#family pubs near Brighton

[worthingwonders]

Pubs in West Sussex are perfect for post-cinema reflection

I have always loved the evening dining Brighton has to offer, but I feel it can be even more special when you are savouring a meal after a night at the movies. There are some fabulous films to be enjoyed these days, and of course nothing beats the spectacle of a movie on a big screen accompanied by surround sound. Films on TV are all very well, but as far as I am concerned they just can’t match the cinema. And if I visit pubs around Devils Dyke afterwards then so much the better.

http://shepherdanddogpub.co.uk/

Some friends of mine regularly watch films on their tablets, but I would rather not see the film at all. The thought of seeing a movie on a tiny little screen fills me with dread, and that’s why I visit the cinema and various pubs around Devils Dyke later. Some people visit Sussex gastropubs only when they want to eat out, but I am just as happy to go in for a drink or two. I’ve even seen people holding job interviews and business meetings in family pubs near Brighton, and I have no problem at all with that.

[itstimeforian-blog]

The best family pubs near Brighton don’t have to cost a fortune

[ericgrantseo-blog]

Every Sussex gastropub provides the perfect venue for a romantic Valentine’s Day meal

[straighttohellbuddy]

but you're talking in your sleep {Wilbur Soot} // 2

two. and she told me that she fucking hates you

Summary: Two years ago, you'd met Will Gold in a pub shortly after moving to London, and had a six-week fling with him, but ended up falling out of contact when it turned out your ex-boyfriend moved to try and make things work... But now you're back in contact, back to being friends, and have made arrangements to finally hang out face to face. And any latent, traitorous feelings Wilbur may or may not have aren't anything he wants to bother you with.

Need to Know: She/Her, implied early 20s, Sister-Innit!Reader. it is never stated or even implied whether Tommy & the reader are related by blood or otherwise, so that's up to you, and while there are mentions of reader celebrating christmas, it's more because Tommy's family celebrates it. reader is said to be studying literature at university. please heed the warnings.

A/N: 11,707 words. unedited as all fuck, i have so much love in my heart for this part, but please heed the warnings. PLEASE Tell me how you're liking it so far!! :)

Warnings: recreational drinking, implied emotional & verbal manipulation/abuse, emotional & physical cheating, heavily implied intimacy but never explicit.

{ masterpost : 2 / 3 }

{ p l a y l i s t }

Taglist: @marvelsmurphy @automaticcomputerpaper @kattenprinsen @parkerpeanuts @bumblebea-xo @lovehatewhateveritis @rainyaheysoe @tcphat @smol-flower-kiddo @pogface @luluwinchester @captainpuffyrp @dreamerwasfound @pepe-lepe @njhrecord @auralol @moonlightaura03 @the-friendly-ghostwrite @blaisey-bee @kingudon @friendwasfound @ahsteriawrites @eeyore-onthefloor @30-minutes-into-the-future @rexgoesrawrrrrrr @arielting @laneunderwave @axeofwars @hoezeeor @lightninginab0ttle @irwinkitten @gyneve @stoop18 @franaby @ozdramaqueen @moriiartist @ticcisimon @randokku

Taglist is always open!!

----

In less than a week, after only a few texts to confirm times and [just stay with me I have a couch] sent without hesitation after you’d asked for hotel recommendations, and now he’s been sitting in his car for twenty minutes at the train station, kicking himself for being so early. Berating himself is easier than dealing with his nerves, so he turns up his music and texts you while waiting for your train to pull into the station.

Your texts are vibrant and excited since you’d gotten on the train, in a way they hadn’t been in the few days lead up to your trip, but he doesn’t think much of it, too busy trying to convince himself that he’s got his nerves under control. Really he’s doing quite a good job, right up until you message that the next stop’s Brighton, in all capitals. He tells you he’s going to wait inside the terminal, and when you send [SEE YOU SOON!!!!!] he’s left alone with his music and his thoughts and his goddamn erratic heartbeat.

There’s a moment of terror, amidst the lively crush of people inside the terminal near peak hour, that someone might recognise him. It’s kind of the nightmare scenario; neither you nor he needed that right now, and he hadn’t even brought some sort of hat or glasses. Thankfully, it doesn’t appear to be a problem, however, as he makes it to the exit for your train’s platform with little stress.

And your smile is even brighter than he’d imagined it would be.

Like something ripped straight out of a movie, you stop at the top of the platform’s steps you’d just ascended, the other passengers parting in streams left and right behind you, continuing on their way, but giving you this moment. You seem to pick him out of the crowd instantly, meeting his gaze with a hundred-watt smile. Though you’re too far away to hear, but he can read it on your lips when you say his name, like a confirmation.

The moment only last a seconds and then you’re both moving, stepping forward to meet in the middle, and you don’t even hesitate to wrap him up in a hug. There’s relief and warmth as you fist your hands in his sweater, as your shoulders relax with your breathless laugh.

“It’s so good to see you!” You tell him, stepping back holding him at arm’s length for a moment as you look him over.

“It’s been –“ a long time coming, something we both seem to need, something I didn’t realise I’d been waiting two years for, “too long; good to have you here,” he tells you, simply letting himself enjoy this moment. For a beat, you seem like you’re about to say something else, but when you see the way he’s grinning, matching your energy, he thinks he can see your breath catch. Wishful thinking? Maybe, but you look up to the roof, then around, step back, bouncing on the balls of your feet as your next words are something of an excited, only half coherent babble.

It's endearing, but Wilbur has just realised how absolutely stupid and terrible this idea was.

You’re Tommy’s sister.

You’re in a relationship.

You and he had a fling for six weeks, two years ago.

So it’s easy to tell himself when you’re in another city, that he doesn’t have feelings for you. Again… But he can only delude himself for so long when you’re by his side.

Offering your arm, you ask him if there’s any restaurants he’d recommend.

“What?” Surfacing from his thoughts, he tries and fails to process what you’d asked. He loops his arm through yours, and thankfully, you don’t seem to think much of his momentary lapse, apart from it being amusing.

“I’m bloody starving,” you reiterate, and he takes the hint, leading you both to the exit closest to his car, “and I’d be happy to get junk I’m familiar with, but if you had any recommendations for not-junk restaurants,” you laugh a little at your own phrasing, “I’d love to hear them.”

He takes you to a hole-in-the-wall, family-run restaurant a block from his apartment, and you buy him dinner as thanks. In some strange way, it’s as if you’ve picked up right from where you’d left, just as easy to talk to as he remembered, just as earnest. You hum along to the songs on his playlist and compliment his taste in music and seem genuinely excited and interested when you ask if he’s been working on anything recently.

For a moment, he’s quiet, expression twisting as his mind flashes to the lyrics he’s been trying to grasp for the melody he keeps humming to distract himself whenever his mind remembers you’re wilfully dating a guy your brother hates. It’s petty, and one of the things the two of you don’t talk about, so he keeps that to himself. Instead, he talks about another song on the EP he’s been working on. The light in your eyes as you listen to him talk about his music – he’d forgotten how you could make him feel elated simply by listening to him. It makes him want to work on the EP, just so he can have something to show you.

At his door, however, you grow quiet, one hand reaching up to grasp at your backpack strap as you watch him unlock his door. As he turns, tries to ask if everything’s alright, you’re already thanking him for giving you a place to stay. His voice dies in his throat, and all he can do is give a smile.

“Of course,” he offers, “any time.” He’s not sure if he was meant to see the relief in your eyes as he turns back to open the door.

In his flat, you sit tentatively on the sofa, graciously accepting his offer of a drink as he heads to his kitchen. Still, you’re quieter than you were earlier. When he comes back with your drink of choice, you’re surprised for a moment. He puts his own drink on the coffee table and picks up the TV remote, anticipating your question.

“We spent a lot of time in pubs together,” he points out, not looking at you as he tries to pick a streaming service, “least I could do is remember your favourite drink.” Out of the corner of his eye, he sees you duck your head quickly.

“And you call me a simp,” you mutter, but your tone betrays just how touched you are that he’d remembered. He feels justified in the smug smile he wears as he asks if there’s anything you want to watch.

The night grows late as the mood grows warm and comfortable, both you and Wilbur tipsy watching trashy movies and making up drinking games with vaguely incomprehensible rules, and you ask if you can send a photo of him to Tommy. Of course he agrees with delight. For a moment, you deliberate, squinting at your screen with your camera pointed at him, before you gesture for him to move closer to you.

“I gotta be in the photo,” you tell him, as seriously as you can manage. Wilbur, seeing no flaw in that logic, shifts to sit beside you, throwing his arm around your shoulders. Both of you are positively beaming, your head on his shoulder, his cheek against your head, a little blurry from your unsteady hands. You caption it [our friend tall will ☭] and send it without a second thought.

Until, a moment later, Wilbur’s phone starts vibrating.

“It’s a discord call from Tommy,” he says with a half-giggle, and you smack your hand to your mouth, before you scramble to mute the TV, and the movie you’d stopped caring about before it had even started.

“Tommy, hello, you’re calling at a strange hour,” Wilbur tries and fails to sound sober, missing the mark atrociously.

“I’m streaming,” comes Tommy’s response. You double over, dropping the remote and pressing your other hand to your mouth in an attempt to keep quiet. Wilbur’s free hand gently rests on your back as he can’t help his own mischievous grin.

“Am I on speaker? Hello, Tommy’s stream!”

“Are you drunk?” Tommy asks, faintly disbelieving.

“I’m not sober,” is how Wilbur chooses to phrase it.

“’s very late,” you stage whisper, straightening up again, looking from the phone to Wilbur, unable to fight off your smile, “why’s he still streaming –?“

“Wilbur!” Tommy, insistent this time, interrupts you.

“Tombles go to sleep, it’s a school night,” you say, louder this time, and Wilbur breaks, laughing loud and bright.

“Hey, Mother Innit’s fully aware I’m still up and streaming, take it up with her,” Tommy counters, before seemingly remembering the situation at hand, “and Sister -” he says pointedly, only to be interrupted by Wilbur.

“Ooh~ listen to that tone, you’re in trouble!” He teases, and your delighted, mischievous laughter rings out loud in the little apartment. After a moment, however, your own phone buzzes with a text from Tommy [glad you arrived safe]; on the phone, however, he clears his throat.

“Yeah, she’s in trouble! She’s stealing my friends! I don’t think I like you and Wilbur being friends anymore –“

“You don’t have the authority to revoke my Wilbur privileges,” you take the phone from Wilbur, nose in the air, while he’s wheezing with laughter beside you, “I’m revoking your Wilbur privileges!”

“You can’t do that!” Tommy spluttered.

“I just did!” You crowed, triumphant, “be nice or I’ll revoke your Tubbo privileges too.”

“You wouldn’t dare –“

“It’s part of my master plan, Tombles,” you tell him, spouting absolute bullshit with ease, “next stop; America. You got to hang out with Dream’s sister, so me, your sister, will hang out with Dream,” you squinted for a moment, considering, before you amended, “that’s a threat.”

“Can you believe this, chat?” Tommy gasped gently, playing the victim.

“Where is all this coming from?” Wilbur says, confused and delighted by your sudden conviction and apparent foresight.

“’s the Cain Instinct,” you said with an air of fondness, before settling back against the sofa, leaning your head against Wilbur’s shoulder, “you can retain Wilbur privileges because I love you,” you tell your brother, “and he’s a good sort –“

“’Okay bet’ says Dream!” Squawks Tommy in mock horror, setting off both yourself and Wilbur all over again, “Christ, man- Dream’s trying to call me-“ as soon as Tommy announced that, both you and Wilbur excited requested that Dream be added to the call, much to Tommy’s exasperation. However, once he’d conceded, you realised –

“I feel like I shouldn’t meet Dream for the first time while I’m drunk,” you stage whispered to Wilbur.

“That’s how we met,” Wilbur points out, which only serves to confuse you.

“You and Dream?”

“You and me,” and as he says it, you finally understand what he’s saying, your initial worry already forgotten. For a moment, you’re giggling as you look at him, and he’s ninety percent sure you’re remembering how the two of you had met –

“This is great –“ you hadn’t even heard Dream join the call, but the moment he does, your laughter stops, eyes going wide, “- I’m so okay with us becoming friends to spite Tommy, that’s funny as fuck.”

