Chapter 6 - Secret Third Thing

Teddy: Int. Fyn's Bedroom, Morning

Someone is poking at Teddy's cheek.

The actual realization itself takes a moment to click in. In his half-dream, half-awake, half-hangover state — er, no, wait, that's too many halves — all he can process is something touching his cheek over and over again, but the actual reality of it is loose and soupy when he tries to put form to it. He's…in an interrogation room, and someone is poking him with a pen. Or a gun? No, that seem stupidly dangerous, but maybe he committed a stupidly evil crime and deserves it. Something like…he doesn't know. Tax fraud. Running a red light.

No, wait, okay — he's on center stage of some play he doesn't know the words for, and the secondary lead is kissing him on the cheek. Except, that doesn't make sense, because Teddy wouldn't be up on stage if he didn't know his lines, and for some reason the other actor's lips feel like they're made of lacquer or plastic. Maybe they're wearing a mask?

No, okay, wait— he's at the dentist. That one makes sense. That one even accounts for the searing light that he can feel through his eyelids. The dentist has pulled his lamp close and now he's prodding at Teddy's cheek to…to. To do something. He doesn't know. Maybe it's a new technique for checking teeth. They never cover this kind of thing in medical school. No no no, wait—

"Teddy." The prodding stops momentarily only for the finger to find his eyelid and peel it back. Teddy lets out a weak moan in protest, attempting to smash his face further into the mattress. "Teddy, it's like, almost noon."

Almost noon doesn't sound like it's noon yet, so he'll happily continue to do exactly what he's doing and lay here like a dying slug. His body feels completely alien to him at the moment, a vaguely human-shaped pile of goop, and he's not sure he has the coordination to do any grand gestures of humanity, like moving, or forming coherent sentences.

"G'way," he mutters as threateningly as possible.

"Teddyyyyyyy. C'mon, I'm super hungover. I need to eat. You need to eat."

Teddy lies very still and hopes that he can pass off as being dead. His efforts instead are rewarded with a wad of clothing thrown in his face. He curses under his breath, peeling open an eye to the horrible light of morning to see his jeans, his binder, and his shirt from last night as he peels them one by one from his head.

"Fuck you," he mutters.

"Yeah, yeah, curse me all you like," Fyn says, pulling off the covers and leaving him horribly exposed to the chill of the apartment. "You'll be thanking me later for this. Besides, your girlfriend texted you and she has your keys, so we should meet her."

That gets his attention. He lifts his head just slightly, frowning at the blurry shape of Fyn on the other side of the room. Hell, what did he do with his glasses? "Who?" he asks.

Fyn gets a little closer, and even through the haze, their amusement is clear on their face. "That Callie girl from your class? The one that invites you everywhere and then hangs off of you all night?"

Teddy has no idea what Fyn's going on about. "She's not my girlfriend," he says. "And besides, you're clingier than her."

He feels a weight drop over his back, another body lying across him perpendicular.

“I have no idea what you're talking about,” Fyn sniffs.

“Ugh, get off.” Teddy’s starting to become aware of different parts of his body again, and none of them feel pleasant. His stomach, in particular, is starting to riot.

Fyn wiggles around until they're lying beside him again. “You really haven't noticed.”

“Noticed what?” Fuck, there's his head, pounding and stabbing all at once. He groans and wraps his arm over his face.

“Callie. That's her name, right? You haven't noticed she's into you? You could totally tap that.”

“Oh my god, Fyn,” Teddy groans. “You are such an asshole.”

“I'm just saying–” they poke his ribs, giggling.

“No, don't do that, I'm gonna throw up.”

“Not on my clean sheets, you're not.” Teddy flinches when they touch his side again, but instead of poking him they hesitantly rest their hand there, then begin rubbing his side gently. “How are you feeling?” they add, teasing gone from their voice.

Teddy grunts in response. He tentatively takes stock of his body. Head: hurts. Stomach: bad. Limbs: jello. So far, nothing particularly surprising. There are a few sore spots on his neck, and a few more that feel more like bruises on his chest.

The memory of why he might feel bruised comes back a little slower, a little soupier. The nausea gets worse.

“Mm,” he grunts again, squeezing his eyes shut. “L’be fine.”

“This is going to sound like the same question, but it's a different one,” Fyn says. He hears them wetting their lips. The noise doesn't help his nausea; neither does their question, when it comes. “Are…are you okay?”

Is he? Teddy feels like he's been stretched out and left to the elements through several cataclysmic natural disasters. He feels like his health insurance is going to deny his claims due to his illness being an act of God. He feels, in short, awful.

But is he okay?

“Yeah,” he says slowly, feeling it out. “I…I will be.” He’ll have to be. That's nothing new; he's learned how to be okay, how to keep going. This is nothing, in the grand scheme of his life.

Fyn seems to accept the answer, thank god, because if they'd kept pressing him he doesn't know what would come out of his mouth. Probably not words.

They're still rubbing their thumb in circles on his side. He squirms a little, ticklish, and squints at them. They look lost in thought, but the moment he manages to focus on their face, their gaze meets his.

“Are we okay?” they ask quietly.

That's easier to answer. “Of course. Why wouldn't we be?”

“Because we–!” Fyn begins, expression pinching in frustration before they catch themselves and study his face. “...That's your answer, isn't it?" they feel out. There's some sort of clear emotion on their face, but God knows if Teddy can tell what it is. "Like…like nothing happened.”

Teddy's heart skips, and then makes up for the missed beat by starting to pound instead.

“Is that not…what you want?” he asks.

Oh no. This is…he hadn't calculated for this. He doesn't know how to calculate for this. Did Fyn want a different answer? Was he supposed to admit he-- no, no. His heart is now doing something where it's trying to crawl out of his throat and his ears.

“No!” Fyn says quickly. Their cheeks actually go pink. “I mean, yeah, I– we’re good. Friends. We’re still friends, this hasn't– we’re good.” They smile hopefully at him, and he finds himself smiling helplessly back.

“We’re good,” he confirms. His heart is back in his chest, protesting its temporary displacement. He swallows and resists the urge to press his hand to his sternum.

“We’re good,” Fyn repeats again, feather soft. Despite the hangover and the increasingly awkward need to pee, the moment feels strangely precious. It's terrifying. If Teddy looks too closely at it, it will pop. He silently begs Fyn to leave it, for just once, to leave it.

“So,” Fyn says solemnly, and Teddy's heartbeat starts to pick up again only for them to continue, “are we getting the matching tattoos first? Or is that after the clinic– ow!”

Teddy hits them with a pillow and they tumble dramatically off the bed, giggling uncontrollably.

“Asshole,” he groans, tossing the pillow after them for good measure.

Fyn yelps but doesn't stop snickering.

“Idiot,” they call back from the floor, cheerful. “C’mon. I need coffee. My head is killing me. Your head is killing me. Keep the sweatshirt, it doesn't fit me anyway, even if it would be hilarious for you to show up at the pharmacy in your lab coat.”

“I think I may hate you,” Teddy informs them as he carefully rolls to his side, then sits upright.

“Love you, too!” they reply, bouncing back up from the ground in opposition to their declared headache. They scoop an armful of clothes from the floor and scamper down the hall to the bathroom.

Teddy flops back to the bed. He stares up at the ceiling, letting that ache in his chest settle down again. Fyn's put little glow in the dark stars across the cheap white plaster in the shape of dicks, in affront to astronomy everywhere.

There are worse places to wake up on campus.