#and yet. im still nauseous trying to eat more.

[narutomaki]

bro I hate it here....

[jolalibrary]

iii - just say that you need me

javier peña x f!reader | chapter three of late night texts

summary: It's the year 2000. Javi is minding his own business on the porch of his pop's ranch when a text from an unknown number vibrates his phone. The only problem is, no one knows he has a phone and no one has his number.

chapter warnings: fluff. flirting. continuous romcom vibes. an: the amount of people who look forward to tuesday's makes me grin. for those who are new, i don't have a tag list. wordcount: 2.6k.

text key: bold is you/reader | italics is javi

You should say yes more. 

to you or to my pop 

To your pop. I know you wouldn’t say no to me. 

you sure about that 

I’d bet my next paycheck on it. 

for you I’ll say yes to him once

Good. Now we have that out the way answer what the worst date you’ve ever been on was

shit. going with the hard hitting questions today

Just getting you to share, open up

probably when I first came back from colombia someone from my town where I live

They a bad host, bad dinner guest? Gimme more Javi cmon. You said you’d entertain me.

baby, im trying to entertain you but you told me to stop

I said stop flirting while I’m eating and answer the question

she wouldn’t stop asking me for details on escobar

Ah. Yeah I can see how discussing that would be a mood killer.

yeah didn’t wanna go in the first place either

So if we ever meet, do not ask about your Colombian experience. Got it. 

you can ask, doesn’t mean I’d tell you 

Ha! Good to know. I wouldn’t though. If you wanna tell me, I think you will. 

thanks, what’s yours?

Well I was stood up when we first began texting. Think that’s pretty bad, enough.  

he’s an idiot because only an idiot would stand you up 

You haven’t seen me, remember 

statement still stands 

Stop being so charming.

you still eating

No.

then I can flirt

Most of the time, he ignores the mail. 

Lets it pile up on the entryway dresser until his pop makes another reference to it. Unlike his pop, he is never in a rush to open them, knowing no good comes from the contents inside.

The same people contact him. The bureau being one. Sipping his coffee as he glares at the usual federal sign on the envelope, wondering how many more times they’ll try asking him to come in for a chat.

This afternoon, though, the envelope isn’t brilliant white, but rather off-cream. 

Peeling a bit, thumb digging in as he drags it across, the ripping sound filling the small space. It’s only as he opens it does he realise who it’s from. 

His eyes stare at the letter, taking in the number—the one in triple digits with his phone provider logo in the top corner. The number which is making him feel sick, the more he stares at it over and over again. 

“Fuck.” 

Folding it, he swallows. 

Shit.

Motherfucker.

He stuffs it away, tucks it under magazines and other leaflets, as though by keeping it out of sight, it’ll go away.

But it's there.

The edge of it sticking out. He even blinks, and the number is there, tattooed on the back of his eyes. Taunting him—the price of speaking to you. 

It's not that Javi can't afford it. He’s had a chunk of money sitting, gaining dust, in his account since he came home. Only able to force portions on his pop as and when he felt he could get away with it. 

But this was a lot. More than he’d bargained on, more than he even knew he could spend simply by replying to someone. 

There's a chance your day won't be done just yet—his day beginning far earlier than yours even began—but he pulls his phone out, fingers pressing into the keys.

so apparently talking to you is costly  Oh, you've had your bill. I feel I should ask whether I'm worth it? 

It’s instant—the way you make the nauseous feeling vanish. How you force it to slide back to where it came from, and in its place, warmth spreads. All accompanied by a smile on his lips. 

He doesn’t want to show his hand too much. Better at concealing, playing the long game when standing face to face.

This requires a skill he hasn't yet gained. Simply focusing on not sounding ridiculous, or over the top. Unnecessary. Like some of the desperate men, he's happened to arrest over the years.

Even if his chest flutters and his mind screams, of course. Wants to ask, isn't it obvious? But he chooses something easier, uncomplicated.  

yes just didn’t expect it  I had my phone bill the other day. I get it.  did your heart fall out your ass No. But I will be eating ramen for the next month.  We can stop texting so much though, if it’s costing too much.  would rather my bill be double than stop talking to you  You’re such a flirt. 

He drains the rest of his mug, leaning back in the chair—hearing the sound of approaching boots from his Pop’s side of the house. Fingers typing, all hurried and determined 

Don’t forget I’m out for drinks and a movie.  I remember don’t worry 

He remembers as soon as you remind him.

Realising it's the reason you're able to reply right now. You’d been telling him almost every night for the past week. All worried, as though hating the idea of breaking the nightly tradition the two of you have concocted. 

In a way, Javi should have assumed the bill would be high with the number of texts the two of you have been sending. How frequent it’s been—how nice it’s been. 

Nice things do usually come with a tag. 

you decided on sweet or salty  Verdict is still out. You sure about waiting to do the crossword?  if we don’t do it tonight, we’ll do two the next day  You sure? more than sure have a great time 

“Y’sure you don’t fancy coming with me, Jav?”

He thinks of it, tapping his phone against his palm as he thinks of your text the other night. The one about him trying to say yes—something curling in his chest as he realises he’ll be alone, alone if he doesn’t. 

A sentiment he didn’t mind on paper, but now confronted with, rather despised. 

 “Alright, yeah. Can—can I get changed?” 

Mid-grabbing his own jacket, his Pop turns, surprise knitted into his wiry brows. “Y-yeah, sure, I’ll….”

“I’ll meet you at the truck?” 

And he does. All without complaint. Plaid shirt on, a smile being forced as soon as the truck pulls off the drive. He doesn't even complain about the radio choice or the fact his Pop always takes the main roads when he could cut down the dusty roads. 

When he arrives, he doesn’t mind how many hands he shakes, one after the next. He tries not to grit his teeth as each person says the usual things, they’re proud, he’s grown, when is he settling down? Each time he laughs it off. Spanish rolling from his tongue as he smiles and winks. 

It’s performative. 

The old version of him coming out from a hidden place. 

Always there, ready, as his hand shakes another person's hand—one he’s already forgotten the name of. Someone he’s sure he’s met before, too. 

It always happens. The small-town boy who took down drug cartels has become somewhat of a celebrity tale. A thing to gawk at when he visits the store. Chucho's boy who ran away to Colombia and now hides away on the ranch.

For the amount of time it's been, he'd foolishly expected it to die down—but it hasn't. Not enough, anyway. 

After enough time, he excuses himself, sneaking down the corridor near the bathroom. Leaning against the wall, fingers trying to rub out a knot that hasn’t yet appeared in his skull. The one pulsing, threatening to build behind his eye.

He’s unsure what he wants to do, what he needs. Retrieving his phone, just clicking around, before finding himself on your texts—feeling better for it.

Reading them back, smirking at some, smiling wide at others. A shape forming in his head, little details he’d amassed to make up you. A person he was pretty sure meant more to him than evening company, but it seemed tricky to delve too far into it. 

That is until his phone vibrated. 

Just wanted to tell you I miss you. Even if that’s weird. 

His fingers hover over the keys, a retort quick—there in his touch.

Slowly he presses it out, hearing the click even over the bar’s music as he double and triple taps each button he wants, until it forms what it is he thought:

not weird, you drunk I’m tipsy, not drunk. Still mean it. good cause i miss you too

you never said how the movie was

As someone who flies a lot, I shouldn’t have watched it.

that bad

Will probably have to hold the hand of my seat mate the next time work makes me fly. 

I’m sure they won’t mind 

Depends on the length of my nails I guess. 

some people don’t mind nails clawing in certain situations

You trying to tell me you like nails down your back, Javi? 

if the situation is right, yes 

What about in your hair?

now who’s being a tease 

I’m learning so much tonight. 

and your putting images in my head 

I’d love to know what I look like in it, since you haven’t seen me.

beautiful, you look beautiful 

My face is burning. 

your day been ok

Yeah, was fine. Work has been rough. 

you want to talk about it

Not really, it’s stupid anyway. Plus, would rather do the crosswords and hang with you.

you do have two to make up to me

Best get giving me the clues then, Javi. 

four letters, begins with f 

Is this a Javi crossword or a real crossword 

baby, cmon 

Fuck?

fork 

someone’s in a dirty mood

You’re such a dick. Give me a real clue. 

There's not a point in time where he can track how his thoughts went from nothing to you. But, he thinks about you all the time.

Has been doing so constantly for the last two days, at least—the occasional vibrations from his phone making his lips twitch and his mind wander. Javi’s brain exploding with wonder at what your reply could say. 

Sometimes, he tries not to check immediately. Test—see—how long he can go before he does. It’s not been going well.

An excitement dashing through his veins that fills his chest, warms his neck and makes a ridiculous grin appear (one he’s caught accidentally in the mirror).

The back and forth has been quicker—for as costly as it was—outside of routines and work. His fingers have even improved in the speed of tapping the same key to get one single letter.

Each text makes him feel like he learns a new nugget about you, gathering a new piece of the puzzle—an idea of you forming in front of his eyes. One he likes—craves more of—wishing for other tidbits similar to how you like coffee after breakfast, not before. 

That you don’t care for birthday cake, but love cookies. 

morning hermosa hope you managed to grab the coffee

He doesn’t expect to hear from you.

Remembering that your time management in the morning isn’t to be admired. You are someone who is either awake too early or too late—never in the middle.

But, when he finishes. Sweat clinging to every muscle, he’s surprised to find nothing.

Even a little disappointed.

finished up for the day, unsure whether to lounge around on the porch or push the boat out and lounge in the barn

You’ve become such a part of his day, his shoulders sink when he steps out of the shower to see nothing.

His heart slips down inside his chest, resting unsteadily on his ribs as he checks and checks. His fingers fluff his hair as he runs his fingers through it before finding a strand, twisting, and twisting.

I’m probably worrying about nothing but just let me know you’re ok

A part of him had worried this would happen.

That he would allow the attachment to grow—ropes and threads wrapping around him—and it would be taken from under his feet.

He has a history of becoming hooked—usually combining itself with his need to help, to make someone’s day better, easier.

And on paper, he knew it was odd. To care for someone he hadn’t ever even met. But he cares all the same.

Copious amounts, in fact.

Far past an, ‘I miss you’—something else entirely, not that he’d admit as much.

hermosa I’m really getting worried now

He doesn’t want to call.

Doesn’t want to invade your privacy, your space. But it’s knotting inside of him. The things he’s seen, rushing to the surface, pecking away, making him overthink.

His mind conjures ideas that you’re hurt, wounded. That you’re crying, alone. Each flash of his past has the curated blob-of-a-face he’s created for you, written over it.

His fingers twitch, hand moving to his pocket before remembering there are no cigarettes to be found there. He quit. Ages ago. Felt better for it—for the most part—until now.

Now when all he wants is to focus on the taste, the way smoke swirls with the warm Texas air—

Hey, I'm so sorry, I had a bad day. Just didn’t check my phone.  shit hermosa, you scared me.  almost called you.  Really? yeah  Would you? what call you Yeah?

[Dialing number…]

you declined  I did

His heart sinks, crashes, and plummets. 

Then a new vibration, one that travels down his fingers to his wrist, suddenly staring at an instruction: Give me your landline number, be cheaper. For both of us. 

Glancing into the living room, he taps the number in for you. Hating each precious second he wastes by having to delete a letter that should be a number.

Pushing the chair back, hearing it screech as he hovers. Nervousness thumps through him, making him shake, vibrate. 

Staring, willing the phone to ring.

Even as he tries to collect himself, his mind has already begun running away from him. Hearing his pulse thump in his ear, thump, thump—

And then it’s ringing—you’re ringing. 

His voice shouts out he’ll get it as he picks up the phone from the hook. 

“Javi… that you?”

Grinning, he laughs, light and airy. “Hi. Yeah, it’s me.” 

Silence blankets his ears and the air, thumb circling a knot in his forehead. 

Smiling, he changes the phone to his other ear. “Knew you’d sound pretty. You have a nice voice.” 

“Shut up, Javi. I’ve said three words.”

“And a few more.”

He hears you suck in a breath as heat rushes to his ears, feeling the edges of his lips curl into a smile.

“You wanna talk about it or talk about something else?” 

He hears you take a breath another breath. Different this time, all accompanied by a shuffling sound from your end.

“Something else. If that… that’s okay?”

“Yeah, sure. Alright, lemme… lemme think for a second—“

You clear your throat, “You have a nice voice, too, by the way.”

Pausing, he bites the inside of his cheek. “Like you imagined?”

“Better, honestly.”

“I could have called you. I have this additional thing on our plan—so my Pop could call. When I was away.” 

“From when you were in Colombia?”

Rubbing the bridge of his nose, he nodded. “Yeah…” 

“Well, if this conversation goes well, you may get a new number to add to your phone book.” 

“That so? Who’s flirting now.”

You laugh, sweet—fluttering its gorgeous wings down the phone to his ear as he readjusts the phone.

Dropping his voice, he turns more to the walls. “So, what you wearing, baby?”

“Oh my god, Javi.”

He doesn’t even mute his laughter, just lets it flow from him—rushing through the house. Not even caring if his Pop can hear him in the next room.

"I'm wearing nothing."

"Hermosa, you tease."

You laugh, and it's different. It's rich, and makes the room glow around him, without you even being here.

"I'm not really, I'm in a baggy t-shirt."

"Not as sexy, but I'm sure I can work with it."

You snort, "Javi, stop."

He wonders if your cheeks are warm. He hopes they are.

Leaning against the wall, he smirks, if only to himself. "I like how you say my name, Hermosa."

an: thank you so much for all being wonderful, i heart you

[wholegrainbitch]

bought myself a jar opener from ikea at the weekend while so unwell i could barely walk, reluctantly using crutches and still barely standing, and it's prompted a new wave in me of

you don't need to wait till it's Bad Enough. you don't need to wait until you're sick enough. no, it doesn't matter that you felt better yesterday, or that you might be more upright tomorrow. if you are bad TODAY, if you are struggling TODAY, or if Doing The Thing Unaided today will mean being worse tomorrow? USE THE MOBILITY AID! BUY THE MOBILITY AID! DO YOURSELF A FUCKING FAVOUR!!!

chances are, if you're living with a chronic illness, your standard for a "fine" or "good" day is most people's definition of just about struggling through a bad day. i recently heard someone compare living with my "good day" symptoms as being on the last day of the flu and deciding whether or not to struggle through the work day or stay home. my day-to-day average symptoms as having the flu. and yet every day i go to work feeling this way and never call in sick, because im used to functioning like this - AND THAT'S NOT HEALTHY! I finally saw a rheumatologist and her foremost prescription was to quit my job. in the absence of that possibility, using mobility aids on my days off will help me immensely.

the romanticisation of suffering that comes with having a disability is so fucking cruel. society has completely brainwashed so many of us into trying to live up to an able-bodied standard that will absolutely kill us in the long run. when i stand up for long periods of time, i am dizzy and unstable, my heart rate spikes, my chest hurts, my legs hurt, and i am overwhelmingly nauseous. and i live through that for ten hours a day anyway, just to keep up with my colleagues.

im saving up for a wheelchair. im doing things the "easy way". and i will quit my job whenever it's at all possible for me to do so and use that wheelchair whenever i fucking can and i will use a jar opening aid that i got from fucking ikea so i don't spend the next six hours in pain from opening a jam jar. and fuck everyone who has ever asked me if i REALLY need that brace or if i REALLY need the crutches today. fuck you and your fucking high horse. fuck capitalism and every fucking boss who has ever expected employees to slave away for barely enough to eat. fuck inspiration porn. fuck suffering for a wage, fuck dying to live, fuck 35-40 hour work weeks with unpaid breaks and fuck going home after shifts and crashing and not moving until the next one. we deserve better. use the fucking mobility aid and rest your bones, dear travellers, because i certainly fucking will be.

[caecilians]

ATTENTION MY FRIENDS (+mutuals)

im going to do a little impromptu aita/advice poll bc i need help with something. mainly this is intended for my friends and mutuals but if someone else wants to click, whatever go for it. ill put it under a readmore for brevity

my mom is so bad at washing dishes its disgusting. maybe im a control freak a little bit i know this but its just gross. she barely scrapes off only the large pieces of gunk from the dishes and then fills the water with sink (with all of the residue and smaller pieces of gunk still on everything!!!!!!!) and then adds a tiiiny amount of dish soap (as in barely any visible suds in the bath) and then washes everything with the same dish cloth (never adding more soap) (also shes bad at washing nevermind the contaminated bath. i have to rewash her dishes often because theres usually grease or pieces of food still on everything) and then drains the water and rinses everything and stacks it on the drainer. also for reference we only have a 1 basin sink and its not very large, and we have no garbage disposal.

anyway the worst part is after she washes the dishes every one of them smells fucking awful. literally i get nauseous standing near the kitchen sink (where the dish strainer is) bc the dishes (THAT WE EAT AND DRINK FROM!!!!) smell like wet cat food. i get sick thinking about eating off of them and i have to willfully not think about it. she insists she can't smell what i'm talking about.

how i do dishes is i rinse/scrub all of the gunk off/out of the dishes (trying to use as little water as possible), then dump out the drain strainer in the trash, then put a good amount of soap on a wetted sponge (until it is visibly sudsy, and reapplying if necessary) and thoroughly wash every dish while the water is off. then i rinse everything and put it all in the dish strainer.

while i offer to do dishes often and i do all of the midday dishes while mom is at work, i cannot do All the dishes because i have an aversion to meat. so its not an option for me to just do all the dishes.

she gets defensive very easily so that's why i haven't brought it up yet but idk its really really upsetting to me and we are probably wasting more water by me rewashing dishes than if she just did it my way.