“Dream you can’t bully me on my own stream,” you knew from Tommy’s tone alone that he was rolling his eyes, but smiling gently. Despite Dream lazily offering to start streaming, delighted that it again would be out of spite, Wilbur watched you with concern as you levelled an intense gaze at his phone.

“You okay?” He asks quietly, and you lean closer to his phone.

“Dream Minecraft-YouTube, I’m so drunk, I’m so sorry,” you whisper with great concern, and the tension breaks as everyone else on the call bursts out laughing. But then you gasp sharply, “oh fuck, Tommy’s live! I’m live! Oh no, I promise I’m less drunk usually, Tommy’s chat! This is a joke, mostly, I love Tombles very much, but also if I haven’t embarrassed myself too much I would actually like to be friends with Tommy’s cool streaming friends; Dream –“ you say suddenly, taking a deep breath, squeezing your eyes closed as you tried to focus, “Dream I mean you, you seem very cool.”

“Hey, what about me?” Wilbur asked, still grinning, before Dream even had a chance to respond.

“Unfortunately we are already best friends,” you told him without missing a beat, taking the phone from him and leaning forward to rest your elbows on your knees.

And you continue to chat with your brother and Dream, but something about what you’d said had overwhelmed Wilbur’s heart, and as you lean forward to chatter away, he half drapes himself on you, wrapping his arms around you and pressing his face against your shoulder blade. The moment, illuminated only by the light of the muted TV and the street lights out the window, fills him with an indescribable contentment. Did you used to fit so easily into the space by his side?

When the call is long forgotten, and the hour has gotten unreasonably late, and he realises you’ve fallen asleep on his shoulder, he thinks about how easy you are to love. Tomorrow-Wilbur can regret that sentiment, but for now he’ll stand by it, especially since the moment he goes to move, you wrap an arm around him. Carefully, well as carefully as he can manage, he frees himself, gently insisting that you stretch out properly on the sofa. He’s gone for all of two minutes, getting you a blanket and a glass of water, but you’re clutching one of the sofa pillows beneath your head, curled up, by the time he’s back.

“Thanks Will,” you mumble with a contented little smile as he drapes the blanket over him, which, okay, a little spooky considering he thought you were properly asleep. What’s more terrifying, however, are the two words you manage next; “love you,” which you follow with a gentle sigh, as if you hadn’t just uttered two of the most confusing words in the English language.

The rest of his night is spent staring at his ceiling, the silence of the flat as deafening externally as the racket of his conflict was internally. It’s nothing, he’s sure it’s absolutely nothing; he tells his friends that he loves them all the time, it’s not like he’s pinning for any of them. You’d been travelling and drunk and tired and it had been a nice night, a perfectly platonic declaration mumble of love wasn’t out of the realm of possibility.

But, his traitorous mind sees fit to remind him, this isn’t actually the first time something like this had happened. Last time, he’d kept it to himself, and you’d ended up with Mark, so he thought he’d made the right call. Maybe it was a coincidence, but –

“Okay, what are the most important things I should know about London?” You’re half giggling in the dim, golden light of the pub. The cover band that’s been playing is between sets, but you’re still leaning across the table the way you’d been just so he could hear you earlier, “apart from the location of the most underappreciated flat in a ten kilometre radius.”

“I never said underappreciated,” Wilbur can feel himself flush, but is doing a very good job of keeping his somewhat aloof demeanour intact, “I said I think a girl like you would appreciate the contents of the flat as much as you’d appreciate any other tourist trap –“

“So your flat’s a tourist trap?” Your smile is sharp and teasing, but there’s nothing malicious in it. He takes the bait happily, playing along.

“It has its moments,” he says loftily, “we’ve been known to host a party or two, but no-one’s thought to leave a review on Trip Advisor, so it’s still trendy. No lines.” For a moment, his expression wrinkles as he thinks about what he’s saying, but you seem thoroughly pleased by the bit.

“Nothing on Yelp?”

“I haven’t checked recently, but if you’d like to, be my guest,” he answers without even really thinking, though when he does, he’s fighting back a smile, “still got my fingers crossed for a good Google Review soon.”

“Is it like an Uber driver asking you to rate them five stars at the end of a trip?” You asked, light dancing in your eyes, “’broke my phone but that’s on me; would get smashed here again, five stars’?”

“Absolutely; we’re wonderful hosts, of course we’d get five stars,” he says with absolute confidence. For a moment, his words hang amid the warm, golden air. Looking to you, he’s surprised by the way you’re regarding him, watching him with quiet delight, or perhaps even amusement, completely comfortable in this moment.

“Well then now I have to go there,” you say softly, sounding almost nervous and trying to hide it behind your amusement, “see for myself if the hype is worth it.”

Wilbur, who’d been caught up in enjoying the convoluted joke, and had momentarily forgotten that he had been rather boldly hitting on you, had not expected that to work. The band was making their way back to the stage, he’d almost finished his pint, and your whole demeanour has turned electric despite you not moving a muscle.

There’s the click, hum of the amp being turned back on, and the patter of drumsticks as the band gets themselves back into gear, and the sigh you give is so carefully casual as you tilt your head to watch them. Remarking that they’re good, you follow it with an offhand mention that you’d be happy to head out at any point. No rush, but all anticipation.

And in the cool night air, he finds himself going back to your earlier question, half-jokingly asking what the most important thing would be to know about you.

“It’s not the most important in general,” you start with a sly little smile, “it’s not really important in any other situation.” He makes a noise of confused intrigue, not quite sure where this could be going, but you wet your lips as you look at him properly, meeting his gaze with an expression that could only be described as coy, “I talk in my sleep.”

The morning light is infiltrating his room through the cracks of his blinds as he desperately wished he could remember your first meeting with less clarity. But alas, it’s all he can think of until he finally manages to shut his mind up enough to sleep.

Of course when he wakes around eleven, not only does he regret getting to sleep so late, but is worried for a moment that you’d been stuck waiting for him for hours.

Which, while technically you had, you hadn’t seemed to mind. You’d spent the morning catching up with his flatmates, well the one who’d accompanied him to Brighton who’d been overjoyed to see you again, and the others who were more than happy to meet you and help you nurse your hang over. They’d given you a towel so you could shower, and you’d helped cooked breakfast, and he’s spilling from his room, all pyjamas and apologies, but you’re sitting on the sofa with a cup of tea, looking up from your phone.

There’s that smile again, the one you’d worn yesterday at the train station when you’d first spotted him, just as bright to see him for the first time, mid-morning in his apartment. It’s like just being around him brightens you up; he’s not sure he’ll ever get used to that. He’s not sure he wants to. His panic eases. He takes a moment. You ask if he wants tea, and then, with a smile, to remind you how he likes his tea.

He's still half waking up so you're more than happy to lead the conversation, the fallout from the call with Tommy and Dream, looking back on your own antics with faint embarrassment, thankfully, rather than regret.

"It could have been so much worse," you laugh lightly, "my saving grace is that Mark doesn't watch Tommy's streams," you don't leave time for him to even properly process that thought before you're fondly rolling your eyes at your brother's antics. Tommy's still trying to talk you into getting Twitter, but he's been trying for months now.

A moment comes as the two of you are weaving around the kitchen, chattering away about plans for the afternoon, your asides asking about where the tea and sugar are kept not even breaking the flow, it feels familiar in a way he knows it shouldn’t. But then he goes to reach for a cupboard just above your head as you’re adding sugar, part of him knowing that he should ask you to watch out but it’s muscle memory, faster than he can process, and you’re in the middle of speaking -

You’ve ducked, anticipating him, without even missing a beat, or a falter in your words.

He’s still moving on autopilot, searching for the marmalade, and you weave around him, heading to the fridge to get milk. Physically, he’s making himself toast, mentally, he’s beating the part of himself that’s a hopeless romantic with a broomstick as it’s desperately trying to ascribe meaning when there probably isn’t any. Except once you’ve finished with the milk he takes the carton without even thinking, putting it back while he’s enthusing about the unique nature of the DreamSMP as a storytelling device, and you take the marmalade he’d just capped and was about to put back, putting it in the cupboard above you, and somewhere in the back of his mind, the words Drift Compatible light up in neon.

It's almost midday and you’re in his kitchen, dissecting the story he’s now largely responsible for, with the same enthusiasm and detail as you do any of the other literary classics you’d dedicated your life to. There’s a light in your eyes that’s captivating as you scrutinise the story with delight, lavishing praise on he and his friends, and the world they’d helped build. It’s a dialogue, he’s swept up in it, matching your enthusiasm as he adds nuance and clarification, right up until –

“- in the end, I think my main thought is,” you took a long sip of your tea, unable to meet his gaze; when you put your cup down there’s a smile twitching at the edge of your lips, “this Breaking Bad roleplay got really out of hand.”

“But for a Hamilton role play…?” He prompts, grinning from ear to ear.

“Oh, very on brand;” you assured him with mock seriousness, “exactly what American founding father Alexander Hamilton would want for his legacy in the modern day,” you nodded adamantly, and Wilbur sat tall, throwing out his arms in triumph.

“See, you get me, thank you,” he announced, barking a heaty laugh as if relieved to finally have someone seeing his perspective. It dissolves into laughter for you both, before lapsing into comfortable silence.

The few days that you’re here seem to fly by, a blur of joy and easy companionship. You’re less impulsive than he remembers, but there’s still a glint in your eye when you spot a tree with sturdy branches, or look longingly at a high-rise, like you’d still quietly like to lie on the roof and gaze at the sky. On the second night of your stay, he’d woken at three in the morning to get himself a glass of water, and you’d sat bolt upright on the sofa, scaring him half to death, telling him seriously that his flat was ‘sturdy and safe’ as if it was of vital importance. So yes, you still talked in your sleep it seemed. It alleviated some of his worry about the previous night.

Friday, your third day in Brighton, he had intended to stream, but was fully prepared to take a rain check, but you get all wide-eyed, and tell him not to put things off on your behalf. Which is how you both end up in his office, with him on camera, and you sitting on the floor a few feet away, your back against the wall, assuring him that you don’t want to be seen.

“I feel like Tommy told me you wanted to do YouTube too,” he says, browsing through his Twitter for some last minute suggestions for games to play. He hadn’t exactly anticipated doing this stream at all, so it was going to be rather off-the-cuff. You respond with a faint, nondescript huff. Looking over his shoulder, you’re frowning slightly as you look down at your phone.

“Yeah, I-“ you say, distractedly, before you look up and fully process what he’d said, “yeah, I mean, doesn’t everyone our age,” you say, faintly dismissive, expression drawn as you hold your phone close to your chest. Pressing your back flatter against the wall, you crane your neck up to look at his set up.

“I mean, I guess,” he shrugs a little awkwardly, “but I feel like he wouldn’t have mentioned it if there wasn’t, like intent, like he mentioned you wanting to still be a professor.” Your nose wrinkles just a little at that.

“He’s probably remembering me talking about that when I was younger,” though your tone is a little uneasy for reasons Wilbur can’t quite place, you give a small smile, “I think I’m just trying to focus on something realistic and stable for myself now. Even a uni professor needs a Masters; high school teacher only needs a Bachelor,” but you still can’t meet his gaze, “’d you think I’d be good at it?”

“At what?” There’s several different options there, and he’s not quite sure which would matter to you most.

“The high school teacher thing,” finally, you looked back at him, smile widening, mood lifting. He considers for a long moment, leaning back in his desk chair, looking back until he’s gazing at the roof as he makes thoughtful noises.

“I thought you were set on being a uni professor,” he says carefully, dropping his cheek to his shoulder to look at you, expression carefully neutral. You tried to shrug casually, but your shoulders were tense.

“Just answer the question,” you rolled your eyes, trying to hide your sudden discomfort behind your fond tone, “me, attempting to teach high schoolers literary analysis; you think I’m up to it?”

“If it’s the kind of thing you want to do, yeah,” he says with a half-smile, “I’ve heard you talk about the books I hated in high school; if you’d been my teacher I probably wouldn’t have hated them half as much.” His smile stretches wide and as innocent as he can manage as your eyes narrow, trying to decipher exactly what he means by that. But the answer was satisfactory enough for you that you let it drop, changing the subject as you ask what he’ll be playing.

