Archive of Our Own

I.

The pile of clean clothes, some still at the bottom of a hamper and some strewn across his bed, was mocking him. Knuckle was sure of it.

Laundry day. Possibly his greatest foe. Knuckle could hear the dramatic music, see the zoom-in on his eyes versus inside-out socks. Because, really, with all of the technology in the world, how has someone not invented a better way to deal with dirty laundry? Self-cleaning clothes. A robot that matched socks together. Something.

Utterly defeated, Knuckle snatched up a t-shirt and began to fold. Because he was an adult, dammit, no matter how much Morel may disagree.

About halfway through the chore, Knuckle found a pair of fluffy, lavender socks. Odd. He didn’t remember buying those. It was possible, he supposed, maybe he grabbed them on a sale, or they could have been a gift. Whatever, they looked cozy, and they were his now, so.

Knuckle managed to finish folding and rewarded himself with a long, hot shower, donning his pajamas and new socks afterwards.

Beer in hand, he flopped down onto the couch next to Shoot and kicked his feet onto the coffee table. It was late, and Shoot looked like he was already on his way to sleep, monotone narration from some documentary and low light comforting after a day off.

He took a sip from his drink and could feel Shoot’s gaze on him. Knuckle decided to ignore it, muscles tired after hours of tedious chores. Instead, he watched the TV, only half-paying attention to whatever ancient civilization or alien or cult the program was talking about.

But he could still feel Shoot looking at him. God, this guy is a weirdo. Knuckle thought he had gotten used to his presence, they had been training together for a few years now, after all, but it seemed there was always some new quirk hiding just under his skin, waiting to emerge.

Knuckle looked over, finally, meeting his eyes. One shaved eyebrow raised, he looked like he was expecting an answer to something. Knuckle offered him an awkward smile, an upward nod of his head, and pointedly locked his gaze back onto the TV.

A few minutes pass. A few more sips of his drink, a few commercials. And Shoot was still glancing over at him. It was getting irritating, anxiety raising in the back of Knuckle’s throat, and really, all he wanted was to relax.

He looked back over at Shoot, lips twisting into a frown. “Take a picture, it’ll last longer.”

Shoot narrowed his eyes as Knuckle set his bottle on the table.

“Why are you wearing my socks,” he asked, more of a statement than a question.

Knuckle looked down at his feet. Hm. It would make sense, possibly more sense than him accidentally buying them. They used the same machine and the things were the same shade of purple that Shoot seemed to have an affinity for.

What he should do is say sorry, my bad, it was an accident, wash them and give them back. That would be the mature thing to do. A small voice inside him, intruding from the back of his mind, told him it would be more fun to pull on Shoot’s pigtails a little. Knuckle’s heart thudded once in his chest. Probably just from anticipation.

“Um,” Knuckle tutted, “These are mine. I would know, I was doing laundry all day.”

Shoot scoffed at him, the sound sharp and offended. “Um, no, they’re mine. I know they’re mine because I did my laundry yesterday and they went missing.”

“Maybe I have the same pair,” Knuckle wiggled his toes for emphasis, giving Shoot his best shit-eating grin. “Or, maybe I wanted to match with you!”

A pillow was thrown with painful accuracy at his face. When Knuckle managed to shake off the assaulting weapon, Shoot’s eyes were narrowed further, brows drawn close and a crease forming in between them.

“Fine, fine, here,” Knuckle inched his feet closer to Shoot, poking his thigh and trying to tuck them underneath like he knew Shoot hated. “Take them back, then.”

Shoot raised his arm in defense, a high-pitched noise of disgust escaping his mouth as he recoiled to his side of the couch. Knuckle laughed maniacally at him.

“You’re disgusting,” Shoot stood and began to make his way to the kitchen. “Just keep them, I don’t want them anymore.”

“Thanks for the gift!” Knuckle smiled to himself, settling back into the cushions, reveling in the way Shoot flipped him off as he left the room. And if he smiled to himself each time he pulled those stupid socks on, warmth filling his stomach at the image of Shoot’s mouth drawn into a frown, well. It was only because Knuckle liked getting under his skin.

II.

“So, what’s for dinner?” Shoot asked, opening his gym locker. Knuckle watched as long fingers spun out a right-left-right combination.

With a groan, Knuckle tore his eyes away, pulling the gym bag out of his own and dropping it on a nearby bench with a thud. This day was really never ending. Starting strong, someone drank the last of the milk so there was none for his cereal. Morel was on him for not filling out paperwork from his last job in time, making him late for training, where Shoot knocked his ass down a minimum of six times during their sparring session. Now, on top of everything, he had to think about cooking a whole meal?

