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Every week on Thursday mornings, it was the same routine for Strong Bad. He'd wake up half way off of the couch to his 10 AM alarm. It was his only alarm really, he never got up early for much else. He would stumble to the washroom, and have an uncharacteristically perceptive staring contest in the mirror with himself. He had become accustomed to how he looked, well obviously, being y'know, himself. But it was often easy to forget that he hadn't always had facial hair. His transition was gradual, and to the point where he almost couldn't recall ever being a chick in the first place. It felt odd to reflect on childhood years and remember being a girl scout--albeit, not a very girly one. (Sadly for him, making improvised explosives wasn't a merit badge, and he never lasted long in the program anyways.)
He hadn't always had a voice that brash or shoulders that broad, and he certainly never had chest hair. He was, however, of the same height and short stature that he had lived with, and was well aware of that fact. Strong Bad never took the time of day to think about anything regarding his transition- so when it was brought to his attention, he occasionally surprised himself with how far he had come. He looked himself over in the mirror and felt somewhat satisfied that he barely resembled what he had prior.
Open alcohol wipes, sterilize area 2 1/2 inches from navel, unwrap syringe and needle.
At this point, it had almost been second nature for years. Every Thursday he had gotten up earlier than he usually would to occupy the washroom for a bit. He hated waking up any earlier than noon, but it beat fighting Strong Mad for the shower. The worst part about losing wouldn't be the pummeling, but rather the grodiliated condition of the bathroom after he used it. Plus, it always took a while for him to force Strong Sad into cleaning up the mess, so he'd have to wait a while. Stupid.
Uncap vial, sterilize vial, screw 18g needle onto syringe, take needle cap off.
Needle caps always got to him. For some reason, every few needle caps was just super-glued to the needle, and the force needed to remove it meant risking stabbing your hand and ruining a good needle. This had happened a non zero amount of times throughout the years. He always made sure he had an extra needle or syringe, because if one wasn't budging, he opted not to gamble on it NOT stabbing him through the glove. If he didn't have a spare needle, welp, he just had to hope the one he was using would work smoothly.
Plunge 18g needle into vial, turn vial upside down, carefully draw correct amount of dosage.
Sometimes it was difficult to draw up the correct amount of testosterone, because the 1ml syringes required were just so small. The markings on the vial were so incredibly tiny that Strong Bad had to squint his eyes to read them. If he took too much on accident, while it didn't mess with his hormones much, it made it so he would run out of testosterone before he could pick up another prescription. Going cold turkey on testosterone was not for the weak, that's for sure.
Tap syringe for air bubbles, put needle and vial cap back on, unscrew 18g needle and replace with 27g needle.
27g needles were tiny, and his were barely half an inch long due to primarily doing subcutaneous injections into his stomach fat. Regardless, it did not make the task any more appealing. When the wrestleman had first heard he needed to use "27 gauge needles", he imagined them to be a lot larger and sharper. He also imagined that self injections once a week would not be difficult in the slightest, and if anything, would be pretty badass. I mean, there's frequently band cover art involving needles being implemented in some fashion, and those always look sick. Junkies looked kinda cool with all them needles stickin' out of their arms, though he wasn't injecting this stuff into his veins. Additionally, how many other men get to say their puberty wasn't awkward because they planned it out? Like, none of the normal ones at least.
Gently push the plunger until a small drop is visible at the end of the needle, then hold the syringe in your hand like you would a pencil or dart.
Oh God.
Plunge the needle into your skin at a 45 or 90 degree angle, push the plunger until all of the medication is out, hold under skin for 15-20 seconds after injecting, carefully pull needle out.
This step occasionally became "stare at the needle and hold it barely above your skin for 15 minutes". He could often just get it done with and forget it, but when it DID get to him, it got him good. It was the same every time, he'd always end up psyching himself out, regardless of if his injection hurt at all the week prior. It usually didn't hurt at all, but the one or two times he had messed up and bled a little made it difficult to believe that. Often he just sat there and cursed at himself until he did it. This Thursday morning was no different.
-----
Strong Bad sat hunched over on top of the toilet lid, a pinch of stomach fat in one hand and a primed syringe in the other. By now, he had been staring between the needle and the injection site for long enough that the sweat on his hands (err, uh, boxing gloves) had deteriorated the markings on the cheap 1ml syringe. He sat and vividly recalled the feeling of the needle breaking his skin, and how it felt sitting in his fat. It's like it just replayed a billion times in his mind, and each time it was more graphic than the last. Whatever common sense he had left was promptly informing him of how obviously quick and painless injections were, but based on the fact that he had been sitting there for half an hour, he wasn't listening. His arms were beginning to cramp up from holding their stiff positions for so long.
"What the crap is my problem.." Strong Bad mumbled to himself seemingly countless times as he studied the needle. "It's not even that large-- I've done this so many times, the groddy old needle bin in my room is overflowing.."
Despite not being able to inject himself, he could not bring himself to put the needle down either. So in the meantime he just sat there in mental agony, and as much as he hated to think about it, he found himself thinking of stupid things Strong Sad often said. Y'know, all the hopeless stuff or whatever. Strong Bad hated having thoughts like that, because people who cry about stupid things like needles are lame. He wanted it to be over already, but it wasn't like when a nurse gives you a shot and you can look away or something, you have to be actively paying attention to self administer this stuff. (He was informed of this by his doctor, who expressedly prohibited preforming this action blindfolded, no matter how "dangeresque" it was).