He refers to you as ‘the cryptid crashing on my couch’ smiling bright as the sun as he does so, identifying you early as to not confuse his audience if he talks to you during the stream. He asks again, a final time, if you’d like to join him, that you were more than welcome to. All his audience sees is your hand, holding out your phone to him where you’ve written out ‘only if you distort my voice and blur my face like im in witness protection’. At that, he barks a laugh, and reads your statement to his audience. That’s how you’re known for the rest of the stream, as the hand that pops up whenever you have an aside you think is pertinent to add.

Every other question chat asks is demanding to know who you are. Whenever Wilbur mentions it but keeps his mouth shut on the truth, his gaze flicks to you, because he knows you’ll be smiling. One of his off-hand jokes, however, has you making a noise in the back of your throat which draws his attention. When he looks back at you, there’s something amusing in your eyes, mouth pressed into a thin, frustrated line. Your nose wrinkles, further showing off your frustration at your own self-imposed silence, when you meet his gaze. Of course he knows why; he’d made a blatantly wrong statement with far more confidence than the statement warranted. It was exactly the kind of bullshit you couldn’t help but play along with.

“If you’ve got something to say,” insufferably smug, he watches you puff out your cheeks. Averting your gaze, you flip him off, hand in frame for the camera to see, “sook,” he teases, “just say what’s on your mind.” For a moment, your mouth drops open as if you’re about to say something, to call his bluff, but your gaze flicks to his webcam.

What’s on my mind, you mouth pointedly when you look back to him; something about your expression has turned bashful for reasons he can’t quite fathom. You glance quickly at the camera again before shaking your head, you wish, you mouth, but can’t quite look him in the eye. There’s a serious moment where he considers ending the stream, because this feels like it could be a moment, a chance. He’s a hypocrite, he can’t begin to say what’s on his mind, won’t give himself the chance, getting back to his stream after another brief moment and a deep breath.

By the time the stream ends, chat is eighty percent sure it’s a fellow YouTuber trying to keep a low profile, but Wilbur simply shrugs, stretching back in his chair with a Cheshire-esque smile.

“There’s only seven billion people in the world, eventually one of you’ll guess right,” his smile is toothy, and you’re grinning at him, watching him finish up his stream with your knees drawn up to your chest. After it ends, there’s sincerity in your voice as the two of you head to the pub to meet up with his housemates for drinks.

Just as you had with Wilbur, your friendship with the housemate you remember had picked up as if there wasn’t a two year break in the middle, and the others were bantering with you as if they’d known you just as long. You match them all drink for drink, playing along with stupid jokes and shenanigans. As the night continues and you slide gracefully from tipsy to drunk, you begin to hum to yourself between thoughts and words without even being aware of it. It’s familiar, but you’re not humming consistently enough for Wilbur to pick it.

There’s more flashes of who you used to be, impulsive ideas and an inherent need to climb anything and everything as the pack of you head back to the flat in the early hours of the morning. Wilbur’s perception of the world is blurry in it’s own right, and he barely has enough forethought to keep you from attempting to climb a street-sign like Mulan with your jacket that you’d just shed. He grabs your hand while you’re eyeing up the pole, tugging you along to keep up with the others, and you seem to be deciding whether or not to be put out by it, but when you look down to see him still holding your hand, you grin. Giving a little skip, you behave for the final block to the flat, humming louder now, chattering away whenever you felt your input was required.

You all make it about an hour through the first Lord of the Rings movie, and the terrible, convoluted drinking game you’d made up, before one of his housemates is throwing up, and you all decide to retire for the night instead of trying to keep going; you’d have tomorrow night as well. Like long forgotten habit, when Wilbur stands and stretches out, he offers you his hand, and you take it.

“Don’t have to call this time,” you giggle, sitting on the edge of his bed as he comes back from getting two glasses of water.

“Call?” He puts the glasses on his bedside table, and when he looks at you, déjà vu hits like a truck.

“Like that song,” and you hum the same melody you’ve been humming all night; he recognises it now, “I think they were playing it in the pub,” Wilbur’s pretty sure he would have remembered if they’d played Do I Wanna Know? at the pub; he would be humming it too.

“Ever thought of calling when you’ve had a few, ‘cos I always do~” your memory of the melody is a bit all over the place, but you’re grinning widely, “to see if you’re real,” you explain, then look around, “I can’t believe I keep asking that,” you laughed, “you’re so patient, dude, I can’t believe you keep indulging me, or, well, that’s not the right word but you know what I mean,” you give a gentle, endeared sigh, focus back on him, on where he’s watching you, still wearing his jacket and shoes.

“’s kind of funny, kind of a self fulfilling prophecy,” you say after a moment.

“What is?” He’s afraid of moving, of breaking this moment, the moment he thought he’d never get to experience again.

“The song,” smile widening, you lean back languidly, looking at his roof, “there’s this tune I’ve found that makes me think of you somehow~”

“And you play it on repeat?” Wilbur can’t help but smile in response.

“And I play it on repeat,” you echo quietly, grinning, hands behind your head, “of course you’re real,” you muse with an adoring sigh, “I could never imagine you.”

“Being around you again has kind of made me feel more real than I have in a while,” he finds himself saying, pulling off his shoes. He’s desperately, internally trying to convince himself to not do what he knows he’s going to do. But you agree with the sentiment, and he has to pretend like the rest of the song isn’t playing in his head, chipping away at his reservations bit by bit. You say it’s all felt very familiar as you’re pushing yourself back up to a sitting position, head tilted just a little as you watch him. There’s something in your eyes that’s dangerous and enticing; he’s doomed. Pulling off his jacket, he finds himself unable to look at you despite the way he's steeling his nerves, “would you forgive me for being selfish for a moment?”

“Depends,” your voice is a murmur, something unidentifiable in your tone. When you stand, he catches the movement out of the corner of his eyes, “depending on what you mean,” you give the faintest huff of laughter, “I might even encourage it.”

“Encourage it,” he echoes softly, and your smile turns to something coy. Anything he’d wanted to say is lost in that moment, and he crosses the space to you, taking your face in his hands. For a moment, he pauses, gaze searching yours. It’s time enough for you to break away, to back out.

“Familiar?” He murmurs with the faintest smile, trying to memorise the way you’re looking at him, almost starry-eyed, voice catching in your throat.

“Wil, please -” suddenly breathless, you’re almost pleading and it’s all the encouragement he needs, crashing his lips to yours. It’s sweet triumph, just a kiss for all of three seconds before he finds his arms winding around your neck, pulling you closer, pulling a pleased noise from you as you deepen the kiss to something messy and insistent.

All his hesitations and reservations and doubts are quickly disappearing, just as the back of your legs hit his bedframe and the moment break as you both find yourself falling; Wilbur catches himself before he lands directly on top of you. In the few seconds that follow, shock reads on both of your faces like a neon sign, as he’s braced over you, blinking rapidly. You recover first, beaming as laughter erupts from you. Of course he’d almost accidentally body slam you when he finally gets to kiss you again. Groaning with faux embarrassment, he flops onto the bed beside you, unable to keep his own laughter in as he hears yours.

“Pretty familiar,” you giggled, looking up at the ceiling as your laughter died down.

“Would another reminder help?” Looking to you, he reaches out to trace his fingertips along your jaw, and you lean into his touch for a moment before giving your coy but enthusiastic response.

Making out with you in his bed after a night at the pub turns out to still be one of his favourite experiences, all he needed really was a reminder. Both of you agree it wouldn’t be right to go any further in your current, drunken states, but considering he hadn’t expected any of this, he’s thrilled as you kiss down the column of his throat. Your nails are a welcome sting, and the noises that escape your with each gentle bite he gives is like music to his ears.

The guilt, however, starts to settle in when you both agree to try and get some sleep. Which is… difficult. If he falls asleep, the night ends, and you’re a day closer to leaving, to going back home to your boyfriend. Neither of you is innocent in this, but something about the idea of knowingly, deliberately, being a side-piece curdles and sours in his chest. You’re laying on your side, while he’s looking up at the ceiling, gaze glassy as he’s stuck in his own mind.

This should feel worse than it does, morally speaking, he thinks. But it feels almost sickening peaceful, this moment soothing an ache in his soul that he’d successfully repressed right up until you video called right back into his life a few months ago.

He’s awoken from his surprisingly restful sleep at around five in the morning as you jostle him. Only half-aware, he can feel the way you’re tapping his torso, then his shoulder, moving down his arm, chanting the word ‘hand’ in a way that’s more than a little ominous. But he’s seen this before.

“Y’ okay?” He asks blearily, and you go dead silent. For one, unsettling moment, you’re frozen, before he feels your fingertips press gently against his wrist by his side, before sliding against his palm, fingers lacing with his. Then, carefully, you rest your head back on the pillow by his. “Better?” He mumbles, yawning, and giving your hand a squeeze.

“Need hand,” you say with absolute sincerity. He knows, even in his half asleep state, that he’s more conscious than you.

“Need hand?”

“Don’t let go it’s illegal,” you tell him, as if stressing the severity of the situation, but he’s already almost back to sleep. This too feels familiar, he finds himself reminiscing before he passes out again.

“I’m gonna get you a roof,” is the first thing you’d ever said to Wilbur in your sleep. It was the week after you’d first met, and your second time spending the night in his flat. You’d woken him up to tell him this, all while being completely unaware that you were still asleep.

“I have a roof?” He rubs at his eyes, confused and concerned given the intensity with which you were speaking.

“You deserve so many rooves,” you tell him, one hand on his shoulder, eyes wide and glassy, but sincere in your absurdity, “I’ll get you so many rooves.”

“What?”

“A whole city of rooves, Wilbur,” you’d insisted, “for you, and for me, and for the stars.”

“What do you mean? Are you okay?” He’d asked, yawning a little, propping himself up. Your hand was still on his shoulder. It seemed, however, that your urgent thought was over, as you simply stared at him blankly, expression vacant, evidentially not hearing anything he said. He does try again, says your name gently; you blink at him.

“Go back to sleep,” he says, thankful when you comply and flop back down, seemingly content. At least now he could be sure you weren’t joking about sleep talking, especially when he brings it up the next day and you scrunch up your whole face with embarrassment, having no memory of anything you’d said.

So it became habit for him, to make note of the things you said to him on the nights he awoke to you talking in your sleep. You always seemed to be suitably mortified whenever he brought them up, but you never asked him to stop, as if simply embarrassed by how sweet and sincere you were despite not making any sense most of the time. It’s not every night, of course because you’re not at his flat every night; you’ve really only known each other for a few weeks, that would be strange. Except then it becomes a month, and it’s every night you are at his flat, and he finds himself looking forward to hearing whatever it is your unconscious mind deems important for him to know. The page in his notes app is barely more comprehensible than you are.

“bad interior decorator but its okay because you’re a good guitar”

Very worried about my circulation in the winter

Good flat

Offered to punch a police officer for me since she kept telling me I’d been arrested

Said she’d float away if I didn’t hold her hand. Also said she’s very bad at being a balloon animal because she keeps opening her mouth to breath and letting the air out.

Im the best half of a spider :)

Took my hand, told me to wait here, and immediately fell back to sleep

“love a long boy” asked if that was me and she just said “gangly bitch” :)

Rats told her they have orgies in the walls because they’re full of love too. she thought it was important that i know

Really tried hard to get up and climb out of my window insisting that we needed to climb a tree. Back in bed she claimed that I was good for her and told me that she loved me.

When he wakes up the next morning, wakes up properly, for the first time in years, he adds to the list he’d curated, both from last night, and the two nights before. You’re still asleep beside him, curled up on your side away from him. He feels a little strange, a little nostalgic and guilty in equal measure, both for the warm sense of contentment that settle in his chest, and acknowledging that he never deleted those notes from his phone, that they sat idle at the bottom of the list of notes he’s taken in the past few years.

