Aaron T. x Aaron Z. - One-shots

Art credit:

This is kinda like a part 2 to "there's someone on my couch" idk tho-
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3rd person POV:

Aaron Z. isn't in the habit of going to house parties nowadays.

He thought at the grand old age of twenty seven that people don't have them anymore, but it turns out people just have excuses for them now. It used to be 'come over, my parents are away', no real reason except why not. Now it's all 'I've got a new place' or 'I'm engaged' or 'I've gotten a promotion', the only real joy that he has from this is that they're not themed. He's not sure he could handle a themed party. The worst part of all of the house parties he's being shoved into is that he used to love them, used to live and breathe the sweaty air and dumb games and the kind of conversation where people think they're being deep but are just discovering basic empathy.

But now?

He wants to be at home watching TV and be in bed by 9:30. Maybe he went too hard in his early twenties, maybe he's just sad; all he knows is that the only reason that he's here is because Aaron T. practically begged him.

T, who has left him in the kitchen, nursing a drink as he watches the brunette dance. Is he good at it? Maybe. Is it making his entire evening watching T have fun? Definitely. He feels some ice melting at his back but the sensation is nice against the heat of the apartment.

God, he has work tomorrow. Granted, his first meeting is at 2:30pm, but still, he needs to do some shit before work. He grumbles to himself and drinks a bit more of a far too strong vodka-lemonade mix that T made then thrust into his hands. At least this place is only a couple of blocks away from his place, so him and T can get home easy because God-forbid that T doesn't crash on his couch after one of these parties. Z complains to himself about it but he wouldn't have it any other way, nothing beats teasing T when he's hungover, or waking up to T making scrambled eggs, or just T in his kitchen in a pair of his pajama pants and an oversized sweater, yawn taking up his face.

Somehow he's always beautiful, even after only four hours of drunken sleep and his hair in every direction, and a bit of ketchup on the side of his mouth.

Now and again he'll just lean against the door to his kitchen and watch as T makes his way around Z's kitchen. It makes a part of him ache, he doesn't quite know yet. Maybe it's because he's the closest friend Z has had since Jesse and Robaire moved away, yeah that makes sense. Him having the emotional range of a brick when he was a teenager meant that everything had to come spilling out at some point. So it makes complete sense that that's what that feeling is, just him still balancing out and understanding his emotions and himself since it's taken fucking years to understand and unfold.

T's eyes meet his, and he can't quite look away.

Z only breaks eye contact when he feels the back of his neck heat up and he looks at his drink for a moment before flicking his eyes back up at T's face.