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Rustling clothing and rushed footfalls fell muffled in Subspace’s ears, the hustle and bustle of movement at the peripheral of his vision only barely noticed. Within the warmth of their apartment, his eye only fell on one thing: the tree set up in the corner next to the TV. It was a lush, deep green, potted, and placed upon a small, circular red mat where a couple needles had fluttered down after being rustled one too many times. Twisting tinsel had been meticulously wound up its frame, situated between branches in a spiral, warm light catching on the reds, golds and silvers it was adorned with. Baubles and string lights accompanied, lending it a festive aura, one which, despite its charm, could not shatter the focus of the inphernal scrutinising it.
The only thing that had ever interested Subspace in Phightmas was the competitive challenges it posed. Sure, Blackrock promoted Phightmas parties, celebratory events, rewards for those dressed the best, and stupid, worthless affairs where one would be tasked with giving a random co-worker a present. But what did Subspace care for any of that? Unless it could earn him positive merit and regard, he’d had absolutely no intention in partaking in the so-called spirit of ‘family and joy’. Absolutely not. But, if he could snag an award or two for best Phightmas invention, or most impressive marketable decoration, then he was all for it.
Evidently, it’d been years since Blackrock, since tight smiles and scathing looks, glares shot his way for once more winning an event he’d found no real interest in in the first place. Still, he couldn’t help but look at that tree, measure up its worth in his mind, where the light hit it best, whether or not it was overly decorated, because his overactive mind was always searching for mistakes. Unconsciously, he itched at his rotting arm, the pain of scraping away dry, barely living skin going unnoticed as he did so. His head felt full, heavy, but not painful. Simply filled with pressure. It was uncomfortable, and he felt endlessly grateful that Boombox had aided him in plaiting his hair back into a single braid just that morning, because the length had been irritating him to no end, and he was just about ready to start ripping every strand of white hair that he could right off of his head.
“You’ve been staring at the tree for the past 10 minutes. What’s wrong?” Boombox’s voice came, curious, though nonetheless concerned. Always concerned, because the inphernal cared too much, in Subspace’s opinion. He had to stop himself from jumping in his seat, startled by the sudden question, the noise directly behind him, where Boombox had planted himself behind the couch. A hand lowered, pulled some of the strands from his face, the ones too short to have been plaited back, and Subspace felt content when fingertips brushed against his forehead and the sides of his face. He almost wanted to lean into them.
“It’s uneven,” he answered, curt, still staring forward towards the tree. His tone was sharp, because limiting it was rather difficult, only possible in moments where he really, truly strained to try. Not that Boombox was bothered, either way. The musician had long since grown used to how he spoke, all abrasive and loud and bordering on rude.
“How so?” Boombox questioned, leaning down just enough so that his head was level with Subspace’s, glancing at the tree as though viewing it from his partner’s perspective could grant him any further insight as to why he was so focused on it. One of his horns tapped against his own as he did so, and Subspace almost entirely unconsciously tapped it back, a small show of comfort and appreciation. From the corner of his eye, the scientist could’ve sworn he saw his partner’s lips twitch upwards.
“There are three more baubles on the left side as opposed to the right. It looks like a mess,” he explained factually, and Boombox sighed as he raised himself once more.
“Okay, well you’ve already taken it down and put it back up again four times, I’m not letting you do it again,” he argued, leaving Subspace grumbling unhappily. So what if he’d taken it down and up and down again? If it wasn’t perfect then… then what? He wouldn’t be punished. He wouldn’t not win anything. So who was he trying to impress if Boombox was already content with how it looked? Why did he care so much?
Footsteps faded, then returned, and Boombox was suddenly obscuring any view of the tree possible by standing directly in front of him. He was clad in a red, glittery Phightmas dress, rimmed with a white, woolen material, which extended down to only a little above the knee. Skin-tight, it clung to his body in such a way that it revealed just about every curve and roll of fat in his stomach, incredibly flattering and tailored as though made for his exact form. Subspace’s attention was caught with a swiftness that would have left him embarrassed were he not already so captivated by how beautiful his partner looked, and he had to remind himself to swallow before he raised his hands to cradle Boombox’s hips. The material was uncomfortable in the same way that he knew the moment he removed his hands then bright red glitter would surely flutter off and get caught on every other item of clothing and surface possible. But he ignored that fact for the time being, glancing up to meet the gaze of those LED eyes upon his visor.
“When’d you get this?” he asked, running a thumb back and forth across Boombox’s side.
“The other day, shopping,” the musician explained, leaning down to tug a Phightmas hat over Subspace’s head, mindful of disturbing the floating crystal between his horns, which was glowing with uncontainable serenity, “you don’t think it’s too much?”
Subspace scoffed.
“Like you care about being ‘too much’,” he shot back as Boombox moved away, tried not to deflate too much at the unfortunate lack of contact, hands falling away from his partner’s hips. Sure enough, tiny specks of glitter could be found clinging to his skin, and Subspace ran them down the front of his sweater in an attempt to scrape them off. He himself had been planning to wear something more extravagant, a fancy dress he’d spotted at the store a while back. However, due to recent happenings, the thought of bare flesh made him feel slightly ill, so he’d instead settled for a pink and white knitted Phightmas sweater, one that matched the exact shade of his horns, the extent of his festive appearance. The hat on his head was already beginning to itch a little, but Subspace would attempt to humour Boombox’s insistence that he wear it for at least a little while before he would inevitably rip it off and throw it at a wall.
“Only for you,” Boombox’s LED expression displayed a winky face as he picked up rings of varying Phightmas colours to slip onto his horns.
“Don’t say stuff like that. Zeta’s here, they’ll get embarrassed,” Subspace returned, slight jest in his tone as he raised himself from the couch to follow after his partner, wrapping his arms around his midriff and leaning into his side. Boombox, ever warm, filled the scientist with comfort, all the conflicting thoughts in his brain slowly dying down the longer he held him in his arms. He should’ve been humiliated by how easily he could be disarmed, but in that moment Subspace found no energy to be as such in the first place.
A flushing sound, and then the door to the bathroom opened, revealing Zeta in a pastel pink sweater not too dissimilar to Subspace’s. The tips of their horns had been spray painted a fading white to replicate snow, their typical propeller hat nowhere to be seen.