Strong Bad clenched his teeth and took a deep breath, watching his chest rise and fall as he did so. His hands shook subtly, not like he had Parkinson's or anything, but they weren't still. He could hear his heartbeat in his ears and he could hear every drip from the sink faucet, like some douche bag neighbor was blasting music in the early hours of the morning. All he had to do was take the plunge and it would be over. All he had to do was man-up and do the thing.
Man up. Be a man. It's not even half an inch long.
And he didn't do it. Today he just couldn't get himself to do it, and that made him furious. So much for "being a man", he now just sat there and looked up at himself in the mirror. That was the result of all of his efforts. Debating with himself, attending numerous appointments throughout the years, all of those hard injection days, all for this. Just to look like some uncanny version of a man. It wasn't fair. He felt he was as much of a man mentally as other guys were, he had practically been like this his entire life. Family members had no qualms about him transitioning, they didn't even question it mostly. He was just a normal dude. But he had to try so hard, he had to suffer because he could never be a man in the way others were. Other men never had to get weird surgeries or wear compression binders to enjoy themselves. Ironically enough, he thought, despite all the effort and pain he had put into being masculine, it only made him more feminine. Wasn't working hard supposed to be a "gritty tough guy" thing?
As much as he bragged about the ladies, the truth is a woman would turn heel and run once they saw whatever he had between his legs, were they drunk enough to bring him home in the first place. And he had to live with this forever. It's not like he could have kids even if he wanted to, biologically at least. He didn't have much of a future as a man either, given that the average life expectancy for people in his shoes was about 35. He wished it weren't an issue in his life, because it was so trivial to have. At this point, he had looked natural enough at least that nobody made weird stares at him anymore, but he still felt wrong because his entire life he had been told repeatedly that he was. Nobody had to beat that into him anymore, because it was still there. All that was left for him to do now was sit around and wish he weren't so weird. He had two brothers, though he felt like Strong Sad was more of a girl than he was.
He wondered if any of them had noticed him silently yearning for what they so effortlessly have.
A distant clattering noise brought Strong Bad out of his mental spiraling. That was enough for him to snap out of whatever stupid jibber jabber he had been pondering. He muttered again and listened closer as he heard Homestar breaking into his house for the 4th time this week. How he attains the housekey, nobody knows. Many assume he just bribes Bubs, who apparently sells housewares along with all of the concerningly real organs and pay-per-view porno tapes at his Consession Stand.
"I'M HOOOMEE!!" Homestar yelled from the kitchen, not addressing anyone in particular. To him, he had just walked into an empty home, which was fine, he had planned on just making nachos or something.
"GO! AWAY!" Strong Bad yelled back from the bathroom, hoping he was within earshot. "YOU DON"T LIVE HERE, REMEMBER, DICKWEED?"
"Oh yeeeahhhh. wight." Homestar said, audibly digging through the kitchen shelves downstairs. "Why do you guys only have bwead and 7 month old mayonnaise?" Clearly, Homestar had discovered the fridge.
"SERIOUSLY. GO. AWAY!" Strong Bad yelled back, not wanting to get up and kick him out of the house himself, currently.
Homestar listened for where Strong Bad was in the house. He was eager to hang out with him for however long Strong Bad would tolerate it. Besides, he had nothing else to do, because Marzipan had kicked him out a week ago for getting cable TV installed for the house. According to Marzipan, the radio waves distress her plants and mess with her aura, whatever that meant.
Homestar walked up to the bathroom door. "Uh. Stwong Stwong," Homestar just stared at Strong Bad with his stupid blank expression that you'd expect from any brain dead lifeform." Why awe you pissing with the doow open? That's kind of weiwd. and gwoss."
"I'M NOT TAKING A PISS!" Strong Bad shouted at him, exasperated. "If I was, I wouldn't leave the DOOR OPEN or the TOILET SEAT DOWN, dipshit." He looked down at the syringe still in his hand and the vial of testosterone on the counter. "Just medical stuff, y'know."
Homestar looked at him for a second. "They'we letting you take flu shots at home now??" Homestar babbled. "Bubs just made me walk up and take it at his medical office; which is just uh, the back of the consession stand."
"No, you idiot, this isn't the flu vaccine--" Strong Bad wasn't exactly eager to explain himself. "It's just a prescription I gotta inject sometimes, man."
Homestar rolled his eyes like this was common sense. "Ohhhhhh wiightt. Yeaw I get you. I gotta do my Insulin like, thwee times a day."
Strong Bad never even realized Homestar was diabetic. He guessed Homestar just ate whatever he wanted and hoped nothing happened, based on how he ate when he was over. That would mean he would have to be pretty vigilant about his medication, then. Or maybe he just had the patch.
Strong Bad looked at the needle in hand, and then back at Homestar. "Do you, uh." He started abruptly. "Do you know anything about needles? Like, how to inject and all that?"
Homestar nodded, lifting his shirt a little to show a small bandaid where he had done an injection prior. "Yeaw dude, I mentioned this eawliew."
Strong Bad pretended not to care at all that he lifted his shirt up, and quickly composed himself.
"Cool, could you like.." He found it difficult to ask for such a stupid thing. He already knew how to do this stuff, he had done so for years. "Could you help me out with this one? I already got the correct amount of dosage in there n' crap."
"Alwight, don't see why not." Homestar agreed promptly, getting on his knees to assess the situation.
He carefully took the syringe from Strong Bad, determining what kind and how long it was. "Subcutaneous?"
