what're you doing new years?
(bigmoney!steve x f!thick!reader)
recommended reading: peanut butter vibe once bitten, twice shy
recommended listening: what're you doing new years eve? by ella fitzgerald
brought to you in part by carol's christmas song blitz, and readers like you.
cw: minors dni. 18+. drinking, smoking (cigarettes), casual dominance, references to cocaine, bathroom smut, p in v, fingering (f!receiving), literal IDIOTS in love, fake dating trope, discussions of class relations, gambling, mild daddy kink
a/n: we made it, folks! dividers by @newlips
December 31st, 1996 - NYC
The apartment smelled like fresh paint and saw dust. Sprawling and sunsoaked, a lot of open space. You assumed all the apartments in Tribeca looked like this, gorgeous inside and out. Expensive and old money, beautiful brick outsides with stunning interiors. Windows with ornate arches that went from floor to ceiling with deep sills for books or antiques that cost more than your mom's life insurance.
"It's really nice," you say, stepping into the open concept livingroom - Barcelona chairs and a sleek black couch sit on a plush carpet. It looked like a show room. The heels of your leather boots click and echo on the redone hardwood. Boxes and boxes of his life in Indiana are stacked in the room against the wall, trailing all the way to a full chef's kitchen. New appliances gleam with the film still on them, untouched.
"It's really nice," you say, stepping into the open concept livingroom - Barcelona chairs and a sleek black couch sit on a plush carpet. It looked like a show room. The heels of your leather boots click and echo on the redone hardwood. Boxes and boxes of his life in Indiana are stacked in the room against the wall, trailing all the way to a full chef's kitchen. New appliances gleam with the film still on them, untouched.
"You wanna see my room? It's almost fully done," he smiles. Steve offers his hand to you but you're hesitant. He falters when he catches the gears turning in your head and puts his hand in his pocket, leading you with a cock of his head to the left.
"Down that hallway s'a guest room, laundry, full bath," he rattles off pointing down one hallway while he leads you down another, tapping on closed doors, "A couple other rooms I haven't figured out yet. Broker said they'd make great nurseries. I had to laugh."
He's trying to joke with you, but you know it hurts him to say that. He's always offhandedly mentioned how much he wants to be a dad.
"And here's my room, master bath, full dressing room -- you know, sort of just like home," he smiles, clicking open the door and guiding you inside.
It's set up very much like his old room in Indiana, big kingsize bed with triple fluffed pillows and hotel style linens. Crisp white this time, slight navy accents, light wood. It was bright and airy, the gauzy curtains fluttered gently against the central heating vent.
"Very you," you smile, "It's like you never left."
"Some things never change," he shrugs, opening the double doors to the dressing room, "Come see."
The room is a little smaller than his bedroom, which means it's still bigger than your apartment. The way his clothes are hung in the cubbies and his shoes are oragnized on the shelves can only be described as sterile.
"It's not done, obviously, but, we're getting somewhere," he smiles.
"Oh good, right now it's a little serial killer-y," you laugh, noticing that the other side of the room is completely empty, "Lot of vacancy here. Planning on getting a whole new wardrobe? Bored of the Saint Laurent you already have?"
He rolls his neck slowly to stretch it out, looking over at you and the vacant side of the dressing room with heavy lids through his specs. He lets out of a soft chuckle, "Nah, wanted to keep it empty so you can fit all your clothes in there, too."
You swallow. A tight smile freezes your face when he says it and you remember the conversation you had outside of his office building in Indiana the week before. His hurt features when you left him abandoned back in the lobby while he called another cab home. You came home in tears, your mom and sister consoling you and your tipsy dramatics. 'Never thought you'd be the heartbreaker, honey.'
You know she didn't mean it like that, but it still stung. Who were you to give up someone like Steve Harrington? Steve Harrington who, after he went home and cried in his shower and called his best friend about it, still wanted you to put your clothes in his closet. Still wanted to watch you wake up in the morning and rush to get ready for work. Still wanted you to come up behind him while he made you both coffee on Sunday mornings. Still wanted you take you out to dinner every Friday night so you could both sleep in on Saturday mornings.
"You got plans for tonight?" he asks when you don't reply to his half truth of a joke. You jolt out of your trance when he asks, looking over to see him cleaning his glasses with the cloth he always keeps in his back pocket. A gentle flush of pink has made itself to his cheeks and nose, your shoulders sulk a bit. You want to give into his little fantasy, but that's all it is. It's his little fantasy that doesn't need to be a reality, he'll have it with someone else -- anyone else.
You clear your throat, "Uh, yeah, actually. Um, the head of marketing, she always invites the department to her uncle's fancy New Year's Eve party so I finally made the cut. Some ridiculous theme this year -- casino or something? Just so they can all throw their money around."
Steve starts to laugh, tutting while he puts his glasses back on, hands on his hips.
"What's so funny?" you ask, arms crossing against your chest.
"The party's in midtown, right? At the Plaza?" he asks, matching your posture.
"Technically it's more midtown east, but yes," you reply with more attitude than you were expecting. You don't like hearing him talk like he knows his way around New York when he's been here all of ten seconds.
"Yeah, your department head's uncle is Carl. CEO of Slate Insurance, s'my boss. Why do you think I came out here a little early?" he smirks.
Fuck.
"Don't look so disappointed," he says, walking towards you slowly, dropping his hands to meet your hips, "You wanna just go together?"
You step out of his hold and catch his shoulders drop in his sweater, a pang of guilt drives through your chest at his disappointment, "I can get there myself, it's no problem."
"I mean, it's not the kind of party you roll up to in a cab," he says matter of factly, like it's obvious, "You have to like, make an entrance."
"I wasn't going to take a cab," you glower. A rejected Steve was sometimes not a very kind Steve, all showboating and no substance -- he just wanted to be a jerk.
"What were you planning to take?" he asks, brows raised over his frames in faux curiosity, "The subway?"
"Better than showing up in that tacky green Porsche," you retort, cheeks burning at his meanhearted teasing. He grins and shakes his head.
"I left the Porsche with my dad. I'll probably take the new Benz," he shrugs, cocking his head while he looks at you, "Well -- my driver'll take the new Benz, but you know what I mean."
Your face sours, he was reaching the border of ugly cockiness.
"Looks like you’re not into a Mercedes," he frowns, a faux apologetic look washing over his face, "You wanna ride in the Bentley instead?"
"You sound like such an asshole," you confess, walking out of the dressing room and back into his bedroom.
"What? I can’t congratulate myself for getting a new job?" he bites back, following you, “I’m just tryna catch up to what my life is gonna look like here, Nat.”
“Not all of us have that life, Steve.”
He softens while looking at your back, he reaches out to rest a hand on your shoulder to turn you around, “M’not trying to be an asshole, I’m sorry.”
“S’okay,” you shrug, “I just—you know you can still be 'Hawkins Steve', Harrington. You don't have to be like these Wall Street guys.”
“I know,” he nods, both hands meeting your shoulders, “You wanna come with me tonight? Be my date? Carl’s sort of a traditional guy, it’ll be nice to make him think I’m some family man with a girl at home waiting for me.”
"Steve," you started, "We talked about this. This is your Christmas Party all over again."
His eyes cast downward for a moment as the evening replays in his head at record speed. The day you left him, the day he realized he planned your whole future in his head but you didn't want that.
"I'm sorry, I shouldn--" you start before he comes back to himself in time to interrupt.
"You can be my fake date," he nearly whines, lips pouting.
"I dunno," you shrug, his hands slide from your shoulders to the dip of your waist.
"You don't want me spoiling you all night? C'mon. I gotta show off to these assholes," he asks, voice warm and soothing. His cologne ghosts your nose and your knees get weak, "And you're a great way to start showing off."
Your heart thrums when he speaks, it's so frustrating to be around someone so handsome, "Don't be stupid, Harrington."
"It's not stupid, Manhattan. It'll be fun, we're just playing pretend," he takes a step closer to you and you can see his stubble, the plushness of his lips.
You consider it, he fights off a smile because he knows you're about to say yes. Steve Harrington always gets what he wants. Steve Harrington always gets the girl.
"Just playing pretend, huh?" you challenge.
"Just playing pretend," he smiles, wrapping you in a gentle hug -- friendly, chaste, sweet, "I'll pick you up at seven."
The hug is soft -- but you can feel his heart beating hard against his chest.
Bbbrrrriiiinggg!
You run to your front door, pressing and holding the button on the intercom to buzz him in. You click the lock before escaping back into the bathroom to finish your face, makeup bag torn open in your sink. As you finish your lipstick you hear a soft knock echo down the hall.
"It's open!" you call, and the loud squeak of your front door screeches through your apartment.
"Y'know this could really use some WD-40," Steve says while he shuts the door behind him, "Do you have some? I can --"
You peek around the door frame, patting your lipstick into your lips with your finger. His eyes glint behind his glasses.
"Hey," he smiles, brushing some of the snow off of his coat.
"Hey," you smile back.
"You look pretty."
"So do you," you tease before escaping back into the mirror. He meets you at the frame of the bathroom door, leaning against it with his arms crossed.
"Should I start telling you I'm picking you up earlier so you'll be ready on time?" he asks, dipping his glasses down his nose to peer at you over the rims, "Or are you wearing pajamas?"
You roll your eyes mid-mascara application, throwing everything back in the bag when you finish, "I just have to put my dress on and then we can go, I promise."
You hurry to your bedroom, only mere steps away, pulling your dress out of it's bag hanging on your closet door, "Give me five minutes!"
You shut your door in his face, slipping the navy satin over your head. It wasn't anything too special -- vintage cut fit and flare. The curves of your body made it look more expensive than it was. Your tailor did wonders on it after you snagged it from a sad looking rack of sale dresses at Saks. You pulled on a pair of nude, gloss finish stockings -- silicone on the bands snapping around your thighs with a loud smack, before slipping on a pair of heels.
While grabbing a small purse to keep your effects in, you open the door to reveal Steve resting against the wall of the hallway. He looks inside, giving it a once over with one turn of his head.
"This is uh...cozy," he says, his smile is unethusiastic.
"Fuck off, Harrington," you groan, spritzing your ever declining bottle of Angel by Mugler across your chest and wrists.
"Let me look at you, hm?" he asks, stepping all the way into the room. You turn toward him, skirt of your dress swaying with the turn of your hips. His eyes unfocus for a moment, you hold back a chuckle -- men are so easy.
“So let me wrap my head around this real quick,” he puffs his chest a bit while he walks toward you. You giggle while walking backward, tripping on your heels, “You were gonna go to this party alone —”
“Wearing this?” he asks, catching you by the waist to steady you. He lets a finger drag from the halter strap of your dress, following the curves of your body downward, “That’s just not fair, Manhattan.”
