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hitlikehammers · 5 months ago

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Post S4 Steddie featuring Russian-Hostage!Steve (again) and Ransom Notes Sent to His Family (!)—hilarious

...but is it?

Steve doesn’t remember getting drunk as fuck. In fact, he…

This doesn’t even feel like a hangover, not exactly. There’s the headache, the stomach-lurching, but there’s a, a weight almost. Something in his limbs that feels off and too stiff but also like noodles, if you could make noodles out of lead. This, this kinda feels like—

His hand goes automatically to his neck, near his jaw, tries to see if he can feel—

Ah. Okay. Yep. Already scabbed over the injection site. Must’ve been something else this time, like probably a bigger needle. Sedative to start, maybe. Like the appetizer course.

Steve starts chuckling to himself—no off-the-books truth serum needed to get hysterical, not this time—as he tosses himself to lying back down, only then really clocking the cuffs on his wrists and, well.

At least he’s not in a fucking sailor suit.

——

When he calms down, and no one’s come for him into his very unexciting grey-stone cell for enough minutes to trust in a lull, at least, where he can just…just try and think?

He does in fact think he’s got something of an outline for maybe, like, the first leg of the story: they had to have gotten him after work.

Probably right after work, between locking up and getting to his car. He closed alone last nigh—

Well. The last time he remembers being at Family Video, he was closing alone. If he’s waking up drugged, it’s probably not super smart to just assume it was ‘last night’ by default.

Not that he’s sure it even matters, but.

Everyone knew he was closing. And everyone, except his boyfriend and sometimes Robs, knows to leave him be for a good twelve-to-twenty-four hours to recover when he’s soloing for the late shift on a weekend. Fucking brutal, honestly. Plus there’s a stormfront on the way and he’s had a migraine brewing at the back of his skull for days that was due to explode the minute he clocked out. Rob’s in Chicago scoping colleges, wasn’t gonna be back until midday after his shift anyway. Eddie was doing the same, but in Indy, looking to book gigs—he’d get back around sunup, probably, and he might come by as his first stop home, in fact he usually does and...

If anyone’s noticed Steve’s missing? Or will, maybe soon?

Might…might actually be Eddie, first.

Steve feels…more than a little tight in the chest, in his throat, having to think about it; imagining if the tables were turned.

So he shifts tacks, moves quick to trying and figure out what the fuck he’s been abducted for in the first place—yeah they’re gearing up for the eventual final showdown with Vecna, but once the ash stopped raining, and the sky went back to generally regular colors, and the government paid to fill in enough of the ‘earthquake’ damage for the roads that were still drivable to be noticeably better than they were pre-apocalypse? People generally calmed down, so. He really doesn’t know who the fuck’s got it out for him. He actually hasn’t broken his NDA, particularly considering he doesn’t even socialize with anyone anymore who hasn’t signed one themselves, and therefore doesn’t count on the subject of keeping to the terms of service, and honestly? Even peak-Vecna with his clock bullshit didn’t have a real-world army to do his bidding because, like: shit. That’s still the thing he’s pissy about, right? So.

It’s not like whoever’s-got-him-chained-up-because-if-anything-they’re-more-serious-about-imprisonment-than-he’s-encountered-before—but whoever they are, Steve cannot for the life of him figure out a good reason for them to be after him on Upside Down business.

So, like: the fuck, you know?

He’s trying to figure out property damage, like did he ruin someone’s prize roses when he was driving that RV, or else; was the couple who owned that RV, like, retired assassins and they’d been gearing up for revenge this whole time? That was plausibl—

The door—thicker, heavier than Steve actually was guessing—swings open with a godawful screech before he can weigh the likelihoods of the wife, or husband, or both having been secretly cold-blooded-killers, and in walks…

Oh. Oh, so…it is actually that predictable. Same script, different scenery.

Because Steve knows that fucking uniform, and it’s actually involuntary, swear to god, the way he sighs.

He gets slapped for it, which would hurt less than the first go around—those gut shots had been brutal��if the asshole hadn’t been wearing rings.

Not nice ones like Eddie’s, either. Ones meant to fucking tear skin and peel at the layers beneath it, too. Bear down to the bone, if given the time.

Steve feels the blood drip down toward his mouth, but there’s enough that he tastes it on the air before it even rolls past his lips. He’s panting a little, more for the sake of the impact, like the shock of it, but even then he hears it. The…weird whirring through the open door and he tries to catch his breath so he can focus, because there’s something…familiar about it, something he should know—

“Who do you work for?”