Strong Bad nodded absently, finding it a little weird to hear Homestar correctly pronounce a moderately long word.
Homestar positioned his hands over Strong Bad, gently grasping the part of his stomach needed for the process. Strong Bad had...undisclosed feelings about this. He pretended not to notice. At least now, he didn't even have to look at this injection, but then again, it was Homestar. He'd trust Homestar to mess up something this simple any day of the week.
"If you fuck this up," Strong Bad glared down at Homestar. "I'm going to kill you."
"I'll count down fwom thwee, you'we going to feew a smaalll pinch." Homestar responded in what he thought was a soothing tone, holding the needle in his hands.
"I'M NOT FIVE, Homestar, I KNOW how this stuff wor--" The needle went in, and Homestar had not counted down from three. The injection was done before Strong Bad could even process it. Strong Bad looked down at the injection site.
"DUDE, you didn't even do the count down! Come on!"
"Yeaw, you'we not five yeaws old, Stwong Bad." Homestar said, capping the needles and disposing of them appropriately.
***(NEVER throw needles in the trash, folks).
Homestar tore off a small piece of toilet paper and wiped the singular blood droplet away. "Taddahhh!"
Strong Bad wanted Homestar to explode into a billion tiny pieces. For breaking into his house again, and for well, being annoying. But his injection was done for this week, and he didn't have to really do anything. Homestar didn't put up any fight either, or make fun of him for asking for help on such a basic task for them both.
He bit back his usual impulsive insult to Homestar, and almost maybe smiled. "..Thanks, man."
Homestar looked up at Strong Bad from the floor he was kneeling on, and smiled like an idiot who had won on Jeopardy. Though he had dimples that seemed to rival Shirley Temple, they complemented his rather boyish face in combination with his strong nose ridge and soft demeanor.
This made Strong Bad feel.
weird.
for some reason.
Thankfully, before Strong Bad could process any of those horrendous thoughts, Homestar got up and gave him some space.
"No pwoblem, Stwo-Bwo." Homestar's speech impediment is incredibly hard to take seriously, sometimes. "What awe youw plans fow today? Beat a video game? Leawn how to backflip? Estabwish a long standing union in StwongBadia to pwotect migwant fawmew wowkews?"
None of this was really Homestar's business. By now, Strong Bad would have most certainly told him to get lost, and maybe invest in speech therapy, because what on earth was he even trying to convey in that last part. I mean. Seriously. Against all good judgement, and against all that is holy and just in the universe, Strong Bad, in fact, did not tell him to get lost.
"Look man," Strong Bad said, studying Homestar's elated expression. "This 100% violates like, at LEAST 6 house rules I've established--"
"OOoooooohh, webewllious..."
"SHUT UP" Strong Bad made a threatening motion with his arm. Homestar stepped back. " But, y'know, I've got a coupla' cold ones and a dusty pile of home movies sitting in the basement, if you'd like to hang out. We can prolly order pizza or something later, if The Cheat can manage to find enough change in the couch cushions and/or under Strong Sad's mattress."
If you took a picture and showed someone what Homestar's face looked like currently, they'd either say he was suffering a stroke or just had won 300 gazillion dollars. Not really wanting to freak out Strong Bad, he attempted, and minimally succeeded, to contain his excitement about finally being able to watch TV without Marzipan on his case about it all the time.
"In the meantime," Strong Bad continued. "we can do whatever it is you want to.. do. During the day. What do you even do all day, man?"
"Oh that's easy!" Homestar replied confidently. "I check all my emails, feed The Cheat, wuin Homestaw's day, and play 3.5" floppies on my ancient computew!"
Strong Bad couldn't believe he was asking THIS GUY what he wanted to do for the day. He stared at Homestar blankly.
"Oooooh wight, sowwy. That's you." Homestar said, after a few grating moments of silence. "I don't know, I used to just follow Mawzipan awound all day when I wasn't wunning or anything. She's kinda mad at me wight now, though."
"Clearly, I shouldn't have asked you." Strong Bad sighed, rolling his eyes as he did so.
He was going to have to take matters into his own gloves. The wrestleman looked at Homestar with a small gleam in his eyes. "Look man, I think you were onto something somewhere around the lines of "ruin Homestar's day", and "harass Marzipan."
Homestar cocked his head to the side, conveying he might have been too dumb to connect the dots. Strong Bad tried again.
" I mean, let's go out and prank people, man! Unless you can think of something better than dropping a comically large anvil on the King of Town."
"I don't knoww.." Homestar began cautiously. "That sounds a little, diswespectful."
"Oh yeah, and I'm real concerned about my public character at this point." Strong Bad reminded. "Come on, man. Nobody has ever died from a good 'ole 'pelted with hundreds o' water balloons filled wiith acid' schtick."
" I guess..." Homestar smiled back at his friend, begrudgingly.
Strong Bad considered his options, resting his glove on his chin. Almost everything he could cook up revolved around harassing Homestar in some fashion. It just really didn't hit the same, watching Strong Sad trip down a flight of stairs compared to watching Homestar fall flat on his stupid face. Scratch that- both were amusing. But it felt like gallivanting around with Homestar wouldn't do much for his style, or lack thereof.
"Fine, you win, asshat." Strong bad sighed, "Let's go watch a movie."
