#horoscope predictions for parents | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

superblysubpar · 1 year ago

Text

masterlist | the music

19.7k words | Sorry freaks, no smut this chapter - but the series is 18+ and so is my blog so skedaddle on out of here if you're not!

A/N: I have a really long one here - so I'll just say thank you once again and that I love you. Also, another special thank you to @sweetsweetjellybean and @loveshotzz💛💛

chapter warnings: very brief mention of religion (but not reader participating or believing in one in particular) | small mention/description of reader's maternal death and cancer symptoms | teeny tiny spoiler for the ending to the movie 'when harry met sally' | use of dialogue from the movie 'My Best Friends Wedding'

Why do we want to believe in things like fate or destiny - divine intervention? Why do some put their faith in religions with blind following? Why do we look to the stars in moments of despair, when we’re desperate for hope, when we’re lost?

We seek out answers from something we can’t see but we want to believe in. Whether it’s a fortune cookie in your take out, a penny head’s up on the sidewalk, a community of like minded souls coming together for prayer or worship, or a horoscope you read on your morning Instagram scroll - the reasons have to be the same for choosing to believe, for the hope that starts to rise in you for the promise these things try to offer.

We look for solutions to problems. We need reason. We need purpose. We need to feel like we’re not alone. We need confirmation that it’s all gonna work out even though nothing can really guarantee that.

When you look up at the stars that work hard to shine through clouds and a full moon, your chest rises with air trying to fill your lungs and you wonder if they’re up there. Your eyes blink up at that indigo sky, searching. Steve sits next to you and Leigh waves, whispering their hellos. His hand rests next to yours on the plaid blanket, he clears his throat and straightens his shoulders. It’s all too stiff, too on edge, and you hate it. That attempted deep breath is unsuccessful, lungs deflating as it catches in your throat, and your thoughts wander back to the stars again. They wander to him, and them, and seek answers.

What if they are up there, watching, like it’s one of those movies your mom was always putting on and your dad and you boo’d at from your spot playing cards. When he walked in with her with that on her finger, your mom would have gasped, she would have paused the movie, she would have yelled at you and your dad about the plot. She would have thrown popcorn at the TV and declared there’s something going on, he couldn’t, no way - there was no way. She’d have calmed herself down, rationalized there was still time left, gone to the pantry for more chocolate, kissed the top of your head and your dad’s cheek as she passed. By the end of the film, her prediction would have been right, she’d be crying and sighing at the couple who got their happy ending.

So could Steve declare his feelings for you here in a dramatic scene? Tell you it was all a big misunderstanding - that he’s sorry, that it was a rocky road but being together is worth fighting for? Could you leave here, hand in hand, as a top forty song plays and the credits roll?

Of course not.

Because this isn’t a rom com your mom would have loved. Life is not a movie full of soul-mates and cosmic connections. People like your parents are the exception to the rule. The couples who make it work - the ones who don’t let the trials of life take their love away like Allie and Noah, Kate and Sam, or Westley and Buttercup, are fictional characters. They’re stories to escape into when the despairing reality of yours is too much to read or write anymore. It’s exactly why you don’t like most movies or stories like theirs. Because eventually, the movies end, the credits do roll, and you have to face real life once again. Love like that doesn’t exist off the big screen, and you’re just kidding yourself when you fall into their traps.

Knowing this simple fact of reality doesn’t stop the hope though.

That painful, aching hope that clings to your skin like honey when you can feel the heat from his arm even through the sleeve of your sweater - like your bodies burn hotter when closer together - too close to the sun. It feeds the hope that your brain tries to squash away but your heart thuds harder for. The what if, what if, what if replacing each beat of it. Hope that makes you want to cry out ‘please let this just be a bad dream’ to the universe. Hope that tries, but can’t escape the gnawing pit in your stomach that’s growing wider, threatening to swallow you whole. Hope that makes you wonder why this can’t be a story - why can’t you just be the grandson, yelling at his grandfather that he can’t be telling it properly? Someone is getting the story wrong. He can’t be marrying her, you’re just sure of it. Screaming at him, at someone, to please, just get it right.

You wonder if someone were watching, would they be feeling the despair you are? Is this the moment? That scene in the movies is always the gut punch - for the audience and the character. It’s meant to hurt, make you hold your breath. Made to be dramatic - yell at the screen, break your heart, make the character in the action get back up and fight. They’re moments made to ignite that hope - but really, it’s the double tap - coming right after the feeling catches flame, that’s made to shatter you completely.

The moment that extinguishes the what if for all it’s worth. When the audience’s heart's already breaking for the grandson, only for the grandfather to ask who says life is fair? Where is that written? When the knife is entering your chest, but the mask falls and the killer turns out to be someone you thought you could trust. When you’re untethered in space only for your last moment of consciousness to be watching a friend cut the cord. The person who sucker punched you is now kicking you when you’re weak, taking it one step too far, leaving you crumpled on the mat. It’s all enough to make that fight, that urge to be angry instead of scared or hurt, disappear. It’s enough to knock you down so hard, you can’t possibly get back up - the hope is extinguished, and the story seemingly over.

Robin squeals quietly, pulling Leigh’s hand across you to admire the ring, knocking Steve on the shoulder and saying something about the Dingus doing good. Your gaze flits down to the brown sugar and apple donuts in your lap, convinced you’re about to get sick right on top of them. Not because he’s marrying her, but because instead of being angry with him, you feel like you’ve been squashed, you’re hurt, you’re betrayed. Despite your better judgment, despite the past several years, you’ve let a man make you some pathetic, sad, heartbroken, and weak version of yourself.

When Leigh’s hand retreats from Robin’s, lifting and curling a piece of hair behind her ear, diamond sparkling in the moonlight as she smiles over at Steve, your story’s end is written, and you need to accept it if you ever want some semblance of normalcy to return. You can’t lose him and them. But when Steve’s pinky brushes yours and you look over, his eyes resemble the broken beer bottle from the football game all those weeks ago. Shattered emerald and amber, cutting you to shreds with each shard of glass as he murmurs, “Can I tal-“

“I’ll be right back!” You whisper-shout, cutting him off and squeezing Robin’s shoulder as you get up.

She yanks on your wrist, halting your attempt at an exit. Her eyes narrow as she interrogates, “Where are you going?”

Swallowing harshly as her blue eyes peer directly into your soul. She can probably smell the desire to run on you. Remembering your vow that Steve won’t take them away from you, a not quite a lie falls from your lips as you gesture to the concession food trucks, “You don’t have those cinnamon roasted almonds. They were my mom’s favorite and the smell is driving me crazy. Promise that’s all.”

“I swear to god, if you don’t come back, I will literally come stand outside your window on the sidewalk and scream-sing Monster Mash until someone calls the cops and I’ll drag you down with me.”

Her eyes blink, features incredibly serious despite the amusing threat. Your laugh mixes with Leigh’s and you ignore the shared moment, tugging your wrist free. “Would expect nothing less Robin.”

She motions she’s watching you, fingers to her eyes then yours, lips twitching in the corners before she turns back to the screen.

Your feet feel heavy as they drag through the damp grass, and come to a stop to wait in line. It shouldn’t be a surprise after ordering when you hear his voice behind you. It floats through the air, soft, barely audible over the popping kettle corn, “I really didn’t know you’d be here. I wouldn’t have…” he sighs, settling on restating, “I didn’t know you’d be here.”

Your shoulders fall and your eyes stay focused on the truck. You’ve had time, since that night on the sidewalk, but your hurt still sits fresh under your layer of armor - tender like an open wound you need to keep protected. Your palms slide further under the sleeves of your sweater, clinging to the garment like the shield you’re willing it to be - you don’t want to fight with him anymore, no matter how hurt and angry you are.

So the tone you respond with aches to sound indifferent, if not a tad harsh, reminding him you’re mad and pretending there isn’t any spark of hope within you still. It’s over, it has to be over, and all it ever was to him was something to kill time - fun and no strings exactly what you wanted. So your words are really just a reminder to yourself, another layer of the wall you need to keep up around him, “It’s fine Steve. Would have been nice to get a head’s up,” your shoulders shrug, “But, well, that’s probably too generous for the girl you were just fucking while waiting for the one, right?”

The people next to you clear their throats and you can’t find it in yourself to care, to be embarrassed.

Steve moves in front of you, his face filling your vision. He shaved - no more scruff you like. His jeans are dark again, with fresh, new creases, and a light blue sweater pulls across his chest and shoulders. He’s picture perfect, his polished uniform in place.

He shakes his head, eyes bouncing between yours as he asks, “Is that really all it was?”

Your shoulders shrug again, because it’s easier. It’s easier to try to deny, to ignore the flutter the question causes in your stomach. Easier to bite back the words that try to form on your tongue. Because of course that’s not all it was, at least not to you. You wouldn’t feel the way you do right now if that were true. But what’s the point in telling him that though? What happens? Can you forgive each other for the words said, that, no matter how true, can’t be taken back? Things like this only end in heartbreak - because what happens if you tell him how you were starting to feel - does that change anything for him? And even if it did, that means a broken engagement, it means complicated truths coming out, it means attempts at forgiveness. And even after all of that, life won’t give you a guarantee. There is no promise of zero fights, of nothing bad ever happening. There is no happily ever after where the possibility of a break up, of losing everyone you’ve grown to care for deeply, doesn’t exist.

So yes, it’s easier to not say any of that, because you know. This isn’t how life works. This isn’t a movie. No one is immune to life’s misfortunes. These sorts of open-ended questions and complicated emotions that come from his simple ask are unmeasurable and unreliable. Wondering and giving into those feelings only open you up to be used as a target for someone else’s shooting practice. You’ve known this, but you allowed yourself to forget, hating it was Steve who had to remind you.

Which is why you look away from his eyes as you say, “I believe that is what was established a few weeks ago at that party Steve. You were there, remember? You were dressed as a pirate.”

His head drops, hands running through his perfectly styled hair as he laughs, breath shaky, like the laugh is covering up any feeling in his voice. “So, that’s it? We’re just gonna act like none of it happened? You don’t wanna talk. You run away every time we get a chance to do so, a beer in my face and-“

Your hand rising in the air cuts him off, his mouth clamps shut as you make eye contact with him. “You deserved that and I’m not apologizing for it.”

He takes a step closer to you, his hand reaching towards you, then back into his hair, second guessing himself. “I’m not asking you to, and I’m not apologizing for what I said either.” Steve swallows, hands on his hips as he looks at the ground then back up at you, “What I said wasn’t a lie.”

He breathes out the next words, both of you staring at each other with the weight of what he says hanging in the air between you.

“You couldn’t tell me.”

Your hands shake from the confrontation, from his request you left unanswered that night. The emotions that still want to bubble over, the time apart did nothing to cool either of you down. That what if, what if, what if that replaced your heartbeat grows louder, but your brain only shuts it down harder. If you hurt now, how will it feel if you keep feeding the flame only for him to extinguish it again?

The beat of your heart and those hopeful words thud in your ears as your head shakes and your voice tries not to, barely audible as the words leave your lips, “I don’t want to do this anymore Steve. We’re just going in circles. You’re getting married. You didn’t tell me. Can you look me in the eye and tell me you were really my friend while you were clearly getting engaged this whole time?”

Blue light flashes from the screen, catching the corner of your eye and illuminating his, their gaze bouncing over your face. Your bodies move closer like they can’t help it, like they know they won’t be this way again. Steve’s tongue darts over his bottom lip before his breath blows out, your name a whisper on it. The way he says your name with that look in his eyes, chests almost touching, it’s easy for your head to tilt with familiarity. Your breath out is his breath in, and it’s even easier to forget the last time you were this close. Sounds other than his harsh swallow and your heartbeat fade away. Time freezes, just a little, and the air pulses with a tangible possibility of hope.

“I don’t want to talk about this anymore Steve. I just want to go hang out with my friends. I need this to be over. Can it please be over?” You stare intently at the ground, one single tear slipping past your lashes. It feels like it rolls down your cheek for an hour before Steve finally answers.

“Okay,” he quietly agrees.

Your head nods once and you brush past him, barely choking out a whispered ‘by the way congratulations’ as you grab your snack. Hand swiping at the stray tear as you make your way back to the blanket slowly.

When you sit back down, Leigh’s typing on her phone. She squeezes Robin’s hand before whispering a goodbye to everyone. She jogs over to Steve, cocking her head at him. He pushes his hands through his hair again, giving her a short smile. He runs his thumb and forefinger down the bridge of his nose, swiping under it with the back of his hand. His other extends towards her as she reaches him, fingers lacing together as they walk out.

Robin’s shoulder nudges yours and your head turns to find her with eyebrows pinched together. She leans in and quietly asks, “Is he okay? Did he say something about leaving to you?”

Your head shakes, and you extend the bag to her with a tight smile. You will just keep lying to her. Steve and you will move on, and maybe, one day in the distant future, you’ll be able to tell her. It’ll all work out.

She mirrors your sad smile, the wrinkles in her forehead deepening as she takes a small handful and turns her attention back to the movie. Or she tries, but you watch as her eyes glance down to her phone every few minutes, until it lights up with his name and she quickly starts typing a response.

It’ll all be fine.

“Said ‘I’m fine’ but it wasn’t true. I don’t want to keep secrets just to keep you…”

The pop song playing overhead makes your teeth grind, your skin itch, it pries at your armor. It clangs its melody like fists on the metal plates around your heart, screaming to let it in.

Fuck Taylor Swift and her poetically relevant lyrics.

You’re fine.

“Mommy, why is that lady wearing pajamas?”

“Well, sometimes people, um, well maybe they’re sad or-“

“Not sad,” you call over your shoulder, but spin as you decide to face the stranger. The poor, unsuspecting stranger who is unprepared for the wrath of a person wearing blue, fuzzy pajama bottoms with ducks all over them, yellow smiley slippers, and holding several pints of Cherry Garcia in her arms. “Could just be sick. Or lazy. Could be a lot of different things, but sad is not one of them, and it’s rude to assume there’s any reason at all. I could just have wanted to stay comfy today, you don’t know!”

It’s almost laughable, if it wasn’t so humiliating or awkward. A practically audible record scratch kind of moment. Conversations of several other customers quiet then stop altogether. Eyes blink at you in concern and pity under too harsh of fluorescent lights, surrounded by neon advertisements and packaging trying to convince you the world isn’t shit as long as there’s junk food. The poppy beat overhead seems to play even louder, yet a pin could drop and people from another state would hear it.

The mother’s hand runs through the small child’s hair next to them as she stammers an apology, “I really…I’m sorry, I just-“

“No, no, I’m so sorry. It’s fine…I…” You close your eyes and turn back around, mortified beyond a depth you ever thought possible. The pints of ice cream tumble onto the sticky counter-top, lottery tickets beneath it staring up at you and mocking ‘hey wanna test your luck even more?’. Your hand flies up into the face of the cashier as you grumble, “Not a word, Keith.”

The employee you’ve come to know on your late night and early morning snack runs snorts. His mouth closes, slurping his Mountain Dew through a straw as he rings up the ice cream. His lips leave the red plastic, squeaking it against the lid harshly, about to tell you the price you already know, when a bottle of wine is placed on the counter with a low thunk. A leather clad arm extends across your vision, a second bottle landing beside it. A deep and familiar voice from behind your shoulder calls out, “These too. But definitely not because she’s sad.”

Turning, you find Eddie just as you knew you would, his brown eyes the same as they have been since you met. Full of warmth that’s contagious, except now something darkens them, they’re colder. Reminiscent of how they looked in a bathroom that feels like you were in it ten years ago instead of a month. They’re kind, but they’re hurt, confused, and most importantly - disappointed.

“Right,” you clear your throat and look away from them. Embarrassed, but adamant in your denial of the purchase and your appearance having any connotation with the emotion they all think you’re feeling. “These are not sad items.”

Despite the look in his eyes, Eddie’s lips twitch in a fight of a smile. He looks over your outfit and the hint of amusement disappears. His mouth turns down in a grimace. He faces Keith, hand waving across your form, “Right. Sad people don’t wear duckie pj’s to the store to buy ice cream and wine, they just don’t. People who ignore their friends though, they might…”

Honestly, the call out is nicer than what you deserve. You hadn’t dared to miss a text or call from Robin again, but all other group contact had gone unreciprocated for two weeks - convincing yourself it was easier for everyone that way. Biting the inside of your cheek, your eyes blink up at him apologetically, hopeful you can fix a small part of the mess you’ve made still. “Yeah. But if a person,” your hands wave as you speak, “Who isn’t sad,” you quickly tack on before continuing, “Did ignore their friends, it was probably for a good reason and she probably feels really bad about it and-“

“Jesus Christ, pay for your sad shit and get out,” Keith groans, snapping his fingers and then waggling them for payment.

Eddie mashes his lips together, a genuine smile threatening to break as he hands over a bill. He salutes as he grabs the bag of items. “Keep the change, dude.”

“See you tomorrow, new shipment of Ben and Jerry’s at nine A.M!” Keith calls to your retreating forms. Eddie and you turn in tandem, flipping him off.

“Mommy, what did that mean?”

Eddie snorts, his laugh finally bubbling out of him as you hide your eyes under one of your hands. The door swings closed behind you as the brisk November air does little to cool off your embarrassment.

His laughter trails off in a sigh and yours in a groan. When you peek at him from behind your fingers, you hold your breath as they fall to your side. Eddie’s eyes seem to poke and prod at you with their gaze, like you’re a frog laying open on a table for dissection. Like he already knows what he’s about to find, but he’s giving you an opportunity to just say it before he makes the first cut.