“Let’s get takeout,” Knuckle replied, peeling off his sweat-soaked shirt. At that point, he just needed anything that made it easier to get home, shower, and pass out.

“Fine with me,” He took a long sip from his water bottle, Adam's apple bobbing underneath glistening skin, before retrieving a stack of neatly folded, clean clothes. “It’s your turn to pay, though.”

His own bag was a bit of a mess. A lot, actually, in comparison. Rooting around in his bag for different clothes, Knuckle considered cleaning the thing out, one of these days. Extra shorts, water bottle, two pairs of headphones, a few protein bars (mostly unopened, at least one crumbled at the bottom), and . . . nothing else.

He groaned again, maybe a little more dramatic than necessary, and rummaged through it once more, pulling things out in hopes that it would appear. No such luck.

“Everything alright over there?” Shoot asked, smirk clear in his voice.

“Yeah, it’s just,” Knuckle looked over and was met with Shoot’s back turned, shoulders flexing together as he pulled his own shirt off by the collar.

His mouth started to feel unusually dry. Thankfully Shoot wasn’t facing him, because for some reason, Knuckle found it difficult to tear his eyes away. He watched as Shoot pulled the hair tie from his ponytail, back and arm muscles tightening, accentuated from the workout. Long hair spilled down his back as he shook it loose by the roots.

“Just?” Shoot asked, glancing over his shoulder, and Knuckle quickly averted his gaze, cleared his throat, realizing he hadn’t finished his thought.

Because - and It wasn’t that big of a deal, really - he just happened to start noticing exactly how fit Shoot was lately. In a friendly way, obviously, in a damn, bro, you’re kinda ripped, how much do you lift? Kind of way. The thought that Shoot could probably pick up a person crossed his mind. Or, something super heavy. Knuckle could appreciate a good physique, that was it, nothing more.

“Uh,” Knuckle shook his head, not sure why his face was starting to feel hot, still looking at his gym bag. “I forgot a clean shirt.”

“Damn,” Shoot pulled on a hoodie, a clean one, which draped loose and thick enough that Knuckle felt okay looking at him again. “That’s unfortunate.”

“Whatever,” Knuckle sighed and started to shove his things back into his bag. “I’ll just go shirtless.”

Shoot rolled his eyes. “I’m pretty sure you have to wear a shirt to buy food in, like, any establishment.”

“Oh, no,” Knuckle grinned. “I guess you’ll have to pay for - I mean, get - our food while I wait outside.”

“Nice try,” Shoot gave him an unimpressed look and grabbed a shirt from his bag, tossing it over. Knuckle barely caught it in time, holding it close to his chin. “I keep an extra.”

The faint smell of Shoot wafted off it, that same clean clothes-incense smell that permeated his bedroom. Knuckle’s heart skipped a beat in his chest.

“And you better wash it before you give it back.”

Though a little tighter than his own, Knuckle pulled the shirt on gratefully. He smoothed out the wrinkles, fabric clinging to his chest and abdomen, before looking up. Shoot had an odd look on his face, strained, cheeks pinker than they were a second ago.

“What, afraid I’ll give you cooties?” Knuckle mocked, running his hands down the front of the shirt and stretching it down a little, for emphasis.

Shoot’s face returned to the normal, lukewarm expression that Knuckle was used to receiving. “Yeah, I don’t want whatever you have.”

III.

Knuckle shifted around in a velvet-lined chair, one of a hundred or two in the opulent space they sat in, unbuttoning the front of his suit jacket and flapping the lapels to get some air. The banquet hall was hot, far too many people squished in and craning for a view of the stage.

He felt out of place. Suits always made Knuckle move awkwardly, sure that someone would clock that he didn’t belong, he was an imposter, and see through the cover Morel had so carefully crafted for the two of them.

Staring at the empty plate in front of him, thoughts racing, Knuckle barely noticed how close Shoot was until he was whispering into his ear.

“Stop squirming,” Shoot hissed, making Knuckle’s knee hit the underside of the table. Sterling silver utensils clanked around his place setting noisily. “You look suspicious.”

A few of the other people sitting at their table looked at them, annoyed. Knuckle beamed a smile at them.

Knuckle’s jaw clenched as they turned back. Easy for him to say - Shoot seemed perfectly at ease in a slicked-back ponytail and fancy cufflinks, cool and collected as always. They’d known each other for almost seven years, and somehow none of that gracefulness had rubbed off on Knuckle. Asshole, he thought. And he was ready to tell Shoot as such, but the words caught in his throat as he turned his head.