“You’re Manhattan now, too, Steve,” you correct. His light touch sends a shiver through you and he lets out a satisfied hum. He smells like spice and evergreen, your mouth runs dry when his eyes linger on you for a little too long.
"C'mon, can't let Vinny wait too long for me down there. You're makin' me look bad," he says gently, taking you by the hand to your front door. He pulls your camel coat off the hook and holds it open for you, gliding it onto your arms with the finesse of a man who knows exactly how to treat a woman. Betrayal is the only emotion running through your chest as your body warms up against his touch.
Naturally, the Bently is the nicest car you've ever fucking seen.
He was right, you couldn't have shown up in a cab. There were paps everywhere and you couldn't understand why. It's not like there was any famous people here, just people with a shit ton of money. Were they famous by proxy? Would this show up on Page Six? If your networth had seven zeros, did you get welcomed into a hall of fame or something? Did everyone want to read about your life?
You squinted into the flashes of people taking pictures, Steve's hand immediately lacing with yours as you walked towards the entrance of the hotel.
"Careful, careful," he says, while you inch up the short icy stairway. Your heels clicking on the stone as you reach the doors, "Go slow."
"I'm okay, Steve," you assure, he looks back at you with doting eyes when you get inside.
"Just don't want you to hurt yourself, baby," he softly scolds before locking eyes with an usher for the party.
Oh, we're starting this now, you think to yourself. He walks with his hand still laced with yours while the usher leads you both to the Grand Ballroom, framed signs letting patrons know that the casino is in the Terrace Room down stairs. You immediately feel too broke to be here.
"Let me get your coat."
He undoes the button at your waist, smoothing your coat over your shoulders before removing his own. He checks them both and your eyes widen at the amount of cash you see in his wallet as he goes to pay. Gulping hard while he fingers through the bills -- hundred after hundred gleaming back at you.
He turns when he's done, running a hand through is hair, and gives you a very Harrington smile, "You ready?"
Your words catch in your throat while you look at him. His suit is perfectly tailored, the shirt patterned, but silk and neatly pressed. His leather banded watch sits perched on his wrist -- you can tell it's new. His pants hugged his thighs, streamlined in a straight line down to his ankles -- shoes freshly shined. Being handsome like this had to be a crime in some counties, there was no way he was just allowed to look like this and be rich.
"You ready, baby?" he asks again, offering his hand, "Come on."
Something about being called baby by him feels so natural. Like you forgot your own name and that's the only one that could get your attention. Baby, angel, princess, honey. You'd look up immediately and search for him at the sound of his voice. You'd know he meant you.
But he's not your boyfriend. This is just pretend. This is not what you want.
When the doors open, you can't breathe. The ballroom is completely transformed in gold and silver. The lights and chandeliers catch the decorations in a show of shimmer. Like the whole room was waiting to start glittering until you got there.
"Holy shit," you whisper.
"Yeah we're definitely not in Indiana anymore," he mutters to you. You feel his hold tighten on your hand in a show of something you hardly see from Steve. He's nervous.
You look up at him, eyes riding up from his jaw, cheek bone, to his eyes behind his glasses. His gaze roves over the party and he licks his lips, brow quirking before he makes a decision.
"You okay?" you ask, he looks down at you with a soft look in his eyes.
"I'm perfect," he says with a nod. The room is sprawling with tables and he's able to finesse a way to get you both to sit together even though the seating chart had you woefully distanced. It doesn't surprise you how easily he's able to assimilate to making things work for him here. You see his performance again and again: with the waiters, with how he orders drinks, how he checks his watch, how he smiles at people walking by.
You're both at the bar when you see it in full force, his arm protectively around your waist, thumb grazing the smooth fabric to keep him grounded.
"Steven?"
You both look over, an old man with a thick, white walrus mustache in a stunning black suit comes close to approach you. His wedding band is a shining platinum to match the watch on his wrist -- sapphires sit in the face of the metal backing. You wonder briefly how much it costs.
"Oh, Carl!" Steve beams, letting go of your waist for a moment to shake the man's hand, "How are you? Beautiful event -- really stunning."
"Thanks, thank you, but you ought to tell that to my wife. She's the one who plans these things, I just foot the bill," he laughs. His light eyes linger on you and you flush.
"And who's this? She looks like she just walk right out of Old Hollywood."
You introduce yourself, hand reaching out to shake his but he takes it to his lips to press a kiss to your hand. If he wasn't Steve's boss you wouldn't have smiled at the gesture -- but ah well.
"This is my girl, Carl. The one I was telling you about," Steve says with a blush.
"Just your girl?" he asks, eyes noting to your empty ring finger, "Hope she's your fiancé soon, Harrington."
"Sooner than she thinks. I promise, sir," they both laugh. Steve's hand returns to your waist and it feels like a leash. They talk for a moment, Steve passing you a drink while he does. It's business and you don't care, the drink is liquor forward and your face sours at the first sip.
"Sorry baby, that's whiskey. That's mine," he switches your drinks seamlessly while still in conversation.
"We're just so happy to have you, Harrington -- my son Chuck, he's y'know, he's got no fuckin' clue what he's doin'. I blame myself, me and Muffy let him do whatever he wanted," Carl complains, "So I think havin' someone who just gets the business will be really helpful. I know you'll start guiding him in the right direction."
"I mean Carl, I was the same when I was twenty-six, he'll get there," it was like Steve had known him his whole life. He keeps his hands on you while the talk continues, two more men joining in. C-Suites. Big money. Important people. You're just a piece of art hanging on his arm.
You need to get the fuck out of here.
As if the heavens heard your plea, a call of your name takes you out of your bored trance.
"Over here!"
You sigh with relief at the sight of your coworker, also head to toe in shimmering Saks ready to wear in a sea of authentic Dior and Chanel.
"S'cuse me," you say gently, tugging out of Steve's grasp. He looks down at you a little sternly, you frown.
"Excuse me, I'm so sorry. A friend of mine is looking for me, it was great to meet you all," you smile at the group of men, stepping away delicately on your heels until they aren't paying attention. As they continue talking your run on the balls of your feet into your friend's arms.
"Rob, oh my god, what the fuck are we doing here?" you laugh. Robin Buckley looks like a million bucks, but you know she only makes $49k a year because you do, too.
"We do not belong here," she laughs with you, "Do you wanna go lose some money with me downstairs?"
"Yes, yes, one hundred percent," you not, "Get me away from these stiffs."
"So that's Steve?" Robin asks, passing you a glass of champagne while you finish the last sip of the margarita Steve got you a little earlier.
"That's Steve," you murmur, immediately letting the bubbles slide past your lips.
"He's really something," she grins, "You're complaining about being smothered by that?"
"Stop Rob, you don't even like guys," you tease, nudging her knee with the tip of your heeled toe.
"I don't have to like guys to know when a guy is hot," Rob says through a sip of her drink, "And he's fucking hot. Like, Tom Cruise hot. Top Gun hot."
"Oh, stop."
"Jerry Maguire hot -- and like, super fucking rich, obviously. That's a Prada suit. Are you kidding? Talk about 'show me the money,' he's showing you, babe."
"Yeah, but like," you frown a little, "You know how all the guys in finance always talk about how much they hate their wives? And all their wives are Tribeca moms who keep going on retreats to 'work on themselves' after they get cheated on?"
"Of course, that's like, the Tribeca mom rite of passage," she agrees, crossing her thin legs, her sequin dress shimmered in the low, warm, light.
"So, Steve just moved to Tribeca -- it's like...like I'm staring my future right in the face," you exclaim, another sip meeting your lips, "And it's not like I look like any of those women either. I'll be going on my first retreat in three months tops."
"Okay, well one, you have no idea what you're talking about," Robin shakes her head, "You're a smokeshow."
"And two, isn't Steve from Kansas or something?"
"Indiana."
"Same thing," she waves you off, "Steve's from Arkansas. He doesn't have the same mindset as the guys who came here when they were teenagers to jerk off at frat parties at NYU."
"They'll get to him," you shake your head, looking at her with a knowing glance, "They always do."
You both make your way over to the slot machines, weaving through crowds at roulette and craps tables, snaking by chairs sat at poker games. The piles of chips make you sweat. There was a lot of money down here.
"This is all I can handle, cards are so boring," Robin sits down on the plush leather of the seat across from the machine while you take the one next to her. You both play a few rounds in silence before she looks over at you again.
"Do you know what I think?" she asks, champagne glass empty in her hand.
"What do you think, Buckley?" you ask, finishing the last sip of yours.
"I think Andy fucked you up a little and you can't believe someone like Steve wants to be with you, so you're pushing him away," she says with a shrug, "You're trying to hurt him before he can hurt you."
"You sound ridiculous."
"I sound ridiculous or I sound right on the money?" she asks, pulling the lever on the machine. It runs and stops, she doesn't win.
"Sounds like you're not on the money at all," you shrug.
"Shut up," she laughs, "I'm just saying, I think you're really convinced he's settling when I think it's pretty clear he likes you a lot."
"You don't even know him!" you exclaim, running the machine over again.
"Looks like I might get to know him," she smirks. You turn toward the entrance and there he is, frowning while peering through the room. He's squinting behind his glasses trying to find you in the low light, hands in his pockets. For a moment you think about letting him not find you, maybe he'd pick someone else up at the party. Hell, women were gawking at him from the moment he walked in -- he had plenty to pick from.
But the desperation on his face made your heart ache -- this really was your world. Maybe he really did need you to help show him around.
Against your own judgement, you wave, hoping he'd catch you in the sea of people. You don't have to wait long to see his smile when he catches you, waving back and disappearing in the crowd.
"Hey, there you are," he breathes with a small jog towards you, "Thought I lost you."
"No, no, just out here draining my Christmas bonus," you laugh, tugging on the lever again. Robin looks over and smirks at you when he rests his hand on the back of your neck under your hair, thumb grazing the skin under the hinge of your jaw.
"This is Robin, she's my friend from work," pointing your thumb at her. Always the business man, he leans over you to shake her hand.
"Steve -- nice to meet you," he grins.
"Oh, I know who you are," she teases. You shoot her a look, but it falters. The way his hand leaves your neck to stroke over your head, gently enough to not ruin your hair, makes you melt. It had to be the booze. The haze of cigarette smoke making you woozy.
The lights of the machine infront of you flash wildly, the music sounding, screen glowing - WINNER! JACKPOT! WINNER!
"Oh, fuck yes!" you cheer while the chips fall into into the opening at the bottom.
"Come on!" Robin huffs, "I've put in at least twenty more dollars than you have."
