#close to nothing of substance since september

[mitamicah]

This christmas continues draining all joy out of me leaving me feeling lazy, uninspired, dysphoric, envious and self-loathing all at once.

I just want to not be bored and tired and hate my guts.

Please, just for one minute.

[schnee-gheist]

"Audio Log 14 within residence of FentonWorks, September 14, 20##. "

"3 days ago, at 24:06, I was awoken by a loud screech resonating from beneath me. It seemed Jasmine had as well, for I followed her into the laboratory that takes place in the Fentons basement. Before I was able to see the situation myself, Jasmine had called out Daniel's name, and seemed to approach what was a green glow ruminating from further within the laboratory. As I reached the bottom of the stairwell, the scene before me was quite atrocious.”

"The ghost portal was somehow re-activated, and half the lab was covered in Genlock. I barely had any time to react before Jasmine had begun to dredge into the Genlock without any protective equipment! She lost consciousness soon after, and I was able to drag her away from the substance with minimal contact myself.”

"I immediately started cleaning the wounds and removing the Genlock from her open burns, stabilizing her before calling for Maddie and that bumbling oaf-"

A scatter of papers is heard, rustling together before a rough sigh lightly echoes in the surrounding area.

"My apologies, a respectable individual - and Maddie, had come down and helped clean up the excess Genlock. They were very concerned about what had happened, but I could only describe what I'd experienced myself."

An audible pause, and shaky breath.

"With the exception of just who Jasmine had called for. I would rather not have them be reminded and relapse into their depressive episode once more."

"It took quite a while for Jasmine to regain consciousness. There was no worry for her life; however, Maddie believed in my ability to keep Jasmine stabilized."

"When she did, I was the only one inside the room. She seemed just as panicked as she was the night prior, and asked me where Daniel was. I told her that Daniel was still missing, and that she likely imagined whatever she had seen. Jasmine seemed to attempt to retort my statement, but remained quiet. She has not talked since."

"I have just helped her into her room after applying bandages on the wounds, as well as compression sleeves to help keep them together and firm. The burns themselves were very deep, most likely fourth degree, so physiotherapy and struggle with using her arms is expected. Her hands did not make contact with Genlock. The little things in life, I suppose."

A pause in the recording is heard once more. A steady hum is heard in the background, originally unheard over the words said in the recording.

"I don't know what Jasmine saw. I doubt it really was Daniel. He hasn't been seen in such a long time, and all emergency forms of communication have been dead silence. I will say again that I did indeed hear the original scream that started all of this, but it didn't sound human or Halfa in the slightest."

"My personal theory is for him to have stupidly wandered into a static portal, and got lost within its dimension. And with how that Demon told me of the terrible things in that violent expanse,"

A tremulous exhale.

"I doubt Daniel survived."

"Daniel’s 'friends’ have not yet been notified of this recent event. I myself did not have time to record its happening until now. The portal has been safely closed and had not been tested just yet."

A spinning chair is heard squeaking across the floor, as light footsteps are heard landing on solid tile.

" I personally volunteered to help Jasmine with her movement and health in the time being, so I suppose I should check in with her now. This audio recording is over."

A click is heard, then nothing else.

[mads198-9]

The Alcott

POV: the WIP made it out of the google drive

Summary: “If he’s a serial killer then what’s the worst that could happen to a girl that’s already hurt?” - Lana Del Rey

Warnings: None really, some explicit language though. Just some fluffy angsty dialogue to either help you sleep or keep you up at night. This is my first time writing for Joel (and practically ever) so I apologize if it isn’t Hemingway-esque. This is not edited but I hope you enjoy it nonetheless. I’m debating a smutty pt. 2 😗

@amydunnewithmen (where the delulus run wild)

————————————————————————

3 minutes.

It had taken Joel all of 3 minutes to set fire to a year of your life. A year of longing, patience, resentment, guilt and every ounce of shame that Joel had clutched to his chest since September 26th, 2003. 

It took you over two decades to find an ounce of peace. A place to, finally, let yourself breathe. To close your eyes out of comfort rather than necessity. You’d barely crawled out of the last city you scavenged. A metropolis that fell into a desolate isle. All you’d ever known of people was the way they’d looked with fungi crawling through their veins and seeping out of their orifices. Never a true person. The closest you’d come to other conscious humans were those who had already abandoned their humanity for the sake of surviving. What they didn't realize was that for them to live, they had to give up everything they’d ever lived for. You didn’t consider these men to be ‘people’. 

Looking at your facilities it was nothing short of a miracle, it was a miracle that you’d found Jackson. A single woman dragging her depleted muscles through feats of snow, a trail of blood broadcasting your vulnerability to anything within a mile’s radius. 

You don’t remember how you’d found it but you remember your pleas. Your claw marks on Jackson’s fortifying wall. You fell to the ground the moment they’d opened the gates. Almost relieved to have had a gun pointed at your head, because at least it was a person. Someone to end your suffering. You didn’t care in what way. A saviour in the form of a man nonetheless, one you’d come to know as Tommy. Tommy Miller. 

He was how you’d found Joel. How Joel found you. 

It was Tommy who’d found what was left of you, Maria who had housed you, but Joel who’d really saved you. 

-

It started pure. For you at least. 

The first you saw of Jackson’s newest constituent was his and Tommy’s embrace. Maybe that’s why you were never scared. Not of him, not of what he'd done, because you saw the best of what he could do. His reason for all that he had done. Family. 

You hadn’t felt your heart stop in ages. Up until him, fear was the only thing that had the power to constrict your chest. 

No words were spoken between the two of you for months. As the Tipsy Bison’s bartender you were the loosener of lips. An observer by nature, a listener by force, a tolerator of none. His drink order spoke for him those first few months.

Whiskey. Neat. No ice to dull its sting. A welcomed burn to the back of his throat but he sipped it like water. Years of practice of not only enduring pain, but learning to think he’d deserved it.  

It was the first thing of substance you’d ever said to him. Your words numbing him like the whiskey in his glass. It took two minutes of silence for him to scrape the floor of the bison with his barstool and drag his ass out of the bar. 

You blew it. Or so you’d thought. If anything, you had initiated what would be the most painful and pleasurable experience of your life. One that brought you to your knees in more ways than one. It felt stronger than any romantic pull you’d experienced. Every pace further from him began to hurt. A religion. 

- 

From that moment on Joel thought about more than just the glances you’d given. Your perception of him wasn’t wrong in the slightest but it gave him something new to think about. To dwell on and give his fist motivation when the house was silent and his needs too great. 

-

Months of simmering tension and lenghtneing conversations that tugged the corner of his lips up led you to what would become your favourite place. The eventual route of all your pain. 

His arms.

Before the age of 25 you’d experienced every horror the world had to offer. You’d spent your life running, burning the memories of your old life with every fire you’d lit to warm your skin. All while everything within you froze with time. You’d never had a moment to explore your thoughts let alone your body.

Joel was the first. In every way imaginable.

Even in heartbreak. 

-

In all of Jackson, Tommy was the one to know Joel best. He’d seen the colour come to his brother’s cheeks at the mere mention of your name and he’d seen the way his eyes bored holes into those who gave the two of you suggestive looks in public. 

The jealousy of the men who thought they had a right to fuck you and the envy of the women you ‘stole’ Joel from. The looks of outrage that painted the churchgoers faces chipped away at his resolve every time the two of you were together and only reinforced his shame. 

Echoed his anxieties of whether or not he was ‘too old’ for you. Too destructive to be around such innocence. Too hardened by his years alone. How your presumed father issues were the only thing that drew you to him.  

The hunter’s voices won out in the end because he lost you, at the alcott. 

The last thing he wanted, he’d done to you. 

-

You’d once loved it here. The Alcott. A space delegated to the books that once littered the halls of the ravaged homes across Wyoming. A place that Maria saw as a solution to your lack of a purpose. 

Even after everything, you can’t imagine leaving. 

You hadn’t left in the weeks since Joel drove a knife through your chest. Weeks you spent curled up in the back of the shop, surrounded by books, their pages riddled with love stories and sonnets, ridiculing you with their happy endings. 

Draped in the flannel he’d long left, finding yourself relating to it. At first glance, an abandoned piece of cloth, but you saw it as much more. It was something he no longer had use for. Something he chose to leave. A landmine of memories. Its scent sending you into a spiral with every inhale. 

-

It took less than a day for his resolve to crack and less than twelve hours for Ellie to tell him that he’d been a dick and only six for Tommy to see the change in him. For once in his life Joel Miller was cold. The left side of his bed that once held you now held the weight of your pain, his loss. The shattered look in your eyes as he’d told you to move on painted itself to the backs of his eyelids. His own voice haunting him, telling you to find yourself outside of who you are with him. That he’s too old for you. That you were only a kid and no matter how bad the world had gotten he wouldn’t take advantage of that. 

What he didn’t know was that the time spent with him made you feel like a woman, not the solitary girl everyone else saw you for. The days spent with his lips against you were the only times in which you’d believed that your skin was your own.

But he didn’t realize that, or did not let himself because he was bad. For all intensive purposes Joel Miller was a serial killer. A lethal weapon. Nothing that could provide you with the warmth you sought. The warmth he knew you deserved. And god did he want to be the one to give it to you. Joel had spent the last twenty years of his life preserving life, not experiencing it.  Hell he still was, patrolling the outskirts of Jackson four times a week. This time taking the long way home just to pass by your house. It was as he expected, as much as he’d kicked himself he knew you, craved you, understood you. So it was no surprise to see no light coming from your house. No noise either. At first he panicked. His mind his own greatest enemy in how it conjured up a thousand scenarios of you leaving Jackson, all ending with your heart stopped and skin blue. 

Where on god’s green earth could you have gone. Where you’d never left.

The Alcott. 

-

You hadn’t heard him come in.

“You're still here.”

Questioning you in his thick southern drawl, draping across his words like honey. Damn it. Damn him for still making you blush. 

His presence isn’t what startled you, it was the fact that it was Joel. Your Joel, now just Joel. 

“I never left.”

He regretted everything he’d ever done to you the second he saw your wide eyes boring into his own. Glossed over in every shade of pain.

He didn’t have to ask why, he was sure he knew, but he asked anyway. Never a man to stumble over his words he could barely get two syllables out. 

Looking down to his shifting feet then back to you he asked you what he already knew. 

“Why?”

“Because I love this place. What used to feel like our house. Even if it’s cursed now.”

He thought his heart would start screaming with the way it was beating. 

“I, uh” clears his throat “I didn't want to darken y’doorstep. Anymore than I already have I’spose.”  

“Funny. I’ve had the lights off since you left.”

You practically slurred your words. What was left of you both had been draining you emotionally, in only the 2 minutes he’d been here. 

“So… I, uh. I was g’nna ask ya, how’ve ya been?”

Your laugh was as dry as the Texas heat Joel had come from. But less familiar. 

“Why are you really here Joel? You’ve always been shit at small talk, didn’t suppose that changed in the last week.”

“Jesus” A week? “Feels like a lifetime since the last time I saw ya.”

“Funny how a ‘lifetime’ is what seemed to be between us. Different generations and all that bull shit.”

“Look kid -”

“No. Don’t you dare call me ‘kid’. Don’t make me feel smaller than I already am. Those people out there may have beaten you into submission but I am an adult! I’ve been one since I saw my first infected. I’ve been on my own, and just fucking fine, without anybody since I was a so-called kid so I dont want to hear another god damn word! You and everybody else think I can’t so much as cross the street without holding your hand but I've done more than that with less.

You know I survived on my own.

Before you.

And if it’s up to you, I will after, but I don’t want to.

For the first time in my life I got something I wanted, needed, and I don’t want to give it up. 

You.

Ellie.

Tommy, Maria, the baby.

Jackson.

Living.

It’s more than surviving.

But apparently not to you.”

“That is not true.”

You didn’t realise you’d stood up until you could feel the heat radiating off of Joel, his flannel, everything.  

“Then what is huh? I was a quick fuck. The first wet thing you’d felt in twenty years or what?”

You were yelling at this point and Joel hadn’t moved an inch. Not giving you anything. Not even a response except for the pinching between his brows. And it was killing you. 

“You know it wasn’t like that -”

“Then what the FUCK was it if. not. real?!” Emphasizing each word with a pound to his firm chest. 

Nothing you said from then on was comprehensible. Just sobs ripping from your chest as you threw your weight into him. Sinking into the floor, dragging him down with you. 

His arms shooting out from his sides to enrapture you the second he felt your knees buckle and tears flow. Pulling you into his lap as your body shuddered. Immediately finding the crook of his neck. Inhaling him again. Finally, you couldn’t tell if it made you cry more or less but all you could notice was Joel. All you could feel, hear and smell was Joel. The smell of firewood dotting his skin mixed with the old spice soap he’d managed to scavenge on last week’s patrol. The feeling of giving into his arms again, coming home, and the sound of him cooing, and sniffling? 

He’d lost it. Thought he’d lost you and that was his breaking point. Feeling his own tears seep into your hair you knew it was real. You knew he meant everything he’d said back then. Back before Jackson got to him. Before he’d let his own mind turn on him. And as much as it’d hurt then, it felt good now.

“Shhh, shhh.

I gotcha baby. I know, oh I know. More than you could imagine.”

“Please, please, please.”

Holding your face, and your heart, in his calloused palms he looked you in the eye.

“Please what, baby?”

Looking like a doe at his doorstep, your crumpled frame fitting perfectly within the confines of his lap.

“Please don’t leave. Please stay. I tried, I tried so hard to be good to you, for you.”

“Oh honey, you were,

fuck - you are baby. 

The best I’ll ever get, all I ever want.

I’m not leaving baby girl. 

Never. 

Even if you ask me to, I’m not going anywhere.”

And this time, he didn’t.

————————————————————————

This sounded so much better in my head -

W o w

I actually wrote something… hot damn.

I’m debating a second part?? of smut??

[maladaptivewriting86]

Welcome Home - September Ch1

Eddie Munson x Reader, friends to lovers, slow burn

Also posted on ao3! This is part 1!

Summary: Reader has moved to a new city/state every few months since she was born. She shows up to Hawkins in '85 having to repeat her senior year after learning nothing last year due to changing schools 3 times.

Eddie is repeating his senior year as well, lucky for him. He meets reader in class two weeks into the year and is immediately drawn to her due to her I-don't-care attitude and her Metallica t-shirt.

The two hang out often, studying, drinking, smoking, and healing their respective traumas. But how long does reader have before her dad announces that they're packing up and leaving Hawkins forever, leaving Eddie and the new friends she's made behind forever?

Reader uses she/her pronouns but is non-binary. The term didn't exist in the 80s so she describes it as "I'm only vaguely a girl, you shouldn't really think of me as one."

Reader is AFAB, there will be references to anatomy (smut), but for the most part, she's not really "girly".

AU, the upside down doesn't exist, Eleven and Will aren't mentioned (sorry).

CW for this chapter: mentions of parents with substance abuse issues

AN: This is absolutely just self-insert for me but I really like it and maybe it will be relatable to a small number of people or just entertaining, I don't know. But thanks for reading either way!

I'm planning on each chapter being somewhere between a day to a week of in-story time. Some might be super long and others kinda short, I'm not sure. This is my very first work that I've ever written so I have no idea how its going to work. Each month will have its own chapters (all contained here in this one work) and the story will just kinda flow through the months that reader is in Hawkins. Bear with me, this all might change at some point haha. I have a lot of ideas though as this is literally just my maladaptive daydreams put to paper. Eddie makes my brain melt. Enjoy!

Walking out of the school office with your class schedule in your hand you sigh, taking in the new surroundings once again. This is the eighth high school you've been to in the past four years, and the second time you've been a senior in one of them. After moving three times last year and missing so much of your first senior year, you had to start from scratch in a new school, Hawkins High. Pretty boring to name a school after the city, but you've seen it done so many times that you don't give a shit anymore. Just as long as this is your last one.

The receptionist in the office had pointed you in the direction of your assigned locker and handed you a sticky note with the combination on it. Memorizing the numbers on the gross-yellow paper, you head in the direction she told you to go. 982, 983, 984, 985... 986. That was yours. You stop in front of it and rest your head on the door as you look down and turn the lock in the correct order. You had no faith that this year would be your last, you already accepted that if you couldn't finish high school on your second attempt, then you would just drop out and figure out what to do after that. School is fucking tiring.

The bell rang to signal change of classes and students began to flood the hall. Already missed the first period and study hall, off to a great start. As you pop the lock open and step back a little to open the door, a solid body slams into your side and a book goes sliding down the corridor.

"Hey, watch it freak!" The body yells at you.

You turn to look at who just walked into you. It was a girl with platinum blonde hair in a super high ponytail; a cheerleader uniform; and her tits on full display, absolutely breaking the dress code.

"Sorry, didn't realize you liked to walk with your eyes closed." You grumbled as you rolled your eyes and turned back to your locker, beginning to unload your binders from your bag. She walked into you , that was definitely not your fault.

"What?" She snapped. She took a few steps to the side so that she was right next to you continuing to stare at the side of your face, and at your Metallica shirt, and your ripped black jeans, and dirty shoes. She instantly clocked you as someone who was beneath her so she narrowed her eyes and gave a sickening smile. "Ohhhh... great, another freak to join the freakshow. Just watch yourself okay? And don't get dirt on my uniform." She accented the last line by wiping down the front of her skirt with her hands aggressively a few times before stepping away and bounding down the corridor with her group of friends who looked identical to her, ponytails swishing in unison as they walked. One of them stopped to pick up the book that was dropped and handed it back to who you assume was their leader. All five of them turned to sneer at you before continuing on their way.

"I fucking hate cheerleaders." You thought to yourself as you closed your locker and looked at your schedule again. Your second class was English. An easy enough class, after a bit of a rough start in the hall.

As you entered your classroom you made your way to the desk at the front where the teacher was sitting.

"Hi, I'm y/n. I'm new, I just moved here yesterday and I was told to introduce myself to my teachers when I got to class so... hi." You said quietly to your new English teacher.

"Well hi! I'm Ms. Davies, it's nice to meet you. I'll write your name into the class list. Can I see your schedule?" She seemed way too smiley and chipper for your liking, but at least she didn't seem like she was going to be a hard-ass.

You handed her your schedule and she nodded and confirmed that you were in the right class. She copied your name down on her attendance list and then stood up, handing back your schedule.

"Please don't-" before you could ask her not to, she began announcing your name and welcoming you to the class.

"We have a new student today! Y/fn. Everyone please be kind, she'll be a little bit behind as we've already gotten through two weeks of curriculum but I'm sure she'll catch up quickly!" Smiling, probably very proud of herself for embarrassing you, she turned to you and pointed to an empty pair of seats at the back of the class. "You can take a seat back there... I would say 'next to Mister Munson' but it seems that he won't be joining us again-" just as she said that, a boy with long, curly, brown hair, a denim jacket adorned with pins and patches, ripped jeans, and absolutely no school supplies walked into the class. "Well, never mind. Here he is." She said, a little surprised by this guy's sudden appearance.

Keeping your head down to avoid the stares that you were most certainly receiving, you made your way to the back of the class and sat down in one of the seats Ms. Davies had pointed to.

The long haired boy's eyes hadn't left you since he walked through the door. He also made his way to his seat and sat down just slightly after you. "Metallica fan eh?" He said, nodding to the t-shirt you were wearing.

"Yeah." You said, a little more blunt than you meant for it to sound. "One of my favorites." You added, noting that most of the decor on his vest were metal bands.

"You've got good taste." He crossed his arms and leaned back in his chair, clearly not intending to pay attention to the class.

"Thank you." You said, honestly. "You seem to as well," pointing at one of his pins, you said "Judas Priest is pretty good too."

The boy beamed. He was honestly really cute, especially when he smiled and his dimples were on full display. He squeezed his crossed arms tighter and wiggled a little, obviously a little giddy, and leaned over to you a bit "I like you. I think I'm going to annoy you for the rest of the year." He said with a sort-of-joking-sort-of-not tone.

You let out a soft laugh and smiled back at him. "Sounds good." You replied, somewhat sarcastically, though you also weren't going to say no to gaining a friend immediately. Especially one who seemed to have the same taste as you. 

He extended one of his hands toward you, intending for you to shake it. "My name’s Eddie." He introduced himself smoothly, his name sounded so royal leaving his tongue.

"I'm y/n." You replied, shaking his hand gently. His fingertips were a little rough, he probably played guitar. "I guess you missed when my name was announced to the world by Ms. Davies up there." You let go of his hand and gestured lightly up to the front of the room where Ms. Davies was writing something on the board. Something you're already not learning.

"I did miss that, unfortunately. I'm sure it wasn’t embarrassing at all and everyone was all 'hi y/n! Welcome to Hawkins High! We hope you have a wonderful time here! Go Tigers!'" He raised the pitch of his voice when he imitated the students, making you laugh a little harder than before.

"That's absolutely horrifying! You make them sound like a cult! I'm glad they didn't say that to me, I think I would've walked right out the door and never came back!"

"I think anyone would!" He chuckled. He looked very pleased with himself that he made you laugh as he leaned back in his chair, arms crossed again, but still smiling wide.

As the two of you settled into comfortable silence, you took your notebook out of your bag and attempted to take notes on… MooBath ? With the fantastic mixture of Ms. Davies’ terrible writing, your terrible eyesight, and your lack of glasses, the board at the front of the room was nearly unreadable from where you were sitting. Squinting your eyes and leaning forward you could make out that it was actually MacBeth that she was teaching, not something a cow would say while getting cleaned.

“Forgot your glasses at home?” Eddie asked softly. 

“No, I don't have any. Can't afford them.” You said simply, trying not to make a big deal over the fact that your parents didn't care enough about you to spend less money on their addictions so they could actually take care of their child. 

“Oh. Well that sucks. You should sit closer to the front then.” He said, like it wasn't the most obvious solution. 

You laughed lightly, “I would've but this was the only seat open and I doubt anyone would be kind enough to move just for me.” You looked back at him, he looked very comfortable leaning back in his chair, his eyes still fixed on you. 

“Don't ask ‘em then. Just sit. We don't have assigned seating so you can sit wherever you want.” He shrugged and leaned forward, putting his crossed arms on the desk. “Plus it would be fun to see the cheerleaders whine about not getting their way.” A somewhat devious smile spread across his face. 

“We'll see.” You said with a small smile, turning your attention back to the teacher. You decided that after missing the first half of the lesson you should at least try to take notes from just her voice alone. It was a struggle, she talked very fast and went on plenty of tangents that didn't have much to do with the subject matter. By the end of the class, you had about a page and a half of notes that you were only 60% confident in being correct and a bit of a headache from squinting at the board. 

The bell finally rang while Ms. Davies was mid-sentence. It startled her a bit but she dismissed you all and wished everyone a good rest of the day. On to lunch!

As you packed up your things and exited the classroom, Eddie stuck right by you chattering away. “Hey you should come sit with me and my friends for lunch! You'll fit right in! They're metal fans too!” He seemed to have a ton more energy than he did in class for some reason, or maybe he was quiet on purpose so that you could try to take notes. 

Stopping at your locker to exchange your books for your lunch, you smiled at him “Okay, I'd love to.” Why not? Worst that could happen is they hate you and you spend your time at another school completely alone. Best case? You gain some friends for a bit, until you have to pack up and move to another town in a month or two. 

You could feel that Eddie was practically vibrating as he led you to the cafeteria, eager to introduce you to his friends. He kept his hand on your shoulder like he was afraid you'd run away or get lost on the short journey. Approaching the long lunch table he waved his hand toward a few younger boys on the left, probably freshmen or juniors, and ordered them to “Scoot!”. They looked at him like he asked them to sacrifice themselves. “I said scoot!” He repeated, now using both hands to usher them all down one seat. 

“Well, you don't have to-” you tried to stop the disruption of their natural seating but Eddie just waved at you stating “They're fine. Have a seat!” He beamed once again when you took your seat, every single boy at the table staring at you like you'd just appeared out of thin air. 

“Friends, this is y/n.” Eddie gestured to you like he was unveiling a masterpiece at a museum. The rest of the table greeted you with tentative “Hi.”s. One guy in a leather jacket, on the opposite side of the table asked “You managed to bring a girl to our table? How'd you do that man?”

You chuckled a little “Well, I'm only vaguely a girl, you shouldn't really think of me as one if that makes you more comfortable. You can call me whatever you want, honestly. I’ve heard it all. But I wouldn't be caught dead hanging out with cheerleaders and doing my makeup and giggling and shit. I'm not into all that girly stuff. But uh… anyway… hi.” You gave a little wave and looked at everyone around the table. Most of the older guys looked similar to Eddie in terms of clothing style. They looked pretty metal and some of them had jackets like Eddie. The younger boys were a little more toned down but they seemed to fit in really well with the general vibe of the table. 

Eddie smiled at you as he pulled up a chair and sat at the head of the table, like a king, you thought. “y/n here, is a new kid. Just moved in from…” He looked to you to finish his sentence for him. 

“I don't even know, I only lived there for three months. Somewhere in south Indiana. Started with a B I think?” you shrugged. You genuinely couldn't remember the name, and the city itself was already a blur in your memory, as with most of the cities you've lived in. 

“Bloomington?” one of the boys to your left asked. He had very curly hair tucked up into a hat that said Thinking Cap .

“Yeah, sure, that sounds right.” You replied, opening your lunch bag and taking out the sandwich you made this morning. “Pretty boring place if you ask me.”

“Hey, wait, are you the one that just moved next door to me?” Another boy to your left asked. This one had shoulder length black hair and bangs, it kind of seemed like he was trying to look like Eddie if you were being honest.

“Probably? I just got here, dude. I don't even know my own address, let alone yours!” You laughed, trying not to sound mean, but wanting to get the message across that you don't know anyone or anything in this town. You took a bite out of your sandwich and looked towards Eddie, who was once again leaning back in his chair with his arms crossed, looking at you.

Eddie laughed and adjusted his sitting position so that he was leaning back just a little bit more, legs spread apart like he owned the place. “She’s new, like I said. But I think she fits in with us already. An outcast, a metal head, possibly a freak like yours truly.” He meant “freak” in the same way that the cheerleader had meant it when she walked into you at your locker; a person who doesn't conform to the normie bullshit and instead proudly displays their true self to the world.… that's probably how he meant it, you think. 

“I appreciate that, Eddie.” you said, smiling at him. Something in his eyes flashed as you said his name, fear? Arousal? Just simple appreciation? You weren't sure.

The rest of the table appeared to accept that you were part of the group immediately. It seemed that Eddie was their leader and they would follow his every word. Again, like he was a king. Unlike other “kings” you had met, Eddie actually seemed to take pride in being a leader; he accepted the responsibility and he cared about his “subjects” a huge amount. He certainly had power, but his friends respected him and his ideas. It felt very fair. 

“So what do you guys do in this town?” You asked between bites of your sandwich. “Sex, drugs, alcohol and loud music?” You were only half joking with that suggestion, they were the main things most people did in every place you've been to, but you were looking for more of a “places to go” answer.

“I mean, you're pretty spot on.” The guy right across the table piped up. He had sort of poofy hair and a plaid vest that had a bunch of pins on it. “We’re in a band so… we’re the loud music bit.” He gestured to Eddie and the two other guys on his side of the table.

“Woah really?” You were honestly a little excited about this information. “I assume a metal band, yeah?”

“Duhhhhh!” Eddie droned, rolling his eyes dramatically. “Nothing else is worth playing.”

“Well, slow down there cowboy.” you laughed, “Other music is good too! Doesn't all have to be sick guitar solos and screaming your lungs out. Sometimes it's nice to chill out to some Elvis.”

“Oh god.” Eddie suddenly looked scared and sick as he stared directly at you. “I was wrong… you're secretly… a normie!” He dramatically flailed his arms and pretended to pass out, like the shock of your extended music taste had killed him. The whole table laughed at him, you included. The sheer drama of this man was keeping you hooked, you were already having fun and you had only just met him. He was comfortable to be around though, like you’d known him since childhood. When he opened his eyes and sat up, you were the first thing he looked at, your smiling face, laughing at his little act.

“You should come watch us play some time!” The guy in the plaid vest offered.

Pulling your eyes away from Eddie, you answered, “I’d love to! Where do you play?” You absolutely would love to see them play! You just hope that they’re some kind of good.

“Every Tuesday at a bar called The Hideout. It's a little far from here.” 

“Oh… well I don't have a car, anyone I could hitch a ride with?” You asked, looking around the table. The younger kids probably didn't have cars either but maybe they had other friends who went to see the band play.

“We can drive you.” Eddie answered quickly. “You can be our first groupie.” You think you saw him wink at you.

“Hold on, really? You never offer rides to non-band members. Something about the sanctity of the van or something?” Plaid vest looked shocked at Eddie’s immediate offer.

“Yeah, well, I've made an exception.” Eddie waved his hand and his words were accepted.

“Really, you don't have to if that's not your thing. I can find my own way there some time, or I'll watch you play someplace else. No biggie. Don't make exceptions for me, I'm not special.” You pleaded. You really didn't want to just force your way into their group, it could end badly if you pissed people off. You could handle being alone or kicked out but you wouldn't be able to handle being the reason the band or the friend group broke up.

“No, really, it's fine. If we bring you along then you'll be forced to listen to our whole set and then maybe we'll finally have a fan!” Eddie explained. “We play tonight if you want to come?”

Suddenly feeling a bit overwhelmed, you pulled away, “I… can’t tonight. I have a lot of unpacking to do. I still have to find all my clothes.” You laughed a little uncomfortably. “Next time though, yeah?”

Eddie looked a little saddened by that, but understanding nonetheless. “That's okay!” He reassured, “Next time.” He gave a warm smile to let you know he wasn't trying to pressure you.

“We- we also have a DnD club!” Thinking Cap kid said excitedly.

At this, your eyes brightened. You'd played DnD a few times at different schools, they always ended on cliffhangers though, because you left before the campaign could really get going. “Really!?” You asked. “That's so cool!”

Everyone at the table got excited then; asking you if you were serious, what kind of character you played, if you've ever DM'd, just question after question, none of them getting answered. You laughed as the boys bombarded you with queries and Eddie progressively got more and more annoyed with them. 

“SHUT UP! SHUT UP!” He yelled, silencing the table immediately, and a few others next to yours. He was standing now and he turned to you, “You're lying right? There's no way you're actually into DnD.” He looked a little hesitant waiting for your answer. Hopeful, maybe, that you were telling the truth. 

“No, I'm not lying! Honestly, I've played a few times but none of the campaigns I've been a part of have gotten anywhere because I moved before we could get to the good stuff.” You explained. 

“Ho-ly-shit!” Eddie said, emphasizing each syllable. “You're perfect. You're actually perfect. Sent from heaven, we've gained an angel, boys!” He raised his arms to the air like he was praising a God, the table roared with excitement again. Then he dropped his hands down onto the table with a bang! Making you all jump a little. 

Suddenly very serious, he leaned into his hands, looming over you slightly and asked “What's your class and level?”

Realizing he was quizzing you, or maybe this was a hazing? You answered immediately, “I play a Half-Elf Paladin named Sebastian. With my limited amount of play time I've managed to eke him up to level 5.” proud of your answer you lifted your chin up to Eddie, showing him you weren't lying and you definitely knew your shit. 

The table was silent again, watching the two of you battle. “Backstory?” He questioned. 

“Sebastian was abducted by a group of thieves when he was 15. He spent 20 years under their command, being the muscle to their brains. One night, the thieves’ camp was raided and Sebastian joined the raiders’ side, killing the people who took him hostage. Now, he's sworn an oath to kill or punish every thief or criminal who holds prisoners or slaves captive. He’s also searching for his lost parents that he was ripped away from.” You held eye contact with him the whole time you told your story. Your character's backstory was something you were very proud of and you weren't going to let him make a fool of you. 

Eddie leaned back away from you, sitting comfortably in his chair again. “Not bad.” he praised. “I'm thoroughly impressed. I guess we can add ‘nerd’ to your list of qualities that make you fit in here.”

