Chapter Text
Sam took Cosmo in after his parents met an unfortunate fate, leaving him with nowhere to go except to his best friend, Sprout, and his aunt, Sam.
Ten-year-old Sprout was saddened by the news, but a part of him was elated—now he could spend every waking moment (and every night) with his best friend, Cosmo!
From the moment Cosmo steps into their home, Sprout hardly leaves his side. They spend the day running through the garden, climbing trees, and making up stories about the shapes in the clouds. Sprout proudly declares that Cosmo can have half his bed, that they’ll share toys, and that whatever is his is Cosmo’s now too.
At dinner, Sam watches them with a soft smile as they whisper between bites, giggling at inside jokes. When it’s time for bed, Sprout drags Cosmo under the blankets, determined to stay up all night talking. That plan fails miserably when Cosmo dozes off first, his breathing soft and even. Sprout stays awake just a little longer, staring at the ceiling, thinking that maybe this arrangement isn’t so bad after all.
The next day is filled with more play—racing down the halls, getting scolded by Sam for almost knocking over a vase, and sneaking extra cookies from the kitchen. But eventually, bath time rolls around.
“We should take a bath together!” Sprout announces, tugging Cosmo toward the bathroom. “We’re both boys, so it’s fine!”
Cosmo hesitates but nods, letting Sprout pull him inside. They start stripping down, but as soon as their clothes are off, Sprout pauses, his gaze dropping.
Cosmo notices immediately. His arms fly around himself, eyes darting away. “...Don’t look.” His voice is small, uncertain.
Sprout tilts his head, confused. He swears his eyes must be tricking him. His own body, small and gangly as it is, has a little something there—so why doesn’t Cosmo?
He blinks, then squints, as if maybe looking harder will change what he sees. It doesn’t.
“...Hey,” he says slowly, pointing. “Where’s your—”
Cosmo flinches, curling in on himself even more. His face burns red, and he turns away completely. “Don’t look,” he mutters again, barely above a whisper.
Sprout isn’t sure what the big deal is. He’s never really thought much about it before, but now there’s this weird little itch in his brain, a question he doesn’t quite know how to ask. He glances down at himself, then back at Cosmo, the difference glaringly obvious.
Childish curiosity tugs at him, but something about the way Cosmo is hunching his shoulders, gripping his arms too tight, makes him pause.
He scratches his cheek. “Uh… okay.”
Without another word, he climbs into the tub first, splashing around to distract himself. Maybe it doesn’t matter. Maybe Cosmo’s just different, like how Sam says everyone is different in their own way.
Cosmo doesn’t move right away, but after a moment, he peeks over his shoulder. When he sees that Sprout isn’t staring anymore, his body relaxes just a little. Carefully, he steps into the tub, keeping his back turned until the water covers him.
Sprout grins, grabbing a handful of bubbles and plopping them on Cosmo’s head. “Now you look like an old man!”
Cosmo sputters, shaking the bubbles off. “No, you do!”
Laughter fills the bathroom, washing away the awkwardness from before. But the memory never truly fades. It lingers, wriggling into the corners of Sprout’s mind like maggots burrowing deep, festering in quiet moments of thought.
As the years pass and childhood innocence gives way to adolescence, the question remains, unspoken but persistent. It resurfaces in flashes—locker room glances, late-night curiosity, half-formed thoughts he doesn’t quite know what to do with.
By his teen years, Sprout has long since learned what makes boys and girls different. But then… where does Cosmo fit?
Sprout decides not to ask. If Cosmo calls himself a boy, then that’s that. The difference is obvious, sure, but what does it matter? Cosmo is Cosmo.
Years pass, and Sprout grows awkwardly tall and lean, his frame stretching out with adolescence. Cosmo, on the other hand, stays shorter, his build softening as he gains a bit of weight. It suits him, in a way—rounder cheeks, fuller arms. Something about it makes Sprout feel… protective.
Not that he’d ever say it out loud, despite Cosmo knowing how Sprout already acts.
Sprout doesn’t mind the changes in Cosmo’s body—in fact, he loves it. Soft like a pillow, warm in a way that makes their usual couch-sharing feel even more comfortable. It starts with little things: Sprout resting his legs over Cosmo’s lap, using him like a living cushion, casually playing with the hem of his hoodie.
Unfortunately, their childish plans of bathing together stop. Cosmo grows shy despite knowing Sprout all his life.
“It’s different now,” Cosmo mumbles when Sprout brings it up one day, scratching at his sleeve. “We’re not kids anymore.”
Sprout scoffs, tossing a towel at him. “We’re still the same idiots who used to splash around in the tub. What’s the big deal?”
Cosmo catches the towel, hugging it to his chest. “Just… stop asking.” His ears are red, and he avoids Sprout’s gaze.
