chelseaheskett

[chelseaheskett]

She didn't care if he was really bad at math. She was really good at math, so it cancelled him out. Like removing subexpressions from a mathematical expression. It worked. They'd make this work! And despite his warning, he agreed to her proposition. To Chelsea tutoring him. If you want to. "Yes! Let's do it!" Chelsea agreed, entirely too fast; still bobbing up and down in her chair and buzzing with excitement. Like he'd just given her a present or something. He kind of had! Math wasn't meant to be done alone - basic addition told them that! If she had any more free time outside of cheerleading or yearbook club, she'd probably be a mathlete. But even though she talked a big game of not being popular, or not caring what other people thought of her, there was still some... inner resistance there. Shame. Fear of being ousted. People were outright bullies at this school - they'd already well-established this. Nobody else made fun of her about it (yet) because they (gladly) used her smarts to their advantage. That's all she was, really. Someone people used for help with math homework, or for their pick of photo for the yearbook, or because she could kind of operate her dad's power boat and they wanted to use that, too.

This wasn't that. This was different - this was real. Real connection, real conversation, real feelings. A real relationship. Friendship. No. Relationship. Same same.

If anything, Chelsea was using math and tutoring as an excuse to spend more time with him. To have more conversations, to build on their connection, to indulge in how good this was making her feel. How good Elliot was making her feel. He wasn't taking advantage of her. There was no ulterior motive here. Not from him, at least! She offered - she wanted to do this. It would be fun. She'd make math fun for him.

I think your cousin was the one who wrote faggot on my locker the other day. Chelsea shrunk away from... that word. Visibly recoiled. She didn't like that. Not from Elliot - who said it through his teeth, dislike and discomfort obvious - but in general. Bitch felt like a fine derogatory term, and that probably spoke to a whole wider issue that she wasn't smart enough to articulate, but... Not that word. Name-calling felt wrong in and of itself, but especially so with something so charged and aggressive. It was gross. Chelsea's swearing was minimal, honestly. At school during break periods, or outside of school when socialising. Never at home. Her mom would absolutely not hesitate to wash her mouth out with soap if she did anything otherwise. Had washed her mouth out with soap before, actually. Had literally slapped her straight across the face in utter outrage, like a reflex, when Bethany went up to her and her Aunt Deb and said, "what does the word cunt mean? Chelsea said it was a bad word," at the age of eleven. Never mind that Bethany was the one who'd introduced Chelsea to the word in the first place, and had then decided to change the narrative to their mothers just to get her in trouble. Her mom hadn't ever hit her before that, and definitely hadn't done it since, so she was one of the lucky ones. Elliot couldn't say the same, could he?

The tears had pricked her eyes when it happened, stinging the same way that the tender heat spread across her cheeks. It'd been shock, and pain, and horror that had done it to her back then. Now? It was anger.

Chelsea hadn't said the word again after that, but she sure thought it now. Bethany was a cunt.

"Seriously!?" Chelsea huffed, incredulous. Not because she didn’t believe him - because she did - but because this was just so fucking typical of her cousin. When Chelsea cut bangs for the first time last fall (spurred on by a newfound love of a character with bangs in a new TV show) (Piper in Charmed) Bethany went out and got her hair done, too - but only after she'd already picked on Chelsea for weeks relentlessly about them. Only after Chelsea started to clip them back, or styled them side-swept out of her face in insecurity. Bethany had got everybody to point and laugh at Chelsea, tormenting her when she showed up to school with her pager - which she had so she could keep in touch with her parents in case of an emergency - and not even three days later went out and bought one for herself. She was constantly copying her and trying to do whatever Chelsea did better. Clothes, jewellery, boys. Like their lives were some sort of big competition. Chelsea liked games, sure, but not these kind of ones. She wanted no part of it, thank you. And Bethany had been cozying up to Wes ever since they'd been back to school, too. Bringing him up in as many conversations as she could, just trying to push her buttons. Just trying to get a reaction out of her. And though Chelsea never really indulged her impulses and bit back at her, never really let her win, she could see that soon changing. Felt it bubbling up; the anger flexing out her jaw as she ground her teeth together. "Wow. Wow... I'm - I'm gonna kill her. Simple. I'm going to kill her."

Her nostrils were flaring. Her eyes darted over to her cousin's lunch table across the cafeteria. Chelsea stared her down. Tried to communicate with the slant in her brows that she was not happy. That there would be hell to pay for this. What was it that she'd said before? Chelsea would go to war for Elliot. She'd slap her cousin in double retrospect if she had to. For him and for her - but mainly for him. "I'm so sorry, Elliot." Chelsea swivelled back around in her chair to face him again. His name was gentle in her mouth, exactly the way he deserved. Not a slur, but something soft. Caring, not cruel. Never. She'd never talk to somebody like that. Never to anybody - save for maybe her cousin after all this. Chelsea would never talk to him like that. Never. He'd heard it enough, she could tell. At school and at home. Nobody hurt me. I do it to myself, he'd said. But that wasn't true. He was constantly getting hurt. Physically and verbally and emotionally. And Chelsea wanted to hurt every single person who had ever hurt him. And she wanted to make it hurt worse for them. She did. She would.

Chelsea fisted the strap of her camera, releasing the tension from her body that way. Her chest was rising and falling in rapid succession, and she tried to quell her anger by forcefully pushing air out through her mouth. Blew out her cheeks and dragged out a sigh. "It won't ever happen again. I can... I can promise you that. It won't." When her fingers started to strain around the leather of her camera strap, she shook her hand out. Shook the tingling feeling away. "You didn't deserve that. Nobody deserves that. I - it's so disgusting. She's such a..." Cunt. "... bitch." Chelsea settled on that swear word instead. Said it quietly; scared he could hear what she was really thinking. Scared he'd be scared or turned off by the hint of her temper. By how emotional she could get. Stop being so fucking dramatic, Chelsea. Yeah. She sucked in a breath, the air harsh on her lungs. Yeah.

She tried her best to get her body to move on, but her mind was still racing. Elliot clearly wasn't what that word meant. If Bethany had written it on his locker with that intention or meaning behind it, then, like always, she was wrong. Not that there was anything wrong with being gay, of course. Her other cousin (one she actually liked) was gay. Chris lived in Charlotte, though, and they didn't take the three and a half hour drive as much as they used to when they were kids, so she didn't see him a whole lot these days. But she loved him and didn't care who he loved, or liked, or wanted to be with. And, anyway, that wasn't the case here with Elliot. He couldn't be gay when he was looking at her the way that he was. Tossing the banana between his hands, his eyes fixed intently on her face, blue and shiny and crinkled at the edges. Sure, their flirting was a little messy and awkward, but... he was attracted to her, right? She wasn't just making that up?

He didn't have any known food allergies! Yay! That made her feel better. Her shoulders relaxed. She could proceed with her find-Elliot's-favourite-sandwich-filling mission. Most days she packed her own lunch (unless her parents cooked up something special or she was running late for school) so it wouldn't be too much extra to whip him something up for lunch too from now on. Pack extra snacks and another bottle of juice or soda, just for him. In fact, she'd take great pride in doing it! It was a feeling that tugged at her chest; the urge to look after him. Needing to care for him and make sure that he felt okay and thought of. Cherished. Whether that be with math homework, or homemade sandwiches, or with makeup to help with his bruises... Chelsea would do it. She'd do anything, at this point. And that must've been crazy to think like that. To be so swept up in him and this moment they were sharing. Moments. A whole stretch of moments, with time that no longer moved or existed. It hadn't been less than an hour, it had to have been years by now. Forever. She couldn't help it. She couldn't help but want this, and want to help him, and just want him, full stop.

"That's good. About not having any allergies." She grinned, cogs in her mind turning. What filling should she try first? What should she make him tomorrow morning? Elliot soon distracted her, his hands slowly - almost erotically - peeling the banana open. Jesus, the banana practically disappeared inside the palm of his hand it was so big. Elliot glanced up at her before he took a bite, and Chelsea squirmed in her seat, feeling beet red and completely caught out. She looked away for a moment and scratched her head, failing to be inconspicuous. Elliot started to eat the banana, anyway. Thanked her with a full mouth and puffed-out cheeks. The flush of embarrassment in her skin turned to a warmth that spread across her chest, and gave a happy kick to her heart. He was adorable. He was so fucking cute - clearly enjoying his banana. Chelsea was enjoying watching him, how about that? "You're welcome, cutie." She hummed, smiling over at him with both her braces and dimples on total display. She couldn't not wholeheartedly smile at him now, honestly. It came on naturally. It felt right. "What other foods do you like? Besides bananas, I mean?" Chelsea asked, no ulterior motive whatsoever. Not like she was asking so she could try to immediately make his favourite sandwich first go around tomorrow, or so she could find out even more about him. No. Preposterous. Never.

There he went, using his hands again. Good God. Chelsea tongued over her braces. It's nothing special, Elliot said, recreating the shape of the table he'd made with his bare hands. Painting her a picture, because he was an artist. With those fingers? With that face? He had to be. "I bet you it is." Chelsea replied, playfulness lighting up her eyes. These were the games she liked to play, actually. Hadn't Elliot learned yet from refusing her food? Apparently not! And there was no badmouthing allowed on her watch! Unless they were criticising her cousin, it wasn't allowed, Elliot! But then he pulled out a trump card, and Chelsea's expression softened. I could... make you something? Oh God, she loved presents. Besides Christmas, her birthday was her favourite holiday. Yeah - in the Heskett household, her birthday was a national holiday. Spoiled only child, remember? But there was something so wholesome and heartwarming about gift giving. And Elliot offered to make her something. Those were the best types of presents! Handmade and thoughtful. One of a kind. Special. Words and phrases that described Elliot, honestly. She'd said it once and she would say it again: this, him, was already the best early birthday present she ever could've asked for.

"You'd really do that for me?" She asked, quiet against the rough and raspy sound of her voice. Elliot tried to backtrack, a little bit. I don't know. If you want. If you'd like that. Chelsea shook her head to stop him. "I would love that. Honestly. Yes, please." Yes, she wanted. Yes, please. "My birthday is next week, actually." In case he needed a socially acceptable reason to make her something and gift it to her. She wanted him to know, anyway. Why, she wasn't so sure... Attention? Care? That's probably why she liked her birthday so much in the first place. Besides the presents, people in her life (outside of her parents, at least) showed that they cared on her birthday. Yeah. It was definitely something about the attention she got. Something that never really happened any other day of the year. Until today. Until this lunch period.

The realisation still made her feel... weird. Wrong. Ashamed, maybe. She scrambled to explain herself. Over-explain. "I don't - I didn't mean that as like... a deadline. Like you'd have to make something for my birthday. There's no pressure! I didn't mean it like that at all. I mean, I didn't say that so you'd make me something for then. I don't... I don't know why I said it, actually. I wanted you to know, but... but not because you offered to make me something." He was her friend now, right? He should know when her birthday was. That was it. She wasn't overthinking this, or anything. She wasn't being dramatic, okay? Desperate, and desperate for attention, maybe, but not dramatic. "But yes. I'd like that. Not next week, but whenever you have time! That'd... that'd be really special to me." He could say that his table wasn't special, but something that he'd made for her, with his bare, beautiful hands and that gorgeous head of his? It would make her happy. She'd be so lucky and thankful to have that. Yes, please.

Your dad sounds cool. "Yeah, he's the best." Chelsea agreed. No hate to her mom, or anything, but she was a total daddy's girl. She got her creativity from him, she thought. All of her big emotions and passion from him, too. The math brain? That was all her mom. I'm sure I would like him, Elliot said. "Oh, he'd love you." Chelsea replied, fast and again without a single thought behind it. "Even though I'm all about architecture and stuff, I'm not very good with a toolbox. I think it frustrates him, sometimes." She laughed, lighthearted, so Elliot knew she wasn't entirely serious or at all affected by it.

And speaking of architecture: Elliot wanted to see some of her sketches sometime. If you want to show them to me. "Yeah? Really?" Chelsea tried (and failed) to keep the squeak of surprise out of her voice. People normally didn't want to see her stuff, or cared enough about it. Would give it a cursory glance and a completely non-genuine, lacking-in-interest compliment to shut her up. She'd learned at a young age to never show Bethany anything she ever did, because it was always met with some form of non-constructive criticism, or downright mean and unnecessary remarks. Her mom faked interest well enough, she guessed. Her dad was always full of praise, but this was his domain, so he kind of had to be proud of her designs. Why did Elliot want to see them? Sure, she wanted to see the cute table he'd made, and wanted him to make something for her, but why did he want to see her sketches?

Chelsea leaned forward, elbows on the table. Got closer to him the only way she could in this position. "I'll make you a deal. You make me something, and I'll sketch you something." Seemed like a fair trade, if you asked her. "What's your favourite place in the entire world?" Whatever it was, she'd draw it for him. It probably wasn't home, huh? She selfishly hoped it was right here in this crowded cafeteria. But... he was getting bullied at school. Before today, before her intrusion, he probably spent a lot of his lunch periods sitting at this same table alone. Hopefully this was better. Hopefully he liked it here now, and he liked it here with her. If that was the case, maybe she could sketch out the cafeteria for him. Commemorate this first afternoon they'd had together that had completely spun her world off its axis.

Yeah, see, she knew he would've heard the song. The Across A Wire - Live From New York album. He owned it! Before she could shoot off a me too, Elliot was offering it up to her; just like she had with him before with her banana. If you don’t have it, I - you could borrow it. If you have a cassette player. Chelsea broke out in a grin at the thought of Elliot messing around with cassettes. His long fingers pressing on buttons, or fiddling with the take-up reel, or twisting around tape. God, he was so cute. And it was so cute that he still had one. Chelsea couldn't even remember where her old cassette player had disappeared to. Her car took CDs whenever she got annoyed at the commercials or talk show hosts on the radio. Her portable CD player and earphones were shoved into the mess of her backpack - probably the only messy thing about her, honestly. Besides her brain, at least. She was kind of a neat freak otherwise. Point is: she hadn't seen or used a cassette tape in a good amount of time. It was cute. Elliot was cute. Next he'd be telling her he had an old vinyl record collection, too.

Nope. The next thing he did, instead, was offer for her to borrow his Walkman. Chelsea looked at him, hearts in her eyes. Chest feeling tight. That was so fucking sweet. His Walkman was probably his only source of music, and he was willing to just give it up for her? Just like that? Just so she could listen to an album by one of his favourite bands? There was something to be said about sharing and sacrifice as love languages. What an honour. He must've really liked her, huh? To want to do that? Was he bouncing his leg nervously under the cafeteria table, too? Was he falling into this completely headfirst the way that she was? Sweating profusely, heart skipping beats, urgently wanting to cross over the table so that they could kiss? Chelsea licked her lips, instead. Shyly glanced down at her fingers in her lap. "That's literally the sweetest thing anyone has ever... ever offered to do for me." It was the thought that counted for Chelsea. The action and meaning behind it all. God, it meant everything. He was everything, did he know that?

"Thank you. Like... you're literally so sweet, Elliot." Beautiful. Gorgeous. Cute as all hell. Hot as fuck, literally pulling all the air out of the room and her body, leaving her breathless. Sweet sounded like the safest option, though. Chelsea swallowed. "Thank you so much. But - but we've both got great taste, it seems." Mmm, she wanted to see how he tasted. Confirm if that statement was true or not. But no - no, back on track. "I have the CD, I'm sorry! It's probably one of my favourites. Though I can't stop listening to the ...Baby One More Time album at the moment. I'm totally dressing up as Britney Spears in that music video for Halloween. She's my current obsession." Well... besides you. Yeah. (You Drive Me) Crazy, anyone? Chelsea knew now what song she was going to be screaming driving home from school today. Who knew that Britney song could be the soundtrack for her life right now? Describing exactly how she was feeling? Insane. She was crazy. He drove her crazy.

The owner of Mad Monk might not have thought it was cool that Elliot snuck in to see a band, but Chelsea sure did. He was so cool. And she was being so cool about him right now. It was fine. Her mouth hung open when he revealed he'd only got to hear three or four songs before being caught and kicked out of the place. That wasn't fair! Yeah, he'd only been (almost) fourteen, but still. How disappointing! "Well. We'll have to go and get you to see them again, huh?" Together. At a concert. Seeing Blue Öyster Cult. Doing stuff outside of this school together. "The full experience this time."

Aww, his birthday was in March. Chelsea looked up at the ceiling, lost in momentary thought. "Does that make you a Pisces then? You feel like a Pisces to me. Oh my God, fish! See! You do know something about fishing!" Immediate word vomit. Holy shit, she was stupid. "I mean. If you… if you believe in that kind of stuff, anyway. Horoscopes and star signs…" Chelsea struggled hard to recover. Boys thought all that stuff was kind of lame, didn't they? God. Honestly. How was she still managing to be totally embarrassing at this point? Chelsea ruffled her bangs with a hand, wanting to shrink back and hide. She saw where Elliot got that move from, now. He was so valid.

Oh. His brother wasn't dead. Well thank fuck for that! That was reassuring, at least. What was the story then? Chelsea wanted to see the whole picture. Know all the details. It's okay, it's - I haven't seen him in a long time. That's all, I - I just miss him. She wanted to dumbly ask him why, like she was a relentlessly inquisitive toddler. Why hadn't Elliot seen his brother in a long time? If he wasn't dead then where was he? Every single detail, please. But she didn't want to pry. Really, he'd already given her enough. Shared with her again, and got vulnerable when he didn't have to. Him doing that for her, and with her, was enough. She took it to heart. "I'm glad he's okay. I'm... I'm glad you told me about him. Thank you." Chelsea missed his brother on Elliot's behalf - anything to get the sadness out of his eyes. Off his face.

Strangely (or not at all strange) Elliot used the same sort of phrasing when they talked about her mom's accident. Good, I - I'm glad to hear that. I'm glad she's okay. Word for word the same. Like they were on the same wavelength, or something. Chelsea tried not to read too much into it. It's never fun to see someone you love in pain. She tried not to read too much into that, either. Tried not to think about how hearing him say that made her feel. Because Elliot was in pain - physically and emotionally, no matter how much he tried to hide it with badly applied concealer, or a hood over his head, or the bite he'd had to his words when she first approached him. And, yeah, they'd only just met, she knew that - but she cared about him. Already she cared about him. The easy way he validated her about being scared, and then apologised for her having to go through all that turmoil with her mom. Chelsea was sorry he had to go through it, too - whatever it was that was happening with him at home. The too-big clothes, the too-small lunch tray. The bruises. He said her parents sounded like good people. And maybe he knew that because his weren't. Talk about scary and sorry and unfair.

Fuck, all she wanted to do was help him. Someway, somehow, she was going to. Because while it was so much fun being with him, it wasn't fun seeing him hurt and in pain. Nobody deserved that, but least of all Elliot - too soft and sweet for this world, especially obvious when he came out of his protective shell. "Thank you. Thank you for saying that." Chelsea smiled in spite of the heavy conversational topic. She appreciated it. Him. The validation of her feelings and the character of her parents. "Y'know, you sound like good people, too. I mean, you are. You're a good person, Elliot."

And see, she had full authority to make such a claim! She knew him now. She knew who he was down at the heart of it - a boy who loved bananas and hated peanut butter but ate it anyway without complaint; who said sorry far too much, even when things weren't his fault; who liked putting things together and making them whole with his hands; who could give out compliment after compliment but couldn't really take them; who loved and missed his brother dearly; who snuck in underage to see his favourite rock band; who was constantly fidgeting with his perfect hair and his long fingers; who asked her questions, and reassured her, and actually listened to what she had to say. He put up a hard exterior at first, but it was protective. Hiding in a hoodie was like him hiding himself away in a snail shell - it was the same thing. It wasn't who he really was, like what he'd told her at the start of lunch. This was who he was. And she really liked who he was. She really, really liked him.

Elliot randomly asking her about hospital made her blink. Broke her out of making a further mental list of why she was falling for him. "Oh, um... Cape Fear Valley? Why's that?" She tilted her head to the side, curious. Fluffed her bangs up a bit.

I like knowing the real you. Shit, hadn't that been what she was just thinking!? There they went again, saying the same matching things. Reading each other's minds. Connecting in a way she hadn't ever with anyone else before. Cool, cool, cool. "I like..." You. "I like knowing you, too. The real you." He was so much more cool and interesting than whatever the rumours said about him. Russian spies and aliens and cults had nothing on him, honestly. She'd rather watch a whole Elliot documentary than learn about any of that other stuff. Learn his history instead of studying the past in a classroom.

His turn at talking meant granting her wish. Meant opening up more about his brother. He was there one day and the next he was gone and - I have - I don't know anything else. Her heart broke for him. She couldn't imagine that sort of uncertainty. God, it felt weird not seeing her parents for an entire weekend - she couldn't even comprehend what it would be like having to spend years without them. And years without them not knowing. Elliot didn't know where his brother was or how he was or what even happened. It just - it kind of feels like he's abandoned me. It was vulnerable and honest and raw. It was wildly unfair. He seemed so in touch with his emotions, and it fucking made sense why. He'd been through hurt after hurt after hurt. His brother virtually disappearing without a trace, his parents abusing and neglecting him, the kids at school constantly harassing him. No more. She wouldn't allow it! Nope! And if it had to happen, she wanted to help. Wanted to be there for him through it. Wanted to share the load with him, so he didn't have the whole weight of the world solely on his shoulders. This was a good start - having this conversation. Him trusting her enough to tell her about it at all.

Chelsea talked a whole lot, but sometimes - like right now - it was hard to find the right words. She didn't have anything that felt appropriate besides I'm sorry, and even that felt like the wrong thing to say. Elliot was vulnerable and open and trusting with his words, so Chelsea could be vulnerable and open and trusting with her actions. She reached across the cafeteria table to cover his hand with hers. Squeezed his wrist in an attempt to provide him with some sort of comfort. She'd already decided earlier that she wasn't going to leave him alone again - he'd never feel abandoned by her, she'd make sure of it. He'd never be abandoned by her, either. She tried to communicate that to him with her finger drawing patterns across the back of his hand. "What's his name? Your brother?" Chelsea softly asked, eyes cast down at their palms. She didn't want to do this wrong. She didn't want him to push her away, or hide from her again. She didn't want to mess any part of this up with him. He was too important. Already he was too important to her for her to let that happen.

"That's gotta be so hard. Not knowing or having any answers. I hope you get them. I hope you see him again, I... If there's anything I can do, I -" I'd do it. Chelsea cut herself off before she took it too far and ruined everything. No, no, she couldn't. She took her hand back too, just in case. So he couldn't see the way her fingers were shaking. Chelsea swallowed, heart in her throat. Finally, she glanced up to meet his eyes. Somehow found her words again. "Thank... thank you for telling me. I can tell he means a lot to you, so - so that means a lot to me that you shared that. That you shared him with me."

Elliot told her not to worry about the bruises on his face. It looks worse than it is. What, because he was used to it? Because she couldn't see how truly terrible it was underneath all the makeup he had on? Elliot tried to play it off some more with another forced joke. You should, uh, you should see the other guy. "If I see the other guy, I'm kicking the crap out of him." Chelsea responded, quick-witted. As if she was some kind of a tough guy all of a sudden. Yeah, she could be tough for him! She would be. She was going to do her research and get him some help. Elliot wasn't alone in this anymore! She'd fight for him, physically or otherwise. Even if it meant fighting his Goddamn parents. She didn't care. She didn't even care if he hated her for it, actually - it had to happen. She'd take him being safe and okay over anything else, even over her feelings for him.

He was turning her compliment on its head, stumbling over himself to find the right words to make it about her again. God, look at you. Chelsea ducked her head, feeling shy. Feeling like her cheeks were on fire. Bright (red) and warm described the state of her face right about now. In spite of her self-consciousness, though, her lips turned up in a smile. Her legs were trembling under the table. God, it was not normal to feel like this. Not so quick. Not so loudly - her heart jackhammering away in her chest, her pulse deafening inside her ears. You're kind of special, you know that? No, that was him. He was on the track team, and played basketball, and loved shop class, but he talked like a tortured poet. Like every love song she'd ever heard before, or every romantic movie she'd ever seen. He was so aware and in tune with his emotions. In tune with her. It was staggering. He was staggering. He'd stopped her dead in her tracks in the hallway with how physically beautiful he was, and now he was making her speechless and squirmy because of who he was on the inside. How beautiful he was, right down to his soul. I've never met anyone like you. I - I don't think there is anyone else like you. Yeah, she wanted to say the exact same fucking thing. Again!

They had to stop doing that.

She never wanted them to stop doing that, actually.

"This... this feels special, doesn't it? You and me?" Chelsea said, breath catching. "Like maybe - maybe we were meant to run into each other in the hallway earlier?" Like it was fate, or destiny, or something that was meant to happen between them. Meant to be. Written in the stars, because he wasn't bothered by the fact that she bought into astrology. "We're kind of ridiculous." Chelsea giggled, letting the last of the air out of her body. Talk about special. They deserved each other - they were as equally silly and emotional and in this. "You've gotta stop being so nice to me, Elliot. I'm gonna start thinking that you like me." Chelsea teased, tongue in cheek. It was so brutally obvious at this point. Ridiculous. "You're the best person in this place." She glanced around the cafeteria for emphasis. "In this whole town. In the state, I'm sure." In the whole entire universe, really. "I'm really glad I know you. And I knew I would be! I knew I was right about you." They'd learned a lot about each other this afternoon, and if he didn't know this about her by now he was sure to soon discover it: she was always right, thank you.

She felt less nervous, now. More giddy. Sweaty and sticky, yes, but still unreasonably comfortable. Happy. Confident, somehow. Elliot said it was good, that it was cool that she didn't have a boyfriend. "Yeah, it is." Chelsea agreed, holding back a joyous bout of laughter with her teeth clenched down over her bottom lip. I - do I look like I have a girlfriend? Oh, please. He shouldn't sell himself short like that! One conversation over the space of a single lunchtime and she wanted to marry him, for crying out loud. She'd be doodling Mrs. Elliot Pearson all over her notes next period like a complete and total middle schooler. "Well, I'm here, aren't I?" Yeah, she'd practically held his hand, like, two times and she already wanted to be his girlfriend. It was juvenile, in a way. Like they were a couple of kindergarteners: innocent and impulsive and quick-paced. But it also felt kind of adult. Real. Something she'd seen before in her parents, or in the movies - something she wasn't sure she was ever going to have the privilege of experiencing before now.

God. Who knew a single lunch could be so life-changing? Chelsea hadn't even eaten anything yet, and the warning bell was looming closer and closer. She'd been so consumed by him, so full of him instead, that she'd forgotten to eat her packed lunch. Oh well!

Elliot was stammering over his words again, but this time it was different. She already knew it was different because somehow she already knew him. Anxiety, instead of teenage nerves. I have to - I should tell my parents I'm going out. I don't - they would - I wouldn't want them to worry. Fuck, no, no, no, she didn't want to get him in trouble! She didn't want him to get hurt again. Not anymore. No, no, never again, please. She wanted to go to the mall with him so he could get away from all that! So they could spend more time together. Safe time together. She just wanted him safe. She wanted to hold him, and protect him, and stop him from being hurt ever again. Panicked, Chelsea pulled her camera closer to her on the table until she could cradle it to her chest for some comfort. How about I meet you there? At the mall? Just so I can go home and get changed and... talk to my parents. Oh, thank God. Her shoulders dropped down, relief washing over her.

"Yes! Done!" Chelsea nodded, fast and eager. "How's... 5pm? Independence Mall?" She thought on it for a moment, racking her brain for a good place for them to meet. "At... at the ground entrance of Belk? Y'know, the department store." He was a boy, so no, he probably didn't know... Anyway. "That's where their beauty section is. On the lower floor." Over-explaining. He'd find his way. They already had once today. "It's a date." Wow, was it? Chelsea said it with enough confidence to sound convincing. He had to know by now that that's what she wanted. That she wanted him. She couldn't make it any clearer than that.

Or... maybe she could.

They'd timed it perfectly - the bell ringing out over the cafeteria loudspeakers. Five minutes 'til next period started. Chelsea tossed her camera strap back over her head and pushed out of her chair. Elliot got to his feet, too. They stood together at the corner of the table, not making a rush to leave like everybody else was around them. Elliot stuck his hand out, instead. Said nice to meet you down at her, blue eyes sparkling and searching her face. Chelsea shook his hand, playing along. Skimmed her thumb over his knuckles, just because she could. She wanted to. "Nice to meet you, too. I'm so happy that I did. I... I'll see you later, gorgeous." Oh. That kind of just... came out of her mouth. Cool. Well, it was true. Sue her. Chelsea broke away from the intensity of his gaze to gesture to the cafeteria table. "I'll see you here tomorrow, too." Because what was the alternative? Go back to her quote-unquote friends and bitch cousin and be miserable? She was going to have snacks, and a fizzy drink, and the best sandwich she could possibly make for him. All for him. It was the least she could do after everything he'd given her today. This was their table, now.

They stayed in their handshake for awhile. For longer than was socially acceptable, for sure. Chelsea used her free hand to swipe her mainly-untouched lunch bag up off the table, but didn't dare to break away from him. Not just yet. Her thumb was trying to memorise the skin on the back of his hand. Map it out. Eventually, they parted - touch lingering until the last possible moment; tips of their fingers grazing when they pulled away from each other. Chelsea flashed him a smile over her shoulder, one that was only meant for him: small eyed, and toothy, and dimpled. The grin he gave her in return had her turning right around to get back to him.

She linked her hands together behind her back, lunch bag dangling between her fists. She was scared that if she fully touched him or his body that she wouldn't ever be able to let him go. Rolling up on her tiptoes, Chelsea kissed him on the cheek. His good cheek. Well, they were both good, but she didn't want to hurt him - even with the softness of her mouth brushing against his swollen cheekbone. She left behind a lip gloss mark on his skin instead of a bruise. Strawberry Cheesecake Lip Smacker shining on this side of his face instead of a shiner. "Bye, Elliot." Chelsea murmured close to his ear, lips on him until they weren't, and she was forcing herself to walk away to get to class.

She had to shove her uneaten lunch into her backpack inside her locker first. Got all her books in order and cradled them in her arms, ready for next period. It could never be that easy though, of course. The pendulum always swung back the other way - she was happy because of Elliot, and miserable people always set out with the task to ruin that, or diminish it. The sound of sneakers on the hallway linoleum alerted her to her cousin's unwelcome presence. Chelsea pointedly ignored her, squeezing more lip balm over her smile. She needed more, since she'd given almost all of it to Elliot - from talking to him 'til her mouth was dry to leaving the rest of it lingering on the skin of his cheek from her kiss.

"What were you doing hanging out with that creep? What a weird lunch." Bethany laughed, exasperated, and leaned her arm against the vacant locker next to Chelsea's.

Chelsea slammed her books down on her locker shelf in a thunderous act of defiance. "God, you're such a bitch!" She swore, refusing to meet Bethany's dark eyes. Everyone spent so much time asking what was wrong with Elliot that they never had a chance to fucking look in the mirror and reflect. There was nothing wrong with him! He was her person. He knew her better already than anybody else ever had or did or would. "And he is not a creep! I like him! I really, really like him!" Not that it was any of Bethany's business. It wasn't a justification, but a defence. Because Elliot deserved to be protected. She'd stand up for him every time. Her only regret about this day today was that she'd never gotten the chance to do that for him before now.

Bethany pulled a face, unimpressed. Held her hand up and examined her fingernails like every single high school cliché imaginable. She lived up to the stereotypes. The popular, miserable mean girl cheerleader. Chelsea looked around her locker door to finally give her proper eye contact and attention, her brows furrowed down in anger. "Why were you writing bullshit on Elliot's locker, huh? What the hell's the matter with you?!"

"It's funny." Bethany replied, deadpan.

"No, it's not!?" Chelsea shot back, throwing her hands up in the air, completely frustrated. Talk about a fucking joke! "Leave him alone, Bethany. I mean it!" This time, Bethany laughed again. Shook her head as if to say, that's not happening, sis. "I'm not messing around." Chelsea warned through her teeth. They'd have a cat fight in this hallway if Chelsea had to go there. At least she'd be able to see Elliot in detention if that happened, so it wasn't a total loss or an entirely bad situation. "In fact, leave me alone as well." Chelsea released her anger with the clap of her locker door closing. She relaxed her tense fist against her science textbooks, swung her arms to her side and metaphorically let it all go. "You're not even worth it." She drew out a long, indignant sigh and turned on her flats to leave.

"Aw, Chels." Bethany whined, finally taking her seriously. Too little too late. The damage had already been done. She couldn't find it in herself to care anymore - she had more important things to think about, and more important people to focus on - like Elliot. "Chelsea - c'mon!" Bethany called after her, but she was slipping the door open to her class and feigning ignorance. She had to get through the next few classes, and then driving home singing along to Britney in her car, and then she'd finally, eventually be at the mall reunited with Elliot.

His off-hand bad at math joke had her practically lighting up with excitement, offering to tutor him, and even though the thought of doing any more math than he needed to made him break out in hives...god, the look on her face. He would do anything she wanted if she smiled at him, looked at him, like that. "I - I'm really bad at math," he clarified, so she knew what she was in for. He was fairly certain neither of them would come out unscathed if she tried to teach him anything. Like cornering a wild tiger, nobody would win - neither hunter nor animal. Still, he couldn't bring himself to say no. Couldn't stand the thought of any kind of frown on Chelsea's face. Not because of him (well, not again, anyway).

"I - yeah, okay. If you want to." He couldn't promise that it would go well (in fact, he could almost guarantee that it wouldn't) but if he had to divide fractions, or whatever-the-fuck, just to spend a little bit more time with her, he could make that sacrifice. He'd make it, gladly, every time.

God. What was wrong with him? What was wrong with them? Why did it feel like he'd known for her years instead of a couple of minutes? Here she was, a girl that probably didn't even know his last name, promising him that he wouldn't have to worry about the other cheerleaders. That she would make sure of it, that she would take care of it. Fuck, okay, that was hot. As if he hadn't been attracted to her enough already. As if he didn't have enough reason to want to reach over this table and kiss her.

Oh. He wanted to kiss her. Wow, yeah, he really wanted to kiss her. It was a weird feeling, settled right in the middle of chest, one he'd never really felt before. Sure, he'd has crushes on girls before, he was a stupid teenager, full of stupid teenage hormones, and there was at least one other cute girl in this school. But none of them were Chelsea. None of them would've given him a second glance, if they even gave him a first one. None of them would've sat down with him for no reason other than they wanted to. None of them would've talked to him, listened to him, let him listen to them. He'd never actually kissed anyone before. He wanted it to be Chelsea. He never wanted to leave this table, this moment, or her.