Gesturing towards the bag in his hand, your eyes drop to the ground as you clear your throat. “Thank you, you didn’t have to pay. And I really am sorry for going radio silent. I’ll get better at that.”

When he doesn’t respond right away, you risk a glance up. His brows are furrowed, meeting under parted bangs, brown eyes glued to your pajama pants. Eddie nods slowly, tucking his tongue into his cheek before clicking it against the roof of his mouth. Rocking back on his heels, the plastic bag swings at his side. “Sure. What are friends for?”

His eyes meet yours again finally, and as your lips part, he keeps going, his voice a little crisper than it’s been to you before. “Cause, we are friends. Right?”

Head nodding as your brows bunch together from the tone delivering the question. That and his gaze makes something under your skin itch, your feet restless against the pavement like a horse before a race.

Hesitation heavy in your words as you respond, “Yeah, of course…listen, I have to get back but-“

“Great,” he spins on his heel, heading down the sidewalk like he was waiting for those exact words to leave your mouth, “I’ll walk with you, sad girl.”

Blinking at his abrupt interruption, hand still raised to take the bag from him, it takes you several seconds for his words to register. He’s already halfway to the corner, your apartment just around it and you have to take a quick few jogs to catch up with his long strides as you call out, “I’m not sad.”

“Uh-huh,” Eddie nods, flicking a zippo in his hand, converse scuffing against the sidewalk as he kicks a pebble, “And I’m the King of England.”

Tired of his tone and demeanor you didn’t invite or ask for - you don’t need this. Eyes rolling as you huff past him, your shoulder bumping his harshly as you do. Eddie scoffs, but falls back into step close behind you, not letting you get away. “Quite the attitude to have with the friend who just bought your sad girl treat, even threw in the wine.”

Your shoulders hunch at his words, eyebrows pulling together and face growing hot as you fiddle with the first key to the apartment building. “Well, I didn’t ask you to buy it and if you only did to just rub it in my face you’re not really my friend. And I didn’t ask you to come here.”

Eddie’s hand lands on the door above your shoulder as you push it open, arm blocking you from entering. “Quit the tough girl act, you’re not fooling anyone.”

Your skin burns at his accusation, hands balling into fists at your sides. “I’m not trying to fool anyone, Eddie, or do anything. I literally don’t know what you’re talk-“

“Yeah, yeah, yeah, you can keep trying to sell this shit to everyone else, but I’m not buying.” He points inside, “Let’s go.”

Face feeling hotter than when you were six and scolded in public, you stomp through the entryway, each step echoing across the old tile. As you turn to head up the stairs, if only to get away from his all seeing eyes, the realization of what your apartment looks like and how extremely not ready it is for guests has you pausing mid stride.

When your gaze makes contact with his again, Eddie simply makes a statement. Flat, disappointed, and no question in his tone, “It’s worse than I think isn’t it.”

Before you can argue, before you can tell him to leave, the keys in your hand are snatched by swift fingers, and Eddie’s long legs are jumping up the stairs, skipping over several steps and disappearing around the landing. Chasing after him, the thundering of both of your feet is dulled by the faded and dingy carpet and the shriek of his name leaving your lips.

Watching as he pushes the key into the lock, turning the knob, you sprint down the hallway. Your body barrels into his, but it’s too late. Eddie falters from your weight crashing into him, but he remains upright, although slightly hunched, as your body clings to his, trying to drag him down. The door swings open and he winces, and you drop to the ground, defeated.

For the first time in a few days, you take in the state of your living space from an outside perspective. You watch as Eddie reviews it all for the first time - the take out on your counter, the empty beer bottles pushing the lid of the recycling up. The stack of Double O Seven DVDs on the coffee table. The couch covered in blankets because you’ve been sleeping there, your bed still sitting free of sheets in the other room. The bag of chips and the tub of frosting. It’s not a pretty picture.

Eddie suddenly crouches, hands grabbing at you and you push him away shrieking, crawling into your apartment and away from him. Both of you swat at each other, hair flying in faces and grunting like you’re siblings fighting over the remote.

“Go-get off! What the hell is your problem! Eddie!”

He manages to grab your phone out of your sweatshirt pocket and you leap towards him, arms over his shoulders, you reach for the phone, and he holds himself up on his knees, arm extending it away from you. He manages to tilt it just right to get your face to unlock it and you growl, thumping on his bicep as he shoves you off. He presses the familiar green icon on your home screen while you accuse, “What is your deal? What the fuck are you-“

Eddie groans, holding up the screen displaying the last song you’d been listening to and getting to his feet. He points towards your bedroom. “Go put on some jeans. No more sad girl music. No more cheese out of the can. Field trip. Let’s go.”

Your hand holding a slipper that had fallen off in the scuffle points towards the open door, any neighbors paying attention getting a hell of a show. Your scowl meets his frown. “Um, you can go. Don’t basically break into my home and insult Britney and Easy Cheese in the same sentence asshole. I’m not going anywhere with you.”

Eddie raises his eyebrows, they disappear under his bangs and he looks at you as if you’re the child you’re determined to act like. He sighs, voice dripping in drama as he heads into your kitchen, “I really didn’t want to do this, but you’ve left me with no other choice.” He spins the cheap metal cap off of one of the bottles of wine theatrically, flicking the cap onto the counter before turning the bottle upside down as he stares at you. “I’d get going. The ice cream is next.”

Your eyes roll as you scoff, “You’re not gonna do shit to the Ben and Jerry’s, you and I both know it.”

He starts on the second bottle, both ringed hands holding tight to each, red liquid splashing the sides of the sink. “I will literally drag you back out of here in your sad girl jammies to a very public place. I’m generously giving you the opportunity to avoid that embarrassment, but if you insist…”

Eddie sets the bottles down in the sink, stepping over to you in two strides, hands on your waist as he moves like he could toss you over his shoulder.

Your hands push at his chest. “Fucking fine! Give me a few minutes.” You start towards your room but spin sharply on your socked heel, one foot still in a slipper that skids as your finger points in his face. “Touch my ice cream and see what happens.”

He snorts, crossing his arms. “Big, tough words coming from a girl with chocolate frosting on her chest and ducks on her ass.”

You turn away from him, slamming the door on his call of, “If you ever want to see your precious Ben and Jerry’s again, you’ll be back out here in five minutes!”

When you make eye contact with the chocolate stain in the mirror, you have to suppress your groan.

Eddie’s Jeep tires crunch over gravel before coming to a stop in a homemade parking lot. Tan dust kicked up and floating through the air partially obscures where he’s taken you.

The entire twenty minute drive had been enveloped in stilted silence. He had managed to dump one of the pints while you changed, claiming to have thought you weren’t coming back out, and now he was on the receiving end of one of your finest silent treatments. His hand flexes on the gear, moving the car into park. As his jaw clenches while yanking the keys out of the ignition, you start to rethink your silence. There’s a part of you that wants, maybe needs, to run back to your apartment, lock the door, and never speak to him again. But there’s another part, far larger, and riddled with guilt, that made you follow him.

Staring out the window at the dilapidated bar, your voice feels scratchy from the lack of talking as you push out, “What are we doing-” Eddie’s driver’s door slams, and the end of your question falls into the empty car, flat, as you blink at his back walking away from you, “Here.”

As Eddie makes his way to the building, you hoist yourself out of the Jeep and begin to follow despite the cold shoulder. You’re willing to appease him and participate in whatever this field trip is if it means you can somehow get the apology you definitely owe him out - try to make things right for the mess you’ve pulled him into.

A faint and familiar sound echoes in the quiet and practically empty parking lot. The distinct whip of a ball and the ting and harsh smack of metal meeting it, mix with the crunch of rocks under your rubber soles. Behind the tired and washed out brick building, chain link fencing rises, hinting further to what the sounds are and where they’re coming from. The large red letters above the doorway spell out “Murray’s” in distinct vintage lettering, hollowed out with unlit bulbs reminiscent of an old theater’s marquee lights. You pause beneath the sign, stealing a deep breath because something tells you Eddie has officially pinned you to the table, and the first inevitable cut of the dissection is imminent. Your fingers curl around the gray, metal door’s industrial handle and pull, and you step inside.

Billie Holiday’s voice croons from somewhere deeper in the building. Voice and music crackling and staticky, like it’s playing off a real vinyl. The urge to find out why Eddie’s brought you to a place seemingly stuck in the past draws you deeper down the dimly lit hallway. Rich, red paint on the walls partially covered by framed photographs line the entire space. Black and white film prints of American icons, with individual golden lamps lighting up each from their spots attached to the frames. Your feet carry you past Elvis, Jackie Robinson, then Marilyn, and Michael Jackson before you enter a spacious and circular room.

Red vinyl booths line the curve on one side, small round tables meant for two lit by glowing lamps scattered across the floor. A stage and space for what appears to be a dancefloor sit opposite of you, nestled between the booths and a bar running across the opposite curve. Speckled and worn mirrors behind the bar reflect the wide range of liquor bottles and the different glassware in a variety of shapes and colors, clearly thrifted antiques, hanging above them. Eddie leans against the bar talking to an older man, neither of whom spare a glance in your direction.

This room’s photographs on the walls are covers of Life and Time, clippings from other renowned news outlets - all famous headlines like when man went to the moon and the JFK assassination, the Cubs winning the world series, spanning all the way to current events. As you spin, you see the vintage photo booth, much older than the one you and Steve took photographs in at Replay, and you push the memory away, focusing on the bulletin board next to it instead.

The flier for Corroded Coffin has your attention as the song crackles on it’s end notes, the next from the album playing softly. Billie’s voice sings the familiar lyrics of ‘I’ll Be Seeing You’ and your heart drops into your stomach, palms sweating profusely. Why the hell are you here? Why this song? Why, why, why.

“Ouch. Who broke your heart?”

The unfamiliar voice asks the same question Eddie had asked you back in September, and this time you’re even more unprepared for it. Your head whips to the side, gaze looking over your shoulders that hunch. Your body turns to face them head on, but your arms cross in defense. The man Eddie had been chatting with now has his focus solely on you. Wire rimmed glasses frame eyes that stare intently at you as he wipes down a glass. His balding head of hair and the confidence he carries, along with the way he tosses the rag over his shoulder before leaning on the bar, has you feeling like you’ve suddenly entered a sitcom.

Eddie continues to ignore you, one foot resting on the metal of stool as his ringed fingers crack peanuts. He avoids your gaze as you turn your frown on the man who seemed to have read your mind. You keep your voice as neutral as you can when you ask, “Excuse me?”

“Written all over your face, kid.” The nameless man, but you have a hunch the name of the establishment and him are one in the same, winces with his words. He pulls down three amber colored, short glasses, then a bottle of vodka. Before you can argue, he keeps going as he pours, “Well, maybe you’re not in love. Not yet anyway,” he muses to himself, “Or maybe he is and you don’t know how to let the poor sap down?”

His eyes lift from the glasses of alcohol to yours and he squints. Pausing before pouring the third glass, humming, “Wait, no, well…maybe.” Keeping his eyes on you as he tips back one of the generous shots before he breathes out with finality, “No.”

Eddie smirks into his own shot, as the man snaps in his face, but technically commands, “Name.”

Your mouth opens to stop this nonsense and analysis you absolutely didn’t ask for, but Eddie beats you to it. Eyebrows raised, mouth pursed as he offers up, “Steve.”

The man behind the bar hovers the liquor bottle above the now empty glass, blinking wide behind his frames. He sets the bottle down, pressing his palms to the bar top. Scoffing with an incredulous tone, “You’re kidding.”

“Excuse me!” You try to interrupt, but the man shakes his hands, ignoring your objection.

“We’ll deal with that little slip in the simulation some other time,” pushing the third glass down the bar towards you as he continues, “So, Steve,” he laughs a little, licking his bottom lip, “Right. So he loves us, maybe, but perhaps it is us who loves Steve? Mm, tragic, because he doesn’t reciprocate? Or are we too scared to tell him how we feel?”

Your shoulders are up to your ears now, arms wrapping around yourself even tighter, trying to make whatever see-through, vulnerable shield this man can penetrate more resilient. Your gaze is harsh on the side of Eddie’s face, death stare glaring and attempting to burn his cheek with only your eyes as you ask again, “What are we doing here?”

“The cosmic question, isn’t it?” The bartender muses, pouring another glass for himself. He raises his eyebrows at Eddie in a silent question who shakes his head no.

“I’m leaving.” You start to turn towards the door, but Eddie’s call behind you makes you freeze.

“Have fun walking back then!”

Your hands go to your pockets, searching, even though you know they’re empty. When you look at him, you see your phone in his fingers and his brown eyes that have turned to stone. “Yeah, I still have this. So either you can participate in the field trip, or you can walk all the way back home to your sad girl cave.”

“I’ll just have him call me a cab.” Gesturing to the nameless man with your solution.

“Murray,” he offers with a toothy grin and head nod, confirming your assumption.

Eddie laughs, cold, tossing a peanut shell on the bar, “Yeah? And pay for it how?”

You’ve been very, very, dumb, because it’s only now you realize the empty pockets would also mean you don’t have your wallet. Your eyes close in defeat.

When you open them, Eddie is staring at you and it feels an awful lot like that scalpel is resting just over your heart, waiting for any final words.

He doesn’t take his eyes off of you as he says, “I’ll take those quarters now.”

Murray rolls a tube across the bar to him, eyes darting back and forth between you two like he is watching a ping pong match.

Eddie grabs the roll, storming past you and down a different hallway, out the back door of the bar. The chipping black paint flutters as the door swings closed, a slam as it meets the frame making you flinch. The final notes of ‘I’ll Be Seeing You’ finish and you release a shaky breath.

“And I suppose I’m to follow him and his mysterious quarters?”

Murray’s lips twitch and he raises his hands in surrender. Your sigh and step towards the door has him dropping his hands though, nudging the still full glass of vodka towards you. Figuring it’s his way of telling you to clean and sterilize the wound before the prodding at it begins, you take a step closer. Hesitating slightly, your finger wraps around the amber glass, a deep breath leaves you as you tip it to your lips.

He nods his head towards you and raises his own glass, and as the liquid flows into your mouth, he toasts, “To Steve.”

The liquor sits on your tongue longer than you’d like it to as you glare at him. Swallowing it down, you blame the harsh burn in your throat for the prickle that’s forming behind your eyes.

Spinning on your heel to follow Eddie, Murray’s voice calls out quietly, making you pause.

“I’d tell him sooner, rather than later.”

Looking over your shoulder, he puts the glasses in a bin underneath the bar, not looking back at you as he quietly adds, “In my experience, there’s always space to dive deeper into the story. Things are often not what they appear to be. And well,” he chuckles to himself, “Harrington’s got a lot more going on under all that hair than meets the eye I think.” Your brows furrow as Murray looks up at you, patting his hand over his heart with a smirk on his lips, “And I’m not talking about the stuff on top of his head.”

Normally, the joke about Steve’s chest hair would have your lips twitch into a smile, a roll of your eyes, but instead, his words float through the air until they arrive in your gut, sitting heavy and dragging you down. They try to ignite that hope again, but you know it’s no use in letting it light anymore.

Your feet push forward, stomping down the hallway without a word back. As the door swings closed behind you, your eyes blink, adjusting to the harsh sunlight you’d forgotten was shining outside. The sounds from earlier now connecting to what’s before you. Several enclosed batting cages sit just beyond a wooden and covered back patio of the bar. There’s two older men with their bags of gear sitting at their feet. Each drinking a beer at a small wooden table, rubbing their shoulders. Eddie is inside one of the cages. His leather jacket hung on the fence, a blue helmet squishing down his curls. The white cotton of his baseball tee stretches over his flexing back muscles as he swings at a ball released by the machine.

As your feet scuff against the deck and then the gravel, you take another deep breath, mouth opening to just blurt out some sort of apology to him. Eddie stops the machine with a harsh smack to a button on the side of the cage. He comes out the door, holding the helmet and bat out to you, chest moving up and down with each ragged breath. He offers a closed lip smile as he says, “Your turn.”

“Eddie, I really don’t…” you trail off until you settle on just asking, “Why?”

“Would you just do it?” He frowns, tone annoyed as he extends his arms towards you further.

Eyebrows raised in anticipation he nods once as you take the items with a huff and stomp into the cage. As you place the helmet onto your head, and stare down the machine, you exhale and press the button. It whirs back to life as your hands wrap around the bat and you step up to the metaphorical plate, Eddie’s voice calling from over your shoulder as you do.

“So, wanna tell me why you’re sad? Talk about anything Murray said?”

Your fingers curl tighter around the grip, shoulders going up in defense again. Your jaw clenches before you grit out, “For the last time Eddie, I’m not sad. I’m fine.”

Eddie snorts behind you as you swing at the first ball released, missing.

Strike one.

“Sure, figured that’d be your answer. So,” he sighs heavily and you hear the fence rattle like he’s kicking it, “Why’re you avoiding us again then?”

You knew this topic couldn’t be dodged forever. It’s true, you’d been pulling away again since Halloween, and getting the save the date was the nail in your friendship’s coffin. As the wedding looms in the not so distant future, it’s easier to pull away from him, from all of them, because you know that they were and always will be Steve’s friends first. Intentions of not letting Steve keep them from you seem futile now, when you know the history and depth of friendship you’re up against. You’re not gonna say that to Eddie though, so as the next pitch is released, you swing and stammer out a pathetic lie.

“I-I’m not.” The ball makes contact, causing your forearms to vibrate from the bad swing. Your grip tightens so the bat doesn’t fall from your fingers as the ball pops up and behind you, rattling the fence.

“Well that’s a load of crap. Wanna know what I think?” Eddie yells, not pausing for you to refute and sarcastically continuing, “Great, I’m overjoyed to tell you.”