You smiled at him, a warm feeling in your chest growing as you felt the validation from him. “Thank you. I wear that title with pride.”

“Okay! So she's joining us right!? This is fricken awesome!” Thinking Cap shook his clenched hands in front of him in excitement. 

Still staring at Eddie, you raised an eyebrow to him, questioning if he wanted you to join or not. 

“That's up to her.” He stated. “I think it's clear that the invitation is open.” 

Glancing at the table full of smiling guys, all of them on the edge of their seat, waiting for your answer, you simply said, “Then I accept.”

The table roared a final time and you received a few pats on the back and a few “Welcome to hellfire!”s. Meanwhile, Eddie was grinning from ear to ear, trying to play down his excitement, but you could see the way he squeezed his crossed arms together, the same way he did when you talked about music in class. He was definitely happy that you said yes. 

When the excitement finally died down and everyone settled into a lighter conversation, Eddie scooted his chair closer to you and whispered somewhat close to your ear. “If we're too much for you, you can tell us to back off. I didn't mean to bombard you with so much shit on your first day. You just seem really cool, and that's rare around here, so I wanted you to have some equally cool friends.”

Turning your head slightly to look at him, you noticed how comfortable he was with being so close to you. And how comfortable you were with it as well. “I'm enjoying it actually,” you whispered back. “I've never felt this welcome before.”

“Good.” Was all he said as he moved away from you, showing off his dimples again with a smile. 

You finished your lunch while listening to the multiple conversations happening around the table. Two boys were bickering, three were talking about guitar solos, and Eddie and Plaid Vest were discussing something very quietly. You thought to yourself “Okay, I definitely think like it here for once.”

“Hey, lunch is almost over,” Plaid Vest announced, looking to you. “What class do you have next?”

Reaching into your back pocket, you pulled out your schedule. “Ummm… History, with O'Donall.” 

“NO WAY!” Eddie yelled from right beside you, startling you a bit. “So do I! Let me see your schedule!” 

You handed the paper over to Eddie and both he and Plaid Vest (you really should have asked everyone’s name) looked over every class. “None of those are with me, unfortunately.” Plaid Vest said, slightly disappointed. The end-of-lunch bell rang and students began packing up their lunches, returning their trays, and leaving the cafeteria. “I'll see you later tho!” He waved at you with a genuine smile and left the cafeteria.

“You’ll never fucking believe this, but we have every single class together!” Eddie said excitedly.

“No way.” You said flatly, you did not believe that one bit. The rest of the table started packing up their things as well and heading out. Everyone gave you a polite “bye” on their way out.

“I'm serious! Well, except for first period, but the rest of today we do! I’d show you my own schedule but it's in my locker.” Eddie insisted. He stood up as you did and kept to your side as you made your way back to your locker to gather your things. 

“So what you're saying is: I'm never going to get rid of you?” You joked, opening up your locker.

“Oh absolutely!” Eddie said with a devilish grin on his face. “Guess you and I have to be friends forever now.”

“Well… forever for me might only be a couple months before I move again, but I think I can handle you for that long.” You teased, pulling the last of your class stuff out of your locker and shutting it.

“You're going to move again? You just got here.” Eddie asked. You both started down the hall towards history class, Eddie leading the way.

“Well, I've moved probably near fifty times in my eighteen years of life, so… it's not unlikely that I'll move again.”

“FIFTY!?” Eddie yelled

“Calm down,” you laughed at his sudden outburst, that number usually surprises people. “Yeah something like that. Makes it hard to keep friends.” You said, sounding a lot sadder than you meant to.

“That fucking blows. Why do you move so much?” Eddie was genuinely curious about you, he was leaning in and listening to your every word.

“You'd have to ask my dad. He pisses off a lot of people and then we’re forced to skip town before he gets his ass beat.” You explained. “He's not in trouble with the cops or anything, just like… landlords, neighbors, bar owners, liquor store employees… pissed off a mayor once too.” God your dad’s a mess.

“Wow, what an asshole.” He stepped through the doorway of your history class and held his arm out in front of him, waving you through like you were royalty. It made you laugh, and made other people stare.

“You're telling me.” You said, exaggerated. You walked past Eddie and quickly made your way to the teacher at the head of the room, wanting to introduce yourself quickly this time so that there weren't so many students in the room for her to announce your presence to.

This teacher, once again, confirmed that this was the right class and welcomed you to Hawkins High. As she finished writing your name on the attendance sheet, a shrill voice let out an exasperated “UGH!” from behind you. 

“This is my seat, you freak! Go find a trash can to sit in, or better yet! Go jump off a bridge!” The same blonde haired cheerleader who had smashed into you in the hall was currently screaming at Eddie, who was sitting at a pair of desks in the third row with his feet on the table, not looking at her at all.

“Miss Blackwell! That is enough! None of these seats belong to anyone! Please find another desk to sit in. Mister Munson has already chosen that one.” Ms. O'Donall stated, sternly. She then sighed and added, “And thank you for joining us today, mister Munson.” sounding like she was annoyed that he showed up at all.

The cheerleader and her friend stomped away from Eddie who was now smiling at you, very proud of himself. They sat down at a different pair of desks which caused another two students who had just walked in, to be upset and move back a row, they caused another two to move, and another, and another, and another. Eddie had just disrupted almost every student’s seating habit single-handedly.

“What are you doing?” you whispered to Eddie as you took your seat next to him. “You really wanted to hear the cheerleaders whine huh?”

“Of course! It sounded like fun when I suggested it, and I didn’t think you would do it, so I did.” He took his feet off the desk in front of him and leaned toward you so only you could hear him. “Plus, I figured this was a good spot, you can see the board from here right?”

Did he really just force some cheerleaders to move seats just so that you wouldn't have to sit at the back of the room and squint to see the board? “Eddie!” You whispered, scolding him a bit. “You did not just do that so I could see the board.” You were looking him directly in the eyes, searching for some other explanation than kindness towards you, someone he just met.

Eddie just shrugged his shoulders with a big smile on his face and leaned back in his chair, assuming the same position as he seemed to always do, arms crossed, legs spread.

You continued to stare at him, bewildered that someone would do that for you. A loud voice pulled you away though, “Miss y/ln. I don't think today's lesson is on mister Munson’s forehead, so could you face the board where it actually is, please?” Ms. O’Donall, who you now know will be a hard-ass, was looking directly at you, lips pursed together. “Sorry.” you said quietly, and turned to face her. She nodded sharply and went back to the lesson. You heard a few giggles from behind you, probably the cheerleaders. 

You took out your notebook and began copying the notes Ms. O'Donall was writing on the board, trying your hardest to not look at Eddie. Something in your head kept wanting to stare at him, to get closer to him, to really make a friend this time around. But you knew if you did that, it would end in heartbreak when you were dragged off to another city with your parents. So you pushed it all down. Hanging out with the boys won't be so bad, there's no harm in having fun, you just won't let yourself get too attached to them and the break will be clean. Hopefully. 

The rest of the day went by smoothly. You managed to get some notes from Ms. O'Donall on the two weeks that you missed so you wouldn't be so behind. And your last class of the day was biology, probably the only class that you learned anything in during all of last year, so it felt like more of a review than new information. Eddie chose to sit you near the front in biology as well, though no one yelled at him in that class, which was honestly surprising. 

When the final bell rang, Eddie followed you once again to your locker. “How did you understand a single thing that Mr. Grinnell said?”

“I've been through it before. This is my second senior year. Fuck every other class, but bio? That's my shit. Well, and art, but that doesn't count.” You explained, pulling your jacket and backpack from your locker. 

“I dunno, I've been through it before too, but I think it made even less sense this time around.” He rubbed his forehead like thinking made his brain hurt. 

You closed your locker and placed your hand on his shoulder. “If you need some help, I don't mind. After all you've done for me so far, I think I owe you something. We can help each other finally finish our senior years. Well… help each other for as long as I'm here.”

Eddie pulled his hand away from his face and looked up at you. “You serious? Because I think I could really use the help. I'm dumb as shit so it might be a challenge, but I'm not gonna say no if it means we get to hang out.” He seemed to be excited about your offer. 

“Yeah, I'm absolutely serious. Gives me a reason to stay away from my house and my parents.” You really hated sitting around the house with your dad who was always drunk and mad, and your mom who was always high and stupid. “But not tonight though, I really do have to find my clothes or else I'll be showing up to school tomorrow in this exact outfit. Plus, you have a gig to get to.” You smiled at him warmly, making sure he knew that you weren't just being nice for the sake of it. You really did like the idea of having someone to keep you on track in school, and you had no problem with helping him do the same. 

“Deal!” He excitedly accepted and stuck out his hand for you to shake. 

You took his hand and gave it a firm shake. “No taking that back now, we've made a deal!” You said, pointing at him. 

He grinned. “Scout's honor!” he swore, raising his hand to place it over his heart, his other hand still holding yours. 

The two of you made your way outside, ready to head home. “Need a ride?” Eddie offered. 

“No, that's okay, I'll walk.” You politely declined. 

“Are you sure? If you live near Wheeler, that's a pretty far walk!” Wheeler must be the kid you moved in next to. The one with black hair that looked like Eddie’s. 

“Honestly, it's not that bad of a walk. I made it to school that way.” Granted, you were late two periods, but that wasn't entirely your fault. You didn't have your alarm clock unpacked yet and you woke up later than you meant to. “It's pretty straightforward. Plus, it's how I usually learn the city. If I get lost, I'll just wander till I find my way back.”

Eddie looked a little worried for a moment so you patted him on the shoulder and reassured him, “I'll be fine. Promise. I'll see you tomorrow, yeah!?” 

He hesitated for a moment but you could see him decide against arguing with you. “Alright then, yeah. See you tomorrow, y/n.” He said, nodding and smiling. 

“Bye, Eddie.” You gave him a big smile and a little wave and headed off in the direction of your new house. 

The walk home took about 20 minutes, plenty of time to sort out your head and take note of all that had happened in the day. You made six friends in one day, definitely a new record for you! You joined a DnD party, possibly became a groupie, pissed off some cheerleaders, and gained a study buddy. There's a good chance that this town wasn't going to be the worst you've ever stayed in. But the looming question of “just how long will this last?” would never leave your mind. 

[daintyduck99]

Things you said in front of other people, rulie??

"That's beautiful."

Julie startles, tearing her eyes away from the swath of butterflies she's been painting. They're all she's painted for weeks now; she can't seem to stop.

She makes eye contact with Reggie Peters, and all she can think is that his eyes are the same shade of green she'd used in the beginning, bordering on blue.

Clear, calming. Somehow gentle.

Then she blinks, and the dull monochrome that's been blanketing her world since September settles back into place.

Even the glares of the girls beside her don't pierce it, or hold any sort of heat.

She's sure that if she spared them a glance, their eyes would be an alien gray.

Julie ducks her head; she doesn't want to see him like that. It seems wrong to wash him out, like she's in the midst of doing to the butterflies that smother this portrait.

It's technically still a portrait, but that's her mother's chin under miles and miles of darkening paint, no matter how many butterflies Julie buries it under.

One of the girls across from Julie lets out a nasty little giggle, which clues her in a bit too late that she's been quiet for too long.

It's nothing, really; it has nothing on one of Carrie's, but Reggie clears his throat.

"I'm serious. I swear I wasn't snooping or anything, I just happened to look over on my way to the sink and—yours is the only one I've really seen that has—substance."

Julie snorts in spite of herself. She's not entirely sure that he's aware of the full implications of what he's said, but the other girls are, and they busy themselves with furious brush and pencil strokes.

"Thank you," she manages to murmur.

"You're welcome!"

He sounds brighter, but no less sincere, and a small sunbeam briefly reaches through the gaps in Julie's ribs.

She closes her eyes and glimpses a flash of pale yellow. She feels a flicker of a smile.

And when he gives her a cheerful goodbye, it's a little easier to say it back.

[crmsnmth]

September Sky Chapter One, Part 8

"Fine, Midnight Magenta. Either way, it was bugging me that I'd never seen you around. You're kind of noticeable. With the hair and eyeliner."

I laughed and shrugged. To be honest, I had wondered that myself. How I had gone through my time in college without noticing her? And then, the day I leave, I almost take her out.

"Do you ever go out?" She was looking at me, reading me.

"Yeah, I do. I wander around a lot." I said, smiling back.

"That's weird. So close, yet so far."

"Apparently, I had to just ruin your lunch to make it happen," I smirked.

"Very true, but can we not make that a regular thing?"

She was easy to speak to now. I found myself letting my brain do its thing and not worry about my mouth. It seemed we had the native tongue of sarcasm shared as well. I hadn't felt that comfortable around someone that quickly since Chad.

"I will try my absolute hardest to pay attention to my surroundings," I said, hold one hand up with my pointer and middle fingers raised.

"And?" Addison said with a playful grin.

"I'll try to not to go around ruining people's lunches," I said, laughing slightly.

I hadn't even realized it, but Addison was pulling into one of the limited parking spaces on Center Street. There weren't a lot and it was always a pain to find a spot. We got lucky this time.

She turned off the truck and silence took the airwaves. I said nothing. She said nothing. And it felt natural. Like it belonged. There was no desperate desire to start talking again. It was sitting in silence. We both got out of the truck and she met me on the sidewalk. We had about a half a block to walk, which really isn't all that bad.

"So what are you in school far?" I asked, as we walked along. Across the road, a couple were walking an excited and happy chocolate lab. Cars and trucks drove up and down the road, some turning down side streets.

"You're going to think it's weird," she said. Now the question seemed to have gained some substance. From just an easy getting to know someone question, into something with mystery.

"Look at me, " I waved my hands along my body, "I am weird. I like weird. The weirder the better."

"You make a good point."

"So, seriously, what is it?"

"I'm studying to become a mortician."

"Like a funeral director?" I asked, unsure that I had heard her right.

"Yeah," she said. We were now standing outside the door of The Uptowner, as I finished up a cigarette.

I don't know what I had expected, but it definitely wasn't that. Of course, I thought it was one of the coolest things I've seen in a very long time. It only added to this woman's charm.

"You're quiet. You do think it's weird." Addison said.

"Well, duh. Of course I think it's weird. And I also happen to think that it is extremely fucking cool. "

"Really?" She gave me huge smile, and behind her black framed glasses, her blue eyes opened wide.I tossed the cigarette into a small metal bucket filled with sand, right outside the bar's doors. I beat her to the door, and held it open for her. I followed behind.

The Uptowner is definitely a dive bar. There was no way in hell you could refute that fact. Tables scattered along the floor, a match book, or a folded coaster was under the legs of at least half of them. Along the wall were old church pews that had been carved on and chipped that most of the finish was gone. In the far back sat two pinball machines from the nineties that had seen better days. One even carried a crack along it's glass top. A pool table, with felt that had been ripped and repaired far too many times. Stains covered the field, some of which were not just drinks. The actual bar sat about 13 or 14 people. Addison and I took the two stools closest to the door.

[hellscape-halogens]

dream i had

I had a dream I was in an Italian restaurant in the middle of the desert and it was empty. No employees, no customers, nobody except me so I just sat down at a table bc everything else was otherwise kept very neat and taken care of.

I found some magazines on the table next to me and decided to flip through them. GQ, Vanity Fair, Vogue, Rolling Stone, Billboard (there were more, but those were some of the ones I remember). They all had Lil Peep on the covers in various outfits, makeup looks, poses, etc. Most of them were dated for 2018 through this year. I found another one that was much bigger and made of harder paper/card stock and had a blank cover, except it said "WHAT COULD HAVE BEEN..." on the front in big, bold black letters.

I decided to start flipping through that one too and the first page was a picture of Lil Peep. Someone came and sat in front of me at my table and I looked up and I don't think I have to say who it was as many times as I've mentioned him by name already.

"What're you reading?" he asked.

"A magazine." I answered.

"Can I read it with you?" "Sure."

He sidled into the booth with me beside me and looked. The energy about him changed. We looked through the magazine together.

November 2017: Lil Peep leaves Arizona and voluntarily checks into a rehabilitation center after barely escaping a deadly overdose; his best friend and mother accompany him to offer their support.

January 2018: Lil Peep and Lil Tracy formally announce their departure from Gothboiclique, subsequently going on hiatus from both of their musical careers.

March 2018: Gothboiclique officially dissolves on account of allegations against management of forced intoxication by ex-members and their families. Lil Peep and Lil Tracy declined to comment.

August 2018: Lil Peep and Lil Tracy make a visit back to New Mexico, officially resuming their careers with a surprise concert.

September 2018: Lil Peep releases a new album, returning back to his original sound with Lil Tracy now officially his co-producer.

-

Me and Gus were quiet. I continued skimming through the timeline, flipping another page.

-

January 2020: Lil Peep was nominated for and received a Grammy, following a remaster and re-release of his Hellboy album in June of the previous year.

-

April 2020: Lil Peep is spotted in Las Vegas wearing a new wedding band. Marriage rumors remain unconfirmed today, as he refuses to comment. Speculation begins circulating that it was merely an "April Fools Day" prank.

-

I looked at him and he was laughing. Of course 4/20. We read on further.

-

August 2022: Lil Peep and Lil Tracy release another album together.

-

November 2022: Lil Peep celebrates his 26th birthday in Belgium with close friends and family. Lil Tracy is most notably in attendance.

December 2022: Lil Peep and Lil Tracy announce another year-long hiatus. Rumors begin flying that Peep has checked himself into rehab for the second time since 2017, citing his openness regarding his previous substance abuse issues. He remains semi-active on social media, which immediately squashes the rumors.

-

November 2023: Lil Peep and Lil Tracy burst back into the scene with a brand new album, containing 21 original tracks. Both stars cite their 5 years of sobriety as being their inspiration.

-

We ended up talking for a while, and both of us noticed that the other magazines were disappearing, and then the one in my hands just became blank.

He looks at me and asks if that's what his life really would have been. I just shrug and tell him that I didn't know and this was probably just a dream.

We ended up smoking a couple of cigarettes in silence together, and I watched him fade into nothing with the rest of the restaurant. Shortly before I woke up, he gave me a "goodbye" nod.

I woke up feeling very hollow and weird.

[goldenfharry]

🍄 me again!! the dua concert sounds like it was so fun!!

Olivia going to the bulgari event in Paris was planned not only for publicity for her, but also to try and bring back the boy toy image her team painted of harry at the beginning of tour last year. since September that image in the press has died down because she has had close to no work or events aside from cinema-con, and has instead been following harry around EVERYWHERE. the fact that she travelled to new you’re with him for 2 days and then straight back to the UK for his london ONO didn’t help, because she had no reason to travel away from her children to see the exact same performance she would’ve seen in the UK. they’re trying to paint her as a independent, successful woman and him as someone younger smitten with her (the recent pap pics did nothing to aid that).

the terrible mother quote has also (somehow) worked in her favour as good publicity by trying to make her more relatable with multiple outlets using her quote in parenting articles, and as substance in the articles about her at the bulgari event, as there was no genuine reason for her to be there and therefore nothing to write about.

her using harry lambert to dress her was definitely a thought out move on her part as it links her to harry, but to the general public rather than her looking desperate, she looks more like a ‘girlboss’, with his stylist styling her just before his sold out world tour starts. i can assure you that we’re going to get another picture of her like the one with bex from last tour where you can clearly see backstage passes or something that links her to him. she’s still not allowed to post about him directly but my guess is that we’ll get a pic of her kids at one of the london shows (as it’s wembley stadium they won’t be able to stay on the floor or they will get crushed, so they’ll most likely be in a box). also the english aren’t the most polite so if she’s at any of the uk shows (hopefully not mine!!) she won’t get a good reception from the majority of fans. However, she will still be as obnoxious as possible as soon as tour starts because she knows this stunt is coming to an end and is looking for all the publicity she can get.

It was great! What a show, I love her! 😩💛

I’m laughing so hard with the “English aren’t the most polite” part, I hope that she doesn’t go to your show bestie! 🤣🤣🤣🤣

Anyways, once again, thank you for this ask! It’s a great message of clarity and a great perspective to calm people and remind them the basics: to understand that this is all planned, nothing is new, everything has a reason and it’s all predictable. Thank you! I would love eventually to talk to you, so if one day you are comfortable with, send me a dm ☕️👀

[ladynestaarcheron]

Like Pristine Glass - Chapter Twenty-three

ao3 - ff.net - masterpost

(tagging these cuties: @humanexile @skychild29 @rhysandsdarlingfeyre @candid-confetti @rhysandsrightknee @missing-merlin @azriels-forgotten-shadow @books-and-cocos @sezkins79  @city-of-fae @someonemagical @dusty-lightbulb  @messyhairday-me @rinad307 @superspiritfestival @cass-nes @ireallyshouldsleeprn)

oh my God. here we are. chapter twenty-three.

what is there to say but thank you all so much for reading?

beware, this chapter’s monster sized. around 10k. also...relatively graphic birth scene.

thank you all. so much.

---

August 23 - Year of

In the end, it was not Cassian's fault she made the decision to leave.

Later, much later, she would wonder if he blamed himself and she almost wished she could tell him otherwise. Because even in those last months they spent together, he was good to her. Better than anyone else had ever been. Sweet and teasing and kind. Such kindness. Who had ever treated her this way? Who smiled like this when she walked into a room? No one had ever been happy to see her. And from the way he looked at her and the things he said, she knew he felt the same way.

So he probably didn't realize anything was amiss.

For Nesta answered every kiss with one of her own, tugged his hair right back, pinched him affectionately when he interrupted her reading.

It ran deep. More real than blood, more concrete than any vow. Late at night, in the bed that had become theirs, she told him of her deepest wish as a child, how she had done everything her little mind could think of to win her mother's praise and love and how it had destroyed her when she had died without truly giving it to her. He had far less family history to share, but he told her in turn what he could: how Rhsyand's mother had been the first person to show him any kindness, how the hero of that children's story, about the thief who stole the night, was all he wanted to be when he grew up because of how he built for himself what he was not given, even how cheap the first female he'd ever been with made him feel when she revealed she never wanted to acknowledge him in public because of his status.

Bit by bit, nightly, Cassian would bare his soul to her a little more, and she'd feel guilt as she didn't share all of herself in return. There were things she could not say.

He knew, though. Of course he did. He knew her better than anyone, saw right through every layer she had wrapped around herself. That was why he'd ask her, from time to time. A sweet kiss, a cup of tea, and a simple question: What's wrong, Nesta?

Answers varied. Nothing or headache or you're irritating me, won't you let me read in peace? or a myriad of other things.

She could not tell him because she could not admit it to herself.

Here is what she could not say: I cannot love you because I will inevitably lose and you and you're the best thing I've ever had so that will destroy me even more than everything else already has, and I know that I will lose you because you can never put me first above your duties to the Night Court and your High Lord and I will not settle for second to him.

In the end, she didn't have to. And that was not Cassian's fault either.

It was her sister who spared her the act when she knocked on the front door.

---

June 21 - 1 year after

It wasn't the pain that woke her up. It was the wetness between her legs. An odd, gooey sort of substance. What was that, Nesta wondered. Was she bleeding? With that thought, she kicked off her blanket, but with her sudden movement came a definite tug from deep inside her-oh.

It was happening.

Nesta took a deep breath and raised her nightgown. No blood, she saw, and her shoulders relaxed. Just the mucus, tinted pink slightly.

Nesta had read enough on her own and asked Amorette enough to know: this was early labor. It had just started at...fifteen past four in the morning. It could be anywhere from an hour to a few days before active labor started. Logically, she knew she could take a bath, go back to sleep, and wait till a reasonable hour to call for Amorette, but logic wasn't what spurred her. The faelight was in her hand before she realized it.

As she loosened her fingers around it, her heart rate picked up. She would be doing this alone. Her mother would not be here. Her sisters would not be here. How had she not considered that before? Why had she gone through with this? Why hadn't she terminated the pregnancy when she'd had the chance?

She forced herself to practice her breathing. There was no use in panicking now. Far too late for that, anyway.

On her twentieth slow exhale, she heard the door downstairs open and shut, followed by quick footsteps up the stairs.

"Nesta?" Amorette said from the hall, voice clear and strong despite the ungodly hour.

"In here," she called, in more of a wheeze.

Amorette was at her side almost instantly. "Are you in pain?" Her blue eyes ran up and down Nesta's body, hands going to feel her cheeks.

Nesta flushed. "No," she said. It was stupid to call her, wasn't it? "Just...my water. But no pain...yet."

Amorette drew her hands back in surprise. Then her face broke out in a wide smile. "Congratulations," she said, cheery. She draws a chair close to the bed. "Let's have a look, shall we?" Amorette folded the blanket up from Nesta's toes to her knees, so Nesta couldn't see what she was doing, which she greatly appreciated.

"So," she said, folding the blanket back down. "You probably know this, but you're in one of the first stages of early labor. You're just barely dilated."

"Do you know how long until..."

"Well, there's no real way for me to know for sure," Amorette said. "But seeing as you haven't felt any real pain yet, and this is your first birth, we probably have at least a few hours to go. You can take a shower or a bath now, then maybe do some light exercise with me. We'll take it as you feel it." Her eyes crinkled, genuine warmth spreading across her face. "Let's just do what we can to help you relax, Nesta! You're having some babies today!"

All the forgotten gods. If there were any sentence that would not help her relax.

---

August 23 - Year of

Nesta hadn't been expecting Emerie, but sometimes people from the camp came by to tell Cassian something. Of course, he hadn't been home in three days, but perhaps they didn't know. Maybe they had to drop something off or leave him a message.

So Nesta wasn't too concerned when she opened the door.

Her lungs seized in her chest when she did.

"Hi," Feyre said softly, inclining her head forward. A lock of hair slipped out from behind her ear and swayed in front of her face, caressing the corner of her lips. She was the slightest bit darkened by the sun, contrasting prettily with the brightened gold of her hair. "Can I come in?" she asked. Her voice was sweet, calm, laced with something that wasn't there when they were growing up.

But Nesta could say nothing in reply. All she could do was stare at her sister. She wasn't even trying to say anything, or grasp at her thoughts, or make sense of this. She was...dumbstruck.

"Nesta," Feyre said, concern tightening her brow as she took a step closer and reached out a hand. "Are you all right?"

It was Feyre's touch that spurred her back into herself and let her jerk backwards and say, "What are you doing here?"

"I came to see you," she replied. "Can I come in?"

Nesta only stared in disbelief. "Can you come in?"

"All right," Feyre said, smoothing her hands over her legs. "Let's get you something to drink."

And with a measured, leisurely step, Feyre backed Nesta into the house.

How did that happen?

"Some water," Feyre said, making her way to the kitchen sink.

Had she been here before? Had she...had Cassian...told her to come?

Feyre turned, bringing the glass into the living room. "Sit with me," she said.

Nesta did not sit. "What are you doing here?"

Feyre set the glass down on the table, next to Nesta's face down book. "It's been nearly a year," she said.

Since they exiled her out of Velaris. Yes, she was aware.

"I know that you're...doing better," Feyre said, and Nesta's heart stuttered. What had Cassian told her? Had he-had he shared what was theirs? "And I thought, maybe now...we could talk."

Her sister gazed up at her, earnest and patient. How regal she looked, there on the couch. Ugly, she'd always thought, with its faded blue pattern. Nesta recalled leaving her tiny apartment in Velaris back in September and wishing she could pick out furniture of her own someday.

But there were no throw pillows or rosewood bookshelves or pianos dancing in Nesta's mind today. There was really only one thing she could think of.

"Are you out of your fucking mind?"

Feyre raised an eyebrow-Nesta didn't think she had ever swore in either of her sisters' presences before. She didn't like to, as a rule, but, well. Desperate times. Insane, radical, maniacal times.

"I'm not," she said. "But I understand-"

"You clearly do not," Nesta cut in, "if you think that there's any chance that I want to talk to you."

"Please just listen, Nesta-"

"Or what? You'll kick me out of Illyria, too? Send me off to the Hewn City, perhaps? Do I only get to live my own life if it's out of your court, is that it?"

"No, Nesta, please," she said, standing up too. "Look, I think-you needed space, all right? You know you did, and now that you're-that you've got it, now-"

"Don't you dare," Nesta said, raising a finger and making Feyre flinch. "Don't you dare take credit for any good space has done me. It's only because anything would have been better than-" Nesta bit her tongue to stop herself from finishing the sentence, but it didn’t matter.

But Feyre clearly didn't plan on leaving until she'd said her part. She blinked the hurt out of her eyes and said, "I don't care about the reasons. I'm happy you're doing better, but it's not enough. I know you still haven't taken control of your magic. Amren can help-"

Nesta laughed, cold and mirthless. So different than how she'd laughed just a few days ago with Cassian. "You are out of your mind." Her voice was flat, devoid of emotion. "If you think I'm ever going back there, you are completely out of your mind."

Feyre sighed. Folded her arms over her chest. "Well. We still have to do something. What do you propose we do?"

Nesta's eyes narrowed. She drew herself straighter. "There isn't a we," she said, voice like ice. "You made it perfectly clear you wanted nothing to do with me when you banished me from your city of love."

"Nesta, you know that isn't true-"

"I'm going to ask you again. Can I stay here in Illyria without being further accosted by you and yours, whenever you decide it appropriate to meddle?"

Feyre clenched her jaw. "I'm not trying to hurt you, Nesta."

She didn't hesitate. "Then leave."

Both sisters stared at each other. How odd was it, to look into her own eyes in Feyre's face. Nesta still remembered the night she was born, how she had marveled at them. Little Elain had had brown eyes like their father, and she had blue-grey like their mother, and she had wondered how the baby was going to look. She thought she might have one blue and one brown, but then she had come, and secretly, Nesta had been so pleased. Another pair of eyes just like hers.

How far they had both gone.

Feyre broke away first, as Nesta knew she would. "You don't have to worry about me coming here to accost you," she said as she turned to leave.

Nesta said nothing as she opened the door and closed it behind her.

But she didn't believe her. Not for a moment.

---

June 21 - 1 year after

Amorette had arranged to stay with Nesta till noon if her state did not progress at all, and if it did to then make a decision on how they should proceed. Nesta told her she'd do whatever she thought was best, but she wanted to keep her visitors to a minimum. So of course, promptly at seven, the door downstairs swung open again.

"Breakfast, Nesta!" Zeyn announced. "Oh, hello Amorette-oh! Nesta!"

Zeyn's deerlike ears shivered in excitement as he took in the view before him. While Nesta had been in the bath, Amorette had transformed the room to a midwifery. Nesta's bed had been pushed closer to the wall to make room for a massive pool, with four steps up, filled with water slightly warmer than the air in the room. A table on the far side held a number of bowls, towels, and more scary-looking supplies like scalpels. Far more terrifying than that was the small pile of pale blue blankets, hats, and pacifiers, all dotted with tiny maroon sugarberries.

"You-you're in labor?" Zeyn grinned broadly at her.

"Not quite yet," she said.

"Early stages."

"But that's wonderful! Oh, Nesta, congratulations! I'll tell Miri and-"

"Be sure to have everyone send their well wishes and drop jam by the door," Amorette said, "but I insist that the only people who have entrance to this house as soon as active labor begins are myself and my staff."

Nesta shrugged at Zeyn and shot Amorette a grateful look when he turned.

"I'll make sure there's always someone here on standby," he said. "Just in case."

"It might be as long as a few days, Zeyn," Nesta reminded him.

"I don't mind," he said. "I can wait all night."

Nesta softened. He was sweet. She'd give him that much.

"I'm right in assuming you don't want anyone else here?" Amorette asked, checking with her after Zeyn left.

"Definitely." Sugar Valley was full of welcoming people, but...Nesta wasn't one of them.

Amorette nodded, keeping her mouth firmly shut.

"What is it?" Nesta asked, wary.

"I know you don't like to talk about it," Amorette said apologetically, "but are you sure there's no family you'd like me to contact now?"

Nesta locked her jaw. "Positive."

"All right," Amorette said, nodding. "Please don't hesitate to let me know if you change your mind."

Nesta didn't answer. She had nothing to say.