So he gets up, removes himself from the moment and gets breakfast, because it’s almost ten in the morning and he really should be starting his day, and not being a creep. He takes the time as he waits for the kettle to boil to remind himself that last night was absolutely the wrong way to go about shooting his shot, and that you still had a boyfriend. Did he regret kissing you last night? Absolutely not. Would he let it happen again? Well, probably not; if he had any good sense he wouldn’t.

And tomorrow you were heading back to London.

And…

And…

And where’s his good sense gone? Probably where he left it last night, in a pile on his floor beside your jacket, because after getting food delivered, the two of you last all of one episode of a nature documentary he’s only half following, before you somehow end up in his lap.

“Christ, didn’t miss this,” one of his housemates remarks when he gets home, punctuating it by throwing a balled up, empty chip packet at the pair of you.

“Not our fault you’re home early,” Wilbur grins as you hide your embarrassment against his collar.

“Were you raised in a barn?” His housemate counters from the kitchen, “we just bought this lounge, don’t be feral –“

“We weren’t being feral!” Wilbur crows, just as you raise your head and call out.

“But I’m always a bit feral,” and Wilbur feels like he should have anticipated that, scrunching up his face with defeated amusement. He concedes, mentioning that you can watch the show in his room, his hands resting on your hips.

“Yeah,” your lips twitch into a smirk, “that was the important part in all of this.” You quirk a challenging eyebrow at him, and Wilbur’s pretty sure he made some kind of resolve this morning, but can’t even begin to remember it.

“I was deeply invested in it,” he tries to be earnest, tries not to smile to wide.

“Was truly fascinating,” you nodded, matching his energy, still in his lap, arms around his neck, “riveting plot.”

“It was a documentary,” his resolve is crumbling, and your smile grows wider.

“I must have been distracted,” you murmur, leaning in to kiss him again, though this time Wilbur’s housemate throws his keys at you two, hitting Wilbur in the back of the head. It’s incentive enough to finally move. There’s a bounciness to the way you move, picking up your leftovers from lunch, putting the scraps in the bin, swanning through the flat to Wilbur’s room as he follows, endeared by your whimsical nature.

You’re spinning idly in his desk chair, waiting for him, one leg tucked up beneath the other. Closing the door behind himself carefully, he watches for a moment, leaning on his wall, arms crossed. Each time you spin, you make eye contact with him, expression bright.

“So, documentary?” Finally, you grin mischievously and keep spinning. That smile could inspire him to move mountains, or something else sickeningly saccharine; his stupid heart is bordering on embarrassing itself at this point. So before he can say something embarrassing and far too honest for this light mood, he closes the distance between the two of you, taking your face in his hands and crushing his lips to yours.

Later, the guilt will settle in his bones.

Later, he’ll ask the question that’s been plaguing him, ask if you even like your boyfriend.

Later, you’ll be wrapped up in his sheets, stretched out on his bed as your whole face scrunches like you’ve bitten a lemon, and he’ll have no idea what you mean when you tell him that that hasn’t mattered in a very long time. It feels like an answer bigger than whatever’s happening between the two of you, but it doesn’t make him feel better.

Later, he’ll be wearing pyjama pants and you’ll be wearing his sheet like a toga, and you’ll try to absolve his guilt. You’ll take his hands once he puts down his glass of water, and tell him that he doesn’t owe Mark shit, and you’d made your choice happily; Wilbur isn’t the guilty party here.

Later, he’ll ask why.

And you’ll let go of his hands. In the moment before you turn away, your expression falls, but he’s not sure he was meant to see that, as when you sit on his bed, wearing a coy smile, there’s something faintly guarded beneath your teasing tone as you tell him that he’s funny and pretty; what’s not to like?

“You play along, people are so afraid to play along, you know? And you start your own bits, good bits,” you’d told him over lunch, having only known him for a month at that point, “you’re a weird bitch, Gold, I like that in a person,” you grinned, before taking a bite of your food to emphasise your point.

“Glowing review,” Wilbur smirked, only half-sarcastic, as he watches you over the lip of his cup before taking a sip, “you should add it to your Google review of the flat.” It had become something of a running joke, and Wilbur has come to love the endearingly mischievous glint in your eyes every time it’s referenced.

“Weird bitch, five stars?”

“Feel like it would draw in the hipster crowd,” Wilbur’s smile grows wider as he clarifies.

“You and your flatmates are the hipster crowd, you don’t need my help with that,” you point out, instead immediately offering the alternative of, “you should slap it in the corner of your first album.” The assuredness of your words, even amidst this joke, catch him by surprise. First album, as if you knew there’s be more than one. But you’re still talking; “you know I do mean weird bitch as a compliment, right?”

“Y/N, you’re a weird bitch,” Wilbur says it fondly, say it like he means obviously. You beam.

“See that’s what I like, you know? People are afraid to be weird bitches but weird bitches make the world go round.”

And he gets these flashes, these memories that he’s never read too much into before; there’s always something there, always something you can’t say just beneath the surface –

“What about you?” Your words break through his thoughts, curious if guarded, and he takes a deep breath, pondering for a moment, “is it just nostalgia?” You huff a laugh but there’s no humour in it; you can’t quite look him in the eyes. But you’ve given him an easy out, if he wanted to take it.

“Nostalgia’s a pretty way of putting it,” he chooses his words after only a faint hesitation, because he’s not going to fuck this up and take the nonsense you say in your sleep to heart, he’s not going to emotionally overstep. So he smiles, and the tense set of your shoulders relaxes.

“I needed… this,” you admit carefully, something grateful in your voice despite your obvious hesitation. He still takes it as a win.

“And you know I’m always happy to help a friend in a time of need,” Wilbur’s tone is faintly amused as he steps forward and leans down, into your space, though you’re giggling at the not-quite-truth of his words, picking and choosing which parts you believe. Still, you tilt your face so your lips meet his, and Wilbur won’t allow himself to dwell and ruin this moment. Or the several that follow.

That night, the two of you make dinner together in his little kitchen and take it up to the roof of his flat. He’ll give a half-hearted apology about it not being as tall as his London flat, or even your dorm building, but you’re uncharacteristically quiet as you look at the stars. When you look at him, there’s so much in your eyes that he can’t even begin to understand; mouth open but wordless, you look like you’re on the verge of a half-dozen different things, but unsure where to start.

“We should eat before the pasta gets cold,” you drop your gaze, finally speaking, but you don’t seem able to stop smiling. A little quieter you add, “hell, it’s been so long since I’ve been on a roof.”

“That doesn’t sound right,” Wilbur can’t help his confused little half-smile, “do you mean, like, you’ve stopped trespassing on rooves or-“

“No, just altogether,” you carefully mix the sauce in with your pasta, not taking your eyes off of it, “even ones I’m allowed to be on; didn’t realise I missed it this much,” finally, you meet his gaze. He’s surprised by the forlorn look in your eyes; despite this, you’re smiling, thanking him.

The moment passes when you look away, without even giving him a chance to let you know that you didn’t need to thank him for anything, but your tone has brightened as you announce that you’ve been reading the fanfic named Heat Waves purely because you think telling Tommy that you had would causes him psychic damage, but it turned out to be well written. Wilbur suggests telling him while he’s streaming with Dream; the idea has you incapacitated with laughter.

His chest feels lighter somehow, but there’s an impending sense of dread in the back of his mind knowing that he may very well start spiralling the moment you head back to London. If he doesn’t dive into a new project, he’s not going to be able to stop himself thinking about all the things you’ve said and not said, and what it all means.

He’s not awoken by any tremendous movement that night, instead he gets up to go to the bathroom, and when he gets back into bed beside you, you don’t even open your eyes as you drape an arm over him.

“Love you, Will,” you sigh, cheek half pressed against his shoulder. He tries not to take your sleep talking to heart, but it still makes him smile.

During the drive to the train station the next day, Wilbur mentions that you’re always welcome to stay a few more days. While you thank him for the offer, you joke that you don’t want Mark getting suspicious, and it leaves a sour aftertaste in the back of his mouth. But as he agrees to walk you to the train, it disappears.

“Have you ever heard of the poem You Are Jeff?” You ask as you hoist your bag from the boot, and Wilbur makes a noise in the back of his throat indicating that it hasn’t. But he should have. You’re quiet; he asks if you recommend it. After a noncommittal noise of your own, you shrug, “I was thinking about it in the car, it’s kind of long, but the last stanza…” trailing off, you shut the boot and take a deep breath. Grinning with faint nervous energy, you change the topic to your own imminent departure. Wilbur tries to make a note of the poem, but it doesn’t really stick.

It feels sappy, but like the done thing, to watch the train leave, and it doesn’t have long to go as he finds himself leaning on a pole, watching you through the window packing your bag into the luggage compartment above your seat. You catch him watching through the window and you grin impishly for a moment before darting through the cart to the door as the voice on the speaker announces the train’s stops; it’ll be leaving very soon. But you weave through the thinning crowd for a moment until you find him, and he’s already hugged you goodbye so he’s not sure what else there is to say. You glance surreptitiously around for a moment before beckoning him close. He obliges, confused for all of three seconds before you kiss him quickly.

“Okay, I should…” you seem a bit flustered, like you can’t quite believe your own courage, gesturing to the train. But Wilbur sees your hesitation, and if he gets a kiss goodbye, he’s going to get the big, movie kiss, so he pulls you back in with a grin.

If it’s the last thing you remember of the trip, he wants to leave you breathless, and he succeeds, murmuring for you to come back soon, arms still around each other in the few moments that follow. You nod, a little speechless, a little giddy, stealing a final, quick kiss before boarding the train for good.

The doors close. You wave through the window. The train departs.

[okay I’ll bite] he messages Tommy from his car, still in the parking lot of the train station half an hour after you’d left, having been working on the song he’d been trying to ignore in the back of his mind the whole time you’d been in town; [what is mark’s deal? Y/N doesn’t even like him and neither do you. what’s up with that?]

[he’s a bitch and im going to roundhouse him into an active volcano] Tommy sends back with very little hesitation.

[i’m serious]

[so am i] Tommy responds, and Wilbur scrunches up his whole face in exasperation. But then his phone is ringing.

“Is she still there?” Is the first thing Tommy asks, frowning over the video call, and Wilbur, expression still mostly pained, shakes his head, “she get on the train okay?”

“Half an hour ago,” Wilbur sighs deeply, finally relaxing his face, looking at the uncharacteristically serious kid on call, “I’ve just spent five days with her, and I don’t mean to pry, but I have to, man I have to.”

“She really, actually told you she doesn’t like Mark?” Tommy’s tone is hard, and Wilbur hesitates for a moment.

“Implied as much,” he deliberates before adding, “said it didn’t matter if she liked him or not,” and he tries not to think too much about the situation in which you’d said it, at least not while on call with your little brother.

“And you believe her?” The question is unexpected, and feels rather like a test.

“I mean, yeah, I- uh, yeah,” seeing as you’d happily cheated on him with Wilbur, he was inclined to believe you. Looking at his little phone screen, however, he sees some of the tension ease in Tommy.

“Okay, good,” he says, mostly to himself, “it’s good she’s saying it to more people, people who believe her,” he specifies, which doesn’t sit quite right with Wilbur. He files that away for the time being, “it used to be just when she was drunk she’d call and rant and wouldn’t get mad at me for calling him a bitch, but,” Tommy makes a face, like he knows he shouldn’t be saying this much, but he doesn’t stop himself, “it’s been happening more.”

“The bitching about him?”

Tommy’s quiet for a very long time.

“Yeah,” one word says so much; yeah the bitching is happening more, but so’s the drinking. But Wilbur won’t pull on that thread, that’s not his business. Well, none of this is his business really, but he feels like he’s been left out of the loop a little too much regarding that boyfriend of yours.

“So what’s the deal with Mark? Is he… is he magic or something?” Wilbur fumes, “because she- she- Tommy she doesn’t seem happy with him, so I don’t –“

“She’s not,” Tommy groans, “and I don’t get it either, I just know-“ and finally his mouth snaps shut, scowling. Wilbur wants to apologise, wants to acknowledge that he shouldn’t be asking about this, that he knows he’s prying, but Tommy exhales loudly through his nose, “Mark was like a knight in shining armour back when they were in high school, bit of a dork, but nice enough and didn’t seem as much of a Tory as his dad, so I thought he was pretty alright.”