Because Shoot’s face was right there, only a few inches away, skin bright and glossy and god, did he always look this good? Before he could stop himself, Knuckle’s eyes glanced down, snapping a quick image of pink lips and silver chains resting on pale collarbones.

Shoot raised a brow, waiting for his answer.

“I don’t like this,” Knuckle managed, tearing his eyes away. This little crush of his was getting out of hand. At first it was fine, what he thought was just an appreciation of skill and strength. This quickly turned into sweaty palms, a racing heartbeat, lingering gazes whenever Shoot was around. It was distracting. Not ideal for the situation. “Something’s off.”

“I know,” Shoot leaned back in his seat, elbow resting on its top rail making his sleeve ride up, showing off a nice watch and a bracelet that matched his necklaces. His thighs splayed apart casually as he looked around the room, and Knuckle was sure the temperature in the hall went up a few degrees. “It should have started twenty minutes ago.”

Knuckle hummed, trying to think of what to do. The original plan was simple - wait for the target to appear on stage, let the audience eat up his undoubtedly idiotic speech, and quietly apprehend him when he walked off. Hopefully, no one would be the wiser.

Each second that crawled by had Knuckle’s head hurting more and more. Shoot always got grumpy when plans changed, but he was about to vibrate out of his skin if something didn’t happen soon.

“We have to do something,” Knuckle said definitively after another minute.

Shoot sighed next to him. “I think you’re right.”

“I’m sorry,” Knuckle turned to him, holding back a grin. No way he was letting that go easily. “What was that?”

“You heard me.”

“No, no, I think I missed what you said,” Knuckle grabbed his phone from the inside pocket of his jacket, quickly opening up the voice memo app. “Okay, say it again, slowly.”

Shoot blinked once, before snatching his phone, clicking the power button, and setting it on the table in front of them.

“What are you thinking?” He asked.

Nothing was out of the ordinary as Knuckle looked around - just a bunch of rich people checking their phones impatiently. But, no one had announced a delay, no apologies, no words from the people hosting the event. It was odd.

“I’ll check backstage,” Knuckle decided. “You stay here in case anything happens.”

“I don’t like it,” Shoot took a sip of his water, observing the other patrons seated at their large, round table. Clearly, no one was paying attention to them, too wrapped up in their own conversations, but Shoot lowered his voice still. “We shouldn’t underestimate this guy. He’s dangerous.”

“I know that,” Knuckle gritted his teeth. “Believe it or not, I read the report, too.”

Shoot pressed two fingers to his temples. “You are so annoying sometimes.”

“Well, we can either keep sitting here with our thumbs up our asses, or we can do our jobs, so,” Knuckle started to make an escape, scooting his chair back from the table. Before he could stand, though, warm fingers wrapped around his wrist.

“Wait -”

The hand squeezed him tightly, and when Knuckle looked up, Shoot’s face held an expression he hadn’t seen before. Brows knit together, lips pressed into a line, and eyes reflecting something that almost looked like worry. Knuckle stayed rooted in his spot.

Fingers released him slowly as Shoot studied his face. After a beat, Shoot brought his own wrist to his mouth and quickly unclasped his watch with his teeth. In an easy motion he shifted it into his hand, holding it face down in his palm, leather straps laid out invitingly. The back of the watch’s face was golden, S.M. engraved neatly in the middle.

Knuckle looked at the watch, and back at Shoot’s face, not understanding. Blood was rushing in his ears, heart picking up its pace, but he could still feel the growing tension in the air between them. Shoot rolled his eyes.

“Hand. Give it here.”

His left hand, the one tingling from Shoot’s touch, shifted on its own accord, into what could have been a casual shake. He watched as Shoot moved it carefully so that his palm was face up, fingers barely touching his skin.

The watch was pressed to the front of his wrist, Shoot’s hand warm against his own, and he moved his fingers around it, fixing the clasp gently. Knuckle sucked in a breath as Shoot’s fingers grazed his pulse point. He prayed that the low hum of chatter was loud enough to cover it.

Shoot lingered for a few seconds, so gentle his touch almost wasn’t there, as if Knuckle might burn him if he held on too tight.

He turned Knuckle’s wrist around, finally, so that the watch faced up, and quickly brought his hand back to his own lap. Knuckle looked up, still confused.

“If something goes wrong,” Shoot hesitated, next words almost imperceptible. “And . . . for good luck.”

