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mewtwo24 · 4 months

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I finally finished reading the fourth volume of svsss in full, and thing is--the first time through I only read the bingqiu content because I was ravenous for more of their happy ending.

Turns out that was a perilous mistake.

Because I started reading the airplane extras. And I swear to god. MXTX is trying to kill me

What do you MEAN demon lord Binghe was sitting on his big fucking throne. All stoic and forbidding. Surrounded by his demon generals who don't know shit about human courtship. Asking them what he should do, fully demoralized by constant rejections from sqq, only to have airplane tell him to act more pathetic and needy. Which is already hysterically funny and insane, UNTIL LBH'S RESPONSE IS THIS, KILLING ME INSTANTLY:

LUO BINGHE. WHY DOES HE SAY IT LIKE: "I already tried that, didn't work--nothing works :/ not mean, not maidenly, not housewife, not spicy, not capable disciple. Is doubling down on clingy really all it will take? What's a born hater with only one love in his life to do????"

The dichotomy of him sitting there like 'how can I reach the unfathomable depths of shizun's heart?' A HEART HE'S ALREADY WON OVER, MIND and then in the Holy Mausoleum solving the puzzle without blinking and being like 'oh yeah you just have to hit the acupoints, no sweat.' Literally the comedy writes itself I'm so--

How am I supposed to be normal about this. MXTX understands the juicy quintessential queer joy of a person with the world's power at their fingertips wishing only for love. Willing to do anything to earn that love, when unbeknownst to them it's already been freely given. Totally not screaming and yelling and clawing at the walls

And that's not even touching airplane's uproarious account of events. The way he's like 'lol what's next, lbh and sqq are best friends now? smfh' only to see lbh TACKLE SQQ LOVINGLY. FOR SQQ TO BE BASHFUL ABOUT IT BUT SO SO FOND OF THE LITTLE SCAMP. This when we've been experiencing sqq's constant inner monologue of 'I'm so cool and so dignified about my role, truly the epitome of propriety and poser-level fortitude.' Meanwhile, in their universe:

Airplane constantly flaming???? Sqq and lbh in his observations????? His absolute bewilderment and confusion????? Legendary. No notes every single second of this shit was hilarious.

Airplane's comment that sqq + older adolescent lbh traveling together was just watching a couple in their honeymoon phase. OR the fact that lbh is exceedingly petty and refuses to share their food in the wake of airplane's interruption of their time together, until sqq relents sheepishly and insists airplane eat what's left (ONLY AFTER PLACATING LBH WITH MORE FOOD FROM HIS PLATE, SOBBING)

Watching airplane salivate over Mobei-Jun and acting like that's totally normal behavior. Finding out mbj and airplane got together first. Finding out sqq encouraged airplane. LIKE THIS. WHILE HE IS STILL IN DENIAL ABOUT HIS OWN FEELINGS:

Mobei-jun clearly thinking their arrangement is a forever thing, heartbroken his human abandoned him with all the hapless fury of a scorned wife swept away by false promises of fidelity. Airplane writing demons to be the type to beat up their crush lovingly and still unable to connect the dots about mbj's feelings. Mbj letting him go and respecting his wishes, only relenting when there's indication airplane was poorly processing his own feelings and didn't actually want to leave. Mbj caring for him and listening to him as soon as airplane voices what he needs directly and with clarity. None of these gays are functional and it's everything to me

Unrelated, but I physically can't hold this information in anymore:

I'm still reeling from younger lbh having his sexual awakening from the image of sqq wrapped in the immortal binding cables. Condemn me as you like he was so, so real for that.

And no I will not be taking any comments about how luo bingge couldn't bear to see luo binghe cherished in ways he never got to have and all the haunting implications of that. I will also not be taking any comments about luo binghe's instinct to look for sqq in that alternate universe, only to be shaken to the very core to be unable to find his shizun anywhere. The unspeakable and latent horror of his relentless mind likely piecing together what happened, but unable to say it; to suspect what is true, and live with the harrowing confusion of his double's actions. To blame himself, to assume that he had let his anger get the better of him in that world and result in unspeakable folly...

I also refuse to talk about how heartrending it is to hear Tianlang-jun weakly say "In the end, I really can't bring myself to hate humans." The implication that the foolishness of that hope and bright-eyed fondness--the very thing that put him through such unspeakable agony--couldn't be beaten out of him entirely. To discover that his faith in Su Xiyan hadn't been misplaced, to the contrary: his beloved hadn't scorned him at all, but rather fought to the miserable end to protect the fruition of their genuine feelings of love when she couldn't protect tlj or herself.

How MXTX has sqq deliberately draw parallels between their situation and that of ygy+sj and tlj+sx; desperately wishing it might not be too late for them. The concept of breaking cycles of abuse and harm pervasive throughout the newly devised story, how it evolves for the better only when love takes the place of power, pride, and domination. How the moment sqq chooses vulnerability instead of saving face, the genre shifts to the so-called "cringe" girly genre where most if not every character is more fulfilled, more true to themselves. How the "male-oriented" former genre was aimlessly sensationalized and sexualized, how it was a sustained performance of aspirational toxic masculinity. How men objectify other men without end. All of the unspoken gendered implications that come with that.

Anyways. Going to go put my head in a sandbox and try to process everything I just witnessed because even a second reading is not enough to find a modicum of closure.

