very fat guy

Reasons fat/chubby boys are gr8:

  • There’s no such thing as a bad hug
  • Big belly = Big pillow
  • Snuggling is really soft and warm
  • Pudge of all quantities is cute as fuck
  • Did I mention belly pillow
  • Stretch marks, which are beautiful and strong <3
  • Good at being both the big spoon or little spoon

Hey guys! This fic is inspired by Muse’s “Madness,” in case the title wasn’t a give away. My thanks to @madfatty, who is utterly invaluable and sticks with me even through my therapy pieces! Thank you, darling, for all your encouragement and support and gushing. Thanks also to @slitherouter, for the kick in the pants and the superb advice of “get a grip, it’s perfect.” Special thanks to @redprairielily, whose kind words definitely made a big difference to me. Thank you for the encouragement! 

It’s their third fight this month. The other two had been bad enough, but this one… Rae’d screamed at him, “It’s over!” where she’d stood framed in the hallway. He’d yelled back, “Great!” and slammed the door on his way out. The car door, too, for good measure.

It’s not really over, of course. It’s never really over between them. There’s always the apologies and the dance and the tension. The whole flat has been filled with tension for weeks now, creeping around like a sickly fog, clogging up otherwise normal stuff. It’d start as a conversation about dinner and end up with them both hungry, sulking in separate rooms, his head spinning as he tried to figure out how things had got so wildly out of control.

He’s got a place where he goes, when it gets to be too much. When he can’t stand the air in their flat, or the echoes, or the sight of her fucking closed door. Or her face, when it gets really bad. He’s there tonight, glad for the warmth of the engine seeping out from under the hood. He’s got his jacket, but the blanket he normally keeps in the boot is in the wash, and it’s really too cold to be sitting outside at midnight at the end of October. His ass is warm, and the backs of his thighs, but everything else is freezing. His nose is tingling already.

But the stars are bright here, and it helps to look at them and try to separate himself from his life. They used to come up here to make out back in college, when they were desperate for some time alone. He puts his palms flat on the hood so that the warmth will sink into them, into his bones. Maybe life is just a thousand different types of desperation all clawing at you to see which one will win.

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