#trope and they were roommates
A modern-day, post-uni domestic AU (albeit with shinier, techier prosthetics) where Jamison and Satya have known each other for about five or six years since meeting at university.
Jamison is a mechanic at the shop across the city, and Satya works for a prestigious company. They are good friends and mesh surprisingly well. A year or two into their friendship proper, Satya had encouraged him to seek a diagnosis for ADHD after learning about his struggles in class, which had resulted in him realizing a whole lot about himself. He’d thanked her by offering her samples of his cooking, and that led to the monthly evening where they’d both show off meals from home.
(They both love spicy food. Satya tries to make him sob with hot curry. It never works.)
After being friends for so long, they become so comfortable enough with each other that when something bad happens, they simply… confide. Wholly. No questions asked. After so many late nights composed of last minute essays and projects during university where emotions ran embarrassingly high, it’s almost second nature. Jamison makes all the affronted faces he should coupled with riled up commentary, and Satya employs all of the harsh frowns and disapproving quips at the appropriate moments. They’re proper professionals.
So when Satya returns from a date that goes sour and when a complicated ex of Jamison’s reappears to stir up unnecessary drama, it isn’t even a question of what needs to be done—it’s a question of when.
He texts her: you up for bollywood night??
She replies: Absolutely.
And so the two of them go to her flat and watch cheesy Indian films with plenty of popcorn. Jamison makes pancakes (“Pikelets, actually—oh, you’re gonna love ‘em!”), because why the hell not? They’re venting, right? That’s what tonight is for.
And it feels… natural. He picks at the pancakes on the plate in his lap and mops each bite in syrup, and he offers his fork to her with a waggle of his bushy eyebrows. Amused, Satya indulges. She finds that she adores how they taste (he must add both cinnamon and vanilla, she thinks; they’re delectably sweet) and she steals more than just another bite, much to his pleasure. He cranes an arm across the couch behind her, watching the television screen with an enthused countenance, and she leans against his side, full and content.
And—it dawns on her, belatedly, that he has acted more like a significant other to her than any of her prior relationships had. His silly grins and jokes and puns are a delight, and he drops anything for her without a second thought. He listens to her complaints and he offers advice (no matter how ridiculous) if she asks for it. His company is something of a comfort, and she can’t remember the last time she’d felt this calm in someone else’s presence.
As the couple on screen begins to sing in the midst of an intricate dance, she accepts another bite of pancake and says, “You are good to me.”
He pauses, and it’s clear he’s confused because his jaw does this thing where it slants just slightly while he’s thinking. “Do you not want me to be? I could scream and call you names, if you want. I know quite a few.”
“I’m certain you do, but that won’t be necessary,” she says. Gently, she rests her head against his shoulder. “It is just an observation. That’s all.”
“Observation?” He pops another slice of pancake into his mouth. “Uh, should I be worried? I know tonight’s been rough, but that sounds a little too serious.”
“Perhaps it is.” She finds herself resisting the urge to hold his hand. “I think rough night may be an understatement. It has been more of a rough year.”
“Too right.” He offers a grin. “Might not be much, but this makes it better, yeah?”
She returns it. “A little.”
The night wears on, and it isn’t long before the two of them fall asleep on the couch watching queued films. Satya wakes curled up against him; he has his arm around her and he’s snoring against the cushion, blond hair mussed, peaceful and perfect. Her heart is traitorous and stupid and does a little skip, and all she can think is oh no because she knows exactly what that means.
She also knows she must wake him because it’s past midnight and he has work in the morning, but when she tries to move he just—he makes this soft, murmured noise of protest, and brings her closer into the heat of his body. And perhaps it’s selfish of her (it is, she knows it is), but he feels so good and warm that she doesn’t want to move.
A while longer, she tells herself, nestling against his collarbone. Just a while longer.
Eventually, she gathers both the courage and the willpower to jostle him awake. The way he mumbles her name when he shakes off shackles of sleep should not sound so intimate, and yet it does.
“I was having a good dream, too,” he says, peeling himself away.
“What about?” The drum of her heart is deafening.
He bites his lip, the corner of his mouth in a sheepish smile. “Being happy, I guess.”
Jamison gets jealous once he realizes he’s caught feelings.
He lies awake in his bed at night, staring at the ceiling in a constant state of wracking indecision. His thoughts are a tumult of I need to tell herandI can’t stand her being with anyone elseandwhat if she doesn’t think of me like that?andwhat if she thinks us being mates is only ‘cause of how I feel?
