#* interactions — foster & 𝓅𝒽𝑜𝑒𝒷𝑒

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𝔣𝔬𝔰𝔱𝔢𝔯 𝔞𝔫𝔡 𝔭𝔥𝔬𝔢𝔟𝔢 — 𝔞 𝔣𝔞𝔫𝔠𝔶 𝔥𝔬𝔱𝔢𝔩 𝔬𝔲𝔱𝔰𝔦𝔡𝔢 𝔞𝔩𝔲𝔪𝔞 𝔩𝔞𝔨𝔢 ( @ofasterias )

Whilst genuinely surprised that Foster had agreed to travel with Phoebe further into New Hampshire for this awards night, Phoebe was immensely grateful all the same. Without him, her career would have never made it this far, and he was the only person she could think of sharing this with, even if she was only nominated for something dumb in association to her writing retreat last summer, and most likely wouldn’t even win, the whole thing being a networking event more than anything. 

They had checked in, expecting a twin bed room, and hesitating when met with the king size in the suite. “It’s okay,” Phoebe had assured him, “We can make a fort out of all the throw cushions.” Though secretly, she had no qualms about sharing a bed with Foster, and doubted a pillow fort would have the structural means to keep unconscious Phoebe subconsciously trying to cuddle him at bay. 

Once the details of the sleeping arrangements had been hashed out, Phoebe gathered her dress bag and her toiletries needed to get ready, standing awkwardly near the door to the bathroom. “Um, once you’re ready you don’t have to like, wait for me or anything. You can, like, head to the bar downstairs. I mean, I won’t be long but entirely up to you.”

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I love you. It was the first time Phoebe had heard those words from Foster without them being tinged in pain or panic. It was how she had always wanted to hear him say it, and she barely had time to exhale a breath of relief when his mouth found hers, found their way home to each other.

She broke apart, only to murmur out “I love you so much,” before smashing their lips together once more. The grip on his shoulders tightened, pressing against him as if she could somehow morph the two of them together. It was like a piece of her felt complete, finally, the hole that had been ever growing in her heart since that dreadful September day closing.

Breaking apart once more — gasping for air despite the ironic feeling that Foster was her oxygen — Phoebe dropped her hands from his shoulders, only to grab his hand, gently tugging at it. Her senses had been numbed during the kiss, but the lights, chatter and live music had hit her now, making her painfully aware they weren’t alone. “I think we should head upstairs, go back to our room.” She suggested, breathless and desperate.

His heart swooped. His stomach clenched. And if one day, he looked back on this moment and thought this was where it all went wrong, he didn't think he'd have any regrets. He could take whatever came, so long as it meant he got to have her. To hold her. To love her. To be consumed by it.

But maybe, he thought as hope fluttered in his chest, this was just the beginning. I can't go another second without you, please. And just like that, something inside him cracked wide open. "I love you. I love you so fucking much." And then, for the first time, he got to seal those words with a kiss.

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For an aspiring writer, here at an event for her craft, it was ironic that words seemed to fail her at this moment. Oh, how she wished she could bottle up the feeling of how Foster made her feel and somehow translate it into a coherent sentence. Or, better yet, transfer it straight to him, be able to show him the Matty Foster from Phoebe Yates’ perspective. The man he refused to see himself as.

But now wasn’t the time to even attempt to wax lyrical about how he deserved her, even if she could — even if the crowd of writers surrounding them, all but faded into the background, could help her out — but rather the time to make her stance clear as day once and for all. “This is what I want. You’re who I want.” She assured, fingers gripping his shoulders as if he’d disappear into the ether at her repeated confession. “I can’t go another second without you, please.”

What was he waiting for? Foster asked himself for what felt like the millionth time. What would be the moment when he knew he was finally ready? When would he decide that he had suffered long enough? He still felt so new to love, like he was learning how to coexist with it, making sacrifices at its altar as if that would convince it to stay. But Phoebe... Phoebe wasn't fickle the way Foster had always assumed that love would be. She was steadfast, and by some miracle, she had decided she wanted him. What was waiting doing other than giving her a chance to change her mind?