[causenessus]

HI LOVELY!! good morning afternoon or evening to you! how’s your day been!! i hope you’ve eaten AND REMEMBER TO EAT DURING UR LONG SHIFTS OR I WILL APPEAR ON UR SCREEN !!! (lovingly) the way i gasped when i read your response because i was just like… YOU DIDNT EAT? :( i was so distraught but i hope whatever u had for dinner was good, but still !! always remember to eat and take care of yourself or the ghost of me will scold u (lovingly again) (nothing but love for you always)

today i had banh xeo for breakfast (tbh at this point i feel like you can guess what nationality i am LMAO) but OMG YOU LIKE VIET FOOD?? WE ARE SO SOULMATES !! TWIN FLAME !! AND OMG THATS SO CUTE I HAVE A VOICE IM HHHH that’s so cute i feel so very honoured but omg yesterday while i was like doing whatever right i had a realization that im literally like mystic messenger right now with the “make sure you eat!!” “how are you!!” like IM LITERALLY A CHARACTER IN MYSTIC MESSENGER RIGHT NOW THATS CRAZY (id be so embarrassed if you didn’t know what mystic messenger is but also would not blame you) ALSO YES WE CAN YAP TOGETHER I LOVE YAPPING BUT IM DEFINITELY YAPPING TOO MUCH LIKE I WANNA REPLY TO EVERYTHING YOU SAID SO IM LIKE HHH YAP YAP YAP me and ness are literally yapper and yapper like im trying to hold back but im here like omg among us??? omg whack dreams??? i wanna know what dreams??? omg school?? i’m school soon too!!

but but one more thing omg i’m so sorry LOL BUT I FEEL LIKE WE’RE IN THE SAME TIMEZONE?? BECAUSE EVERYTIME YOU MENTION THE TIME IN YOUR POSTS i check my time and im like huh.. silly… coincidence, but it’s 4pm for me rn !!maybe im crazy maybe im not but omg when it gets to school you can 100% rant about it because i will 100% do it too HAHA school has me like like genuinely tweaking like one small thing and im like OH MY GOD YOU WILL NOTTTT BELIEVE WHAT HAPPENED TODAY

omg sorry i need to wrap this up but yes try again is amazing don’t doubt yourself and u can always yap to me whenever whenever like i’ll literally make a burner account and dm you instead so we can yap without having to flood your blog or if you don’t mind i don’t mind but mango anon loves you very much and mango anon would want ness to take care of herself forever and always and HAVE A GOOD DAY !!! xoxoxo

AAAAA OMG I AM HERE LIKE 11 HOURS LATER <33 DO NOT WORRY I AM EATING AS WE SPEAK BEFORE MY LONG SHIFT tbh i felt like so nauseous about eating anything though today idk why (i have like two suspicions lmao i def know why) but since i'm working i was like "then i'll just pick something up on the way there!!" so i went to my groccery store to get a sandwhich BUT THEY DIDN'T HAVE ANY </333 so i'm having a blazing dragon poke bowl instead??? and it's okay 😔 like i don't know how i feel yet about groccery store sushi and stuff but i've had it before!! it's just a bunch of spicy imitation crab, cucumber, carrots, and rice and i'm mainly just there for the rice. AND OMG i walked around the store bc i was trying to see if they had liquid death (caffeinated tea i think. i don't like it but i really need caffeine today </3) and they didn't have any and i decided to go back to like their little food section to get bao (you can probably guess my ethnicity too 😭) and i almost got hit bc this man WHIPPED around when i tried to pass him like i literally ducked i was so scared he was about to hit me and that man was STILL not aware of me. ANYWAY SORRY RANDOM STORY YOU AND ME AND VIET FOOD!!! TWIN FLAMES!!

ALSO OMG MYSTIC MESSENGER 😭 BRO I WAS JUST THINKING ABOUT 707 LIKE TWO DAYS AGO WHEN THAT WHOLE ANON APOCALYPSE HAPPENED I WAS LIKE "i'm going to go 707 on these people and find out where they live and haunt them /hj" PLEASE I FORGOT ALL ABOUT THEIR LITTLE "remember to eat" messages and everything but it's so cute <33 and YES we will yap together!! i went in to school today although it starts tomorrow to switch up my schedule and going there was HORRIBLE i saw so many disgusting people :/// BUT i have a pretty good schedule now so it has it's pros and cons!!! i just give people dirty looks and accidentally saw "ew" aloud all the time :))) AND IK THAT SOUNDS MEAN BUT LIKE YK HOW PEOPLE ARE and the people that live in my state are all rich privileged kids and it never changes 😭 i see them everywhere AND THEY ALL LOOK THE SAME AND ACT THE SAME AND ARE GROSS

and LMAO A BURNER ACCOUNT I WOULD TOTALLY TAKE IT THOUGH!!! i'd love to talk to you whenever please please please feel free to make one and dm whenever you'd like!! <3 I LOVE SEEING YOUR ASKS THOUGH I LITERALLY WILL BE HAPPY EITHER WAY AS LONG AS I GET TO TALK TO YOU <3 I HOPE YOU HAVE A WONDERFUL DAY TODAY ANON!!

[foxstens]

ughhhhhh 

i don’t wanna visit my grandparents for christms i don’t wanna visit my grandparents for christmas I DO NOT WANT TO VISIT MY GRANDPARENTS FOR CHRISTMAS

i don’t... hate my grandparents. i think. they’ve done a lot of not so good things that affect us to this day but they’re still trying their best probably. but god damn do i hate being there

going there involves a three-hour ride on a bus with other people and for the past two years every time we went, every single time, i ended up feeling nauseous both on the way there and on the way back. i don’t have motion sickness or anything, i used to have absolutely no issues with long rides but it’s always a dirty smelly uncomfortable bus and it’s always either too cold or too hot and there’s people and voices and my back hurts and my neck hurts and the closer we get to the city the more i feel like i could throw up any minute because i fucking hate that city with the grey ass buildings and loud ass traffic and scowly ass people I HATE IT I HATE I HATE IT

and i’ve told both my grandparents and my mom about this, not in so many words just mostly the nausea and being uncomfortable part. 

and im just. i don’t see the point. my grandparents are always sad and miserable and they don’t magically become happy when we visit them and we’re trying to hard to stay relatively positive or at least neutral in our day to day lives so we don’t become overwhelmed by all the negativity everywhere

and visiting them doesn’t help us in any way, it just makes us feel terrible when we see how not fine they are, and we just bring back some food a lot of which we don’t even eat because we just don’t eat like that anymore and by the time we come back we’re just exhausted and riled up and sometimes we have to go to work the next day and then it takes us a week to bounce back

but it doesn’t matter. gotta do it anyway

i don’t even know what to do anymore. like i woke up a few hours ago and i haven’t had breakfast yet despite how hungry i feel and i had all these plans for things to do today and then my grandma called a few mins ago and suddenly i have no appetite nor energy to do things. i don’t even feel like reading playing something or listening to music i just wanna sleep

but i can’t bc we might get a package today and gotta pay for it

and today is friday, my first day off in the week, it’s usually the day when i feel most tired but since its friday stuff is actually open so it’s when i do things, and then on saturday i just do absolutely nothing to try and recover some energy to prepare for the next week

this week wasn’t so bad overall, it was just kind of average, but yesterday was fucking horrible terrible really fucking bad one of the worst days ive had recently, it made me borderline hate my workplace for the first time ever. so i guess no wonder i feel like this

sigh

[an-amalgamation-of-me]

Montys Labor & Delivery Story (Condensed)

I started having consistent contractions that were on average 3 mins apart at 10pm on the 2nd. 2 hrs later, while I was in bed trying to be quiet like a mouse, but in pain, my water broke at 1208am. Got to the hospital at 130am and when they checked me they said I was only at 3. Around 5am I asked for an epidural bc they made me nervous that when I actually needed it, they’d be busy and I’d have to wait a while. So even tho I didn’t need it yet, I was like GIVE ME DRUGS😅 so I get it and around 6am I’m still at a 3. So they gave me pitocin. And they’d check me every 2 hours and I’d only have dilated 1 cm 🫣 it was frustrating. But I watched the toy story marathon with Carmen and ate lemon popsicles, apple juice and ice water (but also just ice bc hospital ice is the best) for like 6 hours…then I started throwing up. I was eating too much I think and the epidural didn’t like that. So I threw up once and I was like ok I’ll stop eating the popsicles. But I still want the apple juice. And then I remembered there was ginger ale. Took 2 tiny sips to see if I like it (I know nothing of the brand shasta so I had to analyze the taste 😒) IMMEDIATE NO. Threw it up in like 1 min. Cool. I’ll stick to water…..threw that up too. FINE I WONT DRINK ANYTHING EVEN THO IM HUNGRY AND BECOMING DEHYDRATED. I totally fully became dehydrated and got an infection and finally by maybe 7pm I was at a 7 or 8 and I was like…cool this should go quickly. Wrong. My cervix was being stubborn af….. So they’re flipping me from side to side. Omg btw PEANUT BALLS ARE AS MAGICAL AS THE INTERNET SAYS IT IS. Use iiittttttttt if you get an epidural and need to dilate. It’s amazing. Anyways. At around 9ish-I’m still only at 8 AND THE LEFT SIDE OF MY BODYS EPIDURAL WORE OFF. So I’m feeling contractions at 8cm only on one side. But I was riding the waves and using my low voice for vibrations and pain relief. Anesthesiologists come and fix it but it takes about an hour or so for it to start working on my left side again. At about 10, I’m at a 9. But now I have bad acid reflux. And it’s fierce. Rising in my stomach, into my throat and making me nauseous af and it was burning tf out of my throat. I was miserable. I almost hated that more than contractions bc I could manage contractions. I couldn’t manage the acid. I ended up throwing up twice of just gross bile. It was awful and I wanted to cry. They finally get me some tums, some acid reflux meds to put in my IV and nausea meds to put in my IV. You’d think after all that I’d be ready to push. Nope. 11pm I’m at 9.5cm. They have me doing practice pushes to see if maybe I can push pass the lip of my cervix that is being stubborn but they worry I may rip my cervix which they really don’t want. So we are waiting again, but getting nervous bc baby’s heart keeps rising and falling with the contractions and I’m feverish bc of my infection but they give me antibiotics which is sort of helping but they only have a little bit of time to give me before they have to seriously consider a c section which I really didn’t want bc I was scared and also IM AT 9! So one of the nurses out my right leg up on the side table and we waited. She said back in the day, that used to work really well w a stubborn cervix. And IT DID. By 1215 I was ready to push and pediatric doctors came in as well as my labor and delivery team and they dropped the bottom of my bed off, pulled me closer to the edge, one nurse had a leg, Carmen had my right leg, I had my arms under both legs and I pushed this 9.5lb baby out in 10min!!!!!!!! Born 4 Dec at 1247am💙 It was such a dramatic labor in my opinion. But well worth it.

[sickstarlight]

different causes of sickness

a friend had asked me for some advice on how I write differences between different types of sickness or reasons someone could get sick! so I typed up a reference of details I try to keep in mind in my writing. not by any means meant to be comprehensive but these are some of the more common things I see used or use myself!

eta: if you found this interesting or useful consider tipping me on kofi (/jallyns) or getting a $5 commission so I can fix my computer

drinking related:

drank too much: everyone’s threshold for this is going to be different obvs both in terms of how much alcohol they need and how wasted they’re able/willing to be before getting sick. also ime you have to be QUITE drunk for being drunk alone to make you sick, to the point where it may be dangerous, so personally I like this combined with something else - motion, something not sitting right in their stomach, etc - but it can be good otherwise too. probably the first thing the character will notice or be aware of if they have any warning is that being drunk stops feeling good at this point. they might feel flushed and/or clammy and will probably feel dizzy, their mouth might feel really dry depending on what they’ve been drinking. this is probably also the point where they recognize they have limited control of their body, feet might feel too heavy to move or head might be spinning, may feel very clumsy and suddenly become AWARE of it.

they might FEEL motion sick even if they’re not moving too because their motion sense is fucked at this point. might feel heavy but this is likely to be a whole body heaviness NOT just their stomach (though they might be very aware of it); might or might not be able to place the feeling of nausea. maybe burping but it depends on what they’ve been drinking (carbonated or not, mixed with soda, etc) and what else they ate! they MIGHT feel okay after throwing up but their friend probably shouldn’t let them drink anymore even if they do.

also this might come with very little warning, they may go from feeling fine and giggling with their friends to suddenly feeling Wrong to hurling all over the floor in a matter of minutes or even a few seconds. if they have friends with them who have been with them drunk regularly, depending on who’s more sober their friends might notice they look unsteady and/or queasy before they realize they don’t feel well.

other good things here: alcohol that tastes so strong it’s all they can taste when they throw it back up, feeling dizzy but not placing it as nauseous right away, feeling like their head is too heavy to lift. reeling on their feet when a drink hits them too hard and feeling the whole room spin.

drank too quickly - more likely to come on SUPER suddenly, but they’ll probably recognize it right away (unless they’ve already been drinking) because the alcohol hasn’t had time to get to their brain yet. so with gradually drinking more than they should they will get drunk first and THEN get sick, but if they drink too much too fast right off the bat they’ll start to feel some effects probably but they’ll also know pretty quick that their drinks aren’t gonna stay down.

hung over - throwing up from a hangover is a combination of a buildup of alcohol byproducts in the stomach, and the stomach lining being irritated + producing more acid. a headache is also a significant part of the misery of a hangover but (unlike a migraine, where the pain directly leads to vomiting) isn’t necessarily related to any queasiness, so the headache might get worse with sound, light, or movement, but their stomach likely won’t. they might feel a little like they have heartburn (or actually GET some acid reflux) from acid buildup, and their stomach might be sore or feel too warm as well as being upset. 

the only real cure for a hangover is slow sips of clear fluids and bland foods to help settle the stomach and reduce the acid, but lots of people swear by other things - certain kinds of foods, drinking more alcohol, etc, so that’s something you can have fun with! depending on how much alcohol is still in their bloodstream, they might also still feel a little drunk/tipsy and have some issues with their balance, thinking clearly, etc, which could make the nausea worse; also some people might always get sick from hangovers but others might not so consider how your character deals with that! They also might wake up sick, or feel sick right away, or might not feel sick at all until trying to get some fluids or take meds for their headache (especially since ibuprofen/aspirin also irritate the stomach lining).

food related:

ate too much -  character will likely feel bloated and tight, food might feel heavy in their stomach. depending on what they’re stuffed with there might be burping esp if there’s a lot of gas in their stomach, or a lot of gagging and unproductive dry heaving if it’s very heavy/solid. might need to drink something to get anything up, or have help from someone, or might just take a while to finally puke as their overstuffed stomach struggles to break down their meal enough that their stretched out muscles can get anything moving. any firm pressure on the stomach is gonna feel worse and likely to make them gag even if they’re not ready to throw up yet. maybe weak strained tummy noises as they try to digest. (side note if a lot of their stomach contents are liquid like soup, drinks, etc they’ll throw that up a lot faster; also a good excuse to discuss sloshing/jostling/swirling around in their tummy)

ate too quickly - ties in well to eating too much since it’s easy eating in a hurry to not realize you’re full until it’s already a little late - eating or drinking anything too fast can also make some people’s stomachs hurt or get upset in general, and is an easy way to end up swallowing a lot of air which can obviously lead to feeling much more full and tight with lots of burping that could easily bring up more!

ate something bad - this could be rotten, poorly prepared, or just something that upsets their stomach but what it is might change the feeling of it so there’s definitely variety here. probably also feels heavy but more localized, like they can feel the specific food they ate and where it’s settled in their stomach. might also be painful and cause cramping and tenderness. imo nausea from this is more likely to come in waves and recede but might also be more readily recognizable as nausea. some things I like in this scenario - character thinking about what they ate and feeling worse, imagining they can feel individual parts of their food in their stomach, burping and tasting what they ate (possibly noticing the taste having gone sour / etc in their stomach). good place to describe stuff like how greasy smt was/feeling the grease coating their stomach, or otherwise talk about the specific way the food feels in their tummy and how much it makes them want to puke. unlike with eating too much, they’re likely not to feel better until ALL of the offending food is out of their stomach (while with overeating, they may throw up a few times and then start to feel better once there’s less pressure on their stomach).

general notes - if something the character ate is what’s making them feel sick, a lot of focus on hyperawareness of how much food is in their stomach/how heavy it feels are gonna be big sensory things (as well as maybe taste, pressure/tightness, stomach contents moving around)

illness

appendicitis - if you’re looking for something more serious than food poisoning or a stomach bug, this is sure to end up with a character in the hospital as they’ll need surgery! the big distinguishing thing is pain, which will be sharp and located on the lower right side of the abdomen (or may start near the navel and move down). any kind of exertion or sudden muscle movement can make the pain worse. if the character or one of their caretakers is knowledgeable and suspects appendicitis, they might do the rebound test, which causes pain to get drastically worse AFTER placing pressure on the area and releasing it. sickness usually begins after the pain starts and may get worse when something exacerbates the pain as well.

in addition to nausea and vomiting, other symptoms can include fever, bloating, and bowel issues (either diarrhea or constipation), which will usually get worse over the course of the infection. if the character is treated soon enough (within 2-3 days) they’ll usually feel better after surgery and recover relatively quickly, but if they’re not seen by a doctor and the appendix ruptures they’ll likely need more extensive treatment including antibiotics and a longer hospital stay to make sure they won’t develop sepsis. (in some cases, symptoms could seem to suddenly go away when the appendix ruptures because it releases pressure, but worse symptoms would rapidly develop!)

rarely, there’s also such thing as chronic appendicitis, where milder symptoms may appear and recede over the course of weeks or months before developing into acute appendicitis and prompting surgery.

coughs, colds, strep, etc - can all cause vomiting as secondary symptoms thanks to postnasal drip, throat irritation, or forceful coughing. serious enough throat irritation or buildup of mucus can make a character gag, or feel the need to, and so can coughing up phlegm from their chest. if they’re sniffly and have their sinuses draining down the back of their throat, they may end up swallowing a lot of mucus too which can make them feel nauseous as their stomach gets full of sticky snot. I think these work best as emeto scenarios for characters with weak gag reflexes!

food poisoning - separate from eating something bad because food poisoning from a virus or bacteria is a longer lasting illness with a later onset; the character may first get sick within a few hours of eating the contaminated food, or it may incubate and make them sick within a day or two. like stomach flu (also frequently foodborne) many types can cause both vomiting and diarrhea, but symptoms vary depending on specific cause. characters also might puke early on and then develop more symptoms and become sicker later as bacteria multiply and produce toxins, and may take several days to recover from the later onset where they could have persistent nausea, or might feel okay and even regain their appetite if they don’t try to eat  but be unable to keep much or any food down. most types of food poisoning also cause pain, swelling, bloating, and cramping, usually in the lower part of the stomach and upper intestines, so those are other symptoms your character might have to deal with in addition to puking!

stomach flu - character may be feverish or achy as well as nauseous while their body fights the infection, which is an additional great source of hurt/comfort fuel! can cause both vomiting and diarrhea, so even food they manage to keep down might still sting them later. because it directly causes irritation and inflammation in the stomach and lower GI tract, character might throw up frequently or after every meal, or might be able to handle clear fluids but no solids, or some bland foods but nothing with significant sugar, spices, or fat. they also might only be able to drink or eat in very small amounts without bringing it back up. their stomach may hurt and feel like it’s cramping even if they haven’t tried to eat, and they may get only very brief relief of nausea after each time they’re sick because it reduces the immediate pressure on the stomach but not the inflammation; they might feel nauseous constantly or end up dry heaving even when there’s nothing in their stomach, and might need to keep a basin of some kind nearby for a couple of days since they can’t be sure if they’re done. dehydration is a common complication and can cause headaches, weakness, and dizziness in addition to other symptoms! the most common stomach virus, norovirus, is also EXTREMELY contagious, and virus particles can aerosolize and scatter widely during vomiting, so the caretaker may not be safe either.

injury, other medical

anaesthesia - people react to this in all kinds of ways but getting sick is really common so it can be combined with just about any reaction. character might be disoriented or dizzy and have trouble with balance, walking, other coordinated movement. some might be really confused and have trouble communicating their ideas clearly or say things that might not make any sense to other characters. from the anaesthetized character’s perspective though they’re  probably making total sense so it can also be fun to include their muddled thought process and what they’re feeling or thinking that they express in weird ways! other characters might feel pretty clearheaded and be able to communicate clearly though. they might feel “light” or like they're floating, or very  detached from their body; this may cause more dizziness and vertigo. they may also be cold they might feel nauseous right away and persistently from the anaesthetic irritating their stomach, or might only get sick from moving that makes the “floating” feeling worse. general anaesthetic is usually used for surgery so if they aren’t immediately nauseous the character can also wake up really hungry from fasting before, so eating too much or too quickly might also make them realize they’re nauseous and end up with them puking.

