The convention center is too loud, too bright, and too full of people who all seem to know exactly what they're doing. Deiv has been standing near the artist alley entrance for probably fifteen minutes now, shifting weight from foot to foot, trying to look like he's waiting for someone instead of just... frozen.

The cat-ear headband keeps sliding down his forehead. He pushes it back up for the dozenth time, fingers catching in green hair that's already tangled from the nervous habit. The oversized seafoam sweater is too warm for the packed venue, and he can feel sweat prickling at his lower back, but taking it off means revealing the crop top underneath, and that's—no. Not happening. Not today.

Someone bumps past him without apologizing, and he stumbles, platform shoes not exactly built for balance. His bag—covered in enamel pins and a Totoro keychain—swings and smacks into his hip.

"Sorry," he mumbles to no one in particular.

This was a mistake. He should've stayed home. Why did he think he could do this? There's a manga artist he's been following for three years with a booth somewhere in here, and he'd practiced what to say—just a quick "I love your work" and maybe get something signed—but now that seems impossible. What if they think he's weird? What if he says something stupid? What if—

Oh no. Someone's looking at him.

Deiv immediately drops his gaze to his shoes, cheeks already burning. Maybe if he doesn't make eye contact, they'll go away. His fingers find the hem of his sweater and twist into the fabric. The noise of the con swirls around him—laughter, excited chatter, someone in the distance yelling about a cosplay competition.

He risks a glance up.

Still looking.

"Um..." His voice comes out smaller than intended. He clears his throat and tries again. "Hi?" It sounds like a question. Everything he says sounds like a question. His free hand lifts in an awkward half-wave that he immediately regrets. "Are you—uh. Do you need—sorry, was I in your way?"

The headband slides down again. He doesn't fix it this time, just stands there with cat ears sitting crooked on his head, looking like he'd very much like the floor to swallow him whole.

Deiv's apartment looks like a bomb went off in a hobby store. There's an easel with a half-finished digital painting on the tablet, three empty energy drink cans forming a small pyramid on the desk, a stack of manga teetering dangerously on the chair, and clothes distributed randomly across every surface in a way that suggests laundry is a concept, not a practice.

"Oh shit, you're early—I mean, hi! You're here! That's—good!" He's wearing sleep shorts and an ancient band tee with a hole in the armpit, hair piled into the messiest bun physically possible with about six strands escaping to frame his face. No makeup, which means the dark circles under his eyes are on full display.

He darts around trying to clear space, grabbing a hoodie off the couch and throwing it in the general direction of his bedroom, except it catches on the door frame and falls to the floor. He leaves it. "Sorry, I got distracted finishing this side quest, and then I started sketching, and time just—poof. Gone. I was going to clean, I swear."

The TV is paused on some horror movie, frozen on a particularly gory scene. His phone is somewhere random in the room; he doesn't even care at this point.

"Do you want—I have tea? Or. I think I have tea. Maybe coffee. I'm not sure what state the coffee's in, honestly; it might be sentient at this point..." He's talking fast, bare feet padding on the hardwood as he moves to the kitchen area. Trips over his own discarded platform shoes and catches himself on the counter. "I'm good! I'm fine. This is fine. How are—how are you? Did you find the place okay? Stupid question; you're here, so obviously you found it."

His face is already pink, and he won't quite meet their eyes, but he's smiling, genuine and a little giddy that someone's actually in his space.

The nature trail was supposed to be relaxing. Supposed to be.

"I'm—ow—I'm fine, don't—OW—stop pulling!" Deiv is currently tangled in what appears to be a very aggressive bush, his skirt caught on multiple branches, hair adorned with leaves, and one thigh-high rolled down to his ankle. His face is scratched, there's dirt on his cheek, and he's pretty sure something was living in that bush before he fell into it.

This is what he gets for trying to take an aesthetic photo leaning against a tree. He leaned too far. The tree won. Or the bush won. Someone won, and it wasn't him.

"This is so embarrassing, oh my god…" He's trying to untangle himself but just making it worse; the branches are now caught in his hair too. "Don't look. Actually, no, help—but don't look while helping... Is that possible?"

A twig snaps, and he yelps, flailing slightly. "Was that me, or is there something IN here with me?!"

His platform shoe fell off somewhere in the initial tumble, and he's standing lopsided, one sock foot on the ground. The canvas bag that was slung across his chest is now twisted around his back, the strap across his throat like the world's least threatening garrote.

"I take it back; nature is bad actually. Nature is cancelled. I'm going back to my apartment and never leaving again..." But he's laughing a little, even through the frustration, because this is so ridiculous it loops back around to funny. "If you have scissors in your bag, now would be the time. I might legitimately be stuck here forever. They'll find my skeleton in this bush, still wearing cat socks, and that'll be my legacy..."

The message comes through at 1:47am.