“What?”

“Mark’s dad’s been chief of police in our town for as long as I can remember,” Tommy says with a sigh. Wilbur watches quietly, patiently, as Tommy puts down his phone at his desk and runs his hands through his hair, “and Y/N’s kind of always been seen as a wild card by our parents; I don’t know if she was like that when you met her, but that would have been the only time she hasn’t been with Mark since she was seventeen, I don’t know if she –“

“Climbing things, enjoys being on rooves,” Wilbur nods, and for the briefest moment, Tommy smiles, though it’s tight, “impulsive things like that?”

“Yeah,” Tommy’s got both his hands resting on his head, leaning back in his desk chair, gazing off into the distance, “it got her in a lot of trouble when she was about my age, but I think Mark ended up offering to talk to his dad –“

“The policeman?” Wilbur interrupts, and Tommy pauses, gaze flicking to his phone, expression drawn. For a moment, he sees the family resemblance between you and your little brother around his eyes in this moment of seriousness, of unspoken truth. His silence speaks volumes. “I just never knew is all,” Wilbur says quietly. Tommy looks away again.

“Yeah, well, it’s not like she was ever charged with anything, Mark made sure of that,” things quickly start clicking into place bit by terrible bit. Finally, Tommy sighed, almost deflating in his seat as he doubles over, forehead coming to rest at the edge of his desk, “I don’t know- man, I don’t know why she stays with him,” he admits, “I’ve- I’ve got theories, but she never- I don’t know for sure, you know?” When he looks up, there’s pain in his eyes; his heart was obviously aching for his sister.

“Man, she called me bloody well crying the day she found out he’d moved to London after her,” he murmurs, dejected at the very memory. However, before Wilbur can even ask why Tommy’s telling him all of this, the boy in question sits back up, tone far lighter, “she used to tell me about you, you know, back before we knew each other.”

“What’d she say?” Both confusion and affection course through Wilbur at this piece of information, and Tommy shakes his head, laughing softly.

“You and your flatmates were the best thing to happen to her in a long time, she couldn’t wait to tell me about you lot,” his tone is so affectionately teasing it’s almost sickening. But it practically confirms something Wilbur had been concerned about for a long while; you hadn’t revealed how close you and Wilbur actually were, either when you’d first met, or now. Thank god, that was future-Wilbur’s problem.

“I think that’s still true,” Tommy says after a moment, “but maybe I’m biased. Would be a bit hard if my sister and one of my best mates didn’t get along,” Wilbur feels his heart grow warm at the sentiment, listening to Tommy ramble on, “and it’s good for her to have someone else- I mean, someone who she can admit that stuff about not liking Mark to. He’s so Milquetoast and that’s the problem, everyone thinks he’s incapable of sin, and ‘calmed Y/N down’ or whatever the fuck… I hate him.” Tommy groaned, rolling his eyes, before pivoting without a second thought, “are we still streaming Lore tonight?”

Wilbur sighs and it feels like the tension in his whole body eases.

“Yeah.”

But it doesn’t last.

It’s a weird stream, a weird night overall, only half focused on the content. Thankfully he wasn’t the focus of the lore, so he could get away with being a little vacant as Ghostbur. The moment he signs off, he’s humming the now-established melody that’s been frankly plaguing him, and piecing together lyrics on the drive home.

The days pass by, turn to weeks, and you’re still messaging each other like nothing ever happened. Sometimes friends shag friends and its not a big deal; usually those friends aren’t actively in other meant-to-be monogamous relationships with people they don’t actually like, but that’s more your problem than his, so he tries not to let it get to him.

But it does.

Every text feels strangely sanitised, like words and meaning can’t quite align, with the freedom of honesty only being granted in the sporadic calls the two of you still keep up. He likes habit, likes tradition, likes the sound of your voice. So maybe he’s weak, he’s not the one playing along while seeing someone else.

"Hey," he can hear your smile in your voice, and can't help his own, feeling tipsy and warm as he struggles with the buttons of his shirt.

"Hey," he giggles, and you don't even ask if he's drunk; its usually the only time you call each other.

"Good night?" You ask, and he gives a long, contented sigh, pausing where he's losing against his shirt.

"Such a good night," he hums contentedly, and decides to leave his shirt for the moment, focusing instead on his shoes, which seem like the next most worthy opponent, "you gotta come to Brighton again, we only saw, like, the third most best pub, this one- this tonight one has the best beer battered chips, I can't believe I didn't think to bring you here -"

"Is that Pandora?" Across the line, Mark speaks around a yawn, "is she okay, it's late -"

"Who?" Wilbur asks, and it takes him a few moments and falling on his ass to put the pieces together as you seem to be telling Mark that everything's okay, "is my name in your phone Pandora?" He's met with muffled sounds of movement, and then the closing of a door, and you huff a faint laugh.

"Sorry about that -"

"Is my name in your phone Pandora?" Wilbur asks, feeling far more sober than he'd felt several minutes ago. But you're silent; it's answer enough, "does Mark still not know we're friends?"

"Are you home safe?" You sound suddenly very tired.

"Do you want me to stop calling?" Wilbur asks seriously; it's not accusatory, it's genuine. Something about knowing how thoroughly you've been lying about him to your boyfriend, it makes him feel ill. In his current state he can't say what he wants to, well he can, but he knew he's put his foot in it, sound like he was blaming you, and that's the last thing he wants, "I can stop- if it- it's more trouble than I'm worth -"

"Wil," you laugh softly, warmly, endeared, "it's okay, it's- Mark's friends- it's okay. It's like putting a goldfish in a new tank, gotta acclimatise him to the idea of us being friends before he knows you're a dude."

"Is that why you don't text or call Tommy? Because Mark gets weird seeing a man's name on your phone?" Falls from Wilbur's lips as he gives in and lays back on his floor. It takes him a moment to realise what he's said, right around the time you start spluttering - "fuck, sorry." He groans, scrunching his whole face up with regret, "don't hold that against me, I'm sorry -"

"That's... not exactly the reason," your voice at the other end of the line is so small, "or, well, no it's not exactly applicable, since I don't really message anyone..." you stall for a moment, before admitting, as if through clenched teeth, determined to finish the thought despite realising it might be a mistake, "apart from you."

"What if he hears its me when you pick up?"

Immediately, and much to his surprise, your tone shifts very suddenly.

"I'll risk it if it means I get to hear you like this," there's something about the way you say that, the way you're grinning and amused at that, that has his heart in his throat.

"Why?"

The silence is fucking deafening. He's half worried you've hung up, and he has to check, but no, you're just quiet on the other end.

"You're not gonna remember this, are you?" And he's not even sure of his own answer, but you don't give him time for one, "enrichment?" Though it sounds like a question, like your trying to make it sound light but it’s not quite working, like you're not even sure yourself. The word, however, has the air Wilbur breathes turning sour.

"You're not a zoo animal," he responds flatly.

"I shouldn't have said that," you laugh awkwardly, trying to keep your tone bright, but its clear your heart's not in it.

"Did you lie to him when you came to Brighton?"

Silence. Again. Always silence when you both know the truth and know it will hurt.

"You're drunk, Wil."

“You know talking to the people who love you shouldn’t feel like enrichment, right?” He asks, all sharp and mean and bitter in the moment as he found himself fixated on how thoroughly he loathed your boyfriend, how you could barely speak to your brother, or seemingly have friends because of him. It’s misplaced, the anger spilling out at you, but he’s not in any sort of shape to think critically about it. Over the phone, you’re spluttering, confused and defensive, but he’s so caught in his own head that he barely hears it. Angry and half-dressed and cross-legged on his bedroom floor, Wilbur scowls with sudden clarity.

“Is that all I am to you?”

“This is entrapment,” he can hear you’re crying at the other end of the line.

“It’s not entrapment, it’s a yes-no question,” he snaps, “am I just enrichment in your little life? Something a little bit brighter than your reality? A holiday; am I just a holiday to you –?!”

“This is so much bigger than you, Wilbur!” Explodes from you tearfully, “and I’m sorry, okay? You don’t deserve this, I know that –“

“Go back to bed,” Wilbur flopped back onto his floor, looking up at his ceiling.

“Wilbur –“

“Go,” he says, “I’m sorry I called.”

The conversation weighs on him even after a full night of rest, and all he knows is that he has to get into the studio before this song eludes him.

The content, the idea isn't new to him or his music, but this… this one’s the most telling; he’d had plausible deniability with the others, fabricated things to make it not immediately obvious to… well to anyone who isn’t you. He’s pretty sure you’ll get half a verse in and know, because sometimes it feels like you know him well enough that it's almost an accident. Because yes, he’s written for songs for girls he’s loved before you, and girls he’s loved in the two years of radio silence, but considering the situation he found himself in, he desperately needed some plausible deniability with that one.

This one, however, had no structure until he saw you again, until he left and your absence felt raw. It’s half finished when he brings it to the band. He’s immensely grateful when Joe takes an interest and offers to help him finish writing it.

But in the end, he knows he’s already swallowed his doubts and agreed to put Sex Sells on the EP. This one they’re tentatively calling Perfume, and already he’s conflicted. Maybe it’ll go on their album.

[miss-kittys-magical-library]

Tupelo Honey

Word count- 2200

Warnings- language, a hint of spice, grifting and scams, mention of drug use and alcohol, some spoilers for the movie "Moonwalkers"

A/N- Leon and Honey find themselves really good at con artistry. A government agent from Honey's past catches up to them all just as a grift lands Leon in over his head.

Chapter 5- Bad Moon Rising

July, 1969

Honey could hardly believe half the shit that poured out of Jonny’s mouth. His face matched his hair each time she called him a silver tongue devil. The promises he made Glen and his awful The Who knock-off band. Gigs all over London that happened to fall through at the last minute. A recording session in a studio run by Sir George Martin. Except he was King of The Automats, and not The Beatles.

Yet he was often flush with cash that turned into posh suits and dolls and nose candy. There were late night phone calls promising someone on the other end the band was on “the verge!” Honey and Leon had shacked up for nearly two years, she had a stomach that protruded with child to show for it, and this rock group had never leapt into wherever this verge may be.

There wasn't room these days for the 3.5 of them in the sparse flat above the pub. Toula and Nick had tossed them from the place above their restaurant months ago. They warned Leon that his mate would land him in trouble, so it was best he found out on his own without being attached to them. So Leon and Honey worked honest jobs like the punters near King’s Cross.

Sometimes Honey spun tales about a violent husband who gave her that black eye and the one on the way and now she had nowhere to go. She just needed a bit of dosh to get out of London proper. It often worked, with Honey dipping a little extra as she hugged them and cried.

Other times, Leon would rage after her and make a scene on the street. Most times he talked his way outta being punched. Sometimes he took a hit and twenty quid. The best was Honey’s false labor and pained sobs.

This one posh couple only had diamond earrings and platinum watch they offered Leon in exchange for them taking his wife. His eyes nearly bugged out of his head. Hours later when Honey had slipped away (after an amazing dinner she was certain Sugar Baby appreciated too), she came home to her fiancé kissing a stack of cash. Honey stashed it away behind a Janis Joplin poster, and Leon fucked her proper doggy style. Both impervious to the baby inside of her.

This was their favorite con

----

Honey had gone on holiday with Leon’s parents in her eighth month of pregnancy. He had kissed her goodbye and made her, quite literally, pinky swear to call as soon as they got to Brighton. He wanted to join but had rehearsals for a new musical coming over over the next few weeks.

“You absolute cunt!” Honey cried into the phone after she had walked (waddled really) with Nick and Toula down to the beach. There, around a table by the sea were Honey’s own parents and sister Julia. It had been almost three years.

“Whot?” Leon panicked, but a hit off his fresh joint calmed him. He scratched at the hair he wasn't used to now “growing” from his face. Figured he would have a bit of a stag while she was gone.

“I said you absolute cunt! I love you.”

“Oh, right. Yeah. You love it?”

“Are you kidding me? Leon, it's my family. Of course I love it. Ok, I'll pop round the hotel shop and call again before we leave. Are you alright?”

“Peachy!”

