Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Micro’s scarily good at chemistry—it’s something that’s widely known throughout the school. For all the terrible he is at math and pretending he cares for lectures, Micro is concerningly great at chemistry.

It isn’t a big deal to Thomas. Micro’s that weird, too airy kid that Thomas has had rotated in most of his classes through the years.

Too aloof for his own good and never too selfless to earn him a more than mediocre reputation. He has a friend group to match, too.

For all of Micro’s bland personality, it isn’t hard at all to spot him in a crowd—supposedly.

He has pale hair and moles under his eyes like a certain Saparata. He has a scar across the bridge of his nose that he says was from a fight with his dog.

(If Thomas listened closely enough, he would hear Jophiel tiredly sigh and Snowbird chuckle under his breath. It's too bad he doesn’t.)

Micro is a few inches shorter than Thomas, give or take, but his eyes seem like they could stare into the universe and make it tremble under itself. So maybe Thomas is a very, very tiny bit afraid of Micro–but only hypothetically.

He doesn’t know Micro much, other than that Snowbird buys snacks from him, or that Micro’s clumsy—told verbatim by Jophiel in a conversation he overheard.

There was a time when Fluixon and Saparata had gotten into a heated argument, which led to Saparata spending some time around Micro’s friend group. Every time Thomas spotted Fluixon making heart eyes over Saparata, Thomas couldn’t help but want to smack the shit out of him. Saparata is friends with nearly anyone and everyone, so it didn’t surprise him that they knew each other. Fluixon can act as if he doesn’t care all he wants, but everyone knows that he does.

It’s during that spring semester when Thomas is finally seated next to Micro.

They don’t talk very much—it’s only one class after all—and Micro’s smart enough to grasp the basic concepts of things when he isn’t sleeping in class. Micro doesn’t snore or drool when he sleeps; he's simply too tired in the morning rush to make an effort to learn. They don’t talk much, and Thomas thought it would stay that way until they changed seats again.

—

Thomas doesn’t usually skip breakfast, doesn’t like not eating breakfast because he knows he’ll start sleeping too, but he had woken up late one morning and was thrown off to school like a sack of potatoes.

It’s embarrassing when your stomach growls because you can’t tell if it’s only in your head or if everyone can hear it. Thomas can’t focus, and Micro must’ve noticed from all the glances he’s been giving. He keeps shifting in his seat, catching himself dozing off, and bouncing his foot on the floor. He lets out a deep and quiet sigh. It’s worse than having to watch Fluixon and Saparata dance around each other, only to then later insist that they’re just friends.

When the teacher turns around, Micro, hunched over the desk with his head in his arms, asks, “Are you okay, dude?” His pitch-black, foggy eyes wandered over to Thomas.

Obviously, he is not, but he grinds his teeth, “I’m fine.”

He probably spits it out with a grimace on his face, but Micro doesn’t say anything for a while. Thomas hates the blaring lights in this classroom, hates the loud AC blasting into the room as if it isn’t fucking winter still. The teacher turns to the next slide. The lead in his pencil breaks.

Thomas flips a page in his notebook before Micro suddenly whispers, “If you do my homework, I’ll give you something to eat.” Thomas raises a brow. “Unless you have a dollar or ten…”

And usually, Thomas would question it, refuse it in a heartbeat because no way in hell is he doing someone else’s homework for anything-

(Thomas glances at Newkids through the class window.)

-but truth be told, he really can’t focus or sit still. It’s torture. Nor is he that stupid to bring a wallet to school, either. So eventually, Thomas holds out his hand, and Micro smiles before reaching into his backpack. The smile is more like when a cashier smiles at a customer, but it’s a new face ingrained into Thomas’ memory—Micro’s customer service smile. It's practiced and full of mischief that maybe makes Thomas internally shiver.

Micro hands him something wrapped in parchment paper, and for a moment, Thomas feels like he’s made a deal with the devil himself…

(It’s awfully dramatic, Thomas doesn’t entirely feel that way, but there’s an awful sense of eeriness that creeps up his neck. Micro certainly doesn’t look like a devil, though; the existence of Saparata is making him second-guess. That evil, evil white boy…)

He doesn’t care—he’s hungry—and they’re seated in the back of the room anyway. If the teacher says anything about it, he’ll blame it on Micro.

—

Thomas doesn’t think much of the situation. He eats the cookies and bread handed to him, and Micro goes back to living in his own head. His shoulder-length hair drifting off his hoodie as he puts his head down.

It’s a downward spiral from there.

There's not a lot to it.

(The next day, some of Micro’s hair covers Thomas’ notebook on their small, two-person desk. It's light, pale as bone, maybe even translucent if he looks hard enough. He gently brushes Micro’s hair off, tucking it back into his hoodie, but only so Thomas doesn’t end up waking Micro up. Maybe along the way, Thomas also tucks Micro’s hair behind his ear, revealing his serene, peaceful expression as he sleeps. If Thomas learns that Micro has subtle, small freckles that day, it’s no one’s business but his to know. )

—

“You gave our goods to that guy?!”

“What? He needed help, and I helped him out.”

“You gave our precious goods, the cookies that we spent months perfecting, for FREE?!”

“It wasn't for free, he has to do my homework now-”

“We could always make more cookies-”

“No one was talking to you, Panzer.”

“I still have more, you guys. I didn’t give him the whole batch, for ish’s sake…”

“Isn’t that the guy your brother wanted to get away from?”

“Yeah, they were dating or whatever, right?”

“What the hell are you guys talking about? Saps isn’t dating anyone, and Thomas and Fluixon don’t even look remotely the same!”

“So you admit that something’s going on between Saparata and Fluixon?”

“Shut up Neptune, I don’t wanna think about my brother’s love life right now.”

“So what, we drugged a guy?”

“No, but I wish I could drug myself so I wouldn’t have to listen to your guys’ dumb questi-“

—

Micro likes to bake. He doesn’t know how or when he’d come to realize it, but he does. It makes sense when Thomas stops to think about it, but Thomas obviously didn't think of Micro much before.

Saparata is still distant. Fluixon has been…well, going a bit coo-coo, so to speak. Thomas can see the guilt in Fluixon’s eyes. The thing is, it seems like Saparata has made up his mind to be avoidant as hell, and it's been eating away at Fluixon ever since–no matter how hard he tries to hide it.

This means that whenever anyone looks for Saparata, there’s also a chance to see Micro.

Micro, who looks more like a shorter, more deadpan Saparata, but if he liked purple–kinda like Fluixon’s and Saparata’s secret love child…

Thomas doesn’t wanna think about that, actually.

Fluixon’s been getting angsty, and Thomas already knows what’s coming. So, when Fluixon comes up to him one day during lunch with a determined look on his face, after so many days of being a yearning, edgy, lovesick fool, he can almost certainly guess the next words that come out of his mouth.

Their group, the Conspiracy (they named it freshman year and thought it was cool—but only because they totally were not rigging the votes for class president to be in Saparata’s favor. Nope, not at all, if anyone’s to blame, it’s definitely Hvyrotation’s fault), sits at their unofficial, designated table that they always sit in.

Fluixon pipes up, “So, I’ve been thinking-” Fluixon’s posture is poised, but his hair looks like a rat had tried to scurry into it in his sleep. Thomas has always had a bed head, but jeez…

“Sure, buddy.”

“ShutupRotation. Anyway, I’ve been thinking, since Saparata has been so stubborn lately, that it is finally time, to release my ultimate pettiness onto the school!” Fluixon dramatically pauses with each second he has, standing on the table as if he had not just stepped on wet grass and dirty concrete. A lunch lady yells at him to get off the table, and Newkids probably had a thought of pouring milk on his shoes.

“Via winning class president?” Gotoga raises a brow, even under his beanie.

Fluixon repeats, “Via class president.” He points a finger at himself, body language bold and wide. “THAT’S RIGHT, I’M GONNA BECOME CLASS PRESIDENT, AND WIN! SAPARATA WILL BE NOTHING BUT A LOSER!” HvyRotation, Snowbird, and Newkids cheer while Seraphim tells Fluixon to shut the hell up while trying to tame the mess that is Fluixon’s hair.

In the corner of Thomas’s eye, he can see Saparata and Micro’s group hanging out outside the cafeteria–oblivious to the chaos happening inside. Thomas can’t help but chuckle at the absolute mania in Fluixon’s voice.

Saparata ran for class president during his freshman year and won, mentioning a while back that he planned on running for it again this year after missing out the previous year. Something about going on vacation for something…Thomas was only half asleep.

“And your plan?” Gotoga asks, surrounded by milk cartons while resting his elbows on the table.

And Fluixon, the ever-scheming, no-good, troublesome bastard that he is, simply says, “Oh, I’ve got a plan alright…”

—

This, is how Thomas ends up having to “infiltrate” Micro and his weird, weird friend group. (The Canadian Cartel? They’re not so weird, Thomas would argue that Fluixon and Saparata are weirder by a mile. Maybe they’re just a bit more creepy…)

So it starts like this: Thomas and Gotoga are recruited to make friends with the Canadian Cartel members to get information about Saparata and to then report back to Fluixon. With this information, Fluixon would end up trying to one-up Saparata behind his back and without him knowing. What Fluixon will do when it is all over? Thomas doesn’t particularly care about. The matter of fact is that now, Thomas has to talk to Micro.

Thomas doesn’t know when it started, but he and Micro have a routine where Micro will give him stuff that he baked, and Thomas, in exchange per Micro’s complaints, gives him homework answers now and then. They were never entirely on bad terms despite how Saparata would glare at him when he thought Thomas wasn’t looking.

Micro is kind enough to feed him, and maybe they grow closer than Thomas thought they would. He laughs at Micros' confused expressions. Micro smiles when he gives him the homework answers. Fluixon said to go easy on Micro, probably because they both like purple, given their choice of clothes, so in hindsight, Thomas is only following orders. (Nothing is wrong, nothing is strange.)

He can see so clearly the way Micro’s eyes light up when he gets an answer right. The way his laughter echoes when Thomas starts cursing under his breath at the teacher. They’re unlikely friends, and when all the crap with Fluixon and Saparata gets blown over and when the school year ends, Thomas and Micro will never have to talk to each other again.

