on it.’
‘Dude, I’m not taking this back,’ you say. You pull his hand a little so that you’re walking together towards the shitty cafeteria with its overpriced garbage food. ‘I fully intend to keep holding your hand even while we’re eating, I don’t even care if you get something that requires two hands, like a burger or some shit, I actually might prefer it if you spill burger fillings literally all over the place, you fucking loser.’
‘Yeah?’ he says, grinning at you like you didn’t just insult him minutes after agreeing to be his moirail. ‘Well I’d just keep holding your hand even though you’d obviously be dying to go get napkins to clean my sorry ass up, just fuckin’, keep you on the edge of looking after me, trying to get tomato and shit off my shirt with only the paper wrapping from the burger and one hand.’
‘Ew, you get tomato on your burgers?’ you say. ‘Moirallegience over, that’s a deal breaker.’
You pull your intertwined hands up to your mouth and kiss the back of his, so he knows you’re joking.
‘Yuuuuck, cooties,’ he says, blushing like an idiot. You’re so fucking happy you can’t stand it.