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The soft hum of the TV filled the quiet space between them, flickering light casting warm shadows across the room. Onscreen, two animated characters stumbled into a clumsy kiss, all exaggerated flailing and comically mistimed lips.
Epic let out a laugh, easy and unfiltered as he stretched out along the couch. “Man, I would die if that was my first kiss,” he said, grinning wide.
Cross, seated beside him with his hands loosely clasped in his lap, gave a small nod. “Yeah. Same,” he replied, but his voice came out thinner than he intended—distant, almost like an echo.
Epic didn’t seem to notice. He launched into a casual story, all easy rhythm and half-lidded amusement, recounting his own awkward first kiss with the kind of self-deprecating charm that always made Cross feel... a little off balance. He listened in silence, his gaze flicking from the screen to Epic’s face, noting the curve of his mouth, the light in his eyes.
And still, heat crept up his neck, blooming across his spine in a slow, creeping flush.
When Epic’s story trailed off into a chuckle, Cross swallowed hard. There was a pause—long enough to feel heavy. And then he spoke.
“I’ve never had one.”
The words barely made it past his lips, soft and uncertain, like a secret he wasn’t sure he was allowed to share.
Epic turned to look at him fully, his brows arching in surprise. “You’ve never?” he repeated, but his voice wasn’t mocking—just gently shocked, curious.
There was no judgment in it. No teasing grin or laughter biting at the edge. Just genuine disbelief, mixed with something unfamiliar.
“Really, bruh?”
Cross’s face flushed even deeper, his SOUL thudding in his chest like it wanted to escape the conversation entirely.
“Never,” he muttered, and when the word left him, it felt heavier than he expected—like it echoed too loud in the quiet.
He groaned, low and rough, the sound pulled straight from somewhere deep in his ribs. Cross dropped his face into his hands, burying the vivid flare of his skull behind trembling phalanges. “...And now it’s embarrassing,” he mumbled, his voice cracking beneath the weight of self-consciousness. “I’m so old and I have no experience—”
His hands slid further down, dragging along his face in theatrical misery before flopping back against the loveseat. “And then—” he sighed again, “I don’t want to kiss someone because they’ll be disappointed.”
It felt too honest. Too raw. The kind of thing you say and immediately regret.
He slumped deeper into the couch, like the cushions might swallow him whole if he just curled in enough. “Seriously,” he muttered, almost to himself, “who wants to kiss a thirty-year-old rookie?”
Epic didn't laugh. He didn't antagonize him at all, despite how hard he internally braced for it.
Instead, his expression hovered in that strange, vulnerable in-between—amused, yeah, and definitely sympathetic, but there was something else curling beneath it. Something warmer, quieter.
His eyelights lingered a little too long on the slope of Cross’s jaw, on the way his phalanges curled tight against his knees like he was holding himself together. Epic’s grin was faint, crooked—less like he thought any of this was funny and more like he was biting back something else. Something that hummed low behind his teeth.
There was a restless tension in the way he shifted his weight on the couch. His fingers tapped an erratic rhythm against his thigh—nervous, thoughtful—but the rest of him was almost too still. Like he was holding perfectly still to avoid doing something reckless. Like leaning in. Like reaching out.
Cross barely registered it. He only saw the warmth. The patience. The quiet way Epic stayed with him—not filling the silence, not brushing it off, not rushing to patch over the cracks with some cheap reassurance. Just staying. Present. And somehow, that—that calm stillness, that silence he didn’t try to fix—loosened something inside Cross that had been bound tight for longer than he could remember.
He exhaled. A soft, shaky breath, like something inside had finally unclenched. Like he'd forgotten how.
The TV kept humming in the background, cartoon voices warped into nonsense, the flickering light casting faint shadows across the room.
Epic nodded, slow and deliberate, as if choosing his words with care. “Bruh, I feel for you,” he said, voice steadier than usual. He reached out, giving Cross’s shoulder a casual pat—but his hand lingered a little too long.
Just a moment longer than necessary. The warmth of it settled through Cross’s jacket, grounding him in a way he hadn’t realized he needed.
And… Cross didn’t pull away. Didn’t even want to.
The anime characters on-screen were still locked in their awkward, over-the-top kiss—limbs flailing, dialogue ridiculous—but neither of them so much as glanced at it. The buzz of the TV faded into background static, irrelevant compared to the charged stillness that had filled the space between them.
Then Epic spoke again, voice low, like he didn’t want to spook the moment. “You know, bruh,” he murmured, softer now, like he was offering something more than just a joke, “if you wanted to… I could give you some pointers.”
The words hung there, suspended between them. Casual on the surface. Playful, even. But underneath that; buzzing. Quietly electric.
Cross looked up, caught off guard by the offer. His heart gave an uneven lurch in his chest, like it had skipped a step.
“Really?” His voice cracked on the word, the syllable carried more by hope than confidence. He searched Epic’s face for the catch—for the joke, the pity, the out—but there was none.
What he found instead was something warm.
Epic’s expression wasn't teasing. It was open. Honest. The kind of look that didn’t ask anything of him; just offered. There was no pity there. Only reassurance. Understanding.
His hand still rested on Cross’s shoulder, the slow rub of his thumb just barely noticeable now, familiar and grounding. Soothing.
