#Very angsty fic

[acowardinmordor]

I only had Steve repeating his senior year because I wanted the kids to know Eddie already, but thinking about it? This messes Steve up so so much more. He obviously met Robin, who asked a few pointed questions that made him go oh. about his life and his identity.

He’s back for another year in high school because of post concussion symptoms. His parents are probably pissed. He’s trying to rebuild his own sense of self without defining it with popularity, but he’s stuck in the place where he was the most popular before. And is now one of those loser super seniors.

Enter Eddie, who had been on Steve’s radar as a vague awareness of maybe-attraction in previous years. And the guy is protecting his kids. Encouraging them. He’s also as close to Out as he can be in Hawkins. He knows who he is. He’s unapologetic and doesn’t let trends define him. He’s who he wants to be. Of course there’s hearteyes.

But Steve isn’t comfortable with himself enough to talk to him directly. Hence the letters.

And maybe at first he wasn’t even sure that Eddie liked getting them. Or was even reading them. Probably wrote about how he was anonymous because he didn’t think Eddie would actually like him if he knew. It’s been a theme from the start, and it was probably the first thing that Eddie talked about when he could finally write back.

Eddie totally said that anyone who wrote letters like that, who was that kind and clever and generous and funny, would always be someone Eddie liked. Loved. That it wouldn’t matter if X was ugly, that it wouldn’t even matter if X was a girl. That Eddie would still want to know them.

And that’s when you have those insults. When Steve was finally finally brave enough to be around Eddie. To come to Hellfire. Because Eddie had promised in the letters to teach X how to play, that he’d be so so patient because X told him that he probably wasn’t smart enough to play.

Eddie has to betray everything he’s said.

And it is specifically because Steve Harrington is anathema to Eddie.

Proof that who Steve wants to be, tries to be, is wanted, but who he is in real life, not on paper, isn’t good enough.

(Yes, Robin had to be hugged into submission to keep her from slashing Eddie’s tires)

But, tag writer whose user name I can’t recall, Steve didn’t write his last letter in the car. He dropped off the boys, went home, and wrote something longer at first. He tried to find a way to explain to Eddie that he’s trying. That he wants to be a better person who Eddie would be happy to discover is X. He writes it, and he doesn’t believe that it will ever happen. That he can ever be better.

Anyway, Steve totally gets Vecna’d in this AU, and Eddie is one of the focal points.

[snail-day]

I used to think Satoru wouldn’t know how to cook. How could he? He was raised in a compound where even the rice balls were likely made by someone else’s hands, perfectly shaped, seasoned with the finest ingredients, and served like nothing. I imagined meals appeared without effort, crafted by chefs who never missed a beat. There was no reason for him to learn.

His life wasn’t about softness or comfort. It was about power. About being the strongest. Satoru had more important things to do. He had to train. Had to fight. The strongest doesn’t need to know how to make soup from scratch on chilly evenings. The strongest doesn’t need to learn how to hold a knife unless it's for preparing for an attack. The strongest doesn’t need to cry in front of a cutting board blaming the onions, but really it's because times are hard.

But that all stopped mattering the moment he met you.

There’s something about food that speaks when words fail. A comfort dish that holds warmth. Memory. Grief. Love. In a sense the act of a meal binds people together and pulls the past into the present, bite by aching bite. And Satoru, who has never had to hold anything gently, tries to learn that kind of language - for you.

He doesn’t tell you. Never will. Because this isn’t about proving something. It’s about healing something in you he knows he didn’t break but desperately wants to mend.

Maybe your favorite dish belonged to someone who isn’t here anymore. Someone who once placed a bowl in front of you with hands that trembled from age or care, someone who kissed your forehead and called you theirs while the world outside softened for just a little while. Maybe it belonged to someone you can’t call anymore. Or someone you still do - only now their voice crackles through time zones and static. Maybe that dish is the last thing tethering you to a love that once felt like home.

While Satoru knows that person might have meant the world to you. A part of your heart. Made you into the you that you are today. He can never be them, but he can appreciate that they created you for him. And in thanks, he learns to prepare that dish for you. Learning slowly, quietly.