Her cousin. Well. Yeah, he could see the resemblance - at least physically. The same hair, pulled up into that high cheerleader ponytail. The same shape to their eyes, wide and round. The same smile. But where he felt only malice in that smile from her cousin, only mockery...from Chelsea it was sincere. Real. Maybe they weren't that similar at all, actually. He loved the sound of Chelsea's laugh, desperately wanted to hear more of it. From her cousin, it felt like a bomb going off. "I think your cousin was the one who wrote faggot on my locker the other day," he said, offhand, hating the way the word felt in his mouth. Like chewing on glass. He didn't know why he was telling Chelsea this. God, he doubted that she wanted to hear it, wanted to hear him whine over something that happened a week ago. And it might not have even been her cousin, specifically. But it wasn't, well, she sure as hell found it hilarious.

Elliot didn't find it so hilarious. Thanks, dad. That was another word he had to learn at a young age, another word that electrified the walls of an already volatile home, especially after their father had caught Christian holding hands with another boy when he was an early teen. And it was the first (and only) time Christian had gotten angry with him, when he'd walked into his bedroom one day asking what does it mean and if he really was one. Christian was apologetic, afterwards, because Elliot had been all of probably nine at the time - with no idea what it meant and going to his big brother, who knew everything - but stressed into him that it was a bad word only bad people used. He didn't connect it to being gay or that Christian was until Elliot was a much older teenager himself.

It was the one time he felt compelled to get a teacher, to be a nark, tattle on those fuckers, whatever. People could say whatever they wanted to about him otherwise, but, god. He really didn't like that word. It was something he'd spent half his childhood hearing his father yell at his brother to get the upper hand in arguments, because it was the only time Christian seemed genuinely hurt by something he said. Hearing I will not have two sons like that, as if he even had any sons at all.

In the end, he'd done what he always did: stayed silent, took it, and used the sleeve of his sweater to wipe the at lipstick until it was an illegible red smudge. Then he'd hid himself in a bathroom until somebody found him, and he was the one who ended up in detention for defacing his locker.

Do you have any food allergies? Huh. He looked at Chelsea curiously, playing with the stem of the banana. Tempted to peel it (it had been a long time since he'd had a nice, ripe banana) but too nervous to do it. "I - I don't know. I don't think so?" He hadn't eaten anything that killed him, yet, though it wasn't like he tried a wide variety of food. I eat a lot of fucking peanut butter. He was so sick of peanut butter.

She tossed her donut on his tray, too, his protest only making her more insistent. He shook his head, tried to push back even more, but the words died in his throat. Like a dare, she raised her eyebrows at him and let the silence pass between them say everything it needed to. Wow. Okay. Sure, she could have whatever she wanted, he would do anything she wanted. If it made her happy, he would do it with no complaints. Maybe only a little bit of complaining. He peeled the banana, slow, expecting her to take it back or tell him she was only joking. Messing with him. She didn't and he waited another second, two, or three, before he took a bite. "Thank you." Polite manners overshadowed by talking with his mouth full. Nice. That was cute. Don’t say I never gave you anything. Oh, she had no idea how much she had already given him.

You’ve got the hands for it. He instinctively squeezed his hands together, crushing his little banana a bit in the process. Oops. What was he even going to do with this, with her, the endless compliments? They didn't feel like they fit quite right. Like they were meant for someone else. Something more deserving, more worthy. Fuck. He could hear his father's voice in his head, clear as if he were standing behind them. You really think that somebody like Chelsea could ever like you? No. He didn't. But he hoped. God, he hoped. She deserved more, but maybe she would settle for him, anyway. "It was - it's nothing special." He made a square shape with both of his hands, approximating the size. It was small, only enough to hold a table lamp (and anything tiny he could cram onto it) and probably not all that well-made, if he were honest. He didn't expect it to last much longer than a few years. At least it got him a B. "I - I'm taking it again, this semester. Shop, I mean. I could...make you something?" He asked, awkward and so deeply stupid. "I don't know. If you want. If you'd like that." Tried to put enough disclaimers on it so that she could tell him no, go fuck yourself if she wanted to. So she didn't feel obligated to say yes to him because turning him down would be uncomfortable.

Chelsea had already told him so much about her parents and Elliot was going out of his way to avoid acknowledging he even had those. Maybe she would assume he was an orphan, living in some kind of group home. It wasn't a bad alternative. He could work with that. She talked about her dad with a kind of reverence that he couldn't even begin to imagine. God, what that must be like. "Your dad sounds cool." Better than mine, although that was not a high bar to clear. His standards were in hell. He could fantasize well-enough - the kind of dad that had a garage filled with tools, gadgets, machinery, spare parts and piles of wood all over the floor. A dozen half-finished projects everywhere, because Elliot had more ideas than he had follow-through, and he had to do everything at once. He'd love to have the kind of dad he could build a deck with. Love to have a dad, full stop. "I'm sure I would like him." Whether or not her dad would like him was another story entirely. Maybe Elliot would be able to trick him into tolerating him long enough to teach him how to build a patio or a deck or maybe even a roof.

Getting a little bit ahead of yourself, aren't you? What makes you think she would even introduce you to her parents? Yeah, yeah, whatever. Shut up, brain. Let a kid dream.

I really like sketching. Yeah, he could picture it. Chelsea, bent over a sketchpad, her brows furrowed in concentration as she worked on something tricky. The same steady, serious expression she wore when she studied him. Maybe with her hair pulled back out of her face so that nothing broke her focus. Fingers covered in graphite or charcoal or whatever else she held in her hands. It was cute. She was cute (god, had he mentioned that yet?). "I - I'd like to see some of your sketches sometime. If you want to show them to me." Felt the need to qualify everything he said to her, so they didn't sound like demands, like she could never turn him down. He wanted to know everything, see everything. Get inside her, to her very heart, and learn everything.

Did he sound crazy enough yet? He felt it.

She actually engaged with him when he mentioned the bands he liked, surprising and a little terrifying. He wasn't used to discussing anything he liked, content enough to enjoy things by himself, in his own little bubble. He listened to his music, watched his occasional show and that had always been enough. Yet here she was, talking to him, and now he couldn't remember a goddamn thing about the Counting Crows. He owned both of their albums on cassette, had practically worn the tape down to nothing he replayed them so often, and had saved up for months to pre-order the third so he was guaranteed to have the day it released. And yet...with Chelsea here, across from him, talking about it, he couldn't remember what a single one of their songs sounded like. Not as sweet as the sound of her voice.

“Oh, yeah. I - I have heard it.” I've had that song basically on repeat for the past fifteen months. And no wonder why. Chelsea. All beautiful things were called Chelsea, apparently. "I, uh, I have that album, too.” Had to fight against himself, against his instinct to say you can come over and listen to it with me. If you want to. Because, wow, he guessed she really couldn’t. “If you don’t have it, I - you could borrow it. If you have a cassette player.” Was what came out instead, and he wanted to smack himself in the face. Of course she didn’t have a cassette player, she probably had a cd player. Ready for the new millennium, up to date; unlike him, still stuck in 1991. Like basically everything he owned, his Walkman was a hand-me-down from his brother - one Christian had let him borrow on bad nights (all of them) to try and drown out the noise, and then had given to him once he left home, in the same hiding spot under his bed that Elliot had, too. I really got everything from you, didn't I? "Or if - you can borrow my Walkman, too. It's - I mean, if you don't have one. It's one of the cassette ones." Yeah, fucking obviously, Elliot. She probably could've figured that out for herself, she wasn't stupid. He had cassettes, he had a cassette player.

He wanted a reason to see her again, and again, and again. Lend her his Walkman. Talk to her about it, learn her thoughts and opinions. Maybe share some of his other albums. Any excuse to see her, be around her. Any opportunity for him to listen to her talk. Hear everything she had rattling around in that brilliant head of hers.

"Oh, yeah. I - I don't think the owner found it so cool, though." He'd tried to blend into the crowd, be as inconspicuous as possible, but he could barely pass for seventeen now, at seventeen, let alone three years ago. The owner had asked for some kind of ID and with all of his thirteen-year-old authority had said: no, it's fine, they already checked it. Yeah. The guy was nice, but firm, and walked him to the door to make sure he left and didn't slip back into the sea of bodies. He'd considered sneaking back in, but hadn't wanted to push his luck. The aftermath probably would've been a lot worse if a police car had driven him back home. "I didn't know they closed down, it was a pretty neat place." Wild, loud. The smell of stale beer was stuck into every surface, but Elliot was used to that. Felt almost comforting, in a way, to know that the carpet in his living room wasn't the only thing that smelled of old, cheap liquor. If not comforting, at least familiar. "But, yeah, I mean - it was fun while it lasted. Though, I - I think I only got through three or four songs." And he didn't even get to hear Don't Fear the Reaper, which had been 90% of the reason he'd gone in the first place. "Oh, um - March. It's in March."

How long has it been? "Oh, I - he's not dead." Probably. Shit, he couldn't say that with any certainty. For all he knew, Christian could've been long dead at this point. Maybe he'd never left home, never left him, intentionally. Maybe he'd spent the last six years hating a dead man. Hah. Yeah. That felt great. He was glad he had that thought. He absolutely wouldn't put it past his father to kill one of them and then clear out and trash their room like they'd never existed in the first place. "It's okay, it's - I haven't seen him in a long time. That's all, I - I just miss him." That's all, he said, like that even scratched the fucking surface. But how could he possibly condense all his complicated thought into an easy to digest conversation? That was too much baggage to drop on Chelsea in an entire lifetime, forget a single lunch period. There would never be enough time to unpack all of...that.

Who needed to confront uncomfortable feelings when he could ignore them? That was a much better option. He preferred to listen rather than talk, anyway. Preferred to listen to her. Loved all the words, all the sounds that came out of her mouth. Yeah, that's because you want her to kiss you. Shut up, brain. I didn't ask your opinion.

"Good, I - I'm glad to hear that. I'm glad she's okay." God, Chelsea clearly loved her parents, talked about them in a way that made him feel a little bit weird. Not because of her, by any means, but because of the thought. The idea of saying anything remotely positive about either of his parents kind of made him nauseous. He was an outlier, he knew that (he hoped that) and the projection wasn't going to do him any favors, but he couldn't help it. Having parents that she loved, that loved her - he was grateful, on her behalf. And he was also incredibly jealous.

It was just like the epitome of in sickness and health, y'know? No, not even a little bit. His parents were perfect for each other, in the worst kind of way. He couldn't remember the last time he saw them kiss or hug or even tell each other I love you. Couldn't remember a time where they ever looked like they enjoyed the other's presence or didn't look disappointed every time the other came home from work, like they were hoping their respective buildings would've burnt down (Elliot was disappointed every time he saw his father's car in the driveway, too, but he didn't choose to involve himself in this fucking disaster). Shit, they barely even talked to each other. His father would sooner watch his mother bleed out than ever make a move to rush her to the hospital. "Yeah, that - that does sound scary. I'm sorry you had to go through that. It's never fun to see someone you love in pain." That much, at least, he could understand. "Your dad, though, he - both of your parents sound like good people. They're lucky to have each other." She was lucky to have them.

"What, uh - which hospital did your mom go to?" He asked, scratching the back of his neck. Did he sound too obvious? Since when have you cared about that? Alright, he got it, that was enough. Part of him wondered (worried) if there was a chance that his mom had been one of the nurses for Chelsea's mom. He hoped not. He shuddered to think what her bedside manner would be, especially in a situation like that.

She twisted the cap of her drink around, between her fingers, obviously a little bit embarrassed having said so much. He offered her a small smile, resisting the temptation to reach across the table and grab her hand. To hold her, to comfort her, to tell her everything was alright. That he was glad to hear everything she had to say, glad that she trusted him enough to share that information with him. He didn't know if he'd really earned it, but he was grateful for that nonetheless. "It's okay. I - I'm glad you told me. I like - I like knowing the real you." His stupid, preconceived judgements could have never predicted this. That he'd be sitting across from her, desperate to learn every inch of her soul, of her mind. Desperate to have her touch him, kiss him, something. Everything.

You've known her for less than a day. Less than an hour. He threaded his fingers through his hair and pulled on it, hard, before he let go. God. He couldn't get his brain to shut the fuck up already, to stop spitting out these invasive thoughts. He knew, alright? He fucking knew that he was insane and crazy and clinging so hard to her because she was the first person to give him a bit of kindness. I know I'm pathetic, alright? You don't need to keep reminding me. At this point, he really was his own worst enemy,

"I - I don't know what happened to my brother," he said, actually honest. Hey, she did say it was his turn. His turn to share, his turn to be as truthful as he possibly could. As he felt comfortable with. It wasn't much, but it was all that he could offer her right now. "He was there one day and the next he was gone and - I have - I don't know anything else. I haven't seen him, haven't heard from him...I don't know where he is or what he's doing." If he was even still breathing or buried in a shallow grave somewhere. He had the worst kind of sinking feeling in his chest that it was becoming more and more likely that's what actually happened. He couldn't imagine a situation otherwise where Christian would've left him. It didn't feel right that the brother who protected him at every other turn would disappear with no warning. "It just - it kind of feels like he's abandoned me." Fuck, Elliot really hoped he wasn't dead. He already felt guilty enough for his mixed-up emotions, he didn't need any additional on top of it.

"Don't worry. About this." He gestured to his face, still smoothing down his hair down in front of his eye, over and over in a compulsive gesture. "It looks worse than it is." Yeah, he caught that look on her face, the same one he got any time he walked out of the house uncovered. A frown deep enough to crease lines between her eyebrows and he could sense the embarrassing amount of pity behind her eyes. Maybe she'd assume he got into a fight with someone else at school. He'd immediately gone on the defensive when she sat down with him, tried to start a fight she wasn't looking for. It wasn't impossible. Boys will be boys, right? "You should, uh, you should see the other guy." He tried for a joke, but he could feel it die almost as soon as the words left his mouth. Cool, now he was actively trying to seem shady and suspicious. Like he had something to hide. Why did you draw attention to it? Live with the stares and don't say anything. That's when people start asking questions, that's when people insist on checking up at home, and that's when his dad would get rid of him and bury him under that big oak in the backyard like he was a deceased pet.

He'd gotten off lightly, anyway - he couldn't remember what he'd done wrong, but at this point the reason meant nothing, and an open palm was always better than a closed fist. Left less of a mark.

if I’m bright and warm right now, it’s because of you. Nah. He didn't believe that. Look at her. She probably lit up every room she walked into just by being there. How could she sell herself short like that? "I - I think you do that all on your own. God, look at you," he said, his inside thoughts turning into outside thoughts. He bit down on his tongue to prevent any more of those little fuckers from escaping. If he told her every thought going through his head, she'd think he was insane. "You've made me - I am - " Jesus. He could barely finish his sentences when it came to her, unable to pull the scramble of thoughts together in any coherent way. What did she make him feel?

Real. Whole. Tangible. No longer an incomprehensible amalgamation of blood and bones piloted by a force outside of his control, or the physical manifestation of the mistakes and failures of two deeply disturbed people. But a real, actual person. His own person.

You make me feel like Elliot. The Elliot that liked rock music and silly, colorful stuffed fishes and creating things with his hands. That liked board games and his brother's stupid coin tricks and the smell of rain outside his window. That wanted to see the world beyond his hometown and discover things nobody talked about and learn all that he could cram into his brain in whatever amount of time he had. It was nice to know that Elliot was still there, underneath everything else.

That introspection turned into - "You're kind of special, you know that?" - once his mouth decided to form real words again. "I've never met anyone like you. I - I don't think there is anyone else like you." If there was space in her time, in her mind, for someone like him, well...that really said everything, didn't it?

Noo, I don’t have a boyfriend! Oh. Okay. Great. Awesome. Rad. He was having a normal reaction to that information, with his heart in his throat, beating loud enough for probably half the school to hear. Normal. Yeah. They weren't even in the same zip code as normal at this point. "Good, I'm - I - I mean - cool." Yeah, good one. Now would be a perfectly fine time for lightning to strike or for the ground to swallow him whole. Anything so he didn't have to feel her eyes burn into him. God, he was fucking bad at this. No wonder he'd never had a date before. Then she turned the question back on him, which was fair, but, like, come on. He could barely talk to her. Did Chelsea really think this worked on anyone else? "I - do I look like I have a girlfriend?" Nothing about his giant, pulled up hoodie, empty table and complete lack of any social skills screamed: I definitely have a girlfriend. More like: surprise, I am actually in a cult. "No. No, I definitely don't."

She reached for his hands again, this time to pry the napkin from his fingers. He kept his grip tight around it, with far more than strictly required, in an effort to keep her touching him. The longer it took, the longer he could pretend she was actually holding his hand. So he had the feeling etched into his brain for when he inevitably spent all night thinking about her, and this, convinced it was all a very vivid hallucination. She can't be real. People like her don't really exist. Good for the sake of good. Kind for the sake of kindness. It felt too good to be true. A lesson learned from his mom, this time: everybody has an ulterior motive. Nothing in life came free, or easy, or without pain. Nobody like Chelsea, nothing like Chelsea, happened to somebody like him without strings attached.

"I - I know it's kinda gross," he said, suddenly self-conscious of something that had been an instinctive habit. Something to do with his hands, something to keep his mouth occupied so he didn't open his dumbass mouth. Where was that forward thinking five minutes ago, huh? "I - I've been trying to stop. So, yeah. I'll take all the help I can get." I'll take all the help I can get from you. Elliot didn't care if the solution was to dissolve all his skin until there was nothing left but bone. He'd do anything she told him. Damn the consequences, so long as he could be with her.

She pushed, a little bit, offering to stay with him, wait while he rode out his daily attendance. "No, no, it's - you - you really don't have to do that," he said, trying to fight back the rising panic in his voice. Okay, maybe don't damn all the consequences. For a couple of people who hardly noticed when he actually was home, they definitely noticed when he wasn't. Out of the house meant he was around people they couldn't control, in situations they couldn't manipulate to their advantage. Meant he was out of their control. If he started to think for himself, then he became more trouble than he was worth. And I'm not worth that much to begin with. "I have to - I should tell my parents I'm going out." I will absolutely never do that. "I don't - they would - I wouldn't want them worry." Yeah, that's what parents did, right? Worry about their child's safety? Wonder what they were doing, who they were doing it with? That sounded right. Nailed it.

"How about I meet you there? At the mall? Just so I can go home and get changed and...talk to my parents."

[chelseaheskett]

He said the magic words. I'm not very good at math. Chelsea, already perkier than ever, perked up some more and interrupted him before he could properly apologise. "Oh, math is my favourite. I'm like a total math whizz. Not to brag, or anything." Wow. Was it a brag, Chelsea? Huh? Being a total fucking nerd? That sure messed with the whole pretty and popular cheerleader image she must've had going for her before she'd opened her big mouth. But... that was kind of her point, anyway. Before she'd sat down and opened her fat mouth to Elliot, that had been his assumption. Talking to him, kind and honest, had already shattered that high school stereotype. And the other cheerleaders loved to capitalise on her smarts; constantly coming to her before or after practices to get her help with homework, or to help cram before a quiz. Ooh. That gave her an idea. "Oh, oh! You should let me tutor you! It'd be fun!" She bounced in her seat, a little, excited at the prospect. Entirely too enthusiastic, but that could be said about Chelsea a majority of the time. Easily excitable, overly passionate, filled to the brim with enthusiasm. Wore her heart on her sleeve, no matter the cost. "I'd love to do that! I'd love to tutor you." She grinned, eyes lit up as bright as Elliot's were naturally. Looked at him, eager for a positive answer. A resounding yes, please and thank you, Elliot. Any excuse to spend more time with him, at this point. Lunch was gonna wind down eventually, and tutoring sounded a whole lot better and convincing than her original tactic of let me photograph you. While Chelsea got free time with him, Elliot'd get better at math. Sounded like a good deal, if you asked her. For real, this time.

Elliot said you're right and her chest swelled with pride. With stubbornness. Yes, thank you, she was right. She was right about this and she was right about him. Exactly.

She was glad her rapid fire round of random facts had worked on him. Opened him up, got him saying she was right and that he didn't actually know anything about her. Everything had been an assumption - a stereotype - until now. But Chelsea did cheerleading for the extracurricular and the exercise of it all, not for the currency or popularity it gave her at school. With the friends she had at the moment that acted more like acquaintances or classmates (based more on proximity to each other rather than some sort of true connection) Chelsea would've preferred to be seen as a loser. Would've preferred true, real relationships over people looking up to her, or being jealous of her, or talking about her behind her back. She craved connection, actually. The only child in her, maybe. Being adored and having a healthy relationship with her parents, probably. And wanting that - something real and tangible and special - had really screwed her over this summer. But Elliot was already different; stumbling over his second apology and taking accountability for himself and his assumptions. For his words. I'm sorry. I shouldn't have done that - and you didn't deserve it. Fuck, it was refreshing. It was big of him to do that. Apologise and recognise where he was wrong. Chelsea, still high on him saying you're right, certainly couldn't relate to that. He was better than her, that was for sure. And he already knew her better than anybody else in school did, including her cousin, and they hadn't even really been talking for long.

Refreshing. Scary. Exciting.

"It's okay! Thank you. For saying sorry." Not because he owed her that, but because it was nice to hear it. It was nice to know that he'd heard her. Nice to feel validated by his sorry and his you didn't deserve it. Yeah, refreshing. A nice change of pace. Chelsea followed his eyes as they darted over to the other side of the cafeteria, where the rest of the cheer squad and her cousin were still sitting, staring at them. "I'm sorry, too. They can be pretty awful to people. It's insecurity, I think. Hah, it's definitely like that for my cousin." Chelsea nodded in Bethany's direction, to point her out to Elliot. "But it's not right. You... you won't have to worry about them anymore, though. I'll make sure of it." If she could handle the cheerleaders, she could handle anyone. And Wes was on the football team - because of course he was. Ugh, gross - but she could make or break them, too. The power now appointed to her as yearbook editor! The power of always listening to other people but never being listened to; she knew most of all of their dirty little secrets. Chelsea could use her powers for evil to in turn do something good, right? That's how that worked? She didn't care. She just wanted Elliot be left alone - at least by everyone else besides her, please and thank you.

Thank you for talking to me like I’m an actual person. Elliot said, heartfelt. It hit her square in the chest, at least. She took it to heart. Funny how a single sentence could do that. Could make her eyes get squinty and small and shining with tears, even despite the soft way she smiled. "You deserve that." She said, throat scratchy, speaking without thinking. He'd said she didn't deserve his stereotypes or assumptions, and Elliot deserved to be talked to and treated like an actual person. Like a perfectly imperfect and beautiful human being. Everybody did. But especially Elliot: at school and at home. Originally he might've tried to push her away, might've tried to say he wasn't worth it, but everything she saw in him made her know that he was. Worth it. Worth getting to know, worth talking to, worth being around. The only thing she could pick out that was "wrong" with him was the hood he was hiding behind - and she only thought that because it robbed the world, robbed her, of his pretty face, and that gorgeous head of hair of his. But he didn't deserve to be punished for it! She'd get her way, eventually.

And just like that, he opened all the way up. Completely came out of his shell. Took her banana as an offering; long fingers wrapping around the peel with ease to hold it in the palm of his hand. I - I eat a lot of peanut butter. But I don’t - I don’t really even like peanut butter. Chelsea blinked at his half-eaten sandwich, dry bread smattered together with peanut butter. He was eating it when he didn't even like it. He was eating it because that's all he had. That broke her heart all over again. There were so many good fillings for sandwiches that he was missing out on! Man, Chelsea loved a good sandwich. Smoked salmon and avocado?! A steak sandwich?! Ham and cheese and tomato!? Tuna or turkey or egg and mayo!? A good ol' plain jam sandwich?! Nutella!? This wasn't right. Like... she felt sick to her stomach on his behalf. She'd hand-make him a different sandwich and bring it to school for him every day from now on, if she had to. Give him at least one good meal a day, because God only knew what he was eating when he was at home. And God, was she grateful. Having unconditional love and care wasn't a guarantee in this life, and even though she realistically knew that, she didn't really know that 'til today. Chelsea was one of the lucky ones. Privileged. Poor Elliot. She smiled at him, small. Closed lips. It wasn't pity, okay? Or charity. It wasn't. It was care that must've looked unfamiliar to him.

"Bananas are good." She agreed, eyes finally focusing on his expression instead of his fingers around the banana. Both were a sight to behold. The length of his fingers and the lines of his face: the curve of his jaw, the cleft of his chin, the defined cupid's bow of his upper lip, the deep lines around his mouth when he talked. When he smiled. Talk about food. Chelsea wanted to eat him up. Drink all of him in. She settled on his eyes, instead. Tried to commit all of him to memory for later. "Do you have any food allergies?" Chelsea asked, out of the blue. Blinking away from his gaze before she well and truly drowned in the depths of his eyes. Obviously he wasn't allergic to peanuts. And a peanut allergy was usually a sign of other allergies, right? So Chelsea could start bringing him different sandwiches to try out? Banana might've been his favourite fruit, but what about his favourite sandwich filling? Challenge accepted.

Elliot held his palm out, trying to hand her the banana back. Chelsea immediately shook her head and waved a hand in refusal, pout pushing out her lips. No - no. It’s yours. Your lunch. I can’t take it. Oh, so he could freely take her heart but not her lunch? Chelsea had plenty of food in her brown paper lunch bag - she was fine. This conversation was fuelling her, actually. She didn't even feel hungry - just completely fixated on him. He was taking up all her energy and hunger at this current moment in time. Chelsea reached her arm out to deposit the sugar donut onto his tray, his hand full with the banana. "Just for that, you're getting the donut, too." She arched her eyebrows, playful. Daring him to try and refuse her again. See how that worked out for him. Already, after all this time together, he must've known better, and ended up accepting her food offering. Chelsea tongued her teeth, overjoyed with her success. "Don't say I never gave you anything." She said, victorious. Happy and flirty.

The conversation might've started out a little messy, but she'd recovered quite well, she thought! He started to tell her things, listing off information about himself. His own rapid fire of random facts. He liked to build stuff! He did shop class last year! "You've got the hands for it." Chelsea said dumbly, her finger drawing patterns into the tabletop as a way to fidget from the way she wanted to hold his stupidly big hands. The blush hit her cheeks before she could fully realise what she'd said, but again she was quick to recover: "You’d get along so well with my dad, actually. He’s a contractor so he's always building stuff. He's like, the roof guy." Chelsea said, words coming out a mile a minute in a nervous attempt to hide her chagrin. "He also builds, like, patios and decks and pergolas. Stuff like that." Kind of the same as shop class, right? Chelsea could be into that. Maybe she'd give it a go next semester. Her dad would be happy about that, for sure.

"Oh, I bet you did a great job with it! I'd love to see your table." I'd love to see your room, she thought, heat still in her cheeks. God, her palms were sweaty. And then she remembered about his parents. About how home clearly wasn't a safe place for him, and her face dropped. She didn't even know the full story, or even the half of it - but she knew enough. Sweet Elliot didn't deserve that. It wasn't fair. Her heart sunk in her chest; weighed down by the knowledge of his abuse, but more so by the fact that there was nothing she could do to help him. Chelsea rearranged her bangs, trying to play it off as shyness. "My type of building or... or creating is drawing, I guess. I really like sketching." She'd be doing that as soon as she got home, honestly. Sketching the shape of his eyes, and every crease in his skin. In his hands. He was so beautiful that it was inspiring. Her new muse. Her fingers were still itching to take his photo. Sketching him down later when she was alone was a good enough alternative.

He liked Green Day and Counting Crows and Blue Öyster Cult. All good bands, in her mind. He had good taste! She never doubted it. "Counting Crows have a song called Chelsea. It's really pretty." He probably already knew about it. She didn't want to seem too much like a know-it-all, even if she kind of was. "From their Live From New York album. You've probably heard it, but it's one of my favourites. The live version of Mr. Jones? So good. Better than the studio version, I think." Did she sound desperate? Did she sound like she was trying too hard to be liked by him? Probably. But it was also the truth! He had good taste, and so did Chelsea. "That's so fucking cool that you got to go to Mad Monk before it closed! That would've been amazing." She gasped, lips parted in awe. "When's your birthday?" Had he already had his for the year, or was it coming up? Hers was literally a week away. You are sixteen going on seventeen, baby it's time to think. Meeting him and spending this time together sort of felt like an early birthday present. She felt happy all the same.

Fun facts turned into genuine honesty. Vulnerability. I - I really miss my brother. Elliot said over a stammer. It was like he didn't mean to say it, and now that he had he was visibly thinking on it. Chelsea watched him be deep in thought. Gave him the space for that. Without even knowing what that meant - was his brother dead? Did he live out of state, or something? - Chelsea appreciated the fact that he shared it with her. That he felt comfortable enough to share it with her and speak it out loud. "How long has it been?" She softly asked when their eyes finally met again. That sounded like the most appropriate way to ask him for more details. If he wanted to tell her more, she'd be here to listen. "I'm sorry. I don't have any siblings so I don't... I can't imagine. It must be really hard." Missing him because he had passed away, or because he wasn't around. He was gone either way, and she could see that it hurt Elliot. His sad eyes told her the whole story, with or without the details. She wanted to come around the table and give him a hug. Comfort him with more than words. Not yet. She couldn't. Lunch was even over yet. Their first lunch together wasn't even finished, so she couldn't. No matter how much she wanted to. She wanted more not to scare him off. It was honestly surprising that she hadn't yet.

I want to know more about you. He did? Chelsea tucked her chin to her chest, smiling wide but shy down at the table. Elliot said he didn't know anything about fishing or art but that he wanted to hear more about them. Wanted to hear more about them from her. God, Chelsea was burning under the spotlight of all this attention. So raw and unfamiliar that it made her a little uncomfortable. A good kind of uncomfortable, though. This was all she'd ever really wanted out of a friendship. Out of a relationship, romantic or not. (But this was romantic, wasn't it?) (Her heart was pounding too fast for any sort of friend). Elliot listened and asked her questions and showed genuine interest. The only people who did that - who weren't obviously wanting something in return, like some of the cheerleaders or people from yearbook club - were her parents, and they had to do that. Well. They didn't... Elliot's parents were proof of that. Still. This felt a little unreal. Unbelievable, that this was happening. Chelsea fanned a hand in front of her face, trying to rid the colour from her cheeks. The blush felt permanent, at this point. And then Elliot asked about her mom. Is she okay? Is she out of the hospital? Her throwaway comment had been met with palpable concern. It was caring and sweet and, God, she couldn't be feeling this way about a boy she'd only just met. Shouldn't be. This was crazy. Chelsea was crazy.

Still, she replied; mirroring his sentiments: "I want to know more about you, too." She admitted, glancing up at him through her lashes. "I can teach you. About fishing, about art. About math. About anything you want." Was she coming on too strong? Definitely. She couldn't help herself. The chemistry between them felt electric, making the air thick and hard for her to breathe. He was making it hard for her to breathe. Chelsea exhaled long and slow through pursed lips. She was sweating, still. Her clothes were sticking to her skin and sticking her to her cafeteria chair. She twisted the hoop of her earring, needing something new to fidget with so she wouldn't look so fucking obvious. If that were even possible by now.

"Yeah, my mom is okay now! Thank you for asking." Manners, manners, manners. Donna would be proud. "It was just like a freak car accident. And so she had to have surgery to... to fix everything, I guess. She was discharged from the hospital after a few days and was doing fine, but after, like, a week of being back at home one of her wounds opened up and she was just bleeding everywhere." Did he ask for this much detail? No. But they didn't call her chatty for nothing. She talked animated with her hands, finally giving them something else to do besides fiddling. "My dad is the best, he - he, like... plugged her wound using his thumb. And so I drove us to the hospital and they were just sitting in the back of my dad's truck, and he kept his finger inside the wound the entire time. Even when we got to the hospital and my mom was admitted again, my dad kept the pressure for hours. Not the doctors, not the nurses, but my dad. He didn't care that he had blood all over him, or that his arm was tired, or that he was tired. 'Cause it happened in the middle of the night, and my flight to Boston was meant to be the next day, but yeah... I didn't want to go after that. Honestly, it - it was really scary. I was really scared, I..." Talk about too much. Talk about vulnerable. Chelsea's exhale was shaky. Self-conscious. "It was just like... the epitome of in sickness and health, y'know?" That hadn't been his question. He'd asked if her mom was okay and if she was out of hospital, and Chelsea had just completely talked his ear off by telling him the entire story. "Sorry. I - I don't know why I just said all that."

Yeah, she did. Because somehow, in no time at all, she felt comfortable around him. She usually only talked like this with her mom - sitting on the counter in the kitchen and talking with no consciousness of how much time had passed, or of how many glasses of water she'd had to chug down for her voice to keep up. No wonder she always sounded so hoarse. Chelsea twisted the cap on her Sunny D and brought it up to her lips. Used it to hide herself from him. God, how embarrassing. "I think you officially know more about me than anybody else does." Chelsea said, gingerly setting the almost-empty juice bottle on the table. "Your turn." Please. It was Elliot's turn to spill his guts and make a complete and utter fool of himself, please.

But he told her she didn't need to feel embarrassed. She didn't need to feel embarrassed about her braces. You don't have to hide it. Not - not around me. They're cute, you're cute. I like them. This wasn't the first time he'd called her cute, or pretty, and it still made her stomach turn with butterflies all the same. "Okay. I won't. I promise." It would be a lot of conscious unlearning for her to do, but she'd do it for him. She'd stop trying to hide her teeth or shrink back her smiles. Just for him. Only for him. "Thank you." Accentuated her statement with another full-blown grin. She tucked some hair behind her ear - a good faith show of her promise, and because her curls, practically glued to her neck with sweat, were making her feel hotter. Why did this school have no air conditioning!? "You're cute, I'll have you know." Cute, wonderful, pretty, beautiful. The reason it felt so fucking hot in this cafeteria. And they kept at it; the stereotypical picture of teenagers clumsily flirting back and forth, paying each other compliment after compliment. I like... having you... see me. "Good." This time when she chewed down on her lip, it was purposeful. Her trying to be overtly flirty. So he knew. He had to know by now that she was interested in him, right?