“I couldn’t let my best bruh go without a little romance,” Epic said, his voice lighter again—teasing, sure—but the warmth beneath it was unmistakable. The grin he gave was lopsided and boyish. Playful in that way only Epic could be; but there was care in it. Deep and quiet and real.
Epic was his best friend. The only one Cross had ever truly opened up to, the only one who knew the full shape of his history, jagged edges and all.
Epic had heard things no one else had: the truth about XGaster, the details Cross had never spoken aloud to anyone else.
They’d both grown up under shadows cast too long—two souls bent beneath the weight of father figures who took more than they gave.
"Daddy issues," Killer had once thrown at them. A jab masked in humor, but tinged with something bitter, something jealous. And for once—though Cross would never admit it—Killer had been right.
But Epic never judged him for it.
Never flinched. Never made Cross feel like he was broken for carrying that weight.
He just understood. Not with pity, not with hollow sympathy—but with knowing. As if their scars mirrored each other in places no one else had ever looked. And now, sitting in the soft, flickering light of the TV, with Epic’s hand still warm on his shoulder, Cross felt it again—that grounding sense of being seen.
And maybe—just maybe—this wasn’t about pity at all.
“I…” Cross started, voice rough, tight in his throat. He swallowed, sockets flickering toward Epic, uncertain. “Dude, you’d… help me with that?”
Epic turned toward him fully now, the shift slow, deliberate—like he knew he was holding something fragile in his hands. He looked at Cross with an expression he couldn’t quite place, all quiet intensity and something else Cross didn’t have the words for.
“Yeah,” Epic said, simple and sure. No hesitation, no drawn-out pause to make it awkward. Just one word, spoken like it was the most obvious thing in the world. Like of course he would. “If you wanted me to.”
Cross blinked slowly, his sockets burning faintly at the edges with the threat of something he didn’t want to name. He hated that he was feeling so much over something so... inconsequential.
Sure, it was a milestone he missed. It was embarrassing. But—it was one of many.
He finally looked up.
Epic was already watching him, pip steady, mouth curved into that quiet, lopsided smile that always managed to slip past Cross’s walls. And in his gaze was nothing but patience—no pressure, no push.
Just… invitation.
Cross’s mouth opened. Then closed again.
He had no idea what to say.
So Epic filled the silence, gently. “We can take it slow, Bruh. And it doesn’t gotta mean anything. Just…” He hesitated, then gave a little shrug, casual, but careful. “Just somethin’ between us. If you want it.”
And stars help him, Cross did.
He wanted this.
Cross tried not to overthink it. Tried desperately not to think about what it meant that his SOUL was fluttering from the feeling of Epic’s hand on his shoulder. Tried not to think about how this very position made him feel breathless.
He refused to let himself examine it too closely. If he did, he’d drown in it. He would ruin everything.
He chose instead to box it up, label it something benign. Practice. Helping. Call it something that could pass without consequence. Something that ensured he didn't have to acknowledge his feelings.
He’d always been good at that—swallowing down what he felt to make room for what others needed.
His father had made sure of that.
Epic was patient in waiting for his reply. Giving him a chance to compose himself, and to consider his offer.
Cross released a breath.
He nodded stiffly, his voice threatening to crack. “Okay."
Epic blinked—like he hadn’t expected that to work. His shoulders eased, just a little, like he’d been holding himself too tight for too long.
His smile was softer, hesitant, like he didn’t want to scare Cross off.
“Okay,” he echoed, a little too quickly. Then, after a beat, he glanced sideways at Cross, voice dipping light. “Wanna start with just… like, a practice one?”
“Wanna start with just... like, a practice one?”
Cross blinked at him, his sockets wide. “Practice?”
“Yeah, y’know,” Epic rubbed the back of his neck, grinning sheepishly. “Just a little warm-up. Something low-stakes.” He nudged Cross with his elbow, teasing just enough to cut the tension. “Bruh, you look like you’re facing down a final boss.”
“I feel like I am,” Cross muttered.
Epic laughed—quiet and real—and the sound did something strange to Cross’s spine, like a spark catching along exposed wire.
It wasn’t mocking. It wasn’t playful. It was genuine—and that made it worse somehow. Better. Worse.
“Alright, alright,” Epic said, straightening up as he shifted a little closer. His hand slipped from Cross’s shoulder only long enough to reposition, femur brushing against his like it belonged there. The press was warm—solid—just enough to anchor.
His voice dipped, still playful, but slower now. Gentler. “Okay. Rule one: breathe. You gotta breathe, dude. Can’t be locking up like that.”
“I am breathing,” Cross muttered, though the tightness in his voice betrayed him. His frame had gone stiff again, all shoulders and spine, like he was bracing for impact.
Epic raised a brow, unimpressed. “You’re breathing like you just dodged one of Nightmare's tendrils."
Cross groaned, covering his face again. “This is stupid.”
“No,” Epic said, reaching out again, nudging one of Cross’s hands away with a careful tap. “This is me, helping you. No pressure, remember?”
His hand lingered where it had nudged Cross’s away, then slid to cradle the side of his jaw, so gently that it made Cross’s breath hitch. It wasn’t possessive—just present. A reminder. A comfort. I’m here, it said.
Cross blinked up at him, eyelights flickering uncertainly.