concussion - there are a lot of reasons someone might get sick from a concussion, but the most common (non threatening) are vertigo / vestibular disturbance and headaches! the character might  get nauseous or throw up when they turn too quickly or stand up too fast if their balance center is disrupted, or might have head pain similar to a migraine that makes them sick and can have similar sensitivities. mild concussions without other complications can still last up to a week after the injury, but the character should get sick less and less often as time goes on, so the most intense phase for sickness caused by a concussion is shortly after it happens! Frequently repeated or prolonged bouts of vomiting are often signs of more serious injury though, so if you’re keeping it mild they should probably be brief and a little spaced out even early on, though a character might have intermittent nausea between them. other symptoms of concussion are important too here - big ones are short term amnesia, loss of coordination, difficulty concentrating, and confusion. they might also hear ringing in their ears or sometimes have visual disturbances like in migraines! 

migraine - the pain from migraines can directly cause vomiting, especially when it’s at its peak, but it might also be caused by aura effects on balance and vision! (some people get tunnel vision or “kaleidoscope” vision with migraines, some just get dizzy, some people even hallucinate strong smells or tastes which could also lead to nausea!) for some people, the headache gets better after throwing up, but not everyone; they also might or might not feel the buildup of nausea or persistent nausea throughout their migraine, or alternately might retch or throw up almost IMMEDIATELY when any trigger makes their pain worse (common triggers are bright or flashing light, loud or high pitched sounds, strong smells, and sudden movement, but people have lots of different triggers so they can be a lot of things!) many people can’t chase off a migraine until after they’ve slept so you might also include them trying to get comfortable only to have their head start hurting worse or their stomach get upset and make them scramble to get over the trash bin.

motion sickness - anyone can get motion sick but some people are more prone to it than others! so you might have characters who always get motion sick in any moving vehicle, or who are okay in cars but can’t travel on water, or who only get sick with intense movement like on roller coasters - or characters who aren’t prone to motion sickness in general, but discover they get it when fatigued, anxious, etc. different characters might also experience it differently - for some there may be a cycle of gradual buildup of nausea until it becomes unbearable and they throw up, while for others it might come on suddenly, or they might have low level nausea throughout a trip but only puke when there’s a more sudden or violent movement. some people also only get motion sick after a period of time, and might be fine on short trips but get sick if they’re traveling longer.

other notes: many people who get carsick don’t get sick if they’re driving! being able to get fresh air also helps many people, as well as focusing on the horizon if possible. some people prone to motion sickness will also experience the opposite when sitting still but watching movement onscreen like in a video game. likewise, reading or looking at a still object for long while moving can trigger motion sickness, even in people who are less prone to it otherwise.

[missmorosis]

Jealous

anonymous asked:

I’m BEGGING for a hc where zuko and sokka like the reader and get jealous of one another. Plot can be anything! :)))

anonymous asked:

oomgomg Hii u replied to me earlier 🥺👉🏽👈🏽 LOVE THAT YOU LOVE SOKKA!!! I love zuko too but sokka needs more appreciation imo.

Would u ever write an zuko and sokka x reader or oc where they both like the same person? Because I find myself conflicted between who I like more because they’re great for totally different reasons! Idkk but anyways looking forward to reading more of ur work!! And happy early valentines dayyyy 💕💕💕💕💕

please this prompt makes my true beauty heart go 📈📈📈

ALSO THE TWO OF YOU BASICALLY HAD THE SAME REQUEST LSAKDJS

enjoyyy <33 THIS MAKES NO SENSE IM SORRY

Pairings: Sokka x Reader x Zuko

Warnings: fainting and sickness (sighh yes yes i wrote another sickfic IM OBSESSED) & it may be the worst thing ive ever written-

Summary: a sick y/n is caught up in a love triangle... which boy is better?

Word count: 1.4k :)

The doorbell rang, and Y/N rushed to answer it. She opened the door to reveal a smiling Sokka. He was your best friend, so he normally showed up unannounced once in a while.

"Hey, Y/N!" he said.

"Hi, Sokka! What brings you here?"

"Knowing you, you probably haven't had dinner yet?" She nodded with a laugh. "Wanna get something to eat?"

It was past dinnertime, and she still wasn't hungry... In fact, the thought of food made her nauseous. Y/N nodded anyways, and Sokka smiled, getting his car keys out of his pocket.

Driving past the streets, the two blasted music out of the car's speakers, and Sokka sang along to all of the pop songs on the radio. Y/N laughed at the silly expression Sokka had on his face, even though the music was way too loud; it was honestly giving her a headache, but it was okay. She looked out the window to see Zuko, another close friend, heading out of the Jasmine Dragon. He must've just finished work...

"Oh, it's Zuko!" she chirped, giving him a wave. Sokka said nothing, his singing quieting down to silence, but he pulled over anyways to say hi. He parked his car, and the two hopped out.

“Y/N!” Zuko ran over with a huge grin on his face, waving his hand as a greeting. “Nice to see you again! Oh... hi Sokka.” Zuko’s cheerful smile slowly morphed into one of distaste when he noticed that she had been with Sokka.

“Hey, Zuko,” Sokka acknowledged. Y/N turned to see that Sokka’s face also fell when his eyes met Zuko’s. Sokka slung an unnecessary protective arm over her shoulders, and Y/N cleared her throat to clear up the growing tension. Shaking Sokka’s arm off, she opened her mouth to speak.

"Is it cold out here or is it just me?" Y/N blurted, causing Zuko and Sokka to look at each other worriedly. Sokka pulled off his jacket to throw it onto her. He zipped it up, and met her eyes.

"It's not cold at all... you feeling okay?" Y/N nodded slowly, signaling that she was okay, so Zuko and Sokka dropped the subject. She could have sworn it was chilly out.

"Anyways," Sokka continued, heading into his car, "wanna go grab dinner together or something?” The other two nodded, also following Sokka into the car. Y/N hopped into the passenger seat, and Zuko was stuck in the back seats. She could tell he wasn’t happy with her sitting next to Sokka, but she ignored it. They were just being plain childish, and it was giving her a headache.

“Oh, Y/N,” Sokka started. “I went to-”

"Sokka, go left," Zuko interuppted. Sokka sighed and turned the wheel, following through with Zuko’s command. 

As the car turned, it pushed Y/N to the side of the car, forcing her to lean on the car door. Deciding not to get up, she nuzzled closer to the car window, her warm breath fogging it up. She blinked, trying to stop the growing sleepiness clouding her head. 

Y/N heard Sokka ramble on about his day in the background, and her eyes closed for a second... just a second. She was just so... exhausted...

"Hey... Y/N? Are you asleep?" Sokka's voice asked softly. He poked her side, making her slightly stir awake. She tried to lift her heavy eyelids. Wow, she felt so sluggish.

"What, is Sokka boring?" Zuko laughed, as Sokka gasped, offended. "I should have been the one driving next to her."

"Y/NNN- how could you fall asleep in the middle of my story?" Sokka shook Y/N awake with his free arm. "Come on, you can't leave me with Zuko."

"Hmm?" Y/N hummed quietly, letting them know she was awake. Her voice was raspy; she had a sore throat, but the boys seemed to wave it off as a symptom of sleepiness.

"Am I too boring for you?" Sokka asked.

"No, of course no-"

"So you're saying you'd be with Sokka rather than me?" Zuko accused.

"N-no-"

"So you'd rather be with Zuko?"

"What? You guys are arguing for no reason," she mumbled, but the two boys ignored her.

"Of course she'd rather be with me; she's just too nice to say that to your face," Sokka argued, his voice increasing in volume.

"No, then why would she fall asleep while you were talking? You're boring." Zuko's voice was also loud.

"Please stop," Y/N whispered, rubbing her temples, and this gesture didn’t go unnoticed. Sokka and Zuko froze at once, watching her with concern.

"You have a headache? Are you sick?" Sokka asked immediately. Y/N sighed and nodded.

"Is... that why you fell asleep- because you were sick?" Zuko added, and Y/N nodded again weakly, and sighed. Sokka reached out next to him and put his hand on her forehead.

"Y/N, you're burning up..." Sokka gasped.

"Let me see," Zuko mumbled, placing his hand on her forehead. He sighed. "Y/N, you feel really warm."

"I'm so sorry for waking you up- it would have been better for you to stay asleep," Sokka apologized.

"No, no. It's my fault." She shivered, pulling Sokka's jacket tighter. “If I knew I was sick, I shouldn’t have come with you guys.”

"Here, have my jacket, too." Zuko wrapped his jacket over her as well, draping it over her shoulders.

"She doesn't need more than one, Zuko," Sokka scoffed quietly. "Anyways, we can go home if you'd like?"

"Oh, no, don't worry about me! We can go get dinner or something, it's just a headache. It'll go away," she reassured them.

"I don't know..." Zuko said. "Maybe we can get something to eat at your house?" Sokka turned around, heading back towards Y/N's home.

"I agree, you need rest." Sokka looked at her in the mirror. "Sorry to break it to ya, but you don't look so good."

"Okay... if that's alright..." she said, and Sokka smiled.

Everyone arrived at Y/N's house, and Zuko helped you out.

"Shall we?" he asked, gently grabbing your hand.

"C'mon, Y/N," Sokka said, glaring at Zuko. He grabbed your other hand, and pulled you along.

"Y/N," Zuko muttered.

"Zuko, let go of her," Sokka said, warningly.

"Who do you think I am? I don't have to listen to you," Zuko snapped back.

"You guys are driving me insane, can't you both just shut up and get along?" Her voice now matched theirs in volume, and the two stopped arguing, looking apologetic.

Boy, were you lightheaded all of a sudden. She staggered on her feet, and she buried her face in her hands. Not now...

"What's wrong?" Sokka's voice immediately asked.

"Are... are we scaring you? We promise it's not going to get too serious..." Zuko sounded concerned. She could feel both of the boys' arms hovering around her body, trying to protect her, catch her if she fell, or give her reassurance.

"No, no..." she breathed. "I'm.. fine..." With that, she promptly passed out.

Both boys rushed to be the one who caught Y/N. Zuko scooped her up into his arms, and he carried her into her room, leaving Sokka alone.

Zuko gently laid her down onto her bed, pulling the blanket over her. With a swift kiss that he was tempted to do all evening, he got up and headed out the door.

"Well..." he said, glancing at Sokka. The atmosphere was now awkward, and neither boy was going to leave for a while...

Y/N woke up, and judging from her headache and how warm she felt, she wasn't any better. Groaning, she got out of bed, expecting to be alone, but she was wrong.

She opened her eyes to see two boys asleep on the couch. They had stayed...

Medicine was laid out for her on the counter, and she gladly took it.

"Y/N?" Zuko's voice croaked, making her jump.

"Oh, hey... I wasn't expecting you two to stay..." she said, and he rolled his eyes.

"Of course we stayed... you feeling better?" Concern was written all over his face.

"I still feel like trash..." she answered truthfully.

"Maybe I can kiss it better," Sokka said with a small, playful smile, now awake as well, and she laughed.

"Anyways, thank you both..." She gave a quick kiss on both of their foreheads, making both of them blush. "Now, get some rest at home... I'll be fine."

"No way, I'm staying," both said at the same time. Y/N sighed; there was no way of getting rid of them, and she loved them for that.

"Do you need anything?" Sokka asked, getting up to get her some water.

"Nah, I'm alright... we can watch a movie, though?" She flopped onto the couch, in between the two boys. She turned on the classic Meet the Robinsons and laid back.

Both boys rested their heads on her shoulders, and she laughed.

"You two are idiots, you're going to get sick." They shrugged, and she smiled.

LMAOBDJJEEK OKAY WHOO IM TIRED BUT I WANTED TO GET SOMETHING OUT

this is totally unedited too IM SORRY

taglist (send an ask to get added!) @urmomoness @zuko-is-the-sun @busyforkuvira @appa-gaangnam-style @xxspqcebunsxx @akiris @welovediaaxx @ray-ofmoonlight @sokkaandzukosimp @u-4iia @sunnimochix @kaylove12

Zuko taglist: @duh-dobrik

[misscorn]

Day 7: Future/Post Confession

I can't believe yet another @takaritsuweek has come and gone so fast 😭❤ everyone in this Fandom is so talented and im obsessed with the nostalgia content 💘 please enjoy my last one shot for this week ☺

***

Onodera Ritsu was being weird, which could only mean one thing: something was wrong and he wasn't talking to Masamune about it.

Masamune had really hoped that things would go smoother after Ritsu confessed, but that was foolish. Masamune was so, undeniably happy, but they weren't perfect people. Both of them still had things to work on, separately and together. One of those things was more readily relying on one another. So, Masamune was determined to find out what was wrong.

Ritsu just seemed a lot more...spacey than usual. And anxious. And maybe a little gloomy? Masamune couldn't quite put his finger on it, but he knew that he didn't like it.

Currently, Ritsu was over at Masamune's apartment, helping to clean up the dishes as the two of them had just finished dinner. Ritsu was at Masamune's place quite frequently and Masamune always brought up the idea of moving in together, but Ritsu hadn't quite come around to it yet, mostly because he knew for a fact that it would affect any work the two of them brought home. Masamune got...distracted easily and Ritsu tended to get swept away. So, for now Ritsu was content with a lot of sleepovers.

Once they finished cleaning, Masamune led Ritsu into the living room by his hand. He sat down unceremoniously on the couch before pulling Ritsu down with him and on to his lap, making Ritsu's face burn red.

I kind of hope he never gets used to this, Masamune thought, loving the sight of Ritsu's adorably embarrassed expression.

"What do you think you're doing?" Ritsu asked, trying to sound scolding, but he only succeeded in sounding nervous.

Masamune wrapped his arms around Ritsu's waist. "I just want to talk and I figured if I have you like this you won't be able to run away." Like how you love to do.

Ritsu couldn't even argue against that logic, but he made a displeased face anyway. "Fine. What is it?"

"Is everything okay with you?" Masamune asked.

"Huh? Yeah, I'm fine." Ritsu said dismissively.

"You just seem like you've had something on your mind lately." Masamune said. "Making me worried."

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to worry you." Ritsu apologized immediately.

"Don't say sorry, there's nothing to be sorry for, I just wanna know if there's something going on." Masamune said, trying to sound reassuring.

Ritsu chewed on his lower lip nervously before he spoke again. "I guess I have been thinking a bit..." He started vaguely.

"What about?" Masamune pressed gently.

"Well, my mom's gotten off my back about An-chan, but not about settling down. She's been trying to set up matchmaking sessions, introducing me to daughters of friends of hers whenever I visit, sending me info about singles events." Ritsu tried not to cringe at the thought of going to one of those. "And I just...I think maybe it's time I tell my parents about you. About us." Ritsu said. "I mean, I know we only started officially d-dating not too long ago, but I feel like we're both kind of in this for the long haul." He laughed nervously. They've both been in this for the past ten years, after all. It was hardly too soon to let his parents be in the know. "So, um, it seems only right to tell them..."

"If you want to tell them then you should." Masamune said.

"You make things sound so simple." Ritsu sighed. "It could go really, really wrong, you know?"

"I know. But the other option is keeping it a secret forever. Which, you can if you want, but it might be difficult to eventually explain to your parents when they visit why you have a longterm male roommate and you both wear matching wedding rings and share a room and take care of a little girl who calls both of you dad."

Ritsu's face flushed at Masamune projection of their future together, his heartbeat picking up in pace. "You want to have a daughter?"

"Someday, I think it'd be nice. But we're not even past the step of me meeting your parents, so I don't think they're going to get grandchildren anytime soon." Masamune planted a quick kiss on Ritsu’s shoulder.

"W-Wait, meeting?! I was just going to tell them, I didn't plan on having you meet them yet!" Ritsu said quickly.

"Ritsu, this is your mom we're talking about. If you tell her I exist she will track me down and interrogate the hell out of me whether you want her to or not." Masamune deadpanned.

Ritsu groaned and slumped against Masamume, knowing that he was right. "Maybe I should just test the waters first? It doesn't seem fair to throw all of us in at once."

Masamune hesitated to agree, subconsciously playing with Ritsu's hair. "I want to be there." He said firmly. "I understand you're worried, but like you said, things could go wrong and I want to be there for you if they do."

"You're only one door away." Ritsu said.

"Too far." Masamune insisted, pressing a kiss to Ritsu's forehead.

Ritsu rolled his eyes, trying hard not to smile. "You're absolutely ridiculous."

"Mhm. Besides, I can't charm the hell out of your parents if I'm busy next door worrying about you."

"Oh, is that your plan? To be all cool and suave until they can't possibly reject our relationship?" Ritsu asked sarcastically.

"Yes, exactly."

Ritsu shook his head before he refocused and took a deep breath. "How's this weekend?"

"I can do this weekend." Masamune said.

"I'll invite them to my place for dinner and hopefully it will be totally boring and uneventful and they won't care about us being together at all."

"Yeah, the woman who has hounded you about marriage for over ten years is going to not care about you being in a romantic relationship." Masamune said sarcastically.

Ritsu groaned loudly.

Masamune chuckled. "What about your dad? How do you think he'll react?"

"No idea, which is honestly worse."

"We'll handle it." Masamune promised and sealed it with a kiss.

-

"I can't do this, I think I should call them and cancel, tell them I'm sick." Ritsu said as he and Masamune cooked dinner together. Technically it wouldn't be a lie since Ritsu was feeling pretty nauseous.

Ritsu had spent all day yesterday making sure his apartment was spotless and then earlier today he and Masamune had gone grocery shopping together since Ritsu’s options for dinner had been a little slim.

"Oh, yeah, tell your mom that you're sick, I'm sure that will make her stay away instead of making her want to come over more." Masamune said sarcastically.

"You're no help."

"I thought I was being a lot of help, unless you wanna cut the onions." Masamune said, not looking up from the cutting board where he was working on the veggies.

Ritsu huffed and turned away to sit at the kitchen table, putting his head in his hands. He couldn't do this, he was such an idiot for ever thinking that he could. Introducing his parents to Masamune? He had never even mentioned liking men to them! And now suddenly he was going to announce that he had a boyfriend! There was only one way this could go: badly.

"Hey," Masamune said softly, abandoning his cutting station to sit next to him. "Its gonna be okay."

"You don't know that."

"I know, and honestly I'm kind of freaking out too. I don't think there's anything that could prepare me for meeting your parents. I want them to like me, I want them to think I'm a good fit for you because I know they're always going to be a big part of your life. Even if they can be a little overbearing, they love you, and it would kind of really suck if the people who loved you the most hated me." Masamune said. "But, either way I know that no matter what happens we'll still be together and for me that's enough." Masamune placed a comforting hand on Ritsu's knee.

"Even if my mom spends every single family gathering trying to drive you away? Even if she keeps trying to set me up on blind dates? Or, worse, tries to convince my dad to mess with your work?"

