It's easy to forget about the tickets once they start working.
Penguin had given him the sketch she made for reference, and now Larry was sitting on her floor, painting the poster while she worked on the essay at her desk. They'd laid down a thick layer of newspapers under his area — just in case. Unlike their usual study sessions, where the cats were allowed to come and go as they pleased, this time they'd been exiled from the room. She joked that she didn't need little red paw prints all over the floors. Fair enough.
While he painted, he could hear her humming along to the music. She'd taken her mom's boombox and set it on the bed, volume low, playing a mixtape of her mom's old rock favorites. It fit the vibe.
Somehow, they'd managed to get through almost three-quarters of the book. The only reason they hadn't finished it completely was because he refused to let her take on the reading and writing alone. It was fine, though. They'd skimmed the last few chapters and jotted down the important bits. They could bullshit their way through any deeper analysis if needed.
So now, there he was, painting a dinosaur onto a piece of white cardboard.
The room was quiet — different from their usual study sessions. No reading out loud, no notes being passed back and forth, no half-distracted side conversations. Just the two of them, working separately but together. It wasn't bad at all. He'd done this before with Sally, that easy kind of silence where no one felt pressured to fill it. But with Penguin, it was… different. A little quieter. A little softer. He liked it.
He was in his element, paints scattered around him, hair pulled back into a ponytail so it wouldn't get in the way. He smiled to himself, remembering what happened earlier.
He'd forgotten she'd never seen him with his hair up before.
He wasn't even thinking about it when he tied it back, just an automatic little habit. But when he glanced up, she'd looked like he'd stripped instead of just tidying his hair. Cheeks flushed, eyes wide, mouth slightly agape.
When he raised an eyebrow at her, she only turned redder and looked away.
…Cute.
Time slips away before he knows it. Between the uncomfortable but familiar ache in his back from hunching over the poster and the steady hum of music, everything else fades into the background. He only snaps out of it when a faint scratching noise pulls his attention to the door. Turning his head, he catches sight of a grey paw slipping under the crack, curling and smacking against the wood before a drawn-out yowl follows.
…Right. He accidentally conditioned Bluebell to call them for dinner.
He'd gotten into the habit of sneaking her little pieces of meat whenever he was over and it was safe for her to eat. Apparently, this led to her deciding 'Five o'clock is dinner time, and I will yell about it.' Larry turns to the clock. Yup, five. He regrets being nice to the little menace.
Granted, she's a little fat, so maybe not that little.
He glances over at Penguin, only to find her already staring at him, expression flat, accusatory. Her eyes flick from the door, back to him, back to the door.
He smiles, all innocence.
She sighs, long-suffering.
Then, without a word, they both straighten up at the same time, stretching the stiffness from their limbs. The air fills with the sharp pop pop pop of their spines cracking back into place, followed by a beat of silence before they both dissolve into laughter.
"Ah, artist posture…" she sighed once their laughter settled, rolling out her shoulders as she got to her feet. She padded over and offered him her hands. He took them without hesitation, fingers curling around hers as she leaned back, putting all her weight into pulling him up.
It was a struggle.
He let himself be dead weight for a second, just to mess with her, watching the way her stance widened as she fought against gravity. But then she made a noise of protest, one of those 'Don't be an asshole, Larry' sounds, so he took pity on her and stood up properly.
"We're gonna be hunched over like old men by the time we're thirty," he mused, stretching his arms over his head with a groan.
"My genetics are a mess of scoliosis, diabetes, near-sightedness, high blood pressure, joint pain, and migraines," she listed off, counting on her fingers as she walked over to the door. "I'll be surprised if I don't develop at least a few more of those in the next ten years, since I already have the near-sightedness and the migraines."
He huffed out a laugh, following. "Well, damn. That's a rough hand to be dealt."
"Oh, super rough," she agreed, stepping forward to crack the door open. Immediately, a gray paw shot through the gap, scrabbling against the wood in protest. She sighed and pressed her leg against the space, blocking any further attempts at entry. It was a practiced motion, like she'd done this a thousand times before.
With quick efficiency, she wedged the door open just enough to slip out. Larry followed immediately after, making sure to pull it shut behind him before either of the cats could make a break for it and straight into the paint.
"Is that why you guys have what's basically a pharmacy in your cabinets?" he asked as they walked into the kitchen fully.
