Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The camera opened on familiar chaos—wide-angle lens angled slightly off-center, catching the four red couch chairs shoved around a low black table that had seen much better nights. The table was already cluttered with energy drink cans, crumpled napkins, a precariously full bottle of vodka, and a deck of cards someone had tossed haphazardly into the middle like forgotten props.

Someone—Ie, probably Deny—had decorated the background with string lights that stubbornly refused to stay straight. They blinked uneven across the wall, half cheerful, half deranged horror movie. The caption in bold white block letters blared across the screen:

“Who’s the Imposter? (You Lose, You Drink) 🍻”

“Okay, okay—ground rules, pay attention,” Deny announced immediately, leaning toward the camera with the energy of a late-night talk show host despite being the only semi-sober one of the group. His cap cast familiar shade over his brow. “Channel favorite. We’re doing imposter guessing. One liar, three guessers. If we vote wrong? We drink. Imposter caught? Imposter drinks. Losing side doubles it. See short ‘n sweet. ”

George made a face like this was complicated math. “So basically… drink?”

“Exactly,” Deny said flatly. “Drink.”

The chat spam in the corner rolled fast—little hearts, skull emojis, someone typing “George first out lmao.”

George tipped his head back like he’d read that one specifically. “Hey! Show some faith in me, man. I—” He cracked the can in his hand and immediately spilled foam down his sleeve. “...I’m winning this.”

Classy, perched in the far right seat like he’d rather be anywhere else but still showed up, leaned one elbow across the armrest, expression unimpressed. “Can’t wait to watch this man lie through his teeth about being the imposter.”

“Excuse me, I’m a fantastic liar,” George said.

“You say that with the exact tone of someone not fantastic at all,” Classy deadpanned.

Round One: George’s Fall
The first card draw was quick. Cards flipped. Classy raised brows at his. George immediately snorted at his own, high and nervous.

“Oh my god,” Deny groaned, pointing immediately. “It’s him. It’s George. Don’t even need to play.”

“N-no…” George waved dramatically. “You’re profiling! You can’t—you can’t just—”

“Profiling? It’s been thirty seconds and you’re sweating.”

George tugged his blanket up higher as if that would cure the flush sneaking across his face. “It’s warm in here.”

“You literally just opened a cider,” Froste said, grin spreading. “You’re cooked already.”

Gameplay devolved in seconds. George fumbled excuses, squeaked denials, tried weakly to accuse Classy who only raised a brow and said nothing. Deny took one slow sip of water like a man sitting through peak comedy.

By the time votes got held up, the result was undeniable. Three votes for George. Zero arguments strong enough to defend him.

“Crew wins,” Deny announced. “George—down the hatch.”

“Wait—I can’t even—are you supposed to chug?”

“Chug,” Froste chanted gleefully. Chat echoed instantly with “CHUG CHUG CHUG” in a tidal wave of text.

George tried valiantly. He got two-thirds through before spluttering, eyes watering. “This is fixed. Rigged. Discrimination.”

“Nap cozy?” Froste teased, poking him in the arm.

George leaned back heavily, blanket cocooned. “This is good… real cozy. Like a nap.”

Not ten minutes into the video, George was listing sideways with heavy eyelids, muttering sleepily about pizza with chocolate crust. His round two suspicion lasted all of one hiccupped denial before he mumbled into the mic, “Pepperoni… marshmallow… ohh nap pizza…” and slipped into snores.

Round Two: Froste Takes Center Stage
Deny turned to camera deadpan. “One out after one cider and a half. Peak content, George.”

The other two still awake didn’t fare much better for professionalism.

Froste cheered like a man thriving, cracking the bottle, pouring too generous for the next setup. “Alright—training wheels are OFF,” he declared, slamming his drink down.

His first card draw went smooth—too smooth. He exaggerated disinterest, leaned one elbow casually on the couch, raised his brows so high it was practically cartoonish.

Classy narrowed his gaze instantly. “It’s him.”

“No, no no no no,” Froste laughed, hands wide. “No, look at this face. This is the face of innocence.”

“Exactly,” Classy said dryly. “You’re over-selling it.”