"Ritsu, the only thing your mom could do to keep me away from you is put out a hit on me."

"Don't joke about that."

"Oh come on, your parents don't have that many connections." Masamune said. "...right?"

"I really couldn't tell you."

"Jesus Christ." Masamune said, breathing through a laugh. "Look, the point is; we're gonna be okay."

Ritsu placed his hand on top of Masamune's and gave it a squeeze as he slowly nodded. "Okay...okay." He said. "Let's hurry and finish dinner then. My mom likes to get places early."

Masamune smiled softly and stole a swift kiss before happily helping Ritsu in the kitchen once more.

Eventually, there came a knock at the door. "I'll keep an eye on the food while you go get it." Masamune said. Dinner was just nearly done.

Ritsu swallowed hard and nodded, turning to leave the kitchen.

"Wait." Masamune grabbed his hand and kissed him quickly. "For good luck." He winked.

"Y-You're such an idiot." Ritsu scolded before quickly going to the front door and opening it.

Youko and Tatsuo Onodera stood side by side at Ritsu's door. Youko broke out into a smile and threw her arms around Ritsu before anyone could get a word out.

"H-Hi, mom." Ritsu smiled nervously as he hugged her back. "Hi, dad." He said to Tatsuo over Youko's shoulder as he was still being tightly squeezed.

"You feel skinny." Youko said as soon as she pulled away, pouting at her son. Ritsu was not surprised to be scolded instead of greeted, but he knew his mother meant well.

"Well, its a good thing I've invited you over to eat then. Come in." Ritsu said with a sheepish expression, attempting to play it off.

"It smells good." Tatsuo said.

"Ritsu, don't tell me you've left the food unattended for long." Youko said worriedly as they shuffled toward the kitchen.

"No." Ritsu's hands started to shake. "The foods being watched. Right now. B-by my b-boyfriend."

""Boyfriend?!"" Both Youko and Tatsuo exclaimed.

"How long has this been a thing?" Tatsuo asked.

"Oh...ten years or so..."

"Ten YEARS?!" Youko had heard enough, marching into the kitchen with her husband and son following not far behind.

"M-Mom, wait, maybe we should talk a little more-"

"You." Youko pointed accusingly at Masamune. "Are you my son's so called partner?"

"I am. My name is Takano Masamune, it's nice to-"

"Takano? I'm not familiar with that name. What's your family background?" Youko interrupted.

Masamune blinked, glancing between Ritsu and his parents, a little confused by the question. "Uh, my mother is a lawyer and my step father is a doctor, but I'm not on speaking terms with either of them."

"A boy with a troubled family history? Hardly seems like a good choice for a partner." Youko commented to Ritsu.

"Mother! That's incredibly rude!" Ritsu defended Masamune immediately. What was she even going on about?

"What do you do for a living?" Youko asked Masamune.

Masamune played along with her questions as he didn't know what else to do. "I'm the editor in chief for Marukawa Publishing's shoujo manga department: Emerald."

"Emerald? Onodera Ritsu, do you mean to tell me that you are dating your boss?" Youko said, putting her hands on her hips.

"I've heard about the great things you've done for Emerald, Takano." Tatsuo admitted. "But it does seem to be a conflict of interest to be dating a subordinate."

"I've been in love with him since I was twelve! Way before he ever became my boss!" Ritsu said quickly before a realization dawned on him. "Wait...these are the things you're upset about? His family and his job?"

"They're very important things to consider when picking a partner, Ritsu." Youko said. "You know, if you had told me that you were rejecting all those lovely girls because they were girls I could have been setting you up with perfectly charming and handsome men!" Youko pouted.

Ritsu wanted to laugh. And cry. And hug his mom and kiss Masamune and melt into the floor in total relief.

"I'm sorry, but I'll have to object to any matchmaking sessions." Masamune jumped in.

Youko frowned sternly at him. "Just what exactly makes you worthy of my one and only son?"

"I know I'm not the kind of person that you would normally want for Ritsu, but I love him. I've loved him for over ten years and there's nothing that could ever stop me from loving him. I will always, always take care of him and make him happy and if there ever comes a day that I don't then please feel free to come back and snatch him away from me because just like you I think Ritsu only deserves the best. I will always be loyal, reliable, and honest with him. And, if you'd still like to join us for dinner, I can show you that I'm not completely useless around a kitchen."

Youko did not move, nor did her disapproving expression melt away, but Tatsuo stepped forward to put a hand on his wife's shoulder.

"So, ten years huh? That's a long time. Why don't you tell us how this all started?" He smiled as he ushered his wife to sit down.

Ritsu beamed, tearing up a bit.

"Well, I was in our school's library..."

[janekfan]

Chronic

https://archiveofourown.org/works/27802141

Thank you @taylortut for helping me!!!

Jon looked at the clock.

537.

The glowing numbers burned themselves into his retinas. How had it been less than an hour since last he’d checked? No use for it. Better to get himself up and ready for work. But he’d closed his eyes against the headache blaring like a klaxon and he’d have to open them again at some point.

Taking advantage of his lonely flat, Jon allowed himself to indulge the noise pushing its way through grit teeth as he maneuvered his sore legs from under the quilt. He sat a moment, pressing the bare soles of his feet on the cold floor and levering his heavy body upright with a shaking arm.

Exhausted.

And it’s only--a quick glance.

544.

The hell was wrong with him?

Since just before accepting the position as Head Archivist, and rightly pissing off both Sasha and Tim on her behalf, Jon felt like he’d been constantly coming down with something. Dizzy and nauseous and unable to eat, he was chronically exhausted and while he’d never slept well at the best of times, it was evading him more than ever.

And there were his mornings. Struggling to motivate himself out of bed, brushing his teeth with his eyes closed and leaning against the wall. Deciding he could forgo a shower just once more and choosing instead to make breakfast. Forcing himself to eat a piece of dry toast with his heart hammering away in his throat and half laying on the table, panting through his tea. Mentally, Jon prepared himself for the walk to the train, automatically going for his cane because lord knew he needed the support.

He’d get to the Institute hours early.

At least that made him look good?

Taking advantage of being a cane user, Jon opted for a reserved seat, the guilt at truly needing one eating away at his insides. But there were black spots at the corners of his vision and he had to sit down before he fell down and the guilt is a far sight better than causing a scene. The trip was too short. His chest ached from the constant pounding and he pressed the hand not holding his cane for dear life against his breastbone. It didn’t help but the pressure and touch grounded him enough to stand up. To head to the cross street. To wait for the lights to change. To stagger down the stairs and into his office, to drop into his desk chair and focus on every breath of air moving into his body and back out of it.

Jon put his head down. There was no one here. Wouldn’t be for a couple hours yet and he was exhausted, shaking from it. Nauseated. There wasn’t a fever. He’d gone as far as to purchase a thermometer to be certain when the strange symptoms refused to abate no matter how often he let himself rest, no matter the meals he tried his damndest to eat, the water he drank down. He was trying. Jon couldn’t remember ever taking such good care of himself and of course it refused to pay off. In Uni, he’d driven himself into the ground with little consequence. He’d maintained those habits until a few months ago and now--

Muffled voices drifted through his door, the rise and fall of easy conversation. The kind he’d once been allowed to partake in. Laughter filled the air and while Jon wished to join them he knew he wasn’t welcome.

Why had he done it?

Why hadn’t he refused Elias?

Because you’re selfish. You’ve always been selfish. Needy. Greedy, grasping, always striving to know answers and never satisfied with what you're given. You take what you don’t deserve.

Reluctantly, Jon stood, slowly, because doing anything quickly these days has him ducking his head between his legs or waking up on the floor without any recollection of how he came to be there. He could at least collect their research in person, greet them. Try to be the boss they deserved.

Sasha was the boss they deserved.

“Ah, g’good morning.”

“Jon!” Martin, smiling shyly. “You’re here so early!” He began to stammer and Jon’s legs began to ache. This wasn’t a good day. They seldom were anymore. “I m’mean, of course y’you are, you work very hard!” Martin was saved by Tim swinging an arm around his shoulders.

“You’ve broken ‘im, boss.” A flush rose in Jon’s cheeks. He could feel it. “No worries, Marto. He’s always been an early riser.” While it was said in jest, the tone settled heavy in Jon’s chest, directly beside the pain blossoming like a thorny rose. Luckily, he was rescued by Rosie, standing halfway down the stairs and informing him that Elias requested him in his office. Jon didn’t relish the climb, no matter how grateful he was to escape out from underneath Sash’s heavy gaze. She had every right and he would bear his punishment in silence until she chose, if she ever did, to forgive him.

An indeterminate amount of time later, Jon limped out of Elias’ office without any recollection of what they’d spoken about or if he’d even spoken at all. Thumping pain and panic and he knew he was rude to ignore Rosie at her desk but he wasn’t in any shape to hold a conversation, fairly certain that he wasn’t able to currently speak, far too focused on trying to hide how ill he was. But every sound was magnified tenfold in his ears and he could barely remember where the door to the archives was with the way his head reeled and spun. Jon wanted to sink to the ground once he had the door between himself and the lobby but he’d never make it to his feet again after that. Push through, he told himself. Get to your desk. He allowed himself a moment, two, just to put his head to rights, to try and breathe through the battering of his pulse.

And oh god he wasn’t going to make it and he wondered if somehow Elias knew. It was as though he’d kept him standing there talking about nothing until Jon hit his limit, knowing he wouldn’t have the strength to get back to his office.

But he had to try and he’d almost gotten down the ridiculously narrow stairwell before he forgot nearly entirely why he was there in the first place. Was he going up? Down? Meeting with someone? Just arriving? He could barely breathe and the panic welling in his throat was choking and the black was crawling over his eyes and the dizziness only increased and he needed...needed…

For a moment, Jon didn’t recognize where he was, the migraine, the fuzziness, conspiring against memory and reason. But he knew this color, the hideous lick of paint some contractor had splashed over the walls a lifetime ago.

Breakroom?

Wha--

“Jon!” He winced, his own name like broken glass shredding every sense to ribbons. “Christ, are you alright?” Martin, the sounds he made were shrill, grating, and if he’d been able to tell him to be silent, he would have. “We heard the noise--you’d, you fainted! On the stairs! Luckily it was only the last few.” Jon blinked, dull and dumb, forcing himself up, up, up, and through heavy mist and fog in his search for words. Weary to the marrow of his aching bones, Jon slumped on the cushions and tried to think of a way to stop Martin’s incessant chattering. Tim and Sasha, alerted most likely by all the commotion, stood over him and he craned his neck up to look at them. Tim especially looked furious.

“You could have been seriously hurt!”

“S’sorry…” And he was, between his rabbiting heartbeat, throbbing migraine, and difficulty drawing breath into his exhausted lungs, he wanted to cry with how sorry he was.

“This is ridiculous. You need to take better care of yourself.” Jon wasn’t sure why the sting from Tim’s accusation cut so deep and he hung his head, biting trembling lips to prevent the tears threatening to spring free.

It wasn’t fair.

By all accounts he was taking care of himself. More than ever!

“Did you even eat today? Drink anything?” He nodded, miserable, unwell, and equipped with no better answers than the truth.

“Tim. He’s just come to.” The understanding was the final straw, and Jon’s sight blurred with salt damp. “I’ll make sure he eats something before going back to work.”

“Alright, Martin. If he gives you any trouble, call.” At Jon, he pointed. “And you, no trouble.” And he nodded miserably.

“Okay, they’ve gone.” The familiar sounds of the kettle heating filled the room, the clink of a pair of ceramic mugs, the rustling of the tea bags, Martin’s distracted murmuring, all combined to calm him. “How long have you been feeling this way?” Jon looked up, surprised, and shrugged one shoulder, accepting the small plate of biscuits and nibbling slowly and when he finished those, Martin offered up the tea. Sitting with him in companionable quiet, he sipped on his own cup. Nothing more was exchanged and when Jon finished he thanked Martin for the company and locked himself away.

Jon was at wit’s end. Nothing he tried seemed to improve anything and the few times he did speak with a doctor, he was sent away with the same, useless advice, or worse, told he was imagining things, making it up, having panic attacks even though he was familiar with those and this was not that.

Work was a nightmare made even more miserable with the overwhelming amount of paperwork, statements, boxes, misfiled folders and envelopes and items and Jon missed the easy camaraderie and understanding he’d had with Sasha and Tim. Maybe he should resign, try and salvage what little of the relationship they still had, or, or invite them out for dinner, his treat, but Elias would never let him quit and the very idea of entertaining exhausted him. A cuppa appeared at his elbow filled with something new, something floral and slightly sweet, accompanied, as always, by a few biscuits.

“That’s a lot of work, Jon.” He sipped, grateful, lifting an eyebrow in response.

“I knew it would be when I accepted this position.” Undeterred, Martin stumbled forward.

“Y’yeah, I mean, you would have. Of course. I just--” A breath. “I’ve finished with my other assignments, ready for round, uh. Well, another round!”

“Ah. Alright, I’ll bring something over when I pick up your translations.” Martin took back the cup, nodding enthusiastically, and Jon appreciated that it was business as usual, selecting a few he’d been putting off and making his way toward his assistants ignoring inquiring looks in favor of taking the chair Martin offered up to go over his expectations. Short, succinct. A few notes on one translation, advice to remember for next time, and Jon felt reasonably confident Martin could handle himself. It wasn’t until he’d gotten back to his office that Jon realized that was the first time he’d been offered a chair. It was becoming apparent that Martin was good at noticing the little things about them. A blush heated his cheeks and he tried to rub it away, feeling ridiculous that such a small act of kindness made him feel so seen.

Jon pushed forward, ignoring the warnings his body was trying to give him in favor of plowing through his work like he’d always done, and by the time he made it home, was on the verge of collapse. Hot tears of frustration stung at the corners of his eyes, spilling over when Jon allowed himself to feel it. More than anything, he was used to having control over himself, working when he wanted, burying himself in the research, devouring knowledge. Now he was at the whim of his physical form. Paying more attention to it than ever before and never knowing if he was going to wake up and have a good day or a bad day and it was maddening. Managing whatever it was without knowing what it was, was impossible with no rhyme or reason he could discern.

So in the absence of both, Jon kept shoving his way through how difficult it was because if he could just be normal through pretending everything was normal, then it would be.

Jon knew Tim was cross with him and managed to avoid him for most of the day, taking breaks here and there like he’d promised Martin he would do. But his luck, while it had been holding steady, had just run out and he found himself cornered in the breakroom.

“What do you think you’re on about?” Frustration had long since turned to outrage, boiling over.

“Tim, I. I’m not sure what you mean--”

“Damn it, Jon! You’ve already taken on a job you aren’t fit for! You can’t keep heaping your work onto Martin and then swanning off!”

“That’s.” He balled his hands into fists, nails biting crescent moons into his palms. How could he explain when even the doctors thought he was making it all up? Heat rushed through him, top to toe, flushing his face and he wavered, legs threatening to buckle, vision threatening to go dark. He was going to pass out a second time today if he didn’t sit down. But that would mean walking away from Tim, and he didn’t think the man would let him. At least not until he was done telling him off. Better to be silent. Try not to pay attention to how erratic the persistent beating caged behind fragile ribs had become.

“Why didn’t you say no?” Because he wanted to be useful. Because Elias made him feel like he was capable even if he wasn’t. “Why didn’t you just let Sasha have this?” Because he was an awful, selfish person. “God, Jon. Why did you drag us all down here with you?”

Because he was lonely.

Because they’d been friends. Once.

Rather than remind Tim that he was free to go at any time, that he and Sash hadn’t been forced or coerced into accepting positions here in the archives, Jon pressed his lips into a thin line.

“Well?!” Sharp, strident, Tim’s shout echoed around in the space between his own hurting, agonal breaths in his ears.

“I. I, I need to si’down…” wanted to lay down. Wanted to sleep, trembling with exhaustion, about to go down.

“What?” Lashes fluttering as he gripped the thread of consciousness with both hands, he barely registered Tim’s hands around his shoulders, guiding him into a chair and pushing his head down between his knees. “Jon?”

“M’okay…”

“You are clearly not.” A wide palm settled on his back, keeping him folded over. It was helping.

“S’mm...been. S’fine.” The floor came back into focus, all the little cracks and imperfections and Jon counted the streaks in the pattern in an attempt to ground himself but kept losing track of the number. Neither moved until Jon attempted to sit up, slowly, accepting Tim’s help.

“Jon?” He looked spooked, pale. “Please, what’s going on?” His hand settled in the crux of shoulder and neck, thumb ghosting along his clammy skin, and Jon allowed himself to find a morsel of comfort in the familiar gesture, the threat of tears closer than ever. So he reached for him.

“I don’t know.” And Tim pulled away as if burned, the frustration and anger rising in his face again, and Jon was bereft. “T’truly! I--”

“Why won’t you be honest with me? Don’t you trust me?” Standing, he took a step backwards, away from him, the hurt in him a palpable thing. “We’re supposed to be friends!”

Yes. They were friends. It was most likely why for the first time in a long while, the pain in his chest wasn’t a physical ache.

“Tim, I.” Fingers folded to fists to rest on his knees. But he was already gone.

“Jon!” Tentative, Martin lifted his chin. “Oh, oh.” Having been crying, Jon figured his eyes were red-rimmed and puffy and he didn’t bother attempting to hide the evidence. “Alright.” Martin went about making tea, chamomile, herbal and calming, placing it before him on the table with a chocolate digestive. “Drink this down and then go home. It’s half six.”

“Mm.”

“Sleep will help.”

“Mm.”

“I could speak to them for you. If--”

“No!” All but shouted. “No. That won’t be necessary, Martin.” Carefully he stood, paused. “Thank you.” And left.

Jon called off.

Called off again.

Again.

Apologized to Elias in a curt email requesting leave and was granted it.

He ignored his phone. His texts. The knock at the door and Martin’s voice behind it. He slept when he was tired and he was tired often and it was easier besides, to finally listen to the screaming of his body. It was after hours on his fifth day gone when Tim let himself in with the spare key to Jon’s flat.

“Hey.” Sheepish, he held up his hands in surrender, a bag of takeaway from Jon’s favorite place dangling from one. “Martin said you wouldn’t let him in.” Dressed in the most comfortable clothes he had, which were also the shabbiest, Jon glared at him from where he laid on the couch. “I was an arse.” Slowly, he sat up, making Tim wait on purpose, a powerful frown still aimed in his direction.

“You were.” He was aware he looked a mess, greasy hair pulled back in a sloppy bun, but he felt a sight better for the rest he’d gotten.

“Would you accept an apology?” Folding his arms, Jon leaned back into the cushions and fixed his stare at whatever rubbish was on the telly.

“Might do.” Silently, Tim scurried into the tiny kitchen and Jon listened to the familiar sounds of him rooting around for cutlery. It smelled delicious and comforting, a reminder of nights spent together laughing at nothing on this same couch and despite himself, Jon began to relax.

“I’m sorry.”

“Alright.” Tim’s face split in a wide, relieved grin, and he flopped down next to him, planting a loud kiss to his temple before urging him to eat. “Martin sent you here.”