Burning things. Cutting things. His hands - so precise in battle - fumble over the peeling skin from garlic. Calling strangers at inappropriate hours. Asks too many questions, the occasional broken sentences the awkward laughter here and there. Visits the same corner shop every day until the cook raises a brow and just hands him the usual. Satoru takes notes. Studies flavors like he once studied enemies. Not to conquer them but to understand them.

All for this. For you.

You come home, tired and quiet. Setting down your bag, your keys, your day. And when he looks up from the kitchen, his smile is softer than usual. “Welcome home.”

Then you smell it.

Your heart catches before your breath does. You don’t know what he’s done - not fully. You don’t see the failed attempts hidden beneath trash bags he took out hours before. You don’t see the sticky notes taped along the cabinets, the spice stains on his sleeves, the frustration that creased his brow for days.

You just see him. Waiting in front of a bowl of your favorite food, crafted just for you. When you taste it. When that familiar warmth floods your mouth and memory knocks loose in your chest. Your eyes sting before you can stop them.

Satoru doesn’t say anything. He just watches. That familiar smile on his lips. Baby-blue eyes softening as they trace the curve of your expression, as you take another bite - like you’re chasing someone he doesn’t know, but couldn’t be more grateful for.

He holds his breath because while he can’t bring that special person or place back. While he knows you may not be able to see them every day. The least he can do is give you this:

Your favorite meal, made with love.

[justiceiscalling]

i lied, put your clothes back on. we're going to talk about the infantilization of tim drake and how the DC fandoms 'fanon' has ruined peoples perception of the actual character. that man is a menace. he is not scared of jason todd, he think's he's better than jason. like, jason todd was beating the shit out of him and tim still told him that he was the better robin. he was not scared shitless, he was planning his next plan of attack.

tim probably jokes about rematches all the time, jason too. jason and tim have beef, but like they're still brothers, they still care for each other. it's just that next wednesday tim's going to the outlaws current hideout, dressed in a party city red hood suit, and beating the shit out of him because he's planned this shit for years and now is when jason will least expect it. he's not trying to kill him but a few broken bones wouldn't hurt, and then he's going to take some of jasons blood and write 'tim drake was here' just to spice things up.

tim drake is a fucking menace to society and he would never let anyone forget that.

[thescrapwitch]

“It's not a code,” said Lindir. He clutched the stones tight in his hands. “They’re mine, not the orcs. I hid them inside my robes so that no one would take them away. They’re my - my family.”

“Family?” repeated Lord Maedhros.

Lindir laid the stones out, taking comfort in the pattern. “Like this,” he said. “It always has to be like this. No - no you’re not looking at it the right way.” He tugged at Lord Maedhros’ metal hand so that they stood shoulder to shoulder. “See? Now they’re in the right order.”

“What does it mean?”

Could he explain? It became so muddled in his head that putting it to words felt impossible. Lindir would try. Maybe, if he did a good enough job, they would let him keep his stones and not hurt him. He was so tired of being hurt.

“This one goes first,” he said, pointing to the red pebble, “because it's the biggest. The oldest. Then - ” he moved past the gap to point at the next one “ - this one, which is white like the - like the moon. Then this one with its dark spot in the centre and then this one with the little iron flakes that make it shine and these two, which are stuck together. The littlest that are two-in-one must always go last. That’s important. They can’t be put in any other order.”

“And here?” There was an odd note in Lord Maedhros’ voice. A slight waver of pain beneath the gentle calm. “You’ve left a space between the first two stones. What goes between them?”

“There has to be a space.” Lindir twisted his hands. The light inside his head hurt, something crooked pressing down down down against it, threatening to break him all over again. “There has to be. Always. I - I don’t know - I lost - something else goes there. I lost it. It flew away. But I have to leave a space.” He started to shake. “Please don’t take them. They’re my family. I have to protect them. Please, please, don’t take them away.”