The first time he'd been looking for plates, he'd opened the wrong door and been greeted by an entire pharmacy aisle. Vitamins, painkillers, antacids, anti-inflammatories — if it was sold over-the-counter, it was in that cabinet. A little basket in the corner held the more official prescription bottles, all under her mom's name, so he figured that was her side of it. Still, there was enough in there to treat, like, half the town.
"Pretty much," she agreed, stepping around the cats weaving between her legs.
She made it two steps into the kitchen before throwing her arms in the air with a triumphant, "I learned to make rice, finally."
Larry, who had just started rummaging through the fridge, turned to squint at her. "You didn't know how to cook rice?"
"That's racist," she shot back immediately.
His brain blanked. "What? I didn't—? How is that—?"
She just grinned as she grabbed a pot from the cabinet, utterly unbothered by the way he stood there sputtering. "Relax, man, I just sucked at it before. Too much water, not enough water, completely forgetting about it on the stove and burning the bottom — you name it, I did it."
He pressed a hand over his face, exhaling sharply as he fought the urge to laugh. "Jesus Christ, dude."
"Hey, don't judge me, I got there eventually." She smacked his arm on her way past, reaching for the rice bag. "Now get out of my kitchen."
He grinned, raising his hands in surrender before hopping up onto the counter to watch. "Nah, this is fun."
She rolled her eyes but didn't actually kick him out.
Dinner went by in a comfortable blur. The rice was good, not that he had doubted her skills — well, maybe a little, after what she'd admitted. They ate at the dinner table, chatting about nothing, and he didn't learn his lesson because he slipped little pieces of chicken to Bluebell and Layla and sometimes Skyler whenever they got particularly persistent.
By the time they made their way back to her room, he was already thinking about picking up where they left off on the project — until Penguin flopped onto her bed like a puppet with its strings cut, took off her glasses, and declared, "Nap time."
He paused, hand on the knob of the door he closed behind him. "We're not finishing the project?"
"Paint needs to dry," she reminded him, rolling onto her side to make grabby hands at him. "So c'mere."
He blinked. "You just want me to—"
"Larry." Her fingers flexed like a cat getting ready to knead. "I will get up and drag you over here."
And, well. That was a threat and a promise.
So, with a sigh like he was put out about it — he wasn't — he undid his ponytail and climbed into bed. Before he could even get comfortable, she was already halfway on top of him, an arm slung over his ribs, a leg hooked over his hip, her face tucked into his collarbone.
He wasn't as flustered as the first time they'd done this. Not as tense, not as unsure where to put his hands. But still, having her this close, completely trusting and warm, always made his pulse stutter. It didn't stop him from wiggling his arm free from under her and wrapping it around her, his hand splayed over her back. The rise and fall of her breathing pressed into his palm, steady and slow. Comforting.
His other hand, though — he hesitates. He's not about to just let it lay awkwardly on the bed, but pressing it against his own chest like a damn corpse doesn't feel right either. So, carefully, he lets it rest over the side of her leg, just above her knee, his fingers curling slightly against the soft fabric of her pants.
She tenses for just a second, letting out a little surprised noise, then melts into him completely. Wiggles even closer, like she's trying to fuse them together. And fuck, he has to close his eyes and focus on breathing so his body doesn't react without his permission.
Her warmth and steady presence lull him into sleep easily enough, though.
And now, an hour or so later, he blinks awake, still tangled up with her. He wasn't sure what woke him. But when he blinks awake, he realizes it doesn't really matter — because this is the part he loves the most.
Waking up with her.
She's still curled into him, her breath soft and even against his collarbone, her arm draped over his ribs. He shifts just slightly, and she makes a quiet, sleepy sound, nuzzling deeper, like she belongs there. And maybe she does. Maybe this is just them now: two pieces that fit together without thinking, tangled up like they're an extension of each other.
It's intimate in a way that has nothing to do with anything physical. It's not about the way their bodies press close or the warmth of her leg hooked over his hips — it's the way her presence feels so natural. Like they could stay like this forever, and he wouldn't have to think about where he ends and she begins.
He swallows hard, his throat dry, fingers twitching where they rest on her back.
He should wake her up. He knows that. But fuck, a selfish part of him just wants to keep this moment to himself a little longer.
Still, he forces himself to move, shifting his hand to her shoulder, his voice rough with sleep as he mumbles, "Hey, c'mon, wake up."
She groans, burying her face deeper into his shirt, like she's trying to avoid reality for just a little longer. And maybe it's because he's still half-asleep, or maybe it's because he's been thinking about her nonstop today, but somehow, without even meaning to—
The first words out of his mouth are, "Do you wanna go to prom with me?"
