#is deli being so traumatized that he can’t get it up without thinking of an eldritch garbage disposal

[willowcrowned]

I finally watched the ravening war and look. I know because it’s d20 they were never going to have a hashtag incest moment. and I know there wasn’t actually any baiting at all because baiting would require a sane person to think there could be follow-through. nevertheless i must say this: i got fucking incest baited

[ricksbowen]

one more time | pt. 5

IN WHICH: ej finally asks his question, ricky doesn’t know what’s happening to himself, and your fear gets the better of you.

INSPIRATION: you were good to me — jeremy zucker & chelsea cutler, coffee — beabadoobee

WARNING: usually this story is pretty heated, but this doesn’t have any smut. but i will say that everyone is 18+ and in their senior year.

pt. 1, pt. 2, pt. 3, pt. 4, pt. 5, pt. 6

Ricky stared at the PowerPoint presentation blankly.

His mind was in a whole other place, his eyes holding not even the slightest bit of interest as the teacher spoke in front of the class.

Big Red nudged him, dragging him back to reality and making him blink rapidly. “Dude, are you okay?” Big Red hissed, keeping his voice low as he looked Ricky up and down. He looked tired, the bags under his eyes heavy and sunken in. Big Red knew his best friend more than he knew himself; something was bothering him.

“Yeah, why?”

“What do you mean why?” Big Red gaped at him, shifting his body towards Ricky and looking him dead in the eye. The teacher’s lecture didn’t even reach their ears as they dove into their own conversation that they knew they were going to get in trouble for. “Your sleeping schedule is fucked,” Big Red stated. “But you take a bunch of naps. I’ve never seen you look this tired, so what’s happening?”

“Nothing,” Ricky muttered, putting his head in his hands and letting his hands slip off his face slowly. “Even I don’t know what it is, man,” he grumbled, only telling half of the truth as he avoided Big Red’s eyes.

He had an idea of what was happening in his mind. It was a hunch, a little thought that left him terrified of what was to come.

“How can you not know what’s bothering you?” Big Red sputtered, his voice raising in volume with each word. “Is it about—“

“Mr. Redonovich.” The teacher’s voice cut into their conversation, ending it in only two words. The two boys looked at the teacher with wide eyes that feigned innocence. From three tables up, you turned around to look at your best friends with an amused grin, making Ricky and Big Red glare at you.

“Miss L/N, is there something funny?” The teacher questioned, his voice scarily calm as he mentioned you. You whipped around, quickly shaking your head with a sheepish smile. You could practically feel Big Red and Ricky’s mocking smiles.

*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧⠀.

The small deli near East High was full of students rushing to get their food, yelling orders at the poor East High grad that was desperately trying to get all the orders down. The tables were full, the smell of meat and toasted bread filling the air as the chefs in the back kitchen yelled orders out.

Fortunately for you, Big Red, and Ricky, the owner of Delmar’s Deli was an old family friend of yours. He always made sure to save three sandwiches for you and your friends, always mumbling something along the lines of, “Your grandma would kill me if I didn’t feed you.”

The three of you sat on the chairs and table right outside the window, the crowd of students visible behind you as you all ate.

“Detention! Unbelievable!” Big Red threw his hands up in exasperation, the pink slip in his hands nearly slipping out of his fingers. His hand eaten sandwich sat on the table in front of him, practically drowning in whatever sauce the redhead had put over it.

“Just another one to add into the pile,” you muttered, looking at the other detention slip you had received earlier that day ( your teachers had it out for you, especially since you were graduating soon ). “Can’t we just skip out right now? I can skip my next classes since—“

“Y/N, this is why you got two detention slips in one day,” Ricky commented nonchalantly, hiding his growing smile behind his sandwich.

You gasped, hitting him in the shoulder in protest. “You asshole,” you said, emphasizing your words with yet another punch towards Ricky’s bicep.

“I really don’t remember seeing this many people whenever I went out for lunch,” came a new voice from behind you, making you freeze your punches and turn around.

“Ej!” you greeted, your beaming smile enough to make anyone else smile back. “I didn’t know you were still home!”

“Yeah. We had no idea,” Ricky stated, words unusually cold as he looked at him. Something tugged at his gut, something that made him shift uncomfortably in his metal chair.

“I wanted to visit the deli one more time. Thought it’d be great for the nostalgia,” Ej explained, his eyes mainly on you as he spoke. You were gazing up at him, oblivious to the glare Ricky was sending his way, his brows furrowed and his lips in a type of pout. You didn’t notice the way his mood went sour the moment Ej came up.

Big Red noticed immediately.

“I thought you hated nostalgia,” you hummed, one side of your lip curling upwards as you took a bite of your sandwich.

“You caught me. I came here to talk to you,” Ej grinned at you, making you smile behind your sandwich and roll your eyes.

Big Red, being only a witness to the obvious rising tension, saw the way Ricky sank in his seat as if a balloon was deflated inside of him. He kicked him under the table, making Ricky jump back up in his seat and hit his knee on the table. He let out a hiss, sending Big Red a threatening glare that screamed, ‘What are you doing?’ The redhead didn’t say anything, only nodding to you and Ej’s conversation that was happening to the side of them. It was a wordless way of telling Ricky to do something about it, but Ricky only shut him down with a solemn shake of his head.

“I wanted to ask you on the date I mentioned before. Y’know,” he mumbled, his voice going low. Ej scratched the back of his neck, uncharacteristically nervous as he tried to get his words out. He had practiced in front of his mirror for hours, repeating the words over and over to himself, only to find himself a sputtering mess in front of you.

“A date?” you echoed, eyebrows raising at his sudden statement. Almost immediately, you felt the fear hit your heart and the memories replay in your head. You wanted to look at Big Red and Ricky, but they were both glued to their phones, typing furiously. You turned back to Ej, letting out a nervous laugh. “Sure,” you breathed, voice wavering. “Why not?”

Ricky’s head snapped up at your response, his heart falling to his stomach for reasons unknown.

*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧⠀.

The sound of his phone ringing made Ricky groan, his hand blindly reaching for his side table in a pathetic attempt to grab his phone. His eyes still sensitive thanks to his nap, he squinted at the caller on his phone.

A picture of you flipping him off from a classroom covered his screen, your name titled across the top of the screen. Ricky remembered taking that photo; you were in detention, and he was passing by the detention room. You saw him ( how could you not notice his head of curls ), and you being you, you stood up to the window and flipped him off. Ricky was lucky he was able to even snap a photo of you doing it, for the detention officer had scolded you the moment you raised your finger.

Ricky answered the call, sitting up in his bed and leaning back on his headboard. “You woke me up from a nap,” he mumbled, voice scratchy and small as he rubbed his eyes like a child. His eyes felt like weights, and he found himself almost drifting off to sleep yet again until he heard you sniff violently.

You were crying.

“Y/N?” It was as if his grogginess had disappeared immediately, his eyes going wide and worry filling his veins as he tried to focus on your screen. Your black hoodie, which was actually Ricky’s, was pulled up over your head, your mascara running freely down your face.

“I don’t think I can do it,” you murmured, your eyes blanking out on God knows what. You sniffed again, raising a sleeve-covered hand to angrily wipe away at your tears.

“Do what?”

“Go out with Ej,” your eyes snapped up to his camera, eyes meeting his through the screen. “I mean, I want to — I really do — it’s just..” your voice trailed off, a sigh leaving your lips.

“Look, Y/N,” Ricky began, shifting in his bed. “If this is about what we have going on—“

“It’s not about that,” you interrupted, brows furrowing as you shook your head. “What we’ve done together means nothing to the both of us. You know that,” you gazed at him, and despite the fact that you weren’t in front of him, Ricky knew you were making sure he still felt nothing. “Right?”

“Of course,” Ricky found himself saying past the dryness that began to sand his throat. He used to say it with ease, without any form of hesitation in his words. But saying it now, Ricky found it harder and harder to say. “This is about Luka, isn’t it?” he questioned as an attempt to quickly change the subject.

“Unfortunately,” you groaned, tilting your head back in your chair. “It’s just,” you stood up, phone still in your hand as you made your way to your bed and flopped down on your stomach. “Ricky, what if it actually goes somewhere?” you asked, voice raising with every quick word you ranted, “What if we end up being a serious thing, and,” you paused, voice quiet, “It happens again? The same thing that happened with Luka?”

You looked so traumatized, so fearful of forming a relationship with someone Ricky knew would treat you right, that the words that Ricky wanted to tell you became caught in his throat. You didn’t need his opinion. You needed to hear what you needed to hear. “I, I think,” Ricky stammered out, the words feeling like acid on his tongue. “That you need to try. With Ej.”

You seemed to perk up at that, and as much as Ricky regretted his own words, he kept on going.

“You two would be great together. Really.”

“But what if—“

“He won’t,” Ricky cut in, eyes avoiding yours as he felt his heart fall with every word he uttered out. “I know he won’t. He isn’t like Luka, and— You both are too good to each other.” He sounded so stoic, as if he was reading from a script. Ricky didn’t want to tell you to go out with Ej. He was selfish, he knew that, for wanting to tell you to stay home. But if Ej made you happy, that outweighed any negative in the world

“Are you sure?” It was as if your question was his last point of validation, the last chance he had to turn it all around for his own benefit.

But Ricky knew he could never do it. He cared about you too much to do it.

“I wouldn’t say it if I wasn’t,” Ricky said quietly, and if it wasn’t for the screen disconnecting you both, you would’ve known that something was wrong.

————————— 𑁍༅ཾ༚ ————————

TAGS: @tomshufflepuff​, @myrandom-fandomlife, @softpeteparker​, @sarcarstic-space-weirdo​, @particularcth​, @lifes-a-party-youre-a-boy, @paniniirae, @supersouthy​, @jointherebellion215, @gabyer0309​, @hannarudick​, @broken-from-fandoms​, @complete-trash-101, @ssprayberrythings​, @raven-waheda, @timelordtardis​, @chubby-cheek-calum, @nicole-lynne​, @loserr-likeme​, @whoseblogsthis​, @stxfxniexreads, @cherrydolan​, @allaroundaddict, @of-outerspace​, @blueevelvt, @kitykatnumber, @rocketdolans, @givemebooksorgivemedeath, @80sthottie, @lawstudentbydayfangirlbynight​, @cynthia060​, @hollandary, @kitykatnumber​, @hueycat2004​

[xmxisxforxmaybe]

Decryption_Error: “Undecided”

Summary: Now that the incident in the server room is becoming a distant memory for everyone at CIStech, indecision plagues Y/N as she tries to figure out just what she wants from Elliot. The real question, of course, is what does Elliot want?

Story Summary,  “The Server Room, Part I”,  “The Server Room, Part II”  “The Long Weekend, Part I”,  “The Long Weekend, Part II”,  “The Aftermath”

Word Count: 5000

Tags: @sherlollydramoine  @rami-malek-trash  @teamwolf2411  @limabein  @txmel  @hopplessdreamer  @ouatlovr  @backoftheroomandnotbelonging @alottanothing  @moon-stars-soul  @free-rami  @ramimedley

If you want added, let me know.

Warning: Tiny mention of something R-rated toward the end

By Thursday, the office felt normal, and I was once again left to marvel at how quickly things could snap back into place. People just . . . moved on. They continued to run their daily programs and despite a hiccup in the system, they hit reboot and it was back to normal runtime.

I was no different.

Yesterday was spent looking through the applicant pool, and I had found a few good candidates. I wanted to compile a final list by the end of the day and set interviews for next week. In another two or three weeks, it would be like Julia, Aaron, and Maurice had never even existed in the world of CIStech.

DELETE 10211291.11181514.1312118935.DSET1 PURGE

<Execution_Complete>

Elliot was just as intrigued by people’s willingness to forget a traumatic event. While Tuesday night’s text conversation lasted a long time, the subject matter stayed pretty light. But on Wednesday, we ended up texting a lot about people’s reactions to what went down.

I hadn’t been sure if Tuesday night’s texts were an anomaly until my phone buzzed at exactly 7:00 pm, the same time I had texted Elliot the night before. I actually laughed out loud a little, figuring Elliot was playing it safe by repeating a previously rewarding behavior pattern.

On Wednesday, I had again left work much earlier than usual so I could head uptown to meet my father. He had asked me weeks ago to attend a benefit with him, and I had almost forgotten about it until he called to remind me in the morning. I used my lunch hour to run home and grab a dress and a pair of shoes. I was really looking forward to seeing Dad because I wanted to decompress—if there was anyone in the world I could vent my feelings to, it was him.

When he caught me smiling at my phone and trying to sneak a text without appearing rude, he told me to have Edwin, his driver, take me home and come back for him later.

“I love you, Dad,” I said as he hugged me tight.

“I want to meet the young man who makes you smile like that, sweetheart.”

I rolled my eyes but smiled at my dad’s good intention.

“If only it were that simple,” I said as the elevator doors opened.

He put his hands in his pockets and gave me a long look as the doors closed. I knew he worried I worked too much and abandoning my entire family over Memorial Day weekend did not alleviate his concern one bit. Nor did it help when I finally explained the work emergency that pulled me away.

But for the second night in a row, I found myself texting until my eyes blurred. When Elliot and I said good night, I set my alarm and immediately fell asleep, something that rarely ever happened. I felt like I could breathe freely again. Elliot didn’t seem to be harboring any ill feelings about being reprimanded, so when he and I ended up running into each other in the lobby on Thursday morning, I smiled brightly when I saw him.

We said our bland good mornings as we got on the elevator, then I asked if he had any plans for after work. When he said no, I pulled out my phone and texted him to ask if he wanted to come over.

He glanced at the other people in the elevator who were staring sleepily at the buttons of the passing floors and gave me a tiny smile before nodding yes.

I smiled back and as the elevator doors opened on our floor, he stood back to let me exit before he hurried out and grabbed the door to the office. I thanked him and we went our separate ways for the workday.

Around quitting time, there was a light tap on my door frame, and I looked up to see Elliot, his eyes alert, scanning over the room and not quite willing to focus on me yet.

“Hey—come in,” I said, unable to stop the smile that spread across my face at the sight of him.

He shuffled in, his hands thrust in his pockets.

“I need to run an errand. Will you be here . . . or should I . . .” Elliot trailed off as his eyes desperately searched mine, his own mind clearly wondering if he had imagined our conversation in the elevator.

“I’m planning on working until around 7. Do you just want to meet at that deli on Platt around 7:15? We can get a bite to eat there, then head back to my place?”

“Sure,” Elliot said in his trademark monotone, immediately turning on his heel and exiting my office.

I just shook my head and chuckled, thinking, Sure, Dad. Meet my painfully awkward boyfriend, Elliot.

Boyfriend.

My mouth went dry as indecision began to beat its ugly staccato within my mind.  

What did I really want?

Even more difficult to answer, what did Elliot really want?

