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aressss1 · 4 years ago

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I’m Yours

(Technoblade x Reader)

Request: Alright I have a request, so like monarch techno is pretty cool but what if he had a royal guard and asked them to taste test the food and it practically turned into a date because he just keeps feeding them.

A/N: I had a hard time writing this one, but I hope you like it all the same!

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You did your duty, protecting your lord, the King of the Nether… The one and only Blood God. He didn’t need you by a long shot, he could protect himself, but he chose you as his head knight, his bodyguard. You had come to accept that you would probably just serve as a meat shield to him when the time came and nothing more. This was one of his sleepless nights, and you had to stay by his side. Being head knight meant more responsibilities… And very little sleep.

You stood by the door of the dining hall, as your king waited for his food. Parts of the blackstone floor were shining red from the light the windows let in. That light shone over the king, as he seemed to be in thought. He held his chin in his hand as he stared off into space. Nights like these weren’t too bad, the King was always quiet… Always in his own head… He intrigued you.

Well… He did more than intrigue you… You spent many overworld moons pining after the hybrid King. He treated you like a dear friend, speaking to you as an ally not as a servant. But that could always be your mind playing tricks on you. So… You settled for servant, ready to lay your life down for him always.

You tensed, your hand on the hilt of your sword as the doors opened revealing a maid with a silver platter in her hands. Her heels clacked on the blackstone, as she made her way over to the king. Setting the platter in front of him. She curtsied, a blush forming on her face. She was one of the new maids of the castle. His bored eyes settled on her as he waved her off, dismissing her.

You kept your eyes forward as she left. The sound of her heels receding into the depths of the castle. The king looked at the dome that covered the food on the platter and he removed it, revealing his steaming hot supper. Your body straightened as he called your name.

“Will you please test this for me?” His golden eyes sought you out and you swallowed down the lump in your throat. “You never know when someone… wants to poison the king.” So… you were now… a taste tester?

“My lord?” You were confused. “Isn’t that the chef’s job?” You questioned. Oh, to be reduced to nothing more than a… poison detector…

“I don’t see him out here.” The king kept his eyes on you, as he waved you over.

“At your command… Sire.” Your words were almost bitter. You wanted to lay your life down for him but dying to poison was not an honorable way to die for your king… Making your way to the table he motions for you to sit down, and you do. He sat at the head of the long dining room table and you sat at his right side. You lean forward, grabbing his utensils, you start carving off a piece of the steak that lay on the platter. You take your bite of his steak, feeling his eyes watching you. You swallow, enjoying the taste. Nothing seemed amiss, so you put his utensils down next to the plate.

“What about the rest of the meal?” His words were soft, as he motioned toward the bread, the potatoes, and the carrots on his plate. “Can’t afford to have the King die now, can we?” You deadpanned, was he… taunting you? You weren’t sure you appreciated that… You looked down at the seemingly harmless food in front of the both of you.

“No, my lord…” You grumbled taking his fork in hand once again. Stabbing the fork into the carrot, the king’s eyes stayed on you as you raised the carrot to your mouth, you were starting to feel self-conscious… But this was for the safety of the king, it was your duty to protect him. When you had tasted everything that was left on his plate you pushed the plate back to him, standing up from your chair.

“Did I dismiss you?” Your king's voice rang out in the dining hall and you felt a shiver run down your spine. You had heard that tone of voice from him before and while you were glad it was never directed at you, well… before now… Why in the hell were you so aroused when it was??? You shook your head sitting back down in your chair slowly. He rang a bell signaling the maid from before, asking her to bring another platter of food. He watches her leave before his eyes slide over to you.

“Now…” His eyes settled on you, almost in a demanding way. “Since it seems that you do not like the food that I have to offer you… I’ll let you off easy. Your punishment shall be you finishing that plate of food since you don’t seem to like it.” You looked up at him quizzically, questioning him. His cheeks burned a deep red, and you let out a laugh, falling back in your chair.

“Forgive me my lord but… Did you plan this?” The way the King looked away told you, yes… This was exactly what he was trying for. He was silent for a few seconds, his eyes eventually meeting yours.

“…It’s been on my mind for a while… I just… couldn’t find the time to ask you. I couldn’t get you alone to ask you…” The king looked away, embarrassed. “Being king is busy enough, but you’re always workin’ on ways to protect the castle, I chose you for that reason… You are an amazin’ fighter, fightin’ by your side has and always will be a pleasure.” Your heart pounded, and butterflies made their rounds in your stomach.

“You couldn’t have just requested an audience with me?” Techno shook his head, as he leaned up onto the table, his eyes leveling with yours.

“Too many pryin’ eyes.” He looked down at his hands. “The… voices quiet down when I’m with you…” His cheeks burned as he took to studying his hands too closely, long nails tapping at the mahogany table. “I feel at peace with you.” The voices… He told you about his voices, made you swore not to tell anyone, for only you and Phil knew about them. It could be used as a weakness against the Nether King. You felt honored that he would even tell you.

“My lord?” You bent forward trying to catch his eyes.

“It is a knight’s duty to die for their king…” He didn’t meet your gaze, “I don’t want that for you.” Heartrate rising, you grip the arms of the chair you sat in. “The king isn’t supposed to want to die for the knight should the time ever rise...” It seemed like Techno had a lot of inner turmoil he was working through. “I don’t want to lose you.”

With that, Techno stood abruptly, the chair letting out a groan against the blackstone flooring as he stands, he quickly kneels in front of you, just like you knelt in front of him when you were knighted. His pink hair and red cape pooling around him as he bows his head to you. You… were stunned. How were you supposed to react to this? Gods forbid anyone see this right now.

“I may be a king, but that doesn’t mean anythin’, not when it comes to provin’ my worth to you.” Techno let out a shaky breath. “I pledge myself to you, mind, body and soul… If you’ll have me?” His eyes flit to your sword that hung on your hip. “Strike me down if I am unworthy.” You swore you could melt at this scene.

“Techno…” The word felt strange on your tongue, you had never called him by his name before, well, not to his face anyway. Your hands slowly make their way to his face, the pads of your fingers swiping over his scarred face, as you lift his chin to look in his eyes. Without a word, you lean forward in your chair, the creak of the wood echoing out through the room as you did so. You pressed your lips to his, letting out a soft groan. This felt amazing, like the two of you were made for each other.

You went forward off of the chair, your knees hitting the floor as you pressed yourself deeper into him and his kiss, he hesitantly wrapped his arms around you, the size of his body enveloping you. Tangling your fingers into his hair you felt tears springing forth. This man, who had pulled you out of battles to heal you with the finest potions, who treated you as an equal rather than a peasant, really thought he was unworthy of you. Your head spun at the thought.

You pulled back for air, leaning your forehead against his. Eyes locked as the two of you regained your breath, your fingers still entangled in his locks. You loved the way his hands felt as they glided over your form. You were sure it would feel better once your armor was off, but for now this would have to do.

“Be mine?” Techno looked for confirmation, and when you nodded his grip tightened on you. “Even with a whole kingdom to take care of?”

“I’m yours,” You whispered it in his ear as you rested your head on his chest, taking in his scent. He was everything you wanted and more. The door of the dining hall opened once more and that was when the two of you split from each other standing from your position on the floor. The maid from before, taking note of both your hands intertwined in the others. The both of you were nothing but shy smiles as you moved your seat closer to his and you both ate the meal in front of you. Random conversation playing in the wind.

There were preparations to be made. Changes to be had, but that was fine, just as long as you stood by your king… Technoblade.

#technoblade x reader #technoblade/reader #c!techno x reader #techno fanfic #fluff #tumblr request #Tumblr Exclusive #mcyt x reader #I'm Yours

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shih-coulda-had-it · 3 years ago

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193 for... maybe nanahiko? Really just do whatever ship you feel like :D

193. "Are you crazy? The kid is upstairs!" | VestigesTorino [Yes. OT8. The orgies are fantastic, and Torino is Holder bait, 8th and 9th exempt.] | WC: 2,222 of an OFA!VampireCoven!AU except op has taken liberties with worldbuilding.

TW: Blood-drinking. Outrageous flirting. Mildly spicy!

“Vampires,” Sorahiko echoes blankly.

He looks from left to right, trying to spot the differences between himself and the six adult men and one adult woman sitting at this round table. Most atypical appearances can be attributed to the strange and wondrous natures of Quirks, so Sorahiko could excuse the fourteen red eyes (every iris the identical shade) as a matter of Quirk heritage. However, none of the Shigarakis resemble the other.

They still might be pulling his leg.

The leader of the household (presumably) leans his elbows on the table and steeples his fingers. “Torino-san,” he says in a gentle voice, “we greatly appreciate your timely rescue of our youngest. And believe me when I say I would have preferred you stay ignorant of my coven’s true nature.”

“But the boy wants to be a professional hero,” one of the men interrupts. His arms are crossed, and his hair sticks up in rakish angles. An X-shaped scar has been carved over the bridge of his nose, just missing the eyes.

He sounds dismissive of the kid’s dream.

Fair. When Sorahiko had stepped onto the moonlit scene, the kid was frantically scrabbling at a thick-skinned villain’s hand, trying to save his bag from being rummaged. The villain had planted a knee in the kid’s stomach in an attempt to menace him into silence.

Sorahiko pounced on the villain, called in the location to pick up the too-heavy bastard, and escorted the boy home. He fielded questions about heroics and U.A. High for half an hour before they finally reached the Shigaraki compound.

And now he is here, trapped in a gigantic dining room, being told about vampires.

“We agreed to let him try,” says the singular woman sharply.

“If you three hadn’t filled his head about saving the world,” a man with a spiky ponytail shoots back, “then we wouldn’t have this problem. And you too, Yoichi.”

“Nevertheless,” the leader says. His red eyes gleam in the low light, and Sorahiko feels his skin prickling at the attention.

“What’s that got to do with me?”

“Ah, who hasn’t heard of the toughest teacher of U.A.?” another man asks, sly and teasing. His voice is soft like the leader’s, but perceptibly younger. His coloring is similar to the woman’s, but he’s lean where she’s muscular. “Yoichi believes we should give you a head’s up. Toshinori is a good child, but even he will slip from time to time, and that will draw undue attention to himself.”

Sorahiko considers these seven faces. Slowly, he says, “You think he’ll be accepted into U.A.”

“Three of us are active pro-heroes, and we’ve been training him when we can,” the woman informs him. “I’d say he’s got a headstart compared to all of your first years.”

“My students have always been terrible. That’s what schooling is for.”

She flashes a smile at him, toothy and amused; his throat works through a sudden dry spell. Belatedly, Sorahiko realizes that every adult in this kitchen is eyeing him with intense interest. Even the ones that haven’t spoken yet.

Yoichi speaks again. “He’s smart, and he’ll be strong. U.A. will accept him. I ask you for your discretion and help, Gran Torino.”

He could refuse, but Sorahiko assumes they’ll simply kill him. Being blackmailed is a low possibility; Sorahiko doesn’t have much to be blackmailed about. And pro-heroes disappear all the time. No one really knows why. Principal Shi might demand an investigation on Gran Torino’s behalf (and possibly at the behest of Recovery Girl, who grudgingly acknowledges Torino’s efforts to raise the survival rate of U.A.’s graduates), but otherwise…

Still. Vampires. Another subset of humanity, among the Quirked and Quirkless. It’s weird enough to be true.

“Is this a verbal agreement?” Sorahiko asks.

A bark of laughter from the square-jawed man in the leather jacket, who leans forward and grins like a shark at Sorahiko. The light glints off the yellow lenses of his goggles, and the play of light and shadow highlights the muscle definition of the man’s shirtless chest. In a rich, low voice, he says, “We’ve got something better. A contract.”

“Using what?” Sorahiko bites back. “Paper and ink?”

“Skin and teeth, teach’.”

“Daigoro’s correct,” says Yoichi mildly, snatching Sorahiko’s attention away. “Torino-san, allow me to introduce my coven. I am Shigaraki Yoichi, second of my line. In the order of which my coven grew: Kenzo, Sanjuro, Hikage, Daigoro, En, Nana, and you’ve met our Toshinori.” As he speaks, he points to each person in turn.

He wonders when the kid got folded into this group. The kid’s affection for his home had been sincere, and he greeted the adults (well, Hikage had only come out of the forested grounds at Daigoro’s call) with merry cheer.

Is Toshinori even a vampire? U.A. conducts its business in the daytime.

Sorahiko nods in acknowledgement and doesn’t offer his full name in return. Instead, he says, “If I accept this contract, will you tell me whatever I want to know? About anything I ask?”

“Even vampires aren’t omniscient,” Yoichi answers.

Rolling his eyes, Sorahiko clarifies, “If the kid’s going to develop vampirism over the course of high school, then I need to know things. Like whether or not he’ll go feral over spilled blood. Or if sunlight’s going to be an issue.”

Yoichi’s smile is kind, and surprisingly not patronizing. “What we can tell, we will. The contract will have a mutual hold on us all.”

“What could break it?”

“A different coven, not that you should seek one out,” says Nana. “Trust us, we’re as nice as you get in the supernatural world.”

Sorahiko does not have many options. He hates the idea of agreeing to this without a safety net or a contingency plan. How can this woman ask him to trust them immediately? He’d have to be a gullible idiot, or a fool in lust, or...

He exhales. Sighing in resignation, Sorahiko tips his head to Yoichi and says, wry, “I accept the contract. Don’t kill me if your kid comes crying home about how mean I am.”

Yoichi shrugs, casual as anything. “Toshinori’s quite brave for his age, and stubborn, too. You’ll have your hands full training him.” He then stands from his chair; in measured, unhesitating steps, Yoichi approaches where Sorahiko sits at the opposite side of the round table. What he orders, Sorahiko complies with. “Take your cape off, Torino-san. Your gloves as well.”

“You may have to unzip the top half of your suit,” advises Hikage. “You won’t want the signatures to overlap.”

“Signatures,” Sorahiko repeats, pausing.

One glove’s already off. The flight suit’s sleeves extend up to his wrists, and they don’t have a lot of give. Similarly, the collar is skin-tight and provides ample coverage.

Daigoro playfully snaps his teeth at Sorahiko, once, twice. He says, “Paper and ink, skin and teeth. You forget already?”

The man barely flinches at the snarl directed his way. Seven pairs of eyes are honing in on the exposed flesh; Sorahiko shoves his self-conscious thoughts away. He focuses on the sheer outrage of being asked to strip by strangers, hissing, “Are you crazy? The kid is upstairs!”

“I’ll make sure he stays in his room,” Nana volunteers. She winks at Sorahiko. “We’ll be quick, Torino-san. You just have to keep quiet.”

“You—!”

She slips from her chair and darts off, exiting the dining room and ascending the stairs, floating off the floor. Sorahiko glares after her but snaps to attention as Yoichi stops by his chair, hip resting against the table, red eyes expectant.

Grudgingly, Sorahiko works off the second glove. As he does, Yoichi continues to lecture.

“The signatures can be made in two ways. A lighter bite will result in less pain, but will fade sooner. And I’d like for this arrangement to stand for several years, Torino-san. A lighter bite necessitates more renewals. Possibly, seven bites every two weeks.”

“And a stronger bite?”

“Seven every month.”

He scowls at the thought. The only silver lining he can see is that his suit will cover the marks, which will save him from his colleagues’ gossiping tongues. “Monthly, then. Are you drinking my blood? I don’t think I’ve got enough to cover seven appetites.”

Yoichi offers him a gentle smile. “A mouthful will suffice.”

Sorahiko works his jaw, and then he reaches backwards for the hidden zipper. It’s incongruously loud in the dining room; Sorahiko feels his face burning as he hurriedly rips his arms free of the sausage casing sleeves, letting the slackening front of the suit crumple to his lap. He hears an appreciative whistle.

“Daigoro, he can give you a run for your money,” Sanjuro jokes.

“He’s softer,” Daigoro deems, and Sorahiko bristles. “Must be the suit, yeah?”

“Yeah,” he snaps. “And proper hydration, asshole.”

“I’m not complaining!”

“At ease,” says Yoichi, calm, and that’s when Nana makes her reappearance. She swings back into the dining room, expression confident and content, until she spies Sorahiko’s half-naked appearance.

“Are we going in order?” she questions Yoichi, even as her eyes are trained on Sorahiko’s.

“That’s how it works, Nana,” Kenzo answers for their leader. “How’s Toshinori?”

“Watching his martial arts dramas. We’re good for like, fifty minutes.”

“You said you’ll be quick,” Sorahiko rasps, and his hands are clenching into fists, anticipatory and anxious. This is all so incredibly weird. “You all need more than five minutes to bite me?”

Yoichi laughs. It’s a bright sound, attractive and human and not at all like something that should be coming out of a self-proclaimed bloodsucker. When Yoichi moves, pushing off the table, Sorahiko nervelessly allows himself to be pinned to the back of his chair. One hand cards through his hair and lightly tugs; the other hand settles at his shoulder and presses it down.

His throat is exposed. Though Yoichi bends close, Sorahiko knows it isn’t the jugular he’s aiming for.

“Torino-san will need a moment to recuperate,” Yoichi whispers, and Sorahiko shivers, swallows past the apprehension, and spends half a second regretting his decision to let this happen. Yoichi adds, “We will not harm you, and you will not harm us. Your help, in exchange for ours. Let it be so.”

Teeth sink into the join of Sorahiko’s neck and shoulder, sharp and surprisingly hot. Sorahiko chokes out a garbled sound and jerks in his seat, until Yoichi’s bite goes deeper, deeper, and then Sorahiko gasps. Adrenaline bursts to life in his system; his Quirk sputters a reflexive Jet through his boots, but Yoichi’s slender frame hides an unseen strength.

He holds Sorahiko down.

He draws blood from the wound. Sorahiko barely feels the drain, fixated he is on the pressure exerted against him. Every single one of them is going to have the capacity to do this. If Yoichi, whose frame is most similar to En’s, can keep Sorahiko from bolting—Sorahiko arches his back, an involuntary moan escaping him.

It feels good. It feels really, really good.

Yoichi hums against his skin, pleased as punch, and his teeth retract. Sorahiko feels the tongue lap over the mark, heavy with spit. As Yoichi rears back, Yoichi rolls his neck lazily, licking his lips like a cat full from its meal.

“The saliva is a coagulant,” he explains idly, watching Sorahiko slump back against the chair, lungs still stuttering. A faint sweat has broken across his forehead, and Sorahiko distantly suspects that he’s going to need all the time he can get before the kid grows bored of his dramas.

“Oh, he already looks wrecked,” En observes. His awed tone elicits a laugh and encouraging clap to his shoulder from Daigoro, the latter of which requires En to brace against.

“You think he’ll last seven bites?”

“To be fair,” Hikage says, “that is a common erogenous zone. We’ll focus on less stimulating areas.”

Sorahiko, somewhat nettled at the implication that he won’t last (and what the hell does that mean? That he’ll back out? Start begging for mercy?) all seven signatures, musters his strength and shoves himself upright. He scoffs exaggeratedly, masking a shaky exhale with it. He challenges the coven, “Do your fucking worst.”

Yoichi blinks. Behind him, Kenzo is leaving his seat and stalking towards Sorahiko’s, red eyes gleaming. Before Kenzo can dive at Sorahiko and probably tear an artery out, Yoichi holds him back with one placating hand.

“Do not,” Yoichi warns. “We’re not trying to induce a thrall, do you all hear me?”

“Yoichi,” says Sanjuro, “if the man gets off, he gets off.”

A sigh leaves Yoichi. “Be that as it may. Please try not to leave him resentful for the months ahead.” He pats Kenzo’s collarbone; Kenzo catches the thin-boned hand and raises it to his lips.

“Understood, Yoichi,” Kenzo murmurs into the knuckles. He lets go, and Yoichi moves aside, now more fond than exasperated. A safety net, maybe.

In any case, Sorahiko gazes up at number two, who studies him back.

“The shoulder?” suggests Sorahiko, half-heartedly offering the right one up to sacrifice.

Kenzo inclines his head. “Just above the bicep will work,” and he goes on to prove his point, keeping Sorahiko locked in position, unable to do anything but wriggle and fail to contain strangled moans.

This is going to be a long hour.

#bnha #vestigestorino #torino sorahiko #gran torino #shigaraki yoichi #second ofa user #third ofa user #shinomori hikage #banjo daigoro #sixth ofa user #shimura nana #shih.txt #asks #anon #vampire ofa coven au #i have not figured out the lore yet #but afo should be in here #he's thee progenitor after all

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lorelylantana · 4 years ago

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Savageries of the Heart Chapter 1: Courtship

SFW

Zelda always hesitated outside of the King Daphnes’ door. Bracing herself for the twinge of disappointment that always came when she entered the room to find her father’s chair occupied by her uncle, she straightened her spine and stepped into the room with a schooled expression and a head held high.