---

August 24 - year of

Nesta was seated on the couch waiting for Cassian when he arrived. The glass Feyre had poured was still on the table where she had left it, next to the book Nesta had not touched.

"Hi," he said, heavy. He sat down across from her.

Across from her. Not next to her. There would be no mindless touches, no distracted kisses for this conversation.

"Did you know?" she said eventually.

He swallowed. "I knew...that she wanted to. I knew she was going to eventually. I only knew specifically when I arrived in Velaris. And I didn't know what she wanted to say."

Nesta stared at a spot on her skirt, brushing away lint that wasn't there.

"What did she say?"

Nesta ignored him. "What did you tell her about me?"

"Nothing..."

"What did you tell her about us?"

"I didn't. Nesta. I didn't."

"But she knew."

"You shine off me," he said boldly. She looked at him. "Anyone who sees me knows."

That much was true. They had made their marks on each other. Permanent and stark as the battle tattoos he had up and down his arms all over his chest.

"So you never talked about me?" she pressed.

He hesitated. "I used to. In the beginning. When we...when we first came here together."

"What did you tell her?"

"Nothing real. Just that you got a job. I didn't even tell her you and Emerie were friends."

She fell silent again. How much of Cassian was really hers, she wondered. She knew she wouldn't be allowed to have him all the time-he'd always go back to Velaris for Solstice and Starfall and whenever their Circle willed it. But when he was there, was he hers? Or was he a version she wouldn't recognize?

She'd never know. And it wasn't fair because-look at her. Every part of Nesta was so clearly Cassian's now. Her heart beat after his. "There are things I have to do, Nesta, you know that," he said, begging still.

"You're nearly six hundred years old," she snapped, so different from the joking manner she normally said that in. "You make your own decisions."

He winced. Didn't argue. Because he agreed with her or because he didn't? "Nesta, we both know how we feel about each other. So if we just stay here...can't that be enough?"

She met his eyes, pleading and caring. She knew that even though his soul was tied to this land and this Court, tonight his body would be hers. And he would be receiving of all she agreed to give him, now and forever.

And no. It was not enough.

Because Feyre was right. She was better now. Time and space had a certain persistent kind of magic, reliable and true. She was not broken and scared.

So in the end, it was not even Feyre that made the decision for her.

It was her own choice.

"Yes," she lied, not even regretting it. She stood and crossed the room to sit by him.

He was gentle and anticipating when he brought her face close to his and kissed her, but she could no longer marvel at how someone could know her so well and stay with her. Instead she mourned what she could no longer hide from: she was not enough for him. He was never going to choose her over this Court.

And just like that, while she kissed him back, the choice was made.

---

June 21 - 1 year after

The morning's progression was slow and almost imperceptible until seven minutes past nine, when Nesta cried out in pain for the first time.

Worse than her cycle. Worse than the practice contractions. A sharp twist starting low and getting lower, matched with movement, with one the-babies-jerking downwards.

"Nesta," Amorette said, holding both of her hands. "Look at me. Match my breathing...there you go..."

Nesta gasped and tasted salt. Was she crying? This was pathetic. It had barely started and she was already crying! "I can't do this. Amorette, you have to-"

"Shh, just breathe with me. There you go."

Breathing was easier said than done. Her lungs were being held in chokehold. Surely this wasn't right-surely this wasn't supposed to happen-

And then it faded. Nesta exhaled.

"All right," Amorette said. "That was good. You did very well, Nesta."

With her head slack against her headboard, Nesta managed to focus her eyes on the clock.

Eight minute past nine.

Less than sixty seconds of a contraction, her first real one, and she was already sweating and crying.

"I can't do this," she said again, miserable.

"Yes, you can. You already did, see?"

"I can't. Is this-is this active labor? It wasn't supposed to happen yet. I was supposed to have at least another day."

Amorette smiled warmly at her. "No one promised you that. You're fine. You're well-prepared."

Nesta's pulse quickened. Amorette didn't understand. She was not. She had no one, nothing, and she couldn't do this. She knew her limits, and hers was a very short distance from where she was now.

"Nesta," Amoretta said kindly. "Remember everything you've read. You're smart and strong and capable. Remember I'm here with you, and my team will be here soon, too. People less-equipped than you have given birth before and survived. You're going to be more than fine. I promise."

Nesta's eyes welled up with tears again. Amorette didn't understand. She couldn't understand. Nesta would not survive this. There was too much wrong with her. She was going to die in labor or right afterwards or live to fail these children that she didn't ask for.

No one understood, no one would ever understand. Nesta wasn't herself. There was a part of her that wasn't her own. There was the Cauldron, and it was inside of her and it was going to kill her one way or another. Probably the babies, too.

And she would die alone and unloved.

Amorette squeezed her hands. "Close your eyes," she said, "and let it out."

"Let what out?" Certainly not-the babies?

"Whatever you're feeling."

Nesta let out a strangled laugh. "I doubt you want that."

"I assure you, Nesta, I am familiar with birthing rituals. Let it out."

"Let what out?"

"A scream. A sob. Sing, if that's what you want. So long as it comes from inside you."

Nesta opens her eyes. "It's not very motherly of me."

Amorette smiled. "Whatever you've got, I've seen worse."

Nesta pursed her lips. Gave a small shrug, almost subconsciously. And burst into hysterical tears.

She had made up her mind, on her birthday, to put her past behind her, but today she cried for all that she had been through. For her mother's cold distance and death and her father's failures and her own and the loss of the relationships with her sisters, again, and even for Cassian.

And for the three little creatures, struggling inside her, to make their way into the world.

And for herself.

And sometimes for the pain, too, as it grew worse and more frequent as the hours went on.

It was nearly ten before Nesta calmed down, and by then Amorette's team had arrived. Two young female healers, who, Nesta had to give them credit, did not so much as blink at Nesta's sobs.

"How-how far apart are the contractions?" Nesta managed when she had calmed down.

"A little over three minutes," one of Amorette's assistants answered smoothly. "Would you like some tea?"

"Thank you," she said, taking her proffered mug. The sweet strawberry taste did her good. "Are...am I still all right for a water birth?"

"You are," she answered. "Everything's going just fine."

Nesta looked to Amorette, who smiled at her.

"Really, Nesta," she said, nodding. "All is as it should be."

Nesta wiped at her eyes. The other assistant handed her a towel. "Should I...should I get in the pool now?"

"If you'd like," Amorette said encouragingly.

"Are you going to get in with me?"

"Not just yet. Only for the births."

Nesta shivered. Births. And they were soon.

The second assistant held Nesta's hand as she helped her up and walked her in. Amorette had told her, when she had first expressed interest in a water birth, that many females liked to experience it naked. She was, obviously, not going to do that, and wore a night dress that had a tie for the skirt at her waist.

"Water's warm, right, Nesta?"

"Yes."

"We're keeping it at this temperature so the babies have an easier transition."

Transition out of her body and into the world. "All right."

"Hungry? Want anything in particular?"

"No..."

"Jam?"

"No."

"All right."

They kept talking to her like that, calm and collected, asking her if she'd like food or music or to get out of the pool or if she wanted to go over the birth procedure again. For another two hours.

And then the minutes between her contractions disappeared, along with her life as she knew it.

---

October 16 - Year of

There was nothing particularly dramatic about it. Nesta spent the next few weeks with Cassian and Emerie as she normally would, if perhaps a little quieter.

Nearly a year ago, she had decided to work to book passage on a ship to Gilameyva. That dream had altered slightly: she would book passage away from Prythian the fourth day after Cassian left her. Three days without him, and she would be gone.

It was like a deal she made with him. Tell me you can't bear to be apart from me and I'll stay.

But of course, he didn't know.

Cassian left the morning of the twelfth. "I'll see you soon, Nesta," he whispered against her lips.

"I'll miss you," she said, heart breaking a little.

He didn't come home.

Again.

And again.

But she already knew that was what would happen.

So when she left Emerie's shop that night, it was just as she always did.

And in the morning when she awoke, and emptied her bank account and made her way to the docks, bag of meager belongings in hand, it wasn't hard. It was easy. It was right. It was finally someone putting herself first. Even if it was only her. Even if no one else had.

By noon Prythian slipped below the horizon. There was no trace of her left on that island, save for a note and a pair of grey-blue eyes in someone else's face.

---

June 21 - 1 year after

Nesta was hyperventilating.

Somewhere, someone was holding her hand. "Breathe," she said. "Breathe."

It all came rushing back to her. The room stilled around her. That was Amorette there, in front of her, in the pool with her. And-all the forgotten gods-it was time. It was happening.

"I can't do this!"

"Follow Lyra's breathing," Amorette said, voice smooth and calm. "There you go...Nesta, don't you see? You're already doing this...and you're doing a wonderful job..."

"No," she said, sobbing, "no, no, no no no no no-oh!"

"That's it, Nesta, just like that...you're going to do this, right? For your babies?"

Nesta gasped. Nodded once.

"Excellent. Just follow Lyra's breathing...Ama, you have the towel ready...yes...all right. Just keep breathing Nesta. Just like that. Perfect."

Nesta most certainly did not feel perfect. Her breathing was more strangled gasps. And she was being split in two.

"Something's wrong," she said.

"I promise you, Nesta," Amorette answered, patient as all goodness. "Everything is fine. You're doing wonderfully. And in just a few moments...you're going to push."

"No-no-no-"

"Shh, Nesta," Amorette said, holding her head. She smiled warmly even as Nesta sobbed. "You're doing a fantastic job. And it's almost over. You're almost done. And you're going to have your children."

"No-"

"Keep breathing for me, Nesta. I promise. Do you trust me?"

"Amorette-I can't-"

"Listen to me, Nesta," her voice only getting quieter with every octave Nesta's rose. "You have been through worse. You're going to do this. It will hurt, but in just a few minutes, you'll understand. But you have to trust me. All right?"

Nesta's breathing quickened, but she forced herself to match the young healer-Lyra's-patterns. She had made this decision herself. She had to do this. In a few minutes, she could tell the females to take away the babies and give them to someone else, someone better-and then it would be over.

But she had to do this first.

"All right," Nesta said, in between breaths.

"Good," Amorette said. "Keep that breathing pattern...keep up with Lyra...all right. Perfect. Now...push."

How Nesta's body knew exactly what to do when Amorette gave her order, she would never understand. But it did, and she pushed, even though she wanted to stop every second she was doing it.

In all her life, Nesta had never felt something like this. It was like the worst of her cramps multiplied by a thousand plus being ripped in two.

She let out a strangled cry.

"Excellent. Excellent, Nesta. Now...push."

Nesta cried out, but again, even though it killed her, she pushed. And pushed. And one last time, one last horrible, miserable, blinding time, and it was the absolute worst pain there had ever been in all the world, and she was going to die, and there was a massive influx of blood in the pool from inside of her, and there was something small and black-a baby.

Amorette caught the thing as it came out of her. Why was it...she was bringing it up slowly...the cord still attached to it-what would happen? Would it tear?

And then Amorette brought the thing up out of the water, and it screamed, and she held it before Nesta-and the black--the wings-unfolded--and it was her daughter.

The pain disappeared out of Nesta's mind. Everything disappeared. Everything was gone, stripped, nothing had ever been there at all. There was only her. And then Nesta's arms stretching out to hold her.

Nesta let out a small noise as she brought her close to her chest.

"Archeron daughter, eldest of triplets, high noon," Amorette said, somewhere far, far away. Distantly, she was doing magic, cleaning the pool.

But all Nesta knew was the soft pink skin of her little girl. Tiny fingers...on both hands...and a small nose...and eyes she could barely open...and black wings...and a shock of dark hair...and just-the most-perfect-thing-

Nesta was not giving her to anyone else, ever. She would be-she would do everything, she would split the seas and take down the moon. She would do everything.

"I swear it, Avery," she whispered to her.

"Avery Archeron," Amorette said. "All right, Nesta, dear."

Nesta looked up at the hand on her shoulder.

"There, there...a handkerchief, Lyra...yes...didn't I tell you? You see? Now...we're going to give her to Lyra-she's going to be right over there, see? And you're going to deliver her placenta...and then we're going to do this again. All right?"

"Yes," Nesta said firmly, even as she shook. She could do this. And she would. For her...for her sons.

It was utter rubbish that she had to deliver a placenta in between babies, but no matter. She vowed to do everything and that vow would start now.

Later Nesta would not be able to recall if that part of labor had caused any pain. She assumed it had, but all she could remember was bliss and anxiety and love as she looked over at Avery-Avery! A real person with a nose and shoulders and eyelashes! To say nothing of everything inside of her body and mind!-and impatience as she waited for Amorette to finally let her push...for her son.

The pain was not nearly so bad the second time around. Nesta took care to clamp her mouth shut-she didn't want to scare Avery with any screams. And besides, what was pain to this? To the girl over there, wrapped up in a blanket, opening her eyes to her first day on the planet?

The sooner Nesta could finish this, the sooner she would enjoy it with her.

For the second time-finally-like someone pulled a plug out of Nesta and blood came pouring out into the pool...and then her son.

It took everything in her not to rip him right out of Amorette's arms, and it was only not to disturb the other boy still relying on her that she did not.

It was just like last time. Amorette raised him out of the water. Black wings cocooning him into the ball she pushed him out as unfolded to reveal...her son.

She was not prepared. It didn't even matter that it happened with Avery mere moments ago. It was happening again. It hit her, again. And she realized it would be that way when she saw the other boy, too, which only further spurred her tears.

And then she was holding him. He did a better job of opening his eyes than his older sister-Avery was an older sister! He was a younger brother! And soon he would be an older one, too!-and his eyes were hers. The same eyes...her own. Right there, in his perfect face.

Surely it couldn't be. Surely...but this must be it. She had been through hell and back, and for this. She had to pay to experience this, and she had, and now, he was hers. She had him. His little eyes...her eyes...but his. And the way his lashes flutter up at her as he cried-the same way Cassian's lashes did.

And she knew his name. The little boy who would want for nothing. Nicholas. Any night stealing for this one would be purely recreational.

"Hello, Nicholas," she whispered.

Was this her life now? This-this joy? Forever? Every single day of forever? It couldn't be. There had to be some sort of catch. Surely no one got a life like this.

"Nicholas Archeron, second of triplets, eight minutes after noon," Amorette said. "All right, Nesta. You see how wonderfully you're doing?"

Well, she must be. If she had gotten Avery first and now Nicholas.

"So you're going to give little Nicholas over to Lyra...and she's going to take good care of him right next to Avery...and we're going to do this, Nesta. Your third baby. Are you ready?"

"I'm ready." She didn't know it, but she had been born ready for this.

"All right. Kiss goodbye to Nicholas...here we go, Nesta. Placenta and then your third baby."

Once again, Nesta was extremely irritated with the function of her body. Who the hell cared about this part? Her babies were over there on that table. And she wanted her third.

Finally, like an angel singing out from the heavens, Amorette said, "Now...push."

It was different this time. Sharper. But Nesta didn't care. All the pain in the world couldn't stop her from this. She was addicted to that feeling, and she was going to have it once more. She was going to see him, hold him, once more...now!

Even more blood this time, but she figured that was to be expected. Because everything would come out now, right? Perhaps the placenta had come out with him this time-and she wouldn't even have to wait, she could just get out of the tub and be with them.

Amorette caught him through all the gore...brought him up...broke him out from under the surface of the tub...and handed him to Ama.

And stepped out.

Nesta blinked.

"Scalpel, now. Lyra, stay with them, we're all right."

"Amorette?" she said, not understanding. What was...what was...why did she take him? "Amorette, you didn't let me hold him."

But Amorette didn't answer. No one spoke. Even her babies had stopped crying.

Then it hit her.

Her son had not cried.

"No," she said, desperate. "No--no--no--"

Had she really thought the pain of labor was worth crying about? Had that been her, mere minutes ago?

This couldn't be happening.

Couldn't.

A horrible thought occurred to her-was this the price she had to pay? To have two perfect babies, did she have to lose this one?

"No, no, no, no no no no please please--"

Who was she begging?

"Please please PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE--"

"Nesta--please--"

Avery and Nicholas cried as she shrieked. Could they feel it? Could they feel what was happening-to their brother?

She would do anything. She would--could she die instead? Surely, this Mother they all worshipped, surely She would let--was she not a mother? Did she not understand? She would do it, she would die a thousand deaths, a million, if someone would just let her--

And just as Nesta drew breath to scream-scream louder than she ever had before--there it was.

A third cry.

Tinny. Weak. Gasping.

But it was there.

"You see, it's all right," Lyra whispered in her ear.

"Here we go, here we go, here he is," Amorette said, bringing him to her. Too slow--far too slow--

But then he was there, small--so small, and weak, and a wing that did not look like the others', but alive, and right there in her arms--and--and--

"You're strong, Ollie," she said to him, as she met his eyes for the first time. "I promise. I promise you, you are. You're so strong."

"Ollie Archeron," Amorette said. "Third of triplets, thirteen after noon."

"Ollison," Nesta sobbed. "His name is Ollison Bailey."

For the strength her father had shown at the end of his life--for human strength. The most enduring kind.

And now it was her turn. She would do it. She would be strong, for all of them, forever.

"We had to cut the umbilical cord a little early with him," Amorette said gently, running a hand over Nesta's ducked head, "so Lyra has to take him now...you're just going to deliver the placenta-"

"Please, please, can't I-"

"It's a few minutes, Nesta, I swear to you, and then you have the rest of your lives together. All right? Can you give me these few minutes?"

Nesta took a deep breath. "Yes," she said. She squeezed Ollie close to her as she kissed his forehead and gave him to Lyra.

This one was the worst. They were all there, on the table, small and in need of their mother, and there wasn't even a good reason for her to still be in this pool.

"Oh, Nesta, cheer up!" Amorette laughed, right in the middle of the afterbirth. "You're almost done, just a minute longer...and then you'll be on the bed and holding the babies! And I promise you, Nesta, they're fine."

Finally, finally, finally, she could climb out.

Except she couldn't, because she could not bear her own weight out of water.

"Amorette-"

"Hush, dear, give your body a minute. Here...we'll bring them around..."

And they did. Each healer holding one, presenting them to her. Nesta couldn't decide what to look at, her eyes just darting wildly around. There were Avery's ears and Nicky's fingers-he closed them around hers!-and Ollie-Ollie-

"I promise you, Nesta, if I saw reason to take him to the hospital, I would have immediately," Amorette said gently. "He's fine. He's going to be fine."

Nesta nodded, but she said, "I don't believe you."

Amorette laughed. "Well. That's your job."

After a few more minutes, Nesta gained enough power in her legs to climb out of the pool and collapse on her bed.

The healers sat with her.

"Did you want to breastfeed?" Ama asked her.

Nesta looked at Amorette. She had initially told her to bring the stuff for the bottle. "Can I try?"

Amorette grinned. "Of course you can."

Hands shaking, Nesta brought little Avery closer to her. Ama and Lyra suddenly found the boys very fascinating as Amorette helped her take her top off.

The sensation was...not magical.

"All right," Amorette said. "You'll both get the hang of it eventually...or not. It's really all right, Nesta. You can try with the boys later or decide not to."

"I want to try."

"All right. We'll keep trying. But we can stop whenever you'd like."

Nesta nodded. Perhaps she would stop. Or...perhaps Avery would never like nursing this way. It didn't matter.

A laugh escaped Nesta as she realized it-it didn't matter. Nothing mattered anymore, nothing except for these three. Avery, Nicky, and Ollie. She would feed them one way or another. Whichever way they liked best.

And as the the beautiful sunshine of the year's longest and most perfect day faded out her window and moonlight spilled in...as neighbor after neighbor and new friend after new friend came to visit Sugar Valley's newest residents...Nesta knew what she had to do to protect them.

They had not answered her letters. They had rejected her.

That was fine.

But she would not let anyone--anyone--reject her children.

And the only way to ensure that was to ensure that they never knew them at all.

So Nesta did the only thing she knew was right: she reached to grasp onto her magic, deep inside of her...and after a day of pushing, pulled. Right over her head. To cover her like a shield.

There. No one would find her now.

And if no one could find her...no one could hurt them,

And that was all that would ever matter again.

---

October 18 - Year of

Once, Cassian had come home and Nesta had not been there and his heart had fallen right out of the sky. Now it was normal, even comforting. Nesta was not at home because she was at work where she was enjoying the day with her friend.

So he didn't think anything was amiss when he arrived and knew she wasn't there. Almost didn't notice that her scent was too faint to have marked her presence there that morning.

Almost.

But he was just a little too tuned to Nesta's being to miss something like that.

"Nesta," he called, even though he knew there was no point. No books in the living room, no dishes on the sink. No cardigan strewn around. And when he opened the door to their room, the bed was cold and untouched.

Save for the the letter on his side, with his name written on it in beautiful script.

His hands shook as he reached for it. Had anyone ever written his name with such care? He doubted it. But she had, he knew. He knew.

Cassian, she wrote,

I've gone. I won't come back. Leave me be.

I'm sorry.

Cassian flipped it over. Nothing.

She didn't even sign it.

That was all he could think as his soul folded in on itself.

She didn't even sign it.

---

June 21 - 1 year after

Elain knew her disinterest in learning about her power irritated Amren, but she didn't mind. It didn't bother her that Feyre was disappointed in her, either, so why should this?

She knew they thought it was a waste of her potential. She just didn't care. Trying to See...it felt unnatural. Invasive. She didn't like it. It made her feel like some of the old women on the edge of human towns like the one she had lived in, practicing all manner of dark, forbidden things.

Azriel had cautiously tried to bring it up. He told her how his shadows had frightened him, at first, but with patience and time, he had learned to wield them however he wanted.

And that was lovely for Azriel. Really. She was happy for him, proud of what he had overcome. But this...didn't appeal to her in the least. It didn't even matter to her.

Until the Summer Solstice, when she awoke in a guest bed in the Summer Court, a scream in her mouth and cold sweat on her face.

Feyre and Rhys burst in her room--Az was there, Cassian, someone was running down the halls, but she couldn't see-she couldn't See.

"What is it?"

"She's crying. Feyre, is she--"

"Elain, dear, let me see. Are you bleeding?"

"What is it? Who screamed?"

"Did someone break in? Why is Lady Elain...I'll get some tea."

"Elain, look at me. What's wrong?"

"Which way did they go?"

"No one saw anything. There wasn't anyone here."

"Elain," Feyre whispered to her again, squeezing her tightly. "Elain, what is it?"

"Everyone out," Rhys ordered.

"It's-gone," she sobbed. For even though she had not used it, it had always been there. A small comfort, but a comfort nonetheless.

Through her tears, she saw Feyre and Rhys exchange bewildered looks. Azriel sat down next to her, covering her shoulders with something soft and blue.

"What's gone, Elain?" Azriel asked her quietly. "Is it Lucien?"

"No," she sobbed, in between gasping breaths. "It's--it's--Feyre--she's--gone."

Across the room, she could feel Cassian tense. He understood, even if no one else did.

"What?" Rhys asked him.

Cassian's voice was low, blank. "It's Nesta. She can't See her anymore."

Feyre dropped in front of her, squeezing her knees. "Elain. Look at me. Please. What do you mean? What did you See?"

"Where was the last place you Saw her?"

"Was she-"

"Enough," Azriel said, calm and cold, as he always sounded when he talked to anyone but her. "Let her catch her breath."

He sat next to her, hand firmly on her back. Someone handed her a cup of tea. After a few minutes, she calmed down enough to drink it. Shortly after that, she managed to speak.

"I never...really Saw her. I wasn't looking--you all know I don't like to." Elain paused to take a shaky breath. Azriel's fingers moved up and down on her back. "But I always...felt her. And now. Just now. She's--gone."

This time, when Elain sobbed, there was no accompanying concerned chatter. It was her alone.

And that's how it always would be. Because her sister...

"Elain," someone said at her side. Not Feyre. Not Az. "Elain, look at me."

Elain picked her head up and looked into Cassian's eyes, reflecting the same pain she felt.

"We're going to find her," he said, voice low like it was before but decidedly un-blank. "I promise you."

She could only cry in response. Because how could they find her? Her sister's being cut off from her sight like this could only mean one thing.

But Nesta would do anything-had done everything for her. So this, surely, was the least she could do in return was...everything.

"All right," Elain said, swallowing her cries. "We'll find her." She clenched her fists tightly.

I swear to you, Nesta, she vowed silently. I will do everything I can.

---

4 years after - February 21

Not two hours after Zeyn brings the children back, they are in Velaris.

They're thrilled to be back. There's a celebratory meal at Feyre's riverfront mansion. Pictures of her children now decorate the walls more than anything. They are gazed at, passed around, adored. Nesta can hardly blame them. Still, she doesn't have to enjoy it.

Cassian is at her side through all of it. And he holds her hand on the way down to the carriage. Right there, in front of everyone. He had never done that before. She catches a look he exchanges with Rhys, but she can't tell what it means.

As usual, he offers to bathe the children while she unwinds, but she chooses to join him. Is this not the point of this...endeavor? Co-parenting together?

"I want the blue bubbles!"

"I want green!"

"It's my turn!"

"Then I want my own baths!"

Nesta blinks. Can it really be time for their own baths? Are they...going to be bathing themselves soon? That can't be. She remembers the day they were born still, like yesterday.

But...somehow, they are nearly four.

Four...children learn the alphabet at that age. Will they be...reading soon?

It's all she can think of while Cassian tells them the bedtime story they choose. When had he learned them all? Just by watching her?

"Goodnight, ladybug," she whispers to Avery.

Across the room, Cassian says to Ollie, "Good night, little lieutenant."

Her heart leaps as she kisses Nicky and Ollie both. He has nicknames for them. They have a relationship with him. Each of them individually. And from each sleepy Goodnight, Appa, she hears...it only confirms it: these children know they have a father and they know who he is and what he is to them.

He takes her hand again as they shut the door behind them. She wonders if he's going to lead her to the bedroom. It wouldn't be the first time Cassian has mistaken her intentions for the evening.

Not that she--well. She's tired. Tonight. But--she doesn't know.

He takes her downstairs, instead. To the living room.

Considerably more decorated than it had been when she had first arrived for Solstice three months ago, but not quite a home yet. Getting there, certainly.

"Let's talk, Nesta," he says, pulling her next to him.

Nesta takes a deep breath. "Let's," she agrees.

"Who first?"

"I'll go," she says, because she's still too scared to hear what he has to say. "What...you want to know why I kept them from you?"

"I want to know why you hid yourself from me."

Semantics, she thinks, but no matter. They're adults. They're capable of having this conversation.

She takes another deep breath. "You didn't write back. You rejected me." Her voice catches slightly, but she powers on. "I didn't know if you were going to do the same to them. And I couldn't let...couldn't let the happen to them. So I hid us. To keep us safe...from losing you." She had started off strong, but she ends in a whisper, eyes sinking down to her skirt. It is a while before she looks back up to see him staring at her.

They don't say anything, and she isn't sure how much time has passed before he breaks away, standing up and turning around.

He runs his fingers through his hair, but the gesture isn't slick or arrogant: he's frustrated. Angry. He fists his hands in front of him and kicks at the ground.

"Dammit," he says, the word half a growl under his breath. "Dammit, Nesta."

He turns around to face her again. Still, she does not change her cool expression. She doesn't care if he was worked up. She isn't. She has worked hard to move past her anger, her hurt. Built up her indifference like a carefully constructed barricade, after he had destroyed the first one she had spent her whole life crafting painstakingly, nearly five years ago. She cannot let herself feel that again...even though she knows she has to. Knows it's coming.

She doesn't know what she expects him to say. Probably something like I'm sorry or What will it take or It's just not fair, I didn't know, Why can't I, Why won't you, but he doesn't. He surprises her.

"If you honestly thought you could tell me to my face you were pregnant, and that I wouldn't immediately drop everything and take care of you, I failed...miserably in loving you. I did a horrible job."

She tries not to let anything through, on either side: she does not want to let herself feel what his words mean and she certainly does not want him to see the impact upon her. But she can feel her apathy slip from her face as her heart beats faster and blood rises to her cheeks.

He has never told her... he has never said...

"And you'll never know how much I hate myself for letting this happen, Nesta. I've become everything I hate and everything I worked against. I left you pregnant and alone." He is looking at her, but as his eyes narrow, Nesta knows he isn't seeing her. Like there's a screen separating them, like he is seeing someone else.

"I know I just..." he sighs, wringing his hands. "And you're just," he says, now waving them at her. His wings tighten and flare out.

She has never seen him so out of his element-she has never seen him out of his element, out of control, uncomfortable. Cassian acts like everywhere he stands is exactly where he's meant to be.

Except now, with her, apparently. She drops her gaze, staring at the floor. She's rarely comfortable, anywhere, but once she had been...so at peace, with him. That's gone.

"I know I keep fucking up with you," he says finally.

She looks at him. She feels the heat that had risen to her cheeks drain out and then come back in again. She still doesn't say anything. She doesn't trust herself to open her mouth.

"I let them send you to Illyria. But even before that... I promised you time. I told you we would have our time and I didn't keep that promise. I should have fought harder. And then I should have shot them down when they suggested Illyria. And then I should have stayed with you every day. I should have helped you wean yourself off drinking. And then I should I have followed you to Gilameyva. And then I should've rubbed your feet. Or your back. Or whatever it is you needed when you were pregnant. And then I should've held your hand for the births. And then woken up with you when Nicky had infections, or Ava had a fever, or Ollie with his coughing. And then I should've listened to you. And-and given you everything all the while. Everything you needed. Everything you wanted." He moves towards her, suddenly, faster than he did when he wasn't on the battlefield. He's a few feet away from her, and then he's clutching her shoulders, pulling her to her feet, closer to him.

"Nesta," he says desperately. "Say something."

She traces the lines of his face with her eyes. Her hands are clasped in front of her, so close to him now, but she does not touch him. She breaks them apart to hover her fingers over the siphon in the middle of his chest, just barely grazing the tip. He clenches his jaw and scrapes his nails against her arms.

"You..." she says, looking into his eyes. Her daughter's, her son's. The most beautiful eyes she has ever seen. The most beautiful eyes in the world, now with a glimmer of hope.

"You locked me up," she whispers. And there are tears on her face and in her voice.

His hope vanishes. "I know," he chokes out, tears in his voice, too. "I know, sweetheart."

"I didn't want to go."

"I know."

"You let them..."

"I know."

"I had nothing--I was scared--"

"I know. I know."

"And you left me."

"Yes."

And then she says it-what she's been waiting for. "Why didn't you ever write back?" She holds her breath tightly, half wishing she could take back the words, still too afraid to hear his answer.

He doesn't look away and he doesn't let her go. "Because you hurt me and I was angry and I wanted to hurt you back."

She sobs little, trying to keep it inside but failing.

She knows that. She's known all along. And it might not have mattered, might have been understandable, forgivable...were it not for the circumstances. Three tiny circumstances.

"Nesta. You'll never know. You cannot-you have been a perfect mother. The whole time. You'll never know how sorry I am."

Nesta coaches herself on her breathing. That's the best she can do right now.

"Listen," she says, after a few minutes of this. "I think we both know...we can't pretend to start over." She reaches up to touch his cheek and her angles his head closer to her hand, closing his eyes. "But we can...work with what we have."

His eyes fly open. "What do you..."

"I'm going to be splitting my time," she says, "between Sugar Valley and Velaris. We're opening a location for Sugar Books here...I'm going to be Head Archivist."

"Nesta, that's wonderful--congratulations-"

"And in the meantime...for now...I'm going to spend some time on myself...and I think you should too."

He blinks. Clenches his jaw.

He's a warrior, her Cassian. He never lets anyone see his pain.

But she can see it. She's always been able to see it.

"For now," she repeats. "I think...it would be...prudent."

"Prudent."

"It means sage."

"Yes, thank you," he says, making her laugh slightly. Even through it all, he's still making her laugh.