So, no, his hand does not twitch when someone like Gotoga wraps an arm around Micro’s shoulder. Does not narrow his eyes when Micro looks at someone with the same bright laughter, and does not get closer to Micro, if only to see the flush beneath his face because they’re so, so close, and it's so, so cold.

No one says anything, and soon, when Micro appears, there becomes a chance Thomas might be following behind him as well—like a loyal guard dog protecting the hand that feeds him. His unruly heart beats like a ticking time bomb. He can feel his hands sweat under the heat of his face.

People tell him he’s become more reckless, more hyper, more tender. Thomas tucks a strand of Micro’s hair behind his ear as they eat bread in the back of the class.

Micro teasingly–tiredly–mumbles, “…Thomas the gentleman today, hm?”

And Thomas?

Thomas can only curse himself for the predicament he’s put himself in.

Chapter Text

If anything, Snowbird has never been one known for his observations. He’d say he’s a smart, easygoing guy, but Saps would definitely give him a knowing look. Yet when people wanna know what is going on around school, there are very few people to go to.

Snowbird would know because Snowbird is one of those people. It’s a whisper through the grapevine type of thing, where rumor goes around one ear and eventually makes its way to him. Truly, there is a privilege to be seen when all of your siblings are enrolled in the same school–and when each grade separates them.

(“Everything is useless if you can’t find a way to use it,” Micro lectures, his glasses reflecting the ceiling light as he points at the sky.)

Snowbird is simply a messenger—innocent, clean hands and all. Except recently, he has been noticing, some uh…things going on, like Sap’s and Fluixon’s whole car-totalling fiasco, but also Fluixon trying to get Sap’s stray cat’s favor.

(It’s hard to say where he’ll stand his ground, and Snowbird wishes that it will never come down to that. Ish…he feels like he’s in some sort of custody war.)

It’s one thing to have one brother’s drama, but two brothers might just make him worried. Saps has been lenient with him, but he’s not so sure how Micro will fare. In a manner of speaking, Micro is like a ghost, there yet not, floating away and away it seems. Snowbird feels untouchable with Saps, but Micro never says much in his words—it’s hard for Snowbird to distinguish what he means.

(Lifting his blanket when Snowbird had nightmares, after Saps moved to room with Jophiel. A holding of hands—if only so Snowbird wouldn’t get lost—or pulling him aside to brush out his frizzy hair. It all means something to Micro, and Snowbird can’t figure out the finer details.)

Micro is a private person despite the many charms he has (but not as much charm as him, haha). So, when news reaches Snowbird about how, different, per se, Thomas may or may not be acting, he can’t help but be intrigued.

He knows the plan—ask about Saps and Fluixon will see what he can do—although Thomas's own attachment has him walking desperate circles. Thomas and Gotoga were only asked to scout around the workings of the Canadian Cartel, due to their newest addition—his oldest brother, Saps.

Fluixon and Seraphim worked through the student council, while Snowbird and Hvyrotation were placed on student leadership. Whilst Thomas and Gotoga were still under student leadership and council, it’s safe to say that Thomas is bargaining more than he was asked for.

When prompted, Gotoga only repeats what Snowbird already knows.

(“I’ve watched Thomas braid Micro’s hair before. He’s lively, livelier. I asked him about it earlier, and he flipped me off, so I gave him a bad score on Mr. Wooddaddy’s test last week—Y’know, because I’m his student assistant.”

Snowbird almost wants to cry and pull his hair out.)

It’s making Snowbird’s head hurt, just the mere mention of it—Thomas and Micro—causes his mind to spin because, really, Thomas?

Gentle?

Tender enough to someone so invisible as Micro? Snowbird laughed when he first heard it, but Sidefall insisted it was true.

And dear Ish, is it true.

Never in any lifetime would Snowbird imagine Thomas allowing someone to tussle his hair–without a punch to the face. Never even thought of seeing Thomas with such a meek front. It’s hard to notice it at first, yet not ever has Snowbird seen Thomas—so confident, so unfazed—look timid—small—in the way he gazes at Micro. Snowbird isn’t sure if Micro knows what he’s gotten himself into.

Thomas has to be planning something–to break Micro’s heart, and in turn, hurt Sap’s too. It isn’t anger that bubbles up in Snowbird; he isn’t sure what it is at all. So, as Micro’s (youngest) brother, Snowbird has decided to take the initiative—spying! (To protect Micro, of course.)

Snowbird has a plan—a very intricate, deliberate plan. It happens the day after deciding to spy on Thomas’s and Micro’s shenanigans (he barely has an idea sketched out). It's only morning, the cold biting into his clothes and tiredness clutching his face, when Snowbird spots Gray, Thomas’s little sister, suspiciously hiding behind a wall.

Jophiel might say, "Curiosity kills the bird,” and Snowbird will groan like it’s the worst thing she could have possibly said. (He won’t admit that he grins–even if Jophiel points it out–because Snowbird knows, in his heart, that it’s true too.)

—

“Why the hell are you eating poutine at 7 in the morning?”

Micro, with his double-layered Ziploc bag filled with poutine, looks up at him in his huddled, curled-up form. Behind him, frost is sprinkled among the grass like a protective blanket. The roofs of the building are frozen over as if a preserved tide. The morning cold is always unrelenting, but today, it feels especially cold. Thomas can see his own breath, even with his scarf wrapped around his neck.

Micro is huddled against the bench on the opposite side of campus, where their class is—the only class where they sit together. It’s a secluded part of the middle of campus—little to no other students, especially given the time. Most of all, it’s quiet, and lonely even. As he throws his backpack down, Thomas can see why Micro would be here, of all places.

(Thomas takes a deep breath in when he spots Micro—remote and zoned out. Micro kicks his feet as he watches Thomas walk toward him.)

Micro, with his terribly blank face, moves part of his headphones behind his ear, pointing with his licked plastic fork and asks, “You got a problem with that, Mr. 5500?” There’s a smirk on Micro's face, full of bait and teasing.

(And later on when Micro laughs, Thomas finds that Micro has such a soft smile.)

Thomas sighs with a smile and shakes his head, “Of course not, Mr. Ghostspr.” Thomas sits down on the bench, taking out his phone. He doesn’t open anything.

The sun is barely floating in the sky. Thomas can hear Micro’s music flooding out of his headphones. For a moment, it’s just him and Micro, out in the cold air…with a bag of poutine. Thomas taps his phone, checking the time.

Come to think of it, "How is your poutine still hot? I swear that stuff should be frozen with how cold it is.”

“I microwaved it in Mr. Wooddaddy’s room. You want some?”

Micro holds out the bag, but Thomas can only raise a brow, “In the ziploc..?” The bag Micro was holding was a thin plastic, definitely not the microwaveable ones. The type that would melt under a summer sun—melt in a microwave. Thomas just hopes Micro isn’t intentionally trying to eat liquified plastic.

Micro slouches as he munches on his food. “Um…I was extra careful?” (Micro takes off his headphones and hooks them to his backpack.)

“Micro.”

“Listen, okay?! I was careful, and the classroom didn’t burn down, did it? The school wasn’t caught on fire, everything is fine, Thomas.” Micro pouts as if he’s a bunny caught shredding apart a sofa, swatting his hand in the open air. Thomas has to stop himself from laughing rudely in Micro’s face. Micro shoves his knuckle into Thomas’s cheek.

His phone vibrates. The ‘boing’ of a cowbell—the notification sound of Gray texting him. He doesn’t open it.

—

Gray cray >

Today 7:43 AM

( Wya? )

( Hvyro is asking 4 hw answers )

( And also I forgot my water bottle and I’m thirstyyyyy pls bro I don wanna use the school water fountains )

( Big man u’ll be my fav bro after this im kinda homeless )

( Yellooo? )

Delivered

-

“You’d better hope not. Aren’t you already failing his class?” Thomas moves closer and ruffles Micro’s shoulder-length ivory hair—thighs nearly touching each other.

(Micro’s hair is soft, soft enough to sleep in. It’s poofy and delicately tousled through—by airy wind—on a bad day. Shiny and deliberate like a perfect picture frame on a good day. Thomas would know, because Thomas spends hour after hour, studying it when the sun watches them.)

It isn’t tied up today like it usually is; Thomas can’t blame him. He’s wearing two thick jackets over a sweater and is still cold.

Micro grumbles. “Not yet…Hey, look, Thomas,” Micro is already giggling like some psychopath. “Here comes the airpla-”

“I’m gonna bite your hand off, Micro.” Thomas can’t help but smile a tiny bit as he rests on the back of the bench. It might seem eerie to Micro, but Thomas brings his arm to the side of him. It’s resting on the edge of the bench, not close enough to touch Micro.

(Thomas is clenching his other hand against his thigh. He shoves his phone back into his pocket.)

Micro whines, throwing his head back onto Thomas’s bicep, “Aw man…”

When Micro takes another bite, some gravy ends up getting on his face without him noticing. He’s turned away from Thomas, still with that furrowed brow, but with an easy smile.

Thomas is already regretting what he is about to do as his body carelessly moves.

“Do you still think we have a test for sci-” They’re really close now, as Thomas grabs Micro's chin and wipes the gravy off with his gloved hand. “-ence…”

(His thumb grazes the edge of Micro’s lips.)

Thomas doesn’t have enough dignity to look back at Micro’s eyes, but he can feel his flushed gaze on him. His other arm, the one not holding Micro, clenches on the edge of the bench—if it were anything else, Thomas is not sure he wouldn’t break it. Thomas can see their frozen, labored breaths brush against each other. His heart beats too loudly in his ears. Maybe if the wind blows hard enough, Thomas can float away and never see the surface of the Earth again.

“Sorry,” Thomas’s hand tingles from the cold, ”you had something on your face there.”

In the thick tension, Thomas watches Micro’s lips tighten, their faces blush following the frozen winds. “Y’know, this is probably why your stomach always hurts so much, eating so heavy in the morning,” he manages to mumble. Thomas’s breath hitches, the bitter ice blows against his burning ears. His eyebrow twitches ever so faintly.

Micro’s the one that pulls back, the sun coming out of hiding to hit every surface of Micro’s face, “What? No way I’m giving up poutine!” The stream from the bagged poutine floats like smoke in Thomas’s head. Micro wipes his cheek with the back of his palm. A smile is still evident through Micro's ebony eyes, and Thomas would totally make fun of his flush if it weren’t for the fact that he probably looked like a mess, too.