“You called for me, your Majesty?” she asked, folding her hands in front of her abdomen as she stood in front of his desk. He didn’t acknowledge her for a moment, signing off one last document before looking up at her with a radiant smile that sent a chill down Zelda’s spine.

“Excellent news, my darling Zelda, I’ve found a husband for you.”

She sucked in a breath, “My husband?”

“Yes, my dear, at long last you're getting married! It was a challenge, mind you, but I’ve arranged for you to marry quite the accomplished Zonai warrior.”

She was speechless. As the first born of the royal family, Zelda harbored no false hopes of marrying for love, but she had at least hoped to stay within Hyrule’s borders, where she could at the very least continue her research.

“The temple will never allow it,” she insisted with a voice that shook in tandem with her beating heart. The smile on his face spread wider, though his eyes grew colder.

“The temple has always put too much stock on a bloodline bedtime story. Your mother was a gifted mage, but if present company is anything to go by,” he stood to walk around his desk and loom over her, “it was hardly a divine inheritance.”

“Zonai authority is established through combat prowess,” Zelda pointed out, “I fail to see why they would be interested in marrying me for my blood.”

“It doesn’t matter why they want you!” he snapped, the pleasant veneer of politeness cracking. He took a breath before placing heavy hands on Zelda’s shoulders, forcing them down into a slouch.

“What you don’t understand, Zelda dearest,” the King pushed through his teeth, “Is that we are vulnerable. Our military has been in shambles for an age, and ever since that wretched coup we have been surrounded by factions that refuse to fall in line. With the Zonai on our side, those other races will think twice before moving against us.”

In the ten thousand years since the continent was fractured there was never one incident that pointed to ambitions of conquest from any of the other five nations, but that didn’t matter to Zelda’s uncle, who had moved to a map of the continent. He stood in front of the east portion of the map, where the Akkala, Faron, and Necluda regions were painted Zonai green.

“My fool of a brother didn’t see the threats, but I do,” he whispered, frowning. He spun around to face her once again, “All you need to know, sweet Zelda, is that in a month’s time you will cross the Bridge of Hylia and make your home in the quaint woodlands that were once a part of our great nation.”

Zelda opened her mouth to protest, but he cut her off.

“Everyone wins!” he proclaimed, “We get the support of the largest nation on the continent, and at long last you can finally do something to help your country. As princess.”

Zelda sighed at her defeat, “I don’t know their language.”

“A month should give you a decent enough head start,” he insisted, sweeping a hand towards the door, “I suggest you get started.”

Zelda rushed out the door, desperate for a moment to process. Her plan was momentarily foiled by the arrival of Nohansen. The young prince was an unfortunate reflection of his father made all the clearer by his sinister smile.

“Ah! Have you heard the news, dear cousin? You must be ecstatic! The biggest day in any young woman’s life is her wedding day, and yours is a mere thirty days away!”

“I fail to see how we’re to organize a royal wedding in one month,” Zelda muttered. Nohansen’s smile sank into a smirk. He ruffled her hair, knocking her tiara off in the process.

“Oh, the wedding won’t be held here” he laughed, twirling the gold in his hands, “Of course not, we can’t have those barbarians running around our castle now, can we?”

Zelda took a breath to speak-

“No,” he said, holding up a finger to stifle whatever she was about to say, “We will be taking you to them. Your glorious wedding shall take place deep in the savage Zonai wilds. They even have a little spring said to be protected by a goddess. Does that not please you, O Daughter of Hylia?” he ended with a sneer.

Zelda snatched her crown back, the gold biting against her grip as she pushed passed him to rush through hallways stained burgundy with banners bearing her uncle’s crest to climb her tower, rushing up stairs and crossing the bridge to her study, the most remote room in the entirety of Hyrule Castle. She slammed the door and locked it before kicking off her shoes and climbing her desk to open the window high above it. She lifted her face to the breeze that rushed in. It was here, away from prying eyes, that she could truly relish in fresh air. She stood there a moment to relish the stillness before lowering herself to the floor and taking a seat in front of her carefully cultivated collection of samples of Hyrule’s most elusive flower, the Silent Princess. Despite her best efforts, she couldn’t get one to sprout within the confines of her study.

Her study was cluttered with several clay pots hosting their own samples. Stalks of Saffline and flowering Blue Nightshade gently glowing against the shadows. She also had several vials full of elixirs her uncle refused to consider implementing into the kingdom’s resources, citing a lack of reports backing her claims. Of course, any reports written by Zelda herself were disqualified because of a conflict of interest.

That didn’t mean her work went unnoticed. Zelda had built quite a rapport with servants and soldiers alike when she managed to concoct a working contraceptive elixir with ingredients common enough to distribute. From that point on Zelda became an unofficial medic to the people of Castle Town. Those employed at the castle had full access to the infirmary, but the same could not be said for their families. Since her activity outside the castle was heavily restricted most of her specimens were given to her by grateful family members who consulted her.

She was reviewing her notes on the Silent Princess when a knock at the door brought tension to her shoulders.

“What is it?” she asked, wary of her cousin coming in to gloat once again.

“You’ve been invited to dinner by his Majesty King Daphnes, he requests you come down immediately.”

“I’ll be right there,” she huffed, fixing the golden band on her head and straightened her hair before making her way down to the dining hall. To her aggravation, everyone had already been seated and turned to look at her as she walked in. Another one of her uncle’s tricks.

She sat at the last open seat at the head of the table. Her uncle intended to make a spectacle of her in some way, but she didn’t find out exactly how until dessert was served and the King knocked a spoon against his glass to call for the attention of the other nobles in attendance.

“It is my tremendous pleasure to inform you all as of today that our lovely Crown Princess,” he waved to a servant, who brought over a package “is officially engaged to be married!”

There was a round of polite applause before King Daphnes cleared his throat, continuing after they quieted down. The attendant placed a solid wooden box in front of Zelda after a maid cleared her unfinished cake away.

“In honor of this momentous agreement the groom in question was so kind as to send a gift to his beautiful bride to be and I thought it only right to share this celebration with you all by letting you bear witness to the first gift between our dear Zelda and her fiance!” the King turned to her then, laying another heavy hand on her shoulder.

“Don’t be shy now. Open it.”

At first glance Zelda thought the box itself was the gift. It was finely crafted, polished wood with a reddish tinge that she hadn’t seen before, and the various symbols and runes carved into it had her itching to go to the library. Zelda lifted the lid and reached in, pulling out a knife crafted by some creature’s polished jaw bone.

The room burst out in raucous laughter.

“My word!” a woman’s voice yelled, “I knew they were backwards, but to think they would present a young lady with the remains of some animal!”

“Well of course,” cried another, “If they couldn’t fashion a proper metal blade, what hope could they have of crafting jewelry?”

Zelda fingered the spiral carved into the lid’s center as she considered pointing out that the handle was made from silver wrapped in silk, but she doubted it would make a difference.

“Well she can always wear it about her neck if she wants to show off her engagement!” Prince Nohansen laughed.

Zelda did not wear the knife around her neck, but she did take to wearing it on a sash tied at her waist. The morning after the engagement was announced Zelda descended to the lower floors of the castle to reach the laboratory. Diplomatic relations between Hyrule and Zonai were nonexistent, but there was one researcher that spent a fair amount of time in Faron to study some of the plants there, and Zelda had gotten quite acquainted with him upon his return to the castle.

“Owlan!” she called, a smile growing on her face as the old man came into view, working diligently on documenting the fruits of his research.

“Come to glean Zonai secrets, your Highness?” he asked with a raised brow and his ever present gentle smile.

“You’ve heard the news then?” she asked.

“There’s not a soul in this castle who hasn’t. It’s the talk of the town,” he closed the book he was writing in and turned to face her, “Would you like a tutor in their language?”

“I would, but that’s not the only reason I’m here,” Zelda set the box she’d received the night before on his workspace, “What do you make of this?”

He took the box in his hand, giving the intricately carved lid, “If nothing else, you know that he’s a gifted carpenter.”

“You think he made the box himself?”

“Rather than a ring, Zonai engagements are marked with a dagger. Typically the suitor in question will present said blade with a personal touch. A seamstress would wrap it in a sash for her beloved, a gardener might send flowers along with the blade itself, and your betrothed,” he tapped the box lid, “sent a carved box. Would you mind terribly if I took a look at the knife in question?”

“Go ahead,” she said, taking an empty seat beside him. She turned back to him holding the knife in question with a frown.

“What is it?” she asked.

“It’s common for particularly capable warriors in the Zonai nation to slay a beast and have a bone fashioned into the blade. It’s a way of showing off, you see,” Owlan said with a mischievous smile, “but I can’t tell what creature it’s from.”

Zelda took the dagger in her own hands, running a ringer across the large fang at the point. Now that she had a closer look, she could see etchings on the bone as well, depicting a long horned serpent curling under the teeth.

“What should I send back?”

“I’m sure a reciprocal blade would be appreciated,” he said, a twinkle in his eye.

Zelda left shortly after to visit the blacksmith to have a dagger commissioned before heading to the library. After consulting a librarian she had several books on the Zonai language sent to her room while she perused the shelves until she came across the tome she was looking for.

The Hylian Bestiary was one of the oldest books in the castle’s collection, the original copy was written back when the kingdom encompassed the entire continent. She hefted the book onto one of the empty tables and flipped through the illustrations of beasts both alive and of their remains. She rested her head on her fist, nearing the end of the section and still at a loss. She turned a page, a little discouraged until she scanned it’s contents.

There wasn’t much information on this beast, apart from reports of different colors and different regions it had been spotted in. There wasn’t a live illustration either, but there was a careful sketch of a skull. Zelda opened her box and took out the dagger just to be sure. She held it up to the page.

Her fiance had sent her a Lynel’s jaw.

If his intent was to impress, he’d certainly succeeded. She had never seen one herself, but there had been occasions where her uncle had dispatched knights to slay one that had wandered a bit too close to hylian villages. It was one of the few times the King would approve of Zelda’s assistance of the medical staff, because they always needed extra hands afterwards. Zelda returned the book to its shelf and entered her study. The books she’d asked for were stacked on her desk, but she bypassed them for her cabinet of finished elixirs. She opened the doors and considered, wondering which one she should send to her betrothed. She considered a poison she’d extracted to coat the dagger in, but decided against it. With the language barrier as high as it was, she didn’t want to risk him drinking it. She ended up making a defensive concoction that would give him an extra layer of protection, which he might need if he made a habit of facing Lynels.

She was called down to the blacksmith’s a few hours later to approve of their handiwork. The blade was serrated, as she’s requested, and a fair bit longer than the knife around her waist, but she gave her approval and had it shipped off with her elixir to her fiance before returning to her study and reading through the basics of the Zonai language.

A week after she sent her own engagement dagger she had received another gift from her fiance. Unlike the first, this gift was contained within a basket. Zelda had the good fortune to intercept the servant on the way to deliver her gift to her uncle. The maid in question was a regular consumer of one of her contraceptives, so it didn’t take much convincing before she was walking back to her room with the basket tucked under one arm. She sat on her bed, and somewhat excitedly opened the lid of the basket-

And slammed it back down again. She stared at the basket as though it might combust for a moment, heart slamming against her ribcage. Not wanting to jump to any conclusions, Zelda gingerly picked up the basket and placed it on her desk, ond once she put a few paper weights over the lid, paid Owlan a visit.

“Good afternoon your Highness! Are your studies going well?” he asked, looking up from the medication he was crafting.

“How do the Zonai feel about snakes?” she asked by way of greeting.

“Well I would say they’re quite fond of the little creatures,” Owlan explained, “Snakes in general are held in high regard due to their resemblance to one of their guardian deities. The Faron Python in particular is a common pet.”

“A snake is a common pet?”

“Contrary to popular belief, they can be quite friendly. The Faron Python is known for being affectionate and gentle, that coupled with their penchant to hunt pests earned them a spot in many a Zonai household.”

Zelda found herself in the library once again looking for answers regarding the nature of an engagement, and returned to her room with an illustrated guide to Faron Pythons and their care. Once she was once again seated on her bed with the basket placed in front of her. She made sure to turn to the page to a diagram of the snake’s physical characteristics to make sure she could verify her suspicion. Not wanting to spook the creature, she took the lid off slowly, giving the snake a moment to adjust to the light of her room before taking a closer look.

The serpent itself was shockingly beautiful, bright white scales with splashes of blue along its body that looked almost translucent reflecting the light filtering through her windows. After a few tense moments, Zelda carefully reached in the basket. The serpent didn’t shy away, so she felt secure enough to tuck her hand underneath a section of its body to gently lift it. First it was only a few inches, giving the sweet creature a chance to escape, but it only curled around her hand in an embrace that felt softer then it looked. The snake slowly turned to look at her. A tongue flicked out of an upturned mouth, and Zelda was lost.

From that day forward, it was common to see the Crown Princess of Hyrule walking through the castle with a serpent coiled around her neck. She liked the reaction her new friend had on those around her, even her uncle and cousin seemed to give her a wide berth whenever they caught sight of the python leisurely draped around her shoulders. She never mentioned the snake’s name because she liked the watchful respect she acquired and refused to undermine it by advertising that the intimidating serpent’s name was Noodle.

With this new edge to her authority Zelda made doubly sure that any gifts from her mysterious groom came directly to her hands. The benefits to this policy were two fold, the first being insurance that her uncle wouldn’t make a further mockery of her engagement or perhaps keep the gift if he took a liking to it. The second was the prevention of any diplomatic incidents. As much as she loved Noodle, Zelda was well aware that a snake in a basket could be interpreted as an assassination attempt.

As thanks for her new friend, Zelda sent one of her old journals she thought had a thorough description of how she made some of her earlier, more basic elixirs. She knew there was a chance he might not understand Hylian, but she thought it would be a good way to get to know her. She had tried translating the recipes, but gave up after the first few and sent the incomplete list rather than spend her remaining month translating a single journal. Her Zonai vocabulary was primarily conversational and sadly didn’t include scientific vernacular.

She must have gotten her point across, however, as just a week later she was delighted to find a few vials full of her fiance’s attempts to recreate her recipes.

Zelda was also surprised, quite a feat after Noodle’s auspicious arrival, to find a Silent Princess pressed into glass. At first she was perplexed, wondering if her fiance had simply ventured a lucky guess, but then she recalled the day she began researching the flower and attempting to foster it on her own was also the day she filled that journal, suggesting her fiance had read to the last page of her journal before preparing his third gift.

Her elation at this discovery was fueled by a torrent of relief. She had heard the stories of arranged marriages gone wrong. She had considered countless times in the past weeks that the gifts sent could be a ploy to gain her affections only to have such generosity evaporate as soon as the final wedding vow was spoken. Yet the Silent Princess in her hands whispered tales of a considerate husband, who took the time to read through all she had written and took the time to learn her interests. Deep in Zelda’s chest, she felt hope flicker, foolish as it might have been.

#zelink #zelink botw #botw au #link botw #the legend of zelda #the legend of zelda breath of the wild #zelda botw #arranged marriage au #zonai link #fanfic

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looneywrites · 3 years ago

Text

ayy, this the remix

Chapter Five: coming home

Read this on AO3

With a pop, Harry appeared in front of a set of tall, wooden doors. He lurched on his feet for a moment before settling, and looked around with curiosity. He found himself standing on stone steps in front of a large house. Behind him, a cobblestone driveway curled up around a centre fountain to the front of the house. The huge stone fountain was in the shape of a creature with an eagle’s head and lion’s body, a stream of water bursting out of its raised wings. Rolling grass hills stretched beyond the walls and front gate as far as the eye could see, the setting sun turning the sky a blend of purple and orange. Harry turned back to the door, eyes catching on a carved gold door knocker in the same eagle’s head as the fountain.

Zigby bounced, “Young Master Harry must let the wards of home accept him before we enter. Place your hand on the gryphon head and let the magic wash over you, master.”

Harry did as the elf ordered, a little confused about how a house was supposed to accept him. Not even a second after he touched the knocker, Harry felt a rush of warmth fill him, bright and soft, a hundred times more intoxicating than the surge he had felt when his wand chose him. This warmth Harry could feel down to his bones, and felt safe and loving. It felt like a comforting hug and a full belly— it felt like coming home.

"A son of House Potter has come home. He is grateful for this house and asks for entry. Magic bless him and keep him safe."

The doors glowed a bright gold before slowly swinging open. Harry felt the magic settle upon him with a happy sigh and felt invigorated, like he could run ten kilometres and not even break a sweat. Grinning widely, he walked into his family home for the first time and promptly fell in love.

The floors gleamed a white marble and a huge glass chandelier hung above the entrance hall, illuminating the grand space. A plush burgundy carpet with a gryphon in flight embroidered in gold thread warmed up the floor. There were several doors to the left and right of a grand staircase that stood in the centre, gold ivy leaves curling around the mahogany balustrades. Harry walked in, his mouth slightly open in awe. Two pops later, and Mipsy and Colby appeared next to Zigby, all three elves beaming up at him.

“Welcome to the ancestral home of the Ancient House of Potter, young master. This is the entrance hall, and the receiving room for guests and the tea room are on the right, and the kitchen and dining room are on the left. Behind the staircase are the ballroom and duelling chamber. Would the Master like a tour of the manor, or would you like to eat dinner first?”

Harry thought about it for a moment, and told Zigby he’d eat first then they could give him the tour. The elf nodded, and led him to the kitchen. Inside, Harry found a large, airy space, with big windows above cabinetry and a sink, letting in a ton of natural light. There was a round wooden table and chairs in the right corner of the room, a large counter space dominating the centre of the room, and an old fashioned fire spit on the left wall. Small potted plants lined the window sills, and copper pots and pans hung from racks above the counter space. In the far left corner was a small staircase leading to a cellar door, and there was an arched doorway leading to the dining room on the right wall.

Mipsy led Harry to sit at the table, before a beautiful set of silverware, that upon closer inspection appeared to be real silver and were carved with the same gryphon crest Harry had seen at Gringotts. The elf soon presented Harry with a simple pasta bake, with a few slices of warm bread. He breathed in the delicious smells and thanked Mipsy profusely, his mouth already watering. When the elves moved to leave him to his meal, Harry stopped them and insisted they eat with him. A little cajoling later, and they did so, and Harry took the opportunity to regale them with his day.

When he was done eating, feeling deliciously full and eyes droopy with sleepiness, Zigby took one look at him and insisted on a proper tour the next day. When Harry tried to protest, the senior elf simply stared him down, before ordering Colby to show Harry the way to his room.

As Harry made his way through the manor, he could barely appreciate all the homely splendour around him. A brief battle with the taps in his bathroom after depositing his purchases and bag on the desk, Harry fell into his bed, dead to the world.

The next morning, Harry laid in bed unwilling to open his eyes for fear that it had all been a dream. But as he laid there, it didn’t take long for him to realise that his mattress was far too soft and comfortable to be the one in his cupboard. He snapped his eyes open and in the early morning light streaming through a window, found to his joy that it hadn’t all been a dream. Harry sat up in his bed (his very own bed! With pillows and a giant blanket and so much space he could roll all around it!), and reached out to put on his glasses.

Harry felt so happy, as if there was a balloon inside him that could lift him straight up to the ceiling. Last night, he had been so tired that he had barely taken in anything about his room, but in the light of day Harry could appreciate how different things were for him now. He was now the sole resident and owner of a beautiful manor house, and in his very first bedroom, Harry could already see how grand his new life would be.

Harry’s room was twice as large as the Dursley’s bedroom, but instead of Aunt Petunia’s gross floral and dated design, his room was bright and airy. His bed was in the corner of the room, next to large windows outfitted with white cotton curtains. At the foot of his bed was a beautiful red quilt, and directly opposite him was an oak wardrobe and dresser next to the entryway leading to the attached bathroom. To Harry’s right was a wooden desk and bookshelf that lined up along the way towards the doorway.

Harry pushed back the blankets and swung his legs over the edge of the bed, taking in all the details of his room. He sank his toes into a plush scarlet rug, and glanced over the bookshelf neatly organised against the wall. Getting up, Harry ran an eye over the strange titles and small gadgets decorating the shelves curiously, before making his way over to the bathroom.

When he got out of the shower and stepped back into the room, Harry found to his surprise a set of clothes laid out on the bed. He hesitantly put them on, noting the slight bagginess, but good quality of the shirt and linen trousers. He slipped on some socks with winged gold balls on them and headed downstairs.

As Harry made his way through the manor, he looked around eagerly around at the beautiful flower arrangements lining the hallways, the various paintings along the walls, and the cosy warmth the house seemed to hold. He was tempted to check out all the rooms but remembered that he’d promised he would let Zigby give him a tour. Therefore, Harry made his way down the main staircase and headed over to the kitchen.