#svsss #bingqiu #moshang #i swear to god this series is just 'gay man who doesn't know shit inflicting his delusional reality on everyone else and inciting chaos'#and literally it's slapstick levels of hilarious every single time; mxtx never change #also i fully agree that we did not get NEARLY enough mobei-jun and sqh/airplane content #the amount of mental illness to mental illness communication going on there was astonishing #mobei-jun being afraid of his uncle and bringing sqh because that's the only person he trusts fully (WAILING NOISES)#sqh having a tantrum but running away because for the first time he was honest about his needs + his dissatisfaction with catering to other #how that reflects his narrative compulsions and how he felt forced to warp more creative story paths for the sake of survival as a writer #how sqq's restoration of much of his original intent--as well as mobei-jun's acceptance of his needs--helps airplane begin to heal #how his happiness begins; how just like sqq he wanders in such confusion and denial before he's forced to realize what truly matters to him #SHREK VOICE: STORIES HAVE. L A Y E R S #it feels like modern day shakespeare and when i say that i don't mean it in a hollow elevating sense i mean it more like #mxtx just hits that perfect balance of poignance but also hilarious concentric circles of botched communication and brainworms #okay but real talk for a minute? .........;-;#the way lbh constantly struggles with such a crushing feeling that he'll be abandoned over any little mishap/thing/problem #really hit me where it hurts??? if only because its so clearly an anxiety that stems from original goods' upbringing #the way it becomes even more heartrending when you think back to all the sect leaders clamoring that he should have been killed as an infan #that he should have been aborted as a fetus--insisting right in front of him that his birth was a mistake and a disgrace #over having demon blood in his veins. like my god that scene is so viscerally upsetting i struggle to read it #the way its so easy to see the demons as a manifestation of otherness in precipitated form #how both sqq and sqh are influenced by human rhetoric without evening meaning to--assuming the worst against their better judgment #how both sqq and sqh both struggle with their own otherness in different ways and only find solace when they begin to accept who they are #how their lovers (lbh and mbj respectively) both are willing to navigate those confusing waters with them #how both demons love them as they are--accept them as they are despite how difficult forgiveness of perceived betrayal is for them #ty mxtx for changing my brain chemistry #as i get older i have such a fondness for the messiness of thematic queer self-discovery and growth into self-acceptance #that and how youth can so easily be defined by perfectionistic self-harm and the violence of repression

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unscrupulousartist · 9 months

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hellerby fic, part 10/10

19 December 1929

Sprawled across two booths in the Lackadaisy Cafe, the senior staff loosely gathered for a breakfast meeting. Furthest from the door, Mordecai had a table to himself to accommodate the piles of paperwork and books he was referencing. As such, Mitzi half kneeled in the other booth with Viktor and Ivy, both to be able to lean over the divide to bother him and also so she had a clear view of the doors. Outside, the streets were white with snow. The people of St Louis were bundled in colourful scarves and bulky jackets, and fewer cars were out and about.

“Where is he?” Mitzi grumbled.

“Who?” Ivy asked, voice muffled with food.

Shuddering, Mordecai hunched over his ledger and started a second count of the day’s proposed expenses.

“Zib!” Mitzi answered. “He knows we don’t have a whole lotta time!”

“Perhaps you should get him a watch?” Mordecai pitched in without turning. “Though I doubt it would help. Why are we hiring jugglers?”

“Don’t worry about it,” Mitzi reached to smack his shoulder lightly. “You’re goin’ home at noon.”

“Yes, so you’ve said.”

“A nice, relaxing, stress free weekend for you while the rest of us frolic and play.”

“Sounds delightful,” he made a tally in the margin. “And suspicious.”

“Don’t worry so much,” Mitzi ruffled his hair, then straightened as the bell over the door dinged. “There you are!”

Zib’s voice carried across the cafe: “Here I am. Be grateful I’m even awake.”

“And with company,” there was a note of mischief in Mitzi’s voice.

Explained by Wick’s response: “Hullo.”

“Great,” Viktor grumbled. “Who do I owe money?”

“Money?” Wick questioned.

“No one, yet,” Zib answered. “Don’t worry about it, Wick. Ivy, budge over—”

There was some shuffling as three people squeezed together onto a two person bench, all of which Mitzi seemed to have no patience for. She turned to sit properly beside Viktor, leaving Mordecai as an eavesdropper. “Did you get it?” she asked.

“Who do you think I am?” said Zib. There was a fwump as something hit the other table. “Cost an arm and a leg, but I got it.”

Mordecai rolled his eyes and asked: “Is that why—?”

“Shush,” Mitzi shot back at him, then returned to the conversation. “And the recipe?”

“All sorted; I just need an hour in the kitchen before the festivities start.”

Wick cleared his throat. “Is this about the kissing booth..?”

The whole table laughed.

“No, no, Wick, that’s separate,” Mitzi purred. “But we’re still payin’ off Mozzie’s new piano, and there’s always something or another to fix.”

“I definitely have another kissing campaign in me,” Zib added. “You done with the paper?”

“Yea,” said Viktor.

“So…” Wick started. “The mushrooms were for—?”

“Shhh,” Mitzi, Ivy, and Zib all chorused.

“Nothing to worry about,” Mitzi continued.

“Suspicious,” Mordecai repeated.

The bell rang again. “Goooood morning!” An exuberant Rocky sang; Mordecai slumped lower in his booth, out of sight. “Horatio! Good sir! Are there pancakes?”

“Come here, Rocky,” Mitzi called. Someone scrambled to remove something from the other table. “Horatio knows your order.”

“Of course, Ms M—”

“We weren’t expectin’ you this early.”

“Is it early?”

“Oi, Rocky—” Zib waved something in the air. “—says here your boy was found in the Missouri.”

“Freckle?” Rocky questioned. He came close to stand at the edge of the other table. “What was he doing there?”

Quietly groaning, Mordecai reached for his tea to sit and stare at; but he could still see Rocky in his peripheral.

“No,” Zib laughed. “Not him.”

“Freckle’s my boy, Rocky,” said Ivy. “But I forgive you.”

“Ha, of course,” Rocky’s arms flailed high as he rubbed his neck.

