#fic: linger

[rispwr]

˚ ༘♡ ⋆｡˚ masterlist ˚ ༘♡ ⋆｡˚

: ̗̀➛get to know me!

»»———-jungkook fics———-««

╰┈➤ if i were you i'd do me - ( 1 ), ( 2 ), ( 3 ), ( 4 ), ( 5 ), ( 6 )....discontinued

Extras ( 1 ) ( 2 ) ( 3 ) ( 3.5 ), ( 4 )….discontinued

Jungkook, the notorious campus heartbreaker and player, unexpectedly becomes your groupmate alongside Namjoon, the guy you’ve secretly admired for ages. However, it seems your feelings have started shifting from Namjoon to someone else entirely unexpected…

╰┈➤ still with you - masterlist

finished

after breaking up with your boyfriend for 14 years for cheating on you, choosing to still stay with him in his apartment wasn't quite the best idea. especially after seperating.

╰┈➤ linger - masterlists

unfinished

for 9 years of being in the same class with him since 3rd grade you have developed a small admiration towards him, till it had grown stronger the more you stay with him. will you be able to keep this secret from your bestfriend forever? does he know you like him? or do you both share the same feelings?

╰┈➤ stranded - here

one shot

You and your bestfriend reunites again after a long year of you two not talking decided to go on a trip, and he forgets to get gas, get's stranded on the road,due, failing to reach the gas station, Leaving unsaid words be spoken.

╰┈➤ heaven and back - here

one shot

you were on a late night clubbing with your friends jimin, namjoon, hoseok, mina, nayeon. Your bestfriend of 6 years, who is jimin puts a drug in your drink, basically drugging you. Jungkook the guy whom you meet helps you.

╰┈➤ she's not me - here

oneshot

He said he moved on, but why does your toothbrush still stand next to his, even when he has "someone new" already?

╰┈➤ my sweet addiction - soon

Keeping everything professional, despite what happens between you two...in your mind...or so?

╰┈➤ hate you - here

‘You were always told that hating someone is the only way it doesn’t hurt but what if you can’t hate him? No matter how hard you try your heart will always find it’s way to his’

»»———-ypongi fic———-««

╰┈➤ still with you - masterlist

finished

after breaking up with your boyfriend for 14 years for cheating on you, choosing to still stay with him in his apartment wasn't quite the best idea. especially after seperating.

╰┈➤ expect the unexpected - here meeting an idol at a bar as a bartender? Especially the fact that it was your favourite idol, was definitely was not in your expectations, knowing well the media is all around you both.

╰┈➤ sweet mint - here

[bobfloydsbabe]

let it snow | rhett abbott x oc

a linger fic

SUMMARY: After an overnight snowstorm, Rhett and Lou are stuck in her cabin. Unsure where they stand with each other, losing electricity might force them to finally define the relationship.

WARNINGS: smut, oral (m receiving), aftercare, fluff. strictly 18+/minors dni.

WORD COUNT: 3.6k

LINGER MASTERLIST

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A/N: written for @lewmagoo's christmas celebration where i instantly jumped in to snatch the song let it snow for our favorite cowboy. this is my first time writing a bj, so please don't judge me too harshly. i had no idea what i was doing.

“Rhett?”

At the sound of his name, he drops the curtain and lets it fall back into place. Turning around, he finds Lou sitting up in bed. She’s rubbing sleep out of her eyes while stifling a yawn, and with her dark hair falling in messy waves around her face, Rhett thinks she’s never looked more beautiful.

“Thought you’d be gone by now,” she says, hands dropping into her lap. Her voice is still rough from sleep, and their activities the night before are probably not helping either.

“I was about to,” he tells her, crossing to her bed in long strides.

Her dark brows furrow, creating a cute divot in the middle that always makes him smile. Right now is no exception.

“But?”

“But,” he says, placing his knee on the mattress and leans in close, feeling Lou’s hot breath on his face. “My truck’s buried under at least a foot of snow, so you’re stuck with me.”

“We’re snowed in?”

The giddiness in her voice is obvious, childlike wonder rolling off her in waves as Rhett nods. She grabs his face, pulling his lips to hers, but not without knocking Rhett off balance, making him fall on top of Lou.

He wraps his arms around her naked back, the skin hot under his cold fingertips. He feels her grin into the kiss and suddenly wishes he wasn’t wearing his clothes. Getting lost in Lou is dangerously easy, more so now that he doesn’t have anywhere else to be. 

Denver interrupts the moment, jumping up on the bed and joining in the excitement. Rhett pulls away from Lou and gets whacked in the face by a tail, making Lou laugh.

“Denny,” Lou squeals when he licks her face. Hearing her laugh and seeing her play with her dog sends warmth through Rhett’s chest. Some deep down part of him knows what it is, but naming it feels fragile and breakable. Like it would burst their comfortable bubble, but he’s not prepared for this to end.

“I thought he wasn’t allowed on the bed,” Rhett says with a grin, as he stands and strips off his jeans and t-shirt.

Denver faces Rhett, taking unsteady steps on the mattress and sniffs his now bare chest. He lets him. Denver has never shown any aggression or dislike for Rhett, but he knows the dog is distrustful of other people, especially men. 

“He’s not,” Lou answers, eyes raking over every inch of his skin. He feels hot all over under her gaze. “But cowboys are.”

He smirks, knows it’s a smug sort of look. “Are they now?”

“Mhmm,” she hums. Sensing the change in mood, Denver jumps off the bed and trots over to the sofa. 

Stripping out of his boxers, he climbs back in bed with Lou, kisses her lips, then down her throat. He gives in to the sweet taste of her and dozes off afterward, sweaty and with the smell of her hair tickling his nostrils.

When he wakes next, he’s alone. The place where Lou is supposed to sleep is empty and cold, and while he doesn’t see her, he can hear her voice.

“Yes, that is Rhett Abbott’s truck in my drive.”

He smiles to himself.

“I’m surprised you can tell,” Lou says into the phone she has pressed against her ear when she rounds the corner from the kitchen. “It almost blends in.”

She’s smiling at him when she notices his open eyes and mouths good morning at him. “Oh, shut up, Carrie, he does not.”

She turns back to the kitchen, Denver following closely behind. The cabin is bathed in bright white light from the open curtains and the stark snow from outside. Lou’s dressed in pajama pants and an oversized hoodie that looks suspiciously like the dark blue one he lost several weeks back.

Sitting up, he swings his legs over the side of the bed and pulls on his boxers. The cabin floor is cold under his feet, but he walks across it anyway, and wraps his arms around Lou’s middle from behind.

He feels her leaning into him as she finishes her conversation with Mrs. Taylor.

“Okay, that’s enough. Goodbye, Carrie.”

She drops the phone on the counter and Rhett places a kiss on the exposed part of her neck. “You good?” he mumbles against her skin.

“Yeah,” she says and turns in his arms. The darkness of her eyes will never not be shocking to him–they look like bottomless lakes hiding a long forgotten secret. “Mrs. Taylor’s just teasing me about you.”

“Me?” he asks, still surprised that Mrs. Taylor even knows his name.

Lou grins and wraps her arms around his neck. “Yes you, cowboy,” she says and raises to her tiptoes to kiss his lips.

He takes a step, forcing Lou back against the counter, and runs his tongue along the seam of her lips. She opens for him without hesitation as her nails scrape along his scalp. He could get used to this, kissing her senseless in the kitchen in no rush to be anywhere else.

Lou ends his daydream by pulling away. He only chases her lips for a second, hooked on the taste of her.

“Get dressed,” she instructs him, shoving against his chest gently. “Denver needs to go out and we need to bring firewood in to dry.”

Denver loses his mind as they get dressed. He leaps across the floor, tail wagging wildly, and panting like he’s just run a marathon. The bond between Lou and her dog is incredible, so in tune with each other that they hardly even notice Rhett coming up to them to pull on his worn boots.

“You’re gonna freeze to death,” Lou says as he puts on his coat that miraculously made it on the peg as opposed to the middle of the floor, where it usually ends up when he comes to the cabin.

He shrugs, leaning down to peck her lips. “I’ll live,” he mutters, giving her a second kiss. “Don’t have to worry about me, darlin’.”

Lou makes a vaguely disgruntled noise, but doesn’t argue with him further. It’s sweet that she cares, makes his stomach do somersaults and his cheeks feel warm.

Outside, Denver dives headfirst into the mountains of snow. The white parts of his fur blends in while the black stands in contrast. He looks like he’s having the time of his life as he trots alongside them, and Rhett’s almost certain the dog is smiling.

“Don’t you have plenty of firewood inside?” He asks when they arrive at the piles stacked against the back of the cabin.

Lou takes a crate and starts putting logs of wood into it, her breathing coming out like a fine mist while she works. Rhett wants to help, but he feels like he might just be in the way, so he hangs back.

“Apparently the frost is causing power outages right now, so there’s a chance it could hit us too. The backup generator has seen better days, so this is just in case.”

Denver bops his nose against Rhett’s leg, looking at him expectantly. He reaches down and scratches him behind the ear, making him elicit satisfied noises.

“He likes you,” Lou says and takes a step closer.

Standing back to his full height, he wraps an arm around Lou’s shoulder and pulls her to his side. He presses a kiss to her temple. “Can’t imagine why.”

“Alright, cowboy, you get the crate and let’s go back inside.”

“You bossing me around now?”

Grinning, she trudges through the snow back to the front door. Rhett shakes his head, but hauls the crate back to the door without protest.

They lose power around 2 pm.

One minute they’re watching a movie, some holiday house swap romcom Lou insisted he had to watch, and the next the cabin’s dark and quiet.

“How long does it take for the backup generator to kick in?” he asks, and presses a kiss on the top of Lou’s head. 

“I’m not sure,” she says, sitting upright and reaching for her phone on the coffee table. A notification pops up on the screen and Rhett reads it with her, frowning.

“We better get a fire going.”

He’s not much help, just hands her the logs and the matches under the watchful eye of Denver, who stands next to him with his eyes trained on Lou.

Afterward she rummages through several drawers looking for candles, and answers a phone call from Carrie Taylor, probably to give an update on the backup generator.

“I brought in wood this morning,” Lou tells her.

Rhett listens to their conversation. All he heard from his family today was when Royal called to shout about where the hell he was, and how behind they would be on ranch chores now that he wasn’t there. It’s moments like those that make it hard not to envy Lou’s relationship with the Taylors. They care about her, check in on her and make sure she’s alright, and the Taylor boys adore her like a big sister.

It’s bad news. The generator isn’t kicking in and needs to be replaced sooner than later, so they’re stuck without power for the foreseeable future.

“Carrie said we’re welcome at the main house,” Lou says while she lights candles on various surfaces. “We’d have to make our way through the snow somehow and they don’t have power either, but they’re more stocked up on groceries and blankets than I am.”

“Do you wanna go?”

She contemplates for a moment, that crinkle between her brows appearing. “No,” she says finally and wraps her arms around his waist. “At least not yet.”

“Okay,” he mutters and kisses her hair, enjoying the scent of her lavender shampoo. He excuses himself to go to the bathroom and looks at himself in the mirror while washing his hands. He still looks the same. His brown hair is messy and in need of a trim, blue eyes, and a hint of stubble along his jaw. He looks taller, though, like he doesn’t have the weight of the world on his shoulders.

He dries his hands, opens the door, and leans against the doorframe, watching Lou get settled on the couch. She’s surrounded by candles, bathed in the glow from the fireplace, and she’s running a hand over Denver’s fur while he snuggles into her.

Rhett can’t help but smile at the view, a longing he can’t quite describe settling deep inside his chest. It’s unfamiliar, but not entirely uncomfortable.

Lou opens a book, but closes it again when she realizes she can’t see the words clearly. Hearing Rhett’s footsteps behind her, she throws a quick glance over her shoulder. “Were you okay in there? I should have given you a candle.”

Smiling, he holds out his hand to her. Lou looks up at him, eyes confused, and that divot between her brows looks deeper than usual.

“Dance with me?”

She grins and warmth spreads through his chest. “You dance?” she asks, but lets him pull her to her feet, anyway. The book that was on her lap hits the floor with a thud.

“Not really,” he admits, placing his hand on her lower back. “But I can sway.”

“Swaying works,” she says and rests her head on his chest, cheek pressed against the place where his heart thunders.

They move like that for what feels like ages, only illuminated by fire and candlelight. Denver naps on the couch, unbothered by the cold and relative darkness. Rhett is scared shitless of how natural this feels. Not just being with Lou in those stolen nighttime rendezvous moments, but like this, living with her.

“Rhett?”

He hums in response.

“What are we doing?”

He frowns. “Dancing,” he replies, squeezing the hand of hers he’s holding. “I thought that was obvious.”

She lifts her head from his chest and looks up at him with those unnervingly dark eyes. “No, I mean, what are we doing, like, together? Are we dating? Friends who have occasional but really good sex or just people who have sex because we’re lonely and need a warm body to get lost in?”

He’s so surprised by her question that he stops moving. How can she not know? He hasn’t said it, but thinks it’s obvious that he feels something for her. 