Walking in, Harry breathed in the smell of sausages sizzling in a pan and happily greeted Mipsy when he saw her. The elf, dressed today in a green and white floral smock, beamed at him from her position at the stove. She called for Colby, and the younger elf appeared just as Harry sat down at the kitchen table.

“Good morning Master Harry! Colby be hoping that you is having a good sleep and found clothes and room to his liking! Can Colby pour Master Harry a glass of orange juice?”

Harry agreed, and thanked the elf for preparing the room so wonderfully. “Colby, where did you get these clothes? And whose things are the books and knick-knacks in my room?” He asked, taking a sip of his juice as Colby bustled around the kitchen.

The elf replied, “the room is being Master Jay’s old room. Zigby said that Master Harry would like to be where his father slept! The clothes also be Master Jay’s too— we is kept all his robes, books, and toys in good condition so Master Harry can use what he likes.”

Colby then slathered several slices of fresh bread with marmalade and gave it to Harry, before bringing over a plate of scrambled eggs and a bowl of cut fruit. Mipsy brought the just-cooked sausages and beans to the table as well, before returning to clean up.

Harry stared at the heaping plates of food before him and choked back tears at the thought of having spent the night in his father’s childhood bedroom. To think he was even wearing his dad’s clothes—! He sniffed, and shoved a forkful of egg in his mouth. Harry ate his breakfast silently as he tried to get a hold of his emotions, the elves bustling around the room.

When Harry pierced a piece of sausage on his fork, he heard a small gasp behind him. Turning around, he saw a large portrait of a short brunette woman in an old fashioned dress seated in a small garden. To his astonishment, the painting moved and the woman stood and covered her mouth with a hand. Harry stared at the woman, sausage hanging precariously from his mouth, as the woman clapped her hands and spoke in a bright voice.

“Oh it is so wonderful to see you here! We have waited so long to see you again my dear. How are you? Did you sleep well? How old are you? Have you settled in well at the Manor?”

Harry blinked at the barrage of questions and slowly swallowed. “Um, hello? I’m doing okay, but uh— who are you? And how on earth are you talking?!”

“Gosh, where are my manners! My name is Elaine Potter, pleased to meet you, my dear," the pronounced with a small curtsey. "I am a magical portrait of the real life Elaine Potter- imbued with her personality at the time of my painting. I am so pleased to welcome you home dear— everyone is so excited to meet you!”

A talking portrait — well, that’s something.

“Uh, who’s everyone? And how come you’re the only portrait I’ve seen so far in the house?”

Elaine beamed and gracefully sat down again before replying. “The reason I have a portrait here in the kitchen is because I enjoyed cooking very much when I was alive. I even published a few cooking books that you could find in the library if you’re interested, dear.”

She gestured to Harry’s full plate with a fond smile, and he hastily started eating again. “As for everyone, I of course mean the rest of our family who have portraits in the Manor. There are portraits in the library, the family room and the tea room— but all of us are in the portrait gallery. When you’re finished, I suggest you head on up there to meet them all.”

Harry nodded, and quickly made his way through the heaping of food Mipsy had given him. Elaine then gave him a brief summary of her life when he asked, and he listened to her long stories about her childhood and later marriage. To think that this was one of his ancestors! Harry shook his head with wonder, and followed Zigby for his promised tour when he was done.

A quick peek at all the rooms on the ground floor later, Harry found himself before a grand set of glass doors opposite the library. He breathed in deeply, nerves twisting his stomach, and stepped swiftly into the large gallery. The floors gleamed in the same marble as the entrance hall, lit gently by three glittering chandeliers.

As Harry made his way inside, he looked around in wonder at the dozens of portraits hung on the walls, small sofas and art pieces decorating the floor. There was a brief pause as he walked in, before the room exploded into noise. All around him, various people called loudly out at him as he passed them. An old man with the most eccentric glasses Harry had ever seen burst into tears upon seeing Harry, while his neighbour furiously shook a top hat about.

Mouth slightly agape, Harry stared in shock in the middle of the gallery. Then, there was a bang! He spun around and saw a tall man lifting an ornate cane from the floor beckon Harry closer to his portrait. Harry walked towards the large painting, side stepping a small stone bust.

Stopping a few metres before the portrait, Harry gazed up at the distinguished man dressed in a grey pinstripe suit and black outer robe, cane in hand. He had dark hair with silver streaks that was neatly combed, an old fashioned moustache, and sharp blue eyes that watched Harry carefully.

Seated next to the older man, was a tall, slender woman in a midnight blue gown. She was almost astonishingly beautiful, with dark skin that seemed to glow and deep brown eyes. She smiled upon meeting Harry’s eyes, sweeping thick black hair over her shoulder as she leaned forward.

“Salam Alaikum, Hari. Welcome to Potter Manor. My name is Ishtar Potter, and this is my husband, William. We are your great-grandparents.”

Harry stared in shock at the couple who gazed warmly back at him. The gallery had all gone silent, and he felt their eyes on his back. Swallowing thickly, Harry smiled up at his family in greeting, hands twitching nervously. William looked down at him fondly, and informed him in a deep voice that the portrait on the wall adjacent to theirs held his grandparents. Harry turned to look and found himself before another couple.

The man before him had short, black textured hair and brown skin, with dark eyes framed by thick glasses. He was dressed in maroon robes and was seated on a small brown chaise. Next to him sat an Indian woman, dressed in a shimmering red saree that draped gracefully around her body. She wore gold dangling earrings and gold bangles that clinked softly as she moved.

“Hello, Hari. My name is Nadir Potter and this is my wife Sonam. You can call me grandpa, and her dadima, which will hopefully help you differentiate between all of us,” he chuckled. Harry nodded sharply, and felt his breath catch.

“And you can call me jidda, and William grandfather,” his great-grandmother declared. “Why don’t you have a seat, sweetheart? We can then all speak with you and we can get to know each other.”

Feeling slightly faint, Harry quickly grabbed a small cushioned seat and brought it between the two portraits. He sat, his heart pounding, and braced himself to learn about his family for the first time.

#looneywrites #hp au #all the lord!Harry tropes #poc!Potters

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pixiegrl · 4 years ago

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“I bought you a beanie! Isn’t the pompom cute?” with fairy tale lashton

Meghna!! I’m so happy to revisit bad gift giving mermaid and werewolf Lashton with more gift giving gone wrong and then right! This is the sequel to this fic. Shout out to Amanda for editing this!

On ao3 at: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28254867

Luke’s stuck. It’s Christmas and he’s relatively sure that Ashton celebrates Christmas. Do werewolves celebrate? They must. Luke’s never celebrated Christmas, because he’s a mermaid and he’s still trying to understand human customs. Ashton’s spent his whole life on land, so surely he must celebrate this. As such, Luke’s picked out a gift for Ashton that he’s sure is perfect. It’s a beanie with a cute little purple pom-pom. Luke happens to think Ashton looks very nice in deep purple, complimenting his hazel-gold eyes and he thinks the colors of the beanie will be good for Ashton. The weather is getting colder too and Ashton never seems to have a hat, unlike Luke who has to wear three layers at all times. Luke texted Ashton an hour ago, asking him to come by the shop so that he could give Ashton his gift.

“You’re excited,” Michael says from his spot on the other side of the counter, sorting through different gemstones for authenticity and their value.

“I have Ashton’s gift. It’s perfect and I can’t wait for him to get here so he can see it,” Luke says, bouncing on his heels and fiddling with his pearl necklace. Reginald bubbles in agreement to Luke. Michael rolls his eyes.

“You two are gross. It’s only been like two months and you’re practically married already. Maybe your gift should be an engagement ring.”

Luke blushes, “I couldn’t do that Mikey. It’s too soon.”

“Ashton gave you a pearl. That’s like a proposal already. Why don’t you just make it official?”

Luke’s saved from answering by the bell at the front door jingling, bringing Ashton in from the cold in a burst of cool air and a light dusting of snow. The door’s barely closed behind him before Luke’s rushing over, fussing over Ashton to make sure he’s not cold. Ashton laughs, pulling Luke in for a quick kiss.

“Hi Starfish. How’s your day?” He says when they separate.

Luke grins, “Better now that you’re here, Moonshine. I haven’t seen you in ages.”

“It’s been four hours. Get a room you two,” Michael grumbles from the counter. Luke steadfastly ignores him.

“I have a surprise for you,” Ashton says, grinning widely, sharp canines on display. Luke’s heart flutters.

“What a coincidence, so do I.”

Luke tugs Ashton over to the counter, rounding it and pulling his gift from underneath, laying it out for Ashton. Ashton grins, pulling his gift from inside his coat. It’s a neat little gift, wrapped in silver paper. Luke picks it up, realizing that the paper is covered in little seashells. He laughs a little, earning him a bright smile from Ashton.

Luke tears into the paper. It’s the first Christmas gift he’s ever received and he’s excited to see it. Surely, Ashton’s gotten him something sentimental and personal now that they’re dating.

Luke is wrong. He pulls a white crop top out of the paper, with little purple seashells on the chest. Luke cocks his head to the side, glancing up at Ashton, who’s grinning earnestly at him.

“I don’t...um...get it?”

The smile drops from Ashton’s face, “The Little Mermaid? She has a seashell top she wears.”

“Did you just compare Luke to a cartoon teenage mermaid?” Michael blurts out, laughter edging at his voice. Ashton goes red.

“I thought it was cute.”

“It’s cute. Thank you, Ash,” Luke rushes out, trying to soothe over the situation quickly before the werewolf’s mood drops even more. He’s already drooping as is.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes it’s very cute. I’ll wear it when it’s a little warmer out. Why don’t you open yours?” Luke says, gesturing to the package and trying to distract Ashton. Ashton perks up, tearing into his own wrapping paper. He pulls the beanie out, frowning slightly at it while he glances between Luke and the present.

“A hat?”

“It’s a beanie! I say it and I know you never have a hat, so I bought you a beanie! To keep you warm! Isn’t the pom-pom cute?” Luke gushes out, leaning over to bat at the little pom-pom.

“Luke, this is very sweet, but I don’t use a hat because I don’t get cold,” Ashton says, looking up at Luke sheepishly.

Luke freezes, “What?”

“I’m a werewolf. I don’t get cold. Internal body heat and all. I’m practically a furnace.”

“But it’s cold out. Don’t you need a hat sometimes?”

“Not usually. It’s cute though. Thank you for the thought,” Ashton says, taking the beanie and putting it into his coat pocket. Luke’s filled with despair looking at it.

“You’re welcome,” He mumbles, crestfallen. Ashton smiles, corners of it not reaching his eyes as he leans over, pressing a kiss to Luke’s cheek.

“I have to run. Thank you for the gift, it was very sweet. I’ll see you later,” Ashton says, raising his hand in a wave to Michael as he leaves the shop.

There’s a beat of silence when Luke huffs, morosely and looks down at the crop top. Michael clears his throat.

“You’re doing it again,” Michael says.

“Doing what again?”

“Failing to communicate and giving each other shitty gifts. Except you guys are dating now so you shouldn’t be this bad at it,” Michael says, staring at the rose quartz in this hand, turning it over and over. Luke stares at the side of Michael’s head blinking. No that’s not...that can’t be…it can’t be happening again. Right?

Luke looks down at the crop top in his hands with the seashells on it, the thing that reminds Luke of Ariel.

“Michael, this is like...a joke gift though. This is the kind of thing you would buy me.”

“I think Ashton was trying to be funny? And before you, the only mermaid he’s probably seen is Ariel. Plus, we already know you two suck at giving proper gifts. It has to be,” Michael says, glancing at Luke over the rim of his glasses.

Luke huffs, thumbing his forehead down on the countertop, groaning.

“Oh god Michael. We are. I bought a werewolf a beanie. He bought me a seashell bra top. We are destined to be a mess, aren’t we?” Luke moans.

“We saved this last time. Maybe we just need to do some more research. Find what we can give a werewolf. I have faith in us,” Michael says.

“What do I even get him? This is so stupid,” Luke mumbles against the counter. Michael hums.

“Well, last time he got you the pearl. Maybe we can find something in one of the books for species rituals. Seriously, we didn’t exhaust all our courting options with the potion.”

“The pearl was practically a proposal.”

“So, we find something that’s a proposal for werewolves. There has to be something out here. Chin up, Ariel. We’ll figure something out for your Beast,” Michael says, grinning.

“You’re mixing Disney movies, Tinker Bell.”

“Fuck you, I’m a Merryweather,” Michael says, mock offended, wide grin on his face. Luke rolls his eyes. He regrets making friends with Michael.

“Fine Merryweather. Show me in the direction of the books. Let's get started,” Luke says. He’s going to regret this, he knows.

***

Luke’s sure he has the perfect gift now. He and Michael looped through all the possibilities for days before landing on it. Luke still has the knife he tried to give Ashton months ago. He knows that Ashton won’t use it to hunt, but Luke still wants to extend the sentimentality and meaning of it to Ashton. Ashton gave him the pearl, practically proposed marriage and Luke wants to extend the same thing to Ashton. Show Ashton that he’s serious. It’s taken a little bit of time and effort, but with Michael and Calum’s help, Luke’s crafted a shadowbox for the knife. He polished the wood and put the box together, carving a little moon with Ashton’s initials in it and a little starfish with his in it. It wants it to be pretty, something that will remind Ashton of them, a display of their love (and, Luke selfishly thinks, something they can display in their future home).

He and Ashton are having their weekly date night at Ashton’s apartment. Luke prefers Ashton’s apartment. It doesn’t have Michael for one thing, but it feels more lived in. Luke’s place is messy, practically an extension of their store, filled with books and potions and anything else they can find. It never used to bother Luke, but now, after seeing Ashton’s apartment, filled with family photos, bits and pieces of his life, blankets, plants, and candles, Luke realizes that this is a home. That he never wants to leave Ashton’s apartment, wants to weave himself into Ashton’s life, add his seashells and seaglass to the collection of things Ashton has, wants to be a permanent part of Ashton’s life.

Luke’s clutching onto his gift in its little gift bag, approaching the door to Ashton’s apartment. Luke has only just raised his hand to knock on the door, when Ashton pulls it open, grinning. His curls are messy, falling into his eyes and he’s wearing an apron. It’s endearingly cute and Luke has no choice but to lean over, brushing the hair out of Ashton’s eyes and pressing a kiss to his nose.

“Moonshine,” He says, giggling when Ashton pulls him close, burying his nose into Luke’s neck.

“Starfish.”

“How did you even know I was here?”

“Smelled the ocean wave down the hall. Only one person smells like that.”

“Sap,” Luke mumbles, tugging Ashton back and kissing him on the mouth. Ashton grins into the kiss, nipping at Luke’s bottom lip before pulling back. He grabs hold of Luke’s hand and tugs him inside and over to the dining table. Luke knows that Ashton never used to eat fish before Luke, just like Luke never used to eat meat, but they’ve been slowly adapting their tastes to fit each other. It looks like Ashton made some kind of stew tonight, smelling of potatoes and vegetables and fish. It warms Luke, knowing that Ashton made something he would like.

“And I made those ginger cookies for us later. The ones you liked last week,” Ashton says. Luke grins, settling in at the dinner table. Ashton goes around to the other chair, settling in. They swap stories back and forth, Ashton talking about how his day on site as a carpenter was, the table he’s building for a client, Luke talking about having to deal with the various witches who come into the store, thinking they know more than Luke and Michael.

Eventually, they finish their meal, clearing the table, Ashton washing the dishes, Luke drying them. Ashton makes tea when they’re done, carrying the two mugs and the plate of cookies over to the table.

“So, I have a gift for you,” Ashton says, clearing his throat. Luke glances up at Ashton, notices the blush on his cheeks.

“You do?”

“Yeah. I realized the last gift wasn’t the best and I talked with Michael, who had a really great idea.”

“What a coincidence. Michael also helped me plan my gift to you.”

“Michael’s a menace it would seem,” Ashton mumbles.

“Guess that depends on what the gift is,” Luke says. Ashton blushes even harder, turning around to picking the gift up off the counter behind them. It’s small, neatly wrapped in the same paper as before. Luke snorts, getting up to grab his gift off the table by the door and bringing it over. He places it in front of Ashton and sits back down, peeling the paper back on his.

Luke sucks in a breath when he realizes that it’s a rabbit’s foot. He picks it up gingerly, turning it over in his hands. He looks up at Ashton, ready to ask him about it and feels his breath catch in his throat when he realizes Ashton’s holding the shadowbox with the knife in it.

“Luke. You gave me the knife?” He whispers, looking up at Luke, meeting his eyes. Ashton’s look a little wet, like he’s close to crying, voice full of emotion.

“I know you don’t need it to hunt like I do, but it’s still an important part of my culture. It’s a courting gift and it’s important because it’s crafted to fit the person we want to be with. I designed it specifically for you back when I first gave it to you. Usually, you would use it to hunt, but since you don’t need to, I thought you could display it. See, I even carved our names into the outside. You practically proposed to me with the pearl and I wanted to do the same for you. I love you, in the forever kind of way. I want to be with you and I want you to have this knife,” Luke rushes out. He blushes when Ashton looks up at him again, glancing between the box and Luke’s face.

“Luke,” Ashton says again.

“Is that good or bad?”

“Good. So, so good. The rabbit’s foot is from that rabbit I gave you months ago. Michael apparently saved the foot and gave it to me cause he read about how important the rabbit is for us. He said I should give it to you as a gift and that it would make sense later. Now I get it,” Ashton says.

Luke’s a little puzzled at that, looking between the rabbit’s foot and the knife before it clicks, “Oh, we can display the foot. We can display our love for everyone. Oh, Ashton.”

Luke leans across the table, pulling Ashton in for a kiss, soft and full of love. Ashton huffs against his lips, pulling back.

“Wait, did Michael just give you this idea?”

“Yeah, must have been a couple days again. I guess after you made the box.”

“So, did you literally come up with a gift idea that quickly?”

“Well, I had another idea before this.”

“What was it?”

“Check the wrapping,” Ashton says. Curious, Luke leans back, moving the paper. A key falls out, bright blue and covered in little waves.

“Is this...for here?”

“It’s a key to the apartment, yeah. I...I want you to move in. I mean, we’re engaged almost and it would be nice to come home to you. To know that you’ll always be here, that you’re not leaving. I want this to be your home, our home. I want to build a life with you and I want it to start here.”

Luke rushes around the table, pulling Ashton into a tight hug, pressing kisses to his face. Ashton laughs, returning the kisses happily.

“Yes, yes, a thousand times yes I’ll move in. I want never want to leave, I want to call this home, to put our shadowbox up on the wall for everyone to see, I want to argue with you over closet space and I want this to be home,” Luke says, pressing the words to Ashton’s skin in a quick succession of kisses.

“Well then, welcome home Luke. Merry Christmas.”

“Merry Christmas, Ashton,” Luke says, burying himself in close to Ashton, pressing his face into Ashton’s neck. He has a home, a place to call his, a life to build with Ashton, the love of his life. It’s the best gift he could have asked for.

#5 seconds of summer #lashton #luke hemmings #ashton irwin #im back with more fairytale au with mermaid luke and werewolf ashton #bad at gift giving #what else is new #my writing

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kelyon · 4 years ago

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Golden Rings 7: A Salad

The Storybrooke Sequel to Golden Cuffs

Rumple makes dinner for Mrs. Gold

Read on AO3

Cooking was a skill Rumpelstiltskin shared with Gold. In the old world, the women who’d raised him had shown him all their tricks of brewing and baking and making the most of anything on hand. They told him that a boy needed to be able to do for himself just as much as a girl would. When he’d married Millah, he’d known more recipes than she had. They’d laughed about that--during the brief time when there had been any laughter between them. Even before she left him and Bae, the task of feeding them had often fallen on him.

Once he’d gained the powers of the Dark One, Rumpelstiltskin had been able to conjure up feasts beyond imagining. He’d delighted in pulling food out of the air, grand dishes he would never have tasted as a poor spinner. But Bae had insisted that he liked the old meals better, the food his papa had made with his hands. So he had tried not to use magic for a while. For Baelfire’s sake, he had tried.

For Gold, cooking had been a necessary art. There weren’t many restaurants in Storybrooke, and their menus quickly grew tiresome. Though he could easily afford a private chef, Gold disliked the invasion of allowing another person into his home. Why should he trust some stranger in his kitchen, handling his food? Gold took pride in the self-sufficiency inherent in creating his own menus. Cooking required patience, preparation, and a deft hand--all traits he valued in himself.

And, as with most things, it was a way to flaunt his wealth. Not everyone had the time and resources to master the art of haute cuisine. Gold could spend hundreds of dollars on a set of copper crepe pans or custom-forged knives. And he would only bother with the rarest ingredients--the freshest vegetables, the leanest cuts of meat. The style of this world was to present individual bites of food on plates large enough to hold a whole dinner. At fine restaurants, a three-bite portion could cost more than a family’s weekly grocery bill.