A kiss in a heated moment was a lot less demanding of someone than asking them to be with you. And it was Elliot—did he even date? Despite all of our after-work conversations, we never really talked about romantic interests. It just wasn’t something that came up.

I continued to plug away at my analytics, hoping to drown out my thoughts about Elliot. I was about to see him outside of work again, and I would just have to test the waters, which was a scary prospect. If I pushed and Elliot wasn’t ready, I could knock over the foundation we had been so carefully building.

* * * * *

Elliot was waiting for me at the deli, so we grabbed a quiet, quick bite. By the time we reached my apartment and Elliot was standing in my entryway, shucking off his backpack, it was about 8:15 pm.

After he slid off his backpack, he bent to rummage around, and he pulled out my Columbia t-shirt.

I shook my head no.

“Keep it. I like knowing you have something of mine and that maybe, just maybe, you’re wearing it,” I said with a flirty grin.

“Okay,” Elliot said with a shrug as he stuffed the shirt back into his bag.

“Besides. You look good in white,” I said, knowing I couldn’t be deterred by one ignored comment. Elliot was wicked smart and could read people, but that ability seemed to diminish as he got closer to someone. I wondered if maybe that was why he kept his distance from most people—it made him feel too vulnerable.

Elliot looked at me, clearly determining whether or not I was joking.

“And you say I can’t take a compliment,” I huffed.

“You can’t,” Elliot said, seizing the shift in the conversation that would allow him to have the upper hand. “Your legs look good in that skirt,” he said as his eyes looked at me from top to bottom.

I narrowed my own eyes and replied, “Now see. I don’t know if you mean that or if you said it just to get me to say I don’t think it’s genuine, thus proving your point.”

Elliot chuckled. “Point proven. You can’t take a compliment.”

“Such an ass,” I said, smiling. “I should take back my meticulously planned evening.”

“Planned? So, this wasn’t just a random invitation?”

“God no. I have to mentally prepare for all my interactions with you,” I blurted out before realizing how terrible that sounded.

Sometimes it really was a blessing Elliot thought so much before he spoke so I could retract my foot-in-mouth statement, but unfortunately, his face was an open book. I could see the beginnings of hurt twist his features, so I rushed an explanation.  

“I don’t mean it in a bad way. Just in an ‘I think about you a lot’ way. I don’t want to say the wrong thing and have you look at me kinda like you’re looking at me now. Okay?”

Elliot’s brows contracted before he visibly turned his face back into an unreadable mask. It was remarkable to watch—like he just flipped a switch and turned off his emotion.

He nodded, but I could tell he already assigned a negative meaning to my words. I hadn’t meant it that way, but it was exhausting interacting with him at times. I still felt like I was taking one step forward, creeping along nicely, and then boom. I scared him and he bolted and we were ten steps behind where we started.

At least my indecision about pursuing a relationship with him was pretty damn warranted.

“I’m going to change,” I said. “It’s hot as fuck outside, so you may want to put on my t-shirt if you’re not wearing one under your dress shirt.”

“We’re going outside?”

“Yup!” I said, shooting him a grin.

Elliot looked at me with suspicion, but I shook my head and took off down the hall toward my bedroom. I dressed in a pair of shorts and a tank top, and I slid into some flip-flops. I pulled my hair up, knowing it wouldn’t survive any more time than it already had outdoors.

I walked back out to the living room, but Elliot was nowhere to be seen. I had just enough time to wonder if I really had scared him off before he emerged from the bathroom wearing tight black jeans and my white Columbia t-shirt.

“After last Friday, I decided to keep a change of clothes in my backpack.”

“Smart,” I said, eyeing the way his jeans clung to his thighs before sliding my eyes up to his face to appreciate how the tan tone of his skin was emphasized next to the white cotton of my t-shirt.

“Can I have another clue? I don’t really like surprises.”

“Mmmmm, no,” I said, enjoying my facetiousness. “Although, I did give you a clue earlier this week.”

Elliot’s eyes moved around my apartment as he thought back, and then, his face lit up.

“S’mores,” he said with a tiny timbre of excitement in his tone as his eyes connected with mine.

“Clever kitten,” I said as I started pulling out the supplies we had bought over the weekend.

“They won’t be as good as they’d be over a real bonfire, but a charcoal grill will serve the purpose.”

We headed up to the rooftop, which was delightfully empty given there was no special occasion and the work week was still droning on. I used my key to get out the charcoal grill’s supplies from the storage on the roof.

Despite telling Elliot to sit on the couch and relax, he hovered, watching everything I did.

“And now we wait,” I said as I prodded the coals with my tongs, encouraging them to catch. “The more they burn down, the better the taste.”

I plopped on the white couch and looked toward the setting sun. Elliot joined me and we slowly built up to a steady conversation. Away from people and when he was comfortable, Elliot talked a lot. It was almost comical to think of the juxtaposition housed within his lithe little body—it was like two people lived inside of him, one of them plagued by insecurities, and the other, just a normal guy, or rather, a guy who could just about pass for normal if it weren’t for his intellect.

Elliot wasn’t just knowledgeable about computers. He kept up with the news. He had keen insights about society. And he even liked to read the classics, or really just about any book he got his hands on.  

But work was the easiest and safest topic for both of us since that was the baseline for our friendship. I finally asked Elliot how he was doing as the dust began to settle, eager to hear his thoughts in person instead of from behind the safety of a screen.

“It’s weird,” Elliot began before he broke eye contact to gather his thoughts. “People are nicer to me, or at least they seem to be going out of their way to talk to me.”

“Colin is treating you alright?” I asked, curious if he was going to be an asshole about the whole thing.

“It was him, wasn’t it? He insisted on the letter,” Elliot finished with a statement, not a question.

I was quiet for a moment, warring with myself about whether I should say anything or not. It was an HR issue, and those could be tricky, but who would Elliot tell? What damage could come from talking to the one guy who was never going to tell anyone anything?

“I know you would never say anything, but I have to say this to make myself feel better—you can’t repeat anything I say about the . . . incident.”

Elliot raised his eyebrows at me and nodded.

“Yes, it was Colin. He’s kind of a “bro,” I explained, my hands rising to make quote marks in the air. “And since you’re totally not that kind of guy, he has no even ground with you—you’re smarter than him and he can’t deal with that.”

“What makes you describe him as a “bro?” Elliot said, imitating my earlier air-quotes.

“Mmm . . . he loves every sport, plays basketball with some of the guys in the company on Saturdays. He has that arrogance about him, that unwarranted arrogance that a guy who enjoys showing off just how much of a guy he is has. He used to run every day before work and he’d come upstairs all sweaty—and I mean sweaty as in looking like he’d just gone swimming sweaty—and he’d just go “freshen up” in his office. It grossed me out so much I flat-out offered to comp him if he took time to shower at the gym and was late for work. After that, he didn’t come to work sweaty anymore. Don’t get me wrong—woo! Fitness! But gross,” I said, wrinkling my nose just remembering what he looked like and smelled like.

“Every sport?”

“As far as I know—I do think he has season tickets to the Knicks, though. When he first started working for us, he asked me to a game,” I said, volunteering the information to see what Elliot would do with it.

Nothing, of course.

“I did notice he has a Mets pennant in his office,” Elliot said, more to himself than to me.

I shrugged my shoulders.

“Like I said, he’s a dude. Or he at least wants everyone to know he’s a dude.”

“Does he have a girlfriend?”

“No. And I think that’s why he’s been extra Colin-y lately. He has a son with his ex.”

“What’s his name?” Elliot asked, quickly.

“You’re asking a lot from me because I don’t typically store information that has no relevance to myself. It’s something like Chris or Chuck or Chad?”

Elliot nodded.

“Would you want him to go—I mean, if you had a choice? Would you want Colin to leave CIStech?”

I chewed at my bottom lip a little, really considering Elliot’s question.

“I don’t know. That’s a hard question to answer. What I can tell you is that I wish I could clone JaLeah. She’s just a superfreak of an awesome person. I’ve never really met anyone as smart and dynamic as she is—she just makes everyone feel so welcome.”

“I think she’s funny,” Elliot said.

“Really?” I said smiling and arching my brow. “That’s interesting.”

“Why is that interesting?”

“I just wouldn’t have thought you would think about something like that.”

“That’s kind of insulting,” Elliot said, his voice flat and unreadable. “I do enjoy humor now and then.”

I shook my head and chuckled.

“See? I keep learning new things about you?”

“You told me I intrigued you, and that you have to figure out people who intrigue you.”

I reached out and poked at Elliot’s thigh, gently prodding.

“Is there a recording device you’re using to play back every conversation we’ve ever had?”

“I listen,” Elliot said, smiling. “Especially when people intrigue me.”

I looked at Elliot and there was a smile in his eyes even though there wasn’t one on his lips. I felt like I could drown in his grey, stormy eyes when they sparkled, housing the mischief he never really let anyone see.

Our eyes locked, intensely focused on one another for a long enough time that it made me look away, almost embarrassed. I felt sure he could see my interest, naked and wanting before him, but he just didn’t make a move—either to look away or to move closer. Just . . . nothing.

“Alright—let’s get our smores prepped,” I said, getting up to reach for the bag of groceries on the table.

As the sun set and the lights on the rooftop flickered on, Elliot and I made our smores. We laughed, well I laughed, especially when he caught his marshmallow on fire and waved the toaster fork causing the marshmallow to propel into one of the rooftop trees. He looked like a dark-haired version of Denis the Menace, and I had tears in my eyes at the expression of horror on Elliot’s face as his marshmallow went sailing.

I positioned his fork over the coals for the next round and he attentively turned the marshmallow, refusing to even take his eyes off of it until it was perfectly browned on all sides.

“Your hands are healing quickly,” I commented.

“Thanks to you,” Elliot said sheepishly, shooting me a quick smile before returning his gaze to his marshmallow.

After we ate our fill of s’mores, we got comfy on the couch as we waited for the charcoal to burn down until it was safe to leave for the night.

We didn’t talk as much, but relaxed, enjoying each other’s presence, and I sat in the middle instead of on the end so I could test the waters, occasionally brushing a light touch to Elliot’s jeans or his bare arm, and he even reciprocated some of those furtive touches as he poked fun at me, teasing me for my inability to keep the plots of all three of the Back to the Future movies straight.

Eventually I sighed, knowing it was getting late and I didn’t want Elliot getting back to his neighborhood too late. We gathered up the left-over groceries and I shouldered my tote bag.

We said goodbye in my doorway, and Elliot moved in to hug me tight. We lingered for a moment, but he moved away and quickly pressed the elevator button. I watched him get on and we waved goodnight, a small smile ghosting across his lips as the doors closed.

I shut the door to my apartment and leaned back, thunking my head against it.

Purgatory. I was stuck in indecision-purgatory. Elliot was never, ever going to make the first move. If I wanted our relationship to shift, I’d have to do it, but it felt wrong. I was the one in the position of power. It would make more sense if Elliot made the first move so I wouldn’t feel like I was taking advantage of him.

Why did this have to be so fucking complicated?

* * * * *

The next two weeks proceeded much in the same fashion. Elliot and I texted nightly, and once or twice a week, I’d invite him over. We’d come dangerously close to kissing, but then he’d just leave.

I dropped as many hints as I could, especially about workplace romances. I talked about how Miles (my boss) and Jayne (my secretary) had gotten together, hoping Elliot would pick up on the comparison.

If he did, he never said a word.

So, my fear of losing him as a friend left me to continue writhing in indecision. I loved how close Elliot and I were getting, and if I scared him by moving too quickly, I’d lose the first good friend I’d made in a long time.

And what was really funny was that I was certain if I talked to Elliot about this, he’d get it. I just couldn’t bring myself to do it.

Little did I know, fate was about to lend a hand; it was just too bad that fate was such a fucking bitch.

* * * * *

“You can’t be serious!” I laughed, finishing the last of my drink.

JaLeah nodded with emphasis, and we all burst into a fresh round of laughter.

Friday happy hours were always a fun way to wind down from the work week. We had a nice mix of people who went regularly and it was well known I always bought the first two rounds. People like Miles, singularly focused climbers, always underestimated the power of building relationships. That was one of the reasons why what happened with Elliot had stuck with me—I thought I had a better team than that.

People did seem to be closer now, more inclusive. There were several new faces at tonight’s gathering, and as I listened to the chatter around me, my thoughts drifted to one particularly attractive face that was not here. People’s voices became background noise as I thought about Elliot and I felt myself wishing he were here. I knew he’d hate every second of it, but he really was, albeit inadvertently, the reason for tonight’s greater sense of comradery.  

Sometimes, I truly did believe the universe revolved around me, but only so it could fuck me over for one hell of a laugh. Just as I was a million thoughts deep into Elliot, he walked in through the door, close on the heels of Sarah, his hands shoved in his pockets. When he got inside, his big eyes found mine almost immediately and as I coughed, choking a little on my drink, JaLeah looked to see what distracted me.

Her grin was wolfish.

“Don’t say it,” I warned, my voice low so as not to draw the attention of the others at our high-top table.

“I cannot believe he came,” JaLeah said, drawing attention because even when she believed she was whispering, she never was.

“Holy shit—Elliot’s here,” someone said from a few seats down.

“Don’t make a big deal,” I said in their direction as I watched Sarah and Elliot make their way across the bar to our tables.

Elliot ran a hand through his hair as his eyes glanced around as if he were checking for exits. More than a few eyes gave him a once over as he approached and I felt a pull of jealousy. Logically, I knew people were looking at him more out of curiosity than anything else, but logic wasn’t my forte when it came to Elliot Alderson.  

“Hey, everyone!” Sarah said, her smile bright and a bit nervous. “Look who I dragged out.”

Elliot gave the table a small smile as people said hello and a few who were a few drinks in gave a little whoop, which seemed to startle the small smile off of Elliot’s face.

JaLeah almost knocked me off my stool as she pushed me to stand.

“Elliot’s new, so he doesn’t know to cash in on Y/N’s generosity yet. Sarah—you can take my seat. What are you drinking?

“Gin and tonic, please!”

“You got it,” JaLeah said as she pushed Elliot and I toward the bar.

“Hey,” I said, once we were standing at the bar, our bodies pressed together thanks to the crowd.

“Hey,” Elliot said, his voice barely audible as he rested his hands on the edge of the bar, his fingers pressing into the hard surface.

“What can I get you to drink? I always buy the first two rounds for anyone at CIStech who shows up.”

“What are you drinking?”

“Vodka, cran. You want that?”

“Sure,” Elliot said, his eyes still refusing to settle on any one thing.

I reached over and rested my hand on his forearm.

“Are you sure you’re okay with being here?”

“Guess you can’t hold my hand all night this time,” Elliot said as his eyes flicked to mine.

I laughed.

“No, I suppose not. But, if you sit next to me, I’ll see what I can do,” I said as I winked at him.

Elliot smiled softly.

I put our drinks on my tab, along with Sarah’s. JaLeah had already dropped off Sarah’s drink and came back to say she was pirating the corner booth because our table was full and a few more people just showed up.