He takes a deep breath, mentally preparing to put his heart on the line. “This is real to me,” he tells her seriously. “This is not just physical, even though that part is great. Lou, I used my niece as an excuse to ask you to come see me at the rodeo.”

“You did?” She’s smiling now, and Rhett feels like his heart has grown to ten times its normal size.

He nods. “Kinda. She wanted to see you again, but so did I.”

She chuckles, but there’s a wetness in the sound that makes him realize she has tears running down her cheeks. In his defense, it’s hard to see in the firelight.

Reaching down, he wipes the tears away. “I’m yours, Lou Kinney. If you’ll have me.”

She rises to her feet, cradling his face between her hands and kisses him. Deep and real.

It occurs to him that this is what comfort feels like. He’s not just a warm body, not just a good time. Lou likes him, wants him. All of him, even the messy parts and the things he can’t change, and he feels her pour that knowledge into him as they kiss.

Placing his hands on her waist, he pushes her back towards the bed, and she stumbles with him. She laughs and licks into his mouth until the back of her knees hit the bed and she falls on her back.

He stands at the foot of the bed, watching her lie there. Dark hair fanned out like a halo around her face. Expectant and excited smile on her face, and that double chin that appears from this angle is still one of the things he likes most about her.

He crawls on the bed and hovers over her, watching as she bites her lip, driving him wild. “Do you know what you do to me?”

She smirks, hands roaming over his neck and chest. Leaning up, she captures his mouth in a breathtaking kiss that makes him drop on top of her.

She giggles into his mouth, one of the sweetest sounds he’s ever known. “I can feel it,” she breathes against his lips. Her hand travels down his chest, down his abdomen, and he can’t help the hiss that escapes his throat when she presses her palm against his hardening cock. “Ready for round three, cowboy?”

He pants into her mouth as she rubs her hand against his clothed cock. “Thought it was round two,” he mutters through strangled breaths while his hips start grinding against Lou’s hand of their own volition.

“I’m counting last night,” she tells him and flips them over so he’s on his back. He whines at the loss of contact with his cock, but he’s amazed at Lou’s strength. 

She places open-mouthed kisses to his cheek, his throat, pulls at his t-shirt to expose his collarbone. His hands rest lightly on her hips, never pushing her or demanding more.

Her mouth is fire on his skin, and the part of him that longs to decide how this goes is awfully quiet. He’s surrendering to Lou’s touch and doesn’t hate it.

She moves further down his body, pushing the bottom of his t-shirt up, exposing his skin to the cold air, and she kisses the ridges of his abdomen. He’s powerless, lost in the knowledge of where this is going and loving every second.

Reaching for his jeans, she undoes the button and pulls the zip down. He’s panting and so desperate for her hands on his cock again that his hips jerk at just the slightest brush through the fabric of his boxers.

“Someone’s sensitive,” she hums with a breathy chuckle against his pubic bone.

He groans, pulling at his own hair to avoid pushing Lou too far. He wants her hands and mouth on him, wants her to suck his soul from him and thank her for choosing him afterward.

He groans again. “You’re killing me, darlin’.”

She looks up at him, dark eyes hooded with lust and mischief. “Take off your pants then,” she commands. “Let me put you out of your misery.”

He doesn’t have to be told twice. Sitting up, he rids himself of his jeans and boxers in record time, but doesn’t lie back immediately. Instead, he reaches for Lou, kisses her lips, and pulls the hoodie over her head, sending it to the floor in the pile with his own clothes.

She pushes at his chest until he’s laying on his back, eyes concentrated on the ceiling. Lou kisses his exposed skin, scrapes her teeth across his hip bone and smoothes it over with her hot tongue.

He’s rock hard, and desperate to be touched. For her hands, her mouth, literally anything to satisfy him somehow. Her palms are hot on his exposed thighs and his breath hitches every time they get close to where he wants her the most.

He’s on the verge of begging her to touch him when her mouth closes around the tip of his cock. Letting out a strangled moan, he grips the comforter and gets lost in the feeling of Lou’s tongue flattening against the underside of him. Her hand holds on to the base, the parts she can’t reach with her mouth, and Rhett swears he’s in heaven when she starts bobbing her head.

His moans fill the air and babbling sounds that are supposed to be words fill the air. He’s pretty sure he’s never gotten head like this before. He likes to guide the women who suck him off, but Lou knows him and knows what he likes, and he can’t find it in himself to be embarrassed about letting her lead.

She pulls off him with a loud pop, making Rhett almost whine at the loss of her mouth, but she just grins and leans up to kiss him. He can taste his own pre-cum on her tongue.

“Scoot up a little, cowboy,” she says, her voice deep and sultry. She’s a little out of breath and he can just about make out saliva in the corners of her mouth. The sight is mesmerizing. 

He does as he’s told, leaning his back against the headboard, and Lou crawls up the bed with him. Kisses his lips once before returning her attention to his cock. The red and swollen head is covered in an obscene amount of pre-cum, and he’d be embarrassed if Lou didn’t lap it up like it’s her last meal.

“Fuuuck…” he mutters and fists the comforter when she takes him back into her mouth and hollows out her cheeks. “That’s it, darlin’, so good for me.”

She reaches for his hand and places it into her hair, then looks up at him and gives him an encouraging nod. She knows he wants to feel her head moving under his palm as she brings him to the edge. He’s so in love with her that he takes back some of that control he gave up so willingly.

“So good,” he mumbles, followed by a strained groan as he tries to hold on just a little longer. She’s gripping the base of his cock tighter, letting him move her head up and down on him, and he’s fascinated with the sight. “Doing so good, baby. Fuck, I’m so close.”

He pushes her head a little too hard, making her gag and splutter. He tries to stop, but she holds his hand in place. Their eyes meet and she gives him a nod, encouraging him to keep going. So he does.

His thighs tremble as her tongue flattens against the vein on the underside of his cock, and he’s right there on the edge. “Shit, baby, if you keep going I’m gonna cum.”

She doesn’t stop, determined to get him off with just her mouth, and he’s in awe of her as she works him to the edge. Then he’s spilling over into her mouth with a drawn-out moan, and she swallows as much of his cum as she can.

“Oh my god,” he mumbles and throws an arm over his eyes. His whole body still vibrates with the aftershocks of his orgasm, all his limbs completely drained of energy. 

Lou gets off the bed and goes to the bathroom. He can hear her rummaging around, the faucet turning on and off, and she comes back holding a damp washcloth. “Here,” she says when she reaches the bed. “You need to clean up.”

She sits on the edge, watching him hiss at the touch to his sensitive cock, and accepts the washcloth once he’s done. He’s never been with anyone who makes a point of cleaning him after sex, but Lou always has, and he likes that about her.

After throwing the cloth in the wash, they climb under the covers, and Rhett takes Lou into her arms. She rests her head on his chest and breathes him in.

“Can’t believe I’m your girlfriend now,” she says, stifling a yawn.

Rhett smiles to himself, pulling Lou just a little closer. “I like the sound of that.”

“Me too.”

likes are nice, but reblogs and comments are golden

TAGLIST: @joaquinwhorres, @bradshawsbaby, @kmc1989, @callsign-magnolia, @cherrycola27, @desert-fern, @purplevortexx, @fandom-princess-forevermore, @eternallyvenus, @hangmandruigandmav, @keyrani, @linkpk88, @attapullman, @sebsxphia

[bobfloydsbabe]

Ames, thank you so much for including Linger! I’m so proud of that fic, and I hope to have chapter 3 ready to post in a couple of weeks. I’m so glad you enjoy the story 💕

save a horse, read a rhett abbott fic

outer range's second season has me wanting to read and reread rhett abbott fics, and while i'm scrolling through my reblogs, i wanted to share some of my favorites with all of you. please remember to show your love to these writers with your comments and reblogs!

universes + series

right cowboy, wrong time by @chemistryread (please read the author warnings, but one of my favorite rhett fics of all time and one i've reread countless times)

linger by @bobfloydsbabe (helena is such a good writer, and i can't wait to see where this series goes)

yellow soul by @creatchie8 (if you don't like cheating, you'll probably want to skip this one, but i am seated by every update of this fic because wow, the tension is unreal.)

flowers in november by @delopsia (you'll see del's name on here a few times, but damn, what a cool series)

the wolf by @lewmagoo (i'm not done with this series, but if you love a werewolf au, leah has created such a cool universe here, it's a must read)

dilf!rhett x babysitter!reader universe by @rhettabbotts (shelby's brain is so big for this universe, do yourself a favor and go introduce some dilf!rhett into your life.)

rhett x reader x bob universe by @delopsia (del has a real name for this universe, but it's leaving my brain right now. anyway, i love love love what del's created with them. blow your mind and streetlight glow are personal favorites, ahem)

one shots + drabbles

it's a bad idea, right? by @/rhettabbotts (if rhett was my ex-boyfriend, i'd fold in like 3 seconds, i'm sorry)

come home to me by @callsignspark (you can read and reblog winter and/or christmas fics all year, shut up, rhett is so soft in this lovely fic)

odds are stacked by @sunlightmurdock (he's fucked up and mean, and i need him, sorry)

son of a preacher man by @bradshawsbitch (alex wanted me dead with this one)

horsemanship by @/bradshawsbitch (most of these recs are smutty, but genuinely one of the best character studies of him)

dancing under the moonlight by @/delopsia (at this point, you should know to read del's entire library, but i have such a soft spot for this fic in particular.)

gentle, rough, loving by @sebsxphia (seb has so many good drabbles and fics for rhett, but i had to call this one out because it's such a perfect representation of him)

afternoon delight by @bradshawsbaby (he is so sheepish and so playful, and i love him)

million dollar man by @/lewmagoo (another writer with an amazing library of rhett fics you should check out, but i do love this one shot in particular. i need that old man, and i need him now.)

you're responsible for your own fic consumption so please read any and all author warnings, and again, please show love to your local fic writer who understands this character better than the people who are paid to write him do 😌

[essiemclaren]

lingering ties

pt 8

College!au

In which reader and Oscar, now broken up, must co-parent their (fur) baby

oscar's post on twitter/x

lando's chat to unibros

reader's post on twitter/x

oscar's posts on twitter/x

-

reader's post on twitter/x

unibros gc without oscar in it lol

-

lando's chat with oscar

lando's chat with reader

reader's private post on twitter/x

part 9

--

a/n: IM SORRY FOR SAYING THAT ILL BE UPLOADING IT BUT ENDED UP NOT GETTING IT PUBLISH, SO IM SORRY 😔🙏 the reason why i uploaded very late because... i was busy with internship to the point that i barely watch the races anymore 💔 BUT HEY I AM HERE AND ALIVE BUT CANT SEE VERY WELL, i went out for a run and me being me, i lost it.... so 😔

HOPE YOU GUYS LIKE THIS ONE!!! IF YOU HAVE ANY SUGGESTIONS PLEASE FEEL FREE TO DROP AN INBOX!!! LET ME KNOW WHAT YOU THINK ABOUT THISN!! THANK YOU FOR BEING PATIENT WITH ME I LOVE YOU SOOOO MUCH!!!

essie RAAAAAAH ❤️

tags: @tsireyasgf @ziarahpikiran @mrsjamietartt @softtina @overlyexcitedoutlaw @osclerc @nixisracing @sinfully-yoursss @colmathgames2 @booksandflowrs @formula1blog @storminacloud @nixily @lokideservesahug @cherry-piee @annispamz @sltwins @mxdi0 @killinorris @awritingtree @andruuu28 @sarahkaliii @auggieblogs @hanshy @evie-119

@tellybearryyyy @ale-522 @xoxonoire @grovelingmen @s0meth1ngs @kodzuvk @2pagenumb @luuuucas @nataliambc @lyannesworld @honethatty12 @brune77e @iloveyou3000morgan @5sospenguinqueen @ellouisa17 @daisyfreecs @lichterfee @ididntseeurbag @koalalafications @saachiep81 @angelfrombeneth @vintagefucksstuff @mmoodd-jobutupaki @mountvesuvu @chezmardybum

[tinytennisskirt]

Let It Linger

Summary: When post-canon divorced! Art goes back to high school for a fifteen year reunion, he’s met with strong memories of the his estranged best friend, the girl he loved those fifteen years ago. He gets caught in a rally between his past and present. A whirlwind of past yearning, casual touches, meaningful conversations and pining rushes back to him like the time never passed when he sees her again for the first time in fifteen years. Turns out not so much has changed.

Warnings: mentions of sex, alcohol, marijuana. casual touching, pining, yearning, MEGA SLOWBURN, a longer fic with time skipping between MRTA! art and POST CANON! art. AU.

Art wasn’t sure how to feel about this. He was parked outside, in some dress shirt he’d owned far too long and the black dress pants he wore for when he did pre-game press. His hands on the wheel, lips pressed into a straight line. This would be interesting, he knew it would be. He was sitting in the parking lot outside the smaller gym of Mark Rebellato Tennis Academy and he could hear the music through the walls of the car and through the open gym door, he could see a purple cast of light from inside.

It had only been fifteen years. That wasn’t much time in perspective, but fifteen years felt like a lot when he remembered who he was that many years ago.