And then, alarmed: oh, fuck me—what if I tell her and she doesn’t feel comfortable anymore? What if she wants space for a while ‘cause she finds it creepy?
It’s constant, endless, and he suffers in his insomnia. This leads to him working out in the dead of night because his brain is on overdrive and he can’t stop thinking about all the what ifs: what if she feels the same, what if she doesn’t, what if, what if, what if. Every bloody possible scenario plays out in his head—the good, the bad, and the impossible—and he both loves and hates it because he gets to kiss her and see her smile but he also gets the cold shoulder and bristling glares. He barely gets any sleep; headaches dominate his mornings and he practically has an IV for coffee.
When she taps him on the shoulder one day, he about jumps out of his skin.
Satya frowns in concern. “Are you all right?”
“Yeah, yeah, I’m fine, why?” he replies, although it sounds much more like a mashed together yeahyeah’mfinewhy with the sheer force in which it leaves his mouth—and while he supposes he should be conscious of volume (because they’re on a street corner outside his favorite tea shop and people are staring), he has precious little control over any of him right now.
“Are you sure? You are shaking considerably more than usual,” she says, and the way she looks at him implies she is not convinced. He doesn’t blame her; he wouldn’t be convinced, either.
“No, really, I’m fine,” he says, and it’s mashed together again: noreally’mfine. “It’s fine. Promise! Everything’s fine.”
Everything is not fine.
Jamison ends up trying to forget about it by throwing himself into his hobbies and his job. Nothing cheers him up like tinkering and working with chemical compounds always draws his attention, but not even that works. He’s bloody hopeless, and no matter how many dates he goes on, he can’t keep his mind away.
One night, his new date is clearly interested in escalating things in the physical department, but he is absolutely not feeling it. His brain is preoccupied with other things, things he really does not want to admit to himself, and so he makes some lame excuse because he just knows if he tries to continue this it’s going to turn out terribly for both him and said date, and surely it’s better to spare them a disappointing time, right?
That’s what he tells himself as he brushes them off and heads home, heart twisting, wondering if she’s happy.
Is it really that horrible of him to hope she won’t give the person she’s seeing a fair chance? She deserves the world and he wants nothing more than to see her happy, but god it hurts so much to see her with someone else, even if it is only holding hands, and it’s unfair because—
Becausehe wants to do that. He wants that privilege. He wants to be able to lace his fingers through hers and walk with her downtown and take her to one of her favorite shops. And it’s bloody stupid because she’s all he can think about now: her cheekbones, her nose, her chin, her mouth, all of her little beauty marks, her wide hips, her dynamite legs, and even her perfectly manicured nails. While it’s true he frequently thought about her before, it’s nowhere near how it is now, and now it’s—
God, it’s fucking constant. Always. She latches onto every thought like she’s lint from the dryer and he’s a static struck mess.
Satya’s jealousy is much more subtle, and she deals with it far better. It burns, of course, as jealousy always does, but she mashes it down and focuses on work and goes to her Bharatanatyam practices and tries to ignore the people he shows up with because if she doesn’t it will hurt.
The yoga class she attends with him twice a week is equal parts excitement and dread because she gets to see him and talk with him (and admire how he’s built) but she also gets to hear about what he’s up to, and that inevitably includes his love life because that’s how they are, that’s their friendship; it’s candidness and comfort and long nights spent idly watching Netflix and chatting about their lives because neither of them can bloody sleep.
But when they’re getting tea after the session, she just grins and bears it, and it might be terrible of her but she secretly takes pleasure in the fact that he isn’t actively pursuing commitments with anyone—not that she relishes the thought of him hooking up with randoms (because she wants him to want her for that).
(Addendum: no, she doesn’t want him to want her for meaningless hookups because that would never be enough and she knows it. She wants him to want her for more, and that somehow—hurts? She isn’t his type. That hurts, too.)
Satya goes on dates with others to keep herself busy, but they never quite feel right. Learning new people is so exhausting and going to new places is a chore, especially when she can’t always look at the menu beforehand, and so more often than not she finds herself feeling sour when she leaves her flat. Not to mention the awkward breaking-the-ice phase always lasts so bloody long; everyone makes boring smalltalk and sometimes the restaurants are too crowded and noisy (so much clamor; so many colors and bodies and things) and she can’t hear what is happening. Unfortunately for her, lipreading does not tend to go well.