Zib’s voice lowered to near a whisper, and Mordecai’s ears twitched to hear him. “The one you kept awkwardly flirting with.” There was a beat of silence as Rocky inhaled, and Mordecai felt something twist in his gut. Zib continued: “Says right here—” there was the smack of flesh on paper; Mordecai pulled his tea close to sip. “—cops finally identified the body they found back in October—”

“Oh good,” Rocky interrupted, sighing. “You had me going there, but I saw Ol’ Serious Face yesterday.”

Sputtering, Mordecai spewed his mouthful of tea across his tableful of paperwork. He continued into a coughing fit as Rocky tensed and twisted to look at him.

“Oh my gosh,” Ivy squeaked. “Rocky!”

“Oh—uh—hey, Mordecai,” Rocky managed a laugh. “Didn’t see you there.”

Staring up at him, Mordecai froze. He could feel his face flushing hot, and his ears angled low and away. But he managed to pick out the details of Rocky’s outfit; a dark gray overcoat obscuring the blue of his usual suit and a hideously yellow scarf, half unwound from his neck. His clothes slowly dripped, a scattering of snowflakes disappearing in the cafe’s warmth. His pupils were narrow, his smile panicked, and he brought his hands up in front of him to pull awkwardly on his sleeves.

“Jeez, Rocky, you can’t just say that stuff!” Zib said loudly. It drew the violinist’s attention, briefly. Just long enough for Mordecai to start gathering his work things into messy piles; he sorted by wet and dry.

“Can’t he?” asked Wick.

“Not about Mordecai,” Zib added. “Not unless you have some sort of death wish. It was a joke, right?”

“Uhhhhh—” Rocky frowned.

“You gotta work on your delivery.”

“Mordecai?” Mitzi knelt again, leaning over the booth to look at him.

“I’ll start that evening off now,” Mordecai rushed. “Should I take these upstairs or—?”

“I’ll get them, sugar.”

“Perfect,” he shifted along the bench, trying not to look at Rocky. “Don’t burn anything down.”

Flinching, Rocky managed a chuckle as Mordecai stood.

Wick asked: “Aren’t you staying for the party?”

“Definitely not,” Mordecai hissed. Standing, he could see the entire second table; they all stared, wide eyed, at him and Rocky. "I was promised ignorance and relaxation. Not jugglers and—"

"It was good to see you, Sugar!" Mitzi shouted, too loud. It drew the attention of several other morning visitors. "And don't you dare take any work home with you! I wanna hear about a boring weekend, full of plants and crosswords."

“So long as I don’t have to hear about tonight’s—”

“Shhh!” Ivy and Mitzi said again.

Shaking his head, Mordecai slipped on his overcoat and reached for his hat and scarf.

Rocky startled into motion, stepping towards him again. “You’re leaving?”

Tense, Mordecai bit his tongue and glared as he looped his scarf around his neck. He turned toward the door.

Rocky motioned as if to block his path, but Viktor reached out and snatched his arm.

“Take the hint, kid,” Zib interpreted. The musician draped across a confused Wick to point at Rocky. “We’re all lucky he hasn’t gone feral again. Remember what happened to Sully?"

"No?" Rocky frowned at the table.

Mordecai used the moment to slip away.

"Miriam?" Zib tried again. "Chance?"

"I don't think Rocky was around yet," Ivy mused.

"Ah—wait!" Escaping from Viktor's hold—he contoured out of his overcoat, leaving the article in Viktor's hand—Rocky stumbled after Mordecai. "I got you something."

Slowing at the doorway, Mordecai was very aware of the room full of potential witnesses. Behind the counter, Horatio stood with a tray piled high with pancakes, and every third table sat one or two people. Still, his traitorous body paused to stare at Rocky, mortified, and he noticed a familiar pair of black cufflinks at the violinist’s wrists. He didn't speak.

"For the candle Holiday?" Rocky explained. He bit his lip.

Back at the booth, Mitzi spoke up: "You mean Chanukah, sweetie?"

"Yes!" Rocky shot her a brief but dazzling smile. Mordecai managed to shift an inch closer to the door before Rocky looked at him again. "It's in the garage? I could go get it right now." And he took a single step backwards, raising his brows at Mordecai.

“Oh, Rocky—” Ivy sighed. “Chanukah isn’t really a gift giving holiday?”

“It isn’t?” Rocky turned again toward the booth, face contorting into a puzzle.

It gave Mordecai the final opening he needed to flee the cafe. As the door shut behind him, he heard Mitzi add: “and it’s next week, sweetie.”

An overcast sky accompanied Mordecai as he stormed home, carefully picking his way over compounded snow and slushy ice as he darted between people and cars. But the short walk wasn’t long enough to calm his swirling thoughts, and he continued past his building and down the block.

“These are nice shoes,” Rocky remarked. Leaning closer, he disappeared out of sight beneath the table.

But Mordecai felt fingers on his feet a moment later. “Stop that—” he pulled his legs up out of reach. Squirming in his seat, he rearranged himself to put the violinist back in his sights. “How much longer are you going to sit down there?”

Half propped against the table leg, Rocky shrugged. “Use me but as your spaniel—” he hiccoughed, blinking, and continued. “—spurn me, strike me, neglect me—oh, hm, purrhaps that’s too romantic a prompt.” He pursed his lips and frowned at the underside of the table. “Someone wrote something under here.”

“Not falling for it,” Mordecai rolled his eyes. Looking across the room, he saw Mitzi and Viktor still watching them—Zib had wandered back to the stage. “Congratulations, Mr Rickaby, you’ve successfully drunken yourself under the table.”

“Not yet successfully,” Rocky countered. Then he listed onto his side, rolling. “But I can feel the first thralls of elixir, so it isn’t so bad.”

Eventually, Mordecai returned home.

Shucking his wet outer garments to dry in the bathroom, he methodically checked his plants. Most of them were dull as they overwintered, but they were still green and healthy. It was a five minute distraction he drug a whole hour out of.