"I don't have a timeline," she says. There are things she wants to do. Work on her magic with Ameren--maybe repair what she had with her. Accept who she is as a female so she can help Avery do the same with herself, when that day comes. And the shop. She'll be Head Archivist. She can make it out to be whatever she wants. "I can't tell you when...but I want you in our lives. And they want you in their lives." Because the best thing for children is to have both of their parents. Not having their parents together...not if that takes away from one of them, makes them less in some way. Only if it makes them more.

He nods. "I know...this isn't your home. And I know that Sugar Valley gave you what I failed to. But...you know...you know I love you?" His voice cracks at the end.

She nods, holding back her own tears. It's not forever, she wants to say. It's just to start. And it's for them. It might change. We might change.

But she doesn't have to, because he knows. He always knows what she's thinking.

He sinks to his knees in front of her, taking her hands in his and bringing them to his lips: slowly, gently, trembling.

She swallows hard. "Come on," she says, tugging him up, voice firm. "Let's go to bed."

---

A few hours later

Cassian stands in the doorway of his bedroom-Nesta's bedroom? Their bedroom?

The bedroom where Nesta is sleeping, at any rate. Where he is invited to sleep, too.

He's not sure if he will yet. He knows she wants him there, but it might be too hard for him. To spend the whole night by her side, and yet...not be with her.

He'll take it day by day, he supposes. That's all he can do. That's what Nesta wants.

She's asleep. Everytime he sees her like this, he's struck by how truly young she is. He forgets, sometimes. He's nearly six hundred years old, as she always liked to say, and she's his better in every way that matters, so.

He walks down the hall to crack open the door to his children's room. Nesta caught their argument in the bathtub, too, he knows. Tonight they sleep peacefully together, but it won't be long before they want their own rooms, their own space.

He wanders back to the other room. Nesta stirs slightly as the floorboards creak under him, but she doesn't wake.

Reaching down into his pocket, he pulls out a small box and opens it.

It hadn't been a full hour, the Solstice years ago, that he dove down into the icy Sidra, cursing his own rashness. Stupid to throw it out like that. Obviously, she wasn't going to want anything to do with him then. And it was selfish of him, he knows. He knew that then, too. He didn't want her to have it, he wanted to be the one to give it to her.

And, he thinks with a rueful grin, that's still the case.

Nesta's mother's ring had not been easy to track down, but one look at an absentminded sketch of Feyre's had been all it took to keep it lodged in his mind until the day he finally held it.

He's not quite sure if it's Nesta's style or not. They've never browsed jewellery shops together. She has the necklace he gave her, sure, but she loves that because she loves anything to do with the children. Will she like this for the same reason? For her parents...and for him?

It's wrong to give it to her now. She's made herself clear and he'll listen this time. He'll give it to her...eventually. Later. When she's ready.

And maybe it won't be an engagement ring. Maybe it'll be a here's how much I love you, I'm willing to scour every human jeweler and pawnshop and the whole world until I find what you want ring. Either way, he can't give it to her now. She needs time. They both do.

No matter. After all, he's nearly six hundred years old. He knows how to wait.

And Nesta's worth waiting for.

[xxisxxisxxis]

Gateway Drug | Part Eighty-Four

Words: 4K

Warning(s): Drug abuse (Overdose), explicit language, suicide attempt

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Duff and I move like the speed of lightening, him getting his pants on and me just putting my panties on and his t-shirt that got pulled off, before we rush next door with Steven, seeing people scrambling out the door, into connected suites, flushing drugs, all while Sally and Slash are working on waking him up, smacking at his face, to no avail. 

"Wh-What happened?!" I ask them. 

"Someone fucking shot him up and he fell out." She states.

"Who?" I ask and she sighs. 

"Vivian, we really don't have time for questions, help me get him to the bath." She says just as I'm looking over her shoulder where we're crouched over Nikki, to see Sparkie, shock on his face. 

We make eye contact and I just know he did this. 

"Vivian!" She snaps and I'm back to reality, helping them to drag him to the bathroom all while Sparkie takes the opportunity to get out of dodge. 

Suddenly Slash starts crying hysterically, clearly drunk and under the influence of many different substances. 

"Slash, calm down." Sally assures him as we get some cold water on Nikki's body, Duff and Steven still slapping at his face. 

"Damn it, Nikki." Duff mumbles, trying to keep himself calm. 

"Slash," Sally repeats as he starts getting louder and louder to the point it's hard to focus on the issue at hand. 

She stands and goes to the bathroom door, and Slash stops crying in a second. 

"I'm sorry to knock him out but the last thing we need is to get hysterical over this, we can get him back if we try hard enough." She assures us. 

After another minute and nothing's changing, I get uneasy. 

"The ambulance is on the way." I hear someone say over the noise of the running water and the blood throbbing in my ears from my mind racing.  

My heart feels like it's about to burst, my lungs feel flat, like they don't have the muscle to expand and let me catch my breath.  

Duff's t-shirt that I'm wearing is soaked with freezing cold water, Nikki's grayish-yellow skin now blue…  

Steven tries to knock him awake with his cast--from an injury he'd gotten earlier this week--before me, Sally, Duff and him get Nikki from the cold shower and get him back in the living room floor, tearing at his shirt and the buttons fly off.  

"Holy shit." Steven says just under his breath as I go to start cpr but I'm stopping when my hands hit something like ice. 

I quickly see what it is and I nearly fall back.  

It's my crucifix that I thought I had lost when I left it in Duff's hotel room a couple months ago…

"He knows." I say it with a panic in my voice, beginning to hyperventilate. "Duff, he knows." 

Duff looks at me, confused and frantic before he eyes the crucifix and if he had time to think about it, he would. 

"Viv, just stay calm." Steven tells me as Sally starts pumping on Nikki's chest. 

"C'mon, Nikki," She pleads by the fourth round. 

Nothing. 

"C'mon, I'm getting tired." She states and Duff takes over while Steven waits by his head for any sign of life. 

"Nikki, I swear to God if you die," I threaten him, running my hands through my hair, tears streaming down my face as I look at the smidge of blood on his forehead from where Steven tried to wake him up. 

"Let me try," I sniffle as Duff continues chest compressions and in between rounds of compressions, I try mouth to mouth resuscitation. 

The more time that passes, the deader he looks. 

"He's not waking up," I tell them, my adrenaline starting to wear off a little. "Nikki's not waking up, what else do we do?" I refuse to give up, looking to them for plan B. 

"Shhit." Steven sighs out, sorrow in his quiet voice as he starts to pace. 

It's very evident they don't have a plan B as ambulance sirens wail in the distance, coming closer and closer at the speed of light. 

"We let the paramedics try to bring him back." Sally says, continuing CPR, and the thought paralyzes me. "And if they can't then…" 

She doesn't finish, as if not wanting to entertain the possibility of Nikki dying tonight. 

Within the next minutes, medics are all but busting the door down with a gurney. 

Duff pulls me out of the way and I await them to start CPR, or pull out a magical pill that they shove down his throat and he magically comes back to life. 

They check his pulse while listening to his heart with a stethoscope, and look at each other. 

"Call it." The first one sighs out and my reality is beaten into me with a two ton hammer. 

My body and mind disconnect, my heart wrenching in my chest as my soul screams out through my throat, struggling to get away from Duff, as I plead, "Nikki, don't leave me!" 

"This is Nikki Sixx, he's not dying on my watch!" The other medic snaps to the first one over my cries. "Grab some adrenaline!" 

"Nikki, I love you, I love you, please don't leave me!" I shriek, my throat raw as I claw against Duff, trying to get away so I can go to him. 

"He's been out for too lon--"

"He's not dying tonight!" He barks over him and reaches for their bag, uncapping a long needle and plunging it into Nikki's heart. 

Nothing happens. 

What my new normal is about to look like flashes through my mind and I can't bear to even imagine what living in a world without him would be like. 

"Vivian!" Duff screams as he, Steven and Sally scramble to pull me away from the balcony railing overlooking a thirty foot drop as I keep a white knuckled grip on the steel railing, trying to pull myself away from them. 

"Let me go with him!" I scream at them, trying to kick them away from me. 

Paramedic number one sedated me while paramedic number two shot another dose of adrenaline into Nikki's heart...he came back to life while I was subconsciously praying I'd lose mine.

When I wake up, my head's groggy, my heart hurts, and my body just feels heavy. 

I'm in a hospital bed, confused for a moment, until it all comes back to me in a sudden, thundering moment. 

Tears come to my eyes, panic kickstarting the pounding of my heart as I try to sit up. 

"Hey, hey," I hear my dad say, getting up from the chair next to the bed to see me, and I look at him, confused. "They called me a few hours ago he explains." And I nod, my lip shaking as tears steadily roll down my cheeks. 

"Is he…" I can't finish my question, scared of the answer. 

"They got him back." My dad assures me with a nod and relief floods my body. 

"Oh, God," I close my eyes and my dad hugs me tightly, my face buried in his shoulder. "Oh, God, thank you." I acknowledge God for the first time in a while, my heart tensing at the sorrow I was so close to facing in a reality where Nikki was dead. 

"I'll go tell the nurse you're awake, they wanted to ask you some questions." He tells me after a moment and I nod. 

He kisses my forehead and gives a reassuring smile before stepping into the hall. 

I wipe my eyes and a doctor is stepping in behind my dad in a matter of moments.

He asks me questions about whether or not I've been suicidal in the past, if I'm still taking my antidepressant...I just say, "I've never tried to kill myself, I've never thought about it" and "No, I'm not on Nardil anymore, it made me worse." 

He decides my attempt at hurting myself was a spur of the moment panic, not a contemplated plan come to fruition at unlikely timing, and with a referral to a new Psychiatrist, they let me out of the psych wing of the hospital. 

Steven, Slash, and Duff are waiting in the waiting room of the E.R., and when we get down there, Duff sees me and stands up, stepping to me slowly before quickening his pace, wrapping me in a vice grip of his arms when he gets to me...I feel a few of his tears against my temple as he holds me. 

When we pull away, I look at my dad, and he looks away from me for a moment, eyes on the floor, brows furrowing slightly…

"I'm just gonna go home with my dad for a few hours." I tell Duff quietly, wiping my tears and he does the same, nodding. 

I give his hand a squeeze before stepping to Steven and Slash, who're both standing hesitantly...guilty expressions on their faces. 

"We're sorry for scorin--" I shut Steven up, hugging him to me and he squeezes me. 

"You could've ran like everyone else but you didn't." I point out, my voice hoarse from screaming during the night. "He probably wouldn't be here without you caring in the first place, so thank you." I add, looking at him, his tired eyes. I don't think he's slept at all. 

I hug Slash next, feeling sorry for him since he and Nikki are like brothers at this point. 

"They said he should be alright." He tells me. 

"Dad told me." I reply. 

"It used to happen to me all the time." He says next. "I just didn't think it'd happen to him like that." He adds. "That bad, I mean." 

"He's sick, Slash." I repeat Duff's words, finally accepting the fact that Nikki really is sick. "He's just sick." 

I finish saying bye and me and dad make our way to his car, and he fumbles in his pocket for the keys, getting it unlocked and I get in, staring at the windshield. 

Dad gets in next and shuts the door, completely silent. 

"It's been happening since September." I tell him, lowly, and something tells me he knows exactly what I'm talking about. "Me and Nikki separated after the Vanity thing happened in July and Duff and I started seeing each other in September." 

"Does he know?" He asks and I sigh. 

"I didn't think he did, until last night." I reply, feeling ashamed, sniffling.

"Can I tell you something I haven't told anybody before because your mother swore me to FBI level confidentiality?" He asks and I nod as he hands me a paper towel from his pocket. 

"Your aunt Lily didn't get into heroin from her boyfriend she was head over heels for, they did it together, but he's not the one that introduced her to it." He admits and I furrow my brows. "Your mother was on methadone for part of her pregnancy with you." 

"What?" I nearly snap out, shock shuttering everything I've been taught my whole life. 

"She got untangled from that web by the time you were born because she wanted to be better for you, and that's why she's always been so hard on trying to have you make the right choices, she just didn't want you to end up like her, and when Lily kept struggling with drugs over the years, she felt like it was her fault because Lily grew up knowing Charlette was on it and she felt like she was the one who brought her baby sister into all of it--even though your mother was clean years before Lily even touched it. Then you and Nikki getting engaged, she just…" he trails off, sighing. "...I don't know, she just has her own demons she fights with, still, I guess. But she does love you, Vivian. And everything she's done has been to try to protect you from making the same mistake she did--even if it wasn't worth the emotional turmoil you went through, and there's no excuse for it. And I know I didn't protect you as much as I could have from her, as much as I should have, I was just used to being with her for so long...I took things with a grain of salt, and I wasn't thinking that you were too young to understand that you just needed to do that with her sometimes. Even now, when she drives me up the damn wall, I still find some good in it, because I remember that it can be so, so much worse. She was so much worse at one point." He informs me. "My point is, don't be so hard on yourself. You had an affair--God doesn't hate you for it, you're not a bad person or a sorry excuse of a woman or any less of a Christian. You're human. God is well aware we are all human and don't make the best choices sometimes. And given that I've been you before, married to what seems like somebody you love one day and then the devil the next, I can see why you wanted something that wasn't weighed down with the burden of a goddamn demon like heroin." He adds and I try to blink back more tears. "So the question is, now what?" 

"I don't know if I still want a divorce." I confess, rubbing my lips together. 

"You think?" He asks, a little smile on his face. "You tried to throw yourself from a two story balcony so you wouldn't get left by your momentarily dead husband, and you think you don't want a divorce anymore?"

I find myself chuckling at his point, wiping my tears again. 

"I just want to get him back, Dad. The old him, because I feel like I've been married to a stranger."

"I think you need to go get help for yourself before you start trying to help him, though." He tells me next, reassuringly patting the crown of my hair. 

"Okay." I nod and he reaches over and hugs me, kissing my hair before pulling back, cranking the car, sniffling. 

"Alright, now, you're getting me teary eyed, you gotta stop that." He tells me and I laugh, just as a radio announcer states, "Last night, rock n roll bassist, Nikki Sixx, died of a heroin overdose at the Frankli--" my dad quickly cuts it off.

"I just wanna go home." I mumble.

"Alright." He replies, putting the car in reverse. 

"I mean home-home, Dad." I clarify and he looks at me. 

Mom was off at the women's Christmas dinner for church, so it was a perfect opportunity for Dad to have mercy on me and bring me back to the house I grew up in--that I hadn't step foot in for six years.

"You still haven't painted over that?" My finger traces over the measurements notched into the doorway of our living room. 

"Your mom wants me to, but I'm not." He replies, putting his keys on the counter. 

"Your mom won't be back for a few more hours. Why don't you go get some sleep that you haven't been induced into?" He suggests and I nod. 

I step into my old room, nothing's been touched. 

Dust has settled over old books, my desk, picture frames I didn't take with me...my bed is still unmade, exactly how I left it. 

I get on the mattress, laying my head on the pillow, smelling the perfume I used to wear in high school.

I turn over and stare at my window, remembering all the times Nikki's climbed in to see me, and helped me down when I was sneaking out. 

All the times Tommy would toss forbidden records up here for me to listen to when my mom wasn't here and the times my dad would help me out and hide them in his own stash of Charlette-band music. 

I miss being a teenager. 

I chew on the inside of my lip and look up at the ceiling, closing my eyes for a second. 

I end up falling asleep, waking up to a single knock before the door opens. 

The figure in the doorway is tall and lanky and at first I think it's Duff until I realize it's a brunette, his hair longer and more curly than Duff's. 

"Hey," Tommy lowly starts, and I hear Heather downstairs laughing with my Dad. 

"Hey," I sit up and he sits down on the bed next to me.

"So, I heard about Sixx." He tells me, slightly awkward, rubbing the back of his neck. 

"Everybody's heard about him." I mumble. 

"...I heard about you, too." He adds and I look at him. "I talked to Steven and Slash." 

"I'm fine, Tom--" 

"--Fucking knock it off, Vivian, damn it." He sighs out, standing back up, rubbing his face. "You're not fine. If you were fine you wouldn't have tried to do that." 

"I'm depressed, Tommy, I think everyone freaking knows I'm depressed, and I've been depressed for years now, I'm not suicidal but I'm not the most mentally stable at the moment and I panicked in a stressful situation and did something without giving it a second thought." I argue, my voice shaking. 

"Well, why not? Why not give it a second thought or something? You're not even together anymore." 

"Because it's him, Tommy, that's why." 

"You're not even together anymore, Viv--"

"--He's been all I've known for the past six years, Tommy, you can't expect six years of everything together to go away just because he fucked up." 

"What about us, huh? Me and Vince and Tansy? We've been friends for years. You and me have been friends for nearly twenty years, Viv, and you were about to make all of  it go away just because he fucked up." His voice cracks and I breathe out, my eyes watering as a result of him forcing back tears, rubbing his eyes. 

He plops back on the bed, and buries his face in his hands, his elbows on his knees. 

"I knew this would happen." He tells me next, sniffling. "I knew this would happen, and that's why I didn't want him going anywhere near you because I knew somehow, someway, he'd fuck you up, and he has. And I have, too, because I fucking let him." He adds, exhaling. "I know you don't want to live without him, but I can't live without you. And I know I've done a lot to push you away and I-I've taken his side over your's on a lot of shit but, Viv, you can't just decide to leave me without telling me, without giving me a chance to say 'goodbye,' and you can't…" he trails off, sniffling, quickly rubbing away at his eyes to block his tears from falling. 

I don't say anything, because I don't know what to say. 

I just wrap my arms around him, my cheek against his shoulder, my eyes closing as he starts crying quietly. 

I rarely saw Tommy cry, the last time I'd seen him cry until then was when Razzle died…I don't know if he was crying over Nikki nearly leaving us, or me, but he didn't brush it off. He just sat there for a few minutes and let himself actually feel stuff. No drugs. No alcohol. Just actually allowing himself to process.

The next morning I wake up in Tommy and Heather's spare bedroom, Heather on one side, Sharise and Skylar on the other…all of them curled up with me. 

It's heart warming knowing that I've managed to wrangle in some good, stable women into my life along the past several years. Making up for lost time with my mom and my aunt, I guess. 

I think back to what my dad told me yesterday about my mom. 

Who the hell would have ever thought that my mother would be into something like heroin at one point? 

Despite not being able to forgive her quite yet for everything she put me through, I know my dad was right: she was just trying to keep me in line so I wouldn't make the same mistakes she made. 

No wonder she lost her shit when me and Nikki went public with our relationship. All she could see was me losing myself in the money and access and swimming in melted black tar and China white. 

I scoot to the foot of the bed, careful not to wake the girls and I go to the hallway and grab their phone. 

"Hey, it's Nikki. I'm not here because I'm dead." Our answering machine beeps and I hang up, feeling a hole in my soul. 

At least he made it home alright, I tell myself, tired of crying. 

I hang up the phone and go to the kitchen to make some coffee, stopping by the counter to see "VIVIAN" written in big, black marker on a large manilla envelope. 

I furrow my brows and open the prongs, pulling the papers out. 

The top is labeled, "California Judiciary." 

[searchingwardrobes]

The Convenient Groom: 12/14

I am so excited to finally get to this chapter because parts of it were some of the first things I wrote for this fic! This is where we earn our M rating, folks. We've got sexy times here that walk a thin line between steamy and smutty. However, that doesn't mean the angst is going anywhere. If anything, we're about to dial it up. You've been warned on all fronts. @spartanguard​, I hope you are still enjoying your present. You deserve all the good things!

Summary: Killian Jones just happens to be there when Emma Swan gets the phone call that changes everything: her fiance is leaving her at the altar. The thing is, it could also mean the end of her career. Convenient that Killian has nothing better to do that day. Convenient that he’s secretly in love with her. Not that Emma has to know that. Written for @spartanguard​ .

Rating: M

Also on Ao3

Tagging:  @snowbellewells​​​ @whimsicallyenchantedrose​​​​ @kmomof4​​​​ @let-it-raines​​​ @teamhook​​​​ @bethacaciakay​​​​ @xhookswenchx​​​​ @tiganasummertree​​​ @shireness-says​​​​ @stahlop​​​​ @scientificapricot​​​​ @welllpthisishappening​​​ @resident-of-storybrooke​​​​ @thislassishooked​​​​ @ilovemesomekillianjones​​​ @kday426​​​​ @ekr032-blog-blog​​​​ @lfh1226-linda​​​​ @ultraluckycatnd​​​ @nikkiemms​​​ @optomisticgirl​​​​ @profdanglaisstuff​​​ @carpedzem​​​ @ohmakemeahercules​​​​ @branlovestowrite​​​ @superchocovian​​​ @sherlockianwhovian​​​​ @vvbooklady1256​​​ @hollyethecurious​​​​ @winterbaby89​​​​ @delirious-latenight-laughs​​​ @jennjenn615​​​ @snidgetsafan​ @xsajx​ @itsfabianadocarmo​

The weeks of August slipped by, and as they did, Emma came to feel more and more comfortable with her “temporary” arrangement. She no longer felt the need to put distance between them in the bed. She sometimes woke to find Killian’s arm around her and his nose buried in her hair, and she found she didn’t mind. She had told him she wasn’t a cuddler, and she wasn’t - he was. The thing that surprised her, however, was how comforting it felt. She didn’t feel the need to slip quickly from his arms or squirm away. Quite the opposite, actually. She usually drifted back to sleep for a few more minutes with a contented smile on her face. Come to think of it, she was sleeping better than she had in years.

Her days were simpler here than they had been in New York. Walsh had been concerned that they would miss the excitement of the city, but she didn’t miss it at all. She liked the slower pace of her days, the leisurely meals with Killian, and the lazy evenings of Netflix and hot chocolate. Even when they walked across the sand dunes to join Killian’s family for dinner, it was relaxed, ending with all of them gathered around the fire pit as the stars twinkled overhead.

Kristoff and Anna moved out mid-August, settling into a quaint Cape-Cod style house a few streets over. They closed on the house just in time as tiny Lukas - seven pounds, eight ounces, 18 inches long - made his appearance on August 20th at a little past two o’clock in the morning. Emma and Killian had been awakened from a deep sleep with the news. They had tumbled out of bed in excitement, throwing on clothes, then racing across town to Storybrooke General to see their nephew. It was amazing to Emma how easily she thought of the baby boy that way as she held him in her arms. Technically, he wasn’t even Killian’s nephew, but Anna said technicalities didn’t matter - family was family.

Mary Margaret and David had become family too, welcoming them for dinner often as well. Leo was always excited to see “Uncle Killy” and “Aunt Emmy.” It was a nice change, too - not having to put on an act, since MM and David knew the truth. Although Emma had a harder and harder time telling what was an act and what wasn’t.

August melted into September with barely any change in the weather but a slightly cooler breeze off the water. It was still creeping into the high 70s during the day, though Emma knew that by the end of the month, those would drop about ten degrees. She wondered what their daily runs would look like when the weather really got cold, but she didn’t ask Killian. She didn’t want to think too far into the future these days, and she certainly didn’t want to bring it up in conversation.

They were out for a walk along the water’s edge one evening after dinner when everything changed. They were enjoying the colors of the sunset in silence, tossing a stick leisurely to Smee as they went along, when Killian suddenly got more personal than Emma had wanted.

“Emma.”

“Yeah?” She turned into the wind to see his face, and her hair blew across her eyes so she couldn’t see his expression. By his tone, she imagined his jaw was clenched.

“Can I ask you a question?”

Emma swallowed nervously. “Um . . . sure, I guess.”

He turned and stepped closer to her. He reached out and brushed her hair out of her face, tucking it behind her ears.

“Where is your family?”

His words were gentle, his brow furrowed in concern. This was a topic that she avoided like the plague. She had made it clear in interviews that her past was private. As a matter of fact, as popular as she was on social media, she worked hard to keep her content focused on her work and not her personal life. The only reason her marriage had gotten entangled in it was the nature of that work.

Emma searched Killian’s earnest face and realized that it wouldn’t be fair to him if she refused to answer. He had shared his most vulnerable memories of Milah, after all. She let out a shuddering breath and closed her eyes for a moment, gathering her courage.

“I don’t have one.” She raised a hand to stop his protests. “I mean, obviously I had parents. I have no idea who they are, though. I was a baby when they dumped me on the side of the highway.”

“Surely an adorable baby like you was adopted right away?”

Emma nodded. “Yeah, I was. By a couple in their fifties who were unable to have kids of their own - the Baxters. Thing is, I don’t remember them either. Unfortunately, Mrs. Baxter died suddenly of a heart attack, and Mr. Baxter just couldn’t cope. Family services got involved and took me out of the home on multiple occasions due to Mr. Baxter’s many problems.”

“Problems?” Killian asked softly.

Emma shivered as a breeze blew past, even though she was wearing a sweater over her long sleeved tee.

“Neglect. Substance Abuse. Child endangerment. I’ve read the files. All I really remember is this intimidating man who sat in his La-z-boy drinking beer all day long. I ping ponged between him and multiple foster homes. He didn’t relinquish custody until I was eight, and by that time, no one wanted me.”

“Don’t say that, Emma,” Killian told her in a strained voice. He drew closer and cupped her face in his hands. “You’re wanted.”

She shook her head. “Not then. No one wanted to adopt me by that time. I was too old. Everyone wants a baby or a toddler. I wasn’t . . . enough.”

A single tear slipped down her cheek, and Killian caught it with his thumb.

“Liam and I . . . our dad took off when we were kids. Mum died when I was thirteen. Then it was just us. Foster care didn’t even try to keep us together, but when Liam aged out, he found me.”

“I didn’t have a Liam.”

“You’ve got me now.”

His hands were warm against her face, his breath caressed her lips, his nose brushed hers. The look in his eyes was too much, and she looked away, over his shoulder and across the horizon. Living by the water all these months, it wasn’t the first time she had seen rain moving across the sand and water like a sheet, but she gasped and stumbled backwards anyway.

“Rain’s coming,” she said in answer to the hurt in his gaze. Before he could say anything, she turned and ran down the beach, back towards the house. Smee thought it was a game and ran with her, letting out happy barks. She couldn’t run fast enough. Killian called after her, but she just ran faster. Smee bounced happily across her path, playfully nudging at her heels, and she tripped over his furry body. She didn’t go down at first, pinwheeling her arms and digging in her heels. But the rain had already started to come down, and the sand was slick. Her heels slid forward and she landed on her rear end. Killian was at her side almost immediately.

“Are you alright?” he asked as he helped her up.

“I’m fine,” she snapped, shaking herself from his grasp. She knew it wasn’t fair, but her nerves were raw.

“What were you running from?”

“The rain!” She had to shout as water poured from the heavens in sheets.

“It’s just rain,” he shouted back, “not a storm.”

“I didn’t want to get wet.”

“We’re already wet!”

They were. His hair was flat against his head, and hers was stuck to her cheeks and neck. Emma’s sweater felt like lead across her shoulders, and Killian’s t-shirt was like a second skin, accentuating every muscle.

“You!” she shouted through the downpour.

“What?”

“I was running away from you!”

His gaze was bewildered as he struggled to blink the rain from his eyes. She didn’t know how else to say it, so she acted instead. She grabbed him by a fistful of his soaked shirt and yanked him to her. This wasn’t a kiss for the sake of appearances when there was an audience. This was unadulterated passion - messy, with clacking teeth, bruised lips, and tangled tongues. When she could no longer breathe, Emma pulled back. She had to grasp his shirt tighter as she stumbled in the sand. Killian steadied her, then reached up to peel strands of hair from her cheeks.

“Let’s get inside and dry off,” he told her.

She nodded dumbly, not sure what to say after she’d pretty much humiliated herself. First by running from him like a lunatic, then kissing him like a desperate woman. She released him and turned towards the house. Killian wasn’t far away, his hand hovering a little awkwardly first at her back, then at her shoulder blades.

They made their way up the back porch steps and through the screen door. Luckily, they kept towels there for drying off Smee after he’d been in the water. They scrubbed themselves wordlessly. Smee shook himself, sending water flying all over the porch. Killian scrubbed the dog next, and Emma kicked off her shoes before going inside.

She stood there shivering in the kitchen, water dripping from her sweater and pooling all over the floor. With shaking hands, she discarded her sweater. The loss of its weight felt nice, but the cold air against her did not. The door banged shut, and she turned to see Killian enter with Smee at his heels. His brow furrowed in concern when he looked at her.

“You need to get out of those clothes, Swan, before you freeze to death.”

He had discarded his t-shirt on the porch and stood there bare chested, his skin glistening with rain water, his dark hair hanging tantalizingly over his eyes. She swallowed thickly as desire pooled in her belly.

“I’d like you to get me out of them,” she replied. She meant to say it with playful flirting, but it came out with crackling, straining tension instead.

“What?”

Emma crossed to him in one stride, pressing her palms to his wet chest. His skin was warm and rose and fell with each breath. Time seemed to slow as her gaze met his, then sped up again as she surged closer, sliding one hand behind his neck to yank his lips to hers. He didn’t hesitate, kissing her back with aggression, wrapping one arm around her and tangling his other in her wet hair.

He backed her up against the opposite wall, pressing his wet body to hers. Emma let out a sound that was part moan, part desperate pant as her head dropped back against the wall. They were both frantic now, their hands roaming and grasping. Killian traced her jaw, then the column of her neck with his tongue. As his teeth lightly nipped at her earlobe, his hands found her waist and began pushing the wet fabric of her shirt up her torso. She raised her arms, moaning at the loss of contact with his body as the shirt was pulled over her head. As soon as the garment landed with a wet plop on the floor, Killian assaulted her mouth again, swallowing her groan of pleasure with his tongue. His hands skimmed up and over her chest, leaving fire in his wake. His fingers found one of her bra straps, and he slid it with aching slowness over her shoulder, following the path with his lips. Emma dug her fingers into his hair and thrust her hips forward. He groaned as he lifted his head and buried his face in the crook of her neck.

“Emma,” he whispered on a ragged breath, hot against her skin. “I want you so desperately, but are you sure?”

Emma yanked on his hair, forcing him to look at her. His blue eyes were darkened with lust.

“Take me to our bed, Killian.”

“Our bed?”

She answered with an aggressive kiss and another thrust of her hips. Killian’s hands slid up her back, and he unclasped her bra. He broke their kiss to trail his tongue once again down her neck as he slid her bra off and tossed it aside. She panted at the thought of feeling his lips on her breasts, but instead he pulled her flush against him as he claimed her mouth once more. The feel of wet skin against wet skin and the feel of his damp chest hair rubbing against her sensitive nipples sent heat skittering across every inch of her body.

Killian reached around, grasped her by the ass, and hoisted her up. Emma wrapped her legs around his waist. He walked her deftly to the bedroom without breaking their kisses. He deposited her onto the bed and slid both her wet shorts and wet panties down her legs in one deft movement.

Emma was bare before him, and she felt nothing but eagerness. His gaze caressed her, and she had never felt so desirable. She trembled all over as he discarded his shorts and boxers. Up to this point, everything had been frantic and greedy, but now Killian took his time. There wasn’t one inch of her body he didn’t worship, coaxing multiple orgasms out of her before he even entered her. When he did, she was writhing and begging for him, something she never did. She expected him to smirk or laugh at her gasps of “please, please,” but he didn’t. He sank into her slowly, a look in his eyes she had never seen in a man during sex before.

There was a lot about him in bed that shattered everything she thought she knew, and she didn’t know whether to be awed or terrified.

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

The first thought Killian had when he woke up the next morning was that he was colder than he had been before he fell asleep, and he reached out for Emma before he had even opened his eyes. His arms met cold sheets, and he opened his eyes then, puzzled for a moment. Then he heard the shower running, and he relaxed.

A little, anyway.

A lazy smile curled his lips as he thought over the previous night. After making love and cleaning up, Emma had bounced out to the kitchen in nothing but one of his t-shirts, full of energy and flushed smiles. He, on the other hand, was boneless and spent, his chest still heaving.

Emma brought an armload of junk food back to bed, and they had eaten their fill as they talked and laughed. That had been followed by kisses which led to swollen lips, which led to more sex. The second round was rougher than the first, Emma on top, her hair wild and glorious all around him.

