Chapter Text
Chase wakes to a hand shaking his leg.
"Chase," a voice hisses distantly.
His mind is shrouded in thick and reluctant fog, fighting to drag him back even as he stirs. When he does finally manage to split his eyes open, the first thing he’s greeted with is a blur of pale collarbones crowding his vision.
"Chase!" The grip on his shin tightens hard enough to sting, and his whole frame jostles as he’s shaken again more forcefully.
He groans, face pinching, and rolls over with languid resistance, squinting against the daylight pouring through the windows. The sun is cruel in its brightness, the kind of exaggerated morning glow that only ever exists in storybooks.
His lashes flutter, eyes adjusting, until the blurred outline above him sharpens into a lanky, familiar figure.
"Deacon?" he grumbles, knuckles rubbing sluggishly into his right eye.
"What the hell!" Deacon spits, his voice a ragged whisper, outrage contorting his face as he looms over the bed.
It takes Chase another long, disoriented moment before his brain catches up—before he realises what, exactly, Deacon has walked in on. He blinks twice.
He twists his head, and there—pressed snug against his side, arm hooked weakly over his waist, face half-buried in his hair like he belongs there—is Buddy. Fast asleep. Absolutely conked out.
Chase feels something inside of him tighten. He never sees him like this—unguarded, softened, peaceful. And Deacon, stupid and clumsy and annoyed, is about to totally ruin it for him.
Chase’s head snaps back to him, red hot panic flaring sharp and immediate. "Get out."
Deacon’s jaw hangs. "What?"
"Get out!" he hisses, harsher this time, batting his hand at him like he’s shooing a pigeon. "Go away!"
"Go away?!" Deacon repeats incredulously. "Why is he—" He raises his arm to point accusingly and rather aggressively at Buddy’s sleeping form before abruptly directing his attention back to Chase. "Why were you latched onto him like a leech?!"
"Deacon!" Chase whispers furiously, scrambling upright as far as Buddy’s arm will allow him. "Will you shut up!? You’re gonna wake him!"
"Oh, well we certainly wouldn’t want that!"
Chase whips his head between them—the angelic boy curled beside him and the terrible cousin scowling at the edge of the bed.
"Deacon," he grits out, jaw tight, "I am asking you nicely. Please—Get. Out."
"This is you asking nicely?"
"Go! Leave!"
"But—"
"Deacon, I swear," Chase’s tone is sharp enough to draw blood.
Deacon gapes at him, eyes darting between Buddy’s peaceful face and Chase’s frantic one. "You—this—this is insane," he mutters, stumbling backward toward the door. "This is—this is—"
"Goodbye, Dorkin!" Chase whisper-shouts, still flapping his hand like he’s shoving him out with sheer force of will.
Deacon stares one last time, wide-eyed and slack-jawed, before disappearing through the doorway.
And at last, blessed silence returns.
Chase slumps back into the pillows with a shaky exhale. His heart is a thundering force beneath his ribcage, but beside him, Buddy hasn’t so much as twitched. Still sound asleep, breathing slow and even, lips slightly parted, and his face slack with a sense of peace Chase rarely gets to see on him.
His heart melts into syrup, a tiny smile fluttering across his lips as he lets himself look—really look. The gentle line of his tear troughs, the lashes that fan long and dark against his alabaster skin, his hair messier than Chase has ever seen it, falling boyishly across his forehead.
Chase’s smile stretches as he carefully presses his hand against Buddy’s chest, unable to help himself. His palm brushes bare skin—thanks to Violet, always putting him in shirts that dip low—and he leaves it there, just feeling the steady rise and fall, the quiet thrum of his heartbeat.
For a while, he doesn’t move at all. He merely lays there, gazing up at Buddy with a stupid dopey grin, almost willing himself not to laugh at how deceitfully harmless he looks right now.
Then, because he has zero self control, he shifts closer, nose brushing against his cheek. "You’re so pretty when you’re not being an asshole," he whispers to no one.
He raises a fingertip, tracing the bridge of his nose, sliding down to the curve of his cheek—but nothing. Buddy just breathes.
