Big Book Of Parvill One Shots

You Are Terrible [But You're Still My Best Friend] (S)

TW: Domestic Fluff, Chronic Pain, Alternate Universe

Work Text:

It was vicious, really, the way Strife's head was throbbing. It was aching, pounding, and he had only just filed his papers away. He'd stationed himself at the kitchen's island; beside his left hand, which had been slicing blue ink grooves into the paper, the warning tag wrapped around the cord of the blender snagged on a current and whipped silently, signaling the air conditioning unit's whirr to life. Chill settled over his body, though it wasn't uncomfortable. Earlier, when he'd put away the meager spread of dishes in the washer away, he'd wrenched every kitchen window open in a feeble attempt at escaping the hellish steam that the dishwasher had let escape. He scratched his head with his right hand, mostly to give it something to do, and looked over at the clock. He hadn't expected three hours to pass, not in the slightest, and as he peered from the now closed window at the setting sun, he realized just how much his eyes were starting to hurt. He could see a mixture of blue ink and black lines every time he closed his eyes, so he took that as his cue to finish up for the day and relax. He turned on the barstool and stood; as he rose, his bones stiffly creaked to life, creating a cacophony of cracks to fill the silence between his stretch and his sigh of relief.

At the present time, though, he knew that he hadn't much more time for himself. He'd have to dig deep inside himself for the resolve to face the beast that would soon reside in his apartment, or rather, their apartment. As he stepped to the coffeemaker and poured himself a mug of the now-cold coffee, he resigned to a sigh and a shake of the head. Even now, even after countless contretemps and degradation and the constant hum of another living being taking up space that Strife could have—and should have, in hindsight—been able to call his own, he didn't really feel all too much resentment toward the other inhabitant of his sad little residence. Not really. Mostly, especially when Parvis leaned too close or talked too loud, Strife felt a concoction of emotions comprised of one part resigned annoyance and two parts curiosity. He had never known someone so blunt or, to put it frankly, so jagged as Parvis. He was a lean, sharpened blade of a man who had developed a terrible habit of skyscraping over Strife at every chance he could. Maybe, Strife thought, he felt powerful staring down at him with the grin he wore, always a mix of urgent sincerity and impish delight. It made Strife feel quite vulnerable at his position but, if he was honest (as he often was on the subject of his roommate), he never felt malice in Parvis' gaze.

In any case, he brought himself out of contemplation on the grounds that the very same knife he had been thinking of had just bombarded through the door. Strife brought the cup of coffee to his lips quite urgently, realizing almost too late that the searing throb that he had pushed backburner would rear its head even more with another presence near.

"Strife!" came a voice from behind him, and suddenly Parvis was leaning over the sink to get a good look at him. "I didn't know you were home still!"

Strife let his expression relax. "I," Strife began, scrambling for an answer. "I had—I had a day off."

"Oh!" A moment later, more quietly, "oh."

Even if Strife wasn't able to analyze his expression from here, he knew Parvis felt pretty bad about barging in so loudly and proudly. It was rare that Strife got a day off, and even more rarely did he get a chance to enjoy it. He usually caught up on his own slack all day, chiding himself and working until he knew he would wreck his sleep schedule if he continued. In addition, Parvis had seen Strife at his worst, struggling to even stand in the mornings but still poring over paperwork until the early hours, having to limp downstairs due to broken elevator and smoke nearly a pack of cigarettes (which he never did) to keep from screaming or crying or quitting his job or something worse than the three of those combined. Parvis had even helped him, once, underload his overload when he had come home to find Strife curled up in the curve of the couch that Parvis had bought for them, face buried in his hands. Strife had dictated the necessary tasks while Parvis wrote, and when they had lessened the workload, Strife and Parvis had celebrated on that same couch, blankets piled around the pair now too exhausted to even move.