Frazzled, he made tea and a sandwich for a late lunch, which he took in the living room. Bundling up beneath a thin blanket, he curled in the chaise and stared out the window for the exact amount of time it took to steel himself to pick up Shakespeare. He leafed through the pages—now completely graffitied with notes and questions—until he found the sonnets, and read until his eyes felt heavy and his mind could drift.

It was full dark when the phone rang. Unused to the reasonable mode of communication, Mordecai chased the sound through the remnants of a dream, flailing away from a despondent violin player on a burning stage.

Sitting up fully, ears perked and eyes wide, his consciousness clued in to what was happening just in time for the ringing to stop. He sighed, slumped, and straightened his glasses.

The phone rang again. Standing, he crossed the small apartment in a few long strides and picked up the device. “What is it?”

“Mordecai!” Ivy shouted, too loud. Then she giggled and shushed someone.

Mordecai looked for his nearest clock. “Ivy?”

“Yes!”

“It’s four in the morning.”

“Is it? It is! Can you come get me?”

He rubbed his brow. “Isn’t Viktor there?”

“His knee hurts.”

Mordecai groaned.

Ivy continued: “Because you shot it.”

“I know,” he hissed. “I was there.”

“Right,” Ivy giggled. “It’s late and I want to go home but everyone is too drunk to drive. Come get me.”

He knocked his head against the wall. “Sleep upstairs, Mitzi won’t mind.”

“Mordecai!” her voice dipped, crackling low over the line. “I’m bringing Freckle with me, I can’t take Freckle upstairs!”

“This seems like a phenomenal lack of planning on your part.”

“Mordecaaaii…”

“I’m not even working tonight.”

“Pleeeeease—”

“Why isn’t McMurray taking you home?”

“I tooold you, everyone is tooooo drunk. Just come get us!”

Waffling a moment longer, his other hand clenched into a fist. “Fine. I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.” And he hung up.

Not too bothered about being witnessed during the drunken hour, and still mostly dressed from falling asleep, Mordecai made short work of getting ready to leave. He took the stairs for haste, and nodded at the doorman on his way out. The weather, while mild, still held a midnight chill. The sidewalks had glazed over, and troughs had frozen in the streets. Very few people were out and about, and even fewer cars. So it was somewhat of a spectacle to see the dim glow of light coming from the Lackadaisy Cafe, and a small gathering of people outside the doors.

And, as he drew closer, Mordecai saw two unexpected individuals.

“Dere he is!” Serafine noticed him first, and nudged her brother.

“Peekon!” Nico cheered, but stayed in place leaning against the glass beside Viktor, who nodded a greeting. Mitzi, Zib, and Wick closed off the smoker’s circle, each of them bundled against the cold.

“What are you doing here?” Mordecai’s eyes narrowed.

Serafine grinned and shrugged. “Your musician invited us a while back.”

“Dou, he said you’d be here,” Nico added. He tapped the ash off his cigarette.

“Kid’s ballsy,” Zib sighed. Shaking his head, he leaned into Wick’s side. “I swear, he’s got nine fucking lives.”

“None of you could take Ivy home?” Mordecai glared at the group.

“We’re waitin’ for a taxi,” said Mitzi. “We offered to take her, but she doesn’t wanna hang out with the adults.”

“She’s twenty.”

“You try tellin’ her that, sweetheart. Lemme know how it goes.”

Mordecai shook his head.

“We could take her?” Nico offered.

Viktor and Mordecai spoke together: “No.”

“I’m hurt,” Nico pouted, first at Mordecai and then at Viktor. “T’ought we were gettin’ along.”

“Nothing personal,” Viktor over-enunciated in an uncharacteristic voice. Then Nico and Serafine started to laugh.

“I feel like I missed something,” Mordecai remarked wryly. He peered in through the glass, where a dozen strangers were having coffee pick-me-ups before heading home. Horatio was again behind the counter, this time bustling back and forth between percolators. “But I don’t want to know. Where’s Ivy?”

“Garage,” said Viktor. He rubbed at his knee.

“Be sure to knock,” Mitzi added.

Zib snickered into Wick’s side.

“Noted,” Mordecai drawled.

Instead of risking going through the building, he continued on around the block. Bright headlights turned the corner as he darted into an alleyway, and he supposed Mitzi and the rest would be gone soon.

Someone had shoveled the drive, all the way back to the discrete garage, but Mordecai paid the snowdrifts very little attention as he spied the open door. There was no one outside, but he could almost discern the intimate whisperings of a couple. Before he stepped inside, he announced himself: “I’m here.”

There was a scrambling, and he entered to see Freckle awkwardly side stepping away from Ivy, who sat on the hood of their dodgy vehicle. “Mordecai!” Ivy hopped down, swaying. “It took you long enough.”

“Mhm,” he propped his hands on his hips and gave her a practiced look, flat. “This feels unnecessary.”

Freckle cleared his throat and straightened to a stand; but his voice slurred around his words. “Faank you, Missir Heller.”

“Come ooooon,” Ivy urged. She stumbled to Freckle, pushing him at the back seat; but she climbed up front to sit next to Mordecai.

“Did you not have a plan?” Mordecai asked as he came around the vehicle. He pulled open the door. “What were you going to do if I didn’t pick up?”

“Slept here and hate you about it,” Ivy answered simply.

In the backseat someone—not Freckle—groaned. Mordecai tensed as Rocky’s voice floated up from the floor. “Issit t’morrow yet?”

“Yes, Rocky,” said Freckle. He reached down to pat his cousin's head.

“Oh, good… ma’by thin’s’ll be differen’ now…”

Frowning, Mordecai peaked over the seat. Sprawled out on the car floor, Rocky drooled into the upholstery. Slumping behind the wheel, Mordecai turned to hiss at Ivy: “What’s he doing here?”