The watch looked out of place when Knuckle looked down at it. Too nice, too expensive. Numbers written in looping script, decorative lines curling around the bezel. Why would Shoot trust him with something like this? No way it would stay intact after a few punches.

“Meet me back in the lobby at ten, okay?” Shoot’s eyes searched his, looking for an answer that Knuckle wasn’t sure he knew the answer to. He was sure, though, of the clenching in his chest when their eyes met.

Maybe it was the watch, maybe the way Shoot looked at him, maybe something deeper. But, for a split second, everything else melted away. It was just the two of them, an unspoken, never to be spoken, charge between them. He grasped Shoot’s shoulder, muscles hard where he made contact, and nodded.

“Be careful,” Knuckle whispered, words barely leaving his mouth.

“You too.”

IV.

Everything was uncomfortable. He hadn’t slept in days, how many exactly, Knuckle wasn’t sure. He’d lost count at that point. Hard knots of the tree pressed into his back, his neck ached from using his jacket as a makeshift pillow, and constant wind set a chill down to his bones that hadn’t left for days. Knuckle stared at the stars above him, unable to sleep, cursing as many things he could think of for their current situation.

Not to mention that if, somehow, he managed to fall asleep, it would just be riddled with some new, horrific nightmare. Those were the one constant these days. Insects crawling all over him, towns reduced to rubble and ash, a pale hand slipping out of his grasp.

Knuckle grumbled and curled into himself, trying to center his body heat. This sucked. The only thing they could do was sit around until someone sent a signal and it was driving him crazy. All he wanted was to be home, stretched out on his couch with a soft blanket and a cup of tea and maybe, if he had any luck left, Shoot sitting at the other end.

So wrapped up in his own thoughts, Knuckle doesn’t notice the rustling by his feet until there’s a cool hand on his shoulder.

“You okay?” Shoot asked. Glancing back, he was close, face painted with worry.

Their relationship was different, lately. Sure, they were partners before, and yeah, Knuckle was still harboring those stupid one-sided feelings, but he wouldn’t let it go any deeper than that. Wouldn’t allow himself that luxury. They worked together, trained together, complained about paperwork together. It was professional - manageable.

Now, though, Knuckle wasn’t sure. There was tension in their shared looks. Or, at least, that Knuckle felt. Most of his thoughts, awake or asleep, were about Shoot in some way. How to have his back, make sure he was okay, any way to get them out of this shithole alive.

“Can’t sleep,” Knuckle replied, trying not to stare.

“You can always sleep.”

And the way Shoot had been acting wasn’t helping anything. He kept giving Knuckle these lingering gazes, or tried to give him some of his rations, or spoke to him in this soft, comforting voice. Yeah, it was nice, but now really wasn’t the time to be having a crisis about whatever was happening between them.

“M’cold. And this tree is uncomfortable,” He decided to leave out the part about how his chest wouldn’t stop seizing with anxiety.

Something flashed across Shoot’s face, eyes down and to the side, lips twisted back. Knuckle watched as the hand left his shoulder, small bit of warmth it provided gone, and Shoot began to untie his belt.

“What are you -” The sentence died in his mouth as Shoot took off his yukata and draped it across Knuckle’s body, covering his shoulders with the collar. It felt good. It was warm, stifled the wind somewhat, and smelled . . . well, it didn’t smell great, but there was a faint, familiar scent deep in the threads.

Knuckle just looked at him, confused. He could already see the fine hairs standing up on Shoot’s arm, dressed in just an undershirt and bandages.

“Won’t you be cold?” Was all that Knuckle could manage.

“I’ll be fine until you wake up. Just try to get some rest.”

“Come on,” Knuckle started to tug the robe off. “You’ll freeze up here like that. Just -”

“Either go to sleep or scoot over, if you’re so worried,” Shoot sighed.

“Huh?” It takes him a second to understand. And then it clicks, and, well. The alarms in his brain were quieted by another gust of wind. “Ugh, fine.”

Knuckle shifted slightly to allow Shoot some room on his makeshift bed. Shoot laid down next to him, stiff as a board, settling on his back. The yukata was big, but not big enough to cover both of them like that.

He grumbled, gritting his teeth, and reached around to grab Shoot’s arm, pulling him close to his back.

“Oh, um -”

“Do you wanna be warm, or not?”

