#i think closeted me was right i should jus be single forever

[toziers]

i think the worst part of this breakup was realizing that my friends have been right the whole time and that my ex kinda sucks lol like i think i am just so mad at myself for allowing them to treat me poorly and lie to me all the fucking time just because i wanted to assume the best of them bc i loved them like just once again i cant trust my own fucking judgment i guess

[losingmymindtonight]

been on a for-your-own-good imposed exile from my phone & social media since Friday, so what’s a gal gonna do except eat pizza, reread The Inheritance Cycle, and finish old fic drafts?

I humbly present: Peter can’t sleep, but Tony’s a father now, and he’s got a few tricks up his sleeve.

--

Peter was okay.

He was. That wasn’t even him being self-sacrificing (like May thought) or deferring some kind of PTSD (like Tony thought) or anything. Most of the time, he was totally, completely, undeniably okay.

As a general rule, he just didn’t think about Thanos. He was too busy for that, with planning for his school’s Europe trip and patrolling and learning how to be a big brother to Morgan and resettling a whole apartment with May and rediscovering the absolute thrill of being alive along with the other fifty percent.

He had a good life, and considering everything that had happened, he was so, so lucky.

So, Peter was okay. Despite what Tony and May seemed to think.

He only ever had problems when the sun fell.

Vigilante by day, anxious wreck by night, he thought, more than a little bitter.

There was a bone-aching frustration that came with insomnia. He couldn’t sleep, but he was tired. God, he was so, so tired. His eyelids creaked, his face was tight and worn. Every inch of him was screaming for rest.

And yet, well, here he was: awake, staring at the ceiling, mind swirling down the inescapable drain of death throes and battle heat and the memory of his DNA vibrating apart.

He clenched his fists, then slowly pried them apart. His wrists hurt, yet his webshooters were comfortingly cool on his bare skin.

“Mister Parker,” F.R.I.D.A.Y. suddenly said, and Peter still jumped despite the fact her volume had been lowered and pitched into her softer night mode. “I apologize for the intrusion, but per my protocols, I am to alert Boss if you or Morgan are awake for longer than thirty minutes from the hours of 11:00 pm to 6:00 am. I thought it was only fair to warn you that he is en route to your bedroom and you should be prepared for his arrival.”

There was a time when an alert like that would’ve filled him with annoyance. A time when he would’ve met Tony at the door with a sharp reminder of, I’m almost an adult, I can take care of myself, on his tongue. Now, though, he just felt a dull splash of surprise.

“Mister Stark has rules for if I’m awake?” He asked the ceiling, blinking slowly at the smooth molding. It was different than the popcorn texture in his apartment. Probably easier to deal with when it came to painting.

As if on cue, his door swung open. A soft, yellowish bar of light flashed over his sheets and then collapsed in on itself with a distant click. Huh. So Tony thought that this needed to be a private conversation. 

“It’s called the Cradle Protocol,” Tony offered, and despite the fact that Peter hadn’t actually looked in his direction yet, he could hear the man’s smile in the warmth of the words, like curling into a fireside on a winter’s day. “You know, in case you were wondering.”

“I wasn’t.”

“Oh? Thought you spent most of your life wondering about pretty much everything.” His bedframe creaked as Tony settled down near his hip, and suddenly Peter didn’t have much of a choice but to stare up at the man, taking in the burn scars on his face and the gray in his hair and the quiet love in his eyes. “That’s what kids are best at.”

“I’m not really a kid anymore,” he whispered, but not a single inch of the words felt defiant. God, he wanted to be a kid again. He looked back on the moments he’d spent racing to adulthood and wanted to cry. Wanted desperately to hit rewind on all of it.

“All of us are kids, in the end,” Tony said, like it was the easiest thing in the world. “And you’ll be my kid forever. Sorry. No exchanges or returns on that policy. It is how it is.”

Tony’s thumb brushed soothingly over his cheek as he spoke, and the contact was rough and calloused and so intensely familiar that Peter let his eyes squeeze shut against it, swallowing hard.

“I don’t want to exchange it,” he whispered, and somehow he felt a little ashamed to admit it. Like he was rearing up against the order of things. Or, like he was admitting the truth in a space where untruths were expected.

There was a pause. Peter blinked his eyes open again, and saw that Tony’s gaze had drifted away from him. He was looking up at the headboard, soft curves of sadness mellowing his face.

Finally, he breathed, eyes tracing their way back to Peter’s own, gentle yet intense.

“Why aren’t you asleep, Peter?”

It was a redundant thing to ask, and both of them knew it. There wasn’t a person in the world who couldn’t guess the why of that question. There were probably a million different people all around the world staring up at a million different ceilings, all cold-eyed and shivering because of the same goddamn reason.

“I don’t know,” he lied.

Was it still lying if everyone knew that what you were going to say was a lie before it even left your mouth?

Tony just nodded, like those three words had told him everything that he’d needed to know. For all Peter could figure, maybe they had.

“Alright.” Tony patted his thigh through the blankets, then stood. “C’mon. Get up.”

It probably said a lot about him, or maybe more about his relationship with Tony, that he was already climbing out of bed even as he muttered a halfhearted, “where’re we going?”

“On a mission,” Tony said, gently tugging one of Peter’s oldest and softest hoodies out of his closet and pushing it against his chest. “Put this on.”

He did as he was told, tottering lazily into the hallway, too exhausted to do anything but follow.

