#College Reopen Date

[shatteredsnail]

oOoOooOo the trust members want to have reliable communication soooo badly oOooOooO

[creamflix]

nanami kento x reader; no reader gender implied. established relationship, you're married. angst with hella comfort. bittersweet. — masterlist here ☆

book dates with nanami had always been your little ritual, even before you got married.

you’d weave through shelves hand-in-hand, exchanging thoughts on novels, old and new. it was a comfort, a reminder that in this life you’d built together, there were constants — small moments that anchored you both, familiar and cherished.

today, you spotted him tucked between two shelves in the classics section, his gaze softened, almost wistful, as he held an old, worn copy of the great gatsby. the sight brought a smile to your face at first; nanami had always appreciated literature that held depth, stories that took him back to places he hadn’t visited in years.

but as you got closer, that smile faded.

the way he stared at the book, fingers tracing over the faded cover, wasn’t the usual look of nostalgic admiration. it was something deeper, something… bittersweet.

“ken?” you called softly, stepping closer. he turned to you, surprise flitting across his face before he offered a gentle smile.

“ah,” he murmured, lifting the book slightly. “this one… it was a favorite of someone i used to know.”

your chest tightened, and an unbidden question rose up before you could silence it. “someone… from before?”

you knew he’d had a college sweetheart, a first love who shared his love for books and afternoons spent in quiet cafes. he’d told you enough about her to know she was a part of his past, someone who had helped shape him into the man he was now.

but it had never felt so tangible, so close, as it did now.

he nodded slowly, a flicker of sadness passing over his face as he held your gaze, catching the way your expression changed. “she loved this book,” he admitted, his voice low. “it was… special to her.”

your heart felt heavy, as if it was pulling itself inward to protect from a pain that was already spreading. “and… is it special to you, too?”

nanami’s gaze softened, and he took a step toward you, his hand reaching to gently cup your cheek. “she was my first love,” he said quietly, his thumb brushing over your skin in that comforting way of his. “i won’t lie to you about that. but that’s all it is, love — my past. you’re my present, my future.”

you tried to take comfort in his words, in the steady warmth of his touch, but the ache was still there, sitting heavy in your chest. “it’s just… you seemed so lost in it, like you missed that time with her.” you managed to keep your voice steady, but you could hear the strain in it, feel the vulnerability that came with laying this insecurity bare.

nanami’s brow furrowed, his hand moving to hold yours. “it’s not her i miss,” he said softly, his voice steady and sure. “those years… they were formative, yes, but i don’t regret leaving them behind.” he paused, his gaze searching yours, trying to reassure you in the only way he knew. “i’m here with you now, and that’s all that matters to me.”

you wanted to believe him, to let his words wash over you and erase the pang in your heart. but the image of him standing there, holding that book with such tenderness, kept replaying in your mind. it was a reminder that he had loved before you, deeply, and that some part of him had been shaped by someone else, someone whose memory lingered, no matter how much he tried to reassure you otherwise.

“i know you mean that,” you whispered, feeling the tears prick at your eyes. “but it still hurts… it’s like there’s a part of you that i can’t touch, something that belongs to her.”

he exhaled, pulling you closer, his arms wrapping around you in a secure, steady embrace. “i’m sorry,” he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper. “i never meant for you to feel that way.”

you could feel his sincerity, the way he held you with a kind of reverence that only nanami had, and it soothed you — partly. but the hurt lingered, like an old scar reopened, a reminder that while he was yours now, he hadn’t always been.

“it’s not your fault,” you replied, your voice muffled against his shoulder. “i just… i wish i could be the only one in your memories sometimes.”

he tightened his hold, his lips pressing a gentle kiss to your forehead. “i understand,” he said softly, leaning back to meet your eyes, his expression pained yet resolute. “i wish i could make you see that my heart is with you, that you’re everything to me. if there’s any way i can show you that, tell me, and i’ll do it.”

you managed a small smile, but the ache remained, a reminder of the love he’d had before you, a love that had left marks you could never erase. even with his words, his arms around you, the knowledge of his past clung to you, making this moment feel bittersweet.

and as you both stood there, surrounded by the quiet of the bookstore, you realized that sometimes, love meant carrying these bruises, letting them settle beneath the surface where they could heal in time — if they ever did at all.

produced by creamflix on tumblr. all rights reserved. do not copy, steal, modify, repost — support your writers by liking and reblogging. ♡

[morganski-19]

The One with Shaved Legs

Eddie walks into Steve and Robin’s apartment, planning on asking if can borrow a charge since Nancy has banned him from borrowing hers. But instead, he’s stood there staring at them with a hand on the door handle.

“Oh, hey Eddie,” Steve waves a greet as if what’s happening is completely normal.

“If you’re going to ask for a charger, the answer is no. Nancy already told me you’re blacklisted.”

Eddie opens his mouth to say something, closing it and reopening it a few times. “I’m sorry, what are you doing?”

What they are doing, in question, has Steve with his leg on a chair, wearing the shortest shorts known to man, with shaving cream rubbed all over his leg. Robin is standing next to him with a razor, delicately shaving the hair off.

“Yeah that. Robin’s shaving my leg,” Steve rolls his eyes.

“Yeah,” Eddie says, finally able to step into the apartment. “But why?”

Robin stand upright, rising the razor off in a bowl and glaring at Steve. “Do you want to tell him why or should I?”

“I didn’t know, ok I didn’t know. How was I supposed to know?”

“Did he not show up to parent teacher conference?”

“Fuck he did, I forgot.” Steve runs his hands over his face, mortified.

Eddie clears his throat. “Explanation, please. Clue in the person not connected to your weird twin telepathy thing that you have.”

“Steve’s on a sex ban,” Robin informs. “He slept with one of his student’s parents, again.”

“Divorced,” Steve clarified, “I knew that much. And he was very hot, could you blame me?”

“Yes, always.”

“How hot?” Eddie asks.

Steve reaches for his phone on the counter and almost falls over in the process, swiping through his phone to pull up the guys dating profile.

Eddie takes it and stares at it. “Yeah, very hot. Not for me, but I can see why you went for it.”

“Thank you.”

Nancy walks into the apartment. “Oh, there you are Eddie.” She takes one look at what’s happening and immediately gives Steve a deadpanned look. “Sex ban again, seriously, Steve.”

And because the timing couldn’t be more perfect, Jonathan and Argyle show up and walk into the apartment unphased.

“I forgot, ok. I wouldn’t have slept with the guy if I knew.”

“Parent again?” Jonathan asks while already knowing the answer.

“Wait, how many times has this happened?”

“Too many,” Nancy says annoyed. “The first time was in college when he slept with the TA to get a better grade.”

“That was not why, it was not grade motivated,” Steve depends.

Nancy rolls her eyes. “Either way, he got a weird grade boost so we invented the sex ban.”

“It happens like once every year or so,” Jonathan fills in.

Eddie crosses his arm, still confused. “How exactly is this a sex ban?”

“We only shave one leg,” Robin explains.

“Yeah, shaving both would do nothing, now I get so disgusted by the feeling of my legs rubbing together that I won’t want to sleep with anyone. I can do with both having hair, or both shaved, just not one with both.”

“Oh, yeah that makes sense.”

“I shave my legs all the time,” Argyle says unprompted.

Jonathan nods. “It’s true, he does.”

“I like how soft they get.”

“Very soft.”

“You’ve touched his bare leg to feel how soft it is,” Eddie questions.

Jonathan shrugs. “Hard not to when he does that thing where he shaves and then makes me feel how soft it is.”

“Because I want someone to appreciate it,” Argyle reasons.

“Just because I didn’t say anything doesn’t mean I didn’t appreciate it.”

Argyle rolls his eyes. “Well, you could have said it.”

“Your relationship still confuses me.”

Robin finishes the last stripe on Steve’s leg, swishing the razor in the bowl of water. “Done, go rinse it off.”

Steve brings his leg off the chair and walks to the bathroom with a wide stance, so he doesn’t get any of the shaving cream on his other leg. He comes out with a clean leg.

“You missed a spot.”

“Even better.”

Tag list (let me know if you want to be added or taken off) @slowandsteddie, @annieofhearts, @cacdyke, @ubpd, @captain--low, @thespaceantwhowrites, @goodolefashionedloverboi, @anne-bennett-cosplayer, @lunaticparisianlady, @apomaro-mellow, @dolphincliffs, @dragonmama76, @maggiebug417, @stevesbipanic, @fearieshadow, @mentallyundone, @eightpackdiaz

[forthelostones]

inna good way ─── ⋆

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚🍸 fem!reader x college!ellie 🍸⋆୨୧˚ ⋆ ˚｡

" 'cus you make me wanna cry in a good way"

synopsis: it was the day before graduation and your ex-best friend threw a party. you visit and see if there's something left.

warnings. 18+ (mdni); soft ellie, fluff(?), suggestive language, jealousy, abby ft, smoking/drinking, mentions of insecurities, & grinding. sfw!!!

an: hi everyone, thanks for all the love on my other works! that means a lot to me, make sure if you like my writing to make suggestions! (p.s. i'm drinking wine & missing uni sooo)

(no y/n)

♪ playlist: palace/curse, i. the party, in a good way, 2 AM . ♪

#normalgirlsyndrome

wc: 3.1k

you were staring at your phone at the edge of your mattress in your college apartment. boxes had been packed, the bed once in a frame on the floor, and your gown hung over your closet door. you knew ellie was throwing a party tonight at her house and you couldn’t refuse the opportunity to go. although you didn’t have a choice because your roommates insisted you had one last night together. so, before you taped up your boxes, you pulled out your traditional going outfit, ready to hit it one last time. you were already tipsy from the four glasses of white wine you inhaled while doing your makeup. you tapped through ellie’s story ferociously over and over. she had been posting videos of her smoking a joint and playing beer pong, waiting for people to show.  you couldn't help but smile at her sweet face.

you felt a twist in your stomach as you thought about seeing her again. of course you had seen her around campus and waved, but things had gotten more awkward than you’d both admit. the relationship turned dry but you remember the touches of her hands on those random “dates” that she refused to acknowledge. they were so sweet and soft, you yearned for more, especially the nights when you were alone touching yourself in your bed wishing it were her. she refused that she had any feelings for you after a seldom walk near the lake where the stillness of the water was louder than her lack of words. “I just thought we’d be better as best friends lovey,” she told you. her mouth said one thing but her eyes said another, you were sure she was lying. you saw her around with dina, her on-and-off girlfriend, wondering what she had that you didn’t. you picked yourself apart one random date ago while you cried and stared at her photos on instagram. you found yourself reopening those wounds as you began to head for the door. 

the smell of sweating bodies and weed cause your lungs to tighten, forcing a cough out of your throat. your heart became tight at the thought of seeing her, you couldn’t quite place why. so many memories flood your head — remembering the sound of her guitar trilling through the night on her back porch, where she sang your favorite songs to you. her fingers meticulously tracing the guitar's neck, making it perfect for you. you fell into the corner you typically shove yourself into, as your friends handed you a red cup with a clear liquid that smelled like tequila. 

you took it straight, not caring about the consequences. your throat burned with sweet satisfaction, once the liquor dropped into your belly, you felt sweat bulb to your top lip. they handed you another, this time with a lime, and you noticed abby, the captain of the rugby team eyeing you. this wouldn’t have been the first time you caught her staring. you flutter your heavy lashes in her direction as you bite your lower lip ever so slightly. abby was attractive, she was fit beyond belief and you could imagine the type of positions she could put you in with no effort. she started making a stride towards you in her all black ensemble. 

a text hits your home-screen, it’s ellie.

come smoke. 

you ignore the message as abby comes beaming with a smile. 

“hey pretty.” she muttered. 

i know you’re here come onnnn. 

ellie knew you only smoked with her, she wouldn’t ask you otherwise. so, you grab abby by the hand and grin right back at her. “you wanna come smoke with me?” you ask, not really giving her a choice. 

was your intent to make ellie jealous… no… but yes, because you were only just friends. abby follows your lead naturally towards the back patio glimmering brightly ahead. you both slip past the kitchen, through the sliding doors where ellie is chatting with her roomates, and you wave at her. she’s not blitzed yet, so she has a smug look on her face when she sees abby. her twisted face is illuminated by the fairy lights gleaming softly around the perimeter of the porch. 

“hey els," abby says. 

“hi you.” you said, reaching directly for the blunt in her hand. 

her eyes scan your body, she loved when you wore that outfit, as you bent down she snuck a look at your breast, clearly spilling out of your top. abby sits in the wooden lawn chair just parallel of ellie and you perch yourself in her lap, her hands automatically coming around your waist. they were bigger than they seemed and you felt a heat patch warm your core. ellie could never hide her facial expressions, she attempted to not turn to look, instead, she turned her chair. 

beer?” she asks abby. 

“yes please. thanks.” abby replies. 

“make me something.” you demand. 

ellie sets her jaw and moves slowly into the kitchen past a herd of people. you bring the blunt to your lips, sucking in, holding, then exhaling away from abby’s face. she was watching you intently, noticing how your lips puckered. you turn to her and place it between her lips, she coughed violently as the smog entered her lungs.

“aw. sorry, I didn't—“   

“nope it's,” she said with her thick throat. “never got to smoke because of rugby.” 

you just hit her with an understanding face as you shift on her lap. her left hand moves to rest on your inner thigh and her other just at the curve of your ass as you perch closer into her. you face the joint and grab her cheeks, blowing smoke into her mouth, she inhales softly, both of your lips practically touching. you’d never give her the satisfaction as you noticed her hips pressing your backside.

ellie stood behind you both, holding a can of beer and a cocktail glass filled with your drink. you handed off the joint and took both in your hands. ellie noticed how close abby’s hands were to your crotch and became red with jealousy. ellie looked you in your eyes as she pushed out smoke from between her lips. as you sipped your Ellie concoction, abby’s hands trailed up your back under your top, she pulled you in closer to her chest as she whispered in your ear. “you’re so fucking hot.” 

you giggle at her praises but feel a knot form in your stomach as you keep unwavering eye contact with ellie’s as Abby continues to spout praises. you press down harder in her lap where she thrusted upwards into your ass. 

“so, you guys ready to graduate?” ellie interrupted, seeing how flustered you got. 

you sipped to avoid speaking as abby turned her head to answer ellie.

“yes. i’m thinking about backpacking around Asia for a bit.” 

“really? i’ve always wanted to do —“ 

“since when?” ellie cuts you off in a fiery spit. 

abby coughs and sips her beer in a gulp, finishing it all. 

“need another?” you ask. 

abby nods kindly and gently pats your ass as you get up. ellie passes the blunt to abby and follows you inside to go to the drink fridge in the basement. you know she’s following you, you can practically feel her breath on your neck as you zig-zag toward the steps. you reach the bottom of the basement stairs and see ellie’s silhouette at the top. you try and reach for the string near the lightbulb but can’t find it, your heart beats loudly in your ears as ellie’s converse tap towards you. she stands right in front of you, without saying a word, you can smell her shampoo mixed with weed, and she reaches up to turn the light on. you look at her light pink eyes, and furrowed brows, and notice her heaving. 

for a moment you both just stand in thick silence. 

“i have to get abby a beer.” you felt your feet become heavy and your mind drifted. 

before you could even open the refrigerator door an inch, she slams it shut. her eyebrows raise in curiosity. 

“speak.” you demand. 

taken aback, she gasps at your boldness. “well—I— what the fuck?” 

you shove past her and take another beer in your hands ignoring her dropped jaw. 

“you come to my party, rubbing up on that bitch, sitting in her lap… wha-when has that ever been like you?” 

“are you the only one allowed to have fun?” 

she froze, as abby called out.

“hey, you okay?” 

her voice was so protective, you felt her gaze down at the top of the stairs, making sure ellie didn’t do anything stupid. 

“i’m fine, ellie was helping me with something. i’ll be up.” 

you tried to convince abby, but she still stood watching, which made ellie twitch with anger. 

“i’m going to go to the bathroom pretty.” abby finally says leaving. 

“okay!” you yell out. 

“if you go, please don’t…” she babbled. 

you liked seeing her so weak for you, but it wasn’t enough. you stood your ground and dared to move past her, but she stopped you by grabbing your wrist. “ellie get off of me.” 

you felt the wine and weed settle in, you were sweating, panting, and fingertips buzzing. her touch felt so good, you couldn’t deny that. 

“pretty.” she mocked. 

At least someone sees it, you thought. 

                                                                                  — 

you officially lost Abby, she must’ve left or found someone else to caress. you didn’t mind, deep down you knew that’s not who you really wanted anyway. as you sipped a lone beer and wandered around the house your high was kicking in and the music entered your ears in a blur. no words were clear, just the bass booming on the hardwood creating a vibration under you. you reach the end of the hallway, where ellie’s room door stood. it seemed taller than usual, more daunting, stretching several feet upwards. you actually had never been in her room before; you saw it on her stories, or on facetime, but never in person. as you reached for the cold, gold knob you pause. 

you hear ellie’s laugh boom from behind you, so you follow it like sonar. you see her taking shots with her bandmates and you watch as her t-shirt lifts up ever so slightly to expose her naval. you wanted to know what it tasted like. her feet wobbled underneath her, and she was tipsy. you blink your eyes several times as you find a wall to lean on, and your hand travels back down the hall to open the big, scary door. you creep inside, it’s dark, but in the corner is a small desk lamp that illuminates a yellow hue onto the room. her bed was on the floor, room unpacked, shit was all on the floor, and her guitars were perched in the left corner of the room. to the right was her bathroom, you saw your reflection and had to focus to see your face. your eyes pink, lips wet, and body warm. you sipped more beer as you turned to her shower, you imagined ellie’s naked body, the way she rubbed the bar of soap around her neck, nipples, and in between. 

you went to sit on Ellie’s bed, you began to roll yourself in her messy, undone bedding. her smell was so thick, bruising your nostrils, filling you up. you remember how she treated you when dina was around and you became more pissed off. you swallowed the last drops of your drink and threw the bottle on the ground. warm tears began to bud and then you realized how your mascara would run down your cheeks. you pulled out your phone to check the damage. 

lets talk, im sorry. 

ellie’s message from two hours ago, you freeze, it’s been two hours? you bring your palms to your forehead and let out a soft sob. 

“i’ll be back, yea!” ellie hollers from the hallway. 

you straighten up immediately, she walks in hand in her hair, surprised to see you. 

“oh.” she says softly. 

you couldn’t help but sigh. you set your phone down on the ground and look up at her, she had a slight smile on her face seeing you like this, not knowing you were on the verge of tears just now. she closes the door behind her, bends down, and lifts your chin up. 

“you’re gone.” she giggles. 

you push her hand away and turn your face. 

“let me take care of you, come on. it’s the least I can do,” 

the softness in her voice shook you. 

“did you get my text lovey?” 

all you can muster is a nod as you begin to scoot towards the head of her bed.  

“why don’t you just, get comfortable, i’ll get you something to throw on.” 

she rummages loud through her boxes, which makes your head pound, and tosses you a clean, grey zip-up. she leaves the room quietly, flicking on the light in the bathroom and closing the door after she clicks off the table lamp. you remove your jeans and top, leaving you in your lace panties.

your head is pounding as you become more intoxicated by the scent of her earthy shampoo lingering on her pillow. you inhaled the familiar scent, imagining your hands running through her hair, pulling her closer to your neck. the door opens and you jolt as you remember you never put on the zip-up. 

“I’m sorry— I,” ellie gulps as she spills the glass of water she brought for you onto herself. you roughly zip yourself into the warmth that smelt like her laundry detergent. 

“i’m good.” you mutter. 

you both share a familiar laugh, and her gaze becomes shifty as she thinks about your body. she hands you a half-full glass of cold water with a nervous smile. 

“glass half full, right?” 

you sip and chuckle. 

stupid, fucking stupid Els, she thinks. 

she sits beside you at the opposite end of the bed, she ignores the fact that she can see your thighs unhindered by any fabric not obstructing her view. even though it was dark, she could still see you illuminated by the bathroom light. 

“good, urm,” she peered down at her now sheer shirt. “i will go and get ready for bed.” 

her nipples were suddenly erect from the cold water spreading onto her chest. You couldn’t help but notice them perk from under the thin, wife-pleaser material. she stood up to grab her night clothes and head for the bathroom, leaving you smothered in darkness. you couldn’t tell if your eyes were open or not, but the four walls that you imagined around you spun. 

you heard the water from the shower turn on and your fantasy brightened, thinking about ellie’s body. you became more drunk on the image of ellie touching herself in the shower because of you. knowing how intently she was watching you grind against abby, not only did it make her furious, it turned her on. she knew she made a mistake, picking dina over you all these years. you push your hips upwards, riding the mattress, inhaling ellie’s scent.

you found her name leave your lips softly, Ellie.

Ellie. 

you couldn’t tell the difference between your voice and your subconscious desire of moaning her name. you began to imagine her holding you.

Ellie. 

“lovey, you okay?” she said frightening you. 

you paused, realizing she opened the bathroom door, drying her hair on a towel. Her grey boxers clung to her body so sweetly. she wore a distressed band tee that sat just above her belly button. you had formed sweat around your hairline and your body perfectly contoured into the mattress. 

“i’m okay. yea, thanks.” 

she sighed as she bent down to sit at the edge of the bed. as she dried her hair she was thinking of the next move to make. you were bunched up under yourself, warm from embarrassment. her hand wrapped around your ankle gently, which shocked you, but your reaction time was too slow. she leaned over to kiss your leg, kisses feeling like a pure electric shock, you groaned at finally feeling her touch. 

“els.” you managed to say.

“what?” She said in between kisses, finally coming up the side of your thigh, with her left hand coasting up your backside. 

“no. i can’t.” 

your body pushes her hands away, startling her. she looked at you in pure shock, as if you were the one who was wrong. she crawled towards you with undeniable lust in her eyes. 

“why not?” she asked dumbfounded. 

“you rejected me all this time. you… dina…” you say attempting to jog her memory. 

“dina and i so what.” she moved an inch on all fours. 

“you chose her over me, so that’s that.” 

“baby,” she groaned. 

you melt at her voice, you couldn’t help it. 

" okay, i was scared. scared to disappoint you, I’m not… I’m not sure how to be in a relationship. dina was fun, easy, she didn’t care. I wanted you, I just- 'm so fucking dumb,” she rambled.  

you grimaced at her name, you had grown so spiteful of her that even the mention of her made you tense. ellie was now in your bubble, she laid her head on the pillow beside you, and sincerity filled her eyes. 

“you could’ve told me that. you know that I was your best friend ellie.” 

she flinches at her own name. “I know, I know.” she muttered as she tucked her hand behind your neck and leaned in to kiss you. her lips were pillowy and wet, better than anything you’ve ever felt. she swiped the bottom of your lip entering her tongue inside your mouth. you groan at the taste of her and her huffing as she pushes deeper into your mouth. your hands drift to her waist and you pull your leg up over her body, pulling her closer. 

your hands travel up her back into her scalp. she pulls away and pierces your pupils, she meant everything she said, you saw it. “i’m sorry lovey, i was just scared.” she added. 

you could only force out a hmm.

"please forgive me?" she says, pecking your neck slowly with staccato kisses.

her tongue swirls up the side of your neck and wraps around your lobe as she pleads, "please." desperately pushing up against you.

and for a moment you consider forgiveness.

[ronnierites]

Hey! If you have time: number 6 from the hurt/angst confession list with Bang Chan please ❤️

For this, I have made the time :) Please enjoy and let me know what you think!

Bang Chan x GN Reader

Prompt: "... This is why I knew I shouldn't have gotten close with you."

Word count: 1.3K

Chris started as a friend of a friend. Your best friend knew him in grade school, so when you met her in your first year of college, of course she introduced him to you. At first, nothing really happened. Anytime you two were together, she was also there. But you would never hang out with just him. That was not the nature of your relationship.

At first.

But then, you started needing what your mother could only call "a big strong boy" and he was the only guy you knew enough to ask for help. Plus you knew he was nothing short of a gentleman and would be more than willing to help, no matter what you meant to him.

It started when you needed help moving apartments. Your best friend asked Chris for help. And he was there on the day of move out, with a surprisingly large vehicle that you knew wasn't his and a hand truck to move large loads. He didn't complain at all when you asked him to move the car a minimum of four times. He didn't complain when you asked him to lift the boxes that you accidentally packed too heavy. He didn't complain when you insisted on double and triple-checking everything yourself. He didn't complain when you would reopen boxes, anxious that you didn't pack something. He didn't complain when your best friend had to leave and just the two of you were left. He quietly fulfilled your every command. You offered to buy him a meal as compensation, but he vehemently refused.

Then your car got a flat tire, and he was the only one in the area that could help. He answered your call with a "hey" and said nothing else except an "okay" when you asked him to come help you. He showed up a short time later, with a bottle of water and a granola bar for you before making light work of changing the tire. You offered to buy him a coffee as a thanks, and again, he refused.

Then your shower stopped working. The maintenance man at your apartment made you feel very uncomfortable so you called Chris. He came over to your place and sat with you while the maintenance man fixed your shower. He didn't say much, just sat with you on the couch and watched the movie you had playing. When the maintenance man left, he turned to you and said "I could have fixed your shower for you, you know."

You shrugged. "It's fine. I ask too much of you anyway. This was more fun."

"It was." And with that, he turned his eyes back to the television, grabbing a blanket to get more comfortable.

You watched three more movies together after that.

You began to feel more comfortable around him. You still kept asking him for help, maintaining a boundary, but your requests got easier. You would text and ask for small things like rides or missing recipe ingredients or even just company while you worked. With each request, you prepared yourself for a "no", but you never got one.

As your relationship grew, so did your feelings for him. Obviously, he was a very attractive man, but you found that his personality was even more so. He was kind and smart. He was considerate and funny. He was everything you could want. But you knew he didn't see you the same way. His short responses in every conversation you've ever had were evidence of that.

So when a guy you worked with asked you on a date, you said yes. Your best friend was over the moon when you told her. She began planning your outfit immediately, going so far as to buy you a new necklace that she claimed ties the whole outfit together. You got all dressed up and you were feeling yourself. You hadn't had this kind of confidence in what felt like years.

So imagine your heartbreak when your date never showed.

You'd never been stood up before. You had no idea what to do. You thought about calling your best friend, but you knew she would be livid and want to try and track him down. Which sounded like a problem for after you cried, showered, and slept at least 10 hours.

So you called Chris.

You cried and cried on the phone. He didn't say a single word until a few minutes later when he said "I'm outside" and then hung up. Sure enough, there he was. Sitting in his car. You slid into the passenger seat and he didn't say a word. He just handed you a hoodie and a bottle of water. Then he started the car and drove away.

After downing half the bottle of water, you start talking again. You're no longer crying. But your voice is shaking.

"Is there something wrong with me? Was this all just a joke to him? Did he do this to humiliate me? Because if so it worked. I was feeling so confident and now-" You paused. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't dump this on you. I'll be quiet now. I know that I annoy you. I'm just a friend of a friend you cannot seem to shake."