Deny leaned back, sipping water, already hiding his grin. “He’s cooked. I vote Froste.”

“Y’all are sheep,” Froste insisted, pointing at them with mock indignation. “Sheep! Following the loudest voice—”

“Okay, imposter.”

Votes tallied. Imposter revealed. Froste.

Chat absolutely exploded. LMAOs, 👀 emojis, cheering hearts.

“Down it,” Deny said, smug.

Froste did not hesitate. He poured the shot, knocked it back one-handed, slammed the cup, wiped his mouth with his sleeve, and grinned.

“Again.”

The next round spiraled quicker. Froste lost again, doubled down again. By the third round in a row where his card betrayed him, his laugh was half stutter, half shout.

“I swear I’m not—! You all suck. Suck! Alright—fine.” He slammed another shot, already flushed red.

“Not the only thing that sucks—”

By now Froste’s logic was gone. He forgot the rules mid-round and accused George—still audibly snoring. Then, squinting suspiciously, he accused the camera.
“No because listen—LISTEN—it’s not me, you degenerates. It’s probably the tripod. LOOK at it. Shifty little bastard.”
Deny leaned back, wheezing into his sleeve. “Bro. You’re cooked. Tripod imposter, huh? Peak braincells.”
Classy had his face buried into his palm, dragging down his skin until his expression reappeared flat as stone. He adjusted Froste upright on instinct when he slumped forward, hand pressing along his side to keep him steady.
“You’re lucky you’re pretty or we’d have left you on the floor already,” Classy muttered low, mostly shaded off-mic.
Froste’s head snapped up—or as much as it could, loose on his neck. His grin sharpened instantly. “Ex-cuse me? Did Daddy Classy just call me pretty?”
The camera caught the exact second Classy realized he’d said it out loud. His ears burned a sharp pink, mouth pressing thin. He reached for his bottle purely to buy a second.
“Don’t start.”
“Ohhh noooo,” Froste crooned, voice slurred but alive with smugness. He clutched shamelessly at Classy’s arm, leaning in closer. “Don’t think you get to toss out pretty boy and then just sip like nothing happened. That’s a confession, guys. Clip it. CLIP. IT.”
Chat spammed instantly, hearts and 👀 flooding the side-scroll. Deny dissolved faster, cackling into his mic. “I KNEW IT—CLASSY SLIPPED—mark the timestamp, boys!”
Froste wiggled even closer, weight half in Classy’s lap, grin wolfish. “So what is it then, huh? You into the content face?” He tapped his own cheek twice, exaggerating. “Can’t stop staring? You like pretty boys taking shots in your lap?”
“That’s not what I—”
“Didn’t stop you from starin’ though, huh, Classy?” Froste cut him off with a giggle that curved halfway filthy, despite how washed-out drunk he was.

Rounds couldn’t be wrangled anymore. George was full-sacked into his cocoon, out. Deny was half-crying from laughter. Classy was still upright but rattled. And Froste—Froste was leaning heavier, slipping further down until his cheek pressed against Classy’s shoulder, grin messy, eyes half-closed.

And that was when the words dipped quieter. Not shouted. Not played for laughs.

“You’re actually cute yourself, y’know?” Froste slurred, voice messy but softened. “Like… the way you take care of us. I like it. Like you.”

For a second, Classy didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. Controller slipped soundless from his lap onto the rug.

Deny caught the moment instantly, gasped so hard it turned into hysterical wheezing. “No. NO. We are not—are you seeing this? Chat? No way—”

Froste half-smiled against Classy’s arm. “Not live. Jus’ you. Don’t tell.”

The camera caught only the surface—Classy smoothing his face clean, pushing a mask of irritation over heat rising sharp to his ears.

By round five, Froste had abandoned any semblance of strategy. He accused ghosts, the deck of cards, the empty soda can Deny flicked at him. He was laughing so hard he nearly rolled off the couch before Classy caught him by the back of his hoodie to prop him upright again.

And maybe that’s why the slip happened.

“You're too cocky for your own self, Frost.”
The room stilled for two beats.

Then Froste’s grin bloomed slow, hungry. He leaned in, eyes half-lidded but sparkling evil. “Ohhh? Did Classify just call say that?”