"I'll never do enough to deserve you," he said, the world shrunken down to just the two of them. It was a fact, an inevitability. The sun rose, and rain fell, and Phoebe Yates would always deserve better. But she deserved a choice, too. Tonight, he was tired of making it for her. "But if you say this is what you want — that I'm what you want... I can't say I understand it, but I'm not strong enough to keep denying you." So ask him one more time; ask him like his fate wasn't already sealed...

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Phoebe may have forgiven too easily, but Foster was always too hard on himself. The past was the past, and they both had learned from it. Both had been willing to move on, but it was hard  when he seemed stuck at the crossroads, unable to put one foot forward towards a better future. 

Still, she was patient, and ready to guide him through it. “It will be,” She agreed, shaking her head at his apology. “Don’t…you’ve got nothing to be sorry for. Not now, it’s all water under the bridge.” The swaying slowed to a stop, the song changing yet again, though Phoebe had no desire to continue, though she didn’t step from where she was pressed up against him either. “I just want us to have a nice night, I just want us to be…us again. Can we have that, please?”

This was all so... backwards. Why were they doing this? Why was he fighting so hard for them stay apart? He loved her. He wanted to be with her. This wasn't just one night, or some ill-defined thing; this was forever, in his eyes — what else was there to wait for?

It had always right — right up until it went so terribly wrong...

And there it was: the thing still holding him back. Him still holding them back. He had pierced their happy bubble and nearly cost them everything. His brow furrowed, his eyes turning stormy with self-hatred. "It will be this time," he nodded, something slightly desperate in his tone. Like he was trying to convince her, when really he needed to convince himself. She had given her forgiveness too easily, but that didn't mean he wouldn't stop trying to earn it. "I promise. Phoebe, I'm so sorry..."

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Throughout their first attempt at their relationship, it had simply been too tumultuous for them to really have fun. Sure, Phoebe enjoyed Foster’s company and they had laughed and shared tender moments, but it had all been eclipsed by secrets and doubt. His ex-wife, her mom, their individual childhood traumas. So now, without the pressure of having to be the perfect partner, it was bittersweet that they were having a good time.

At first, Phoebe thought maybe she had overstepped with the hand placement. The champagne was clouding her judgment slightly, but then he tightened his grip and she automatically closed the minimal distance between them, shaking her head at what he said. “No, it’s…right.” Came her counter-argument. “It always feels right with you.”

Foster surprised himself with just how much fun he could have dancing, how the upbeat tempo of the song and their competitively silly sense of one-upsmanship meant they were more focused on making each other laugh than worrying over how they'd hurt each other. He had no goal other than to make Phoebe smile, and after causing her so many tears, it felt good to be successful. The idea of 'just one dance' quickly went out the window, only for a sense of panic to set back in as the music slowed.

He looked towards the exit as Phoebe grabbed his hands and placed them on her waist, eyes wide as they landed back on her to find her smiling coyly. His heart ached; how long had it been since she looked at him like that? Foster felt himself melting, felt something deep inside him begin to thaw, and no matter how bad of an idea he knew this was, he also knew he couldn't resist her. "It's dangerous," he corrected, even as his hands gripped her tighter. Right now he couldn't remember why, but he knew there had been a reason...

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Jumping up with excitement, Phoebe almost stumbled over her own feet as she grabbed Foster’s hand and made their way to the dance floor. She tried to quell her nerves, reminding herself that this was what friends did. After all — how many drunken kitchen discos did she have with Seb over the years?

The music was loud and rhythmic, and it was nice to just lose themselves in a room full of strangers. To have a little fun and think of nothing but doing silly twirls and not tripping over.

However, the music began to slow and a few people made a swift exit of the dancefloor, though a few others clutched at their dance partners, dramatically swaying in time to the crooning of the band. Phoebe — really testing the boundaries now — placed Foster's hands on her waist, before resting her own on his shoulders, rocking a bit clumsily.

"It's a shame we never got to dance much...before." She remarked, looking around the room at the other dancers, back to Foster with a coy smile. "It's nice." Which was the most simple she could dictate this moment, surrounded by so much past drama the two shared. Nice wrapped the current events playing out before them in a neat little bow, like nothing else mattered.

And maybe, even just for tonight, nothing else did.