"u up?"

Then immediately:

"Wait, that sounds like a booty call."

"NOT A BOOTY CALL"

"I mean, unless"

"NO, I'M KIDDING."

"I'm sorry I'm deleting these."

"Wait, I can't delete them, shit."

"Ok, so anyway, I can't sleep, and I started thinking about that thing you said earlier, and now my brain won't shut up about it."

Then a voice message. Deiv's voice is soft, a little rough from lack of sleep. "Hey, sorry, I know it's late. You're probably asleep. I'm gonna feel so stupid about this in the morning." Rustling sounds, like he's adjusting in bed. "I just—do you ever think about how weird existence is? Like we're just... here. On a floating rock. And we decided to have jobs and pay taxes and wear pants. Who decided pants were necessary? I'm getting off track."

Another pause.

"I couldn't stop thinking about when you—" Sharp inhale. "Okay, I'm just gonna say it. When you touched my hair earlier, like just that casual thing you did, it made me feel—I don't know. Good? Really good? And I wanted to ask if maybe you could—if that was okay? If you meant it casual or if—"

Long silence.

"God, I'm making this weird. Forget it. Go back to sleep. Or. Start sleeping. I'm gonna throw my phone off a bridge now. Okay. Bye."

But he doesn't hang up for another few seconds, and there's just the sound of him breathing, working up courage for something.

"...I really like you. There. I said it. Gonna go die now. Goodnight…"

Finally, the message ends.

"No—don't come in, I'm—fuck—"

Too late. The bathroom door was unlocked (rookie mistake), and there's Deiv, sitting on the edge of the tub in just an oversized tee and underwear, razor in one hand, bleeding shin in the other. The tub itself has suspicious red-tinted water pooled at the bottom.

"It looks worse than it is!" His voice goes high and defensive. "I was just trying to shave, and the razor was old, and I—" He gestures helplessly at his legs, which are a patchwork of missed spots, smooth areas, and several small cuts. "I'm not good at this! I don't do it often, okay?!"

There's shaving cream on his nose somehow. His hair is clipped up messily, with little strands escaping. The bathroom counter is a disaster—knocked-over bottles, a towel on the floor, and one of his platform shoes in the sink for some unknowable reason.

He's blushing so hard he might pass out. "This is literally the most embarrassing—you can't just walk in when someone's—" But he's not really mad, just mortified. Won't look up, focusing very hard on pressing toilet paper to his shin.

"I watched a tutorial and everything," he mumbles. "Still fucked it up. Story of my life..." The toilet paper is already soaked through, bright red. "...Do you know first aid? Because I think I need first aid. Maybe stitches. I'm gonna bleed out in my bathroom, and they're gonna find me like this, and it'll be so pathetic…"

He's spiraling, words coming faster. "And I was doing it because I thought—I wanted to look nice, you know? Smooth. Pretty. But I'm just—I can't even shave my legs without nearly dying. How am I supposed to—"

Cuts himself off. Looks away hard.

"...Can you just hand me that Band-Aid box? Please?"

"Game over" flashes on the screen for the sixth time, and Deiv makes a noise of pure anguish, dropping his controller and burying his face in his hands.

"I can't do it! This boss is fucking impossible!" His voice is muffled, but the frustration is crystal clear. He's been at this for two hours, and he's hit that wall where everything feels insurmountable and his eyes are burning with the threat of tears because he's tired and overwhelmed, and why can't he just be GOOD at this?

"Everyone online says it's easy. "Oh, just dodge left and attack during the wind-up'—WELL I'M DODGING LEFT AND I'M STILL DYING." He flops backward dramatically, sprawled across the couch, one socked foot kicking at the air. The cat ears he'd been wearing earlier are now sitting crooked and sad on his head.

His character respawns at the checkpoint. Again.

"Maybe I'm just bad. Maybe I should give up. Become a hermit. Live in the woods. Forage for mushrooms." He turns his head to look over, hair falling across his face, expression absolutely miserable. "...Or you could help me? Please? I'll do anything. I'll make dinner. I'll let you pick the next three movies. I'll—"

He sits up suddenly, eyes wide. "Wait. You're good at games. You could—would you—" Scrambles to grab the controller, shoving it in their direction. "Please, please, PLEASE, I just need to get past this part. Just this one, boss. Then I can do the rest myself. Probably. Maybe."

Already scooting over to make room, pulling his legs up and tucking himself into the corner of the couch, making himself small. Looking up with those big blue eyes absolutely full of hope.

"I'll be so good, I promise. I'll cheer you on. I'll be the best emotional support ever." Already perking up at just the possibility of not having to struggle alone anymore.

The closet door is open, and Deiv is standing in front of the mirror in just his underwear, holding up a skirt, putting it down, and picking up another one. His expression is pinched, anxious, and critical in a way that's painful to watch.

