#cw: panic attacks

[galactia]

Kaeya is actually remarkable skilled at helping someone calm down from a panic attack. Breath matching, little activities to even out breathing (for children), texture/sensation/voice grounding, etc.

Why? Because he's had panic attacks since he was boy, and he's come to know what used to and does help him. When he was a younger lad, Diluc was remarkably capable at helping him even his breathing out again.

[hedonists]

the worst thing about anxiety is forcing yourself to go about your day and pretend everything's fine when your heart is racing 130 miles an hour and you feel ready to faint. But you have to ignore it and tell yourself you'll be fine, nothing bad is going to happen so just keep pushing.

[dxrkl1ght]

CW: Panic attack, musophobia, and scratches!!

everything's okay...

Part 5/5

- Part 1/5

- Part 2/5

- Part 3/5

- Part 4/5

DCA! Serial Killer AU by @ayyy-imma-ninja & @moonlit-dreamers

This comic is not canon to the AU!! This is just made for fun :)

[scullcrusher101xd]

clinically curled

[solarmorrigan]

Saw someone mention how Steve tends to get defensive when he's anxious and it stuck with me, so here's my take on the "Steve breaks a dish and has a panic attack about it" trope

cw: descriptions of nonstandard panic attack, implied/referenced child abuse

-

The distinct sound of shattering porcelain is followed by a vehemently hissed, “shit,” and then silence.

“Steve?” Eddie calls from the couch into the kitchen. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” Steve calls back, but his voice sounds tight in the way it does when something definitely isn’t okay.

Eddie pushes himself up and moves to the doorway, looking in to see what the trouble is. The kitchen of the house he and Wayne had been “gifted” by the government isn’t exactly huge, and he has a straight line of sight to where Steve is standing by the sink, eyes squeezed shut as he pinches the bridge of his nose, and to the red and white shards of porcelain on the floor by his feet.

“Hey,” Eddie says, but Steve doesn’t look up; if anything, his posture only gets tenser. “You’re not cut or anything, are you?”

“No,” Steve says, and his tone is still a little off, but he doesn’t sound like he’s lying.

“What was that, anyway?” Eddie asks.

Finally, Steve takes a deep breath in and opens his eyes, looking down at the mess on the laminate. “Mug.”

As soon as he says it, Eddie recognizes the colors for what the design must have been. “Shit, the Campbell’s one?”

Steve doesn’t say a word, just gives one sharp nod.

Eddie sucks a hiss of breath in through his teeth. “Shit,” he says again. “That was Wayne’s favorite.”

“I know,” Steve says tersely. “I’m sorry.”

His tone is definitely weird. “I mean, I’m sure it was an accident, Steve–” Eddie starts.

“I’m sorry,” Steve says again, almost snapping this time. “I’ll clean it up.”

“O-kay,” Eddie says slowly, watching as Steve jerks into motion and moves over to the corner where they stash the broom and dust pan.

“I’ll apologize to Wayne when he gets home,” Steve says as he starts sweeping up, even though Eddie hasn’t said a word.

“He gets home at, like, six in the morning.”

“I’ll make sure I’m up,” Steve says shortly.

“Steve, you can just tell him what happened later, he’s not going to stand around demanding an explanation. I mean, seriously, you think Wayne is gonna be pissed if you’re not there, immediately scraping at his feet when he comes through the door?” Eddie scoffs, but Steve remains silent. Eddie watches as he finishes sweeping in short, sharp motions, brows pulling together as Steve apparently fails to pick up on the joke. “…he won’t be, y’know.”

Steve shrugs. His expression has gone eerily blank, and he takes the dustpan over to the garbage can to dump it.

“Hey, don’t–” Eddie reaches out, and Steve jerks to a stop just in time. “You don’t have to toss it, man, we might be able to glue it back together.”

Steve sends Eddie a sharp look. “I’m not gonna be able to hide that it was broken, Eddie,” he says slowly, as though this should be painfully obvious.

“I’m not suggesting we hide it, I’m just saying we might still be able to use it,” Eddie answers in the same slow manner. “It’s not junk until you’re sure you can’t fix it.”

“Right,” Steve snaps, dropping the dustpan on the counter so sharply that the shards of porcelain clink against each other. “Can’t even clean up right.”

Eddie frowns, stirrings of defensiveness rising up in his gut at Steve’s continued sour mood. “I didn’t say that. I just said we might be able to fix it.”

“Fine. We’ll try to fix it,” Steve bites out, turning away from Eddie so he can put the broom back in the corner.

Eddie shakes his head, unwilling to engage with whatever snit Steve’s got himself worked into. “What happened, anyway?” he asks instead.

Apparently, this is the wrong tactic.

“What happened is, I’m too stupid to even do the dishes right,” Steve declares as he whirls back around. “Is that what you want to hear?”

“What?” Eddie is baffled, suddenly caught in the middle of an argument he hadn’t even realized was happening. “No! Why would I want to hear that?”

Steve throws his arms up, a demonstration of giving in. “Well I already said I’m sorry, and I am, and I don’t know what else you want from me!”

The heat of Eddie’s own temper is beginning to flare, but he does his best to shake it away because he still doesn’t know what the hell is going on and he doesn’t think getting angry will help. “I don’t want anything else from you! Why are you acting like I’m yelling at you? I’m not, I’m not even upset about the stupid mug, so what the hell is your deal?”

He takes a couple of steps into the kitchen, reaching out for Steve, hoping just to touch some part of him. Physical contact has always been grounding, has always been a comfort for them both; it almost seems like they can communicate better if they can just be in contact somehow. Instead of reaching back, though, Steve tenses up; it’s not exactly a flinch, but it’s as if he’s bracing himself, as if he’s waiting for Eddie to–

Eddie takes in the painfully blank expression on Steve’s pale face, the way his chest is rising and falling in quick, shallow breaths that he can’t quite seem to control, the way he’s angled himself just slightly away from Eddie, and suddenly Eddie feels cold.

It’s as if he’s waiting for Eddie to hit him.

Eddie wonders how the hell he hadn’t realized he was walking through a minefield until he was already standing in the middle of it.

(It still takes him by surprise, sometimes, that Steve’s anxiety, his panic, tends to look more like anger. That he tends to lash out like a wounded animal when he feels backed into a corner, hurt too many times in moments of vulnerability to do otherwise.)

(It takes him by surprise, but he’s learning.)

“Steve,” Eddie says softly, dropping his hand slowly back to his side, “I’m not angry.”

Steve stares at him, almost confused, like Eddie’s not doing it right, like this isn’t what’s supposed to come next. Eddie sort of wants to break something (he thinks, briefly, that he’d like to start with the fingers on Mr. Harrington’s right hand, and then move on to his left).

“It’s just a mug, Steve, it’s okay. No one’s upset about it,” Eddie says. “I’m preemptively speaking for Wayne, because I know he’s not gonna be mad at you. Seriously, getting upset over a broken cup? Does that sound like something Wayne would do?”

Slowly, once he seems to realize that Eddie is waiting for an answer, Steve shakes his head.

“Does that sound like something I would do?” Eddie asks.

Steve shakes his head again, though he’s still watching Eddie with something approaching trepidation.

“I promise it’s fine. I’m not angry,” Eddie repeats, and chances a couple of steps closer to Steve.

Steve doesn’t react this time, no tensing, no flinching, no verbally lashing out, and so Eddie lifts a hand again, reaching slowly for Steve’s. Steve lets him.

When he gets his fingers wrapped around Steve’s own, Eddie can feel how cold they’ve gone, can feel the fine tremble of adrenaline working through them, and can’t quite choke down the noise of sympathy in his throat. He tugs on Steve’s hand.

“C’mere,” Eddie says, invites him by lifting his other arm, but leaves it up to Steve.

It only takes a moment for Steve to step in close, and when Eddie lets go of his hand to wrap his arms around Steve’s shoulders, Steve reciprocates by cinching his own arms tight around Eddie’s waist. He takes one sharp breath, and then another, and Eddie can hear the way they shake going in and out.

“There you go,” Eddie says quietly, rubbing Steve’s back.

“I just dropped it,” Steve says, his voice a little hoarse. “It was an accident.”

“I know it was,” Eddie assures him. “It’s okay.”

“It was an accident,” Steve says again, and Eddie wonders how often someone has believed him – how often he’d ever even been given a chance to explain.

“It was an accident,” Eddie agrees. “You’re okay, Steve.”

Steve lets out a little noise, like maybe he’s trying to laugh, but then he pulls in another shuddery breath and rests his chin on Eddie’s shoulder. “Okay.”

In a little bit, Eddie might lead Steve to sit down on the couch, or maybe just take them both up to bed, because fuck doing the dishes after this anyway; he’ll make sure to leave a note for Wayne about the mug (ask him not to bring it up until Steve does, to not even jokingly make a thing about it), but for now, he concentrates on holding Steve close.

He’ll stand with him as long as it takes for the shaking to stop, for his breathing to even out, for him to relax even just a little against Eddie, and he'll promise, as many times as Steve needs to hear it, that it’s okay. Things will be okay.

[Prompt: Embracing your partner]

[vangh17a]

Something is wrong with Donnie's brothers.

...

Based on the very painful but so well written fanfic Caged Lungs by @qoldenskies!

It's such good Donnie angst but please please mind the tags

(Don't worry he's still alive at the end-)

If I missed any cw's let me know and I'll add them!

[conspicuous-clown-car]

pushing boundaries

[the-kr8tor]

Red Firefly

Pairing: Ekko x fem! Reader

Word count: 11.9k

Tags: Use of Y/N sparsely, no specific physical description of the reader (except for clothing), Reader has nicknames, Noxian! Reader, historian! Reader, part 2 of ink and bedrock, CW death mention, CW food mention, TW panic attack, CW, violence. Arcane spoilers, arcane characters appearance.

Ekko Masterlist

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The wooden spoon almost cracks under your grip. Splitting sounds of wood falling into deaf ears even when your knuckles shake above the sweetened icing. Your memory betrays you, the cold of the apartment Caitlyn graciously lets you borrow seeps into your threadbare sleep clothes, frost biting into your innards, clawing around your hands and up to your throat like rose thorns.