He was visibly sweating too, she noticed. It was reassuring to her until Elliot started to claw at the makeup on his face, revealing the discolouration of his skin underneath the concealer. Chelsea did her best to stop herself from frowning, but her emotions were always so loud and obvious. Elliot fussed with his hair again, clearly uncomfortable with this level of exposure. Chelsea had lip balm in her backpack, but no cover-up or foundation that she could use to help him in the interim. Did he have any supplies on hand? Even the off-colour stuff would be okay if it made him feel better. Before she could ask, Elliot distracted her with a question of his own. Gestured down to her necklace. Is - is that a star? Chelsea's fingers immediately went to the gold chain resting against her collarbone. The diamond shooting star pendant that sat above her cleavage, slightly showing. "Yeah -" Chelsea started to say. It suits you. You're bright and warm and - and - Elliot said, and he wasn't talking about the flush of her cheeks - even if he could've been. He thought she was cute and bright and warm and how the fuck was this real? How was this happening to her right now, of all people? "Says you. If I'm... if I'm bright and warm right now, it's because of you." Chelsea beamed over at him with a large but effortless smile. "Because you're making me smile and happy and..." Giddy as all hell. There she went playing with her bangs again! Wringing the leather of her camera straps again when she was done doing that.

You can't help how you feel. Chelsea had never heard that sort of sentiment before. It was just... polar opposite from anything she'd ever heard from a boy before. Her feelings were normally labelled completely wrong, or off. Too sensitive, too dramatic. Just a stupid, obsessive, hormonal teenage girl. Wrong, wrong, wrong. And she was sure that's what everyone would be saying about how she felt right now, too - sitting with Elliot, with the end of lunch nearing and wanting to kiss him, and kiss him, and kiss him. Run her fingers through his hair, and feel the curve of his jawline beneath her palm, and kiss him. Let him feel her braces for himself, with his tongue knocking against her teeth. Hold his hands against hers and measure out the difference. Tell him that he was walking art - nothing short of a fucking masterpiece. The best she'd ever seen. It was unfair how gorgeous he was. How beautiful and kind and attentive he was. She could find the meaning of life in those blue eyes of his, surely. She swore she could, and she would - everybody else be damned, because you can't help how you feel. Chelsea didn't want to fight this feeling. And with Elliot's permission, his validation, she wouldn't.

Oh. Wait, Elliot thought she had a boyfriend? And he said he didn't know a thing about fishing, huh! That's what this had to be, right? Elliot fishing for information? Otherwise... was he kidding!? Chelsea couldn't help but bust out laughing. They'd been shamelessly flirting all lunch, and she'd just been imagining what it would be like to kiss the shit out of him, but sure. A boyfriend. Chelsea hadn't looked at another boy in her entire life until today, actually. Weston who? That wasn't even comparable - and she'd lived next door to him and had been friends with him her entire life. Not even an hour of alone time spent with Elliot and she was reeling. She was every single thing that everybody had ever said about her: obsessive, corny, dramatic, crazy. And she was all those things about Elliot. "Noo, I don't have a boyfriend!" Chelsea teased him with a tilted head, words tipped in laughter. Had to bite down on her tongue to stop herself from saying unless you're offering? Because they were both as dumb as each other, apparently. "And do you have a girlfriend? Just so we're both on the same page." All cards on the table. Just so Chelsea knew where they stood, and that they had the all clear to continue.

Literally how had she woken up this morning and gone to school business as usual? And now she was crushing hard on this boy that was calling her bright and warm and cute and pretty. She was imagining making out with this boy that she'd only just met. With this guy she'd spent almost the entirety of the lunch period with. The whole cafeteria, the whole school, nobody else existed anymore. She liked being in this bubble with him. She liked him, period. Funny how fast your life could change in a day, huh? Funny how fast it all happened. But you can't help how you feel. If Chelsea couldn't immediately hold onto him, she was going to hold onto that. She was going to hold onto this feeling.

He flinched away from her touch, but only slightly. He must've been caught off guard. Surprised. Chelsea was, too, but the impulse to finally give in and touch him and feel his skin on hers had won out. He sounded self-conscious about his nails. Ashamed. I just bite my nails. What had he said to her before? "You don't have to hide them. Not around me." Chelsea repeated, the words permanently etched into her brain now. Elliot was trying to clean his blood-dried nail off with a napkin, but Chelsea covered his hand again with her own. Slowly forced the napkin out of his grip. "I used to bite my nails, too. Without even realising it, I'd do it. Or I'd pick at them until they snapped off. I've got a hack to help, that's all." They both had that fidgety, anxious nature about them, didn't they? If he wanted to stop, Chelsea could try to help him. Impart some wisdom. For now, she gave him a reassuring grin.

Elliot had detention after school. Okay. Cool. So how could Chelsea land herself in detention before the day let out? She could count on a single hand the amount of times she'd had detention throughout her entire academic life. But if Elliot was going to be there, then Chelsea wanted to be there, too. Lunch was so close to being over. The warning bell was sure to go off soon, and she wasn't sure she'd be able to bear it. Not without a plan for later, or for whatever came next for them. Was it too much to ask just to stay here with Elliot forever? Alone at this table, talking and being in their little Elliot-Chelsea bubble? "That's okay, I can wait! I'll go to the library or something. There's some things I want to research, anyway." Resources for domestic violence victims. Yeah, she hadn't forgotten about that. Would never forget. But it felt nice to act like they were just normal teenagers for awhile - even if they so clearly weren't. The way she was feeling about him certainly wasn't normal. She was certifiably crazy! Absolutely crazy for him. With the napkin now out of his reach, she scrunched it up with her hand. Something else for her to fiddle with until the time came for them to finally, properly intertwine their fingers and hold hands. When was that going to happen, huh? Chelsea smiled. "I'll wait for you. I can drive us there and back." Like a date. It could be a date. He wanted that, right? He had to, after everything, or she really was crazy.

She was tougher than him. He could see that much right away. Tougher, smarter. More fiery. Pushed back against him, challenged him. From someone else, he'd be utterly terrified. From Chelsea....well, he didn't hate it.

And she was right. It wasn't fair of him to assume anything about her, especially using such flimsy evidence as cheerleader. He'd never met her, never heard her name before. He'd just assumed. That she would come over here and be cruel to him, that she would be bitchy and vapid the way he thought about her friends. As a group, they might not have been great. But he was sure (now, at least) that there had to be more than one Chelsea, more than one person who was kind and welcoming and warm and breathtaking and -

No, actually, there was probably nobody else like Chelsea, period.

"No. I - I didn't know any of that. I'm not very good at math," he said, sheepish, adding on to what he hoped had been a joke. Burning with embarrassment of all forms and just a little bit of guilt to go with it. He had the urge to hide from her again; he tugged on the drawstrings to his hood, but didn't pull it back up. "I'm sorry. You - you're right. I didn't know anything about you. I - I - before today, I couldn't have picked you, specifically, out of the cheerleaders. But I assumed you'd be like the rest of them." He glanced, nervously, back at the other table. Why were they still staring? "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have done that - and you didn't deserve it."

Now you tell me something. What could he possibly tell her that she’d actually want to hear? What could he possibly tell her that he’d actually want to admit out loud? That he could talk about without his throat practically closing on itself?

How about: I hate my brother for leaving, but I still sleep with the stuffed fish he won for me at a carnival when I was eight. Or maybe: I hate my brother for leaving, but I have still spent every day of the past six years hoping he’ll come back for me.

Or: I have to hide anything I care about in a locked box under my bed, otherwise my father would destroy it just for fun. Just to hurt me.

Or: I have spent all my life inside a house with people I’m terrified of and at this point, I feel like I’m trapped. Like I’ll never escape.

I'm scared that my father's going to kill me one day.

Yeah. She probably didn’t want to hear any of those things. Not like he could blame her; he didn’t want to hear them, either.

Now you tell me something. “Thank you for talking to me like I’m an actual person.” Thank you for being kind to me. She couldn’t possibly know how much of a relief it was, how good it felt, if only for a second or two. It wasn’t really an answer to her question, but it was an honesty he felt like he owed her. After all this, after everything…she deserved that.

She offered him two snacks from her lunch bag, waved them in his direction. Almost like she wanted him to take one. He hesitated, nervous, scared to take something that didn’t belong to him. And then she batted her eyelashes him, all cute and innocent, and something inside him told him that he had to give her anything she wanted. He reached for the banana, gingerly wrapped his fingers around it. Looked at it; bright yellow, perfectly ripe. “I - I eat a lot of peanut butter. But I don’t - I don’t really even like peanut butter. So I would experiment, try it on different things to see what I liked best. Bananas - I liked bananas the best.”

But bananas were something that he wanted, something nobody else in the house did. And he was sure the only time his mom ever bought them were on accident, where she threw them into the cart without thinking. And he would always wait a few days, when they were starting to darken and get a little mushy, then carefully peel them, arrange the peels in the garbage can so they would still look whole at a quick glance, and keep the edible insides in the little mini-fridge in his room. (He was great at making a kind of banana jam for his peanut butter sandwiches)

He held it to her again, so that she could take it back. She shook her head and didn't accept it. “No - no. It’s yours. Your lunch. I can’t take it.”

Tell her something. Okay. Okay. “I like to build things. I - I took the shop class, last year, and - and I realized I liked creating something - something whole. Liked watching it turn into a real thing from just a bunch of parts. I made a little table. I still have it in my room.” Of course, he’d had to hide it outside until his parents left, and only then was able to bring it up to his room, but that was beside the point. He still had it. It survived. “I like Green Day and Counting Crows. I snuck out of the house and into Mad Monk to see Blue Öyster Cult about a week and half before my 14th birthday.” She didn’t need to know what happened to him after he snuck back in the house. That wasn't the point. He'd actually had a really decent time until the bar owner noticed he was absolutely not over 21 and encouraged him to go back home. “I - I really miss my brother.”

Oh. He didn’t know he was going to say that. Didn’t know he even wanted to say that. His brother was...complicated. A mix of jumbled and confused emotions that didn't make much sense when he had to put any thought into them. But the truth at the heart of everything? Yeah. Yeah, he kind of really missed Christian.

Yeah, Elliot hated him for leaving. Hated that he was alone now, hated that there was no longer anybody safe to turn to, but he didn't hate Christian. If Elliot had the opportunity to run away, he would take it. He would take it and not look back and wouldn't feel the slightest bit of guilt over it. But. But. He wished Christian had taken him, too.

Christian was stronger than Elliot could ever hope to be; and unlike him, Christian never took anything from their father without a fight. Like pulling the pin on a live grenade, nearly every night had felt like an explosion. Shouting and raised voices that he couldn't drown out with his headphones, pressed deep into a corner of his closet curled up into a ball, waiting for it to be over. And when the house was quiet again, Christian would find him in his hiding spot (always bloody and bruised but still checking on him, first), tell him it's okay, it's over, give him his stuffed fish (this is Troy the Trout, Christian told him, and the name stuck for nearly a decade) and tuck him into bed. Told him everything would be better in the morning. It never was, but Elliot believed him every time.

He missed the brother that would hide him behind his back when their father got angry. Missed the brother that let him crawl into his bed at night because he couldn't sleep, or had a bad dream, or was just too scared to be alone. Missed the brother that would silently replace his broken toys with new ones and show him the places to hide them that their father never looked.

And he wanted to stay mad at Christian. But right now, he wasn't.

"I want to know more about you." He wanted to know everything, actually, but they could only cover so much ground during a fifty minute lunch period. "I don't know anything about fishing. I - I don't know anything about art, either." God, he must've seemed like an idiot. Stupid, uncultured compared to her. He fidgeted with the remains of his sandwich, again, little more than bread dust at this point. "But I - I would like to hear more. From you. About art. About fishing." About anything. God, all he wanted was for her to keep talking to him. No matter how pathetic it sounded, no matter how pathetic he looked, immediately pining over the first girl to show him a second of positive attention, he didn't care. He would do anything to keep her talking. "And - and about your mom. Is she okay? Is she out of the hospital?"

Her smile only grew wider when he drew attention to it, in turn causing her to try and hide it even more. God, she was so...he didn't have the words anymore. Didn't have a wide enough vocabulary to even begin to describe her. Nothing felt adequate or appropriate. Strong enough. She transcended words. "If - if you're embarrassed, you don't have to be. You don't have to hide it. Not - not around me." Ironic, a little bit, considering just how much he was hiding from her, but...was it too much to say that he wanted better than that for her? That she deserved more than feeling ashamed and insecure and like she had to hide part of herself away. Because nobody would accept them, like them, if they had to look at them for too long.

Elliot did. Elliot liked all of those things, even the ones he didn't know yet.

"They're cute, you're cute. I like them." Like his brain was a stuck record, skipping and repeating the same lines over and over. I like you, you're cute, I like you. His brain struggled to form more thoughts beyond that. Forget simply uncultured; now he definitely sounded like a full-out moron. It was fine, it was okay - she could think whatever she wanted as long as she kept smiling at him like that. The way it lit up her entire face, the dimples set deep into her cheeks that he couldn't tear his eyes away from.

He hadn't wanted to do this. Hadn't wanted to like her or let her get under his skin. Ha. Too late for that. She'd done it.

Part of him was terrified about what would happen when they left this bubble. When the bell rang and the spell was broken and they both had to go back to their typical routines. Chelsea, clearly so liked and adored (of course she was), back to all her friends with all their opinions. And Elliot, none of those fucking things, back to hiding in his brother's massive hoodie and just trying to get through the rest of the day. Would things change, when she walked away? Would she see him differently, or the way everyone else did?

Part of him was terrified if things didn't change. Because what would he do then? How could he keep her away from his parents, away from his life, without her thinking something was wrong with her? Without her thinking he was ashamed of her? Would I play sports work as well on her as it did everyone else? The bruises, cuts, burns, the broken wrist his father gave him every year, like clockwork, since he was 13 (yeah, he still kind of struggled to listen to Blue Öyster Cult, sometimes, even now. Don't fear the reaper, his ass). Would she notice? Would she care?

Did any of this even matter at all or was he neurotically over-thinking? Probably that one!

I like being able to see you properly. All of you. Funny. That was usually the thing he hated the most. Being seen. Being noticed. If he had it his way, he would be entirely invisible. He was glad he wasn't, now. "I like...having you...see me." He stumbled over the words a little bit, not used to the way they fit in his mouth, in his mind. He wanted to be seen. He wanted to be seen by her.

God. She was being so...complimentary. Towards him. And he almost didn't know what to do with it all, didn't know how to wear it in a way that felt right. He wanted to tell her to take it back, that she was wasting kind words on someone who had never earned them. Fuck. He felt really sweaty, now. Could feel the makeup around his eye, heavy and sticky against his skin. Dammit. Okay, okay, she had already noticed. Maybe it wouldn't be so bad. So much for that wanting to see all of him thing, right? Talk about regretting a compliment. He used the side of his hand to wipe the makeup off until it no longer felt disgusting. Okay, yeah, this was so fine. Ashamed, he covered himself back up with his hair.

Maybe if he changed the subject quickly enough she wouldn't say anything. Wouldn't ask him different, harder questions that he didn't have the answers to. Brushed his hair down compulsively, anyway, which was not-at-all suspicious. He touched his fingers to his neck, then gestured to hers, where what looked like a small star necklace sat around her throat. It could've been an amorphous blob for all he could tell, but it looked like it had a little tail - a shooting star. Just like her - rare and beautiful. "Your necklace. Is - is that star?" He asked, mad at himself for not just being able to tell. She wasn't even that far away. "It suits you. You're bright and warm and - and - " And you give welcome light to someone completely stuck in the dark. That was too much. Too much. He couldn't put that kind of pressure on her.

Have you ever just felt, like… like completely drawn to another person before? Almost instantly, a thought popped into his head: I have now. Five minutes ago, he could barely look at her. Now he couldn't stop. Now he didn't want to miss anything. The way her eyes darted to the side when she complimented him, like she was nervous to see his immediate reaction. The way her hands would fiddle with something while she talked, just like him. Just like him. The way she would blow her bangs out of her face when she seemed flustered. He got the urge to reach forward, tuck some stray hair behind her ear. He didn't. He wanted to. "No, it's - it's not. Too much, I mean. You can't help how you feel. I - I understand."

I mean, you kinda have to say that. "No, I don't. I don't have to say anything." He could've said nothing. Could've told her to fuck off like he'd wanted to (and kind of had, oops) when she first sat down. "I - I mean it. Don't you - your boyfriend doesn't tell you that?" If it were me, I would never let a day go by without you knowing exactly how beautiful you are. He bit the inside of his cheek, awkward. Insecure, a little bit. There was no way somebody like Chelsea wasn't already taken. There was no way somebody else hadn't seen how perfect she was, inside and out. Of course. Of course he wouldn't have a chance. No, that was fine, he didn't feel weird or upset about that at all.

She said his name. Soft, in that rough, raspy voice of hers. Oh. He'd never liked the way his name sounded, before. But nobody had ever said it like that. Like it was important, like it meant something. Like it was more than just a bitter taste they were trying to spit out. "Yeah. Hi," he repeated her, stupidly. God. It felt like he was underwater, struggling to catch his breath. Funny - he didn't really want to come up for air. Then she smiled at him - a real, true, genuine smile - and, Jesus Christ, he was going to pass out. And wouldn't that be super embarrassing. Almost against his will, he found himself mimicking her smile. Matching it. And for the first time in a very long time (ever? Probably ever), it didn't feel forced. Like it would crack his face if he held it too long. It felt right.

She felt right.

She reached for his hand; surprised, he flinched, curling his fingers in towards his palm. No, it's okay. She's okay. He relaxed, letting her gently touch his fucked up nails. Held as still as possible; trying not to scare her off, trying to make the moment last as long as possible. And when she pulled back, he started to follow, only to stop himself halfway. Clenched his hand a couple of times and tried to not to think about what it would feel like to have her fingers twined with his. "I - I just bite my nails," he said, reaching for a napkin to clean his finger. That was gross - leave it to him to be the very perfect stereotype of a teenage boy. I promise I clean myself, he wanted to say, to reassure her, but the words didn't come out. "Oh, no, I - I can't. I mean - detention," he hastily added, so she didn't think he was rejecting her. "I have detention."

Not that he thought he could get away with something like that regardless, but at least detention was the truth. Figured that the one time he actually didn't want it...

[chelseaheskett]

He interrupted her, jumping in to make a joke at his own expense when her voice trailed off. What, you wanted to see if I was as sad and pathetic as I look? Congratulations, I am. Her eyebrows dipped down in a frown. "You look like you feel sad." Chelsea agreed, purposefully ignoring his self-deprecation and sarcasm. "To no fault of your own, though! I mean, it sounds like you have plenty of reasons to feel like that, if you ask me. Sad, I mean. Not pathetic, but sad." Being sad didn't make him pathetic. Pathetic was the people bullying him, and beating him up. Spreading rumours and stupid conspiracy theories about him like he was an alien. Like he was other. And why was that, huh? What made Elliot so different from everybody else that he deserved to be targeted? What, because of the way he dressed, or the food he ate (or didn't eat), or because of his quiet temperament? Yeah, okay, sure, maybe he was different, but not in the way that he or anybody else thought he was. He was better than all of them. Her eyes swept over the cafeteria, looking out at all the groups of people. High school was hard, and people could be harder. Elliot didn't deserve it. What did he, or anybody else for that matter, do to warrant such treatment?

Their teenage angst looked a lot different. Chelsea could be sad about a summer fling, and losing a couple of friends along the way—Elliot was struggling with bullying, and rampant rumours, and being the target of awful pranks. Name-calling, and gossip, and physical brutality! Someone had given him a shiner, for Christ's sake! No wonder he just wanted to be left alone. No wonder he had his guard up. From the outside, Chelsea probably didn't look so much different from the average cheerleader. She hung out with them, (especially since school had come back for junior year) and she ate lunch with them, and she teamed up with them for group projects. How was he meant to know who she really was, and what her values were, from the outside looking in? When that was all the information he had to go on until now? Damn. Was this selfish of her? Just bombarding Elliot at lunch when he wanted to be left alone? All because she, what? Had crashed into him in the hallway and he'd left with her heart in his hands? He could keep it, actually, and she could go. Leave him be. Whatever made him feel better. Whatever made him feel anything other than sad and pathetic.

God. Talk about teenage angst. Yeah. Stop being so fucking dramatic, Chelsea. Okay. She felt conflicted. Felt her insides all tied up in knots. Getting up and leaving would mean proving him and his beliefs about himself and his worth right, and she didn't want to do that. Couldn't do that. Because it wasn't the truth! She didn't know him well, but she knew that much.

Her heart had been hurt before, sure, but it had never been broken. She was privileged that way — she could admit it. Her teenage angst looked different than his, remember? It was just that: angst. Hormonal. Typical. Normal. But this wasn't just sadness for Elliot. Nobody hurt me. I do it to myself. He said, inadvertently crushing her heart between his fingers. Her eyes must've looked bright now; green to his blue, and welling up with tears.

It wasn't someone at school hurting him, was it?

It wasn't just someone at school hurting him. Was it?

The barren lunch tray, the stale sandwich, the same hoodie she'd only ever remembered seeing him wear when she thought back on it. And what kind of mother just gave their child some off-colour concealer and sent them on their way? What kind of mother didn't pull their kid out of school if they were being incessantly harassed, or didn't march down to campus themselves to kick the crap out of the assholes that were hurting them? The kind of mother who was hurting her child herself, or allowing it to happen at the hands of her partner. Nobody hurt me, Elliot said, almost robotic. Rehearsed. I do it to myself. And like his comments about being sad and pathetic, he said it and meant it. He said it and believed it. Believed he deserved to be physically hurt and neglected, because somehow he was at fault. I do it to myself. The image of his eyes had been haunting her for hours, but those words... that phrase... She wasn't going to ever forget the way he sounded when he said it. She wasn't ever going to be able to shake it.

Now she was never going to leave. How about that? If she didn't leave, then nobody could hurt him again. If she didn't leave, then he couldn't "do it to himself."

It was weird to feel so strongly about someone who was virtually a stranger. Someone who, until about two hours ago, hadn't ever entered her headspace before. But she did. Feel strongly. Felt concerned and like she had to do something. They had to have shelters for kids who suffered abuse, right? Right? Did they have those for seventeen-year-old boys, though? Maybe she could call Child Protective Services, or something. She was going to have to do some research. Get some brochures, call some helplines. Or, or, if she couldn't do something for him on that sort of level, she could do it here! At school! She'd make sure everybody left him the hell alone from now on. She had pull, even with limited popularity. People liked to call in favours when it came to yearbook — the photos that got picked, the length of quotes they were allowed to use. Missing orders. Accidental typos. Last year, when Molly Howard's name was printed as Molly Coward. Yeah. And this year Chelsea was editor. If people wanted to make Elliot's life a living hell at school, when he already had to endure so much at home and inside his own head, Chelsea could give them a taste of their own medicine. Chelsea could make things real hard for everybody. She'd go to war for him, actually. She was stubborn! When she set her mind on something, when she had her heart set on someone...

You do know me. The rumors. I'm nobody, okay, I'm - I'm just me. You don't want to know any more than that. Trust me. Nah, she didn't believe that. Chelsea had already made up her mind about him. He wasn't gonna scare her off so easily. "And what do they say about me, huh? If I only know who you are through rumour alone, then it's gotta be the same for you about me. Right? It's simple math." Logical. How could he argue with that? "So. What do you know about me?" Chelsea cocked an eyebrow. "Did you know that I can set up a Paternoster rig seven seconds faster than my father can, and he's been a fisherman for almost all of his life? Did you know that I'm tossing up between three different arts majors for college, with about twenty different schools to apply to? Architecture, art history or photography, I can't pick. Or did you know that I had tickets to see The Cranberries in Boston in March — my favourite band, and my first time leaving North Carolina — but I had to sell my tickets because my mom got admitted to hospital after a car accident?" These were truths, these were facts. Stuff people around here didn't really know, or care about. Things people didn't care enough about her to ask. And maybe Elliot wouldn't care either, but she had to try. Let him reject her for her, not because he thought he was a nobody. Not because he didn't want to let her in. Maybe if she opened up first, he'd follow suit.

"Now you tell me something." Chelsea instructed, poking through her lunch bag with a dimpled smile and retrieving some food for him. "You can only pick one to eat for the rest of your life. Which one do you choose and why?" Real intellectual conversations happening over here, but silly and unserious felt like a good way to go. It felt like a good place to start. Chelsea held a banana out to him in one hand, and a powdered sugar donut covered in clingwrap in the other. Slightly waved them around with a flourish in an attempt to appetize him. "Trust me." An extra little flutter to her eyelashes, still a little wet and sticking together from her near-tears moment earlier. Repeating him and twisting it back around in a positive way felt like a dirty tactic, but he needed to eat. His tray looked lonely. He looked lonely. So was Chelsea, these days. And they didn't have to be. Hungry or alone or sad. Not anymore.

I'm - I - no. Nobody's ever told me that. Of course not. Knowing what she knew about him now, that wasn't surprising. It still didn't make it fair. She'd just have to keep telling him how beautiful they were, how beautiful he was, to make up for lost time, huh? It was hard to say anything, though, with his eyes set on her. Hard to find the words and put them together, or get her mouth to move beyond cracking a wide, toothy smile. Chelsea had to rest her chin on her hand, propped up by her elbow, to cover the way she started grinning. Blushing. There was that giddy feeling again, wrestling around in the pit of her stomach. Chemistry and some sort of tension in the air between them. And maybe Elliot felt it, too, because then he started to compliment her back. They're cute. The - the braces. Your smile. I - Chelsea folded her lips over her teeth in an attempt to hide more of her smile. He noticed the braces. He called them cute. He called her smile cute. Chelsea jiggled her leg erratically under the table, a mix of nerves and happy anticipation. Had that good kind of sinking feeling in her chest. In her heart. I - I like them. I think they're cute.

I like you. I think you're cute. That's why I came and sat here. Chelsea wanted to say, but couldn't work up the courage with her smile still so big and her braces being the current topic of conversation. As if she hadn't been talking with her teeth exposed this entire time. It chipped at the insecurity, sure, but her self-doubt had already been built up for a couple of years at this point. Being a freshman in high school and getting braces fitted well past the time most people had been there and done that really kinda sucked for her. Elliot knew how much people could be assholes, especially pathetic high school students. It was nice of him to say it, though. Whether he meant it or not, or if he was just trying to say something nice after she'd told him his eyes were beautiful, she wasn't sure. It was sweet. He was sweet. And she wanted to thank him, use her good manners and all that, but her breath was kind of caught in her throat. Her pulse was hammering away and pounding hard against her rib cage.

They were both just awkward, stupid teenagers, weren't they? Elliot read her bashful silence as rejection, and stumbled over himself to apologise. Chelsea glanced up at him, rapidly shaking her head in response. "No, no! You didn't, I swear! I just — I was gonna — I was gonna say sorry. Sorry if that was kind of... a lot. Or, like, too much. What I said before you said what you said, I mean, I—" Yeah, now they both looked like bumbling idiots. And then Elliot pulled his hood off his head and swept some of his pretty hair out of his face. Chelsea swallowed, twirling her fingers around the leather of her camera strap. He looked really hot and bothered right now. Like... like really hot. Strands of his hair were damp and curling against his forehead, against his chin; framing his perfect face. Chelsea tightened her fingers around the strap, wondering how it'd feel to run a hand through his hair. Sweaty or not, curly or straight or wavy, she didn't care. It was a good head of hair, at least from all the angles she'd seen so far. So far today. It'd been, what? Two hours of knowing him? Only ten minutes of sitting with him? Yeah, Chelsea was a stupid, awkward teenager with a stupid, awkward, all-out, hard-on crush.

Well. She'd come this far already, hadn't she? "I - I like your sweater. But I've gotta say that I... I really like it when you have the hood down." Chelsea's cheeks felt burning hot. Felt like she was coming down with something, like she had a fever. Her clothes felt heavy against her skin. What was that Elliot had said before about the Kool-Aid? She felt sick over him, in the best way imaginable. Chelsea fidgeted with the plastic label on her bottle of Sunny D, tearing it on and off and shyly glancing up at him again. "I like being able to see you properly. All of you." His hair, his bushy little eyebrows, the red tip of his nose, the lines around his mouth, the crack of a dimple in his chin. God, those blue eyes — skin creased around the edges now like she hadn't seen before.

Do - do you really want to stay here? Sit with me? Why? Somehow, he still had to ask. Somehow, it still wasn't completely obvious to him. "Yeah. Yeah, I'm here to stay." She wiggled around in her chair for emphasis. Got settled and comfy. She felt comfy here. Could she say that at her usual lunch table? Getting talked over and dismissed? Definitely not. But she could say that with him, this boy she hadn't even known for half a day but felt like she had somehow known forever. "Have you ever just felt, like... like completely drawn to another person before?" Completely attracted to, completely real with... She cleared her throat and continued. Honesty always. "I just... I felt an instant attraction to you. Meeting you in the hallway. I don't know if..." Chelsea tore her gaze away from him, hand rubbing the heat and sweat away at the back of her neck. "I don't know if that's okay for me to say that. That's probably too much, I'm sorry." She uncapped her juice and took a swig, body feverishly trembling and her throat dry. This wasn't how she'd envisioned her day going when she rolled out of bed this morning, that was for sure.

You are pretty. I can't - I'm sure you know that already. Chelsea's turn to be insecure. "I mean, you kinda have to say that. But thank you." She'd been flowering him with praise and compliments all lunch. He probably didn't want to be rude. She was average pretty, maybe. Nothing special or extraordinary. A little plain, probably. Then he said her name for the first time, and she felt pretty special. Felt extraordinary. She lifted her head up to meet his gaze. "Yeah. Elliot. Hi." Chelsea said, flashing him a full smile. Teeth and braces and all.

He traced a finger over his skin, and Chelsea followed his hand movements, mesmerised. Do you really know how to fix this? If you do, I - I wouldn't mind the help. She nodded at him, eyes softening. She might not have been able to fix the root cause of his bruises, but she was going to do everything else in her power to help him otherwise. Whatever that entailed. Chelsea reached across the table, where his other hand was resting next to his lunch tray, and slid the tips of her fingers over his nails. Short and jagged, and with one caked entirely in old blood. "I can help with this, too." Yeah, his hand was huge next to hers. Just like she'd guessed in the hallway. Insane. Chelsea's tongue poked out of her mouth to lick the dryness away from her lips. Cool, cool. She drew her hand back, wrapping it around her juice bottle. Fuck, she was thirsty. Had another sip to calm herself down. Chelsea swallowed and tossed her hair over her shoulder. "Come with me to the mall after school?"

Whatever she'd come here for, he'd either completely blown it or given her exactly what she wanted. He still couldn't tell, couldn't parse what she actually wanted from him; he was a horrible judge of character in either direction and no matter what he decided (keep his guard up or let it down), it would turn out to be wrong. It would hurt either way, so why even bother making one?

Elliot had been incredibly unkind toward her and Chelsea apologized to him. Oh, fuck, he didn't like that. Didn't like how it felt to be the aggressor, to have the target of his rage apologize to him. It wasn't the same, but...wasn't it? Guilt stuck in his throat hard enough to hurt. He picked at the edges of his fingernails, unsure what to do with his hands and only moderately freaking out. God, he was stupid. He actually kind of wanted to go home at this rate. Somehow, the public humiliation felt worse.

I just saw you. Earlier, I saw you, in the hallway, and I… "What, you wanted to see if I was as sad and pathetic as I look? Congratulations, I am." It was only half a joke and he could almost literally hear it land with a thud. Poor Chelsea. She really did pick the wrong sad and pathetic boy to talk to, didn't she? Had no idea what she was getting herself into when she pulled the chair up at his table. Ha. Bet she regretted that now. "It's okay, it's - I know what I am." He'd committed the cardinal high school sin of being awkward and unapproachable, buried in clothes a size too big for him (either stuff he'd stolen from Christian or cheap things he'd bought from a thrift store with the little cash he'd managed to squirrel away), always hidden in the back of rooms where he was less likely to be noticed. Yeah, he was weird. He was sad and pathetic. It wasn't an insult, or another negative word scrawled across the front of his locker, it was true.

It was meant to protect him. Yet, it never did.

"Nobody hurt me. I do it to myself." The words spilled out automatically, against his will. Fake and over-rehearsed, even to his own ears. Clumsy, that's what he was. He could hear that word in his mom's voice every time he had to peel himself off the floor. He squeezed his eyes shut to force the thought out of his head. No, no. He wasn't doing this. You're fine, you're fine, you're fine.

She was kind. Actually kind. Bad judge of character, sure, but Elliot didn't feel any malice behind her words. Didn't notice any of the venom that usually accompanied any kind words spoken to him. Chelsea apologized for things she never did, things she had no part it. God, he'd been so fucking unfair to her. Let his preconceived notions warp his initial perspective of her, and then took out all his pent-up frustration out on her because she was the nearest target. All she wanted was to be friendly and he proved exactly why he didn't deserve that.

"You do know me," he said with a resigned shrug. "The rumors." Pick any one of them and he'd agree with her. Didn't matter how outlandish or wrong, they were better than the truth. "I'm nobody, okay, I'm - I'm just me. You don't want to know any more than that. Trust me." His life was a disaster and nobody else deserved to be caught up in that vortex. His brother left him on his own to deal with the fallout and he'd be damned if he ever willingly introduced anybody else to it. He had no doubts his parents would hurt any friend he had as much as they did him, and nobody should have to deal with that.

You have really beautiful eyes, did you know that? Has anybody ever told you that before? His gaze darted up to her face, surprised. Caught off-guard. Kind of terrified. Was she flirting with him? Making fun of him? He really couldn't tell. "What?" Was the only thing that came out of his mouth after a few failed attempts. Had the overwhelming urge to close his eyes, to look away from her, something. Because there was no way she meant that how it sounded. Of course, she had to be mocking him, making some sort of cruel joke about his inability to use concealer. Yeah, nice black eye, that looks great, some of your dad's best work so far. That had to be what she really meant, right? "I'm - I - no. Nobody's ever told me that."

Fuck. Whatever she was doing, it was working. Could feel his heart beat heavily in his chest for a far different reason than it normally did. And for once, probably the only time, he couldn't look away from her, even when he wanted to. She was close enough to him that he could see her well enough, the finer details a little blurry around the edges. Her smile, he noticed, she kept trying to tamp down whenever it got too big, too excited. The rows of plain metal across her teeth were the likely culprit of her self-consciousness, the light catching off them for a brief moment before she managed to hide them again. "They're cute. The - the braces. Your smile. I - " God, what was he even doing? He had barely talked to girls outside of doing group projects, forget trying to flirt with one of them. "I - I like them. I think they're cute," he repeated, lamely. His cheeks burnt red with embarrassment. Yeah, he bet his eyes wouldn't look so beautiful now, practically in tears from sheer mortification.