“An angry Marto is not to be trifled with.” Through a mouthful of noodles, Tim chuffed in laughter. “Wouldn’t tell me anything, other than to stop being a prick.”

“He did not.”

“He did not. But it was more than implied!” He put his bowl on the low table in front of them, sitting forward with his hands dangling between his knees. “And he was right. I didn’t give you a fair shake and accused you of awful things. And I know you’re doing your best at this job.”

“Gertrude isn’t making it easy.”

“Neither is your health, I take it.” Jon set his own meal aside, curling into the padded arm.

“No. It isn’t.”

“And you don’t know what’s causing it?”

“I know some things that help. M’Martin has been invaluable.”

“Has he, now?”

“Leave off!”

“Okay, okay.” But he continued giggling as Jon felt his face go hot, muttering.

“He really has.” This time Tim pulled him gently into an embrace.

“Then Sash and I will just have to catch up.”

[ahwait-no-yes]

“Beautiful”

TW// ED?? Ish?? Just my experience and im not gonna self diagnose

(Read at your own risk!! I’d hate to trigger anyone hh)

i am looking away as i project instead of talk to people about it 

(Also Kaito and Kokichi are brothers but Ouma was adopted and uses his last name because he feels it’s still a part of him and yes they’re fine with it and yes he loves his parents and they love him) also me getting worse? more likely than you think —

= 

There’s a bit of progress.

Shuichi pushed his hand against his stomach, trying to flatten it as much as possible. He remembered reading somewhere that your lower stomach would never be perfectly flat, seeing as you had your intestines that were taller than you in there.

You probably can if you try hard enough.

Shuichi grimaced once he looked at his face, running his hand through his hair. When was the last time he showered? He probably should. He cupped his face, gently squishing his cheeks. His face looked slimmer than before.

This is good. This is progress. We won’t go too far, we just wanna loose a few pounds. There’s nothing wrong with that.

He softly smiled at his reflection, ignoring the slight shaking in his hands. He didn’t want to go too far. He heard that not eating can cause hair loss. He didn’t want that to happen, so he wouldn’t go to far.

You’re doing good. This is good.

Shuichi laid back down, gently rubbing his forehead. Were his hands always this shakey?

Probably. It’s nothing to worry about, you can still write and draw fine if you need to.

He frowned at the familiar feeling of discomfort, yet his stomach didn’t growl. Maybe his body was just adjusting. He remembered reading somewhere that not eating just makes you gain more weight.

Which, probably wasn’t true. You look skinnier when you don’t eat.

He pulled out his phone, typing a question into google.

How many calories should 18 year old boy eat?

2,400

He thought about it. He definitely didn’t eat that many. A hot pocket and instant ramen. How much was that? 

Hot pocket is 600 calories.

He looked it up.

371 calories.

Yeah, he’ll be fine. He feels fine. Shuichi looked at himself in the mirror, feeling panic wash over him. He didn’t look skinnier. Had he gained weight? He hadn’t weighed himself in a while. It was possible. He only ate two things. That wasn’t a lot.

Except that slice of cake was a lot.

Shuichi laid back down, curling up in a ball. He wrapped his fingers around his wrist. They could still touch. He sat back up, ignoring how he felt dizzy and how his vision darkened for a second. He pulled down his shirt collar, running his hand over his collar bone. It was more apparent now. Not all of his work had gone to waste. He wasn’t going to make himself throw up. He didn’t want to throw up and have to deal with the burning pain in his throat that would last for hours, or feel the lack of energy after it. When was the last time he drank water? He glanced at the half filled water bottle, grimacing. Water doesn’t have calories, but it would make his stomach more obvious. 

He wasn’t that thirsty anyway.

— 

Shuichi sat down with his friends, who were currently talking about getting together to study. He wasn’t really paying attention, his mind seemed a bit hazy. Not too much, luckily. When an ad of someone eating came up, he frowned.  It never made sense how people could just eat without worrying about what would happen. 

Maybe he was just a little scared of food. No big deal. The thought of eating just made him feel sick and scared.

“Hey, are you listening Shuichi?” Kaito suddenly asked, one of his eyebrows raised. Saihara sheepishly smiled, rubbing the back of his neck. “Sorry, I spaced out. What were you saying?” “We all said that were gonna meet up this Saturday at 2 pm. Is that good?” Kaito asked, his usual confident smile on his face. “Yeah, I don’t have any plans,” Shuichi replied, tugging on a loose string. “Great! We’ll see you there!” —

This whole thing was a bad idea.

The five of them, consisting of Kaito, Kaede, Harukawa, and Ouma (including himself) were cramped into a small booth. Ouma kept throwing small bits of food at Kaito when he wasn’t looking, Kaede kept trying to stop Ouma, (though, he kept crying whenever she said anything about it) and Harukawa kept glaring at him from across the table. Shuichi didn’t have time to look over the food, (calories, really) so he just chose something that sounded good. It ended up being soup, which he was mostly fine with.

Mostly fine with.

Shuichi didn’t want to eat. He wasn’t hungry. He ate enough yesterday. “Hey, Saihara chan! You okay? You look like you swallowed a whole rock!” Kokichi chirped, an excited smile on his face. Shuichi just nodded, pulling at the loose hoodie he was wearing.

He’d be fine. It was just a bowl of soup. It’s not a big deal.

He just stirred the soup, trying to think of ways to quickly finish it.  The loud noise felt so overwhelming. He just wanted to leave. To go back home. “I’m gonna be right back,” Saihara abruptly stood up and left to the restroom. He just needed some time to think, to calm down. He quickly locked himself in a stall, leaning against the door. 

He felt so, so sick.

Saihara took a deep breath, rubbing his eyes. He was overreacting. If he didn’t eat, his friends would suspect something. He didn’t want to answer any questions about eating, so he’d have to eat. He shouldn’t be having to deal with this. He missed being able to eat and not think anything of it. He didn’t know when this started. It felt as if,

this,

had been going on for as long as he could remember. Shuichi rubbed away the tears that had managed to slip out. He shakily took a deep breath, (was it always this hard to do anything?) and opened the door. He didn’t say anything when he saw Ouma waiting at the entrance. “Heya Saihara chan!” Ouma walked up to the other, a soft smile on his face. “Uh, hey,” Saihara muttered, splashing his face with water. “Soo! You okay? You looked a tinyyy bit upset earlier!” “I’m fine, I just had a headache,” He murmured, the lie easily slipping off his tongue. It wasn’t exactly a lie, but not exactly the truth either. A half truth at the best. Kokichi hummed in acknowledgement. “So, are you gonna leave because of that nasty headache?” He asked innocently, tilting his head. Trying to find holes in his story. “Maybe, I don’t want it to get worse,” He replied. More lies, more half truths. Ouma just nodded, still staring at him. Shuichi finished washing his hands and quickly dried them off, shoving them into his pockets.

Was he always so cold?

“Well, uh, I’m gonna go home. Can you tell them why? I don’t wanna interrupt  them,” He looked away, fidgeting. Kokichi just nodded and placed his hands behind his head. “Sure thing Saihara chan!” — Shuichi was laying down, tears running down his face. Things were getting worse and worse, and he felt so helpless. He kept trying his best, sleepless nights studying and memorizing things he’d probably never have to use.

It didn’t matter anyway, it was never enough. He wasn’t enough.

Everything hurt. He hadn’t eaten for a while. He had two bites of egg, but it made him feel so nauseous and guilty he just threw the rest away when no body was looking. He was tired. He couldn’t sleep. He couldn’t do much other then watch the clock tick away, waiting for the day to be over.

A knock at the door.

Shuichi, of course, ignored it. He didn’t want to talk to anyone, and didn’t want to deal with his heart feeling it was going to beat out of his chest and his vision blacking out for a a few seconds.

Though, he had gotten used to it.

The knocking continued. Shuichi groaned and stood up, grabbing onto his dresser so he wouldn’t fall. His vision took longer to clear up, and he still felt dizzy. 

It’s just an inconvenience. Don’t worry about it.

He stumbled over to the door, taking a second to rub his head in hopes it would clear up the dizziness.

Spoiler alert, it didn’t work

. He opened the door, staring at Ouma grinning up at him. “Hey Saihara chan!  Fancy seeing you here!” He exclaimed, eyes shining in excitement. “I live here,” Shuichi deadpanned, quietly sighing. “I know!” Kokichi chirped, gently pushing past Shuichi and walking in the house. “Uh, Ouma kun, why exactly are you here?” He asked, closing the door and following him. “Oh, you know,” He very helpfully replied, a nonchalant expression on his face. “But hey! Since I’m here, why don’t we do something fun!” He abruptly said, spinning around to face the other boy. “I don’t know, I’m kinda busy,” He replied, avoiding eye contact. “Busy with what?” Kokichi asked, getting closer to his face. Saihara backed away, looking uneasy. “With stuff,” he vaguely replied. Ouma sighed, grabbing his hand, only to let go a second later. “God Shumai, why’re you so cold?” He asked, pouting. Shuichi just muttered something, messing with the loose sleeves of his hoodie. It was quiet for a few seconds. Kokichi kept staring at Shuichi, trying to figure *something* out. Saihara kept shifting in place, feeling more and more panicked as the seconds passed. “We can watch a movie then!” Ouma suddenly exclaimed, a soft smile on his face again. Shuichi just nodded, nervously smiling back. “Do you have popcorn?” He asked. Shuichi just mumbled, “Yeah, probably.” After a few minutes, they put on a random movie and had a bowl of popcorn sitting in between them. Kokichi offered some every now and then, only for Shuichi to say no everytime.

He could just grab some.

“I’m gonna be right back, you don’t have to pause it,” Shuichi muttered, standing up. He still felt a bit dizzy, and standing definitely didn’t help. Kokichi just nodded, eyes glued to the screen. Shuichi locked himself in the bathroom and took a deep breath. It used to be he was hungry but didn’t eat. But now, the smell and thought of food made him feel nauseous.

You could eat and make yourself throw up.

He grimaced. It wouldn’t be difficult, really. He could just stick two fingers into his mouth until he threw up. He could. It’d be easy. It’d be no big deal. He shakily sighed, covering his face. He didn’t like throwing up. It hurt, and it made it even harder to breathe. It was also just gross. 

But it might make things a but easier. You don’t have to force yourself to throw up, but you can try. Like drinking a lot of water.

.

Yeah, he could do that.

After a few laboured deep breaths, he left the bathroom and sat back down on the couch. Kokichi continued the movie (though, he didn’t have to pause it,) and smiled at him. Shuichi smiled back, wrapping the blanket around them.

Why did he feel so scared? So sad? It didn’t make sense, he was fine right now.

“You ok Saihara chan?” Kokichi quietly asked, still staring at the screen.

He’s really not. He’s not. He’s not ok. He needs to talk to someone. Something’s wrong.

“Yeah, it’s nothing,” He murmured, taking a deep breath. Ouma just nodded and gently grabbed his hand, just loose enough so he could pull away if he wanted. Saihara squeezed his hand, trying to ground himself. He was

fine.

Ouma squeezed back, a small smile on his face. 

Is it really a white lie if you don’t think it’s a big deal?

—————

Hm - DA ☄️✨

✧༺♥༻∞

yyeah ouch I wish I could him a hug,, the line “He couldn’t do much other then watch the clock tick away, waiting for the day to be over.“ hit me very hard so that’s what I based this end doodle on (-JJ)

[chilling-seavey]

Heartbreak Hotel (d.s.) - Chapter Twenty-Four

A/N Christian and Daniel. Our favourite duo no matter the decade. 

“You’re lucky he didn’t break your nose.”

Daniel only offered a half groan in response, holding the ice pack to his nearly swollen eye as his mother carefully laid him down on his bed. Christian stood at the foot of the single bed, watching his badly bruised younger brother with stone cold concern written all over his face.

“I’m serious. He could have killed you.”

“But he didn’t.” their mother said sternly to her elder son, glaring warningly at him.

Christian sighed; both of them looking back to Daniel. He was laying flat on his back with his drapes pulled closed and his room near dark as he had a splitting headache that nearly made him nauseous with agony. He barely moved because every time he did, another wave of shooting pain ripped through his stomach and across his head. His mother tucked him under the blankets, being careful of the dark bruise that was forming larger minute by minute over his bare stomach, and she gently pet his tangled brown hair back from his face.

“Can I get you anything else, love?”

“No, Ma.” Daniel rasped out. “I’m okay.”

“Okay.” she leaned down to press a tender kiss to his forehead before taking the painkiller bottle from his nightstand. “Keep that ice there. The meds should start to kick in soon. I have to go start dinner but Christian’s going to stay with you, alright?”

“Mhm.” Daniel hummed in agreement.

Their mother stood up again from tending to her youngest son and turned to Christian, “Make sure he doesn’t fall asleep. Doctor’s orders.”

“Got it.” Christian nodded. He watched their mother leave the room to head downstairs and Christian sighed, turning back to the bed and stared at his brother for a moment in silence.

“Does it look terrible?” Daniel croaked out.

“Let me see.” Christian walked over to his bedside and carefully lifted the ice pack from his face. Daniel winced and blinked painfully up at his brother. His eye was certainly bruising and swollen, not to mention his nose and split lip that were puffy too, his pale skin stained slightly red from where the blood had flowed even after his mother cleaned him off when they got home from the hospital.

Christian sighed tightly and set the ice pack back on Daniel’s cheek, “Well you don’t look too disgusting.”

Daniel huffed, “Thanks.”

Christian pulled over his desk chair and sat down at his bedside in momentary silence. Daniel just took a moment to process what even happened; still trying to wrap his brain around the first punch yet alone the numerous ones that followed. He had never been hit like that before. He had never been hit at all before.

His brain itself physically ached but yet he could only think of Loretta. He wondered if Corbyn ever hit her like this.

“Probably not.”

Christian’s sudden volume started Daniel a little and he turned his head slightly to look at him in confusion.

“I said no, he probably doesn’t hit her. He doesn’t seem like that much of an asshole.” Christian repeated.

“Oh…” Daniel breathed. “I thought I said that in my head.”

Christian simply stared at his frazzled little brother and scooted his chair closer to the bedside, “Is now a good time to say ‘I told you so’?”

Daniel scoffed lightly.

“Corbyn’s not going to let this go easily; he’s not going to let her go easily. You should start thinking if this is all worth it.”

Daniel turned to glare at his brother quickly, wincing in pain at the speed at which he moved and he raised a hand to his neck. Christian sighed and took the ice pack from him to rest it against his neck for him and Daniel whimpered softly.

Christian continued before Daniel could speak, “I know you’ve been waiting to find your soulmate for your whole entire life but sometimes it doesn’t work out. There are so many people that never find their soulmate and they’re perfectly happy with someone else.”

Daniel sniffled a little, “I don’t want some other random girl. I want her.”

“You’re seriously going to get yourself killed fighting for this bird.”

“I don’t care.”

Christian looked up to his brother’s beaten face, his blue eyes shining with tears through his bruised skin. Christian sighed, shifting the ice pack to his jaw gently, “You love her, don’t you?”

Daniel’s nose scrunched up as he tried to hold in his tears but it only made his face hurt more and he groaned heavily through a small nod.

“No crying.” Christian shushed him softly. “It’s just gonna hurt more.”

Daniel took a small inhale to try and calm himself down, turning his head back to face the ceiling as Christian held the ice pack against his face for him. The brothers fell into silence for a moment, Christian just watching Daniel motionlessly even as his eyes started to flutter closed.

“Hey. No falling asleep.” Christian said strongly to wake him up.

“I’m so tired.” Daniel mumbled.

“I know, buddy. But we gotta keep an eye on you.” Christian explained softly as he shifted the ice pack to the purple bruise that was forming over Daniel’s cheek.

Daniel took a small breath, trying to keep his eyes open, “I wanna see Lori.”

“That’s not a good idea right now.” Christian whispered.

“Corbyn doesn’t gotta know.”

Christian cracked a small smile at his brother’s sleepy rambling, “I’m saying no because your face might scare her.”

Daniel turned slightly to face him and shot him a weak glare, “That’s not nice.”

“Those drugs are kicking in, aren’t they?” Christian chuckled.

Daniel pouted at him and nodded lightly.

“Yeah.” Christian smiled and brushed his hand through his messy hair. “You took it like a champ apparently. Jack and Zach called home after you were taken to the hospital and they said you didn’t even throw a punch back.”

“He didn’t let me.” Daniel pouted.

Christian let out a small laugh and Daniel’s lips perked into a little smile himself and the brothers shared soft chuckles together.

“Hurt so bad.” Daniel giggled. “He had rings on.”

“Shit, that’s not fair.” Christian tisked.

Daniel shook his head slightly in agreement. He licked his chapped lips a little before speaking shakily, “They matched the one that Lori wears around her neck.”

“Yeah?”

“Mhm.”

“Well I’m just glad you’re okay after such a bash.” Christian shifted the ice to another spot on his brother’s face.

“I’d take it again.” Daniel mumbled.

“Don’t say that.”

Daniel’s eyes raised to Christian’s, “I would. I’d do anything for her. I had her…I was so close to having her and suddenly she’s gone, y’know?”

Christian’s lips pulled tight, “Yeah. I know. I know all too well.”

“But yours wanted you. She just had to go home. Mine doesn’t want me.”

“Well…I suppose. But it doesn’t feel any easier.”

“Wanna trade?”

Christian couldn’t help but smile sadly at his brother, “That’s just fine; thank you though.”

“I don’t wanna see Corbyn again.”

“I don’t blame you.”

“I don’t wanna come back to work and have to see him.”

“You don’t have to. I’ll let the manager know what happened and I don’t doubt Corbyn will get sacked for it too.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologize.”

There was a beat of silence. 

“Corbyn punched me in the face.”

“Yeah,” Christian laughed lightly, “I know.”

“A lot.”

“I know. And I won’t let it happen again, okay?”

Daniel nodded lightly, his eyes starting to close again but Christian shook his shoulder lightly to wake him up. Daniel blinked up at him and Christian brushed his hand through his hair again.

“No one hurts my little brother. Not even my friends.”

“Are you gonna punch Corbyn?”

“No. Violence doesn’t solve anything.”

“You could knock ‘im out.” Daniel giggled sleepily. “You’re a big tough guy now.”

Christian swallowed thickly, leaning forward to rest his elbow on the side of the bed as he iced Daniel’s swollen face, “No I’m not.”

“Yeah you are. All scary and leather-y.” Daniel reached out an arm to brush over the jacket that Christian wore.

“I thought I was, but I’m not.” Christian shrugged off the jacket as if looking at it was wrong of both of them and then gently moved back in to pat the bag of ice gently over Daniel’s split lip. “I was angry at the world when my girl left and I tried to find something to distract myself from all that hurt in my heart. And I think I just hurt you and made you feel really alone in the process, huh?”

Daniel hesitated, not wanting to hurt his older brother’s feelings, but then nodded slightly.

“Yeah.” Christian sighed. “And I’m sorry for that. But you know I’m still the brother you always knew me as, right?”

“Right.”

“Good.”