“What’s the mission?”

Tony glanced back just long enough for Peter to see the corner of his mouth quirk up. “I need to put my baby to sleep.”

If he hadn’t been so goddamn tired, he would’ve picked up on the wryness in Tony’s voice. As it was, he blinked hard, brain whirring against the fogginess.

“‘S Morgan awake?”

The question startled a bark of laughter out of Tony. “God, Pete. I can’t believe you’re even managing to walk in a straight line right now.”

They were at the front door, now, and Tony snatched the car keys off of their hook in the entryway and ushered him into the cool night air. Cricket chirps swelled all around them. Peter let his eyes drift shut at the sound, then smiled when he felt Tony snag the edge of his sleeve, gently guiding him over the gravel.

“Ought to get this paved, huh?” Tony muttered, almost to himself, but Peter let the words fall over him anyway. “Would make life a hell of a lot easier when we got those summer monsoons. Plus, less of a tripping hazards for the kiddos, especially when they’re half asleep.”

“‘M awake,” he protested.

“I know,” Tony said, almost under his breath. “I’m working on it.”

Peter heard a beep as one of the cars unlocked, and he forced his eyes back open. They were standing in front of Tony and Pepper’s minivan, something which Peter still couldn’t quite wrap his head around. Tony Stark owned a minivan. Sure, it was a nice minivan, with leather seats and F.R.I.D.A.Y. installed and parking sensors, but it was still a minivan.

“C’mon,” Tony muttered, using the hand that wasn’t braced against Peter’s back to pull open the passenger’s side door. “Slide in.”

He let Tony manhandle him into the seat, even though he could’ve easily done it on his own. The exhaustion had stripped his stubbornness away. The only thing left was a yearning urge to be protected, cradled, loved.

It was good, he supposed, that those three roles seemed to be Tony’s favorites to fulfill.

Tony got into the driver’s seat, then double-checked Peter’s seatbelt twice before starting the car. He cracked the back windows, and the cricket chirps and nature swell mixed hypnotically with the buzz and hum of the engine. Peter closed his eyes and took a deep breath, turning his face in Tony’s direction when he felt the man’s eyes on him.

“You’re supposed to be looking where you’re drivin’,” he murmured, knowing that his smile was all drowsy and lopsided. He could feel them moving, though, so he wasn’t wrong.

“Nobody’s out this late.”

“Still need to stay on the road.”

“Oh, hush. I’ll take no driving smack from the child with a learner’s permit.”

He yawned. “Passed the test.”

“You sure did,” Tony murmured, pride warming the words. “I’ve got that picture that May took after hanging in my office.”

“I know.” A shard of longing pierced his chest. “Felt normal that day. Jus’ for a bit.”

He opened his eyes just in time to see guilt cascade over Tony’s face. Whoops. He really hasn’t meant to make his mentor sad. He was just loopy from all the sleepless nights, wading through the detachment weighing in his head. It was hard to stay conscious and keep his filter all at once.

“I’m so sorry, Peter,” Tony said, hands gripping the wheel so tight that his knuckles flashed white under the occasional streetlamp. “I wish I could take it all away.”

Peter just blinked. God, he was tired. His brain ached with it.

“You can’t.”

And Tony couldn’t. Peter knew that. Iron Man could do a lot of things, even survive the constriction of space, but he couldn’t void memories. Nobody could.

“No,” Tony admitted, and even through the fuzziness in his head, Peter found the wherewithal to be surprised, “but I can be here.”

Peter let his eyes drift shut again. Somehow, that was all the fixing that he needed Tony to do. I can be here.

That was it, wasn’t it? It was why the memories of Thanos rung so clear at night and pitched silent during the day. Because Peter hadn’t really been afraid of dying during the battles. He’d been terrified, horrified, by the thought of being left alone.

And at night, in his bedroom, walls and doors and locks between Tony or May or anybody else who would stave off the quiet, that fear was so much easier to taste.

He was so, so afraid that at the end of it all, he’d been irreversibly alone.

“Can you talk to me?” He whispered.

He just wanted words. Something substantive in the nothingness of night. And Tony was only ever speechless when there was something to be afraid of.

He’d... He’d been silent when Peter had died. Had been silent after he’d done the Snap, too. The look on the man’s face, the lack of speech in the haze, had rung in Peter’s nightmares ever since.

He could hear the roughness in Tony’s voice when he responded, and Peter couldn’t help but wonder if he was thinking about his silence on Titan, too. If he even remembered the stillness from the Compound’s dust.

“Of course, buddy.”

And he did. He talked about Rhodey and college and the first time he met Happy. Peter found himself drifting in and out as he rambled, although he never seemed to fully wrap his hand around true sleep. He’d nearly get there, Tony’s words fading into something he couldn’t quite comprehend, and then he’d recognize the shift and jolt himself out of it.

Somehow, it was even more frustrating than what he’d been doing before. At least then, he’d known he wasn’t going to get any sleep. Here, it kept dangling in front of him. And to make it worse, every aborted attempt at sleep felt like a failure. Like he’d screwed it all up, despite all the effort Tony was putting into helping him.

“Sorry,” Peter suddenly muttered, blinking away his most recent near-rest. Tony fell silent. “Sorry, sorry.”

“Shh, Pete,” Tony soothed, right hand abandoning the steering wheel and settling on his arm. “It’s not your fault. We’ll get there.”