We followed JaLeah and I let Elliot scoot in before me. We crammed in and I shot Elliot a smirk as our bodies were forced to press nearer to each other. Elliot’s hand was fiddling with his drink until I reached down to pinch lightly at his outer thigh. His hand shot under the table and I gave it a squeeze before shooting him another look. He genuinely smiled as he realized we could hold hands without alerting anyone to our activities, except maybe JaLeah, but I wasn’t worried about her since she knew how I felt about Elliot without me ever having said a word.

As it turned out, the folks who joined us in our booth were good company. JaLeah kept the conversation light and fun, like always, and I could even feel the vibrations of Elliot’s chuckles on occasion.

“You know, JaLeah,” I began. “Elliot thinks you’re quite funny.”

JaLeah raised an eyebrow and said, “It’s about time people truly appreciated my wit, so thank you, baby.”

Elliot grinned at her, either because he’d had a few drinks or because he genuinely liked JaLeah, and said, “You could be a character in an Oscar Wilde play.”

The table laughed and one of the tech’s jumped on the reference to talk about the new play based on Wilde’s life that had just opened.

I leaned over, my lips dangerously close to Elliot’s ear, and said, “See? This isn’t so bad.”

Elliot’s pinky wrapped around my own and squeezed, and I gave him a sweet smile before turning back to the others.

It was one of those nights when people just seemed to be having a great time. We ordered appetizers. The waitress kept our drinks filled. The conversation never lulled, and bursts of laughter kept peppering the air. Before any of us knew it, it was 9:00 and a few people at our table started checking their phones with more frequency.

“Shit—I forgot my wife’s parents were in town. She’s gonna kill me,” Travis, one of JaLeah’s techs said.

“I told my boyfriend I’d be home an hour ago,” another tech said, giggling.

“It’s been a minute since we’ve had such a good night out,” JaLeah said. “See, Elliot? You should come more often.”

“It was cool to hang out,” Travis said. “You’re usually so intense at work—kinda like the big boss,” Travis finished with a chuckle.

I could feel Elliot’s fingers brush against mine. We had been playing this touching, not really, sometimes definitely, game all night and I was wet. I was appalled at myself for being so turned on just by proximity, but I couldn’t stop thinking what if this were normal? What if Elliot were mine? What if we went home together at the end of the night?

“There’s nothing wrong with taking work seriously,” I said, smiling. “That’s why I am the big boss.”

Travis and the others laughed.

We settled our bills and said our goodnights, but I noticed Sarah lingering at the door, clearly waiting for Elliot.

“I think we take the same line home,” she said smiling up at him as we reached her.

Elliot’s hands found their way into his pockets, the material of his dress shirt bunching a bit as he shoved them in.

“I take the 6,” Elliot stated, tension creeping into his voice.

JaLeah was giving out hugs like candy on Halloween, and I laughed to myself. She was such an extrovert, and I appreciated her energy on nights like this. The others slowly went in their separate directions as Elliot stayed close by, Sarah still talking.

“Great! We can ride together. It’s nice to have someone to talk to on the train at night. I forgot my earbuds this morning,” she said, chattering happily.

“Actually, Y/N, I was wondering if you wanted to, uh, come back to my place...” Elliot said, his eyes focused intensely on mine.

I could feel JaLeah and Sarah, damn near open-mouthed and watching this exchange. I felt like I might throw up on my shoes for a minute and I was thankful the street was dark because I knew there was a blush coloring my cheeks. I thought quickly, and shook my head, my words tumbling out of my mouth.

“Oh! That bug—that bug you told me about. You wanted me to run the analytics on it. I’ll send you the pin for Team Viewer and we can do it this weekend—I gotta get home. Taking care of my neighbor’s cat. Probably out of food. Have a good night!” I said, grinning like a madwoman and telling myself that Elliot did not look like I just kicked him in the face.  

I waved to the three of them and took off for my train, thankful it was in the opposite direction. I turned around to see Elliot and Sarah headed in the same direction. I almost tripped over my own foot as JaLeah jumped up and down and mouthed “What the fuck, Y/N?! What the fuck?!”

I shook my head, turned around, and doubled my steps. I felt sick to my stomach. Fate had just laid an opportunity bare, spread eagle on the floor, and I walked away.

By the time I jumped onto my train and collapsed into a seat, I was fighting back tears. The look on Elliot’s face haunted me. I really, really hurt him—and I wasn’t sure I could fix it this time.

[chierushi]

REVIEW: Ang Huling El Bimbo The Musical

TRIGGER WARNING. This should be watched with caution as it contains graphic violence. Spoilers also ahead, so skip if you haven't seen it yet.

It started with a cassette tape being played, which may state that the plot is a creative take solely on the song title. Most Filipinos grew up listening to Eraserheads, both young and old. We have our own stories to be reminded of whenever we hear any of their tracks. I think this notion played a major part to lure the people to see the play. It simply screams nostalgia, with a promise of another tale to take away.

Three friends from college presently pursuing successful but separate lives were brought together to be questioned by the police due to the death of a girl who’re once very close to them. The unfortunate event forces them to deal with their haunting past that they have been putting on hold for years and trying to escape from. The characters and scenes will be represented along with the songs from Eraserheads.

Emman: “Both of you tama na! Wala na kong pakialam kung ano man ‘yang bagahe niyo [o] ano man ‘yang gimik niyo. Ang klaro sakin, kailangan na natin ‘tong gawin: tayong tatlo, sama-sama, for once and for all. Isipin niyo na lang, panahon na. ‘Di ba? Kailangan na.“

Whether things in our life have closure or not, every one of it, every person we know, will affect us one way or another. From here, it was clearly presented that they were running from something, but the details of it was yet to unfold. Slowly, we were brought back to university life of these men. We are treated with short scenes that may or may not have happened to us from that era of our lives, when everything sounds hopeful. All opportunities seemed close and within reach, hence the symbolism of them raising up their hands toward heavens, toward their dreams.

Hector: “Alam mo, tsong, ngayong nandito ka na, lahat magbabago: pananaw mo, kilos mo, pati punto mo.”

Anthony: “Oo nga! Kasi alam mo, Emman, for the first time, we are finally and totally free. Ayan na oh.”

Emman: “Kahit saan ka pumunta, may koneksyon ka pa rin. Sa pamilya mo. Sa bayan mo.”

I particularly love the scene where Anthony (played by Phi Palmos) in the midst of his peers’ blossoming lovelives, remained positive and said, “Eh yung crush ko, malapit na kong...pansinin.” After that, his friends joined him in his enthusiasm.

Pare Ko depicts a man in love, in shambles, and in need of advice. It was shown as a group of (mainly) men doing military drills, an emphasis on masculinity of the song. Nothing else speaks men better than being a soldier. When Anthony sang the bridge, for a moment, we are taken to the vulnerable side of being infatuated, something we rarely see with men. We remember that being in love is a beautiful place, no matter how crazy it gets. From their civil military training, through Officer Banlaoi, the three men got to meet and befriend Joy.

One major flaw of hers was she considered every man her savior. This could be the reason why she didn’t take Banlaoi’s forwardness and acts of service as a red flag, and continued to rely on him even at her expense. “Hanap ko lang naman, ‘Tiyang, katapat at katuwang,” she told ‘Tiyang Dely. “’Yon lang naman pangarap ko sa buhay e: ang makahanap ng magiging mabait sakin,” she told Hector, “Di mo maiintindihan ‘yon kasi ang dami niyong pangarap. Ang dami niyong kayang gawin. Nakakapag-aral kayo. May kinabukasan kayo. Kaya niyong abutin ang lahat. E ako?” As we go along, she will attempt to further her dreams, but her low self-esteem stayed with her. Her friendship with the trio may have ushered her to believe more, but that’s the farthest she got. For her, she’ll never be capable of anything. She ended this dialogue with “Ayoko nang umuwi ng probinsya...habang buhay na lang ako aasa,” a foreshadow of her decision to leave ‘Tiyang Dely alone to go back home in the province.

Andre: “Joy, walang ganoon. Walang tinutulungan lang ng ganoon-ganoon. Palaging may kapalit ‘yon.”

Life is never always fancy. When they sang Wag Kang Matakot to each other, it gave us an assurance that even when matters go downhill, there’s no need to afraid. When the going gets tough, we go through it together.

Finally, we get to the graduation. Their getting in and getting out of the university is freedom. Once again, they raise up their hands, reminding themselves of the goals they are now nearer to than they were before. They invite Joy to Antipolo and see the overlooking view, to bid their farewells to her. This should’ve been a good memory. Graduation should’ve been the symbol of their independence. The horrendous events that transpired after incarcerated them forever, still able to achieve but merely surviving, never at peace.

There was a warning at the beginning of the stream but I guess I didn’t pay attention to it, or maybe it didn’t provided the right amount of caution to its viewers. The rape scene got me immobilized to my seat. It was hard for me to re-watch the whole musical to compose a more elaborate review, especially this scene. I’m actually stalling now, repeatedly bringing to mind that they are professional actors and this is fiction. It’s tempting to mute, but it’s going to be unfair to not see the entirety of it. To play Ang Huling El Bimbo here, while being the better verdict is nonetheless unsettling.

Just as perplexing is the graduation ceremony. Everyone is wearing purple instead of the usual black. The color reminded me of death. Joy bringing garlands to them further echoes this, seeing that this similarly depicts a wake. Another beautifully haunting is them singing With A Smile in various rhythms. 'TIyang Dely was sent back home to province due to bankrupt. She thought she’ll be with Joy, but got fooled by her. Joy held on more to Banlaoi as his sole rescuer after being abandoned by her friends.

‘Tiyang Dely: “Kaya nga kung kaya. Anong kapalit?”

How can they leave their friend just like that? They are traumatized, too, but they’re not the ones who got raped. They kept refusing to talk to her even after years have passed and it’s Joy who kept reaching them out. I understand if they’re blaming themselves for what happened. They wanted to ease their guilt, but to be selfish in this situation is unacceptable. It angered me when the adult Anthony said, “There are just some things you don’t want to go back to, and people you don’t need to remember,” as if that was like any other heartbreak to move on about.

Anthony: “Puta, habang buhay nating dadalhin ‘to e.”

Hector: “Kaya ni Joy ‘yan.”

Emman: “Gago, so balewala na lang?”

Hector: “Ako nang bahala. Kakausapin ko si Joy.”

Emman: “Anong magagawa ‘non?”

Hector: “Sasabihin ko sa kanya na kaya niya ‘to.”

Emman: “E gago ka pala talaga e.”

When Banlaoi pointed a gun at her, she gasped with fear, hands shaking. He then told her, “Ingat ka.” This is the only time that he poised to end her life. She was able to tolerate all the abuses and be under this appalling man as long as he keeps her and her family alive. She thought that she’s still in control, but his gesture said otherwise. This puts her into panic and called Emman, Hector, and Anthony one last time. Got caught in the midst of their personal predicaments, they all cut the phone call, saying they have problems of their own too and don’t need more from other people. While the men were struggling to maintain their posh lives, Joy was fighting for her life.

Hector: “Pag tumatawag siya, di ko alam anong isusumbat niya. I mean, you can’t forget these things.”

Contrary to their belief, the reason why she kept bugging them is because she’s trying to tell them that she’s alright. and they need to worry no more. She doesn’t want them to be victims of the past anymore.

‘Tiyang Dely: “Ni minsan, hindi niya kayo sinisi sa nangyari sa kanya.”

After the news of Joy’s death, they all gathered at the morgue. Banlaoi tried to be of help by giving them money, but ‘Tiyang Dely strongly refused, getting Ligaya at her back and out of his sight. What followed was Hector telling her, “Kami na po bahala sa lahat ng gastos,” stupidly missing the hint earlier. This made ‘Tiyang Dely cry (I mean, come on, dude still hasn’t learned his lesson) saying, “Ganoon na lang ano?”

Ligaya, after mourning for her mother’s death, stopped her tears flowing before facing Anthony, Emman, and Hector. She conversed as if she knows them too well, while they don’t know her at all. The three men promised to take care of her. They lay Joy to her final rest along with their grievances of the past. If only they faced the monster under their beds a little bit earlier, they could’ve gotten it out completely. The guilt may now be bearable, but the fact that they could’ve saved not just Ligaya but also Joy is the hard truth they will be carrying for the rest of the lives.

Awful things aside, Ligaya wearing white signifies hope. She is her mother without the burdens of her past. The ending brings back Hector’s car with their young selves reaching out to heavens, reaching out to their dreams. They are joined atop the car with Joy, who’s noticeably not raising her hands. Ligaya is now with them, dancing like her mother once was.

Other things worth mentioning:

Tindahan ni Aling Nena performance, specifically Anthony’s line “shampoo, toothpaste, toothbrush, noodles...yun lang.”

The not-so-subtle rally for free education in the Pare Ko performance.

Yes. Phi Palmos as Anthony. That’s it. Period.

Gab Pangilinan’s portrayal of Joy is superb! Her vocals is breathtaking. From the time she sang Ligaya, I looked forward to her every appearance. Her transformation from being bubbly to troubled soul after one scene is impressive.

Vic Robinson’s (Andrei) and Joy’s mash-up of Ligaya and Tama Na, then ‘Tiyang Dely enters, singing “Ganiyan ma-inlab”.

Wishing Wells as Emman’s love letter to his girlfriend

Menchu Yulo, who played the adult Joy, didn’t exude distress as Gab Pangilinan had done, and made Joy’s struggles less believable.

Some people have expressed disappointment due to its lack of solution on the pressing social issues. In my opinion, I think it wasn't meant to give an answer. Like any work of art, it made a statement. It just happened that what it said was disturbing. However, it is up to us, who lives in the reality of these characters, to do better accordingly.

We should all see AHEBTM in theaters since some parts aren’t focused due to camera work. I hope that once the pandemic ends, they’ll give this musical another chance on stage.

[ohblackdiamond]

no change in the weather (peter/paul, nc-17)

“You’re gonna owe me the rest of your life for joining the band. Just like I’m gonna owe you the rest of my life for letting me in. Whether you like it or not, that’s the way it’s always gonna be.” During the Farewell Tour, Peter confronts Paul.

Notes: Credit to @collatxral-damage for input on the initial rough draft and the necklace; without it I don’t think this fic would’ve been completed.

“no change in the weather”

by Ruriruri

It’s wild when he lets it hit him, just how long he’s known Paul Stanley. More than half the bastard’s life. He was still Stanley Eisen when they met, legally, at least, but he’d never been that to Peter. He’d introduced himself in front of Hendrix’s old studio as Paul, stuck out his hand nervously and smiled, there with his long, curly hair and flower-printed tee and jeans. Peter remembered being disappointed, and then just resigned. Paul told him later he was twenty, but he looked younger. He looked like a kid. It had been ten times worse during his actual audition, when Gene and Paul both walked into the restaurant he played at wearing the exact same hippie outfits as before.