"Didn't pick the lucky machine, Rob," you joke, collecting the chips in a stack in your hand.
"How much did you win?" he asks, trying to count them while you clumsily try to keep them together.
"I think just a hundred bucks, so -- eighty dollar profit!"
"Ugh don't say profit, we're at a party," Robin groans, pulling the lever down on her machine hastily.
"Let me take those," Steve says, collecting the chips and putting them in his suit pocket, "I have to go get some anyway."
He pulls out his wallet, thumbing through bills and plucks an $100 out. He folds it, handing it to you, "Now you don't have to cash them."
"Steve..." you scold softly. He takes your hand and presses the bill into it, closing your fingers over the paper. He smiles, thumbing through his wallet again while you put the money in your purse. He plucks out another bill and holds it out in front of Robin. Her mouth hangs open at the gesture.
"Steve!" you raise your voice but he thinks the reproachful look on your face is just too cute.
"Sorry Rob, I think he's drunk," you apologize, embarrassed beyond measure.
"What? I think she deserves a consolation prize," he smiles. Robin plucks the bill from his fingers, putting it in her wristlet.
"I think he should be drunk around me way more often if this is how he acts," she rasps. Steve throws her a wink, arm snaking around you once you get up from the slot machine stool.
"S'it okay if I steal her from you?" he asks. You swallow thickly, both hating and loving how he pulls you around this party like you're his property.
"Steal her, take her home, take her kidneys, I don't care," she laughs, "Do whatever you want, consider me paid off."
"I'll see you later, Rob!" you smile, reaching out and squeezing her hand. As Steve turns around with you, you look back at her. She gives you an exasperated look -- 'What the fuck is wrong with you? He's great.'
He is great. That's what makes it so hard.
He leads you over to the chip exchange, fingers grazing your back while he lets go of your waist. His hand sneaks into suit jacket where he pulls out a wad of cash secured by a shining gold money clip.
"Can I get four grand in hundreds?" he asks.
"Steve that's -- stop," you huff, "Who're you trying to impress?"
"Impress?" he scoffs, "The buy in for blackjack is five hundred dollars, baby. This is just fuck around money."
"Here," he says, plucking a glass of champagne off of a waiter's tray as he offers them. Steve passes it to you, "Have a drink, stop pouting. It's a holiday."
You sip it bitterly while you wait and he sighs at you, pressing a kiss to your forehead before reaching back into his jacket pocket. He pulls out a cigarette and a silver lighter, embers glowing while he inhales, lighter escaping back to its hiding place.
"Hey," he says, blowing the smoke out away from you, "Wanna smile for me?"
You smile, it's fake and exaggerated, he laughs into his next drag, "I'll take it."
The attendant passes Steve a rack of chips, neatly rowed but as he's about to take them his name is called. Yet another group of stiffs asking for his attention.
"Will you hold this for me, honey? Thank you," he asks softly, passing you the rack. You nod while you take it, desperately hoping this conversation goes quicker than the last one. He introduces you like you brought you on a leash and they all shake your hand like you're a show pony that got gussied up to leave the stable. You're not a person, just an accessory -- and you know they're surprised at his choice, but he doesn't need the extra social currency.
You keep sipping your champagne and shutting up, but your ears perk up when you hear him mention you, "You know she just put together this wild campaign for their lipstick line with the creative team, she might as well have produced it. And now their quarterly has that lipstick up fourteen percent and growing. And here we are with just -- what? Claims? How do we even market that? She swears what she does is boring."
You blush at his praise. So he does listen when you complain about work.
The conversation changes and you're bored again, eyes surveying the crowd of long elegant women and handsome stuffy men. Cheers roaring from tables, the sounds from the slot machines, it seemed less overwhelming with a few drinks in you. You guessed upstairs was for the boring people.
"Have you ever even seen four grand before?" you hear sneering your way. You look up and there he is -- the heartbreaker whose heart you barely broke by breaking up with him. The boy who hardly cared.
“Andy?” you ask, brows pulling inward in disgusted shock, “What’re you doing here?”
Andy had gotten a new attitude after he got a new job, suddenly too good for you and your old group of friends. Suddenly telling everyone he broke up with you. Telling everyone he shouldn't settle for less. The glasses of champagne you’ve had finally meet your brain, making you woozy and nervous. The glittering decorations on the ceilings marry the lights and cross over your vision. Andy sparkles in front of you, his friends faded out behind him. A scene in slow motion.
You feel Steve’s hand on your waist, giving you little squeezes so you don’t feel like he’s ignoring you while he talks to his new colleagues about stocks and sales. Boring metrics that you’d care about if it mattered.
“I was invited. Perks of Chuck being my boss,” he gives you a smarmy smile, knowing you’re only here by proxy. Not because you’re important, not in the same way that—
“Whose this asshole?” Andy scoffed, giving Steve a once over. You hear Steve’s pleasant, ‘Sorry fellas, if you’d excuse me…’ to his group as he turns toward Andy and his friends. He flashes a charming Harrington smile.
“Andy! Nice to see you again, man,” he raises his champagne flute toward him cheerily. Andy looks at Steve with a furrowed brow, confused but sly.
“Sorry, guy. Not sure we’ve met,” he laughs — covered in new money sleaziness, his friends laugh with him, “Nat must’ve told you all about me, I guess.”
You feel Steve’s posture change — confident and cocky. His head tilts the way it does when you know he’s about to say something mean. Your body heats up when he places his empty glass on the platter of a near by server, putting the free hand in his pocket.
“We met in Indiana,” he corrects, confidence unfaltering, “You don’t remember?”
“Indiana?” Andy scoffs again. Your face twists into something Steve doesn’t like, a mix of annoyed and embarrassed.
“Well, since you’re at a loss let me reintroduce myself,” he smirks. He puts his hand out shake your ex’s, Andy loosely shakes it back.
“Name’s Steve,” he introduces himself with a warm genuine quality that people learn from years of sales work, clapping his other hand over Andy’s, “Steve Harrington. I’m Natalie’s boyfriend.”
He says it so casually that you immediately flush, it sounds too natural.
“Oh,” Andy says, surprised. He gives you a once over, offering you a pathetic glace, “You're dating her? You're her boyfriend?”
“Her boyfriend,” he lilts, taking his hand away. He slinks an arm back around your waist, tucking his shoulder behind yours, “And sorry, couldn't help but over hearing -- You said Chuck’s your boss? Chuck at Slate Insurance?”
“Yeah, and?” Andy asked, annoyed. Steve let out a gentle chuckle, the kind that sounds rich. The kind that sounds like a trust fund with seven figures.
“Oh, that’s—hoo!— that’s funny,” he teases, but it comes out cool and uncaring. He bites his lip to keep from laughing more, giving Andy a judgmental once over.
“What’s so funny about it?” he asks, arms crossing in a huff causing his cheap suit to crease.
“Oh, it’s uh, it’s funny because I’m Chuck’s boss,” he gestures toward him before tucking his hand back in his pocket, “So I guess I’ll see ya Monday, champ.”
Andy chokes on his sip of champagne, you bite back a mean giggle that bubbles in the seat of your chest.
“Now, hate to be rude but, my woman and I are gonna head over to the roulette table,” Steve starts, beginning to move you over to the next room with him, “Unless — you know, unless you’d care to join us. You feelin’ lucky?”
Andy’s face has gone red, eyebrows sloped down, a prominent wrinkle forming on his forehead. His friends look into their drinks, coughing and shifting awkwardly while they watch the exchange.
“No?” Steve asks, a slight taunt to his voice. Andy shakes his head no, “Ah well, suit yourself, I guess. Say bye, angel.”
Steve nudges you with his shoulder and you burn under the instruction, lifting your gaze to Andy who looks like he could maul Steve at any second, “Bye, Andy,” you mutter, your voice trailing higher than normal.
“See you around, man. Next time I catch ya, I'll give you the number to my tailor,” Steve's eyes linger on the hem of Andy's trousers -- sloppy and too long for him. He let's out a soft 'hm' before meeting Andy's gaze and shooting him a wink with a steely grin. Steve leads you out of the chip exchange by the small of your back, passing you another glass of champagne.
“Drink that before you say whatever smart thing you wanna say,” he says, hand dropping from your back to clasp with yours while he leads you through the throngs of people to the roulette table.
“I wasn’t gonna say anything,” you lie.
“Pfft, okay,” he shakes his head in front of you, but you don’t need to see him to know that he’s rolling his eyes. You arrive at the edge of the table, oak wood bumping into your hip.
“I’m not much of a gambler,” you confess, taking your places around the table closer to the wheel. He kisses your cheek before taking your chin between his fingers gently.
“You thought I’d have you dropping your own cash here? That’s cute,” he teases with his voice low enough so the other players couldn't hear, “Daddy’s gonna gamble, baby. You’re just gonna watch.”
“Steve,” you blush, “Don’t say that.”
“I don't know,” he shrugs coolly while placing his chips, turning back to you when he's done, "I think you like when I say that."
He wins big at roulette, of course he does. He's Steve Harrington.
Now he has you nestled on his lap while he plays black jack, your hips and thighs spilling over the leg you're perched on. Everyone's drunk so no one cares that you're not supposed to do that, as long as your hands are in view of the dealer. It's not a real casino anyway.
His breath hits that spot between your neck and shoulder that makes you squirmy, hips rolling achingly slow on his thigh when he does it. You have half a mind to think he's doing it on purpose.
"Watch yourself, angel," he mumurs, placing a hand firmly on your hip to steady you, "Don't want you to fall."
You watch him play, him and his colleagues, some men he doesn't know -- they're betting real big. Big enough that you had the pleasure of holding two more racks of chips for him while the other two were stacked on the table in front of you.
The three other men have either had too many or are sitting between 12 and 16 in their cards. He has fourteen in front of him, a jack, a three of hearts, and an ace. You watch him tap the table to hit and then double down, you gulp. A fourteen thousand dollar bet, and it's just chump change to most of the guys down here.
The dealer hits, a seven of clubs slapping down on the table.
"Blackjack."
He smirks and the table claps while the dealer expertly slides over $35,000 in chips which you load dutifully onto the empty racks on the table next to you.
"Really got lady luck on your side tonight, huh Harrington?" the older man next to him asks. You feel Steve's hand clap your thigh.
"Actually, she's on my lap," he smiles and you flush at his teasing, listening to them talk while the dealer shuffles for the next round. His hand slides over your thigh and he talks to the guys at the table like he's not driving you insane when he toys when the hem of your dress.
"Can I get anyone a drink?" a waitress asks the table. You turn to Steve while the men start to order, some glasses of wine, some full bottles of liquor.