Epic’s grin softened at the edges. “Okay,” he murmured, thumb brushing just under Cross’s cheekbone. “So. Rule two: lips are fake, bruh. Forget ‘em. We improvise.”
Cross let out a choked noise. “Dude, what does that even mean?”
Epic chuckled, and it rumbled low in his ribs, sending a ripple through the space between them. “It means,” he said, tapping a thumb lightly against Cross’s chin, “we make it work without. It’s about intent. You lean in. You line up. You feel it out.”
He tilted his skull forward, just enough for their foreheads to touch, their faces aligned—so close Cross could feel the quiet thrum of Epic’s magic, pulsing steady from deep in his ribs.
“Tongue’s optional,” Epic threw in with a wink, his voice dropping just slightly. “But you gotta relax first, bruh. It should be soft, not rigid. You're not trying to spar me, Cross.”
Cross made a face. “I am relaxed,” he lied.
Epic gave him a look—flat, knowing, amused. “Bruh. Your bones are locked up tighter than an Undernet firewall.”
He let his thumb trace a slow arc across Cross’s cheekbone, dragging just lightly enough to make Cross shiver again. “C’mon,” Epic coaxed, his tone dipping into something gentle, encouraging. “Start with breathing. Real slow. Match me.”
Cross tried. He really did.
Epic’s hand stayed firm on his jaw, not holding him in place, just steadying. Their foreheads still touched, sockets angled so that their eyelights hovered just near each other—too close, too warm, and yet not close enough.
“Good,” Epic murmured, the word slipping between them like a secret. “Now lean in. A little more.”
Cross did—just barely. His skull tipped forward, hesitant.
Epic closed the last of the space with ease, brushing his teeth lightly against Cross’s. They clicked together—soft, brief, intentional. Not deep. Not rushed. Just there.
His first kiss.
His first kiss was with Epic.
The thought barely had time to settle before Epic leaned in again.
This one was slower. A careful grind of enamel to enamel, the faintest shift of pressure where their jaws aligned. Cross shivered. It felt good. Better than he expected, better than he ever thought a kiss could feel.
Epic lingered there, the second kiss softer, slower—more confident. His teeth pressed with care, not force, just enough for Cross to feel the intention in it. No lips, no suction, no cliché romance flick mess—just the subtle click of teeth, the warm ripple of magic where their manalines brushed, each movement guided by intent rather than anatomy.
Warmth pooled in his ribs and dripped down his spine, languid and lovely.
“Good,” Epic whispered again, close enough that the word was more heat than sound. “You’re doing fine, bruh. You're a natural.”
Cross nodded faintly, like his head was full of static and too much heat, like the thought of speaking would unravel him. The praise caused warmth to pool in his ribs, languid and lovely. His mouth tingled from the kiss.
He wanted more—to try again, to chase that warmth—but Cross couldn’t quite get his mouth to work. He was overwhelmed, breath caught somewhere between his ribs and his throat.
Epic seemed to read him anyway.
He tilted his skull again, a different angle this time, and brushed their faces together in a slow, gliding motion. It was a nuzzle more than a kiss, a warm drag of bone against bone, careful and rhythmic. He let his tongue flick, barely grazing the inside of Cross’s teeth, then pulled back before it could turn too much too fast.
Cross exhaled shakily, like the breath had been dragged from the base of his spine. He felt drunk on it—on warmth, on magic, on the dizzying aftermath of being touched like that.
His magic throbbed, pulsing hot in his joints. He could still feel the echo of Epic’s warmth still ghosting along his jaw where Epic’s fingers had been. The phantom touch of his tongue, soft and knowing. How good Epic smelled. The way their magic still buzzed together, even after pulling apart.
It was all sharp and overwhelming and sweet, and Cross didn’t know what to do with it.
He blinked hard, eyelights wide and faintly smeared like distant stars, and it hit him all at once—how Epic was beautiful like this.
Glowing faint in the low, flickering light of the screen behind them. Breathing slow and steady, like he wasn’t unraveling, like this was just another night on the couch. Like Cross wasn’t falling apart at the seams. Like this was something easy.
And Cross—Cross was dizzy with it.
His breath hitched again, sharper now. Ragged. Like he was trying to keep something buried—want, maybe. Or panic. Or both.
His phalanges twitched helplessly in his lap, caught between fight and surrender. He couldn’t tear his gaze away from Epic’s face, even though he should. Even though his entire body was sounding alarms.
Stars..
He wanted to kiss Epic again.
And again. And again—until his mandible ached, until there was nothing left between them but shared breath and trust and that soft ache in the center of his chest. He wanted to press his mouth to the edge of Epic’s cheekbone, to the hinge of his jaw, to the corner of his mouth where laughter always lingered. He wanted to mouth at the manalines at the base of his throat, to feel that pulse of power under his tongue. He wanted to memorize this feeling—every point of contact, every breath shared, every beat of warmth—until he could call it back in the dark.
He wanted to crawl into this moment and stay there.
But, this was just practice.
He tried to remind himself that this was just practice.
His body didn’t seem to know the difference.
Epic leaned in again, teeth brushing his—slow, intentional, soft—and Cross felt his whole spine lock like a pulled tripwire.