Deny exploded—choking, coughing, slapping his knee. “NO WAY. Oh my god, he DID. Chat, HE FUCKING DID.”

Chat went feral, exploding in rows of caps:

“CLASSY SAID WHAT NOW” “CLIP CLIP CLIP” “I KNEW IT OMFG.”

Classy’s jaw jerked tight, ears detonating red. “I didn’t even say anythin—shut up. Drink your shot.”

Froste latched on like a dog with a bone. “Nahhh, nah nah nah—you don’t just THROW that word out like a treat. Repeat it. Say it again. ‘Froste’s cocky.’ C’mon, give the people what they want and I'll show you how cocky I can get.”

Classy gave him a shove off his shoulder. “You’re drunk.”

“And you’re into drunk pretty boys, apparently.” Froste’s grin tipped filthy, even through the slur. “What’s next, huh? Gunna tell me I look good bent over this table during round six?”

Deny screamed, rolling half off his couch with laughter. “BRO—WE’RE STILL FUCKING RECORDING.”

George snored softly in the background, oblivious.

Froste, emboldened, leaned back in against Classy’s side, cheek dragging along his bicep lazily. “C’mon, caretaker. You like taking care of your little problem child, huh? Feed me shots, call me pretty, tuck me in later—sounds like a whole kink to me.”

Classy went rigid, knuckles whitening around his untouched controller. His face was a mask, tight and unreadable—except for the way his ears burned brighter, betraying every inch of composure.

“Drink your shot,” he said, voice sharp, quiet, controlled.

Froste just giggled, laid sloppy innuendo
sugar-sweet against his sleeve: “That sounded like an order. Hot.”

 

Froste curled heavier against Classy’s side, giggling low, words sliding between lazy and lewd. “That sounded like an order. Hot. Didn’t know you were into telling me what to do. Guess that makes me your pretty little problem.”

Deny lost his shit, wheezing so violently he had to turn partly off-camera. “OHHH NOOO, we’re NOT POSTING THIS—actually, yes we are, clip it, CLIP IT RIGHT NOW.”

Chat detonated in a blur of spam: “SAY IT AGAIN CLASSY” “OKAY I JUST JOINED A MINUTE AGO WHAT IS THE CONTEXT”
Replies:
“CONTEXT ISN'T SAVING THIS”
“IT MAKES IT WORSE 💔💔💔”

Classy sat iron-tensed, hand braced against Froste’s hip like he was holding him together or holding himself back, hard to tell. His face was carved neutral—except for the flare at his ears, blood-hot.

“Drink,” Classy ground out again, clipped.

Froste hummed like it was foreplay. “You could just say you want me on my knees for you, y’know.”

Classy’s head jerked toward him, sharp like he’d 0been burned. His mouth opened—stalled—closed. Then, so fast and low the mic almost missed it, words slipped out unguarded:

“Don’t tempt me.”

“What ‘s wrong with ‘u all..? God this is gonna get censored…” George said, just loud enough to be caught on the mic.

The outro slammed quick and cheerful:

“Thanks for watching! Don’t drink like we do. Stay hydrated 🫡”

The outro music cut, cheerful horns clashing hard against the tension that clung to the room like static.

The stream light dimmed red, camera feed dying with a soft chime that felt too neat, too final.
It left silence behind—if you cut out George’s light snoring, and Deny still half-wheezing.

“Oh my fucking god,” Deny gasped finally, sliding boneless into his chair, one hand over his face. “Classy, you said it. That wasn’t stream delay. That wasn’t lag. That—that went live.”

Classy’s hand dragged down his face once in slow motion. “No one’s clipping that.”
“It’s already clipped. Chat had it clipped before you even FINISHED saying it,” Deny said, gleeful in his devastation. His phone already buzzed with Discord pings rattling down the timeline.

“‘Don’t tempt me’—bro. BRO. That’s burned into the VOD. Ship name trending in five minutes tops.”

George stirred faintly under his blanket pile, muffled groaning. “What—what are we even talking about. Pizza nap?”

“You didn’t miss anything!” Deny called brightly. “Go back to your coma.”
George flopped a hand in vague dismissal, immediately resuming snores.