Your heel digs into the gravel and your eyes narrow on the whirring machine, waiting for him to sink the scalpel into you, defenseless - trapped from running away from him, stuck in this cage with nowhere to go to avoid what he’s about to tell you.

“I think you are sad. I think Murray was right and you don’t wanna admit it to him, to anyone, and especially not yourself. Instead of an easy fix of talking about it, you wanna sit in your pity and throw a party.” Eddie’s voice takes on a dramatic, high pitched imitation of you as the next ball is released and you swing, “I’m Y/N! Woe is me! I’m all alone! Nobody loves me!”

You miss the ball again, shoulders hunching in, desperate to make yourself smaller with each of the words that he shouts at your back. Turning to look over your shoulder, you glare at him.

Strike two.

Eddie leans against the fence, glaring right back at you with his eyebrows raised as you hiss, “You’re being an asshole.”

“Yeah? At least I’m an asshole who’s got friends,” he gestures towards you, “You clearly think you don’t.” You twist your toe in the gravel deeper, returning your focus to the machine and taking a deep breath as he keeps going. “I’ll have Murray pour you some more vodka and you can sit here and think about how your life is horrible. Truly tragic.”

Your eyes narrow from his bored tone, lifting your chin and elbow, adamant to ignore him.

“You have nothing and no one.”

Another exhale, your chest rises and falls with a deep inhale and your shoulders relax. Straining to hear the hint of the ball being released instead of Eddie yelling at you.

“Maybe you’ll get a cat one day, but ultimately you’re gonna die alone!”

SMACK.

Your bat meets the ball and it soars to the end of the cage and you spin on him. Face hot, your emotions bubbling and ready to explode. Anger mingling with adrenaline coursing through your veins from the hit, amping up how the words fall out of you in an angry cry.

“Yeah! I am Eddie! And that’s what I want! So fucking lay off!”

“Why?”

“Because it’s easier!”

When he yells right back, without pausing, asking you for a reason, the excuse falls out of you easily. Your mouth closes immediately after the words tumble out in your scream, tears pricking at the corner of your eyes as Eddie’s narrow. He shakes his head, volume lowering only slightly.

“Nah, that’s just fucking running. And take it from someone who ran for a long time, it feels easy, but it’s the furthest thing from. Eventually, you are going to get tired, and your problems will be right on your heels.

Facing the machine again so you don’t have to look into his eyes any longer, you shake your head no at him, letting a ball hit the end of your bat, popping forward limply as you try to speak with confidence.

“I’m not running from problems Eddie, I’m just…it’s easier to be the one who does the leaving than to be the one who’s left, okay?”

The words float through the air, unable to be taken back, and their weight makes something in your chest squeeze and constrict.

“That’s some next-level, glass half empty, pessimistic, depressing shit. And who the hell said anyone was going anywhere? You’re refusing to see that if you looked back for one second from the door you’ve been half out since you got here, that nobody else even has their shoes on.”

The squeezing in your chest only intensifies, his cut getting deeper as he searches for answers, and your bat hesitates halfway through your swing, sending a ball straight up into the air above you. You breathlessly ask, “What?”

Eddie waits until you look over your shoulder at him, emphasizing each word. “Nobody’s leaving you.”

His words hit you harder than your bat has hit any of the balls. It feels like one was pitched right into your gut, expelling all the air from your lungs and causing the tears that have been right behind your eyes to well up hard and fast. You spin to avoid his gaze again and square up for another pitch.

Eddie doesn’t know that it’s not a promise anyone can make - life doesn’t care.

Your head shakes, tears brimming on your lash line as you argue, “You can’t know that Eddie, not really. It’s better this way.”

SMACK.

A tear slips over your bottom lashes, trailing down your cheek as the bat makes good contact again and Eddie digs the scalpel in for his final cut. “Fine. Believe that. But you need to admit that you’re slamming the door on our faces and pretending like no one is still standing on the other side, knocking and asking to be let back in.”

The machine whirls, it wooshes with the release of a ball as another tear, and then another falls. Your vision progressively grows fuzzy, the world around you blurring as you swing again and his voice washes over you.

“Did you know that Nancy is a freak just like you, and I’m sure she’d be happy to split some Cherry Garcia any time? God help you both for liking such a disgusting flavor.”

You let the tears fall openly, but silently, as you swing harder this time. The weight in your stomach - the knots that have been forming since the very first lie was told - twist and tug harder.

“I know you’re not stupid enough to think I wouldn’t come have a beer with you, or take you to Target to get some new sheets or food that doesn’t have the Frito-Lay logo plastered on it.”

Another ball pops up and behind you as you clear your throat. Refusing to believe what he’s saying, you wonder if he can see the tears hitting the tan gravel beneath you and darkening it like drops of rain.

“And Robin! She’d love to watch Double O Seven with you. You should hear her Sean Connery impression. It’s terrible.” Eddie laughs a little and you twist the toe of your converse into the gravel, covering up a dark spot.

“But no. Instead of any of that, you just gave up. You didn’t give any of us a chance. Steve Harrinngton’s dumb ass is the only thing to blame for all your loneliness, sadness, and problems. So keep ignoring the footsteps running behind you and the knocking, or open the fucking door.”

You want to believe Eddie, you really do. But what happens when you come to rely on someone, need the support to lean on, and they’re gone?

Your head shakes harder, a sob stuck in your throat as you barely murmur, “Eddie, I can’t.”

His voice is softer than it has been all day as he asks, “Can’t or won’t?”

More tears fall past your lashes. The last ball is pitched and you choke out, “I’m sorry.”

You don’t attempt to swing at this one and it hits the fence behind you. The machine whirs one final time then stops.

“Yeah, me too.”

Heavy, suffocating, disappointment lingers in the air around you.

It takes several minutes, even more tears falling quietly, for you to remove the helmet from your head and drop both it and the bat on the ground with a clang. When you turn around, swiping at your cheeks, Eddie isn’t there.

Each drag of your feet inside is an active fight. Limbs heavy, heart even more so, because you know what awaits you inside before it’s confirmed.

Murray looks up from a keg he’s tapping and simply nods to the end of the bar. Your phone and wallet sit there and you know the Jeep and Eddie will be gone when you push out the door crying.

You’ve somehow done the leaving and were left this time.

Strike three.

It’s literally a symptom, or as some like to claim - stage - of grief.

Denial.

We lie all the time. We tell lies to spare or protect feelings, and more importantly, we lie to ourselves, instead of facing truths head on.

Because it’s easier to lie - to avoid, to shut something down, or deny its existence when it’s too hard to look at directly. Which is interesting. Why has there not been some sort of evolutionary transformation from this reaction? And really, the longer you wait to face something, the harder the truth is going to hit you. The time you give a truth to sit untold, unacknowledged, it only grows larger. That truth takes hearty roots, and your avoidance in the form of lies, whether to yourself or others, or both, only allows it to spread more rapidly.

Eventually, you will have to stop lying, to stop running, and that truth will have grown in strength. It has sprouted new truths or problems because your lies only fed it the fertilizer it needed to do so, and now it’s suddenly not the one thing you have to face anymore, but the multiple harder truths.

Which may be why you’re still outside, staring up at Nancy’s brownstone, where all of your friends, or well, the people you hope are still your friends are-

“Out of the bike lane!”

You jump forward onto the sidewalk just in time for a man in bright yellow spandex to zoom past you shouting some sort of curse as you clutch the dessert in your hands tighter.

Grateful you had a firm handle on it to begin with, it's one of the few family heirlooms you held onto along with the recipe it’s holding. Hoping to gain some sort of courage from deep within it, like your mom can offer you some through the dish, you make your way up the brick steps.

The only reason you're here, the only reason you’re facing this day the way you’re feeling just so happens to be the one to open the door before you can even ring the bell.

The door is flung open and her bright blue eyes fight to sparkle behind squinted eyelids that are almost shut she’s smiling so wide at you.

“Happy Friendsgiving!” Robin shouts louder than she needs to and holds her arms out in a dramatic greeting. She’s covered from fingertips to elbows in thick, orange goo, her clearly thrifted oversize old man sweater sleeves pushed up to her shoulders. You smile your first genuine smile in weeks as she goes to hug you and you both pause, rethinking it.

“Fall in a pumpkin?” You quip as you balance the dessert in your hand to shrug off one arm of your coat.

Robin wiggles her fingers and hands spirit and jazz style with a beam that shows off her dimple as she corrects, “Sweet potato casserole.”

“You fell in a sweet potato casserole?” Following her deeper into Nancy’s, you take in a long breath, the tight chest you’ve had since Eddie left you at Murray’s loosening with each word exchanged between you and her. But knowing you have to face him, Nancy, Steve and her, and continue to pretend nothing is wrong while around Robin, has the constricting pressure around your heart returning quickly.

Robin rolls her eyes, turning and walking backwards and making a face at you. She huffs as she turns back around, “No. Steve is making his famous mac and cheese and apparently I was annoying him, can you believe it? So him and Nance put me on mashing duty to keep me busy like a toddler.”

“You said it, not me!” Steve calls, his wine glass stopping before his lips when he makes eye contact with you.

Weeks of not seeing each other after the way you left things was going to be hard, you knew that. But you really weren’t prepared for how he looks today, or how it would affect you.

He’s got a burnt orange, almost brown, thick sweater on with light wash jeans. You’re sure both are from the section of his closet you stumbled upon months ago. That part holding his clothes he doesn’t wear often for whatever reason. He looks comfortable, casual, content. Down to the tube socks on his feet and the worn brown leather of the band of his watch. Your chest aches a little as you wonder if it’s Leigh that’s gotten him to relax into this version of himself. Even his hair, longer than a few weeks ago, is different than you’ve seen from him. Far messier than usual - like it hasn’t seen products or been styled lately, and several days of facial hair evident on his jaw. He looks like a version of Steve designed to torture you - a Steve who you’ve only gotten glimpses of and you miss before you’ve even really met.

“Hi,” he says quietly, smiling closed-lipped at you.

“Hi,” you offer with your own hesitant smile. Your fingers fiddle with the tinfoil over the edge of the dessert from your spot where you linger in the doorway.

“How are you? Do you…wine?” Steve stammers over his questions, cheeks turning pink. He spins and starts pouring you some without waiting for your answer. It gives you a small bit of relief that he’s as anxious as you are, neither of you knowing what comes next. Do you ever return to normal? And what is normal for you and Steve?

“Sure, yeah, good. You?”

Steve nods his head too quickly, spinning to face you again with the wine. “Good, yeah, thanks.”

“Good.”

“Yeah.”

Steve blinks at you, hazel eyes bright under the soft glow of Nancy’s pendant lighting hanging above her island. As you stare at each other, unsaid words float in the air, it was silly to think it could ever just be over with him. You miss entering a room and not sharing this awkward, palpable, tension - when it was a smile or joke exchanged instead of forced greetings, a warmth and joy felt instead of dread.

You hate that you don’t hate him.

You hate that there’s this horrible ache in your chest, like words want to tumble out but you physically can’t say them - why can’t you both just apologize? Why can’t that save the date be ripped to shreds? Why can’t it all work out?

“You two are acting weird.”

Robin’s voice bursts whatever bubble you were both in, and you clear your throat, looking down. Steve’s fingers adjust on the wine glass and he shakes his head.

Steve stammers, “N-no, we’re g-”

“Good?” Robin questions, eyebrows raised, “Yeah I gathered that.”

Before either of you can say anything in response, Nancy’s voice calls from the front door, “Crisis averted! I found a bag!”

Her brown curls bounce against her cheeks as she jogs into the kitchen. Dressed up in black suede boots and flared jeans, her tan peacoat left open showing off a silky black blouse. She pauses, mid stride, bag of marshmallows held aloft and her smile faltering as her gaze darts around the room.

Feeling warm under Robin’s sudden perceptiveness, you’re grateful when Nancy springs into action, relieving the awkward tension.

“Geez Robin, did any sweet potato end up in the dish? I left you alone with them for twenty minutes.”

Robin’s lips twitch slightly, eyes finally leaving Steve’s as she looks down at her hands, flexing her fingers, the orange goo becoming stiff and hard on her skin.

Nancy gives you a look, her eyes narrowed in a question but smiles when Robin looks back up. She places the marshmallows on the counter and grabs her hand. “Well, Y/N, can finish up.” She directs her next words to you, head nodding to a pan on the counter, “Put those marshmallows on top and stick it in the oven. Steve, your cheese isn’t gonna grate itself. And you,” Nancy tugs Robin out of the kitchen, smiling sweetly at her, “Are gonna come get cleaned up with me.”

Robin’s entire face turns pink, freckles standing out on her skin, from the way Nancy stares at her intently, like no one else exists. You look down, hiding your smile when Robin coughs, sputtering out something that you’re sure is supposed to be a yes. She eagerly nods and Steve huffs loudly, which makes her turn to glare over her shoulder at him, but it quickly turns into a smile as you call out, “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do!” to their retreating forms.

Their footsteps fade and Steve reaches out with one hand, looking at the dessert as he asks, “I can grab that from you?”

As the door to her bedroom clicks closed, you breathe out an exhale, unsure of how much longer you can keep it all up. His eyes are warm as his fingers brush the dish and you pull it back from his reach a bit, whispering, “It’s really fragile.”

Steve’s eyes bounce over your face, setting the wine down, both hands reaching for the dessert as he promises, quiet and sure, “I got it.”

Your fingertips graze each other as he takes it, and the electricity of just one more touch from him is enough kindling for the hope to spark. The heat from his stare has your cheeks warming and his turning pink. Steve’s lips twitch slightly in the corners as he glances down at the dish, then back up at you.

“So, this just from Mariano’s then?”

Your eyes roll hard at his assumption, scoffing as you turn to rip open the bag of marshmallows and keep your back to him. “You would ask if it was from there instead of Jewel.”

Steve knocks the faucet off from washing his hands, shaking them into the sink and flinging water across the stainless steel before drying them. He sucks his teeth with a wince as he turns to the counter, his shoulder next to yours. “Yeah, okay that’s fair.”

You laugh quietly, popping a marshmallow in your mouth in between placing them haphazardly across the orange mixture. Steve sighs next to you and gestures to the dish. “See, this is why I asked. No way you baked something. Didn’t think you could do anything in the kitchen except keep your take out menus impeccably organized.”

“Impeccably huh? That your word of the day on the calendar Robin got you?” You toss another marshmallow in your mouth with a smirk.

“Actually, no today’s word was assiduous.”

The veins in his hands flex as he grates the cheese, and he gives you a look as he says the word with confidence and emphasis, eyebrows raised.

You stall, taking a sip of your wine and hiding your smile in the glass before asking, “What, am I supposed to be impressed or something?”

He dumps the cheese into the pot and turns to you, cocking his head, tongue in his cheek before he frowns. “You’re not?”

Steve’s lips twitch, his facade breaking easily and you both laugh. Your shoulders relax further and so do his. Why does it have to be so easy with him, yet so hard?

“Actually, I think it will be you who’s impressed,” you start, making the marshmallows a little more purposeful and pretty for his sake.

“Oh yeah?”

You hum, nodding, “I made that pie from scratch.”

“No you didn’t.”

Looking up, you see him shaking his head. He makes eye contact with you and he shrugs, adamant, “Nope. No way.”

Your hands land on your hips as your tone turns indignant. “Yes I did! I made the crust from scratch, cold butter into flour and everything. Rolled it out, doctored up the filling in a pan on the stove. Brown sugar, the works.”

His hand stops on the second block of cheese, eyes narrowing at you as he questions, “Really?”

A laugh leaves you from the tone of his suspicion as you slide the pan holding Robin’s dish into the oven. “You sound like my dad when my mom made it the first time.”

Steve doesn’t say anything and your lip tugs between your teeth as you remember the moment between your parents. Maybe it’s the holiday, maybe you’re just tired, maybe it’s the few sips of alcohol that let the story fall out of you so easily.

“She was really awful at cooking,” you laugh, taking a sip of wine and waving your hand in the air, “I mean like, awful. She could serve you a grilled cheese that was somehow burnt but the cheese was cold? She got better, but anyways, I really don’t know why she thought she’d be any better at baking…”

Steve’s eyes meet yours briefly as he takes his own sip of wine and you look away, grabbing some of the cheese and deciding to help as you keep talking.

“I don’t remember how she decided to do this, but my dad was out of town for work, and she wanted to make him something special, and to her that was a pie, I guess? But she was adamant that it be from scratch. Made and baked with love. And so we did. We went and got all of the ingredients, and we destroyed the kitchen, but it was the most fun I’ve ever had with her. We listened to Dolly Parton and drank wine all day, totally got flour and butter everywhere, I told her about classes, and the guy I was seeing…”

Your eyes drift off the counter, remembering it was right before you knew she was sick and your chin trembles as a watery laugh leaves you, “And then my dad got home. Oh my god, his face. He, he…” you blink away tears as you start laughing harder, “He just dropped his duffle bag on the ground and shook his head looking around in shock and my mom yelled ‘We made you a pie!’ and my dad just raised his eyebrows and said ‘Sure looks like you made somethin’.”

The last words come out shaky and it isn’t until you feel a pressure on top of one of your hands that you realize you had been grating the cheese down to almost nothing, stealing it from him. Glancing up through blurry vision, tears continue to fall down your cheeks as Steve quietly asks, “But it was good?”

You snort, more tears leaving you as you shake your head no. “It was inedible,” you laugh harder, “Like raw, but somehow dry and clumpy, so bad.”

Steve squeezes your hand, eyebrows furrowing together as his confusion settles deeper in his face and he starts cautiously, “So…you…made an inedible pie for us tonight?”

