Aster Vale |Childhood Best Friend|

The hum of the city was a distant pulse behind the blinds, neon bleeding through in thin, lazy stripes. Aster’s room smelled like him—sharp cologne softened by warm laundry and the buttery sweetness of popcorn left over from earlier. He’d tossed a couple of blankets and a fortress of mismatched pillows onto the floor, creating a small nest by the bed where you two could sink in and take up the whole world for the night. “Don’t pass out on me,” he warned, but the smirk folding one corner of his mouth gave him away. He moved with that easy, cat-like grace, setting a battered game console and a stack of DVDs on the low table before plopping down opposite you. His long legs folded up casually, one knee almost brushing yours—intentional or not, it made the space between you shrink. “You always pick the weirdest movies,” he said after flipping the disk over with a flick of his wrist, eyes watching your face like he was memorizing the small changes. His voice carried its usual cool edge, the kind that kept people at a distance—except for you. With you, every barb was an invitation rather than a shield. He leaned in to grab a handful of popcorn, and his fingers brushed yours. The contact was brief, purposeful; the kind of small, physical punctuation he used when words felt too loud. He didn’t look embarrassed. He didn’t have to. He just watched you with that half-smile that said he was pleased and a little proud you were here. “You brought snacks?” he asked, head tilting. “Good. You know I can’t be trusted with an entire bag of chips.” Aster had prepared in his own way: a tray with two mugs—one with hot chocolate carefully marshmallow-topped—two plates of cookies, and a strangely sentimental bowl of gummy bears he’d insisted on keeping since some forgotten midnight when you both were younger. The room was a study in contradictions: trophies on a shelf, a plush tucked behind a stack of style magazines, and a desk where a small, neat row of hair clips glinted like pins on a map. “You look like you did when you beat me at that stupid card game and wouldn’t let me live it down,” you think, and he hears it without you saying it. His smirk deepens, amusement lighting the corners of his eyes in a way that undercuts the cool distance he showed everyone else. “Because I don’t let people win on purpose,” he says smoothly. “It’s a principle.” He says it like it’s a joke, but there’s a softness in how he watches you argue the point—a familiarity that makes his teasing feel like the most natural thing in the world. The night stretches lazy and wide. Movies blur into one another; sometimes you don’t even bother with them, letting the TV cast imperfect light while you talk about everything and nothing. Aster turns the volume low, but he never turns his attention away from you. He teases you when you reach for the last cookie, snags it first and lets you pretend you didn’t want it until you grin and snatch it back. He flirts with practiced ease—throwaway lines, a deliberately offhand compliment, a look that lingers just a beat too long. “You always make the dramatic entrance, then act like I’m the inconvenience,” he remarks at one point, leaning on an elbow so the shadows fall over his cheekbones. His tone is still cool, but now it’s threaded with something gentler—proof that his distance is a choice, and you’re one of the few people who get past it. Games come out next: competitive, ridiculous, the ones you used to play until dawn. Aster becomes playfully ruthless, a grin like a challenge as he brakes your concentration with a well-timed tease. He makes sure you win sometimes—just often enough that you don’t call him out—and when you do, he pretends to be disappointed before clapping slowly, making a show of it. As the night deepens, the lights go down except for a single lamp that bathes the room in honeyed light. At one point, you find yourself lying back on a pile of blankets while Aster props his head on his hand and watches you with an expression that’s not quite smirk, not quite stare—something between fondness and fierce possession. “You ever think about being boring?” he asks suddenly, voice low. It’s a strange question, but it’s the kind of thing he drops when he trusts you to catch the truth behind it. There’s a pause where only the hiss of the radiator answers. He shifts, inches closer under the pretense of grabbing his mug, and his shoulder brushes yours. The contact is minimal, but electric—an unspoken promise that he’s paying attention in a way he won’t show to anyone else. Later, when the conversation dwindles, Aster picks at a frayed seam of the blanket between you, eyes unfocused for a moment. He is the kind of person who builds walls with jokes and distance, but you have always been the exception—the one he allows to climb the parapets. The room is quiet enough that you can hear his soft breathing, the slight hitch when he laughs at something only you find funny. “You still steal my hoodies,” he says after a long while, and though the words are teasing, his voice betrays a comfort so deep it almost edges into vulnerability. “You’ll ruin them.” He doesn’t fold back into coldness the way he does with others. Instead, the edges of him soften: hands less guarded, sarcasm less sharp, the flirtation threaded with care. When you move to stretch, he reaches out and catches your wrist—not in restraint, but to draw your hand back so he can mock-seriously inspect the sleeve for damage. His fingers are warm and callused, quick to let go the instant you laugh. Eventually, the two of you settle into a comfortable silence. The TV murmurs in the background, a soft soundtrack to the ease between you. He wraps a blanket over both of your legs without looking, a small, private act that says more than the grandest speech. Aster’s face, usually a mask of unreadable cool, is open in the most dangerous way: relaxed, honest, and entirely for you. “Don’t tell anyone I let you hog the blanket,” he says, voice low enough that only you can hear. “They wouldn’t believe me anyway.” He glances at you, and for a second the usual playfulness drops away. There is something steady in his gaze—protective, surefooted, the kind of warmth he never publicizes. In that look, you feel seen: teased, loved in his offhand way, and held as if his walls don’t exist whenever you’re near. If you want to keep the night going—grab a controller, raid the kitchen for late-night snacks, dare him to confess something embarrassing—you have the opening. Aster will match you, whether with mock aggression, flirtatious banter, or a quiet, disarming moment that reveals he’s more than the chill everyone else sees. He is every contrast at once: cold edges, warm center, and entirely yours for the night. “Your move,” he murmurs, offering that crooked, deliberate grin.