He groaned as he buried his face in his pillow, feeling his arousal. He toyed with the idea of joining Emma in the shower, but the water shut off, and he heard the glass door open and shut. As he waited for her, his arousal was replaced with worry as he thought again of last night. He probably shouldn’t have whispered, “I love you” into her skin as he made her come, but she was so bloody glorious, she made it difficult to think straight.

Emma stepped out of the bathroom in her tiny sleep shorts and strappy tank top, rubbing her long hair with a towel to dry it. God, she was gorgeous!

“Morning, love.”

“Good morning,” she said tightly.

He frowned and reached for her. “Come back to bed.”

She shook her head. “I’ve got a lot to do today.”

“On a Sunday?”

She kept her back to him as she tossed the towel to the floor.

“I’ve got that radio interview coming up, remember?”

He sat up, letting the sheets pool around his waist. Emma’s cheeks warmed when she turned back to him, and he gave her his most charming smile.

“Not much you can do to prepare for that.”

She tilted her chin. Uh-oh. “I beg to differ.”

He leapt from the bed before she could reach the door, and he gently grasped her elbow. He drew her close, and she didn’t resist, placing a palm against his bare chest. He leaned down and whispered in her ear, his lips brushing her skin. He could feel her shudder at his touch.

“How about breakfast in bed?”

“I said I’m busy,” she snapped, pushing him gently away and turning to the door. “And put some damn clothes on.”

Killian snatched up a pair of boxers and almost tripped in his haste to put them on. He followed after Emma, finding her filling the coffee pot in the kitchen.

“Emma, we need to talk about last night -”

“I think that was a mistake.”

Killian blinked in shock as he watched her turn away from the sink and pour the water into the coffee maker. Unsurprisingly, she wouldn’t meet his gaze.

“A mistake?”

“Yeah,” she said with a shrug as she opened a cabinet to retrieve a mug. “We’re both adults with sexual desires, and last night we succumbed to them.”

He shook his head. “Are you saying it meant nothing to you?”

Cold dread snaked through his bloodstream as Emma pressed her lips together in a thin line. She set the mug down on the counter, filled her coffee mug, and took a leisurely sip.

“Well,” Killian finally said, his voice thick, “it may not have meant anything to you, but it did to me. I meant what I said last night. I love you, Emma Swan. You can run from that, you can ignore it, but you can’t change it. It’s how I feel about you, and I won’t apologize for it.”

He turned away from her then, mumbling about needing a cold shower. When Emma heard the bathroom door slam, she set her mug down with trembling hands, hugged her middle, and wept.

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

Emma set herself up on the back porch with her laptop to prepare for the radio show she would be on in the next week. She’d been surprised when Regina set it up, thinking of radio as out of touch with her typical audience, but this show was national and its interviews were also released as podcasts. Emma tried to concentrate on the information Ruby had compiled on the show’s host, but she was distracted by the sounds drifting down the short hallway. The house was so small, she could detect each sound and knew what it meant. Killian just shut off the water in the shower. Now he’s closing the glass shower door. That’s the sound of the handles on the bureau as it opens, so he’s probably getting out new boxers and a shirt. Now he shut the bureau . . .

She set down her mug of coffee and wearily rubbed her head. She was far too aware of him, and far too rattled by their fight. She’d only told the truth. They were adults, they were both attractive. This was bound to happen sooner or later living in such small quarters. It didn’t mean anything.

So why was her heart aching?

It may not have meant anything to you, but it did to me . . . I love you, Emma Swan.

Emma groaned. She could tell herself all day long that it was just sex, but Killian had laid all his cards on the table. And she’d promised Mary Margaret she wouldn’t break his heart . . .

“I’m going to the workshop,” Killian muttered as he came out of the bedroom, his hair still damp from his shower.

“Okay,” Emma said hesitantly. He never went in on Sundays. She wondered if she should try to smooth things over, but before she could even gather her thoughts, the front door was slamming shut.

Emma chewed on her lower lip as she turned back to her laptop. It was a beautiful day with a pleasant breeze blowing off the water and the sun warming the porch. She wanted to soak up every moment of it before the weather turned chilly. Yet it may as well have been freezing cold and stormy for the sinking feeling in her chest. She rubbed her eyes as she rose from the patio table. She wandered back into the house, feeling slightly lost.

She noticed her wet clothes from the night before still laying in the middle of the kitchen, so she scooped them up and took them to the laundry room. Then she went into the bedroom to retrieve her shorts and panties and Killian’s shorts and boxers. His t-shirt and all the wet towels were still in a heap on the back porch. Killian was more pissed at her than she’d thought. He usually never left messes like this. Smee seemed to think the laundry gathering was some sort of game, and he followed her around the house barking. Emma dumped all of the clothes, still slightly damp and sandy, into the washing machine.

Looking down at their jumbled, damp clothes, flashes of the night before assaulted her memory. There were images of bare skin, sweat, and moans of pleasure, but there were memories that were more difficult to process. Blue eyes looking at her with such intensity; words whispered against her flesh. I love you.

Emma slammed the lid of the washer shut, then swore aloud when she realized she forgot the damn soap. She opened it again, dumped in some detergent, then started up the wash cycle.

She was just walking out of the laundry room when a knock at the door made her jump. Smee started to bark threateningly, though Emma knew he would be useless if there were an actual intruder.

“What are you gonna do, huh?” She teased the dog. “Slobber them to death?”

Nevertheless, it was comforting to have Smee at her side as she approached the front door. A fall wreath that Elsa had hung the day before blocked Emma’s view out the door’s small window, so she opened it hesitantly. When she saw who it was, she let out a sharp, loud gasp.

“Walsh!”

“Hi, Emma,” he replied in a tone that sounded halfway apologetic.

Emma’s eyes narrowed and her lips pressed together in an angry line. “Are you crazy? Get off my front porch before someone sees you!”

She reached out and practically yanked him inside. Once she had shut the door and turned to face him, his expression had turned to gleeful satisfaction.

“Afraid I’ll blow your little charade to pieces?”

Emma glared at him. “What the hell do you want?”

“What do you think? I love you, Emma. I wanted to marry you! I still do.”

Emma crossed her arms over her chest. “Really? I thought you were in love with Zelena. Remember her? The woman you left me at the altar for?”

Walsh shook his head. “I was a fool -”

“We can agree on that at least,” Emma snorted.

“Can you just hear me out?”

“I don’t owe you a damn thing, Walsh!”

After Emma shouted, everything went downhill in a blur. Walsh reached out and grabbed her arm, and a second after that, Killian burst through the door. Later, Emma would realize how it must have looked to him - her shouting and then running in to see Walsh grabbing her - but in the moment, it was jarring. One moment Walsh was grabbing her, and the next Killian was flinging the man against the opposite wall.

“Don’t you lay a finger on her!”

“What the hell!” Walsh cried.

“Yeah, what the hell!” Emma protested. “I was about to punch him myself!”

Killian glanced at her, his eyes wide with admiration, his mouth twitched up in appreciation.

“I just came to talk, for God’s sake!” Walsh shouted.

“Get out of our house,” Killian growled.

Walsh adjusted his sports jacket and glared at both of them. He looked first at Emma, then at Killian with a wicked gleam in his eyes.

“So you’re fucking him. I wondered.”

Emma lunged forward, but Killian beat her to it, landing a left hook to Walsh’s jaw. The man fell to the ground with the force of the blow.

“I said. Get. Out,” Killian seethed between clenched teeth.

Walsh scrambled to his feet, a hand to his swollen jaw, his jacket askew again, and his hair falling in his eyes like a coward on the playground. He yanked the front door open, but before he walked out, he turned to Emma and sneered at her.

“I’d watch out if I were you, Emma. The truth is going to come out. Sooner rather than later.”

Emma opened her mouth to ask him what he meant by that, but he hurried out the door, slamming it behind him before she could speak. She heard the wheels of his sports car on the gravel drive, then heard the engine rev as he drove away. In his absence, a lead weight seemed to fall between her and Killian.

“Why was he here?” Killian finally asked in a wounded voice.

“The hell if I know!” Emma snapped. “You think I invited him?”

“I don’t know what to believe,” Killian bit out. “I certainly misinterpreted things last night. Now I show up and your ex is here -”

“That’s not fair!” Emma interrupted. “I didn’t ask Walsh to show up, and for that matter, I never asked you to . . . to . . . develop feelings for me.”

“Love you,” Killian clarified boldly. “You never asked me to love you.”

“Okay then!” She shot back, her voice rising. “I didn’t ask you to love me!”

Killian searched her gaze for a moment, and then his shoulders sagged and his head fell forward.

“You’re right,” he finally said quietly. “You didn’t.”

He turned and walked right back out the front door. Emma hugged her torso and wondered stupidly why he’d come home to begin with. She glanced at the clock and saw it was a little past noon. He’d come home for lunch and found Walsh here. She groaned and rubbed her forehead wearily, then she sank with a thud to the couch.

As she buried her face in her hands, she realized with a wave of sadness how much easier it would have been if Killian had kept yelling. Anger was so much easier than this ache in her heart.

[allsassnoclass]

Meet Me Under the Mistletoe

Ficmas Day 1 for @calumsclifford <3

Pairing: Michael Clifford/Ashton Irwin

Rating: Teen and Up

Key Tag(s): Fake/Pretend Relationship, Office Party, Pining, Fluff, no warnings needed

Word Count: 15,665

Read on AO3

—

“And you asked Luke and Calum, but neither of them could do it?”

“Yeah.”

“Then you asked some other people, who also said no?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Is there a reason you didn’t ask me?”

Michael had not come up with a reason beyond I’m in love with you and that seems like a recipe for disaster.

“Uh,” he says. “I didn’t think you’d want to. I mean, I already ask you for so much.”

“That’s stupid,” Ashton says. “I like fancy parties, and spending time with you, and helping you. If you’re really set against telling them the truth, then I can be your fake boyfriend for the night.”

Michael has been letting everyone at the office believe he has a boyfriend for the past few months. Things become complicated when they ask to meet his boyfriend at the company winter party.

—

“I need you to be my boyfriend!”

It’s a testament to their experience as friends that neither Calum nor Luke look surprised to have Michael burst through their door haphazardly.  He knows his cheeks are flushed from the cold and running up the stairs and his coat probably isn’t buttoned properly and he only has one mitten on, but he’s in a crisis.  Calum and Luke don’t even bat an eye, although Luke lifts himself up from where he was tucked against Calum and frowns.

“Which one of us were you talking to?  Also, Calum and I are in a monogamous relationship already.  Sorry, Mikey.”

“Not my actual boyfriend,” Michael says, kicking off his shoes.  There’s snow clinging to the sides, and he steps gingerly over any damp spots in the entry before flinging his coat down on the armchair and flopping right next to Calum on the couch.

“What other type of boyfriend is there?” Luke asks.

“A fake one.”

That finally gets Calum’s attention, who had been pretending that the news was somehow more riveting than Michael’s crisis.

“What did you do?” Calum accuses.

“Nothing!”

Calum’s eyes narrow.

“I maybe have let everyone at work assume that I have a boyfriend and now they expect to meet him at the company holiday party.”

Calum sighs heavily, as if he hasn’t been Michael’s accomplice in far worse situations.

“How did that happen?”

“It just did,” Michael shrugs.  “Someone asked if I had a girlfriend back in September, and I said ‘boyfriend’ and they took it to mean that I have a boyfriend rather than want one.”

He had only been working there for three weeks when someone asked the question, and he had been so tired of not setting the record straight at the first possible opportunity.  It’s tedious to laugh off something like that and then have to come out later, and Michael figured that if anyone was going to be homophobic at least he would find out then instead of later when he had time to possibly grow to like them first.

Thankfully it hadn’t been an issue, as two other people in the department have same-sex partners.

Everyone there respects his privacy, so he hasn’t had to make up too many details, and it’s been nice to not have to acknowledge just how long it’s been since he last got to kiss a guy, let alone date one.

“Just tell them you don’t have one,” Luke says.

“If I was planning on doing that, I would’ve done so three months ago when this whole thing started.  Besides, I think there’s a betting pool involved, or at least a lot of behind my back speculation.  There are stakes now.”

“This is what you get for lying,” Calum says, shaking his head.  Michael pouts.

Michael was always told that one day, his little white lies would come back to bite him in the butt.  He doesn’t make a habit out of fibbing, but sometimes it’s simply easier to say something less-than true in order to save further pain down the road.  Insisting that he had done all of his homework by himself was easier than admitting that he and Calum did half each, and he got more free time out of it.  Telling Calum that Luke ate the last cookie instead of him saved Calum from a foul mood, because he’s unable to stay mad at Luke.  Telling Ashton that he was not, in fact, planning him a birthday party made the surprise that much sweeter.

When he told his coworkers that he has a boyfriend, he had expected this to be like every other little, insignificant lie he tells.  Now, he is paying the price.  He’s probably paying the price for every single lie he’s ever gotten away with in the past.

“This is a bit extreme for karma,” he says.  “Anyway, it’d be one night only, and apparently the party is pretty fancy.  Since headquarters is just over in Minneapolis, we’re invited to join theirs.  There’s a raffle with big prizes, plus a free catered dinner.”

“If it’s with headquarters, neither of us can go,” Luke says.  “My cousin works there.  She’d recognize me or Cal, and she definitely knows we’re dating each other, not you.”

“Really?” Michael asks.  “Shit.  You two were my best bets.  I needed to pick someone who wouldn’t fall in love with me.”

“You know,” Luke says.  “We do have another friend who is single and who you want to fall in love with you.”

“No,” Michael says.  “Absolutely not.”

“Come on, just think about it,” Luke says.  “Ashton would probably have a great time, and you’d get to show him off, maybe kiss him under the mistletoe...”

“He’d do it,” Calum says.  “He bends over backwards to help you already, and he loves schmoozing at fancy parties.  Plus, depending on how fancy it is you might get to see him in a suit.”

“No,” Michael repeats.  “The last thing I need is to have Ashton pretend to be my boyfriend.  If he was going to fall in love with me, he would’ve done it by now, and I don’t need a taste of what being with him would be like without any of the substance.”

Luke huffs and sits back.  Calum merely raises his eyebrows.

“Good luck finding someone else to go along with this.”

Michael flips him off and gets out his phone to start making calls.  He gets through seven refusals before he finally considers that Ashton may be the best viable option.

“No luck?” Calum asks, smirking.  Michael slumps against the couch and rubs at his eyes.

“Roy said that this is probably the universe giving me a sign.  Also he’s busy on the night of the party.”

“I can’t picture Roy and you pretending to date, anyway,” Luke says.  “Honestly, I think all of those would’ve failed.  Your coworkers would see through you in an instant.  You’d become the laughing stock of the office.”

“I could’ve at least had fun with Jack,” Michael says.

“He would’ve been laughing at you and texting Alex the entire time,” Calum says.  “Call Ashton.  Better yet, go to his house and talk it out in person.  Luke and I are supposed to be on a date in 30 minutes.”

“He’s expecting you,” Luke says, typing out something on his phone.  “He made baked ziti and needs you to help him eat it.”

“Did you tell him?” Michael asks, sitting up so fast he gets dizzy.

“I just said that you’re in crisis and will be coming over.”

“He’s going to laugh at me.”

“You deserve it,” Calum says, placing a hand on his shoulder.  “But you also know that he’s going to do everything he can to help you, and he’ll have better suggestions than me or Luke.  We’re good at getting you into trouble, not out of it.”

Michael sighs.  It’s not that he thought he could somehow keep this situation a secret from Ashton, but it’s still mortifying to consider confessing to him that he’s done something stupid enough to require finding a fake boyfriend in order to continue a long con he’s pulling on his coworkers.

He should probably tell everyone that he never had a boyfriend to begin with, but that seems like too little, too late when he has already panicked and told everyone that his boyfriend will come to the holiday party.  Michael is not a quitter.  This may not be a competition, but he will win, and winning means not facing the embarrassment of admitting the truth.

“Okay,” he sighs.  “I can’t believe you two are kicking me out in my time of need so you can go on a date.”

“Talk to Ashton and you might get a date for the holiday party,” Calum says.  “Then you can stop being a third wheel and we can double date instead of kicking you out.”

“I hope this works out for you, Mikey,” Luke says.

“Don’t give me false hope, please,” he says.  “It’s been years.”

Michael stands in silence, the others knowing better than to try and convince him Ashton could possibly like him, too.  He ran out of hope for that a long time ago, and he’s been attempting and failing to get rid of this pesky crush ever since.

“Stay warm out there,” Calum says, standing and following him to the door.  “Tell Ashton we say hi.  If there’s anything else we can do to help, just ask.”

“You’re sure that neither of you can be my boyfriend?” Michael asks one last time, slipping his arms into his coat and fighting with the zipper.

“Sorry,” Luke says, not sounding very sorry at all.  “Ask Ashton!”

“Fuck you,” Michael calls back cheerily, stepping out the door.

Leaving the sanctuary of the apartment complex for the cold of a Minnesota winter sucks, especially since his car has cooled down almost all the way again, but Ashton’s house isn’t too far away.  Michael is the outlier, living in a suburb while the others stayed closer to the heart of St. Paul.  He likes being close enough to the cities to easily commute for work and have access to all of the events happening, but it’s nice to not have to fight traffic for every little thing, even if the roads outside his house aren’t always plowed as nicely as the ones outside Ashton’s.

He traverses the familiar streets until he finally pulls into Ashton’s driveway with just enough room behind Ashton’s car that he’s not blocking the sidewalk.  Ashton has some Christmas lights up, just a string of simple blue ones following his roofline.  Michael sits in his car and watches them blink on and off, giving the impression of the stars they can’t see from light pollution, or of gently falling snow.

Ashton appears in his kitchen window, reaching into the cupboard next to it, surrounded by warm light.  He glances out and spots Michael’s car, face splitting into a smile and giving him a wave.  Michael has been in this position a million times before, but he wonders what it would be like if Ashton was calling him into their house after a long day, without having to leave at the end of the night.

He’s been spotted now.  Michael has no choice but to get out of the car.

“Hi,” Ashton calls from the kitchen when he lets himself in.  “Make yourself at home!  Dinner’s almost ready!”

Michael likes Ashton’s house.  It’s small, but in a way that mostly feels cozy rather than cramped.  The outside is white but the door is a light red, verging on pink, and each of the rooms inside is painted a different color, something which Ashton always says he’s going to change but has never gotten around to doing.  Michael hangs up his coat on one of the many hooks by the entrance, then toes off his shoes and flexes his fingers, trying to get some warmth back into them.  He runs cold, so winter is a constant struggle to keep his fingers from freezing off.

He steps into the living room, painted a pale green with mismatched furniture and warm blankets thrown over every surface.  Michael helped pick out the rug that dominates most of the floor space, and it makes him happy every time he comes over to see it.  Ashton doesn’t have a tree yet, but there’s a space for it cleared in the corner.  The dining room and kitchen are one room right off the living room and painted yellow.  Michael wanders over to the baking pan covered in foil, lifting up the corner to inhale the scent of freshly-cooked pasta, cheese, and sauce.

“Hey, no premature tasting,” Ashton says.  “If you’re going to be in the kitchen, make yourself useful and set the table.”

“You could say hello before you start ordering me around,” Michael says.  Ashton stops flittering around long enough to pause in front of Michael, hands on hips and smile on his face.  There’s steamed broccoli on the counter that definitely added to the current frizziness of his hair, and he’s wearing an off-white cable-knit sweater with the sleeves pushed up.  Michael hates himself for the way everything about this situation makes his heart flutter.

“I said hello when you first got here.  You’re the one breaking in to eat my food without a word of greeting.”

“Hi, Ashton,” Michael says, accepting the brief hug Ashton offers.  “You’re welcome for helping eat your food so the leftovers don’t overtake your fridge.”

“If I knew how to adjust the cooking times on this recipe for smaller portions, I would.”

That’s a lie.  Ashton enjoys feeding his friends.  Michael has at least one dinner a week at Ashton’s house under the excuse of him making too much food for one person.

Michael gets out two plates and the appropriate silverware and sets the table.  He gets out his favorite glass, a novelty Star Wars one with art of the celebration of Endor printed on it, and gets the matching Tatooine one for Ashton because he knows it’ll make him roll his eyes.  There’s apple juice and water in the fridge, and by the time Ashton has brought all of the food over Michael is sitting patiently at the table, hands folded neatly in front of him.

“So,” Ashton says once they both have a good helping of baked ziti, broccoli, and garlic bread on their plates, “Luke said you’re in crisis?”

Michael sighs.

“Promise you won’t laugh?”

“I’ll try,” Ashton says.  Michael shamefully recounts the sticky situation he has brought upon himself, avoiding eye contact the entire time.  Ashton chews slowly once he’s done, taking his time swallowing before he figures out what he wants to say.

“Hm.”

“Yeah,” Michael says, for lack of anything else.

“And you asked Luke and Calum, but neither of them could do it?”

“Yeah.”

“Then you asked some other people, who also said no?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Is there a reason you didn’t ask me?”

Michael had not come up with a reason beyond I’m in love with you and that seems like a recipe for disaster.

“Uh,” he says.

“If you don’t think you could pretend to like me, that’s fine.  I was just curious,” Ashton says, stabbing at his broccoli.

“It’s definitely not that,” Michael says.  “I didn’t think you’d want to.  I mean, I already ask you for so much.  I’m eating your pasta right now.  It didn’t seem fair to ask you to do this, too.”

“That’s stupid,” Ashton says.  “I like fancy parties, and spending time with you, and helping you.  If you’re really set against telling them the truth, then I can be your fake boyfriend for the night.”

“Oh.  Okay.”

Ashton smiles, all dimples and sunshine.  Michael wants to bask in Ashton’s smiles forever.

“Awesome.  Crisis averted.”

It can’t be that simple, but Ashton’s easy confidence makes it feel like it is.  Michael doesn’t know why he was freaking out about the situation.  If anything, his crush on Ashton will make everything more believable, and Michael can pass himself off as a really good actor if questioned.

The rest of the night passes like every other dinner they’ve had with the two of them.  They talk about their weeks and about any random topics they choose, then Ashton picks a CD and they do the dishes, Ashton washing and Michael drying.  Ashton convinces him to stay later and watch a movie, and Michael lingers too long afterwards.  When he eventually tears himself away, it’s only after a late-night cup of hot chocolate and multiple uncontrollable yawns.

When he goes to bed that night, he steadfastly does not think about how he will be calling Ashton his boyfriend in a few weeks.

-/-

Michael doesn’t talk to Ashton about fake dating again until the day before the party.  He’s been forwarding the office emails about it, so Ashton knows the date and time, that this is a suit-worthy event, and what the food options are.  Otherwise, though, their time together has been filled with everything except mentions of the party and the con that will go down there.  Michael has been avoiding Luke and Calum due to all of the teasing, so he and Ashton go shopping for Luke and Calum’s presents together, Michael pointing out things that Ashton’s family might like on the way.  Ashton has a list of Christmas movies he wants to watch that they begin steadily working through, and Michael begins a snowball fight one day that Ashton wins.  Thankfully, Ashton agrees to make him cocoa and cuddle him after stuffing snow down the back of his jacket.  Michael’s face gets red enough that Ashton frets he might be coming down with something.

The something is being hopelessly in love.

Ashton texts him on Friday asking if he wants to come over early so they can get ready together and talk through their boyfriend story.

Boyfriend story.  He’s supposed to refer to Ashton as his boyfriend tomorrow.

He shows up at his house as requested, and Ashton greets him with a cup of hot cocoa, freshly made just the way Michael likes it.  Ashton stocks up on cocoa mix as soon as it hits October, making it at any and every opportunity.  On days when multiple people are over, sometimes he’ll make it from scratch, breaking out the cocoa powder, sugar, milk, and chocolate to create the best beverage Michael has ever tasted, sometimes with a secret ingredient Ashton makes him guess.  Michael rarely gets it right, but the praise he gets from Ashton on the days where he does manage to identify the extra flavor makes every loss more than worth it.

Ashton takes his with marshmallows, but Michael prefers whipped cream.  It warms him more than the beverage to see the pile of whip on top, stocked just for Michael.

“You put up your tree!” Michael calls while Ashton prepares his cup.  There are no presents underneath nor stockings on the wall since Ashton spends Christmas day with his family, but the small fake tree is erected every year to help him get into a festive mood.  Michael steps closer and recognizes most of the ornaments on it, either from previous Christmases or because he was there when they were bought.  Pieces of a tiny drum set hang from a set of branches near the front, each part paid for by a different member of their friend group as a gift after Superbloom Studios opened.  Michael bought the high hat.

“Second week of December.  It’s tradition,” Ashton says, shuffling into the room carefully with a mug in each hand.  Michael reaches for his, careful not to spill when he takes it from him.

“I saved your ornament,” he says, nodding to the coffee table where a small wooden “M” sits, painted to look like the torso of a snowman.

“Thanks,” Michael says, setting down the cocoa and picking up the ornament.  It was originally a joke gift, but now every year Ashton ensures that he puts it on the tree.  There’s a nice open branch near the bottom that he takes advantage of, giving himself time to admire the tree once more before finally sitting.

“So,” Ashton says.  “How did we get together?”

Michael takes a sip of his cocoa, burning his tongue just slightly.

“You have whip on your nose,” Ashton says, just like he does every time.  Michael sighs and swipes a thumb across it, sucking the whipped cream into his mouth so none of it goes to waste.

Ashton clears his throat.

“So.  Boyfriend story.”

“Boyfriend story,” Michael agrees.  “We have to have been together in September, but otherwise I’ve been really vague.  We can make up whatever we want.”

“Okay,” Ashton says, nodding.  “We should probably stick as close to truth as possible, so our meeting story can still be the same, but maybe we started dating mid-summer?”

“The lake trip?”

“Yeah!” Ashton says.  “Do you remember that night, it was like our second night there, where we just sat at the end of the dock and looked at the stars?  Everyone else was at the bonfire, so it was just us.  Maybe I asked you then.”

Michael remembers that night clearly.  He had gone down to the dock to get some space, needing a breather after all of the activity of the day and Ashton walking around without a shirt basically since they got there.  Even so, when Ashton eventually joined him it was like a sigh of relief.  He knows more about stars than Michael does, so Michael leaned back and let him point out different constellations and make up stories for unfamiliar ones, trying not to stare at the shadowy profile of Ashton instead of the sky.  The small waves of the lake rose and fell, covering his ankles then dipping lower in a steady rhythm mimicking his heartbeat.  Ashton kept their arms pressed together almost the entire time.

He had wanted to kiss him, so he pushed him in the lake instead.

“Yeah,” Michael says.  “That sounds good.”

“Okay, good.  Great!  What else do we need to figure out?  How serious are we?”

“Uh, medium?” Michael asks.  “It’s been five months, so nothing too daunting but more than just a casual thing.”

“What’s the PDA going to look like?”

“Uh,” Michael says.  Ashton takes a sip of his cocoa.

“I mean… are we still in the honeymoon phase?  Will we be holding hands a lot?  What’s our game plan if we somehow end up under the mistletoe?  I don’t think anyone can make us kiss without opening themselves up to a workplace harassment suit, but are we going to do a cheek kiss?  Are you okay with me kissing you?  What about--”

“You need to slow down,” Michael says.  “Give me some time to think, jeez.”

“Sorry,” Ashton says.  “Boundaries are important.  I don’t want to cross any.”

“You won’t.  I’m down for anything.”

“Really?” Ashton asks, skeptical.  He sets his cocoa down and moves until he’s right next to Michael on the couch, then slings an arm around his shoulder, tucking him close.  Michael melts into his side easily.  “So something like this would be fine?”

“You mean what I do with you, Calum, and Luke at every opportunity?’

“Okay,” Ashton says, adjusting so his hand is now on Michael’s thigh.  It’s more unfamiliar, a different weight in a more intimate spot, but not unwelcome.  Michael suppresses the shiver it sends through him.

“Still okay,” he says.

“Alright,” Ashton says.  After a moment of consideration, he takes Michael’s mug from him and replaces it with his own hand, clasping them together palm to palm.

“Wait, I don’t like this,” he says, adjusting so their fingers are threaded together instead, then undoing it and just holding their hands flat against each other.  Michael lines their hands up, fingers following the same lines.  He wonders if Ashton can feel the calluses that form whenever Michael has time to pick up a guitar.  The metal of his rings is warmer than Michael anticipated.  Every moment that they stay frozen like that makes Michael’s heart pound harder, even though they’re simply touching hands, something ordinary and barely worthy of comment.

“Your hands are freezing,” Ashton says quietly.

“Your hands make mine look so tiny,” Michael says.

“They are tiny,” Ashton says.  “I’m trying to figure out how to hold them.”

“Like this.”  Michael laces their fingers together again gently, one space over from how Ashton had done it.  “Who knew that holding hands would be the thing to trip you up?”

“I guess I haven’t had anyone’s hands to hold in a while.  I’m out of practice on this whole romance thing.”

“You’re doing alright so far.”

“Well, this is the easy stuff.  Are you sure you’re down for anything?”

“Yeah,” Michael says, heart leaping into his throat at the possibility of what that could mean.

Ashton hums, then shifts so he’s facing Michael.  His eyes search his face and Michael does his best not to show any of his thoughts, especially how much he wants Ashton to do one particular thing.  He steadfastly keeps his gaze locked on his eyes instead of letting it flicker down to his lips.

Ashton leans in slowly, telegraphing his movements, and presses a lingering kiss to his cheek, nose pressing into his cheekbone and breath against his face.  Michael can’t stop his inhale, catching a whiff of Ashton’s favorite cologne, just from the proximity.

“Still okay,” he manages to say.  Ashton doesn’t lean back, comfortable staying in Michael’s space, probably close enough to hear how loudly his heart is beating.

“And if I moved a few inches to the left?”

Michael swallows.

“Still okay.”

For a moment he thinks that Ashton might do it, just to see how far he can press.  Michael will always meet him challenge for challenge, and he has the perfect excuse for it.  Ashton’s just so close, and Michael might never have this opportunity again despite fantasizing about it for years.  It would be so easy to now.  He almost turns and presses their lips together himself, but Ashton pulls away right before he finds the courage to do so.

“Okay,” Ashton says, picking up his cocoa again.  “We can play it by ear.  We’ll just do what feels natural and appropriate for the situation.  Sound good?”

Michael nods.  Ashton glances at him over his mug.

“Are you sure?  You’re in charge here, Michael.  I’m willing to do whatever you want me to.”

“No, that’s good,” he says.  “That’s the best way to do it.”

Ashton observes him for a moment longer, in that way that makes Michael feel like he’s revealing too much.  Secrets from Ashton are the hardest ones to keep, but he’s had a lot of practice.

“If you say so,” Ashton says.  “If I do something you don’t like, just tell me.”

“Yeah, same to you.”

Michael picks up his mug again.

“What do you think our worst date was?” Ashton asks.  Michael snorts into his cocoa, because only Ashton would put that as a high priority part of their boyfriend story, but they spend almost all of the time until they need to get ready coming up with increasingly ridiculous scenarios and arguing over whether either of them would plan that as a date in the first place.  Michael has long since finished his drink by the time Ashton checks the time and says they need to get ready.

Michael doesn't start to feel nervous until he's standing in front of the bathroom mirror, struggling with his tie and feeling ridiculous for it.  The office encourages business casual, so he rarely has to wear one, but apparently because the party is joint with headquarters the dress code is stricter.

Michael was not made for formal wear.  He feels best when he gets to dress down, and he knows that his preferred hairstyle doesn't always align with a clean suit and tie.  For a long time, he didn't even have a suit coat that fit right, but his parents paid for one for his birthday over a year ago with the idea that it'd help him get a better job.  It did eventually work, but he never breaks it out unless he has to.

“Hey Michael?" Ashton calls from outside.  "Do I need a tie if I wear a red shirt instead of a white one?"

"Do whatever you want," Michael responds.  "Just be sure you're not showing all your chest hair.  Can you tie my tie?"