“You guys just stay in the back, all right?” Peter had gestured, unnecessarily, to the clientele in their immaculate suits and ties. “They think you’re fruits.”

They think you’re fags would have been more accurate, but he hadn’t wanted to blow his own audition with an insult. Paul and Gene both knew it, anyway. Gene had kind of nodded and Paul had followed him over to the corner of the restaurant. Peter had played the set and that was it; he was in. He was in the band of a part-time cabbie and a schoolteacher. A band that didn’t even have a name yet. Didn’t even have a lead guitarist yet.

In five months, they’d gotten the name and the lead guitarist. Another five or so and they had the record deal, and then they were on the road. And by that time, he’d spent a stupid amount of time with that kid. Eaten the sandwiches he’d brought back from the deli on the way to band practice. Listened to him bitch and fret on the phone and in person, share his dreams in weird, furtive little bursts, as though Paul was always counting on a dismissal before he even got the words out.

“I used to have this fantasy,” he’d confessed once, late at night, after a show, “when I was real young. Like, shit, maybe eight or nine, I dunno.”

“That’s kinda young for fantasies. You find a dirty magazine or something?” Peter had taken another gulp of beer and sat up in the bed across from Paul’s, squinting at his face in the dim lamplight. They’d shared a girl just after the show, a pretty brunette undergrad. Showered together after she left, fooled around in there a little too long. Gone from smacking each other with washcloths to real stupid stuff. Jacking each other off as the shower ran, high off the excitement of the concert and the girl. Once they’d stepped out of the bathroom, with all the evidence washed down the drain, Peter had thought he’d feel awful about it, but he hadn’t. He still felt good and high and—secure, oddly secure.

“Not a sex fantasy, pervert.” There hadn’t been a blowdryer in the hotel room, so Paul was lying in bed with a towel wrapped tight around his hair. Every so often, he’d rearrange it and try to twist out a little more of the water. “Anyway, I’d be in the schoolyard and sitting up in some chair and all my classmates would be down beneath me, calling me King Paul.”

“That’s pretty screwed-up,” Peter said after awhile, and Paul had glanced away. “Who do you think you are, Joseph out of the Bible? You want everyone who ever picked on you worshipping you?”

“I didn’t say they picked on me.”

“You didn’t have to.”

There’d probably been plenty to pick on, from what Peter could see. Paul had been a bit fat and still was a bit effeminate, and he had a lisp that he kept trying to get rid of but couldn’t. Not that it took much for grammar school kids to start tormenting. But most people got over it. Peter had, or thought he had. Up until that night, he’d thought his and Paul’s rockstar ambitions came from the same place. They didn’t.

It should’ve been more of a wedge between them than it managed to be. From then on, they kept sharing girls and kept fooling around every so often. They didn’t discuss it. It didn’t mean anything. Peter would do it with Ace, too—Ace was wilder, warmer about it, but Paul, for all his shyness, was more consistent. Just something that took the edge off, something that felt a little more real than dressing up in bondage gear to play the drums four days out of every week.

About a year later came the Hotter Than Hell photoshoot. Lydia sitting nearly naked in his lap, soft and flirting as he’d posed with her. Paul laying ten feet behind him on that king-sized bed, uncharacteristically soused, head lolling like a rose on too thin a stem, just about ready to break. Just about ready to pass out. There’d been a couple guys on the set, too. One of them had been watching Paul, tossing out catcalls Paul was too drunk to do more than laugh at. Peter had laughed, too, at first, until the guy started to head toward the bed between shots, until the come-ons got nastier. Paul was still laughing then, completely oblivious, guileless as a kid, half-dangling off the bed as he tried scooting over to offer the guy some room.

Peter hadn’t seen anything else, but he’d heard Gene stomping over. Heard the thump as he shoved the guy off the bed and onto the hard studio tile. Twenty minutes later and the shoot was over and Gene had locked Paul in his own car, like he thought the pervert was going to drag him out bodily, and that was that.

Peter had felt a little sick, thinking about it. Even back then. He hadn’t stopped it. Been too damn stupid to think it’d get any farther than a kiss or a grope, at best. Only Gene had recognized the danger for what it was.

Afterwards, half-sober at best, Peter had tried to ask him about it. Maybe even thank him for it. Gene had just shrugged.

“Paul’s fragile.”

“Tell me about it. I’ve only been living in the same room with him the entire year.”

“You don’t understand.” Something in Gene’s expression had curdled. His voice was lower; there was an edge to it Peter didn’t recognize. “Paul can’t—handle things.”

Peter hadn’t pushed for any more of an explanation, for once. The look on Gene’s face told him enough. Christ, he’d never thought Gene had ever handled anything more traumatizing from a woman than a venereal disease. Thought all his stupid bravado about the girls he’d laid was only because he’d never really gotten any until the band got big. He hadn’t thought there was any more to it than that. Hadn’t wanted there to be any more to it than that.

But even Hotter than Hell’s more than twenty years on. Twenty-six years on, now, and Gene’s still up to all the old bullshit there anyway. Fidelity never did matter to him when he had Cher, when he had Diana, and it doesn’t matter to him now that he’s got two kids by a Playboy Playmate he won’t even give his last name to. No Coop, but he’s still getting the roadies to pick out chicks for him during the show. Huge-titted blondes that weren’t even alive during KISS’ prime. It’s like Gene thinks there’s a fountain of youth in being desired. Like hell he really is desired now—he’s just a bedpost notch they can brag about to their girlfriends later. Same as he ever was. Same as any of them ever were.

But Gene isn’t the only one. Ace has some drugged-out girlfriend that’s there often enough; otherwise, he’s got a groupie or two that he finds himself. He’s got computers set up in his hotel room, probably cameras, too, as if he’s going for one more hedonistic thrill. Ace used to seem indestructible. Even five, six years ago, he seemed indestructible, like maybe the Jendell bullshit wasn’t bullshit and he’d keep on and on and on, bouncing back from every wasted night. He’s faltering now. He’s really faltering now.

Paul, well. Paul’s in bad shape from all the stage stunts he’s still stupidly pulling. Probably back to gulping down white cross before shows just like he used to in the seventies. But for all his come-ons and preening onstage, he isn’t even trying to pull the girls into bed anymore. Just stalks off to his hotel room alone after concerts, barricading himself in like fucking Greta Garbo.

Paul’s wife used to drop by sometimes. She hasn’t this entire tour, and fuck, Paul honestly seems to think Peter doesn’t know why.

Paul seems to think Peter doesn’t know a lot of things. Par for the fucking course. When Peter calls him out on it, about the tour profits, the contract renegotiations—Paul dismisses him out of hand as smoothly as he would a journalist trying to get an angle. Gene isn’t any better about it, but it hurts worse, coming from Paul. Maybe because he didn’t used to be half this slimy. Maybe because he used to care.

Maybe because Paul still has something like a hold on him. Materially, anyway. God knows he hasn’t touched the guy for anything more than a handclasp or hug for the cameras in years, for all Peter’s certain Paul still thinks he’s worth fooling around with. No. Paul had had sort of a fascination with crosses, one he’d obliquely apologize for (“I think they look cool, guess that makes me a pretty lousy Jew”), whether Gene was next to him or not. They’d traded off a couple times, worn each other’s jewelry. Not just for photoshoots, but for going out in general. Paul swapping out the gold Star of David necklace he occasionally wore for one of Peter’s smaller crosses. Never the crucifixes, only the crosses. At some point Peter had just given one to him, out of convenience. The only reason he remembers is because Paul tried to put it on immediately and got the chain stuck in his hair. Peter’d had to help him free it. Doesn’t matter. Some little eighteen-karat necklace from the days they’d both drop thousands a month just on their wardrobes. Paul probably doesn’t even have it anymore.

It’s just as well.

He catches a glimpse of Paul behind him in the hallway one afternoon around noon. Paul glances his way, speeds up, then they’re walking together in silence, passing a couple stiff-suited businessmen on the way to the elevator. Paul pushes the lobby button, then looks over at him again, finger still hovering over the panel. Peter shrugs.

“Same.”

“Oh.” Paul pauses, resting a foot against the side of the elevator, all the way up against the metal railing. Has to be uncomfortable just holding that position, but Paul doesn’t flinch or even wobble. It’s like he thinks Peter has a camera at the ready for a photoshoot ten years too late to attract anybody. “You hungry?”

With Gigi back home, he’s been taking half his own lunches alone in his hotel room, not wanting to spend the meal listening to Paul bitch or Gene hit on the waitresses. Not wanting to see Ace drink himself to oblivion. He starts to shrug again, but Paul’s expression, weird and a little strained, keeps an outright no at bay.

“Wanna stop somewhere with me?”

The elevator dings before Peter answers. He keeps staring at Paul as the elevator descends, looking for some sign of deception. That smarmy, satisfied look he couldn’t erase while he was busy screwing him and Ace over. He can’t find it. The bags under Paul’s eyes are worse than usual. Eyeliner’s on, probably concealer, too. It’s just his mouth, pursed and crooked, giving him away now. Paul’s not trying to pull one on him right now. He’s just sad as hell.

“Yeah, sure.”

“Where do you wanna go?”

“I don’t care.” And then, seeing Paul’s deflated look as they get off the elevator, “Maybe something light like sandwiches.”

“There’s a bistro down the block. Gene said it was pretty good.” Paul digs a pair of sunglasses out of his pants pocket and puts them on.

“You’re pickier than Gene.”

“I won’t send anything back. Promise.”

“Like I believe that.”

“No, really, I won’t. Well, maybe if it’s really awful, but…”

They pass up the front desk on their way out. The girl behind it offers a cheeky little wave and a giggle that can’t be part of the five-star hotel experience at all. Paul lifts his hand idly and offers a smile, and Peter does, too, both speeding up their pace so she won’t have time to ask for a picture.

Maybe a picture wouldn’t have been such a bad thing to stop for. No one comes up to them the entire walk to the bistro. Peter feels a couple of stares from passerby, but none of the old excitable murmurs, those are-you-sures and it’s-them-it’s-them-I-swear. No screaming, sobbing high school girls trying to grab Paul by the arm like they thought he’d run off with them if they just tugged hard enough. No bodyguards following them around to keep fans in check. All the old ego boosts are gone except for the roar of the concert crowd.

Paul holds the door open for him at the restaurant. They have to seat themselves, a piece of normalcy Peter feels like he should resent, but he doesn’t. Peter barely glances at the menu before ordering a Reuben sandwich, fries, and a Sprite, while Paul yanks off his sunglasses and deliberates for five minutes over whether to get a half-sandwich, half-soup combo or just the soup. He ends up getting the lobster bisque instead.

“That’s really all you’re eating?” Peter asks as he passes the menus back to the waitress. Paul shrugs.

“I’m not that hungry.”

“First time in a long time.”

“What, me not being hungry?”

“No. You having soup for lunch.”

“It’s a bisque, be specific—”

“Are you going to have candy for dinner, too? Like you used to?”

Paul winces.

“God, I’m not that sentimental.”

“The hell you’re not,” Peter says, and he means it harsher than it comes out; instead, the words sound almost warm, almost fond. He can’t manage to call Paul out on his own nostalgia trips with any real rancor when he’s putting on the old greasepaint, too. “You used to eat, what, two rolls of Life Savers before concerts—”

“And a bag of Satellite Wafers for nutrition.” Paul stirs the bisque before taking a swallow. His nose wrinkles as Peter watches, but true to his word, he doesn’t send it back or even start complaining, just reaches across the table to get the pepper shaker. “Or maybe because they were about five calories a wafer, who knows? You can’t even get them anymore.”

Peter shifts a little in his seat. The Reuben’s just okay, nothing great, but the fries are fresh and smothered in grease. There’s that oily sheen radiating off them unapologetically in the dim lighting of the bistro. Miles better than the five-star shit Paul raves about. If he’s not careful, he’ll finish them off in another five minutes.

“I never ate all the Life Savers. Gene always got the cherry ones.”

“Does he even like cherry?”

“He likes getting his tongue red.” Paul takes another few spoonfuls of the bisque. Peter expects him to continue, to start a stupid tirade against Gene—they’re not the big buddies they used to be right now, as if Peter cares—but there’s nothing.

Nothing except that worn-down look on Paul’s face and that emptiness in those too-big, too-sad brown eyes. The girls used to go crazy for them, just nuts, but Peter had only ever been reminded of a droopy-eyed beagle. Without the Starchild façade perking them up, the comparison’s more accurate than ever.

It should be satisfying, Paul having a hard time. Should really make Peter feel vindicated for the hell he’s been through over the last decade, to see Paul really struggling to pull himself together. It’s about time Paul struggled for anything. A guy like him, so fucking sensitive and vain, stupid enough to believe his own hype even now. Greedy and spiteful enough to be sucking him and Ace dry for daring to ever quit the band. Berating him during practice like he’s just a hired gun, like he’s Eric Carr or Singer, those poor bastards. Enjoying knocking him down peg after fucking peg. It ought to feel great knowing Paul’s sinking faster and harder than he ever did, knowing he’s trying to crush Peter’s ego out of his own flat-out misery.

But every time Peter looks at Paul, he doesn’t feel satisfied or pleased or any of that shit, just hollowed-out and edgy all at once. Like he should do something—which is fucking stupid. There’s nothing he’s ever been able to do for Paul. Not in twenty years at least. Paul doesn’t want anything from him, either, except a series of servile yeses and contract signatures and a drumming ability his destroyed arms can’t manage. Paul’s never wanted anything from him that Peter could offer up.

Peter’s tapping his fingers against the table before he realizes it. At first Peter doesn’t think Paul notices, either, until he feels his eyes on him.

“You okay?”

“I’m fine.” A breath, then, quiet, abrupt—“You better go easier on yourself sometimes, Paul.”

“I can’t.”

“You should,” Peter says, insists, weirdly, and then he shoves the basket of fries towards Paul’s side of the table.

He’s not positive why he’s done it. He doubts Paul will do anything but push them back. Wouldn’t be the first time. Paul’s piss-poor relationship with food is just like everything else in his life, all about control and a desperate need for approval. He’d starve if he thought it’d make one more chick in the audience think he was attractive. Eat an entire cake if that same girl told him he looked good doing it. No real sense of self, just a still-pretty face Peter shouldn’t give a damn about anymore.

Paul’s expression shifts slightly. He doesn’t look quite as blatantly miserable there for a second, as he reaches out his hand—black nail polish chipped, knuckles ragged—and takes a fry from the basket. Hesitates, eats it carefully, like it’s something delicate—and then he puts a hand on the basket, about to push it aside.

“Paul, c’mon, it won’t kill you. Lose any more weight and you’re gonna need those suspenders.”

“Pete, I can’t—”

“Sure, you can,” and Peter reaches over and takes another fry, holding it up a few inches from Paul’s mouth.