When she placed her hand on top of his, he told himself that she was just nervous, that she needed assurance and something to ground her on a night she had long been anticipating. And when she kept it there for the rest of the speeches, well... it was easy enough to pretend he'd just forgotten, that her skin wasn't a constant simmering heat burning in the back of his mind.

He reminded himself that this was just the first of many events they'd attend like this in the future; and while they were only friends now, it wouldn't always be this way. This was a pit stop, a temporary roadblock, and he could survive setting these boundaries because they wouldn't be forever.

But fuck if the promise of the future didn't make him want to rush into it now...

She had made this happen. And sure, he had believed in her, but only because she made it easy. This was the first, but it wouldn't be the last. And maybe it was just the champagne talking, but the inevitability of it all hit him like a ton of bricks. She was his future. And on a night that was celebrating the promise of tomorrow, maybe they deserved to live in it just a little bit...

One dance. He could do one dance and still keep his dignity. Rather than answer, he stood up, fixing her with a smirk as he offered out his hand.

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Oh no, this was dangerous. Phoebe was close enough that she could smell Foster’s natural scent underneath the blanket of his aftershave, and the feeling of his hand on her thigh was warm and eclipsing all her other senses. She knew the best course of action was to retreat, to pull away and firmly set the lines of their individual personal space. But she couldn’t quite find herself willing to, placing her arm on her shoulder so she didn’t stumble from leaning too far forward. And, in a move of sporadic boldness, placed her other hand on top of where Foster’s rested on her thigh before he could pull away.

Fuck it. No rules tonight.

“I never thought it’d lead to this,” She admitted, glancing around, the other people at their table engrossed in the current speech. “I just…no one believed in me until you came along, and when my ultimately successful book series becomes a movie franchise, I’ll give you a cut of the profits.” It was easier to make a joke out of it, because pure sentimentality had always been difficult for Phoebe to navigate. That if she was earnest, it’d come back to bite her. 

The last of the speeches were wrapping up, and she was truly glad she hadn’t needed to go on stage, feeling wobbly from the copious glasses of champagne and Foster’s hand on her thigh like it was home there. The band began to play, lively music filling up the vast space, and a few people braving the otherwise sparse area that made the dance floor.

“Wanna dance?” She asked, pulling away to hold out her hand, a mischievous grin on her face. “Put all these old writers to shame with your killer moves?”

The food wasn't great, but the alcohol was free and Foster loved watching Phoebe emerge from her shell, the way she utterly charmed everyone at their table the way she once had with him. He wasn't here as the proud boyfriend — he didn't get to put his hand on the small of her back as they walked around the banquet hall, didn't get to pull her seat out for her as they sat down for the dinner — but he was still proud to be the person by her side, proud in a way he thought ought to be obvious to anyone who saw him looking at her. He adored her. He worshiped her. And in a room full of people all becoming Phoebe Yates fans, he would always be the first and the one who loved her hardest.

He wasn't the boyfriend, but he played the well practiced role of making her shine, acting as her quiet counterpart, the gentle nudge when she was being too modest. Whatever label they were currently operating with didn't change what was underneath: that he loved her, that she was brilliant, and that everyone deserved to know it.

Once the speeches started and conversation came to hushed whispers, Foster had lost even that purpose, and didn't have anything to occupy him but the champagne still being passed around. Nothing too crazy, just a couple glasses to dim out the drone, taking his social cues from everyone around him when he needed to laugh or clap.

Phoebe leaning over was a welcome reprieve, and after most of the night spent watching her shine her attentions on the group at large, to now be her sole focus was a bit like being starstruck. "Of course," he nodded, hand instinctively patting her thigh and he was forced to play it off as a friendly gesture. "Thank you for inviting me. I wouldn't have missed it. This... you're really making it happen." At least it looked that way to him, to whom this world was horribly foreign. But thinking back to that sick day in Phoebe's bed, not knowing where to start — it was incredible.

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Phoebe's stomach was churning, nerves hard to control. Not just because she was worried about fucking up her professional career as she networked with a bunch of people who could basically decide how far in the writing industry she'd go, but because she didn't know how many lines she was crossing with Foster being here with her. It all felt inappropriate to a degree, and she had an odd sense of déjà vu as she opened the door and locked eyes with him waiting in the hall.