Classy didn’t answer. Not to Deny, not to Froste—still nestled unhelpfully against his side, grin sloppy, half-drunk glow radiating smug and oddly soft at once.

His hand twitched against Froste’s hip like he wanted to push him off, but less and less force was behind it.

Froste tilted his chin up, slack grin curving. “You weren’t supposed to like it, Classy boy.” His words slurred at the ends, vowels dragging hazy.

“Supposed to call me annoying, punch my shoulder—whatever. Not ‘don’t tempt me.’ That’s like… god. That’s like a porno title.”

Deny wheezed fresh laughter so hard he choked.

Classy’s ears burned crimson. His voice cut out cool, sharp, control wound too tight. “You’re wasted.”

“Mmhm,” Froste agreed easily, not letting go. His cheek rubbed against Classy’s sleeve, slow, almost obscene in how casual it was. “Still means I’m right. You like me.”

Classy’s throat worked, hard swallow audible in the hush. His jaw flexed, set tight. “You’re drunk,” he repeated, lower.

Froste chuckled—the kind that rolled between wicked and too honest—then shifted, whispering lower, off mic now entirely. “Still pretty when you’re mad. S’kinda hot.”

Classy shut his eyes for one beat too long, like he was praying for patience. When they opened, the mask was back, sharp-edged. “Alright. Bed.”

“What, no afterparty?” Deny called after them as Classy heaved Froste upright. The younger man sagged into him immediately, weight boneless, arm slung heavy across Classy’s shoulders.

“Intervention,” Classy muttered darkly, ignoring the way Froste clung closer, head tipping into his shoulder.

“Intervention tomorrow!” Deny sing-songed, swiping game cards into a messy pile. His grin gleamed sharp with mischief as he added, “Tonight, I’m just the cameraman who caught the hottest mic slip of the decade.”

“Delete it.”

“Never,” Deny beamed.

“CUT THE CLIP.”

“Nah.”

George mumbled nonsense in his blanket. Something about “stuffed crust with marshmallows… safe warm pizza…” before rolling flat onto his face with a faint wheeze.

Classy shook his head, tugging Froste toward the hall, ignoring Deny’s cackles chasing after like hyenas.

Froste wasn’t silent, of course. The whole walk down the dark hall buzzed with his muttering—complaints about socks sliding down, about losing every round. His laugh hiccupped, muffled into Classy’s shoulder.

“You’re warm,” he said suddenly, voice dipping softer. It stripped down the slur, cut beneath it. “Like… safe warm. Don’t drop me, okay?”

Classy’s grip on him tightened reflexively. “I’ve got you.”

They reached the doorframe. Classy nudged it open with his foot, guided Froste inside, lowering him onto the mattress. The younger man collapsed instantly, chest rising deep and even.

Classy tugged the blanket over him without thinking, smoothing the edge without realizing his fingers lingered.

He should walk away. Join Deny still howling in the living room. Pretend tonight never happened.

Instead, his eyes caught on the mess of hair sticking every direction, the flush still lingering across Froste’s cheeks, making him look unbearably young. Softer. Vulnerable in a way he never let himself be on stream.

For someone who never shut up, Froste was dangerously quiet in sleep.

Classy shut his eyes. Drew one sharp breath in. Let it out.

Then Froste stirred, lashes heavy. His voice rasped, low, almost sober with how direct it came out:

“I wasn’t lying. When I said I like you.”

Classy froze in the doorway.

“It’s real,” Froste muttered, slipping already into gravity-thick drowsiness. “Even if you only believe me when I’m drunk.”

Classy stood there longer than necessary, shadow stretched across the bed. Jaw set, chest tight.

Nothing but the sound of Froste’s breathing and the faint thrum of Deny’s laughter echoing down the hallway.

“You idiot,” Classy whispered—so quiet it was for himself, not him.

But his ears still burned hot as he closed the door.

Chapter Text

The house felt different once the cameras shut off.

Every night after a stream there was a pulse that took hours to fade—screens cooling, jokes echoing through corridors, the leftover hum of adrenaline that kept them all moving even when the chat had already gone silent. Tonight the quiet came heavy, uneven.