To Paul’s credit, he doesn’t glance around the restaurant, or snap at Peter to cut that shit out. Maybe even he realizes nobody’s looking. His fingers curve on top of Peter’s—no wedding ring—and he leans in, tugging the fry out of Peter’s grasp with his teeth and tongue, and eats it. There’s the quick flick of Paul’s tongue against his skin, brief enough Peter almost wouldn’t have noticed if it weren’t for that glint in Paul’s eyes. That sudden eagerness. Just like he’s found an advantage to press. Just like one of their old impromptu photoshoots. The effect isn’t the same on a dozen different levels, but something too-familiar and raw coils up in Peter’s stomach anyway. He starts to move his hand down, but Paul catches his wrist before he can manage.

“You gonna give me another?”

“Quit fucking around, Paul.”

“I’m not fucking around.”

“You are. Knock it off.” Peter yanks his hand back. Paul lets him.

“I—” Paul falters. He looks a little hurt, bewildered, maybe, which is strange to watch. He almost looks like he’s about to apologize, which is even crazier, but then his lips purse tight and he snatches a sudden, awkward fistful of the fries. Then he pushes the basket back with his other hand.

They don’t talk much after that. Paul makes some halfhearted conversation about Gigi, asking when she’ll be back by. When Jenilee’ll be back by. Peter barely answers, just eats the rest of the Reuben as Paul finishes off the fries he took. The only real discussion they have is over the check.

“I’ve got it.”

“No, I’ve got it. I invited you out.” Paul’s already thumbing through his wallet. Peter catches a brief glimpse of the plastic-covered photos inside, and he’s vaguely surprised to see Evan and his niece Ericka in there instead of Starchild. Evidence of Paul’s basic humanity’s been just that lacking lately. Paul pulls out a twenty and a five, sticks them on top of the bill, and stands up. “You coming back to the hotel?”

“Got nowhere else to be.”

“Sure? We’ve got six hours before they want us at the stadium.”

Almost thirty years of knowing him, and Paul still doesn’t want to go anywhere alone. The guts that made him eager to sing to twenty thousand people a night, paired with an anxiety that crippled him out of being able to do basic fucking things like sit in a restaurant by himself. Probably still does. Probably exactly why he even invited Peter along.

“I’m still heading back. You go off if you want.”

“No, I’ll head back, too.” And it’s confirmed, no matter what Paul says next to justify it. Peter’s just another prop to stave off his own pitiful lonesomeness. “I mean, there’s nothing really here to see.”

---

The walk back from the bistro isn’t as quiet as the walk there. A couple passerby stop them for autographs and they pose for all of one photo before getting back inside the hotel. The attention perks them both up, briefly, especially Paul, and they’re talking again on the way to the elevator.

“That last girl was really looking at you, Pete.”

“She was looking at both of us, c’mon.”

“No, no, it was you, I could tell.” Paul starts to smile. “She said she had your solo album.”

“I had four of those,” but Peter can’t manage much rancor over it. It feels a little too good to be wanted, however briefly. The concert crowd, fickle as it is, rarely compares to a gushing fan out on the streets.

“I’m just saying, she didn’t say she had mine. You could’ve had a real easy opening.”

“Yeah, twenty years ago. C’mon, Paul, I’m done with the groupie shit. So’re you.”

Paul blinks, then inclines his head and pushes the button for the elevator.

“Yeah.”

“Aren’t you?”

“I’m done with a lot,” Paul says shortly. For a second Peter almost wants to push it with him. Call him out on why Pam never comes around. Ask him if it’s the groupies from the last four years—or fuck, the last ten—or if it’s the escort services he used to patron on tour, or if it’s just too many years of breathing the same air as him that’s made her leave. It might be worth it after Paul’s stunt at the restaurant. It might really be worth it to see Paul’s expression crumple, except that’s not the crux of what’s bothering Peter, and it never has been.

“Done fucking me over?”

“What?”

That stupid doe-eyed look again. That twitch to Paul’s mouth as the elevator ascends like a ski lift.

“You know what I’m talking about.”

“Peter, what’ve I done—”

The elevator dings and they get off, Paul still giving him that look like he really has no idea at all. Peter speeds up, trying to force Paul to pick up the pace.

“You’re cheating me. I sign whatever the hell you want me to sign after I get my lawyer on it, and every month I get a fucking check that doesn’t even match the terms in the contract. Now explain that one.”

“It’s based on ticket sales, Peter, I explained that.”

“You didn’t explain shit.”

“You wanna look at numbers? I’ll get out whatever paperwork you want. The Reunion Tour was a flash in the pan. We won’t ever make that kind of money again.”

“Oh, you’ll make it. You’ll run this show straight into the ground just to get one more nickel.” Peter exhales. “I can’t take this shit anymore. You guys are fucking me at every turn.”

Paul stops dead in his tracks. Looks him straight in the eye and takes his arm. Peter’s too surprised to flinch or pull back as Paul leans in, right in the middle of the hallway, and kisses him on the mouth.

He hasn’t kissed him in years. Years. Peter’s mouth might as well be a plank of wood for all he responds to the still-familiar pressure. There’s no warmth to it. Paul’s eyes are closed and his hand’s squeezing Peter’s arm, but there’s no warmth to it at all, no pleasure, no want, even, nothing but meanness. By the time Paul pulls away, there’s a sick, choked feeling somewhere in Peter’s throat, almost a shakiness as he yanks his arm back, and then Paul’s got the nerve to spin another lie.

“Peter, I swear on my kids, there’s nothing going on.”

“The hell there isn’t,” Peter manages, shoving Paul aside and walking straight back toward his hotel room.

“Pete—wait—”

Paul’s following him. Peter can hear those stupid, clipped steps of his against the carpet, one more unforeseen product of wearing six-inch heels for over a decade. But Peter just quickens his pace, tugs out his keycard midstride and shoves it into the slot, satisfaction seeping through him as he slams the door right in Paul’s face. He doesn’t even wait for Paul’s knock before throwing open the minibar door and getting out a bottle of champagne, one he doesn’t even end up drinking. The sight of the label makes him think of Ace and how many braincells the poor bastard’s fried with every drop fizzing down his throat. Ace’ll be mush onstage soon if he doesn’t quit, and Paul won’t care, and Gene won’t care, as long as he can shudder through the solos. They won’t care at all.

He thinks, crazily, about pouring every single bottle down the sink. Paul and Gene can pay for it. Put it on their ever-expanding tab. Paul’s upcoming divorce is already on it. A minibar full of booze ought to be the least of their concerns.

He doesn’t do it. He doesn’t do anything, just lays on the bed for over an hour before he hears a knock at all. Long enough he’s sure it’s a cleaning lady, and doesn’t check the peephole before opening the door. He regrets it as soon as he’s gotten the door those first few inches open. There’s Paul.

He almost shuts the door. God only knows why he doesn’t. God only knows why he walks into the hallway and closes the door behind him, except to get the satisfaction of making Paul take a few steps back.

“Pete, look, come over to my room, we can go over everything. Whatever documentation you want. If I don’t have it, Gene will. I want to be fair with you.”

“I don’t want to hear it, Paul.”

“You just might. C’mon.”

“No.” Peter pauses. “No, you get in here.”

“But all the paperwork—” Paul starts.

“I don’t care. You meet me on my terms or you won’t meet me at all.”

Paul  looks at him flatly. Disbelieving. As if Peter’s just throwing another fit for no good reason. As though Peter really is just a paranoid asshole, as though Paul’s some innocent angel. Peter’s pulse feels more like a battering ram pounding at his neck once Paul answers.

“It’s hotel rooms, Peter, what’s it matter to you?”

“You’ll do it or I’m cutting out. You can get Singer back and wave goodbye to half your fucking ticket sales.”

Paul starts to laugh.

“You can’t pull that shit anymore.”

“No, you can’t afford for me to pull that shit anymore.”

“The fuck do you expect, Peter? You expect me and Gene to just bend over backwards for your whiny ass? You think it’s ’73 again? You think you can threaten to quit whenever you want and—”

“No, I don’t think that. I know that. And I think a guy who’s about to get divorced might wanna hold onto every dime he—”

Paul grabs the door handle to Peter’s room. Yanks it, pointlessly. Peter tries not to snort as he pulls the card key out of his pocket and unlocks the door, tugging it open for Paul to come in first. He does, immediately shoving aside the phone and alarm clock from the nightstand to lean up against it. Peter just sits on the bed.

It’s plush in the suites. It has been ever since the Reunion tour four years back. Every hotel elegant to the point of being uncomfortable. Themed rooms—not tacky Vegas shit, either. Jacuzzis. Gene had told Peter at some point over dinner, a month or two ago, that it’d been Paul’s doing.

“He doesn’t think we’ll feel big in Ramada Inns,” he’d said, almost embarrassed. None of that interview-ready self-assurance. Weird as hell to see Gene acquiesce to any of Paul’s bullshit instead of brush it off.

“We didn’t need a ritzy hotel to feel big twenty years ago. We were big.”

Gene had shrugged.

“It’s perception. Maybe he’s right. Elvis wouldn’t have done a farewell tour and come back to a Motel 6.”

“Elvis had the dignity to keel over first,” Peter muttered, and Gene had laughed, and laughed hard, enough that he almost choked on a bite of one of the cookies he’d ordered for dessert. The conversation hadn’t eased Peter’s mind much, still certain at least half the star treatment was just another means to placate him and Ace while cheating them both. The other half was just feeding rotten egos.

The soft, yielding mattress might as well be concrete for how comfortable he feels sinking down onto it. Peter almost expects Paul to snap at him immediately, but at first, he’s just standing there against the nightstand, hands behind him, curling over the table’s edges.

“You got me in here. Congratulations. You going to rail me out over your contract? Complain about how fucking unfair it is that you’re not getting a quarter-share of everything? Go ahead. I’ve heard it the last four years, but go ahead. Maybe it’ll wear a little better now, who the fuck knows. What do you want, Peter? I’m all ears.”

“I just bet you are.”

“Fuck you.”

“You wanna know what I want?” Peter’s voice sounds weird even to him, close to throaty. Nerves all stretched out, taut and tight as piano wire. “I want a bandmate instead of a dictator. I want to share the stage with somebody I can stand to be around. But that ain’t happening. I guess I’d be better off asking for my quarter-share.”

“Don’t try to play me—”

“Then don’t you ever fucking kiss me again unless you mean it.”

Paul just stares at him. He looks almost as though he’s about to laugh, his mouth twitching up for a second or two, and then he shakes his head.

“That’s what this is about? Really? God forbid I get my mouth on you anymore. I guess once you’ve got a good Christian girl you’re done fucking Jews—”

“I haven’t fucked you in years.”

“Nah, you’ve just fucked me over.” Paul does laughs then, throatily. “You say I’m the one doing it when it’s been you the whole time. You and Ace and Gene. You all jumped ship the second you got tired of it. The second KISS wasn’t fun anymore.”

“I didn’t jump ship—”

“Decided you’d rather play house and do coke than play the fucking drums. Right before we were set to tour—but that’s fine. Doesn’t matter. Ace quits. We lose fifteen million. That’s fine. That doesn’t matter. Just me and Gene, right? Like you thought we always wanted, right?” Another laugh. “I didn’t ever want that.”

“You sure as hell gave off that impression.”

“I didn’t want it. I wanted a team, I wanted the four of us. I thought we were gonna be like the Beatles. Like they were in the movies. I really thought—I was a kid, I bought into it. I thought they really did stay all together in the same damn house and—” He cuts himself off, shaking his head. “I was so naïve, I…”

“A team stands up for each other. I don’t remember you doing a whole lot of that when Ezrin—”

“I’m not talking about Ezrin. I’m talking about the band. Or what was left of it.” Paul shifts against the nightstand, yanking a hand through his hair. “You think we were still living it up after you quit. I don’t know what the hell ever gave you that idea.”

“Must’ve been all those gold albums.”

“Yeah, all two of them.” Paul snorts. “Lucky we even got that many. Gene fucking off to Hollywood was the last straw. Left me holding the bag for everybody. Found out if I wanted a record made, I had to pull the whole damn thing together myself. Like the solo albums all over again, except nobody was in line begging to collaborate anymore. I got fucking front-row seats to watch KISS turn into the biggest joke in the industry. I had to beg on my hands and knees just to get the band on MTV. And meanwhile you still got your nice quarter-share of all my work. You got that for eight fucking years after you quit. Just right out there for you.” Paul takes a breath. His voice is starting to crack. “Then you’ve got the nerve to say you want anything out of me. You don’t deserve what you’re getting out of me.”

“You want me to feel sorry for you, Paul? Is that it?”

“Please, the only person you’ve ever felt sorry for in your whole life is yourself. I know you couldn’t give less of a shit.”

“That’s a lie. If I didn’t give a shit, I wouldn’t still be touring with you.”

Paul’s expression starts to twitch. Then it hardens back up right like it used to, when an insult cut a little too close, like every insult did, and his mouth tightened and he’d be sniping for the next half-hour. He starts to say something, but Peter cuts him off before he can.

“I wouldn’t tour with you, I wouldn’t eat with you, I wouldn’t even talk to you.” Peter exhales. “But I do. I owe it to you. And you owe me something, too.”

“Don’t act like you’re such a martyr for wanting a paycheck,” Paul snaps out. “What do I owe you for? ‘Beth’? You still get your royalties—”

“Not ‘Beth.’ It ain’t that simple.” Peter’s hands are sweaty against the covers. “You’re gonna owe me the rest of your life for joining the band, Paul. Just like I’m gonna owe you the rest of my life for letting me in. Whether you like it or not, that’s the way it’s always gonna be.”

“I don’t owe you a goddamn thing. I don’t—” Paul pushes forward from where he’s been leaning against the nightstand. His eyes are glassy, that strange, haunted look making every curve and jut of his face seem like it’s carved from alabaster. It’s only when Pete feels a tug on his sleeve that he realizes Paul’s reached out a hand. “Come with me and I’ll prove it to you. I-I’ll make sure.”

He shouldn’t get up. He shouldn’t follow him. It’s going to be another attempt at robbing him of what’s his. Paul’s going to use the time it takes to get there to get his bearings and then he’ll really lay in on him, cut him up with surgical precision. Peter’s never going to get the contract fixed. He’s never going to get the money he’s owed. He’s never going to get that flowerchild wannabe back again, that shy kid still propelled by a dream from when he was eight, that vulnerable, stupid kid who had to be protected. He’s gone now. He’s been gone for decades. Even the nightly stageshow’s just a parody of the Paul that Peter remembers.

But Peter does get up, and he does follow him. Not to some conference room like he expects. He doesn’t call up Gene or any lawyers or Doc. Paul just takes him four doors down to his hotel room, lets him in.

