#anyways. i love how bitter he sounds talking to lane i love that you can see the unfinished business line affects him

[albaharu]

Let me just assure you, this won’t hurt enough.

[t-horn-n]

— the nights the wind grows teeth

pairing: silco x hard of hearing!reader (female) 

genre: a little of everything 

summary: a simple introduction, briefly. 

word count: 1 311

note: I have an unserious headcanon that Silco doesn’t drink anything from the Last Drop since Vander’s not the one pouring them.

anyway, prolly gonna be a series ???

You possess a capacity for calmness that so often escapes fissure folk.  It’s a quality that Silco appreciates even if that sort of level-headedness is off-putting to most, to the extent that many believe you’re either a stone cold bitch or just stupid enough to live in a constant state of ignorant bliss.  

Silco supposes that, temperamentally, you remind him of himself.  Sevika has his passion, but she also has a tendency to think with her fists.  Jinx has his intellect and intuition but she’s inclined to act out on her own.  You actually can exhibit an amount of forethought.  And, well, past the three of you, he can’t claim to be interested in anyone else. 

“Go home, kid,” Sevika says into your good ear.  “You’ve done enough for the day.”

It’s barely eleven at night and you know that she’s going to be running around for the next three hours, at least.  That, and you’re actually Sevika’s senior by a year, give or take.  She just likes to play big sister once in a while.  You like to let her.  

And you can’t say that you mind getting off a little early to sit in one of the Last Drop’s booths until you’re tired enough that you’ll be asleep on your feet by the time you trudge back to your bed.  Well actually, if you’re more inclined to be honest, which you aren’t, you would admit that you’re hoping it’ll be one of those occasions where your generous benefactor will slide into the seat across from you and lean forward so that you can light his cigar.  You’ve never quite understood why he likes the things considering that the fissures already have their fair share of smoke.  

Sometimes he’ll talk about the week’s plans, monologuing into your good ear, or he’ll talk about Jinx.  On other nights, when he knows that the ringing in your bad ear is particularly bad, he’ll let you sit in silence, watching his smoke writhe beneath the Last Drop’s grimy green light.  

Everyone knows that Silco is clever, but he is also observant, and he knows that it’s the biting, frosty nights that your hearing is the worst.  The uncomfortable whine is the loudest and even the sounds that you can hear become smothered and unfocused.  

It’s also when that unrequited ache, bone-deep, is the most needy.  

You’ve only had shimmer once.  It’s been too long for you to remember how it actually tasted, whether it was bitter or sweet; whether it burned your throat or whether they injected it straight into your veins.  But you can remember the way that it made you feel.  You’ve never been in love, but you figure that shimmer makes one as manic as love does.  

When it’s cold fog stalking the Lanes, rather than just the typical Gray, your severed ear calls out for the weightless sensation shimmer provided, but you’re sure that if you indulge, even when you feel like you won’t survive the phantom pains, you won’t be able to resist the drug the next time.  Or the next.  You can’t say that your life is bliss, but you know that you're much better off fighting the cold with the Last Drop’s liquor than you are addicted to shimmer.

“It’s bothering you tonight,” Silco states plainly.  

Before you is a glass of some mystery, clouded liquid.  All you’d asked for was something strong, hoping that it’d dull the persistent thrumming in your skull.  Silco, lounging across from you, has an unlit cigar dancing between his fingers.  You swear you’ve never seen him drink from his own bar.

“Yes,” you admit because you know anything else will lead to a pointless argument.  “But it’s not bad tonight.” 

“Hm,” he hums.

You’d only been to the Last Drop once before meeting Silco, officially that is.  And, you hadn’t really been there, all things considered.  You had been fifteen and had your ear pressed against one of its windows in order to hear the murmurs of whomever was inside.  Before you ran with Silco, you were an information runner.  It was simple and clean and tidy.  You’d play the part of the fly on the wall and whisper plans for hit-and-runs and smuggling jobs into the ears of your handlers and you’d get a cut.  It was simple, well, until you got caught.  

Now, it’s certainly true that your old job would be more difficult considering the circumstances.  The reason why Silco keeps you around, you suspect, is because you can be quiet and charming, when you want to be.  Your feet are coated in enough silver for you to make your way silently around the Lanes into places where people don’t want you to be.  And your center is soft and gooey enough to charm Piltees into trying shimmer.  Just this once, they’ll tell you.  That’s how you get them.

“A shipment is going out tomorrow and I expect that it will go better than the last one,” Silco says.  

He sounds submerged.  He repeats himself, slowly so that you can make out the movements of his lips in the low light, then continues, “We don’t need the Fireflies disrupting our schedule any more than they already have.” 

You nod and notice how odd he looks down among the general trouble of the Lanes.  

“You’ll be there tomorrow,” he says and it’s a fact.

He slides out of the booth, his cigar still unlit.  “It’s cold tonight.”

“I’m warm enough,” you tell him as you down the rest of your drink.  

The cobblestones beneath seep cold into the soles of your feet and the alleyways shuck their frosty breath onto your back on your way to your hole-in-the-wall apartment.  It’s cold there too.  And dark. 

There’s not really a kitchen, just a gas cooktop beside a muddy window.  A single stool sits at a counter and beyond that is a bed boxed in by three walls and an old dresser. 

“Hi, Jinx.” 

“Aw, how’d you know I was here?” she croons.

“I heard the sound of your breathing.” 

“No you didn’t,” she laughs.  

“No,” you agree.  “But you left my door unlocked.” 

“Oops.” 

You toss your jacket at her as you flip the light on, and Jinx is there, perched on your windowsill.  She swats away your oncoming jacket.  

“Close the window.” 

“You’re bossy.  Has anyone ever told you that?” she asks, twirling her hair around her fingers.  

She follows you into your bedroom and falls backward onto your bed.  She’s appeared in your apartment enough times that this is all routine, practically.  At least you’ve trained her to keep her boots off your bed.  

“Mhm,” you reply.

Your fingers are cold and slow moving as you unlace your shoes, tug them off, and throw them on top of your dresser.  You press your palm against the spot where you ear should be trying to warm it up.

“He sent you to make sure I didn’t trip up the stairs?” you ask, a little sarcastically but really, you’re somewhat flattered.

She groans and doesn’t answer you.  “He’s bossy too,” she whines.  

“He is.” 

You fall onto the bed next to her head.

“Did you know that you’re the only one he comes down to that shitty bar for?” 

“Mm?”  You only caught half of her sentence.

“He just sits in that chair and frowns.”

Jinx always makes enough conversation for both of you.  You wonder how often she fills in your parts herself.

It’s likely stupid of the thought to even cross your mind, but on these particularly cold nights when you are feeling particularly unlike yourself—when you are in pain and you crave what you shouldn’t have and your regrets feel the most potent—Silco feels particularly like a friend.  You almost scoff.  That’s a dangerous thought.

“If you’re sleeping here, you’re getting the light,” you tell Jinx.

— m. list

[onlyhereforangst]

WWR

I’m baaaaack bitches 😘 let’s be honest the last two episodes were shit & you wouldn’t have wanted that wwr anyways. SO let’s get into the ✨angst✨ that was Nick’s episode under the cut…

Oh but before I start, why yes, yes I called this theory too. Me and this writer share a goddamn brain or something because I’ve literally always guessed big plot points of his episodes correctly 😅

Ok Nick’s dad leaving like that, with poor bby Nick all sweet asking if he promises to bring him back his favorite pastry and him hesitating before he’s going to promise- NO. 

*picture Michael Scott gif here*

It’s not faaaaaair, little Nick deserved so much better- so MUCH better. And it’s only going to get worse as the episode goes on, so strap in for the walk down emo lane. 

Quick pit stop for cute banter because duh. Nick giving the real estate agent Ellie’s number cracks me up because bro you want this house with her don’t you 👀 you still keep her business cards on you when you could have just as easily gotten your own (or McGee’s) by this point 👀 you just want to maaaaarry her and move iiiiiiin with her I knooooooow it 👀 Ellie’s reaction the split second we see also has me dying because she’s like ha ha this is funny you had to talk to real estate agent you drew the short straw hey wait what the fu— you did not! Before McGee interrupts any protest she can hurl back Nick’s way and that’s just gold right there. Pure middle school flirting as per usual for them and I love it.

Oooooooh Kasie’s lab scene. The growth in this one. Nick worried his family and by extension him, is going to get implicated for murder (or is guilty) even though it sounds outrageous to him, he’s got PTSD from Mona Lisa (and who wouldn’t tbh). But Ellie immediately, like IMMEDIATELY goes and defends him. Is like uh-uh don’t even GO there, it’s not a possibility its just person of interest I don’t care if it’s literal hair at the scene of a man stabbed brutally seven times, he’s not a murderer. The grooooooowth Ellie, I’m so proud of you 🥺 we went from using that logical head to realizing it’s ok to listen to your heart and wade into situations with empathy (especially for the boy you ~*looOOoOoOve*~) And then Nick talking about his dad being dead and a deadbeat and walking out when he was 5, he looks at Ellie almost the entire time, only barely glancing over at McGee like he needs to have that connection with her, she grounds him when this is suddenly very jarring having a relative by semi-involved in a murder. And Ellie isn’t the slightest bit shocked when Nick dumps this news so clearly she’s heard it and by her look, not only has she heard this, but she does not like the man for what he did to Nick. She looks pissed his father hurt Nick like that because how dare any one hurt her man 😤

And oh here it is, we back on emo lane. Nick recognizing and seeing his dad for the first time in 30 years. It’s gonna hit like a 🎵freeeeeight traaaain🎵 at first he can’t even believe its him, he blinks like a thousand times because *surely* his eyes are deceiving him and then his dad goes and uses his nickname, his nickname people the CRUELTY. YOU DON’T GET TO JUST SHOW UP THIRTY YEARS LATER AND CALL HIM BY HIS CUTE LITTLE NICKNAME YOU GAVE HIM AS A CHILD. YOU DON’T MIGUEL. NOT IN THIS GD HOUSE. Ok and now nick is in pure shock because he just got confirmation that his dad is not only *not* dead, but he’s here in front of him, in DC no less, possibly a murderer no less. AND he’s finding this out by chasing him down *not* by Miguel reaching out to him while in DC. The shock and confusion and hurt my poor baby.

And when that shock wears off and it’s just barely contained rage, my heart 🥺 so of course Ellie goes in there with him and nows she needs to immediately be the support she knows he needs but he won’t admit to needing. Nick tries to deflect with a joke at first but oh honey it’s no use. But quick comedic relief for us on emo lane “sit down, no I don’t like sitting” AHAHAHA like father like son I’m cackling because the look Ellie and nick share and nick’s eyes warn her like don’t you dare fucking say it and she’s like yep yep nope I wasn’t gonna say a damn thing I’ll just look down and try to contain my laughter because now is NOT the time. But see I’m on my couch and I can laugh all I damn well please at this scenario that was gold from the writers thank you. On a more serious level this probably hurt nick even more seeing that he’s even got the smallest something similar to his dad. He’s probably desperate to be the exact opposite, he doesn’t want to even consider being capable of what his father was capable so this - while seemingly insignificant - thing like not wanting to sit in a chair will hit deep for him without him realizing it. If something so trivial is the exact same, wouldn’t something much much heavier like commitment to relationships and family be the exact same? Wouldn’t it?? And good god poor nick for going through that mental anguish, on emo rollercoaster lane. Because it just gets better when Miguel’s excuse for being in DC is “visiting family” like call your BULLSHIT Miguel you certainly ain’t visiting family and Nick now knows oh he lies too, great, another win for the Torres blood, fan-fucking-tastic. 

Quick peek at viewing room and we don’t believe in personal space, Ellie wants to be as close as possible to her hurting bby 🥺

But back to the emo stuff - Miguel just lying off his ass and Nick fed up with his father’s games because it’s truly just twisting that knife in his back that’s been stuck there for 30 years deeper and deeper. AND THEN Miguel has the audacity to yell out for “Nico” like bitch you do NOT get to call him that either. You walked out on him and never came back gtfo. And Ellie is trying so hard to keep it together but man she wants to do one of two things if not both at the same time - wrap Nick up in her arms and shield him from this deadbeat and/or punch this man through the glass to cause just a fraction of the hurt he caused Nick. But instead she just has to keep her cool to be the supportive girlfriend she is and ask nick what he thinks and then. Then. “He’s lying…because his lips are moving”

Well FUCK. Murder me right now. The anguuuuuuuish. Poor five year old Nick in a 35 year old Nick’s body. That little boy who was promised a big hojaldre in the morning from the next town over is right there. Right there to witness the father he thought he had, hasn’t changed. One of the only memories Nick probably has of his father is him leaving. Him lying and leaving. And what does he do when he finally shows up again? 

HE LIES AND LEAVES. HE FUCKING LIES AND LEAVES. (I know I’m getting ahead and technically at this point we don’t know he’ll leave again but whatever sue me because this shit is too much.)

Side note: Ellie talking about a “conflict of interest” that Nick didn’t interrogate his father is laughable considering she should have never interrogated Xavier but ok. 

Ooooo lets see some pissed off Nick. Let it loose baby, you deserve this. And I know I wrote about this in the tags somewhere but can we take a second to appreciate McGee’s growth??? Like bro went from straight up denial to acceptance and giving Ellie the look of “go talk to your boyfriend ok we need to make sure he’s alright and we both know your support is going to go a lot further than my support” and Ellie wordlessly kNOWS EXACTLY WHAT HE’S SAYING. She’s like yeah, of course I’ll go help my man why wouldn’t I. 

I don’t know why but Ellie asking Nick if he’s talked to his “mom and sister” is just so 🥰 I can’t explain this one to you but I love this dialogue ok. Actually I love this whole ensuing conversation. Nick still is bitter (he has every gd right to be), Ellie playing the supportive girlfriend but *tiiiiiniest* bit of devil’s advocate with saying he might be innocent. Once again, so much growth because honestly she knows what it’ll do to Nick if his dad actually *is* a murderer. Like can we for a second imagine if his dad actually was guilty, right? Nick already saw he was like his dad in trivial things like not wanting to sit in chairs. Nick has already had serious, serious doubts to what he’s capable of aka worried he could, if the right buttons were pushed, be a murderer on multiple occasions. Ellie has been there with him for all of that, she knows how low his confidence is when it comes to his perceived “goodness” and she knows just how much it would break him if he learned his direct bloodline IS capable of murder. She knows how he’d spiral if that was true and so she’s gripping to any small possibility his dad is innocent. But nick, oh poor Nick my heart- he’s done. He opens up to Ellie without literally any prodding. He’s baring his long buried soul to her, that troubled, broken childhood that he surely keeps locked away in fear of letting anyone see a weakness. He bares it without question because he feels so safe in her presence he can let her in to see his deepest shame and by extension his deepest worry 🥺🥺🥺 and poor Ellie, she’s a little lost at how to go about helping him because she does have a good relationship with her dad, so yes all she has here for him is saying his father was guilty of a crap dad but it’s because she’s still trying to convince them both he has to be good. He has to be good for Nick’s sake. Buuuuuuut it doesn’t really work does it, because oh shit pissed the fuck off Nick is a site to behold isn’t it 🥵 kicking down doors once again and his smart “still think he’s innocent” oooooooo damn. Ellie’s face says it all- she’s trying so hard to hold out hope for Miguel, so hard. She needs him to be innocent she’s willing to speak it into existence a thousand times but her face is like fuck this is going to kill him and I can’t do a damn thing about it other than just watch. 

More pissed off Nick 🥵 but when you think about it is so so painful, all I can picture is that little 5 year old boy who woke up the next morning waiting, waiting, and waiting. Staring out the window at each car that slows down but ultimately passes. Tugging on his Mami’s shirt asking for the hundredth time when papi is coming back from the bakery with his hojaldre, oblivious to the tears that are slowly sliding down her cheek because she still can’t find the words to tell him what she knows deep down. That little boy who when the sun starts to set the confusion sets in with it. Why hasn’t my papi come back yet? Where is he? He promised. The sadness and sense of rejection that starts to fill his little heart when his mami tucks him and his sister into bed and he asks one final time where papi is and will he say goodnight to them and his Mami has to say she’s not sure when he’s coming home and quietly to the side, “if he’s coming home.” The little boy who weeks later has finally abandoned watching out the window every, single morning. The little boy who had his heart ripped out and thrown to the side of the road when he realized his papi didn’t go to the bakery and instead he was thrown out by his father like a day-old hojaldre. So yeah pissed Nick is fine af but good god the angst underneath is suffocating. Because Nick in this moment doesn’t know the *true* reason Miguel left. He knows what he lived and what he lived is a piece of shit. Nick’s response to “is that what you think of me” is amicable because OOF he could’ve gone the fuck off right there and told him what he really thought of him but he stuck with only a slight dig. TO WHICH MIGUEL. FUCK YOU MIGUEL. IT HASN’T HURT YOU MUCH. FUCK YOU MIGUEL. FUCK YOU. SOUNDS LIKE YOU WERE A SHIT DAD SO YEAH PROBABLY A GOOD THING YOU LEFT. THANK HIM NICK WITH YOUR FISTS BECAUSE HE’S A LITTLE SHIT. FUCK YOU MIGUEL. TOUGHENED HIM UP SO MUCH HE SHUTS EVERYONE OUT. YEAH FUCK YOU. 

And then man here is the point where it all just muddies in Nick’s mind. The poor dude. He knows this line of work, hell he was undercover for almost a decade. He understands how that leaves almost no room for a family. He gets it, so deep deep deep down a tiny part of him realizes why Miguel likely *thought* it was ok to ditch his family. But for thirty years he’s felt abandoned- no reasoning can change that. 

“It’s good to know he was making a nice living while my family was starving” fucking GET HIM NICK. Damn I wish Miguel had been in the room for that. He deserved to hear that one. Ruthless. 

I do not know how I missed this the first time around but holy shit Nick asked to be removed from the case. Nicholas Torres- a man who does not back down. A man who bullied his way into finishing his first ever case with this team that he was arguably way too close to that one too. This is how much pain Miguel brings him. A man who does not quit, not in his vocabulary - was so pissed at getting sent home back when Reeves died, he asks to get sidelined. He actually asks to get sidelined. Holy shit Miguel did a number on Nick and I mean we knew this but 🥺😭😭 poor bby. No wonder you don’t trust yourself in a serious relationship. It’s not the girl you’re worried about it’s you. You don’t think you’re capable of staying, you’re terrified you’ll be just like your dad and leave. once again, you’ve seen the similarities with trivial things and so this just cements your fear of failing at commitment. And this is Nick in just so much pain he asks to step back. oof. I do love Leon stepping into a slight fatherly role for Nick right there though, he shows his support, his pride in Nick and in that moment I think Nick realizes while his father by blood is shit, he’s got several other strong role models in his life that care and that’s why he agrees to work with him. 

Nick’s smarts comment about leaving the note behind 🤣 oh classic Torres move. Also do yourself a favor and pause it on Ellie’s reaction to him. GOLD hahaha she’s like ooo-kay did you really feel the need to say that, let’s not. Honestly I think I’ve given this look to my husband almost daily. They married y’all. 

So married that she overhears Miguel trying to talk to Nick and her hackles raise!!! She’s like hold the fuck up do not traumatize my baby even more, Nick do you need me??? Because I will get you out of this, I will be here for you, I will fight this man, just say the damn word!!!! And Nick ugh, his look. They can communicate with just a simple look, he knows all that she would do for him in that moment and still nods her off, but that tiny bit of gratitude is present. Then we find out that yes Grace is really good at guessing theories “in order to keep his young family safe, it means he has to leave. Of course he can’t *tell* them why he has to leave so that they continue to stay innocent and safe. So he plays it like he’s a deadbeat dude who was “too young” to be a father and is just now realizing it and leaves his wife, little daughter & son behind. Flash forward thirty years and the NCIS case leads them to him. A piece of evidence pops up with his alias, they go knocking down doors to interrogate a potential suspect (Nick’s father) before our lovely CIA agent interfere and claims he’s innocent because he’s a CI…” like DAMN, I’m good. Hahaha any ways the reason I bring this up is because I feel like I predicted/analyzed Nick’s feelings really well back then in this theory and after seeing his expressions, they hold true. Nick is just absolutely warring with himself during this explanation, searching for anything to confirm his dad truly is a deadbeat (and yes he is still absolutely a piece of shit for what he did, but there’s a “good” reason for his leaving and that’s what makes it so- hard.) and as I said when I first broke this down, Nick understands undercover work and his dad (being the POS he is) brings that up to Nick. Like he should “get” it because wouldn’t he do the same thing since he’s in that life? But here’s where (and Nick doesn’t totally realize it yet) Nick and Miguel are different. Because Nick came back, Nick stayed. He stayed y’all and he says it here but he does not realize the implications of his words quite yet. He is NOT the same as Miguel. Yeah he doesn’t like to sit in chairs but he has stayed. He has stayed through some tough shit too but he’s stayed nonetheless. More than Miguel could ever fucking say, that’s for sure. So yes, when Nick has the come to Jesus and realizes that he is not the same as his dad and he can and will stay? Damn I can’t wait for that moment. Also I wanted to slap Miguel when he called Nick “mijo” because BITCH YOU DO NOT GET TO CALL HIM THAT. YOU DO NOT GET TO CALL HIM YOUR SON. NO. “I’m not perfect but I did the best I could” well fuck you too Miguel because look at this broken five year old boy inside a thirty five year old man’s body. Does that look like the product of a “best you could”?? Does he look “ok” to you??? Fuck you. 

But yes here’s my take on where Nick is at: how do you forgive someone you’ve despised for thirty years once you know they “didn’t have a choice” (even though it will always feel like they had a choice or they could’ve explained it to you even if you were only five) and left in reality token you safe and give you a better chance at life? How do you reconcile the real dad and the one you lived with in your head for so long?? How???

And then you’re stuck still reeling from the night before and the bomb that was dropped and the reconciliation you’re attempting to your dad bringing in the ONE THING. The ONE THING he promised to bring home in the morning thirty years prior. How the actual fuck does one come back from that. Can I give another big FUCK YOU to Miguel Torres? Because seriously??? Why do you ever think that’s ok??? Hey I promised my kid I’d bring him hojaldres in the morning for breakfast thirty years ago so may as well make good on that promise right, only thirty years late that’s totally fine right? He won’t tell the difference right?

Fuck you, Miguel. 

And they’re still clearly Nick’s favorite because he’s brought Jimmy to a restaurant specifically for them and that just makes my heart break for the man he had to become without a father. He still held onto that love for them even though they were probably always associated with a horrible, horrible memory of being abandoned 🥺🥺 god damn Nick you’re so broken I’m so sorry. 

Ellie is still as supportive as ever and good god we clearly have lost all pretense of personal space at this point, what is her we don’t know her isn’t this normal for coworkers? But this conversation implies he called her after his talk with his dad and ugh yesssss 😩❤️ I still think he called her immediately after leaving the building, talked the entire car ride home and while getting ready for bed, needing the comfort of her voice on the other end of the line as he worked through his whirlwind of emotions and tried to come down off the cliff he felt himself on. All pretenses of a bad boy with a mysterious flare forever gone, his heart is open for her to see and he doesn’t give two shits about it anymore. But Ellie does a damn good job of girlfriend duties here and not only supports him but also gently prods him to see if he can maybe one day have a relationship with his father. The parallels she brings up makes him think (and also makes him look at her lips twice 👀 he’s just so close to her how could he not I mean right 😅) and I love that she’s still being v supportive but also trying to help him grow. 

And then Ellie giving Nick the option to go with his dad or go to the other location because she’s not going to push anything on him he doesn’t want and then when he chooses the embassy to avoid his dad her reaction had me laughing 🤣 but she respects it. And yet shortly after Miguel tries to team up with Nick and Ellie hears it from the other side of the bullpen, immediately all ears to step in if he wants to avoid him again despite giving him flack for it earlier. Nick can sense her worry and support and this is the moment he takes her advice in just a tiny step and accepts teaming up with his dad. But OMG KILL ME WHEN NICK THINKS HIS DAD IS DEAD BEFORE HE GETS TO TRY AT A RELATIONSHIP AGAIN. HIS WHISPERED “papa’s” I CAAAAAN’T. 

Ugh and then his last conversation with his dad while Ellie is checking on him constantly. It’s just too much, that little boy is back, desperately hoping for his dad to stick around. And Ellie is just so happy she can’t contain it for him and it’s perfect. He walks right to her, her hand on his back because they just need to touch each other after such a heavy couple of days and Nick echoes her advice back at her because he’s showing he listens and he values her insight and I just love it. 

AND THEN MIGUEL HAS COME TO RIP MY HEART OUT BECAUSE HE’S A PIECE OF SHIT REMEMBER. 

My poor bby Nick’s face when he realized his dad LIES AND LEAVES. REMEMBER. HE LIES AND LEAVES. God Wilmer killed it because Nick is literally on the verge of tears and my heart breaks and then yes he goes to Gibbs to see his pseudo-father who he then realizes is more of a father figure than Miguel will ever be and hell that’s okay but STILL. 

I will end this WWR with a I love supportive girlfriend Ellie and another big Fuck You to Miguel Torres.

Goodnight.

[beauregard-s]

Verdigris | Bill Denbrough

Pairing: Bill Denbrough x Reader (18 yo in this one)

Word Count: 2.7k

Warnings: language, mild hate-to-love trope and mentions of cheating and toxic relationship

A/n: ‘The one with Baseball Player!Bill and the song Verdigris by Gus Dapperton’

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He can’t stop watching you. 

At the bowling alley on a Friday night. Your arms crossed, a hidden smile on as one of your friends rolls the ball and misses the pins miserably. You probably had a night off, or else you’d be at the arcade trying to tame the thirteen-year-olds that keep fighting over the Pac-Man machine. 

Bill can’t stop staring and it’s annoying beyond belief.

“For fuck’s sake, Bill! Are you playing or not?”

He’s forced to drag his attention away from you under Richie’s hiss only to perceive how everybody is staring at him - except for Ben checking on his shoelaces after tripping on them at least twice already. The looks range from Richie’s pissed one, to Mike, Beverly, and Eddie’s confusion, and laying on Stan’s impassivity.

“I just puh-played two rounds ago, Richie, stop m-mah-messing the order,” he complains, yes, but stepping up and grabbing himself a ball is the same as calling his own bullshit.

His move is absent anyway, only hits three pins because he backs off as soon as the ball leaves his fingers, making room for Ben to go next. Standing more in the back so he can turn his head in your lane’s direction again, all the way across the alley.

Only in time to watch you striking for the second time that night.

Only in time to catch how your eyes automatically fly in his direction right after that.

It’s quick, just a few seconds before you turn away again like at school two - or three? - weeks before, when you shouted out loud in a hallway about how you were cheated on, a thing many girls would hide, never talk about and pray for it to never come up. But you didn’t. When Henry Bowers leaned by your locker and probably tried to slide in some smug explanation, you shut the metal door so loud people around turned their heads and others who didn’t hear it from the first time caught on what was happening as soon as you told him to go ‘get his dick wet with Anna Thompson from now on’.

That being said you stormed out, and your eyes met his because he was frozen in a trance not perceiving at first he was blocking your way.

He couldn’t call you a bully, but nor could he call you an angel. You were Bowers’ girlfriend for quite a while, never messed with him but was never smooth either. You always stood neutral about Bowers tormenting him, almost bored, he noticed. Maybe uncomfortable with the situation if he overthought on that?

Never mattered. Bill recognizes he doesn’t know much about you, never got interested in doing so. Never needed to. You are just y/n, Henry Bowers’ blessed girl - because, thinking about it, yes, someone must be somehow holy to endure that one. Y/n, who he thought that barely minded him but still locked eyes and seemed to flash him a very inconspicuous smile that brought him back to Earth and made him move aside to let you walk into your 6th period class.

Y/n that since then started to hover above him like a little bird of prey, keeping those secretly mischievous eyes on him whenever they shared the room. Driving him insanely curious to find out what all of this is about.

“I swear to God, Big Bill!” Richie cries out in frustration, clapping his hands together in a desperate try to get his attention, “it’s your turn again!”

***

“Homealone again?” Stan asks while buckling up on the driver's seat after leaving the alley almost forcefully when the place closed, Mike’s horn breaking the late-night silence as he leaves to take Ben and Bev home.

“Yeah, for the weekend.” Bill sighs, sinking into the seat and smirking. “Why? Wanna throw a p-party?”

Stan snorts in the dark, turning the keys for the headlights to break through the darkness ahead. “Not after the last one,” he starts the car and leaves while Bill recalls the last party they went to. The party where around 1 am everybody started gossiping about how someone entered a room without knocking and... 

“Y/n l/n, then?”

Bill moves uncomfortably. Of course, the party where everybody found out you were cheated on before you could do it yourself. Stan Uris really sees everything, knows everything, and perceives everything. And also have the gift of smoothly leading people into the point he wants to get to.

“I don’t think so,” Bill says. 

Stan swirls the steering wheel to the left into a quiet street, suffocating another laugh. “So you’re telling me you were not perving on her the whole night.”

“I wasn’t p-puh-p-perving!”

“No!” Stan’s laugh finally comes filled up with irony. “At the bowling alley, at school, whenever she shows up during practices and her great presence disturbs you to the point you miss the pitches… Since she broke up with Bowers, whenever she’s around your mind goes wasted”. Bill grimaces and he goes on. “And judging by tonight, she seems to be at the same place as you are.”

“She’s not at the same p-place as I am because I’m not at any p-place, Stan.” Bill sticks his arm out of the window into the cold breeze, feeling something boiling inside him. That annoyance again. “She’s been teasing me since she broke up with her dear b-boyfriend, it’s all.”

Stan slows down at a crossing, making a snap noise with his tongue. “How convenient, no?” Bill scowls, eyes off the road to look up at his slightly raised brows, and he goes on, “Bowers’ girl gets cheated on and then starts flirting with you, Bill Denbrough. The guy who had his lip split open by those fists more times than we could actually remember.”

“Tell me about it…” Bill’s voice barely comes out as he watches the stores slowly turning into houses with dark windows and faded front porches, trying to smother that burning feeling inside. 

“And you’re playing her game,” Stan adds calmly.

Bill snaps his neck towards the driver's seat again but Stan only shows that same impassivity from earlier, eyes solely on the road. “Don’t tell me you’re not, because you are. I saw it tonight. Besides it, we all know you’re that sucker for unbecoming stuff.”

Bill shakes his head, gnawing on his cheek in bitterness as the car stops in front of a two-floor house and Stan turns the keys, sending them into silence and darkness again, turning on his seat to face a skeptical Bill unclasping his seatbelt harshly.

“I am not. I wanna f-find out what game is she p-playing b-but I’m not playing it myself.”

“Okay,” Stan taps onto the wheel, grinning in his disbelief because he knows Bill well enough to know he may sound like he has his foot down when he’s in fact as unsteady as sand. “But she could put you in big shit trouble, you know?”

Bill gets out of the car, leaning into the window as soon as he closes the door, drawing a cockish grin. “Yeah b-but, again, I’m not playing her game, Stan.”

He assured himself that, even though his mind wanders towards you until he goes to sleep and even though you remain there when he wakes up Saturday morning. 

He’s not playing your game.

But you’ve been testing his limits, slowly getting under his skin somehow with so little effort. Catching his attention when he doesn’t want to give it to you. You’re guaranteed trouble and he hates how you leave him restless whenever you are out of his sight and trouble his mind whenever you are both sharing space.

But he’s not playing your game.

Yet he still finds himself waiting outside the arcade later at night, at a discreet distance with his hands tucked in his jacket’s pockets to keep them from freezing under the fall weather. Bill watches you leading the last kids outta the place, promising an upset little guy they’ll be open early the next day too and turning the sign hanging on the glass door as soon as they leave to warn everyone the place is finally closed. The sweet way you talked to the kid doesn’t match the troublemaker image he painted of you in his mind throughout the day.

He’s not playing the game, but he’s ending it before he goes insane. Being a chess piece is not on his plans. He doesn’t know where you’re going with all of that so he walks into the store, immediately catching your attention.