You're back there again, home, where blood spilled on the streets is a welcome sight to behold like grass growing in between the pavement. Where cracked knuckles can be seen on every citizen, purple skin weighing down their eyes, crimson swimming in their irises. Home. Where you always belonged. Where he belonged. Until the darkened slithering roses caught up to him, crawling all over the freezing room you both called home. Or was it just his home? You were always out fighting for home because that's what they taught you since birth. Always out screaming and thriving amongst bloodied swords and gunpowder itching into your nose. But not him, he was inside his study, reading, learning. Always the better one between you two. Always the kinder one. All soft palms with bitten cuticles from a nervous tick he never shook off. Warm eyes that remind you of your mother, and a soft smile that your father never showed anyone except that one time you first took hold of a gun.

He was the best version of you. Rounded around the edges, no jagged line that bares its teeth whenever one gets too close. He's not you.

Until they stopped him. Black spindly vines wrapped around him, thorns pricking his skin, spilling the same blood running through your veins. Then suddenly, the chill stops, and his muffled screams subsides, leaving the rumbling tone of your cracked heart beating amidst the dark. It should've been you, your mind always screamed. But he was the best out there, ambitious, cunning. And that got him pulled into the thorns.

So you fought, killed, maimed, in hopes that they'll take you too. That they'll find you worthy enough to be taken into their piercing embrace that smells of roses and warm iron. And yet, it wasn't enough. Even when you stood atop bodies of both comrades and enemies. It wasn't enough. You were not good enough to see him again. Even if it was just a glimpse of those eyes, even if they're lifeless now, even if the light hasn't glistened in them. Even if it means you would be joining him in the rose scented abyss. You'd be happy enough to be wrapped in the same thorns, to meet your end just as he did.

The sound of the beeping oven brings you back to the present. The past fading away as you slowly unfurl your palm off from the wooden spoon seeing the indents it has left on your skin. You open the warm oven, its heat searing away the remnants of the memory. Smoke wafts over your face, pulling you into its warmth.

You sigh, leaving it open as you crouch down, bathing in its warmth. A reprieve from the frost that still clings to your lashes and the pads of your fingers. The double yellow light inside the oven blinks at you, like an owl watching you in the night. It yanks you back into place, reminding you of where you are.

“Piltover,” you say to yourself, voice feeling heavy from its prolonged idleness. “I'm in an apartment in Piltover. I'm here for…” your sharp breath strikes into your lungs. Fingers closing and opening around itself, fists shaking before letting go and doing the ritual all over again. “Work. Research, study, interview, write.” The smell of the freshly baked cookies wafts across your nose, steadying you in place. “Piltover, work, research, study, interview, write.” The words spill from your lips like a mantra.

“Cookies.” You close your eyes, shutting it tight before opening it again, doing the same thing with your shaking fists. “I'm making cookies.” Finally, the feeling of the ground underneath your feet feels solid. The air no longer knocks the oxygen from your lungs. It's steady. And you don't smell the roses anymore.

The past crawls back into the very far end of your mind. A persistent gnawing that you've managed to keep it in its place for years. You've come to terms that it'll always be there, like the lives you've taken. Balled up into the corner, claws bared, ready to take a pound of your own flesh. You'll survive despite the weight, you'll live in spite of it. And you'll fight, not to atone for your sins, you fight so it never happens to someone again.

—

Gold and blue confetti flutters overhead, cheers roaring all around you as you stand on the bridge of progress. It's no longer empty, its grey steel still towers over you, but this time it's accompanied by colourful streamers, and the rousing sound of a jovial band rising above the howling breeze and its occasional metallic creek.

The sides of the once empty bridge that connects Zaun and Piltover are now full of shops. No longer does it bear its dark history, no cracks left in the cement where a bullet hit, or red stained asphalt underneath your feet. It may not have the same marks that's been there for generations, the council may try to cover the devastation the bridge witnessed— but the people still know about it, they carry it on their backs, a heavy pack filled with grief. Their history will forever be etched in their blood.

Despite it all, they try to live in the moment. The owners and employees stand happily beside their spaces, all smiles with hope shining in their eyes. You notice that they both consist of people from Zaun and Piltover working together in harmony. Both sides are willing to toss aside their bigotry for a better future. The crowd awaits the grand reopening, people from both sides of the bridge mingle among each other, no longer at each other's throats. Reconciliation is prevalent, of course some people are still doubtful about the other side, but more and more of them slowly get used to the unity that's now present in the former warring cities.

Everyday you walk around you see more Zaunites walking into Piltover, and people from Piltover strolling around the shops in Zaun. Ridding oneself of prejudice is hard and takes time, but day by day, it becomes easier to conquer with some help from the very people they used to snide at. It brings you hope for the future of Piltover and Zaun.

But the very man who should be there to witness the leap into further unity isn't there to witness it. You stand on your tip toe to scan the crowd for the familiar head of white hair. Alas, you don't even see a glimpse of him. Even Scar, his right hand man you've come to know is there with his kid perched on his broad shoulder. His son notices you, whispering to his father and perhaps mentioning you, the weird lady who's always at the hideout interviewing people because their leader always has an excuse to miss your appointment with him.

Ekko always seems to fall in between your fingers, it's either he has an emergency somewhere, or he's busy with fixing up something. There's always somewhere he needs to be or something to do. You're starting to think that he's avoiding you and your questioning. Well he is, but you're determined to get his side of the story, even if it's the last thing you'll ever do.

You're not leaving Piltover with a half baked story to tell.

Scar meets with your eyes, nodding curtly at you in greeting. You nod back, smiling all friendly to him before he returns his attention towards the speech. To no one's surprise, Scar himself isn't opening up to you for an interview, you guess he's a closed book just like a certain leader of the firelights.

The place is packed with people, children wave around streamers, their eyes are wide, and grins prevalent on each of their excited faces. You can barely see the mark the war left on the bridge, there's only hope and joy here. Smiling, you match the crowd's happiness despite what transpired to you earlier. But behind those faces, you sense their heavy gazes on you, narrowed eyes roaming around your crimson clad form. Their whispers stab your ears, their sneers pushing you down. But you won't let them. They can snide all they want, you won't leave until you've achieved what you came here to accomplish.

Sevika stands to the side, right next to the podium where council member Shoola stands at the helm. The gold mask glimmers in the sun, all smiles and what you always call the ‘politician posture.’ Back straight, arms moving around for emphasis on their speech, aura oozing confidence, and a body language that screams power.

Sevika scans the crowd with her dark eyes, always looking out for danger. Shoola Might be the one at the helm, but Sevika is the one who's more daunting, exuding power without looking at her people under her nose and through golden prejudiced shades like a couple of councilors you've met. To you though, she looks uncomfortable standing above the crowd by how she's switching her weight over and over on each of her feet. And how she's been inhaling in shallow movements but subtle enough that it's almost impossible to see. You can't help but smile at the thought of her being nervous on stage.

Vi and Caitlyn stand amidst the crowd, smiling softly amongst themselves. Vi’s pink hair is unmistakable, so is her affection towards the former enforcer. Walking through the crowd as politely as you can without bumping into anyone, you make your way towards the couple. The bag filled with tins full of cookies is held to your chest to prevent it from spilling out into the audience as council member Shoola talks about the past and what she hopes for the future for both cities that are now connected together. You should be listening just in case you need it for your research, but you're too occupied with trying not to get hit by someone's elbow or accidentally smack someone's face with your bag of goodies. You'll just settle with asking councilor Shoola for a copy of their speech instead.

Vi and Caitlyn hears you before they see you. The loud clanging of your tin boxes has their attention on the source immediately, their ever alert eyes relaxes when they see your familiar face smiling at them.

“Fancy seeing you two here.”

“We live here, spark.” Caitlyn chuckles at Vi’s joke, eye patch crinkling as she smiles. “What are you doing here? Shouldn't you be out there knocking on people's doors?”

“You two live right on the bridge?” You jokingly say, earning no laughter from the neutral faced couple. Your smile wavers a bit, chuckling nervously until they both crack a teasing smile. With a roll of your eyes and relief mixed in, you stand awkwardly by their side. “I’m about to go to Ekko's, but I gotta cross the bridge to get there y'know.”

“Should've come here earlier, avoid all of the pomp and circumstance.” Caitlyn flicks her eye at you, returning her attention towards the podium, where the councilor is urging Sevika to talk. But with a simple grunt and shake of her head she remains in place and the councilor has to continue her speech, fumbling a bit from the sudden derailment. You smile at Sevika, she notices you in the crowd, nodding in acknowledgement.

“I was busy with baking.” Vi’s eyes lit up from your words. “And I kind of forgot about the event.” You mutter under your breath, earning a side glance from both of them.

Vi has her arm around Cait’s shoulder, chin resting atop it as she ignores the speech. “Is Ekko still not talking to you, spark?”

“Yeah, but it's completely understandable.” You've gotten used to the nickname, some people have even adapted to calling you that too. But that doesn't mean you're starting to like the said nickname. “They don't call me patience back home for nothing.”

Violet smirks, glancing sideways at Caitlyn before nudging you with her boot. “Uh huh,” she clicks her tongue, “don't try to change your nickname now that it's taken root in everyone.”

She saw through your ruse.

Sighing, you tilt your head back with a groan. “Is it too late to yank the root out?”

Her chuckles rise above the sound of the speech, earning a few glances from other people. “Nope, spark, that's your name now.” You shake your head with a smile at her teasing. “About Ekko, I can always talk to him for you? Get him to finally take that interview so you can go home early.”

“Trying to get rid of the poor girl already, Vi?” Caitlyn answers for you, it's the exact words you were just about to let out. Minus the ‘poor girl’ part.

Vi smiles, flicking Caitlyn's ear fondly. “I didn't mean that, cupcake. I'm just saying that she might be missing home by now. People who miss her.” She meets with your eyes. “You've got people missing you back home right? It's not just your old professor waiting for you all scrunched up in her leather chair?”

“How'd you know she has an old leather chair she always sits on?”

“You're deflecting, spark.” She twists around Caitlyn to move in between the two of you, her arm weighing heavy on your shoulders and the young Kiramman’s.

“I'm in no hurry, Vi. There was one time our research took us a year and a half to finish—”

“Deflecting with a capital D.” Vi shakes you as Caitlyn listens in. “We pour our heart and soul to you and you can't even tell us if you've got someone back home?”

“She's just nosy, you don't have to tell her.” Caitlyn sighs, arms crossed over her chest as she pretends to be uninterested in your life back in Noxus.