“‘M trying.”

“I know you are. You’re doing great.”

For a breath, Tony just rubbed Peter’s arm, breath and nature filling the car.

“I used to do this for Morgan, you know,” he finally said, voice low. “Learned it within the first month. Think I must’ve put a thousand miles on the car, driving around just for some precious minutes of peace.”

“Ben used to drive me around when I was little,” Peter mumbled, twisting until he found a comfortable position: draped over the center console, head just inches away from Tony’s elbow. The console was leather and padded, which made it a surprisingly good pillow. Plus, he was close enough to pick up the steady thrumming of Tony’s heartbeat. “I didn’t like sleeping after my parents died. Car always worked, though. Dunno why.”

Tony’s hand settled on the top of his head, and a swoosh of comfort whisked from that one point all the way down to his toes. “It’s the vibrations from the engine. Low frequencies make us tired. It mimics the sensation of being rocked to sleep.”

He smiled. Trust Mister Stark to turn anything into a physics lesson. “‘S science,” he muttered.

Tony’s thumb swiped over his temple. “It’s science,” he repeated. “Do you want another story?”

Hmm. Yes. And he wanted Tony’s hand to stay right there, too. The tips of his fingers kept brushing over the nape of his neck, and the pattern was nice. Slow. The kind of monotony that was so easy to get lost in.

“Mm.”

“How about a special one?”

“Mm.”

“Well, since you asked so nicely,” Tony said, laughter in the words. He sounded pleased, though. Peter was too busy falling asleep to figure out why. “Y’know, I never went to Queens much when I was a kid. Howard wasn’t a big fan. And then I didn’t have much of a reason to go once I was an adult. Everything I needed was in Manhattan or Malibu. Point is: imagine how surprised I was when a web-slinging vigilante actually forced me out there…”

Peter drifted off long before he could recognize that the story was about him.

--

Peter half-surfaced to the quiet thud of a car door opening, and the crunch of shoes on gravel.

It wasn’t the usual way he woke up. He’d gotten used to jolting into consciousness, sweat slicking his trembling limbs and damp sheets snarling all around him. It was a violent thing, full of heartbeat and rib-ache.

But this was soft. Warm. Safe hands slid under the back of his neck, his seat tilting back until he was lying almost completely flat. On instinct, his eyes flickered open, and he grinned sleepily at Tony, who shushed him in a barely-there murmur.

“Nice and easy, Pete,” Tony said, voice warm and safe and already blurring. “Now be a good boy and go back to sleep.”

And for once in Peter’s life, it was as simple as that.

[irwintry]

The Tilt-Shift Effect

Warnings: swearing, alcohol, brief mention of drugs

Author’s Note: i think i spent too much time on this honestly i dont even know how i feel abt it

playlist

Word Count: 6.2k

–– a phenomenon in which your lived experience seems oddly inconsequential once you put it down on paper, which turns an epic tragicomedy into a sequence of figures on a model train set, assembled in their tiny classrooms and workplaces, wandering along their own cautious and well-trodden paths.

Ashton had wealth, but he ate his cereal out of two-dollar plastic bowls from Target. He owned fourteen, specifically, so he could let them pile up in the sink for two weeks before he was forced to accept the grimy challenge of washing dishes. He had the cabinet space to hold up to twenty-one, though he figured that was a bit excessive. His laziness could only be condoned for so long. If he chose to purchase more, he’d be better off hiring a maid.

Sometimes, Ashton took up weird hobbies during his downtime. His works of crochet were hung on the walls of hallways, and his ceramic mugs got their daily use through early morning coffee fixes. Once upon a time, he tried beading, and his old girlfriend received most of the precious pieces. He had to do something other than songwriting or else it would fry his brains out.

He purchased a new pair of winter gloves the other day. He lived in Los Angeles–– he didn’t need a pair of winter gloves, let alone a new one. Ashton wasn’t spending money on pointless things because he was bored of his life. No, he loved his time on tour with friends. He loved sharing moments and memories that would last forever. And then, he would be home again, cooped up in the confines of his expansive home with fourteen plastic bowls and crocheted hallways. Ashton needed his life to be fast-paced, otherwise, he’d start beading again.

A few weeks ago, he considered writing a novel. He purchased a Nalgene, hiked up whatever mountain was closest (while simultaneously sweating enough to fill his new water bottle three times), and jotted down whatever emotions slammed into his head. He was hit with nothing. The destructive instinct of tossing his journal into the deep brush overcame him, and Ashton decided that if he were to write a novel, he’d need to go somewhere a bit more inspirational than the dry mountains overlooking smog city.

He suffered from tinnitus quite often, especially on airplanes or any high altitude above sea level (to be exact). Maybe it was partially due to his career as a drummer, or maybe it wasn’t. Whatever it was, and whatever the reason, he despised the perpetual ache. It ruined any social event or interaction for the two days following, but in this case, it ruined his right to think. After packing for twenty minutes, Ashton sped to the airport, his ear already clogged from the mountain climb earlier that morning. The information desk was his first destination, and then it was wherever from there.

“’m sorry, Ash, but you’re where?”

Ashton took a glance around at the baggage claim area. So, he could take the silver line, get a taxi or a limo, or schedule an app ride to wherever he was going. It was good to know he had options. But what the hell was the silver line?

He chuckled. “I think I took a flight to Boston.”

The other end of the phone call was silent.