You’re checking and closing the cashier when the noise makes you look up from behind the counter only to find the surprisingly-not-so-popular pitcher of the Derry High School’s baseball team standing there in between the flashing machines. 

“Hey there, Denbrough,” you say softly, bringing your attention back to the dollar bills. “We’re closed.”

He taps his foot, trying to find the words to say what he wants to say because even though he planned talking to you the whole day, suddenly he feels lost and vulnerable under that nonchalant way of yours. 

“I know, I didn’t come to play.” Bill feels proud of how steady he sounds although he’s clenching his hidden fists. He has the slight impression you are not as confused as you seem when you eye him again. This time deeper. 

“How can I help you then?” 

He thought he had a solid plan, but he doesn’t at all. All he can think of is how did Bowers get you? A straight A’s girl with such sweet talk, pretty face, and bold demeanors. 

“You can help me by stopping m-messing around.” There goes his steadiness through the window, every single drop of it when your lips give him a lopsided smile, closing the cashier and pulling a bunch of keys out of a drawer.

“And what do you mean by messing around?” you walk around the counter and passing by him because even though Bill Denbrough is standing in front of you straight out of a dream in his stupid letterman jacket, a robbery wouldn’t be welcome and you gotta lock the doors and close the curtains. That blocks all the light from the outside, sending both of you into a gloom only lightened by the neon lights around. 

“I mean all the flirting you’re doing.” His voice deepens a tone. “ I want you to stop it.”

He looks adorably anxious, of course. All fidgety when he’s trying to confront you that way but flinching when you turn on your heels to face him, his hands still in his pockets for what? Hide his nervous manners?

Not that you’re that secure yourself with your sped up heart. You wish you had pockets too so you could hide how you poke a cuticle on your thumb.

“I’m not flirting with you,” you say simply. “I know you’d like that, but-“

“You wish, l/n” he hisses and you know you’ve hit a weak spot. Also not that you didn’t know said weak spot exists.

“I know what you’re doing, and I’m not getting in trouble for it.” Bill steps closer, letting his sweaty hands finally fall to his sides. 

“Again, I’m not the one messing around” You see his jaw clench, and go on leaning back against the Donkey Kong machine. “You are.”

Bill snorts and the way he runs his fingers through his auburn hair messing it in frustration makes things to you. Yes, Bill Denbrough in his lettermen jacket is stupid… stupidly hot, even if you hate admitting that.

“I’m n-not-“

“Are you sure?” You defy him, resting your hands on the machine and accidentally hitting the joystick. “So you’re telling me you’ve not been leering me around, casually hanging out with your friends by my locker or… Following my ex-boyfriend around to make sure he’s not coming close to me, Bill?”

Touché. 

You never called him ‘Bill’ before, but thought it would match the soft-turn your voice takes and the little ‘got you’ move you just made. Bill thinks it raises a level. He said he didn’t come to play, but it feels like he did and now he’s losing because you know something you shouldn’t. 

You know last Tuesday he followed Patrick Hockstetter’s car because he saw them harassing you when you were walking home after school. He watched when they pulled over by the sidewalk, Bowers leaning out through the window and saying something that made you argue with him for a while before you kept walking and they drove out. Bill should’ve turned right and drive home, but he turned left and followed them instead, made sure they went home and not after you. 

“I was just trying to m-muh-make sure you were safe,” he reasons but inside he’s recognizing his failure.

Maybe you’ll call him a creeper for that? No, you just bat your eyelashes.

“You really have an unforgiving hero complex.”

“I don’t have a hero complex.”

He does. And maybe an unforgiving crush too because he realizes you’re not the one hovering here. He is. He always thought he never paid attention to you but he did all the time in the deep of his head, dreary by the fact that you ended up with someone like that disgusting jerk.

“A hero complex and a huge neglect towards yourself, apparently” you bicker, the changes in his mind showing briefly in his expression.

“Okay, I m-may be the one m-messing around but you don’t seem like you’re trying to run from it.”

The others have already warned Bill about that, his lack of fear and his broken anti dumbness filter, mainly Beverly, but there he is again. Making dangerous, uncalculated moves, totally improvising his next step to avoid a checkmate from you.

He’s kinda angry, maybe embarrassed, eyes locked on your as he comes closer. You don’t answer because he got a point. From the moment you noticed Bill paying more attention to you after you were publicly free from Henry, you never intended on cutting him off. You fed the fire and now, with his eyes so deep in yours and the smell of his cologne all around you, you let him taste a bit of power to decrease that embarrassment of his. 

“Are you trying to imply that I want you too?” You whisper, no need to talk louder with his chest an inch from yours like that. 

He likes how beautiful you look like that, face shining in verdigris tones flashing from the next machine, the way it turns you into neon pink and back to the blueish-green. He likes how daring you look even if he’s towering over you, inches taller, little knowing how you’re putting on a fight to keep yourself solid and your thoughts in place. Without much success when he leans in and brushes his chapped lips along your soft ones.

“Again, you wish, l/n.”

The previous moves were yours but in a turn, you’re the one getting the final checkmate when you give in and pull him into a kiss. A greedy and heated kiss that showed how you’ve been craving each other. Bill presses against you as he’s trying to challenge the laws of physics, his tongue licking into your mouth as your hands clutch on his thick jacket, feeling his broad shoulders underneath. His hands cup your face, his thumbs gently tracing up your cheekbones in contrast to how roughly his lips take yours, only for a moment before his arms embrace your waist and he smugly slides a large hand into your jeans’ pockets.

He swore himself he wouldn’t play your game, but he feels like he did and just lost it when he leaves your lips and trails the tip of his nose down your neck, feeling how you softly quiver in his arms, breathing in your perfume. Pulling away before everything goes to waste.

“As I said, totally n-not running away from me,” he mutters, leaving you. 

You shake your head slowly, a mazy little smile glued on your lips. “Screw you, Denbrough…” But the words drip out like honey to him as he walks backwards towards the door. 

Bill turns the keys still in the lock behind his back, flashing a cocky grin at you as he pushes the door open. He feels defeated, you do too but somehow none of you regret what just happened in the empty arcade. He can see you don't by the way you look at him as he leaves. It’s not just one of those glances anymore.

He feels defeated, but maybe it will be worth it.

“S-see you later, y/n.”

[mexican-honeymoon]

I can’t find your ask box, so I hope this is the best way to send this! Dialogue prompt options: 14, 23, or 37? Or all three if you want 😂 I’m so excited for more SethKate from you!!!

@yossariandawn this is for you! My love for this ship has just reignited over the last week and I’ve missed writing for them. Hope you enjoy! 

14. “You’re never going to let that go, are you?” 

37. “Lie to me then” 

He doesn’t know how he’s ended up here; hunched over an oak bar, light headed and with a clenched hand wrapped tightly around a bottle of whiskey, nothing but the distant thrum of traffic and the silvery glow coming through the windows for company. Actually, scratch that, he does know how he’s ended up here, but if he thinks on everything then he’s just going to fall further and further down the neck of the shiny bottle and he doesn’t want that. Seth doesn’t want to drown in the amber contents that now slosh against the glass as he moves the bottle from side to side, because he knows if he does end up getting as drunk as he wants then he’s just going to fall even more apart. 

He’s tried to hold it together since Matanzas, tried to ignore the dull ache that rests in the crease of his elbow like a taunt - like a fickle craving that’s just about ready to burst at the seams or pop like a balloon. But he can’t do that to himself anymore, he can’t give in to that destructiveness he used to so readily clutch. But most of all he can’t do it to her. 

What would Kate think of him if he stuck a needle inside his arm and filled it up with venom? How would she see him then? He can’t ignite her trauma anymore than he has with the bitter memory of all those months in Mexico - the time he was strung out and irritable, just about ready to give up and crumble. 

He shuffles a little on the bar stool, looks around the dark expanse of Jed’s bar and tries to roll the memory out of his head with a brisk movement of his shoulders. No, he’s promised himself that he would just get drunk enough to forget every shitty thing he’s done since he came across a beat up Winnebago, not swim down memory lane and learn to hate himself even more. 

But it’s all really for nothing anyway, he concludes to himself, because no amount of alcohol or shitty drugs can do away with the memories. They all live inside his mind like little demons that scratch and dig with sharp claws, and they burrow holes inside his heart and his very torn up soul and there they live and fester. He just can’t get away from them - can’t get away from his guilt no matter how hard he tries. 

That point is proven when he’s met face to face with the very object of his torment as he turns back around on the stool. Kate. 

A dark silhouette cuts her shape within the doorway, and her shadow falls, elongated and warped, right over to where he sits. Seth just peers towards her with whiskey bleared eyes as she comes into view, and somehow his very worn out heart does some sort of a somersault inside the caved in shell of his chest as she leaves behind the darkness and begins to walk towards him. 

She’s tired looking, with dirt brown indents carved under her green eyes and porcelain pale cheeks that hollow just a little under the bone. Her fiery hair is tickling her shoulders, ruby red and glistening in the dark light that swathes her. Seth knows the frustration she went through after defeating Amaru, he knows the bitter tears she had cried while reconciling with her new appearance. But now she wears the red well, won’t go back to brown because deep down Seth knows she’s too afraid to look in the mirror and see the girl she used to be - the girl she could have been. But she had taken a rusty scissors to it and chopped off the long ends after Seth had sat with her for hours and combed out the unruly tangles and after she had scrubbed herself of any lingering war paint around her eyes. So now, she’s some version of her old self and this new, trauma wielded woman that looks like the ghost of an Xibalban queen. 

“Hey, princess" his voice sounds more like a sigh than actual words, so heavy with the things he really wants to say to her and punctured with the apology he aches to give her “Why are you up so late?”

“Couldn’t sleep” she tells him as she sits down on the stool beside him, her emerald eyes flickering towards the bottle that sits atop the bar like an uncut gem, glistening with the way the moon shadows across it. But she doesn’t say anything. Whatever discontent Kate has for Seth’s late night drinking stays hidden behind her cherry lips - or perhaps she can understand why he’s trying to wash away his pain with straight whiskey. 

Her answer is leaden, lingering between them like a heavy anchor that’s just about ready to bring them down. Seth knows that there are a million unsaid things hidden behind the curtain of her words - that she can’t sleep because of the nightmares, the guilt she has festering inside of her because of all the crimes Amaru made her hands commit, and of the grief that has consumed her like a wave. 

She shuffles even closer to him then, and he freezes in his spot at the way her presence just bursts whatever protective bubble he’s tried to encase himself in. All he can feel is the electricity off her skin that bounces off of his and crawls right up his spine, and he can smell the apple scented shampoo he had grabbed for her in a convenience store coming off of her hair - and the entirety of her being just wraps around him like an embrace. He shivers a little where he sits. 

He’s tried so hard, these past two weeks, to stay close to her but remain distant at the same time. Seth has hovered around her, watching protectively from the shadows or staying close to her but never really talking much. He wants to make sure she’s safe, that she’s not falling into shards of broken glass but he doesn’t want to push her too much and be the cause of her downfall. He won’t do that, not again. 

He heard what she said in that cave. In the eyes of the people I love. He had seen the sincerity flicker itself inside her jade eyes. He remembers how much his heart had soared, but he knows he’s not worthy of her love. Not at all. So he’s resigned himself to be miserable without her, so she can eventually move on and forget all about him because Kate deserves to be in love with someone good. Someone that isn’t him. 

But he’s weak, always has been when it comes to her, so he can’t help it when he feels his body lean closer to hers. He wants to curse loudly or down the contents of the bottle in front of him in one swift go. But he refrains - just locks his elbows tight and slowly moves away from her again. 

“What about you, huh? Why are you up so late?” Kate asks him, her voice trying to sound light and playful, but it comes out winded like someone’s just punched her in the chest. Seth looks at her then, flickers his eyes all over her face and takes in the way her bottom lip is dry and chewed, and how a very painful sort of worry swims deeply in the expanse of her eyes. 

Something stills within his chest, and his breath is squeezed from him like someone’s just stuck their fist between his ribs and clenched his lungs. He hates seeing so much anguish shadow itself across her pretty face, because he knows he’s the cause of it and he can’t bear the vision of all his wrongdoings reflect within her eyes. 

“Ah, I’m not tired” Seth shrugs, looking away from her and towards the label on the bottle, reading it absently in an attempt to fill his mind with something that isn’t the all consuming devastation he feels whenever he looks at her. 

He loves her so much, and he knows he shouldn’t, he knows he’s no good for her and that he’d just ruin her further if he was to ever reach out and hold her like he wants to. So he just slinks further into the shadow of his soul, and lets his own self deprecating values completely swallow him. He needs to just put distance between them and brush off all conversation with something like indifference, but this is Kate Fuller who sits beside him, and she’s talented at prodding and poking the tight stitching of his soul and causing it to unravel within him. 

She does so with one scoff and a roll of those wondrously magnetic eyes, and somehow Seth feels as transparent as the whiskey bottle. 

“Alright, lie to me then” Kate says, her voice crystal and tight and it bounces off of him and reverberates somewhere deep inside him. He chances a glance at her and when he does she’s sitting rigidly in the stool with her face cupped between bone white hands. 

“I’m not lying” he dumbly answers her, calloused fingers drumming impatiently against his glass that is now half full, the amber liquid looking dismal and forlorn as it sits there undrunk at the bottom. He picks it up, brings it to his lips and downs the burn of it in one go. 

“Seth, you’re just as tired as I am. I know you, and I know you’ve not been sleeping and I know it’s because of me and -” 

“Woah, slow down, princess” Seth tells her with a concerned shake of his head “don’t think that this is your fault, alright? I’ve got my own shit crammed into my head, and yeah alright, I haven’t slept properly in two weeks but it’s not your fault” 

“Seth, you haven’t looked at me properly since I’ve come back. Every time we’re alone you come up with some excuse to leave me, you won’t look at me and you barely speak to me unless you have to. I know I’ve put you through a lot and I can’t help feeling like you can’t see me as….me anymore” her words are like an uncapped rush, like a flowing river that gushes out of her and Seth just sits there frozen when they reach his ears. Because fuck, she’s blaming herself for this as if she has anything to be held accountable for. 

All he had wanted was for his shitty excuse of a personality to be completely detached from her, because he just can’t corrupt her or ruin her any more than he already has. He’s the cause of all of this, the reason for her trauma and her pain, and Jesus Christ he’ll be damned if he ever allows himself to be the reason again. But now here she sits, still completely broken, thinking that she’s the reason why he’s wallowing in a pool of whiskey, as if she’s caused him pain. It’s the complete opposite really. 

“Kate” Seth groans, pinching the bridge of his nose between his fingers, his head pounding now with the weight of all the things he wants to blurt out “that is not the reason for any of this, alright? You’re you, and I’m still me and I…I just can’t allow myself to be near you anymore because I don’t want to hurt you, okay? All of this is my fault. Mine, not yours, princess. You need to heal and just get over all of this shit, and I can’t ruin that for you. I’ve done enough damage to you” 

“So that’s what this is about? You blaming yourself? I thought we were over this, Seth” Kate sighs heavily, her eyes intently studying him as he climbs off the stool on heavy legs. He paces a little in front of her, one hand clasped around his hip like he always does when he’s preparing a speech that is always prominent with his own self hatred, or when he’s ready to lash out something she doesn’t really want to hear. 

“I did this to you, how can you not see that? I can’t sleep with the guilt of it, Kate. Every time I look at you I see somebody I fucked over, someone I should have protected and look what happened to you. I walked away from you and the fucking Queen of Hell took you, don’t you see how this is my fault? I never should have left you…fuck I never should have taken you in the first place” Seth tells her, his pacing coming to a stop as he stands in front of her. Kate looks so small, so shadowed from where she sits, with her wide eyes peering at him with that all too familiar glimmer in them that makes him feel like she can truly see his soul. But he’s reminded then that she already has seen it - she’d cleaved it from him and tasted it on the tip of her tongue when she’d been possessed. 

“You’re never going to let that go, are you?” she almost whispers, her voice like a delicate breeze that kisses against his skin. 

“I’ve gotta live with what I’ve done, and I’m okay with that because I deserve to feel like shit. But don’t ever think that this is your fault, or that I don’t see you as you because you’re still Kate. No matter what. You’re Kate, and you’re wonderful and beautiful and I can’t destroy that anymore” he doesn’t really know why he feels like he can say all this, but he guesses the gold whiskey that now swirls in his veins is making his lips looser. 

“Listen to me very carefully, alright?” Kate jumps off the stool, her hands a little shaky by her sides as she comes to stand before him. He looks down at her, his whole body sagging in on itself with how close she feels to him right now. If he wanted he could reach out and touch her, run his fingers through her red hair and down her pale face. He could lean down and kiss her. But he doesn’t of course, he just nods dumbly and crosses his arms in front of him. 

“You didn’t destroy me, Seth. You fought so hard to get me back, and any guilt you have shouldn’t matter because I’m here now because of you. You’re the only one who can piece me back together, and you won’t even look at me” she tells him with a wobbly lip “I thought….I just thought that you’d understand how I felt for you when I said all those things back in that cave. I wouldn’t have said any of that if I blamed you or if I didn’t want to be near you again” 

“Kate, I’m not good for you, alright? You need to just forget about me and move on. You should just leave here and go back to wherever and put all of this behind you” 

“You’re not even listening to me, are you? I don’t blame you. I forgive you and I need you, Seth. You think you’ve broken me? Fair enough, I can’t change how you think, but man up and help me put myself back together. I can’t do that without you” she tells him, her slight shoulders now tightly squaring up like she’s gathering all of her courage under her skin to turn it into steel. He just looks at her for a second without speaking, just staring into her eyes and trying to see any flicker of insincerity but there is none. Whatever she had meant when she’d confessed her love at the mouth of Hell is still evident within her now. 

“I don’t deserve to do that, Kate. I don’t deserve you” Seth shakes his head, his voice hard like he wants to try and convince her to run a mile from him and never look back. But her face just falls a little, some sort of pink tinge colouring the apples of her cheeks as she peers up at him. 

“I saw into your soul, remember? I could feel how you felt for me then, but if you don’t feel like that anymore I understand” she whispers, her words like a window that’s just shattered into splinters and her pretty face crumples into furrowed lines. He can’t help himself then, he instinctively moves towards her and cups her lovely face between his gun roughened hands. He can see it swimming in her eyes - that uncertainty and rejection - as if his words of defiance are an inclination that he doesn’t want her like how she wants him. 

“Kate, you’ve no idea how much I want you. But I’d be selfish if I allowed myself to be with you” he tells her with a shaky voice, his heart hammering inside of him. She just peers back at him with green eyes that are filling with tears, and he collects the pooling at the corner of them with his thumbs. She doesn’t deserve any more tears, she’s cried enough already, and he especially doesn’t want her to cry over him. 

“We’ve been through so much, Seth, we deserve this. We deserve to be happy, and I’m happy when I’m with you, and I know you think you’re no good for me, but let me decide that, please” Kate almost pleads, her hands now coming to trace over his wrists that are pressed to her face. He lets a sigh out of his lips at her touch, and he knows then and there that no matter how much he’s tried to convince himself that he shouldn’t be with her, he’s not strong enough to deny his love for her when she’s so close. 

Maybe she’s wrong and she’ll live to regret this decision that the both of them are at the precipice of deciding. Maybe it’ll be too much for her to be with an older man, a criminal and someone who inadvertently destroyed her life and she’ll wake up some morning and decide to bolt. If she does then Seth will just allow her to, because she sure as hell deserves better than him. 

But maybe he’ll end up being the wrong one. Perhaps he can be good for her, and be the one to knit her broken pieces back together and she can do the same for him. Maybe they’re soulmates, and all of the shit that they’ve been through had been the universe’s cruel way of testing them and bringing them together. 

“I love you” he hears her say, and he’s brought back to reality then and he wonders just how long he’s been standing there wordlessly. But she’s looking at him with the most endearing look in her eyes, and the most kissable lips parted towards him and he thinks for one maddening second that if a girl like Kate Fuller thinks he’s worthy of her love then perhaps there’s a small semblance of truth to it. 

He has been trying so hard not to hurt her, but he knows deep down that pushing her away right now when she’s so vulnerably confessing to him will just hurt her even more. And it’s just going to hurt him too, and he wants to believe he deserves pain, but he also wants to be a good man and he wants to prove to her that she’s lovable and worthy and not some broken and tormented soul. She’s right, he thinks, they both deserve to be happy. 

“I love you too, Kate” he whispers to her in the dark “I really fucking love you, princess” 

“Then be with me?” she asks him as she gently pries his hands away from her face and holds them in her tiny ones. She starts walking them backwards then, well away from the bottle of whiskey that Seth would have allowed to consume him, and towards the doorway. 

Somehow she doesn’t look so tired anymore, like the weight that has been tied to her small shoulders is all but dissipating with every step they take together, and there’s something hopeful in her eyes that radiates out of her when he nods to her with a smile. 

“Always” Seth tells her honestly, but there’s still some sort of doubt that perches itself in his heart so he finds himself asking “Are you sure you want to be with me?” 

Kate just stops before the doorway, lets his hands drop as she takes a step closer to him. She’s so small and warm as she wraps her arms around his neck and presses against his chest, and before he can even let out a tight breath he feels her lips press gently against his own. It’s sweet and short, but he knows it’s going to be the first kiss of many and he relishes in the hope of that as she pulls away with a small smile. 

“I want to be with you” Kate tells him “Always” 

[hargrove-mayfields]

Just A Dream Away

Chapter 6/13 read here on ao3!

for @harringrovebigbang

accompanying art piece by @monochromegee! check it out here!

~~~~

The more Steve thinks about someone being stuck on the other side, the more he has his heart set on doing something about it.

He hadn’t been a hero to anybody last time they were dealing with the Upside Down, too caught up in his own troubles to do anything useful, and it had cost him the love of his life. He was going to guarantee that he stepped up this time. With more time to think, he defines a plan, “I think you’re right, I think we should get ahold of El. That way we can at least figure out who to go to next.”

“Okay, well, that sounds great and all that you have a plan, Steve, but you’re not calling anybody with this burnt up phone, and I’m pretty sure this is too time sensitive to write a letter.” Robin motions to the broken phone where it still hung from the base.

Steve thinks for a moment and snaps his fingers, “The neighbor would let us borrow hers.”

That’s how they end up in the elderly neighbor Dorothy's half of the duplex, Robin entertaining her in the living room with any random story she could think of, and Steve in the hallway a little ways down, talking low so the unsuspecting neighbor can’t hear what he is saying. To get in, they’d just told her that Robin's phone had just been cutting out, but Steve needed to call his sick mother until they could replace it.

Of course that isn’t true, he instead dials the number Joyce left for all of them to get in contact with her if need be, “Mrs Byers?”

On the other end, he hears a lot of noise in the background, at first worried about a repeat of last night, until the sounds made themselves clear as not doomsday static, but business. There’s a television turned up loud, noise from the kitchen like someone was cooking, talking carrying from a distant conversation, before Joyce’s gentle voice cuts through it, “Hi, honey. How have you been?”

He skips the formalities, trying to be fast for the sake of whoever is trapped, and to get it out before the neighbor got bored of Robin and started snooping, “I need to ask you something.”

“Of course, Is everything alright, Steve?” There’s a hint of concern in her voice he has to swallow before he decides what his answer will.

He decides just to rip the bandage off in one go, “Can you put El on the phone?”

Instantly her demeanor switches. They both knew Steve had no reason other than an emergency to want to talk to her daughter, because the other kids would have done it themselves, don’t need Steve as their messenger anymore, “What is this about?”

“We think there is someone in the Upside Down.” He hears her cover the receiver, and call to El in the next room, a hint of urgency to her tone. There was the sound of the phone being passed between two people before El's small voice rang out through the receiver.

“Hello?”

He again skips a proper greeting, full of too much nervous energy to worry about being polite, “Is there any chance at all that someone could still be in the Upside Down?”

It takes her a second to respond, but her answer is firm, “The gate is closed.”

“I know, but do you think we could’ve closed it on somebody?”

“Why?” She sounds unsure of whether or not she should trust him, so he explains to her, “The phone rang and Robin said it sounded like a bunch of static, and like someone was talking but she couldn’t hear them. It blew up like it did before when Will called.”

There’s a long pause and whispers in the background, like she’s being coached by Joyce, and her answers comes slowly, “Without powers I can’t help. But I have an idea.”

Another pause and her mother takes the phone back, “We’ll come back to Hawkins and figure it out, Steve. See what you can do until we get there.”

The line goes dead before he can thank her or ask how long he could expect to wait, so he sighs and hangs the phone back up. When he returns to the living room, Robin stands up from the couch and the neighbor asks politely, “How was she?”

He furrows his eyebrows, has too much on his mind and has to remember the cover story they came up with before he can answer, “She’s alright. Thank you, Dorothy.”

They’re halfway to the front door when she stops them, “Oh, I’ve been meaning to tell you two, I have the city’s number if you need it.”

Robin smiles politely, “What for?”

“Well, that streetlight outside. It’s been flickering on and off these past few nights, I thought it would be bothering you two being right outside your window and all. I know it’s been driving me up the wall.” She chuckles, not realizing the significance of what she just said to them.

They exchange a look between themselves, both having gone a little pale.

Robin recovers quicker, so she forces a smile back onto her face, significantly less genuine this time, and steers Steve outside with a guiding hand on his back, assuring the neighbor before shutting the door in her face, “That’s alright, Dorothy. We hadn’t noticed actually.”

~~~~

This end of the neighborhood is so poorly lit, but Billy can’t afford to get cornered like this.

He’d taken off from the area around duplex apartment, leaving behind the big monster and running until he finds more street lights, though in a poor backwoods town like Hawkins, only a select few streets nearby downtown or the rich neighborhoods were taken care of, so it’s not until he’s all the way at the other end of the street, almost by the intersection to the next neighborhood, that he finds another dull and flickering street light.

It’s then, looking up hopefully at the dull, flickering light that he realizes this area is somewhat familiar to him, though it's still much farther out than his usually traveled routes between Cherry Lane and Loch Nora.

When things were normal, Billy was so bitter about leaving his home, so he hadn’t bothered getting familiar with the entire town. If it was out of his way, it wasn’t his problem, Hawkins was only ever supposed to be a temporary home for him anyways.

Even now he still wasn’t acquainted with the area, because over here past the neighborhood where he found Steve and Robin is the dark zone, where the storm clouds are thicker and the fog covers what little light there is in this place, and he normally wouldn’t dare stray over this way.

Right now though, there’s a monster that’s already tasted his blood on his heels, so it doesn’t really matter where he ends up.

He follows a long dirt driveway towards that one streetlight, beacon of hope that it was, when suddenly it hits him. This is the Byers’ house.

If there were literally anywhere else for him to go right now other than that house, he’d go there, guilty memories he’d been mostly forgiven for still sitting heavy in his heart, if not just because now all the people he’d hurt that day were still living without him, making new memories and probably remembering his as that same asshole that barged into the Byers family home that night.

But, he’s not out of the woods just yet to be picky, because there’s a trail of blood from his injured arm leading the monster to this exact spot, and that is a monster that already had the taste of his flesh. He’d have to take whatever he could get.

The second he opens the door, under the twisting vines and ash and mold covering almost everything in the house, it’s obvious that this isn’t the same house he’d burst into two years ago, none of the floral couches and knitted Afghans and Merry Mushroom canisters that made for that warm, homey feel of the place that had made Billy feel queasy when juxtaposed with what he’d thought was happening in that house before Steve apologized for lying, and he for kicking Steve’s ass, and gave him a new explanation that was, as he now knew, still a coverup, but didn’t seem so predatory.

Now there were all leather arm chairs, dirty work boots by the door, and empty beer bottles on the kitchen counters. He could tell from the way this house is decorated alone, at least if he imagined it without all the rot and death, that this house had been bought up by some unhappy old man, and he almost wants to be bitter, that he’s going to die in a place that looks like the embodiment of the unhappy future he was damned to even if he made it out of this hell, until something catches his eye.

On display hooks, positioned perfectly atop the mantelpiece, there is a proudly displayed shotgun.

Billy almost trips over the clutter-covered coffee table running to go get it, a feeling like hope in his chest, but when he pulls it down, his heart sinks a little. He can tell from the weight that it isn’t loaded, it’s just some old bastards trophy.

He worries for a second that it isn’t even a real gun at all, but a snarl from the other side of the door reminds him it doesn’t matter if it shoots, it’ll still bludgeon. A weapon is a weapon.

Still, he quickly turns the place over, clearing off that coffee table, feeling along the underside of the mantel for a hidden box, and digging through the side table drawers, in there finding old pills and candy wrappers, spare change and, in the very last place he looks, a box of shotgun shells.

He grabs it, but he doesn’t have time to be relieved, because on the other side of the door, there’s a snarl accompanied by a scratching sound, and he knows that that thing outside is taunting him. Trapping him in so it could toy with him before finally killing him. But he’s not going to let that happen, not now.

He couldn’t say how much time had passed down here, but he had been hurt and starved and damn near froze to death, and he had still survived. All this time it had been for himself, to prove he could do it and maybe, just maybe someday reach the other side, but now he had a purpose. Now he knew his Steve was right there, just out of his reach. He can’t give up now. He won’t.

He takes the gun into the kitchen, where he’ll have a minute if the monster does lose its temper and break in early, sliding to the floor with it so he’s level with where the monsters face would be once it turned the corner, gritting his teeth and lowering the barrel of the gun, his good hand shaking badly as he tries against his nerves and the bite making him weaker to load the shells in both barrels.

At the same time, just as he expected, the monster decides it’s done playing with its food, hitting into the door until the hinges crack and it swings open at an off angle. Billy curses under his breath and tries to load faster, in his panic accidentally catching sight of the bite wound on his arm, and it’s bad. As in, he can’t believe he’s still conscious right now bad. But he tries not to think about it and just locks the gun back in, cocks it, and aims it straight in front of him.

His hands are shaking so badly he’s not sure he could actually fire the gun or hit the monster even if he did, but surprisingly, he doesn’t have to put that theory to the test, because the monster never comes around the wall. Claws scratch into the damp carpeted floor in the room parallel to the one he’s in and eerie chitters and growls fill the disturbingly quiet air. Billy always wondered if that sound was them communicating, or if they were mocking him. Making his skin crawl so he’d let his guard down, be afraid as they tore him to shreds.

But then it just stops again. The house totally silent except for the monster's horribly ragged breathing, and then it leaves. Retreats right out of the front door, and from the rustling sound that carries from outside, back into the woods.

Billy breathes out a heavy sigh of relief, tilting his head back against the wall, exhausted. Above his head he notices a cross, just a little golden thing dangling right above his head, and he laughs bitterly. Some blessing this is.

Because, while he didn’t get viciously eaten alive, for which he supposes he could be grateful in some ways, here he still was, after so many days he couldn’t count them anymore, he was still trapped and alone with monsters hunting him. Now suddenly throwing Steve and his friend into the mix, and he’s got himself the perfect mix of hopelessness and heartbreak and dread making this all the harder.

With effort, he stands again, this time not making the mistake of leaving his weapon behind.

The adrenaline is slowly wearing off, and his arm really starts to demand his attention. It stings like nothing he’s ever felt before, a horrible sensation that makes his whole arm feel painfully numb. He just hopes the medicine in this house hadn’t succumbed to the elements like most things he scavenged for tend to anymore.

By some miracle, the old man who bought the place up still hadn’t finished unpacking, and right at the bottom of a cardboard box full of old towels is an almost completely preserved first aid kid, fully intact other than a couple of rotten bandages, but those wouldn’t be of much use to him right now anyways.

He tries to remember the rules his dad had taught him the first time he cut too deep, rules which he’d later passed down to Max when she was being nosy after witnessing a fight, following him around while he was trying to get his face to stop bleeding.

Clean it, medicate it, bandage it.

Normally when he was telling it to Max, he’d tack on to the end to go get help if she was bleeding more than a bandaids worth, but that’s not really of much use to him, so he pushes his sleeve up, grateful it had already been rolled up some and hadn’t been torn, and assesses the damage.

