Chapter 3
The world came back in fragments.
First, the cool press of the floor against SMG4's back, no longer a contrast but a grounding reality. Then, the weight of SMG3's body half-draped across his chest, solid and warm and real. The amber glow of the monitors had dimmed slightly, or perhaps his eyes had simply adjusted, but the room felt smaller now, more intimate, like a cocoon spun from secrets and stolen breath.
SMG4's fingers traced lazy patterns across SMG3's bare shoulder, following the ridge of a scar he'd never noticed before—a thin, silvery line that curved like a crescent moon. He wondered about its origin, wondered about all the battles and explosions and near-misses that had marked SMG3's skin like a map of survival.
"You're thinking too loud," SMG3 murmured against his collarbone, his voice rough and drowsy, stripped of its usual sharp edges.
"Sorry," SMG4 whispered, though he wasn't sure what he was apologizing for. For thinking? For existing in this moment? For the way his heart was hammering against his ribs like it was trying to escape?
SMG3 shifted, propping himself up on one elbow to look down at SMG4. His dark hair was a mess, falling across his forehead in a way that made him look younger, softer. Vulnerable. The word settled in SMG4's chest like a stone.
"Don't," SMG3 said quietly, and there was something fragile in his expression, something that made SMG4's throat tighten. "Don't apologize. Not for this."
SMG4 reached up, brushing the hair back from SMG3's face with trembling fingers. "What is this?" he asked, and hated how small his voice sounded. "What are we doing, Three?"
The question hung between them, heavy with implications neither of them was ready to unpack. SMG3's jaw tightened, and for a moment, SMG4 thought he might retreat, might throw up those familiar walls and turn this into another fight, another explosion they could both walk away from.
But instead, SMG3 leaned down and pressed a kiss to SMG4's forehead—soft, achingly gentle, so different from the desperate claiming of before that it made SMG4's eyes sting.
"I don't know," SMG3 admitted against his skin. "I don't have a plan for this, Four. I don't have a contingency or a backup strategy. I just know that I—" He stopped, the words catching in his throat like broken glass.
"You what?" SMG4 prompted, his hand sliding to cup SMG3's cheek, thumb brushing across the sharp line of his cheekbone.
SMG3's eyes closed, and when he spoke again, his voice was barely audible. "I just know that I can't go back to pretending. I can't stand across from you tomorrow and act like this didn't happen. Like you didn't—" He broke off with a shaky exhale. "Like you didn't completely wreck me."
The confession settled over them like snow, quiet and transformative. SMG4 felt something crack open in his chest, something that had been locked away for so long he'd forgotten it was there.
"Then don't," he said, pulling SMG3 down until their foreheads touched, until they were breathing the same air again. "Don't pretend. Don't go back. Stay here with me."
"In my secret room?" SMG3 asked, and there was a hint of his usual sarcasm, but it was gentle, almost fond. "Forever? We'd starve, Four. Or die of caffeine withdrawal."
"You know what I mean," SMG4 said, and he did—he could see it in the way SMG3's expression softened, in the way his hand came up to tangle with SMG4's, fingers interlocking like they'd been designed to fit together.
They lay there in silence for a long moment, just breathing, just existing in the same space without the weight of rivalry or expectation. SMG4 could hear the distant hum of the cafe's refrigeration units, the soft whir of the monitors, the steady rhythm of SMG3's heartbeat against his own chest.
"The sun's going to come up eventually," SMG3 said finally, his voice tinged with something that might have been regret. "The crew's going to wonder where we are. Mario's probably already eaten half the props. Meggy's going to ask questions."
"Let them ask," SMG4 said, but even as he spoke, he felt the cold finger of reality pressing against the warm bubble they'd created. The world outside this room didn't stop just because they'd finally crossed a line they could never uncross.
SMG3 pulled back slightly, his eyes searching SMG4's face. "You say that now, but when we walk out of here—when everyone sees—" He shook his head. "They're going to know, Four. One look at us and they're going to know."
"Would that be so bad?" SMG4 asked, but his voice wavered, betraying the fear he was trying to hide.
"I don't know," SMG3 said honestly. He sat up fully, running a hand through his disheveled hair, and SMG4 immediately missed his warmth. "I don't know what this makes us. I don't know how to be... whatever we are now. In front of them. In front of everyone."
SMG4 sat up too, reaching for his discarded hoodie and pulling it on, suddenly feeling exposed in a way that had nothing to do with his state of undress. "So what do we do?"
SMG3 was quiet for a long moment, his gaze distant, fixed on one of the monitors displaying a frozen frame of some old video—one of their early collaborations, back when the rivalry had been simpler, cleaner, less tangled up in feelings neither of them had names for.
"We figure it out," he said finally, turning back to SMG4 with an expression that was equal parts determination and terror. "Together. We figure it out together."
SMG4 felt something loosen in his chest, some knot of anxiety he hadn't realized he'd been carrying. "Together," he echoed, and the word felt like a promise.
SMG3 stood, offering his hand to pull SMG4 to his feet. Their fingers interlocked again, and for a moment, they just stood there, facing each other in the amber glow, two rivals who'd become something else entirely in the space of a single night.
Then, from somewhere beyond the secret room, beyond the cafe, a phone began to ring—shrill and insistent, shattering the fragile peace they'd built.
SMG3's expression darkened. "That's my emergency line," he said, his voice tight. "No one calls that unless—"
The phone rang again, more urgent this time.
SMG4's stomach dropped. "Unless something's wrong."
They stared at each other, the weight of the outside world crashing back down on them like a tidal wave. Whatever they'd found in this room, whatever they'd become to each other, would have to wait.
Reality, it seemed, had other plans.
ns216.73.216.141da2
and then Add to home screen.