This time she didn't meet his eyes, and fuck, wasn't he a real winner. That was probably the last thing she wanted to hear from him after he spent a solid minute chewing her out for no reason. "I - I'm sorry. If I - I overstepped, or - or made you uncomfortable. I just - I wanted to - " Yeah, wanted to what? Flirt with her? Who are you kidding. Of course she wouldn't want that, coming from him. Of course it would make her feel awkward. Was this room incredibly hot, or was just him? He pushed his hood back down, brushed stray hair out of his sweaty face.

And yet, she didn't leave. Didn't call him a creep or an idiot for thinking he even had the slimmest chance. Why did he want one? He couldn't let that happen. Not to her, not to himself. She started to unpack her lunch bag and he watched her, so he had someplace to look that wasn't her face. Why was she doing this? After everything? How had he not thoroughly freaked her out by now? "Do - do you really want to stay here? Sit with me? Why?" She was sweet. Too sweet. It made him nervous, like waiting for the other shoe to drop. Waiting for the explosion. (There always was one. Always.)

You called me pretty first. Oh. Yeah. He kind of did. "You - you are pretty. I can't - I'm sure you know that already." Nobody ever missed an opportunity to call a pretty girl pretty. There was no way in hell Elliot was the first person to tell her that. Her friends, a boyfriend, maybe, (why did the thought of that make him feel so...weird?) her parents, definitely (you shouldn't assume, you don't know her life. No. He didn't). "Chelsea." He said her name out loud, to see how it felt. He liked it. "I - I'm guessing you already know my name?"

Silence stretched for a few moments, and he gathered up the courage to speak again. "Do you really know how to fix this?" He asked, voice low, so low he wasn't sure she'd even be able to hear him over the din of the crowded cafeteria. He touched the bridge of his nose, smearing the too-yellow makeup under his fingertips. Well, she had offered. Prank, excuse to spread more rumors, or not, at least he could learn something valuable in the process. Learn for tomorrow, for next Monday, for when a new one inevitably took its place. "If you do, I - I wouldn't mind the help."

[chelseaheskett]

I don't know what you're talking about. He said, the line of his jaw tight against his skin with tension. He shoved some hair in front of his face, slinking back into the comfort and darkness of his hoodie again. There were his long fingers again, too. So long and slender, even with his nails bitten down to the quick. Blood had dried on the bed of his thumbnail, she noticed. That hadn't been there before. Back in the hallway. Before she could stupidly ask about that next, ask if he was okay, Elliot looked up at her face.

Dramatic or not, she felt like she was drowning. So, so blue. Swirling around and around like The Starry Night. Swirling so much that she felt dizzy, seeing the slightest ghost of a smile turn up his lips, mark lines in the skin on either side of his mouth. He had mouth lines, and a chin dimple, and despite the heat and lack of air conditioning in the cafeteria, the tip of his nose was red. Chelsea blushed. Not uncomfortable, but nervous. Giddy like a little girl. Maybe he was feeling the same? Shy and—

Your friends dared you to come over here, right? Chelsea blinked. "What?" She squeaked. What did he mean? He cast his eyes across the cafeteria, where Bethany and the rest of the cheer squad were staring and pointing and whispering. Yeah, they could be mean. They could be cruel. But that's not why Chelsea was here! She would never do that! Not to him, or to anybody else. She was middle of the pyramid during routines. Didn't do cheerleading for the status or popularity. Definitely not for the people. She'd been peer pressured into tryouts during her freshman year with her cousin, and it turned out to be fun. A better way to exercise than anything else she'd ever tried before. And she was generally a cheery person—it seemed to fit. She liked it. This, though? This was the part she didn't like. See if you're brave enough to get close to the weirdo, to talk to him? "You're not!" Chelsea protested, voice soft behind a gaping mouth. He wasn't a weirdo! She didn't think that at all! There was nothing wrong with being quiet, or reserved. She could learn from that, honestly. She could learn that from him.

See what he'll do if a pretty girl pays him a bit of attention? Oh. Wait. Did he - did he just call her pretty? A pretty girl? That notion distracted her, at least for a moment. Made her smile down at her camera in spite of herself, bearing her braces. But Elliot kept going, and going, and Chelsea knew this feeling all too well. Knew about needing to get all the words out, even if it made her breath short and her throat close up and her skin flush red. Even if it felt like too much for a lot of people. She could rant and rave with the best of them! And she knew what it felt like not to be heard. Not to be listened to. To talk in a crowd of people and have them stop her mid-sentence, or talk over her, or ignore her sentiments entirely. She personally tried not to do that to other people, because it sucked. It hurt. She knew how it felt!

But she wasn't sure she quite knew how Elliot felt. People were cruel to him, that much was obvious. People like her so-called "friends." Are you going to ask me if my parents are part of some religious cult? Can I not talk to outsiders? Don't worry, I don't have any poisoned Kool-Aid to trick you into drinking. No. Cults were last week, right? So what's it this week? Russian spies? Aliens? Might as well know my own conspiracy theories. Chelsea's forehead creased, face falling. She toyed with a loose thread on her camera strap, trying to keep her lip from quivering. People had been awful to him. Had she before? Without even realising or knowing?

Whatever reaction you wanted out of me, just go tell them you got it. Doesn't matter if it's true, they'll believe it. And in the future, keep the gossiping behind my back, okay? I'd really prefer if you all left me the hell alone. No! This was the absolute last thing she'd wanted when she approached him! She didn't want to leave him alone, but she didn't want to upset him, either. Blue wasn't just the colour of his eyes anymore; it was the look of them. Sad. Tired. Exhaustion pressed into his face by his bruise and the cover of concealer. Yeah, concealer couldn't cover that up. Couldn't get that sad shine out of his eyes.

Chelsea was about to apologise, and Elliot beat her to it. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. Dropped the hood from his head and raked his hands back through his hair. Rough, like he was trying to punish himself for all that he'd said. Chelsea shook her head, the concern pulling her eyebrows together. Don't do that, it's okay, she wanted to say, but the words wouldn't come out. She had to bite down on her lip to stop it from trembling. I'm sorry. That wasn't fair of me. You're not - it's not you - I - She shook her head quick again; a small, slight movement. Unconvincing, probably. The way he'd been treated by everybody was what wasn't fair! But she didn't know how to articulate that. Didn't know how to apologise for the hurt she might've caused him in the past. For the hurt she'd brought out of him now.

He hid his messy hair back under his hood. Retreated back into his shell. Look, why are you here? What do you really want from me? Exasperated. Defeated.

Honesty always, right? That's what her parents had constantly instilled in her? "I'm... I'm sorry, I... The yearbook, it... It was a pretty lame excuse, I know." She could be honest without having to look at him, okay? Fingers following the twisted pattern on her camera strap. She could be honest without falling into the throes of his sad blue eyes. "I just saw you. Earlier, I saw you, in the hallway, and I..." She trailed off. She didn't have to be that honest, did she? Chelsea blew out a breath. Brushed her bangs back into place and went on her own little tangent. "Nobody dared me to come over here. I mean. I dared myself to do it, but..." Ooft, too honest, Chelsea. She snuck a glance up at him, her ears burning.

"Nobody dared me to come over here, I promise. And I... I don't think you're a weirdo." Chelsea was the weird one here, alright? I'm a creep, I'm a weirdo. Radiohead lyrics stuck in her head. She'd run into him once in the hallway and hadn't been able to get the thought of him out of her brain in the hours that followed. She'd looked him up in the yearbook. She'd interrupted his lunch and his solitude. She'd made him upset! Chelsea had already well and truly drunk the Kool-Aid. "I don't think I realised who you were until today." She admitted, embarrassed. Hoped that put any of his gossiping theories to bed. Hoped that didn't make him feel bad, though! She knew how it felt to be invisible. Maybe not to the exact same degree as Elliot did, but still.

God, she was sorry that she didn't know him until today. How could she tell him that?

"I... Who hurt you? Was it one of them?" Chelsea side-eyed her friends. Friends. Hah. "I'll... I'll kick their asses, if it was." Spoken entirely with a false sense of confidence—Chelsea had never been in a physical fight in her life, but it was meant to be the thought that counted. "I'm sorry about them. It's not cool! It's not! It's not okay! And I - I'm sorry if I ever did anything like that. To you. I... I hope I haven't. Even if I kinda have right now. Gotten you upset, I mean. I didn't mean to, I..." She shook her head again, ashamed of herself. Felt that shit deep in the pit of her stomach. She wanted to make this right. She had to make this right. Someway, somehow.

"What do I want?" Chelsea repeated his question, pausing to consider her words. They came out a mess regardless. "I... You don't know me. Not really. And I don't know you!" She added in a panic, scared that it might've come across rude or offensive. "But... but I'd like to. Know you. If you want. Only if you want. I just..." She'd come this far, huh? Had already made this much a fool out of herself? Chelsea pushed the rest of the air out of her lungs, pursing her lips, gaze flitting across the hard lines of his face. "You have really beautiful eyes, did you know that? Has anybody ever told you that before?"

Wow. She did it. She did it. Hey, that wasn't so bad, was it! Talk about brave enough. Nothing could be worse than him thinking she was a bitch, or a gossip, or playing some sort of sick game or trick on him. Honesty always. And talking like this had gotten her in trouble before, sure, but what did Chelsea have to lose at this point? Huh? Her "friends" were assholes, clearly. Her ex-boyfriend, who used to be her closest friend, was an asshole too. It was a new school year. Chelsea could make new friends! Be around new, better people. She'd listened to Elliot, and he'd seemed to listen back. Reciprocal. That was nice. Who had rambled more, huh? Him or her?

She added a caveat, because at the heart of it all she was still deeply insecure, but... Chelsea cleared her throat, reaching into her brown paper lunch bag and retrieving a bottle of Sunny D to set down on the table. Blackcurrant Blast, in case Elliot'd been doubting whether or not she was like a preschooler with a crush before now. "I mean, I can leave you alone if you really want me to, but... You called me pretty first." A pretty girl, to be precise. Chelsea wasn't going to forget it!

Out of his peripheral vision, he could see her turn her head towards another table. At least she was casual, subtle about it. Somebody else, somebody not hyperaware of his surroundings at all times might've missed it. But he noticed. Another dark-haired girl tried to wave her over, concern etched all over her face. Yeah. That's exactly what he thought. He recognized the other girl far more than he did Chelsea; but that was because she had been far more of a problem than Chelsea ever was. He had to give her some credit - at least this was the first time she had decided to bother him. The other girl, well....it probably wasn't the football team writing slurs on his locker in red lipstick. She had a high, brutal machine gun of a laugh. Reminded him of his mother's, and he could never remove that association from her now. Maybe Chelsea was totally different from her. But maybe she wasn't, and that wasn't a risk he was willing to take.

He wasn't in the mood for this. It had already been a shitty day - the only kind he ever had, really - and he really didn't want to deal with the bitchy cheerleaders gawking over the weird emo kid in the corner. Was it too much to ask he just get through the day, serve his detention and then go home so he could get whatever was waiting for him over with as quickly as possible? Because there was always something - halfway through his walk to school, he realized he'd forgotten to set the garbage bags on the curb before he left. He'd seriously contemplated turning around and being even later to school, but the consequences of a call from the principal would probably be worse. And with no good choices, it really hadn't felt like he had one at all. The knockdown of dominoes, in either case, were his own fault, after oversleeping and missing the bus (he had to save up to get a new alarm clock - his father had smashed his when he'd set it wrong the night before and accidentally woke the whole house up at two am).

I can fix that for you. For one very long, torturous second, he could almost literally feel his heart stop, panic gripping his throat hard enough to choke him. Nobody else had ever called attention to his concealer hack job before, and he'd assumed everybody collectively agreed to pretend they didn't notice it. He knew it was obvious, they knew it was obvious, and pointing it out meant they had to deal with a bunch of uncomfortable questions. He tilted that side of his head away from her, brushing strands of hair down in front of his face.

"I don't know what you're talking about." Yeah, denial had always worked well for him. Most people didn't push after that. He'll talk when he's ready and all that, but he would never be ready because nobody ever needed to know.

He inhaled, sharp, mentally braced himself and looked up at her. Actually looked at her, this time. Had to ignore his immediate thought of god, she's pretty (as if that would ever happen, don't even kid yourself, Pearson), had to stop himself from matching that shy little smile on her face, because it was really kind of contagious. No. That was probably the exact reaction she was fishing for. He wasn't an idiot and he wasn't going to let her treat him like one.

"Your friends dared you to come over here, right?" He nodded in the direction of the other table, where he could still feel every pair of eyes on him. "See if you're brave enough to get close to the weirdo, to talk to him? See what he'll do if a pretty girl pays him a bit of attention? Go on, then. Get to the point. Are you going to ask me if my parents are part of some religious cult? Can I not talk to outsiders? Don't worry, I don't have any poisoned Kool-Aid to trick you into drinking." He gestured at the remains of his sandwich, the only thing on his otherwise empty tray. He certainly wasn't going to kill her with a quarter-inch chunk of white bread, unless she were deathly allergic to peanuts. The words spilled out at a mile a minute to the point where he couldn't catch up to them. Couldn't stop them. He just wanted it to stop. And maybe taking it out on Chelsea, justified or not, would finally put an end to it. "No. Cults were last week, right? So what's it this week? Russian spies? Aliens? Might as well know my own conspiracy theories.

"Whatever reaction you wanted out of me, just go tell them you got it. Doesn't matter if it's true, they'll believe it. And in the future, keep gossiping behind my back, okay? I'd really prefer if you all left me the hell alone."

Judging by the look on Chelsea's face (taken aback and even slightly hurt), he'd crossed a line. Gone too far. Shit. Where had that even come from? He knew better. Jesus, if Elliot ever even considered talking to his father like that he'd probably knock all of his teeth out. His pushed his hood off, curling both hands through his hair in a sort of protective gesture. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry." Apologizing never worked, but he kept doing it anyway.

She had every right to reach across the table and smack him, call him an asshole and walk away. For whatever reason, she didn't. He kind of wished she had. The silence was suffocating. Fuck, he couldn't breathe again. No. Focus. He was not going to do this for a third time today, and especially not with so many witnesses.

"I'm sorry." He went for the hat-trick of apologies, the words harsher, more labored this time. Even if she had only come over on a dare, she probably hadn't deserved to face the blunt end of his frustration. "That wasn't fair of me. You're not - it's not you - I - " I can't handle all of this anymore. And it had nothing to do with Chelsea and everything to do with that final domino falling and blowing up everything when it hit the ground.

Okay. Calm. Focused. Everything was fine. Sure, he just gave everybody an actual reason to fucking hate him, but that was fine. They already did without any input from him. Not like he could make it worse. He slowly unclenched his fists, leaving a tangled mess of hair their wake. Whatever, it didn't matter - he pulled his hood back up to cover it.

"Look, why are you here? What do you really want from me?"

[chelseaheskett]

OCTOBER 14TH, 1999.

Chelsea knew about the colour blue.

The walls of her bedroom were a sapphire colour she'd picked out from a hardwore store with her dad when she was eleven-years-old. To accent the 3D butterfly wall decals she'd only found an aisle or two before that, of course. Her dad was good like that. And blue was always his favourite colour. That made it hers, too.

The view of the water sitting on Wrightsville Beach used to be one of her favourites, too. The coastline. Summer was meant to be well and truly over with, but the North Carolina heat still stuck sticky in the air through 'til October. And Chelsea hadn't been out on the water since the end of August. Since dumping Wes on his motor boat the week before school came back. And she'd been refusing her parents every time they asked her if she wanted to go fishing with them ever since. You're looking rather blue this morning, Chicky. What's up? Her mom had asked her over a pancake breakfast one morning before school. Because blue could be a feeling, right? Something tangible. Evocative. A primary colour for a reason.

How old had she been when they learned about colour theory in school? About the greats in art class? Van Gogh and The Starry Night. Ultramarine and cobalt blue swirling like crashing waves in the night sky. Small, tiny, thin brush strokes. And there was Elsie in a Blue Chair by Mary Cassatt—the portait that she pretended was a painting of her when she was a child. The Portal of Rouen Cathedral in Morning Light, Harmony in Blue. The way the light could hit a subject, and give it a new perspective. The subject never changed, but the perception of it did. And Monet did it with thick layers of textured paint. Made sunlight visible and real out of colours. From a blank canvas. Not with science or physics or whatever, but with art. And he made it out of the colour blue. It was the prettiest Cathedral—or building, for that matter—that they had in Wilmington, and it was an oil on canvas hanging on her bedroom wall. It was better than the church she used to go to for Sunday school when she was little—and she liked to give that place a little bit of credit, at least; it hadn't made her religious, but it had made her like architecture.

She was kind of a geek when it came to this stuff. When she liked something, she really liked something. And whenever she did anything, she did it at full speed. It became a complete fixation. Took up all of her focus. Obsessive, almost. It was the deep end, every single time. Nobody could ever call Chelsea half-hearted. So many other things, surely... stubborn, spoiled, optimistic to a fault, bossy, a know-it-all... but never half-hearted.

Yeah, she thought she knew everything. She'd thought that she was smart.

And yet... Chelsea had never seen this colour blue before.

She hadn't been paying attention. Was rifling through her backpack, inflatable neon pink that she cradled against her chest haphazardly while she walked down the hallway; searching for her BlackBerry buzzing at the bottom of her bag. He had come out of the boys' bathroom at the exact wrong (right) moment, and they collided head-on. Chelsea grunted at the force of it, and it sent her books toppling out of her bag and onto the floor. "Fuck." She huffed in surprise, blowing her bangs out of her eyes. He'd had his hood over his head, and it fell down past his shoulders from the impact, revealing a mop of long, messy brown hair. The boy sunk down to the ground, sitting back on his heels. Their books were mixed up together. Probably sticking to the gross, dirty linoleum. Chelsea wasn't sure she knew him, or had ever seen him before—which was weird, because between yearbook club and cheerleading she practically knew everybody. At least she'd thought she did.

Chelsea followed him down. "I'm—" She made a start to apologise, but his hands sorting out their mess caught her even further off guard. Long, trembling fingers wrapped around the entire width of one of her notebooks. She blinked, a little dumbstruck. Good God, he had big hands. Hers were lucky to be even half the size of his... That was... that was cool. He used them to offer her the notebook back, a shake still visible against his skin. Maybe that was just Chelsea, lips parted to talk and apologise but with no words coming out of her mouth. And she was normally so talkative! Could talk everybody else under the table. Usually never shut the fuck up. And if not that, she'd at least normally use her good manners and say sorry for being so clumsy, for potentially hurting him. For making him clean up after her. Shit.

Shit. She was staring, wasn't she? He had a dimple set deep into his chin. She liked that. It was cute. Felt like rom com magic, the way her heart twinged in her chest. Not that that could ever happen for her, of course. Even with the clichéd meeting in the hall. Surely not. Stuff like that didn't happen to Chelsea. A summer fling was all she was good for, apparently. And not even a summer movie type of fling. She was someone convenient, not someone sought out after. Stop being so fucking dramatic, Chelsea. Heard Weston's voice from their last fight in her head. Nobody gives a shit! It's always gotta be a Goddamn soap opera, doesn't it?

And then their eyes met, and her brain absolutely malfunctioned. Van Gogh, Cassatt, Monet—none of it mattered. None of them mattered. She didn't want any other shade of blue than this. Than the colour of this boy's eyes, swallowing her up and sinking her in with his gaze. What? It was momentary, like an Impressionist painting. Stopped her right in her tracks. Lost her in a singular instant. This boy, like a work of art, had made an impression on her. Chelsea curled her tongue over her top teeth, caged behind a set of braces, and the boy ducked his head to the side, hiding from her. A nervousness crept into her chest. She tucked her hair behind her ear to keep from fidgeting with the shutter on her camera, swinging down from the leather strap hung around her neck.

She shifted, searching for his gaze again. From this angle, she could see the concealer mismatched against the skin around his eye. Was that why he was trying to hide from her? Because he was trying to hide something else? Was he okay? How did he get the bruise? Wow, maybe it was the concealer making his eyes brighter? Accentuating them, making them an unworldly colour of blue? No. No, definitely not. He glanced at her, and her heart caught in her throat, but it was just to hand her another one of her books back. She shoved them into her bag on auto-pilot, without much care or notice at all. He was the first to get back on his feet. Chelsea followed him again, completely drawn to his every movement. He made move to leave. Nodded at her in acknowledgement.

"Thank you." Chelsea said, voice hoarse. But he was already gone, hood pulled back up over his head. And it made her realise why she hadn't recognised him before.

She was itching to get to lunch. Couldn't keep her eyes off the clock during class time. Didn't take notes like she normally would, because she couldn't stay attentive whatsoever. As soon as the bell rang, she jumped out of her seat and pushed through the crowded halls to get to the yearbook club office. She snatched the 1998-1999 yearbook off the archive shelves and set it open in her lap, dropping down into a beanbag. Leafing through the pages, quick and impatient, she found him. A photo that she hadn't taken of last year's track team, and there he was, standing awkwardly in the back row. No hoodie covering him up, this time. Even in printed black and white, his eyes were bright. They stood out. He stood out, at least to her. At least he did now. Chelsea traced her painted fingernail across the page, finding his name.

Elliot Pearson.

"Elliot." She whispered, trying out how it sounded on her tongue. Smiled to herself, feeling shy. Feeling the heat rise against her dimpled cheeks. She flipped through the book to find his standalone portrait. Elliot Pearson. Track & Field, Basketball. Her forehead creased. Basketball? Okay, it wasn't her favourite sport, and definitely wasn't her favourite one to cheer for, but surely she'd seen him before? At a game or a practice? And then she remembered the hood again. He must've been the guy that rode the bench every game, though she wasn't exactly sure why. The one who always had his hood up. He really liked that hoodie, huh? Chelsea wasn't so sure how she felt about it, personally. Maybe it was big and warm and comfortable, but it hid his pretty, fluffy hair. Obscured his even prettier face. She much liked him without the hood, thank you.

New Hanover High used the same generic cloudy blue sky backdrop for all their yearbook photos, time after time. It was tacky, at this point. Stale. But it made her think of his eyes again. So okay, fine, she could appreciate it! Finally, after all this time. She hadn't been the one to photograph all the sports teams last year. Their backdrops were location-based: the basketball court, the football field, the tennis courts. Go Wildcats. Maybe that's why she hadn't recognised who Elliot was until now, until rifling through the yearbook. She'd make sure to look behind her when cheering on the sidelines at basketball games, now. Make sure to spot him warming the bench. Warm her heart, at the same time.

Now that she knew exactly what she was looking for, he was easy to spot. He sat at a table in the cafeteria by himself, hood over his head again. Chelsea gravitated toward him before even bothering to grab an empty tray; brown paper lunch bag held between her fingers. Elliot had half a sandwich left on his otherwise empty tray. No drink, no fruit, no other snacks. Just a plain sandwich. And the bread broke apart super easily, like it was old and dry. Peanut butter, she thought, by the colour of the spreading between the bread pieces.

Wilmington was funny, that way. There was only really two streets difference between the rich and the poor houses. Not that she thought Elliot was poor! No! Well. Maybe he was. Maybe he wasn't! Her point was—that amount of food wasn't good enough for a growing teenage boy. She wasn't pitying him, no. No, no, she felt concern for him. For this strange boy with the beautiful blue eyes. With a bruise threatening to cover one up; covered up in turn with a concealer that wasn't colour matched to his skintone. She didn't know him, but she knew he deserved better than that. And that's all she needed to know.

Without another thought, or a well-laid plan, Chelsea dragged the chair back opposite his so she could sit down at his table. The metal legs grated against the ground, and Elliot visibly shied away from the shrill sound. Shit. Going well already. He didn't look at her, or acknowledge her newfound presence. Kept picking at the scraps of his sandwich. She sucked in a nervous breath, and somehow this time found her words. "Hi, I'm Chelsea!" She burst out, probably completely too enthusiastic and bubbly. Since getting braces, she didn't often smile with her teeth, but she was doing it now. She forced her mouth shut, so he couldn't see her in her headgear. "We ran into each other in the hall earlier - I'm so sorry about that, by the way. That'll teach me to watch where I'm going, right?" Hah. So cool. She was playing this so cool.

Elliot didn't look up. Didn't engage. That was fine, that was cool—Chelsea was used to that kind of reaction from people! Nobody ever really listened to what she had to say, honestly. She was probably someone others considered popular, but she didn't feel very well-liked. Friends and friendly with everybody, sure, but it was only ever surface-level. Friends with everybody, but she was nobody's best friend. The closest person in her life after the events of the summer, and besides her parents, was probably her cousin Bethany. And she could be kind of a bitch most of the time. Chelsea's eyes darted over to where they normally sat with the other cheerleaders during lunch period. Bethany was giving her a weird look, motioning for her to come over and join them.

Pointedly ignoring her, Chelsea turned back to Elliot. Lifted the strap over her head and set her camera down on the table, so he knew she wasn't planning on going anywhere. A visual cue. She fixed her brown paper lunch bag down onto the surface, too. She'd get to eating later. With her hands free, she fussed over the flowery embroidery of her camera strap. Needed something to work out some of her nervous energy. Needed to fidget, somehow. Elliot's eyes, still so blue and bright beneath his hood, were focused on the lens cap of her camera. Oh. Oh. Maybe that was an idea? A way to get him to look at her again? A way in?

"Would it be okay if I took a picture of you for the yearbook?" Again, talking without thinking properly. Idiot. But she was yearbook editor! It was all work, no play, alright? She had no other ulterior motive! She didn't just want a photo of him for her own purposes. No, that'd just be silly. God, she sounded silly. What a stupid question to ask him. Chelsea bit down on her bottom lip, braces snagging on skin.

"No."

No?

Chelsea scrunched up her nose. No wasn't really a word she heard very often. Spoiled only child, and all that. It wasn't surprising that he said no—because of course he did, she was an idiot—but it still stung all the same. Still felt surprising hearing a refusal. And because Chelsea had to keep her foot firmly planted in her mouth, she continued talking. "I can fix that for you. If... if that's what you're worried about it." Her fingers flew up to the apple of her cheek, right about where the bruise started on his skin under the poorly applied layer of concealer. "I mean, I'm pretty good with a makeup brush. Or a sponge. See?" She scrambled, trying to save herself. Trying to get him to look up at her with those big, beautiful eyes by gesturing to her face of light makeup. "And you can have full creative control, of course! I'm yearbook editor this year, so..." It was a no-brainer, right?

If there was one was one piece of brotherly advice Christian had deigned to share with him before he fucked off on his own and left the eleven-year-old to bear the worst of their father, it was how to cover a bruise. Of course, he hadn't been very good at it, so in turn, neither was Elliot. Maybe their mother just didn't buy very good concealer. Because by the time any noticeable discoloration was gone, the patch of skin was a drastically different shade than the rest of him, no less suspicious than the various shades of yellows and purples underneath it.

Most of the time, he got away with long-sleeve shirts and his baggy hoodie (no matter how fucking hot it got) - today though, it wasn't so easy. He had spent all of third period locked in the boy's bathroom on the second floor, desperately trying to fix the makeup under his left eye that he'd already managed to almost completely sweat through. Thanks, unseasonably warm October day and horrendous lack of air conditioning; it really helped to make his already hard job even fucking worse.

The mini-breakdown that had left him hyperventilating in a stall for fifteen minutes probably hadn't helped either. But he fixed his eye, got his shit together (literally and figuratively), and waited for the class change bell to make his grand escape.

And to immediately crash, hard, into another body moving in the opposite direction. Well. So much for grand escape. More like entirely mediocre escape. Story of his fucking life. He bent down to gather his lost books, one of which had hitched a ride with a rather blinding pink notebook, the sparkles sending the morning sun out in every direction. He looked at it, for a moment; it was actually rather pretty, the colors blending into a rainbow on the palm of his hand. Smiled a little to himself, and then firmly pushed that thought of his head. He offered it back to the girl across from him and made the mistake of meeting her eyes. She was staring at him, studying him much in the same way he'd studied the kaleidoscope a second ago.

"What?" He turned away from her; angling his head to the side, both to hide from her and to brace himself for whatever shitty comment she was thinking up for him. A cheerleader. He knew of her even if he didn't know her, and that was more than enough. He knew exactly what to expect from the pom-pom brigade.

But it never came. By the time everything on the floor returned to its rightful owner and they were both back on their feet, she hadn't said a word to him. Awkward and deeply uncomfortable, he backed away a couple of steps, nodded at her once in a stupid attempt at a goodbye and got the hell out of there while he could still classify this as a positive encounter.

An invite to the principal's office waited him at his next class - his science teacher pulled him aside before he got to his seat and asked him: You know what I'm about to tell you, right?

Yeah. This wasn't his first rodeo.

"I really don't like to give you detention, Elliot."

He said it every time they sat across from each other, Elliot peeling the edges off the pink slip and Principal Daugherty appraising him from over the rim of his glasses. And he did the same thing he did every time, too: shrugged one shoulder without making eye contact. It was funny, the difference in perspectives. Daugherty hated it, but Elliot loved it. Forty-five minutes spent silently in an empty classroom was a fair trade for the forty-five minutes he didn't have to spend inside a different set of four walls.

"I mean, what do I have to do? Do I have to call your parents?"

"No!" It came out almost too quickly, the adrenaline spike shooting his heart rate up hard enough that he could hear it echoing in his head. "No," he tried again, forcing the words out calmer. "No. You don't have to do that."

Anticipating the next most likely set of questions (what's wrong and is everything okay at home, probably, neither of which he was in the mood to lie about) and got to his feet, eyes firmly on the floor. Stuck his thumb between his teeth, tearing at the nail until he could taste blood on his tongue. Oh. He was supposed to stop doing that. He shoved his hand into his pocket.

"Is that all you need from me, sir?"

Silence stretched on for long enough to make the air in the room get thinner, harder to breathe and he could feel another one of those hyperventilation moments coming on. Fuck. He needed to get out of here right now.

"Yes, Mr. Pearson, that's all."

He ended up missing his science class, too. It took him that long to get his breathing back to normal, to stop catastrophizing about what might await him if his father got a call from Daugherty ever suggesting Elliot might be telling people what happened at home.

Nobody sat near him during lunch period, almost like his weird, awkward energy was a contagious disease and not just...how he was. It was better this way, honestly. Nobody for him to try to fake conversation with, nobody to get close enough to him to notice something might be a little off. He liked it that way. Right? Yeah. That's what he wanted. That's what he wanted.

His lunches were never impressive or substantial or even good, but he had to fend for himself with whatever little in the kitchen that he was actually allowed to use. He'd learned that the hard way when he'd, wrongly, assumed a single can of Coke would be fair game for the minor child also living in the house. Yeah. Now he knew not to touch anything unless explicitly told to. He ate a lot of plain peanut butter sandwiches.

He picked at the crust on the uneaten half of his sandwich, peeled the hard, stale parts of bread off in chunks. Counted out each piece until he had a pile of bread twelve pieces high; now he had more lunch. That was probably the correct way to do math (he wouldn't know, he was an aggressive D- math student, far and away his worst grade on a report card of otherwise As).

Somebody hovered over his table for a moment, a few steps away, before they closed the distance and sat in the oft-unused chair opposite his. It squeaked across the floor and Elliot couldn't help but flinch away from the sound. Loud. Very loud. Too loud. He waited for some blowup that never came. He risked a glance at the person across from him.

Oh. The girl he'd ran into earlier. Right, there it was. Naïve of him to think he could get away from a mistake like that unscathed. You know better than that. Her friends must have told her who she survived an encounter with, like he was some kind of dangerous animal. He wasn't an idiot, he knew the rumors swirling around about him; the consequence of being so secretive and withdrawn. What they didn't know (everything) they made up to fill in the gaps themselves, and god, this school collectively had some wild imaginations. He turned back to his sandwich, tearing the bits smaller and smaller. If he didn't engage, it wouldn't be fun, and maybe she would just leave him alone.

"Hi, I'm Chelsea!" Oh. So apparently not. Her friends must have dared her to come over and talk to him, see how long it took him to live up to whatever reputation they'd concocted about him inside their own heads. "We ran into each other in the hall earlier - I'm so sorry about that, by the way. That'll teach me to watch where I'm going, right?" She lifted a bulky, heavy-looking camera onto the table between them, where it rested with a resounding thud. They were making so much noise. Why did he get the feeling everyone was staring at them? He kept his eyes focused on her camera as she worried the leather strap in her hands, the flower pattern disappearing and reappearing under her fingers. He relaxed, a little. He did the same thing with the straps of his backpack when he didn't have anything else in his hands. "Would it be okay if I took a picture of you for the yearbook?"

Yearbook. Yearbook? The school year had started less than a month ago. Right. So much for relaxed. He didn't know what she was going for, but he didn't find it very funny and he wasn't laughing. "No."

[chelseaheskett]

“I - may I?”

“You better.” Chelsea quipped, half-hard, half-teasing. Elliot was evidently trying to be on his best good boy behaviour, asking her permission instead of just taking it. But consent was sexy—and Elliot being submissive was sexy. What she wanted was what truly mattered, and it made her hot under the collar of her night shirt. That kind of thought and dedication. She settled back onto the bed, keeping herself propped up with her elbows. Pointed her feet against Elliot’s bare thighs; thick, muscular, hers... So fucking hot that it caught her attention before the sight of his erection did. Chelsea raked her eyes over his body, enjoying the view of him bowed at her feet in only his meshy shirt and collar; metal ring glistening under the overhead lights. Kneeling at her feet like he was about to eat her out (which was never out of the question!), or treating her like royalty. But they’d played that game before. Not today—even if he was playing the part of a Footman, tucking her inside the dominatrix boot with long, lean fingers around her ankle.

Elliot being the submissive one meant that even when they weren’t role playing some inverted Maid/Prince fantasy, he still ended up serving her. He still ended up in this exact position: down on his knees and doing exactly what she wanted. And fuck, this was exactly what she wanted. The leather was cold and sharp around her legs, slowly tightening around her skin as he zipped the boot up. It was a contrast to the way she was already heavily sweating, her pyjamas taut to her body. God, was she glad she wasn’t wearing underwear, because she was sure they’d be soaked through by now and sticking uncomfortably, too. Chelsea wanted to pop a button on her shirt, get some air on her chest, but she was busy making fists in the blanket. Her eyes were fixed shut in pleasure, her head inadvertently thrown back; the hair in her ponytail sweeping the mattress. His fingers and the zipper crawled up her leg. A snail’s pace. Chelsea’s mouth hung open, light moans escaping with her hard, heavy breathing. Was this meant to be so Goddamn erotic? Then again, everything Elliot did was fucking sexy.