He can’t see any bone, which is good enough news, but he can’t see much of anything else from how badly he’s bleeding, which is not so good. He can’t even get a fair judgement of how bad it is with all the gore covering the actual wound, so he walks to the sink to wipe some of the blood away.

The water quality down here varies from day to day, not that he’d ever drink the stuff, he’d a thousand times over raid a monsters den for a single water bottle than put that stuff in his body, but sometimes he’d test it just to check if it was clean enough for him to try and wash away any of the dirt and blood on him.

Sometimes nothing would come from the faucet but disgusting black sludge. Today he was lucky, the water, if you could even call it that, cloudy and speckled, but not unusable. Besides, he would rather get some weird alien infection in his arm than bleed out anyways.

Max’s watch is caked in gore so he quickly runs it under the water too. It’s probably going to fry the stupid thing, and the thought of its familiar ticking being gone does admittedly make Billy a little uneasy, but he’d rather return the watch broken than stained with his blood.

Because that’s really his biggest goal. To keep surviving and make it out of wherever the hell he is so he could give Max back her watch and Steve back that stupid bandana he probably didn’t even notice was missing, and his dad back his jacket. Shove it in the asshole's face and tell him, ‘Here’s your jacket back you old bastard. Mind the blood stain on the collar and the tear in the shoulder. I fucking missed you, dad.’

He's able to get the bleeding to stop with rags, and once the wound is clean, he slathers the bite in as much polysporin as he can find, mostly to mask the heavy smell of blood lingering on his skin that would act like a beacon for the monsters miles away until this hole in his arm heals. He finds clean enough bandages and wraps it until he can barely move his wrist, tugging his sleeve back down over them. He decides not to clean up all the blood, so there was something to distract them from finding him once he leaves.

Healing is supposed to be the hardest part, and Billy had always thought that was bullshit- the hardest part was the betrayal when his dear old dad cracked his bones and left bruises on his skin when there are real monsters out there in the world that don’t give you a hug and an apology when it’s over- but now he knows for sure that isn’t true.

The most important thing is finding Steve again, and figuring out why he couldn’t see or touch him, and could only just barely hear him, but could feel his presence, almost tangibly.

Billy steals another two boxes of bullets, keeping the gun close at his side, and he sets back off for that duplex.

[nalgenewhore]

masterlist - ao3 - day three - day five

<3<3<3

TW: Mentions of PTSD, Psych Wards, Mentions of Child Abuse/Abuse, Gaslighting

<3<3<3

It’s so late. She’s exhausted after being on her feet for fourteen hours. 

Elide wants two things. 

One: The hottest, longest shower she’s ever had. 

Two: The piece of chocolate cake she bought, but hasn’t had the time to eat yet. 

As she drives home from the hospital, she nearly falls asleep at the wheel. Elide snaps her eyes open and sits up straighter. Opening her window, she hopes that the bitter winter wind will encourage her body to stay alert. 

It works well, and she starts to shiver, her teeth chattering lightly. She keeps the window open still. 

At a red light, her phone starts to ring. It’s in her bag, on the passenger seat, and Elide ignores it. The important people in her life text when they need something and she’s driving anyway. 

Her apartment building isn’t far from work, so she’s home shortly. After she parks in her unit’s assigned spot, her phone rings again. Elide reaches over and fishes it out. When she sees her girlfriend’s contact, she smiles and happily accepts the call. “Hey, you. I’m happy you called.” 

“Hi, love,” Lorcan says, her voice distant and shaky. “Are you at work?” 

“No,” Elide frowns at Lorcan’s voice, worried. “I just got home. Are you alright, Lor? You sound upset.” 

It takes a couple seconds for Lorcan to reply. “I’m- I… can you come over? I- I just really want to see you.” 

Immediately, Elide re-clips her seat belt. “Of course. I’ll be there soon, honey. Do you want me to stay on the line?” She waits with wavering patience, trying to force calmness for her obviously distressed girlfriend. 

“Yes,” Lorcan all but confesses, like she’s ashamed to have needs, “please.” 

“Good. I missed you today,” Elide puts the phone on speaker and places it in the centre console’s cup holder. “And last night.” She fakes a pout, “It’s so cold without you.” 

Lorcan chuckles, the sound forced and choked, “Yeah, ‘m sorry I couldn’t be ya personal furnace, princess.”

Elide smoothly changes lanes, “You should be. Anyway, I’m glad you called. I showered at work and was probably going to crash the minute I got home.” There comes another red light and Elide stops in the left turn lane. “Work wasn’t too busy, just so gods-damned long. I had rounds at five AM, hon, but I got to scrub in on a femur repair today.” 

Both of the women know that Elide’s chatter is so that Lorcan can be distracted. Lorcan makes minimal comments and mostly communicates in monotonous hums. 

Elide parks in front of Lorcan’s building and picks her phone up, taking it off speaker. She holds it to her ear, “I’m here, Lorcan. Buzz me in?” 

“Yeah. I’ll see you soon.” 

“I love you,” Elide says, biting her bottom lip. 

Lorcan’s voice is soft and warm, “I love you, Lee.” 

They both hang up and Elide gets out of her old Ford Explorer. She walks to the lobby and presses the button next to Lorcan’s unit number. 

“‘llo.” 

“It’s me, Salvaterre.” The locked doors buzz open. “Thank you, honey.” Their friends don’t understand how Elide can call her six-foot-seven girlfriend ‘honey’ but it just fits, and Lorcan melts when Elide calls her such. 

Elide pulls the door open and walks to the elevator. Lorcan’s building is relatively new, so the ride is short and smooth. Elide steps out on the thirteenth floor and goes down the hall to Lorcan’s apartment. Knocking on the door, Elide waits on the doormat in relative calmness. 

The door is opened a few moments later. Lorcan stands in a ratty t-shirt and rugby shorts, one hand on the doorframe and one on the doorknob. “Hi.” 

Elide grins and rests her hand on Lorcan’s arm, “Hey. Can I come in?” 

Lorcan nods mutely and steps out of the way. She lets Elide in and closes the door. The petite woman hangs up her jacket and toes off her shoes. When she stands back up, Lorcan wraps her in a long, tight hug. Elide melts against her girlfriend and slides her arms around Lorcan’s broad shoulders.  

She slides a hand through the loose hair at the back of Lorcan’s head and the other soothes circles between Lorcan’s shoulder blades. “Honey, I’m here. I’m right here.” 

Lorcan nods again, “I know. Thank you for coming.” She drops her hands to the backs of Elide’s knees and easily picks her up. Lorcan wraps her girl’s soft, warm thighs around her waist. Elide smiles. 

Lorcan walks them into her room and doesn’t turn on the lights. She puts Elide down on her bed and sits down on the edge of the mattress, not knowing how to say what she needs to.

Elide gets up, “I’m going to get changed and go to the bathroom. I’ll be right back.” 

Lorcan hums and her eyes silently track Elide as she moves around. 

She trades her athletic shirt and scrub pants for a long sleeved skate shirt of Lorcan’s she had cropped and a pair of compression shorts. Her hips swing as she pads into the toilet. Lorcan stretches out on her bed and stares up at the rotating ceiling fan. 

Her father never calls. He never contacts her. 

The last time she saw or heard from him was seven years ago, and the subsequent PTSD episode landed her in the psych ward for a month.

Right now… she’s fine. She’s- she’s fine. 

Since he called her this afternoon, since she heard his low, threatening voice - the voice that haunted her childhood and nightmares - Lorcan’s been in a state of shock. 

Her phone rang. Not caring to see who it was, Lorcan picked it up and held it to her ear, “‘llo.” 

“Now, I don’t think that’s how you’re supposed to greet your father, Lorcan.” 

Her blood ran cold and her heart stuttered to a stop. The report she’d been working on was forgotten. “C-cillian?” 

He clicked his tongue and she flinched. Her hands began to shake as she remembered what used to happen when he clicked his tongue. Her father clicked his tongue when he was upset, not angry. Whatever punishment he doled out after he clicked his tongue was always worse, because he wouldn’t be blinded by rage. 

No, he was meticulous. Careful. 

“How are you, Lorcan? That mother of yours told me you’d moved to Perranth. She tells me you have a girlfriend, too.”

Still shaking, Lorcan asked, “You… you talked to my mom?” He knows about Elide.

“Sure did. You know, I was almost certain that you knew about my house in Perranth. It hurt that you didn’t ask to rent from me.” 

“Why can’t you leave me alone,” Lorcan whispered, trying to block out the memories and flashbacks his voice triggered. “I don’t want anything from you.” 

“Now, I know I’ve been gone for a while, but I am your father. I deserve the chance to make it up to you.” 

Nothing can ever make up for what you did to me, Lorcan thought. She closed her eyes and the tears she hadn’t known were forming spilt down her cheeks. “Please,” she said, “just- just leave me be. Leave my mom and the twins be.” 

Cillian sucked on his teeth, “Don’t be selfish, girl. You were such a difficult child. It hurt me so much to discipline you like that, but I had to. You know that.” 

“Good-bye, Cillian,” Lorcan said, her entire body trembling. “This conversation is over. If- if you attempt to contact me again, I will file a restraining order.” With strength she didn’t exactly know she had, Lorcan hung up and immediately blocked the number. 

“Lorcan?” 

She sits up suddenly, her heart beating quickly. Of course, it’s only Elide, so she relaxes. The mattress dips as Elide crawls back into bed. She rubs Lorcan’s tattoo-marked thigh, where there is hardly any skin left untouched by ink. “Do you want to be under the blankets?” 

“Yes.” 

Lorcan and Elide move so they can lift the duvet and quilts. When they’ve settled, Lorcan rolls onto Elide. She spreads Elide’s legs with a hand to fit flush against her and rests her head on Elide’s tits. 

Elide chuckles softly and scratches Lorcan’s scalp, “You big softy.” 

Lorcan works her arms around Elide’s waist and exhales slowly. 

“Do you want to talk or sleep?” 

“Talk.” 

Elide nods, unseen by Lorcan and kisses the top of her girlfriend’s head, “Ok. You don’t have to.” 

“Yes, I do,” Lorcan responds, unconsciously hugging Elide tighter. “I… I need to.” 

“Ok, honey.” 

It takes a full minute for Lorcan to speak another word. “My… Cillian called me. I was at work.” 

Elide stiffens, her hand stopping in Lorcan’s hair, “Your… your father?” 

A nod. “He talked to my mom, El,” Lorcan whispers, trying not to cry. “He- he knows that I live here. He knows about you .” A shuddering sob escapes her and Lorcan shakes. Her eyes screw shut. “I ca-an’t make him leave. ”

In her chest, Elide feels her heart crack in two. She kisses the top of Lorcan’s head and scratches a loop between her shoulder blades. “He’s gone. You’re with me. You’re safe.” 

Lorcan still cries, her grip desperate and greedy. 

Soon, she grows quiet and nudges Elide’s neck with her nose. “I love you, Lee. So much.” 

“I love you too.” 

As she lifts her head, Lorcan searches Elide’s face. She tilts her chin up and kisses the ‘v’ between her brows, and then presses her lips to Elide’s. Just for a moment, nothing but a mere touch. Lorcan rolls them and sits up, pulling Elide’s knees around her hips. Elide squeaks at the sudden movement, and quickly settles, looping her arm around Lorcan’s neck. 

Lorcan clasps her hands around Elide’s waist and stretches her long legs out. She rests her chin on Elide’s shoulder and closes her eyes, “I want to be fine. I-I want to be fine.”

Elide lifts her head, her face directly in front of Lorcan’s, “I know you do.” 

“I’m so tired,” Lorcan whispers, a confession. 

Her girlfriend’s eyes mirror her exhausted, drained state. Her fingers are soft and light as she traces them over Lorcan’s features, “I know that too.” Elide climbs off of Lorcan’s lap and chuckles at her whine of protest. “You baby. Lie down.” 

Lorcan grumbles, but does as she’s told. 

“On your side.” 

Again, she complies. She moves her arms, ready for Elide to slip into them and to hold her close. Instead, Elide slides her arms around Lorcan’s waist, her chest pressing against Lorcan’s back. For a moment, Lorcan stiffens and looks down in silence, sort of confused at the new position. She’s- she’s never been little spoon. Her girlfriends were always shorter than her, and it just made sense. 

Elide kisses the nape of her neck and doesn’t pull away as she asks, “Is this ok?” 

Lorcan carefully eases into Elide’s hold. Their legs move and Elide’s is stretched over her hip. She grips Elide’s thigh and nods, “Yeah. ‘t’s kinda nice.” 

“Kinda?” Elide teases, her grin spreading across Lorcan’s skin. 

A slight, barely-there smile curls Lorcan’s full lips. “I feel safe, Lee.” She takes Elide’s hand and kisses her fingertips, “You make me feel safe.”

<3<3<3

@ladyverena​​ @ladywitchling​​ @mythicaitt​​ @sassyhobbits​​ @darklesmylove​​ @julemmaes​​ @letstakethedawn @cicada-bones​​ @highladyofthegentry​​ @darlinminds​​ @nahthanks​​ @sjmships​​ @eyllweambassador​​ @flamingveritas​​ @adelzd-bookblr​​ @somewhatdynamite @woollycat22​​ @firestarsandseneschals​​ @the-regal-warrior​​

[hayleysstark]

Anonymous

Words: 2749  Warnings: Swearing Summary: When Poppy was sixteen, she started getting anonymous love poems. When she is twenty-three, she finds them again.

Read on Fanfiction or AO3. 

The paper in Poppy's hand is white.

The paper in Poppy's hand is plain white—practical, sensible, no fuss, no frills, no bright colors or flashy patterns or shimmering glitter, not even a heart or a cupcake or a rainbow cut out and pasted in the corner—and Branch actually stops in her doorway to take a second look, to make sure it's not just a trick of the light, of the sun through her window.

Since when does Poppy use plain white paper? Hell, since when does any other troll in the entire town use plain white paper? As far as Branch can tell, he's the only one—even all the printed books in the village are alive with rainbow colors, with scented stickers and yellow smiley-faces and bright pictures—but it looks like he's wrong, it looks like Poppy does use plain white paper, here and there, because it's in her hands, and it's scattered all around her on the floor like snow, like a second carpet. Her bright eyes flick over the page, and her small, soft pink lips open and move as she reads, as she whispers the words, under her breath, to herself, that thing she does where she reads out loud but she doesn't actually read out loud—

God. It's such a small and stupid thing to focus on. It's such a small, and stupid thing to love about her, but Branch loves that about her—like he loves the tiny curl at the end of her bubblegum pink ponytail, like he loves the little dimple deep in her left cheek, like he loves when she bumps into doors or tables or chairs and says sorry and the way she wrinkles up her nose when she's irritated with him, because she still doesn't know how to scowl, and it's so goddamn adorable—

"Branch!" Poppy tosses the (plain, white) paper back down to the floor with all the rest, bounces up, and rushes over to him, flinging her arms around his neck. "Oh, my gosh, you're back! I missed you so much!"

"You saw me an hour ago," Branch points out, and he tells himself he's only breathless because she knocked into him like a damn hurricane. "Can't have missed me that much."

"I always miss you when you're gone!" Poppy pulls back to smile at him, and her eyes crinkle up at the corners and her left-side dimple shows, and the he's-only-breathless-because-she-knocked-into-him-like-a-damn-hurricane theory is complete bullshit.

And he doesn't even care. He just smiles back.

"I got Harper set up in Smidge's pod," he tells her. "I'll keep an eye on her for the next few days, but I don't think that bump on the head was anything to worry about. She was already feeling better when I left, she was joking around with Biggie and Guy. Looks like she's in the clear."

"Oh!" Poppy perks up even more if that's possible. "Gosh, that's great! I'm really glad she's okay. Thanks for taking care of her, Branch, you're a life-saver." She hugs him again, her breath warm on his collarbone, her nose deep in the hollow of his neck, and he has to actually remind himself to breathe.

"Uh," he says, very ineloquently, "no problem. Um." He clears his throat a little too loudly. "So, what's with all the—?" He pulls back to jerk his chin at the papers.

"Oh!" Poppy spins on her heel to look down at the stack on the floor, and Branch tries not to stare at the flare of her skirt around her long legs. "Just goin' down memory lane, you know?" She smiles, small and—sad, almost, slightly wistful, a tinge of bitter mixed in with all the sweet. "It's been a long time since I went through all my stuff, and I just—I found—" she glances over her shoulder again at the heap of papers strewn all over her fuzzy carpet, and a red tinge edges steadily into her pink cheeks, "—I found old love letters."

Branch's stomach drops. "Love letters?" His mouth goes so dry, he can hardly push the words past his numb, frozen lips. But that's ridiculous, because she's Poppy, and she's had strings of admirers at her heels as long as he can remember, because she's Poppy, she's—God, just look at her, of course she got love letters, and of course she still gets love letters, and she's probably gotten at least one love letter from every troll in the village at this point, because she's Poppy, so there is absolutely no need to freak out about this. Really, what are the odds, anyway? "Y-You—" he tries to swallow, but his throat is dry, too, and it sticks, "—you get plenty of those, though. Right?"

"I mean," Poppy bites her lip, and tucks a lock of bright hair behind one ear, "yeah, I guess I kinda do, now that I think about it, but—" she kneels down to pick through the pile again, "—but there was this one troll—" she riffles and rustles through the stack for a minute before she finally plucks out a single paper, and reads it over before she looks back up at Branch. "They never signed their name. Weird, huh?"

Branch is at least ninety-seven percent certain his chest has just tied itself in a particularly complex knot, because why else would he feel like maybe a Bergen has made itself at home on his chest? "Weird?" he echoes, and even in his own ears, it sounds too high, too sharp, too fast, and that's ridiculous, because there is absolutely no need to freak out over this, there is absolutely no need to blow this up, to turn this into a big deal, because it could be anyone, it could be anyone in the entire village, remember, she's Poppy, it's impossible to not fall a little bit in love with her, so there's no need to freak out, he doesn't need to freak out, don't freak out, don't freak out, don't freak out, do not freak out. "Is that weird? Are they the only troll who never—?"

"Never signed their name? Yeah!" Poppy glances back down at the paper clutched in her pink fist. "Yeah, that's the thing! What kind of troll would write anonymous love letters? It's so weird!"

Oh.

Oh, no.

The paper in Poppy's hand is white, and all the rest of the paper in the stack is white, and Poppy never uses white paper and no one in the entire town uses white paper, and Branch is the only troll in the town who uses white paper and they never signed their name and can he freak out now, is he finally allowed to freak out now? Please?

"—really weird, though, they weren't actually 'letters', it was more like—" Poppy tips her pink head to the side, "—like poetry. You know?"

Holy fucking shit.

This is so bad.

"Um," Branch says, and slides down to the floor.

"Oh, but it was always so pretty!" Poppy gushes, with the page crushed to her chest and a soft little smile on her face. "I mean, it was always so sad, but it was always so pretty, they were so good at it, like—hang on—" she drops the sheet into her lap again, and smooths out the wrinkles and creases with the flat of her hand. "I know very well you'll never love me—only let me love you, let me live out my fate—to adore you, forever, from afar, let me burn for you until—"

"Okay!" Branch says, except it's actually a kind of, well, a squeak, maybe, a little bit—he sounds much, much higher than he usually does—but he cannot let her say the rest of that. His cheeks are already burning with the little bit she did get out. "Okay! That—that's enough. You shouldn't waste your time on this troll, Poppy. He never signed his name, and he's stopped writing to you. You'll never figure out who he is, so there's no point in talking about it."

Poppy frowns. She pushes her hair back again, and leans back a little. "Yeah," she says, with a heavy sigh. "Yeah, I guess you're right, I just—I just always wondered—" she drops her chin in her own open pink palm, "—I guess I just worried about them, you know?"

Branch definitely does not know. "You don't even know who it was," he points out, as nicely as he can. "I mean, what if it turned out they were awful? What if it turned out they were someone you hate? What if it turned out he was—" he can't look at her, "—what if it turned out he was really mean? You shouldn't waste your time worrying about a troll like—"

"But they sounded sad!" Poppy bursts out. "They sounded so lonely, Branch! All the time! Every letter! They sounded like they didn't have any friends, and they sounded like they didn't think anyone loved them, and I just—!" She huffs out a heavy breath. "I just really wish I could have helped them."

Branch swallows. He looks down at his own hands in his lap—at his scarred-up, sky-blue skin, that vivid, vibrant burst of color, so bright against all the dark brown and deep green of his clothes, the color he hadn't thought would stick, the color he had thought would dim right back down to grey in a matter of days, in a matter of hours, even—before he flicks a glance back up at her. "I'm sure," he says, quietly, his heart in his throat, "that you did."

"I just—" she sits up again, with a little shake of her head, "—I just don't get why they wouldn't tell me. What kind of troll does that? What kind of troll goes to all this trouble, writes all these letters, all this poetry, says all this sweet stuff about me, and then doesn't even sign their—!"

Poppy stops dead. Right there in the middle of her sentence, with her lips still open, and her eyes blown wide, she grinds to a full halt—like she's frozen, like she's turned to stone, but it's not her I'm making a mental scrapbook complete with glitter and stickers face, and it's not her I'm planning a party complete with colored lights and full playlists face, either, because she hasn't got a smile on her face or a sparkle in her eyes, it's almost like a blank, dazed kind of shock—

"Branch," she says, sudden and sharp, and she snaps around to look at him, her bright eyes narrowed in her pretty, freckled face. "How do you know they stopped writing to me?"

"What?" Branch says, out loud, because it takes a solid two-point-five seconds to hit him, and it takes him an additional two-point-five seconds to think, oh, shit, this is it, isn't it, this is it, I'm fucked, I'm absolutely fucked. "Y-You told me. You were—you were talking about it in the past tense, you were all 'they sounded sad', and you said—you said you were 'going down memory lane', or—or something—"

"You said 'he'," Poppy cuts in, her voice like ice, cold and clear. "You said 'he never signed his name'. You said 'what if he was really mean'."

Can he freak out now? "I-I guessed," he says, but even he can hear the stammer in his voice, and raw panic claws its way up the back of his throat with long, sharp nails, "I guessed, Poppy, that's all, it was just a guess, I-I don't know any more about this troll than you do, I was just—"

"You came up with that poem," Poppy cuts him off again, but there's a—a twitch, almost, at the edge of her lip, like she wants to smile, but she won't let herself, and what the hell can she possibly find to be happy about? "In the skating rink. With Bridget and Gristle."

"B-Because the rest of you weren't coming up with anything!" But it's not enough, and he knows it's not enough, he's lost, and he knows he's lost, even as he says it, he knows he's lost. "I was talking off the top of my head, Poppy, I was tr-trying not to get us all eaten, I-I don't even remember what I—"

"'Your eyes'—" Poppy whispers, almost to herself, "—'like two pools so deep'—"

"No," Branch says, but it's over, it's all over, he's lost, he's fucked, because she knows, and she's not—she's not supposed to—she was never supposed to know— "no, that's—that's not—I wasn't—"

Poppy snatches up another paper off the top of the stack with a loud crinkle, and her mouth finally pulls up all the way, and a full smile blooms over her face, and it's like the sun, bright and warm and beautiful, and what the hell is she so happy about? Isn't she upset? Isn't she mad? Doesn't she know this is a bad thing?

"Do you think," she reads off, and every word comes out slow and steady and deliberate, "that your bright colors could bleed through my shades of grey?"

Teenage Branch really should have tried to be a little bit subtler.

The knot in his chest finally pulls tight enough to break, but he still can't breathe right around the pieces. This wasn't supposed to happen. This was never supposed to happen. She was never supposed to know, and all his—all his lies, all the times he held himself back, all the times he bit his tongue so he wouldn't say, God, I love you, it all meant nothing, it was all for nothing, because she found out anyway, and she knows, and—

Poppy lifts her head, and she looks up at him, all wide eyes and flushed cheeks and sunshine smile. "Oh, my gosh," she says, in a whisper, in a soft and shaky and almost ecstatic breath, and she leans in so close, he can count every single silver freckle on her cheek, every single bubblegum-pink hair on her forehead, "oh, my gosh, it's really you."

Branch is, admittedly, a little bit lost. She doesn't look upset. She doesn't look mad. She looks happy, and is there something to be happy about, is this something to be happy about, is this—? Is she happy about—? It hurts to hope, because he knows he's wrong, he knows he's made a mistake, he just knows there's a fatal dot he didn't connect, he just knows he's wrong about this, he just knows he shouldn't hope, but it's like he can't stop, and what if she's happy about this, what if she's really, actually happy that it's—that it's him—?

Poppy tips her head up, and she kisses him.

Oh.

Oh, she—her mouth, and she presses into him, warm and firm and steady, in a way he's never felt, in a way he's never been, and—and she tastes like her favorite strawberry lip gloss, and her hands—on his chest, on his cheek, tangled in his hair, and she kisses him, over and over and over again—

"You're—?" Branch murmurs, breathless, half into her open mouth, and he pulls back, even if it's the very last thing in the world he wants to do, because he has to—he has to be sure, he doesn't want to do this if she's not—if she doesn't— "You're—" he looks, almost desperately, for the unease or uncertainty or hesitance or—or revulsion, he looks for it, behind her eyes, but he—he doesn't see—"—you're—okay? With this? With You're okay with—" he bites down, too hard, on his bottom lip, and he can feel the skin break, "—with me? You're—you're happy—?"

Poppy laughs, and it's not her normal laugh—her normal laugh is bright and bubbly and loud, her normal laugh makes every troll around her turn to look—this laugh is too soft for that, but he thinks he might like this laugh even more. "I am," she says, and she sounds a little breathless, too, "completely happy with you."

And she kisses him again—warm and firm and steady and strawberry lip gloss and her hands on his chest on his cheek in his hair—and now he kisses back, his body tangled up with hers in a plain-white-paper pile of years-old letters, and he is completely happy.

[percywinchester27]

A lot like ‘Us’ (Part-6)

Word count: 3.5K

Pairing: Sam X Reader AU

Warnings: fluff, feels

Series Summary: Y/N Y/L/N is eager and honestly, still in awe that she managed to get herself an acceptance from Stanford Law School. On the face of it, her life seems as put together, mysterious and independent as one might hope for. On the insides, she carries the burden of past that haunts her till date. Seemingly, she’d left it all behind; that is until she sets foot in the class of the Law School’s youngest, most promising professor.

A/N: The story employs two different timelines. The present timeline for the story takes place in 2014. Please let me know what you guys think :)

Beta: @deanssweetheart23​​​​ I love you, babe <3

A lot like ‘Us’ masterlist

“This is fun!” You rolled the ball along the lane. It didn’t even reach halfway before sliding to the side.

“You actually suck!” Jack exclaimed somewhat surprised. “You weren’t lying about that.”

Sticking your tongue out at him, you let him pass to the aisle, carrying another bowling ball. He knocked out 2 pins in the first strike.

You cheered for him as he drew another and in his second turn knocked down four more.

He triumphantly pumped his fists in the air and you high fived him. “That’s more than either of us have accomplished this evening.”

Jack threw a wry look at the girl he had been eyeing all evening. “I don’t think I’ve impressed her.”

The girl in question was a pretty blonde and you had definitely seen her check Jack out at least once. Jack was actually quite good-looking with his soft brown hair and a guileless smile.

“You know what I think?” You winked. “You should go talk to her.”

“Noooooo,” he backed off real quick. “She’s never going to want to talk to me.”

“I’ll bake you those cookies I gave Cas if you do it!”

He made a face. “Aw Y/N! You’re not playing fair.”

You shrugged. “It’s a one time deal. Take it or leave it.”

“You drive a hard bargain.” He glanced at the girl once. “I get the cookies even if she doesn’t agree?”

“Sure do. You just gotta ask her out!”

He gave you one accusing look, then walked over to the girl at the counter. You watched as she smiled sweetly and he nervously scratched his neck. After a few minutes, he came back waving a chit and a huge, disbelieving grin on his face. “She gave me her number. Can you believe that?”

“Whoever would have guessed.” You feigned disinterest. 

“This is such a win-win. I got a date on Sunday and I get the cookies,” he sighed happily.

You wanted to reach out and shuffle his hair, so you did and Jack wrinkled his nose at you.

The two of you grabbed a quick bite at a fast food trolley and walked home teasing each other about how sucky the bowling was.

“I thought the ball was going to drag you with it that one time,” Jack said as you opened the door to your apartment. 

“Know what?” You said conspiratorially. “I did, too.”

You waved a goodbye and then locked the door behind you, exhausted in the good way. The moment your head hit the pillow you were fast asleep.

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

14th August 2008

“C’mon, Y/N, you can do better than that,” Jo encouraged and you threw the ball hard. It still landed at her feet.

“I can’t do this,” you gave up, going to sit under the tree in the park. “I’m tired.” 

Jo sighed as she sat down beside you. “It’s been almost a month since your Gran… you know… You can talk to me.”

“There’s nothing to talk about,” you muttered, plucking the grass at your feet.

She laid back on the grass, staring into the bright blue sky. “It’s just that I know you’re hurting- I know it, but if you don’t tell me what to do, I can’t help you!”

No one could help you. Help could only be given in times of a disaster or a problem. There was no help for the last person left alive in the world. No one was coming for that person… just like no help was coming for you who were the last one left in your world.

“There you are!” Dean Winchester was walking up the small hillock, a wicker basket in his hand. He looked damn good in that leather jacket, the sunlight making his hair glint golden.

You gave Jo a questioning look and she smiled guilty. “I uhhh… arranged for a surprise picnic for us. Dean offered to get us sandwiches.”

You wanted to feel annoyed with her. The last thing you needed was to pretend to smile for company. Dean had been exceptionally kind to you, but you didn’t want to make him a victim of your isolation driven lethargy.

“Hey,” Dean said, his eyes softening when he saw you. “How’re you doing?”

“I’m fine, thank you,” you said automatically.

He pushed the wicker basket towards you. “Jo said you liked muffins. Now, we tried baking some, but they come with health warnings.”

“We?”

“Sammy and I,” he said, jerking his head sideways. You saw Sam coming up the hillock with a thermos in his hand. 

You sat up straight. 

You hadn’t seen Sam since your return to Lawrence for good and felt a bit ashamed about how you had behaved at the funeral, clinging to him the way that you had throughout the night. The brothers had walked you to the house and stayed over along with Ellen and Jo. They had left with Jo before you were up the following morning.

Ellen had stayed with you for the better part of that week, helping you tie the loose ends. She absolutely refused to leave till you agreed to come with. After a while of resisting her, you had given in. Who was left here for you anyway?

After returning to Lawrence, you mostly locked yourself in the room, rereading the books you had bought with you. It was immature and highly inappropriate to be this unhelpful in someone else's house, but you couldn’t bear the pitying looks in everyone’s eyes. Sam had come by once or twice. You had pretended to be asleep each time after hearing his voice downstairs. 

Now, you didn’t have a choice but to talk to him.

“We’ve already pulled out the death by muffins, I see,” he said, sitting down next to his brother. He looked up and your heart almost leapt out of your chest. You had forgotten just how good-looking he was… and then when he was looking at you like that...

“We tried, Y/N,” Sam said apologetically. “We really did. Asked the recipe from Karen and all, but they just taste weirdly bitter.”

“It’s too much chocolate,” Jo said, wrinkling her nose as she took a small bite out of one innocent looking muffin.

“Here, you wanna try some?” Sam offered, looking so hopeful that you automatically took it from him. When your fingers touched his, it felt electric. 

It was awful. The bitterness wasn’t the rich bitterness of chocolate. It was excess baking soda. It left the insides of your mouth feeling desiccated.

“Well, you’re officially the bravest person I’ve ever met,” Dean declared, his face twisted in absolute disgust. “What did you eat the full thing for?”

“It’s not that -”

“Bad?” Dean asked, revolted. “It’s disgusting. Satan’s rear end tastes like that. We only brought them with us to see we could feed them to the ducks! Sammy and I bet money on that.”

He looked so horrified that you laughed with a mouthful of the muffin, the crumbs sputtering out of your mouth, in all their caustic horribleness. Once the laughter broke out, a fit overtook you and you fell back into the soft grass laughing till tears rolled down the sides of your eyes.

“You guys suck at baking,” you coughed in between the chortles.

