Archive of Our Own

Mexico was burning Cellbit’s pallid skin pink. Brazil had been more humid; made his hair stick to his neck in damp curls. But fuck, Mexico was scorching. His jumpsuit was unzipped to his crotch, arms slung into a knot around his front, revealing his white tank top. 

A knife wrapped in wads of damp toilet paper was tucked into his waistband. The handle pressed into his hip with every step. He ignored it because he had now almost reached his target; a peeling, cornflower-blue Sedan parked at a petrol station, nothing but flat, rocky plains and sparse shrubbery for kilometres. Cellbit pressed the pads of his thumbs into his eyelids, hoping to alleviate the slightly crazed, adrenaline-spiked glint he was sure persisted in his gaze. 

The man filling up his car was middle-aged, spindly reading glasses perched atop his head. He’d be caught off guard then, Cellbit noted. He was around one seventy-four centimetres. Roughly eighty kilograms. Overweight. Cellbit weighed up the man’s stats to his own. Other than the fact he was about ten centimetres taller, it didn’t matter how he compared. Cellbit had just spent several long months in prison, and he could spin a knife around his knuckles with his eyes closed (not that he ever did it; it was just a fun trick to show off).

Cellbit cleared his throat as he approached the man. The man twisted his head to see Cellbit, eyebrows immediately furrowing at his outfit. 

“You don’t happen to know if there’s a hotel nearby, do you?” Cellbit asked politely. 

The man stared back at him blankly. Ah, of course. He wasn’t in Brazil anymore, in Mexico they spoke Spanish. Cellbit held out his hand, trying again. 

“Hola,” he grasped onto the man’s hand with unnecessary strength. “Is there anyone else here with you?”

The man shook his head, now understanding, but still stunned enough to remain silent. Cellbit hoped he didn’t look too closely at the stains on his fingernails. He guessed he could always say it was from a nosebleed. 

In one smooth, practiced movement of his arms, the shiny edge of Cellbit’s knife was hovering above the man’s neck. Cellbit’s free hand was pressed firmly against the man’s mouth. 

“If you scream for help, I’ll kill you. Okay?” Cellbit muttered, feeling the man’s pulse jackrabbit beneath his fist. At the slight nod, Cellbit took away his hand and rummaged around in the man’s pockets. Seconds later his fingers closed around a jagged edge. It was almost too easy. 

“I want you to put the nozzle back, go inside to pay for your fuel, and count to a hundred.” When the man didn’t nod his head again Cellbit wiggled the knife, making its presence known once again. “Is that clear?” 

The man gulped and nodded his head vigorously, quivering hands fumbling around for, presumably, his wallet. Cellbit clicked the unlock button on the keys and slipped into the driver's seat. He chucked the knife onto the passenger seat, ignoring the box of diapers it knocked into. Cellbit watched the man run inside and swore. They never liked to follow his rules, did they?

Cellbit jerked the gear stick into reverse and winced at the cringe-inducing shriek of the wheels. As he flattened his foot against the accelerator, a half-empty water bottle rolled near his ankle. Cellbit grabbed it, unscrewing the lid with his teeth. The liquid streaming past his lips was clear. Unusual. 

Five hours later and Cellbit was melting into the decrepit car seat. The air conditioner had conked out around hour three, and the radio station was only picking up blaring country music that devolved into static every few minutes. At the next flickering neon-signed hotel, he pulled in. The building was two stories with salmon coloured stucco walls, yellowing plants wilting outside each door. 

The front-desk worker was playing Candy Crush as she handed him his keys. Luckily, the cash stashed in the glove compartment was enough to cover two nights. He didn’t plan to stay long anyway. 

The inside, to his dismay, was also salmon pink. There was a bed with a dubious-smelling, floral duvet, a television, and a mini fridge tucked into the makeshift kitchen corner of the room. Cellbit lifted his hair into a ponytail, relishing even the still air on his nape. He’d need to buy hair ties. Opening the only cabinet in the room, Cellbit was delighted to spot a coffee pot. Tomorrow he would ask where the nearest service station was. 

