Oh my God, people, I am so sorry it took me two months to update this! I had to finish "Blue Archangel" (one of my SPN fics, but it's all complete now!) and I had to go back for the last three weeks of deployment and everything's just been so hectic but HERE IT IS! It's basically all Eridan headcanon data dump, so I hope you like this asshole. I'm actually pleased with how this chapter turned out - I can visualize Cronus's apartment really well now! (Hopefully the next chapter won't take so long to update, although it shouldn't.)

Many thanks to Francesca, Zexionienzo, Azoroua, Moon made of Ink, Dougibot, and one guest for your reviews to Chapter 2, and thanks to everyone who's been so patient with me!


Eridan Ampora, as it turned out, was at that very moment half-asleep in the armchair of his douchebag older brother's living room. Cronus Ampora, three years Eridan's senior, was lighting up a cigarette and offering one to his younger brother, knowing full well that Eridan didn't smoke.

Sure enough, Eridan numbly shook his head and went back to drifting on a sea of near-unconsciousness, his fingertips lazily wearing down the cheap fabric of the grotesquely-patterned recliner he currently occupied.

Everything about Cronus's apartment was cheap and filthy (including, he liked to think, Cronus himself). The television in one corner was at least fifteen years old and had only the basic dish channels, and its box was covered in a thin layer of dust. The table that Cronus had his dirty sneakers kicked up on had scratches and dents and rings from coffee mugs, gouges from knives, paint from one of Eridan's own art projects gone awry, and a huge crack right in the middle from a hammer that one of Cronus's friends had swung in a fit of anger. The sofa had to be older than Eridan himself, with cushions that were permanently indented in the shape of his brother's ass and a few loose springs that dug into your back if you sat down in just the wrong way. There were cigarette burns and scoring from X-Acto knives on nearly every flat, solid surface in here, and every bit of fabric reeked of cigarettes, marijuana, and stale Cheez-Its.

If Eridan loved his brother a little less, he would never set foot here.

As it was, their parents had long since given up on their elder son, who had seemingly transported himself to the 1950s; he fancied himself a rockabilly greaser and always had his dark hair slicked back, matched with faded jeans, a white T-shirt, and a black leather jacket. He'd also acquired the habit of stowing cigarettes behind his ears and rolling whole packs into the sleeves of his shirt. He walked with a self-assured swagger and referred to guys as "daddy-o" and girls as "doll." Eridan really wanted to punch him in the face sometimes, even though he knew his own personal style was far from laudable. (He still liked to think it was superior, however.)

Still, he did love his brother and crashed at his place a few nights a week. Specifically, nights before he had school. He typically went home for the weekends, but this weekend had been an exception. That class project with Karkat Vantas had absorbed most of his free time, so he gave Cronus a heads-up that he'd be staying all weekend, and that was that.

In his pocket, his phone buzzed, and he roused himself long enough to answer Feferi's text message with a slow smile crossing his face.

"Who's that?" Cronus asked, a note of teasing in his voice. His eyes were also drifting closed, but he still somehow mustered the energy to mess with his brother. "Got a girlfriend?"

He hoped. Feferi was his best friend, but he hoped they could turn it into something more. He was so in love with her, it was stupid. He just hadn't worked up the courage to tell her yet. His main issue with telling her was the doubt of if she felt the same—although he secretly thought she did. Girls were just so damn hard to read—he couldn't quite discern her actual intentions half of the time. But they texted constantly, so that had to count for something, right? They'd kept up a nice flow of conversation the night before while that Sollux guy had—

Hmm. He did remember that Sollux guy. Fairly cute, in a lanky, nerdy, awkward kind of way. Sollux had those deep eyes and those perfect-looking lips, which Eridan could see even from halfway across the room and in half-light. He could appreciate those features even though he didn't swing that way. Nothing wrong at all with admiring a sort-of attractive guy. It was the twenty-first century, after all. Men could appreciate other attractive men without it being gay or anything.

Eridan shook his head. "Not really. Not yet." He couldn't resist a small smile at his phone. Maybe soon, though.

"Boyfriend, then?" Cronus asked with a deliberate waggle of his eyebrows.

The younger Ampora rolled his eyes. "I'm not gay."

"You don't got to be gay to have a boyfriend. I'm a surprisingly liberal cat."

"I'm not bi, either," Eridan said, deliberately ignoring Cronus's slang.

The wannabe greaser shrugged. "Just sayin', a cat doesn't look at his phone like that unless he likes the doll he's talkin' to."

"Fuck off." He did like Fef—a lot, in fact. He just didn't want that fact thrown in his face, especially by his brother. It was sensitive, the fact that he hadn't told her.

Cronus just laughed, tilting his head back as he closed his eyes. He exhaled a stream of smoke toward the ceiling. "You need to cool it. You're bad news, daddy-o."

"Shut up." He was really starting to piss off Eridan, getting to the point where he was considering going to bed a few hours early. He normally racked out around midnight or twelve-thirty since his first class was at nine and it only took him about an hour to get ready and get to school. It was just a little after ten right now and he just wanted to be away from what passed for Cronus's sense of humor. After all, he'd eaten and done his homework. There was really nothing else for him to do tonight—any TV show he normally watched didn't air on Sunday night and his brother generally dominated the television anyway ("I pay the cable bill, so I get to watch all the TV Land I want"). The only thing really keeping him awake after his long weekend was his back-and-forth with Fef.