“Yeah, Y/N is our resident baker. Her cakes and cookies are to die for!” Jo lauded. You punched her in the arm lightly to stop her from praising you.

“Maybe you can teach us,” Sam said, and there was an undercurrent to his voice, warm and inviting. 

“Alright you crazy kids hang around here with the basket,” Jo said. “We’re heading out for a while to the diner. There’s a couple of things we have to pick up for mom. Don’t hog the muffins.”

You sat up straight, realising that laying around like that wasn’t displaying any sense of propriety.

“Will you be alright?” Jo asked, worry lining her forehead.

“Yes, don’t worry about me.”

Jo still looked concerned as she walked down the hillock and disappeared from view.

You closed your eyes, and before Sam could utter a word, said, “Listen, I’m really sorry about how I behaved at the- the funeral. It was anything but appropriate to put you through that. I’m really sorry.”

When Sam didn’t say anything, you opened your eyes, albeit reluctantly. 

He was staring into the distance, not at you. When he finally spoke, you couldn’t place the tone of his voice. “Is that really how you feel?”

“What do you mean?”

He regarded you closely, the wind ruffling his hair. “I was under the impression that me being there helped you- even if just a bit. But if all it did was make you feel sorry, then maybe I shouldn’t have come.” 

“It did help me,” you said quickly. “Really. The mere thought that there was someone who wasn’t there because they had to be there was more help that I can even begin to explain. I mean Aunt Ellen and Jo are family, and though they didn’t know Gran too well, they still had at least some level of obligation to be there. And it was so thoughtful of Dean to drive Jo. But not a single person was there only and only for me, except you. Trust me, you got me through that evening.”

“Then why are you sorry?” He asked, perplexed. Though he appeared relieved at the same time.

“Because,” you said, resigning to finally saying it out loud. “It doesn’t justify clinging to you like that. It was really kind of you to come, but I think I overstepped my boundary.”

“Y/N,” Sam said, placing his hand on top of yours. “I didn’t come there from the kindness of my heart. I came because I was worried about you. It was driving me crazy thinking about how you were. I had to make sure with my own two eyes that you were okay. I’ve known you for what, a week? And even then, drove all the way across Kansas to just see you! And you think you overstepped boundaries?”

“As wrong as it sounds, I was really glad to see you. I don’t regret a minute of having you next to me. I think it kept me standing throughout the dinner,” you said in a low voice, not meeting his eyes. “The next day a few women brought casseroles over and they asked about you. I didn’t know what to tell them.”

“Not that you needed to tell them anything, because it was none of their business,” Sam said through gritted teeth, “But aren’t we, at least, friends?”

At least. 

People didn’t want to kiss their friends, and you wanted to kiss Sam. Very Much.

“Thank you for being there, Sam,” you said, instead of replying to the question. “It meant a lot to me. It still means a lot to me.”

“What’re you going to do now?”

You shrugged. “Hope for an acceptance and then apply for a student loan. Then I can get out of Ellen’s hair.”

Sam braced himself against the smooth grass with his other hand- the one not laying over yours- resting it behind his back. This way, his torso stretched out, his t-shirt hitching up just a bit to reveal his belt. You tried your best not to look. 

“You know Ellen and Jo don’t think like that,” Sam reasoned. “Jo was so worried about you. She still is.”

You sighed. “I know she is. This isn’t them. I’m just not comfortable. I just miss Gran so much, and I hate that I wasn’t there for her. I know I couldn’t have done anything to prevent it. It was a stroke and it was instantaneous, but I just can’t help feeling guilty… like if I had been there, I could have stopped it somehow. “

Sam didn’t say anything to contradict your words, didn’t try to oppose you in any way or tell you how you shouldn’t be feeling this way. He knew that one couldn’t control the way they felt. He simply put his hand on your shoulder, something he had done a lot that other evening. It was comforting and more familiar than it should have been. Your body simply accepted his touch now. 

“She left the house to my name, or so a lawyer told me. He said I should sell it and use the money for college. I don’t want to sell it like it was a shack that didn’t mean anything to anyone. I want to keep it and turn it into a bakery one day, so someone who loves baking as much as Gran did can run it one day.”

You didn’t understand why you were telling him any of this. Maybe because you knew Sam wouldn’t preach or discredit any of your words. He simply listened. Listened and understood, not just what was spoken but also that which was left unsaid. He stroked the back of your hand with his thumb, the feel of his skin on yours felt calming.

“So what did you bet on?” You said after several moments of silence, raising the muffin from hell and waving it in front of him.

“That the ducks would eat it.” His mouth quirked up. “I don’t have high hopes, though.”

“We should at least try,” you suggested. “Ducks are vicious creatures. They just might eat it.”

The ducks did not eat it.

You tried throwing small pieces into the little pond in the park, and Sam tried chasing them much to your entertainment, but the ducks were smarter than you gave them the credit for.

“Blood fiends,” you glared as a couple of them flew off. 

“You don’t like ducks?” He asked, amused.

“I was 6 when a duck attacked me. They are monsters.”

Sam laughed as the two of you made your way to the bench in the park. It was the same bench where he had taken you the first time you had met him. You could see the bar across the shrubbery in the distance. 

When you looked back at Sam, his cheeks were slightly pink and so were the tips of his ears.

“Hey,” he said, his hand tucking his hair behind his ear. “Do you want to go out for dinner sometime?”

“Like a date?” You asked, surprised.

He licked his lips. “Yeah. Like a date.”

Sam was clearly nervous about this, absurdly more than you were. “That sounds nice,” you said.

“How about Saturday?” He asked, then laughed a short laugh. “I mean. I would have wanted to go sooner but I’m flying out of town.”

“It sounds great.”

Then he said those words that made your heart melt. “Y/N, I can’t wait for Saturday.”

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

“Damn, woman! You can bake.” Meg came hovering out of her room still in her pajamas. “This is what heaven smells like.”

You smiled at her over the fresh batch of cookies you had pulled out of the oven.

“Y/N! It smells like a Bakery in there. What are you doing?” 

It was Kevin, shouting from the balcony. 

“Come out here!” He yelled, and Meg opened the glass doors of the balcony wide.

“In a minute!” You shouted back, replacing the tray with a new one in the oven and adjusting the dials. 

Both Jack and Kevin were in the window, looking like they had just woken up. Even the undergrads seemed to be out on their balconies downstairs. You could hear the muttering.

“I’m baking cookies for everyone,” you announced, leaning against the railing.

“And by everyone, you mean...?” Asked Meg.

“Just everyone,” you waved your hand vaguely. “So far there’s 138 and counting. I’ve been up since six.”

“You’re mental,” said Meg. 

“Those cookies were just for me!” Said Jack at the same time as her.

Pam, who was just entering the apartment from what must have been a night shift at the bar looked up at the assembled crowd. 

“What the hell?” She shouted. “Y’all are really this jobless first thing in the morning, huh?” Then she paused to sniff. “What’s that wonderful smell?”

“Y/N’s baking cookies for everyone.” Kevin was kind enough to provide her with an answer.

“Don’t you have better things to do than feed these idiots?” 

You grinned down at her. “There’s a whole batch for you.”

“Well, God bless your soul, you sweet child,” she said and disappeared under the awning.

You were sure to pack some cookies with you while leaving for the first day of your job. 

The Robert Crown Law library was starting to feel homely enough by this point, thanks to having spent so much of last week there for the Civil Procedure assignment. The Librarian on duty was supposed to overlap her shift with you for today and tomorrow, so you could be trained. Molly was sweet and really helpful. The library was fairly empty today. It was easier for her to run you through the bookshelves and their arrangement, the basics of handling the data centre and the ultra-systematic cataloging. Molly insisted that she take the desk duty for the day while you familiarized yourself with everything. Back when you had worked as the library assistant in TU, you had always considered yourself to be lucky to get paid for spending time amidst so many books. That hadn’t changed.

“We’re really lucky with the Law library,” said Molly. “The other libraries are a mess, especially the big ones. People keep calling there all the time, and even visitors are allowed without appointments. Law library only gets our usual crowd and very few people are a particular pain in the ass.”

Molly was a final year student. She had taken a break after her second year to backpack across Europe. Apparently she really didn’t have any anxiety whatsoever about her career. Whatever the case was, she was super chill.

“These cookies kick ass, by the way,” she hummed after taking a bite out of the one that you had offered. You smiled and bent down to retrieve the tags.

“How’s it going, Molly?” 

You stilled. 

“Sam!” You heard Molly squeal. “You’re back again? Spending an awful lot of time here these days, aren’t you?”

“Oh, it’s the loneliness,” he said in a mocking voice.

“Y/N, What’re you doing down there. Get up,” Molly called.

Slowly you got to your feet. 

Sam straightened like a rod at the sight of you. He was wearing flannel today over a pair of jeans, which shocked you because you were so not used to seeing him in anything except suits. It made him look so young. Not like your Sam, or the professor you distanced yourself from, but painfully somewhere in between.

“Sam, this is Y/N. She’s the new odd-shifts librarian,” Molly introduced cheerfully. “Y/N, this is Sam Winchester. Does he teach you?”

She turned to Sam. “Do you teach her?”

“Uhh-”

“Oh, of course you don’t remember her name, even if you do teach her. It’s been like two weeks,” she prattled on. “Do you take a class for the first year?”

“Civil procedure,” he said curtly, not sparing you a single glance. Then he spoke to Molly. “Can you grab that book I was reading yesterday? I think I asked you to keep that one aside.”

“Sure. Here,” She handed him a Code violation handbook from under the table. He promptly turned away from the table, heading straight for a bench that did not have a view of the Librarian’s desk.

It hurt. It hurt like a whiplash each time he ignored you. Pretended that you didn’t exist. And it sucked that you couldn’t even blame him for it.

“Isn’t he amazing?” Molly sighed after Sam.

“Sure,” you muttered, going back to retrieving the cards.

“It’s not unusual for professors to be here, but Sam’s been spending an awful lot of time in the library since the past few weeks. I wonder what’s up.”

You avoided the whole section of the library where Sam sat, sticking to the computers and going through the database cataloging. It wasn’t long before Sam was back at the table. 

“Actually, can I take this book to go?” He asked.

“Leaving already?” You heard the thrumming of keys as Molly entered the book’s name in the directory of issued books.

You did not turn around to peep, and the desk was almost out of earshot anyway.

“That’s it, then?”

“Thanks, Molly.”

“Hey, you want to grab a cookie before you leave?”

“Sure!” 

You heard the crumbling sound of the wrappers and then a crunch.

There was a pause. In an almost imperceptible voice, so low that you had to strain your ears to hear it, Sam said, “Tell her these are lovely.”

Blood rushed to your ears, and you did not hear the rest of the interaction. You didn’t even go back to the desk again till the end of the shift. By the time you returned, all the cookies were gone and Molly was humming to herself softly, completely having forgotten about passing on the compliment. She waved at you as you left for the day and you waved back absentmindedly.

Tell her these are lovely.

He knew. He just knew.

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

A/N 2: Last slow chapter!!! Yay. Things start escalating pretty quickly after the next chapter. No playing footsie. ;) 

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[jinie]

bedtime memories | kth

❥ Pairing: Taehyung x reader

❥ Genre(s): pure fluff

❥ Word count: 3061

❥ Rating: PG-13

❥ Warnings & tags: established relationship, Tae is a sweeatheart, brief mentions of sex, this might be really sappy sksks

❥ Summary: Going down memory lane with your boyfriend at two in the morning turns out to be exactly what you needed to slow down your racing mind.

A/N: @taehyung-me-down​ this is your gift!! Happy birthday bb <3 I hope you’ll like it, I did my best to bring you some good quality fluff! Ily and I hope you’ll have an amazing day uwu thanks for always being there for me!! Also, a special thanks to Mari @shadowsremedy​ who helped me with the summary! <3 (on a side note, wow, I can’t belive I’m finally posting something sksks) 

Taehyung suddenly felt aware of his surroundings, his sleep going away too quickly and for no apparent reason. He felt you shifting your weight beside him and sighed softly, trying to find a more comfortable position as well, in hopes he'd go back to his deep slumber. A chilly breeze came in through the open window beside the bed and he wondered if the cold air was what woke him up in the first place, but quickly shook the thought off, giving in to the drowsiness.

He felt his body relaxing and his mind was starting to doze off, but then you shifted in the mattress again and let out a low, frustrated sigh. He stirred from his sleep, curious, and opened his eyes as he lazily reached for his phone under the pillow. He yawned and turned on his screen to check what time it was.

2:48 AM.

The sudden brightness in the dark bedroom caught your eye and, as your boyfriend turned to face you, wondering why weren't you asleep, you let out a surprised "oh".

"Am I moving too much? Did I wake you up?", you asked. Your voice came out hoarse, and it sounded more tired than you had expected.

"It's ok," Taehyung assured, even though you tossing and turning in bed was probably what woke him up. "Are you alright?"

The subtle moonlight that entered the room by the window wasn't enough to make it bright but your eyes, that remained open the whole night, were used to the darkness. You could see Taehyung's concerned gaze and his brown messy hair, the wavy strands pointing at all directions and slightly smashed against the pillow. The pale moonlight made his eyes glow beautifully and you reached out a hand, slowly caressing his cheek.

"Yeah, yeah, " you nodded. "I just... can't sleep."

"Why?"

"I don't know, I just can't quiet my mind down. There are so many thoughts crossing my head... And I can't seem to get comfortable," you answered. "I'm sorry for waking you up."

Taehyung could tell the guilt you hid behind the sweet tone you used. You never liked to wake him up when you couldn't sleep, even if talking to him could help you to relax. Although he couldn't see your face clearly, he could also tell you were tired and probably had bags under your eyes. Could he do anything for you?

"Are you worried about something?" he questioned, accurately pointing out what was wrong. Your boyfriend knew you too well after so many years together...

"I guess," you admitted. "College is taking a toll on me lately, and work is stressful too."

"You have lectures tomorrow morning. You won't be able to focus and take notes if you don't sleep at least a little bit."

"I know..." you sighed. "But I feel like I'm gonna fail anyway, paying attention or not."

You sounded bitter. Taehyung hated how you looked away when you were done speaking and how your body was tense, he hated how you felt restless and how you worried about such things. He believed those were just useless thoughts running through your mind at the moment, but he knew how distressed you could get over them and he hated the way you kept quiet about it. He always insisted on the idea that, maybe, if you voiced your concerns and shared them with him, you'd feel a little better.

However, as much as he'd like to go into detail about your feelings, Taehyung knew you were both tired. So, instead of keeping the conversation going, he decided to just be there for you. The talk could be postponed to later, you had all the time in the world to sit down and share your thoughts.

"Come here," he said, opening his arms to you.

Without hesitation, you accepted his invitation, beaming at the gesture. Even though it was a summer night and the warmth of your bodies together could get too hot to handle, his warmth was still very welcome. As you settled in his embrace, wrapping an arm around his waist, you finally felt comfortable for the first time. His arms felt like home, like the safest and coziest place in the world.

Taehyung could feel your body relaxing next to his, and to help ease the tension you were feeling, he stroked your hair lightly. His touches were soothing and you felt goosebumps running your body. Soon you also felt like your problems were starting to disappear and all you wanted to do was to close your eyes and forget about everything, but you were still unable to fall asleep.

Somehow, the silence in the room felt too loud. Sure, noises were coming from the street every now and then, like some car passing the street or some dog barking in the distance, and the ceiling fan quietly buzzed above your heads. You could listen to Taehyung's calm breath as well as your own, but it all felt too quiet, quiet enough for your thoughts to get loud and creep in your mind again.

"Can you tell me a story?", you asked, breaking the silence. Suddenly, Taehyung's deep voice sounded like just what you needed. You've always liked to listen to him, something about his voice was very soothing and you knew that, at this moment, it'd help to keep all the unwanted feelings and thoughts out.

"What?", Taehyung asked, confused for a second.

"Tell me a story," you repeated.

You looked up at him and your boyfriend slightly tilted his head. "Like, a bedtime story? Why would you want me to do that?" he chuckled, not getting the point of doing so.

You shrugged. "I don't know, I just wanna hear your voice."

"Oh?"

"It calms me down," you confessed, looking away while you felt your cheeks burning in slight embarrassment. You had never told him how much you liked his voice, how you could listen to him talking for hours. It was like admitting a guilty pleasure of yours. "I think it's gonna help me to fall asleep."

"Well, what should I talk about, then?", he asked with a small smile on his lips, as he now began rubbing circles on your back and shoulders with his fingertips. Your revelation caught Taehyung off guard, he wasn't expecting to hear that out of all things you could've said. He never imagined you'd find comfort in such a simple thing as his voice, but it made him immensely happy to know about it. He liked to know you could rely on him the same way he relied on you, you were also a safe place for him, the one person who could make all his troubles go away like magic.

"Anything you want, really. I just wanna hear you," you answered quietly, the slightest bit of expectation growing inside you.

You waited while Taehyung decided on what to talk about. Should he tell you about his day? Should he come up with some story? Did you want to listen to some fairytale? He kept wondering for a few seconds until what seemed the perfect idea popped in his mind.

"You know, I think it's really funny how you squeal when you're excited," he said, a fond smile forming on his lips as he thought about you earlier that day.

During the afternoon, you were discussing the idea of getting a pet and when Taehyung agreed to have a small dog, which was allowed in your apartment, you started to squeal. It was something you've always done, since childhood, and he knew you hated it. He knew it was involuntary and that you didn't like it when people pointed it out. To him, it was a cute habit nonetheless and when he thought about the highlights of his day, it was the first thing that came to mind. You squealing, your happy and shiny eyes, and the way your smile was so wide... His heart fluttered in his chest as he recalled the moment. He loved to see you happy and excited about things.

"Hey, no!", you gave his chest a light slap in between giggles. "If you talk about that I'm gonna quick you out of bed!"

"I highly doubt it," he replied, looking down at your pouty face and chuckling in amusement.

"But seriously, don't tease me about that!"

"You said I could talk about anything," he protested in an amused voice.

"You know it makes me embarrassed," you mumbled, getting comfortable in his arms again, and waiting for him to start over.

Taehyung thought your reaction was adorable and he would've kept on teasing you, but he had no energy to do so.

"Alright, I won't tease anymore," he promised, smiling. "I thought it was a good idea to talk about memories, though."

"What memories?" you questioned, interested.

"Remember our first kiss?" he asked back. "It tasted like vanilla."

"What?" you chuckled on his chest. "How do you even remember that?"

"You don't?" he inquired quite surprised.

"No," you admitted, shaking your head lightly. "But that was back in high school, how could I remind such details?"

"Well, I remember as if it happened yesterday. You passed the exams with good grades, even on the subjects you were failing, so I decided to treat you as a reward. We went for ice cream after school. I was so proud of you, for working hard and achieving good results... By that time, I already liked you a lot." Taehyung's deep voice felt peaceful and soothing in the darkness and, although it was low and he sounded a bit sleepy, his voice was the only thing you could focus on. You could listen to him for hours and it made you feel like everything was alright. "I was nervous. Like, I was shitting myself," he laughed, "but I decided if I didn't do it at that moment, I'd never be able to. So I kissed you right after you finished your ice cream and it tasted like vanilla," he continued. 

"Oh," you exclaimed, surprised. "I didn't know you had such a good memory... But you really kissed me out of the blue."

He nodded. "And then I confessed... It was one of the best choices I've ever made."

"You're such a sap," you said teasingly, but a small smile appeared on your lips. Taehyung wasn't one to show his feelings through words a lot, so listen to him say these types of things made you feel happy, it felt really special.

"Do you remember when we decided to move in together? I remember as if it was yesterday," he kept on talking.

You nodded, as a smile made its way to your face once more.

"In our first night here we had no furniture," he reminisced. "There was a delay in the delivery of our stuff..."

"Yeah, so we slept on a few blankets in the living room for the first two days," you agreed, your smile growing wider as you recalled the empty apartment and how everything felt so fresh back then.

"I remember we were both in our pajamas already, wearing socks and getting ready to sleep, but I was so excited to be moving in together that I still had a lot of energy. So I waited for you and when you came out of the bathroom I grabbed your hand and started to slide on the flooring with you."

"I remember that too," you laughed, recalling the night. Now, living together had become routine and you've created so many other memories since then... However, you would always cherish those times too, when everything was new.

"I guess I'll never forget the face you made and how you were screaming we'd fall until we stopped. But, then, you started to laugh and said you wanted to do it again. And we kept playing like two kids until we really fell down. That was such a good day... It always makes me happy to think about it."

"How did you even discover we could slide like that?" you asked, suddenly curious about where he got that random idea from.

"I was gonna wait for you outside the bathroom and kiss you. I wanted to surprise you and tell you how happy I was, but I slipped and fell on my butt when I got up from the blankets."

You giggled, picturing the scene perfectly in your mind. "I never heard about that."

"Then I just thought we could have some fun," he shrugged. "You were a bit stressed about moving and all the things we still had to unpack and organize, so I thought it was a good idea to make you laugh a bit. And it worked, I never thought we could get that happy over something so silly!" 

"Keep going," you blurted out in a whisper, eager to hear more. Taehyung's voice came out softly, in a low tone that was so calming... You couldn't help but want him to keep talking, especially because you were getting an insight into how he felt about your moments together.

"I remember it was also our anniversary that day, right?" he continued, as per request. "I was feeling bad for not being able to get you something in time, but we ended up having the time of our lives that night. It was fun," he smiled, feeling his chest grow warm as the memory came back to him so vividly. It was a moment of his life he would always cherish. "I remember when I laid down I realized I'd wake up next to you every day from then on and I was so happy... Sounds sappy now," he chuckled, a bit embarrassed. "But I was so happy that our relationship was evolving back then."

"Hm? Is that so?" you asked, slightly tightening your grip around his waist as happiness seemed to flood your chest. Then you yawned. Your eyelids were starting to feel a little heavy and you made no effort to keep them open as more words left Taehyung's mouth. He was in a daze, reminiscing the past.

"Oh, and a few days later, we had our first time... I guess that's when I felt like our relationship was getting really serious. I felt like we were taking such a big step," he confessed, his smile growing bigger. "I remember it perfectly. That's one of the moments I can recall the best."

"Tell me more," you whispered. You wanted to see his face and what kind of look he had on, but you couldn't bring your tired body to obey your wishes and you kept your eyes closed, feeling more and more somnolent as you enjoyed his featherlight touches on your back and how the circles he was rubbing on your skin made your body shiver.

"You insisted real bad even though you were shaking in nervousness," he chuckled. "And I really wanted to make you feel good, but I was a bit unsure as well."

Taehyung gently hugged you, not even aware of your current state. You were probably not assimilating all of his words anymore, but it didn't matter, he just kept talking. And, as he remembered that moment, he held you in his arms nostalgically.

"It all went away when you started to let yourself go, though. I remember how it felt awesome hearing your moans for the first time... I'm not sure if I should've been gentler, but it was hard not to lose myself once your shyness disappeared. I don't know why, even though that wasn't the best one, that night really was something else... I especially love the way your breath hitched right before I brought you over the edge," he smirked. "And then you kept on calling my name. You were amazing..." Taehyung stopped, as if leaving a trance, suddenly catching himself in embarrassment. How could he say such things so easily?

He quickly looked down, not sure about how you would react to such a revelation, only to find your figure buried in his chest and notice you were completely relaxed. He, then, noticed your steady and calm breaths. You were finally resting...

He smiled in content and adoration as he looked at you. He never really told you all of these things and how he felt about these moments before, but seeing your happy features was enough to convince him this was the type of talk you should have more often, especially to cheer you up or help you to relax. 

If you weren't trying to sleep, and looking so comfortable on his arms, Taehyung definitely would have pulled you into a kiss. However, he didn't want to disrupt you, since you were finally sleeping. Instead, he decided a few sincere words would be enough at that instant.

"I never told you about these things before, right? But I just want you to know I'm grateful for each and every moment we had together so far. I wouldn't trade what we have for nothing in the world."

He had put his heart into such words and even though you were drowsy, half asleep already, you could tell he really meant that. A small smile appeared on your lips and your heart fluttered in your chest just the slightest bit.

"I love you," you said, before completely giving in to sleep. Your voice was no louder than a whisper, but you knew your feelings would reach him.

Taehyung smiled as well. "I love you, (Y/N)," he said back.

And with that, he kissed the top of your head and finally allowed himself to close his eyes and relax again. A feeling of satisfaction and happiness overflowing him, as Taehyung thought about how much he loved having you on his arms, how he didn't want to ever let you go and how he wanted to be able to sleep and wake next to you again, every day, until the very end of his life. Even if, sometimes, sleeping and waking up next to you meant waking up in the middle of the night and losing a few hours of sleep just to talk about anything in particular.

He could swear he felt you smiling against his chest and he could tell he was probably smiling too, but slumber was taking over too quickly for him to check. 

[anika-ann]

Errare Humanum Est - Pt.7

Of Monsters and Men

Type: series, soulmate AU series  (part 1, part 2)      x Supernatural

Pairing: Steve Rogers x reader (past?)    Word count: 2490

Summary: ‘Nat’ and the boys are still on the road and to kill the time more than anything, they talk monsters and most importantly, witches. 

You know what they say: speak of the devil and he shall appear.

Warnings: mentions of violence, monsters, supernatural elements, mentions of amnesia and interesting dreams and swearing (always)

Story masterlist

༻༺༻༺༻ღ༺༻༺༻༺

“Hold onto me tight. Can’t have you falling off, doll…”

“You’re such a troublemaker-“

“I want to see you come undone first. Can I, doll?”

“Do I look unwilling, doll? I’m actually pretty eager to find out how long do you need to recover…”

“Eyes on me, darling-”

You jolted awake with a gasp for air, your eyes snapping open into sharp midday sun. It took you a second to realize where you were, what the low purr under your body meant, music on low volume and a male voice softly humming along.

You blinked, meeting Sam’s gaze as he turned his head to face you.

“Hey. You alright?” he asked, concern furrowing his features.

You took a deep breath, trying to ignore the blood rushing to your cheeks at the memory of the dream. They were bits and pieces, sweet and hot, yet leaving dull ache in your chest in their wake. You were absolutely sure this was your consciousness recalling moments with your soulmate, but you were unable to make anything useful of them. It was like chasing ghosts – eh, actually, did ghosts exist? What was it like, chasing them? Never mind-

You were supposed to be a ghost, because apparently you had died.

Alright. Shake it. Snap out of those messy thoughts.

The more awake your body got, the more you realized your chest wasn’t the only thing that was tense and it wasn’t only your neck that nearly cramped.

“Yeah,” you muttered finally, while Sam’s eyes managed to get really worried, still on you. “Just… call of nature.”

In more than one ways. Your bladder might actually burst soon, but you couldn’t deny your arousal either. Gee. Why did it have to be that kind of dream you had? Why couldn’t you see your soulmate’s face clearly instead? Nope scratch that, his ID would be better, complete with his freaking address.

“Hold on for about half an hour, Nat. I’d like to stretch my legs anyway and Garth should be waiting for us.”

You smiled at Dean despite him being unable to see it, his eyes focused on the road. It was sweet of him. You might as well be sweet back.

“Thanks, Dean. And you can turn the volume up, if it was low just because of me,” you hummed, holding back a chuckle when his hand immediately moved to the radio.

“Thanks, Nat. Wanna tell us what that dream of yours was about? You seem a bit shaky,” he nudged, surprisingly gentle. You would expect such approach from Sam, but he only glanced at you, apparently wanting to know as well.

You sighed, wondering how to put it without sounding like a horny teenager.

“It’s… I think they’re like memories? But they don’t make any sense,” you said in the end, casting your glance down, fiddling with the hem of your shirt, fingers interlacing and disjointing again. “It’s my soulmate, I know as much. Or, you know, I’m pretty sure. It’s nothing useful though.”

“I’m sorry,” Sam soothed, his voice genuinely regretful. You just shook your head, sending a sad smile his way.

“The only pattern is a… a pet-name, I guess.” Well, until now, it was just one. ‘Darling’ was new. “He keeps calling me ‘doll’.”

You didn’t know why you told them, you weren’t planning on it. Except they were so genuinely nice to you it hurt and you felt like honesty was the least you could give in return. Now, you could practically touch their surprise.

It was Dean who commented on it, but not in a malicious way, which you were eternally grateful for.  

“Doll, huh? Maybe he’s a mafioso. Sounds like something from an old movie. Heh, maybe you time-travelled too!” he speculated out loud and you only gulped, not as amused as you should be. Was that a thing? Time-travel?

“God, I hope not,” Sam whined, effectively startling you. So it was possible?

“Nah, I bet it’s just him being a gentleman, ya know, the old-fashioned kind of guy. After all, how could he not, having such a… swell dame for a soulmate?”

Both you and Sam eyes Dean with wary and confusion.

“Since when you’re an expert on war era slang?” Sam demanded, amused surprise lacing his voice.

“Simpler times, Sam. Simpler times. You’ll understand when you’re older.”

Sam just chuckled, shaking his head. You laughed as well despite not quite understanding what it meant. You simply enjoyed the banter and teasing that was strengthening their brotherly love; you already caught up that much, that they loved each other greatly. How could they not? They were both absolutely amazing despite their differences.

People might find it strange for them to be so close at their age – not that you knew theirs precisely, or yours for that matter – but you thought it was endearing. If they killed monsters for living, their lives couldn’t be normal and conventional, could they? It spiked your interest once more.

“Alright. What can you tell me about what you do and how you get your money?”

“Not sure you wanna hear that, d-- now I have the nickname stuck in my head, dammit. It’s not a pretty chat, Nat. You sure?”

You nodded, but agreed out loud for the god measure. After all, Dean was still driving.

“Your choice. We hunt monsters. But let me tell you, humans are actually the worst… well, humans and witches…”

༻༺༻༺༻ღ༺༻༺༻༺

Dean and Sam hadn’t even told half about the monsters that lurked in the shadows and you already felt overwhelmed, grateful when you reached Bedford and the older brother called his ID maker.

Garth was a nice guy, if a little overexcited and goofy.

He called you a madam, gave Sam a newest book by George R. R. Martin (who?), which seemed to excite the hunter greatly and Dean received a piece of apple pie. You couldn’t remember your life, but if you had, you were sure it still would have been Dean’s smile that was the brightest you had ever seen. Note to yourself; when repaying Sam and Dean, a pie and a book were necessities.

Your trio didn’t stop to chat with the man for long though – you needed to be on your way. Garth was apparently in the business of hunting, because he made a face way too similar to Sam’s at a mention of witches. You weren’t sure if you looked forward hearing about those; you guessed they weren’t wearing pointy hats and befriending cats.

The remaining hours to your destination flied; the brothers continued to educate you in monster food chain (people were usually the food, which you did not enjoy learning), briefing you on existence of things you could barely imagine. Also, they weren’t only friends with an angel, apparently – they were also on rather good terms with king of Hell.

“King of Hell?” you parroted, bewildered. What the h— heaven?!

“Yeah. Dean used to be bestie with him, too,” Sam quipped, half delighted at his brother’s annoyed face when sharing this fact, half bitter for pretty obvious reasons.

“Dude.”

“You keep the weirdest company,” you stated, your head buzzing with all the info you got. You grimaced when you realized that the company included you.

“We know,” Sam sighed, turning his tablet on. “But it’s not all bad. I mean, Garth, the guy you just met… he’s a werewolf and-“

“He’s a WEREWOLF?!” you yelped, causing the brothers jump in their seats and Dean jerk the steering wheel aside, throwing you all of balance.

“Christ, woman! Keep the volume low!” the driver spitted out as he returned to the correct lane, ignoring the honks of other cars. “I know, I know, shut up, I’m not drunk…”

“Sorry,” you blurted out on autopilot, your mind pre-occupied with the fact that the sweet dorky guy you had just met was a fucking werewolf.

It was Sam’s turn to apologize or he thought so. “My bad. I shouldn’t have just dropped that on you.”

“But he was so nice!”

“If you say so,” Dean assented reluctantly, voice dripping with doubt. You weren’t trying to figure out why he questioned such an obvious thing. It wasn’t your place. Not to mention you were still too astonished by the announcement.