“Are you stoned?”

“A bit. Having some stress while you're gone. I'll be copesetic when you get back, I promise.” His girlfriend, against her better judgment, took Leon at his word.

----

Honey came home a few days later. She was unpacking when Leon stumbled into the room all pinks and green vest. Her leopard coat tossed haphazardly on the dirty floor.

Was this place that big of a mess when she left? There's no way she had been living in a disaster during the last stages of her pregnancy. She was also curious about the strange child-like drawing of Jonny on the wall in the living.. space. How it was weirdly threatening in its innocence; though she assumed that was the idea.

"Hey there midnight cowboy," she giggled as Leon swayed a bit while emptying his pockets of cash and his zippo.

"Whot?" he turned towards Honey, eyes half shut.

To her shock, a beard covered his cheeks and chin as well as the fullest mustache she had ever seen on him. "What the fuck is on your face?!" she grimaced a bit.

"Whot?" he slurred for the second time since walking through the bedroom door. His arms snaked around Honey and invaded her space by bending her awkwardly backwards and showering kisses on her neck and chin.

"Leon! Stop! I can't bend this way right now. The beard and mustache," Honey pushed him off of her but twisted her fingers through the green vest he wore over a pink dress shirt she had never seen before. "You look like Tevye in Fiddler on The Roof. Are we Russian Jews now?"

"Is Kubrick a Russian Jew?" Leon wavered a bit on his feet while his fiancee absently stroked her hands over his chest. "You like? Jonny said I looked like a bit of a poofter, but I said 'Nah. Pink is masculine on the right setting. You think my body's the right setting, innit?" His eyes were half closed.

"Did you say Stanley Kubrick? The foot fetish pedophile? He's a Polish Jew. Why? You're not in Lolita on the West End are you?"

"Nahhhh. Kiss me, I missed you. And you poppet," Leon rubbed Honey's stomach a bit too enthusiastically as he planted a sloppy whiskey kiss on her mouth. He hunched down to nuzzle his cheek into it. "You like Papa's beard, right? If Mummy is good she might like it better on her inner thighs."

Honey grimaced while briefly lacing her fingers in his curls. She held him to her pregnant belly before turning away.

He slapped her on the ass as she did. "Pressie in our little hidey hole for you, Gracie. Nicked a few thousand pounds in case." He lit a joint without thought, took a hit and proffered it to Honey. She flicked it out the open window. "CIA punter," he lowered and exaggerated his voice sat down on the bed. "Go on look. After this I'm giving my loves a proper life. No grifts," Leon flailed his arms outstretched and back. "No uncertain acting gigs." repeated gesture. "I'm going to the bloody moon and back for my girls."

Honey turned her back to him and opened their hiding spot. Inside were stacks of cash she had never seen before. She grabbed handfuls of it and faced Leon who had somehow staggered out of his clothing, completely nude.

“Leon!” Honey giggled. She held the cash to her chest and changed the tone of her voice. “Leon,” she sang to herself mostly out of disbelief.

He flopped on the bed propped on his side, “Go on give under the bed a look. Then take off your dress and let's have sex.”

Honey rolled her eyes and took the money out of the spot and stuffed it in their overnight bags. “You're in no state to wank let alone shag. We're taking this tomorrow and leaving. It's too much we can't stay here. Not with Jonny.”

She labored to get down on her knees bedside, and reached for the silver briefcase hiding there. She set it on the bed and easily popped the latch and the air rushed out of her lungs. “Leon, who did you steal this from?”

“No. He gave it to us. A real nutter too. He was in Vietnam a few years, he told me. It says it all in those documents Jonny told me to fuck off reading, but I did. CIA fellow trying to con us into thinking he was an American film producer. Kid something.” Leon scratched his head and sneered in thought, his mouth hung open.

Honey held up a business card as she tried to scramble to her feet, “Tom Kidman?”

Leon sat up to seize his fiancee by the waist. He undid the string that barely held the bodice of Honey's dress together. A satisfied grin spread across his lips when he caught sight of her naked, swollen breasts. He didn't care if it was because of the baby. He happily buried his face in her cleavage.

“I don't wanna talk about it anymore, love.”

His voice was muffled by her skin. Leon lifted her dress up over her body; she let him take it completely off followed by her panties. His large hands covered her ass as he massaged it while his bearded face rubbed all over her collarbone and neck. He left kisses in its wake.

Honey wrapped her arms around Leon's shoulders and sighed. She let the new sensation wash over her, forgetting briefly what was even going on. “We can't stay in London, Leon.” A moan escaped her lips as he captured one of her nipples in his mouth.

“Tomorrow, Honey. Please let's have sex?” He looked up at her with large, green puppy dog eyes.

“No.”

“Give us a tug then?” He gestured towards his swollen cock.

“No! Go to bed! You're like a horny teenager, and it's weird.”

“Is not! Look at you, fucking gorgeous like that.” Leon leaned back on the bed to gawk at Honey. Her cheeks flared red, and she covered her stomach protectively. “Right stunner my girl is, carrying our baby.”

Honey softened while Leon got properly in bed and patted the space beside him. She laid down to settle into his arms and thought about that sentiment. Our baby. Leon never called her his, always ours. Even that, he would say, wasn't necessarily true.

His fingertips traced an invisible line over Honey’s shoulder and arm draped across his chest. “I guess.. Selina doesn’t belong to us, does she? We just sort of mind her and help her along.”

“Leon, I really fucking love you.”

“Blimey, I would hope so after all this time!” he teased her. “I really fucking love you too. Let’s see if she still loves us after next week.”

“What does THAT mean?”

“Just a vision of chaos is all. You know, like how I get sometimes.”

Leon was right. Sometimes he did seem intuitive about what was coming, as if he had a way of pulling it from the future and making it his own in the present.

Honey thought about this as she drifted off to sleep. A thought that turned into a tiny annoyance in her chest when she saw the business card in the briefcase. An annoyance that only grew as she and Leon went to the last appointment with the obstetrician. An annoyance that fanned the flame of anger when they got home and Jonny rambled through her cooking about the Iron Monger coming ‘round for his debt. It was an anger that sang her to sleep for a mid-morning nap. And it was anger that turned to panic and fear when Leon and Johnny burst through the bedroom door in a whirlwind of arms and legs and red hair and packing.

“Are you two schmucks insane?! What the fuck is happening?! I can’t move this fast!” Honey thanked her stars she had stashed away the cash in Leon’s overnight bag. She thanked Artemis she had the intelligence to already pack a suitcase for when the baby came as she hastily pulled a dress over her head.

“I told you something was coming.” Leon stumbled around putting his boots on and several other layers of clothes remembering his vest from Honey first. “You said he was a stupid American TWAT!” he yelled at Johnny while he and Honey rushed through the bedroom door.

They comically came to a halt. Honey slammed into Leon’s back and swore softly under her breath. It was drowned out by Leon’s “Oh fuck!” as he pulled her close to his side protectively. Honey was in full view of the man in their miniscule kitchen. He was livid, visibly trembling with anger in the same way Leon did.

“Nice to see you again, Mr. Kubrick.” The disgruntled lion of a man noticed Honey for the first time in her crocheted mini dress and bare feet. A grin like no other crept along his face, and she could tell he was struggling just to do it.

Honey crossed her arms to try and hide her heart, surely beating wildly right out of her chest. Her countenance was purely vexed. “We didn't have bacon on the menu for today. Lovely of you to abandon the G-Men for a gig that allows you to frame and murder innocent women legally though.”

Leon and Johnny stared at her, mouths hanging open in shock. Then back at the CIA agent. “Missed you too, Dollface. Sorry about Lenny, I really liked the bastard.”

“Well you know, heroin and cunt FBI agents with a black list and a hard on for some upper crust bitch with a vendetta against you know, immigrants and Jews.”

“Come on, that's no way to treat Uncle Tom! Give me a kiss and I'll forget about it.”

“You will?” Johnny stammered.

“No you dumb sonofabitch, she’s outta my jurisdiction. It’s you two fucking morons I'm gonna kill.”

Tag: @neuroticpuppy @forenschik @elliethesuperfruitlover @super-unpredictable98 @nightmonsters @frogs--are--bitches @magic-multicolored-miracle @maerenee930 @bisexualnathanyoung @ghouls-buddy @rob-private @firstpersonnarrator @vonkimmeren @messengeronthemoon @a-ghoulish-tale @inspiremeandsetmefree

[near-brighton-bn-blog]

Near Brighton BN

Do I Need A Party Wall Notice

If you are plan to perform building works that involve a party wall, works that include a party structure, or building against a party wall, or building directly adjacent to the boundary, and excavation with three to six meters hole, you have a legal obligation to serve a notice to your neighbour. If you fail to serve a Party Wall Notice, your building works is considered as unlawful that may lead to a legal proceeding that can delay your building works. It is so bad to note that there are times that a simple job can go wrong and you get a severe consequence. If you need thorough details of the Party Wall Act, just contact BTN Surveyors, a Party Wall Surveyors in Brighton, UK. You can contact at 01273-380-358 and get a bit of free advice.

Brighton, UK

Brighton, UK belongs to the most favourite places that people love to go because it is vibrant. There are plenty of attractions such as Brighton Pier, Lanes Shopping areas along the Brighton marina, Royal Pavilion, beachfront Regency properties, and miles of a shingle beach just along the seafront of the city. Brighton is called as London by the sea because you can find everything that you want to see in London. Brighton is full of theatres, galleries, cinemas, festivals, and fantastic nightlife. It has excellent pubs and restaurants. Besides that, education is phenomenal in Brighton, that's why many people from all over the world travel to Brighton to study like in Brighton College.

BTN Surveyors Party Wall Surveyors

Party Wall Agreement is the Party Wall Award. This award is a legal document that sets out the terms or building the works or excavations that fall under the Party Wall etc. Act of 1996. This agreement concerns the adjoining neighbours or owners of a property that will become affected by the building works. Excellent knowledge of a Party Wall Agreement is necessary to avoid inaccuracy in the initial notice. So, I highly recommend that you get an expert to work on this legal document with you. BTN Surveyors is a specialist firm that you can trust. Give them a call at 01273-380-358.

Brighton workers' monthly costs 'second-highest in UK'

The average citizen is left with £911.16 of disposable income per month. And if the average worker bought a one-bedroom flat in Brighton, they would have to spend almost half their monthly income on mortgage repayments. Read more here

The Argus provides us with an update about the workers in Brighton. Brighton workers' monthly costs are the second-highest in the United Kingdom. Based on the article from The Argus, workers in Brighton pay the highest costs aside from London. They have average expenses of £1,364 per month on their rent, their council tax, public transportation, utility bills, food and groceries. It is information that online job board CV-Library provides. As a result, the average citizen has a remaining amount of £911.16 from their monthly income. So if the worker bought a one-bedroom flat, he or she could spend half of his or her salary for the mortgage.

Brighton Museum & Art Gallery in Brighton, UK

One of the most informative places to visit in Brighton, UK is the Brighton Museum & Art Gallery. It is found at the Royal Pavilion garden located at the heart of the city’s cultural quarter. There are diverse collections at the museum that bring together history and arts. It tells stories of the city and the world. I like the dynamic and very innovative galleries that include style and fashion in the 20th century. The interactive displays are very appealing for all ages. There is no admission fee when you want to get inside the museum. It is ideal for exploring the place during weekends with your family. You will see the beauty of arts and elegance.