Grinning ear to ear, following Strong Bad down the stairs and into the basement, Homestar felt honored to bask in the majesty of this room. The outdated orange 70's couch was soft enough to leave a permanent imprint when you sat on it, but hard enough to use as a weapon when slamming your younger sibling into it. Many stitches and eventually duct tape were what was keeping this thing together. Within the cushions, ancient artifacts and occasional pocket change were abundant. One time, Homestar had found an old crumpled up picture of one of the guys from Limozeen, with hearts scribbled all over it. Though Strong Bad denies any allegations, Strong Sad seems to recall when SB thought they were all girls, and had a crush on the lead guitarist.
Adjacent to the dilapidated old couch, there were various boxes of home media. Old CDs, cassettes, and many, many informational documentaries on VHS. The real good stuff, like the action movies, the horror thrillers, and the illegal tapings of pay-per-view public broadcasting wrestling matches went on a shelf next to the TV. The television was the real star of the room. Screw the mini fridge, Trogdor arcade game, or weird stain people think might be Jesus manifesting himself in the ceiling, the TV made that house a home.
An astounding 25" viewable screen, with the whole system being 3 feet wide, of course. The antennas on top always picked up the best signals and the color screen was the highest pinnacle technology, circa 1979. The VCR on top only added to its glorious magnitude, as well as probably made the whole thing another 30 pounds heavier. If this monster of a TV setup managed to fall on you, you would die instantly, which is why it is placed on a carpeted floor. Whenever Homestar was allowed to come over, he always sat on the carpet. He'd sit with his legs curled up, leaned up against the couch, but never on the couch with Strong Bad.
But as Strong Bad grabbed a big 'ole box of random movies and cassettes, he invited Homestar to sit down with him and go through the box together. Homestar pretended to not be excited about that either. The two of them dug through boxes of dusty stuff, which may not have been Homestar's favorite, but certainly was Strong Bad's.
"DUDEEE.." Strong Bad fished out an video cassette from the bottom of the box. "Have you SEEN this?"
Homestar looked blankly at the dingy copy of Robocop he was holding up.
"No, not weally."
Strong Bad's eyes went big, and you could see a plan formulating in the back of his mind through them.
"Well we've GOTTA watch it, then." He shuffled the box of stuff to the side, putting it over the arm of the couch and onto the floor.
Sliding the VHS out of it's sleeve, Strong Bad tried to get Homestar at least a little bit excited. "It's like-- a cop becomes a badass robot,, and he loses his memories but gets tragic flashbacks that lead him into solving a mystery--"
Homestar closely watched how Strong Bad's eyes flashed between him and the tape as he went on and on about the movie. It had been a while since Strong Bad was this excited about anything, really, at least in front of him. At one point, he was acting out being the gritty evil crime boss, grabbing Homestar by his shirt and threatening him with a non-existent gun. It wasn't anything to go crazy for, just an old movie, but Homestar was beginning to feel this thrill too. Maybe he was just that enthusiastic to watch some robot shoot a guy.
By the time the movie had been slid into the VCR with a nice ca-chunk sound, and rewound because some loser didn't bother to rewind it, they had both been eerily close to one another on the couch. Maybe it was Strong Bad's never having to share the couch, and Homestar's determination to not get kicked off of the couch, that made them accept their proximity for what it was. It was nothing weird, just Strong Bad's knee resting on Homestar's leg, or Homestar's hand resting against Strong Bad's. Homestar's thumb gently rubbing the back of Strong Bad's glove, and Strong Bad's glove sitting between Homestar's inner thighs. Nothing weird.
"Hey man-" Strong Bad started, yawning a little bit into his sentence. "I totally forgot to get us pizza, but I've seen this movie a few times already. I'll go call."
Homestar nodded, and promptly removed himself from Strong Bad as he stood up. He continued to watch the screen, pretending to be lost in the movie. It looked like Strong Bad had really wanted him to like this film, so he tried his best to become invested. It's not like it was a bad movie at all, every action scene was incredibly well done and the stop-motion robot really put the cherry on top. But Homestar just couldn't pay attention to the movie long enough to grasp any sort of plot line. He had been too busy analyzing how his best friend's glove felt when he had it in his reach, or too distracted by how Strong Bad laughed at every single needlessly violent explosion. When Strong Bad had left, all he could do was stare at the screen and try to guess what was happening. The basement felt empty.
It was only when Strong Bad got up to order pizza when he realized how comfortable he had been sitting next to Homestar on the couch. Well, it was only natural, he reasoned with himself. Homestar was a lot larger than he was- though he was slimmer, he was a great deal taller. It would have been impossible to not contact him on a couch as small as his own. As he climbed up the stairs to use the phone, his body felt frigid, like it was lacking something. It was like leaving the warmth of your bed in the middle of the night because you have to piss. He had never felt so at home in his own body as when he had been curled up against Homestar.
Ew.
Immediately, he dismissed this thought due to how incredibly gay it sounded.
He shuffled into the living room and took the phone off of the wall, dialing in the pizza place. The Cheat had left an assortment of coins and crumpled up bills on the counter, thankfully. Strong Bad noted that he had to give him more "Cheat Points" for that later.
After being told the estimated arrival of 25 minutes, Strong bad went downstairs and grabbed two cold ones from the mini fridge.
"It'll be a bit before the pizza gets here," Strong Bad grunted as he sat down on the couch and handed Homestar a bottle. "Whaddya' think so far?"
Homestar stared imperturbably at Strong Bad. He made a face like he was thinking of some convoluted awnser.
"Like, the movie? How is it?"