For now, stripping down and scrubbing his entire body with vanilla-scented soap was enough. It was his first shower without at least ten other guys surrounding him in months. And how he’d missed the privacy. He stepped out once the water started going cold. 

Redressing in his stinky prison clothes also brought up another problem. He wasn’t sure how many people would believe he just had an odd fashion sense if he rocked up in a stark orange jumpsuit. He had also just committed grand theft auto, so keeping a low-key profile was of top priority. 

But first things first; his stomach was turning itself inside out. He still had his knife, and if he put on a ‘do not disturb’ sign, they probably wouldn’t notice for at least a few days—

Then again, he was already ready to collapse into his flowery bed, so perhaps the vending machine he noticed outside would have to do. 

With a distasteful curl of his lip, Cellbit counted the six different types of Coca-Cola. He punched in a number and counted his change as the Oreo packet he’d bought fell into the collection trough. 

“Mierda!” 

Cellbit flinched, Oreos slipping from his grasp and thudding against the asphalt. His nostrils flared. Looking up, he was met by a guy who had to be in his early twenties. Could even pass for nineteen. He was pale, made more obvious by the impossibly dark hair swept across his forehead. Below his thick eyebrows were deep, brown eyes, emphasised by his smudged eyeliner. 

Prison may have somewhat ruined his perceptive abilities on how people in the real world behaved, but there was one thing he had improved in. That is, recognising a certain glint in someone’s eye, a specific look, that meant there was something brewing beneath the surface. 

The guy blinked up at Cellbit, played with one of the multiple black earrings lining both his ears, and tilted his head to the side ever so slightly. 

Cellbit didn’t see a glint. Thus, he didn’t bring out the knife he’d re-tucked into his waistband, and simply lifted his chin, hoping that would suffice and he could crawl into bed and eat his broken up Oreos in peace. 

Unfortunately for him, the guy spoke up, voice slightly hoarse and unused. “Do you have change?” 

His Spanish was fluid, so Cellbit was glad for his fairly neutral Mexican accent. He was going to have to start practising his Spanish. He was probably going to be in Mexico for a while after all, Cellbit reminded himself. The sooner he forgot about Brazil, and Pac and Mike, and Felps, the better. He knew if, by some miracle, the television service provided access to a Brazilian news channel, he’d be in the ‘breaking’ section; wanted for escaping prison, among a litany of other charges. 

“I—yes. Two dollars. And fifty cents.” Cellbit cursed himself for spluttering. Pretending he wanted to engage in small talk, along with the fact Spanish was his third language, proved more difficult than he’d first assumed. 

The man—or boy, he still wasn’t sure—raised an eyebrow at that. 

“You’re not from here,” he said, tone inquisitive.

Cellbit swept his eyes across the establishment, blinking at the number plate on his (stolen) Sedan. He’d have to crowbar that off and switch it for another before he left for supplies tomorrow morning.

“Ha, no, pendejo. I don’t mean here here. I mean like, Mexico. You’re not from Mexico.” 

Cellbit’s fingers itched to curl around a certain, familiar wooden handle. Instead, he balled his hands up into fists and decided how much information to give. 

“Obviously.” That seemed like plenty. 

The guy squinted his eyes. “That’s it?” His black-rimmed eyes flicked up and down his form, finally taking in the distinct orange shade of his pants. “You know, I thought everyone was supposed to be ripped in prison.” 

Cellbit startled, unsure how to take that. Was he joking? Did he know? Had Pac sent someone over here to return the favour? His hand subconsciously shifted to rest over his leg. 

“Um. Not really.” 

“Wow, you sure like to talk a lot, don’t you?” The guy’s lips curved into a small, lopsided smile.

Cellbit felt the urge to swallow. Another fun perk of being in prison had meant his love life (not that it had really existed beforehand) had gone down the drain. The last time he’d been on a date was when he was still concerned over getting to his lectures on time. The last time someone had looked at him with a smile, even if in a slightly sarcastic, teasing way, felt like so long ago. 