Classy lingered longer than he should have, watching the monitor lights blink out one by one. When the final one dimmed, the room looked wrong without motion in it. He rubbed at the back of his neck, muscle tight from hours of forced smiles. Somewhere toward the hallway Froste’s door creaked: a sound automatic as breathing.

He found him still half‑awake in that liminal mess of after‑stream energy, curled in his chair, headset hanging around his neck. The screen painted him blue, outlines too sharp, shadows under his eyes deeper than usual.

“You’re gonna fall asleep right there,” Classy said, voice rough from disuse.

Froste looked up with a lazy grin. “Wouldn’t be the first time.”

“Yeah, but I’m not carrying you again.”

“Bold of you to assume I’d let you.”

They exchanged the kind of look that always hovered an inch from laughter. The banter helped, thin armor against the strange quiet pressing in around them.

Classy moved closer, hand reaching past him to power down the last monitor. For a second, the darkness swallowed everything. Only the faint streetlight glow spilled through the blinds, landing across Froste’s face—too sharp and too beautiful in a way Classy didn’t like noticing.

He straightened, cleared his throat. “Go to sleep, man. You look half‑dead.”

“Half‑dead’s my brand.” Froste leaned back in his chair. “We live for the grind, remember?”

“Yeah,” Classy muttered, turning toward the door. “Sure we do.”

The words landed heavier than they should have. He could feel Froste’s gaze burning between his shoulder blades, curious or something else. He didn’t check.

“Hey,” Froste said just before he left, voice smaller now, edges clean of sarcasm. “You staying up?”

“Probably.”

Froste hummed, soft and easy. “Don’t overthink things.”

Classy could have asked *which things.* He didn’t.

Instead, he offered the closest thing to a smile and shut the door behind him. The latch caught with a click that felt final.

***

The hallway stretched too long in the dark. Every sound exaggerated—the scuff of socks on the floor, the buzz of a router hidden behind drywall. Classy passed Deny’s closed door, a rectangle of faint music leaking out, and kept going until he reached the open space of the kitchen.

The countertop still smelled faintly of citrus cleaner, sharp in his throat. He poured himself a glass of water and stood there, unblinking, waiting for the ache behind his eyes to settle. It didn’t.

He thought about Froste in the other room, screens cooling down to silence. About the way his voice had cracked earlier, soft when no one else could hear. Laughter came easy on‑camera, but off it he’d sounded tired—raw in a way that made Classy wonder whether he noticed when he let the guard drop.

He didn’t mean to replay the look from earlier—the blue light cutting a line along Froste’s jaw, the easy curve of his mouth, the way his lashes flicked up in half‑sleep. It stayed anyway, looping until his chest hurt with it.

He sat at the table, elbows on knees, hands locked. He’d told himself the connection between them was just chemistry—good streaming energy, practiced rhythm. But it didn’t explain the silence that came after.

Outside, the city carried on. Tires hissed on wet asphalt; a distant siren stretched thin then faded. Classy stared at his reflection in the window until it blurred.

He should sleep. He could already feel the drag in his limbs that would punish him tomorrow if he didn’t.

Yet something in him refused to move.

He imagined Froste falling asleep half on his keyboard again, cheek against desk, faint snore breaking through the quiet. He had an impulse—stupid, protective—to go check, make sure he hadn’t actually done it.

He didn’t.

Instead, he sat there another long minute before dragging himself toward his own room.

The hallway light stayed off; the only guide was the flickering glow from a Wi‑Fi extender near the wall. It blinked in a slow, rhythmic pulse—on, off, on—as if the house were breathing.

His door shut behind him, but the silence followed inside.

He stripped down to a T‑shirt, dropped into bed, stared at the ceiling. The air was too warm, too still. He tried focusing on small things—the tick of the heating pipe, the faint hum through the wall—but every thought circled back to the same point.

Why did it feel heavier tonight?

The stream hadn’t been unusual. Jokes about lag, Froste stealing every punchline, chat spamming emotes until the screen looked like static. Normal. But beneath it, something had shifted: split‑second glances between them that lasted too long, jokes that died into silence instead of laughter.