ₓ˚. ୭ ˚○◦˚.˚◦○˚ ୧ .˚ₓ- past

“My mouth, my mouth!” You called, opening your mouth and slowing your running to walking backward. Patrick tossed a marshmallow and you caught it in your mouth as the three of you ran down the hill, Patrick with a bag of marshmallows, you with the chocolate, and Art with the graham crackers.

Both boys cheered loudly and you jumped, triumphantly raising your hands above your head. Art nearly ran right into you with the momentum from the hill and you all ended up laughing way too hard at it, even with the marshmallow in your mouth. Art tried to catch his breath, his hand sliding over your waist as he passed you, trying not to stumble the rest of the way down the hill. Patrick just laughed. “I had no idea my aim was that good,” he said, teasing.

You swallowed the marshmallow, “You’re kidding? Your aim? That was all me.”

Art grinned, “I think it was a joined effort…” He played mediator. You hit him in the upper arm gently. “No, all you. All her, Patrick. Sorry.”

Patrick threw his arms up in forfeit. There was no winning against you. They both knew that. You giggled and shoved a marshmallow right in Patrick’s mouth before skipping down the rest of the hill, leaving both boys behind you. Art watched, a huge grin on his face. The three of you had found a great way to sneak out of your dorms at night. It was 11:42 and you were heading toward the back of the grounds with the ingredients for s’mores, a lighter, and matches for good measure. And maybe the remainder of a pack of cigarettes.

What good was your last year at the academy if not the one you rebel just a tiny bit? You were down the hill humming Groove Is In The Heart by Deee-Lite in your big Mark Rebellato sweater and yoga pants just happy to be out at night. You were fun, carefree, and bright, even in the dark of the edge of the property, away from all the fuss of the school. “You’re so slow!” You called out to them. Both Art and Patrick jogged to catch up to you, finding your regular spot between a few trees.

You sat on your regular log and pulled the blanket from your bag before getting up to drape it over. Patrick got to collecting the twigs from the stash and put them in the hole you three dug the first time you snuck out. Art took the seat next to you on the log, “Crazy, you have like seven tennis balls in here.” He laughed. You shook your head, nudging him just a little while he grabbed the three marshmallow skewers from your bag. He grabbed one of the balls out and threw it at Patrick.

“Can take the girl out of Mark Rebellato but can’t take the Mark Rebellato out of the girl,” Patrick said, catching the ball and throwing it back at Art. He got the fire started and lit one of the remaining cigarettes off of the growing flame. “You guys ready for that test on Monday?”

“Since when are you an academic?” You chuckled, putting a marshmallow on the end of Art’s stick.

“Since he found out Lydia Jennings is into smart guys,” Art said. You chuckled, biting your lip just gently. Art noticed.

Patrick blew smoke out the side of his mouth, “No- okay, she said she liked smart guys we all know there’s no way in hell I’m becoming a straight-A student like this one over here,” he gestured with the cigarette between his fingers to you. “She’s hot, she’s not drop-everything-and-study hot. I’m talking about the test on Monday because I know that with you two and Stanford, you’re obsessed with your grades… I am… not ready.”

You shook your head, looking up at him, “She is so drop-everything-and-study hot, you’re just picky. And I’ll lend you my notes tomorrow if you want- Art and I worked on them together, they’re pretty extensive.”

“They are good.” Art nodded, dangling his marshmallow over the embers. “You’re actually worried about it? I mean, the year is almost half-done, you’ve got time.”

He nodded, “I know, but I have to graduate to be free of this place for good. No way I’m doing that GED thing.”

“My mom did the GED thing.” You said. “She’s doing just fine. It was only a setback. Plus, if you plan on truly going pro, it won’t be a big thing. Just player trivia.” Art laughed at that, pulling his stick back to pull the marshmallow off. You had already prepped his graham cracker and chocolate and pulled the marshmallow off between them for him. Patrick watched how you two worked so wordlessly- wasn’t his focus. “I will lend you all of my notes tomorrow, it’s just a matter of reading them a few times a day and you’re set.”

Patrick shrugged, grabbing himself the things he needed for a s’more. “Thanks.”

Art nodded, “You’re lucky you’re good with a racket.”

“Rude!” You said, shoving him backward off the log. He landed on his back in the leaves and it was all-around laughter again. The dynamic was this. Shoving, pushing, insults in good fun, but caring all too much. Art knew there was nobody in the world who cared more about anything than you did. He was, as your friend, able to enjoy just how passionate you were about the things and people you liked. He pulled himself back onto the log, shaking his head at you as you dusted him off and removed the leaves from his hair. You smelled good, like fall, vanilla, and chai, almost, but with a sweetness that reminded Art of the caramel apples from the fair. He shut his eyes as your hands picked the last little bits from his hair. You pat his cheek when it was done and the conversation moved onto the new tennis coach’s really bad toupée.

ₓ˚. ୭ ˚○◦˚.˚◦○˚ ୧ .˚ₓ- present

Art got out of his car, shut the door, and locked it, car keys sliding into his pocket. He stared out over the grounds, past the outdoor tennis courts, and to the point in the field where it dipped down into the big hill. He wondered if they’d ever found your makeshift fire pit, filling it with dirt, moving the logs… He glanced at himself in the side mirror of the car, remembering when his hair was longer, more golden. Part of him wondered if he would even see you tonight. Maybe he’d see Patrick, which was a more likely occurrence, Patrick wouldn’t miss something like this.

If only they made it less of a surprise who you’d run into at one of these. He guessed it would be his class, a few extras, people who had settled down bringing their fiancees, partners, husbands, and wives. He wondered if he was too dressed up? Dressed down? And he was nervous, for some reason, when he shouldn’t have been.

ₓ˚. ୭ ˚○◦˚.˚◦○˚ ୧ .˚ₓ- past

“I know I shouldn’t be deciding on a dress this late but I can’t tell if this dress is too much?” You said from inside your dorm room. “I’m afraid Mark Rebellato himself will come to smite me for how much boob this dress shows off.” You spoke through the door.

Art and Patrick grinned at each other. “I’m sure it’s fine!” Art called back. Both boys had spent about twenty minutes tops getting ready for the mid-term formal. One of many formals the school so unfortunately had. “Can we see?”

“It’s not the right dress!”

“How would we know?”

The door to your room unlocked and you opened it, standing looking very unimpressed in a gorgeous purple dress. Both boys stood, a little dumbfounded for a second. “Too much?”

“No.” Both boys said in unison, gazing at you, your hair perfect, your makeup perfect.

Art blinked hard to snap himself back to reality, “You look… beautiful.” His eyes lingered a little too long on the slight shimmer to your eyelids and the gloss on your lips. Your eyes softened and you looked down at yourself again.

Patrick agreed. “Damn.” Both boys had themselves forgetting you were the same girl they called their friend on a day-to-day basis. “Mark Rebellato is rolling in his grave.”

“Is he dead?” You asked, laughing. Art didn’t find anything funny when you were standing there looking like that. He thought you were gorgeous, he could say that as your friend of a good few years, but this was breathtaking. You were.

The dance was more fun than both Art and Patrick anticipated, but you made anything fun. Patrick nudged Art’s arm as they stood off to the side with cups of punch. “She’s different this year.” He said. Both boys were watching you dance with one of your girlfriends. You were so free and you were once again the brightest thing in the whole room, purple and pink light cascading over your face and you were laughing.

Art hardly heard him. “Hm?” His eyes didn’t leave you.

“Exactly.”

Art nudged him back, seeing what Patrick was getting at. “Fuck off.” He grinned. “She’s just pretty. She’s always been pretty.”

Patrick nodded, sipping his punch, watching your dress swish around you as your friend spins you. “Too pretty.”

“Mhm,” Art sighs. The way he watches you is different from Patrick's. There’s something buried in what he feels, but he’s never acknowledged it much. Aside from when you met at twelve in a co-op game and you made fun of his ears. It honestly hurt his little feelings but Patrick found it absolutely hilarious that someone so funny-looking could say something so mean to someone else. Art laughed when Patrick defended him. But you, always so smart, nodded. And you smiled, which both boys didn’t expect. Then you apologized to Art and introduced yourself like nothing even happened. Art forgave you. There was something about you that both he and Patrick knew would make a good addition to the duo they’d formed over the first week. And it had been that way ever since. Didn’t make it easier when you stopped looking so funny and disproportionate when you turned fourteen but, being friends, it was ignorable. For the most part. They were only boys.

When presented with a slow dance, you excused yourself from the floor and came to stand with the boys, taking Patrick’s cup of punch right out of his hands and downing it. Patrick went to grab it but it was too late. You pulled a face, “Seriously?” You scrunched up your nose and Art laughed as he pieced it together.

“Didn’t give me a chance to warn you,” he chuckled. You felt the warmth spread down your throat- he’d spiked his own punch. Of course. Art, mouth agape, placed a hand on the small of your back without thinking. You just giggled and shook your head at him. Patrick took his cup back from you, sipping the very last drops. The couples and wannabes behind you continued to dance closely. “Awful, right?”

“So bad,” you giggled. Art twisted his mouth to the side, trying not to laugh too much. Your hand closed around Art’s wrist and pulled it up over your opposite shoulder and you kept talking about how gross it tasted, making fun of Patrick for spiking it so badly. If anyone sniffed it, they would have immediately known it was mostly alcohol. Art’s arm stayed around you, the perfect place for it, so it made sense to step a little closer. It’s only worth noting as something that happened because Patrick, who was used to your casual displays of closeness like this one- saw the angle Art kept his hand at so that his hand wouldn’t rest too close to your boobs. He laughed just a bit. Art just shook his head at Patrick and flipped him off with that very hand.

By the near-end of the night, you’re danced out and you asked the boys to come back with you, but Patrick had taken to chatting up Lydia Jennings, of course, so Art obliges. Patrick didn’t need a wingman, he would do fine on his own. Art holds the door for you as you leave and you’re immediately laughing as you cross the parking lot. “Fucking insane,” Art laughs, running a hand through his hair. “I always forget it’s not a school dance until Patrick sneaks in two shooters.”

“I had at least one whole shooter in that punch,” you said, knocking against him as you walked. The cool autumn air hit your bare skin and it was harsh. “It was disgusting.” Art felt you shiver just a bit beside him and he was already taking off his jacket to give to you. “He could have gone with vodka or something, spiced rum, and fruit punch is one of the worst things I think I’ve ever tasted- thank you.” You said, taking his jacket with a smile and pulling it over your shoulders.

“It was spiced rum?!”

“Yeah!” You laughed with him, still leaning against him as the two of you walked. “He ends up with Lydia Jennings she’s going to hate, hate, hate his breath. I brushed my teeth in the bathroom,” you said, pulling a pink toothbrush out of your bag. Art couldn’t help but laugh at the thing.

“Smart,” he grinned wider as you showed him the travel-sized tube of toothpaste that went with it. Art just flashed you his pack of mint gum in return and you narrowed your eyes at him. Art shoved it back in his pocket along with both of his hands. “So… you had fun tonight?” He followed up.

You smiled at him with those perfectly glossed lips parting to show teeth. “I did. However-

“There’s a however?”

“However…” You grinned, taking his hand and walking backward. You lowered your voice, pretending to be extra serious. “You need to dance more so you can dance with me.”

“You didn’t like the nodding I did? I feel like that was a lot, too much, even.” He held the door open to the other building and you mouthed another thank you as you passed him again. ”How much more do I need to do to dance with you?”

“You can always dance with me. I promise it’s a lot more fun when you’re not feeling centered out.” You told him, heading up the stairwell. It’s still early in the night so the girl’s dorms were mostly empty. “I knowww, I know how you get with it, but-”

“I’d dance with you.” He nodded, but squeezed your upper arm, “You didn’t ask me. I would have.”

“Okay then. Swear on your life right now that if I asked you, you’d say yes.”

He rubbed the back of his neck, fighting that neverending grin that lived on his face when you were around. “For what?”

“All future purposes.” You replied, stopping outside your room and leaning against the wooden door. “Where dancing is involved.” You held out your pinkie finger and Art took it before he got to question any more. You grinned and jumped a few times. “You just made the craziest promise, I’m going to make you hate me with that one.” Art just grinned.

You talked a bit more just at the door until both you and Art were wary about someone seeing him on the girl’s side of the dorms. You opened the door to your room and stepped just inside, about to say goodbye, but just one more thing before he left, you asked. For him to help you unzip your dress. Art should not have felt the way he did when you handed him back his jacket and turned around while lifting your hair. Your bunkmate had zipped it up before you had left and you had no idea when she’d be back, you explained.

Art wouldn’t say no to you. Who could? He stepped closer, met with the closer, stronger scent of your perfume and you still smelled sweet. You always smelled sweet. With gentle fingers, he took the small zipper and slowly unzipped the back of your dress. The sound of the zipper being the only thing in the empty of your room and he wouldn’t forget how when the zipper hit the bottom of its track, his finger grazed the bare skin of your back. Soft, softer than he could have even imagined. And you turned so that he wouldn’t be faced with the bare of it all, braless underneath, he could tell, and you thanked him for the night, for his jacket, for his help. Said you’d see him tomorrow. Usually, you’d hug him goodnight, but with your dress about to slip off you just smiled, making fun of the promise he’d made to you just thirty minutes ago before a real goodnight.