Ashton pushes the door open.  Michael catches a flash of red out of the corner of his eye before he turns and takes in the full picture.  Ashton looks stunning, and even though Michael expected that it takes his breath away.  His suit fits his shoulders nicely and tapers at the waist, and the red compliments his skin tone well, bold and vivid.  Michael is pleased to see that only the top two buttons are undone, keeping things appropriate, but there's a thin gold chain peaking out just below his collarbones.  He wants to trace it with his finger, then let his hands wander lower.

"Wow," he says.  "You clean up nice."

"My hair is a mess.  I need to put some gel in it before we go," Ashton says, batting Michael's hands away from his tie and taking over.  "Are you nervous?"

"A little," Michael admits, tilting his chin up to give Ashton better access.  "This would be a bit nerve-wracking even without the fake boyfriend thing.  I don't think I'm going to know many people there."

"Well, you'll have me."  He tightens the tie, then cups Michael's cheek.  He leans into it, leaching the comfort provided.

"There," Ashton says.  "I have the most handsome boyfriend tonight.  He was even considerate enough to match his tie to my shirt.  Everyone is going to be jealous."

"Thanks," Michael says.  He steps back and hands Ashton the container of hair cream on the counter, watching him rub a bit of it between his fingers then comb through his hair, adjusting the way it's artfully tousled and smoothing the sides until he's satisfied.

"Maybe I have the most handsome boyfriend tonight," he says.

"Now you're just trying to butter me up," Ashton replies, grinning at him.  "I already agreed to this.  The flattery is unnecessary, but not unwelcome."

"Can't I just think you're a good looking guy?" Michael asks, trying to keep the tone teasing like he would with Luke or Calum.  "You're a sexy motherfucker, Irwin; I hate to break it to you."

"That's rich coming from you."

"We don't have time for this," Michael laughs, pushing him out of the bathroom.  "I can't show up late to my first office winter party just because you won't take my compliment without trying to one-up me."

"There are worse reasons to be late," Ashton protests, planting his feet so Michael has to actually put in an effort, stumbling when Ashton suddenly relents.  He catches Michael with a cheeky grin.

"Move," Michael laughs, savoring how close they're standing, tethered together by Ashton's hands on his elbows.  "We have to go."

Ashton’s eyes search his face, suspended in the moment like he knows that Michael wants nothing else than to live here forever.  Michael sways forward, magnetic pull too strong, but Ashton steps back in the same moment, moving them out of the bathroom and tugging him towards the door.

“Bundle up,” Ashton says.  “I hear it’s cold outside.”

-/-

The venue is simultaneously huge and very difficult to find.  Ashton puts the address in his phone, but he’s a bad navigator and recent snowfall makes the roads slick, complicating the driving process more.  They’re supposed to get more snow tonight, but Michael can find Ashton’s house in any context and situation, like a homing pigeon on the return journey.  It would be his most useless skill if he didn’t end up in the driver’s seat after almost every gig they go to, Ashton always too hyped up and focused on the music to enjoy driving home.

The nearest place to park is a block away and lands Ashton in a snowbank.  Michael gets out first and offers him a steadying hand, and Ashton beats him to paying the meter.  He links their arms as they walk, breath fogging in front of their faces.

“It’s a beautiful night, sweetheart,” Ashton says.

“Sweetheart?”

“Just trying out some pet names, seeing what fits, honey.  Darling?  I feel like I shouldn’t be saying babe if we’re both wearing suits in front of your fancy work friends.”

“I hadn’t thought of that,” Michael says, as if he hasn’t bit his tongue against calling Ashton babe before.  He’s not the type of person who can pull off platonic pet names.

“We’re really flying by the seat of our pants here.”

“It’ll be fine, right?” Michael asks.  “No one has a reason to think I’m lying, so they’ll believe us even if we mess up.”

“They will,” Ashton says.  “I’m going to be so in love with you they’ll wonder if we’re eloping tomorrow.”

Michael’s heart leaps into his throat.  When Ashton puts his mind to something, it happens.  He might really have to watch himself to ensure that he doesn’t fall for their lie, too.

“Is this it?” Ashton asks under his breath as they arrive at the doors.  A couple in front of them pull them open, the woman in a longer dress and the man wearing a peacoat over his suit.  “Damn, Michael, maybe I should’ve worn a tie.”

“It’ll be fine,” Michael says.  “No one is going to be paying attention to us.  Besides, you never have to see these people again.”

Ashton hums, holding the door for Michael and following him into the venue entrance.  He lets out a low whistle once he sees what’s inside.

The floor looks like it’s marble.  There’s a chandelier, golden light reflecting off of crystalline shards to pepper dots like stars across the space.  Evergreen trees stand in the corner, gold and silver lights hidden within the branches and surrounded by red and blue baubles. If this is the entry, Michael can’t imagine what the actual event space looks like.

“Hey.  Coat check,” Ashton says, nudging Michael out of his chandelier-induced trace and towards the area where an employee waits to take their coats in exchange for a numbered ticket.  A different employee at the entrance then asks for their names, because apparently this party needs a guest list , before they finally enter the main event space.

It’s just as stunning as the entry.  There’s a larger chandelier in this one, hanging over rows of tables with red and gold tablecloths.  Each table has a centerpiece, some with evergreen boughs and pine cones, some with ribbon and candles, each one stunning.  Near the front of the room, Michael thinks he can make out an open dance floor and a small stage through the clumps of people in suits and fancy dresses.

“I shouldn’t be here,” he says.  “This is a party for people who make six figures.  I do not belong here.”

“I thought you audit a bank for farmers,” Ashton says.  “Don’t normal work parties include ugly sweater contests and too much eggnog?  Why the fuck do farm bankers need suits and chandeliers?”

“I have no fucking clue,” Michael says, eyes scanning over the people he can see in a desperate attempt to find a familiar face.  Only half of these people are from headquarters, but Michael still only knows the people in his department.  He doesn’t have much contact with people outside of it due to the variety of companies making up their conglomerate, each with a different set of staff.

“Michael!” someone calls.  It takes a moment to spot Harry coming towards him, which shouldn’t be possible because Harry’s suit has colorful flowers on it.  He’s holding hands with a man Michael recognizes as his husband only because Harry never shuts up about him, making his way through the crowd with a level of enthusiasm that Michael can feel himself automatically mirroring.  Harry’s joy has always been infectious, getting Michael through a few long days since he got hired.

Ashton shifts closer and Michael’s adrenaline spikes with the knowledge that the ruse starts now.  Harry is Michael’s favorite coworker: if they trick him, they can probably trick everyone.

"Hello," Harry says once he gets close enough to be heard over the sound of everyone else in the room talking and what seems to be faint classical music in the background.  "You're the first person I've recognized here."

"Same," Michael says.  "I wasn't expecting it to be this crowded."

"Headquarters is big," Harry says.  "At least we get free food and to see Lou in a suit."

Harry's companion rolls his eyes.

"You haven't even introduced us and already you're objectifying me.  I'm Louis, Harry's husband," he says, sticking out a hand.  Michael takes it.

"Michael," he says.  "This is Ashton."

"Michael's boyfriend," Ashton adds, taking Louis's hand next and making Michael’s heart stutter.  It rolls off Ashton’s tongue so naturally.  He’ll probably be hearing him say that in his dreams for the foreseeable future.

Harry lights up like a Christmas tree.

"Ashton," he enthuses.  "It's so good to meet you.  Alexis owes me fifty dollars."

"What for?" Michael asks.

"Well, we were betting if Ashton was your boyfriend or not.  You never actually told us which one of your friends it is, but I could tell by how you talk about him.  She thought that was too obvious for how cryptic you were being."

"You talk about me to your work friends?" Ashton asks.  Michael tries to shrug nonchalantly.

"All the time," Harry says.

“Do I need to be worried?” Ashton asks.

“Yeah,” Michael says.  “I’ve revealed all of your deepest, darkest secrets.”

“It’s cute,” Harry says.  “You can tell he thinks the world of you.”

“I don’t even mention Ashton that that much,” he protests.  “Not nearly as much as you talk about Louis.”

“No one can top Harry for that,” Louis snorts.  “I swear, no one I meet through him ever needs an introduction, because he’s probably already told them everything they could possibly want to know.”

“If it makes you feel better, I know nothing about you,” Ashton says.  “You can introduce yourself to me.”

“Well, don’t mind if I do,” Louis says cheekily.Ashton easily sweeps him into conversation, listening intently to his stories as a drama teacher and asking the right questions to keep things going.  Michael has heard half of this information from Harry already, but Louis breathes a new life into it.  Michael watches him speak, noticing the way that Harry easily leans into him, how they seamlessly finish each other’s sentences and subconsciously know exactly how they fit together.  Louis gestures and Harry shifts so he won’t get hit, leaning back into his space with a hand on his back within the next second.  Their eyes light up when they glance at each other in between breaths, and Michael feels a pang in his gut.

He wants something like that, someday.  It’s the same thing that he sees with Calum and Luke, or Jack and Alex.  He wants to share those small touches and brief looks with someone else and know that they’re returned fully.  He knows that he sometimes displays his fondness all over his face when he looks at Ashton, but it’s not the same when he has to look away to keep from getting caught.

At least he doesn’t have to look away tonight.  He can probably spend as much time as he wants admiring Ashton’s smile and eyes and jawline and everything without repercussions.  After all, he’s supposed to be in love, and someone should appreciate that one stubborn strand of hair brushing Ashton’s forehead.

“...Right, Michael?” Ashton asks, words finally reaching Michael’s ears.

“Yeah,” he says, blinking himself out of his daze.  He feels his cheeks heat up in a blush.  It probably won’t be the last time tonight.  “Sorry, what were we talking about?”

“I was telling Louis about Superbloom Studios,” Ashton says, bumping their shoulders together.  “Mentioned how you helped Matt and I learn how to use the equipment way back when we first bought it, and now there are secret Michael Clifford demos that legally can’t see the light of day without copyright infringement.”

“You’ve had much better musicians pass through your doors since,” Michael says.  “Want to reveal who your most recent client was?”

Ashton mimes zipping his lips.

“You know I can’t until they announce the album.  We’re trying to make the Twin Cities a hot spot for Top 40s artists to record, not chase them all away by breaking confidentiality.”

“But a song you produced could be on Top 40 radio soon?” Louis asks.  “That’s impressive.”

“We’ll see,” Ashton sings.  “I’m not in the habit of counting my chickens before they hatch.”

“No, you’re just in the habit of being a tease.”

Ashton quirks an eyebrow.  It makes Michael itch to do something, although he doesn’t know what.

Eventually, he decides to just roll his eyes and cross his arms, pouting a bit.  Ashton slips an arm around his waist and presses a kiss to the side of his head, the first real point of contact since entering the event space, and his stomach somersaults multiple times in a row.

Harry and Louis look amused, not suspicious.

“I like this side of you,” Harry says.

“What side?” Michael asks.

“The in-love one.  You’re… lighter.”

Michael opens his mouth, but ultimately doesn’t know what to say to that.  Ashton replies instead.

“I like it, too.”

They spend the next few minutes talking to Harry and Louis, filling time while other people who seem leagues more comfortable with this event fill the space.  Eventually the clock must tick over to the starting time, because someone steps up to the podium at the front of the room and taps the microphone asking for attention.

“Is that our president?” Michael asks Harry, completely not paying attention to the short opening statement about the “success of the company” and how it’s been a “phenomenal year full of milestones and achievements.”

“Yeah,” Harry whispers back.  "He'll get up and talk again later, after dinner.  Speaking of, we should find a table."

Harry looks over everyone until he sees someone he recognizes, grabbing Louis's hand to start covertly making their way through the crowd, glancing back at Michael and nodding in the direction he's going.  Michael grabs Ashton, who seems like he was actually trying to listen, and follows them.  As weird as holding his hand earlier had been, weaving through the people standing around with a hand around Ashton’s wrist is comfortable and familiar.  It's nothing that they haven't done before at crowded shows pushing towards the barricade or particularly busy streets, but Michael doesn't have to let go once they reach their destination if he doesn't want to.

Their destination ends up being a trio of tables near the center of the room flooded with people that Michael finally recognizes.  Alexis, Miranda, Dalmar, Imani, and Jason all wave when they arrive, surrounded by who Michael assumes are their own plus-ones.  They slip into seats next to Alexis and her partner, trying to make as little commotion as possible with the president of the company still talking at the front.

While Harry is his favorite coworker, Alexis is arguably the most entertaining.  She gets away with pranks and backtalk that Michael is too worried about job security to ever consider, but her after-work gatherings are always a highlight of the week.  It would be possible that management is keeping her around solely to boost morale if not for her eye for detail that has saved mistakes from appearing in many projects and reports.

"Hey," Alexis whispers, leaning across Michael to grab Ashton's attention.  "I'm Alexis.  What's your name?"

"Ashton Irwin," Ashton says, giving her a smile.  Alexis swears, dropping her head down to the table.

"You owe me money," Harry stage whispers.  She takes a few bills out of her purse without looking and throws them in his general direction.  "Thank you!"

"I want to be included in the next office betting pool," Michael whispers.  "I want to cheat you out of fifty dollars next time."

"It's not hard," Harry says.  "She always bets to lose."

Alexis flips him off.

The president continues to drone on, and Michael starts bouncing his leg up and down out of boredom until Ashton places a hand on it to stop him.  He mouths an apology, but Ashton simply slips off his puzzle ring, handing it over.  Michael hopes his smile conveys how grateful he is to have something else to fidget with.

When the president finally stops talking, Michael pays attention to his surroundings just enough to realize that tables are being dismissed to go get food one by one.  It looks like they won't get to join the line for a while, to his great disappointment.  He's getting pretty hungry and the thought of Alexis interrogating Ashton without a distraction makes him nervous.  He hands back the ring and switches to tracing the poinsettia pattern woven into the tablecloth, trying not to fidget more while Alexis introduces Jamie and points out the rest of his coworkers at the other tables to Ashton.

"So," Alexis says, leaning on her elbow and propping her head up with her fist, "Michael has told us a few things about you, but how did you meet?"

"At college," Ashton says, draping his arm across the back of Michael's chair as he turns to face Alexis more fully.  "We met at a party once, but we didn't really talk until a mutual friend brought us together.  He's been one of my best friends ever since."

"Oh, you two have been together a long time," Alexis says.

"We didn't get together until this summer," Ashton corrects good-naturedly.  "It was a lot of pining before that.  I mean, you've met Michael.  I never stood a chance."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Michael frowns.

"Falling for you was inevitable, sweetheart."

Michael blinks at him.  That's not something he ever expected to hear, a little over the top even for their fake romance, and he absolutely does not have a response prepared.

"Aw, that's sweet," Alexis says.  "Please tell me you guys are actually a normal couple and not a pile of goop like those two over there.  Believe me, I love love as much as the next person, but if Jamie and I are the only two here who aren't completely and grossly obsessed with each other we're going to move to the straight coworkers’ table."

"Hey," Harry says, breaking his conversation with Louis to flip her off.  Alexis returns it without even glancing at him, an ingrained part of their banter by now.  It’s surprising that they haven't gotten reprimanded for it in the office yet.

"If we were as bad as them, you wouldn't have lost fifty dollars just now, don't you think?" Michael asks.

"He has a point," Jamie says.  "Besides, everyone is entitled to a honeymoon period."

She takes Alexis's hand on the table and squeezes.  Alexis rolls her eyes but squeezes back.

Ashton asks them how long they've been together, then effectively keeps the focus on everyone else at the table instead of them.  One of his many skills is making everyone in the room feel like they are the most important person, and Michael is glad that he doesn't have to try to deflect or make up stories right now.  Maybe it'll be easier later.  Ashton already has everyone he's met wrapped around his finger and hanging off his every word, drawn by the magnetic energy he carries that made Michael first talk to him at that college party all those years ago, but some part of Michael still feels like everyone is going to see through their facade.  He knows that theoretically no one cares, but the confirmation of the betting pool makes him jittery.  It shouldn't be a big deal, but now he hasn't just lied about having a boyfriend, he's lied about the boyfriend being Ashton , and somehow that's worse.

Still, he can't let Ashton pull all of the weight.  He needs to start selling this, too.

Should he initiate some sort of PDA?  It's not like he can naturally grab one of Ashton's hands, because he's still leaning on Michael's chair, and anything else feels out of place.  Besides, they said that they'd do what feels natural, and none of this is natural to him.

He's overthinking this.  He should just pay attention and try to enjoy the night, but that seems like an impossible task with Ashton and Alexis boxing him in on either side.  One of them is significantly more distracting than the other, but Michael finds himself wishing that they could just be alone, enjoying one of Ashton's home-cooked meals and the next Christmas movie on his list.  Whatever catered dinner they have here isn't going to compare to the way any food tastes when Michael knows that Ashton is the one who made it for him while they enjoy it at his dining room table, and as much as he feels lucky to get on so well with his coworkers, he can do without their company if he has Ashton with him instead.

“Mike,” Ashton says, nudging him out of his thoughts.

“Yeah?”

“Time to get food,” Ashton says, standing.  Michael looks around the table and sees that everyone else is already making their way over to the buffet line.  Ashton waits for him and sets a slow pace on their way over.

“You’re really spacey tonight.  You okay?”

“Yeah,” Michael says.  “I’m fine.”

Ashton gives him an unimpressed look.

“Seriously,” Michael says.  “I’m just overthinking.  I’ll be much more enjoyable once we eat and I relax a bit.”

“What can I do?” Ashton asks.

“You’re really playing up the doting boyfriend thing.”

“Hey, no,” Ashton says, pausing.  He looks around, then lowers his voice.  “I’d ask that even if we weren’t boyfriends right now.  You’re important to me, Michael.  If I can do something for you, I want to.”

“Thanks,” Michael says.  “It’s not a big deal, though.  Like I said, once we’re eating and I have other things to focus on it’ll be fine.”

“Okay.”  Ashton nods once, then takes Michael’s hand.  It feels more natural now than it was earlier, smile breaking out unbidden on his face as he squeezes back.

“Come on,” Ashton says.  “Food time.”

The buffet is full of delicious options, with pit ham, chicken, pasta, potatoes, roasted vegetables, fruit, hummus, different breads with various spreads, and a cheese platter.  Michael and Ashton collaborate to get a little bit of everything, something Ashton probably is only doing to make Michael happy given how closely he guards his food whenever they eat out.  If that’s the intention, it works.  Michael wants to taste everything, and he can only do that with two plates.

The soft instrumental music makes a return for dinner, gentle conversation starting up at the table once they sit and a staff member brings water around.  Michael samples each dish on Ashton’s plate, letting Ashton take what he wants from his, finally settling enough to keep up his typical banter with Alexis, Harry, and their partners.  He talks a bit with the other table, settling another bet between Imani and Dalmar and watches Imani collect twenty dollars for having the closest answer to when Michael and Ashton started dating.  Her absolutely gleeful expression makes Michael snort, erasing some of the discomfort of the lie.

Staff members for the event space come around with options for dessert, and Michael is once again delighted when Ashton chooses something different from him, an apple crumble while Michael gets a slice of cake.  Ashton pushes the plate towards him when it arrives, encouraging him to take a bite.

“Thanks,” he says, taking a forkful.  The sweet tang of the fruit doesn’t compare to the sweetness in Ashton’s expression.  Michael gets distracted by the pleased noise he makes at his own first bite and the way he licks his spoon after the last one, watching entranced until someone taps a microphone at the front, cutting the background music off abruptly.

“Before we get the party portion of the evening started, I want to make a few more quick announcements,” the president of the company says.  He continues to prattle about numbers and figures that Michael can’t follow without them written out in front of him, but he understands as well as everyone else what “winter bonus” and the amount that come after it means.

“Are you going to use that on my Christmas present?” Ashton whispers, leaning close to speak into his ear.

“Shut up,” Michael says, elbowing him.  “Maybe I’ll use it to get away from Luke and Cal for a bit.”

“Lake trip part two, this time just me and you?” Ashton asks.  Michael doesn’t let himself consider what it would be like to exist at that same cabin from the summer alone with Ashton, with no other people or endless summer fun to distract him.  The central heating is awful, so they’d probably spend a lot of time by the fireplace, possibly getting cozy under a blanket.  They’d be able to go skating on the lake near shore, maybe after a late brunch.  Ashton might sleep in for once in his life.  Michael would love to be sleeping in the same bed instead of confined to one of the other rooms, cold and alone.

He’s not considering it.  Instead he smiles, shakes his head, and gently pushes Ashton away, trying to refocus on what the president is saying rather than the man next to him.

“The raffle will take place at the end of the night, so be sure to stick around if you want a chance at any of the gift baskets or certificates.  We have a beautiful backdrop for photographs in the back corner if you’d like a memory from the night, and leftovers from the buffet are now open.  We’re lucky enough to be joined by one of Minneapolis’s fantastic live bands for the dancing portion of the evening, so please enjoy yourselves!  Take time to celebrate, enjoy each other’s company, and make the most of this beautiful night.  Here’s to many more like it!”

Michael applauds politely along with everyone else, sipping his water while he watches the band set up.  Based on the instrumentation, he has absolutely no idea what genre of music they’ll be playing.  The only thing that makes sense is the piano and vocalist, but there are also two electric guitars, a drummer, an upright bass, a cellist, a saxophone, and a trumpet.  The singer introduces them as Eds and the Airplanes, then they launch into something between 1940’s big band and modern bubblegum pop.  Somehow, everyone in the room seems to be in favor of it.

“Huh,” Michael says.

“I know these guys,” Ashton says.  “They recorded with us in October.”

“Oh, so you can tell us that but you can’t say who else records with you?”

“They tagged us on Instagram,” Ashton says.  “They don’t care if anyone knows what they’re up to.  Besides, their manager loves me.  It’s fine.”

“Must not love you that much if you’ve never told me about the band.”

Ashton shrugs, but before he can elaborate Harry is there, tapping them both excitedly on the arm.

“Let’s go dance!” he says.  “Lou can teach you how to swing dance if you want.  I think you can cha-cha to this song.”  He does a quick few steps in place on beat, then smiles.

“You can cha-cha to it,” Louis says, appearing over Harry’s shoulder, “but that doesn’t mean that you should.  Swing is the way to go here.”

“We’ve taken ballroom dancing classes,” Harry says, pleased.  “Come on!  Alexis said she’d only get up and dance if you two do, and if Alexis does it the rest of the department will.”

Michael will take every opportunity to push Alexis out of her comfort zone, so he gets up and pulls Ashton with him.  There are a few other people doing some semblance of dancing on the outskirts of the dance floor space, mostly older couples, but as soon as Louis and Harry step onto it everything livens up, Louis twirling Harry around and then both of them move around the floor for a few seconds before Louis breaks their hold and rounds on the group.

“Okay, pair up!  One of you has to be the lead, aka me, and the other gets to be the follow, aka Harry.  Ready?”

“I’ll lead.  Good rhythm,” Ashton says, intently watching Louis and trying to mimic his position. He takes Michael’s hand and puts a tentative hand on his waist.  Michael does his best to focus and follow the intense three minute crash course that follows without stepping on Ashton’s toes.  Ashton catches on right away, and Michael finds it easy to follow him once he gets the basic step down.

“Think you’ve got it?” Louis asks when the next song starts, something around the same tempo and equally as peppy.

“Hell yeah,” Ashton says.  He starts the basic step, then twirls Michael and get him to move his feet.

“I think you’re enjoying this too much,” Michael says.  He’s led in another spin, Ashton switching hands and Michael trying to remember which one he needs to grab to set them back to rights.

“No such thing,” Ashton replies.  “I get to listen to music, be close to you, get the heart rate up a bit… what’s not to enjoy?”

“There are other ways to achieve all of that,” Michael says.  Ashton wiggles his eyebrows, and Michael laughs and stumbles over the next few steps.  They wait a few bars, then start again in rhythm, four steps with and around each other, Ashton tugging Michael across his body in circles, spinning him out only to pull him back in again.

“Maybe we should go ballroom dancing,” Ashton says.  “This is fun.  Harry and Louis might have the right idea.”

“I wasn’t expecting dancing tonight,” Michael says, “but I do think we’re the best-looking couple on this dancefloor.”

“Want to try a lift? Dirty Dancing style?”

Michael laughs so hard at the image that they have to pause in their dance, and by the time he recovers the song has ended and transitioned into something slower.

“Come on,” Michael says, leading Ashton back to the edge where the rest of his coworkers have congregated.  They pass Harry and Louis on the way, both of them locked in a different style of dance to match the new tempo.  Harry winks at him when they catch eyes.

“You didn’t tell us he could dance,” Alexis says to Michael.

“I’m a man of many talents,” Ashton says.  “Michael can’t be expected to remember all of them.”

“He’s humble, too,” Michael says.

"Ashton Irwin, I thought that was you!"

Michael turns to find an unfamiliar woman approaching.  Her hair is dyed with blues, greens, and yellows, a mixture that's both artistic and striking, especially when paired with the tight black dress she's wearing.  She's pretty, with dark lipstick and a gold necklace drawing attention to her bust.  If Michael didn't have the most beautiful person in the room next to him, he probably would give her a double take.

"Ashley!" Ashton says, immediately sweeping her into a hug.

"Can’t say I expected to see you here," she says.

"Me neither!  I didn't realize your band would be playing tonight," he says.  "Guys, this is my friend Ashley.  She manages Eds and the Airplanes.  We met when she booked our studio a couple months ago."

"Met, went on two dates, became friends instead, you know how it goes," Ashley says.

Michael's heart plummets, then completely stops when he sees the panicked expression on Ashton's face.

"Dates?" Alexis asks carefully.  "When was this?"

"Summer," Ashton says quickly.  Ashley frowns.  "Back in the summer.  June, I think.  Before I started dating Michael, obviously."

"Dating Michael?" Ashley asks.  "When the fuck did that happen, because it sure wasn't while my band was recording."

Oh holy shit.  Their entire story is going to get blown apart because Ashton went on some dates with this incredibly attractive, music-smart woman, dates that Michael had no idea about despite theoretically being one of Ashton's best friends.  They've seen each other consistently each week since college.  When did Ashton have time to sneak around on dates?  More importantly, why would he keep this from Michael?

Ashton is floundering for an explanation.  Michael can't hear any of his attempts over the ringing in his ears.

"I have to--I have to use the bathroom," he says.  He's leaving before anyone has a chance to try to stop him, weaving in between the tables as fast as he can without breaking out into a full-on sprint.

Everyone is going to know that he lied.  Even if Ashton manages to charm his way through a salvageable story, why would anyone believe that Ashton would go for someone like him if Ashley is right there?  If they didn't work out, why would he and Ashton be able to make it a full five months?

He pushes open the bathroom door, thankful that all of the stalls look empty.  It's the type of fancy bathroom with a small armchair in the corner, and he sinks into it, cradling his head in his hands.

Fuck.  What if everyone thinks Ashton is a cheater?  What other reason would his coworkers have for Ashton's panic and the way Michael ran away?  Why else wouldn't Michael know who Ashley is, if her relationship with Ashton was completely innocent?

Why didn't Ashton tell him about her?

The door opens again and Michael jumps.

"Michael?" Harry asks, eyebrows drawn together in concern.  "What's wrong?  I saw you leave the dance floor pretty quickly."

"I--"

He lets out a shaky breath, running a hand through his hair then rubbing at his face, hoping desperately that Harry isn't going to laugh at him.

The cat's out of the bag, anyway.  There isn't any way for them to recover from this.

"Ashton's not my boyfriend," he says.

Harry shuffles closer and crouches down by Michael's chair.

"He's not?" he asks slowly.  Michael shakes his head.

"I don't have a boyfriend.  I never have.  I just didn't want to correct you guys when you all thought I did.  I don't know, I guess it was nice to pretend for a bit, but everyone was so eager to meet him here, so I asked Ashton to fake it with me."

Harry hums.

"There's a woman here he went on some dates with.  I didn't know about them, but they didn't meet until October, and I think she just accidentally busted the whole thing."

Harry hums again.  He’s frowning, mouth turned down in a way that makes Michael scared that he just lost his best work friend.

“Sorry.  I shouldn’t have lied.  This is probably just karma.”

“It’s okay,” Harry says.  He stands, then leans against the arm of Michael’s chair, putting an arm around his shoulders.  “If it makes you feel better, you had me fooled.”

Michael laughs mirthlessly.

“That’s because I’ve been in love with him for years.”

“Oh, Michael,” he says, squeezing him tighter.

“Yep,” he says, popping the last consonant.  “Haven’t had time to get a real boyfriend when I’m hung up on him.”

“I’m sorry,” Harry says.  There’s nothing else to say.  

“And the worst thing is,” he starts, words falling unbidden now that he’s let himself speak, “now that I met her it’s like, how could I compare?  I mean, she’s beautiful, and her hair is so gorgeous and fun and mine’s been dull and blonde for so long because otherwise it’ll fall out, and she obviously knows a lot about music while I’ve barely picked up my guitar in the past few weeks and just--”

He sighs and stands, shrugging off Harry’s hands and heading towards the sinks.  His hair is a bit messy, resistant to his efforts to comb through it.

“Nothing anyone can do,” he says.  “I can’t hide in the bathroom all night.  Do you think Alexis and the others are going to hate me?”

“No,” Harry says.  “They might think it’s weird for a little bit, though.”

Michael focuses on his hair again, trying to stop the subtle shake in his hands.  He and Ashton can just leave early, photo-ops and the raffle be damned.  Michael can work around awkwardness, but if that’s all that this night is going to turn into he’d rather be back home playing video games.

The door opens again.  Michael tenses, only to see in the mirror that it’s not some stranger or his boss, but Ashton.

“Hey,” Ashton says.  He looks at Harry and nods, then turns back to Michael.  “You okay?”

“Fine,” he says, messing with the knobs on the sink.  “What’s happening out there?”

Ashton glances at Harry again.

“Do you two need a minute?” he asks.  Ashton nods, but Harry waits until Michael does too before he leaves.

“I, uh, had to tell Ashley about what’s going on, but I don’t think anyone else knows.  Everything is okay.”

“Really?” Michael asks, turning finally.  “How did you talk your way out of that one?”

Ashton shrugs.  “I’m good with words.  Ashley caught on pretty quickly, too.”

"Did you really date her?" he asks before he can stop himself.  Ashton sighs.

"We went on a few dates, yes.  Two of them.  Well, more like one and a half before we decided we were better suited as friends."

"Oh," Michael says.  "Why?  She seems nice and fun.  She obviously likes music, and she's pretty.  You'd think you two would be a good match."

"Well, we aren't," Ashton says.

"Okay," Michael says.  Ashton nods once.  It feels weird and tense, an unusual dynamic for them that Michael doesn't know how to fix.  "Sorry, I guess."

"Don't be," Ashton says.  "I never should have started it.  It's a good thing it ended where it did."

"Why?"

Ashton sighs, coming over by the sinks to lean against the counter.  The bathroom isn't that large, but Michael hadn't realized how far away he felt before he had him within arm's reach.

"I... was just using her, I think.  I was hung up on someone else and thought that if I dated her, I'd be able to get over it.  That wasn't fair to either of us.  She caught on and said we should be friends instead."

Michael's breath catches in his throat.  Ashton has been doing his own pining, going so far as to try to date other people to get over this mystery person, and he's been doing all of it without Michael's knowledge.

"Why didn't you tell me any of this?" he asks, hoping that it doesn't sound hurt.  "I didn't even know you liked anyone.  I could've tried to help."

Ashton takes a breath, tracing the marble pattern on the countertop with his finger for a long moment, close to where Michael is resting his own fingers.  He wants to reach out and tie their hands together, but Ashton looks up at him before he can.  There's something heavy in his gaze that makes Michael feel like whatever he says next could break him if neither of them are careful.  Still, he leans closer, trying to let Ashton know that he's listening.  He's always listening to him.