“I’m not saying never to eat it again, Micro, just don’t eat it so early in the day.” Thomas nudges his hand to mess with Micro’s hair and jacket—simply tidying him up, yep. (Thomas takes a moment to pinch Micro’s flustered cheek.)

Micro scoffs and grumbles about something Thomas doesn’t have time to hear. (“That’s just a myth anyway…,” he mutters, holding his cheek.) Their faces must be really red, Thomas thinks as they avert their gazes. His hands finally leave Micro’s hair alone.

—-

“There’s no fucking way.”

Gray nearly jumps as Snowbird puts a hand on her shoulder. “Holy shit, dude, you scared the crap out of me…,” Gray loudly whispers.

Gray isn’t one for snooping around her brother, but it wasn’t intentional, she swears! She just wants water for Ish’s sake, why would she be expecting to see her brother cupcaking—and fumbling, as a matter of fact! Her precious, beautiful water bottle, left on the kitchen counter, Gray could explode out of frustration.

Snowbird mumbles a short, half-assed apology before turning back to look at the unsuspecting duo. “But you saw that, right?” Snowbird pants like he’s been out of breath running a marathon.

Oh, she saw that alright…Gray starts to comb her fingers through her hair, not out of confusion but more like disbelief. Gray frantically nods.

She mutters (begs), “Please don’t let this be another Fluixon and Saparata. Please don’t let this be another Fluixon and Sapa-“

Snowbird shushes Gray, pulling her back into the security of the shadowed wall. “Shutup! They’re gonna hear us!”

“I didn’t even say anything!”

The bell echoes like an annoying, blaring alarm clock as they both turn their heads.

“I mean, maybe they’re just close? I don’t kno-“ Gray starts to pace in circles, giving her brother the benefit of the doubt.

“Don’t act so surprised, Gray, really?” Snowbird scrunches his eyebrows.

“WHAT DO YOU MEAN, REALLY!?”

Snowbird puts his hands up with the twitch of an eye, “Hey, I’m just an observer, dude. No hard feelings or whatever, but I’m just wondering why Thomas is doing what he does with my brother. Y’know, of all people.”

(“The drug dealer is your brother?”

“Unfortunately.”)

There’s a moment of silence, keen and curious. Gray and Snowbird turn to look at the oblivious Thomas and Micro.

They’re both standing up now, faces stupidly red after that stunt Thomas pulled—Snowbird has no idea where he suddenly grew the nerve…

(Micro looks more flustered than Thomas, but that’s probably because Thomas’s ears are so red. Snowbird didn’t even know he did that. Thomas and his indifferent face…Ish, when did this all happen?)

Most notably, Thomas lays a hand on Micro’s shoulder, patting him as comfort—pulling him closer. Oh, fuck off…Saparata is so gonna kill that man when he finds out. Snowbird can’t help but chuckle nervously for what’s to come. Gray elbows him for his strange reaction.

Micro’s bag of poutine is forgotten, cold, and wet from condensation.

(“Is that poutine? Is he really eating poutine right now?”

“…Micro has strange tastes.”)

Snowbird can almost feel smoke coming out of his head, his mind trying to wrap around the fact that Thomas—calculating, smug, secretive as can be, Thomas—just lets his brother pull him around. If Snowbird did anything that Micro is doing right now, he’d be slapped upside down and over.

Seriously, what the fuck. Micro butts the dull end of the fork into Thomas’s cheek, and Thomas softens his eyes. Gray furrows her brows, like she can’t believe what she is seeing. Gray swears she’s never seen Thomas like that before. He’s genuinely flustered–no more of his facade–and Gray knows because Thomas’s fists are so clenched they could break bones. And Ish, had Thomas ever looked at someone the way he looks at Micro?

She might be going crazy. Gray might just scream out of embarrassment—her big brother is a down bad freak!

Micro and Thomas walk away, still with Thomas’s hand on Micro’s shoulder. Snowbird and Gray are only left to stare into oblivion. At least, until Thomas, looking at Micro, shifts his gaze to look directly at them.

A dark, withering glance.

Shit.

Metaphorical bugs crawl into and under Snowbird’s skin as the subtle gaze locks onto him. “Shit shit shit, go Gray go!” Snowbird ushers them away in the opposite direction. Thomas is gonna kill him!

Gray hysterically mumbles, ”We’re cooked, Snowbird, he knows! I just wanted some water and to return some books from the librar-!” Snowbird lets out a very manly scream.

—

“Did you hear that?”

“Hear what? If we stall any longer, I don’t think the teacher will forgive us.”

–-

If there’s any chance of either of them coming out unscathed, it’s Gray. Snowbird is so screwed…maybe Saparata or Jophiel will get revenge for him when Thomas inevitably gets him.

(Thomas isn’t that cruel, but Thomas isn’t so nice either. Maybe if Snowbird plays his cards well enough, he might just live with his dignity. Snowbird is such a mess, he laughs at himself. Gray must think he is crazy.)

“Okay, okay, let’s get the facts straight, alright? Your brother, likes my brother.” It’s hysteria, like it's the last day Thomas allows them to live. “Is that good or is that bad?”

Gray gives Snowbird a look of disbelief, giving her the illusion of choice. “Uh, I don’t know! I mean, Thomas looks happy. What's the big problem?” They join the crowd of late, absentee students, caring and uncaring for their attendance.

“Gray! There’s no way Thomas just likes Micro!” They’re going to be so late to their classes, but at this point, Snowbird doesn’t even care anymore. The only thing he can be happy about is not having the first period with Thomas.

“What? My brother is not that mean!”

“But what if he is?!” What if they break Micro’s heart as they did to Sap’s? They run past Sidefall, unaware of the wandering chaos brewing next to him.

Gray slows down their frenzied jog, finally giving them time to breathe properly, “Listen, dude, it isn’t our decision for who anyone loves, alright? Breathe man. I get that you’re scared, but what if it’s just that—that Thomas likes Micro?”

“If it’s just that..?” If all the plans they never told him, all the things they had him do with Saps, all to pretend not hearing him sob and sob in the next room over—if it’s just that. There’s no way, it can’t be. Snowbird can’t, won’t, make himself believe that. He winces and shakes his head.

Gray gives him a pitiful look. It only fills him with more guilt, more isolation. The Conspiracy makes him so happy and terrible. They make him laugh, but when Gray and Snowbird enter their classroom, they don’t say anything more or anything less—their gazes separated by more than just tables.

For once, Snowbird is happy with the math sheet in front of him. Snowbird isn’t bad at math—not good either—but it’s tedious. So, Snowbird forgets, and Snowbird is so happy that he forgets.

—

Thomas doesn’t mean to grab Snowbird’s shoulder so hard—except, maybe he does.

Snowbird is waiting in his typical spot, the air tensely sudden. He bites the inside of his mouth, his brow twitching with sweat despite the dying cold.

In truth, Thomas hadn’t expected to see anyone snooping around that morning, much less his own sister. (Some part of him curses himself for not checking his messages.) It was funny watching them scurry away like little rats, but Thomas knows that they won’t tell anyone—try not to anyway.

He’s embarrassed, more importantly, so Thomas starts with something easy, hopefully smiling and friendly. “So. Snowb-”

“What else did Fluixon tell you that he didn’t tell me?”

Thomas instinctively loosens his grip on Snowbird. What? Snowbird keeps his head towards the ground. He furrows his brows, “Snowbird, what are you talking about?’

Snowbird’s voice is uncharacteristically quiet. Thomas tilts his head, worry festering into him like an impulsive thought. They’re outside the campus during their shared break period—like they usually are, even though they’re not supposed to. The two sit on the raised edge of the nearby park. Snowbird’s dirty blonde hair covers his face as if he were a ghost that will forever haunt him with distress. He’s mulling it in his head. What did he do wrong this time?

Snowbird brings his knees to his chest. Thomas gives himself time to silently sigh before lifting his hand to carefully rub at Snowbird’s arm—the side he had his firm grip on earlier. “I’m not…mad…at you, if that’s what you are thinking,” Thomas talks to Snowbird the same way he used to console Gray when he took away her toys. He hasn’t talked like this in so long that he struggles to find the right words.

Thomas starts again, “If you’re thinking that this is related to the whole Fluixon and Saparata scheme, it isn’t.” He can feel the younger boy tense and then relax, over and over again, under his tender palm.

Snowbird’s voice is so quiet it hurts. “I don’t care if you’re trying to make me feel better, just tell me the truth.”

“...it is the truth. I’m not tryi-. I’m not using Micro for anything, “ Thomas clenches and unclenches his fist. “I was surprised at first, too, y’know, but despite everything, we’ve become…good friends.”

Snowbird chuckles to himself, and then it becomes hysterical. The sentence sounds so odd to Thomas’s ear that he can’t help but laugh at himself, too. “Oh, Thomas,” Snowbird wipes his eyes, turning to look at him. “I’ve never seen you look at someone the way you do at my brother.”

Thomas blinks, conflicted like Snowbird always makes him feel. (It was Snowbird who first came to him when they first pitched the idea of orchestrating against Saparata, subtly pleading for opposition, who improperly introduced him to Micro, even if it was through half glances.)

“Wha- Sorry, what..?”

Snowbird laughs even more at Thomas’s confusion. “Thomas, do you- ha, do you even want Micro?” He asks like it’s so simple, wiping his tears of joy and sorrow.

Does he? Thomas feels strange around Micro, but it isn’t because of Micro, is it? Micro’s soft hair and grinning, his need for mischief, or his chaotic casualness. Micro seems to make him feel everything where Thomas swears was once nothing.

And then…

Thomas starts snickering too, because it isn’t that simple at all.

So Thomas asks, “Why wouldn’t I love Micro?”

Snowbird tells him he’s utterly screwed.

—

School’s over, the somber day darkening for a brighter night.

(“The rest of our siblings are gonna kill you, Thomas,” Snowbird’s sniffled giggles echo throughout the empty park.

“Who are your siblings?”)

The park is still empty, a few students seat themselves on the park benches and tables. Thomas finds Micro on a swing, so Thomas sits on the other side.

Micro almost looks surprised when he lowers his gaze from the sunken sky.

(Snowbird looks up at the blinking sun, hugging his knees closely, “Jophiel, Saparata, Micro, and me. That’s our little family.”

Well, fuck.

Snowbird starts giggling again. They’ve definitely overstayed their break, but Thomas won’t be the one to say it.)