There was a list there somewhere, but she couldn’t think past the deliberate way he was touching her. Zipping her up. It was funny how something so slight, almost innocent, could so easily affect her and her body. Could stir up that aching between her legs. He didn’t know his own power! There was so much sexual tension in the air that she felt like she was going to implode. Nothing but the sounds of the growl of the zipper on the boots and their harsh breathing, and Chelsea whimpered past another moan. Her toes curled inside the boot, her other foot scrunched up on his thigh until her nails rooted into his skin. Fuck. Why why why was this turning her on so much?

The boot must’ve been completely done up, because Elliot started to creep his hands over the length of the leather. And she was obsessed with his hands. His fingers. Had been since the very first time she saw him. Had been one of the very first things she’d ever noticed about him: how long they were, how his palm was big enough to cover the entire surface area of her face. Had wondered how it’d feel to have those fingers inside of her... His touch, now, shied over the strip of bare skin between the top of the boot and the hem of her sleep shirt, and it was electric. Her head felt full of nothing but static. When his lips, so soft and tender and hers, ghosted over her thigh in a kiss, Chelsea jolted up. Hips bucking forward, her fingers immediately weaving into his hair like a reflex. Like routine. She tugged, rough, to pull his head up. Get his attention.  

He really didn’t know his own power. Elliot smiled at her with his teeth poking out of his mouth. The kind of smile that people wrote songs about. Good-natured and improperly innocent. A little flutter to his eyelashes, just to drive it home. Fuck, she didn’t need convincing, Elliot! She would burn down the entire world to see that smile. She would go to war for him. And it wasn’t an exaggeration. She’d do anything for him. Do anything to be with him, to be like this for the rest of their lives. He made her so happy and hot and fulfilled. Chelsea carded her fingers affectionately through his hair, hearts in her eyes. “Good boy.” It sounded slightly nasally, because with all the moans falling out of her mouth she could only breathe properly through her nose. That wasn’t an exaggeration, either. It wasn’t performative, just pure instinct. Pure, unrestrained ecstasy. She was so comfortable and safe with Elliot that it just felt natural to be so open and vulnerable. To be as loud as she needed to be. Unblushing and unashamed.

Fuck, she was wound up tight tonight. So much so that when Elliot didn’t get started on the next boot right away, she had to encourage him to continue by biting her nails into his scalp. Pull at his hair the same way he was pulling her closer and closer to an orgasm. Yeah, she couldn’t take much more of this. In the best way imaginable. Elliot was even slower, somehow, with the second boot. She couldn’t even hear the zipper go—but that could’ve just been her making enough noise to mute out everything else. Could’ve just been her, completely out of her mind. She was trembling under his touch, trying to stay upright with one hand slipping on the bed, the other a fist in his hair. Chelsea planted her shoes into the carpet for leverage, one on either side of Elliot’s body. Spread herself a little wider for some sort of relief. He was kneeling between her open legs and had to re-angle his hands to accommodate her new position, but that wasn’t her problem!

The zip was finally done up before Chelsea had the chance to come completely undone. Her chest was rising and falling in rapid succession. Jesus Christ, that really shouldn’t’ve been as hot as it was... She shouldn’t’ve been that close to finishing without him barely even touching her... Fuck. Chelsea untangled her fingers from his hair and cupped the underside of her baby bump in an attempt to calm herself down. Even out her breathing. She stretched out her legs to model the dominatrix boots for him. They were a perfect fit! Tight and shiny, accentuating the length of her legs. Her calf muscles were aching from all the previous pent-up tension. Chelsea swung a leg over Elliot’s lap to cross her ankles together. Leaned back on her palms to pose for him some more. Much better. That felt and looked much better.

“What do you think, baby?” Elliot sat back on his knees, his eyes dancing all over her body. He was out of breath, too. There was an earnestness to his expression. Lines by his mouth and his eyes and that dimple in his chin. Chelsea’s breathing accelerated again, just at the sight of him.  

“I think,” she began, false pretenses—not actually able to think about anything beyond that look on his face. Beyond the heat in his eyes, with his gaze bouncing back and forth between her and the boots. “I think,” she repeated, rougher, trying to get his full attention again. Wanting him to hear what she had to say next. Their eyes finally met and Chelsea fanned her fingers out over his cheeks, “... that I need to sit on that pretty face of yours.” Her wedding and engagement rings pressed into his perfect skin. A reminder. She was his and he was hers. What’s yours is mine. And his face was hers for the taking.

She thumbed the line around his mouth, almost as long and deep as his smile. Her fingers traced over that next, feeling how soft and full his lips were. Like they were made to be kissed. Made to be kissed only by her. He was made for her. God, they were made for each other. Faces and bodies fit perfectly when she leaned in to kiss him. Two perfect puzzle pieces. She used the ring around his collar to draw him in closer, gently lifting him up onto his knees again so they could make-out. Less aggressive than before, but just as passionate. Slower, sure, but Chelsea was still losing all of her breath inside his mouth. Still felt dizzy, still felt her body pulsing with arousal. She lost herself in the kiss, fingers working with a mind of their own and scrunching through his hair. Continuously moving like her lips were.

Elliot’s hands skirted up under her sleep shirt. Chelsea hummed into his mouth, grip unconsciously tightening in his hair. His fingers dented the skin at her hips, searching for the waistband of her panties to, presumably, remove them. Surprise! He moaned into their kiss, their lips never leaving each other. Like he’d only just realised she was ready for him, twofold. Threefold. Yeah, she wasn’t so sure on numbers right now. Her toes were straining in the boots, the ache was persistent in the pit of her stomach. She forced herself to break away from their kiss, rushing to get the air back into her lungs. If he got started on her with his fingers, she wouldn’t be able to stop. Already felt so close to the edge of an orgasm and they’d hardly done anything yet. Chelsea nuzzled against his nose with her own, so he knew not to take it personally, but Elliot whined about it anyway. She giggled, airy and high-pitched, and gave his hair a final teasing tug.

He followed after her, shuffling around on his knees, when she made way to leave. Chelsea had to stifle another giggle; clamping her teeth over her bottom lip. She stood in front of him, hands perched on her hips, and shook her head, playfully disapproving. It’d be faster if he didn’t come with her to the closet—they always had so many close calls in there! Constantly! And Chelsea was determined to sit on his face. Tie him up just to watch him struggle to reach her, touch her. He had nobody but himself to blame for how power hungry she was! He was the reason she always felt so sexy and powerful, and she was going to capitalise on that as much as possible, thank you. Like now: lifting a leg to press the sole of her dominatrix boot flush against his chest. She was slow about it, of course. Gentle, nudging him down with the pressure of the boot until his back hit the ground. Until he was lying on the floor of their bedroom, holding his breath and waiting to be told to do anything otherwise. “Don’t move a muscle.” She warned, tongue lolling out of the side of her mouth. Having too much fun with this, like always.

She hoped Elliot remembered to breathe. Her sweet, sweet husband. She couldn’t have him passing out before she was done with him! Almost thought about calling out to him from her wardrobe, but was immediately distracted by the sight of her reflection in the mirror. Shit, she looked good? The boots, cut up to her thighs, somehow matched perfectly with her pyjamas. Really pulled the whole outfit together. Yeah, she’d have to keep the sleep shirt on... No matter how much Elliot loved her bare and naked. She pressed a hand to her stomach, pregnant belly still visible, noticeable under the fabric. Good enough for her! And Elliot loved her pregnant body—that had to be some sort of consolation for him. Chelsea released the top button on the shirt, at least. For practical reasons. To help cool herself down. Possibly tease him with some cleavage. Not that he’d be able to see anything when she was sitting on his face, but still.

She admired herself in the mirror some more. How did Elliot always manage to get her the best presents, huh? It wasn’t fair. Chelsea was meant to be the one who held that title in their house! Hmpft. She guessed he could have that power... since she had the rest of it. That, at least, seemed fair. And she looked good! Felt sexy as all hell. He had that power, too. Made her feel beautiful. Made her feel like the only girl in the entire world. And she didn’t want to look sexy for anybody else. Just him. Nobody else could ever make her feel so special, so seen. Right down to her soul. Chelsea loved him so, so much. This was the fucking good life, right here. No matter what it had taken for the both of them to get here—this was the life that she had always wanted. This is what she’d wished for. Him. This. It already felt like the best birthday she’d ever had, and it hadn’t even actually started yet.

Their box of sex toys had immeasurably grown over the course of a single year. Chelsea had to rummage through it for a good amount of time to find their set of handcuffs. She twirled them around, happy with herself, and went back out to the bedroom to meet Elliot. He was still conscious, thank God, but hadn’t moved from his spot on the floor. Chelsea beamed, dimples in her cheeks—very delighted with his behaviour. He blinked up at her with long lashes, dazed eyes. “Aren’t you a good boy.” Chelsea sang, thoroughly pleased.  

Elliot settled into his own smile, soaking up all that praise. “Yes, I am.” He replied, matter-of-fact. Chelsea couldn’t help but laugh, genuine and hearty, and positioned herself down against his hips to straddle him. Fuck, she was so in love with him. It made her head spin. She mouthed a “my good boy”, but Elliot kept going. “Thank you for noticing.”

Another laugh, her chin dropping to her chest. What was she going to do with him, huh? Smart ass. She always noticed, thank you very much! She noticed every single little thing about him, actually. But she didn’t want to delay this any longer. Couldn’t, with the way her body was already rocking against his. Screw it, they were just going to have sex on the floor. It was fine, she always kept the carpet clean! And the leg of their bed looked sturdy enough to hold him in place. “Good manners, too.” Chelsea hummed, rewarding the first part of his statement. She momentarily set the handcuffs down on his chest, lifting his huge, heavy arms up above his head. Elliot was like putty in her hands, easily manipulated. Always let her move him around as much as she wanted to. He trusted her completely. She clicked the cuffs over his wrists, one at a time and as tight as possible. The foot of the bed kept him locked in place; chain link of the handcuffs rattling against the metal of the bed frame. Chelsea grinned, satisfied. Thumbed his cheek once he was all set up. Like clockwork, Elliot fought against his restraints. Fought to try and caress her back. “Aww,” she chuckled, almost sarcastic. She could be a smart ass, too. Sucker. “My poor baby.” Her new favourite phrase, as of late! She mocked him with a pout, too. The whole package. Chelsea scrunched up her nose, acting cute, before giving him one last sweet little peck on the mouth.

“Shit, it’s hot in here.” She sighed, all dramatic and exaggerated. Sat back against his hips and started on the buttons of her night shirt. God, it was so much fun watching him squirm. So much fun watching him struggle, metal knocking against metal. Poor baby was trying so hard to get the job done himself. Buttons were one of his things. Not today! Not right now! Chelsea undid the pyjamas all the way down but kept the shirt on her shoulders. It exposed her cleavage, her lack of underwear. The slight curve of her stomach. Barely covered her breasts, but that was the point! Teasing him half to death was the best part.  

She swung her legs over his torso to turn around. Thought facing away from him, given the bed in her way, was the best way to go about this. And this way he could feel the leather of her boots against the sides of his neck, his face. Feel the buckles digging into his shoulders. Chelsea moved back on her knees to hover over his face. Practically squished his head between her boots and lowered herself down into his mouth. He met her with his tongue, and she had to immediately strain her arm behind her to steady herself on the bars of the bed frame. “Fuck.” She cried, her other hand finding the holes in his mesh shirt for something else to grab onto. His head was hidden under the length of her sleep shirt, but that didn’t matter too much. She couldn’t keep her eyes open. Was practically bouncing against his face, enthusiastic in both noise and movement.

Even without the use of his hands, with his tongue being the only way that he could touch her, Elliot was lapping over her in just the right spot. Knew her so well. Knew exactly what he was doing. She rubbed herself over his nose, then back over his mouth, her hips erratic. So close already. And Elliot was ravenous, using quick flicks of his tongue. She could feel herself drip down his chin. The boots became a moot point, in the end—her legs spread wider and wider for him. Leather burrowing into his shoulders, if anything. Her shoulder felt like it was about to dislocate with the awkward angle of gripping the bed railing. Chelsea relented and released it, joining her other hand on Elliot’s chest. Got her fingers tangled in the mesh of his shirt until—oop! She tore a hole in it. And oop, she didn’t care! Pushed herself back against his face, arching into his mouth. Cursed under the pressure of his tongue.

The force of her orgasm had her collapsing forward, palms scraping the carpet. She used it to her advantage; could fuck his face easier like this. Rode him and rode out the rest of it. Even restrained, Elliot kept up, kinking his neck to adjust to her new position. He knew exactly how to give it to her. Knew her literally inside and out. It made her shrieks louder. Shriller. Even when her body and arms went slack, he knew not to stop. Chelsea relaxed against him, head ducked down on his abdomen, his dick practically brushing up against her cheek. Her hips continued to roll back into him, even after the fact. Elliot was still slowly circling her with his tongue. “Fuck me, you’re so good at that.” She said, ragged, when she could finally find her voice. He acknowledged her with a hum that vibrated inside of her, and it made her shudder. Shook her to her very core. “Fuck, Elliot.” She whimpered, nuzzling her face into his thigh. “Please don’t stop.” A broken plea, completely void of dominance.

Even when she stopped being bossy, Elliot never stopped being a good boy. Swept his tongue over her, over and over. Didn’t stop. He was still half-blindfolded by her night shirt. Her poor baby. Chelsea reached back to hike her pyjamas up, bunching them up past her hips to give him some breathing room. She didn’t want him to suffocate down there! And it gave them the opportunity to lock eyes, even for a moment. A fleeting, brief moment before Chelsea’s eyes fluttered shut in pleasure, and she cried out again around a smile. Fuck, the look on his face. In his eyes. She wasn’t sure who was enjoying this more, him or her. No, no, definitely her—that feeling building up in her spine again. Dammit, Elliot! No, no, no, she could give it as good as she got it, okay? And there he was, unintentionally pressing into the side of her face. Easy access. Perfect timing. Chelsea swung her ponytail over her shoulder and gingerly wrapped her fingers around him.

He shifted his knees up, rocking into her hand. The movements of his tongue became... distracted, varying in pressure, but he never gave up! Chelsea lined her own tongue up and down the length of him, slower than the way she was thrusting back into his face. Multi-tasking was hard. She pursed her lips and took him into her mouth. Pumped him with her hand, too. Just to add to the equation. Good thing she loved math, huh? Hah! Math. 69. Chelsea smiled against him, pleased with herself. She could do this! And they found a rhythm with it, like they always did. Fucking each other’s mouths in sync. Her hands full and pulling, his hands bound and pulling. Symmetry. Because they were soulmates.

[chelseaheskett]

She'd always been a numbers girl. Math was reliable. Unchanging, unfeeling. Sums were the same, no matter what—everything always added up the way it was supposed to. Labour was less predictable, less concrete. There was a plan, there were preferences; but it was all unknown. Uncharted territory. And Chelsea didn't fit with the regular equation to begin with. There was no partner in the room with her, no ring on her finger, no father to this baby. No sex equals pregnancy. This was science. This was all hers. A labour of love she built all on her own. She was the architect of her own future, and this had always been what she wanted. What she wished for.

She couldn't even tell you the last time she'd actually had sex. The positions seemed to be the same, at least—down on her hands and knees in the hospital bathroom, hot water spraying out from the plastic showerhead and hitting her in the back. Her mom was directing the flow of water, crouching half-soaked beside her. She'd been the one to come with her to all the birthing classes, all of her appointments. She was her partner in all this. Everyone else had relationships or marriages, and Chelsea had her mom. Even if she had done this pregnancy on her own, she wasn't alone. Her mother never let her be alone.

Donna stayed with her, even after 22 hours of labour. Counting stopped feeling helpful, or a comfort, after that big a number. A number made up of painful minutes, seconds, moments. And Chelsea was post dates. 41 weeks plus two days. That, at least, was normal. Typical for first time moms, they told her. Same with the long labour. Her body didn't quite know what to do the first time around, and neither did she. Was getting to the point where she started to question why she had ever wanted to do this in the first place. Questioned if she was even really here, or human. It felt animalistic, almost. The primal noises she didn't realise she was ever even capable of making. And the pain... The pain was everywhere: in her abdomen with the contractions constantly surging, in her lower back pulling apart purple, in the pressure in her bum. It was getting to be too much. She couldn't take much more of this.

She was a crier, and right now she couldn't even do that. Cried out, instead. Sweated excessively. But no tears. All her energy was spent trying to breathe through the next contraction, and then the next, and the next. It didn't end. It would never end. The rest between them didn't feel like enough. Didn't feel spaced out properly. Her mom had to call the midwife into the room to help her up from the bathroom floor. "I want that epidural now." No please, no manners. An uncharacteristic edge to her voice. Donna let her dig her nails into the skin at the back of her hand. Led her, with the midwife, toward the hospital bed back out into the birthing room.

"I think it might be a little late for that now, Chelsea!" The midwife gave her an empathetic smile.

No. "No. Please." Manners back, only because she was begging. Chelsea couldn't even remember the woman's name. Couldn't remember that her plan had specifically involved not having an epidural, or any sort of pharmacological pain relief. Not that there was anything wrong with that, of course, but that had been her preference. Had tried everything in her power to make this as normal as possible, given the circumstances. Given the rounds of IVF, and how medical and sterile it had felt at first. Just so... clinical. The medications, the injections. And given that her own mother had given birth to her without anything, and countless other women before her had... Chelsea tried to make it a calm and easy birth environment. They had string lights, and a diffuser with essential oils, and a playlist of Mumford and Sons playing over a portable speaker. She'd spent the majority of the labour bouncing on a birthing ball, or pacing around, or under the water in the shower. Upright. Gravity, and all that.

Now? Fuck that. She couldn't do this anymore.

"Is it okay if I do another internal exam to see how dilated you are, Chelsea? See how close we are to meeting your baby?"

Donna ushered her to sit down on the edge of the bed. Chelsea gripped the railing, trying to force all the pain and feeling from her body out of her hands. "But I want an epidural." She whimpered. Half-hearted, exhausted. Her mom combed a hand back through her hair.

"Let's see how dilated you are, and then we can see if we have time to get you that epidural. How does that sound?"

Chelsea whined, but conceded. Moved back onto the bed in time for the next contraction to hit her at full force. "I can't do this." She said, breathless and through gritted teeth once it started to peter out.

"You're doing it, honey." Donna replied, still playing with her hair, pushing it out of her face.

She didn't even have the energy to respond. Consented and spread her legs wide when the midwife asked, gloves pulled up to her elbows. She rummaged around inside her, doing her assessment. Chelsea pressed her head back into the pillow. Hated being in this position. She kept her fingers strained and aching around the side railing. The midwife was practically in and out, at least. Over and done with before another contraction knocked the wind out of her. The woman thumbed Chelsea's leg for comfort, soothing her through it. And once it was done, she told Chelsea her findings.

"You're fully dilated, my dear. It's almost time to have this baby!"

Chelsea didn't even have it in her to be relieved. It still felt so endless, and the exhaustion was starting to set into her bones. She felt so weak. So tired. Donna teared up beside her, giving her hand a gentle squeeze over the bed railing.

Fully dilated meant no chance in hell of getting an epidural. But that was fine. Everything was perfectly fine! Chelsea didn't want to be bedbound, anyway. It had never been part of the plan. Her mom helped her get back on her feet. Chelsea leaned all of her weight into Donna's body, and her mom enveloped her in her arms. They swayed together on the spot. "You're doing such a good job, Chicky. You're doing so good." Donna whispered, mouthing over her hair. Rubbed her back through another contraction. Chelsea violently shook through a tidal wave of pain. "Hey, hey, why don't you give the gas a try, honey? See if that helps?" Her mom quietely suggested. Chelsea nodded, a little frantic.

The midwife raised the bed up for her, so Chelsea could lean over real easy and dig her elbows into the mattress. Approached her, the doppler and ultrasound gel bottle in hand. Chelsea broke away from her mom's embrace to give the woman some wiggle room. Caught sight of her name tag when she bent down to walk her hands over Chelsea's pregnant stomach. Jordan. Yeah, that was her name. Had come in on the 7am shift and replaced the overnight midwife, Matilda. This was, what? The fifth midwife she'd seen in the past 24 hours? And Chelsea had been fully naked for forever, at this point. Had been in too much pain to even care or feel self-conscious about it. They were going to see it all and more soon enough, anyway. It didn't matter, in the grand scheme of things. Any sort of dignity she had left had long left the room.

The baby's heartbeat was like a horse trot. The stacatto rhythm was making her feel sick. Queasy. She glanced up at her mom. "Gas?" She said, barely audible. Was scared that if she talked properly that she'd throw up.

Her mom spoke up for her. "Is it okay if Chelsea tries the gas, Jordan?"

"Yeah, of course!" She said, enthusiasm setting Chelsea's teeth on edge. Jordan shut off the doppler and wiped the leftover gel from her belly with a paper towel. "Baby's heart rate is looking great! Let's get you set up on the gas and then we can start pushing, hey?"

Chelsea nodded again, slightly drawing in on herself. Wanted the talking to stop. Needed everybody to shut up already. She tried to focus on the music. Tried to swallow down the acidic taste burning at the back of her throat. Jordan pulled the tubing of the nitrous oxide gas over to Chelsea's side of the bed and instructed her on how to use it. Continously breathe it in and out through the mouthpiece. Chelsea nodded quick, annoyed, hoping to hurry her along before another contraction started. She just needed to take the edge off.

Perfect timing. Chelsea bit down, hard, on the mouthpiece; moaning around it as a contraction tightened across her abdomen. Was practically shrieking through every inhale and exhale until the medication finally started to take effect. Started to make her head feel fuzzy. The pain was still there, was still intense, but just... further away. Foggy. Air rattled around inside the tubing, and the sound pricked at her ears. Even once the ache of the contraction was gone, she kept breathing the gas in and out. Blinked slow, and slow, and slower.

There was a man in the room. Behind her eyes. Was it a doctor? An obstetrician? Was she just seeing things? She felt like she was floating. Maybe it was her dad, coming to say hello. Maybe it was her son that she was surely—surely!?—soon to meet. Whoever he was, whatever he was... He grinned at her, bright white teeth poking out of his smile. Chelsea sucked in more medicated air. There were creases around his eyes that rippled out toward his cheeks. Rippled because his eyes were so blue—bluer and brighter than anything she'd ever seen before. Bluer than the hospital gown they'd originally tried to stick her into, or the clear summer sky warming up the room through the birth suite window behind him. Bluer than the Goddamn gas tubing. And her head was swimming. She was drowning in them. In him.

Her mom frantically tapped her on the cheek, eyebrows furrowed in concern. "That's enough, honey." Gently coaxed the mouthpiece from her lips so she'd stop breathing in any more of it.

Chelsea grunted in response; fists screwed up in the bed sheets, head bowed like she was praying.

She was.

The fantasy dissipated as fresh, unmedicated air filtered into her lungs. Chelsea half-smiled toward the window, where she thought she'd seen the man through her haze. "I'm okay." She replied, throaty. "I'm feeling okay now." Everything was going to be okay! She could do this! "I'm feeling good—"

Oh. Oh no. Chelsea gagged with her entire body. Held onto the edge of the mattress so she wouldn't keel over, scared the straining was going to send her flying or falling. "Sick bag!" Donna called, urgency in her voice. The midwife was already on it, holding a disposable vomit bag under Chelsea's chin. She retched inside it, emptying her stomach and filling the bag to the brim. The acidity made tears finally spring to her eyes. Jordan was fast—replaced the sick bag with another one in record time, before Chelsea heaved again with her whole body and puked into it.

So much for fresh air. Her throat felt raw, stripped and searing all the way down her oesophagus. Her tummy muscles, even without any contractions, felt tight from the full-body gagging. Chelsea tried to stop swaying on her feet, palms pressed flat against the hospital bed. Violently burped with shaking shoulders. She had nothing left to give, and yet still so much—she still had to birth her son. Vomiting wouldn't even be the worst of it.

Donna was just as quick as the midwife; had wet a washcloth from the sink and cleaned her face up with it. "I'm... I'm okay." Chelsea repeated, hardly even sounding human. It was a side effect of the nitrous oxide. Dizziness, drowsiness, detachment, light-headness, nausea, vomiting. "No more. No more gas." No more of any of this, please. She saw Jordan eye off the amount of sick in each bag and then throw it into the waste. The bags were blue. Chelsea tried to hold onto that. Blue. Ocean blue eyes. A perfect smile. What was waiting for her on the other side of all this.

She didn't throw up again, thank God, but when the next few contractions spread across her abdomen in great intensity, she felt desperate to go to the bathroom. Felt that urge and pressure in her bottom. More of her waters trickled down her legs and dripped onto the vinyl flooring of the birth suite. Jordan mopped it up with a towel under her shoe. Grabbed a thick mat from one of the cupboards and laid it down at Chelsea's feet. "Here you go, sweetie." She said during a break between contractions. "I'll put another towel down, too." Jordan smiled, an excited twinkle to her eyes. Donna was rubbing her back in circles, staying by her side. Stood on the mat, too. By the time Chelsea was vocalising through another contraction, Jordan had positioned herself down on the floor with the doppler back in hand, kneeling and looking up between Chelsea's legs. "Yes, Chelsea! Yes! Yes, just like that! You're doing amazing!" She cheered her on, barely audible beneath Chelsea's moaning.

"Take a breath, have a rest. You're doing so, so well, sweetie." Jordan encouraged once the latest contraction wore off. Sweat stuck hair to Chelsea's forehead. She blew some raspberries, lips tingling and trilling, trying to stabilise her breathing before it started all over again. The pain and the crying and the pushing.

"Oh, I can see some hair!" Jordan exclaimed, grinning up at her from the mat. Hair? Her little boy already had hair? Chelsea shouted through the ghost of a smile. Tears were freely falling down her face, now. He had hair. It made it all the more real. This was really happening? It was so hard to fathom that it was... That this person she had wanted to meet her entire life was almost here. It made her pushing more determined, more voluntary. She wanted to meet him. She wanted it so bad. Her mom covered her fist in the sheets with her own hand. Chelsea took hold of it, squeezing and straining with all her might until the contraction was gone and she had to force herself to relax. Recover. Be patient.

Another midwife came into the room. "How are we going in here?"

"Head's almost around the bend." Jordan replied, giddy. "Chelsea here is doing so incredible!" She handed the doppler over to the other midwife and shuffled on her knees to retrieve a bowl filled with warm water and cloth compresses. The new midwife—the midwife-in-charge, in fact—introduced herself to Chelsea; explained she was going to be here for this end part, praised her for her good work so far. Chelsea nodded, mouth fixed open to try to pull the air back into her lungs. Donna used her free hand to push sweat-soaked hair off her face again. Wiped her tears away.

Chelsea whimpered to her mom. "He has hair."

"Do you want to see, Chelsea?" Jordan asked. Chelsea's response came in the form of a deep whine in the back of her throat. Another contraction had her leaning over the hospital bed, tensing her entire body in pain. Her eyes were tightly screwed shut. Held her breath, like she was supposed to, while she pushed with all her might. "Look, Chelsea! Look down!" A mirror, a small rectangular slab with bevelled edges, was angled up at her from the mat on the floor. Chelsea blinked away her tears quick enough to see a tiny head retreat back into her body with the end of her contraction.

A sob tore through her chest. Donna was crying, too, but held up a bottle of water to her mouth. Stuck the straw between her teeth and encouraged her to drink. Stay hydrated. The other midwife was using the doppler on her lower abdomen, further down on her skin than it had been up to this point. He was sitting low in her pelvis. He was almost here. And Chelsea's heartrate surely had to match her baby's by now—fast paced and echoing throughout the room for everyone to hear. 130 beats per minute. She kept her eyes on the mirror, willing him to come back into view. Willing him to be here.

Bearing down on the next contraction, Chelsea practically squatted as she pushed, pushed, pushed. Jordan held the warm compress to the skin of her perineum, verbally encouraging and cheering her on from the ground. Donna and the other midwife tuned in, too. She tried with all her might to keep her eyes open, to see her son in the reflection.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck!" Chelsea's primal sort of moaning devolved into repeated swearing. Yeah, she was gonna have to stop doing that once he was here. Be a good influence on her son and not cuss ever again. But fuck that, not yet! For now his tiny innocent ears were still covered—the crown of his head sitting between her legs. His little head of fair hair visible. He didn't pull back this time when the contraction waned. And it was a stretch she couldn't even begin to describe. The ring of fire. It was searing her skin, even under the warmth and safety of the cloth compress Jordan pressed tight between her openings. It burned so much that she saw white behind her eyes every time she blinked. Dots in her vision, an urgency to her screaming and swearing. The midwives told her to stop pushing, no matter how much she wanted to. Let her body slowly do the rest of the work on the next contraction. They didn't want her to tear, even if it sure as fuck felt like she already had. Was, with the way the baby was stretching her open. Jordan told her to breathe, because her heartrate was getting a little too high. Was it any fucking wonder!?

"Chelsea, Chelsea, reach down. Feel your baby!" Jordan gushed, placing a gentle palm on the back of her naked thigh. A much better suggestion. Wait, when had she put gloves on? One of Jordan's latex-covered hands supported the crown of the baby's head while it rested there. Chelsea untangled her aching fingers from the hospital bed sheets and extended her arm down to feel. Used the angled mirror's reflection to find him with her fingers. Her son had short, sticky strands of hair at the top of his head. He was real. Like, actually real. He was right there.

Chelsea's shoulders trembled from all her crying. Her mom stroked her back before intertwining their hands again. She was blubbering, too. "Another contraction's coming." Chelsea urged. Removed her hand from her son's head on instinct to grip onto the bed again.

"That's okay, that's okay. Just let your body do all the work. Try not to push! We're going to take this nice and slow. Just breathe, breathe. Breathe like you're blowing out a birthday candle! Yes, yes—just like that, Chelsea! Yes, amazing!" Jordan coached her, sitting up on her knees on the mat. Her hands were on the apex of the baby's head to control how fast he came out. Chelsea couldn't look in the mirror this time. The pain burned and ripped through her entire body. She grunted and groaned and squeezed her mom's hand so hard and strained that she could feel her pulse; feel the finger bones under her skin.

"Head's born!" Jordan called out. Took a cursory glance over to the clock on the wall in the corner of the room. "10:04." The midwife-in-charge scribbled it down in her file notes. "Look, Chelsea! You're so close! Next contraction and you get to meet your baby!"

Chelsea scrunched her face up, tears blinding the view of her baby's head poking out between her legs. He was just hanging from her body. Upside down and waiting. So close. So painful, but so close. She brushed her fingers over his sticky hair again, laughter breaking through her crying and heavy breathing and painful moaning. "Hi. Hi, baby." She managed to squeak out, thumbing his little forehead. One more contraction. Just one more. And Chelsea could feel it building. Smiled, in spite of it all.

Cold is the water It freezes your already cold mind Already cold, cold mind

And death is at your doorstep And it will steal your innocence But it will not steal your substance

But you are not alone in this And you are not alone in this As brothers we will stand and we'll hold your hand Hold your hand

And you are the mother The mother of your baby child The one to whom you gave life

And you have your choices And these are what make man great His ladder to the stars

10:06AM, TUESDAY. JULY 25TH, 2017.

He cried when he was born. A tiny but piercing scream, flailing his little limbs out. Was handed up to her between her legs. She was moving on autopilot, driven by an entire cocktail of hormones and intense emotions, and held him tight to her chest without a thought. Like it was natural, like she knew exactly what she was doing. Because she did. She'd waited her entire life for this. She was born to do this—was born to be a mother. To be his mother.

"Jack." She wept, her voice broken. "Hi, Jack." For the first time in a really long time, it didn't hurt to say her father's name. It wasn't just his anymore. It was her son's. And he was here, flush against her naked chest. He was here and he was hers, wrinkling his fair-haired eyebrows as he cried and his skin pinked up. With the weight of him against her, her heart felt full. Was this what true love felt like? Was this what people meant when they said they'd fallen in love at first sight? She had never felt so happy before. So euphoric and complete and whole, irregardless of her body's pain and protesting. She peppered his forehead with kisses, covered in vernix and blood and all manner of fluids. Chelsea didn't care. This was her son. "I love you. I love you so much. I love you, I love you." She pressed into his skin, so soft despite everything.

Donna had an arm wrapped around Chelsea's waist, keeping her upright and on her feet. Tilted her head against her shoulder and watched her grandson with bleary eyes. The midwives both started to pat Jack down dry with fresh, heated towels. Jordan assisted Chelsea in slowly turning around and sitting down on the bed. They had to measure blood loss, get her placenta out. Chelsea let them do whatever they wanted, let them move her however they so pleased—she was off in her own little world, one where she could only hear Jack's shallow breathing, could only see the obvious rise and fall of his chest against hers. Where everything else happened around her in a blur. She didn't notice the clamp closed around the cord, or Jordan verbally guiding her mom on how to cut it. Didn't notice the other midwife jabbing the shot of synthetic oxytocin into her thigh, or the separation bleed that followed, or Jordan drawing the placenta out of her body by the cord—not until the fullness in her vagina and the ache of more contractions snapped her out of her happy place.

Chelsea winced, throwing her head slightly back into the pillow from all the pressure and the pain. "Almost done, Chelsea! You're doing so well, my dear." Jordan assured her. "And done. Placenta born at 10:11." Had five minutes really already passed? The midwife-in-charge jotted down the time before coming back over to the bed with new linens. Warm blankets for both Chelsea and the baby. She covered them up and helped to adjust Jack higher up on Chelsea's chest, in line with her breasts in case he wanted to crawl and feed. Find it for himself.

He seemed happy where he was for now. His little arms were curled up against his chest, and his eyes were closed. Breathing even. Five minutes in a brand new world had to be tough. Tiring. "My sweet boy." Chelsea's crooned, hot tears rolling down her face. Down the dimples set beside her smile. The midwife-in-charge congratulated her and left the room. Jordan fixed a small-sized name tag around Jack's left ankle and another around his wrist. HESKETT, BABY OF CHELSEA GRACE. DOB: 07/25/2017. This was her son. This was her son.

Jack snuggled closer into her chest, readjusted himself to get comfy again. Jordan wrapped the blanket tighter over his bare body. Patted Chelsea's leg. "Is it okay if I give your tummy a good rub and see how much you're bleeding, sweetie?" Chelsea honest to God didn't care what they did or didn't do. Was so happy and exhausted and high on life that nothing else mattered. After giving her such a gift and caring for her so well, Jordan could do anything. Chelsea nodded anyway, giving her consent to proceed.