“I won’t,” said Lord Maedhros. The odd note had grown stronger. Lindir glanced up to see that the towering Fëanorian leader had turned his face away, the bright light making it look like something wet glittered on his face. “I promise you, Laurë. No one will ever separate you from your family again.”

[plagalkey]

my lovely talented friend wrote an F1 AU fic focused on oikage's time at red bull racing!!!

[swhhdr-wthhr]

i know i haven't uploaded a new chapter for this fic in over half a year... and i probably won't any time soon... but here's some lore explained w/ virgil

[hoe4hotchner]

could i request a blurb abt asking hotch for a hug? ty! 🥺🤍

A/N: I don't know how this turned so angsty, but It's also kind of cute. Enjoy 😘.

Link to my inbox

The rain tapped lightly against the window, a soothing rhythm that usually brought you peace, but today it only mirrored the overwhelming turmoil in your head. Curled up in his armchair, you watched as the droplets raced down the glass, eyes unfocused and misty with tears. You had been sitting there for hours, the gray afternoon slowly melting into evening, lost in thoughts that weighed too heavily on your chest. A soft sob escaped your lips as you drew your knees closer to your chest, hoping the tight embrace would calm you down.

The familiar sound of the front door opening echoed through the apartment, followed by the soft rustle of keys being placed on the table. You heard Aaron's footsteps, steady and sure, as he made his way through the hallway. He paused when he saw you, sensing the quiet that was too thick to be peaceful.

“Hey,” he greeted softly, rubbing his eye to rid himself of the lingering tiredness. But you didn’t respond, didn’t move, eyes still trained on the rain-soaked world outside. He frowned, worry etching into his features as he stepped closer. “What’s wrong?”

You swallowed hard, your throat tightening as the words clawed their way further away from you throat. Slowly, you turned your head to face him, letting him see the tear-streaked face you had hidden away all day. “Can I… can I have a hug?” you whispered, your voice trembling.

Aaron's expression softened instantly, his heart breaking a little at the sight of you so vulnerable. Without a word, he knelt down in front of you, gently pulling you out of the chair and into his arms. He held you close, wrapping his strong arms around you as if he could shield you from the world. You buried your face in his chest, breathing in the comforting scent of him, feeling the warmth of his embrace seep into your bones.

“I’ve got you,” he murmured against your hair, one hand rubbing soothing circles on your back while the other cradled your head.

You clung to him, feeling the tightness in your chest slowly start to ease as he held you tighter, his presence a solid anchor grounding you. The world outside might have been cold and gray, but here, in his arms, you found a warmth that made everything just a little more bearable.

Consider linking or reblogging if you enjoy my work.... I will kiss you on the forehead as a thanks ;)

[keeryd]

Michelangelo ruins everything he touches, just like always. This time on purpose. It doesn’t matter… They aren’t coming back.

—Chapter 8: Walls Built Up, You Shut Down. YOU DON’T KNOW WHAT LOVE MEANS (and it’s killing me) by Writing_In_Denial (link added)

Have I talked enough of this fic? I fucking LOVE it, and chapter 8 is so far my favorite chapter from the series, of course I had to make some art for it. Seriously, if u haven’t read it, you’re missing out.

[distort-opia]

Would batman have keep jokers ashes in the arkham games ?

...Why would you ask me something so devastating.

You're sending my mind places, because Joker has no known name on record or next of kin, so where would his ashes go-- in any of the stories in which he died, like Arkham City, or Injustice: Gods Among Us, or Perp Walk? Would they just stay there in the funeral home unclaimed until enough time passed legally for someone there to dispose of them? Would Harley try to get them? Or would Gordon and everyone else try to dispose of the ashes as quickly as possible, due to Joker's status? I think it might be the latter; Joker's been likened to a cult leader, so there'd definitely be people (who both hate him or worship him) interested in stealing his remains.

But this is also a perfectly good excuse for Bruce to take the ashes. Even though in the Arkham City comic he says he doesn't need trophies from Joker anymore, I still see him doing this, while telling himself it's for maintaing the peace in Gotham or whatever. And he'd try to dispose of them but... he's notoriously unable to let go, isn't he? So long story short, yes, I do think Bruce would keep Joker's ashes :)

[fatuismooches]

Now I realized we're always comforting the segments since the time of their life is depressing, but we never comfort Prime himself. The one who experienced everything. Reading the Zeta fic honestly broke me, I just want to go up to Prime and hug him and pamper him and everything.