You didn't look at him.

If you did though, you might have seen how his grip on the wheel tightened. You might have been prepared for when he pulled the car over.

He put the car in park, took off his seatbelt, and turned to face you.

"Y/N"

You've never heard him sound like that. When you turned to look at him, he was fuming. You have never seen him that mad.

"You're right. You are just a friend of a friend. And you're right. I couldn't seem to shake you. No matter how hard I tried. No matter how much I denied your invites to coffee or food. And now here I fucking am."

If looks could kill, you'd be dead ten times over.

You cowered in your seat, tears filling your eyes.

"...this is why I knew I shouldn't have gotten close to you."

"What's that supposed to mean?" You squeaked out, not daring to look at him.

He let out a big sigh. "You were just a friend of a friend. Until you weren't. Until you were more. Then you were just a friend. Until you weren't. Until you were more." Your eyes shot up. "And now here I am, picking you up from a date where a sad excuse for a man who had the absolute gall to stand you up. Who caused you to ruin the makeup that I know you spent at least an hour perfecting. Who made you believe, even for a second, that you are less than perfect. Who missed out on a chance with you."

"Chris-"

"If I never got close to you, I never would have to see you witness this heartbreak. I wouldn't feel this anger for a man I've never met. I wouldn't have to navigate these feelings that I have for you."

"Chris-"

"Y/N you don't deserve this. You deserve the absolute best the world has. And I'm not saying that's me. But if you give me a chance, I will spend every day trying to bring myself closer to that bar. I can't do this anymore. I can't keep trying to push these feelings down. I can't keep acting like I'm not totally enamored with you."

You reached over and put your hand over his clenched fist. You flipped his hand over and spread his fingers out to relax his hand. Then you slipped your own in it.

"Chris. I like you too." You stared at your connected hands.

When you looked back into his eyes you only had a second to react before he launched over the center console and connected his lips with yours.

[deadboyfriendd]

Stains in the Granite

Summary: Throughout the years, Steve has undergone multiple head traumas. You knew this much when you were together. The migraines, the forgetfulness, moderate hearing loss in one ear, vertigo. The list was expansive. When you were together. It’s been over a year since you had last spoken to him, but an unexpected call from Hawkins Regional sends you reeling back to him. A forgotten emergency contact, he probably just never bothered to update it. You would let Robin know and be back to your regularly scheduled activities, sans Steve. A dead line turns the spigot, worry plugs the drain, and your inability to let him go drowns you in the tub. When he wakes up, he falls in love with you again. And again the next day. And again the day after that. They say he’ll regain his long-term memory storage eventually. They say the amnesia will wear off soon, but, for now, this is who he would have to be. He may only have to live through losing you once, but you’re not sure if you could handle losing him again every day until he regains his memory. You wouldn’t have the heart to tell him.

Content Warning: My content is 18+, Minors DNI, head trauma, mentions of hospitals and the things that go in them, smut, fluff, angst, exes to lovers, hurt/comfort, alcohol

Word Count: 14.2k

Author’s Note: This is dedicated completely to @dr-aculaaa I have had this piece in the works for months before getting it to the version that you are getting. Drac has tirelessly loomed over my docs like God beta reading, helping out with dialogue, and brainstorming these characters with me. This is as much her baby as it is mine, and I love her very very much.

Drac, I love you.

Find the Playlist Here!

Granite, noun, gran·​ite ˈgra-nət 

: a very hard natural igneous rock formation of visibly crystalline texture formed essentially of quartz and orthoclase or microcline and used especially for building and for monuments

: unyielding firmness or endurance

the cold granite of Puritan formalism.

the cold granite of your heart.

You were sullen, eyes unable to focus on any one speckle of the countertop in front of you. You ran your hands over it in a grounding motion, forcing tired eyes upon skin instead of stone. You blinked and it settled. The warmth of your palm could feel the slight unevenness of the surface, where the natural stone had been polished down just slightly too much. You watched it catch the light, glitter beneath your fingers snuffed out by the shadows of your touch. You watched the way the light cast a glowing square onto the ground in its early-morning iridescence. You had not slept, only watched the sunrise before you went to sleep. 

You missed the nonchalance of high school, when being sad was not an inconvenience, in the same way you missed the grandeur of college, where being sad was an art. Now, though you took comfort in the blanket of sadness, it was more obnoxious than anything. Your sighs held a certain bitchiness to them now, less sad than they were unimpressed. 

But you couldn’t help the way the hogs-hair bristles from your years-old, overused brushes stuck in the too-thick paint. You couldn't help the frustration that bubbled through when the linseed oil seeped through too thick and thinned the pigment of your paint so thin the underpainting shone through. It was hard enough to paint your heartbreak, without the added interruption of frustration and all of its woes. You wanted to pick at the scabs of old wounds, reopen them and let the blood drip down onto self-stretched canvases with ragged edges. You wanted your art to feel as raw as your heart did. 

Sometimes you wish you could go back, study something practical like education, be something stupid like an art teacher and talk about fulfillment with dead eyes, but you were too ceremoniously tortured for that. You thought about easy, but you didn’t want it. You craved goddamned difficult. You were goddamned difficult. 

But people bought it. Commissioned it to hang in their ugly suburban sprawls. Ugly art in ugly homes. Maybe people liked the subjectivity, felt like they could see their own heartbreak in it. You weren't so pretentious that you felt like the only person in the world to experience it. You certainly weren’t. Maybe there were people that were introspective, that wanted to feel the heartbreak when they dissociated into the white walls of their cookie-cutter homes. Maybe heartbreak was the only emotion they could force themselves to feel. 

Maybe they took comfort in it, too. 

You didn’t exactly know who you were anymore. Yes, at whatever bullshit ice breaker you could define yourself as an artist. An even more bullshit mediocre descriptor that served as a face to the sacrifice of self you went through for the sake of it all. That was usual, it just came with the territory. It was your only redeeming personality trait. You traded your sense of self for an established style that put cans in your cupboard and secondhand clothes on your back. 

Everything was covered in a wax sheen, the desensitization taking over your personage and casting a vignette across everything you saw. Not even sex was good anymore. It hadn’t been for a while. It had reduced itself to nothing more than another school of art— another subject of  heartbreak. Another thought process and another complication. Your entire sense of self came from academic validation. You were a bachelor of fine art, consistently praised by professors and featured in student exhibitions, graduated magna cum laude from your university. But now? You were lost in a vapid attempt to redefine yourself outside of the college community. This was the real world now, and sucked even worse than college had. 

Your studio apartment overlooked the heart of the historic downtown district of Hawkins, Indiana. It was gray this time of year, rain a near-constant promise over the thick smattering of clouds overhead. You paid entirely too much to live in eight-hundred square feet, but you could justify the cost with the stone hearth and floor-to-ceiling windows, even if that meant sleeping in a twin-sized mattress sprawled on the floor in the corner of the room. Your clothes hung messily on mismatched hangers over a laundry rack beside it. Your few enamel dishes cast drip-drying across the countertops in their own choreography. The rest of the place was barren, save for paint splatters over tarps, stacked canvases, and easels. Maybe it was too indulgent to live in-studio, but poverty would argue and win nearly every time. 

The tortured artist persona was trendy while you were in college, but you were just plain insufferable now. You didn’t even want to associate with yourself. You guessed that’s why you had Robin. She was just as insufferable as you were. 

She was the embodiment of everything you hated, a humbling experience in a flesh box wrapped with a short bob and a beret and adorned with a nose ring. You had met her in an Art: History of the French Renaissance class. She was a linguistics major with all of the subtlety of a clapped-out Honda Civic. She heavily romanticized the greater works of Van Gogh and made her brief year in a study-abroad program in Paris a personality trait. Though, you supposed, her redeemable feature was that she was loyal to a fault, albeit mean. Like a small, white dog that haunted your home instead of offering companionship and happiness. 

Though you, for the most part, kept it to yourself, you had made it known in the past that the Italian Renaissance was far superior to the French. You didn’t understand how she could so  heavily romanticize the ritzy portraits of those aristocratic jerk-offs when she had the Arnolfini Wedding Portrait directly in front of her. Maybe you just didn’t think Van Gogh was all that great. Maybe you hated him altogether. Maybe you hated yourself and you were just projecting– or you were jealous that he could be a tortured artist and people left and right seemed to romanticize his work but when you did it, you were just annoying. You knew, for a fact, that you hated yellow. And she sure liked to wear a lot of it.

The weathered oak was hard and uneven against the curvature of your spine, but you refused to move, the numbness in your fingers happening were the beginnings of the best high you had gotten in ages. There was a resonant patriarchal tenor shrill in your ears as you attempted to focus on the beams and exposed plumbing on the ceiling above you. She spoke it again, louder this time, 

“What are you gonna do with an art degree? Be a tortured artist forever?” You could hear her arm slap coldly against the ground next to yours and echo throughout the emptiness of your apartment. 

You groaned, though it was only proving her point, “I don't know, what are you gonna do with a linguistics degree? Be super fucking annoying?”

“At least I have a job.” 

And she did. She was a translator who rotated on call-circuit to Indianapolis for international business meetings, sometimes they even paid her fare to other countries, in essence getting to vacation on some company’s dime between meetings. The grandeur of it all was sickening. 

The ring from your land-line was shrill and echoing, shattering the silence of your own discontent like tempered glass, fragmenting and exploding into millions of little pieces. No one called here ever, and the suddenness of the tone made both Robin and yourself jump. You gave her a shove to the shoulder, a wordless gesture meaning, go get that. 

Her Hello was tepid, in the same meek demeanor she twirled the line around her finger. Her face registered from confusion to concern, a quick contortion that took place over the course of seconds, “Is he okay? What do you mean you can’t disclose that?” 

You sat up, propping your arms underneath you like the kickstands on a bike, brows knit together in question. She looks to you, holding the receiver out towards you, 

“For you.” She says, then silently and exaggeratingly mouths, About Steve.

What? You mouthed back.

Just– Pick. It. Up. She insisted in silent accuse, shaking the receiver towards you once again, 

You took the plastic receiver from her, fingers drawing the skin of your temples back and rubbing your eyes, “Hello?”

You don’t recognize the voice on the phone. A woman you know is older than yourself by the way she sounds, officiating and knowledgeable, but carrying a certain morosity with her. She held the kind of tone you know brought bad news. 

It feels like a fog, hearing his name again. Hearing that he is a person who is alive and living a life separate from you. It wasn’t right, and that unease turned itself in your stomach as you repeated back her medical jargon to yourself in layman’s terms. Steve fell off a ladder and hit his head. Again. He was unconscious but stable. The neighbor found him and brought him in and gave them your name and phone number 

“And why are you calling me?” You finally asked, followed by a long pause. You cursed yourself mentally, realizing the harshness of the statement after you had said it.  

The nurse sounded displeased, “You’re his wife, aren’t you? You were listed as the primary emergency contact.”

You hadn’t spoken to Steve in over a year, not since you broke it off with him. You trailed your thumb over the webbing between your middle and ring finger, still feeling the phantom sensation of the ring that sat there just a year prior. The dissidence churned in your stomach, and you couldn’t help the worry that filled you. 

Steve was the embodiment of everything you loved. He was smooth like linseed and fell into all of your texture. He didn’t understand it, but he agreed on the superiority of the Italian renaissance. If you hated the romanticization of Van Gogh, then so did he. Steve was agreeable. Steve was easy in all of the places you weren’t. 

Steve cared about people in the way that you didn’t. 

When you broke it off, your families, both found and biological, were shocked. Robin especially. You’d felt bad for her, caught in the crossfire between two of her best friends. You and Steve had both agreed not to make her choose. She was the sentient being of pure neutrality. It was as if she was a separate entity on two different timelines. If she was present in your reality, Steve did not exist. You assumed the same of her relationship with Steve. Though, a part of you still hoped he’d ask sometimes. 

Your brain is a flurry of Steve. His migraine medication, his medical history, his eyewear prescription, fuck his shoe size. You card through the rolodex of head traumas he had undergone through the years, recounting them between relationship markers. You don’t allow yourself the time to think, slamming the phone back down on the stand with a quick, I’ll be there. 

The drive to the hospital is sombering, though, you selfishly are less worried about him being okay than you are about what he would think of you showing up after they thought you were his wife. 

The smell of the hospital is pungent. Horrendously human and unnaturally sterile wrapped up into one fragrant demise. There are people buzzing, both physically and metaphorically, yet despite the controlled chaos the women at the front desk seem unnaturally calm. Uninterested, even. You tell them your name and who you are here to see, and yet, despite the fact that they had just reached out to you over the phone, they still attempt to validate your marriage. 

You knew it was nasty when, “If you don’t think I’m his wife, then why did you call asking if I was his wife?” rolled off your tongue, but you knew Robin would smooth the turmoil with an apology on your behalf. Frankly, you didn’t care. They buzzed you in without another word. 

There was an older man in a white coat standing in front of the room, flipping through a chart with Harrington across the top. The embroidery on it read neurology. You figured he would have to undergo a few whirring uncomfortable scans with any head trauma, but his face remained stoic. You couldn’t read him, and, personally, it was terrifying. 

“Mrs. Harrington?” He asked, holding a hand out. 

You took it as an appeasement, tried to let his old man charm seep into your bones and put you at ease. If he was old, that means he’s done this before. “Yes.” You knew it was a lie, but who else was going to claim him? Not his parents. There was no one else remaining in Hawkins but you and Robin, and she wasn’t family. Technically, you weren’t either, but you weren’t cruel.  

“I wanted to formally speak to you before you saw him. There’s a few things we need to discuss.” This sent a panicked chill through your bones. You expected to step into the room and they would ask you for permission to pull the plug or something. 

“Is he..?” Your face must have registered as panicked, because the neurologist quickly backpedaled with a grounding hand on your shoulder. 

“Oh, no. He’s fine ma’am, we weren’t seeing any bleeds or swelling that he can't recover from.”

That he can’t recover from. Meaning that there is, in fact, something wrong with his brain. You figured that much, with maybe six concussions within the last ten years, but you wouldn’t dwell on that fact too much for now, “But?”

“There is a small amount of swelling in the temporal lobe, which is responsible for short-term memory storage. Your husband is suffering from a form of fixation amnesia that is pretty uncommon…”

You zone out listening to him talk, trying to piece everything together. Steve is okay. He lost his short-term memory for a while. Words like retrograde and anterograde and Transient Global are thrown around and bouncing back with a resounding tenor in your phonetic loop. Steve has forgotten the last year, he cannot store new memories for the time being. He forgot your breakup. He still believes you are together. He needs around the clock care. 

Steve was awake when they opened the door and pulled back the curtain to the room he had already been admitted to. At least someone in this administration was competent enough to get him into a room instead of keeping him in the ER. 

“Baby.” A large, flat palm reaches itself towards you. You stood in the corner in silence, waiting for someone that wasn’t you to speak. But, it just so happened that you were the only person in the room. You don’t realize he’s talking to you, so he says it again, a little more firmly, and you walk up and sit at the chair next to his bed, avoiding the hand outstretched towards you. 

Though, in all of his firmness, where the weight of your elbow finds a dip in the bed, his hands finds your arm. It searches for your hands and finds them with a firm grip. They’re warm like you remember. Steve was always warm. 

“Hi, Steve.” You keep your voice quiet, remembering the days of migraine management. Barely-there decibels creating resounding, echoing pain around his skull. 

“What happened?” He asks you, “ –-head hurts.” He manages, burying his face into the polyfilament of the pillow below him. 

You tried to make your explanation concise, only giving him the cause and not the prognosis. You’d deal with that at a later time. “You fell off a ladder, hit your head pretty hard. Cullen brought you in.” You explained. 

“The dentist? With the labs?” He asked you, and it made you laugh. Steve always remembered people by their cars or their dogs. 

You agreed with him nodding your head despite his closed eyes, “Yes, the dentist with the labs.”

“He’s a really nice guy.”

“He sure is.” 

+

The discharge process was long and rigorous the next morning, swarms of insurance and neurologists and shrinks and case managers. All faces to a crowd that apparently had never communicated with the other department a day in their sad, corporate lives. 

Steve had no car, no means of getting home, and, quite frankly, no recollection of the year leading up to the accident. So, you loaded him into your car, pulling out as slowly as possible and driving at least ten under the speed limit the entire way. He seemed chipper as his hand found yours resting over the shifter, hands meeting your movements as your gears moved up and down with the rhythm of traffic– almost as if he was driving the car himself. You silently thanked him for the movement, already distracted by the constant fear of rattling his already tenderized brain any more than it had been. 

The street looked like it had frozen in time as you slipped past its residents unscathed. The dentist, surrounded by the flurry of yellow labs, waved as you drove by. The house sat in a caul de sac, the one you used to call yours, the third one in from the end between a vacation home and a stalled fixer-upper. It was a smaller Victorian built at the turn of the century. Your selling point was the turret at the front end of the house, sporting floor-to-ceiling windows and housed by oak buttresses. 

You pictured Steve carrying you through the threshold of your home the night of your wedding as you half-dragged him from the driveway to the bedroom. Some of your spring daylilies were coming out of dormancy, the pertinent blooms bulbous and waiting to open. You remembered picking the pink ones, to match the pink peonies and coneflowers that you had planted alongside it. 

This house was a dream. Actually, this house was his dream. Encased in dark oak and copper plumbing. You just wanted a place to paint – and, for this, he had spared no expense either. 

You remembered the day he’d surprised you with the keys:

You had felt soggy, the stale coffee and milk drying into the stomach of your apron and hardening into a sugary breast plate. You knew you’d never be able to get the smell out, instead understanding that was just a part of life when you were a barista. Along with the burns and odds-and-ends scrapes and bruises. 

Steve had been waiting for you on a barstool in front of the door, looking like he had something to say. You knew he had most likely been pacing back and forth from the couch to the barstool as he had waited for you to get home. You weren’t a stranger to his mannerisms. Living with him had been a front-row ticket to The Steve Harrington Show. Sometimes you joked that David Attenborough should join you for dinner, narrating Steve in his natural habitat. 

He had greeted you with a kiss, saccharine sweet like everyone before it, grip on your waist like a vice and a smile that he couldn’t help on his lips. 

“I picked something up today,” He mumbled against your lips, “for the house.” 

The incomplete set sat freshly unwrapped in its paper casings. The Blue Willow china was beautiful nonetheless. Steve had taken a liking to it almost more than you had. You didn’t mean to get annoyed, you had just had a long day. Though Steve knew it, your defensiveness caught him off-guard. 

He would never admit it, but he took after his mother in his eyes and in his shopping addiction. You knew you were moving, house-hunting on weekends and late evenings. You didn’t want to begin your life together in this apartment, which had been filling quickly with heirlooms and antique pieces collected from both shops and family members, “for the house” and, “as an engagement gift”. 

“Steve, what happened to saving money?” You had asked him, reaching behind you to untie your apron to throw into the basket that needed  to be dragged downstairs to the wash. “We’ll never get a house if you keep spending the money as soon as we get it.” 

“Actually,” He said to you, pretty lips turning into a smile as he dug around in his pockets, “We already have a house.” 

He watched the cogs turn in your head, your face exchanging confusion for shock as your eyes widened and you brought your hands up to cover your mouth. You couldn’t help the small years that spill from your eyes and you jump on Steve, laughing along with him as he spun you in a circle. 

You remembered buzzing the entire way there, only remembering to pull your apron off once you tried to buckle your seatbelt. It was dark out, and the streetlights in the historic neighborhood were sparse, if present at all. 

The house was a great cathedral in front of you, rickety and crumbling in nature. 

“The bones are good.” He reminded you, “We can take care of the rest.” 

“I love it!” You squealed to him, throwing your arms around his neck. It caught him off guard, your enthusiasm. 

That night, he refused to carry you through the threshold of the house. He said he wanted to save it for the wedding night. Only do it once so it stays special.  

You sat alone at the dining table, cigarette in hand. You rarely smoked anymore, but you figured this ordeal permissed one. He kept the binders of your wedding planning, all of the stuff you bought, the cause of your cold feet. They were tucked away next to the dining table in the built-in for easy access. They looked like they had been untouched save for a finger print along the spine of the binder that remained bare of any dust or particles– like he had gone to take them out, but hesitated. You looked up and around at the main living space. 

He was going to build you a new life and it didn’t look like he had touched it for a year. 

+

The first day is just playing the game. You were aware he would have temporary, moderate-to-severe memory loss. You attempted to recall the words that swirled around your phonetic loop. Words from neurologists and trauma doctors and nurses alike. 

Steve knows he was in the hospital and knows desperately how horrible this migraine was. He spent it in the dark, on his regular dose of sumatriptan, supplemented wonderfully in a vicodin-induced haze. You did not expect him to remember today, nor did you expect him to care. You know he is alive from barely-spoken words between exchanges of water and his prescription, which, thank God, hadn’t changed in the last year. 

You sleep on the couch. 

The second day, you are up before him, sifting through the pots and pans you’d let him keep to try and feed both him and yourself. You are surprised when he gets out of bed before 9:00, and even more surprised when he asks, 

“So, what are you going to paint today?” Through squinted eyes, lean arm braced against the counter to support the weight of his body. He sips idly from the orange juice glass he used to take the sumatriptan, but not the vicodin. 

It’s not like it was a question that strayed away from the mundane, however, it had been almost a year since you’d heard it last. You’d tried not to let the surprise register on your face as you’d continued to stir the eggs around in the pan. You let the corner of the wooden spoon scrape some of the dried remnants of soft egg from the sides of the pan where the butter hadn’t reached. You shrugged with a soft, I don’t know, unsure of how to answer. 

As Steve retreats back to the master bedroom, you hear the kick of the plumbing and the steady stream of water rattling through the house. You thanked him silently for buying an old place, the plumbing was loud enough to drown out your own thoughts. 

The knock on the window sends you reeling back like the crack of a gun. Your ménage-a-trois with a nose ring and encased the ugliest yellow beret like some gay French Alp paratrooper stood guard outside the bay seating of your kitchen window. You hated yellow, but, for today, you would keep it to yourself. She came bearing gifts. The only suitcase you owned was filled with the only clothes you owned, and as many art supplies as she could carry with the promise of more. Today, she bore her yellow beret as a barrel full of brandy around her neck– a drooly Saint Bernard to your avalanche. You propped the window open on its stakes, cinnamon color mixed with dirt crumbling from its unused hinges. 

She looked around in secrecy, “How is he?” 

“Better today. He just got in the shower.” You shrugged, looking back over your shoulder. 

“How’s the…” She circled her splayed hands over her head, signaling amnesia. You wish she would just say it instead of tiptoeing around the subject. 

You shrugged again, running a hand over your head, “I’m not sure yet. He knows who I am, but, ugh, I don’t know.” You sighed, sitting down at the bench and burying your face in your hands.

Robin leaned against the windowsill, reaching a hand through to push your hair back out of your face, “What’s wrong? Why is that bad?” 

“He still thinks we’re together. Like– doesn’t remember that we’re not together.” You said through your palms, knowing that her linguistics degree also covered your dramatics and mumbling. 

“Oh God,” She gasped to you, not quite able to contain herself, “What are you gonna do?” 

“I’m just gonna have to roll with it, I guess.” You slurred past your arms, willing back the onslaught of stress-tears beginning to pool against your tightline. You couldn't abandon him now, not when he was like this. 

Your former studio, nestled at the base of the turret within the house, surrounded by windows encased in stained-glass embellishments and flying buttresses, remained the only room in the house that was finished. You sat on your spinning stool, ignoring the creak from the way you pushed yourself back and forth on the balls of your feet. Your eyes fixated on the piece in front of you. It had been sitting on this easel for a year– the only one too heavy for you to move on your own, however, you were past asking for Steve’s help. So here it sat, holding your work once again, arms open in waiting. 

“Woah, you work fast.” Steve’s voice startled you, the stool squeaked again as you jumped. 

He walked up behind you, hands smoothing over your shoulders in apology– his skin still shower-warm and tacky from the water, “What are you talking about?” 

Your voice was much softer than you initially intended it to come out as. It resonated under the guise of a smile rather than the initial annoyance you turned to as a defense mechanism. 

“Didn’t you start that painting last week?” He asked, smoothing a broad hand down the exposed expanse of your upper arm, turning his face to look at the painting, “It’s done now.”

You tried not to let the confusion register on your face. You had finished the painting well over a year ago. The oil had long-since cured. You thanked the universe softly for Steve’s untrained eye. 

“I guess I just got really into it.” You shrugged, feigning your own insufferability for his well being– just this once. 

You had forgotten what it was like to be held by Steve. He lingered around your proximity in a near-shroud of constance. You had forgotten the soft feeling of nimble fingers as they grazed across any exposed skin you had. You had forgotten about warm hands cupping your cheek or twirling the ends of your hair. You had forgotten what the warmth of his felt like, in the same way that you moved away from the slow-creeping sun square that beamed from the windowsills. You didn’t realize how long you had been fighting any warmth after him. 

That night, his broad hands lured you to bed with the promise of warmth. You try to remember the way it felt a year ago, if it resounded in the same way. His hands were still a comfort as they encased you in a tight embrace. His breath still felt the same coming from his nose and traveling across your shoulder, dotted intermittently by haste staccato kisses. 

You tried to hold on to that feeling after he had long been asleep, and held on to it again as you peeled his hands from your waist. You let it slip from your fingers as you slid from the bed and let your feet pad across the hardwood flooring. You laid it to rest next to you on the couch, let it fold into itself and hibernate once more. 

By the next morning, Steve’s brain had pistoned back into his regular routine, which consisted of a god-awful early morning jog. It was almost obnoxious how perfect he was for this neighborhood, golden skin glowing against the rays of morning, efflorescence in nature and ugly, heinous perfection. By the time he gets back, it’s still ungodly early. The sun only casts a blue haze into the atmosphere in its feigning presence. 

You could guess by the way he tried to control his heavy breaths as he walked through the door that he was dewy, shirt tucked into his jogging shorts and hair raked back with sweaty fingers. You would not force your eyes open to look at him, leaving any feelings of adverse adoration back in the white quilt you had abandoned over a year ago. He walked up to you, feat unabashedly heavy against the hollowness of the floor despite the carpet muffling them. His hand was warm and heavy against the exposed expanse of your hip, riding your shirt up further.

“What are you doing out here? You know this couch kills your bac-” He started, pausing abruptly in surprise,  “Where did that come from?” 

“What?” You mumbled through closed eyes, still only barely awake. 

He traces the tattoo on your back, rough fingers tracing over the thickened lines of ink, “This.”

You didn’t bother to crack an eye open, instead folding your arms in further on yourself and readjusting against the couch cushions, “Gee, Steve, you must've hit your head really hard.”

“What?” 

“What?” You asked him, finally waking up enough. You pushed your arms underneath you, squinting at him as best you could through the haze of the morning light. 

“I hit my head?” He asked, confusion– then terror– registering on his face. 