Inside, it’s the same bland opulence as in his own suite. The same “Welcome, KISS” banner from the hotel next to the full-length mirror. A made-up, empty bed. No printouts or laptops. Paul hasn’t gotten any business materials out at all. Paul heads straight for the vanity, pushing away a small stash of makeup and creams as Peter watches. It’s a second or two before Paul’s hand closes around a small velvet box, pops it open, and he pulls something out and pushes it into Peter’s palm.

“There. That’s all. You wanna renegotiate the contract, talk to Gene. I’ll tell him to give you whatever you want.”

“Paul—”

“I don’t owe you. I don’t owe you, all right?”

Paul’s not looking him in the face now. His eyes are on the vanity table. Slowly, Peter opens his palm and looks down, confirming what he already knew he’d been given, the metal hard and cold in his hand. It’s nothing special. Eighteen karat gold. No tarnishes. No scratches. It’s the cross necklace he’d given Paul more than twenty years ago.

All of a sudden, Peter can’t lift his gaze from his own hand. His eyes are burning, and he’s far too aware of every breath pushing through his lungs. The cross glints in his palm, dangling heavy as an oath from its chain, and he can’t seem to close his fingers back around it. Can barely seem to speak.

“This is yours.”

“It’s not. It’s yours. I’m giving it back.” Paul still isn’t facing him, still staring at the vanity counter, fingers curved on its edge. He isn’t even looking at his own reflection in the mirror. “Y-you can go on now. I’ll see you at soundcheck.”

“Paulie.”

Paul stiffens up. Peter doesn’t see him do it, but he can tell, something in the way he shifts. He won’t ever get another chance. He knows it. Peter tears his gaze away from the necklace, fingers closing around the cross, and he takes a breath and says his name again.

“Paulie.”

Peter swallows and steps behind him. Paul doesn’t react at first. Peter almost expects Paul to start snapping at him, or pop off with some acidic comment to make him leave. Peter takes the chain between his fingers, cross dangling, as he drapes it over Paul. No wild mop of curls to brush forward anymore. He hesitates, watching Paul’s expression in the mirror, waiting for a sign that he should pull away, but Paul doesn’t move or shake his head or anything. His eyes are a little watery, and he’s biting his lip, but the rest of his expression’s blank up until Peter’s fingers brush against his collar as he closes the clasp. Then his lip starts to twitch and he turns around, bracing one hand against the counter.

“Pete—”

“It’s yours.”

Paul looks stunned. He reaches up to the necklace like he can’t believe it’s there. There’s something painfully nostalgic about watching Paul fingering that cross, watching a real moment of surprise sweep across his features. Reminiscent enough to almost hurt.

Peter’s sick of hurting. Now he knows Paul is, too.

His hand finds Paul’s shoulder a moment later, only to shift over to cup his cheek as he leans in, thumb dragging across his jaw. Peter can still feel the tension even as Paul inclines his head to meet his lips. Paul’s mouth against his is timid at first, almost afraid, for all that he’d kissed him so hard in the hallway. Peter has to ease him into it at first, like the steps to a half-remembered dance, fingers roving gently down from Paul’s face to the back of his neck.

They never did talk about it back then. What they liked. Just went in blind and laughed off the screw-ups. Paul was always headstrong with the groupies, all too willing to initiate, but shyer with him. Peter’s going off what he remembers and what Paul’s responding to, trying to be gentle without coddling, fervent without overwhelming. Trying to impart some meaning, some reassurance. It’s been so long, Peter forgot what a delicate, frustrating balance it is with him.

He almost doesn’t think it’s paying off, for all that there’s less caution to Paul’s kisses now, the brief swipe of Paul’s tongue against his lips. Peter parts them on automatic and Paul’s there, tongue darting lightly at first, then a little more urgently. He breaks off the kiss for a breath, hands shifting to rest on Paul’s shoulders, only to feel Paul get his arm around his waist and pull him in close, until they’re flush against each other. Then Peter knows Paul’s getting his bearings again, though feeling the start of Paul’s hard-on against his thigh is plenty, and flattering, evidence enough.  It’s taking Peter longer to get there, but Paul seems determined, rocking against him steadily, groping and fondling his ass. Peter responds in turn, eager, pressing in hard, grinding their hips together, until Paul’s soft grunts turn into a groan.

“Pete, every time you do that, you’re knocking me against the vanity.”

Peter just grins.

“Then maybe we better move.” His grip tightens on Paul’s shoulders as he leads him towards the bed. Peter tries once to turn him around so his back’s facing the bed, but Paul doesn’t respond and so Peter doesn’t attempt it again, just lets Paul press him up to the bed, easing against him until he’s seated. Paul doesn’t seem half as nervous now, pushing kisses against Peter’s neck as his fingers work the button and zipper of his jeans, tugging them down just enough to free his cock.

“All this time and you’re still not wearing underwear.” Paul’s breath is warm against his neck, a hint of a laugh in his words.

“I wouldn’t even wear the cup, what makes you think I’d—nghh,” Peter trails off as Paul’s hand wraps around his dick. Twenty years and, unsurprisingly, Paul’s hardly out of practice at all, the steady rhythm of his fingers urging Peter to full hardness before long. But it’s Paul’s mouth driving him crazy, the way he’s leaning in, the hunger of each kiss. Peter returns it all eagerly, insistently, pressing tongue and teeth against the soft skin of Paul’s neck, not managing to stay there long enough to leave a real mark, while his hips push up with every pump of Paul’s hand, a hand that’s soon withdrawn. Peter’s about to complain when he realizes Paul’s sinking to his knees in front of him, rubbing his hands against his thighs. Peter puts his own hands on top of Paul’s, resting against his wrists.

“Paul, hey, you don’t have to—”

“I want to.” Paul’s hands shift beneath Peter’s, fingers rubbing circles along the seams of his jeans. “At least lemme get you worked up.”

“I’m pretty damn worked up as it is,” Peter retorts. Every second without some contact is making his arousal all the more distracting. Judging by the glint in Paul’s eyes, he knows it, too. Peter’s down; of course, he’s down. His uncertainty’s borne more out of concern for Paul’s comfort level than his own. If Paul’s pushing himself for the wrong reasons and they’re about to fuck each other up ten times worse. “You think you can handle it?”

Paul snorts.

“You’re gonna have to be more specific on where,” he says, and before Peter can respond with more than a laugh, Paul’s laving his tongue against his dick. Peter’s breath hitches, hands tightening around Paul’s wrists. Paul tugs meaningfully at his jeans, lets up for a second so Peter can pull them down further. They’re around his knees now, Paul roving his hands eagerly across his bare skin. Freshly shaven. The spandex costumes still won’t allow for anything less. “Either way, I got this. Don’t worry.”

“Okay.”

Paul starts in earnest, then. His mouth’s encircling his cock before too long, taking him in further and further, a hand closing over what he can’t fit inside his throat. The only performance Peter’s ever known Paul to stay quiet for, apart from those occasional soft hums, the vibration intense around his dick. He’s still adept as ever. It’s almost bewildering. It’s like the way he felt that first night when they all went backstage together and put the greasepaint back on again. How close it is. How much everything’s falling into place. Like the years are melting in front of him, time lapsing backwards if they’ll both just let it.

Peter closes his eyes briefly, his hands wandering from Paul’s wrists to his shoulders to finally his hair, fingers rubbing against his scalp. For all the time it took to get him here, Peter’s unraveling quickly, mumbling curses and groans, trying to resist the urge to move his hips as Paul’s throat constricts tight and wet around him. He’s starting to moan, watching Paul’s expression, simultaneously intense and dazed, and he has to force himself to tug his hair and get them both back to reality.

“If you wanna fuck today, you better stop now.”

There’s a pause, a lick to the underside of his cock, and then Paul slides his mouth off his dick with a wet pop.

“All right, all right,” he says after taking a few sharp breaths and clearing his throat, not bothering to wipe the spit from his face before standing up. Peter shoves his jeans the rest of the way down, kicking them to the floor, shifting to give Paul room to climb onto the bed. Onto him. Paul’s already stripping, peeling off his pants and boxers far too fast for it to be a show, to Peter’s relief. He’s watched enough of that over all their tours and even from the times they’d share girls. He’d never really done it for Peter. The only thing he's careful about is the necklace. Peter watches him carefully tuck it underneath his t-shirt just before tossing the shirt to the floor. Peter waits, expecting him to fumble with the clasp, but Paul doesn't, just heads to the bed, and Peter realizes, suddenly, warmly, that Paul's leaving it on.

They’re still showering together after the shows, the three of them, Gene still abstaining from the stupidest and longest-held of their concert rituals. The years haven’t been bad to Paul, but then, he hasn’t had quite as many. Hasn’t yet even hit fifty. Despite all the diets and workouts, Paul’s abdomen is softer when Peter runs a hand down his hairy chest, but that’s about the only appreciable difference. He doesn’t get a chance to pay too much attention. As soon as he’s helped Peter shuck off his own shirt, Paul’s all over him, none of the cautious hesitation from before, practically crawling into his lap. The cold metal of the necklace makes a shiver run down Peter’s spine when Paul presses his chest against his while he’s licking a long stripe against Peter’s neck, hard-on rubbing up against his stomach. Peter’s own erection is making him heady enough, half-afraid he’ll come from just their fooling around, but Paul’s almost desperate, hands everywhere his mouth isn’t. He’s toying with and sucking on Peter’s nipples the way he used to, leaving Peter panting, his dick aching painfully with every swipe of his tongue.

Paul only stops to rustle around in a drawer for the lube. At first Peter figures he’s overcompensating for earlier, but then he realizes that’s not it at all. Paul’s not trying to prove that old Lover persona right with the one person who’d never buy it. It’s just that every bit of contact, every touch of skin to skin is soothing and maddening all at once. It’s just that he’s longing, too.

Peter eases Paul onto his back after awhile, leaning over him, kissing him on the neck and cheek as he slicks himself up, starts to prep, Paul’s gaze on him feeling more intent than ever. He’d said he could handle it. God knows his mouth still could, the memory of it making Peter’s cock twitch anew, but he’s really not sure about the rest of him. Paul never complained about Peter’s dick being too much to take in the seventies, for what little that’s worth now. Paul grunts as Peter slips and crooks his fingers inside him, legs splayed, hips lifting up, urging him deeper. Peter feels the familiar, faint bite of short nails against his back, a sharp hiss of breath against his forehead as he keeps working Paul over, stretching him out further. He’s pleased that Paul’s moaning starts before Peter’s so much as rubbed his dick teasingly against his entrance.

“C’mon,” Paul urges, rocking up to meet thrusts Peter hasn’t even made yet. It’s flattering as hell, whether it’s for show or not. From the consternation in his expression, the sweat beading on his face and chest, Peter doesn’t think it is. He can’t argue with the plea, can’t tease further when he’s wanting it so badly himself. Before long, Peter’s entering him, slow at first, getting him accustomed. Erasing the separation between them. Trying to. Paul fidgets beneath him, a little quieter once Peter’s fully inside him—and maybe that’d worry Peter more, if he wasn’t starting to smile, if his fingers hadn’t gone from digging into Peter’s back to rubbing his shoulder in a warm, encouraging rhythm. But Peter can’t help but ask anyway.

“You’re okay, yeah?”

“Yeah.” A wry pause. “I mean, you could give me a hand here—"

Peter barely swallows a laugh, wrapping his hand around Paul’s dick, trying to time each thrust with the pump of his hand. The pace is inconsistent despite his best efforts, but Paul doesn’t seem to mind, cock already throbbing, precum long since dripping from the tip.

After all the desperation from earlier, it doesn’t take much for either of them. Peter’s breathing gets harder and harder, curses and groans bleeding back into Paul’s name as he feels his orgasm approaching. Paul beats him to it, but barely, spilling into his hand with a sharp cry and a shudder, hand going lax at his shoulder, dilated eyes sliding shut. That’s nearly all it takes for Peter. Sweat’s dripping from his face, his hair, onto Paul and the bedsheets both as he manages another thrust or two before coming inside him.

He practically collapses against Paul in the aftermath, and he doesn’t pull out straight away. Stupidly, he doesn’t really want to. He feels way too—whole, odd as that seems. This hasn’t buried everything. Twenty years of hurt can’t disappear in one afternoon. Not for either of them. But it’s a start. It’s a start. It’s like something’s coming back to him. Like someone’s coming back to him. Like he understands now, that maybe things are finally going to be all right between them, maybe even great, maybe even grand. He could believe that now. He really could. All the more with Paul’s arms clasped tight around him as he murmurs quietly in the afterglow, the rise and fall of his chest against Peter’s the best tempo he’s felt in years.

[stehayneedsahug]

It’s so heartbreaking to see people talking about how Ste isn’t the same Ste anymore and how he’s changed so much since Stendan, but I do feel like it was a natural progression. If you watched Ste’s storyline before Brendan he was angry and tumultuous and violent, he had created a hard shell to deal with his upbringing and life, he lashed out easily because he never could handle his emotions in a very healthy way. 

His kids softened his heart a bit and made him want to be a better person, but he still struggled a lot with his emotions and pain even after anger management had helped him to lash out less he still carried so much guilt and held onto his tough exterior.

Let’s have a recap of the shit Ste’s been through shall we? (this will be long):

He ran with a tough crowd as a teen and was a hothead and a bully, we learn later he used to be locked in his room all night with nothing but troll dolls to play with while his mom was drunk, he was neglected and beat by both his step dad and occasionally his mom. He was also verbally and emotionally abused by them. He went to young offenders and came back not wanting to live at home, it was bad enough there that being homeless or living in the boiler room at school was preferable. He wanted to be able to stay with Amy and have a purpose to his life so badly that he took on the responsibility of being a dad to Leah. He had a long way to go though, and he was a poor teen dad used to violence and he became what he knew when he started to hurt Amy, deal drugs and con people for money...he wanted to be better though and by some miracle he had a breakthrough and was starting to be a better person. Amy couldn’t handle motherhood when Lucas was born and Ste did his best as a single dad for a while, in spite of his own problems and people he thought he could trust trying to drug him and steal his babies (which was crazy, wtf). Honestly though, a key part of understanding Ste as he currently is, is seeing how he used to be.

He met Brendan and was drawn to him like a moth to the flame. He saw a wild man who demanded respect. In a way Brendan scared him from the start, because he saw the violence he was capable of and he saw the illegal things he was involved in and the lines he would cross. Ste saw himself in Brendan and also was addicted to the obsession Brendan had for him, the neglect and abuse in his own childhood made him used to bearing the violence but Brendan’s attachment to him had to be addictive when all he wanted was to belong and be understood. Brendan also took care of him and loved him like no one in Ste’s life had really don’t before, even though it was tainted by Brendan’s own issues in such a devastating way. 

Doug was Ste trying to keep control of the progress he’d been making at being a healthy and responsible man and father. Doug (and sort of Noah before that went to shit) was a chance for Ste to break free of that continuous violence surrounding him in his life and do what he knew intellectually would be the safe, healthy relationship choice for him. He didn’t know how to be alone but Doug offered love and his chance to breathe and figure himself out more and be ‘normal’. Also, Ste is really bad at rejecting any kind of love and Doug pursued him. But he loved Brendan and when Brendan started to change for the better and they had a chance to be on the same page and love each other it was like his dream come true. 