The segments are from one point in Dottore's life. One phase. They don't usually stray from the personality or actions they've had during that time. Perhaps that's why you found it easier to comfort them, as they never left that state, and you could read them better. But Prime, he is a culmination of all of them, he is them and yet he is not at the same time. He has a bit of all of them ingrained in him and yet he's not the same as them.

The more you get to know about the segments, the more you indirectly get to know about Prime as well. On the very rare occasions you get to see the segments being vulnerable, your heart aches not only for them but for Prime as well. At least the segments now have you for comfort and reassurance, but who did Dottore have back then? He had no one, only faced with the reality of your sleeping body daily. When the realization hits you, it just hurts you... really bad. Prime never shows any weakness - he's always cunning. Intimidating. Manipulative. Around you he was confident. Teasing. Bold. One could never guess how he felt all those years ago. You could have never guessed, and you know him better than anyone.

You don't even know how to bring up the topic, you imagine that even if you try he'll brush it off and change the subject. That was simply the man he was - he'd never admit to such things, at least not without a lot of nudging, (and you meant a lot.) Instead, you settle with making sure that he knows you're here now, and that you're always going to be with him. You randomly hug him throughout the day (even if he does get a bit annoyed at times.) Nuzzling your cheek on the top of his head, into the soft fluff of his hair, arms gently but firmly wrapped around him as he questions your sudden presence, shuffling through paperwork, but you remain silent as your grip tightens.

You don't even care if the position is uncomfortable, you just hold him and hope to transfer your feelings to Dottore somehow. You don't care how weak you are, if you can do something to make him less stressed you'll do it. Cooking his favorites to pampering him in the bath (the lazy way he lays on you while you wash his hair, it's almost as if he's going to crush you) to even organizing his office just the way he likes it without him knowing. You mumble sweet things into his ear while he gives you that look at the almost nauseating cheesiness, you kiss his scars and rub your hands over his calloused areas.

You don't care about anything. You just want to provide some comfort to him. It's the least you can do, after everything you've caused in the last few centuries.

[ourwhisperingtorment]

I was supposed to reblog but my essay got too long. I saw a post saying that Junho could have crawled out of the water on his own because the shot Inho gave him is nonfatal.

The medical student in me is screaming so I decided to make a very nerdy essay.

Junho probably never got to crawl out of the water on his own after being shot. That could be the only reason why he was in a coma that lasted for a year. It’s either he had a concussion or he drowned for too long (more than 5 minutes). Both drowning and concussion (traumatic brain injury) can lead to hypoxia/ anoxia, which means reduced or complete cessation of oxygen in the brain.

The extent of the damage depends on how long oxygen got cut off from the brain and considering Junho was in a coma for a year, the damage was very severe.

But how could he drown if he knows how to swim? There was probably a tide? Or he was too depressed to even try to save himself? I mean did you see his face when he said, “hyung, why?” Bro looked like he lost all emotions. He probably just accepted his fate and didn’t try to fight it.

Extra note: kidney failure can also cause coma! So even if Junho didn’t hit his head nor drown, it could be because of his kidney. Note that all patients who had kidney transplant must take maintenance medications their entire life. I repeat, entire life. I’ve seen a lot of people point this out: we never saw Junho take any medicine in s1 when he is supposed to. That is actually very dangerous since his kidney could—would— fail again. Our kidneys are responsible of eliminating wastes or toxins in our body. Too much accumulated toxins (due to kidney failure) is very harmful to the brain and therefore, stop functioning properly altogether, which will result in a coma.

I didn’t mean for this post to be so long but the medical student in me just acted out again.