You sat up fully, realizing then that, in your daze, you had effectively put your foot in your mouth. The look on your face, supplemented by the look on his face tells you that there is no way that you could backtrack now. 

“... Yeah-” 

“When?”

“Three days ago.” You started, and he let out a deep exhale, almost in relief that it hadn’t been longer. 

He turned to look at you, and you reached out to grab his hand. He took it, gripping yours like a vice, but never enough to hurt, “What did I do?”

“You were up on a ladder, doing something with the electrical. You fell and hit your head pretty good. Cullen brought you in.” You shrugged, trying to play it off. 

“Where were you?” He asked, it wasn’t accusing. He just tried to piece everything together. Still, you couldn’t help the pang of guilt that pooled in your chest after he said it. 

You weren’t going to break his heart, not now. Not while he was already fragile like this. You hated lying, but anything was better than a category five meltdown. He shook now, acting too tough to hide it. Steve was strong for everyone, too strong for too long. 

“Am I okay?” 

“Yeah, Steve. You’re okay.” You reassured him, no matter what. 

+

That night, you put a band-aid over your neck, despite the itching, burning sensation from the adhesive, it would live there for now. You said it was to save yourself the trouble. You didn’t know why you’d thought to care so much. You also don’t know why you felt so guilty. Maybe it’s because you weren’t there. Maybe it’s because you were here now and you shouldn’t have been. All you know is that you can’t break Steve’s fragile psyche now, not again. 

Steve’s routine was stone-set and rigorous, you’d remembered that much. He was the kind of person that thrived off of routine and egg-whites alone. You’d envied him for his discipline. 

He started out of bed every morning at the heinous, ungodly hour of five. Every morning, without fail, he rose silently, rubbed his hands over his face, fought the urge to disturb you and lost every time. He would smooth a tender hand over your hair and slip out the door with a soft, waking kiss, and proceed with a jog. Every morning, he would run his 3.1 miles, 5,000 kilometers, and every morning, he would slip back through the front door. 

Every morning, you woke to the smell of a better-than-cheap cup of coffee with a sweet kiss, and he would whisper to you that he achieved the run in thirty minutes– a personal best, and you wondered if one day it would slip below that number. Without missing a beat, he would place the coffee on a coaster placed there for that specific purpose on your antique bedside table, and your body would roll into the dip in the mattress where his body sat, his warm hand circling waking patterns across your bare back while you sifted through the prevalent swarm of too-little sleep. 

Because, every afternoon, Steve would take his Saturday (which was actually a Tuesday) and  paint that heinous yellow wall in the guest bedroom over with an earthy green tone– one that, without fail, would remind him of you enough to where he would seek you out to tell you. 

And every night, without fail, you would slip from the bed in silence, pull the heinous yellow paint bucket delivered thankfully by Robin out of the bushes from the window that was set just slightly too high to be comfortable reaching over, and paint that lovely green wall back to that awful, ugly yellow. 

There were no discrepancies to his routine. He was an unfortunate creature of habit, and it was so dreadfully painful that you indulged him in this routine. Because, every day, he would pull those old wedding binders out– no longer covered in dust and forgotten memories– and pick the same three options for wedding china that you never saw the point of anyways. Every day, he would try to cheekily pull you in for a shower, and you would make up the same excuse over the same dishes from the same meal that you had eaten to the point where you were just choking it down. 

And you would do it all over again. 

Because, if that same meal and awful yellow paint and ungodly six o’clock wake time would be enough to stop him from feeling like that again, you would keep doing it. 

Your nightly decompression was your saving grace. The only way you felt like a human again. Because every night, Steve would sit and read the same chapter out of the same book, and you would get in some still-life practice. 

Steve was pretty always, even in his blissful unawareness. Even in his ignorance. Even in the fact that he was no longer yours. Steve was pretty by fact. Pretty by nature. You had gotten good at drawing him, you knew where to block the square of his head and the triangle of his nose. You knew where his glasses rested against his face and exactly where to place every mole. You knew where the bone beneath would ebb and flow and where the warm light from that stained glass bowl-lamp would accentuate and valley against them like rivers. Steve was a topographical map and you had explored every inch in these moments of blissful dissonance. You did not need to waste your time getting the likeness correct by now, only getting in the fine details. 

Every night, your wonderful moment away from the catatonic nature of this ordeal would end when Steve would finish his chapter. You would act like you didn’t notice, like you weren’t staring at him. He would act like he didn’t know you were. He would press a tender kiss to your shoulder, smile at the work in your hands, tell you how talented you were, and finalize the ritual with a kiss to your cheek– an invite to bed. 

You know there will come a time when there will be a deviation from this routine, and you try to prepare yourself for this by running every possibility through your head. Calming tactics in the event that he has a category four meltdown, the words you would say and the explanations you would give him, but nothing prepared you for this deviation. Not in the slightest. 

You are unsuspecting as you wipe down the kitchen counters, melancholy with your towel in hand. Your hair is still wet and dripping uncomfortably down your back. You breathe deeply, enjoying the smell of kitchen lemon multi-surface cleaner. Steve approaches you. You feel his presence before you see him or feel his arms around your waist. You indulge in his warmth before he even touches you, before he reaches for your hand. You bask in his radiance before you feel the cold smoothness of gold scrape across your ring finger. 

“You forgot this after your shower.” He whispers through a kiss against the tender skin beneath your ear. He does not understand the devastation his words have caused you, not in his innocence. 

You reconstructed the scene in fragments of memories:

They were lawn seats, and you had no idea how he scored them. This concert had been sold out for weeks. The Tragic Kingdom tour was potentially the greatest album to ever grace this earth, and Steve agreed– potentially more than you did. 

When your eyes turned to get a good look at his face, it was hard to tell where that light sheen of sweat ended and the glitter that wafted in the air began. He was so fucking beautiful. You could look at him forever, put him in a jar on a shelf to admire for a lifetime. He was more blonde than brunette at this time of year, gold-skinned and eager. The July rays had set minutes ago, yet seemed to settle their clinging remnants in his eyes. 

His eyes that shone when they met yours, the eyes that gripped on to your hands, met your mouth, and settled within your gaze. 

You came in with the breeze, on Sunday morning…

You almost missed his words over the ambient concert sounds around you, louder now as Gwen started the beginnings of the song. Had you not been staring at him, you figured with your mouth open like a trout, you would have missed the two quiet words he mustered. 

“Marry me?”

You didn’t say anything back, you didn't need to. You remember the feeling of your knees sinking into the grass beneath you, wet against your skin. You remember how his body was too-warm in the staleness of the July air and the hardness of his body pressed tight against yours. Any qualms he had about saying more than those words disappeared in an instant, your hand willingly accepting the modest diamond encased in a gold band the only answer he ever needed. 

You thought back on that time, on the I love you’s and the please hold me’s. 

You remembered the I can’t do this anymore.

The problem was never committing to Steve. He had you. He had all of you. He could take you whole or in pieces in any slice or interval or fracture that he could have ever dreamed up. Though, that was the problem. You had committed yourself to him fully, never to the idea of committing yourself to anyone else, never thought of having to share him or change what you had. You lived in comfort, willful bliss. You’d never wanted anything more. 

But you saw that hopeful glimmer in his pretty eyes. The ones that looked like chunky baby legs and bubbly giggles. The distant memories that sounded like mimed laughs and raspberries against new skin. You were not maternal, not by nature nor by instinct. You felt broken, not wanting that. 

And knowing how well Steve was made for it. 

How he mapped rooms in the house with oak cribs and baby-pastel paint colors. How he pointed out names he liked and stared for just a little too long at happy families in passing. 

That night, long after Steve had fallen asleep, those dusty old wedding binders called out to you, screamed your name in birdsongs and infant wails. You clung to them, still covered in that awful yellow paint on the floor of that awful yellow room, and you cried awful tears that stained the pages of the awful thing that could have been. 

Except that could have started to feel less awful. It felt more like a should have now. 

You kept the wedding band on, convincing yourself it was more for him than yourself. 

+

“Hello?”

The shrillness of the landline still rings in your ears despite picking up the sound of a voice on the other end. Instinctively, you twirl your fingers into the cord. 

“Hey.” Her voice is scratchy on the other line. You know who it is, yet you still ask. 

“Who is this?” 

“Bill fucking Clinton.” You can hear the way her eyes roll in her voice. You almost find it endearing. 

You roll your eyes back, knowing that she can’t see it. You hope the sentiment is the same. “Hi, Robin.”

Silence on the line. You know what she will ask. She asks almost every other day or in the in-betweens where you can catch each other and she doesn’t have to fake a conversation on the phone with Steve. 

“How is he?” 

You feel like she knows the answer by now, she knows every part of his routine and exactly where you fit into it, “He’s fine. He just got into the shower.” 

There was a silence again, this time slightly more deafening. It felt like she was thinking, pondering the exact thing she was going to say and how exactly she planned on saying it. 

“How are you?” You hated it, despised it. It almost made your blood run cold. You didn’t do feelings, you were just a pawn in this big, fucked up game. It was your obligation to live in this lie. You had already hurt Steve once, the least you could do was keep him safe now. 

“Fine, Robin. I’m good.” You willed, regurgitated it like a curse. 

She sighed, hoping she wouldn’t have to pry but knowing she was going to, “Ha-ha. But really?”

“Really what?”

“How are you?”

You fell silent, the static basso of the line between you buzzing like a flatline as the tears welled up and over your lash line. The first sob you choke out is louder than you expect, and draw your knees up to your chest in the bay as you cry over the phone, unable to find words and unable to speak if you had then anyways. 

For once robin shuts the fuck up. For once she doesn’t have anything to say. Somehow you wish she would. Instead, she lets you cry for a few minutes in silence. She lets you let it out. 

“Do you need me to come over?” She asks, voice a welcome comfort not that you can breathe through the snot and tears running down your face. 

“No.” You sniffle, wiping the stream of facial fluids across your sleeve like you didn’t disgust yourself when you did it. 

“Do you need a professional?”

“No.”

There was a sigh, followed by another moment of silence. She didn’t know how to help you, though, she didn’t really think you needed help. 

“Hey, Robin?” You finally spoke up, eyes finally dry and your throat finally clear enough to be coherent. 

“Yeah?”

“Tell Monica Lewinsky I said hi.” 

+

You have a headache, simply put. That you could supplement. The ache and the pressure behind your eyes could be solved with acetaminophen and a glass of water and a bath. The ache in your chest was less tangible, and would have to wait until the ache in your head was fixed to even be evaluated. 

You’d managed to slip past Steve getting dressed in the convex opening of your walk-in closet, light spilling yellow against the dark floors in the dim lighting of the master bedroom. The one thing you’d greatly missed about this house that your apartment did not have the luxury of was the cast-iron tub, in its claw-footed, wing-backed glory. The water spilled steam from the mouth of the faucet as it spilled down the white porcelain glaze, hot enough to turn your skin red and draw the overage of blood from between your temples. You dimmed the lights, shoulders lax as you slumped your arms sideways over the edge of the tub, water tinged green from both the reflection of the seafoam walls and the capful of eucalyptus epsom salts dissolving in the water around you. 

You close your eyes, focusing more on the crisp smell of the water instead of the pounding of your head. You rest one arm beneath your head as a barrier between your temple and the porcelain, allowing the other to hang off the side. 

You don’t miss the way Steve slips in, nearly silently. The change of air pressure that came with his presence was what gave him away– that and the soft click of the chair legs against the hexagonal tile as he rotated it to face you. 

His touch is so gentle. His touch feels like the only inherent good in the world around you. His touch is soft enough to bring you to tears. And it does. 

You cannot help but let two roll down your face, not upset enough for it to scrunch up in the ugly sobs that you heaved on the kitchen floor to Robin. They splat quietly on the tile beneath you, and you sigh like an exasperated hound. One deep, shuddering breath beneath Steve’s hand. 

You cannot confide in him, even if he asks. You wonder if that fact hurts worse than understanding that he is going to wake up eventually. 

Steve does not pry. He’s really good at that. Instead, he rakes his fingers across the grain of your hair, thrown upwards with reckless abandon– fingers both a consolation and a devastation. He wishes desperately to know. Wishes desperately that he could fix it, but he knows this sadness. Knows the pain of forcing you to talk. The only thing that hurts worse than not knowing is the pain of seeing you cry. 

But he’s so tender, and he’s so endearing. You can’t help but want him. 

“Can I get you anything?” He says to you, just above a whisper. He even dips his head down closer to yours so you can hear, but you’re already clawing at the collar of his shirt. 

“Wanna be close.” You mutter, words muffled against your arm. He understands it anyway. 

His skin is hot. Hot enough to still be felt under your hands despite the temperature of the water. You missed the texture of it, smooth, interrupted by soft constellations of moles and bone. Quickly, and with grace, he stands– pulling your hands from his body for a mere few, painful seconds. He strips his clothes quickly, and you watch the muscles of his shoulders ripple as he maneuvers to pull his shirt over them. 

Silken skin glides across your back, the hot water squelching between your bodies as he slides into the tub behind you, arms encircling your waist in an iron-clad grip. Caring and grounding all at once. 

His lips are soft as they press a hot path against your neck and you sigh, tilting your head further away to allow him the affection you so desperately need. 

“That’s it, honey. Let me give you what you need.” It’s a low growl, not quite a whisper. His voice keeps that resonant patriarchal basso that vibrates against your neck and settles in your coccyx. His kisses turn to soft nips, as he takes the suppleness of your flesh between his teeth– never enough to hurt. 

His hands reach up to cup your breasts, squeezing tenderly as he runs a thumb over a pert nipple. He leaves one hand on your chest, gently pinching and rolling the flesh between his thumb and forefinger, another hand sliding over the hills and valleys of your body to find a home between your legs. 

Despite the water surrounding you, there is a much more distinct slickness that has gathered there in decadent anticipation of him. When his thick fingers finally breach the threshold of you, it is both a devastation and a need. Slowly, he finds the bud of your clit, circling it slowly. 

You suck in a breath, accompanied by a soft whine. When you arch your back, you feel him press against your back, hard and heavy against your flesh. 

“Come on, honey,” He urges, a heeding groan fans across your shoulder disguised as a breath, “I’m gonna get you there. Just gotta let me do it.” 

His middle and ring finger circle your core, easing their way in. You relinquish the new, subtle stretch. His other hand leaves its place on your breast, coming down to hold the soft flesh of your lower belly, creating a soft pressure that soothed the ache in your core as he held you there, relentlessly pumping in and out of you with his fingers. The other hand crept lower, the other two fingers continuing the rhythmic circling of your throbbing clit. 

You cried out, the coil in your core hitting that vapid crescendo and tumbling over the edge with shaky legs and breaths. Steve continued working his fingers within you, easing you through the climax of your orgasm and slowing when you whined. His arms remained around you like a vice, holding you in your place against him. 

He nibbled at your ear softly as you came down from that wonderful, floaty place, and whispered softly, “You did so good.” against your neck. His hands rubbed the insides of your thighs in slow, soothing circles. You felt the water from the tub rush over his arms and create whirlpools over the valleys of your skin. 

It was then that you turned, your arms locking around his neck and your lips crashing into his. Your body fell against his with enough force to push a wave across the edge of the tub, but the wet floor was an issue for another time. Your own carnal desire to have him seated within you was far worse than your desire to maintain the grout in the bathroom floors. This much you knew. 

The stretch was welcome and familiar, albeit foreign to you, now. You cried out, as you slid down to the hilt and seated yourself firmly atop his thighs, either one of your thighs bracketing around his. You felt the scrape of hair from his thighs scratch against your skin, broad hands planted firmly on the plush of your waist, and deep, guttural groan fan out across the crevice of your neck where he buried his head. 

Your hand clutched the nape of his neck for purchase, fingers burying themselves in the damp locks there and tugging softly. It draws a gasp from pretty pouted lips as his head tilts back in reverie. He looks at you through dreamy, half-closed lids, reminding himself to draw himself back and forth again, now that you have adjusted to the sensation of him filling you. 

“Oh, baby. Honey.” He cried, pistoning his hips upward, more rhythmically now. It was more of a cry now than it was a plea, and a rosy blush crept its way across the bridge of his nose, spread over his cheeks, and kissed the tips of his ears. He was ethereal as it spread across his chest and he heaved whines into your mouth like he needed to feel himself inside you to survive. You caught the way his dark lashes kissed the apples of his cheeks, and the way the space between his brows scrunched as he huffed breaths towards your face. 

There is a realization in the impending vapid crescendo where Steve attempts to push you over the edge a second time. Your body is on fire as he rubs fast, sloppy circles around your already sensitive clit. He falls from the edge first.

“O-oh, fuck.” He cried out in pleasure as a tear rolled from beautifully crinkled eyelids. Though, he desperately urges you to continue bouncing with fingers buried into the plush that accumulates where your hips fold. His thumb is still relentless over your sensitive bud until he pushes your already teetering form over the edge as well. 

He holds you close, strong arms around your shaking frame and wet hands smoothing back your flyaway hairs. He presses a kiss to your forehead, guiding your head between his palms and trailing them down your nose. He lands his final kiss, longer this time, against your lips and fans his palms across the expanse of your cheeks and neck. 

You whine when he pulls himself from you, suddenly empty. Steve soothes you with a, “Shh. It’s okay honey, ‘ve got you.” as he pushes water up from the tub and over your cold, drying shoulders. 

You cannot tell if you feel better or worse, having him in this way again. You think of the way he slid the ring back over your finger, and relived all of the gilded moments of your past. You’d always felt like a ghost in this house, haunting the remnants of what the life that should have been. But this did not feel like the life that you walked out on. This felt like the life that you chose. 

Steve felt like your husband when he kissed the skin of your shoulder in the early mornings after his runs. He felt like your husband when he sprinkled the feta into your spinach omelet in the morning, and when he sat behind you to watch you paint like you couldn’t sense him behind you, and when he gave you that goofy smile and wave when you caught you peering at him from the bay curtains while he tended to the lawn, 

And he certainly felt like your husband when he helped you from the tub on shaky legs, while he dried your legs with fresh towels and planted sweet kisses against your ankles and knees as he did so. He felt like your husband as he held your hand and guided you with soft hands to bed. He felt like your husband when he pulled your head to his chest beneath the sheets, sneaking a not-so-secret sniff to the crown of your head and smiling a not-entirely-concealed smile. 

Steve may not have been yours anymore, but he was yours for tonight. 

+

The morning light is dappled when you wake, and the way it sparkles hurts your eyes. You half expect to see Steve, feel his lips against your shoulder and relinquish the warmth that radiates from his skin like the sun as he invades your waking space. Instead, you find him sleeping, golden and beautiful under the dappled light, white linens draped over the oiled ellipses of his hips and legs tangled in the sheets. You bury your nose into the valley of his spine and he jolts awake. You can’t help but to giggle. 

“Jesus, what the fuck?” He starts, pushing himself up on his elbows, stomach pressed to the bed. 

“Oh, good morning, Steve.” His brow furrows as he looks at you. Steve does not look happy to see you. Steve looks confused. 

“What are you even doing here?” He asked, more towards the sheets than you. He buried his face in his hands, groan echoing in his palms before he asked, “Oh, God, how drunk did I get?”

Your heart sinks. He is awake. There is no retrograde and anterograde and Transient Global to worry about anymore. It is just you, and him, and your new sense of impending doom. Though, how impending could the doom really be if it was staring you in the face this very moment? Impending should have been reserved for when you decided to move back into the house you tried to build. Impending was reserved for the phone call from the hospital. No, this was doomed from the start, and now, it was blowing up in your face. 

You can tell he doesn’t know what happened, and that he has a throbbing headache. 

“Here– let me–” You start, turning over to grab his prescription from the drawer in your– Steve’s bedside table. He stood, suddenly. 

“No– ugh,” He pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to apply some pressure there, “I think you need to go.” 

“No, Steve, let me explain–”

“Just, go. Please.” He pleaded. 

You would not argue. You especially would not cry in front of him, not now. Instead, you scrambled the bathroom floor for your clothes that were shed before your bath, pulling them on, scrambling for your purse and car keys on the counter, and promptly leaving with those items to your name. It was foolish for you to build another home there, to leave remnants of yourself and reminders to him of just how fucked you were around his house. You don’t remember breathing on the drive back to your apartment. The air in this place is stale and, if you owned more things, you figured they’d be shrouded in a fine layer of dust from your negligence. 

When Robin answers the phone, you are incoherent. At first, she figures it is the shoddy signal from her company-issued brick phone, though she eventually realizes that it is not the faulty technology. You are in fact, choking on words and hot tears. Robin has a nagging feeling that she knows what happened, and your few words, “Steve” and, “fucked up” both confirm her suspicions and are reminiscent of a time where she was caught in the crossfire over a year ago. 

Robin’s car zig-zags in and out of the morning traffic, shaving both minutes off of her commute time to your apartment and her life. Her entrance to your apartment is dramatic, tired screeching and door hitting the wall so hard you can almost feel the security deposit solidifying in you landlord’s bank account. She greets you with a hug that you don’t ask for– you don’t need to. She doesn’t ask what’s wrong. 

Instead, she stands there, in the nearly empty room where your studio once stood, and she holds you. And you cry. And you want to scream and want to throw things and want to curse the universe and ask why me? But you know why you stand here. You know that you are shitty. So instead, you sit here, and feel sorry for yourself, and let Robin hold you. Because, no matter how shitty you are, she won’t say anything about it. 

This ugly nostalgia rears its even uglier head when the phone rings shrill, deafening against the brick walls that encase you in this place worse than they had when there were paintings occupying this space. She slides across the concrete on the floor just slightly so she can grab her phone.

“Hey– you busy?” Steve asks, and she can tell he’s been crying. 

You look at her, eyes red and confused. 

“No,” Robin lied to him, it was small and white, “What’s going on?” 

Who is it? You mouth. 

Robin is inherently a bad liar. She could say it was her boss, or her mom, or a telemarketer. Instead, she stares back, contemplating the lie and the inevitable conversation she would have to make up on the spot. She decides it is not worth the effort, and mouths back, 

Steve. 

You sit up, looking at her with wide eyes. You will not ask to eavesdrop, though, there’s a small, shitty part of you that wants to. 

“Something happened.” He started, and she knows exactly what happened, “but I don’t exactly know what.” 

What’s he saying? You mouth back at her, though, she holds a pointed finger up at you in waiting. 

“Are you in trouble?” She asks, “Do you need help?” 

“Look, I don’t know. Can you just come over? I’ll explain everything.” He asks, voice small. He sounds like he is on the precipice of a breakdown. She hangs up the phone, knowing you know what she is going to ask next. 

“Hey, are you gonna be okay? I’ve gotta–”

“Yeah, I’m fine. You can go.” You tell her, pointedly, though, she doesn’t fully believe it. However, your nosiness outweighs your ability to be this hurt for this long, “Look, can you just give this back to him? It doesn’t feel right.” and it's not right, it never was right. 

You slide the ring from your finger, closing Robin’s palm around it. She opens her palm once again, twirling the diamond between her fingers. She slides it over her middle finger, diamond side in to protect it. 

“Yeah, I can.”

“Thanks, Rob.” 

“Call me.” She says to you, and It is both a threat and a consolation. 

“Okay.” 

+

There is an aura that has overtaken the house since this morning. It was threatening. Robin had sensed the shift from her car, clear up the avenue. There was something frighteningly wrong here. 

Her knock on the door was poignant, scared almost, and she held her breath as Steve turned the knob. He looked tired. He looked spent. He looked like he wanted to cry, and yell, and throw things, and curse the universe, but was too morose to perform any action but stare blankly at Robin. 

“What happened?” She asked, taking the invited, but welcome, step through the threshold of the front door. She knew what had happened already, there were remnants of you strung about this place like shrapnel. Steve avoided them like landmines, even though the explosion had already happened. 

“She– she,” She meaning you, he started, but didn’t know where to begin. He sat on the couch, bouncing back with the weight and force of his body thrown against the cushions. 

“You don’t remember anything, do you?” Robin finally asked.

Steve looked up at her, red eyes slick with freshly fallen tears, “What?” 

“Steve, you hit your head. You fell off a ladder and knocked something loose.” Robin explained to him, voice soft as she said it, “You couldn’t remember anything that happened in the last year.” 

Robin wished you were here to help her explain. She wished she could remember the big words you remembered to describe what was wrong with him– maybe it would help him understand better. Maybe you should have come. She could have been able to act as a buffer between the anger– 

“You fucking knew about this?” Steve interrupted her thoughts, he had stared for a few seconds while he figured out his thoughts. 

Robin went quiet, more quiet than she already had been, “Yeah. I did.” It was a statement riddled with shame, though she didn’t quite know for what. 

“Steve, you were sick fo–”

He stood, rage apparent in his eyes as he poked his finger into Robin’s shoulder, “No, Rob, I wouldn’t put it past her to lie to me like that but you?” Robin didn’t say anything to him. Instead she just looked up at him, “Whose side are you even on?”

“Steve, you know goddamned well I’m not picking a side.” She was angry, standing now to match his posture, “You brooded for months fucking haunting this house like a ghost, Steve. You. Were. Miserable– and you were making me miserable too! All you did was talk about how you were gonna get her back, and now that you had her, you decide you don’t want her?” Robin started. It was Steve’s turn to stare, now.

“I get that you’re mad, and I get that you’re confused, and I’m sorry that this happened to you, but this isn’t my fault.” She continued. She was a republic of voices tonight, and unfortunately, that republic was Italy. 

“Oh, and here’s your stupid ring back. It’s ugly, anyways.” She finishes, shoving the ring back into his chest. He holds it in his hands, stunned. 

There is an immediate regret that fills him up and drowns him in it. Robin was right, it was not her fault. “Ugh, Robin. I’m–”

She turns at the beginning of his apology, scooping her back from the doorway, “Don’t. I’m not the one you should even be apologizing to.”

“Rob–”

“Bye, Steve.”

He is alone now. The house is quiet and stale, the walls sing in silence, speak their truths, tell him how awful he was. He was so quick to anger, wore his father’s anger like a hand-me-down coat. It hung loose in the wrong places, did not cling to him like his father and looked silly while he was wearing it. He twirls the ring in his hands, watching the light refract white off the brilliant-cut diamond. 

He should call Robin, should. He knows that, even after this, that she will forgive him. You, however, would not be so easy, though, he can’t exactly fathom how badly he wants your forgiveness when he has not quite forgiven you himself. 

He twirls it in his hands as he gets into his car, runs his thumb over the cluster of diamonds in his pocket as he drives down the road, in search of your apartment. It burns a hole in his pocket as he parks, burning hotter and hotter until he swears it scorches his skin the closer he gets to your door. 

When you answer, door swinging open in reprieve and eyes holding the morosity of several generations, he feels a pang of guilt begin to choke him, though it is not big enough to not be swallowed. Something else burns there, still hot and still angry and still confused. It takes over the forefront of his mind. He should not have come here. It was not right to come here. 