Sprout rolls his eyes but doesn’t push. He doesn’t get it, but if Cosmo doesn’t want to, then whatever.
Still, the shift lingers in his mind. That difference Cosmo keeps talking about—it’s subtle but there. The space between them feels a little wider, their touches less careless.
Sprout pretends not to notice when Cosmo starts locking the bathroom door.
Sprout’s favorite time of the day is their late-night movie nights. The world outside is quiet, the only glow coming from the screen casting soft shadows over the living room. It's routine now—Cosmo curled up in his usual corner of the couch, oversized hoodie swallowing his frame, and Sprout sprawled out beside him, legs propped up on the coffee table.
The first half-hour is spent bickering over what to watch. Cosmo always wants something lighthearted, while Sprout leans toward thrillers. They settle somewhere in between—a film neither of them really care about but will inevitably end up making fun of anyway.
Cosmo mumbles something about how Sprout is taking up too much space, nudging him with his knee. Without thinking, Sprout shifts, pressing his thigh flush against Cosmo’s. Neither of them move away.
The room is dim, and in his periphery, Sprout catches the way the light flickers across Cosmo’s face. His lashes cast faint shadows on his cheeks.
The movie plays in the background, but Sprout isn’t really paying attention. His head presses against Cosmo’s shoulder, comfortably sinking into his warmth. Cosmo shifts slightly, adjusting his position, and Sprout instinctively follows—closer, closer still.
“You’re like a cat, you know that?” Cosmo murmurs, not looking away from the screen.
Sprout hums. “That a bad thing?”
Cosmo exhales a soft laugh, shaking his head. “Not really. Just don’t start kneading me with your claws.”
Sprout smirks, shifting just enough to poke Cosmo’s side with a lazy finger. “What, like this?”
Cosmo jolts, swatting at his hand. “Don’t start.”
Sprout chuckles but doesn’t push further. Instead, he lets his hand fall against Cosmo’s wrist, fingers brushing lightly, lazily tracing over his skin. Neither of them move away.
Cosmo never comments on it, but he definitely notices. The way Sprout leans in during these late-night movies, how his touches linger just a bit too long, how he always seems to find an excuse to be closer.
Cosmo never says anything. And Sprout never stops.
But at some point, it shifts.
The air between them turns heavier, charged with something unnamed. Sprout doesn’t know when it happens—maybe when he notices how the glow of the TV flickers against Cosmo’s skin, highlighting the curve of his jaw, the way his lips part slightly in concentration. Maybe when he catches himself staring, wondering why he suddenly cares about the way Cosmo tucks his knees up when he sits.
One night, Sprout’s head is in Cosmo’s lap, an arm draped lazily over his stomach. The movie has long since faded into background noise, their attention settled somewhere between the warmth of proximity and the quiet hum of the room.
Sprout feels Cosmo’s fingers ghost through his hair—slow, hesitant. His breath hitches, but he doesn’t move away. He lets it happen. He feels himself grow warmer.
Cosmo doesn’t say anything. Neither does Sprout.
Then—
“Boys, it’s late!” Sam’s voice cuts through the air, followed by the unmistakable sound of their footsteps approaching.
Like instinct, they jolt apart. Sprout straightens up so fast his head nearly knocks into Cosmo’s chin, and Cosmo shifts to put a respectable distance between them.
Sam steps into the room, arms crossed, an amused smile tugging at their lips. “Movie’s over, you should be in bed.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Sprout grumbles, rubbing at his neck.
Cosmo stretches, acting nonchalant, but Sprout notices the way his fingers twitch against his thigh, as if resisting the urge to reach out again.
Moments like this always end the same way—cut short, unfinished, something left lingering in the air between them.
They still share the same bed. Though sometimes, Sprout opts to sleep on the couch, pretending to be too lazy to climb the stairs—just an excuse so Cosmo can have the cozy bed all to himself.
This time, though, it’s different.
Cosmo pauses at the foot of the stairs, glancing back at Sprout, who’s already stretched out on the couch, arm draped over his eyes. He doesn’t say anything.
With a small shrug, Cosmo turns and makes his way upstairs, leaving Sprout alone in the dim glow of the TV.
Sprout peeks through his arm, checking if anyone's still lurking. The house is silent, save for the occasional creak of settling wood.
Twenty minutes pass before he finally gives in, shamefully unlocking his phone and hesitating for only a second before typing into the search bar. He's been pent up for a while now, not able to get some time for himself.
He isn’t exactly innocent. His male classmates have shared enough links, whispered enough crude jokes, and passed enough screenshots under desks that Sprout has a general idea of what to expect. But this time, he isn’t looking out of vague curiosity or peer pressure.
Sprout pauses, staring blankly at his screen. The realization hits—his lotion is upstairs. In his room.
Where Cosmo is.
He really doesn’t want to use spit. The thought alone makes his face scrunch in mild disgust.