"The person I was hung up on... or, well, am still hung up on, I suppose, he--"

The door opens again and both of them spring back, breaking their bubble like they're school kids caught skipping class to make out in the bathroom.  Michael's cheeks flame, but the man who enters doesn't spare them a glance, headed straight to a stall.  

"We should rejoin the party," Ashton says.  Michael can't stop the disappointment that fills him, despite knowing that Ashton is right.  Besides, public restrooms aren't exactly the most pleasant hangout, not even one fancy enough for an armchair in the corner and little vials of lotion by the sinks.

"Okay," he says.  "Everything's good?"

"Everything's good," Ashton replies.  Michael nods and squares his shoulders, following Ashton out of the bathroom and back into the bustle of the party.  The band is still playing at the front, but Michael drags his feet, pausing and tugging Ashton with him towards the beverages to get another drink of water.  Ashley intercepts them on the way over.

"Michael? Hey," she says.  "I'm sorry about what happened back there.  I obviously had no clue what you two were doing and I didn't mean to throw a wrench in things.  I think we covered it pretty well, though.  You're secret's still safe."

She winks, charm oozing out of her in a way that partially reminds him of Ashton.  Once again, he wonders why they didn't work out.  Whoever Ashton likes must be pretty special.

He pushes the thought away.  There's no use getting upset over it when he still has to put on a show of being happy for the rest of the night.  He has to at least be able to fake it, and that means distracting himself until he can get home and wallow.

"It's okay," he says.  "You didn’t know.  It's not like you could’ve guessed what was happening."

Ashley laughs.  "You're right about that.  Still, I support it.  You two make a good pair."

Michael glances at Ashton, who looks like he's either trying to psychically communicate with Ashley or gut her.  Michael clears his throat, trying not to wonder who Ashton wishes he were a pair with, instead.

"Thanks," he says.

"Well, I need to get back to the band in case they need me.  I'm sure I'll see you both sometime later."

"Yeah, later," Michael says.

"See you, Ash," Ashton adds.  Ashley smiles and gives them both a small wave with her fingers as she turns.  Michael watches her walk away.

“Come on,” he says eventually.  “I want some water.”

The band transitions to another slower song, something jazzy featuring the piano and upright bass.  Ashton puts a hand near the base of Michael’s spine as they walk, finally getting little plastic cups of water and wandering to an empty space to sip it.

“This isn’t how I expected the evening to go,” Ashton says.  Michael snorts.

“Sorry.”

“No, it’s not you,” Ashton says.  “But I do think we need to raise your spirits a bit.  It’s your holiday work party!  You’re with friends, enjoying live music and getting to dress up.  Come dance with me again.”

“You think very highly of your dancing skills,” Michael says.  “Don’t let it go to your head.  You’re no Fred Astaire.”

“I’m impressed you know who that is,” Ashton says, downing the rest of his water and throwing it in a nearby trash bin.  Michael makes an affronted noise that goes ignored.  “Regardless of you insulting my dancing, it was making you smile earlier.  Come on.  You can’t let one false alarm ruin your night.  Dance a few songs with me, then we can take ridiculous pictures with their winter backdrop and wait for the raffle before heading back out into the snow.”

“I don’t want you to step on my toes,” Michael says.

“I promise I won’t,” Ashton pleads.  “Please?”

Ashton peers at him earnestly, eyes soft.  He starts to smile, knowing that Michael is going to cave against his best attempts, and when he takes Michael's hand and starts to walk towards the dance floor, Michael unsticks his feet and follows him.

"You're lucky I like you," Michael says.  He tries to sound begrudging, but it probably doesn't work.  Ashton can read him too well.

"I am," Ashton says.  He stops abruptly, making Michael run into him, and turns.  "Seriously.  I'm lucky to have you in any way you let me.  You're so wonderful, and I'm grateful that I can call you one of my best friends."

Ashton brings their hands up to his mouth, pressing a kiss to the back of Michael's palm, watching his reaction through his lashes.  Something indescribable lodges itself in Michael's throat.  For a moment, he wonders if he can tell Ashton all of the ways he wants him without messing everything up.

"Come on," Ashton says, breaking the moment.  "Let's dance."

Another slow jazzy song is playing when they make their way to the floor, and they join other couples in an embrace.  Ashton keeps their hands together but slides a gentle hand around his waist to his lower back, resting heavily there and pulling them closer together.  Michael finds a spot for his hand on Ashton's shoulder, but with how close they're standing it's more like a hug than anything else.  Ashton starts them in a gentle sway.

"Hey," Ashton murmurs, close enough that Michael feels his breath puff against his cheek.  It reminds him of the moment after Ashton kissed his cheek on his couch this afternoon, when Michael thought he might try to kiss him on the lips next.

"Yeah?"

"Harry and Louis are making out in the corner.  It's very unfitting for a work function."

"What?" he asks.  Ashton turns them so he can see, and sure enough his eyes find Harry's floral suit near the edge of the room, the man himself locking lips with his husband.

"Huh," he says.  "I hope our manager sees them and says something about it.  You'd think after being married for a few years they'd have calmed down."

"It's kind of cute," Ashton says.  "It's nice that they're still that in love with each other."

"I guess," Michael says.  "I don't know.  I don't think I'd want to be that gushy with someone, you know?  I don't need to always be touching or making out to know that we like each other, hopefully.  I don't know if I'd enjoy that, especially somewhere as public as this."

"What would you enjoy, then?" Ashton asks.  Michael shrugs.

"What we're doing here, I think.  It's nice, but not suffocating.  We're enjoying each other's company and all, but what would be the point of even going out if we were going to be hanging off each other the entire time?  We could just do that at home."

"I thought you'd be a bit more cuddly."

Michael will be the first to admit that he loves a lot of physical contact, and back in college he probably would have said he wanted it all the time.  He would love to show off his partner and relationship as much as possible.  Now, though, it's a bit different.  Ashton doesn't hang off people as much as the rest of them do, but that's okay.  Michael has learned to read him over the years, and there's something to be said about subtle glances and soft words kept between just the two of them, tucked close to Michael's heart, things Michael has stopped mentioning in his lovesick laments to Calum and Luke.  Some things are made more special when they're only shared between two people.

"In private, yes.  Of course I'd want to be as close as possible to you.  But I don't really want everyone else seeing that, I guess.  I want some things to be just for us."

"I understand.  I like that better, too."  Ashton clears his throat.  "Theoretically."

"Theoretically," Michael says, thankful that his face is partially hidden from the angle that they're dancing.

That's the type of relationship he would want with Ashton.  It's been too long since he thought about what he would want in a relationship with anyone else.  It could be different, but it certainly wouldn't be better.

"I hope you get that," Ashton says suddenly.  "I know we're pretending now because you didn't want to tell your coworkers that you don't have anyone, but I hope you find someone soon.  I want you to be happy."

"You too," Michael says.  It’s not a lie, even if it leaves a bitter taste in his mouth.  He's not going to get a happy relationship until he gets over Ashton, and he's already spent so many years liking him that he doesn't know how to stop.

Ashton hums.  Michael thinks he might understand, given his own secret pining that he's been doing.  He wants to ask again why Ashton didn't tell him.  He doesn't know if he's ready for the answer.

The song ends, transitioning to another upbeat number that has younger people jumping and older people shuffling along together.  Ashton suddenly swings Michael out in another twirl, and then they're back to swing dancing, two steps and a ball-change keeping them on beat.

"Warn a guy next time," he says when he comes back to him.

"Spin incoming," Ashton says, sending him right back into another twirl.  Michael laughs through it, and Ashton's responding smile is the best thing Michael has seen all night.

-/-

Michael ends up dancing with Ashton for the rest of the night, losing track of fast songs and slow ones with intermittent breaks to bother his friends and catch a breath until the band announces that it'll be their last one of the evening.  It feels strange that Michael has spent so much time stressing over this night only for it to be nearly over.  When the song finishes, Ashton dips him like they’re in a movie.  Looking at him framed by the overhead lights, Michael can almost believe he has a halo.

They make their way back to the table they started at for the raffle, Michael sitting and Ashton making a detour to get water.  Everyone in attendance got their name put in as part of the RVSP, but Michael doesn't even know half of the prizes.  In reality, he's ready to stare at Ashton and trace individual strands of hair through his curls with his eyes rather than listen, memorizing every detail he can.

"Hey," Alexis says when he sits down.  "You looked like you were having a good time."

"I was," he says.  "Dancing is more fun than I thought, but don't tell Harry I said that."

“I already know,” Harry says.  “You and Ashton should join us when we go dancing.”

Michael gives him his most sarcastic smile.  Alexis studies his face, eyes looking for any signs of deceit in a way that makes him sit up straighter.

"Does he treat you well?" she asks.  "Things were really weird once that Ashley girl showed up."

"He does," he says.  "I promise."

Alexis continues her scrutiny, but she must be satisfied with her findings, because she nods.

"Good," she says.  "I like him, but I like you more."

"Thanks," he says.

"What about me?" Harry asks.  Alexis flips him off, and things at the table are back to normal by the time Ashton returns with two cups of water, one that he hands to Michael.  The president taps the microphone again before Michael can properly thank him, so he elects for squeezing his hand and hopes it suffices.  From Ashton's smile, it does.

The first few raffles are for various baskets following themes like movies, a taste of Italy, and art.  Michael zones out as people he doesn't recognize get their names called (and sometimes butchered), thoughts wandering to his expectations of the night and what actually happened.

He and Ashton never got their picture taken with the backdrop.  It's not the end of the world, but Michael wishes they had thought to do that.  It may be fake, but it'd be the only couple's photo of them that Michael may get, and he'd like to remember some things about the night, like the feeling of dancing in Ashton’s arms and how radiant he looks.

For all of the fuss about PDA and mistletoe, they didn't have to contend with any of that, either.  Michael's not sure if he's relieved or disappointed.

"Ashton Irwin!" the president calls.  Michael startles as the rest of their table erupts in cheers.

“Huh,” Ashton says, standing.  “I didn’t know I was included in this.”

“Go get your prize,” Harry says, shooing him forward.  Michael watches him make his way to the front and come back with a basket.

“You can probably have half of this,” Ashton whispers to him, showing the basket.  There are two mugs in it, but there’s also a lot of coffee, and Ashton doesn’t care about how fancy his caffeine is.  He takes it black the majority of the time and uses it more as a tool to wake up than an enjoyable beverage.  They ignore the rest of the raffles in favor of pawing through the basket, taking out items to pass around the table when the others ask about them.  There’s some fancy hot cocoa mix that makes Ashton’s eyes light up, but the majority of it is coffee that Michael has to resist the urge to open up and smell.  Knowing him, he’d make a mess.

Michael is so focused on the coffee that he barely registers the end of the party, the president’s words going in one ear and out the other until everyone starts standing and shuffling towards the door around him.

“Hey,” Alexis says.  “You can’t leave until we take a picture.  Dalmar wants one of the whole department.”

“I want one of us,” Harry says.  They wait a minute to let some of the crowd clear out, then Michael is swept up in the tide heading towards the photo backdrop.  There’s cotton on the ground to give the impression of snow, and one side has pine trees decked in gold and a starry landscape behind while the other has silver accents and a sparkly wire reindeer.

“Very thoughtful of them to coordinate a gold and a silver option, I assume so everyone can choose the backdrop that best matches their outfit,” Ashton says, voice low.  Michael snickers.

Ashton joins the other plus-ones off to the side while Michael is corralled into a department picture, sandwiched between Alexis and Imani.  Once Dalmar promises to email it out, Harry makes him stay for a picture with him and Alexis, then another one that includes their dates.

“Do you want one with just you two?” Harry asks him after.  Michael glances at Ashton, then nods, handing his phone over.  He hasn’t checked it all night, and there are a few messages from both Calum and Luke that he’ll probably ignore until morning.

Ashton puts an arm around his waist for probably the last time tonight and decides to use the privilege for evil, jabbing him in the side and making him squirm and involuntarily laugh.

“I hate you,” he says.

“No you don’t,” Ashton responds cheekily.  Michael turns back to where Harry already has the camera up.

“Say cheese,” he says.  Michael smiles.  Harry gets a few shots in before Ashton presses a kiss to his cheek.  Michael hopes he doesn’t look too startled before he starts smiling again, letting himself relish in the moment.

“Got any good ones?” Ashton asks once he pulls away.

“Yeah, I think so,” Harry says.

“Ashton,” Ashley calls, appearing in the crowd and waving him over.  He glances back at Michael.

“One moment,” he says, then heads towards her.

“So,” Harry says casually, handing over Michael’s phone.  “There’s really nothing going on with you two?”

Michael lets his gaze land on Ashton, locked in what looks to be a serious conversation with Ashley.  She gestures and he makes a face that she returns, but he can’t tell what they’re discussing.

“No, not on his end.  He has someone else he’s after.”

“Someone who isn’t you?”

Michael shrugs.  “He didn’t say.  There’s no way, though.  I think I’ve used up all my luck for the night.  Karma says nothing else good can happen now that the lie worked.”

“It’s Christmastime, Michael,” Harry says.  “Maybe you’ll get a miracle.”

Ashton hugs Ashley.  She says something into his ear and he nods.  Michael sighs and forces himself to turn back to Harry, who is still looking at him with his head tilted like a puppy.

“He cares about you a lot; it's been obvious to all of us here tonight.  Don't discount that just because you're scared.  Maybe it's time to tell him," Harry says.

"I've been doing this for years," Michael reminds him.  "It's never time."

"Hey," Ashton says, reappearing.  "Ready to go?"

"Yeah," Michael says.  "See you later, Harry.  Tell Alexis I say goodbye, too."

"Good luck, Michael.  Remember, Christmas miracles!"

Michael gives him a tight smile and starts towards the coat check.  They killed enough time with the pictures that they don't have to wait in line too long before they're bundled up and ready to leave.

"What did Harry mean about Christmas miracles?" Ashton asks, putting on his gloves.

"Nothing," Michael says.  "He's just being optimistic.  What did Ashley want to say to you?"

"Oh, you know," Ashton says.  "Just that it was good to see each other and finally meet you."

"Meet me?" Michael asks.  "She didn't even talk to me.  Why would she want to meet me, anyway?  I'm just an auditor."

"You're not just anything.  Besides, I've probably talked about you a lot.  Come on.  Time to brave the cold."

Michael frowns at the abrupt change, but Ashton is already heading towards the entrance, so he scrambles to catch up.

A gust of wind greets then outside, thick snow swirling in the air around them.  Michael braces himself against it, huddling down in his coat and shoving his hands in his pockets.  Ashton leans close, flexing his fingers where he's gripping the handle of the basket, and they shuffle down the sidewalk as one.  Once Michael gets to the car, he immediately turns on the defroster and heat, hating the first few minutes of cold air until the car warms up properly.  Ashton grabs the scraper from the back before Michael can, brushing snow off the front windshield and scraping away the frost that had gathered in the time they were at the party.  When he gets to the driver-side window, he makes funny faces at Michael while clearing it off.  It warms him more than the heater does.

"Thanks," Michael says once he's done.  "I hate scraping.”

"I know," Ashton says, brushing snow off of his coat where it had gathered on his shoulders.  "Hey, I got a gift card in my basket.  Let's swing by before you drop me off."

"It's a little late for coffee," Michael says.

"This place is open until midnight, and they have great hot chocolate.  Come on.  You got me a free meal tonight, so let me give you a free late-night cocoa."

"Fine," Michael says, as if he wasn't going to cave as soon as Ashton suggested it, as if he himself wouldn't mind prolonging their time together if it's just the two of them.  "Put the address in.  The roads aren't that bad yet."

-/-

The coffee shop is a small place on a corner, one of the only shops still lit up at 9:30 at night.  Snow has gathered on the window ledges and the corners are blocked by frost, but warm light and swashes of browns and yellows still spill out, giving the entire building an inviting atmosphere.  Ashton holds the door for him on the way in, the bell above the door tinkling a greeting with the welcome rush of heated air.

The inside is just as cozy as Michael's first impressions suggested.  A few mismatched tables are scattered around the room with wooden chairs tucked against them, but it's the armchairs near the back that make him smile, big padded things arranged around a crackling fireplace that would probably swallow him if he sat down in them.  A bookshelf sits off to the side, old paperbacks and worn hardcovers nestled amongst other trinkets on warped wooden shelves, sinking under the weight of the years.  A Christmas tree stands in the corner, what looks like homemade ornaments adoring it and a few boxes in shiny wrapping paper underneath.  Calm Christmas music plays faintly over the speakers, and a barista calls out from where she is wiping down a table that she'll be with them in a moment.

"I've never been here before," Michael says.

"If you lived with me instead of out in a suburb, you would've by now," Ashton says, brushing snow off of Michael’s shoulder.  "It's one of my favorite places to go once winter hits.  I don't care for coffee, but I love everything else about the place.  It's a great source of inspiration and relaxation."

"Of course it is," Michael says fondly.  "Every place is a source of inspiration for you.  You probably found inspiration at my work party."

"Maybe that was more about the company than the location," Ashton says.

"I guess there were a lot of interesting people there, like Ashley.  You can probably get some material from Harry and Louis, too."

Ashton stares at him for a long moment.

"Are you being deliberately obtuse as a way to let me down?  Or do you really not know yet?"

"Hi, what can I get you?" the barista asks.  Michael is getting really sick of people interrupting Ashton when he's about to tell him something.

Ashton orders two small hot chocolates, one with whip and one without, then leads Michael to a table in the back corner.  It's an odd choice when they have the entire shop to themselves, but Michael doesn't fight it.  He's too distracted by the tantalizing smell of the hot cocoa and the mountain of whip on top of it, so much so that he burns his tongue on the first sip.

"Careful," Ashton laughs.  He reaches forward and swipes the whip right off Michael's nose, popping it into his mouth.  Michael's brain shuts down and takes its sweet time restarting, staring at Ashton gently blow on his own cocoa and take a much more cautious sip.

"So," Ashton says.  "I had an alternative motive for getting you to come here tonight."

"Is this payback for making you come to the party with me?  Are you going to ask me for a favor?"

"Not a favor," Ashton says.  "Well, I suppose you could come to the studio's New Years Eve party with me, if you wanted."

"I was already planning on going," Michael says.  I've been there every year since you opened.  I wasn't going to miss it now."

"See, this is what I was talking about with you being deliberately obtuse," Ashton says.  "Do you want to go with me?  As my date?"

Michael frowns.

“Did you tell everyone you have a secret boyfriend?”

Ashton sighs and cradles his head in his hands.  “You’re going to make me say it, aren’t you.”

“Say what?” Michael implores.  “Is it too much for you to stop being so cryptic and just tell me what you want me to understand?”

“Michael, I really, really like you.  Romantically.  I have for a long time.  I want to know if you’ll go on a date with me.”

“What the fuck?” Michael asks.  Ashton’s face crumples.  “No, not like--how long?  Because I’ve been in love with you since college!”

“What?” Ashton blinks.  “I thought… I mean, I’d hoped, and there were moments, but I didn’t realize it had been that long for you.”  He smiles, letting it grow on his face until it’s overwhelming.  Michael mirrors it.  “Holy shit.  This is great!”

Michael laughs.

“Do you really like me?”

“Yes, Michael.  Of course I do.  I knew I eventually would as soon as I met you, I just put it off for as long as I could.  You’re magnetic.  It was inevitable.”

Michael doesn’t know what to do with the joy bubbling up in him, threatening to overflow like a volcano with all of the heat of one.

“So, Michael Clifford, want to be my date to the Superbloom New Year’s party?  And my boyfriend?  My real one, in case that somehow wasn’t clear by now.”

“Yes!  Please, yes, I would love to,” Michael says.

“Good,” Ashton says.  “But I do have one more confession to make.  I still haven’t told you why I wanted to come here right now.”

“What do you mean?”

“Look up,” Ashton says, pointing above their heads.  Michael follows his directions and is met with a small sprig of green leaves with tiny white flowers hanging from the ceiling.  “We never did get a mistletoe kiss, which was extremely disappointing to me.  Will you indulge me now?”

Michael turns back to him, seeing hope shining in his eyes, and nods a little too eagerly if the way Ashton giggles at him is any indication.

“Alright,” Ashton says, standing.  “Come on.  I’m not about to make you lean over the table.”

He takes Michael’s hands, tugging him to standing.

“I’m weirdly nervous,” Michael confesses once they’re face to face.

“Don’t be,” Ashton says, taking a step forward.  “If it’s bad, we’ll just try again.  I have the feeling I’ll be kissing you a lot in the future.”

“Yeah,” Michael breathes.

“Ready?” Ashton asks, eyes flicking down to Michael’s lips and then back up.  Instead of answering, Michael leans in, Ashton meeting him halfway in the best kiss Michael has ever had.  In the grand scheme of things, it’s utterly unremarkable, but to Michael it’s everything: the feeling of his cold hands enveloped by Ashton’s, the calm atmosphere of the coffee shop they’re in, the taste of hot chocolate still on Ashton’s lips, and the satisfaction of finally, after years, knowing what this sensation is like all melts together to form something that feels like complete and utter happiness.

Ashton drops their hands so he can cup Michael’s jaw and kisses him again, and then again, and then they stand there smiling at each other until Michael finally starts giggling.

“Our hot chocolate is probably getting cold,” he says.

“God, I love you,” Ashton replies.  Michael knows that he’s blushing, but for once it’s not out of embarrassment or the cold outside.  He’s never felt this level of joyful peace.

Ashton kisses him once more, quickly, before he finally goes back to his seat.  Michael joins him, taking a sip of his drink.  He can’t help but think that Ashton’s homemade cocoa is better.

The man in question reaches out and takes one of his hands, holding it across the table and beaming, showing off his dimples, and Michael once again can’t resist smiling back.

Maybe Harry is right.  Karma stands no chance against a Christmas miracle.

[edwheeler]

And then there was the smell.

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[talesofpanem]

The Interview

Author: @xerxia31

Rating: T for potty language, adult situations, mentions of substance abuse and minor character death.

Summary: This has all the makings of the most uncomfortable job interview of all time.

Author’s note: This is for the prompt ‘work’, but I just couldn’t get it done on time. Thank goodness for make-up week!

————

It feels like entering another world, driving through the grounds of the west campus. Everything is wide open, lush, green, alive, a huge contrast to the dirty and crowded city where I’ve been living for the past two years.

There are young people everywhere on the expansive lawns, throwing frisbees or leaning against trees with books or binders in hand, and not a cellphone to be seen. It’s like a utopian fantasy world, on the surface.

But I know better.

I pull up to the building where my appointment will be. Grey stone, old, but not yet old enough to be considered classic. Its architectural failings have been compensated for by brightly-painted window trim and shutters, and climbing vines clinging to the stones, bursting with purple flowers. Elegant, but only if you don’t look too closely. For all of its window dressing, it’s an institution.

I’d been instructed to wait in the lobby, arranged as a waiting room of sorts. It’s little more than a dozen chairs ringing the area, facing the double set of interior doors, faded industrial carpet underfoot. I settle into one, the sun-hardened vinyl squeaks in protest. The walls are covered with inspirational posters, pictures of sunsets and mountaintops with words of wisdom in bold print underneath. Motivation. Persistence. Achievement. 

“Mr. Mellark?” 

I jump to my feet as a young woman with glossy black ringlets enters the room where I’ve been cooling my heels for twenty minutes. She smiles at me. “They’re ready for you now.”

Taking a deep, cleansing breath, I wipe my hands on my suit pants before picking up my portfolio. I can’t remember the last time I was this nervous about anything. Young Peeta Mellark was an outgoing, gregarious fellow. But I haven’t been that guy in a very long time.

The doors close behind me, electronic locks snapping ominously. 

The young woman, Rue, she tells me her name is, leads me along a dim corridor, the floors polished to gleaming, reflecting scattered pools of light. “We only use emergency lighting in the offices on the weekends,” she confides. “Budget…” I nod. The schools where I worked while finishing my master’s degrees had all struggled with budgets too. Education is not a career that is steeped in money.

But working with children is what I’ve chosen. And this job, at this particular school, is the one I want more than anything.

Art therapist at the Panem Institute.

The Panem Institute is the preeminent residential facility for kids in trouble, kids struggling with substance abuse issues or mental health disorders. And unlike most centres of its kind, lack of funds is not a barrier to admission.

I can’t help wondering how different my life might have turned out if I’d had access to a place like this when I was a teen. Would I be established now, with a life I could be proud of? A wife, maybe even a family of my own?

Instead, I’m thirty, with a shiny new double MA in social work and art therapy, and precious little in the way of resumé experience. That the institute is even meeting with me is almost miraculous. Apart from student placements and volunteer work, I have almost nothing to show for my life.

But I want this job so badly I can almost taste it. This job, this place– this is why I’ve worked so hard the past six years, for the chance to make up for my own failings.

My childhood wasn’t fantastic, but it was typical by most measures. The youngest of three children, I was born upstate, in a quintessential white-washed all-American small town where everyone knew everyone else. My parents didn’t get along, but they stuck it out for the sake of us boys, which is retrospect was probably far, far worse for us than if they’d simply split.

Instead, beaten down by a life she hated and a town she couldn’t escape, my mother was cold, and often rough with us. Rye, Brann and I learned young to hide from her temper. She, in turn, hid in a bottle.

My dad, though, was my hero, mine and my brothers’ too. He coached our little league teams, came to every one of our wrestling matches, filled our lives with cookies and hugs. Shielded us from mother’s ever-increasing drunken and violent episodes.

Then midway through my senior year of high school, the unthinkable happened. My father, my kind, generous father, was murdered. Shot by some punk barely older than I was, killed for nothing more than the two hundred dollars in the cash register of the small family bakery my father owned.

I was devastated.

There was no one left to moderate my mother’s behaviour with my father gone and my brothers away at school. Down to one final obligation, freedom in sight, she made it her sole purpose in life to be rid of me as well. Or maybe she was just drowning in grief and alcoholism and wasn’t even aware of how she was acting, a theory my brother broached at the time. Whatever the reason, life at home deteriorated. Badly.

And like my mother, I sought refuge in a bottle. Or many, many bottles.

I’d already been offered a college wrestling scholarship based on my earlier performances. A good thing since I showed up at the state wrestling championship - my last ever high school wrestling meet and the first one where my father wasn’t a spectator - hungover as hell, or maybe still a little drunk, and ended up placing second.

College was supposed to be my escape, but by the time I got to State that September, I was far more interested in getting bombed than in studying or practicing. 

Over the course of a year, I destroyed every dream I’d ever had, every hope, every plan, every relationship. I alienated every friend, every mentor, even, eventually, my own brothers.

And I hadn’t even cared.

Twelve years later, I’ve clawed my way back, one sober day at a time, through more ups and downs than I can even remember. Fought to become a man my father would have been proud of. But I didn’t do it alone. Therapists and counsellors helped me heal, and in doing so showed me how satisfying it could be to guide someone back from the brink, to help set them on the right path.

And that’s why I’m here now, standing sweaty-palmed but hopeful at the door of a boardroom. Interviewing for a job where I could change the lives of troubled young people like I once was.

My escort, Rue, pulls the door open and gestures for me to enter. The room is small and much brighter than the hallway, with a pair of large windows and pale wood reflecting the warm afternoon light. It takes me a moment to adjust to the brightness, to focus on the group of people waiting for me.

Then the bottom drops out of my stomach, and out of my world.

I never got blackout drunk. Consequently, I remember every stupid decision I made, every assholish word I said. And the recipient of one of the tirades I regret most is sitting across the table, her ebony hair pulled back in an elegant chignon. 

Katniss Everdeen.

She and I went to school together, from kindergarten all the way through until I ruined my life. I had the worst crush on her back then. But until after we graduated from high school, she didn’t even know I was alive.

Imagine my shock when, a few months into my ill-fated college career, I ran into her at a party on campus. I’d had no idea she went to the same school. But I was well into a bottle of Bombay that night, and what should have been the start of an epic relationship, or at least a chance for me to talk to the girl I’d lusted after always, turned into a nightmare.

I was already slipping then, already on academic probation, already suspended from the wrestling team and constantly in trouble with my coaches. I was weeks away from losing everything - my scholarship, my sport, my friends. And every encounter with my professors, with my academic advisor, with the counsellor the athletic department had insisted on, every single one had impressed on me that I wasn’t good enough, though I am, in retrospect, certain that’s not what any of them had meant. But I’d had so much anger in my system then, so much loathing. 

And Katniss, beautiful, seemingly unattainable Katniss, for some reason seeing her there triggered the deepest well of self pity to open in my chest. She was, in that moment, the embodiment of everything I’d been told I could never have. My gut clenches and my heart hurts as I remember the vitriol I’d spewed at her that night, the accusations about her character and motivations, every one of them utterly untrue. I’d called her stuck-up, selfish, a bitch, among so many other words. Katniss, beautiful, stoic Katniss hadn’t reacted at all, apart from a widening of her eyes and maybe a slight trembling of her lower lip. When I’d run out of filth to throw her way, she’d simply blinked and said softly, “This isn’t you, Peeta.” Then she’d walked away.

I have heard those words in my head a thousand times since that night. 

It had taken another three years of couch-surfing and homelessness, of lying and begging and stealing to feed my addiction, before I finally hit rock-bottom. In an alley in the Capitol, with a bunch of other low-life scum just like me, I’d listened as they made plans to rob a convenience store a few blocks away. So desperate was I for the few bucks it would have garnered me that I was ready to go along with them… until I saw the gun.

The idea of robbing a little mom-and-pop convenience store at gunpoint was my come to Jesus moment. I was hunched in filth, hungry and so desperate for a drink that I was steps away from becoming the man who had killed my father.

The road back from that point wasn’t straight, and it wasn’t easy. I’d like to say that I never had another drink after that, but it’d be a lie. But I’ve been sober now for seven years and forty-four days, a purple medallion in my pocket reminds me every day how far I’ve come.

As does Katniss’s voice in my head, reminding me when I feel weak, when the cravings hit hard, that I’m not that person.

But she doesn’t know that. Looking across the table, she must be seeing the asshole who treated everyone, and especially her, like dirt.

“Please have a seat, Mr. Mellark,” an older, balding man says, smiling. I recognize his voice, Plutarch Heavensbee, the institute’s director, with whom I’ve spoken on the phone several times before today. I hesitate though, steeling myself to meet Katniss’s eyes. If she looks uncomfortable I’ll leave. It wouldn’t be fair to her if I stayed. As disappointing as it’ll be to walk away from this opportunity that I want so damned badly, I have only myself to blame.

I catch her gaze, silver pools in the sunlight, expecting her to be glaring at me. She’s not though, her expression is carefully neutral. But as if she sees the question in my glance, she nods.

Plutarch introduces the others in turn; Reza Seder, head of counselling services, Dr. Lavinia DeSantis, head of medical services, Alma Coin, head of security. “And of course you know Ms. Everdeen,” Plutarch says, his smile widening, and I can feel my eyebrows crawling up to my hairline. She knew I was coming, told the others that she knew me, and yet I’m still here. They’re still going to interview me.

“Hello, Peeta,” she says, in that smoky smooth bourbon voice that has acted as my conscience for years. And, okay, has narrated my fantasies too, if I’m being honest.

“I’ve already disclosed to the board that we grew up together,” she continues, “and they’re okay with my presence. But of course I’ll leave if it makes you uncomfortable having me here.” Her words and delivery are coolly professional, but beneath them I hear a faint note of pleading. She wants to be here, I just know it. And though I’m likely signing the death warrant on this job, I find myself asking her to stay.

This has all the makings of the most uncomfortable job interview of all time. But if I’ve learned anything from my primary therapist, Dr. Aurelius, it’s that I can’t run from my past. And if I’ve learned anything from AA, it’s that I can’t ignore my shortcomings.

Each member questions me, softballs to start - my education, my job experiences, my plans. I pull out my portfolio, walk them through the educational and therapeutic programs I’ve developed, outline what worked during my previous placements, what innovations I’d like to employ. They seem impressed, and I start to relax. 