“Please,” Vi snorts, wiggling Caitlyn in place with her other arm perched on the former enforcer's shoulder. “I *know you're just as interested in knowing, cupcake.”

Caitlyn raises a brow, eye narrowing at Vi, who's probably regretting her words. You decide to save her.

“I have no one other than my professor.” Your sudden remark has their attention fully on you. “And it's fine. I've gotten used to it, life on the road doesn't give me much time to find someone. And whenever I'm home I'm either writing or studying with my mentor.” Your chest feels heavy. You're already aware of what they're about to ask next, so you beat them to it. “As for family…” you inhale sharply just as when the trumpets and the drums play a jovial tune, signaling the end of the speech and the grand opening of the bridge.

“This is the start of progress between both cities! A hope that connects us together!” Councilor Shoola says, cutting off a large golden ribbon just behind her. The crowd roars into an applause as more confetti pops out from above, raining down on everyone.

Vi and Caitlyn took their eyes off you for only a second when they watched the ribbon cutting, but once they turned back towards you, you were already gone.

“Shouldn't have pushed her.” Caitlyn says in a sing song lilt, grinning at Vi with her hand placed on her hip.

Vi feigns an offended gasp, “you asked me to ask her!” Grabbing Cait by her waist, she embraces her.

Hearing their giggles fading behind as you walk away has you smiling softly to yourself. But the way you grip onto your bag says a different story.

—

You walk towards Zaun with your mind saying the same words you uttered this morning over and over again. The breeze flutters your lashes, there's no more smog or the grey ebbing out beneath your feet unlike what you were told by pilties before you went down to Zaun. There's more sunlight bathing the lanes, it's refreshing, especially to its citizens who can now take a deep breath without worrying.

You've been walking the same route for an entire week now. It's the same faces walking past you, the same ivy covered walls, the same purple eyes that follow you as you walk past her painted face. Sometimes you wonder if the stories you've heard about her were as accurate as they told you. Memory is a fickle thing, love and hatred tends to warp the memory of a person.

You always stop by the last drop and Vander's statue just to see the progress they're making on the renovation. Machines grate against your ears as sparks fly from the roof someone's mending together. You've learned that Vander used to run the place years ago, it's poetic you think, that even now he's overseeing the place.

As you pause by his statue for a minute, the same single blue flower left by his solid foot remains there. You've noticed that it's always fresh, never wilting beside him.

“It's a peony.” You almost jump in place at the sudden voice.

Holding onto your heaving chest, you look down at the source. “Hello?”

Her pierced ear flicks, eyes shining under the morning sun. “You're the noxian everyone's been talking about, huh?” Her various colourful accessories click against each other whenever she moves.

“Yeah,” you bend down slightly to give her your hand in greeting. “I'm Y/N.”

She shakes your hand, fingers small enough to only wrap around your two fingers. “Babette. Sorry for the scare, honey, you looked like you're about to set the thing on fire from how hard you were staring at the flower.”

“Are you the one leaving them here every day?”

“No,” she stops you from asking with a stern finger lifted up in front of her. “And I don't know either.”

You nod as the cogs in your scholarly brain turns. “You look like you've been living here all your life, can I interview you?”

“You calling me old?” Her eyes narrow at you, and you're already forming apologies in your head. She clicks her tongue, “I'm free next week if you give me a whole tin of those cookies.”

Relieved, you grab what she wanted, giving it to her without protest. Ekko just has to settle with less cookies. “Deal.”

The tin looks big in her hands. “Look for The Vyx, you can't miss it.”

“Isn't that—”

“It is.” She smiles, puffing her chest out. “Afternoon, don't be late.”

“I—I won't.”

With a wave goodbye, she walks away with a dozen or so of your sugar cookies in hand.

Scratching the back of your head, you can't say that what transpired was the weirdest thing that happened to you here. There's never a dull moment in both Piltover and the undercity.

—

The gentle breeze welcomes you back as you enter the not so secret hideout. There are less people today since most of them are checking out the new bridge and its new establishments. But a few people stayed, taking advantage of the space as children run amok, needing you to dodge them with some effort.

“Woah!” A red headed girl almost collides into your legs. “Careful!” She answers with her tongue sticking out playfully at you before running away behind the gingko tree where a large mural has countless faces painted on it. You see it in all its glory now that it's daylight.

You've come to know who's who on it, even then, there's still more people on there that you'll never come to know. Right near the middle has Ekko's likeness painted on it, together with Benzo and Vander's face. You've always wondered why he's placed right next to the people they've lost over the years. You know why Vi is there, but not him. You still haven't asked Ekko about it, and when you asked the other firelights, they just shrug at you, telling you that you should ask the man himself. You figured that they don't know the real answer either, that Ekko gives them the same reply.

With a glance at the foot of the mural, where portraits, toys, drawings, and personal things of the deceased are placed; you decide that today is the day you get to ask Ekko about it. If he even talks to you today that is. So with you taking another tin box of cookies from your bag, you place it right next to a pair of goggles with its colours fading from the environment. You stay there for a minute in silence, eyes scanning every face before closing them in respect.

You walk away, footsteps weighing heavy, air briefly smelling of roses.

—

After a week of practice with the elevator up to the tree house, you feel like you've become an expert at handling it. You tried to ask a firelight to teach you how to use a hoverboard, but even with a bribe they just laughed and refused to teach you. So you had to settle with the elevator or the stairs to go up like some land loving peasant. One day you'll ride on a hoverboard, but for now, you have the behemoth task to get Ekko to open up.

You knock with the signature rhythm you always do. One short knock followed by three sharp knocks consecutively, it's a surefire way to tell him that it's you without yelling through the door.

“Go away.”

Or a surefire way to immediately identify you and get rid of you within a span of a half second.

“You sure? I bought cookies.” You shake the bag in your hand, hoping the sound is enticing for him.

Silence follows, and you start to think that he's actually considering letting you in because of the biscuits.

“Go away.”

You huff, “come on, Ekko, please? Vi says that she'll come down here and annoy you until you start talking to me so please can you at least let me in? I won't even interview you! I can just stay inside!” There's still silence inside the room. “It looks like it's about to rain.” A flat out lie on your part, it's the sunniest day in the undercity with sunlight shining in between the large gingko leaves.

Then you hear it, a slight shuffle of feet then a metal lock sliding open. He doesn't open the door for you, instead, you hear his fading footsteps and the creak of a stool sliding back.

Smiling victoriously, you grab the doorknob, twisting it as you peek inside the dark room. Save for the lamp sitting on his table at the far end of the wall, it's completely dark inside. The smell of sizzling metal has you wrinkling your nose.

“I'm coming in.” You wiggle yourself inside to lessen the light from entering his abode lest he sees through your half baked lie. “Morning, Ekko.”

He doesn't even grunt in greeting.

You notice that he's sitting in the same position you left him yesterday. You've managed to get inside after telling him that the children are after you and your magic pen again. Which they were, so technically not a lie. Whenever you can't convince him to let you inside, you spend your time with his people. Either interviewing them or just hanging around them. Most of them welcomed you with open arms, some were a bit apprehensive at first, but after a while they've become accustomed to you and your noxian self.

Your footsteps are measured as you cross the small distance. You've learned your lesson after accidentally stepping on a stray fan blade that sent you tumbling down on the floor. Ekko did help you up on your feet, but he continued to ignore you for the rest of the time you were inside.

“I hope you like sugar cookies. I saved you a batch after someone talked me into giving them a whole box. We missed you during the ceremony. Sevika looked like she was about to run home during the speech. She does not like the stage.” You're met with silence as you slide the opened tin of cookies on his cluttered table, you see a plate of untouched meal. You figured that it's not breakfast from how the mashed potatoes are starting to grow its own potato sprout, it's been there since last night. He hasn't eaten before or after that. “Do you want me to get you breakfast from the mess hall?”

He flicks his eyes towards the firefly shaped cookies with its green and blue icing painstakingly decorated on it. His jaw tightens, the dark circles under his eyes seem to weigh him down. The oversized jacket he has on makes him smaller in your vision. His hair looks like he has tied it numerous times without checking it in the mirror. Cheeks greasy, shining under the lamp light. You guess it's oil from the contraption on his desk.

“Is this how you make people talk to you?”

“It usually works.” You shrug, taking the plate of musty dinner. “I'm going to get you breakfast. And maybe something for me too.” You mutter the last sentence under your breath.

“I didn't ask you to.” He says without sparing you a glance.

“Well I want to.” Shrugging, you watch him continue to work on a piece of machinery, seeing how his hand trembles from fatigue. “And, no one wants the boy savior to collapse from starvation do we? What would that look like when they find me, a noxian, looking down at your limp body?”

He scrunches his nose. “They might kill you.”

“Exactly.” You nod, grinning from ear to ear. “You look like a sunny side up guy.”

“Omelette.” He says once you make it to the door.

“Oh a fancy way of having eggs. I heard you loud and clear, bossman.” You mock a salute at him even though he won't see it.

—

You come back to Ekko's treehouse and workshop with two plates of cheese and onion omelettes placed on each of your hands. When you told the firelights cook that it was for Ekko, he immediately gave you the biggest portion and even cooked it fresh just for him. He was kind enough to give you a piece, even telling you that you can't switch out the plates and he *will know. You couldn't tell if it was a threat or not by how he pointed a spatula at you when he said it.

Pushing the door open with your foot, you find Ekko in the same place. All scrunched up in his seat, his familiar jacket is placed on the back of it as sparks fly around him. When you first heard of him as the ‘boy savior’, you always knew that he's still carrying the weight on his shoulders. You've seen it in most survivors, sometimes it's guilt that weighs them down, sometimes it's grief. But it's always sorrow that accompanies it. And even anger.

“You're staring.” He utters above the sound of crackling metal. His head cranes over his shoulder briefly, his thick goggles obscuring his eyes from you. “Either give me the food or leave.”

“Can't, sorry.” You cross the small distance towards him. “I promised Jericho that I'll make sure you eat it.”

He groans, yanking off his goggles as you try to make room for his plate on the table. You notice your cookies inside the tin are almost completely gone. The corner of your lips tick upwards, eyes shining happily under the warm light of his lamp.

Ekko notices, side eyeing you in reply and snatching his plate from you. He takes your plate with the smaller portion, and you immediately exchange it with his plate lest you suffer the wrath of his cook. He gives you a look, brow raised and frowning.

