cotton candy companions | {zeke/presley}

[umber vivuus 12b 🥀 [dars]]

From the moment he'd taken it, he'd felt guilty. He'd brought it straight home and tossed it into his sock drawer and had resigned to forgetting he'd taken it at all, and he had forgotten, as a matter of fact, until now. Until a week later, when he noticed the small pink container and the words cotton-candy scribbled onto a label on the side. There was a single roll inside, which he was thankful for, since he had no clue how to do that. He told himself that Maverick probably didn't mind, that he probably had more where that came from. Part of him was even convinced that Mav had left it out as a peace offering.

It wasn't true, but it was what he was going with.

Now, it felt ridiculously heavy in his pocket as he walked further and further from his house until he eventually came to a stop just outside of a place he only now realized he did not want to be. The Provence house was beautiful, don't misunderstand, and Stella and Zeke were both great. But. But.

This was the last place any of them had seen Cass before he died, and that was fucking creepy.

Even still, he braced himself from it, pushed through the front gates and rang the doorbell. It was a Saturday and it was only an hour or so past noon, so he knew Stella was probably still rehearsing, but that was fine. He'd only really come to see Zeke, and if he was being honest, it was for selfish reasons. Presley could bake passably when he was stressed, but he didn't really feel up for it, and there was a whole-ass warning label on the container in his pocket that said he'd probably get the munchies. Zeke's whole thing was cooking. Plus, who didn't need to knock the edge off at least a little bit those days?

Win-Win situation, he told himself, smiling when he heard the approaching footsteps and someone stopping to see who it was through the peephole.

"Hurry up! I gotta pee!"

[arx!!]

Holy fucking fuck, dude," he cursed under his breath, fear quickly turning to anger now that he looked ridiculous for carrying a fire poker to the door. It was the anger at himself for worrying over nothing that made him yank open the door with weapon still in hand.

"What?" He sighed, the question falling pointedly clipped as his fists still worked to unfurl themselves and heart rate began to slow.

Presley was hardly someone he was close to. Not that he was close to much of anyone, really, but- still. It had seemed far more likely that a murderer had come knocking than Presley Douglas. And let's not get it twisted because he is a really nice guy, but-

But. Zeke would've known better what to do with a killer at his doorstep.

"Come on, go pee," he grumbled, dragging him in by the collar of his shirt, shoving him in the direction of the nearest bathroom, and locking the door quickly behind them.

"You- good?"

Dumb question when you look at the big picture, sure, but always seemed like a good one when you looked someone in the eye an asked.