When Shoot sighed, it tickled the top of his ear. He submitted and wrapped his arm around Knuckle’s stomach, pulling him into the warmth of his chest. Heat radiated off him and Knuckle was too cold and tired to care, or freak out about how close Shoot was to him. Shoot rested his cheek between Knuckle’s shoulder blades and Knuckle could feel his breaths coming and going, rapid at first but eventually evening out.

“If you tell anyone about this,” Knuckle started strong, trying to keep up that tough facade he worked so hard to build, “I’ll kill you.”

“Just go to sleep.”

“I don’t want to sleep, I want to punch something,” Knuckle said. His voice was much too weak to back up the threat.

Shoot’s arm squeezed his torso. “Punch me then, if you want.”

And that just frustrated him even more. Because, why would he want to do that? Why was Shoot saying this, doing all of these things for him? Why the hell was he so concerned with Knuckle sleeping anyways, why was he so ready to be an outlet for his frustrations? Knuckle shifted around to face him, noses almost touching.

“I don’t wanna punch you, dumbass.”

“Good,” Shoot gave him a weak smile. “I didn’t really want you to.”

Knuckle studied his face, just a few inches away. The same face he had seen almost every day for the past decade. In a lot of ways, it was unchanged. The same eyes, now softer than when they first met, the same strong nose and brow bone, the same angular cheeks. He was close enough now, though, to notice faint lines coming in on his forehead, at the edges of his eyes.

“But you could,” Shoot whispered. Knuckle could tell, from his expression, that he meant it. “If it made you feel better.”

Breath hitched in Knuckle’s throat, a knot forming at its base. And all of those stupid, repressed feelings from the past years of wanting threatened to spill out, so much so that he had to pinch his lips together to stop them.

When he spoke, his throat was tight. “Why do you say things like that?”

“What do you mean?”

“You know what I mean! Stuff like,” Knuckle stops for a minute, digging the heel of his palm into his eyes. “Stuff like that. Like you care so much about me.”

“Knuckle, I -” The sentence falls, swooped up by the breeze. A shiver runs up both of their spines. “Because I do. Care about you. You think I don’t?”

“No, it’s just . . .”

It’s just that there’s no way Shoot cares about Knuckle as much as Knuckle cares about him. There’s no way he understands. There’s no way Shoot’s as scared as he is right now, as scared of losing him. It took up practically all of his thoughts. What if Shoot gets hurt, what if he gets eaten and turned, what if he gets killed? Before he could say how he actually feels. Before he got a chance at a life without Shoot. Knuckle couldn’t bear the thought.

Knuckle’s eyes started to prickle at the edges. Damn it.

“I’m scared. I’m so damn scared, and I don’t know what to do with that. I can’t . . . I don’t know . . .” And the tears are flowing now. Because Knuckle was never good at controlling his emotions, and he couldn’t remember a time he’d felt this much in his whole life.

Shoot moved fast, wrapping his arm around Knuckle and holding him close, rubbing his back and letting Knuckle cry into his chest. It was embarrassing. But, Shoot didn’t seem to care, and Knuckle knew he wouldn’t judge him for this, at least. Shoot shushed him, squeezing him just tight enough to be comforting.

“I know. I do,” Shoot rested his chin on the top of Knuckle’s head. “I’m scared too.”

“Do you, though?” Knuckle looked up at Shoot through watery eyes. “It’s so much pressure. On us. And it’s terrifying, and disgusting, and I just . . .”

Knuckle stops, a small hiccup interrupting the words, to gather the courage to bring his hand up to Shoot’s cheek, stroking it with his thumb. He thought he’d gotten this under control. It had been fine for so many years. Years where they had just been training, they were just friends, and that was enough.

“I can’t lose you,” Knuckle said. “I don’t know what I would do.”

What he couldn't say is that he would be completely and utterly lost. No direction, no one to push him, no one to stand by his side through his bullshit. Shoot sighed and pressed his lips together.

“I know. I know, I . . . I feel the same way.” He was looking everywhere except into Knuckle’s eyes, his own searching Shoot’s face for any answers he could find. “I’m sorry. I’m not as good at this as you. But, I care. I care so much, Knuckle, more than you know.”

Knuckle just stared at him. “I don’t understand.”

“Let’s just,” Shoot sighed, pulling Knuckle close to his chest. “Let’s get some sleep while we can, okay?”

Knuckle was confused. His heart ached, and Shoot kept saying things without saying them, he was exhausted, and smelly, and uncomfortable in several different ways. Sleep sounded like a welcome reprieve.

“Okay,” Knuckle said. “Yeah. That sounds good.”

“Okay.”