“Seriously? This? You still had it?” It is an ugly statement, it's the first thing that he can think of. The angry coat was still tied tight around his waist, the anger was still bubbling in the forefront of his temporal lobe. He holds the ring up in your face, the sparkle hurts your eyes. 

You furrowed your brows, confused by both the fact that we was standing at your apartment door and also that you opened your door to him yelling at you, “You gave it back to me Steve–”

“No, the version of me that forgot what you did gave it back to you. And you took advantage of that. You–”

“Steve, I couldn’t–”

“Couldn’t what?” He wouldn’t give you a chance to explain yourself, he took a step forward and crowded your space. It wasn’t entirely fair, but you hadn’t been entirely fair either. There was no winning this battle. 

You stared back at him in silence, willing fresh tears from breaking over the edges of your lash line. His eyes seethed with anger. You had never seen Steve this angry before. 

“Couldn’t what?” He asked again, taking another step closer. He stood over you now, towering and angry. 

You were shaking now, seeping with your own anger and frustration, “Anterograde Amnesia!”

“What?” He stops sudden;y, realizing his closeness to your figure, taking a step back. 

“That’s what you had. Every morning you woke up and it was the same day. Every morning you woke up and you– you–” You were crying now, hot tears running down your face at an embarrassing, unrelenting pace. You could not tell if they were of anger or sadness. Probably both, “You woke up and did the same thing, and then every night you went back to sleep and we started all over again.”

“Why didn’t you just walk away?” He asked, turning and bracing himself on your counter, hand on his hip as he stared you down. 

“I-I I just couldn’t, okay?”

“Why not?” He had a way of backing you into a corner, making you feel small in this confrontation. Steve was rarely angry with you, and never like this. 

“Because the one day you did find out, before all this shit,” Before he felt like yours again, “–you begged me to tell you that you were okay. You fucking begged me to.” Your arms were flailing now, it was your turn to back him into a corner. You hadn’t meant to be this defensive, hadn’t meant for this to end in a screaming match, but no one ever intended that, you supposed, “How the fuck was I supposed to leave after that, huh? Let them institutionalize you? Saddle Robin with you? How the fuck was that supposed to be the better option?” 

His hands were up now too, defenses in a war against yourselves, “Oh so you just did this so you could be a hero? So you could prove to yourself that you aren’t shitty? Prove to yourself that you weren’t gonna fucking leave again?” 

You found silence, suddenly, more hurt and more angry than before. You stare at each other. He knows he’s crossed a line. Several lines actually. You aren’t as forgiving as Robin. 

“Just go, Steve.”

“I–”

“Just fucking go.”

+

This felt like the remnants of a hurricane. You could hear the wind ringing heavy and violent in your ears like screams. You could feel the rain hot and heavy as it rolled across your cheeks still. Yet the air was still, entirely too still. The shrapnel of your reality built back up and torn back down again, and now you were here. Alone. In silence. 

Robin’s pointed knuckle is quiet against your door, yet it crashes and booms a resonant patriarchal tenor across the echoing walls of your solitude. You groan at her, something akin to its open. You hadn’t managed to lock it again after she left this morning. 

“Are you still being insufferable?” She asks you, as if it isn’t clear by the way you seem to enter a state of active decay, melting into the corner piece of your sectional. 

Though you are insufferable, you are not so insufferable that you cannot bite back, “Are you still being annoying?”

She does not answer, instead, the clinking of glass on glass and heavier glass against granite serves as an answer for her.

“Do you want a glass?”

The ruffling of a paper bag wills your head up, and she exhumes the bottle from it. You see that it is red, but don’t say anything about it. You recognize the bottle as Beaujolais Nouveau, from the same region in France in which it is aptly named– the same region in which Robin did her semester abroad. You could have said something about how it is not winter, or how there are better italian wines or better whites or literally anything else from Trader Joe’s, but alcohol seems nice, and you are never one to complain about free alcohol. 

“Yeah.” you say instead. 

“Okay.” 

She serves you a too-full glass on the couch. She had half a mind to bring some snacks over, but did not feel like putting forth the effort into making a snack board. Instead, she pulls a bag of salt and vinegar chips and a candy bar open with her teeth, pointing the mouth of the bag towards you in a peace offering. You oblige, stuffing a handful of them into your mouth as a chaser for this awful, dry red. 

“What a jerk.” She says, and you know who she is speaking about. 

“What an ass.” You say back to her, and she knows who you are speaking about, 

Your body rolls into the dip where hers sits on the couch, and you let the natural flow bring your head to her shoulder. You do not wrestle with the qualms of physical affection, and, if she is surprised by your sudden affectionate nature, she doesn’t say anything. 

“I spilled some wine on your counter.” She said to you, but you’ll clean it up later. 

You have half a mind to let it stain. 

+

You beg Robin to get your stuff from his house. Your heartbreak is scabbed over enough for you to pick at, and you have a desperate urge to smear some goo all over a canvas in an Oliver De Sagazan-esque pity party, but alas, your studio resides in the place of your demise– Steve’s house. 

Robin is more forgiving than you are, and also more willing to brave the walls of Fort Steve for your stuff. Robin is also a saint, and you have let her know ten times over. 

“She wants her shit back. Have it ready on the porch when I get there.” She says to him on the phone, the line aptly going dead seconds later. 

His hands on your things feel foreign when they touch them, like they might blow up. He had been avoiding them like landmines as he haunted the remnants of this home. Nothing had been touched since that morning. The house would not change. 

There is a fine layer of dust that has accumulated over the confines of your studio, and it makes his eyes water as he agitates it enough to send particles swirling through the air. He stacks your canvases in piles according to their sizes and fills your water cups with brushes. He takes extra care to separate the current painting you abandoned midway through, the one where the linseed-to-oil ratio wasn’t quite right and, in turn, the layers of paint would not cure properly. 

When he moves to the last stack, one of a modest collection of books and sketchpads, he loses his bearings, and the top sketchpad slides out with loose pages all over the floor. He sighs in exasperation, and bends down to scoop them into a pile. He recognizes the figure drawn on one page, and then another, and then another. A mirror image of himself, ruched hair at the end of the day, glasses perched on the end of his nose, elbow on the arm chair. In some he can see the tops of his folded knee. In some he is smiling and looking directly back at him. 

Every one of them is dated one a day for eighty-six days in chronological order, yet every paper he is holding has the same headline. 

The final page in the stack is a doodle page, he almost misses it. A series of boxes and riddles. Number two down, number three across. You were creating crossword puzzles, a new one every day, and yet none of the answers vaguely familiar to him. His blood runs cold. He was the ass. 

In a panic, he scoops the drawings up, sliding them as quickly as possible into the sleeve from which they fell and clutching them to his chest like previous gems. To him, this was a lifeline, and he did not have time to wait for Robin, though she is sitting outside waiting for him when he runs out the front door, leaving it open in a panic. 

She is colder when she greets him, colder than he’s ever seen. It's an odd juxtaposition, seeing her be so cold. She adorns black jeans with a black turtleneck. She does not look like herself, she looks like you. 

“And where are you going?” She asks him, watching hum fumble with his car keys and with the drawings in his hands. 

He puts his hands on her shoulders, wraps her in a hug, and gives her a kiss on the forehead. 

“Robin, I love you, and I know you came here for her stuff, but I’m going to talk to her.” 

She is stunned, staring at him with wide eyes at both the kiss and the sudden change in demeanor. She does not have time to ask him what drugs he possibly could have been on or make a back-handed remark about how hard he hit his head. Because, instead, she is standing in his driveway while his car takes off down the road. 

Your ground floor apartment has floor-to-ceiling windows. It was charming, really. It was one of the reasons you chose this place despite its ridiculous cost. Well, that, and the fact that it was the least suburban place you could think of. You are sitting on the kitchen island, scrubbing now at that wine stain on the counter with a rag and granite polish at the forefront of this battle when the first thud sounds off clear against your winder. You thought it had been an unsuspecting bird, but the shadow of a man behind your sheer white curtains startles you. You unfold yourself quickly, going over to pull them back and investigate. 

Steve stands with his feet in shrubs, hands with papers pressed flat against the glass. He pulls more from his chest, switching them out every so often, and then ends the spectacle with a crossword puzzle placed flat to the glass. He looks ridiculous like this, hands splayed across glass, hair disheveled and out of breath from running. He left his glasses on in the shuffle, and they slid down his nose in the commotion. Your confusion registers clear across your face, and he says something adjacent to, “Can I come in?” against the glass. 

You nod, and he shuffles the drawings back into a cohesive, carryable pile. You meet him at the front door, letting him run in and dump them on the counter you were currently cleaning. He spreads them out in front of you, breathless and disheveled. They are in order, chronologically. All of your drawings of him. You are both mortified and embarrassed. 

“That one.” He points to it, moving to stand next to you on the counter to look at it. 

“The first one.” You say, looking at the date. 

“Was that the first day?” He asked, “Of being home from the hospital?” he specified, staring down at you with intent eyes. 

You nod, looking back up to meet him, “Yes, that was the first day. I knew you had amnesia, I knew you thought we were still engaged. Though, I didn’t know the extent of your condition yet.” 

You go through all eighty-six drawings, the things he said to you, the things you did. A lot of them are repetitive, some of them caught you off guard and you are able to  laugh about it now. You talk about the day he gives you the ring back, and the day you realized he was in the same infinite time loop, you talk about the dastardly yellow paint and the vellum crossword puzzles so he wouldn’t get bored even though you knew he wouldn’t remember, and the binders. You talked a lot about Robin and her place in it all. You talked about the dentist up the street, and how Steve, even in his delirium, still knew him as the guy with the labs. 

There is one day where the drawing is missing. 

“Is this the day,” He asks, “The day that I–”

“Yeah, it is.” You answer. 

“What exactly happened then? On that day?” 

You struggle to recall every detail, so you start by giving him the gist, “Well… you saw the tattoo on my back,” You reach up to touch it, running your fingers over the raised lines of ink beneath your fingers. Steve tilts his head back to get a glimpse of it as well, his own fingers calloused as they chase yours across it. 

“Looks nice.” He says, without thinking. 

“Thank you.” You reply back, “And then you got really confused. I was still sleeping on the couch then. We were still figuring it out, and I was still clumsy. I asked you how hard you hit your head, and you didn’t even remember doing it. You panicked so quickly, I– I had a hard time calming you down.” 

The guilt still ate you alive, the guilt at your own clumsiness for letting it slip, and the guilt that you lived in the lie for that long. The guilt mostly for leaving in the first place. 

“You asked me where I was, and I couldn’t answer. I wasn’t there because I was trying so hard to live my life separately from you. We hadn’t been together in a year, but I couldn’t tell you that.” You said, words becoming frantic as you fought off tears. 

His hand is both a consolation as it is a devastation as it rests across your shoulder, broad and warm and grounding. 

“What did you say to me, then?” He asked. 

“You asked me if you were okay. You were so confused.” 

“And?”

“I told you that you were.” Hot tears broke the threshold of your lash line, and spilled in streams down your face. It cut through the dryness there, and you choked on a sob. “I didn’t even know if you were or how to take care of you or what I was doing and, and I’m sorry.” You cried ugly tears now, wet into your own hands. 

He grips your shoulders, pulling you into a familiar hug as your words grow frantic and your breaths become shallow and stuttered. He holds you close to his warm chest, encased in soft arms. He cradles the back of your head like you are encased in glass, and he plants a kiss to the top of your head. 

“I’m sorry.” He whispers into your hair, now rocking your back and forth as you calm down. A wet drop falls on your shoulder, and you cannot tell if it belongs to yourself or him. You would forgive Steve in every life. 

He pulls back from you, hands still planted firmly on your shoulders as he stares at you, amber eyes both piercing and comforting. 

“Listen, you don’t have to take this, not yet. But it would make me so fucking happy if you would.” He pulls the ring, sparkling and brilliant from his pocket, and presents it to you. You oblige happily, sliding it back on to your hands before tackling him into an embrace. His kiss is as soft as it had always been. 

You would do this again, and again, and again if it meant you could have him, because the same day with Steve was better than any of the days you had ever spent without him. 

[cyn-write]

RAMSHACKLE; Based on the Pumpkin King's Curiosity

Disclaimer: In my AU, Night Raven College is a College/University so all characters are aged up 4 years. There are also mentions of alcohol.

Ramshackle is one of the oldest dorms in Night Raven History and is based on one of the oldest stories in Twisted Wonderland's history. A dorm that often attracts troublemakers, delinquents, and outsiders, the dorm often houses NRC's worst of the worst. The dorm was shut down over 200 years ago after the mirror stopped sorting students there as no one was "curious enough." But after the arrival of the first female student at NRC, Cynthia Widow, the first Magicless Student, Grace Wilde, and Magic Meniace, Grim, the dorm has reopened and welcomed 10 troublemakers that uphold the Ramshackle name and embody the Pumpkin King's domain.

History

The tale of the Pumpkin King dates back to the beginning of Twisted Wonderland's history. Halloween was the King's domain, but after ruling Halloween for years and years he became bored. The kingdom filled with huants and magic was not stimulating to the king. After a visit to Winterfest domain, he felt rejuvenated and decided he would take over Winterfest! His kingdom was excited to take on this challenge, but they did not fully understand the concept. Despite the warnings from his future Queen, he went through with the takeover and put the Sandy Claws,the ruler of Winterfest, in the care of "The Boogy Man," unknowing the danger. Despite his excitement, the takeover was a failure to others but not him. He was rejuvenated with excitement and returned to Halloween with a new vigor! He and the Sandy Claws came to a truce with the aid of the Pumpkin Queen, and the kingdom reigned for years to come.

The Dorm was the second dorm to be installed to house the troublemakers of NRC. Supervised by ghost, the dorm has an essence of haunts and spooks. The dormleader and vice are the strongest mages in the dorm in magic and spirit, as they have to run a dorm of rulebreakers. The dorms uniforms are based on the residence of Halloween town dressed in black and white with the dormhead being the only member to have color in their uniform. The dorm was often made up of the exciled members of other dorms as well as those placed in it, making for an interesting combination.

After being out of commission for 200 years, the dorm has returned with a new batch of troublemakers thanks to the suddent apperence of 2 female students, a talking magic cat, and merging with Thatch Academy for Troubled Mages. The new dorm has a new style, new faces, and a new Vigor that would make the Pumpkin King proud.

Uniforms

⬇️Ramshackle’s Housewarden Uniform and Designs for the New Ramshackle Uniforms⬇️

The term "uniform" is currently very loosely interpreted by Ramshackle. It is more of an aesthetic with color rules. The aesthetic is "Delinquent Chic" with a main color of black with pops of purple and/or green. There is a variety of selections with each student having a unique uniform to embody the members of Halloween town. Some of the peices are from the students own wardobe while others are refurbished from the attic or scraps from other the other dorms. The unifying factor of the dorm is the headpieces and dorm emblem armband or patch. The headpieces (mask or hairpin) are of one of 7 designs: A witch, a devil, a skeleton, a bat, a pumpkin, a ghost, or a spider. There are a multitude of combinations that could be made and all must be approved by the dorm head and/or Professor Crewel to ensure it fits the dorm's guidelines.

The exception to this “free-for-all” as it is called by most is the Dorm Leaders uniform which was redesigned by Crewel and the current Housewarden. Current Dormleader, Cynthia Widow, has designed a purple gown and overcoat with a web collar, black corset, and spider motifs. Crewel aided in the design and recreation of this uniform. The uniform also has the "kings scepter" and the "Web Crown" which signify its holder as the head of the dorm.

There are designs for the new uniforms for Ramshackle based on the styles of the current students as the original designs were, as Crewel put it, affronts to fashion and sight. Crewel called it "prison chic" with the original uniforms being reminiscent of prison uniforms with the color palette being black and white uniforms with a pop of color somewhere, and the dormleader and vice’s uniforms being closer to "warden" outfits than the school standards. Despite enjoying the cruel joke, Crewel decided to revamp the uniforms to be less.... prisioner and more modern, fitting the current “delinquent chic” of the residence. He, housewarden Cynthia Widow, and Vice Housewarden Grace Wilde have been debating designs, with Housewarden Widow still against the idea of uniforms all together as "The dorm of CURIOSITY should be able to dress as curious as they please." So new uniforms are coming along... slowly.

Note From Administration: "To address the complaints from fellow students and parents, Ramshackle WILL be given a uniform in the same manner as the other dorms starting next year. We are currently designing and updating the uniforms. We are not giving the dorm special treatment. Uniforms will be reinforced next year."

Note from Housewarden Widow: "I'd like to see you try."

Dorm Members

There are 10 members of Ramshackle currently since the merging with Thatch Academy for Troubled Mages.

Housewarden Cynthia Widow

Name: Cynthia (Cyn) Mazikeen Widow

Twist: The Boogy Man from "Nightmare Before Christmas"

Nicknames: Cyn - Friends; Barracuda - Floyd; Reine de l'araignée - Rook; Miss Spider - Lilia; Crowley's Dog (or Crowley's B*tch) - Some... Most Students (and Leona); Boss/Housewarden - Ramshackle Residence

Birthday: January 19th

Class: 1-B

Cynthia Widow is one of the first female students at Night Raven College, and the first student stored into Ramshackle in years. As the first member of Ramshackle, she was the defector for Dormhead, but most of the Housewarden duties are handled by Grace unless it is magical. Cyn is a half-fey student in class 1-B with a love for bugs. She excels in ancient magic and is a member of the board game club. Little to nothing is known about her past but the fact she just "appeared" out of nowhere and has a grandfather she loves and misses dearly. She is often referred to as "Crowley's Dog" as she does a lot of the mage's dirty work. She doesn't mind, though. Beacuse, as long as she does Crowley's dirty work, she can get away with a lot more than she legally should *wink wink*.

Vice Housewarden Grace Wilde (Yuusona)

Name: Grace Elizabeth Wilde

Twist: Yuu! and Jack Skellington from "Nightmare Before Christmas"

Nicknames: Gracie - Friends; Shrimpy - Floyd; Mademoiselle Tirckster -> Mademoiselle Pettie - Rook; Child of Man - Melleus; Henchmen - Grim; Anglefish-Azul (in Private)

Birthday: February 2nd

Class: 1-A

Grace Wilde is the only magicless human in NRC and is often paired with Grim, but after being provided with her service familiar, Kerby, and an alchemist ring from Trein, she is now an independent student. Specializing in animal handling and alchemy. She is the first female student to be sent to NRC and the second to be inducted into Ramshackle. She was named Vice by Cyn as she was dubbed the "mother" of Ramshackle due to her talents with troubled individuals. She is in class 1-A and the horseback riding club. She is also the founder and head of the NRC weekly book club, which she started after accepting the fact that she is never going back to her world (on the account she died there) as a way to learn about this new world through books, and force some of her friends (cough*Riddle*cough) to relax and read. She checks in on the Overblot students often as well as the new Thatch Students since they worry her, and Crowley put her in charge of getting the “comfortable”.

After the first 4 overblots and 60 visits to the nurses office, Trien, Crewel, and Nurse Pinklee "convinced" Crowely that the best way to avoid lawsuits or accidentally get the magicless human killed is to listen to Pinklee's "prescription" and get her some protection. So he gratiously gifted her a certified service familiar!

Name: Kerby the Hound

Twst: Zerro from “Nightmare Before Christmas” and Cerberus from “Hercules”

Nicknames: Kerbs- Grace, Ace, Deuce, Ivy, and Cater; FLUFFY - Ramshackle Residence; Hernch-Dog -Grim; Blobfish - Floyd; Monsieur Kerby - Rook; Good Boy/Example Student - Professor Crewel

Birthday: December 25

Kerby is a Grytrash and has some magical abilities such as his Bark (which can knock people back), he can grow 2 sizes and carry 1 person, and he can dissappere into shadows on comand. Trein and the faculty thought a magical familiar was nessassary to protect the magicless student/student-employee. Plus, they owed it to her after she had dealt with the overblots (AKA Trien and Crewel pressured Crowley for funds). Kerby service familiar is a Psychiatric service familiar that alerts her to panic attacks, aids her in difficult tasks, and acts as a protector (seeing as she has been involved in a multitude of overblots and magic duals). Grace and Kerby are the friendlier faces in Ramshackle and are always willing to provide a helping hand.

Residents of Ramshackle

Name: Grim the Great

Nickname: Grims - Grace; Grimsie - Cyn; Baby Seal - Floyd; Monsieur Fuzzball - Rook; GRIMMM - Ramshackle Residence

Birthday: ???

Class: 1-A

Grim is the feline member of Ramshackle and is often seen with Vice Housewarden Grace (dubbed himself the "Vice-Vice Housewarden"). After his turbulent entrance and a rough start, he was accepted into Ramshackle and recently named an independent student in class 1-A. He has not declared a club and prefers to float around with whichever henchman he has latched to that day. As one of the original members of Ramshackle, he sees himself as a mentor to the newbies, but he is more an encourager of chaos.

Name: Reyna Francessca Bouc

Twist: Salley from Nightmare Before Christmas

Nicknames: Rey -Friends; Tiny Tetra - Floyd; Mademoiselle Electrique - Rook; Doc - Ramshackle Residence

Birthday: June 11th

Class: 2-B

Reyna Bocu is one of the 3 fey triplets that joined NRC with Thatch Academy (Romella <twst Mother Gothel> is in Pomefiore and Rhea <twist Tinkerbelle> is in Ignanhyde). The Doc of Ramshackle is one of the quieter members of the dorm but fits in perfectly. She was a master of combining science, alchemy, and magic, which got her into trouble originally. She was a child protagy with an idetic memory and a fascination with biology. She was so fascinated with the delicatcy of being that she took the idea of life in her own hands. Her lab is off-limits, but there are times a cat that is sewn together can be seen playing with an undead toad, but that is Ramshackle's little secret.

Name: Ivy Calliope Shroud

Twist: Megara form Hercules

Nickname: Ivs - Friends; Lantern Fish - Floyd; Mademoiselle Flamme - Rook; Miss Ivy - Malleus; Sis - Idia.and Ortho; Annoying Girl - Sebek

Birthday: November 1st

Class: 1-D

Ivy Shroud is one of the 25 students who joined NRC when it merged with Thatch. Ivy is the half-sister of Ignanhyde Dormleader and "Vice"- Idia and Ortho Shroud - though few would make the connection based on how Ivy acts, but if the Shrouds were somehow in the same room, aised from the hair, the likeness is uncanny. She is one of the biggest troublemakers of Ramshackle as she often starts fights and leaves school property with a very valuble and very royal Fey. She is a skilled fighter as she studied under both Captian Alina Dobbler and Professor Korra Thatch with fists and swords. She is a student of class 1-D (due to being held back in high school), a member of the Gargoyle Studies Club (She thought it was a fan club for the "Gargoyles" T.V. Series), and a serious gamer when she has time. Ivy fights for her friends and loved ones and does not back down. Despite her attitude, she is an incredible tactician and extremely intelligent (professors often comment that she would be a star student if she showed up).

Other Dorm Residence

Lucifer Locke (Twst Locke) - 2nd year (Half-Fey)

Estella Shocke (Twst Shocke) - 3rd year (Electric EelMer)

Benjamin Barrell (Twst Barrel) - 2nd year (Human)

Marshall Frost (Twst Marshmellow) - 3rd year (Human)

Lysandra DeBrock (Twst Mordue) - 2nd year (Bear Beastwoman)

Dorm Holiday Activates

Halloween Dorm theme: Haunted Doll House (Based on Coraline) - The dorm based on Halloweens KING serves up some serious flights for Halloween. They want to scare the pants off every visitor. Tho Crowley has forbidden them from doing their original idea (a recreation of Halloween Town with accurate dead bodies) because it needed to be PG-13. So Grace suggested theming there haunt after a book. What could go wrong with a Haunted Doll House, especially based on a childrens book??? (Note: Crowley Regretted this decision quickly but it was too late)

Winter Holiday: Dorm Voluntary Outing to the middle of the sea with Dr. Dobbler and Captain Alina Dobbler (Based on 'Treasure Planet' and 'The Lost Empire') or staying on campus for dorm repairs.

Beanfest: The Dorm is off-limits, but they use it anyway.

Ghost Wedding: Ivy is plotting a Missions Impossible-esque ploy to get her brother back. While poor Marsh is forced to offer himself to the ghost bride... he got slapped for having a weird smile. (Note - Marsh is a big teddy bear, and Ramshackle spent the next day consoling Marsh and telling him his smile is lovely)

Fairy Gala: Ivy and Grace are forced into Modeling.

Camp Vargas Survival Camp: Grace and Grim go to both; Luci, Estella, Benni, Lyn, and Marsh are in Athletic, and Reyna, Ivy, and Cyn are all in the Artistic group.

Weekly Game Night and Movie Night - Tournament-style weekly event for all Ramshackle members, members can bring 1 guest to have as their partner. Everyone contributes a thumark, and the winners gets the pot! On weeks everyone is poor: They switch it out for a movie (usually horror or spooky)

Summer Research Trip: The Summer Research Trip is led by the former Thatch Professors (Dr.Dobbler, Captain Dobbler, Dr. Thatch, and Professor Thatch). Since most, if not all, the members of Ramshackle and the other former Thatch students are either banned, cannot, or do not want to go home, the Docs and their wives take the students on an archeological dig in the Jungle's of the Sunset Savana. Since they are now part of NRC, the professor's extended the invitation to other students as well. The excursion last most of the summer and can stay the entire summer if they wish! (based on Tarzan and The Jungle Book)

Glorious Masqurade: Grace and Grim Go as assistance, and Cyn goes as a guest! The only reason this was allowed his beacuse Ramshackle agreed to be on their best behavior so they could make mechanical dead people! All in the name of Halloween!!! (And Marsh and Lyn were put in charge).

Playful land - Grace, Grim, Reyna, and Ivy go to Playful Land and see that Fellow has a very uncanny likeness to a fellow Thatch students... so Ivy gets in trouble "investigating" Fellow and Rey gets introuble "Investigating" the puppets and invading their privacy.

Misc/Notes

After Cynthia and Grace were admitted into Night Raven officially, Crowley went through with negotioations on obsorbing The Thatch Academy For Trouble Mages into Night Raven. He knew if word got out that there were 2 lone female students who attended NRC, it would be an HR nightmare, and the press would have a field day. Thatch has been in negotiations with NRC to join schools for over 5 years, but Thatch not only had female teachers but mostly female students. Crowley turned them down since NRC was traditionally all male, but seeing as circumstances have changed, he went through with the deal! A win-win in Crowley's book. (Extept the Anti-Magic force agent, Detective Cyra Thorne <Twst Enchantress>, attached to the school due to the students' "records." She makes Crowley nervous.)

Crowley allowed the Ramshackle Students to renovate the dorm as long as their overseers (Dr. Dobbler and Captian Alina) approve, so there are a bunch of hidden trap doors, tunnels, and a few labs in the basement that no one is "supposed" to go in but Ramshackle residence.