Truth be told, Ashton hadn’t meant to fly to Boston. He hadn’t been tremendously picky when it came to choosing the final destination, so he picked a random time off of the top of his head, and whatever flight was scheduled to board then, he’d buy a ticket. Boston it was.

“Why the fuck are you in Boston?” Luke wondered, his sentence ending with a lilt and a laugh.

Calum entered the conversation. “Are you having an emotional breakdown?”

“Did you try beading again?” Michael quipped.

Ashton had to chuckle once more. He wasn’t sure he would ever tire of his friends. “Needed t’get out of LA, mates. To clear my head.”

“So, you chose Boston?” Luke spoke up through laughter again.

“’s not a bad city,” Ashton replied. The loud buzzer by his baggage claim began to sound, and a second or so later, the first suitcase tumbled down. “There’s Cambridge, too. That place can be pretty.”

“I think Ash will make the perfect Bostonian,” said Michael. “He gives off perfect Masshole vibes.”

Ashton snorted. “Thank you, Mike.”

“Anytime.”

Ashton noticed his bag was the fourth to slide down on the conveyer belt. “So, uh, does anyone know what on earth the silver line is?”

-

There are ninety-five to a hundred billion nerve cells in the human body, and right now, Ashton could feel every single one. The safari app on his phone had close to ten tabs open purely to help him understand the train system, but then he ended up freaking out and taking a Lyft instead. He had started to realize his mistake in coming here the moment he finalized everything with his Airbnb in Back Bay (wherever the hell that was). He could vaguely remember a few designated spots him and his mates hit for yoga or brunch when they had been in the city, but they were never here long enough.

The penthouse he was renting lacked activities, but the bathroom was nice. The lighting made his pores stand out a bit more than usual, so that was another downside. Also, he was two inches taller than the showerhead. Otherwise, he loved the place. The roof would be a nice touch if the temperature outside hadn’t frozen his nips off through three layers of clothing. With a sigh, Ashton tossed his belongings to the floor and collapsed onto the couch.

So, he didn’t know why he was here or what he was going to do while he was here. He hardly made it out of the airport alive, and he assumed that, once people knew he was here, walking the streets would be a damn nightmare. Maybe he could give himself cabin fever and write down whatever psychotic thoughts came into his head. That would be an interesting novel.

Ashton didn’t know what he was thinking, but he did know that he needed a fucking beer. And, like all great cities, there were plenty of bars.

However, despite the lovely array of bars, he needed a place that was lowkey. He needed the place three blocks west in its eighteen-table glory. He needed the distance murmur of conversations from old friends and regulars, and he needed that sharp sting of tequila sloshing down his throat. What he didn’t really need, was the live performance taking place in the closet-sized underground bar, but he felt bad that the ten people in there hardly gave a shit.

Ashton listened from a small round table by the wall. He didn’t know why–– maybe it was the alcohol, but the light strum of guitar and angelic singing voice traveled through every ninety-five to a hundred billion nerves in his body. His heart connected to the lyrics, the strings plucking as if it were on the guitar. Maybe this was why he was here.

You had noticed him from the corner of your eye, though your hands only froze for a split moment before you flickered your gaze back to the few men on barstools. This was the exact reason you had to perform with a lyric sheet before you–– unexpected guests like Ashton Irwin would wander in and listen to you sing.

Truth be told, this was your first time performing in front of a big name, and you were somewhat upset you had worked through your headache to be here. It should have been a sign when your guitar took twenty minutes to tune and when two cars almost ran you over on a crosswalk. It should have been a sign when your vanilla latte from Pavement burned your tongue and made you cry.

But here you were, singing lyrics you no longer felt with a shaky voice in front of a man whose eyes were glossed over from the alcohol. At least, that was what you assumed. His thumbs darted to the inside corners of his eyes and rubbed along the water line. You absolutely could not believe it. You had made him cry.

“Uh, thank you,” you said into the mic. Only Ashton was watching you, so truly, you were thanking him. “I’ll be back soon with some happy songs, I promise.”

He cracked a smile.

You had your back turned for under a minute as you put your guitar away, and when you stood to go talk to him, he had already gone.

-

“I’ve tried approximately seventeen coffee shops in the past week, and only four of them sold bagels, and two of those four had comfortable seating,” Ashton explained. With his phone nestled between his shoulder and his ear, he darted around the kitchen, a spatula for his eggs in one hand and a bottle of orange juice (for some reason) in the other.

“And, how many of those places had good coffee?” asked Calum.

Ashton sighed. “Seven.”

“How ya gonna narrow it down, then?”

Once he set down the bottle of juice, Ashton placed his phone on the counter and pressed the speaker button. A buzz of white noise filled the large kitchen. “Well, two of the seven had bagels, and one of those had good coffee, good seating, and bagels. But the problem is, those bagels weren’t that great. So, like...”

“Life really sucks for you,” his friend replied with a quick chuckle.

“And I still haven’t figured out how the fuck to ride the train, so I’ve spent like two hundred dollars on Lyft rides because I can’t walk, and– “

“Are you doin’ okay, mate?” Calum questioned, worry lacing his tone while Ashton struggled with scraping the eggs off of the pan and onto his plate.

He thought for a moment as he turned off the burner. “I’m– ‘m not doing bad. Jus’...” Ashton sighed. “A part o’ me doesn’t wanna leave, but I don’t have any reason to be here.”