She checks her messages on dating apps because trying to communicate via text is sometimes better than it is in person, but it doesn’t stop her from getting frustrated and drained because she would much rather go to a quiet place with him or have a cup of boba on a rooftop overlooking the cityscape. She leaves most invitations and cheesy pickup lines on read; they require so much more of her than she is willing to relinquish.
Oh, but when he texts her? She must stop herself from replying immediately like she hasn’t been waiting for a message from him since this morning. Patience, patience—she has other things to do. She can’t let herself revolve around him. She can’t. It’s unhealthy. He’s a friend.
But when he asks if she wants to have takeaway at his because he’s on his way home and he’s half starved, she sends, “That sounds perfect,” and jumps to get ready.
(She can’t be in love with him, but she can love him. She tells herself there’s a distinction, and she tries her best to believe it. She loves him. She is not in love with him. You can love friends.)
(She is in love.)
Satya reassures him when his mechanic job goes south. The shop is closing, he says; some big place on the other side of the city is running them out. She knows he’s upset because he’s worked there for years, for his entire time throughout uni and well afterward. She knows he has friends there and the owners might as well be family. She knows it hurts.
She texts: Why don’t you try applying to positions in your field? You are an intelligent person. I think you would make a brilliant engineer.
He replies: idk, it’s been a while since uni and if you don’t get in right away it’s a bitch to get ur foot in the door
And then: only got 1 foot anyway lol
She texts: Then you clearly have a leg up on the competition don’t you? All of them have two.
He replies: you just made me laugh in mako’s ear!! oh he’s none too pleased
And then: preciate it tho x
Later that week, after a great deal of wheedling, they end up going to a pub with the rest of their mutual friends. It starts out as a really bad night. Jamison doesn’t have any jobs lined up despite his desperate search, and Satya is dealing with intense burnout from work. Emotions are a little raw.
In the midst of her second drink, Satya asks him if he’s doing okay. His gaze darts to the bar countertop and he seems to crumple in on himself. He holds his head in his hands tells her no, he’s not; he’s between a rock and a hard place and he doesn’t even know if he’s going to be able to afford rent this upcoming month.
Jamison scrubs his cheeks with his hands and then downs a shot. He makes a scrunched face at the taste, but he looks back at her and manages a carefree smile. He says he’ll be fine. He will. It’s just not been a very good week is all. Ups and downs, you know. Right, so, what about her? What’s she been up to?
And so she vents about the management in her company and how she dislikes how they’re handling things. She talks about her misgivings concerning their approach to their client base and how she’s starting to think there may be some sort of dodgy dealings under the table, but she cannot prove anything. It frustrates her because she likes to think they’re helping the community, but she has a sneaking suspicion that isn’t the case, and she can’t do anything about it.
But at the end, she turns the conversation back to him, and says, “I can give you money for rent,” because she can. She wants to help. She will. She won’t take no for an answer.
Jamison seems rather flustered and his ears grow charmingly pink. He mumbles something about how she shouldn’t go out of her way to help him because—Christ, he can’t just hit her up for money like that, he’s got class—well, sort of. He’s not perfect.
But she says, “Let me help you. We’re friends, aren’t we?”
(Oh, that little fact shouldn’t hurt.)
He sputters at her: yes, yes, of course they’re friends! He just—he feels terrible about taking cash like that because he can’t pay her back. He can’t even help her in return! He switches topics to maybe finding a cheaper place to live, he doesn’t mind scrimping for a while, not like he hasn’t done it before, but she stops him short.
“Have you thought about a roommate?”
He blinks. “Well, yeah, but it’s a little short notice, innit? Bit weird just barging in on someone you don’t know. Mako’s got his family to worry about, so can’t stay there. Already asked.”
She bites her lip. “I was referring to me.”
(It’s going to hurt with the people he might bring home, she knows, but he’s in a tough spot and she can’t bring herself to ignore it. She doesn’t like it when he hurts.)
Jamison’s brilliant amber eyes grow very wide. His left hand toys with the shot glass. “Are you—are you serious?”
“Very,” she says, and hopes she hasn’t offended him with the offer.
“At yours, yeah?” His face lights up. No worries needed, it seems.
“Of course,” she says. “I have a spare room that has been home to nothing storage boxes for a while now. You would be more than welcome.” (He has always been welcome.)
“D’you mean it?” he asks.
“I do,” she says.
A moment passes where he stares at her, quiet and still, the ambient lights above casting a warm glow through his unruly shocks of blond and across the sharp lineaments of his face and the freckles and birthmarks that scatter him over. He catches her gaze and holds it there, and it’s as if he’s looking at a star.
