THEN AGAIN • TC ✔️

17. Decisions, Decisions

Timmy doesn't really want to think about it too much, only this stupid fucking school musical is getting closer and closer, and he still has no one to go with.

(Because he's tried dating apps. They don't work. It's literally just going to an event with a stranger and it's horrible because there's the added stress of trying to keep them entertained whilst also trying to keep up the façade of Mr Chalamet. He hates it. Timmy has even considered hiring an escort before. Considered it because he was at a loss for what to do, but then Clem presented herself as an option and she ruled it out. Only that's not happening again because, come Friday night, she'll be fucking Nick (fucking Nick) and she won't have time to come and watch seventeen-year-olds prance around on stage. And not that he blames her. He knows he'd rather get fucked than listen to distorted backing tracks and nasally vocals, but there's a part of him that just...wants Clem. All the time. And he doesn't quite know how to tame it.)

After their little shopping escapade, after her arm wrapped around his own, after his face being smothered in her scarf, her scent, for at least an hour, Timmy really just wants an answer. He wants an answer without having to ask the question.

The question scares him, in all honesty.

But he perseveres. What other choice does he have?

On Wednesday, he comes home to Clem and Nick on the sofa again, and wonders if he's actually going to have to bring this up again. Wonders if he actually might have to say something, because sure, he'll get out of the way if they're on a date--

(And it's not like they actually go anywhere, anyway. Not like Nick has once taken Clem out somewhere, and like. If that were Timmy, he'd- well, he's just saying, he'd definitely make more of an effort.)

--but he's starting to feel like an intruder in his own home, and that kind of sucks. A lot. Timmy grins (grimaces) and bears it that evening. Goes to his room and makes a lesson plan and reads the same page of his book three times.

But the next evening, Wednesday, when Nick is there again, (and it's starting to feel like the guy never actually leaves) Timmy decides he's had enough. So he changes out of his suit, changes into jeans and a shirt that Clem likes on him--

(He knows that she does because she's told him so on countless occasions. Knows because when he wears it she'll always smile a little brighter and tell him he looks nice today. Not that she doesn't on other days - she tells him he looks nice almost daily, which Timmy still doesn't quite understand - but she just says it with a little more emphasis on days when he wears this shirt.)

--and he even runs a hand through his hair. Contemplates putting on aftershave, moisturising his face, but he's not there to impress anyone. (Well he is, kind of, but like. That's not the main intention.) No, the point is that he's going to show Nick that he can't just walk in here and- and-

Well, he can't just walk into Timmy's apartment (half-his-apartment) expecting hugs and smiles. No. Timmy's going to sit him down, take him through some of the ground rules. Sit them both down, actually. Ask them to stop nearly-fucking on the couch and to stop fucking when he's literally right next door and ask them to stop fucking when he's around. Which is always. So, in essence, he wants them to stop fucking. Not only because he's losing sleep over it, but also because he doesn't like the idea of Clem with anyone else. (And he doesn't know where this has come from, doesn't know when he started gatekeeping his flatmate like a fucking indie band, but.)

So he walks out of his room, ready to stride into the living area, ready to cross his arms over his chest in a manner that he hopes is at least mildly intimidating, and give them both a piece of his mind. Only when Timmy gets out there, it seems they have vacated the couch.

Timmy doesn't know what to feel.

On one hand, that means he may not get any sleep tonight. (Means he might have to spend yet another night with his hand stuffed down his pants and the eternal shame of getting off to his flatmate having sex.)

On the other hand, yay, free couch!

He plops himself down onto it. Bites the inside of his cheek, lolls his head back against the sofa cushion and plays with a loose thread on one of the throw pillows. Waits for the moaning and weird grunts to start up. Wonders what Clem has made for dinner.

But Timmy waits for a while, and then a while turns into a while longer, and then a while longer turns into twenty minutes and he wonders what's taking them so long. (Wonders if it would be weird for him to just be sitting here when they come out of the bedroom, but also it's his apartment. His sofa. Yeah, fuck that.)

There's nothing but muffled voices, and he digs his head into the arm of the couch. Debates putting something on the TV just to give him something to do. He hates this. It feels like college, feels like when he would wait to confront his roommate about the state of the bathroom or putting the cap back on the milk or those aren't my dishes so please don't expect me to wash them up.

(Timmy's college roommate was a dick and he's glad that Clem isn't the same. Well, in like, every regard except this one.)

But by the time he's been there half an hour, the voices are louder and Timmy realises that they aren't fucking. Not even close. They're arguing.

Oh.