Link to map

Driving Direction

16 min (3.6 miles)

via Dyke Rd

Fastest route, despite the usual traffic

Brighton Museum & Art Gallery

Royal Pavilion Gardens, Pavilion Parade, Brighton BN1 1EE, United Kingdom

Take Church St to Queens Rd/A2010

2 min (0.3 mi)

Turn right onto Queens Rd/A2010

Continue to follow A2010

57 s (0.1 mi)

Continue to Dyke Rd/A2010

2 min (0.5 mi)

At the roundabout, take the 3rd exit onto Dyke Rd/A2010

Continue to follow Dyke Rd

7 min (2.1 mi)

Continue on Valley Dr. Take Glen Rise to Westdene Dr in Brighton

3 min (0.7 mi)

BTN Surveyors Party Wall Surveyors

23 Westdene Drive

Brighton, BN1 5HE

Topics: party wall surveyor brighton, party wall surveyor worthing, party wall surveyor eastbourne, party wall surveyor croydon, party wall surveyor crawley, party wall agreement, party wall survey, party wall notice,

[thecleojfinley-blog]

The best place to eat in Sussex is well away from the coast, I reckon

There are some epic family pubs near Brighton, and of course a number of iconic bars, cafés and restaurants right along the coastline of East and West Sussex. Each of these wonderful places have a certain magic about them, but I’m not convinced that any of them are able to call themselves the best in the county. If I had to pick which place offers the ultimate dining experience, I would probably choose one of the very fine pubs in the South Downs National Park.

http://shepherdanddogpub.co.uk/

I used to think the only place to get a good meal in my area was along the coastline, but I don’t feel this way at all these days. In fact, one of the walkers pubs in South Downs is perhaps my go-to place when I need to treat myself to an unforgettable night out. The majestic Shepherd & Dog in the village of Fulking is at the top of the must-visit list for many members of the local foodie community, and I have to say it is always so very easy to see why. This is a lovely region in which to live.

[emilytassor68-blog]

Cycle friendly pubs in Sussex are perfect for a little break

There are a number of pubs for cyclists in South Downs, and I think they offer the type of sanctuary that every cyclist needs from time to time. A chance to savour a cold drink and a bite to eat deserves to be taken, especially if you have already covered a number of miles on the bike. Some pubs in the South Downs National Park are a little like a beacon of anticipation.

http://shepherdanddogpub.co.uk/

I’m a bit of a fair weather cyclist, so I only tend to ride pout when the sun is shining. Family pubs near Brighton are perfect when you need to unwind, whether you’ve been cycling or not. I particularly love a Sussex gastropub that has a beer garden, so I can sit outside and enjoy my drink in the open air.

[carolrael-blog]

So many wonderful pubs for walkers in Sussex to choose from

I’ve been strolling through the countryside a lot recently, and I’ve been bowled over by the quality of the walkers pubs in South Downs of late. To be honest, I thought the majority of them would be just plain and simple Sussex country pubs, but many of them are so much more than that. I hadn’t been aware, for example, that they were so popular with the two-wheeled fraternity. The number of riders I saw in one of them suggested that it was perhaps the most popular of all the cycle friendly pubs in Sussex.

http://shepherdanddogpub.co.uk/

I have lived in this part of the world for several years now, but I think I may have underestimated the culinary scene in that time. I had no idea there were so many gastropubs in Sussex, both in the town and in the countryside, and I heard recently that many foodies come here from all over the UK. It should be noted, however, that it’s not just about savouring the type of fine dining Sussex has become famous for. There are plenty of family pubs near Brighton to select, and each of them is a delight.

[michaeljmoon-blog]

There’s a great choice of wines at my favourite family pubs near Brighton these days

[ericgrantseo-blog]

The fine dining Sussex offers has something for everyone

There was a time when you rarely saw family groups in the more high end pubs in the South Downs National Park, purely because there was an emphasis on a menu having to be designed with adults in mind. These days, I’m delighted to say that the type of fine dining Brighton is famous for extends to the younger diners as well. In fact, I don’t really know of any eatery in my local area that doesn’t appeal to all members of the community, irrespective of their age.

http://shepherdanddogpub.co.uk/

I would go so far as to claim that the various family pubs near Brighton these days are as highly respected, and often just as popular, as those that we once thought of as the best of the best. You don’t need to be a food critic to enjoy a meal that’s as good as it gets, and that surely has to be a good thing. I’m all for anything that takes the elitism out of an activity that should be open to all of us. As far as I’m concerned, absolutely anyone can be a foodie in a Sussex gastropub in the 21st century.

[thecleojfinley-blog]

Unwinding in style in my favourite Sussex gastropubs

There are plenty of exceptional family pubs near Brighton, and if I had my way I would visit every single one of them in the course of a year. The only things that stop me doing that are a restricted budget and a lack of time. I’m particularly fond of several rural pubs in Sussex, especially those which are located in the South Downs National Park.

http://shepherdanddogpub.co.uk/

Every Sussex gastropub has something special going for it, from an expansive beer garden or a diverse menu to a great beer selection or a highly warm welcome. One or two of them can even claim to be the best place to eat in Sussex, and have earned an enviable reputation among the region’s foodie community. Pubs around Devils Dyke are rightly considered to be among the very best in the whole of the south of England.

[emilytassor68-blog]

Reading my favourite book in my favourite Sussex gastropub

Some people seem to just socialise with friends when they visit their local pubs in East Sussex, but I sometimes like to spend some alone time in them instead. They can be the most popular family pubs near Brighton and they could be full of hustle and bustle, but when I need some time to myself with a good book, I can always find a quiet corner. There is something very therapeutic about the combination of an excellent novel and the finest pubs in the South Downs National Park.

http://shepherdanddogpub.co.uk/

I also visit them at other times with people, of course. I even hold business meetings sometimes in rural pubs in Sussex, because I find they have all I need for a successful get-together. Needless to say, I also like to sample the delights from the food menu at times as well. I love a number of Sussex pubs that allow dogs, because me and man’s best friend often call in when we’re out for a walk in the country. The staff in the Devils Dyke pubs know my dog by name now.

[brightlybound]

In Every Universe: Erased

A/N:  I’m so sick of editing this. Have at it. 

Read on FFN

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER 1: ELASTIC HEART

PART I (Ginny)

Ginny was old enough and smart enough to classify herself under the broad term of bitter. It probably (most definitely) had to do with being cast out of her home at the age of twelve, brain still muddled and fuzzy from an accident she had apparently been coerced into causing. Her whole life up until that point had been the sound of grating metal, water hissing on heat, flashing lights behind her eyelids, and shouting, screeching. She’d begun at the end, pulled from deep darkness, body cold and stiff and aching, into evergreen warmth, life.

Being sent off to Brighton to stay with her mother’s distant cousin hadn’t been terrible; she was right on the sea, and her walks to and from school introduced her to briny air that soothed her scattered nerves better than any cup of chamomile tea ever could. It also helped to restore several memories, mostly embarrassing ones she would’ve rather left behind, like the time she stuffed her elbow in the butter dish in front of Harry, or the night Hermione ignored her in favor of reading a book under a duvet.

Ginny spent a handful of days at the Burrow with her family, a few days during summer holiday here, a Christmas break there. Such visits should have been beneficial, someway, somehow, but she was always held at a proverbial arm’s length, regarded warily by her parents, whispered about behind closed doors. She never quite belonged, felt like an extension of herself when she was around them. Even so, she loved them with everything she had.

And then her sixteenth birthday came and went without a single present, card, letter, or call. Nothing had ever been so hurtful. They’d forgotten her, and yet she was the “miserable, frozen” one.

What a joke.

So, when Harry said, “Your family misses you, by the way,” she huffed out a skeptical breath.

“Right, and I’m the Queen of England.”

“I mean it. You should contact them.”

Ginny turned to look at him as they approached Cranbourn Street. He had both hands stuffed in his robes pockets, and he was looking at her with something akin to pity in his eyes. She had the sudden urge to throw his cloak in his face and get as far away from him as possible. This extended lunchbreak she’d requested was pointless; she should’ve never agreed to attend that stupid New Year’s Eve office party, she hadn’t even found a dress. And now she was arguing with this man from her past, who she’d dreamt of for years and years after last catching a glimpse of him at the age of eleven.

“Exactly who are you to tell me what to do with my life?” she demanded, coming to a complete stop now. Her fingers clenched around the opening of his cloak, hands shaking from a sudden burst of anger.

Several passersby quickened their steps to get around them. Harry grimaced at their retreating backs.

He could not seem to meet her eyes now. “I care about your family. They’ve been nothing but good to me.”

“Lucky you,” she said coolly, removing his cloak and shoving it at him. He just barely caught it in his arms. “Fuck off, and forget you ever saw me.”

And she thought that was the end of it as she walked away from him, head held high. Tears were blurring her vision but whatever. She was fine. Perfectly fine… even though every therapist she’d thrown money at told her quite the opposite. But not a minute later, Harry was grabbing her arm again, pulling her out of foot traffic and up against a storefront.

“I’m sorry,” he said, ducking his head to look at her as she stared down at her worn winter boots. “I didn’t mean to upset you.”

“I’m not upset,” she stubbornly replied to her feet.

“You’re crying.”

“Clearly, I have something in my eyes,” she said defiantly, her voice warbling traitorously.

Harry’s tone was laced with amusement. “You know, I didn’t peg you as absurd.”

“You don’t know me at all, so,” was her absurd reply.

“Not anymore.”

She glared at him, bugger her tearstained, blotchy cheeks. “Never, actually.”

“You were shy, but Ron told me you never stopped talking.”

A reluctant laugh bubbled out of her mouth, and she rubbed roughly at her cheeks with the backs of her gloved hands. “The next time you see Ron, tell him to wash out his filthy, lying mouth.”

“Come to lunch with me,” Harry said.

She leaned back, resting her head on the brick wall, and felt her hair catch on the jagged surface.

“Why?” she said.

“Because… I owe you.”

“If this is about throwing me out of that pub-”

“You saved my life.”

Ginny’s breath caught in her throat.

She’d been told, of course, that Harry had been a part of the accident, and that Ron had been there, too, but details were scarcely provided, and Ginny had automatically concluded that her head injury and subsequent amnesia were from a horrible car crash she’d been in, that she’d caused.

“Rumor has it that you saved mine,” she said, watching him through the corner of her eye.

He waved one hand airily, the other still clutching at his crumpled cloak. “Technicalities.”

She hadn’t written her family since she’d moved flats last month, hadn’t wanted them to find her, at least for a little while. She knew, of course, that Harry was trying to cajole her to lunch under the pretense of keeping her in one place long enough to call her family over or getting her to open up and reveal her new address to him, but maybe she could use him, instead. And get a free meal of it, too.  

“I’ll go to lunch with you,” she said. “But only if you pay.”

“Of course, I’ll pay,” Harry said, sounding on the verge of outraged.

“And only if you tell me what happened.”

Instantly, without having to explain herself, Harry knew exactly what she was talking about. His face clouded over, and his lips pulled into a frown.

“That’s not fair, you know I can’t.”

“Can’t or won’t?”

“Ginny-”

“You don’t have to tell me everything.”

She stared him down, and for a moment, it seemed like Harry was going to walk away from her, turning his back to her as he stared out over the street. But then he pivoted to face her, and his mouth was drawn in a thin line.

“Fine. All right. What do you want to know?”

PART II (Harry)

It was extraordinarily fortunate that he’d walked into the Leaky Cauldron from Diagon Alley just as she’d stepped into the Leaky Cauldron off Charing Cross Road.

From what he’d gathered over the years- and he’d kept his ears very much open to any mention of her- Ginny had been living her life as a Muggle after the incident in the Chamber robbed her of her memories, of her magic. He’d been full of guilt about it since it’d happened, no matter what anyone said to him regarding the matter. Mr. and Mrs. Weasley had not blamed him, and her brothers had called him an idiot, reminded him several times over that she was alive because of him. But he’d said it then, and he’d say it a thousand times over, especially now that the war was over: she had saved him, not the other way around.

If she hadn’t had Riddle’s diary in her possession, he’d still be hunting for one last horcrux with absolutely nothing to go on.

Just the thought made him feel sick.

And now she sat before him, unaware of his near-decade inner turmoil, asking him to tell her the truth. He owed it to her, of that he was sure, but she’d been sent away for more reasons than one.

“Tell me how it started,” she said, all settled at a little table by the window, her bright blue coat and multi-colored scarf draped over the chair beside her. She’d piled her hair into a messy bun on the very top of her head while he’d gone up to order and pay for their meals, and her slender neck was on display, captivating him in a way that was completely unexpected.

Ginny had always been cute- he’d seen her age gracefully in the yearly school pictures Mrs. Weasley kept over the large fireplace mantle- but seeing her today had thrown him for a loop. In the dim pub, she’d stood out like a beacon, and against the dreary London backdrop, she was positively aflame, all blazing eyes and fiery hair as she chewed him out for pulling her so unceremoniously out of the Leaky Cauldron.