Your head shakes more and you take a deep breath, laughter and tears slowing. “No, after that, she, um…” closing your eyes, you take a deep breath and push out, “She needed to keep her hands working…”

When you open your eyes again, Steve’s staring intently at you, waiting. You wonder why he can wait patiently for this story, look at you like he’d wait an eternity for you to tell him the ending, but he couldn’t wait for you. But, would you have wanted him to? When you’re certain that the potential of losing him, all of them, completely, isn’t worth the risk. Would he have waited forever for you to change your mind?

Your voice breaks as you finish, “Her chemo…she started to get neuropathy, and making the crust and keeping her hands and brain busy helped. So she kept practicing until it was perfect. And now it’s one of the last things I have from her. The dish too, we went and searched for the right one…” Fingers of your free hand form quotation marks as you roll your eyes with a laugh, remembering her ridiculous insistence on it and the day of estate sales and thrift stores.

It’s silent as the unsaid ending washes over you both, the importance - the weight - of the dessert and the story. The immediate need to take it all back rises up in you hard, wishing you could put the entire thing back inside yourself and rewind the last few minutes. The vulnerability leaves you cracked open and exposed to him and you’re not sure you can handle his reaction.

“I’m sorry,” your brows furrow, “I don’t know why I just…”

Steve’s fingers wrap around yours tighter and he squeezes. Your eyes meet the moss and honey you want to avoid because you’re sure they’re looking at you with that look. The pitying one, the one that everyone gets before they tell you a sorry that doesn’t help.

But Steve’s eyes shine with something stronger - admiration and amusement as he winces, “So, see, that story tells me that your mom practiced and practiced to make a perfect pie not you and-”

Your hand smacks at his chest lightheartedly, laughing around a protest. Steve holds his hands up in surrender, “Hey, hey, okay!”

Both of your laughter subsides and he smiles, a genuine smile, one side of his lips twisted up as he looks at the pie then you. “I’m sure it’s great. I’m excited to try it. Thank you for telling me that…I wish I could have met…”

As he trails off, your fingers brush against his on the counter, your bodies shift closer, letting the story and laughter pull you into each other’s gravity once more. Maybe it doesn’t have to be hard - there’s a reason you can fall so easily back into each other. A reason you can offer up a story you normally keep close if he’s the one listening, a reason you can forgive. There has to be a reason your body wants to be closer to his, a reason you want to feel his lips on yours again. Maybe there are cosmic connections, unexplainable phenomena of the universe, fate and destiny and invisible strings.

Hope flourishes inside of you, it catches on every bounce of his eyes over your face, the way his finger nudges against yours just like they did in that car ride to a lake so many weeks ago. It sparks and drifts into the air, it floats around you like embers from an actual fire as he breathes your name out and your body takes one step closer, making you chest to chest. One easy tilt of your head, one bend from his and maybe it’d all be okay again.

The doorbell rings, making both of you jump apart. The reality of the situation hits you, like someone dumped an entire bucket of water over the hope as Steve looks toward the door and frowns. You keep letting yourself end up in this position and eventually it’s going to hurt so much you’ll never be able to come back from it.

You’re not his, he’s not yours, and it’s too late. Another girl calls him baby, he calls her honey, and they go on and have the life you were certain you never wanted - all because you can’t let him in the way he wanted you to. This isn’t a movie, there is no rewind, there is no pause, and it’s time to move on.

“I’ll go get that, you have cheese to…uh…”

��Y/N, wait-”

You’re already out of the kitchen, speed walking to the front door. Dreading the girl you’re certain is on the other side, you start to pull your shoes back on. Maybe you could slip out with an excuse and leave. Your destiny isn’t Steve, it’s to always run, to always be alone.

The door swings open and you look up from your crouched position, one shoe on. Eddie is standing in the doorway, holding a bag of Hawaiian Rolls and looking at you, eyebrows raised in wait.

He holds open the door and gestures outside as he asks, “Should I leave this open?”

Your stomach swoops, thinking of the chance he’s giving you, the opportunity to do what you want, no questions asked. But your heartbeat thuds loudly in your ears at the opposite side of the coin - the other chance he’s giving you.

A deep breath is exhaled as you shakily ask, “That depends…are you still knocking?”

Eddie shrugs. “Maybe. Only one way to really find out right?”

Nodding once, you stand. A limped step over to the door with one shoe on, and you close it. Your palm rests flat against the wood as you take another calming breath. The sounds of the others in the kitchen are muffled as you turn around and look up at Eddie. You kick off the shoe, take a step forward, and mime opening a door.

Letting a tear slip past your lash line, you shrug, standing in the metaphorical open doorway and hold your breath.

He smiles, wrapping an arm around your shoulders. “Thank god, my arm was getting really tired.”

Another watery laugh starts to escape you and you wrap your arms around him in a hug. “I’m sorry. For everything, for dragging you into all of this and for leading you on and…and…”

He extends his fingers, counting his points as he sighs, “You forgot for being stubborn, for not asking me to be the Inigo to your Buttercup, for-”

“I’m sorry.” You force every ounce of meaning behind the words as you squeeze his waist tighter and he finally meets your hug, long arms wrapping around you.

“We’re all good sweetheart, don’t sweat it.” He pats your shoulder and takes a step back, cocking his head, “But that’s not all…” he taps his finger to your forehead, “What else is going on up there? Why were you leaving?”

“Y/N, please don’t…” Steve trails off as he comes into the entryway. You duck your head and sniff quietly, hoping there’s no evidence of your tears that escaped and break away as Steve clears his throat. “So-sorry. I thought you were…nevermind.”

Steve turns quickly on his heel, back towards the kitchen where the sounds of Robin and Nancy arguing about something echo louder down the hall. Eddie sighs, rolling his eyes at Steve’s back, and gestures for you to go before him, quietly whispering, “We’ll chat later about that.”

“Why does it smell like that? What did you put in it?” Nancy is bent down, looking at the dish you placed in the oven. Her hair is damp, curls weighed down against her cheeks, but her sleek outfit is back on, sans coat, sleeves rolled up.

Robin’s hair has a towel twirled on top of it, though she’s otherwise back in her jeans and sweater, her hands on her hips. “I don’t know! I did exactly what you said!”

“What’s going on?” Eddie asks, tossing the bread onto the counter.

“You don’t smell that?” Nancy shakes her head, hand held out to the air in exasperation.

Steve’s back is to you as he dumps cooked noodles into his pot of melted cheese and Eddie shakes his head no. Your nose starts to wrinkle though the longer you sit in the space.

Your hands raise, “I swear I just put the marshmallows on.”

It takes Nancy gagging on a bite she tries to eat of the casserole and Steve going through his spices next to his pot to realize Robin used paprika instead of cinnamon. A lot of paprika.

She throws her hands up in the air as she storms out to the deck, where you’ve all decided it’d be better to eat, bundled up from the cold, than inside trapped with the smell. “You know what, I never asked to cook anything so eat you’ll eat your paprika sweet potatoes and like it!”

As everyone sits at the table, Eddie looks around and asks, “Shouldn’t we wait for one more?”

“What?” Steve asks him, tone a little sharp, sitting down in the seat across from you.

“Your fiance? Isn’t she coming?” Eddie prods, meeting Steve’s cold attitude with an equal sting and rolled back shoulders.

“I’m sure she was earlier,” Robin mumbles into her wine glass, “Ow.” She glares at Steve who kicks her under the table.

Nancy rolls her eyes as Steve shakes his head no, clearing his throat, “She’s…we haven’t…she’s with her family already.”

Robin sighs from her spot next to you and your eyes meet Steve’s before jumping down to your plate. The pressure around your heart squeezes even tighter - maybe it was only easy with him because she’s not here, and that is not always going to be the case. Your fingers itch, neck rolling from the tension. You want to get up and walk away, but Eddie’s knee nudges yours and your shoulders relax slightly.

Nancy raises her glass, changing the subject, “Okay, before we dig in, I want to say that I’m very grateful for you all, and here’s to many more years of Friendsgiving.” She smiles at Robin when she uses the name.

Robin beams, holding her glass up too, “Here, here! Now everyone take two scoops of the potatoes.”

Glasses clink and laughter shared, it's easy for you to believe Nancy. Easy with Steve smiling across from you and Eddie and Robin bickering about the food next to you, with her not there, to believe that you’ll be a part of their stories. Maybe -

“So, Dingus, it’s time to spill all the details about Leigh.” Robin leans forward on the table, her eyebrows raised as Steve’s glass pauses halfway to his mouth. “We don’t know anything and you’re getting married in like five months.”

Nancy and Eddie’s bites and glasses also freeze, not so discreet looks at you from both of them. Nancy finishes swallowing and shakes her head, “Robin, we know enough! Let Steve-”

“No we don’t! I don’t know how you met, or if she’s moved in, and how he proposed and why on earth he didn’t tell his best friend! I have him cornered finally and you’re all gonna help me. Don’t act like you guys don’t want to know either!”

“Robin,” Steve starts licking his lips as he looks at her then you, “Can we not do this right now?”

“Time’s up bub,” Robin frowns, shaking her head, “I promise we like her, she’s cool. But you’ve been dodging the questions and me for weeks now. Start with the easy one, how’d you meet?”

Steve looks at you like he’s in physical pain and you look down at the liquid in your wine glass, swirling the red wine around as you wait for the story that is sure to kill you. You wish he’d just rip the band-aid off, get it over with.

“We, uh, met through my parents.” Steve swallows a large gulp of wine.

Your head whips up at the comment and Steve stares at you, frowning before he looks up at the sky.

Robin’s brows furrow as she asks, “Your parents?” Equally shocked as you are. It isn’t a secret that Steve and his parents aren’t always on the same page.

Steve rubs at his forehead, closing his eyes before he sets the wine glass down. He straightens, rolling his shoulders back, “Okay, it’s all going to come out anyways so…our parents set us up. It’s been arranged for awhile, we didn’t really date or anything, we’re getting married because that’s what we do. She’s from a good family and I’m from a good family, it makes sense. For business and life and…that’s it.”

The table is silent as Steve’s lips twist, waiting for someone to say something.

Your heartbeat isn’t loud in your ears, your stomach doesn’t swoop - it’s like all noise has left the planet. It’s like someone actually hit pause as his explanation and the last few months catch up with each other in your brain until they meet in a loud explosion. It’s an actual glass shattering sound effect. Heartbreak and hope and disbelief and anger swell inside of you like a wave ready to devour anyone who was stupid enough to enter the unpredictable ocean.

It’s surprising to everyone, including yourself, when you’re the one to break the silence. The question leaves you so quietly, you weren’t even certain you asked it out loud until he looked at you.

“So you’re not in love with her?”

As Steve stares at you, the table floats away, it’s just you and him. His mouth parts, but no response falls from it. You stand abruptly, chair scraping against the wood deck harshly as you push back, muttering something about needing to put the dessert into the oven. Your stomach that’s been twisted into knots for months feels like someone pulled one loose thread and it’s unraveling inside of you. A box of bouncy balls released, an unpredictable canon of confetti, trapeze artists, butterflies, boulders, and a deep ocean swallowing you. All of it, finally coming together and creating catastrophe.

It’s like every single moment you’ve been angry with him is turned up to eleven, but so is every look and touch. Every single one feels like a lie, a slap to your face - he was just using you because he was indecisive, scared, afraid to give up his single life. Steve Harrington was just like every other man. Your entire last few months swirl around inside your brain, replaying every moment, every emotion like a favorite movie. But it’s like someone took that film and told you every single thing wrong with it. Like they pointed out how everything you loved was just covering up the real and horrible plot - bright lights and pretty sets to convince everyone they had a good time, when in reality it was cheaply made and not worth it.

Your hands shake as you start to rip at the foil covering the pie, and his voice calls out behind you, “Please let me answer that question. Please let me explain.”

A scoff leaves you, eyes closing as you bite back, “It’s fine Steve. Clearly I was just some placeholder for you the whole time.”

“Placeholder?”

You spin, hands in the air as you search for words to make him see how much this hurts you. “Yeah, yes. Some, I don’t know. Last hurrah!”

“What?” The word comes out sharp, like he truly doesn’t understand what you’re saying. His cheeks are pink, his hair blown from the wind outside, eyes wide and blinking at you like you’re crazy.

“You heard me! I was just some fun fuck before you sealed the deal on your spoiled brat fate.”

Steve’s mouth falls open, then quickly closes, taking a step closer, hands clenched into fists as his brows furrow. His jaw tightens with each word, “I’m not a spoiled brat!”

Another scoff, a cold laugh as you wave your hand again. “Oh please Steve! You used me to bide your time and prolong the inevitable! You were just avoiding looking at the contract you signed!”

Steve stands over you, both of your chests rising and falling in time, the air inside the kitchen warmer from the oven being on all day and your words shouted at each other - the sparks leaping from your bodies and engulfing each other.

“I didn’t use you! You offered! It was all your idea! I’m so sick of this-”

You shove at his chest and he grabs your wrists, as you mock him, voice dripping with fake pity, “Oh, poor Steve Harrington. I have to get married and say goodbye to my single life, but let me use this girl-”

“This isn’t about me, I have to make decisions that affect my whole family, I can’t just say no! And what was I supposed to do? The person I want doesn’t want me!” HIs voice cracks as he drops your hands, fire cracking and sizzling between you both. His admission, the chance to tell him he’s wrong, that you do want him, makes your heart beat turn rapid, like it’s actually trying to punch its way out of your body.

You shake your head, pushing down the flames of hope threatening to burn you alive, pushing him away. “You saw an opportunity to postpone but not fully deny. It’s fine Steve, I get it. It was the safe option.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

Grabbing the pie, you sob, “Security. Money. You couldn’t say no to them. And then when I offered to fuck you no strings attached? Man,” you scoff out another laugh around your tears, “You probably thought you won the lottery, huh?”

Steve grabs for the pie, his eyes wet as he shakes his head. Voice hoarse as he argues, “You’re so unbelievably wrong. I couldn’t fucking wait for you to maybe, hopefully, open up one day! I have to move on! And it’s not like she’s a bad person, and I don’t know why we’re arguing about this again, because clearly you’re with Eddie.”

You tug harder on the dish but Steve doesn’t release as you cry out, “Oh! No! Don’t even try that! Eddie and I aren’t together and we never were! You’re using that as an excuse! Tell me Steve. Tell me you love her, that you want to marry her.”

“I-”

“Is that what your future looks like? Huh? Ten years down the road, it’s her? That’s what you imagined and not your parents?”

“Y/N, it’s not that simple!”

“It is! What do you want, Steve?”

You need him to tell you and he needs you to tell him and neither of you will - because you’re scared, stubborn. Two suns burning too hot and close together, and it was inevitable for it to end this way. You both stood on the edge of that cliff and saw the end you’d meet and you jumped anyway. Was it worth it?

“I can’t believe you two.”

This is the moment.

It wasn’t when he showed up at the football game with her. It wasn’t the party. It wasn’t the engagement.

It’s the look Robin is giving you both from her spot in the doorway. It’s the pie and the glass dish hitting the floor in shards of sapphire blue and orange peaches. It’s Steve and you both turning to her, shaking your heads no, saying her name in the same pleading way.

Her bright blue eyes turn to glass as she chokes around a tearful laugh, “I knew, I knew you both were hiding something, I just…why? Why couldn’t you just tell me?”

Nancy reaches for Robin’s wrist, “Robin, they didn’t mean to…”

Robin recoils, swiping at her cheeks. She looks at Nancy, then at Steve whose head falls, his hands in his hair. Eddie looks down too when Robin turns to him and she steps back again. “Everyone knew, huh? You all have been lying to me this entire time? Why? I don’t…” She shakes her head again and runs past you both, down the hall and slams the door.

Steve starts to go after her when a small frame stands in front of him like she’s twice his size, hand pressing to his chest. Fury burns in Nancy’s eyes as she blocks the hallway. Her voice low and far more angry than you’ve heard it be before. “I think you’ve done enough.”

“Nance, come on, that’s not fair,” Steve steps forward again and when she stops him with two hands now, his voice turns sharper, “Don’t act like you’re the only one who cares about her.”

“Yeah, well you’ve got a funny way of showing it Steve.” Nancy looks at you, “I think you should leave. All of you.”

Eddie grabs your elbow, speaking quietly, “I can drive you home.”

Steve laughs, “Oh, I’m sure you can.”

“Steve,” you start and he interrupts you, hands running down his face.

“No. It’s fine. It’s all my fault right? I’m the only one in the wrong?” He pushes past you, shoulder hitting Eddie’s hard and the door slamming even more so behind him. Pictures rattle against the wall, Nancy and her family's smiling faces tilted in their frame. The world turned off its axis.

It’s Nancy’s quiet knock from down the hall, Robin’s shouted ‘leave her alone’ and Eddie’s sigh of ‘fucking, christ’. It’s that there you stand, the door closed behind him, the mess you made, literally, surrounding you.

This, the consequences of all of your actions - is the double tap.

You let the mess build, you let the avoided truths take deeper roots and spread lies to cover them up. All because you wanted the hope to stay - you wanted it both ways - despite telling yourself different, despite lying to yourself for months.

Now, it’s too late. You’re just a girl who isn’t in a rom com with a happy ending. You’re alone, and the hope that maybe you wouldn’t be for once isn’t just gone, it’s ripped from your fingers.

The book is closed. The knife drips in the killer’s hand as the victim’s chest stops heaving. The spacesuit floats through a noiseless and lifeless galaxy. The body doesn’t get up from the mats and a silence falls over the crowd.

“Fuck!”