“He said the bigger portion is yours.” You jut your lower lip, shrugging as he narrows his eyes further. “Look I'm not gonna risk it, okay? The guy's huge.”

“I thought you noxians can fight your way out of anything.” Ekko stabs his fork into the steaming omelette, the runny egg drips from his fork as he takes a bite.

“Oh I can, I just prefer not to fight over an omelette.” Hopping up on the table, you sit down with the plate placed on your lap, you eat beside him. He gives you another look. “What? You don't have another chair in here. It's either here or your bed.” You gesture with your head towards the neat bed in the corner of the room. “And I'm sure you don't want me eating on your bed.”

He grunts in reply, continuing to eat. You see the slight permanent grimace he has, how his brows knit together as if he's expecting a punch, and how his shoulders tense instead of relaxing. It's as if he notices the muscle straining under the weight he thinks is the world being hurled over his shoulders.

“Are you happy?” You blurt out. But you don't regret it.

He blinks, fork pausing halfway. “Are you?”

You shrug, eyes meeting with his own. “I'm perfectly happy where I am. Took a while, but I think I made it.”

He hums in reply, “sure.”

“What, you don't think I'm happy or you think that you're happy?”

“I'm... content. Is this part of your interview? You said you weren't gonna ask questions.”

You take a bite of your omelette to avoid his question. “Just curious, it was off the record by the way. You can be happy too y’know.” He stays quiet after that, eyes downturned towards his plate.

You two continue to eat silently, forks scraping against plates. The tension from before slowly ebbs away, leaving a comfortable quietness permeating between the both of you.

Once you finish your breakfast, he's already trying to get you out by pulling the goggles over his head again. A clear sign that sparks will be flying again and he wouldn't care if you get hit by a stray spark or two.

But when he pushes the on button on his soldering machine, it's the one that's sparking. Ekko huffs in his seat, pulling up the goggles and opening the mechanism as it puffs out grey smoke. Hot metal and eggs, lovely.

Taking the one remaining firefly cookie you made, you continue to perch on his table whilst he side eyes you every minute to check if your presence is still there. You chew loudly on the cookie to irk him further. As much as you need to write down his story, you won't back down on his stubbornness. Mel chose you for a reason, and you promised to not disappoint her and the whole council.

“I've always wondered.” You munch annoyingly, earning a scowl from him. “I saw your face painted on the mural. Were you somehow brought back to life?”

Ekko slowly turns his head towards you, for a second you think that he's about to answer you but he only takes a screwdriver that was right next to your thigh.

“It makes me think that you were gone for a long time, presumed dead, that's why you're there. Other than that, you were kidnapped, and then presumed dead.” You pause, tilting your head with a sly smile. His eye twitches at your annoyance. “All of my ideas are of you being presumed dead. Or you've mastered the magic of resurrection.”

“Still not going to answer your fucking questions.” He twists the screwdriver steadily and a bit angrily.

You press on.

“You should see the bridge sometime, it looks amazing. There's shops everywhere, I even got a Piltover and Zaun unity keychain there.” Your finger loops around the keychain where it's hooked on your satchel's zipper, showing the metal design to him.

You're only met with silence and the sound of gears grating against each other. Or was that his teeth clenching down in irritation?

“I've been told that you seem to do everything perfectly for the first time.” You say as the machine puffs out smoke and fizzles out. “Well, not everything, I suppose.”

“I don't do anything without thinking about it.” He grips the screwdriver tightly, shaking his head and pinching the bridge of his nose, smudging the white face paint and transferring it on his glove. He notices your small smile at his answer. “Still not answering your questions.” Pointing the screwdriver at you, it only earns a grin from you instead of striking fear in your heart. It's hard to be menacing when you just scarfed down six cookies in one sitting. Sighing, he returns to his work instead of wasting his time on you, who clearly won't give up. “Go away, red.”

“Oh, a nickname!” You clap your hands together just to irk him some more.

“Not a nickname,” he debunks the insinuation that he's friends with you. “I forgot your name.”

“Well, that's impossible, it's unforgettable. And that was rude.” You point at him playfully, taking one last bite of the cookie.

“You're making my machines break by your mere voice alone.” He says in between clenched teeth. “Leave.” Gesturing towards the door with his head, you shrug, finally relenting now that you've made progress with him.

He'll be an open book for you in no time.

“I was about to leave anyway. Got an appointment with Sevika.” You hop off the table, taking your belongings and cleaning up the plates to bring with you. He still tries to fix his machine, brows furrowed and frowning deeply. Your teasing did not help him one bit. It's either that or his heavy eyes and lack of sleep are finally catching up to him. Without a second thought, you punch the machine. To your and Ekko's surprise, it cackles to life. Ekko looks at you as if you offended his mother. “I was guessing it needed something to be loosened up. You're welcome.”

“I had it.” Ekko's hand is placed atop it protectively. Glaring at you as you nonchalantly stare at him. You try not to grin at him.

“I know you did, get some sleep and maybe you'll catch what's wrong next time.” You start to leave, footsteps echoing as he stares daggers on your back. “The hideout can survive another day without the ice machine, firefly.” You chuckle to yourself, “see, I've got nicknames for you too, and I didn't have to forget your name.”

The door closes with a creak, leaving Ekko alone once again as stares at the spot you just left. Glancing at his bed, he shuts all his tools down, and slinks away towards the soft mattress. He'll never tell you that you were right. If he was well rested, he would've seen the mistake. As his eyes shut close, he wonders how you also know about handling machines. He drifts off with your pen sword rattling around in his mind.

—

The whole room feels stifling, dust fluttering around, and the scent of metal itching your nose. In those four metal walls, sits a circular table in the middle, free of any decorations, or any pomp and circumstance you saw on the bridge of progress. A single light flickers above the table, papers lying still as the two parties glower at each other.

Sevika has told you that the meeting locations change with every meeting to protect the information from getting out and into the hands of someone else with ill intentions. Despite the meetings under lock and key, Sevika holds a community talk every week so that the people in the undercity knows about all the progress in different matters regarding their city.

Ekko's jaw tightens as Sevika continues to explain what happened during the last council meeting she was in. His brown eyes swirl with tethered anger. Hopefully not at you as you sit on his left side a few seats away from him, writing away the typical scene between a council member and a pillar of Zaun.

This is how things get done here, under a single bulb of light in a room hidden underneath the city. It's not just Ekko or Sevika talking (sometimes arguing) down here, there are a few notable people from Zaun speaking their piece. But they know when to stop talking when the two are at each other's throats. They watch their bickering back and forth, mouths keeping mum as they bide their time.

Sevika sighs after her explanation, fingers pinching at the bridge of her nose. “We need to go through a lot of red tape just to pass it, Ekko.”

“Maybe you didn't try hard enough.” Ekko raises a brow, eye twitching in annoyance. “It's been six fucking months since we submitted the appeal, approving something like this shouldn't be so hard.”

“What the hell do you think I've been doing this whole time?” She scoffs in her seat, metal arm clanging against the table as she lays it on the surface. “I'm trying here, Ekko.”

“Try harder.” He says through gritted teeth. “There's still no clean water down in the south, it's been years. Add that shimmer’s still getting through the city, and we have no idea who's making and distributing it. This shouldn't be a fucking problem anymore, Sevika.”

“The council doesn't like it either.” She leans forward, eyes narrowed at Ekko. “But we have to be patient, the task force is doing all they can to find—”

“The fucking task force,” he clicks his tongue. “All they've done is falsely arrest our people, leaving the actual assholes to roam free. Just last week we got a handful of them trying to distribute.” Moving, he leaned further on the table, fist placed atop it as his eyes challenged Sevika. “Not to mention that the grey still lingers down in the mines near the south. There are kids there.”

“Don't you think I don't know that?” Her tone is sharp, eyes boring into Ekko. “You can't sic your firelights on them whenever you want to anymore. That's an enforcer’s job. The council doesn't like it when citizens take matters into their own hands.” She points at him. “Listen, I don't like enforcers either but establishing due process here would be for nothing if they don't get arrested properly—”

“You sound like them.” Ekko interrupts, chin raised high.

Sevika inhales sharply, sensing the tension in the air is at an all time high. The stories some zaunites have told you about her is a stark contrast to the woman sitting in front of you. Three years being a councilor and a leader has changed her.

“The people who were arrested were found not guilty. They got out a few days ago. And there’s a project that would bring clean water to the south. Same goes for the leaking grey.” She explains, tone softer but not less commanding. “It's being taken care of, you'd know that if you just take my goddamn invitation to come to a meeting.” She backs down, sitting back on her chair as it creaks under her. “We're not enemies anymore, Ekko. I'm doing all of this for Zaun too.”

Ekko scowls, eyes darting around the people in the room to calm himself down. His eyes stop when he sees you, as soon as he pauses at your form, he's already looking away when you glance at his frustrated face.

“Send me updates on the investigation. Every name, address, every single detail that passes through the task force's lips, I want them.” He sits back, arms crossed over his chest as he looks at Sevika under his scrutinized gaze. “And I want final say on the blueprints on the project.” Sevika opens her mouth to contest but Ekko's still not done. “I want to make sure that what they're doing will last for generations. I won't settle for half assed.”

The dark haired councilor chuckles under her breath. Eyes flicking at you as something passes by her eyes before staring at Ekko once again. “I'll make a council member out of you yet.”

Ekko scoffs, wordlessly conversing with Scar as he glances at his right hand man briefly. “If there's nothing else—” He begins to stand up, seemingly tired from the debacle but doesn't let it show.

“Looks like you've warmed up to her. She's not so bad huh?” Sevika says teasingly, index pointing at you under the single dim light. There's suddenly a dozen eyes cast on you.

It takes you a few seconds to come up with something. “See, Ekko, I'm not so bad.”

“What are you even doing here?” He scrunches his nose at you.

“Sevika invited me.” You smile, chest puffing out with pride.

Ekko looks at Sevika with a raised brow.

“The council told me to. And Vi asked nicely.” She shrugs.

“Hey, and here I thought you wanted me here.” You say with mock hurt as Ekko leaves the room together with his entourage. “Wait, hold on, Ekko! We have an appointment if you forgot!” Scampering away, you hastily gather your things as you try to follow behind him. Sevika chuckles at your fumbling as you leave.

Once he's out of the door, he hops on his hoverboard, already flying away. Leaving you in the dust once again.