ₓ˚. ୭ ˚○◦˚.˚◦○˚ ୧ .˚ₓ- present

Art looked over at the dorm building across the lot, looking at the exact path between cars you and him would have walked that night. His hands shoved themselves into his pockets, habit. He decided not to stand out in the parking lot anymore, swallowing hard as he allowed himself through the door and into the smaller gym, which was decorated just like the regular school dances. There were streamers and early 2000s radio hits and so many people.

It was almost immediately people recognized Art. He was possibly the most successful of the graduating class, though he hated to think it. He wouldn’t put himself above anyone. He was already getting pats on the back and he started in some small conversations but he was a little distracted.

ₓ˚. ୭ ˚○◦˚.˚◦○˚ ୧ .˚ₓ- past

“They have parties at Stanford?” You said, looking at some Stanford webpage on Art’s mom’s computer. “Frats, too. Insane. Hey Art, you should join the frat.” You chuckled. Art and Patrick were playing Jenga at the coffee table, two or three of the blocks wet from falling into the eggnog.

Patrick ruffled Art’s hair, “Frat boy Art Donaldson?”

You spun in the chair, “I could join a sorority, they have those too.”

Art grinned, “Yeah? You think they’d take Patrick?”

Patrick pushed Art into the couch and the Jenga tower toppled over once again. You laughed, watching him shake his head and reach for his eggnog, once again pulling a Jenga block out of it. You came and sat next to Art on the couch, sitting on the arm. His hand mindlessly wrapping itself around your ankle as your foot rested on his thigh. Gentle, like letting you know that he’s there despite the readily available knowledge that was your being. Something sweet. Patrick took a seat on the floor in front of you both. “I think they’d take me, but you have to be a Stanford student, so you know, it’s too bad.”

“Their loss,” You smiled. “Do you think I’m pretty enough to rush a sorority when we get to Stanford?” You asked. Both boys looked at each other.

“...Yeah,” Patrick said, nodding just a little. You narrowed your eyes.

“Yes.” Art said firmly. He squeezed your ankle just a little. You smiled at that. Art’s mom called you to dinner, christmas dinner, and in seconds both boys were bolting to the dining room. You exchanged a look with Art’s mom when you got there. She was lovely and she was letting both you and Patrick stay for the holidays. Her food was amazing and the conversation was Stanford, mostly, and your tennis plans for after graduation. The application process, the fuss of getting a dorm room there, and how excited she was for you and Art to be going to the same place. She loved you, his mom. She called you her daughter when the mailman came around during the holiday season and to whoever asked. She’d been in a household of boys for far too long.

The post-dinner conversation laying on your back on Art’s bed next to him while Patrick was laid at the foot of the bed was on exactly that. “Art, I think your mom likes Y/N more than you.”

“I know,” Art replied, hands folded on his chest. He turned his head to look at you, giggling.

“I can’t help it,” you replied through your laughter. “Everyone loves me, it’s not my fault.” Nothing about that statement was false- everyone did love you. And who wouldn’t? You were kind and sweet and loving and so warm to everyone you met so of course they all loved you. There was nobody like you so everyone who crossed paths with you would never be able to forget you. Art’s smile fell, looking at your freshly glossed lips and that unforgettably beautiful smile. He’d zoned out so when you rolled onto your side, nearly onto him, his eyes widened just a bit.

“You’re jealous?” You beamed.

“Not even,” Art scrunched his nose, using a gentle hand to push you away but you returned, giggling. “She’d go insane having a real excuse to go to sales at the mall.”

“Sugar mommy,” Patrick remarked. He had way too much pie, he was half-asleep. Art just kicked him with the foot that rested closest to his chest, eliciting an ‘oof’ noise from Patrick that you giggled at.

“You’re so jealous your mom likes me more, it’s crazy, it’s crazy,” You giggled, grabbing his upper arm. Art twisted his mouth to the side, eyes flickering from the gloss on your lips, to your eyes. “Don’t worry, when she comes to visit me at Stanford, she’ll probably have enough time to see you as well. I’ll make sure of it.” You teased.

“Yeah, we’ll see about that,” Art said, pushing you back again and you just laughed madly, a laugh that was so room-filling and contagious and completely perfect. Art turned his head to look at you. You were more than sorority pretty. Who wouldn’t think so when you laughed like that?

ₓ˚. ୭ ˚○◦˚.˚◦○˚ ୧ .˚ₓ- present

Art found that Lydia Jennings had three kids now. Three in fifteen years, which was a little crazy. She, of course, had pictures with her. Spitting images of her bright blonde, big-mouthed self and Art pretended to care, more than he cared to admit. There was no sign of Patrick. Lydia Jennings asked Art about his divorce, asking about his own daughter, but he had to real interest in talking about that sort of thing. Not with her. He excused himself, raising his head above the crowd to scan for anyone else he knew.

He ended up talking to an old friend who was already balding with his pregnant wife at his side. It was good to see just how well people were doing. Settling down, having quit tennis or only pursuing it on the weekends, some of them with kids in tennis classes already. Art was continuing to be congratulated on his career by even the partners of these past classmates.

ₓ˚. ୭ ˚○◦˚.˚◦○˚ ୧ .˚ₓ- past

You were dancing to some Tal Bachman song and Art was internalizing every lyric. “What song is this again?” He asked, leaning back against the tree. The light from the fire was flickering around your face that was nearly hidden by the winter jacket you had on.

“She’s So High,” you replied, spinning in circles. Patrick locked eyes with Art from across the fire, giving a knowing smile. One, because you were high, so was he, so was Art- Two, because Art was completely zoned in on you, the way you moved, the way you looked. And he couldn’t help it, you were the most fascinating thing around and he’d smoked quite a bit. It was like the song was written for you, he thought, out of his mind and red-eyed. You were dancing alone, like you hadn’t even though twice, the music coming from your little portable music player thing. Art met Patrick’s eyes and Patrick raised his eyebrows, nodding at you. Art shook his head, but Patrick jumped over the fire to sit next to him anyway.

“So are you telling her or am I?” He teased, ruffling Art’s hair and Art bat him away, huge grin on his face. “So when’s the wedding?”

“Shut the fuck up, she’ll hear you,” Art chuckled, shoving Patrick over just a bit. Patrick came back laughing. “It’s not like that.”

“You really think I’m fucking stupid, huh?” Patrick chuckled, pulling Art into a bit of a headlock in return. “I’ve known you both how long?”

“Too long,” Art laughed, trying to wriggle out of Patrick’s grasp, finally escaping just to shove Patrick all the way over. He was glad you were minding your business, occupied with the song. “It’s not like that.” He repeated, still keeping his voice low.

Patrick pulled himself back up, “Tell that to your dick,” he said, taking a shot at Art’s groin that he gladly blocked just to sock Patrick in his. Patrick doubled over just for a second and Art laughed a bit too hard, the fry of the weed that burned his throat making him cough. Patrick couldn’t stop laughing at the coughing and being high, everything was a lot funnier. It took a minute for them to stop laughing over the stupidity. Patrick sighed heavily, looking over at you still dancing mindlessly to a song by Avril Lavigne, then back at Art, who was trying to regulate his breathing, also staring at you again. “Maybe not always your dick but definitely your eyes. I’ve never seen anyone with bigger heart-eyes, it’s sickening.” He said.

Art looked at Patrick and twisted his mouth to the side. “I don’t think so. She’s just…pretty.” His eyes gazing back to you, spinning in your fluffy winter coat, swaying, firelight flickering over your face, defining your features in shadow.

“Uh-huh… You really think I don’t know?”

“There’s nothing to know,” Art replied, pulling his eyes off of you again.

Patrick shook his head, adding more to the fire, hand still over his groin as the pain continued to die down. He kept his voice low, “Fuck off with that. It’s bullshit. I know it, you know it. You spend more time with her than me, she’s your partner for every co-op game, your mom loves her, you look at her like I’ve never seen you look at anyone.” He chuckled, “And you so want to fuck her.”

“Not as much as I want you to fuck off,” Art chuckled. “Okay, well, I mean- I might. She’s gorgeous, yeah, but I don’t think I could ever tell her anything. She’s perfect, too perfect and we’re friends. We’re her best friends, it would fuck everything up.”

“So you don’t even try? I’ve seen you ask for girl’s numbers within forty minutes of knowing them, it’s unlike you to not even try.”

“She’s different,” Art replied, looking down at his hands. “I couldn’t. I make a move and she doesn’t want it, we’re fucked forever.”

“And you don’t make a move and you’ll never know,” Patrick replied. The weed made him oddly thoughtful. “I’ve seen you two with my own eyes there’s something there, I swear to god there is. You can’t just let things play out, you’re going to miss your chance. Think about Stanford next year, all the college guys hitting on her and you know they will, she’s Y/N… Fifteen years down the road she’s married to some frat guy she met at a rager and you’ll be wishing you told her while you could.”

The silence between them was filled by your music and humming. Art looked at you, eyes closed, lips glossy, boots in the dirt. And for the first time he let himself think that he could never want anyone more than he wanted you. He would never see past you, he wouldn’t ever feel this way about anyone else and in the moment, through the weed, it felt real. You, perfect, gorgeous, here.

ₓ˚. ୭ ˚○◦˚.˚◦○˚ ୧ .˚ₓ- present

Art glanced around the room, feeling some familiar fire burning in the pit of his stomach. It felt oddly highschool, it felt oddly familiar. He wondered if you had kept up with tennis, he wondered if you had a husband and kids, he wondered if you’d gained weight, lost weight, changed your hair, were going just a little grey, even. He was nervous- that’s what he was and he could place that. It was then that he saw Patrick, coming in through the door across the room.

Art, over Tashi, had put her in the past, including what Patrick had done. Him and Patrick didn’t keep up much other than a few texts and meeting at the bar a few times, but the hard feelings were pretty much gone. Art started making his way over to his old friend just to be grabbed by another ex-classmate who wanted to catch up. He was faced with more pictures of kids and meeting someone’s wife and Art wasn’t so bothered to talk about his own daughter, he’d always take that opportunity. She was the best thing he currently had.

ₓ˚. ୭ ˚○◦˚.˚◦○˚ ୧ .˚ₓ- past

You and Art sat on the bleachers in the gym, just having finished a co-op game, having won, of course. You both showered and got dressed again and met back up. The air was warming up, mid-spring and Art had still not told you yet. He decided he would at the end of the year and see if you’d make the first move, just to be safe. It didn’t weigh on him- he’d been friends with you for ages, liked you for ages, so it was a secondary thing.

“Hoping my tennis career is enough to buy an old victorian home,” You said, packing your things into your gym bag.

“I remember you saying that,” Art said, hauling your bag onto his shoulder along with his own. It wasn’t abnormal to have him carry your bag. It was sweet. “You want a blue one. Well, blue-grey.” He said. You looked at him, a little surprised he remembered the blue-grey thing. “With the white trim. I remember things.”

You nudged him just a little bit as you passed him. “I’m surprised, after so many tennis balls have hit you in the head.”

“And whose bad aim is at fault?” He teased back. You held the door for him and went out into the early afternoon sun.

You rolled your eyes at him with that gorgeous smile. “Bad aim, uh huh. Who’s to say it’s not on purpose?”

“Y/N!” Your girl friend called, bounding over. “My hair tie broke and I can’t go all the way back to the dorms in time for scrimmage, do you have an extra?” Art watched your full attention go to this girl, linking hands with her and everything. He watched you take the hair tie off of your wrist, the purple glittery one that you swore was your favourite. “Hi, Art.” She tucked her hair behind her ear, noticing him standing there. Art just raised his hand in a subtle wave.

“Of course,” you said, pulling the purple sparkly hair tie off and giving it to her, no questions asked. “Do you need anything else? I have a redbull in my bag if you wanted that before your scrimmage?”

“Really?” She asked. Art lowered your bag for you and you unzipped it, pulling the redbull out and handing it to her as she finished tying her hair up. All Art could wonder was how could anyone not love you when this was who you were? Art knew that purple hair tie was your favourite and you gave it up, just like that, and didn’t even ask for it back later. And your redbull that Art watched you go through your coins for six miinutes counting literal dimes and pennies to get it from the vending machine was in this girl’s hand just because you thought to offer it. You were kind and beautiful and Art moved the date up a little in his head- the date that he’d tell you how he felt. For now, he dug his free hand into his pocket and pretended like you weren’t absolutely perfect.

Saying goodbye to the girl, you and Art resumed your walk back to the main building. “You know Abbey, right?”

“Her?”

“Yes, her,” you giggled. “Don’t tell her I told you this, but she keeps asking me about you. Your favourite colour, song, movie, all of it.” You explained, gesturing with your hands and leaning against him as you two walked. “She likes you.”

Art was only half-surprised. But was more surprised at you bringing it up. “Likes me how?”