Disparities like that amused Gold to no end. His cruel, spiteful nature liked wasting money as much as he liked having it. He would season his food with costly saffron and white truffles--and then throw half of it away, uneaten. No one in Storybrooke knew about that, of course. But Gold knew. It gave him a twisted satisfaction to compare his own extravagant asceticism with the panicked thrift of every working-class parent who looked with grateful eyes at the 99 cent kid’s meal at Chicken Little’s.

Because of course Gold had no actual appreciation for fine foods. Bastard didn’t take joy in any of his possessions or his privileges. He just liked having things that other people couldn’t afford. Things that other people wanted, and envied him for having.

Mrs. Gold came into the kitchen through the door that led out from the patio. Relying on his cane, Rumpelstiltskin had only been able to carry the box that held his dagger and the chipped cup. But his wife held a bag of groceries in each arm.

“I’ll set these down and go get the rest!”

She flounced off, an impressive feat considering the height of her heels. Belle had had difficulty the first time she’d worn shoes like that. It had been his task to teach her how to walk, how to dance. They had come to love dancing together in the ballroom of his castle. On the day of their wedding, they had danced for hours.

But in this world he was crippled again. On the night Mr. and Mrs. Gold had wed, she had danced with every man in Storybrooke except him.

Small as she was, even hobbled by her footwear, Mrs. Gold was capable of mundane tasks that would cause him agony. Whether Gold liked it or not, his life was easier with her around.

Perhaps that was why Gold liked to make her life so difficult.

When she came back to the kitchen, Mrs. Gold busied herself with the groceries and Rumpelstiltskin began to make dinner. Without thinking about it, he pulled out a drawer for a cup into which he could measure out chicken stock and wine and something called arborio rice. Gold had already planned to make risotto, and Rumpelstiltskin had no reason to object. He let Gold’s knowledge guide him through the process. On his own, he didn’t know where ingredients were or how to operate the massive hearth--no. Gold’s kitchen had no hearth, just a stove. It was powered by something called natural gas.

A twist of a knob, and Rumpelstiltskin summoned up a circle of blue flame. On top of the flame, he placed a heavy, enamel-coated saute pan. It was so clean it looked like it had never been used. But he knew it had been. This pan was one of Gold’s favorites.

Into the pan, he drizzled a stream of oil. The bottle said it was imported from Italy. Rumpelstiltskin assumed that was a marker of quality, or at least expense. He felt Gold in the back of his mind, offering up exactly how much the best extra virgin olive oil cost per ounce, not to mention the price of shipping directly from Tuscany.

Rumpelstiltskin pushed Gold away with memories of a time when even butter was an unspeakable luxury. From the time he was a boy he had learned to pour off grease and lard and meat drippings into a clay crock so it could be used again when needed. Fat had been a precious commodity in the old world. Animals didn’t have much on their flesh and people had even less. The idea of being choosy about what the grease tasted like--or even if it had gone rancid--was ludicrous.

Behind him, Mrs. Gold had the refrigerator door open and was putting away the food she had bought earlier.

“Can you hand me the chopped leeks?” Meticulous as a machine, Gold did the preparation for his meals days ahead of time. Half the glass containers in the refrigerator were full vegetables he had minced to a paste or diced into perfect uniformity.

“Yes, Mr. Gold!”

She bent at the waist to search for the container he requested. With obvious intent, she hollowed her back and stuck out her pert, round, arse. His hands itched to touch her. He wanted to squeeze that soft flesh or deliver a sharp smack against her pretty skirt. Nothing too severe. Just enough to make his wife yelp. Just enough to let her know that he was looking.

Instead, Rumpelstiltskin looked away.

Surprisingly quiet in her heels, Mrs. Gold set some food on the counter beside him.

“I got out the butterflied chicken breasts as well, Mr. Gold. Was that correct?”

“It was.” He said what Gold would say, made the menu Gold had planned. “And you’ll serve the same sauvignon blanc I’m using to make the sauce. It should all be ready in less than twenty minutes.”

“Wonderful!” She smiled like he had given her a gift. “After I put away the groceries, may I set the table for both of us?”

He heard the question inside her question. Every night, Mrs. Gold set a place for her husband at the head of the dining room table. Where she ate depended on how he felt about her on any given day.

“Yes, dear.” Rumpelstiltskin unwrapped the chicken from the butcher paper and added it to the sizzling leeks. “I want my wife close to me tonight.”

****

While Gold had control of the actual preparation of food, part of their routine was that Mrs. Gold had to plate the food and bring it to him in the dining room. It stroked Gold’s ego to be served by a beautiful woman, to have his wife at his beck and call. He got to use his power. Pretend that he was some kind of lord of the manor.

A sad little king of a sad little hill.

Rumpelstiltskin sighed as he sank into the carved wooden chair at the head of the table. Like everything else in this house, the table was an antique masterpiece, stately and dark. A red damask table runner spanned the length of it, breaking up the shine of the polished oak. Two thin tapers burned in crystal candle holders on either side of a centerpiece of silk flowers. Even with the candles, the room was an ocean of darkness.

They were soy candles. Rumpelstiltskin hated knowing that. Soy melted at a lower temperature than beeswax, so these candles were relatively cooler, more tolerable on bare skin. By the time the meal had ended, quite a pool would have melted down. Hot wax, ready to pour over a naked body, if that was what Gold decided he wanted for dessert.

He looked to his left, to the chair where Mrs. Gold would sit. Both places at the table were set with polished silver and gold-rimmed crystal goblets. Linen napkins were wrapped neatly into engraved napkin rings. The bone china plates were currently in the kitchen. Most people in Storybrooke only saw this level of grandeur at black-tie events. Like weddings.

“Here we are!” Mrs. Gold burst into the dining room with a plate in each hand. She was still wearing her high-heeled shoes. She had been wearing them all day. Didn’t her feet hurt?

Rumpelstiltskin almost stood to help her. But the second he put weight on his ankle he winced and sank back into the chair. His cane was leaning against the table’s edge. By the time he thought to grab it and stand up properly, Mrs. Gold was already placing a plate in front of him.

“Thank you for permitting me to join you, Mr. Gold. I hope you’ll find me pleasant company.” She poured some chilled white wine into his glass. Her voice wasn’t quite as bubbly as it had been earlier. She seemed more subdued, like she was trying to be seductive.

Rumpelstiltskin took a drink.

It was only when he set his wine glass down again that he noticed that Mrs. Gold’s glass was empty. She hadn’t poured anything for herself. Though she sat in a chair, her hands were placed palms-down on the table top, on either side of her plate.

Oh yes, that was a rule. She wasn’t allowed to start eating until Gold did.

“Well, then.” Rumpelstiltskin shook out his napkin and placed it in his lap before he cut into the chicken and leeks.

In the silent dining room, he heard the half-sigh that came out of Mrs. Gold. She was relieved, wasn’t she? Grateful that her husband hadn’t changed his mind about tolerating her presence.

Swallowing his first bite, Rumpelstiltskin opened his mouth to speak. But what could he say? What could he offer this woman? How could he undo the damage of twenty-eight years of living like this?

But he had to try.

He looked up at his wife. And for the first time, he paid attention to what was on her plate. There was nothing but green leaves. No chicken in white wine sauce. No pan-fried leeks. Not a single grain of risotto.

“What are you eating?”

He heard his own voice come out in a thin, deadly whisper. He gripped his fork, too tightly to be natural.

Mrs. Gold saw that. She dropped her own fork onto her plate and looked over at him with wide eyes. “I--it’s a salad, Mr. Gold.” She lowered her gaze and sat with her hands in her lap. If he concentrated, he could see her trembling.

A salad.

Of course it was. He had seen her bring it in with the other groceries, a plastic tub of pre-washed baby spinach. Cheap and easy, just like her. It was part of their routine, one of Gold’s rules. Every night for dinner, all Mrs. Gold was allowed to take for herself was a plateful of salad greens, with no dressing. Anything else she ate, he would have to expressly permit or give her himself.

Sometimes Gold liked to make her beg for every bite until she cried.

He took a breath. He didn’t speak. He willed his pulse to slow down to a reasonable pace. He kept his voice controlled. He couldn’t frighten this poor woman any more than she already was.

“I cooked two portions of chicken,” he said carefully. “I wanted you to have some as well.”

“I-I-I’m sorry, Mr. Gold.” She kept her head bowed, her whole body tense. She expected an attack, verbal if not physical. “I thought you wanted the other piece for your lunch tomorrow.”

“I want to provide for my wife.” He tried to explain, tried to keep calm, tried to keep from crying. Buried memories crashed into his head and he had to raise his voice to hear his own thoughts. “I want you to have more than just fucking leaves!”

In one instant, a thousand memories assaulted him all at once. Year after year--first as a child, then as a young man on his own, then with his son beside him. When the hungry months came upon the land and winters wore on and on. The stores left over from harvest grew smaller and smaller. And Rumpelstiltskin never had much to store away even in good times. Year upon year, he waited as the winter ebbed, but the hunger remained. Waited as they days grew longer, but the trees stayed bare. Waited until the first hints of green began to bud and grow, signalling that spring was coming and there would be something to eat again.

He had shown Bae what his father had shown him. He had taught him the ways of the woods. They had so little land for a garden, but there was always something in the Duke’s forest. He had bundled up Bae in his shawl and his cap, to go out in search of food. And every year they had found mushrooms and ramsons and Jack-by-the-hedge--anything to flavor water enough so they could call it soup. Anything to keep them going for one more day.

Bae being who he was, he had thought it a grand adventure. He had wanted to know what else in the forest could be eaten. And Rumpelstiltskin had shown him violets and wood sorrel and taught him to boil stinging nettle. But Bae was a growing boy and all the adventure in the world couldn’t fill his gnawing belly. He began to eat anything that was green, any leaf, except for those he knew were poisonous.

One day, Rumpelstiltskin had found his son in the pasture with the sheep, his mouth stained green from eating grass and clover.

To his shame, he hadn’t stopped him. He hadn’t said a word. Because Rumpelstiltskin--spinner, cripple, coward--had nothing better to give him. Because Rumpelstiltskin--useless, penniless, worthless--could not fill the belly of the child he would give his life for. The person he loved most in the world had nothing to eat except fucking leaves!

Taking his cane, he stood up quickly. Mrs. Gold flinched at the sudden movement. Rumpelstiltskin bit back a curse that would have burned down the house around them if he had any magic at all.

She started to rise, but he hobbled over to her. Plate in one hand, cane in the other, Rumpelstiltskin slid his dinner onto Mrs. Gold’s raw spinach.

“Sit down,” he ordered through clenched teeth. “Stay here. Eat that.”

“Yes, Mr. Gold,” She answered like an automaton. What was the word in this world? A robot. A toy programmed to have the same responses no matter what the owner said or did to it. Mrs. Gold was nothing but a thing. And not even a thing Gold valued enough to care for.

“Thank you, Mr. Gold.”

He went back into the kitchen without a word. He didn’t trust himself to speak.

It took the last straining threads of his self-control to keep from throwing Gold’s fine china plate against Gold’s state-of-the-art refrigerator. He should take this wretched cane and smash in the glass-fronted cabinets, destroy everything inside. All of Gold’s crystal and porcelain and the plates so thin you could see light through them--he should shatter them into splinters and shards. Rumpelstiltskin should destroy all the things Gold held so dear. Objects that mattered to him more than the woman he had married. It would feel so good to reduce his wealth to nothing and his prized possessions into rubble.

But that wouldn’t bring Belle back.

It wouldn’t undo what had already been done.

With a single breath, all the rage escaped from Rumpelstiltskin’s body. He leaned against a wall and felt himself crumple into a heap. He had just enough presence of mind to cover his mouth with his left hand. Stifle the sobs so she wouldn’t hear.

That bastard! That monster! How dare Gold do these things to Belle! Rumpelstiltskin knew his share of evil, but he still had enough humanity to be appalled that Gold would treat her this way. His most precise cruelties were reserved not for his enemies or his debtors, but his own wife! The woman he had chosen to marry, the woman whose hand he had held as he vowed to cherish and protect and love her!

But instead Gold made her starve herself. The richest man in Storybrooke took it as a point of pride that his wife barely ate. In this palace of a house, he begrudged her every inch of space. He made her feel like an intruder in the only home she had. He degraded her and insulted her and treated her like she was less than human. Worst of all, he made her think that was how he showed affection.

“Gods.” He rasped out a prayer to powers he had never believed in, deities who didn’t exist in this world. “Gods, Belle. What did I do to you?”

Because as much as he blamed Gold, as much as he hated Gold, the truth of the matter was that this was Rumpelstiltskin’s fault. He had created the curse. He had wanted to come to this horrible world. He had planned and manipulated and twisted the path of fate to his will. He had worked so hard, for centuries, to get to where he was now. He thought he had arranged it all, so that the price of this magic wouldn’t fall on him.

But the very existence of this town was a punishment. According to the one who had cast the curse, Rumpelstiltskin was due the suffering he had lived under for twenty-eight years. Being Gold was a bleak and miserable existence. And he had taken out his anger on the one person who would never leave him.

He looked down at his hands, at his wedding ring, at the scar on his palm. He had made vows to Belle. He had promised to protect her, to belong to her, to trust her with the best and the worst of himself. Like Mrs. Gold, she had a mind-boggling capacity for loving even the most vile of men. And unlike Gold, Rumpelstiltskin could not punish a woman for loving him.

It wasn’t Belle’s fault, and it wasn’t Mrs. Gold’s. The persona of Gold didn’t exist anymore. As satisfying as it was to rage at a dead man, there was no way to take Gold to task for how he had treated his wife.

And Belle would say it wasn’t his fault either. He had come to her so many times, full of worries and guilt.

Sweetheart, how can you still love me? Knowing what I’ve done and what I’ll do?

Rumple, she had assured him. This curse is a powerful weapon, but it is not in your hands anymore. You are no more culpable for what happens than a swordsmith is responsible for a duel.

Part of him didn’t believe her. He could never look at himself with the grace and mercy of Belle’s kind heart. He had created the curse, he had wanted this weapon to be used. He had placed it in the hands of a madwoman, knowing it would destroy her, knowing it would bring misery to everyone--including himself and the woman he loved.

Still, perhaps Belle was right. And perhaps, somehow, he could find a way to redeem himself for his past. Even if he could never be good enough, perhaps he could use his evil for a good purpose.

Perhaps.

When he was ready, Rumpelstiltskin pulled himself to his feet, dusted off Gold’s fancy suit, and went back into the dining room.

Mrs. Gold was still at the table, her posture rigid but her plate empty. She looked up when he came through the door. For a moment, he saw her eyes--the perfect blue rimmed with red--and then she looked away.

“I finished everything, Mr. Gold. It was delicious.”

His heart broke anew at her voice. Belle was so strong, so sure of herself, even when she faced insurmountable obstacles. Always, she would stay brave. Always, she would do the best she could with the knowledge and tools she had. In that moment, Mrs. Gold seemed just like her.

“I’m glad you liked it.” Rumpelstiltskin stayed in the doorway, both hands braced on his cane. “From now on, when I make a meal, I expect you to eat your share.”

She nodded, still an obedient creature. “Yes, Mr. Gold.”

They were silent for a moment, then Rumpelstiltskin spoke. “I want to apologize, for earlier. I should have been more direct in my desires. And I shouldn’t have let my temper get the better of me. I’m sorry.”

Mrs. Gold blinked, several times, before she spoke. “I--W--You have nothing to apologize for, Mr. Gold. You can do whatever you like.”

“I know.” Rumpelstiltskin swallowed back the bile in his throat. “And what I would like is to have a wife who is well-nourished and who doesn’t fear her husband.”

She twisted her wedding ring around her finger. “I don’t fear you, Mr. Gold. I just hate the thought of disappointing you. I never want to be less than what you deserve.”

From the beginning, Belle had always been more than he deserved. He had stopped a war to acquire her, and he would never fully pay for all the love and goodness she had given him.

But he couldn’t tell any of that to Mrs. Gold.

“I’m going for a walk,” he announced. “I need to clear my head.”

Mrs. Gold nodded and stood up. “Where should I go, while you’re out?”

In spite of himself, Rumpelstiltskin clenched his jaw. “You are allowed to stay in this house when I’m not here.”

“I--Really?” She looked more confused than pleased. “Even when I’m not tied up or anything?”

He let out a long, heavy sigh. Yes, he remembered. Gold had regularly left the house while his wife was restrained with no way to get out. There was also a dog cage in the basement where Gold would leave her on work days when he didn’t want her in the shop. It was a miracle the bastard hadn’t killed her.

“Yes,” he answered. “In fact, it’s high time you got your own key to this place. It is your home, after all.”

Slowly as the dawn, a smile lit up her face. Gods, she was so beautiful.

“Thank you, Mr. Gold!” She stood up from the table and moved to embrace him. But Rumpelstiltskin held up one hand and she stopped in her tracks.

“You can clear the table whenever you like. I’ll wash the dishes when I return.”

That was another part of Gold’s arrangement. He didn’t allow his wife to clean, because he didn’t trust her with his precious antiques. For Rumpelstiltskin, the thought of submerging Belle’s hands in dishwater like a scullery maid was an insult. Far from the worst thing she had ever been subjected to, but the principle stood. He would gladly do drudgework if it would spare his wife the labor.

“What should I do until you get back?”

He shrugged. “Something you like,” he suggested. “Something to pamper yourself.” Something to make up for the hell you’ve lived in for twenty-eight years. “You could have some of that ice cream you bought today.”

Mrs. Gold chewed at her bottom lip as she thought. “I could… take a bubble bath, maybe?”

She was asking for his permission, his approval. He gave it to her. “That’s a very good idea,” he said gently.

He pushed away the thought of his wife’s legs sticking over the edge of a bathtub. Her head leaning back as she relaxed in the steaming water. Her lovely body hidden under piles of white bubbles until she emerged like a goddess from the sea, warm and soft and scented with roses.

Rumpelstiltskin shook his head. This wasn’t his wife in front of him. Belle was gone, and it was time to confront the person who was really responsible for that.

He had to see the Queen.

#golden rings #rumbelle fic #rumbelle #ouat

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pushpa-exports · 1 year ago

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Carved Silver Round Dining Table and Chairs

The Carved Silver Round Dining Table and Chairs set is a masterpiece of craftsmanship and elegance. With intricate carvings and a timeless round design, the table and chairs create a luxurious dining experience. Elevate your dining room decor with this exquisite ensemble that combines artistry with comfort.

#Carved Silver Round Dining Table and Chairs #SilverDiningSet #CarvedFurniture #LuxuryDining #ElegantDecor #RoundTable #DiningChairs #HomeFurnishings #InteriorStyle #FineDining

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strangebrews · 5 years ago

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tea for two

Summary: After nearly two hours of preparation, Alfie was finally ready. The table was set, the tea was brewed, and the poison watched at the end of the counter. That was Alfie’s source of entertainment. // Alfie engages in tea party Russian roulette that he himself organized. Tommy, eventually, reacts.

Notes: i had a tiny idea regarding alfie organizing lethal tea parties for funsies a while back, and it became this. also thank you to @sholomons + @those-peakyboys for reading bits of this as a sanity check <3

Warnings: Suicidal Ideation/Suicide Scare/Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms/ - those are the main ones, but if you think there should be more let me know. The rest of them can be found on the AO3 post. I promise this isn’t some devastating ending though, lmao, technically is supposed to be //romantic// in a twisted Tommy Shelby way.

On AO3

------------

Alfie indulged in the art of organizing tea parties later in life, once the crime became routine and uninspiring.

The idea came to him one afternoon, while thumbing through the day’s post. He was struck by a revelation, of sorts, “yeah, because when I went to pick up my cup, right,” he had described the moment to Tommy in detail, “I noticed that there, at the very bottom where the tea leaves floated—there was a message.” His eyes had narrowed, voice low, fingers motioning in the air trying to conjure up the image, “and you know what they were saying to me, those leaves, Tommy—they were saying Alfie, you have got to stop hanging around that Shelby—his witchcraft and madness are starting to rub off on you ” he’d cackled then, which meant the origins would remain unexplained.

Alfie did, however, commit himself to the task.

He decided the event would take place in his dining room, using the hand-carved table featured there. Tommy watched him prepare from afar the day of the first tea party. He did not endorse the fucking behavior, but he was curious—it was rare to see Solomons fuss over plate placements.

A frilly tablecloth was dug out from the back of a cupboard, and freshly picked flowers decorated the middle. Alfie used his best porcelain set—the one he claimed was the last heirloom still in his possession from the mother’s side of his family. That bit was a lie, he had admitted to Tommy one day. Instead, he had Ollie scavenge it from some shop window with a sock over his head and tears in his eyes—but that tale was far less interesting. And the foundational role of any host, Alfie knew, was to entertain his esteemed guests.