Sam cleared his throat. “Anyway. We have two victims so far. Both are young women, Alicia Peters, 16 years old and Helen Sanders, 16 as well. They were apparently classmates, rather good students, but not friends. One of them was found three days ago, the other yesterday. They both sneaked away in secret, some other classmates claimed to them being… eh, giggly. They thought they had new boyfriends,” Sam summed up, while Dean nodded every now and then. “Why do you think witches? Could be dragons… which would be probably even worse.”

“…dragons? You’re joking.”

Dragons were real now?!

Dean ignored your incredulous remark. “Virgins, right? That’s what I thought. But check this out – according to the coroner, they had a puncture wound over their heart like from some very thin needle – or, more likely, a very thin straw, because their hearts were completely drained of blood.”

Your head was definitely spinning now, your stomach flipping over. You had been getting hungry before, but not so much anymore. You wanted to tune the conversation out, but it was inevitable to hear it. Your ears wouldn’t listen; it was like watching a train-wreck happen and being unable to draw your gaze away. Morbid curiosity played a part too.

God, you really were weird company.

“That’s disgusting,” Sam stated, his fingers moving swiftly over the screen.

You only hummed in agreement, trying to get the visual from your brain. Soulmate. Think of your soulmate and his sultry voice calling you doll. You took a deep breath, exhaling slowly, shocked that it actually worked. His voice washed over you, cocooning you in a soft blanket.

“Tell me about it,” Dean agreed darkly, but Sam held out his hand all of sudden, causing both you and Dean freeze.

“What?”

“They found two young men this morning. John Doe One and Two for now. They were…” Sam wavered, eyeing you in the rear-view mirror. Now he was checking with you? You guessed your face was pale as a sheet of paper, but hey, it wasn’t like you couldn’t just try and cover your ears. You nodded at him encouragingly and he shifted in his seat uncomfortably. “…found in one bed, stabbed in the heart and… ugh, with their… tools ripped off.”

Dean winced, while you just blinked. Did he mean like… wow. Oh, wow. You weren’t sure how to react to that.

“There was a note. We apologize for ruining such pure lives of the sweetest kind and as a prove of our remorse, we present their families with-“ Sam faltered in his speech, gagging. “Yeah, alright. Apparently, the missing part of their bodies was found with the… note. No need to go into details.”

“Yeah, Sammy, I’d be pretty grateful if we stopped talking about that. What now, though? Do we believe this crap?”

“You could have an ally,” you quipped shyly, receiving Sam’s sigh in reply.

“Brutal one, but yes. We need to at least check it out.”

“Yeah, but we get a lunch before that. I need something to comfort me. You traumatized my love muscle, Sam. Do you have any-“

“Yeah, alright, just… stop right there,” Sam stopped his brother, as if shielding himself from TMI by holding out his palm against Dean. “Got it. We need to stop for a bite.”

You giggled, the sound interrupted by your stomach growling. When had you got your appetite back?

“I guess lady in the back agrees,” Dean hummed, grinning in Sam’s direction. You laughed when you came to conclusion that he enjoyed making his younger brother uncomfortable, Sam making a face back at him as he realized the same.

They seemed like a greater pair of siblings the longer you spent with them.

It only took several minutes to get to the town and find a place to eat; Dean seemed to have a talent for finding food, which you appreciated immensely. You hadn’t been eating much, ashamed of using the brothers like that, so you were hungrier than you would be willing to admit. You had a sneaking suspicion that Sam was beginning to notice, because his eyes were narrowed as you picked the cheapest thing on the menu that appeared edible.

“You’re not eating,” he pointed out bluntly the moment the waitress left.

You just gaped at being caught and so shamelessly called out. Dean’s gaze shifted to you and now you had two men glaring at you keeping you company in the boot.

“I’m… not hungry.”

“Your stomach said differently,” Dean reminded you with his eyebrow arched in challenge. You opened your mouth uselessly, the protest dying in your throat at the intensity of his bright green eyes. “If this is about money, get your head out of your ass, Nat. You need to eat.”

“But-“

“But nothing. We’re having a desert,” he shut you up effectively, not permitting any objections.

You sighed, guiltily merging with your seat. A menu was placed in front of you, Dean’s fingers pointing at it.

“Actually, you’re picking one right now.”

You wordlessly obeyed, defeated. “I don’t mean to be difficult,” you whispered apologetically and Sam just shook his head with a smile.

“We know. And I get it, you don’t want to impose and use us, but… we chose to help you. Try to accept it, alright?”

You only nodded, determined to at least find the best dessert. The corners of your lips quirked when you found it.

“Looks like we’re in for an apple pie,” you decided, smirking in Dean’s direction. His eyes lit up and you couldn’t but feel the warmth around your heart at that. You actually did that, made him smile. Maybe you weren’t the worst company in the world after all. “Unless you’re sick of it after-“

Dean’s hand snatched the menu away, shutting it close. “Shut you piehole, Nat.”

Sam laughed as they brought your food.

༻༺༻༺༻ღ༺༻༺༻༺

You were just finishing your infamous dessert, when the brothers stiffened at the voice coming from behind their back, the other side of the boot.

You frowned, not finding anything strange about the female voice with British accent.

“Thank you, darling. It will be all,” the woman said politely.

The moment the waitress left, Sam and Dean stumbled from their seats and towards the other boot. The tension in their shoulders only grew and they let out a ridiculously synched irritated sigh, multiple emotions playing on their face; you caught annoyance and a bit of anger for sure.

“Rowena,” Sam greeted her in pretended politeness and you couldn’t but check the situation out. They didn’t seem to be happy about running into their acquaintance.

You got a glimpse of a redhead sipping at her tea delicately, her pinkie raised as she held her cup.

“Hello, boys.”

༻༺༻༺༻ღ༺༻༺༻༺

Part 8

༻༺༻༺༻ღ༺༻༺༻༺ 

I adore that woman, I swear. She’s so classy and sassy. 

Also, for those who haven’t seen SPN, I extended the guide at the end of chapter one - you’ll find ‘Chuck’ and ‘Rowena’ there ;)

Thank you for reading!

[hinac0lada]

neck deep

𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐑𝐀𝐂𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐏𝐀𝐈𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆: oikawa tooru/reader 𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄: another attempt at angst. this was inspired by a dream i got the other night lol. so it’s very different from any other fic i’ve written + i’m kinda trying something new. [ graphic by me ]

they say dreams are like a shadow of history you’ve lived in a previous life. dreams stirs the imagination of one. like a cold, grey darkness. similar to a lonesome and hollow place. it’s like you can’t imagine stuff like that are what dreams are made of.

but what if dreams were like a calling? a premonition. a warning. suddenly dreams have become scary, like shedding light to an old folk tale.

lately, oikawa realizes his dreams may have a deeper meaning to them than he initially thought.

he vividly remembers the last place his dream took place. it was in a parking lot. he doesn’t know why since he doesn’t even have a license nor a car yet, but he peers through it anyway. he couldn’t see a plate number, but he remembers seeing vibrant colors of neon lights. red and blue, he recalls. 

he starts up the car, with the engine roaring to life. he waits for a moment to warm up the car, the luminescent lights inside glowing for indicators of certain buttons. oikawa steps on the gas pedal, accelerating to wherever the road ahead were to take him. sometimes it appeared endless, often leading him to a cold and empty cloud of space. at times, he feels as though he wasn’t even the one steering the wheel. the headlights were on. he doesn’t remember turning them on himself. but it doesn’t matter. there appeared to be nothing on the road. nothingness, it seemed.

oikawa takes a deep breath in, inhaling whatever fresh air he was surrounded with. he suddenly felt the air clog up. he felt like a fish out of water. he was beyond terrified and confused. a couple of dreadful minutes of feeling like he lost the ability to breath, it all came back. it choked him to breathe in multiple scents all at once. 

moments after an endless drive to nowhere, cars materialized out of thin air. all appear to be going in the same opposite direction. he was alone in his own lane. he observes each car passing by. they all had different sizes, ranging from minivans, micro, pickup trucks and small cabs. the only thing was, they didn't have any color nor shape. they were all silhouettes. it made him feel unease, as if at any moment, one would suddenly drift into his direction and slam his car out of the way. death by car accident. either one of these cars could be a symbol. vehicles of destruction, he thought. it was alarmingly fitting.

a silhouette manifested beside him in the passenger seat. he couldn't say he was surprised. the unknown figure just sat there, no words spoken. none of them spoke for a majority of the ride.

oikawa tries to talk to the figure seated beside him. he didn't know why, but he felt the need to. it's like he knew this mass of darkness in the real world. the mass was familiar to him.

even though he can feel the cold air it emitted, he feels warmth and solidarity. it wasn't a pleasant match, he'll give that. it made him feel bitter at the distasteful feeling. still, the figure gave no signs of moving or talking. by now, it's fixated on a much more humane form than just a dark floating mass of mist. he couldn't identify if it was a man or woman though.

but why would that matter anyway? it was stupid to question it in the first place.

oikawa felt helpless. he's arrived at their destination. it was a beauty salon surrounded by neighboring houses and convenience stores. it was so out of place. upon his inspection, the salon inside lead to an apartment. it was so surreal.

he finally gets out of the car, shutting the car door firmly and shifts towards the run-down building. he's blocked by a woman. she was fairly the same height as him, albeit a bit shorter. hair at a [h.l] length.  it was most definitely you in the flesh. the only difference from the real you was your eyes. dull, [e.c] irises seem to blend in with a colorless sheen of black; engaging in the pitch black sea of darkness.

he tries to speak but soon faltered when he couldn't even hear his own voice. your dead, fish-like eyes were unnerving. never blinking and cold. oikawa raises an arm out to touch you - to have some sort of contact and feel something akin to warmth. he felt so cold, but you only moved to avoid the hand reaching for your head. he didn't know why this action left him feeling numb. in reality, it wounds him more than he reap.

you took off running, making the gap between you two stretch even wider. he failed to notice the gap that formed the moment he found you. you ran inside the door of the one building that stood out more than the rest. he follows you, naturally. he looked like a lost puppy; all cold, searching for a place that would welcome him.

oikawa was shaken to the core. it wasn't that he was bothered by the transparent plexiglass was blocking him from making his way over to you, but it was the way you looked at him. you both were staring at each other down through the glass, one with wearisome eyes and the other a mute.

your face suddenly contorted into multiple expressions; from dumbstruck, sorrow, grief, disgust and finally rage. all emotions that he felt were directed at him.

he tried read your moving lips, as he couldn't even hear your voice from the other side, but he couldn't catch a word you were saying. your lips moved too fast for him to make out a sentence. he places his face closer to the glass, pressing his ear against it in hopes of making out something. anything, even if it was muffled. he jumped back a deafening sound of a high pitch octave waved through his ears. he hunches over at the tingling feeling he felt.

then he heard a sound. it was far away, distant. but as he stayed hunched in a fetal position, the voice got louder and louder. it was an echo coming from every direction. an echo comprised of you.

"look at you. so pathetic. i don't think i've ever seen a sadder sight." a giggle came from the left. your figure stood still beyond the thick layer of glass that proved to be a barrier between you two. he didn't need to take another look to know you were nowhere near him.

he hears snickers and mumbles of agreement behind him. "i can't believe i let him take away months worth of my life. i can never take those back." your voice seethed.

the color of the sky shifted to one of burgundy. the pop of color filled the dark void he was surrounded in, with the red-maroon like color kissing his skin in silence.

your laugh echoed everywhere as he leans his weight on one leg, staggering to stand up in his shaken state. you knew his vulnerability. you knew about his emotional state. he couldn't deal with it all at once, especially if it came from you.

"you think i care about you? please! am i that desperate to you?"

he whimpers, the ache in his heart growing ever so slowly.

"i don't even know what i saw in you."

his lips trembled.

"i don't ever want to see you again."

he trudged towards the glass barrier, hands shaking as he breathed a puff of air on the glass, fingers writing words he hoped you'd get. you had to.

please come back to me

in response to his poorly written message, you placed a palm on the glass, as if you were reaching out to him from your side.

i still love you

he can tell the difference though. he knows you didn't mean it. you never did.

so he ran away.

after crumbling back to the man he once was, he returned to the drivers seat, tears blurring his vision as he slammed his foot on the pedal, desperate to get out of that place. he didn't care where he ended up in. as long as it was far away from here. the road was dark and never-ending. he thinks back to the previous vehicles that drove pass him - probably hours or even days ago - and wishes how he should've just gotten rammed into. it wouldn't be so bad, would it?

time was nonexistent at this point.

oikawa woke up crying. his tears fell silently on his face. he was a bit startled, having awoke to a wet stain on his cheek. he brings up a finger to touch the drying tears. it's just a dream, he reminds himself. he squints his eyes in the dark, turning his head to find another source of light other than the moon shining through the windows of his apartment. his eyes lock on the alarm clock resting on the small cabinet beside his bed. it read 3:56 am.

he feels the bed shift, causing him to take a breather. he gives himself a moment to relax but he can't. he looks down on his shaky palms, envisioning your sleeping figure coddled up to a pillow beside him.

it just felt too real.

[bouwrites]

Even Heroes Have the Right to Dream: Chapter 4

You took for granted all the times I never let you down.

First, Previous, Next. Ao3.

Story under read-more.

“Jon? Can I bother you for a second?”

Jon looks up from his assignment to Marinette. Honestly, it’s a bit of a relief to take a break from it. “Sure.” He says. “What do you need?”

“I’m planning to call Alya, soon. You know who she is, right?”

“Your best friend, right? Through a lot of grade school, I think you said. Is she the one that wants to be a reporter?”

“Yeah. She’s been bugging me to meet you, recently, so I was just wondering if you’d pop in to say hi for a bit.”

Jon smiles. “I get to meet your Paris friends? Cool. I’m down. You calling her now?”

“If you’re not busy.”

He shrugs. “I’ve got some homework, but I need to take a break anyway. I’m good.”

“Awesome!” Marinette chirps, taking out her phone. “Uh, fair warning, though, your parents are sort of her journalism idols, so she might be a little weird.”

Jon laughs. It’s not everyday someone outside Metropolis knows his parents well enough to bother connecting him to them, but the ones that do are all journalists, so Alya knowing makes sense. “And she hasn’t wanted to meet me before now?”

Marinette ducks her head nervously. “I… may have not told her your last name.”

“Pfft. Really, Marinette? Is she pissed with you for keeping that secret from her?”

“Oh, absolutely. In my defense, I didn’t know until almost the end of the semester! You told me your parents are journalists, but I don’t know names like Alya does. And she does talk about Lois Lane a lot, but I didn’t know your mom’s name. I just assumed it’d be Kent. I would have told her sooner if I realized.”

Jon shrugs. “That’s fair. Journalists aren’t really big names unless they’re, like, T.V. anchors. Can’t blame you for not knowing.”

Marinette snorts. “Tell that to Alya. Anyway, I’ll call her. Get ready, and don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

She hits the call button, and nearly immediately another girl’s voice is coming from the speakers. “Marinette! Is he there?!”

Marinette rolls her eyes. “Yes, Alya, he’s here.” She pushes Jon towards the couch and sits down next to him where they can sit comfortably close enough together for the camera to pick up the both of them. “See? Meet Jon, my roommate.”

“You’re Jonathan Kent!!!” Alya shrieks. She lets out a long string of something in French before taking a deep breath. “Marinette, I cannot believe you! You’ve been living with Jonathan Kent for months and you didn’t tell me?!”

“I didn’t know his parents were the people you’re always going on about! I told you as soon as I did!”

“Mari.” Alya draws out the last vowel in a long whine. “Lois Lane is my hero! How did you forget?!”

“Uh, because her name is Lane? I’ve never met Jon’s parents. I didn’t know his mom’s name. I just knew his is Kent.”

“And how many times have I talked about Clark Kent?!”

Marinette covers her face. “That I just forgot. To be fair, what are the odds that my roommate’s parents are your heroes? It just never occurred to me.”

Alya laughs boisterously. “Good point, girl. I guess I can’t be too mad at you, since you are finally introducing me.”

“Aha. Speaking of.” Jon says. “Nice to meet you. Marinette’s told me a lot about you.”

“Hi! Oh my god. Have you seen my blog?” Alya flinches. “Wait,” she says to herself. “Can I just ask if he’s read my blog?” She shakes her head. “Will you read my blog? If I can get feedback from the Jonathan Kent, I’ll be that much closer to being the best reporter I can be.”

“Alya!” Marinette chastises. “Jon is very busy with University. He doesn’t have time to review your blog for you.”

“It doesn’t have to be right away!” Alya protests. “He can do it when he gets to it!”

Jon clears his throat. “I, uh, also don’t speak French, so…” Alya curses. Jon thinks. It’s in French, but it sounds like a curse. He laughs. “I’m flattered, but I’m not sure I can help you much. I’m not a journalist yet myself, anyway.”

“But you are studying it, aren’t you?” Alya asks.

Jon rubs his neck. “Well… no. I’m still undeclared. To be honest, I’m not really sure what I want to do, yet.” He sighs. “And am quickly running out of time to figure it out.”

He feels Marinette’s comforting touch on his shoulder. “You’ll figure it out.” She says.

“Yeah, maybe.” He shakes his head, looking back to Alya. “Anyway, you have a blog? It’s about the superheroes there, right? Ladybug and Black Cat?”

“Chat Noir.” Marinette corrects him. “Ladybug’s name is in English, Chat Noir’s sounds so weird translated.”

Jon laughs. “What’s weird about Black Cat? I’m pretty sure there’s like, four different cat burglars going by variations of that exact name. At least.”

“Exactly. French, Chat Noir, is a hero. Black Cat is a villain name.”

Jon rolls his eyes. “Fine, fine. Chat Noir. I haven’t heard much on them lately. Not since the big news when they beat their bad guy.”

“They’re still around.” Alya says. “They’re doing more conventional heroism now. Or, at least, Chat Noir is. Ladybug hasn’t been seen for some time.”

Jon frowns. That’s news to him, but then since he’s off-duty he’s fallen out of touch with the most recent hero news. His dad has been respectfully keeping that stuff out of their talks, thankfully. It’s none of his business, anyway. “Huh. Hope she’s okay.”

“We think she is.” Alya says. “Chat won’t give us much, but apparently it was her decision.”

That’s relatable. “Ah. Cool. Good for her.”

Both Marinette and Alya give him strange looks. He shifts awkwardly under their stares. “I hear Superboy is off-duty, though.” Alya says. “Your parents are the number one source for super news. Would you happen to know what happened to him?”

Jon shrugs. “Can’t say. Mom and Dad usually don’t share details of articles with me, so I don’t know any more than they’ve made public.”

“You’re not worried about one of your superheroes just vanishing all of a sudden? The Justice League says he’s just taking leave, but don’t you think it’s a bit odd?” Alya asks. “It’s been months since anyone’s seen him.”

Good. Jon thinks. He laughs, but the sound rings bitter to him. “Why should I be worried? He’s Superboy. I’m sure he’s fine. The same could be said for your Ladybug, and you don’t seem worried.”

“Oh, I’m worried.” Alya says pointedly. Jon isn’t quite sure what the emphasis is for, but… talk about superheroes is normal, superhero business is none of his. Whatever Alya’s hinting at isn’t his concern. Ladybug is probably fine, if Chat Noir says so. “But I know the situation with Ladybug better than I do Superboy.”

“Funny, I’m the other way around. I guess there’s nothing to worry about, after all.”

Alya hums. “Maybe. I hope not.”

Marinette shifts the conversation to a lighter topic, to Jon’s relief, but something inside him stays unsettled. He doesn’t like worrying everyone, but he’s not in charge of the PR. The League is surely just trying to maintain some control over the situation, implying that he’s on some temporary break and not gone indefinitely, or maybe they just… don’t believe that he’s serious about this.

He can… he can buy that. The son of the boy scout in blue giving up heroics? Laughable. A Kryptonian living on Earth like he’s just a guy and not some god among men? Why would he lower himself that way? Because I am just a guy. Jon thinks bitterly.

The League does a lot of good in the world, and Jon respects them for that, but they just don’t understand having power and not wanting to use it. To refrain from using it makes sense to them. To hold back from using all his power is exactly what they want him to do. But they just can’t even imagine not wanting to use power that they have.

To be fair, there was a time that Jon thought the same way. His powers are a part of him, so why shouldn’t he use them? Now, when he finally has some semblance of peace, when he’s living his own life with ordinary people in an ordinary way… going back terrifies him. He’d rather lose his powers entirely than go back to using them to fight all the time.

He still feels guilty that his powers can be used to fight for good. He can, so he has to. That’s what his dad says. But… he doesn’t want to fight again. It doesn’t matter if he’s fighting for good if he’s still fighting. He’s tired, and he wants to live this ordinary life he’s found.

Super-hearing sucks. Jon decides this at God-knows-O’clock in the morning when he wakes up to the distinct and unfortunately familiar sound of glass being cut. By one of Damian’s Goddamned toys.

Damian, you motherf-

His thoughts are interrupted when he tunes in to the sound more and hears ragged, uneven breathing and the pitter-patter of liquid hitting hardwood.

Hell.

Jon throws himself out of bed and floats over the ground to make no noise – the last thing he wants to do is wake up Marinette – to go see what the damage is.

He enters the living room and there, naturally, is Damian. In his hero costume. Bleeding on Jon’s furniture. And there’s a hole in the window. There go our deposits. Sorry, Marinette. “I hate you so much.” Jon hisses.

“I’ll fix the window.” Damian snaps. “Just help me with this.” He’s holding his thigh tightly, trying to keep pressure on two different areas.

“Did you get… shot and stabbed? In the same leg?”

“I do not need your judgement, Kent. I need your supplies.”

Jon sighs and flies over to the bathroom to retrieve the first-aid kit. Luckily, Damian is more than capable of stitching himself back together, because right now Jon is doing his absolute darndest to not crush his friend instead of simply keeping pressure on him. As Damian focuses on the blade wound, Jon keeps pressure on the bullet wound, gritting his teeth all the while.

And while Damian focuses on his bullet wound, Jon gets the lovely job of cleaning up all the blood before Marinette sees it. Goddamnit, Damian.

Damian huffs. “There. Now suit up, I’ll need your assistance to finish this mission with my leg the way it is.”

Jon wrings out the towel he’s absolutely going to have to throw away now into the sink. “No.” He says. “I’m retired. Find someone else.”

Damian scoffs. “You’re clearly not busy. With you there it won’t take long, we simply need to-”

“I said no, Damian!” Jon throws the towel at him. At least Damian has the decency to start cleaning up the rest of his mess himself now that he’s not busy staying alive. “I’m not Superboy anymore. There are plenty of heroes who can help you. Call one of them.”

“Jon. Seriously.” He deadpans. “Stop trying to make this difficult. It will be simple. You’ll be back before sunrise; it won’t be any bother at all. Now come on.”

“What part of ‘no’ don’t you understand? I’m. Not. A. Hero. Anymore. It’s bad enough you’re breaking into my home. I’m not getting dragged onto another stupid mission with you because you can’t understand what off-duty means.”

“What is wrong with you? I came here because I was bleeding out!”

“And now you’re patched up.” Jon bites. “So, bye!”

“You’ve taken a long enough break. While you act like a child, people’s lives could be in danger.” Damian growls. “Stop whining and suit up. I need your help.”

Jon’s gut screams at him. It sinks sharpened fangs into his flesh and tears and rips and revels, because Jon knows Damian is right. People are out there right now who need help. Help he can provide. It is beyond selfish of him to refuse for such childish reasons like he’s tired or stressed or shaking with barely suppressed terror at the very idea of putting the cape back on.

Before Damian shows up in his apartment, Jon doubts he’s a good person. Maybe he was once, maybe he was just acting in some facsimile of one in his dad’s shadow, but now? Now Jon is certain. He’s a failure. A disappointment. A blot, marring that almighty “S” everyone cherishes so dearly. Because even now, even as Damian, who has dragged him out on so many missions before, comes to him crippled and bleeding, asking for his help to save innocents, Jon can’t bring himself to go with his old friend. He begs to, he yearns to, but he can’t. Something cold and pale and stony holds him back and solidifies his… resolve seems too positive a word for it. It isn’t strength at the core of his refusal. It’s fear, pure and simple. “Find someone else.” Jon says. “You’re the one overstaying your welcome. If lives are in danger, you’d save them faster if you called in backup from heroes who are actually working.”

“How can you sit idly-”

Because I’m not the person you think I am. “Because I’m not a hero!” Because I’m not strong enough. “You’re the one ignoring procedure! It’s been made crystal clear that I’m not an active hero, anymore!” Jon fears Damian can see how his tightly clenched fists shake at his side. Damian is certainly too observant to miss such an obvious tell. Pathetic. “Superboy is retired! Don’t assume I’ll drop everything I’ve been doing to run out the moment you decide I should!”

“Jon! Superboy is needed! Will you just ignore the call of duty?”

Don’t ask me that. Please. “I will! That’s not my job anymore!”

“Then why did you help me?”

Jon sputters. Because you’re my friend. Because you could die. Because… I’m selfish and I can’t distance myself enough from you to stop. “Because you were bleeding on my floors. I don’t know what you’re doing, and I don’t care.” This much, at least, is honest. Jon doesn’t necessarily not care at all, but he cares far less than he should. And he does desperately wish to not know. “I’m done with that life. I’m finally starting to feel-”

“I don’t care what kind of tantrum your leave has been about.” Damian says. “You’re needed now, so come on!”

Stop pushing. There’s a tightness in Jon’s chest, restricting his breath, stronger than any chains. If you don’t, I don’t know what… “Are you just incapable of listening?!”

“…Jon? Wha-”

Thunk.

Everything falls into deathly silence as all three people in the room absorb what just happened. Marinette, in her nightgown, sleepy and disoriented from being woken up by the yelling, is standing there in the entranceway, wide alert now, looking between Jon, Damian, the window, Damian’s bandaged leg, the bloody towel on the coffee table, and the batarang firmly rooted in the wall an inch from her head.

Damian just threw a batarang at Marinette. At Marinette.

“Never mind.” Marinette says coldly. Jon’s heart turns to ice at the frigid tone. It doesn’t belong in her voice. “I don’t want to know.” She turns away, like Jon is up at such a dumb hour eating ice cream instead of fighting with a hero standing in front of a man-sized hole in their window.

When Jon hears the click of her door closing, he rounds on Damian. Self-pity, self-loathing, doubt, all of it leave his heart in an instant. All he feels now is anger. Something fiery consumes him and he sees red. “Get the hell out of my home.”

“I-”

“How fucking dare you! You break into my house, demand my help when I’ve already made it clear you shouldn’t call me for that, and you attack my roommate?! Do you realize what you’ve just done?!”

“She has remarkable reflexes.” Damian says.

“Get the hell out of my house!”

Damian clears his throat awkwardly. In a calmer state of mind, Jon will later remember this is a sign of Damian’s embarrassment, but at the moment he doesn’t care to think twice about the gesture. “Yes… of course. You clearly have damage control to do here, with your identity possibly compromised to a civilian. I’ll find someone unoccupied to assist with my mission.”

Jon just gapes at him. “What the hell is wrong with you?!”

Damian picks up the circle of glass and hangs outside the window for a moment to fix it back in place and seal it before he takes off.

The window looks good as new, but there’s a bloody rag on Jon’s coffee table and… the damage is done. Oh, God. He sighs, picking up the towel again and throwing it in the sink. Now what?

He has no idea how much Marinette heard, if anything, but even just seeing Damian here in his hero costume is dangerous. She’ll wonder how he knows Damian, why Damian came here.

All this, coming to New York, all this work in college, his entire life right now, is to get away from heroism. In one night, Damian breaks in and uproots all of it. Months of building up his life here, and now he’s in the deep end of the hero nonsense again. Great. Just great.

Maybe… maybe it’s salvageable. Maybe it’s okay. Maybe… there’s only one way to find out. He has to start damage control as soon as he can. God, I’m tired.

He spends another few minutes wringing the blood out of the towel. It’s as good as it’s going to get, but he thinks he’ll still probably buy a new one tomorrow. Then, with a heavy sigh, Jon trods over to Marinette’s door.

He raps gently on the wood. “Marinette?”

“I don’t want to know, Jon!” Marinette’s icy voice cuts into him. This… isn’t the reaction he expects. Especially with Alya as her best friend, he expects her to be asking him for all the details. He expects it’ll change everything, and he hates that it will, but he certainly doesn’t expect that all the kindness and warmth, all the friendliness and cheer, will vanish just like that.

He knows the batarang must have scared her. He deserves her anger, her confusion, her fear. That, he understands. But this? Cold fury, something deep, something hurt, like betrayal. A wall of ice built between them in an instant. He doesn’t understand, he can’t understand, but it hurts him regardless, to hear her voice that way. To hear the pain in her voice. “Marinette? At least let me explain.”

“I said I don’t want to know!” The door swings open, giving Jon a clear view of Marinette’s clenched jaw and white knuckles and her deadly glare. “I don’t care why he was here. I don’t care how you know him. I don’t want to know. Whatever your business is with heroes, I don’t want anything to do with it. Understand? Leave me out of it.”

She slams the door in his face.

Jon has never heard her sound that way before. It’s frightening, but mostly it makes him feel like his world is falling apart. Months of his life, all the normal he’s managed to find, gone. Just like that. With the slam of a door.

Now what?

Marinette won’t talk to him. Jon fixes the hole in the wall and snaps the batarang that caused it in half with his bare hands. He hides the pieces away in his closet where he doesn’t have to look at them. There’s a new towel in their kitchen. At any glance, the apartment is back to normal.

But Marinette won’t talk to him. She treats him like the plague. She comes home late, going straight to her room when she does. If she sticks around in the morning long enough to make coffee or tea, she makes her own cup and leaves. The few times she’s home for dinner, she cooks just for herself and eats in her room.

Life is… normal. He’s still going to class, he’s still living here in New York, his apartment is back to normal. But it doesn’t feel like normal. It feels like hell. It feels like everything he tried to run away from when he left the hero life behind him is kicking him square in the butt over and over again. Every time Marinette’s gaze sweeps over him and continues like he’s not even there, every quiet, quiet evening in when she’s not in the apartment and he doesn’t know if she’s out getting dinner or working late in the library, or… or anything.

It’s almost like she isn’t even there anymore.

Jon leaves a post-it note in the entranceway, right inside the door, before the hallway turns. It says to take off his shoes. He’s not sure if he’s trying to get her attention somehow or if he just misses her getting on his case about it. It works, though. He replaces his shoes with the indoor ones Marinette got for him early on. She doesn’t comment on it.

He can’t focus anymore. When he sits down to study, he just feels this dread hang over him. When he’s in class he just feels out of place. Like he doesn’t belong. It’s frustrating, and it pisses him off, and that only makes it harder to focus on his work.

He tries. He tries so hard. He’s doing everything he can, but he can’t sit still and let that overhanging pain consume him. He can’t stop to look at his notes, because if he does it’ll catch up with him and he can’t handle that. He feels like he’s always on the move, searching for something to do, something to distract him, but at the same time he can feel himself stagnating and it makes him feel dirty and gross and he hates it and he scrubs himself so thoroughly every day but the filth he feels never goes away.

Even being a hero was better than this. But then he listens for that tell-tale shriek he’s been shutting out for so many months and he’s not sure it’s not coming from him because the thought of flying to the rescue, of punching some thief and getting involved in something that’s none of his business makes him nauseous. It makes his heart race and he can’t breathe, and he aches all over, wondering what’s wrong with him.

A small, sensible part of him says, “You were ten. Of course, you’re messed up, now.”

A more cynical part says, “Damian was younger. He’s not having a panic attack because some lady is getting her purse stolen.”

Surprisingly, it’s that same cynical part of him that helpfully counters itself. “Sure, he’s still a hero, but do you really want to call Damian okay?”

Yeah, that’s fair.

This is all his fault, anyway.

Diligently, like clockwork, he works on the schedule that he built over his first semester. He goes to class, and when he gets home, he writes down all his assignments on the whiteboard over his desk. Marinette’s idea. It’s the only reason he made it through the transition to college from high school.