"Get whatever you want, honey," he says, pressing a kiss to your shoulder. The waitress looks to you expectantly and you smile. It's probably the first non-horny smile she's gotten all night.
"Can I get a bottle of Dom for the table, please?" you ask, "The earliest vintage you have."
You were pushing your luck -- but you were at a blackjack table. He squeezes your thigh and you squeal under his touch while the dealer starts the game.
"Didn't know my girl was so greedy," he teases in your ear. Your lip quirks.
"M'not really your girl, Stevie," you whisper back.
"No?" he murmurs back to you, hand skimming your dress up the side of your thigh, "Spending my money like you are."
You blush hard, he loves how easy it is to fluster you once you've had a few. Still lucid, less tightly wound. He liked when you loosened up for him, when you relaxed into his touch with all these people around.
The Dom comes and the waitress starts pouring glasses, Steve gets the bill and shoots you a look when you go to peer over the leather.
"Don't be rude, baby," he tuts, tilting it away from you. There were way too many numbers in the total for a bottle of champagne.
"Sorry, Steve," you mumble while he passes the waitress his credit card with the bill. The champagne is dry and heavenly and your smile when you take the first sip makes all the money he paid worth it.
"You like it?" he asks, attention going back to the game.
"Mhmm," you nod into your next sip.
"Good," he smiles, "Have another bottle at home we can break into later."
Home. Oh. He wants you to go home with him. Was that the plan? Were you following through with the fake date thing the whole time? All night?
"Hm," is all you reply. He keeps winning big -- but you're really the only thing he's betting on.
It's starting to get a little late and the party is picking up. All the screens in the casino have Dick Clark on, the big party on the other side of town is ramped up to eleven.
Steve holds your hand at the chip exchange, the manager and two security guards stand by while they stack bundles of cash for Steve. You know the short set of bands is more money than you've ever seen in your life, it almost makes you nervous.
"This isn't gonna fit in my money clip, angel, can I borrow your purse?" he asks sweetly. Your purse isn't huge, but it can fit the money in it.
"Uh, um, yeah," you say, you mouth running dry while he puts at least forty grand in your bag.
"Thank you, baby," he smiles, the booze affecting his grin. You let him lead, taking you out of the casino and back upstairs to the ball room. There are people everywhere, but more importantly, there is food.
You both don't even think about it, manuevering to the buffet in silence, giggling while you load up plates with obscure hors d'oeuvres and different types of bread and dessert. You sit at the table, barely talking while you eat, but stealing glances at each other.
"I think this is octopus, try it for me and tell me," he says, holding out a small sauteed tentacle on a cracker with avocado.
"I'm not trying it for you!" you laugh, "Try it for yourself. Don't be such a wimp."
"C'mon, just try it for me, tell me if it's good," he smiles, leaning his chin on his other hand to watch you. He pushes the cracker further towards your mouth and you give in, lettling him pop the bite sized morsel into your tongue. His fingertips brush your lips and he swallows, adams apple bobbing slowly against his collar.
"Definitely octopus," you nod.
"You're so brave," he says dreamily, fingertip booping against your nose.
"Okay weirdos, enough with your fake date, let's go dance," Robin's voice booms from a couple tables over while she walks towards you. She grabs both of your hands to lead you to the crowded dance floor. The live band plays fast jazz and the three of you make up what you can to it. Robin really taking the prize for most creative dance moves.
"Is she okay?" Steve asks, giving you a little spin. You look at her and back at him, nodding.
"Yeah, she'll sleep good tonight," you let him lead, arm wrapped around your waist. The music slows and he hums to himself, pulling you closer.
"This is nice," his voice is warm and low, "This is what I wanted all night."
"To dance with me?" you ask softly. He nods, a bashful smile curling up his lips, glasses slipping a little down the slope of his nose. You push them up gently, putting your arms back around his neck.
"I really like dancing with you," he whispers, noses close to brushing each other.
"Thanks."
His bashful smile turns to a tight one, "Look, I'm sorry about the fiance and boyfriend stuff with Carl and Andy. That was outta line, I shouldn't have said all that shit."
"It's okay," you assure, but he's not done talking.
"I'm sorry if I've been laying it on too thick all night," he says apologetically, "Got too committed to the part, I guess."
"S'fine Steve," you say, looking up at him, "It's just pretend."
Hurt flashes in his eyes, brows softening when you say it.
"Yeah...it's just pretend," he mutters. He loosens his hold on your waist and you can tell he's embarrassed. You can feel his hands become clammy over the fabric of your dress, skidding against the satin while they move.
A woman gets to the center of the stage, a beautiful 40s gown clinging tight to her curves while she grips the microphone. The opening words of Ella Fitzgerald's, 'What're you Doing New Years Eve' , starts with the band.
"Aw, you don't hear this song a lot," you smile, "My dad loved this song."
"Yeah?" he asks. He takes a deep breath, looking at the other couples getting close, nuzzling, kissing. Diamond rings dazzling in the light, wedding bands glinting in his eyes.
"C'mere," he says, reinvigorated to keep up the charade. His arm snakes all the way around you, chest to chest, his other hand holding yours. He rests his forehead against yours, moving slow with you to the music, the instrumental lulling you both into the fantasy you both created.
Steve had such a way of making it feel like it was just the both of you.
'Maybe it's much too early in the game,
Ah, but I thought I'd ask you just the same,
What are you doing New Year's, New Year's eve?'
"It's a pretty song," he says.
"Yeah," you agree, lost in how he looks at you.
'Maybe I'm crazy to suppose,
I'd ever be the one you chose,
Out of the thousand invitations you received.'
You rest your head on his chest while the horns solo, the hand on your waist trailing up to brush your hair and cup your face.
"Hey, look at me," his voice is quiet, "Wanna see your pretty face, Manhattan."
"I look tired," you complain, looking back up at him with a scrunch of your nose. His thumb slides over your cheek bone.
"You look perfect," he confesses.
'Ah, but in case I stand one little chance,
Here comes the jackpot question in advance,
What are you doing New Year's, New Year's Eve?'
"Hey Nat," he starts.
"Mhm?"
"What if it --" he lets out a breath through his nose, "What if it wasn't pretend?"
"What?"
10!
"What if we didn't have to pretend?" he asks, "What if we just...what if we just were each other's real dates? Cause like --"
"Steve, come on."
9!
"You can't pretend like this doesn't feel right," he pleads, "Like this doesn't feel real."
"Steven, I told you this morning--"
8!
"Baby, I haven't stopped thinking about you since you left me at the office," he confesses, "Thinking about how to change your mind. I want you so bad, Nat. You have no fucking idea."
"I'm just the only person to tell you no," you assure, "That's the only reason you want me."
7!
"No, I promise that's not it," he urges, both of his hands cupping your cheeks while he talks. The cheering getting louder around you at the clock ticks closer to midnight.
6!
"You're not gonna want this after a month of you being here. Look at everyone around you Steve -- I don't fit in here," you say, "Don't you want a trophy wife? Someone who everyone gawks over?"
"Have you seen yourself?" he asks, eyes wild, "Had to walk behind you all night so all these guys would stop staring at you."
5!
"Steve you're just...settling," you finally say it and it feels like a weight has floated off your chest, "This was the opposite of what you came to New York for."
"Settling? Are you stupid?"
4!
"You wanted to do something new and exciting," you counter.
"You are new and exciting," he can't believe the words coming out of your mouth, "You are why I wanted to be here. I wanted to do something new with you."
3!
"I've been sitting in Hawkins for the last five years thinking about how much fun you're having out here. Thinkin' about how much fun we could have together -- haven't stopped fucking thinking about you since the night I met you in Porter's."
"You're just saying that," you argue, lump growing in your throat, "You're just drunk."
2!
"I'm not just saying that, please just listen to me" he pleads, "Fuck Nat, I --"
1!
"I love you."
HAPPY NEW YEAR!
Silver and gold metallic confetti pours from the ceiling, your breath hitches while it glitters on it's way down.
"I love you so much, it hurts," he confesses, eyes shining behind his frames, "I just -- I think I loved you the whole time."
Your mouth falls open against his hold on your cheeks.
"You don't have to say it back, I--"
You stop his sentence with your lips against his. The kiss he wanted to give you all night. It feels like an old movie kiss with with way his arms wrap tight around your back and waist and your hands meet his face.
He breaks away from you for a moment, locking his eyes with yours.
"I really mean it," he murmurs, "I love you."
"I --," his eyes linger on yours, your cheeks heat up, "Steve."
"Yeah?"
"I love you, too."
He knew it. God, he fucking knew it.
The lock clicks and he checks it once, twice, three times before caging you in against the wall. There weren't any families here so it's not like anyone was looking to use the bathroom with a changing table. Everyone was using the lounge bathroom for coke anyway.
"Fuck, you're so pretty," he gasped into your mouth, "You're so fucking pretty."
"Thanks," you breath against his kiss. His lips trail from your mouth down your jaw, lips sliding down your neck to your chest. His tongue is warm and wet on your skin and you sigh up to the ceiling at the feel of it.
He manhandles you at the sound, arms overtaking you to shove the complimentary products on the sink's counter and throw you onto it. You look at him with swollen lips from his kiss, eyes begging. He grabs your hand to press it firmly up against his erection, staring down at you down the slope of his nose, “That’s how you got me all night, lookin' at me like that. Wearin' this dress -- what's wrong with you, hm?”
"S'wrong with me?" you slur, dragging your hand back over his cock without his guidance, "S'wrong with you? This suit fitting you so nice, that stupid fancy watch?"
"Stupid? My Patek?" he laughs, "It was nine grand, don't call it stupid."
"You're disgusting," you spit, but it doesn't have the bite you can normally dish. The way he lingers over you makes you lose your edge.
"Mmm, love when you're a little mean," he groans while he buries his face in your neck, reaching for the hair at the nape of it, tugging just enough to make your thighs twitch, "Get to watch you get so nice for me."
You feel his lips drag over your sensitive skin, pulling it in between his teeth to bite down. He takes in your scent, grunting into your jaw while the perfume he likes rules his senses. He's rough, hungry. He's a little drunk, but so are you.
You thighs part to make room for him, ass nearly hanging off the counter while his hips press into you. You run a hand through his silky hear while he assaults your neck, eyes reeling when he hits that spot right past the base.
"You all wet?" he asks in your ear, gravelly voice booming in your chest. His hand skates up your fleshy inner thigh, heat greeting him like an old friend.
"I'm so wet, Steve," you whine back, pushing your hips against his fingertips while he strokes over your satin covered clit.
"Yeah, you're so wet for me?" he mocks, "I got you all worked up out there?"
"Y-yeah," you whimper while his fingers toy with your panty line, inching inward. He's smug when he feels what's waiting for him behind the fabric.