“Little shit.” You curse, chest heaving after you bolted after him. Kicking a pebble with your foot, you begin the trek to the firelights hideout. Maybe this time he'll talk to you. (He didn't.)

—

The stifling council room has become a common sight for you. Its white dreary walls with its golden inlay and harsh light bearing down on you doesn't intimidate you anymore. It's starting to irk you as the council scrutinizes every word you've written in your draft that you've made enough copies for each of them.

Their eyes scan relentlessly at the pages, silence permeating the room as they flip through it. You feel eyes on you, making you stop from mindlessly picking at your nails. Looking up, you meet with a familiar pair of dark eyes.

Sevika tilts her head, nodding subtly at you with a slanted smile as she flicks her eyes at your draft sitting in front of her. You have no idea if that's a good thing.

You furrow your brows at her, confused and wordlessly asking what she meant.

She raises a brow in return, smile remaining on her lips. Shrugging, Sevika points at herself then over to you as she shakes her head. That's not good.

Eyes widening, you avoid her gaze on you after that. You're trying to wrack your head from remembering if you've written something bad about her, but you come up with nothing. Slowly, you move your eyes towards her without craning your head only to meet with her amused dark eyes. Immediately looking away, you swear you heard her chuckle above the quiet of the council room.

Hopefully her ominous gesture before was just to rile you up in front of the whole council.

A thud echoes throughout the room, almost shaking the circular table. “Right, that's enough. We don't have all day to read poetry.” Sevika interrupts their reading time, palm placed on the table as the rest of the council members look at her with a scrunched up expression. “I think this is approved, yes?” She roams her eyes around the table. Slowly, the council members nod.

“Yes, but I think we're still missing someone's very important account of the events.” Council member Shoola elegantly closes her copy as she stares at you with a raised brow. “I've noticed that there's not a single word from him.”

You immediately know who she's talking about.

With a quiet sigh, you nod. “Ekko, and I'm working on it. He's a bit…apprehensive to talk to me.”

Sevika stifles a laugh whilst you feel like melting under the spotlight.

“Ms. Kiramman, isn't Violet a friend of his? Maybe she could persuade him to speak to our historian.” Shoola remarks to Caitlyn, who's looking tired in her chair as her eyes scan the last page.

“She is,” Cait replies and you subtly shake your head at her, trying to convey that you can try to do it yourself. She seems to notice as the corner of her lip ticks upwards. “I can ask her.”

“Good.” Councilor Shoola smiles as she places both hands on the table and returns her attention towards you. “You did good, everything is up to par.” Up to par?! “You're dismissed.”

Reigning in your annoyance, you nod at them politely before you turn away to leave. The second the door closes, you roll your eyes, groaning in the middle of the hallway. A vase in the corner catches your attention, and you want to indulge your frustration by throwing it across the room. But you don't, instead you march your way outside with more determination to have Ekko speak to you. Not a grunt or a tired “go away.” No, actual words that you can write in your book.

“I'll show them ‘up to par.’”

—

You come back to the hideout as usual, but earlier than before as you have grown accustomed to the winding paths in the lanes.

The sun feels warm on your skin as the early morning rays greet you. The tree stands tall, leaves swaying in the comforting breeze. Firelights are still waking up, bones creaking as they stretch, groaning as they wipe away last night's tiredness in the corner of their eyes. A couple of them wave groggily at you, and a few more make a face at your repeated appearance in their home.

As you continue to walk towards the growing familiarity of the large ginkgo tree, you hear a voice coming from somewhere. Another aspect that you've grown acquainted with in your ever shifting life.

“We don't have a lot of yeast left in stock so—”

“Morning, Ekko!” You wave at him, you've caught him during his morning patrol around the commune. He groans at the cheery tone of your voice this early in the morning. He wonders if you have some sort of extra strong noxian coffee. “Ready for our interview?”

“We'll talk later.” He tells the baker, his arms are bare, skin glistening as if he's basking in the glow of the sun. He ignores you completely as he quickly takes the hoverboard from his back and hops on it within a second.

“W–Wait, hold on!” You try to reason with him, this time with a pack of sour candies you bought on the bridge last night. Maybe he doesn't like sweets? That's your thinking anyways on why he's still not convinced to talk to you.

A puff of dust hits your face head on as he flies higher and higher into a big pipe sticking out of the wall.

“Come on!” You splutter out, coughing away and wiping the dirt away from your eyes as you lose to his power of flight again.

—

The next day you come back to Ekko's treehouse again, this time carrying two plates of breakfast to save you a trip. You greet him warmly, and he replies with a gruff grunt. Sitting on the edge of his work table is uncomfortable, so is the silence. So you fill it with the sound of you scribbling on your notebook, recounting all the interviews you had with an enforcer last night. And you pretend you're not glancing at his face every minute or so. Maybe he's also pretending you're not there too as he continues to work on a new device.

You sit and write, he fixes a machine and stays quiet— It's been like that for a few days, the sound of your pen scribbling on paper has become the norm for him. And you've grown accustomed to the sound of his quiet swearing when he accidentally nicks a wire. An entire week goes by, a whole seven days of sitting in silence with no words shared between each other. Eyes darting towards the concentration on his face, and with his hand silently shoo you away to get a screw driver that's near your thigh. You scooch away with reserve, your subtle smile lost on him when he doesn't realize that he's used to your presence. He's still ignoring you, yes, but he doesn't tell you to get out anymore.

A day or so goes by, and you're starting to speak to him again. They're not questions, if anything they're just random thoughts you have. Whether it's talking about a peculiar raven you saw on the way, or that you've ran out of sugar for your tea, you tell it to him. And again, he doesn't reply. Only either sighing or grunting. As per your promise and your own principle, you don't talk to him about the interviews you have with other people. You can't even tell him how people look up to him after what he supposedly sacrificed up on the hextech tower. With a sigh after talking about the progress of the last drop's renovation, you continue to write away in your notebook that has his name written all over it.

“Did you know that gingko trees are so ancient that the bugs that used to pollinate them are long dead? Even the creatures that used to eat their fruits are extinct. They've survived because of the wind and other factors. They survived through it all.”

Ekko blinks at your peculiar words, twisting around to stare at you blankly. You make a face, shrugging and going back to write in your notebook as if you didn't just tell him something offbeat, and probably something that he felt through his bones.

“Just thought it was cool. Kind of poetic, hm—?” Looking up at him, you find that he has turned away from you once again.

You don't hate him, in truth you love annoying him and seeing how he reacts whenever you push his buttons. He's a friend to you, even though he doesn't see you as his friend, or even an acquaintance. You've been told years ago that's how you usually show your affections. You guess they were right.

—

Another day comes by, another day of talking to yourself. This time, a packet of sugar greets you above a wooden chair placed on his left. It's further away from him, but now at least you don't have to sit on his desk like some paper weight. You smile, tamping down a victorious chuckle as you sit down and tell him about what happened last night when you were running around the undercity looking for a former chem baron henchman. You notice his shoulder stiffen at the name, so you made sure to tell him that it went alright, that the man was just an accountant back then. Ekko seems to go back to his usual self after that.

—

Hours of sitting on an old rickety chair has your back aching, you groan after another day of one sided conversation. Back cracking as you stand up and stretch your lower back as if you have the back of an eighty year old.

“I'm going downstairs, do you need something from the mess hall?” You say whilst you roll your shoulders around. To your surprise, Ekko turns around in his seat.

His eyes weigh heavy with dark circles marring under those seemingly golden eyes of his that glow under the yellow light of his lamp. “You’re not going to give up are you?”

“Nope.” You pop the letter ‘p’ with emphasis. “Trust me, Ekko, if I leave here with an incomplete story, my professor will replace me. And she's ten times more annoying and determined than I am.” Your own joke brings an ache in your chest.

“I'm used to annoying professors.” He scrunches his nose.

“So I've been told.” Shrugging, you leave the room.

You come back up a few minutes later with two cups of water, seeing that he needs it since all the cups laying next to him have been empty since you first arrived. To your shock, the wooden chair you've been sitting on for the past few days has been replaced with a patchwork armchair. You have no idea how it got up here so fast without you seeing it be lugged around by Ekko. You're sure that it didn't suddenly pop out of thin air whilst you were gone.

As you place the cup of water on his table, you give him a genuine fond smile. “And here I thought you weren't paying attention.” Laughing, you're in awe of him. “You're a miracle worker, Ekko.”

He glances at you, side eyeing you as he grabs the cup, its contents sloshing to the sides as he tries to gulp it all down in one go.

Taking it as a competition, you don't let him win, chugging the cool water alongside him while the two of you watch each other and race to finish the whole glass.

The simultaneous thump of the cups being placed down has you grinning from ear to ear. “Looks like it's a tie.”

Ekko frowns, turning his chair around to wordlessly go back to work.

“I'll win the next one.” You go and test out your new chair, and you swear you heard him whisper a, “no, you won't.” That has you covering your mouth to tamp down your laughter.

—

You come back to the treehouse one day to find Ekko sleeping soundly on his desk. Face tucked atop his arms, foot twitching, and cheek scrunched up as he frowns even in his sleep. His twists are loose, free from his usual style as it falls over his face. Oil is smudged on his cheek, face paint transferred onto his arm, and you immediately retract your hand away from wiping it.

To let him finally sleep, you do a double take when a breeze comes by through the open window he has left open. So you turn back around, grabbing his familiar jacket from the bed to drape it over his shoulders. The jacket smells faintly of metal and mint. Careful not to wake him, he inhales deeply when your hand accidentally grazes against his cheek.

Ekko’s frown deepens, and you think that you've woken him up. You freeze up in place, hands held up in surrender. You're already forming apologies in your head, he opens his lips, a name spilling out.

“Powder?”

You blink, waiting for him to open his eyes but he remains asleep on his desk, dreaming of something better. You hope it's something better.

Inaudibly making your way towards the window, you shut it close silently but your thoughts are far from silent. Besides Ekko's name being frequent in your notes and in the numerous interviews you've done, there are two that are more frequent. She's an enigma to you, a shadow looming over you, a story untold when everyone who actually knew her is either dead or won't talk about her. Even her own sister doesn't truly know her. If Ekko won't talk about her, either one of her— you think it's time to get to know her better.

With a quick look at your watch, you leave the firelights hideout in favour of dredging the past under the rubble that stretches underground.

People lie, and minds fade away, but the memories left in the walls and their footprints don't.