Chase grows bolder, brushing back the messy strands of black hair, petting him the way Buddy had petted him the night before. He snorts softly under his breath when Buddy’s brows knit slightly as if he can feel himself being mocked, even in his sleep. Chase giggles, then leans in and presses the quickest kiss in the space between his brows.
Buddy stirs a bit—a twitch of his fingers against Chase’s side, another faint furrow of his brow, and lips closing with a quiet swallow before his breathing evens out again. But he still doesn’t wake.
That’s when Chase begins to remember the night before—him falling asleep, Buddy refusing to let him. Buddy attacking him with lazy kisses and even lazier touches. Buddy whispering things in his ear. Buddy calling him angel.
His stomach flutters at the memory.
He leans in again. A kiss to the corner of his jaw. Then the other side. Then the very tip of his nose.
"Wake up, Buddy," he whispers sweetly between each one, as if the kisses are punctuation. "Wake. Up. Wake. Up. Wake. Up."
A groan rumbles from Buddy’s chest. His arm tightens around Chase like a vise, pulling him closer. "Stop," he mutters, voice raspy with sleep, and Chase beams at the realisation that he’s being introduced to the wonderful thing that is Buddy’s morning voice.
"No," Chase replies brightly, and pecks his cheek again. "Wake up."
Buddy’s eyes crack open halfway, hazy and sharp all at once. Moonstone eyes squint weakly at Chase, who gazes back at him with the most unrepentant grin.
"…Idiot," he mutters, closing his eyes again.
"Good morning, sunshine!" Chase chirps, kissing his chin this time.
Buddy responds with a grunt, face taut.
Chase lifts a hand, trailing it up his side before poking him in the ribs—gentle at first, then again, and again.
A gravelly groan rumbles from Buddy’s throat, brows knitting together, cracking one eye open in pure annoyance. "What are you doing?"
"Poking you," Chase answers as he does it again. "Duh."
Buddy shoots him a weak glare—a sliver of blue peeking out from beneath his lashes—before his eyes fall shut again. "Stop it," he grumbles.
Chase chooses to do the exact opposite, continuing to jam his fingers into his ribs. "Wake up."
"No."
"Buddy—"
"I said no."
"Tough," Chase sings, cupping his face. Buddy’s eyes blink open, frowning as Chase proceeds to squish his face between his fingers. "It’s annoying when someone is bothering you while you’re trying to sleep, isn’t it?"
Buddy rolls his eyes and grabs Chase’s wrist, yanking his hand away from his face. He lowers it down between them, resting it over Chase’s hand, but doesn’t let go—his fingers curl lightly around Chase’s, holding without squeezing.
"I’ll throw you off the bed," he threatens.
Chase snorts. "Yeah, right," he says, stealing a quick kiss on his lips.
Buddy lasts longer than anyone else would.
He lets Chase pepper kisses on his cheek, his jaw, his forehead, his lips—endlessly like raindrops, each one accompanied by a giggle or a whispered "wake up" or "get up." He tolerates it with gritted teeth, pretending like he’s fallen back asleep, though the corner of his mouth keeps twitching like he’s fighting a smile.
But Chase doesn’t relent. If anything, he doubles down. His kisses get stupider—onto Buddy’s chin, his eyebrows, even a ridiculous, tiny lick to one of his eyelids that makes Buddy finally crack his eyes open in disbelief.
"Chase," he says, a low warning in his chest.
"Kiss," Chase replies cheerfully, pressing another to the bridge of his nose.
Finally, Buddy snaps.
His hands shoot out fast, so fast Chase doesn’t even register what’s happening. He firmly grabs Chase’s hips, and with one surprising tug he drags him higher up the bed, scooting his smaller frame against the pillows like he’s moving furniture. Chase yelps, startled, as Buddy promptly drops his head onto his chest, nuzzling in like Chase is a personal pillow. He holds him there, palms still braced at his waist in a silent don’t you dare move again.
"Wh—Buddy!" Chase bursts into laughter.
"Shut up," Buddy mumbles into him, voice muffled and smug. "You’re done now."
Chase’s chest shakes with helpless giggles, his fingers fluttering uselessly at Buddy’s shoulders. "Let me go!"