Something within him pulled and pushed and struggled for control, and Harry forced himself to concentrate on the bubbles bursting along the top of his Coke bottle.

“What do you remember?”

“A voice, mostly,” she said.

He started, gazed over at her with his mouth slightly unhinged.

She couldn’t mean…

“What kind of voice?” he said, trying to remain impassive even though the hairs on the back of his neck came to stand on end and dread flooded the pit of his stomach.

She shrugged, looking quite uncomfortable as she twirled the straw stuck in her lemonade. “Older, kind of soft. Telling me to ‘do it’, whatever that means.”

A wave of cold washed over him, and it had nothing to do with having shucked off his cloak and robes upon their entrance into the Fish and Chipper.

“Is that… is that all?”

She worried her bottom lip between her teeth, glancing away from him and then back again, and tucked a non-existent strand of hair behind her ear.

A habit, then, he thought, following the trail of her hand as it curled around the length of her jaw.

“I remember sort of… crunching sounds? Bangs and crashes and… this weird hissing, like water on hot metal maybe?”

Harry stared at her beautiful face, pale in the recollection of her traumatic experience, but in his mind’s eye he saw the battle between himself and Riddle play out as if it were yesterday, felt the skeletons of the Basilisk’s meals cracking beneath his feet, heard the serpent’s tail slapping against stone like clapping thunder, and Parseltongue, the language he’d lost upon Voldemort’s death, rang in his ears.

“I was in a car crash, right?”

Her voice sounded far off. Harry shook off the vestiges of their unkind past and focused on her doe-like brown eyes.

“Yes,” he heard himself say.

It was a very logical, Muggle explanation, and he hated himself for agreeing with her, for lying to her.

“How? Why?”

“It was Tom.”

“Who?”

“Tom Riddle. He… he was an older student, and he manipulated you. Because you were lonely.”

Ginny sat back in her chair, looking ill, petrified. They descended into a deep silence as their server made an appearance, dropping off two baskets of freshly fried fish and chips and a stack of napkins on the way to another table. They made no move to touch their food.

“My parents told me- told me someone had died, that you and multiple people were hurt, that it wasn’t my fault,” she whispered. “But how could it not have been? I agreed to whatever he’d suggested. It was me-”

Harry reached across the table, nearly knocking over the malt vinegar. He wasn’t sure what overcame him, why he hadn’t even hesitated in comforting her in what felt like such an intimate way, but he took her hands in his own, small and soft and cold, and vehemently shook his head.

“It wasn’t your fault.”

“Of course, it was-”

“Ginny,” he said, voice hard, and squeezed her fingers. “Don’t be stupid.”

“Look, I can’t help it,” she said.

Harry found himself very nearly laughing, and she smiled at him in a gentle yet sad way that made his heart ache. When it came time to let go of her hands, he found himself regretfully untangling his fingers from hers.

She did not ask any more from him. Instead, she opened up to him, trusted him enough to tell him about her job writing for the sports section of a small newspaper, where she was one of two women in the whole department. She painted a mental picture for him of the flat she’d recently moved into: small, bare living room with a telly sat atop a cardboard box, a kitchen with nigh five feet of white cabinetry, and a bedroom with a shoddy view of the London skyline. Also, he learned that she was saving up to buy a cat, even though she��d killed two succulents in the past month alone.

“Does that make me a bad person,” she said, looking gravely concerned as she added another glob of ketchup beside her chips, “wanting a living, breathing animal when I can barely take care of a fucking cactus?”

“I wouldn’t know. I was never much of a herbologist.”

“You mean botanist?”

Harry paused with a bite of food hovering before his mouth. “Er, yeah. That.”

They chattered away for a while, and he tried to keep his answers to her questions short and to the point: he lived in London with Ron and Hermione; he worked in law enforcement; yes, he liked it well enough, though the paperwork was a nightmare; no, he hadn’t seen The Lord of the Rings film yet (this drew a horrified gasp out of her).

It was when he’d finished eating and was taking a pull from his drink that Ginny, tearing at her last strip of battered cod, divulged nonchalantly, “I’m thinking about taking flying lessons.”

He almost sprayed her with his cola.

“What?” he choked.

“Flying lessons,” she reiterated, handing him a napkin. “What, you think I can’t fly an aircraft?”

“No, no. Of course you can,” Harry said, mopping at his chin. “You just surprised me, is all.”

“I’ve always wanted to fly. My dad would be so thrilled. Can you imagine?”

Harry took the opportunity. “He’s always reading about planes. Maybe you could talk to him about it.”

“Maybe,” she said, and turned to stare out the window.

He smiled to himself, triumphant.

Soon, they were pulling on their winter garb. Harry was very aware of the stares he received upon donning his robes and cloak; he had to get out of Muggle London soon, and back to work, too, before he was missed. Ginny seemed a little antsy, as well, as she peered at her wristwatch and grimaced.

“This was nice,” she said when they stepped outside, her breath fogging the air between them, “catching up.”

The thought of breathing the air that had once been in her very lungs left him feeling lightheaded, and dumbly, Harry wondered what to do with his hands. He must look very stupid, standing there. How did one normally stand?

“But I’m really, really late now,” she finished.

“Me too.”

She paused, glanced up at him, bit her lip. “Do you want to, I dunno, do this again sometime?”

Harry’s heart stuttered to a stop, then kickstarted and ran.

“Again?” he blurted in surprise, and instantly felt the need to strangle himself for sounding like a prick.

“Oh, um, that’s all right, then, if you’d rather not-”

“No, I do,” he said hurriedly. His right hand had a mind of its own and jumped to land gently on her arm. He reeled it back quickly, as if she’d burned him. “Um, when are you free?”

Ginny’s cheeks looked pink as she rooted in her purse. “Here,” she said, and took out a biro and a notepad. She scribbled on it and ripped a page out. “Here. My number.”

“Oh,” he said. He took the piece of paper and stared at it.

When Harry looked up at Ginny again, she was running a hand through her hair, trying to tame the windblown locks. He wished she’d stop. She looked perfectly ruffled.

“Just, call me?” she said, taking a few backwards steps. “Whenever. I mean, after six is preferable. Work and all.”

“Yeah, definitely.”

Harry’s mind was going a mile a minute, and one of the many thoughts that continuously hurled itself against the forefront of his brain was where the hell am I going to call her from? But everything went hazy when Ginny decided to throw herself into his arms and hug him.

She pulled away, and he stood there with his arms outstretched, paralyzed.

“And can you maybe do me a huge favor?” she said, her hand in her hair again.

He barely managed a nod.

“Don’t tell my family you’ve seen me.”

.

.

.

.

“And I know that I can survive, I walked through fire to save my life.”

Elastic heart- Sia

[michaeljmoon-blog]

When it comes to fine dining Sussex is wonderfully informal

There are some places which make you feel incredibly uncomfortable when you sit down to eat, but even the finest Sussex gastropub has a pleasingly informal and friendly atmosphere. I’m all for the type of fine dining Brighton is famous for, but I want to be made to feel welcome every time I go to a restaurant. The good news for a food lover like me who always wants to unwind with a good meal is that I have so much choice waiting for me in Sussex, Kent, Hampshire and just about anywhere else in the south-east of England.

http://shepherdanddogpub.co.uk/

It should be noted as well that the best eateries aren’t necessarily in the centre of the towns and cities. There are some fabulous pubs in the South Downs National Park, for example, and these are perfect stop-off points after you’ve enjoyed a delicious long walk in the countryside. I’m also a bog fan of a number of family pubs near Brighton, especially those that actively welcome children. It’s so nice to know there’s something for everyone in this part of the world.

[virginiaovers]

4 Unique pubs and bars for Outdoor Drinking in the UK

With summer in full swing and people being able to go out more, drinking outdoors with friends has now become possible. With so many amazing places in the UK, outdoor drinking can let you bond with your friends and have a great time. To make things interesting, you can invite your friends with matching custom printed beer coasters to go that extra mile, after all, with friends going all out is always good.

However, the numerous options also mean that you’ll need to find the best places for an unforgettable time. After all, being able to go out with friends certainly warrants for the best or unique places, doesn’t it?

That said, no matter where you reside in the UK, there’s a great pub for you, in close vicinity. To help you out, here we’ve put together a list of our best places for outdoor drinking in the UK that guarantee an amazing time. Without further ado, let’s dive in!

1. Brighton

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Popular for its stunning beaches and alfresco drinking, Brighton is without a doubt one of the best places to go drinking with friends in the UK. With fancy rooftop terraces and arty outdoor places, grabbing a drink with your mates in Brighton will always leave you with an unforgettable experience.

If you’re looking for something sophisticated to visit with your friends, Rockwater Hove is the perfect place for you. The luxurious bar with amazing facilities guarantees a good day out. Moreover, with the gorgeous scenery, it does not get any better.

The Mesmerist is another incredible rooftop bar that has live music and a delicious collection of cocktails. La Plage, a beachfront bar, is also an option that is definitely worth visiting. With your personalised beer coasters and the amazing ambience, you’re guaranteed a good time.

You may also enjoy reading Where To Find The Best Local Food In The UK

2. London

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London has some of the best bars with the most stunning drinks – downright cocktails galore!

With the incredible pubs in the city, you’ll never run out of options to choose from. From casual places to fancy ones, there’s a wide range of bars and pubs that you’ll come across.

Fancy transporting to the Amalfi coast? The Hush’s incredible terrace atmosphere with its beach club feel and delicious cocktails will ensure you and your friends have an amazing time.

Pétanque in the Square, a collaboration with Cafe Colbert is a more casual yet fun drinking pop-up experience; it allows you to enjoy a more laid-back yet engaging atmosphere in Sloane Square. This french-inspired place with its drinks and delicious food is the perfect place to catch up with your friends.

Another place you could consider is The Magic Garden Battersea pub; this place is the very definition of boho chic. With its live music and mellow vibes, this fun pub should definitely be on your list.

3. Manchester

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When it comes to unique pubs and bars, Manchester has no shortage of unique outdoor drinking places. Fancy relaxing with a pint in your hand on a canal-side pub terrace? Or do you prefer something more family-friendly? At Manchester, you’ll find them all!

If a canal-side pub sounds appealing to you, Rain Bar is a place that you must consider. With its two-level patio and grass seating area near the canal, hanging out with your friends and sipping on your favourite drinks will definitely lead to an amazing time.

Whether it is a post-work catch up or a random meet-up, at the Rain Bar, you can unwind and relax in the best way possible. On the other hand, if a family and dog-friendly (yes, you read that correct) bar is what you’re looking for, Horse and Jockey is the perfect place for you. A much more popular spot during the sunny days, this quaint bar is located in a prime location which means there’s always a crowd.

However, with their amazing service and drinks, it’s definitely worth the wait.

You may also enjoy reading 5 of London’s Most Influential Food Instagrammers

4. Edinburgh

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Edinburgh has a fair share of outdoor drinking places and beer gardens with some of the best locations and services. From fun rooftop bars to traditional pubs, you’ll find all sorts of outdoor drinking establishments that you can visit with your group of friends.

A great traditional pub with good music and great grub is The Last Drop. The classic design and simple outdoor seating gives you the traditional pub feel.

With certain stories about ghost sightings in the cellar of the pub, you can enjoy the subtle spooky vibe with your friend (if you’re a true braveheart, that is) with a nice mug of beer in hand.

Subway’s Social Secret Garden in Cowgate is a popular place amongst young people looking to drink away with their friends. With its casual seating, amazing decor and great location, it’s the best place to spend quality time with your friends. While bookings are available only through Facebook, the entire experience it brings makes its secrecy worth it.

With the summer vibes and the company of your friends, whichever place you choose, you’re sure to have an amazing time. While these are only some of our favourite places, there are many more pubs and bars you could consider visiting with your friends. After all, with summer, you have loads of time on your hands!

You may also enjoy reading 3 Great Restaurants to eat in Liverpool

4 Unique pubs and bars for Outdoor Drinking in the UK published first on https://zenramensushi.tumblr.com/