“Thomas?”

“Micro.”

Micro simply hums, letting the pastime float by as he tries to find stars in the winter evening sky, letting his feet dangle just above the bark.

(“What else did Fluixon say to you?”

“That he loved Saparata, and hated how he changed for love…He told me he was scared once. That he lost his control over himself because of it. Though if you ask Fluixon, he’ll say he never loved Saparata at all, and everyone knows he’s lying through his teeth. I couldn’t have changed his mind, even if I felt I needed to.”

“…I know.”)

Thomas tightens his grip on the chain of the swing. “Are you waiting for someone?” He doesn’t look away from Micro, not for one second, in fear that he might forget.

Micro stares at the dark stars, then at his dangling feet, “I have to wait for my sister, because she’s the one with the car. All my siblings have student leadership, whatever, after school today.” The swing creaks as Micro begins slowly swaying back and forth, his untied, pale hair aimlessly following him.

Thomas’s ungloved hands are burnt nearly frozen, but his chest is feverishly warm. “I’ll wait here with you then.”

(“You really do love Micro, don’t you?”

Thomas doesn’t have to respond because Snowbird already knows the answer.)

“Oh- you don’t hav-“

“I live nearby anyway.” Thomas can imagine it now, Gray at home with her beloved water bottle—and his, by extension—softly giggling as she passes his room.

(“Do you believe in luck, Thomas? Because you’ll need a lot if you want to get on Sap’s and Jophiel’s good side, man.”)

The crickets in the grass start to chirp, and Micro digs the tip of his shoes into the bark. “You don’t have to stay for me.”

“Do you want me to stay?” Thomas’s soles stay flat on the ground as he watches the ghostly boy.

Micro finally turns to look at him, and Thomas blurts out, ”Has anyone told you that you have pretty freckles?”

Micro mumbles so faintly, “No…they haven’t,” but Thomas hears it regardless.

—

The swing grinds softly in the slight tussle Micro sways in. A star twinkles out from gloomy shadows as the sun falls from its high.

“Does this mean you’ll wait here with me every time?”

For no one else but you, Micro. Only Thomas just promises and says, “Of course.”

Chapter Text

“Y’know, it’s funny. I met the rest of the Canadian Cartel because they had hung around the park after school too, and now they don’t, and it’s funny, isn’t it?”

Micro doesn’t look up to meet his eyes.

—

The days are getting warmer and longer. A part of Thomas is overjoyed at that fact, despite Gray’s obvious dismay. No more walking in and out to school in the dark. He won’t be huddling his own jackets in an attempt at shaking the chill in his bones. Thomas, for once, wakes up without the major urge to stay in his blankets, coddling him from the blistering cold in the house.

So maybe Thomas feels a bit more relaxed today. He doesn’t even slide a quick remark at the fact that Gray had taken too long to leave the house. Casual and teasing demeanor, all until Micro waves at Thomas, and he can only pray that he doesn’t look like a wild mess.

When the first half of his classes end, Thomas gets an ever-forboding feeling that something has gone wrong. It’s a gradual buildup, probably because too many good things have happened for him to raise suspicion. So Thomas doesn’t realize it at first, but when he does, he can physically feel himself deflate.

Unfortunately, Thomas is currently on the verge of failing his science class.

He isn’t exactly a straight-A student as much as he would like to be. (Thomas is not Fluixon after all.) However, Thomas does not want to repeat any class, much less a science class, for another year. So when Thomas hears about the upcoming project for the month, he knows he has to get a good score.

(Gotoga, the ever pretentious, terribly suave boy he is, does not bat an eye at the unusually fidgety Thomas. Except when he does, Thomas just intuitively glares. Gotoga at least has the nerve to smile back and wave.

“Did you edit my grade in Mr. Wooddaddy’s class?”

“I plead my Fifth Amendment rights.”

“Fuck you, Gotoga.”)

It’s a 3-person project where they have to build a scrap roller coaster for a small marble, due in a week and a half. They need a loop, a tunnel, a minimum height of a meter, a minimum of a 35-inch strip, and everything else…The deadline is not as daunting to him as the fact that Thomas would have to work with two other people.

Typically, this would not be a problem, except that Snowbird and Gotoga totally betrayed him by recruiting Seraphim as their final member—damn traitors…when Thomas turns to glare at them, Snowbird only gives a knowing look and glances at Micro, then back to him. (Thomas flusters at the implication, but no one has to say anything.)

Fluixon and Hvyrotation pair up with Legacy. Which leads Thomas to pair up Micro and Banana, and as much as Thomas may adore Micro’s own chaos—Micro’s ideas and uncalled for mischief—he absolutely does not trust Micro to ace this project, which is what Thomas desperately needs. Not that Micro is dumb—Thomas knows he isn’t—but rather that Micro may be…a bit blindsided to how distressing the situation is—in Thomas’s head.

Micro busies himself by talking to Panzer—apparently, Thomas does not know the guy—and Banana exchanges curious glances between Thomas and Micro, but Thomas couldn’t care less. Despite the chaos of homework from other classes, dealing with Gray’s inevitable boredom, and his own internal turmoil, Thomas begins to lay out the details of the project through Micro and Banana’s side conversations.

It takes a moment for the world around Thomas to finally start being acknowledged. A stool creaks under someone behind them. Thomas nervously clicks his pen. The teacher hovers over a table on his left while Micro periodically taps on Thomas’s shoes with his own. He can feel Snowbird’s gaze on the back of his head like a final wave of security before he meets Ish himself.

Micro takes him out of his own head and nudges a finger against his cheekbone, “Are we gonna have lock in for this one, Thomas?”

Thomas might just be embarrassed with the way he immediately softens, “If we don’t, I think I’ll explode and become a devil just to curse you all…Please do.” Despite the endearing commotion, Thomas can’t help but clench his fist against the table.

If this all goes to ruin, he can just be happy about having another excuse for being with Micro before Saparata comes along to publicly execute him.

And working with Banana…he supposes.

—

“So, who has what supplies?” Thomas says as he fidgets with his pen.

Banana glances up from where Micro plays with Thomas’s hands.

It’s…almost disbelief how much Micro can get away with—not only against his siblings, but everything Banana has seen Micro and Thomas do together too. It started with Thomas hesitantly giving his hands for Micro to pop, and then, where Micro curls the hand to rest under his chin after a while, decidedly bored given his ramblings.

But it’s not like this is Banana’s first time seeing these two interact. Thomas and Micro make such sweet heart-eyes at each other that it makes Banana’s teeth hurt.

(Don’t forget to mention the amount of extra drainage from the cartel’s supplies because Micro’s been baking more than he could ever eat. Seriously, Banana could watch Micro and Thomas kiss in front of his darned eyes, and when asked, Micro would say something along the lines of “oh, it’s not a big deal” with his cheeks terribly hot.

Yeah…

Big deal his ass Micro.)

With Micro’s track record, it is obvious to Banana what this is. However, Banana believes that he has seen something he never should have.

Acting oblivious, Banana leans over the table, hovering to see the list of materials.

Cardboard. Some tape—prefer duct tape—is written next to it. The paper serving as the path is provided by the teacher. Blah blah blah…Banana skims over the list.

Micro is still holding Thomas’s hand, moving it into his messy hair and probably resting on his neck, “I have a hot glue gun lying around my room. I would just have to look for it.” It isn’t a weird move in and of itself—Micro runs strangely cold—except that Micro won’t usually coddle an arm as if it were his own pillow.

Banana squints his eyes, “Didn’t Panzer ask for one last week, and everyone said that they didn’t have one, Micro?” Thomas looks like he knows where this is going.

“Then what if I just remembered, it’s not like Panzer needs it anymore.” Micro furrows his brows, swinging Thomas’s arm left to right, his elbow anchored to the table like a fake match of arm wrestling.

Suspicious, suspicious…is what Banana mulls around in his brain.

It isn’t hard to tell when Micro gets flustered; he's as pale as a ghost after all, but something about it is making Banana not want to question it—lest he want to be smacked around by said ghost boy. Micro is oddly comfortable in the way he contorts Thomas, like he has an undeniable confidence that he won’t be scolded for whatever he does to the amber-eyed man.

(And if he was, Banana doubts Micro would care much anyway.)

They’re close in the way someone could tell from a distance, an easy fluttering air around them despite the obvious pining. Thomas has always seemed like a quiet guy to Banana, complacent and smooth-tongued, except that now he looks anything but that. Thomas looks like a wet, soggy dog, in a way, Banana supposed.

Eugh, these two lovebirds almost make Banana wanna puke. If only Panzer and Neptune hadn’t grouped up with Rygolde, Banana laments.

Thomas pipes up, breaking the awkward position Banana put himself in, “I have some material in mind that could substitute for the cardboard.”

Micro’s eyes curiously land on Banana. “Oh, uh, I probably have tape around my house. I’ll try and see what I can find.” Thomas doesn’t even look up from the instruction paper. Banana is totally third-wheeling, isn’t he?

For someone as stone-faced as Thomas—supposedly from everything Banana has seen from the man—his ears are awfully red.

Hm…

“Doesn’t your sister do stagecraft Micro?” Jophiel, if he remembers correctly.

(Thomas grimaces at the mention.)

Banana faces Micro, taking another glance at the touching of hands. Thomas’s eyes are glued to the table, embarrassed or dumbstruck. Neptune will find out when he wants to.

Heh, he knew that Micro looked more cheerful recently. Neptune owes Banana a substantial amount of money.

“Huh? Oh, yeah.”

“Surely they have materials we can borrow, no?”

…

“I have a feeling that you’re not talking about borrowing.”

Banana unashamedly smiles a devious smile. The sound of Thomas hitting his head against the table is the least of Banana’s concerns.

—

“So then, I was saying you can take the girls out of California, but you can’t take California out of the girls, y’know?”

“I still don’t understand why stagecraft would have anything we would need or already don’t have, Banana.”

They’ve been arguing for half the class. Thomas was probably too flustered out of his mind to suggest anything that would stop these two. His hand still holds the ghost of Micro’s nape, cold to Thomas’s warmth but still a monument of odd comfort.

Banana pushes on, “Well, I was getting to the point, Micro.”

“There is no point,” Micro doubles down, resulting in a stare-off that won’t matter in the next hour.

Thomas’s head is starting to throb.