Ivy rolled her eyes. “Well, usually Rocky drives us home, but, uh—Zib made something?” She scratched her head. “It was sorta like Rocky’s tea? But mush—much stronger.”

“He doesn’ ushully get like this,” Freckle added, then hiccoughed. There was a pause before he continued. “He’s got a tall—a taller—a tall-shurance?”

“Ignore him,” said Ivy. “He can barely tell his reds from his greens right now. Le’sss gooooo.”

Reluctantly, Mordecai started the car. He took care of the garage door himself, opening it, driving through, closing it again, and then they bumped down the little alley and out to the street. A couple more people were leaving the Lackadaisy, but the senior staff—plus guests—were all gone. And then they crawled, extra slow, through the streets of St Louis.

Ivy took up the cause of conversation. “You missed out on a fun party,” she sighed, drifting across the seat. “There was a bit of a theme? The twelve days of Christmas. You know it?”

“Yes,” Mordecai growled. “It’s the worst carole.”

“It’s not that bad, you sourpuss. But ins’ead of the regular days of Christmas, Mitzi mixed it up. You know?”

“The juggler?” Mordecai guessed.

“Jugglers,” Ivy corrected. “Ten clowns-a-juggling, nine swingers swinging, eight—” and she rattled off a whole stream of nonsense as Mordecai tried his hardest not to bend the steering wheel beneath the force of his grip. In the backseat, Freckle occasionally nodded or added a comment, but Rocky was quiet. Oblivious, Mordecai hoped. He still found himself straining to hear any noise the musician might make.

When they finally pulled in front of the midtown apartment Ivy kept, paid for by her inflated paycheque, the girl was still waxing about the three Dutch dancers that had taken up a whole segment of the evening.

"We're here," Mordecai noted.

"Oh—" Ivy squinted out the window, then perked. "We are! Freckle, come on—"

Opening the back door, Freckle stumbled and tripped onto the ground. "Ow."

Ivy giggled, and carefully disembarked the front seat. "Thank you, Mordecai! Have a good—"

"Wait—" Mordecai leaned to catch her door, forcing it open so he could address her. "What about Rickaby?"

Taking on an air of innocence, she blinked at him. "What about Rickaby?"

He grit his teeth and waved toward the back seat. Ivy raised her brows and tilted her head. Mordecai narrowed his eyes and flattened his ears.

“Roooocky,” Freckle sing songed himself upright, and leaned into the car.

Ivy giggled as Rocky snuffled to semi-consciousness. “Whaaaaaa’—”

“Haaaaappy biiiiirthday,” Freckle pushed on the frame of the car, rocking it.

Rocky snickered quietly.

And Mordecai froze, frowning.

Ivy cleared her throat. “You can just take the car back—Rocky will be fine.”

“Goodnight—” Freckle continued. “Sleep tight—”

“No bed buuuuuugs—” Rocky whined.

Mordecai’s ears twitched. “He’s not staying with you?”

“Nope,” the word popped from Ivy’s mouth, then she leaned forward to whisper. “Mitzi doesn’ know—he sleeps in the garage. Shhh…”

“He sleeps here?” Mordecai’s claws dug into the seat. “In the car?”

The backdoor shut, and Freckle stumbled around the vehicle.

“Shh,” Ivy reiterated. Then she leaned into the car to kiss Mordecai’s cheek. “Thanks again. Goodnight, Rocky!”

“Night, Mssssss Pep…”

Smiling, Ivy retreated, slamming the door. Meeting Freckle on the sidewalk, the two walked towards the building. Creeping across the bench seat, Mordecai watched until they greeted the overnight doorman and disappeared inside. Then, sighing, he slowly moved to peer again over the back of the seat.

At some point, Rocky had rearranged himself onto his back. His knees were bent, one foot resting against the back door and one arm sprawled beneath the seat. The thin blanket, wrapped around his waist, had tangled and lowered, showing the wrinkles forming in Rocky’s shirt and vest. His jacket was missing.

Mordecai shivered. “What am I going to do with you?”

Inhaling, Rocky’s eyes snapped open. They were a luminous blue in the darkness, his pupils rapidly growing and shrinking as he tried to focus.

Mordecai held his breath.

Then Rocky relaxed, eyelids drifting partway closed. “‘Mmmmm I dreaming?”

Biting his lip, Mordecai looked around the car pointlessly. “Yes,” he decided.

“Tha’ makes sense,” Rocky sighed and closed his eyes.

Another moment, and Mordecai tapped his claws against the upholstery. “Get up here.”

“Hmm?”

“Up front.” Half crawling, Mordecai reached behind the seat. He caught hold of the blanket first, and tugged.

The motion caused Rocky to roll. “Whaaaaa—” he fell into snickers as he wedged under the backseat. Shifting, he scrunched his face up at Mordecai. “Why?”

“The symmetry,” said Mordecai. “Obviously.”

“Symmetry?” Rocky puzzled. But he climbed up, tipping over into the front cushions.

Sliding back into place, Mordecai threw the blanket overtop of Rocky again. Clearing his throat, he restarted the car. “Well?”

“Well what, silly duck?” Rocky laughed as he fought his way out of the blanket. He managed to nearly kick Mordecai’s head as he awkwardly rolled around the seat, falling off the front. Snickering, he smiled up at Mordecai.

“What should I do with you?” Mordecai asked.

Perking, Rocky struggled back into the seat. “Take me home?”

“I would,” Mordecai drawled. But his carefully measured tone did nothing for the goosebumps rising beneath his fur. He stepped on the gas. “But, apparently, your home is the garage.”

“Well…” still half on the floor, Rocky swayed close. “You could take me to your home…”

Shivering, Mordecai drove.

It wasn’t long before Rocky yawned, eyes drooping. He nodded several times, seeming to catch himself, before finally falling against Mordecai’s thigh. “This’s nice,” he mumbled, eyes closed.