The contact was barely anything. Not in comparison to the last kiss. A whisper of pressure. But it burned like it had weight. Like it had consequence.
Epic pulled back just far enough for their sockets to lock. His voice dropped, low and warm. “You’re doing great, Cross. But hey—maybe unfreeze those arms, yeah?”
Cross blinked. “What?”
“You’re sitting there like you’re in a hostage video, bruh.” Epic grinned, and his voice was light, teasing—but underneath it was something warmer. Something that held. “I said no pressure, but c’mon. You can touch me. You're allowed.”
Cross hesitated. His phalanges twitched, then hovered in the air—uncertain. Out of place. Like he didn’t know how to connect the thought of want to the action of reach.
Epic didn’t laugh. Didn’t look away.
He leaned in, nuzzled their foreheads together, voice dropping to something just for them. “Here,” he said, and gently took Cross’s hand in his own, guiding it up, pressing it flat over his sternum. “Start here.”
Beneath his palm, he could feel the faint pulse of Epic’s SOUL—steady, warm, alive. It thrummed gently under his touch, a quiet, glowing rhythm that contrasted so sharply with the erratic stammer of his own that it nearly undid him.
“Now the other hand,” Epic said, voice low and amused. “C’mon. That one looks lonely.”
With fumbling, reverent slowness, Cross lifted his other hand, setting it against Epic’s side. The contact made him shiver. It wasn’t even that he was embarrassed—it was that he hadn’t done this in so long. Not like this. Not… tender.
The Royal Guard hadn’t had room for softness. It was uniforms, sweat, quick release in silence behind locked doors. No names. No mouths. No kissing. And certainly nothing like this—like the way Epic was looking at him, like he wanted him, not just his body, not just his loyalty.
But because he was Cross. Because he mattered.
Something in Cross’s ribcage ached—an old, bruised place he’d forgotten how to guard.
His grin returned, smaller now, gentler, touched with something Cross still didn’t catch.
“See?” Epic whispered, his breath dragging hot across the sharp line of Cross’s jaw. “Now we’re getting somewhere.”
Then, without warning, he leaned in again—and kissed him.
Deeper.
Still slow. Still careful. But it had weight now. Heat. A pull like gravity, like surrender. His jaw parted just enough to invite Cross in—to let him feel it, taste it, drown in it. The slide of tongue. The grind of bone. The electric pressure where their manalines kissed—it all blurred together into something molten and achingly real.
Their teeth scraped. Their skulls tilted. Tongues met—uncertain at first, then deeper, wetter, hungrier. Like they were starving. Like they were trying to memorize each other with every sloppy stroke.
Cross made a noise—choked, breathless, wrecked—as he surged forward. His hand flew up to clutch at the back of Epic’s cervical spine, holding on like he’d drown if he let go. He kissed back with a force he hadn’t meant, with everything he didn’t know how to say—open and clumsy and raw, full of need he’d never let himself name.
Epic’s fingers clenched at his sides, gripping Cross like a lifeline, like if he didn’t hold tight, he’d fall through the couch and straight into the center of the earth. He guided the motion with an edge of desperation, skulls tilting, jaws clicking, tongues sliding messily together in a heat-drunk rhythm.
It was clumsy. It was wet. It was ruinous.
The kiss turned into a mess of bone and heat and spit—mouths parted too wide, breath dragging rough through their teeth, saliva stringing between them only to be chased down again. Cross could feel it dripping from the corner of his mouth, sliding down to his jaw and pooling, sticky-warm, in the hollow of his collarbone.
Epic groaned—low and guttural, like it had been punched out of him—and his hips bucked forward before he could stop himself, grinding into Cross in a slow, filthy drag.
And Cross gasped. A sharp, high, wrecked sound. Choked on heat and surprise and something that sounded far too much like a moan.
Epic froze at the sound, like an alarm had been tripped. Like he’d been caught doing something terrible.
His mouth tore away from Cross’s with a wet drag, panting, breath catching like he'd just surfaced from too deep. His sockets were blown wide with alarm, panic flooding his face in real time. To Cross, it felt like something ripped away—like a hand pulled from his chest mid-beat.
And he hadn’t even realized how much he needed it until it wasn’t there.
“I’m so sorry, bruh,” Epic blurted, hands lifting like he’d been caught in the act—caught doing something unforgivable. “Shit—I got too into it, I didn’t mean to—fuck—”
His hands hovered mid-air, trembling slightly—like they’d forgotten what they were supposed to do, where they were supposed to land. Like they ached to touch Cross but didn’t trust themselves not to make it worse.
Not to ruin the only thing that mattered.
His expression was raw panic barely held in check by restraint, his mouth still parted, wet, the ghost of their kiss clinging to him in a string of spit that caught on his teeth and glinted in the low light. His left eye had cracked open in his upset.
The flush hadn’t faded.
If anything, it had bloomed deeper—an embarrassed, electric violet that crawled up his cheekbones, stained the bridge of his nose, pooled in his sockets. He looked wrecked. Unsteady in the aftermath.
“I didn’t wanna—like—make it weird. Or push you. That was—shit, that was a lot.” He swallowed, visibly. “You just—you were kissing me like that and I kinda—lost the plot.”