Cyn, Ivy, and some of the other members throw parties in one of Ramshackle's basements that people pay to go to (They basically run a club), and not everything there is exactly school-sanctioned, but Crowley looks the other way since Cyn does his dirty work.

Grace was put in charge of keeping everyone out of trouble and in one piece (Aka, she was labeled Den-Mom). So whenever someone is in trouble, they go to Grace for help (even if it is over her head). Whenever they throw parties, they find someone to distract her or make her stay in another dorm for the night.

That being said, they have a speak-easy style club run by the ghosts and Cyn. No one knows how they get booze, but it appears every Sunday at 5, and Crowley gets a new bottle of wine on his desk at 6. (AKA, he is bribed, so he doesn't mind)

Ramshackle is very protective of its Den Mom. With her being Magic-less and being not of this world, they treat her as family and protect her from those who dare look down on her (One time Cyn heard a Scarbia guy say she should be kicked out for beimg magicless and he magically dissappered... and reappeaed 4 days later scared of his shadow and trembling at the sight of the Ramshackle emblem).

Somewhere in Ramshackle is a remote to the kitchen t.v. and the person who finds it gets 20 thumarks and control of the Kitchen t.v. for a week.

If you made it this far, thank you!!! I hope you enjoyed reading about Ramshackle and its residence! They are all part of my Twst Fic "A Tale of Two Yuus," and the 4 Oc's highlighted at the top are the 4 main characters. I will (eventually) link all their bios to their sections if you want to learn more about them! If you have any questions, want to interact with one of them, or want tagged once I post chapters, please comment!

Huge thank you to @/cozymochi, @/the-trinket-witch, and @/bunnwich! I commissioned the art of Ivy, Reyna, Kerby, Grace, and Cyn from them!! I did the dorm uniform designs and used base models as mannequins. I also wrote the notes on the designs, so excuse my handwriting.

Comments, Reblogs, and Likes are appreciated!!!

Do not steal!!!

[ag-writes-stuff]

I Would Have Followed You

Summary: This was never meant to be anything, was never actually anything if you asked Rafe Cameron. This is the story of the almost-relationship between him and you. Was it love?

This beautiful song inspired this so I hope you enjoy it as you read along. This will be a series.

THE BEGINNING:

The sun pours through the small window in the bedroom as you roll over and snooze the 6 a.m. alarm. Most early risers are already wide awake, grabbing their oat milk lattes and gluten-free bagels, while your head is pounding from a bottle of wine and three hours of sleep. In an instant, the memory of last night's events floods back and you feel the agony coursing through your veins all over again. The pain still lingers. You remember that looking at him hurt. He’s always been the one to make you feel safe, but last night was different. It was as though he’d taken a knife and repeatedly plunged it into your chest. Each time you looked at him, the wound was reopened, the pain as fresh and raw as the first time. It was like death by a thousand cuts.

     “I can’t do this anymore,” he cuts you off mid-sentence. “I think this, us, needs to end.”

     You're holding a glass full of your favorite Cabernet and within seconds it’s out of your hand and on the floor. Almost as if it's instinct, you bend down to pick up the pieces. You hate messes and honestly you'd rather focus on anything BUT this conversation right now. You look down at your hands to see that your right palm is gushing blood. Why can’t you feel it? Why can’t you feel anything? You watch as he pulls out his phone to call an Uber. He’s moving so quickly, but in your world it’s like time has stopped. You stare at him as he frantically moves around the kitchen, grabbing anything we might need for the emergency room, and you wonder where the guy you met in college went, the guy with the soft smile and beautiful ocean eyes. You never thought you could hate him, and yet... You can’t even look at him. You never want to see him again, but at the same time, you don’t want him to leave. Ever. You’ve loved him for over two years. How could he end two years with four words?

     I can’t do this.

     The words are on replay in your head as if they’re a new Taylor Swift song that you're trying to memorize every line of. You think the worst part is realizing that somewhere, deep down, you knew it the entire time. You knew he wouldn’t be able to get where you wanted him to. You just hoped that you were wrong.

     No, you didn’t date. Technically, he’s not an ex-boyfriend. He’s an ex-something. An ex-maybe. An ex-almost.

Maybe that's all you'll ever be... an incomplete sentence or a book that someone put down halfway through and never picked back up. Finished without an ending.

[suddencolds]

Small Price to Pay | [1/1]

you know all those posts about making out with someone with a cold and the associated consequences? This is that in fic form, ~8.8k words. I'm embarrassing myself typing this, so here it is.

This is an OC fic ft. Vincent and Yves - you can read more of these two here! :)

Summary:

“So,” Brendon says. “You’re still dating him.” Something about the way he inflects the word still makes something sour in Yves’s chest. Yves frowns at him. “Is that supposed to be surprising?”

Yves has a birthday party to attend and a fake relationship to prove. Vincent is nothing if not adaptable. (ft. fake dating, an argument, contagion)

—

Here’s the problem:

Francesca throws a party.

It’s a birthday party, strictly speaking, but functionally it’s more of a college reunion—Francesca invites everyone from their year who rowed crew, which means that one: Yves will be surrounded by some of his best friends from college, and two: Erika will be there.

He thinks up an entire contingency plan—if Vincent can’t make it that weekend, for one reason or another, Yves will show up, hand Francesca his gift, spend the rest of the hour avoiding Erika and Brendon, and leave early, citing some excuse or other. It’s not that he doesn’t think he could handle talking to Erika—it’s just seeing her feels like reopening a wound. A part of him is scared that he’ll see her, and feel the loss intensely all over again—or, worse, he’ll get ideas about forgiving her, about letting her into his life again, about accepting her explanations.

And Brendon, too—seeing Erika means seeing Brendon, most likely, and Yves doesn’t want to justify himself to him any more than he already has. 

The point is: the less of the both of them that he has to deal with, the better.

When he asks Vincent a week before the event, though, Vincent’s response is immediate.

V: You can fill me in on the details later. I’ll be there.

It’s a little strange, he thinks, that Vincent always agrees so readily. Vincent isn’t a fan of parties—he’d been clear about that. He doesn’t seem interested in talking much about himself, either—he’s just the kind of person, Yves is realizing, who likes to keep his personal details close unless they offer some sort of utility.

Perhaps there’s something else that Vincent is getting out of this, then.

But when Yves asks, he’s met with the same cryptic answer:

“I don’t mind it,” Vincent says. “And you have something you want to prove to your ex. Ultimately, it’s a net positive.”

“While that’s technically true,” Yves says, “this seems like an unfair arrangement. I mean, you’re only doing this because I dragged you into it.”

“If I didn’t want to be dragged into it,” Vincent says, “I would say so.” as if it’s really that simple.

It can’t be that simple, Yves thinks—there must be more to his reasoning that he’s omitting—but he doesn’t press. Vincent is right. Vincent is the kind of person who knows precisely what he wants. If he really had a problem with this arrangement, he would’ve said so.

And, besides—a little selfishly, perhaps—Yves has started looking forward to their outings as of late.

—

Nevertheless, he doesn’t think about the party again until the Friday before it, when Vincent shows up at his desk.

“Do you have a moment?” he says.

“Yes,” Yves says, saving the spreadsheet he’s been working on and shutting his laptop. “What’s up?”

When he looks up, Vincent looks a little tired, though that’s not unusual—it’s been a long week, and busy season always means long hours and little sleep. 

“We can talk later if you’re busy,” Vincent says.

“I’m very free,” Yves says. He’s decisively not—and he’s sure that Vincent knows this, too, so whatever Vincent is approaching him with now must be important. 

“Regarding Francesca’s party tomorrow,” Vincent starts. He looks a little sheepish—as if he doesn’t quite want to be the deliverer of bad news. “I can still go. But I’m…”

“If something came up,” Yves says immediately, “you don’t have to come.” “It’s not that,” Vincent says.

“Or even if nothing’s come up,” Yves backtracks, “and you’re just not feeling it anymore? Also totally fine. Seriously. I can always just go by myself.”

Vincent seems to consider this. Yves is starting to get worried that something might actually be very wrong—something that Vincent is hesitant to even bring up—when Vincent takes a generous step backwards, raising his elbow to his face as his eyes squeeze shut.

“hhih’nGKTsHuhh-!”

The sneeze sounds harsh, even muffled into the fabric of his sleeve; it tears through him with little warning, loud enough to echo slightly in the confines of the office space.

That’s when it all clicks into place: the tiredness. The slight off-ness to his complexion, the tension to the way he’s holding himself, the fact that Yves hasn’t caught him in the break room at all over the past couple days. The fact that he’s currently standing so far away from Yves’s desk.

“You’re ill,” Yves says, comprehending.

“Yes,” Vincent says. His voice sounds a little off, too, now that Yves knows what to look for; it has that quality it often takes on after a long day of discussions with clients—not quite hoarse, but getting there. “I’m positive it’s just a cold. I just wanted to give you a heads up.”

“Don’t worry about it at all, seriously,” Yves says. He feels guilty, suddenly—here he is, asking Vincent to spend his already-limited free time at a party, when Vincent probably has a high volume of important clients—and a burgeoning head cold—to deal with. “If you want to take a rain check, you should. I’m sure this week has already been rough for you as it is.”

“When is the next time you’ll be going to an event where Erika’s going to be there?”

That question makes him pause. “I don’t know. In another month, or so, if I had to guess?”

“So this event is important,” Vincent says, sniffling. It’s the kind of light, liquid sniffle that implies that whatever he’s caught, he’s just at the start of it. “In that case, I’ll go.”

“Wait,” Yves says. “That’s not what I—your health is more important than any event. You shouldn’t push yourself.”

“I feel fine,” Vincent says. “No headache, no fever. It’s just a slight cold. I will be fine tomorrow if I make it a point to sleep early.” he sniffles again, his expression growing hazy for a brief moment before he blinks, rubbing his nose on one knuckle. “I just wanted to make sure you were fine with it.”

“I am completely fine with it,” Yves says, reaching for the box of tissues that’s perched on his desk. He holds it out. “I just feel bad about making you go if you’re sick.”

Vincent takes a handful of tissues out of the box, brings them up to cover his nose, just in time for—

“hh- hH’nGKT-! snf-! hH-Hhih… hh’hiHhh’iiZSCHHh-uhh!”

“Bless you,” Yves says, with emphasis, pushing the entire tissue box towards him. “Times two. Seriously. I think you could use the weekend off—you know, to catch up on sleep.”

“Assuming that things haven’t changed from the event details you forwarded me, the party will be in the evening,” Vincent says, taking the tissue box from him, a little hesitantly, and tucking it under his arm. “I’ll have plenty of time to sleep in.”

Yves opens his mouth to protest.

Vincent says, “I’m fine. I’ll call a rain check if I wake up with a fever.” He turns on his heels. “Otherwise, see you tomorrow.” 

—

Vincent, as Yves is coming to realize, is very good at appearing presentable, even when he’s under the weather.

“You made it,” he says. This time, they’d driven here separately. Yves had thought, initially, that it’d be easier to just drive Vincent places, so that the only thing he’d had to account for was his actual presence—but Francesca lives between them. I don’t mind driving, Vincent had said. You’d be going out of your way to pick me up, but he’d coordinated a spot a couple blocks down to meet up, so that it would look like they’d come together.

It’s cold outside still—it’s the sort of indecisive weather that seems to periodically hint at spring: a cold front, then a few warm days when all the ice thaws, a few flowers lining the grass along the road where the snow’s melted, and then another snowstorm. It’s easy enough, then, to chalk up the slight redness of his cheeks, the redness at the tip of his nose, as another effect of the not-quite-spring weather.

Yves is carrying his present for Francesca under one arm—a hardcover book—a sequel to one she’d read last year and gushed to him about liking; a couple fridge magnets, which she likes to collect; film for the polaroid camera her sister got her last year; and a letter, all wrapped up in a brown paper parcel. 

It’s nice to have an excuse to see everyone again, especially some of the members from crew whom he’s not close enough to invite to parties personally, that he knows Francesca was closer to. 

“It was a pain to find parking,” Vincent says. He’s wearing a red scarf today, and a white overcoat with black buttons and a sharply cut collar. Personally, Yves thinks it’s unfair that someone can be down with an irritating head cold and still look so good.

“No kidding,” Yves says. “You would’ve thought there’d be more than one tiny parking lot for all those shops.”

Yves asks how he is (fine, Vincent says—perfectly capable of spending a few hours at a party. Yves says, I feel like you would say that even if you were like, dead on your feet with a high fever, to which Vincent laughs, but doesn’t explicitly deny.)

Yves supposes he isn’t one to talk—he’d showed up to a crew event, near the end of the season, with the flu, just because it had been their then-captain’s last big event, and he’d been planning to give him a farewell speech. The speech had gone fine—and so had the first few hours—but then all his symptoms had hit at once—fever chills, exhaustion, a pounding headache, the likes—and Francesca and Erika had practically had to drag him home.

But that had been an important event—a once in a lifetime thing—and he’d drafted that speech for two weeks. This is so much less high-stakes. 

“I prombise I’m fine,” Vincent tells him, lifting up the side of his scarf to muffle a cough into it. “It’s just all the - hHIh-! all the annoyidg symptoms. I dod’t - snf-! - feel any worse than I did yesterday.” “Any worse?” Yves says. “Does that mean you were already feeling pretty badly off yesterday?”

“I barely even feel udwell at all,” Vincent says. “It’s just— I keep havidg to— hHih-! hihH’IIITshHHh-uuH!”

He sniffles, raising a sleeve to his face to cover the next, resounding, 

“hHih’iITTSshh’Uhh! snf-!” He buries his face deeper into his sleeve, his shoulders trembling with another gasp. “Hhih…. HIih’nNGKT—SHhuh!”

“Bless you,” Yves says, laughing. “Okay. Point taken.”

Vincent lowers his arm slowly with a curt sniffle. “Are Erika and Francesca close?”

“Yeah,” Yves says. “I think they still keep in touch pretty frequently.” it’s one of the reasons why he hasn’t told Francesca—or anyone else in the friend group—about the specifics of their breakup.

It feels wrong, somehow, to paint her in a bad light, to give people reason to take sides, when it’s always been all of them together as a group. 5am practice was a hell of a bonding experience, she was part of all of that, too. He has no right to take that from her. 

“How about Brendon?”

“Brendon’s sort of an odd one out,” Yves says. “I don’t think most of us had met him until he started dating Erika during our senior year. He usually hangs out with a different crowd, so he’s only really around when Erika is.”

Perhaps that’s better, too—more merciful—that when Erika had left him for someone new, it hadn’t been one of the people he knew and deeply trusted. If Brendon had been there too, at all those 5am practices, at all those oddly timed meetings—if Yves had had that much time to look back on, to wonder when Erika’s feelings for Brendon had materialized, to watch her fall for him firsthand, to look back and know that he was losing her…

It’s better, this way, he thinks, that at least he can look back on his time rowing crew as he’d always wanted to—not like the way he feels when he looks at Erika: heartbroken, and a little betrayed.

“I guess I’m in that positiod now,” Vincent says.

“In the sense that you didn’t meet everyone through crew?”

“In the sedse that I’m an outsider.”

Yves considers this. “My friends really like you, though,” he says. “I don’t think they think of you that way.” It’s a short walk to Francesca’s doorstep. Vincent really does seem to be okay, Yves notes—aside from the frequent sniffling, and the sneezes he turns away to direct into his sleeve, he isn’t shivering under his coat, and he doesn’t look more tired than usual.

Despite everything, Yves finds himself feeling cautiously hopeful. Something about Vincent’s presence has that effect on him. Vincent is always so sure of himself, even in situations Yves thinks he can’t possibly be certain will go well.

It makes Yves want to have faith in this too. Yves will see Francesca and his friends from crew, and he won’t have to say anything to Erika and Brendon, his friends will like Vincent very much, and everything will be just fine.

“Wait,” Vincent says, right after Francesca’s let them in through the apartment buzzer. “We should look like we actually like each other.” He holds his hand out, expectant.

“Good point.” Yves takes it. Vincent’s hand is warm, and a little calloused—when Yves tugs his hand a little closer, Vincent’s fingers interlace nicely with his.

“For the record, I do like you,” he adds.

Vincent laughs. “You kdow what I meant.”

—

It’s almost a relief, seeing everyone again. Yves used to feel a little apprehensive about reunions—around the possibility for the people that he’d known and loved to have changed past recognition, to have internalized everything some way but to come back and see that everyone’s moved on in their own ways, grown a little more into themselves—and a little further from him—than he remembers them to be. 

But when he sees Francesca, she still greets him with the same hug — one arm looped around his shoulders, for a firm squeeze. He hands her her gift, and wishes her a happy birthday, and she laughs and says the only good part about getting old is having an excuse to have everyone back in her living room.

“And Vincent’s here too,” Francesca says, turning to Vincent, who—after looking caught off guard for a second—smiles back at her. “I’m so glad you were able to come!”

“It’s good to see you agaid,” Vincent says. “And happy birthday. You look great, by the way.”

“Thank you!” she says, beaming. She’s wearing a cocktail party dress which slips elegantly over her still-bare shoulders. “I needed to pick something out for the occasion. I swear, these days, half my closet is just business formal attire. It’s depressing.”

“If that mbeans that the other half of your closet is filled out with idteresting clothes,” Vincent says, with a quiet sniffle, “you’re doing a lot better than I am.” 

Francesca laughs. “It’s just for my sanity,” she says. “Can’t let the clients dictate everything I wear.”

“It’s ndice that you’re celebrating your birthday, though,” Vincent says. He lifts a hand to rub his slightly-reddening nose with one knuckle. “My coworkers are always sayidg that they’re too old to want to ackdowledge it anymore.”

“It definitely feels that way sometimes,” Francesca says. “But it’s a good excuse to have everyone here, while we still can. Speaking of which—Yves is the worst at planning things for himself, which is ironic, because he’s always the one planning things for everyone else.”

“That is not true,” Yves says.

Francesca gives him a pointed look. “Last year, you were practically banking on having everyone forget your birthday.”

That is an exaggeration. “I’m pretty sure you wouldn’t let that happen, even if I wanted it to,” Yves says.

“You’re damn right.”

“The ndext time you’re planning a birthday for him,” Vincent says, clearing his throat with a quiet cough, “I’ll pitch in.”

Francesca brightens, at this. “Finally another soldier on the right side of the war,” she says. “You can definitely be part of the secret planning council.”

“Thadk god,” Vincent says, playing along. “I was starting to thidk I was going to have to do it all alone.”

“It’s not a secret if I’m right here,” Yves says. Francesca ignores him in favor of having Vincent type his number into her phone.

—

Halfway through the evening, Vincent disappears into the kitchen for a moment. When he comes back, it’s with two drinks in hand—canned cocktails, Yves realizes, judging by the cans. He hands one over to Yves.

“I actually don’t think I’ve ever seen you drink before,” Yves says to him. “Even at happy hours.”

“I don’t drink very often,” Vincent says.

“Does this mean that I get to see you tipsy? I’m sure our coworkers will be jealous.” 

“If you’re expecting my personality to change,” Vincent says, “you will be disappointed.” he says it with such certainty that Yves pays closer attention to him after that. 

Vincent does hold his alcohol well, as it turns out, with the exception of the slight flush to his cheeks a few drinks later—though even then, Yves can’t be entirely sure it can’t be entirely attributed to his cold. He listens intently as Yves talks to Diane—who’s a couple years younger than Yves—about how Crew has been ever since Yves graduated (mostly the same; the new underclassmen are good at showing up to practices on time, but that’s partially because their captain this year is a little intimidating). He gives several of the crew members a candid summary of his relationship with Yves, when asked. He tells Marin how they first met and he tells Kenneth what it’s like keeping their relationship secret at work and he laughs—a little sheepishly—when Sasha says they make a cute couple. If lying so openly is difficult for him, it doesn’t show.

If there’s anything that’s off, it’s subtle. It takes some time for Yves to notice—

The next time Vincent sneezes, his breath hitches with a sharp, desperate, — “hHhiH—!” Then he turns away, craning his neck over his shoulder for an uncovered, “HIiiIKTshH-uh-!”

He blinks in the wake of it, as if a little dazed, before he seems to straighten, lifting a hand to wipe his nose on one knuckle. It’s not stifled, as it usually is, nor is it neatly pinched off into his fingers, which is unexpected.

It’s as if the sneeze has fully caught him off guard—as if all the systems he has in place to sneeze as quietly and as unobtrusively as possible are just slightly impaired by the alcohol. Not that it matters much—Francesca has put some music on, and it sits in the background now, a low thrum, all but the percussive elements muted by the chatter of conversation.

“Bless you,” Yves says, leaning over to grab a cocktail napkin from one of the neighboring tables. He hands it to Vincent, who blows his nose and emerges with a small cough. “How’s the cold?” 

“Fide,” Vincent says, with a sniffle. “Ndo worse than before.”

“Are you just saying that to get me to drop the subject?”

“I’m sayidg it because I actually mean it. It’s a very tolerable cold.”

Yves laughs, and reaches for his drink. He’s about to take a sip when he feels Vincent’s fingers close around his wrist

 It’s only a brief moment of contact, but the warmth it leaves around his wrist stays, even when Vincent lets go.

“Sorry,” Vincent says, a little panicked. He withdraws his hand. “That’s mine.”

“What?”

“The cocktail.”

“Oh.” Yves looks down to the can in his hands. He supposes Vincent might be right—they’ve both had a few drinks, so he’d lost track awhile ago. A lot of the canned cocktails taste roughly the same to him, anyways. “Is it? I can get you another one if you want.”

“No,” Vincent says. “I drank from it.” As if that explains everything. And then—a little quieter, as if he’s embarrassed to say it: “I don’t wadt you to catch this.”

Truthfully, the possibility hadn’t crossed his mind until Vincent mentioned it. It seems a little endearing that Vincent would be worried about it in the first place—Yves has certainly shared food and drinks with friends who were worse off. “I’m not worried about that,” he says. “It’s just a cold. Didn’t you say it was very tolerable?”

“It’s still…” Vincent trails off, averting his glance with a sniffle. “...an annoyance.” 

He looks like he’s about to say more when his expression goes distant, his eyebrows furrowing.

“HHih’IIIzSCH-uhh!”  It sounds so thoroughly unsatisfying, half-shielded by a hand raised a few moments too late. “hh-HIh-! Hh…” He pauses, his eyes watering, his breath still wavering, and—after a few seconds of nothing—sniffles; a forceful, liquid sniffle that practically emanates frustration. “hIiIIh’kSHhhhh! snf-!”

“Bless you!”

Vincent emerges, teary-eyed, still sniffling. “Case in point,” he says. 

—

He doesn’t see Erika when she gets there. It isn’t until she passes him in the living room, halfway in a conversation, that she makes her presence known to him.

“Hi Yves,” she says, and he looks up. Today she’s wearing a pink dress which cuts off at her knees—a strapless dress, save for a pink rose over her left shoulder which blooms into a sleeve. She is every inch as beautiful as she always is.

He smiles at her, cordial, tight-lipped. “You made it,” he says. She looks at him expectantly, waiting for him to say more, and he realizes—with a flash of panic—that he doesn’t know what more to say to her. He hasn’t kept up with her over the past few months. He knows that she’s working as a quantitative analyst, at a company she’d been hired at a couple months after they’d broken up, but he doesn’t know if she likes her work, if she likes her coworkers, if it’s been busy as of late. If she works long hours, if she’s taken up any new projects. “Glad you found time. I assume work’s been keeping you busy,” he says,  

“Are you kidding? It’s Francesca,” Erika says. “I wouldn’t miss this for the world.”

And there it is—that decisiveness. That same resolve that, back then, made everything with her seem so easy. Erika and Francesca have always been close—through college, back when they met during crew, and even after, when all of them had been still settling into their jobs or going off to grad school or moving halfway across the country; when seeing each other no longer meant just a fifteen minute walk across campus. 

“Yeah,” Yves says. “I know.”

They don’t speak, after that. Yves thinks it’s probably for the best—he doesn’t have anything to say to Erika right now. Back then, he could talk to her about anything, even if it was pointless or insignificant or of no real importance, and she’d make the conversation fun. 

These days, he only tells her things on a strict need-to-know basis, and—given that the only times he sees her these days is at events like this—there’s not really all that much to talk about. 

It had been difficult, at first. He’d wanted to share everything with her, still, back when his work schedule had settled enough for him to take long walks downtown, to start to go to concerts and bars again; when he’d redecorated his apartment, when he’d gotten someone to mentor at work, when he’d gotten back into cooking. For some time after the breakup, it still felt instinctual to turn to her, to text her about something interesting that’d happened, to ask her to try out something new that he’d found. 

But he hadn’t. Something about feigning normalcy seemed worse, even then, than accepting that she was really gone.

Perhaps her avoidance of him tonight is merciful. It’s easier, when he’s not thinking about her, to slip into the familiarity of talking to everyone, to enjoy all of it just as himself. 

It’s only when he excuses himself to get another drink that he runs into Brendon.

Yves has always been civil with Brendon. 

Brendon is—well, to say that Brendon isn’t someone he considers a friend is a vast understatement. The less of Brendon Yves sees, the better. Yves avoids him when he can, but he is good at holding up small talk, when it’s necessary, and on most days, Brendon has enough good sense to not start a fight.

Today, it seems, is not one of those days.

“So,” Brendon says. “You’re still dating him.” Something about the way he inflects the word still makes something sour in Yves’s chest.

Yves frowns at him. “Is that supposed to be surprising?”

“I guess I’m surprised,” Brendon says. “I have to say, I wasn’t expecting it to last.”

“Well, I’m happy to have exceeded your expectations,” Yves says. “Though it doesn’t sound like they were very high.”

“I don’t mean it like that,” Brendon says, waving a hand. “It’s just—new relationships can be fairly unreliable. Especially when you’re dating around.”

“Maybe in your experience, that’s the case,” Yves says. “But personally, I tend to date people I can see myself with long term.”

“That’s the thing,” Brendon says. “I’m surprised you can see yourself with him.”

Yves sets the drink he’s holding down and turns to face him properly. “I’m not sure what you mean by that.”

Brendon scoffs. “It doesn’t take a genius to see that you two are very different people.”

“So people can only date their clones,” Yves says flatly. He’s already tired of this conversation. “My bad. I must’ve missed that rule somewhere in dating 101.”

“Obviously, I don’t mean it to that extent. You’re blowing it out of proportion. I just mean that you can only be so different from someone before you’re incompatible. ”

“I agree,” Yves says. “And I don’t think we’re incompatible.”

“Are you sure?” Brendon crosses his arms. “This isn’t his scene, is it? Cocktail parties? I mean, he’s practically married to his work. Does he even like parties?”

Vincent doesn’t like parties—Brendon is right about that point. But hadn’t Vincent been the one who’d agreed to come here in the first place? To imply that he’s only here because Yves has dragged him along seems somewhat disingenuous.

Yves says, “If Vincent didn’t want to be here, he wouldn’t be here.”