“Is it?” Mordecai replied softly. Overhead the clouds cleared, letting a handful of stars sparkle through the light pollution. The moon was out, gibbous and waning. “We’re just driving.”

“Is nice,” Rocky repeated. “I’s like our first drive.”

“Is it?” Mordecai repeated, panicking.

“Yes—no—” Rocky sighed, and turned to rub his face against Mordecai’s leg. “I couldn’t’ve dreamed that drive, I’m too dull.”

“You?” Mordecai scoffed. And, inexplicably, he relaxed under the pretenses. “Dull?”

“Dim-witted,” Rocky nodded, continuing. “Dotty, daft, dopy, dumb, brain-dead—”

“Sit up,” Mordecai interrupted.

“What?”

“Sit up,” he said. “You’re throwing off the symmetry.”

“Nooooo—” Rocky whined. Pawing, he pulled one of Mordecai’s hands from the steering wheel and held it against his head. “It’s my dream.”

While the drive was relatively easy—nearing five in the morning, the day was too cold and quiet for the general public—Mordecai left his hand where it was. He traced along the nearly-even pattern of Rocky’s fur, listening to him purr and ramble. “Through the forest have I gone, but Athenian found I none—” Rocky spoke Puck’s part as he nosed into Mordecai’s palm. “—on whose eyes I might approve, this flower’s force in stirring love. Night and silence; who is here? Weeds of Athens he doth wear—”

They’d both shifted, laid out facing each other on the roof of the car. Rocky still performed, “Now, until the break of day—” But his voice softened, eyes hooded as he studied Mordecai’s reactions. And Mordecai, transfixed, watched the words as they formed on Rocky’s lips. At some point, his hands lifted to grasp at the front of Rocky’s vest, claws catching in the fabric. Their ankles were intertwined and their tails brushed together. Rocky continued: “—through this house each fairy stray. To the best bride-bed will we—”

Mordecai interrupted: “I think I want to kiss you.”

When they came close, Mordecai idled the car in front of the Lackadaisy. Still lying on the bench—though now he faced the seat more than Mordecai—Rocky continued reciting every line, regardless of character, straight into the third act. He didn’t seem to notice the pause in the journey, nor when Mordecai made up his mind and continued driving home.

Parking in the alley behind his building, he tried corralling Rocky out of the car. But the violinist frowned for a long moment before sitting himself up. “I have presents for you,” he announced; then he climbed again over the seat, falling into the back.

“I don’t need presents,” Mordecai sighed. Stepping out, he moved to open the back door.

Squirming, Rocky searched for something under the seat. Two somethings, which he produced with a flourish and a smile. “Ta da!”

Hesitating, Mordecai observed both objects. One was lumpy and wrapped in newspaper. The other was a cactus, decorated with googly eyes and planted in a familiar old shoe. “Well, I think this is already mine,” he remarked and tapped on the shoe’s toe, then leaned to inspect the unhappy plant. Its needles were shedding and its soil was dry, but it still seemed alive. “And you’ve killed the cactus.”

“Have I?” Rocky frowned and pulled the plant closer to look at.

Mordecai took the other present and tucked it under his arm. “Inside first,” he instructed. “Can you walk?”

“Pssh,” Rocky rolled his eyes, but moved to crawl awkwardly out on all fours.

“Stop, stop—”

“What?”

Mordecai sighed, tilting his head. “Your feet should be underneath you.”

“I’s fiiine,” he insisted. But he still teetered out the door, performing a miraculous shoulder roll to flatten himself on the icy pavement; somehow, the cactus remained intact. Rocky blinked, then grinned up at Mordecai. “See?”

“I see that your feet still aren’t under you.”

“The little details don’t matter.”

“You’re inebriated.”

“Am I?” Rocky’s puzzled. “There was, purrrrrrrhaps, more inbide—imblide—impride—” Scowling, Rocky stuck his tongue out. “Words.”

“Come on,” Mordecai shook his head.

Somehow, he convinced Rocky to teeter on two feet. The trek inside was practice in balance and patience, and Mordecai tried to feel indifferent about the polite non-attention of the doorman and the lift operator. Rocky leaned next to the door while Mordecai fished for his key, and then they were inside.

“This is an awfully long dream, isn’t it?” Rocky remarked as he waited for Mordecai to shed his outer layers.

“I suppose typical dreams are short,” Mordecai agreed. A tinge of guilt crept into the corners of his mind, dark and sour. He tried to shake it off. “You should change into something dry.”

“Present first,” Rocky reminded. His tail twitched, and he watched Mordecai eagerly.

Mordecai frowned, but picked at the newspaper packaging as he wandered across the little apartment. “Isn’t it your birthday? Why get me a present?”

“I’ve never been good at birthdays,” Rocky shrugged, following with cactus-and-shoe in hand. "And I missed yours."

“Hm—” he ripped away the paper and sighed. It was a scuffed menorah, second hand. But… "I don't light candles for Chanukah."

"Oh." Ears lowering, Rocky frowned. "Then, what do you do?"

"Usually? Call my mother." Mordecai threw the candle holder onto the chaise and moved to take the cactus from Rocky’s hold; their fingers overlapped. “This one seems more like you.”

A snort drew from Rocky. Instead of yielding the plant, he moved as if Mordecai were pulling him along, too. “I’ve had it for years. I thought, well—” he let go to gesture at some of the many potted flora dotting the apartment, and Mordecai wrestled the shoe from his hold. “—if anyone could keep it alive, you could.”

“It’ll need new soil,” Mordecai noted. Walking into the bedroom, he moved to the little table by the window. Rocky followed him. “Dry clothes are in the closet. You can borrow something from the dresser, and put your things in the laundry for tomorrow.”

Rocky’s fingers rasped together. “Tomorrow?”