“YOU ARE TALKING ABOUT ME,” they expressed, looking towards them, and Boombox quickly broke out of Subspace’s hold to inspect their clothing.
“Aww, I told you the pink would look cute!” he said, fixing the sharp edges that the knitted material had gotten caught on. Despite being a little shorter than a regular Zetagraft, they were still an inch or so taller than Boombox himself. Still, the way they held themself, though stiff and upright, lent them the look of a child being fussed over by their caring parent, revelling in the attention of their caretaker. Subspace watched the scene for a moment, his heart delightfully warm, something that he’d gotten used to over the years, when it suddenly struck him the sound he’d heard just before Zeta had left the bathroom.
“Was that a flush?? Did you just flush the toilet??” he questioned, stepping around the others to enter the bathroom.
“Where’s your hat? The one auntie gave you?” came Boombox’s voice, evidently still focused on Zeta, who must’ve pulled said Phightmas hat from… somewhere before settling it over their head. Subspace looked around the room, but nothing appeared out of the ordinary. Then, he peered into the toilet, spotting a small bundle of wires that had gotten stuck, evidently having been attempted to have been flushed away.
“Zeta,” he called, exiting the room and fixing the robot with a look, “why is there a wire in the toilet bowl??”
The Biograft turned to face him, then shook their head like they were attempting to compute something, or perhaps couldn’t find the right string of code to form the words they wanted. A low buzz emanated from their vocal box, and their legs twitched as though they desperately wanted to stomp them on the ground like they sometimes did when they were angry. Nevertheless, they resolved to form actual words to explain themself this time, unlike other times that they’d broken or misused something and been unable to articulate exactly why they’d done so.
“IT WAS IRRITATING,” they eventually managed, and Subspace pinched the bridge of his nose as he sighed.
“Oh, so when we’re irritated we flush our innards down the toilet now, do we??” he asked, teeth gritted, though there wasn’t all that much frustration in his tone, simply disappointment. Who knew that looking after a growing robot could be so difficult? When they weren’t working at Thieve’s Rest, they were playing video games, and when they weren’t doing that, they were continuously finding more ways to pester their ‘parents’ for attention. It was endearing, in a way, despite how inconveniencing it was sometimes.
Boombox, regardless of his initial crisis over adopting a robot between the two of them, assumed the role of a parent naturally, having strived to give to Zeta what he himself hadn’t been given from his mother. Zeta was a robot, but they could still feel, even when they struggled to identify what emotions were roaming about their metallic head in the first place. They’d warmed up to Boombox over time, eventually understanding the relationship he held with their creator, and thus how far he was willing to care for them. Zeta constantly strived to impress, whether with drawings or work or otherwise, even when things didn’t exactly work out, like when they’d attempted to imitate Subspace’s baking and had nearly set the… mass that was supposed to be batter on fire.
Subspace had struggled a little more, and truthfully still did, only because he’d commanded and developed multiple Biografts over the years. Even though he understood that Zeta’s sentience was prevalent in every one of their actions, praise for their ethic still felt clunky on his tongue. Subspace had received commendations for his work growing up, but that was for scientific breakthroughs, not crude drawings of stick figures frolicking in fields together. The first time he’d praised them for one of their pictures, Zeta had almost fallen over in their excitement, which was typical considering they already appeared to have difficulty with their motor coordination.
Sometimes, they would do things like this. Completely unpredictable actions derived from either an inability to explain their own distress, or embarrassment at doing so in the first place. Zeta would sometimes have issues with expression or noise or, as aforementioned, their motor skills, but nothing ever registered as malfunctioning within their systems, and Subspace was hesitant to prod further for fear of a total shutdown. All in all, Boombox had expressed some similarities between creator and creation, of which Subspace had no idea how they came to fruition in the first place, but had gradually grown accustomed to the longer they were a family together.
“I’ll fetch some gloves,” Boombox stated, entering the bathroom to fish the wires out.
“IT WAS LOOSE ANYWAY. UNNEEDED,” Zeta tried to explain themself with a sharp whir of their fans. They nodded their head a little, appearing to become distracted by the weight of the hat on their head. Briefcase had crocheted one for them in her spare time, given it to them as a gift, considering how close they’d become. She acted as something of a grandparent to them, constantly spoiling them with pocket money and new clothing every time they went over to help with the gardening.
“Well don’t put it in the toilet then!! The bin is right there!!” Subspace complained, then turned as Boombox re-emerged, dripping water from the washing gloves within which was clutched that bundle of wires, “Don’t bring that near me.”
“I’m dripping toilet water. Where do I put it,” he asked.
“The bin!!” Subspace expressed, exasperated, while Boombox rushed back in to do as told. Only a few moments passed before he appeared again, this time without the gloves, and positioned himself behind Subspace, who had gone back to pinching the bridge of his nose, raising his hands to knead the knots out of his shoulderblades.
“Zeta, you stress your baba out,” Boombox sighed, drawing the robot’s attention once more. They shuffled, then shuffled again.
“SORRY,” eventually sounded from their vocals, and they, too, upon noting Boombox’s actions, raised a hand to pat at Subspace’s head, leaving him stuck between his partner and their metallic child. Upon doing so, they accidentally rustled the hair Boombox had previously pulled out of his face back into it, resulting in him appearing rather ruffled and untidy. The musician giggled behind him, and Zeta seemingly became bored with harassing their parent, because they soon lowered their hand once more, content in their job well done, and rushed off to prepare to head out.
“Why are you acting like I’m about to pass from old age??” Subspace asked.
“‘Cause you’re all tensed up like a senior ‘phernal,” came Boombox’s reply, then another laugh, and Subspace couldn’t stop a smile from crawling to his face at the familiar tune.
He rolled his eye, leant backwards into his partner’s warm hands for a moment longer, revelling in the calm and comfort they brought. Maybe there was a bit of truth to Boombox’s words, though he’d never grant him that victory, in that he certainly felt the tension bleed from his shoulders the longer he was massaged there. Reluctantly, he moved a hand to pat at Boombox’s thigh before extracting himself from his grasp.
