Chapter Text
The attic was quiet, save for the faint hum of the old house settling around them. Moon lounged on the floor, his long legs stretched out, one foot nudging Kommit’s thigh as he flipped through a battered magazine he’d found in one of the dusty boxes. Kommit sat a few feet away, sketchbook in hand, pencil moving in quick, precise strokes.
“You’re staring again,” Moon said without looking up, a smirk tugging at his lips.
“I’m not,” Kommit muttered, his pencil pausing mid-stroke.
“Liar.” Moon glanced over, his grin widening. “You’ve been staring at me for, like, ten minutes. Admit it. You’re obsessed.”
Kommit’s cheeks flushed, and he snapped the sketchbook shut. “I’m not obsessed. You’re just… distracting.”
“Distracting, huh?” Moon tossed the magazine aside and crawled closer, his movements slow and deliberate. “What’s so distracting about me, huh?”
Kommit leaned back, trying to put space between them, but Moon followed, crowding into his personal space like he always did. “Your ego, for one.”
Moon laughed, the sound warm and rich. “My ego? That’s what’s got you all flustered?”
“I’m not flustered,” Kommit said, though the way his voice cracked betrayed him.
“Sure you’re not.” Moon reached out, plucking the sketchbook from Kommit’s hands. “Let’s see what’s got you so distracted, then.”
“Give that back,” Kommit snapped, lunging for the book, but Moon held it out of reach, flipping it open.
The page was filled with sketches of Moon—sleeping, laughing, scowling—each one capturing his essence with startling accuracy. Moon’s grin softened, his teasing edge fading as he traced a finger over one of the drawings.
“You really do think I’m pretty, huh?” he said, his voice quieter now.
Kommit’s face burned, and he snatched the sketchbook back. “Shut up.”
Moon didn’t push. Instead, he leaned back on his hands, tilting his head as he studied Kommit. “You know, for someone who claims to hate me, you sure do draw me a lot.”
“I don’t hate you,” Kommit muttered, his gaze fixed on the floor.
“Could’ve fooled me,” Moon said, his tone light but his eyes serious.
Kommit didn’t respond, his fingers tightening around the sketchbook.
---
The argument started over something stupid—a misplaced hoodie, a careless comment, a moment of miscommunication. But it escalated quickly, their words sharp and biting, each one cutting deeper than the last.
“You’re so damn selfish,” Kommit snapped, his voice trembling with anger. “You don’t think about anyone but yourself.”
Moon’s eyes narrowed, his usual smirk replaced by a scowl. “Selfish? Really? That’s rich coming from you.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means you’re so wrapped up in your own little world that you don’t even notice when someone’s trying to care about you,” Moon shot back, his voice rising.
“Oh, please,” Kommit said, rolling his eyes. “Like you care about anyone but yourself.”
Moon’s jaw tightened, and for a moment, it looked like he might say something else. But instead, he turned on his heel and stormed out of the attic, slamming the door behind him.
Kommit stood frozen, his chest heaving, the sound of the door slamming echoing in his ears. He sank to the floor, his sketchbook slipping from his hands as he buried his face in his knees.
---
Hours passed, the attic growing colder as the sun dipped below the horizon. Kommit sat in the dim light, his thoughts a tangled mess of regret and frustration. He hated fighting with Moon. Hated the way his words had cut so deep. Hated the way Moon’s absence left a hollow ache in his chest.
The door creaked open, and Kommit looked up to see Moon standing in the doorway, his hoodie pulled tight around him, his expression unreadable.
“I’m sorry,” Moon said, his voice quiet but steady.
Kommit blinked, caught off guard. “What?”
“I’m sorry,” Moon repeated, stepping into the room. “I shouldn’t have said what I said. I didn’t mean it.”
Kommit’s throat tightened, and he looked away. “I’m sorry too. I didn’t mean to call you selfish.”
Moon crossed the room, dropping to his knees in front of Kommit. “You’re not selfish, Kommit. You’re just… guarded. And that’s okay. I get it.”
Kommit’s eyes flicked up to meet Moon’s, and for a moment, they just stared at each other, the tension between them palpable.
“I don’t hate you,” Kommit said finally, his voice barely above a whisper.
Moon’s lips curved into a small smile. “I know.”
“And I’m not… obsessed,” Kommit added, though the way his gaze dropped to Moon’s lips betrayed him.
Moon chuckled, leaning in closer. “Sure you’re not.”
Kommit’s breath hitched as Moon’s hand came up to cup his cheek, his touch gentle but firm.
“You’re such a liar,” Moon murmured, his voice warm with affection.
“Shut up,” Kommit muttered, but there was no bite to his words.
Moon grinned, closing the distance between them in a kiss that was soft and slow, a stark contrast to their earlier argument. Kommit’s hands found their way to Moon’s waist, pulling him closer as the tension between them melted away.
When they finally broke apart, Moon rested his forehead against Kommit’s, his breath warm against Kommit’s lips.