Mordecai tensed. Setting the cactus down next to a flowerbox of ferns, he kept his fingers busy by unbuttoning his cuffs. “Only if you’d like.”

There was a moment of silence, then Rocky stumbled to Mordecai’s little closet. It took a few minutes, but they both dressed down from their day, slipping into clean sleep things. Neither of them looked directly at the other, both awkwardly lost in thoughts and memories, until the floor was littered with clothes and their bedtime preparations were complete. Then Rocky waited, tail twitching, until Mordecai could again meet his eye. Reaching, he took Mordecai by the wrist and pulled him toward the bed.

Even inebriated—especially inebriated—Rocky was a force of chaos. The bedding seemed to rearrange around him as he maneuvered Mordecai into a little spoon. Nested, Mordecai arched back into Rocky’s torso. He tensed as Rocky licked a line up his neck, but slowly relaxed to the gentle pull of teeth across fur. The ministrations went no further.

Eventually, Rocky fell asleep with his face pressed against Mordecai’s scruff.

The hitman was less fortunate. The afternoon’s early sleep, combined with the usual hours of his profession and a dash of nerves, kept his heart beating and mind racing. He tried everything from solving complex algebraic problems to mapping out the most efficient route around the great lakes and couldn’t settle his thoughts. It was worse when Rocky pulled close, an arm snaking around Mordecai’s waist. Then worse again when Rocky shifted to nose at the back of Mordecai’s ear.

And worser still when the first hints of morning finally invaded the room. A glow out the window suggested daylight, and the start of traffic sounds drifted up from the street. All at once, Rocky inhaled, sat up, and scrambled away. Mordecai curled a little tighter around his knees and feigned sleep.

Falling out of bed, Rocky made muted noises as he searched around the room. Mordecai heard him pick up his clothes and tip toe away.

Consumed, Mordecai buried under his pillows and bit his cheeks. Minutes passed. The pain grounded his thoughts, and he tried listing all the reasons he was being stupid. It had been a mistake. A long, drawn out farce fuelled by alcohol and other intoxicants that, yes, perhaps both of them played into on occasion but neither of them had business pursuing. Outside of a penchant for the philosophical—and a precocity of word that often sent others racing for the exit—they had little in common. The idea of them together was a joke to their friends, an inconceivable notion that went unnoticed and unthought of; and even if it had, it would only be as betting fodder. He didn't even like to be touched—usually. And there was blood in Mordecai’s ledger, too much for any person to deserve—

“Shit shit shit!” Rocky’s voice chorused from the other room.

Sitting up, Mordecai smelled smoke. The blankets tangled around his ankles and he tripped from the bed. Half the bedding shed with him as he scrambled from the bedroom, only to pause in the doorway to watch as Rocky dropped a flaming pan into the little kitchen sink. The musician turned on the water, dousing the flames with a hiss.

“Not ideal,” Rocky cursed.

Mordecai took notice of the state of his kitchenette. Flour was spread across his small countertop, where a bowl of something sat balancing a whisk. His fridge was open, the contents disheveled as if they had been riffled through. “What are you doing?” he asked.

Startled, Rocky twisted to blink at him. Still undressed, his eyes were manically wide and ringed with exhausted circles. “Uhhhh—” the water was still running; he scratched at his disheveled neck. “—making pancakes?”

Habitually, Mordecai’s eyes narrowed and his shoulders hunched. “That’s cast iron. You can’t leave it in the sink.”

“Sorry—” Rocky darted to turn off the water. “It sort of caught on fire—”

“And—” continuing, Mordecai cast a quick look around the rest of the room. Seeing a pile of material on his coffee table, he pointed at it. “—I told you to put those clothes in the laundry.”

Biting his lips together, Rocky leaned against the little sink and raised his brows. He considered Mordecai. “So… it wasn’t a dream?”

Hand dropping to his side, Mordecai frowned. “... no.”

“I mean, the part where you seemed to reciprocate,” Rocky added. “You know I like you.”

“Yes.”

“And you—”

“Rocky,” Mordecai interrupted. “Please, get out of my kitchen before my cast iron rusts, or you manage to blow up the stove.”

Rocky’s nose scrunched as he grinned. “So bossy.”

“That’s not new,” he replied. Then, hesitant, he walked closer. “I thought you’d left.”

Rocky shrugged. “Technically, you weren’t wrong.”

“You know what I mean,” Mordecai intoned. “I would’ve left.”

Cautiously, Rocky reached out to hold Mordecai by the waist. “Do you want me to leave?”

“No.”

“Good.”

Slotting together, Mordecai nestled against Rocky’s neck. “I’m not good at this.”

Rocky snorted. “Neither am I.” He pet a line down Mordecai’s spine. “But… I think I’d like to kiss you. If that’s okay.”

Shuddering, Mordecai pulled back just enough to peer into Rocky’s eyes. “I don’t usually like kissing.”

“Oh.”

“But yes,” Mordecai added. “It’s okay.”

Tentative, Rocky pressed his lips to Mordecai's cheek. He started butterfly soft, leaving a trail of affection across Mordecai’s eyelids and up to his temple. "I don't understand kissing—" Rocky admitted in a whisper.

Mordecai snorted.

"I should say, didn't understand," Rocky corrected. He rubbed his face against Mordecai’s, knocking his glasses askew.

"What's not to understand?" Mordecai asked, aiming for condescending even as his heart beat with sincerity.

Rocky shrugged and tugged him closer. Boxed in against the sink, his hands pushed under Mordecai’s shirt to scratch claws down his back. "Usually people would act nice to get kisses, then hurt me and leave."

He couldn't help purring, even as another twinge of guilt had Mordecai leaning back against Rocky’s hold. Cadling Rocky’s neck, Mordecai pet the old bite wound. "That's what I did."