The two brothers fell into silence a moment in the dark room, Daniel fighting to keep his eyes open and both simply listening to their mother making dinner downstairs. Daniel’s breathing was shallow and his bare chest rose and fell under his bedsheets as he stared at the ceiling otherwise motionless. Christian iced his face without and word and wondered what was going through his little brother’s mind; in that mix of love-sick heartbreak, physical pain, and a touch of strong prescription pain killers.

Daniel shifted a little under the sheets, wincing as he moved, and smacked his chapped lips together a few times before running his tongue over them. He mumbled out a weak, “Chris.”

Christian leaned closer over the side of the bed to hear him better, “Yeah, Dani?”

A peaceful smile grazed Daniel’s beaten face, the heavy drugs in his system slurring his words behind his split lip and bruised jaw, but he batted his eyelashes up at his brother with a sweet and calm, “Lori’s eating spaghetti and meatballs for supper.”

[princessmyriad]

I wish i had my cat with me. I know shes gotten fat again, i hope shes happy. All the work my brother and i put into keeping her weigjt down and mother just lets her get chonky again. Shes like 17 shes allowed a snack break near the end ig but, just the amount of times ive got yelled at for keeping this fat cat and the fatty vet bills she came with and the mother just.. does the same, allows the cats shape to rounden. I miss her dearly.

I worry about my semi-legal fish and how much electricity he costs. Is he costing extra? Too much? Will i go over my cap for trying to keep a companion so i dont go stir crazy? Is the fish happy?

What do i do about my current companion? I love him dearly, he does not see me. Does not hear me. He wants to care but he does it all wrong and i still feel lonely. I need more from him, i dont know how to ask. Ive been rejected when i tried, im scared to stand up for my own interests again for fear that it wont work, it never does, nothing will change, it never does.

I want to kiss the boy from class. It feels like a betrayal to the one i love, though more than once i have been rudely reminded this is not an exclusive type of communication. My heart breaks when he sleeps with others. I cant bring myself to have sex with anyone, though i need it more than i get. Him turning to others has made my body disgusting, i dont want to be in it experiencing any sensations it experiences. Its ugly, tainted, depressed and angry. It doesnt look good in a flowey skirt like X, or a cute blazer like Y, or in warm cozy hippie vibes like Z. I will never be good enough.

And now im not good enough for myself. I want love, i want warmth, i dont want to be touched or looked at. I cant eat, it makes me nauseous, i cant sleep, theres too much time between my head hitting the pillow and actually being asleep that i have to just experience thoughts.

It seems unfair to drag the boy from class into my bullshit when i dont even know what i want or if i want more than a kiss.

Getting to class makes me so sore, a 20 minute walk shouldnt be so fucking hard, yet i feel like ariel walking on knives with every step and i arrive pained, sweaty, sore.

Im sorely hoping to be debt free by the end of the year but i keep having to ask to borrow grocerie money. Im incredibly grateful to those who do assist when i need it. I cant ask them always though, thats not fair to them.

Presently, i keep alive for the thought of providing the absolutely perfect christmas to our little, but i think like my mother before me i just wont have the money to make her day special.

There might be a family christmas this year. Maybe not, covid. Eiether way, i do not want to go. I dont want to have to buy gifts for and pretend to be okay around all those people who emotionally destroyed me last year. I will never not remember my granny telling me my dad doesnt love me when i look at her face.

Im thankful for this room, that its cheap and not my grandmothers place full of ghosts and unkind words. It surely is the biggest room ive ever had. Its so far away from everything, and its filled with strange people and trauma not love and warmth. Its filled with my tlstuff and things but none of them mean anything anymore, theyve been moved in so many boxes for so long theyre no longer ornamentss, just box fillers, meaningless things. Do i still love things? I wish i could buy a little treat without feeling like shit abt it. Maybe one day, i can buy a snack and an ornament at once.

I dont have permission to turn my own bedroom heater on when im cold. I need to learn to give myself permission to live, to do basic shit like turn on a light if its getting dim outside. I feel trapped, not in just this room but in my whole life. I have been looking for help. There fucking is none. I dont see it worth learning to allow myself to be, when i dont want to be. Im tired of suffering lmao, tired of trying to fix my shit alone. I cant do it, clearly i am not the fixer i need.

I want to tell people i need help. I want to tell dad about my system. He doesnt love me, he wont care. My brother doesnt acknowledge it, neither does my lover. It makes me want to die when ive put so much of myself out there to those rare two people who matter, and neither of them have asked about it, or talked about it. Ive introduced myself as other system members, only to be forcefully called Kitty again and any wishes i expressed steamrolled over. Its been cool to learn about my own brain this year, learn about the other people in it. But i wish someone outside of us would acknowledge it so i feel real and not crazy. It has not been fun learning about trauma. Fucking 9months old? That shits so heavy man.

How do i keep on keeping on

Asking for a friend. Or 11, in fact. We need to be ok, and were not. Im not okay.

Havent been for a very long time.

[inthedayswhenlandswerefew]

But You Can Never Leave [Chapter 14: Fever]

A/N: I’ve written a lot of chapters for Tumblr, but this one was by far the hardest. Thank you for reading. 💜 

Chapter summary: Queen enjoys an American tradition, Y/N struggles to be optimistic, John offers distractions, Roger makes questionable decisions (what else is new).

This series is a work of fiction, and is (very) loosely inspired by real people and events. Absolutely no offense is meant to actual Queen or their families.

Song inspiration: Hotel California by The Eagles.

Chapter warnings: Language, accidental intense flirting, inconvenient erections, drugs, overdoses, near-death experiences, medical emergencies, hospital stuff, pregnancy, babies, miscarriage, drama, sexual references, do I even need to say angst...? Y’all already know.

Chapter list (and all my writing) available HERE

Taglist: @queen-turtle-boiii​ @loveandbeloved29​ @maggieroseevans​ @imnotvibingveryguccimrstark​ @im-an-adult-ish​ @queenlover05​ @someforeigntragedy​ @imtheinvisiblequeen​ @joemazzmatazz​ @seven-seas-of-ham-on-rhye​ @namelesslosers​ @inthegardensofourminds​ @deacyblues​ @youngpastafanmug​ @sleepretreat​ @hardyshoe​ @bramblesforbreakfast​ @sevenseasofcats​ @tensecondvacation​ @queen-crue​ @jennyggggrrr​ @madeinheavxn​ @whatgoeson-itslate​ @brianssixpence​ @simonedk​ @herewegoagainniall​ @stardust-killer-queen​ @anotheronewritesthedust1​ @pomjompish​ @writerxinthedark​ @culturefiendtrashqueen​

Please yell at me if I forget to tag you! 

It’s November 12th, 1977, and you’re six weeks pregnant.

“I can’t believe I’m going to be a grandmother!” Your mom is positively giddy, beaming ceaselessly, patting the back of Roger’s hand at least once every three minutes. I was right about this delightful English boy and my future gorgeous, doe-eyed grandchildren, that look says. Your parents either never saw any headlines, or—a possibility that seems increasingly conceivable—didn’t believe them.

“I know it’s early to announce,” you add nervously. “But we figured...you know, since we’re here now...and who knows when we’ll be back in Boston...”

“Oh, I’m so happy you told me!” your mother peals like a wind chime. “Here, have some more sweet potatoes, and some salmon too, they’re so good for the baby...have you thought about names yet?”

“Roger Junior,” Roger jokes.                                                        

“Freddie Junior,” Freddie offers with a flamboyant flourish of his hand; his fingernails are jet black with glinting flecks of silver.

“A few,” you tell your mother, rolling your eyes at Freddie. “But there’s still plenty of time to figure that out.” In truth, this whole having a baby thing still feels rather nebulous and untrustworthy, like it’s a dream you might wake up from, like it’s a desert mirage that will evaporate as soon as you stumble too close, parched and ravenous and aching for it. Roger slips his arm around your waist, and you don’t exactly dislike that; but it feels a little like a mirage too.

“We’re so happy,” he says, with a gentle wistfulness that is striking on him. Roger is happy, as happy as you’ve ever seen him. He drinks only in moderation. He does his physical therapy. He’s taken up meditation. He fucking meditates. He wants to get clean for the baby, for you, for this second chance at a future together. And you don’t entirely trust this—because everyone lies and everyone disappoints and everyone carries around mortal shadows in the marrow of their bones—but you are beginning to let it make you happy too.

“You’re next, Fred,” Brian says. “You’re the only one left. Come on, it’s your turn. Cough up an infant.”

Freddie cackles. “All my children have whiskers and tails and I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

Your mother shoves a glass baking pan of sweet potato casserole, topped with a layer of gluey burned marshmallows, towards you. “Eat!” she commands.

You warily spoon yourself some, grimacing; you’re more or less constantly nauseous. Then you stare down at the heap of lumpy orange root vegetables that—to you, at least—contains a choking quantity of cinnamon. The sweet potato casserole stares menacingly back. John leans over and scoops himself a bite off your plate.

“Mmmmm!” he exclaims, to your mother’s delight. Then, more quietly to you: “Not to worry. I’ll help.”

“Everything is delicious, as always,” Brian tells your parents, ever well-mannered. “It’s always such a delight when work brings us to Boston. This was so kind of you!”

Your mom and dad wanted to treat Queen to the band’s first-ever American Thanksgiving dinner, even if actual Thanksgiving was still two weeks away; the table features a monstrous turkey with brown crispy skin, stuffing and mashed potatoes and gravy, homemade cranberry sauce, green beans almondine, ham, Atlantic salmon, buttered rolls, pumpkin pie, and of course the loathsome sweet potato casserole. You endeavor to taste at least one bite of everything, sipping sparkling apple cider cautiously, biting back waves of nausea that surface at random like breaching whales. The tablecloth is speckled with autumn leaves and inappropriately jolly cartoon turkeys. Your parents are glowing, proud, thrilled...although they’re visibly channeling effort into not being offended by the fact that Brian won’t try the turkey.

“It’s our pleasure, of course,” your father deflects as he puffs on a cigar. He’s mixed a drink for all of the non-pregnant attendees: Apple Cranberry Moscow Mules for everyone except John, who requested his usual Manhattan. “And you’ve timed it perfectly. There’s no better time to be in New England than the fall.”

“Oh, the foliage is just stunning, and the skies are so clear, you can see all the constellations!” Brian cranes his neck and points out the dining room window. “Look, there’s the winged horse Pegasus, and Cassiopeia, and Perseus...”

“The scenery is gorgeous! Creatively rousing!” Roger agrees.

“Oh, planning a Boston-inspired sequel, are we?” John quips. “I’m In Love With My Lobster Boat?”

“I’m In Love With My Revolutionary War Memorabilia?” Freddie suggests.

“Get a grip on my extremely unreliable and difficult to load musket...” John sings.

Freddie points his fork at him and grins. “Yours wouldn’t be so difficult, Deaky dear.”

“How long did those old muskets take to load?” Bri asks.

“About two minutes,” your father pipes cheerfully.

Freddie snorts. “Sounds about right.”

John bears the laughter with a good-natured, smug sort of smirk. I’m not bothered because I know I’ve got nothing to worry about, that look says. You wiggle your eyebrows at him. He winks back.

Roger groans as he stretches his hands up towards the ceiling. “Am I really expected to play after all this?! Jesus christ. I’ve gained a stone in the past hour. Alright, one more slice of pie, then we have to get going...”

Queen has reserved your parents front-row seats at the show, as well as a limo to shuttle them there and back. While your mother fusses over whether you’ve eaten enough and what appropriate rock concert attire is—“leather and feather boas and riding crops, darling” Freddie informs her—your father circles the table snapping photographs, first with your Canon and then with his own Polaroid. You and Roger pose together, lean into each other, plant giggling kisses on each other’s cheeks. And you marvel at how a photo is a snapshot, a split second, nothing less and nothing more; that it’s instantly and mechanically captured, impersonal even, cheap to print and easy to burn. As your mother begins gathering up plates and glasses, you stand to help her.

“No no no,” Roger says, wiping the crumbs from his chin with an orange napkin. “Not allowed, Boston babe. Sit down, I’ll do it, I’ll help clean up.”

“I want to,” you insist. “I feel better when I’m moving around.” Less likely to vomit into anyone’s sweet potato casserole.

“You sure?”  

“Absolutely.” You smile down at him fleetingly, ruffle his short bleached hair, then disappear into the kitchen.

Your mother is scrubbing plates in the bubble-filled sink, her hands turning pink under the hot water, humming Rhiannon in a bright merry voice. She’s wearing a sparkling crimson dress that reminds you of blood. Your stomach lists like a sailboat.  

“I’ll wash if you want to dry,” you offer.

“I raised such a kind girl. My beautiful daughter, a future mama. Mrs. Roger Meddows Taylor.” She twirls a lock of your hair affectionately, then steps aside so you can reach into the sink. “That John Deacon is a bit strange, isn’t he?”

You resist the reflex to bristle, to snap at her; it’s not her intention to be cruel. It never is. “No, not really. He’s wonderful, he’s a genius. He’s my best friend, actually.”

“Oh alright, dear. I’m sure he’s lovely enough. He’s just so terribly quiet. He fades away next to the others. And certainly next to Roger.” She sighs, infatuated, dazzled.  

You hear Roger’s voice echo in your skull: Watch out, baby. I get everything I want eventually.

Maybe he was right about that.

You’re trying to be happy, really you are; you’re trying to fall in love with this future Roger has planned for you. But you can’t shake the gnawing sensation that—somewhere along the way—your life stopped being written by you. You’re anxious all the time; you bite your lips until they bleed and wring your ringless hands and rarely sleep. You feel restless and ineffectual and nervy, like there’s some inescapable horror crouched behind every door you open, every page you turn. You feel the opposite of free.

Your mother notes casually, drying a china plate patterned with pink roses and edged with gold: “It must get difficult sometimes, having to share him with the world.”