The folded paper is cut, sitting on the table, ready to be taped together for the upcoming monstrosity that will become their project. Micro is still playing with his hand—bothered and hot—like a tennis ball being whacked on each side.

Micro’s skin is cold compared to the rush in Thomas’s hand—though, maybe it is because he’s so flustered. Micro’s skin feels thin but not soft, fitted but not properly lived in. Thomas could feel the goosebumps slowly prickling out from Micro’s nape.

He’s surprised at the apparent trust Micro gives him. Thomas tries his best to leave his hand gentle and limp at Micro’s pickings.

A finger prods into Thomas’s brown curly hair. “Thomas..! Hello? Anyone in there?” Micro shakes his arm.

Thomas might just explode.

“I think you killed him dude.”

“What? I did nothing, Banana.”

Banana lets out a skeptical hum and then a mocking chuckle, “Yeah, huh, sure…”

Thomas hears Micro smack Banana’s arm, an “owie” escaping from the man with the lime-colored beanie.

Thomas can hear the pout in Micro's voice. “Stop being dramatic,” he finally lifts his head from the table, locking eyes with Micro. “Thomas, do you believe in calling the types of Gatorade by the colors or by the flavors? This may or may not perpetually affect our relationship, Thomas, so think very carefully here.” Micro points a finger at him.

This is a trick; Thomas knows there isn’t a definite answer. There’s a fire in Micro’s eyes brewing with every second as Banana observes them. If asked by anyone else, this would have been an easy question—however correct or incorrect as he wanted it to be—but of course, Thomas’s brain is too haywired with the insistent feeling that occurs whenever Micro is near.

Banana brings Thomas out of his head as Banana slams his hands on the table, “The question isn’t whether categorizing Gatorade by its color or flavor is correct, the question is which one is more ethical!”

Thomas can only be glad at the fact that the classroom is just as loud as Banana; they would have gotten some strange looks that Thomas doesn’t have the energy to do damage control around.

—

It ends up raining later that day. The Canadian Cartel, as they so proudly called themselves, huddle under the school roofs as the downpour tries to flood anything standing in its way. Banana can only hope that his socks won’t be wet by the time he gets home—and his instrument, if his teacher doesn’t feel like killing him, the repair bill will.

It’s quiet against the rain, though. Wanting conversation, Banana raises a brow, watching the cold water fall inches away from him, and asks, “Micro, do you really have a hot glue gun?”

Banana can feel the waiting, somber mood leave in an instant. Panzer straightens his back, “You had a glue gun this whole time?!” All eyes landed on Micro, a drowsy smirk on his face as he looked up at the dimming sky before he hurriedly turned to face the rest of the Canadian Cartel.

“What?”

Panzer rubs his face tiredly. (A snicker from Neptune does not go unnoticed.)

“You. Had a hot. Glue. Gun. This whole time?! Do you know how much time it would have saved me if I hadn’t had to beg for Longdawg’s, which was like, a thousand years old?!” Panzer looks like he wants to smack Micro’s head a hundred times over, and neither Banana nor Neptune would have stopped him.

Panzer loudly groans as Micro unhelpingly puts his hands up, “Hey man, I only just remembered alrig-”

“Ha, I bet Micro only remembered for the sake of his boyfriend,” Neptune teases, Banana embarrassingly cooing in the background.

“Thomas isn’t my boyfriend!”

(Neptune hurriedly remarks, “I didn’t say who!”

“Shut up, Neptune!” Micro’s face is terribly red that Banana might almost feel bad for him. Almost.)

Banana thinks that Micro should be glad that the rain drowns out his humiliation.

“Yeah, well, you two sure look like you want to.” Banana watches the way Micro’s brow twitches—maybe against the cold, but probably not. “I mean, seriously, you looked so dumb once you finally got his number. What are you going to name his contact, Thomas, with three heart emojis at the end?”

Micro gives Banana his infamous deadpanned stare as Neptune bursts out laughing. Banana has to hold himself from cackling in front of Micro’s face.

(“I can’t believe you’ve done this, Micro. I can’t believe you’ve betrayed me like this…” Panzer hysterically mumbles, gripping his raven-colored hair close to his glasses.)

Micro’s pride was already bruised the moment they grouped up with Thomas. Even if Banana looks away from this unofficial staring contest, Micro loses either way. Banana crosses his arms with a cruel, knowing look.

Inevitably, Micro gives in, moving his hands to his flustered face. He mutters, “I hate all of you…”

Micro really should have seen this coming. “You wanna bet who he doesn’t hate, though?” Neptune has trouble holding his hysterics, getting up from his crouch, as he turns to look at Banana.

Neptune and Banana say it at the same time, embarrassingly loud and with the full intention of degrading Micro’s ego, “THOMASSS!!”

Micro groans cries with humiliation, hands in his face as Panzer angrily shakes him.

(There are arrangements over the weekend to meet at Micro’s house—for the project that Banana only partly cares about. It probably won’t be any better than today; it won’t be any better than today, Banana can already tell. He does not want to be subject to whatever Micro and Thomas do not want to label it as again, ever—that’s more of a Neptune thing, ever the instigator. If Banana simply says that he can’t make it, sickness or not, he’s sure that Micro won’t mind…In all honesty, Banana is doing Micro a favor.

Banana does not want to be there for whatever freaky, loveydovey crap Thomas and Micro can get into outside of school.)

Chapter Text

It starts like this…

Thomas is so fucking scared.

Today is both a day Thomas has been looking forward to and a day Thomas has been dreading. Thomas doesn’t want to acknowledge the hours he spent sitting quietly as Banana and Micro argue about silly, weird things.

(“If you had to betray one person to save a thousand, would you?”

“This isn’t psychology class, Banana.”)

They—and by they, Thomas mainly means himself—have barely started constructing the paper roller coaster. A sad-looking base with a singular pillar attached to it, Thomas can only be glad that it could fit in the trunk of his car, though that’s only because it’s practically nothing.

Despite this, Thomas is not as bummed out as much as he should be.

Perhaps it was because of the distraction (or rather, victory) of finally getting Micro’s number and texting over the weekends. Maybe Thomas spent all the days before thinking about all the good and bad ways this day could go wrong. Maybe Thomas had kicked his feet and screamed into his pillows like a lovesick anime girl in the 1990s while texting Micro, even if the texts were nothing short of awkward.

Plot relevant or not, Thomas still has a grade to save!

He nearly trips with his gaze locked onto his phone—waiting for something.

Thomas walks into the kitchen to see Gray sitting on the counter—one leg up and eating a sandwich. She already has suspicions, judging from the way she laughs at herself. Observing Thomas’s calm outside demeanor, they both know she can see his hands fidgeting with the car keys. He shoves a few snacks in his bag before going to run a hand through his hair, chucking a granola bar into his mouth.

Thomas runs a mental check—a text to his parents, house keys, poster materials, phone….

“And where are you going?” Gray takes a bite out of her sandwich, looking up and down at Thomas’s outfit. A thin purple jacket with a white sweatshirt underneath, along with a lightweight amber-colored scarf—specially knitted by Gray herself.

Thomas smooths down some of the wrinkles in his grey pants, “Nunya.”

“Let me guess…it’s either Fluixon’s house…or your boyfriend’s house.”

“Shut up, Gray.” Thomas fumbles putting on his shoes, a quiet blush rising to his face. He doubles down, “I don’t have a boyfriend.”

Thomas faces his back towards Gray, but she can probably see how red his ears are.

Gray mindlessly hums, “Not yet.” She laughs at Thomas’s not-exactly-deadpan face as he turns around.

Thomas mutters under his breath, “Whatever…” Gray doesn’t bother hiding her cackling this time.

“Tell Micro I said hi!” Gray teasingly shouts. “If you don’t come back, I’ll make sure to put some posters up asking for my lovesick brother to come back home.”

Thomas slams the door without looking back.

—

It doesn’t take long for Thomas to drive to Micro’s house. It doesn’t stop his palms from sweating, or him repeatedly checking his phone to make sure he’s at the right house, but at least he has a reason to be here—for Micro.

The radio had suspiciously decided to play only love songs the entire drive that only made Thomas blush ear to ear.

He wipes his hands on his pants, holding the bag of project materials with a death grip before hesitantly opening the car door. An unassuming house in an unassuming neighborhood, totally oblivious to Thomas’s inner conflict. He opens the trunk of his car and narrows his eyes at the depressing creation as if Thomas has a personal vendetta against the pieces of poster board. Thomas shoves the singular pillar into the opening of the bag, balancing the white square base among the onslaught of tape and paper the bag already holds, which sticks out like a dead sunflower in a field of weeds.

This is fine, Thomas tells himself, it isn’t like you’ve had dreams exactly like this–entering Micro’s house for whatever reason his sleep thought of. Nope, never…

The walk from his car to Micro’s front porch is only a few dozen steps—the longest dozen of steps Thomas had ever had the opportunity of taking. The bag in his hand suddenly feels heavy enough to drag Thomas into the earth’s core, but regardless, what other chance will Thomas have to set foot into Micro’s house without immediately being chased out by Jophiel…He shudders at the thought.

Thomas takes a moment to look around, calming his nerves from churning him inside out.

There’s a crack in the pavement just outside of Micro’s garage, darkly humid from last night’s downpour. Warm and neutral colors paint the house as cozy and humble. However, Halloween decorations, although small, are still hung up in the middle of spring with blooming rose bushes.

(Micro had always liked to show Thomas why he believed ghosts were real. Whatever Thomas’s thoughts about ghosts were, it wasn’t like he listened or needed much convincing when all he did was admire the absolute mania in Micro’s eyes.)

A small magenta spirit orb with a face like a theater mask of tragedy hangs just below the doorbell. Awfully intimidating if you ask Thomas, it makes the doubt in his mind bigger than ever.

It screams ‘Micro’ to anyone who has had the chance of knowing him, the motif of magenta purple and Micro’s offhanded intrigue of the undead.

Thomas twists the plastic handles of the bag, an uneasy smile creeping up onto his face.

A wind chime hidden in a corner softly grinds against the light, floral winds tousling through Thomas’s wavy hair. He presses his finger to the doorbell—a ring echoes as if sealing Thomas’s flustered fate.

—

“Thomas…”

“Hello, Saparata.”