“I’m Roier,” he said, teeth tugging on his spider-bite lip piercing.

Cellbit deliberated giving a fake name. “I’m Cellbit.” 

His imagination didn’t work when he was starving and running on an hour of sleep. 

Roier nodded. “Hi, Cellbit.” 

Cellbit needed another shower. 

“So. About that change…” Roier held out a ten-dollar note. 

Cellbit glanced back at the machine. “It takes tens.” 

“They prefer it if you use coins. Marta, that’s the girl manning the desk, gets chewed out by her boss if we don’t.” Roier flapped the note around. 

Cellbit’s reluctant expression caused a brief stretch of stilted silence in which he watched Roier’s face morph; eyes widening, lips squishing into a pout, eyebrows raised.

“For me, gatinho?” 

Cellbit shivered involuntarily. He hoped he would get over this thing soon. Roier was practically bouncing on his heels when Cellbit handed over his coins.

“Keep the change,” Cellbit mumbled before getting the fuck out of there. 

It was only in bed, blanket stripped off (the air conditioner was broken), Oreo crumbs scattered over the mattress, when Cellbit felt his stomach lurch. 

‘Gatinho’. Roier knew Cellbit was Brazilian. And Cellbit had been too goddamn infatuated with his glossy eyes to notice. Fuck. He took apart another Oreo, licking the creamy middle. He would have to leave tomorrow. Or kill Roier. Cellbit wedged his knife under his pillow out of habit. 

***

Cellbit had torn off patches from his sheets so he could use them to prevent his fingerprints being plastered everywhere whilst he began unscrewing the number plate. The sun was hidden behind the L-shape of the building, shrouding Cellbit in a dusky shadow, and also allowing him some relief from the expected heat of the day. 

Cellbit grunted, crouched down, and flicked his eyes around the car park. He spotted a grey Subaru, bright pink number plate reading ‘BABE’. Too obvious. As he swung his head around, searching for an inconspicuous plate, a voice sounded behind him, almost making Cellbit knock his knee against the exhaust pipe. 

“See the black car down there, beige interior?” 

Cellbit craned his neck, searching for the car that matched Roier’s description. 

“Belongs to Eduardo.” Roier continued at Cellbit’s sceptical frown; “he’s a car salesman. He ‘borrows’ cars from the dealership and comes here to sleep with his lover. He won’t notice if you swap them. Probably.”

Cellbit ruminated over the new information. It was actually… Really helpful. 

“You’re not going to call the police on me?” Cellbit inquired, all too aware of his precarious situation with the person he stole the Sedan from. 

Roier mimed zipping his lips closed. Cellbit blew air out his nose. All he could do was trust him. A stranger. Roier blinked down at him. 

With unfairly long eyelashes. 

By the time Cellbit had finally finished the exchange, Roier had disappeared back to his room. Cellbit raised his armpit to his nose, sniffing cautiously. Vanilla and days-old sweat and grime. He needed mouthwash too. Preferably a non-red kind.

Stretching out his limbs after being hunched over the back of a car, Cellbit came to realise Roier leaning leisurely against his (not actually his) car. A plastic shopping bag was hanging from one of his wrists. 

Cellbit pointed to it when he arrived, wordlessly asking ‘what now?’. Roier flashed him a smile, digging into the bag and pulling out a wrinkled shirt. “You smell.” 

Cellbit didn’t bother scowling. He knew it was true. 

“I um,” Roier pulled on his earlobe. “I didn’t think any of my pants would fit you, so I didn’t bother bringing them. You’re kinda,” he puffed out a breathy laugh, “kinda tall.” 

Cellbit took the shirt gratefully, holding it out in front of him. A black, plain t-shirt, no identifying marks or features. It was perfect. Except…

“Thanks. But it’s kinda the pants that are the problem,” Cellbit said bluntly. 