“Very funny. Now, if you’re done bullying me, we’re going to be late to his party if we don’t leave now,” he explained, plucking his coat and scarf from the hooks by the door where Zeta was eagerly awaiting. Boombox followed him with a knowing smile.
“And by ‘late’ do you mean ‘on time’?” he asked, and Subspace huffed.
“Yes,” he confirmed.
Boombox’s utter lack of time management skills always seemed to stress him out. Though, despite the fact that they were seemingly non-existent, it was still rare for him to not turn up to an event or meeting beyond the established time. Nevertheless, Subspace’s mind worked on overtime, cautious of any single possibility that could cause them to run even a minute late, so he planned all of his projects for the day around when they planned to go out, for fear that if he didn’t, he wouldn’t be able to predict if something were to go wrong.
With his coat, scarf and gloves securely on and sufficiently insulating, Subspace turned towards the door, only to pause when Boombox cleared his throat behind him.
“Cane,” he stated, and Subspace groaned, picking it up from where it was placed next to the entrance.
“Got it,” he mumbled.
Leaving the building, it became evident that the air was just cold enough so that if one exhaled then their breath would condense in front of them. Years ago, Subspace would’ve thought this a perfect day for a smoke, not that he could do that anymore either way, but he still missed the warmth that filled his lungs, cigarette balanced between freezing, reddened fingers in the early mornings before he headed into the lab. It was early evening now, but that fact didn’t really matter all that much considering how few hours the sun was out this time of year anyway, streets lit with lamps, traffic rushing past them as they headed towards the venue specified in the e-mail Boombox had been sent.
Valk and Dom hosted a Phightmas party yearly, open for all of the phighters to attend, enjoy the free food, mingle, and partake in some fun. Subspace couldn’t help but feel a little bitter about it, because when he had been a phighter, he’d refused to attend a single one of these parties, much too focused on getting his assignments finished and signed for the end of the year. Now, he could only attend as a ‘plus one’ on Boombox’s behalf. Luckily, Zeta had been given a free pass considering they’d volunteered to help with preparing and serving the food, more than eager to prove themself to both their parents and the other phighters, of whom they thoroughly enjoyed watching from the sidelines during phights.
Shoulder to shoulder, Boombox and Subspace continued down the street, heading towards upper Crossroads, Zeta only a few paces ahead, appearing to be playing a game where they tried not to step on any of the cracks in the pavement. Every time they did, a sharp whizz would leave them, as though hurt by the act, and they’d stumble a little before correcting themself and carrying on. This continued for much of the journey, a bit of amicable chatter shared here and there as the temperature yet fell even colder than before.
“A 73% CHANCE OF SNOW…,” Zeta said after a while, then swivelled to look towards the inphernals behind them.
“I got your gloves on me, don’t worry,” Boombox confirmed, patting a coat pocket. Due to their high internal temperature, Zeta struggled with any activities to do with snow, including making snowballs or snowphernals. As such, their solution was to get them some thermal insulated gloves that they could pop onto their hands when they wanted to go out and play, lest the snow turn to water in their palms. The last time that’d happened, they hadn’t been able to move their fingers for half a day, not until Subspace had been able to repair the damage left by moisture seeping into their internals. They’d evidently learned from that mistake since then.
Subspace looked down, then noticed that Boombox wasn’t wearing any gloves himself, nor anything to protect his bare legs from the cold. He nudged him with an elbow.
“How are you not freezing??” Subspace asked, and Boombox turned to him with a smile.
“Oh, I am. I can’t feel my fingers,” he answered, and Subspace immediately sent him a flat stare, moved to hold one of his hands within his own gloved ones and rubbed it a bit, hoping to create enough friction so as to warm him up.
“Idiot,” he mumbled, and Boombox chuckled in reply.
The venue selected was one typically used for events and parties such as these, not overly flamboyant as to draw unwanted attention, but still well-upkept with working facilities and plenty of space. Upon entering the building, Subspace’s cane clacking up the few steps outside, Zeta swiftly disappeared from view, rushing off on their own merry way to the kitchens. The entrance was adorned with various Phightmas decorations, lending it a festive feel. After they’d removed their outerwear, including their hats, they continued on and into the main hall, where they were greeted with bright, jolly lighting, even more merry ornaments, and perhaps enough fake, grainy snow on the floor that it could be considered a tripping hazard. Despite this, many inphernals were already milling about, hands filled with cups of juice or, for those starting off the night strong, flutes of champagne.
Already, Subspace could hear the bellowing laughter from Ban Hammer, the amicable chatter between Katana and Hyperlaser, and the teasing from Scythe. Towards the side of the room, a temporary stage was erected, once more decorated in a myriad of Phightmas trinkets, blow-up snowmen and a frankly absurd amount of balloons. If someone decided to mess about and pop some of them then Boombox and him would be rushing the fuck out of there immediately.
“Where’d Zeta go?” Boombox looked around, only then having noticed their lack of presence. The venue was thankfully heated enough for the warmth to sink into their bones, and the musician had promptly linked arms with him, stood as close as possible so that he was nearly squishing himself against his side. Not that Subspace was complaining, of course.
“They’ve already gone to the back for the food,” Subspace explained, and clarity quickly washed over the other inphernal’s expression, the hint of concern held within it fading away.
“Oh, okay! As long as they don’t try and burn the place down,” he hummed jovially, and Subspace had half the mind to ask him to elaborate if that was his first thought about Zeta entering a kitchen, but he didn’t have a chance as Boombox waved to the first other guest of the evening, “hey Med!”
Medkit, who’d been on his way to the table of beverages and refreshments, had his attention pulled by the Playgrounder waving his hand towards him with intense vigor. Knowing there was no way to avoid the conversation, he made his way over, clad in a soft teal sweater, Phightmas lights draped between his horns. One could think he looked a little similar to a reindeer.
“Boombox,” he greeted with a nod, then lowered his tone, sounding a little disappointed, “Subspace.”
