Dewd collapsed onto the bed first, his hoodie discarded, a sweat-soaked undershirt clinging to his chest like a second skin. Tuffnar stood at the mini-fridge, hunched and shirtless, one manboob hanging lower than the other as he examined the half-melted ice bucket with a kind of vague disgust.

They’d eaten everything.

Four Baconators each. Twenty nuggets. Two orders of chili. Six frosties between them. It had become less about food and more about filling the hollow space Shondo left in them. Neither had spoken since the last bite. They’d just wheezed, burped, and walked—shoulder to shoulder, stomachs groaning in a shared, bloated silence.

Now, in this dingy hotel room with yellow-tinted walls and a single buzzing light, there was only the sound of two men digesting and breathing.

Dewd pulled the sheets back, revealing a mattress stained with the memories of better lies. “You laying down?”

Tuffnar grunted, then did. The bed shifted like a sinking ship. Their bodies met in the center, too large to avoid each other, their exposed sides pressed together. Skin to skin. Warm. Damp. Real.

“I hate how good this feels,” Dewd whispered, not looking at him.

“Me too.”

They were still for a long time. Their bellies rose and fell in imperfect sync, creating little waves in the sheets between them. The air smelled like Wendy’s and resignation. But then Dewd’s hand moved. Hesitant. Shaky. He reached under the blanket and placed it gently on Tuffnar’s stomach. His fingers sank in just a little.

“You’re soft,” Dewd murmured.

Tuffnar didn’t flinch. He turned his face slightly, eyes half-lidded and glassy. “No one’s touched me in six years.”

Dewd swallowed, his throat dry. “Shondo would hate this.”

“She’d block us.”

“Hard.”

They both chuckled. And then fell silent again.

Their bodies pressed closer, not out of lust, not even need, but something worse. Something purer. Like two men who had finally admitted that what they really wanted wasn't a vtuber's affection, but to be known. To be held. To be seen by someone else who had also hit bottom and found there was someone waiting there.

Dewd turned his face and pressed it into Tuffnar’s neck. His breath was hot. It smelled like spicy nuggets and guilt.

“I’m scared I’m going to fall asleep like this,” he whispered.

“Do it,” Tuffnar replied. “I won’t move.”

“I drool.”

“I don’t care.”

There was a long pause. Then a soft sound. Not crying. Something lower. Rawer. A kind of animal comfort. Dewd’s hand rubbed slow, lazy circles into Tuffnar’s side. The warmth between them built. Not sexual. Just unbearable closeness. The kind that made your skin ache from how much you’d missed it.

Tuffnar whispered into the dark.

“If we die like this, it’s okay.”

And Dewd, already half-asleep in the curve of another man’s fat, nodded.

“Better than dying alone in a thread.”

And outside, the city forgot them. The vtuber streamed. The fans raged. But inside that grimy hotel room, two men whose love began in delusion finally allowed themselves to be real.

Greasy. Tender. Full.

Together.

the custard harvest will be bountiful

TIFFANY LOOK OUTSIDE SHE'S BACK