Your hands smack the steering wheel, a sob leaving you as your forehead falls against it.

You’ve been driving around for hours, hopeless. Your heart hasn’t stopped its erratic and hard beats since you ran out of Nancy’s. Somehow your body still courses with adrenaline, fight or flight still at war inside of yourself. Every time you think about the look Robin had on her face, every time you think about how much you hurt her, or how you may not see her again, you feel real, visceral, pain and panic. Your hands start shaking, the crying starts its cycle over from scratch, and you have to pull over until the snot sobbing stage settles into a calm, sort of silent cry.

This is a mess, and it’s your mess. Despite wanting to put all of the blame on Steve, you simply can’t run from this truth anymore. It was you who came up with the plan. Steve was hesitant immediately, bringing Robin’s thoughts up right away. It was you who came up with the Red Hot Ranch code, who kept going. It was you who called it off and started it up again despite knowing how it would all inevitably end. It feels like you pushed Steve off the cliff and thought it was okay because you were diving after him.

As you stare out the windshield, you know you have to stop running. Eddie’s words ring through the air.

Open the fucking door. Nobody’s leaving you.

You have to at least try, right? You have to apologize to her, to tell her it was all your fault so if she at least doesn’t forgive you, maybe you can offer a crack in the door to her forgiveness for the others. The others who simply got caught up in your lies, tripping over the tangled knot of roots they took.

You’re certain Robin and you met how and when you did not by chance, the universe gave you each other for a reason. You’re certain that there are soul mates, they’re just not in the form you always suspect. And you’re certain that if you don’t try to make things right, you’ll be miserable and truly alone for the rest of your life.

Robin once told you that she was there, and that she would be there when you were ready and you hope the offer still stands. Maybe you can’t make everything right, you can’t rewind, but you have to at least try to make the ending bearable.

When you turn the key in the ignition though, your car sputters. Your face twists into an expression of disbelief, only deepening when it does it again and your mouth falls open in shock when it suddenly starts to rain, mixing with snow that melts immediately on the ground. You laugh, looking out the windshield at the bleak and miserable sky, washing out the city in a dull gray.

“Of fucking course,” you mumble under your breath. Getting out of the car, you sigh as you lock it. You shield your eyes as you stare up at the sky and laugh, “You’re real funny. Great joke.”

Maybe it was a sign from the universe that you needed to really work for it, maybe it was bad karma, maybe you really deserved it, maybe it was even supposed to be a blessing - washing away the past to clear the slate for the future.

Regardless of reason, you don’t take the train, and you make the slow and wet walk back to where you came from.

The buzzer for her place rings with no answer. You know that she’s home because the light is on, and you intercepted her take out.

“Buckley I’ll keep buzzing, your egg rolls are getting cold!”

When she doesn’t answer again, you sigh, pressing your wet forehead to the cold brick and hold it down again, pulling out the big guns. “Okay, Robin, I, listen. I am so sorry. And if you want to hate me and never see me again, that’s totally fine, I understand. Because honestly, I am…I am scum for lying to you. I am pond scum. I’m lower than pond scum. I am the fungus that feeds on the pond scum.”

You release the buzzer and when there still isn’t a click of her responding your chin trembles. Maybe you really did fuck it up that badly and there is no coming back from this. It was silly of you to think she’d ever forgive you, especially when she has Steve. You’re about to set the food down and buzz again to tell her you’ll leave when the front door opens.

“You’re lower actually.”

A sob leaves you as Robin stands in the doorway, arms crossed over her favorite Hawkins Band sweatshirt. The fuzzy lime green socks with banjos on them that you got her for her birthday on her feet.

You nod, swiping at your tears with a free hand. “You’re right. Lower than the fungus. I’m the pus that infects the mucus that cruds up the fungus that feeds on the pond scum.”

Robin’s lips twitch, but she rolls her eyes before they look at the ground. “Quoting Julia Roberts is really unfair. You know how much of a sucker I am for her. Cheap shot.”

A crack in the tightness in your chest starts to pry open as you whisper, “I almost bought roses and had this plan to blare classical music from my car but it broke down and…well, here I am anyways, asking for forgiveness and a chance to explain.”

She raises her eyebrows, waiting, and your chin trembles as your voice shakes, “Robin I’m sorry. I really didn’t mean to lie to you about it all for so long. And there were so many times I wanted to tell you. I was selfish and wrong and scared I would lose you - that you’d pick his side and shut me out - but I’m here trying now…please don’t hate me forever. And don’t hate Steve. He did nothing wrong. Or Nancy, or Eddie. It was all me and I’m so, so, so, sorry, please let me explain everything and give me another chance to be even half the amazing friend that you are.”

It’s silent, for what feels like forever, until her eyes meet yours. Shining from tears and her nose wiggles as she sniffles, “You were going to Pretty Woman me?”

You nod, tears roll down your cheeks and mingle with the rain that coats them.

Robin sighs, choking on her own tears as she laughs, “You just get me.”

She engulfs you in a hug and both of you cry into each other’s shoulders as she says, “I’m still mad you all lied. You’re not off the hook. I think giving me limitless veto power for movie nights is extremely fair and nonnegotiable.”

Your body feels lighter than it has in months as your arm tightens around her as you agree with a teary laugh, whispering another apology while silently vowing to never let her go. It doesn’t matter what happens next, because at least you have her, and you know you always will.

Robin trips on a heel as she emerges from her closet. Tilting your head at the dress she holds up, your nose scrunches as you shake your head no.

She sighs, throwing it on the no pile and groans, “Ugh! This is hopeless!”

As she flops onto her bed with a huff, you laugh and swap places with her, “No, no, come on. Tell me again.”

Robin sits up, staring at her dresser with a furrow forming under her bangs. “I want to look professional, put together, but not like it’s an interview, you know? I want them to take me seriously, but I want to look like me. Ergo, I am doomed.”

Your fingers trail over her clothes, eyes searching again after they roll. “Ergo, you’ve been facetiming Dustin too much.”

A black dress catches your eyes, velvet and cinched at the waist. Pulling it from her closet you hold it up. “What about this? I’ve never seen you wear it. Is it new?”

Her head tilts, “Huh. I forgot I bought that for…” she trails off and looks at you with a sad smile. “Right. Yeah, you don’t think it’s too low cut?”

You shake your head no, taking a deep breath at her change of subject, thoughts drifting to if she bought it for the wedding or something related to it. Maybe you could ask, but you’ve sort of had a non-verbal agreement to not discuss Steve the last month and it’s been working. After explaining everything to her, including how you felt about him getting married, your complicated feelings, it just felt easier to not discuss anything relating to him.

“Throw a nice necklace on, you’ll be perfect babe,” you make an a-okay symbol with your fingers, “The Wheeler’s aren’t gonna know what hit em.” You smile and look at the clock on her nightstand, handing the dress out to her, “Get to it though, or you’ll be late.”

Robin makes no move to get up, holding the dress in her hands and staring at it.

She shakes her head no. “I can’t do this.”

Sitting next to her, the bed bounces lightly and you grab her hand. “You absolutely can do this. It’s just meeting the parents and siblings, all of whom you’ve met already.”

“But not as her girlfriend. When I met them she wasn’t even out. What if they hate me? What if I spill something? What if I order the wrong wine?”

Laughing, you hold her panicking face in your hands, taking a deep breath to encourage her to do so too. “Robin. Breathe.”

She does, her exhale shaky and you smile, head tilting as you let her face go, fixing a curl you smooshed. “You really love her don’t you.”

It’s not a question, but Robin answers anyway. She nods vehemently, words tumbling out of her like she can’t help it. “God so much it’s scary. But also not? I want to spend every second with her. I want to tell her about every dumb little thought that pops into my head and I want to hear what she ate for lunch every day. I want to wake up and fall asleep next to her and that’s insane! How can you love a person like that so quickly? Like everything in your body is screaming for it? It’s…it’s that kind of love I’ve only heard about before? That kind of love…” she trails off, maroon polished fingers covering her smile before she keeps going, “It’s easier than breathing. It is breathing, you know?”

As she says the words that prick at something inside of you, prodding on thoughts you’d locked away, her skin pales, looking like she’s going to be sick. “Oh my god I really can’t do this. I can’t-”

“Robin. One step at a time. Change your outfit, you can do that right?”

She laughs, head falling to your shoulder, a sing-song lilt to her voice, “We’ve been here before.”

“Yeah and look at what happened.”

Robin sits up, biting her lip, nodding once and standing. “Right.”

As she changes, you assess her jewelry box. Your eyes roam over the mirror of her vanity, smiling at the pictures. You pause at the one of her and Steve that’s new to you. He has his tongue out, her arm around him and your fingers touch the corner, an ache in your chest wondering what they were doing and what stories they’ll have from the day.

“Have you talked to him?”

Her question startles you and your shoulders lift. Clearing your throat, you hold the necklace out to her. “No, um, I haven’t. He’s good?”

Robin starts to hook the necklace as she hums, “I think so. It’s hard to tell some days.” She hesitates, her face pinched into a familiar look to you, the one that looks like she’s physically holding words in, a true test for her. She bends down to buckle her heels as she asks, “Is it always going to be this way? Avoiding talking about each other? Seeing each other?”

“No, I don’t think so. I just need some time. I’ll be okay.” Shrugging with a smile, you grab your purse and coat.

Robin’s blue eyes sparkle under shimmering gold eyeshadow and she tilts her head, a smile forming on her lips as she nods, confident in her words, “You will be. One step at a time.”

“Cute,” you muse, and take a step back. You twirl your fingers for her to spin and she rolls her eyes but obliges. The black velvet dress cuts off at her calves, hugging her curves in a sexy but modest way and the gold pendant on her necklace matches the blocky old-fashioned heels. You yell out, “Ow-ow!”

Robin laughs, waving you off and grabs her phone. “Okay picture!”

“Ew, Robin no! You look so good and I am literally in my sweatshirt with the mustard stain on it.”

She shushes you, “Tough tater tots toots.”

She pulls you in as you laugh, both of you easily falling into a goofy pose as she snaps a selfie. She nods her approval and grabs her coat, “Oh yeah, that one’s definitely going on the board.” She clicks her phone closed and you both head towards the stairwell.

As you step out of her apartment building, Nancy is getting out of an Uber, an emerald peacoat wrapped around her and she stops, eyes only on Robin.

“Hi,” she whispers, smiling, “Wow. You’re so beautiful.”

Robin’s face turns as red as her nails and you duck your head. “Well, I think that’s my cue to leave. Have a good night,” you squeeze Nancy’s hand, “Tell your brother and El hey from me?”

She squeezes it back, confirming she will, and holds the door open for Robin, then jogs around to the other side and you have to smile at her lack of wanting to scoot across the seat or maybe it’s just her old fashioned, secret romantic side coming out.

As you start to walk away, you hear your name and spin back around, Robin is leaning out of the window, smiling wide as she asks, “Benny’s tomorrow? 10?”

“I expect a full report!” You cross your arms over your chest, fore and middle fingers crossed in a good luck to her that she mirrors as the car drives away.

The walk to the train from there is short, your car still out of commission, and you pop your airpods in, debating how your evening will go. Eddie is already home for Christmas with his uncle in Indiana, Robin and Nancy together tonight, and Steve…

Before them, an evening alone like this never would have bothered you. Eating what you wanted to eat, watching what you wanted to watch - you got good at being alone, enjoying it actually. Now, there’s a funny little feeling that pulls at a thread inside of you, trying to unravel the work you’ve done.

As you wait for the train, pulling your winter hat tighter over your ears, you watch a couple come up the stairs. They have shopping bags in their hands, dressed in warm, wool coats. Giggly, pink cheeks, gloved hands clinging to each other. They sit just down from where you stand against the railing when you get on, huddled together as they look at a map on his phone, and you wonder what their story is - where they were, where they’re going, and if they love each other. It seems like they do, and you wonder if it’s the kind of love Robin explained.

How can anyone love like that aside from fictional people in the movies? How can you love someone so deeply and intensely, without fear of it being ripped away?

But maybe people do fear it being ripped away, and they love regardless. Fear doesn’t make love disappear, it makes it stronger. Because what if that person is gone one day? What if you never told them how you felt? What if you never even got the chance to see if you could love like that? Isn’t it better to try than never know?

As you look out the train doors, the sky is turning a soft pink and purple. The sun is setting over the city in one of those perfect nights, slow, like each color being revealed is a purposeful brushstroke, hand painted. A sign.

Sunsets. Steve. A good song. Steve. Your friends. Steve. Your family. Steve.

Easier than breathing.

An undeniable, unavoidable, unforgiving wave of heartbreak rolls over you. But it’s not alone, it’s hope, it’s questions and answers, it’s relief and clarity and you know what you have to do.

You unlock your phone, a desperation and need to get all of it out now, fueling each press of your thumbs to the screen. Maybe the story is wrong, but you’re the main character, narrator, and author and you can change it if you just put in the work to do so. Tears begin to fall down your cheeks, and you let them, unashamed, finally free of the place you’ve kept them locked away. Pressing send on the message, you hold your breath, hoping she’s not already too preoccupied with Nancy.

The train doors open and you rush down the stairs. Each step slams against the sidewalk, sending shocks up your spine, cold air filling your lungs as each stride brings you closer to him, but not fast enough. You have to try to change the story, you have to tell him.

But when his location is just out of your reach, when you see him, you slow down.

Steve stands beneath the gold twinkling lightbulbs of the old brick theater, the white marquee sign displaying the title ‘When Harry Met Sally’. He has a black beanie on, hair sticking out and curling slightly. A dark gray peacoat flutters against the back of his thighs in the wind, open to reveal the yellow sweater he has on and your feet come to a skidding stop. His phone is pressed to his ear as he looks up from where he was scuffing his Nike against the sidewalk and makes eye contact with you.

Your heart beat has thoroughly been replaced again as your hands start to shake, each slow step to him stretched out and lingering, lasting for what feels like minutes instead of seconds.

What if. What if. What if.

The phone slips, hand falling to his side. His brows furrow just under his hat and you want to reach forward and brush the worry away with your thumb. His greeting leaves him quietly, a puff of his breath and the word floating in the air just a few feet from you.

“Hi.”

Gesturing with a trembling hand to the sign above that you can no longer see, fully under the gold lights, you blurt out, “Did you know that it came out in 89’? So technically it’s a bad 80s rom com. I was wrong.”

Steve shakes his head, the twinkle of the lights highlighting the brown in his eyes, warm and sweet and deeply confused as he starts, “What are you-”

“I was wrong about a lot of things, Steve. And I know I’m late in saying that. I know I’m late for a lot more, but I think it’s better to say it late, to say it now, than to never tell you and wonder for the rest of my life.”

Steve’s lips part, your name a whisper on them, but you take a deep inhale and prepare to get it all out fast and without fear of needing a breath akin to the way Robin speaks, just so you can leave yourself open and vulnerable despite knowing that it could, and most likely will, hurt.

“I’m sorry if Leigh is inside or she’s gonna be here soon, but I have to tell you. I…Steve I’m sorry. I wanted to be friends with benefits because I was selfish. You were right. I wanted it both ways. At first, you were just this guy who was hot and funny and knew what he was doing and I didn’t want to lose that. But then, then I got to know you and that’s when it got complicated, because I really didn’t want to lose you then.” You swallow as Steve freezes in front of you, no longer stepping towards you and his shoulders hunch like he’s holding his breath as you keep going.

“I wanted you, but I was scared to commit, scared that if I did commit, I’d lose you all anyways. And I still am scared. Terrified,” you laugh a little as tears start to roll down your cheeks, “But I think being scared is worth it if I’m doing it with you. Because…” Inhaling, you take a step closer as Steve blinks at you, willing the words to keep coming.

“Because I think we could be something special if we gave it a real chance. And I think that we can’t know what’s going to happen, maybe it all blows up in our faces, but at least we tried and we’ll know and we won’t spend our lives wondering what if.” Tears blur your vision as you leave it all out there, words that feel like they’ve wanted to tumble out of you forever just keep coming, faster and faster, your hands gesturing wildly with each one, stepping closer and closer to him.

“And I want to try so badly Steve. I want to hold your hand in public and go on dates and tease you and make memories with you and I think we could fall in love, I think I was already starting to. Like real love. Like that undeniable, scary, kind of love, and I’m sorry you’ll have to wait for me to get there to say it, but if you give it a chance…I think we’re worth the wait. I don’t care that I’m saying all of this too late, I don’t care that you’re getting married because at least I said it and if you wanna stand up there and say I do to her in May then that’s fine, I can move on, maybe, I think, because at least I’ll know I tried and-”

“Woah, woah, woah.”

Steve grabs your shaking hands, interrupting you. Cedar and mint hit your nose as you inhale, his cologne lingering on his scarf. His adam’s apple bobs as he swallows. One hand leaves yours, fingers curling under your chin as he murmurs, “I’m not getting married.”

“You’re…” you hiccup a laugh through your tears, “What?”

He tilts his head and clears his throat, repeating it as his thumb brushes a tear from your cheek, fingers squeezing your hand. “I’m not getting married.”

“You’re not getting married,” you repeat it again, quieter, letting the words sink in.

Steve shakes his head no, the back of his knuckles brushing more tears from your cheek as he lets out a shaky breath. “I called it off the day after…after everything.”

“Oh,” you swallow, eyes blinking up at him under wet lashes as the reality of the extremely vulnerable words you practically just shouted at him sit unreciprocated still, unable to be taken back.

Steve’s lips twitch on the right, like he’s fighting a smile, eyebrows furrowed deeper as he sighs, “Yeah. Quit my job too.”