[buckevantommy]

i love the trope of buck leaving tommy voicemails and texts when he's angry or drunk or when the pain is too much and he just wants tommy to know this isn't some passing thing that this is a lasting love and he's never getting over him..

and one of the messages at some point in the months after their breakup goes along the lines of:

..i dunno why you didn't believe the way i cared about you was serious.. i wish you'd stuck around long enough to tell me why you were so scared, why you didn't believe in us, who hurt you.. i still love you, and i still hate you for running away, but i forgive you.. i hope you can find a way to forgive yourself.. because you deserve to have a happy ending, tommy.. you deserve to believe that it's possible for you, because it is.. i wanted to give that to you.. i wanted that for both of us..

[steddiehyperfixation]

how to stay with you (steddie ficlet)

written for @steddieangstyaugust day 29: future, and also inspired by this post i saw ages ago

1474 words | rated t | cw: unhappy ending

When Steve and Eddie first got together, they had been young and in love and that’s all that had mattered. At 19 and 20 the realities of the future seemed so far away, so caught up in each other in each present moment that it almost felt like they would never grow up, like time would never pass and they would never have anything to worry about. Conversations of ‘what ifs’ and potential issues were brushed aside, anything that wasn’t an immediate problem dismissed with a kiss and a carefree “we’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.” There was no need for premature concern when surely nothing would ever be so big as to come between them. Because they were it for each other, weren’t they? They were forever, and forever seemed so easy when forever was young.

But the time did pass and they did grow up, and now the bridges they thought they’d never come to are looming before them, fast approaching.

At 25 and 26, they sit at the dinner table in the one-bedroom apartment they’ve lived in for years and Eddie tells Steve about the life-changing phone call he just received. The Hollywood music producer he’s been in sporadic contact with finally wants to finalize a plan and work with Eddie’s band officially, and Eddie is so excited he’s practically vibrating as he rambles to Steve about the album he’ll make and the tours he might go on and how they’re gonna have to start looking for places in LA soon because they have to be local and the producer wants to get started on this by the end of next month. He expects Steve to be excited too, to match his grin and maybe hold hands and bounce around the kitchen with him, but his boyfriend’s expression only falls further and further into a frown with every word Eddie speaks.

“Eddie-” Steve interrupts him, his voice far too serious. “I don’t want to move to LA.”

Eddie’s buzzing energy freezes, stopping short. “What?”

Steve repeats, “I don’t want to move to LA.”

“But-” Eddie frowns. “I was always going to move to LA, that was always my plan. You knew that.”

“Yeah, I-I know. But we always said we’d just cross that bridge when we came to it.”

“Well, we’re coming to it now. So, why don’t you want to move?”

“I don’t want to uproot our life here. And I don’t want to end up having to wait around in a strange city while you’re off on tours all the time.”

“You wouldn’t, you’d come with me.”

Steve shakes his head. “I can’t live like that. And what about when we have kids? That’s no way to-”

“Wait, Steve-” It’s Eddie’s turn to interrupt, all trace of his previous excitement gone, having dropped like a stone into his gut instead. “I don’t want kids. Like, ever.”

Something fractures in Steve’s eyes as he stares at him, almost hurt. “What? Why did you never say anything? You knew- I’ve always wanted kids, Eddie, you’ve always known that.”

“Yeah, I know, I just-” Eddie’s mouth feels too dry and his tongue too heavy as he wets his lips and shrugs guiltily. “I mean, we always said we’d just cr-”

“-cross that bridge when we came to it, yeah,” Steve sighs, a dejected sort of exhale that slouches in his shoulder as if the full weight of this conversation has suddenly settled upon them.

Eddie feels it too, feels them sinking somewhere they can’t come back from. “Is that, uh- is that a dealbreaker for you?”

“Kind of, yeah,” Steve admits, and he looks at Eddie like it devastates him to do so, emotion swimming in his eyes and straining his voice. “Is me not wanting to move to LA a dealbreaker for you?”

Eddie swallows thickly. “Kind of, yeah.”

“Would you ever change your mind?” Steve asks, a last ditch hope. “About kids, or any of it?”

“No,” Eddie says; though he hates to watch the last of the light drain from Steve’s face, he can’t lie to him. “Would you?”