Finally, though, he grew weary of listening to his brother's ribbing, good-natured or not, and pushed himself out of the armchair, leaving Cronus in the living room with his cigarette still dangling from his lip.

As soon as his bedroom door closed behind him, Eridan let out a relieved sigh and sank onto his futon. If he could hardly stand to spend twenty minutes in the living room, his own bedroom was the opposite of that. True, it was a little smaller than the room he was used to, the one at his parents' house, but he'd made sure that it had most of the same comforts (he'd had to compromise on the sound system, but the one here wasn't bad and he didn't exactly trust Cronus with the higher-quality one anyway). The room was the only one in the apartment that didn't stink of old food—Eridan made sure there was always oil in the Glade Plug-In he left running every day. The walls were clean, and the only evidence of marks came from tape residue or thumbtacks from posters and projects he put up and took down with a frightening regularity. The sheets on his futon were laundered every other day he was home, the color still the royal purple he favored despite the frequent washings, and the futon itself was large enough to comfortably fit two (although he always slept alone). He was content to let his five-foot-eleven frame sprawl out as he slept, and he was used to waking up twisted up in the sheets.

There was a desk in the corner, a dark mahogany piece from Crate & Barrel, that held his desktop Mac and, when he was home, his 21-inch MacBook Pro. Pens and pencils and markers were neatly arranged in cups with a fastidious attention to order that Eridan ensured never touched any other area of the apartment. If he let himself, his neatnik tendencies could propel him to clear out the whole flat, throwing away a good two-thirds of his brother's belongings in the process. He had to constantly remind himself that Cronus was a big boy and could keep his apartment however he wanted; only his room would be his sanctuary.

His closet was smaller than he liked, too, but he remedied this by hauling in and assembling a standup wardrobe and a dresser that contained the rest of his clothing, what little he no longer kept at home with his parents. He had his shirts organized by color (mostly purple or black with some blues thrown in; he favored bruise colors for reasons he didn't care to fathom) and cut, his pants by color and fabric, and his shoes by brand (typically either Converse or Macbeth, but he had a few by Gucci as well as some other more high-end designers). The three or four suits he owned (and that were not at his parents' house) had been pushed all the way to the side; he seldom wore even one and he had no idea when he would.

Eridan stripped off his sweater and shirt, tossing them in the basket near the door, before stripping out of his jeans and giving them the same treatment. He pulled open the top-right drawer of his dresser and withdrew a pair of purple flannel sweatpants and a white A-line shirt, his bedtime wear, donning them quickly and knocking his thick glasses askew in the process. He squinted before replacing them on his nose—he was horribly nearsighted, and he knew his vision was only getting worse.

He withdrew his evening towel from his closet, rummaged in his desk drawer for his shampoo, conditioner, and body wash (again, not trusting that his brother wouldn't either sabotage them or just use them), and pulled a clean pair of boxers out of the appropriate dresser drawer before heading out to the bathroom.

The only time Eridan truly felt comfortable was when he was in the water—whether it be in the pool or the sea or the bathtub. That was about the only thing he had in common with Cronus, although you wouldn't know it from looking at the elder Ampora. Eridan loved showering and spent almost two hours a day in the shower. Part of it was out of necessity—he always had an exorbitant amount of product in his hair that required excessive scrubbing to remove—but most of it was because he enjoyed standing under the stream of water and just feeling clean. He just loved it.

After nearly an hour in the shower (Cronus was used to his abnormally long showers, and Eridan was just grateful that the water bill was a flat rate, independant of usage), he finally got out and toweled himself off, wrapping the towel around his waist after he finished. He quickly and carefully took his blowdryer to his hair (he absolutely refused to go to bed with wet hair), humming in satisfaction once it held no trace of water. He ran his fingers through his hair once to ensure it was completely dry, enjoying the feel of perfectly clean hair. He'd never go out without gel in his hair, but when he was home, he liked the freedom of not having to worry about it, even with his hair hanging in his face.

He put on his clean underwear and slipped back into his pajamas. Once he gathered up his various bottles from the shower, he slunk out of the bathroom, called out a hasty "good night" to his brother (who was still staring at the wall, but now with the distinct scent of marijuana wafting overhead), and closed his bedroom door tightly behind him again.

He tossed his towel and boxers into the clothes basket, put the shampoo, conditioner, and body wash back in the appropriate drawer, and slid his glasses off his face. Running one hand through his hair again (he'd have to dye his hair again; his roots were coming in and he made a mental note to pick up black and purple dye from the drugstore down the street), he crawled under his covers and sighed contentedly, feeling himself already nodding off. He sent a brief but smiley-filled good-night text message to Fef and plugged his phone in on his nightstand. He snapped his bedside light off and was asleep minutes later, his dreams filled with her and a certain pair of almost-feminine lips that his mind wouldn't allow him to recognize. When he woke up the next morning, he had no recollection of his dreams.