“Sure, but from what I’ve heard from Erika—” Yves doesn’t like this implication that Brendon and Erika talk about them behind their back, but he supposes it’s to be expected. “—he’s not exactly the type of person you’ve tended to go for in the past.”

That sounds awfully like an accusation.

“What exactly are you getting at, here?”

“I’m saying that it sort of looks like you just picked the most convenient rebound you could find,” Brendon says, quiet. “But usually people are honest with themselves when that’s the case.”

That startles a short, indignant laugh out of Yves. “You have no idea what you’re talking about,” he says.

“Do you really not think that’s the case? Wouldn’t you say you’d usually go for someone more personable?”

“Personable?” Yves repeats. “Personable? Don’t make me laugh. Do you know how many clients I’ve seen Vincent talk down to a pleasant resolution because he’s so good at negotiating? Do you know how many conferences I’ve been in where Vincent is the one people come to after to privately compliment, because he’s so good at knowing how to talk to people?” he thinks to Joel’s housewarming party—to how compellingly Vincent had lied for him, then; to how good he had been at conjuring up a sense of history between them, of warmth. “His ability to answer difficult questions on the spot, with virtually no preparation at all, is something I can’t even begin to comprehend.”

He’s not sure why the accusation from Brendon makes him so upset, only that it does. Only that he wants to do nothing but tell Brendon just how wrong he is. “If you’re trying to imply that I’m settling for him, don’t patronize me,” he says. “Vincent is one of the smartest and most thoughtful people I know. Do you seriously believe I’d be dissatisfied with someone who holds himself to such a high standard?”

“I’m happier than I’ve been in months,” he says, resolute. “Because of him.”

Through the adrenaline, Yves realizes, faintly, that he hasn’t lied about any of it. He certainly could have—after all, Brendon would be none the wiser—but everything he’s said about Vincent is something he really, genuinely believes.

“Ah,” Brendon says, knowingly, as if he has it all figured out. “I got it wrong. This whole time I thought you were the one that felt lukewarm about him. But it’s the other way around, isn’t it?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You’re so sure he’s the one that you’re willing to overlook all of your obvious differences,” Brendon says. “Have you ever stopped to consider whether he feels the same way?”

“Presumably, he does,” Yves says. “Otherwise, we wouldn’t be in a relationship.”

“That doesn’t necessarily mean anything,” Brendon says, as if Yves should already know this from past experience, which—if Yves is being really honest—makes him want to punch him.

Instead, he takes in a deep breath, schools his expression into a smile. “Usually, people in relationships aren’t still looking for other options.”

“Yes,” Brendon says. “Unless they’re unhappy.”

“Yves!” 

When Yves turns to look, Vincent is standing in the doorway. How long has he been here? Just how much of the conversation has he overheard?

“Sorry for the wait,” Yves says sheepishly. “I was getting us drinks.” Evidently, he’s been away long enough for Vincent to come check up on him, so he’s already spent unreasonably long getting drinks, and now he doesn’t even have the drinks to show for it. “Or, I guess I got a little sidetracked, but I swear that drinks are on the w—”

Vincent leans in, unprompted, and kisses him. 

Yves’s brain grinds to a complete halt.

It’s only a moment later that Vincent pulls away, but the decisiveness with which he’s carried it out, the broad confidence on his face as he smiles, unwavering, is—

Fuck.

“Oh,” Yves all but stammers. His face is most certainly red right now, and he can’t even blame it on the alcohol. “Um. Did you need anything?”

“No,” Vincent says. There’s something telling to his expression, some sort of quiet acknowledgement. “Just wanted to see what was takidg you so long.”

Suddenly, it makes sense.

Vincent must have heard. Everything Brendon said—or at least, the last part of it; the implication that Vincent isn’t as invested in this relationship as Yves is; the implication that their attraction towards each other is somehow one-sided. Vincent is doing this to cover for him, because he wants to make it excruciatingly obvious that Brendon is wrong.

The fact that he would go to such lengths to make a point makes something settle in Yves’s chest.

“It’s actually good that you showed up,” he says, playing along. “I don’t know what kind of drink you want. I was just going to get you something generic.”

He heads over to the ice box on the other side of the kitchen, and Vincent follows.

They’re far enough that they’re separated from Brendon by the granite island—and, beyond that, the cushioned high stools lined up next to it, but not so far that Brendon can’t still see them. 

So he certainly can see, Yves thinks, this:

Yves leans in, reaching up a hand to cup Vincent’s jaw, and closes the distance between them.

It’s nothing like the kiss at the New Year’s party.

That one had been all nerves—brief, impulsive, all adrenaline. This kiss is much more involved—Yves presses in closer, so close that he can feel the heat radiating from Vincent’s skin, so close that he can smell the faint, not unpleasant smell of laundry detergent on Vincent’s shirt collar. So close that he can feel the breath that Vincent exhales, warm on his cheek; can feel the softness of Vincent’s hair as he shifts. He feels Vincent’s hand settle on his chest, feels his fingers curl inwards to rest on the fabric of his shirt, and—

On the other side of the kitchen, Brendon is watching, and Vincent is here—here, present, in the flesh, looking as put together as always, looking like someone out of a goddamn magazine—so Yves kisses him like he’s used to kissing—greedily, as if he’s been wanting this for ages. It’s been awhile since he’s kissed someone like this. Back then, there was university—the people at parties who he’d met and kissed out of momentary attraction, or out of alcohol-induced courage—though of course back then, neither party had harbored any delusions about how impermanent that connection was, or how little it meant. And then there was Erika, who, for the longest time, he thought was going to be the last person he’d ever kiss like this.

For months after they’d broken up, he hadn’t looked for anything. It felt wrong to subject others—even strangers, to which he had no allegiance—to the messy remnants of his feelings, to attempt to get into something he knew could only be half-hearted, at best, when there was a person in his mind who lingered so sharply.

But Vincent crowds up every corner of his mind, as if to say, pay attention, and Yves finds that for once, he’s not thinking about Erika at all.

When he feels the small hitch in Vincent’s breath, he thinks nothing of it.

Except, then—abruptly, and with barely any warning—Vincent is wrenching away, craning his head over Yves’s shoulder to let out a sudden, uncovered—

“hh-hIIIH’hH-IIKTshHuh!”

Their proximity to each other means he feels the way Vincent’s body jerks forward under his hands, his chest tensing. For a moment after, the rigidness of his posture doesn’t dissipate, tension still strung through the line of his shoulders.

“Bless you,” Yves says, surprised.

Then Vincent curses under his breath, drawing away with a sniffle. “I’mb sorry,” he says, sounding really, honestly panicked—a reaction which Yves finds both disproportionate to the situation and a little endearing. “That was— sorry, I should’ve—”

“Don’t worry about it,” Yves says, with a laugh; “I honestly couldn’t care less.” Impulsively—and maybe to prove just how little it bothers him—he leans back in.

Vincent is less hesitant, this time around, when it seems to register to him that Yves really doesn’t mind. He’s a surprisingly good kisser—Yves probably isn’t the first person he’s kissed, and he probably won’t be the last, but the second Vincent’s mouth works around his, Yves feels himself nearly go weak in the knees.

Fuck. Yves can’t say he expected to spend this evening making out with his very attractive coworker-slash-fake-boyfriend, but at the same time, he isn’t complaining. Yves thinks he could do this for hours, given the chance. He kisses Vincent as if to say, thank you—for the New Year’s party, for going along with this, for lying on my behalf—and Vincent kisses him back as if he wants this just as much.

It registers to him, faintly—as Vincent pulls away with a sharp gasp before he pitches forward, smothering another abrupt, wrenching sneeze into the palm of his hand—that he’s probably dooming himself to Vincent’s cold ten times over. But it occurs to him, too, that if he were really dating Vincent—if, after the party, they’d head back to Vincent’s place together; if they were really close enough to share car rides and food and drinks on the regular, to see each other frequently both in the office and outside of it—he would’ve almost certainly caught this anyways.

Something about the intimacy of it, the false closeness it seems to imply, is a little intoxicating. 

When he finally pulls away, Vincent is breathing a little heavily, his glasses askew, his hair slightly unkempt from where Yves had—mid-kiss—run his fingers through it. Yves looks over his shoulder to see that Brendon has, at some point over the last few minutes, slipped off. Presumably, he’s gotten the point, then.

It’s a relief. Yves is glad to not have to talk with him for any longer than he has to. 

“God,” Yves says, with a laugh. “Where did you learn to kiss like that, anyways?”

Vincent smiles. “I’ve had some practice,” he says, which Yves thinks must be a massive understatement. “Do you think it was convincidg?”

“I don’t know what kinds of standards Brendon has,” Yves says, lowering his voice so that he’s certain no one outside of the kitchen will be able to hear. “But I’d definitely be convinced.”

“He seems strangely idvested in our relationship,” Vincent says.

Yves sighs. “I think he was just trying to make trouble. How much of our conversation did you hear?”

“Just the tail end of it,” Vincent says. “I—”

His gaze goes distant, which is the only warning Yves gets before he’s turning away, steepling his hands over his nose and mouth with a forceful:

“hH-! hhH-hH’iiKTsSHH-uhh! Hh-! Hih… HIIh’IzsSCCHh’hhh!”

“Bless you,” Yves says.

Vincent is quiet for a moment, his expression still hazy, the irritation evident on his features, before he’s ducking away again.

“hIiih’GKTTSHh-uhHh!”

The sneeze is loud enough to scrape against his throat. It leaves him coughing a little, his eyes watering.  

“Bless you,” Yves says, with emphasis. He takes a small stack of napkins off of the kitchen counter and hands it over to Vincent, who eyes it for a moment. There’s a slight flush to his complexion—whether it’s from the alcohol, or from embarrassment, or from slight fever, Yves can’t tell.

“I hope you dod’t regret this in a few days,” Vincent says, carefully extricating one napkin from the stack to blow his nose softly into it. “You—” His breath hitches, sharply, and then he’s pitching forward into the handful of napkins with a muffled, “hiiHh’IZSSCHh-uhh!”

He emerges, sniffling, looking a little apologetic. “You’ll almost certaidly catch this.”

Yves laughs. “It’s fine. I know what I signed up for. Besides, I’m glad you stepped in.” He kneels down, at last, to procure two drinks from the long-neglected icebox. “A cold was a small price to pay for getting out of that conversation.”

He hands Vincent a drink. “Can I have a sip of yours? Now that I’ve doomed myself to it already, I suppose you don’t have to try so hard to keep me from catching it.”

“That’s not very reassuring,” Vincent says, but he lets Yves try some, nonetheless.

Brendon is suspiciously quiet for the rest of the evening. Neither he nor Erika so much as look Yves’s way, which Yves thinks is better than another confrontation. Vincent looks happy—a little tired, a little tipsy, but happy. At some point into the evening he resorts to crossing his arms as a means to keep warm (“Is it too cold in here?” Francesca asks, passing him from where he’s sitting on the couch, to which Vincent shakes his head quickly, his face flushing red. “I’mb just slightly under the weather,” he says. “The temperature’s perfect.” to this, Francesca brings over a quilt from one of the closets and drapes it over his shoulders. “Your friends are very nice,” Vincent says, pinning the quilt in place with one hand, and Yves laughs).

At some point, Francesca brings out a cake (“earl gray with buttercream,” she says, “Erika and I made a smaller one as a test run last week, and it was a little too dense, so we’ll have to see how this one turned out.” which Yves thinks is very impressive—he’s certainly better than average at cooking, but that expertise does not transfer well to baking—truly, he’s not sure he’d be confident in his ability to pipe frosting in a straight line. When he tells Vincent this, Vincent laughs and says, “I’m sure people would forgive you as long as it tasted good,” to which Yves says, “I think you’re underestimating how bad I am at decorating.”) She’s piped small blue flowers around the periphery of it, and leaves that curl around the edges of the cake. Diane says, “this is way too pretty to eat,” and “are you sure you want us to destroy it,” while Kenneth—their year’s Crew captain—helps Francesca with setting up the candles around the periphery of the cake and lighting them one by one.

Francesca laughs when Erika tells a story about a series of errors pertaining to their last grocery store run and tears up when Marin gives a speech about how Francesca is the main reason she stayed in Crew. After that, everyone sings—for a brief moment, the clamor in the living room becomes strictly unified. Then she blows out all the candles in one go, and everyone claps.

All in all, it’s a good evening.

—

It’s really not a surprise when Yves wakes up a few days later with a sore throat.

It’s not a surprise, either, when his nose starts running shortly after, or when—a couple hours later—a harsh, wrenching sneeze catches him off guard at work.

It’s as if that first sneeze has opened the floodgates. After that, he finds himself muffling sneezes into his elbow, scrambling for tissues from the rapidly depleting stash—a travel sized tissue pack that he keeps in his briefcase, just in case. The persistent tickle that settles in his nose seems impossible to appease, no matter how many times he sneezes, or how diligently he tries to ignore it. Worse, the sneezes are forceful enough to leave his throat feeling tender and painful, and violent enough that he finds himself coughing a little after.

Vincent was right. The cold isn’t particularly miserable—aside from the sore throat, he’s a little tired, but he doesn’t feel strictly worse than usual. It is irritating, though, to deal with—and irritating, too, to be at the office as it settles in.

It’s probably not worth taking a sick day for. It’s more an annoyance than a tangible inconvenience. Besides, he has only a couple days left of work before it’s the weekend, when he can catch up on sleep.

He’s scheduled himself for a morning’s worth of back to back meetings—two meetings with clients, one with a coworker he’s been working with to go over her findings, another status update meeting to review the work they’ve all done over the past few weeks.

Yves is prone to losing his voice when he’s ill. It’s one of his most embarrassing tells—it’d certainly garnered more attention than he’d wanted in college whenever he was under the weather—but in a work setting where his participation in meetings is non-negotiable, with every meeting he takes, he can feel his voice get closer and closer to unusable.

His second meeting ends a few minutes early, which is a relief. But when he heads to the break room to make himself a cup of much-needed tea, he finds that the hot water machine is out of order.

Just his luck.

He pours himself a cup of cold water and looks through some of the storage cabinets for tissues, though he has no luck with that, either.

The office is always turned a notch too cool—air conditioned to keep everyone awake in the afternoons—but today, it feels brutally, unnecessarily cold. He really should’ve dressed warmer. Yves heads to the conference room his next meeting is booked in, speaks on the material he’s prepared, and tries his best not to shiver too visibly. His meeting before lunch runs over, too, which is not uncommon, but today it just feels like insult to injury.

All in all, he’s exhausted. He eats a quick lunch in the cafeteria, downs two glasses of water, and goes through an embarrassing number of cafeteria napkins.

“Coming down with something?” Stanley, one of his coworkers, asks him.

Yves smiles at him sheepishly. “I wish it wasd’t so obvious,” he says.

“It’s just the season for it, I think. Vincent was just sick last week.”

“Oh, was he?” Yves says, feigning ignorance. His cold is definitely, most certainly not related to Vincent’s. “I was just goidg to grab a bottle of hand saditizer to keep at my desk,” he says, with a small cough. “I thidk there’s somethidg going around.”

Thankfully, the afternoon is—for the most part—just occupied with work. Still, it’s becoming increasingly more difficult to focus on the financial statements in front of him, the slew of emails he has pulled up.

His nose is running fiercely, the trash can at the foot of his desk is close to overflowing, and the stack of napkins he’d taken from the cafeteria—certainly not an ideal solution, but it’s the best one he can come up with at the moment—is almost entirely gone.

He grabs one off the top of the stack—he’s only able to unfold it partially before he’s jerking forward with a wet, spraying, “hhEHh’iiiZZSCHh’EW!” 

Fuck. The napkins, while infinitely better than nothing, are not as soft as tissues would have been. Given the frequency with which he’s been using them, he’s almost positive that his nose is redder than usual.

The next sneeze nearly catches him off guard. He barely has time to lift the napkin up to his face again before his breath hitches again, sharply.

“Hhehh… HEHh—’IIDDSCHhiew! hEHH’iITSSHh’Yyew!” 

His nose is still running fiercely, and worse, the sneezes are loud enough to scrape against his throat. He thinks his voice is never going to recover if he keeps this up.

From behind him, he hears someone clear their throat.

Yves freezes. His first thought is that he’s probably being disruptive. His second thought is that even if he isn’t, whoever’s behind him must have been waiting to speak to him for some time—he’d just been too caught up with sneezing to realize, which is a little embarrassing.

His third thought is—whoever it is, he wants to face them looking at least marginally presentable. He’s almost certain that right now, he doesn’t.

He blows his nose into the napkins he’s holding, runs a hand through his hair, and pivots around in his office chair with a smile that is admittedly a little forced. “What’s up?”

He expects to see Cara, who he’s been working more with, or perhaps Laurent, who he’s been shadowing. But standing there, looking every inch as formal and as put together as he always does, is Vincent.

For a moment, Vincent just stares at him, as if he’s cataloging Yves’s appearance in silence.

Yves tries not to fidget under his scrutiny. “Did you ndeed anythidg?” 

In lieu of responding, Vincent steps past him to set a box of tissues down at the edge of his desk. 

“I figured you’d want this back,” Vincent says.

It’s the same tissue box he’d handed off to Vincent last week, he realizes, when Vincent was the one who had a use for it. Vincent has taken care to set it down at the same spot where it was initially: at the right edge, next to his monitor.

“Thadk you,” Yves says. “I’ll treasure it.”

“This, too,” Vincent says, setting a mug down in front of him. Whatever’s in there is hot enough to be steaming.

Yves muffles a cough into his hand. “What?”

“Tea,” Vincent says, as if that explains everything. “Chamomile, if it matters. I didn’t know if caffeine would keep you up.”

“Oh.” Yves stares at it. “You got the hot water machide workidg. It was broken this morning. Or maybe I’mb just really bad at using it.”

“Actually, no,” Vincent says. “I got this from the third floor.”

“You walked all the way up here from the third floor?” Yves says, a little surprised.  He’s about to say more, but then—in a progression that he should probably be used to by now—he finds himself succumbing, with little warning, to another sneeze, which he muffles into a perhaps-too-generous handful of tissues. At this rate, he might run out of them, even given Vincent’s generous contribution.

“It was just two flights of stairs,” Vincent says. 

“Still,” Yves says, lowering the tissues from his face so he can take a sip. The thought of Vincent precariously taking the tea up two flights of stairs, careful to not let it spill, just to get it to his desk is so endearing that he finds himself smiling. “Thank you.”

Vincent blinks at him, as if he wasn’t expecting to be thanked. “I don’t think it will keep you from losing your voice,” he says, at last. “But it might help with your sore throat.” 

Yves doesn’t remember mentioning that. “How did you kdow I had a sore throat?”

“How do you think?” Vincent says. “I had the same cold a week ago.”

Even so, the idea that Vincent already probably knows, and knows intimately, how he’s feeling right now, even though Yves hasn’t said anything about it, feels a little incriminating. Yves is under no illusion that his current affliction is subtle, by any means, but at the very least he’d thought that the less visible parts of it—his sore throat, the growing exhaustion, the pressure he feels building at his temples—were things that no one else would have to think about.

“Was it this bad for you?” he says. “I’d feel terrible if I mbade you talk to all my friends if your throat was already— Hh- heHh-! hHEH-heHh’iSSSchh-Iiew!”

It’s a good thing, Yves thinks, hazily, that he’s still holding onto the tissues from earlier. His nose is running again, and the tissues feel traitorously soft as compared to the napkins he’s been using all day.

“No,” Vincent says, frowning. “I think you just wore your voice out at work.”

“That mbight be the case,” Yves says. “I had a lot of meetidgs this morning. Ndow it’s pretty much just heads-down work, thankfully.” He muffles a yawn into one hand. Vincent is probably here for a reason—but Vincent is usually very conscientious about the work he passes onto others, so whatever he needs Yves to do for him, Yves doesn’t expect it should take too long. “Did you ndeed me to look over somethidg?” “I just wanted to see how you were feeling,” Vincent says, which is not the answer Yves expects.

Yves blinks at him. “How did you find out I was sick?”

“I heard from Cara.”

“Ah.” He probably owes Cara an apology—he’s sure that she’d probably prefer to work somewhere quiet, and his cold is certainly making that difficult. “Yeah, she would kdow. I’ve been like this all day—well, sidce this mording, I guess.”

“It came on quickly for me, too,” Vincent says. “Can I get you anything?”

“It’s just a cold,” Yves says with a laugh. “I’ll mbanage.” He means for it to be reassuring, but Vincent just frowns, looking off to the side.

He looks… strangely upset, Yves realizes.

“It’s ndot really all that bad,” Yves insists, backtracking. “And the weekend’s coming up soon. I’ll catch up on sleep when I get the chance.” Now is a really inopportune time to have to cough. He raises an elbow to his face to cough as quietly as he can, though the effort only seems to prolong the coughing fit—it leaves him slightly breathless, blinking away the tears that surface in his vision. “Seriously, don’t worry about it.”

“I’m sorry,” Vincent says, quiet.

“For what?”

“For giving you my cold.”

“I dod’t think you can even take credit for that,” Yves says. “I was the one who kissed you.”

Vincent does smile, at that—a small, almost imperceptible smile. “Even so.”

Yves wants to tell him that he would do it again, if he had the chance to. He wants to tell Vincent how easy it had felt to kiss him, how right.

How it felt to forget about Erika, and Brendon, and all of it—even if just for a moment—to feel so perfectly grounded in someone other than himself. To let himself experience the sort of closeness he’s been scared of seeking out, after the breakup, after Erika, in fear that no one would ever fit quite the same. To lean into the warmth of someone who still, even now, continues to be kind to him for reasons he can’t quite rationalize. 

How long has it been since he’s been able to place his trust into someone, blindly, in the way he trusts Vincent to keep up this act of theirs, to lie on his behalf? Vincent is nothing if not competent, but Yves hadn’t expected that competence to extend to this arrangement of theirs. How long has it been since Yves has been able to lean on someone the way he’s leaned on Vincent, to trust someone to meet him where he is?

“For the record, I dod’t regret it,” Yves says. He finds that he really means it.

[buckyownsmylife]

Secret Door: the one where the morning after rolls around

President James Buchanan Barnes is the first president to occupy the White House without a first lady ever since… well, President James Buchanan Barnes. But he’s not too worried about it, since he got his best friend from college acting as his VP, supporting him just like only someone who knew everything about him could do. What happens when feelings from the past start to resurface?

Or the one where you and Bucky used to date but now you got a country to run.

for general warnings and author’s notes, please go to the fic’s masterlist.

specific warnings for the chapter: angst, alcohol, alcoholic amnesia, involuntary non-consensual voyeurism, guilt, suicidal feelings, anger, insecurity, tears

Bucky’s P.O.V.

I’d forgotten how she stole all the blankets.

It was such a small, silly thing, and yet realizing that after all these years, I didn’t remember it anymore got to me. There was a time where I used to boast that I knew everything about the woman lying next to me, and although I liked to think I still did, there was a considerable gap in my knowledge of her history, a gap that was placed there despite me.

I still didn’t know what made her break up with me back then.

Sure, I knew I wasn’t the easiest person to be around. I partied too much, drank my weight in alcohol every night. And not with cheap beer, oh no. It was always expensive shit - the same kind my father used to drink back when he was still alive.

More often than not, I’d wake up without any recollection of the previous evening. But that was okay. Because she was right there to help me, wipe the sweat from my forehead and let me know it was all going to be okay.

She was everything to me, until one day, she wasn’t. And when we first started working together in the world of politics, it was hard not to be resentful. I had done everything for her, back then. I loved her. And she’d just traded me for another person, like I was nothing to her at all.

I remembered seeing them fucking one day, when I went to her place hoping to get her back. The sounds I heard from that bedroom had haunted many sleepless nights, and they still did, even so long after.

I didn’t believe I was truly over what had happened until tonight, when I finally had the chance to have her again. No more memories of jacking off to her and her ex, just me and her, together again, at last.

I reached out blindly to pull her body closer to me, and was surprised to not find anything there. Startled, I sat up quickly, brushing the sleep away from my eyes as I struggled to adjust to the lack of lighting in the room, and that’s when I saw it…

She was trying to sneak out, wearing my hoodie over her dress, her heels dangling from her fingertips as she stared at me in guilt.

It felt like I was going to die.

“Where are you going?” I asked, even though the answer was pretty obvious. Anywhere but here, and although I was a mixture of incredulous, sad and angry, I still couldn’t help but think that she looked so fucking cute wearing my clothes.

“Are you going to leave?” I pressed, sitting up on the bed as I watched her fidget. It hurt more than I cared to admit, the way she avoided my eyes and refused to answer. Getting out of the bed and ignoring my naked state, I was almost gentle in the way that I pressed, “What is it, then? Wasn’t I enough for you? Back then, right now?”

She looked shocked, her wide eyes told me so. I suppose that she didn’t expect me to reopen old wounds, but they felt pretty present to me at that moment. “Did you stop loving me?” The question I always wanted to know escaped me without much difficulty.

I don’t know if I would be able to say the same about the way I would deal with the answer.

“Because I never did.” The hurt was obvious in my voice, and it took a sharp inhale from her to snap me out of the past and back to the present moment, a moment I didn’t even want to be living.

“James, what do you remember of those times?” She surprised me by lowering her shoes, slowly making her way back to the bed, where she sat down next to where I was standing. “The times when you would drink yourself blind, only to wake up in my arms, safe and sound. What do you remember?”

I didn’t know what to say, so I remained silent. “Come here,” she quietly begged, reaching out for my hands until I was sitting next to her in bed, her thumbs rubbing circles on the inside of my wrist.

“You don’t remember. You don’t remember how it ruined me to be the one to pick up the pieces of the man that I loved, night after night. I know you don’t remember, but I’ll never forget.”

“It broke my heart.” The worst part about it was that I knew it to be true. I couldn’t even deny it. “You were becoming your father and it hurt too fucking much.”

“And when you told me what your dream was…” She continued as I stared at her through water-filled eyes. “I knew there was no way you’d get better if I indulged your wild side any longer.”

“You were already so close to losing your scholarship…” She stopped to take a deep breath, before completing, “so I knew the only thing that could possibly speak to you was if you lost me.”

I had no idea. I knew she’d broken up with me because of my ways, of course - it was the reason why I decided to become sober, but I had no idea she had done this sacrifice for me, so I could become the man I needed to become to get this job done.

“You were my origin story,” I laughed through the tears, letting her tug me down so she could rest her head on my shoulder. “You could have talked to me, though.”

“You know what?” She conceded, “I suppose I could.”

[canonicallyobserving911]

“Don’t walk away from something before you even know what it is!”

Fanonwriter2023 on AO3

Where CANON and FANON collide!

Chapter 1 & 2 are now available on AO3. Chapters 3 & 4 will be posted on or before Wednesday, May 8, 2024.

New Buddie Multi-Chapter Fanfic - 7x10 finale FANON Speculation: “Don’t walk away from something before you even know what it is!”