There was silence on Calum’s end for a moment as well. Meanwhile, Ashton was pouring his juice. Truth be told, it was close to one in the afternoon, and he was just now having breakfast.

“And like,” he mumbled before letting out a quick huff due to the small juice spillage on the counter, “I feel kinda stupid. Like, I literally hopped on the first flight that caught my eye. I coulda gone to Milwaukee, or I coulda gone to Paris!”

“Boston’s pretty cool,” replied Calum.

Ashton shrugged to himself. “There was this really good singer at this bar the other day. Thought she was cute n’ all.”

“Did you get her number?”

“No,” he said. “I– I left pretty quickly. Dunno. I panicked. I haven’t been back since.”

“Why?”

“Dunno.”

“You should go back.”

Ashton’s brows knotted together. “Y’think?”

Calum let out a laugh. “You’re acting like a fourteen-year-old.”

Ashton sighed.

“Yeah, go back,” his friend continued. “Why not? If she’s not there, try one more time. And if she’s not there again, go to fuckin’ Belize. Ash, ya flew to Boston on a whim. You’re feelin’ burnt out–– you want to write a fuckin’ novel for Christ’s sake, mate! Maybe it’s all a path that leads to her. I mean, ya never know if you don’t try.”

Ashton nodded as he poked and prodded at his peppered eggs with a fork. They had cooled significantly now, and his hunger was only growing stronger. “I’m supposed t’be the wise one. ‘m older.”

In response, Calum snorted and uttered out a meek “yeah, right.”

“I’ll– I’ll go back tonight.”

And, Ashton did. His stomach twisted tightly as his long legs took him in quick strides across bridges and down busy streets. He kept his head down the entire time, his thin sweatshirt hood loose against his untamed hair (he hadn’t thought to put in the energy). The cold bit, and he figured he would have to invest in a nice winter coat from some store down Newbury. He heard it had a lot of nice stores.

The bar was quiet again, the same few guys still situated on their stools as if they hadn’t left in six days. He paid for a beer – didn’t matter what kind – and stalked towards the same table he had sat at before. Everything was the same, but you weren’t there, and he assumed you wouldn’t be. For a second, he hoped he had gotten the time all wrong, or maybe he had imagined the whole thing. Moments later, his beer had gone down a few centimeters, and you were rushing down the stairs with your guitar case on your back and a music stand in your hand.

“Sorry, sorry Stewart!” you yelped after banging the shoulder of one of the men at the bar.

“Jesus, Y/N, you don’t have t’rush,” he joked, but you continued on hurrying to get your things set up. “We’ll be here all night.”

You huffed. “Well, how ya gonna have an enjoyable night without me?”

Someone else chuckled. “I’ll drink to that.”

So could Ashton. His heart rate had tripled since you raced in wearing your cute bee socks. He hoped the flush of your skin meant more than the freezing temperatures outside, but he wasn’t entirely confident you had noticed him sitting there until you were situated on your stool.

“You missed out on the happy songs,” you said as you – to his surprise – gazed over at him. “That’s okay. I’ve got a few more in store.”

Ashton didn’t cry often when it came to happy songs–– he truly thought his reactions to music were pretty conventional. Somehow, you were able to evoke more emotion than he even knew he had. His beer had more tears in it than alcohol by the end of your set. He wondered why no one had discovered you yet, but then again, you fit perfectly in the position you were in: playing for only him to listen.

He wanted to do what Calum suggested. He wanted to talk to you and personally get your name without having to know it because he overheard it from Stewart. For some reason, every ounce of confidence that Ashton had spent years developing in the music industry stood no chance in comparison to you. He darted as soon as you smiled his way.

-

Ashton had burned through four bottles of Naked juice by the next evening. It was his compensation for hardly having a thing to drink at the bar simply because his brain chose to be infatuated with you for that short amount of time. Also, he bent the shower head by accident, and he almost locked himself on the roof last night when exploring.

In the morning, he had briefly forgotten where he was. There were ten texts from friends awaiting him as he fumbled with the coffee machine in the kitchen, and most of them had something to do with him flying across the country to a city that hardly mattered a thing to him. Ashton chose not to answer any of them. He didn’t owe anyone an explanation for his decisions; however, he felt as though he owed you his ears. You deserved to have someone who cared about your music.

You, on the other hand, had been hoping and praying that the previous night would run smoothly. Ashton had no reason to show again, and you assumed he had only been in town briefly. And then, he hid in the corner once more, eyes trained hard on you as the tears threatened to spill. You had to blink a few times to make sure your mind wasn’t playing tricks on you. This man played arenas holding thousands all across the world. You played for your roommates and middle-aged drunkards in a bar with a maximum capacity of thirty. He should not have been there.

Though the nerves were still there as you played through John Denver covers and original songs that would only see the inside of the bar, it was nice to have someone new listen in. It was numbing to only play for Richard, Frank, Steve, and Stewart. Now there was Ashton, the famous drummer who somehow found his way to Boston and somehow wandered into the same bar you played at a few times a week. Had someone filmed you and posted it online? Was he here pretending to be a talent scout?

You needed to know. But Ashton was good. In that same minute you were putting away your guitar, he slipped out again.

So, you figured he wouldn’t show anymore. Nobody of great importance stayed in Boston long enough. And then, he did show. For the third time in a row, Ashton was giving you his full attention, and you weren’t sure how you felt about it. He showed a fourth time, and then a fifth. A whole two weeks had passed, and he was still showing up.