“Exactly in the way you think,” you replied. “I’m always down to play wingwoman, but I did tell her all the wrong information.” Your smile turned into a bit of a cringe. Art liked that even in your full care and support, you were just a little evil. Plus, what harm was it really? Art was only seeing you. He couldn’t spend a second on anyone else. Seemed impossible. “She thinks you’re a huge fan of Green Day.” Art couldn’t help but grin.

“Yeah?” Art set down your things at a table in the cafeteria and the two of you got in line for food. “Playing interference?”

“Uh-huh,” you said, bowing so your head nudged his arm. The smile that pulled at your lips was one you appeared to want to suppress. A strand of your hair, wet, fell in your face and Art wasted no time moving it behind your ear. Your eyes met his as your smile broke into full action and your eyes fell back to the ground. Sometimes… just sometimes, he felt maybe you were worth ruining the friendship.

Your lower lip between your teeth, you grabbed a tray for him before you grabbed your own.

ₓ˚. ୭ ˚○◦˚.˚◦○˚ ୧ .˚ₓ- present

Art finally made it over to Patrick, who looked decent. He shaved a bit, cleaned up just enough. Art thought about how strange it was to be back here with him after all this time. It almost felt right, was just missing you. “Hey, man.” Patrick said, reaching forward and locking hands with Art in a quick greeting.

“Hey,” Art replied. “It’s good to see you.”

“You too,” Patrick replied. “See anyone worth talking to?”

“Not really. Lydia Jennings has three kids now, in case you were looking forward to that,” he chuckled. “She doesn’t look bad though. I didn’t check for a ring either, so.”

Patrick chuckled, hands in the pockets of his dress pants, wearing virtually what was the grey version of Art’s outfit. “Not for me.” He said. “I actually- I ran into Y/N in the parking lot. I thought maybe you’d be looking for her tonight.” Patrick added. Art hated the way his stomach did a little flip as if he wasn’t a full-grown man with a failed marriage and a daughter.

“She came?”

“Yeah, she headed in here before me. She’s good, she hasn’t aged much, it’s weird. You know what they say about the way good people age…” He added. “She’s in purple, said we’d talk more later but she was excited to be here.”

Art swallowed hard, “I’ll keep an eye out. Thanks, man.”

ₓ˚. ୭ ˚○◦˚.˚◦○˚ ୧ .˚ₓ- past

When Patrick left early to hang out with Lydia Jennings, swearing he was going to ‘get some’, it left you and Art in the boy’s room. How they’d been bunkmates for six years running you had no idea, having been room with at least four different girls. Their room was decorated with sports posters, tennis awards and medals, and Star Wars memorabilia. You weren’t supposed to be there, but oh well. “You think purple is my colour?” You asked Art, going through the nail polish you had in your bag, buried under the bag of cheetos you brought over.

“Hm?” Art slid off his bed and onto the floor where you sat, your back to the edge of his mattress. “Yeah. The medium one, though. Not the dark one.” He said, pointing to the bottle he liked better. You shot a small smile his way before grabbing that one.

“I haven’t painted them in ages,” you said, doing a bit of a jazz hand really close to his face and then pressing your hand to his cheek. Annoying, or trying to be, but casual. Art scrunched his nose and batted your hand away, though he really didn’t want to. “So about Abbey.”

“Your friend?” Art adjusted the way he sat. His knee overlapped yours.

“Mhm,” you replied,beginning to paint your nails. “Did she end up talking to you after class yesterday?”

Art thought back to after class when he was on his way to his next class to meet up with you and Patrick. She had come up to him, but he almost immediately shut her down. “Was she supposed to?”

You smiled, “Yes. I told her to ask you about your favourite Star Trek episode.”

Art grinned, you were still playing interference. He wondered why. “I brushed her off… I didn’t think anything of it I was on my way out.” He grimaced a little and you looked up from your nails, trying not to laugh. “I don’t think I was too rude…”

“Where were you off to in such a hurry?”

“You- And Patrick.” He saved himself. “I had someplace to be! Plus, she’s not really my type.”

“And what is that type? Girls with purple fingernails, maybe?” You laughed- Art wondered what you meant by that because at this very moment there was nothing you said that had ever been more true. “Your future girlfriend is going to hate me.” You followed up. Art’s heart sunk just a little at that. You then mumbled something under your breath that Art didn’t catch.

ₓ˚. ୭ ˚○◦˚.˚◦○˚ ୧ .˚ₓ- present

Art caught up a bit with Patrick, who was interested to hear that his daughter was just getting into tennis, but really liked ballet. Patrick himself had still not settled down, but he’d landed a good job adn was now making decent money, enough to find himself a good apartment. He talked about this girl he’d met at the mechanic and Art didn’t mind the tale of it all, but he did glance around every few minutes to see if maybe you’d be nearby or even come to speak to them. They way you’d left things he wondered if you’d say anything to him at all.

It’s not like you left things horribly… But he knew the way things went just weren’t ideal and that was the problem. It was the lack of grace in the process of losing touch.

ₓ˚. ୭ ˚○◦˚.˚◦○˚ ୧ .˚ₓ- past

“Patrick held both envelopes up. “Saw these on the mail piles, grabbed them before mail day.” He said. You, who had been mindlessly playing with Art’s curls on the couch in the corner of the library, and Art, who was pink from just how intimate the feeling had been, both perked up. Patrick shot a look additional to the excited expression he wore and Art just flipped him off. “They’re yours.”

You and Art looked at each other, Art tilting his head back to do so. Both of you scrambled from where you sat to grab the envelopes Patrick held, huge grin on his face. “Stanford Tennis,” you breathed. Art pressed his lips together. “Acceptance letter?” You questioned. Patrick shrugged, but continued to grin.

Art shook his head, “Should we open them? I mean- same time? Or?”

“I feel sick,” you said, words overlapping his. “Oh my god.” You pressed your hand to your stomach. “I knew they’d be here soon but this is so… late. I was getting scared I wouldn’t get anything, we got something… We got something.”

“Yeah,” Art nodded, big crooked grin on his face. “Together?”

You swallowed, sitting back down, then standing right back up again. “No, you first.”

Patrick sat on the couch, ready to watch both of his friends excitement, arm up on the arm of the couch. “Hurry up!” He kicked Art in the back of the knee and Art didn’t even feel it, opening the big envelope. He narrowly avoided a paper cut. You paced a short distance, back and forth, back and forth anxiously. He unwrapped the papers, eyes scanning over the letter.

“Fuck yeah!” He exclaimed, all too loud for the library. He didn’t care though. “I’m in!”

You gasped and your grin was the first thing Art looked for. Your arms up and around his neck, so excited for him. “That’s amazing, I’m so so proud of you!” You exclaimed, also so loud. Art’s arms around your waist, squeezing you tight as you kissed his cheek enthusiastically. Patrick was there to clap him on the back, hugging Art when you let go. Art was glad for it- it helped hide how pink he went from just the kiss on the cheek. You were jumping up and down and you were beautiful and you were happy. It would be one of the last times Art saw you so happy.

“What about you?” He gestured to your envelope and you looked down at it like you’d forgotten you were holding it.

“I- I can’t, one of you has to do it,” you said. It was for sure. You’d met with the faculty there, the coaches, you were scouted two years ago when you weren’t even old enough to apply and the second you knew you loved tennis you knew Stanford was the best place for you. Patrick took your envelope for you, opening it as you nervously bit your lip, swaying into Art, letting your fingers intertwine with his just to have something to brace yourself. He squeezed your hand, smiling at his own acceptance, knowing that if anyone had it in the bag was you. But Patrick read it over and there wasn’t a grin- in fact the smile he did have fell just in the slightest. Art felt your hand squeeze his harder.

“What is it?” You asked. Art looked at Patrick, who then looked up at you with sorry eyes. “Patrick?”

“You’re- um-” he paused another moment and handed you the papers. “Waitlisted. I’m so sorry, Y/N.”

Art watched your colour drain. The obvious bright light you brought by just entering a room dimmed as you read it yourself. Art could feel the slight tremor in your fingers, so he squeezed your hand as hard as he could, just so in the new wave of overwhelming sadness, you’d know he was still there. He felt guilty for celebrating so soon.

“I’m waitlisted.” You repeated, monotone. “And not even until next semester. Next year. And even then there’s no guarantee.”

Art didn’t wait another second, he used the hand he held to pull you in. You didn’t resist, you couldn’t, you felt limp as Art wrapped his arms around you. Patrick’s hand on your back for just a moment, but Art’s hand on the back of your head and the other running up and down your back. His crush on you was unaffected by this hug because he knew that you needed it more than anything. You were the one with the plans, you were the one who knew exactly how things would play out and Stanford was the first step on every path you’d imagined. Knowing you so long, both boys knew you were right to cry.

Art held you, standing, for as long as you needed- his arms around you stayed tight and didn’t waiver once in the thirty minutes you stayed there. He was quiet, Patrick was just cursing Stanford for being fucking stupid and though Art agreed with him on that, because who in their right minds would look at your grades and your tennis stats and say they didn’t want you? Who wouldn’t want you?

ₓ˚. ୭ ˚○◦˚.˚◦○˚ ୧ .˚ₓ- present

When Art saw you from across the room it felt like he was eighteen again. He’d anticipated feeling nostalgic for a time, but you were there and you were in purple, like Patrick said and he knew it was you from the smile you wore, reuniting with what looked to be a very-pregnant Abbey Campbell. Good for her, Art though, seeing past the bump and looking at you. Patrick was right- you’d aged like fine wine or whatever that saying was, but you were still youthful and you were still… bright.

“You should talk to her,” Patrick said, noticing where Art’s eyes had landed. As if he hadn’t been watching Art scan every five minutes during their conversation. “You haven’t seen her since…”

“September 2006,” Art replied, looking at Patrick.

“Have you kept in touch at all, or?”

“No.”

“Oh. Well fuck.”

“Yeah,” Art nodded, eyes not leaving you. You were different, older, for sure but not in ways noticeable. Many of the men in the room had grown into bigger bodies and were either unfortunately balding or had already gone bald for some. Mid-thirties you wouldn’t think it, but it was there. And you were there, looking youthful and bright and you were still one of the prettiest girls in the room. Women… in the room. He gestured to you, eyes not leaving you, scared to lose track of where you were. “I’m going to-”

“Good luck.” Patrick pat Art on the back to send him off and Art, drink in hand from his stop by the food table, walked over to you, ignoring everyone who wanted his attention this time.

ₓ˚. ୭ ˚○◦˚.˚◦○˚ ୧ .˚ₓ- past

“You’re not telling her at graduation? You’re fucking joking.” Patrick said, shoving Art back onto his bed as the boys got dressed for one of their last classes at MRTA. “How fucking stupid are you, you can’t just not tell her.”

“I tell her and I ruin our friendship while I get to go to Stanford in the fall. I can’t do that to her.”

“You sound like a fucking idiot,” Patrick said.

“Okay, yeah, maybe, but even if I tell her and it goes well, we would only have the summer before I move all the way to fucking California. You’ll be on tour and this whole… thing would just be broken. And fucked up. I don’t want her for a summer, Patrick. I want her all the time, every day, like it was supposed to fucking be. I don’t want her for just a summer.” Art huffed, looking at his hands. The whole waitlisting bullshit threw a wrench in everything. Everything.

“You’d rather not have her at all?”

“I-” he flailed his hands around, “I don’t know! I don’t know how to tell her something like that and then move away.”

Patrick shrugged, “Could just kiss her.”

Art opened his mouth to speak and a knock on the door cut him off. Art pulled his shirt over his head as Patrick lunged to open it. It was you. Who else?

“You guys want to cut class?” You asked, arms folded over your chest, mouth pulled a little to the side, standing in your shorts and tank top, not dressed for class at all. Your hair was behind your ears, your lips just slightly glossy and you had that slight sparkle to your eyelids, but it was never too much. He would never get over just how beautiful you were, never ever. “I don’t feel like going today and I just want to do something fun or maybe even nothing?”

“That sounds great, but I actually was looking forward to doubles today…” Patrick groaned, putting a hand aside his head. Art knew him well enough to know Patrick was not looking forward to doubles. “But Art already has all his credits, I think he can stay. I’ll come back before dinner though?”

You nodded slightly and looked to Art, who still had his mouth a little open at the sudden position he was in. “Would you? I really don’t feel like going but I can just skip and meet you guys for dinner?”

Art nodded back at you, slowly. Patrick was playing wingman with expectations this time. ‘Could just kiss her,’ echoed around his head. He made eye contact with Patrick who, out of your line of sight, shot Art a telling look. He was giving Art a window. But skipping with you, being alone with you wouldn’t change the fact that when September came you’d be states away, alone, probably. The long distance would be hard and he knew he could maintain the friendship, but if he confessed and it went well, the long distance of a new relationship would probably kill him. And you. “Yeah, I’ll stay.” Art said.

When Patrick left for class, you came into their room and sat down on Art’s bed, next to him. You weren’t exactly yourself, the way you sat with your arms crossed and lacked that gorgeous smile Art looked forward to every day. You sat so close he could smell the sweetness of your perfume. “You okay?” he asked, looking at you with his head a little tilted, smiling gently.