Tiny silver spoons—ones which nearly disappeared in Alfie’s hand—lay atop carefully folded napkins. He drew the shades, and arranged the biscuits, lips pursed in concentration. The scene looked quite pretty, actually. Meticulously organized—an unexpected detail coming from Alfie Solomons.

And after nearly two hours of preparation, Alfie was finally ready. The table was set, the tea was brewed, and the poison watched at the end of the counter.

That was Alfie’s source of entertainment.

+++

His guests were an array of different people. Old friends, new enemies, long standing members of his payroll, a few of the fanciest individuals he knew—each person with some form of stain on their record, at some point having wronged him. Alfie was not entirely cruel.

“It’ll be a shame,” he had said, “but everyone dies at some point, yeah?”

The trick about the poison was that it took a while to pollute the veins. Alfie had considered this detail as thoughtfully as he had the decorations—determined to avoid frothing mouths from ruining the appeal of his parties. The winners would appear fine until the next morning, so the poison was untraceable in both taste and source.

For a while, at least. Though even if the pieces were eventually slotted together—who would be brave enough to accuse an aging man of serving tea?

“It just might be genius, Tommy.” Alfie had lifted the vial towards him, eyes glazed over with self-admiration. Going after him would look ridiculous, Alfie knew this. Tommy knew this, and he smiled besides himself. Perhaps it was.

And as any good host, Alfie partook in the activity himself—an equal player in the game. A few clear drops coated the bottom of a cup, the cups were mixed up, the location was forgotten.

The fact that Alfie had grown desensitized towards his own death was no shock—he and Tommy shared the same indifference. Though what Tommy struggled to understand was his sudden interest in openly pursuing it.

Though, didn’t they do that already? Alfie had asked. Their years brimmed with pacts, vindictive partners, with mouthing off to men whose fingers trembled against triggers. They had never run in the opposite direction of death, rather alongside it—the place where their paths would converge had always been just along the horizon. Alfie’s behavior was nothing but a variation of that.

“More creative.” he had claimed—better than being killed by a gun or a knife, “Or by a blade sewn into a fucking hat. Imagine that.” he smirked. It was only funny because they were past killing each other now—Alfie had beaten Tommy to the initiative.

+++

Of course, the cordial invitation had been extended to Tommy Shelby as well.

“And how have I wronged you?” Tommy had asked. Alfie laughed, promising it would be a clean cup, but Tommy refused regardless. The whole matter was much too dramatic for his taste.

He would stay the night of the tea party, though—was due for a fuck, anyway.

In truth, Tommy had been staying the night more frequently.

It was Alfie who had initially offered to move the location of their meetings . The official reason he’d cited was for more security, but Tommy had seen him holding his back in pain each time he’d stepped out of the office.

Fucking in a bed, as opposed to on a desk, toed the line with an intimacy Tommy was cautious about crossing, but the suggestion was too enticing to refuse—aging had not been doing either of them any favors. And because it was Alfie who had made the proposal, Tommy still had room to cut himself free of any strings attached.

The routine had continued as usual at first—business, fuck, leave. Tommy would gather his clothes frantically afterwards, hopping out the door with only one sock on. He was terrified of the implications staying longer would have—the consequences it could bring.

Though that chaos eventually transitioned into a slower collection of his belongings—fatigue and the haze of his orgasm tethering him to the bed. He stayed for longer, counted the cracks in Alfie’s ceiling and the number of stripes on his sheets. These extra moments seemed progressively less threatening.

“Are you truly that desperate to return to that lonely fucking castle of yours, mate?” The question came months later, while Tommy sat on the side of the bed, rubbing the stiffness from his legs. He was startled by the voice—Alfie tended to slip into a slumber nearly immediately after they’d pulled away from each other.

Lonely castle. It sounded worse when phrased that way. A kingdom crafted at the expense of everyone around him. Pitiful.

Tommy had not entertained Alfie with an answer, but still chose to lay back down—comforted by the idea of a few more hours of sleep. He left the next day wordlessly, and sleeping over became routine. The castle would still be standing in the morning.

Yet that change didn’t mean anything, Tommy reasoned. Whether he permitted himself to stay or not, it was still just fucking —nothing more complicated than that.

So perhaps it’d be a shame if Alfie finally won one of his rounds, Tommy thought the evening of that first tea party—his business would be missed. But he remained, on the whole, unbothered by it.

Everyone died at some point.

+++

Each chair was occupied with an esteemed guest the first time. They were all impressed by the sudden burst of hospitality—thankful for Alfie’s unspoken forgiveness of their past transgressions against him.

Assumption was quite lethal.

Meaningless chatter swelled the air in the room, shrill laughter echoing off of the walls. Alfie floated from place to place, offering stories and more food, savoring each one of his sips. He chuckled often, rolled his eyes on cue, and held his pinky up.

It was a performance, yet no one in attendance was aware they were a part of the show.

He caught their attention in particular with a story from before the war. Something to do with a stray dog, an appalled mother and a wet carpet—certain elements of which were exaggerated. “Oh Alfie!” he’d felt a small pat on his shoulder, a gesture which in any other circumstances would have earned the person a cut on the cheek, but Alfie simply smiled and patted back. It could be you .

Alfie found excitement in it all—an ironic strengthening of the energy which had been slowly draining from his body.

It was nearly enough to forget about the cancer.

Cancer could have been considered a motive—it was the letter from the doctor speculating about his expiration date which had sparked the inspiration for the tea party business. Though Alfie didn’t like to dwell on that coincidence. Much rather preferred to keep the reason as Alfie’s sudden burst of twisted thrill-seeking . Not that anyone would know about the sickness, regardless—Thomas Shelby included. He fully intended to live out these days undisturbed by sympathy.

He came to bed that night with cheeks flushed and things to say. Granted, Alfie always had a mouth full of words, but they were stories this time—things he’d seen and heard. Tommy had propped himself up against the headrest, pulling on cigarette after cigarette, feigning disinterest.

A cousin of the Sabini’s had brought Alfie a bottle of wine, he learned. There had been a bit of tea spilling on the carpet sometime in the middle, though it had occurred after a refill, Alfie reassured. Nearly everyone offered some comment about the design on the porcelain, sniffed the flowers, and claimed they had enjoyed themselves in the doorway.

“Silly little puppets, yeah—every last one.” Alfie had laughed and blown the candle on the nightstand out. It was nice, actually, being able to share this bit of secrecy with Tommy. An outlet, of sorts, and it helped that Alfie did not have to truly explain himself to him.

It was the first night Tommy stayed which did not involve fucking.

+++

Tommy continued accepting the invitations to be an invisible guest.

Unsurprisingly, one party had not been enough to satiate Alfie’s newfound appetite for this version of Russian roulette and finger sandwiches, so he kept organizing them. It tended to be the same crowd each time, with a few new faces here and there—replacements for any vacant seats.

Alfie gradually grew fancier—a nicer tablecloth, more biscuits, a larger array of tea. He had different stories to tell, new rings to show off and even Ollie had grown quite fond of the flower picking aspect of his job, asking a few days in advance if he had any preferences.

Alfie collapsed beside Tommy after the fifth party, exhausted and unwilling to relay the night’s events. It wasn’t necessarily healthy for his back, Tommy had mused—all those hours of wandering around the room, hunched over chairs—but his mouth stayed shut, and they fell asleep in silence.

Even after nights when his insomnia had been generous, Tommy woke first.

Alfie breathed beside him.

It was a relief, Tommy admitted—spared him the dramatics of having to drag Alfie out from between the sheets himself. He’d imagined that scenario once or twice while waiting on Alfie to stop his entertaining, considering what exactly he would do with Alfie’s body just—laying there. Notify the staff most likely, but he wasn’t quite sure what beyond that. Perhaps shake his hand, or pay his respects through a whispered congratulations , yet Alfie always managed to interrupt that train of thought before anything concrete was decided on.

He was hesitant to leave the morning after the fifth night, oddly disappointed that Alfie had not shared any stories. It was an uncomfortable feeling, but he decided to wait until Alfie woke. There was time to spare, Tommy argued with himself, it was the weekend—as if that meant anything in this line of business.

Idling in bed until the moment arrived was out of the question. Roaming his halls also seemed inappropriate—and risky, in case Ollie had let himself in. So Tommy settled on visiting the kitchen to eat. Attempt to, at least.

Preparing food provided only momentary relief from the fact that staying had been an absolutely idiotic idea. Tommy brewed some tea—for the irony, if anything else—and made toast. Some for him, some for Alfie, though he winced at the choice and threw Alfie’s portion in the bin. Too much.

He opened the morning paper. Squirmed in his chair. Checked the time. Returned to reading. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

Alfie eventually joined him in the kitchen, sleep still settled on his limbs. His hair was sticking up in uneven tufts, beard flattened on the side he’d been lying on. Nothing indicated he was surprised that Tommy had remained in the house.

“So you’re still here then, eh?” Tommy said, eyes on the news, but desperate to fill the silence.

Alfie only ran a heavy palm across his face. “Yeah, still fucking here.”

+++

The parties remained successful and Alfie’s enthusiasm persisted. Guests streamed in week after week—whether out of fear or curiousity was unclear. It was quite unusual to be in Alfie Solomon’s presence within an unthreatening environment, but they seemed to appreciate his change in character.

And the tea was always delicious.

It was Tommy who suffered the change in opinion, pacing the bedroom with a clenched jaw. He had certain ideas—to make an appearance, peek through keyholes or press his ear to the door, to somehow interfere—but he cast them all aside.

Time alone had never been healthy for him. Funny, for a man who ensured his own abandonment.

Nervous. The word finally rose above all of the other thoughts at one point and settled bitterly on his tongue. Tommy was nervous.

“Aren’t you fucking bored of this yet, Alfie?” he asked as casually as possible, in between pulls of his cigarette, but Alfie had shook his head.

“I should have done this sooner.” he claimed, eyes dancing, and for some reason the sentence felt like a slap to the face.

Tommy did not fight back.

+++

Alfie retired earlier than usual one night, reasoned it was due to a headache. Tommy bit down on his lip to prevent any visible reaction.

He slipped under the covers, hand searching for the band of Tommy’s pants —ar ousal had always reigned above pain for Alfie —but Tommy swatted it away, ignoring the slight tenting. “Not today, Alfie.”

Alfie grunted. It was not necessarily unusual for Tommy to refuse him, though Tommy’s face was flushed, teeth gnawing at the inner flesh of his cheek. There was still potential in the moment.

“But Tommy,” he whispered, sliding up against him, lips grazing Tommy’s neck and fingers playing at his hip. “I may be dead tomorrow.” and he placed a firm kiss to his Adam’s apple. It was only meant to be a teasing remark —nothing more than Alfie’s greedy attempt at extracting a fuck out of the other man—but the words wrapped themselves around Tommy’s throat.

Tommy snatched Alfie by the hair, tearing him away from his skin. Their eyes met, Alfie squirming besides himself under the cold stare. “You might be dead tomorrow.” Tommy repeated, nodding in agreement. Out of reach .

And he kissed him.

Once. Twice. Grip slowly loosening, hips finally shifting into Alfie’s touch. His hand remained in the hair, the other one snaking around Alfie’s waist, clothes being peeled off feverishly. Alfie’s efforts proved successful.

They fucked that night to the brink of exhaustion, wrapped in the darkness, spent and gasping for air, and when Alfie pulled away, Tommy choked on a please echoing in his throat.

It was a hollow plea—for something he was too terrified to admit.

+ ++

The following morning after he woke, Tommy lingered in bed.

Alfie snored facing him, rested on top of his left arm. Sleep softened him, Tommy noted—hid the pain behind his eyelids, smoothed the creases from his forehead. He reached out hesitantly to run the backs of his fingers across Alfie’s shoulder, along the shell of his ear, his jaw, tugging down the covers to find his thighs. It was a peaceful moment—rare and terminal—and Tommy was suddenly gripped by an urge to memorize it. Drink in every detail.

Tommy took advantage of the safety unconsciousness had provided him and settled back down, shifting closer to Alfie’s body—close enough so that the tips of their noses were brushing against one another. He lay still, soaking in the warmth of Alfie’s exhales, and tried to align their breathing.

The task proved to be more challenging than expected. Tommy stumbled over his own inhales, yet Alfie continued to be one breath ahead of him. Inhale. Exhale . Out of sync. And it was a silly effort, naive and trivial, but Tommy’s heart still hammered at his ribcage in frustration. Because there had to be something there , in the alignment. Some kind of meaning, a mutual understanding shared between their bodies. A form of reassurance. A sign of togetherness —that Tommy was not fucking mad for wanting to share these breaths with Alfie for longer than the bastard had planned for himself.

But each attempt sputtered and failed.

He slammed his fist into the mattress and rolled off the bed, waking Alfie in the process.

The toast was burnt that morning.

No tea— fuck tea.

Alfie walked into the kitchen, rubbed a palm across his face instinctively. The regular question never arrived, but he answered its ghost regardless. “Still here.”

Yes , Tommy thought, miraculous .

He left for Birmingham immediately after breakfast, and abandoned his tendency of visiting Alfie in between the special occasions. He would know when the next party would be—the invitation would arrive in the post a few days before it.

+++

A week later, there were only 16 people in attendance, two couples were missing. Whether they had grown suspicious or were dead was left unclarified—Alfie was only interested in one outcome.

The event proceeded as usual: eat, laugh, sip, Alfie refilling his cup more frequently than usual. Nobody questioned the absence. It was normal.

And then it was not, because Tommy Shelby walked into the room — eyes bloodshot, scanning the scene.

There was a 1 in 16 chance that Alfie poisoned himself today, Tommy noted, but he had endured this night after night and he found he’d grown quite bored of the adrenaline. The uncertainty. So he took a stand at the head of the table this time around, his hand hidden behind his coat.

It was meant to be a distraction, perhaps a form of confession —anything to get Alfie to stop these fucking games. Whispers swept the room, mouths parted in surprise—it was a rare occurrence, seeing Tommy Shelby in attendance—and Alfie sighed, because he knew, he fucking knew that Thomas was here to spoil the fun.

The gun pointed to Tommy’s head, and Tommy’s head pointed towards Alfie.

“One,” 15 pairs of alarmed eyes stared at Tommy’s finger on the trigger. Only 1 pair glared back into his own. Alfie refused to set the teacup down.

“Have you gone fucking mad, mate?” Tommy had actually heard they called this love .

“Two.” The guests were moving, tripping over chairs, rugs, each other, searching frantically for the exit. The taboo of witnessing a potential suicide outweighed their curiousity, it seemed. So easy to clear a room.

The doors slammed shut, silence replacing the sound. It was empty now. Just him, and Alfie, and the gun, and the poison laughing out from one of the cups.

“Three.” Bang.

Tommy’s body crumpled to the floor.

He was lying half underneath the table when Alfie finally walked over. His eyes were wide open. Unscathed.

Alfie snatched the gun from his hand, clicked open the cylinder. “Tommy, you know, you’re not fucking invited to the next one, yeah?” the first shot had been a blank, but there was a single bullet inside. “Right—on account of the fucking mess you’ve made here today.”

“I’m well aware, Alfie.” he was tracing the pattern of the table’s wood with a shaky finger. Alfie grunted and tossed the gun aside. He collapsed awkwardly beside him, taking Tommy’s hand into his own. It would weather his joints even further, lying down here on the floor, Alfie was well aware, but this was the only act of affirmation which seemed appropriate.

He did not ask about the bullet. He knew why it was there. Kept as a precaution—in case Alfie had decided to drink anyway.

They breathed together.

#ok giving up after this try #tommy x alfie #alfie x tommy #sholomons #tofie #tommy shelby #alfie solomons #thomas shelby #peaky blinders #mine

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elsb-hrngtons · 4 years ago

Text

The Seaside Blues Cafe

Hello Lovelies so this was an absolutely gorgeous prompt form Rhythm_Smith

so i received this absolutely gorgeous prompt from Rhythm_Smith for HfBLM:

Several years after cannon (with a s3 divergence where Neil is the one possessed by the mind flayer ) Steve and Billy own a cafe by the beach called The Sea Side Blues Cafe and Billy proposes.

i really hope you like it, its given me all the warm fuzzies writing it!

please call see this wonderful moodboard @gideongrace made for it <3

links to Ao3 in the notes.

June 1995

Somewhere just off of the broadwalk near Santa Monica Pier is a little cafe, inside there are a mismatch of tables and chairs, bean bags and bookshelves that line nearly every wall, fairy lights strung across the ceiling casting the cosy interior in dazzling colour. Chalkboards take up the wall behind the counter, with the daily specials scribbled on in a multi-coloured scrawl, where there are not bookshelves there are posters with sayings like ‘Love is Love” and “respect the rainbow”. Outside under where the awning casts much needed shade from the relentless Californian sun are two sets of tables and chairs, each complete with an ashtray and menus, between them is a black A-board that reads with big fancy letters “ALL ARE WELCOME” “Live Music Every Saturday”. Business was booming.

Billy and Steve have worked hard to get where they are, it hasn’t always been easy, but then they both know more than anyone else things worth having rarely ever are. They’ve been together since Starcourt, when Neil possessed by the mindflayer almost killed them all, and Billy in a blaze of glory risked everything to take him down. When the dust had settled and Billy was left lying on the cold tile floor of the food court, impressive wounds to his sides and chest, miraculously having missed any vital organs, blood pooling around him, Steve couldn’t help but chastise him for risking himself like that.

“I couldn’t let him win pretty boy”

“You’re so stupid Billy, you could have died”

“Not dead, Just hurt, how about you kiss it better?”

And Steve did.

The rest so they say is history, once Billy was released from hospital, with a large pile of NDA’s to sign and an impressive payout of hush money/compensation from the good old US government, he wasted no time in telling Steve exactly how he felt, and for the first time in his godforsaken life, something went his way, because Steve as it happens felt the same way. It’s not long after that they pack up their belongings and drive west, drive home.

The years to follow are filled with so much joy, love and laughter, two boys who’s orbits crashed into each other, inseparable now, unable to live without the other even in the midst of petty arguments.

It was with Billy’s government money they were able to send Steve to culinary school, where he excelled at Pastry, and with Steve’s baking prowess and Billy’s creativity they opened their own business, a little cafe called the Seashore Blues Cafe, just off the broadwalk near Santa Monica Pier.

It’s just another morning in the small corner of the world they’ve built for themselves, the sun is shining high in the sky, breeze rolling off the sea as Billy wanders down from their apartment above the cafe to help Steve open up shop. Steve’s already been up and working for a few hours, lovingly creating all his delicious treats to sell to their customers that day. The cafe smells like freshly brewed coffee with hints of vanilla and cinnamon, and as Billy walks out from their little kitchen out back and through to the front of house he’s struck in awe at just how beautiful Steve really is. He’s sat at table by the window, mid morning sun streaming through shrouding Steve in a halo of light, his soft brown hair flops over his face which has specks of flour dusted on his cheeks, silver wired glasses balance precariously on the bride of his nose, he’s got a pile of their mail on the table and he’s reading something, cute little crease between his brow as he studies the words in front of his face. As Billy approaches closer he notices the letter in question is embossed with gold leaf calligraphy, fancy. Whatever he’s reading it looks to be something important, and Steve doesn’t seem too pleased to be reading it at all.

“What you got there pretty boy?” Billy asks which startles Steve who clearly didn’t hear Billy walk in, he looks up and gives Billy a tight lipped smile as he hands over the offending piece of paper. Billy glances over it and sure enough in big shimmery cursive it reads ‘ Together with their parents Nancy Elizabeth Wheeler and Jonathan Christopher Byers invite you to join them in celebrating their marriage’ so its a wedding invitation that has Steve looking so glum.

“Mazel Tov” Billy deadpans

“Yeah” Steve sighs

“I mean it’s good news right? Wheeler finally making an honest man out of Byers and all” Billy questions as he slides onto the chair next to his boyfriend and gives him a chaste good morning kiss.

“I mean yeah it great, it’s really great, fantastic really” Steve begins to ramble “but..”

“But you’re still sore about Wheeler ditching you for Johnny boy?” Billy asks, it’s not at all mean and Billy is long past being outwardly insecure about Steve’s past relationships, but he can’t help but feel that old familiar pang of jealousy and suspicion make a home in his chest, always worried that this little slice of heaven they’ve carved out of near on a decade of hard work and prejudice will never be enough for Steve, that he will never be enough for Steve.

“No no that’s not it.. It’s just” Steve seems to falter, can’t find the words to say can’t do his feelings justice with the spoken word.

“It’s just what baby?”

“Doesn’t it make you sad?”

“Does what make me sad?”