“No,” Steve answers in a barely managed whisper.

Eddie takes a deep breath, and it shakes. His vision blurs. He says, “Then this isn’t going to work, is it?”

Steve stares at him with glassy eyes, like he’s watching Eddie become a ghost right in front of him. His voice breaks as he speaks, “You mean we’re not going to work.”

“Yeah…” Eddie confirms, and it shatters his heart. “I’m so sorry, Stevie.” He reaches for Steve’s hands across the table. “I love you more than anything, I really do, but I won’t give up on my dream, and I can’t ask you to give up on yours either.”

“No you’re right.” Steve breath shudders. His eyes fall to their joined hands and he blinks rapidly, the way he does when he’s trying hard not to cry. He squeezes Eddie’s hands tight, desperate for something to hold on to even as he agrees, “We want different things, incompatible things. I don’t want to hold you back.”

“Exactly…I don’t want to hold you back,” Eddie echoes in barely more than a whisper, afraid if he tries to speak any louder he’ll break into tears.

Steve does break then, a sob escaping from his throat as if it’d clawed its way free, tears spilling from his eyes. Such a cry activates an instinct in Eddie that sends him leaping to his feet and pulling Steve into a hug within seconds.

“I’m so sorry,” he says again. His chest aches and he really wishes this wasn’t happening, hates that he knows that it has to.

“Me too,” Steve manages, head buried in Eddie’s shoulder. There’s no bitterness in it, only heavy acceptance. He knows it too.

They both know there’s no solving this, no compromise they could find that wouldn’t inevitably fester into resentment and regret. Because Steve wants to settle down and Eddie wants to fly - but Eddie isn’t built for the ground, nor is Steve for the sky, and there’s no common place left between them where they could both survive. It’s over.

So they mourn together while they still have each other to take comfort in, clinging tight to what they’re losing, just one last time. Eddie's crying now too, his tears streaming silently down his cheeks in counterbalance to Steve’s sniffly mumbling.

“I don't want to lose you,” Steve mutters. “Are you sure? Are you sure?”

And Eddie cries quietly into the crook of his neck that he doesn't want to lose him either, and he's sorry, so sorry.

When the worst of their sobs subside, they reach the bargaining stage of their grief, and they pull apart just enough to talk properly while still holding onto each other. Eddie swears he'll keep in touch, says he still wants to be a part of Steve's life. Steve makes him promise to send him postcards of all the amazing places he'll go to on tours and to invite him to shows whenever he's nearby. Eddie tells him to invite him to the wedding when - when, he emphasizes as Steve starts to shake his head - Steve falls in love again and finds someone who can give him the life he wants.

At that, Steve sniffles out a laugh, wet and humorless. “That would be cruel,” he says.

“I never said I’d actually show up,” Eddie clarifies, giving an equally complicated smile and bringing a hand up to cup his cheek. “I just want to know. I want to know that you're happy, even if it can't be with me.”

Steve closes his eyes - another tear or two leaks out - and turns his face into Eddie's hand. In a whisper, he agrees, “Okay.”

They decide it would be best for Eddie to leave as soon as possible. Since they've already concluded they won't last, there's no reason for them to stay in the same apartment even just one more night. It would only hurt more in the end.

With a sort of dissociated detachment, Eddie packs up his things, separating his life from Steve’s one piece of clothing and decorations at a time. It's all he can do not to start crying again.

As Eddie turns to leave for the last time, Steve grabs his arm, impulsive, desperate, and begs him for one more kiss. So Eddie turns around and indulges him. He tastes the salt of their tears on their lips, clutching at Steve's waist and tangling a hand in his hair as they both kiss each other like they know they never will again. Eddie savors every bitter taste, memorizes every sweet feeling.

And then they’re out of time and Eddie's out the door, his whole future ahead of him and his heart cracked right in half.

[phoenixcatch7]

Loz fandom stop being angsty and give the daydreaming kids on big fun adventures with a cool glowing sword some actual whimsy and joy challenge

[shanklin]

Five years ago, you write a fic and you never post it. You’re stuck. You hate it. Ford is too mean, you keep repeating yourself and nothing makes sense anymore, especially your English.