Roier winced, drawing in a tense breath. “Yeah, you’re right. And you still have blood under your fingernails.”

Cellbit blinked. Wait, what? 

Roier fixed his eyes onto Cellbit’s, lips slowly curving into a smile. “I’m not an idiot, Cellbit.” 

“I never said that,” Cellbit corrected, pulling the neck of his tank up and over his head swiftly. He was no longer ashamed of undressing in front of others. Or shitting in front of them. Although he would try and avoid that if possible.

Even though his hearing was blocked by the cotton encompassing his head, he swore he heard Roier yelp. Once the shirt was around his torso, he noticed the tightness around only his waist. He tried not to think about what that meant. 

“You know what,” Roier’s tongue was peeking through his lips, lost in thought. “I think Eduardo is around your height. Be right back.” He left at a brisk walk, leaving in what Cellbit assumed was the direction of his room. 

When Roier returned with some grey, dishevelled slacks, Cellbit didn’t miss his opportunity. “I’m not going to ask why you have Eduardo’s pants.” 

Roier screwed up his face, nose wrinkling. “I already have a—it’s not what you think. He needed me to hide his shit for him. That’s all.” Roier’s tongue poked out to wet his lips. “Trust me, Eduardo’s not really my type.”

Cellbit yanked the pants from Roier’s hands, crossing the distance to his room in long, hurried strides. Who the fuck was this guy?

Roier was still leaning against his car when he came back. Cellbit tried to pull up his pants, the slightly bigger fit leaving them slung low on his hips. He mentally added ‘belt’ to the list, even though he’d have to check the car’s glove department to see how much there was left in the cash reserves. 

“Thank you. For the pants,” Cellbit said, praying Roier didn’t stick out his hand for a handshake. 

Roier didn’t. He instead crossed his arms, pressing his lips together as if he was building up the courage to say something. 

“Since I gave you the pants… Do you think you could do a favour for me in return?” 

Cellbit resisted the urge to sigh. “I’m not a whore, man. The prison jumpsuit is real. I thought you—” He stopped at the sight of Roier’s mouth hanging open. 

“What?” Roier’s face was stuck between shock and an impending grin. “I was just going to ask if you could take me to an ATM. I need cash but my car’s at the mechanics right now. Blown tires.” 

Cellbit swallowed a groan. Roier might have certain qualities, ones he knew how to use, but that didn’t mean Cellbit could trust him. Cellbit barely trusted people he’d known for years, let alone some random stranger he’d met at a shitty hotel in the middle of bumfuck, Mexico. 

“I’ll pay for petrol,” Roier piped up, a last-ditch effort. 

Cellbit pondered asking why he didn’t just pay for a taxi. “Fine.” Cellbit dug the keys out from his pocket. “But that’s it, okay? I don’t owe you anything; you don’t owe me. Understood?”

“Completamente.”

***

The supermarket was tiny. There was one lanky, acne-riddled cashier who kept turning his neck to watch the football quietly running on the TV behind him, and that was it. He heard Roier let out an annoyed grumble next to him.

“You a big fan?” 

Roier shook his head fervently, yet his eyes stayed on the screen for a few seconds before he turned towards Cellbit. Strange. 

Cellbit pushed the trolley into the first aisle, tossing into it the first box of coffee sachets he could find. Roier trundled behind him, occasionally stopping to scan an item, then jogging back towards Cellbit, like he was held by a leash. Also strange. 

The supermarket had remained empty for the entirety of Cellbit’s scavenge for mouthwash and vodka (for getting rid of stains). Alas, his luck ran out at the sight of none other than the front-desk worker from the hotel.

“Roier!” She smacked her chewing gum obnoxiously, her waving making her various bracelets jingle together noisily. “I thought your car was kaput.” 

Roier paused his examination of whatever toothpaste brand he was currently holding and waved back. “I caught a taxi.” 

Cellbit’s chest sank in relief. It was pertinent the number of people who knew his name stuck to one. 