He snaps back to what’s in front of him and fuck, god, so: same script.

But, but: literally.

He instinctively curls his fingernails against his palms; knee jerk reaction. And fucking justified, too.

“Video store,” Steve answers because, what else, and good thing he’s still wearing his vest, was taking it home to wash because it smelled too much like…store. He nods down at the logo on his chest, pulled awkward and lying askew but pretty goddamn clear. “Like VHS tapes. Movies.”

He gets another slap. He’s grateful for even more reasons that Robin’s not with him this time. They’re not even proper Russian cinephiles, she’d be so offended on principle.

“I mean,” Steve decides in a split second to play along, to roll the dice with his chances on his lonesome and be grateful—and maybe because the thought of Robin, following the thought of Eddie and his rings, all weaves together to make him bold, but also make him desperate: he doesn’t want them in danger. Doesn’t want anyone goaded by these bastards into coming for him, wherever he is, and getting themselves hurt. Or worse.

So: maybe goading this captors into thinking he’s not worth the time anymore and making this quick?

Maybe that’s the card he’s gotta play.

“I’m guessing you think I know shit because of Starcourt,” and yep. Eyes get big for that being slid across the metaphorical table so casual. But Steve’s more impressed at himself because the minute he says it? The humming sound, the whirring? It clicks.

It’s what he heard in that underground lab. With that machine. With them trying to, to tear open—

“I don’t, for the record, know anything, Steve clarifies; “but if I’m like, missing for too long? My friends are gonna flip, and last time my friends were with me, y’know, so this time,” Steve sucks at his front teeth and shakes his head, and it fools them while it grounds him: two-for-one.

“They’ll freak, basically. Especially after last time,” his boldness lasts him through tossing his captors—maybe torturers—a judgmental quirk of his brow.

“Probably gonna tell Hopper like, y’know, chief of police,” he adds, blames Eddie for the theatricality buried in it as he purses his lips and nods like he’s considering; tries not to dwell on a deeper reason for why these bastards are letting him talk—nope. Nope, shove those thoughts down, just keep talking yourself, ignore the steady trickle of blood down to his tongue as he yaps.

“And Hopper, hell, it’s not his first rodeo, so he’ll probably call the suits,” Steve presses on Because what else does he have, what else can he do, he can barely fucking move; “you know, like you,” he nods at the medals on the very Soviet-style uniform; “but the American version. He’s got friends. So.”

And Steve manages to stare the fucker down, just eye-to-eye as the man scowls, glances at his associate standing closer to the door and—

Yep: yep. Another slap with those rings. Steve can’t pretend the blood’s not spilling from the line where the impact dug out his skin. He’s glad there’s no mirror; can only imagine what it looks like.

Sure as fuck knows what it feels like.

“I can’t tell you anything you don’t already know,” Steve doesn’t even think he’s trying to reason with them, wonders idly if he’s like, some Russian-identified spokesman now for all things spy-y and otherworldly, like if his picture’s on a cork board with strings going around it as the number-one suspect-slash-target-to-pump-for-nonexistent-info.

Fucking fantastic.

“I work for a video store, dude,” he finishes with, and it doesn’t even come out desperate, or pleading—it’s way closer to resigned.

“We will see.”

The man grabs Steve’s chin rough, too rough and for a second? Steve’s a little afraid he’s gonna try to snap his neck but he just shoved him back, straight into the wall—cracks his spine a little, but. Actually, given his limited range of motion, it kinda gets out at least a couple kinks. Huh.

Silver linings, or whatever.

But then they’re leaving, and something leaps in Steve chest uncomfortably, just as something sinks in his stomach and the whirring, the hum from beyond the door sinking with it, too—ominous—and he’s lunging against his restraints without thinking, cringing for the bite of the metal but there’s…something in him wants more time with these people. To figure them out. Maybe just to stall for time or find the one last straw to break and get himself beaten to death, no longer a threat to his friends by proxy.

“We have Sour Patch Kids, now!” Steve calls out on a freak instinct, a stupid desperate whim as they walk out, maybe more to drown out the whirring, the pit that’s opening in his stomach for all the memories its familiarity dredges up; “can totally hook you guys up!”

The door shakes the air somehow, but not the walls, or Steve’s chains, when it slams closed and Steve can’t hear the machine anymore, it’s all cut off and—

Holy shit, Steve is so fucked.