“You didn’t go to college right after high school, Mr. Mellark?” Alma Coin asks, her strange, pale eyes cold and judgemental. I stiffen; this is where previous interviews have gone off the rails. I’d never outright lie about my addiction, but I’m not keen to bring it up either. Even seven years sober, people are reluctant to entrust an alcoholic to watch over children.

“That’s correct,” I tell her. “I didn’t start my undergrad until I was twenty-four.”

“Why is that?” I could tell her that I couldn’t afford it until then, that’s true, or about my father’s death throwing a spanner in my plans, also true.

Katniss is looking at me, grey eyes wide and guileless. She nods again, and it feels like encouragement. I know what I have to say.

“I’m an alcoholic,” I tell them, bracing for their reactions. But nobody flinches. “I’ve been sober for seven years. But I started drinking in high school, and I lost a lot of years to the disease.” Across from me, a hint of a smile graces Katniss’s pouty peach lips. I take it as my cue to keep going. “That’s why I went into social work, and why I want to work here so much. To help kids like me. To maybe save some of them from the mistakes I made.”

There are nods around the table, no one looks particularly surprised. I don’t know whether Katniss has told them, or if it came up in my background check.

“And you’re not concerned that working with addicted children might trigger you to revisit your own demons? Your CV is completely lacking in experience with troubled youth.” It’s true, my field placements were all in middle schools, my experience as an art therapist mostly with kids with ADHD or autism spectrum disorders. The kids here by and large have much more complex issues, abuse and addiction and mental illness all compounded, often violent and criminal backgrounds too. 

“I’ve spent years in therapy learning to cope with my triggers,” I tell Coin.

“That’s not the same as real-world experience,” Seder interjects. “These kids, the things they tell you, the things they’ve seen. It’s gutting.”

“I realize that,” I tell her, affecting the most professional tone I’m capable of despite the cavern that’s opened in my stomach, the knowledge that I’m nowhere near qualified enough in their eyes. “I completed a research project on intergenerational addiction in college and interviewed hundreds of young addicts.”

“That’s really not the same as interacting with them day to day,” Seder says, and it’s not cruel, but it feels dismissive.

“I also observed troubled youth in counselling during my practicum while I was in graduate school.” They know this, it’s in my resumé, along with letters of reference from the clinician supervisors. But Seder is shaking her head and Coin looks unimpressed and I can feel the opportunity slipping away.

“Peeta has volunteered as a mentor at the Children’s Hospital’s substance abuse treatment program for more than three years,” Katniss interjects, and every hair on my body stands on end. Because while that’s true, it’s also something that’s not in my resumé, something I’ve avoided self-reporting because it’s common knowledge that the program volunteers are all addicts in recovery themselves.

I have no idea how she knows that.

My gaze snaps to Katniss. Her expression remains carefully neutral, but there is the barest hint of a smile in her silver eyes.

“That’s an excellent program,” Dr. De Santis says, looking up from her notes for the first time. “They’re incredibly selective about who they choose to work with their clients.” 

“They are,” I agree. The screening had been brutal, but it had been necessary, so many of those kids have lead lives that make mine look like a walk in the park and many are not shy about sharing all of the horrific details. “They can’t risk having the volunteers drop out or relapse. The kids need the stability of knowing that they can’t scare away their mentors. So many of them have had everyone else in their lives give up on them.” I swallow hard; it’s the reason I volunteer there. I’ve seen myself in so many of their faces, kids who use alcohol and drugs to escape the pain, kids who lash out and push away the people around them before those people can abandon them. Like I’d done to my teachers and coaches, my friends and my brothers.

Like I’d done to Katniss, all of those years ago.

“How do you find your personal experiences impact your work with those children?” Katniss asks, a gently leading question, and one for which I am so grateful.

“I can empathise with them in ways that their doctors and case workers often can’t,” I say, mostly tamping down the waver in my voice. Four sets of eyes watch me intently. “It’s the whole basis for the program, giving these kids not only guidance, but hope for their future. If I can succeed after all of my mistakes, after all I’ve done, then they can too.”

“And you intend on continuing to volunteer there?” Coin asks.

“I do.” I’ve already checked with the hospital about whether this job would constitute a conflict of interest, they assured me it would not.

Across the table, each of the interviewers smiles, even Coin, though her smile looks a little less genuine. But I only have eyes for Katniss. Because her smile feels like forgiveness. And though this is my dream job, I feel like even if I don’t get it I’ve accomplished something monumental here. I’ve shown Katniss that she was right, that nasty boy who hurt her, who made her feel small and alone, that person wasn’t me.

Plutarch claps his hands. “Excellent, my boy,” he says. “Now let’s talk salary.”

“I… what?” 

“For the position.” At my expression, he laughs. “The interview is really just a formality,” he says, mirth twinkling in his eyes. “The job is yours if you want it.” He pushes a couple of papers across the table. A contract. “I know it’s a little less in salary than you’d make in private practice, but we offer a comprehensive benefits package. Take a couple of days to look it over and let us know.”

I don’t need a couple of days. I don’t need a couple of minutes. “I want the job,” I tell him firmly.

“Well then,” Plutarch booms with evident pleasure. “Welcome aboard, Mr. Mellark.” He reaches across to shake my hand firmly, and I can’t help my goofy grin. I got the job!

Plutarch informs me that their admin will get in touch with me over the next few days to file the tax and legal paperwork they need, and then I’ll begin at the start of the new term, some four weeks away. And I nod in all the right places, but my mind is spinning so fast I’m almost dizzy with it.

I shake each of their hands in turn, lingering just a bit longer to squeeze Katniss’s hand tightly. I thank each of them, but my gratitude to her means more. I think she can tell.

“Could you see Mr. Mellark out?” Plutarch asks Katniss, and she agrees, though she doesn’t meet my eyes. 

I follow her silently down the corridor, towards the exit, the delicate tapping of her heels on linoleum almost drowned out by the pounding of my pulse in my ears. Katniss was a cute kid, tiny and scrappy, and she had morphed into a fierce and self-possessed young woman  by the time we’d graduated high school. But now, at thirty, she’s an absolute bombshell. Still lean, but with delicate curves that her pencil skirt and blouse highlight perfectly. She walks with confidence, back straight, head held high. She’s more intimidating than ever.

At the electronic doors, she pauses, hand poised just above the lever that would release the locks. Then she sighs, and glances back at me over her shoulder. “Would you like to have a cup of tea with me? Catch up?” I’m nearly rendered speechless; not only is Katniss Everdeen willing to work with me, she’s willing to talk with me too. 

“I’d like that,” I rasp, the first words I’ve spoken directly to her in twelve long years.

She leads me back into the building and up a set of stairs. Another corridor stretches in front of us, windowless doors set close together. “Our offices,” she says. Partway down the hall, she stops and pulls a set of keys from her pocket. A small brass plate on the door reads Katniss Everdeen, Lead Addictions Therapist.

Her office is small, and appears to be set up for both paperwork and individual counselling sessions with a tiny desk tucked back into the corner but comfortable looking couches dominating the space. She confirms my guess. “I see the lower risk kids here,” she says. “It feels less institutional that way.”

I can only stare, stunned, as she unlocks a cabinet and withdraws a tea kettle. I knew Katniss’s title here from Plutarch’s introduction of course. But until now, it hadn’t really sunk in, what she does. She’s an addictions counsellor. How utterly incredible that she went into the very field that eventually inspired my own career path.

“Sit, please,” she says over her shoulder. I slip off my blazer, draping it over the arm of the couch, then sink into plush microfibre. The ceramic clink of teacups and spoons and the sultry sway of her perfect posterior as she putters, preparing tea and humming just faintly are almost hypnotic. For all of the times I’d thought about Katniss Everdeen, I never imagined I’d ever actually see her again, and good lord she’s so much hotter than even my edgiest fantasies. “Black, right?” she says, snapping me out of my lurid thoughts.

“Uh, yeah,” I say after a moment’s pause where I try to pull myself together and remember that she’s making tea, so that we can talk. So that I can apologize to her. As glorious as her ass is, I have no business looking at her that way. I lost any possible chance I might have had a dozen years ago.

But she knows how I take my tea. The last time I saw her, gin was the only thing I was drinking.

She sets a red mug in front of me, on the low table between the couches. But she herself sits beside me, instead of across from me, which surprises me. Though maybe it shouldn’t, since she’s a therapist. Knowing how to set someone at ease is part of her training. It’s backfiring in my case though, since her closeness feels intimate. I catch a hint of her scent, something fresh and green but with a little bit of spice, like a campfire in the woods. So perfectly Katniss. “How have you been?” she says, sipping from her own mug.

“Better,” I tell her, because she’s not asking to make small talk. In addition to knowing everything I confessed in the interview, she was there when my world fell apart, she saw first hand how shitty I was.

“I’m glad,” she says softly, and she smiles, and it’s so beautiful and sweet it nearly breaks my heart.

“I am so sorry,” I tell her, but the words are completely inadequate. How do you tell someone that they are not only your biggest regret, but also your biggest inspiration? “For how I treated you when I was drinking. You didn’t deserve any of that, and I have regretted it every day.”

“I know,” she says. 

“And what you did for me today,” I continue before my nerve runs out. “I can’t begin to thank you. You not only gave me this chance when you could have told any of them I wasn’t worth considering, but you actively helped me in the interview.”

“You earned the job, Peeta. Plutarch was already convinced before you even walked in the door.”

“The others weren’t.”

She laughs. “I knew Lavinia would love you. And Alma, well, she doesn’t really like anyone, but I have a feeling you’ll win her over eventually.”

“What about you?” I can’t help asking. She’s treating me so kindly, but she can’t possibly have forgiven me. I know she hasn’t forgotten. 

“I believe in second chances.” Her smile is softer, a little pained. ���I knew you’d find your way back.”

“I was such a dick.”

“You were,” she agrees. “But I knew that wasn’t you.”

“You said that back then too,” I tell her, my tea forgotten. “I, uhm.” My neck feels hot and I rub it distractedly. “I hear you saying that, when I’m having a difficult day. It’s helped me so much over the years. You’ve helped me more than you’ll ever know.” It’s embarrassing as hell to admit that. But she deserves the truth.

She snorts, and it’s a sound so at odds with her elegant presentation and with the seriousness of our conversation. My gaze snaps up to her face, she looks amused and abashed. 

“You’re the reason I went into psychology,” she says, and my eyebrows shoot up to my hairline. “I was a biology major first year. But seeing how everyone failed you after your dad died, and how easy it was for you to fall…” she trails off. “And then when you came back to school to try again, sober and working so hard, I knew I’d made the right choice.”

“You were there?” 

She nods. “Just for a semester. I was finishing my masters. I saw you a couple of times on campus, but you never noticed me.”

Honestly, that’s probably for the best. That early in my recovery I was still so fragile, just getting through classes took every bit of effort I had, and I spent so many hours with my sponsor and therapist back then I had no time for anyone else. “I wish I’d known,” I tell her. “But I had my head pretty far up my own ass.”

“You didn’t though.” She looks away, towards the tiny, narrow window on the exterior wall, barred, like all of the windows I’ve seen in this building. “I watched you. I’ve kept track of you over the years, when I could. Even then you were already working so hard to make amends.”

I was. And I can tell by that specific word that she knows why. One of the steps in AA is making amends for the shitty things we’ve done, at least where doing so won’t cause any further damage. In those early years, I’d concentrated mostly on my brothers, and earning their trust again. But I also spent time speaking with professors and coaches who I had alienated. It would have been far easier to start over at a different college, and likely would have been less triggering. But it’d have been a coward’s way.

“I never got a chance before now to apologize to you,” I whisper. She’d kept track of me, but I hadn’t made the same effort. Before the booze, Katniss Everdeen was that perfect, unattainable fantasy woman I put on a pedestal and never approached. And after, I locked her away, so terribly ashamed by my actions that I never sought her out, even though she would have been easy to find. I was terrified by how she might look at me.

But she’s clearly a much bigger person than I could ever be.

“I think the time wouldn’t have been right before now,” she says. “For either of us.”

We lapse into silence, Katniss still staring out the window, me fiddling with the mug I’ve picked up again. “Can I ask you something?” she says, and there’s something in her tone that makes the hairs on the back of my neck stand up.

“Of course.”

“That night… why me?” She’s trying to keep her voice even, I can tell, but the slight waver slays me. 

“You were there, and I was a drunken asshole,” I rasp, but she shakes her head, glancing at me.

“It was more than that. The things you said…” she looks away, but not before I see the shine in her eyes. Not before I see the hurt I had been expecting all along. The knowledge that even all of these years later, my words continue to bother her is gut-wrenching. I feel like the biggest piece of shit.

“It was all bullshit, Katniss, the ramblings of an absolute lowlife shit of a human.”

“There’s always truth, even in ramblings,” she says softly. “It certainly wasn’t the first time I’d been called those things. But we’d never even spoken before then. I didn’t know you even knew my name.”

“I knew you, Katniss. I’d always been watching you.” She turns back to me eyebrows raised, confusion in every line of her beautiful face. I don’t want to make her uncomfortable, and I don’t want to make excuses for my absolutely inexcusable behaviour. But she deserves the whole truth. I drop my gaze to my lap. “The truth is, I had a huge crush on you, nearly the whole way through high school.” 

She makes a little choking sound, and I can’t bear to look at her. I know I’m doing unfathomable damage to our potential working relationship, confessing like this. I’ll decline Plutarch’s offer, if being here will hurt her. But I can’t let her think that any of the awful things I said had even a speck of truth to them. I can’t let her take any blame. 

“In senior year,” I continue, “I had finally convinced myself that I was going to talk to you, to ask you to the Valentine’s dance. But then…” I trail off. My father had died at the end of January, and everything else in my life had fallen away, sucked into the black pit of grief.

A soft, cool hand lands on my forearm, and I glance up. Far from looking disgusted, as I was expecting, Katniss is looking at me with compassion, even through her confusion. “When I saw you that night,” I whisper, barely able to get the words out. “I had already screwed up everything else in my life. I was just so angry at the world, but mostly at myself. I was drowning in regret and self-loathing. And you were there, and you were every bit as beautiful as you had always been. And you just represented everything I wanted so badly and had fucked up. My father was gone, my sport was gone, and the girl of my dreams was completely out of my league. And I lost it, lashed out at you instead of at the person who really deserved it. Me.”

“You didn’t deserve it either,” she whispers, and her eyes shine silver under a film of moisture.

I place my hand over hers where it still rests on my arm, and she doesn’t pull away. “I’m truly sorry, Katniss. Hurting you is the biggest regret of my life.” 

“I accept your apology.” I squeeze her hand in gratitude, and a sad half smile ticks at her lips.

“I won’t take the offer,” I murmur, and her brow furrows again. “This is your career, I don’t want to make you uncomfortable, being here.”

She shakes her head. “You won’t,” she says. “I’ve been watching you for so long, cheering for you from the sidelines. I feel like I know you. And I know you won’t ever repeat that mistake.”

“I won’t,” I swear. “I’ll always be an alcoholic, and there will always be a risk that I’ll relapse. But I’ve learned so much in therapy, about communication and managing my emotions. About coping. I have better mechanisms now, and a really great support group behind me.” It had taken a long time to make things right with my brothers, but they are my staunchest supporters now. And my sponsor, Haymitch, is a crusty old bastard, but he’d rip out someone’s throat before letting me down.

“Then stay,” she says. “I’d like to start again, if it wouldn’t make you uncomfortable. Build up that friendship we should have had.” She looks down at our hands. At some point, she’d flipped her palm and I’d entwined my fingers with hers.

“Always,” I whisper in awe, and she smiles, that beautiful, elusive smile that I know will be the stuff of all of my future fantasies. And maybe, just maybe, the stuff of my future reality too.

[madelvnisms]

(MILENA TSCHARNTKE, CIS FEMALE) - Have you seen MADELINE WOODROW? MADS is in HER SOPHOMORE year. The CREATIVE WRITING MAJOR is 21 years old & is a VIRGO. People say SHE is COURAGEOUS, WITTY, PESSIMISTIC and HOT-HEADED. Rumors say they’re a member of KINCAID SOCIETY. I heard from the gossip blog that SHE’S BEEN TRYING TO FIND HER BIRTH PARENTS WITHOUT HER ADOPTED FAMILY FINDING OUT. (COURTNEY. TWENTY-TWO. GMT+10. SHE/HER.)

tw: slight mention of drug use?? i just wanted to tag to be safe 

yall i literally love essy so much i’ll follow her to the end of the rp world :/// and thats on loyalty. PERIODT. but hi !!! hello !!! i am courtney and this is my dangerously pessimistic devil child whose life is just. i like to make tragic okay, because otherwise, where’s the fun in that??? I HOPE YA’LL LOVE HER AS MUCH AS I DO. also i haven’t rped in a hot minute so please bear with me tumblrs done a whole 360 on me and nothing is the SAME 

madeline woodrow didn’t actually have a name for the first??? three months of her life?? she was born on an unusually cold september night, to two incredibly young teen parents who just so happened to be addicted to illicit substances, her ‘mother’ abandoned her at the hospital with a weak immune system and pretty much fighting for her life. she was born with holes on the heart, resulting in surgery during the first week of her life. however, her ailments soon came right ( for now ) and madeline was adopted into a well-off, seemingly loving family; the Woodrow’s, who happened to have a young child already,,,, you guessed it,,, named.... darcy. eyyyyyy [ tik tok vc ] sibling check 

growing up into a family that valued achievements and success over, well... anything, really, madeline had always felt a little out of place. Her parents were well-off academics who took pride in their work, her older brother seemed to be a genius, whereas school work had never been madeline’s strong-suit. like, yeah, okay, she was smarter than the average person in class, but learning was never something she was interested in. books didn’t interest her like they did darcy and while she was passing all of her classes, there were no outstanding academic awards for barely trying. 

instead, madeline seemed to have a naturally affinity for sports. she loved the outdoors, she was the kid that was always picked to be team leader,,,, u know the kids who think they’re better than everyone on the field..... akskskskks that was HER. she may not have been as academically gifted as the rest of her family, but she would bet none of them could throw an object further than her, that was for sure. 

it was an accident, finding out she was adopted. Robert & Stephanie Woodrow had many quiet discussions over the years as to what would be best for Mads, they both felt she should know, but ig they were just scared??? bc they never??? really. mentioned it to her. buT MORE ON THAT SOON 

madeline loved tennis. it was her favourite sport, she was literally on track to go to the olympics at one point in her life, when disaster struck. she was in the middle of an intense game when randomly, mads passed out on the court and fell on her leg the wrong way. not only had her heart problems come crashing through the door; she now had to have another surgery on her leg along with months of rehabilitation. 

the kicker???? this was around the same time grandfather Woodrow had passed away, leaving the remaining kin to deal with his crippling debt. she was barely sixteen when this happened. well - technically grandfather Woodrow had left her mother, father and brother a huge amount of crippling debt, whereas madeline wasn’t even mentioned in the will. no inheritance to her name, especially no debt to her name - there was no mention of a madeline woodrow in his last will and testament at all. 

that was when madeline found out about her true origins; she was left in a hospital by her birth parents, she was born with holes in the heart and now, now she couldn’t even play tennis again. Ever. 

Madeline, once held on a high pedestal due to her athletic achievements, held on a high pedestal by being a Woodrow, had come tumbling down to reality. She didn’t know, and still doesn’t know who she really is to this day. 

Now that all her athletic careers are out the window - her leg never fully recovered and now on top of taking medications for her heart problems every day, she has a barely noticeable limp while she’s walking or jogging, madeline is majoring in creative writing. she needed a back up plan, and while this is nowhere near what she wanted to do with her life at all, not even close, she has to deal with the hand she’s been dealt. 

because of everything she’s been lowkey trying to find her birth parents without the Woodrow’s finding out bc she doesnt wanna break :// their hearts :// but she wants to KNOW WHO SHE IS 

PERSONALITY & HEADCANONS 

it doesn’t take a lot to get madeline to do anything. she’s down for an adventure (within reason bc she is !! not as healthy !! as she likes to think anymore), pretty easy to get along with. admittedly, her IQ is not as high as darcy’s (she’d never admit that, obV) but she’s witty and sharp with her tongue. because of everything she has been through, has a very warped sense of the world atm. 

won’t admit it but second guesses everything. she genuinely believes?? she’s not good enough??? for the life she’s been given, which is why she excelled in sports, but now that’s out the window too she’s kind of just... flailing. 

despite being a woodrow,,,, does noT have as big of a stick up her ass like the rest of them. but she’s still a woodrow, the stick is still there. sometimes. 

Madeline is used to the finer things in life, however has adjusted since their grandfather royally did a number on them. she wont admit it, but she misses how easy money had been to access. 

she carries !!! a walking stick in her bag sometimes in case her leg is just Extra Bad. she hates to use it. probably never will admit to needing to use it 

is on heart medication. does not stop her from doing Stupid Things 

will literally be like Darcy who??? to your face but as soon as someone say something about him, she will literally fight you. leg and heart problems and all this bitch will throw the fuck down for her brother, and that’s that. 

Acts like nothing is bothering her at all, when in fact.... everything bothers her 

bisexual queen 

love is love af 

is terribly afraid of ants. 

wanted connections !! 

ex best friends - i literally just imagine them being ‘best friends’ because their parents were in the same affluent circle until the woodrow’s crushing debt, now they literally cannot stand each other. could be more in-depth. i love all the angst 

exes - could have ended great, or terribly. i just LOVE ANGST OK 

best friends - i imagine best friends from like ??? kids ??? family friends?? who have stuck by her always??? 

ANYTHING N EVERYTHING HMU 

[papermoonloveslucy]

The NAB Honors Lucy & Miltie

April 10, 1988

On April 10, 1988, the National Association of Broadcasters (NAB) initiated Lucille Ball and Milton Berle into their Broadcasting Hall of Fame. The awards were announced at the Annual NAB Convention. Ironically, the ceremony was not broadcast or recorded. Although the Award had been bestowed since 1977, Lucy and Uncle Miltie were the first television broadcasters to be so honored. Previously, the recipients were all radio broadcasters, although fittingly, the first award went to CBS Chairman William Paley, along with Lucy’s pals Bob Hope and Jack Benny, for their radio programs.  

Two weeks earlier, Ball and Berle were photographed together at the March 28,1988 Friar's Club Roast honoring Liza Minnelli's Lifetime Achievement in Entertainment, held at the Century Plaza Hotel. (Photo by Vinnie Zuffante / Getty Images)

After Ball’s passing in 1989, he said he and Lucy had dated casually in the 30's, when she was a Goldwyn Girl and he was doing stand-up on the comedy circuits. Later, Miss Ball and Mr. Berle's wife, Ruth, became close friends. After viewing footage of their work together, Berle said of Miss Ball: "I was amazed... at the rapport we had. You could tell we liked each other personally. A lot of it was ad libbed."

A 1952 regional TV Guide touted the fall return of Ball and Berle’s TV offerings. 

The following year, the new National TV Guide put Lucy and Berle on the totem pole of TV icons. Both Berle and Ball hold their sponsors products: she, Philip Morris cigarettes, and he a Texaco gas pump. 

Although Lucille Ball guest starred on Berle’s Show “Texaco Star Theatre” in 1948, Berle was off sick, replaced by Walter O'Keefe filled in for an ailing Milton Berle. Berle’s absence delays the first meeting of superstars-to-be Ball and Berle until 1950, when he hosted...

“Show of the Year: Cerebral Palsy Telethon” ~ June 10, 1950

(Photo, left to right: Gabby Hayes, Roger Clipp, UCP Poster Child, Jane Pickens, and Dennis James.) The telethon was broadcast live from New York City with remotes from Philadelphia. Lucy and Desi were in New York City on their ‘vaudeville tour’ designed to try-out material for “I Love Lucy” and prove to the network and sponsors that they had good chemistry together. 

After this chance encounter, Berle and Ball went their separate ways building a TV empire: He for NBC, she on CBS. It was more than a decade until the two TV stars performed together in...

“Milton Berle Hides Out at The Ricardos” (LDCH E11) ~ September 25, 1959

This was one of the last episodes of “The Lucy-Desi Comedy Hour” with Berle essentially playing himself, promoting his new book “Earthquake” and, of course, dressing up as Mildred. 

In return, as was common at the time, Lucy and Desi did a show for Milton Berle on NBC....

“Sunday Showcase: The Lucy-Desi Milton Berle Special” ~ November 1, 1959

Lucy and Desi play the Ricardos (although no mention of Little Ricky or the Mertzes), filmed at the Rancho Mirage Casino Hotel in Las Vegas. 

In between the two specials was a televised all-star tribute to First Lady Eleanor Roosevelt on her Diamond Jubilee. Both Lucy and Milton were on the dais, as were many more celebrities. A similar program was aired the following year with Lucy in attendance, Milton Berle was not involved.

Six years went by before their next collaboration, this time on “The Lucy Show” with...

“Lucy Saves Milton Berle” (TLS S4;E12) ~ December 6, 1965

Milton Berle disguises himself as a drunk to do research for a role. He tells Lucy Carmichael that he is Milton Berle’s twin brother and Lucy vows to get even with Berle for neglecting his brother.

“The Milton Berle Show” (S1;E1) ~ September 9, 1966

Lucille Ball helps Milton Berle kick off his new variety show filmed at the Hollywood Palace. Despite much hype, this new ABC-TV show lasted just seven episodes.

Meanwhile...

“Lucy and John Wayne” (TLS S5;E10) ~ November 21, 1966

While Lucy is waiting for Wayne in the studio commissary, Milton Berle makes a silent cameo; nothing more than a walk-through, to great audience reaction. 

In his final appearance on “The Lucy Show,” Berle brings along his real-life wife (and Lucille Ball’s friend) Ruth Cosgrove...

“Lucy Meets the Berles” (TLS S6;E1) ~ September 11, 1967

To earn extra money, Lucy Carmichael takes a job working as Milton Berle’s secretary. When she hears overhears Berle rehearsing a love scene with actress Ruta Lee, she jumps to the conclusion that he is being unfaithful to his wife!

“The Ed Sullivan Show” (S23;E1) ~ September 20, 1970

Ed Sullivan hosts the ‘Georgie Awards’ for Entertainer of the Year, from Caesar’s Palace, Las Vegas. Berle and Ball are on hand to present awards. Lucy gets to present one to her ��kid’ Carol Burnett. 

“The 23rd Annual Primetime Emmy Awards” ~ May 9, 1971

Broadcast on NBC from the Pantages Theatre, hosted by Johnny Carson. Lucille Ball is not nominated, despite the fact that there were only three nominees in her category. Gale Gordon lost to Edward Asner (”The Mary Tyler Moore Show”) and the “Here’s Lucy” writers were nominated for “Lucy Meets the Burtons” (HL S3;E1) but lost to “The Mary Tyler Moore Show.” Lucy attended the Awards with her husband Gary, her daughter Lucie, and her son-in-law Phil Vandervoort. 

Milton Berle was also in attendance, photographed here with Jimmy Durante. 

“Zenith Presents: A Salute to Television’s 25th Anniversary” ~ September 10, 1972

This was a 90-minute special on ABC TV taped August 9 to August 12 in Los Angeles. It featured clips from show’s from television’s past. The Academy of Television Arts and Sciences is also 25 years old and honors a select group of people who have made an impact, had popularity, proved longevity, and demonstrated substance. Ball and Berle are both recognized with a silver medallion on a plaque.

During the last season of “Here’s Lucy,” Berle makes a guest appearance...

“Milton Berle Is the Life of the Party” (HL S6;E19) ~ February 11, 1974

Lucy Carter’s parties are a bore, so she calls a telethon to make a very low bid on Milton Berle to attend her next soiree.

“The Dean Martin Celebrity Roast: Lucille Ball” ~ February 7, 1975

When Lucille Ball is roasted, Berle is there to turn the spit!  

Milton Berle: “Lucille Ball has emerged as the sex symbol for men who no longer care.” 

“The Annual Friars Club Tribute Presents a Salute to Gene Kelly” ~ January 5, 1976

Lucille Ball and Milton Berle joined Cyd Charisse, Janet Leigh, and Frank Sinatra for “The Friars Club Presents a Salute to Gene Kelly” on NBC. Also in attendance was Natalie Wood and fellow Hollywood hoofer, Fred Astaire.

“NBC: The First 50 Years - A Closer Look” ~ November 26, 1976

A four and a half hour extravaganza that naturally featured Milton Berle, but somehow also included CBS star Lucille Ball, four years before she would make the leap to the peacock network.

“CBS Salutes Lucy: The First 25 Years” ~ November 28, 1976

Milton Berle stands in front of the iconic Brown Derby restaurant to introduce a clip from “Hollywood at Last!” (ILL S4;E16) starring William Holden. The building was razed four years later. 

“The Dean Martin Celebrity Roast: Danny Thomas” (S4;E2) ~ December 15, 1976

Back at Dino’s Vegas rotisserie, it is now Ball and Berle turning the spit on Danny Thomas. 

“A Tribute to Mr. Television, Milton Berle” ~ March 26, 1978

One good tribute deserves another. Lucille Ball joins the cavalcade of stars honoring Uncle Miltie. 

“The Dean Martin Celebrity Roast: Jimmy Stewart” (May 10, 1978)

Meanwhile, back at the roast pit. Lucy and Milton fling affectionate barbs at their pal Jimmy Stewart. 

“Sinatra: The First 40 Years” ~ January 30, 1980

Lucy and Miltie are just two of the many honoring ‘Old Blue Eyes’. 

“Bob Hope’s 30th Anniversary Television Special” ~ January 18, 1981

A retrospect of Hope’s first 30 years on TV. Celebrating with Hope are Lucille Ball, Milton Berle, and many, many others. 

“Bob Hope’s Women I Love - Beautiful But Funny” ~ February 28, 1982

A look back at the women Hope has worked with over the years. More than 60 of Bob’s co-stars are presented in studio segments, as well as television and film excerpts. Since Berle is the only other male in the credits, I’m banking that Mildred, not Milton, showed up! 

“The Television Academy Hall of Fame” ~ March 4, 1984

Lucille Ball and Milton Berle are among the first group inducted into the Television Hall of Fame, along with Barbara Walters, David Sarnoff, William Paley, Norman Lear, and Edward R. Murrow.

“Bob Hope’s Unrehearsed Antics of the Stars” ~  September 28, 1984

Lucille Ball tells Bob Hope - with a fair amount of embellishment for comedic effect - about her audition for the role of Scarlet O’Hara in the 1939 film Gone With The Wind. Milton Berle is also along to share some bloopers with Hope. 

“Bob Hopes Buys NBC?” ~ September 17, 1985

Lucille Ball and Milton Berle have cameo appearances in this Bob Hope special. The premise has Bob staging a telethon to buy NBC, his adopted network, in an hour-long variety special of music, dance, and comedy.  Lucy and Berle met on a telethon in 1950 and it was also the premise of his 1974 “Here’s Lucy” appearance. 

“The 38th Primetime Emmy Awards”  ~ September 21, 1986

Lucy and Milton are presenters in an evening that was memorable for honoring her friend and co-star Red Skelton.

“AFI Life Achievement Award: A Salute to Jack Lemmon” ~ March 10, 1988

The AFI gives its 1988 Life Achievement Award to Jack Lemmon. The audience is full of celebrity friends, including including Milton Berle and Lucille Ball.

“Happy Birthday, Bob: 50 Stars Salute Your 50 Years at NBC” ~ May 16, 1988

Singing an original song, this marks Lucille Ball’s last “performance” on television before her death. Berle is also on the show to salute Hope. 

“The Princess Grace Foundation Special Gala Tribute to Cary Grant” ~ October 19, 1988

Cary Grant died in 1986. Due to his close friendship with Princess Grace and her family the proceeds from the evening benefit the foundation named in her honor. Milton Berle is there and Lucille Ball attends with her husband, Gary Morton.  This was the last time that Lucille Ball and Milton Berle were seen on the same program before her death in April 1989. 

In 1989, the NAB Hall of Fame for television inducted Ernie Kovacs (posthumously) and Sid Caesar, both of whom had been guest stars on Lucy’s programs.