Chapter Text
The world loads in softly.
Moonlight spills across a coastal plateau where bioluminescent grass bends in slow waves, glowing teal and silver under a sky too full of stars to be real. Below the cliffs, a dark ocean murmurs against stone, distant and endless. Lanterns hang from twisted trees, their light drifting like fireflies.
TryForTreats is already there.
His character stands broad-shouldered at the overlook, fur-lined cloak stirring in the breeze, braided hair threaded with beads and runes. A Viking by way of fairytale—warm-toned armor, heavy boots, a round shield strapped to his back. He looks solid. Reliable. Like he represents safety.
A shimmer of shadow resolves a few paces away.
PatroclusInk appears in a flicker of violet light—lean, sharp-edged, dressed in dark leather and metal. Tattoos curl up his arms and across his collarbones, glowing faintly as if inked with pure starlight. A warrior-poet, blade slung casually at his side.
They don’t speak in open chat.
Instead, the private channel opens— just for them.
TryForTreats: Hey. You made it.
PatroclusInk turns, his character’s expression softening into a familiar half-smile.
PatroclusInk: Wouldn’t miss it.
They stand there for a moment, side by side, watching the ocean. It’s become a ritual—arrive, exist together, let the day drain out of them before words begin, and missions take place.
TryForTreats: How was your day?
A pause. Then:
PatroclusInk: Like every other Monday. Shit assignment at work.
And I didn’t even get my coffee.
TryForTreats’ character shifts, boots crunching softly in the glowing grass.
TryForTreats: That’s tragic. Why no coffee?
PatroclusInk: Running late.
TryForTreats: Why were you running late?
Another pause. Longer this time.
PatroclusInk: My partner got home late from some work thing and shut off my alarm so it wouldn’t wake him up.
TryForTreats: That’s… really inconsiderate.
PatroclusInk: I mean. My internal clock usually wakes me up first anyway. He knows that.
It’s kind of my fault. I stayed up late writing and messed up my own schedule.
TryForTreats doesn’t answer right away. His character turns fully toward PatroclusInk now.
TryForTreats: It’s really not your fault.
A beat.
Then, gently,
TryForTreats: But you don’t want to talk about that, do you.
PatroclusInk character shrugs.
PatroclusInk: Not really.
TryForTreats: Okay.
What were you writing?
That earns a smile.
PatroclusInk: A short story.
TryForTreats: Tell me about it?
PatroclusInk’s character sits at the edge of the cliff, legs dangling over the glowing drop.
PatroclusInk: Two pirates.
They’re from rival crews hunting the same mythical trade route—one that only appears during storms. They clash first during a boarding gone wrong, end up shipwrecked together on an island that shouldn’t exist. There’s cursed gold, sea monsters, and an evil regime looking to take them all out. They need to get back to save their crew.
TryForTreats: Can I read it?
PatroclusInk: You don’t have to read everything I write just because we’re friends.
TryForTreats: I absolutely do.
PatroclusInk tilts his head.
TryForTreats: Your writing is amazing.
And when you’re famous, I want to be able to say I knew your work before everyone else did.
PatroclusInk’s character looks away.
PatroclusInk: You’re exaggerating.
TryForTreats: Nope.
It's an absolute fact. No debate allowed.
PatroclusInk laughs, the sound soft and unguarded.
They fall into easy conversation after that, the way they always do.
Eventually, TryForTreats admits
I’m kind of stressed myself, actually.
Big deadline this week. I don’t know if I can make it.
Feels like everyone’s going to realize I’m an idiot. A fraud.
PatroclusInk doesn’t joke this time.
He stands, steps closer, their characters almost touching.
PatroclusInk: You are so far from an idiot.
You have more emotional intelligence than most people I know. And depth.
I love talking to you because you always keep up—with my wit, my references… everything.
TryForTreats: Okay, full disclosure, I definitely Google some of your references.
PatroclusInk snorts.
PatroclusInk: That still counts. Effort matters.
They linger there until the stars begin to dim—the game’s subtle cue that it’s late.
TryForTreats: We should log out soon.
It's getting late.
PatroclusInk: Yeah.
Same time tomorrow?
TryForTreats: Always.
We need to break into the garden and get the lost treasure for William Wilksborrow next time. We need that golden sword.
Their characters fade out one by one.
Nick removes his headset and the apartment rushes back in—quiet, dim, too big for one person. He brushes his teeth, moves on autopilot, then slips into bed.
The empty space beside him feels colder than usual.
He stares at the ceiling, exhales, and turns onto his side.
Charlie logs out and sets his controller down carefully.
In the sleek bathroom of Ben’s penthouse, he brushes his teeth, does his skincare step by step, methodical. When he finally slides into bed, Ben barely looks up from his phone.
“What took you so long?” Ben asks.
“Just played a bit of Dreambound Realms,” Charlie says. Casual.
Ben scoffs.
“That stupid role-playing game? Seriously, Charlie. You’re twenty-four. Grow up.”
Charlie doesn’t respond.
Ben rolls closer, hand already familiar at his waist, insistent. Charlie goes with it, the way he’s learned to—quiet, compliant, somewhere else.
Later, when the lights are off and Ben is asleep, Charlie stares at the dark.
And thinks about a glowing cliffside, a Viking with a ridiculous name, and a place where he’s allowed to be gentle.
Charlie walked into the office, coffee in hand, and let out a small, satisfied sigh as the warm mug chased away the morning chill. He set it down on his desk, taking a moment to appreciate the little comforts he’d carved out in this tiny cubicle.