“Don’t walk away from something before you even know what it is!”

Summary: Eddie decides to walk away when he feels like he’s missed his last chance to be with Buck and after another failed date, Buck considers why none of the people he’s ever dated felt right and it causes him to consider walking away from whatever he’s doing with the person he’s with. When another twist of fate rips them apart and they’re faced with losing each other forever, will they walk away from everything they’ve built before they even know what it is?

Currently 2 of 4 chapters completed: 25.1K Words; Rated: Teens and Up Audiences

Two chapters will be posted at a time.

___________

Buck's voice is just above a whisper when he says, “Eddie, I—I can’t do this without you”.

“Yeeesss, you…can!” Eddie whispers before he squeezes his eyes shut from the pain. He hears him slurring his own words which means in a few minutes, he’ll be dead and he’s going to in fact die alone without having ever experienced the love he’s been desperately seeking.

He musters enough strength and says, “Tell Chris… I love him so much and that I’m sorry I won't get to see him graduate high school or... go to college. And—and…” He’s crying again but he needs to get it out especially since Buck’s phone is still recording. “tell him I—I… didn’t—want to… leave him.”

“NO EDDIE! I’M NOT GOING TO TELL HIM THAT BECAUSE YOU’RE NOT LEAVING US!”

“I’m sor—ry… Buck.” He replies as he tries to wipe the blood from his chin since it’s starting to run out of his mouth.

Buck sees it and he screams, “NO, PLEASE NO… LET ME DO IT!” He rips the bottom half of his LAFD works shirt and wipes the thick blood away from Eddie’s mouth. It’s oozing and it’s deep red in color which lets him know this is it.

The lights in Eddie’s eyes dim even more and his pupils begin to dilate.

What is Buck going to do next since Eddie's dying? 🤷🏽‍♀️

___________

Fic Summary: Eddie decides to walk away when he feels like he’s missed his last chance to be with Buck and after another failed date, Buck considers why none of the people he’s ever dated felt right and it causes him to consider walking away from whatever he’s doing with the person he’s with. When another twist of fate rips them apart and they’re faced with losing each other forever, will they walk away from everything they’ve built before they even know what it is?

__________

Chapter Summaries

Chapter 1 - After a conversation with his abuela, Eddie decides he’s too late to have a relationship with Buck and Buck realizes whatever he’s trying to do with Tommy isn’t working but he still can’t figure out why.

Chapter 2 - Buck’s faced with his greatest fear after he finds Eddie unconscious and bleeding out while they’re on a call. It’s like déjà vu from the shooting but this time, they’re alone and he loses it even more every time Eddie’s eyes close and it takes him too long to reopen them.

Chapter 3 - Will be posted soon.

Chapter 4 - Will be posted soon.

__________

Read chapters 1-2 are available on AO3.

Continue reading on AO3

[luvhynjinnnn]

I MISS HIM a/n: actually wasn't gonna post this but hey lets see what happens. we all know that im only good at angst.

"you always do this! I told you that I just came from the studio!"

"oh yeah! you obviously came from the studio with your MALE members, smelling like perfume!"

"oh my god, you're crazy!" he scoffs.

this was all your relationship had succumbed too. han would come home at two in the morning and and be out of the house before you even woke up.

people think that life with a k-pop idol was all glamour and unicorns and rainbows. and dating hanji was. until it wasn't. now, he was rarely home. he was always either on tour, or at the studio, or at the gym. and he never sent you so much as a text to tell you he was staying over. he'd rather simply let you stay up until 2am waiting.

and at first, he apologized. whenever he came home too late, he'd apologize and get you flowers the next day. now, he just denied, denied, denied. and told you that you were crazy.

were you?

"I miss him" now it'd been three weeks since the two of you broke up. part of you understood that it had to happen. that it wasn't healthy. that you weren't happy. but another part of you wanted to believe that it could've worked out. maybe you were the problem. had you done something wrong? had you driven him to become the person he was towards the end?

"do you? or do you miss the version of him you created? the version of him that you saw at the very beginning?" felix cocked his head at you as you both sat on your bed, the soft light illuminating from the tv screen reflecting on his face. freckles.

felix was the best friend you'd ever had. being friends from the fifth grade to college had made you closer than ever.

"i... i didn't create a version of him; it was there. he was there. we used to go on picnics and go on date nights. we've gone to the arcade together so many times that they have a picture of us pinned on the wall behind the counter." you giggled.

"and where's that version of him now?" felix raised an eyebrow.

"it's still inside him. i know it. he's just been stressed, that's all." a painful lump began to form in your throat as tears welled up in your eyes. even you didn't believe what you were saying. but you had to.

"the sooner you accept that he's not who he used to be, the sooner it'll stop hurting." he whispers. his voice was rather soothing.

just like han's used to be. when he wasn't yelling or drunk. but that was only sometimes.

you knew what felix was saying was true but you couldn't bear to face reality. the thought of having to live without him drove you insane. the thought of the loss of warmth from his arms around you.

who would ever love you if not him?

"will I ever get him back?" you asked, not wanting to accept any version of the answer he would give you.

truth be told, you didn't even hear his response.

as you closed your eyes, you took a deep breath. when you reopened them, you were still in your bedroom. but something had changed. when you turned, Hanji was lying beside you.

"you're back." you whispered.

he nods.

"I missed you. I love you."

he looked over at you, "I know. but this can't keep going on."

"I know. say it please. just once."

he sighed.

"I love you, my love. now I have to go."

"I know" you whispered as you silently sobbed.

the moment you closed your eyes again and reopened them, goosebumps painted you skin. you were greeted with felix's presence once more as he looked at you and sighed.

"I miss him."

"I know."

[noisytenant]

around mid to late 2021 i felt really down on myself because my drawing coherence deteriorated. my lines were shaky and jagged, my handwriting illegible. i felt ashamed, like i lost something important, and i worried if it would ever come back.

without really realizing that the reasons i was having a hard time drawing were:

Covid Happening

Going to art school in 2020 for a semester during Covid Soft Reopening and having no social contacts and taking 5 studio classes when you shouldn't take more than 3. while still having undiagnosed hypersomnia so i was sleeping through most of my free time. And most of the rest of it was spent jacking off to be quite frank

Spending spring 2021 semester in a two-house Covid Pod with like 9 people total and 2 dogs, one of whom was acquired early covid and had bitten the face of another one of my housemates in the fall. and i was dating one of my housemates. we were not dating by the end of the semester

My classmate/friend killing himself

My grandmother dying (like less than 2 weeks before i was gonna move out anyways)

Struggling to get a summer job and then cancelling it because I realized I was going to have a mental breakdown and spending the summer at home with my mom, where I had a different kind of mental breakdown

Realizing I had complex post-traumatic stress disorder

Realizing I wanted to write about evilsex while being in online spaces hostile to that

Starting to return to the idea that I was a system

Entering my senior year of college

I mean really when you put it that way, is it really any wonder i couldn't get my hands to move how i wanted them to. I think it's funny how I could recognize some of those factors but I still felt really down on myself. When you're deep In It you don't always realize the bigger picture.

Nowadays I can draw again. I will say that my output isn't really what it used to be, but a lot of that is the stress and responsibility of my independent life. Trying to trust that it will level out too.

i hope if anyone reading this is struggling with feeling like they've lost something valuable, that they will find the perspective to realize why they are where they're at and to trust that it will return

[pbj-katz]

The Surreal Murder of Stephanie Marsland

Stephanie Marsland died Friday, March 15th, 2019, she had turned 16 only three weeks earlier. They found her on the east side of Yew Dr., approximately a quarter before four in Harpy, Colorado. During the initial examination, experts determined she had died only 15 minutes prior to the discovery.

Drowning.

She was face down in a puddle of maybe 4 inches of water; it had rained through the night before, and into the day, stopping only an hour before school was released. The pothole that held the water was the infamous Silly Billy hole. The name, well disputed on who had given it to the pothole, was in front of the house of William Harris, an elderly man who, as many of the folks who lived in Harpy would have claimed, had been living in the house before the town was even built. Despite the rumors right after his death from a heart attack three days later, William Harris was not the one to find the girl. No, that task was left to 10-year-old Sean Abshear, who sat on the ground with wet cement soaking into his brand new jeans and screamed until someone pulled him away from the sight.

“Those jeans, they were stained. I had to throw them away. Spent nearly 90 dollars on them and threw them away because Sean didn’t have the common sense to knock on a door. He gets that from his father.” His mother, Kimberly Abshear, would tell their neighbor Beverly Turner when asked what had happened that day. But of course, when Beverly went over to the Abshear’s house, she was looking for the gruesome details.

Within four months, Silly Billy, who had been filled with asphalt every year only to return deeper and more vengeful each year, would disappear. As if overnight, the town of Harpy would close Yew Dr., and reopen it three weeks later, freshly paved.

“I guess something good came from that girl’s death.” Fred Bowman stood on his porch early in the morning, looking out on the new street. Standing just outside the door, his husband felt a shiver crawl up his back, the only other person who could have heard.

That girl.

“Stephanie was an angel; she had this bright future. We had just started talking about colleges, about her major, about growing. She wasn’t stupid, she wouldn’t have lain down in a puddle, she wouldn’t have killed herself.” Fiona Marsland told a student-made documentary almost a year to the date of her daughter’s death.

Stephanie Marsland was described as a kind-hearted, easygoing girl. She loved dogs, and her younger brothers, often described as a second mother to them. Over the 16 years she was alive, she had an influential impact on the town of Harpy, though mostly gone unnoticed. She would volunteer at events, or at the local hospital, but she was also a shy girl.

“She wouldn’t have won any popularity competitions, that’s for sure. The girl was smart, no question, but the girl was also dim. She could write a paper, and it would be this masterpiece, but the second the girl opened her mouth, nothing would come out. She had friends, I’ve seen her with friends, and she wasn’t ever without someone in the class to team up with, but once all eyes fell on her, she would freeze.” Launa Hempton, Stephanie’s sophomore biology teacher, would tell the police when they first launched their investigation. “No one hated that girl, or at least, I don’t think anyone would. There was nothing to hate, she probably didn’t have a single negative thought in her head. Poor girl, she probably passed out and fell into the wrong place at the wrong time.”

The most popular theory that passed around Harpy. On her way home, Stephanie lost consciousness and accidentally fell into Silly Billy, tragically drowning while no one was aware. But that could not be the case. In the official autopsy, the cause of death was purely drowning. There were no apparent reasons for her to lose consciousness; she was adequately hydrated and had food in her stomach. There were no indications of diabetes, drugs, or alcohol in her system. She did not suffer from anemia, seizures, or low blood pressure, and all her organs appeared to be in good health. Besides the post-mortem broken rib from the CPR, there was no trauma to the body, no blunt force, no sign of any sort of struggle, and no trauma to her body or genitals, her hymen was still intact with no signs of any sort of penetration.

Absolutely no sign of trauma.

In the case of Ms. Stephanie Marsland, her examination came back entirely unremarkable. In the ruling of her death, it appears, in my professional opinion, that she unequivocally drowned. No evidence indicated a fall; had she passed out as suggested, there would have been visible marks on her body, especially if she had completely lost consciousness and couldn’t protect herself. Any sort of wounds I found, three in total, at least a day old, if not older, please refer to my official records for more information on the wounds. Ms. Marsland was the picture of a healthy 16-year-old youth, I have doubts she had ever touched alcohol or any drug stronger than Tylenol. All foreign fibers and hairs came back explainable, again refer to my report. I signed off on the autopsy as drowning, with my report reading: Ms. Stephanie Marsland was in exceptional health, if she momentarily lost consciousness, she would have had lay down and rolled to the point her face found the water, she purposely placed herself into the water, or, and most likely, since an article of clothing seemed to have been removed from the body, she was placed there.

The investigation started within a few days of her death, teens were pulled from classes to answer questions, one of them being maybe Stephanie’s best friend. Jacklyn Pappas sat in front of the police, the grease pen drawn mustache for her dress rehearsal of Hamlet, playing Horatio, still on her face. The questions were straightforward, how long had she known Stephanie? (Since childhood.) How long have you two been friends? (Since childhood.) How well did she know her? (Better than anyone at that school, I would say.) When was the last time she had seen her? (As they dressed after PE.) Was Stephanie acting strange? (No.) Was she showing signs of distress? (I don’t think so.) Did she ever mention feeling sad, depressed, suicidal? (No, despite what people say, she was never a sad person.) What do people say? (Stephanie was suicidal because Justin Goodwin had no interest in her.) Who is Justin Goodwin? (A boy Stephanie did like, a boy that she felt she would never have a chance with.) Did she ever talk to Mr. Goodwin? (No, she was too shy.) Did that make her sad? (No, maybe a little, but she rarely talked about it, she was more focused on her future.) Was Stephanie wearing a bra that day?

Jacklyn could not recall precisely what color, maybe purple, but yes, Stephanie was wearing a bra that day. They had changed twice in front of each other, once for PE, and the second after, both times Jacklyn knew for a fact she was in a bra. To Jacklyn, she would have noticed if Stephanie had not, because, despite her petite frame, she was heavy-breasted. She was not one to go without a bra, not when she knew the attention her breast had already garnered with it on, and if there was anything that she hated more, it was the gawking she got when she began to fill out at the early age of 11. She had mentioned reduction surgery more than once, but it was a dream for when she was older.

When she was found face down in that puddle, Glenn Hopper, a retired medic three houses down from where the boy sat screaming, pulled her from the puddle and administered CPR, he noted the girl had no bra on. Even when her mother sobbed in the morgue with the bag of clothing that she had been wearing, she asked where the bra was. As if the fact this girl had drowned in a puddle did not raise enough eyebrows, the missing article of clothing did. The entire town seemed to agree unanimously that Stephanie lying face first in a puddle was acceptable, but they drew the line at the missing bra.

“She was really nice, she was pretty too, I don’t think many people saw that, but she was a pretty girl.” Franklin Singur had been recorded saying over the phone to the Just a Second in Time podcast. Later in the call, he mentioned to Theresa Hernandez more on the subject. “I know she had gone on one date, maybe a few weeks before her death, I don’t know if you would even call it that, but she had gone out with Lincoln Perry, and he was there that day, one of the last people to see her alive.”

“Did he do it?” Theresa would ask.

“No, no, it’s too easy, isn’t it? But no, Lincoln was just a bystander that day, the real beef was between Justin Goodwin, and Patrick Hawkins. Lincoln was probably home right after she left and had an alibi. I remember eyes were on him for a hot second, but off as if they were like, no, not Lincoln Perry.”

“What exactly do you mean the beef was between Justin Goodwin and Patrick Hawkins?”

The argument of precisely when Justin and Patrick’s abhor for one another began narrowed down to three separate incidents. When questioned by the police, Lincoln would recount the first one, as he had volunteered to talk to them the very second he heard of Stephanie’s passing. “Justin and Patrick never liked each other, Justin grew up in Harpy, where Patrick showed up in the second grade. He was always strange, Patrick, he had these jars, tiny jars, and in the jars he would put bugs. He had one friend, Drake, and Drake isn’t weird, we played basketball together, but even Drake never jumped to Patrick’s defense. We would call him weird, and where Drake would never join in, he would keep his mouth shut. Patrick started our school, and from day one Justin didn’t like the guy. It was never directly one thing, but I think what set it off was when, and we were kids, like seven or eight, but Justin opened those jars into Patrick’s lunchbox, and when he opened it all these weird insects scurried around the table. Everyone was screaming, but Justin was saying, ‘I told you, the freak eats them.’”

The next incident was told by Nicolas Banter after the case was closed when the official transcripts had been released, and the first set of true crime investigators clamped down. Henry James’ podcast, The Back Waters Crimes, would be one of the first to take an interest in the story. Although the broadcast lacked enough information to make it worthwhile, a patron tier granted the audience who contributed five dollars a month the ability to read transcripts of unreleased episodes.

Nicolas Banter: Leans back in his chair, chuckling at the report. Of course, that is the moment Link would say, the bugs.

Henry James: You think that wasn’t it?

Nicolas: No, this paints Justin in a negative light, as if he just judged the freak right off the bat. Yes, what Lincoln said was true, the two clearly hated each other the second their eyes met, but if it wasn’t for Patrick, it wouldn’t have escalated to this.

Henry: So, you think Patrick pushed Justin to spill the bugs in his lunch bag?

Nicolas: No, I know for a fact it was. Patrick envied Justin, his dad was a chief of police in a different county, about a week before Chief Goodwin arrested Patrick’s dad when he ran a stop sign, and then failed a sobriety test. You see, Patrick was in the damn car. I don’t know if he saw Goodwin and figured, or was told, but the next time he saw Justin he jumped on him, punching the shit out of him, screaming at him. I would not be surprised if the guy killed Stephanie, if COVID didn’t happen, I feel like the investigation would have ended differently.

Henry: What was he saying? To Justin, when he was hitting him?

Nicolas: ‘F—k you and f—k your pig father.’

The case never categorically went cold, but as the year ended, and the climb into 2020 happened, one year came, and it passed one piece of evidence reigniting interest in the case until it came to an abrupt halt late in March 2020, when the country shut down due to the pandemic. Only Drake Hamal knew a story that the other two were oblivious to, potentially explaining the true cause of the two boys’ mutual hatred. He penned his human-interest story in his college newspaper detailing the event.

Nearly three years ago, while I was in high school, a girl was found dead. She had been drowned in a puddle four blocks from my house. The biggest spotlight fell on two students that I had known since elementary school, an incident that occurred at school, and then developed through the day until escalating off campus. In the end, a girl was found dead, and the boy’s pointed fingers at the other, as they had done almost a decade before.

PH moved from Utah, his family was Mormons, as was JG, they belonged to the same church. Years later, PH finally revealed to me the exact details of what had occurred, a truth that I deeply regretted knowing. JG was no stranger to attending events put on by Mr. G, who was heavily involved in the church. The boys, who must have been seven, were left to watch a movie in JG’s family den, when the DVD skipped, and they both went up to the main house to inform the adults, but found the house empty. PH claimed that JG suggested checking upstairs, but they both ascended to the second floor upon hearing a noise. It was a relief, PH would tell me, they weren’t alone, but as he went to open the door, JG told him no, that he wasn’t allowed to when the door was shut, but PH still turned the knob.

PH’s parents plus JG’s mother were engaged in sexual relations as JG’s dad watched. He would tell me Mr. G sat in a chair tucked back in the corner, naked as the others were, but still never taking his eyes off what was unfolding in front of him. As a teenager, we were just about 15 when this story was told to me; he understood what exactly was happening, but there, as he saw what he would call a pathetic pig watch his wife take it, he felt as if Mr. G was who to blame, by extension, JG too.

Yes, they hated each other the second they met, the classic clashing of personalities, there PH would put his disgust for his own parents all on to whom he felt was liable. He claimed he was the one who pushed JG into the door, but JG would be the first one to throw a punch. Their parents would come out of the room still naked, to the scuffle. It would end with the H’s leaving, and within a week of the embarrassing tussle, JG’s father would be arresting PH’s father.

The article will tell the story of the incident that would lead to the fight outside of the school on the afternoon of March 15th, which would have been argued to lead to the death of Stephanie Marsland, an incident that would be better detailed in the official police report, besides the partial redaction. The report is:

Monday, March 25th, 2019

The past week I have had the pleasure of talking to one Mr. Patrick Hawkins and Mr. Justin Goodwin, son of Delt county’s Chief Goodwin. They eagerly shared the details of the events that transpired on Friday, March 15th, evidence securely gathered and awaiting processing. Mr. Goodwin’s testimony is as follows; rap star Gaze the Baptist came out with a new clothing line late the year before, selling out as fast as it had gone up. This clothing line included a $300 pair of jeans that Mr. Goodwin would claim he had been saving up to get and was one of the lucky ones to purchase. That week the package came, and despite Mrs. Goodwin’s protest of letting her son leave the house with those pants on, he would arrive at school in them. He would claim he was aware of Mr. Hawkin’s being a fan of this rapper, and when he showed up in the jeans, Mr. Goodwin is quoted as saying; “I knew I made a mistake, the look Patrick gave me was telling me I would not leave the school without regretting wearing them.”

The pants in question were taken from Mr. Goodwin and put on evidence, but later released back to the boy.

It had been noted that Mr. Hawkin’s favorite form of taking notes was in red pens, not just by Mr. Goodwin, but by other classmates and teachers. Some even were quoted as saying he would use variations of shades, but always red. In their shared 3rd period class, Mr. Goodwin would take his seat right before the late bell and proceed with the class as usual, taking notes and interacting as he would normally. At this moment in his story, he looked out the window for a long time, his face turning a slight red as he thought of his next words. He was called up to the front of the class to give his presentation, one he claimed he had spent weeks preparing, and as he stood the giggling started, and by the time he was in front of the class, everyone was laughing.

“Madison Thorpe even asked me if I needed a tampon, and that’s how the period jokes started.” He would tell us. On the left side, and into the middle of his buttocks, was a red stain. The pants, when presented as evidence, did not show any resemblance to blood stains. The stain had seeped into his pants, through his briefs, and stained his skin. “Even now, what? Two weeks later? I still have a goddamn stain on my ass.” This is where, unprompted, Mr. Goodwin would stand up, and present the stain on his buttocks, mostly faded but a clear pink blob. “It was that goddamn freak, and his goddamn red pens.”

When asked about the ink, Mr. Hawkins smiled but shook his head. “No, I didn’t do it, yes, it was funny, but the asshole deserved it.” When asked how he thought the ink got on his chair, Mr. Hawkins would tell us he was unsure, though he couldn’t have done it even though he knew he had a “reputation of red ink”, how the boy would put it. We questioned whether he perceived the targeting of Mr. Goodwin with red ink as a mere coincidence. “I got to class with two other people, while three others were already seated. I sit nowhere near Justin, if I wanted to do it, the others would have seen me.”

Both admitted to the lunchtime confrontation, where Mr. Goodwin went up to Mr. Hawkins and shoved him to the ground but was pulled away before it could escalate. In the next class, the two shared they were separated, but comments between the two were heard from other classmates. The last class, one shared with Ms. Marsland, ended while one boy was sent to the library and the other to the computer lab after a brawl almost broke out during quiet time.

Classmate, Peter Waller, told the police that it started when Mr. Goodwin went to turn a paper in, he went the long way around the desk to knock into Mr. Hawkins’ arm, prompting Mr. Hawkins to rise and was quoted saying; “Face me like a man.” Three others impeded the two before they were separated.

The real confrontation did not start until after school had gotten out.

[Redacted]

The redaction was blacked out in permanent marker in the unofficial report, but when typed out, a simple redacted was placed, ending the document. The blackout second was just about a page and a half long, but no other reports seem to mention what event took place after the school bell released the school. Edward Hobble, a private investigator, became interested in the case in his time, cooped up in his house during the shutdown. Hobble had grown up in a town near Harpy, and the case was brought to his attention by his son, who was writing his senior thesis on the case. 

At first glance, Hoddle quickly concluded that the details were clear and straightforward. His theory, his son would quote him saying in the 30 page paper on the Marsland, was that she probably had an anxiety attack, the girl had clearly had an issue there and laid down on the ground when she felt dizzy and must have rolled into the puddle. The missing bra didn’t catch his attention, it was the unofficial redaction that did.

“Goodwin’s father was the chief of police, and then more than a page was redacted the second they mentioned the girl’s name. If anyone knows what happened to that girl, it’s either or both boys.”

The only people who were aware of what happened the afternoon of March 15th were Justin Goodwin, Patrick Hawkins, Lincoln Perry, and Nicolas Banter. In none of the interviews of investigations, has it been released whether Lincoln or Nicolas mention that afternoon confrontation, or if that information was told, just once more redacted. The common theory in a true crime Reddit thread, about the Stephanie Marsland case was Chief Goodwin made sure the boys wouldn’t talk. It was not until u/ [deleted] took to the forum.

There is a common theory that Chief Goodwin silenced those involved in the Goodwin v. Hawkins, and while I can confirm that we were told to keep our mouths shut, we never had to sign anything. We were minors, for Christ’s sake, and it’s not because we killed that girl. We left school, the three of us, and Justin was steamed up. He had changed into his gym shorts, and yes, he had this giant ass stain on his ass, I’d be pissed too. It was common knowledge that Patrick frequently used the back way home, which ran behind Yew Dr. There was a stream along the bank that Justin walk to, especially after it rained, but that day he kept making this jerky movement, like he was trying to see up the bank. We heard whistling. That’s the thing about Patrick all these reports failed to mention, this weirdo would whilst, very out of tone, always he would walk by, whistling.

I think Link said something like ‘I think that’s Patrick’ or something, but before he could even finish Justin was charging up the bank, us behind him. Link was the one to want to put a stop to the violence, but even there as Patrick froze as we bobbed up that mound, I think we all had the same idea, we’d scare the freak.

Justin was calling this guy every damn name he could think of, he grabbed him by the jacket and was jerking at him; we joined in, pushing him. I don’t know what the hell the kid had in his backpack, maybe jars of bugs, [A comment that would not be made clear until later, and many who would respond to this post would question this one line in particular] but it was heavy, he kept losing his balance until he finally fell over. Justin grabbed him by his ankles, dragging him towards the bank, telling him he was going to shove his face into the water.

If you want my opinion, that’s the reason that Chief Goodwin went out of his way to keep us quiet, Justin threatening to dunk this kid, and then the girl was found dead less than an hour later that exact way. But Patrick kicked out hard, and Justin lost his grip.

We grabbed Patrick before he could get away and held him for Justin, who looked as if he could murder Patrick. I think we would have let him go from an expression alone, but a voice stopped it.

Stephanie was shy, it’s been told over and over, but honestly, I didn’t think she would have ever said anything there if she didn’t see Lincoln. He liked her a lot, and I think she liked him, they had gone on a few dates, but he said she was too nervous to even kiss him, but he’s a good guy, he probably never pushed it. I didn’t know much more about her, but there she was, her hands on her hips as if she was a goddamn superhero. She told us to let Patrick go, to leave him alone, that three against one was grossly unfair.

Shit, it was the most I had ever heard the girl talk. Link was embarrassed, he let go first and even took a few steps away from the freak. Justin, on the other hand, just looked at her as if she was on the same level as Patrick and told her to eff off. Now, I doubted anyone had ever spoken to Stephanie like that, but it did not phase her. She told him he was being a bully in class, and he was being a bully now.

If I remember correctly, he looked at Lincoln in a way to ask him to calm his girl, but no one said anything back to her. She went up to Patrick, put her hand on his arm, and they left together.

Patrick Hawkins was the last one to be seen with her alive.

Whatever happened to Stephanie Marsland, Patrick is the only person who knows.

At the time of the post, an overwhelming interest in Stephanie Marsland flooded the internet. The subreddit became divided between believers and skeptics, as nobody could confirm the identity of the person speculated to be Nicolas Banter.