He doesn't really notice he said it at first — not until it processes in his brain, and then suddenly, he's wide awake.
Penguin, on the other hand, just barely lifts her head to look at him, brows furrowed in sleepy confusion. She blinks at him like she's still dreaming.
"Huh?" she mumbles, voice thick with drowsiness.
For a second, he's relieved she didn't hear him fully. And then he's not. Because now he has to repeat himself.
And this time, he's aware.
The first time, it had just… come out. He hadn't planned it, hadn't agonized over it, hadn't fought against his own nerves, his mouth had just said what was in his head before he had the chance to think about it. But now? Now he's awake. Now he knows what he's doing. Now he has to choose to say it again.
And somehow, that makes it so much harder.
Because now she's looking at him, waiting. Her face is still soft with sleep, her lashes heavy as she blinks at him. There's no sharpness to her expression, no teasing remark ready on her tongue — just quiet curiosity, her warmth still pressed against him.
He swallows, tapping his fingers against her back, a steady rhythm against the fabric of her shirt. His voice is softer when he speaks again, lower, warmer, like the words are something fragile.
"…Do you wanna go to prom with me?"
She stares at him, and for a second, he thinks she didn't hear him again. For a second, he worries he just spent all that cash on two prom tickets for nothing. That she doesn't want to go. That she's about to tell him no.
But then—
Her eyes widen, and suddenly she's pushing herself up onto her elbow, mouth already moving.
"Shit, dude, prom is soon— when is it again? Fuck, I don't even have a dress! I mean, I do, but it's kinda old, and I don't know if it still fits— god, I should've checked ages ago! And girls buy, like, expensive dresses for prom, right? But I don't have time for that! I'm gonna look so underdressed. Oh my god— shoes. I don't have good shoes. Okay, well, I do, but they're these heel-boot things, and they hurt, like, the heels are taller than I'm used to, and there's no way I'm wearing those all night. My converse, maybe? But then they gotta match, and— fuck, what do I even do with my hair? Should I do makeup? Do I even own makeup?"
He's pretty sure he zoned out at some point, because her lips kept moving and he didn't hear her, but his brain was stuck on one thing.
She said yes.
Technically, all of those words amounted to a yes.
The tension in his chest melted so fast he almost felt lightheaded. God, why the hell had he worried so much? He knew she wasn't gonna say no, but his brain had been mean about it anyway. And now here she was, already spiraling over outfits and shoes and hair, and he couldn't bring himself to care about any of it.
He just watches her talk, completely swept up in the moment, and thinks about how badly he wants this. He wants to see her all dressed up — not that it even matters what she wears. She could show up in a goddamn potato sack, and she'd still be the prettiest girl at prom. He wants to grab her hand and spin her around, even if neither of them have a clue what they're doing. He wants to hold her close, wants to laugh with her through every awkward, offbeat step.
Then, right in the middle of her rambling, she seems to realize she hasn't taken a breath in a while. She pauses, wheezes out the rest of her air, then finally inhales deep, pulling her arm away from his ribs to scrub at her face.
When she looks back at him, she stares.
Whatever she sees in his expression — probably the pure elation he's got going on — has her blushing so hard. She squawks, like actually verbally squawks, and starts flailing against him, trying to wiggle away.
"Oh my god," she sputters, eyes wide with panic. "You're making fun of me!"
He bursts out laughing, warm and deep. He tightens his hold around her, pressing his palm against her ribs and tucking her in closer, completely unbothered by her attempts to escape. "I literally haven't said a word," he grins. "You're the one freaking out."
"You are! You're so rude—" she groans, struggling even harder.
And Larry? He's thriving.
For all the times she's put him through hell with her teasing, her casual touches, and the fucking straws, now, suddenly, the shoe is on the other foot, and she wasn't prepared for it.
So when she keeps trying to squirm away, something clicks in his brain. 'She lays on me all the time — can't I do the same?'
And with that thought, he shifts, rolling over her in one smooth motion.
He's careful, keeping his legs outside of hers just in case she gets uncomfortable, but he sprawls over her tummy and chest, resting his weight mostly on his elbow so he can see her face.
Immediately, she sputters harder.
"I—! You—! LARRY—"
She's trying so hard to be mad, he can see it. But all she manages to do is let out a strangled noise before slapping her hands over her burning face, groaning into them.
He just grins wider.
Yeah. That's what she gets.