Subspace’s eye twitched. Hate was a strong word, but he’d definitely felt… discontent towards the other for long enough that he didn’t think the dislike would ever go away. It wasn’t an active thing, no longer simmering in his mind in that boiling pot of rage that spurred his every action back in Blackrock, but more a passive, intrinsic fact. He’d always dislike Medkit, and Medkit would always dislike him. Despite this, they could tolerate being in the presence of one another for at least a little while, which is a heck of a lot longer than the him of a few years ago would’ve been able to manage. Still, that didn’t mean they had to treat each other with any hint of respect.
“I like your sweater!” Boombox complimented, pointing towards it, an arm still linked with Subspace’s own.
“Thank you, I knitted it myself,” he nodded, a small, proud smile twitching to his lips for half a second before it abruptly fell, the screeching sound of Subspace’s demeaning cackle reaching his ears.
“And Boombox thinks I’m old,” he laughed.
“Do you mind?” Medkit turned to him, lowered a brow and crossed his arms. It looked a little ridiculous considering what the two of them were currently wearing, but Subspace met his subtle glare with a leer of his own nonetheless.
“What, can’t handle a joke??” he shot back, revelled in the way he saw the other’s eyelid twitch.
“You’re only here because of Boombox. Don’t push your luck,” the doctor warned.
“Guys, it’s phightmas! Where’s your festive spirit?” Boombox suddenly interjected, a little lost on how to dispel the suddenly tense atmosphere. Medkit gave him a look as if to say ‘sorry’, but didn’t lend the same one Subspace’s way, not that he deserved an apology anyway. The doctor sighed, ran a hand up and down his face, then waved goodbye towards the two of them, resuming his quest towards the refreshments.
“I’ll feel more festive after a drink,” he mumbled before making a beeline towards the alcohol.
Subspace felt another cheeky laugh bubble out of his mouth before it was silenced by an elbow to his ribs.
“You two always rile each other up,” Boombox sighed, though still fond despite it all. Boombox typically didn’t enjoy playing favourites, and had been torn multiple times during petty arguments between his friends, agitating over whose side to pick. Unfortunately, however, he couldn’t help but let his affection towards his partner shine through, though that didn’t protect the scientist from a good telling-off sometimes.
“He started it!!” Subspace gestured towards the inphernal, who… gods, was that his third flute already?
“That’s so untrue!” Boombox laughed incredulously, “But I’ll let you off just this time.”
There was a beat of silence, then Subspace’s cackle tore through it like paper through a shredder, all shrill and croaky. He himself knew that it probably sounded horrible, but Boombox beamed a smile towards him anyway, his own giggles bubbling their way out of his throat. If not for the background chatter, Subspace could’ve almost thought that in that moment they were alone, just the two of them in a big, headache-inducingly lit room, surrounded by crappy Phightmas decorations and accompanied only by one another. Maybe if he’d been able to wrench himself away from the constant stress and worry at his peripheral, then he’d have pulled the other inphernal into a kiss right then and there.
“I guess I’ll wipe the sweat from my brow, then,” he replied, a little dramatic, his own smile playing at his chapped and half-rotting lips, “I was so terrified of what you’d do.”
That pressure in his brain died down a little, just enough for him to enjoy the moment, Boombox leaning into him, the way the lights danced on his skin, made the glitter on his dress sparkle ever brighter than they’d been before. Subspace silently hoped that no one else was watching, only so that they wouldn’t be able to see the softness in his eye that he reserved for Boombox and Boombox alone.
“C’mon, let’s go see if Sling ‘n Skate are here yet,” came the musician’s voice, and suddenly he was being tugged across the room. They snaked through small crowds of phighters, some nameless plus ones, friends and family alike, until they reached an extravagantly set-up table filled with festive snacks, both sweet and savoury alike. There, a familiar blue-horned inphernal stood, platter in hand, scouring the spread for a space in which he could slot his own treats.
Subspace had never grown close to Boombox’s own friends, often lingering at the edges of any conversation within which they were engaged, but he found no regret in not doing so. The three of them, that being Boombox, Slingshot and Skateboard, had been friends for enough time for them to have developed their own ways of interacting between one another, so even when they attempted to include him, it still felt a little… wrong. Some part of it had to do with age, lack of familiarity, or simply difference in opinion and personality. But a small part of Subspace held a grudge towards the others, one he couldn’t even attempt to distinguish, simply due to the fact that, occasionally, the stark reality bled through that they weren’t as close friends with Boombox as they were with each other.
On the surface, the three of them looked to be as tight as anything, bond unbreakable, forged over years of hard work and continuous friendship. But Boombox had always remained a bit of an outlier, whether due to his unwillingness to be open about his past or otherwise. Either way, the scientist found himself, regrettably, absolutely offended on the musician’s behalf, not that he expressed this often. If he were to confront the others, he was almost certain he’d cause more harm than intended, despite the fact that their actions were certainly, without a doubt, not malicious in the slightest. Perhaps it was simply a little disheartening to see the one he loved with all of his soul be content in sitting by the sidelines, even though within him he saw the universe and more, someone worth more than money could buy.
Boombox cleared his throat, pulling his partner’s mind back to the present. In front of them, Slingshot was clad in a blue tartan dress, only about half a shade darker than his horn colour was, where ribbons were tied around them into neat little bows, and when he turned, one could see the soft, sparkly eyeshadow he’d meticulously applied to his eyelids. For once, that familiar headband of his was nowhere to be seen, so he’d often be forced to tuck away the pesky strands of hair that fell into his view. Despite this, he visibly brightened upon catching sight of the approaching two inphernals.
“Hey, Boom! Hiya, Subspace!” he greeted, platter still in hand, “You two are looking cute.”
Subspace decided not to say anything at that, because of course they were cute. They were the best couple there!
“So do you! I like the bows!” Boombox replied, gesturing towards them. In the background, irritating, repetitive Phightmas music played, over and over and over again, and Subspace felt that pressure build once more. His rotting skin itched, and he had to fight the urge to scratch at it, because he always tended to scrape off more than was necessary when he did. Ban Hammer’s bellowing laugh rang out again, and it was loud and the scientist forcefully grit his teeth as the sound met his ears. Boombox and Slingshot were talking about something, but the words didn’t seem to compute. It was all just noise, scratching and scraping at the insides of his head, and he desperately just wanted to yell at them to shut up, but instead he stayed quiet.
