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whatsnewalycat · 7 months ago

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too much holiday

Dieter Bravo x non-binary!Reader

Word Count: 1.5k+

Warnings/Tags: sober dieter, sober reader, new years eve party, implied neurodivergence, holiday overload/overwhelm, crying, dieter gets to be bitchy, misgendering that’s swiftly corrected, little bitta hurt/comfort and fluff, making out, also I have not given this a final read-through and it’s not beta read anticipate errors lol

Notes: This is for @perotovar for the @dieterbravobrainrotclub holiday exchange 🖤✨ HAPPY NEW YEAAAAR SORRY THIS IS LATE I HOPE YOU STILL LIKE IT!!

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Trying to keep up with Dieter’s busy life has always been a challenge. In his line of work, he could be sent anywhere in the world for any amount of time, for press tours and film shoots and countless meetings.

Dieter invites you to be by his side as much as possible, and you tag along when you can. It’s a whole production, though. Planned outings where the two of you walk hand-in-hand past paps, as directed by his agent. Stylists and assistants and waiting back while Dieter basks in the spotlight, all while being asked your favorite question, ‘Who are you?’

Needless to say, what attracts you to Dieter is not his stardom. Quite the opposite, actually.

You prefer his company in the most mundane moments. In the lull between projects, when it’s just the two of you. Making breakfast or lazing around the house all day, the heat of his body a constant hum on your skin, his lips always finding some tender crook that makes you melt.

Drinking coffee with your legs draped across his lap. He’s wearing glasses and his curls are all messy and graying. He pauses reading when you ask him what a blank-letter word for blank is. His fingertips thrum against your thigh as he thinks. Tugging your body closer just before he falls asleep, limbs heavy and warm, the world’s best weighted blanket. When he wakes up in the morning and sees you beside him and the first unfiltered emotion that crosses his face is love.

These are the moments you call on during inevitable bouts of chaos. Through public appearances and awards seasons and long stretches of time apart, the promise of having him to yourself again has kept you together.

This time, though, you can feel exhaustion peeling back the edges of your limitation.

It sounded like a dream in theory. Fly out to New York for a New Year’s Eve Party. Get all dressed up, party your faces off, then go home to LA in the morning.

You thought you could handle it. You factored in the seven days preceding, knowing that you would be flying out to Texas on Christmas Eve, meeting his family for the first time and spending three days in their constant company. You knew that from there, the two of you would make a one-day pit stop in New York because it was the only time some magazine could squeeze Dieter in for a photoshoot. Even knowing that meetings would eat up all his attention back home in LA, and that this would all set off upon his return from filming in Spain for three weeks, you thought the thought everyone thinks before they commit an act of hubris: This will be fine.

God only knows how you made it this far. Some lifeless thing propped up against the second-story railing overlooking the dance floor. The stylist who fussed over your appearance all afternoon may as well have been a mortician.

At least everyone else seems to be having a good time.

Your eyes wander over the sea of people milling about and you become entranced by how fluid it all feels. Beneath the thick pulse of EDM, tens or maybe hundreds of voices meld into a collective, hypnotic babble. A giant LED display behind the DJ counts down the seconds to midnight.

46:01

46:00

45:59

You spot Dieter on the opposite side of the venue, across the open space of the dance floor in a circle of his fellow glammed-up b-list celebrities, wearing a grim flat line on his lips as he watches everyone else participate in the conversation.

A waitress stops by Dieter’s group with a tray of shots. Others accept the offering, but he holds up a hand and shakes his head. They clink their tiny glasses together and shout, “Salud!” while Dieter shifts his weight to one leg and looks around the room.

He catches your gaze and gives you this weary, apologetic half-smile that says he’s just as exhausted as you are.

You raise your champagne flute of sparkling water to him in a show of commiseration.

A glint of humor tugs at his mouth and his shoulders shake with a chuckle. Leaning into his circle of lively colleagues, he appears to excuse himself.

Your heart skips.

39:04

39:03

39:01

As they start doling out farewells, you hear a nearby voice.

“Excuse me, can I see your wristband?”