“You know.. That we can’t have that” Steve snatches the invitation out of Billy’s hand and throws it across the table, Billy watches as it slides straight off and floats gracefully to the floor, gold lettering catching the light, glinting and shining mocking Steve as he begins to wine and tug at his hair, something he started doing whenever he got stressed of worked up. Billy takes hold of Steve’s wrists, makes sure his grip is loose and gentle so Steve can pull away if he wishes to do so, he doesn’t, Billy brings his hands down in front of them both on the table and places both his over Steve’s holding them, rubbing soothing circles onto the backs of Steve’s hands with his thumbs.

“I mean it sucks for sure, but there’s not much we can do about it, no point dwelling on it” Billy tries his best to be gentle to be soft, its what Steve needs in this moment, Steve huffs out a sigh and stands up, brushing the creases out of his apron as he goes.

“Yeah i guess you’re right, c’mon let’s get this place open” Billy watches as Steve disappears into the kitchen, when he’s out of sight he gathers the rest of the mail, stoops down to pick up the discarded invitation, assesses it once more and as he reads the RSVP details he’s struck by inspiration. He places the invitation to the back of the pile and can’t help the smirk on his face as he wanders around the counter to switch on all their lights.

---

“So let me get this straight” Max says down the phone her tone incredulous and honestly Billy can’t blame her, what he’s asked of her is a pretty mean feat “ you want me to somehow gather the party and drag them all the way to California and not tell them why?”

“Exactly” Billy is standing behind the counter of the cafe, his side turned to the hustle and bustle of the dining area, where their patrons sit chatting happily, while Lucy, their waitress goes between tables taking orders and checking in. Billy curls the cord of the wall mounted phone around his finger, he’s antsy Steve’s due back from running errands and could walk through the front door any minute now, he keeps one eye on the door and jumps slightly every time the bell above it jingles.

“And you want me to make sure no one tells Steve we’re coming?”

“Yep.”

“And how please tell me dear brother, do you expect me to do that?” Billy used to flinch whenever anyone referred to him as Max’s brother, but after years of rebuilding a bond that was tinted so long ago by pain and bitterness, all he feels is a warm fondness at the title.

“I dunno! Can’t you get El to do her mind shit or whatever it is she does”

“It doesn’t work like that Billy!” Max all but yells down the phone

“Okay okay, well maybe you can tell the rat pack why.. Actually no. You can tell everyone but Henderson” Billy corrects himself, knows full well if Dustin got wind of his plans, not only would he receive yet another shovel talk from the little gremlin, but there’s a strong chance he could actually blow his big scheme altogether.

“Why not Dustin?”

“Because shitbird. Curls is physically incapable of keeping a secret and I don't want him to spoil it, you hear me?”

“Loud and clear”

“Thank you” Billy breathes a sigh of relief but its short lived as he hears the familiar jingle of the bell above the door and catches sight of a dishevelled and winded Steve come strolling through the door “Shit i gotta go, talk later”

“Yeah okay.. Oh Billy?”

“Yeah?”

“I’m really proud of you, and happy” She hesitates as she says the next part “i love you”

It still takes Billy’s breath away when she says it, it's not something they say very often to each other, but each time they do he knows it’s genuine and that though alone is enough to make his heart rabbit in his chest, he still feels guilt at the way he treated her in the early years, feels her love isn’t deserved at all, nonetheless he has it and he loves her too.

“Yeah Yeah, you too Mad Max” he tries to sound unaffected but his voice wavers at the end, has no time to compose himself though because Steve is right next to him, he slams the phone back into the receiver with a little more force than was strictly necessary and spins round to greet his lover with a toothy grin.

Steve leans in to peck Billy on the cheek, soft lips lips contrasting with rough stubble, he pulls back with a dopey smile.

“Was that Max?”

“Yeah she says Hi by the way”

“Sorry I missed her, what was she calling about?” Steve asks

“Oh you know just checking in” Billy tries for nonchalant, shoves his hands in his pockets to help with his casual facade, Steve isn’t buying it, he raises one eyebrow and fold his arms across his chest, he’s got a dumb smug smirk plastered on his face as he leans his back against the counter.

“Max never calls just to check in”

“Well she was today pretty boy” Billy’s defensive, hates lying to Steve, hates being caught in a lie, but needs must and all. “Anyway shouldn’t you get back in the kitchen? I’m sure Ricky’s dying for a smoke break”

“Fine” Steve huffs, pushes off the counter and makes his way back to the counter, just as he disappears through the door he calls over his shoulder “this conversation isn’t over by the way. I’ll find out why Max called”

Billy can’t help but roll his eyes but it’s all in good humour.

“Sure thing Beautiful”

---

It’s taken a monumental amount of planning and tantrums and narrowly avoiding being the number one suspect in the double homicide of MIke Wheeler and Dustin Henderson, but here he is, it's the big day and he feels like he’s about to throw up.

He’s been pacing the cafe floor, burning a hole in the wood flooring with his anxious back and forth, religiously checking his back pocket to assure himself of the safety of the ring he has stashed away in there, and it hasn’t magically disappeared in the last 10 seconds. The ring he almost had a breakdown over finding, almost threw the towel in and called whole thing off because he needed it to be perfect,needed it to be right, and had it not been for Robin’s intervention and her dragging him to some of the more alternative jewelry stores LA had to offer, he might not have found one at all. He hopes Steve likes it, hopes above all else Steve says yes, because if he doesn’t Billy’s not sure he’ll survive that kind of heartbreak, might have to take a long walk off Santa Monica pier and let the ocean wash him out of existence.

The party have all been helping set up and decorate the cafe which has been closed for the day, as far as Steve is aware the space has been hired for a ‘Private Event’ which are supplying their own catering, giving him the opportunity the spend the day with Robin, who is spending the month in California on a ‘whim’, of course she’s really here for Billy’s big plan, to help distract and misdirect Steve so he’s none the wiser and it truly does remain a surprise.

The place looks beautiful, more so than it usually does, The daily specials board has been wiped clean and in its place are messages of congratulations, love and support for Billy and Steve, somehow Max and El managed to source fresh garlands of various white flowers, all with names Billy doesn’t care to learn, all he knows is they look stunning strung up along the ceiling and across the walls interwoven with the fairy lights that are a permanent fixture of the interior design. Every table is adorned with white table clothes and on each table are vases with the same flowers hung up on the walls, there’s different photos of Billy and Steve throughout the years hung up all over the place, snapshots of the life they built together smiling down on Billy as he impatiently waits for Steve’s arrival. He’s lined the kitchen with hundreds of candles and rose petals carpet every inch of the floor, and he knows once Steve is over the initial shock of it all he might bitch about fire hazards and safety bullshit, but Billy couldn’t care less, it’s romantic and Steve really should appreciate the effort.

The plan is simple, Robin will drop Steve off at the back door, then she’ll sneak round the front and join the rest of their guests in the cafe where they’ll wait silently for the signal, The signal hopefully being a loud and celebratory ‘he said yes’, then the party begins.

Billy’s still pacing, he can’t help it, couldn’t possibly stay still in this moment, he’s supposed to receive a page from Robin any minute now to tell him her and Steve are 5 minutes away, his mouth is dry and his stomach is doing somersaults, he feels like he might forget how to breath.

“Will you stop pacing, you’re making me dizzy!” Max complains from where she's sat sideways on one of the chairs.

“What if he says no Max?”

“He’s not going to say no” she says rolling her eyes

“Yeah as much as I hate to admit it, Steve’s crazy for you, there’s no way he’s gonna say no” Dustin chimes in.

Billy doesn’t get a chance to respond because his beeper sounds from where it’s been left on the front counter by the till, the whole room holds their breath as he rushes over to check and sure enough Robin and Steve are less than 5 minutes away and it’s finally happening. Within seconds the whole room devolves into a frenzy, all the guests rushing to take their place in the crowd, all party members elbowing each other to push their way to the front, Lucas and Will holding up a side of a just engaged banner. It's chaos, but Billy can’t think about that right now, tunes the rest of the world out, knows they’ll be quiet when they need to be.

His heart is in his throat as he walks the small distance between the front of house to the kitchen, double checks all the candles are lit and the rose petals that didn’t make the floor, instead are strategically placed on the counter top to spell out ‘Marry Me’ are all in their right home. He combs through his blonde curls and straightens out his shirt, checks his back pocket one last time just as he hears the sound of Steve’s keys turn the lock, he doesn’t know what to do with himself where to place himself, so instead he just stands there arms to his sides, eyes wide, expression hopeful.

Steve walks in fumbling with the lock, shopping bags in each hand from a day spent getting some well earned retail therapy, he’s in a cheery mood Billy notices, half singing,half mumbling some pop song, bobbing his head with his back turned to the kitchen. He hasn’t noticed Billy’s presence yet, or all the evidence around him of Billy’s devotion to him, but as he turns around he’s struck dumb. Eyes wide, shopping bags fall to the floor as he gasps and clasps one hand over his mouth. He’s tearing up as he tries to find the words to ask what’s going on, but there’s no need as Billy drops down to one knee, the ring he spent painstaking hours choosing, presented in front of him as an offering to the only thing in this universe or any universe he’s ever worshiped. There are tears in his own eyes, but he can’t help the smile as he gazes lovingly at the man he’s loved since he was 18, hope bubbling in his chest threatening to spill over.

“Billy, what’s all this?” Steve asks, still stuck in his place at the door, his voice is wavering and he’s shaking, his legs look about 5 seconds away from buckling from underneath him.

“It’s for you Bambi” Billy says, it's barely a whisper and his voice is breaking from all the emotions he’s been storing in his chest all day, betraying him as they claw up his throat at the most vital moment of his entire life.

“Billy--” Steve begins but Billy cuts him off.

“Will you just shut up for a minute… please”

Billy takes a deep steadying breath as he tries to calm his pounding heart and find the right words to say, he tried beyond hope to write some kind of speech for the occasion, but none of the words he scribbled down felt right, felt like they did the love he had for Steve any justice, it was Max’s suggestion to improvise, to speak from the heart, it’s more authentic that way, and Billy couldn’t help but agree at the time, but now all he wants to do is curse himself, curse Max for ever thinking that going without at least some idea was a good idea.

“From the very moment I laid eyes on you I knew I was in trouble” Billy begins, it’s a strong start but now he’s faced with the dilemma of what goes next.

“Here was this guy, the most beautiful thing I've ever seen, and.. And you had this fierceness to you, never backing down, always looking out for others, even if that meant risking yourself.” His knee is hurting from putting his weight onto it or too long, but in this moment he finds he couldn’t care less, bites through the pain so he can continue his declaration.

“And I wanted to be like that, I wanted to be the kind of person those big Bambi eyes would look at and be proud to call a friend.” He lets out a shaky breath as he recounts their love story, he’s never been a poet but his words are raw and genuine.

“So I built myself, modelled myself after you and sure enough you became my friend, you forgave me, gave me a chance and that made me so happy” The tears are really beginning to fall now, his vision blurs and his eyes sting, still he powers through.

“Then I fell in love and I fell hard, and everyday I’d hate myself because I convinced myself you’d never love me back, and some days it was just too painful, but I knew it would hurt more if you were never in my life at all, that it would tear me apart” Steve still hasn’t moved from his place at the door, he just stands there a full river of tears flowing from his eyes, making them shine and twinkle in the candle light, he;s silent as he listens and if Billy couldn’t see the ride and fall of Steve’s chest he’d swear the man had stopped breathing altogether.

“That’s why I didn’t leave Hawkins straight after graduation, even though I promised myself I would. I just couldn’t stand the thought of leaving you behind.” He has to pause as he gathers up the strength to move onto the next part, as he has to acknowledge a time of his life, he’s torn between never wanting to forget and never wanting to remember.

“And now more than ever I’m so glad I didn’t, because if I did, who the hell knows what would have happened at that mall, all i know is I never would have gotten the chance to say I love you, or have the chance to hear you say it back” They’re both full on sobbing now, he has to continue even between hiccups, he has to finish, has to get to the park where he asks the question.

“And even after all these years, I have to remind myself that this is all real, this life we’ve built together is real, and I thank my lucky stars because you made me the man I am today, you made me the happiest man on earth that day, and have done everyday since, and if I can make you even half as happy as you make me, then I know i’m doing something right for once” Billy composes himself, its now or never, time to ask the most important question of his life.

“So Steve Harrington, will you marry me?”

It’s at that moment Steve’s legs finally give way and he crashes to the ground on his knees, still speechless and sobbing his heart out. The seconds that follow time seems to stand still for Billy, moments passing by excruciatingly slow, and the longer they both kneel there a mess of emotions on the kitchen floor Billy’s heart crawls further and further up his throat preparing itself for a steep and swooping descent of agony or a jubilant explosion of incomparable joy.

Just when Billy thinks there's an actual possibility he’s going to die from the anticipation, Steve finally speaks up.

“Yes. Billy I’ll marry you” his voice is barely audible, its hoarse from all the crying, but it's the answer Billy was hoping for and he’s overcome with an overwhelming sense of relief he feels almost faint from it, luckily Steve is crawling on his hands and knees until Billy collapses forward into him, burying his face into Steve’s neck and holding him tighter than Billy ever remembers doing before.

“Really you mean it?” he has to ask, as to make sure.

“Billy i want nothing more than to marry you” Billy can’t help but laugh with unrestrained joy, he feels his heart soar and his cheeks flush, he feels fit to burst, can’t contain it much longer, needs to shout from the rooftops just how happy he is. Steve lifts them both back to their feet and he holds Billy at arms length so he can look into Billy’s eyes. Honey brown meets ocean blue and there’s so much feeling in both their gazes, a storm of emotion ready to let loose any minute. “I love you Billy Hargrove” he declares a triumphant smile on his face as he leans in to give Billy a chaste kiss.

“I love you too Steve Harrington” Billy can’t help himself, he leans in a kisses Steve with all the passion and all the adoration he possess, its bruising, its fiery and it's oh so sweet as he forces his tongue to part Steve’s lips and licks into his mouth, but before he gets much of a chance to deepen it there’s a shout from out front.

“Has he said yes yet?” It’s the unmistakable and irritating voice of an impatient Mike. Both Billy and Steve break from the kiss and chuckle as they lean in and rest their foreheads against each other’s for a moment, soaking in the quiet glory of their love. Billy leans back and hollers towards the front of the cafe.

“Yeah he said yes!” It's met with a resounding cheer from the group of people gathered to witness this, and now the hard parts over the best part of Billy’s plan can begin.

“C’mon pretty boy, our guests await” he holds out the ring from Steve to slip onto his finger and takes him by the arm so he can guide Steve out to the front. Steve’s breathless for the second time in less than 20 minutes as they open the kitchen door and are greeted by all the faces of the people they love the most, all grinning from ear to ear and celebrating for them.

“You did all this?” Steve asks, awestruck.

“Well I had some help, I couldn’t have done it without these losers that's for sure” Billy laughs as he gestures towards the party, feeling victorious when Mike and Dustin look scandalised by Billy’s comment. “And you can thank Robin for helping pick out the ring,” He continues.

“Billy I don’t know what to say, this is incredible” Steve marvels as his eyes wander around the room, taking in all the decorations and photos and messages of good will.

“You don’t need to say anything at all.” Billy says “Listen baby, I know you’re upset that we can’t legally get married, but y’know fuck the law. Let's have our own wedding, right here right now. We don’t need a piece of paper to say we love each other” Billy turns to face Steve takes both his hands in his and stares searchingly into his eyes, looking for signs he may have messed up. “And if they do ever make it legal, and you still want to we can do it proper, just as soon as the laws passed” He rambles on “and there’s no pressure if you don’t like it, we can do something where we plan it together, it doesn’t have to be here and now--”

Steve interrupts Billy mid sentence to peck him quickly on the lips,

“Billy it's perfect.”

“Yeah, you sure?”

“Never been surer of anything in my life”

“Well then pretty boy, let's do this.”

---

Billy’s floating on cloud nine and there’s not a chance in hell he’ll be bought back down any time soon, the day was perfect everything he could ever wish for, a day spent celebrating his love for Steve and Steve’s love for him, a day spent surrounded to the most important people in their lives and nothing in this world could ever beat it.

He’s never seen Steve so happy either, even as he fusses trying to clear away the scattered rose petals and burnt out candles from the kitchen, their guests long gone all retired to their respective hotels giving Billy and Steve all the privacy a newly wed couple deserves.

“Hey Bambi, leave all that we can get in the morning, let’s go to bed” Billy says as he slides up behind Steve and hooks his arms around his waist, kissing and nibbling at his neck.

“Can’t do it tomorrow there’ll be no time to clean and get everything ready to open” Steve mumbles as he brushes more of the rose petals into the trash, Billy places his hand onto Steve’s shoulder so he has more leverage to spin him around so they can face each other.

“What if we just didn’t open tomorrow?” Billy says as he nips at Steve’s jaw and presses against him.

“We can’t not open tomorrow Billy” Steve says riding a moan

“Why not we’re the owners right?” Billy snakes his hand between them and presses his palm against the growing bulge in Steve’s pants.

“Yeah but--”

“Yeah but what? Don’t we get to decide if we open or not? Haven’t we earned a few days off?”

“I guess..”

“So what are you waiting for, let's go to bed” Billy says between kisses. At that Steve sighs and slips out to move away from Billy.

“Fine lets go Tiger” He says over his shoulder as he saunters towards the stairs to their apartment, Billy licks his lips in anticipation, can’t help the extra pep in his step as he follows, flicks the lights off with a flourish and kicks the door closed behind him, feeling lighter than air as he takes the stairs two at a time.

June 30th 2015

20 years to the day Billy proposed to Steve, when he laid his soul bare and proclaimed his undying love. 20 years to the day, that with the only family that ever counted to either of them, playing witness to their mutual promises of forever, they stand with the shore at their feet, the surf lapping at their ankles, brilliant hues of orange and pink as the sunset acts as the backdrop to their declaration of love.

They’re finally here, surrounded by the same family as 20 years prior and a few new, yet fond faces, keeping a promise they made all those years ago to make their marriage ‘official’ to join together legally.

Wicca chairs stand in rows up the sand, filled by guests with joyous expressions watching as Billy and Steve utter their vows to one another, as they pledge a lifetime to one another, Robin stands between them officiating the ceremony, while Dustin stands proudly to Steve's side and Max to Billy’s. The breeze tickles through the congregation, whipping gently at Steve’s salt and pepper mop, as he gazes adoringly into Billy’s eyes, tears threatening to spill despite the dazzling grin on his face.

Robin announces them as Husband and Husband and they receive their standing ovation, Billy grabs Steve and dips him backwards to press a passionate kiss to his soft lips, a kiss filled with all the devotion he’s built up over the last 30 years and promise to continue that devotion for the next 30 and god willing more. The cheers and hollers from the crowd fizzle away into white noise, the sounds of the ocean, the crash of waves, the whistle of the breeze and the call of gulls acts as the song to their first kiss as a proper married couple and just as he did 20 years ago today, Billy feels his heart swell ready to burst straight out of his chest, feels his stomach dip because he’s never been so happy, because even after 30 years kissing Steve still gives him butterflies, because despite all the injustices he faced in his younger years, he stands here with the only person he’s ever loved, his soulmate in his arms and nothing, not the upside down, not the monsters that walk among them, not his dad, could ever compel him to ever let Steve go.

#harringrove for blm #harringrove #Billy Hargrove #steve harrington #my fic #gideongrace #Rhythm_Smith

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chilling-seavey · 4 years ago

Text

Amoureux (c.s./d.s.) - Chapter Six

A/N Author’s notes are the hardest part of posting but this chapter is hecka sweet I want these vibes

Balls and galas weren’t unusual for Royal Families meaning one was definitely due after two weeks of no parties. Since there was no formal need for celebration, Daniel and Anna were permitted to attend as well, the young girl eager to show off her new pastel pink ballgown and small pearl necklace to anyone who would look at her. The young princess was so charismatic that none of the guests minded her youthful rambling.

Louisa stood on Christian’s arm as usual, offering simple responses when she was asked a question but kept herself quiet as she was always raised to. The couple they were sharing a conversation with was older and the woman kept staring almost distastefully at Louisa, making the young girl shift nervously under her narrowed eyes. Christian set a hand on hers that was set in the crook of his elbow to help settle her as he spoke to the man, unaware of the uncomfortable stance of his bride to be.

The woman was relentless, brown eyes raking down Louisa’s blue satin gown and her curled strawberry blonde hair as if she was nothing more than a commoner. She was just waiting for her to misstep to call out the future non-English Queen on how she wasn’t fit for the position. Louisa wished to be anywhere else but there at that moment.

Someone snuck up behind her, Daniel taking place on her left, sending the older woman a glare. The woman pursed her lips and turned back to her husband and Christian’s conversation, knowing better than to get on the bad side of any of the primary members of the British Royal Family. Louisa glanced over at Daniel as he stood close to her, his hands behind his back.

“Behind you.” he whispered casually, pretending to be interested in the conversation.