Without warning, he swivels on the barstool and crushes her in a hug. “Oh, you’re a real lifesaver!”
He’s so warm. Satya nestles into the crook of his neck and shoulder, inhaling the savory spice of his cologne. She lets her hands lace around the broad plane of his back and mesh into the fabric of his shirt.
And then, as if reality had sunken in at last, Jamison wrenches back, panicked. “Oh, I need to pack! Need to ask Mako for his ute, too, ‘cause my car ain’t gonna carry all that, ‘specially not the bloody mattress. Gotta grab boxes and a hell of a lot of tape, and—”
He pauses again—his thoughts must have routed in yet another direction—and he looks to her, brow furrowed, jaw set.
“I’m gonna pay you, all right? I will. Can’t do cash right now, bit stiff at present, but I can work! I’ll tidy up, do little improvement projects, fix stuff, you name it! Let no one say Jamison Fawkes won’t carry his weight.” His grin is contagious.
“I must admit I’m a little wary about improvement projects,” she says, an eyebrow raised.
He huffs a theatrical gasp in mock-hurt. “Oi, I know my way around a spanner. I helped fix up Mako’s place when he moved in! Hard yakka, but worth it in the end. Better than hiring some dipstick who don’t know any better.”
She stifles a laugh. “And you do?”
“Too right I do! Tell you what: first week, I’ll have that leaky faucet in the kitchen fixed. That’ll be my rent ‘til I can get you some dinero.”
“There is a leaky faucet?” This is news to her.
“Uh, yes?” He taps the empty shot glass against his chin in thought. “Or was it the toilet? Can’t remember. Ah, well. I’ll fix something. Promise! Gotta prove me worth somehow, eh?”
“You don’t need to prove your worth,” she says, and her heart aches at the thought. “You are worth plenty already.”
“Sweet of you to say, darl,” he says with a simper. His ears are still pink. “Next week’s looking up already, innit?”
Satya certainly hopes so, because she wholeheartedly agrees.
Moving day is hectic. Satya drives to his flat to help with boxes only to find Jamison and Mako halfway finished loading up the truck. He greets her drenched in sweat while Mako raises a giant hand in salutation.
Jamison somehow has both more things and less things than she had imagined:
A full-size mattress, a rubbish bag’s worth of clothes, a coffee maker (she isn’t surprised), three tool boxes, a handful of dishes (mugs included), a few holiday decorations (from his mum when she was alive, he explains), miscellaneous free weights (tenners, fifteens, and a single twenty), a kettlebell, his half-finished projects, and an extra (very old, he says) prosthetic arm. There are also various art supplies (pens, pencils, faded notebooks, an entire collection of erasers), the strips of gauze and other covers for his amputated limbs, a couple bottles of nail polish (“Takes half the time, y’know! Only got one of each!”), a pair of very expensive headphones, and a shabby laptop with one of his signature smiley stickers on its lid. A signed cricket bat (“Gotta support the lads back home!”) is one of the last items to stow away save for lingering things in his fridge and pantry.
When she asks about the scant furniture, he shakes his head and gives the dilapidated sofa and recliner set a dismissive wave. “Nah. We’ll chuck it. You got better stuff, anyway.”
The first night of Jamison in her flat is… perfect? It’s bizarre.
Mako stays for Chinese takeaway (“I really owe you one, mate”) before leaving, and then it’s just the two of them, exhausted and sore, Jamison flopped on the floor while she lies on the couch.
“Oi.” He rolls onto his back and gives her foot a nudge with his prosthetic leg. “Just wanted to let you know, I really appreciate this. I know it’s sudden and all, but…” He gives his broad shoulders a shrug. “Means a lot.”
She nudges his leg back. “Think nothing of it.”
The night is finished with one of his favorite action films. He uses her shower (“Much better!”) before sprawling out on the couch with her in a set of too-small ratty pajamas, prosthetic leg removed, sleep circling like vultures beneath his eyes. Satya dozes across from him, her legs tucked just over his hip for comfort. The film’s plot and dialogue blur into indiscernible noise; the warmth of him is too good, too addicting, and it seeps into her skin. It’s selfish of her, but she wants nothing more than to bottle this moment and all its palpable contentment so that she might drink it in whenever she pleases.
A shift of movement under her legs captures her attention. Satya opens one eye to see him grinning at her from the other side of the couch, his eyes half shuttered in fatigue. He gives her a dainty wave, and she can almost hear his cheeky salutation: g’day.
This is good for her. It is.
Satya returns the wave, unable to resist a smile.