He’d felt it even before they signed off—that quiet hunger for something neither of them ever talked about.

He turned onto his side. The moonlight pulled lines of silver over the sheets. His phone lit briefly with a notification from Froste—just a meme, one they’d use on‑stream, nothing special. Still, Classy’s chest tightened like it meant something.

He typed a reply, erased it, typed again, then locked the screen without sending anything.

Sleep didn’t come.

Through the wall he could hear faint movement, the creak of a chair, maybe someone shifting in bed. Too distinct to ignore, too far to join.

He lay back and closed his eyes anyway, hoping darkness could blur out all the shapes of what he couldn’t name.

Classy didn’t sleep much.

The next morning came with the kind of light that made everything look too clean, too revealing. He rinsed his face in the sink, stared at his reflection, and tried not to replay that voice—low, unguarded, soft enough to be a secret. He tried not to wonder if Froste remembered saying he liked him, if any of it still meant something outside the haze of alcohol and half‑sleep.

He failed, of course. The image of Froste from last night—half‑lit, smiling in that too‑easy way that always hid something else—stuck on loop behind his eyelids. Every time Classy blinked, there it was again: Froste leaning in just a fraction too close, breath warm with vodka, words unraveling before he could stop them.

By the time he made it to the kitchen, Froste was already there, sitting on the counter like he owned it, hair still messy, eyes faintly bloodshot but bright. He looked normal in the worst way—normal enough that Classy almost convinced himself the night before hadn’t happened.

“Morning,” Froste said, chewing on a granola bar like he hadn’t dropped a grenade twelve hours ago.

Classy crossed his arms. “You alive?”

“Barely.” Froste grinned, too wide, too practiced. “Don’t tell me I said something cringe last night. I blacked out after the shots.”

The silence that followed hurt more than it should have—sharp enough that Classy felt it behind his teeth. Froste’s hand twitched against the counter, thumb rubbing an invisible thread at his knee. He was waiting for an answer he didn’t want.

Classy studied him, jaw tight. Half of him wanted to demand the truth. The other half wanted to let it rot.

“Yeah,” Classy muttered. “You were your usual charming self.”

Froste’s grin faltered for just a second—blink‑and‑gone—but it was enough. Something flickered behind the lazy façade, the barest flinch of recognition. He remembered. Maybe not all of it, but enough.

The air between them thickened, weighted like the moment before a storm.

Then Deny came clattering in, loud as ever, with George behind him. They both carried take‑out coffee cups and the misplaced confidence of men who thought humor could fix anything. “Oh boy,” Deny said, stopping mid‑stride. “Did someone die, or are you two just allergic to emotional honesty?”

Froste tossed a towel at him. “No one asked you.”

George parked himself on a stool, smirking. “Proceed, we’ll be the audience.”

Classy turned away, pulse hammering bit too hard. “There’s nothing to watch.”

“Uh‑huh.” Deny blew on his drink. “Then why does it feel like we walked in halfway through the season finale?”

Froste slid off the counter, stretching out the tension in his shoulders like it was just another morning. “Because you always have bad timing. You ever think of that?”

“Right.” George sipped, faint laugh curling bright. “We’re the problem.”

***

They argued—of course they did. It started small: set times for streams, whose turn it was to clean, old grudges about gear. Their words were weapons they didn’t mean to sharpen, but every deflection had an edge. Somewhere between sarcasm and sincerity, they crossed a line. Every sentence carried something that wasn’t being said loud enough.

“Why do you do that?” Classy snapped finally, closing the distance between them. “Pretend things don’t matter unless it’s a joke.”

Froste’s mouth curved, but the smile didn’t reach his eyes. “Because if I don’t laugh about it, then what? Huh? Then I gotta deal with it?”

“You already made me deal with it,” Classy said, quieter this time. The anger bled out, replaced by something rougher—hurt or hope, he couldn’t tell.

Water still dripped from the leaky faucet. The clock ticked somewhere behind them in uneven beats. Deny and George exchanged a single look that said *finally* and made a neat retreat down the hallway. Doors clicked. Silence settled.