“You’re still insufferable,” Kommit muttered, though the way his fingers tightened around Moon’s hoodie said something else entirely.
“Still yours, though,” Moon replied, his grin widening.
Kommit rolled his eyes, but the smile tugging at his lips gave him away.
The attic was still their prison. Still their sanctuary. But maybe—just maybe—it was starting to feel a little more like home.
---
Later that night, as they lay tangled together on the floor, Moon’s head resting on Kommit’s chest, Kommit traced idle patterns on Moon’s back, his thoughts drifting.
“You know,” Moon said, breaking the silence, “you’d look really good in a skirt.”
Kommit groaned, shoving Moon off him. “Shut up.”
Moon laughed, the sound warm and bright, and Kommit couldn’t help but smile.
---
Moon laughed, the sound warm and bright, and Kommit couldn’t help but smile. Moon flopped back down, his head landing on Kommit’s chest again, his fingers idly tracing patterns on Kommit’s shirt.
“I’m serious, though,” Moon said, his tone teasing but with a hint of sincerity. “You’d rock a skirt. You’ve got the whole brooding artist thing going on. It’d be iconic.”
Kommit groaned, shoving Moon’s face away. “You’re such a dumbass. Why are you like this?”
“Because I’m amazing,” Moon said, grinning as he batted Kommit’s hand away. “And you love me.”
“I tolerate you,” Kommit corrected, though the way his fingers lingered in Moon’s hair said otherwise.
“Same thing,” Moon said, closing his eyes and nuzzling closer. “Admit it. You’d miss me if I wasn’t around.”
Kommit didn’t answer right away, his fingers stilling in Moon’s hair. Moon cracked one eye open, peeking up at him. “Kommit?”
“Shut up,” Kommit muttered, his voice softer now. “You’re not going anywhere.”
Moon’s grin softened, and he reached up to poke Kommit’s cheek. “Aw, you do care.”
“I take it back,” Kommit said, swatting his hand away. “You’re the worst.”
“Your sketches say otherwise,” Moon said, laughing as Kommit shoved him off again.
---
The next morning, the attic was bathed in golden sunlight, the dust motes floating lazily in the air. Kommit woke up first, his sketchbook still open beside him, a half-finished drawing of Moon sleeping sprawled across the page. He glanced down at Moon, who was still out cold, his face smushed against Kommit’s shoulder, his hair a complete mess.
Kommit smirked and reached for his pencil, adding a few more details to the drawing—the way Moon’s mouth was slightly open, the way his hoodie was bunched up around his waist. He was so focused that he didn’t notice Moon stirring until a hand reached out and snatched the sketchbook from his lap.
“Hey!” Kommit protested, trying to grab it back, but Moon held it out of reach, sitting up and flipping through the pages.
“Dude,” Moon said, his voice full of mock offense. “Do you just draw me in my sleep like some kind of creepy artist stalker?”
“Shut up,” Kommit said, his face heating up. “Give it back.”
“No way,” Moon said, grinning as he flipped to another page. “This is gold. Look at this one! I look so cool. You even got my good side.”
“You don’t have a good side,” Kommit muttered, lunging for the sketchbook again.
Moon laughed, holding it above his head. “Admit it. You think I’m your muse or something.”
“You’re not my muse,” Kommit said, glaring at him. “You’re just… convenient.”
“Convenient, huh?” Moon said, leaning in closer, his grin widening. “Is that why you’ve got, like, fifty drawings of me in here?”
Kommit’s face was fully red now, and he grabbed a pillow, smacking Moon with it. “You’re such an idiot.”
Moon laughed, dodging the pillow and tossing the sketchbook aside. “Your idiot,” he said, tackling Kommit back onto the floor.
Kommit groaned, but he was laughing now, shoving at Moon’s shoulders as Moon pinned him down. “Get off me, you dumbass.”
“Make me,” Moon said, grinning down at him.
Kommit rolled his eyes, but he didn’t try too hard to push Moon away. Instead, he reached up, tugging lightly on Moon’s hair. “You’re the worst.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Moon said, leaning down to kiss him. “You love me.”
Kommit didn’t argue this time.
---
Later, they were sitting by the attic window, their legs dangling over the edge, the cool breeze ruffling their hair. Moon was humming some stupid pop song under his breath, his shoulder pressed against Kommit’s.
“You’re so bad at that,” Kommit said, nudging him.
“Bad at what?” Moon asked, feigning innocence.
“Singing,” Kommit said. “You’re tone-deaf, bro.”
Moon gasped, clutching his chest like he’d been wounded. “Rude. I’m a musical genius.”
“Sure you are,” Kommit said, rolling his eyes. “Next you’re gonna tell me you’re a secret rock star.”
“I could be,” Moon said, grinning. “You don’t know my life.”
Kommit snorted, shaking his head. “You're so dumb.”
“Says you,” Moon said, leaning his head on Kommit’s shoulder.