——

They keep sliding sandwiches and water through a hole they literally lock and unlock in the thick-as-fuck-special-soundproof door. Steve is reminded weirdly—or not, it all looks perfectly normal—but given the circumstances, he thinks he’s justified to be thrown back to that lime-green battery acid they’d considered drinking in the elevator: and that, probably more than anything, is why he refuses to touch a single bit of what’s shoved into his cell.

Well: that and then also the fact that no one actually comes in for a long stretch of time, and there’s no noise, save for…the hum. Only when they open the little hatch for food, at first but…then it increases. Then it somehow overrides what Steve imagines to be a pretty fucking effective insulation job to make everything thus far so soundproofed; so deadened. The fact that it even bleeds through a little sinks sicker in his stomach than hunger ever could.

Because definitely, one-hundred-percent, in case there’s been any doubts hanging on: it’s the machine, the thing they were using before to rip holes in…the world. As if Hawkins needed any more but—

The Russians want to know who he works for, and they’re trying to unleash the Upside Down. Again.

Jesus Christ.

It might be comical, the repetition after everything, with even less reason—the gates have been shut and sealed now almost a full year and shit, the whole party had been banging on about a cookout to celebrate, to sneak in one good thing before it was time to strike against Vecna for the last time, and Steve really hopes they don’t abandon the well-earned party for the sake of his imminent demise but, point is: it would be comical, almost definitely, if it weren’t so fucking horrifying.

They thought this was over. This part at least, the peripherals. Steve was the last real holdout to be on high alert, everyone was trusting in the alert system that was El and Will and even him and Eddie a little bit from the bats, all connected to some degree with activity in the Upside Down and everyone else was counting on that and trying to live in the middle while they could and…shit.

Look where it got Steve, giving in to the hope for an end in sight, and maybe even a happy one at that.

It runs sick through his veins, now that he’s thinking about it, about any of the possible outcomes and ramifications beyond this cell and…basically Steve’s glad he hasn’t trusted a bite or a sip of anything they’ve left him, lest he have to endure anything worse than dry heaving in captivity.

——

Eveually, Steve goes back to counting out the positives. It’s a fairly safe subject. Morbid, maybe, but what else has he got?

His friends aren’t here. He’s lonely, but honestly, even if that’s a part of his life that’s seen major improvement the past couple years? It’s not something he isn’t used to, can’t work with. But if his friends aren’t here? They’re safe. El or Will can tell there’s something weird with the Upside Down if the machine gets powerful enough, they’ll all be able to come up with a plan and strike when the time’s right, and Steve…

Steve can survive a little longer, at least as a distraction, even if he’s apparently a shitty one since people aren’t coming in to ask about the latest new releases, or smack his other cheek and give him a matching set of bloody gouges.

The machine, also—and why he figures he might not outlive the time it takes for the others to notice a disturbance in the Force—ha, they’re not even here to appreciate his wholly unprompted and almost definitely correct nerd reference, but that’s good: they’re not here, they’re safe—but the machine is humming, and turned on? But even at a distance it should be louder. It should be louder to destroy the world.

They’re not there yet. They’re not there yet; there’s still time, and Steve may not be there to help everyone fight, to protect them but—

There’s time.

And then like, of course, full circle: no Scoops uniform, check—those shorts bunched up his ass like nobody’s business. He cannot forget that as a massive plus, here, because come on, think about it: decked out like a shitty ice cream sailor on an ocean of flavor, Jesus.

Just a flat out shitty way to have to die.

——

“We have sent the ransom demands.”

Steve blinks; he was kinda spacing out. He probably shouldn’t be able to do that. The machine isn’t any louder—yet—but it’s…ambient, in a way.

Morbid, probably. Again.

The lack of eating or drinking might be getting to him. He really should have eaten before his shift.

“The what?” Steve blinks some more because…maybe if he can see clearer he can hear the words in a way that’ll make sense.

Jesus fuck, he should probably start being concerned about his…overall cognitive function or whatever, at this point.

Or something.

“You are a rich man,” the main bastard, with the rings, looms over Steve with a skeevy little grin, cracks his knuckles and how, he’s watched Eddie struggle because it’s so hard to get your fingers in the right position to do it with rings on—

“You’ve got the wrong guy, pal, look at these shoes,” Steve shakes his head while he kicks his feet out: “very last season.”

They’re still fucking excellent shoes, but. High-school-him wouldn’t have been caught dead in them.