By this point, you convinced yourself that it was a-look-alike.

Ashton, meanwhile, was convinced that you were the reason he was here in the first place. He didn’t know if it was the cute giggle that escaped your lips when you slipped up on the chords, or the crinkles by your eyes once you let yourself get lost completely in a song. Or, maybe it was the precious pout you wore when there were mic difficulties.

It was possible he had become a bit too hooked.

“What even is there to do in Boston?” asked Luke while Ashton was busy avoiding ducks and squirrels by the edge of the pond. A part of him considered dropping his phone into the shallow waters, but his friends needed to know that he was doing okay.

“Uhh,” Ashton glanced around, the dead leaves and bundled-up strangers catching his eye. Truly, he should have picked Italy or something. “Ride a train. Eat food. Yell at cars.”

Someone cackled on the other end of the call. “You make me sad.” It was Michael.

“I’m fine,” the dirty-blond answered, “truly. It’s about Christmas time, so the lights are really nice. Depends on where ya go but things are like, kinda calm here. And, there’s this bar– “

“Jesus, Ash, have you even talked to her?” asked Calum.

“Well, no, but– “

“Her?” It was Michael again.

Ashton frowned. “Well there’s– uh, there’s this– “ He kicked at a few stones and watched them tumble into the water. “Girl.”

A chorus of ooo’s and laughter filled the receiver before Luke spoke up and said, “All right, Ash, buddy. What’s she like? Satisfyin’?”

“I-I haven’t even talked to her yet.”

And then, there was a moment of silence.

“She plays at this bar,” Ashton continued, “a few times a week. And, fuck, she’s like if Sara Bareilles and Phoebe Bridgers had a baby or somethin’. ‘m probably the only person in that joint who gives a flyin’ fuck about her. She’s so beautiful.”

“Well shit, Ash,” Michael interjected, “what’re you waitin’ for?”

“That’s what I told him!” Calum shouted.

Ashton didn’t know. He didn’t know after the phone call ended, and he still didn’t know on his walk back home. He thought about you too much to not give this a chance.

At home, he thought about you while making dinner or shaving his beard. He thought about you when coming up with strategic ways to get around the city without being seen. He thought about you once he finally figured out how the train system worked. No matter what, he thought about you, the cute girl who sang her heart out for people who only talked over her.

He wondered if you thought about him, too. There was no possible way you hadn’t noticed his presence–– you locked eyes too many times and it made his heart flop every damn time.

Ashton would spend the walk over to the bar thinking about what sweater you would wear that night. Would it be blue or red? Would it fit perfectly or leave enough room for another human to cuddle underneath? You took your shoes off when performing, so he began to think about what socks you would wear, too. The blue ones with cats? The frilly white ones? The rainbow ones with dinosaurs? His smile grew wide as he climbed down the stairs to the small bar.

Tonight was the night he would talk to you he decided. He couldn’t fall into the habit of coming and going, especially when he truly wanted to talk to you. Somehow, those billions of nerves held him back.

Ashton sat at a table closer to the tiny stage. You were in the middle of a song when your eyes glanced down to his figure, and he swore you could see his cheeks burning hotter than the neon sign beside his head.

“Hey stranger,” you said after the song had ended, and you sent a wink his way. “This next one is dedicated to you.”

His mouth fell open, but he quickly covered up the expression with a long sip of his beer. It was like you knew how to win him over. A few chuckles sounded the bar from behind him, but he couldn’t take it upon himself to care as your nimble fingers strummed a melody that felt like pure honey in his ears. Your voice was what made it sweet.

It was possible the small bit of alcohol that made the fuzz in head travel down his spine. The bubbling in his chest was an artist, for the smile it etched on his face was unlike no other he had felt. Ashton couldn’t imagine the sensation of actually speaking to you face-to-face.

“Thank you to my– my number one fan,” you mumbled shyly with the prettiest smile that could send anyone into a euphoric state. Your eyes were gentle as they peered down at him, and he swore his heart had taken a flight to Milan by now.

You turned around to pack your things, and Ashton had to restrain himself from fleeing like he typically did every time. Usually, he was better at this. He could talk to anyone back home without a single ounce of anxiety, but now, his feet did most of the talking. So, he imagined that he was stuck butt-first in cement and stayed still.

He didn’t know that you would nearly drop everything when you turned to see him there. Ashton fought free of his invisible restraints so he could rush over and help gather your lyric sheets, but he didn’t know he would be so shaky doing so. He hadn’t been this nervous since the first ever performance with his band.

“S-shit, thanks– thank you,” you sputtered, clearly flustered from the accidental mishap. You began to lightly laugh at yourself as you crouched down, and he admired that. “’m a bit clumsy.”

“Is that your name?” he asked and cracked a smile. “A bit clumsy?”

Maybe you had blushed, maybe you hadn’t. Or, maybe it was the few lights shining directly on the two of you from above the small stage. “Uh, n-no. ‘s Y/N.”

He smiled and nodded, reaching out his free hand to shake your own free hand. He knew your hands would be soft despite the guitar callouses, but he hadn’t realized how badly he wouldn’t want to let go. “Ashton.”

“Yeah,” you replied hazily, then your eyes widened before you rose to your feet. He followed suit as you stuttered out, “I-I mean yeah, I– shoot. I mean I know who you are, it’s just– “

“Y’okay?” He grinned. So, he wasn’t the only one who was nervous. That was good.