—

Ekko's perceptive, terrifyingly so. After the war, his eyes always honed in on details unlike before. Even prior to the war he has always been quite observant, but not like this. Always looking out for danger from the smallest of things. So when you start coming in late, he notices. Then he sees your red jacket finely dusted with a coat of dust, and how you cough against the crook of your elbow.

He knows where you've been.

“Sorry,” you clear your throat. “I feel a cold coming.”

“It's because of all the sweets you've been having.”

You smile, finally having Ekko speak to you. It's a jab, still, it's going in a good direction. “The children like it, you can't blame me for having a few.” Your hands pause from sketching the side of his face, legs placed on the arm of the chair.

“It's your bribe.”

“Please, I've already asked the children about their side. They keep hounding me for sweets, and I like making it for them.” He hums, shaking his head before returning his attention towards his pile of paperwork. “How about you?”

“What about me?” Ekko hates doing paperwork but he soon realized that nothing will get done in Zaun without a single signature on a piece of document. He places his head on his fist, back turned away from you, but the way he shifts his weight towards you says that he's all ears.

“You've eaten those bribes yourself, when are you telling me your side of the story?”

“When your professor gets here.”

You snort, smiling when you get his jawline right on your scribbles that you call a drawing. “That's mean, firefly.” He groans at the nickname you bestowed upon him. You're taking a page right out of Vi’s book just to irk him. “You want a little old lady to travel miles away just so you could tell her the exact same thing you can tell me?”

“That's not what I meant—” the sudden beeping from your watch interrupts him.

Hopping off your seat, you take your belongings and place it in your satchel.

Ekko's brows pinch together, moving in his seat to look at you over his shoulder. “Where are you going?” He checks the ticking clock right next to his table, seeing that you're still hours away from your usual exit.

“Missing me already, firefly?” Your lips curl into a smirk as you tug your bag over your shoulder. He huffs in reply. “Don't worry, I'll be back again to annoy you since this is Madam Babette’s last meeting with me. I have to see her about her establishment.”

“You can just tell me if your sponsors aren't paying you well enough.” He says, still occupied with paperwork, smirk hidden away from you.

“Ha ha.” You mock a laugh, sauntering towards him. “Why, you're gonna raise some funds for me, saviour? Someday you're gonna have to pay me back for those sweets.” Hip against his table, you drape your arm over the back of his chair, head tilting down to stare at him through your teasing eyes.

“And here I thought you gave me those out of the goodness of your heart, noxian.” He levels with you, back straightening as he meets with your eyes. Your face is a mere few inches away from his own, but he's not backing down.

A moment passes by between you, the air growing with tension. Taut and ready to snap. It’s either you bite his head off first or he beats you to it with his teeth munching down on your frontal lobe.

You see yourself in his eyes, your dust laden hair, the bags under your eyes, and your tired skin— it makes you back down. Insecurity making its way to your chest. This job has taken a toll on you, and you know that he has noticed it. How could he not when he has been seeing you everyday for months. You can't ignore how attractive he is, you figured before that it'll fade away in time, but you've grown attached to those eyes of his.

“My academic sponsors are actually quite generous, thank you very much.” Huffing, you move away and walk up to the door, leaving him in the room once again. He smiles, staring at the door you just left in.

He was right, you lost this time around.

—

The walls are lined with pink velvet, sheer red curtains falling over the windowless walls. The Madame's office is all plush and smooth, chairs covered in silk, ceiling covered in shiny crystals that seem like it's falling down like dew drops. The air even smells sweeter inside, fresh flowers left on every surface of the room, as if a florist went through the whole place and randomly put vases filled with flowers in every corner.

You feel out of place, your laced up boots are a direct contrast to the fluffy rug underneath your feet. Perhaps you should've worn your heels? You blame Ekko's treehouse for needing you to trudge up and down its stairs since the elevator broke down a few days ago.

You place the tin of chocolates on the crystal table, sitting it beside some odd shaped vase that you've been meaning to ask Babette about. Or maybe it's a pitcher since there's no flowers in it? Either way, it perplexes you.

As your hand glides all over the silk couch you're sitting on, the beaded curtains part and reveals the madame of the infamous Vyx.

“Your Miguel was hounding me again.” You smile gently at the acquaintance turned friend.

“Hello to you too.” Babette rolls her eyes then walks over to the couch adjacent to your seat, hopping up and sitting cross legged as usual. “It's because he has never seen a pretty noxian.” Her eyes twinkle with playfulness.

“Hi.” You chuckle out. “Well, he clearly hasn't seen Mel Medarda yet.”

“He wasn't too pushy?” She asks with genuine concern. “I hate to punish the big guy.”

“No, he was once again asking if I'm free for coffee.”

“What'd you tell him?”

“‘What’s coffee? We don't have that in Noxus.’” You say truthfully, mocking how you said the blatant lie to Miguel, earning a hearty laugh from the woman.

The beaded curtains part once again, revealing a lithe man with a wolf mask hiding half his face as he saunters inside, and his alabaster hair shining under the twinkling iridescent lights. His hands are full with a tray of teapot and teacups clattering against each other. Even with his face obscured, you can tell that he's handsome underneath it. When he gives you a polite smile, your heart skips a beat. Clearing your throat, you pretend to act nonchalant in front of Babette.

“Where were we?” She smiles knowingly, eyes darting towards the tea being poured into your cup, and towards the way you're trying to avoid the man's eyes. She sometimes reminds you of your professor.

Inhaling, you gather your professionalism. “You were telling me all the improvements you've done to the Vyx now that it's under your management.” She hums, nodding along as she sips at her tea. “You've told me about the present and your wishes for the future. Can you please tell me about the past if you're willing?” You put sugar in your cup, mixing the tea and then blowing at the warmth.

Babette gestures for the man to stand outside the room, which he immediately complies with a curt nod.

“Will you?” She raises a brow, ear ticking upwards as she questions you.

“Will I what?”

“Answer if I asked about your past?” Now she definitely reminds you of your old professor. You suddenly feel like crying.

You inhale, trying to even out your breathing, fist tightening around the teacup. “I guess not.” Slowly unfurling your fingers around the handle, you gently place the cup back on the table lest you break it. “I'm not asking just to pick and prod at your past, I want to know what life was like back here before the war, before…. everything else happened. I'm sorry if I offended you.”

“You’re a rose with thorns.” Your heart thumps loudly. “That's what I guess about your past anyway.”

“A rose with thorns,” you whisper the exact words he said to you years ago, it was his face saying it, but not his voice. “They only take blood from those who try to steal from them.”

Babette chuckles and sips her drink. “Or someone who has experienced hurt and was forced to grow thorns.”

You take your teacup once again, eyes downcast at the swirling pool of auburn. You've forgotten how people like her are perceptive, with a keen eye in judging people. With that, she has succeeded at her profession.

After a beat of silence, and the crystals above shine rainbow light on the porcelain cup, you take a breath. “Why did you agree to this interview in the first place?” Your words are laced with suspicion.

“This will be published all over right?” You nod. “Simple, free advertising. Make sure you mention me and my place by name, sweetheart.” Your eyes roam all over her face, trying to decipher if it's a lie or not. Your pen weighs heavy in your hand.

She drinks her tea, eyeing you over her cup. You can't read her if she has any ill will against you, or if she has an ulterior motive.

So you continue on and do your job. You guess you just have to be extra vigilant, knowing that she deals in secrets.

“My past.” Babette finally speaks, “dealt with the wrong hand like every other zaunite out there. The only difference is that I bore it on my chest. I used it like armour to survive.”

You scribble her words in your notebook, now noticing how your hand trembles around your gilded pen.

“Oh, are these your cookies?” She must've noticed the tension in the air now that she's trying to lighten the mood. You nod, pushing the container over to her as she smiles at you.

“I gotta hand it to you noxians, you know how to make all the sweet things.” Grabbing a flower shaped cookie, she munches happily as crumbs fall down on the shaggy rug.

“I'm starting to think that you're stretching our appointments because of the sweets I bring.”

“That and the good company.” Smiling, she pushes the tin of cookies at you, wordlessly apologizing, or that's what you think anyway.

The session goes on like normal. She told you that she wasn't anywhere near Piltover when the war happened as she decided to get on the blimp out of the city before it all went down. Somewhere in the conversation, Ekko came up. Which Babette smiles at the name of.

“A good kid.” She says, and you softly smile. “Never seen him anywhere near here nor I want to see him here. I knew of him when he was just a kid, y'know. He was rambunctious, always riding that damn cycle of his with Ji— his friend and riling up every enforcer they come across.” She chortles at the memory. “Him and Benzo were a pair.”

“What does that mean?” You ask, circling Benzo’s name in your notebook.

“Both geniuses, good at anything that ticks.” She sighs. “They could've done something good if the circumstances were different. He's raised well in my opinion.”

“How about his friend? You mentioned her, the blue haired one.”

She sighs, taking the teapot and refilling her cup. “I'm kind of tired, sweetheart.”

You nod, shutting your notes closed as she pours you one last cup of tea before you go back to Ekko's. “I understand, maybe a story for next time then.”

“Maybe next time, and bring more of these.” With a clink of her cup with yours in a small toast, she points at the cookies with a grin.

—

Leaving the Vyx has your mind rolling with thoughts of the past and the present. The air seems to smell like a combination of old roses and mint.

Your footsteps echo throughout the barren alleyway of the lanes, concrete walls closing in on you as your heart thuds against your chest, ears ringing with a muffled hiss. Eyes cast down at your boots, you hug yourself tight, fists curled around your coat in an iron grip. The same words you've uttered since your last attack falls from your lips like a prayer. Tone soft and desperate above the wind.

The mere mention of your past and what Babette called you single handedly ruined your day. You're contemplating whether you should go back to the firelight hideout or go home instead. But you promised Ekko that you'll be back, so you'll go back. Maybe the walk on the way there will calm you down.

The harsh sickening thwack over your head makes the decision for you as your vision goes dark.

—

Ekko suddenly feels something is amiss. Like a buzzing around his head, or an itch he can't relieve. He looks at the pile of paperwork on his table that's slowly getting smaller with every hour that goes by. That's not peculiar at all, hence why he's looking around the room, finding nothing is out of place. His bed is neat, the window is open with the birds chirping away outside. Laughter filters upwards to the treehouse, and the sun beams down upon him and the beloved tree.

Everything is normal enough, so why does he feel like something's missing?