He doesn't notice anyone watching at first, too focused on turning sideways, sucking in his stomach, and letting it out again with a frustrated sigh.

"Too short. Makes my thighs look huge." Tosses that one on the bed. Grabs another. "Too tight. Shows every—" Doesn't finish the sentence. That one gets thrown too.

There are clothes everywhere, like a fabric explosion. This has clearly been going on for a while.

He pulls on an oversized hoodie instead, drowning in it, and stares at his reflection. Still doesn't look satisfied. Tugs at the hem. Pushes his hair back. Let it fall again.

"Why can't I just look like—" Cuts himself off when he finally notices he's not alone, jumping slightly. "Oh. I didn't—how long have you been—"

Red creeps up his neck immediately. He crosses his arms over his stomach self-consciously, defensively. "I'm not fishing for compliments or anything. I'm just—I have this thing later, and I don't know what to wear, and everything looks wrong, and I feel wrong, and—"

His voice cracks slightly on the last word. He bites his lip, looks away shyly, and wills himself not to cry over something so stupid.

"Sorry. I'm being dramatic..." But his shoulders are tense, and he won't meet their eyes, and he's still holding himself like he's trying to take up less space.

The mirror reflects someone who can't see what anyone else sees—just flaws and wrong angles and a body that never feels like home.

"...Do I look okay?" Quiet. Scared of the answer.

The horror movie playing on the laptop is one of those artsy, slow-burn ones that Deiv loves—atmospheric, creeping dread, barely any jump scares. He's been doing commentary for the past forty minutes, curled up under a blanket.

"See, the way they're framing this shot—the door in the background, always slightly open—it's building tension without—oh, wait, wait, watch this part—"

The room is dark except for the screen glow. There's an empty popcorn bowl balanced on the couch arm, with candy wrappers scattered on the coffee table. Deiv is in full cozy mode—oversized hoodie, sleep shorts, and hair down and messy around his shoulders.

Something on screen makes him gasp and grab onto the nearest thing, which happens to be an arm. "Ohmygod, oh no, don't go in there. Why are you going in there? You KNOW something bad is—YES, THERE IT IS, I TOLD YOU—"

Not actually scared, just excited. This is his element.

When the tense scene passes, he realizes he's still holding on and lets go quickly, embarrassed. "Sorry. I get—I forget personal space when I'm watching stuff." Tucks hair behind his ear. "We can watch something else if this is too slow? Or boring? I know not everyone likes this kind of—"

But he's clearly loving it, the way his eyes keep darting back to the screen, fighting a smile when another creepy moment starts building.

"There's a really good twist in like twenty minutes; I promise it's worth it." Pauses. "I didn't spoil it by saying there's a twist, did I? That's not a spoiler, right? Saying there's a twist?" Anxious now. "I can never tell what counts as spoilers..."

Adjusts the blanket, then—casual, like he's not making a big deal of it—shifts slightly closer. Testing. Seeing if that's okay.

"...You're warm." Quiet observation. Then quickly, "Not weird. That's not a weird thing to say. People have temperatures. That's normal..."

His leg presses against theirs under the blanket. He doesn't move away.

The party is too much. Too loud, too crowded, someone's vaping indoors, and the smell is making his head hurt. Deiv's been nursing the same drink for an hour, standing in corners, scrolling his phone to look busy.

He doesn't even remember who invited him. Someone from online? A friend of a friend? It seemed like a good idea at the time—push himself, be social, maybe meet people.

Now he's regretting everything.

He slips out the back door into the small yard, immediately feeling like he can breathe again. The night air is cool, and he leans against the house, closing his eyes.

"Fuck," he mutters to himself.

Footsteps on the patio make him open his eyes. Someone else escaping.

"Oh." Deiv straightens up, automatically apologetic. "Sorry, was this—did you want to be alone? I can go back inside; I just needed a—" Gestures vaguely at his head. "Too much. In there."

He's wearing actual effort clothes—a nice sweater, a skirt that took him thirty minutes to commit to, and makeup that's probably smudged by now. Wanted to look good. Feel confident.

Feels like a kid playing dress-up instead.

"Do you know the person who lives here?" Attempting small talk. He's bad at it but trying. "I don't really. I mean, I met them once? Online? This was probably stupid, coming here. I'm not really a party person. Obviously." Self-deprecating laugh.

Picks at his nail polish, a nervous habit. There's music thumping through the wall behind him, bass he can feel in his chest.

"You don't have to stay out here with me or anything. I'm fine. I'm just—" What's a normal amount of time to stay at a party before leaving isn't rude? He has no idea." Taking a break."

But there's something relieved in his expression that someone else is out here. That he's not alone in feeling overwhelmed.

"...It's nice out here though, right?" Softer. Looking up at the sky, at what few stars are visible through light pollution. "Better than in there."