You nodded. “I’m– I’m great. Just confused.”

“Why’s that?”

“Well...” You shrugged and placed the sheets of music back onto the music stand. “You-you're not exactly a Boston native. And, you keep comin’ to this bar.”

“Cos’ you’re talented.”

“And– wait, what?”

Ashton’s smile grew. You truly did have more confidence on stage than you did in person; it just meant you were destined to perform. “I keep comin’ back to hear you. I like your stuff. I like your voice.”

You gazed up at him, cheeks hot, and you were desperate to get out of the harsh lighting you had been sitting in for close to a half hour. Behind him, the folks at the bar were chatting and gazing back occasionally at the two of you. “You’re... wow.”

“You’re really good.”

“Th-thank you,” you replied, “so much.” The smile had yet to escape you, and it was possible that it had grown larger. “Um, so why-why are you in Boston? Of all places?”

It hadn’t occurred to him that you would ask that question. Surprisingly, in the past two weeks, no one had. He went a few days without getting recognized altogether, but he knew he’d have to answer questions at some point. But, for now, he shrugged. He didn’t know the answer. “Spontaneous adventure.”

You chuckled. “To Boston...”

He laughed a little, too. “Yeah, to Boston.”

-

The simple question of “can I walk you home?” could only go so far. Ashton hadn’t insinuated anything, and you didn’t think he had either. But if both of you were honest, you didn’t want to say goodbye just yet. So, you told him to “hold tight” as you raced up to your apartment to drop your things off. He was in the same spot where you had left him, hands deep in the pocket of his pretty-penny coat that had a hood the size of Canada.

“Y’sure you don’t have plans?” he asked you, letting out a puff of air through the frigid night. Ashton didn’t mind the cold as long as he spent it with someone to preoccupy his thoughts. You were well-qualified for that–– he couldn’t think of anything else but you and the way the lights in the trees reflected in your eyes.

“It’s eight-thirty on a Thursday night,” you said. “Normally, I’d be in bed by now.”

Ashton let out a chuckle, and he couldn’t believe that he could have had this last week. You admitted that you had been hoping he’d stick around after all this time, and ever since that moment, he tried not to mental curse himself.

“Walk fast,” you muttered to him. “My favorite coffee shop closes in an hour and a half.”

You were taking him through parks and vacant neighborhood streets, and he was grateful. These were shortcuts he hadn’t thought to take himself. Besides, he’d rather enjoy them with you anyway. You hopped off of curbs, kicked stones in your path, and jogged across large fields whenever the two of you came upon one. He had never met anyone who found such joy in the little things, and he loved that about you. The night was cold, but you were happy.

Were you happy because you were with him?

Ashton tried to enjoy it as much as you (well, he did enjoy himself, but he preferred watching you enjoy yourself–– it meant more to him anyway). Watching the way your eyes lit up as a few snow flurries fell from the sky was enough to keep his mood steady for the next few months.

“If we get coffee fast,” you said, “we could go to the MFA. I mean, like, you would have to pay unfortunately because I get in for free, but– “

“The MFA?” Ashton asked you as the two of you turned a corner. Before he realized, you were walking up a few steps and opening the door to the coffee shop you told him about.

“Museum of Fine Arts!” you exclaimed before greeting the baristas in the small establishment. “Can I get a small caramel latte with almond milk and a molasses cookie, please? Both to-go”

He grinned, still watching you intently as if you were made of pure gold. Everything you said was drenched in it. Ashton didn’t know how to not fall for you. He pulled out his wallet before you could and handed the person at the register his credit card as he said, “small cider for me, please. Also to-go.”

“Excuse you,” you gasped, and then you pouted, and Ashton thought he was going to lose his shit. Either that or his cheeks would fall off from smiling so much.

“You worked hard tonight,” he said. “You deserve it.”

You rolled your eyes. “Dummy.”

Ashton liked the fact that the two of you spoke to each other as if you had been friends all along. It felt natural, and that only made him more nervous. If it felt natural after only knowing you for a few hours, he couldn’t help but wonder how it would feel later on.

“Want some?” you asked, holding up the molasses cookie as you both began in the direction you came from. “It’ll change your life.”

“Uh, sure,” he replied, pulling off a bit of the cookie before placing it on his tongue. Ashton had never been a huge fan of molasses, but he didn’t mind it all that much. Nevertheless, he nearly moaned at the taste just to please you. “That’s crack,” he joked before taking a sip of his cooling cider. “MFA time?”

“You wanna go?” you asked with a small gasp. “You still wanna spend time with me? I’m shocked.”

He chuckled. “I don’t think tha’s a crime. You’re talented and fun to be around.”

“Half of the world is jealous of me,” you said.

“Yeah, well,” he sighed, “luckily, half of the world doesn’t know about you yet. Once they do...” Ashton didn’t want to think about you becoming overwhelmed with personalities and fans. He liked you here. He liked you now. And then, he realized he said yet. But you didn’t notice.

“I can only imagine,” you huffed through a mouthful of cookie. “Dunno how you’re able to get around here without strangers proddin’ into your life.”

“Ah, I’ve recently developed ninja skills,” he said. “And, I’m also Spider-Man, so I can jump from building to building. Oh, and I’m a mermaid, too so I can swim across the Charles if I need.”

You winced, and you even made an euughhh sound before saying, “I wouldn’t even stick a toe in the Charles if you dared me for a million dollars.”