Froste swallowed, throat working hard. “I don’t remember everything,” he said, barely above a whisper. “Just that you were there. And I said something I wasn’t supposed to.”

Classy’s breath caught. “Wasn’t supposed to, or didn’t mean to?”

Froste looked down, jaw tight. “Both. Neither. I—hell, I don’t know.”

But he did; Classy could hear it in the stutter of the words. The air between them was thick with the ghost of last night’s confession—the blurred sound of *I like you, man, no seriously—* followed by laughter that wasn’t really laughter.

“Stop running from it,” Classy said.

“I’m not—” Froste started, voice loud enough to echo, then fell apart halfway. “You make it sound easy.”

“It’s not,” Classy said. “But I’m done pretending too.”

He moved before he had time to think. One step, then another. His hands found the counter, bracketing Froste in place. The closeness hit like contact‑shock: body heat, breath mixing, the faint tang of coffee and sugar and static in the air.

Froste blinked at him—one heartbeat, two—and then his gaze flicked to Classy’s mouth.

The first kiss wasn’t gentle. Sharp, startled, too much wanting crammed into too little space. For a second Froste didn’t even move. Then something broke, a tremor running through him, and he kissed back—messy, uneven, real.

It wasn’t poetic. It was human. Coffee and breath and heartbeat and the kind of sound that came out of someone forgetting how to think.

When he pulled back, Froste’s eyes were wide and disbelieving. Then Classy leaned in again, slower, steadier, turning apology into heat.

The counter pressed into Classy’s hip. Froste’s hands found purchase on his hoodie, holding tight like the world might fall if he didn’t.

Later, neither of them would remember who moved first a second time.

The air between them trembled, that strange static that came after too many words held back for too long.
Froste’s breath hitched. Classy could feel it ghost across his mouth. For a second, the world shrank to one shared heartbeat.

He kissed him again.

It was nothing like the first one; it burned slow instead of sharp. Seconds stretched until distance stopped existing, until their bodies learned the pattern on instinct. The taste of coffee, sugar, and adrenaline clung between them.

Froste’s hand slid up, fingers curling in the fabric at Classy’s shoulders, grounding himself against him. His pulse thrummed under Classy’s palm; skin hot from proximity. Somewhere in the small space left between them, restraint cracked.

The soft rhythm built into something heavier. They laughed once—breathless, uncertain—then lost it when the laughter turned into another kiss that wasn’t funny at all.

Froste bumped the counter; Classy followed, trapping him there without meaning to. Warmth rolled through every inch of him, a kind of gravity he couldn’t talk himself out of.

He murmured something—Froste never caught what—but the sound of it turned the moment inside out. Froste answered with a quiet, broken sound of his own, small enough to be drowned by the hum of the refrigerator but clear enough to undo them both.

The world narrowed to fingertips and air. Classy’s hand found the line of Froste’s neck, slid up, paused at his jaw. He didn’t even realize he was trembling until Froste pressed closer, like that could steady them.

They should have stopped—should have said *enough*—but the word didn’t exist anymore.

Froste tilted his head; Classy met him halfway. Their teeth clicked, too eager, too clumsy, then steadied. Time blurred. Every inhale was shallow, every exhale shared.

Something in Classy’s chest ached—not pain exactly, more like recognition. He wanted to tell Froste that this wasn’t supposed to be possible, that he’d tried so hard not to think about what would happen if it ever was.

But Froste’s fingers tightened on his hoodie again, dragging him forward, and language dissolved.

The movement turned restless: the scrape of denim, the muffled scuff of shoes against tile, the edge of the counter digging into skin. None of it mattered.

Heat and confusion, want and disbelief—they all collided until thought became noise.

And still, somewhere under the noise, the memory of the night before pulsed like a heartbeat: *I like you,* slurred and reckless, followed by silence.

Classy tasted the echo of those words now, unspoken but present. He pressed his forehead against Froste’s temple, breathing him in, the scent of coffee and citrus shampoo grounding him. Froste shifted, angled his mouth again; the kiss deepened, a cycle neither could break.

It wasn’t about victory anymore. It was survival—two people using closeness like an answer to every question they were too afraid to ask aloud.