“Uh-huh,” Marta squinted, taking in the proximity of Roier to Cellbit. “So, who’s that?” 

Roier widened his eyes a touch, swinging his head towards Cellbit. “Who? Him? I—”

“Oh my God,” Marta dead-panned. “No way. Is this your husband?” 

Roier froze. His hand crumpled the cardboard box beneath his fingers. It was at that moment Cellbit finally noticed the delicate silver band wrapped around his ring finger.

Marta continued on, unaware of Roier’s unblinking expression. “You know, I was starting to think you were a bit—” she twirled her index finger around. 

“Oh, he’s—” Roier began, throat working. 

Cellbit sucked in a breath and wrapped his arm around Roier’s shoulders, stepping forward so his chest was flush against Roier’s back. The physical contact irked him, but Marta needed to leave as soon as possible. In the back of his mind, he ran through the details; 164 cm, weak wrists, (mainly) empty store. He could pin her down in a few seconds. Pull back the head, feel for the juncture below the jaw, slit and twist. The twist was sometimes too messy. 

Roier brought his hand up to intertwine their fingers. Cellbit tensed everywhere; fighting the urge to rip away. He felt the cold burn of Roier’s ring. 

“Roier’s husband,” Cellbit finished, dredging up what he thought could pass as a smile. 

The woman seemed to buy it, squealing and pressing her hand to her chest. “No mames, Roier!” She broke out into a blinding grin, showing off her two shiny tooth gems. “He’s handsome. And tall.” 

“He’s mine,” Roier said through a giggle, spine finally relaxing as he sagged into Cellbit’s hold. 

Cellbit narrowed his eyes. Marta seemed to brush it off, babbling off about her miserable love life and how happy she was for Roier. Maybe she hadn’t quite heard the quiet rigidness beneath Roier’s words; the way he hid razor-sharp edges in between the soft, rounded vowels. 

By the time Marta left, Cellbit’s arm was cramping. 

“Thanks. For lying for me,” Roier murmured, rubbing his eyes with the heel of his hand. “She’s normally at book club this morning.” He replaced the slightly crushed toothpaste box with a new one, placing it into the trolley where it joined a travel-sized bottle of hand sanitiser. 

Cellbit rested his foot on the trolley’s wheel, checking to see if it made a squeak. “It’s fine. Let’s go pay for this.” 

If Cellbit could still feel the ghost of Roier’s warm, long fingers fidgeting against his, he shoved it into the back of his mind. 

***

Roier was inescapable. Currently, he was sitting cross-legged on the ratty, yellowing carpet, licking sticky popsicle juice from the length of his fingers. Cellbit sniffed and shoved his hand under his pillow, simply for the reassuring knowledge that Roier hadn’t swiped his knife while his back was turned. 

Cellbit had learned two things since arriving at the hotel yesterday evening. One, Roier was younger than him, and was in his first year of University. Two, Roier was clinically fucking insane. 

Well, the last thing was debatable. But Cellbit had spent enough time in solitary confinement to recognise the type. Granted, he did it well. Yet there were a few slip-ups that gave him away. 

He’d gone stock still at Marta’s mention of a husband. He’d somehow wormed his way into sticking by Cellbit’s side for the entire day. And sometimes, when he would ‘accidentally’ lean a bit too close to Cellbit and their arms would brush, and Cellbit would roll his eyes and let it happen, Roier’s eyes would glaze over. 

It was enough for Cellbit to pack up his pitiful amount of belongings and speed out of there until he hit Baja California. Luckily for Roier, Cellbit was also probably clinically insane. Cellbit preferred to think of himself as resourceful. He worked logically. There was nothing insane or emotional about it. Or perhaps that was the insanity of it all. 

Before he could break out the Nietzsche, Cellbit whistled, calling the attention of the subject of his musings. 

Before he could draw another breath, Cellbit was crouched on the floor, knife brandished against the angular cut of Roier’s jaw. His dark eyes flashed. 