Ha. Haha. Graduated-useless-townie-him is gonna get caught dead in them. Ha.

Add that to the positives list, because irony is sometimes funny. He listens when Robin tells him about her boring-ass art movies. Because Robin’s opinions matter, regardless of the topic.

“Property records,” the lackey who stands behind points out and it takes Steve a second to catch up…rich man. Property records.

Ransom note—

Oh fuck, but he cannot help himself. He snorts.

And then he laughs hard enough that both his captors actually look concerned which: fair. If he had information, it’s probably hard to wring anything useful out of somehow who’s totally lost their mind.

“Dude,” Steve wheezes, and then gets back to cackling because it’s too funny, just the picture in his head—

“Dude, no,” he shakes his head over and over and gets a little dizzy but who can even blame him. Richard and Amelia Harrington, paying their failure of a son’s ransom to the Russians?!

Fuck, they’d be better off putting up a shitty politician and soliciting their donations. Like the whole thing with mayor what’s-his-face.

Steve really doesn’t need any black market drugs to find it hilarious and, like, honestly.

Going out laughing isn’t the worst way to die, so. Seriously.

Mark that down for topping the list of goddamn positives.

——

He doesn’t actually know how long it’s been, but the time does come where he gives in, and is therefore eating the morning and the afternoon sandwiches he’s been left—they don’t take the uneaten stuff until he’s sleeping, given that he’s never seen them do it and the old food’s always gone. He’s only guessing that he gets three plates a day, and…well. He remembers something Erika said about three days without water being the limit for the human body and it sure as fuck felt like it, and poison seemed a better alternative than thirst as reasons for kicking the bucket, so.

Least it wasn’t the neon acid; little mercies. Gotta remember that.

But on an empty stomach it had gone down easy and quick for desperation, but fuck if now it didn’t hurt which: in for a penny, or whatever the saying was. He didn’t understand it. Just knew it fit the situation. Kinda.

Probably.

He’s curled up now, though, kinda moaning super pathetically, almost loud enough to drown out the machine’s hum even, for the way his stomach roils and he tries to distract himself; tries to think…

He is just clearheaded enough to recognize how morbid he’s being, again—but it’s the first thing that comes to mind. And also it’s relevant, so fuck you, morbid-police.

But: Max’s letters. They’re what comes to mind.

He doesn’t have paper. Or a pen. Or something to etch into the floor with. So it’s just a…thought exercise. That’s what they’re called, right?

Whatever. Distraction. He cannot die covered in his own puke, that’s one bridge too far, so he needs to focus. Not on the state of his intestines.

So…start with, who should he start with?

Hmm. Hmmmmmm.

El. She’ll figure things out first so:

Dear El

Solid start. Good job, Steve.

You are fucking extraordinary, and it’s not for being able to move stuff with your mind. You’re so strong, and brave, and selfless. I look up to you. I like when they call you Supergirl, but, like, those are the reasons why. Keep finding reasons for laughing, remember you’re entitled to extra because of all the dark years you came back stronger from. Remember the way you are and the way you think and the things you do are awesome and you don’t have to relearn anything you don’t want to, or change anything you don’t want to, to fit in. People should be trying to be more like you.

Love you, Supergirl.

P.S. there’s a freezer in the basement fucking loaded with Eggos. All yours.

Hey. That’s a solid letter. He’s not bad at this.

Then his stomach lurches and apparently he’s not even allowed to celebrate his wins, okay, fucking cool.

Who’s next, who’s next…

Dear Dustin, and maybe that’s the best way; this is gonna hurt like hell just thinking about so maybe, like, that’s the best way to distract himself.

Okay. Okay. All or nothing.

You die, I die was a general feeling, thing, not a real thing. So take care of yourself, for real, okay? Lean on people. If the other shitheads aren’t what you need, turn to Robin. Turn to Eddie. Promise me you’ll be everything you’re meant to be. I’m so proud to know you, man, always. All the things about you are things worth being proud of.

Talk to Eddie about tone, though. Like, when the time’s right.

Thanks for being the first person to show me what family’s really like, what it’s supposed to be. You’re mine, y’know. Like, you’re my brother, but then, you’re also my friend. Thanks for that, too. I love you, man.

P.S. They discontinued The Hairspray. Be on the lookout for a good replacement, and conserve what you have for special occasions.

The cuts on his cheeks are apparently not yet healed over enough not to burn when the tears streak through. Awesome.