Checking the ticking clock, finding that it's half past four o’clock already, his attention immediately turns towards the empty armchair sitting a few ways behind him. He blinks and realizes what's missing. You.

His brows furrowed together, there's no quiet scribbling, no sudden questions thrown at him. And none of the crumpled up look you have whenever you can't find the right word. Twisting around in his seat, he goes back to his work with you knocking on the back of his mind.

You've become such a staple to his daily life these past few months that being alone is a thing of the past for him. Your presence was always there, sometimes quiet, a nice reprieve to his chaotic thoughts swirling in his mind. And sometimes you're talkative to no end, a voice that he has gotten so used to that he can recognize your tone and the usual words you always seem to use. ‘Using said is so overdone,’ you said, all the while using it every paragraph or so. Or a comforting, ‘you should eat something, Ekko.’ He'll never admit to sneaking a peek at your notes, nor to actually listening to you. Your voice has been a welcoming lilt against the awful silence that occasionally plague his mind.

So when you told him you'll be back, he knows you'll be back to annoy him further or to use the quiet in the treehouse to do work. He knows you'll be back because you always came back. It's a fact for him now, just like all the morbidly macabre facts you suddenly sprouted on him at nine am in the morning.

Where in the world are you?

Ekko realizes that he hasn't read a single word since he noticed the lack of presence. The pen in his hand has been frozen for four minutes now, hand sitting idle atop the pile of papers just waiting for his signature.

The clock ticks, and the birds still sing outside, but you're still nowhere to be seen— the door suddenly opens, and the sigh of relief he let out would have you teasing him.

“Thought you finally gave up.” He says, acting casual amidst the internal turmoil he just had.

“Expecting someone else?” Scar's voice jolts him in his seat, immediately twisting to look at his right hand man.

Scar raises a questioning brow at Ekko, who's already bolting out of seat to get his hoverboard.

Support banner by @/cafekitsune

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[mediumgayitalian]

Nico wakes up to gagging and a soft glow coming from the bathroom.

His first thought is, bizarrely, that Hazel’s home. But her bunk is still empty, and her shoes aren’t by the door, and she didn’t wake him when she came in. She always wakes him when she comes in, even if it’s four thirty in the damn morning, because nothing makes her cackle quite like Nico choking back curses and tweaking under her smothering pillow.

“Shit,” comes a small voice from the bathroom, followed by more retching. “Shitshitshit, no —”

Nico bolts for the door.

“Hi,” Will says, or tries to. His scarred knuckles clench with every gag, wrapped too tightly around the rim of porcelain to tremble like the rest of him.

Something about the wobbly smile he keeps trying to form in between gags. Something about the sweat that has drenched his t-shirt, something about the deep circles under his eyes, something about his spot in the bed completely cold, wrinkled.

Something is not adding up.

“You’re not sick,” Nico murmurs, pressing the back of his hand to Will’s forehead. Will mutters something about bliss, leaning into Nico’s hand; he smiles again, but it is strained, and at odds with the glassy look in his eyes. The sharp, rapid breaths.

“Just don’t — feel good.”

Every word is punctuated by a big, heaving gasp, like he’s trying to breathe through heavy cotton. On a hunch, Nico slides his hands down Will’s face, brushing the goosebumps on his neck, the irritated, pulsing tendons, and rest flat against his chest, over his heart.

His heart that is pounding, so quickly it is actually challenging to recognise as a beat rather than a buzz.

“You’re having a panic attack,” Nico says quietly.

Will shrugs. He gags again, but clamps his mouth shut before it goes anywhere, breathing deeply and carefully through clenched teeth, squeezing his eyes shut. His heart pounds faster, and the rapid movement of his chest grows shallow, but he manages to choke back his bile, swallow down whatever nausea is plaguing him.

“I’m — fine.” His laboured breathing is the loudest sound in the cabin. In the camp. “I’m handling it.”

Nico watches him. Watches him clench his jaw and squeeze his eyes shut and make a noise like he is being betrayed, like he is being sold for thirty silver by his own body, his own mind; watches him flex his muscles rigid and hold himself still like he can stop the nails and thorns from coming. He thinks of wide smiles and far away eyes and mental health pamphlets and cheerful slogans on infirmary walls.

“I think one of those things are true.”

“I don’t need —”

Whatever he doesn’t need is forgotten, because he is heaving again, only this time his body finds something to dredge up, even if that something is stomach acid and he cries as it burns its way up his throat, and in between heaving he wheezes, horrible whistling gasping noises, and his hair plasters to his forehead, and his body slumps into Nico’s hold and jerks away from him like rocky waves against a lakefront.

“How long have you been here?”

Will just shrugs again, and he cries, and he says “Leave, please,” and Nico wraps an arm tighter around his waist, and presses a kiss to his sweaty temple, lingering, holding, tasting salt from Will and from his tears both, and squeezing his eyes shut, and holding back the anger. Gritting his teeth and softening his hold, deliberately, resting his fingers delicately on the dip of Will’s hip, the raised pink of the stretch marks along his ribs.

“I hate it when you run from me,” he murmurs, and Will sobs again.

“I can’t breathe,” he says, and Nico squeezes and promises he can. “I’m dying. I’m dying, I’m gonna —”

“I’m here, Will.” He doesn’t say you’re not dying. He doesn’t say you’re fine, because this is the longest they’ve sat together in five days, because it is the the quiet middle of June, because yesterday Kayla spent half her shift screaming at Will to get out and ignoring him when he shouted back. Because the bandage around Will’s wrist has been worn to threads, because Lee’s hoodie has not been washed in weeks, because there is a newcomer named Michael and Will cannot even look at him. Because it has been bad. “I’m here.”

It is as much a reminder as it is a plea as it is a reprimand as it is a fruitless nothing, because when Nico struggles he gets angry, when Nico struggles he gets mean and biting and violent, but when Will struggles he wants the world to kill him. And for all that Nico is halfway to the grave he has clawed and chewed and fought his way to survival. And when Will scratches at the skin around his ears and screams into his hands and opens the chapped over scars on his lips his palms his fingers, Nico can only hold him, Nico can only gently pry his nails from his flesh and tell himself that one day they will get to the point where Nico wakes up. Where Will wakes him up, where he burrows into the place between his arms and his chest and hides in someone else for once. Where he trusts someone outside of himself enough to bare his back.

“I’m here,” he whispers again, and he presses his lips to Will’s hair and holds him as he sobs, “I’m here, I’m here, I’m here.”

[servantserah]

Crêpes part 34

Previous | First | Next

May I offer you some angst? I am sorry and not sorry for making Aziraphale have to go through this but it's the blorbo curse. And this realization has been long overdue, I'm afraid.

I hope everyone had nice holidays and a good start into the new year! Wishing you all the best that 2025 may be a somewhat uneventful year haha,,,,

ℹ️ You can find a guide with all my Good Omens AUs and comics >>here<<!

[emziess]

I'm just gonna grab something outside. The Bear, S03E10

[seth-whumps]

“Hey! Hey, calm down. Shh~.” -panicked Whumpee

"I can't, I can't do this, please don't make me do this."

"Hurts. It hurts. My chest--it hurts."

"I can't breathe."

"Stop, stop touching me, don't touch me!"

"I--I'm dying. I'm gonna die. I don't want to die."

[mischefous]

*cough cough* possibly… Legend whump? Him having a panic attack?

*sneezes*

*looks down at my screen*

-oh hey!...oh dear...someone better get Legend a blankie and some warm milk🥹

[v-albion]

….

He’ll be fine

…

Eventually

Context

Masterpost

@tmntaucompetition

[koipepo]

⚠️ cw: implied castration, scars, messy ass sketches

It must've taken a learning curve for Reek to finally be brave enough to expose himself.

[solarmorrigan]

It's Coming From Inside the House

For the @steddie-spooktober day 5 prompt: "Did you hear that?" Rated: T | Words: 2472 | CW: panic attack, mentions of recreational drug use | Tags: Eddie Munson and Steve Harrington friendship, pre-relationship, sorta, Eddie Munson being an asshole, Eddie Munson is a sweetheart, he has the range, Steve Harrington has PTSD, post season 2, pre season 3 Divider credit: @steddiecameraroll-graphics

Now look, Eddie has never claimed to be the world’s nicest guy. He’s often claimed the opposite, in fact, in the name of getting shithead bullies and jocks to leave him and his alone.

And Harrington is no saint, either. Sure, he’s turned over some kind of new leaf since last year, ditching the assholes he used to hang out with and mostly keeping to himself (particularly since November, when his busted face had been the talk of Hawkins High), but he’s been part of enough sportsball-related hazing rituals for Eddie to assume he can at least take a joke.

Anyway, the point is, when he’s given occasion to realize that King Steve seems to be afraid of the dark, Eddie isn’t quite able to resist the urge to poke at him. Just a little.

He’s got Harrington in his trailer, just dropping by for a late-night transaction, and they’ve got an unexpected spring storm raging outside. It had just blown in, heavy winds and rain and all, surrounding the trailer with the sound of nature’s howling fury, and Harrington already seems on edge (probably why he needs the weed, really).

And then the lights flicker–

Flicker–

Flicker–

And cut out.

Both Eddie and Harrington freeze, plunged into darkness cut only by the frequent flashes of lightning.

“What just happened?” Harrington asks, his voice gone tight.

“Seems like the power went out,” Eddie snarks, because that much should be obvious. “Probably the wind. The grid isn’t as secure out here where it’s only us poor people.”

Harrington has no comeback, which is a little disappointing. He’s so quiet that the only way Eddie can tell he’s still there at all is because he can see him illuminated by brief lightning strikes.

Eddie sighs and starts shuffling in the direction of the kitchen. “Gimme a minute, I think we’ve got an old camping lantern somewhere.”

He bangs his knees on just about every object he walks past, swearing up a storm, but he finally makes it to the kitchen and feels around in the cabinets for the lantern he hopes is still there. He knocks over a few pots and pans in the process, but finally – success!

Eddie gropes for the switch on top of the lantern as he pulls it from the cabinet, praying that the battery inside is still good, and flinches and blinks the sparkles from his eyes when the thing lights up about six inches from his face.

Illumination acquired, Eddie uses it to find the junk drawer and pull out the flashlight they keep inside (might’ve been easier to find that first, instead of knocking into all the cookware, now that Eddie thinks on it), and then heads back to where he’s left Harrington standing in the living room.