"Showing you off all night? Throwin' all my cash around?" he growls, a finger sliding in between your legs, "Givin' it all to you to hold on to? That got you all hot and bothered?"
"Y-yes, yeah," you nod, biting your lip to keep quiet.
"Oh-ho baby, they can't hear you out there -- party's gettin' a little rowdy," he teases, "Go ahead an' moan for me."
A second finger follows his first and you start whimpering with every thrust, every flick of his wrist. You grip the counter, skirt of your dress falling back as your thighs lift up and out involuntarily.
"Steve," you moan it like a prayer, it echos back at you, "Shit, fuck, just like that."
"Good girl, baby," he grins, more so when your hips rock in time with his fingers, "Oh, you showin' off now?"
"Sh-shut up, Steve," you chuckle between gasps, face crumpling again while he grazes your g-spot with his fingers. Your walls grip him, gushing over his knuckles. A lazy smile falls onto your face while your hips pick it's rhythm with his fingers.
"Love when you smile like that for me," he says softly, pressing a kiss against your lips -- the facade of your rich, sexy, big money fuck toy falling away, back to his Hawkins beginnings, "You look so beautiful."
"You think I'm beautiful?" you tease against his lips, but you know the answer.
"Don't think it, I know it," he whispers between pecks.
He takes out his wallet with his free hand, flipping it open, using his nimble fingers to pull out the condom he'd kept in there tonight just in case. His other fingers ease out of you slowly, tossing you a stern look when you whine.
"Be patient, pl-- Jesus, baby," he melts when you take his fingers, still shining with your slick, directly into your mouth. You make a big show of letting them leave your mouth with a wet pop, his mouth hanging open, eyes unfocused.
"Just wanted to clean up my mess," you say with an innocent shrug.
"You're gonna kill me," he breathes out, sliding the condom on and tossing the wrapper to his feet. Your legs part immediately, skirt of your dress falling way with your thighs, the roll of your tummy poking out to the cool air as you hold your legs up close to your chest.
"You're okay? You want this?" he asks, "I know you had a few."
"I want this," you nod, "I want it."
"Good, cause it's yours," he grins, gliding the tip down from your clit to your entrance, "S'all yours."
"All mine," you whine, sighing high and breathy while the tip breaches inside. Your hips roll instinctively to feel more of him and he obliges, pushing in a third of the way to feel you make room for him. The moan you let out makes him bite his lip. You feel so good around him.
"Who fills you up like me, huh?" he pants while he pulls out and pushes back in, gripping the fat of your thighs hard enough to bruise.
"No one, Steve," you moan back, while he rocks against you, "P-please more, please."
His lips fall open when you ask, "More, huh? You want all of it?"
You nod feverishly, gripping his shoulders, nails nearly ripping the fabric of his dress shirt as you pull him by the hips. He laughs, locking his hips in place where only half of him was snugly inside you. He adjusts his glasses, peering at your through them, "Say please again, angel."
"Please, Stevie," you beg, hips shimmying. He tutts at you, pushing a little farther in and a whine peals through you.
"Like that?" he asks, "You want a little more?"
"Please, please, please," you huff, the stretch of him slowly moving in driving your eyes to the back of your head. The bulbous tip creeping past your g-spot unbearably slow -- juices seeped out of you over him.
"Please, please, please. All that whining, think this is all you can handle angel," he mocks gently, hand cupping your cheek. His thumb grazes over your lip while he starts his thrusts again -- half way to all the way out.
"No, no, all of it, please," you grovel, "Please. It's mine."
You bite your lip, eyes watering while the pleasure builds below your belly -- you're aching for the fullness of him.
Your eyes round in neediness, overtaken by the wetness between your legs, the way he touches you, "Please, daddy."
"Fuck, baby," he groans while he pushes in to the hilt, lips finding yours while he readjusts. His arm reaches around your back to angle you differently, caging you in against the mirror on the wall. His other hand snakes up to the back of your neck, pulling you in for a deep kiss, all deep breaths and tongue. Steve's hips roll against yours, shallow thrusts to keep himself as buried inside of you as possible, "See what happens when you — mmm — ask me nicely?"
You roll your eyes but he thrusts again and your head lolls back against the mirror, “Sh-shut up, you’re so— you’re so — ah! oh fuck, fuck, fuck.”
“I’m so what? We’re you gonna say ‘I’m so annoying’?" he grins into another kiss. You can feel his tip pushing against your cervix with every short thrust. Your body stretched around him with ease, making you gasp with every thrust of his hips, “M’so deep you can’t even talk right.”
He presses his forehead against yours, eyes shut tight while sweat builds on his forehead, "Oh shit, shit you feel so good."
"Harder, please," you whisper. He nods against you, picking up the pace of his thrusts and he has to cover your mouth to drown own the sounds coming out of you.
"Shh, shh, not too loud baby," he giggles, "Don't wanna lose my job."
You take a deep breath through your nose, trying to maintain your composure while you pulse tighter and tighter around him.
"Steve you...oh my god, yes, yes, like that," you slur out while he holds you steady on the counter, watching you come undone around him.
"Say you're mine," he says, grunting between thrusts, "Say you're all mine."
"M'all yours Steve, all yours," you nod, eyes pooling with tears as each thrust sends you closer to seeing white, "Oh fuck, fuck -- I'm gonna cum, ohmygod m'gonna cum."
"Cum for me angel," he says through gritted teeth, getting close himself, "Cum for me."
Your legs vibrate when he pulls your hair to bare your neck to him, final thrusts sending blinding pleasure through your body. You shake and spasm beneath him, whining and mewling at the come down.
"That's it, baby," he coos while you gasp back to reality, "That's my girl." He buries his face in your neck when his hips stutter, groaning, gripping your legs so hard you know you'll bruise.
"Mmm, god," he grunts, "Oh fuck, I'm gonna -- oh, baby --"
You both rest against eachother, breathing heavy, hands roaming. He pulls out slowly while he softens, discarding the used condom in the trash. You go to move but he stops you, pulling up his briefs and pants and cleaning you up gently.
"You okay?" he asks, "That felt good?"
You nod, "Was it good for you?"
"Bathroom sex with my girlfriend? Oh, amazing," he smiles, helping you down off the counter.
"Girlfriend, huh?"
"Do you wanna be called something else? I'll call you anything you want," he bushes, "S'long as you're my girl, Manhattan."
"You're girl," you muse, "Steve Harrington's girl."
"Sounds really good, doesn't it?" he tosses you a cool look, "Lot's a girls would beg for that title."
"You're annoying," you huff, opening the door to the bathroom and peeking outside to check for people. The coast was clear and he leads you out to the hallway by the hand, heading over to the coat check.
"We're going home?" you ask.
"We're going to yours," he says.
"Why?"
"So we can start packing up your shit to bring to mine tomorrow morning."
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it’s all coming back to me | c. kreider (i)
Word Count: 8.2k
Warnings: Slow burn, exes to friends to lovers, relationship breakdown, swearing, alcohol mention.
Author’s Note: So many of you have been requesting for this to be brought back! The consensus was that you’d rather have it in smaller chunks so I’ll be posting each new part weekly and they’ll come in between 6 & 9k per chapter. Not only is it more manageable for you guys but it also gives me chance to keep writing new content for it 💖 There is a playlist for this fic which I posted separately, it gives a chronological feel for their relationship and their story. This has been a tonne of fun to write so far and I can’t wait to tell the rest of their story.
Summary: Chris Kreider x Reader Insert. They say that all good things come to an end, that you can never have too much of a good thing, but when Chris decided to end your relationship you wondered how anything could ever be good again. A chance meeting 9 years later drags up all those feelings you both thought you were done with. Can you work through your hurt and pain to see what it is that Chris is trying to show you? Or are some things better left forgotten?
Tagging: @danglesnipecelly - this girl deserves a writing credit on this thing because she’s pushed me to keep going with this and her input and advice has been invaluable. Thank you for all the support on this one, K 💖
*Italics indicates a flashback*
The notion of fresh starts is often something that is associated with the arrival of the New Year. People use the turning of the calendar to turn over a new leaf, to learn a new skill, to challenge themselves to be better than the year before and to let go of all that was and focus on all that will be. There’s something inherently magical about a new beginning, a fresh start; sometimes it’s the excitement of what might lie ahead and other times it’s the comfort in knowing that you can seize the opportunity be whoever you want to be and to reinvent yourself. It’s the line in the sand and the final full stop at the end of the chapter and it’s the anticipation of picking up the pen and writing those first few words on the new page.
For Chris Kreider this feeling wasn’t one that was brought about by the strike of the clock at midnight on New Year’s Eve because while the date on the calendar changed and while he still spent the next couple of weeks dating things with the wrong year just like everybody else, it still often felt like nothing really changed for him. Chris could only feel like the year was truly coming to an end when the first petals of spring exploded like fireworks in a symphony of technicolour blooms and he found himself giving the locker-room clearout interview. That was the end of the year, the full stop, the line and the warmer days and the balmy nights would give him the opportunity to decompress ready for the turning of the page come September when his focus would once again turn back to hockey.
Chris loved New York; that much was undeniably true. He loved the vibrancy of the city but he also loved the way that he could melt into the background or enjoy the feeling of quiet solace his apartment gave him. It was oftentimes a bolthole, an oasis of peace during an otherwise hectic few months between September and May but the end of the hockey season and the arrival of summer had him seeking the cry of gulls on the breath of a gentle breeze and that crisp, purifying sea air that always managed to fill his lungs differently. Rowayton wasn’t far, a little over an hour on a good day but with its coastal Connecticut charm, slower pace and pretty houses, especially the ones that overlooked the water, it was a world away from NYC and exactly what Chris needed to reset and recharge.
It was a Saturday morning in mid-July and for the first time in a long time, longer than Chris could recall, he allowed himself to sleep in. His bedroom window had been open all night and the welcome breeze snaked through the slats in the blinds and carried on it the faintest smell of salt and sunshine. Chris stretched his muscles in big pulls around the bed before he settled on his back and inhaled deeply, the fresh air clearing his mind and filling his body as the last remnants of sleep slipped away on the exhale of breath. Imbued with energy, he climbed out of bed and pulled the blinds all the way up, flooding the bedroom with beautiful incandescence born out of a cloudless sky. He didn’t make his bed though, not yet, because while he had left his room and was padding down the stairs, he had every intention of returning to the still warm sheets to read a chapter or two of the book on his nightstand with a fresh cup of coffee, a cinnamon and raisin bagel, that invigorating coastal air and the oceanscape outside as the soundtrack.