Saparata narrows his eyes, blocking entry from the doorway he leans on. He can feel his gaze turn dark and wicked in real time. Honestly, Saparata might be able to feel a vein popping out as he crosses his arms across his chest.

On a weekend, someone would typically imagine relaxing or spending precious time in their beds, but oh no, apparently, this is the day Thomas fucking 5200 decides to knock on his door to annoy him, of all times.

Saparata has just spent the last few days cramming for weeks of his history class tests; it's safe to say that Saparata is not in a good mood right now.

“What do you want, Thomas?” Saparata begrudgingly sighs out a smile.

“Can’t a guy say hi to a friend every once in a while?” Thomas tilts his head.

Saparata’s eye twitches ever so slightly, “...I wouldn’t say that we’re exactly friends anymore.”

“I know,” Thomas’s face doesn’t change a single inch. False smile against false smile—both willing to hide something. Thomas tries to look beyond Saparata, further into the house as if looking for something—someone.

“Snowbird isn’t home.”

“Oh, I’m not here for him.”

There’s a 50% chance Saparata might dropkick Thomas this very second…

“Then what the hell are you doing at my house, Thomas?” Saparata puts more grit than he meant to when he says Thomas’s name, smiling wider, but not out of joy. Nonetheless, Saparata was absolutely not happy to see Thomas.

(Fluixon knew how to be relentless–clingy. Why else would Thomas be at his doorstep? His shit-eatting grin and the suspicious bag in his hand. It was one thing for Fluixon to total his damn car, but it was another to try and steal Joseph’s favor!

That bastard can’t even bother to meet him face-to-face.

Saparata narrows his eyes.)

Thomas raises a brow at the other’s comment. A frigid wind breezes onto Saparata’s face, and he almost shivers at how much Thomas is caught off-guard.

Thomas’s smug grin is quickly wiped off with confusion, “Wait, Micro didn’t tell you?”

Saparata can feel an irritation slither up his back again with Thomas’s mention of Micro. “What’s this whole shtick got to do with my brother?-“

Footsteps race down the stairs, a curse under a breath from a near trip. It sounds like thunder in the dark tension out on the front porch.

“Thomas!”

Saparata eyes Thomas, watching how Thomas’s demeanor immediately melts like a lonely glob of Oobleck. Thomas smiles softly when he and Micro meet eyes; it’s in a way Saparata never thought he would see.

(It freaks Saparata out from its familiarity. Saparata can feel his heart drop as the strange realization settles in.)

“Micro,” Thomas mumbles gently.

Saparata turns to see Micro slightly short of breath before rudely shoving him out of the doorway.

“I didn’t think you’d show up early!” Micro tugs on Thomas' sleeve—the side not holding the stuffed bag—and drags him into their house before going on about how Banana ‘couldn’t make it’. Micro fixes the glasses on his face as he firmly holds Thomas’s hand. Saparata is almost speechless at whatever he’s seen.

Saparata scrunches his brows, “Wai- Micro!-“

Micro rushes Thomas upstairs—probably into his room—and spares a glance to his very confused brother, “In a minute, Saps!”

“I-“ Saparata stutters, left standing in the middle of the open doorway. He blinks before deciding that the bitter outside air isn’t worth letting in.

—

“You seriously can’t just invite random people into our house, Micro.” Saparata pinches his nose bridge.

“I was going to tell you…or Jophiel…it just slipped my mind.” Micro slightly hunches over, tilting his head to the side and looking at the ground, “It isn’t like Thomas is a stranger anyway. You and I both know him enough to know he isn’t some stranger…”

“He’s worse than just some stranger to me, Micro.” Saparata might just sigh. Surely his brother can’t be this naive…

He wishes Jophiel were here to deal with this; Micro’s puppy eyes might just make him fall victim—his black glasses framing his big, pleading eyes.

“Why is Thomas here anyway? You didn’t invite him just to make out or something, did you? Otherwise, I’ll drag him out of this damn house and ban him from ever stepping into a 100-mile radius of here.”

It’s more impulsive than anything, but Micro nearly shrieks, his pitiful facade hurriedly melting away, and clutching his glasses. Saparata snickers, raising a curious brow at Micro’s embarrassed reaction.

“What is wrong with you?!”

“I don’t think you want me to answer that question.”

Micro huffs, “...I already knew most of it anyway…”

Saparata chooses to ignore that comment and crosses his arms, “Micro, really? Thomas of all people?”

“As if you and F-,” Micro opens his mouth as if to say more, but quickly closes it, deciding to keep his tongue tied to whatever remark had almost rolled off his tongue. Saparata knows what Micro is trying to get at, though, and parts of his smug smile slightly fall flat.

“Liste-,” Micro runs his hands through his messy hair and lets out a frustrated sigh with a blushed face. “Thomas is here because we have to finish a project for science, the one Mr. Wooddaddy always assigns for the second year of his stupid science class.”

(Jophiel would’ve scolded Micro for insulting his teacher like that, but that isn’t the part Saparata particularly cares about. Though Saparata also thinks that Micro shouldn’t say that to the teacher who literally lets him and his friends bake drugs in his classroom after school…If only she hadn’t gone to run some errands for him…)

Saparata looks up from where Micro stands at the top of the stairs, putting his hands on his hips. “So no making out?”

“No!” Micro’s face is amazingly red.

Saparata narrows his eyes, “Yeah, huh…keep your door open, Micro…”

“Whatever…” Micro scoffs under his breath.

“Are you giving me an attitude right now?” Saparata raises a brow.

“No Saps…”

—

When Micro shuts the door behind him, the first thing Thomas notices—aside from the somewhat nauseating amount of purple—is the dusty piano pressed against the far wall of the room. There’s a desk chaotically surrounded by wires and a laptop. Snacks and bags of candy are shoved into a corner of a desk leg while a space heater softly hums its warmth into the—frankly speaking—bland room.

It’s hard to keep his mind off the very obvious conversation about him happening beyond the walls. Thomas takes off his shoes and places them near the door before setting the bag of materials on the floor.

It’s strange to think Micro’s room looks lifeless compared to how Thomas sees him. The walls look dull, even with the sun’s ambers shining on them. Micro’s full-sized bed—wrinkled and messily made—is purple all around, besides some of his white pillows. The other concerning part is the obsessive amount of purple, but Thomas is friends with Fluixon, and it isn’t like Saparata’s wardrobe is not 99% full of white.

It’s awfully empty, Thomas can’t help but think, spacious enough that if anyone were to do a flimsy cartwheel, they wouldn’t hit anything. There’s a lack of a character Thomas thought would be here; it makes him uneasy all over again, worse than the cold sweat he felt when he met Saparata at the door.

The piano is large in comparison to everything else in the room, like an unmoving statue across a low tide. The black and white keys are layered with a cloud of thick grey as it sits shoved in a corner.

There’s a notable space between the piano and the rest of the room. The swing of the door isolates it from view as if it were a veil draped over it. Micro has never mentioned playing piano, and there’s a possibility that he doesn’t, yet its mysterious presence drives his mind wondering why Micro bothers trying to hide it when it’s the biggest thing in here—besides his bed.

‘It looks lonely,’ Thomas thinks.

Thomas doesn’t get to dwell too much on that thought before he hears approaching footsteps.

Micro peers through the door before softly shutting it, slightly flustered at his face, “Sorry about that, I kinda…forgot to tell my family that you were coming over…” Micro joins him on the floor of his room.

Thomas teases as if to shake his own nerves, “You don’t say…” Micro awkwardly laughs, foreign enough to Thomas’s ears that it makes him widen his eyes ever so slightly.

Micro takes the time to unpack whatever was in Thomas’s bag, placing them on the floor as if he were taking apart pieces of a grenade. Thomas can’t help but gaze at Micro—surely the other should feel his stare if he were not so used to it by now.

Micro’s hair is left untied, the length just reaching his shoulder. It’s combed through, but still tousled around like Micro was lying in bed a minute ago. Thomas chuckles at the white, dotted fuzzy socks that match Micro’s hair. Micro has on grey, leopard-print pajama pants with a plain purple shirt, but most importantly, Micro is currently wearing thin, black-rimmed glasses. It rests low enough for his two moles to be in the frames, the faded scar across his nose just below the bridge of the glasses. If looks could kill, Thomas would be nothing more than a dead man.

A quiet, nervous tension fills the room. The silence could’ve stretched for hours. It’s patient, too willing to wait until its only crack breaks the whole frame. Thomas can hear his heart beat in his head as he unfolds and flips through the paper of instructions, as if he hasn’t already read it over and over again. In a corner of his mind, he can hear Micro’s heater whine faintly despite the sharpening quiet.

Thomas presses his lips together tightly before hesitantly opening his mouth.

“Wha-“

“Di-“

They’re closer than Thomas remembers, telling from the way Micro leans back with frenzied eyes.

Micro stutters and rubs at the back of his neck. “You can go first,” he nervously chuckles.

Thomas studies Micro’s face, “…I was wondering about your glasses. I’ve never seen you wear them before.”

Micro instinctively reaches for them. “Well, usually I don’t, but Jophiel’s been nagging on me for my vision recently. I don’t wear them to school…even if it’s the place I need them the most…” Micro mumbles out the last part before suddenly getting up from the floor, rummaging through, presumably, his closet.

“They look good on you,” Thomas says absentmindedly.

(Micro mutters a small, flustered ‘thank you’; it’s too bad that Thomas can’t see the blush rising into his face with Micro’s back turned to him.)

Taking out the hot glue gun from its old, mangled box, Micro plugs it into the closest empty outlet from where they sat on the floor.

Micro chimes, “Hey, um, did you…” Micro takes a moment to pause, “You didn’t …hear anything when I was outside, right?”

Thomas feigns an oblivious face, “Not really. Why?”

“Just wondering…” Micro gives him a look Thomas can’t read.

He doesn’t know what to think of it.

(Micro knows better than anyone else that the walls in their house are thick, words become meaningless whispers when the openings are shut. Micro shouldn’t have felt so indifferent to the fact that he trusted Thomas so much to be in his room. He probably should have cleaned it, but it wasn’t like there was much to hide, besides that old piano he never plays. He had made sure to close the door when he suddenly tugged Thomas into his quiet room. Yet, it doesn’t stop the careless beat of Micro’s quivering heart.)

—

“I’m so bored…” Micro mumbles for what seems like the hundredth time.