“Do you think I’m stupid?” Cellbit purred, shifting the blade so it forced Roier’s skin to bend to his will. “I see through your little act. You’ve been taking pictures of me, haven’t you, mozão?” 

Roier’s eyes were glassy and wide, pupils two pinpoints of black. His hands trembled, making biscuits in the air. Slowly, bit by bit, his palms dropped to Cellbit’s thighs, moulding them under his palm. Cellbit gurgled, a strangled noise caught in his trachea. 

“Show me your camera roll.” 

Roier shook his head as much as the boundary of the silver wear permitted him. Cellbit used his free hand to clasp Roier’s wrists together, only slightly subdued at the other’s blasé reaction.

Time to change tactics. Cellbit leant forwards so his mouth brushed Roier’s blushing ears. “If you don’t, I’ll kick you out.” 

He moved back in time to watch Roier’s eyes blur, welling up. His foot twitched, fabric of his pants scraping against the carpet. Cellbit followed the movement, eyes zoning in on Roier’s phone sitting face up on the floor. 

He flexed his fingers that held Roier’s wrists, silently telling him to unlock it. Roier complied. Cellbit caught the first blur of orange and felt his pulse throb. 

He scrolled, face purposefully empty. “You’re a crazy fucking bitch, I knew it.” Roier sniffled. “What? Don’t cry, darling.” He tilted Roier’s chin up with the point of the knife. “I’ll slit your throat before anyone can hear you anyway.” 

Cellbit savoured the sickly, saccharine trickle of satisfaction that seeped into his veins. In a few seconds Roier should be tearing away from Cellbit and sprinting out the door. He was shorter, around 180cm, but he was also deceivingly strong. If he wanted to, he could probably give Cellbit a concussion. 

But Roier didn’t move. Because of course Cellbit was finding it difficult to calculate his next move; he wasn’t lying about the crazy part. 

Instead, Roier extended his neck, baring it, like a wild animal. 

His lips fell apart, eyes hooded. “Anything for you, mi amor.” 

Cellbit’s belly knotted. He let the knife’s edge tear open the surface of Roier’s neck, like undoing stitches. He licked the blood. Roier’s breath hitched. 

“Say you love me.”

Cellbit laughed, red dribbling down his chin as a result. “You’re crazy.” 

Roier pressed a palm to Cellbit’s chest, firm. His pupils were nonexistent. “Say you love me, Natalan.”

Cellbit jerked his head back to cackle. Finally, he was seeing the real Roier. 

“No. I want something from you first.” He bent to re-lick Roier’s neck. Roier mewled. 

“I love you. I love you, I love you, I—”

Cellbit bit down. “Shut the fuck up.” He swiped his tongue over his teeth. Looked at Roier’s stained skin. 

Beautiful. 

***

Cellbit’s chest concaved up and down as he regained his breath. The overwhelming, pointed smell of sweat and sex pertained the air. Especially considering his nose was close to being smushed into the junction beside Roier’s bandaged neck, damp and mildewy with the mix of salt and the room’s natural musk. His single pillow was still tucked underneath Roier’s hips. 

Cellbit’s biceps burned trying to hold himself up over Roier, whose eyelashes had been elongated by his drying tears. Cellbit groaned, dropping himself down so his chest bracketed over Roier’s. 

“I don’t—I’m not. I’m not going to have sex with you again,” Cellbit huffed through his noisy inhalations for oxygen. 

He felt Roier’s throat vibrate, humming. “That’s what they all say.”

That was something to unpack later. It gave Cellbit a necessary, jolting reminder that he was a stranger. 

“No, I mean. You’re…” Cellbit sighed. “You’re gorgeous. I just, kissing is fine and everything, I’m just not really interested in sex. I know we literally just—but I’ve been in prison and normally I—it’s kinda grey, I guess.”

Roier’s fingers tucked a stray strand of Cellbit’s hair behind his ear, delicate. “You’re asexual?”

Cellbit swallowed, praying his fingers kept their rhythmic, stroking motion on his hair. “Uh… I—didn’t really know there was a name for it.” 