One chapter turned into two and two became three and before Chris knew it, the sun was high in the sky and lunchtime beckoned. It was shaping up to be a beautiful summer day in Rowayton and Chris thought it would be a crying shame to spend his time at home, even if the page-turner he’d held in his hands moments ago seemed incredibly appealing out on the back deck overlooking the water. It was then he decided to take advantage of that gorgeous sunshine, take in the scenery and stretch his legs by going for a walk into town to pick up a few essentials at Rowayton Market. For all it was a small, it contained everything he would need to keep him going for a few more days until he’d finally need to drive into Norwalk to do a more substantial grocery shop, something that he’d admittedly been putting off. The Market also had some of the best baked goods and fresh coffee in the village and if you asked Chris it would be pretty rude to not take advantage – it was right there, after all, and Chris never could say no to a still-warm Danish and Americano.
He walked slower than he usually would, a conscious effort on his part due to the fact that his legs seemed to want to go into an auto-pilot primed for life in New York City. He was in no rush though, he never was whenever he came here and even though it was a route he’d walked hundreds of times before, and one he would walk hundreds more, Chris still wanted to soak in all the pretty trees and shrubs that were nestled in amongst those classical New England style homes, all shingled exteriors and white, gridded windows in soft muted colours that mirrored the coastal landscape of the village. It was a world away from the brick and the concrete and the bright lights of the city and while Chris loved all of those things about New York and loved wandering through the streets of Tribeca and Soho, getting lost in bookstores and hole-in-the-wall cafes, he also loved the sand, shale and stars and those were things that he just couldn’t find in the city that never slept.
There were quite a few people out and about, Chris noted, most of them he recognised as being residents with their friendly smiles and waved greetings, but there were a handful of tourists too; there always was on weekends during the summer. Not that Chris minded, of course, because for all the village was a popular escape for those seeking a break from the metropolitan life of the nearby hub of cities, it never succumbed to the all-too-often inevitability of commercialisation and still managed to hold on to its peaceful charm, despite it not quite being the quaint fishing village it once was back in the days before the Civil War.
It was one of the reasons why Chris found himself retreating here in the summer and not making the trip back home to spend the off-season in Massachusetts. He would go back to Boxford for a couple of weeks, naturally, because family was something that had always been important to Chris and he would never miss an opportunity to spend time with his parents and sister, but if he had the choice between spending his entire summer being bitten to death by mosquitoes back home (his father always did say that they were the town bird, after all) or feeling the gentle kiss of the ocean breeze against his skin, there was no real contest. Rowayton would always win.
The main street through town was busier, which wasn’t exactly unexpected and if anything it only seemed to add to the charm of the village. Chris decided to head straight to the market to pick up his groceries, if only to facilitate the Danish eating in a more timely-fashion. He picked up a basket as he entered and proceeded to add only the essentials he’d need to get him through the next couple of days. He’d pay for his shopping before going to the coffee bar, because trying to pack his reusable grocery bag with a full takeout cup was a mistake he’d made once before and was sure to never repeat again.
With his groceries purchased and bags packed in such a way that the couple of bottles of wine he’d picked up wouldn’t clink together when he walked (it was three to be exact but after seeing the selection of cured meats, cheeses and olives available he thought it’d be a crime if they didn’t find their way into his basket to come home with him, and if there was cheese there had to be wine), Chris made his way to the coffee counter situated near the Market entrance.
*
You couldn’t remember the last time you’d taken a trip away without the company of anyone else but the last couple of months at work had been incredibly stressful, with projects seemingly coming out of your ears and while you knew your mother had been worried by your suggestion of taking off somewhere alone for the weekend, she also knew better than to fight you on something you’d quite clearly already set your mind to. If you were being completely honest, your plans for the first full weekend you’d had off in months would have consisted of not setting foot outside of your apartment or engaging in any kind of unnecessary conversation had you decided to stay home in Hartford, at least this way you’d be getting some fresh air and the sun on your face.
It was just shy of a two hour drive down to Rowayton, which had the dual benefit of being close enough to home that it didn’t feel like a huge trek just to get there, but also being far enough away that you would be a complete stranger in this town and could take the time to decompress and recharge while blending into the background, and the place was pretty to boot. You’d found a little studio Airbnb not too far away in South Norwalk, figuring that you’d only be using it as somewhere to sleep as you’d planned on spending as much of your time as possible being right by that ocean with the wind in your hair and the warm sun on your skin.
That’s how you’d planned on spending your Saturday afternoon, sat on the sand of Bayley Beach with a good book and a cup of coffee. It was set to be a balmy day, with temperatures sitting in the mid-eighties and the last thing you wanted to be doing in the heat was any amount of excessive walking. So with that in mind, you’d spent your morning exploring the village and taking in the sights and sounds. The gentle protest of your stomach told you it was lunchtime before you’d even taken the opportunity to glance down at your watch and a quick Google search pointed you in the direction of somewhere to get that all important cup of coffee and a small bite to eat.
Rowayton Market didn’t look like much from the outside in the sense that it was a little on the petite side, but the reviews were great and the coffee was allegedly some of the best in the village and that was good enough for you. You were greeted with the smell of freshly baked goods and ground coffee, which was welcoming enough before you even saw the bright smile of the girl behind the counter. Your eyes drifted over the selection of pastries, each one more delicious looking than the last and you knew that you were going to have a hard time choosing just one. You knew you’d have to make a decision, though, suddenly aware of the small line that had seemingly materialised right out of thin air behind you and while you were sure that these people were more accustomed to a slower pace of life, the city girl in you, who was so used to living life in the fast lane, didn’t want to keep these good people waiting while you deliberated. You’d go with your usual and that would be that.
Chris’s attention was fixed out of the large glass windows at the front of the shop, watching as people milled in the street and went about their daily business. It was something he quite often did, whether he was here or back home in New York. There was something oddly soothing about watching the world go by, he thought, and occasionally he’d catch something that would quirk his lips up into a smile, like the sight before him now of a rather large gull in the process of committing larceny against what he could only assume was an unsuspecting tourist. Their sandwich was held high above their head while their free hand attempted to shoo the bird away with little success. He chuckled quietly to himself then, not least because the gulls seemed to get more brazen with each year that passed and he was sure that one of these days he’d see someone’s lunch get snatched right out of their hand by the feathered menaces.
Chris had no reason at all to believe as he stood in that line that everything was about to change. Why would he? The day had started like any other. He’d picked up his groceries in this store more times than he could count, he’d waited in a line just like this one for his coffee and Danish and yet, in that moment, something as innocuous as a woman’s voice would bring feelings that he thought he was done with, and memories he thought had strayed out of his mind for good, flooding back to the surface. But it wasn’t just any woman’s voice, no, it wasn’t as detached and neutral as that. It was your voice; a voice he hadn’t heard in nine years and it was something as simple as a coffee order, an order that he now knew to have remained the same since the day you’d first met at Boston College all those years ago, that blew the dam wide open and every word the two of you had ever spoken, from day one to the last thing you ever said to him, came rushing back.
The sound of Chris’s voice calling your name was something you never thought you’d hear out loud again. It was a voice you’d only heard in your dreams for many years after he walked out of your life, but even that had faded beyond memory to where you weren’t a hundred percent certain that you’d be able to remember what it sounded like anymore. And yet, in the middle of a tiny supermarket in Rowayton, you heard him clear as day with his tongue rolling around the syllables of your name with the same fondness, even after all this time and it was like you’d never forgotten the sound at all.
*
Autumn was beginning to make her presence felt in Boston. The palette on campus had shifted from a spectrum of vivid greens to shades of deep russet, amber, ochre and vermillion; but even above the changing leaves, the turning of the calendar brought a slight chill to the air that had you reaching for your jacket on a morning as you left your dorm.
Today was no different. The temperature had dropped again overnight as November creeped ever closer and it was chilly enough that you had to draw your coat tighter around you as you walked across campus towards class. Your brisk pace had bought you enough time to make a stop at the coffee stand just outside of Campion where your first class of the day was being held. There was a decent selection on offer, but it wasn’t enough to sway you from ordering your usual.
You rooted around your backpack for your wallet while the barista prepared your coffee and grabbed you your cinnamon roll, unaware of the new presence to your right, before handing over the money and taking the coffee and pastry bag from the young man’s hands.
“Coffee and cinnamon roll, eh? Now that’s the breakfast of champions.”
You turned your head towards the source of the voice, lips quirking into a small smile at the sight of the stranger beside you who looked to be not much older than you were, incredibly tall and broad for his apparent age but not for his height. He was grinning at you with a fullness that made his eyes crinkle at the corners and gave him a unique kind of softness.
“My mom would disagree,” you replied with a smirk. “If she found out I was having this for breakfast she’d be in her car so fast and dragging my ass back to Hartford.”
He laughed at that, loud and bright with his head tipped back slightly before running a hand through his dark brown hair that was shorter on the sides but had the faintest hint of a curl at the longer strands on top.
“I won’t tell her if you don’t.”
“Oh, I’m definitely not telling her,” you grinned as you swung your backpack over one shoulder. “So looks like you’re sworn to secrecy.”
You studied him for a brief moment, with the way he was still grinning at you and his eyes that seemed to sparkle behind his dark lashes before your brain gently reminded you that you, in fact, had somewhere you needed to be. “Well, I hate to impose a vow of silence on you like some sort of mafia boss and then immediately split but I uh I gotta head to class.”
“No problem at all and hey, your secret is safe with me. In fact, I’ve forgotten already. What were we talking about?”
There it was again, that smile of his that made you want to stay rooted right where you were standing and look at it all day, but class beckoned and so you gave an awkward wave of your hand and a soft laugh before you turned and headed into the building behind you without another glance back. If you had you’d have seen the stranger from the coffee stand watch until you’d disappeared from view, with that smile still on his face.
This little routine of yours would continue over the course of the next few weeks. Every Tuesday morning, at around 8:45am, you’d find yourself stood at that coffee stand outside of Campion to get your coffee and cinnamon roll, and every Tuesday morning, at around 8:46am, the tall stranger would appear beside you with his kind eyes and his bright smile. You’d exchange a ‘hello’ and a friendly grin and you’d laugh more often than not too while you made pleasant small talk before you both said your goodbyes and went to your respective classes, though you would always leave first and he would watch you go until you’d disappeared into the building.
It was mid-November, now, and the campus of Boston College was firmly in autumn’s frigid grasp. The temperatures continued to drop, seemingly overnight, which had you bundled up in your hat and scarf and the trees had shed their branches of leaves, crunching underfoot with the slight frost as you made your way towards Campion. Your hands were shoved deep into your coat pockets to ward off the gnawing chill and you were looking forward to being able to warm them around your coffee cup.