“Do you wanna try one?” Slingshot asked, gesturing towards the food he was holding. They looked to be some sort of festive spiced biscuits, topped with icing and cut into varying shapes, from trees to presents to Phightmas hats. They’d been baked to perfection, not a single surface burned or scorched, an exquisite muddy brown hue.
“Oooh…,” Boombox inspected them, picked one up, and bit into it, resulting in a drawn out sound of enjoyment, “ughhhhh Sling you’re the best.”
Slingshot laughed, though it still seemed a little far away. Subspace’s clothes felt wrong against him, all tight and then loose and then uncomfortable. Maybe it was the lights. Maybe it was the noise.
“Hey, don’t go making your partner jealous, now,” Slingshot jested, then a look of confusion came over him, as though he’d suddenly remembered something, and he turned to the scientist, “speaking of… Subspace, I thought you were bringing some food too?”
Subspace scowled, looked askance.
“I got caught up with something,” he managed to grit out.
For a while, he’d indeed planned to bring some baked goods to the party, just as he’d been planning to wear a different outfit altogether. Perhaps it was the weather, or the plans, or the ache, but the previous day, everything was just too much. Too irritating, too frustrating. The focus slipped through his fingers like sand, pure sound seeping through one ear and out the other. Subspace had felt as though he’d been wound up and up and up, and had finally, mercifully been let go, only for all of that energy to have not a single place it could be extinguished. He was exhausted, set off by the littlest thing, and worse still was the fact that his mind, all frazzled and incoherent, couldn’t even allow him to conjure up the words to explain himself. So he’d sat there and tugged at his hair and hissed when Boombox came close. Pathetic, like some wild animal. And Subspace felt disgusted and humiliated by himself, though swept up in turmoil, because surely he was old enough that he should’ve been able to handle himself when things like this happened.
In Blackrock, he could lock himself in his lab, turn the lights off, and sit with himself in silence, no worries over how other people may have perceived him.
He was better now, but still… off. Boombox’d had to be reassured at least three times that he was confident in attending the party, the big sap insistent that if his partner couldn’t go then he wouldn’t either. All in all, it meant that Subspace had no time or will to prepare something last-minute, caught up in the timeline in his head, rearranging and confirming what time was best to prepare what thing.
“Aww, bummer. Maybe next time, then,” Slingshot’s apologetic tone cut through, but Subspace’s gaze had already latched onto a red figure barrelling its way through the crowds towards them.
“Yo!” Skateboard yelled, waving frantically. He was clad in his own Phightmas sweater, although appeared as though he’d rushed there last second, his typical skateboarding helmet skewed on his head, hair frazzled and sticking to his sweaty face beneath it. Subspace couldn’t help but pull a face at his untidiness.
“And there’s Skate, fashionably late as usual…,” Slingshot muttered, Skateboard sailing ever closer until he crashed directly into Boombox, sweeping him up in a big hug with a laugh on his lips.
“Boom!” he greeted, his signature gear de-summoning, lifting the other off of the ground while they hugged. The scientist spotted a bright smile on his partner’s lips at that, though he wheezed at being clutched so tight. Silently, he thought it sufficient payback considering all of the many times the musician had snuck up behind Subspace and suddenly wrapped his arms around him with a giggle, the scientist left to heave as he’d be lifted off of the ground. For some reason, he always seemed to forget just how strong Boombox was until he pulled some move like that. He recalled watching him move furniture the first day he’d been stuck at Boombox’s apartment, and would admit to himself that he was mildly impressed by what he saw.
“Nice to see you too, man,” Boombox coughed, patting Skateboard’s back so that he’d finally place him on the ground. Only when he did so, the skater suddenly caught notice of the platter of treats Slingshot was holding.
“Oh my gods, need,” he exclaimed, plucking one off of the tray and stuffing the entire thing into his mouth at once, humming in contentment.
“Wow, not even a greeting?” Slingshot jested, eyebrow raised.
“Wait, you’re so right…,” Skateboard spoke, mouth full of food. His head snapped up, then he turned to Subspace and spread his arms wide, “Subspace! Bring it in!”
Subspace looked to Skateboard, his hands, where crumbs still laid mixed with saliva from when he’d stuffed food into his mouth, then made a face of absolute disgust. Boombox barked out a laugh next to him as the scientist took a single, purposeful step backwards, crossing his arms over his chest.
“Don’t touch me,” he said, a warning.
“I’m just kidding,” Skate affirmed, then turned back to his blue-clad friend, “Hey Sling! Lookin’ good!”
“Yeah, you look like hot garbage,” Slingshot returned, sharp, and there was laughter again. For a moment, Subspace wondered how something could be so loud and so muffled at the same time, as though hearing yelling from a distance, just able to discern that something is being said, but unsure as to what it was.
“I heard the word ‘hot’ in that sentence, so I’m taking that as a compliment,” Skateboard replied with a nod.
Was it dark? Was it too bright? Subspace rubbed at his eye, and suddenly the other side of his face, where the rot was worst, felt unbelievably itchy under his eyepatch. He was overcome with the urge to rip it off and plunge his fingers into his empty socket, anything to get it to stop, anything to make him feel as though he weren’t drifting away, something to remind him that he was still in his body. He growled lowly in his throat, though just quiet enough so that no one else could hear, still rubbing at his eye, then reached out to where he assumed Boombox was still standing next to him, head fuzzy, before squeezing at his arm.
“I’ll be right back,” he managed to mumble into his ear.
“M’kay,” came his partner’s reply, within it a hint of confusion, though he didn’t pry. Subspace swallowed, then made his way to one of the corridors, the ceaseless chatter and banter fading with every step, that annoying Phightmas music blaring in his ears, repetitive and ceaseless.
The hallways were more well-lit and less decorated. That is to say: not a total assault on one’s eyesight. His own footsteps felt far away, the only indication that he was still walking the rush of air as he groggily stumbled his way to find the bathroom. The pressure in his brain pressed against his forehead, uncomfortable and distracting, and for some reason Subspace was abruptly hit with a sense of dread, albeit small, a pit forming in his stomach. Eventually, he pushed his way through a door, locking it behind himself, looking up to find himself in a single-stall bathroom, the light above flickering for a brief moment before holding steady, bathing the space in a soft cream colour. Had he the ability to smell, Subspace would’ve been hit with the harsh stench of chemicals, the room clean despite appearing otherwise.