You tear your eyes away to blink at the security guard beside you. It takes you a moment to realize you aren’t actually a fly on the wall, but when you return to yourself, you show him the black paper bracelet on your wrist.

He relays this information into his earpiece, waits for a response from Security Guard HQ, then looks you up and down, “And who are you?”

You look around for your lifeline but he disappeared. Your sinuses burn and your vision goes blurry. It becomes clear quite suddenly that you don’t belong here and that you will never belong here. You will never fit in with these people or this lifestyle or the chaos.

“Sorry, I, umm…” You shake your head, looking down at the sea of people swirling kaleidoscope in their collectiveness, “I don’t know, I’m nobody.”

“Mind explaining how ‘nobody’ got ahold of a VIP bracelet?”

“What’s the problem?”

You perk up at his voice, your knight in shining armor, shoving his body between you and the security guard.

“Is she with you?”

“They are with me,” Dieter corrects. “Is that how this works? I leave my plus one alone for a minute and you fucking meatheads try to kick them out?”

“There were concerns—”

“Who’s concerned?”

“I can’t say.”

“Uh-huh, yeah. You can’t say. Well are these ‘concerns’ resolved now, or do you need to harass my partner some more?”

“No sir, no more concerns. My apologies.”

“Yeah, thanks.”

He uses the same bitchy tone he would use to tell someone to fuck off, and even though he’s a bit of a drama queen, it makes your heart swell.

As the security guard retreats, Dieter turns around and cups your cheeks, searching your face, “Are you ok, baby?”

You nod out of instinct but the dishonesty knots in your throat. Swallowing it down, you feel yourself crumble. You shake your head and let out a big, defeated sob.

He wipes away tears that spill down your cheeks then pulls you into a tight hug. You wrap your arms around his midsection. It feels warm and safe and you surrender to the enormity of how overwhelming the past week has been. Buried anxieties rise in your chest, hot and heavy, escaping in bursts. You babble an apology into his neck and he rocks you back and forth, petting your hair.

“I hate this, Dee. I don’t wanna be here.”

Still swaying you back and forth, soothing you like a fussy baby, he murmurs into your ear, “I’m sorry. I should have come back to check on you sooner. I shouldn’t have—”

The words seem to catch before he can finish his thought. He buries his nose in your hair and squeezes you tighter. This time when he speaks, his voice comes out damp and low and thick with emotion.

“I shouldn’t have been away so long. I’m sorry.”

It all feels enormous again. Overwhelming and raw and jammed down your throat.

“It’s just…” You swallow and shake your head, pulling back enough to meet his gaze, “The flights and people and constant go go go. It’s chaos. It-it’s—a lot. All I wanted to do was spend time with you.”

Nodding, he looks you over with big puppy dog eyes that make you melt. His hand catches yours and brings it to his lips. He kisses each of your fingertips and you melt a little bit more.

“How can I make it up to you?”

“Take me home.”

He grimaces and glances at the countdown, “I said I would stay to, uhh…”

27:32

27:31

27:30

Maybe it’s the way his hollowed-out silence is flooded with noise, high-energy EDM and cheers of celebration grating your bones to dust, but you honestly think you’d rather die than stay for just five more minutes.

When he looks at you, he must see it, or maybe he comes to the same conclusion.

“Fuck it, let’s get out of here.”

You smile, unrestrained, “Really?”

“It’s publicity bullshit anyway,” he shrugs, pulling you in for a kiss, and another, rumbling against your mouth, “Fuck, I missed you.”

His lips are warm and plush and his tongue tastes like home. You wrap your arms around his shoulders as he grabs your waist, arching against your body. Hunger pulses between you, messy kisses and white-knuckle restraint.

Nipping at your ear, he tells you, “If we don’t leave right now I’m gonna fuck you in front of God and everyone.”

You chuckle, pulling back enough to look at him, his messy curls and big dopey grin, eyes all dark with unfiltered love. The enormity of it makes everything else microscopic by comparison.

Your eyes drop to his mouth. He gives you a kiss for the road, soft and sweet and lingering.

After parting, the two of you take a moment to straighten yourselves out, then you say, “Alright, get me the fuck out of here.”

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