Louisa furrowed her eyebrows for a moment before sliding her left hand behind her and he passed her a small pastry, sticky from sitting in his palm so long but she bit back a smile and popped it quickly in her mouth.

“Want out of this?” Daniel asked softly.

“Desperately.” Louisa mumbled through a fake smile to the couple.

“Pardon me.” Daniel spoke loudly. “Dear brother, I hate to intrude but I was wondering if I could snag your lady here for only a moment.”

Christian had to work hard to smother his angry glare at his younger brother for interrupting his conversation, “I suppose.”

“Much obliged, dear brother.” Daniel took Louisa’s arm, tossing a, “Enjoy your night” to the guests as he pulled her away.

“I was ready to face my death in that same spot.” Louisa chuckled as he pulled her through the crowd.

“I could tell. Good thing you have me to save you from fatal boredom.” Daniel smirked at her.

He stopped suddenly, spotting his mother and her friends standing next to the dessert table. She caught her son’s surprised expression and glared warningly at him.

“Ok. Abort! Abort! New plan.” Daniel said quickly as he led Louisa in the opposite direction from his mother and they emerged out of the stuffy ballroom into the atrium.

Louisa kept her gloved hand in his arm as he led her farther down the hallway, the two pairs of shoes clicking quickly over the wood floors as the rest of the palace was in silence.

“Where are you taking me?” Louisa asked, her free hand holding the front of her dress up a little so she could walk more comfortably behind the long fabric.

“Mother is refusing to let me have any desserts…to not take them from guests…so we’re going to find some ourselves.” Daniel explained, pulling her into the dining room and closed the door behind them.

“Where on Earth are we gong to find desserts?” Louisa whispered, following him down the length of the dining room towards the back door.

“The kitchen, of course. I told you, I know all the secret places.” Daniel sent her a wink before pushing the door open to peek inside. He looked back to her and waved her inside.

They tiptoed quietly into the kitchen, the remaining chefs at the far end of the kitchen making extra finger food for the ball. Daniel and Louisa walked crouched behind the large islands of the palace kitchen, under rows of iron pots and wooden chandeliers hanging from the ceilings. Daniel grabbed her arm and pulled her down quickly to duck behind one of the counters, pressing his finger to her lips. Louisa held her hand to her mouth to smother her nervous and excited laughter, watching him slowly stand back up to peek over the edge before ducking back down again.

“The head chef hates when I’m in here.” Daniel whispered, a mischievous smile spreading over his face. “I swear he’s going to kill me if he catches us.”

“Daniel!” Louisa gaped.

“Don’t worry. He’s all talk. He knows Father would have him fired if he lays a finger on me.” Daniel peeked over the edge of the counter again before grabbing her arm and leading her around the counter when it was safe to do so. The extra desserts were already plated on dishes of gold and silver, lined up on one of the islands, ready to be brought into the ballroom when they were needed. Daniel slunk up behind it, eyes focused on the chefs now only a few metres away. He moved carefully, slowly lifting a plate from the counter and held it out to Louisa. She hesitated a moment but took it from him and he scanned the spread for what he wanted. He must have taken too long because suddenly there was a shout from across the room as they were spotted.

“Run!” Daniel shouted, snatching one more dish as he jumped around the corner of the counter and took off at a sprint. Louisa shrieked as she ran after him, her ballgown billowing in the wind as she tried to keep up with him.

“I warned you, Daniel! Your father won’t be pleased!” one of the men shouted after them, waving a spoon in the air as he tried to smack Daniel on his way past. The young boy dodged him easily, laughing as he reached the door.

“Thanks, Corbyn!” Daniel called over his shoulder as he rushed Louisa back into the hallway, and they ran off through the empty hallways of the palace.

She followed him upstairs, carefully trying not to spill any of the pastries from the platter she carried in her gloved hands. Daniel was filled with energy that she could hardly match, and he yanked her into a door off the second-floor hallway and slammed it behind them, their breathless laughter filling the wood paneled room. He shushed her quickly through a smile and pressed his ear to the door to make sure they weren’t being followed.

“Oh my gosh!” Daniel laughed breathlessly when they were safe.

“That was ridiculous!” Louisa giggled, setting the platter on the table in the round cornered sunroom of the library.

“Did you see his face!” Daniel snorted, eating a pastry as he set his platter down beside hers and fell into one of the chairs. “Oh my God, that was priceless.”

Louisa sat herself down across from him, watching as he loosened his tie and left it to drape around his neck and he unbuttoned the top two buttons of his dress shirt before reaching for another dessert.

“I couldn’t grab any truffles in my haste.” Daniel tisked at himself, kicking his feet up on the edge of the table as he ate another small pastry. “I just needed six extra seconds.”

“I think we pulled off an amazing heist.” Louisa chuckled, taking her own dessert to eat, her curls starting to fall uneven after their race across the palace and she tucked the loose strands behind her ear.

“Indeed.” Daniel nodded through a mouthful.

They sat in silence a moment, just snacking on their stolen treats together. Louisa glanced around the library, the tall walls were filled with packed bookcases and peaked windows, the fireplace in the center of the long room carved with beautiful engravings and stretched to the ceiling. The room was dark except for the moonlight coming in through the large paned windows and sent soft streaks over the table they were sat at.

“This is so much better than talking about boring politics with old men, you reckon?” Daniel smirked across the table, breaking their silence.

“Extremely.” Louisa agreed. “I do not even know who any of those people are.”

“Only the best of the British aristocracy. Almost as stuck up and pretentious as my family but not quite. They would kill to be us…to take us down with whatever information they can get their hands on…although they would never admit it outright.”

“Is that why that woman was eyeing me like she was?” Louisa asked.

“Probably. Waiting for you to scratch your cheek or something equally unladylike so she could go tattle to her tea guzzling friends about how our family is destroying the future of England.”

Louisa laughed loudly, holding her hand in front of her face in light embarrassment at her own outburst. Daniel laughed along with her.

The young French girl put on her best post British accent, “The youngest son is absolutely preposterous. We are so thankful we have his boring older brother to lead our country to another generation of literary genius.”

Daniel nearly fell off his chair with laughter, smacking his hand to his stomach for a moment before straightening up himself, a pastry still tucked between his thumb and forefinger as he joined into her antics, “What a disappointment it must be to have such a savage for a son. He is talentless and uneducated, and nothing compared to King Christian Seavey…all hail! God Save the King!”

“God Save the King!” Louisa held out another pastry and Daniel gently hit their desserts together in a mock toast and they ate them together.

A momentary silence fell as they snacked.

“You don’t feel guilty about poking fun at your future husband?” Daniel asked, wiping his hands on his black slacks, leaving powdery fingerprints in his wake.

Louisa shrugged through a smile, “We’re just having a laugh. What he does not know won’t hurt him.”

“Wish you were sent to marry me instead of that old man.” Daniel scoffed lightly, reaching for another dessert.

“The universe would probably implode if we were together. Too much freedom, the country wouldn’t know what to do with itself.” Louisa giggled.

“First, we would banish anyone named Christian.” Daniel held up one finger as he counted their imaginary goals. He glanced over at Louisa with a playful smile, the moonlight making his blue eyes sparkle from across the table.

“How terrible of you.” Louisa laughed, shaking her head.

#why dont we #wdw #daniel seavey #christian seavey #royal!wdw #jack avery #jonah marais #zach herron #corbyn besson #daniel seavey fanfic #wdw fanfic #why dont we fanfic #why dont we imagines #why dont we music #historical fiction #👑

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cherryyharryy · 5 years ago

Text

Burning Words

Chapter Two: Lunch, Library, and Lady Liberty

WC: 7,400

Previous part

Songs for this chapter

The prickling scratch of my highlighter dragging across a strip of text reminds me of how naïve I really am. I hate the sound, hate how uneven the lime green line sits, jagged over the inked words, with a pool of color where the pen sat at the beginning of the sentence.

It’s raining outside, and rain in New York is not like rain anywhere else. It’s purposeful, like a painting, like it belongs here. The only difference is that nothing changes—not like back home. In Georgia, people would come out afterwards, drive ten miles to the nearest pit and screw their trucks through the mud. Kids would run outside and look for worms and slugs, puddles to jump in. Dogs would dig holes in the softened earth. But here, no one stops. No one bats an eye, not even the people who forget their umbrellas. I wish rain was still life changing.

I sigh, close my notes, and cap my highlighters. “Any ideas for lunch?”

Jessie dips her head back in thought. I see her lashes flutter and her lips pinch, but then she shrugs. “We could order pizza?” She’s sat cross-legged on a patchwork armchair, laptop balanced across her thighs with a pen teetering between her teeth. I have to tip my head over the back of my chair to see her, upside down. “I’ve got a coupon for that place down the street.”

“We always order pizza.”

“We could learn how to cook.”

I click my tongue. “Bingo.”

The far wall of the apartment has a generous sized window. The floor creaks like we’re torturing it every time we move across a room, the bathtub faucet leaks when it’s hot out, and I know more about my neighbors’ lives than I really need to. But the window....it’s like a movie. My chair sits beside it. I try to count raindrops but there are too many.

“Chinese?” I offer.

“You and your egg rolls.”

“They’re the only thing I want when I don’t really wanna eat. I didn’t eat breakfast. And I only had a handful of popcorn for dinner last night.”

I can see a park from here, and in the winter when the trees are bare, a neighboring tennis court. Flowers hang limply from their stems along the sidewalk. A cat scrambles across the road, sporadic, and suddenly I envy the lack of knowledge animals have, lack of responsibilities, sense of time, unspoken contracts. At times I wish I were a depressed cat soaked to the bone, thinking if I move quick enough I’ll escape the rain.

“What?” I miss half of what Jessie asks.

“How’s your class been?”

“Which one?”

Jessie pauses her movements to assert me with a knowing glare. “You know what class. How’s the British babe?”

“Ugh, Harry.”

“Harry,” she tests his name before I continue. A few students have called him by his name, but he’s quick to correct them, surely enjoying his authority.

“He’s most definitely not a babe. A jackass. And he’s been as jackass-y as ever.” I join Jessie when she starts to laugh. “He calls on me every chance he gets. And I swear it’s just to humiliate me.”

“Well at least he’s nice to look at.”

“That means nothing when he’s a jerk.”

“True.” Jessie shrugs. “What about Truman’s...it’s near campus?”

I loll my head back and narrow my gaze. They don’t have egg rolls. “Yeah that’s fine.”

“My treat.”

***

In Hungarian, there are two words for the color red. Piros and vörös, with different times to use them, and should be used accordingly. When I was a kid I got them wrong; called my mom’s hat vörös, and got a slap on the wrist by my grandmother.

I spent that evening hiding in my closet, using the sleeve of my Winnie the Pooh pajamas to soak up the cascade of tears. When my cousin found me, I begged him to explain what I’d done wrong.

“Piros is blood inside the body. Vörös is when it comes out.”

That’s all I was left with. And I never did understand the difference. For years now that night resurfaces in my brain, and I think, I’m older now, I’ll be able to get it.

But now, as I stand on the sidewalk, peering through the window of Jessie’s lunch choice, I’m swarmed with the overbearing realization that age has nothing to do with it.

Harry’s in a striped button down, a sea foam green that reminds me of how different candy felt when I was younger, and high-waisted navy blue pants that couldn’t decide between flaring out or forming to the shape of his legs. I watch him balance plates and glasses, stacking forks and knives, spoons and mugs, soiled napkins and empty Splenda packets. He shovels his tip into his pocket and then disappears out of view while someone else wipes down the table.

“We can go somewhere else.”

“No.” I drag in the humid air, freshly washed, and hold it in my lungs until my head starts to spin. “This is fine.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah. We’ll sit in the back. At Brigette’s table.”

I’m not sure if you can call Truman’s a restaurant. It isn’t fast food, fine dining, or even a bistro. It’s always dark. The chairs are pink and the tablecloths are green. There are flowers everywhere, I thought it was a flower shop and was sadly mistaken when I came in for the first time to buy Jessie a bundle of roses for her birthday. Strumming violins fill any silence between tables. It’s old but new, rooted woods, lamps from the 90’s, curtains from the 80’s, cooks from the 60’s and 70’s.

“Brigette’s not on today, but that table is available if you want it.”

Me and Jessie both blink at the hostess, unintelligible utterances coming out until we give up, give in, and sit ourselves down at the small tea table under the back window.

“I hope the rain doesn’t start again. I didn’t bring an umbrella.”

I hum, more preoccupied with trying to find a better distraction than my ripped cuticles.

“He’s up front,” Jessie assures, “I think I saw that guy I dated the summer after freshman year...Mack something or other...busing these tables. I’m sure he’ll wait on us.”

“Whitaker.”

“What?”

“His name was Mack Whitaker.”

“Yeah, him. It’ll be fine.” She shrugs like it’s nothing. I can’t imagine being her.

The place is busy, rightfully so on a bleak Saturday afternoon. The sun pokes through the clouds occasionally, carving streams of golden light across our table, Jessie’s face, and I assume mine as well. She compliments my eyes and I thank her, then proceed to detail a hundred abstract thoughts as to why she must pity me enough to lie. Someone—who isn’t Mack Whitaker—brings us each water and apologizes for the wait. They’re swamped, understaffed, and had barreled through a visit from the health department early this morning.

“Anthony’s pissed again,” Jessie mumbles, pursing her lips when I look up at her. I raise my brows so she’ll continue. “I missed his call the other night. But I was busy, so…” she shakes her head and scoffs a laugh.

“It’s sweet though, that he wants to talk to you everyday.”

“Yeah, I know,” she sighs.

“He’ll get over it,” I assure her. “He did the last time.”

“I just hope he’s over it before he comes up here.”

“Good afternoon, have you had a chance to look at the menu?” A girl from my class ends our conversation. She wears the same outfit as Harry. When she smiles I have to blink, her teeth whiter than heat, slightly crooked, and I imagine she overdoes the stinging gel against her gums to make up for it. It works. Her lips and cheeks look as if she’d became too friendly with strawberries; a character face, full and round, structured like magazine models with skin to match. I remember her from the previous year: pretty, even at eight in the morning. Boys like her, professors like her. Head of the Spanish club but I bet she can’t count past diez.

“Two turkey on ciabatta with tomato soup. No mayo on one. Diet Coke aaand…” Jessie raises her brows at me.

“My water is fine, thanks.”

“No mayo,” our server draws out the syllables while jotting down our order. ”Well my name’s Danielle, if you need anything just—” She points her pencil at me and squints, as if that clears my image and her memory. “You look familiar…” She hums to herself, taps the end of the pencil against her lips before her eyes light up. I gulp. “Oh! You’re in my class aren’t you? The early one on Monday and Wednesday!”

I nod. “Yeah, World Lit.”

“Yeah! How are you doing on your book report?”

“Um, good I guess. Haven’t gotten too far into it yet.”

“Yeah, it’s pretty stupid right? I heard it was the TA’s idea. I mean, I haven’t done a book report since high school.” She laughs and rolls her eyes. “So—oh! Speak of the devil.”

My face feels as though I’m being stung by a thousand bees. Harry sidles up beside Danielle and nods to each of us.

“Afternoon, ladies.” He’s holding a pitcher of ice water and flicks his gaze down to my glass.

I regret how much I drank when he fills it back up to the rim. I scrape my teeth against my tongue before I’m able to say anything. “Thank you.”

He nods, opens his mouth, but Danielle beats him to it.

“We were just discussing our class.”

My veins are filled with wax, dripping at a pace so unoriginal, hardening, crystallizing. I grab my cutlery wrapped in a mauve pink napkin to occupy my hands, twisting and prodding and jabbing.

“Yeah,” she continues when all he does is nod. “So what are we doing on Monday?”

“I have a surprise for you all, something I’ve been working on with Dr. Pierce—”

“Oh!” Danielle interrupts. “What is it?”

Harry raises his brows and laughs. “Well I can’t tell you, now can I? Won’t be a surprise.”

“Ohh, yes you can. We won’t say a word.”

Harry denies her once more. His eyes flicker down to me. “I’m sure you won’t. But you’ll have to wait for class to find out.”

“Oh my God! Your hand!”

I follow Jessie’s voice to see a small pool of blood decorating the table, my napkin having soaked up some, my skin a bit more. Red reflects in the sparkling silver of a fork and spoon, glistening on the blade of a knife I have carelessly sawed against the tip of my ring finger. I didn’t feel anything until I saw the cut, and now it stings.

“We have a first aid kit in the back.” I hear Harry say but I look to Jessie. “Here,” he pulls a handful of napkins from his apron and cups them around my finger. “Is this okay?”

I nod without looking at him. He tells me to come with him, and I oblige, weighing my evils as the entire room is now focused on our table and the girl bleeding out right before their eyes. As I walk with him, I selfishly hope I do lose enough to earn a transfusion, amputate my finger, something, anything, so I can leave. If I get to stay in the hospital, I won’t have to go to class Monday.

“Don’t worry!” Danielle whispers as she passes by us. “He’s great with his hands.”

I see vörös everywhere.

***

It burns. Really burns. But I’m thankful. It’s the only thing keeping me aware that I’m alive, that I can’t hide away, that I need to mark my movements as always. He rinses my finger under an ice cold water bottle he pulled from a tiny fridge below the staff’s sign-in computer. Someone yelled at him—Ralph. His name is on the bottle.

“This is cleaner than whatever comes out of the sink.”

He slips his foot around the leg of a metal chair and drags it over by the sink; the closet door it had held open falls shut. With a nod he tells me to sit. I say nothing, just watch him care for the small wound like my life really is dependent on it.

“Can I have your hand—er—can I see it? Your hand?” He rolls his lips in and clears his throat when I extend my arm to him. His touch is almost nonexistent. I barely feel his fingers splaying my hand flat and wide while he rinses the blood off. He uses a towel tucked into his waistband to dry me off, and then pops open the lid of the first aid kit.

“This is just an antiseptic...don’t think it should burn.” He smooths a small bit of opaque gel over the ridiculously tiny split in my skin. “I think the head and the hand...always an extreme amount of blood. When I was a kid, my sister’s cat scratched me, right under my left eyebrow. It felt like someone poured water down my face. Mum thought I was goin’ to die.” He folds a purple band-aid over my finger, frowning when it’s not smooth so he starts again. “There. Are you alright? Did I hurt you?”

“No,” I whisper.

“Good. Okay. Um, well I guess I’d better get back.” His hand lingers on the bandage, running his thumb over it one last time, and then he finally pulls away.

“Yeah.” I’m shaky when I stand, and curse myself when I almost trip over the chair when I turn to leave. I pause to speak over my shoulder. “Thanks.”

“No problem.”

The walk back is long, and I have to fight the urge to look and see what he’s doing. I don’t hear the chair scraping against the floor or Ralph complaining about his water. I’m thankful I threw on my good jeans this morning.

Jessie is bouncing in her seat when I return—the table beside ours. “Is it bad? It was a lot of blood! Are you okay?”

“I’m fine. It was really small. The cut I mean.” I look down at my bandage like it’s a secret. “Where’s my stuff?”

“They’re replacing it all,” she waves off. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah, it throbs a little bit—”

“No, not that! I mean him. Did he say anything to you? Was he mean? Because I’ll go back there if you need me to.”

“No—no, sit down, would you.” I hold back a laugh; she doesn’t need the encouragement. “He was nice.”

“Good. I tried to follow you but the manager came out and asked me what happened. We get our meal free, by the way.”

“Well then I guess this was worth it.”

Our food comes quickly, served by the manager herself.

“Why aren’t you eating?”

I stir my soup. I can see the reflection of my eyes in the red pool, and I watch myself blink once before rippling my image away. “M’not that hungry.”

Jessie leans over the table and lowers her voice. “What happened?”

“What?”

“With Harry, in the back.”

“No, nothing.” I sigh and slump back into my chair. “I’m just tired. And I have a lot of work to do. That stupid report. And I have a quiz in another class on Tuesday. I’m fine. And he—”

“How are we doing? Is there anything I can get you guys?” Danielle looks prettier each time I see her. I shake my head while Jessie answers, keeping my focus on my untouched food. “Did Harry take care of you?”

It’s a good thing I wasn’t eating or else I would have choked. “Uh, yeah. He did.”

“I knew he would. He’s a sweet one.”

“Mhm.”

How easy it would be, to tell her my name. Tell her that her teeth are too white and her shirt is too tight. I could tell her that Harry’s sister’s cat scratched him when he was a kid and that’s where that tiny little scar above his eye is from. Did you know that Danielle? Or were you too preoccupied with what his hands were doing?

“Alright, well just holler for me if you need anything!”

I ignore her but she doesn’t seem to notice, waltzing off. Harry’s counting menus when she approaches him at the front. I think I hear her call him an angel, but I know I see him smile. I tell Jessie I want to leave. If I’m going to throw up it’s going to be in my bathroom with my best friend holding my hair back.