Losing Brendan broke Ste in an irreparable way, because it was about more than only missing Brendan in his life. He had finally started to believe in love conquering the violence and the pain in his life. He had felt understood and cherished without having to pretend his past away or pretend to be someone else because Brendan understood the dark sides to him and he wanted to be there helping Brendan through his own trauma. But when Brendan went to prison and cut him off from seeing him, it played on all of Ste’s insecurities because their love wasn’t enough for Brendan to stay for him, the violence caught up to them after all, Ste was abandoned by not only Brendan but also Cheryl and Amy and his kids still weren’t back in his life. It was like the dream he let himself believe he would be able to have came crashing down around him and everyone around him had an ‘i told you so’ ready. 

So Ste turned hard again. Instead of just going along with Amy or Doug saying being with Brendan was a mistake he held onto his love for him but it turned into bitterness and anger toward everyone else because they couldn’t understand, and toward himself for thinking he could have it all. He put back on his hard shell and tried to do anything he could to get the club and feel like Brendan was still with him, he basically embraced violence and drug-dealing at first as a ‘fuck you’ to being normal again because he’d always felt like that was a facad for him anyway, and because he didn’t want to just act like nothing had happened and didn’t want people to think he was too good for Brendan because he didn’t feel like he was...to him they were the same...so why try to be good if it all just ends in misery anyway. 

Then on top of all his pain over losing one of the only people he felt could truly understand him and love him for all his flaws, Ste had to face his mother pressuring him to help her kill herself. She never loved him selflessly once in her whole life and she ignored him when she wasn’t hurting him or letting him be hurt. Even her confession that she’d want him to crawl into bed as a kid with her when he thought she was sleeping was cold and devastating because all Ste needed was her to see him and acknowledge him and she was using his most cherished moment with her (out of pretty much none to chose from) to manipulate him into doing something that could get him put in jail and/or permanently emotionally scar him further. When Ste did it, he felt more empty, because the anger he’d always felt for her and the abuse he suffered from her made him question whether he actually did what she wanted him to do or if he secretly somehow wanted to kill her himself. That would majorly majorly fuck with anyone’s head and it came at a time when he was already feeling so alone and on edge. He was so done at that point and worn down, he even thought jail would be a rest in a way and that he’d deserve it...he gave up. 

Then Doug and Tony rallied around him and helped him find the strength to keep trying. Doug made him remember his kids and how he’d wanted so badly to be a good father to them and how going to jail and giving up would leave them without a dad like his own dad did. Doug was a way out from the bottom and part of Ste loved Doug even if it wasn’t the same kind of love he had for Brendan...he loved the reliability of Doug and the normalcy and security of Doug. He was at his lowest so he clung to Doug, and once again he was back to pretending for the sake of his kids and for the sake of trying again to find some even footing in his life and become the normal, responsible, happy family man he’d so wanted to have as a dad when he was growing up. 

Then Doug died. Doug died and once again Ste was left bereft. Because even though he’d left Doug before and even though he wasn’t necessarily the love of his life, Doug was one of very very few people Ste trusted and knew loved him. Doug had always represented safety and the ‘right’, secure path to Ste and now he was gone in such an unfair way. So now Ste was once again alone in a sudden and traumatic way, his home was gone on top of it, and Amy and the kids still weren’t around. He was drinking heavily in the deli with some matches maybe suicidal when lo and behold, here’s Danny telling him he’s his dad. 

So Ste goes to live with his dad with all this baggage of having almost no one in his life and having all this pain in his head that he hasn’t really gotten a chance to deal with and he has these new sisters and this surreal family suddenly and I’m sure he feels so separate from them, but he’s so thirsty for acceptance and a place and a distraction from all of the pain and loss he’s been going through it’s like something good is finally happening to him and it’s another chance to pretend that this is his life, that these people have been his family all along and that this is where he belongs. 

But then even this happy family starts to crumble around him...he has a front row seat to their drama and he sees that his dad isn’t some knight in shining armor, that his dad is hurting this family that ste wishes were the perfect family he’d been searching for by cheating with John Paul and once again Ste is face to face with someone hurting others by hiding their sexuality and this time it’s his dad. Leela repeatedly reminds him he doesn’t really fit in with them. Ste leaves because he can’t handle the fakeness of them playing happy families when Danny is cheating and lying and Ste already didn’t feel like he belonged and now he’s asked to lie for him. His relationship with his dad further deteriorates when Danny starts to be insecure and jealous of Ste’s relationship with John Paul and he is so quick to throw Ste away. He is about to leave without telling him after everything and when a hurt Ste accidentally let slip to Cameron that they were leaving, Danny’s last words to him were basically disowning him. So the family Ste had fantasized about all of his life turned to shit and Leela and Danny both blamed Ste for it to his face, Danny didn’t get the chance to take it back, Leela did, but that sticks with you especially when Ste already was feeling like everything he touches falls apart and everything bad that happens to him is his fault.

Oh hey, meanwhile, John Paul and him do some coke casually in the Deli. So alongside all of this pain simmering under the surface for Ste now here he is introduced to an escape. So now when things get hard he gets this craving to escape and forget and now he knows something that will work better than just alcohol and starts to struggle with drugs. He’s putting bandaids on open wounds all over the place and drugs are just one more way to get through the day. It’s self-destruction and addiction and he probably feels like taking drugs is the right mix of hurting himself and forgetting his pain all at once....like what it used to feel like to go back to Brendan in the days when he knew he’d probably get sex and a black eye out of it. He probably feels like he needs the drugs to feel normal, because his normal is anything but painless and happy and when things are going too well he doesn’t trust it and the drugs keep him grounded in the self-disgust he’s too used to, and when things turn bad it’s his fault for not fixing it or knowing how to deal or knowing it was coming and the drugs help him forget with a mix of reminding him of his place.

John Paul is now one of the only people who understand him. John Paul knew Brendan and Doug, he knew his past. They hated each other but after Doug died they both feel pulled toward each other because they feel so alone and their worlds have been orbiting around each other like destiny wants them to make it. John Paul’s mess with Danny leaves him feeling vulnerable and Ste is one of the only people who knew what happened there. They bond over the messes their relationships have been and then they further bond over the traumas they help each other through. John Paul saves Ste from drowning in the bathtub after Danny’s death. He tries to support him while he deals with his addiction. Ste tries to help John Paul in his recovery from being raped. John Paul tries to be there for Ste through his HIV diagnoses. 

Though they tried to make it work, their relationship was fraught with baggage and communication problems between them. Ste felt restless being taken care of and guilty for not being stronger in resisting the drugs, for blacking out and sleeping with Sinead, for being high and sleeping with Connor. Ste felt helpless in trying to be there for John Paul through the trial and crumbled hard under the pressure and let John Paul down. In my opinion, Ste felt like John Paul was too good for him and that was a source of a lot of the strain between them. John Paul struggled with empathy and with loving Ste and supporting him without ending up patronizing him. 

There was this love and respect between them but it was tainted by the walls they both put up, Ste to hide his darkest sides (he didn’t hide them well), and John Paul to hide his vulnerable sides. They drifted apart and then suddenly Ste is left with this pressure to take care of Sinead because she’s pregnant from a night Ste doesn’t even remember. He loves her as a friend and he loves being a father and so it’s too easy for him to start to fall for that idea that Sinead keeps pushing of a ‘normal’ family, mom, dad, kid, he could maybe have it all. And he takes that easy way out instead of really dealing with whatever is wrong between him and John Paul, and he starts to basically fall back into old habits with Rae or with Amy....he reverts back to trying to be the father he wishes he could be because maybe that will be enough this time around to make him a better person and keep him off the drugs and the self-destructive behavior. A baby gave him a purpose again. 

His relationship with John Paul simmered out and they both let it go. In my opinion, they were always almost right for each other, but the timing and life just kept getting in the way and Ste was insecure with someone he saw as so steady and intelligent and ‘good’ and John Paul was overwhelmed and frustrated with how Ste kept self-destructing and hurting both of them so they just kind of lost each other. 

Harry came along and again, Ste has never been good at resisting when someone expresses love for him or tries to woo him. He was drawn to how much Harry wanted him and when Sinead left, Harry was a distraction Ste needed and the fun he craved and for a while their relationship was secret and dangerous and after being in such a serious and heavy relationship with John Paul, Ste was going with the flow and trying to just not care about his troubles for a while.

When Tony found out and had such an extreme reaction, Ste felt the weight of responsibility for coming between Harry and Tony, he felt rejected by a man who is one of very few who have been there for him and everything was just kind of a whirlwind with Harry being kicked out by Tony and then Ste being kicked out and blamed for Tegan’s drugs and they were homeless together and it was kind of like Ste was just spiraling out of control again. It was like Ste was back to being that kid living in the boiler room and trying to find a job and a place for him and Amy. Harry was insistent and persistent about staying with Ste and even though the guilt was eating at Ste for being the cause of Harry’s homelessness, Ste was in over his head and didn’t really understand the pressure Harry was under for school (since he never finished it) and didn’t really understand how desperate Harry was getting to help Ste. When Ste found out that Harry had slept with James for money, the guilt of it crushed him. He couldn’t handle being that bad influence that he knew everyone thought he was and he was hating himself for ruining Harry’s relationship with Tony and mourning for his own relationship with Tony and hurting for losing his kids once again when Amy found out how they’d been living. It was easy for Cameron to convince him to take chrystal meth and once Ste started being addicted to that, he was scared again. At least when he was clean and homeless with Harry he could pretend it was some adventure and ignore his problems with sex and scamming for food or a place to stay. Now he was back into drugs he felt everything he’d worked on with John Paul slipping away again and so he ended up taking Harry back, yearning for that connection with Harry and with Tony to help pull him through his newest addiction. 

Now Ste went through the work to get clean again and tried to be a better person and rebuild his life again for his kids when of course his world starts to unravel again when he gets blackouts as a result of everything catching up to him. He risks losing his kids in custody battles and Leah knows about his past too now and the most important part of his life is crumbling away from him in a way that feels more out of reach than it maybe ever did because it’s legal now. John Paul comes back to him for support and it’s like they pick up where they left off, helping each other through their trauma, John Paul comforting Ste over his kids and his blackouts and Ste comforting John Paul over Finn possibly returning to the village and they just have all of this unresolved love for each other that will probably never go away because of all that they have been through together. It just makes sense that they would slip, neither of them are exactly great at relationships. 

And now here we are, Ste is still with Harry because he can’t be alone and Harry and Tony have supported him through in such hard times but I don’t think it’s really love. It’s more of the same where Ste is just so needy for family and for someone to be there that he can’t end it when Harry keeps being there for him like so many others weren’t or couldn’t be. But now Amy is gone and his kids think he killed her and I just don’t know how he will ever really get back from this. He’s going to be even more traumatized now....even with all of their problems, Amy was his rock through so much and his partner through life.

So yeah, this was basically a summary of Ste, but I just don’t blame the guy for making some shitty mistakes, for being needy and a mess and self-destructive and lost....he is going through life with no blueprint and he keeps having hardship after hardship thrown at him. I expect if Ste gets out of prison for him to be doing whatever he can to avoid prison again, but I expect him to be so depressed and feel so alone and helpless that I will not be surprised for him to have so much more pain (self-inflicted and otherwise) ahead. It is a soap after all, and when it’s a character with so much baggage like he has, he’s going to relapse and struggle and stumble along the way to becoming the man he wants to be....that doesn’t mean that he isn’t developing as a character, it just isn’t that simple at all. 

Ste’s progression into the hardened, hurt, lost guy that he is now didn’t just suddenly come out of nowhere. It was the result of growing up needing to fend for himself, craving any kind of love wherever he could get it, struggling with becoming what he hates (his dad), struggling through abuse, feeling abandoned and out of control, regressing to old coping mechanisms after losing brendan, self-medicating, trying to find normalcy and faking it till you make it, falling apart again, struggling with becoming what he hates again (his mom basically), dealing with guilt and loss, and basically being tossed around by life and trying to cope. He isn’t the same Ste as Brendan era, but he shouldn’t be anyway because too much has happened.

[jellyryans]

Secrets, secrets

Pairing: Sawamura Daichi/Sugawara Koushi

Prompt: Secrets/Truth (day five of @daisugaweek2017)

Word Count: 2080

It was a grisly scene, but it was Suga’s job to assess the damage, determine the crime, and track down the sick bastard that did it.

Suga knelt until he was eye-level with the tray of wilting succulents and examined each of the small pots. Some had rotted entirely, dark, viscous liquid under their skins. Others clung to life only barely, screaming for the final release of death. Carefully, he dipped a finger in the soil of the pot closest to him and took it out, rubbing his pointer finger and thumb together, confirming his suspicion.

Murder by watering can.

Read full text below the cut or on ao3. 

It was a grisly scene, but it was Suga’s job to assess the damage, determine the crime, and track down the sick bastard that did it.

Suga knelt until he was eye-level with the tray of wilting succulents and examined each of the small pots. Some had rotted entirely, dark, viscous liquid under their skins. Others clung to life only barely, screaming for the final release of death. Carefully, he dipped a finger in the soil of the pot closest to him and took it out, rubbing his pointer finger and thumb together, confirming his suspicion.

Murder by watering can.

Suga clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth, ready to run through his list of suspects.

Suspect #1: Tanaka Ryuunosuke. Deli counter, unofficial floral assistant.

Tanaka was an unofficial assistant in the sense that he was hired to work behind the deli counter, but Suga had beat him into accepting the role after Yachi had left to work in the main office. It took weeks of rubbing do’s and don’ts into Tanaka’s thick, fuzzy skull, but it had been worth it.

Until that morning, at least.

Suga shook his head sadly. Things happened. People forgot. You trusted people and then they went and killed your plants. Maybe he hadn’t rubbed Tanaka’s head hard enough when he left the day before. Hypotheticals were a slippery slope, though, and Suga took out his phone under the counter to text Tanaka about his shift the night before.

He didn’t reply immediately, so Suga pocketed his phone and let his eyes wander to the clock above the sample station, directly across from the floral counter, then down to the person behind counter.

Suspect #2: Nishinoya Yuu, floating part-timer, usually doling out samples at the sample station.

Suga stared at Nishinoya’s back as he worked, slapping a giant knife against a cutting board at breakneck speeds and casually chatting over his shoulder to a customer like he hadn’t had his fair share of incidents.

Nishinoya favored knives, but who was to say that he wouldn’t choose a more innocuous murder weapon when committing a crime, say… A watering can?

Suga waited for the customer to leave, then snuck over to the table and tapped the counter in greeting.

Nishinoya perked up and whipped around, knife in hand. Suga stepped back instinctively, out of the range of the blade. He was supposed to be investigating a violent crime, not becoming a victim himself.