Stumbling to the sink, above which a mirror was hung, the scientist let out a long breath, grateful for having extracted himself from all of the hustle and bustle. He swallowed, then looked up to find his reflection staring back at him, one eye, shallow from a lack of sleep, but certainly not as bad as it had once been, boring into his own. A few strands of hair fell in front of his face again, and Subspace pulled them back after only a moment, clinging to the sides of the sink in order to lean over and inspect himself more intensely. The beat of his heart, which he hadn’t noticed to be pounding blood loudly in his ears, began to steady over time, settling to its regular, rather sluggish pace.
He ran a healthy hand under the tap, then rubbed some of the water into the non-rotted side of his face, careful not to spill any and accidentally harm himself. His cheek under his palm felt… plump. Or certainly plumper than it had been before, all sharp cheekbones and sunken skin. He supposed he had Boombox’s regular eating habits to thank for that. While he still lived on a liquid diet, his partner ensured that he’d eat three times a day, which is much more than he could’ve said he’d done in Blackrock, often skipping meals for days on end in order to meet some deadline or target. He hummed to himself thoughtfully, mind clearing. Perhaps he was straining himself too much, especially following his… ‘outburst’ the previous day. He didn’t know for sure what to call it, only certain in the fact that he’d experienced such events for as long as he’d been alive.
For a second, he wondered if it would’ve been better to have stayed at home, somehow convinced Boombox to attend alone, because what did he contribute anyway? Sure, riling up Medkit was fun, but being around all of those people, inphernals he’d once shared battlefields with, it all filled him with a bitter kind of loathing. Towards them or himself he was unsure, and that only irritated him further. Because why should he have cared what they thought? He was the great Subspace T. Mine! So what if his connection to his gear was irreparably damaged? He still had his brains, his smarts! He still deserved respect! He was still… worth something.
A familiar rhythm rapped at the door, causing the inphernal to jolt in place, and Subspace became suddenly aware that he’d been scowling at himself in the mirror for the past while, allowed his expression to soften and his shoulders to untense.
“Sub? You okay in there?” came Boombox’s familiar voice, all overly worried like he normally was, sometimes to an annoying degree.
“I’m fine,” Subspace bit back after a moment of attempting to get his mouth to work again. There was silence on the other side, but Boombox hadn’t left, because if he had then Subspace would’ve heard those footsteps patter back down the hallway. Instead, there was quietude for a moment longer.
“It’s been half an hour. D’you wanna let me in?” Boombox questioned, low. Half an hour? No, it couldn’t have been that long… but Subspace fished his phone out of his pocket, and sure enough, he’d been in that sterile bathroom for far longer than he’d assumed. He flexed his hands against the edge of the porcelain sink, and although his receptors struggled registering though the rot, he finally felt grounded, like he was really there. A sigh left his mouth, then Subspace turned on his heel, fetching his cane from where he’d left it by the door, then unlocked and opened it.
“I’m…,” the words died on his tongue when he saw Boombox on the other side, anxious and concerned. A part of him always hated when he looked at him like that, because when he did, he felt weak, like something that Boombox thought could shatter in an instant. Boombox knew that he hated it too, but he couldn’t help himself from caring, especially for someone like Subspace.
“Come,” Boombox said, slowly raised a hand to grasp at Subspace’s arm, leisurely enough so that the scientist would clearly be able to follow the action before contact was made, then he led his partner a little further down the hall, where he found a stack of spare chairs that had obviously been removed from the main hall and stored there. Boombox picked two up, then placed them next to each other against the wall, beckoning Subspace to take a seat. Lethargy struck him the moment he sat down, Boombox following suit, and he leaned over until he could rest his body shoulder to shoulder against his partner.
There, in that empty hallway far from the rest of the party, Boombox and Subspace sat in silence, the musician’s hand resting comfortingly against his partner’s thigh. Ever perceptive, Boombox must’ve quickly realised that Subspace was becoming overwhelmed with everything, especially following what had happened the previous day, so he’d let him have his time away, and only began to worry when he didn’t return. Subspace didn’t apologise, only rarely did he do so anyway, because he knew that the musician would wave off his words anyway. Boombox was totally fine with that.
The musician eventually reached for his phone, opening it up and showing it to his partner. On the screen was a hastily written timetable of the plans for the evening, obviously having been typed out by Boombox following some inquiries here and there.
“Look, I found out what the plans are for the evening,” he said after a while, pointing to the device, “okay, so first was a speech from Valk and Dom, which you missed. It’s fine, you woulda found it boring anyways.”
Next is gifts. You can share mine with me,” he continued, “then there’s like, some Phightmas karaoke thing. I’ll probably do that with Skate, but he’s trying to see how many flutes of champagne he can down in a row without throwing up right now, so I dunno the state he’ll be in by then.”
I think there’s meant to be some charades game after that, and then they’ll dim the lights a little for a performance by the Flipside,” he concluded with a smile. Ever considerate. Subspace wanted to bite him.
“You know I want you here,” Boombox added after a second, and Subspace’s previously passive expression turned sour.
“Like I care what that traitor thinks, anyway,” he spat, referring to Medkit, and Boombox hummed.
“Just making sure,” he confirmed, then, “the lights aren’t too much?”
Subspace sighed as though irritated, but a small smile crawled to his lips nonetheless. He raised his head a little to tap their horns together lightly, listened to the soft ‘clack’ as they made contact.
“I’ll let you know if they are,” he answered, truthful. Subspace moved away, then made to get up, raising himself with the help of his cane. His legs felt a little weak, but then again he supposed he’d been walking around and standing for quite some time since they’d gotten there. As much as he disliked it, the aid a constant show of his vulnerable state, he couldn’t lie and say that it didn’t help. He straightened himself out, brushed some of the hair out of his face, then glanced back down towards his partner, who was studying him with an almost inquiring look.
“What??” Subspace asked, because Boombox was evidently thinking about something, and extended a hand to help him up.