He was flushed with heat, his jacket half-off one shoulder, collar wrinkled, mouth parted like he was still chasing the ghost of Cross’s kiss. He looked like a man undone—like a man who’d taken one step over the cliff and only now realized the drop.
Cross stared like he’d never seen him before.
His chest heaved, each breath sharp and shallow. His pelvis ached—tight, strung-out, needy—a gnawing, low-slung hunger that screamed for friction. His SOUL was beating wild against his ribs, all raw pulses and exposed wire, like it couldn’t figure out if it was terrified or thrilled.
His mouth tingled. Still open. Still aching with the phantom press of Epic’s tongue against his own.
He tried to speak. “Epic—”
“I’m so sorry,” His best friend cut in, almost frantic now, like if he didn’t get the apology out fast enough it might calcify between them. “I didn’t mean to cross a line. You were just—” his voice caught, broke—“you were kissing me back, and I—fuck, I lost it.”
He shook his head, jaw tight, breath catching again. “You were making these noises and grabbing at me like—like you wanted me. And I got stupid, Cross. I should’ve asked. I should’ve slowed down.”
Epic’s voice broke on the last word, cracking along the edge of something raw, and for a moment, he looked haunted. Like he was bracing for rejection. Like he thought Cross might flinch now—might look at him differently, might put the wall back up and lock the door behind it for good.
But Cross didn’t flinch.
He ached.
He could still feel him—Epic’s mouth, Epic’s hands, Epic’s heat pressed up under his ribs like a second heartbeat. He could feel it in his pelvis, in the ache between his thighs that hadn’t eased, in the flush still humming low in his spine. His whole body missed it.
The desperation. The reverence. The way Epic had touched him like he mattered.
And somehow, somehow, Epic thought he’d done something wrong.
Cross let out a soft, shaky laugh.
It caught both of them off guard.
He hadn’t meant to. Didn’t even know where it had come from—just this strange little breath of disbelief and relief tangled somewhere behind his ribs.
Epic froze. “Uh,” he blinked, visibly recalculating. “Bruh, was that, like… a good laugh? Or are you about to suplex me through the coffee table?”
Cross huffed, rubbing at his sockets. “Stars, you’re such a dumbass.”
Epic blinked again. “I—wait, what?”
“No, I mean—” Cross huffed, slumping back into the couch like the weight of everything had finally caught up. “You basically gave me a whole curriculum. Kiss 101. Full syllabus. Emotional support. Lesson plans. Office hours.”
A beat. Then, quieter—almost like he regretted it the second it left his mouth:
“…You even offered extra credit.”
Epic stared. Just—stared.
For a moment, he didn’t even breathe. Then a laugh cracked out of him. It wasn’t sharp. It wasn’t mocking. It was warm, a little ragged, like relief unspooling in real time. Like he was finally breathing again after forgetting how.
It was rough and a little wrecked, less humor and more relief—the kind that sounded like something unspoken had just snapped loose in his chest.
“Okay,” he managed, voice catching, grin tugging wide and crooked. “Okay, but that’s just good pedagogy.”
Cross blinked at him, incredulous. “Dude, you don’t even know what that word means.”
Epic leaned in, the warmth returning to his grin—lazy, affectionate, completely him. “Means I’m a responsible educator, actually. Licensed in applied smooching. Top marks. High honors.”
Cross gave him a flat, sideways look. “Didn’t you get a PhD in quantum physics?”
“And yet,” Epic said solemnly, “I still found time to master applied smooching theory. Multidisciplinary king, bruh. Show some respect.”
Cross snorted. “Stars. You’re insufferable.”
“Talented,” Epic corrected, his voice dipping into that too-casual register that always meant trouble. “I’m a phenomenal kisser. I taught you. You’re certified.”
Cross made a noise that might’ve been a laugh if it weren’t buried under a groan. He dragged a hand down his face. “Dude, you did not certify me.”
Epic shrugged, looking far too pleased with himself. “I dunno, bruh. You passed all the checkpoints. Breath control, rhythm, tongue placement.” He wiggled his brow bones. “Honestly, if I wasn’t so into you, I’d slap a gold star on your ass and send you on your way.”
The words landed before he realized he’d spoken them. Too fast. Too true.
And then he went completely still.
Cross stared at him. His SOUL hiccuped in his chest.
But Epic didn’t flinch. Didn’t backpedal. Just sat there, grinning a little, like he hadn’t just cracked open his chest and handed Cross something beating and stupid and sincere.
Didn’t try to cover it with a joke or laugh it off or bury it under another layer of smirking bravado. He just let the words hang there between them.
If I wasn’t so into you…
Like it was normal. Like it had always been true.
“…You’re into me?”
The words left Cross before he could stop them—quiet, stunned, barely even a question.
“Yeah,” he said simply. No wink, no teasing lilt. Just truth. “Of course I am.”
His shoulders lifted in a soft, helpless shrug, like he couldn’t do anything about it even if he tried. Like it had lived inside him so long he didn’t know how to do anything but carry it.
“I’ve been into you,” he continued, quieter now, “stupidly into you. For a long time, Cross. Like… knock-on-your-door-at-2AM-just-to-see-you stupid.”
Cross’s jaw twitched, like he wanted to say something—but no words came. His SOUL fluttered in his chest, stumbling like it had forgotten how to beat in rhythm. The room felt too full, too hot.