When they finally broke apart, it wasn’t relief that came. It was panic.

They stared at each other, both breathing hard, neither trusting what came next.

Froste’s voice cracked first. “If we keep going…”

Classy didn’t let him finish. “Then we deal with it.”

Froste laughed quietly, a sound that shook. “You make it sound simple.”

“It’s not,” Classy said. “But right now, it’s real.”

For a heartbeat, everything calmed. Just breath, light, the space between them charged and alive.

Then the silence turned unbearable.

Froste blinked, stepped away an inch, maybe two. The kitchen light flickered; his reflection shimmered in the window—cheeks flushed, eyes too bright, mouth bitten raw. “We should…” he started, but stopped. The words scattered before they found shape.

Classy leaned his hands on the counter, still catching his breath. “Yeah,” he said. Except he didn’t move.

For a long minute they stood there like that—half apart, half pulled back together. The air smelled of burnt toast and static, grounding them in something ordinary while everything else felt impossible.

Froste broke the stillness with a shaky laugh. “We’re idiots.”

Classy smiled faintly. “That’s new?”

It wasn’t enough to release the tension, but it softened them.

He reached out, tracing a hand over the back of Froste’s neck once more, thumb brushing skin. Froste didn’t flinch this time; he leaned into it, eyes fluttering closed for a single breath before reopening.

The sound that left Classy then was quiet, almost tender. “Go get some sleep,” he said.

“Can you?” Froste asked without thinking.

Classy didn’t answer.

The clock ticked once, twice—loud in the hush.

Froste exhaled, something between tired and wanting, then turned for the hallway. He paused at the doorway, hand on the frame, voice low. “You really think we can just deal with it?”

Classy looked up, meeting his eyes. “Ask me tomorrow.”

Froste lingered another moment, maybe expecting something else, then disappeared down the hall.

The silence he left behind rang louder than any argument.

Classy stayed frozen where he was, chest hollowing as the heat of the moment faded into a kind of ache. His reflection stared back from the kitchen window, the faint shape of his own shoulders against city lights outside. He wasn’t sure he recognized it.

He rubbed his palms over his face. The scent of coffee and faint citrus still clung to them. He let out a breath, shaky, frustrated, soft with disbelief.

The kitchen light buzzed again. Somewhere down the corridor, he heard a door close, then faint footsteps against the wooden floor.

***

The hallway stretched longer than Froste remembered. He walked it on autopilot, hands shoved in his pockets, the leftover warmth from Classy’s hands ghosting across his skin.

He didn’t know what was worse—what had happened, or how much he wanted it to happen again.

By the time he reached his room, the adrenaline had collapsed into exhaustion. Yet when he slumped onto the edge of his bed, sleep felt impossible. His body wasn’t finished shaking. His heartbeat still hadn’t decided on a rhythm.

He stared at the ceiling, replaying every second in reverse. The way Classy said his name. The moment their laughter died. The way his voice had dropped on that line—*Then we deal with it*—like he actually believed it could be that simple.

Part of Froste wanted to laugh. Another part wanted to go back to the kitchen and ruin everything properly.

He drummed shaky fingers against his thigh, tried breathing slow. It didn’t help. The walls throbbed with phantom echoes of footsteps, voices, everything they weren’t saying.

He closed his eyes. The images came anyway: Classy leaning in, the hitch of breath before contact, the heat of his palm. Replaying it hurt worse than the denial.

Outside his window, dawn was beginning to pull apart the dark. Light crept in slow lines across the floorboards, too honest for comfort. The world was still, except for the sound of him breathing and the faint hum of pipes running water somewhere in the house.

He pressed his hands over his face. When he opened them again, the light was brighter, enough to sting.

From down the hall came a muffled thud—maybe Classy dropping something, maybe just ghosts of what had been. Froste swallowed past the lump in his throat.

He whispered into the empty room, words not meant for anyone to hear. “We’re gonna regret this.”

The air didn’t answer, but the way it hung heavy felt like agreement.

He lay back, staring at nothing, eyes wide open against the coming morning.

Sleep didn’t find either of them.

The night held its breath between them, fragile, electric, waiting for what tomorrow would demand.