“We shoulda tied like… ribbons around your horns like Slingshot’s done,” he said after a while, pressed his palm against his own, and rose from his seat. Subspace made a face, because absolutely not. Not right now, anyway. The thought of anything touching his horns at present made him feel slightly ill, a shiver running down his spine.
“I’ll tie you up in ribbons,” Subspace mumbled grumpily in reply, and Boombox’s face split into a sly smile as they started down the hall, the echo of crappy Phightmas music growing ever louder as they walked.
“Don’t tease me with a good time,” he laughed, and Subspace could do naught but huff and roll his eye fondly, elbowing his partner as he did so, eliciting a surprised yelp from the other.
“You’re insufferable,” Subspace sighed, shaking his head.
“You love me,” Boombox shot back, and the scientist couldn’t come up with a retort, because he certainly did.
When they made it back to the main hall, the place was bustling with laughter and conversation. Boombox retrieved some spare earplugs from Subspace’s coat so that the sound wouldn’t aggravate him too much, and the evening proceeded as Boombox had said it would, which calmed the scientist much more than he’d have liked to admit. Boombox had received a hamper of gifts from the Flipside, as did all of the other phighters, stacked high with expensive treats and self-care items. When Boombox fished out a horn-care kit, he’d jested that they’d better save it for when Subspace’s horns would start greying, eliciting an offended cry from the inphernal in question.
By the time karaoke came about, Skateboard was absolutely out of it. Nonetheless, Boombox and his attempted duet were somewhat successful, if ‘success’ were measurable by Boombox carrying all of the songs by himself and Skateboard attempting to crowdsurf, only to end up a twitching mess on the floor when no one wanted to participate. Only the deities could guess how much he’d had to drink. He had a feeling Slingshot purposefully decided not to stop him out of spite.
Boombox slowly picked his way through the food table, had a drink or two of his own, but stuck by Subspace’s side for the most part. The game of charades, of which most of the phighters present participated in, was particularly enjoyable, and although he didn’t do any of the acting himself, Subspace found himself becoming increasingly competitive with guessing the answer as the rounds passed. It helped that most of his peers were inebriated, of course, because while they were bumbling around trying to form coherent sentences, Subspace was soaring ahead and claiming victory after victory!
Eventually, the lights were dimmed, and it was finally time for the concluding show of the evening, a performance of the Flipside’s new Phightmas single. Subspace himself had no interest in the music, but Boombox appeared to be enjoying it, he noticed when he glanced over, head bopping to the rhythm. Around halfway through, fingers pinched at and tugged his sleeve, drawing a small confused hum from the scientist.
“What?” he whispered, but Boombox just showed a cheeky smile, held a finger to his lips as though to indicate that he should keep his voice even quieter.
“Come with me,” Boombox said, and who was Subspace to refuse?
Boombox sneakily led them out of the main hall and into another hallway, far enough down that the echo of music was akin to a soft backdrop, surroundings blurring into a mass of nothingness as they passed, Subspace’s focus fixated only on the inphernal dragging him along. Eventually, the musician turned a corner and paused, swivelling around to face him, then looked upwards. Above them was hung a small bunch of mistletoe, a neat red ribbon tying the sprigs together, laced with sewn golds and silvers. The scientist couldn’t help but let out an incredulous laugh, because this was perhaps the corniest, most ‘Phightmas rom-com’ movie thing that the other could’ve done.
“Did you put that up there??” he laughed, and his chest felt light. When did he even get it? When did he have the time to find this particular location in this random hall to put up some mistletoe? The tradition was dumb, in Subspace’s opinion. But maybe he was, too, because the smile on his face wouldn’t fade even when Boombox stepped closer.
“Any excuse to kiss you,” Boombox replied, and despite the cheesy line, the scientist allowed his cane to fall to the floor with a clatter, then settled his arms over the shorter inphernal’s shoulders, leaning down until their foreheads met.
“Do you really need one??” he shot back, and Boombox could only smile as he leaned upwards to capture his lips, hands settling at Subspace’s waist. The music resounding through the building faded to nothingness as the scientist pressed back against his partner, revelling in the feeling of warmth against him, being held in his soft grasp, feeling comforted and safe. There was something still pressed towards the back of his brain, but the cloudiness that had once obscured his thoughts had slowly faded as the night continued, and here, in Boombox’s arms, Subspace felt entirely free from any worry or concerns he may have held.
Boombox pressed further, and the other inphernal stumbled a little until his back hit the wall, but not once did they separate. If anything, Subspace wrapped his arms ever tighter around the musician as though starved for contact, breaths intermingling, turning heavy as a tongue prodded its way past his lips and into his mouth. A pleased hum fled Subspace’s throat while hands caressed his sides, body tingling in wake of their movements, returning the confident entrance into his mouth with his own bold actions. The fact that they were in a semi-public setting completely fled from Subspace’s head, much too overcome by the feeling of wet lips on his own, the heat of Boombox’s body pressed against him.
The musician retreated for a moment, pulling at his bottom lip with his teeth as he did so, a small, victorious smile gracing his lips when he saw how the action made Subspace’s eye go half-lidded, as though absolutely intoxicated by Boombox’s ministrations. He made for his jaw, nipping his way along, slowly and teasingly, before he arrived at the other inphernal’s neck, placed soft, delicate kisses across his sensitive skin, revelling in the way in which Subspace’s breath hitched with every peck. The scientist keened into his touch, the arms around his partner’s neck drawing him ever closer, insistent that he continue his actions, and Boombox must’ve known this, because he soon opened his mouth to worry marks into his skin, Subspace feeling hot and flustered all the while.
He gripped desperately at the back of the musician’s head, then his horns, then his head again, fingers tangling in Boombox’s locs as the scientist breathed out pleased sighs, a shameful whine breaking its way past his lips. A minute shiver ran up his spine as one of the hands at his waist kneaded into his flesh, the other snaking down to grasp at his hip, pulling them flush together, like even an inch further apart would be damning. Subspace swallowed thickly, Boombox smiling against his neck as he worried another mark onto its surface, then returned to meet his lips, pressing against him with a surprising softness before he delved in once more, plunging the scientist into a state of near deliriousness, mind fuzzy, though no longer in an irritating way, but a pleasant, warm way.