"Oooh wight. Yeah. It's gweat." Homestar opened the bottle with his shirt around his hand to increase grip, and then took a swig. "Gweat."
They both sat in silence and took tentative slugs from their beers. Robocop had continued to boistriously play on the television. Robocop was currently going around town, efficently and emotionlessly solving crime faster than the human police officers. A gas station blows up on screen, prompting Strong Bad to laugh yet again at innocent civilians dying. He threw his head back, his hair falling around the couch and Homestar's shoulder. They had yet again sat so close to one another that Homestar could have easily brushed this away, but he didn't. He finished his beer, looking to the bottom of the glass to find any amount of confidence they could've crammed in there to allow him to say what he wanted to. To allow him to mumble anything at all.
Instead, he silently moved his hand to grasp Strong Bad's.
After a long moment, he felt Strong Bad return the gesture. They still hadn't looked eachother in the eyes, they were still staring at the screen.
"Homestar?" Welp. Here it came. The whole, "blatant denial" sorta thing.
"Thanks for, you know, helping me earlier." Strong Bad finally faced toward Homestar. "You know how it is with self-injections sometimes."
Homestar smiled at him in an attempt to laugh it off. Strong Bad had been pretty drunk at this point. Well, not really, but that's what he was planning on saying, "I'm drunk and my best friend smiles like a pretty girl." He felt the pit in his stomach get worse as he thought this. He knew that he was never going to be able to be honest about what he was. He wasn't able to tell Homestar how he felt when he broke up with Marzipan and crashed at his house. He couldn't say anything when Homestar would quietly hint at liking him, trying to get any reaction out of him. He was silent when Homestar had come to his door one night, and begged him to acknowledge anything.
It was better just to not say anything at all.
He looked back at the screen. Strong Bad still had his hand clasped around Homestar's. Tight.
He wanted to let go, but he couldn't get himself to. Homestar was still staring at Strong Bad, and he could feel his eyes burning into the side of his face. He knew what he wanted to do, but he just couldn't get himself to. All he had to do was finally take the plunge and these mental gymnastics would be over. He just had to man up and be honest with Homestar. He turned to meet his best friend's gaze. Oh God. There was those eyes again. The look on Homestar's face was a bitter reminder of all the times Strong Bad had ignored him, trying to save whatever dignity he had left. It was hard enough being transgender, he didn't need to be gay too.
"Look, man---"
He still couldn't say anything. He could once again hear his heartbeat in his ears. It was like everything he had shoved down about himself within the last decade was gathering at the back of his throat, but he just couldn't open his mouth to spit it out. But he couldn't continue swallowing it down either. For once, he wanted to say something. He wanted to just open up to Homestar, about how had felt, what he had gone through all these years, why he hadn't done anything but tell Homestar to get lost. He didn't care if it was stupid or girly to say things like that anymore, he just wanted it done and over with. But it felt like his throat had closed up and his lips were sealed.
So he did something instead.
Slowly, he left Homestar's grip and trailed his hands up his arms to his shoulders, pulling him closer. Homestar, having been lurched forward, rested his hands on either side of Strong Bad to maintain balance. His eyes slightly widened, and then fluttered closed as Strong Bad met his lips. It felt natural, like the millions of times he had replayed this thought in his head, yearning, had prepared him. But also, it hadn't. This wasn't like kissing a girl, it was different somehow. Emotionally, yes, but also in how Strong Bad's facial hair brushed up against Homestar's chin. As soon as he could process it, it was already over. They both just stared at eachother for a solid 30 seconds. Clearly, they had needed to talk about something, but now was not really the time for either of them.
Strong Bad's breathing was already heavy, like he was trying to keep himself from crying. He made an effort that there were no tears in his eyes, because crying was for losers, and because he didn't want Homestar to think he was sad or something. It was quite the opposite. He almost felt liberated. He was an adult now, who cares about what he does with his life? No one would be there to gang up on him after school or slam his head into the concrete. His parents most certainly didn't care anymore, they hadn't bothered to show up to anything important in the last 15 years. All that was holding him back was internalized shame, like that this was all inherently wrong, and he was disgusting for even thinking about it. He still felt gross with himself as he pulled Homestar closer, but at the same time, a small part of him somewhere was gratified.
Homestar was positioned over Strong Bad now, both of them leaned up against the arm of the couch. Taking a moment to process what they had just done, Strong Bad rested his glove idly on Homestar's shoulder, with a subtle newfound admiration of it's musculature. Though he had only been without it for but a minute, Strong Bad already missed feeling Homestar's lips on his own. This was an entirely new feeling for him- and one he now wondered how he could have ever lived without. He had denied himself any closure for so incredibly long, that he was almost desperate to make up the last two decades to the man currently straddling him, who looked down upon him with longing eyes.
He lightly tugged at the athlete's shoulder, and Homestar did not hesitate to read the intent. He leaned down to meet Strong Bad again, his gentle and sensible kisses becoming more passionate as he realized just how long he had been waiting to do this with him. Strong Bad's clutch on his shoulders began to become more desperate, his grip tightening as Homestar slipped him tongue. The sapidity of the beer coated their mouths like mildew as they continued, gasping for air between impetuous partings of their lips. Neither of them had quite intended on a make-out session, but it was surprisingly difficult for them to pull away from each other. Neither of them were quite skilled either; the casual viewer in the proverbial cuck chair would assume they were trying to kill each other. Robocop remained on nevertheless, nearing the end of the movie.