Knuckle decided to turn over, not able to bear the sight of Shoot any longer. He managed to fall asleep quickly and made it through the night without any dreams.

V.

Knuckle wasn’t freaking out. Really, he was fine. It was just that his hotel room was too quiet, and his suit felt like it was choking him, and seriously, where the fuck is his tie -

He was so wrapped up in his own thoughts, running around like a crazy person and throwing things out of his duffle bag, that he didn't notice the first knock on his door. The second is louder, impossible to miss. Knuckle’s eyes went wide as he checked his watch (Shoot’s watch, a small voice provides). At this rate, there was no way he would be on time.

Throwing open the door, Shoot stood in the doorway, looking as stunning as ever.

And if his heart wasn’t threatening to go into overdrive already, well. Shoot’s hair shined, flowing down his back, bright against an unfairly well-tailored suit with dark green accents. His eyes fell to Shoot’s neck. Of course, he didn’t forget to bring a tie. It had a clip that matched his jewelry and everything.

“Uh,” The side of Shoot’s mouth quirked up. “Are you okay?”

Knuckle ran his hand through his hair, messing it up worse than it already was. “I forgot a tie.”

Shoot huffed, smile growing larger. “Give me a second.”

He disappeared, running back to his room, Knuckle presumed. It only took a few seconds before Shoot was back in front of him, short enough that Knuckle was still staring dumbly, hand still on the door knob.

“Well?” Shoot held up a black, silky tie. “Are you gonna let me in?

Of course he is. Knuckle stood to the side, trying to swallow down the knot in his throat as Shoot breezed past him. A subtle wave of citrusy sandalwood hit his senses in the best way.

“Jesus,” Shoot held the tie close to his chest, surveying the room. “You really did a number on this place.”

“Yeah, uh,” Knuckle scratched the back of his head awkwardly. “I may have gone a bit overboard looking.”

Shoot rolls his eyes, but there’s no malice in it at all. “C’mere.”

Knuckle does not, shoes glued to the floor, but it seemed Shoot was prepared for that anyways. He took a few short steps into Knuckle’s space and, wow, he was really close. Close enough that Knuckle can smell his cologne again and it made him lightheaded.

“Let me help?” Shoot asked. Knuckle nodded his head, trying to keep his lips from parting.

Knuckle popped his collar up, and Shoot looped the fabric around his neck, fingers grazing his skin just barely. It made Knuckle’s heart beat even faster, if that was even possible.

“I just don’t understand what kind of animal only packs one tie,” Shoot said. He looped the fabric over itself, and Knuckle didn’t notice before, but it had the subtlest of gold lines running through it, sparkling against silky black. Really, only noticeable when it reflected the light, or if you looked really hard. It was nicer than anything Knuckle owned, and he couldn’t help but feel out of place in his own skin.

Knuckle squinted at him. “Why do I need more than one?”

“Options!” Shoot laughed, eyes glancing up briefly to meet Knuckle’s. They lingered for half a second before Shoot worried at his bottom lip and looked back down. “Or, you know, in case of situations like this.”

“Well, I guess I learned my lesson. Once we get the next Star, I’ll bring three ties.”

Shoot smiled at him, finishing the tie and tightening it just so it was comfortable, not too tight on his neck. He smoothed Knuckle’s collar down, and Knuckle had to fight the urge to lean in when his hand brushed the hair at the back of his head.

“So?” Knuckle asked, barely meeting Shoot’s eyes. “What do you think?”

Shoot brought a finger to his lips, humming in thought. His hand reached up slowly to his hair, pausing before it landed.

“Can I?”

“Uh, yeah,” Knuckle breathed. “That’s fine.”

Shoot smoothed his hair back in place from where Knuckle had messed it up earlier. His fingers carded against his scalp gently, and all Knuckle could do was watch Shoot’s face as he worked and pray his knees didn’t give out.

The whole thing probably took about six seconds, but Knuckle felt it in slow motion. Hours could have passed by the time Shoot brought his hand back to his chest. It wavered for a second, before landing on Knuckle’s lapel, smoothing out any wrinkles and resting there, gripping the fabric softly.

“Much better. You, uh,” Shoot cleared his throat. “You look nice.

“O-Oh. Um,” Knuckle could feel his cheeks heating up. “Thanks. You aren’t so bad, yourself.”

Shoot smiled and looked down, ducking his head, hair falling over his eyes. Knuckle couldn’t look away, completely engrossed by how good Shoot looked, how his hand was still on his lapel, light touch burning a hole in his sternum.