You approached the stand as normal, rooting through your backpack for your wallet ready to order.
“Hey!”
You looked up, your features fixed in a state of mild confusion while you looked for the source of the voice you recognised but couldn’t quite place. It was then you saw him though, all bright eyed and bushy tailed with a medium coffee and pastry bag held up in one of his large hands as if on display. He was grinning at you and cocked his head, beckoning you over with the wordless gesture.
“Hey, yourself,” you smiled as you approached. “What’s this then?” You tilted your head slightly at the items in his hand as he offered them to you.
“Breakfast of champions.”
Your eyebrow quirked as you took the coffee from him before taking a tentative sip, smiling while the warm liquid slid down your throat.
“You got my coffee order right.”
“It wasn’t hard,” he smirked. “You order the same thing every week and if you open that little paper bag I think you’ll find a cinnamon roll in there.”
Sure enough, as you opened the bag you were greeted with the sight of a perfectly formed cinnamon roll and you couldn’t help the grin that sparked at your lips and spread the full width of your face.
“I don’t order the same thing every week.”
“You do,” he replied with a laugh. “Every Tuesday for the last 5 weeks you’ve come to this coffee stand and ordered a medium Americano with half and half and a cinnamon roll and every Tuesday for the last 5 weeks I’ve been meaning to ask you your name.”
Your face flushed warm at that, not only at his words but at the sure little smile he was giving you and the way his eyes were sparkling. In fact, now that you were really looking at him properly, you were knocked back a bit by the perpetual kindness that seemed to rest in them and you couldn’t help but notice how they really were the perfect shade of hazel, like a forest with a deep bark heart surrounded by leaves that were every shade of green. You’d been quiet a little too long though and so you took a settling sip of coffee to give you enough time to find your voice again and tell him your name.
“Nice to meet you,” he smiled as he offered you his hand, which was large and warm as you shook it.
“And who should I thank for the coffee?” you asked.
His smile grew into a grin then, the kind that you’d noticed over the course of the last few weeks that made his eyes crinkle and happiness radiate from him, before simply replying:
“Chris.”
*
“Chris?”
It was as if time had stood still in that little Market in Rowayton, where your surroundings become a still-frame and there’s nothing but static in your ears. You’d often thought about what it would have been like to see him again. Those first couple of years after he’d left Boston College had you imagining all kinds of scenarios, much like the one you were in right now where you’d bump into each other in a supermarket or a pharmacy, anywhere really, but now that you were living it, seeing it, breathing it, there was nothing you could have conjured up in your imagination that would have prepared you for what it would really feel like to see him again. If you were to be completely honest, you were glad that your coffee and cinnamon roll were still on the top of the counter because you were certain that they would have fallen right out of your hands and onto the Market floor.
He abandoned his position in the line then, as if you speaking his name was a call to him, and maybe it was, on some level, but the truth and simplicity of it was that you were suspended in a state of pure disbelief and even in the short time it took for him to close the distance between you both, you were still yet to move and fix your features to something more neutral.
“Hey.”
It was a simple greeting that he gave you and logically you knew that there wasn’t really any tangible meaning behind that single word he spoke and yet there was something about the look in his eyes and the warmth in the smile he gave you.
“It’s been a while.”
“It has,” you replied, finally finding your voice. “You look, you look good.”
It wasn’t a lie either, he did look good. The tall college boy you remembered, who was just a little too slight for his height, had filled out; you could tell that just from the way the fabric of his t-shirt stretched across the broad plains of his chest and strained around his biceps, and he was no longer clean shaven, which was something that had always made him look quite baby-faced. Instead he was sporting a neatly trimmed goatee and while he had kept his hair short on the sides, just like you’d remembered it, it was longer on the top than it had been in college and the curls were sweeping in a way that reminded you of the waves just beyond the Market door. He looked older, yes, which is exactly what you would have expected in the nine years since you’d last seen him but his eyes were still exactly the same, sparkling and full of mischief , yet still soft, perhaps even softer than before on account of the faint lines around them drawn by time’s fair hand.
“So do you,” he grinned. “You cut your hair.”
“I did,” you looked down as your face flushed with warmth, unsure exactly what you were supposed to say to him.
It was something you’d thought about during those imagined scenarios where you’d magically bump into each other again and you’d thought about all of the things that you would say to him. You would tell him about how much you’d cried when he left you behind to live out his boyhood dream and how angry you were that he didn’t want you to be a part of that, how it felt like all the plans you’d ever talked about were nothing more than empty words and how hurt that had made you feel. You felt like you at least deserved that, especially given that it was never just a casual fling between you both. After all, you’d been practically inseparable for two years. You’d been inseparable ever since he’d said those three words that mean so much. But now that he was here in front of you, all those words that had swirled around in your head and in your chest like a hurricane for so long, dissipated into nothing and you found yourself clutching at straws to find something, anything, to say.
Chris could sense this though. Of course he could because he was Chris and he had always been so in tune with you and your emotions and the fact that he was still able to read you so well was both a comfort and a knife in your chest, and while he internally grimaced at the fact he was having to fall back on using small talk between you both, he felt like it was what you needed in the moment. He wouldn’t expect things to go back to how they were after all this time, he couldn’t, and so he started with something simple, something he knew you would be able give him an answer to.
“So, what brings you to sunny Rowayton?”
“I could ask you the same question,” you replied.
“Ah,” Chris grinned, trying to keep the mood light. “See I asked you first and also, I live here so therefore the ‘question answering’ responsibility falls back to you.”
You couldn’t help but laugh at that, at both his words and the silly little expression he was wearing and despite all the years that sat between you both like a void and all of your hurt that was held within it, it all seemed to briefly melt away and in that moment it was like you were back at that little coffee stand outside of Campion.
“I didn’t realise this was an interrogation. Wait is this one of those little weird cult towns? Should I be worried?”
Chris knew by the little smirk you were wearing that you meant no malice behind your words and so he responded by sucking in air through his teeth before speaking again with one of those smiles that went all the way up to his eyes.
“Watch it, Pickle.”
Your stomach fell right into your shoes in that moment, that name he used only for you slipped from his lips like it was the easiest thing in the world for him to do, like he’d never stopped calling you it and like it hadn’t been nine years since you’d last spoke a word to one another. Chris knew all this of course and he didn’t need to rely on intuition either because he could see every emotion written all over your face.
“I’m sorry,” he said quietly on the exhale of a breath. “I um.. Force of habit, I guess.”
“It’s okay,” you muttered, not quite meeting his eyes. “Although not exactly ‘habit’, it’s been how long?”
Chris winced at that, the reality of how he left things between you both slapping him in the face and he was filled with the guilt that he’d spent almost a decade pushing out of his chest and shoving into the darkest corner of his memory where he would hope it would rest undisturbed. He knew that you were angry at him for leaving things the way he did, how could you not be? After all, he was the one who had broken your heart and left you in Boston, but it was never as simple as that, even back then there was so much he should have said but that was something he wouldn’t realise until much later when it was too late to repair the damage. The thinly veiled hurt in your eyes and the way your mouth was downturned was demonstrative of that fact.
“I know,” he all but whispered. “It just-“
“It’s fine, Chris. Can we just forget about it? Please?”
He nodded, watching with a quiet kind of sadness on his features as you turned to finally pick your coffee and cinnamon roll up off the counter before he cleared his throat softly to continue speaking.
“You never did say what brought you into town.”
You took a sip of coffee to give yourself long enough to settle the thundering in your chest before answering him, because for all your heart felt like it was about to burst from all the hurt you’d managed to hide away up until now, there was also a weird sense of nostalgia that came with seeing him and hearing his voice again, and even though he’d shattered your heart completely when he decided he no longer wanted you in his life, your mother had raised you right and you knew the proper thing to do was to indulge him in a little small talk, even if for nothing more than old time’s sake.
“Just here for the weekend,” you replied. “Work has been nuts lately and I needed some time away from home.”
Chris shuffled on his feet for a moment as you spoke while his eyes darted between you and the door that would lead to the outside world and the possibility of the two of you parting once more. It was an unexpected pull that he felt in his chest at that thought, you reappearing in his life out of the blue only to slip out of it just as suddenly by doing something as simple as walking out of that supermarket back out into the wide world. For nine years he’d thought about where you were, what you were doing, if you were okay, if you were happy and with each year that passed without seeing your face or hearing your voice, he’d resigned himself to the fact that you were lost to him, drifting out there in the seas of life never to see you again. He didn’t know why you’d suddenly come back to him now, whether by some stroke of luck or twist of fate, although Chris couldn’t have cared less which one it was. All he cared about was the fact that you were here at all and it was an opportunity that he was sure he wasn’t going to waste. He didn’t even know for certain that you would want to give him any of your time after what had happened when he left Boston, but he wanted to at least give you what he should have all those years ago and that was an explanation and an opportunity for you to tell him how his actions had made you feel.
“Hey, what are you up to this afternoon?”
“Not much,” you shrugged. “I was just going to sit on Bayley Beach and enjoy the nice weather.”
“Would you mind some company? No pressure, of course, I understand if you… I understand if you’d rather not want to spend any time with me.”
You exhaled then and Chris’s shoulders visibly sagged, bracing himself for your polite refusal, but your response was not one that he was expecting and truthfully, it wasn’t one that you had expected either.
“Honestly?” you started, getting swept up in the nostalgia of seeing him again before the rational part of your brain could catch up. “That would be nice.”
“Great,” he smiled in what you could see was pure relief. “Do you mind if I grab a coffee before we head out?”
“Sure,” you replied. “I’ll wait outside for you.”
You headed out the door and were sure to stand where Chris could see you, knowing him well enough to realise that he’d be worrying, at least on some level, that you’d slip off into the crowd. You’d never do that to him, of course, even after everything, because while he had broken your heart, he was also the first person you’d ever truly loved and when you’d put the pieces back together, you couldn’t help but keep a part of him wrapped up amongst the tape and string holding those pieces together while you healed. It was in doing that that you understood that he would always have a special place in your heart and honestly? You were kind of okay with that because while the ending hadn’t exactly been perfect, the two years you’d spent together were and you wouldn’t have changed that time for anything.
*
You weren’t sure what exactly had possessed you to let Chris talk you into venturing off campus and out in the early-February snow to get burgers at Eagle’s Deli but you were cursing those sparkling eyes and that roguish grin of his for wearing down your sensibilities as you righted yourself after what felt like the hundredth near-fall. It was slushy underfoot, the kind that’s a twisted ankle or sprained knee waiting to happen and while you’d dressed weather appropriately in your winter boots and heavy parka, you were still very newborn lamb-like in your movements which was amusing Chris to no end.