None of this felt real.
It felt like a dream. One that he wasn’t allowed to have.
“I—” he tried, but choked on the syllable.
“You don’t have to say anything,” he said it quickly, gently, like he could see the panic forming behind Cross’s eyes and wanted to catch it before it spilled. “I know this was supposed to be practice. I know how much this meant just as that. And if it’s too much—if it messes anything up—This doesn’t change what we are. Not for me. I swear, we’re still good.”
His voice didn’t tremble, but it bent, just enough to show how much he meant it.
“I’ll still show up. Still watch you burn dinner. Still kick your ass in training. Still binge trash anime with you until two in the morning. Still be your best bruh. Always.”
Cross blinked fast, a little too fast, like his body was trying to keep up with something unraveling inside him. His fingers twitched, aching to grab hold of something. Of someone.
Epic rubbed the back of his neck, eyes flicking away for the first time. “I just…” he exhaled, slow and shaky. “I didn’t want to kiss you like that and pretend it was nothing. That didn’t feel right. Not with you.”
For a beat, Cross stared at him.
Not just at his face—but at everything. The way Epic's shoulders sloped forward just slightly, like he was bracing for impact. The way his hand still rubbed the back of his neck like he didn’t know what else to do with it.
Cross’s chest hurt. Not from the sharp kind of pain he was used to—bruises and broken ribs and cracked sternums from sparring matches. his was slow, rooted, deep. The kind of ache that came from wanting something for so long it turned invisible.
He’d lived with it. Let it settle in his bones. Never called it by name.
The friend who’d held him together through missions gone bad. Who never made him explain the silences. Who made the ache in his chest feel less like punishment and more like something survivable. The one who made space for him, always. Without asking. Without needing a reason.
Cross had never admitted it—not to himself, not to anyone—but it was there.
It had always been there.
And Cross had never said it. Never even let himself think it.
But it had always been there.
Until now.
Until it was sitting in front of him, bare and beautiful and steady, saying: I’ll still be yours, even if you don’t choose me.
“I think I’ve been in love with you.”
Epic stilled.
No flinch. No breath. Just silence, like the whole room had tilted on its axis.
Cross’s voice wavered, but didn’t break. “I just didn’t know. Or maybe I did, and I just... didn’t think I was allowed to have that.”
Epic blinked. Once. Twice. Then a third time, slower, like he was rebooting.
“…Bro,” he said at last, voice rough with disbelief. “You what?”
Cross immediately regretted everything. “Never mind.” He tried to backpedal, his sockets wide, horrified. “Forget I said—”
“No. No, no-no-no, absolutely not, you do not drop a bomb like that and then try to recall the missile—” Epic was already scrambling upright, limbs flailing like a glitchy NPC. “Back up. Run it again. From the top. You think you’ve been in love with me?”
Cross groaned and tried to bury his face in his phalanges. “Stars, I knew you’d make it weird.”
“Weird? WEIRD? Cross, I’ve been mooning over you for like three years! I nearly died choking on instant noodles last summer because you walked by shirtless.”
Cross peeked through his fingers. “…That’s what that noise was?”
“I thought you’d heard it!” Epic threw his arms up, then pointed dramatically at Cross. “I have suffered. In silence.”
“You were not silent,” Cross muttered. “You groaned like you got stabbed.”
“Because I was, emotionally.”
Cross let out a noise like a laugh and a groan had collided in his throat and gotten stuck. He dropped his hands to his lap, sockets flicking away, like if he didn’t look directly at Epic, the last three minutes might become less real.
But Epic wasn’t letting him get away with it.
“Dude,” he said, eyes wide, “you don’t even know. You sat on my lap at that one Council meeting. On purpose. And I blacked out for, like, ten seconds. I thought I was having a stroke.”
“I was tired,” Cross hissed, scandalized. “You had the only chair.”
“You had a chair! You just didn’t want to sit on it ‘cause it was broken!”
“It was lopsided!”
“And I was emotionally compromised!”
His skull was cycling through every possible shade of flustered purple, his sockets glowing so bright he was practically radiating embarrassment. His SOUL was a drumbeat in his ribs, loud and clumsy, vibrating with humiliation and something terrifyingly fond.
His SOUL trembled violently in its cradle—humiliated, burning, and yet… terrifyingly warm.
Because he wasn’t scared.
Not even a little.
He should’ve been. His ribcage was open, every word from his mouth a raw nerve, his feelings scattered across the floor like dropped glass. This kind of exposure should have made him bolt.
But it didn’t.
Because it was Epic.
It had always been Epic.
And that realization hit him so hard he almost choked on it.
He realized, all at once, how long he’d been carrying this thing—this blooming, bitter, quiet thing—so deep inside himself it had stopped feeling like love and started feeling like background radiation.
It was like being punched in the gut with the truth of something you’d kept buried under your ribs so long you forgot it was there.
He thought about every time Epic leaned into him without asking. Every time he made room for Cross’s silence. Every time he touched his shoulder, or laughed at his deadpan comments, or dragged him into a dumb anime marathon because “you look like you need it, bro.”
Cross blinked, slow and stunned, breath catching in his throat. His hands fell from his face.
Oh.
That was what that had been.
That was what it had been all along.
All this time, carrying it around like a wound, like a problem to suppress—when it had always been this. This lightness. This want.