Rubbing her uterus hurt. Chelsea yelped. Squirmed. Well. She had said anything. Jack wriggled around, too, disturbed by her movement and noises. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry! I'm almost done, I promise!" Jordan apologised with a sympathetic grimace. "Your uterus is firm and central, which is exactly what we like to see, Chelsea!" Whew. That was good. And it stayed all good until she had to check her for tears. Jordan prodded around inside her with a gauze swab. More pain, more squirming. "I'm just gonna go get one of the doctors to come have a look, is that alright, Chelsea?" She said after a minute or two, withdrawing her hand. What the hell did that mean? Chelsea furrowed her eyebrows, frowning, and nodded.

With Jordan out of the room, Donna leaned over the side of the bed and caressed Jack's cheek. Chelsea jumped, startled. Had completely forgotten her mom was even there in the room with them. "He's so beautiful, Chelsea." Donna sniffled. "I'm so proud of you." She paused, considering her words. "And your dad would be so, so proud of you. He is. I know he is."

Chelsea's expression crumbled. Snot and tears dribbled down her chin. Jack blinked an eye open, looking around for a moment or two at the commotion before settling. Dozing off again. Chelsea buried her face in his hair. Tried to compose herself before meeting Donna's gaze again. "I love you, Mom."

"I love you too, honey." Donna thumbed a fresh tear from her cheek. "You did it."

She'd done it.

Jordan came back into the room with a doctor in tow. He greeted her and explained that he wanted to check her for tears, too. He got the go-ahead, gloved up and dug around inside her. Chelsea kept herself distracted with Jack, finger lining over every wrinkle and crease in his perfect little face, his skin. Her mom was snapping photos on her phone but stopped when the doctor talked over his shoulder to Jordan. "I've got a bleeder here. See—right there. How has blood loss been so far?" Jordan moved around to get a better look between her legs. Under any other circumstances, if she hadn't been so loved up and happy, she would've felt like a zoo exhibit. She continued to worry over Jack instead. The little cupid's bow in his top lip. The short length of his eyelashes. She tuned everything else out. Nothing else mattered beyond that. Beyond her baby.

She ended up having a second degree tear in her vagina that the doctor had to stitch up. Local anaesthetic, gauze packs, sutures. A slight postpartum haemorrhage that they treated with another shot of medication into her thigh. The pain was constant. Never-ending. She guessed she'd just have to get used to it, huh? Her heart wasn't just hers, anymore. It existed outside of her body. She was holding it in her arms. Holding her son. He had her heart, now and forever. That made all the pain and waiting worth it.

Jack started to turn his head, searching. A hunger cue. Her mom helped her get him properly situated across her chest, showed her how to help Jack seek it out for himself. Brought her nipple to his nose so he'd open up his mouth and latch. He fussed, sucked for a while, fussed again. Her milk wasn't in yet, so Jordan expressed her other breast with her hand and scooped the colostrum up with a syringe for a top-up. Chelsea was grateful for the help. Grateful when her mom held her arm in place around Jack, keeping him safe and skin-to-skin while Chelsea fell asleep mid-feed. She didn't mean to. Couldn't keep her heavy, heavy eyes open.

By the time lunch was brought in for her on a tray, she was awake again. Not that she had actually really slept, just kind of rested her eyes. Drooled, a little. Jordan suggested they measure Jack and do his newborn assessment, so Chelsea could shower and get some proper rest. Chelsea didn't want to let him go. Did she have to? Her arms weighed her down trying to hand him over to the midwife, more physically exhausted than she ever had been before in her entire life. Despite this, she tried to move, tried to follow after them to the resuscitaire. Donna came to her aid, supporting her elbow while Chelsea got to her feet. She offered her the hospital gown to cover up. Slid it over her shoulders and tied it in the back for her. Chelsea thanked her mom and slowly padded over to her son.

He cried, shaky and cold even under the heat lamp of the cot. Chelsea's lips stuck out in a pout, running a hand down his chest. "It's okay, sweet boy. You're okay." She hushed him. Jordan went through the newborn examination, checking him from head to toe. Counted each of his fingers (1, 2, 3, 4, 5! 1, 2, 3, 4, 5!), listened to his heart and respiration rate, tested his reflexes. Talked it through in detail with Chelsea and Donna, who was still playing family photographer. While measuring the circumference of his head (13.5 inches!), Jack soiled the blanket on the cot. They all cooed over him, like it was the most adorable thing in the world. Donna retrieved the wipes, a diaper and a tiny onesie from Chelsea's overnight bag. "I got this, I got this." Chelsea insisted, waving her mom and Jordan off. She'd done enough babysitting as a teenager to know how to change a diaper, even if none of those kids had been quite so small or new to the world. Or hers. She gently cleaned up his bottom, lax with how many wipes she used, and they put him on the scales to weigh him.

7.5lb. Chelsea tried not to cry again. Jack did—definitely didn't like being away from her body heat, or the lamp on the resuscitaire. Her mom quickly took some photos of the weight flashing on the scales and they took him back to the warmth and light of the cot. Got his diaper on so he couldn't make more of a mess. Jordan trailed the measuring tape down the length of him next. 20 inches long. Chelsea tickled his tummy, beaming down at him. "That's my little man." Her little man who wasn't so little, but wasn't so big, either. He was so beautiful. Wiggled his fingers in the air like he was waving at her.

His shots were next. An injection in each thigh, and his scream was earsplitting. Chelsea's eyebrows pulled together, tears blurring her vision. A crocodile tear slid down Jack's face. Shit, she felt so guilty. Jordan parted his lips and stuck her gloved finger inside his mouth. His sucking reflex kicked in, and he eventually settled. No more tears, no more kicking out his feet in distress. Chelsea had been holding her breath. Blew out a sigh. It was okay, they were almost done. He'd be back in her arms soon!

She got him dressed for the first time in a grey stripey onesie. It was slightly too big and loose, but he seemed snug. Seemed happy when she cradled him against her chest again. Chelsea rapidly kissed his forehead, his tiny little fists. Donna held her arms out for a cuddle. Chelsea was hesitant again. Ugh, did she have to? She didn't want to share him. Didn't want to let him go again so soon. Jordan reminded her about taking a shower. Said she'd feel brand new afterwards.

It was the best shower she'd had in her life. Up to this point, at least. Jordan was a God-send. Blood that had dried up and caked to her skin was scrubbed off and swirled down the drain, and with it the stench of copper and hospital disappeared; overwhelmed by the coconut and shea butter of her body wash. Even with dead arms, Chelsea managed to run some shampoo through her hair, wash her face with some cleanser. Brushed her teeth. She felt like a human being again. She managed to dry off and get dressed on her own: summer pyjama shorts and a nursing top covered in polka dots. Slippers to avoid the tile and vinyl and germs of the hospital floor. Jordan must've mopped it clean in her absence, she realised, walking back into the room. Starkly white sheets and a new blanket were draped over the hospital bed. God bless that woman, truly.

And God bless her mom: set up in the chair in the corner, Jack asleep peacefully in her arms. "How you feelin', Chels?" Donna asked without looking up, her eyes glued to Jack. Chelsea wasn't even offended—she could relate! Understood completely, immediately pulled into his orbit from the other side of the room and tracing a finger over his cheek.

"I'm in love."

24 and a half hours of labour. And it had been so slow, from literal years of waiting, to sudden. Suddenly it had all been over and he was here. Suddenly he was here and it felt like he always had been. And the hours seemed to pass even faster after that; when she could no longer physically hold him anymore and so she had to, regretfully, set him down in the hospital bassinet. He didn't mind, already a good sleeper—his tiny arms stretched out above his head while she snapped a photo of him on her phone to send out to everybody. Her friends and family and a post on Instagram. Hi, I'm Jack in block letters on a custom sign she'd had made months before. Months. It had been months and years of a journey that had all culminated in this! In her perfect baby.

"Jack Kaiser Heskett," she hummed down at him when her mom left for the evening, and Chelsea only had late night TV to keep them company. The late night shopping advertisements she used to fall asleep to nestled in her father's arms. The flashing screen, mounted on the wall, lit up her expression. Cast shadows across Jack's tiny, sleeping face. "You're technically a Junior. Jack Kaiser Heskett Jr. Yeah. Yeah, that's right. Y'know, I never thought I'd be one of those people." She said, small so as not to disturb him. "Bit of a mouthful, huh?" She felt a little delirious. Completely exhausted. Rambly. She thumbed his chubby cheek. "I named you after him. My dad. I... I loved him so much, so so much, and I love you so much, so so so much, and I know... I know he would've loved you, too." She was too tired to cry again. To cry any more today. "He does. He's probably yelling at me right now, saying I should've picked out a better name, but..." Chelsea chuckled at the thought. "But you look like a Jack to me."

It had almost been 13 years since he passed. August 18, 2004. A date seared into her brain, even over a decade later.

There were only a few days left of summer break when it happened. He'd only been 38 years old. Had a heart attack completely out of nowhere. No symptoms, no signs, no chance to say goodbye. And Chelsea was meant to go off to Charlotte for college three and a half hours away from home. Bachelor of Arts in Architecture. She didn't want to go. Didn't want to have to do anything ever again, after he was gone. Didn't want to have to plan and build homes that he would never be a part of. Didn't want to have the big milestones without him there right there beside her. Graduation, buying her first house, getting married, having children. Experiencing her first heartbreak. Him dying had been that, instead.

It'd been the worst day of her life, hands down.

Today had to have been the best.

Her mom had gotten her through it, back then. Forced her to go to school instead of quitting or deferring for a year. Got her to stay distracted instead of being completely destroyed by her grief. And her mom had gotten her through this, too. It was one thing knowing she wouldn't literally be here without her parents, but another thing entirely knowing she wouldn't've made it through emotionally without them, either. And even if her dad wasn't technically here today, he still was.

She knew he was. He was in the room when her son was born. He had to be. He wasn't just there in name, or the engagement ring her mother still wore on her finger, gripping her hand half the time—but he was there in Jack's face. Only half her genetics, but he was all her dad. And he was all hers. It felt... healing. It felt right. How could her heart not be completely full and fixed and pieced back together when she was staring down at her child? Her healthy, beautiful baby? She had created so many houses and homes for other people before, and now she finally had her own. This was her son. This was what she wished for.

[chelseaheskett]

[chelseaheskett]

erection

[chelseaheskett]

elliotholt​:

Chelsea pulled the box out of his grasp, and he instinctively clasped his hands behind his back, holding still more out of nervousness than submission. She didn’t say anything for a long while, even as he could feel her stare burn into him. The longer the silence stretched, the more negative thoughts crept into his mind; convinced that she would start laughing at him at any second, he shifted his position slightly, now hyper-aware of the carpet underneath his legs. For god’s sake, she’d more than once tied down every one of his limbs and made him beg for her, but a shirt and a glorified necklace made him feel self-conscious. There was always a bit of a mental block when they tried something new, and he needed immediate reassurance or he would feel like he’d done something terribly wrong.

He was an idiot, he should have talked to her before he just went off and did things on his own, he should have —

Chelsea slid her fingers through the ring on the collar and yanked him up fully onto his knees. He coughed, more out of surprise than a lack of air, and stared at her, eyes wide. Braced both hands on the bed on either side of her, fingers curled into the sheets. Oh. He didn’t feel quite so stupid anymore, not when she looked at him like that. Like she wanted to devour him. Flushed under her gaze, he didn’t have anywhere to hide - her grip around his throat left him with nowhere to go. He couldn’t move his head, couldn’t look away, just locked in place by the intensity in her eyes. Don’t you dare talk about yourself like that. Ever. Again. Do you understand me?

Yes. Yes. Whatever she said. Whatever she wanted. He nodded, as enthusiastic as he could manage with her holding him in place. She pulled him again, harder, this time so their mouths crashed together. No soft touching or caresses, but rough and possessive. Claiming him - and he was more than happy to be claimed. His hands moved to her hips, holding onto her for dear life as she took him on the ride. She pushed him away, out of the kiss, with an equal amount of force and her hand never wavered from his neck, steadily making it harder for him to breathe. 

Something was different. Elliot was used to that fire - loved it, craved it - but there was something more to it, now. Chelsea was harder, even more fiery. Like he’d done something - oh. He did kind of call himself stupid, didn’t he? Chelsea couldn’t read his mind, but…couldn’t she? He didn’t need to say things out loud for her to know exactly what was happening inside of his silly little head. She twisted her wrist, tightening the collar, making a point out of it. 

But he was a slow learner. She knew that well enough - he still wore some of the bruises of her latest tutoring session, no better at math than he was a week ago but pleased with his progress regardless. He was stubborn, a bad student, and this was certainly going to take more than one lesson to sink in. His breathing got more labored, shallower, one of her hands at his throat and the other exploring his new shirt. Yeah…the top had been a good idea. He’d have to thank the girl at the store the next time they went - sure, she was probably just trying to upsell him, but it had worked. Chelsea seemed to like it and hadn’t that been the whole point? This was all for her and she didn’t look like she was about to complain. 

Her exploration ceased after a few moments and her hands moved down to the waistband of his briefs, fingers curled around the elastic. Pushed them down to his knees and he had to shift into a sitting position to pull them off the rest of the way. Chelsea watched him, approvingly, as he tossed the underwear somewhere behind his back and sat back on his knees. She gave him an appreciative grin as he kneeled at her feet, now almost completely naked. She leaned forward, meeting him halfway to press their foreheads together. Anticipating a kiss, his eyes slid closed, lips parted, patiently waiting for her to give him a reward. She didn’t kiss him, to his only slight disappointment, her hand making a path down his chest so that she could wrap her fingers around him. Tell me you’re sexy. A sharp, short demand. He knew better than to do anything but give her exactly what she wanted.

“I - I’m sexy.” He wasn’t quite sure if he fully believed it, but with her looking at him like that, making him believe it…he was sure he’d get there. It probably spoke to some deep-seated psychological issues that her utter possessiveness actually made him feel…really good? But…was it truly that bad? To be loved and cared for so deeply that it sparked this kind of passion in her? She was passionate about him and it sometimes, kind of, maybe made him want to be passionate about himself.

She hummed at him, low in her throat, and he responded by batting his eyelashes in turn. Surely his good behavior deserved a reward! A kiss, or at least a good boy. She did neither, instead leaning back on her hands and appraising him with a critical eye. He inadvertently pushed his bottom lip out in a small pout, silently protesting their lack of contact. That wasn’t fair! She wasn’t allowed to be that far away. She mimicked his pout, teasing him, mocking him, then chastised him for his poor counting skills. He bowed his head, looking up at her through his lashes. No matter how good of a tutor she was, his knowledge of math would just never improve - he supposed he would simply need more lessons.

Much to his ever-persistent disappointment, she didn’t offer to continue his tutoring, instead turning her attention to the unwrapped shoebox. Oh, shit. He’d forgotten he’d even given her the gift in the first place. One thing was for sure, at least - he definitely no longer felt like an awkward, uncomfortable idiot. It was hard to feel anything other than…than, well….sexy, when she looked at him like that. Talked to him like that. He held his hands behind his back, sitting as still as he possibly could. Being a good boy, watching and waiting and desperately hoping that she liked the boots. He breathed a literal sigh of relief at her reaction, the tension in his shoulders fading. Oh, good. She liked them! It made him feel sort of warm and fuzzy inside.

It wasn’t quite a good boy, but praise was praise and he would never say no to a couple of thank yous and I love yous. He smiled at her, very genuinely excited that she was excited, practically bouncing with unrestrained glee. Yes, he did do a great job - he may not be able to count, but he could give a good gift, and wasn’t that the most important thing? She demanded to wear the boots, now, and practically vibrating with want, he held his hands out to take the box. “I - may I?”

A good boy always asked for permission! And it was her day, after all, she deserved to call the shots even more than she normally did. She pushed the box at him and leaned back on her elbows, making herself comfortable while she put him to work. He was in his favorite place, under her spell and at her mercy. He set the box on the floor and pulled one of the shoes out, holding it carefully, like a precious gem. Fingers wrapped loosely around her left ankle, he slid her foot into the boot, gathering the length of leather in his hands and adjusted it around her leg. Inch by inch, he pulled the zipper up with a slow, calculated precision. This was a gift for him, actually, and he was going to take his time, draw it out and savor every second of it. The soft purr of the zipper mingled with their heavy breathing and made him start to get lightheaded. Dizzy. A different kind of of dizziness than he normally got when they played like this. Was this how Chelsea always felt? How did she ever get anything done? If he were her, feeling this high and powerful the time, he would have himself constantly tied up and ready for her. Phew. Wouldn’t that be nice.

When he finally pulled the zip up as far as it could go, he trailed both hands up her leg, taking in the soft leather under his fingers, until he reached her even softer skin. Wow. His imagination always paled in comparison to the reality of Chelsea. Nothing could ever, or would ever, hold a candle to her: beautiful, real and his. She was his. How did he get so lucky? What had he done so right in his past to be worthy of spending the rest of his life with her? Fuck, his head was spinning - he was so completely in love with her that it probably bordered on obsession. It was okay - Elliot was more than happy to be obsessed with her. She deserved it. He leaned forward to press his lips to the exposed skin above the top of her new boot. Almost immediately, her hand went into his hair, pulling his head up so that he could look at her. He slowly blinked at her, an innocent smile spread across his face. He had done nothing wrong, ever, in his life. Apparently she agreed, calling him a good boy in that soft, strong voice of hers. Equal parts domination and total adoration.

Fuck. Was it any wonder he was obsessed with her? He hummed, content, leaning into her hand as she scrunched her fingers in his hair. Preoccupied with that pleasurable tingle down his spine and not on his very important task, already forgotten in his haze of praise and the attention on his hair. Chelsea was quick to remind him of his responsibilities, however, her soft touch turning hard, pushing his head down, his brief moment of affection over so that he could turn his full attention back on her. Breathing hard, his eyes practically glazed over and unfocused, he repeated his process with the other boot. He took it even slower this time, partly to draw out the experience and partly because he was so out of his mind that he had a hard time concentrating. The zipper made no noise this time, crawling up its teeth inch by deliberate inch. Was this supposed to be turning him on so much? There was something about being on his knees and serving her, dressing her up so that she felt sexy and powerful that made him feel good, too. He would do fucking anything for her, on his knees or not.

Once both boots were on, he scooted back a little bit to take a look at his handiwork. Yeah, hah, that was going to dominate his fantasies for the rest of his life. What was it he had said before: fantasies were nothing compared to reality? She didn’t need to have her hand around his throat to choke him - the sight of her was enough to take his breath away. God, she was gorgeous. Otherworldly. Ethereal. He was so fucking lucky and so fucking unworthy of her.

“What do you think, baby?” Please call me a good boy again.

Chelsea stretched out a bit, showing off, her legs extended so that he could get a good look at her new boots. Yeah…not to toot his own horn or anything, but this had been a fantastic gift. One of the best ideas he’d ever had, honestly. The tips of his fingers tingled with the urge to touch her, but he kept his hands clasped together behind his back. Like a good boy would. She still hadn’t given him his praise, he noticed. That wasn’t very nice of her.

“I think,” she started, drawing the word out, crossing her legs at her ankles. His gaze snapped back and forth between her face and her legs, his eyes unable to settle anywhere. “I think,” she said a second time, harder, forcing him to lock eyes with her, “that I need to sit on that pretty face of yours.”

Oh. Well, who was Elliot to disagree with her when she had such great ideas? She leaned forward to grasp his chin, her fingers splayed out on his cheek. Caressing his face like she was mapping out exactly what she was going to do with it. He leaned into her touch, only a little crazed and desperate for contact. Her fingers eventually found their way back to the collar, using the metal ring to pull him into another kiss and he was slowly, surely, finding the shopping spree had been well worth a little embarrassment and self-consciousness. This time, she wasn’t rough or aggressive with him, but tender and oh-so-loving in a way that made him even dizzier and more overwhelmed. It wasn’t just the kinky stuff, but how much love and trust and care that poured through with nothing but the touch of her lips.

With nothing but her hands, slowly finding their way into his hair. No pulling or tugging, but gentle fingers combing through, over and over in the way she knew he loved. They didn’t need words, or even sounds, for them to know how the other was feeling, so connected and in sync with each other that they just knew. Hell, Elliot was all but convinced Chelsea could read his mind, she was always able to tell exactly what he was thinking or feeling at any given moment. What exactly she needed to say or do to make him feel warm and happy or get him out of his head. And he couldn’t help himself, he needed to touch her, needed to feel that soft, beautiful skin of hers. His hands settled on her thighs, on the bit of skin that peeked out between the tops of her boots and the bottom of her sleep shirt. He slipped his fingers underneath her shirt, up over the curve of her hips, whimpering into her mouth when he realized she wasn’t wearing her underwear.

This time, she did tug at his hair, more playfully than anything else and finally broke apart from their kiss. He whined, again, as she stood up, off the bed, and started to walk around him. Noo, where was she going? He spun around on his knees, starting to trail after her like a lost puppy. Wherever she was going, he wanted to be with her, right at her side. Always. Instead, she turned, stopping him by placing the sole of her boot flat against his chest. He stilled instantly, holding his breath and waiting for her next move. The pressure of her heel was heavy, intense, as she pushed him back fully onto the floor.

“Don’t move a muscle,” she said, hard and appropriately threatening. A pleasant, familiar buzz settled in his head, and he followed her instructions with barely restrained enthusiasm. This would surely earn him a good boy, right? Please? He was listening so well, being so good. There was no way she could deny him! She sauntered back into the room with the cuffs after an interminable wait, an almost wolfish grin spreading across her face when she saw him, unmoving and exactly where she’d left him.

“Aren’t you a good boy.”

Ah. There it was. It got better and better every time she said it. “Yes, I am,” he practically purred, and she chuckled at him, kneeling over him to straddle his waist. “Thank you for noticing.” 

“Good manners, too.”

Oh, always. Always for her. The pleased grin on her face warmed him down to his toes, totally compliant in her hands as she guided his arms over his head, securing the stiff leather of the cuffs around his wrists. The other end went around the leg of their bedframe, holding him in place. He tugged at his bindings, testing them, and they held strong; Chelsea had learned how to tie a sturdy knot. She watched him with an amused grin, caressing his cheek with her thumb, and on instinct he tried to touch her, hold her, but he had no escape.

“I - may I?”

“You better.” Chelsea quipped, half-hard, half-teasing. Elliot was evidently trying to be on his best good boy behaviour, asking her permission instead of just taking it. But consent was sexy—and Elliot being submissive was sexy. What she wanted was what truly mattered, and it made her hot under the collar of her night shirt. That kind of thought and dedication. She settled back onto the bed, keeping herself propped up with her elbows. Pointed her feet against Elliot’s bare thighs; thick, muscular, hers... So fucking hot that it caught her attention before the sight of his erection did. Chelsea raked her eyes over his body, enjoying the view of him bowed at her feet in only his meshy shirt and collar; metal ring glistening under the overhead lights. Kneeling at her feet like he was about to eat her out (which was never out of the question!), or treating her like royalty. But they’d played that game before. Not today—even if he was playing the part of a Footman, tucking her inside the dominatrix boot with long, lean fingers around her ankle. 

Elliot being the submissive one meant that even when they weren’t role playing some inverted Maid/Prince fantasy, he still ended up serving her. He still ended up in this exact position: down on his knees and doing exactly what she wanted. And fuck, this was exactly what she wanted. The leather was cold and sharp around her legs, slowly tightening around her skin as he zipped the boot up. It was a contrast to the way she was already heavily sweating, her pyjamas taut to her body. God, was she glad she wasn’t wearing underwear, because she was sure they’d be soaked through by now and sticking uncomfortably, too. Chelsea wanted to pop a button on her shirt, get some air on her chest, but she was busy making fists in the blanket. Her eyes were fixed shut in pleasure, her head inadvertently thrown back; the hair in her ponytail sweeping the mattress. His fingers and the zipper crawled up her leg. A snail’s pace. Chelsea’s mouth hung open, light moans escaping with her hard, heavy breathing. Was this meant to be so Goddamn erotic? Then again, everything Elliot did was fucking sexy. 

There was a list there somewhere, but she couldn’t think past the deliberate way he was touching her. Zipping her up. It was funny how something so slight, almost innocent, could so easily affect her and her body. Could stir up that aching between her legs. He didn’t know his own power! There was so much sexual tension in the air that she felt like she was going to implode. Nothing but the sounds of the growl of the zipper on the boots and their harsh breathing, and Chelsea whimpered past another moan. Her toes curled inside the boot, her other foot scrunched up on his thigh until her nails rooted into his skin. Fuck. Why why why was this turning her on so much? 

The boot must’ve been completely done up, because Elliot started to creep his hands over the length of the leather. And she was obsessed with his hands. His fingers. Had been since the very first time she saw him. Had been one of the very first things she’d ever noticed about him: how long they were, how his palm was big enough to cover the entire surface area of her face. Had wondered how it’d feel to have those fingers inside of her... His touch, now, shied over the strip of bare skin between the top of the boot and the hem of her sleep shirt, and it was electric. Her head felt full of nothing but static. When his lips, so soft and tender and hers, ghosted over her thigh in a kiss, Chelsea jolted up. Hips bucking forward, her fingers immediately weaving into his hair like a reflex. Like routine. She tugged, rough, to pull his head up. Get his attention.   

He really didn’t know his own power. Elliot smiled at her with his teeth poking out of his mouth. The kind of smile that people wrote songs about. Good-natured and improperly innocent. A little flutter to his eyelashes, just to drive it home. Fuck, she didn’t need convincing, Elliot! She would burn down the entire world to see that smile. She would go to war for him. And it wasn’t an exaggeration. She’d do anything for him. Do anything to be with him, to be like this for the rest of their lives. He made her so happy and hot and fulfilled. Chelsea carded her fingers affectionately through his hair, hearts in her eyes. “Good boy.” It sounded slightly nasally, because with all the moans falling out of her mouth she could only breathe properly through her nose. That wasn’t an exaggeration, either. It wasn’t performative, just pure instinct. Pure, unrestrained ecstacy. She was so comfortable and safe with Elliot that it just felt natural to be so open and vulnerable. To be as loud as she needed to be. Unblushing and unashamed. 

Fuck, she was wound up tight tonight. So much so that when Elliot didn’t get started on the next boot right away, she had to encourage him to continue by biting her nails into his scalp. Pull at his hair the same way he was pulling her closer and closer to an orgasm. Yeah, she couldn’t take much more of this. In the best way imaginable. Elliot was even slower, somehow, with the second boot. She couldn’t even hear the zipper go—but that could’ve just been her making enough noise to mute out everything else. Could’ve just been her, completely out of her mind. She was trembling under his touch, trying to stay upright with one hand slipping on the bed, the other a fist in his hair. Chelsea planted her shoes into the carpet for leverage, one on either side of Elliot’s body. Spread herself a little wider for some sort of relief. He was kneeling between her open legs and had to re-angle his hands to accommodate her new position, but that wasn’t her problem! 

The zip was finally done up before Chelsea had the chance to come completely undone. Her chest was rising and falling in rapid succession. Jesus Christ, that really shouldn’t’ve been as hot as it was... She shouldn’t’ve been that close to finishing without him barely even touching her... Fuck. Chelsea untangled her fingers from his hair and cupped the underside of her baby bump in an attempt to calm herself down. Even out her breathing. She stretched out her legs to model the dominatrix boots for him. They were a perfect fit! Tight and shiny, accentuating the length of her legs. Her calf muscles were aching from all the previous pent-up tension. Chelsea swung a leg over Elliot’s lap to cross her ankles together. Leaned back on her palms to pose for him some more. Much better. That felt and looked much better.

“What do you think, baby?” Elliot sat back on his knees, his eyes dancing all over her body. He was out of breath, too. There was an earnestness to his expression. Lines by his mouth and his eyes and that dimple in his chin. Chelsea’s breathing accelerated again, just at the sight of him.  

“I think,” she began, false pretenses—not actually able to think about anything beyond that look on his face. Beyond the heat in his eyes, with his gaze bouncing back and forth between her and the boots. “I think,” she repeated, rougher, trying to get his full attention again. Wanting him to hear what she had to say next. Their eyes finally met and Chelsea fanned her fingers out over his cheeks, “... that I need to sit on that pretty face of yours.” Her wedding and engagement rings pressed into his perfect skin. A reminder. She was his and he was hers. What’s yours is mine. And his face was hers for the taking. 

She thumbed the line around his mouth, almost as long and deep as his smile. Her fingers traced over that next, feeling how soft and full his lips were. Like they were made to be kissed. Made to be kissed only by her. He was made for her. God, they were made for each other. Faces and bodies fit perfectly when she leaned in to kiss him. Two perfect puzzle pieces. She used the ring around his collar to draw him in closer, gently lifting him up onto his knees again so they could make-out. Less aggressive than before, but just as passionate. Slower, sure, but Chelsea was still losing all of her breath inside his mouth. Still felt dizzy, still felt her body pulsing with arousal. She lost herself in the kiss, fingers working with a mind of their own and scrunching through his hair. Continously moving like her lips were. 

Elliot’s hands skirted up under her sleep shirt. Chelsea hummed into his mouth, grip unconsciously tightening in his hair. His fingers dented the skin at her hips, searching for the waistband of her panties to, presumably, remove them. Surprise! He moaned into their kiss, their lips never leaving each other. Like he’d only just realised she was ready for him, twofold. Threefold. Yeah, she wasn’t so sure on numbers right now. Her toes were straining in the boots, the ache was persistent in the pit of her stomach. She forced herself to break away from their kiss, rushing to get the air back into her lungs. If he got started on her with his fingers, she wouldn’t be able to stop. Already felt so close to the edge of an orgasm and they’d hardly done anything yet. Chelsea nuzzled against his nose with her own, so he knew not to take it personally, but Elliot whined about it anyway. She giggled, airy and high-pitched, and gave his hair a final teasing tug. 

He followed after her, shuffling around on his knees, when she made way to leave. Chelsea had to stifle another giggle; clamping her teeth over her bottom lip. She stood in front of him, hands perched on her hips, and shook her head, playfully disapproving. It’d be faster if he didn’t come with her to the closet—they always had so many close calls in there! Constantly! And Chelsea was determined to sit on his face. Tie him up just to watch him struggle to reach her, touch her. He had nobody but himself to blame for how power hungry she was! He was the reason she always felt so sexy and powerful, and she was going to capitalise on that as much as possible, thank you. Like now: lifting a leg to press the sole of her dominatrix boot flush against his chest. She was slow about it, of course. Gentle, nudging him down with the pressure of the boot until his back hit the ground. Until he was lying on the floor of their bedroom, holding his breath and waiting to be told to do anything otherwise. “Don’t move a muscle.” She warned, tongue lolling out of the side of her mouth. Having too much fun with this, like always. 

She hoped Elliot remembered to breathe. Her sweet, sweet husband. She couldn’t have him passing out before she was done with him! Almost thought about calling out to him from her wardrobe, but was immediately distracted by the sight of her reflection in the mirror. Shit, she looked good? The boots, cut up to her thighs, somehow matched perfectly with her pyjamas. Really pulled the whole outfit together. Yeah, she’d have to keep the sleep shirt on... No matter how much Elliot loved her bare and naked. She pressed a hand to her stomach, pregnant belly still visible, noticeable under the fabric. Good enough for her! And Elliot loved her pregnant body—that had to be some sort of consolation for him. Chelsea released the top button on the shirt, at least. For practical reasons. To help cool herself down. Possibly tease him with some cleavage. Not that he’d be able to see anything when she was sitting on his face, but still. 

She admired herself in the mirror some more. How did Elliot always manage to get her the best presents, huh? It wasn’t fair. Chelsea was meant to be the one who held that title in their house! Hmpft. She guessed he could have that power... since she had the rest of it. That, at least, seemed fair. And she looked good! Felt sexy as all hell. He had that power, too. Made her feel beautiful. Made her feel like the only girl in the entire world. And she didn’t want to look sexy for anybody else. Just him. Nobody else could ever make her feel so special, so seen. Right down to her soul. Chelsea loved him so, so much. This was the fucking good life, right here. No matter what it had taken for the both of them to get here—this was the life that she had always wanted. This is what she’d wished for. Him. This. It already felt like the best birthday she’d ever had, and it hadn’t even actually started yet. 

Their box of sex toys had immeasurably grown over the course of a single year. Chelsea had to rummage through it for a good amount of time to find their set of handcuffs. She twirled them around, happy with herself, and went back out to the bedroom to meet Elliot. He was still conscious, thank God, but hadn’t moved from his spot on the floor. Chelsea beamed, dimples in her cheeks—very delighted with his behaviour. He blinked up at her with long lashes, dazed eyes. “Aren’t you a good boy.” Chelsea sang, thoroughly pleased.  

Elliot settled into his own smile, soaking up all that praise. “Yes, I am.” He replied, matter-of-fact. Chelsea couldn’t help but laugh, genuine and hearty, and positioned herself down against his hips to straddle him. Fuck, she was so in love with him. It made her head spin. She mouthed a “my good boy”, but Elliot kept going. “Thank you for noticing.”

Another laugh, her chin dropping to her chest. What was she going to do with him, huh? Smart ass. She always noticed, thank you very much! She noticed every single little thing about him, actually. But she didn’t want to delay this any longer. Couldn’t, with the way her body was already rocking against his. Screw it, they were just going to have sex on the floor. It was fine, she always kept the carpet clean! And the leg of their bed looked sturdy enough to hold him in place. “Good manners, too.” Chelsea hummed, rewarding the first part of his statement. She momentarily set the handcuffs down on his chest, lifting his huge, heavy arms up above his head. Elliot was like putty in her hands, easily manipulated. Always let her move him around as much as she wanted to. He trusted her completely. She clicked the cuffs over his wrists, one at a time and as tight as possible. The foot of the bed kept him locked in place; chain link of the handcuffs rattling against the metal of the bedframe. Chelsea grinned, satisfied. Thumbed his cheek once he was all set up. Like clockwork, Elliot fought against his restraints. Fought to try and caress her back. “Aww,” she chuckled, almost sarcastic. She could be a smart ass, too. Sucker. “My poor baby.” Her new favourite phrase, as of late! She mocked him with a pout, too. The whole package. Chelsea scrunched up her nose, acting cute, before giving him one last sweet little peck on the mouth. 

“Shit, it’s hot in here.” She sighed, all dramatic and exaggerated. Sat back against his hips and started on the buttons of her night shirt. God, it was so much fun watching him squirm. So much fun watching him struggle, metal knocking against metal. Poor baby was trying so hard to get the job done himself. Buttons were one of his things. Not today! Not right now! Chelsea undid the pyjamas all the way down but kept the shirt on her shoulders. It exposed her cleavage, her lack of underwear. The slight curve of her stomach. Barely covered her breasts, but that was the point! Teasing him half to death was the best part.  