With a groan, he clicks off the adult site, tossing his phone onto the couch. The mood is officially ruined.
He sighs, dragging a hand down his face. Maybe it’s for the best.
The dreams come to him like a punishment from limbo, twisting and pulling him deeper into an unknown place.
It starts vague, shapeless. A figure, a body—there's a warmth, a softness that he can feel but not name. The air smells heady, thick with something like longing. His skin burns where the touches land, so gentle, yet so overwhelming. Hands glide over him, slow and deliberate, tracing the curve of his spine, the edge of his jaw. It’s soothing, like being lulled into a dreamless sleep, but his body reacts to it.
The person is faceless at first, just a presence, but their touch is magnetic, drawing him in, making him crave more. Sprout loses himself in it, the heat building within him, thick and insistent, a knot forming deep in his stomach.
Then the figure shifts. A flash of clarity—like the veil lifting—and suddenly it’s Cosmo. His best friend. His confidant. His childhood companion.
The sudden recognition is like a jolt of ice water to his veins, but the heat still burns within him, still pulls him deeper. Cosmo’s hands are everywhere—touching him with an intimacy Sprout never thought he’d feel. His mouth finds the curve of Sprout’s neck, the skin there warm and soft, and Sprout can't pull away. His body betrays him, responding to the contact despite the growing sense of dread gnawing at him.
Cosmo's name slips from his lips, but it feels wrong. It doesn’t feel like it’s supposed to. The connection is too intimate, too close.
Sprout’s breath hitches. This can't be happening. His mind screams it, but his body is so weak, so desperate for the sensation.
No. This is Cosmo. His best friend. The kid his aunt took in. The one who’s always been like family.
The warmth of the dream surrounds him like a blanket, and he finds himself drifting back into it, the lines blurring again, but this time he forces himself awake. He snaps out of it, sitting up in a cold sweat, his heart hammering in his chest.
His body feels wrong, his skin prickling with a mix of heat and shame. His breath comes too fast, and for a moment, he can’t think straight. His mind races, trying to reconcile what he’s just experienced with who Cosmo is to him—what he should see Cosmo as.
But there’s no escaping the truth of it. His body remembers. His body wanted it.
It feels weird seeing him in a different light. Wrong, almost. Sprout has always been the responsible one between them, the one who parents Cosmo around despite being the same age. It’s second nature at this point—scolding him when he forgets to do basic things, lightly pinching his arm when he zones out mid-conversation, sighing in exasperation when he does something dumb but ultimately harmless.
He’s the one who drags Cosmo out of bed every morning, even when Cosmo groans and tries to roll away, curling deeper into the sheets like a stubborn cat. Sprout always wins. He wrestles the blanket off him, grips his wrist, and hauls him up with practiced ease, ignoring the sleepy protests and half-hearted complaints.
He forces Cosmo to brush his teeth properly, standing by the bathroom door like a damn watchdog to make sure he actually does it instead of lazily swiping the toothbrush around for five seconds and calling it a day.
"Open," Sprout commands, arms crossed as he watches Cosmo rinse.
Cosmo scowls, but obeys, parting his lips just enough to prove that, yes, his teeth are clean, and no, he didn't just wet the toothbrush for show.
Sprout squints at him, unimpressed. "You missed a spot."
Cosmo groans, shoving the toothbrush back into his mouth, grumbling something incomprehensible through the foam.
Moments like these make Sprout feel more like an exasperated parent than a best friend. It’s always been like this—he takes care of Cosmo. It’s just what he does.
Recalling the memory, Sprout feels something uneasy settle in his stomach. The way Cosmo had opened his mouth that morning—lazily, obediently, pink tongue peeking out just enough for him to check—shouldn't make his chest feel tight. But it does.
He grips the edge of his blanket, exhaling sharply. It was nothing. Just Cosmo being Cosmo. But now, the image lingers too long, his mind replaying details he never paid attention to before. The soft curve of Cosmo’s lips, the slow way his tongue had moved when he’d mumbled through the toothpaste foam, the way his half-lidded eyes had flicked up to meet his.
Sprout squeezes his eyes shut. Fuck, what is wrong with him?
Why does his body betray him in this way?
He shudders, his breath shaky, as he tries to push the thoughts away. But they cling to him like a shadow, lingering even after he’s wide awake.
He grabs his phone, hands trembling slightly, and checks the time. 5:00 am. The screen casts a faint glow, sharp against the darkness of the room. He blinks, as if trying to convince himself that the numbers are real. It feels like he hasn’t slept at all—just moments ago, he was lost in that dream, and now, here he is, wide awake, sweating, heart still pounding in his chest.