Cross let out a breath that shook at the edges but didn’t break. He looked up at Epic again, and this time he didn’t hide.
Epic was still watching him like he was waiting for a verdict. His hands hovered just above his knees, like he didn’t know whether to reach for Cross or stay still and let him choose. His magic flickered steady and warm—open in a way that made Cross’s SOUL ache.
He was so much, now that Cross let himself look.
So strong, so stupid, so goddamn brilliant. Silly and loyal and infuriating. Exhausted, flushed, a little cracked open—but real. Beautiful.
His best friend.
And all Cross could think was: mine.
“Stars,” he breathed, voice catching on heat and everything blooming too fast to hold. “I’m such an idiot.”
Epic blinked. “I mean—yeah, but like, a handsome idiot—”
He didn’t finish.
Because Cross grabbed him by the collar and kissed him.
Hard.
There was no hesitation in it—no caution left. It wasn’t elegant. It wasn’t smooth. It was messy and desperate, all teeth and breath and open-mouthed want. Like trying to make up for every second he hadn’t done this. Every minute he’d spent pretending he didn’t want to.
Epic made a sound—wrecked, startled, delighted—and kissed him back instantly, hands catching his hips like they belonged there.
Then he moved, gripping Cross tighter and hauling him right into his lap, like he’d wanted to do that for years. Cross went easily, straddling him without thought, grinding down with a shaky gasp as their magic sparked hard at the point of contact.
Epic broke the kiss just long enough to suck in a breath and grin—dazed, flushed, absolutely ruined in the best possible way.
“Bruh,” he gasped, voice cracking around a laugh, “I should’ve done this three crushes and a mental breakdown ago.”
Cross huffed, breath hot against his mouth. “Dude, you’re insufferable.”
Epic’s hands slid lower, fingers flexing at his hips, dragging him down again with a little grind that made Cross’s magic stutter.
“Talented,” Epic corrected, breathless. “I’m talented, Cross. Now shut up and kiss me again before I say something inspirational like 'YOLO.'”
“You say that and I will bite you.”
Epic grinned wider. “Promise?”
Cross didn’t answer. He kissed him instead.
It wasn’t careful anymore.
Not even close.
He rolled his hips down once—shaky, testing. Then again, slower. The drag of friction made a noise slip out of him, thin and strangled.
That did something.
Epic’s hands tightened on his hips, grip flexing like he didn’t know if he was trying to hold Cross still or closer. But Cross didn’t stop. He couldn’t. His body moved without asking—chasing friction like it was instinct, like he was wired for it.
His breath caught high in his throat, came out in broken pants. His mouth dragged along Epic’s jaw, teeth skimming bone, open and wet and messy.
The next kiss missed his mouth entirely. It landed on his cheek. Then his jaw. Then somewhere near his ear. Epic was mouthing at whatever he could reach now, sloppy and breathless, like proximity was all that mattered.
Small, shaking kisses.
Then another.
And another.
“Fuck,” Cross gasped, spine arching. “Gods—fuck, I—”
His voice cracked and gave out.
He couldn’t think. Couldn’t breathe. His underwear was soaked through, clinging, magic flaring hard in his pelvis—throbbing, aching. His hips jerked forward again, grinding down, and he let out the softest, most humiliating sound—needy and involuntary.
He rutted forward again, eyelights fluttering shut, his hands scrabbling for purchase on Epic’s shoulders. His bones trembled. His SOUL pounded like it wanted out, every pulse dragging heat through his whole frame.
“Feels—fuck, it’s—” He didn’t finish. He couldn’t.
Because it hurt. That’s how hard he was. That’s how much he wanted. Just from this—just from the weight of Epic’s mouth and his hands and the sound of his voice, hot and loving and laughing.
Epic’s hand slid down his spine, then lower, cupping him full through his shorts with a low groan. He ground them together, slow and deep, and Cross made a wrecked little sound, clawing at his back like he didn’t know what else to hold onto.
“Cross,” Epic gasped, voice hoarse, reverent, like he couldn’t believe what was happening. “Oh my god, you’re—fuck. You’re whining in my mouth.”
He bit at Cross’s jaw—gentle, almost teasing—and shivered when Cross bucked into him again, pressure mounting fast and unbearable.
“You’re gonna kill me.”
Cross tried to say something—anything—but all that came out was another whimper, hips grinding down in sharp little jerks.
“You’re so cute,” Epic breathed, dragging his mouth along his cheekbone.
Another grind. Another soft, breathless sound punched out of Cross. His magic flickered wild in his bones, SOUL thudding out of rhythm.
His cock—gods, his cock didn’t feel like it could physically get any harder.
“Stars, bruh,” Epic whispered, pressing kisses to his cheek, his jaw, down to the slope of his neck. “Didn’t know you could get like this.”
He slid a hand down, fingers pressing in slow. Cross flinched, hips twitching.
Then Epic groaned, deep in his chest, when he felt the heat trapped in that wet fabric.
“Fuck,” he breathed. “You’re soaked.”
His hand cupped him fully, thumb dragging slow over the pulsing shape of him, teasing the head through the cloth with practiced pressure.
Cross jerked. Loud this time. He clawed at Epic’s back, breath catching on a sob, like it was too much—like his body couldn’t hold it anymore.