Ashton felt his laughter deep in his chest, and he hadn’t expected it to echo as the two of you prepared to cross the giant field once again. And when you danced your way across the turf, he gladly held your belongings so he could slowly catch up to you. He was amazed that you felt no sense of embarrassment, but that made him even happier. It just meant that you were comfortable around him.

He didn’t mind paying for his ticket whatsoever–– he would spend all of the money in his bank account if it meant never leaving your side. You showed him all of your favorite pieces, like Dance at Bougival by the artist Pierre-Auguste Renoir (who, according to you, was definitely one of the best Impressionist painters), and you took him down to the Ansel Adams exhibit. That was his favorite part in particular; it was the kind of photography he wished he could create.

Most of all, Ashton didn’t mind standing back and admiring you from afar as your eyes scanned the wide canvases before you. He wanted you as close as possible, but he could appreciate your beauty in full this way.

“Do you smell potatoes?” you wondered aloud at one point, and truly, he did smell potatoes. The smell hit both of you before the sounds of whatever event was being held did. Soon after, you could hardly hear your thoughts over the band and loud chatter. “C’mon,” you said, taking his hand and pulling him down a large hall, “I wanna see if we can crash.”

Your hand was in his. Your hand was in his, and he couldn’t stop thinking about it. Your smile grew as you followed the blaring music into a great big hall. There were servers and chefs darting behind dividers, and from the middle of the room, you could see down into where the event took place. People were dressed to the nines as the band in the distance played a song he recognized from Notting Hill.

“Art installation,” you gasped, tugging on his hand. Meanwhile, he was trying to figure out a way to intertwine your fingers with his. “Do you think I could get them to let me in by wooing them with my magical voice?” you joked, giggling as your entire face lit up with laughter.

Ashton nodded. “You could woo them with your smile, darlin’,” he replied. The next moment, he managed to wedge his fingers in between yours, and you didn’t even think twice about it. Your eyes sparkled while you tried to sneak up further to catch a better glimpse at what was happening.

“Well, you could woo them with your smile... darlin’,” you said, shooting him a wink.

Ashton finally decided that Boston hadn’t been a bad idea after all.

-

“I’m not tired,” you replied despite yawning midsentence. “Promise. It’s only– “ You checked your phone. “It’s only two in the mornin’.”

“Bedtime for me, sweetheart,” Ashton chuckled. “But believe me, I don’t want this night to end either.”

You sighed, wrapped your arm around his as you rested your head on his bicep. Ashton felt the need to thank you for this. He felt warm around you, and not just because you were leaning into him. He had developed feelings for the idea of you during the past two weeks of witnessing your lovely performances, but tonight, he had developed feelings for the actual you. It was quite possible that you had as well.

“Where ya stayin’?” you mumbled against him.

“I have an Airbnb on the next street over from here,” he responded as he glanced down at your tired self all cuddled against him. It made his heart got berserk. “But ‘m gonna walk you back to your place.”

“You don’t have t’do that,” you said.

Ashton shrugged lightly. “I want to.”

You sighed again, letting your head fall back against him as he pulled you closer (if that were even possible). The two of you walked in comfortable, sleepy silence down a few more blocks and over avenues. At one point, he swore you had fallen asleep, yet your feet were still walking as normal with him blindly guiding you along. He didn’t recognize where he was whatsoever, though, within a few minutes, the two of you reached your destination.

“Hm, we’re here,” you mumbled, blinking rapidly before rubbing your eyes.

“So we are,” he said, mostly to himself as his brain sped through countless options as to what he should do next. Would he ask for your number? Would he tell you he’d see you again soon? Ashton didn’t know what to do, but the moment you stepped closer to him, he knew he needed to pull you in for a hug. He needed your warmth, and you gladly accepted his. And when you began to pull away, you stood high on your toes and pressed a gentle kiss to his cheek.

“See you tonight?” you asked, a lazy smile forming on your features as you slowly backed up towards the front door to the building.

He grinned, grazing his cheek with his fingers as he muttered out a satisfied, “see you tonight.”

-

Ashton started his novel the next afternoon, the words finally hitting his brain in just the right places as they found their home on an empty word document. He wrote and wrote, his fingers hardly feeling the repercussions of the endless typing, and before he knew it, it was time to see you again. A part of him wanted you here with him as he wrote–– maybe you were the inspiration he needed all along.

And when he walked into that bar he now knew all too well, you were already there to greet him with a smile so big, any satellite in space could see it. Ashton knew he would be head-over-heels from the get-go; however, he hadn’t expected to fantasize about stupid things like taking road trips or late-night kisses. They weren’t stupid per se, though they weren’t his typical fantasies. Sure, he had a hard time showering without thinking of you, but that made him feel guilty. He could bite his fist and pull his hair all he wanted, and he’d still wonder about how you liked your eggs or what your favorite color was.

He took you out to eat afterward, both to congratulate you on another fabulous performance and to make it known that this did, in fact, count as a date. He had even let the word slip out once or twice, hopeful enough that you would catch on and not feel uncomfortable. You made it clear that you were enjoying yourself nevertheless. You wouldn’t be playing sugar packet Jenga with him otherwise (at least, that was what he assumed).

An hour or so later, he was walking you home again. Instead of you reaching up to kiss his cheek, he bent down to kiss your lips, and the world felt okay once again.