“What? Steve, why, what-”

His fingers trace your jaw as he shakes his head again, rolling his eyes but the smile fighting on his lips wins. “This girl that drives me crazy basically quoted The Notebook scene at me and I decided I’d rather have the life I wanted, have her, or have nothing at all. But I didn’t think she felt the same way, and I wasn’t going to push her again.”

You smile, a laugh bubbling out of you as you shake your head, “You’re crazy about me?”

Steve laughs, his hat bumping yours as your foreheads touch. You drop his hand, both of yours pressing to the soft yellow material against his chest. His breath warm against your cheek as you ask, “So what happens now?”

He pulls away, forehead leaving yours and creating a small space between the two of you, you already want closed again. The lights make the green almost disappear from his eyes, golden, sunshine pulling you in and making you beg for more of it to light you up, a tether, your gravity, just like they’ve always been.

Steve clears his throat, hands reaching up to cup your cheeks, thumbs brushing over the apples of them as he declares, “Well, rule number one, we tell Robin.”

“Deal,” you tilt your head, playing his game. Your hands slowly crawl up his chest, wrapping around his neck, playing with the collar of the coat as you throw out, “Pet names?”

Steve nods dramatically, pinching his eyes closed, “Oh yeah. So many.” He leans in, nose tracing up the line of yours slowly, foreheads knocking together as the tips of your shoes meet. “I’m gonna call you babe and honey loudly at the grocery store for no reason other than I can.”

“Yeah?” Your top lip hits his with the lift of your smile and question.

He nods. “Yeah.”

Steve’s hands cup the back of your head, tilting you open for him as he ducks down, mouth hovering above yours as he speaks like you’re the only two people in the world.

“But right now? Right now I’m gonna kiss you.”

“Which bad 90s rom com you steal that one out of, Harrington?” You whisper against his lips.

Steve smiles, gaze tracing the curve of your lips then meeting yours as he takes a deep breath.

“You liked it.”

And maybe the marquee lights twinkle above you a little brighter as you finally meet in a kiss. Maybe snowflakes start drifting down from the clouds lazily, covering everything in a fresh start right at the moment his hands wrap around your waist and pull you impossibly closer, your back arching from the passion of his kiss. Maybe a terrible top forty song blares out of someone’s car as it drives past, your foot popping off the pavement a little when he pulls away for a breath only to lean and kiss you deeper and slower.

The universe can’t guarantee anything for you and Steve, but it is giving you a chance. There is nothing, not even love, that can keep away the inevitable struggle, heartbreak, or loss life will be sure to throw at you. Which is scary, but doing it together, his hand in yours, makes it less so. Yes, it won’t always be easy, but the hard work you’ll both put in when it isn’t, means it’s real. There is no one other than yourselves who can decide if your relationship could be like the movies. The two of you are the only ones that can calculate if there’s still time for a happy ending in your story. Only Steve and you can be certain that the fear of heartbreak or pain is worth taking the risk, because if you don’t, if you let the chance slip away, you’ll never know if one day you could have called it love.

WCIL Taglist: @loveshotzz @myobmaya @sweetsweetjellybean @pastel-pillows @littlesubbyflower @johnricharddeacy @freezaz123 @selfdeprecatingnerd @big-ope-vibes @manda-panda-monium @hellkaisersangel @yogizzz @soulmatecashton @happytimeunicorns @mandyjo8719 @lunarxeclipse @buckleylips @beckkthewreck @differentdeputyfishpaper @supardupar @micheledawn1975 @imjuststeddietrashatthispoint @sagelittleplace @totally-bogus-timelady @steves-babysitter @fallinginlovewithqueue @aftermidnightwriting @omgshesinsane @pootcullen @definitionwanderlust @nostalgiafool @palmtreesx3 @scoopshxrrington @live-the-fangirl-life @eddiesguitarskills @mannstarkey @keepingitlokiii @silkholland @redbarn1995

#we'll call it love #modern!steve harrington #steve harrington x you #steve harrington x reader #steve harrington x y/n #steve harrington series #steve harrinton fic #stranger things fanfic

212 notes · View notes

101flavoursofweird · 1 year ago

Text

Title: Casa Mia

Set: During, before and after LMJ

Spoilers: Mainly for the anime and the final case of the LMJ. Slight spoilers for Mystery Room, Curious Village, PL2 and PL3

Warnings: The title of this fic was originally going to be ‘The League of Absent Fathers’… because it contains a lot of talk about absent fathers— and very light mention of a character becoming pregnant and giving birth.

Also, contains a lot of headcanons connecting LMJ to characters from the original series

Also, contains a lot of Italian phrases and some idioms literally translated into English! I’ll include some translations below.

Inspiration: The title, ‘Casa Mia’, is a translation of ‘My Home’. I wish I could say this fic was inspired by an Italian song, but no, it’s ‘My House’ from Matilda the Musical

Casa Mia

“Miss Perfetti, I believe you owe Miss Layton an apology!”

Emiliana blinked at Katrielle’s besotted schoolboy assistant. (She really needed to get a ‘Do Not Disturb’ sign for her office door…)

“Chiedo scusa?” Emiliana said, a tad sarcastically.

If she had hoped Ernest Greeves would be intimidated by her native tongue, then she was mistaken…

“M-Mi Dispiace!” he replied in passable Italian. “I’m sorry… See— that wasn’t difficult, was it?” He offered her a smile, but Emiliana still didn’t understand.

“Why would I owe her an apology? Have I done something to offend Kat?”

Ernest’s smile retracted. “As a matter of fact, you have! Miss Layton was frightfully ang— upset by how you treated us— I mean, her, at the cafe the other day…”

“Oh…” Was he referring to the little competition she’d had with Kat during the stakeout? “She’s not still upset about that, is she?”

Sternly, Ernest nodded.

Emiliana arched her eyebrows. On her way out of the cafe, she had seen Katrielle stomping her feet like a petulant child, but surely Emiliana’s actions hadn’t affected her that much!

Emiliana had predicted Kat would storm off in a huff, but she would cool down as soon as she’d had some ice strawberry cream or some frozen cheesecake…

“I paid for everything you two bought at that cafe,” Emiliana reminded Ernest. She leaned back in her desk chair, lifting her chin. “It’s not my fault if Kat’s a sore loser, obsessed with horoscopes—“

Ernest planted his hands on the desk. “That’s not what upset her!”

Emiliana stared at him.

Ernest reared back, probably shocked by his own boldness. “I… It was…” He clenched his fists. “…how you lied…” He pointed at Emiliana. “…about your tragic backstory!”

(Cosa diavolo…?)

Emiliana pushed her glasses up her nose. “You mean Kat actually believed— the fictitious plot line of a movie— was my life story?”

“I-it might be fictitious to you,” Ernest fumed, “but you shouldn’t make light of such things!”

“What things—?”

“Missing parents!” Ernest burst out.

…Oh. Perhaps she did owe Katrielle Layton an apology after all.

Of course Emiliana was aware that Professor Hershel Layton was still missing…

Emiliana had never looked into the case herself— Scotland Yard seemed keen to forget it by the time she’d started working there— but she knew not everyone had forgotten Professor Layton.

Her mentor— once a student in Layton’s archaeology class— had ceased his investigations into the disappearance after a few years. (Secretly, Emiliana had been relieved. She couldn’t imagine losing her blundering mentor as Kat had lost her father…)

Then there was her distant colleague, Inspector Alfendi Layton— Professor Layton’s controversial son and Kat’s far more qualified older brother.

Alfendi might have aided in the search for his father years ago, but now (most likely due to the Forbodium incident Emiliana had heard so little about) it was rare to find him outside of his office.

Emiliana had only bumped into Alfendi on a handful of occasions, and he had never breathed a word about the Professor to her.

That wasn’t to certify that Alfendi had given up on the search entirely— but he had by all outward appearances.

The same could be said about Commissioner Barton and the other senior members of Scotland Yard. As much as they wanted to locate the Professor— to bring closure to the Layton family— it had been over a decade since Layton had left (on his own accord).

All those funds and work hours could go towards helping other missing people. Surely Professor Layton would agree…

And then there was Katrielle Layton. Like Alfendi, Kat had never mentioned her father directly to Emiliana…

In turn, Emiliana had never thought to ask.

Obviously, Kat must miss her father. She had taken up his mantle as a puzzle-solver and a detective, naming her agency after him. Kat even had her own top hat!

She differed from her father in a lot of ways, though; where Layton had relied on his famous intuition, Kat depended on ‘instinct’ and dumb luck.

Layton had a lot of salt in his gourd and a polite tongue. Kat, on the other hand, had a habit of losing her gourd and she did not have a single hair on her tongue.

The Professor had fought all sorts of villains and machines in a composed manner. Kat was all pepper— full of life— every second of the day…

Though, maybe that wasn’t completely true, now that Emiliana considered it.

There had been an… incident when Emiliana shared a cabin with Kat aboard the Thametanic.

Early in the morning, Emiliana had awoken to the sound of sniffling. Rolling over in her bed— ignoring the rocking of the boat— she had asked Kat what the matter was.

“Nothing!” Kat had exclaimed, before stumbling out of her bed, dashing across the cabin and locking herself in the bathroom.

After that, Kat had brushed the whole thing off as “Sea sickness!” and Emiliana had pretended to believe her, because it was easier.

(Because how could Emiliana comfort Kat if she was crying?)

At the cafe, upon hearing the synopsis to ‘Lonely Study Girl’, Kat— and Ernest— had shed tears. Emiliana had assumed they were overreacting, playing up in front of Mama Sandra, but now that she thought about it…

Kat had looked so concerned when she mistook Mama for, well— Emiliana’s mamma.

Emiliana’s mamma was nothing like Mama Sandra. She was big-boned and brown-eyed, with flowing dark hair.

Mamma made most of her own clothes. By comparison, most of Sandra’s clothes were designer labels.

Emiliana’s mamma was not an award-winning actress— she couldn’t even keep a straight face if she lied!

She was a beauty therapist who owned her own salon. Every other day, she would call Emiliana just to gossip about the customers she had to deal with. (“Emi, you won’t believe what Mrs. Wolfe was wearing this morning…!”)

When Emiliana was little, her mamma hadn’t had a lot of money— one trait Emiliana actually shared with the ‘Lonely Study Girl’— but she had her family to help her.

Contrary to ‘Lonely Study Girl’, however, Emiliana’s mamma would never dream of leaving her!

Mamma had moved to England with her just so Emiliana could follow her mentor…

But Kat, believing Emiliana was abandoned as a child, had felt sympathy.

No wonder Kat had been so unsettled when she found out the truth— that Emiliana was simply summarising her favourite movie.

That movie mirrored Kat’s reality.

Yes, Emiliana definitely needed to apologise after that glaring oversight.

So, as soon as she had finished work for the day, she went with Ernest to visit Kat.

Kat lived a few streets away from her detective agency— up a hill.

Emiliana had to stop to catch her breath as they reached a bright blue block of flats. It was a nice neighbourhood— hill notwithstanding— but Emiliana was surprised Kat could afford to live here.

Either private detectives were paid more than Emiliana had assumed, or maybe Kat’s family helped her out.

Kat’s bother earned a decent wage as an inspector… But was there anyone else Kat could depend on? Grandparents? Aunties and uncles? Cousins…?

Ernest hadn’t been beaten by the hill— not as badly as Emiliana, anyway.

He marched up to the front door and pressed the buzzer for the intercom. “Hello— Miss Layton? It’s me, and— and Emiliana—“ Ernest broke off as they heard barking.

Emiliana had a feeling the barks were aimed at her. “The dog lives with Kat?”

Ernest nodded. “They don’t always get along, but Sherl’s good company for Miss Layton.”

“Right…”

“I’ll take Sherl out for a walk while you two talk—“

Much to Ernest’s relief and Emiliana’s apprehension, the front door clicked open. Ernest held the door for her. “After you…”

The stairs did nothing to improve Emiliana’s shortness of breath— or, admittedly, that might have had something to do with her nerves.

She had confronted violent criminals without flinching, and yet, the thought of facing Kat, after Emiliana had hurt her, was daunting.

When— and why— had Emiliana grown to care about Kat so much?

Yes, the two of them were friends, but Emiliana was friends (Well— colleagues!) with Inspector Hastings and she had no qualms about insulting him!

Occasionally, Emiliana would bicker with her mamma— over how Emiliana worked too hard, or how Mamma could be so picky— but they would always make up afterwards…

Emiliana hadn’t irreparably ruined her relationship with Kat, had she?

The barking grew louder as Ernest led her across a landing. Emiliana gulped when they reached a door— Kat’s door— and Ernest knocked.

From inside, Kat called, “C-Coming!”

Kat (and Ernest) had no reservations about invading Emiliana’s office unannounced, so why should she feel intrusive visiting Kat’s home?

Kat even had a green ‘Welcome!’ mat, sitting slightly askew outside her door.

Emiliana didn’t feel very welcome as the door opened by a crack and, with a low growl, Sherl poked his snout out.

“Sherl,” Ernest chided. “Don’t be so rude! I invited her…”

The snout snorted at Emiliana.

Meanwhile, Kat had been fiddling with the door chain. She unlocked it and lifted Sherl up with a grunt. “Alright— your guard dog duties are no longer required!”

Kat fully opened the door. She looked flustered; sans top hat headband, her hair was tousled. Not to mention, there was a grouchy basset hound in her arms.

“Hi!” Kat gasped. She straightened up the ‘Welcome’ mat with her bare foot. “Welcome to my humble abode!”

“Va bene,” Emiliana replied, crossing her arms.

She stared at Kat. Kat stared back.

The silence between them was broken by Ernest stepping forward. “Should I take Sherl out, Miss?”

“Yes— thanks, Ernest.”

Sherl grumbled as Kat handed him over to Ernest. Turning to Emiliana, Ernest told her, “Sherl said he’s very sorry for his rudeness!”

Emiliana hummed dryly. “I didn’t know you spoke dog…”

To his credit, Ernest just gave her a content smile, before he carried Sherl downstairs.

“Do you want to— come in?” Kat said.

Unfolding her arms, Emiliana forced her feet forward. (Forza e coraggio!)

Walking past a cabinet with a mirror, Emiliana fought the urge to check her reflection. Her hair looked how it always did— how Kat always saw her— but after their misunderstanding at the cafe, Emiliana felt tempted to change her appearance so she wouldn’t resemble Mama Sandra as much.

Locking the door behind her, Kat hollered, “Please excuse the mess…”

Entering the front room, Emiliana saw Kat’s coat and hairband hanging off a wooden stand, a half-eaten bowl of choco-pops and a rolled-up newspaper on a table, a pale pillow and a fluffy blanket that had fallen off a green settee, and a slightly disordered bookshelf. (Granted, Kat didn’t have as many books as Emiliana, but it was still more than Emiliana had expected.)

Kat’s flat wasn’t that messy… just lived-in. Maybe even comfy.

Joining Emiliana in the front room, Kat gestured for her to take a seat.

The back of the settee was designed in a way that looked like Kat’s curls, Emiliana noticed, as she sat. She tried not to glance at Kat’s bouncy hair as Kat plonked down beside her.

There was nothing— special about being close to Kat like this. Wasn’t this a common thing among friends? Visiting each other’s homes?

Kat had picked up a yellow pillow. Hugging it against her chest, she began apologetically, “I told Ernest I wouldn’t be accepting any cases today—“

“I’m not here about a case!” (Emiliana hadn’t meant for that to come out so sharply…)

Kat blinked. “Oh?”

“I just need to— explain myself to you,” Emiliana gritted out, “after what happened at the cafe. I… Ernest said you were upset…”

“Oh,” Kat said again, more softly. She put the pillow down. “S-should I get us some tea?”

“Do you have any of that mint stuff?” (Emiliana was going to need it.)

As Kat nipped into the kitchen, Emiliana surveyed the dark blue mantelpiece facing the settee.

Above the mantelpiece— alongside an old radio and a lamp— were several framed photographs. In one of them, Emiliana saw a child-Kat and a teenage-Alfendi (His hair was a bolder shade of red…), with Professor Layton, Luke Triton and a young brown-haired woman.

There were other photos of other people Emiliana didn’t recognise…

“I have a big family!” Kat was back, clutching two cups of mint tea.

“That’s… good,” Emiliana murmured as Kat passed her a purple cup.

“So,” Kat said, returning to her seat.

“So…” Emiliana took a sip of tea, as if it could give her strength. She swallowed and started, “First of all… I shouldn’t have involved you and Ernest in that stakeout without informing you first—“

“We were fine!”

“I know,” Emiliana said. “I calculated the risks beforehand, and I knew you could handle it.“

Kat preened at her praise. “Thanks!”

Emiliana hid her face behind her cup. “Secondly, it was never my— my intention to deceive you or mock you when I was discussing the ‘Lonely Study Girl’ movie. I swear, Mama Sandra was there by complete coincidence… but still, I didn’t consider how the… content of that movie might be, er, sensitive for you.” She placed her cup in her lap and looked Kat in the eye. “I’m sorry.”

“N-no problem!” Kat exclaimed. (Clearly, she hadn’t expected an apology from Emiliana.) “I shouldn’t have reacted the way I did— it wasn’t very ladylike, was it?”

“No, it wasn’t…” Emiliana smiled. “But you don’t need to be ladylike all the time.”

“I try to be, for my dad…” Kat’s eyes became distant as she gazed at the photo with Professor Layton.

If Emiliana gripped the teacup any harder, it was going to shatter.

She had only just worked up the courage to apologise— how was she meant to console Kat?

Clearing her throat, Emiliana ventured, “Like you, I have no idea where my father is…”

Kat glanced at her with shock.