Strong Bad migrated his hands from Homestar's shoulders to his (delightfully curly) hair, his rash grip pulling Homestar toward him as they persisted ardently. In hindsight, that might have been a little bit aggressive, so Strong Bad opened his mouth to apologize.
Homestar did not look perturbed in the slighest; in fact, the experience rendered pleasurable for him. He emitted a soft groan as he gradually moved downward, leaving tender marks on Strong Bad's neck. This course of action resulted in Strong Bad making questionable noises, in which he would only describe as "manly grunts" if asked. Homestar tried really hard not to laugh at this. Strong Bad could barely believe he was making out with this loser.
He kissed tumultuously and eagerly along Strong Bad's collar bone, admiring how his chest would rise and fall with each contact. He had admired a lot about Strong Bad, a lot that Strong Bad probably didn't see in himself. He admired his chest in particular, the top surgeon really had done a good job. Well, a good job as far as cheap-as-free surgery goes. Everyone knows that Bubs charges two arms and your first born child for any service that's remotely medical. This looked like the craftsmanship of local anesthesia and The Cheat with a pocket knife. Homestar paid no attention to the faded surgery scars, in the opposite of usual fan ficition fashion, because he felt that the trope was overused.
He continued to passionately cover Strong Bad in hickies. Homestar had no trouble believing the baseless claims that Strong Bad made about "how many ladies were 'all up ons' him for his handsomeness". For Homestar, it was obvious how appealing Strong Bad was. It might not have been that way for the aforementioned ladies. Welp, more for him, I guess.
Strong Bad didn't exactly know what to do with himself. At this point, Homestar had him up against the couch, only really able to make questionable noises and grip Homestar's hair. The way he had been holding onto him and kissing him desperately, almost worshiping every inch of his body, did wonders for Strong Bad's ego as you can imagine, as well as arouse him immensely. Every soft mutter and tighter grip from Homestar only made this worse. As much as he wanted to be in control of the situation, he kind of liked this feeling. Strong Bad's "manly grunting" had quickly developed into stifled whimpers as he felt Homestar's lips gradually trek down his chest, along his happy trail. He felt helpless, but in an erotic way.
Clearly, this was going somewhere. If he wanted to, it would have been totally reasonable to request he stop there, as they hadn't even kissed before half an hour ago. But Strong Bad felt like that was unneeded. As it turned out, he had wanted this for so incredibly long, that he almost yearned for Homestar to go that far. By the looks of it, that feeling was shared mutually by Homestar.
Oh crap.
Half an hour ago.
The pizza.
As if fate was reading his mind, the doorbell rang shortly thereafter.
"Crap-" Strong Bad snapped out of his dazed state. "I had completely forgotten about the pizza-"
Homestar came to as well, removing himself from Strong Bad and stretching. "You'd bettew go get it, then."
Strong Bad looked down at himself, bruises already beginning to form in areas he'd rather not show to the pizza guy. He touched his hand to some of them, they didn't hurt at least. They kind of felt like a reward, in a twisted sorta way. He liked how it felt to have them.
"Uh. no." Strong Bad replied, staring blatantly at Homestar until he got the message. It took Homestar an embarrassingly long time to receive said message.
"Oooohhhh, alwight."
Homestar got up and went upstairs to the kitchen. He grabbed the change on the counter and opened the front door.
"That'll be 15 dollas!" said Not Bubs in a mustache and glasses.
Homestar put a wadded up five, 30 quarters, 1 nickel, and 245 pennies in Not Bub's open hand.
Definitely Not Bubs in a mustache swiftly handed him the pizza. "Thanks fo' nothin!"
Homestar, after recieving the pizza, made his way back downstairs.
Or, that was what he was supposed to do now. For a minute, but what felt like an hour, he stood with his feet planted in the kitchen, grasping the warm cardboard box in his hands. For perhaps the first time in his life, Homestar had to think about something more complicated than a track marathon.
How exactly was he supposed to go down there and just casually eat pizza with Strong Bad; what would he even say now? It wasn't like he expected Strong Bad to suddenly beat him up or anything, but he imagined it would be a little awkward. Neither of them had quite expressed anything like that toward each other until just now. Homestar certainly felt like he had been a little too eager to finally express himself to his friend, as things did escalate quite quickly. But then again, he had never felt anything like this before. Sure, he had been dating Marzipan off and on for about a decade, but the best "break-up anniversary" with Marzipan paled in comparison to watching a cheesy movie with Strong Bad. With Marzipan, it was almost like he made the logical decision (were that even possible for Homestar) to be with her. After all, she was the only chick in Free Country, USA. As the token dumb male athlete type character, he very much assumed that it was his rightful place, to be next to the flowery hippie girl. She was nice, yeah, but with Strong Bad it felt different somehow. He didn't feel like it was the "smart decision" to get with Strong Bad, but he was compelled nevertheless, and something in that was fascinating. It was thrilling, like your first time sneaking out after dark, or your first time under the bleachers with some girl at the homecoming game. He thought a little about his responsibilities as a respected athlete. The coach probably wouldn't advise this behavior.
The desire was perplexingly alien to himself; to want somebody as much as he wanted Strong Bad.
Shaking off any semblance of a complex thought in his mind, Homestar finally went down the stairs.
As he approached the basement entryway, he watched Strong Bad fiddle with the VCR. The movie had ended in the time it took for them to watch it, forget to order pizza, and then finally get the pizza. Now he had to stick the rewind button just right so that the movie would automatically rewind itself, instead of having to sit there with his glove on the rewind button. The basement was silent, but the aggressive whirring from the tape filled its space.