“Hey Suga-san!,” Nishinoya chirped. “Want some melon?” He brought the bowl over and plopped it in front of Suga, who eyed it warily.

“You haven’t bled all over it this time, have you?”

“Nope.”

Nishinoya held up his hands for inspection, one of them still sloppily bandaged from the week before. Suga looked closely at his fingers, then at the customers milling around them. They seemed happy enough; no one looked like they were about to throw up and there were zero bodies on the floor. All signs pointed to blood-free melon, but it was just too easy to tease Nishinoya. “Only because no one seems to have fainted today,” Suga joked as he reached for the bowl.

“Hey! That was one time!”

Suga snorted as he picked a couple of the larger pieces off the top and popped them into his mouth. “True,” he said with his mouth full. “But it was pretty traumatic.”

“I guess.” Nishinoya shrugged, brushing the memory aside like crumbs off a table. “So what brings you out of the jungle?”

Suga rolled his eyes at the nickname for the floral department, which had started as a joke but spread across the store like wildfire. He pretended to hate it, but he enjoyed thinking about the implications, like maybe instead of being the woefully underpaid floral manager at a giant grocery chain he was Indiana Jones, in the depths of the Amazon searching for treasure, or Tarzan, leaping from tree to tree, the wind in his hair, without a care in the world. Or maybe the hunky lead cashier would be Tarzan and Suga would be the scientist, all primly dressed. Oh. That was good.

Nishinoya snapped a couple fingers in front of Suga’s face. “Suga-san? You in there?”

Right.

It was was not the time to get lost in a steamy roleplay scenario. He was investigating a violent crime, which required his utmost focus. He could hash out the roleplay details later, in the comfort of his bed. Suga cleared his throat. “Yeah, sorry. Hey, were you working last night?”

Nishinoya popped a piece of the melon into his own mouth. “No,” he said, mouth still full of fruit. “I washn’t.”

“Don’t chew with your mouth full.”

In response, Nishinoya grinned widely, fruit coming out the sides of his mouth, and Suga cringed.  

“You’re an animal.”

Nishinoya winked and moved the bowl to place toothpicks in between the fruit and a small pile of napkins. “Can’t deny it!”

It was a clever diversion tactic, Suga admitted, but not good enough to derail the interrogation. “Do you know who was working last night?”

“Asahi, definitely, because the big lump was too tired to watch a movie with me last night.” Nishinoya pouted. “And I think Daichi was on, too, because Ennoshita wanted the night off.”

Sawamura Daichi. Lead cashier. The store’s most eligible bachelor and, most recently, the handsome loincloth-clad star of Suga’s Tarzan roleplay fantasy.

But was he a suspect? He was there the night in question, sure, but the cashiers were all the way at the other end of the store, and there was no reason for Daichi to part the treacherous sea of customers, shopping carts, and displays. With a wistful sigh, he crossed Daichi’s name off the list. On one hand, he was glad that Daichi wouldn’t be involved in this sordid business, but he was sad to miss out on the opportunity to seek him out.

Nishinoya did provide him another name, though.

Suspect #3: Azumane Asahi, bakery assistant.

The bakery was adjacent to the floral department, so Asahi would’ve had easy, unfettered access, and, quite frankly, Suga could never pass up the opportunity to give Asahi a hard time. Suga swiped another melon cube. “Is Asahi in today?”

“Yup, this afternoon.”

Suga rubbed his hands together in anticipation. “Perfect.”

Two hours later, Asahi came out from the staff locker room and Suga cornered him as soon as he stepped into the bakery. “Hey, Asahi,” he said sweetly. “You look nice today.”

Asahi paled in response. “Oh, uh, hey Suga,” he said, fumbling with the strings of his apron. “Thank you?”

“Of course!” Suga said, trailing his finger along the edge of the display case. “You look much nicer than my succulents did this morning.”

“Oh?”

Suga looked him right in the eye. “It’s hard to look nice when you’re dead, Asahi.”

“Sorry, Suga that’s…”

“Sorry indeed,” Suga cut him off. Asahi smoothed out the wrinkles in his apron and fidgeted with his nametag. He was nervous. An innocent party wouldn’t have anything to be nervous about, would they? “You wouldn’t happen to know anything about their sorry state, would you?”

“N-no.”

Suga stepped closer, backing Asahi up against the wall. “Really? Because when I left yesterday afternoon, they were fine, and now they are begging for death, drowning in their own containers. Taken too soon from this world.”

“I don’t, I didn’t touch anything.” Asahi held his hands up in front of him in an effort to block Suga’s advances, but, much to Suga’s surprise, he held eye contact. His hands might’ve been shaking, but the trembling giant was telling the truth. Suga furrowed his brow and tweaked his manner of questioning.

“Let’s say I believe you,” Suga continued. Asahi’s shoulders dropped in relief and he let out a quiet breath. “Did you see anyone come into floral last night?”

Asahi tensed up again and averted his gaze.

Bingo.

“So you did see someone over here?” Suga said sharply.

“Well, there were lots of people… around, and I wasn’t really paying attent- Eep!”

Suga got right into Asahi’s personal space and grabbed the front of his apron, not caring that he had to stand on the tips of his toes to do it. “Secrets secrets are no fun,” Suga sang. “Secrets secrets make me want to hurt someone. And that someone is you, Asahi. Now tell me everything you know.”

Asahi looked at him with wide eyes and shook his head. “I promised, he told me not to, but-”

“Who told you not to what?” Suga hissed.

“I told him not to say anything, but he was about to screw it up anyway.”

Suga knew that voice. He let go of Asahi’s apron and turned around slowly, letting Asahi crumple to the ground. Daichi stood on the customer side of the bakery counter, hands in his pockets and a sheepish look on his face.

“They looked really dry.” Daichi gestured in the direction of the succulents. “And I know you don’t really have anyone helping you out here, and I asked Tanaka but he was caught up with a customer, so I watered them.”

“You…” Suga started, then stopped. He had just admitted to the crime and Suga’s curiosity was piqued, in part by the confession and in part by how damn good Daichi looked in their stupid store aprons. “What were you doing all the way over here?”

Daichi hadn’t looked nervous before, but as soon as Suga asked the question, he swore he saw the faintest bit of blush dust the bridge of Daichi’s nose.

“It was pretty quiet,” Daichi said slowly, like he was trying to find the exact right words. “And Kinoshita was handling it, so I was just… wandering.”

Suga blinked. Something didn’t add up. They weren’t close, but people talked, so Suga knew that Daichi took pride in his position, regardless of the crappy and perpetually boring nature of their jobs, just like Suga did. It was an attractive quality, one of Daichi’s many, and one of the reasons Suga hadn’t put him on the suspect list in the first place. “Does the lead cashier usually ‘wander’ during his shifts?”

“No, not usually,” Daichi admitted. “But I wanted to see if you were around.”

“Me?” Suga asked in disbelief, a small smile starting to form at the corners of his mouth. “So you walked all the way across the store, sorry, you ‘wandered’ all the way across the store, saw that I wasn’t in the jungle, then decided to kill my plants as some sort of… What? Retribution?”

“Wait.” Daichi paled. “I killed them?”

“Killed them dead,” Suga confirmed.

Daichi rubbed his face. “Crap, I’m so sorry, Suga, I was just trying to help. I didn’t mean to kill them.”

The investigation was over, the crime had been solved, the victim pleaded guilty, and it was time for Suga to dole out an appropriate punishment, to move on, but one important question remained unanswered, and Suga couldn’t let it go. “Okay… But you still never told me what exactly you were doing here.”

Before Daichi could answer, Nishinoya’s voice boomed from the sample station. “Just ask him out already!”

“About time,” Asahi muttered, still behind Suga.

Suga’s eyebrows hit the ceiling. “You came over here to ask me out?”

Daichi shot Nishinoya a glare to rival Suga’s own, something which shouldn’t have pleased Suga as much as it did, then he let out a small huff and nodded, raising his hands like a white flag. “You caught me.”

“Well, technically you handed yourself in,” Suga reminded him. He tapped his chin with his index finger, wondering how he would get his next thought out with a straight face, without betraying the fluttering of his heart. “And I suppose we could continue the interrogation over coffee.”

Daichi lit up, and Suga was embarrassed by how hard it hit him. “Really?”

“Yup. And that’ll give me some time to come up with an appropriate punishment.”

“Wait, what?”

Suga laughed at the look on Daichi’s face, how desperately he tried to hide the horror in his eyes, how utterly he failed, and how he still maintained a big, dopey grin that was quickly turning Suga’s legs to jelly. “Daichi, you can’t commit a crime, plead guilty, and expect to get away with it by asking the detective out on a date.”

Daichi bit his lip, but it did nothing to diminish the smile still dimpling his cheeks. 

[all-scout-blog]

Three White Lights

At that time of our life, our family had the tradition of spending Christmas Day evenings with the rest of our extended family in Huntsville. It was always a ton of fun and lots of presents. It was a great time to be a kid. Christmas of 2004 started off just the same. Dad, Art and I were in one car on the way to Aunt Jane’s. It was dark and the drive from Russellville to Huntsville is uneventful, flat and suited for a nap. I normally love long car rides and the inevitable conversations with my dad and my brother, but a long day of opening presents and all the breakfast pizzas you can eat will plum tucker you out. Plus, this time provided a much need break to save up some energy for all the cousins you’d see at Aunt Jane’s. The traffic on the trip over was almost non-existent. Certain stretches were nearly desolate, including the skies. I’m not sure if I still believed in the Santa Claus and his reindeer, but I do remember gazing up at the sky more than usual. It was a clear night and the stars were pretty and crisp. Even Art, who is usually the one so intensely occupied in conversation with Dad was looking up. Somewhere along interstate 565 we noticed the sight of an airplane low in the sky up ahead. A small triangle of three white lights flying in a straight-line path. Nothing out of the ordinary with how close we were coming to the Huntsville airport, but given the particular time and day, we found it a bit odd. It seemed a little sad that these poor people were just now getting to their destination and would only have a few hours left of Christmas. Dad and Art went back to their conversations and I continued to stare out the backseat window, but kept noticing the airplane. It continued to drift lower and lower in the sky. Surely it was going to land at the airport. Where else would it be going? A few miles later and we had passed the airport and the airplane was still getting lower, at this point obviously not in the correct approach for the airport. These three white lights were coming lower, and were headed over the overpass and towards the Wall-Triana intersection; the exit we took to get to Aunt Jane’s. It only was only a quarter of a mile away and not more than 100 feet off the ground, but it was still hard to truly gauge the size of this aircraft.   

The only I could make out were those three white lights. Strange as it was, it was not out of my character to jump to such drastic conclusions. First thought was that this was a commercial airliner and that it was about to crash. Somewhere deep –seated within my brother was a sense of dire distress the manifested itself as this quiet anxiety that only came out when a friend went to fast in a car on slick ice or when someone offered to let us ride a Sea-doo. It had rubbed off on me growing up and people diagnosed it as us just being ‘worry warts.’ Hence why both he and I were freaking out. It was surreal. We had all driven this same route numerous times and seen airplanes fly around all over Huntsville, but none acted like this. No aircraft ever flew this close to the highway and this low.   It flew over the overpass low and slow towards the intersection. Dear God, this is happening. Christmas Night we were going to see a plane crash. People were going to die. A flaming ball of metal would hit the side of the Schlotzsky's Deli and explode bodies across Wall-Triana. I was going to be traumatized. Never to fly again. By this point we had reached the end of the exit ramp. Dad ran the red light and sped across the overpass as fast as a little Suzuki Forenza and its 4 cylinders could go. If there was a time more fitting and appropriate to use the term “I shit you not” this was it. We look up to see the moment of impact and, I shit you not, those three lights were over a gas station-- motionless. Awestruck and screaming we all were. “Look at it! What is it doing? What is it? Dad go towards it!”

Dad ran another red light, pulled around the median and gassed it towards the gas station. We made it to the parking lot, but this thing began to hover towards a chicken finger restaurant directly across the street. At this point any normal person might have been a little more cautious in how to approach this…thing. But the Richey’s are not “normal.” We crossed the street and pulled into the parking lot of the chicken finger restaurant. There it was, directly above us at about the height of a tall pine tree. Even still, the only thing we could make out were three white lights. I rolled down the window, but there was only silence.

Any sort of normal man made machine of this size or power was bound to make a noise—any noise. The only I could think that could do anything like what this thing was doing would be a helicopter, and that logically it would be making a tremendous racket with rotor wash included. This thing was silent. Only five seconds was enough to burn this mental image in my head forever. Those three lights as high up as a tall pine tree sitting motionless in the Huntsville sky. After those five infinite seconds were up,  this thing began to slowly move back in the way it had come. Dad chased it back across the intersection, back across the overpass, but by this time, it was gaining speed and left us in the dust back into the sky getting higher and higher, farther and farther. “Did…..did we just see a UFO?” we all said. The ensuing conversation the rest of the way to Aunt Jane’s was jittery and full of excitement and disbelief.

Art had always been skeptical of those that talked about seeing UFO’s and other metaphysical stuff, but he was the one most convinced this was beyond the realm of reality.

We arrived at Aunt Jane’s and burst in to tell all the cousins and family what happened. The back playroom would become the stage to tell the story for those that would listen. Art was perfecting his performance complete with hand motions reenacting the thing over the more and more we told the story. We had the benefit of Uncle Al to give an educated guess as to what happened. Back in the day he had worked on the arsenal and saw lots of crazy things. Some things he still can’t talk about. His guess was that it was some sort of super secret government unmanned aircraft that they were testing out in real life situations.

Think about it, it makes perfect sense. If you needed a time to test your super secret aircraft with limited exposure to civilians, Christmas night was the perfect time to do so. Everyone would be inside or at home and there would be clear skies to fly around. If the government or defense company were to ever do such a thing, Huntsville was the place. Over the years as the progression of U.S. involvement in the Middle East has ramped up and the increased use and controversy of unmanned aircraft or ‘drones’, Huntsville has garnered more and more attention. This was back in 2004. Before the term ‘drone’ was common in most people’s vocabularies. It’s without a doubt Huntsville and the Redstone Arsenal were crucial in developing the technology of these aircraft and arguably changing the future of how we fight wars. And to think, we may have seen one of those things up close and in person. Not many other people would have had that view. If they did they were either hush military personnel or some poor bastards in Afghanistan on the receiving end of freedom in the form of high-powered explosives thanks to Uncle Sam. They say experiences really bring people together, and in some odd way I believe this crazy thing really did. I’ve told this story countless times to tons of people and refined it throughout the years. I’ve had a guy come up to me at a bar and say he’d been telling my UFO story second hand to other people for years.

No other story that Dad, Art and I experienced has ever been so vivid, so transcendent of normal family vacations or other normal memories one might have. It will forever stick with me, I love that about my dad and brother. Our Christmas UFO Story I’ll forever have.