Emiliana was about to throw the hoe on her own feet, but she forged forward anyway.

“…However, unlike you, I do not miss my father. I never knew him. I never needed him. My mamma— my mother— and our family are more than enough.” She sighed. “But just because I don’t care about my father doesn’t mean you shouldn’t care. I-I’m sure Professor Layton was a good dad…”

“He was,” Kat whispered. “I mean— he is. He could just be absent-minded.”

Professor Layton wasn’t the only one! Emiliana’s mentor constantly had his head amongst the clouds. Once, he had left seven-year-old Emiliana in his car by mistake.

There were far worse crimes…

Kat had gone quiet again.

“Kat…” Emiliana hedged. “Do you live alone?”

“N-not really!” Kat laughed. “I have Sherl, and sometimes my older sister, Flora comes to stay…” Kat pointed to the brown-haired woman in the family photo.

“And did your siblings look after you, while your— while you were growing up?”

“Of course! My Grandma Rosa was there too, and my aunts and uncles…”

“Che sollievo,” Emiliana murmured. It didn’t sound like Kat had been passed from relative to relative, or made to feel like a nuisance.

“What about you?” Kat returned.

“I live alone, yes— but not far from Scotland Yard. It’s actually nice to get away from the trambusto…” Emiliana clicked her fingers until she found the word. “…From the bustle the end of the day.”

Still, it could get lonely sometimes. Emiliana was glad whenever Mamma came over for a ‘girl’s night’, or if Nonna flew in for a visit.

“And can I ask—“ Kat enquired hesitantly, “—have you always lived in England?”

“I grew up mostly in England,” Emiliana confirmed, “but I was born in Italy—“

“Ooooh! What part of Italy? I bet it’s so lovely there, with all the food, the weather, the history, the culture, and the food….”

Emiliana chuckled. “It is lovely!”

Kat kicked her legs against the settee with excitement. She shuffled closer to Emiliana. “Tell me more! Come on— allez! Wait, that’s French…!”

“Va bene,” Emiliana sighed. She hadn’t come here to spit the toad out regarding her family history, but if that would make Kat happy… Then so be it.

“I was born in Atranori, a village (though, it is considered a town these days) on the Amalfi Coast, in south-western Italy. It was a peaceful place, famous for its picturesque beaches and its prized lemon trees.

One day, the peace was disturbed by the arrival of a stranger in town.

This man was no ordinary tourist; he had the strangest hair, shaped like a bull’s horns, an equally sharp moustache, and a perpetual sneer—“

Kat hummed.

“What?” Emiliana grunted. (Here she was trying to be honest with Kat— sharing her life story or whatever it was close friends did— but Kat had interrupted her!)

“Nothing!” Kat shook her head and motioned to Emiliana. “Go on!”

“The man’s white shirt and tie indicated formality— perhaps he was of an academic or office career— but his dishevelled coat contradicted this.

He might very well have washed up on the sands of Atranori. The only bags he carried with him were the ones below his eyes.

Everyone in Atranori was wary of the interloper… except for a young woman who worked in a beauty salon. Her name was Bhamini Perfetti.

When the man wandered into her salon, Bhamini took pity on him. (Her mother had been in a similar situation years before, travelling all the way from India, until she’d met Bhamini’s father.)

Bhamini offered to give the man a makeover— tidying up his hair and his moustache. She would even throw in a facial!

He agreed, and he told her his name was Marco.

Marco was so grateful and so impressed by Bhamini’s work that he asked if he could take her out to dinner. Bhamini accepted.

So began the pair’s ‘whirlwind romance’; they would build sand castles on the beach, share pistachio ice cream, paint each other’s nails, browse records in the music shop, explore Atranori’s Roman ruins…

As the townspeople saw Marco spending time with Bhamini, they gradually lowered their guards around him. Marco was still considered eccentric, but how bad could he be, if he had captured Bhamini’s heart?

Several months into their relationship, Bhamini invited Marco to live with her.

Marco, having been residing above an old bar, jumped at the opportunity.

Their first night in the same house was filled with laughter and passion…

But when Bhamini awoke the next morning, she was very much alone.

Panicked, she searched the house, but in Marco’s absence, all she could find was a note. It read:

‘Tesoro mio,

I’m sorry to leave you, and I’m even sorrier to confess I have lied to you.

I’m not who I claimed to be, even though, for the first time ever, I felt like I could be myself when I was with you. Thank you for bringing out the the best in me.

I’m a wanted man, and I’m worried that if I stay here, I’ll bring you unwanted attention.

I’ll admit, I’ve taken some old jewellery from you— but just enough to buy my way out of Italy. I’ll pay you back every cent someday, I promise.

Once again, I’m sorry. You don’t need to forgive me.

Addio!’

Bhamini tore the letter to shreds as tears fell from her eyes. She had given all of her love to this man— this lying, swindling thief— only for him to break her heart and steal her possessions.

Soon, however, Bhamini would discover that he had left her with something far more precious—“

“You?” Katrielle gasped.

Emiliana nodded.

A squeak escaped from Katrielle. “I’ve heard a similar tale before! I know how this ends!”

Emiliana chose to humour Kat. “Okay…”

“Fifty years after your birth,” Kat recited, “your daughter will track down her grandfather, and your family will finally be reunited!”

“Per amor di Dio…” Emiliana rolled her eyes. “I thought we’d already established my life isn’t a movie!”

“It could still happen! The truth is always stranger than fiction!”

With a huff, Emiliana continued her story. “The truth is…”

“Bhamini, thankfully, had her own mother, her father and the rest of their family to fall back on.

Despite “Marco’s” duplicity, Bhamini vowed to raise her child with her whole heart— for it was not irreparably broken.

From the moment she felt the first kick… right up until she gave birth, Bhamini

knew nothing would ever rival the love she harboured for her daughter.

She named the girl “Emiliana” and chose to use her family’s last name, “Perfetti”.

Even as an infant, Emiliana was inquisitive. Much to her family’s amusement, she would inspect toys, food and objects with a thoughtful expression.

Propelled by curiosity, she learned to crawl, walk and talk far faster than other children her age.

By the time she was in nursery, she was reading books that some university students would struggle with.

Her nonno proudly declared she was “Un genio!”— a genius—“

“I guessed that,” Kat scoffed, grinning.

Heat claimed Emiliana’s face. She coughed. “Anyway—“

“Little Emiliana also developed a love of movies (Everything except horror!)— with her favourites being from the mystery genre.

One afternoon, Bhamini was shocked when she came to collect Emiliana from her parents’ house; five-year-old Emiliana had been watching a psychological thriller about a wanted thief!

Emiliana tried to explain that she was following her favourite actress, Mamma Sandra, but the movie was rated VM18!

Far too violent for Emiliana— no matter how mature she was for her age!

From then on, Bhamini would double-check any films her daughter chose, but Emiliana still had questions.

“Did you say my papà was a thief?”

“Yes,” Bhamini huffed (for she had never kept this a secret from Emiliana). “He was a liar, a swindler and a thief— and he left us before you were born.”

“Do you miss him?”

“Sometimes… but I have you, Emi. You are mio tesoro più grande.”

“…Can I finish watching that Mamma Sandra movie now?”

“After I’ve watched it on my own it first!”

Soon, Emiliana grew bored of her movies, her schoolwork and her books. She longed to help people and solve mysteries, like one of Mamma Sandra’s heroines.

Her opportunity arose when news spread throughout Atranori that someone was stealing from the town’s lemon groves.

While Bhamini’s back was turned, Emiliana ventured out to question her neighbours. Apparently, the police already had a suspect: a stranger who had driven through a red traffic light on his way into Atranori.

(Could this ‘stranger’ possibly be Emiliana’s thieving father? Had he returned, at long last?)

Emiliana went to visit the suspect at police headquarters— much to the amusement of the officers.

The suspect insisted he was not a thief, but a detective, and he has come to aid the townspeople after hearing about their plight.

His tone of voice, his eyes and his body language indicated he was telling the truth…

Emiliana decided to trust him, and she was determined to prove his innocence.

She set out, with the so-called detective in tow, to track down the true culprit.

The detective took drastic measures, like sneaking onto the lemon farms for a stakeout, while Emiliana was more level-headed, analysing any evidence they uncovered.

Finally, in front of the entire town, Emiliana revealed that the lemon thief was in fact… a rat. A greedy rat, stockpiling lemons in its burrow.

The rat was given a new home at Emiliana’s school, and the detective was freed from all charges.

The detective expressed his gratitude to Emiliana by gifting her a pocket notebook.

Before he could speed away in his car, leaving Atranori and Emiliana behind forever, Emiliana asked him—“

“Are you my FATHER?”

“Wha—? NO!” Emiliana pinched the bridge of her nose. “She— I asked— can I be your assistant?”

“Awww,” Kat cooed.

“The detective agreed, after my mamma agreed. We moved to England so I could investigate more cases with him.”

Kat breathed, “I know I’ve heard that story before…”

Of course she had; Emiliana’s experience mirrored that of a young Luke Triton, who had become Professor Layton’s apprentice. Layton and Luke had gone on many adventures together.

Professor Layton had also inspired Emiliana’s mentor to become a detective— Though he was far more impulsive and accident-prone!— so, some of Emiliana’s knowledge had been passed down from the Professor.

But Kat didn’t need to know that.

Rapidly, Emiliana concluded, “As I got older, I decided I wanted to work for the police. I studied psychology at university and then I became a criminal analyst at Scotland Yard. Fine della storia!”

“Then you met me!” Kat chimed in.

And my life has been a perfect storm ever since, Emiliana mused. Unpredictable, unprecedented,unrefined…

Exciting, congenial, cordial…

Finally, Emiliana had met someone who she felt comfortable opening up to— revealing the imperfect parts of herself and her family history…

Emiliana simply nodded.

“I don’t think you were entirely correct earlier,” Kat said, clutching her chin in her hand. “You do share some similarities with the ‘Lonely Study Girl’… like your love for your mother, and how you became a criminal analyst to find out what happened to your thieving father.”

“I don’t care what happened to him!” Emiliana growled. “My goal— if I’m ever given the chance— is to bring him to justice! But I’m not going to waste time hunting him down.”

She crossed her arms firmly. The sudden movement caused her to dislodge the cup in her lap. It fell onto Kat’s rug. Emiliana gasped.

“Mi— sorry!” She scrambled to pick up the cup.

“Don’t worry!” Kat crouched beside her. She took the purple cup from Emiliana’s hands. “You never know— your father might find his own way back to you!”

“I sincerely doubt that…” Standing up, Emiliana smoothed out her skirt. “Your dad is far more likely to come back.”

“I hope so…” Kat sighed.

Looking at Kat’s crumpled face, Emiliana realised she might have a way to console her after all.

“Some people at Scotland Yard might have given up on finding him, but I won’t,” Emiliana vowed. “If you get any leads, let me know, and I’ll help you as much as I can.”

“Th-thank you…” Kat whispered.

A smile pulled at her lips— one Emiliana had never seen on Kat. Usually, Kat wore a bright grin or a satisfied smirk. But this smile looked small, sad and lost.

Kat promised, “I’ll do the same for you.”

“You were driving at SIXTY MILES PER HOUR in a THIRTY ZONE!”

“With good reason—!”

“Hello?” Kat’s voice called from outside. “Is this a bad time…?”

Before Emiliana could reply, Kat breezed into her office— right into the middle an argument. (Emiliana really needed to get a lock for that door!)

“You should knock first, Kat,” Emiliana sighed from behind her desk. She shot a glare at her maverick mentor. “Non importa… We’re finished here—“

”Wait— did you say ‘Kat’?” Blue eyes widening, he looked between Emiliana and Kat. “As in ‘Katrielle Layton’?!”

Smiling, Kat held her hand over her heart. “That’s me! And you are—?”

“No one of relevance!” Emiliana interjected, leaping to her feet.

“Carmine Accidenti,” Carmine exclaimed (so quickly that Emiliana hoped Kat had misheard him). “I was your father’s student years ago— he’s the one who inspired me to become a detective— Emiliana, cosa stai facendo?”

Emiliana was shoving him out of her office. (The one time he wasn’t in a rush to leave…!)

“Pay your speeding fine!” she snapped, before she slammed the door on him.

Puffing, Emiliana turned to Kat. “You didn’t need to hear all of that…” Emiliana meant that partly as a rebuke, but Kat took it as an apology.

“It’s fine! You should hear me arguing with Alfendi…” Kat smirked. “Though, I never argued with my dadthat much—“

“He is not my father,” Emiliana grumbled.

“Father figure, then?” Kat teased.

“Non! Carmine is— was— my mentor—“

“And my dad was his mentor?” Kat deduced.

Emiliana gaped at her, caught out like a criminal during an interrogation.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Kat didn’t sound offended— Grazie al cielo!— just curious.

“I… I…” Emiliana foundered. She pressed her back against the door. She glanced around her office, searching for something to distract Kat with, but it was fruitless.

She removed her glasses, cleaned them on her sleeve for a few moments.

When she put her glasses back on, she realised Kat had crept closer.

Emiliana sighed deeply. “I suppose… I didn’t want you to have any… preconceived notions about me when we first met.”

“Hang on!” Kat said, pouting. “Weren’t you the one who underestimated me?”

Shamefully, Emiliana bowed her head. “I assumed you were a fraudulent detective, based on what I had heard… but, the more I thought about it, how could that be the case, when your father taught my mentor? What would that make me?” She peered up at Kat. “What would you make of me?”

“First impressions are rarely right,” Kat said knowingly. “We’re friends now, and that’s what matters!”

“That’s very wise,” Emiliana said, smiling with relief.

Then, Kat reached into her coat and pulled out a envelope, sealed with a waxy red ‘L’.

“Can I ask you a favour, Emiliana?”(Emiliana gestured for her to continue.) “I’ll be… leaving London tomorrow, but if I’m not back within a week, please give this letter directly to Alfendi and Lucy—“

“Why? Where are you going?”

Kat beckoned her closer. She whispered in Emiliana’s ear, “Southampton… I’ve finally found a leadlinked to Dad’s disappearance—“

“I’ll go with you!” Emiliana gasped, knocking heads with Kat.

“Ow…” Kat winced. “Thanks, but I need someone I can trust to pass this letter on to Al—“

“Why can’t you tell him yourself?” Emiliana rubbed her head. “Or call him?”

“I don’t want to let him down if this is another false lead.” Kat glanced out of the office window. “He’s been doing so…. well lately… I won’t ruin that for him by dragging him out on a wild goose chase—“

“We— he’ll have to go after you if you put yourself in danger,” Emiliana pointed out through clenched teeth.

Kat handed her the letter. “This is just a backup plan— I’ll be fine! Sherl and Ernest will protect me!”

“Are you sure you can trust ‘Ernest’?”

Emiliana was embarrassed she hadn’t seen through Ernest’s— or rather, Miles Richmond’s— act sooner.

He’d really believed the Seven Dragons had stolen his family’s fortune, and he really did care about Kat— but that was no excuse for Emiliana, the ‘genius analyst’!

She’d been tempted to resign for her post, but then, she still needed to help Kat…

Kat was frowning. (Emiliana had never seen such a serious expression on her!)

“I trust Ernest with my life… and I trust you will give this letter to my brother if I don’t return.”

“Bene allora,” Emiliana conceded. She slipped the letter into her blazer. “You have my word.”

“Thank you…” For a few seconds, Kat hesitated. Then she added, “If you see Alfendi… tell him— tell him I said… ‘I love you’, okay?”

“Okay,” Emiliana whispered. And, because she was a coward, she said, “Ti voglio un mondo di bene, Kat.”

“What does that mean?” Kat breathed.

Emiliana gave her the literal translation,

“I wish the best for you,” but it meant more than that.

Kat meant far more to her than Emiliana would ever admit.

Professor Hershel Layton and Luke Triton had been cryogenically frozen in a cathedral for the past eleven years, until Kat had freed them.

Instead of waiting for her father and her uncle to wake up in hospital, Kat had rushed off to find the man responsible for all of this.

And Layton— rather than chasing after Kat— had found time to stop at Scotland Yard for some files!

“What are you doing HERE?” Emiliana barked when she caught Layton and Luke rooting through the archives. (She didn’t care that she was addressing the Professor Layton— Kat’s father— they needed to help Kat!)

“Please excuse us,” the Professor said in a polite but hurried tone, “we require some files— it’s urgent—“

“Urgent?” Emiliana repeated angrily. She stabbed her finger at Layton.

Luke shuffled away from them with his nose in a file.

“Your daughter has gone to confront your captor—“ Emiliana spelled it out to him “—after waiting eleven years for you to come home— and you think this is urgent?”

It felt like Kat’s letter was burning a hole in Emiliana’s blazer. Why hadn’t Emiliana informed Alfendi sooner? Why had she waited until Kat‘s life could be at stake?

Layton, in his infuriatingly calm way, tried to explain, “Our captor is an astronomer. We’re looking for any information that could—“

“I will find that information for you! You need to catch up to Kat!” Emiliana grabbed a file off a shelf and started speed-reading.

Luke said, “Thank you, Miss—“

“GO!”

Sometimes, one needed to be impulsive.

Emiliana waited a week— giving Professor Layton time to catch up with his family— before she called Carmine with the good news:

After eleven long years, Professor Layton was finally home!

Within an hour, Carmine was outside Scotland Yard, honking his car horn.

Emiliana scolded him as she entered the car, “You’re in a staff parking space— Accidenti!” She cursed when he hit the accelerator.

“Rallentare!” She slammed the car door as he sped way. “Professor Layton isn’t going anywhere…”

“Let’s hope not!” Carmine quipped. He glanced at her, smiling as she put on her seatbelt. “So, you helped the Professor with his research to stop the villain—?”