You gaze into the nest of pearlescent bubbles that pop around your wrists like interrupted dreams, like broken promises. “You have no idea.”

~~~~~~~~~~

It’s December 21st, 1977, and you’re twelve weeks pregnant.

Blood trickles down your palm, the underside of your wrist, your velveteen-soft forearm. You hold the wad of gauze against the Scottish roadie’s pouring nose. What’s this one’s name? Nick? Nate? Niall? You’ve lost track. Whoever he is, he sustained an accidental elbow to the face as the crew was unloading the band’s luggage from the tour bus and is now slumped on the marble floor of the New Orleans Ritz-Carlton, splattered with drops of blood like the freckles sprayed across his pale cheeks. Giant red bows and Christmas trees trimmed with twinkling white lights rim the lobby.

“Alright, let’s take a look.” You lift the gauze away; the bleeding has slowed considerably. You gingerly probe the bridge of his nose as the roadie moans in pain.

“You trying to kill me, lady?” he jests.

You wrap an ice pack in fresh gauze and press it against his swollen face. “It’s not broken. Keep the ice on it, apply pressure, come get me if the bleeding doesn’t stop in ten minutes. Okay? You might have black eyes but you’re gonna be fine. You’ll look extra badass for the babes at the club.”

“Okay.” The roadie smiles gratefully. “Thanks, Florence Nightingale.”

You smirk up at Roger. “Did you have to teach them that?”

“You’ve cultivated quite the reputation, love.” He grins, takes a drag off his cigarette, glances around the lobby through his opaque prescription sunglasses. And you’re struck by how pertinent he looks here, in grand rooms with chandeliers and towering ceilings, in famed cities littered across the globe. He belongs in the spotlight. He belongs to the world. He doesn’t belong to just me, and he never will.

You reach for your duffel bag, but Roger yanks it away and slings it over his own shoulder.

“Will you please stop trying to lift heavy things?!” he pleads.

“I’m pregnant, I don’t have brittle bone disease.”

“Brittle bone disease!” Freddie cries, horrified. “Is that an actual ailment?!”

John snickers. “Yes, and it’s sexually transmitted, so watch where you stick your bone.”

“Oh, ha ha ha, you are hilarious!” Freddie says, rolling his large dark eyes. “Worry about your own performance, Mr. Misfire. Bri, you’ll join us for a drink tonight, won’t you?”

“Well...” Brian hesitates, and you suspect you know why. He’s been looking forward to this stop for months, Queen’s last in the States during the News Of The World tour; after two days in New Orleans the band will fly back to London, spend the holidays there, resume the tour with shows throughout Europe beginning in April. In just a few rotations of the Earth, Brian will be back at home with Chrissie and the twins. But tonight he has plans to see the girl he calls Peaches.

“You undependable poodle,” Freddie scolds. Then, saccharinely, batting his eyelashes: “But you’ll surely come along, won’t you Nurse Nightingale?”

“Fred...I hate to disappoint, but...”

“This is unacceptable!” he exclaims. “I am distraught! Not even an orgy with spicy Cajun men will lift my spirits!”

“I doubt that,” you reply, smiling. “I’m exhausted, Freddie. This making a kid business isn’t easy.”

“Oh, but you’re not too exhausted to cart around luggage like a fucking alpaca!” Roger massages your shoulders, enfolds the slight bump of your belly with his hands, lands a series of featherlight kisses down your neck. He’s still clean, he’s still effervescent, he’s continuously devoted in a way that is unusual for him, tender and sensitive, simultaneously ecstatic for the future and nostalgic for the past. “Want me to stay?”

“For fuck’s sake!” Freddie laments.

“That’s alright. John said I can help him wrap Christmas presents for Veronica and the kids. I’m learning how to be all maternal and domestic, isn’t that exciting?”

“I’d say you’re fairly effortlessly maternal,” Roger says, rather proudly. “Want me to bring you back anything?”

“No, I’m okay. I’ll send a roadie for chili cheese fries or something.”

“You can send them for lobster and filet mignon. Whatever you want.” He reaches into the pocket of his fitted black jeans and pulls out a small ring box.

“Roger...?”

He opens it, grinning, and taps an antique gold ring with a ruby stone into his calloused palm. “I found this at a shop in Miami. You remember the first time we were ever there? March of 1975. Hotel room with a view that looked out onto the beach, taking photos on the balcony with the ocean crashing behind you, feeding the seagulls chips until the bitches started attacking us.”

“I never forget.” And that’s true; there have been times you wish you could, but you don’t.

Roger takes your left hand and slips the ring onto your wedding finger. Then he lifts your knuckles to his lips, bites them gently, leaves faint burning indents in the flesh.

“I love it,” you breathe, turning your hand back and forth, watching the lights from the Christmas trees glimmer off the ruby. It feels real in a way that sharing a future with Roger hasn’t for a long time.

“Now don’t get all emotional over it. It doesn’t mean anything, you know.” Roger winks and lands a parting kiss on your forehead. Then he passes your duffel bag to a roadie, who vanishes with it into an elevator. “Deaks, you’ll take care of my girl?”

“I always do,” John replies.

“Have fun,” you tell Roger, beaming up at him. “But not too much fun.” This could work. This could really work.

Freddie crosses himself like one of Veronica’s Catholic great aunts. “Depravity? Us? Never in a million years, darling.” Then he hooks an arm around Roger and leads him towards the glass hotel doors. They’re engulfed by a crowd of Queen’s roadies, laughing and shoving each other playfully: Ratty Hince, Paul Prenter, Chris Taylor (dubbed Crystal by the band), Brian Spencer, John Harris, others whose names you haven’t committed to memory yet.

“You ready, Emily Post?” John asks, heading towards the nearest elevator, and you follow him.

In his hotel room is a messy stack of gifts accumulated over the past month and a half from tour stops all over the United States: tiny model Liberty Bells from Philadelphia, Yankees baseball caps from New York City, a slot machine that spits out gumballs from Las Vegas, red socks embroidered with the logo of—what else?—the Boston Red Sox, NASA astronaut action figures from Houston, teddy bears wearing Cubs t-shirts from Chicago, plushies from the Miami aquarium: a hammerhead shark for Laszlo, a dolphin for Anna, and an octopus for the newest Deacon due in mid-February. You and John sit on the floor together in a flurry of tubes of Christmas-themed wrapping paper, stick-on bows, name labels, greeting cards, and pens. John flips through the tv channels until he finds It’s A Wonderful Life. You send a roadie to get dinner from a New Orleans-based fast food chain called Popeyes, and you take leisurely breaks between gift wrapping to chomp on crispy chicken wings and biscuits and mini apple pies and to guzzle down towering cups of Southern-style sweet tea.

“Octopuses are gender-neutral, right?” John asks, floundering as he tries to wrap all eight tentacles individually.

“Totally.” You’ve been brainstorming how best to package the slot machine for fifteen minutes. You take another contemplative bite of a flaky biscuit. “These kids are gonna be super confused when it comes time to pick a favorite team for the World Series.”

“Well obviously they’ll have to be Boston fans or I’ll disown them.”

You sigh contently. “This is just too adorable. I want to wake up early on Christmas morning and open presents with some hyperactive children. Please adopt me into your family.”

“Done. You’re in.”

You laugh. “I don’t think Slavic Jesus thinks highly of polygamy.”

“Whoa whoa whoa, who said anything about a second wife? You can be the live-in nanny but also the filthy secret mistress. Take it or leave it. Final offer.”

“Alright, Mr. Misfire. But you’ll have to fuck me for at least slightly longer than two minutes.”

Oh god, I should not have said that.

John stares at you. You stare back. And something flies between you, something like a pop of static electricity or a firing neuron, something hot and lightning-quick. There’s blood flushing his cheeks, but it’s not quite embarrassment; you know because the same heat is swirling in yours.

Stop, you order yourself.

But it’s too late, now you’re thinking about it, what it would be like: what he would feel like, taste like. Not like wildfire, reckless and consuming, disaster nipping at its heels. Something different, something constant and dependable and soulful, something that feels like home anywhere in the world.

It wasn’t about me. It wasn’t about me. You’re My Best Friend wasn’t about me.

John grabs a sheet of crinkling wrapping paper patterned with chortling Santa Claus faces and drags it over his lap to conceal the sizable bulge growing there in his white pants. You pretend—unconvincingly, you’re sure—not to notice.

Finally, he chuckles uneasily. “However you want it.”

“I’m so sorry. That was wildly inappropriate. I’m hormonal and stupid.”

“I kind of like you hormonal and stupid.”

“Well don’t get used to it, this is a temporary condition.”

“You really can come over,” John says. “On Christmas morning. You and Roger can come over if you want to. The kids love you both. And honestly neither of them are old enough to remember this year anyway, so no pressure if you fuck up Christmas by being accidentally slutty or whatever.”

The smile ripples through the muscles of your face, uncoiling all the tension there. He really does make everything better. “Okay. But you have to promise to behave too.”

He shrugs coyly, lights a cigarette, watches you as he exhales smoke. “You’ve always said I have game.”

There are voices out in the hallway, uproarious laughter, the pounding of irregular footsteps, thumps against the walls. You can hear Freddie giggling: “Rog, darling, come on, get it together...!”

John furrows his brow at you. He doesn’t say anything, but you know that look. What John means is: Is he okay?

“I’m sure he’s fine,” you reply. He’s been fine all tour.

And then, more desperately: He HAS to be fine. Not just for me anymore.

“Rog?!” Freddie shrieks, and now the voices are louder, more numerous. There’s one massive thud. Someone screams for help.

You and John scramble to your feet. You snatch your kit off the dresser and bolt out into the hallway. Roger is sprawled on the floor in the center of a reeling crowd, unconscious, gasping for air, his skin a starved bluish. Freddie and Crystal are hovering over him, shouting and horrified.

“Oh my god,” John says.

“Call an ambulance,” you tell him, and John sprints back into his hotel room.

You shove Freddie and Crystal aside and kneel beside Roger, jostle him awake, pry open his eyes and shine your flashlight into them. His pupils are pinpricks. His breathing is shallow and uneven. You close your fingers around his right wrist; his skin is drenched with sweat. Roger’s pulse is erratic, fading.

“Roger, can you hear me?”

“Hey, baby,” he murmurs. Then he blacks out again.

“What did he take?” you pitch at Freddie.

Freddie and Crystal exchange a glance, hesitating.

“If you don’t tell me what it was he’s going to die, what did he take?!”

“He wasn’t in the same room as us,” Freddie says, his voice quaking. “We don’t know—”

“So you left him alone,” you seethe. “Of course you fucking did.”

Roger’s hand shoots up and seizes your shirt, twisting the fabric in his gnarled fingers. “Speedball,” he rasps. His vivid blue eyes—like bruises, like veins, like cold rain—are huge and bloodshot and frantic. He’s begging for his life. He’s begging you to save him. “The guy said it was a speedball.”

You know exactly what a speedball is; it’s your job to know things like that, to know all the chemical combinations that errant rock stars love destroying themselves with. “A speedball has heroin in it, Roger!”

“I can’t breathe,” he sighs dispassionately, as if it doesn’t bother him at all. His eyes are glassy now, unseeing.

“Don’t you fucking die on me!” You rake through your kit for the vial of Naloxone that you thought you’d never need. That’s not for bands like Queen, you remember thinking when the record company insisted you carry it. That’s for people like The Rolling Stones or Black Sabbath or maybe even Fleetwood Mac on a bad day, but not Queen. Not my boys. Not my Roger.

Oh, but has he ever really been mine?

You pull a syringe out of your kit, throw off the cap, and hold the vial of Naloxone upside down. You stab the needle through the rubber stopper and measure out 1cc—an entire syringe’s worth—of the drug that can reverse opioid overdoes. CAN, not will. It doesn’t always work.

Freddie is sobbing as Crystal drapes an arm over his shoulder and turns him away. So they don’t have to watch. So they don’t have to see him die.

You don’t have the luxury of not watching.

John is back. “What can I do?” he asks.

“Shake him. Keep him awake. Hit him if you have to.”

John kneels, cups Roger’s face in his hands, smacks his cheek each time Roger begins to nod off. Roger gazes up at him numbly, breathing in haphazard wheezes. “Stay with me, Rog. That’s it. Stay with me, you’re gonna be fine...”

You pinch a tiny roll of fat in Roger’s upper arm and jab the needle in. You push down the plunger and 1cc of Naloxone vanishes from the syringe barrel as it surges into Roger’s disordered bloodstream. You toss the syringe away and rub his arm as crimson blood beads from the injection wound.

“Come on, Roger,” you beg him. “Come on, Roger, please...”

You fill another syringe and inject it an inch below the first puncture mark. Roger’s eyes—those eyes that you’ve been trying to claw your way out of since you first saw them across a hospital room in the June of 1974—flutter closed. His sweated rib cage stills.

“Roger?!” John roars, shaking him. “Roger, Rog, wake up!”

“Roger!” you scream.

He sucks down a sudden breath—deep, clear, life-giving—and his intense blue eyes fly open.

“Oh thank god!” you cry, clutching your chest. “John, help me, help me get him up...”

Together with Fred and Crystal you drag Roger to his feet, force him to walk, parade him up and down the hallway until the paramedics arrive and ferry him away—still dazed and ghastly pale, still grasping for you and muttering things you don’t understand—and then your adrenaline rush evaporates and you crumble to the floor, one shaking hand covering your face, the other on the small swell of your belly.

I’m so sorry, little guy, little lady. You deserve better than us.

“I have to go after him,” you tell John when he reaches for you, trying to lift you off the floor. “I have to make sure he’s okay, the Naloxone, it could wear off before the heroin does, and it...it...it can stop an opioid overdose but speedballs have coke in them too and he could still have effects from that...”

“Okay, no problem, we can go, come on, we’ll get a cab and we’ll be right behind them.”

And you remember what Roger once told you as the planet rolled into 1975, under streetlights casting islands of luminance in an ocean of cold darkness: But I can promise you that your life will never feel like a cage. And isn’t that what this was all about for you anyway?

But Roger was wrong.

My life does feel like a cage. It feels exactly like a cage.

You sputter weakly: “He’s not, he isn’t, he can’t...”

“What?” John presses. “Slow down. Breathe. Tell me.”

“He’s never going to change, John,” you whisper. The weight of the ruby ring is heavy on your trembling left hand. “He’s never going to change.”

~~~~~~~~~~

It’s February 15th, 1978, and you’re nineteen weeks pregnant.

The kitchen phone rings, and you answer. The date for your twenty-week ultrasound is circled on the calendar in red ink. “Hello?”

“Do you need to get out of the house?” John asks. “Because I really need to get out of the house.”

You do, incidentally. Yesterday was Valentine’s Day, and Roger did everything right: a bouquet of pink roses and carnations waiting on the kitchen table when you woke up, a new Ferrari parked in the driveway, a candlelit dinner at Mon Plaisir. It was a little too right, actually, like Roger was trying to coax you into serenity, like he was proving how illogical it would be to consider ever being unhappy with him, like he was making up for something; and that’s how things feel a lot of the time, now that you think of it. Roger is fine, mostly. He’s home, usually. He’s clean until he isn’t, and then afterwards he’s so dazzlingly radiant and kind that you can’t stand the thought of not being there to help if he needs you, can’t remember your frustration or your anger half as much as your fear of losing him. And it’s incredible how good you’ve gotten at pushing the memory of that News Of The World headline out of your mind, like it was something from a soap opera or a cheap romance novel, like it was just a slice of scandalous fiction that happened to somebody else. That’s the way the body works too, isn’t it? Wounds close over, livers regenerate, old cells slough away and reveal fresh tissue beneath with no recollection of the pain that comes tangled up with all the other eventualities of existence. Times like Valentine’s Day are a revival, a resurrection: brand new cells, a healed fracture, a shot of Naloxone to restore the blood to equilibrium. But today is not Valentine’s Day, and Roger isn’t home. You aren’t entirely sure where he is, and you don’t know if you’d want to be. “Yeah, I’ll pick you up. I can show you my wicked new ride.”

“I’m intrigued. You’ll have to let me drive it one day.”

“What, directly into a cop car?”

“You’re awful and I hate you,” John says, and you can hear the smile in his voice. “See you at 8? There’s a new disco in Soho I’m dying to check out.”

“Sure thing, I just have to make myself glamorous first. It’s quite a process now that I have all the elegance and svelteness of a large marine mammal. But I’ll rise to the occasion. I’ll be the most attractive whale you’ve ever seen.”

He chuckles. “I don’t doubt that at all.”

You roll up to John’s Putney house in your maroon Ferrari, the convertible top down despite the biting cold, a bomber jacket—just a tad too tight to zip up over your bump—concealing your short black dress. Pregnancy has finally started to look good on you, aforementioned marine-mammal-ness notwithstanding: your hair is thick and gleaming, your skin clear, your face fuller and emitting a mysterious, ethereal sort of glow. You check your hair and makeup in the rear view mirror as John jogs out of his front door. He stops dead in the driveway.

“Wow.”

You pat the passenger’s seat. “Hop in, felon.”

“He bought you a freaking Ferrari?!”

“Am I not worth it?” you joke, flipping your hair.

John slides into the car. “How do I become married to Roger Taylor? Tell me your secrets.”

“Well, to receive a Ferrari, you’ll probably have to get pregnant with his firstborn child too.”

“Ahhh. A minor obstacle.”

You laugh as you spin out of the driveway and cruise towards downtown London. Then you peer over at John, really taking him in, reading him like heart rates or units of measurement inked to the barrel of a syringe. His elbow is propped up on the window sill, his chin nestled in the heel of his hand, his blue-grey eyes unfocused as they gaze out into the night sky and streetlights that flicker by like the episodic flashes of a firefly. “Are you okay, John?” you ask seriously.

“Yeah,” he replies, a prospect that seems implausible.

“I’m glad you called.” You both know what that means: Roger isn’t home, I don’t know where he is, I don’t know when he’s coming back or what condition he’ll be in when he does.

John smirks wryly. “You have a shit husband. I am a shit husband. We should stick together, people like you and me.”

The disco is a small place called Lo Asilo with neon blue lights rimming the entrance way like vines laced through a trellis. John orders a Manhattan for himself, goes back and forth with the bartender for a while about the virgin drink options, ends up passing you a non-alcoholic raspberry mojito.

“I love it,” you pronounce after a tentative sip. This kid loves fruit. And sugar. And you feel a abrupt groundswell of affection for that sometimes inconvenient, frequently anxiety-inducing little person who temporarily shares your blood and bones: who they are, who they one day will be. These moments are coming more and more often, as your future solidifies in some ways and becomes more imprecise in others.

“You’re almost halfway done,” John says, pointing at your belly like he can read your mind.

You sigh. “Do we have to talk about me?”

“We definitely can’t talk about me.” He studies you for a moment, makes mental notes like someone browsing through archaeological artifacts in a museum. Then he realizes: “You don’t want to have to stay home.”

You nod, downing your sort-of-mojito. No offense, kid, but I could really use some mind-numbing inebriation right now.

“Because you don’t trust him...?”

“It’s not quite that,” you reply. “I can’t stand the thought of not being there if something happened to him. If something happened to any of you. If I wasn’t there to at least try to help and someone ended up...you know...” Goddammit, I’m so much more sensitive these days. You force it out. “If someone ended up dying, I wouldn’t be able to live with that.”

“No one’s going to die, love,” he says gently.

“People die all the time. Especially rock stars. Hendrix, Joplin, Morrison, Murcia, McIntosh, Bolin. I could go on. There will be more names a year from now. Maybe some we recognize.”

“What do you want me to do? You want me to haul him off to rehab? You want me to handcuff him to his hotel bed every night we’re on tour? I’ll do it if you think that would help. I’ll do whatever you want. Obviously I don’t want to lose him either. But I’ve never known Roger to be someone you could force into anything.”

“No, he’s definitely not,” you agree softly, in surrender.

The opening notes of Fleetwood Mac’s Go Your Own Way rumble from the stereo. John knocks back the end of his Manhattan and sets the glass on the bar.

“Alright, congratulations, you get your wish.” He grins, holding out his hand. “We don’t have to talk about you anymore.”

“I’m warning you, I am zero percent graceful in my current state.”

“I’ll manage somehow.”

“Loving you

Isn't the right thing to do

How can I ever change things

That I feel?”

John leads, pushing through the crowd to a spot near the center of the kaleidoscopic dance floor. Then he knots his fingers through yours, sways with the music, dances comically sluggishly as you struggle to keep up, twirls you randomly until you’re giggling against him, blushing and not thinking about Roger or the tour or your impending career change at all; and you suspect John isn’t thinking about Veronica either. You belt out the lyrics at the top of your lungs, flouncing around like an extremely ungainly Stevie Nicks, and after a moment John joins you, pumping his fist in the air:

“You can go your own way

Go your own way

You can call it

Another lonely day...”

And it feels good. It feels more than good. It feels almost like being free.

Lindsay Buckingham’s guitar solo splits through the fog-filled room, and your smile begins to fade, recedes like the frothing ocean waves at low tide. And you think, more clearly and more inauspiciously than you ever have in your life: Something’s wrong.

The body knows when it nears catastrophe. There’s a primal dread that sparks up in the blood and nerves and endocrine system, seeps from your pores like smoke, cloaks you in that bleak, biological premonition. Dogs can smell it, can be trained to alert people before that nascent calamity manifests into a cardiac arrest or diabetic coma or asthma attack or stroke; and humans can feel it when that inevitable devastation creeps close enough, when it sharpens its fangs and scrapes them down the jugular. You’ve never truly been able to understand that before. But you recognize it now.

There’s cold sweat springing up on your skin like goosebumps. There’s a stormy rush of blood pounding in your ears. You can’t remember the name of the club, the city, the type of car Roger bought you for Valentine’s Day, the stone gleaming in your ring. The air that you wrench into your lungs is thin and fleeting, without the relief of oxygen. There’s an indescribably heavy iron twist of fear buried in your guts.

John freezes in the middle of the dance floor. “What?” he asks, alarmed.

There’s pain; sudden, sharp, low. Your eyes follow it. There’s blood snaking down your bare thighs. There’s indigo darkness crumbling around the edges of your vision as you sink to the floor. Your knees bruise against cold tile.

Someone is screaming for help; you aren’t sure who. But you reach for them, because they sound so irrevocably strong, because they sound like home. Your fingertips collide with John’s leather jacket.

“Make it stop,” you choke out through bared teeth, as claws of glass and barbed wire tear at where your future once lived. The agony is unnatural, razored, almost surgical.

“I can’t. Here, we’re gonna get you help, hold on, hold on to me—”

“I don’t want to be here anymore,” you sob into John’s neck. His skin is stubbled and dusted with nicotine and flare-hot. He’s trying to drag you to your feet, shouting over his shoulder for someone to call an ambulance. “I don’t want this anymore, I don’t want any of it. I don’t want to see the world. I want to go home.”