***

I've had the Arctic Monkeys stuck in my head all morning. Every clink of the spoon against my bowl of cheerios, every step I took rushing to school because I decided to spend my time in the shower crying, every yawn from everyone stumbling into class.

And I'll be yours until the stars fall from the sky,

Yours, until the rivers all run dry.

It’s five past eight. Dr. Pierce stands towards the corner, pointing at paperwork another professor is showing him. Each time a student cracks the door open they smile and hurry to their desk like they’ve won something. Freshmen. He told us twice that he doesn’t care if we’re late, it’s our grade not his, which I appreciate. My pen taps across my notebook.

And I'll be yours until the sun no longer shines,

Yours, until the poets run out of rhyme

In other words, until the end of time

He is late, however. I try to refuse my need to look up at the door each time it opens. I want to dismiss the anxiety of waiting for him.

I'm gonna stay right here by your side,

Do my best to keep you satisfied

Nothin' in the world could drive me away

'Cause every day, you'll hear me say

“Sorry, sorry,” Harry apologizes, bustling through the door. He did his best to fix the upturned collar of his rose pink button-down, subtly, albeit he fails miserably when a smudge of maroon is revealed. “I uh,” he clears his throat, “had some things to take care of. Got carried away.” He directs his excuse towards our professor, scrambling to pull out today’s materials from his bag.

Dr. Pierce bids the professor goodbye and welcomes Harry, offering him time to gather himself which he does rather quickly. His lips are pressed together until he’s the center of attention, scanning the room as he always does, finalizing on me and I swear his eyes glisten.

“So, uh, today we’ll be—”

“So sorry I’m late.” Danielle hurries through the door and takes her seat at the front.

“Right, um, welcome.” Harry’s gaze is trained on the paper in his hands. His brows furrow and he clears his throat before continuing. “As I was saying, we’re doing something a tad different today. Dr. Pierce and I have been talking, and we decided to break up our usual routine And with your reports due soon, offer you all a little added support. So we’ll be heading to the library where you all can work, ask questions, get mine or Dr. Pierce’s advice—whatever you need to finish the final touches before you hand anything in.”

Most everyone appears pleased with this news, proceeding to sling their bags over their shoulders and get out of their chairs.

“Hold on, hold on,” Dr. Pierce interjects the flow. “You must work on your report and your report only. This isn’t a free-for-all. And I don’t want to hear that you’ve finished it, because I can guarantee that there’s room for improvement from each of you.”

Danielle is the first to make it to the front. She passes Harry on her way to the door and straightens his collar. His face matches the rose colored stain she thumbs over and I think about how if I veer off and go home, no one will notice.

And I'll be yours until two and two is three,

Yours, until the mountains crumble to the sea

In other words, until eternity

Baby, I'm yours

***

Our library is something out of a medieval storybook. Rich, haunted woods and six tier windows where dust sparkles through the light pushing in. You can lose aged pennies against the floor and get lost behind dusty shelves if you want to. There are microfilms, typewriters, and a spirit machine downstairs and two velvet couches on the second floor.

I spent the majority of my first semester here, back when Jessie brought a different boy home every Friday night. I’ve missed the smell, the quiet, the disturbed alteration of reality inside its doors. But when I look around at my class tossing their bags on tables and hollering for Dr. Pierce or Harry’s attention, I’m not sure if I’ll make plans to come back.

Ms. Bortnick, the head librarian, is a stout woman who barely sees over the front desk, but somehow always knows when I’ve come in. When it’s raining, she knows the shake of my umbrella from everyone else’s. And when it’s spring, she knows my sneezes from everyone else’s. She is like a grandmother, only she’d never had kids, so not quite so in that you can’t get away with stuff. She has a bad eye and one good kidney, and sometimes she mixes these two things up, but I gave up on correcting her long ago. That’s how long I’ve been here.

She is Ukrainian and her accent is thick and aged, much like her mind. “Hello nyuszi,” she says before I’m fully inside. It’s bunny in Hungarian. A nickname from my mom, who tells everyone because she thinks it’s cute. Everyone, including the tiny librarian during the campus tour we took forever and a day ago.

“Hi Ms. Bortnick,” I say, lagging, like I’m embarrassed, because I am.

She just waves with a big grandmother-like smile that makes you miss home.

I take a seat at a small table, behind a section of Virginia Woolf. Most of the voices die down, the clicks of keyboards taking their place, and I pull out the research I’ve started for my report. The Tropic of Cancer, slightly tattered and worn, lay open beside my notebook, and my laptop sits adjacent.

“You coming along well?”

Shit. I jump, my ears ringing. “I’m fine.”

Harry nods and paces behind me to look over my shoulder. The air below his body weighs down against my back, so suffocating and harnessing that I’m sure I feel the waves and vibrations his heart emits. I try to swallow but my tongue gets in the way. I should’ve stayed home.

“I actually did an analysis on Henry Miller a couple years ago. If you wanna pick my brain, you’re more than welcome to.”

“Oh uh, thanks.”

His voice is grumbly, like rocks turning over beneath tires. Yet smooth, like washing sand off your body. I’m perplexed for a moment, at how these two things meet together so well, but that’s always the case with people. Like how Ms. Bortnick can’t remember anyone’s actual name, but sews that wound up with a pet name she picks out just for you.

“Yeah, I think I might even have an essay on my laptop. You can look over it if you’d like,” he says.

“Thank you, but I think I’m fine with what I have.”

“Well if you need anything, just let me know.”

I nod. My eyes blink once he steps away, and it takes me a moment to remember where I am and what I am doing. I’m a bit separated from most of the class, at one of the outlying tables apart from the student section where Harry ambles around everyone. Whenever he bends over to look at someone’s work, the muscles beneath his shirt ripple and contract. I can see his shoulder blades from here, and I’m failing to recall a time when the definition of someone’s spine has ever called for my attention.

I shake my head, naïvely expecting that to clear my mind. Google is pulled up on my laptop, but instead of searching for The Tropic of Cancer, I press the keys in Harry’s name.

The first couple links that pop up are social media accounts. I avoid these and move on to the next option, a link going back to our school. It takes me to his name under the directory, nothing more than a profile picture and his credentials.

Harry Styles

Received his Bachelor of Arts in English Literature at New York University in 2016. He completed a one year internship at the Ann Rittenberg Literary Agency Inc. in New York in 2017, and in 2018, spent a year abroad in France and Italy studying classic literature surrounding the 16th, 17th, and 18th centuries. He is currently working on his graduate degree, assisted professional teaching placement, and his thesis on the cultivation of the Renaissance era in regards to English literature.

I read over everything three times. That’s how long it takes me to grasp it all. He’s accomplished more in three years of his life than I have in my entire existence. It’s weird, being in my twenties and already feeding off the desire of wanting to be young again. It’s not fair how some people are prone to achievements and winning, while the rest of us are left to scramble around, years later to piece together a life that offers a sliver of satisfaction.

I close the window and ineptly click on one of his social media accounts, and for some reason my stomach twists. There’s a picture of him on twitter, from this weekend. He’s at Truman’s with his arm around Danielle, a smile on his face, and a caption thanking her for getting him his job. They’re both pretty; perfect for each other really. The only thing I can think of being thankful for in this moment is that I was not included in their picture. No one needs to see that comparison; I provide myself with enough pity to feed an army.

And maybe it’s stupid, but I navigate to Danielle’s account. There’s a weird fraction in the self-loathing lifestyle, like my brain needs a reminder of where I stand in this world. It keeps me in check, I believe. I cannot imagine thinking I look good, only to be reminded that I don’t in fact, look anything close to good. That’s a big fall to take, and I prefer to spend my time at the bottom. I’ve earned my place here.

I zoom in to every picture. Have you ever compared your wrist to someone? Or the space where your neck meets your shoulders? She has a big, red birthmark on her hip, but she makes it look necessary. And I’m sure Harry probably likes it. And I’m sure she’s told him how she’s no longer ashamed of it, and she’s not afraid to wear bikinis because she doesn’t care what people think. And she probably thinks that’s what makes her different and that’s the story she tells, how she overcame insecurity and loves her body now. And she would probably tell me that I just need to learn how to accept my flaws and learn to love them and then I’ll finally be happy like her. But that’s stupid, even stupider then me scrolling through her account to find some awkward picture, maybe one where her nose and lips are less perfect and I can start saving up for surgery too. Because if I looked like her, I’d have no problem being happy. I’d post pictures on the beach, and find a boyfriend, and not feel like a pathetic loser who’s done nothing with her life.

“Are you writing your report on Danielle?”

I lurch with stiff bones, and now I can’t remember if I’ve had this headache all day or if Dr. Pierce’s voice triggered it. Shamefully, I close the browser. “No, I’m sorry.” I hope that’s enough, because it’s all I can afford to give right now. Maybe if he knew I was seconds away from crying he’ll leave me alone.

“Get back to work please.”

Just make it ‘til you get home. You can cry there. Not here. Not here. Not here.

***

I tediously lower my body so that the water pulses right below my chin. My knees are covered, but only if I remain motionless, or the water will break against my skin and then my knee caps will appear suddenly. I inch my feet further across the acrylic until they are hidden once again.

There is a window extending from the floor beside the tub all the way up, over my head so I have a view of the street below as well as the sky, and it’s always quite a contrast. If the street is busy, then the sky is not. But then if the sky has a heavy to-do list, then it’s the road below me that becomes shallow, except when rain is falling in a race to its demise against the concrete.

I suck in a breath that’s full of my shampoo and bodywash and the rose oil I dropped in twenty minutes ago. I can taste it in my lungs, so before it becomes too much, I push against my heels, my knees forming mountains as they break the surface and my head becomes consumed a moment later. The pressure is light, just enough; I’m more aware that I’m living than I did when oxygen was flowing through my lungs. I count to ten and then release the burn as I crash upwards. It’s a bit dramatic and cinema worthy, but there’s no one watching; even the city-goers are too far below me to care that I live here.

“Is my phone in there?”

I drag my eyes open and sure enough, Jessie’s phone sits on the counter. “Come in!”

“Oh thank God, thought I left it at that party.” She picks her clothes from last night off the floor and throws them in the hamper. “You’re up early.”

“Couldn’t sleep.”

“And why’s that?”

I shrug, but she doesn’t see me, now straightening up the mess she made of her toiletries, her back to me while she shoves everything into her drawer.

“Just one of those nights I guess.”

She peaks over her shoulder and hums. “You have a lot of those.” She turns fully, looking at me like she is a mother. I rack my brain for an excuse but I can’t find one. If I did, I would’ve tried it out on myself years ago. “Y’know I’m here to talk. I’m your best friend...that’s part of my job.”

I smile at the water, but turn away when I see my reflection. “I’m fine. Just getting used to the semester.”

She lets the defeat show on her face, and I’m glad I know how to mask mine. “Alright then. Well just text me if you need me. I’m always here for you.” Her voice is soft and patient and I feel guilty for lying to her. “I’m late for cello practice.”

“I’ll be fine. Gonna enjoy my day off.”

“And actually enjoy it! No studying, no flash cards!” She laughs when I roll my eyes. “I mean it. Go to the park, eat a pint of ice cream, masturbate, please, anything outside of those notebooks of yours!”

“I’ll add those to the list,” I laugh. “I’m probably just gonna stay home and relax. Watch Uptown Girls or something. Eat cookie dough.”

“And—”

“And masturbate I know.”

She kisses my head and grabs her phone, heading out the door, her voice fading as she leaves. “You can tell me all about it later.”

The tile is cold beneath my feet, and slick with warning as I pull the plug on the drain and take a moment to scan the world outside. The sun is in attendance today, some of its beams make their way into the bathroom and have crawled across the floor all morning. I decide to stand there, on the beams to warm my toes slightly. It’s probably more in my head, the warmth, but I’ll take it either way. The tiles are black and white, a classic checkerboard, and I gave up on choosing a color to step on not long after we moved in.

The mirror is foggy and I work fast to wash my face and brush my teeth, keeping my towel tight around myself until the last possible second, trading it’s warmth for a sweater and jeans. I slip into my shoes. I haven’t read much for leisure, and pick up my copy of Anne Frank: The Diary of a Young Girl from my bookshelf before I leave. I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve read it, but each time never fails to reward me with something I didn’t catch the last time.

***

There’s a park within walking distance from my apartment. I like to go there in the rain sometimes, under my green umbrella, and read literary magazines with a thermos of coffee Jessie made me. I look like the adult that I’m supposed to be. I don’t think anyone ever notices, which isn’t much different then the expectations I lay out for myself the night before.

Today, however, I am not walking to the park. I am taking a train to the park. The park—Central Park. And it’s not raining and I forgot to bring coffee, but I need today. I need to do something for myself. Something outside my comfort zone. That’s how you become a better person, right?

We don’t have subways back home. There isn’t much of anything back home other than high school football games, car washes, and stray cats that everyone feeds. The first time I rode the train I cried. Jessie told me that it was okay, and that’s why I did it the next time, and the time after that. I’m not going to cry today, though. I am not going to get overwhelmed and worry about when to get on and when to get off and who’s looking at me and how I wouldn’t be able to help anyone if they get mugged or how if I trip and fall on the platform, I’ll start praying for death.

Light flashes at a rhythm I’m unfamiliar with, but I manage to keep my focus on my book. It shakes in my hands but I keep reading. I’m not really reading, in its true form, that is. I’ve marked this book up so much I could use it as confetti, and those are the parts I’m reading. The parts that meant something to me at each stage of my life: I used a green pen at age eleven, red sharpie at fifteen, blue highlighter at twenty, and ripped sticky notes at twenty-three. It’s less of a commitment this way, but when the screeching travels up my spine and I can smell something other than people when I’m back on solid ground, I wipe my cheeks and they’re dry.

When I lie in bed at night and think over the many sins and shortcomings attributed to me, I get so confused by it all that I either laugh or cry: it depends on what sort of mood I am in. Then I fall asleep with a stupid feeling of wishing to be different from what I am or from what I want to be; perhaps to behave differently from the way I want to behave.

I have a plan in place. One that I didn’t feel comfortable telling Jessie even though I know she’d be supportive. That’s the conundrum; having a best friend who loves you so much they want to fix you. She would have tagged along today, asked me how I’m feeling a million times and try to rationalize everything. She’d tell me all the ways I can be happy. But she can’t do that. No one should be allowed to, really. Because if you say can then there also has to be the option of can’t. And if people had the choice to pick what state their mind was in every day, I wouldn’t be strolling around parts of New York I’ve never been in, trying to scrounge up some off-handed version of self-love.

I bought a bath bomb and candles, stopped at a stationary store to pick up pens and notebooks that I don’t need, another Beatles t-shirt and chocolate. A farmer’s market was selling fresh fruit and I bought a tomato and ate the whole thing right there. I don’t care that it’s cheap retail therapy. It’s blocking out school and certain people and my age and my lack of success as an adult. And maybe it’s not working, but it’s New York—there’s distractions everywhere. And that’s exactly what I’m doing today.

***

Liberty Island. That’s where the Statue of Liberty is. I am stupid for thinking Staten Island, but in my defense, that’s where everyone outside of New York thinks it is. When I moved here I wanted to see it. It was going to be this defining moment that solidified me in my new home, this incredible rebirth that validated me leaving my parents. I was going to buy cheap postcards and send them to my mom and I’d say See, I’m here and I’m happy. This was the right choice. I fit in. Please stop crying. At least I didn’t think it was Ellis Island.

I’m on the right ferry heading towards the right island. Soon, I really see her and I start crying. She’s green but she’s not green, and she’s copper but also not really. She’s this woman and that’s fucking cool, except I know had she not been a gift, she would have been a man. There is someone with a microphone talking about her but the wind burns my ears so I pull up google on my phone.

The Babylonian Ishtar, Imperial Rome’s goddess Libertas was Papal Rome’s “Mother of the Harlots and abominations of the earth” and the template for America’s Statue of Liberty.

I paid to visit the pedestal but not the crown. I don’t trust my body to climb twenty stories. I don’t wanna know what I’ll think about that high up. I saved up and bought a reservation and now that I’m here, I wish I’d brought Jessie along. I wish I had more people to choose from to bring along because this isn’t Jessie’s thing. But that was the idea, after all, to keep this day to myself, venture out, mark something off a bucket list I haven’t started yet. Distractions, distractions, distractions.

My bags are heavy and it’s hot, but I manage to read a lot of plaques and stroll around intentionally. I do, at certain moments, feel a sort of liberation with myself. Kind of like the first time you go out driving on your own. It’s scary, and a part of you still wishes your mom was behind the wheel, but that kind of being alone is freedom. It’s not the car or the license, it’s the option to be fully by yourself at any time.

And I can’t help but wonder, compare, really, myself to the woman who I’m wandering around below her dress. She does lonely well. She does it right. All by herself she stands, a beacon, a purified symbol. And this is where I’m at, apparently, scrutinizing my abilities at making loneliness look mature and comparing myself to a statue.

Truly, this is my day.

I take pictures of everything around me and it must be the sea air, because I do contemplate asking this dad of four kids to take one of me. I push that out of my head rather quickly. I switch the filter to black and white and angle my phone to get a photo overlooking the harbor once I’m back outside, but stop right in my tracks, when a familiar face is in the frame.

“Oh my God! I can’t believe you’re here! What a small world!”

Dozens of names swim around my head, and my courtesy smile eases into a real one once one of them starts flashing, matching this person’s face before I make a fool of myself.

“Devon, hey, s’been a while.”

“I know, God,” she shakes her head in disbelief, “high school feels like a century ago.”

She looks the same, only like a new version. Not exactly older or more mature, but like she stopped experimenting with makeup and her acne finally calmed down. All of her features sit on top of her face, warm, eyes just as piercing as when we were seventeen. She was always cute and that quality has followed her over the years.

“So what are you doing?” she asks and I squint because of the wind, imagining her words rearranging in the breeze into something easier to answer.

“Um, just sightseeing.”

“Well I figured that,” she laughs. “I mean, your life, what’s up?”

I know my face looks resistant. Everyone pulls the same look when your stuck explaining something that is going to automatically lower the standard in which the other person sees you: nearly closed eyes, barred upper teeth while your top lip pulls up in thought, sucking in a short breath before speaking, stiff neck and chest.

“I uh, well I’m still in school,” I nod along and loosen my volume to sound like I’m happy. “And uh, working.”

“Oh are you working on your masters?”

“No just um, maybe one day, but not right now.”

“Okay.” It is that ‘okay’. The you-are-turning-pathetic-right-before-my-eyes Okay. She smiles anyway. “I’m thinking of going back next year to get my doctorate.” She shrugs. “So do you live here, or…”

“Yeah, yeah, I got a scholarship—”

“Oh well that’s good!”

“Uh huh.”

“We’re just visiting. Trying to hit all the hot spots though.”

“We?”

“Me and my fiancé. She’s—” she cranes her neck and points to somewhere behind her, “on a work call at the moment. Y’know it’s beautiful here, I wonder if we could have the wedding right here,” she laughs.

“Yeah that would be something.”

“So, are you seeing anyone?”

“Not at the moment.”

She gasps like she’s discovered something and points at the air between us. “Wait, weren’t you dating that guy, the uh, really smart one who graduated early? God, what was his name, Mark or Matt?”

“No that uh, that wasn’t me.”

“I could’ve sworn it was,” she laughs.

“Nope.”

“Aw, bless your heart, well you’ll find someone. The city’s big!”

I am done with this conversation. I force a smile and excuse myself, heading off in the opposite direction so if any tears fall she won’t see, and keep to myself until it’s really cloudy and mist pricks my skin. Not soon enough, we’re boarding the ferry again.

I wave to Lady Liberty and imagine her waving back when we leave. If I squint, it kind of does. Whether she’s saying goodbye or good luck, I don’t know.

***

Dinner is one of those meals that either means everything or nothing. Tonight it means nothing. I walk past Truman’s, slowly. Harry isn’t in there and I stop right outside the plated glass window, now decorated with orange and yellow leaves, and try to figure out if I would’ve gone in had he been there. A band is setting up along the back wall and that’s where I see Danielle. She’s got a tray of drinks that each member takes. When she spins around she’s smiling and she smiles as she walks towards the hostess’ podium and she smiles when she squeezes the hand of some guy that comes up and she smiles when she sees me.

I wave because what else am I supposed to do. If I flip her off, she might strangle me with her extensions, or tell Harry that I was a bitch, or spit in my food the next time I come in. I wait till she’s distracted, and then I leave. I stop at a food truck and stuff my face with a taco. Nothing.

Back down the street, back on the train, back to my apartment.

“I didn’t cry this time.”

Jessie glances up from sliding the bow across the strings, the last note stinging the air. She looks so small next to the instrument.

“On the train. I didn’t cry.”

****************************************************************************************

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