“Let there be light,” he says, holding up the old lantern in victory.

Harrington, again, says nothing. He looks pale in the light of the lantern, nearly frozen where he stands, staring out the window. He almost reminds Eddie of a frightened rabbit, eyes wide and body locked up in a fight, flight, or freeze response heavily weighted in favor of the third option. And if he’s the rabbit, Eddie is like nothing so much as the wolf, ready to sink his teeth in.

Just a little. Just as a joke, that’s all.

As he places the camping lantern on the table, he pauses and cocks his head, pretending to listen.

“Hey,” he says quietly, and Harrington finally turns to look at him. “Did you hear that?”

“Hear what?” Harrington rasps, eyes darting back towards the window.

“I don’t know, it was… like sort of a scratching sound? It’s– There!” Eddie jumps, playing at being startled. “There it was again, did you hear it?”

Harrington swallows heavily, shaking his head. “I don’t hear anything, are you sure–”

“I think it’s coming from the door,” Eddie hisses, voice gone low, nearly covered by the steady roll of thunder.

Harrington whirls back around, looking at the shadowed shape of the door where it sits just outside the halo of light the little lantern is throwing out.

“What if something’s trying to get in?” Eddie’s practically whispering now, low and dramatic. “Should we– should we check?”

Slowly, Harrington nods. “I’ll check,” he says, and he sounds so resolute about it, so resigned, like he’s agreeing to go off to war, that Eddie has to bite down on a laugh. So fucking serious, this guy.

“I’m right behind you,” Eddie says, though Harrington barely seems to register when Eddie sidles up at his back.

They cross from where they’d been standing by the coffee table and over to the door, standing in front of it as another crack of thunder booms overhead. Harrington reaches for the handle.

“Go ahead,” Eddie breathes, raising his arms. “I’m… right… BEHIND YOU!”

As he shouts, he grabs Harrington around the middle, digging his fingers into his sides almost like he’s trying to tickle him, and holy shit, Harrington’s reaction does not disappoint. He jumps and jerks like he’s just been electrocuted, letting out a strangled yell as he pulls away from Eddie, whirling around to face him, and Eddie can’t help it– he laughs.

Like, not a cruel laugh, just the laugh of a prank successfully pulled off.

“I can’t believe you actually fell for that!” he wheezes out around his giggles.

And Eddie isn’t fully ignorant to the idea that there are consequences for his actions; he’s pretty sure at this point Harrington is going to start yelling, maybe start swinging, almost definitely cussing Eddie out – except he doesn’t.

He doesn’t actually do anything. He’s just standing there, eyes blown wide, one hand clenched over his chest while he almost heaves for breath.

“…Harrington?” Eddie tries, as his laughter dies away. “Hey. You good?”

Harrington doesn’t reply. Eddie’s not even sure he’s seeing him right now; his gaze looks glassed over in the low light, staring at something in the middle distance that Eddie can’t see. It’s kind of freaking Eddie out.

“Harrington. Hey. Can you hear me?” Eddie reaches up to wave a hand in front of Harrington’s face, and the reaction is immediate.

He jumps again, swearing and stumbling backwards until he hits the wall by the door with a hard thump, where he slides down into a sitting position on the floor, knees pulled up in front of him and arms wrapped around his middle. He’s still breathing hard, and his eyes are darting around the trailer, still looking for something, but fucked if Eddie knows what.

And fuck. Shit, Eddie feels like an asshole, he’s just given Harrington some kind of full-blown panic attack. Shit.

“Harrington,” he says, trying to sound firm and reassuring even though he has no goddamn idea what he’s doing as he crouches down in front of the guy. “Listen, there’s nothing to be scared of, man, it was just me being a dick.”

Harrington’s eyes flick in Eddie’s direction, but Eddie’s not all that convinced he’s registering what Eddie’s saying.

“Okay, I’m gonna – just a second.” Eddie holds a finger up and stands again, darting over to the coffee table to grab the lantern and, almost as an afterthought, the flashlight. “Okay, here we go,” he says, kneeling in front of Harrington and placing the lantern between them. “Do you wanna hold the flashlight? Would that help?”

He’s barely held the flashlight up for Harrington to take when the other boy’s fingers are wrapping around it, nearly jerking it out of Eddie’s hand. He flicks it on and sweeps the beam around the room, nearly blinding Eddie at least twice in the process.

“See?” Eddie says once Harrington’s performed as much of an inspection of the place as he can from his position on the floor. “Nothing here. Just you, me, and the storm.”

This doesn’t seem to be as reassuring as Eddie would have hoped; Harrington is still on the hysterical edge of hyperventilating, flashlight clutched in one fist and the other hand clenching his jacket where it’s still wrapped around his middle.

“Harrington. Steve,” Eddie tries, and he finally gets a long enough look from Harrington that he thinks he must actually be hearing him. “You’ve gotta breathe, man. Deeper breaths, c’mon. I don’t want you passing out on me.”

And it looks like maybe he’s trying, but the air keeps stuttering back out of his lungs before he can hold it for long. He shakes his head, and Eddie bites his lip, thinking.

“Here. I’m just gonna– don’t freak out again, okay?” Slowly, Eddie reaches for Harrington’s free hand, and with an air of confusion, Harrington lets him take it, unwrapping his fingers from where they’re clutched in his jacket and letting Eddie pull until his palm is pressed flat against Eddie’s chest. “Copy me, okay? In… and out.”

Exaggerating his breaths, Eddie takes big gulps of air, in and out, and waits for Harrington to follow suit – and after a few long moments, he manages it.

Slowly, his breathing deepens out, no longer coming in quick, shallow gasps, and his posture seems to deflate as it does. He sags back against the wall, the flashlight still clutched tight in his fist, and lets his head fall back.

“Better?” Eddie asks.

Harrington shrugs. He flinches at the next flash of lighting, and Eddie squeezes his hand, which he is, for some reason, still holding.

“Just the storm,” Eddie says, and Harrington shoots him a vaguely bitchy look that feels a lot more on par with how he should be acting.

He doesn’t take his hand back, though, so Eddie just keeps holding it.

He holds it and he talks, trying to drown out the rumbles of thunder that are growing more and more distant, trying to distract from the flashes of lightning that seem to be distressing Harrington more than anything else, trying to make up for the fact that he’d caused this whole mess in the first place. And Harrington seems to listen, watching him with eyes half-lidded in exhaustion, even cracking a tiny smile a few times, when Eddie gets particularly animated.

Then, after about an hour of nothing but the warm glow of the camping lantern, nothing but the sound of Eddie’s voice and the dying storm, the power kicks back on. The lights come to life and the fridge starts humming from the kitchen, and Harrington squeezes Eddie’s hand hard, eyes falling shut for a moment in apparent divine gratitude.

“Oh, thank god,” he mutters, and Eddie can’t help but agree.

Slowly, he lets go of Harrington’s hand, and Harrington takes it back, awkwardly handing over the flashlight as if in trade. He stands from the floor, a little shaky, and Eddie follows suit, ready to catch him if his overtaxed body doesn’t prove to be up to the task, but Harrington manages to stand on his own two feet, so Eddie takes a step back.

“Uh… thanks. For all of that,” Harrington says quietly, voice a little wrecked.

Eddie shakes his head. “I’m the one who gave you a fucking panic attack in the first place. Sitting with you was literally the least I could do.”

Harrington shrugs. “You didn’t have to, though.”

“Common decency—and my conscience—beg to differ,” Eddie says, and Harrington lets out a little huff that might have been a laugh.

“Anyway, I should get out of your hair,” Harrington says. “Do you still have the, uh–”

“Oh, shit, yeah.” Eddie had nearly forgotten why Harrington had come over there in the first place. He crosses back over to the coffee table, where he’d dropped the bag when the power had gone out, and snatches it up, offering it to Harrington. “Here you are, my liege.”

The title, caught somewhere between mocking and actual friendliness, makes Harrington huff out another laugh, and he reaches for his wallet.

“How much do I owe you?”

Eddie almost can’t believe he’s about to say it, but– “Don’t worry about it. This one’s on the house.”

He’ll eat the cost if it’ll assuage his guilt – if it’ll get the image of Harrington crumpled on the floor, gasping for air as he searches the room for some kind of threat, out of Eddie’s head.

Harrington frowns. “You don’t have to do that.”

Eddie shrugs. “Call it even for having given you all the more reason to need to smoke it.”

Harrington is still frowning, hand still poised to pull his wallet from his back pocket, so Eddie shoves the baggie into his free hand, closing his fingers around it and letting go.

“Looks like it’s in your hands now, no takebacks!” Eddie insists. “Or, you know, no givebacks, I guess.”

Harrington rolls his eyes, but he drops his hand and tucks the baggie into the pocket of his jacket. “Well, thanks, then. I think.”

Eddie nods, searching over Harrington’s face; he’s still pale as shit, and it makes the dark circles under his eyes, previously barely noticeable, stand out in stark relief. He looks like he’s almost swaying where he stands, and Eddie frowns.

“You gonna be good to drive?” he asks, not really sure what he plans to do if Harrington isn’t.

“I think I’ll be fine, man,” Harrington snarks, and it’s close enough to what Eddie’s used to hearing from him that he’s willing to let the matter drop.

Harrington turns for the door, but pauses just before he reaches for the handle. Eddie wonders if maybe he’s still thinking of Eddie’s stupid prank, unable to shake the idea that something really might be waiting at the door to get him, when Harrington turns back to look at him.

“Don’t mention this to anyone, okay?” he says, possibly going for demanding, maybe even threatening, but landing somewhere closer to a plea. “I don’t need– I just don’t need anyone knowing…”

“Mum’s the word, man,” Eddie assures him quickly, miming zipping up his lips, locking them, and tossing the key over his shoulder.

With a tiny smile crossing his face, Harrington nods. “Thanks. I’ll, uh – see you around, I guess.”

“Yeah. See you around.” Eddie nods.

And with that, Harrington is gone, out the door and crunching across the wet gravel to his car, taking the strangeness of the night with him.

Eddie stands in the middle of his living room for a long moment, feeling as though something about his view of Steve Harrington—possibly even his view of something larger—has shifted, though he can’t quite put his finger on how.

He puzzles it over for a bit before shrugging it off, stooping to grab the lantern and put it back where it belongs. It doesn’t really matter, he figures. It’s not like he and Harrington will have much reason to interact after this.