Kommit didn’t say anything, but he didn’t push Moon away either. They sat there in comfortable silence, the world outside the attic feeling far away, like it didn’t matter. For now, it was just the two of them, the way it always was.
And maybe, Kommit thought, that wasn’t such a bad thing.
---
The attic’s single dangling lightbulb flickered as Kommit scowled at his laptop screen, his fingers stabbing at the trackpad. A half-finished beat pulsed through his headphones—glitchy, distorted, *angry*. Exactly how he felt. Across the room, Moon was sprawled on the floor, scribbling lyrics in a battered notebook, humming a melody under his breath that made Kommit’s jaw tighten. He knew that tune. Moon had stolen it from a hook Kommit had abandoned months ago.
“You’re using the C# progression again,” Kommit said flatly, yanking off his headphones. “That’s mine.”
Moon didn’t look up. “Nah, I fixed it. Your version was depressing.”
“It was *supposed* to be depressing.”
“Yeah, well, now it’s a banger.” Moon finally glanced up, his grin softer than usual. “Face it, bro—you’re better at sad-boy ambient crap. Let me handle the hooks.”
Kommit’s fist clenched around his pen. They’d had this fight a hundred times. Moon took Kommit’s raw, moody sketches and polished them into glittering pop traps, then acted like he’d done him a favor. Worse, he was usually right. Their collabs blew up every time, but Kommit hated how Moon could twist his pain into something punchy and palatable. Like he was editing his *soul*.
“You’re such a sellout,” Kommit muttered.
Moon’s grin faltered, and he set his notebook aside. “Says the guy who ghostwrote that ballad for Nova Lane last week. How much did that check clear for? Five zeros? Six?”
Kommit flinched. He’d told Moon that in confidence, drunk and frustrated at 3 a.m., and now he wished he could claw the words back. “That’s different.”
“How? Because you used a fake name? Because you don’t wanna admit you’re just as hungry as the rest of us?” Moon’s voice wasn’t sharp—it was almost gentle, like he was trying to understand. “You’re not some tortured artist, Kommit. You’re just… scared.”
The air crackled. Kommit stood, his chair screeching against the floor. “Scared of what?”
“Of letting people in,” Moon said simply. He stood too, his hands shoved in his pockets. “Of letting *me* in. You’d rather call me a sellout than admit we make a good team.”
Kommit’s chest tightened. He looked away, his voice barely above a whisper. “It’s not that simple.”
“It could be,” Moon said, stepping closer. “If you let it.”
For a heartbeat, they just stared at each other, the silence thick with every unsaid thing—the late nights finishing each other’s tracks, the demos they’d sent back and forth for years, the way Moon always knew when Kommit’s anxiety was spiking and would spam him with stupid memes until he laughed.
Kommit broke first. “Just… stay out of my stems, okay?”
“Make me,” Moon said, quieter now.
They both knew he wouldn’t.
---
Later, Kommit found Moon on the rooftop, staring at the city skyline, a crumpled pack of cigarettes in his hand. He didn’t smoke, but he always carried them when he was stressed.
“You’re gonna give yourself lung cancer for no reason,” Kommit said, leaning against the doorframe.
“You’re such a mom,” Moon shot back, but he tucked the pack away.
Kommit hesitated, then sat beside him, their shoulders brushing. The tension wasn’t gone, but it had softened into something tired and familiar.
“Remember that first track we made?” Moon said suddenly. “The one with the rain samples and your sister’s cat meowing?”
Kommit groaned. “Don’t. It was terrible.”
“Nah, it was *art*. Deep, bro. Philosophical.” Moon bumped his shoulder against Kommit’s. “You cried when I added those 808s.”
“I did not—”
“You *wept*. Said it ‘ruined the aesthetic.’”
Kommit hid his smile in his hoodie. “You’re delusional.”
Moon leaned back on his hands, his tone shifting. “Why’d you really take that Nova Lane gig?”
The question hung there. Kommit picked at a loose thread on his sleeve. “Needed the money.”
“Bullshit. You’ve got money.”
“Maybe I wanted to prove I could do it. Write something… perfect.”
Moon snorted. “Nothing’s perfect. That’s why you’ve got me.”
Kommit glanced at him. Moon was staring straight ahead, his usual smirk replaced by something raw and rare.
“Yeah,” Kommit said softly. “Guess I do.”
---
Three a.m. found them side by side at Kommit’s laptop, passing a bag of stale chips back and forth as they dissected the track. Moon’s stolen hook bled into Kommit’s brooding synths, morphing into something neither of them could’ve made alone—haunting but hopeful, messy but magnetic.
“Told you,” Moon said when they finally leaned back, exhausted and weirdly proud. “We’re better together.”
Kommit didn’t argue. He saved the project file as *Sellout_Hypocrite_Final_Final2* and let Moon fall asleep on his shoulder, their unfinished fight lingering in the air like a suspended chord.