Looking back up, he subtly flicked his hair out of his face to meet Knuckle’s gaze. He was just a few inches away, skin glowy and pupils wide.

And Knuckle didn’t mean to stare, really. But he didn’t think he could look away if his life depended on it. Shoot’s lips parted but his words caught in his throat.

“Knuckle,” Shoot said, voice hoarse. “I, uh -”

Before he could finish the sentence, a loud banging at the door broke the spell they were under. Knuckle jumped, clutching his chest, and Shoot brought his hand back like he had touched a hot stove. A warm feeling left Knuckle’s chest once the hand was gone.

“That’s probably Morel,” Shoot supplied.

“Right,” Knuckle cleared his throat. “I guess we should, um.”

“Yeah.”

–

The ceremony went off without a hitch. Many Stars were given out, one each for anyone else included in the battle against the Ants, Shoot, and himself. Knuckle’s speech was even good - he didn’t stutter once.

Glass of champagne in hand, Knuckle made his way out to the balcony, away from the noise of the after party. He was having a good time, of course, but these things always made him feel off-kilter, an odd ache settling into his chest.

Staring out over the balustrade, setting his glass on the ledge, the city below shined bright against the night sky. Knuckle took a deep breath, fresh(ish) air calming his senses.

It wasn’t that he was sad, that wasn’t quite it. Just off. Knuckle was proud of himself, sure, and he had definitely earned that damn Star. But there was a part of him, a small voice in the back of his mind, telling him that he didn’t deserve it. He didn’t do that much, and really, he was just doing what anyone would do in the situation. It wasn’t that big of a deal.

The sound of a door opening, music pouring out from the party, roused him from his thoughts.

“Thought I might find you out here,” Shoot said, wind almost eating up his words.

Knuckle smiled to himself. “Am I that predictable?”

“No,” Shoot crossed the balcony, coming to stand a few inches from Knuckle, resting his forearm on the ledge. “I’ve just spent way too much time with you.”

Sipping his glass, Knuckle smiled and ducked his head. Shoot didn’t say anything else, sounds of the city from below filling the silence, but Knuckle knew he was waiting for him to say something.

“All this attention,” Knuckle sighed. “It’s just . . .”

“Weird?” Shoot asked.

“Yeah. Something like that.”

Shoot moved so his back was on the ledge, elbow resting on it, eyes turned from the beautiful view to settle on Knuckle. Knuckle kept his gaze locked forward but he could feel Shoot’s eyes burning holes on the side of his head.

“I get it,” Shoot paused, and Knuckle could feel his eyes moving up and down. “You know you deserve it though, right?”

With monumental effort, Knuckle managed to look over. And, god, Shoot took his breath away. Hair blowing slightly in the breeze, warm glow from the party reflecting on his skin, eyes shining brighter than any of the lights beneath them. His tie was long gone, shirt unbuttoned enough for a smooth, pale chest to peek out, taunting him.

He sucked in a breath, attempting to get himself under control, and nudged Shoot’s elbow.

“So do you, tough guy,” Knuckle’s mouth curved up at one end. He decided to leave his arm there, pressing against Shoot’s. Only because it was chilly.

Shoot smiled at him. A real one, teeth shining and eyes crinkling up at the edges. He plucked Knuckle’s glass from his hands and took a small sip, pressing his lips together to chase any last bit of champagne left on them.

“So what’s next for you, hero?” Shoot’s voice dropped a bit, matching the hum of the car engines.

“Well,” Knuckle snorted at that. “I guess I’ll enjoy the festivities, and the fancy room they got us.” Shoot hummed, taking a longer sip this time. “After that . . . I don’t know. I probably need to do a lot of laundry when I get home.

His laugh echoed off the sides of the glass, two short, dry sounds. “Thrilling.”

Knuckle hummed, finally feeling brave enough to turn towards Shoot, breaking their touch but bringing him that much closer.

“What about you?”

“I guess I don’t know either,” Shoot shrugged. He paused, glancing down at Knuckle’s tie and then back up again. “Whatever it is, though, I want it to be with you. That, I do know.”

Knuckle’s brain raced a million miles a minute. That could mean so many things.

“Yeah?” Knuckle asked, heart racing.

“Yeah.”

The wind picked up slightly, blowing Shoot’s hair across his face. Without thinking, Knuckle reached over to tuck it back behind his ear. Before he could bring his hand back, Shoot placed his own hand on top of it, cradling it to his cheek. Knuckle swallowed, trying to get down the lump in his throat.