“I can’t get the Stanford thing out of my head,” You admit. Art nodded. You’d been good about it. It upset you, he knew that it absolutely killed you, but you didn’t talk about it much- for Art’s sake, not wanting to depress him and Patrick with your delayed dream. “I know it’s stupid, I’m only waitlisted a year, but it was supposed to be different. They said I was a shoo-in, how could they say that and not mean it?” You vented. Art heard every word.

“They’re missing out for sure.” He said, hand sliding over your knee to rest just above it. “And Patrick is right- they’re fucked in the head and you deserved that place in the program more than anyone else.”

“Even if I deserved it, even if they’re fucked in the head, I’m still not going and that’s whats killing me.” You said, looking at him with sad eyes. He missed when they were full of light and happiness. “You know, it was supposed to be us. And now it’s not and I don’t know what I’m going to do without you- And Patrick.” Was Art mishearing or was there a pause? And us? Us. “I just feel so stupid and I’m suddenly so lost? I knew exactly what was coming and then it just stopped coming. And I’m terrified that I’m going to lose you both when we all go separate ways.”

“Couldn’t lose me.” Art said, eyes locked on yours. “I might be in California, but I have a phone. And it has a ringer and we have email and facebook and I don’t think I’d even know how to go a day without talking to you, so you know if you didn’t call, I would.” He said, admitting a little too much. “Patrick too, I bet.”

“I love that,” you smiled just a bit. “I just… I was so ready for things to change, but now I’m not. Even if I call you a hundred times in a day, would it feel the same?”

Art looked at the hand he had on your leg, at his thumb as it moved back and forth over your skin. “Probably not… But it would be the best thing until you come and visit. Or when I come home on holiday. It would just be to fill the spaces between, you know that the distance would mean nothing once we’re all together again.”

You looked down. “I know. I just don’t want it.” You sighed, leaning your head against Art’s shoulder. Art could smell your shampoo, it was soft and just as sweet as your perfume. “I’d just... I hate the idea of having to miss you. Distance fucking sucks.” You added. He agreed. Distance would suck. But right now you were here, next to him. He wouldn’t kiss you, he knew that. Not now.

But he turned his body just slightly and wrapped his arms around you, your head moving to just under his chin, resting against his chest. And he held you tight, he always would. And he didn’t resist his other urge, slowly tilting himself back so that he was laying down. You didn’t protest, you just held onto him tighter, laying next to him. Like most things between you two, they went unspoken. You in his arms, in his bed, god it was so telling but you didn’t say a thing. And neither did Art, aside from, “I don’t want it either.”

ₓ˚. ୭ ˚○◦˚.˚◦○˚ ୧ .˚ₓ- present

You didn’t seem to notice when he approached. You were heavily invested in your conversation with your friend, laughing and gesturing and you were even more beautiful up close. He could admit it to himself, he was amazed by how well-preserved you’d been. He maybe was expecting a bit of a grey streak, he remembered your mom being fully grey when you were only a teenager, but your hair was perfect. He was just a little bit to the side, in Abbey’s line of sight and she saw Art first, she looked happy to see him, he noted. Too happy for someone with a baby on the way. She put her hands up in the air like she meant anything to him and you looked over at him, seeing what Abbey was so delighted to see and for the first time in fifteen years, you locked eyes with Art.

ₓ˚. ୭ ˚○◦˚.˚◦○˚ ୧ .˚ₓ- interlude

Art remembered the last time you looked at him. Confused eyes, sad ones, the ones he hated seeing, the ones he knew he caused. It wasn’t supposed to be the way it was. Your best friend felt like he just… wasn’t that anymore. Missed texts to missed calls after promises of hundreds in a day felt like lack of care. And it wasn’t on your end. When Art missed your calls, you stopped looking at your phone so much and you missed his. You visited him twice at Stanford, within the first few months and it was the same but he was so busy. So distracted, it seemed. You met Patrick’s girlfriend, Tashi Duncan and the only thought in your mind was that she looked at Art strangely. So when things unravelled, you asked him things and he answered honestly, leaving out the part that he knew went against his character. He was looking at you, thinking about how he should have kissed you at the airport before going to California but he was looking at a girl who wouldn’t kiss him. Not anymore.

And he missed you like he missed no one- when you stopped responding to his emails and Facebook posts. Your last post was October 4th, 2006, and it was a picture of you at a coffee shop you were beautiful, but Art was so lost on the guy next to you. He should have kissed you at that airport but he was tangled in this mess of Tashi who he had admittedly used to try and not miss you so much when you posted with one of your new guy friends, who you did not like romantically. But Art didn’t know that. He didn’t know how badly it hurt when you traveled to California to find him completely happy and distracted in a new life with new friends and forget that you were coming to visit. That hurt. He should have kissed you at the airport when he could before all of these things crashed and collided and brought you down. He was at fault, but you forgave him, you just didn’t speak again.

Patrick said it was fine, you’d come around. Art’s mom told him that you called to check in on her, but that growing apart does happen. He would ask himself how in the world did he end up growing apart from you. You of all people, but admittedly it was his own fault. These things just happen, distance ruins things.

ₓ˚. ୭ ˚○◦˚.˚◦○˚ ୧ .˚ₓ- present

But there wasn’t much distance now. You were standing in front of him. Your expression didn’t change- it was a gentle smile upon laying eyes on him. Abbey asked him how he was and just like years ago, he brushed her off with a ‘would you excuse me?’ and passed her, sheepishly walking over to you.

“Hi, Art,” you said, head slightly tilted, lips pulled into that smile he hadn’t seen in years. Art felt shy around it, he hated that, but he was happy to see it. And you.

“Hi,” he replied.

You gestured to Abbey, “Reminds me of something.”

“I was thinking the same thing,” he replied with a small chuckle. “I-um… How are you?”

“I’m doing okay,” you nodded. Art found himself glancing for a ring on your finger or maybe a baby bump he missed, but nothing. You were doing okay. “Oh, no ring.” You said, holding up your hand. “Wasn’t so lucky. How are you?”

He shook his head, still a little dazed that you were here in front of him, talking to him like you hadn’t gone fifteen years without doing so. “Not so bad.”

“That implies that there’s some bad,” you nodded, leaning against the wall. Your dress reminded him of another you’d worn. “Not so bad?”

“I’m okay…” He said. “Just… I didn’t think I’d see you tonight.” As if he hadn’t spent every moment since RSVP-ing thinking about seeing you again. Finally seeing you again.

“Oh,” you nodded, understanding. “No, I get that. I didn’t think you’d come. Thought maybe you were busy winning some grand slam, too far ahead than the rest of us. It was a good win, your last big game in Chicago.”

“You kept up,”

“I couldn’t not. I’m not me if not nosey and that aside, your name all over everything tennis-related- billboards, even. You and Tashi.”

“You must have heard about the separation, then?”

“On the tennis new channel, surprisingly. Fuck them for making that public, and I am sorry.”

“It’s fine.” He replied, eyes not leaving yours. “It just wasn’t working out. She cheated.” He admitted, which he hated. Something about your eyes was a well-working trap for him to fall back into the exact boy he used to be in your presence. He wanted to tell you everything, he forgot what it felt like to be around you. But you weren’t different at all. You were still that same warm, caring girl you used to be.

“Art, I’m so sorry, that’s terrible. Nobody deserves that.” You said, eyes soft. Beautiful.

“It’s in the past.” He nodded again, looking at the ground. They hadn’t changed the gym floors since you’d left, he noted. They were the same. “Thank you, though. I actually, um, I have a daughter, though.”

“Lily,” you smiled. “I’m nosey, I told you. Is she much like you?”

“I think so.” He smiled back. You knew his daughter’s name and you knew about the divorce yet he had no idea what you’d been up to. “So, are you… working, are you…”

“I am.” You nodded. “I teach children with special needs how to play tennis, it’s a great job. Lots of fundraisers and events. It’s really lovely.” Art remembered when you were younger. You’d mentioned something of the sort- doing that. He couldn’t help but wonder if you had joined a company or made one. But he wouldn’t ask, the small talk was already killing him. “About your daughter though, I’d love to know more.”

He wanted to know more about you but he liked to talk about Lily and her hobbies and habits. It felt good to talk to you again as you engaged with him as if fifteen years was three months. It was strange, but the feeling of being around you and your light again, it was easy to brush it all off. Like he was eighteen and you were an addictive happiness. You were smiling as he spoke about his daughter. You were smiling so much that he had to stop at one point, unable to hide his own smile. “What?”

Your eyes went a little wide, but you kept smiling, shaking your head. “Oh, nothing. I just… I always knew you’d be a girl dad. And you seem like a good one.”

“Always knew?”

“Oh yeah, I think I first thought about it in grade ten… A girl knows these things.” You said. Your body language changed slightly, you tilted your head to the door. “Hm- Do you still smoke?”

“Do you?”

“When I need to.” You said. “It’s not a habit, it’s an occasional thing. Come with me?”

Art was surprised by the offer. But how could anyone say no to you? He nodded and followed you out. You stopped outside your car, a decent distance away from the building and hopped on the trunk, sitting like you would so many years ago. Your car was nice, so you must make good money, he noted.

“How are you really?” You asked Art, eyes genuine as you lit the cigarette. Art, focused on you, didn’t know how to answer that. He was wondering how you weren’t someone’s wife or mother because even after all these years, he couldn’t find flaw in you. Not one. You were still sweet and kind and lovely and you looked amazing, so how did nobody find you and keep you? You asked him how he really was as if you still saw through him. “You’re really doing okay?”

Art took the cigarette as you passed it to him. “I’m okay. It wasn’t easy- any of it, but it happened and it’s in the past.”

“That’s good.” You said, watching him take a drag. The soft wind blew your hair around your face. “I am sorry about what happened, it sounds awful. I had to check in, really check in. But that aside, you’ve really made a name for yourself out there. Big games, high stakes and a good reputation.”

Art nodded, eyes on the ground as he inhaled again and passed the cigarette back. Something about being here with you was surreal. You’d kept up and he had no way to do the same. “Thank you. I planned on retiring three years ago, but second wind came around. I plan on retiring next year, thinking about starting to coach.”

“You’d be a good coach,” you nodded, smoke blowing out from between your perfect lips.

“Maybe…” He started. Silence.

You nodded, “You’re thinking about the elephant in the… parking lot.” You said, looking around.

“I might be,” he replied, straightening himself out. “It’s been fifteen years and you’ve not said a word to me since… And I’d be lying if I said I didn’t think about it. I’ve had a lot of time to.” Art rolled up his sleeves. You watched. “Fifteen years.”

“I know,” you replied, quiet. “But you have had an amazing career and you married the girl I was so worried about, had a daughter. Your life has been exactly what you wanted, that’s amazing. Could it have been the same with me in it?” Art wished it was you in it. “So I let time be time and do it’s thing, I know it’s been fifteen years.”

Art shook his head, “It couldn’t have been a space thing. Maybe I needed the space, but it was bound to exist anyway. We were best friends, you, me, Patrick- and Stanford changed things but you didn’t have to walk away. My life has been my life but it’s not that way because you walked away.”

You chuckled, “I know that. And I am beyond proud of you either way, but me, eighteen years old and in love with you? Showing up after a month of planning and you forgot I was even coming? Just about broke me. And of course, there was Tashi and-” You had more to say but Art felt all of his thoughts come to a halt. His fingers felt cold. He interrupted you-

“In love with me? You were in love with me?”

You laughed, so genuine, the sound was something he had missed sorely. “That’s even a question? Oh, I was so young, but I was very much in love with you. Patrick would never let me forget it. I had such a crush on you. You… you didn’t know?” You covered your mouth as you laughed, but Art felt a little bit frozen, but it was easy to laugh with you.

“I didn’t know, no.”

“So the fifteen years is because after you broke my little eighteen-year-old heart, I took the time to recover and I just… never did.” You admit, handing him back the cigarette, which he took without looking at. He was only seeing you. Part of him was kicking himself hard, angry that he hadn’t confessed when he had planned, knowing now, so many fucking years later than if he had said what he wanted to, he might have had you. There were the complications, but if he had you, there wouldn’t have been a Tashi situation. And in his mind he watched the possibilities unravel his life as he knew it- knowing that it could have been you. It could have been you. “As sorry as I am about it, I don’t regret it. You have an amazing-sounding daughter and the life that you and I used to talk about, going pro… And I have a job that I only got through staying on this side of things. If I was in California, I wouldn’t have met the sweet lady who started the company I own now.”

He hated that you were right. But he hated it more that he could have had everything he really wanted- the things you and him talked about- and it could have been with you. A house, a marriage, a child? The things he really wanted. He couldn’t bring himself to feel regret, but it was something close to the feeling. “I understand. I just- you liked me? Patrick knew?” His whole adult demeanour was destroyed by your youthful smile.

“He would play wingman,” you said. “It was awful, but it was still fun. And I think I should tell you, though it feels wrong, that I missed you. And I am sorry I didn’t reach out. It was too much.”