Definitely fucking distracting so…run with it, he guesses.

Dear Max,

Thanks for the idea.

Cop out. Absolute cop out. He means it, this is helpful, he hasn’t barfed yet which is really the point but.

He’s being a coward, now. Seriously.

It needs to hurt. If he actually put himself into writing Max’s it’d be ugly, but…

Go big or go home. And he’s never going home again, is he, so:

Dear Robin

Fuck. Fuck, his breath catches with just those two words.

I’m really glad we never figured out how to meld into a single being, because I don’t want you here when…you know. When.

But I wish you were here in a safe way, if that makes sense, and somehow were possible. They don’t call them soulmates for no reason. And I never called you mine without meaning it.

If there’s anything after, I will miss you through all of it with everything I am and hope like hell when the time’s right—like at least 90 years from now and no less, you understand?—I get to see you again. Maybe then we can work on the melding thing and get it right.

I liked being your dingus. So much. And I will always be your capital-P soulmate.

I’m sorry.

He doesn’t even remember his stomach hurting from the sandwiches, anymore, or drinking the water too fast. He’s sick for so much bigger reasons, now. Everything fucking hurts.

That’s the point, he reminds himself, that’s the point, so:

Dear Eddie—

He chokes on the air, just for the thought, because here’s the tipping point. Here’s where he breaks.

He can’t. He can’t.

He loves all of them. All of them.

But he’s only in love with one. Like he’s never loved before. Like he’s never been loved back before, not ever.

He doesn’t know if it’s possible to pass out from heartache, or if it’s more the not eating, or drinking, or if he’s feverish, maybe the cuts on his cheeks from the rings are infected and he’s on borrowed time in more ways than one.

Doesn’t matter. He can’t write a letter to Eddie, not even in his head. And he doesn’t want to think about what it means, such a nonexistent-mental-letter.

Someone told him once that if you were falling to your death, you’d pass out before impact. Like…like self-preservation in your last few seconds or something.

Steve thinks—with the way everything fades to black in seemingly seconds—he thinks this is…kinda like that.

So the big question now is:

DOES HE SURVIVE? SHOULD HE GET RESCUED?!?!

*chews nails, or hair, or—*

yeah, like that

For @devondespresso, who requested 'Nightmares' at my HOBBIT-STYLE BIRTHDAY MONTH PROMPT FEST (sorry it's in the contexts of LIVING ONE OUT) and incidentally also for @steddie-week for the Day Two prompt 'Hands' (which okay if you DO NOT want a rescue it's only in mean violent ways but...he could be rescued)

✨permanent tag list: OPEN (lmk if you want to be added/removed): @pearynice @hbyrde36 @slashify @finntheehumaneater @wxrmland @dreamwatch @perseus-notjackson @estrellami-1 @bookworm0690 @imhereforthelolzdontyellatme @nerdyglassescheeseychick @swimmingbirdrunningrock @goodolefashionedloverboi @sanctumdemunson @theheadlessphilosopher @lawrencebshoggoth @mensch-anthropos-human

divider credits here

ao3 link here ✨

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zentriii · 7 months ago

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Kiyoomi scrunches her nose. She’ll never get Motoya’s obsession with plants. It was fine when it was just succulents, those are easy enough to take care of, but flowers fucking reek.

It’s not a bad smell per say, but it’s stupidly strong in this shop, even with her mask up. They’re pretty at least, she’ll give them that.

She’s debating between the pretty blue flowers and the silly, warm yellow ones. Motoya should have never trusted her judgment, how’s she supposed to resist the urge to tease her for always being in a yellow coloured team? At least Kiyoomi can say she’s escaped it in the Black Jackals cause gold isn’t yellow.

“Is there anythin’ I can help you with?” A pretty blonde girl in a red apron asks. Kiyoomi nearly jumps out of her skin, where’d she come from?

“Um, can I get these?” Kiyoomi points at the two, ready to bolt out of here because Employee Girl is way too gorgeous for her to not make a fool out of herself. Her palms are sweaty and she’s so grateful her mask is covering half her face.

The girl leans in way too close to Kiyoomi’s space and reads the labels, “Cornflower and fressia? I can put them together for you but d’you wanna check out the white freesia’s instead? They’d be real pretty together.”

“Yeah, sure.” Kiyoomi could be asked for her credit card information right now and she’d hand it over no questions asked. What did she ask her for again?