A picture of him and Ben, all smiles and sparkle from last year’s work Christmas party, leaned against the partition. Beside it, a photo of him with his three best friends, arms slung around each other, faces bright and laughing. And tucked in the corner, a smaller photo of him and Tori, frozen in a moment from high school. A tiny progress flag hung just above his computer. A small potted plant sat next to his keyboard, green and perky—Isaac’s gift from the end of college. Ben had hated plants, insisting there was too much dirt for such a sleek, expensive apartment. Fake plants only. Charlie had compromised; now the plant lived here, quietly surviving, just like him.
He should be grateful. With the assignments he got, there was no way he could afford a decent apartment in the city on his own. Ben’s money, Ben’s taste—Charlie had to live with it. At least it came with stability. And someone who loved him.
Charlie barely had time to settle in when two familiar faces popped up over the partition.
“Morning, Charlie!"
Charlie jumped.
“Barbara! Joyce! Good morning. Why the ambush?”
Barbara, mid-50s with an unmissable sparkle for gossip, leaned in close. Joyce, 28 and effervescent, practically bounced in excitement.
“In a stage whisper,” Barbara said, eyes darting, “there’s talk of a big human interest piece that’s up for grabs soon.”
Charlie’s perked up above his coffee
“Big?”
Joyce nodded furiously.
“Huge. We’re not sure what it is yet, but... there are talks.”
Charlie exhaled, half in excitement, half in resignation.
“Yeah, no chance anyone but Nepo-Nick will get it if it’s important. You know how it goes.”
As if on cue, Nick Nelson appeared, hair still damp from the gym showers, moving through the office with that effortless, warm smile. He greeted people casually as he passed—friendly nods, cheerful hellos.
Charlie’s jaw tightened.
Joyce waved.
“Hey, Nick!” she said, voice playful. Nick’s smile widened as he returned her greeting, charming as ever. Barbara got a warm nod too.
Finally, Nick’s eyes met Charlie’s.
“Charlie,” he said, nodding casually.
“Nick,” Charlie shot back, mocking in tone, all attitude. Immature? Definitely. Did he care? Not in the slightest.
Nick rolled his eyes and continued toward Stéphane’s office without another word.
Charlie turned to Joyce, half-joking.
“Flirting with the enemy, huh?”
Joyce shrugged, grinning.
“Come on, you can’t deny he’s pretty hot.”
Charlie snorted.
“No,” he said, almost convincing himself. Almost.
Barbara leaned in.
“Actually, he’s really nice.”
Charlie didn’t pause.
“Nick Nelson is not nice. He's slimy. Fake. He's a complete moron with zero talent who gets everything handed to him.”
He said it just as Nick was walking back out of the office, and the words seemed to catch him mid-step. Nick’s brow furrowed and his lips pressed into a thin line, a subtle frown. Without another word, he shook his head and walked away.
Charlie scoffed, shoulders tense, chest tight. He should feel bad. Maybe even embarrassed. But he didn’t. Not really. Nick probably didn’t care anyway. He didn’t need brains or effort. He just got everything handed to him, and everyone still smiled and treated him like he was special. He had it easy.
Charlie sank back into his chair, took a cautious sip of coffee, and tried to focus on the stack of papers on his desk. But he knew, somewhere deep down, that today would be another Monday where the only person winning was Nepo-Nick.
Nick heads into his office and shuts the door a little harder than necessary.
He hates this room. The glass walls, the extra quiet, the way it marks him as different when he’s not—technically—any higher up than anyone else in the bullpen. His father had insisted. Said Nick’s projects required “focus” and “discipline,” that he’d flounder without privacy. Nick had nodded and accepted it, like he always does, even though every day it feels less like a perk and more like a spotlight trained directly on his shortcomings. On his bed for extra help.
He feels awful.
Charlie hates him. Fine. Whatever. Charlie Spring is a stuck-up, pretentious twat with a superiority complex and a mouth bigger than his capacity for empathy. Nick can live with that. What he can’t shake is the way Charlie feels the need to constantly insult him just because he’s the boss’s son. Everyone else smiles too much, praises too easily, bends over backward to reassure him. Charlie doesn’t. Charlie is honest. Brutally so. He wouldn't hate a middle ground.
And Charlie calling him a complete moron with no talent—in front of half the entire bullpen—had landed exactly where Nick already feels weakest.
He knows he isn’t as talented as Charlie. That part isn’t up for debate. Charlie has instincts Nick doesn’t, an ease with words that feels almost magical to witness. But Nick doing his job isn’t hurting anyone. And humiliating him like that, publicly, when Nick was already trying so hard to prove he belonged here? It was a dick move. Full stop.
God, I hate him.p
Nick drops into his chair and exhales, rubbing his hands over his face. His laptop sits unopened on the desk, mocking him with expectation. His dad had just given him an extension on his current piece—a long-form investigative profile on the financial entanglements between local sports sponsorships and city council donors. It’s dense. Political. Full of coded language and implied corruption that Charlie would slice through effortlessly, weaving sharp analysis and biting commentary into something compelling.
Nick keeps getting lost in the details. The numbers blur. He can report clean facts all day—interviews, human interest, straightforward narratives—but this kind of piece demands a confidence he doesn’t feel.
His father isn’t patient. Never has been. He’ll bankroll you, hand you a title, give you every advantage—and then remind you, constantly, that it can all disappear the second you disappoint him. The extension isn’t kindness. It’s a warning.
Nick suddenly feels like crying.
He leans forward and lets his forehead rest against the cool surface of the desk. Just for a second. He takes a slow breath, then another, and tells himself not to be pathetic. To man up. To stop letting people get under his skin.
He straightens, opens his laptop, and starts typing.