"You didn't act nice," Rocky snickered, nosing close. "You didn't pull your punches, or go along with things you didn't care about, or pretend."

"I pretended you were still dreaming just to get you up here."

"To kiss me?" Rocky raised a brow at him

Mordecai rolled his eyes.

"That's what I thought," Rocky hummed. "I like kissing you; I didn't realize it was fun for everyone."

"Who were you kissing before, that it wasn't fun?" Mordecai's eyes narrowed. "There's reasons we throw people into the river, Rickaby, and—"

"Hush—" Rocky licked Mordecai’s nose. "Who cares about them? You're fun to kiss—but only when you want to. No need to be a Miriam—or Arty—or Chance—or—"

Mordecai kissed him, licking into his mouth until they were both left panting. He scratched down Rocky's chest, enjoying the soft hiss that angled the musician's jaw wider and sighing as Rocky’s claws combed through his fur. Something reminiscent of flickering warmth and summer nights coloured in the corners of his consciousness, and he leaned closer, closer, closer until he felt Rocky’s spine arching backwards over the sink. Then, nipping at Rocky’s bottom lip, he pulled away. "You aren't like anyone else," he said. "You're very…"

A smile split across Rocky’s face. "Oh?"

"Tolerable," he settled on. “Now—get out of my kitchen, and I’ll see if I can salvage pancakes.”

Snickering, Rocky kissed Mordecai’s cheek before ducking away. He winked. “Yessir, Mr Heller, sir.”

As Mordecai scrubbed and reseasoned the cast iron, Rocky regathered his clothes to dump somewhere in the bedroom—presumably in the laundry basket, but Mordecai couldn’t be sure. He returned to the livingroom as Mordecai was inspecting the lumpy pancake mix, and curled up on the chaise with a well-read copy of the Complete Works of Shakespeare.

When Mordecai served a tray of pancakes with jam—he made a mental note to consider adding syrup to his shopping list—Rocky tucked his feet under his knees and used his finger as a bookmark. “You’ve worked your way through the whole volume,” he noted with a smile.

“You do quote the bard a lot, Roark,” Mordecai replied.

Rocky’s nose scrunched. “Only Aunt Nina calls me Roark.”

“You’ll have to add me to that list,” said Mordecai. And when Rocky blanched, he conceded. “At least some of the time.”

Rolling his eyes, Rocky held up the book. “Do you have a favourite play?”

“I may have formed a preference along the way,” Mordecai sidled onto the chaise next to him. “But I’m afraid it isn’t the frivolous one you like so much.”

“You think Macbeth is frivolous?”

Mordecai narrowed his eyes at Rocky. “Your favourite play is Midsummer’s Night.”

Settling to sit closer to Mordecai, Rocky reached to fill a plate. Undeterred by the lack of syrup, he spread an inch of jam between two pancakes. "Yes, Midsummer is a little frivolous; but why did you think I would prefer Midsummer?"

"You quote it constantly."

"Ah—" Pausing to think, Rocky nodded. "—I suppose I do."

"You convinced the band to do the third act."

"A thematic choice, for Mayday."

"Why quote it if it isn't your favourite?"

Rocky shrugged and pulled the plate into his lap. “It’s a famous tale of lovers, drugged by faeries and left to frolic overweekend in the woods.” Picking up his jam-pancake-sandwhich, he shoved the whole thing in his mouth. “Id feld ap—”

“Don’t speak with your mouth full,” Mordecai admonished. “Or I’m changing my mind about everything.”

Cheeks puffing as Rocky strained his lips together, he raised his brows at Mordecai. Frowning back, Mordecai’s ear twitched; so Rocky tapped a sticky finger against the volume of Shakespeare as he chewed.

Sighing, Mordecai glanced out the window in pretense of annoyance. Really it was an attempt to stop his face from heating in embarrassment. Outside, the occasional snowflake drifted by. From memory, he recited: “Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?”

The rest of the morning passed both slowly and too quick. Food was finished and set aside, but instead of leaving the two cats reclined together. Mordecai dozed on Rocky’s chest; Rocky peered over Mordecai’s shoulder to keep reading; and both of them occasionally purred or whispered to the other. Everything was on track to becoming the most relaxed day off in Mordecai’s recent memory.

And then the window slid open.

“Mordecai!” Ivy’s voice yelled. Both him and Rocky flinched. “What did you—! Oh.”

Looking up, Mordecai and Rocky saw Ivy and Freckle perched on the living room windowsill. The four cats looked at each other for a long moment; then, Ivy continued climbing inside.

“I have a front door,” Mordecai noted. He pushed himself up until he was kneeling, more or less in Rocky’s lap.

“There was no time for the door,” Ivy snapped her fingers at him. “We thought you had killed him!”

“Who?” Rocky blinked.

“You,” said Freckle. He tripped as he tried to follow Ivy, falling to the floor.

“I have to call Mitzi,” Ivy continued, beelining across Mordecai’s apartment. “I think she owes Zib money.”

Sighing, Mordecai slumped against the back of the chaise. “So much for a peaceful day.”

Then Rocky took hold of his hand. “Good day, though,” he said with a smile. “Right?”

“Right—” Mordecai entwined their fingers. "—but if you tell anyone, I'll deny it."

Scoffing, Rocky lifted the limb to press a kiss to Mordecai's knuckles. "Deny it all you want," he said. "I've got you figured out."

#lackadaisy #lackadaisy fan comic #lackadaisy fanfiction #lackadaisy fanart #fanfiction #i haven't picked a title #posting all the parts here before i upload to ao3 later #hellerby #mordecai x rocky #mordecai heller #rocky rickaby #*slaps fic* this baby can fit so many headcanons #Rocky's favourite Shakespearean Play is Macbeth #mordecai is tsundere #inappropriate use of shakespeare #nonlinear #flashbacks #the section where they figure their shit out

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