“Great, they’re over this way.” Employee Girl walks away and what else is Kiyoomi supposed to do but follow?

The flowers they stop at all look the same to Kiyoomi but she holds her breath as the girl talks about a few different ones, pointing them out and saying stuff about how pretty things look prettier together. Her name tag reads “Miya O.” A pretty name for a pretty girl. She wonders what the O stands for.

“That sound good?”

Kiyoomi nods, Miya’s voice sounds great in fact.

“Well you’re in luck! We finished our orders for today so I can put it together for ya right now but please submit a request a few days in advance next time. We’re pretty busy during the afternoon so ya picked a decent time to come in.”

Miya picks a few different flowers and the blue ones from before – the cornflowers – and heads to the back. Kiyoomi wants to protest but she’s just a customer and Miya’s an employee doing her job.

Miya peeps her head out after closing the door. She bites her lip before calling out, “Can I ask ya for a favour?”

“Uh, sure.”

“If ya see a girl with my face try an’ clock in, tell her she’s s’pposed to be in bed right now. My sister’s a bit of a workaholic, I stole her name tag this mornin’ for her own good.”

She assumes Miya means that she’s a twin but that’s not fair to her at all. She’s just a girl. Kiyoomi only hopes she won’t have to see the two of them together. One pretty girl’s bad enough for her heart as is.

The time passes by in a blur. At one point she’s keeping a vague eye out for Miya’s clone to walk in while looking at the different flowers; the next she’s being given her bouquet, paying for it, and waving bye to the prettiest girl in the world.

Oh well, it’s not like she’s the main character in a yuri manga.

Kiyoomi drops off the flowers at Motoya’s. She’s supposedly too busy taking care of her sick girlfriends to make the trip herself. Kiyoomi wonders if that excuse is just bullshit since it’s been months and she’s still not met Osamu and Rin yet. Unfortunately, Motoya’s apartment’s stuffy and reeks of sickness so maybe there’s some truth to Motoya’s words.

Maybe.

“You got the flowers?” Motoya closes her room door behind her, thankfully right before a loud sneeze is released by one of her definitely real girlfriends. Well there goes that bet Kiyoomi had going with Yachi.

“Yeah, I still don’t get why you can’t have a normal hobby. These things die in like, a week.”

Motoya fusses over the flowers for a bit, making them nice and pretty in a clean vase that held her last bouquet. “One, Samu gets all blushy when I give her flowers and two, I just like them. It’s low stakes responsibility that forces me to have my shit together.”

Kiyoomi snorts. Motoya’s always had her shit together, even if it looks like a mess on the outside. Her cousin is one of the most ruthlessly competent people she knows.

“Hey Kiyo, where’d you get these by the way?” Motoya asks cutting the store tag off a stem.

“Doesn’t it say there?” Kiyoomi asks. “Miya’s Boutique I think.”

“Well whichever employee rang you up left you a little something.” Motoya tosses the label to her with a smug little smirk.

Kiyoomi wants to shove her hand into her face to wipe it off, but Motoya would lick her first and she doesn’t want to think about where her tongue’s been, sick partners or not.

She takes a look at the what Motoya meant and pretends like the name and numbers aren’t sending a rush of blood straight to her face. She carefully tucks it into a pocket while maintaining eye contact with her menace of a cousin. Motoya can smell the smallest twinge of embarrassment in a crowd and she is not to be trusted to mind her own business.

She laughs at nothing, like the airhead Kiyoomi’s always known her to be, but there’s something unsettling in the knowing glint in her eyes. Kiyoomi firmly ignores it: if it isn’t acknowledged, it isn’t real.

“Oh this is killing me, Kiyo you’ve gotta come over next week. Please I think I’ll die.” Motoya abandons her flowers in favour of hanging off of her arm and giving her stupid puppy eyes. “You can bring whoever left you their number. Actually, please bring them, you’ve gotta.”

Fuck, how’s Kiyoomi supposed to say no to her puppy eyes.

“Fine, but fat chance I bring her over.”

Motoya sniffs hautily, like Kiyoomi’s doing her a great disservice. “You’ll regret it.”

“Doubt it,” Kiyoomi sighs, hoping future-her doesn’t give in to Motoya’s ridiculous demands.

She leaves with a halfhearted wave, feeling preemptive disappointment in herself because she knows Motoya’s not going to let her go so easily. Whatever. She’s got better things to spend her energy on.

How many i's in a “hi” is too desperate to send?