Now, though, he just stares at the assignments there in black ink and stares and stares and wills himself to do them but doesn’t ever actually move. He hates it so much. He’s never been just unable to do things before, but now the farthest he ever gets is pulling the paper out, then all he can do is stare at it until his mind wanders and he ends up clicking through websites like a tiger pacing it’s cage at the zoo. Always moving, always going back and forth, but never doing anything.

When he gets his midterm scores back, Jon decides he can’t do this anymore. If he keeps going at this rate, he’ll lose what grip he does still have on his grades and he won’t have a choice but to go home and back to… back to Superboy.

He can’t go back to Superboy. Whatever else this reprieve of duty has done to him, he just can’t handle that anymore. He knows what he needs. He had a taste of it. Just a tiny, tiny, prototype of it, but he had it. That normalcy. That feeling like he knows what he’s doing, that he’s okay, and that things will work out. He had it and he lost it. And he doesn’t know how to get it back.

“Mom?”

He hears his mom’s gentle sigh over the phone. That familiar, knowing sigh she does when she knows she’s gearing up for something big. “What’s wrong, sweetie?”

Jon explains the situation to her. No details spared. He tells her about Damian showing up, about Marinette seeing him, about her avoiding him and his slipping grades, and about how much going back to being Superboy terrifies him. He tells her how frustrated he is because he had, for just a moment, exactly what he wanted right in his hands and Damian came and knocked it to the floor and shattered it. He tells her how angry he is with Damian. With himself. With how he’s afraid what his dad will think of him if he’s so weak he can’t even save himself, much less be a hero worthy of being the son of Superman. He tells her how alone and stagnant he feels, how evil he feels for turning down Damian in the first place, and he begs her for help.

It’s a long, long, mostly one-sided conversation, punctuated by long periods of nothing but crying, but he tells her everything because he doesn’t have any other route to take.

“Sweetie, if you can’t be Superboy, then you can’t be Superboy.” His mom says. “Your dad and I do feel differently about it, but you remember what he said when you first talked to him about this? Good people help because they can. Honey, you can’t. And that’s okay. Not doing something you can’t do doesn’t make you a bad person. It makes you normal.” And now he’s crying again. “He won’t be upset with you if you don’t go back to being a hero. He just wants you to be happy, same as I do. And it takes a lot more strength to admit when we can’t do something than to kill ourselves trying anyway. I’m proud of you. And he is, too.

“And I’m sorry, I don’t know what to tell you about Marinette. If she doesn’t want to be around you, then… there’s not much you can do but keep trying to be happy without her. I know she’s your friend, but… there’s only so much you can do. If she’s really against it, you might have to say goodbye.”

“I don’t want to.” Jon chokes out. “Mom, she’s my normal.”

“You found normal once. You can do it again.”

Jon frantically scrubs at his eyes, trying to stop the tears. “I… S’pose.” The thought doesn’t make him feel better, but it does make sense.

“And I think you should talk to Damian.”

“I don’t want to see him.” Jon growls.

“Jon, he’s your friend, too. You both woke up Marinette. It was wrong of him to ask you to help with his mission, but don’t blame him for what isn’t entirely his fault.”

There’s a spike in Jon’s heart, and it’s twisted because he knows she’s right.

“Don’t lose two friends over this, Jon.”

God, she’s right. Jon has to go talk to him. He doesn’t want to, but… he has to. Knowing Damian, he probably doesn’t fully understand why Jon’s even mad at him, so he has to. To at least give Damian a chance to understand.

Even if a part of him says good riddance, and that he’s better off without Damian always there to drag him back into the world of heroes.

Alfred answers the door of the manor and barely looks him up and down before telling Jon that Damian is in the batcave. Jon trudges past the old butler, following old paths through the manor he’d memorized a lifetime ago.

Damian catches sight of him the moment he enters and nods his acknowledgement. Jon notes that Tim is here, but he can’t bring himself to care.

It feels weird, walking into the batcave in an old flannel and worn-out jeans. It’s weird to not even have his suit underneath. This place feels so deeply entrenched with Jon’s memory of heroism that he feels out of place as he is. Underdressed, in a way.

“You should be talking to your father about returning to duty.” Damian says. “Hiding here won’t help.”

“I’m not returning to duty.” Jon says tiredly. “I’m here to talk to you.”

Damian pauses. He’s not expressive, per se, but Jon knows him too well. He knows Damian is embarrassed about the incident. Perhaps even… guilty? Jon’s too tired to think too much about it. “Ah. Right. Speak, then.”

Jon takes a deep breath to stamp down on the rage that bubbles up at Damian’s dismissive tone. Like he didn’t do anything wrong. Like he didn’t come by uninvited and… “You ruined my life.” Jon says quietly. “Do you understand that?”

Damian frowns at him. “There’s no need to get dramatic. This Marinette girl may have heard a bit too much, but she’s only one person. This can be solved easily.”

Jon groans. “That’s not what I’m talking about!” He pauses to breathe some more. He refuses to cry in the batcave. Especially not in front of Damian. “I’m not Superboy anymore. I’m not a hero anymore. I quit for a reason, Damian. I quit because I wanted… I just wanted one thing. I wanted something that could make me feel… okay. I can’t be Superboy, because I- because I…” More deep breaths. Stay calm. “Because I’m not okay. And I went to New York, to college, because I thought I could find something normal. I thought I could- I could be me and not have to fight all the time. And I did! I was happy! I felt safe, and I felt like I could- like I could- I felt like things would be okay.

“And then you came in. Now Marinette won’t talk to me. I’m all alone and I’m only getting worse, but every time I think about going back to being Superboy I panic because I can’t- I can’t fight like that again. I just… physically… I…” He sighs and focuses on his breathing again. “I thought I could be happy. But now that’s ruined.”

Jon notes that Damian stops looking at him somewhere along the line, but all he hears is Damian’s flippant retort. “You’ll get over her. Just because you love this girl doesn’t mean her not liking you is the end of the world.”

That’s where Jon sees red. He stalks up and grabs Damian by the collar, half-surprised that Damian lets him, but not hesitating to lift Damian into the air. “Don’t talk about her like that! You don’t understand anything! Don’t trivialize this like that! It’s not about love, Damian! I’m not in love with her! She was my normal! She was- She was…” Jon chokes on his own words and drops Damian so he can turn away and focus on keeping his tears from slipping free. “You don’t get it. I don’t know why I came here. I’m just going to- I’m going to go.”

“Wait, Jon.” Jon stops, turning back to look at Damian. Damian sighs, though it comes out as more of a huff. “I’m sorry.” He says. “I… I didn’t know why you quit, and I assumed… I shouldn’t have, and I apologize.”

It’s not much, but it’s an apology. It doesn’t fix anything, but it does make Jon feel just a little less broken. “Thanks.” Jon says quietly. “I’m sorry, too. I was yelling, too. It’s not entirely your fault she woke up.”

Damian just nods stiffly in acknowledgement, still refusing to meet Jon’s eye. “Would you… like help reconciling with Marinette? Perhaps if I-”

“God, no. For Christ’s sake, please don’t even step foot in New York.” Jon says it more biting than he means, but that doesn’t seem to bother Damian much. “Marinette doesn’t want anything to do with heroes. Quite frankly, I don’t disagree. If you come in trying to fix everything, it’ll only get worse.”

“…I understand. If you do need my assistance, I will be available for you.”

Jon stares at him for a while, wondering how he feels about that. He’s still resentful, a bit, but Damian is trying. He’s a far cry from that bratty thirteen-year-old that dragged little ten-year-old Jon around on wacky, life-threatening adventures. Jon supposes he’s pretty different now himself, too.

“Thanks, Damian. I appreciate that.”

-------=-------

Tag List: @moonystars14 @pawsitivelymiraculous @magic-miraculous @vixen-uchiha @buticaaba @bigpicklebananatree @lozzybowe  @moonlightstar64 @amayakans <3

[calumcest]

i took a walk with my fame down memory lane (i never did find my way back) - chapter three

[ao3]

hello i’m back on my bullshit aka britpop au 

@tirednotflirting you are never not getting a shoutout in these a/ns i’m sorry for the constant adoration but i truly do adore you and love you for reading through this entire thing and patiently talking to me about it every day you are a trooper and basically at this point a co-writer of the fic so credit to sam for being a wonderful person and friend and beta 

credit also to noel gallagher for being fit i’m so far gone on him now it’s not even funny i need an intervention can someone please fix me actually no don’t i like fancying him he’s cute. listen to hello so the little twat can pay his bills  

Liam, despite - or maybe because of - the various substances coursing through his system, is the first to react. 

“What the fuck?” he says, sounding somewhere between perplexed and outraged. “You fucking know this bloke?” 

“I fucking knew it,” Noel says, fierce and furious and edged with humourless glee. “I fucking knew. Soon as you fucking asked me about them, I knew.” He laughs, hysterical and bitter. “God, you’re an absolute fucking cu- ” 

“Hang on a minute,” Damon interrupts, looking from Michael, who’s staring at his feet, to Calum, and back again. “That’s your Calum?” 

“He’s not my Calum,” Michael mutters to the floor. 

“Fucking sounds like he is,” Graham remarks coolly. 

“How the fuck do you know him?” Liam demands hotly, rounding on Calum.

“Why didn’t you fucking tell us?” Damon says to Michael, voice dangerously calm. “How long have you known?” Michael shrugs uncomfortably, and his right hand comes up to fiddle with his earlobe, and it fucking hurts, because Calum remembers that, remembers how Michael would nervously tuck an errant strand of hair behind his ear and play with his earlobe while his eyes flicked from Calum’s eyes to his lips and back again. 

“You fucking cunt, ” Liam spits, and he sounds like he actually fucking means it, and Calum’s heart drops. 

“Eeyar,” Bonehead says sharply, and puts an arm on Liam’s bicep. “Let’s not do this here, eh?” Fucking hell. Bonehead, of all fucking people, being the sensible one. 

“No,” Liam says, trying to shake Bonehead’s hand off, “let’s fucking do it here. Right fucking here, Calum. You fucking tell me right fucking now why the fuck you never told me you were mates with one of the cunts from Blur.” Damon raises his eyebrows at that, looking somewhere between incensed and amused. 

“Noel,” Bonehead says, pleading, and Calum watches Noel’s expression change from fuck Calum, fuck him, to shit, Bonehead’s right. Not in front of Blur. 

“Liam,” Noel says, and Calum’s never heard him sound so fucking serious in his life. Liam looks at him furiously, a silent conversation happening between the two of them that nobody else can understand, all furrowed brows and twisted lips, ending only when Liam throws his hands up in the air, shoots Calum one last glare, and stomps out of the room.

“Mr Gallagher-” the photographer calls after him, and Liam spins on his heel, fists already balled, and Calum barely has time to think oh, shit before Noel’s running after him and physically manhandling him out of the room as Liam starts shouting random strings of curse words that don’t even make any fucking sense. 

Not for the first time, the Gallaghers leave a stunned silence in their wake as their shouting and yelling gets further and further away, broken only when artists start sending each other uncomfortable looks and murmuring under their breaths. Calum barely even registers it, though, too busy staring at the door Liam and Noel have just barged out of, heart in his mouth. Fuck. 

“Well,” Damon drawls, tone a little too casual, jolting Calum back to reality. “Think you’d better go after them.” 

“Fuck you,” Calum grits out. He throws one final, desperate look at Michael, who’s still steadfastly not looking at him, and then, steeling himself, sets off in the direction of the door. He hears Bonehead and Tony echo similar sentiments at Damon  as he jogs through the door, looking left and right until he sees Noel and Liam at the far end of the corridor, Liam waving his hands in Noel’s face as he refuses to listen to whatever Noel’s trying to tell him. 

“...right fucking cunt, is what,” Liam’s saying as Calum gets closer, sounding indignant. 

“I know that, Liam, but-” Noel breaks off as he spots Calum approaching, and takes a step back, putting a hand on Liam’s arm without even thinking about it. 

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” Bonehead demands, catching up with Calum. Calum’s not entirely sure who he’s directing the question at, so he just shrugs uncomfortably. 

“What the fuck’s wrong with me? ” Liam says, sounding enraged, and jabbing a finger at Calum. “What about what’s wrong with this cunt, eh? Didn’t fucking think to mention that he knows one of the pricks in Blur .” 

“Is it that big of a fucking deal?” Tony says, and then immediately shrinks back under the weight of a double-Gallagher withering stare. 

And Calum gets it, he does. If he found out Liam knew Damon, a member of their main competition, and never thought to fucking mention it, he’d be beside himself. It’s the principle of it, he thinks, guilt making his stomach roll. You choose your band first. You don’t hide things like that from your band. 

“Look,” he says, and Liam and Noel both turn to glare at him. 

“No,” Liam says, and makes to take a step forward. Noel’s hand tightens on his arm - a warning - and he stops halfway, still glowering at Calum. “You’re a right fucking git, you are. Why the fuck didn’t you tell us? Why didn’t you tell me? I’m your best fucking mate, I am.” Calum swallows, but the guilt doesn’t go down with the saliva. 

“I know,” he says. “I- fuck. I haven’t known for long.” It’s a poor excuse, and he knows it as the words trip off his tongue. He should have told them as soon as he found out. 

“What the fuck d’you mean, you fucking arseho -” 

“Liam,” Noel says sharply, and Liam huffs, but shuts up, fuming silently as Noel turns to fix Calum with a hard stare. Fucking hell. Calum fucking hates their bad-cop-worse-cop spiel. 

“You’d better have a good fucking explanation for why you didn’t tell us,” Noel says, in that same dangerously calm tone that Damon had used on Michael earlier. It makes Calum’s heart constrict, because when Noel’s angry at him it’s hot bursts, heated words and blazing eyes, never this, this fucking coldness. There’s something behind it, something more to it, and he doesn’t know what it is. 

Calum meets his gaze and holds it for a moment, searching through all the righteous anger and fury, watching rage and indignation and bitterness flit through those baby blues until he catches it. It’s just a snippet, just the tiniest fragment that Noel’s let slip through his scowling armour, but it’s there. 

Hurt.

It makes Calum’s stomach curl up into a small ball and then unroll itself ungracefully, twisting almost nauseatingly when his gaze flits to Liam, to the same blue eyes on a different face, and he sees the exact same storm of emotions - incensed, livid, hurt. That’s what this is about. He’s hurt them. 

“I do,” he mumbles, a little apologetically, and Liam throws his hands up in the air and turns his back on Calum, walks a good five steps away muttering oh, this should be fucking good, before turning back around, hovering in place, like he doesn’t quite trust himself to get any closer to Calum.

“Go on then,” Noel says coldly, and Calum sees his hands ball into fists at his side. Calum takes a wary step back, tripping on Bonehead’s foot, and holds his hands up. 

“I’ll tell you,” Calum says, eyeing Noel’s fists, “but don’t you fucking deck me.” Noel considers that for a moment, just a split second, and then cocks his head. 

“You’ll get decked if you fucking deserve it,” he says evenly , and Calum has to concede that that’s kind of fair. 

“How the fuck d’you know him?” Liam demands, still about six feet away. Calum hesitates. He can feel everyone’s eyes on him, can almost feel the curiosity in Bonehead and Tony’s eyes boring into the back of his head and the hurt and rage in Liam and Noel’s gazes, and he swallows again. 

He could tell them Michael’s his childhood best friend. It’s not a lie, after all. They’d never stopped being best friends, not when they kissed, or when they fucked, or when they fell in love. It had always been there in the background, a soft hum under Calum’s fingers in Michael’s hair, under Michael’s lips on Calum’s throat. It wouldn’t be a lie, as such, just an omission of some of the facts. 

But Calum knows it wouldn’t explain everything, wouldn’t explain why he hid it for so long and why he’s acted so fucking weird about it, and he knows if he doesn’t tell the rest of them everything now, they’re fucking finished. And it’s not the band he cares about - fuck the band, give a fuck, he’ll go back to Manchester and fucking fix garden walls for the rest of his life - it’s his friendships. 

Liam and Noel have been everything to Calum since he moved to Manchester. It had been sheer fucking luck of the draw that Gallagher and Hood were next to each other in the register, so, four days into his new school and completely friendless and alone, he’d been shafted with quite possibly the worst Chemistry partner anyone’s ever had. Although, he has to concede, he’s probably the second-worst Chemistry partner anyone’s ever had, and it didn’t matter anyway, because they were both interested in other types of chemistry, other chemical reactions that could be obtained with money or flirting.  Once they’d figured that out, worked out that neither of them cared about school and both of them cared about getting high and having a laugh, it had been a pretty small step from eeyar, my mam’s out at work, d’you want to bunk off and nick some of her booze? to you’re the only cunt in the world I care about, you are. The only fucking one. 

Noel hadn’t been in the picture, then, too busy on the road with the Inspiral Carpets (much to Liam’s endless fucking pride), and when he’d come home a year later in the middle of the night he’d scared the absolute shit out of Calum, who’d been sleeping in his bed, by leaning over and peering at him with an exhausted, irritated, and yet intrigued expression on his face. 

(“Eeyar,” he’d said mildly, and Calum’s eyes had flown open as he’d shot bolt upright in the bed. “That’s my fucking bed, that is.” Calum had just stared at him, lips parted in shock, eyes wide, still too groggy to process that the eyes staring back at him were the exact same eyes as Liam’s, and then Liam had stirred, mumbled something, opened his eyes and grinned wider and happier than Calum had ever seen before. 

“Noely G!” he’d said, all soft and sleepy, and Noel had rolled his eyes and huffed, but his lips had twitched in a tiny, fond smile. 

“Don’t you fucking call me that,” Noel had warned, two seconds before Liam had flung himself into Noel’s arms and they’d both toppled to the ground, Liam laughing and Noel grumbling but reaching up to pet Liam’s hair all the same.) 

Noel hadn’t wanted to spend much time with them, at first. Why the fuck would I want to hang out with my eighteen-year-old brother and his weird fucking Aussie mate? he’d say derisively, scoffing, but Liam always knew how to play him, knew how to wheedle and whine and praise and insult at just the right levels until Noel would break, sigh, put his magazine down and pick up his guitar and play with them.

That had been it, really. Calum couldn’t remember ever having that much fun before, ever feeling so at home before, ever feeling so safe. The three of them had just clicked, just fallen right into a routine like they were made to slot into each other’s lives. Noel and Liam felt like jigsaw pieces that nestled neatly against him, completed parts of him that he didn’t even know were incomplete. Calum and Liam were rarely apart, and Noel dipped his toe in more often than he took it out. It was Calum Liam would turn to when he was having nightmares about his dad, or when Noel had fucking breathed wrong, or when Noel had decided to move out and Liam had been so furious at him that he’d sat sobbing on Calum’s floor for a whole night. It was Calum Noel would turn to when Liam threw a tantrum, or when he wanted a hand moving furniture into his new flat, or when he wanted someone to go for a few pints with. 

And so it should have been the two of them Calum turned to when he found out about Michael. 

It’s not like they don’t know about his bisexuality, either. He’d come out to Liam before he’d even come out to his mum, blurting it one evening when they were headed to the pub, and Liam had just shrugged, put an arm around him and said hard not to fancy blokes when you spend a lot of time around me, eh? 

Noel had been a little different. Noel had sent him looks from under lowered lashes that had made Calum’s stomach fizz in a way he’d never quite felt before, an echo of something he’d only ever felt with Michael. Noel’s hand would linger on the small of Calum’s back, or around his waist, or on his forearm, making Calum’s skin buzz with something he’d never quite been able to place. It had culminated in one night when Liam was at some girl’s house and Calum had spent the night at the Gallaghers’ anyway, listening to the new songs Noel had written for their brand new band, singing soft and sweet and clear with plump lips and darkened eyes until one of them had snapped. Calum could never remember whether it was him or Noel that had lunged forward first, pressed the first desperate kiss to the other’s lips, but it didn’t really matter, because the end result was the same; frantic kisses, fumbling hands, and pretty, really fucking pretty sounds from Noel that made Calum dizzy with want and made him think God, this is what fucking music is. 

And so, Calum thinks, as his chest aches uncomfortably from the guilt pumping through his veins with every beat of his heart, he has to tell them the whole truth. They’ve been everything to him for the past four, five years, and they deserve to know.

“Well?” someone prompts - Noel, Calum realises as he’s jolted out of his racing thoughts - and Calum swallows. 

“He’s my ex,” he says, and his voice cracks on the last word. 

The words sit between all of them for a moment, nudging at them, testing their boundaries, pushing at the thin lines tying the five of them together, before Tony frowns, like he’s not getting it. 

“Your ex? ” he says, a little sceptical, like Calum’s having him on, and oh, yeah, shit . Tony doesn’t actually know Calum’s into guys. Fucking hell. This is the last way he wanted to come out to him. 

“Yeah,” Calum says. He’s not sure how to elaborate on that, so he doesn’t. Tony just frowns, like he’s still not sure whether to believe Calum, but doesn’t say anything else. 

“When?” Noel says, and there’s an edge of something to his tone that Calum can’t quite place. 

“Before I left,” Calum says, which is the best answer he can come up with. They’d never quite started anything, never quite stopped it either. It just was, and then it wasn’t. “We never, like. There wasn’t a conversation, or anything. We just...were. Together, I mean. He was my best mate since I was seven, so.” He shrugs again, terse and awkward. “And then I moved here.” 

“Why the fuck didn’t you say?” Liam explodes. 

“Because he’s in fucking Blur!” Calum says. “I didn’t even fucking know until that magazine-”

“ That’s why you-”

“ Yes , and-”

“So you’ve known for, what, three fucking mo- ”

“Hang on,” Noel interrupts. “What fucking magazine?” 

“Cunt nicked a magazine from the dentist’s,” Liam says derisively, waving a dismissive hand in Calum’s direction. “Wouldn’t tell me why.” 

“It had a picture of Michael in it,” Calum says. 

“So, what, you nicked it for your wank bank?” Noel says irritably. 

“ No, ” Calum says emphatically. “Just-” he cuts himself off. He’s not really sure what he was doing with that magazine, really. Taking it had just felt like the natural thing to do.

“I wouldn’t’ve fucking cared if you’d said it then,” Liam snaps. “I don’t fucking care that you shagged someone in Blur, how the fuck were you to know? I care that you didn’t fucking tell me.” Calum swallows.

“I know,” he says. “And I’m sorry.” Liam doesn’t say anything to that for a moment, just stares at him, blue eyes wide and angry, and then scoffs and stomps off. Noel throws Calum a look, a look that says you’ve fucked up and I’m fucking furious and a little bit of how fucking dare you upset my brother like that, and then takes off after him. Calum watches them go, watches Noel put a hand on Liam’s arm and Liam shake him off angrily, and then Bonehead clears his throat. 

“Well,” he says nonchalantly. “Hope the shag was fucking worth it, mate.” 

  -------

  The fallout from the argument is sort of what Calum had expected, and sort of isn’t. 

Bonehead and Tony don’t care all that much, predictably. Bonehead’s more concerned about whether Calum wants tickets to the United Champions League qualifier in August (which of course he fucking doesn’t, meaning Bonehead’s just looking for a way to tell him we’re alright without having to say it), and, once it’s been established that yes, Calum does actually date blokes, they’re not just having him on, Tony doesn’t see what the big deal is. 

(“Who fucking cares?” he says, sounding bemused. Calum puts his head in his hands. 

“D’you understand either of them at all?” he says into his fingers. 

“No,” Tony says. “Do you?” Calum’s silent for a moment.

“Fair point.”)

Liam snaps at Calum for a day or two, throws furious looks at him and tries to goad him into fights, but he’d been more upset when Calum had lost his favourite earring a few years ago, so Calum just waits it out. When Liam stops scoffing at every suggestion Calum makes about the Glastonbury setlist, stops making loud, derisive remarks whenever Calum enters or leaves a room, Calum takes it as his cue to sneak up behind him and wrap his arms around Liam, rest his chin on Liam’s shoulder and whisper don’t fucking knock my teeth out, alright? I’m sorry I didn’t tell you. You’re my best mate, and I should’ve said. Didn’t mean to make you feel like I don’t care about you. I love you, and I need you. Liam’s over it in a flash after that, tilting his head to the side to send Calum a brilliant grin and pressing a quick kiss to Calum’s temple. Liam’s like that, Calum thinks, laughing and ducking from Liam’s attempts to keep pressing sloppy kisses all over his face. He’ll blow up, he’ll scream and shout and burn hot with anger for a few days, and then the fever breaks, and Liam can barely remember why he was so pissed off in the first place. 

Noel, however, is a different story. 

He doesn’t even look in Calum’s direction for three days, which is longer than they’ve ever argued, even when Calum had kissed Noel’s girlfriend last year. Which, in fairness, wouldn’t have happened if Noel had been a bit more forthcoming about exactly which ‘fucking gorgeous blonde girl’ was his girlfriend, but whatever. The point is Calum’s not used to this kind of animosity from Noel, and especially isn’t used to Noel harbouring resentment against him for this long, and to the fucking coldness of it. He’s used to Noel snapping, making snide comments, laughing loudly and spitefully when Calum fucks up, not this frostiness, this icing out. 

Rehearsals are tense and uncomfortable. Bonehead and Tony refuse to take sides between Calum and Noel, which Calum had expected - he refuses to side against either of the Gallaghers if he can ever help it - but Liam refuses too, which takes Calum by surprise. 

(“No,” he says sharply, when Calum sends him a look after Noel snaps at him for idly playing a bass riff while he’s waiting for Tony to finish setting his drums up. “You made your fucking bed, Cal.”

It’s true, and it’s fair, but it still feels like a kick in the teeth that Liam’s not taking the opportunity to take Calum’s side, because it means he’s taking Noel’s.) 

After about a week, when the Glastonbury gig is looming over them and Noel still won’t say a single word to Calum besides can you fucking play in time? Is that really so fucking hard?, Calum’s had enough. 

He waits until one rehearsal is over, when Noel’s thrown his hands up in the air and said you’re all fucking shite and stalked out of the room - their cue to pack up and go home - shaking his head when Liam slings an arm around his shoulders and asks jovially whether he wants to go to the pub. 

“Nah,” Calum says. “I’m going to try and talk to Noel.” Liam raises an eyebrow, removes his arm from Calum’s shoulders, and pulls a face. 

“On your own head be it,” he says, and jogs off to catch up with Bonehead. 

Calum heads out of the practice room and into the corridor, heading for the room Noel often locks himself away in to write or when he’s had enough of Liam. He can hear strumming from inside, gentle humming accompanying it, and he hesitates for a split second, letting the unguarded Noel that no one ever sees wash over him for a moment. The only thing besides Liam that can break any of Noel's barriers down is a guitar, which is why Noel locks himself away when he's writing, can't stand to let anybody see him without twelve layers of defences up. It feels like Calum's intruding, though, standing here listening to Noel be at peace when he's always so turbulent, so he raises his hand and knocks on the door. The humming and strumming stop abruptly, and an annoyed voice calls: “What?”

“Can I come in?” Calum says. There’s a pause. 

“No.” But there was a pause, and if Calum obeyed every single one of Noel's impulsive commands he’d be riddled with more inconsistencies than the fucking Bible, so he pushes the door open anyway. 

“What d’you want?” Noel says irritably, but it’s the first thing he’s said to Calum that isn’t shut the fuck up in about two days, which is a start. Calum steps into the room and shuts the door behind him, and Noel sighs, all long-suffering, and turns back to his guitar, plucking a few strings tunelessly. 

“Can we talk?” Calum says. 

“Yeah,” Noel says. “Fuck off. Talk over.” Calum bites back a snarky retort and sits down on the chair opposite Noel. 

“Look,” he begins, and Noel holds up a hand to stop him. 

“I don’t want to have a big fucking talk about our feelings,” he says curtly. Calum sighs. 

“How the fuck do I make it better, then?” he says. Noel shrugs, tight and tense. 

“Time travel,” he suggests, and Calum’s lips twitch in spite of himself. 

“I said I was sorry,” he says, because he did. He’s said it a hundred times, a hundred ways, through apologies and through beseeching looks and through leaving Noel the last custard cream. 

“What’ve you been apologising for, though?” Noel says shrewdly. “For the fact you did it, or the fact we found out?” Calum holds his gaze, feels the blue burn hot into his brown, like Noel’s trying to tease out the worst bits of Calum’s soul. 

“I’m sorry that I hurt you,” Calum says plainly. Noel blinks, a fleeting look of surprise passing across his face. He wasn’t expecting that, clearly. 

“Who said that?” he says, aiming for contemptuous and coming off defensive. Calum just fixes him with a hard stare, one that says it’s written all over your face, and I’ll fucking say it out loud if you want me to. Noel blinks back at him for a moment before looking away, pursing his lips. He’s considering his options; Calum can see it in the way his eyes narrow slightly. Calum hopes Noel can't come up with any more options than Calum can - keep stewing or forgive but don't forget are all Calum's got, so there's a fifty-fifty chance he'll get what he's looking for.

“Fucking fine,” Noel mutters eventually, and Calum’s eyes flutter shut in relief, the pressure that’s been weighing on his chest for the past week suddenly disappearing. Fuck. “You’re still a cunt, though,” Noel adds, because he can’t stand not having the last word, and Calum nods, leaning back in the chair. He can live with that. 

“What’s that?” Calum says, nodding at the guitar to indicate the song Noel had been playing, testing the waters. Is this a truce, or is it forgiveness? 

“That?” Noel says, looking down at the guitar. “Just playing around.” A truce, then. For now. 

“For the next album?” Noel shrugs. 

“Maybe,” he says. “Depends. Got a lot of other fucking brilliant songs already written for it.” Calum huffs out a laugh, rolls his eyes, and Noel smiles back. 

“You sorted out the Glastonbury setlist yet?” Calum asks. The smile slips off Noel’s face. 

“Yeah,” he says. Calum cocks his head. 

“What?” 

“What?” 

“You look all fucking mardy, is what.” Noel rolls his eyes. 

“Mardy, fucking hell,” he says, shaking his head. “You’re a right fucking Manny boy now, you are.” 

“Nah,” Calum says, grinning. “Fucking true blue, I am. Why d’you think I support City over United?” 

“‘Cause Liam would’ve fucking nailed your balls to the front door if you hadn’t,” Noel says, which is, in fairness, at least half of the reason Calum had decided on City. 

“He hasn’t nailed Bonehead’s to any doors yet,” Calum points out. Noel pulls a face. 

"Would you wanna touch Bonehead's balls?" he says, and Calum snorts. He's got a point. 

They lull into silence for a moment, Noel's fingers twitching on the strings of his guitar like he's itching to play but doesn't want to in front of Calum, but he's not told Calum to fuck off yet, which is a start. Calum's going to take every inch Noel gives him, claw as many centimetres out of them as he can, so he sits back a little, eyes Noel and says: "What's the setlist, then?" Noel looks at him, like he thinks Calum’s asking him a trick question. “What?” Calum adds, a little self-consciously. 

“You know Blur are playing the same day as we are?” Noel says, and his tone is flat. “Same stage, too.” Calum’s stomach plummets.

“Oh,” he says, and he can see from the sour look on Noel’s face that he’s not doing a good job of hiding the way his heart is pounding in his chest at the fucking prospect of maybe, just maybe, seeing Michael again. 

“You going to talk to him?” Noel says harshly. Calum hesitates, and then shakes his head. 

“You’re my band,” he says, even though it leaves a bitter taste in his mouth. “You know where my loyalties lie.” Noel considers him for a moment - a long moment - and then exhales, and smiles. 

That was a test, Calum thinks, as he smiles back. It was a test, and he passed. 

(But his heart might not have.) 

  -------

  Glastonbury comes around a lot fucking faster than Calum had expected. 

Noel takes a few days to mull their truce over and then seems to decide that he’s extended it into a full on peace, passing Calum an unfinished song at two in the morning when they’re both high on something Liam had picked up somewhere. Calum doesn’t say anything, doesn’t want to break the fragile understanding between the two of them, just pockets the piece of paper and offers Noel a grin and another bottle of beer. 