According to U/BrutalStar, it was impossible for it to be him, as it was a throwaway account that was created and deleted on the same day. However, it was u/GodsPrankOnAbraham that pointed out that the details in the story seemed to match up well with the reports that would be released later in the week.

It wasn’t until YouTuber Tylor Kamer, who would tell his own story on this post that the truth came to light. In the video, Kramer retold the story of Stephanie Marsland, connecting the dots to this Reddit comment. But was it truly Nicolas Banter who posted the comment?

“Here with me,” Kamer’s voice came over a video of him doing his research. “Is the real-life Nicolas Banter. Hello Nick, thank you for joining me today.”

Transcripts come over the screen. “Hi Tylor, thank you for reaching out.”

“Now, you were there that day, as it has been presented in the evidence.”

“Yes.”

“I know you met with Henry James’s podcast right after the comment had popped up on Reddit, but I read over those transcripts, and it never mentions the comment.”

“I think I did the interview, man, I don’t know, a week, maybe more after the comment on the subreddit, and I doubt Henry knew about it. Maybe a month later, I received an email, and I swore it was going to ask me for another interview just about the comment, but no, it was just telling me he didn’t have enough evidence for a full episode and that he would be put it on his Patron. I shrugged it off, wasn’t too aware how much popularity in the comment had gained.”

“Now, Nick, let me ask the question we all have been wondering since the comment came to light a year ago. Was that you?”

“Yes.” The words come on as music plays, and a voiceover goes more into detail about the comment before returning to the interview, but the unedited interview continues. “I have friends and something of a community that I connect with on Reddit. The whole Stephanie Marsland case was never fully connected to me, and I get where it is now, I realized that from that subreddit alone, but at the time she had shown up and was dead. One of my friends, I only really know him on Discord, Reddit, and Xbox, but he was the one that brought it to my attention. At one point our school photos were posted, and he was like ‘Man, I think this is you, it’s your name, and looks just like you. You never told me you killed a girl.’ At that point, I was just a freshman in college, on my own for the first time, and there was my picture in connection with Stephanie. I just created an account and deleted it, and I get how that would look, but I really didn’t want my account to be covered in Stephanie Marsland post from then on. What I wrote was true, I got a call from Lincoln a few weeks after and he didn’t even need to ask me if I wrote it, he was just like ‘Man hope to Christ Chief Goodwin doesn’t see that.’”

“You said that he never made you sign anything, what did he say to get Lincoln react like that?”

“‘You boys keep your goddamn mouth shut if you don’t want to end up in a juvenile detention center, the girl was basically raped, and drowned, that shit will never scrub off your name.’ But she wasn’t, yeah, the whole bra thing is weird, like she was never touched other than removing the bra? That’s trophy shit you read about in serial killers, but, I don’t know, we were one of the last people to see her alive, so yeah, we stayed quiet.”

“The bra, they found it though.”

“They found a bra, yes, but that was a year later, tucked in a goddamn maple tree.”

The case was never exactly cold, the police department of Harpy would claim they were just waiting through the rest of the evidence, but in the end, everyone knew how it would end. It would be an accidental drowning, all the strangeness surrounding the rest would be explained simply as; she had a panic attack and laid down and rolled, the missing bra might be that she felt constricted and removed it, Patrick and Justin would be cleared, and Stephanie Marsland would be forgotten.

Until the end of March 2020.

Couple Dean Oster and Patty Hearst would walk over their property on the outskirts of Harpy, a 3-archer land that backed into woods, when Patty spotted something sticking out of a tree. She would tell the newspaper that she thought nothing of it at first, bird would bring strange things into those trees, but then as they got closer, she said she cried. “It was a bra strap from the back. Dean saw it and goes ‘what is that?’ but there I was sobbing. It’s not like we didn’t find clothing on our property before, teen would sneak there to have sex, but it wasn’t the fact it was a bra, but it was black with these purple hearts, almost a year to the day they found the little girl dead.”

The evidence description of the bra is as fallows;

Agency: Harpy PD

Case Number: 09-0747

Item Number: 1

Date/Time: 03/10/2020, 1407

Description and/or Location: The bra, in size 36C, is black in color with purple hearts measuring approximately 2/3rds of an inch adorning the straps and cups. The fabric is covered in debris from the maple tree where it was discovered, but is otherwise in a clean condition. It must have been placed there within a day or two since no rainwater had soaked into the padding.

The information was not released to the public immediately. Fiona and Dave Marsland, along with Jacklyn Pappas, were shown it, but none of them could definitively confirm or deny if it belonged to Stephanie. Fiona would tell the police that she didn’t think so, Stephanie was more into solid colors, while Jacklyn would say maybe because she could remember purple, but both agreed on one thing. While the cup size was correct, the strap size was not. Fiona had brought samples of her bras, all reading 34C.

One size off. When asked if she would buy the bra because she liked it, but could not find her size, so she bought the size up? Fiona would firmly say no, and when prompted on why, because she only liked solid colors.

It was true, in photos presented, or videos, or any sort of media that would show Stephanie, she was always in a solid color shirt. From the age she would have dressed herself, a photo album marked Stephanie through the years, one could guess around seven, she would be in a solid color shirt, and jeans, or solid color leggings. Even her jackets and sweaters were all solid colors. Not even a brand, just one color.

In the photos that would be posted to her timeline, or she would be tagged in following her death would show her smiling with others, or doing her volunteer work, or playing the piano, all in solid colors, all but one photo.

It went unnoticed, until one Tumblr thread uncovered one photo that, until then, had gone unnoticed. The post emerged almost two years after the death.

anyone else notice that they keep talking about stephanie only wore solid colors but what about this photo?

The photo in question had three faces blurred as two of the people sat on steps outside of what looked to be a school, the other, alongside Stephanie, stood almost out of frame, but smiling at who took the photo, her shirt one of pink with flowers, a heart blooming out of the bundle. An altered picture emerged those who sat on the steps were Jacklyn Pappas, a guy she had seen and the original poster of the photo, Dale Hoffman, Stephanie, and next to her, almost completely cut off, but still obviously looking at her, was Justin Goodwin.

Justin Goodwin would be found converted to Catholicism right out of school, and in college majoring in philosophy, preparing himself to someday gain priesthood out in Rhode Island.

“Stephanie Marshland?” He had been shocked by the name as he agreed to sit down with amateur documentarian Rodger Dwyer. “That happened, my, what four years ago at this point? The case has been closed.”

“You are not aware of the popularity the story had gained on the internet over the last few years?”

“No, my online presence was never consistent in high school, and since I graduated, I have been completely off.” He would take this moment to look down at his hands, folded in front of him, before picking up his head to look just off camera where Rodger would be sitting. “I’m glad that Stephanie’s story is being told, I have prayed for her since her death, I pray for her safety as she ascended to God’s embrace.”

“Since the closure of her case, there has a few things that have been brought up in connection with her. Of course, you were a junior when the missing article of clothing was found, but are you aware of the controversy behind it?”

He would delicately shake his head. “Yes, I remember a bra was found, but I do also recall it was not hers.”

“There was not enough evidence to conclude if it was hers or not, but that’s not it. It had hearts on it. Everyone, including her mother, said she would wear soiled colors.”

“I know nothing about that.”

“But when posting photos for her birthday, someone posted this one.” Rodger would hold out a photo to Justin, whose eyebrows would come together, then relax.

“They think there was a relationship between Stephanie and I.” How he said it was not a question. “I hate to disappoint, but there was nothing between me and the girl. This photo was taken during a class project. If I remember correctly, we were heading to my house to work on it, and I was unaware I was being photographed.”

“But do you see how it implicates you? You are looking right at her.”

“I was not, I can see how you would think that, but I was looking at who was just off camera, the real person I was in a relationship with. I believe I have an uncropped version of this, or at least one taken concurrently.”

Rodger allowed Justin to leave, and within 20 minutes, he returned, this time carrying a photo album. As expected, another photo in it appeared nearly identical to the one posted, but with noticeable differences. Stephine stood a few steps above, a shy smile on her lips as she gazed at the photo taker. Dale affectionately kissed Jacklyn’s cheek, while Justin grinned as if he were laughing. However, the photo posted only displayed Nicolas Banter, as it had been cut off.

“After Stephanie left with Patrick that day, Nick and I went back to his place, his ring camera caught us 15 minutes before she would be found dead, and his mother was with us until I left an hour after.”

“What happened between you and Nick?”

“The same reason I left Mormonism, why I left Colorado. There was a force greater than me, greater than my relationship, greater than the world I had known and loved. If it weren’t for Patrick, I think that force would have consumed me, but after an exposure to my relationship with Nick, the novelty wore off for him, and the year we had spent together meant nothing. God came to me one night in a dream, and I saw the light there, I saw my path, it led me here. I wish it was different that day, if Patrick had exposed us sooner, maybe, maybe I wouldn’t hold the vengeful hate my father distilled in me, and I would have forgiven. Stephine may have lived.”

“What happened to Patrick?”

Patrick Hawkins. Grew up in Utah, until his father gained a promotion, moving his family to Colorado. He was the only child of the couple, but the youngest of his father who had been married once before, two children from that relationship, the younger of the two being over 10 years older than Patrick.

By the time he was about to finish his junior year of high school, concerning online comments surfaced about how he ‘wished I could take a semi-automatic to those fuckers’ getting him expelled. Little is known about what exactly happened to Patrick, questioning from the police made its rounds, but even those investigating could not find much after he left Harpy High.

At the time of Stephanie’s death, a video from in the interrogation room surfaced, Patrick sitting there with his father as the cops talked to the boy. “Patrick, you were the last one to see her alive, you left with her, no one else can tell where you were from the time she died to the time that you arrived home two hours after she had died.”

Patrick, who had his hood up, did not move. If he speaks, no mic can pick him up.

This guy did it, open and shut, why are we even fighting it? The comment with the most likes on the video would read.

Then, a little over a year later, Patrick once more sat in the same room, same cop, but this time with his mother, who would be recorded saying; “He’s a 17-year-old boy, he made a comment, he doesn’t even own a gun. Why are we here? Those kids pick on him, those kids hurt him, kick him, they put bugs in his lunch!”

“Ma’am.”

“No, do not ma’am me!”

“Mom.” Patrick would be heard saying. “I made a mistake, I’m aware of that. I had a bad day, and I shouldn’t have said anything.”

“You’re online, how did you have a bad day?”

“There’s there snapchat group chat that leaked, some people who hate me are in it. They said… they said I take it in the ass. I was defending myself, I posted publicly that it’s Justin Goodwin that takes it up the ass by Nick Banter, and it got back to Goodwin. I walk to through the graveyard when I feel too cooped up, and two days ago I was jumped by Justin. He kicked the shit out of me. I got home, and I felt so shitty, I lost it.”

From the two tapes, something became clear to Penny Upton, a popular true crime blogger, dove deeper into the connection between Patrick Hawkins and Stephanie Marsland.

The Surreal Case of Stephanie Marsland

‘Part 13

As those who have been meticulously following my investigation into the case of Stephanie Marsland may know from part 1, I had said Patrick was the one who did it, and though through the last four posts has been Patrick focused, I can say for sure today I have evidence to prove myself wrong. Patrick was the last one to see her alive, that we are aware of, yes, and where Patrick ended up going to jail for an unrelated incident, he did not kill Stephanie. Last week, I carefully reviewed two interrogation tapes numerous times as I prepared to write this post, yet something felt amiss. Why did he not get arrested the first time? The time he refused to answer?

The digging process was proving to be extremely difficult, but thanks to my favorite sleuth, NotAnotherCrimePost, she had provided me with an actual alibi for Patrick, one that I revisited the second video to realize he did not do it.

A house next to the graveyard has a nest camera pointed right at the entrance, that day, Patrick walked through the gate in the last 10 minutes of Stephanie’s life and did not leave until over and hour later. Stephanie herself stepping into view, alive and well, before stepping out as soon as Patrick was out of sight.

The fence around the graveyard is 10 feet high, with no other way in or out. The alibi was airtight. Patrick Hawkins did not kill Stephanie, and with no other evidence, I would have to definitively close this case in the manner that all of you know I hate the most, but I am firmly labeling it a freak accident.’

A freak accident. Stephanie Marsland died by accident, every story would report so, the Harpy PD would close the case as accidental. With the popularity the case would gain over the course of two years, it would never come close to the truth, either coming to the same conclusion, or burning out, or simply losing interest.

The closest to the truth that ever came to light, was one comment on a post that would get three likes, but never picked up by any of the investigators, a comment that one person would write, would post, and would forget about, never perusing how close they would be to asking the first right question to this case.

Who took the photo?

Back in the two photos, where Stephanie would intentionally dress in an unusual manner for herself, clearly smiling at the person who took the photo.

Each one would say it, each interview would give off the answer, but the questions were not being asked, and by the end of 2023, the case of Stephanie Marsland was officially no longer discussed, and the public would move on to newer cases, more interesting ones, ones that they would know the questions for. As for Stephanie, she was still dead, she still would be dead, and the truth would decay away with her.

The truth would be in a notebook, one that the only person who knew what happened that day would write in but would burn simultaneously before the bra would be discovered. A notebook that would be a confession that would disappear before a single person could read it.

The passage wrote out longhand, in a red pen, read as follows; She was beautiful, young, pure. She came to me one night needing help, and I wanted to help. I thought telling her she was beautiful would have her turn away from me, but she didn’t. The more often we spent together, the more she bloomed, her personality showed through her clothing, and the way she would smile more freely, especially for me. I knew of her shyness, but my god, if you could see how composed she was in private, you’d understand why I loved her.

I could not understand why she defended Patrick, why she went against Justin, but it irritated me. She looked at me; she knew I was there, and still walked away with him. Yes, I would be the first to admit I was jealous, she would leave with him, but no, she walked him to the graveyard; I doubted they spoke as they walked there. I stayed back, watching, making sure that freak did nothing to her, but before he went in he thanked her, that was it, then she started away when she spotted me.

The argument started, and I didn’t mean to get so angry at her, but I could not understand why she would defy me like that. She tried so damn hard to tell me I had nothing to envy, but the hell, I did. My anger, it gave her that panic attack, and she was breathing so hard that, I don’t know; she passed out. I held on to her, holding her up, unsure what to do. I loved her, but she made her choice to go with Patrick, and I would not let Justin get humiliated by him. She wasn’t supposed to die; I brought her over to Silly Billy in thoughts that she would wake up as soon as her face hit the water. Laying her down on her side, I removed the bra, and rolled her until she was face down into the water. The plan was to plant the bra on Patrick, so I went back towards the graveyard to wait for him. She wouldn’t name me, she was smarter than that to do it, she would just say she didn’t know or remember, but as I waited, that kid began to scream, and when I got back to where I had left her, she was dead.

The rest would be written on another date in a blue pen.

I knew I should have come forward sooner, but shit, this is murder. I still have the damn bra, but I think Justin suspects me, my plan was to turn myself in, but tonight I think I will have myself a fire.

The composer reread over his confession before tossing it into the fire in front of him, watching the pages get eaten away by the flames. Then, from his pocket, he pulled out her bra, his finger stroking over the fabric, more hesitant to throw it in.

“Dad?” Justin’s voice caused the composer to jump before looking back at his son, the bra shoved back into his pocket. “Are you okay?”

“Yes, yeah, I think, I think I’m going to go for a walk.” Chief Goodwin walked towards the front door.

“It’s nearly midnight.”

“Put the fire out before you go to bed.” He refused to look back at his son, already suspecting his sexual orientation, already the greater force that would drive Justin away.

“Dad? What’s going on?”

“One day, you’ll understand. Goodnight, son.” He stepped out of the house, setting his course into those woods. 

[lonesome-witching]

Forever Starts Now

I was asked to do a sequel to Forever With You this time including the wedding. So here it is. Thank you for the prompt. It was lovely to write.

It does feel weird to not advertise myself in this bit. But prompts reopen this Friday, May 26th. Until then you can always check out my previous prompts or my ao3.

“I will admit, I had pictured your wedding differently.” 

Nancy looked up from where she was pulling at her white gown. It probably shouldn’t have been white. 

“Please mom, not this again.” She sighed as her eyes locked with her mother’s. 

“No, no. I’m not complaining.” Karen stepped further into the room. “You look good. Happy.” 

Nancy forced out a laugh. “Shocking because I feel like I’m about to have a heart attack.” 

“Second thoughts?” 

“No.” Nancy shook her head. “I want to marry her. I love her. But… God, it feels so… so final. Like once I walk down the aisle there is no going back anymore.” 

“Would that be an issue?” 

Nancy wasn’t entirely sure if her mom was trying to talk her out of this or not. “Not for me. I can’t even believe how lucky I am that she wants to spend her life with me but mom,... What if… She-” She took a breath. “She deserves better than me. I’m such a mess and what if one day she realizes that she doesn’t want to clean up after me anymore. I have all this trauma that follows me wherever I go and I keep dragging her into it. Just the other day I kept her up till 5 am, just because I was afraid to go to sleep. And she does it. She does whatever I need her to do every single time but someday she might get tired of it and then… it’ll hurt so much more if I go through with this.” 

“Sweetie.” Karen pulled her daughter into a hug. “How long have you and Robin been together?” 

“7 years.” 

“Exac- 7 years? Nancy! You told me you didn’t start dating until your junior year of college.” Karen exclaimed, pulling back. 

“That might have been a lie. But seriously mom, you didn’t suspect anything? Me and Robin were roommates.” 

“Well, 7 years then. In that time has Robin ever made any move to leave you?” 

Nancy considered the question seriously. She went over every single fight they had had. How they had argued when Robin forgot to do the dishes right after moving into their small Boston apartment together. How Nancy had lashed out when they went to a gay bar and Robin accidentally flirted with another girl several years ago. How Robin had shouted at her when Nancy pulled up her walls or gave her the silent treatment. 

But Robin had secretly done the dishes while Nancy went to the supermarket. And Robin had held her hands and assured her that she was just trying to be nice and that there was no one she could ever love like she loved Nancy. And Robin might have shouted at her but her words had always been kind and she’d spent her nights holding Nancy’s crying form. She had never run out, slammed the door behind her, went to sleep in the middle of an argument. Things that couldn’t be said about Nancy herself who preferred to run before she’d get hurt. 

“She never has.” Nancy admitted, almost ashamed of giving the idea any thought at all.

“Instead she asked you to marry her. She didn’t do that on a whim. She waited 7 years to be sure that this was the best for both of you. She knows what she’s in for and she wants to be with you every day of her life. I might not know everything about your relationship but I do know that Robin isn’t the type to run out when it gets difficult.”

“Nancy! Your wedding is starting in T minus 2 minutes. Please tell me you are ready?” Dustin yelled from the hallway. 

“Time to go.” Karen smiled at her daughter as she pulled her out of the dressing room. 

The first thing Nancy noticed wasn’t the bright bouquets of flowers her mom had picked out, despite what she had said when they were preparing the place. The first thing she noticed was Robin’s bright smile, lighting up the room. That same smile she was greeted with when she came home after a long day of fighting the patriarchy. It was an anchor, keeping her stable. It always made it easy to take the next step. If she could have she’d run to Robin, fall into her arms. She didn’t though. She stayed in check. Noticing how Steve leaned toward his best friend to whisper something in her ear that somehow made Robin smile even brighter. Nancy would ask about it later. Later when they’d be sharing their bridal suit that her own parents had insisted they’d take. 

She stopped walking when she reached Robin. “You look beautiful.” She whispered the second Nancy was in earshot. 

Just like the very first time Robin had said those words, Nancy blushed a soft shade of pink. 

“Today we are joined together to unite these two beautiful women into their holy matrimony.” Murray began his speech. Robin was snickering beside her. “Please tell me you have prepared your own vows.” 

“We have.” Nancy nodded with a smile. 

He motioned for them to start. Nancy could feel her hands starting to sweat. She could only imagine how nervous Robin must be. But when she looked up, Robin seemed as calm as ever, nodding in understanding and clearing her throat. 

“Hello, Nance.” Robin started. 

“Hi.” Nancy replied automatically. 

“Throughout these past few years you’ve changed my life. I remember being 17 and feeling like my whole life was one big error, feeling like I’d never truly be happy. And then you waltzed into my life, smooth as ever, staring me down as if I had just broken into your home and you were getting ready to shoot me. And I instantly fell in love. All it took was one look, one ‘who are you?’” Robin imitated Nancy’s voice as best she could, which wasn’t very well. “And I was hooked. So hooked I was frightened to talk to you for like a year. But then we became friends and I found an understanding in you that wasn’t just unexpected but it was so desperately needed. Since then a lot has changed. Somehow I have gotten you to fall in love with me. It must be the incessant rambling, I’m sure.”

Nancy laughed softly. 

“We went to college together. We moved in together. We build a home and we build a life. And Nancy Wheeler, it is better than anything I could have wished for. I love waking up next to you, whether it’s at 10 am, 6 am or 3am. I love holding you through our shared nights. I love spending hours debating which movie to watch just for you to fall asleep during the opening credits. I love when you complain about work almost as much as when you talk about it with pride. I love reading the first drafts of your articles. I love spending my time with you. And frankly, I can’t wait to keep doing it. I can’t wait to wake up next to you every single day of my life. Because most of all Nancy, I love you. And I vow to keep loving you till the day I die.” 

Nancy couldn’t help but blink away the tears that were forming in her eyes. “Is it my turn now?” She asked, her voice barely audible. 

“Yes.” 

“God Robin, I love you.” She breathed. “I can’t-” Her voice faltered. The instant those two words escaped her mouth, Robin’s smile vanished. 

“We don’t have to. Just say the word and we’ll pretend this never happened.” Robin had lowered her voice to a whisper. 

“Robin, I- I do want this.” She swallowed the lump in her throat, staring into those kind blue eyes that had never been more unsure. “This world isn’t kind to people like us. It isn’t kind to women in general. But Robin, when I get home and see your smile I don’t care about any of that. You make the rest of the world disappear and there is nothing I want more than to stand here with you today and declare how much I love you because Robin, my heart aches when I’m away from you and I’m convinced it shouldn’t continue doing that after being together for this long. I wish the world was different. I wish we could sign that stupid document that would bind us together legally. I wish I could take you to the office Christmas parties instead of having to pretend I’m still waiting for the right man. But you know what, fuck all of that. What we have is between us. And that’s all it has to be. And I vow to cherish every moment we get to spend together. And when one day in the near or far future the world eases up on us like you so believe, I vow to marry you again.” 

“Murray?” Robin said without looking away from Nancy. “Please tell me this is the part where I get to kiss the bride. Because I don’t know how long I can contain myself.” 

“No, no. First it’s the rings. Robin- Wait what is your middle name?” 

“No middle names.” Nancy and Robin replied in unison. 

“Okay. Robin Buckley, do you take Nancy Wheeler as your wife?” Murray asked.

“I do.” She said as Nancy slid a thin gold band around her left ring finger. 

“And do you, Nancy Wheeler, take Robin Buckley as your wife?” 

“I do.” Robin pushed the ring on Nancy’s finger with a soft sigh.

“Then by the power invested in me by your good faith, I pronounce you wife and wife. You may kiss the bride.” 

Robin closed the gap between them, pressing her lips against Nancy’s.

[trojanteapot]

Obligatory Infinity Train Fanfic Plug I Guess

I have some new followers since I posted about my Infinity Train cosplay process so I guess now's a good time to plug my boring overly-long fanfics that are mostly sad and stuff.

SHIPPING FICS

RYMIN:

Ain't No Cure For Love: Ryan and Min-Gi perform their first gig in Montreal. Min-Gi wants to confess his feelings. (First fic I ever wrote probably a bit rough now and the only fic without any sort of theme besides "love wins" i guess) It Can't Be Helped: Takes place in the mid-2000s when Ryan and Min-Gi's band have become quite successful and are touring East Asia. Ryan has some cultural identity issues to overcome at the age of like, 40-something. (This one is much much better than the first Rymin fic, and is about more than just shipping. I did a ton of research into Japanese-Canadians and Korean-Canadians for it as well! Shout-out to my partner for his huge role in shaping this fic as he is Japanese-Canadian himself.)

GRIMON:

Raison d'Etre (PART 1) (PART 2): Post-Canon AU where Simon survives the Train. Grace and Simon spend about 4 years apart from each other living their own lives on Earth, but one day Grace shows up randomly in Quebec to pay Simon a visit. Traumatic wounds get reopened, things get emotional, philosophical, maybe even a little... sociopolitical? Also interspersed between Grace and Simon's little dates are flashbacks to the Train that explain exactly how Simon managed to leave the Train in this AU.

I separated it into two halves because the second half contains smut. However, the second half kind of needs to be read for there to be a complete story. The smut is entirely skippable and doesn't contribute to the overarching plot so I do encourage you to read both halves.

(Also of note is that this takes place not in the "present" but in the past (2018), because I am An Old Person(TM) and so I made Grace and Simon millennials. And I also didn't want to write about the pandemic. It's not that noticeable and you can ignore that timeline fuckery if you want.)

True Love Waits: (VERY VERY CURSED) Sort of not a shipping fic? But Grace gets pregnant here and we all know who the father is! So Grace needs to leave the Train before the baby is born. Canon complacent so Simon is dead. (TW: other than pregnancy there's also thoughts of self-harm and mentions of abortion)

Leave It In My Dreams: Grace's sad nightmare in Alma Mater but from Simon's perspective.

Shame On You, Blue-Eyed Fox: Grace lets her guard down and harassed by a rookie cop. Simon finally makes himself useful for once in his entire life. (TW: real world racism obviously.)

GENERAL FICS

Alma Mater: Post-Canon. Tulip starts college, is very typically Tulip about it, but she befriends an older student named Grace Monroe who helps her through it. However, Tulip comes to learn that she and Grace have more in common than they realized at first. Also Jesse and Lake get thrown into the mix and drama ensues. (Mostly canon complacent except for 1. time period, and 2. Grace is from California, not DC, but her parents work in DC.)

Initial State: A side story to Raison d'Etre. After Simon realizes he's wrong he works with the Cat to bring his number down and leave the Train. But this isn't as easy as he thought especially when he meets a denizen he's recently met before, but never expected to meet again (becausehekilledherlol).

Semi-Automatic Lonely Boy: Prequel to Raison d'Etre. Just a series of vignettes of Simon's life after returning to Earth. (TW: depictions of self-harm) Other than It Can't Be Helped, this is the other fanfic that I am the most proud of so far. Literally went and relearned French to write some of the dialogue in this.

I'll Get It Right Sometime (ongoing): Four years after Book 3, Hazel and Amelia have a pretty decent life on the Train. But this peace is interrupted when Hazel meets a passenger and decides to help him through the Train. How can Amelia keep Hazel safe? Who is this passenger anyway? Why is the Cat so interested in interfering? Why is Simon somehow involved?! Why is JESSE somehow involved?!?!??! (Note: I think Hazel ages normally, so she's 10 years old in this one.) This is also my most ambitious fanfic yet. I have an Entire Homestuck Reference chapter, a Reddit chapter, and I plan to have several Discord chapters.