You decide to take a break from editing. Maybe you’re just too hard on yourself. It’s fine.

You’re a liar.

To escape your fic you change fandoms. You tell yourself  “If I ever obsess over Gravity Falls again, future me will deal with it.”

You pretend you’re not haunted by this fic sitting in your documents every time you hear the song that inspired it all.

Years pass, you make a mistake. Gravity Falls is trending and you open the tag to figure out what’s going on. It’s over. There he is. The sad, gross old man you love so much. Uh oh.

Your past self is laughing at you.

You don't want to post the fic but you have to. It’s the longest thing you’ve ever written.

You make it your New Year's resolution. It's hard, but you decide to push through. You turn on the song you avoided along with your fic and start reading.

For some reason the only part that's remotely coherent is the one single paragraph near the end that establishes the Mystery Shack as sentient. You stare out of the window for a long time.

Does it have anything to do with the actual plot of the story? Hell no. 

But was it extremely important that everyone knows it’s sentient and loves Stan? I GUESS?!

You throw your hands up in the air and give up. Fuck it. We ball.

Chapter 1

[le-chevalier-au-lion]

and if you write bezz/cele, 35 and 46 for them!! <3

bezzetti: 35 (hatred spell/curse/potion) + 46 (confessions during an argument)

It was the spell.

It was the spell, Celestino tells himself as he brushes his teeth, as he unclogs his bathroom sink, as he makes scrambled eggs for breakfast, as he gears up to get on the bike for a weekend that is either going to be stellar or terrible or one after the other.

But he keeps seeing it, like aftershocks after a bad head hit. Marco’s face. The revulsion there. Disgust in his curled lip, in how he angled himself away from Celestino. How he scoffed. How his own teeth clicked together when he realized what he said, the red-hot humiliation that followed.

It’s been years since Celestino felt so thirteen years old, so off place.

“We’re going to the club later,” Pecco says carefully. He probably likes the club more than even Pecco now, so the answer should be yes.

“Alright. I’ll see you tomorrow, then.”

Pecco watches him get on the elevator. The last thing he sees is the flash of his eyes, very brown, always sort of sad. Celestino hears Marco’s voice in his head—shut up, you weirdo, what the fuck are you even talking about? Decides that he’s fine with being angry at him.

It’s too quiet in his hotel room. Celestino keeps replaying it, their argument. He doesn’t know why he said it that time of all times—I love you. They’d been screaming for the past ten minutes already. Maybe if it’d been someone else, someone he was more used arguing with, he’d managed to keep his mouth shut. Or maybe not. Celestino always gets too into arguments.

Later, sitting shell-shocked in Valentino’s couch while Valentino dragged Marco to see a witch, he’d finally looked at the group chat. Bez got hit with a hate curse, we don’t know who’s the target.

Easy as that.

Easy as that, he’s still thinking about it at four something am, when someone starts hammering on his door.

“Celin,” Marco says, urgent, sloppy. His eyes seem wet and shiny—so it’s sad drunk Bez. He must’ve gone over loose and having fun three shots ago. It’s the third stage of his night outs, which usually comes before him throwing up.

Celestino doesn’t budge from the door.

“Celin.” He sways on his feet, mouth stained red with wine, and he thinks that maybe he should, just in case someone sees, but then Marco keeps talking. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I love you too.”

It hurts, hurts like climbing the ivy walls in his school to skip classes, thorns lodged in his palms. Feels like it might just fill his lungs with blood, and something unsaid, and a meanness that he doesn’t think that Marco knows first-hand.

“I hate you,” Celestino says, quietly. See? I can do it too. But there’s no satisfaction, and Marco recoils like he’s been slapped, so Celestino holds his wrist and guides him inside.

It’s been three and a half weeks. Most of summer break and a race. “You’re such a bastard.”

“I know,” Marco mumbles, then toes off his shoes to get on the bed. I hate you, Celestino can’t bring himself to say again. “Sorry.”