The days pass in a blur of travelling and rehearsing, and they get a week off between their last show somewhere down south and Glastonbury. Noel’s definition of a week off, though, seems to be very different from everyone else’s. Calum’s looking forward to going home, eating some good food, not being woken up by Liam going for a run at seven every fucking morning, maybe even getting around to fixing that wall, but Noel’s having none of it. 

(“Did you fucking hear us in Glasgow?” Noel demands, when everybody drags themselves into the tiny, cramped practice space in the basement at ten a.m., Liam still absolutely fucking steaming and clearly not having got round to going to bed yet. 

“We sounded fucking fine,” Bonehead says. 

“We sounded fucking shite,” Noel corrects. 

“Speak for your fucking self,” Tony says, and the rest of them round on him in disbelief. 

“Hang on a minute-” Bonehead starts. 

“Eeyar, I sound shi-” Noel says indignantly.

“That’s a bit fucking rich-” Calum begins. 

“You’re the worst fucking drummer I’ve ever heard,” Liam says, grumpy and disdainful, which about sums it up.) 

Calum’s sort of glad, though, because it keeps him busy. In the little moments he does get to himself - half an hour between dinner and Liam ringing his house and demanding he comes down to the pub with him, twenty minutes when Noel’s on the phone arguing with Marcus at the record label about Live Forever again - all he can think of is Michael. 

It gets worse the closer they get to Glastonbury. The first few days, when Glastonbury’s still about a week away and still doesn’t quite feel real, he can push Michael out of his mind, distract himself with laughing at Liam telling some story about Noel pushing him in the road when they were kids, ‘cause he knew I was gonna be fitter than him, I reckon. Michael crosses his mind, but it’s fleeting, and Calum doesn’t dwell on him. By the fourth or fifth day, though, Glastonbury’s looming over them and they’re being told every three seconds not to be late for the fucking bus, bus call’s at fucking six, did you hear me, that’s six, and William fucking Gallagher if you’re a second late I’ll give Noel special dispensation to murder you. It starts sinking in then, in brief moments of panic where Calum realises that fuck, in forty-eight hours, in thirty-six hours, in twenty-four hours, he might see Michael again. 

A million different scenarios cross his mind. Michael screaming at him, Calum screaming back; Michael kissing him, Calum kissing back; Michael walking past and not even looking at him, and Calum’s heart breaking. He’s glad for it when Noel rings and asks him to make sure Liam gets to the bus call on time, because fussing over Liam gives him something else to focus all of his nervous energy on. 

They drive through the night, and Calum doesn’t sleep. The rest of them don’t either, though, drinking and smoking (except Liam, on Noel’s orders, and much to his chagrin) and snorting what Liam claims is coke but Noel’s pretty sure is just crushed caffeine pills. By the time they’re all coming down from their wired highs, around four or five in the morning, Calum’s so exhausted that he slips into an easy, dreamless sleep, and it feels like no time has passed at all before he’s been shaken awake gently, blinking up at solemn blue eyes. 

“Soundcheck,” is all Liam says, not looking tired or hungover in the fucking slightest. Calum groans, mouth dry and throat scratchy, and struggles into a seated position to find Liam’s got a cup of water and two paracetamols in his hand. 

“I fucking love you,” Calum says hoarsely, and Liam laughs as Calum grabs the water and pills. 

“Fucking right,” he says with a grin, and then walks away. 

Calum downs the water and pills, and then hears Bonehead shout for him and yells back I’m coming, I’m coming, rolling out of bed and pulling on the first clothes he sees. By the time he’s made his way into the lounge area, rubbing at his eyes blearily and sending up prayers to various gods that the paracetamol kicks in quickly, everyone’s ready to go. It’s probably for the best that Calum doesn’t have time to eat breakfast; his stomach’s flipping like crazy, and Liam’s far too fucking buzzing to stay in the bus a minute longer, hopping from foot to foot with that kind of childlike energy that he’s always inexplicably got, counterbalancing Noel’s stiff, tense posture. 

“Are we doing Walrus?” Liam asks, as they file off the bus and are led in the direction of a tiny room.

“Did you read the fucking setlist?” Noel snaps. 

“You changed it seven fucking times,” Liam shoots back. 

“I fucking showed you the final one this morning,” Noel says. 

“Oh, fuck off,” Liam says, rolling his eyes. “What’s all this, then?” Their instruments are set out, mic stands and all, and three techs are hovering by the amps. 

“Quick soundcheck,” one of them explains. “Don’t have time to do a full one for every artist. Just need to see how you want it, then we can set it up on stage when you’re on.” Liam stares at her in disbelief, and then shakes his head and turns to head out of the room. 

“Eeyar,” Noel says sharply, catching him by the elbow. “Where the fuck d’you think you’re going?” 

“What the fuck is this?” Liam demands, gesturing at the whole setup. 

“What, you thought we’d have a full fucking half hour soundcheck?” Noel says. “It’s a fucking festival, Liam.” Liam stares at him for a minute, because he clearly had thought they were going to have a full soundcheck, and then shakes Noel off and walks back out the way they’d come in. 

“Uh-” one of the techs says, but Noel sighs, loud and exasperated, and turns back to them with a shake of his head. 

“Fucking let him go,” he says contemptuously. “He’s just the fucking tambourine player.” 

The soundcheck only lasts ten minutes, and Noel insists that he’ll sort his own amps out anyway, because he’s a fucking control freak, and then they’re told to fuck off and come back at five. 

“Well,” Bonehead says, as they file out of the room. “I’m going back to sleep.” Without waiting for any of them to say anything, he turns on his heel and heads straight back in the direction of the bus.

“The Inspirals are playing today,” Noel says, already looking over Tony’s head and craning around Calum to see if he can spot them anywhere. “Gonna see if I can find them.” 

“Think I’m going to get a drink,” Tony says, and Calum sighs, because that leaves him with the job of finding Liam. 

“Fine, fuck you both,” he says, and receives a middle finger and a two-fingered salute for his trouble. 

He heads halfway with Noel, who peels off abruptly because that’s fucking Johnny Cash, that is, I’m fucking watching that, fuck the Inspirals, and then gets lost on the other half of the way because there are people in black running back and forth and shouting at each other and Calum keeps following them thinking they know where they're going only to end up at a portaloo. 

The artists’ area is just a small tent selling incredibly overpriced beer, but Calum buys one anyway, because the paracetamol’s only half-dulled his headache and Calum’s a big believer in hair of the dog. He sips it as he wanders, eyes flitting left to right to try and spot a loud Mancunian in an oversized jumper. He can’t seem to find Liam, but sees two of the blokes from Radiohead in the distance, one of whom raises a hand at him a little hesitantly. Calum raises his beer in return, because it feels like the polite thing to do, and the guy seems to waver for a moment  before heading over, and Calum groans internally. Fucking hell. Maybe Noel and Liam have the right idea, being absolute cunts to everybody in the business. 

“Calum, right?” the guy says when he gets close, and bloody hell, he’s even fucking shorter than Noel. 

“Yeah,” Calum says. 

“Thom,” the guy says, holding his hand out. Calum stares at it for a moment, trying to process is this twenty-something musician trying to shake my hand like we’re fucking businessmen, and Thom retracts it, a little awkwardly. 

“You’re from Radiohead,” Calum says, more of a statement than a question. 

“Yeah,” Thom says. 

“Creep’s a good song,” Calum says, taking a sip from his beer. Thom cocks his head, like he’s trying to work out if Calum’s taking the piss. 

“Thanks,” he says eventually, a little suspiciously. It’s fair enough, Calum thinks, when he remembers the last time they’d crossed paths; a few weeks ago, Calum cackling as Noel and Liam screamed but I’m a cock, I’m a willy as Radiohead traipsed onto the stage to collect their award. It is a good song, though, although Calum sort of prefers the Gallagher version. 

“You seen my singer, by any chance?” Calum says, figuring it can’t hurt to ask. “‘Bout this tall, mouthy northern lad. Probably getting into a fistfight, or something.” 

“Liam,” Thom says, and really, Calum should have known Thom knew who Liam was. Who the fuck doesn’t know Liam Gallagher? 

“Yeah,” Calum says, “him.” Thom nods.

“Yeah, saw him about ten minutes ago,” he says. 

“Where?” Thom turns, points in the vague direction of a tent in the distance. 

“He was having a go at the barman for the price of the beers,” Thom says, and Calum snorts. 

“Sounds like fucking Liam,” he says, and can’t help the fondness that edges his tone. Thom grins at him, like he's finally finding his footing. 

"They're almost three quid," he says. "It's daylight fucking robbery."

“Fucking festivals,” Calum says, a little derisively, and takes another sip from his extortionately-priced beer. 

“Fucking festivals,” Thom agrees. “Anyway, I’m on in a few, so I’d best get off.”

“I’d better go and save the rest of Glastonbury from Liam,” Calum says. Thom nods, and takes a step back. 

“Oh, by the way,” he adds, as Calum turns to head in the direction of the tent Thom had pointed out. “One of the guys from Blur was looking for you.” Calum’s stomach drops.

“What?” he says, a little too quickly, spinning back around. “Who?” Thom shrugs. 

“Blonde one,” he says. “Don’t know their names.” 

Oh, shit. 

Shit.  

“Cheers,” Calum says, glad for how steady it comes out, and jogs off in the direction of the tent Liam was supposedly last seen in, stomach churning. 

Out of all the fantasies he’s had about this day, about seeing Michael somehow, none of them had involved Michael seeking him out. It had all been chance encounters, Michael watching the Oasis set or Calum watching the Blur set, or bumping into each other backstage, or seeing each other across the small stretch of grass outside the artists’ tent. He’d never stopped to think that maybe Michael would want to speak to him, not after how he’d acted at the awards ceremony. 

“Cal!” he hears, and he whips around with a racing heart, thinking that for a moment it was Michael, the easy way the nickname would drip off Michael’s tongue, but when he turns, he sees Liam, grinning widely, holding up a can of beer that he’s clearly nicked off the tour bus and making his way over to Calum. 

“You’re fucking drunk,” Calum states, when Liam gets within four feet of him. Liam raises an eyebrow, eyes hidden behind dark sunglasses, and nods. 

“Yep,” he says happily. “How was soundcheck?” 

“Noel’s not happy with you,” Calum informs him, and Liam shrugs. 

“When the fuck is he?” he says carelessly. "I'm arsed. The tit doesn't want anyone to have any fucking fun." Calum just sighs and shakes his head, palms still slick with sweat, eyes flitting over Liam’s head every three seconds just in case Michael’s magically appeared behind him. Liam’s not as drunk as he smells, though, because he catches it, twisting around to look at what’s caught Calum’s attention. 

“What?” he says, when he’s confronted with absolutely nothing. 

“What?” Calum says, defensive and deflecting. Liam turns back to him, both eyebrows raised now. 

“You looking for Mike?” Liam says, a little too knowingly. 

“Michael,” Calum corrects, without thinking. 

“Well, the Blur lot call him Mike,” Liam says. 

“He hates being called Mike,” Calum mutters. 

“Well,” Liam says, with a nonchalant shrug, "not anymore." There's no malice behind the words but they still hurt, because it reminds Calum that he doesn’t know Michael anymore, doesn’t know Mike. 

“Thom from Radiohead said he was looking for me,” Calum says, and he watches Liam’s eyebrows disappear back under his sunglasses, his lips twisting in a frown. 

“You told our kid you wouldn’t talk to him,” he says, and it comes out a little petulant. 

“I haven’t,” Calum says, and hopes Liam doesn’t catch the evasiveness in his tone. Technically, if Michael talks to him, he’s not lying. 

“Good,” Liam says, and then grins brightly. “Want to go and laugh at Radiohead?” 

“Are they on?” Liam shrugs. 

“Think so. Heard some whiny shite out there, ‘s gotta be them, innit?” Calum snorts, and shakes his head. 

“Yeah, go on then,” he says, and Liam’s grin widens. “Anything to make you smile.” 

“Soppy cunt,” Liam says, but his eyes are soft and fond, and Calum laughs as he follows him in the direction of the stages. 

Anything to get Michael off his mind, too. 

  -------

 Noel’s still furious at Liam by the time their set rolls around, and Liam plays into it, refusing to sing the second verse of Fade Away and demanding they shuffle the setlist to play Supersonic first. He cackles when Noel glares at him, grins gleefully when Noel shouts a string of curse words and stomps off, and takes an idle sip from his beer with twinkling eyes when both Bonehead and Calum throw him exasperated looks before following after Noel with ten minutes to go until they’re on stage. 

They manage to convince Noel to come back - or at least to make him feel like coming back is something they’re begging him to do rather than something he was going to do anyway, because Noel always loves feeling like he’s doing them a fucking favour. He kicks Liam in the shin when he passes him on his way to the stairs leading to the stage, hard, and Liam scowls and hurls his almost-empty can of beer at him, missing by a few inches and hitting Tony instead. 

The set passes in a fucking blur. The crowd actually cheer them onto the stage, which makes Calum’s stomach twist and attempt to make its way up his oesophagus in a way that’s strangely pleasant. Liam sings his fucking heart out, looking lazy and bored and effortless, but Calum can see the slight tension in his shoulders, the way his fingers are clenched around his stupid fucking tambourine. They sound fucking good, they all know they do, and when Noel and Calum both head for the beers at the back of the stage at the same time they share a quick smile, a fuck, can you believe this is real? smile. 

Calum tries not to scan the crowd for Michael, he really fucking does, but he can’t help himself, and he also can’t help the little pang of disappointment when he can’t spot Michael’s telltale unruly blonde hair anywhere. It’s probably for the best, he tells himself, looking back down at his bass and really focusing on the song. He probably wouldn’t be able to concentrate if Michael were there. 

Noel’s on a fucking high when they get off, kisses Bonehead square on the lips and pulls Liam into a fond headlock, rubbing his knuckles across the top of Liam’s sweaty head as Liam protests but doesn’t try to pull away. 

“That was fucking mega, ” he says, grinning widely as he releases Liam, who stands up straight and shakes his hair out. 

“Fucking was, and all,” Liam says proudly, slinging an arm over Noel’s shoulders. “Me and me little brother-” 

“Eeyar, watch it,” Noel says, but he’s still grinning. 

“-playing fucking Glastonbury,” Liam finishes. “Fucking hell. Wonder if Mam was watching.” 

“‘Course she fucking was,” Noel says, a note of reassurance in his voice. “Wouldn’t miss the opportunity to see her most handsome son play fucking Glastonbury, would she, eh? And you, I s’pose.” He ducks out of Liam’s arm as Liam makes a noise of outrage and lunges for him, laughing, but Liam’s laughing too, chasing after Noel as he skips out of Liam’s reach, and the two of them start shrieking like fucking madmen and tear off in the direction of the artists’ tent, earning themselves strange looks from everyone they pass. Tony, Bonehead and Calum watch them as they disappear into the distance for a moment, each of them thinking the same thing - who, how, and what the fuck are the Gallagher brothers? 

“I reckon if I ever understand those two I’d deserve a fucking Nobel prize,” Bonehead comments, and Calum and Tony both murmur their agreement. 

Tony’s mate’s is in some band playing on the fucking Jazz World Stage, of all things, so he says he’s going to go and see if he can catch the tail end of their set. Calum tells him it’s a good fucking thing he kept that to himself until after the brothers had left, because he wouldn’t hear the end of it otherwise, and Bonehead grins and says gives me the pleasure of telling them, too. Tony just flips them both off as he walks away, and they return the favour.  

“I’m fucking rank,” Bonehead says, not sounding all too unhappy about it, as they approach the tent. 

“You are,” Calum agrees, and ducks the inevitable swat Bonehead aims at the back of his head. 

“You’re not all fucking roses yourself,” Bonehead tells him, and Calum shrugs. He can live with that. 

“I’ll shower later,” he says. 

“You fucking will,” Bonehead says. “Not fucking getting on a bus with you smelling like that.” Calum scowls, because he knows he doesn’t smell that bad, and Bonehead throws him a winning smile as he ducks into the tent ahead of Calum. 

Liam and Noel are at the bar, shouting loudly at the bartender and each other and anyone who comes within three feet of them, and Calum decides to steer well clear of that and head out of the back of the tent to the little stretch of grass. 

“I fancy a beer,” Bonehead says, already halfway to the bar, and Calum shrugs - clearly Bonehead’s not seen the fucking prices - and steps out on his own. 

There are a few people milling around, a few people Calum thinks he might have seen at afterparties and a few people that are clearly hangers-on, and he heads for an empty spot by the fence in the corner, not wanting to go through a conversation with any of these people. He digs around in his pocket for a cigarette and puts it to his lips, cupping his left hand around it as he fumbles with his lighter in his right, and his eyes flutter shut as he inhales the first delicious drag and holds it in. 

“They’ll kill you, y’know,” a low voice says, and Calum’s eyes fly open as he chokes on the smoke currently in his lungs. 

A blonde, Thom had said. A blonde from Blur. 

Not Michael. 

Damon. 

“Gotta die of something,” Calum says, when he recovers, noting the amused expression on Damon’s face. 

“Good for the nerves, too,” Damon agrees, and brings his own cigarette to his lips. Fucking hypocrite. 

“What d’you want?” Calum says. Damon takes a long drag of the cigarette, eyeing Calum shrewdly. Calum’s had enough of shrewd blue eyes, fucking hell. 

“To talk about Mike,” Damon says eventually, and tilts his head up to exhale a cloud of grey smoke. Calum watches it swirl for a minute, separating into wisps that the wind catches and carries away from them. 

“What about him?” 

“What happened with the two of you?” Damon sounds curious. Calum shrugs jerkily. 

“Shouldn’t you be asking him that?” he fires back. 

“I did.” 

“So what are you here for?” 

“Your side of it.” 

“What the fuck d’you want that for?” Damon shrugs, and takes another drag of his cigarette. It reminds Calum of his own, burning right down to the filter in his hand, and he brings it to his lips. Damon has a point about it being good for the nerves. 

“I care about him,” Damon says simply, after a moment. He doesn’t add anything else, but the threat is clear: if you’ve fucked with him, or if you ever fuck with him again, I’ll fucking kill you. Calum would like to see him try, because he’d have to get past both Noel and Liam first.

“Well, whatever the fuck he told you is probably true,” Calum mutters. Damon cocks his head. 

“You dated?” Calum tries not to squirm. 

“Yeah.” 

“You fell in love?” 

“Guess so.” 

“You dropped him the minute you moved to the UK?” Calum’s head whips around to face Damon. What the fuck has Michael been saying? That's not true, not really. He'd kept sending letters for a year and a half, or so, hadn't he? What was he supposed to do when Michael stopped writing as often? 

“Not exactly,” he says, and Damon raises an eyebrow. 

“You didn’t start ignoring his letters?” he questions. 

“Well, yeah, but he stopped sending as many,” Calum says. Damon’s eyebrows stay raised, and his lips quirk up in a small, almost sad smile. 

“You don’t see a correlation there?” he says. Calum shrugs, and takes another drag from his cigarette before dropping it to the ground and grinding it out with his shoe. 

“He never told me he was coming here,” he says. “Never told me he was in Blur, either. Way I see it, we’re even.” They’re not even, they’ll never be fucking even, but he’s not going to tell Damon that. 

He starts heading back in the direction of the tent, intending to go straight to Noel and tell him Damon’s just tried to get in his head about Michael, but Damon catches his arm as he steps away. Calum turns back around and yanks his arm out of Damon’s grasp with a scowl.

“How long have you known?” Damon asks. 

“What?” Calum says irritably. 

“About Mike. How long have you known?” Calum stares at him. 

“How long has he known?” he asks. 

“A year,” Damon says, and Calum’s heart clenches. Michael’s known Calum’s in Oasis for a fucking year, and never once tried to reach out. 

“Well?” Damon prompts, and Calum clenches his teeth.

“Three months,” he says shortly, and then turns on his heel and heads in the direction of the artists’ tent before Damon can say anything else, heart in his fucking mouth. 

A year. A fucking year. Michael’s known what Calum’s been up to, known about him and his band, probably even known where he’s been on the odd occasion for a fucking year, and he’s never said anything, never even mentioned it to his own bandmates until his arm was twisted. 

Well, Calum thinks bitterly, as he ducks into the tent to see Noel, Liam and Bonehead all laughing and grinning at the bar. At least he knows where he stands with Michael, then. And at least he’s somewhere with Liam’s drugs and overpriced booze to drown his sorrows. 

  -------

  A few hours later, a little high and a lot stoned and even more drunk, Calum’s wandering around outside when Liam catches him, slips an arm around his waist and pulls him in for a warm, sweaty hug. 

“Want to go and heckle Blur?” he asks, grinning into Calum’s shoulder, sunglasses pressing uncomfortably into Calum’s collarbone, and Calum’s heart skips a beat. 

“Are they playing?” Liam pulls back and nods, and Calum shrugs as nonchalantly as he can. 

“Sure,” he says, wishing Liam would take the sunglasses off so Calum can see what he’s thinking. Liam doesn’t, just grabs Calum by the arm and starts steering him in the direction of the stage they’d played all of six hours ago. 

They pass by one of the other stages, a smaller one, where what sounds like a country duo are playing, deep voices booming while middle-aged men tap their feet thoughtfully to the acoustic guitars, and then the sound of guitars and a faux-Cockney accent start to drown them out. They turn the corner and then they’re there, squinting at the tiny pinpricks on the stage about a fucking mile in front of them. 

“Fucking hell,” Liam complains. “Can’t even fucking see the pricks.” Without waiting for a response from Calum, he starts shoving through the crowd, shouting watch my fucking beer at anyone who jostles back against him, and Calum follows close behind before the crowd can close around the path he’s created again, until they’re about five rows from the stage. Calum’s been so focused on his feet the whole time, not wanting to trip up and spill the the fucking £2.50 beer that he’d shelled out on, that he’s not actually looked up, and when he does he’s startled by how close they actually are, by the fact that he can see the beads of sweat on Damon’s throat, the vein on his neck as he sings. 

Calum’s eyes, like they’re magnets and Michael’s fucking north, immediately find Michael, who’s staring down at his guitar and nodding along to the song - something about there being no other way, if Calum’s making out the lyrics blasting out from the speakers correctly. It’s sort of catchy, but they’ve come in towards the end and it’s winding down, and it’s only about twenty seconds before the final chord rings out and Damon stands back, breathing heavily. 

“Is there anyone who’s French out there?” he asks, as the other guitarist - Graham, Calum thinks idly, as some of the crowd cheer - plucks out a few random notes. 

“Really?” Damon says, sounding surprised. “How many, put your hands up, let’s have a look.” He pauses. “How many Germans? Oh, that’s too many French. I don’t believe you.” He pulls the mic off the mic stand and looks down at his feet. “Okay, well. This is for you. Mon amis.” 

A synth and drums start up, something slower than the last song, and Graham and Michael start playing chords on an offbeat and an on-beat. Calum watches Michael, bathed in the soft disco-ball light they’ve got going on at the moment, fingers moving lazily across the fretboard, and his heart aches. He remembers Michael struggling to switch from a C to a G back in the music room at school, remembers how he had to show Michael where to place his fingers for an E at least six times before he got it, and now Michael’s here, playing the fucking NME stage at Glastonbury like it’s nothing. 

He’s not even listening to what Damon’s singing, too focused on the little crease between Michael’s brows as he nods along to the song, until Michael looks up for the first time, and looks straight at Calum. 

Calum knows Michael’s looking at him, no one else, from  the way he freezes, by the way his shoulders tense and his eyes widen and his lips part a little. It’d be easy for him to pretend that he hasn’t seen him, for him to look away and scan the rest of the crowd, but he doesn’t. His eyes stay fixed on Calum, half in shock, half in something that looks like grim determination, Damon’s voice providing the soundtrack to accompany Calum’s racing heart. 

“Well, you and I, collapsed in love,” Damon sings. “And it looks like we might have made it; yes, it looks like we made it to the end.” 

Calum’s stomach drops. 

That’s about him. He knows it is, can’t put his finger on why but he knows it, and he knows when Michael sees that Calum’s realised it because he blinks, slow and sad, but doesn’t stop looking at Calum. 

“What happened to us?” Damon asks, but it’s Michael’s words. “Soon it will be gone forever.” Calum can’t make out the next two lines, but it doesn’t matter, because he can see Michael swallow, can see the way his left hand is clenching the fretboard far too tightly, and knows it’s because of him. 

“Well, you and I, collapsed in love,” Damon repeats, and the crowd sings along with him, and Calum’s heart feels like it’s going to splinter when Michael shifts a little, takes a step to the left, but his eyes don’t leave Calum’s. This is for you, he’s saying. This is for us.  

Some kind of string instrument is playing in the background, and Damon sits himself down at a piano and plays something that Calum can’t even make out, and Calum can tell the song’s coming to an end but he doesn’t want it to, doesn’t want the moment to be broken. Damon stands back up again, grabs the mic, and heads back to the front of the stage, pulling on the wire so he doesn’t trip over it. 

“Well, you and I,” he sings again. “Collapsed in love. And it looks like we might have made it; yes it looks like we made it to the end.” He lingers on the final note, and the strings swell, and Calum knows he’s only got a few seconds of Michael left, of having Michael to himself in front of thousands and thousands of people. He blinks up at him, wonders whether Michael can see whatever tangled web of emotions he’s feeling reflected in his eyes - regret, maybe, grief,  definitely, yearning, possibly. 

Michael’s still playing, those off- and on-beat chords, and the dim lights on the stage fade out, leaving Calum to gaze at Michael silhouetted in only the disco-ball lights. He can’t see Michael’s face anymore but can still feel Michael’s eyes on him, locked with his own, and just before the song finishes, just as they start to slow down and head into the final bar, a light crosses Michael’s face for the briefest of moments and Michael, eyes on Calum, offers him a tiny, sad smile. 

The song finishes, and the crowd cheer, and Michael takes a few steps back on the stage, bending down to pick something up, and then they’re heading into the next song, an upbeat, guitar-heavy track that has everyone jumping up and down except Calum and Liam. 

“This is fucking shite,” Liam shouts halfway through the song, sounding annoyed, like the fact that Blur’s music isn’t to his taste is a personal attack. 

“Yeah,” Calum says, a little dazed.

“ This is our competition?” Liam’s got his arms folded, beer resting on his elbow. “There’s not even a fucking competition. We’re fucking rock ‘n’ roll, we are. What the fuck is this wank?” 

“Dunno,” Calum says. Liam scoffs. 

“Pricks,” he says derisively, and turns to Calum. “‘S not even fucking worth heckling. Let’s just fucking go.” Calum nods numbly, and Liam starts shouldering through the crowd again, shoving two of his fingers up at anyone who dares call him a cunt for doing so. 

A third song’s started by the time they get to the back of the crowd and manage to slip out and get to the path leading back in the direction of the artists’ tent, and Liam scoffs again as he takes a long swig of his beer. 

“ Parklife ,” he says mockingly, along with the crowd, and shakes his head. “Fucking insulting, that is, that we’re being pitted against them. How the fuck are they rock ‘n’ roll, eh? How the fuck?” Calum just shrugs, scuffing his shoes against the dirt path. 

“What was that with you and Mike, then?” Liam says, almost conversationally, as they turn the corner. Calum’s head shoots up to look at him. 

“What was what?” he says, too quickly, and curses inwardly, because he’s given himself away. 

“That,” Liam says knowingly. “Fucking staring at you for the whole song, he was.” Calum looks back down at his feet, steadfastly counting the number of times his laces criss-cross on his shoes. 

“Damon came and talked to me earlier,” he mutters, because he hasn’t had a chance to tell any of them yet. Or, he has, but drowning his feelings had felt more urgent, and he didn’t want to mention Michael’s name to Noel when he looked to be in such a good mood. 

“What the fuck?” Liam demands. “I’ll fucking deck him, I will.” The ghost of a smile crosses Calum’s lips. 

“You don’t even know what he said,” he says, but something warm is spreading through his lungs at the fact that Liam’s that willing to defend his honour. 

“Don’t fucking care,” Liam growls. “Been fucking gagging for a chance to deck him. Fucking posh prick.” Well. Maybe defending Calum's honour is at least amongst the reasons for that.

“Just wanted to talk about Michael,” Calum says. 

“Cunt,” Liam says venomously. “Why?” 

“I don’t know,” Calum admits. “Said he wanted to hear my side of the story.”

“What the fuck for?” Liam says. “I don’t fucking care what Mike has to say, do I?” Calum shrugs again. 

“He wanted to know how long I’d known about Michael,” he says. 

“Did he say how long Michael’s known?” Calum hesitates. 

“A year,” he mumbles. 

“A year? ” Liam says, sounding outraged. “A fucking year? And he never fucking told them?” Calum shakes his head, and Liam makes a scornful noise. “Fucking wanker.” 

“Yeah,” Calum says, trying to quash the guilt that rises in his chest and tells him you might not have told them, either. 

“Why the fuck was he eyeing you up that whole song, then?” Liam asks. Calum swallows. You know where my loyalties lie, he’d told Noel, and he’d meant it. Oasis are his band, Noel and Liam are his best friends, and Michael’s a part of his past. It doesn’t matter that his heart might still be seventeen years old; he’s got to be here, in 1994, not 1989. 

“It’s about me,” he says. Liam stops. 

“What’s about you?” 

“That song. That’s why he was looking at me.” It’s dark, and Calum can’t see Liam all that clearly, but he can make out the way his lips twist in a thin line. 

“How d’you know?” 

“Just do.” 

“Well,” Liam says, slinging an arm around Calum’s shoulders and pulling him in possessively. “You’ve got us. We’re not going to fucking let that bastard do anything to you.” 

Privately, Calum thinks he might actually want Michael to do something to him, but he just forces a smile and wraps an arm around Liam’s waist as they head into the tent for a drink and maybe a few lines. God knows Calum fucking needs it. 

  -------

  At about two in the morning, off his head on coke and expensive beer, Liam decides it’d be a great idea to insult one of the singers in Chumbawamba, which leads to a scuffle that Liam’s all too happy to get in the middle of and ends up dragging Noel into too, leaving them both with bruises flowering high on their cheeks and tongues probing to make sure they’ve still got all their teeth. Neither of them seem to care that much, though, probably both too fucked to feel it, and Calum watches them get shepherded away to the medical tent by their manager Alan, swaying a little as they go. Bonehead’s long gone, disappeared with some pretty ginger woman on his arm, and Tony still hasn’t come back from his fucking jazz band, so Calum’s left on his own, sipping his beer and trying to make himself as invisible as possible in the corner so that bloody Thom Yorke won’t come and talk to him again. 

He gets through a few more pints, watching the crowd thin as the night wears on, before his bladder starts to kick up a real fuss at the amount of liquid he’s consumed in the past few hours and he slips off to the toilets. 

The door’s locked when he tries it, and he can hear two male voices inside but can’t make out what they’re saying, and decides it’s probably for the best that way. He takes a few steps back, just in case they start fucking or fighting or whatever the fuck it is they’re doing in there, because he doesn’t want to have to listen to that, and rests the back of his head against the wall, taking deep breaths as he realises that shit, he’s a lot fucking drunker than he thought he was. 

He lets his eyes flutter shut as the room starts to swim a little bit, making his stomach roll, and sags back against the wall, focusing on his breathing - seven in, eleven out, Liam always says to Noel when he’s having a bad trip, or maybe it’s eleven in, seven out? Fuck it, he can’t remember, but he’s breathing, and that’s probably what matters. 

He’s so focused on inhaling, exhaling, in, out, that he doesn’t hear someone come up behind him until they make a small noise of surprise, a tiny gasp, that makes him open his eyes. 

It’s Michael. 

“Oh, fuck,” Calum mutters, and squeezes his eyes shut again. Maybe Michael will be gone when he re-opens them. M aybe this is just a drug-and-lack-of-sleep-induced hallucination. 

Michael’s not gone when Calum opens his eyes. In fact, he’s a little clearer, not so fuzzy around the edges anymore. He’s standing about two feet away, face set in a mask of shock, staring at Calum like he can’t quite believe he’s there. Even in the dim light of the corridor Calum can make out the new lines on his face, concrete evidence of the years without Calum. He’s lived, breathed, aged without Calum, documented in the crow’s feet at his eyes, the way his laughter lines have deepened, and it makes Calum’s stomach lurch, makes bile rise in his throat to see the irrefutable evidence of a life Michael’s led without him. 