She swung her legs over his torso to turn around. Thought facing away from him, given the bed in her way, was the best way to go about this. And this way he could feel the leather of her boots against the sides of his neck, his face. Feel the buckles digging into his shoulders. Chelsea moved back on her knees to hover over his face. Practically squished his head between her boots and lowered herself down into his mouth. He met her with his tongue, and she had to immediately strain her arm behind her to steady herself on the bars of the bed frame. “Fuck.” She cried, her other hand finding the holes in his mesh shirt for something else to grab onto. His head was hidden under the length of her sleep shirt, but that didn’t matter too much. She couldn’t keep her eyes open. Was practically bouncing against his face, enthusiastic in both noise and movement.

Even without the use of his hands, with his tongue being the only way that he could touch her, Elliot was lapping over her in just the right spot. Knew her so well. Knew exactly what he was doing. She rubbed herself over his nose, then back over his mouth, her hips erratic. So close already. And Elliot was ravenous, using quick flicks of his tongue. She could feel herself drip down his chin. The boots became a moot point, in the end—her legs spread wider and wider for him. Leather burrowing into his shoulders, if anything. Her shoulder felt like it was about to dislocate with the awkward angle of gripping the bed railing. Chelsea relented and released it, joining her other hand on Elliot’s chest. Got her fingers tangled in the mesh of his shirt until—oop! She tore a hole in it. And oop, she didn’t care! Pushed herself back against his face, arching into his mouth. Cursed under the pressure of his tongue.

The force of her orgasm had her collapsing forward, palms scraping the carpet. She used it to her advantage; could fuck his face easier like this. Rode him and rode out the rest of it. Even restrained, Elliot kept up, kinking his neck to adjust to her new position. He knew exactly how to give it to her. Knew her literally inside and out. It made her shrieks louder. Shriller. Even when her body and arms went slack, he knew not to stop. Chelsea relaxed against him, head ducked down on his abdomen, his dick practically brushing up against her cheek. Her hips continued to roll back into him, even after the fact. Elliot was still slowly circling her with his tongue. “Fuck me, you’re so good at that.” She said, ragged, when she could finally find her voice. He acknowledged her with a hum that vibrated inside of her, and it made her shudder. Shook her to her very core. “Fuck, Elliot.” She whimpered, nuzzling her face into his thigh. “Please don’t stop.” A broken plea, completely void of dominance. 

Even when she stopped being bossy, Elliot never stopped being a good boy. Swept his tongue over her, over and over. Didn’t stop. He was still half-blindfolded by her night shirt. Her poor baby. Chelsea reached back to hike her pyjamas up, bunching them up past her hips to give him some breathing room. She didn’t want him to suffocate down there! And it gave them the opportunity to lock eyes, even for a moment. A fleeting, brief moment before Chelsea’s eyes fluttered shut in pleasure, and she cried out again around a smile. Fuck, the look on his face. In his eyes. She wasn’t sure who was enjoying this more, him or her. No, no, definitely her—that feeling building up in her spine again. Dammit, Elliot! No, no, no, she could give it as good as she got it, okay? And there he was, unintentionally pressing into the side of her face. Easy access. Perfect timing. Chelsea swung her ponytail over her shoulder and gingerly wrapped her fingers around him. 

He shifted his knees up, rocking into her hand. The movements of his tongue became... distracted, varying in pressure, but he never gave up! Chelsea lined her own tongue up and down the length of him, slower than the way she was thrusting back into his face. Multi-tasking was hard. She pursed her lips and took him into her mouth. Pumped him with her hand, too. Just to add to the equation. Good thing she loved math, huh? Hah! Math. 69. Chelsea smiled against him, pleased with herself. She could do this! And they found a rhythm with it, like they always did. Fucking each other’s mouths in sync. Her hands full and pulling, his hands bound and pulling. Symmetry. Because they were soulmates. 

[chelseaheskett]

[chelseaheskett]

CHELSEA’S BIRTHDAY PRESENTS & OUTFITS 12:02PM, TUESDAY. OCTOBER 20TH, 2020.

[chelseaheskett]

elliotholt​:

He was allowed to buy things for himself. …Right?

Elliot tried to justify it to himself because that was the only way he could accept it in his head. He’d spent the better part of the day searching for the perfect thing to get Chelsea for her birthday. Sure, he’d finished up her little makeshift studio a couple of days before, but it didn’t feel right if she couldn’t have something to hold and unwrap physically. And all that aside, she deserved to be spoiled. She deserved to be spoiled, and he wanted to be the one to do it. As an essential part of his gift-giving tradition, he picked up another charm for her bracelet: a tiny set of boxing gloves for their Peanut. It seemed fitting - not only was that how he was conceived, but Luca was a fighter, the strongest little guy. Elliot was particularly proud of that one.

But one gift wasn’t enough for his baby! So when he saw two sets of pajamas perfectly side-by-side - one covered with strawberries, the other with conversation hearts of sweet nothings - he couldn’t resist. They were meant to be Chelsea’s, and he was already imagining how much fun he would have unbuttoning them. The strawberries even came with a little eye mask! Perfect for a makeshift blindfold. He fished his phone out of his pocket, composing a semi-coherent text to Chelsea, reminding her how sexy she was and how much he loved her. Yeah. This was perfect. He grabbed them off the rack and tried to get his mind out of the gutter as the cashier carefully folded them into a plastic bag.

Armed with her gifts and a perfect justification for being able to buy something for himself, too, he wandered through the store looking for the men’s section. Chelsea had taken him to get new suits when he’d first joined the firm - good, slightly too expensive suits that had held up to all the wear and tear. His dress shirts, on the other hand, weren’t so lucky. Donna had sewn together holes in the seams enough times that he figured it was probably time to retire them. So, hey, it was a practical need, which was another point in the it’s okay for me to do this column. 

He stopped before a shoe display, admiring a nice pair of dress shoes and wondering how far he could push his luck. Sure, he didn’t need new dress shoes, but they were so pretty, and he could treat himself, right? Yeah. Yeah, he could treat himself this once. He picked them up, pleased and excited to show Chelsea, when something down the aisle caught his attention. He shifted the bags and shoebox into the crook of his elbow and wandered toward the women’s section, his eyes trained on a pair of black boots. Hm. He touched them, a soft, smooth leather under his fingers. He started picking them up, curious if Chelsea would like them. They reminded him of the tall, sharp boots that their sex shop sold.

Oh.

The proverbial lightbulb went off inside his head, and he set the boots down with a new mission in mind. But he did need a work shirt, even if that was the last thing on his mind now. So he grabbed the first folded shirt off the first shelf he saw, paid for his stuff, and made a beeline back to his truck.

They were becoming something of regulars at the shop, Elliot noted with only a bit of embarrassment when the lady behind the counter greeted him with a big smile and a cheerful, “hey, you’re back!” Anywhere else, in any other situation, that would’ve been enough to scare him away…forever, probably. But here, even though his ears got a little hot and red, he didn’t feel bad or nervous. On the contrary, it made him feel exhilarated and a little turned on. He greeted her with a wave and continued on his mission. The boots had their unique display, a table set up in the center of the shop, much taller and a lot kinkier than the ones in the department store. He played with one of the buckles, body thrumming with excitement and anticipation at the thought of Chelsea wearing them. He bent down to search through the boxes to find Chelsea’s size and tucked it protectively under his arm. This was a birthday gift for her, but also kind of for him, too. That was probably a gift faux pas, but he had a sneaking suspicion that she wouldn’t mind.

And, hey, since he was already here, he might as well grab something else he’d been thinking about for a while. Maybe wearing a collar veered too much into stray dog territory, but he already knew how much he liked having something around his throat. Chelsea could put it on him, tie it tight enough to cut off his breathing, and still have both hands free to do whatever she wanted. Yeah, he was very much a fan of that, and he was pretty sure he could get Chelsea on board, too. Elliot could be very persuasive with his puppy dog eyes. He found one that looked nice and sturdy, made of thick, black leather a few inches wide. It almost looked like one of his belts, only thinner and with an O-ring on the front of it. He took it off the rack and tried it on, so to speak, and lightly wrapped it around his throat. Hm. He liked that. He was sold.

The woman at the register - Laura, according to the nametag clipped to her shirt - gave an appreciative whistle as she bagged the shoebox. “These are fancy. Special occasion?”

He smiled, a bit small and shy. “My wife’s birthday is tomorrow.”

“Lucky lady.” Oh, Elliot was sure he would be the lucky one in this scenario; he could only imagine the ideas Chelsea could dream up while wearing the boots. The lady gave him a bit of a once-over, seemingly connecting the dots between his purchases and his words. “You’re the sub, hm?”

He didn’t look up from his wallet, cheeks burning with the sinking feeling that he was about to be made fun of. She worked in a sex shop; she had to have seen way worse things than him. “Is something wrong with that?”

“Hell no. As far as I’m concerned, more men should let their woman tie them up,” she said with a laugh, making his cheeks burn even hotter. “I asked because, if you’re really looking to go all out for your wife…” she trailed off, stepped into a space behind the register that he couldn’t see, and came back out with a black mesh shirt on a hanger. He didn’t give it too much thought before he agreed with an enthusiastic nod. 

He did want to go all out for his wife. He wanted to be the best boy for her. “Do you have that in any other colors?”

Okay, maybe he wound up with more boxes than he intended, but this was nothing less than Chelsea deserved. Hell, she deserved even more than this, even as he struggled to carry all his bags and briefcase up the stairs. Jack was the first to greet him at the door, like always, as Elliot lost his grip on everything and dumped it on the floor.

“Oooh. Present for me?” Jack gasped in excitement at all the bags, and he reached for one of them to dig through. But, of course, he had to focus on the bag from the Pleasure Chest - Elliot picked it up and placed it on the side table, out of the small boy’s reach. Yeah. That could only ever end badly.

“Sorry, buddy,” Elliot said to Jack’s pouty face. “These are for Mommy.” And definitely not meant for innocent little eyes. He bent down to pick Jack up and spun him around, wrapped in a tight hug. Jack instantly forgot about all the bags, laughing with an excited squeal. “That was for you.”

“Thank you, Daddy.” God. Look at Elliot’s little man with his good manners. That was Chelsea’s powerful influence if he’d ever seen it. Elliot kissed Jack’s cheek before setting him back down on the floor. Offered him The Bear, who he’d abandoned to search for a new present.

“Why don’t you show Mommy the cool things The Bear can do?” It wouldn’t distract Chelsea for very long, but he only needed enough time to shove all the bags into a dark corner of his closet until he could wrap everything.

He’d underestimated how distracting the mere thought of those boots would be. Knowing they were sitting in his closet, waiting to grace Chelsea’s body, drove him insane. More than once, Chelsea had to snap him out of his head and get him to focus on the kids or something she’d said or the chicken he had burnt to a crisp on the stove. Fuck, was he really that hopeless? That depraved? 

Yes. Yes, he was. And he couldn’t wait until tomorrow. Couldn’t sit through the time it would take to wrap it, then try to get to sleep, then wait for her to unwrap it. He couldn’t do it; he just wasn’t strong enough. Call it an early birthday gift - he was only a few hours off, anyway, but it was too long for him if he didn’t want to go completely insane.

He’d never rushed through bedtime so quickly before. Admittedly, this wasn’t his best story time, sitting cross-legged on the floor in Jack’s room and trying to get through every page of The Very Hungry Caterpillar in one breath. This only made Jack pout and sit up in his bed, declaring that it wasn’t good and that Elliot had to do it all over again. And again. And a fourth time until Jack was finally satisfied and asleep, and that caterpillar wasn’t the only thing starving to death. Elliot ensured Jack was properly tucked in and promised a much better story the next night. He was pretty sure he would return to normal once these goddamn boots were out of his system.

Vanessa was next, already half-tucked into her bed by the time he’d had The Very Hungry Caterpillar permanently seared into his brain. The easy out he expected was immediately dashed by his cute tadpole cutely asking for some water, please. Elliot tempered his emotions, forced a smile, and said of course! before trudging down the steps to fill her sippy cup with water. She took one sip before her face screwed up in a little grimace.

“No, Daddy! Better water!”

Better water. Hah. Okay. Sure. Elliot was fine. Back downstairs he went, chugging the terrible sink water himself so it wouldn’t go to waste. Chelsea was still in the kitchen, waiting on the bottle warmer, and she shot him a curious look as he slammed the cup onto the counter.

“The water wasn’t good enough,” he said, answering her expression as he retrieved a bottle of water from the fridge. Fuck, he was so dizzy. Was this what going insane felt like? He was probably going insane. He braced his hand on the counter and refilled Vanessa’s cup, letting his mind wander. He knew his fantasies could never compare with the real thing, with the real Chelsea and how incredible she would look, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t dream. He liked to have a solid image in mind for reality to exceed. Phew. If just his imagination was doing this to him, he didn’t know how he would survive reality.

By the time he had snapped out of the fantasy, the water bottle was empty, and he was standing in a small puddle of cold water. Oh, shit. The counter was soaked, water dripping off the edges onto the floor and his feet. He looked around, but Chelsea was gone by this point. Yeah, better she didn’t see this mess. He mopped it up the best he could with a dish towel and went back upstairs before he caused any more damage.

The bottled water passed Vanessa’s incredibly high standards this time. Thank god.

It took what felt like hours for everyone to get settled in bed, and he had never felt the pain of having so many damn kids more than he did right now. Chelsea seemed to pick up on his tension, asking if he was okay while he aggressively scrubbed his toothbrush like he was trying to remove all the enamel from his teeth. He smiled at her after rinsing all the toothpaste out of his mouth. Oh, he was so glad she asked.

“I want to give you one of your presents now. Is that okay?” Her eyes lit up with the kind of interest that made his pulse race. He knew her too well; she could never say no to a gift. “Give me a few minutes? I have to get ready.”

He guided Chelsea to sit on the edge of the bed, facing the door of his closet so he could make a grand entrance. It seemed like a lot of fanfare for what was nothing more than a pair of shoes, but he had to set the scene. Get into the right mindset, into his role. It just seemed like the appropriate way to do things. 

The top was easy enough; after he had managed to rip the tag off, he settled on the black one, the same color as his pajama pants. Then, feeling a little weird about wearing cartoon dogs while he was about to put a fucking collar on himself, he pulled his pajamas off, leaving him in his briefs. Sorry, Scooby. His brain just wasn’t a fan of those implications. All the confidence he’d had while making the purchase was gone now, and he felt a bit like a fool as he stared at the collar in his hands. He almost completely chickened out before the tiny, positive voice at the back of his mind told him you can do this. Told him that Chelsea wouldn’t laugh at him, even if he looked like an idiot and probably deserved to be laughed at. He looped the collar around his neck and buckled it shut before he could talk himself out of it. It fit snugly but not too tight. Comfortable, with the inside of the leather lined with some fuzzy material, much like their restraints. Soft but unyielding. He held the shoebox to his chest like a shield and stepped back out into their bedroom.

He stopped before Chelsea, then dropped to his knees, eyes cast down to the floor while he tried to find that courage again. “I - I went to the Pleasure Chest,” he said, stating the obvious. He touched the ring at the front of his throat. “If you think I look silly, I’m - I’ll take it off, but…” Elliot trailed off, not sure how to finish that thought. It had seemed like a good idea at the time, but now he was so self-conscious about it. Instead, he held the box out for her to take. “I hope you like them.”

12:02PM, TUESDAY. OCTOBER 20TH, 2020.

“Can I get you to confirm your name and date of birth for me, please?” The nurse asked, holding an empty blood vial up to her face; eyes scanning over the details on the identification label.

“Chelsea Grace Holt. October 21st, 1986.” 

The nurse nodded in recognition. In time to her words. Her expression lit up, excited, over the date. “Aww, it’s your birthday tomorrow!” The woman beamed, clipping the tourniquet tight around Chelsea’s forearm. Latex gloves tentatively touching her skin. “Happy early birthday!” 

Chelsea couldn’t help but smile back. “Thank you.” 

She was turning thirty-four tomorrow. It was... weird? So much had happened over the last year. Between this birthday and last. Getting her first tattoo. Getting her second tattoo. Finding out that Elliot somehow had not one but two brothers. If Christian could even be called that. Julian, definitely, but not Christian. He was more like her Mom’s (disgusting) boyfriend—and that’d only happened since her last birthday, too. Yuck. They’d moved houses. Elliot had joined a baseball team with her cousins—they hadn’t played their first game yet, but still! She’d discovered that she loved taking photos, and decided that’s what she wanted to do moving forward. 

Luca had been born... and everything that came after that. That came with that happening early. 

God, she almost hadn’t made it to thirty-four in the first place.

The list-making stayed the same, at least. And now here she was, pregnant again. Had been pregnant on her birthday last year, too. Though that day had her ending up in hospital with a boxer’s fracture. A plastered arm and a sling to match Elliot’s broken shoulder blade. She hoped they wouldn’t repeat that this year, please. Hoped tomorrow would be better than that. That she could get through an entire day and celebration without any sort of trauma. 

It was haunting her a little today. Her birthday, having to be at the clinic to do this test. It was triggering! And it made sense why, but she hated having to sit with it. Especially when she was going to be stuck sitting here for hours on end with nothing else but her own thoughts to keep her company. No babies to look after, no Elliot to keep her happy and supported. And fasting for the test meant that she was starving. Being hungry made her more sensitive, she knew that—especially pregnant. 

The scratch of the needle going under her skin pulled her out of her head. Blood drew back, filling the test tube. Once she’d collected enough, the nurse popped the tourniquet and it relaxed around Chelsea’s arm. She swabbed the injection site with a cotton ball and taped it down to keep pressure. “Okay, now I’ll just have you wait here for a few minutes. Do you remember what comes next?” The woman grimaced out of sympathy, depositing the test tube into a plastic bag. Snapped her gloves off and tossed them in the trash. 

“Yes. Unfortunately.” Chelsea laughed through an exasperated sigh. “I think this is like... the fifth time I’ve had to do this test.” The joys of pregnancy. And it wasn’t going to be the last time, either! Her gestational diabetes with Luca meant risk factors, meant getting tested early—which meant she’d have to do this all over again at 28 weeks, no matter what the results were of today’s test. It meant another 12 weeks of having to worry and stress about it. For once, numbers weren’t a comfort. The nurse asked her anyway.

“How far along are you? This is your early OGTT, right?” She asked, pulling the bottle of glucose out of the mini-fridge and shaking it. 

15 weeks and 4 days along, according to the pregnancy tracking app on her phone. Chelsea nodded. “15 plus 4 today.” She replied. 

“That’s so exciting! Congratulations.” The nurse’s smile was genuine, at least. “Do you know what you’re having?” The usual small talk.

“A girl.” Chelsea matched her grin. That’s what this was all about, right? Her Sunflower. Making sure that she was safe and healthy. Making sure Chelsea wasn’t going to fuck her up the same way that she’d fucked up Luca. He’d been fitted and prescribed little baby glasses last week. They’d picked up on it from the constant eye rubbing, the light sensitivity. The way he had to always turn his head to look at things. Her smile quickly faltered, remembering. Maybe that’s why she’d been feeling so fragile today. The guilt and fear was overwhelming. About Luca, about their little Sunflower—name still TBD. About getting to the point where they could even give her a name. 

She was starting to spiral. Chelsea was glad when the nurse finally handed her the bottle of glucose to drink. She deserved the punishment. The drink was sweet. Too sweet. Orange in look and flavour. On an empty stomach, it made her nauseous. Her morning sickness had stopped being a thing a couple of weeks ago, but this seemed to bring it back. Of course. After downing the drink, she got settled in the waiting room again. Had to wait an hour before her next blood test, then another hour after that. God. She was hungry and nauseous and feeling terrible in every which way possible. She pulled a paperback book out of her purse, and her phone buzzed in one of the pockets. A text message from Elliot lit up the screen. Lit up her face.

It was like he knew. Like he could feel that she was beating herself up and feeling horrible, even miles apart. Either that, or his timing was impeccable. They were soulmates, though, and moments like this were just further proof of that fact. And that reminder made her feel good. Knowing that he was probably just sitting at his desk at work and was thinking about her? Or he was busy at the office, or in court, but still had her on his mind? It made her heart ache in the best sort of way imaginable. Made her chest all warm and tingly. Made her happy. He made her so, so happy. She blinked a wave of oncoming tears away and tapped out a reply to him.

They randomly messaged all the time throughout the day. Mostly I love yous and I miss yous, because they were absolute saps. Their emojis matched, majority of the time. They had their favourites! Anything affectionate or suggestive. And it was always a pick-me-up. Like she’d said: he always made everything better. It was enough to get her through the next couple of hours at the clinic. Gave her enough mental space to focus on her book to pass the time. Whenever her mind wandered, after that, it was only to think about Elliot. Wonder what he had planned for her birthday tomorrow, wonder what they were going to do tonight. The time of the test still dragged, don’t get her wrong, but it was bearable. And it was only bearable because of him. 

Chelsea had planned it out perfectly so that by the time the test was over, Jenny was almost finished with her school day. Seeing Jenny made everything better, too. Talking with her at a million miles a minute always lifted Chelsea’s mood. It was like talking in their own language, it was so fast-paced. They stopped at the McDonald’s drive-thru on the way home, because Chelsea still hadn’t eaten yet. They gorged themselves on fast food in the parking lot, and then as soon as they walked through the front door, the twins insisted on making cupcakes for their afternoon snack. Oh well, she’d already taken the glucose tolerance test, right? One or two days of eating poorly couldn’t hurt... right? It was almost her birthday! It was fine.

Somewhere around five o’clock, Elliot sent her another random message. They were all set up at the coffee table doing crafts. Chelsea sat cross-legged on the floor with her babies. Jenny took up all the space on the couch, stretched out and doing her homework. Licking the icing clean off her second cupcake. Donna had already left for the day, with the promise of being back early morning for Chicky’s birthday. The TV was blasting with kids cartoons, and there was junk and toys everywhere. Jack and Vanessa and Isaac were scribbling and painting and gluing. Respectively. Luca was in her lap, trying to shove plastic shapes into the correct box holes. He’d gotten better at it since wearing his glasses, thank God. Chelsea combed her fingers through his tuft of hair, getting longer like Daddy’s, and pulled out her phone.

She’d been expecting an on my way home text. Chelsea’s heart raced. She broke out into a grin and hid it in Luca’s hair, a blush creeping up her neck. Luca tried to reach for her phone, because the pop socket was more fun to play with than his blocks, apparently. Trying to juggle him and her phone while simultaneously keeping an eye on the gaggle of their other children made it hard to type out a reply. “Here, Peanut, let’s take a photo for Daddy, huh? Then you can have it, I promise.” Even with his bad eyesight, and his wheezy breathing, he was a smart boy. Her smart little Peanut. He knew who Daddy was! Chelsea held her phone out to take a selfie. Pouted her lips out in a kiss for Elliot, and Luca slightly tilted his head to the side and smiled. She’d already trained him so, so well. Like father like son! Chelsea pecked him on the head. Sent the photo through to Elliot and let Luca take control of her phone, as promised.

Speaking of training. The kids had gotten so good at cleaning up after themselves! When crafts got boring, Chelsea pinned the finished products on the door of the refrigerator and her babies helped her put everything back in their rightful places and containers. Packed some of their toys away before they grabbed new ones to play with. They were so good like that. It made her heart swell. Her sweet babies. Chelsea let them enjoy themselves, keeping a watchful eye on them from over the kitchen island. Had finally gotten around to cleaning up the mess from the cupcakes when she could hear the front door open. Jack had a new strategy, nowadays: he ran to the foyer as soon as the Ring notification on her phone chimed. His indicator that Daddy had pulled up the driveway in his truck and was home from work. 

There was some sort of commotion, like Elliot had dropped his briefcase on the floor, followed by the sound of Jack’s high pitched laughter. Chelsea smiled to herself, scrubbing the mixing bowl with soapy water in the sink. The tension of the day dropped from her shoulders. There her heart went, pounding in her chest again! Her baby was home! She let Jack have his moment with Elliot and kept cleaning the dishes. Tried to hurry it up, a little, so she could be done and freely spend the rest of her afternoon with Elliot and their family. 

“Mommy!” Jack was suddenly by her side, waving The Bear around. “Look! He’s so cool!” He babbled, baby teeth poking out of his wide smile. Chelsea dried her hands on the dish towel over her shoulder and bent down to meet Jack at eye-level. They played around for a bit, Chelsea fluffing the teddy’s fur, dancing him around, talking to Jack in The Bear’s voice. It had to be a ploy of some sort, a distraction of some kind, because by the time she stood back up straight, Elliot emerged from the hallway off their bedroom without his suit jacket or briefcase. Suspicious. “Excuse me, where’s my hello?” Chelsea whined, tongue-in-cheek. After greeting Jack at the front door, that was usually the first thing Elliot did when he got home. Chelsea wanted her kisses, please and thank you. Even more suspicious was the hair ruffle he gave Jack in passing, and the way Jack immediately ran off after the fact. Hmm. Chelsea didn’t get the chance to think on it again, because her hello came in the form of a peck. On the cheek. Now it wasn’t suspicious—it was just downright strange.

As the night progressed, things just kept getting weirder with Elliot. He seemed... out of it? Burnt dinner, which earned him a wow, Dad, you suck from Jenny. Only half-acknowledged the things she was saying, which was unusual for him. Seemed zoned out whenever he was tending to the kids. Maybe she was just being sensitive. It’d been a long day. She offered to be the one to get Isaac and Luca to sleep when bedtime came around, since they always seemed to be the hardest two to get down for the night. Give him the easier option with Jack and Vanessa. She’d probe him about whatever was going on later, when they were alone and in bed. Maybe he’d had a bad day at the office, or was thinking about one of his cases or something. She tried her best, in her hormonal-triggered state, not to jump to conclusions. Communication, and all that. 

Somehow, Chelsea made it back to the bedroom before Elliot did. Luca downed his bedtime bottle fast and conked out shortly after. Isaac was harder, of course, but still easier than usual. Chelsea had made it through her moisturising routine, brushed her teeth and fixed her hair up into a loose ponytail before she saw Elliot again. He was still acting strange. Militantly cleaned his teeth the same sort of way she’d furiously clean a surface whenever she got stressed. Chelsea licked her lips, wondering how to broach the subject. She was unmaking the bed, throwing their array of pillows and cushions onto the carpet, and watched him through the open ensuite door. His Scooby Doo pyjama pants hung dangerously low around his hips. She wasn’t gonna think about that, though.    

“Are you okay, hon?” Chelsea asked, dropping the last pillow onto the floor. Thought that maybe she’d done something. That he was upset with her for some reason. That he hated her. But no. No, he’d done something. Smiled at her, almost mischievous, and she released the breath she didn’t even realise she’d been holding in. I want to give you one of your presents now. She grinned around a gasp, mouth fixed open in delight. Presents! She loved presents. Was that even a question that he needed to ask her? Is that okay? Chelsea nodded, a little too fast and eager. Linked her fingers together and held her hands up to her face, excited. “I thought there was something wrong! You scared me!” She playfully whacked him in the chest with the back of her palm, meeting him halfway between the bathroom and their bed.

Context was everything, huh? He had to get ready, and suddenly it all made sense why he’d been so detached and distracted all afternoon. His brain power had been spent up trying to stave off an erection for hours. Her silly, horny husband. Was it another role playing outfit? Ooh. Chelsea didn’t get the chance to guess, at least out loud, before Elliot had his huge hands on her shoulders and was guiding her toward their bed. She had to sit and wait and give him a few minutes. Chelsea bounced on the edge of the mattress like a kid hopped up on sugar, she was so excited. She was sure that whatever present was awaiting her would be sweeter than that, though. 

He had to get ready, huh? Wow. Somehow, Chelsea already was. To the surprise of nobody! Hey, she could get ready, too. Lifted her hips up off the bed to pull her pair of panties down her legs. Tossed them vaguely in the direction of the hamper, close to the closet door Elliot had disappeared behind. It didn’t reach, of course, and landed, balled up and wet, on the carpet. Oh well. Karma for keeping her out of the loop all afternoon, Elliot! Her pyjamas were a black, button-up night shirt. She’d let him have the honours, despite his bad behaviour. He had a thing for buttons. And a thing for making her wait, apparently. Could he hurry up? Exasperated, Chelsea dropped down onto the bed. Stroked her baby belly, over and over. Counted in time to the ceiling fan cycle. 

As soon as she heard the closet door click open, she scrambled back up to a sitting position so fast. So fast that her head spun. Her vision blurred. Or maybe that was just the fucking sight of him. She didn’t even know where to start. Her eyes were wide and trailing all over his body. Didn’t know where to settle, didn’t know what to focus on first. Yeah, she felt dizzy. Used her weak, weak arms to prop herself up into a straighter position. Leaned forward, on instinct, as he shuffled on over to her. Fuck, she needed to touch him. She needed to absolute devour him. Holy shit. The whole day, month, year faded away, and there was nothing else but this. This moment. Him. Elliot. 

I went to the Pleasure Chest, he said. Stumbled over it. Yeah, no fucking kidding. Elliot kneeled at her feet, eyes cast down. Fingers ghosting over his throat, where a leather collar was strapped around his neck. And as if that wasn’t already enough, it had a shiny, sturdy-looking metal ring fixed to the front of it. Chelsea’s throat felt dry, even if the rest of her body was wet. Sweating. God, and if that wasn’t enough! He was wearing a black meshy tank top that let her see everything. All of him. His nipples poking through the material, the lines of his abs, the veins bulging out of the muscles in his arms. And to finish it all off, he’d stripped down to his briefs, covered in illustrations of Paul Smith bunny rabbits. And it was just so him, and so kinky, that she must’ve been right before. He did hate her. Yeah. Yeah, she wasn’t making it to thirty-four. Nope. After this? Not happening.

Elliot offered her an unwrapped box, refusing to look up at her from his spot on the floor. If you think I look silly, I’m - I’ll take it off, but… He was small and... insecure? Not small and submissive, like he normally would be, but genuinely self-conscious. Chelsea gawked at him, incredulous. Could he not see what she saw right now?! Chelsea took the shoebox out of Elliot’s hands and set it aside on the mattress, because he was the best gift she could ever get or have. Ever. Couldn’t he see that!? A passionate sort of fire burned in the pit of her stomach. Was he joking?! This was red bow levels of... Chelsea didn’t even get to finish that trail of thought, anger and dominance quick to bubble over. She closed her fingers around the ring on his collar and yanked. Yanked him up onto his knees, so their faces were only a breath apart. With her grip tight around his collar, Chelsea forced his chin up to meet the heat in her gaze. “Don’t you dare talk about yourself like that. Ever. Again. Do you understand me?” Practically spat at him, she was so turned on and absolutely fuming. The spit didn’t matter so much, in the end—she pulled him into a hard kiss and let her tongue do more of the talking. 

He tasted like toothpaste. Spearmint. Chelsea eventually broke off their kiss, because Elliot wouldn’t dare to be the one to do it first, but kept her grip around his collar. Her free hand travelled down his torso, feeling how far she could stretch the mesh holes in his tank top. She didn’t want to ruin his brand new shirt! But she wanted to test it out. Wanted to pull on his nipples next, because he’d actually personally offended her so much with his own self-doubt that it wasn’t funny. His inner critic was loud, sure, but Chelsea could be louder. Harder. Maybe this was her golden opportunity to make him be kinder to himself, huh? Through sex and dominance. It was worth a shot! She felt drunk on power and arousal, and she was going to get her way. Guaranteed. “I think...” She emphasised, because her thoughts and feelings were the only ones that mattered here. Not his, not that mean voice at the back of his head, but hers. “That you are the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen.” 

Chelsea released her hold on his collar so she could get her fingers under the waistband of his briefs. She loved the bunnies, she really did! But his new shirt showed off his entire torso, and she wanted the matching experience with the bottom half of his body. She got them down to his knees and Elliot did rest of the work. Flung them over his shoulder to join her abandoned pair of panties somewhere on the floor. Chelsea tightened her fingers around him and pulled. “Tell me you’re sexy.” She demanded, voice breathy and pressed up against his face. Forehead to forehead. The threat was there, behind her words. Say it and mean it and be genuine, or there’s going to be big trouble. Chelsea never got far enough in her mind, or in practice, to know what big trouble entailed, but that wasn’t the point. 

“I - I’m sexy.” Elliot rasped, compliant.

“Hm.” She muffled a moan with her bottom lip between her teeth. Bit down the urge to call him a good boy. For now, at least. She stopped pumping him with her hand, too, because that felt like a reward, somehow. Not allowed right now! Chelsea leaned back with her fists dug into the mattress, keeping herself upright. Tilted her head at him with raised eyebrows. “Your counting’s off, by the way.” He had learned nothing from her math tutoring sessions. Nothing! It was unacceptable!��“This is more than one present.” Calling back to his earlier words, only wanting to give her one of her birthday presents early. Did the collar and the mesh top and him as a whole not count? That was just bad mathematics. She thought she’d taught him better than that.

And then there was her other gift, almost forgotten about next to her on the bed. Chelsea moved the present into her lap. “Ooh, what is it?” She sung, softening completely. Bouncing happily on the bed again. She was leaving him high and dry and wanting more, probably. Oh well! Elliot stayed kneeling on the floor, hard, while she lifted the lid off the shoebox. 

“Oh my God, baby... they’re gorgeous.” Chelsea’s mouth gaped open, pulling a thigh-high, black leather boot out of the box. She held it up in the air and it dropped down to its full length. The heel, steep and sharp, almost hit Elliot square in the face. Oops. She quickly manoeuvred it out of the way before that happened. Lucky/unlucky for him. Chelsea had a sneaking suspicion he’d enjoy that a little too much. She tossed the box aside to lay both boots out across her lap. 

The leather was bright and shiny. The shoes had laces down the entire length—aesthetics, she supposed, because there was a zipper on the side, too. Easier access, maybe. Each boot had three buckles, and it was just so fitting. Three hits with a belt in his office, in this room, gripping the railing on the foot of the bed, and he was done for. And Elliot knew how much she loved numbers! Knew how much that first day in his office, all those months ago, had meant to her. Had meant to them. And it was like her list from earlier on in the day, only better. Only something positive! Taking his picture, over and over. Falling in love with it and falling in love with him even more than she already did. Lacking in confidence with the belt at first, but then finding her rhythm and her power and... God. The amount of good that had come from that day and that experience. And she wasn’t just talking about sex, either! It was intimacy and trust and love. Look where they were now. Look at how far they’d come in a year. How much they’d grown together and separately. How much more she’d fallen in love with him, every single day, even if she didn’t think it was possible for that to happen.