“When you say ‘villain’, you make it sound like a fairytale,” Emiliana muttered. If they had been in a fairytale, Emiliana would have confessed her feelings for Kat after Aldebaran’s fall…

But no; Layton had waxed poetic about how Aldebaran had ‘planted the seed that would save the world’ and Kat had deemed him an ‘unsung hero’— just like ‘brandy kneaded into a plum cake’.

(Qualunque coda significhi!)

After that, they had all returned to London. Kat had reunited with her family and Emiliana with hers, separately.

Mamma had said it was fine if Emiliana wanted to join her friends, but Emiliana hadn’t wished to intrude.

Surely Kat would rather spend some time alone with her family… with Ernest there too.

But Ernest was different— he was an orphan, so of course Kat would invite him along. No doubt, the Laytons had already embraced him as one of their own!

Would they mind Emiliana dropping by today with Carmine?

Carmine was just pulling up at the end of Chancer Lane. He hit the curb as he parked the car, but Emiliana was too perturbed to chide him.

“Here we are!” Carmine said, pointing out the window at the Layton Detective Agency’s storefront.

He opened the door on his side and got out. Emiliana stayed in her seat.

“Emiliana, vieni anche tu?” Carmine poked his head back inside the car.

“Tu va’, io aspetto qui,” she replied stiffly, sticking to Italian in case Kat and Co overheard. (Unless Ernest was there, then he would translate everything and they could all mock Emiliana!)

Carmine frowned with concern. “Perché?”

Emiliana mumbled, “Non hai bisogno di me…”

Kat didn’t need Emiliana anymore. Professor Layton was home. He could help Kat with her cases now— far better than Emiliana ever had done.

“Sei il mio assistente,” Carmine said wryly.

Emiliana argued, “Non più—!”

“Not anymore,” Carmine agreed, in clear English. “Now, you’re Emiliana Perfetti, Scotland Yard’s genius criminal analyst. You’ve solved countless cases— many of them with Katrielle Layton!” He smiled softly. “I’m sure she would be most disappointed if you didn’t show your face—“

“Shhhh!” Emiliana hissed, flushing. “Va bene, va bene— I’ll go with you.”

As she exited the car, she added, “I’m only where I am today because I had a decent mentor.”

Carmine snorted as they made their way over to the detective agency.

Their knocks at the door were answered by Ernest, who announced their arrival to everyone inside.

Luke Triton had been crouched next to Sherl’s dog bed, but he stood up as Emiliana and Carmine came in.

“Nice to see you again?” Luke sounded uncertain. Emiliana gave him a reassuring nod.

Sherl didn’t growl— he just grumbled at them.

Professor Layton had been sitting on the settee, reading a book. His eyes widened when he saw Emiliana and Carmine.

“Hello, Emiliana… and Carmine, it’s been too long!” Smiling, he also stood up.

Kat, who was in her usual seat, spun around. She beamed at Emiliana. “Is that you, Emiliana? It’s been a whole week!”

A long week…

Emiliana smirked slightly in return. “How did you survive without me…?” Her retort was halfhearted, however.

Emiliana glanced at Carmine. He was

already surging across the room to shake the Professor’s hand and ask him a dozen questions.

While the two of them chatted, Kat got up and approached Emiliana.

“I need to tell you something,” Kat murmured. Emiliana gulped.

Ignoring Ernest, Luke and Sherls’ curious stares, she followed Kat through a door at the back of the agency.

Was this it?

When they were alone together in a small kitchen— just when Emiliana thought she was about to burst with tension— Kat blurted out, “We might know who your father is!”

Emiliana deflated. “What?”

Upon hearing Emiliana’s description of ‘Marco’, Kat had gotten a hunch.

She had shared this hunch with Professor Layton and he had agreed— ‘Marco’ sounded familiar.

When the Professor learned Emiliana’s mentor was none other than Carmine Accidenti, that had cinched it.

Years ago, over a decade before Kat was even born, Professor Layton had gained an arch-nemesis…

A self-proclaimed nemesis, all because Layton ‘stole’ the affections of a young woman from him.

This man swore to get revenge, bore a grudge for ten years, and tried to foil Layton on several occasions— always failing.

He and Layton did come to a truce during the ‘Future London’ affair, when they teamed up to defeat a greater enemy.

Following this were a few years of peace between the pair… until, one day, the man asked for Layton’s help in locating his lost daughter and her mother.

“I started looking into his request,” Professor Layton explained, when Emiliana and Kat came to talk to him in the front room, “but I had to stop when I discovered Carmine had brought you and your mother to England—“

“He didn’t bring us here,” Emiliana objected. “I asked to join him as his assistant— and Mamma came with us!” Carmine nodded in agreement.

“Apologies,” the Professor said, “but I feared your father would blame Carmine for ‘stealing you away’. I didn’t want to put Carmine, you or your mother at risk.”

The Professor frowned at Emiliana. “Your father has responded… adversely to what he perceived as rejection in the past—“

“Dad has personal experience,” Kat interposed.

“Thank you, Kat,” the Professor sighed. “Yes, I’ll confess that due to personal experience, I thought it best to keep the truth hidden from your father, and I halted my investigations. He took this as an offence—“

“—And he returned to his old ways,” Luke said, with a grim smile.

Emiliana hummed. “Let me guess… Lying, swindling, thieving—“

“Golly!” Ernest piped up, as he popped in to pour everyone some tea.

“And kidnapping!” Luke added. “He trapped me at the British Museum—“

“When was this?” Carmine asked, looking from Luke, to Layton, to Emiliana, to Kat.

“Sorry— I’m having trouble keeping up…”

“Kat was ten at the time,” the Professor clarified. “I allowed him— Emiliana’s father— to escape, and we were able to free Luke—“

“What was his name?” Emiliana demanded.

“Don Paolo!” Luke declared.

The Professor amended, “Paul was the name he went by during our time at Gressenheller…”

The Professor went to grab something from his trunk. He returned with a near-faded photo of a university class.

Emiliana recognised Hershel Layton as a young adult in the front row. (Was this before he’d gotten his top hat?)

Layton was smiling next to an older bearded man— his archaeology professor, perhaps?

Behind them was a figure in a pale pink blazer with a white shirt. This man’s smile was strained and off-putting. His piggy eyes were aimed at Layton and their archaeology professor.

His flat brown hair reached his shoulders, but he was balding on top of his head. He had a dark goatee and a moustache beneath his long nose.

Emiliana scowled. At a stretch, she could say her hair was a similar colour to his…

But the resemblances ended there.

Could this man— Paul/Don Paolo— really be her father?

Professor Layton let her borrow the photo to show her mamma.

At first, Mamma’s face froze— her brown eyes widening. Then, they became filled with rage. Her lips trembled.

Fearing Mamma would tear up the photo, Emiliana took it back.

“That’s him,” Mamma confirmed in a hiss— or it might have been a sigh. “Marco.”

“I’m surprised you recognised him,” Emiliana noted, impressed. (Don Paolo had been a master ofdisguise!)

“I could never forget…” Mamma caught Emiliana’s hands, crushing the photo between them. “What are you planning, Emi? Please, don’t go chasing him down! He’s not worth it…!”

“But you are,” Emiliana whispered. She squeezed her mother’s hands. “He lied to you, stole from you and left. I need set things right.”

Mamma sniffled. She tried to tuck a frizzy curl behind Emiliana’s ear, but it instantly sprang back out. “Tesoro mio,” Mamma murmured.

Atranori had changed a lot in the years since Emiliana had left, but the old bar had mostly remained the same— just down the road from Mamma’s former salon.

At first, Emiliana had planned to travel alone, but Kat had insisted on joining her, and of course Ernestcouldn’t bear to leave Miss Layton’s side, and then (much to Emiliana’s relief) Professor Layton had offered to them chaperone them, and Luke— as the Professor’s apprentice— came along too.

(Sherl, thankfully, had been left on the care of Alfendi, who had called the hotel several times to make sure Layton and Kat were safe.)

The five of them entered the bar. Emiliana led the way, though her heart was hammering in her chest.

Professor Layton indicated to a dark-haired man perched on a barstool, far away from the other patrons. The man had his back to them, his head bent over a beer as if he hoped to find a better life at the bottom of the bottle.

Emiliana glanced around at her companions. She received a thumbs-up from Luke, an encouraging nod from Layton, and a bright smile from Ernest.

Kat placed her hands to Emiliana’s shoulders and pushed her forward.

Emiliana tapped the man on the back as he took a swig of his drink. “Excuse me,” Emiliana muttered, in English.

“Hm?” He turned his head to her. His dark eyes bulged. He spat out his drink, narrowly avoiding Emiliana’s scowling face. “Y-you…!” Don Paolo spluttered.

(Had he noticed the resemblance between Emiliana and her mamma?)

“I,” Emiliana announced, “am Emiliana Perfetti, daughter of Bhamini Perfetti. I am twenty-two years old. I was born in this town, and I stayed here until the age of five, when I moved to London with my amazing mamma and my detective-mentor…”

Still gaping, Don Paolo looked past Emiliana— at Layton and Luke.

“L-Layton?” he gasped. “And Luke? You’re alive?”

“I now work at Scotland Yard,” Emiliana went on, “as a criminal analyst—“

“She’s a genius!” Ernest crowed.

Emiliana’s father— Don Paolo— returned his attention to her. “So… what? Are you here to arrest me?”

“Consider yourself lucky…” Emiliana levelled him with a glare. “I don’t have permission to make arrests abroad— without reason.“

“I won’t give you any reason,” Don Paolo said, holding up his hands. “I’ve retired from my criminal ways— though, I retain the title of ‘genius scientist’.”

Overhearing this, Kat cried, “Like father, like daughter!”

Emiliana felt her face flare up. She bit the inside of her cheek.

“Is that Layton’s kid— his youngest?” Don Paolo muttered.

Nodding, Emiliana replied in a low voice, “She’s twenty-one…”

Don Paolo raised his brows. “About the same age as you, then! Are you two rivals? Friends? Or—“

Before he could continue, Emiliana called the others over.

As Layton and Luke regaled Don Paolo with the details of their ‘mystery journey’— while Ernest ordered them all some drinks from the counter— Emiliana stood back with Kat.

“Grazie mille, Kat,” Emiliana said quickly. “I never would have tracked him down without your help…”

“Did you really mean what you said—“ Kat wondered, “about not being able to arrest him?”

“Yes— even if I could, I don’t think that I would…”

What would be the point, all these years later? Emiliana wouldn’t gain any satisfaction from seeing her father in a cell— and neither would Mamma…

At least Emiliana had finally found him, just as Kat had found her dad.

Kat chuckled. “Careful, Emiliana! Your soft side is showing—“

“I’m not soft!” Emiliana protested. “It’s just protocol…”

Kat hummed hopefully. “Would protocol permit you to take me out to dinner later?”

“I think, for you, I can make an exception,” Emiliana said, smiling and blushing even more.

Kat beamed. The two of them leaned their heads together—

“Are you two DATING?” Don Paolo cried, cutting off the kiss. He turned to Kat’s dad and demanded, “Layton, are our daughters DATING?”

To Emiliana and Kat, Luke mouthed, “Good luck!”

“If they get MARRIED, YOU’RE going to have to fork out for the WEDDING, Layton! I’M saving up to pay my ex-girlfriend back…!”

“D-did I miss something?” Ernest had returned from the other end of the bar counter, carrying a tray of drinks.

Kat gave Emiliana a quick peck on the cheek. “Keep up, Ernest!” Kat said lightly. “I was just making dinner plans with Emiliana… but before that, why don’t we all visit that ‘Museum of Cinema’ you saw earlier?”

Much to Emiliana’s relief, Ernest smiled at the both of them.

“That sounds perfect, Miss.”

#professor layton #lmj #layton’s mystery journey #Lmj anime #emiliana perfetti #katrielle layton #kat/Emiliana #Katriana #Ernest Greeves #my fics #my writing #Don Paolo #hershel layton #carmine accidenti #luke triton #pl ocs

13 notes · View notes

superblysubpar · 1 year ago

Note

Can wee have a sneak peak of wcil? Totally don’t want to rush you if it’s not finished 💕

You're not rushing me, I'm just slow and in my head and I don't know why and I'm very very very frustrated I can't just finish this for you guys. 💛

I appreciate the patience, and so, here's the first 2.9k of the chapter (it's basically final, but technically hasn't officially been sent over to my beta in like the final form of the chapter, so just be prepared things may be slightly different when the whole thing is posted. )

When you look up at the stars that work hard to shine through clouds and a full moon, your chest rises with air trying to fill your lungs and you wonder if they’re up there. Your eyes blink up at that indigo sky, searching. He sits next to you and Leigh waves, whispering their hellos. His hand rests next to yours on the plaid blanket, he clears his throat and straightens his shoulders. It’s all too stiff, too on edge and you hate it. That attempted deep breath is unsuccessful, lungs deflating as it catches in your throat, and your thoughts wander back to the stars again. They wander to him, and them, and seek answers.

Of course not.

Knowing this simple fact of reality doesn’t stop the hope though.

That painful, aching hope that clings to your skin like honey when you can feel the heat from his arm even through the sleeve of your sweater - like your bodies burn hotter when close together - too close to the sun. It feeds the hope that your brain tries to squash away but your heart thuds harder for. The what if, what if, what if replacing each beat of it. Hope that makes you want to cry out ‘please let this just be a bad dream’ to the universe. Hope that tries, but can’t escape the gnawing pit in your stomach that’s growing wider, threatening to swallow you whole. Hope that makes you wonder why this can’t be a story - why can’t you just be the grandson, yelling at his grandfather that he can’t be telling it properly. Someone is getting the story wrong. He can’t be marrying her, you’re just sure of it. Screaming at him, at someone, to please, just get it right.

The moment that extinguishes the what if for all it’s worth. When your heart is already breaking for the grandson, only for the grandfather to ask who says life is fair? Where is that written? When the knife is entering your chest, but the mask falls and the killer turns out to be someone you thought you could trust. When you’re untethered in space only for your last moment of consciousness to be seeing a friend cutting the cord. The person who sucker punched you kicking you when you’re down, taking it one step too far, leaving you crumpled on the mat. It’s all enough to make that fight, that urge to be angry instead of scared or hurt, disappear. It’s enough to knock you down so hard, you can’t possibly get back up - the hope is extinguished, and the story seemingly over.

Robin squeals quietly, pulling Leigh’s hand across you to admire the ring, knocking Steve on the shoulder and saying something about the Dingus doing good. Your gaze flits down to the brown sugar and apple donuts in your lap, convinced you’re about to get sick right on top of them. Not because he’s marrying her, but because instead of being angry with him, you feel like you’ve been squashed, you feel hurt, you feel betrayed. Despite your better judgment, despite the past several years, you’ve let a man make you some pathetic, sad, heartbroken, and weak version of yourself.

“I’ll be right back!” You whisper-shout, cutting him off and squeezing Robin’s shoulder as you get up.

She yanks on your wrist, halting your attempt at an exit. Her eyes narrow as she interrogates, “Where are you going?”

She motions she’s watching you, fingers to her eyes then yours, lips twitching in the corners before she turns back to the screen.

Your feet feel heavy as they drag through the damp grass, and wait in line. It shouldn’t be a surprise after ordering when you hear his voice behind you. It floats through the air, soft, barely audible over the popping kettle corn, “I really didn’t know you’d be here. I wouldn’t have…” he sighs, settling on restating, “I didn’t know you’d be here.”

The people next to you clear their throats and you can’t find it in yourself to care, to be embarrassed.

He shakes his head, eyes bouncing between yours as he asks, “Is that really all it was?”

So yes, it’s easier, to not say any of that, because you know. This isn’t how life works. This isn’t a movie. No one is immune to life’s misfortunes. These sorts of open-ended questions and complicated emotions that come from his simple ask are unmeasurable and unreliable. Wondering and giving into those feelings only open you up to be used as a target for someone else’s shooting practice. You’ve known this, but you allowed yourself to forget, hating it was Steve who had to remind you.

Which is why you look away from his eyes as you say, “I believe that is what was established a few weeks ago at that party Steve. You were there, remember? You were dressed as a pirate.”

Your hand rising in the air cuts him off, his mouth clamping shut as you make eye contact with him. “You deserved that and I’m not apologizing for it.”

He takes a step closer to you, his hand reaching towards you, then back into his hair like he second guesses himself. “I’m not asking you to, and I’m not apologizing for what I said either.” Steve swallows, hands on his hips as he looks at the ground then back up at you, “What I said wasn’t a lie.”

He breathes out the next words, both of you staring at each other with the weight of what he says hanging in the air between you.

“You couldn’t tell me.”

A shrill classic horror movie scream shatters the bubble. Your name is called, you blink, and take a step away. Guilt washes over you as you see your friends staring intently at the movie you’d practically forgotten you were there for. Leigh and Robin talk quietly and your eyelids flutter as you will whatever wants to escape down your cheeks away. Him showing up with Leigh and a ring on her finger wasn’t the double tap, this is. That hope was still there despite the fight against it, and it’s ripped from your fingers. The book is closed. The knife drips in the killer’s hand as the victim’s chest stops heaving. The spacesuit floats through a noiseless and lifeless galaxy. The body doesn’t get up from the mats and a silence falls over the crowd.

“Okay,” he quietly agrees.

Robin’s shoulder nudges yours and your head turns to find her with eyebrows pinching together. She leans in and quietly asks, “Is he okay? Did he say something about leaving to you?”

It’ll all be fine.

#taylor's asks 💋#we'll call it love

38 notes · View notes