“You look old,” he blurts, without meaning to, and Michael blinks at him. There’s a moment of silence, a moment where Calum’s heart skids to the brink of shattering, thinking fuck, this is it, this is fucking it, and then Michael opens his mouth. 

“So do you,” he says, and Calum’s heart shudders to a halt, torn between taking that last step over the edge and giving out altogether. His voice is soft, a little tentative but with an edge of firmness that Calum’s not used to hearing from Michael, the same, familiar Australian accent now a little muted, diluted by southern English. 

They stare at each other for a moment, and Calum blinks hard, trying to focus his eyes and his mind and to wade through the mist of inebriation to find that little part of him that’s sober, the part that’ll tell him how to conduct himself in this first conversation with Michael since 1989 without embarrassing himself. Liam’s weed was a little too strong, though - or maybe it was the coke, because it definitely can’t have been the exorbitantly priced beers - because Calum’s mind stays firmly foggy, no rational thoughts getting through the mist of drugs. Tomorrow, he’ll blame the next words he says on that, he thinks vaguely, as they’re already tumbling off his tongue. 

“You knew,” he says, and it comes out as an accusation. Good, he thinks, a little venomously, a little dazedly. It is an accusation. 

“What?” Michael says, a little defensive. He knows what Calum’s talking about, but he doesn’t want to give it away. Well, Calum thinks spitefully, thank fuck him and his singer aren't on the same page about that.

“You knew,” Calum repeats. He sways a little on the spot, and puts a hand on the wall to steady himself. “Damon said. You knew.” Michael frowns, a little crease between his brows that Calum’s itching to reach up and trace with the pads of his fingers. He clenches his fist against the wall instead, and sees Michael’s eyes flit to it, and then back to his face. 

“Yeah,” Michael says, carefully even. “I knew.” 

“A year.” Calum just wants the confirmation. Say it, he thinks, just in case this brand new Michael’s developed telepathic abilities on top of his confidence and guitar skills. Say you didn’t want to talk to me. 

“Yeah.” Michael says it calmly, coolly, like Calum’s supposed to just take it and feel nothing. Maybe Michael feels nothing, Calum thinks wildly, and the thought almost makes him retch. 

“Why?” 

“Why d’you think?” Michael says. He folds his arms and stares at Calum, more confident than Calum’s ever seen him before, and it makes him feel small, pathetic, drunk.  

“Because I stopped writing.” Michael doesn’t say anything to that, but Calum sees the way his lips twitch in a tiny grimace. 

“Stopped caring about me,” Michael says, and Calum realises it’s supposed to be a correction. 

“No,” he says.

“No?” 

“No.”  

“Did a pretty convincing job of acting like you did.” Michael’s tone is all hard now, diamonds and steel, and it makes Calum flinch a little. Or maybe his words do, Calum’s not quite sure. Or maybe it’s just Michael. 

“Well. Thought I did,” Calum admits, because in fairness, he had. He hadn’t thought about Michael in years, really, had been too busy or too high to let any thoughts of Australia cross his mind, and that had sort of equated to well, I guess I don't care that much anymore, then.

But the fucking state of him now, and the state of him the past three months, should be all the proof Michael could ever want. 

“Right.” Michael’s not convinced. Calum tries a different tack. 

“Who the fuck is Mike?” he says. It makes sense in his head, he thinks, a little drunkenly. I know you, he’s trying to say. Are you still there?

“I am.” 

“You hate being called Mike.” 

“I’m not seventeen anymore.” Michael holds Calum’s gaze with his own hard stare, face carefully blank and guarded, and Calum feels something simultaneously bitter and delicious unfurling in his stomach. He’s not quite sure what Michael’s trying to say with that - I’m not yours anymore, maybe. Calum’s glad he’s drunk enough to pretend he can’t hear it. 

“Why the fuck were you talking to Damon?” Michael asks after a minute, and his tone is still even and calm but he’s given himself away with the question. He doesn’t want Calum to talk to Damon, and he wants to know what was said, and Calum’s stomach flips as he thinks that’s something. There’s a reason he doesn’t want me to talk to Damon. I've just got to find out what that reason is. 

“He talked to me,” Calum says. 

“Why?” 

“Ask him.” Michael’s eyes narrow, but Calum doesn't tear his eyes away, brown searching green. It’s unnerving, he thinks, not to know what’s going on in Michael’s head. It’s unnerving not to know Michael anymore, jars with something deep in his soul, like he should always know Michael and it's wrong like this. 

“Your bandmates are cunts,” Michael says, like he’s testing the waters. “The brothers.” 

“Yeah.” Both pride and guilt swell in Calum’s chest - pride, because those are his fucking best friends, and guilt, because he shouldn’t be talking to Michael. You know where my loyalties lie, he’d said. And they are with his band; he hadn’t been lying, but his loyalties are hidden somewhere in the murky depths of regret and love and unfinished business right now. 

“You don’t care?” 

“They’re my best friends.” Michael raises an eyebrow. 

“For now.” The implication rings loud and clear between them - yeah, until you drop them, just like you dropped me.  

“I’m not seventeen anymore either,” Calum says. I’m better now.  

“Good.” 

They stand in silence for a moment, and Calum shifts his weight from one foot to the other, trying to find a position that he doesn’t feel dizzy and light-headed in, but to no avail. 

“You look drunk,” Michael says. “Thanks,” Calum says, like he doesn’t want to cry. God, he’s too fucking high for this. “I am.” Michael hums, green eyes flitting from Calum’s face to his chest and arms and back again. It’s no different to how girls look at him, how boys look at him - how Noel looks at him, sometimes - but under Michael’s gaze he feels like he’s burning up, like he’s suddenly ten times drunker than he actually is. 

“I liked your set today,” Michael says lowly, like he shouldn’t be saying it. Calum blinks at him. 

“You weren’t there,” he says stupidly. Michael frowns.

“I was,” he says. 

“I didn’t see you,” Calum says, and then feels his eyes widen, because shit. He’s essentially just told Michael he was looking for him. 

“Oh,” Michael says, sounding distant, and Calum thinks he might be sick because Michael knows, knows Calum wanted him to be there. Fuck. Fuck.  

He closes his eyes again, breathes in deeply again, tries to focus on something - anything - that isn’t his churning stomach. 

“Are you alright?” Michael asks, sounding a little curious and a little concerned. 

“Yeah,” Calum manages to get out. 

“You look like you’re going to be sick.”

“Might be.” 

“Oh.” 

Calum sinks to the floor, thinking somewhere in the depths of his mind that sitting on the ground and not throwing up on Michael is better than staying standing but throwing up on Michael, and tries to even out his shaky breathing. In, out, Liam always says, in, out. That’s all you need to do. 

“D’you want some water?” he hears, soft and hesitant, and he cracks open one eye to see Michael crouching at eye-level, looking a little worried and a lot pained, like he doesn’t want to be letting his guard down but just can’t help himself. It makes Calum’s stomach flip, but not unpleasantly. It counterbalances the nausea still swirling in his stomach and throat, settles it a little bit. Fucking typical that Michael's both the poison and the antidote.

“D’you have any?” Calum says, and Michael shakes his head. Calum can’t help the slightly hysterical laugh that bubbles out of him at that, and he puts his head in his hands. 

“What the fuck is this?” he mutters into his fingers, more to himself than to Michael, but he hears a small sigh from his left and knows Michael’s heard anyway. There’s a rustling sound, and then a thump, and Calum’s eyes fly open to see Michael sat next to him, cross-legged, looking a little sad. 

“Water never helped you anyway,” he says, which isn’t at all an answer to what Calum’s just said, but it is, at the same time. I remember you, is what he’s really saying. I remember us. It's a concession, giving Calum something in return for the I was looking for you that his tongue had torn from his heart and offered to Michael. Calum thinks that probably means something, that Michael's admitting he remembers Calum like that, but he's too fucking drunk and high to work it out. 

The words hang between them for a moment, and Calum’s stomach settles a little, and his vision sharpens again. He tries not to think about the fact that Michael's admission  is responsible for the fact that he can focus on Michael now, can see every crease in Michael’s brow, every lash on his eyes, every freckle on his skin. 

“You’re still pretty,” Calum says without thinking, and Michael sits back on his heels, huffing out a laugh that sounds a little surprised. 

“Cheers, mate,” he says, tone unreadable, and stands up again. Calum’s eyes follow him as he goes, tilting his head up to keep his gaze trained on Michael, and Michael stares down at him, making Calum’s heart flutter strangely in his chest as a memory of the last time Michael had been staring down at him from that angle flashes in his mind. He can see it cross Michael’s mind too from the way his lips twist a little, but then it’s gone, and he’s just blinking down at Calum, and holding out a hand. 

Calum looks at it for a moment, looks at the soft, pale skin that doesn’t look at all like it belongs to a fucking guitarist, before his brain registers what Michael’s offering and he reaches out himself with cold, clammy fingers, wrapping his hand around Michael’s. Michael pulls and Calum lets himself be pulled, stumbling to his feet and trying his best not to think about the way Michael’s hand feels against his, like it’s fucking made for him. 

Calum sways for a moment, the room spinning, and he lets go of Michael’s hand to steady himself against the wall, blinking like it’s going to clear his vision. After a few deep breaths, though, it slows down, and Calum feels safe enough to chance looking over at Michael again. He’s still looking at Calum, and now that Calum’s feeling less woozy he can see the glaze of alcohol over his eyes, the glassiness of them, and it makes him feel somewhat more secure. Maybe Michael won’t remember this tomorrow, he thinks, pretending not to notice the edge of wild desperation to the thought. 

They stand in awkward silence for a minute, and then Calum can’t take it anymore, bangs on the door of the toilet, because who the fuck is spending that long in there? 

“Piss off!” he hears someone - Liam, even his drink-and-drug-addled mind can tell - yell. “Some of us are taking fucking drugs in here.” 

“Without me?” Calum yells back. 

“Yeah, fuck off,” Liam shouts, but two seconds later the door clicks open and Liam’s face appears, eyes hooded and pupils blown. 

“Thought you were with the paramedics,” Calum says. Liam blinks at him, and then a second face appears, craning to see over Liam’s shoulder. Noel. 

“We were,” Noel says, grinning toothily. “And now we’re not.” Fucking hell, wasn’t Alan supposed to be keeping an eye on them? Maybe they should have hired a teetotal manager. 

“Well, fucking let me piss, then,” Calum says, making for the door, and Liam steps aside obediently but Noel blocks his path. 

“Give us a kiss,” he says. Calum scoffs, trying to disguise the way his heart’s plummeting, because he can see out of the corner of his eye that Michael’s still fucking there, still standing a few feet away, a little in the shadows, sober enough to realise that making the Gallaghers aware of his presence wouldn’t be a good move. 

“Fuck off,” he says, and tries to shoulder past Noel. The bastard’s stronger than he looks, though, one hand on each side of the doorframe to steady himself. 

“I’ll let you in when you give us a kiss,” he says. 

“I’ll fucking piss on you if you don’t let me in,” Calum counters. Noel just cackles. 

“Don’t you want to kiss your favourite bandmate?” he says, eyes glittering with mirth. Calum scowls at him. 

“Liam, give us a kiss,” he calls. Noel laughs again, bright-eyed and happy, and Liam waltzes over to the door, staggering a little, and presses an exaggerated, sloppy kiss to Calum’s lips. 

“Now let him in, eh?” Liam says imperiously, turning to Noel, and Noel rolls his eyes, but he’s grinning as he steps away from the door. Calum almost trips over himself in his haste to get to the urinal, but, even in his desperate and inebriated state, he can’t help shooting one last look over his shoulder at Michael. He still can’t make his face out, can’t see what he’s thinking, but he hopes that maybe Michael can see what’s going through Calum’s head - sorry, sorry, sorry, even if Calum’s not quite sure what he’s sorry for; the conversation, kissing Liam, the fact he’s getting to piss and Michael isn’t, or everything else. 

“What’s up with you, then?” Noel asks curiously, as Calum rests his forehead against the cool tiles behind the urinal, exhaling shakily. 

“Just drunk,” Calum mutters, closing his eyes. 

“Drunk?” Noel says, a little incredulously. “Off the fucking water they sell here? You'd need about fifty pints. Must be fucking broke, you.” Calum shrugs. 

“Nah,” he hears Liam say from behind him. “‘S the fucking coke, innit? Told you that was quality, didn’t I?” Noel scoffs.

“You wouldn’t know quality coke if it bit you in the arse,” he says derisively. “You’d snort fucking anything.” 

“Aye,” Liam says, “that’s why I know that was quality, that.” 

Calum’s glad for it when they start bickering, voices rising as they start arguing in earnest, because it covers up his unsteady breathing, the way he’s still having to fight back the urge to retch. 

(Privately, he thinks it was neither the coke nor the beer nor even the weed that did it, but Michael.)

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chapter four

[totallypathet]

Episode Six

Okay first of all, massive spoiler warning!!

Snaaaaaaatch gaaaaaaame!!! I love snatch game. It's such a good opportunity to shine, and be hilarious, and show us what you can do! It's also the challenge queens have the most time to prepare for, so it's always interesting to see who actually comes prepared...

Also, the runway this week was incredible! I think it's been the best week so far for runway looks, so many of them were sooooo stunning! Who knew that a Frozen theme would bring out the best of the season so far??

Okay, let's get into the breakdown.

1. Aiden Zhane

Oh my god. I am so so so so so so so so glad to see Aiden finally fucking LEEEEEEAVE. It's been a journey guys, but we got here. I am so excited not to have to see that little black wig anymore. Honestly, there was nothing good about her performance this week. I was actually really excited to see someone do Patricia Quinn, it's cool seeing people do references that I hadn't even thought of and salute older parts of LGBTQ history. The reality, though, made me want to jump off a building. It was sooo cringy and sad. There was nothing Patricia about it, she didn't even bother doing the accent. How are you gonna stand in the work room and say "oh I know her, I had lunch with her" and deliver a performance like that?? And also, every question she was just like "I don't even know where I am am!" And it's like... dementia isn't funny. It was just hard to watch.

Her runway was, I think, the best she's ever looked. The wig was still shaky af, but her makeup was really pretty, and her padding was really good. The dress was lovely, but it wasn't very...creative. It was just a blue dress, and the yeti concept was only done from the neck up. It kind of felt like she went to the competition with just the dress, then she saw what everyone else was putting on and was like "oh damn I've got to make a concept out of this somehow!"

Also that lipsync though... it was like watching Vivienne Pinay and Honey Mahogany again, let's just say that.

Tl;dr: she deserved to go, and I'm glad to see her go.

2. Brita

Brita, Brita, Brita. Still bitter af. All she does is talk shit on other people and like...maybe if you stayed in your lane and focused on what you were doing, you wouldn't be in the bottom all the time? Just a thought. Shes another one where it felt like she just didn't do enough research on her character. It's so disappointing, and kinda inexcusable - you know what's coming, you have so much time to prepare and you still don't bother? I don't care for that kind of attitude. Also if she mentions that she won Entertainer of the Year one more time I'm gonna lose my mind. I don't care that you won it! Show me why you won it! Show me why you deserve to win this! I just haven't seen anything from Brita that I've enjoyed. I'm disappointed and underwhelmed.

Her look on the runway was also a bit underwhelming, it was a pretty gown, but it was almost and exact copy of Eureka's glitter look. That comparison has been made already, but it's true. We've seen it, why would you bring a copy of a gown from just 2 seasons ago? Underwhelming.

Her lipsync was also not that good, but she was against Aiden, so of course she won. Excited to see her go next week though!

3. Crystal Methyd

Whew, Crystal was a rollercoaster this week! Poppy was a really tough choice. I didn't know who she was at all, but I looked up a few videos of her after the episode and now I get what Crystal was going for. She actually did a fairly good job of what she was going for, but it just wasn't the right character for snatch game. We all know RuPaul has very simple humour, anything big, slapstick, edgy, all that stuff. The humour Crystal was going for could have been really funny (if I knew more about Poppy, that's on me), but RuPaul was never going to get it. And also, she was trying to do a robotic character like 2 seats down from Gigi, who was also doing a robotic character and killing it, so that's an extra level of difficulty.

Having said all of that. Crystal. Was the best. On. The. Runway. That outfit was incredible! And her makeup was so stunning! And the hair was perfect with it! She absolutely killed that runway, and I was gagged by it. Crystal has turned out so many looks, and I Love It. That runway 100% saved her from the bottom 2 and I could not be happier about it. So proud of her.

One other thing though, I am so bored of the El DeBarge thing. Move on, Ru. Crystal is far far more than a mullet.

4. Gigi Goode

Gigi is an absolute powerhouse this season. Her choice to play a robot was bold, but I live a queen with confidence. And she was confident, she knew what she was doing, she did her research, and she killed the snatch game. I'm so proud of her. One thing I will say, I swear they called the robot Maria, but I thought that human looking AI robot was called Sophia? Maybe there was a copyright issue. Anyway, her performance was so hilarious! The struggling with the cards, the calling everyone a bitch, the mispronouniation of vagina, I loved it all. She came with references, she came prepared, and I stan.

Her look was really great, but I almost feel like it was a little repetitive? I don't know, I just feel like I wasn't surprised by it. It was cute, it was perfectly fitted, there were really gorgeous little details about it, but it was the shape and style I expected from her. Maybe it's because she's set the bar so high leading up to this point, I was just a bit "meh" with her look this week.

She still fully deserved to win, and she did a fantastic job this week.

4. Heidi N Closet

Heidi also did a good job this week. Her Leslie Jones was a safe performance, she made me laugh, she had the look down, I was not at all mad at it. Was it perfect? No. Was it good? Absolutely. I enjoyed it. I'm glad she didn't do Phaedra Parkes. I really don't enjoy when Ru tries to change their characters in the walk through. They've brought information, and references, and preparation (most of them); and you want them to throw all that away and do someone else just because you think so? No. I will grant that sometimes Ru points them in the right direction when they're choosing between 2 characters - but I don't like when he just pulls a character out of nowhere for them.

Heidi's look was also really great; she was giving me 2018 Met Gala Rihanna but in Winter. Her makeup was stunning, she looked so pretty. The only thing I didn't love was the shoes. I kind of wish she'd just gone for a white or silver pump. The fur was too much for me.

Good week for Heidi, definitely a safe performance, I'm glad for her.

5. Jacki Cox

Jackie 👏 came 👏 prepared 👏 I have never watched Real Housewives of Beverly Hills, I was only vaguely aware of Lisa Rinna nefore the snatch game, but I still found her performance so funny! She looked just like her, she sold me who Lisa Rinna was really quickly, so I was able to laugh at the rest of her jokes. I didn't specifically know Lisa Rinna, but we all know a woman like that, so I could still get the humour. I might not have caught all the references, but it was still funny. That's how you play snatch game. You need to be able to make people laugh even if they don't know who you're actually portraying. I absolutely loved Jackie this week.

Her runway look was also stunning! I loved the snowflake, I loved her makeup, and I adored her hair. Jackie is so good at serving something so different every week but still sticking to her brand and her signature. I love Jackie.

6. Jaida Essence Hall

Jaida's Cardi B was really good! She looked just like her, sounded just like her, had her humour down... absolutely solid performance from Jaida.

Her look this week was also soooo beautiful! She's such am absolutely stunning queen, her makeup skills are incredible, she knows her body, she knows what suits her, and she rocks it every week.

The only thing for me with Jaida is I feel almost a little...disconnected from her. I just don't feel like I've seen the vulnerability from her like we've seen from Heidi, or Jackie. And that doesn't mean I want her to tell some horrific story from childhood, I just mean that when we see her she's always on, yknow? And I get that it's a tv show, and a competition show at that; I just wish we could see her humanity a little bit. Having said that, I totally get that queens of colour (and particularly black queens) get so much hatred from the drag race fandom, and I completely understand that it would be difficult to open up and be vulnerable after seeing what other black queens have been through during and after the show.

Nevertheless, she is utterly incredible and so deserving of a top spot. She's a real contender for winner of season 12.

7. Jan

I love Jan. I love her so much. Shes so excited to be there, she's working so hard, and I appreciate it so much. Her Bernadette Peters was not great. Or maybe it was, I have no idea who she is. And she didn't sell me, like Jackie did. It was kind of a shame. I feel like Jan has the talent to have done almost anyone, and she just picked someone that I feel like took too much explaining. Still a solid performance - for me she was on a level with Heidi. Solid performance, solid runway, good week.

I did like Jan's runway look more than Heidi's though, I loved the concept. Jan is another one who has pulled out something very different every week, but still stays distinctly Jan. I love her makeup as well! Jan doesn't get enough recognition for her makeup skills, she's really talented, she paints beautiful faces, and is not afraid to get artistic and high fashion.

8. Widow Von Du

I love Widow so much, but everything she did this week was just slightly off. I thought her Ike & Tina performance was actually a bit of a shame, I think she focused too much on having a gimmick that her performance suffered. The thing about switching characters in snatch game is that both characters have to be really good (and equally good), otherwise it just feels a little messy. Her performances just weren't quite there this week. I wish she'd just picked one and spent a little more time perfecting it.

Her runway also wasn't quite there. I loved the concept, she did something so different from everyone else, and I love when queens pull off a standout look. Her makeup and the ice on her face was also incredible, she honestly has the most beautiful face. I just wish that dress had hit the floor. I wish the skirt had been a little more full (maybe more petticoats?), and it had hit the floor. Widow does have this awful habit of wearing ugly shoes - and if the gowns hit the floor it just wouldn't matter. It was a shame.

Still a solid week and a decent performance, don't get me wrong; I just keep wishing for her to really pull it out and succeed, and she's just slightly missing the mark for me at the moment.

Okay, now I'm gonna say something kind of controversial about this season; I wish Jan, Jackie, and Widow weren't on it. I wish they were on next season. I'm saying that because I think they're all so incredible, and I think they all could potentially win a season - if they weren't on with Gigi Goode and Sh***y P**. Gigi has been so unstoppable, and I love her, but she's kind of overpowering, and I really want to see someone other than her (or Sh***y P**) win a challenge. I mean, it's no secret that Sh***y P** was pre selected to be top 4, and this season has been geared towards her, so of course she's been winning challenges. It just has almost become like a 2 person competition, and it's a shame! Because there's so many other queens who deserve wins, and deserve recognition, and they're not getting it because the top 2 is like always those 2. I'm not mad at Gigi, bc she's slaying the competition and she's working really hard; I just feel like there's been seasons where Jackie, Jan, or Widow would have absolutely killed it and won, but this season they're just not getting the recognition they deserve. Just my opinion!

[watchoutforthefanfics]

Request

For @weird-is-my-middle-name-i-swear

Logince // "I thought I was going to lose you."

(I chose Logince because I love writing some angsty Logan.)

Buckle up, buttercups. I was crying at 2:40 in the morning finishing this. I'm sorry in advance, it does have a happy ending though.

TW: "Death" mention, car-crash mention, panic attack, essentially griefing, pretty heavy angst.

Logan was unfocused, his mind hazily reading over the crisp pages in the brisk daylight of the afternoon.

Roman had gone off that morning, he had went to go out and grab some groceries and some art supplies; Logan had wanted to come with, but Roman --for some reason-- had insisted on his boyfriend staying home.

However, he wasn't upset about it; Logan respected his choice (although it was confusing as to why he seemed so defensive) because he wanted to get caught up on his new book series anyway.

So he stayed home, the quiet hum of a documentary in the back of his head; just until it wasn't a soothing voice talking about nature's food pyramid anymore.

Logan flinched at the distant sound of sirens, aimlessly grabbing at the remote to turn it off; which took longer than he expected.

Just as soon as he grabbed the remote, the voice caught in his head with a familiar street; "-this morning, a tragic car crash on Lakens Drive just on the way downtown has been reported-"

Logan, had a little bit of fear in his stomach and the thoughts were making it climb into his throat.

"L-Lakens Drive-" he muttered to himself, trying to remember it's familiarity, trying to remember where it was.

It was the road that connected their house to 'Ally's', the discount grocery store Roman had gone to.

Logan sat up, the book forgotten in his mind as it fell onto the couch, his hand eagerly turning up the volume.

The view was devastating, as the woman continued explaining, "As you can see, the car was struck in the third lane and flipped reportedly three times into a ditch just off the side of the road."

Logan was trying so desperately to see the car, trying so desperately to see something he didn't recognize; everything was unclear. He found himself begging the woman to speak, to tell him, to tell him what had happened.

To tell him that it wasn't Roman.

"News of this story is flooding in as we air-" the woman spoke with a pained voice, as there was a deep regret in her eyes, "-the car, although too damaged to view it's original color, has been confirmed to be-"

Logan clenched his fists, his chest beginning to heave, "Not a 2018 Lexus RX, not a 2018 Lexus RX, not a 2018 Lex-"

"-a 2018 Lexus RX. It's inhabitants are still unclear, and the police have yet to release a report-"

He could feel his mind crumble, the only thing keeping him steady was a broken hope that it wasn't Roman, because it couldn't be. Right?

Roman wouldn't- Roman couldn't die going out and getting groceries, the probability of that was so minimal; he couldn't believe he was thinking about such small statisti-

"This just in," the woman grimaced, "-the driver of the Lexus is an unidentified male guessed to be in his mid-to-late 20s, and is currently on life support at Lynidor Hospital."

Logan felt a lump in his throat, his body jerking and hands shaking; he felt like he was going to throw up.

It wasn't possible, it wasn't possible, Roman wasn't, he couldn't be-

Logan's vision began to blur and the lights seemed so bright, he could hardly feel the carpet under his toes; the carpet Roman got as a housewarming gift the first day they met.

With shaking hands, he ransacked his pockets and yanked his phone out, clicking on his contact and hoping deep, deep in his chest that everything was okay that he'd hear his stupid, arrogant voice over the phone.

It was sent to voicemail, as Logan scrambled to do it again, "Maybe, he-he just didn't see it."

And yet again, he was greeted with the oddly pleasant but eerie, "Hello there, you've reached THE Roman Elliott's cellphone! Sorry, I couldn't get to you, I'm either working on the newest success or wooing my beloved. Leave a voicemail at the tone, and I will get back to you... eventually."

Logan's fingers lead the way, as he kept calling; like his mind was so numb and it was all he remember how to do. His breathing was deep sighs that he couldn't get back from and his heart felt like it was ripped out of his chest.

He slowly sunk to the floor, holding himself with his open arm; he couldn't breathe, he couldn't see, and his life wasn't functioning without Roman.

He couldn't function without Roman.

But he had to calm down, because all of these overwhelming feelings of his heart racing and his mind plummeting; he... needed someone with a clear head.

"L? Do you know how early it i-" a groggy voice echoed into his ear, a taste of bitterness in his tone.

Logan interrupted, holding back a strangled sob, "Virgil, Roman... isn't answering his phone."

"Woah, Logan, are you crying? What's going on? Do you want Patton and I to come over until he gets back or-" Virgil rambled, obviously not used to Logan being the one crying.

"It... It was a 2018 Lexus RX, Virgil-" Logan said breathily, his heart pounding and his brain frozen he couldn't think, he couldn't remember how to speak, "-o-on Lakens Drive and Roman had went to get bread --bread for my stupid Crofters toast-- and he isn't responding to me, I-"

Virgil was calm, his tone confused, "L, slow down. I can't understand you. Here, I'll put you on speaker, but you need to breathe with me, alright? 4, 7, 8."

Logan's breaths shook, and they weren't stable and he keep messing up- but Virgil was there for him; restarting the count like nothing had happened.

And finally after enough time had passed and Logan could speak, he did so, simply and straight to the point, "Turn on channel 6."

The two males on the other line, did so, he could hear the sirens through the phone and the silence that swallowed him whole was all he needed to feel. They knew the implications.

"Roman... H-He went to get bread, for toast, and he isn't answering my calls. And I..." Logan swallowed, "-I don't know what to do."

Patton let a desperate, raspy tone escape his lips, "Y-You don't think-"

Virgil was silent, the kinda silence that pierced Logan, another pain and hurt to add to his thousands; he was... frozen, like it hadn't happened and like his heart was still in tac.

He... He wanted to be with Roman forever, he realized it then, on the carpet that felt like clouds; he realized that he had missed out on so much. He realized he wanted the cliche pageantry just to see Roman in a gorgeous gown, and to love him until the end of time.

He wouldn't mind doing anything for Roman.

"Logan," Virgil spoke, careful but determined, "-we don't know it was him. And we need to have hope until we know it isn't, it isn't... logical to assume it-"

Nothing was logical with Roman; not with the first day he met him, not with the feelings he got when he brought him coffee every morning, not when he sowed him a scarf out of the softest fabric he could find, and not when he had taken him to the citiy's biggest library as their first date.

"Y-You're right, Virgil-" Logan began shakily, as his heart mended just a little bit at the idea of hope, "-I'm going to call him one more time, and if he doesn't answer..."

It was remorseful on both sides on the phone, "I will get in touch with the police."

Logan was quick to hang up, a sob breaking through his body; he needed to cry, like a body-racking sob before he could face it again.

But, he got the courage, taking the phone in his hands as he gently pressed on his contact, bracing himself for whatever was to come.

He didn't expect it to answer with the next few seconds, nor did he expect the line to be filled with distant chatter, like other people.

And Logan, with one last breath of hope, asked with a broken voice and stifled heart, "R-Roman?"

It was quiet for a moment, like the distant talking had halted in shock, maybe? And it took more than just a few seconds for a voice to answer back, flooded with concern and immediate curiousity.

"Logan? Is everything alright? You had called me three times, and I thought something was wro-"

Logan sobbed, a desperate sob that reached through his soul and back; his voice just stitched his heart and all the nonsensical pain.

"Hey, Logan, honey. I'm coming home-" Roman sighed, concern evident in his voice, "-okay, sweetheart?"

"D-Don't hang up on me-" Logan spoke, in a strangled sob, "-please."

"Never, bee-" Roman hummed, "I'll just hook you up to bluetooth. So, that I'm safe alright?"

Logan sniffled, tears flowing freely down his cheeks again; God, he felt so much better, but worst at the same time.

Roman did most of the talking, just chatting about everything; things he found at Michael's, about his new projects, and about a girl named Tiffany who had given him a weird look when he said 'boyfriend' (to which he raided the Pride merch in Hot Topic and wore it around the rest of the visit).

"I love you, Roman," Logan spoke with as stuffy nose and not a single moment of hesitation.

Roman obviously still a little concerned, but he didn't second guess it, "I love you too, Logan."

Roman started up again, this time about old memories and distance dates and quiet nights and days that Logan could remember so vividly. Just until Roman said he had arrived, and after making sure it was okay about 20 times, he hung up.

Shooting Virgil a text, Logan felt a rest deep within his chest and he felt the pain fade just as he did with Roman's voice.

He didn't move, he couldn't, everything was just so numb and hurt and sore; he had thought Roman was dead, he had thought the love of his life was gone forever. He couldn't just recover.

Then, the door opened and slowly and carefully; Roman was safely back into the house. The feeling of relief that drenched him whole, was so liberating that he began crying again, just a few silent tears running down his cheeks as his fingertips ached to grab onto Roman and never let go again.

"Sweetheart?" Roman spoke, "What happene-"

The tv was just loud enough to gain his attention, his warm brown eyes locked onto a familiar screen with a familiar car and a single tag: One Dead In Tragic Crash.

Roman, slowly walking to his boyfriend as held out his arms, spoke calmly and sympathetically, "Oh, Logan."

Logan desperately latched onto his boyfriend, his hands gripping at his shirt, feeling his heartbeat deep in his chest, and feeling the fall of his chest: he was breathing, he was alive.

His hands wrapping around his boyfriend, he sobbed into his shoulder, "I thought I was going to lose you."

Roman, biting back tears, spoke soft and careful, "I know, I know, baby. I'm here, and I'm never leaving again."

And if there was a velvet box tucked away in a pocket, now was not the time to deal with it.

Because all Logan needed was Roman, and Roman didn't think there would ever be a day he didn't need Logan.