It was Chelsea’s turn to get quiet. She quickly dabbed her eye with the pad of her finger. Scrunched up her nose, because it felt heavy and full and no, no, no. She was not going to cry over a pair of dominatrix boots. Nope. Pregnancy hormones and love for her husband be damned. She rapidly blinked back the tears and hugged the boots close to her chest. Glanced down at Elliot and tried not to let her face crumble. “Thank you. I love them. I love you.” Her voice was rough, holding back her tears. Who was the one who looked silly now, huh? God, they were both just so stupid and perfectly matched. Chelsea sniffled, flitting her gaze across his face. “They’re perfect.” Yeah. She wasn’t just talking about the boots. Elliot was perfect, and he was hers.

The fact that he’d been to the Pleasure Chest all on his own for the first time also made her want to cry, because she was so fucking proud of him! But no! No more! Elliot going to their designated sex shop all on his own to get presents specifically for her was sexy! He was so fucking sexy. He’d even said so himself! Chelsea nibbled on her lip, the arousal quick to stir deep inside her body again. “Can...” Can I try them on? She wanted to ask. Stopped herself after a single syllable. She didn’t need his permission. This was her present, her bedroom, her birthday. She could do whatever she wanted. As if this hadn’t been his plan to begin with, anyway; if his own kinky outfit was any indication of his motives. Chelsea brought it back around to dominant real fast. Call it mood swings, call it her personality. Whatever. She didn’t care. “I wanna wear these. Now.” She just cared about getting what she wanted, and for Elliot to be the one to give it to her.

[chelseaheskett]

MACY AND AMY’S COSTUME PARTY

Macy as a Flapper Girl, Caleb as a Chef, Amy as Harley Quinn from Suicide Squad, Lola as Ariel from The Little Mermaid, Julian as a Prince, Santiago as Gaston from Beauty and the Beast, Rafael & Jane as Riff Raff & Magenta from The Rocky Horror Picture Show

[chelseaheskett]

THE NOVO LOUNGE 800 W. Olympic Blvd. Los Angeles, CA

The VIP Lounge is a distinctive and desirable event space within The Novo, offering an upscale L.A. ambiance, eye-catching décor, custom design, a high level of service, and exciting energy for corporate or private events.

[chelseaheskett]

elliotholt​:

Tell me about it, stud. Oh, man. He clasped both hands over his chest, dramatically falling backwards onto the bed. She knew how to kill a guy, didn’t she? Be still, his heart. He propped himself onto his elbows, entirely unable to tear his eyes off her. Like he would never get enough of her. Could never get enough of her. How was Chelsea real, and how was she his wife? He sat up and circled his arms around her waist while she dropped hers around his shoulders. Comfortable. Familiar. One of her hands brushed his hair back, out of his face, and he tilted his head back, so she had as much access as possible. Hmm. She scratched his scalp to get his attention.

“So, what did you do while I was gone?” Asked with all the determination and confidence of someone who knew exactly what he was doing. He batted his eyes at her. He only did very good things, like a very good boy.

“Myself,” he said, just as innocent as ever, so very proud of himself. He grinned at her, and she laughed in response, scrunching his hair between her fingers. God. He loved that laugh of hers. She would good-naturedly tease him and make sure he knew exactly how much control she had over him. As if he could ever forget. As if he ever wanted to. Some hair fell back over his eyes, and she fixed it, carefully pushing the strands behind his ears so that they would stay put. Admiring her handiwork. She deserved to be proud, to touch and play with it all she wanted. It might’ve been his hair, but it was hers. She dragged her nails down his neck, and he shivered under the sensation, a pleasant tingling following the path of her fingers. She inspected his shirt, which was a little dirty and stained. Oops. He batted his eyelashes at her again. Wasn’t he such a good boy? He thought so.

“I hope you can still fuck me in this cheerleading uniform.”

Ha. Was that even a question? Did it need to be asked? She asked it like she wasn’t his fantasy come to life, like he hadn’t gotten off to this just a couple of hours ago. Please. She had to give him more credit than that! He would fuck her right now if she wanted. He linked his fingers through hers and drew her hand to the still open fly on his jeans.

“Does that answer your question?” He asked, his voice a little high and a little excited. She stroked over the bulge in his denim like she was studying it. Inspecting it, channeling her inner Nurse Chelsea, examining the cause of the swelling. She was the cause, always, every single time. She knew the kind of power she had over him and regularly exercised that power. And he loved every second.

Chelsea climbed into his lap, and her skirt hiked high on her legs. Elliot helped it up the rest of the way, his hands under the fabric so he could hold onto her hips. Keep her tight in his lap, the delightful pressure between his legs. She cupped his cheek, and he nuzzled into it like a cat looking for pets. God. He loved it when she would touch him, hold him. And it wasn’t even sexual (most of the time)! He craved affection and closeness; when she would touch his face, hold his hand, play with his hair. He liked feeling loved, wanted. Liked feeling the softness and the closeness.

He also liked when she had her hands on him, her other hand sneaking its way between their bodies. Yeah. He really liked that. Remember all those times you told me you wouldn’t be able to get it up? He had to bite back a moan, nodding his head to agree, even if he only half understood what he actually agreed to. All he knew was that she was right, always right, and he would tell her that every day if that’s what she wanted.

Those words did the same thing to Chelsea that good boy did to Elliot. Gave him that proud and warm, fuzzy feeling in his chest. To know he’d done so well to get that praise from her. He was a good boy and she was always right, and, fuck, he loved the way that felt. She must’ve felt the same way. They always did; they were so in sync - pulling him into a kiss hard enough for him to feel it in his bones. Exactly the way he liked it, so that he could never forget he belonged to her entirely. Kissed him hard enough to make him dizzy and make stars spin behind his eyelids. His fingers slipped under the waistband of her underwear, all smooth and lacey. God. He loved her lingerie, but it would look so much nicer on the floor. He tried to ease them down her legs, get them off, but after an inch, they wouldn’t budge. He groaned, frustrated, trying a couple more times before finally relenting. Fine. She could keep her underwear.

He didn’t get to keep his shirt, however. He was happy to make the sacrifice. She pulled on the hem, and almost unconsciously, he lifted his arms over his head, giving her plenty of room to get rid of the offending clothing. She took her time with it, fingers exploring his chest and stomach, touching anywhere she could reach. The shirt got stuck around his shoulders, and he had to pull away from the kiss with a harsh whine. His shirt was gone before he could blink once, and Chelsea had him down before he could blink twice. Fuck. His head was swimming, desperate for her to take the rest of his breath away. She braced her hands against his chest and he held onto her wrists, needing as much of her as he could take. He offered his best puppy eyes and tapped his lips with a single finger, hoping to get her to kiss him again. She copied his pout, teasing him, grabbing and holding his chin. Could practically hear the oh, you poor thing dripping in that sickly sweet sarcasm of hers. He squirmed underneath her, his arms automatically moving to rest above his head. Offering himself up for her taking.

“Tell me what you were thinking about when you… when you took care of yourself.”

She knew. Had that fire behind her eyes that never failed to turn him into putty. That made him want - no, need - to give her anything she said. The kind of look that demanded his attention and obedience. And he could do nothing but give it to her.

“Being your good boy.” Hell, that was all he thought about anymore. About how to be on his best behavior. Use his good manners. Do things to make her proud, make her happy. Anything to get a little bit of praise and to see that pleased, excited smile on her face. Making her feel good made him feel good. Feel all warm and slightly tingly. Fuck, it felt so good to make her happy. She kissed him again, and he arched his back into her, searching for friction. Searching for contact. She pulled back just long enough to call him a good boy. He whined. Yes. Fuck yes, he was a good boy. He tangled his fingers in her hair for another desperate kiss, every cell in his body starving for her. He was confident he could spend the rest of his life with her tongue in his mouth, and it still wouldn’t be enough. It could never be enough. She was his favorite addiction, and he would happily get lost in her forever. Then his fingers hit something distinctly silky and rather not hair-like. Reluctantly, he pulled away from her, looking at the fabric in his hands. Bright red, standing out stark against his light skin.

Oh.

“Bow… Red bow…” He said, a bit stupidly, unable to form coherent thoughts beyond red bow. She was wearing a red bow. He tugged it a little looser, almost in a trance. Red bow. Red. Bow. It’s all for you, baby. Holy shit. He wrapped the ribbon around his hand to yank her back down to his mouth, a small, dominant fire burning in his chest. An unusual but not unwelcome feeling. She rolled her hips down into his and, only a little out of his mind, he immediately grabbed the hem of her top to pull it over her head. He had his every fantasy in front of him, on top of him, and he wasn’t about to let something distract him.

Including his phone, infuriatingly ringing on the table next to them. He separated from her long enough to tell her to ignore it, because there was nobody and nothing that could be more important than Chelsea and her breasts and the lace of her bra under his palms. A quick kiss before she pulled back; when he tried to chase her, she put her fingers against his lips to stop him as she grabbed his phone.

“It’s your sister.”

Huh? Sister? That wasn’t a good excuse; she knew he was an only child. She couldn’t fool him! Chelsea was right where he wanted her, and he would not let some telemarketer ruin that. “I don’t have sisters. Definitely ignore it.”

He swallowed her adorable little laugh, and after a moment, his phone stopped ringing. See, it was fine, nothing to worry about! The outside world disappeared quicker than it appeared. Only until it wasn’t fine and his phone rang again; before he could take his phone and throw it across the room, Chelsea had already accepted the call and shoved his phone to his ear. Forcing him to talk to the person on the other end. Ugh. He didn’t want whatever they were selling. He fell back onto the mattress, exasperated, and held the phone to his ear with his shoulder.

“What do you want?” If he had to listen to some sales pitch, he would be as unpleasant as possible. The sooner they hung up, the sooner Elliot could get back to having sex with his wife.

The voice on the other end gasped lightly. “Now, is that any way to talk to the birthday girl?”

Birthday…oh, shit, he did have a sister. Two of them. Who were having a party that they were supposed to be getting ready for. Well…fuck. Oops. “Sorry,” he muttered, kind of, almost, maybe feeling a little guilty.

“No, you aren’t. But I forgive you anyway.”

Macy kept talking, but the words turned into a vague buzzing inside his head because Chelsea decided that, no, she wasn’t done teasing him just yet. Instead, she tongued over that sensitive spot on his throat, deliberately and maliciously, hard enough to make him involuntarily squirm at the sensation. Had to put all his energy and attention into holding back the noises he wanted to make. Because if he moaned into the receiver, Elliot would never be able to face Macy again. They couldn’t go to the party, and he would have to quit his job and possibly move to a new country.  

Macy’s voice faded in and out as Chelsea continued her assault on his neck, eventually upgrading to playing with his nipples. Fuck. Why was Macy talking so much? Why was this taking so long? The static in his ears got louder and louder as her hand moved lower, and she decided that he wasn’t quite undressed enough. He had to hold his breath when her hand found its way into his underwear, pushing it down enough so she could free him.

“Ell? Are you even listening to me?”

He exhaled as unsuspiciously as he could. “Huh…?”

“I asked if you were still planning on showing up. You’re missing all the fun!”

Oh, no, he was pretty sure he was having more fun right where he was. “Wha…” he cleared his throat, trying to make his voice sound natural and not like Chelsea currently had his dick in her hands. “What do you mean? We’re - we’re on our way.”

“Are you - liar!”

Hey, he didn’t think his excuse was that bad. It was pretty good for a guy with all of his mental capacity currently between his thighs. And, god, Chelsea was relentless. She didn’t let up for a second, mouth firmly leaving marks on his neck, her hand gently stroking him to keep him from going over the edge. Forget making noise; if he came right now, he would certainly have to fake his own death to avoid the embarrassment. That was the only thing keeping him tethered and mildly in control: complete humiliation.

But Chelsea was determined and dominant and had more control over him than he had over himself. He didn’t even need to look at her to know her ultimate goal: to make him fall apart. She had sucked a burning mark onto his neck, his body was shaking with the restraint of holding back and he had to hang up the phone very soon. He bit down on his tongue, taking a moment to compose himself before replying to whatever Macy said that he hadn’t heard. “We…we’ll be there as soon - as soon as we can, okay?”

“Okay, but - ”

He hung up. Sorry, Macy, but he would much rather apologize for his lack of manners than fucking scar her for the rest of her life. He tossed his phone aside and gave into Chelsea, gave her what she wanted. His threadbare restraint snapped in an instant and with Chelsea’s help and gentle encouragement, he came with a harsh groan. Phew.

“Oh, did I make that call hard for you, baby?” There was that overly-sweet tone that he loved so much. He smiled at her, still a little delirious and far away. Hah, he certainly wasn’t hard anymore, she’d seen to that herself. He said as much, regaining enough awareness of his hands so that he could squeeze her ass. Hmm. He really didn’t give her ass the appreciation it deserved, did he? 

She took care in cleaning him off and he watched her with a goofy grin, so enamored by her. So fucking in love with her. She could do anything and he would be totally and completely captivated by her. God, she was perfect.

“You trying to come more times than me today, or something?” His grin only got wider, innocently blinking up at her. What could he say? It was hardly his fault that she was so attractive. She only had herself to blame for all of this - he simply couldn’t help himself. 

And if she sat on his face he could very quickly rectify that more orgasms than her situation.

Instead, she climbed off his lap, putting a respectable, mature, reasonable distance between them. He hated it and made desperate grabby hands at her. Being responsible. That wasn’t any fun, he didn’t want to do that! “But I don’t wanna be responsible! I wanna fuck you!” Who could argue with that logic, huh? It was a very sound argument, if he did say so himself.

But she had more control and restraint than he did, obviously, and parted with a kiss and a promise that she also wanted to have sex, but she was much better at being an adult than him. He crossed his arms over his chest and flopped back onto the bed, scowling up at the ceiling. This was rude, unfair and an aggressive attack against him, personally. Fine. Fine. If he had to, he would get ready. But he wouldn’t be happy about it!

He tucked himself back into his underwear, adjusting himself until he was again comfortable underneath the denim. Once his jeans were buttoned up and his belt was notched, he felt a little more together, a little more in control. Yeah. They could do this. Sure, they were going to be obscenely late, but that was fashionable, right? They were just being fancy and high-class - that’s what he was going with. He could turn this into a roleplay: Elliot was a rich, famous actor, attending the premiere of his new movie with the new bombshell actress. Showing up to the red carpet fashionably late because they’d been fooling around in the back of the limousine on the drive there. Yeah, yeah, that sounded good. He liked that.

For now, though, he was simply Elliot, husband and dad, also running late to a party because he and Chelsea couldn’t stop fooling around. Some things were firmly rooted in reality. He gathered up all his used tissues and deposited them in the trash can, where they belonged, then moved to smooth out the bunched up comforter on the bed. Make it look nice and presentable and up to Chelsea’s standards. Adjusted a few pillows so they looked nicer and smiled down at the bed, pleased with himself. Yeah, Chelsea would be proud of that - and he was pretty sure he deserved at least one good boy for his efforts. Picked his shirt up from its forgotten space on the floor and tossed it into the hamper. There. Clean and presentable, like nothing ever happened. He’d definitely earned at least one good boy.

Back in his closet, he put on a fresh white shirt and spent a couple minutes playing with his hair in the mirror, admiring Chelsea’s work. She’d done very little to it, only cut off a dead inch or two, but the result was staggering, at least in his opinion. He spent a decent amount of time facing his reflection and he could clock the noticeable differences in the way it looked. Lighter, fuller, softer. She’d put a lot of care and attention into her work and it showed. He couldn’t believe he’d ever wanted to go to a hairdresser before - never again, that was for sure. It didn’t surprise him that she’d done such a good job, because as far as Elliot was concerned, there was nothing his wife couldn’t do. He was endlessly in awe of her. Of the truly remarkable woman he was lucky enough to be able to call his wife. He smiled at his reflection, happy with his hair, happy with himself. Now he was ready for a party.

So was Chelsea, with her hair fixed and done like he’d never had his hands in it. She appraised him, running one hand down his chest to the hem of his shirt. Nice and clean. He grinned at her, that warm and fuzzy feeling flowing through his body. He would accept praise in whatever form it took, especially from Chelsea. She guided him back over to the bed, and for a split second his stupid caveman brain got really excited; there was no party, only Chelsea. But she just had her makeup stuff in hand so that she could cover up his hickey. He gently touched his fingers to his neck, surprised; he hadn’t even noticed the bruise when he was looking in the mirror. He did what she asked and let her work her magic, trying to hold in the giggle that bubbled up from her little brush. In response, Chelsea giggled, too, and fuck if that wasn’t the best sound he’d ever heard.

“I love you more.”

It was nice, to be so comfortable and at ease with someone that the whole world seemed to disappear. That time seemed to stop and there was only this, only this moment and this place, with this person that had completely turned his world around. And he just looked at Chelsea, struck with the urge to cry. He couldn’t believe her. Couldn’t believe this beautiful, vibrant woman loved him and in turn made him kind of love himself, too. She was so beautiful and magical that he couldn’t help but believe her when she said he was good - and not just because of his borderline praise kink. He wanted to be good. Do good. Feel good. He did and he was. Because of Chelsea. Because of this amazing woman and her kind heart, giving him the grace and mercy he wasn’t always sure that he deserved. She did it, anyway. She was good, so good, and he was so fucking lucky to be able to witness it. It was a privilege just to be around her, in her presence. 

She finished her work with a kiss and he instinctively touched his neck again, this time coming back with some makeup on his fingertips. Oops. She chuckled at him and fixed his mistake with a playful shake of her head. He innocently smiled, just so happy and relaxed to be around her. This was his happy place. She gave him another kiss and this time he resisted the urge to touch, instead putting his hands to better use, pressing his thumbs into her calves to rub her legs. She asked him to put her shoes on and he obliged, eager to do anything for her. He took his time, idly playing with the straps for a moment before actually tightening them around her ankles. 

Ugh, okay, he guessed he had no more excuses to avoid leaving. She eventually climbed off his lap, much to his disappointment, and gathered up some of her things. Ugh. But he didn’t want to leave! He wanted to stay home and fool around and be a responsible adult. He pouted for another moment, protesting, before eventually giving in and standing up, putting all of her stuff into his pocket. She disappeared into the closet and reappeared with actual pom-poms and he dramatically sighed, clasping his hands over his chest. Be still, his heart. She couldn’t just do this to him, that wasn’t fair. 

She draped her arms around his shoulders, nuzzling into him. Ah. That was much better. You ready to go, baby? Absolutely not, but he appreciated her asking! “Are you sure I can’t go down on you one more time?”

Are you sure I can’t go down on you one more time?

“Noo—” As in no, she wasn’t sure. No, as in no more sex, they had to leave already. She matched his pout, sharing in his disappointment. Jeez, the utter devastation. Because they were both so dramatic and depraved and God, Chelsea was so dumb. Couldn’t get the D words out of her head. Her eyeline dropped down his body, down to the denim of his jeans. His shirt was tucked tight into his pants, belt looped and secure. Chelsea shut her eyes and sucked in a breath. Restraint, restraint, restraint. “I’ll sit on your face later, ‘kay baby?” She used the back of her palm to caress his cheek, to emphasise her proposition. Couldn’t get that pretty face of his all wet and messy before they made an appearance at the party, now could they? And hopefully it’d be the motivation they both needed to get a move on. The enticement of later. “After the party, I promise.” And they kept their promises in this house! “It’s a date.” Chelsea teased into the shell of his ear, nuzzling into his cheek. Affectionately nudged him with her nose before practically pulling him out of the bedroom to leave.

She made him be the one to drive. Forced him to concentrate and keep his hands to himself. It didn’t last very long, because they always had to be touching. Elliot trailed his fingers over the bare skin of her knee, climbing his hand up to the hem of her cheerleading skirt. His touch skimmed over the lace of the tulle underneath. Chelsea spread her legs, a little. Tilted her head back against the car seat and indulged in it for a moment. Her pom-poms crinkled under her heels, wedged between her shoes and the floor of his truck. No. Restraint, resolve. Chelsea curled her fingers around Elliot’s wrist and pried his hand away. Redirected it so he had both hands on the steering wheel again.

“Ah, ah.” She clicked her tongue, gently chastising him. Dimples set into the sides of her flirty smile. “You’ve got double the precious cargo in the car, mister.” Chelsea palmed her stomach—a complete and total hypocrite! Like she hadn’t done the exact same thing before; trying to stroke him off over his pants on the way to their date night literally a week before Luca was born. Making him pull over so that she could safely suck his dick in a suburban side street. Still. Elliot could never argue with that! Their safety was paramount, and with their track record of always somehow managing to end up in hospital? The only car accident Chelsea would ever fathom and accept was the one that led them to each other in the first place. Their little fender bender at Wrightsville Beach.

Elliot’s eyes went a little wide, like he realised the true weight of her words, and he nodded. Kept his hands firmly on the wheel, and they made it to the drive-thru of In-N-Out Burger without incident. With only minimal teasing on her end. She didn’t want to keep getting him too riled up! They were running late enough as it was! But they still needed to eat. 

He ordered for her at the speaker box. One strawberry milkshake, please, for them to share. He knew her favourites by heart, at this point—because he knew her. Always knew exactly what it was that she wanted. God, he was her favourite. Chelsea watched him with hearts in her eyes as he paid for their meal. Checked the takeout bag with a dopey grin plastered on her face when they left the drive-thru. She unwrapped Elliot’s burger for him and held it up to his mouth so he could take a bite. Leaned into him a little, her seatbelt trying to tug her back into the correct position. She resisted, nibbling on her lip as Elliot swallowed his food and trailed his tongue over her thumb, licking stray ketchup from her skin. “Better keep your eyes on the road, baby.” She lightly warned, voice filled with humour. “We don’t want an accident to happen.” With the car or his pants. The perfect double entendre! Chelsea swiped a bite out of his burger, muffling her coy laughter with the food swirling around in her mouth.

She fed him a handful of fries next. It was customary for him to lick the salt from the tips of her fingers, so Chelsea entertained him at the next red light. Groaned through a mouthful of her own cheeseburger. When she got her hand back, Chelsea picked up their shared milkshake from the cup holder and sucked down on the straw. Elliot nudged her with his elbow before she got the chance to set it back down. “You want some, gorgeous?” Elliot nodded, mouth closed while he chewed. Chelsea giggled, completely enamoured by him. Completely in love with him. Such good manners. Chelsea kept the straw steady for him, holding the cup up to his face. Elliot swallowed down his food and took a sip of the strawberry shake.

“You’re never too young for your first milkshake, I say.” Chelsea quoted, smiling so hard that her eyes got small. It was something he’d said the day that she’d told him she was pregnant with the twins—before they even knew that they were twins. Wow. It had been an early pregnancy craving that seemed to stick. Two pregnancies ago. God, almost three whole years ago. So much had happened in that time. So much had changed. Well, not everything. Being interrupted by family in a state of undress and in the middle of making out never seemed to change. And Chelsea was more than sure that it never would.

They’d been together, what? Two and a half, three months when Elliot had said that? Had made some cute comment to baby Jack about a milkshake? Chelsea could hear herself counting the numbers in her head, reminiscing, but... there were no other numbers after that. She’d loved him so much back then, and even then she knew it paled in comparison to how she felt now. To how close—mind, body and soul—they were now. No more numbers or counting, because their love was immeasurable. She loved him infinitely more than she had back then. And it just heightened the memory. It had been a cute comment in the moment, but now it made her chest warm; made her heart swell. 

“Do you remember when you said that?” She asked him, playfully curious. Wouldn’t blame him if he didn’t because, again, so much had happened between then and now. And she seemed to remember everything when it came to him: the shorts he was wearing the first day they met, the length of his hair, the way he’d lied about how he took his coffee so she wouldn’t judge him for his insatiable sweet tooth. Chelsea took another swig of the milkshake once Elliot was done. “What do you think, Sunflower? You’re not too young for your first milkshake, now are you?” Chelsea directed down at her pregnant stomach, hand rubbing back and forth over her cheerleading sweater.

Holding Elliot’s hand walking into the club kept her from touching her belly in public. Kept him from touching her baby bump, too—he was a gentleman and used his free hand to carry one of her pom-poms for her. The party was being held at some place called The Novo. Downtown LA and the thumping of music and the strong smell of alcohol spilled out onto the street. Chelsea gave Elliot’s hand a supportive squeeze. Played with his fingers. The last time they’d done something like this, he’d been anxious and panicked. Chelsea glanced up at his side profile. He seemed a little nervous, but nothing like how he was before her cousin’s barbecue a couple of weeks back. He was present. His breathing was paced and even. She could see the lines around his mouth, even from an angle and in the dark. Chelsea thumbed the edge of his smile, taken by the sight of him. “You’re so fucking sexy, y’know that?” Trailed her hand holding her single pom-pom up and down his arm, covered in leather from his costume jacket, and tickled him with the streamers. He was sexy and he was hers—and she was so giddy and excited for everyone to see it.

Inside, they were led to a VIP lounge by someone with a list and clipboard in hand, and were immediately ambushed by Macy at the entrance. Hands on her hips, playful and straining to fix her expression into something resembling anger. She looked absolutely incredible; wearing a pale blue-green dress that hugged her body, that made her pregnant stomach stand out. Vintage, 1920s. Stunning. Her hair was curled around her shoulders and accessorised with a floral rhinestone headband, like something out of The Great Gatsby. Dark red lips and bright blue eyes, just like Elliot’s. A soda with lime in her hand. Before Chelsea got the chance to reach out to give Macy a celebratory hug, the questioning started. “Well, well, look who it is! You guys got something you wanna tell me?” 

Elliot and Chelsea answered in unison, over the top of each other. Frantic and unorganised. Loud, over the booming club music.

“Um, happy birthday?” Chelsea anxiously smiled, showing her teeth. 

“I lied, I’m sorry! I lied!” Elliot caved, hands and pom-pom thrown up in the air in defeat. Chelsea released his fingers to palm away her laughter and they shared a look. She briefly buried her face into the arm of his jacket, slightly embarrassed. God, they were so stupid. And tardy. And terrible liars. Honesty always, right? Lying was practically a crime, at this point, and Macy was a lawyer. Soft, but scary. Chelsea couldn’t blame him for fessing up! If anything, it was endearing. Made her heart race, because he was so silly and she loved him so much. Her sweet husband.  

The conversation didn’t stop there. “You guys were over an hour late and you still didn’t have time to come up with a good story?” Macy said with a chuckle. She wasn’t upset, thankfully! Only amused. “Get a load of these two!” She waved a hand in front of them, gesturing. Rightfully shaming them. “You’re pregnant!” Macy grinned, looking directly at Chelsea.

“Noo...” Weak and unconvincing. Chelsea’s eyes darted to Elliot, alarmed. She tugged at the hem of her cheerleading sweater, stretching it out. “What... what would make you think that?” It wasn’t exactly a lie. She was just... skirting around the truth.

“Chelsea, you’re glowing!” Macy pointed out, speaking with conviction. Ugh. Who’s to say it wasn’t all the sex that she’d had today that was making her glow, huh?

Elliot stepped in before Chelsea got the chance to deny it more. “I can’t lie again! She is pregnant! We’re pregnant!” Oh my God. Chelsea hid her face behind her pom-pom. So much for that! She couldn’t even be mad—Elliot was so fucking cute. 

“You’re so easy to break, you know that, baby?” And she had the whole week of role playing as her evidence! But Chelsea wasn���t the only one who had Elliot wrapped around her finger, apparently. Macy looked triumphant.

“I know! I’m a bad boy, I’m sorry!”

“Ugh, too much info, Ell!” Macy screwed her face up in disgust, but quickly moved past it. “Ohmygod, congratulations! Why didn’t you guys tell me?! And... how? You had a vasectomy!”

Chelsea’s turn to confess. Somehow, it felt less embarrassing to admit to their stupidity than it was to talk about the reason for her secrecy. “We, uh… we kinda didn’t realise that you had to wait… wait three months to… to stop using protection.” She stammered, voice subdued by the music overhead. Red rose to her cheeks, the same shade as her costume. Chelsea grimaced.  

Macy thought it was hilarious. “Wow, I... I love you guys.” She slapped a hand on Elliot’s shoulder to keep herself upright, keeling over and laughing. “So much. You’re… you’re something else.” Chelsea linked her arm with Elliot’s, leaning into the side of his body. They could both use him as their guidepost, it was fine. Everything was fine!

Ugh. Did she have to keep going? “We love you, too!” Chelsea continued, speaking for the both of them. “And we… I didn’t want to take away from your pregnancy—”

“No, stop it! Don’t be silly, Chels!” Macy gasped and furrowed her eyebrows. Practically pushed Elliot aside to squeeze Chelsea into an embrace. “Come here!” 

“I’m sorry.” Chelsea said, small, head on Macy’s sequined shoulder. 

“Hush, you. I’m so happy for you! For you both.” Macy threw a wink in Elliot’s direction. “How far along are you? Do you know what you’re having?” She asked in an excited rush, releasing Chelsea from their hug to finally get some answers. 

“12 weeks, and—”

“We’re having a girl!” Elliot exclaimed, finishing her sentence with a grin. Chelsea shook her pom-pom in front of him, scrunching up her nose in defiance. “I guessed it right!” Yeah, yeah, he wasn’t ever gonna let her live that one down, was he? For once, she’d been wrong and Elliot’s daddy intuition had been correct. Once she was done being cute, Chelsea wrapped her arms around his waist, under his leather jacket, and tilted her head against his chest. Against his soft white t-shirt. 

“Yes, you’re very clever, baby.” She teased, glancing up at him. His reward was a chaste kiss to the underside of his chin. They locked eyes for a moment. Chelsea tried to communicate her good boy with the heat in her gaze, because they’d already scarred Macy enough for one night. 

Luckily enough, Macy seemed unphased. She was used to them being overly affectionate, by now. It didn’t seem to bother her. “Congratulations, you two! A non-alcoholic cheers to our new Baby Girl Holt!” Macy lifted her glass of soda into the air, and Elliot and Chelsea each raised a pom-pom. No non-alcoholic drinks for them, yet—they were still somehow standing in the entrance, for crying out loud. 

“And congratulations to you for turning thirty-three! And for Baby Boy Bhatt.” Chelsea ruffled Macy’s arm with the pom-pom. Macy tapped her pregnant stomach twice in agreement. “Happy birthday, Mace.”

Macy gushed over their matching Grease outfits. Snatched Elliot’s pom-pom up right out of his hands and danced around with it. She ushered them further into the club; almost-empty glass held up above her head in the air as she moved through the crowd. Caleb approached them with a new soda glass in hand. He shook it to grab Macy’s attention—and he definitely stood out; a chef’s uniform that was so starkly white that it looked fluorescent in the low-lighting of the club. Glow-in-the-dark, almost. And it was accompanied with a very tall, very traditional chef's hat. He was hard to miss. Caleb greeted Elliot and Chelsea each with a one-armed hug, holding the drink out of the way so it wouldn’t spill. Once he’d said his hellos, he swapped Macy’s old glass for the fresh one.

“Aww, my hero!” She chirped, straw immediately between her teeth. After a swig, she grinned and nodded toward Elliot and Chelsea. “They’re pregnant! Didn’t I tell you! You owe me five bucks, sweetie!” Caleb pretended to search the pockets of his chef's apron, but came up empty. He kissed Macy full on the mouth, instead. “That’s worth a billion dollars, thank you.” She gleefully replied when they parted.

See, Elliot and Chelsea weren’t the only ones who could be gross and overly affectionate in public! It was nice to see. Caleb slung an arm around Macy’s shoulder and regarded them with a bright smile. “Grease, huh! Don’t you look cute and cheery, Chelsea!” She giggled, joining Macy in attacking him with a pom-pom each. Chelsea had a sneaking suspicion she wasn’t going to be getting that one back from the birthday girl. Oh well! It was Elliot’s turn for compliments next. “And Danny Zuko! I love it, man. You look great!”

“Mmm, yes, he does.” Chelsea automatically agreed with her brother-in-law. Ran her hand through Elliot’s hair on impulse. 

Caleb’s laugh came out as a scoff. “Okay, so is that why you were an hour late? Amy deserves five bucks for that bet.” Macy joined him in laughing at their expense. Chelsea hid her face in Elliot’s chest again, all in good spirit. She giggled with them. Yeah, yeah, the whole world knew that they were disgusting and depraved—they got it! Chelsea felt warm from the slight embarrassment. From feeling happy all over. Loved, connected, seen. This was their family! And this was going to be a great night, she could feel it.

“And you’re… a chef?” Elliot asked, looking slightly confused, but then answered with Caleb in harmony.

“Because I put a bun in the oven!”

“Because you put a bun in the oven?”

Both Elliot and Caleb stood with their mouths gaping open, awestruck. After a beat, Caleb pumped a fist in the air. “Finally someone gets it!” He beamed over at Macy, then looked back at Elliot. “You got me, man!” He clapped his hand over Elliot’s shoulder, smiling at him fondly. 

“That’s so good!” Elliot replied, creases by his eyes. Her baby was all about his puns and dad jokes! Caleb was clearly the same. Absolute nerds. Chelsea affectionately rolled her eyes. 

She was stroking Elliot’s chest with her thumb and snuggled into him a little more, content. “Root beer, baby?” She suggested. The bar was in their sights. All of this talking was making her thirsty.

Macy waved her pom-pom to stop them in their tracks. “No, no, no! I have a surprise for you!” 

“But it’s your birthday.” Was that a Holt/Voight/Pearson thing? Elliot had pulled the same stunt on Chelsea for his birthday earlier in the year. Not that Chelsea would ever complain or turn down a present. She loved presents!

“I’ll be back! Stay put.” Macy held up a finger to get them to stay, like they were obedient dogs, and hurried off. She returned a minute later with two men in tow, both wearing some version of a Prince’s costume… eerily similar to that of the one Elliot had worn earlier in the week when they did their first role play. “Elliot, Chelsea, this is Santiago.” He was wearing more of an old-timey costume, with a ruffle neck tie and waistcoat. “And this is Santiago’s husband, Julian.” Macy gestured to the other man, wearing the red Prince’s uniform with the bright blue sash and plastic medallions. Chelsea politely waved her pom-pom, but she was confused. New friends, maybe? 

“And Julian, here, is our brother.” Macy announced, touching his arm. “I mean, our half-brother. On Helen’s side. But still.” 

Chelsea blinked back her surprise, eyes immediately flitting across Elliot’s face to gauge his reaction. 

[chelseaheskett]

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