“Don’t say that, everything’s going to be okay, they’re coming, listen to me, listen to me, I’m going to get you help—”

“It’s too late,” you whisper. And every light in the world blinks out.

~~~~~~~~~~

It’s February 16th, 1978, and you’re not pregnant at all.

You’re a registered nurse, and so you understand perfectly the terms that the doctors use when they explain to you why it happened, after they do the ultrasound to make sure the miscarriage was complete; when they tell you why it was doomed from the start. Stage 4 endometriosis. Placental abruption. Difficult to conceive, nearly impossible to carry to term. An open and shut case. That’s the genetic lottery, and some people roll straight sevens, blood-red sevens rimmed with fool’s gold.

What you have a harder time understanding is how this could have happened to you. How is it possible to have all of that organic poison building inside of you, all that latent ruin, and yet not know it? To have never had any symptoms besides slightly-more-annoying-than-average periods? To have a nursery set up in one of the five extraneous bedrooms—the one with the blue-grey wallpaper, to be exact—with a crib your child will never use, never peer out of with their tiny fists curled around the wooden bars, never cry out to you in the middle of the night from? To have a list of names scribbled on a notepad stuck to the refrigerator—Roger favors deeply Anglophile possibilities like Arthur and Jasper and Alice, while you tend towards names with a Southern European flair like Aurelia, Callista, Felix, Augustus, although you both quite like the idea of incorporating some variation of John—that you suddenly have no use for? To have to inform your husband, your parents, your friends that there is no baby, that there most likely never will be, and that it’s entirely your fault: So terribly sorry, due to a genetic glitch my womb is rendered inhospitable, we’ll have to leave that ultimate trophy of womanhood off the shelf indefinitely I’m afraid.

You’re in and out through the night. The dreams are murky and fragmented and ominous, jolting you awake four times an hour. John never leaves, except to periodically phone the Surrey house from the nurse’s station. And there’s pain now, of course, even through the haze of the morphine drip—your uterus cramping down to collapse the void, your head splitting from the shock and hormonal bedlam—but it’s almost like that pain belongs to someone else, someone you might have heard of but don’t know especially well. The pain doesn’t surprise you. What surprises you is the totality of the darkness that rolls over you like a quilt, like a second skin.

Shouldn’t I feel at least some infinitesimal amount of relief, of liberation? Shouldn’t I feel free?

“I don’t feel free,” you murmur, your voice hoarse and very quiet.

“What?” John leans into you, takes your hand in his, lays his palm on your forehead and smooths back your hair. Harsh morning sunlight streams in through the window. “What did you say?”

“I don’t feel free at all. I just feel empty.”

His greyish eyes are slick and anguished. “I am so fucking sorry,” he says, his voice breaking.  

You whisper: “He’s never going to be able to love me now.”

“Shhhhh, don’t,” John pleads. “He’s always loved you. As much as he can, and in the way that he can.”

“You’ve been here all night.”

“Of course.” And he hasn’t managed to tell Roger. Which means Roger hasn’t come home yet.

You shake your head groggily. “No, you have your own family. You have to go home.”

“It’s fine, don’t worry about it,” he says tersely.

“John, you have to go home. You have to call at least. Veronica could have gone into labor or something.”

“No, seriously, it’s fine, she pops out one a year no problem. I’m staying.”

A scalding tear slinks down your cheek. “You’re lucky to have her.”

“They must have you on a lot of drugs.”

You laugh, then begin to cry.

“Hey, don’t do that, please don’t do that, shhhh...”

John climbs into the hospital bed and you fold into him, burrow into his warmth that smells like cigarettes and dusky cologne and Manhattans, sob against his chest as he locks his arms around you and pulls you in until there’s no space, no air, no line between you at all.

“You have to be okay,” he murmurs, his lips to your forehead. “I need you to be okay for me. Because when I was messed up I didn’t get better for me, I didn’t do it for me, I got better for you. So now you need to get better too, okay?”

“Okay,” you promise, not meaning it at all.

And he makes you promise again and again until you drift back to sleep with his steady heartbeat drumming against your palm, just loud enough to keep the dreams away.

~~~~~~~~~~

John finally reaches Roger at 9:47 a.m. Roger arrives at the hospital twenty minutes later, his hair a chaotic tangle, his eyes shielded by prescription sunglasses, still wearing the sapphire blue suit he left the house in the night before, his tie undone and several buttons missing from his shirt.

“I’m so sorry,” Roger begins. “I was at this party and met some guys who wanted to collaborate on my solo album, and it turned into a whole...oh, fuck, it doesn’t matter. Is she—?”

John grabs him, pushes him against the hallway wall, yanks off Roger’s sunglasses and pries open his eyes. Roger flinches, but doesn’t struggle.

“What—?”

“I’m making sure you’re not high.” John observes normal pupils and shoves Roger away, disgusted. “Get in there. She needs you.”

“You’ve done a lot for us,” Roger says.

“It’s mutual.”

“Thank you.” There are tears in Roger’s crystalline blue eyes. “Thank you so much, John.”

John nods towards the hospital room. “Just go.”

She wakes up when she hears the door open, and she knows it’s Roger instantly. Of course she does. Everyone knows the way a room changes when Roger walks into it, the way he lights up people and places like wildfire, the way he gets humans addicted to his innate magnetism the same way some are hooked on coke or alcohol or heroin. John isn’t that kind of man, and he knows it. He will never be that kind of man.

“I’m so sorry,” she tells Roger.

Roger shakes his head, cradling her face in his hands. “Baby, I’m not mad. I don’t blame you. I’m not mad at you.”

John watches as she explains everything, as Roger embraces her, as he says all the right things, all those beautiful and hopeful and effortlessly spellbinding things, as she begins—slowly, yes, but unmistakably—to light up again like rising sunlight glinting off quicksilver waves.

And only then does John leave.

[anythingandeverything1d]

Plum Sized

Part 1: Congratulations Part 2: Im having your baby

The next few weeks had gone by in a blur. Harry had left again to do some more writing, promising he would be back for your next ultrasound and doctors appointment. Luke was still getting over the fact that you had just let Harry back into your life like that, but since Harry hadn't really been around much he was warming back up to the idea a little bit more and had started coming over more, specifically in the mornings which had been really hard for you. You had woken up every morning with extreme morning sickness. You couldn't eat for hours, you felt dizzy and threw up multiple times. Certain smells and foods just made you want to vomit at the thought. 

You were laying in bed trying to avoid throwing up when Luke walked in with a smile. “Morning beautiful, figured you might still be sick and in bed so I brought you a smoothie. Shouldn't have any weird smells or anything so I thought it might be worth a shot.” He handed you a large smoothie and sat on the edge of the bed. “How are you doing?”

You took the smoothie and thanked him before taking a small sip. It actually tasted amazing and nothing about it so far had made you sick so that was a big plus. “Not too bad....still just so nauseous. I mean the sight of food, the idea of food, it all just makes my stomach turn. I’m also just getting nervous about the appointment. I have to have my blood drawn and then we will probably find out the gender from that and of course it’s Harry’s first time going to an appointment so thats extra pressure because well because its Harry.” you sighed taking another sip and sitting up.

Luke nodded. “Have you heard much from him recently?”

“No...he’s been busy writing I think.” You bit your lip. Truth is after Harry had spent the night, he had waken up and left. You had hoped there might be something left to reconcile but he was really only interested in the baby. He had left the following afternoon even though you had asked him to stay. All you wanted was for him to actually step up, to be there for you the way he said he wanted to be. “He should be coming here tonight so that he doesn't miss the appointment..”

“Well I hope for your sake he does.”

“I’m sure he will but anyways lets talk about something else. What have you been up to? What’s new in your life?”

“Uh not a lot...I do have a date tomorrow though.”

“A DATE?!”

Luke laughed and grinned, “Yeah I met this girl, her name is Kayla and well we really hit it off so I’m taking her out tomorrow for a fun picnic lunch date. I think it’ll be a lot of fun.”

“Im sure it will be, you plan the best dates. So where did the two of you meet?” you played with the styrofoam cup your smoothie was in distractedly as went on about meeting Kayla at a gas station. You wished Harry would plan cute dates, and care more about everything. You wished he would text you good morning and good night or check in throughout the day. You wanted more from a relationship but at the same time...you really only wanted Harry. It was a hard place to be in at the moment. Just thinking about it and how frustrated you were with him made you tear up. You wiped a tear and noticed Luke was looking at you weirdly. “Sorry what?”

“I asked if you were okay....you seem. I don't know...not okay?”

You laughed and wiped another tear away. “Yeah, I’m fine just been thinking.”

He nodded unsure but was willing to let it go for your sake. “Well I have to go get ready for work, but enjoy the smoothie and text me later to let me know you are okay and all good. Promise?”

“Promise. Thank you for the smoothie..You really are the best friend a girl could have.”

“I try” he squeezed your hand and then walked out, leaving you to your thoughts.

After a few hours of lounging around you decided to get up and be productive. You threw on a pair of leggings and a t-shirt and froze when you looked in the mirror. Your stomach had definitely grown, and a small baby bump was definitely visible. You light touched your stomach and smiled. It was all startling to feel real. You got to work, cleaning almost every room of your house and by the end everything was spotless and beautiful. You felt good. There was just something about a clean house that cleared your mind. It was almost 4:00 pm by the time everything was finished and you still hadn't heard from Harry. He was supposed to come home tonight so that he could take you to your appointment in the morning. *Hey, how's writing going? Think youre going to make it home for the appointment tomorrow?* you texted him. You sat waiting for a reply but when it didnt immediately come you decided to start on dinner. Tonight you were going to be making spaghetti with meatballs and garlic bread, nothing too fancy but still delicious. You were boiling the water and buttering bread when your phone buzzed. Harry’s face was on the screen so you quickly answered it. “Hey!” you said cheerfully.

“Hey love, look I’m in the middle of a song right now and I don't want to stop so I don't think I’m going to make it tomorrow.”

Your heart sank and tears threatened to spill from your eyes. “But Harry this is a really important appointment. This is where we-”

“I know, I’m sorry. I’ll be at the next one I swear.”

You didn’t even answer, just hung up the phone and went back to cooking. The whole night was spent thinking about Harry. How couldn't he want to be there? Why was writing more important than his family? Did he even care at all? You were frustrated, upset, hurt, and confused. None of it made sense. Harry always said that he wanted kids and he wanted to be the dad that was there at every moment. Yet here he was not even caring to show up and you were done with it. *Good luck writing. Don't bother in calling me anymore I think our baby will be better off without you in its life* you know it was a long shot, something meant to dig at him but you didnt care. You were done with letting Harry hurt you again. You were sitting on the floor crying when Luke walked in carrying two suits. 

“Hey which should I wear- Are you okay?” he immediately knelt down, dropping the suits and rubbing your shoulders. “(y/n) are you okay?” You shook your head no. Luke got more worried. He tried scooping you into his arms. “Are you hurt? What happened?”

“No.” you wiped your face and let out a shaky breath. “I think I just broke up with Harry again.”

Luke froze trying to decide what to say. He decided to play it safe, “I’m sorry.” 

“It’s okay. It’s not your fault, its not mine, its his. He just doesn't care.”

“He will one day, it just sucks he doesn't realize it now.” you nodded leaning into him. “So youre going alone tomorrow?”

You nodded again. “I’ll be okay.”

He sighed, “no. You shouldn't go through all of this alone. I’ll go. I’ll take you.”

“But your date..”

“I’ll reschedule. I have a friend in need.” You smiled and wiped your tears. 

“Can I still pick out the outfit you wear?” Luke laughed and nodded standing up and then pulling you to your feet.

“Of course.” He looked at you and gave you a look.

“What?”

“Your belly...its like actually bigger.”

“Well I do have a baby inside me that grows everyday.” You laughed. “Today, at 12 weeks, the baby is the size of a plum.”

“A plum? How do you know that?”

“I have an app that tells me its size according to fruits every week.”

He laughed and rolled his eyes, “A plum. Who would've guessed.”

You laughed instantly feeling better. You held up the two suits and smiled. “The grey one. It brings out your eyes.” You smiled and handed it to him.

“That was a quick decision.”

“I’ve been your friend for forever. I know what you look good in.”

The rest of the night was spent lounging around. Luke had gone home, promising to pick you up for your appointment and you still hadn't gotten a response from Harry. You weren't really expecting one, but you had hoped he would say something. You decided turning in early was a good idea so you threw on Harry’s old t-shirt, the one you slept in every night and jumped into bed. You were exhausted so falling asleep was easy. You had awoken to the sound of the door opening. You laid in bed listening for other sounds but didnt hear anything. You covered your head with the blanket and tried thinking to if you had imagined it or not. Then you heard footsteps walking up the stairs. You panicked. You didnt know what to do. You grabbed your phone and looked for something you could attack an intruder with. The footsteps were getting closer and your heart was racing. The door opened and you were ready to dial 911. “(y/n)?” Harry’s voice whispered. You breathed out and turned on a light next to the bed.

“Harry what the hell!” you screamed. “I thought you were a robber or murderer or something. You cant do that!”

Harry walked in and smiled holding out a giant bouquet of flowers. “I’m sorry...I didnt mean to scare you but I also didnt want to wake you if you were sleeping.”

“What are you doing here.” 

He sighed and walked to the bed sitting down next to you on the edge. “I came to apologize. I haven't been a good dad lately. I haven't even been good to you. I got so distracted trying to please the fans with this next album that I was forgetting what's more important. My family. I know I don't deserve forgiveness. I know I promised you I would be here and be present and then I wasnt but this time I will be. I want to be there for you. I want to be there for this little one.” He touched your belly and smiled. “Im done writing for now. At least leaving to write. I want to be here, with you, as much as possible. I want us to work on whatever this is and to experience all the baby stuff together.”

“Harry-”

“Please (y/n)....give me one more chance...I promise not to screw it up.” He placed his head down by your stomach and your fingers immediately went to his hair. You sighed and he looked up.

“Fine. One more chance but if you screw this up Harry you won't be in my life or the baby’s.”

“Trust me love, I won't screw it up again.” He kissed your forehead and set the flowers on the nightstand. He then stripped down to his boxers and climbed into bed. He pulled you against his chest and trailed fingers down your belly. “Did you know that the baby is the size of a plum today. Like an actual plum, isn't that crazy?” 

You laughed and turned towards him. You touched your nose to his and smiled. He kissed you softly and smiled back. “I’m glad youre here Haz” you snuggled into him and he held on tightly.

“Me too.” He rubbed your back until you fell asleep and part of you expected him to be gone when you woke up. Just a dream. An imagination. But when your alarm went off and your eyes opened, you were snuggled against his chest, his body gently snoring like the angel he was. You rolled over and snoozed the alarm before returning to him. You traced his butterfly tattoo until he cracked his eyes open with a smile. “Morning.” he whispered deeply.

“Morning.” you smiled before climbing out of bed. 

“Where are you going” he groaned sitting up in the white comforter. “Im exhausted...cant we stay in bed a little longer.”

You walked over to his side, knelt down and kissed his nose. “We have an appointment so get up and get ready.” You smiled and stretched. Harry jumped out of bed and froze watching you. “Whats wrong?”

“Your belly...I can actually see the plum size. That is so cool.” “Wait until you see the baby at the appointment.” you smiled walking into his embrace. “We should be able to see actual features today. It won't be just a blob anymore.”

You were getting ready and so was Harry, except he was pretty much done. He was in his black skinny jeans, a tshirt and a sweater vest. “Do I look like a dad?”

You laughed and nodded. “You look like a hot dad though.” He grinned and kissed you about to respond when the doorbell rang. “Can you get that, its probably Luke.”

“Luke?” 

“Yeah he's coming today too.”

“Great...” Harry mumbled walking downstairs to answer the door. You finished throwing your hair in a pony tail and picked one of Harry’s smaller shirts, the one with his album title along a heart with his name, before running downstairs. Luke and Harry were just staring, no glaring at each other. 

“Hey” you smiled hugging Luke. “Ready to go?” Harry and Luke nodded and you followed them outside. 

“Whats the deal?” Luke harshly whispered, grabbing your arm and pulling you back. 

“What?” you played innocently.

“Why is he here?”

“He’s the dad Luke..”

“Yeah but I thought you were done with him.”

“I was...but I feel like I owe it to the baby to give him another chance. He showed up last night and promised to be here. I’m not just going to say no Luke.”

Luke rolled his eyes and you pulled your arm from his grip to catch up to Harry. He smiled and grabbed your hand. “Ready to see our little baby love?”

You nodded and climbed into the car. Harry decided he wanted to drive so Luke jumped in the backseat. The car ride there was silent, no one really talking but when we got to the waiting room you told Harry to check you in so you could run to the bathroom. The nurse was waiting with the two guys and you followed her in. She retook your weight, stating that you had gained a little which was normal. She then took all three of you into a room where you changed into a gown and waited. Harry was anxiously pacing the room and Luke was just glaring at Harry when the doctor walked in. “(y/n) so nice to see you again, are you ready to see the baby?” You nodded as he looked to the two guys. “Who do we have here today?” he asked. Harry stepped forward and extended his hand. 

“I’m Harry, its a pleasure to meet you.” he smiled and gave you a reassuring wink. 

“Harry is the dad.” you added looking at the doctor. He nodded and smiled.

“Its nice to meet you Harry. And you?” he looked over at Luke. 

“Oh, I’m Luke. I’m (y/n)’s friend.” 

“Nice to meet you too. Alright lets see what we got here. He turned the lights lower and squirted the cold gel on your stomach earning a surprised look from Harry which made you laugh. “Have you been having any symptoms?”

“Yeah I’ve had morning sickness quite a bit lately.”

“Ah, thats a normal but unfortunate one.” He was scrolling around your stomach looking for the baby. “Has it been manageable?”

“Yeah its not been too terrible, I’m still feeling good most of the day.”

“Good thats what we want. Ah here it is...” Harry grabbed your hand and smiled looking at the screen. “So you can see here is the head, the butt, an arm, a leg, everything seems to be there. Let’s see if we cant get the heartbeat.” Luke looked a little sick but smiled when you looked at him and Harry was in awe. 

“I think she looks like you..”

“How do you know its a she?” you asked surprised.

“I just feel like its going to be.”

“I feel like its going to be a boy, and I think he looks like you.” Harry smiled shaking his head. He was about to respond when you heard the familiar thump thump thump of a heartbeat. Harry had tears falling down his cheek. You smiled and wiped them away.

“That’s amazing.” he looked at the doctor with a smile. “Thank you for showing us that.”

The doctor nodded, flipping the light back on and handing you a towel to wipe your stomach. “Okay, you look good the baby looks good but we do want to do a blood test..From this you can find out the gender if you like.”

“Yes.” You said and looked at Harry.

“I think we should wait...let it be a surprise.” Harry said looking at you.

“Harry its not your decision.” Luke intervened.

“Its my baby too. I think we should wait.” He said pointedly at Luke.

“It should be (y/n)s decision. She's the one carrying it.”

“Well I think we both would have fun waiting.” Harry looked at you and you looked down.

“You haven't even been here. You don't have a say in it.”

“Luke,” you cut him off. “It is Harry’s baby too. He's the one here now and thats all that matters. Why don't we wait now and we can always decide later to look.”

Harry smiled and nodded at you, then glared at Luke. Luke just rolled his eyes. “whatever.” The doctor took your blood, explaining that it would also test for some genetic defects and diseases and that you would receive a call in the next few days with the results. You held Harry’s hand the whole time while talking to Luke so luckily you did not faint. Harry helped you to your feet, and held onto you to make sure you weren't going to drop back at any notice. You smiled and gave him a reassuring kiss. He let you go a little but still tightly held your hand. You set up another appointment and then walked out with your guys. Harry opened the car door for you and Luke climbed in the back seat. After ensuring you were buckled the three of you drove home. Luke left without saying a word and Harry rolled his eyes.

“What an asshole.” 

You lightly smacked his arm and smiled. “He will come around. Trust me.”  

Harry’s only response was a kiss on the cheek. “Come on, we need to go by my place and pick up some stuff.”

“What stuff?”

“Like all of it.”

“Why?”

“Well I figured we should probably live together so I can help out with everything..” Your mouth dropped open. “Unless thats not okay...” he added concerned he had overstepped.

“No. No I would love that...I just didnt think thats what you would want.”

“(y/n) I know the last few months have been rocky with us but I want to be here all the time with you. I love you and I want us to make things work. If me being here to help, mends that? I’ll never leave the house again.” He kissed your softly and you smiled. 

“I love you Haz.”

“I love you too love.”

---

Part 3 of the pregnancy series, hope you guys like it :) There wasnt a lot of action in this chapter but just wait for the next ;)

xoxo