“If you’re so bored, then maybe you should help me,” Thomas says with a small sigh.

Micro groans from his starfish position on the floor. “I’ve been cutting and folding and gluing for the past hour! Do you really need the full marks this badly?”

“I’d be failing if I don’t, Micro.”

Micro rubs his face as he dramatically whines, turning over onto his stomach and kicking his fluffy-socked feet. Thomas can hear his glasses butt against the hard floor.

Thomas places the marble onto their scuffed creation and watches as it takes too sharp a turn and falls off—too low of a dip. He scrunches his face as he crawls after it.

“Did you do the math homework yet?” Micro lies on his side with his hair slightly obscuring his face. Thomas has to stop himself from staring.

“And if I did?”

“Give me the answers, Thomas…”

Thomas’ fingers are starting to feel prickly from the amount of tape getting stuck to them. “Say the magic word first, Micro.”

“You can’t try to pull that bullshit now, of all times, think about all we’ve been through!” Micro suddenly sits up, playfully putting a hand on his chest as he flicks his head away.

Thomas softly chuckles to himself, “Yeah? And what have we been through?”

Thomas can feel himself slowly fluster under his skin. The heater in the room makes it feel too warm all of a sudden, and the mischievous glint in Micro’s eyes is terribly familiar to Thomas by now that he doesn’t take a second glance at it anymore.

Micro starts to shuffle closer, ”Jeez, I feed you, and this is how you treat me? How horrible…”

There’s a smile on Micro’s face—Thomas knows there is—even if he tries to hide it with the back of his hand. Before Thomas knows it, Micro is to his side. His head peaking over Thomas’ shoulder, hands separated by only centimeters.

Micro takes the time to scan over the project. There are lingering remnants of a smile on Micro’s face, soft blushing on the apples of his cheek—only that his colorless, untethered hair bothers to hide it.

It reminds Thomas of the day they spent at the park. Winter—too cold for Thomas that he shouldn’t have cared, only that he did—and the falling sky, painted in dancing amber and dark lavenders. Micro runs his gaze over the pieces of cardboard and paper the same way he had when he looked up at the snuffed stars then.

That night had looked beautiful…Thomas watches Micro in the corner of his eye.

So terribly beautiful.

Micro rests his chin on Thomas’ shoulder, his hair tickling his neck as Thomas’ heart pounds like the thumping of landmines. Thomas’s ears begin to ring, burning with the cold heat of Micro’s proximity.

His eyes widen.

Thomas is going to be red for days.

Their hands don’t ever touch, but Micro starts to press his body against Thomas’s back. It’s a painfully sluggish waltz—one without music and only the tempo of their beating hearts. He can feel Micro’s gaze on him when Thomas slightly pushes back.

The moment feels too slow and too fast at the same time.

The paper in his hand crumbles under his nervous grip. Their cardboard roller coaster—made through Thomas’s desperate urge to not fail his class—begins to look horribly far from where Thomas sits cross-legged.

Is this a test from Ish?

Thomas doesn’t know what he’s praying for, but a part of him has already started begging.

The lingering feeling of wanting to combust returns tenfold. Thomas hesitantly tries to look back before Micro suddenly puts his hands around his stomach and-

“I’m not ticklish…”

Micro pulls back to flail on the floor.

—

Thomas finally decides that it’s Micro’s turn to do some work after the stunt he pulled—much to Micro’s obvious dismay. Though maybe if Thomas’s head wasn’t running circles around what happened, he would have laughed at Micro’s sulking pout. His heart still beats loudly in his ears, but it has certainly calmed down compared to before.

Thomas leans back on his palms, wiping the sweat off with his pants.

“What did you want me to do here again?” Micro sighs as he holds his face in his hands.

The roller coaster is nearly done, other than to start connecting parts with tape and more and more tape. There is little left to do—little left for Micro to possibly mess up—and Thomas begins to point to where Micro should arrange pieces.

They work in quiet coordination. A gentle, comfortable silence amasses in the dull room. They go through their third tape roll, but fortunately, Micro has a strangely large amount of tape hidden across his room. Thomas swears that their hands brush each other more than necessary, and it’s him who flinches—however small—every time.

It takes a while for one of them to finally break the soft-spoken air around them, be it fear or compliance to comfort.

Micro sleepily mumbles as he watches the marble run their cardboard course, hunched like he’s about to fall over, “Truth…or dare.”

Thomas barely hears it—too preoccupied with adjusting the path after the marble flies off its ramp. “Truth,” He answers obliviously.

Thomas can see Micro slowly blinking in the corner of his eye. “Why are we still doing this, Thomas…”

He chuckles under his breath as he fumbles with strips of tape, hoping that they’re both thinking of the same context—but also maybe not. “Because I say so.”

Micro beats Thomas to it. “Truth or dare.”

“Isn’t it my turn now?”

Micro repeats the question, pausing with every word as he squints at the paper roller coaster, as if it crushed all his hopes and dreams. “Truth. Or. Dare.”

Thomas hums to give it some thought, “...Dare?”

“I dare you to give me your math homework.”

“I knew you’d say that,” Thomas scoffs as he lightheartedly swats his hand towards Micro.

Micro softly laughs to himself, wiping the drowsiness out of his eyes.

Thomas catches himself admiring the chime of Micro’s giggles, taking in every hiccup in his voice and smile in his eyes. “Can’t you just steal from Saparata’s old homework pages? Or even Jophiel’s?”

“It won’t be the same if I steal from them! Besides, Saps has been busy recently anyway. I wouldn’t want to bother him.”

Thomas pipes up at that. “Oh, busy with the class president election, right?”

“What?” Micro blinks, before giving Thomas a weird look. “I don’t think he was ever planning on running. Unless he’s changed his mind, but I doubt it. Though Saps has kinda been stepping away from student body positions, so who knows.”

Huh.

Wouldn’t Fluixon like to hear that? He might blow a fuse once Thomas tells him.

(Internally, Thomas has already started preparing himself for the inevitable outrage that Fluixon is going to throw.)

Thomas brushes it off—saving the turmoil for another day—and places the marble down its track again.“My turn now, truth or dare, Micro.”

Micro puts a finger to his lip and shifts his gaze away, “Hmm…truth.”

“Is it true…” Thomas softly whistles as he looks around the room, “...that your scar was from a dog?”

Frankly speaking, the scar is rather small, perfectly split across Micro’s nasal bridge in an odd way that makes his face look more symmetrical. It’s faded with time, but it is still noticeable as a memorable feature. It almost aligns with the moles near Micro’s eyes, like a face that you’d only see in a renowned painting, hidden in a museum that definitely costs too much for the average person to visit.

Micro at least looks surprised. “Well, what did I say? I got in a fight with my dog.”

Thomas doubles down, “But is it true?”

Marble goes down, marble falls off…This is really starting to make Thomas annoyed.

“Why? You don’t believe me?” Micro raises his brows, half-lidded eyes and an easy smile. Only it isn’t that easy—only it’s more like Micro is egging Thomas to continue.

(It’s then that Thomas realizes how similar Saparata and Micro really are. Not just in the way they have colorless hair or moles under their void-like eyes, or even how their faces are proportioned. It should’ve been obvious to Thomas, but Micro hides it in a way that doesn’t make you think twice.

Micro smiles the exact same way as Saparata when they’re nervous. The same cold glare but an evident grin on their faces—all the pieces were there, but it only takes until now for it to click.)

Thomas gives it a thought, “Well, if you can’t give me a straight answer, then it's obvious you’re lying, and I haven’t heard a single ‘bark’ since I got here.”

(That is, unless the dog can be accounted for as Snowbird—him and his weird affinity for making animal sounds...)

Micro stares through him, squinting his eyes with a pout before groaning, “Fine.”

Micro lies back onto the floor. “It was because of a fight I got into with Saps.” It's mumbled out with a hint of disdain that Thomas can barely catch.

Thomas raises a brow at that, “Really?”

“Well, firstly, we were barely preteens at best. Saps was getting pushy, and I, uh,” Micro hesitates as he glares up at the ceiling. “I got really angry at him, so we started pushing each other around. Next thing I know, my face is thrown into the hard edge of a table.”

Ouch.

Thomas winces, “Geez, that must’ve been rough.”

“It’s all in the past now,” Micro shrugs, brushing it off. “It doesn’t matter anymore…”

Though Micro instinctively goes to poke at the scar under his glasses, despite his statement. He has an empty face again, Thomas thinks.

Micro never changed, but for a moment, it feels like they’ve gone back to when they hadn’t known each other—when Thomas hadn’t known that Micro actually isn’t so terrible at math and just hates doing the work, or that Micro stress bakes to the point where he has to give them out lest they be wasted.

“Saps…is a good brother to me,” Micro says, almost wistfully—more to convince himself than to anyone else. It probably sounds just as strained to Micro as it does to Thomas.

—

“So, Saparata the dog, ey?”

Thomas’s heart skips a beat when Micro starts giggling on the floor.

—

“Truth or dare.”

“We’re still going with this?”

Micro scrunches his face in a way that makes Thomas want to pinch him. “Don’t make me repeat, Thomas!” Micro teasingly swats a finger at him.

Thomas rolls his eyes, but can still feel a smile creeping up on his face, “Dare.”

“...Turn off the heater for me. Left corner, till all of the red dots flick off.”

Thomas huffs, “You seriously couldn’t have done it yourself?” he asks as he already begins to stand up.

Micro kicks his feet. “I just poured my heart out to you; it’s the least I deserve.”

—

Saparata nearly busts down the door as he nonchalantly slides in.

“Heyya kiddos,” Saparata says casually, promptly ignoring the fact that he is only a year older than the others.

Micro and Thomas flinch at the sudden intrusion, nearly jumping off the floor as he makes himself known.

“Saps! What the hell!” Micro grabs a nearby pillow and chucks it at Saparata.

Saparata effortlessly catches it with one hand to toss it to the floor. “Now, what did I say about the door, Micro?”

Micro grumbles.

“Not doing anything suspicious or weird, are we?”

“What do you want, Saps?” Micro scrunches up at the assumption, his face slowly becoming warm with color. Saparata wants to take a picture and maybe hold it over Micro’s head for the rest of his life.

(Thomas mumbles in the background. “Define suspicious.”)

“Oh…you know, just checking in…” Saparata puts his hands behind his back. “What are we doing?”