Roier mercifully continued, looping a particularly wavy lock around his index. “Yeah, one of my friends is asexual too. It’s super normal, man. Nothing to apologise about.” 

Cellbit exhaled through his nostrils, lifting his head up to meet Roier’s surprisingly thoughtful gaze.

“Thanks.”

Roier shrugged, sweat-matted hair sticking to his forehead. “No pasa nada.” He raised his thumb up to Cellbit’s lower lip. “But to be clear, you enjoy kissing, right?” 

Cellbit shuddered. He couldn’t help it. Roier’s cheeks and nose were dusted in pink, and his mouth was so, so, deliciously red. 

“Fuck yes.”

Cellbit bit into Roier’s lip, lapping up the pearl of blood he produced. The metallic taste washed over his taste buds, soothing them. 

Roier whined, fingers scrabbling to gain purchase on the bed sheets. His mouth went lax, allowing Cellbit to take and take. 

“Kinky,” Roier teased, pressing his bleeding lips together. 

Cellbit watched Roier’s face bleached pink and raw from beard burn. He liked it. Leaving his mark on someone. No—leaving his mark on Roier. 

Roier arched up, attempting to connect their lips once more. Cellbit obliged, relishing in the knowledge Roier was reabsorbing his own blood. 

They remained pressed together for what could have been hours. Cellbit’s grasp on time had grown slippery. His hands had grown fond of Roier, slotting into the grooves of his tapering waist, the bulge of his arms, the light stubble on his upper lip. Blood was beginning to crust in the crevices of his lips. 

“Mine,” Roier whispered, hoarse. His legs lifted to wrap around Cellbit, ankles looping at the small of his back. 

Cellbit’s hands cradled Roier’s voice box, pressing until Roier’s legs lost grip. He felt dizzy watching Roier’s lips curl back to reveal a pleased grin. His eyes were running, raw and red-rimmed. His eyelashes stuck out in clumps. Roier’s throat vibrated delightfully under Cellbit’s thumbs. 

“Yours,” Cellbit whispered back. “Completely.” 

EPILOGUE

Cellbit groaned, reluctantly breaking away for a breath of air. His forehead glued to Roier’s, inhaling his husband’s morning breath without so much as a flinch. Roier smelt perfect anyway. 

“I have to—I promised Bad I’d meet to—”

Cellbit’s sentence was swallowed by Roier’s mouth. As quickly as he was there, he left, lips screwed up into an all too familiar pout. His bed hair stuck up in all directions. It reminded Cellbit how young he was. How young they both were. How much they’d already been through. 

His teeth chewed his lower lip, leaning forward to return Roier’s kiss. Except this time, Roier snapped his head to the side, still pouting. Brat, Cellbit thought fondly. My brat, he corrected himself. 

“Mine,” he said out loud, omitting the ‘brat’ for fear of his husband continuing his sulk.

Roier swallowed visibly at his husband’s husky morning voice. Cellbit fought off a grin, already knowing Roier was close to breaking. Then Roier’s eyes narrowed, jaw set. 

“If Bad steals my fucking husband one more time, I’m going to—” 

It was Cellbit’s turn to shut him up with a kiss. His thumbs stroked his husband’s clean-shaven face, caressing his faint dimples. Roier melted, arms sliding beneath Cellbit’s, locking him into an embrace.

Hours passed. Minutes. Seconds. 

Roier rested his cheek on Cellbit’s shoulder. “Go meet Bad. I’ll just have to hang out with Quackity or something.” 

Cellbit unconsciously tightened his grip on Roier. He felt his husband shiver, a sliver of a grin visible from where his mouth was pressed on Cellbit’s shirt. 

“Te amo,” Roier crooned.

Cellbit felt the goosebumps erupt across his arms. He dug his fingers into Roier’s hoodie. 

“Te amo.” He was going to have to pay Quackity a visit later. “Guapito.” 

Roier hummed. Satisfied. 

"Gatinho.”