All that he could do was shake as his partner’s kind, deft hands moved against him, the tongue in his mouth hot and exploratory, actions charged by want. One of the hands against him moved lower, then lower still, and then- someone cleared their throat.
“Fuck!!” Subspace exclaimed, jolting away, chest heaving and heart nearly having jumped out of his very body. He whipped his head around to find the source of their interruption, only for his eye to land on an annoyingly familiar blue and black helmet, voice turning bewildered, yet frustrated, “Can’t you see we’re in the middle of something here??”
His hands were still tied up in Boombox’s hair, and he couldn’t move them even if he tried, only because the oaf himself hadn’t budged an inch, simply looking Hyperlaser’s way with an amicable, though little peeved, expression. The Blackrockian, who’d been standing there for gods knew how long, straightforwardly sent a nod towards the two of them, as though completely unfazed by what he’d just witnessed. More annoyingly, he decided to ignore Subspace’s question altogether.
“Do either of you two know where the toilets are?” he asked, voice a smidge muffled by his helmet.
“Oh, that’s the other hallway!” Boombox replied helpfully, an innocent smile etched into his face. The interaction made Subspace feel as though he was going insane.
“Thanks,” Hyperlaser replied, turned to walk in the other direction, then paused and looked back as if he had something to add. Subspace threw a glare his way.
“Leave,” he bit out, only relaxing his stormy expression once the mercenary finally nodded and disappeared back the way he’d come from, “Gods…”
Boombox laughed at his reaction, bent down to pluck his partner’s cane off of the floor and slotted it back into his hand. He patted Subspace’s cheek fondly, then placed a kiss upon it, like this interaction wasn’t going to plague the scientist’s mind for the rest of his waking days.
“Good thing we didn’t go further,” he said after a moment, chipper, and Subspace’s head shot to him at that, expression disbelieving.
“You say that like you planned to,” the scientist replied, a bit horrified, but Boombox simply stuck his tongue out in return, started off and down the hall to the main area, where the music had long since died down. An incredulous laugh bubbled out of his mouth as he followed his partner once more, pace settling as their footsteps echoed in tandem along the linoleum flooring, shoulders bumping.
As expected, most of the other attendees had dispersed by the time they arrived back at the large hall, food and drink abandoned in the aftermath of the party. Distantly, a clang of metallic footfalls approached, and it wasn’t long after that that Zeta reappeared for the first time the entire evening. Still clad in their Phightmas hat, Subspace was a little frightened by just how dirty they’d managed to make their jumper, multiple mysterious food stains coating the front of it. Despite this, they appeared just as energised as usual, a pep in their step as they bounded towards them.
“BA,” they greeted, though it was more intended for Subspace than Boombox.
“Zeta,” Subspace returned with a nod, then scrutinised them for any further sign of dirtiness other than what was displayed on their sweater, “You haven’t gotten anything in your joints, have you?? We only cleaned them the other day…”
“NEGATIVE…,” they confirmed, then, “IT IS SNOWING.”
“Oh! I’ll fetch your gloves!” Boombox exclaimed with a smile, patting them on the shoulder as he passed them by.
“THANK YOU,” they returned, watching him disappear off towards the entrance of the venue.
There was quiet for a moment, a silence between machine and maker, and Subspace struggled to come up with something to say.
“Did you complete all of your tasks??” he settled on, and Zeta straightened up a little at the tone, authoritative, just like how they remembered from their days serving him in Blackrock. They nodded, curt, arms stiff at their sides, as though a little worried that any show of imperfection would be unappreciated.
“AFFIRMATIVE. ALL FOOD HAS BEEN SERVED,” they confirmed, looking up at him.
“Very good. As expected from you,” Subspace returned, thought for a second, before he raised a hand to pat at their head a couple times, “You… did well.”
Zeta appeared almost overwhelmed by the praise, started shaking a little on the spot as an excited little whir left their systems. They rocked back and forth on their feet, visibly thrilled, and the scientist smiled a little upon observing just how delighted they were. Their lights flickered with joy, and a few more little whirs escaped them as their fans desperately attempted to cool their systems down following the intense burst of emotions.
“THANK YOU, CREATOR,” they replied, then corrected themself, “BA.”
There was the shuffle of clothing as Boombox returned, donning his coat as he held out the gloves reserved for the robot, as well as Subspace’s own outdoor clothing, hat, and scarf.
“Here! Sub, I’ve brought your stuff too,” he explained, handing the two of them their things, “I think everyone else is already out there.”
“WILL THERE BE A SNOWBALL FIGHT?” Zeta asked excitedly, and Subspace couldn’t stop himself from patting their head again.
“Well, if there is, we’ll just have to win it, won’t we??” he exclaimed with a sharp grin, the robot nodding their head frantically in reply.
“AFFIRMATIVE. ONWARD,” they proclaimed, marching their way to the exit. Boombox took a moment to help Subspace into his own clothing, patting him down on the way to ensure that everything was on correctly, not a hint of rotting skin exposed to potential harm. He hummed as he did so, one of those crappy, annoying Phightmas songs, but Subspace didn’t mind it so much when it was coming from him.
When he was sufficiently ‘suited up’, Boombox simply stared at him for a moment, a soft smile on his face.
“What?” Subspace asked, but Boombox just shook his head.
“Nothing. Just like looking at you,” the musician replied. The scientist’s face flushed, and he glanced away, grumbled lowly to himself about having such a corny partner, and Boombox must’ve heard, because he let out a small, but nonetheless bright, laugh in reply. Subspace sighed in false reluctance, then tapped their horns together, raised a hand to squish at his partner’s cheeks through his thick gloves.
“Come on. I want to throw a snowball at Medkit’s dumb face,” he said after a moment, heart warm, and Boombox took that as his cue to link his arm around Subspace’s, looked towards him with those LED eyes full of all the care and adoration he knew deep in his heart he hardly deserved. But whatever. He didn’t want to think about all of that tonight. So Subspace shook his head to free himself from those thoughts, cherished the inphernal by his side, and allowed himself, rather selfishly, to feel content.
“Lead the way!” Boombox replied, jovial.