Thomas spits out, “Project,” clicking his tongue when the marble doesn’t go in the right direction for what Saparata guesses seems like the 5200th time. Thomas keeps adjusting the tape that Saparata can see marks left from pulling it away.

Part of him laughs at Thomas’s struggles, but Micro gives a dirty look before Saparata can open his mouth.

So, Saparata just hums as he looks over the monstrosity of tape and paper. “This, sure is something.” Certainly.

“Sapppssss. Get out of my room!” Micro whines as he stands up to nudge Saparata out.

This isn’t a fight Micro can win—he isn’t a weight Micro can lift and throw out the door. Saparata walks to stand perfectly between Thomas and Micro, twirling his younger brother around like a fidget spinner. Thomas might be deliberately ignoring him, but Micro puts too much effort and hope into trying to remove Saparata from the room, which only makes him think they’re closer in their ‘friendship’ than he thought.

Micro isn’t too social, but Saparata swears he’s never seen Micro this shy before—or flustered, but Saparata supposes there’s a first for everything. It’s almost endearing, in a way, except it’s not if Micro’s person of interest is Thomas of all people.

‘Slimey, scheming Thomas,’ Saparata curses in his head. ‘How have you ended up here, of all places?’

“So…” Saparata lowers his gaze to Thomas, who is sitting on the floor, and crosses his arms. “Thomas-”

(Micro tries to tug Saparata away to no avail.)

“-You look awfully comfortable.”

Saparata watches as the marble finally decides to curve the way it’s supposed to before Thomas stands to meet his withering glare, wiping his hands on his pants and matching Saparata’s crossed arms.

The tension running through Thomas’s body language still holds, clasping him tightly together like a deck of cards. Saparata smirks at the small recognition.

“How have you been, fooling around with my dear, silly brother?” Saparata tugs Micro back and pulls him under his arm as he pinches Micro’s cheek. He can feel the muscles in his face start to strain from his smile, gleaming with no hint of real delight. Micro whines at the contact.

Thomas doesn’t bother answering his question. “I don’t ever remember you introducing us.”

“Does it matter? You two are far past introduction now.”

Thomas taunts, his foxlike grin shadowing his face as if a curtain. “You seem awfully sad that we’ve met.”

Saparata has to stop himself from scowling, though; Micro and Thomas aren’t exactly people he needs to hide himself from anyway. “Sad…oh, please.” Saparata snarls under his breath.

Unconsciously, he pulls Micro closer to him, practically caging his younger brother under his arm as he and Thomas exchange glares. Micro would most likely run away the moment he saw a chance, but part of him also thinks that Micro is just curious enough to want to stay. A sense of pride bleeds through Saparata when he feels Micro curl into him.

Saparata cocks his head and spits out, “Not as sorry as your pathetic little project that’s horrendously 90% tape.”

“Hey, I put my blood, sweat, and tears into my roller coaster, unlike you, who just took parts from Jophiel’s old project and rearranged them. How dare you call mine and Micro’s project pathetic?” Thomas points an accusing finger before putting a hand on his chest and wiping away fake tears as Micro chuckles in Saparata’s cradle.

“You don’t get to talk about my old projects when yours-,” Saparata widely gestures to the cardboard contraption, “-looks like a hot mess. Seriously, did you guys spend all that time just fooling around?”

Saparata nudges the platform with his socked foot. He can feel the now solidified hot glue connected to the pillars, but the paper rails wobble under the movement.

“Yeah, Thomas, why’d you mess around so much?” Micro teases, finally perking up from the rigid glares thrown across the room.

It would be unnoticeable to anyone ordinary, but Saparata can instantly see Thomas’s deadpan face turn soft near the edges. He can’t help but think it is a strange face to see on someone like Thomas—guarded and backhanded in ways Saparata can’t bother to comprehend.

Huh.

Saparata supposes Gotoga was right about that part—Thomas looking more different, but maybe only because no one has ever seen him like this before.

He barely realizes that Micro has let go of him and gone to invade Thomas’s own space. They fit like pieces of a puzzle that hurt to remember. The lighthearted remarks about Thomas’s raggedy scrap project go in one ear and out the other. It’s weird to admit it, but Saparata thinks that Micro looks more alive, too, which is strange to describe them as, because neither of them is dead.

Saparata walks up to the cardboard roller coaster, his hair almost brushing against Micro’s, and crouches down. “You made too many gaps in the tracks, and this-” Saparata nudges the paper loop, “-this needs more momentum.”

—

Thomas can only be thankful that it’s the weekend—and that Saparata, in fact, hasn’t decided to slime him out the moment he stepped inside his house.

The sun is faded amongst the dusk sky, and Gray has begun mindlessly texting him, asking whether he’s still alive by some strange miracle—only that Gray comes off as being terribly disappointed when he replies.

Thomas scoffs with a small grin on his face and takes his gaze away from his phone, greeted with the scene of Saparata gently lifting the sleeping Micro off the floor and tucking him into bed.

“Are you taking it with you?” Saparata gestures to the roller coaster project—Better Saps Tower, Micro proposed, and to Thomas’s slight surprise, it seems like Saparata has a soft spot for Micro as well.

(Thomas wanted to name it his Space Program, but apparently, it’s trash on Thomas day. Hooray.)

Thomas nods his head, his gaze drifting over to Micro’s slumbering form, drowning in purples. The warm overhead light makes the room look nostalgic, as if stuck in an old Polaroid photograph, and Micro softly huffs in his deep sleep before shifting his head. Saparata takes a moment to swipe the light hair away from Micro’s peaceful face, diligently smoothing the wrinkles in the violet blankets despite the practicality in doing so.

For all that it’s worth, the roller coaster is finished through the insistent intervention of Saparata, no matter how much help was needed.

(Thomas won’t admit it, but help was definitely needed.)

Saparata looms over Micro’s slumbering form and turns back to give Thomas a knowing look. He rips his gaze away and shoves leftover materials into his bag. Thomas doesn’t bother thinking about the rising blush on his face.

The silence between them is not comforting, nor so strange. There’s a lot left to be said, and they ask none of them. Saparata does not press for Fluixon’s ulterior motives—not that Thomas would tell him—as they both take one side of the foam platform and shuffle out the door. Thomas does not question Saparata’s silence.

Thomas takes one last glance towards Micro, cuddled against the blankets as if oblivious to the world, before Saparata timidly closes the door.

—

Saparata mumbles, “…Will this even fit in your car?”

Thomas shrugs his shoulders, and Saparata begins remembering why he dislikes the guy so much.

His eye already starts to twitch.

A single lamppost lights up half of the street. Better Saps Tower—Saparata huffs despite the corners of his mouth curling—will not fit in the trunk of Thomas’s car, that’s for sure.

Saparata hears Thomas curse under his breath as he tosses his bag into the passenger seat. Unless Thomas has enough blindsided confidence to strap it to the top of his roof, there’s no other choice but to try to maneuver it into the back seats. Saparata watches Thomas rub his face and groan.

The bitter cold begins to creep up their spines, and Saparata faintly wonders whether Jophiel and Snowbird are making their way back home now. ‘There’s no better opportunity,’ Saparata absentmindedly thinks—the only shadows outside are him and Thomas.

Jophiel, the better half of their family, would probably scold him for acting so harshly despite wanting to do the same thing, though Snowbird would definitely cheer a bit from the sidelines before Jophiel smacks the back of his head.

A cricket creaks out in one of his neighbors’ lawns as Thomas takes a quick glance at his phone.

“If you don’t mind,” Saparata cuts through the chirping silence, “I’m gonna use this moment to shovel talk you for a bit.”

The pillars end up squishing against the front seats after many backhanded remarks and huffed frustrations. It might end up permanently slanted, but that is the worst of their worries. It’s not like there is a hopeful escape from this anyway.

Thomas tiredly sighs, “Was waiting for you to say that.”

Thomas straightens his back, glaring at Saparata over the car roof. They’re on opposite sides—laid on the street, the other over the sidewalk. Before everything, Saparata used to always make fun of the fact that he was just an inch taller than Thomas, yet now, it matters little when they’re like this—narrowed eye to eye.

The lamppost flickers as if sensing the edgy atmosphere.

Saparata sneers out, “I don't like you. I think I’ve made that clear, so I’ll lay this out straightforwardly. There won’t ever be an instance where I believe you deserve Micro, considering who you are, and frankly, I doubt anything you can or will do is able to make me change my mind.” He cocks his head up to look down on Thomas.

“However, what I do believe is that Micro is very capable of stooping down to your level,” Saparata tries not to pay attention to the way his voice begins to creak.

‘I believe that Micro is perfectly capable of abandoning me just like you, Snowbird, Fluixon, and the rest of the Conspiracy have’ goes unsaid.

Saparata presses on, the freezing night air piercing through him and his white pajamas, “I’m surprised you even came here, honestly. Whatever happens, whatever Micro does is out of my control, just as he always has been, and if you truly do feel the way that I know you do, then I need you to at least promise me that you will protect him if it ever comes down to it.”

“Micro doesn’t owe you anything, but for all the bullshit you and Fluixon pull on me, this is the least you can do.” He doesn’t mean to spit it out as harshly as he does, but it's the closest thing to forgiveness Saparata can give to Thomas—closure, even.

“If I find that you are unable to do that, I’ll make sure that you never see Micro again. And…”

Saparata leans in and can see Thomas gulp as even the wind seems to be silenced.

(A car pulls into the street, driving past them in the corner of his eye—a blonde man and woman framed through the window. ‘About time,’ Saparata thinks. He can feel Jophiel’s knowing look already, but he knows she won’t stop him. Snowbird might take a picture if he’s not tired out of his mind, though.)

It’s utterly hilarious. Saparata squints his eyes—he can feel the way a shadow looms over his face despite how dark it is.

“...If I find out that you hurt Micro in any way, whether you break his heart or bruise him, there won’t be anything for anyone to remember you by once I get my hands on you. Got it?”

A smile creeps up Saparata’s face as Thomas’s voice cracks. He must look psychotic.

Thomas clears his throat, “Got it.”

—

“Did you really have to do that?” Jophiel leans on the counter, tilting her head with a disappointed look.

“Mad it wasn’t you?”

Jophiel and Sap’s commotion bleeds into the background.

Snowbird snickers at his phone.

Thomas >

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( Dis u? )

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