"Pizza!" Homestar decided it was finally time to enter the room normally, pizza box in hand.
"Sweet." Strong Bad said almost absentmindedly as he continued to attempt in jamming the rewind button.
Homestar sat down on the couch, placing the pizza box adjacent to himself. He felt almost on edge. It was a possibility that Strong Bad was just going to ignore this, as he had prior instances of Homestar embarrassing himself like that. It was different this time, though, it was mutual. Anyone with half a brain would acknowledge what just happened between them, but it worried him that Strong Bad looked as if he wouldn't.
Strong Bad got up from kneeling at the VCR and sat down on the couch next to Homestar with a satisfied grunt, having achieved the task of making an ancient VCR as convenient as a new one. He conveyed the statement "sweet" again, though this time with more enthusiasm, as pertaining to the pizza. He opened the box, and they both took out a slice.
"Stwong Bad?" Homestar decided it was his job to say something, anything.
"Hm?" Strong Bad looked up from his cheese and god-knows-what-else pizza.
Homestar thought about how Strong Bad could have felt, because it would probably be difficult to talk about anything that occurred that rashly. A lot of it was more heat of the moment than it was calculated thought.
"Was any of that..like, did you weally mean it?" Obviously, Homestar wasn't great at articulating anything here. All he could do was just stare at Strong Bad with a tense look that meant he was ready for him to deny it again.
Strong Bad put his pizza down, back into the box. (gross)
"Oh, dude.."
Strong Bad had to actually be real about how he felt, which he wasn't exactly the greatest at. To be frank, he hadn't experienced anything even remotely as exciting as the excursion they just had. There was always at least 4 layers of irony in anything he said. Looking at Homestar, he really, really didn't want to repeat the past again. He swallowed his "cool guy" pride and, at least tried to, be honest with himself. He also finished swallowing a bite of pizza.
"I mean," Strong Bad started, looking back at Homestar like he was stupid (er than usual). "Why wouldn't I? There was like, mouth on mouth action, man." He chuckled at his own retort.
There. He could get it out without getting real gay about it. Dad would've been proud.
Homestar nodded promptly, having recieved the bare minimum answer he was looking for.
For a moment, they both just sat there and ate their slices. This pizza was not worth the 15 bucks it cost. It somehow managed to have the stiff, flavorless-ness of cardboard, while soaking in so much grease it sank through the pizza box and stained the couch. Welp, it's not like the couch was in any danger of getting any MORE stained, it looked like a public art installation already. The depressing texture of the pizza was reflected in the dismal grease spot it left on the cushions. Strong Bad saw Homestar take notice of this.
"Y'know," He sighed. "This isn't even the worst of 'em. If you look in the corner over there, behind the shelf, there's still a puke stain from when I made Strong Sad vomit up the pennies I force fed him."
Homestar giggled awkwardly at the story. How relatable? I guess..? He wouldn't really put this kind of behavior above middle child nuisance Strong Bad. Upon further inspection, the stain was still quite visible.
"Like, it took weeks of vacuuming, bleaching, everything, man." Strong Bad continued. "Nothing worked. It remains there until someone replaces this godforsaken 70's carpet."
-----
The pizza box was discarded of eventually, and a 'nother round of cold ones soon took it's place. The basement was dark, the only thing glowing being the clock on the VCR. The pale, blinking, green light softly illuminated Strong Bad and Homestar on the couch. They were tangled in a fashion reminiscent of the pile of laundry in your room, one that would look like a creepy figure while you were trying to go to sleep at night. They were far from being asleep however, both of them far too enamored in each other to lose consciousness. Homestar lie stretched out on the sofa, his head resting on the arm of it. Against his chest, Strong Bad lie almost face down, his head resting just under Homestar's chin. He had wrapped his arms tightly around Homestar's torso, as if he was attempting to stop him from falling off of the couch, not that he was in any danger of it. He clung to him as if he were an estranged koala. The weight of Strong Bad on top of his body was a satisfying feeling for Homestar. Much like how many autistic people find weighted blankets comfortable, Homestar was considering having Strong Bad for the job.
As he held him, continuously but gently rubbing his thumb against Strong Bad's shoulder, he studied his breathing carefully. Strong Bad's breathing patterns had, for lack of a more accurate phrase, become his own. They had been chest to chest for quite some time now. Strong Bad, on the other hand, had never experienced anything even slightly like this. Despite the seemingly endless string of "for sure real ladies" coming over to his house, he hadn't really been this intimate with anything before. Even Homestar's breath against his neck prior was more of an individual pleasure, rather than a mutual one. He lay there, breathing, with his eyes fixated on the VCR clock across from him.
The warmth radiating from Homestar's skin was matched with his own, as Homestar had taken off his shirt earlier. Usually, he would have had more conflicting feelings about this. He might have felt aroused in some fashion. He might have felt repressed jealousy for Homestar, as he never had to go under the knife to have that privilege. But he didn't feel any of those things. He just felt at home. It was like getting under your bed covers after trudging around all day, exhausted but content. The longer they lie skin to skin with one another, the more it felt like they were sinking together, into one train of consciousness. The more it felt like they had both needed something like this.
"Dude," Homestar whispered faintly, interrupting the hour long silence that had preluded it. "Stwong Bad."
Strong Bad moved his head slightly, a little surprised by the vibration in Homestar's throat as he spoke. "Hmmf?"