"Stop talking." Buddy shifts, snuggling deeper, his blue eyes flicking shut again. "Go back to sleep."
Chase’s laughter turns into a warm, fond little hum as he lets his hand wander up, petting lazily at Buddy’s dark hair. "You’re so weird."
"Mm. And you’re loud," Buddy says, words slurred with drowsiness, but the hold at Chase’s waist doesn’t loosen.
Chase tips his head back against the pillow, grinning so hard his cheeks ache. His heart feels like it might burst. "I’m not your teddy bear."
To that, Buddy has to force himself to stay quiet instead of saying what he’s thinking.
"Little idiot," he says instead, settling heavier against him.
Chase bites his lip, still giggling, still petting at Buddy’s hair. "Say the other one," he whispers mischievously, wriggling in his arms back down the bed.
Buddy frowns but lets him, letting Chase shift until his face is level with his again. "…Other one?" he asks.
"You know," Chase says softly, sing-song. "From last night."
He opens his eyes fully this time, meeting Chase’s gaze, suddenly wide awake. "…I don’t know what you’re talking about."
"Yes, you do." Chase’s voice softens, hopeful, almost giddy. "You called me angel."
Buddy’s cheeks warm a faint pink. He looks away, muttering, "Slip of the tongue."
"Say it again," Chase insists, grinning now, leaning over him.
"No."
"Buddy." Chase nudges his nose against his cheek, coaxing. "Please?"
Buddy shuts his eyes again, like maybe if he pretends hard enough he can escape this. But then Chase giggles, pressing a fluttering kiss to the corner of his mouth, and something in him cracks.
He wets his lips. "...Angel?"
"Don’t say it like a question!" Chase huffs, shoulders shaking with laughter. "Say it properly."
Buddy scoffs, lashes lowering. "No."
"Buddy."
"Chase." Buddy’s voice cuts like velvet. "Stop being stupid."
"Me? Stupid? That doesn’t sound like me."
Buddy only hums flatly in response, and Chase hums right back, still petting through Buddy’s hair, scratching lightly at his scalp. For a while, the silence stretches warm and comfortable, like a fluffy blanket neither of them want to throw off.
"We should probably go finish the book," Chase pipes up after a minute or two.
"Probably," Buddy echoes, tone flat enough to suggest the opposite.
"It’s not like you to go so off–plot," Chase remarks, brow lifting amusedly.
"Who says we’re off–plot?" Buddy says.
Chase squints at him. "I really doubt the princess and her evil stepmother are supposed to be in bed together right now."
"I don’t want to go," Buddy murmurs, startlingly earnest. "Not yet."
Chase blinks before his lips are curling upward into a cheshire cat smile. "Weird."
Buddy eyes him. "What?"
"Someone must’ve replaced you with a clone."
Buddy scoffs with a half–hearted roll of his eyes. "I could say the same for you," he replies. "Why do you suddenly want to stick to the plot?"
Chase shrugs. "I dunno. I think ‘cause you’re not doing it properly, it’s making me wanna do it properly. This is, like…some reverse psychology shit."
"Possibly," Buddy says, sounding like he’s humouring a child.
"Alright," Chase decides abruptly, bouncing up on his elbows. "Enough messing around. Come on! Up you get, Buddy."
"I’m not moving," Buddy responds immediately.
"You don’t have a choice."
Buddy lets out a short, amused snort. "Is that so?"
"Yeah. It is." Chase gives his limp arm a little tug. "You better get up now, or you’ll regret it."
Buddy quirks a brow, one corner of his mouth twitching. "And what, exactly, are you going to do if I don’t?"
Chase narrows his eyes in mock menace—but he looks about as intimidating as a fawn. "I’m warning you…"
Buddy exhales through his nose, the epitome of unimpressed. "I’m terrified."
"Alright. Fine." Chase leans back. "You can’t say I didn’t warn you."
"Wh—"
And then Chase moves. It’s not clumsy at all—it’s sharp, practiced, the kind of sudden burst that comes from muscle memory drilled years ago on high school mats. One moment he’s lounging, the next he’s on Buddy, pinning him down with startling ease, weight balanced just right so there’s no escaping.