“You don’t have to be sorry,” he nodded back. “I missed you too. A lot. It took a while to get over what happened, but it’s been good…”

“I’m glad,” you replied. The cigarette was almost at it’s end. And for a while you just stared at each other. The words unsaid filled the air until it was almost suffocating. He could have had you. If he had said something. If he’d kissed you at the airport. Tashi might have been Patrick’s. Art hated to think about a world without his daughter but it was you. It was always going to be you no matter how many years passed. “I hate to ask this for the sake of my phrasing, but… no hard feelings?”

Art smiled down at his feet, hands back in his pockets, “No, no hard feelings.” He replied. “And for what it’s worth, I’m proud of you too.”

You smiled that beautiful smile, the wind blowing your hair a little more. There was something so painting-like about this moment. It could be frozen in time, he wished it could be, and he made a mental note to engrave this image of you in his mind. You were just as gorgeous as the day you left and sure, it hurt to think about a little bit, especially all of the ‘what if’s, but you were here now. And there were no hard feelings. How could he ever have any toward you? It was you.

“You want to head back in?” You asked, digging a foldable toothbrush out of your purse along with a tiny tube of toothpaste.You truly not changed much in your ways. Art wondered if you remembered the last time you’d brought a little toothbrush and toothpaste out. He dug in his own pocket and pulled out his pack of mint gum. He noticed the way your eyes widened at the parallel. But then you just grinned, starting to laugh as you half-brushed your teeth, half giggled. Art chuckled too, popping a piece in his mouth. And the laughter lasted a while. It was like you were the same giddy teenagers who wouldn’t tell each other their biggest secret. But eventually it died down and you headed back inside.

The moment you were inside, he noticed the song playing. So did you. You stood there for a moment, not looking at anyone but him. The Cranberries playing loud over dusty speakers. The only Cranberries song you ever liked, Art remembered. You couldn’t stand the voice cracks in the one about zombies… He was a little confused when you held your hand out, but when you smiled, he remembered. In the spirit of parallels, you were asking him to dance. He remembered the promise he made you, he wouldn’t forget it. He had pinkie promised and you swore to make him regret it, but he never got the chance to. You never gave him a real reason to.

“You pinkie promised.” You said, tilting your head just in the slightest. “You swore.” You said it a little sing song. Fifteen years forgotten- they didn’t exist. You were here and you were asking him to dance with you.

“I did,” he said, smiling, hands still in his pockets. And he did take your hand and with a youthful giggle, you pulled him to the dance floor. It was one of those songs where you could scream the lyrics, you could spin and you could maybe even jump, but you just stayed close. Art wasn’t sure what exactly to do, but it was okay. You led at first, swaying just a little to get him into it. He grinned, unable to stop it. Fifteen years felt like seconds, like you never even left. Like you were those same young best friends dancing around your feelings, your truth. And you were so beautiful, spinning and swaying and your dress following you as you did. You laughed and it was melodious, you were so unaware of the eyes on you, of Patrick’s eyes. They met Art’s from across the room and a knowing smile spread up his old friend’s face. He raised his drink in their direction and Art nodded back.

Time might have made Art a little bit harder, colder, but you made him right back into who he used to be before life existed. Your light was brighter than the strobes spinning the walls of the room. You got him into it with a nearly-sixteen-year-old promise. The music loud, but just dull enough to hear you. Art was drawn back into you like you were a magnet. It didn’t matter that he didn’t have you. That he didn’t get that life with you. But you were here and you were still so perfect.

The dancing had somehow melted itself into something slower, though the pace of the song didn’t change. It was almost a hug, the way his hand slipped around your waist. It felt familiar and you… smelled the same way you used to. So sweet. Your arms around his neck, close to him. It wasn’t even a thought in either one of your brains that you ended up this way, but it felt right and you just did it, so that’s how you were. Swaying, like a slow dance, and the end of the song rolled around, the music dulling to only an instrumental.

You pulled away just a little, your faces just a little bit close. “I think it’s best we went our separate ways. It would have killed to me to stay your friend and watch you and Tashi’s life in person rather than in pictures.” You said quietly. “And if I’m honest I think I might still be a little bit in love with you.”

Art met your eyes at your confession. You looked like you regret what you said, but the concern in your eyes changed, eased. You could still read his expression. “I did love you too, you know.”

“I know.” You smiled. He grinned a little sheepishly, his grin still the same. His eyes were soft and he looked at you like he always did. Such a familiar gaze. “And I’m sorry.”

“Why?”

“For still feeling the way I do. After what I did.”

“You’re not alone in it.” He admit with a small chuckle. And you giggled. And it felt like nothing else existed in the entire universe. Just you. Just him. He wasn’t blunt, but it was definitely still said. It really could ever only be you, no matter what. Even with Tashi, it was always you. A first love that could never truly be erased, despite the countless mistakes and sins of youth. It hadn’t worked, but looking at you now, he had that hope again. That it might.

You just continued to sway to the music. The promise to dance whenever you asked fulfilled. There was peace in saying what was left unsaid for so many years. There was peace in feeling it still. Feeling how he did about you was the most consistent thing in his entire life. He wasn’t who he had to be with Tashi, he was who he truly was with you. His big career in hindsight, his past with Tashi, his life that didn’t include you was behind him.

Patrick did wander over when the song ended. He came and stood beside you both, the lip of his bottle resting against his mouth. You and Art shared a look before you left the position you were in, hands slipping back to your sides. He was grinning a sly grin. A familiar one from back in the day. Knowing.

You just tsked, “You need to shave.” You said. Patrick just grinned, laughed.

“You too.”

“Really?” You laughed. “Okay, I see how it is.”

Art chuckled. He’d be lying if he said he didn’t miss this. As much as he wanted just you and him, the three of you together were something entirely different. Who wouldn’t miss the better days? The three of you got a little more caught up, Patrick was free to reveal his position as a double agent in your teenaged slowburn that never really fizzled out… You and Art didn’t mention anything said during that dance, but he knew without being told. Everyone who knew you both knew that you belonged together. The night was still young, but Patrick lowered his voice. “I have an ounce in the car.” He said, shrugging. The three of you shared a look and in minutes the three of you were hiking across the schoolyard. Adults. Stupid adults with stupid nostalgia, laughter echoing across the empty courts as you all walked down the hill.

Art moved the dead leaves and under it was still that circle of rocks. The dirt had somewhat filled it, but it was still a bit of a divot. And the logs had thinned out but they were still there. You sat next to Art like you always would. You turned your body to face him and you just looked at him, studying the way his face had changed, his hair… but it was still very much so the boy you’d loved years ago. He looked over at you and he smiled and it was a reflection of so many years ago. The exact same spots, the exact same people, the same reason to sneak away.

You had hoped you hadn’t overstepped. You didn’t come to the reunion to say what you said, but it was right. And you knew Art felt the same. He said so. The three of you stayed and talked for hours like nothing ever changed. Time could never truly change the three of you. No matter who fucked who, who married who, who went where, who did what. It was always you. It would always be you. And that aside- you and Artwould figure that out- it would always be the three of you. Proven by your very own lives.

taglist: @swetearss @lalalandofive @xoxog0ssipg1rl @bayleequits @reallycreativeusername @kaaaiiaaa

[justaz]

merlin as the village tease/flirt who only ever has little flings with people (much like gwaine) and never develops feelings beyond “oh they’re cute” or “wow they’re a good friend” falling for arthur and having no idea what it means until lancelot has to spell it out for him and then merlin is just a mess. he has to hype himself up before so much as talking to arthur. he feels every time arthur even glances his way and as a result grows clumsier and clumsier to the point where people genuinely believe he was cursed by a sorcerer on one of arthur’s quests that he tagged along on. he can’t look at arthur and listen to arthur simultaneously bc he gets blown away by arthur’s beauty that the rest of the world falls away. pacing for like a solid minute outside arthur’s chambers before he has to wake him up for breakfast, the guards stationed outside watching him go back and forth and back and forth and back and forth and back and forth before one of them just opens the door for him.

[beescake]

Sorry for the spam (^o^;) I just really like your blog

no need to apologize ayy!

in this corner we welcome all forms of enjoyment, regardless of whether you're a

happy to have yall here w me,

headin into homestuck 2024 :^)

[un-pearable]

in which zane did not know before he died

remembered this very old au concept i’ve had since i was tiny watching ninjago for the first time… it completely unravels everything i enjoy about zane in the early seasons and i refuse to think of the necessary rewrites atm but i needed to make at least this one scene exist. can an au be naught but a single panel that makes me Sad?

[frankiebirds]

they love him so much 😭

[dykedvonte]

The second fic idea is a what-if scenerio where Jimmy dies in the crash due to and altercation with Curly and how Curly would navigate being Captain once he has to notice the little things and how he and Anya's relationship develop as he adopts an identical view point to hers rather than just keeping the peace.

And maybe i will write it but only time will tell tbh but it's stuck in my brain dome for the time being.

[rispwr]

linger - masterlist

What else do i have to do to keep you from lingering in my mind?

pairings : classmate! bestfriend! jk x classmate! reader

genre:fluff

it's a kind of fwb typa stuff so yeah

content: it's a suprise (i haven't proof read yet)

summary : for 9 years of being in the same class with him since 3rd grade you have developed a small admiration towards him, till it had grown stronger the more you stay with him. will you be able to keep this secret from your bestfriend forever? does he know you like him? or do you both share the same feelings?

(please play casual by chappell roan for this fic)

one

two

three

four

[bobfloydsbabe]

heartbeat | rhett abbott x oc | a linger blurb

SUMMARY: Lou has news to share with Rhett

WARNINGS: pregnancy

WORD COUNT: 740

LINGER MASTERLIST

JOIN THE TAGLIST (google form–no personal info required)

A/N: I word vomited this last night and decided to share it even though it's waaaaay down the timeline of the actual fic. I'm adding everyone on the official Linger taglist, as well as the people who showed interest earlier. Enjoy!

“Rhett?”

“Yeah?” he answers without turning around from where he stands at the sink, washing their mugs from earlier that morning.

Lou wrings her hands, heart beating wildly in her chest. “I have to tell you something.”

She watches his shoulders tense, his entire body going rigid. He reaches for a dish towel, drying his hands as he turns around to face her. His expression is stony, his eyes hard, and his mouth is a straight line. Lou’s stomach clenches and she feels sick.

“What’s going on?”

Tears prickle in her eyes. She can tell Rhett is primed for bad news, maybe even betrayal–so used to being put aside for the sake of others. “Will you sit?”

Putting the dish towel down, he crosses the room and sits on the couch. Lou sits on the coffee table, facing him, their knees bumping against each other, making her chuckle. She peers up at him, hoping to see the tension gone from his shoulders, but no such luck.

She opens her mouth, but Rhett beats her to it.

“Are you breaking up with me?”

Lou flinches, drawing back. “What?” It’s like a gut punch and the word sounds breathless.

He keeps going. “I know this isn’t the life you wanted, but we can do something else. We can leave Wabang, just don’t leave me–”

To make her usually quiet and gruff cowboy stop talking, she places her palms on either side of his face, pulls him to her and kisses him. 

His shock is palpable from the way he freezes, but he recovers quickly, and kisses her back with a fervor that reminds her of their first kiss. His hands cradle her neck, move into her hair, and she holds onto the front of his t-shirt like her life depends on it, keeping him close.

Out of breath, she pulls away and stares into those bright blue eyes she loves so much.

“I’m not breaking up with you,” she whispers, giving his lips another quick peck.

“Good,” he says, voice rumbling and finally the corners of his mouth turn up. “You scared me.”

Her heart aches for him. He’s so used to being pushed aside for the sake of others and their needs that he’s terrified of people leaving. If Lou could go back in time and convince little Rhett that he deserves to take up space, that he’s loved and cared for, she would do it without a second thought.

“I’m sorry,” she tells him. “Can I tell you the thing now?”

He chuckles, pecking her lips. She takes that as a yes.

She leans back, reaching around to the back pocket of her jeans, and hands Rhett the stick with a very clear message on it. He takes it from her with an adorable furrow between his brows. Flipping it over, his eyes dart to the little display immediately. 

His eyes grow to the size of teacups as his head whips up. “You’re pregnant?”

His voice is small, serious but anxious, and Lou doesn’t blame him for that. It’s a lot to process, and completely unexpected. Unplanned too.

“I am,” she confirms. “Dr. Bailey thinks I’m about 10 weeks along.”

He looks down at the test again, running his thumb over the display that clearly tells him it’s real. PREGNANT.

He’s so still that Lou almost thinks he’s having a stroke, but then a drop falls on his hand and she realizes he’s crying. Reaching for his hands, she brings them into her lap and it looks comical with her much smaller ones holding his.

“Rhett,” she says. “Please say something.”

He lifts his head then, tears trickling down his cheeks. “We’re gonna need a bigger place.”

Lou laughs. He’s not wrong. She takes the test out of his hand, puts it down on the table next to her, and crawls into his lap, her thighs on either side of his. Snaking her arms around his neck, her fingers play with the wavy ends of the hair at his nape. 

“Tell me you’re happy about this,” she whispers, pulse racing.