The quiet of the house presses in on him, too thick, too suffocating. The soft hum of the refrigerator is the only sound that accompanies his racing thoughts. He rubs his eyes, trying to push the remnants of the dream away, but it lingers. It’s like a stain he can’t wash off, clinging to his mind, filling him with a weird sense of unease.
He rolls over onto his side, staring at the ceiling, eyes wide open despite the heaviness of his lids. He can still feel the heat of the dream in his bones, the warmth of Cosmo’s touch that somehow made his skin tingle even after waking up. Sprout pulls a thin blanket tighter around himself, as if it would somehow shield him from his own thoughts, but it doesn’t help.
The dream doesn’t make sense. None of it does. He tries to shake it off, telling himself it was just that—a dream. Dreams don’t mean anything, right? They’re just your mind playing tricks on you when you're asleep. They don’t have to matter.
But the way his heart still races, the way his breath feels uneven—it’s hard to ignore.
He pushes his phone away, setting it face down. It’s too early for all this. Too early for the confusion, the heat that still lingers, too early to confront any of it.
Sprout decides he needs to clear his head.
He pulls himself out of the couch, his limbs heavy, almost unwilling to move, but he forces himself toward the bathroom. He flicks on the light and stares at his reflection in the mirror for a long moment, seeing the exhaustion in his eyes, the way his hair sticks out in every direction.
Without much thought, he turns on the cold water after taking off his clothes. The shock of it hits him like a splash of icy reality, sending a shiver down his spine. He steps into the stream, feeling the cold seep into his skin, trying to numb the uncomfortable heat from his mind, from his body.
Sprout shifts awkwardly, hands moving lower as if they have a mind of their own. But the second he touches his body, the memories from the dream come rushing back, and he freezes. His breath catches in his throat, and he feels the blush spread across his face, the guilt and confusion settling in.
He'll just hope the cold water is enough to cool down the heat down there.
The sound of Cosmo’s alarm blares through the walls, muffled yet persistent. Annoying as hell. Cosmo has always been a heavy sleeper, the kind that could probably sleep through an earthquake. If anything, the alarm isn’t even for him—it’s for Sprout, so he can be the one to shake Cosmo awake.
Sprout scoffs at the thought, rubbing a hand over his face as he steps out of the shower. He pauses mid-step. Right. He forgot to bring clean clothes. His gaze drifts to the hangers, eyes settling on a lone beige towel.
Cosmo’s.
Of course, it’s Cosmo’s.
Resigned, he grabs it and ruffles it over his damp hair first, the fabric warm and thick between his fingers. The scent hits him immediately—clean, fresh, with a faint trace of their shared soap, but underneath it, there’s something else. Something distinctly Cosmo. A mix of faded cologne, something citrusy, and the barest hint of sleep-warmed skin.
Sprout resents the way his stomach twists at the familiar scent.
It’s not like this is new. He’s always had a sharp nose—always been weirdly aware of how people smelled. Cosmo, especially. When they were kids, Sprout used to shove his face into the crook of Cosmo’s neck, sweaty or not, inhaling the scent of him without a second thought. Even now, even when Cosmo smells more older than a child, there’s still something comforting about it. Familiar. Intimate.
And now it’s making his head spin.
He yanks the towel away from his face a little too fast, heart pounding against his ribs as if he’d just been caught doing something he shouldn’t. Jesus, what’s wrong with him? He quickly wraps it around his waist, his skin prickling against the cold air. Without another moment wasted, he exits the bathroom and makes a beeline for his room.
The moment he opens the door, he’s greeted by the sight of Cosmo’s drooling face, head half-buried into his pillow, snoring lightly. His phone alarm is still wailing from somewhere in the sheets, but Cosmo remains undisturbed. Messy as always.
Sprout would roll his eyes if his attention wasn’t immediately stolen by the way Cosmo’s oversized shirt has ridden up in his sleep, the hem bunched just shy of his chest.
Sprout stops breathing.
The dim light of the early morning casts shadows over the exposed skin—warm, golden brown, the soft curve of his ribs peeking through. And fuck, is that a nipple?
Sprout swallows, his throat suddenly dry. He shouldn’t be looking. He knows he shouldn’t be looking, but his gaze lingers anyway, locked onto the way the shirt creases against the dip of Cosmo’s stomach, the way his breathing makes his skin shift, rising and falling with every soft inhale.
His fingers twitch at his sides.
The towel feels too loose. The air, too cold. Move, he tells himself. Look away.
He forces himself to turn, shuffling toward his closet with stiff movements, grabbing the first pair of boxer briefs he can find. He wastes no time yanking them on, shoving the towel off like it burned him.
A shift in the bed makes him freeze.
Sprout peeks over his shoulder, just in time to see Cosmo yawn, rolling onto his side. One hand lazily scratches at the waistband of his shorts, fingers dipping just slightly beneath the fabric before settling.
Sprout grits his teeth. Yeah, it’s definitely time to wake him up.