"Chase!" Buddy sputters, shoved flat into the mattress, his usual composure cracking as he bucks against him. "Get—off me, you oik!"
Chase just laughs, wicked delight dancing along his grin like starlight. He shifts his weight like he knows exactly what he’s doing—forearm braced across Buddy’s chest, knees straddling his sides in a pin that leaves no room to wriggle free. Every thrash Buddy makes only sinks him deeper into the hold.
For a moment it seems like Chase might never let him go—not that Buddy would object—as he savors the rare sight of Buddy flustered and undone. But eventually he relents, springing back with ease and landing on his feet. He wobbles for half a second before straightening, chest heaving, grin wider than ever as he looms triumphantly over the bed.
Buddy pushes himself up on his elbows, glaring daggers through the mess of hair now sticking up in various different directions.
"Come on! Chop, chop!" Chase claps his hands twice, voice sing-song and bossy.
Buddy huffs, dragging himself upright. At full height he towers over Chase again, eyes narrowing like he’s reclaiming some lost pride. He gives him the world’s pettiest shove as he brushes past—barely more than a tap, but enough to make Chase stumble back a step.
Chase snorts, catching himself easily, grin unshakable, watching him go for half a second before moving to follow him. He catches up at the dresser—and that’s when his eyes snag on the golden framed mirror propped up against the wall.
He halts.
Reflected back at him isn’t himself or Buddy at all. It’s the princess—hair tumbling in perfect golden waves, silk gown spilling in waves of soft white—and her stepmother, tall and sharp in her jeweled bodice, lips bloodred against porcelain skin.
"Ugh, great," Chase groans, tugging a hand through his mess of blonde hair. "I can’t even see what I look like. I probably look insane."
Buddy glances over his shoulder from where he’s effortlessly fixing his own hair, expression unreadable for a beat—then he turns, striding back to Chase without hesitation. He stops in front of him, close enough that Chase’s breath hitches. Then Buddy’s hands are in his hair yet again, deft fingers smoothing through the chaotic tufts, taming them like he’s done it a hundred times before.
"There," Buddy murmurs, voice low and deliberate, gaze fixed on the task as though it’s the most natural thing in the world. "Almost presentable." His fingers trail down to Chase’s cheek as he pulls away, thumb grazing skin just barely before lifting. "Almost handsome, too—if you’d stay silent like this."
Chase’s stomach flips so hard he thinks it might somersault right out of him. He surges forward, impulsive, already leaning up for a kiss—
Buddy immediately presses a hand to his chest, stopping him short.
"Story," he reminds him simply, tone cutting through the air like a clean blade.
Chase blinks. "What? You were literally just saying you didn’t want to go back to the story!"
Buddy gives a one-shouldered shrug. "I changed my mind."
Chase splutters. "That’s not fair!"
"Life isn’t fair, Chase," Buddy replies, mouth curving into another irritatingly attractive smirk that Chase would like nothing more than to kiss right off him.
He groans loudly, stringing together incoherent complaints under his breath as his shoulders sag. Buddy just rolls his eyes, catching Chase’s chin in his hand. He tilts his face up, leans down—and presses a slow, lingering kiss to his lips. It’s unhurried, steady, a kiss that deepens just enough to melt Chase into it instantly, his knees going a little weak.
When Buddy finally pulls away, Chase makes the softest, most desperate sound in his throat. Buddy doesn’t seem to notice—or maybe he does, and enjoys it—because he only says, as calm as he can possibly sound, "There. That’ll do you for now. Let’s go."
"Wait—one more," Chase pleads, tipping forward again.
Buddy laughs, warm and exasperated. "No."
Chase’s lip juts into a protestful pout.
Buddy just turns toward the door, stepping away casually, almost lazily, as though none of this has had any effect on him at all. Over his shoulder, he throws out, "Come along, angel."
Chase stills, and for a moment, he just stays like that—alone there in the room, grinning to himself like a lovestruck fool as pink roses bloom along his cheeks.
And then, he follows.
✩ ₊ ˚.⋆ ☾ ⋆⁺ ₊ ✩
^ art by glowlizard :) <3