"I.. I weally enjoyed this, man. Like. I feel like.." Strong Bad stretched against Homestar, yawning as he curled himself back up. He held him closer.
"I feel like I don't want this to stop hewe. I mean, I want to be with you tommowow, and the day aftew, and next week, y'know?" Homestar said this tentatively, hoping he wouldn't be running into this too fast, like he had done everything else. He was a terrific athlete, running to conclusions was in the job description.
Strong Bad grunted in, what seemed like, contented agreement. Homestar moved his neck slightly to look down at him. It was almost difficult for him to process that Strong Bad was on him like this.
"I want.. I want to take you places, ow just sit awound at home with you. I want to play Snake Boxew Five with you, I want to help you find the cawtridge when you lose it... again."
Strong Bad was now fully awake and there. He took a breath, processing for a second just what he had gotten himself into.
He then kissed Homestar a little on the neck, causing him to stifle a giggle or two.
"Oh come on, I don't misplace it that often, man. Usually it's just in the pile of clothes I call my "bed". Strong Bad replied, indignantly. He could feel Homestar roll his eyes at this. "Don't roll your eyes at me, mister! I can't even count how many times I've had to help you in some elaborate scheme, just because you got Marzipan pissed over something."
They both snickered, and Homestar leaned down to meet Strong Bad's lips once more.
"I'll even help you do youw injections evewy week when you gotta." Homestar added, as in reference to his previous statement.
"Oh yeah," Strong Bad was reminded of this. Weird, he kind of felt like a normal dude just laying chest-to-chest with Homestar. "Thanks again, man."
Homestar shrugged. "No pwoblem, bwo."
"That's.. not an issue for you, is it?"
"What is, SB?"
"Y'know. The whole. Not being... born a dude thing." Strong Bad muttered, still struggling with the idea in his mind.
Homestar looked confused for a second. "No? Why, is it an issue fow you?"
Strong Bad took a long, hard look at himself currently. He was right where he wanted to be. There wasn't anything inherently weird or "unnatural" about himself, despite what he sometimes thought on bad days. From an outward perspective, he really didn't have it that rough. He was just some guy, and nobody was really going to question that. At this point, most of the struggle had been self inflicted. The narrative of his identity being an "issue" for people, which had plagued him for a while, had not turned out to be true in this situation. The deep, dark hole of "nobody will ever love me, because I am this way" had been dug with his own shovel. In reality, Homestar was too dumb to give a shit, and Strong Bad was too dumb to realize it. Homestar seemed to love him regardless. The only "issue" in this instance, was one he had expected to have himself.
"Nah." Strong Bad responded, after a second. He rested his head back down next to Homestar's neck. They were silent once more. The silence was not frigid, however; it covered them both like a warm blanket. At this point, it was late enough that it was reasonable to infer that they were quite tired. The clock blinked 01:24 over and over, the dim green lighting providing the slightest guidance for one trying to avoid tripping over things in the darkness. Homestar rested his eyes.
"Dude," now it was Strong Bad's turn to whisper faintly. Homestar begrudgingly opened an eye. "Don't go around tellin' nobody, but--"
Strong Bad's glove now rested on the side of Homestar's face, cupping it slightly. "I love you, man. I do."
Homestar had snapped out of any fatigue he had immediately. Once again, there was that idiot smile. That stupid, Jeopardy winning, smile. Strong Bad felt his stomach tighten as he saw this. Although this time around, he felt it physically too. The edges of Homestar's mouth curled up against his glove, which rested on his cheek. His eyebrows furrowed a little, and he held Strong Bad a little closer. It felt like there was so much they both wanted to say to each other, but there just wasn't enough time.
"OoooOOoo, hehe" taunted Homestar, clearly feeling a little more playful about this. "I'm tellin'."
"YOU WOULDN'T DARE!!" Strong Bad returned the favor, pretending to threaten him with these words. They shuffled with each other, Homestar now attempting to evade Strong Bad's grip.
"HEy wandom guy on the stweet-- " Homestar started, talking to someone who wasn't there, much to Strong Bad's dismay. "Guess WHat STWONG BAD told m--"
He was then muffled by Strong Bad, who kissed him to shut him up. Homestar pulled away, grinning ear to ear. "I'M TELLIN, I'M TEL--" Homestar began, but was playfully kissed once more.
Cushions were being knocked off of the couch by their insistent efforts to defy each other.
"Shut...up...now." Strong Bad breathed, between meetings of their mouths.
Grasping each other gently, although ardently, they persisted for some time. Homestar eventually parted, regaining his breath and laying back down. Strong Bad lie back down as well, laying at his side. For the third time this night, they just enjoyed each other's silence. They were curled around each other, both sunken into the couch. Some cushions remained on the couch, some didn't. Homestar's hair was in desperate need of a brush, though Strong Bad's hair wasn't much better. By now, they both were betting on the fact that nobody would walk into the basement in the morning. I mean, nobody really goes down there in the morn besides Strong Sad, when he wants to do this elusive and esoteric activity he calls,"using a washer and dryer".
Before either of them fell asleep, which happened shortly thereafter, Homestar looked down at Strong Bad, and admired him once more. He was a heavy weight against his chest, his eyes closed and his mouth slightly agape. His hair ran partially down his shoulders and back, the remainder being erratically strewn about Homestar's chest. Homestar whispered just loudly enough for Strong Bad to hear.
"I love you too, Stwong Bad."