“I don’t—” he gasped, forehead pressed to Epic’s, whole body shivering. “I didn’t know I could—fuck—”
He couldn’t finish. The word shattered in his throat, eyelights blown wide, mouth open, teeth clicking against bone.
His hips bucked again—frantic, needy—and he whimpered, high and wrecked. Every stroke of Epic’s thumb over him made his knees tremble, his magic spike and flare, wild and instinctive.
Cross bucked again, helpless, chasing pressure.
Epic’s palm didn’t leave him. Just pressed in harder, slower, dragging across the curve of him like he knew exactly where to touch.
And then—
Gods—
His thumb rolled down, lower, stroking over the base of his cock through the soaked fabric. Right over the swelling pressure of his knot.
Cross shattered.
The noise that left him was sharp and high, full-body and honest. His spine arched hard, hips rutting down like he couldn’t stop if he tried, like his whole body was crumpling under the pressure.
“Oh—fuck—” he sobbed, the sound cracked and raw as it tore out of him.
He twitched, hips grinding down with frantic desperation, chasing every last jolt of pleasure as it ripped through him. His orgasm hit hard, crashing over him like a wave too big to outrun—wet, pulsing release soaking through his shorts, every burst spilling hot and heavy against the mess of fabric and friction.
He couldn’t stop. Couldn’t even slow down. His hips rutted forward in short, helpless thrusts, riding the high with a broken whimper.
Epic’s hands were everywhere—slipping up his back, gripping his hips, keeping him steady as he came apart. His voice was low and wrecked, threading praise into every breathless second.
“That’s it, babe—fuck, ride it out—gods, you’re so good—Cross, fuck, you’re making the hottest fucking sounds—keep going, I’ve got you—”
Cross didn’t hear the rest. He couldn’t.
His body was shaking too hard, mouth parted, eyes squeezed shut, every nerve lit up and humming. He was drenched, inside and out—clinging to Epic’s shoulders like he’d fall apart without something to hold.
And then, Epic groaned, deep and desperate, hands spasming where they gripped his hips.
The friction had pushed him too far—Cross grinding in his lap, whimpering, soaking wet and still twitching, his magic still burning bright between them.
“Fuck,” Epic gasped, voice catching, “you’re gonna ruin me—”
And then he was coming too.
His cock jerked against the sticky press of his shorts, twitching hard as he spilled, warmth flooding the space between them. His hips surged up once, twice, grinding into the mess they’d made—into Cross—as the heat of it overtook him.
The air was heavy with it.
Breath. Magic. Sweat.
The scent of ozone and lightning and sex, thick in the quiet that followed. They clung to each other, grinding slow through the aftershocks, shivering as their magic sparked.
Epic buried his face in Cross’s neck, panting, still trembling. “Holy shit, Cross,” he whispered, voice raw and stunned. “That was—what the fuck—”
Cross couldn’t answer. Could barely move. He was boneless, sticky, wrecked in a way he hadn’t thought possible from just—kissing. His forehead rested against Epic’s temple, arms looped weakly around his shoulders like letting go wasn’t an option.
His SOUL still throbbed, but softer now. Spent. Steady.
They stayed like that for a while—just breathing, tangled up in silence and warmth.
Epic was the first to speak again. His voice was quieter this time, almost shy, like maybe saying it out loud made it too real.
“...You okay?”
Cross nodded, slow and small. “Yeah.”
They stayed like that—wrapped up in each other, quiet and trembling—for another long moment. Just breathing. Just being.
Cross let his hand drift up, tracing blindly along Epic’s spine, fingers catching where his hoodie had bunched. He didn’t know what to say. Didn’t want to say anything that would ruin the strange, gentle thing curling up in his chest.
Epic pulled back just far enough to meet his gaze.
His face was flushed, eyelights still hazy, teeth faintly stained violet where their magic had mingled. He looked wrecked. Soft. Sweet. Like someone who’d just survived something sacred.
Cross stared at him, breath still not quite steady. His chest ached—not from strain, but from how full it suddenly felt.
Epic blinked at him slowly, then tilted his head with mock seriousness. “So…” he murmured, voice rough and low, still ruined from earlier—thick with heat and just a little too attractive to be fair—“gonna have to revise your grade after that performance. Might even write you a glowing letter of recommendation.”
Cross let out a helpless, breathless noise—half a laugh, half a groan—and shoved weakly at his chest. “Dude, you’re the worst,” he muttered, but didn’t pull away.
Epic caught his wrist mid-swat. Didn’t let go.
Instead, he turned it over, careful, like it mattered. And then leaned down to press a kiss to the back of Cross’s hand—warm, soft, deliberate.
Epic didn’t say anything—just held him there, thumb brushing lazy circles over his knuckles like it was the most natural thing in the world.
Like he couldn't not touch him.
Cross stayed quiet. Breath shallow. SOUL fluttering somewhere high in his throat.
Then—slowly, almost without thinking—he leaned in. His forehead pressed to Epic's, bone clinking at the contact. His eyes fluttered shut. His breath trembled. He felt weightless and full all at once, like something inside him had finally clicked into place.
Epic met him there, soft and steady. Leaning close like he’d do it a thousand more times.
And Cross—Cross believed him.