“Come on, slowpoke,” he called from up ahead as he grinned at you over his shoulder.
“Not all of us can be hockey prodigies and thrive in this kind of inclement weather,” you grumbled, shuffling slowly so as not to slip.
Chris laughed as he came back towards you with confident and purposeful steps, surprising you when he offered his arm for you to loop yours through.
“Now, I’m no expert in geography or meteorology but it snows in Hartford, no?”
He was grinning at you, the kind of grin that you had to fight with every fibre of your being not to reciprocate because you’d already committed to your grumpy act and you couldn’t have him thinking he’d cracked you already, even if he, in fact, had.
“Yes,” you stressed. “But I don’t make a habit of going out in it to get burgers like a crazy person.”
The cackle you received from him in reply was loud and a little wild and you couldn’t help but be completely captivated by the way his cheeks were ruddy from the cold and the snowflakes clinging to the curls on top of his head and long eyelashes. Tuesday morning coffees with him outside of Campion before class had turned into coffees in actual cafes during free periods and getting lunch together. It was even dragging your body out into the cold to the Alumni Stadium with your blanket and your thermos to watch Chris play with the BC Eagles because you couldn’t say no to that damn smile and those damn eyes and even now, as you looked at him taking in the scenery along the Chestnut Hill Reservoir pathway, you knew that they were going to be the death of you.
“It’s really pretty along here,” he spoke, more quietly than before; softer too. “You wouldn’t think we were in the middle of Boston.”
“Yeah, it’s a nice walk,” you agreed before shooting him a smirk and a look. “Would be nice in the spring sunshine too.”
“Yeah, yeah. I get it, Little Miss Chilly.”
“I don’t know what you have against being warm, Kreider. Warm is good, warm is nice-“
You shrieked as your feet went out from under you, courtesy of a patch of black ice hidden under slushy snow and you squeezed your eyes shut in preparation for the impact of your ass hitting the cold, hard ground. But it never came.
“It’s okay,” Chris spoke reassuringly, one hand tight around your bicep while his other arm was curled around your waist, holding you upright. “I’ve got you.”
You opened your eyes then to be met with Chris’s looking right at you, all moss and bark and warm. He was smiling at you but it was different to the easy grin he usually wore around you, this was softer somehow and all rational thought was replaced by one of those monkeys playing the cymbals. For the briefest of seconds, and for reasons completely unknown to you, the monkey tried to take the wheel and the idea of kissing him right there, in the middle of the pathway that had made an attempt on your life, flashed into your head.
Maybe it was the snow and how perfect and picturesque the scene around you felt? Maybe it was the fact he’d just saved you from slipping? But the reality of it was that those eyes and that smile held some sort of power over you that you couldn’t yet fully understand. You shook your head quickly, if only to take back control of the situation before you did something more embarrassing than almost falling on your ass.
“Thanks,” you muttered as you regained your composure. “This damn pathway.”
“I’ve got an idea,” Chris grinned as he turned so his back was to you and stooped slightly. “Hop on.”
“You can’t be serious?”
“I never joke about piggy-backs,” he replied in a faux solemn tone with the face to match. “Come on, we’ll get you to the Deli in one piece one way or another.”
And that was how you ended up with your arms looped around Chris’s shoulders and his strong hands holding the backs of your legs as he carried you on his back to Eagle’s Deli.
Not twenty minutes later, the pair of you were shuffling into a booth as you shed your coats, gloves and scarves, Chris grinning at you while you blew on your fingers in an attempt to restore warmth into them.
“See, told you I’d get you here in one piece.”
You scoffed at him and shot a playful glance across the table separating you both.
“You’re not human, that is the only explanation for how you’re able to walk in that,” you nodded towards the window where the snow was still falling to illustrate your point before continuing, “and not fall flat on your face.”
“Or my ass,” he added with a grin.
“Hey, that never actually happened!”
Chris’s face split into an even bigger smile at your little protest and the pout that had formed on your lips and while the gentle teasing between you was simply a part of the dynamic of your friendship, Chris would have been lying if he didn’t admit that the reason he did it so often was because you always looked so adorable trying to rebut him.
“No, you’re right. It didn’t,” he mused with a smirk, not needing to remind you that it was him who had come to your rescue judging from the unimpressed look you were throwing his way.
“All I’m saying is that we could’ve just gone to Hillside for lunch.”
“But the burgers here are superior,” he countered, smiling at you. “And you got to enjoy a beautiful walk in the snow with me so who’s the real winner he- mmpf!”
Chris was cut off by your damp mitten hitting his face, brows knitting into a slight frown before laughing at the proud grin you wore at the accuracy of your throw.
“That wasn’t very nice,” he said with mock hurt.
“Maybe I’m not a very nice person.”
“I don’t believe that for one second,” he replied, but there was no teasing in his tone this time, only the kind of sincerity that had your face flushing warm and had you reaching for the menu to hide behind under the pretence of looking at the choices available.
He couldn’t help but smile at the awkwardness with which you were trying and failing to hide from him but soon joined you in picking up a menu and perusing it, despite already knowing what he was going to order.
It was a few moments before the waitress came over and while neither of you spoke the silence between you both wasn’t exactly awkward even though Chris knew there was something about his last words that had had some kind of effect on you. He was right, of course, because despite the fact that you’d had hold of this menu for a good couple of minutes already, you hadn’t actually looked at a single thing on it even though you’d made such a show of doing just that and now that Chris had ordered, a cheeseburger with fries and a chocolate milkshake, the waitress was looking at you expectantly. Unable to form any kind of rational thought under that kind of pressure, you found yourself simply saying “same” and soon enough it was just you and Chris at the table once more.
Chris was looking at you like he had something he wanted to say and the unreadable expression on his face had you feeling somewhat uneasy for reasons you hadn’t quite ascertained but probably understood on some level if you let yourself think about it for more than a second. He could feel the nervous energy radiating from you though and so rather than pursue his current train of thought, he picked a topic of conversation that was much safer and knew you’d be comfortable with: school.
You talked about your classes and upcoming assignments while he listened intently and you returned the favour while he spoke earnestly about hockey and his own academic workload. It was so easy to settle into a natural rhythm with Chris whenever you talked, as if you’d been having conversations like these for years when in fact it had only been a few months of knowing him and a few weeks of meeting up like this. None of that seemed to really matter though, not when the conversation was good and the chemistry felt right and especially not when it was clear that you were both on the same page when it came to your friendship. There was something else there though, something that was beyond being purely platonic, that much was becoming crystal clear and yet despite the ease in which it was to talk to him about literally anything else, there was something that had you stumbling over the thought of bringing it up.
You were saved from falling down that particular rabbit hole by the reappearance of the waitress, two burgers that were big enough to have your eyes popping out of your head in her hands. Chris chuckled from behind his milkshake at the look of disbelief on your face as your burger was set down in front of you before he reached for the bottle of ketchup between you both. You took the top of your burger bun off, nose immediately wrinkling at the sight of four pickle slices resting on top of the lettuce and tomato.
“Ugh, I forgot to ask for no pickles.”
Chris looked up from where he was squirting ketchup onto his bun, his eyes meeting yours briefly as his face split into a grin.
“You’re not one of those people, are you?”
“Shut up,” you grumbled as you began to pick the offensive green menaces off your food and set them at the edge of your plate. “I like what I like.”
Chris reached across and began to transfer the pickles from your plate to his burger, smiling widely at you as he did so.
“Well, I might have found a solution to this particular pickle you find yourself in,” he chuckled at the exaggerated groan and roll of your eyes at the expense of his joke. “You see, I love pickles.”
“You love anything,” you countered. “You’re like a human dumpster.”
“Hurtful,” he replied as he clutched at his chest. “But also true so I’ll allow it.”
You picked up a fry from your plate and threw it at him, immediately filled with equal parts surprise and a strange sense of awe as he reflexively moved and caught it in his mouth.
“You really are a dumpster,” you grinned as you shook your head at the proud little smile he was giving you.
“I am, so how about you don’t ask for no pickles on your burgers and you just give ‘em to me instead?”
It was easy to agree to his proposal, not least because his logic actually made a lot of sense when you thought about it, but mostly because of the way his eyes were sparkling and the way his smile made you feel warm all over, like the falling snow and freezing air outside didn’t exist, like your fingers and toes hadn’t been numbed by the biting cold during your walk here, like there had only ever been sunshine. It was also why you’d agreed to let him carry you back through the snow to your dorm, his large hands hooked around the backs of your thighs and your arms draped over his shoulders much like during the walk to the diner. You’d protested initially, of course, not wanting to burden Chris or put you both at risk of an injury due to the slippery conditions, but he wasn’t about to be convinced otherwise and remained unperturbed by the weather, gently reminding you that he had in fact got you to the diner in one piece in the first instance at your objections.
Truthfully, despite the mild embarrassment you felt at your complete ineptitude when it came to walking on ice, you couldn’t help but be more than a little impressed at Chris’s sheer strength. You wondered then, about how hard he must work in the gym to develop such a strong core because while you knew from first-hand experience how slippery it was underfoot, he didn’t falter once throughout the entire walk home and with the way he was talking amiably about his favourite places in the city he called home, and how his hands were holding your legs so surely and securely, you felt safe as houses with your chest pressed into his back – even with your thick coats and layers of winter clothing between you.
He walked with you on his back right up to the entrance of your dorm, setting you down carefully on the pathway that looked to have been newly shovelled before he turned to face you, his cheeks once again ruddy from the cold and your walk home.
“I don’t want to say ‘I told you so’ twice in one day,” he grinned, sucking air in through his teeth and shaking his head slightly. “But didn’t I say that I’d get you home safely?”
“So what if you were right twice?” you rebutted with a playful nudge. “It’s not like it’s ever gonna happen again.”
“Watch it, Pickle. I’ll have you know that I’m right about a lot of things.”
“Pickle?” you barked out a laugh, watching as Chris walked slowly backwards down the path away from you with that smile still on his face. “What kind of a name is that? I don’t even like pickles.”
“I know,” he called out into the growing distance between you both. “But I do, remember?”
You shook your head at him, chuckling to yourself with a smile on your lips that mirrored his as you watched him.
“See ya Tuesday then, Trash Can!” you hollered.
His raucous cackle cut through the silent flurry as he continued to walk slowly backwards, his grin clear as day even through the falling snowflakes.
“Trash Can! Fucking, Trash Can! Man, you got some serious chirps, Pickle. Can you throw hands too? I mean, I know you suck at keeping your balance on the ice but we could use an enforcer! I could push you around?”
“Anytime, anywhere!” you laughed, watching him with a grin until he had waved his goodbye and turned away before he retreated into the heavy snow.
Part ii
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