“Shoot, I -”

Shoot cut him off. “I know.”

And they were so close, now, Knuckle wasn’t even sure when it happened. Close enough that their chests were pressed together, and Knuckle could feel Shoot’s breath, tantalizing against his lips.

Knuckle leaned up just slightly, not even consciously, and Shoot closed the gap, pressing their lips together.

It was perfect. Better than he had ever imagined: Shoot’s lips were warm, tasting of champagne and soft from lip balm. His nose was cold where it pressed into his cheek but Knuckle couldn’t care less because he was kissing Shoot, finally.

Shoot moved his hand to Knuckle’s waist, gripping the fabric of his suit, and when Knuckle moved his other hand to Shoot’s shoulder, he knocked the glass of champagne off the ledge.

They stopped for a second, watching as it fell dramatically to the ground, hitting the pavement with a soft, far away crack. Their eyes met and they burst out laughing. Tears welled in Knuckle’s eyes from the absolute ridiculousness of it,

Shoot grabbed him by the lapel and brought him in for another kiss. It was even better than the first.

+I.

Mid-morning sun shone through their windows in golden rays as the sound of Knuckle bustling around kept his eyes open. Shoot wasn’t quite awake yet as he melted into the couch, blanket warm and pulled up to his chin, preserving that fuzzy-sleep feeling. It was a Sunday, society-assigned lazy day, and Shoot was eager to spend his time doing absolutely nothing.

That was a new feeling. One of many new feelings that he had been experiencing in the past few months. Others including, but not limited to, finally feeling capable after earning that Star, pride from steady jobs completed, happiness from settling into a new place to call his own.

And then there was Knuckle.

A category of his own, though Shoot hesitated to tell him that because he was sure it would inflate Knuckle’s ego even more than it already was. Everything finally felt right because of him. Running annoying errands together, working together, falling asleep together. It was like he finally put that last puzzle piece into place.

Shoot was brought out of his thoughts by Knuckle’s grumbling.

“Hey, babe? Knuckle called from the kitchen. “Have you seen my sweatshirt? The grey one with the hood?”

He stayed silent, feigning sleep. Yes, he had seen that sweatshirt. Because it may or may not have been the first thing he laid eyes on once he woke up and pulled it on automatically. And he may or may not still be wearing it.

Shoot poked his head up from the couch, locking eyes with Knuckle, as he shifted around to make sure the blanket covered his torso. Knuckle took a few steps closer, eyeing him suspiciously.

“Ah, no, sorry,” Shoot said, muffled through layers of fabric. “Doesn’t ring a bell.”

Knuckle rounded the couch, standing over Shoot, putting his hands on his hips. God, he looked so incredible. Hair loose, a tight tank top, running shorts. Shoot wasn’t sure how he managed to keep it in for so many years. His arms flex just slightly enough for Shoot to lose focus, loosen his grip on the blanket.

And he must have noticed, because in a flurry, Knuckle grabbed the blanket and pulled it off of Shoot.

“Ah ha!” Knuckle held up the blanket triumphantly.

Really, could Knuckle even blame him for wearing his hoodie? It was so comfortable, it smelled like him, he wore it often enough that it may as well be his. Shoot tried to grab for the blanket, but it was too late now, his plan revealed.

Knuckle leaned down onto the couch, pressing a knee in between Shoot’s legs and pinning him down so he couldn’t escape. He ran his hands underneath the hoodie, fingers warm against his skin, digging them into Shoot’s sides and making him yelp.

“Hey, hey! Shoot managed, between gasps and giggles. “That’s not fair!”

“Exactly what a traitor would say,” Knuckle replied. His face was close enough that his hair brushed against Shoot’s forehead.

“Fine, okay, I give, you can have it back,” Shoot pouted, but reached to pull the hoodie off from the collar. Before he could, Knuckle grabbed his hand.

“It’s okay,” Knuckle kissed Shoot’s forehead. “It looks better on you, anyways.”

Shoot rolled his eyes, all fondness, with no heat to back it up. Knuckle leaned down for a kiss. And maybe two or three more, and Shoot didn’t mind because he could do that now, so why wouldn’t he?

“I’ll be back in a bit, okay?” Knuckle said, beaming involuntarily.

“Sounds good. I’ll be here.”

Knuckle gets up, after one more kiss, almost makes it to the door, and -

“Hey, Knuckle?” Shoot sits up to look at him.

“Yeah?”

“I love you.”

Knuckle smiled so hard that it hurt. He could get used to this, for sure.

“I love you, too.”