“Darlin’, these are happy tears,” he tells her matter-of-factly as his big, warm hands land on her hips. “Can’t believe we’re gonna have a baby.”

One hand slides to her belly where a new life is growing, half Rhett and half Lou. All love.

“I love you,” she says, leaning her forehead against his. “You’re gonna be an amazing dad.”

likes are nice, but commets and reblogs are golden

TAGLIST: @wkndwlff, @joaquinwhorres, @thedroneranger, @callsign-cacti, @chickensarentcheap, @lewmagoo, @sylviebell, @cherrycola27, @bradshawsbitch, @yanna-banana, @phoenixhalliwell, @rhettabbotts, @laracrofted, @everbizzare, @t-nd-rfoot, @callsign-joyride, @angelbabyyy99, @roosters-girl, @fandom-princess-forevermore, @eternallyvenus, @kmc1989, @high-speed-r, @anniesocsandgeneralstore, @petcr3

[essiemclaren]

lingering ties

pt 9

College!au

In which reader and Oscar, now broken up, must co-parent their (fur) baby

unibros gc

oscar's post on twitter/x

reader's post on twitter/x

unibros gc

unibros gc: update from oscar

oscar's text with reader

oscar's post on twitter/x

blue devil's college newspaper

reader's post on instagram

liked by landoOo, carlito, maxver._ and others

yourusername the sky was painted in your colors today, a sign you’d win. even though we’re apart, i’ve never stopped cheering for you. congrats on your first win—here’s to many more. 💫

-

“You came to my game. I didn’t expect that.”

“You called out for me. I couldn’t stay away.”

--

a/n: sorry for the delay! i have been busy with my internship, and no, i did not go back to the guy so stop calling me stupid haha ☹️

thank you for being so patient and understanding with me, i love you all! stay safe and take care of your mental health 🫶

love from essie 🍓

tags: @tsireyasgf @ziarahpikiran @mrsjamietartt @softtina @overlyexcitedoutlaw @osclerc @nixisracing @sinfully-yoursss @colmathgames2 @booksandflowrs @writelikeapoet @storminacloud @nixily @lokideservesahug @cherry-piee @annispamz @sltwins @mxdi0 @killinorris @awritingtree @andruuu28 @sarahkaliii @auggieblogs @hanshy @evie-119

@tellybearryyyy @ale-522 @xoxonoire @grovelingmen @s0meth1ngs @kodzuvk @2pagenumb @luuuucas @nataliambc @lyannesworld @honethatty12 @brune77e @iloveyou3000morgan @5sospenguinqueen @ellouisa17 @daisyfreecs @lichterfee @ididntseeurbag @koalalafications @saachiep81 @angelfrombeneth @vintagefucksstuff @mmoodd-jobutupaki @mountvesuvu @chezmardybum

[a-memory-a-distant-echo]

wip wednesday—well, it's still wednesday somewhere.

have a bit of the fic that i'm not writing, which is unfortunately one of only two things my brain is currently willing to produce words for.

Fang Duobing jerks awake into the grey light of morning. In bed next to him, Li Lianhua lies still and silent. His breath isn’t rattling the way it has since they found him on the beach. He’s not shivering. He always shivers.  Fang Duobing's hands hover anxiously, and tears spill down his cheeks, because this stillness can mean only one thing; can mean only that after everything, they’ve failed. He’s failed. Li Lianhua died right next to him, pressed against his side, and he didn’t even notice. The feeling catches in his throat and chokes him, and a desperate, gasping sob falls from his mouth. He carefully keeps his hands to himself, burying his face in them rather than stretching them out, because when he touches Li Lianhua, it’ll be unavoidable. It will be real, and he’s not ready to live in that world yet, not when he can cling to this one, tears or not, for even a moment longer.  ‘Xiaobao?’ Li Lianhua’s voice is morning-rough but steady, and Fang Duobing discovers that his hands move of their own accord, pawing through the blankets to find Li Lianhua.  ‘Xiaohua,’ he gasps, still shoving blankets aside. ‘You’re—’ His hand touches warm skin, and he gives up removing the rest of the blankets and flings himself on top of Li Lianhua, as careful as he can bear to be, but desperate to know that he’s still there. Fang Duobing rests his forehead on Li Lianhua’s bony shoulder. ‘I thought you were dead,’ he says. ‘You were so still; you were so—’ ‘What have you done?’ Li Lianhua cuts him off so sharply that it makes him pull back far enough that he can see more than the shoulder directly in front of him. ‘I was so scared,’ Fang Duobing says. ‘I  thought—’ ‘What have you done?’ Li Lianhua asks again, sounding panicked. 

[hold-him-down]

"it hurts... to talk...."

just a lil prompt from lil old me :)

from this ask game

✥ ✥ ✥

“It… hurts,” Felix rasps, a plea more than anything else. He swallows, the action resulting in visible discomfort, before he whispers, “It hurts to t-… to t-talk.” His body shrinks instinctively, steeling himself against whatever possible repercussions the non-answer will result in.

Felix’s fingers grip tightly around the edge of the table. “Be. More. Descriptive,” the doctor supervising these trials, Dr. Grant or Brant or something, says.

Felix’s eyes dart around the room, seeking unlikely support anywhere he can find it. When his eyes land on Jake’s, he whispers, “Please don’t hurt me.” Almost immediately, he starts shaking again. The assistant glances at the clock and begins writing feverishly. The tears that have pooled in his eyes start to spill. Jesus.

Dr. Grant snaps, and Felix’s eyes return to him. “I don’t want to hurt you,,” he says. “I just need you to describe how the pain differs from normal.” 

Felix’s eyes close and he sways where he sits. Jesus.

“Maybe you fried too many of his brain cells?” Jake offers helpfully with a half-shrug. He studies Felix’s face, the mix of long-dried tears with the new ones falling, the hopeless desperation that overshadows any willful defiance. 

“No,” Dr. Grant says, guiding Felix back down to his side. “We just haven’t found the right motivation.” Felix curls up tightly, his hands move to cover his ears. With a sigh, Dr. Grant issues a flat, “Bring the other one back in.”

[carolperkinsexgirlfriend]

Steddie Upside-Down AU Part 116

Part 1 Part 115

Steve’s counting the days until winter break. Something’s settled within him, now that things have been hashed out with Eddie, and he’s ditched his car and old house key. He wants to go home. But there’s a good week left of pretending to still care about schoolwork along with the rest of the seniors. 

High school, as always, is a powder keg Steve can’t wait to get out of – all it takes is a single lit match and the whole barrel’s going up in flames, taking all nearby bystanders down with it. Steve’s never been good at keeping his distance. 

Carol and Tommy used to be his crutches. They both know how to look out for the striking of the match, when to step back, and when to blow it out. They’d circle him like feral wolves protecting their fresh kill. 

Steve’s always been good at reading people’s moods, but never the room. And now that Carol’s on the fringes of the in-crowd, and Steve’s drop-kicked himself out entirely, all they’ve got left is Tommy, and he’s more likely to be holding the match.

Steve’s dressed down for gym for the first time in weeks, his doctor’s note apparently the only stay of execution he’d receive. He’s excited, is the thing. He’s not even particularly bothered by the looks the other guys are throwing him in the locker room, knows there are scars now that there weren’t the last time he was in here: most notably shiny pink burns speckled across his back.

It doesn’t matter. He wants to move.

Hargrove snorts. “I knew you were into some kinky shit, Harrington,” he drawls from across the locker room. “But this is sick, even for you.” 

Steve pulls his shirt down and slips his shoes on without untying them, ready to get out of there. It doesn’t stop Hargrove from calling after him.

“Is that what you let those freaks do when you were all tied up?”

Steve doesn’t mean to turn back, but he does, confusion taking over his higher brain functions. Hargrove’s smirking, a few of his cronies hanging on to his every word and laughing right along with him.

Hagan’s not laughing. His fists are bunched and he’s glaring at Steve, but Steve still knows him. Tommy has never been an angry guy. The anger’s always been a veneer, spread thin, to cover up something else. His hands are shaking right now, like he’s not sure whether to punch Steve or hug him. He’s sucking on his bottom lip like he wishes it was Steve’s.

Steve turns his back to him, and hears his laugh, a smack of skin. He doesn’t look back. 

There will probably always be a Steve that lives inside of him that misses Tommy Hagan. The same Steve that remembers being small in the backseat of his parent’s car and just wants the idea of them back. But, that’s the Steve of years ago from a simpler, shallower time. The Steve of now has people who love him enough to stay when things get hard.

Would Tommy ever have opened his home to Steve when he got kicked out? Would Tommy have ever walked through hell to get him back?

Soccer’s not a high-contact sport, but Hargrove sure does his best to make it one. 

Basketball skills don’t translate well to it, but there’s a certain level of athleticism that makes most hand-to-eye coordination tenible. None of which explains the way Hargrove’s foot keeps slipping when he tries to kick the ball and bashing into Steve’s shins. 

None of which explains the way his shoulder checks Steve’s with enough force to send him sprawling. Twice. 

And he keeps saying shit.

“I get why you’d let those two redheads fuck with you,” Hargrove calls, looking up and down Steve’s own body like he’s trying to picture something tawdry.  “Hell, Carol’s a tight piece of ass.”

He grins smamirly over at Hagan, either not noticing or simply not caring that Hagan’s face has dropped all its forced joviality. 

“But those kids? My sister?” he continues, still grinning like it’s funny. “What are you, some sort of pedophile?”

“I don’t know your sister, man,” Steve calls, disgust twisting in his stomach, knotting his intestines up in creative bows. 

Steve kick, kick, passes the ball around Hargrove’s weak defense, hoping Hargrove will follow the ball. He doesn’t. 

“Even worse, you let Munson in on that action?” he taunts, staring Steve down. 

Steve looks past him, watching his temporary teammate score an easy goal against a goalie who’s clearly never played a sport in his life. He doesn’t know what Hargrove’s on about, but engaging with vipers never leads anywhere good. 

It doesn’t stop him from spewing more poison. “I always knew you were a freak.” He says it like he’d rather fling a different word that starts with the letter F. 

The teacher blows his whistle at them, shouting complaints about lazing about and lollygagging, so they’re all three forced to run to the other side of the field and catch up with the rest of the game. That doesn’t stop Hargrove from running his mouth. 

“Hell, I heard all sorts of rumors about the three of you, back when you were the king. Carol, Tommy, and Steve, the inseparable trio.” Even through all the monologuing, he doesn’t even have the decency to be out of breath. 

Steve’s lived a far more sedentary life this past year, and he’s panting now, forehead tacky with sweat. But, there’s a certain level of athleticism it takes years to lose, so he still keeps up. 

“I know Carol was Tommy’s girl,” Hargrove continues, lunging around Steve to stop the ball, kicking it from foot to foot with coordinated ease. “But I heard you were taking it just as much as she was.” 

Hargrove feints left, right, scores a goal, running backward to get back on defense without turning his grinning face away from Steve’s. 

“Who would've thought King Steve was a fa–”

Tommy Hagan’s fist interrupts Hargrove’s little speech. It connects with a meaty thwack! with Hargrove’s jaw, hard enough to make his teeth clack together. 

So: powder keg, lit match, ka-boom!

“What the fuck were you just going to call me?” Hagan snarls. 

He swings again until Hargrove rolls them over and starts swinging back. Steve stares, stunned as the teacher blows his whistle and starts running. 

He can almost hear Eddie’s soapbox rant. Something about testosterone, and projection, and the homoeroticism of high school sportsball. 

Both boys are bloody and seething by the time they’re pulled apart and escorted to the principal’s office. 

He intercepts Carol at Barbara’s car after school to tell her what happened, unsurprised when she just laughs. 

“Serves him right,” she says grinning and peering into the parking lot like she might catch sight of his bloodied face. 

“Should we do something about the rumors?” he asks, whispering the last word like if someone hears it, they’ll immediately spew homophobic slurs in both of their directions.

Carol just waves her hand dismissively. “Nah, that’ll just fan the flames.” She wraps her hand around his waist and squeezes, fingers tucked proprietarily beneath his t-shirt. “Go home and this’ll all blow over by next week.”

He tells Eddie what happened on the way home.

Eddie cackles. “Of course it would happen in gym,” he says, grinning as he runs a vacant stop sign without even a rolling stop. “All that testosterone running through their bodies until they’ve just got to touch each other.”

Steve settles in to listen to his rant, delighted when he guessed most of the beats Eddie would hit just right. 

He should be surprised when Hargrove and Hagan are sitting next to each other at lunch the next day, laughing and shit-talking as if the whole school isn’t still atwitter about their all-out brawl the day before. 

He should be, but he’s not. Tommy and Carol have always been good at playing the game, and it looks like Tommy’s determined to stay on the board. 

Steve and Carol trade a commiserating lunch, and go back to their respective conversations. Tommy’s been given chance after chance to make a different choice, but he never does. Steve’s not about to light his own match for an old friend who’d never burn right along with him.

Steve counts down the days until he can go home, and stay there with Eddie, for weeks on end. Four, three, two, one. 

Home.

Part 117