Mind reeling over what Foster was going to say before he cut himself off — a compliment? Or a comment that she was too dressed up? — she just offered a stiff nod instead, and gestured towards the elevators, unecessarily clutching her purse with both hands to stop herself doing something stupid like reaching out to hold his.

Despite feeling rigid as they entered the ballroom, it didn't take long for Phoebe to unwind somewhat. There was a complimentary glass of champagne handed to them as they came downstairs, the food served was edible, everyone at their table was warm and welcoming to the two of them, and nobody had made assuming comments about their relationship as they sat, which had been one of her bigger worries they'd be dedicating time explaining their complicated status.

(And it helped, somewhat, when she discovered the bar was an open bar indeed).

"This actually isn't as half as bad as I thought it'd be." She leaned over to speak low to Foster in between one of the speeches, alcohol clouding her judgement and whether or not this crossed their strict boundary lines. "Thank you, again, for coming with me. I, like, really meant it when I said there's no one else I'd rather have sat by me for this, and I know it's not your thing at all, but it'll be over soon!" She assured. "I think it's just like two more, then they have a band playing if people want to dance and then it's a wrap."

It didn't take long for Foster to get ready, just a matter of changing into his trousers and button down, and shrugging on his suit jacket. He had never worn a tie in any situation if he could help it, and his shoes were nothing more than his least beat-up pair of sneakers. He wasn't the focus tonight, after all, and — as he had to consistently remind himself — this definitely wasn't a date. He ran a hand through his curls to make them at least somewhat presentable, and decided it was the best he could do. The best he would do, more like, because any more effort would only further muddy the waters. Grabbing his phone, his cigarettes, and his room key, he called to Phoebe that he'd meet her out there and left.

He busied himself with his phone while he waited, something to keep his hands still otherwise they'd be fidgeting out of control. This is a bad fucking idea, he was texting Theo when he heard the hotel room door open.

He looked up, and his mouth went dry. She was as beautiful as ever, but what he hadn't expected was the way he was instantly transported back to an evening not too long ago, knocking on the door of what was then their apartment with flowers in his hand, ready to take her on their first date. Leaning forward to kiss her was instinct, and instead he tripped a little over his feet. "Uh, yeah," he nodded. "You look-" No. "Sorry, lead the way..."

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Really, it wasn’t that much of a shock that Phoebe and Foster didn’t do things normally; not even friendship. But — as she hard argued — friends came to events to support friends all the time. At several points, she did expect Foster to firmly put the boundaries into place, and had been pleasantly surprised he hadn’t tried to get a different room or offer to sleep in the bathroom. It was just one night, after all: what could go wrong?

“Okay.” She said, an awkward nod, not really knowing how to navigate this scenario. Not that she was worried about changing in front of Foster — he had seen everything, she didn’t have anything to hide — but didn’t know where it fell on the whole ‘just friends who didn’t cross lines’ of it all. “Um, yeah, sure. I won’t be long.” Really, a change of clothes and a touch up of makeup, it wasn’t like Foster would be left to his own devices for long. 

She dipped into the bathroom, trying to calm her nerves as she went through the motions of her regular getting ready ritual, and with shaky hands, left their shared room dolled up in her sparkly black gown, offering Foster an almost bashful smile. “Ready?”

A night away. It certainly stretched boundaries of friendship, but they'd both juggled the mental gymnastics trying to find a way of justifying it. In the end, they had settled on 'this is practically a work trip' and the shared room was simply the result of a fully-booked hotel. So long as they kept everything proper and slept in separate beds, this didn't have to be something that derailed their long-term plans.

Or, well... maybe they'd have to amend the rules to just keeping on their opposite sides...

It wasn't the best way to start off the weekend, but Foster refused to show it, rolling with the punches because he knew Phoebe was anxious enough without him adding to it. "I'm fine waiting," he shrugged, the unspoken context that the last thing he wanted was to be stuck alone in a room with book nerds. He was here for Phoebe — and happily so — but this whole thing was outside his wheelhouse. "I can, I mean- out in the hall..." Maybe she wanted privacy; maybe her getting ready was too intimate a ritual for him now.